Sweet Damage (11 page)

‘You know, you guys know all about me, but I know hardly anything about you. Tell me about your childhood,' she said. What she knew wasn't pleasant. Their mother had been a drug addict, a petty criminal, and had given up custody of them when they were very young. They had never met their father, had no idea who he even was. They'd been raised by their elderly grandmother.

She noticed Marcus glance at Fiona. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps another time,' he said.

‘Please,' she said. ‘It's okay. Whatever happened, you can tell me.'

Fiona's face closed over and a terrible, haunted look came into her eyes. She stood up so abruptly that her chair nearly tipped over. Anna could see her hands trembling. Her voice, when it finally came, was artificially bright. ‘Oh. Look at the time! We really have to go now. Thank you for dinner, Anna.'

And there was nothing Anna could say that would persuade her to stay, nothing she could do that would remove the stony look from Fiona's eyes.

*

The next few days were torturous. Fiona wouldn't answer Anna's calls or respond to her texts. Anna went to their house on the Monday but nobody answered the door. She thought their friendship, which had come to mean the world to her, was over. But Marcus turned up on Wednesday evening with a bottle of whisky. They sat at the kitchen table and drank a shot each in near silence before he started to talk.

‘I know people wonder about me and Fiona,' he said. ‘I know people wonder why we're so close. Most siblings our age don't share a house, or work together the way we do. We had a miserable childhood. I've told you that before, haven't I?'

‘Some of it,' she said. ‘A bit.'

‘You know we lived with our grandmother. Mum just dropped us off for a visit one day and never came back. Fiona was four and I was two. Grandma didn't want us, she made that clear from the beginning. And when you're a kid there's nothing worse than not being wanted. We assumed that Grandma would eventually abandon us too, so we became very insecure.' He spoke mechanically, in disjointed sentences, and it seemed to Anna that he was forcing each word out. He clearly saw the whole conversation as excruciating, but necessary, and she had to resist the urge to tell him not to worry, to leave it all unsaid.

‘We were always anxious,' he continued. ‘We worried that we might come home from school one day and find that Grandma had moved out. Or that she might have changed the locks so we couldn't get in. And she played on our fears, she enjoyed making us feel bad. Every second thing she said was some kind of complaint about money, what a burden we were, how much we cost her, how wicked and selfish we were.' He laughed bitterly. ‘Other kids at school complained about not getting enough toys for Christmas. We spent the whole Christmas break trying to lie low so Grandma wouldn't notice us, because if she did, we'd get an earful about how hard the year had been, how much we'd sucked out of her, how ungrateful we were, stuff like that. We learned never to expect anything, or ask for anything. We learned to keep quiet and keep ourselves to ourselves.'

Anna knew how much it was costing Marcus to tell her this. He was a proud and private man, and she was flattered that he trusted her enough to be so frank. But she knew that if she appeared too horrified by his story, or overly sorry for him, he would shut down and tell her nothing – he hated drama and he would hate even more to be pitied. She tried hard to look interested and sympathetic, but not too curious or shocked.

‘Fiona used to have these dreams that Mum would come and get us, that secretly she wanted us and was saving money, building a house so she could fit us in. I had to remind her that it was Mum who'd left us there. Being reminded of the truth used to make Fiona so angry and upset, she'd almost throw up. And then she'd get furious with Grandma and make up stories about poisoning her.' He smiled, shook his head. ‘We did have some fun with those stories, imagining her dead and us living in the house alone. Never going to school, eating chocolate biscuits for dinner every night. It's sad, but the best fun we ever had involved nasty fantasies about Grandma. And in our defence, she really was an old witch.'

‘She sounds terrible.' Anna suppressed a shudder.

‘Anyway, the truth is that when I think about it now I can almost understand why she was so mean all the time. Being lumped with two kids when you're already sixty-three wouldn't exactly be the biggest joy in the world. I've been able to get over my bitterness in a way. Move on a bit. I don't even think about Grandma much anymore.'

‘And Fiona?' Anna asked. ‘Does she feel the same?'

‘Not quite. She's still very bitter – as you saw on Saturday night. The whole thing upsets her so much. She can't really talk about it. She just won't. It's understandable, though. You see, it was much easier for me than it was for Fiona. It didn't matter to me that I didn't have nice clothes or nice things. The boys didn't really care that I wore my school shorts on the weekend, or if my shoes had holes in them. The girls cared, though, and they were much crueller. And I had something else that Fiona didn't have. I had her. An older sibling. She looked after me, made me feel safe. Fiona had nobody to do that for her. Home was miserable, school was a social disaster. She never learned to trust anyone.'

‘That's so sad,' Anna said.

‘Yes,' Marcus agreed. ‘Anyway, I wanted to explain things to you. So that you understood what was going on the other night. Fiona's embarrassed about her behaviour, and very sorry.' He lifted his hand, palm out, when she started to object. ‘Still, I think it would be much better if you didn't say anything. Don't mention the war, so to speak. She'll be over it soon. We'll just forget it ever happened.'

‘Of course,' she said.

‘It must seem odd to you at times, the fact that Fiona and I spend so much time together?'

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘I've never really thought about it.' And it was true, she'd been too busy enjoying their company to question things.

‘You see, Fiona and I have this history in common that nobody else can quite understand. I'm still the only person who really gets her. I'm the only person she can count on to care about her.' He frowned deeply.

‘I don't know how she'd get by without me. Or I without her.'

I care, Anna wanted to insist. I care too. But she kept it to herself. She would have plenty of time to prove herself.

22

I
DON
'
T SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT
. I'
M
I
N BED BEFORE MIDNIGHT
for a change, but every noise, every creak and groan of the house, has me sitting up in bed, heart racing. I'm too wired to sleep, every cell alert and ready to react. I hear a faint, repetitive banging in the hallway and jump out of bed and switch on the light, my fists raised defensively, only to find it's the bathroom blind being blown against the windowsill. At around two a.m. I give up, go downstairs to the living room and watch the second half of a foreign crime movie on SBS. The effort of reading the subtitles makes my eyes ache and I doze off, waking with a start when a gun goes off on screen.

I go back upstairs and toss and turn restlessly for a couple of hours, only properly falling asleep when the sun has started to rise and I no longer feel intimidated by the dark. I get up reluctantly at twenty to seven when my phone alarm goes off.

Only Lilla could convince me to sacrifice sleep for such an early-morning trip into the city. A pointless ferry ride.

I have a quick coffee in the kitchen standing up, leaning against the bench. I look out at the sky, the clouds moving across it, forming shapes and visions, illusions. I remember the first time I went in a plane as a kid, being so disappointed at the way the clouds seemed to dissolve into nothing as the plane flew through them. Up close they had no substance at all.

It's already hot outside, and I feel immediately enveloped by the humidity, as if somebody has thrown a damp blanket over me. I walk down to Manly, arrive five minutes early and wait for Lilla, who is, typically, five minutes late.

I've caught the Manly ferry into the city hundreds of times, but I've never done it in peak hour before and I'm surprised at the crowds of people getting on, the push and crush of bodies, the grim faces, the boring work clothes. The general mood of miserable resignation reminds me why I've never wanted this kind of life.

‘I feel like we've teleported to London,' I say to Lilla, as we move slowly along with the crowd.

‘You haven't even been to London, you dick,' she says. ‘It's just people going to work, Tim. It's what people do. They grow up. Get real jobs.'

‘Whatever,' I shrug. I'm not in the mood for an argument about my choice of occupation. It's okay for Lilla. She's always known she wanted to do something with art. She studied Fine Arts at uni and though she didn't ever finish her degree it still helped her score a job with an acquisitions firm in the city. It's only a secretarial position at the moment – but Lilla's nothing if not ambitious and I believe her when she tells me she'll climb her way to the top. Lilla's one of those rare, lucky people. She knows what she wants. Not all of us are that certain.

We board the ferry and she drags me up and outside, to the bow. It's less crowded out there. I guess it's too windy for the office types. We go and stand right at the front, holding onto the railing.

‘I hope it's rough between the Heads,' she says. ‘I love it when it tips to the side and everyone gets scared.'

But the water is calm and the ferry moves smooth and slow. I can feel the sun on my face, my arms, little prickles of heat on my skin. It's going to be a scorcher of a day.

‘Aren't you glad you came?' Lilla grins at me.

‘It's just a ferry ride,' I say, shaking my head. But I am glad. I always enjoy the ferry – the lazy way it moves through the water, the half-hour of suspended time with nothing to do but stare out at the view, the small private boats, the other ferries going past on their way back to Manly. Lilla waves at every boat that passes us, both her arms stretched out straight and high, a big happy grin on her face. For someone who likes to pretend she's so cool, she certainly knows how to act like a dopey little kid.

‘So, how's it going at the house?' she asks.

‘Pretty good,' I say. ‘Apart from all the weird stuff.'

‘Weird stuff?'

She's interested, as I knew she would be. Her eyes go wide and she drags me over to a seat.

‘Tell me
everything
,' she says.

I don't tell her everything – partly out of a vague sense of protectiveness towards Anna, partly a bitter reluctance to always let Lilla have what she wants. I share just enough to explain my unease. My confusion.

I don't tell her about Anna's agoraphobia, or her parents, or what little I know about Benjamin. I only tell her part of the story: the person I saw watching me that night, the mess in the kitchen, the late-night banging on the door.

‘So you think it was her? Anna? Watching you while you slept?' She shudders dramatically. ‘That's so creepy. Weren't you scared?'

‘No,' I say firmly, and then I shrug. ‘Well, yes. A bit. It's pretty freaky waking up and seeing someone like that.'

‘Totally. Bloody hell, Tim, I'd be petrified,' she says. ‘Can't you ask her about it?'

‘I did kind of ask about the mess in the kitchen. In an indirect way. She said she didn't do it.'

‘And you believe her?'

‘Not really.'

‘So do you think she's some kind of fruit loop?'

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘I think she's had a hard time. I think she's dealing with a lot of . . . stuff.'

‘What kind of hard time?'

I shake my head. ‘Dunno. But I'm not particularly worried. I think she's harmless.'

She looks at me cynically for a moment, then grabs my arm, whispers melodramatically, ‘What if you're wrong? What if she's dangerous?'

‘I don't think so. I think she's depressed but I don't think she's dangerous.'

I tell her about the night I found Anna crying, the strange dazed look on her face. The way she didn't make any sense.

‘Oh man,' she says. ‘You have to talk to her properly. You can't live with that.'

‘I will. Later. Maybe.'

‘Not maybe, Tim. You have to.'

Neither of us talks for a moment. Eventually Lilla leans against me, shudders.

‘I knew there was something weird about that house. I knew it,' she says. ‘It's probably haunted.'

‘It's just a house. Bricks and mortar. It's not haunted.'

‘Well, I wouldn't want to live there. In fact, you couldn't
pay
me to live there.' She turns to look at me, eyes wide. ‘What if Anna goes psycho in the night? Cuts you up and puts you in the fridge?'

I roll my eyes.

‘I'm only half joking,' she continues. ‘You could be in danger. I mean, why would she watch you like that? Do you think you should take a knife to bed with you for protection? I'd hate to find out that something bad happened to you.'

For some strange reason I feel defensive. Disloyal. Lilla is enjoying this too much. I'm glad now I didn't tell her the full story: Anna's problems would only be juicy gossip to her.

‘It's not actually funny,' I say, irritated.

‘It is actually a little bit funny, but it's scary too,' Lilla says. When I don't respond she puts her arm around my shoulder and my irritation dissolves like honey in hot water. ‘Never mind. You knew it was too good to be true. If it doesn't work out you can always come and live with me.'