Nine Letters Long (23 page)

‘She was with him in his car before so she must've gone out in her car. Were there any lights on?'

‘Nope.'

‘Seb,' Evie begins. ‘Will you wait out the front while Paris and I are out the back?'

‘Sure. I'll whistle if anyone comes.'

Evie sees Paris gulp. She looks as though she's going to be sick.

‘Are you okay?'

‘You'll stay with me, won't you, Evie? Even … if he comes back and finds us, you'll stay with me, won't you? My mother, well, I can't even talk to her. It's so hard to speak to anyone you know …'

‘Hey,' Evie soothes. ‘I'm not going to bale out on you now.'

How could Evie explain to Paris that she, too, needs this to be over? It'd sound so selfish. Evie wanting to get back to a normal life while Paris will be left with a pain so black Evie can hardly begin to understand it. But that's the way it is. Evie is here to do what Caz has asked her, and, when she's done it, it's over. Over for Evie. Perhaps just beginning for Paris.

 

Paris's grip is tight around Evie's wrist as they creep down the side of the house. Past windows that are locked and rooms that are dark. The back of the house opens out to a courtyard bordered by a large square of grass. At the outer edge of the grass, shaded by the branches of a tree, is the aviary.

It's exactly as Evie drew it. Cages, stacked on top of one another, each the size of a large box with vertical mesh hammered across the front. Built out from the cages, almost the size of a small room, is a wired walk-in enclosure, high enough for an adult to stand in.

‘Wow,' Evie whispers. ‘It's huge. I was imagining just a few wooden cages.'

‘No way. Dad built a special flying area for them,' Paris says. ‘In the day, he'd open the cages and the birds could fly free.'

‘Okay.' Evie takes a deep breath. ‘Are you ready?'

The girls scamper across the grass like a couple of rabbits. Too scared to look behind, too scared to stop.

Up close, the cages seem even bigger. A rusted wire door held erect on just one hinge marks the entry to the aviary. Over and over, Paris slams her hip into the warped aluminium frame. Evie waits to hear the bone crack.

‘Let me have a try,' she offers. With one bash, the door is open.

They walk in, ankle deep in feathers and seeds. Tufts of grass are tangled through the floor and remnants of old bird droppings are smeared across the perches and water troughs. Without a thought, Paris is down on her elbows and knees, her hands searching through the debris.

‘How long have the cages been empty?' Evie asks.

‘Years,' Paris answers. ‘After Dad died, they died. All of them. One by one. Caz said they died of a broken heart. Uncle Cosmin wanted to fix the aviary and get more parrots but Mum wouldn't let him. She said they cost too much to keep.'

Evie can't believe the aviary has been left like this. Untouched since the day the last parrot died. Left-over seed from the final feeds. Moulted feathers from the last bird. A token of life before their father died. Is that why it's been
left like this? Evie doesn't understand, but there are many things she doesn't understand about this family. Many things that have been left untouched.

Paris searches in and under the water troughs. ‘It was only small,' she says. ‘I saw her with it once. It had a green cover. She said, “All my secrets are in here,” and she pointed to her head. Then she smiled and said, “And all my secrets are in here.” And she held up the diary. That's when I saw it.'

Now Paris is opening each individual cage. Her hands sift through the contents, feathers and dust flying around her.

‘This was the maternity one.' Paris points to a large wooden box almost the size of the cube it sits in. ‘Look, it's still in perfect condition. Dad called it the “having-a-baby cage”. It was always so exciting when it was …'

Evie sees it. The circle – a hole, just large enough for a man's hand to fit in, peeping through the centre of the wooden box.

‘There!' she gasps.

‘Where?' Paris jumps back.

‘The, the …' she points to it.

‘The breeding box?'

‘Yes! Inside that … that hole!'

In a second, Paris is tearing at the mesh screen with her bare hands. Evie helps her try to bend and twist the wire that separates them from the maternity box. Paris's tiny fingers hook themselves through the holes. She heaves and grunts as she pulls the wooden frame off the front of the cage then burrows her hand into the hole that is the entry to the box.

‘Is it there?' Evie pants. ‘Can you feel anything? Anything?'

‘I'm not sure …' Paris's entire arm fits into the hole. ‘I think … yes, I think I can feel …' Tapping and knocking sounds echo from the cage as her hand flaps and hits the inside of the wooden box. ‘Yes! There's something in here … I can just feel the edge.' Like playing cards, the rotted wood begins to fall away, piece by piece, and there lying on the mouldy remains of what was once cotton wool is a tiny green diary.

‘Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!' Paris says over and over. But Evie senses that danger is near. She takes Paris's hand and leads her out of the aviary. ‘We have to go, Paris.' But Paris hardly moves. She is frozen to the spot, clutching her sister's diary to her chest, crouching over her pain and crying, ‘Oh my god! Oh my god!'

‘We have to get out of here,' Evie whispers, navigating Paris out of the aviary gate, back across the grass and down the side passage. ‘Come on, Paris.'

Seb is at the gate. He turns around and signals it's safe. So past the three houses, around the corner and under the hedge they scramble to safety.

‘Did you find it? Did you find it?' Seb pants.

Paris nods, opening her hand to show Seb. She rubs the dirty green cover against her chest. Then licks her fingers and rubs it clean. The year ‘2000' appears.

‘So, have you looked at it? What did –'

Evie catches Seb's eye and gives the tiniest shake of her head. He stops mid-sentence, understanding he can't go there. It's private business. For the eyes of the women only.

A car slows at the corner. Suddenly Paris is scuttling to the hedge and peering out through the leaves.

‘It's him!' she cries. ‘Oh no! It's him.'

Seb creeps out to the edge of the street and peers around the corner. ‘He's pulled into your place.'

Paris grips Evie's arm, squeezing it so that the skin is taut and twisted.

‘I'm going to take you to my place,' Evie tells her. ‘Okay? You'll be safe there.'

‘We'll go through the park we play soccer in,' Seb says. ‘There's a little walkway that leads out to the shops.'

‘No, I'll ring Dad. He'll come and get us.'

‘Evie, don't. Come on. If we get through the park and to the shops, there'll be a bus or a taxi.'

‘It's Sunday, Seb.'

‘Well, we can't stay here,' he tells her. ‘We'll run fast.'

‘See if the car's still there, at least.'

Seb darts out and around the corner again. Paris's fingers still grip Evie's arm.

He waves at them to follow. ‘It's safe,' he beckons. ‘The car's there but he's not in it. Does he have a key, Paris?'

‘Yes.'

‘Let's bolt.'

 

Over the road, down the adjoining street and into the park, they flee. Evie and Seb hold Paris's hands. She's frozen on them again. Her feet hardly touch the ground. It's like they're carrying a statue, petrified and lifeless. But Evie
feels strong. Strong enough to carry her if she has to. Her legs bound out from the hip sockets, her breath in rhythm with each stride, the thoughts flying through her mind. She is running to her freedom and yet she senses she is also running into the darkest part yet.

A taxi appears on the street that runs parallel with the park. Evie drops Paris's hand and charges up to the footpath. It's got to see her. It's got to hear her. ‘Stop! Stop!' She screeches and waves, rushing onto the road, almost leaping onto its bonnet.

The driver slams on the brakes. ‘Hey,' he yells. ‘Watch it, girly. You could've got yourself killed.'

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,' Evie says as she climbs in, holding the door open for Seb and Paris. ‘Um. Garrison Road, please.'

Seb helps Paris into the car. Her skin is white and waxy. Although Evie understands terror, she knows she doesn't understand the sort of terror Paris Cuza is feeling inside. So she holds Paris's hand and lets the silence speak.

 

‘Seb?'

‘I know,' he says to Evie.

They are standing out the front of her house. ‘It's better I go. I don't know what you're going to find in that diary. But I'm betting it's not good.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm scared. Scared for Paris. I don't know what this'll mean for her. I hope I've done the right thing, Seb.'

‘Of course you have.' He nods towards Paris and says, ‘You better take her in. She looks like she's only just keeping it together.'

‘Thanks, Seb.'

They wrap their arms around each other and stay like that, not moving, not speaking. Evie closes her eyes, breathing in the sweat on his neck.

‘I could stay like this forever,' she finally whispers.

‘Mmmm,' he replies.

 

The minute Evie opens the door her mother calls, ‘Evie? Evie, is that you?' Her feet patter down the stairs. When she sees Paris, she stops.

‘Oh? Hello.' Robin looks at her daughter.

‘Mum,' Evie begins. ‘Mum, this is Paris. Paris Cuza, Nora's daughter.'

‘Paris? Hello.' Again she glances at Evie. ‘Does anyone know … you're … here?'

Paris shakes her head.

‘Evie …' her mum begins.

‘Mum, um, can I talk to you?' Then, turning to Paris, she says, ‘Come and sit down in the lounge room.' Paris follows her. ‘It's cool in there. I'll get you something to drink. I just, well, I better talk to Mum.'

‘I'm sorry.' Then she mumbles, ‘You know, my mother doesn't really speak to me.'

‘Just, just stay here for a sec. Okay?'

As Evie walks out of the lounge-room, she turns to say
something to Paris like ‘It'll be all right,' but stops herself. The sight of Paris, her tiny frame sunken into the couch, her eyes darting around the room like a frightened animal, makes Evie want to cry. Next to this girl's sorrow, her words are useless.

 

In the kitchen, Robin is putting ice in two glasses. ‘Evie, what's going on? What the hell is she doing here? Isn't her mother looking for her? We need to call her, tell her she's safe and that –'

‘She's not safe,' Evie cuts in. ‘That's why she's here.'

‘What? What do you –'

‘I'm not exactly sure,' Evie tells her. ‘But I think, I think …' She hesitates, wondering how to say this bit. ‘I think someone's been doing … bad stuff to her. Like what they did to … Caz.'

‘Who? Who, Evie? What are you –'

‘That man, Ingy. He's been doing those … things.'

‘Things? What things?' Robin walks around the counter to where Evie is leaning. ‘Evie, are you talking about what I think you're talking about?'

Evie nods.

‘But how do you –'

Evie lifts her shoulders. The words are too hard to say.

‘It's a big call, Evie. Are you –'

‘There's a diary, Mum. It's all in there. Everything I felt will be in Caz's words. I just know that.' The fear and apprehension swell in Evie's throat. They swallow her words
and try to trap her voice. ‘But will you help me … look … at it? I … I can't do … this bit without you, Mum. Please? I'm scared.'

 

With her mother's arm wrapped around her, they walk into the lounge room. Paris is reading the diary. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. When she looks up at them, her eyes seem void of life. Evie feels her mother's hand grip the back of her T-shirt. ‘Oh, Evie,' she murmurs.

‘I think …' Paris holds the diary out to them. Her voice is so soft it's hard to hear what she's saying. ‘I … think you should … have a look. You can … both look. It's … it's all there. Just … just like she told me it would be.'

Evie takes the diary and gives it to her mother who is frowning and shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Go on, Mum,' she whispers. Robin's fingers pick at the pages. It opens on the third of March. The writing is so tiny they have to lean down to read it.

They flick over to the next week's entries.