Apartment 303, page 18
‘Hey, don’t underestimate us fourteen-year-olds. I managed to steal it, didn’t I?’
I snort.
‘Let me try. If it’s too hard I’ll come back and we’ll do it together.’
I want to say, No, I’ll do it, I’m the adult. But I’m scared. I give a short nod.
Farrah puts the phone back in the tote bag and leaves. I finally get dressed, then bite my nails for the fifteen minutes she’s gone. I’m peering through the peephole when the lift opens and I wrench the door open before she can knock.
‘Yes?’
She grins. ‘I did it.’ I lean a hand against the wall, my legs weak. ‘I started telling him this long story about the ferry race I watched down at the harbour yesterday for Australia Day and his eyes glazed over. He got fidgety after like, five minutes. Tried to hint for me to leave. But I kept on talking until he excused himself to go to the bathroom. He even asked if I could watch the desk while he was in there. Very unprofessional.’
She shakes her head, grinning.
‘So I shoved it back and then bolted when he came back from the loo. I’ve never seen a man so happy to see the back of me. Except perhaps Mr Howlett, my science teacher. He can’t stand my chatter, either.’
‘God, Farrah. You scared me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You don’t know anything about Blayde.’ I sound as severe as a schoolteacher myself. ‘And most people don’t take too kindly to having their stuff stolen, you know. It’s a habit you should try to break.’
‘I know. I don’t know why I do it.’ She shuffles on the spot. ‘Look, I’d better go. Mum’s taking me to get a haircut, or as she says, to “pay someone to tame the wild beast”.’
‘OK. Please don’t do anything so silly again, Farrah.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And don’t get a mullet.’
She grins. ‘I can’t promise anything.’
As I start to shut the door, she stops me, her expression grave again. ‘Rory. Why do you think Blayde has three phones?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, ‘but I can’t think of any reason that isn’t dodgy as hell.’
*
After Farrah leaves I open the parcels, starting with the pet tracker.
I’m surprised at how easy it is to use. The tags are lightweight, each one a different colour with a plastic clip that fastens around the dog’s or cat’s collar. I charge the first tag while I download the app onto my phone and familiarise myself with the features. Once the first tag is charged I replace it with another, then put the first in my pocket and walk figure eights and laps of the apartment. I’m amazed at how accurately it shows my path on the app and how I can look back along the path to see where I was at any given time. I’m very happy with the pet tracking system.
Next, I open the boxes with the spy cameras in them. Most of what I’ve bought I don’t currently have a use for, so I put those cameras aside. The slim one I’d planned to hide amongst the peace lily leaves is the perfect size, so I sync it with another downloaded app and ensure it is fully charged. I turn it on and aim it at my kitchen, press ‘record’, then a few minutes later I watch footage of myself unpacking the dishwasher. It’s as clear as I’d hoped.
I take the camera and my phone and walk down the hallway to the front door. When I’m sure no one is outside in the corridor I dart across to place the camera in the peace lily, then retreat inside. Onscreen, I see half of my front door and a large expanse of the flocked wallpaper, so I duck back outside and adjust it, moving the camera a little to the left.
I check again.
Perfect.
I stare closely at the pot plant. The camera is well hidden. Unless you were searching for it, you’d never know it was there.
As a final test, I close the app and wait five minutes until the camera turns itself off. I leave my phone on the table then walk into the kitchen and remove the liner filled with rubbish from my bin. I tie it off and go out into the hallway, throwing the rubbish down the garbage chute then returning to my front door, using my key to unlock it before entering.
On the table I can see my phone’s home screen is lit up. A notification tells me the camera has been activated. I sit at the kitchen table and open the app. I replay the footage, watching myself appear onscreen, move out of sight, then return thirty seconds later.
The picture is clear.
If anyone comes to my door, I’ll be ready.
12.19 pm
Saturday, 28th January
My phone buzzes with a notification from my spy camera as Farrah knocks on the door. I see onscreen that she’s holding a foil-covered plate. I flip the phone over and leave it on the table as I rise to let her in.
‘I brought you lunch!’ she announces when I open the door. ‘Mum’s pastitsio. Even when she’s on a diet she doesn’t mess with the pastitsio recipe, so it’s good, not “healthy”. Want some?’
‘Sure. Thank you.’
She comes through into the living room, her eyes drawn to the pile of paper cranes on the coffee table. I’d made them early this morning, after I woke up to the absence of Buster.
‘What’s all this?’ she asks.
‘Paper cranes,’ I admit. ‘Folding them helps me empty my mind.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ she says, walking over and picking one up. ‘So tiny.’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty good at them now,’ I say, failing to keep the bitterness from my voice. I start pushing the cranes into a drawer, but Farrah picks one up and examines it.
‘Can I keep it?’
I shrug and she puts it in her tote bag. ‘Let’s eat!’
We’re halfway through – and it is as good as promised – when Lucinda knocks then uses her key to enter.
‘Does she always let herself in?’ Farrah asks, frowning, as my phone buzzes. The camera has been working well. This morning I watched Simon walk past on his way to the lifts, and an hour later Mike took out his rubbish.
I don’t answer Farrah as my aunt is already here. She’s wearing her linen pants ensemble and holds a plastic bag in one hand. She stops in her tracks when she sees Farrah and me at the kitchen table. ‘Hi Rory. Farrah. It looks like I’m too late. I brought sushi.’
I put down my fork. ‘Oh, wow, thanks Luce. Yeah, sorry, we’ve had leftovers.’
‘Sushi would have been awesome. More for you, I guess,’ Farrah says. ‘Want some pastitsio? Mum made it.’
Lucinda walks over to the kitchen and puts the sushi on the bench. ‘Thanks Farrah, but I’ll have the sushi.’ She addresses me. ‘I’ll leave the rest for your dinner.’ She puts some in the fridge and sits at the table with a sashimi box. ‘What are you two up to?’
I shrug. ‘Not much.’
‘I was about to ask Rory if she’d like to come outside for a walk with me. It’s such a lovely day.’ Farrah looks at me questioningly. ‘I think she’s up to it.’
‘I’m not.’ I respond before Lucinda can. ‘Sorry, Farrah, not today.’
‘Maybe you just need to try.’
‘I have tried. I was out on Thursday with Simon.’
‘You were?’ Lucinda pauses with her chopsticks in the air. ‘You went out?’
Shit. I haven’t told her about Brian yet.
‘Simon and I went to Enmore. We met with Brian – your brother Brian.’
Her head jerks back. ‘You did?’
‘I hoped he might know where to find Dad.’
‘You’ve been busy.’ I can’t tell if Lucinda is annoyed or admiring.
‘I have to find Dad.’
She adds a chunk of bright green wasabi to a piece of raw tuna as she asks, ‘Did Brian know anything about Eddie?’
‘No.’
Lucinda chews the tuna, then puts her chopsticks down. She doesn’t ask how Brian is but I tell her anyway. ‘He’s doing well. He’s successful and seems happy. He asked after you.’
‘Really?’ Lucinda opens her mouth and I think she might ask me more about her brother, but then she closes it and concentrates on her sashimi.
‘I think it’s great that you went out,’ Farrah chimes in. She’s finished her food and pushes her plate away. ‘Soon we’ll be going over to the shops together, buying matching crop tops and low-rise jeans,’ she jokes. ‘Ooh – you can take me up to the Cross for a cocktail.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘I don’t think so, Farrah.’
‘With some makeup I’d pass for eighteen, don’t you think, Lucinda?’
‘Oh definitely,’ Lucinda agrees, her voice dry. She turns to me. ‘Do you think going to see Brian was the best idea, Rory? What if you’d had an episode?’
‘An episode?’ Farrah frowns, looking between us. My phone buzzes. I look at the screen. A missed call from an unfamiliar number.
‘Rory?’ Farrah asks.
I put the phone down.
‘She passed out a few times when she was younger,’ Lucinda says, not taking her eyes from me.
‘That was because of my triggers.’
‘You still have those triggers, Rory,’ Lucinda points out.
‘Triggers, schmiggers. Just take me with you when you go out,’ Farrah says. ‘My cousin, Elena, she was always fainting. Low blood pressure. I’d lay her on her back, raise her feet, loosen her clothes. I’m a natural carer. I’d be a great paramedic. I’m very calm under pressure.’
I’m grateful to Farrah for lightening the mood. ‘It’s one of your many skills.’
‘Yes! Totally. You know it, Rory.’
‘It was fine, Luce. Simon took me.’ I push my plate aside. ‘You know what else Brian said, Lucinda?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘He said you were a sweetheart. He called you “shy”.’
‘Right.’
‘No, he did. And he told me how your brothers locked you in the shed.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, they were complete and utter dicks. But I survived.’
My phone buzzes again. It’s the same number. Alex. I slip it into my pocket.
‘Someone calling you?’ Lucinda asks, seeing my face.
‘Just telemarketers, probably.’
‘Well, I’m off,’ Farrah says, taking our plates to the kitchen. ‘Mum and I are seeing a movie. Some arty one, unfortunately, but maybe that means there’ll be a bit of nudity.’ She grins. ‘Then home for a thrilling Saturday night of watching paint dry.’
I quickly wash her mother’s plate and dry it.
‘Think about what I said Rory, won’t you? We could go for a walk, you know. I really believe that. Just like I believe Buster will be home soon.’
‘Yes,’ Lucinda chimes in. ‘We’ll find Buster, I’m sure of it. Your life will be back to normal in no time.’
‘Better than normal,’ Farrah says, as I hand her the plate. ‘I foresee that you will be spending this Christmas on a disco harbour cruise. Or on holiday in Chile!’ She smiles at my aunt, looking so young and innocent. ‘I’m very stubborn, Lucinda. I will get your niece outside, one way or another. Once I get something in my head, I don’t let it go.’
‘I can see that.’ Again, Lucinda speaks dryly. I see Farrah to the door. When I return Lucinda is putting her sushi container in the recycling bin.
‘The optimism of youth, hey Luce?’
Lucinda smiles. ‘The young are admirably hopeful. Look, I’d better go. Bert has texted to say he’s here. He’s meeting friends at the yacht club later and I’m seeing Alex. Oh, Alex says hi, by the way.’
Should I mention Alex’s call? Or now, calls, plural?
Maybe not. I remember the way Lucinda looked at me on the day of the barbecue. The suspicion in her eyes. Better not.
As Lucinda waits for the lift I watch the peace lily, pleased to see the camera is invisible. No flashing light, no lens poking out from the greenery.
After she’s gone, I check my phone, which had buzzed several more times. Yep. Alex.
You should tell Lucinda he’s hitting on you, the voice says. She’ll dump the prick then.
He’s not hitting on me, I tell the voice, though I’m not sure if that’s true. My experience with men is so limited, I don’t know what to think. Is he merely being nice? He said he wanted to help me.
I latch the door so it can’t be opened from the outside, spend ten minutes linking to the spy camera over the wi-fi on my laptop so I can check it from there, then I switch my phone off. I’ll worry about Alex later.
*
‘Rory!’
That night I’m sitting on my bed researching the feeding habits of the Powerful Owl when I hear Ron’s yell. My computer dings as he pounds on my door. It’s after nine.
‘Ron. What is it?’ He’s puffing hard. ‘Why didn’t you call?’
He puts his hands on his knees and wheezes. ‘It’s Farrah . . . I know you two are friends. I wanted to let you know she’s gone to hospital.’
My blood turns to ice in my veins.
‘What? What happened?’
‘They found her unconscious on the roof. Looks like she’s hit her head. I’m not sure of all the details. The ambulance left a couple of minutes ago. I’ve been trying to call you. The lift’s busy handling the police and paramedics so I used the stairs.’
Oh God. What the fuck?
‘I turned my phone off,’ I say, feeling numb. I go back inside and fetch it, noticing as I do the blue lights at the front of the building.
The police.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I switch my phone on as I return to Ron, who’s still breathing heavily. He needs to cut down on the Monte Carlos or take the stairs more often.
‘Did she fall?’
‘We don’t know what happened. Her parents went with her to hospital. I guess the police will talk to her when she regains consciousness.’
‘I have to go see her.’ I duck around Ron and knock on Simon’s door. He walked past my camera on his way home from the Opera House an hour ago, the backpack he always takes to work slung over one shoulder, so I know he’s home. ‘Simon!’
He emerges, still dressed in black pants and a white shirt from his performance earlier that day, his tie removed. ‘Farrah’s been hurt.’ I explain what happened.
‘Shit,’ Simon says, shaking his head. ‘The poor kid.’
‘She didn’t look good,’ says Ron with a tremor in his voice. I’d forgotten he was there. My head spins, my legs are weak. Simon holds out his hand and I grasp it like a lifeline.
‘What hospital is she in?’ Simon asks.
Ron gives us the details and address. I go to check the route on my phone and see I have eight more missed calls. I frown, turning to face Simon. ‘Will you take me there?’
‘Of course. Let’s go.’
*
The smell is what I remember most. That institutional smell. Cleaning products and horrible food. I have almost as visceral a reaction to the smell of the hospital as I do to cigarette smoke or chlorine.
Left, right, left. Breathe.
I falter as the lift from the overpriced car park arrives in the lobby, but Simon’s presence at my elbow and my worry about Farrah propel me forward.
We stand in line at the information desk behind a white-haired old lady who is so pale and fragile I fear she might be in shock.
Simon looks at me sideways. ‘Are you OK, Rory? Can you do this?’ he asks in a quiet voice.
I want to vomit. I want to go home.
You should. The voice is nasty. You can’t help her.
‘Yes. I have to. This is my fault.’
‘It’s not – You think it was your father?’
‘Yes. Of course it was.’
Finally the old lady is led away by an orderly. Her blank gaze would normally make me ache for her, but tonight my mind is filled with Farrah.
‘I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over for today,’ says the matter-of-fact middle-aged woman on duty. Her mouth is pinched, her lipstick faded so that only her dark lip liner remains visible. ‘You’ll have to come back at ten tomorrow.’
‘Please,’ I say, my voice breaking on the word. ‘A friend of ours – a child – came here in an ambulance earlier. She was unconscious. I need to know if she’s alright.’
The woman’s demeanour softens. ‘You won’t be able to see her tonight, but I can make a call to ICU. What’s her name?’
I tell her what I know and she writes it on a notepad, moving to a phone near the back wall to make some calls, speaking so quietly I can’t hear her. Several minutes later she returns.
‘OK.’ She gives me a tired smile. ‘Young Farrah is out of ICU already, and is on her way to the wards, which is a very good sign. She’ll be ready for visitors tomorrow. Come back between ten and two and someone will give you her room details.’
As we return to the car park I check the missed calls on my phone. One was from Farrah, two were from Ron. The other five were from Alex.
Something flutters around inside my chest. Why does he keep calling me?
I remember how close he stood that day at the barbecue. His whispered words. Is he just worried about me, or is it more than that?
And does Lucinda know he’s calling me?
With trembling fingers, I block his number.
10.21 am
Sunday, 29th January
Farrah’s been allocated a bed on a ward, a different woman tells me the next morning. She gives us directions. We take a lift then traverse several long, poorly signposted hallways, getting lost twice.
Finally, a kind-hearted nurse leads us to a private room identical to every other one on the ward. Farrah’s parents are seated on either side of her bed.
‘Rory!’ Farrah exclaims, a shadow of her normal self. She looks even younger than fourteen in her white gown in the hospital bed. Her head is bandaged, her frizzy hair sticking out the bottom of it. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
Farrah’s mother walks around to greet me. She’s in her early forties, with short dark hair and lively eyes. She gives me a worried smile then draws me into a hug.
‘Rory, hi. I’m Thea Fotos. And this is John.’ Farrah’s dad nods a serious smile my way but doesn’t speak or move. He has frizzy hair like his daughter, collar-length and receding at the front. With his thick glasses he looks every inch the anthropologist he is.
