Apartment 303, page 3
‘Oh wow, this is way different from ours. Smaller. No offence.’ She grins. ‘It’s pretty. Did you get someone to decorate it?’
‘No, I bought most things online, though I made some of them myself.’ I don’t tell her there’s no chance of me letting renovators or decorators into my personal space. If I need to get a repairman in I spend the day hiding out at Lucinda’s.
The apartment is pretty, though, she’s right about that. It’s light and airy, with white walls and large windows. Several large houseplants echo the greenery of the Domain outside, including a fiddle-leaf fig that’s taller than I am, and smaller pots containing mother-in-law’s tongue, bird’s nest ferns, and several types of dracaenas.
The sofa is fifties-style; teal and timber. I’ve added a couple of vintage art deco posters in shades of blue and yellow and I re-upholstered the dining chairs in orange fabric myself, purchasing a staple gun specifically for the purpose after watching an online tutorial.
There’s a whole wall of well-stocked bookshelves with a TV in the centre. The books are interspersed with plants and a few smaller artworks and vases, so that it looks styled but not too styled.
Farrah wanders around picking up things and putting them down, making me glad I remembered to stash my origami cranes away last night. Despite her nosiness, I find it endearing the way she makes herself at home. I’ve seen Farrah around the building before, nodded to her and her parents in the lift, that sort of thing. She’s a girl who’s not afraid to meet your eye, which I admire, though I have trouble returning her gaze. The family appears wealthy and well educated, as are virtually all residents of the Panorama. I know a fair bit about most of the building’s occupants, though I’m not on speaking terms with almost any of them.
‘Jane Fonda’s Workout Collection,’ Farrah picks up the DVD on my coffee table. ‘This looks old-school.’
‘It is. It’s hard though. Keeps me fit.’
She nods, setting down the DVD. ‘So many books!’ She approaches the bookshelves. ‘You don’t have an e-reader? A Kindle or something?’
‘I do, but I like the real thing too.’
‘So do I.’ She runs her fingers over the spines of the ones at her eye level. ‘Quite a mix you’ve got here.’ She’s right. I have access to library books online, but my favourites are all here. Everything from astronomy and bird books to fantasy and classics.
Farrah’s eyes light up at a smaller selection I keep together in a far corner. ‘Ooh, chick-lit! Excellent. Mum won’t let me read romance. Definitely keen to borrow if you don’t mind lending them? I promise I’ll bring them back.’
I nod. She moves on, noticing the only framed photo on the bookshelf, half hidden behind the hanging pea-green baubles of my string-of-pearls plant. She points at it. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You’re so little! Who’s with you?’
‘My brother.’
‘You don’t look alike.’
‘No.’
I don’t invite questions and Farrah spins around, picking up the origami horse that sits beside the television.
‘Did you make this?’ She cradles it with appropriate gentleness.
‘Yes. It took me most of a day,’ I say. I’m usually kind of embarrassed about my origami – well, the cranes at least. They’re a tool to manage my problems, nothing more. But I’m proud of that horse. One piece of pure white paper had become something beautiful, with a life of its own.
Farrah shakes her head and places the horse carefully back. Her curious gaze falls on the telescope in the opposite corner of the room. ‘I gather from your books this is for astronomy. Not for spying on people?’
‘That’s right. I’m teaching myself the constellations.’
‘Cool. Though I bet this baby would also be great for peering into people’s windows.’ She jerks as if remembering something, her eyes wide. ‘Oh! Did you hear what happened to that homeless man two nights ago? Over at Dossers?’ She lowers her voice. ‘He was murdered. Did you see it? You look right at them, the same as us.’
‘No – I mean, yes. Well, I saw the police there, after. Do you know what happened to Slouchy Ricky Gervais?’
‘Who?’ She frowns. ‘No. A man called Joe Hudson was murdered. A Dosser. Mum told me.’
It’s your fault.
‘The police came this morning to ask us about it,’ she continues. ‘Have they talked to you yet?’
My stomach flutters. ‘No.’
‘Reckon they’ll come today. Mum didn’t want me knowing about it, but I could hear them from my room. The man was beaten to death, the policeman said. They don’t know who did it.’
‘Oh,’ I manage. ‘That’s terrible.’ I picture Slouchy Ricky Gervais sprawled on the concrete, blood seeping out from beneath his stocky torso. I hear the thudding of flesh on flesh, feel the violence of it in my guts.
‘We were at my aunt’s house in Newcastle for my cousin’s birthday when it happened, so we didn’t see anything.’ She sounds regretful. ‘We got back yesterday. And then last night was the New Year’s Eve party on the roof. It was great. Did you go? I didn’t see you there. It was pretty crowded, though. The fireworks were amazing.’
‘Ah no, I didn’t go.’
‘Oh, you should have. It was fun. Everyone was there.’
‘I don’t like parties much. Especially busy ones.’
‘Really?’ Farrah regards me with a tilted head. ‘I get it. Too many people. I want to travel when I’m older, but I’ll make sure to avoid the tourist traps. See the essence of a place, yeah? Be a traveller, not a tourist. My current top three picks would have to be . . . Chile, Greece and France.’ She ticks them off on her fingers. ‘Chile for skiing and, like, the mountains, Greece for history and beaches, and France for the baguettes.’ She grins. ‘I could never do Keto. I mean, how good is bread? What about you? Have you ever been skiing? Have you travelled much?’
I tell her no, all of a sudden tired of the young girl’s chatter. Her questions. Perhaps she isn’t so endearing after all.
‘The pandemic was a travel-killer, wasn’t it?’ she continues. ‘At least we can finally get out there again. When I finish school, that’s what I’m going to do. Travel.’
I give a small nod. Farrah seems to notice my fatigue.
‘Well, I should be off. Can I wash my hands in your bathroom? I’d hate for Dad to spend the rest of the day blowing his nose.’
‘Yes, straight through there.’
She enters the bathroom, leaving the door open. The tap runs. Over the rushing water she starts talking again. ‘It’s school holidays at the moment and I’m so bored. Mum works from home – she’s a translator – and Dad is down the road at the Australian Museum. He’s an anthropologist. He comes home for lunch. Can you believe that?’
I can believe that, of course, as I’ve already found both her parents on Facebook. Her father rarely posts, but her mother regularly updates the world on her trips to the farmers markets and her homemade baklava. ‘My parents are always at home. Always there. And they don’t let me go out on my own in the city. I’m fourteen.’ She sighs. ‘They baby me because I’m an only child.’
My mind flits to my own parents. I banish them quickly. Farrah doesn’t know how lucky she is. The tap stops and soon after she comes back out.
‘You can drop by again if you’d like,’ I find myself saying, somewhat to my surprise. ‘I work from home, and Buster obviously likes you.’
‘Seriously?’ Her face lights up. ‘I’d love that. I’d better go, Mum told me not to bother you for too long on a Sunday. She’s always telling me I talk too much.’ She pulls a face.
I suppress a smile and lead the way to the door.
‘Nice to meet you, Rory Campbell,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
*
By the time the police arrive I’ve done the two workouts on my Jane Fonda aerobics video, scanned my regular OCD and bird-watching Reddit groups, and searched for Farrah online, discovering only that she’s a typically internet-savvy kid with few public profiles. I dust three shelves of books and wipe out my cutlery drawer. Finally, I attempt to use my meditation app but the snow-capped mountains aren’t cutting it today. Instead, I chew my fingernails down to the quick.
Knock, knock.
Left, right, left. Breathe.
I peer through the peephole to see a plainclothes policeman and woman. I recognise the man as the detective who spoke to Skinny Santa. He’s holding a notebook and wearing tortoiseshell glasses that give him the look of a mild-mannered librarian. The woman is much shorter, stocky, with a dark complexion and chin-length dark hair parted neatly to one side. I open the door.
‘Good afternoon. Miss Campbell? I’m Detective Brooks and this is Detective Raco. We’re canvassing the building in relation to an incident that took place two nights ago outside the Domain car park. May we come in?’
‘Yes.’ My voice catches and I turn away before they see how nervous I am. Brooks reaches down to scratch Buster behind the ear as they enter and Buster looks like he’s in love.
‘You’ve got quite the green thumb, haven’t you?’ Brooks says, admiring my plants. ‘That’s a magnificent specimen.’ He gestures. ‘A fiddle-leaf fig, isn’t it?’
‘Mm. Ficus lyrata.’
‘I wish I had some of your talent. Every plant I bring into the office dies, doesn’t it, Andrea?’
‘Well, you have to remember to water them occasionally. Isn’t that right, Miss Campbell?’ Raco asks, shaking her head.
I nod my agreement. I don’t tell them that all it takes is some research into the plants’ needs. Some need a little more or less water, others love the sun. It’s not hard. Plants are far easier than people.
I offer the police something to drink. They both refuse, gravitating towards the balcony where the angle of the sun forces them to raise a hand to shade their eyes.
‘You have a clear view of the homeless camp, Miss Campbell. Perhaps the best of anyone in the building. A lovely view of the city too.’
The room feels much smaller with the police inside. Despite the air conditioning, I’m hot. Detective Brooks motions to my small dining table and I give a curt nod. The detectives sit with their backs to the view, as if to focus on me. I peer at them through the glossy leaves of the Zanzibar gem that’s in the centre of the table. Brooks has dark circles under his eyes. Raco smells of a perfume that I associate with someone older than she appears to be. Buster curls up near Brooks’s leather shoes.
‘Did you see anything unusual the night before last, Miss Campbell?’
‘No. I didn’t see anything strange at all. I mean, except you.’ I wave a hand at Brooks. ‘I woke after midnight and saw you talking with Skinny Santa.’
‘Skinny Santa?’ His brow furrows.
‘Oh, I don’t know his proper name.’ I squirm in my seat. ‘That’s what I call him. He’s one of the homeless men at Dossers. He has a long white beard. And he’s skinny.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘What happened? I heard someone was murdered.’
‘Yes. A thirty-seven-year-old homeless man named Joe Hudson was beaten to death.’
It’s your fault, hisses the voice.
I wring my hands. Brooks watches, then sets his notepad on the table. ‘I’m sorry to upset you, Miss Campbell. It’s unpleasant, I know.’
I force my hands apart and take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything.’
‘You have a direct view of the men,’ Raco says, wearing a bland smile. Her intelligent dark eyes would be pretty but for the heavy black bags underscoring them.
‘I do. I feel like I know many of them in some way, if only from a distance. It’s terrible to think that someone could do this. Do you have any leads?’
‘We’re working on several theories,’ Detective Brooks says noncommittally, though his eyes are sharp. ‘However, the case is still very much open. Any information you might have – if you saw anything, anything at all – please let us know.’
It’s your fault he’s dead.
I swallow. My foot taps soundlessly on the carpet. One, two, three. One, two, three. Buster lifts his head and stares at me, as if wondering whether he should reach out a comforting paw, before deciding against it. My gaze wanders to the coffee table, my fingers itching to fold and crease, desperate for the release of the familiar.
Left, right, left. Breathe.
‘Be alert, Miss Campbell,’ Raco says, and my attention snaps back to her. ‘The Panorama is lovely, with decent security too, but this isn’t the safest neighbourhood for a young woman on her own.’ She pauses, leaning back in her chair, regarding me with slightly narrowed eyes while Brooks examines his fingernails. With a start I realise Ron or Ian must have told them I never leave the building, not on foot, anyway. Heat floods my face. I concentrate all my willpower and manage to keep my leg still.
‘I’ll be very careful,’ I pause then add, deliberately, ‘all those times I’m out, strolling around the neighbourhood.’
Brooks meets my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of sympathy. Raco smiles at me, her expression still bland. She’s good at hiding her feelings, but underneath it, I sense she’s contemptuous – or worse, that she pities me.
‘Please do. We’d hate to see you harmed.’
I picture my fist connecting with Raco’s smug face, hear the crunch as her jaw breaks. I fight the urge, consciously relaxing my shoulders. My bicep twitches. I manage a nod.
I told you, the voice crows. It’s your fault.
‘Here’s my card, Miss Campbell,’ says Brooks, fishing one out of his wallet. ‘Please contact me if anything comes to mind. It could be something from earlier in the day, or a noise you heard in the night. Anything at all.’
‘I will.’ I stand up on shaking legs. ‘Let me see you out.’
Buster trots after the police but halts at the front door when I say his name. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Campbell.’ Brooks makes for the lift. Raco follows without acknowledgment. I stare at the point between her shoulder blades, at the curve of her neck where her pale skin is visible. Exposed. Beneath her apparent sturdiness she is vulnerable. I clear my throat.
‘Oh, detectives?’
They turn around.
I take a deep breath. ‘It seems you’ve been told that I have OCD. But I’m not the only one in the building with a mental illness. A lot of people in here have issues – addiction, depression, eating disorders – just like the rest of society. Someone on seven was once in jail. There’s a convicted arsonist on nine. I know of a couple of reformed alcoholics, and several who are definitely not reformed.’
I cock my head at them. ‘You should keep an open mind. No one is perfect. And not all mental illness leads to murder.’
I shut the door on their open mouths, press it hard and engage the second lock, then turn and lean against it, sliding down to the floor. I’m at a loss to know if my words were a defence or an attack.
*
Buster climbs onto my outstretched legs and licks my face. My trembling hands grip his fur. There are people in my OCD Reddit group who say we should lean into our intrusive thoughts. That’s the only way we’ll control them, they say. It’s called Exposure and Response Therapy. Dr Shaw didn’t think I was ready for that, but maybe she was wrong. I breathe deeply and focus on my dog, the feel of the pads of his feet pressing into my thighs, his breath on my cheek, his wagging tail. Then I picture Raco’s face.
My heart races and I feel like I’m about to throw up. Dr Shaw was right. I can’t do it. I can’t let myself think about hurting Raco – or anyone.
You wouldn’t hurt her, I reassure myself.
I hope I’m telling the truth.
*
I find some empty plastic containers and fill them with the leftover paella.
I heat them in the microwave and pack them into a recyclable heat-proof bag, then attach Buster’s lead to his collar. After checking that the hallway is clear, I double-lock the door behind me and lead Buster to the fire stairs. The floors, walls and ceiling are bare concrete, the handrail cold steel. It smells of old air.
I descend.
At the next landing I hear the clang of a door above me. I stop and listen. Buster lets out a nervous bark, and I shush him. Steady footsteps echo, coming closer. I start moving again, jogging down the final two flights with Buster leaping along beside me. My heart beats faster as I open the door to the lobby, peering out through a small gap as the footsteps behind us gain ground.
Ron is behind the desk, eating a sausage roll. The lobby is otherwise empty.
I emerge from the fire stairs and shut the door with relief. My soft-soled slip-on shoes make no sound as I cross the space. The entire front wall of the lobby is glass, and I can see the traffic is halted, cars stretched in front of the building in a long queue. I’m most of the way across the lobby before Ron sees us.
He smiles, pastry flakes falling from his moustache.
‘Azerbaijan!’ he calls out.
‘That’s an easy one, Ron. Baku.’
‘Yeah, sorry, love, I’m a bit behind on my research.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘I’ll find something harder for you next time. Ah, I see you’ve brought my favourite little guy down for a chat! Hey, Buster! Are you a good boy?’
He stands up and comes out from behind the desk. Buster’s claws tap and scratch on the marble floor. ‘Can he?’ Ron asks, gesturing at the sausage roll on the desk. I nod. He leans over and tears a piece of meat from the end of it, more pastry crumbling away, and drops it to the floor. Buster falls on it and Ron addresses me.
‘Happy New Year, Rory! I thought you might have come down last night to wish an old man well for his last New Year’s Eve in the Panorama.’ His voice has a teasing note.
I stop. ‘What do you mean, your last New Year’s Eve?’
‘You didn’t hear? I announced it to the residents at the party last night. I thought I’d already told you. I’m retiring. I’ll be finishing up before Easter.’
Ron dusts pastry crumbs from his hands, and Buster pounces on them as they rain down onto his nose.
‘What? Oh Ron, what am I going to do without you?’
