Call Me Evie, page 22
Finally, I go to Google. This is the part I have been dreading. The part that fills my guts with concrete. I tap the keys.
Kate Bennet Thom Moreau
I press enter and results fill the page. Hot bile rises in my stomach, moves up toward the base of my throat. I swallow hard. The photos of me are not the old ones; in these I have no hair. There are photos of me piggybacking Awhina from this morning. Photos of me on Cracker with Iso beside me. It looks like I’m on holiday. Sweat starts in patches on my back. They know where I am. There are other images, of course. . . . Police hunched over something beyond a ribbon of yellow police tape. The headline reads SEX TAPE AND VIOLENT ATTACK. I know that spot. It’s the spot, our spot.
It’s true, I realize with dawning horror. Jim was telling the truth about one thing. I read the article again. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, a local man was struck in the head and is in a critical condition. . . . I close the page and open another one. The stories are days old.
. . . with no realistic chance of recovery, the family made the decision to turn life support off late last night.
Something else Jim was not lying about. I find a more recent article. This one is from two days ago. The day Jim left.
Police are reviewing new CCTV footage that appears to show a black Mercedes-Benz heading to the scene. They have allegedly identified the driver.
I know exactly what they found when they reviewed the footage. They found an image of me and only me in the car. Jim was already there when it happened. In every memory, I was alone in the car. I realize it then: he has framed me. He has been leaking the photos to the media, making me out to be someone unstable, just crazy enough to commit murder. What if this was his plan all along?
It’s believed an arrest is imminent.
I click another link, open an earlier news story. There is a photo of Jim and a photo of Willow. There is a photo of me and a photo of Thom. Four faces. I scroll down and there is another photo; this one is grainy, as if taken from afar by a mobile phone. The caption credits the photo to a Facebook account. It’s clearly me; there is blood on my face and on my hands. It’s not from that night but from daytime. I look exactly like a psycho killer from a movie. It must have been a photo from someone on Thom’s street.
I hear Iso coming down the hall. The credit card is burning white hot in my pocket. I open the history and delete all activity from the last hour.
“Are you all right?” Iso says as he pushes the door open and places the cup of tea on the desk beside me. “I hope Mum didn’t leave any of her holistic healing shit open.”
There’s no conviction in his voice; he’s a desperate salesman selling something he doesn’t believe in.
Breathe, Kate, for fuck’s sake. You need to be calm and ready. I try to empty my mind and focus my breath. In. One, two, three, four . . .
Iso is watching me, alarm spreading across his face. My body is quaking, my breathing is growing faster and faster. Out. One, two. “Evie, are you all right? Evie?”
I try to pick up the tea, but it spills, scalding my fingers. “Give me. A couple more. Minutes,” I say. It’s clear that the police believe I killed him, they have enough evidence to arrest me, Jim is going to hand me over to them.
“Evie, I can’t . . . I can’t let you do this to yourself. You’re crying.”
I touch my cheek, find it’s damp. “I need to get away.”
“From who?” he says. “From what?”
“I think . . .” I can’t tell him. He already thinks I’m unhinged. The day I hitchhiked and ran from his house. Not letting Awhina leave. If he finds out I’m the lead suspect in a deadly attack, what will he do? He needs to know Jim is controlling it all.
Iso’s eyes are wide. “Jesus, Evie. You’re scaring me. What is it?”
“They—”
He squats down beside my chair and touches my back, his face close to mine. “What, Evie?”
“They think—”
There’s a knock at the door. Three urgent taps, followed quickly by three more.
“They think I killed someone.”
“Who?”
“They think it was me.”
The knocks sound again, this time louder.
“Hold on a sec,” Iso says, but I’m still speaking over him.
“He set me up.”
He leaves the room and hurries down the hall to open the front door. I hear a male voice, hurried and loud. It’s Jim. I hear Iso saying, Sure, sure, come through. He says, She’s right through here.
I’m in some distant place where I can barely move, where I can only sit and listen.
“Evie,” Jim says.
I turn. Jim’s lips are tight, his face pale. I can’t read his expression.
“It’s the dog,” he says. “We’ve got to go, right now. It’s Beau.” He looks at me the way a man might look at a river in which his best friend was swept away. “Something has happened.”
BEFORE
Thirty
A maelstrom of glass and fists. Screaming. More bottles hurled. My memories of the party come through the warped lens of alcohol and concussion. It’s possible, of course, that I don’t remember anything, that what I remember are not memories at all but newly imagined wisps of a night I will never truly understand. An amalgamation of all the stories I heard.
It was Willow who found me stumbling around dazed with blood running from my head, and she pulled me away from the melee. I wasn’t in any state to resist, I was just grateful to be away from the violence. She called her dad, who pulled up in his car shortly after. He got out to help me as I tottered away from the party, then he lifted me up and deposited me on the front seat, wrapping my bleeding head in a sweater he had in the car. I imagine people were torn between the spectacle of my bloody skull and the spot fires of fighting that continued to flare along the street and near the house.
“Don’t let her fall asleep. If she’s concussed she shouldn’t sleep,” Willow’s dad said.
“She can’t go home,” Willow said, slurring but insistent. “Her dad will kill her.”
“I was thinking of heading to emergency, Willow.”
I remembered the way my dress flew up, Willow’s nasty smile.
At the hospital we sat in the fluorescent white glare of the waiting room. It was busy. Most people seemed to be in a state of inebriation. When Willow’s dad rose to go to the bathroom, Willow slid closer to me on the bench seat.
“Kate,” she said, grabbing one of my hands in hers. “Are you feeling okay?”
I simply shrugged.
“You know I’m sorry, Kate. You have to know that. I felt so angry that you chose Thom over me. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s hard to lose your best friend and I guess I was . . . jealous.”
Her father was striding back toward us.
“We’re not talking about this now,” I said with more anger in my voice than I intended.
“Tomorrow? Can we talk tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, Willow.”
Surprisingly quickly a nurse ushered me into a room.
She slicked the cut above my right ear down with medical wipes; I winced at the sting. The wipes continued to come away blood soaked. Then I felt the nurse cutting a patch of hair. When the cut was clean and the hair cleared away, a doctor came over with a needle—a couple of pricks in the back of my head, then numbness. After that I felt a slight tug of skin as my wound was stitched closed.
Finally, at around two in the morning, with my head bandaged and my legs unsteady, Willow’s dad helped me back to the car. Willow was already asleep in the front seat. “We’d better take you back to our place,” he said. “Probably not a good idea to drop you off home at this time.”
When we got there, Willow went to bed while her father carried me in his lean arms over to the couch and propped me upright with pillows behind my head. He fetched an ice pack from the kitchen and held it to the throbbing spot where the bottle had hit.
“They cut my hair,” I said sadly.
“Only a little, almost nothing—you can’t even notice it,” he said, his voice tender. “But you should let me take a couple of photos in case you decide you want to go to the police in the morning.”
My head was pounding, my vision shifting in and out of focus. My eyes fluttered against sleep.
Willow’s dad gave me a gentle shake, his hand on my shoulder. “The nurse said that you may have a mild concussion, so you can’t go to sleep just yet. You’re going to have to stay awake for a while, okay?”
I nodded slowly, trying not to move my head too much.
“I forgot what the nurse said. Let me check online for other symptoms,” he said, patting his pockets. “Have you seen my phone?”
“No,” I said. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jeans. “Do you want to call it?”
He took my phone and dialed his own number. Seconds later there was a vibration down the side of the couch. He rummaged for it, pulling it out. He opened the Internet browser and conducted a search.
“It says here that you shouldn’t sleep if your eyes are dilated.” He turned to cup my chin and peer into my eyes. His palm felt surprisingly soft and warm.
“You’re lucky, you know,” he said softly.
“It could have been a lot worse,” I agreed.
“I meant your eyes. They’re so . . . dark. Just lovely, Kate.”
I leaned against him. “I’m sleepy.” My voice was thick and syrupy with alcohol and tiredness.
“I don’t want you to feel any worse. Are you still dizzy?”
“I don’t know.”
He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me upright, tight against his shoulder. The ice pack slipped and he grabbed it from down my back before pressing it against my head. We talked for a while. He asked me about Thom.
“Thom?”
“Sorry. I couldn’t help but notice that you had ten messages and a few missed calls from him on your phone. Is he your boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” I said, then added, “Kind of.”
“He didn’t make it to the party?”
“He was there,” I said.
His body tensed against mine. “So where was he when all this happened with the bottle?”
Where did he go? Why was it Willow’s dad and not Thom who picked me up and took me home? Did he run? Did he fight?
“I don’t know. He was walking away from me when it started.”
“Really? He left you?”
“Thom would have been there but he was jealous. We had a fight.”
“A fight?” he said. “You’re too young to be fighting.”
I felt heavy with fatigue, and the room spun in a slow, sickly twirl, but I knew I wanted to stay awake, I wanted to talk to him. “He doesn’t like it when I talk to other guys. He got mad and said the other guys there could have me.”
“Sounds like a prick—if you don’t mind me saying. You’re not his property to give away.”
“He was just drunk,” I said.
“Kate,” he said in a soft voice.
I pulled his hand away from my head down over my shoulders and shifted to nestle into his side. He dropped the ice pack and rested his palm on my hip. My dress slid up my legs, slowly revealing more of the shining swirls of my scars. Thom had left me. Jealous Thom.
“Take care. It’s easy to break a man’s heart.”
“Mmm.”
His hand crept from my hip onto my thigh. I smelled cotton and oak; it smelled like home.
PART FOUR
Thinking about Ending Things
In the past month, how often have you been fixated on the possible recurrence of your traumatic experience?
0. never; 1. rarely; 2. sometimes; 3. often; 4. all the time
Thirty-one
Transcript from 3RA newstalk morning radio show:
HOST: You’re listening to 3RA newstalk, I’m Des Holder and today we are talking crime. We’ve got Joe from Melton on the line.
CALLER: Morning, Des.
HOST: Now, you believe you’ve got some information regarding the Hawkesburn Park case. If you’ve been living under a rock for the past month, you might have missed the story. But the girl involved, Kate Bennet, vanished under what some have described as dubious circumstances days after an attack in the inner east, which she may very well be linked to.
CALLER: That’s right.
HOST: A lot of it is speculation, of course, but what have you got for us, Joe?
CALLER: Well, I’m at the pub last night with a couple of others, and one of the boys just got back from New Zealand.
HOST: Very nice. Business or pleasure?
CALLER: He did a four-week tour—lots of skiing and booze, by the sounds of it.
HOST: All right, so what’s this got to do with Kate Bennet?
CALLER: Well, on the flight over he gets a free upgrade—and guess who’s sitting there in business class?
HOST: It wasn’t Elton John, was it, Joe?
CALLER: Des, it wasn’t Elton John, no. All bundled up in a hoodie and jeans facing the window was Bomber Bennet’s daughter.
HOST: Your friend, is he normally one to spin a yarn, so to speak?
CALLER: He swears black and blue it was her.
HOST: Did your friend say who she was with?
CALLER: He didn’t, no. But they’ve got the car that was involved on CCTV, did you see that?
HOST: I certainly did.
CALLER: It’s a black Mercedes-Benz, right? Now, guess who else has a black Mercedes-Benz?
HOST: Tell us who, Joe.
CALLER: I read online that Bomber Bennet drives the exact model in the CCTV footage. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that when this CCTV image does get out, Kate Bennet will be behind the wheel.
HOST: More rumors, quite frankly, Joe.
CALLER: Well, the girl is in New Zealand, and my friend saw her on the plane one or two days after it happened. So if she’s been there for a month now, she’s either having a bloody good holiday or she’s fled the country.
HOST: The Sydney Morning Herald broke the story last week, releasing a set of images that appears to be shot in New Zealand. Although the source of the images won’t reveal exactly where in New Zealand. It’s also possible she was over there at first and has since moved on. She’s not currently wanted by police and is not listed as a missing person, so it’s all academic at this stage.
CALLER: Well, she was absolutely loopy. No one can deny that.
HOST: We can’t really speculate as to her state of mind, though, can we? She’s definitely involved in this mess with the boy, you think?
CALLER: Things are going to blow up, mark my words. This thing isn’t done.
HOST: I agree. It’s been good to speak with you, Joe. I’m looking for more information on the case. I say this with a caveat: we do not encourage any form of vigilante justice at all. On the other hand, you can be cleared of involvement in a crime and still be a person of interest, and out of respect for Bomber Bennet, I sincerely hope this is all a misunderstanding and his daughter fronts up to clear up this mess. Weather and news up after the break, then we will be talking protesters: when is it okay to use force to disband a public nuisance? Have something to say? Taking your calls shortly.
AFTER
Thirty-two
Get in the car—now.”
I hesitate.
“I’m not playing games, Evie. You want the dog to die?”
Leaving Jim with Iso, I go out through the front door to the car. Beau is lying on his side across the back seat. He doesn’t move when I approach.
I pull the passenger-side door open and get in. Beau’s tail thumps the seat twice. He lifts his head a fraction, eyes on me. He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive. I reach back and stroke his head and his tail thumps once more. He doesn’t get up, though; he seems weak, lethargic.
The door to the house opens again and Jim comes storming out. He drops into the driver’s seat, slams the door, and starts the car. He does a U-turn, the wheels skidding on the dirt, then shoots along the driveway onto the road, not even stopping to close the gate behind us. He barely slows as we turn onto the road. Beau slides along the back seat.
“Careful!” I say.
“Careful?” he echoes, taking his eyes from the road for a second. “Careful? Did you just tell me to be careful?” He slams the car into another turn; we slip again, edging across the center line. For a split second I imagine someone standing in front of us on the road.
“Slow down,” I beg. “You’re scaring me.”
“You’ve probably killed him, Kate. Do you realize that?”
For a second I’m confused as to who he’s talking about. Then I turn to look at the back seat. Beau’s eyes are half closed. “What did I do?”
“How many times have I told you to close the damn cupboard? How many?”
“What happened?”
“I came up from the shed, looking for you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought you might have done something crazy.” He screwed the heel of his hand into one eye. “I noticed the door to the cupboard beneath the sink was ajar, where Beau’s biscuits are kept. Then I found the yellow wrapper of the rat poison.”
I closed the cupboard. I’m certain I closed it. Is this another one of his tricks?
“How did you know where I was?”
“What?”
“How did you know I was down there?”
“I didn’t. I just drove around everywhere I thought you might be.”
