by Sue Whiting
I am aware of Oliver’s chest rising and falling beside mine. I reach across and trace my finger along the raised blue vein that snakes across his upper arm muscles, savouring the strength in those arms, then spread my hand across the wrinkle of his T-shirt, absorbing the steady rhythm of his breathing. There is something reassuring about it: as if as long as those lungs continue to fill with air, and that heart continues to pump, things are going to be okay.
I am consumed with a beautiful calm.
But eventually, calmness allows my mind to drift. Infuriatingly, it drifts to Celina. Celina and Robbie watching this same sky, locating the same constellations, feeling the same reassurance that life is going to be sweet. Together forever, sweet pea.
A breeze tickles the ends of my hair, and I am suddenly cold. Determined to ignore it, I grit my teeth and will the feeling away. But it won’t go. My arms and legs become covered in goosebumps. I flinch and sit up.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing.” I fold my arms across my chest. “It’s just getting cold, don’t you think?”
“Ah – no. It’s hot and it could get hotter.” Oliver gives me a cheeky grin, and beckons for me to join him.
But I can’t. My senses are on overdrive. “Can’t you feel it?” I say. “I reckon someone is watching us or something.”
“Don’t be dumb. Come on, Bayley.” Even in the moonlight, I can see the flush in Oliver’s cheeks, the look in his eyes. And it excites me. But not enough to shake the feeling that someone or something is lurking nearby.
“Really. I can feel it. Someone – over there. On the shore. I feel like someone is watching us. Like someone is following us.”
“Don’t be crazy, Bayley. Come on; forget it.”
“Maybe it’s your pop again.”
I regret it as soon as I say it.
Oliver pulls himself up and back onto the seat with a sigh. “Are you for real?”
“Well, it could be. I keep getting this feeling that he’s following us.” I am trying to justify myself, but know that I am failing.
“Can you leave the old guy alone? He’s not out there and even if he is – what does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” I squeak. “It’s just–”
“You don’t need to explain.” Oliver picks up both oars. “I get the message loud and clear. And you know what? I’m sick of it.” He turns the boat and heads for shore.
I sit stiffly beside him, determined not to cry. The silence is far from easy now. And my heart is breaking because of it.
thirty-one
The last thing I do before going to bed is to write in the notebook.
It’s him. It was Bud, wasn’t it?
I write it out of anger and frustration and, frankly, embarrassment. I have no evidence, only some bizarre kind of intuition that has probably resulted in Oliver never wanting to speak to me again.
Perhaps I am venting. Laying my stupidity onto someone else. But my anger and frustration is making me brave, and it feels right, putting it out there, as though I am somehow taking control, instead of waiting for her Supreme Ghostly Highness to decide when she is going to let me in on her big scary secret.
I wait, and wait. And nothing. Not a peep – only the creak of the front door when Amelia rocks in around two. I think about confronting her. Scaring her as she sneaks up the stairs, but what’s the point? And anyway, I am too exhausted and strung out to be bothered. I listen for her as she slips past my room, and then tunnel under my sheet, sheath myself within it, and pray for sleep to put me out of my misery. It’s obvious Celina isn’t going to reveal anything more until she is good and ready.
I am jolted awake by a loud bang. The moment my eyes spring open, I sense that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. Groggy from lack of sleep, and with only pre-dawn dimness sneaking into the room, it takes a second before I am able to take in the scene before me.
The room is trashed. Stuff hangs out of open drawers, while other drawers rest empty on the boards. The clothes that were hanging in my wardrobe are in a pile on the floor as if they have been flung off the rail in one swoop. Papers and books and make-up are scattered everywhere and the things from Celina’s chest are strewn about as though hurled in a rage. Beside me, the curtain billows out from the window, thrown open wide – wire screen missing. Outside, the air is still, the branches of the Norfolk not moving even a whisper. The lacy material brushes my cheek.
I sit in a squat on my bed, gather the sheet around me and clutch it to me. My eyes are frantic. They dash around the room, taking it all in. I slide my feet to the ground and, with the sheet still draped around me, step clumsily over the items littering the floor, trying to make sense of what I am seeing.
Celina’s portrait lies facedown. I reach down and pick it up, the glass falling out in jagged pieces, the blue crystals from one eye scattering onto the floorboards.
Have I pissed Celina off somehow?
I let go of the sheet and gather up the pile of clothes that have spilled from my wardrobe, weighing up what to do next. My hands tremble as I hang the clothes back up. I slip the last dress onto its hanger and onto the rail and, as I close the wardrobe door, I catch something written on the mirror. I barely stifle the scream that rips from my mouth.
YES BUD
BASTARD!
There is an obvious rage in the way the words are cast across the mirror in what looks like red nail polish. Bile stings my throat. I trace over the words with my finger. The nail varnish, not even dry, stains my fingertip.
Bud! It was Bud. Oliver’s grandfather, Robbie’s father – the man who lives right across the lake and seems to be stalking me, the man who I saw by the jetty that night. The man who, let’s face it, I have known from almost the beginning was the one.
Oliver’s grandfather!
Oliver’s grandfather killed Celina.
The weight of this awful knowledge drops me to my knees.
I don’t know how long I sit on the floor, unable to move, my brain clogged. I can’t seem to wrestle out a single clear thought. My phone beeps, the noise coming from within the mountains of stuff covering the floor. On hands and knees, I push aside clothes and books to locate it. It beeps again, and suddenly it becomes all-important. I have to find that phone. But where is it? I become frantic, tossing stuff out of the way like a madwoman until I spy it lying under my bed.
There are two messages. One from Loni and one from Oliver.
I open the message from Oliver.
Hey, it says.
Hey? Is that all he can come up with? His pop is making me live a nightmare and I have no idea what to do and all he can say is, hey? Stuff him.
The phone beeps again, startling me so much, it jerks out of my hand.
Oliver. Again.
Sorry about last night. Want to do something later?
I toss the phone onto my bed. Oliver can wait.
I become aware that the sun is well and truly up now, the bird and insect choir in full swing. I hear the bathroom door close and the sound of someone doing a wee into the toilet. I look around the room. I have to clear this up before someone sees it, because frankly, how would I explain it? They’d be escorting me out in a straitjacket if I even try.
I start with Celina’s things. I roll up the purple scarf and put it on my bed – I’ve grown curiously attached to it. The rest of her things I fold and place back into the chest. I place her portrait, glass fragments, missing eye pieces and all, on top and close the lid, wishing it was that easy to close the lid on this whole Celina horror movie.
It doesn’t take long to tidy the rest, and now I am left with Celina’s message on the mirror. I snatch my nail polish remover from the drawer beside my bed and stand staring at the words, tissues in hand. I hesitate. This is the only evidence – flimsy though it is – that I have. I grab my phone and take a photo, then get to work scrubbing off the ghastly truth.
There is only a horrible red smear left, like a bloodstain, when my door opens and Se
th peers into the room. His eyes are owl-like and his face paler than normal.
I put the tissues on the floor, and crouch beside him. “What’s up, mate?”
He shrugs, his chin quivering.
“Hey, you can tell me. Did you have a bad dream?”
Seth nods and nuzzles into my shoulder.
“What was it about?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember. But I got really cold and really scared.”
“Well, it’s only a dream. Don’t let it worry you.”
Seth wiggles out of my hold. “It stinks in here.”
He’s right; it does. I close the door to keep the smell in. “Nail polish remover. I spilt some.”
Seth points at the mirror.
“Yeah, I tripped and spilt the nail polish on the mirror. Don’t tell Mum. She’ll be cross if she knows I’ve been a klutz.”
Seth squints at me, tugging at his ear.
“Deal?” I say.
He nods.
“Let’s go down and get some brekkie then. Is Mum up?”
“Nah. No one is. Just me.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Let’s cook up a feast for the two of us, eh?”
I take his hand and we tiptoe down the hall. And I am very glad to leave my worries hidden behind my closed door, if only for a while.
thirty-two
Sitting here on the end of the jetty, with the mechanical thump of nail guns from the verandah reminding me I’m not alone, I stare across at Lakeside, consumed with a hideous feeling of foreboding.
What am I supposed to do? Tell someone? Mum? Gran? Deb? Confess everything to the police? To Oliver? And what would I say? Hey, Celina O’Malley’s ghost has been writing to me and told me Bud Mitchell killed her.
Yep, that might work.
Every way I look at it, it’s useless. A definite case of be careful what you wish for. What does Celina want me to do? Expose Bud? Seek her revenge? But how? When? Why? Then I remember her words: Make him pay, Bayley. Make him pay. Crap! I become goosy all over. How am I supposed to do that?
I wonder if Celina feels let down or anxious. Waits almost forty long years to disclose the horrid truth, only to divulge it to a coward who hasn’t a clue what to do. A coward who has been hanging out with the accused’s grandson; a coward who, if she cares to admit it, is falling for said grandson. Am I willing to risk that? For something that happened in the distant past? For a ghost?
Is exposing Bud worth losing Oliver? Worth destroying his family? Haven’t they suffered enough already? Haven’t I suffered enough? Is there no end to all this? I think Celina may have chosen the wrong person to reveal this to. She can disclose whatever she likes, but she can’t make me do anything about it. Can she? Scratch that. I don’t want to think about the answer to that question. After the fury Celina unleashed on my room this morning, I suspect Deb could be way off in her belief that Celina wouldn’t even hurt a cockroach.
There’s a creak of wood behind me and I turn to find Amelia walking down the jetty. She is wearing nothing but her pink bikini. Towel over her shoulder, over-sized sunglasses sitting on the end of her nose, my red bangles jangling up her arm, she struts down the boards as if on a catwalk. I notice the turned heads of three of the guys working on the verandah, the smirks on their faces as they watch her.
She slides elegantly beside me, and drops my mobile in my lap. “Don’t say I never do anything for you,” she says, pushing her sunnies up the bridge of her nose. “It’s been ringing and beeping nonstop. Must be the bogan boyfriend.”
I stare at her. She really is a dick. I must be adopted.
“Quit staring, pinhead. And what have you been doing in your room – you’ve stunk out the whole house. Mum’s on the warpath – says you’ve given her a migraine. I think it’s those workmen. Wish they’d hurry up and finish and get the hell out of here.”
I don’t bother answering. I scroll down through the list of messages and calls. Most are from Oliver. A couple from Loni and one from Deb. I wonder what she wants. I push myself up to my feet and head off down the jetty, away from my adopted sibling.
“A ‘thank you, sis’ wouldn’t go astray,” she calls.
“Thank you, sis,” I say, turning and bending in an elaborate bow, before marching away.
I swallow hard and call Oliver. He answers on the first ring.
“Hey. Where’ve you been?” The blood rushes to my head at the sound of him.
“Here.”
“I’ve rung like a hundred times. I was about to row over.”
“Sorry. I had my phone off.” There is intensity in Oliver’s voice that is unsettling. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I was an idiot last night, crazy eyes. I …”
“No worries. It’s cool. I was being stupid too. Forget it.”
“Bails …”
“Yeah.”
“I … I … need to tell you something.”
“Okay …” I’m not sure if I like the sound of this – I’ve had enough surprises to deal with already today.
“Not now. Not on the phone. Can I come over?”
“No,” I say far too quickly. “Why don’t we meet …” I am about to say at the bend, where we’ve met before, but the thought of Bud being around, spying on us, is unbearable. “In town,” I say. “Can we go to town?”
It’s weird being with Oliver today. I feel different. Older. Tireder. Strange.
I don’t want this thing about Bud to come between us, but in a way I fear it already has. When I look into Oliver’s eyes, those beautiful eyes, I can’t help but wonder if deep within those greeny-blue pools, he knows something. Can you live with a murderer, know him your whole life, and not realise it? Is that possible? He must have some idea. Is that why he’s so defensive about Bud? Do I really know Oliver at all?
And it occurs to me that you can never really know anyone. Not without crawling inside a person’s head. You only get to know what they want you to know. Like Celina. Did Deb ever really know Celina? Did Robbie? Or Gran?
What is real anyway? Is it everything just bullshit? I mean, look at me right now. Oliver is holding my hand and we are walking down Main Street, carrying paper bags filled with hamburgers and chips, chatting about nothing in particular. But I am not the person he dropped at the jetty last night. I am the holder of a terrible secret and an even more terrible truth. And unless I tell him, he will never know this part of me. Ever.
“Hey, Bails,” Oliver says. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“Huh? Sorry.” I peer up at him and smile. “Strayed off somewhere. Did you see where Amelia went?” It wasn’t my idea for Amelia to come to town with us, but it was the only way I could convince Mum to let me go – which is highly ironic, given what Amelia has been up to.
“She took off to the river, I think.”
“She better be back by seven, or I’ll kill her.”
“Front row seats for that one. Make sure it’s bloody.”
“You’re such a boy.”
“I try.” Oliver steers me down a narrow laneway between the pub and the supermarket, and thankfully away from the end of town where Deb’s store is. “There’s a park down here. Come on, we’ll eat on the swings.”
I should be happy. I should be messaging Loni, telling her that I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who has bought me a burger and wants to sit on the swings and eat with me, and who is so wonderful that I can’t imagine not being with him. A boyfriend I am terrified of losing, because of something that happened forty years ago.
It’s so steamy hot. Storm clouds gather behind the branches of the enormous fig trees at the edge of the park. I flop onto the rubber-strap seat, scuff the dirt with my feet, and bite into my burger. A dozen flies home in, and it becomes a challenge of dexterity to take a fly-free bite and shoo them away without landing on my bum in the dirt.
Oliver devours his burger in what seems like two bites, which is probably the better anti-fly tactic. But h
e is the one who seems distracted now. He rocks on the swing, lost in thought. Is he working up the courage to tell me what it was that he couldn’t tell me on the phone?
I decide to broach the subject. Get it over with. It couldn’t be worse than what Celina revealed last night.
When I ask him, he squints at me, as if struggling to find the right words. “I’m just sorry I yelled at you about Pop …” He stops and chews his bottom lip. Behind his fringe, his forehead is creased with a frown. “Bails,” he continues, “there is something else, something with Pop – but I don’t know what it is. It’s freaking me out, to be honest. Mum and Dad have noticed as well – I heard them talking, arguing, which is a pretty big deal for them. Come to think of it, Dad has been weird lately too. Everything’s so freakin’ tense and strange at home.” He smiles sheepishly. “I guess I took it out on you.”
He reaches for my hand. I take my last bite, dust the crumbs from my shorts, move across to his swing and sit on his lap. He seems so vulnerable – and it seems the natural thing to do. He wraps his arms around me and I rest my head on his shoulder.
“What’s up with your pop, do you think?” I choose my words carefully, concentrating on keeping my voice steady.
“Hard to put words to it. He’s kind of jumpy and super active. He’s been a hermit the last couple of years, kept to himself, watching the telly in his slippers kind of stuff – he’s in his eighties – but now he’s everywhere, buzzing around the place. He’s working on some big new art thing, but it’s more than that. He’s pissed off all the time. Something’s bothering him.”
My skin goes cold. It’s me. I am the one who has caused the change. I know it.
“Maybe he’s getting Alzheimer’s or something,” I try, my guts twisting.
“That’s what Mum thinks. But Dad won’t have it. He even accused Mum of making things up, so he’d put him in a home. And that is not like my dad – to say stuff like that to Mum.”