Call Me Evie, page 27
The window is fixed closed from the outside with two screws.
I take the pillow and press it against the wood of the window frame. Holding my breath, I draw myself back, then, with as much force as I can muster, I rock my shoulder into it. I pause a few seconds to catch my breath, then slam into the window frame once more. It hurts but this time there’s a pop. One corner of the window has come unstuck.
Breathing heavily, I turn toward the door, anticipating a shout, footsteps. But all is quiet.
One more blow and the second screw snaps loose and I hurriedly push the window open.
The fog outside is so thick I can barely see the ground. I drop my escape bag down onto the frosted grass, where it lands with a thump. Then I ease myself through the window, feeling with my toes for the ladder. I reach further, and further still, until—too late—I realize it’s no longer there. I try to pull myself back up onto the sill, clawing for purchase, but my fingers slip and I fall.
A second of flight. My body twisting through the air. Then a splintering pain. It takes all my willpower to contain the shriek as a sharp throbbing starts in my shoulder. The pain is so intense I feel like throwing up. I lift my head and am almost overwhelmed by dizziness. I can feel one of my headaches coming on as I try to stand. A shock runs up my leg when I put weight on it and each small movement is agony. I lower myself to a crawl. It’s all I can do to keep from howling.
Gritting my teeth, I pull myself across the icy grass with the escape bag on my back. When I reach the side of the house I stand on my good leg, then hop toward the shrub into which I tossed the passport. I scrabble around, grasping with my fingers. Leaves, cold hard earth, twigs . . . Finally, my hand lands on the passport. Move, Kate, move.
I shove the passport into the bag. Pushing through the pain, I stagger toward the car. The door unlocks with a thunk and I wrench it open and fall into the driver’s seat, slinging the bag onto my lap.
The car will be easy enough to drive, I assure myself. I have done it before. But with one arm? I slide the key into the ignition and start the engine. As it roars to life, I recall the last time I drove a car; I see Thom running, see his head rock back and his body become still by the roadside. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. It was Jim; he admitted it. He has been manipulating me all along, making me believe I did it.
The headlights come on automatically. The cab steams up, misting the window, and outside the fog is so dense I can barely see the house at all. I push the gearstick into reverse and step on the accelerator. The car won’t move. It just revs and revs. Go, go, go.
A light comes on inside the house. Fucking move. I press harder but still the car is stationary and he’s coming. I see his silhouette flying through the kitchen toward the front door.
The car shoots back as if of its own volition. I can’t turn the wheel fast enough with my one hand. A crunching thud and I’m thrown back hard against the seat. I press the accelerator and the wheels just spin and spin. The car is grinding against the tree. He’s coming.
I open the door and dive out. I hit the driveway and roll with my bag held against my chest. I crawl into the bushes running up beside the house as the front door is thrown open.
Peering through the foliage, I see Jim. He switches on a flashlight and stands still, scanning the driveway with the beam. I hold my breath.
“Where are you?”
He is circling the car, shining the flashlight through its windows.
Next thing I know, he has a phone to his ear. “Police . . . Hello, I’d like to report a—” He stops, starts again. “Someone—er, my daughter—has just attempted to steal my car. She’s slammed it into a tree and now she’s run off. I believe she may be armed. . . .” He’s bluffing. He said “daughter,” not “niece.” He’s not really talking to the police. He just wants me to think he is. “Maketu,” he says.
He starts walking up the driveway and I shuffle closer to the house.
“Yes, a rifle . . . Well, how long will they be? . . . No, she’s not going to hurt me—it’s her I’m worried about.”
She may be armed. The gun—I need the gun.
“All right, all right. Just please come quickly.” He goes back inside.
So, are the police coming or not? The call sounded convincing, but he might be bluffing. He hasn’t involved the New Zealand police all this time; why would he involve them now? It will only incriminate me further. I’m a killer who tried to steal her father’s car.
The cold needles into my clothes; it creeps into my flesh as I squat in the bushes, trying to decide what to do. I could run to Iso’s. I sense he was starting to believe me about Jim. He’s my only chance.
I crawl out from my hiding place, pulling myself along the grass toward the fence I threw the gun over. I reach the fence and pull myself up. Keep going, Kate. Don’t stop now.
Gripping the top and hopping with my good leg, I get up onto it. I fold myself over and balance for a second with the edge of the wooden fence digging into my waist. I let go and tip over. The hard earth rises suddenly and thumps the wind from me. I’m flat on my back, my lungs burning with each breath. I crawl to the bush, see the glint of the gun barrel. I grasp the rifle and find the small box of ammunition.
Now, with everything I need, I move in a hunched limp up the neighbor’s driveway. Each step sets off an electrical storm of pain in my body. As I reach the road I hear something behind me and below: a car starting. Is it his car? There’s the sound of metal scraping as it moves off the tree.
I stumble on as quickly as I can. When I look back, headlights blind me. I dive into the cover of the bushes lining the road. Lying there, I fumble in my pocket for the box of ammunition. Finding a bullet, I pull back the bolt on the rifle’s barrel, press it into the cavity, then slide the bolt closed. Now it’s loaded.
The car slides to a halt at the road’s edge a little way behind me. A door opens and closes. A flashlight beam plays over the foliage on either side of the asphalt. I grip the rifle with my left hand, aim it back up the road. Could I pull the trigger?
He is back in the car now, moving along the road slowly. I hold myself still, hardly daring to breathe. Adrenaline courses through me.
The car stops again, nearer now. I can hear the engine ticking as it cools. A flashlight beam leaps out into the night. I can barely contain myself; the bush seems to rattle with my body. The beam skims just above my head. A fire burns in my right shoulder as I use both hands to aim the rifle. My breath stops. I can feel warmth pooling between my thighs, down my front. If he finds me he will kill me. The stranger inside is taking control of my arms and legs. My body is running on pure instinct now, my mind merely a spectator.
The light returns, slowly moving toward me. The bush seems so thin and flimsy, the latticework of twigs too fine to conceal me. Only the fog covers me now. A calmness comes over me. The stranger is in control. My breathing steadies and the rifle becomes still, aiming up toward the light. Then I squeeze the trigger. I’m almost surprised by the explosion. The gun slams itself against my body. The barrel jerks up. No thoughts. No emotions.
The echo comes back from down across the bay. Dogs start up. One or two at first, then more and more. An animal’s hoarse breath whistles close by; I realize it is my own.
I open the bolt and thumb another bullet in. I point the gun and pull the trigger. This time the explosion is more violent, and my hands and arms are so fatigued I can barely keep hold of the gun at all.
The flashlight beam drops to the grass, where it remains. Seconds, minutes, hours, there’s no telling how long I stay there, how long I am still before I thumb one more bullet into the gun.
I shot him.
Eventually I leave the cover of the bush and move off down the road. At one stage I look up and there ahead of me is the white dog, its three-legged gait strangely graceful, lighting my path. The next time I look, it is gone.
I reach the bottom of the hill. The dawn chorus is beginning in the trees and people will soon be waking. The long night is nearly over.
By the time Iso’s house comes into view, I am nearly rigid with pain and fatigue. One arm is little more than a weight attached to my shoulder and I am dragging my bad leg. But I’m so close now. As I open the gate and stagger through, my tears flow freely. Tears of liberation? Of joy? The relief comes now like warm water on the coldest, darkest nights. Will they understand why I had to shoot him? I had no choice: it was me or him.
The security light comes on at the front door as I approach. I let the rifle rest against me, raise my good arm, and, with the last of my strength, I knock.
Forty-two
Iso is not wearing pajamas; that should have been a warning. If I had turned and looked back, I might have noticed a second car parked in the shadow of the house. He barely reacts when he sees me; there’s just a subtle shift of his eyes, and his lips part. His gaze slowly travels down my body, taking in my injuries as if following the path of a falling feather.
“Iso,” I croak.
“Jesus,” he says, stepping forward. He reaches out and prizes my fingers from the rifle. He opens the bolt, tips out the bullet, flicks the safety on, then leans it by the door.
My body quakes with fatigue and chill.
Before I can move, his hands are on me, helping me inside. “Let’s get you in beside the fire.”
“He wouldn’t let me leave,” I say. “He was going to kill me.”
“Shh,” he says. “We will get you help.”
It’s early for a fire. “He was hurting me and he kept me locked away. I had to do it, Iso.” How quickly I have slipped into the past tense, as though he is long dead.
“Hey,” he says, guiding me along the hall. “It’s okay.” Then, a little louder, he calls, “It’s her.”
It’s her. . . .
I can hear his mother murmuring in the lounge. Who is she talking to?
“We were expecting you,” Iso says.
The heat presses against me as he opens the door to the lounge. The fire is roaring. I remember the first time I was here, how they tried to make me take a bath. A hot bath. It was a bath that took so much. . . .
My mother hadn’t turned off the tap; the water just kept flowing and flowing, up her slender throat. Scarlet-tinted water. I remember how her body was suspended. Her face still damp, her eyes closed. I am my mother’s daughter and my father’s. The melancholy is hers, the rage is his. Choose either or both.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” Iso says. Kate . . . he knows my real name. Something is wrong. It punches me right in the gut. “I’m so sorry.”
Then I see why.
BEFORE
Forty-three
Fragments swam through my mind like strangers passing by in fog: turning my head and feeling the cool bite of the car window; the phone in my hand; intermittent flashes in the dark as the car sped past streetlights. Was it a dream or a memory?
Another sliver of light, a gasp of cold air as the car door opened and I stepped out into the night. Dad was there. Then I was back in the car. Dad opened the door, placed a brick on the back seat.
I fell asleep and woke again. We were back in the garage.
Where’s my phone?
Here.
The headache drilled the base of my brain, and my vision was blurred. An echo of pain in my throat, a sort of mild burn. I was still in Dad’s car. The Mercedes, not the Range Rover. My hands were trembling. No, not trembling, they were vibrating. Looking down, I saw Suzie on the screen of my phone. Thom’s mum was ringing. Why? She hated me. I didn’t answer the call. Something wasn’t right and I needed to figure it out but my mind felt sluggish.
The call rang out, then, almost at once, began to ring again.
I heard the door to the house open; Dad was coming back into the garage. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. I cracked them open enough to watch him. The car door opened, then closed. I saw him again as he passed across the windscreen. He was holding something in his hand: it was the red brick. Then the lights went out in the garage and the door closed. He left me sitting there.
AFTER
Forty-four
Kate.” That voice. The man who now hurries toward me is Jim.
“No, no, no, no—”
“Shhh.”
I shrink away but he grabs me, pulls me into a hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs. It feels like a white-hot blade sliding into my shoulder.
“I’m so glad you’re okay. Jesus, you had me worried.” He releases me and I stumble back until I hit something firm. I collapse against the wall and slide to the floor.
Jim squats down beside me, touches my face gently. “I explained it all, Kate. They know who you are and what has happened to you. They know about Thom.” He looks deep into my eyes. “You’re not a killer.”
I know—you are the killer.
“No,” I say, so quietly that I wonder if anyone hears it at all. “No, please don’t, please.”
“Every day I think about what I could have done differently. It’s only now that I realize it’s out of my hands. You pretend it never happened. You stopped taking your medication. You disappear into the night. You almost kidnapped a girl.”
“He’s lying,” I say. “He’s lying!”
“You refused to acknowledge what happened. The media, that city where everyone wanted to know your secrets, it was too confronting for you. I thought I could take you away to a place where I could control everything. I wanted to help by slowly reminding you, slowly drawing out your memories of that night . . . but I failed. You fired a gun at me. You tried to kill me, your own father.” He exhales. Eyes weary behind his glasses. He is still disguising himself, even now. I watch his tongue run over his cracked lips. He’s playing to the audience.
“Lies!” I yell. “You killed him, you admitted it.”
He turns to Iso’s mother and shrugs as if to say, I told you so. She stands with her arms crossed, those dull eyes sad.
“Kate, you shot at me. Can you imagine what that is like—after all I’ve done to protect you, that you should turn on me?”
“He’s lying to you,” I say. “He’s lying, he’s lying, he’s lying.” I realize I’m screaming but I can’t stop. The look on Iso’s face is one of deep sorrow, but I realize the sorrow is not for me—it’s for him. Jim has won.
I scramble to my feet and try to run, but my leg collapses beneath me. I scream even louder. Iso and Jim both rush forward to restrain me.
“I should call an ambulance,” Iso says.
“No,” Jim says. “It’ll take too long. I’ll drive her straight to the hospital now.”
“Should I come along?”
“I’ll be okay,” Jim says. “Thank you both for your help. I’ll let you know how she goes.”
Iso’s gaze lingers on Jim’s face. “All right, let me help you get her to the car, at least.”
Donna steps forward, her eyes on me. “God gives us what we can handle, doll.” With her warm, forgiving smile I think she could be anyone’s mum. She could very well be my own.
Jim and Iso help me up. I am limp, delirious with pain and fatigue.
“Iso,” I say, my voice ugly and desperate. “Iso, please. You don’t understand. Are you in on it? Did you know Thom, is that it? You knew him, didn’t you?”
Iso adjusts his grip, taking me by the elbow of my right arm, and the pain cuts through my mind. As I open my mouth to scream, darkness swallows me.
Rocking. Explosions of pain. The sound of the engine.
I blink, try to raise my hand but I can’t.
Straps run across my body; I’m in the back seat of the car and my hands are cable-tied.
“You’re awake,” he says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “If only you had listened to me, none of this would have been necessary. Our last weeks together as a family could have been a happy time.” His expression has changed; no longer earnest and open, but himself again, controlling and manipulative.
“It’s my own fault, I suppose.” He clears his throat. “I thought we’d got away with it, but the noose kept tightening and tightening, and at the end of the day it was either me or you.”
The pain is back, fireworks exploding all over my body. My shoulder is numb and I only notice the ice strapped to it when it crackles against the seat belt. I don’t recognize the places passing by outside the window.
“Where are we?”
“We’re on our way to your new home, Kate. A place where you won’t be able to do any more damage, not to anyone else’s life and not to your own.” He continues, “The smallest lie can protect you from the harshest truths. We own our memories, Kate. We can change them and move on.”
“You killed him.”
“I had to.”
“Why? Why drag us here?”
“When you became unstable, you could have said anything to anyone. You didn’t remember how it happened. You’re not right in the head. You began to get closer and closer to the truth, but the truth can be white-hot, and when you touched it, you retracted into yourself again.” He takes a breath. “I thought that you were the only one who could give me away. All it would have taken was a slip of the tongue.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Kate, everything I have done has been to protect you. Everything. I couldn’t sleep with worry. I couldn’t look away from the cameras and the GPS. We were so close to escape. But then someone who’d been away on a cruise when it happened returned to the shit storm and offered up their CCTV footage, which looked out from their front door to the street. There are images of the Mercedes. It contradicted the statements we gave to the police, that we were both at home together. All of a sudden, the police began to piece it together. They saw you driving toward Thom’s house.”
