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Chapter 2 Part 1
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2020-07-29 18:47:42December 2nd, 2012
Morning
“Mother?” Her eyes are rather hard to read. They look dark. Or am I imagining it? Am I hoping the news I’ve found a partner — rather, I’ve had a partner the whole time — saddens her? Why would it? She had introduced me to her friends as her new mummy when she was a child. Now she has a real one. A tad late, sure. She’d never had a father. Never imagined she could need one. Perhaps said I was her mother because she didn’t know how to act around a father. The only boys she’s known she kissed in secret under the shaded slide and ran away squealing about it. If we were children, it would be different. If I had been a lifelong friend. If I had been her James. We would have fallen in love. She would have told me about her childhood. I suspect she’s told him. She hasn’t breathed a word of it to me.
“Yeah.” I only know what the caseworker told me. Dad was MIA. M
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December 3rd, 2012 Morning My alarm woke me at five-thirty sharp. I usually feel a great deal better than I do today. The night had been tedious. I had released myself into a tissue after seeing Sasha, and those rancid thoughts seemed to dull to quietness. Sleep hadn’t come quite so easily. I tossed and turned, feeling rather hot despite the weather. I read into the news in depth, fearing my dreams would be plagued with her. The Taliban had launched an attack on the NATO airstrip. There was a terrorist attack in Chibok. Israel Keyes died in custody. It had all the markings of making a particularly violent and disturbing dream — yet I dreamt of her. I was sat on the couch with the paper. She had walked up slowly, wearing absolutely nothing, though part of me is sure she had a ski mask… the grim news reading to blame, I suppose. She climbed on top; I could feel it so vividly. Reached into my trousers
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About Midnight I’m doing the rounds again. I peer through the door left ajar. Quiet noises had tumbled from her bedroom. Sometimes she screams. Sometimes she sobs quietly. I brush her forehead with my thumb until she quiets, it doesn’t seem to wake her. More often now does she mumble quietly about numbers. One for, two for, three for… I’m not sure what. I’ve only ever caught seven for a witch, though it ought to have been misheard. I would never ask. She would be embarrassed to know I soothe her back to sleep. She’s too strong-willed. Fierce and quick-tempered. Quiet and reserved. I press through. She’s grunting. She rolls over. Is she awake? I hide behind the door. She’s still asleep. I slip through. “Damon…” She mumbles, so I’m not sure if that’s what she says. I hope it is, so that’s what I think it to be. I sit quietly by her side. Stare at the wild, tangled hair. I’m not sure how, but I’m running my fingers throu
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“Ah!” She’s looking quite chipper, a cardboard cup tray dangling from her fingertips in a way that makes me so sure she’s stabbed her nails into the bottom to hold it still. “I was hoping you lot would be up! Coffee?” She plops it down rather unceremoniously. I find myself looking closely as Damon lifts one with his name scrawled on the lid, but it doesn’t seem to have any puncture holes through the bottom. Strange, considering how perfectly she’d sat the thing on the tips of her fingers. I take one. No crows today. “What milk is it?” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until Damon asked quietly. Now that I’ve already had a few mouthfuls and the aftertaste is rather strange, at that, I wonder if the crows have left us be not because of good fortunes but because they’re afraid of the smell after I’ve soiled my pants. “What do you mean what milk?” She’s staring up at Damon with a coy smile, slowly setting her own coffee down. “I mean what milk is in the
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December 6th, 2012 Morning “How’s Bertrand?” Tami flicks her cigarette at me with a cruel, small smile. She’s about as fuckable as they get. Blonde bombshell. Though the type with a rather thick Yorkshire accent and smoker’s teeth. Dark brows. A deep tan. Bright blue eyes. That winning, albeit dull smile. A bog-standard cockthrob. “Bert.” I say, stiffly at that. “Like Bert is any better.” She struggles with the T’s. James buts in now, all dark hair and dazzling blue eyes. “’You reckon he’s off fucking Ernie right now?” They laugh. I laugh with them. I’ve got to. My pride is at stake. “Shut it, wanker, you wouldn’t know if you’re on foot or horseback.” James doesn’t take kindly to this. His charming bright smile falls. Suddenly, he’s glaring at me. He doesn’t mean it. He never does. “Maybe, maybe not,” Now, he stands. Takes a cigarette from Tami. Does that little walk
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“You’re looking a bit better.” He’s staring at me while I settle into my seat. Eyes so keen and dark and unreadable. So closed-off to the public. To everyone, really. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in there. He doesn’t mean that he likes the way I look. For some reason, I must remind myself that. I’ve got a bit of colour, mum would say. She would pinch my cheeks and smile at the pink. If she was here, she would compliment the freshly dyed hair. Tell her I looked like grandma. We would dance and sing together about superstitions and princesses. All would be right in the world. “Did you eat yesterday?” “No, but I wasn’t up and about much, either.” I stare into the empty glass of table water. My throat is feeling rather dry. Somehow, I don’t think water will help. “Last time you were having nightmares you weren’t eating. Or sleeping.” Why is he so closed off? He stares into my eyes as though he’s talking to a patient, rather cool and matter of fact.
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December 1st, 1999 Afternoon Damon “Chloe?” The house is silent, bar the click of the front door closing. Awfully so. A draft comes through the living room, so brittle I swear it could knock me off my feet. An alarm clock is ringing. She’s slow to stop it, the sound lofting around with that cool breeze. Or maybe she’s not home. I shrug off my coat. Lay it across the back of the couch on my way to the window. The rattle of a door in its frame stops when the window slides shut — I hadn’t noticed it, either. Somehow, the house is more silent now. “Chloe!” “Damon!” She pops around a corner, flaming hair twisted up at the crown, strands billowing around her face. She’s wearing an especially well-worn cardigan, the skin around her eyes dark and sunken. She hadn’t been sleeping. I can see that. She’s in the bed with me each night, breathing steadily, what does she do for those hours? Stare s
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June 8th, 2011 Morning The sky whips around us. The trees have sprouted leaves again. The countryside is a bright green. The sky a brilliant blue. The air has warmed, though not by much. It’s strange, the sensation of beaming sun on my bare legs. Fills me with sleep but invigorates me all the same. I hug my cardigan tighter. “Where are we going?” I’m almost afraid to ask. The not knowing is most exciting. “I’m sure you’d love to know.” He reaches over, squeezing my hand. His skin has turned already. A deep, warm bronze. Hair mousy and bright. Tousled. Untouched. He wears jeans. A thin button-down. Wild chest hair peaks through the top. Sometimes I wish I was his biological daughter. If only to be that beautiful. “I would.” He grins. A cheeky, bright smile. “That’s too bad, Isn’t it?” And drops my hand again. “The beach?” “No.” “The harbour?” “Isn’t that the s
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August 19th, 2002 Morning “Wait! It’s right here!” I rock over the top of her, suddenly peering at the tips of her toes. I almost barrel straight over. I would have taken her with me. Like hitting a wombat. Tiny, but solid. Enough to crush the radiator. I made that mistake on my first and only trip down under. It didn’t crack up to be half the fun I had hoped. Hot and awfully flat. That was my impression of it. “Here?” The world spins around me as I straighten up—it’s a right struggle to, at that. But those tiny trainers and planted firmly in the woodchip. She’s surveying the equipment with a purpose rather unlike an eleven-year-old. “I’m not seeing this secret base.” I was expecting a nook dug out beneath the slide. That was where mine had been. We’d nicked a telescope from my mate Thomas’ house. Used it to stare through the neighbouring windows. I certainly saw some things a child my age ought not to. I do hope she’s n
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“What?” Now I just want to hide back behind him. Damon seems to know. He steps in front of me. “You can’t search her; you’ll need a female officer to.” “I can search her; I just can’t take her clothes off.” Again, with that smug smile. He claps his hands together. Peers around Damon’s shoulder to me. I was right to hope for two more magpies. “Now, shall we do it here, or do you have a more private place you would rather.” “Show me your warrant.” Damon seethes. “I was hoping you would ask.” I can see him fish into his pocket. “Finished my two-year probation yesterday.” “Did you know about this?” Suddenly, Damon turns to face me. Thrusts the card toward me. Looks a bit like a student ID in a fancy wallet if you ask me. With a stupid, god-awful photo of this git rather blow-up. “Know about what?” “He’s a detective, Sasha!” He shouldn’t be yelling that; I can only imagine the things it woul
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January 6th, 2013 Morning I’ve been staring through the tiny window all morning. I saw a single magpie on the way here. It tailed us in the car. Swooped down like we’d stolen its babe. Flew off into the distance like some mysterious harbinger of death. I waited for another. Even two. I think I would rather death than sorrow. At least death would put me out of my misery. Not give me another reason to want it. “I thought you might need this.” I hadn’t noticed he was even close. I’m a shotty receptionist. Damon is leant over me. His elbows on the counter. A disposable cup in his hands. “What is it?” I lift the lid. Foam. Dark foam. Coffee? “Cappuccino.” He’s smiling. He’s got to know I’m not impressed. “I know. No coffee with milk in it. Just try it, won’t you?” “Will it make you happy?” I’ve been struggling with the lid. I don’t know how the baristas get them on. “Very.” I take a
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January 5th, 2013 Midday “I think we need a redo,” When he walks back over, he knows better than to come empty-handed. A cup of steaming coffee threatens to spill with each step. A stupid, playful grin is the only warning I’ll get. I think I have a good enough idea what he’s after. I lean forward. Prop my chin up in the palm of my hand. I’m ready. “Of?” He sits on the same un-cushioned chair he did last time. The halls are quiet, Tami tapping away happily at a keyboard is the only sign of life for kilometres. It’s the palliative care ward, after all. His chair is just as disagreeable when he scoots closer. He reaches forward again, rakes the hair from my face, and I can’t help but lean in because at this point, it’s all become instinct. His lips brush mine at first. The other winding through the back of my hair. And I don’t care that we haven’t spent a moment together alone since Tuesday. That I worr
