All These Perfect Strangers (7 page)

Already, I am lying to him. As far as Frank knows, a stranger kissed me. Whether he can sense that lie, I don't know. He doesn't come straight out and accuse me of it, but still, for some reason, he keeps returning to it.

‘It was just a kiss.'

‘But it's not just a kiss, is it? You were the centre of attention for that moment. What emotions did you feel?'

‘There was hardly anyone else paying attention. And it was pretty chaste compared to what else was happening.'

‘But how did it make you feel? The first thing that went through your mind.' Frank is big on initial reactions and gut instinct.

‘It was a dumb kiss. He probably kissed me just because I was the first person he saw. I wasn't picked out for anything special.'

‘You're avoiding saying how it made you feel.'

‘I don't know.'

‘A person might feel flattered with the attention. Some people could have felt a little violated, uncomfortable that their personal space has been invaded. For most people the first few months away at university, separated from family and everyone they know, are an intense experience. People fall in love, become infatuated, are lonely, engage in risky behaviour to be noticed, to make a connection. Perhaps that was what that boy was doing when he kissed you, trying to make a connection. So, I'm exploring how you felt about it.'

‘What does it matter?'

‘Most of what you have told me about today, meeting Marcus, sitting in the dining hall, you describe it as if you were a spectator, an observer. You notice what's hanging on the wall. The picture of the boy in the office. You describe this kiss as though it's another picture. Something you saw, not something you felt.'

I wonder what he would come up with if I tell him that I did the kissing. I expect he'd twist it around and say, as Michael had, that it was Rachel's decision and not mine, which only proves his hypothesis. You can't win with psychiatrists.

‘It was just a kiss,' I repeat, fed up. ‘Tell me what the answer is and I'll say it.'

‘That's not my role here. You know that.'

I want to tell him that his role is to fill out the damn report for my lawyer and make it sound good. But I don't. Instead I glare at a spot of chipped paint behind his head. It is a patch of white about the size of a ten cent piece and if this was my office, I'd have to pick at it until all the light-green paint was pulled off and the whole wall was white again. But maybe Frank's too busy picking at his patients to notice.

‘Pen, last time you were in treatment you decided to end it abruptly, against my advice. If we are going to do it properly this time, I need you to commit to what we are trying to do. So, let's continue. How did the kiss make you feel?'

‘It was fun. Lighthearted. Just part of the night.'

‘Did you ever see this boy again?'

‘No, never,' I say. ‘Don't even know his name.'

‘Well, let's talk about some of the other people you mentioned. Was it easy to make friends at uni?'

And even though I am glad to have got the conversation away from Michael, I find it hard to answer this question.

‘I guess so. There were so many people to meet all at once.'

‘And yet all the people you talk about in detail seem to be from the same floor as you. Not such a wide group. Friends through geography.'

‘They were the people I met first.' I am trying not to sound defensive but this seems like a pretty hypocritical comment seeing Frank is married to his receptionist. ‘Geography probably shapes most friendships. You work with people, go to uni with people, that sort of thing. You do the same things at the same time. Doesn't mean it's not a real relationship.'

‘It doesn't guarantee a lasting friendship either. Take you and Tracey,' he says.

Her name is like a punch in the face.

‘What?'

‘Maybe what you and Tracey had was a school friendship. Maybe given the chance it wouldn't have survived a change in geography. A friendship that ends abruptly can colour our view of it, we mythologise it into something that it wasn't. Then perhaps later we can see that it had a natural end anyway. What we thought was a road would have turned out to be a cul-de-sac.'

I bet he practised that analogy in the mirror this morning. He doesn't understand anything. Tracey is still my friend now despite what he might think. She will always be my friend. For a moment I want to shout this at him, but I bottle it up. I have had to lock away everything to do with Tracey. None of it is up for discussion.

‘I think we've made a good start today.' Frank puts on a benevolent face like I'm lucky he has so much insight and wisdom to share with me. ‘See you in a fortnight.'

‘But really, I don't understand what is actually sexist about the Murder Game,' said Joyce, known only to his parents as James, as he squirted tomato sauce all over his lunch.

There were more Jameses at college than there were in my whole town. Back home they were called Jimmy, Jimbo or Jamie. Never James. This one was nicknamed Joyce because for the first few weeks he carried a copy of
Ulysses
with him, a bookmark permanently fixed a third of the way in. He was tall with a bad white-man's-afro and a voice that carried across the room.

‘I think Leiza was pointing out that, perhaps, some people might argue it trivialises violence against women,' said Kesh, apologetically. She was sitting between Toby and Rachel. Michael sat at the far end of the table, occasionally looking at people as they spoke, but not joining in the conversation. Rachel was eating toast after having been caught by the cook trying to steal sausages from the bain-marie.

Three weeks into term, the Murder Game, billed as a way of getting to know everyone at college, had begun. You were given a victim who you had to pretend to kill by trapping them alone. For the first few days, the college moved in packs, fearful of attacks and of being waylaid in dark corners. But as the body count grew higher, and more people were eliminated, views began to change from it all being good fun to thinking that it was a childish undergraduate game. Leiza had taken a far harder line and had gone to see Marcus to get it banned altogether.

‘Such a killjoy,' said Rachel. ‘She's pissed off that her petition has been completely ignored and now just wants to wreck everyone's fun. I mean, she wanted the bar crawl to be cancelled and she complained about the toga party. What would she have us do? Sit round and discuss feminist legal theory?'

Rachel had assassinated four of her targets already and was currently first on the leaders' table.

‘Perhaps that would be more deadly,' I joked.

Rachel laughed. ‘Still, I managed to kill you.'

‘And me,' said Rogan, walking up to us. ‘Garrotted with a string of rosary beads. How did you die?' He sat across from me, balancing a plate of food, and gave me a smile. Farmer boy Joad, whom Rachel had christened Toad, moved into the spare seat next to Michael.

It was the first time Rogan had spoken to me and Kesh blushed on my behalf.

‘Killed with the tip of a poisoned umbrella.'

Rogan dipped his head with a nod of respect at Rachel and pulled in his chair. Our feet accidentally bumped under the table.

‘How is that sexist?' said Joyce. ‘It's equal opportunity carnage.'

‘I see it more as a metaphor for college relationships,' said Rachel. ‘First we get to know each other, second we screw each other and then we kill each other.'

‘At least the first two don't sound so bad,' said Rogan.

‘What a coincidence. Pen would say the same thing. Maybe you two should get together and go bowling,' said Rachel, giving me a sly sideways sort of glance. A nervous giggle escaped from Kesh and I pretended to be engrossed in my breakfast.

‘Can I have one of your sausages?' Rachel asked Toby.

‘You certainly may not. I need to fuel myself up before my big weekend,' said Toby. ‘There is a whole tray of them over there.'

‘That bastard chef is watching me like a hawk. He won't even let me have bacon at breakfast.'

‘He's not serving at the moment,' said Rogan. ‘I think he's unloading a delivery.'

‘I am so desperate for meat,' said Rachel, standing up. ‘I might even roast my next victim and eat them.'

‘You've got to hand it to her, she gives good game,' said Toby, getting up to make himself more toast. ‘If I wasn't going to win the keg of beer for being the most successful serial killer, I'd put money on her.'

Joad rolled his eyes but waited until Toby was out of earshot, before saying, ‘First prize is mine. I'm not going to be beaten by any loudmouth bitch or faggot.' He had a distinctive nasal voice that cut through the general rumble. There was a ripple of uncertainty at the table, as people tried to pretend he was being ironic.

‘And how do you kill people?' Rogan asked.

‘That Screwdriver Man has the right idea,' Joad replied. ‘My next victim will have body parts sliced off with a sharp implement while she's still alive and then bleed slowly to death in agonising pain. Here's hoping it's the Not-so-Quiet American.'

Joad spoke with such relish that all conversation at the table disappeared, which was why when I eventually said, ‘Maybe Leiza has a point,' quietly to Kesh, it seemed much louder.

‘Who asked you, Holly Hobbie?' Joad said. ‘Not wearing your pretty dress today, I see.'

It was easy to hate Joad. Not even sitting across from Rogan was worth putting up with him. I got up from the table, my breakfast uneaten.

‘You finished?' Toby asked in surprise, as I walked past where he was charcoalling some bread.

‘Stuff to do,' I said. Putting my plate in the washing area, I heard, ‘Goodbye, Sister Wife,' a parting remark from Joad. As I left the dining room, I thought of all the ways I could kill him.

I was still running through my options when I reached the phones. There was a phone on each floor at college for incoming calls. Two pay phones outside the dining hall were for calling out. Rachel said she never bothered calling her mother in the United States because the queues were a nightmare. But I had to brave them today because it was my mother's birthday.

One of the cubicles had a sticky-taped sign on the door, with ‘out of order' scrawled across it. The other phone was being monopolised by a plump second-year girl. I stood in her line of sight, jangling my coins, trying to get her attention, but she ignored me as her conversation became fraught. Remembering Toby's advice, I had brought
The Big Sleep
to reread and settled down on a low-backed vinyl couch that had been placed opposite. I could hear boys playing the pinball machine in the Rec Room further along the corridor, the sounds from the dining hall and the general noise of conversation around college. Far off, someone was practising a violin in one of the music rooms and I began thumbing through the book to find my place.

‘Aah, Ms Sheppard.'

I looked up to see Marcus. He stood out amongst the scruffy students, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe running through it. It wasn't so much a uniform as armour. No one in my town had ever dressed with such authority.

‘How has your first month been? A whirlwind of activities, I expect, as you haven't paid me a visit.'

It had never occurred to me that Marcus would want regular updates on my progress and I gave some stumbled response about assuming he would be too busy.

‘I take a keen interest in those I see potential in. Student well-being and all that. How are you coping financially? University can be such a money pit.'

The truth was, my savings were disappearing rapidly but I didn't want to complain to the one person who had already been so generous. I told him that it was all fine.

‘Good, good. I live by the credo that one should take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves. No doubt, you are more sensible. And here's another of Scullin's rising stars. Good morning, Mr Cohen.'

Coming around the corner from the dining hall was Rogan. He had caught sight of us and was about to turn the opposite way.

‘Oh . . . hi,' he said.

‘Pen and I were just discussing that necessary evil, money. I understand it can be hard to find part-time work that doesn't interfere with your studies. Perhaps, Joshua, as a later-year student, you could give Pen the benefit of your experience.'

‘Sure,' said Rogan, coming closer, though his voice sounded uncertain.

‘Delightful. We must all catch up soon . . . perhaps afternoon tea? But I must go. Appointment with the Vice-Chancellor and he does hate waiting.'

He walked away, happily nodding to passing students and replying with a ringing ‘Good Morning,' to those who greeted him.

Rogan sat down next to me.

‘Sorry about that,' I said. ‘I'm not really sure what Marcus was going on about.' Rachel had told me Rogan had lots of money. He didn't need to get a job.

‘Don't worry about it,' said Rogan.

‘What do you mean it's not working?' snuffled the cubicle, loudly, interrupting our conversation. ‘Do you want to see other people?'

‘You left breakfast quite abruptly,' Rogan said. ‘I'm hoping it was Joad and not me.'

‘Definitely Joad. He's a complete pig,' I said.

‘Perhaps Rachel should roast him.'

I laughed. The girl in the cubicle started to cry.

Emelia and her posse came by on their way to a breakfast of coffee and bitching. She did a showy double take at Rogan talking to me, and they all chorused, ‘Hi Rogan' as they cantered past. Emelia turned round and gave him a smile that showed off all her expensive orthodontic work. It looked like she wanted to eat him.

‘Want to have breakfast with us, Rogan?' asked Emelia.

‘Just finished, actually.' Turning back to me he said, ‘So, what are you reading?'