by Anna Willett
Moving slowly, sticking to the far wall and trying to cross the dining room as silently as possible, she made her way to the study. Noticing the door was ajar gave her pause. She was the only person who used the room at the far side of the stairs. The door should have been closed. Not wanting to think about Lea creeping around her study, she pushed the door and wheeled inside.
Two large windows spilled more light into the little study than any other room in the house. Looking out over the back lawn and being able to see the natural bush surrounding her house had always inspired her. But now the room was in shadows and the large expanse of sky outside the big windows looked sinister and wild with soot-coloured clouds covering the sinking sun.
Belle didn’t need light to find her desk. She’d spent hundreds of hours in this room over the past five years and knew every corner as though it were tattooed on her brain. Although much of the last thirteen months had been spent staring at a blank virtual page, she still liked the privacy of her writing space. The smell of honeysuckle that drifted up from the diffuser on the shelf and the collection of smooth pebbles and scraps of driftwood that filled a basket on her desk; all the things that were familiar and comforting scarcely registered as she crossed the room and flipped open her laptop.
Lea thought she was outside getting fresh air. If Belle took too long, the girl might come looking for her. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation. Belle tapped the keys and the screen lit up. She had no idea if it was possible to contact emergency services online and didn’t have time to waste finding out. It would be better, she decided, to contact her sister and then Guy through Facebook. A quick message asking both to contact the police and send help would have to do.
Please let Bethany be checking her Facebook. Belle’s lip moved without sound as she brought up the Internet browser. Without realising it, she’d clasped her hands together in a praying pose. Hunched over, intent on the screen, her one eye blinked in disbelief when the page showed an error.
“No. No, not now.” Vaguely aware that she was speaking, she pushed the laptop aside and stared at the shiny square on the desk’s surface surrounded by a fine ring of dust where the modem usually sat.
Her shoulders dropped and she sat back in the chair. Lea had taken the modem and Ethernet cable just like she’d taken her pills and her phone. Up until now she’d been able to convince herself that the girl was behaving erratically for any number of reasons: she was an addict and wanted the pills or what happened with Arthur had sent the carer into shock. Both were plausible reasons, but no longer valid in the face of deliberateness that included systematically cutting Belle off from the rest of the world.
She stared at the screen, no longer seeing the page. Her thoughts now returned to the previous night. Something had nagged at her about Lea’s appearance when she returned from checking outside. Belle remembered noticing the girl was wearing trainers. At the time it was just something that she took in without really processing the information. But now Belle realised there were two things wrong with the picture of the girl in trainers and pyjamas. If she’d been awoken by a noise, wouldn’t she run downstairs in bare feet? Or even if she did take the time to put on trainers, would she stop to lace them? And they were laced. Belle remembered that quite clearly. The other thing that bothered her was the trainers were dry when Lea came back inside. The back lawn was damp when they were outside this morning. This time of year the grass was always damp at night. If Lea had been outside and, as she’d said, checked the lawn and around the trees, her trainers should have been wet.
Belle’s arms were shaking so badly that she let her hands drop into her lap and pressed them together. Lea had been up to something before Arthur appeared on the scene. The realisation was like a smack in the face. Only instead of making her skin sting, it set off a tremble that ran the entire length of her body.
“What are you doing?”
Belle hadn’t heard the girl approaching.
Belle slammed the laptop closed. “I was going to write something.” She turned the chair so she could see the caregiver and watch her expression. “I’ve been hashing out ideas for a new story.” Her voice was tight so she shrugged her shoulders, trying to relax. “When something comes to me, I have to jot it down or it’s gone.”
Lea’s face showed no emotion. “What did you write?”
“What?” Belle had heard the question, but was caught off guard and tried playing for time.
Lea tilted her head to the left and for the second time that day the girl reminded her of a bird. Still watchful, but with a hint of something predatory in the angle of her head and the steadiness of her gaze. “I said what did you write?”
“Nothing.” Belle waved a hand in the air. “By the time I got the laptop turned on the thought was gone.”
Lea moved quickly, swooping forward with such suddenness that Belle ducked slightly. But to her relief, Lea swept past her and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. The girl pushed Belle out of the study and gave the chair a shove, sending Belle rolling into the dining room while behind her Lea slammed the study door.
The force of the push sent Belle careening into the dining table. With only a split second to grasp the wheels, she managed to turn the chair and hit the table with her right side. Her good knee smacked the edge of the table leg with enough force to make her gasp with pain. The bump stung, but if it had been her injured knee Belle thought she might have passed out with the pain.
“That was your fault.” Lea spoke from behind her and took hold of the chair. “If I didn’t have to go running around checking on you, the chair wouldn’t have slipped out of my hands.”
The push had been deliberate, maybe even in warning, but Belle didn’t risk arguing. “Sorry.” The word tasted bitter in her mouth.
Lea pushed her back towards the sitting room. “I’m getting worried about you, Belle.” The girl raised her voice, making sure Arthur could hear her. “You rush off to the study to write and then can’t remember a word of what you had in your mind.” Lea made a clicking sound with her tongue. “And I know you’ve been overdoing it with your painkillers.”
“What? No, I haven’t.” Belle stuttered out the denial and felt a flood of heat on her cheeks.
“That’s not true, Belle.” Lea rolled the chair past the sofa, but didn’t stop. “I saw you taking extra last night.” She leaned down, her mouth close to Belle’s ear. “It’s dangerous and sad when people get addicted to painkillers.” The girl’s voice was a stage whisper, her breath hot on Belle’s ear.
Belle tried to control herself, but couldn’t stop her voice rising with outrage. “I’m not addicted to them. I just had a car accident.”
“Did you?” Lea’s voice dropped, her tone deep and questioning.
Belle snatched a look at Arthur. His head was up and he was watching their movements with watery eyes. He looked as baffled by what was happening as Belle.
“Stop pushing me.” Belle turned in the chair, but Lea looked unfazed. “Take your hands off my chair.” Belle was shouting now and twisting around, but the chair kept going.
When they reached the bedroom, Belle felt another shove and found herself sailing into the room. Not quick enough to turn this time, the chair struck the bed, but luckily for Belle, the armrest took the impact. By the time she managed to turn around, the door was already closing.
“I think you should cool off in here for a while.” Lea was smiling, the sort of sad grin a mother might use on a disobedient child. Before closing the door, the carer paused and the smile was gone. “Don’t try to come out or I might lose my cool again.” The door closed with a dry clunk.
Chapter Twelve
Joan shrugged into Roger’s old wax jacket. For a second she caught a whiff of Larimax Throat Lozenges but the more she tried to capture the smell, the fainter it grew. Just as it was with memories, a comforting scent was like a will-o’-the-wisp; little more than a ghostly essence gone before she could hold it close.
“Don�
��t worry, darling. I’m not getting upset, just sentimental in my old age.” She spoke to the empty kitchen. In her mind’s eye she could almost see Roger pushing his glasses up so they sat atop his silver hair, a good-natured smile softening his stony features. A smile he kept just for her.
Talking to her husband eased the pain. Not completely, but it helped. Like Roger’s smile, it softened the cold edges. Grief was a cruel companion, always at her side silent and ominous. Sometimes the silence in the house was more than she could bear. Most people would think her foolish, prattling on like Roger was still alive and listening, but the alternative was too grim. Besides, Joan liked to believe he was listening. There were times like last night when she was brushing her teeth, she felt just for a split second that he was next to her. The sensation had been so real that she’d stopped brushing and turned around.
“Best to keep moving.” She lifted the collar of the oversized raincoat and tucked her now mostly grey bob inside. “And,” she picked up the clear plastic box from the counter, “I’ve saved us one for later.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know you love lamingtons and…” Joan pressed her lips together and dropped her chin.
She had good days and bad days, but some days were grey. Bleak days. More infrequent now, but still like a poisonous cloud that fell over her very soul. In those times Joan neither dressed nor ate. She drifted through the house as ghost-like as the scent of Roger’s throat lozenges. Her late husband wouldn’t have approved of the times when she gave in to despair and longing, so it was for him as much as for herself that she kept busy and tried to remain useful.
Today she planned on visiting Belle Hammer. As a member of the small Lake Stanmore community, the author was a bit of a celebrity and one of Joan’s favourite writers. But, more importantly, she was a neighbour who’d had rotten luck. Homemade lamingtons weren’t much, but they were Roger’s favourite, and as he would have said, Comfort food is nothing to sneeze at.
With the tub of chocolate and coconut treats tucked under one arm, Joan picked up her keys and patted her pockets, making sure she had her phone and small torch. It was later than she would have liked to make the walk to her neighbour’s house. Opening the back door to a shock of chilly evening air, she almost gave in to temptation and took the car. But the air would clear her head and sleep would come easier after a good stretch of the legs. Nodding to herself, she strode around the side of the house and across the front lawn.
The walk was pleasant enough despite the chill. Joan kept to the left, being mindful of the need to keep oncoming traffic in her sights. Not that there was much in the way of cars on Silver Gum Lane. In spring and summer there were more comings and goings, a smattering of tourists who’d wandered off the beaten track or visitors weaving in and out of local roads. But in winter the most she’d expect was the Hammers, either Belle’s old Holden or her husband’s sports car on the streets. And didn’t that young man like to belt along! Joan made a clicking sound with her tongue and inched closer to the shoulder of the road.
From the trees a kookaburra let rip with a gale of laughter, winding up to a chattering crescendo sharp enough to wake the dead. Joan turned her head, trying to spot the bird, but the trees were so tightly packed that their tall shadows crowded out the light. The bird’s laughter made her think of something her mother always said about a kookaburra’s laughter in the late afternoon. Laughing before the sky falls. Joan shrugged deeper into Roger’s jacket, which she supposed was her jacket now.
She passed Arthur Howell’s driveway, noticing his mailbox was leaning drunkenly to the right. Makes sense. Catching herself in the unkind thought, she clamped her lips together and scurried on. Arthur was a drunk and what her mother would have called an alchy. But wasn’t alcoholism a sickness just like any other harmful compulsion of the mind and body? Maybe she should be bringing him the lamingtons. The poor bloke looked like he hadn’t had a proper meal since Beijing hosted the summer Olympics.
Arthur was a tall bag of bones in a grubby raincoat, always loping from place to place, usually the bottle shop. Rena, at the little grocery shop in Stanmore Central, once told her Arthur used to be an English lecturer. The woman had more to say, but Joan shut down the gossip with a steely stare. A stare that could make milk curdle, that’s what Roger called it. Joan didn’t know how milk-curdling her stare was these days, probably more like a watery trickle than a flash of steel, but it was enough to quieten Rena’s gossipy tongue.
Rounding the bend, Joan was pleased to see the lights on at the Hammer place. Calling before showing up would have been the polite thing to do, but she didn’t have their number and intended to stay only long enough to deliver the lamingtons and make sure her neighbour was on the road to recovery. And ask when her new book might be coming out.
Joan chuckled to herself. It wouldn’t hurt to ask a polite question about Belle’s work.
Sensible walking shoes crunching up the driveway, a smile still lifting the corners of her mouth, she noticed a little white car, the sort of thing usually used by young girls, compact and on the cheap side. The vehicle was parked rather clumsily, almost at an angle. Joan slowed and took hold of the collar of her jacket. She hadn’t thought about the possibility that the Hammers might have guests.
“Damn.” This time she spoke to herself and not her late husband.
Night was drawing in, coming earlier each afternoon. The thought of walking home in the dark didn’t really bother her, not when she had the torch. But still, it was getting late and she needed to make a decision before hesitation became loitering. Turn back and avoid intruding on the couple and their guest or push on and be a good neighbour?
“Should have come at lunchtime.” As she spoke it occurred to her that turning up so late was a bit odd.
Joan looked down at the plastic tub, wondering what had possessed her to stalk through the late evening on such a feeble mission. In truth she’d made the cakes on impulse, only deciding to take them to Belle as an after-thought. Like all the other pointless things she now did, such as her online book club or volunteering at the senior’s centre, baking was another exercise in feeling useful.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She shrugged off her moment of anxiety and walked around the car, noticing it was in need of a wash.
She’d met Belle a few times in Stanmore Central. They’d even chatted about books. On those occasions, Belle Hammer seemed down to earth and friendly – a little fragile, not physically, but emotionally. It was something in the writer’s intense brown eyes, the brittleness of a woman holding back a well of emotions. It was a fragility Joan hadn’t recognised until she lost Roger and saw that same look in the mirror.
It was the look in Belle’s eyes that finally decided things and without further hesitation, she knocked on the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Belle stared open-mouthed at the bedroom door. The burst of outrage that welled up when Lea shoved her into the bedroom was fading and replaced by a growing sense of danger. The girl was unbalanced; this was now painfully clear. But what Belle couldn’t fathom was the reasoning behind Lea’s behaviour. What could the carer possible hope to achieve by keeping Belle captive inside her own home?
She worked on her fingernail, this time the pinkie. Maybe the girl hadn’t hoped to achieve anything. If she was taking drugs or just unhinged, there might not be any clear thinking behind it. Belle tasted blood, but continued gnawing at the nail. Figuring Lea out wasn’t as important as getting help. With the phone and modem gone, the only way to do that was by going for help herself.
But right now she was too scared to come out of her own bedroom, let alone hatch an escape plan. Belle pulled her finger out of her mouth and stared at the bubble of blood forming on the cuticle. She was afraid. No, more than afraid; the girl terrified her. But there was something else too: shame.
From the moment Lea arrived, Belle had let the younger woman bully her. Even before she’d become violent, Belle had allowed herself to be intimidated and ordered aro
und. Now she was sitting in her room scared to anger a carer she was paying for with her own money. So daunted was she by the girl’s aggression, that Belle sat immobilised. It’s like I’m a little girl again. An image flashed in her mind: the man with the brown tooth, smiling down at her. No, she corrected herself. Not smiling, leering. All on your own? His voice was like a snippet from an old song playing in her ears.
She had no idea if the incident with the teddy was a real memory or something she’d seen on TV. Maybe even a story she’d read. The mind had ways of manufacturing memories; all it took was a suggestion. And right now her mind was pulled so taut, it wouldn’t take much to tear open everything she’d worked so hard at keeping together.
A memory or a bad dream, it didn’t matter. All that counted was getting help. She scanned the bedroom, looking for inspiration and her gaze fell on the crutches. Her car keys were near the front door; at least they were the last time she checked. And her car, newly repaired, was in the garage. The thought of getting to the car gave her another idea, one that was risky but might be her best chance.
Belle pulled the chair up close to the door and listened. There was no sound from the sitting room, but that didn’t mean Lea wasn’t still on the couch watching the door. While leaning forward and straining to hear, a sound caught her attention. Not from the sitting room, but from above. Belle’s head jerked up. A twinge of pain ran across her bruised eye socket. The discomfort registered and with it came the realisation that Lea had gone upstairs.
This was Belle’s chance. With no telling how long Lea would remain on the second floor, Belle couldn’t let her fear hold her back. She grasped the doorknob and turned it, wincing at the almost inaudible squeak. Moving in a wheelchair, no matter how carefully one manoeuvred, was never without noise. Even the hiss of the wheels on the floorboards seemed overly loud in the silence.