Perfections (42 page)

Loki wanders into the kitchen just as she’s opening a new tin of tea. The strong scent of peppermint wafts through the air. Beneath it, a subtler note of anise. ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Make me one?’ He seems happier now, more relaxed.

Lina smiles. ‘Of course. I’m putting on a pot.’

‘How’s Antoinette?’

‘She’s sleeping, I think. Needed my help to shower and put on her pyjamas. I had to tuck her into bed like she was two years old.’

‘She’ll get better,’ Loki says. ‘She made a whimsy today – that has to mean she’s getting stronger, right?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think that she is.’ Lina shakes her head. ‘What if it never changes, Loki? She might be stuck like that forever and–’

‘Shhh.’ He places a finger across her lips. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll take care of her, whatever happens, or doesn’t happen. We’re a family, the three of us; that’s what we do.’ Moving behind her, he slips his arms around her waist. Kisses the side of her neck. ‘And maybe there could be more than just the
three
of us. Can you imagine that? A couple of young kidlets running around the place?’

Lina tries to keep her hand steady as she loads the teapot with leaves. ‘I was thinking we could take her to a hospital.’

‘Why?’

‘They could run some tests, perhaps find out what’s causing–’

‘We know what’s causing it.’ His lips move to the other side of her throat. ‘I don’t know how you can think it would help. Even if some nosy labcoats did manage to work out the full story, what do you reckon they’d do then? Who do you think would take priority in their eyes?’

‘But if someone
could
help her . . .’

‘Lina.’ He turns her to face him. ‘Antoinette
chose
this. She could have passed me on to her mother when she had the chance, but she didn’t – because she wanted to keep us both. And now we’ll keep her, for as long as she needs us.’

‘But–’

That finger again on her lips. ‘No buts. She takes care of us and we take care of her. It couldn’t be simpler.’ The kettle shrieks to a boil. He kisses her on both cheeks. ‘Hey, how about we flake out with a movie tonight? There’s a whole bunch of burnt discs in there, including a copy of
Casablanca
.’

‘You must have seen that a thousand times already,’ Lina says, filling the teapot to the brim. The lid settles in place with a loud ceramic
chink
.

Loki is shaking his head. ‘Not once.’

‘Oh? Ant loves that film, I just thought . . .’

His eyes have a cracked, broken-glass glitter. ‘She might have watched
Casablanca
with someone else, but not with
me
.
I’ve
never seen a minute of it.’

She forces a smile onto her face. ‘Then we should definitely remedy that. You go in and set it up, I’ll finish making the tea.’

Lina waits for him to leave. For the sound of the television to drift in from the living room. Once she is sure, once she is certain, she pours peppermint tea into her favourite mug. Plain white, a delicate garland of roses running down the handle. The second one – the mug with the tartan, the mug Loki seems to like – she fills less than halfway. The oleander has been steeping in water all evening. Those dark green leaves cut fine with a knife she never cares to see again. Mixed with an old box of peppermint tea, another of rosehip. Sealed tight in Tupperware and tucked beneath the sink. Right at the back of the bottom shelf. Waiting.

For now.

Lina pauses, listens for any noise of warning. The creak of couch springs. The pad of bare feet down the hall. Nothing.

She drains the murky liquid through a sieve, then tops up the tartan mug. Stirs. It’s lukewarm, so she zaps it in the microwave for thirty seconds. Adds three drops of the peppermint essence she found in the cupboard. Stirs again. It doesn’t smell too bad. Strange, but definitely minty.

She doesn’t dare sample it.

Oleandrin. Beautiful word; deadly poison.

Posited by some as an alternative treatment for cancer, though an unproven and astonishingly dangerous one. Googling for information – back when they first learned Sally Paige was ill, back when they knew nothing else – Lina was surprised to recognise the pretty, pink-flowered shrubs.

She picks up the mugs from the bench.

And supposes, grimly, that Sally Paige would at least appreciate the symmetry of the situation.

Her hands shake as she walks into the living room. Her heart speeds. She almost abandons the plan. Almost retraces her steps, tips the whole evil concoction into the sink. Because Loki is
right there
. Smiling and beautiful. Jumping up to rescue his mug as it almost tips from her grasp.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘I’m – I’m a bit cold, actually. It’s come over chilly tonight.’

‘Come here.’ Back on the couch, he pats the cushion beside him. ‘I’ll keep you nice and warm.’

‘Perhaps I should go fetch Ant. She might like to watch with us.’

‘She’s asleep, you said.’

‘I’ll wake her up.’

‘Lina, don’t be silly. Sit down and drink your tea.’ As though to demonstrate, he takes a sip of his own. Grimaces. Peers into the mug as though he expects something to crawl out and bite him. ‘This tastes weird.’

‘It’s a new brand. If it’s too bitter, I can bring you some honey.’

‘That’s okay,’ he says, drinking another mouthful. ‘It’s fine. A bit strong on the peppermint maybe, but it’ll grow on me.’

Lina holds her mug with both hands. She really does feel cold. Feels like she might never be warm again. ‘Are you sure you want to drink it?’

Because for one glorious, terrible moment, she teeters right on the fulcrum. If he says
no
, she will take the poison from him. Because she loves him,
she loves him
. And in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done. What he might do again.

If he just says the word, she will–

‘Lina.’ Loki smiles, indulgent but edged. ‘How could I refuse anything from you? Now sit down, please, and let’s just watch this damn film.’

So Lina sits. She thinks of her sister. She thinks of Loki.

And she makes her choice.

— 27 —

Lina opens her eyes as the twin-engine airplane taxis down the runway for the second time that morning. As shots are fired and usual suspects rounded up. As fog descends around Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains, and the final reprise of
Le Marseillaise
swells from the television speakers.

‘Ant?’ she whispers croakily. Lifts her head from her sister’s lap and levers herself upright. ‘Hey, are you awake?’ Her sister is looking to her left, out of the living room windows to the grey, dismal sky. Lina can’t remember turning Ant’s head like that. But she can’t remember
not
turning it either. And there is already far too much she would like to forget.

Loki, curled cramped on the couch; on the stale mattress of Sally Paige’s bed; on the bathroom tiles where he slumps even now, alone and slowly stiffening. Blood and vomit tracked through the house, along with other vile secretions his failing body thought fit to purge. Mouth rictus, eyes bulging bright and dilated. Cursing her at the end, those last heart-twitchy hours before consciousness deserted him for a lost cause. Before he slipped, before he fell, before he was pushed, bruised and broken, into oblivion’s hungry mouth.

Not an easy death. Not quick. Oleander no angel come to sing him to his rest.

Lina wipes ill-earned tears from her eyes.

I’m sorry, Loki, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would be that bad.

Huddled on the couch with Ant since dawn. Waiting, waiting. Twice rising to check Loki’s corpse. Fish for a pulse, a heartbeat, the barest skimmer of breath. To be sure, to be certain. Of nothing,
nothing
.

But this ground remains untested and Lina will not give up. Not yet.

Sunday night. Tomorrow night. Counting down the hours on her fingers. The number of times
Casablanca
can play, and play again. While her sister fights. Battles through fogbanks of her own. Finds her way home, finds her way to Lina. Because she must. Because it can’t have been for
nothing
.

And if she doesn’t? If those Moroccan-spun hours all pass unremarked, what then, sister dearest, what then?

Lina tucks up her legs. Leans against her sister’s shoulder.

‘I love you, Ant,’ she says. ‘Please, you need to come back now.’

Choosing, for the moment, not to ponder the oleander steeping fresh in the kitchen. Not to consider that even a single perfection may yet be one parasite too many to bear. And not, not,
not
to contemplate Loki,
her Loki
, or the betrayal that burned absolute in his eyes.

Lina points the remote at the television instead. Opening credits play across the screen. Maps and markets and
Le Marseillaise
once more. Once more and again.

And so, choice made for good or ill, Lina sits.

Waiting, waiting, waiting with the others in the dry Casablancan streets.

Acknowledgements

I honestly doubt there’s enough gratitude in the world for everyone who provided advice, encouragement, criticism and support during the writing of this particular novel, but here goes:

Elizabeth Markham, Natalie Potts, Bren MacDibble, Tracey Rolfe and Rjurik Davidson of the SuperNOVA writers group, for insightful critiques of very early chapters.

Kate Eltham, Robert Hoge, Angela Slatter, Mark Curtis, Paul Garrety and Michele Cashmore, as well as the indomitable Sean Williams and Alison Goodman, for crucial flensing undertaken at the Edge Writers Retreat.

Cat Sparks, Karen Miller, Thoraiya Dyer, Joanne Anderton, Alisa Krasnostein, Amanda Pillar, Glenda Larke, Rowena Cory Daniells, Tansy Rayner Roberts, Narelle Harris, Kaaron Warren and Kim Wilkins, for random words of advice and encouragement along the way. (Which they’ve most likely all forgotten by now, but which I will always hold dear.)

Jules Mond, for vital and speedy assistance with medical-related research. (Any errors are all down to me.)

Ellen Gregory, Helen Merrick, Julia Svaganovic and Ian Mond, for stepping up to be my enthusiastic, if occasionally traumatised, beta readers.

Ellen and Alison and Angela, again and again and again, for unmitigated support, feedback and general arse-kicking when I needed it most. Much love to you all!

Rod Morrison, who believed in this book so much he bought it twice.

Selwa Anthony, super agent, calmer of frayed nerves and invaluable voice of reason.

Cornelia Craciun, my mother, beta reader and proof reader extraordinaire.

And Jason. For everything. Always.

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About the Author

Kirstyn McDermott has been working in the darker alleyways of speculative fiction for much of her career, with many critically acclaimed and award-winning short stories under her authorial belt. Her debut novel,
Madigan Mine
, was published in 2010 and won the Aurealis Award for Best Horror Novel – an extract from which once caused an audience member to faint during a live reading. While wearing her non-writing hats, Kirstyn co-edited the inaugural issue of
Midnight Echo
, served as Vice President of the Australian Horror Writers Association, and convened Continuum 3, the speculative fiction and pop culture convention. She now produces and co-hosts a monthly book-discussion podcast,
The Writer and the Critic
, which generally keeps her out of trouble. Kirstyn lives in Melbourne with her husband and fellow scribbler, Jason Nahrung, and can be found online (usually far too often) at
www.kirstynmcdermott.com