Pretty Girls

by Pretty Girls (retail) (epub)

  “You wanna go for a walk?” he asked casually.

  “Sure,” she responded, getting to her feet. She brushed grass off her skirt and caught him staring at her legs. There was a dark look in his eyes, and suddenly she felt sick again.

  She tossed the thought aside and took his hand. He was the cool kid, she was the pretty girl. This is how things worked.

  “See ya,” she called to Mirela, who shot her a warning look.

  She ignored it.

  Behind Adam Evie caught sight of the dead bird. Its black wings were spread eagled comically on the footpath, its tiny belly slashed open.

  3

  So very pretty

  (2017, Redfern)

  “ Are you almost done, Til?” Evie asked, casting her eyes towards the kitchen table where Tilley sat, kitted up in her new school uniform, her blonde hair tied smartly into two braids, eating breakfast at a snail’s pace. The bowl of rice-bubbles and milk looked visibly similar to how it had appeared ten minutes ago when it had first been poured. Tilley pushed the food around, lack-luster.

  “I’m not hungry,” she finally muttered.

  “Do you want something else then?” Evie asked approaching the table, hands on hips. She wore a suit she had purchased at the weekend in one of the warehouses in Redfern. Grey and plain -straight-legged pants and a slightly ill-fitting blazer. It made her uncomfortable like new clothes always did, they needed to be worn in.

  “No,” Tilley responded sullenly, crossing her arms across her chest.

  Evie sighed. “Well it won’t make a difference, we still have to go,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to go to school, and I need to go to work so we can have a roof over our head and food on the table,” she plucked the bowl away from Tilley and headed back to the kitchen to tip it out in the bin. The irony didn’t escape her.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You have to,” Evie busied herself rinsing the plate and drying the lemon-yellow linoleum benchtop with a tea towel.

  “It’s awful. They all stare at you like you’re an idiot. Nobody talks to you - and by the time it’s recess someone has started some rumour about you,” Tilley said, her tone resigned.

  Evie collected the cheerful pink school bag that she had hidden behind the lounge last night in an attempt to avoid Tilley spotting it in advance and having a melt-down about yet another first day at a new school.

  “Kids are tough,” she admitted, handing Tilley the bag. Their eyes met over the plastic handle, Tilley’s were obstinate.

  “I know – especially when you keep changing schools.” Tilley responded curtly.

  “This will be the last time,” Evie said, as she picked up her own black handbag and started switching off the lights in the terrace.

  “You say that every time and it never is.”

  “This will be the last time,” she repeated, even though she wasn’t quite sure if it was true. Repeating the statement made it feel more substantial, less ephemeral.

  “I don’t even know why we had to come here in the first place,” Tilley continued complaining but followed Evie down the corridor towards the front door, her heavy footsteps resonating against the timber floorboards.

  “You know why. Grandad’s sick,” she said. The word clung to the inside of her mouth awkwardly. She rarely used the word Grandad and when she managed to, she felt like a fraud.

  “You don’t like him anyway!” Tilley yelled as Evie threw open the heavy blue door. The noise and traffic from Elizabeth Street, only a few metres away from them, rushed in.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Come on, you’ll be late for the bus.”

  The bus stop was only a short walk away from their home and Evie couldn’t figure out if it was a blessing or a curse. It meant that they could get anywhere quickly, without her having to wedge her car out of the tiny carpark she had secured last night on the street behind the terrace. It also meant the constant screech of brakes and revving of engines as buses spluttered along the street and voices. People queued for the bus at all times of the day and night and their conversations drifted through the paper-thin walls of the terrace, providing a soundtrack they couldn’t turn off. People who caught the bus in the middle of the day, or late at night, were a curious mix – and so, she discovered, were their conversations.

  It was almost summer, mid-November, but still a cool day. A harsh wind stung her cheeks, and an oppressive grey sky clung to the morning despairingly. Evie wondered for the umpteenth time if she had made the right decision, and then closed the thought down, focusing instead on making sure Tilley got on the right bus.

  “Evie! Evie!” she heard someone calling her name. It took her a moment to register - who would know her here? She had been gone for so long. Who would remember her? But the voice was familiar.

  She turned, keeping a hand firmly fastened on Tilley’s shoulder.

  A large woman with dark hair and a face the colour of clay was waving at her. Her nose was familiar, and she was clinging to a girl who looked a similar age to Tilley and wearing the same uniform.

  “Evie, it’s Mirela,” the woman declared, reaching out and pressing her closely to her large bosom in an unwelcome embrace.

  Mirela. The nose was unforgettable. She smelt of cigarettes and sweat. It wasn’t even 8am - too early for both.

  “What are you doing here?” Mirela said, thankfully pulling away. “I never thought you would come back to Redfern,” she added.

  No, Evie thought, neither did I.

  “My dad’s sick.” The word stuck in her throat, like the word Grandad had.

  “That old bastard. Is he still around?” she said jovially with a grin on her face. Like it was a joke.

  Yes, that old bastard still was around.

  “Yeah, on his last legs though. He’s in a hospice. Lung cancer,” the words seemed strangely disconnected. Like she was in a school play and had been rehearsing the statement for weeks, but still the delivery was abysmal.

  “He smoked like a chimney, didn’t he? Poor old thing.”

  Evie didn’t think him a poor old thing at all, but it was strange what people erased in their memories. Recollections were often imperfect, never filled with that odd thing called certainty.

  “Of course, with your mother gone, and your brother ” Mirela continued.

  “And how old is your little one?” Evie suddenly said, changing the subject. Where was Mirela going with that sentence? She had no business talking about Evie’s family. She wouldn’t let her finish those words, not now – not ever.

  Mirela looked at her strangely but managed a response. “Seven.”

  “Just like Tilley! Grade two, right?” Evie continued brightly, ignoring the stung look on Mirela’s face — she had never been one to conceal emotions.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Well, they’ll be in the same class then. There you go Tilley – instant friend!” Her voice was too high, and too happy, it sounded fabricated, ridiculous, but she continued nonetheless.

  Tilley stared at the girl suspiciously, as though her sudden appearance was not at all an assurance that they would be bestbuddies.

  “Just like we were,” Mirela said swinging a thick arm over Evie’s shoulder. Evie felt its weight like an anchor, rooting her to the spot. To this old, awful place. Why had she come back here in the first place?

  “Should we get a coffee and catch-up before work?” Mirela continued, as the girls talked quietly in the background. Furtive eyes downcast, as they tried to figure out whether they liked each other legitimately.

  “I can’t. First day on the new job. I wouldn’t want to be late.” Nice save Evie, nice save.

  “No worries. Well, I’m still in the old place on Phillip Street. My parents’ place — you know the one. Come past this evening or another night for a cuppa. It’s just me, Mum and Steph,” she gestured towards the small girl. “Steve ran out on me a while back, haven’t seen him in a long t
ime.”

  Evie wasn’t sure who Steve was.

  “Mum will love to see you again. She used to always talk about how pretty you were, thought you were going to turn into some famous actress a star! We all did.”

  Evie didn’t respond, instead she felt the puncture of those words.

  “She looks just like you did back then,” Mirela continued gesturing towards the girls, who were getting on the bus now together.

  Momentarily Evie panicked. They were too young to be catching the bus alone in this place. They were too young, full stop. And Tilley was too pretty. Evie knew what that meant and being pretty was both a blessing and a curse.

  She swallowed, it was an irrational fear. Tilley would be fine, just like she had been. Eventually.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she,” she found herself saying listlessly. The words were bitter in her mouth.

  “So very pretty.”

  4

  Unremarkable people

  (2017, Redfern)

  Evie sat in her grey cubicle and started to log in. She clutched the yellow post-it note the weary IT officer had given her this morning with her username and password scrawled in black hand-writing on it. His eyes had been rheumy and his chin, completely absent. She had tried to make a joke with him about him needing a truckload of post-it notes given people’s propensity for forgetting their passwords. He had grimaced in return, as though he couldn’t possibly manage a response and her cheeriness was wasted on him. She hadn’t felt cheery at all. Like Tilley with school, starting a new job wasn’t exactly something she was clicking her heels about. Another location, another job in a grey, sterile office. Only this suburb was familiar. Overly.

  Her computer powered to life and she clicked on the email symbol. A welcome email from her new director, a team lunch invite, and an IT security email. She felt like turfing them all. Straight into the bin icon which hovered at the bottom of her screen. It was a fleeting thought. Lacking in substance or conviction. She couldn’t do any of those things. She belonged here, in this grey cubicle, stenciled amongst these equally grey people, wishing things were different.

  She was sure they wished the same. Even the IT officer with the rheumy eyes.

  They had all been promised something more. Maybe her more than others Mirela’s words about what they thought she would become sat heavily in her mind, reminding her of unearned and unused potential. What an awful word – potential. It smacked of an understated and bland future, littered with suburban lives, office buildings and Netflix.

  She craned her neck slightly to see over the partition. Beside her was an empty desk. A screen, hard drive and keyboard idled alongside a long-forgotten cactus. The remnants of someone’s time in this place.

  Eight hours a day. Five days a week. She would be beholden to this workplace. It made her want to scream, but she knew that she couldn’t manage even that simple act of rebellion. These workplaces relied on people like her – haunted by unreachable potential. Unremarkable people. They thrived on souls like her own.

  Evie belonged here. In a nondescript government job, filing emails, and taking phone calls. It meant nothing, to any of them.

  “Evie?” She snapped to attention, finding a grey-haired woman behind her wearing thick glasses and a floral cardigan.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Margaret. Welcome.” The word came out flat, the semiimplied enthusiasm squeezed out of it.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, I know we’re having sausage rolls and the like for morning tea on Friday to welcome you. Garry’s organised that. He does that sort of thing – you know, the social events,” she continued, leaning a hand on the partition. Her nails were painted a particularly obnoxious mauve. Garry was the social guy. Noted.

  Evie didn’t respond.

  “But listen, I just came around to let you know that someone’s been calling your line. You may not have noticed because we have this voice over the internet thing here, not your normal telephone. You have to put this headset on,” she prodded the headset which had been smartly positioned on Evie’s keyboard upon her arrival. It was still covered in its plastic wrapper. Evie had immediately set it aside.

  “It’s a nightmare,” Margaret widened her heavy-lidded eyes. “So, apologies, but I’ve answered your line a few times today, it’s diverting to mine – there’s a hospice calling, something about your father. I’m sorry to take such a personal call.” her voice trailed off, but she looked at Evie expectantly, clearly waiting for further information.

  Margaret struck Evie as an office gossip. She tried not to let it bother her, but it did. Again, she didn’t respond.

  Margaret clasped her hands together in an effort to fill the silence. Finally she said, “Well, I just thought I would let you know.”

  “Thank you,” Evie said, with a clipped tone.

  Margaret looked sour, her face was pinched. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate Evie’s need for discretion when it came to her dying bastard of a father. Evie turned her back on her, and searched for her mobile in her black handbag. Three missed calls from the hospice there too. She’d had her phone on silent, but if she was honest, she had felt the vibration and chosen to ignore it.

  It was un-ignorable now, thanks to Margaret.

  She hit the call back button and felt her throat constricting, which was a sensation she often experienced now when considering her father.

  “Clare Leaver Hospice, Sara speaking,” responded a young perky voice.

  Evie paused, unable to speak.

  “Hello?” the voice said again.

  “Hello ” Evie rasped as though she hadn’t spoken for days.

  “Yes hello, it’s Clare Leaver Hospice. Can I help you?”

  Here was her moment to talk, she had to find her voice.

  “My name’s Evie King. My father’s in the hospice at the moment. Greg King. I have a missed call from you,” she managed.

  “Oh yes, Evie. We tried calling you a few times this morning. Your father’s been asking after you, wondering if you arrived safely in Sydney - said you were driving up from Melbourne. We thought we would give you a buzz and check to give him some peace of mind.” The girl had a smile in her tone, as though she were sure this were the right thing to do, and that the call would be well-received on her end.

  She tried to keep the grimace out of her voice, “Yes, I’ve arrived.”

  “Wonderful – he’ll be so pleased to see you then!” Jovial. Evie couldn’t imagine her father being pleased about anything, and certainly not to see her.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He’s been talking about your arrival for days now.” Stop.

  Now. Evie thought.

  “I see.”

  Another lengthy pause. Evie pictured Margaret’s hands clasping in front of her. Her new image for expectation.

  “Well, I’ll see you soon,” Sara closed with more sunshine in her voice.

  “Yes, of course.”

  The phone went dead. Evie kept it clutched to her ear for a moment.

  When she replaced it on her desk she realised her hands were shaking.

  5

  Old habits die hard

  (1997, Redfern)

  “ Open the fucking door!”

  Evie startled awake, the words ringing in her ears.

  The room was pitch black, for a moment she couldn’t quite remember where she was. Panicked, she desperately tried to re-orientate herself. She was in the terrace on Elizabeth Street. In the front room, the one which faced the street. Tilley was sleeping in the room upstairs. Where had the words come from? Had they been part of a dream? They had seemed so real, so tangible, so

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  She jumped. Someone was knocking at the door. Furiously.

  She could hear her heart pounding in her chest. So loud, it eclipsed almost every other sound. Tilley . where was she?

  She grabbed the mobile off her nightstand. It was just after 2am. She kicked the blankets off her. She was sweaty,
clammy, stressed.

  She threw the door open and headed into the oppressively tiny corridor.

  There was someone outside, she knew that much. Trying to get in. She ran her hand along the corridor in the darkness, trying to find her way to the flight of stairs which led to Tilley’s room. A teeny attic where an adult could barely stand vertical. The ceiling sloped for a reason

  Christ! Why had she brought that sweet child back to this place?

  More banging on the door. She jumped. The jolt pushed her into fight or flight mode, she was more fight than flight she knew that much. Violence was in her blood.

  Violence was part of this fucking place.

  “Tilley!” she hissed up the stairs. Then more urgently, “Tilley!”

  “Mummy,” came her tiny child’s voice in return. “There’s someone at the door.”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now and she could make out Tilley’s small form at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  “I know. Mummy will sort it out. You stay up there,” Evie said sternly.

  More knocking. Aggressive. Belligerent. Destructive.

  Then came the voice, “Open the fucking door, bitch!”

  Slurred, probably intoxicated, looking for sex and blood and violence no doubt. She knew the type . too well. This place was filled with them.

  You couldn’t be passive when presented with violence. You had to meet it head-on. You had to accost violence with . violence.

  She smashed her hand onto the corridor light to switch it on and headed to the kitchen.

  Her heart pounded still but now her adrenalin had set in and she was angry. Rage. Fury. She yanked the drawer open and pulled out the largest kitchen knife.

  She was the last line of defence. It was her and then her daughter. It would be her first - and he wouldn’t get past her.

  Evie headed down the corridor.

  More banging.

  “You fucking whore! Let me in! This is my home too! Wait until I get in there I’m going to bash your fucking head in!”

  Alcohol and drugs. They made bad men, very bad men.

  “Get the fuck away!” she finally found her voice. It was loud, and abrasive . and certain. She approached the door now, knife in hand, waiting for his response.