Vengeance Blind

by Anna Willett

Belle didn’t know if she should say something or just let Georgia tell it in her own way. Before she could decide, the girl was talking again, but now she was more animated, speaking in bursts like rapid gunfire. “I found a spot where I could pull off the road and hide my car. Then I pulled a fallen branch into the road.” As she spoke, Georgia rubbed her fingers together and seemed to be enjoying the feeling of the blood on her skin. “I was taking a chance, but if someone else came along...” She jerked one shoulder. “They’d probably just move the branch and drive on.”

  The girl took a breath and blinked a few times, making Belle wonder if she was seeing the moment in her mind.

  “When she got out of the car and started moving the branch, I stepped out of the bush. She recognised me and sort of smiled… I had the stick in my hand.” She opened her right hand and gazed down at her bloody fingers. “I didn’t know what I was going to do, but she wouldn’t shut up. She kept asking me questions. I had to make her be quiet and let me think. I had to get her in the car somehow.”

  Belle watched Georgia’s movements and, as they became more jerky and sudden, she could almost see the terrible scene unfolding. The poor dead girl in the boot becoming more concerned, maybe even sensing danger, and Georgia exploding into violence. Belle’s raw throat constricted and tears formed in her eyes. She could feel herself coming undone and almost wanting to give in to the emotional breakdown that was welling up inside her.

  Georgia shook her head, her dark ponytail whipping around her face. “She was going to phone the agency. I had to do something, so I just… I pretended to cry and she tried to give me a hug.” The words were tumbling out, heavy with panic. “When I got close to her...” She held up her left hand, circling an invisible body. “I pulled her in and... and…” A long sigh escaped the girl’s mouth. “I rammed the stick into her neck.”

  Even though she knew this detail was coming, Belle had a hard time not gasping or crying out. She clasped her hand to her chest, pressing over the spot where her racing heart pounded under the skin.

  For a moment neither woman spoke. With her heart still thumping, Belle managed to get her mind working again. “Can I have that drink now?”

  Georgia, her arm still around an imaginary body, seemed lost in thought. For a moment Belle wasn’t sure the girl heard her. Then like someone waking up, Georgia looked around then tipped her head back, seeming to stretch the muscles.

  “Why not?” The caregiver moved to where the coffee table was standing askew.

  Still holding the knife, Belle exhaled and let her hand rest on her knee. She wheeled forward, trying to position herself closer to the sofa.

  The vodka bottle was on the rug, lying on its side. Georgia snatched it up and held it to the light. There was a little more than a quarter left. She pressed the lip to her mouth and swallowed.

  “Here.” Georgia turned, the movement sudden and jerky. Belle jumped and lifted the knife. “It’s okay.” The girl rolled her eyes, the smudged mascara giving her a crazed look. “I’m just giving you what you asked for.”

  Belle took the bottle in her left hand, never taking her eyes off Georgia’s face. If she made another lunge, Belle intended to be ready. There were bloody prints on the glass, making the bottle slippery in her hand. She held the neck to her lips and even amidst all the violence and danger the smell made her shiver with craving. This would be her first drink in almost thirteen months.

  She drank, taking only a small sip then grimacing at the bitter taste. To her surprise, rather than wanting to drain the bottle, her stomach cramped, forcing her to choke back the urge to gag.

  Georgia was watching her with a pleased smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. Belle put the bottle in her lap and clamped it between her thighs. The moment struck her as bizarre. A few minutes earlier, Georgia was trying to choke the life out of her and now they were sharing a drink. She had to find a way to keep things calm until a chance of escape presented itself.

  “You said you lost your foot a couple of years ago.” She was taking a chance bringing up the accident, but maybe getting Georgia to talk would help dissipate the tension. Or send her off the deep end. “Do you remember the month?”

  Georgia grabbed the plastic tub off the rug and dumped it on the coffee table. There were two mushed looking lamingtons stuck to the inside. “I remember the exact date.”

  Belle could hear a tremble in the girl’s voice, but wasn’t sure if it was anger or sorrow.

  “It was the stupid Grand Final day.” Georgia waved a hand in the air and slumped down onto the sofa. “That’s what the party was about. This guy, I barely knew him but he always had plenty of grog and stuff, was a big fan of the Western Bulldogs.” She looked into the cake tub and sniffed. “When his team won, he picked me up and stood me on the kitchen table. I didn’t care about the footy, but it was nice having everyone staring at me and clapping, so I did a high kick and everyone cheered.” She looked up. Her eyes were shiny. “My high kicks were amazing.”

  Belle wheeled forward, stopping at the arm of the sofa. Ahead was a direct run to the bedroom, but if she moved now she’d never make it before the girl was on her feet and after her. She needed a better head start and staring at the cake tub gave her an idea.

  “So, yeah. I remember the date. The 1st of October 2016, the day I became a cripple.” Georgia sounded tired, like all the anger and emotion had burned through her energy.

  “Can I have a lamington?”

  For a few seconds, the girl just stared at her puzzled.

  “I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Belle pushed on.

  Georgia’s brows drew down as she looked from Belle to the cake tub. Without answering, the girl leaned forward and grabbed a gooey looking cake. Keeping her eyes on Belle, she pushed the lamington into her mouth, devouring it in three bites.

  Doing her best to look hungry, Belle bit her lip then rubbed her fingers across her mouth while watching Georgia eat. The act seemed to be working. The girl picked up the last cake and bit into it. Belle leaned forward counting each chew. Four chews, swallow. Four chews, swallow. When Georgia was done, she dragged her bloody hand across her face, leaving a smear of chocolate and blood. Torturing Belle seemed to bring her almost as much pleasure as the spongy coconut cakes.

  While it was true that she was hungry, looking at the reddish brown streaks on the girl’s face made Belle want to vomit. If she survived, she didn’t think she could ever look at a lamington without feeling sick. It didn’t take much acting skill to slump back in the wheelchair and look disgusted.

  “You’re so used to getting everything you want. I bet when you drove off and left me screaming for help, it never crossed your mind that I’d come looking for you.” It seemed the sugar injection had reignited the girl’s bitterness. She gave a scornful laugh and propped her feet on the coffee table, one hand clasped to her stomach. “If your husband wasn’t on his way back, we could really stretch this out.” She let her head fall against the back of the sofa. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll hang around and meet him.”

  Belle’s stomach rolled in a slow, sickening flip-flop. It hadn’t occurred to her that Georgia would be insane enough to wait for Guy. But she’d seen enough to believe the girl was unhinged enough for anything. She clenched her fist around the knife, feeling the handle slip in her sweaty grasp. Guy was strong; he could take care of himself, but with the element of surprise and Georgia’s unflinching approach to violence, anything was possible. Even as she worried over Guy’s safety, something played at the edge of her thoughts. Something the girl had mentioned resonated in Belle’s mind, but she couldn’t quite make the connection.

  And then, just as Belle hoped, Georgia stood and headed for the dining room. “I’m going upstairs.” She jabbed a finger in Belle’s direction. “Don’t try anything because you won’t get very far.” That blank look was creeping over her face again. The lack of emotion in the girl’s eyes made the hairs on the back of Belle’s neck quiver.

  When Georgia disappear
ed, Belle dropped her head and let out a shaky breath. She’d noticed how ravenously the girl ate and that she visited the upstairs bathroom after each meal. Going all that way just to urinate made no sense when Belle’s ensuite bathroom was much closer. But it made perfect sense if Georgia was making herself vomit and wanted privacy.

  With only minutes before the girl returned, Belle dumped the knife in her lap with the vodka bottle and headed for the bedroom. As she rounded the sofa, she came to a stop. Arthur was gone. The cords were there, heaped haphazardly on the rug, even the blue scarf that had been his gag; but the injured man had disappeared.

  Belle looked around the room as though expecting him to appear. She had no idea how he’d managed to move while both she and Georgia were in the sitting room. But with time running out, Belle couldn’t stop to search for him.

  Pushing with all the force her shoulders could muster, she entered the bedroom. There was a sound on her blind side. Startled, Belle turned the chair ready to back up.

  “Where is she?” Arthur sat slumped on the floor, his back to the wall just inside her bedroom.

  Before she could answer, Georgia’s footfalls echoed on the stairs. “Get up, Arthur.” Belle leaned over, trying to get a grip on his arm. “We need to lock ourselves in the bathroom.”

  He took hold of the arm of her chair and tried to pull himself up, but his weight tipped the wheelchair and for one sickening second Belle felt herself falling. Arthur’s face came close to hers. His eyes were frighteningly askew, one lid drooped, the other wide. He groaned and let go of the chair. The force dropped Belle back down and scooted the wheels forward.

  “Go.” He waved her forward while using the wall to brace himself half standing.

  With blood whooshing in her ears, Belle hesitated. “Come on, we…” The plea died on her lips as Georgia appeared in the doorway.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Guy leaned back and closed his eyes, willing his mind to relax. The seat was narrow, restricting his movements. The woman beside him slumbered in what sounded like a deep sleep with her elbow encroaching on his space. Economy class was the best the airline could offer at such short notice and he was grateful to be on his way back to Belle, although a small selfish part of him wished he’d waited for the next flight.

  With the sound of the engine humming in his ears, the last conversation he’d had with his wife played over in his mind. When he told her the movie was a wash-out, she’d asked him when he’d be home. At the time he thought nothing of it, but after hanging up he started wondering why she hadn’t asked for details. Normally, Belle would have wanted to know what had happened. He reached to rub his hand over his eyes and his elbow hit the window.

  “Shit.” He rubbed his arm while the woman beside him snored in her sleep and shifted a few centimetres further in his direction.

  Belle was always the one who wanted to talk things out, always worried about his feelings, yet on the phone she sounded shrill and demanding and more worried about the girl from the care agency than his career. If he didn’t know better, he’d be pissed. But the Belle he knew was never quick to anger and always put him first. Her attitude made no sense.

  Giving up on sleep, he opened his eyes and stared into the vast blackness outside the window. He wasn’t the world’s most sensitive man, but his gut told him something was wrong. The sense of dread stewing in the pit of his stomach only increased when he tried to call his wife back and the call had gone to voicemail.

  Turning the conversation over in his mind, he kept coming back to Katrina and her threats. Had she carried through on her promise to make his wife suffer? If Belle knew about his fling with Katrina, it would explain why their last conversation was so strained.

  His only hope of pulling together their fractured relationship was to get home and come clean, to tell Belle the truth… or the part about Katrina. As for the rest… sometimes he wasn’t sure what the rest was. The torture was not knowing. Not knowing what was waiting for him when he got home and not knowing if Belle could forgive him if she knew the things he’d done.

  Guy checked his watch. The plane would land at five a.m. Perth time. By the time he made it through customs and drove home it would be close to seven o’clock. The aeroplane hit a pocket of air and the cabin dropped then shuddered. Apart from a few nervous yelps, the other passengers seemed docile, lost in their own thoughts and problems. He glanced at the woman beside him, envying her sound slumber.

  The thought of jamming ear-buds in and watching a movie was even less appealing than listening to the woman’s snores. With nothing but regrets to occupy his mind, Guy continued to watch the night sky slip past the window.

  * * *

  “Hey.” Belle wasn’t sure if Georgia was yelling at her or in surprise at seeing Arthur free and partially on his feet.

  Not waiting to find out, Belle pushed towards the bathroom door. She was halfway across the room when the girl’s hand fell on the back of the chair. “No you fucking don’t.” Georgia’s voice was full of outrage.

  The chair jerked back, the wheels spinning under Belle’s fingers. She twisted in the seat, meaning to wrench the girl’s finger off the handles and stab at them if necessary. But as Georgia’s face loomed over her, Arthur appeared.

  He stumbled towards the caregiver, arms up like a wounded bear, and fell on the girl. “Go, Belle.” His voice was shaky, but loud.

  As Georgia moved to free herself from his grasp, Arthur pulled her sideways. Belle wasn’t sure if he had lost his balance or dragged the girl to the floor deliberately, but they both tumbled and their combined weight hit the hardwood with a thud.

  Belle started to turn the chair, meaning to pull the girl off Arthur, but his body dropped lifelessly on top of Georgia. As the caregiver cursed and squirmed trying to get the man off her, Belle could see Arthur’s hand lying slack on the floor.

  “Arthur.” Belle hesitated, but when his head lolled to the side, she saw his eyes were closed.

  Georgia had almost freed herself from Arthur’s weight when Belle spun the chair and headed for the bathroom. She could hear the girl’s laboured breathing as she pushed through the doorway and rotated the wheels. Georgia was less than a metre away when Belle grabbed the door. For an instant her hand slipped on the wood and she almost lost her grip.

  Crying out in frustration as much as from fear, Belle used her elbow to slam the bathroom door. As the knob moved, Belle clicked the lock. Arms shaking, she dumped the knife and vodka bottle on the tiles and pushed herself up on her good leg. Georgia hit the door with enough force to make the wood jump.

  Belle let out a shriek and almost lost her balance, grabbing the side of her wheelchair to stop herself from falling. Wobbling, she grabbed the doorknob for stability and flicked on the light. Then, still on one foot, she reached up and slid the bolt in place.

  “Open the door, Belle.” Georgia’s voice was low, almost a growl.

  The knob jiggled then was still. Belle lowered herself back into the chair and backed away from the door. For the first time since the caregiver arrived, Belle felt a measure of control after what had become a nightmarish couple of days. Maybe it was that she felt a modicum of safety with a locked door between them. Or it could be that without the constant threat of violence, her mind was working more clearly?

  She took her time, scanning the room. It was a large space for a bathroom. The luxury of the double shower at one end and a tub at the other was one of the things that had attracted Belle to the property in the first place. But all she cared about now was securing the door.

  The chair’s wheels squeaked over the tiles as she pulled up in front of the toilet. The removable toilet chair was light-weight and easy to lift. Belle leaned forward and hoisted the chair up, doing a quick balancing act with one hand as she backed up and spun around. Turning the chair’s frame on its side, she wedged the arm under the doorknob. Then using her good leg, she knocked the leg in place.

  Satisfied that the frame would hold, Belle spun
around and turned on the tap. With no heating in the tiled space, the bathroom was one of the coldest rooms in the house. Despite the chill in the air and the icy shock, she splashed water on her face. Gasping, Belle cupped water in her hand and dumped it on the back of her neck. Before turning the tap off, she lowered her mouth to the jet and drank.

  For the first time in days, she felt really awake. Awake and more like her old self. I don’t know who my old self is. She’d spent so much of her adult life drunk or close to it, remembering who she really was didn’t come easy. All on your own? No. She grabbed a towel off the rack and patted her face dry. That voice wanted to burrow into her brain but she refused to let it. She had more important things to worry about, things like Georgia’s story about losing her foot.

  Since the moment the girl accused her of the hit and run accident Belle had denied any involvement. And yet even as she tried to convince the girl she had nothing to do with the accident, a small voice inside her whispered otherwise. How many times had she driven when she knew she was over the legal limit? How many close calls had she had after a few too many glasses of wine? Was it possible that she’d hit the girl and didn’t remember it? The doubts had squirmed in the back of her mind like a nest of snakes.

  Belle stared down at the vodka bottle, then picked it up and sat it on the vanity unit beside the sink. Something Georgia said left Belle with no doubts. So distracted by the vodka, Belle had only taken in parts of the girl’s story. But now in a quiet moment, a moment where the air felt charged with danger like the stillness in the eye of a storm, Belle recalled the girl’s words. The 1st of October 2016, the day I became a cripple. It was also the day Belle’s nephew, Jack, was born.

  The memory that sprang to mind was a happy occasion, filled with frantic energy and joy. In light of what she now knew, the recollection reminded her of a glossy white stone streaked with pink quartz she’d once found half-buried in the earth: beautiful and perfect. Only when the stone was lifted it revealed a nest of bugs scurrying and squirming in the light.