by Leanne Hall
There was a trestle table against the wall, bookshelves, a rocking chair, and a huge mirror at the end of the room.
Iris flicked through a sketchbook on the trestle—no tigers. Further along there was a stack of loose papers.
The first sketch was upside down, and showed a girl’s face in profile. Even though it was just a few lines, the drawing captured perfectly the way the girl bit her lip. She looked nervous. She looked familiar.
Iris turned the sketch the right way up. Her own face gazed back at her.
A sudden gust of air snatched the paper out of her fingers and the entire stack tumbled to the floor. Cold fear gripped Iris’s throat, as if the ghost of Uncle James were in the room. A paintbrush rolled off a table and hit the floor.
Iris ran for the door. When she got there, though, red liquid had started to pour through the doorframe. The red thickened and dripped; within seconds the trickle had turned into a flow. A curtain of blood-red paint poured over the door and nearby walls. The doorhandle was slippery and still locked.
Iris spun.
Colour gushed down the other three walls of the studio: blue, white, yellow. Paint spatters hit the floor and formed pools. A wave of primary colours covered the scattered paper on the floor. The room had grown dark.
Iris started for the far end of the room and slipped over. Fumes filled the air. When she tried to stand, she fell again.
The Spanish police would mail her body to her parents, and when they opened up the box they’d find paint in her throat and ears and mouth, and then they’d be really sorry.
When Iris felt a hand on her shoulder, it wasn’t a ghost but Aunt Ursula, her face a blurry pink blob.
She let Aunt Ursula pull her to her feet. The tide of paint had receded, leaving no trace behind. Iris looked down at her sneakers and jeans, and the only marks were grass and mud from the forest floor.
The morning was bright and finally Iris’s head felt clear again. From the guestroom window she viewed the veggie patch and the orange grove and the stables and the rolling hills. It would have been prettier than a picture, except for the two brown and pink feet-boots lined up beneath her window.
Iris shuddered and clambered from the windowsill. There was not a chance she would put those shoes on again.
Her notebook lay open on her bed, covered with frantic scribbled notes from last night. Iris read over her account of what had happened in the studio and began to suspect that she had overreacted. It seemed unlikely now that she’d seen a sketch of her own face, and there was no way she could have drowned in paint.
Aunt Ursula had been extremely kind afterwards, tucking Iris into bed with a cup of chamomile tea. She had even lent Iris her own childhood teddy bear, a tattered, faded thing with no ears. Iris didn’t tell her that she was too old for soft toys, and Aunt Ursula hadn’t asked why Iris had been in the greenhouse studio in the first place.
The locked studio, Iris realised. I tried to escape through the door and couldn’t. Yet moments later Aunt Ursula appeared in the room.
Iris pushed the thought aside. It had been a confusing incident, and she felt terrible about snooping. Not telling Jordi or Aunt Ursula the full truth was taking its toll.
She lay on the bed and punched out a text message to her parents:
Many rivals but house not so great.
Y do U even want it?
She hit send, but the screen froze and she couldn’t tell if anything had happened.
Señor Garcia dropped Iris in front of the Sant Joan public library so that she could continue her research into James and Iris Freer and the paintings.
On the way to town, they’d passed Jordi and Marcel riding the horses. Jordi had been wearing a shirt and tie, which had looked all kinds of strange.
Where are they going?
Soon after, Iris’s phone had got reception and started pinging with text messages from her parents. She looked at the first few, and then couldn’t bear looking at the rest. She could already tell that her mum’s messages were getting more and more frantic.
Iris hurried through the library doors, tugging at the silk scarf she’d tied around her neck in an attempt to look more European.
There was a payphone in the foyer. Iris felt in her pocket for the phone card Aunt Ursula had given her.
Somehow she remembered the international dialling codes and the line began to ring. There was a click and a crackly pause. Iris’s throat tightened.
‘Helloooooo?’
Iris’s mum had a completely different voice she used to answer the telephone.
‘Mum, it’s me.’
‘Iris! We’ve been trying to call the landline, and I can’t figure out what’s wrong with the lines in Spain, but we’ve only got through once and then Ursula was in one of her “challenging” moods and refused to put you on—’
‘I was asleep, Mum. The jet lag was bad…’
‘You were supposed to message us when you arrived, and we waited—no message! We only just got one now. Your father is beside himself, you know how he gets.’
‘Sorry, Mum, it’s been kind of…busy here…and weird.
You didn’t tell me Aunt Ursula would be so—’
‘I never pretended that your great-aunt was anything other than completely off the planet. It’s how these creative types behave.’
Iris took a deep breath.
‘Mum, say our family, I mean, say I inherit Bosque de Nubes…’ By now Iris could say the Spanish words smoothly. ‘And say there are people already living here, people other than Aunt Ursula. It would be pretty unfair, wouldn’t it, if we made those people move? Don’t you think?’
Iris heard her voice get echoey and knew that she’d been put on speakerphone.
‘What other people?’ boomed her dad. ‘Hello Iris. You mentioned rivals in your message—what did you mean by that? And the problems with the house? Are there cracks? Water damage?’
‘Iris, what is the state of Aunt Ursula’s health?’ interrupted her mum. ‘She must have a nurse at her age, surely? Is she in a wheelchair, or does she have a walking stick?’
Iris already regretted making the call. ‘Hi, Iris,’ she said under her breath. ‘How are you going over there? Are people being nice to you?’
‘We can’t hear you, darling,’ said her mum. ‘Stop mumbling and speak clearly.’
Iris smushed her scarf against the mouthpiece. She was beginning to fill with panic over her parents’ questions. If she kept talking they might sense that she’d been distracted from her main mission. ‘Oh, oh, you’re breaking up, I can’t hear you!’ She held the phone away from her mouth. ‘I can hardly hear anything. Schhhhchhhkkk.’
And then she hung up.
The library was small but modern. It had a central courtyard, and a corner for chess. Even though she was pretty sure it was the same as the libraries in Australia, which anyone could use, Iris hurried into the privacy of the book stacks.
Beyond the shelves were old people reading newspapers and kids in beanbags reading comics or playing computer games. Along the back wall was a row of computers.
Two days ago Iris had been desperate to check her emails, but now it didn’t matter much. She was sure Violet hadn’t bothered to email her, as she hadn’t even texted.
She approached the front desk. The librarian wore a sparkly fox brooch and looked friendly.
Iris handed over the scrap of paper that Marcel had helped her prepare. He had written in Spanish at the top: I need to find some information about—Spanish animals and underneath Iris had added ‘James Freer’ and ‘Iris Freer’.
The librarian set Iris up on a table across from an old man doing crosswords. She gave Iris a folder full of newspaper clippings and some books.
Iris spread everything in front of her. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for.
The books were all in Spanish. She flipped through a book about local animals. The pictures were mostly of mice and squirrels and rabbits, but there were a handful of interesting cat
-like creatures.
The largest was an Iberian lynx. It had satellite dish ears and spotted fur. EXTINTO leapt out from the text. One photo showed the lynx ripping apart a bird with its sharp teeth. Iris flinched.
The old man, who wore a full three-piece suit and had no teeth, set aside his crossword and began rifling through Iris’s folder. She watched from the corner of her eye as he found an article that excited him greatly. He held the paper out to her and chattered in Spanish.
Iris shrugged apologetically, trying to convey with gestures that she couldn’t understand. She slid her chair closer and picked through the clippings.
There were old photos of the Freer mansion and an obituary for Iris Freer. The picture must have been taken during the war: she wore army-type clothes, and carried a medical kit.
The old man’s voice grew louder. He seemed more excited, and also sad. Iris could tell from the tone of his voice that he was saying something like: Oh, terrible, terrible. He flapped the paper again, so Iris took it off him.
It was a front-page news article, yellowed with age. A smudgy photo showed a car accident: a familiar black car wrapped around a tree. The attached report was unintelligible, but the headline contained the name ‘Iris Freer’ in block letters, and the word muerta too.
Iris looked closely at the photo. It was easy to imagine teeth on the mangled car, clawed feet too. She felt sick.
When she left the library, Iris still had almost an hour before Señor Garcia was due to pick her up. She followed the road until she came to the town square. Whenever she passed a villager she imagined that they, like Marcel, thought she was Spanish.
Iris sat on a bench and watched a group of old men play a game similar to bowls. The photocopied news article was stored in her backpack. Jordi would never want to go near that horrible car again once he’d seen it.
Who knew that history could feel so heavy? she thought.
Iris took in the whitewashed buildings lining the square and the olive trees along the road and the sun overhead. There was a red car with dust on the windows parked nearby and, behind it, tables and chairs and umbrellas belonging to a café. It looked very similar to the car she and Jordi had seen yesterday.
Four people left the street-side café and gathered behind the red car. The stoutest wore a shiny grey suit that matched his shiny face and head.
Zeke Dangercroft.
Two others were the surveyors, still dressed as if they were playing golf, and the final member of the group was an older man with silver hair.
Mr Dangercroft shook their hands in turn, grinning widely. Then the two surveyors crammed into the hatchback; the older man beeped his sports car across the way. When they’d gone, Zeke Dangercroft turned to cross the square and his grin slid off his face.
Iris jumped to her feet, a bunch of pigeons jumping with her. Mr Dangercroft flinched, but quickly gathered his wits.
‘It’s my new Australian friend! G’day, Iris!’
Iris was not fooled by his forced cheer. She could not be bothered with small talk.
‘Who were you having lunch with?’
Zeke Dangercroft wiped his forehead. ‘You Aussies don’t mess around, my word.’
‘No, we don’t. Those people have something to do with those letters everyone’s been sent.’
Iris could barely believe how bold she was being. She was getting better at faking being braver than she really was. After all, she had survived the boots and the tennis flowers and the mermaids without having a heart attack.
‘Well, young lady, you’d be correct about that, yes.’ Mr Dangercroft lowered his voice. ‘I went fishing for information and I did not like what I found.’
Iris watched Mr Dangercroft very carefully. ‘And what was that?’
‘Oh, complicated business matters,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘Those men are not very high up. They’re salespeople, if you will.’
He mopped his forehead again. Iris had once read that sweating was a classic sign of lying, but it was a warm day.
‘I understand,’ Iris said. ‘You mean that they’ve been hired by someone with more money and more power, who is making all the decisions. But what is that person trying to do?’
‘A theme park,’ Mr Dangercroft admitted. ‘A kind of “arty” one, with rides and buildings based on famous paintings, including your great-uncle’s. That was as much as I could find out. It means major construction, though. Clearing the forest. Land for car parks, new roads, hotels, a man-made lake.’
‘A theme park? But wouldn’t that cost millions of dollars?’
‘Oh, they’ve got millions of dollars. Or Euros. It’s an international group of companies, some Spanish, some Chinese, other countries as well.’ Zeke Dangercroft was totally out of puff. ‘But it makes no difference to me and you should tell your aunt that, please. I said we wouldn’t sell, no matter what we’re offered. Shirley wants that to be clear. She wants Mizz Freer to know we can be trusted.’
He pulled an envelope from a pocket inside his jacket.
‘Actually, it’s lucky I ran into you, Iris. Your aunt has agreed to sell Shirley one of her brother’s paintings. This is a cheque for the deposit. If you could pass this safely into Mizz Freer’s hands, I would be most obliged.’
Back at Bosque de Nubes, Iris helped Señor Garcia carry the shopping into the house. The driver still hadn’t spoken to her, not that it mattered. Iris had realised that all of Señor Garcia’s nods were the same yet each said a different thing.
They met Elna, who was dragging a full garbage bag across the lobby with many complaints.
‘She’s waiting for you,’ she said to Señor Garcia. He hurried towards the kitchen, almost skating on the polished floors.
Iris laid down the shopping to help Elna. Even between two of them, the garbage bag was heavy. It was full of knobbly objects that pressed uncomfortably into Iris’s palms.
‘Señorita Freer forget he cannot be in two places and one time,’ Elna said. They bumped the bag over the stairs and to the front door. The plastic slipped through Iris’s fingers.
‘What’s in here?’
Elna did not seem to hear Iris’s question. ‘They are best friends, if you can believe.’
Today Elna had her hair French braided and was wearing gold hoop earrings so big they brushed her shoulders.
‘Okay, little Australian, I take it from here. Gracias.’
Iris let the bag go. It was torn along the side. Squished silver ends and grubby plastic screw tops bulged out—hundreds of paint tubes threatened to spill everywhere.
Iris remembered Zeke Dangercroft’s cheque in her pocket.
‘Where’s Aunt Ursula? I need to give her something.’
‘Señor Garcia knows where her little hidey-hole is, but I do not. I stop asking questions because I never get any answer.’ Elna gestured. ‘Give to me.’
Iris hesitated. Elna raised her plucked eyebrow until Iris handed the cheque over. Elna blew her a kiss before pulling the torn plastic together and hoisting the rubbish over the threshold.
A new picture hung next to the front door. Someone had rescued the Exquisite Corpse drawing from her bed and smoothed it out. Their bear-spider-serpent-jogger creature was transformed into real art now that it was in a frame. Aunt Ursula had typed a small cardboard sign. Drawing by Furious Yellow, it said. Iris was filled with an unfamiliar glow.
Below the picture a half-moon hall table was littered with mail: junk flyers, a postcard signed ‘Sophie Adria (Ernesto and Carmen’s daughter) xx’, a number of bills, and other letters in both English and Spanish. There was nothing from anyone about a theme park.
Iris sent her parents a text summary of everyone she’d met so far in Spain, including the Dangercrofts and the mysterious property developers. She stood in the one far corner of the patio where she could sometimes get reception. Afterwards, she lay on a banana lounge in the garden as the sun beat down.
Iris scrolled through the photos on her phone. There were lots of selfies
of her and Violet that now seemed to be lies. Violet was so busy these days with netball practice and dance class and new friends that there wasn’t any time left for Iris. Even when they did hang out together, it wasn’t the same as it used to be. There was so much already that Iris had to tell Violet about Spain, but she suspected that she was going to go home and say nothing. They used to tell each other everything.
At what point did a person have to admit that their best friend was no longer their best friend? Did they have to make it official at a meeting?
Iris scanned the grounds for the shadowhound. She hadn’t seen it at all that day. She stood up and headed towards the stretch of grass.
There was no one in the vegetable garden and there was no answer when Iris knocked on the door of Uncle James’s studio, not that she would have dared go in. The kitchen and the dining room were deserted, and Elna’s cleaning cart was nowhere to be seen.
She went to the living room to look at the old photos on the wall. They were of barbeques and dances and exotic locations. In one party pic, Aunt Ursula wore a pirate hat, and Uncle James had his face covered with a Zorro mask. James hadn’t been bad-looking. Iris could imagine the girls at school squealing over him.
On a mantelpiece, Iris found a photo of her mum and Aunt Ursula. It had been taken on their trip to the beach, but in this photo Aunt Ursula had removed her hat and sunglasses. She wore a wide lipsticked smile and looked exactly the same, as if thirty years hadn’t passed. She hadn’t aged a bit.
Iris climbed onto the windowsill behind her bed and pressed her face to the glass. The gardens below were dark, the woods beyond even darker. The sun tickled the distant mountains before sliding out of sight.
Jordi and Marcel led Turrón and Miró across the backyard. Iris itched to run downstairs and make another time with Jordi to explore, but it was after 9pm—probably too late to visit.
The windows above the greenhouse studio glowed orange. As Iris watched, a shadow crossed one. More shadows appeared, thin lines that stretched and lengthened, as if there were a tree inside, trying to get out.