Hide

by S. J. Morgan

  I have no idea what time it is, where we are in our day. When did I even hitch a ride? Have I slept since then? Time has become meaningless.

  There are cars on the street, people around, but it isn’t busy. I have the feeling it’s afternoon; teatime, maybe. Everyday life is being lived around us but isn’t touching us.

  I give Sindy the once-over, making certain she doesn’t look like a girl who’s just shot a bikie. Then I look down at my own clothes and check my hands and arms for splatters and stains. My hands are still shaking and there isn’t a nerve in my body that feels still.

  ‘We’ll get a cab,’ I tell Sindy. ‘Make our way to the airport.’

  ‘And then?’

  I shrug, trying to dredge something from my brain. ‘Then…I guess…a plane.’

  By nightfall, we’ve made it to an airport motel in Sydney and it’s left to Sindy to do the honours with checking in. I can’t even speak.

  ‘Could we have a twin room, please,’ she says.

  I grab her by the shoulder and shake my head – I have to be alone. It’s as vital as the need for air. I’m almost frothing at the notion.

  She seems to understand and does as she’s told. She hands over my bank card and puts my hand in the place I need to sign.

  I snatch the keys from Sindy the minute we leave the reception desk and I almost run down the corridor. Sindy’s shouting after me to wait. I chuck her key to her as soon as I stop outside my room, then I ram the key in the lock, turn it and throw open the door.

  I kick it shut the moment I’m through and my legs buckle as I reach the mattress. I land face-first in the sheets and pull a pillow tight across the back of my head, stretching the material across each ear until I’ve blocked out all sight and sound. Then I wait. Wait for the tears, the shaking, the retching. I know they’re all in there. But the longer I wait, the further they slip from my grasp.

  I want to reach down my throat and hook the poison out. But it stays inside, swelling, congealing like a hard, black cancer.

  The let-down is unbearable. To have these intruders inside when I need to spew them out is agony.

  I force myself to gather the images I’ve tried so hard to shut out. Those censored scenes; the ones I forced my eyes from. Now I have to evoke them; call them up like the spirits at one of Mum’s seances. But there are no spirits, no auras here or if there are, I can’t summon them. There’s just me in a hotel room, a lamp, a desk and the real world outside. Suddenly, I’m as emotionally parched as the landscape we’ve left.

  I sit up, rock back and forth, back and forth waiting to feel something, anything. I wait and keep waiting; close my eyes.

  Lie down again; crush my face into the pillow.

  ‘You can manage more than that, Alec m’lad,’ Minto says.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Now that’s not very welcoming.’ He stretches a huge hand towards me: it’s full of jellybeans, so many they’re spilling over the floor. His hand covers my face and he crushes those beans into my full mouth, pressing them against my teeth, my tongue. A few drop down my throat and some wedge at the very back of my gums, where the dentist likes to probe and make me gag. I feel liquid rise onto my tongue.

  ‘Look out lads, it’s a technicolour yawn,’ Minto chuckles.

  When I open my eyes, I’m already leaning over the side of the bed, my last supper soaking into the hotel carpet.

  Perhaps it’s the shock, the surprise of being transported back to the present, but I’m suddenly sobbing as all those images in the clubhouse bombard me – as brutal as if Minto’s thumping them into me with his own fat fist.

  I’m back there, standing in the doorway and I cast my eyes on the scene we’ve left behind. Zoom in on Minto’s head, his skull split open above his eyebrow, glistening blood pooling beneath his ear. I imagine myself lifting that head and finding the perfect impression of his ear like the potato prints we used to make at school. But Minto’s head is heavy: hard to lift without cradling it; touching the tough skin of his face. A puddle of nausea ripples inside me and I welcome it. I have to grab hold of the hideousness of that moment and keep going.

  I’m clutching the sheets, foetus-curled and rocking. The memory has me by the throat now, and I suffer the scenes again and again; hear the gunshot; wait for the life to drop from me. Because it was me who’d been shot: I was certain of it. I’d seen the gun, noted the roundness if its tip like its own bullseye, watched the jerk as it fired, still pointing my way.

  Yet I’m still here. I’m still here. And Minto’s not.

  Chapter 51

  For the first day or two in the airport hotel, I was barely aware of anything. My body and my brain were stuck on a go-slow and it was Sindy who rallied. A push-button phone in her room meant she ordered meals for me; kept the cleaners away and most importantly, she called home; told them everything, so that I had to tell them nothing.

  And now they’re here; ordered, like room service, from Sindy’s bed.

  Mum and Dad look after me and Daniella stays in the background, waiting until I’m ready to be properly with her. They’re all quiet around me like I’ve taken on a new fragility. Suddenly, I’m not knockabout Alec anymore. I’m breakable. Broken.

  I’ve been stuck inside for days. The biggest event since the folks and Daniella arrived has been moving from the shabby airport hotel to this one near the harbour. Now the coffers have been unlocked, there’s no stopping Mum and Dad.

  The others must be working on some sort of roster system to make sure I’m never alone. Daniella takes the biggest chunk of shifts. She’s sharing a room with Sindy, but she spends most of her time in here with me. There’s nothing I can say to her, though – and nothing she can say to me – to make all this better. Everything else seems like fluff.

  I can tell that, each morning when she comes in, she hopes she’ll find the old Alec back in the room. She puts on her brightest voice and her widest smile to test me out but each time so far, she’s been left disappointed. As she comes in again today, I sense I’m going to leave the same sour taste in her mouth.

  ‘Wow! Look at that!’ she says, pulling open the curtains. ‘I still can’t quite believe it: Sydney, Australia.’ She comes over, smiling, and kneels on the end of my bed. ‘You know, you really should take a look. Perhaps even…go outside.’

  I rub my eyes, trying to shield them from the bright sun. ‘Why don’t you go with the folks?’ I say. ‘Sindy too. You should soak it all up. I’ll be okay by myself. I don’t need a babysitter.’

  ‘No one’s babysitting you. We’re just...concerned.’

  She moves to sit on the bed beside me – not sprawled like she used to be, with her thighs warming mine. Now her feet are placed firmly on the floor.

  ‘Look, maybe in a day or two,’ I say. ‘I need to build myself up to it.’

  ‘Okay.’ She remains as determinedly bright and sunny as the view. ‘Come and have some breakfast instead then.’ She stands and holds out a hand to me. ‘Have it downstairs with us instead of in your room.’

  ‘No, you go.’

  ‘Alec, everything’s okay,’ she says, gently, sitting back down again. ‘All that...other stuff is over with. You’re safe now.’

  ‘Mm. I’ll join you later, maybe.’

  ‘Alec –’

  ‘Just let me be, will you?’

  A harsh tone’s guaranteed to send her packing. Before all this, she’d have stood her ground, read me the riot act. Not now, though. It’s kid gloves all the way.

  I don’t join them for breakfast, but they’ve obviously discussed me over their omelettes. By mid-morning each one of them has been in my room at carefully spaced intervals. Sindy’s the latest – she comes bearing pastries and pamphlets.

  ‘I saved you this,’ she says, unwrapping a serviette. Inside is some sort of turnover. That’s the effect it has on my stomach, anyway.

  ‘You have it,’ I say.

  ‘You sure? I had a few downstairs.’

 
; She’s already got her teeth round it before I can insist.

  ‘What are the leaflets about?’ I say, more so I don’t have to listen to her chewing than because I want to know.

  She puts the crumb-laden serviette on my bed. ‘They’re just about trails and walks,’ she says. ‘We thought it might be good for you.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘They’re all worried about you,’ she says, licking her fingers. ‘They think you’re getting morbid. Whatever that means.’

  ‘It means thinking about depressing things.’

  She looks at me as if she’s hoping for a full morbidity closeup. ‘So, do you only think about bad things?’

  ‘I try not to think at all.’

  She nods, still watching me. ‘Me too. It’s better if you don’t think.’

  I find myself studying her; taking note of her expression. We were both there, in that clubroom. We both suffered the same shock. We were both at the same crisis point, trying to get away. How come I’m still falling apart, and she’s already found her reset button? And what about everything she felt for Minto? I’m almost outraged on his behalf: where’s her fucking loyalty?

  ‘So, will you do this walk or not?’ she says. ‘Because if you do, your dad says he’ll take me on the cable car. I think it’s a good idea for you to go. It looks nice.’

  ‘And that way you can go on the cable car.’

  She gives me a wide grin: the sort no one’s risked on me for a while. It makes me feel better; momentarily me.

  ‘So, will you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Yesssss!’ she says with a celebratory fist pump. ‘That always means you will.’

  Chapter 52

  The next day, Mum and Dad persuade me to venture as far as the hotel lobby. They seem determined for me to witness life going on around me, even if I refuse to take part in it myself.

  The lobby’s a cavernous space with lipstick-red couches and low, black lacquer tables. There’s tinsel draped around the walls – silver and red – so as not to clash with the furniture. It looks understated compared to the whopping great Christmas tree in the corner, dripping with multi-coloured decorations. Thankfully the piped music is Culture Club rather than Christmas carols, but down here, there’s no escaping what time of year it is.

  Mum and Dad have ordered mulled wine and mince pies while we wait for Daniella and Sindy to get back from their shopping date. Strong coffee’s all I can manage.

  It wasn’t until Mum and Dad cornered me into this little meeting that I realised how carefully I’d been avoiding conversation with them. Yes, we’ve talked about home, about food, about everything that’s immediate – but serious discussions have been steered clear of, like cracks in the pavement.

  Our old lives seem unreal when I think of them now. It makes me wonder what would have happened to us had Sindy not come along. Perhaps, in a strange way, she was exactly what each of us had needed at the time.

  ‘You still look tired, love,’ Mum says, sighing over her mulled wine. ‘It would do you good to really open up to someone. I’m not saying it has to be us or even Daniella. But somebody.’

  I keep my eye on the door, willing it to swing open and deliver Daniella. Instead, it brings in other guests, all flushed and hot from their shopping trips; rolls of shiny gift-wrap tucked under sunburnt arms.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Mum says, when I don’t answer. ‘Would you see someone?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Dad puts down his glass and sits back in his seat, like he always does when he’s building up to an announcement. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder,’ he says.

  The phrase hangs there, as odd and misplaced as the Christmas baubles above us.

  ‘A psychologist perhaps,’ Mum says.

  I look back at her and nod, though actually, I’d take a security guard over a psychologist any day.

  ‘Whatever you need,’ she says. ‘You’ve been through so much.’

  Her comment makes me wonder what Sindy’s told them. Did any details come directly from her – or was it all filtered through Daniella? Which bits were embellished? What was left out? After all, I’m the only one who saw the specific movie that still plays in my head.

  ‘What you need to remember is it’s in the past now,’ Dad says. ‘It’s behind you. And things that are past need to stay in the past.’

  He meets my eye and perhaps he’s not talking solely about my situation.

  ‘It’ll be a relief to move on,’ I say, stretching. ‘Get away from…here.’

  ‘That’s what you want, is it?’ Mum’s hesitant and I notice her exchange a glance with Dad. They’ve probably debated when to risk the ‘future plans’ discussion.

  ‘I don’t want to be in Sydney anymore,’ I tell them, looking outside at the crowds. ‘Or even, Australia.’

  ‘No,’ says Mum and there’s a sprinkling of relief in her voice.

  I look at them, perched on the edge of their seats, treating me with such fragility. My emotions are so splintered: every time I open my mouth, I hardly know what’s going to come out.

  ‘Y’know, I wouldn’t be able to contemplate the future if it wasn’t for you two coming here,’ I tell them. ‘Reckon I’d’ve just curled up in that room and…gone slowly insane.’

  It would be like peeling a nail from its bed, admitting this stuff normally. But these are not normal times.

  ‘I wish we’d never sent you away,’ Mum says.

  They seem on the brink of collapse, the pair of them. I want to buoy them up, tell them, hey, it’s okay: I’m still here. But everything’s on such a precipice that I’m not even sure I am.

  The big doors swing open again and our space becomes swamped by shopping bags and chatter. The moment’s shifted along like tins on a conveyor belt.

  ‘We had a great time,’ Sindy says, dumping bags in nearby seats. She’s got herself a new pink plastic watch. The big round face takes up most of her wrist.

  ‘Ooh, that’s pretty,’ Mum says. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Oh, this?’ she says, like she’s amazed anyone would have noticed. ‘Daniella bought it for me at the market.’ She pushes her arm in Mum’s direction so she can appreciate the up-close bulk of it. ‘Ace, isn’t it? And you never have to wind it.’

  It takes a lot more than a stray bullet to throw Sindy’s world out of whack.

  ‘Looks lovely on you,’ Mum says.

  Dad nods. ‘And it’ll save you ringing up the Speaking Clock every five minutes, won’t it?’

  ‘Anyway, why don’t you two go up and have a rest?’ Mum says to me and Daniella. ‘Dad and I can stay down here and see what else Sindy’s bought.’

  Having been forced out in public for the past hour, I’m almost too exhausted to stand, but the prospect of a quiet room and a bed are enough to make me move. I sense I’m the baton that’s being passed: now it’s Daniella’s turn for an audience with Alec. We go up to my room. I’m almost asleep before we get there.

  It isn’t until I emerge from the shower later that Daniella unpacks her bag of enquiries. As I gather my clothes from around the room, I feel her watching me. I sense her studying my face, working out the precise moment she can risk sliding a question my way.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, it’s kind of strange, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘How Sindy’s dad picked you up as soon as you decided to go it alone and hitch.’

  I unfold a T-shirt and give the pits a sniff.

  ‘And when I say strange, I mean it was a chance in a million. He had to know.’

  I realise she’s been building up to this since she got here: little hints here and there, the odd quizzical comment. She obviously feels I’m strong enough now to field questions, join in the debate, maybe even provide her with some answers.

  ‘Well, obviously he knew,’ I say. ‘He was sent to pick me up, wasn’t he?’

  ‘But how could he have known?’

  ‘I guess they must’ve been trailing us the whole way.’


  ‘Seems an awful lot of trouble to be tracking you halfway across Australia. How could they have known your route? And how come Sindy was already at the clubhouse? She must have been picked up almost the same time as you.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know. I guess they were lying in wait for us both. But…what’s the point of going over it all now? It’s finished.’

  Daniella looks like she’s about to tell me what the point is, but she bites her lip. Momentarily, at least.

  ‘What if it was all Sindy?’ she says, following me as I go between the bathroom and the wardrobe.

  ‘What if what was all Sindy?’

  ‘What if this whole...’ she searches for the right word. ‘Situation was Sindy’s doing?’

  ‘You think she masterminded all this, do you? For what? So, she could get a free trip to Australia? C’mon Daniella.’

  ‘Alec! You know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, what if this whole thing has been a setup? From the time your mum and dad had to…rescue her in Mumbles. Wasn’t most of this stuff of Sindy’s making? The mention of these Australian relatives; the running away from Minto. He had a base here; what if this was all about Minto getting you over here? Or getting Sindy to Australia?’

  ‘He could have got her on a plane just as easily as I could. He wouldn’t need all this.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Really? With his record? And with Sindy’s non-existent paperwork? You think it wouldn’t have caused a few problems at immigration? Same goes for her dad.’

  I have to mentally bat her questions away like ping-pong balls. The thoughts aren’t new, of course. I’ve been dodging them ever since it happened, but I can ignore my own questions far easier than I can shut out Daniella’s.

  Those words that Sindy spoke just before the gun went off: ‘it’s you he’s been using not me’. I haven’t told anyone. I’ve wrapped those words in tissue, placed them in a locked trunk and thrown away the key.

  ‘Sindy’s dad and Minto don’t have criminal records,’ I remind Daniella. ‘Not for offences that matter, otherwise they wouldn’t have got into the country themselves.’