Call Me Evie, page 11
“Can I see?”
He frowns, but he doesn’t say no. I walk outside. Over by the car, I peer at the windscreen, see where the glass is chipped. Voices come from up on the road. Turning to look back through the front door, I see the kitchen is empty. I walk slowly up the driveway.
On the road, a man is riding past on a horse, leading another horse by a rope. He is tanned, despite its being winter, with curly hair and a polar fleece top. He turns toward me. I am poised, ready to run back down the driveway. Closer still, walking along there are three boys. One points at me and nudges another with his elbow.
“Oi,” the shortest boy says, grinning like a hyena. “Are you a boy or a girl?”
Huh-huh-huh, the others laugh. One of the boys has his arm in a sling.
I look down, stepping backward toward the house.
“Eh? I didn’t hear you. Is this where you live?”
I just swallow.
“Eho, don’t be nasty,” the rider calls. He trots up beside the boys and looks down at them fiercely.
I try to keep my eyes averted, but as they continue on past the letterbox I steal a glance. One of them is watching; there’s a threat in his look.
“Pakehas all stick together, eh, bro?” another boy says without turning around. “Now I know.” They’re just boys but they seem so fearless.
“Hi,” the rider says as he passes by the top of the driveway. I see now that he’s only a couple of years older than me. “They’re pretty harmless, don’t worry.”
“Thanks,” I reply, thinking of the stone that hit the back of my head. I go back down the driveway and inside.
Jim has his feet up on the couch and a glass of wine in his hand. The television is off. The classical music unwinding into the room from the stereo is vaguely familiar. I notice then that the home phone has been unplugged and taken away. I step closer to him.
“Why didn’t you chase them away?” I say.
“Who?”
“The kids that threw the stones.”
“That wouldn’t be the best idea,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “Just imagine what I would do to them if I caught them.”
Seventeen
That evening from my bedroom window I can see a bar of light escaping beneath the steel door of the shed. What could he be doing out there this late? I climb down the back steps in my pajamas and cross the yard. I stand close to the door for some time listening to him tapping away on his laptop. He sighs and a chair squeaks. I could run now and try to escape but how far would I get in the cold? He would only need to check my room; then what would happen? I hear his voice. It’s just a murmur from within the steel. I can only make out a few words.
“. . . it’s my mobile number . . . she was listening, that’s why . . .” The door swings open suddenly and light leaps out into the night. I shift around the corner of the shed, pressed up hard against the cold steel. Bile slides up my throat. The chill spreads down my body like a rash. I stay dead still, my heart thumping.
“Is that better? Can you hear me now?” he says. “Look, I just want to know if there’s any news . . . you broke up there a bit . . . you don’t like his chances, is that what you said?” He lets his breath out. “It’s the reception out here, let me try to find a better spot,” he says as he walks up beside the house toward the road.
I let my breath out. That was too close. I rush up the steps; the grass is icy beneath my feet. My jaw trembles with cold. I step inside, gently closing the back door, and creep down the hall to my room. Then I fall back into bed, waiting to warm up, thinking about what Jim just said. You don’t like his chances.
In the morning Jim wakes to find the words “Fuck Off” spray-painted across the windscreen of the car. He simply clucks his tongue, goes out to the shed, and finds a blade to scrape it off with as if this is trivial, like finding a blown bulb in the lounge room, and yet small things—when I spilled a pot of water, when I let the fire go out—have made his face parboiled red and veins rise in his throat. In the afternoon, after he has cleaned off the red spray paint, we take a drive out of town.
“Where are we going?”
“Tauranga,” he says. “For lunch.”
As the noiseless sedan rolls along, I gaze through the windscreen, marked by five chips in the glass, although most of the paint came off. Out here, it’s not like Melbourne, with all that concrete, all those cars stopping and starting, trailing exhaust fumes. Beside the road there’s nothing but emerald paddocks and sheep with their heads bowed. He’s constantly frowning at the rearview mirror and doubles back around a block on the way out of town. Does he think someone is following us?
He wants us to escape Maketu for an hour or so, to leave it behind and spend some time together. To be happy in each other’s company again. We drive for forty minutes farther along the coast, stopping eventually to have lunch at a café overlooking the beach.
He says the café has Melbourne food. I guess he thinks it will be a comfort for me, but it’s not the smashed avocado I miss most.
“We need a proper lunch, like in the old days. Just you and me.”
The modern-looking café is almost empty. We find a table outside and sit for a while without talking, which suits me, because when I block out the engines of passing cars and the whirl and hiss of the coffee machine, I can hear the calming sound of the sea.
A pretty waitress wanders over. She’s all smiles, pouring our water and setting out cutlery. I order a latte, noting the way his eyebrows converge. He leans forward a little. “Darling, it’s almost two o’clock, are you certain you want caffeine?”
“I think so.”
“You already have chemicals in your system, Evie. You don’t need caffeine. No wonder you can’t sleep. Why don’t you get a cup of herbal tea or something instead?”
I don’t answer. When the waitress passes by again, he reaches out and touches her forearm. She turns and smiles, charmed by him, I suppose. I can’t help but stare at her hair. I could reach out and grab it. Then what? Maybe I could tell her he locks me away at night, that he tells me lies and hurts me. Even if she believed me, the only thing she could do is call the police.
“I think we will cancel the latte, please, if it’s not too late.”
“Sure,” she says. She glances at me. “Did you want something else instead?”
“Hot chocolate,” I say.
“Good choice.”
When she leaves, I say, “If I want a coffee, I can have a coffee. You can’t just control everything like that.”
His expression is blank as a doll’s. “That’s not a decision you get to make.”
When my hot chocolate comes I push it away.
“God, does the coffee mean that much to you?” Jim snaps. He leans in, speaking in a voice so low I find myself straining to hear him. “After everything we’ve been through, it would be a shame if that waitress saw your face on the news and remembered you as the girl that had a tantrum over a fucking drink and next thing we know you’re locked away. Think about that, next time you want to make a scene.”
A pair of old women sit nearby, squawking like geese, their voices too big for the small table. They glance at me, then lower their voices.
The waitress strides past. Jim’s eyes follow her. He does have a taste for younger women. Then he turns back and pats my hand once.
I can see him thinking; he rests his chin on his knuckles. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you choose?” he asks.
“Melbourne,” I say without hesitation.
He makes a frustrated sound. “What about somewhere you could start afresh, somewhere no one knows you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about somewhere on the other side of the world?”
We had that choice, we could have gone anywhere, but he dragged us to Maketu. I think of Awhina, the small girl from the bus shelter, who doesn’t have a choice. I feel a narcotic heaviness in my bones. “No. If we leave here, I want to go home to Melbourne.”
“There’s nothing for you in Melbourne, Evie. Can’t you see that?”
I glance back at the women. Their eyes are on me. Their latte glasses are stained with crescents of mauve lipstick. I wonder if they recognize me. The video is still out there.
The waitress returns with a sandwich for Jim and eggs Benedict for me. I can hardly eat any of it. All I wanted was the coffee, something from the world before.
“. . . doubt it’s cancer, might be a trend,” one of the women says, just loud enough for us to hear. The other slyly shifts her gaze toward me.
I slide my palm over the tabletop. My water glass tips, falls, and explodes on the cobblestones.
“Jesus,” Jim says. “Careful.”
I watch their faces, the subtle disgusted look they exchange. I fix them with my most intense stare until I am sure they have both seen me. One of them gives a nervous laugh.
The waitress hurries out with a brush and dustpan.
“I’m sorry,” Jim says with a silly me expression. “I bumped it with my elbow.”
He shifts his gaze on the women. I turn my head so they can see the scar, the inch-long crease above my right ear where hair will never grow again. He is back, facing me, letting out his breath, blinking slowly. Then he places his hand on my wrist and rubs it back and forth until I am calm once more.
* * *
• • •
We roll past the abandoned surf club. In the car park a group has gathered. At least twenty people—kids with skateboards and rugby balls, and adults of all ages holding tall brown beer bottles—are standing around. Smoke rises where the heat swirls off the grill of a barbecue on the grass near the picnic area. Music thumps from a car with its doors and trunk open. It’s as though the entire village has gathered. I see Tiriana from the shop among the group; she watches our car pass. Sitting on a man’s shoulders is Awhina. The man has short hair on top but a long black mullet down his back. The child, too, looks over as we pass.
The bottom of the car scrapes as we go over a speed bump. As if on cue, all eyes swing to us. Way to stay inconspicuous, Jim. There’s a stillness about the crowd. A man with thick dark hair and faded green tattoos on his face looks over. He taps the chest of the man beside him, then points at us. I feel a twinge of panic. I look over at Jim to see if he has noticed. His hands are tight around the wheel.
* * *
• • •
When I wake the following morning, Jim is out. I read the book I started at the airport, wondering if it has any more secrets for me. I find myself falling into the story and have read sixty pages before I find something else. No underlined letters but words written into the margin, pressed hard with an angry fist.
Death is the only escape.
I can hear my breath growing louder. Don’t trust him and now this. Is it a threat? Perhaps he found the book and put these words in here to warn me about attempting to escape. Is he saying if I were to escape I would die? The handwriting is not so different from mine. The t’s look like my own. These pages may hold more clues but I’m afraid to continue reading. My hands tremble thinking about what else I might find. The book is old and dusty, the pages yellowed and stiff. It closes with a thump and I slide it beneath my bed.
Out on the kitchen island, he has left a pile of seed packets.
It’s been ten days since I quit taking the pills and the headaches have stopped. I feel like I am getting stronger and more lucid. I feel like when the time comes I will be able to escape, I will be able to get back to Melbourne to find out the truth. Death is the only escape. Those words are an icy hand on the back of my neck. Death is not my only escape. I can get away. I must get away.
Out in the garden I go to work thumbing carrot seeds into the soft soil. I am on all fours with the last few seeds in the palm of my hand when he returns. “Kate,” he says, “come and have a look at this.” He is actually smiling.
“What is it?”
He gestures for me to follow.
I clap the soil from my palms and climb up the steps to the house. Jim leads me through the kitchen and out the front door to the driveway. I hear it before I see it; tied to the tow bar of the car, emitting a low, excited whimper, is a black dog. Its tail flicks. Its mouth hangs open with a flat pink tongue lolling to one side.
“Welcome home, boy,” Jim says, unclipping the leash. The dog rushes toward me, his tail swinging deliriously. He sniffs my feet and circles me. When I reach out to pat him, he leaps up and licks my fingers. Then he sprints up the driveway and back. His mouth is wide open in a perpetual grin. It may be fleeting but right now I am . . . happy. It’s been so long that I forgot what it felt like.
“Can I name him?”
“He’s already got a name,” Jim says, reaching down and scratching the dog behind the ears. “Beau.”
“Beau,” I repeat.
“He’s a staffy. A guard dog.”
To me he looks far too cute to intimidate anyone.
After spending some time exploring, sniffing, licking, he drops to his belly in a square of sun near the back door.
“Is he ours?” I say.
“Well, yeah. But if he doesn’t fit in, I guess we can always take him back to the SPCA.”
A dog is a commitment. Does this mean we are staying here for good?
Jim lugs in a sack of dog biscuits and a square of lamb’s wool for Beau to sleep on. He puts the biscuits beneath the sink and lays the bed in the corner of the lounge near the sliding door.
That evening after dinner, Beau lies on his bed, staring up at me with a mopey look.
“Come on,” I say, coaxing him closer. Eventually he rises, stretches, and wanders over. I scratch the prickly fur between his eyes, feeling the bone beneath.
“You can feed him if you want,” Jim says from where he is seated at his desk. “Just a scoop.”
In the kitchen, I take a scoop of biscuits from the sack and tip it into the steel bowl Jim bought for Beau. Beau dives in snout first.
When he’s finished eating, he comes back to the couch and looks up at me.
“Is he allowed on the couch?”
“Sure,” he says. “Why not?” Soon enough, Jim turns from the desk and begins running through the same series of questions he always asks, while I stroke Beau’s back.
“What do you think of when you think of Melbourne?”
I imagine the splitting sound of a human skull. “I think of school and my house.”
“Who do you remember seeing, when you drove the car?”
“I don’t remember.”
Beau has returned to the kitchen, has his head in the cupboard beneath the sink. Jim rises to pull Beau away and closes the cupboard. “Make sure you leave this closed so he doesn’t get into the bag.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“Okay,” he says. Then he continues asking questions. “What was I doing on the street that night?”
“You were running along.”
“And what was I carrying?”
I squeeze my eyes closed, concentrating to remember. “I don’t know.”
“All right, why don’t you head to bed and get an early night.”
I brush my teeth and go to my room. Don’t trust him. Death is the only escape. I reach for the book but before I can read more than a few pages I’m dozing off.
Eighteen
I dream a familiar dream. I’m driving and I hit someone but this time it’s Thom. He raises a bent finger, pointing at me as I approach, and lets out a howl of laughter. His body flips over the car and flies up over the power lines, crashing down on the curb. His skull opens to reveal what looks like a soft-boiled egg. A dog is barking, the sound ripping me from the dream.
I lurch upright, breathing hard. The knocking in my chest is like a loose bolt in an engine. Was it Beau barking?
The house is quiet. But I heard it; a low bark. I open my curtains and look out over the moonlit lawn, toward the sea at the bottom of the hill. I feel so lucid and energized. This entire town and the man in black will be asleep. The ladder is still outside. I open my window and cool air rushes in. I climb up to sit on the sill and then, turning, extend one leg toward the wooden rung, then the other, and clamber down.
The frozen grass at the base of the ladder numbs my feet, and my pajama shorts and the wisp of a top are hopeless against the breeze that grabs at every part of me. I take in my surroundings: the moon-shadowed lawn, the stars layered and sweeping all the way to the silhouette of the hills at the distant horizon. The night is a wonder; this night is mine.
Walking up beside the house, I hear the occasional rustling of the leaves, the movements of unknown animals in the trees and grass. The sea, too, seems louder, bigger, at night. When I reach the road I see a three-legged white dog—the same one I saw by the beach the first time I walked down the hill on my own. It is ghostlike in the moonlight. Is it waiting for me? For a second we are both still. Then it turns and continues along, its irregular gait mesmerizing.
I am shaking with cold and wish I’d thought to pull on my hoodie and track pants. I stop and the dog swings its head back once more. Come on, he seems to say, I have something to show you. I cast my gaze out over the village; there’s nothing but shadows in the grass and pale ghosts in the paddocks. Nothing but shacks with cracked paint. Newer houses, the holiday homes, are all empty, with their curtains glaringly open.
The road knuckles the thawing meat of my bare feet. Am I following the dog or pursuing him? When we reach the bottom of the hill near the beach, he bolts off. I walk faster. By the time I get close enough to see him, he is sitting on the other side of the car park near the surf club.
Beneath the lone streetlight in the car park is a red station wagon, its engine murmuring. There are two people inside. I ease back, beneath a tree. Its shadow expands and contracts in the breeze like a lung. I could run. I could run back. Before I can make the decision, the passenger-side door opens. I am trapped. If I run I’ll be seen; if I stay where I am I might be grabbed.
