Darkest Place Page 8

  ‘Hi, Carly.’

  Swinging around, she saw a man standing in the gloom at the rear of her car.

  ‘Damien,’ he said.

  All she registered was that her arms were tangled in bags and bulk, and she was hemmed in by a column and another car.

  ‘From the community gardens,’ he said. ‘We met at the markets. Can I give you a hand with those bags?’

  She flicked her eyes around. Where had he come from? ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll get the lift for you then.’ He started towards it.

  Carly followed, happy to keep a few steps behind him. He’d seemed nice at the markets, still did, she supposed, but it was dark down here and a man had climbed on her bed and she had no idea how he got in.

  Damien tapped the button, waited until she reached him. ‘Talia, the girl who lived in your apartment, I used to help her sometimes with her cello.’

  Carly smiled politely, thought Maybe Talia had given him a key.

  ‘She had a three-door hatch and that thing only just fit in the back with the seats down.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘I asked her to play at the community gardens open day two years ago. I thought she’d do a few numbers over lunch but she played for hours. It was fantastic, classical music among the vegies as people wandered around. We had a record number sign up.’ He chuckled as the doors started to slide apart. ‘I think some people thought she’d be there every weekend.’

  Inside the small cab, he hit the buttons for two and four, Carly pressed into the opposite corner, shopping bags a barrier on the floor between them.

  ‘You having a quiet one tonight?’ he asked.

  It was the Dickens celebration at the book club, but he didn’t need to know that. ‘Yes, you?’

  ‘Got a ton of work to catch up on. I’ll probably be drinking coffee at midnight to get through it.’

  He was wearing dress trousers and a white shirt, nothing like his community gardens/markets look. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m in IT.’ He glanced at the floor indicator as the elevator slowed, shuffled backwards as it bounced to a stop in the foyer. It opened on someone else she’d met at the markets: Stuart, the uni supervisor. He took a second to eye Damien, then Carly, his head pushed forward by a stoop, face moving side to side like a bird with a long neck.

  ‘Hey, how you doing?’ Damien asked.

  ‘Yeah, good.’ He stepped in, filled the small space between Carly and Damien, turned to face the closing doors.

  His presence was a conversation stopper. Carly felt wedged into the corner now, trapped at the back of the lift, her only way out blocked by two man-shaped, thin-ish neighbours. A pulse drummed in her throat, her palms were suddenly slippery. She smelled the wind still clinging to Stuart’s scarf and musky office on Damien’s shirt. She tried to hold her breath. She wanted to get out and take the stairs.

  As the lift slowed for the second floor, Damien said quietly, ‘This is me.’

  Stuart hadn’t pressed a button. Was she going to be stuck with him to the fourth? But he was moving before the doors parted, head forward, leading with his shoulder, exiting stage right as soon as the gap was wide enough. Damien paused on the tracks. ‘Shout you a coffee if you drop by the markets on Saturday,’ he smiled.

  He seemed nice but she wasn’t sure. ‘Do you bribe all your customers?’

  ‘Wherever possible.’

  Carly couldn’t find the earrings she’d bought at the markets. She’d searched the small box where she kept her few bits of jewellery, the bathroom, the half bath, the coffee table and the kitchen counter. She’d spent twenty minutes at it and was annoyed she’d been careless, more agitated than she should have been about losing them – knowing it wasn’t really what she was stressing about.

  Leaving for the book club without them, she walked the zigzag stairs to Elizabeth’s apartment with a bottle of wine and Great Expectations, anxiety jittery in her legs. Carly had once been outgoing and confident but Charlotte was inside her tonight. She was uncomfortable in social gatherings, always felt as though her mistakes were tattooed on her face and hands. Charlotte hadn’t let anyone close since the reckless, arrogant version of herself had killed her friends. It was self-imposed isolation – not just punishment but because she was frightened to trust herself.

  Carly reminded herself she had accepted Elizabeth Jennings’ invitation because it was time. Still, knowing it didn’t cure the nerves – thirteen years of undeserving and on the sidelines was hard to unlearn.

  ‘Carly.’ Elizabeth said it like an announcement, standing in her doorway and looking her guest up and down. She waited until Carly was in the hallway before curling a bony hand around Carly’s forearm. ‘I hear you had a nasty incident. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled like it was already forgotten, not wanting her ‘incident’ to be the topic of discussion.

  ‘Good girl. Then not another word.’ A brusque pat and Elizabeth was hobbling ahead of her, clapping her hands when she reached the living room. ‘People, people, our guest has arrived.’

  Carly kept the smile stitched to her lips for the faces that turned her way. It looked like a throng but as Elizabeth handled the introductions, Carly realised it was only six people. Christina, holding a platter of cheese and crackers, called, ‘Hello, hello.’ Carly recognised the man with funky angular glasses from the second-hand bookstall at the markets. There was an older man with a thick white moustache and dark bushy eyebrows, and three other women. Carly guessed the one leaning on crutches was Brooke.

  Handed a glass of wine, Carly was offered nibbles and absorbed into the chitchat. Relieved they were more interested in catching up with each other than interrogating the newcomer, Carly took in Elizabeth’s lovely apartment. It resembled Carly’s and yet was entirely different. Same high walls and French windows but a bigger, reconfigured layout, maybe two or three bedrooms, and decorated with beautiful, exotic … things.

  Shelves dominated one side of the room and were filled with books and shiny pieces of porcelain and little sculptures and objects Carly couldn’t identify, that she wanted to go over and touch. There were worn leather sofas, a coffee table with intricately carved legs, a battered dining table, a dresser with rows of tiny drawers.

  ‘Three minutes to kick-off.’ It was Roland, the older man, who seemed to think it was his duty to keep the glasses filled.

  ‘Elizabeth said “kick-off”?’ the man from the markets asked, a smooth, lilting accent in his voice.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ Roland returned. ‘She said “call to order”. But I thought my sporting analogy was more appropriate for the usual scrum.’

  Scrum? Smile, Carly, they’re joking.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Christina told Carly, still holding the cheese plate. ‘It’s all in good fun. Elizabeth likes to play head girl and we like to shout her down.’ She snorted a laugh. ‘That’s how it works, isn’t it, Dietrich?’

  The man from the markets nodded slowly, giving it serious thought. ‘Exactly. When she asks you to speak, just be honest.’

  ‘When she asks me to speak?’ Was it too early to leave?

  ‘Oh, definitely,’ Christina popped a cube of cheese into her mouth and talked around it. ‘Just remember. It’s a book club, she can’t give you detention.’

  What followed wasn’t close to the courteous debate Carly had expected of Elizabeth’s book club. It was considered and well read, rowdy and opinionated, and pretty damn funny from where Carly sat. Bold statements were countered with shout-downs, academic commentaries were met with TV and movie references. There were long-winded diversions, including one by Maxine, a woman who lived on Carly’s floor, that involved airport bookshops, a recent trip to Croatia and Turkish delight.

  Elizabeth kept things moving, adding opinions, calling for order and finally cornering Carly. From the midst of a discussion about Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities, she said, ‘Carly, we haven’t heard
from you yet.’

  It wasn’t quite true. She’d voted for Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie version of Great Expectations and made a couple of attempts to speak up, urging herself to join in, unsure of when it was her turn, then waiting too long and finding the topic had moved on. ‘I’ve enjoyed listening,’ she said.

  ‘Listening is an important quality in a book club, a timely reminder to some of our members.’ Elizabeth aimed stern looks at Roland and Maxine. ‘But listening is not discussing, Carly. I noticed you brought one of the novels currently under discussion. I’d like to hear your thoughts.’

  Carly’s mouth went dry. The room fell silent. She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’ve only read one Dickens novel so I don’t think I qualify for an opinion.’

  ‘I see,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But you’ve read Great Expectations?’

  ‘Yes. I finished it this morning.’ Fictional anxiety let her forget her own for a while. ‘Which probably makes me more likely to remember the details but less likely to have something relevant to say.’

  Carly had hoped a little humour might let her off but Elizabeth responded with a firm voice. ‘The only relevance is that you have read the book, Carly.’ Then to the meeting: ‘I propose we conclude our current discussion and move onto the work our guest is familiar with. Who would like to begin? Christina?’

  Not wanting to be singled out again, Carly found the volume required to be heard and offered short, brief sentences she hoped would keep Elizabeth at bay.

  The meeting was closed exactly two hours after it opened, Elizabeth announcing supper would follow. She caught Carly’s eye across the coffee table and sent her a single, unsmiling nod. Approval or disapproval, Carly couldn’t tell.

  She avoided the older woman at the post-discussion gathering, drinking wine with Maxine and Dietrich, learning the former was a university lecturer and the latter was German and writing a crime novel in his spare time. Carly’s presence eventually prompted the subject of her new apartment.

  ‘Why did Talia leave?’ Carly asked. ‘Howard mentioned an accident.’

  Maxine exchanged a glance with Dietrich. ‘She was in a car accident. A bad one.’

  ‘Spinal injury,’ Dietrich added. ‘C-eight.’

  ‘Quadriplegic.’ Maxine raised her eyebrows in silent commiseration. ‘Anyway, you bought a great apartment.’

  Using a dessert platter as an excuse to move on, Carly carried it around, making her way to Brooke on the other side of the room, hoping cakes would get her some more information about Talia.

  ‘Christina told me you were a friend of Talia’s,’ Carly started.

  Brooke’s eyes stayed on the cake selection. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I bought Talia’s apartment.’

  Brooke took a brownie, looking past Carly as she answered. ‘Yes.’

  It wasn’t the first time Carly had been ignored at a polite gathering of neighbours, and her face stilled over the instinctive flare of shame it triggered. ‘They’re delicious,’ she said and moved on.

  She hadn’t spoken to Elizabeth since the meeting broke up and braced herself for another curt retort as she lined up to say goodnight.

  ‘Ah, Carly.’ Elizabeth was standing by the dining table, leaning on her stick as she received her departing guests. ‘I watched you thinking for an hour and couldn’t bear it any longer. Such a pleasure to see you finally speak your mind.’

  That’s what it was about? ‘I was … a bit daunted by the company.’

  ‘My dear, if you’ve read the book, you’ve got the right to an opinion. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.’

  A pat on the back. It made her smile. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Our custom is to have a majority decision on new members so I’m unable to offer another invitation yet, although I will be advocating for you. You’ll be notified in time.’

  After the boisterous discussion, Carly was surprised at the formality – and that she wanted to be voted in. ‘Thank you for the support. This is a lovely room. The shelves are the perfect setting for a book club.’

  ‘Thank you, I like it. It reminds me every day of my wonderful life. My husband and I lived and travelled around the world for many years.’

  Carly eyed them again, wondering at her chances of being seventy- or eighty-something and well travelled. She’d already wasted half her time. ‘So many beautiful things you’ve collected.’

  ‘They all have their memories. You must come and have tea with me. I can tell you some stories and try not to bore you.’

  She saw herself to the door and started down the corridor. The hollow centre of the warehouse was cold and black at her side, the echo of her footsteps in the silence coming back to her like another set of shoes on the timber floors. She checked over her shoulder to make sure it was just her. At the zigzag stairs, she glanced up and down the atrium, saw no one but picked up her pace on the upward climb. By the time she reached the fourth floor, she was power-walking. Head down and breathing hard, nerves tingling on the back of her neck, she swung off the top step and slammed into someone on the landing.

  13

  Carly’s screech and the clatter of falling crutches resounded around the deserted corridor.

  ‘Oh, god, sorry,’ Carly gasped.

  ‘No, my fault,’ Brooke said, hopping to the railing.

  Picking up the crutches and passing them back, Carly wondered what Brooke was doing there – she lived one level down. And who took the stairs with crutches? ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I wasn’t sure if you’d take the stairs or the lift. I’d thought I’d see you if I waited here.’

  ‘You were waiting for me?’ She’d ignored her half an hour ago.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes slid away like they had over the dessert plate, and she shifted her weight on her crutches, something closer to uneasiness than discomfort in it.

  It made Carly think about internet searches and old newspaper stories. ‘Why?’

  ‘I …’ Brooke dragged teeth over her bottom lip. ‘… wanted to apologise.’

  Carly’s eyebrows rose. ‘To me?’

  ‘I was rude tonight and I didn’t … it’s not …’ She huffed a weak laugh. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was a bitch for ignoring you.’

  An apology was a first. ‘I thought you might’ve been short-sighted,’ Carly said, and smiled.

  Brooke gave her a brief one back. ‘I wish I could blame it on that.’ She cleared her throat, took a breath, as though whatever she had to say was going to be difficult. ‘Talia and I were friends. She was in a car accident last year and had to go back to Perth to live with her parents.’

  ‘I heard. I’m sorry.’

  Brooke turned to the railing, kept her gaze on the darkness. ‘I still get upset. She was so talented, such a beautiful person, now she can’t feed herself. And I miss her. It’s why I was, I don’t know, tongue-tied.’ She shrugged. ‘Rude, really. I heard you talking to Maxine about her. I wasn’t expecting it and it all came back again.’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ Something Carly understood.

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to say welcome to the building. I didn’t think I could do it at Elizabeth’s without getting teary and I didn’t want anyone worrying that I was upset. So, welcome. Your flat is lovely, we had some good times there. I hope you enjoy it.’

  Carly wanted to ask about Talia’s friends and keys but Brooke looked like she’d said all she could. Carly walked with her to the bridge over the atrium, Brooke told her she’d be fine from there. Carly understood about needing to be alone with those kinds of memories and left her to swing on her crutches to the lift. Opening her apartment, she eyed the long hallway and the darkness beyond. She’d toasted Talia for leaving – and Brooke’s friend had walked out one day and never made it back.

  It didn’t feel good. It felt like the air was weighted with something dark and ominous. Carly walked to the windows, threw the doors open and let cold winter wind rush through. She didn’t want whatever it was touching
her.

  He is on top of her. All of him on all of her. The weight is suffocating. It is crushing the air from her.

  Her breath is short, sharp and panting.

  His is warm and wafting over her face.

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t know if she can, she just doesn’t. His bones are hard notches in her flesh. Knees, hips, ribs. Feet beside her ankles are anchoring her legs together.

  He isn’t raping her. Not yet.

  She wants to see his face. Searches the blackness, catches only dark on dark. A shape, head and shoulders. Where is his fucking face?

  Anger. It doesn’t loosen whatever has paralysed her but it feels like fighting. On the inside. She fixes her eyes on his darkness, willing him to go away. To fuck off and leave her alone.

  He doesn’t. He clasps a hand to her throat.

  Choking, gagging, a thumping in her ears. Her anger is replaced by bone-chilling dread. She squeezes her eyes. Hears him. Not a word, not even a voice. Just a husky, unhurried huff of laughter. It puffs across her eyelids. Her scalp ripples with fear. Panic is a high-pitched note in her head.

  She waits for the air to be choked from her, for death to come. But the hand lifts, the pressure is gone, her skin cold where his fingers have been.

  Now? Will it happen now? Will he cut her throat? Break her bones? Force her legs apart?

  Tears leak from under her eyelids but she won’t open them, she doesn’t want to see him now. She just wants it over.

  14

  Carly’s eyes were fixed on the security chain. It was slung across the jamb and fitted into its slide. She couldn’t remember doing it. She couldn’t remember getting here, on her haunches at the end of the hall. Just the urgent, panicked call to the police as she huddled in the corner.