Who We Were Page 15

  25

  KATY

  Katy’s breath is loud and ragged in her ears. Her legs lack their usual spring. She’s finding this difficult. Can’t seem to get into the zone. There is too much on her mind: end-of-year school reports; the upsetting yearbook messages; last night’s drunken phone call from Luke.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ he said, sounding bemused. ‘Aaron talked me into it.’

  She’s thrilled. It’ll be wonderful to see him – it’s been almost three years. She fully expects that his RSVP will prompt a string of others. Luke is very influential like that, without even trying to be. She didn’t mention that she’d been on the verge of cancelling the whole thing, or that Melissa Andrews, of all people, talked her around.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ Melissa said when she phoned. ‘Don’t call it off, Katy. That’s exactly what this person wants you to do. Hold tight. They’ll either give up or reveal their hand.’

  Grace’s advice was of the same ilk. ‘We don’t know for sure if any law has been broken. Just a nasty prank, by a nasty person. I always tell my kids not to let nastiness succeed over niceness. But, Katy, you must do what you feel is right.’

  Katy doesn’t really know what is right. Dusk is closing in and, even though her body is protesting, she steps up the pace. Two more laps of the park before the twists and turns of Kurraba Road. She doesn’t enjoy running in the park at this time of night. It’s more or less deserted, with poor visibility where the grass melds into the bushland.

  She breathes a sigh of relief as she completes the last lap. The streetlights have turned on, and there is traffic along Kurraba Road; she feels safer now. She has become much more alert to her surroundings and the potential for danger. She’s also become more scrupulous about double-checking locks, and not holding the door open for anyone else on their way into the apartment block.

  The route home is uphill from here. Katy slows down. It’s a slog. Sweat drips from her forehead into her eyes. She flicks it away and forges forward. It’s fully dark now, a cloudy night with neither stars nor moon.

  Home. She’s proud of herself. For having the self-discipline and grit to go for her run, despite being late home from school. For putting away ten kilometres when all she wanted to do was curl up on the couch.

  She spends five minutes outside the apartment block, stretching. Her muscles are warm and pliant.

  ‘Howdy, Katy.’

  It’s Jim, her next-door neighbour. The porch lights glare down on him.

  She smiles. ‘Hi, Jim. What’re you up to?’

  Jim is one of those red-haired men who’re hard to put an age to, maybe because most men of his generation have gone grey a long time ago. His face is deeply weather-beaten and yet strangely youthful. He’s always keen for a chat.

  ‘Just had to duck out to the shops for some bread.’ He frowns as he looks her up and down. ‘Bit late at night to be out on your own.’

  ‘I know.’ She balances herself on one leg, using the wall as support. ‘Just the way things happened tonight. But I’m pleased with myself for making the effort.’

  ‘Good on ya, love. No more strange notes?’

  Jim was the neighbour who came around the night she found the note on her hallway floor. You need a boyfriend, Katy, and better security in your apartment block ... Just thinking about it makes her shudder. Jim didn’t mind being called on to search the apartment. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  ‘Nope,’ she assures him. ‘All’s quiet.’

  Katy has been trying not to give in to her fears, constantly reminding herself that trespassing or breaking-and-entering aren’t the only possible scenarios. Someone could have asked another resident to deliver the note, perhaps one of the kids who live in the block. Likewise, someone could have used a series of intelligent guesses, rather than her browsing history, to figure out her plans regarding Luke’s sperm. She’s putting her faith in these other scenarios. How else can she keep coming home to her suddenly vulnerable apartment? How else can she fall asleep at night?

  Jim ambles off and Katy does a final stretch of her ankles before going inside. Her flat is silent and lonely. It always has a desolate air when she comes home late.

  She has a shower and dinner in record time. Then she settles in front of the television with her laptop. She has fallen behind with the yearbook and reunion preparations because she’s been so busy at work. Time to send out another appeal for RSVPs and a last-chance for the yearbook updates.

  From: admin@yearbook.com.au

  Subject: Reunion menu

  Hi everyone,

  New venue has been booked and would love to know your thoughts on attached menu for finger food. The new yearbook isn’t going as well. Come on, people. Aren’t you interested in where everyone has ended up? Entries by end of week, please.

  Thanks,

  K

  Katy spends the next few minutes working through the list of people she still hasn’t made contact with. Only five names; she’s slowly getting there. David Hooper is the only one she can remember clearly. An introverted boy who excelled at French and spent lunchtimes in the library, playing chess. Katy used to talk to him on occasion, but conversation wasn’t his strong point and sooner or later she would give up.

  Remnants of one such aborted conversation.

  Katy enquiring, ‘Why do you spend so much time in the library?’

  David replying, ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Katy blushing violently. ‘No reason.’

  Another memory: David helping Robbie up from the ground, shepherding him towards the bathroom to get cleaned up, a job that used to be Nick’s but Robbie’s brother had graduated by then and Katy could no longer run to fetch him.

  Katy gushing to David, ‘Thank you so much for helping.’

  A rebuking stare. ‘Just give us some space, okay?’

  She’s interested to know what became of David. Whether that brusqueness softened over time. Whether his social skills improved. Where he found his niche in the world. But nobody seems to have the first idea where David is today. Nobody knows anything about his family either. How can someone disappear without a trace? Did the family move overseas? Relocate to some country town that’s off the grid? Is David one of those rare people who doesn’t use Facebook or social media? Is he alive and well and oblivious to the fact that she’s trying to track him down, or has he – like poor Brigette Saunders – succumbed to some illness or tragic accident and had his life cut short?

  Katy is mulling this over when – with uncanny timing – a new message pops up in her inbox. It’s from Mike, Brigette’s husband.

  Great to hear you’ve found another venue. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone. I’ll bring lots of photos of Brigette and Toby.

  There’s no need to answer, but Katy does so anyway. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, even if it’s only via email.

  I wish everyone was as enthusiastic as you! Still waiting on RSVPs.

  Don’t know what to do about the yearbook. People are still getting nasty messages and the whole thing seems like a bad idea now.

  Katy hits send and waits for his reply. She pictures him sitting at his desk, or maybe stretched out on the couch, like she is. Lonely. Wanting to talk to someone. Even a virtual stranger.

  She has to wait only a few moments for his response.

  Did I mention that I work in security? I might be able to figure out who’s behind this. My number is below if you want to talk.

  Does she want to talk?

  She doesn’t even know him.

  She knows him better than the men on those dating sites that Nina makes her fish through.

  What is the harm in calling him and having an amicable discussion about the yearbook and whatever else might come up in conversation?

  Come on, Katy. This isn’t really about the yearbook or the fact that he works in security. This is a man who’s obviously lonely and vulnerable after the death of his wife. Stay clear.

  What wou
ld Nina say?

  Nina would roll her eyes and declare that Mike would have to be an improvement on William’s dull devotion and Rickie’s drunken booty call.

  What would Luke say?

  Luke isn’t risk averse, far from it, but at the same time he’s savvy and has a sixth sense when it comes to trouble. Is this the very reason why he’s refusing to discuss the idea of having a baby together? Does he see the arrangement as being nothing but trouble? Even last night, when he was drunk and excited about coming home for the reunion, he skilfully diverted Katy every time she got close to raising the subject.

  Katy makes up her mind and picks up her phone.

  ‘Hi, Mike. This is Katy.’

  ‘Hello, Katy.’ His voice is warm, deep and instantly attractive. ‘I’m so glad you called.’

  26

  ROBBIE

  Robbie forces himself through the gate and up the mottled pathway. The lawn needs mowing, and he wonders if his father is still up to the job. Robbie and Nick used to fight over whose turn it was. The mower was temperamental to start, black smoke billowing in their faces when it eventually got going. He assumes his father bought a new one, or maybe he gets someone in to do the lawn for him. The thought of his father being afforded this small luxury – even though the current state of the grass disproves it – pleases Robbie.

  ‘Hasn’t changed a bit, has it?’ Celia says.

  Her arm is hooked through his. If it wasn’t for her grip and determined stride towards the house, he doubts he could go through with it. Every fibre of his being wants to turn and run. The front door – shabby and in need of a paint – appears in front of him. Celia turns the handle, and suddenly they’re ensnared in the hallway. Robbie stops dead. Celia pushes him forward.

  ‘It’s all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.’

  A glance into the front room: same floral carpet, new couch and curtains. His parents’ bedroom is on the opposite side, door closed. His mother and father are waiting in the kitchen. Once again, Robbie is struck by how old they are. How white – both their hair and their skin – and frail. Mum steps forward, as though to hug him. He flinches. She looks hurt and fills the kettle instead. Dad is sitting at the table, fingers laced, as though bracing himself for bad news.

  ‘We’re here.’ Celia states the obvious before pushing him towards the rear extension. ‘Come on, Robbie. Keep going. We’ll come back for tea when the tour is over.’

  She was insistent about doing this. About facing his demons, which are here, within the walls of this tired suburban house. And at the school, of course. But the school is gone now, demolished. There’s satisfaction in that image: a wrecking ball smashing through those grim brown-brick walls. Flattening the hall, the science labs, the changing rooms, and filling the maze of corridors with rubble. It was the corridors that were the worst. Too narrow to pass by unnoticed. No escaping without turning back the way you came and hearing their mockery behind you.

  Celia opens the door to his bedroom and memories slap him in the face. He recoils. Makes a sound that’s not unlike a child’s cry.

  She steadies him. ‘Come on, you’ve got to do this. It’s not as bad as you think.’

  He looks around with slitted eyes. Same posters on the wall. Parallel single beds, neatly made, as though waiting for Nick and him to return. Robbie almost laughs at the thought of the two of them, grown men, being restored to those beds.

  Celia whips open the wardrobe doors. ‘Some of your clothes are still here.’ She looks him up and down. ‘They might even fit you!’

  Robbie stares into the gloom. His school uniforms, a couple of shirts that were trendy at the time, some jackets. He can actually smell his teenage self from the clothes, but that can’t be possible, not after all this time. Now he feels like he might faint. He pushes past Celia, sits down heavily on the bed. The room is swimming. The posters – Coldplay, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters – whirring round and round, mocking him.

  Celia is crouched down in front of him. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No.’ He’s angry with her. For bringing him here. ‘Can you open the window at least?’

  She pulls back the net curtains and a disproportionate amount of light pours in. The window slides upwards, and suddenly there is air, scented with gardenias from the garden.

  ‘Can you leave me alone for a while?’

  ‘Sure.’ She squeezes his shoulder as she leaves. His sister is a good, kind person. He doesn’t deserve her. Doesn’t deserve his parents either, who’re waiting for him with mugs of tea and a plate of ‘good’ biscuits that are usually reserved for visitors. That’s what he is now: a visitor. Or a ghost. They’re all scared he’ll disappear again.

  Celia said coming here would be closure. ‘You need to see there’s nothing to be afraid of. What happened was more about your state of mind than the actual place.’

  She fancies herself as a psychologist. She’s wrong, though. Doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. It is the place. Just being here weakens him. His shame is almost part of the furnishings.

  Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together, you weak fuck.

  He opens the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. Stray pens and paperclips. His student ID. A birthday card. Dear Robbie, Hope you have a wonderful day. Xx Katy

  She was the only one who remembered, other than his family. Every year she’d decorate his locker and leave a card. She did it because she had a kind heart, not because she actually cared. She had no idea how much it meant to him, her kindness. How it kept him going.

  He opens the bottom drawer, which is deeper and filled with old exercise books. It smells of school: a mix of lead, sweat and boredom. He flicks through an English book. Sees his teenage handwriting, reads some of it and thinks it’s decent: at least he was able to string sentences together and use some fancy words. There are drawings on the inside cover, as he knew there’d be. Elaborate depictions of daggers, pistols and nooses. He poured a lot of detail and time into those drawings. It was all he could think about: how to end it.

  He goes back to the wardrobe. Slides his hand along the top shelf. His fingers come away with a thick layer of dust. He tries again, going on his tiptoes, reaching back further. His heart stops. It’s gone. How can that be?

  His eyes are drawn to the bookshelf, over by the window. There it is, its spine tattered and readily identifiable, propped up by smaller, thicker volumes. His mother must have put it there, or maybe Nick or one of the kids when they’ve come to stay. Robbie pulls it out.

  You don’t need to do this. You don’t need to torture yourself.

  But he still does it. Sits on the floor with it cradled in his arms. Dares to read the front cover: Yearbook of Macquarie High, Class of 2000. Forces himself to scrutinise the photo beneath, taken outside the gym, everyone’s arms in the air: school’s out.

  His heart is beating again, erratically, painfully. The book opens on Zach Latham’s page, and Robbie’s handwriting – deeper and better formed than the writing in his exercise book – fills the right- hand margin.

  Fucking bastard. Hope bad things happen to you and you have a miserable life. Fucking bastard.

  Stop, he implores himself. Stop. This isn’t doing you any good.

  He can’t stop. It’s like scratching a scab. He’s bleeding but he has to keep gouging.

  Grace’s page. Cute ponytail and smile. More notes etched in the margin. Vacuous bitch. No thoughts of your own. You’re just as bad as them.

  Melissa. Luke. Annabel. Faces plump with youth and self-confidence. So, you think I’m disgusting, do you? Well, I think the same about you and worse!

  Katy’s page is the only departure. A love-heart with an arrow through its centre. You’ll never know how much you mean to me.

  Finally, Jarrod’s page, near the front. Sports captain. Grinning at the camera. Holding up a large trophy, probably for rugby or cricket. The same phrase engraved a hundred times over, on the margins, amid spaces in the text, even acro
ss the photograph. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone...

  Oh God. Oh God.

  Robbie wants to hide. He can’t go back out there and face his parents. Doesn’t matter how much it means to them. He can’t do it. He wants to – needs to – hide.

  He crawls inside the wardrobe, shuts the door. Blackness. Nothingness. Just the sound of his own sobs.

  27

  GRACE

  Grace is sick to her stomach. She recognises this feeling from long ago. It’s how she felt when she found out an ex-boyfriend had been openly cheating on her. All the evidence was there, right in front of her nose, but she was the last to know.

  Melissa had pulled her aside in the end. ‘Look, I know we aren’t friends any more, but I think you deserve to know the truth. He’s been cheating on you, Grace. You need to dump him. Pronto.’

  Grace can’t remember if she thanked Melissa. All she can remember is being utterly mortified, and feeling let down by Annabel because she should have been the one pulling her aside.

  Now those same feelings: a nauseating suspicion in the pit of her belly, the vague threat of complete mortification.

  Tom knew about Daniel all along. Is it possible he sent that email to Annabel to force her to take action? And because he’d sent Annabel an email, did he feel compelled to send Grace one too, in order not to arouse suspicion? But what about the others? Why target Zach, Melissa, Luke and Katy? People he hasn’t even met? And why bother to tie it in with the yearbook? If he had something to say to Annabel, surely he could have said it face to face?

  Grace thinks about her own email. The detail about the miscarriage. Her fears about Lauren. The photo that was temporarily missing from the fridge. The same photo that Tom ‘found’ and returned to its rightful place. Her head is spinning. She has barely slept these last few nights. The idea has taken hold and now she can’t stop thinking about it. She can hardly look her husband in the eye, flinches every time he comes close to touching her. One minute she’s almost certain that he’s responsible, the next minute she’s just as certain he’s not. The problem is that deep down she knows it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Tom’s always had a vigilante side, an ingrained righteousness and, at times, intolerance. He might be lenient with parking tickets and other small misdemeanours, but he has a completely different attitude to what he regards as reckless behaviour. Drug users, in particular, have always infuriated him.