Sweet Damage (17 page)

I glance at Anna.

‘Stop worrying,' she says. ‘It's a party. We can clean it all up tomorrow.'

When I see that Fiona and Marcus are outside, I want to turn around and go back in, but they spot us before I get the chance.

‘Great party, you two,' Marcus says as we approach. ‘Fiona and I were just saying how good it is to see this place full of people again.'

We stand there for a while, drinking and making small talk about the catering and the weather. Fiona doesn't say much, but I notice her watching Anna and me, and I wonder what she's thinking, how much she's seen. I like Marcus and Fiona but there are a lot of people I'd rather spend time with, and I'm about to suggest that we all go back inside when Lilla comes out with a few other people.

‘Timmy!' She bounds straight over to me, slinging her arm around my waist. ‘There you are.'

In her black boots and short skirt, Lilla looks particularly striking, and I notice Marcus watching her.

‘Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?' And she looks back at Marcus, her eyes suddenly shining with curiosity.

When I introduce the two of them she takes his hand, doesn't let go straight away.

‘Marcus?' Lilla says. ‘That's such a nice name. One of my favourites.'

‘Thank you,' he says.

‘It's just got such a dignified ring to it.' She finally lets go of his hand. ‘It really suits you.'

‘Where's Patrick?' I say.

‘Oh, he's already gone,' she says, waving her hand at me dismissively, turning back to Marcus.

I can't help rolling my eyes at Lilla's flirting, but at least she gets the conversation going. Lilla doesn't do small talk and soon a large group of people have gathered, talking about more engaging things. Sex, surfing, politics, money. Lilla is loud and outrageous and funny, and I notice that Marcus is still watching her. I consider warning him, letting him know she's taken, but decide it's none of my business. He can take care of himself.

Anna sits next to Fiona and the two of them talk quietly, leaning in close. Anna's so vastly different tonight – relaxed and comfortable in her own skin, hands not grasping nervously, eyes not fixed on the floor – that it's hard to reconcile the two different versions. Hard to believe she's really the same person.

Before long, the courtyard is almost as crowded and noisy as the ballroom was, and the conversation breaks off into separate groups. I end up with Rich and a bunch of our old friends from school for a while, all of us laughing our heads off as we compete to tell the most exaggerated account of some of the stupid things we used to get up to.

At one stage Rich does his impersonation of our overly enthusiastic PE teacher, Mr Beard, which involves a lot of energetic squatting and noisy huffing and puffing. As he springs up from a particularly deep squat, he knocks his shoulder against my elbow, spilling beer down the front of my T-shirt.

‘Bloody hell,' I say, pulling the wet fabric away from my skin.

‘Sorry, mate.' He straightens up, grins.

I hand him my empty glass. ‘You better get me another one,' I say, heading inside for a dry shirt.

Upstairs, I switch the bedroom light on and start towards the wardrobe. I notice movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to look at my bed. It takes a moment for what I'm seeing to register.

Spiders.

36

T
HERE ARE SPIDERS ALL OVER MY BED
. A
TWITCHING, SCRABBLING
black mass of them. There are so many that they've almost completely blocked out the normal white of the doona. A blanket of spiders. Like something from a nightmare.

Fuck!

I take a step back and bring my hand to my mouth, almost gagging with shock and revulsion. They're moving down the bed legs and onto the floor, crawling up the walls. When I look around I see that they're spreading. They're everywhere – climbing on the curtains, the ceiling, the windowsill. Some of them are creeping along the floor near my feet.

‘What the fuck!' My skin crawls and I freak out, brushing at my legs and arms frantically.

I bolt from the room, slamming the door shut behind me, and run downstairs. I find Lilla talking to Marcus in the kitchen.

‘Spiders!' I say, panting, as I reach them.

‘What?' Lilla splutters into her drink. ‘What did you say?'

‘There's a whole bunch of fucking spiders in my room.'

‘O-kaay,' Lilla says slowly, looking at me as if I'm a lunatic. ‘No need to panic. Just get some flyspray. Or a heavy shoe, or a newspaper or something.'

‘No,' I say, shaking my head. ‘I mean, there are hundreds. Come upstairs. You need to have a look.'

‘I'm sure I
don't
need to actually,' she sighs, annoyed, clearly thinking this is some kind of ploy to get her away from Marcus. ‘I've seen plenty of spiders in my life. But if you're scared of a few little insects, Tim, I suppose I can come and . . .'

‘Is everything okay?' Anna appears next to Lilla.

‘No. Not really. Just come up to my room,' I say to all three of them. ‘Take a look for yourself.'

*

‘My God,' Lilla says when she sees them.

Anna cries out, puts both hands over her mouth.

‘Some kind of joke?' Marcus asks.

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘If it is, it's not a very funny one.'

The three of them stand there, looking around. Anna steps slowly backwards, towards the door. Lilla shudders.

‘Bloody fucking hell,' she says.

‘Exactly,' I say. ‘Not really a job for flyspray, is it?'

She goes to my desk, stomping deliberately on spiders all the way. She grabs a book, slams it down on a spider on the desk.

‘That's not going to work,' Marcus says. ‘You're just going to make a disgusting mess. I've got a better idea. Lilla, come with me.'

Lilla follows him from the room and back downstairs. Anna stands just outside the room, in the hallway. She watches the spiders, her eyes wide and darting. She looks from the floor, to the walls, to the ceiling. Her hands twist together in front of her.

‘Anna? You okay?'

‘I just can't believe . . . Who would . . . ?' Her voice fades and she shakes her head.

‘No bloody idea,' I say. ‘No idea at all.'

Lilla and Marcus return with two vacuum cleaners. I use one and Marcus the other, while Lilla walks around pointing and ordering. It takes a good twenty minutes to suck the spiders up as they scuttle and run, their quick, panicked movements making us jump and yell. It's a revolting job. We push the vacuum cleaners along the floors, into corners, down the length of the curtains. Marcus stands on the desk to get them off the ceiling. I open the wardrobe doors and search through my clothes.

When the spiders are gone and the bed is clear, I notice something I didn't see before. A large, flat box sitting at the head of the bed. It's one of those cardboard gift boxes. This one is red with a pattern of silver stars on it. The lid sits upside down on the pillow next to the empty box. It's obviously how the spiders were brought in.

‘A gift box!' Lilla says, putting the lid and base back together. She pushes it off the bed, to the floor, and kicks it away. ‘Jesus Christ. Someone's certainly got a totally fucked sense of humour.'

Anna waits, watching, from the doorway.

When we can't see any more spiders, and we've checked all four corners of the room and beneath the furniture, we turn the vacuum cleaners off.

‘We should change the sheets,' Lilla says. ‘Just to be sure.'

‘Good idea.'

Anna fetches clean sheets and helps Lilla remake the bed. At one point Anna screams, making us all jump. When she realises it was just the doona brushing against her arm, she smiles apologetically. Lilla smirks.

‘Sorry,' Anna says. ‘Sorry.'

‘You should be pretty safe now,' Lilla says. ‘Although you might get a few nasty surprises in the coming weeks. When you put your shoes on. And you should definitely, definitely always check your pants.'

She grabs Marcus and suggests that they go downstairs and dance off some nervous energy. Marcus doesn't look exactly thrilled with the idea, but he lets Lilla drag him away.

‘Better get back to the party,' I say to Anna.

She nods silently.

I watch Anna follow Lilla and Marcus down the stairs before I slip back into my room for one last look around. Before I leave I crouch down beside the red box and lift the lid. On the bottom of the box, barely noticeable against the white interior, is a folded piece of paper. I open it up and find a handwritten message inside.

Happy birthday Tim

It's not the message that makes me drop the piece of paper straight back into the box. It's the words themselves. The distinctive left-leaning slope of them. Anna's writing.

37

W
HEN
I
GO DOWNSTAIRS
I
FIND
A
NNA IN THE KITCHEN
. S
HE
'
S
leaning against the sink, staring blankly through the window.

‘What the hell is this?' I say, shoving the note in her hands. I'm angry but I keep my voice down. I don't want to make a scene. Get everyone involved. ‘Your idea of a birthday present?'

‘What?'

‘That's your writing, isn't it?'

She stares down at the paper, nods slowly.

‘So, did you write it or not?'

‘Well, yes. I did. But I . . .' She breaks off, shakes her head.

I want to insist that she explain herself but her eyes are suddenly wide with fear, and her skin has become deathly pale. She looks too frightened and confused to be confronted right now.

It doesn't make any sense. Why would she look so freaked out if she was the person responsible for putting the spiders there in the first place? And it's almost impossible to believe that she could be faking it, that she could be such a good actress.

‘Are you okay?' I ask. ‘You're white as a ghost.'

She lifts her hand to her face. Her fingers are shaking.

‘I just can't believe it,' she says. ‘I don't know what's going on.' She presses the heel of her hand against her forehead, squeezes her eyes shut. ‘I've got a terrible headache, Tim. I think I drank too much champagne. I'm sorry. I have no idea what . . .' She opens her eyes, sighs. ‘How about you? Are you okay?'

I shrug. I don't know what I feel. Confused. Angry. Rattled. Mainly I just want to have a beer and forget about it. Enjoy the rest of the party. Get that feeling of well-being back again.

I'm about to suggest that we get another drink and go back out to the courtyard where we can talk properly, when there's a sharp rap on the front door, followed by the sound of the door opening, more people arriving.

Anna looks at me questioningly.

‘Must be the guys from work,' I say. ‘They're the only ones who'd get here this late.'

‘Oh.' She twists her hands together, looks away. ‘I might go up to bed. I hope that's not rude. I don't think I can . . .' Without saying another word, she turns and leaves the room.

I go into the hall to meet Blake and Jo and the others. Blake has his arm around Jo's shoulders and the two of them look self-consciously pleased with themselves. It would never have occurred to me that they would end up together – Blake towers over Jo, she barely makes it to his chest – but somehow they fit together, suit each other. I wonder when this all happened, and I flash Blake a curious look when Jo's not watching. He gives me a shrug and a slow, happy grin in return.

I show them through the downstairs part of the house. Blake nods in recognition, points out the rooms he painted.

‘So where is she?' he asks when we reach the kitchen. ‘Where's Anna?'

I explain that she's gone to bed with a headache and take them out to the courtyard. When they've all got drinks I slip back upstairs and knock on Anna's door.

‘Tim?'

I push the door open and find her sitting up in bed, her legs tucked beneath the blankets. She has her pyjamas on. Her face is clean, her skin so washed-out and pale it's almost green. She's clearly not planning on coming back downstairs tonight.

‘You disappeared,' I say.

‘Sorry.'

‘It's okay. Don't apologise. There's nothing to be sorry for,' I say. But I wonder if I'm right. Maybe the truth is she's got a lot to be sorry for.

But there's nothing in her face. No guilt. Nothing I can recognise as malicious or satisfied. We look at each other for a moment. I have no idea what to say and it's clear that Anna doesn't either. It seems impossible even to step into the room. Any of the ease and intimacy I thought we'd established earlier, on the dance floor, has gone. Back to square one. Two strangers.

‘Okay then,' I say, stepping back a little. ‘I'd better just . . .'

‘Of course,' she says, and sinks back down on her pillow. ‘You should definitely . . .'

I close her door behind me.

It seems quiet downstairs and it takes me a moment to realise that the sudden empty silence is because the music has stopped. Most people have moved outside. Everyone's more subdued now, talking quietly, a few people dragging on cigarettes, blowing lazy trails of smoke into the air above their heads. Fiona and Marcus approach.

‘We've got to get going,' Marcus says. He grips my hand tight when we shake, and doesn't immediately let go.

‘I sincerely hope your birthday hasn't been ruined by that,' he says, in his intense and serious way.

‘Nah,' I say. ‘Thanks. Don't worry. It hasn't.'

I see them to the door then grab another beer and head outside. Lilla is sitting with the group from the restaurant and a couple of other girls. When she sees me she waves me over. She gets up from her seat and pushes me onto it, then sits on my lap. She wraps an arm around my back, rests her head on my shoulder.