by Sue Whiting
Robbie? Karinya? Where did all this come from? I shake my head to free it from my wild imaginings, draw my knees up to my chest, my eyes darting around the room in search of answers. Why do I know these things? How do I know these things? I reel back through the bits Deb told me. She didn’t mention any Robbie or anything about the house being called Karinya. It’s the same as how I knew about Deb and Suzie, when I shouldn’t have known.
“Why? How?” I question the ceiling. But I close my mind to any answers. I push them away – don’t want to know. I slap the album closed and slide it and the notebook under my mattress.
An uncomfortable feeling invades me and I recognise it for what it is. Fear.
eight
It is overcast. The lake as colourless as the sky.
At the breakfast table, Amelia attacks a piece of toast with a butterknife. Seth has his nose buried deep in a comic. Mum, hollow eyes downcast, stares into her mug of black coffee as if it contains some weary secret. Her toast lies untouched on the plate before her.
I slip The Year in Design magazine onto the table. “Thought you might be interested in this, Mum,” I say, wondering if anyone will notice the quaver in my voice. My emotions are so jumbled: the visions, the things I shouldn’t know, the unnerving connection to someone long dead are tumbling around inside me.
Mum glances at the magazine and nods. “Oh. Thanks.” She doesn’t even open it.
I feel like screaming. I can’t bear the familiarity of this morning scene. So much for Mum’s plan that a new life in a new house would help us heal. I am beyond disappointed.
“I reckon the lake would be good for swimming,” I attempt, desperate to distract myself from my own agitation. “Maybe we should go for a swim later?”
Amelia shovels sugar into her tea. “Haven’t you seen the weather?” she says. Her spoon spins in violent circles around the teacup. “It’s rubbish. Oh, what joy my life is.”
I could joyfully strangle her.
I grab a banana and head back upstairs. I don’t have the energy for this today – can’t cope with tiptoeing around my brittle family. I throw Celina’s stripy poncho over my head for warmth, fish the notebook from under my mattress and slip down the stairs and out the front door.
I need air. Some space around me. Some time to think, and to sort out what is going on. To rid myself somehow of the fluttery tension, the growing sensation of unease trapped inside my chest.
The morning sky hangs heavy with the threat of rain. It matches my mood. I slide the notebook down inside the poncho and head north to a rocky outcrop, the beginning of the rugged cliffs that plummet into the water on this side of the lake. For the first time since we arrived, the lake is choppy, as if the breeze is giving it goosebumps, and the whole place feels wild and alive.
I clamber up a jagged stand of rocks and sit behind a small bush that has sprung up in a split in the stone. I pull out the notebook, the pages fluttering in the wind, and I read over what I wrote the night before. With each word, the swirling anxiety inside me only intensifies, so much so that when my phone beeps in my pocket, I almost jump out of my skin.
It’s a message from Loni. There has been no network coverage back at the house and I am surprised to discover that I have full reception from this part of the lake.
Hey, Bails! What’s happening? Miss you.
I go to reply. My fingers hover over the keys, wondering what I should say.
Hey, Loni. Guess what? Made a new friend. Too bad she’s been dead for nearly forty years.
Or maybe something more to the point.
Hey, Lons. It’s official; I’ve turned into a psycho.
Or the not so original:
I see dead people.
Instead, I settle for:
Miss you too. Coverage sketchy. Will Skype as soon as we have internet set up. XXXX
Her reply is almost instant. Make sure you do. A lot has happened in the 75 hours and 22 minutes since you left me. Have news. Big news. HUGE!
I grin. That is so Loni. I do a mental countdown, knowing that Loni won’t make it past five before she spills with the news. Ten, nine, eight, seven … Beep. Impressive – even for Loni.
Yolanda dumped Johno! YAAAAY!!!!! Happy dancing. He’s gonna be mine. We must make plans.
I would love to be making plans with Loni right now.
Yay, you! Go the Lons, I reply, and put my phone down, my heart aching.
A gust of wind makes the pages in the notebook flap so much, it looks poised to take flight. I get it under control and try to think back to my conversations with Deb, but my brain isn’t interested; it veers off and an unexpected image fills my mind.
Celina. She’s sitting on the verandah steps eating watermelon. It is luscious and juicy. Pink streams run through her fingers and down her arms. She is laughing hysterically …
Stop! I tell myself. Enough already.
I pick up my pencil and force myself to concentrate on the things I know, the things Deb told me. Maybe if I get it all down, I can be done with it, and then I can move on, forget about Celina O’Malley, forget the visions and the things I shouldn’t know. Put a lid on my fear.
I start to write.
From a very early age, Celina had a great sense of herself: who she was and where she fitted in the world. Born to subsistence farming, greenie, hippy parents, she embraced the whole hippy scene. It suited her perfectly. And as her best friends, who adored her, Deb and Suzie couldn’t help but be swept along by her enthusiasm and passion for peace and love and changing the world.
While most kids their age were embracing discos and mirror balls, the Peace Sisters gave up meat, became tree huggers, and sang Bob Dylan songs around a camp fire by the lake.
Celina treasured life; that is why it is such a tragedy, such a waste, that her life was cut short, and why there is no way in the world that she would have taken her own life, no matter what anyone says. Deb was adamant about this.
Celina bubbled with love. She loved her family. She loved her friends. She even loved cockroaches and bull ants and venomous spiders.
But most of all, I loved Robbie.
I? Robbie? Where did that come from?
I don’t have time to think about how strange this is, and I stiffen my body to ready myself for another vision. But no vision this time – my pencil zeroes back to the paper like a dart to a bullseye. The paper tears slightly, but I keep writing, my pencil scarily taking on a life of its own.
Robbie and I grew up together. He was born two months and three days before me, and our mothers became firm friends because of it. Apparently, we spent our first year lying side by side on a variety of rugs while our mothers worked together on a devious plan to try to inject some life into the stodgy old Country Women’s Association. I can’t remember any of this, of course. But all my earliest memories have him there somewhere. Mud pies and bee stings. Cubbyhouses and texta colours. Tea parties and rubber-tyre swings. Endless swimming lessons and bush-bashing bike rides. It was always Robbie and me. Always.
That was until we were about nine years old and we were playing schools in the barn and for some reason we decided to practise every swear word we could think of.
I don’t know how it started, but once it did, we couldn’t stop and soon we were cracking up and yelling profanities with all the fullness of our voices and it didn’t take long before Mum was standing at the barn doorway, hands on her hips.
Robbie skittered off home and I got a lashing of mustard on my tongue, which was pretty harsh punishment from my liberal-minded parents. For some reason the whole escapade drove a wedge between us and we barely spoke to each other for about six years. Silly, I know, but that was how it was.
Until the school Christmas picnic at the council swimming pool at the end of Year Ten.
Robbie came and sat beside me on the edge of the batik cloth I was using as a towel. I had on my white knitted bikini and an orange Indian shirt. My hair was tied back by the purple headscarf Deb gave me for my birthday.
&nb
sp; “Hi,” he said, and I noted that his voice had become deep and raspy.
I said hi back and there was something in his eyes that changed everything …
I stop writing. I feel like I’ve had my breath knocked clear out of me. Damp with sweat, I’ve been clutching the pencil with such ferocity that my fingers are aching.
Where did this come from? Why am I writing in first person? As though I am Celina. As though I know what happened nearly four decades ago. Is this my imagination taking flight again?
Yes, yes, that has to be it, I tell myself. That MUST be it.
Must be.
Has to be.
Please let it be. Please.
But I know it’s not.
I cast my eyes over the frantic scrawl filling the double page of my notebook. It’s not even my handwriting.
nine
I am standing on top of the rock, twitching, rocking from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do, a terrifying white noise ringing in my ears. I can’t think straight. I must be going mad. Crazy. I have to be.
“It’s that way,” comes a voice from behind me. I jolt to a stop, my limbs prickling, too afraid to turn around.
“Take the track to your left.” The voice again. Male. Vaguely familiar. I slowly swivel on the spot.
Bobbing in his kayak on the choppy water below me is Oliver, his oar resting across his lap. “Hi!” he says, grinning, and his unexpected presence angers me.
“Stalker,” I snap.
“Whoa,” says Oliver and holds up both hands in defeat.
“You’ve got no right to sneak up on me like that.”
“Sor-ry. Thought you must be looking for The Circle, that’s all.”
I close my eyes and clutch the notebook against my stomach. I am making an idiot of myself.
I attempt a smile. “Circle?” I say, but my voice is wonky.
Oliver seems bewildered, and I can’t blame him – my moods are as choppy as the lake.
“It’s over there.” He points towards the rocky cliffs a little further along, then dips his oar in the water and starts to paddle off.
“Wait.”
He stops, his boat pointing away from me. He doesn’t bother to turn around.
I bite my lip. “Where is it exactly? This circle?”
“There should be a track to your left; it will lead you straight there. You can’t miss it.” He peers over his shoulder and his eyes are sharp like blades. “I’ll meet you there, if you like. Unless that’s too stalker-ish for you.”
Too flustered to think straight, I find myself nodding. “Thanks.”
I climb down from my perch on shaky legs. The track is narrow. Spiky branches reach out from either side, touching each other, and I can’t be sure that I haven’t strayed off into the bush somewhere. I feel so raw, so confused. I strike out at the branches that block my way, that flick me in the face as I stomp through. What am I doing?
The air becomes thick with the smell of damp earth, when finally, the vegetation thins and the track leads into a narrow chasm, a rocky passageway of sorts. Shadowy and dank, the rock walls are mildewy and stained with lichen. They soar up to the grey sky above. It is just wide enough to walk through, and at one point I need to turn sideways to fit. I dip under a rocky overhang, shrug off some hanging vines, then step onto a stone platform – and out into another world.
Before me lies a tranquil lagoon, cut off almost completely from the rest of the lake by towering cliffs, streaked orange and yellow. I stop for a moment, too stunned by the unexpected beauty of it to move.
“Wow,” I manage as Oliver negotiates the narrow opening to the lagoon from the lake.
“Told you it was awesome.” Oliver’s voice echoes off the cliffs and whirls around me. He paddles across to where I stand, and jumps out of the kayak. He splashes through knee-deep water, then clambers up the rocks. I can’t help but notice the confident, fluid way he moves.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“Some kind of ancient geological fault – a sink hole, or something like that.”
“Wow,” I say again.
“Don’t have a clue, to be honest. But it’s pretty cool, hey.”
“I didn’t know it was even here.”
“Not many people do.”
Oliver sits on the ledge. I join him, sitting awkwardly with legs crossed, still holding the notebook tight against me.
“Sorry about before,” I say. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“You were pretty scary yourself.”
I hang my head, embarrassed.
“Forget it.” He slides off the rock into the water, and gazes up at the cliffs around him. “You do a mean crazy eyes though.” He opens his eyes wide and pulls a freaky sort of face at me that makes me laugh.
He cups his hands over his mouth and yells: “Watch out for crazy eyes.” The words bounce around the cliff walls and come echoing back to us: Watch out for crazy eyes … crazy eyes … crazy eyes.
Now I am giggling.
“Try it,” says Oliver.
I shake my head.
“Come on. It’s a rule.”
“A rule?”
“Yep. You have to make a noise. Anything. Burp the National Anthem, if you have to. Fart. I don’t care. Just make a goddamn noise.” Oliver whistles, claps his hands, shouts “coo-ee”.
I slide the notebook under my backside and cup my hands. “Canoeing stalker,” I call.
“It’s a kayak. Get it right, crazy eyes.”
“Kayaking stalker,” I try to shout it, but I am so full of nerves, it comes out crackly.
“Is that the best you can do? Maybe it’s that blanket thing you’re wearing. Sapping all your energy or something. Take it off, I reckon, and try again.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s a poncho, for your information, and I’m not falling for that one.” And before he can reply, I let fly with an enormous, “KAYAKING STALKER.” It is so loud that even the echo shouts back at us and we both bust up laughing.
“STALKER.”
“CRAZY EYES.”
Our words ricochet from cliff to cliff and ping around us until we are enclosed in a pinball game of rebounding crazy eyes and kayaks and stalkers and our belly-wobbling laughter.
Oliver stops abruptly. “That is very uncool.”
“What?”
“Laughing at my laugh.”
“I’m not,” I say, a small chuckle escaping from the side of my mouth, because his laugh is pretty funny – high-pitched and jerky and almost girlie. “Really.”
Oliver raises his eyebrows at me. “Lying is also very uncool, crazy eyes.” And we both melt with laughter again. “And so is wearing a blanket.”
“Poncho,” I counter.
A silence settles over us, but inside I am buzzing. I am hanging out with Oliver – mucking around, having fun.
“What were you doing up there on that rock before?” Oliver asks after a while.
“Ah. Nothing.” Tension creeps back into my chest. “What are you training for?” I say to avoid a proper answer. “The King of the Kayak cup, or something?”
Oliver gets a steely look in his eyes. His jaw juts out with determination. “The Sydney Uni row team next year. The Olympics, eventually.” He says it as if he is already in the team, that there is no doubt he will make it. And I am reminded of my own similar ambitions – ambitions that were left behind at the starting line the day Dad smashed his head and died. And I am surprised at the bitterness I feel. Or is it envy of Oliver who still has everything?
“You’re sure of yourself,” I say.
“Hey, if I don’t believe I can do it, who will? And then why bother? It’s those other doubters who need convincing – and you can’t listen to them, otherwise when you’re racing, all you can hear is them squawking in your ear. You know, telling you you’re a freaking loser. Then you’re stuffed and you are a loser. Literally. Hey, don’t you reckon?”
“Yep. S’pose. Good to aim high, I guess.”
/>
“Shoot for the moon and if you miss, you’ll end up in the stars.” Oliver springs to his feet. “That’s what Mum always says anyway.”
“Deep. I like it.”
Another silence envelops us and I try to summon the courage to broach the subject of my brush with that man the other night. “You get out on the lake a lot,” I say lightly. “Anyone else use it much?”
“Nah. There’s no public access.”
This shocks me. “Really? No one?”
“Yeah. That’s why hardly anyone knows about The Circle. Why?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to sound like an idiot again. “I saw a man the other night – late. He rowed right over to our property.”
Oliver shrugs his shoulders. “I guess it could have been Pop. Or Dad. How late was it?”
“Very. About one in the morning.”
“One? Definitely wouldn’t be Dad. Pop’s a bit eccentric, but I doubt even he would be out at that hour. You sure you weren’t dreaming?”
“Sure. What do you mean ‘eccentric’?”
“He’s an artist. They’re all a little wacky, aren’t they?”
“Guess.”
“Suppose it must have been Pop,” Oliver says. “He’s a harmless old bugger though. Don’t let it worry you. It’s pretty safe round here.”
I resist the urge to bring up Celina. Why is it that everyone feels so safe in a place where something so terrible happened? I can’t work it out, but at least there is some reassurance in my sinister stranger probably being Oliver’s wacky pop. But oddly, I don’t feel reassured at all. I feel tense.
“I better head back home.” I push myself to my feet, and as I do so, my foot kicks the notebook and sends it flying across the rocks towards the water. I yelp and give chase.
Oliver lunges for it and grabs it just before it plops into the lagoon. He raises it in the air with both hands. “How’s that?” he shouts and his words come echoing back.
“Give it to me!” I yell, frantic.
Give it to me … give it to me … to me, the echo bobbles around me, mocking me. Tears fill my eyes.
Oliver mumbles something under his breath.
“Give it to me. Please. Now.”