The Devil Inside, page 16
Phil’s head nodding, feet and fingers tapping, lips moving as he listened to music through his headphones.
Phil lying beside her in bed, deeply asleep and yet his lips moved slightly, his hand shifting over her arm as if to make certain she was still there.
Phil almost dancing beside her as they walked through a garden, her hand hooked through his arm. He wasn’t looking at her—his gaze darted everywhere as she spoke—but despite the frenetic energy in him, despite the fact to an outsider it might look like he wasn’t listening to her at all, she knew that his entire energy was focused on her, on what she said.
The images tumbled one over the other. Memories. She was sure of it. Showing her a Phil that wasn’t like the quiet man beside her, a man who had been holding back since she’d woken up.
But he wasn’t holding himself back now. He shifted from foot to foot, kicking at the pebbles, fingers tightening then loosening, over and over again, on the pram handle, his head whipping around as if he couldn’t stay focused on one thing for more than a second or two.
He seemed more than energised. He was agitated. And her questions had done this to him. ‘Okay. If you need to walk, let’s walk.’
He took off suddenly and she ran a few strides to keep up, but he slowed down enough so that she could walk beside him. His fingers twitched on the pram as he looked everywhere but at her, and yet, like in the memory she’d just had, she got the sense that his focus was entirely on her.
They reached the middle of the garden where all the paths converged. A fountain sat in the centre—the source of the water she’d heard tinkling as they’d entered the garden. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by overhanging bows of trees of various heights and bushiness, all Australian natives by the look of it—with weird shrubs and flowers in the beds. There was greenery of all different colours from silvery white to green to a deep aubergine and startling scarlet—and that was just the leaves of the plants. Many of the trees had wattle flowers of various colours and the plants in the garden bed sported flowers that ranged from delicately petaled to spiky to balls of fluff. Delicious floral scents drifted in the air alongside others that ranged from spicy to sweet—like chilli and chocolate. It was alien but glorious and she wanted to explore, but her need to have the man at her side open up was greater.
‘Shall we keep walking the paths?’ she asked him gently when he hesitated.
‘Sure. I haven’t been down here since your … accident.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It was …’ he frowned down at the pram, ‘… our place. Probably sounds silly.’
‘No. Not at all.’
He pushed the pram down the opposite path. She fell in beside him, walking, waiting. He didn’t speak again until they’d reached the boundary of the garden, the path splitting both left and right. There was more tinkling to the left. They turned that way. She was getting a little tired, but she didn’t want to stop walking because if they did, he would never talk. Not that he’d done much while walking. She knew she should just wait for him to talk, to not push him, but patience was never one of her virtues. ‘Well?’ she said.
He swallowed hard, ran his hand over the handle of the pram, back and forth, staring down at their daughter. His pace slowed a little—thank goodness—then he stopped and picked Arwen up. Melissa stilled, waiting for the baby to squawk, but she just made a little sighing sound of contentment as Phil cuddled her against him and kissed her crown, running his nose back and forth along her fluffy black-haired head. The motion seemed to bring him peace of some kind, because he suddenly looked less agitated, less … anxious. Yes, he’d been anxious. Like he was worried how she would react if he told her about himself.
Damn. Should she let him know she’d overheard him and Craig last night? She bit her lip. No. But maybe there was a way to help him talk about it. ‘I gather from things I’ve heard that you don’t get along with your parents.’
He paused for so long, the bitter look on his face almost alien, that she thought he wasn’t going to say anything.
He tore a leaf off a tree and kicked at the pebbles. ‘I’m not living the life they wanted a son of theirs to live. But then, I haven’t lived up to their expectations since I started school. I wasn’t smart enough.’
‘What? They didn’t say that to you, did they?’
‘How else was I to know I wasn’t filling the role of first-born son appropriately?’ His tone dripped bitterness. ‘That I was letting down the team.’
‘Team?’ Hell. She might have had issues with her parents because they were overprotective and never wanted to go anywhere but their little plot of land and wanted her to be the same, but even through their estrangement, she’d always known they loved her.
Phil’s experience with his parents sounded completely different.
He was silent for so long she worried he wasn’t going to say any more, but then his lip curled into sneer and he said, ‘Didn’t you know, a family is a team of people competing for the top spot of Mummy and Daddy’s favourite?’
‘But that’s … that’s rubbish. What about support?’
‘Support?’ He huffed out a laugh. ‘If we’d supported each other, that would be showing weakness.’
‘But … but what about love? About being happy?’
‘Happiness is keeping up appearances, don’t you know.’
She shuddered at the ache in his plummy voice. ‘Do we ever see them?’ Craig had said she’d given them a serve—had she made things worse for him?
‘Hardly ever. But that was okay with both of us. You didn’t like them. You didn’t even want to invite them to our wedding.’
‘They came to our wedding?’
‘No. It wasn’t a society wedding. We had it at Dae’s place in Malibu with only friends and the family that matter to us.’
She wished now she’d not pressed him about this. If only she could remember, he wouldn’t have to tell her, have to pull this band aid off an obviously raw wound. She rubbed her head, trying to focus on something positive. ‘So, you do have family who are okay with you being you.’
‘Sure. The band is my family. Their families are my family.’
‘They sound like arseholes. Not the band,’ she quickly qualified. ‘Your parents.’
He smiled as he glanced at her. ‘I know who you meant. And you’ve called them worse than that. To their faces, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. You were telling my mum about how you were considering upgrading your Masters to a PhD when my father asked you how you coped with having an uneducated loser for a husband.’
‘He called you an uneducated loser? In front of you? To me?’ Pain and anger vied for space in her chest.
He laughed again. ‘That was nothing compared to the things he’s called me in the past. You should have heard him at report card time when I couldn’t seem to scrape a mark above a D. Although, my most favourite letter was F. D for dunce he’d say. F for failure. I’m not sure which one he was more scathing about.’
‘That’s … that’s …’ She shook her head, unable to find the words. Except … ‘Fucking arsehole!’
He chuckled. ‘That’s what you called him to his face. His expression was so funny. I don’t think anyone had ever talked to him like that before you.’
‘What did your mum say? Surely she stood up for you?’
He snorted. ‘Why would she do that? Her family were blueblood with generations holding high positions in business and government going back centuries. Until me. I was as much a disappointment to her as I was to my father. It was as if they thought I couldn’t learn on purpose. That I was doing it to spite them. I wish I had. I wish it was a choice. But I truly am stupid. The only thing I’ve ever been good at was drumming.’ He smiled at her. A resigned smile, as if he’d come to terms with his parents’ attitudes. But behind the smile there was an eternity of hurt and self-doubt that made her ache deeply.
‘You aren’t stupid.’
He shook his head. ‘Yes, I am.’ His fingers clenched around the baby’s back and he shoved the other hand into his pocket. There was a flush riding high on his cheeks as he looked away from her. ‘When I met Dae and Craig, I could barely read or write.’ His voice was so soft, so full of shame.
‘You can’t read or write?’
‘I can now. Dae and Craig helped me learn through writing song lyrics. But I still find it difficult—especially in front of people I don’t know.’
She stared at him for a long, breathless moment as the information took hold in her aching head. So much made sense. She had never seen him write a single word since she’d woken. If writing was needed, he always found some way around it: handing someone else the pad and pencil, recording the doctor’s instructions on her medications and appointments with his phone rather than writing them down; making phone calls or using speech to text. The only time she’d seen him write anything was when he was marking down drum signature and writing lyrics on the pad in the hospital.
She reached out to him, touched his arm, squeezed until he looked back at her. ‘Thank you for telling me that. It must have been hard. But having difficulties learning to read and write doesn’t make you stupid. In fact, from everything I’ve seen, you are one of the smartest men I think I’ve ever met.’
‘You said that last time I told you, too.’ He looked away again, shook his head. ‘It still doesn’t make it true.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ She moved to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks as he stared at her, shock widening his eyes. But she didn’t care. Didn’t care that her rising voice might disturb the baby. She was angry. It was a hot fury inside her. Her head pounded with the intensity of it. ‘I don’t like it when you talk like that! You’re a musical genius. You might not be able to read and write words easily, but you can write music and you communicate more through that music than most people do through their words. Certainly far more than the dribble that pours out of your parents. I swear, if your father tells you again that you’re a drivelling idiot like the last time he came to see us when we were in London, I’m going to smack him one so hard he’ll think he’s sailed up and into the Milky Way. The problem is with them, not with you.’
He stared at her, his mouth gaping. ‘Mel? You remember?’
‘What?’ She was breathing fast, her anger having risen up and pushed the words out without her thinking about them, but now she did think about it, her head swam. The memories had been hitting her today with more frequency but now they came as a flood, moving so fast she couldn’t get a hold of them. ‘I’m just … I don’t …’ She grabbed her aching head, her voice seeming not to belong to her anymore.
‘Mel!’
Someone was whimpering. Arms went around her. The sky spun and then there was darkness.
Chapter 15
Light flickered around Melissa. Voices sounded but she couldn’t grasp what they said. The dark surrounded her. She wanted out of it. She concentrated on the voice calling for help. The hot press of lips on her forehead, cool fingers against her brow, her cheeks.
‘Mel. Mel. Please come back to me.’ She wanted to reply but it took everything in her to keep the dark away.
Footsteps thundering closer, then, ‘Phil. What happened?’
‘She passed out.’
‘Have you called the ambulance?’
‘No. No,’ she mumbled. ‘No hospital. They’ll find me at the hospital.’
‘What? What did she say?’
‘She doesn’t want to go to the hospital.’
‘Mel? Mel, are you okay?’
Their words tumbled together, falling over one another, impossible to answer. Not that she could. Everything was hazy, layered with flashes of images that moved so fast it made her motion sick.
Hands on her wrist, her forehead. ‘Her pulse is fine and she doesn’t have a temperature. Did she hit her head when she went down?’
‘No. I caught her.’
‘Good. Okay, I need to check her blood pressure. Let’s get her inside out of the sunshine.’
Sunshine ...
Solnyshkuh.
‘Moye malen’koye solnyshkuh.’ My little sunshine.
The sensation of lips, slightly sticky and warm and soft, pressed against her brow, kissing her hair, a large hand stroking her back.
‘Ya budu po tebe skuchat’, Millanushka. Ya lyublyu tebya.’
‘Ya lyublye tebya moye malen’koye solnyshkuh.’
I’ll miss you, Milla. I love you.
I love you my little sunshine.
The voice wasn’t her mama’s, but it sounded so similar. She knew it.
Mamochka? Why was she so sad?
Why did the memory of them ache deep inside with a loss she couldn’t remember but she knew it; she knew it.
‘Mel. Mel. It’s okay. Don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s only a memory. It can’t hurt you.’
She followed the voice—Phil’s voice—up and away from the encroaching dark. She opened her eyes.
Light. Space. And his face above her, his hands stroking her hair back from her sweat-sticky skin.
Phil.
Her husband.
Pain spiked through her head at the memory of him, of what she felt for him. She was going to lose him. She was certain of it. No. She’d lost too much. Too much. Mamochka and Papochka then Mama and Papa. Everyone she’d loved was dead. ‘No,’ she cried out. ‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember.’
‘It’s okay. It’s okay,’ he repeated, stroking her hair, holding her tight.
She let him, even though it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay. The world spun, the sky above then under then over her again and again. Pain and fear and screaming. A mighty crash. Then she was still. Glass tinkling and cracking, metal groaning all around her. The scent of blood and dirt heavy in the air. The world upside down. And there was pain. So much pain. But it didn’t compare to the pain inside. The loss. The grief.
She wasn’t going to see him again. She would never hold her baby. It was happening all over again. She was being ripped from everyone she loved. The pain of it was so big. So consuming.
No!
Her mind lurched away from the remembering. Nausea swirled in her stomach, her head.
A flood of memories surged, overwhelmed her.
Mama and Papa arguing, their voices raised, their accents not that slow drawl, the words thicker, faster, not English. She understood every one of them. They caught in her mind, her throat. She’d gasped. Mama and Papa turned. She poised to run, but they caught her, dragged her to the bed, such sorrow in their faces as they held her down and said, ‘Spat. Zabyvat.’ Sleep. Forget.
Darkness covered her. She wanted to scream but another memory lit the dark ...
She was in the hallway outside Mama and Papa’s room. The sound of scraping, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. The door slightly ajar. She pushed it open. The dresser was pulled away from the wall. Scratching sounds from behind it. A grunt. ‘Mama? What are you doing? Do you need help?’
Mama scrambled up from behind the dresser, snatched something off the top of it and held it behind her. Fear skittered in her eyes before anger took over. ‘What are you doing barging in here without knocking? Did you forget your manners, girl? Get out. Get out!’
Tears pricked her eyes. She backed away. ‘I just wanted to see if you needed help.’
Something clattered to the floor and then Claire Linklater ran around from behind the dresser, her arms outstretched. ‘I’m sorry, pumpkin. I didn’t mean to snap. You just caught me by surprise.’ She folded Melissa into her arms, held her tight, stroking her hair. ‘You just need to remember to knock. Sometimes your papa and I want our privacy, okay? You need to respect that. Now off you go and see if your papa needs help with the cows.’
Melissa nodded. ‘Can I help clean up?’ She gestured at the folder Mama had dropped, the papers that had spilled onto the floor.
Mama snatched up the paper near her feet, holding it to her chest so Melissa couldn’t see what it was. ‘No. It’s my mess. You go help your papa now, pumpkin. Mama needs a moment alone.’ Mama kissed her forehead.
‘Okay.’ As she reached the door, she looked back. Mama was shoving the papers back into the folder, a hardness on her face that made Melissa shudder.
The memory spun away …
Mama was busy in the kitchen finishing her cake for her tenth birthday party. She waved Melissa away, told her to go feed the horses if she had nothing to do. Melissa headed to the stable but stopped halfway there when she saw Papa going into the barn, a brown leather suitcase in his hands. Odd. They never went anywhere so had no suitcases. Maybe Papa had bought it to hide her presents in.
She ran across the yard and slipped into the barn in time to see Papa, shovel in hand, walk out the back of the barn. She hid in the shadows to watch as he rushed through the field, heading towards the trees that bordered it, occasionally glancing around as if he worried about being watched.
What was he doing with the suitcase? Burying it?
Later, after she’d fed the horses, she was exiting the stables when she saw Papa skirt around the end of the barn, cross the yard in hurried strides, run up the back stairs, the suitcase banging heavily at his side. Mama opened the door and ushered him to come inside, but he stopped to look around quickly before going in.
Maybe it did have her birthday present in it. But why would he need a shovel to get her present? Weird.
She’d never seen the suitcase again until … until …
No. She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think about it. Too much pain. Too much loss.
‘Mel. Mel. It’s okay. You’re safe.’
Yes. Yes. She wanted to believe but the voice faded …
Tears and sadness. Kisses on her forehead as she was held against a softly perfumed breast, voices whispering above her, hurried, tense. ‘Katya. Mikhail. Please. I beg of you. You have to keep my Millanushka safe from them.’
‘Not just Milla. We can keep you safe too.’
‘Natan said the same and now he’s dead.’ Sobbing, arms tightening around her. ‘It’s been four years. I thought they’d given up. But they won’t stop coming for me. I know they won’t. And I can’t endanger my Millanushka again. I won’t. They nearly got her when they got Natan.’
