Something thumps on the floorboards above us. Another smoke alarm joins the chorus. I hear a crackling noise in the cellar that’s far too close for comfort. I pull at Mallory’s petrol-soaked pyjamas.
“Can you climb?” I ask, nodding at the bookcase. She props me up and we shuffle towards it together. Above Sparrow’s incessant banging, I hear a male voice calling Mallory’s name.
“Morgan?” I yell. “Morgan!”
In seconds he appears at the window above our heads.
“They’re here!” he calls over his shoulder. He flattens onto his stomach as a pair of purple Chucks skid up to the window beside him. I’d recognise them anywhere. I’m so relieved I want to cry.
“Sadie?” I call out. “Are you okay?”
Morgan leans his upper body through the window as Mallory starts her climb to freedom. I steady her from underneath.
“Sadie’s fine,” he says, reaching for his sister. “She heard you screaming and saw the flames. She called emergency services.”
“Thank god. He didn’t hurt her?”
Mallory’s between us so I can’t see the question on his face. “Who?” Morgan says. “She didn’t see anyone.”
I almost laugh. Story of my life.
Smoke and heat are billowing into the storage room now. I spot an ominous orange glow from the cellar beyond. Sparrow is still pounding at the wardrobe, although with less gusto than before.
As Morgan helps Mallory through the window, I start my ascent. I’m hindered by the choking smoke and my tender ribs. Morgan leans back inside and reaches a hand down to me. As I glance up to take it, he gasps. “Tash …”
My heart lurches.
Sparrow’s got out. He’s standing right behind me.
But I hear the persistent thump against the wardrobe and I know I’m safe. It’s just the blood on my chin that’s surprised Morgan, the way my eyes have started to swell.
Locking both hands around my lower arm, he pulls me to him. Sadie hovers outside the window and gathers me up as soon as I’m clear.
“Jesus, kid,” she says, a tremble in her voice. She squeezes me so tight I wince. “The things you’ll do for attention.”
My snigger turns into tears and I slump against her as she helps me away from the house. Smoke is pouring from the windows now, the living room ferociously aflame. I hear the distant wail of sirens and wonder if they’ll get here before the blaze devours the storage room too.
We shuffle past Ally’s brown truck where two more red jerry cans sit in the truck’s tray. Sadie directs Mallory to her mum’s catering van where she has spare polo shirts to replace our toxic clothing. Mallory’s already shivering under the hose as she washes our ordeal from her limbs and hair.
“Tash?” Morgan calls, still crouched by the side of the house. Thick smoke plumes out of the window now, and Morgan backs away rubbing his eyes. “That banging in there. What is it?”
I lift my face to the sky with its dusting of fairy floss clouds. The sun warms my skin and I close my eyes.
I don’t hear the knocking from here.
I no longer hear him at all.
“The bogeyman,” I reply.
44
THEN
Dad finds me near the rusty old gate at the back of Gran’s garden, except it’s not Gran’s garden any more – it belongs to Aunty Ally now and her bouncy puppy who digs holes. The grass is a lot spikier than I remember, and the passionfruit vine along the fence is all crispy and shrivelled. Dad sighed earlier when he kicked at a lumpy square of dirt where Gran used to grow lettuce and tomatoes.
“She doesn’t bother taking care of it,” he said, glancing around.
Maybe some people just aren’t good at taking care of things that aren’t themselves.
I’ve collected some white daisies and a few pieces of tree bark, some twigs and two pocketfuls of pebbles. Dad crouches in front of me and picks up a smooth grey stone, rubbing it between his fingertips like a lucky charm. I hold up my hand and he places it right in the middle of my palm.
“I’m going to make the baby a present,” I say, spreading everything out in a patch of dirt. “Something for his bedroom to welcome him home.”
“Like a fairy house?” Dad says.
“Da–ad.” I roll my eyes at him. “I’m eight. I don’t believe in fairies.”
He pretends to be shocked. “Why not?”
“They’re not real.”
“Is that so?” He scratches his stubbly chin. “Well, I have it on good authority that kids can see all kinds of magical creatures grown-ups can’t. Maybe you just haven’t been looking hard enough.”
I flick his knee with a twig because he’s always teasing. But I don’t really mind. I kind of like the idea that magical creatures could be real. If one ever visits me, Dad will be the first person I tell.
“It’s time for me to get going,” he says. “We’ll call you as soon as the baby’s here. Okay, sweetheart?” He leans over to kiss the top of my head.
“Okay, Dad.”
He hangs around for a minute instead of walking to the car, and I think maybe he’s changed his mind. He might want me to go to the hospital with him and Mum after all.
Then he jangles his keys. “Okay, then. Wish us luck.”
“Good luck!” I say, and I give him a super big smile because he looks a bit worried about the new baby coming. And I’m a bit worried too because lots of things are going to change. Things will be pretty different when we all get home.
But different is okay.
Different will feel normal after a while.
45
NOW
Dr Ingrid’s therapy room has had a makeover since I was last here: new pale green walls, smart mid-century style couches. There’s a colourful geometric rug that probably screams out for a little too much attention. The revamp could have happened any time in the last six months, yet it feels fitting that this appointment with her is a turning point into something new.
I’m distracted by a trio of vintage ceramic birds on the wall and almost miss her next question.
She blinks at me slowly, her pencilled eyebrows arched just enough to show interest but not judgement. She hasn’t aged much in all the years I’ve known her. Maybe she wrinkles up when she smiles; I’ve only ever seen her smooth mask of passivity.
“Your aunt,” she repeats politely. “Do you plan on having contact with her?”
I readjust myself in the armchair and glance out the window across Newcastle’s leafy city streets. Bloated clouds sag low over the terrace houses and church spires.
“Not until I have to,” I tell her. “Not until her trial. That’s probably months away.”
Dr Ingrid knows all about Ally’s arrest. I had to give police permission to access transcripts of our previous therapy sessions as part of their investigation. Mallory’s original abduction case has been reopened, and Ally’s facing charges of being an accessory after the fact. I’ll probably be called as a witness for both the prosecution and the defence. Dad assures me this is nothing to worry about because all I need to do is get up on the stand and tell the truth.
Believe me, the irony of his words is not lost on any of us.
“How do you feel about your aunt?”
I shrug. “I suppose I feel sorry for her. She managed to mess up her life pretty badly.”
Dr Ingrid tilts her head like she knows I’m just saying what she wants to hear. I don’t want to say what I’m really thinking: I don’t forgive Ally. Not yet. Probably not ever. I know forgiving her is supposed to be more about helping me move forward than making her feel better, especially since, in the end, she became a victim of Patrick Jonas too. But regardless of whether I try to understand why she chose to protect her unstable boyfriend and betray her own niece, I will never get past her dumping a drugged and defenceless six year old alone in the bush.
“And how do you feel about Patrick Jonas?” asks Dr Ingrid.
“How do I feel about his death?”
“Well, if you like …”
“I don’t know how to feel about it.” I sigh. “I don’t like that I was involved in another person’s death, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do you feel responsible?”
“Should I?” I counter.
Dr Ingrid’s pen pauses over her notebook. “Would you like to talk about it?”
I glance out the window again. “Not really.”
“Something for a future session perhaps,” she says, scribbling a few lines.
I suddenly feel compelled to pummel her with questions.
How do you feel about Patrick Jonas, Dr Ingrid? How do you feel knowing Sparrow was actually real all along?
Instead, I look down at my hands and stay silent. It’s all too easy for bitterness to creep in. I’ve spent so many years resenting people for not believing me, I can’t spend any more time or energy resenting those same people now that they do.
Smiling mildly, I glance at the wall clock: five minutes left of the session. I agreed to do this as a favour to Mum as part of our new agreement to be more understanding of each other’s concerns. She’s loosened the apron strings enough to let me come here today by myself and spend the evening in Newcastle with my friends.
“So, what’s next for you, do you think?” asks Dr Ingrid. “Last time we met you mentioned university applications.”
“Yeah. I’ll start applying in a few months. I’m working on getting my photography folio ready for interviews.”
“Are you still interested in a Melbourne-based university?”
“That’s my first preference. I’m also looking at options closer to home. I need to talk things through with my parents before I make any big decisions.”
“You mentioned something about a boyfriend when you arrived …”
I glance out the window again, knowing Morgan is waiting for me in the cafe on the corner. He’s barely left my side since the fire three weeks ago. It’s more of a close companionship right now, and each day the physical tension between us is growing. I know he’s giving me the mental space I need to process everything that’s happened, but I secretly wish he’d stop being such a gentleman. I miss him. I miss where our fledgling relationship was headed.
“It’s been sort of a bumpy start for us,” I say, “so we’re taking things slowly.”
“Sounds very wise.” She glances up at the clock and recaps her pen. “Now, at your last appointment you indicated you’d like to ‘call it a day’ with your psychiatric care. Do you still feel that way after everything that’s happened?”
“I’m going to continue with therapy for now,” I tell her. “Obviously, I need to work through some trust issues. Not just because of Ally and Patrick Jonas, but also because of how I wasn’t believed by those I turned to for help.”
Dr Ingrid nods knowingly. “Of course. I think continuing therapy would be a good idea.” She swivels in her chair and reaches across the desk for her appointment planner.
“That said, Dr Ballantine–” I rise from my seat and slip my bag over my shoulder, “–I’m really going to need a referral for a new psychiatrist.”
*
I’m waiting to cross at the traffic lights when I remember to switch my phone back on after my session. There’s a lengthy voicemail from Tim complaining about some kind of haircut-and-family-portrait scenario Mum’s threatening for tomorrow. I call home and Tim pounces on it the moment it rings.
“I don’t wanna get a haircut,” he whines, after airing his grievances all over again. “Plus, photos with Mum and Dad aren’t cool. What if the kids from school find out?”
“You shouldn’t worry so much about what the kids from school think.”
“They’ll laugh at me.”
“Who cares? Let them laugh if they’ve got nothing better to do,” I say. “They can laugh at me too.”
“Are you coming?” Tim asks hopefully.
“Absolutely! I’ll even come for a haircut too.” I tuck a wispy strand behind my ear, more than ready to try something new. “You know they allow furry family members in the photos as well? I mean, Mouse won’t be into it, but Benny will pose like a champion. And there’s nothing uncool about that, is there?”
I smile at the relief and excitement in Tim’s voice as he calls out to Mum, informing her of our updated plans. At some point he places the phone down and forgets to disconnect. I’m in front of the cafe now. Morgan, Christopher and Sadie are sitting by the window having an animated discussion so enthralling they haven’t seen me. Sadie’s girlfriend, Alice, wends her way to the table clutching a fistful of teaspoons and a sugar bowl. She spots me and grins. I give her a wave.
“Tash?” Mum says, finding the abandoned phone. “You still there?”
“Yep.”
“I’m glad you’re coming with us tomorrow,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if … Well, I wanted to give you your space.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Mum. Just tell Tim he has to give Benny a bath first. He rolled in fish guts on the pier this morning.”
Mum laughs. “Will do. Enjoy yourself tonight.”
“We won’t be back too late,” I assure her. “I can text you later if you like. So you know I’m okay.”
“Tash, it’s fine,” she says. “I trust you. Now go and have fun.”
*
Light raindrops fall against the cafe’s corrugated awning as I move to open the door. I’m almost inside when I hear rapid footsteps on the footpath behind me.
“Wait, wait, wait!” calls a familiar voice. “Hold the door.”
I turn to find Rachael and Mallory scurrying to join me under the shop’s awning. Draped across their forearms are two large rigid envelopes they’re trying to protect from the rain.
“You got them?” I say eagerly, standing away from the doorway to let them through. “How do they look?”
“Brilliant,” Rachael announces. “I’m telling you, this printer is the best. That’s why my mum uses them for all her real estate stuff. It’s worth the hour’s drive.”
Mallory elbows her, holding up two fingers.
“Yeah, okay – the two-hour round trip,” Rachael says. “No need to get technical, Little Miss Chatterbox.”
Mallory snorts and flips up her middle finger instead. Rachael laughs and rolls her eyes. “Full of sass, this one.”
“Ha!” I say. “Pot. Kettle. Black?”
Rachael allows me a small smile. We’re still trying to work out the details of our ceasefire. It currently falls somewhere between polite communication for the completion of our school project, and tolerating each other socially for the sake of our mutual friends. We’ll need to sit down and talk it out properly one day soon, but at least right now the stony wall between us is letting through a few cracks of sunshine.
While my own dealings with Rachael are slowly limping forwards, her new friendship with Mallory is blossoming quickly. They’ve completely hit it off since discovering they’re both into creative journalling. I’d always noticed Rachael bent over a notebook in art class and I had no idea she was writing page after page of poetry. After our ordeal at Willow Creek, Rachael took flowers to the Fishers’ house and found Mallory in the middle of her bedroom floor surrounded by sketchbooks. Since then, they’ve been swapping journals to critique each other’s work.
In fact, it was Mallory who encouraged Rachael to share her writing with me – she knew Morgan and I felt our Dreamscapes project lacked something vital. Rachael turned up at my house one day clutching a Moleskine, and I knew within reading three pages exactly how we could incorporate it into our art project. Not only was Rachael cooperative about it, she actually negotiated a decent discount from the printer too.
“Put them here,” I say, clearing space on an unoccupied table. Mallory slips away to join Sadie and Alice by the window. “I’m dying to see how they look.”
Rachael takes both envelopes and places them delicately on the tabletop. She moves away to leave me to it, and I touch her lightly on the arm.
>
“Thanks, Rachael,” I say, “for your poetry and the printing. You pretty much saved our arses on this one.”
“Rumour has it you can save your own arse just fine.” She gives me a guarded smile. “But I appreciate you saying it anyway.”
“Project all finished then?” Christopher says, walking over to join us. “Thank god. Maybe you people will do fun stuff on weekends now, like the scooter park and Comic-Con and–”
“Computer markets,” Rachael and I say at the same time. I laugh while Rachael rolls her eyes.
“Right. Just for that you’re not having one of my sliders,” he says.
“You can keep your hipster food,” Rachael replies, following him to the counter. “I’m ordering a pizza.”
Catching Morgan’s eye, I beckon him over, wanting to do the big reveal with him by my side.
“Can you believe this is our work?” he says, leaning over my shoulder for a closer look. The large photo prints are spectacular, the colours vivid and crisp with a finish as glossy as liquid. “How did this even come together with so much other stuff going on?”
We’ve created four montages featuring photos of the abandoned carnival overlaid with Morgan’s ethereal sketches, and finished with feverish scribblings from Rachael’s journal. The images are eerie and haunting, simultaneously desperate and desolate. To me they represent us at our most vulnerable, in those moments before sleep when we are stretched out in the silence with only dark thoughts to keep us company.
Fear. Aching loneliness. The worry of being misunderstood.
I realise now it’s what we all have in common, regardless of our circumstances. We all share the fundamental need to be heard, to know we matter. It’s what tethers us to one another and reminds us we are never truly alone.
“So, what should we do now?” I say, slipping the prints back inside their envelopes. “Check out that karaoke place? Or maybe catch an early movie?”
Small Spaces Page 27