by Anne Buist
The door opened and there was silence. Natalie pictured the woman standing there, sensing the intrusion. After a few moments there was a sound as she moved into the bathroom. Cosmetics dropped into the sink, then Mala came back into the main room and opened the cupboard door a metre to Natalie’s left. Shrinking back, Natalie could make out the flash of green as the cat suit dropped to the floor. She was changing.
Natalie felt her heart pounding in her ears, willed her breathing to slow. Time seemed to stretch, each second more like a minute. Her phone pinged from where it was tucked awkwardly into her belt, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Had Mala heard it over the outdoor music? Natalie couldn’t hear anyone. Prayed Mala had disappeared into the bathroom.
Natalie found her phone and switched it to silent. She wondered if was Damian texting her and checked the messages. Not Damian. Charlie, her British colleague. You owe me! I’m thinking all rounds on you your first night in London, if you ever get here. Yes. Admitted for three months when he was ten. Can’t get the notes sorry.
Ten. When Mala was born and his father died. When Frank himself had survived the car crash that killed his own father but which another child, maybe Wei, had survived. Three months in hospital, but not with a physical injury. Bethlem was a child psych unit. So just what had been going on with Frank Moreton then? And did it have any bearing on what was happening now?
There had been no sound of Mala leaving. Cautiously, Natalie found another crack to look through. Mala was standing in front of the bed wearing nothing but a thong. Long, tanned limbs. A model’s slimness. She turned, pouting and posing as if she knew she had an audience, kicking off her shoes. She threw the dress down and returned to the cupboard, tried another. It reminded Natalie of herself as a teenager, prancing around, pretending she was Buffy about to slay the latest guy she was hot for.
Mala finally settled on a white gown with a neck line clasped at the waist with a gold belt. A heavy gold chain dangled a medallion between her breasts. One item to go. Shoes. Natalie looked down in dismay.
56
Natalie’s leathers were in a pile on the floor, the contents of her bag spilling out over the bed. I would have looked anyway. It is illuminating to see the contents of a woman’s handbag. Reeva had journal articles, drinks and snack food; during the pregnancy, diabetic test equipment. Alison carried a diet book and Who Weekly. Natalie? Lithium. How disappointing. Not entirely surprising, though. I have to accept my own responsibility in this attraction. Obviously the chaos of my childhood has resulted in my being drawn to women who need help. Reeva with her paranoia and chilled reason who trusted no one else. Alison and her neurosis. And now Natalie. I had wondered what it was in Melbourne she was escaping from; had it not been for my own more pressing issues I would have had time to check her out more thoroughly. Never mind. All information is useful, and never more so than now.
‘You look divine.’
Mala was swirling around in front of her mirror when I found her. She laughed and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You look rather dashing yourself. Very Darcy with that frown.’
‘Have you seen Natalie?’
‘Brother dearest, don’t tell me you’ve lost another one?’
‘Not funny, Mala.’
‘You’re far too serious. Celebrate seeing the last of those dreary policemen. How is it so much brawn and good looks can be so dull?’
‘So are you looking good for anyone in particular tonight, Mala?’
‘Is it a problem if I am? Don’t even try and tell me you don’t think your little shrink is hot.’ She giggled. ‘I certainly do.’
‘Mala, Alison has only been dead…’
Mala interrupted. ‘You’re a man. You need to…You were sleepwalking again last night you know.’
I felt a headache coming on. I had suspected as much. I had been well for so long and then after Reeva left our bed I started to find my slippers were dirty in the morning. I thought it had settled before I married Alison. Given all that has happened with her it looks like it may need attention again.
Mala winked at me as she went to her shoe cupboard.
57
There was a fragment of silence in which Natalie, expecting to be exposed, wondered if she should pop out of the cupboard and say surprise. Mala opened the door wider, and Natalie pressed herself as hard as she could against one end, unable to see for the fur coat her face was buried in. Mala moved some shoes around carelessly, then she and Frank laughed and a moment later Natalie heard the door click. She breathed out slowly.
After five minutes had passed she edged herself forward, listened, then eased herself out of the cupboard. Her mind started thinking again, as the fear slowly thawed. What was it Mala had said? Sleepwalking…again. The music outside was now louder; several strings and wind instruments.
She checked her phone again, still nothing from Damian, but an email caught her eye. It was from BeamMeUpScotty and she nearly deleted it as spam until she realised it came not from a random Star Trek fan, but from Reeva’s Scott Beamish. His gmail, not his university account. The man that Wei knew and was keen for her to stay away from.
You asked me about my relationship to the Malosevics, he wrote. And he said he’d told Reeva what he now shared with her. Was that what had got her killed? Natalie returned the phone to her belt, hand trembling.
Creeping down the back stair, she was about to take the door out through the garage when she heard her name.
‘Dr King. Are you looking for my son?’
Natalie hadn’t noticed Vesna who, dressed in white, almost blended with the settee. Champagne in hand, she rose and walked to the selection of bottles on the sideboard.
‘Do stay and keep me company for a while.’ Vesna selected the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, topped up her glass and held out another that had been standing on the sideboard. Natalie reluctantly accepted it. The bead was still strong, so it hadn’t been sitting long. It was intended for Mala, presumably, who had passed on staying with her mother. So if Vesna had seen Mala, had she also seen Natalie coming out of Mala’s room? From where she had been sitting, probably not. Vesna’s smile suggested this might not be her first glass for the day; perhaps she was beyond monitoring anyone’s movements.
‘What do you think of Mount Malosevic?’ Vesna asked, resuming her seat.
Darkness was starting to fall. Natalie sat opposite, sipping champagne. She put her phone on the arm of the sofa next to her, in case Damian texted. A soprano was singing faintly in the background. Madame Butterfly. There had been a baritone before that, singing something from Carmen. On the lawn in front of Natalie shadows danced as the winds picked up. The path to the boathouse was primarily lit by the house lights. Fairy lights strung along the path were swinging in the wind, clinking. It should have been beautiful but Natalie found herself looking for danger in the darkness.
‘To be perfectly honest,’ said Natalie, ‘I find it too imposing. I can’t imagine living here.’
Vesna didn’t look as if she had heard.
‘It’s designed for grandeur rather than comfort,’ Natalie went on, thinking of the young Frank arriving here, traumatised after his father’s death, his own near miss. The sleepwalking was surely a response, the burying of the underlying trauma coming out in his dreams.
‘Comfort?’ Vesna looked at her as though the concept was one she had never considered. ‘We have every possible comfort.’
Except the one they needed. A place of safety, of acceptance without the need to perform. Unconditional love. ‘I don’t think Frank did as a boy.’ Natalie wouldn’t have pushed a patient like this, but Vesna had answers she needed. ‘Was his sleepwalking a big problem?’
Vesna frowned. ‘Frank? Sleepwalking?’ She took a long sip, savoured it, her mind elsewhere.
‘Like, did he ever…do things in the night he couldn’t remember?’
Vesna’s free hand moved up and down her leg, picking at her clothing. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
&n
bsp; But she did. Natalie was sure Vesna knew exactly what she meant but wasn’t sure if telling the truth would get her son into trouble.
‘I’ll get us some food.’ Vesna stood up, stiff and disorientated for a moment, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Natalie was in no hurry to join Frank and figured staying with his mother was as good an excuse as any. The weather was looking more ominous. She doubted the guests would finish the evening without a soaking. She wandered over to the window and was looking out across the lake to the boathouse when Gordana, rather than Vesna, came through the kitchen door.
‘You’re a real doctor, right?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Vesna’s had a fall.’
Not surprising, given the alcohol and the meds. This much general medicine she could manage. Natalie followed Gordana back into the kitchen where the numbers of middle-aged women fussing had dwindled to one. There was no sign of Vesna.
‘She went down to the cellar,’ said Gordana, leading Natalie out towards the garage.
‘Cellar?’ Natalie frowned. ‘I thought that was…’
‘They keep their good stuff under the house.’ Gordana’s look suggested so I can’t get it.
What the hell was Vesna doing down in the cellar? She didn’t need any more to drink. Natalie was feeling lightheaded after half a glass.
Her Ducati was standing at the back of the garage. Beyond it she found a trap door propped open, revealing steps that descended steeply into darkness.
‘Vesna, are you all right?’ It was impossible for Natalie to see anything in the hole. She took a couple of steps and hesitated. ‘Vesna?’ She took another step and bent down. Had the sudden feeling that it would be prudent to let Gordana go first, but made the decision a fraction too late. She couldn’t be sure who pushed her—but there was no doubt about the shove that sent her tumbling down into the darkness. Nor the slamming of the trapdoor that left her in the pitch black.
___________________
It took her a few minutes to make sense of what had happened. She had fallen probably less than a metre but the dirt floor was hard, and she had landed on her shoulder. She knew the feeling: in a day or two it would sport a large bruise. The rest of her seemed intact. She felt around for the stairs, crawled back up them and banged on the door. It didn’t budge. Solid timber, and no one likely to hear her over the music. Even less likely that anyone would come to the garage.
Natalie closed her eyes, steadied her breathing. She was safe for the moment. She just had to work out why Gordana—or Vesna—had put her down here. They’d have to let her out eventually. Wouldn’t they? No one, not even Damian would think to look for her here. A coldness seeped through her. It was several degrees cooler than it had been upstairs. Her arms and legs were bare. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d counted the cost of vanity.
Vesna had to think she was protecting Frank, and must have roped Gordana in to get Natalie to the trap door. Paranoid, yes, but not necessarily because Frank really needed protecting. But would she tell him what she’d done, or was she so high on pills that she might even forget Natalie was down here? Would Gordana remember either, after the next bottle of wine? She felt her pulse rising, had to stop the images of the Worm, images from her nightmares surfacing. She would not let this beat her. Or them.
Her phone. It was still sitting on the arm of the sofa. Frank would see it, would look for her. Unless they were all in it together. Surely they couldn’t possibly explain away another dead doctor. But maybe they wouldn’t have to. Would the woman in the kitchen have noticed her? Probably not. The only other people who had seen her were Malosevics…and their loyal retainers. Damian could trace her phone, but they could dispose of that any way they wanted.
She started to crawl around, getting the feel of the space. It didn’t seem to be used as a wine cellar. The wall behind the stairs that would, if she had orientated herself correctly, be facing the driveway was lined with empty boxes. To the right, away from the house, she encountered what felt like strands of spiderwebs, and drew back. Opposite, towards the house, there was only the gritty surface of concrete. The final wall, the one towards the lake, was full of clutter. She felt around it and a box fell on her, the contents spilling out. She stumbled back and slipped, hitting her head on the edge of the stairs, falling to her knees with glass crunching as she fell. She put her hand to her head, then her mouth. Tasted blood. Hoped the gash wasn’t too bad.
Natalie sat carefully on the bottom stair. Why the hell had Antonije built a tiny room underneath his garage? Part of his own paranoia, the legacy of his war experiences? She rubbed her arms, cycled her legs in an effort to keep warm.
‘Fuck you, Malosevics, all of you.’ She repeated it, louder. She didn’t expect anyone could hear but it made her feel better. She wondered what time it was. Strained to hear the music and found she couldn’t. Just silence. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t as if she could see anyway. Pictured Antonije and his family, the house and gardens Frank had shown her so proudly. Had to be bigger and better in every way. Would that have included escape tunnels, maybe? Given their history? She sat up again, staring ahead into the darkness towards where she imagined the lake was. Where the boat shed was, the one that Antonije had used as an artist’s studio. Could he have connected it underground?
Natalie edged cautiously across the room, pushing aside the broken glass, and struggled with some boxes, feeling for the back wall. It was there, but it felt smooth like clay, not the abrasive touch of concrete. She edged along it, and as she did another box fell. This one, heavier, landed on another full of glassware which shattered, by the sound of it, out across the floor. Working systematically she tried to feel for a gap. Hoping, but as she covered most of the wall, no longer expecting to find one.
She kicked the wall in frustration, reiterating her opinion of the Malosevics, and her foot failed to connect. She recovered her balance and knelt down, trying not to knock over any more boxes. Sure enough, there was a hole. Hardly the escape passage she had hoped for, but bigger than a wombat hole. Big enough, she figured, to shimmy along; probably even crawl on all fours. If it went anywhere.
She decided to wait and see if someone arrived to rescue her rather than venture into a dark tunnel without a light or any idea of where it went. Time passed slowly. She tried to keep moving, and huddled under cardboard when she wasn’t. Half an hour. An hour, maybe two. No one was coming. She felt back around the rim of the tunnel, thinking she’d have to try or she might freeze. But before she had made a decision she heard a sound above and the trapdoor eased open, a shaft of light revealing that the hole behind her disappeared for as far as she could see. Sitting perfectly still she remained obscured by boxes, trying to make out who her rescuer was.
‘I know you’re down there.’
A man’s voice. Not Frank’s. As his boot came onto the first step, Natalie had only a split second to decide. With a small man like Wei she might have had a chance. Jasper? No way. She turned and started crawling, as quietly and as quickly as she could.
For the first thirty metres Natalie focused on getting away. She could hear Jasper in the room behind her, throwing boxes around and crunching over glass. It would only be a matter of time before he found the hole. Question was whether a man his size would be able to come after her.
The torchlight, probably from his phone, didn’t reach her but she couldn’t be sure if he could see her in the shadows beyond. She froze. There was low chuckle.
‘Think you can get away, bitch?’
Natalie kept moving, slower now. Still watching the light, mostly blocked by Jasper’s bulk, as she tried not to bang against the pipe that had clearly been the reason for the passage’s existence. Bore water, Frank had said. Tunnelling through the hill. Presumably to the lake. Was there some sort of maintenance access further in? She hoped so.
‘Hope you have agoraphobia bitch.’ Moron. The light suddenly went out. She heard the slam of the trapdoor and stopped. Took a deep brea
th. Immediate danger gone.
But she was now back in the dark, and there was still, by her reckoning, at least three hundred metres to negotiate. If the tunnel went direct to the boathouse or lake. Unhelpful thinking: she pushed on. She needed to get there before Jasper worked out where it might go. Would Vesna know? Not Vesna. Gordana. It had to be Gordana and Senka working with Jasper. Maybe Eliza was the driver behind them. Probably a promised share of the future inheritance at stake.
Her knees were quickly grazed and bleeding. The cut on her forehead had started dripping blood into her eyes and couldn’t be stopped. The tunnel floor was getting rougher, rocky and uneven. And, she suddenly realised, wet. The surface above her was dripping. She might well be under the lake, crawling in a place built temporarily for workmen years earlier; she blocked out the thought that all her banging around might cause a cave-in.
The tunnel seemed to go on for ever. Natalie had no idea if it was straight or not, no idea, any longer, what direction she was travelling. Which became a problem when she rammed straight into a wall and found, feeling around her, trying not to panic, that the tunnel branched into two. Above her a sound like a distant gunshot shattered the silence. Natalie stifled a scream and took another deep breath. What the hell was Jasper doing? The sound came again, this time longer and rumbling. Thunder. The storm that had been coming all afternoon had arrived.
The dark silence of the tunnel was broken only by the blood and water dripping onto her face. Not fucking tears at least. She used the same mantra that had got her through her accident and months of physio; bottom line was to harness some anger and refuse to believe she could be defeated. She wouldn’t let up on herself now any more than she had then. Left or right? Right, surely, would take her to the lake. She went left. Hoping.