Apartment 303, page 21
‘Yes. She’s amazing. I’m a lucky man.’ He leans in, serious. ‘What should I do? How can I break through the barriers Lucinda has put up? I want to connect with her on a deeper level. I mean, I’ve read books about it, I’ve studied it, so I know what I should do. But do you have any insights, Rory? As her niece? She adores you.’
I shift in my seat. He’s too close, again. I avert my eyes. ‘Ah. Not really. I would just give her some space. Don’t go too hard too fast, Alex.’
He smiles. ‘I’m not good at standing back.’
No, you aren’t. I bite back the words.
‘But I’ll try.’
*
Farrah has come over to watch MasterChef.
Strictly for an hour, her mother said, which is annoying as MasterChef always runs late. Mind you, after seeing Alex earlier and with everything else that’s been going on it’s hard to distract myself with television. After he left I opened the windows to clear the aftershave smell, then dusted each book on the lower shelves of my bookcase one by one until my thoughts had calmed. It’s a relief to have Farrah here to distract me.
I’ve put out antipasto. A tomato and bocconcini salad, some prosciutto on sourdough. Farrah’s appetite is back, though she’s brought Cheezels and seems to prefer them to what I’ve laid out. I’m happy to see her with more colour in her face.
I fill Farrah in on Alex’s visit and about how much money my grandparents’ estate was worth. She asks a gazillion questions, seemingly unfazed by the drama that’s been going on lately, which worries me, given that it almost caused her death two days earlier. Farrah is far more resilient than I was at her age.
‘Five million dollars! That’s like winning the lottery.’
‘It would have been nice.’ I smile. ‘Might have changed our lives.’
‘Shit yes!’ She puts a Cheezel onto the prosciutto and sourdough and puts the whole lot in her mouth. I make a face. ‘What was it like living somewhere so far away from everything? When did you leave?’
‘God, you sound like such a Sydney snob right now,’ I tease. ‘I was seventeen when we left. We rented in Chatswood until Lucinda bought a house in Warrawee. This was before she built her current place, after the PI agency started to do well. And I moved into the Panorama when I was nineteen.’ I lower the sound on the TV as the ad break starts. ‘Lucinda and I packed up and left about three months after Mum’s funeral. She became my guardian, we sold the house, and then just . . . left. It was too hard being in Bowra Creek. Everyone there knew what had happened.’
‘You never told me about your mother?’ Farrah says it like it’s a question.
‘Are you sure you want to hear it? It’s not a fun story.’
She nods. I take a deep breath.
‘It was my first day back at school after Dad attacked Theo. About a month later. I didn’t want to be there. Theo was dead. Dad was gone. I knew the whole school would be talking about what had happened. Talking about me. I was right – it was a shit day. My friends – Rachael and Maddie – were uncomfortable and awkward. I realised how little they really knew about me and my family. I couldn’t talk to them. I barely made it through the day.’
I look at Farrah, then pick up a piece of sourdough and tear off a small piece of bread, squashing and rolling it between my fingers.
‘When I walked into the house after school, Mum wasn’t there. In most families maybe that wouldn’t mean much, but in ours, it was huge. By then, Mum never left the house. She didn’t even go into the backyard at that point. I called Lucinda – she worked for the police then – and she came straight over. Even though it was too early to have Mum listed as a missing person, Lucinda was as worried as I was. She mobilised the local cops. They searched Bowra Creek for the next two days. On the third day they found her body.’
The program has started again, but I don’t increase the sound. Farrah is watching me, her brow furrowed.
‘She washed up at a beach half an hour away. Her car was parked down a dead-end road nearby. No sign of foul play. Her death was recorded as a suicide.’
On television this week’s winner is being congratulated by the judges. I switch it off.
‘She couldn’t hack it and she left me to deal with everything on my own. So, yeah, Mum was a coward. Thank God I had Lucinda.’ I picture my mother sitting in her favourite chair, staring blankly at the wall, the way she so often did by then. As if everything in her life was too difficult – even me.
‘Oh God, Rory. I’m sorry.’
I shrug. ‘I’m better off without her. As I said, she was a coward.’
‘I’m sure she loved you, Rory.’
‘If she loved me, she wouldn’t have left me.’
We sit in silence. I wonder why I’m able to tell Farrah all this, when I couldn’t talk to Dr Shaw about it.
‘You haven’t had much luck, have you?’ Farrah finally says. ‘And now your dad is back. They could make a movie out of your life.’ She has a Cheezel on each finger of her right hand and sweeps her arm across at head height. ‘They’d call it OCD Girl: On the Trail of a Killer.’
I can’t help but laugh. I should have known she wouldn’t stay cowed for too long. ‘If you don’t become a paramedic, you could become a comedian. Or a police detective.’
‘Ha! Maybe I will. Join the police force, I mean. I’d be good at that too. But I want a job that pays me tonnes of money. To fund my travels. Hey, maybe I’ll become a PI. Your aunt is rich, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she does alright.’ I smile.
Farrah bites the Cheezel off her pinkie finger and crunches it loudly. ‘I wish Mum wasn’t being so overprotective at the moment. She’s making me stay in bed most of the time.’ She sighs. ‘My head is still quite sore, though. And the painkillers I’m on make everything a bit fuzzy. But at least the lump is getting smaller. Want to see it?’
‘God, no!’
She grins. ‘So, what’s happening with Simon? You’re seeing a lot of him.’
I feel my ears burn. ‘Never you mind.’
‘Ooh, too much naughtiness for my youthful ears?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
Just then Mike starts his grunting. He’s louder than usual tonight.
‘What’s that?’ Farrah raises her eyebrows.
‘Oh, that’s the guy in 302. He does weights at the weirdest times and he always makes those noises. It drives me crazy that he doesn’t use the gym – he’s a real grunter.’
Farrah giggles, then bites another Cheezel from her fingers, talking with it in her mouth. ‘He’s not doing exercise, Rory, at least not the sort you mean. He’s doing it.’ She emphasises the last word and wiggles her eyebrows. ‘You know, S. E. X.’
‘No, it’s just weights.’
‘Do you ever hear a woman’s voice too?’
‘No.’ I think back. ‘Well, maybe once or twice. I thought he was working out with a friend.’ My face gets hot. I can’t believe a fourteen-year-old girl figured out my neighbour was having sex before I did.
You’re a joke. The voice is scornful.
‘Man, you are funny,’ she says, laughing. Just then her phone buzzes and jumps along the coffee table. She picks it up. ‘It’s Mum. She’s on her way down to get me.’ We gather her stuff. ‘Mum and Dad will seriously never let me out of this building ever again after what happened. I tried telling them that I was actually hurt while in the building, not outside, but that didn’t help my case at all.’
‘Before you go, Farrah, I have something for you.’
‘A present?’
‘Not really.’
I put my hand into the pocket of my jeans, withdrawing a green dog tag.
‘I bought four of these. They’re GPS tracking tags for pets. You put them on the collar of your dog or cat and it tells you where they are. I know it’s too late for Buster, but if I get him back he’ll be wearing one of these at all times. Anyway, I want you to take one.’
I feel a bit guilty about the one I put in Lucinda’s bag without her knowledge. I’ve checked it a couple of times today and seen she’s been . . . precisely nowhere. Well, only to work and back again. I don’t plan on telling her about it though, because knowing Lucinda, she’ll throw it away. But I decide to come clean with Farrah.
‘You want to track me?’ She grins.
‘Do you mind? It would make me feel better to know where you are.’
She shrugs. ‘Sure, why not? Mum and Dad have already put some app on my phone that does the same thing, why not you too?’
I smile. ‘Thank you. It will give me peace of mind.’
‘No problem.’ She widens her eyes. ‘I don’t have to put it around my neck, do I? Just joking! I’ll leave it in this tote, I take that everywhere I go. Is that OK?’
‘Yes.’ We walk to the front door. Farrah turns to me, her hand on the door handle.
‘You know, Rory, you can’t control everything. Things will happen. Some good. Some bad. That’s life, baby.’
I shake my head at her. ‘When did you get to be so wise, Farrah Fotos?’
‘Must have been that bump on the head.’
3.33 am
Wednesday, 1st February
Theo’s back is against the fridge.
His eyes are empty, red-black blood runs into the corner of his mouth. My father’s footsteps are heavy on the lino floor. The door slams.
‘You’ve killed him,’ Mum whispers, but he is gone. Her back blocks my view of Theo’s bloodied face.
Then she rises and I see him again. This time, he looks me in the eyes and says five words.
‘This is all your fault.’
*
I jerk upright, my chest heaving.
Fuck.
*
My nightmare is evolving almost every night. And not in a good way. I reach for Buster, and am crushed all over again to find him gone.
Wide awake, I climb out of bed and pad out to the living area in the dark. Usually after a nightmare I’d go up to the rooftop with Buster. Instead, I move a chair to the telescope and shift into position, the stars bursting into life under my gaze.
A bit after 4 am I sit back and rub my eyes. That’s when I see movement at Dossers. It looks like someone is outside Long Socks’s cage, right at the far side of it, talking to him through the wire. Long Socks – I can’t get used to calling him Harold – stands and edges closer. I lean forward and rotate the telescope towards the two men. It takes a minute to bring them into focus and the shadows make it difficult to see who the second man is. He wears a black hoodie and jeans, his face invisible in the gloom. The men are like ghosts, indistinct and spectral. The figures lean closer to one another, appearing to be deep in conversation.
Who are you?
I stare at the man until my eyes are dry and he blurs into the concrete background.
I’m torn.
Should I watch and see if the man shows his face, or go down there now, try to catch him?
I’m not stupid. I know what happened to Farrah. I know I should stay put, call the police. But by the time they arrive the man will be gone.
In the end my feet decide for me. I hurry into the bedroom and throw on a t-shirt, jeans and ballet flats, coming back to the living area to check the man and Long Socks are still there before racing down the hall. I grab my keys and then the knife from under the pile of bills and slip outside.
Downstairs, Ian is on duty. He’s almost dozing in his chair but starts when he sees me emerge from the fire exit. I’ve slipped the knife into the back pocket of my jeans, the protruding handle hidden by my t-shirt. It feels less natural than it looks on TV.
‘Rory?’ he mutters. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early. I’m going over to Dossers, Ian. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call Detective Brooks,’ I say as I cross the lobby and go outside.
It’s another warm night and I’m sweating before I reach the opposite side of the road. My heart races as I make my way to Long Socks’s cage. I peer towards the shadowed area where the man was.
He’s gone.
Long Socks is on his bed, apparently asleep. His eyes flash open as I approach.
‘You,’ he says. He yawns.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘When?’
‘Five minutes ago. There was a man here.’
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me belligerently.
‘A man was here,’ I insist.
‘You’re still watching us?’ he asks. He grins slyly. ‘You’re seeing things, girl. There was no one here. I was sleeping ’til you showed up and woke me. Waking an old man, you should be ashamed.’
I change tack. ‘Do you know who threatened Farrah on the roof on Saturday night?’
‘Who’s Farrah?’ he asks, but I can tell he knows what I’m talking about. ‘As if I know anything that’s going on over there.’ He says the last word with scorn. ‘Bunch of snobs you people are.’
‘A young girl was almost killed,’ I say in my severest voice.
‘Not by me.’
‘No one suggested it was you.’
‘What’s it to me, then?’
‘If you know something you need to tell me.’
‘I don’t need to do anything you say, girl.’
‘I hope you don’t feel guilty then.’
‘Why would I? Sounds like you’re the one who feels guilty.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘The girl was threatened because of you, wasn’t she?’
He knows something. That’s obvious. But I can tell he won’t talk.
You should slap it out of him, the voice says.
I take in Long Socks’s thin hair, his shirt, grey with grime and flecked with specks that look like blood but that are probably dirt or ancient, dried food. His cheeks are hollow in the shadows. I deflate. He’s an old man. An old, homeless man.
What are you becoming, Rory?
I turn on my heel and stride back the way I came, almost tripping over a small pile of empty tin cans and other garbage I hadn’t noticed before. Long Socks calls after me, apparently unable to resist having the last word.
‘You should watch yourself, girlie. Shit’s going on here you don’t want to be involved in. Stay in your fancy apartment, where you belong.’
I scurry off.
In the Panorama, Ian grunts as I come back through the revolving door, but he doesn’t speak. At least he won’t dob on me to Lucinda like Ron would – he can’t be bothered.
I take the lift, wanting nothing more than a shower to wash away the entire exchange, but I know it won’t help, because what I want to wash away isn’t tangible, it’s inside of me.
*
I don’t go back to bed.
Agitated, I pace my apartment, trying to piece together my wreck of a life, cursing the homeless man across the street under my breath. I march into the kitchen and put the kettle on, watching as the first train of the day emerges from the tunnel heading for the eastern suburbs.
The train is virtually empty and moves sluggishly, finally slowing to a halt opposite my apartment. After about a minute it lurches forward and starts moving at a snail’s pace. As it passes, I count three tradies in hi-vis, a group of four partygoers heading home after a big night out, and a single passenger in the rearmost carriage. She is perched, birdlike, on a seat towards the rear, and has blonde hair like mine. She uses two hands to pull it into a ponytail, and I stiffen.
It’s my mother.
I lean forward, my chest tight. But the woman is years younger than my mother would be if she were still alive. I’m seeing things.
The train moves on and I shake off my uneasiness, setting up my telescope again. I spend some time with my eye to the sight. I find Orion, but I can’t stay focused. My gaze lingers on star after star, so far away. Some cultures believe that when a person dies, they become a star. That they watch over their loved ones from the sky, to protect them.
I’d like to believe that.
I straighten up, my back aching, and it’s then I see it. The Powerful Owl. It’s perched on the arch above the train line, silhouetted, its head at a haughty angle, hooked beak suggesting cruelty. Before I can fetch my night-vision binoculars it takes flight, heading towards the Domain, probably to find food. First Orion, the hunter. Now the Powerful Owl searches for prey.
I wish them both luck.
10.01 am
Thursday, 2nd February
Simon texts me the next morning.
Sorry for being MIA the past few days. Damn rehearsals! Can we do a late dinner tonight? I’ll shout you Rosina’s. You can come to my place.
I text him back. Dinner sounds great. But let’s do it here. I’ve got food and you should eat a home-cooked meal once in a while. A man can’t live on pizza alone. (Well, he can, but he probably shouldn’t.)
Perfect, he responds, and lightness fills me.
As I go to put my phone down, it rings.
Lucinda.
I haven’t spoken to Lucinda since our Monday night dinner. To be honest I’ve been avoiding her. According to her GPS tag, she spent yesterday at home. Part of me wonders if she changed handbags, or worse, found the tag and threw it in the bin.
I accept the call. ‘Hi Lucinda, what’s up?’ I keep my voice light.
‘Hi Rory.’ She sounds different. Flat. ‘I’m at work. How are you going?’
‘Fine. Are you alright, Luce?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She sighs. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I just broke up with Alex.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know how to respond. I’m surprised. She was so happy when I last saw her. And Alex had seemed so keen to make it work. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to say that, Rory. You never liked him, did you?’ Lucinda asks. She sounds resigned. ‘I could tell.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ The words are awkward. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Well, he’s a gold-digger for a start. Bert helpfully pointed that out. Turns out Bert has never been a fan of Alex. I mean, I know I bought things for him, paid for everything, but he said he’d pay me back one day, and I mean, I can afford it. But I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? He’s mooching off me.’
‘Well, what you do with your money is your business . . .’ I murmur.
I shift in my seat. He’s too close, again. I avert my eyes. ‘Ah. Not really. I would just give her some space. Don’t go too hard too fast, Alex.’
He smiles. ‘I’m not good at standing back.’
No, you aren’t. I bite back the words.
‘But I’ll try.’
*
Farrah has come over to watch MasterChef.
Strictly for an hour, her mother said, which is annoying as MasterChef always runs late. Mind you, after seeing Alex earlier and with everything else that’s been going on it’s hard to distract myself with television. After he left I opened the windows to clear the aftershave smell, then dusted each book on the lower shelves of my bookcase one by one until my thoughts had calmed. It’s a relief to have Farrah here to distract me.
I’ve put out antipasto. A tomato and bocconcini salad, some prosciutto on sourdough. Farrah’s appetite is back, though she’s brought Cheezels and seems to prefer them to what I’ve laid out. I’m happy to see her with more colour in her face.
I fill Farrah in on Alex’s visit and about how much money my grandparents’ estate was worth. She asks a gazillion questions, seemingly unfazed by the drama that’s been going on lately, which worries me, given that it almost caused her death two days earlier. Farrah is far more resilient than I was at her age.
‘Five million dollars! That’s like winning the lottery.’
‘It would have been nice.’ I smile. ‘Might have changed our lives.’
‘Shit yes!’ She puts a Cheezel onto the prosciutto and sourdough and puts the whole lot in her mouth. I make a face. ‘What was it like living somewhere so far away from everything? When did you leave?’
‘God, you sound like such a Sydney snob right now,’ I tease. ‘I was seventeen when we left. We rented in Chatswood until Lucinda bought a house in Warrawee. This was before she built her current place, after the PI agency started to do well. And I moved into the Panorama when I was nineteen.’ I lower the sound on the TV as the ad break starts. ‘Lucinda and I packed up and left about three months after Mum’s funeral. She became my guardian, we sold the house, and then just . . . left. It was too hard being in Bowra Creek. Everyone there knew what had happened.’
‘You never told me about your mother?’ Farrah says it like it’s a question.
‘Are you sure you want to hear it? It’s not a fun story.’
She nods. I take a deep breath.
‘It was my first day back at school after Dad attacked Theo. About a month later. I didn’t want to be there. Theo was dead. Dad was gone. I knew the whole school would be talking about what had happened. Talking about me. I was right – it was a shit day. My friends – Rachael and Maddie – were uncomfortable and awkward. I realised how little they really knew about me and my family. I couldn’t talk to them. I barely made it through the day.’
I look at Farrah, then pick up a piece of sourdough and tear off a small piece of bread, squashing and rolling it between my fingers.
‘When I walked into the house after school, Mum wasn’t there. In most families maybe that wouldn’t mean much, but in ours, it was huge. By then, Mum never left the house. She didn’t even go into the backyard at that point. I called Lucinda – she worked for the police then – and she came straight over. Even though it was too early to have Mum listed as a missing person, Lucinda was as worried as I was. She mobilised the local cops. They searched Bowra Creek for the next two days. On the third day they found her body.’
The program has started again, but I don’t increase the sound. Farrah is watching me, her brow furrowed.
‘She washed up at a beach half an hour away. Her car was parked down a dead-end road nearby. No sign of foul play. Her death was recorded as a suicide.’
On television this week’s winner is being congratulated by the judges. I switch it off.
‘She couldn’t hack it and she left me to deal with everything on my own. So, yeah, Mum was a coward. Thank God I had Lucinda.’ I picture my mother sitting in her favourite chair, staring blankly at the wall, the way she so often did by then. As if everything in her life was too difficult – even me.
‘Oh God, Rory. I’m sorry.’
I shrug. ‘I’m better off without her. As I said, she was a coward.’
‘I’m sure she loved you, Rory.’
‘If she loved me, she wouldn’t have left me.’
We sit in silence. I wonder why I’m able to tell Farrah all this, when I couldn’t talk to Dr Shaw about it.
‘You haven’t had much luck, have you?’ Farrah finally says. ‘And now your dad is back. They could make a movie out of your life.’ She has a Cheezel on each finger of her right hand and sweeps her arm across at head height. ‘They’d call it OCD Girl: On the Trail of a Killer.’
I can’t help but laugh. I should have known she wouldn’t stay cowed for too long. ‘If you don’t become a paramedic, you could become a comedian. Or a police detective.’
‘Ha! Maybe I will. Join the police force, I mean. I’d be good at that too. But I want a job that pays me tonnes of money. To fund my travels. Hey, maybe I’ll become a PI. Your aunt is rich, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she does alright.’ I smile.
Farrah bites the Cheezel off her pinkie finger and crunches it loudly. ‘I wish Mum wasn’t being so overprotective at the moment. She’s making me stay in bed most of the time.’ She sighs. ‘My head is still quite sore, though. And the painkillers I’m on make everything a bit fuzzy. But at least the lump is getting smaller. Want to see it?’
‘God, no!’
She grins. ‘So, what’s happening with Simon? You’re seeing a lot of him.’
I feel my ears burn. ‘Never you mind.’
‘Ooh, too much naughtiness for my youthful ears?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
Just then Mike starts his grunting. He’s louder than usual tonight.
‘What’s that?’ Farrah raises her eyebrows.
‘Oh, that’s the guy in 302. He does weights at the weirdest times and he always makes those noises. It drives me crazy that he doesn’t use the gym – he’s a real grunter.’
Farrah giggles, then bites another Cheezel from her fingers, talking with it in her mouth. ‘He’s not doing exercise, Rory, at least not the sort you mean. He’s doing it.’ She emphasises the last word and wiggles her eyebrows. ‘You know, S. E. X.’
‘No, it’s just weights.’
‘Do you ever hear a woman’s voice too?’
‘No.’ I think back. ‘Well, maybe once or twice. I thought he was working out with a friend.’ My face gets hot. I can’t believe a fourteen-year-old girl figured out my neighbour was having sex before I did.
You’re a joke. The voice is scornful.
‘Man, you are funny,’ she says, laughing. Just then her phone buzzes and jumps along the coffee table. She picks it up. ‘It’s Mum. She’s on her way down to get me.’ We gather her stuff. ‘Mum and Dad will seriously never let me out of this building ever again after what happened. I tried telling them that I was actually hurt while in the building, not outside, but that didn’t help my case at all.’
‘Before you go, Farrah, I have something for you.’
‘A present?’
‘Not really.’
I put my hand into the pocket of my jeans, withdrawing a green dog tag.
‘I bought four of these. They’re GPS tracking tags for pets. You put them on the collar of your dog or cat and it tells you where they are. I know it’s too late for Buster, but if I get him back he’ll be wearing one of these at all times. Anyway, I want you to take one.’
I feel a bit guilty about the one I put in Lucinda’s bag without her knowledge. I’ve checked it a couple of times today and seen she’s been . . . precisely nowhere. Well, only to work and back again. I don’t plan on telling her about it though, because knowing Lucinda, she’ll throw it away. But I decide to come clean with Farrah.
‘You want to track me?’ She grins.
‘Do you mind? It would make me feel better to know where you are.’
She shrugs. ‘Sure, why not? Mum and Dad have already put some app on my phone that does the same thing, why not you too?’
I smile. ‘Thank you. It will give me peace of mind.’
‘No problem.’ She widens her eyes. ‘I don’t have to put it around my neck, do I? Just joking! I’ll leave it in this tote, I take that everywhere I go. Is that OK?’
‘Yes.’ We walk to the front door. Farrah turns to me, her hand on the door handle.
‘You know, Rory, you can’t control everything. Things will happen. Some good. Some bad. That’s life, baby.’
I shake my head at her. ‘When did you get to be so wise, Farrah Fotos?’
‘Must have been that bump on the head.’
3.33 am
Wednesday, 1st February
Theo’s back is against the fridge.
His eyes are empty, red-black blood runs into the corner of his mouth. My father’s footsteps are heavy on the lino floor. The door slams.
‘You’ve killed him,’ Mum whispers, but he is gone. Her back blocks my view of Theo’s bloodied face.
Then she rises and I see him again. This time, he looks me in the eyes and says five words.
‘This is all your fault.’
*
I jerk upright, my chest heaving.
Fuck.
*
My nightmare is evolving almost every night. And not in a good way. I reach for Buster, and am crushed all over again to find him gone.
Wide awake, I climb out of bed and pad out to the living area in the dark. Usually after a nightmare I’d go up to the rooftop with Buster. Instead, I move a chair to the telescope and shift into position, the stars bursting into life under my gaze.
A bit after 4 am I sit back and rub my eyes. That’s when I see movement at Dossers. It looks like someone is outside Long Socks’s cage, right at the far side of it, talking to him through the wire. Long Socks – I can’t get used to calling him Harold – stands and edges closer. I lean forward and rotate the telescope towards the two men. It takes a minute to bring them into focus and the shadows make it difficult to see who the second man is. He wears a black hoodie and jeans, his face invisible in the gloom. The men are like ghosts, indistinct and spectral. The figures lean closer to one another, appearing to be deep in conversation.
Who are you?
I stare at the man until my eyes are dry and he blurs into the concrete background.
I’m torn.
Should I watch and see if the man shows his face, or go down there now, try to catch him?
I’m not stupid. I know what happened to Farrah. I know I should stay put, call the police. But by the time they arrive the man will be gone.
In the end my feet decide for me. I hurry into the bedroom and throw on a t-shirt, jeans and ballet flats, coming back to the living area to check the man and Long Socks are still there before racing down the hall. I grab my keys and then the knife from under the pile of bills and slip outside.
Downstairs, Ian is on duty. He’s almost dozing in his chair but starts when he sees me emerge from the fire exit. I’ve slipped the knife into the back pocket of my jeans, the protruding handle hidden by my t-shirt. It feels less natural than it looks on TV.
‘Rory?’ he mutters. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early. I’m going over to Dossers, Ian. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call Detective Brooks,’ I say as I cross the lobby and go outside.
It’s another warm night and I’m sweating before I reach the opposite side of the road. My heart races as I make my way to Long Socks’s cage. I peer towards the shadowed area where the man was.
He’s gone.
Long Socks is on his bed, apparently asleep. His eyes flash open as I approach.
‘You,’ he says. He yawns.
‘Who were you talking to?’
‘When?’
‘Five minutes ago. There was a man here.’
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me belligerently.
‘A man was here,’ I insist.
‘You’re still watching us?’ he asks. He grins slyly. ‘You’re seeing things, girl. There was no one here. I was sleeping ’til you showed up and woke me. Waking an old man, you should be ashamed.’
I change tack. ‘Do you know who threatened Farrah on the roof on Saturday night?’
‘Who’s Farrah?’ he asks, but I can tell he knows what I’m talking about. ‘As if I know anything that’s going on over there.’ He says the last word with scorn. ‘Bunch of snobs you people are.’
‘A young girl was almost killed,’ I say in my severest voice.
‘Not by me.’
‘No one suggested it was you.’
‘What’s it to me, then?’
‘If you know something you need to tell me.’
‘I don’t need to do anything you say, girl.’
‘I hope you don’t feel guilty then.’
‘Why would I? Sounds like you’re the one who feels guilty.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘The girl was threatened because of you, wasn’t she?’
He knows something. That’s obvious. But I can tell he won’t talk.
You should slap it out of him, the voice says.
I take in Long Socks’s thin hair, his shirt, grey with grime and flecked with specks that look like blood but that are probably dirt or ancient, dried food. His cheeks are hollow in the shadows. I deflate. He’s an old man. An old, homeless man.
What are you becoming, Rory?
I turn on my heel and stride back the way I came, almost tripping over a small pile of empty tin cans and other garbage I hadn’t noticed before. Long Socks calls after me, apparently unable to resist having the last word.
‘You should watch yourself, girlie. Shit’s going on here you don’t want to be involved in. Stay in your fancy apartment, where you belong.’
I scurry off.
In the Panorama, Ian grunts as I come back through the revolving door, but he doesn’t speak. At least he won’t dob on me to Lucinda like Ron would – he can’t be bothered.
I take the lift, wanting nothing more than a shower to wash away the entire exchange, but I know it won’t help, because what I want to wash away isn’t tangible, it’s inside of me.
*
I don’t go back to bed.
Agitated, I pace my apartment, trying to piece together my wreck of a life, cursing the homeless man across the street under my breath. I march into the kitchen and put the kettle on, watching as the first train of the day emerges from the tunnel heading for the eastern suburbs.
The train is virtually empty and moves sluggishly, finally slowing to a halt opposite my apartment. After about a minute it lurches forward and starts moving at a snail’s pace. As it passes, I count three tradies in hi-vis, a group of four partygoers heading home after a big night out, and a single passenger in the rearmost carriage. She is perched, birdlike, on a seat towards the rear, and has blonde hair like mine. She uses two hands to pull it into a ponytail, and I stiffen.
It’s my mother.
I lean forward, my chest tight. But the woman is years younger than my mother would be if she were still alive. I’m seeing things.
The train moves on and I shake off my uneasiness, setting up my telescope again. I spend some time with my eye to the sight. I find Orion, but I can’t stay focused. My gaze lingers on star after star, so far away. Some cultures believe that when a person dies, they become a star. That they watch over their loved ones from the sky, to protect them.
I’d like to believe that.
I straighten up, my back aching, and it’s then I see it. The Powerful Owl. It’s perched on the arch above the train line, silhouetted, its head at a haughty angle, hooked beak suggesting cruelty. Before I can fetch my night-vision binoculars it takes flight, heading towards the Domain, probably to find food. First Orion, the hunter. Now the Powerful Owl searches for prey.
I wish them both luck.
10.01 am
Thursday, 2nd February
Simon texts me the next morning.
Sorry for being MIA the past few days. Damn rehearsals! Can we do a late dinner tonight? I’ll shout you Rosina’s. You can come to my place.
I text him back. Dinner sounds great. But let’s do it here. I’ve got food and you should eat a home-cooked meal once in a while. A man can’t live on pizza alone. (Well, he can, but he probably shouldn’t.)
Perfect, he responds, and lightness fills me.
As I go to put my phone down, it rings.
Lucinda.
I haven’t spoken to Lucinda since our Monday night dinner. To be honest I’ve been avoiding her. According to her GPS tag, she spent yesterday at home. Part of me wonders if she changed handbags, or worse, found the tag and threw it in the bin.
I accept the call. ‘Hi Lucinda, what’s up?’ I keep my voice light.
‘Hi Rory.’ She sounds different. Flat. ‘I’m at work. How are you going?’
‘Fine. Are you alright, Luce?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She sighs. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I just broke up with Alex.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know how to respond. I’m surprised. She was so happy when I last saw her. And Alex had seemed so keen to make it work. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to say that, Rory. You never liked him, did you?’ Lucinda asks. She sounds resigned. ‘I could tell.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ The words are awkward. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Well, he’s a gold-digger for a start. Bert helpfully pointed that out. Turns out Bert has never been a fan of Alex. I mean, I know I bought things for him, paid for everything, but he said he’d pay me back one day, and I mean, I can afford it. But I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? He’s mooching off me.’
‘Well, what you do with your money is your business . . .’ I murmur.
