by Sue Whiting
My eyes follow to where Oliver is pointing. A small stooped man with a hessian sack slung over his shoulder is poking around the base of a willow with a stick.
“Hey, Pop!” yells Oliver.
The man swings round, and takes a step towards us, but as soon as his eyes fall on me, he turns and takes off at a startlingly fast pace.
My head is ringing. I know that face, have it etched on my brain. That was the man – the man I saw that night by the lake.
“Silly old bugger,” says Oliver. He sits down and reaches for another piece of cheese.
“Why did he take off like that?” I manage to ask.
“Told you before, he’s a bit wacky – a recluse – you probably scared him off.”
“And he doesn’t speak? Right?”
“Nah – hasn’t uttered a word for about ten years. Which makes for awkward dinner conversation, hey.”
This doesn’t make sense. I am sure he is the man I saw, but that night he spoke. Definitely. Holy mother of God! Holy mother of God! I couldn’t have imagined it, could I?
This is freaking me out and then some.
“Hey, sit down, Bails. Don’t let the old guy rattle you. He’s harmless – he’s just collecting stuff for his collages. Does it most mornings, some evenings.”
I can’t sit down. I have a dreadful urge to throw up.
“Nah.” I aim at keeping my voice steady.
Oliver takes my hands and tries to pull me to him. “Come on, Bails.” His eyes twinkle at me.
But I am nauseous and dizzy. I pull myself free. “Sorry. Gotta go – Mum made noises about getting up early and taking a walk this morning.” The lie is out before I even think it through. “Don’t want to get sprung.”
“Tomorrow then?” Oliver’s face is a question mark.
“Yeah. Tomorrow. See you.” And I head off almost at a sprint.
twenty-nine
This afternoon Gran stroked my cheek, looked me deep in the eyes, and said, “Are you okay, Bayley? Is there something troubling you, sweetheart?”
I was so touched, I nearly blurted out, Yes! Yes. Yes, something is wrong. I longed to tell her everything, to say, I have a ghost, Gran, a freaking ghost who is telling me stories. Showing me glimpses of her life. A ghost who is messing with my head. Tell me what to do, Gran.
But I caught myself and fobbed her off, pleading tiredness.
“I want you to know one thing, Bayley,” she added. “I understand what you are going through. Understand everything. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Understand? For a moment I thought Gran knew about Celina. My mouth flopped open.
“It’s been tough for you all,” she said. “But things will get better. They will. Your mother will find her way and be her old self again. She’s just afraid and confused and … well, I’ve seen a fair bit of tragedy in my life and it’s true what they say about time …”
I hugged my thanks and scarpered away in search of Seth to take him down to the lake, with the sad knowledge that while Gran might have been through a lot, she has no idea about the things that were being thrown at me. And that makes me feel more alone and afraid than ever.
I light three candles on my desk: two are in-case-of-blackout ones from the kitchen pantry, the other, round and orange and sweetly scented, I pilfered from Amelia’s room. I don’t know why I am lighting them, but it seems appropriate.
I open the peace chest and pull out the jeans and T-shirt I wore on that first night, the purple scarf Deb made. Slip off my singlet top and pull on Celina’s clothes. Next, I place Celina’s creepy portrait on the bed. It’s a testament to Bud’s talent, because I am seeing something very different in Celina’s face now: the energy and enthusiasm has gone, replaced with something darker – bitterness perhaps? The Karinya sign and the photo album go beside the portrait, and also the notebook opened to a new page. Now I am surrounded with the things that have led me to some kind of a connection with Celina.
I know this is ridiculous, that I am fooling myself to think that any of this is going to make one scrap of difference, that I will be able to call Celina’s spirit at will – channel her or whatever it is that has happened before. It is obvious she is the one that has been running this show. Like in her real life. What did Deb call her? The hippy sergeant major?
But the time has come. I have to know what she wants. Somehow, I have to persuade her that she needs to come clean, to stop toying with me. And I have to find out why Lakeside and Oliver’s pop make me feel strange and sick.
I pick up my pencil – what to write? Oliver. The word is written without me even thinking it. No surprise there I suppose; he is always in my thoughts these days.
Oliver. I write it again. Say it out loud, feel the way the syllables roll out from the back of my throat, enjoy the way the sound of his name makes me feel zingy.
Focus! I tell myself. Concentrate on the task at hand. Be bold. Be fearless.
I write, Lakeside.
Then, Robbie.
As soon as the word is on the page, the space around me changes, as if a damp sea fog has rolled in through the open window. My eyes scurry around the room. The yellow flames on the candles seem to grow larger; they sway and smoke, then turn from yellow to blue, and I feel Celina’s presence right beside me, and all around me at the same time. But it’s as though something menacing has tumbled in with the fog. I am beyond scared. What an idiot. What was I thinking calling a ghost?
My head is thrown back. Invisible icy fingers clutch my hand and forces it back to the page.
I felt ripped off, if you must know, Bayley. Dying that young, when I had everything to look forward to – my whole life ahead of me. And it was going to be such a good life. I had so much passion, so much I wanted to do, to achieve.
But the worst part was knowing how everyone suffered so horribly after I was gone. It’s one thing losing a loved one; it’s a part of life – death. Isn’t it? Death you can cope with eventually. But not knowing, that’s the real killer. That’s a never-ending nightmare. And that’s what drove Robbie away from the lake – away from me. I tried to call to him, to tell him to stay, not to go. But he wouldn’t hear. Couldn’t hear. His grief was too loud.
The not knowing is what sent Mum and Dad crazy as well. That was hard to witness. I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear it was no accident that their car crashed into a tree on the night of what would have been my twenty-first birthday. They planned it. Made it seem like it was some freak accident, so the family wouldn’t be shamed by their suicide, so the saintly Catholic O’Malley clan could deal with this additional tragedy without getting caught up in that fires of hell and damnation nonsense. That’s what kind of people they were. Totally brilliant.
But their pain, and Robbie’s, was too great, Bayley. And I could feel it. Deeply. That’s why I’m still here. I knew one day, I’d get the chance. I just had to be patient. And then you came, like I knew you would.
When you opened the peace chest, that night, I was past excited. There you were, and almost my clone. But it was more than that that made you special. Because inside you, Bayley, you were all hollowed out, like an empty shell washed up on the shore. You were perfect. There was plenty of room for me to come and go and I knew the time had come. My time had come. My determination and patience had paid off. It took quite an effort to distract Aunty Maree so that she left the peace chest behind. But I needed it. It kept me company through those lonely years, and reminded me about what I’d lost. And it was all worth it.
HE has to pay, Bayley. He has to pay for the pain he caused. And really, my sad little cousin, it is up to you. Make him pay, Bayley. Make him pay.
I’m depending on you. Now you know. Peace sister.
Why are tears salty? Why can’t they taste like chocolate or honey? Instead, they spill onto your lips and sting, leaving a bitter aftertaste to remind you of your misery.
I wipe my face on my pillow and try to pull myself together. I don’t even know what I am cryin
g about. Am I crying for Celina? For me? For what she is asking me to do? How am I going to make him pay? And who is he? Is Celina ever going to tell me that part? Or do I have to figure it out myself? Was it some random stranger? I don’t think so. I sense the person is still alive and still in the area.
My mind keeps coming back to Oliver’s pop. And it sickens me to think that he might be the one. It can’t be him – that is too horrible. I pray that I am overreacting and judging him wrongly because he frightened me and he’s a little odd.
“Peace sister,” I mutter to the chest. “Peace sister.” How can I get any peace with the burden of Celina’s words pressing against my ribs?
My door flings open and I leap up, the notebook hurtling from my lap to the floor.
Amelia staggers into the doorway, the candlelight making her face appear distorted and shadowy.
“Bloody hell, Amelia,” I hiss. “What are you doing?”
“Me?” she slurs, and sweeps her hand theatrically in front of her. “Me? What’s all this? Having a freaking seance or something? Peace, sister …”
“You’re drunk.”
“And you’re a freak.”
I pull her inside, close the door and switch on my light. “Shh. You’ll wake Mum.”
“Yeah right. You’re so clueless. She’s been knocking herself out on pills for the last week or more.” Amelia laughs an ugly laugh, and in the brighter light I can see that her lipstick is smeared across her face and her hair looks like birds have been calling it home.
“Where have you been?”
“As if I’m going to tell you.” Her eyes lock on the candles. “You little thief.” She blows out the orange one and swipes it from my desk.
“You can talk,” I counter pointlessly.
She snorts, yanks open the door and marches out, tripping over her own feet as she stumbles up the hall.
I blow out the remaining candles, turn off the light and flop onto my bed. I only last ten seconds before the darkness starts to creep me out. I switch on my bedside lamp and stare at the wall.
My long day is going to be followed by a very long night.
thirty
My room is warm and stuffy.
I am thinking of the beach and Loni. I can smell sunscreen, salty seaweedy air. Hear Loni’s rolling laugh and nonstop commentary. The sand is toasty beneath my feet. It is delicious.
I sit upright.
What an idiot. I’ve slept in.
I fling on my clothes, jam my feet into my joggers and dash down the stairs, nearly turning my ankle on the dodgy third step – when are the builders going to fix that? – and narrowly avoiding a collision with Mum as I sprint for the door.
“Hey, what’s the hurry?” she says, spinning on the spot as I fly by.
“Going for a jog – before it gets too hot,” I say and bound down the verandah stairs.
Mum follows me out onto the verandah. “Bails,” she calls.
I turn round, jogging backwards down the drive. “What? I’m in a hurry, Mum.”
“I can see that,” she says. “It’s just … it’s just good to see you running again, that’s all. Good for all of us …”
Wow, where did that come from? I turn back round and take off across the paddock, emotion blurring my vision.
Less than a kay in and already my right side kills and my lungs are burning, and if those rotten flies don’t stop buzzing around my head, I swear I am going to scream. I am running far too fast, but I put my head down and run through the pain.
I realise that I am doing a fine job of working myself into a stew, but after last night, the need to see Oliver, to burrow into his arms and feel their strength around me, is all consuming.
A quick scan of the lake and there’s no sign of him. I suck in a couple of deep breaths and concentrate on getting there.
I finally turn the bend before our meeting spot – in time to see Oliver paddling off, about fifty metres from the shore. Panting, I stop, cup my hands around my mouth, and go to yell out, but something catches my eye and his name evaporates on my tongue.
Out from the cover of the willows, a bent figure scuttles across the sand. Bud. He drops his sack and strides to the shoreline, then starts brushing the sand with his boot. He works his way purposely along, his boot scraping back and forth as he goes and it is soon apparent that he’s scrubbing something out. A message from Oliver perhaps? What did it say?
Part of me wants to charge down there and demand he stop – to challenge him, strike out at him. But I don’t, because I can’t move. My thoughts turn to Celina and my heart thuds so fiercely, blood bellows in my ears. I slink back behind some bushes, out of sight.
Celina, I refuse to hear you. Seriously, I don’t want to know.
The night is balmy. The half-moon throws spidery shadows from the Norfolk pine across the front of the house. I steal into the soft darkness.
Once clear of the driveway and into the dip of the paddock, I flick on my torch and welcome its golden beam marking the way ahead. My stomach churns with nerves. This is so not a good idea, but then again, sleeping in my room with the ghost of Celina doesn’t really appeal either.
“Tonight. Meet me at the jetty,” Oliver had said this afternoon when he called. He was inexplicably broody and miffed, and he didn’t seem to believe me when I told him how Bud had scrubbed out his message in the sand. And I was left feeling confused and uneasy.
At the jetty, Oliver is already there, waiting, and my jitters melt away. “Hey,” he whispers, and the moonlight shows the shine in his eyes. “You made it.”
He takes my hand and helps me into the rower. With a nod of his head, he indicates for me to sit, before giving the back of the boat a powerful shove that launches it off the sand. He jumps in, reaches across me, takes both oars and rows gently, almost noiselessly, away, the boat gliding across the silky water.
“Where are we going?” I ask once we are well away from the shore.
“Don’t know. Where’d you like to go? The Circle?”
“Okay.” I take one of the oars and together we head towards the craggy northern side of the lake. It is exhilarating.
Neither of us speaks, and there is pleasure in this silence, neither of us feeling the need to fill it. I focus on matching Oliver’s strokes, keeping the rhythm, and listening to the gentle lap of the water under the boat, the spasmodic humming of the frogs.
We’re almost in the shadow of the cliffs when a distant rumbling echoes across the lake. I cock my ears, trying to make out what it is.
“Just a car.” Oliver reads my mind. “Probably up on the highway.”
“Really? I’ve never heard noise from the highway before.”
Oliver shrugs and continues rowing. My eyes sweep the ragged silhouette to the north. The noise intensifies and then I glimpse the flicker of lights. Car lights dancing about the bush and heading towards my house.
“There,” I say and point, dropping the oar. Oliver stops, and we sit in the boat and watch the car emerge from the bush and crawl along the dirt road towards the gate.
“What the–?”
“Chill, Bill. It’s probably Lee or Mitch.”
“Lee or Mitch?”
The car stops about a hundred metres before the front gate, semi-hidden by the thick scrub lining the road.
“Amelia’s new buddies. Picking her up.”
“What are you talking about?” Someone jogs out of the gates and up to the car. It is obviously Amelia. I stand up, and the boat sways. Oliver grabs my elbow and yanks me down.
“Watch it,” he says. “You’ll have us both in the drink.”
My heart is flipping out. “What is she doing?”
“You don’t know, do you? She’s a sneaky one.”
I shake my head, feeling like a complete idiot.
“Amelia’s up in town nearly every night. Hanging out the back of the pub, or down by the river with a bunch of the locals.”
“How do you know? And why didn’t you tell me?”
Oliver’s fringe falls across his eyes. He brushes it out of the way and shoots me a savage look. “I live here,” he says. “That’s how. It’s a small town. I’ve seen her. She’s hard not to notice. And I didn’t tell you because it’s not a biggie – though I didn’t realise that she’d been sneaking out.” Oliver laughs.
Frankly, I don’t see what’s so funny, and even his silly hissing laugh can’t shift my anxiety. He grabs my oar and starts to row away, just as the car turns round and heads off back down the road.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. She’s okay. And the guys she’s hanging out with are harmless. Thickheads, but harmless thickheads.” He reaches across and lifts my chin. “She’s only having fun.”
He sounds so like Amelia that my stomach clenches. Why does stuff like this bother me so much? When did I turn into the captain of the fun police? I don’t want Amelia to ruin my night, but I am worried about her. I can’t help it. And what worries me most is what will happen when Mum finds out.
“You gonna help, or do you expect me to do all the work?” Oliver’s smile is wide. “Come on.” He changes direction. “Let’s head for the middle. And forget about Amelia – she’s no different to you, out here with me.”
I sigh and pick up the oar. He’s right. Mum would flip out if she knew I was here with Oliver and, perversely, it makes me grin to think of Mum peacefully asleep while both her daughters are out gallivanting. Gallivanting! That is such a Mum word and the thought makes me laugh out loud.
“Gonna share the joke?”
“Nah,” I say. “What’s so cool about the middle of the lake anyway?”
Oliver stops rowing, slides off the seat onto his back and points to the sky. “This.”
I squint upwards.
“Want to watch the show?”
It’s a tight squeeze, the two of us lying on our backs, knees bent to fit in. Oliver threads his fingers through mine and we gaze up at the starry sky, as deep and wide as it is intense. It does my head in, trying to fathom the size of it. Where it starts and where it ends. We watch a satellite journey from horizon to horizon, then disappear into nowhere. We locate the Southern Cross and the saucepan. Hold our breath, waiting for a shooting star. It never comes, but we don’t care.