Sweet Damage (32 page)

T
HEY SPEND HOURS AT THE POLICE STATION
. E
XPLAINING THINGS OVER AND
over. Making official statements. Going over the long, involved story. Anna tells them everything. Marcus leaves for the hospital just after midnight to see Fiona and Anna receives a text an hour later.

Fiona has lost a lot of blood. She is in intensive care, but the wounds will heal.

84

W
E HEAD STRAIGHT UPSTAIRS WHEN WE EVENTUALLY GET BACK TO
the house. Dawn is breaking. We don't talk and we move slowly, like old people. I hold Anna's hand, walk close to her, but she feels distant and removed. She holds my hand limply and stares straight ahead, her expression blank. I just want to take her to bed and hold her, get her to see me again. Bring her back from whatever internal hell she has retreated to.

But Anna doesn't go to my room or hers. Instead she heads to Lilla's room. When she gets there she goes to Lilla's bed, lifts the pillows and blankets as if searching for something.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Looking.'

‘For what?'

‘I don't really know,' she says.

She goes to the desk and rummages through the drawers. Then she goes to the wardrobe and opens one of the wide timber doors. Something makes her cry out and take a step back. I step up closer to take a look. On the inside of the door is an elaborate photo collage, and at first I don't see anything shocking about it. But when I get close enough I see that they are Anna's photos. Anna's family. Pictures of what must be her parents. Fairview. Snapshots of the three of them on holiday, at the beach. The bizarre thing is that Anna has been cut out of each picture. Wholly in some cases, just her face in others. The effect is surreal. Chilling.

‘Come on,' I say. ‘Let's get out of here.' And I reach out to take her hand, but she ignores me, and turns around as if to take in the entire room. She pauses, then walks quickly to the bookshelves on the far side of the room. There's something broken on the top shelf. Shattered pieces of red ceramic stand out starkly against the white surface. Anna collects the broken pieces and holds the shards in both hands as if trying to put them back together.

‘Anna,' I say, approaching. ‘Careful. You'll cut yourself.'

But she shakes her head and moves away from me. A sob escapes her lips as slowly, deliberately, she opens her hands and lets the pieces clatter to the floor.

85

S
HE GOES UPSTAIRS WITH
T
IM AND THEY CLIMB FULLY CLOTHED ONTO HIS
bed. They lie spooned together, Tim behind her, his arm wrapped around her
.

‘Anna?' Tim starts. ‘Do you think—'

‘Shhh,' she cuts him off, takes his hand. ‘Please, Tim, let's not talk. Not now. I can't. I just can't. Go to sleep. We can talk later.'

‘Okay. Sure.' He kisses the back of her head, squeezes her tighter. Soon she can hear the slow in and out of his breath, the regular rhythm that indicates sleep.

She moves carefully out from beneath his arm and tiptoes from the room.

86

W
HEN
I
WAKE UP THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BED IS EMPTY
. I
HAVE
a good idea where Anna is but I go downstairs first and put the kettle on for coffee. I make two mugs and take them back upstairs to the attic.

Anna's sitting cross-legged on the timber floor. Benjamin's blanket is on her lap. She looks up and sees me, smiles tiredly.

‘Hey,' I stop in the doorway, hold up a mug. ‘You need some coffee?'

She nods and I go and sit beside her, hand her a cup.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot as if she's been crying. Her hair is loose and messy around her face. I push a strand of hair from her eyes, tuck it behind her ear.

‘You okay?'

She shakes her head.

‘Did you get any sleep?'

‘Nope.' She sips her coffee, sighs. ‘I think it's time I put Benjamin's things away,' she says quietly. ‘In fact I think it's time I left Fairview altogether.'

I nod as if I think it's a smart idea but the truth is I don't know if this is a good or a bad thing. I don't know whether it means she's feeling better or worse. I don't know what it means for me. For us. I don't even know if she still wants there to be an us.

‘We need to talk,' she says.

‘Sure,' I say. ‘Okay.'

‘Can we go for a walk?'

‘A walk?'

‘You know that bench seat above Fairlight Pool? The one that looks out over the harbour? I used to love going there when I was sad or if I just wanted to think. We could go there now.'

‘Sure,' I say. ‘But how . . . what about—'

‘I don't care. I've had enough of this,' she says, her voice full of weary determination. ‘I don't care if I panic. I just need to get out of here.'

I take her hand and squeeze. ‘Let's go then.'

*

We don't do much talking on our way there. Anna starts having a full-on panic attack almost as soon as we cross the road. She starts breathing too fast, almost hyperventilating. Her skin goes pale and sweat breaks out on her forehead. Her whole body trembles. If I didn't know it was panic I'd assume she was having some kind of seizure.

‘I'm okay,' she insists, tightening her grip on my hand. ‘Just keep walking.'

But we don't make it far before she has to sit down on the grass. She pulls her legs up and rests her head on her knees. I sit beside her and put my arm around her. I have no idea what to do or how to help and when I talk – thinking the sound of my voice might be soothing – she tells me to shut up. So I just sit there and wait and hope that my presence is at least some comfort. Eventually her breathing slows down. She unclenches her fists, lifts her head.

‘You okay?'

‘I've been better.'

‘Want to go back?'

‘No.'

I help her up and we make our way to the bench seat. We walk slowly, Anna taking small careful steps and breathing heavily, as though the effort is physical rather than mental. It's still early but there are a few people out: early-morning joggers, people in work clothes making their way down to the ferry, to their jobs in the city. People smile as they pass, and I know that we must make a curious-looking couple. Both of us scruffy and unkempt, Anna struggling and breathless, leaning against me as though she can barely walk without my help.

We reach the bench seat and sit side by side, our thighs pressed close.

‘You made it.'

She flashes a wobbly smile. ‘Only just.'

‘Still. I think it's awesome, Anna. You did it.'

She nods and stares out towards the harbour. Her face is preoccupied and despite the beauty of what she's looking at I know she isn't really seeing any of it. She's thinking about last night. About Lilla. Her father. The whole miserable story.

‘So you think it's definitely true?' I say. As much as I'd like to avoid the whole topic – talk about the weather, or the colour of the water, anything but what happened last night – I know there's no hope of that. ‘What Lilla said?'

She takes a deep, shaky breath. ‘The payment Fiona mentioned, the one my father paid in secret, that pretty much confirmed it for me. And in a way it makes a lot of sense. The way my parents were together. Mum's anger . . .'

‘So she's really your father's child, your sister?'

‘Half-sister,' she says. ‘I guess so . . . probably.'

We're both silent for a minute, both caught up in our own thoughts.

‘So why? Why didn't she just come and talk to you? Why did she have to do all that crazy stuff?'

‘You're asking me?' she says. ‘I might be biologically related to her but you know her best.'

‘I thought I knew her,' I say. ‘But I was wrong. I mean, she's always been obsessed with material stuff. With having a better life. I knew that about her. But I didn't know she could be so malicious. When she saw how much you had, the big house and all that money, it must have made her mad with envy. It's sad when you think about it.' I shake my head. ‘Sad and unbelievable.'

‘But it's not only that, Tim.' Anna hesitates, falters, rubs her eyes. She looks suddenly exhausted and overwhelmed. She takes a breath. ‘That's not the only thing I wanted to talk about. There's something else. Something worse.'

The look on her face and the tone of her voice – the idea that there could even be something worse – fills me with a sick sense of dread.

‘What?' I ask reluctantly.

‘Do you remember what Lilla said about Benjamin? She was very specific. She mentioned Manly Dam. She mentioned the lock on the pram. Remember?'

‘Yeah,' I frown.

‘And remember how I told you I was always sure I'd locked the pram? How I wondered if someone else, one of those kids maybe, had accidentally unlocked it or knocked it down the ramp?'

I feel a rush of blood to my head – it's a feeling I've become far too familiar with lately – and somehow I know that what Anna's about to say is going to be something I don't want to hear or face.

‘Yeah.'

‘I didn't tell Lilla that he drowned at Manly Dam. And I didn't tell her that I left the pram unlocked. I didn't even mention a pram. I told her Benjamin drowned. That's all she knew.'

‘Marcus?'

She shakes her head. ‘There's no way. When Benjamin died Marcus made me this promise. And he was deadly serious – you know what he's like. He swore that he'd never tell anyone what happened. He didn't want me to worry about it, about what people thought or said behind my back,' she shrugs. ‘I didn't ask him to do that, I didn't even particularly care what anyone thought at that stage. But I know he didn't tell her. He didn't even tell her that he was Benjamin's father. Marcus is the most private, secretive person I know. He would never have told a soul.'

‘The newspapers?' I say. ‘Maybe she read about it?'

‘It wasn't in the papers. And there was an inquest but it was closed. She couldn't have known.'

‘So? I'm not sure I . . . ?' I stop. Suddenly I know what she's saying. I get the whole thing. And it's as if the ground has suddenly opened in a massive chasm beneath me. I can't bear to look down – the fear of falling is too great, and I'm dizzy and terrified with shock – but I know I have to. I have to step up to the precipice and gaze straight down into the black below. ‘Fuck. Anna. You think she—'

She nods urgently, as if to stop me talking, as if she can't bear the words to be said aloud. She bites her lip, stares straight ahead. I watch the tears run down her face while she tries to gather herself. Eventually she closes her eyes, takes a deep shaky breath. ‘I would say I can't be one-hundred per cent sure, that it's just a possibility, but I am and it's not,' she says. ‘She was there. She did it. I saw the truth in her face. She knew I knew.'

‘Jesus, Anna.' I breathe out heavily. ‘
Jesus
. Did you tell the police?'

‘Yes,' she says quietly. ‘Last night. I don't know what they can do, but they know the truth, they know everything. It's up to them now.'

I have to remind myself not to apologise. I have this persistent but illogical feeling of guilt as if the whole thing is my fault. I let Lilla into Fairview. I asked Anna if she could move in. Lilla was my friend.

I keep forgetting the truth: that it was Lilla who started the whole thing in the first place.

‘I wish – shit – I just wish I'd known,' I say.

‘I wish too. So many things,' she sighs. ‘I wish my parents were still here. I wish Marcus had been more honest. I wish I'd been paying a bit more attention.'

I push my hands through my hair and kick at a loose stone so that it bounces over the grass and rolls away. I can't work out what I'm feeling, I'm overwhelmed by such a range of violent emotions. I'm so sad I could cry, so frustrated I could run for hours, so angry I could punch something. ‘She fucked everything didn't she?' I say. ‘She's wrecked your whole bloody life.'

Anna's quiet for a long time, and I feel a horrible ache in my chest, a painful fear that she's going to agree with me. She's going to tell me there's no point. No point in anything. No point in us. In me and her.

‘I don't think so, no. I really hope not. I'd hate to give her that satisfaction,' she says, turning to me. There's so much sadness in her face. I notice it all the time now. And there's a definite stillness and wisdom in her eyes that's unusual for someone her age. I reckon it'll always be there – that sadness – like the scar on a tree where a big branch has broken off. It'll heal over a bit, and change shape with time, but it'll never disappear completely.

‘She took a lot,' she says. ‘She took my baby . . .' Her voice breaks. ‘But she didn't take everything. She gave me something too.'

And just now I notice something in her face that's temporarily bigger than the sadness.

‘She gave you something? What?'

She turns to look out over the harbour. We're both silent as we take in the view; the impossible blue of the water and the sky, the Manly ferry approaching in a smooth glide from the city. She takes my hand and links her fingers between mine.

‘I'll let you figure that one out,' she says.

O
UR NEW FLAT IS SMALL AND POKY, JUST ABOUT AS DIFFERENT TO
Fairview as you could possibly get. It only consists of three rooms: a living room, a kitchen and what must be the smallest bathroom I've ever seen.

Anna could afford something much bigger and flasher, of course, but I want to be able to pay my way, and Anna doesn't scoff, or tell me I'm being stupid. She seems to understand. And for now, at least, this place will do.

Lilla is in a lot of trouble, the court case is coming up, and the charges are all pretty serious. I worry about Anna, how she's going to feel when she has to rake through everything again, but she seems surprisingly calm about it. And the truth is that ever since that night she has seemed a whole lot lighter, easier in her skin, as if at least one burden has been lifted.