Portraits of Celina (23 page)

I step towards it and the room becomes devoid of noise and people and all I can do is gawk at the painting, which now, up close, is nothing more than tiny specs of crap and stuff. But despite this, it seems so real, and I feel as if I am being sucked into it. The trees flank either side of me; their branches hold me tight.

Across the bottom are some kind of gritty particles that form the earth around the trees. My eyes become glued to them – they fascinate me – and I run my fingers across the glass.

“Yeah,” says Oliver, his voice intruding from somewhere far away. “It’s one of Pop’s. He’s clever, hey?”

I don’t answer. I am hot and headachy and nauseous. My fingers dance back and forth across the glass.

I can’t stop them. They are frantic and so am I; I sense Celina’s involvement somehow and I just want her to leave me alone and get out of my life.

At last my fingers stop, but now I feel like I am teetering on the edge of a precipice. Horrible vertigo swamps me and I am overwhelmed with the need to get down, to get away. Why am I so terrified? I try to calm myself, draw in some deep breaths, but stinging bile races up my throat.
No. Not here
.

I turn to run outside, but fling straight into Jess, the jolt sending vomit shooting out of my mouth and all over Jess’s oh-so-hot chest and neck.

Jess freezes. Her face contorts. She stares at the revolting yellow gunk running down her neck and across her perfect boobs. She appears so shocked, she is beyond words, until she screeches at the top of her lungs. “Grr-oss!”

Mortified, I race out the door without even an apology. Oliver follows me, holds my hair as I barf and barf onto the lawn.

“Bails, what’s up? Are you sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?” Oliver asks, full of concern.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be. You’re sick; you can’t help that. But you seem to get sick a lot.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” I say as evenly as I can manage. A shrink maybe, but that’s not what he means.

Marco appears with a towel and a glass of water. I take it from him gratefully. “Thanks. Sorry …”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. You okay though?”

“Yeah. Must have been something I ate, I guess.” I use the towel to brush flecks of vomit off my shorts. “I feel so bad.”

“No worries,” says Marco. “We’re used to it. Darsh is a Barfing King. Hardly a Saturday night goes by without him making pizzas in the gutter.”

It takes a second for me to work out what he means, but once I do, that particular visual image turns my stomach over again, and I dry retch.

Tina and Katie appear. Tina crouches beside me.

“Jess?” I manage.

“Jess is fine – but she’s worried for you. She doesn’t want you to feel bad, okay? She’s borrowing some clothes from Marco’s sister. She has the best clothes – so Jess is kinda happy about that. Come inside – there’ll be something that will fit you, for sure.”

I look to Oliver with panicky eyes. I don’t want to go inside. I want to go home.

“Go on,” he says and smiles.

Everyone is being so
nice
; it’s almost too much.

Tina and Katie take an arm each and escort me back up the stairs. They both smell so horse-and-manurey that I hope it will mask the smell of my puke in the foyer. I take care to keep my eyes averted when I pass Bud’s painting, but the wobbles come back.

“Hey, don’t worry,” says Tina. “Really, this is no biggie. You’ll be laughing about it by morning.”

“Yeah,” agrees Katie. “It’ll become legend. When we’re wrinklies, sitting in a nursing home we’ll say, ‘Remember the day we met Bayley and she barfed over Jess? Ah – those were the days.’”

They are being so kind, and I appreciate it, I really do.

But I will never laugh about it. Ever.

Oliver drops me off at about ten and I head straight for the shower. I need to cleanse myself of the whole horrible fiasco.

I welcome the hot steamy water as it slides over me, willing it to wash away the smell of vomit and the even stronger stench of humiliation.

What must they all think of me? What must Oliver think of me? Despite everyone being so welcoming, I clung to Oliver like a timid little mouse, hardly saying a word all night, making it all so obvious that I couldn’t get out of there quick enough. I am sure everyone thinks I am way too needy and far too strange and uptight for “their” Oliver.

But how can you relax and join in a game of pool when there’s a giant-sized reminder in the foyer that a murderer is still at large and the hairs on your neck are bristling because you sense there’s a pissed-off ghost constantly looking over your shoulder? Bloody Celina! Bloody Bud! Bloody mess of a life.

I slide down the tiled wall, tilt my face up to the spray of water, before dropping it into my hands and choking back a sob.

Then I get angry.
Don’t let her rule you, Bayley. Don’t let her. Remember your decision. She can’t win
.

I am pushing myself back up, trying to convince myself with these thoughts, when there’s a click, and I am left standing in darkness.

My scalp prickles. I turn off the tap, step out of the shower and fumble for the light switch. I flick it and the lights blare back on.

Then I notice the mirror. Etched through the steamy fog covering the glass are the words:
MAKE HIM PAY
.

The days stand before me: lining up one after the other. Can I do this? Can I ignore Celina’s demands? Can I keep a secret forever?

Because it is never going to go away. I know that. The awful knowledge is always going to be there, gnawing away at me like an ulcer, and it’s obvious Celina is not going to let me rest.

Life is so unfair. All I want is to be with Oliver and be happy. Is that too much to ask? Especially after all I’ve been through. Clearly, it is if your name is Bayley Anderson.

I am jogging back from the lake bend after my usual early morning run and picnic with Oliver. He didn’t mention last night at Marco’s – not even once – and I am pretty sure that is not a good thing, which leaves me feeling uneasy.

I sigh, put down my head and pick up speed. It’s Friday and Seth’s birthday and I really want to get home before he wakes up.

Then the unthinkable happens.

Out from behind a willow steps Bud.

He stops me in my tracks, my nostrils filling with that horrible chemical smell only seconds before he is upon me.

He doesn’t say anything, of course, just thrusts a piece of paper at me.

I stand defiant, not willing to touch it, my eyes averted. My breath becomes heavy and I start to rock on the balls of my feet. Images of the fury Celina unleashed on my bedroom fill my brain. I see the words she wrote on the wardrobe mirror.
YES BUD
.
BASTARD!
The message in the steamy bathroom mirror.
MAKE HIM PAY
. Remember the sadness in her ramblings about her death. Know that what he did all those years ago now threatens my own happiness. Rage swells inside me.

I raise my head and glare at Bud. His eyes are red-rimmed and thick like soup. I think I expected to see a madman reflected in those rheumy eyes, but I see something else entirely. At first I can’t put my finger on it, but then I realise what it is. Fear. Bud is afraid. Afraid of me.

This shocks me momentarily. But then it gives me courage, or makes me foolish; it’s hard to tell.

“It was you,” I say. “That night.” My words are wonky, as if they are bouncing along a river of bubbles.

Bud takes a small step back as he processes this, then he lunges forwards and shoves the paper in my face again.

“I’m not taking it.” My voice is firm now, despite the fact that I am challenging the person who has Celina’s blood on his hands. “If you have something to say, tell me. Speak. I know you can.”

His face is a scowl. His hand, spotted and gnarled with arthritis, waves the paper in front of me. Then he grabs my wrist – his grip surprisingly strong for such an old guy. My fingers curl into a fist, but he tries to pry them open and stuff the paper into my unwilling hand.

Damn it, he’s hurting me. I try to squirm out of his hold. Push him away, wrestle myself free of his clutch. But he won’t let go. I am so afraid, I am sure my heart is about to burst out of my ribcage and abandon me.

“I know!” I shout, desperate to catch him off guard. “I know everything.” I push at him with my free hand and he stumbles slightly, enough to wrench myself from his grasp. I give him another shove and he’s on the ground. My rage consumes me, and I feel myself losing control.

“Bastard,” I hiss, and kick him, struggling to resist the fierce temptation to kick and kick and kick him like the dog he is.

“Bails!” I swing round to see Oliver charging towards us. “What are you doing?”

Bud scrambles to his feet and scurries away, limping. “Pop. Wait,” shouts Oliver, but Bud doesn’t falter; he disappears into the grove of trees.

Oliver is torn. His eyes sweep back and forth between the disappearing Bud and me. Does he follow his grandfather or challenge me? He chooses me.

“What the hell was that about?”

“He attacked me,” I say, my breath coming in gasps. “Tried to shove that note into my hand.”

Oliver frowns. He picks the crumpled note out of the dirt. “Are you kidding me? Giving someone a note is hardly an attack. You pushed him over. I saw you. Then you kicked him – when he was on the ground.”

“He hurt me,” I say lamely.

“What the–?” Oliver shakes his head. “He’s old. And, yes, he’s losing it, but he wasn’t going to hurt you. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

My head pounds.
Yes, he would. Yes, he has. He’s a murderer
. The words peck away inside me, urging me to give them voice, to set them free.

I press my lips together, blocking their escape.

“I don’t get you, Bayley. Who the hell are you anyway? How could you do something like that?” He glares at me with pure and utter disgust.

“I … I’m … sorry.” I reach out to touch his arm, but he shrugs me off roughly, flings the note to the ground and tosses my mobile to me. “You left this behind.” He turns sharply and walks away.

“Wait!” I shout after him. “Don’t go. I can explain.”

I sink to the ground, too destroyed even to cry.
Who the hell am I?
Who the hell am I? I don’t even know me any more. I am just bullshit
.

I pick up the note, straighten it out.

STAY AWAY
.

I BEG OF YOU
.

Seth is kneeling in his pyjamas in front of the TV, his fingers working hard at his earlobes, when I burst into the lounge room. He looks up at me expectantly.

“Hey,” I say, “you up already?”

“Your eyeballs are red.”

I swipe at my eyes. “Just been running, must have got wind in them. Hey! Happy birthday, Mr Seven! Is anyone else awake?”

Seth shakes his head. I can tell he is disappointed.

I summon all my strength to be cheery. “Well, Batman, how about I rustle up a birthday brekkie feast for you? What do you reckon?”

“With bacon?”

“With bacon,” I say, and hope that Gran remembered to buy some yesterday.

“And Coco Pops?”

“Mmm. That might be pushing it.”

I stagger into the kitchen. Livid. I am not up to this. Where is his mother, for God’s sake?

All I can think of is how I’ve blown it. How it is all over for Oliver and me. I have nothing now, not a thing. I swallow my anger and put together a mini-feast for the birthday boy: three rashers of crispy bacon, two fried eggs with no runny bits, toast, chocolate milkshake with ice-cream (no Coco Pops to be found) and a bowl of crisps. Perfect. I arrange them on a tray, then head upstairs to get his card and present.

Mum is slinking out of the bathroom as I reach the top landing. She looks haggard, frowns at me.

“Seth’s birthday,” I state.

“Yeah,” she says vaguely. “That’s right. Good. Good.” She heads off down the hall.

“Mum,” I hiss, “what are you doing? He’s downstairs. Waiting.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Quit hassling, Bayley. I’ve got a lot on today.” She glowers at me.

“A lot on? It’s Seth’s birthday!”

“Yes. But I have work and … and I have to go in early to … to pick up his present.”