Sweet Damage (2 page)

He puts out his hand. ‘Marcus Harrow,' he says. ‘You must be Tim?'

He is taller than me by a good head-length. His hair is dark, his face strong.

I hear footsteps approaching from the hallway and a woman appears beside him. Like Marcus, she is tall and dark and dressed in business clothes.

‘This is my sister, Fiona,' he says. ‘Fiona, this is Tim.'

‘We're friends of Anna's,' she explains. ‘She's waiting in the kitchen.'

They lead me down a long, wide hallway. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The floor is polished timber, the ceiling high and decorated with elaborate plasterwork. We pass numerous rooms, all with their doors shut, and an enormous staircase that leads to the upper storey. At the back of the house we come to a big kitchen and dining area. Unlike the gloomy hallway, this room is full of windows and light, with French doors leading out to a courtyard and a garden beyond.

A blonde girl is sitting at the kitchen table. She's thin and pale, with an unhappy expression on her face. There's something vulnerable and frail about her that makes me wonder if she's sick.

‘Tim,' Marcus says. ‘This is Anna. Anna London.'

She stands up, puts out her hand, then immediately withdraws it. She says hello in a very quiet voice and stares down at the table. Marcus said she was twenty. She seems much younger in person.

‘Nice to meet you,' I say.

‘Thanks,' she mutters.

‘So, Tim,' Fiona says. ‘Marcus said you work in a restaurant?'

‘That's right,' I say. ‘Just down in Manly. Not far from here.

Ten-minute walk at most.'

‘And your job is reliable? Secure? You're not likely to be unemployed in the near future?'

‘I work for my old man,' I say. ‘I don't think he'd fire me. Wouldn't exactly be good for family relations.'

It's meant to be a humorous comment, to lighten the mood, but nobody laughs. Marcus's face remains blank. Anna stares down at her fidgeting hands. Fiona flashes a tight smile. ‘Very good,' she says. ‘Well, that's probably enough interrogation for now. I suppose we should take you up to see the room.'

I follow the three of them back into the darkness of the hall and up the staircase. Fiona leads the way. I walk beside Anna. I try to catch her eye, smile, make some kind of friendly connection, but she stares at her feet the entire way, avoiding my gaze.

‘Fairview was built in 1890,' Marcus explains as we make our way up. ‘And so although it's a large and perfectly comfortable house, you might find it lacks a certain modern aesthetic.'

Like light,
I think to myself.

‘It's certainly different to most Australian homes,' he continues. ‘More British in style. Some people don't like it. But I think it has its own charms.'

Everything about the house, including the staircase, is grand and generous and carefully made. The place is obviously worth a fortune, but it's also gloomy, and cold. A bit oppressive, even. It's stinking hot outside, the sun so bright the streets seem to shimmer in the glare, and yet in here it's dark and cool and cavelike, another world altogether.

*

When we reach the second floor, Fiona stops at the first doorway we come to.

‘There are a few rooms you could have,' she says, ‘but this is one of the nicest.'

She opens the door to what must be the best bedroom I've ever seen. It's large and bright and filled with enough furniture to make it inviting, but not overly crowded. Stepping into it from the gloom of the hall is like stepping from a cave into sunshine. The walls are white, the floors a warm timber. Large windows frame an impressive view of the Harbour. There's a double bed on one side, a wardrobe on the other, and a large timber desk tucked into one corner. An expensive-looking rug sits on the floor.

‘There's no ensuite,' Fiona says. ‘But there are three bathrooms up here – and one is just across the hall – so you and Anna wouldn't have to share.'

I think of the tiny bathroom I've been sharing with Patrick and Lilla for the past few weeks, the squat toilets that were the norm in Indonesia. A bathroom to myself would be a luxury I've never even considered.

The room itself is a thousand times better than I could have imagined. I turn around to take it in, then walk to the window and look out.

‘This view,' I say, shaking my head. ‘It must be one of the best in Sydney.'

‘It certainly is spectacular,' Marcus says, stepping up next to me. He stares through the window for a second, then looks at his watch. He straightens up, pulls at the cuffs of his sleeves and moves his feet together in an abrupt, almost military manner. ‘Right. So that's the room,' he says. ‘Fiona. We should probably get back to the office.' He looks at Anna. ‘I presume we can leave you two here to figure things out?'

‘Of course,' Anna says, nodding. ‘You should go.'

‘Are you sure?' Fiona says. ‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm fine.'

Marcus and Fiona say goodbye. As they leave, the sound of their shoes clattering down the staircase is the only sound in the house. Anna doesn't say a word. Nor does she look at me. She stares straight ahead, motionless, trance-like. It's not until the noise of the front door being pulled shut echoes through the passage that she moves. She closes her eyes and puts her hand on her cheek. It's a strange, private gesture, as if she's forgotten that I'm there.

‘So,' I say. ‘It's an excellent place.'

She opens her eyes. ‘Thank you.'

I wait for her to make some effort at conversation, to ask me a question, or tell me something interesting about herself, but she just stands there, twisting her hands together nervously.

Not only is Fairview like something from another world, but so, I think, is Anna. She barely speaks, and when she does, her manner is so formal it seems unnatural, forced, as if she's speaking from a script. She holds herself in an awkward, slouched-over way, as if she lacks the confidence to stand up properly and face the world, as if she'd rather disappear. Her hands are in constant motion, clasping and unclasping, pulling at her clothes.

I get the distinct feeling that I'll have to take charge of the situation if I want to get anywhere.

The room is so much better than I expected that I'm tempted to say I'll take it, no matter how strange Anna is, or what the conditions are, but I know I should ask some questions. One hundred dollars a week for a room like this is insanely cheap. There must be some kind of catch.

‘It's an awesome room,' I say. ‘And I love the house. But when I rang earlier, Marcus told me there were some conditions. His word, not mine. Do you mind if I ask what they are? The conditions?'

She nods and if she seemed uncomfortable before, she is much more so now. She stares down at the floor, twisting her hands together frantically. Her face turns noticeably pink.

‘I have . . .' She mutters something so quietly I can't hear it.

‘Sorry?'

‘I have agoraphobia,' she says too loudly.

‘Agoraphobia?' I repeat. I'm familiar with the word but have no real idea what it means. ‘I'm not sure—

' ‘It's an anxiety disorder,' she says. ‘I have panic attacks.'

‘Right. Okay. Panic attacks.' I smile apologetically. ‘Sorry. I feel a bit stupid, but I'm still not sure what . . .'

‘I can't go out. I panic if I leave the house.'

‘You can't go out?' I try not to act too startled, but am not entirely successful. ‘
Ever?

' ‘I don't leave the house at all,' she says.

‘That must be tough.'

She blinks, turns away.

‘Sorry. I don't really know what to say. I mean, that must be full on. Have you ever—

' ‘No,' she interrupts. ‘No, I haven't.'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to be . . . How long have you had it? How do you get by?'

‘I've had it for a while now,' she says. ‘I haven't been out for six months.'

A lifetime
, I think.

‘Marcus and Fiona have been helping,' she says. She lifts her chin. ‘But they can't do that forever.'

We're quiet for a minute, both of us staring at the view. I wonder how she can handle seeing all that beauty outside, the sun and the sky, the boats on the harbour, when she's trapped inside, all day, every day. The idea of looking out at a world that you can't be a part of is unfathomable to me. A kind of torture.

‘Okay,' I say eventually. ‘So you need someone to get stuff for you? Groceries? Bread and milk and stuff? Are they the conditions Marcus was talking about?'

‘Yes, that's mainly it,' she says. ‘I could shop online for most things, I suppose. But it's not always practical. And Marcus really thinks I should live with someone. In case of, well, an emergency or something like that. Fairview is so big . . .' She trails off.

‘So basically you write lists and I get stuff for you?' I say. ‘Is that how it would work?'

‘We could have a system,' she says. ‘Whatever you need to make it easy. I wouldn't be a nuisance.'

I lift my shoulders, grin. ‘I think I'd like the room. If you think I'd be suitable? I mean, I suppose you've got some questions of your own?'

‘Not really.' She shakes her head. ‘You can have it if you want. You seem pretty normal really.' For the first time, she flashes a smile. ‘More normal than I am, anyway.'

We go downstairs and talk through a few more details. She gives me a key to the front door, shows me where the laundry is, off the courtyard. By the time I leave I'm on a bit of a high. The room is fantastic, and more than affordable, and the house is in one of the best spots in Sydney. Anna is definitely odd, but that doesn't bother me. From what I can tell, she's just timid, a bit nervous – nothing that worries me. Maybe I can even help her, I think. At the very least, I can bring some life into Fairview, open a few doors and windows, let the light in.

2

A
NNA WATCHES HIM FROM THE WINDOW
. A
S SOON AS SHE HAS CLOSED
the front door, she slips into the living room, pulls the curtain back and peeks out.

He walks quickly and with a small bounce in his step – a happy, optimistic walk, the walk of someone who has somewhere to go and nothing to worry about.

She likes the look of him. He isn't outrageously good-looking, but he has an open face, freckled skin and scruffy, windblown hair, which was probably once brown but has been bleached blond by the sun. He has a direct and honest gaze and an easy smile. Things have been smooth for him, she can tell. He is loved, he is confident, he is certain of the order of the world and his place within it. He has never been broken down by life or circumstance, never been betrayed by his own frail mind.

He looks like someone who belongs outside in the wind and the sun and the sea – all the elements that cause her so much fear – the landscape that she has so carefully removed herself from.

She imagines that if she licked his skin he would taste like salt.

3

E
VEN THOUGH IT
'
S
STILL MORE THAN TWO HOURS UNTIL MY SHIFT
starts, I walk straight down to the restaurant after meeting Anna. By the time I reach the waterfront I'm feeling positively lucky. Not only is the house close to the beach and the city, it's an easy walk to work, too.

A wiry, fit-looking old guy jogs past me, tilts his chin towards the sparkling water and shakes his head – a gesture that says,
Look at that! Too bloody good!
I smile back, lift my hand to my forehead in a cheerful salute.

The Corso is noisy and crowded, fragrant with the smell of waffle cones from the ice-cream shop and the salty tang of the ocean. Right now the mood is cheerful and up. Later, when I finish work, it will have a different vibe. Booze and drugs will make it seedy – all drunken shouts and fights, broken bottles, and sad-faced girls staggering home in heels. But in the early evenings there's always this festive, celebratory feel to the place that I love.

My father's restaurant is directly opposite Manly Beach. Dad's already in the restaurant when I get there. I find him crouched down behind the bar, restocking the fridges.

‘Hey,' I say, startling him. He grins up at me.

‘I found a place to live,' I tell him. ‘Just up the road in Fairlight. It's unbelievable. Has the most awesome view of the Harbour I've ever seen. And it's dirt cheap too.'

‘Yeah?' He frowns. ‘So what's the catch?'

I sink onto a stool, put my elbows on the bar. ‘Can I have a beer?'

‘If you get off your arse and give me a hand I might think about it.'

I join him on the other side of the bar, open a case of VB and start sliding stubbies into the fridge.

‘So? Tell me,' he says. ‘How much and what's the deal?'

‘Hundred bucks a week – for this beautiful old house near the Harbour. Fairview, it's called. Can you believe that? I'll be living in a house with a name.'

‘Sounds fancy.'

‘It is fancy. It's massive, Dad. Has about a thousand rooms. My room has a view you wouldn't believe. Over the water, through the headlands. I'll be able to lie in bed and watch the ferries.'

‘And?' He lifts his shoulders, urging me to get to the point.

‘So, the owner, this girl called Anna, she's got agoraphobia and can't go out. She needs a bit of help. With shopping and stuff. That's it,' I say. ‘No big deal.'

Dad's silence speaks volumes.

‘What?'

‘Gotta say, Timmo,' he says. ‘Seems to me that you're making some weird choices.'

I push my fingers through my hair and try to keep the exasperation from my voice. ‘What do you mean,
weird choices
?'