Apartment 303, page 11
Ron had told Lucinda he hoped the man’s attitude would improve a bit as he settled in, that he’d become a little more ‘Panorama’. He was satisfied that Blayde had made a one-off error when he didn’t reset the security cameras. And Blayde was adamant he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
I’m not so sure.
But that’s not the only thing that’s bugging me. Everything is sliding backwards. The nightmare has returned. The voice is a pain in the arse. I can’t concentrate on work. I haven’t walked Buster. My routine has gone to shit. And I’m now one hundred per cent sure that I’ll never leave here. Never have a normal life.
‘I’ve got an idea.’ Farrah is jittery with suppressed excitement, her voice higher than usual.
‘Oh?’ My stomach flutters. I’m not sure I’m going to like this.
‘You know what we should do?’ She throws the rope toy a couple of metres away and Buster bounds after it.
‘What?’
‘Go to the hotel.’ She emphasises the words with her hands.
‘What hotel?’
‘The one where the video of your dad was taken. Or Justin Bailey, or whoever he is. There might be a clue there.’ Buster shoves the toy at Farrah’s arm and she grasps it absentmindedly, letting Buster growl and tug at it as she watches to see my reaction.
‘I don’t know about that, Farrah. I don’t like leaving the apartment unless I have to. And what do you think we would discover, anyway? He’ll probably be long gone by now.’
‘Maybe someone there will remember him. Maybe —’
There’s another knock on the door. This one must be Simon. It is measured and unthreatening.
‘Do you want me to . . .?’ Farrah asks, jumping up, letting go of the rope toy.
‘No, I’ll get it.’
Through the peephole, Simon stands back so I can clearly see it’s him. He’s in jeans and a sky-blue t-shirt.
‘Hi Rory. We missed our early morning catch-up, and I, uh, wanted to see how you are.’
‘Looks like it’s the day for that.’
His t-shirt has two bags of ice and a cartoon baby on it. Ice Ice Baby. The pun makes me happy. Plus, I love that song.
‘Oh, I ordered a pizza from Rosina’s last night. Mushroom. It was amazing. Thanks for the tip.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I open my mouth to invite him in when Farrah calls out. ‘Hi Simon. Come in. I’ve got a plan to track down Rory’s dad.’
Simon lifts his eyebrows at me and I give an exasperated shake of my head.
‘Farrah is a little overexcited this morning.’
I lock the door and follow Simon in, talking to Farrah as I walk. ‘I can’t jump in an Uber and head over there, Farrah. I don’t work that way, remember? And anyway, I’m not convinced I want to track him down.’
Farrah frowns from where she stands at the bench, mugs in front of her. The kettle is rumbling. Buster has given up and chews his toy in the living room. I fight the urge to bundle Farrah out of the kitchen and make the tea myself.
‘Don’t you want to know for sure? How can you live not knowing?’
‘Lucinda looked into it, and she says that the man I saw on the video is definitely Justin Bailey.’
‘Well, if that’s true, who was in your apartment? And what’s to stop them from coming back?’
A prickle runs down my spine. I open and close my mouth.
‘Are you alright, Rory?’ Simon asks.
‘I think my dad was across the street again last night.’
‘What?’ Farrah exclaims. She almost pours boiling water on her hand in her excitement. I fill them in.
‘So you couldn’t tell for certain if it was him?’ Simon asks.
‘It had to be!’ Farrah says, wiping the water she spilt with a tea towel.
‘Not for certain, no.’
‘We definitely have to go to the hotel now,’ Farrah says, undeterred. ‘He might still be there!’
Simon frowns. ‘If it was him I don’t think he’d be that brazen – or stupid.’
‘I have to tell you something,’ I interrupt them, facing Simon. My words come fast, before I can change my mind. ‘I don’t only have PTSD. I have OCD. Actual OCD, tapping, counting, inappropriate thoughts, all of it.’
I don’t know why I’m telling him this now.
‘Oh Rory, I’m sorry to hear that.’ He walks over and stands in front of me. I think for a moment he might hug me and I tense but he doesn’t reach out. ‘I’m sorry, I should have been more sensitive when we met. If I hadn’t been my usual bulldozering self, maybe I would have noticed.’ He lets out a breath. ‘My sister had depression. I know how hard mental illness can be.’
‘Had?’
‘Yes, she died.’ He sees the look on my face. ‘Not from depression.’ His eyes cloud over. ‘I did two years of medical school – I don’t think I told you that – but we learned a bit about mental illness during the first few semesters, too.’
‘Medical school?’ Farrah tilts her head to the side and looks at him. ‘What happened?’
‘It wasn’t for me. It’s a long story.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Farrah says, standing up straighter. ‘You were a medical student, and now you’re a concert pianist?’
‘A clarinettist in an orchestra, actually, but kind of.’ He takes in her raised eyebrows and sighs. ‘Let’s say I’ve got a few obsessive traits of my own. I’m a workaholic, for starters. Or I was. It’s mostly under control now. But it affected my relationships. Not in a good way.’
Farrah laughs. She points to me.
‘So, you’re OCD, PTSD. Basically, all the Ds.’ She swivels to Simon. ‘You’re a workaholic.’ She gestures to herself. ‘And I’m a kleptomaniac.’
‘What?’ Simon asks, obviously surprised.
‘Ah, that’s not important now.’ She waves him away. ‘It’s funny, that’s all. We’re a bunch of misfits, aren’t we? Like that old movie, The Breakfast Club. That’s one of Mum’s favourites. I’ve seen it heaps. I heart Judd Nelson.’
‘I love that movie,’ I murmur.
‘Me too,’ says Simon.
The three of us smile at one another.
It’s Simon who breaks the silence. ‘OK. Look, I’m not saying I’m in favour of this plan, but I’ll put it out there that I hired a car yesterday. I have it for the next three months. I’ve been planning on seeing a few things outside the city on my days off, trying to kick the whole workaholic thing, once and for all. Maybe going to the Hunter Valley or the Blue Mountains. But if you want a car, it’s at your disposal. I mean, I’ll take you.’
Farrah puts the carton of milk she was about to pour into the mugs on the bench and gives me a look.
My mother wouldn’t have gone. She’d have stayed home and let Lucinda do her dirty work. Like she always did.
‘Yes,’ I say, surprising myself. ‘Why not?’
So much for staying in the apartment. For being safe. But I’m not safe as long as my dad is out there, and despite Lucinda’s assurances, I’m sure he is out there.
‘Let’s do it. Now, before I change my mind.’
*
Simon’s rental car is parked in the Panorama’s underground car park.
We take the stairs, but when we reach the ground floor, instead of continuing down, Simon pushes open the door and we come out into the corridor that leads back to the lobby. Both the pool and gym are reached from here.
‘I thought we might have a quick look around the pool area, if that’s alright with you? I still haven’t seen it. It’s down this way somewhere, isn’t it?’ My heart pounds and I lean against the brick wall. Simon must see something in my face. ‘What? What’s wrong, Rory?’
‘Chlorine,’ I say in a tight voice, my stomach clenching. ‘It’s another trigger for me. I’ve never been near the pool.’
‘Oh God. I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it. We’ll get going . . .’ He starts to go back towards the fire stairs.
‘No, no. You go and have a look. Really. You just follow that corridor.’ I wave a hand. ‘I know where it is. I’ve seen pictures.’ I try to smile. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll wait here for you.’ He looks unsure. ‘Seriously. I’ll feel bad if you don’t, now.’
‘OK. If you’re sure. I won’t be long.’ Simon moves off and I lean my back against the rough brick wall. I don’t tell him I tried to go in there once. Just once. Not long after we moved in. This was back when I decided I could beat my OCD if only I wanted it badly enough.
Needless to say, it didn’t end well. Ian found me passed out just inside the doorway.
Simon returns after a couple of minutes. ‘It’s nice. Nothing too flash though. You aren’t missing much.’
Just a few seconds in the pool room was enough to imbue Simon with the faint smell of chlorine. I moan involuntarily, hit by a wave of memories. The rhythm of my arms scything through the water, the muffled quiet. Silence. Peace.
Blood.
‘Oh God. I stink of it, don’t I?’ Simon asks in concern. He backs off, flapping his arms. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No, it’s not too bad,’ I manage. Now that he’s moved away it’s a little better. ‘You go ahead. By the time you get down to the car park I’ll be fine and the smell will be gone. I’ll follow in a few minutes.’
‘OK, sure,’ he says miserably, slipping past me as I hold my breath.
I find a mint in my bag and suck on it as I count the bricks on the section of the wall opposite. Finally, I feel capable of walking and I straighten up, entering the stairwell and descending another two flights of stairs to the car park.
I haven’t been down here for months, though it hasn’t changed. Large expensive four-wheel drives and small expensive sports car are squeezed into tiny spaces. I spot Simon at the far end of the lot. He waves and I smile. When I reach him I start talking before he can return to the subject of my triggers.
‘Farrah wasn’t happy about being left behind.’
He seems to understand I don’t want to talk about what happened in the corridor.
‘No, she wasn’t. She knew we couldn’t take her, though. She’s fourteen. I’d have to get permission from her parents.’
She’d argued at first, then seen the futility of it. I’d asked her to look after Buster instead, deciding it was better not to take him if we wanted to remain low-key, and we’d promised to fill her in when we returned.
Part of me is pleased to leave Farrah behind, to spend some time alone with Simon. Another part of me is terrified.
‘This is it.’ We stop at a comically small car that is a bright, shiny blue.
‘Seriously?’ I raise my eyebrows at Simon. ‘I hope we don’t have to go incognito.’
‘I know. Blue was all they had, and I do like small cars. I’m not much of a driver. I’m spectacularly bad at parallel parking, so the smaller the better.’ He presses a button on his keys and the car beeps. I walk around to the passenger side, squeezing past a giant black Range Rover.
‘Spectacularly bad? I don’t know all that many men, but I’m pretty sure you’re in the minority admitting that.’
‘Probably.’ He grins as he slides into the driver’s seat. ‘Only a very manly man would be brave enough to admit it, though, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sure,’ I agree, smiling.
Despite Simon’s lack of confidence in his driving skills, he seems OK at it. He’s slow and cautious, and that’s not so different from Bert. The radio is tuned to a classical FM station, the type I always skipped past as a child, declaring it boring or ancient. The song that’s playing as we merge into the traffic is low and mellow.
The hotel is in Chatswood, which means crossing Sydney Harbour. I manage to navigate us through the Harbour Tunnel and onto the highway without Simon needing to make too many sudden lane changes.
‘Did I see some bird books at your place? And binoculars?’ Simon asks, making conversation.
‘Yes, I like bird-watching. But I’m not a – what do you call them – twitchers? I’m not a twitcher. There’s just something about birds, you know? And it’s something I can do from my apartment.
‘I saw a Powerful Owl on the night Slouchy Ricky Gervais was killed,’ I continue after a pause. I glance at him. ‘I googled owls afterwards. In North America an owl is considered a bad omen. A sign of death, apparently.’
‘Really?’ He glances across at me. ‘You don’t believe that, though, do you?’
I sigh. ‘No, probably not. It’s just weird, don’t you reckon?’
‘Other people, no doubt, say owls represent wisdom or knowledge or something. Didn’t Minerva have an owl . . .? Perhaps it was a good sign.’
I don’t respond.
He changes tack. ‘Do you seriously think your dad had something to do with that man’s death, Rory? Shouldn’t you tell the police?’
‘Maybe.’ I peer out the window, cars zooming past us even on the inside. ‘When they interviewed me about it I got the impression that they thought I was crazy. If Lucinda doesn’t believe me – why would they?’
Simon is silent as he indicates, then changes lanes.
‘Things like that – murders – never seem to happen in Auckland. At least not where I lived. It sounds ghoulish to admit this, but someone being murdered across the street makes me feel like I’m living in a real city. Did you know him?’
‘Not to talk to, obviously. I feel I knew him, a little. From watching them all.’
‘The Dossers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like you watch the birds.’
‘Kind of.’
It hits me again that the homeless men have more in common with the birds than I do.
*
The music halts and the announcer begins talking in a monotone. I peer out the window and meet the gaze of a child watching me from a bus. Seconds later she looks away, restlessly pointing at cars and buildings and chattering to her mother, who’s glued to her phone, nodding to her daughter without turning her head.
‘It was my fault,’ I say in a low voice. ‘That man’s death. I had bad thoughts. Not about him, about Buster. That’s why he died. Because of me.’
On the bus, the child is now staring at an iPad, her mouth slack.
‘I understand that it feels like that. That’s the OCD talking. But it’s not your fault, Rory.’ Simon’s voice is gentle. ‘Your thoughts can’t actually hurt someone.’
‘Yes, objectively you’re right. Of course, I know that. Yet I also know – I know – that it was my fault.’ I give a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘Anyway, it might have been my dad. Does that make it my fault?’
‘No,’ Simon says firmly. ‘What would your father’s motivation have been? Why would he kill a random homeless man?’
I shrug. ‘He’s a bad person. Besides, when the homeless man lives right outside my apartment, then it’s not random, is it?’
*
The hotel is near a shopping centre, so Simon parks in the multi-storey car park attached to it instead of attempting a spectacularly terrible parallel park.
The idea of walking through a mall full of people and smells and noises and bright lights fills me with apprehension, but there are fire stairs leading to the street we can use instead.
We sit in the car for a moment as I psyche myself up. When I go to open the door, Simon places his hand on my forearm. I can’t remember the last time a man touched me, and I hold the feeling deep in my chest to remember later.
‘Rory, wait a sec.’ His sandy eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes on mine. ‘I want to tell you something first. You know how I said my sister had depression? Well, the depression was just a part of it. Ruth had ADHD and anxiety too. She really struggled with it. I want you to know I really do understand what you’re going through.’
Simon looks like he might continue, then stops.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
He smiles at me. ‘No problem. I just . . . I get that life isn’t always easy. Sometimes it sucks.’
A laugh – almost a sob – escapes me. ‘I hope this isn’t meant to cheer me up.’
‘It’s not. It’s just to let you know that we all have shit in our lives. All of us.’ The corner of his mouth lifts. ‘Misery loves company, hey?’
I nod, a lump in my throat.
‘OK. Let’s go find your father.’
*
‘How are you going?’ Simon asks as we pause on a busy footpath in front of a shoe store, its walls lined with hundreds of single sneakers, rap music blaring.
‘I’m fine.’ My jaw is clenched. The air smells of waffles and perfume, and people jostle past.
‘Only a block to go. Hold my arm.’
I have an overpowering urge to return to the car, but I shake it off, putting my hand on Simon’s forearm. I half close my eyes and count back from 505 by nines. Simon’s arm is warm under my hand and he speaks in a low tone, telling me what we’re passing as we go. It helps.
‘Here we are.’
As we enter the hotel, I open my eyes again. It feels like watching the video footage, except from a slightly higher angle. The small lobby is all shiny surfaces, the smell is of hand sanitiser. Simon leads me to the tall front desk where a tiny dark-haired woman in a navy uniform peeks over the top, tapping on a keyboard that’s out of sight.
‘Can I help you?’ She smiles distractedly, not taking her eyes from the screen.
‘I hope so.’ Simon returns her smile and is rewarded with her full attention. ‘I have a question about one of your guests.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t divulge details about our guests,’ she says, her smile fading.
‘His name is Justin Bailey,’ I say, then add, ‘or maybe Eddie Reynolds.’
‘Again, I’m sorry. I can’t tell you about our guests.’
You could reach over the counter and grab her by her stupid throat, the voice says. See if that jogs her memory.
‘We should go,’ I murmur as sweat blooms across my chest.
