Beautiful Malice (19 page)

36

I
’m unpacking boxes in our new kitchen when it happens. I stand up and feel a small gush of wetness between my legs. I don’t know what it is at first and wonder for a moment if I’ve wet myself. I rush into the bathroom and pull my pants down. Blood.

I do the best I can to dry myself with toilet paper and go straight to Mick. He’s unpacking books onto our makeshift bookshelves, humming, nodding his head in time with his own tune. He smiles as I approach.

“I’m bleeding.”

“What?” He drops the book in his hand. “Shit. Is that bad? That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“We need to go to the hospital.”

I wrap an old towel around my waist, Mick grabs the keys, and we walk together down to the car, moving carefully, as if there was something broken in us.

The emergency room is crowded and a nurse informs us that we will have a long wait before we can see a doctor.

“But she could be losing the baby,” Mick protests. “She needs to see someone now.”

“Sorry. We have a triage system. And I’m afraid that at this early stage, if you are having a miscarriage, there’s really nothing we can do, anyway, honey. All we’ll be doing is monitoring.” She smiles kindly. “But that may not be the case. A lot of women bleed during pregnancy and then go on to have perfectly healthy babies. Take a seat and try not to worry.”

Mick and I shuffle over to the chairs. There are no two seats together, but a woman notices that we are a couple and moves over so that we can sit next to each other. Mick thanks her, and though she catches my eye and smiles sympathetically, I look away. I don’t want sympathy or kindness from strangers. If I’m going to have to grieve, I want to do it privately. The room is crowded and everyone would have heard our conversation with the nurse. With the towel around my waist, I feel exposed and conspicuous.

I slump down into a chair and close my eyes, rest my head on Mick’s shoulder.

Someone calls my name forty minutes later. A nurse asks Mick to wait, but when I burst into tears and clutch his arm, she lets him come through with me. She leads us to a bed and asks me to sit down.

“How much blood was there?”

“I’m not sure. It seemed like a lot.”

“A pad full, do you think? More?”

“Maybe. Yes. Just a pad full.”

She writes on a clipboard. “Are you still bleeding? Now?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I can’t feel anything.”

“Good. If you can’t feel it, you’re probably not.”

She writes more notes and then takes my blood pressure and my temperature.

“That’s all good. The doctor won’t be long. Just lie down. Rest.”

She drapes a thin blanket over my legs and pulls the curtains closed as she leaves.

Mick sits on the chair beside the bed and takes my hand.

“I shouldn’t have let you unpack, should I?” he says. He looks forlorn.

“No. That’s not it. I didn’t even lift anything heavy. Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be treated like invalids.” I squeeze his hand. “Anyway. Let’s not assume the worst. Not yet.”

“Sorry. No. Of course not. It’s just that I really want it to be okay. I don’t want …”

“Neither do I.” I bite my lip, try not to cry.

And then the curtain opens and a tall, thin woman comes in. She has wiry red hair and reminds me vaguely of Philippa, which makes me feel immediately more comfortable. She is pushing a large machine. She notices me staring at it.

“Ultrasound.” She stands beside the bed, pats my leg. “I’m Dr. King. Let’s try and have a little look at this baby, shall we?”

I’m terrified as she moves the probe around my belly. I stare at the screen, which shows a collection of cloudy gray blobs and shadows I can make no sense of.

“Aha.” Dr. King holds the probe still, points to the screen, smiles. “Heartbeat. See? Nice and strong. And the baby’s size is absolutely perfect for its gestational age.”

I see the pulsing of my baby’s heart and I hear myself make an odd strangled noise, part laugh, part sob.

Mick squeezes my hand. “Wow.”

The doctor says she thinks everything is fine—it was probably just an isolated, unexplained bleed. “Just one of those strange things,” she says. She tells Mick to take me home and look after me for a few days, to bring me back immediately if it happens again. “Try not to worry, I don’t think it was anything too serious,” she tells us. “But take it easy for a few days,” she concludes with a smile at me, “just to be safe.”

I spend the next three days in bed. Mick goes to the library and gets me a pile of books on pregnancy and I read them from cover to cover. Fortunately, the weather is perfect for it—stormy and cold—and I feel safe and cozy and perfectly content lying beneath the covers of our bed. Mick practices his electronic drums with the sound turned so low that I can barely hear them, and brings me breakfast and lunch and dinner in bed. When I get sick of reading, he drags the television in. We watch daytime soaps together and laugh at the absurd plots, the wooden acting. There is no more blood.

On the fourth morning I wake feeling more energetic than I have in weeks. I get up, leaving Mick asleep in bed, and make myself a cup of tea. Downstairs there is a small communal garden, shared by the four apartments in our building. I take my tea outside and sit on the steps that lead down to the garden.

Though it’s still early, the sun is warm and the sky is enormous and high and a magnificent deep blue—a sky that I’ve never seen in Greece or Indonesia or Europe, or in any of the other countries we used to travel to before Rachel died—and I’m filled with a sense of happiness so great, and a feeling of such immense gratitude to be alive, that I smile. A huge, spontaneous, unseen grin. The wooden steps are warm beneath my bare feet, the tea is sweet and delicious, and the sun presses gently on my skin, kissing me awake.

In the past I spent too long stopping myself from feeling this kind of happiness, the simple, sensual pleasure of just being alive. I thought of it as unfair to Rachel—a selfish indulgence, a kind of betrayal—because she’ll never again enjoy such moments. But I think of what my mother said, how important it is that I live my life, that I let myself enjoy it, and it suddenly occurs to me with an overwhelming certainty that my sister would want me to be happy. She’d never, ever begrudge me a full and happy life. And I suddenly realize that I can choose how I feel. And that choosing to be miserable means choosing to let the men who murdered Rachel destroy my life as surely as they destroyed hers.

“I’m happy, Rachel.” I say it out loud as a kind of prayer. “Truly happy.”

But the sunshine doesn’t last long, and by mid-morning the storm clouds have gathered again and the sky is dark. I spend another day indoors, reading, while Mick goes out to band practice. By the time he gets home at six I am restless and bored and desperate for his company.

I rush to the door and embrace him as soon as I hear his key in the lock.

He laughs but doesn’t hug me in return. He is hiding something behind his back. “Surprise!” he says. And he hands me a large white envelope.

There is a wad of hundred-dollar bills inside the envelope. I look at him, astounded. “What is this?”

“Sold. One bike. Three thousand big ones.”

“Oh, Mick.” I wrap my arms around him. “Are you sad?”

“Are you insane?” He squeezes me tight, kisses my neck. “Your dad totally freaked me out. Convinced me I’d be killed instantly if I ever touched the damn thing again. I don’t want to die. I’m going to be a father. And, hey, today we’re rich: let’s celebrate, get takeout for dinner.”

“No. No. Let’s go out somewhere. I’m going nuts cooped up here.”

“But do you think it’ll be okay? Do you think we should?”

“It’ll be fine.” I quickly pull my clothes off and head toward the shower. “The doctor said I should take it easy for a few days. She didn’t say I should stay in bed for the next six months. I haven’t moved. I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of here soon.”

“We’ll drive, then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll never get a parking space.”

“True.” He sighs. “But are you sure you’ll be okay? I could go and get us some takeout—”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll walk slowly.” I laugh. “Like two old married people.”

It isn’t far to the restaurant, and we take the path that runs along the beach. It’s not raining yet, but there are storm clouds in the sky and the beach is wild, the waves rough and foamy. It’s a spectacular sight and we take our time, arms linked, strolling leisurely. We’re both enjoying being out of the apartment, taking in the fresh air, the beauty of the view.

And we take our time over our meal. Mick talks about the band, about composing music. We imagine a future tour of the world—money, fame, thousands of screaming fans. I laugh and tell him that I’ll be beating the girls off him.

“I’ll be the witchy, jealous, fat wife at home. With six kids.”

“Yes,” he teases. “Fat, jealous, and witchy. I can imagine you like that.”

We contemplate taking a taxi home because it looks as though it might rain at any second, but decide against it. It’s gorgeous outside, and it’s only a short walk. And a little rain can’t hurt us.

37

Y
ou hear footsteps behind you—the sharp
click click click
of heels on concrete—but think nothing of it. As the footsteps grow louder, closer, you and he move to the side, make way for the woman to pass you by. But she stops, turns, faces you. It’s getting dark out, so it takes a moment before you realize who it is. Alice.

She tilts her head to the side, smiles. “Katherine,” she says. And you can hear it in the way she speaks slowly, carefully—she’s drunk again. “I knew I’d find you here. I knew if I waited long enough that I’d bump into you and the little drummer boy.”

He pulls you away, holding your hand tightly. You keep walking.

“It’s such a beautiful, wild night to be out and about, isn’t it?” She follows close behind, talking in an artificially friendly voice. “I’m so glad I bumped into you. Well, both of you, actually. We’ve just got so much to talk about.”

You walk faster, don’t turn around. Don’t answer.

“Oh, come on, you two. Don’t you want to talk?”

He squeezes your hand so hard your fingers hurt. You keep walking.

“Okay, then. Maybe you don’t want to talk. I can understand that. But I want to talk. In fact, I
need
to talk. There’s a lot that’s been unsaid, Katherine, a lot you don’t know about that night.” She laughs viciously. “And I know you know which night I’m talking about.
That
night.”

You falter. You stop walking.

She laughs, behind you. “Oh, that got your attention, didn’t it? Hmm? Can’t run away forever and ever, can you, Katie? Got to face up to the truth sometime.”

You turn to face her. “What are you talking about?”

She puts her hands on her hips, looks you up and down. “What’s it like to have the perfect life, Katherine? The perfect family? Must be nice to be so spoiled, to be oblivious to the suffering of others?”

“The perfect family? Oblivious to suffering?” you repeat, incredulous. “Are you joking, Alice? My little sister was raped and murdered. My family is far from happy, far from perfect.”

“But your parents love you, don’t they?” she sneers. “I know they do. I’ve seen them. They worship the very air you breathe. You’re their little princess. That’s why you’re so smug. That’s why you don’t give a damn.”

“Why I don’t give a damn? You’re insane, Alice. You talk in riddles.”

“You don’t care about people like us.”

“People like us?” I look around her deliberately. “Who’s
us
, Alice? Who are you talking about?”

“Me and my brother. That’s who I’m talking about. Me and my brother.”

You shake your head in confusion. “What on earth …”

“Everything’s easy for people like you, Katherine. Your parents love you. The world loves you. You’ve never had to prove anything to anyone. And if your sister gets murdered, then of course everyone takes your side, everyone just accepts that you were innocent, that it wasn’t your fault.”

“But it wasn’t my fault.” And despite the hysteria that is rising in you, the feeling of anger that makes you want to scream and lash out at her, your voice sounds calm, almost normal. “How dare you even say that. And you’re wrong. People were horrible when Rachel was killed. It was horrible. I’ve told you that.”

“Horrible? What a pathetic little word. I don’t think it could’ve been as
horrible
as you say. You weren’t thrown in jail, were you? You weren’t accused of murder, were you?”

Mick pulls at your arm and tells you to drop it, to walk away, but you’re too angry, too involved now to leave. You push his hand away.

“Of course I wasn’t!” And despite all the doubts that still haunt you, all the mistakes you made the night of Rachel’s murder, you are suddenly filled with a burning fury—against Alice, against the press, against the murderers themselves—and the rage is obvious in your voice. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh. But you did, really, didn’t you?” And now she is smiling, her voice falsely intimate. “I guess on the surface it might look as though you were innocent. To someone who didn’t know any better. But you and I know better, don’t we?”

“No, Alice. No. We don’t.” And you understand deep down that this conversation is pointless, but you feel compelled to defend yourself, to fight. “You’re wrong. What you’re saying is disgusting. It’s unfair. Untrue. I got frightened. I saw light and I ran for help. I was terrified. I had no choice.”

“Oh, but you did have a choice, Katherine. You had lots of choices that night. And you made the wrong one every time. Every. Single. Time.”

“No.” You shake your head, fighting back tears. “No. You’re wrong. You don’t know—”

She leans in close. Speaks quietly. “You didn’t have to run, Katherine.”

“I did,” you say. “I had no choice.”

“No.” She straightens up, crosses her arms over her chest. “You left
them
with no choice when you ran away. You forced them into doing something they didn’t want to do.”

“Why are you saying this?” And now you are shouting. You grab her arm and hold it tight.
“Why?
Why do you say I had all the choices? They took us against our will. They were the only ones with any choice. Not me. Not my little sister. We were their victims. Why do you want to defend such animals?”

“‘Animals’? You see how you refer to them, Katherine? Hardly nice, is it? Hardly fair?”

“They
are
animals.” You spit the words out. “They killed my sister. I hope they rot in hell.”

“My brother is not an animal.” And her face contorts into an expression of such bitterness that she is, for a moment, ugly. “He is not an animal.”

“Your brother?” You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

Again her face changes and without warning she is sobbing, her voice high and shaky. “Nobody loved him. Nobody. Not our real mother. Not the bitches who separated us. Nobody. Don’t you think that
hurt
him? Don’t you think it might screw you up if your own mother doesn’t
want
you? Don’t you think he could have been excused for messing up, for being
confused?”

“Alice.” You won’t let go of her arm. You want her to look at you, to calm down, to stop talking such garbage. Her behavior is frightening, irrational, insane. You wonder if you should get her to a doctor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not making any sense.”

She pulls away and stares at you. Her expression is full of loathing.

“You made my little brother a murderer,” she says. “You put him in prison.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“You put him in prison,” she says again, enunciating each word slowly and precisely. Then she smiles—a cold, venomous smile that chills your heart. “How can I make it any clearer? Sean. My little brother. You put him in jail.”

“I don’t know your little brother. How could I—”

“Sean,” she interrupts. “Sean Enright.”

“But he … he’s not …”

“Yes. He is.”

And finally you understand. You understand everything. Her friendship with you. Her spitefulness. It was this all along. Her brother. Your sister. This.

Sean. The boy in the back of the car. The overweight boy with the nice face. He’d been so nervous, had seemed so frightened …

But still. He hurt your sister. Deliberately and without mercy. He made his choice.

You stand there, as still and as mute as a pole, and stare at her. And you have the conflicting urge to both hit her and apologize. She stares back at you, smiling triumphantly, gloating, and you are about to reach out your arm, slap her face, but Mick is pulling at you, urging you to move.

“Katherine. Come on. Let’s go.” He puts his arm around your shoulders and forces you to turn away, to continue, to head for home. It has started to rain and chill drops are splashing your face, your hair. You will be drenched by the time you arrive.

“Good idea, Mick.” She follows behind you. “It’s getting very wet, isn’t it? We should all head up to your place. Discuss this some more.”

He stops walking. You can feel his fury in the way he grips your shoulder, hear it in the tone of his voice. “Go away, Alice. Get the hell away from us. Leave us alone or I’ll call the police. I’m serious. Go. Now.”

“The police? Now, what good could they do? They never did my little brother any good.” She turns her head, pouts. The raindrops are battering her face. “Oh, but they like people like you, don’t they? Spoiled middle-class assholes like you two. They always take your side, don’t they?”

And she continues ranting about the police as you turn and walk away until suddenly her voice changes.

“Aww, let’s not fight. Hey. I know what—why don’t we all get naked and go skinny-dipping? Get to know each other a bit more intimately.”

And then she is running, in front of you, down the grassy slope and onto the beach. She bends over, pulls her shoes off, and tosses them on the sand. She lets her sweater fall, lifts her dress over her head in one swift movement.

“Come on, Katherine!” she shouts, her hair blowing wildly over her face. “Don’t be a chickenshit all your life. Now’s your chance to show some courage.
Come on!”

She runs straight into the water, runs through the crashing waves until she is thigh-deep, and then she dives under, disappears.

Mick looks at you. His face full of fear. “Fuck,” he says. And then he is gone, running down the slope toward the beach. You follow.

You stand on the beach together and scream her name. “Alice! Alice!”

“Alice! Where are you? Alice!”

You both rush along the edges of the water, shoes and all, both shouting as loud as you can, hands cupped around your mouths.

“She’s going to fucking drown. Alice!” he screams.

And then you hear it. “Help!” It’s so faint, coming from so far away. It’s so windy down here near the water, so cold, so wet, the waves so relentlessly pounding. But you hear it again. “Help!”

“This way. Alice! Alice! I think I see her.”

You know what you’ve got to do. You know, from experience, what is right. This time you won’t be a coward. You won’t run away, you won’t make the same mistake again. This time you’ll show some courage. You pull your shoes off, toss them aside, start heading deeper into the water, toward the voice.

“Katherine!” He pulls you back, screams at you. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“She’s going to drown,” you say. “She’s going to drown.”

He drags you up and out of the water, pushes you down so that you are sitting on the sand. “Wait there!” he shouts. “Wait!” And then he is pulling his T-shirt over his head, his shoes off, his socks, stumbling as he rushes to the water.

“No,” you say. “No. Wait!” But it’s too late, he’s running, and before you even have the chance to tell him to take his jeans off, he is gone.

You get up and follow him, but it’s so dark and the water’s so noisy, and he is lost immediately. You head straight into the water, walking slowly, shouting his name over and over, because you don’t know where he is, how to find him. You walk until the water is tugging at your thighs, the current so powerful you can feel it pulling, forcing you off your feet. You let it drag you down, feel yourself surrender to the black, black depths. And it is in your face, your nose, your mouth—and inside your head you scream his name over and over, but it is no good, you cannot find him, he cannot be found.

And then someone is dragging you, hurting you, pulling at your hair. There are lights and voices. Screams.

There is air.

Y
ou spend the night in the hospital. Your chest is tight; your throat and your eyes are burning, raw.

“You’ll be fine,” they say. “In no time at all. One hundred percent.”

But when you call his name, they turn away. “You were very brave” is their answer.

Y
ou will not be fine. Everything will not be okay.

Y
ou put your hand on his cheek and pull it immediately away.

The skin of the dead no longer feels like skin. It doesn’t feel like anything human at all. It’s too cold and hard and lifeless. He is gone—this stiff, unmoving gray thing on the bed just an empty container, a shell—and you have no desire to kiss those purple lips, or touch that icy cheek. There is nothing for you in this bleak hospital room but a cold and empty nothingness that has no answers, can give no peace, will provide no comfort to the living.