Sweet Damage (5 page)

When we've finished our coffee Fiona takes our empty mugs to the sink. She says goodbye to Anna, bending over to plant a kiss on the top of her head. Anna smiles vaguely.

‘Tim, I wonder if you'd mind coming outside for a moment?' Fiona says. ‘And take a quick look at my car? A dashboard light was flashing on the way over. I'm just wondering if I might need some oil.'

‘Yeah, sure,' I shrug. ‘Happy to take a look. But I'm not much of a mechanic.'

I follow Fiona through the hall and out onto the front porch. She pulls the door shut behind us.

‘Look, it's not really the car,' she says quietly, glancing back at the house. Her eyebrows – the same thick eyebrows that suit Marcus, but look too masculine for her face – knot tightly together. ‘I just wanted to let you know that if living with Anna gets too much for you, if you decide you want to move out, Marcus and I will completely understand. It's very important that you don't feel obliged to stay. You're free to move out any time you like. Just remember that. Any time.'

7

T
HERE ARE ONLY THREE OF US WORKING AT THE RESTAURANT THAT
night – me in the kitchen, Blake doing the dishes and our best waitress, Jo, on the floor. Of all the people that work for Dad, Jo and Blake are my favourites. Blake's one of those insanely big blokes. A gentle giant. Best thing about him is his perpetual air of level-headed calm. Serenity is always a good thing in a restaurant kitchen, and Blake's the most serene person I know. The dishes can pile up all over the place and he works steadily on, always managing to smile and keep his cool.

Jo is similarly cheerful, but where Blake is big and steady, she's short and tiny and fast. She has dark hair and bright eyes. On busy nights I swear she keeps the whole place running smoothly with her energy and her uncanny ability to know what's happening at every table.

With the three of us on, service flies by and we have the customers out of there and the place cleaned up by ten.

We sit at the bar. Blake and I drink beer, Jo drinks red wine.

‘Good tips tonight?' I ask Jo.

‘Twenty-five bucks,' she smiles.

‘Your shout for a drink at the Steyne then,' Blake says.

‘Good idea,' Jo says eagerly. ‘Tim? You up for it?'

‘Nah,' I say. ‘Thanks. Might just head home. I'm buggered. Got up early for a surf.'

‘Nice one,' Blake says. ‘Hey, you still staying out at Collaroy with your ex? Must be a struggle getting home at night?'

‘I just moved,' I say. ‘I'm living up the road in Fairlight now. It's a ten, fifteen-minute walk at most.'

‘Yeah?' He whistles. ‘Fairlight, eh? Good spot to live. Did a few painting jobs up there a while back. The best one was this beautiful old sandstone house. You know the one I mean? That enormous place with the lush gardens? The lady wanted the dining room red, I remember that. We were worried that it'd be too dark, but it turned out pretty nice.'

‘But that's where I'm living,' I cut in.

‘No joke? Lauderdale Avenue?'

I nod. ‘Fairview.'

‘That's the one.' He shakes his head, glances over at Jo. ‘Man, I always loved that house. When I was a kid I used to walk past it all the time. I thought it was a castle, promised myself I'd buy it when I got rich.' He laughs, looking down at his stained clothes. ‘Which doesn't look like happening anytime soon. So Tim, how'd you end up scoring a place like that?'

‘I'm just renting one of the rooms. From a girl called Anna,' I say.

‘Anna. That was the daughter's name.' He looks thoughtful, remembering. ‘It was just the three of them rattling around in that big empty place. Anna used to bring us cold drinks. Real friendly girl, she was.' He grins. ‘Pretty hot too, if I'm remembering right.'

‘That doesn't sound like her,' I say. ‘Anna must be the shyest person I've ever met. Maybe you're thinking of someone else? Anna's blonde. Thin.' I don't mention that she's not exactly friendly or that I'd have a hard time describing her as hot.

‘Yeah, she was definitely blonde, but shy? No way,' Blake says. ‘Not the girl I'm thinking of. She was charismatic, you know; she had that talent for making people feel special. One of those people everybody likes.'

*

When I get back to the house I notice light and noise coming from the living room. I find Anna curled up on the sofa in her pyjamas. She sits up straight when I enter the room and says an abrupt hello before turning back to the TV. I offer her one of the beers I've brought home from the restaurant but she shakes her head without bothering to look at me. I crack one open for myself, then sit on the sofa opposite her and watch the movie until the first ad break.

‘What have you been up to?' I ask, without thinking. There isn't a lot she could do, stuck here in the house all the time.

‘Not much,' she says, without a hint of irony.

I decide to check out Blake's story. ‘You won't believe it,' I say, ‘but this bloke, Blake, he works in the kitchen with me. Apparently he used to be a painter. And get this, he's pretty sure he painted this house a few years ago. He reckons he knew you and your mum. Do you remember him? Big tall bloke?'

‘Not really,' she says.

‘Are you sure? Blake was pretty clear. He went on about painting the dining room red, how much he liked you, said you used to bring them cold drinks.' I try to laugh but she looks blank, bored even. ‘You don't remember?'

‘No.' Her voice is flat, uninterested, and my enthusiasm for the story suddenly seems stupid and out of place. Anna turns back to the TV and we watch the ads in silence.

I sit there through the rest of the movie and finish my beers. We make polite, neutral small talk in the ad breaks, and all the while, the shadow of the conversation we didn't have lurks like an unwelcome guest in the space between us.

8

O
F COURSE SHE REMEMBERS BLAKE, AND THE OTHER PAINTERS
. B
UT TALKING
about the past is something she's not willing to do.

Talking about the past only makes her want to scream.

And if she starts screaming now, she's not sure she'll ever stop.

9

I
WAKE WITH A SUDDEN START
. M
Y HEART IS POUNDING HARD, AS
though I've had a nightmare. I closed my curtains when I came up, and now I can barely see a thing. I stare out into the blackness and blink, my eyes wide. I lie there for a minute and concentrate on breathing, waiting for my heart rate to settle down. When I feel calmer I roll onto my side and adjust my pillow.

That's when I see it.

The shape of a person.

Watching me.

There's someone in my room.

‘Fuck!' I push the doona off, fall clumsily to the floor in my haste, my legs tangled in the sheet. By the time I look up again the person, whoever the hell it was, is gone. I get up and go to the doorway, turn on the light. My hands are shaking.

Though I know it's unlikely, stupid even, I open the wardrobe near the door and check inside. There's nothing there but my clothes.

I run down the stairs, turning on every light as I go.

‘Hello?' I shout. ‘Is someone there?'

My voice seems to boom and echo against the walls, unnaturally loud in the still night, and the resounding silence only makes me more freaked out. The house suddenly seems too big, too empty, too dark. I feel vulnerable and isolated, as if I'm the only person in the world. When I reach the bottom of the stairs I check the front door. It's locked. I check the dining and living rooms. The ballroom. There's nobody there, no sign of disturbance, nothing.

It suddenly occurs to me to worry about Anna. Maybe the intruder went the other way, towards her room. She could be in danger. I run upstairs and pound on her door.

‘Anna! You okay?'

I don't wait for a response. I open her door, find the light. She's already sitting up, rubbing at her eyes.

‘Tim? What are you doing? What's all that noise?' she says, sounding annoyed. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I saw someone.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘In my room,' I say urgently. ‘In my doorway. Watching me.'

She pushes her doona off and stands up. ‘Are you sure? Oh my God. Is the . . . did you check downstairs?'

‘The door's locked.'

‘Both doors?'

‘I don't know. Shit. I didn't—I only checked the front.'

We go downstairs, Anna wrapping her dressing-gown around herself protectively.

‘You saw a person?' she asks. ‘Doing what?'

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘It was too dark to see properly. They were just standing there.'

The back doors are locked, the kitchen still and quiet. Nothing has been moved or taken.

‘I've already checked the other rooms down here,' I say. ‘There was nothing. That's so weird. I mean, how could someone get in without breaking a window or something?'

‘They couldn't,' she answers.

She no longer looks scared, only tired, a bit impatient. But she doesn't meet my eye properly and it makes me wonder if this is just her normal nerves or if she has something to hide.

Was it Anna watching me? And if so, why? Maybe she wasn't actually watching me, maybe she was just coming to talk, to ask me some question. Maybe she just wanted to make sure I was home. Perhaps I scared her off by shouting out. But why wouldn't she just say so? Why would she lie?

The alternative – an intruder – is even more disturbing. And it doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone break into a house and not bother taking anything?

I don't mention any of my thoughts to Anna. It's obvious that she doesn't want to talk; she keeps her head down and her arms wrapped tightly around herself as we turn the lights off and climb the stairs. I say goodnight when I reach my bedroom and she makes some kind of noncommittal, distracted noise in response.

My heart is still pounding and I can taste the bitter tang of adrenaline. In my mind I can still see the person standing in my doorway. I know it wasn't a dream. The memory is too sharp, too clear, and it's not fading the way dreams do. I try to tell myself that I must have been seeing things, that it must have been a combination of beer and fatigue. But I can't shake the ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach, the growing sense that there's something very strange about Anna London and her empty old house.

*

I go back to bed but spend the next few hours tossing and turning, and startling at every sudden noise, too jumpy to sleep. I finally get to sleep some time after four, but am woken a few hours later by the beep of my phone.

‘Shit.' I sit up and reach for it, intending to turn it off, when I notice that it's a text message from Lilla.

Get up, lazy. I'm at your place. Open the door. I've only got 20 minutes!

As I'm walking down the stairs I think about what happened last night. The dark figure I saw in my doorway. The whole thing seems distant now. The previously sharp memory is now hazy and smudged by the combination of sleep and the reassuring normality of daylight. And my fear seems like an overreaction.

I open the front door and find Lilla standing on the front porch, hands on hips, dressed in her usual black. She's wearing a miniskirt, showing off her perfect legs. Her short hair is rumpled, her lips are painted red. She shakes her head and launches straight in.

‘I can
not
believe it,' she says, pushing past me into the hallway. ‘I thought I must be totally mixed up so I almost knocked at the house next door, but then I saw some old lady coming out, and realised this must really be the one.' She stops, looks around in astonishment. ‘Bloody hell, Tim. You live here? I can
not
believe you didn't tell me. Is this for real?'

Her pushiness, her assumption that I should tell her everything about my life, sometimes makes me laugh. This early in the morning it only irritates me. ‘I'm here, aren't I?' I say. ‘What do you think?'

She steps up close to me, stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. ‘You need a shave.'

She walks down the hallway, running her hand along the wall as she goes, shaking her head.

‘Lilla,' I say. ‘Keep it down, will you? Your shoes are bloody noisy. Anna's asleep.'

‘Woops. Sorry.' She smiles apologetically, pulls her shoes off and holds them in her hand. Then she goes to the dining room, opens the door and peeks inside. ‘Ooh, look at that. Nice. What a beautiful red.'

She walks to the living room and opens that door too.

‘What are you doing? It's seven o'clock in the morning. I need to go back to bed.'

‘I wanted to see where you were living. And I was running early for work,' she says, heading for the room Anna called the junk room. ‘Wow,' she says, stepping inside. ‘Look at all this gorgeous old furniture. Some of it's just beautiful. Really valuable too, I bet. Why's it all stacked in here? God, what a waste. Some people obviously have too much money to care.'

I stand in the doorway. ‘Get out of there.'

‘Why?' she says. ‘I'm not going to break anything.'

I sigh and lean against the doorframe. I watch Lilla run her hands along an old timber dresser, open the doors, rummage through the old glassware. She opens the lid of a box and pulls out a handful of old papers and photos, flicking through them one by one.

‘Who are these people?'

‘I don't know,' I say, stepping closer. ‘They're not mine. Just put them back.'

She holds a picture out towards me. A man, a woman and a small blonde girl of about eight are standing in a garden in front of a house. It's clearly this house. I recognise the front porch, the stonework, the windows. The girl stands between the two adults, beaming straight at the camera, her two front teeth very prominent. The man, grey-haired and nondescript, smiles too. The woman, blonde like the girl, and beautiful in a cold way, isn't smiling. Her chin is lifted and she stares off to the side. I assume it's Anna and her parents.