Only Daughter Page 7

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, jumping out of the car and slamming the door behind me.

  I chain-smoke my way back home, not knowing when I’ll get another chance. Inhaling slowly, I feel each muscle soften. The sun is out but the air is fresh. Goose bumps are rising on the backs of my legs but I don’t mind. It’s good to have a few minutes without being watched. I stare at my new phone and let the little blue arrow guide me to Bec’s house.

  I look over my shoulder at the sound of tires moving slowly behind me. A black van. It must be going way under the speed limit. There was a black van next to Andopolis’s car when we parked at the shops. Had it been following me then? I shrug it off. Andopolis has gotten me freaked. I turn off onto Rebecca’s street and the van rolls past me. I laugh at my own paranoia and suck hard on the cigarette. Maybe I should have bought some breath mints, too. Precious little Rebecca probably wasn’t a smoker.

  My phone dings. I really do have a message. I open it, expecting it to be from the mom, asking when I’m coming home. But it’s not.

  Get Out. That’s all it says.

  The squeal of tires and suddenly the van has come back around and is tailing me again, heading up my street. My heart hammers. It’s definitely following me. I drop the cigarette and start to run. The van accelerates. Pushing myself to go as fast as I can, I run up our driveway and through the front door. I slam it behind me and stand with my back against it, gasping for breath.

  “Is that you, honey?” I hear the mother call from the kitchen.

  “Yes!” I call back.

  For a moment I consider telling her about the message and the van. But of course she’d call Andopolis straightaway and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to give him any more reason to keep pursuing the case. I look through the mottled pane of glass in the door; the street is empty.

  I turn my back to the kitchen, making sure the mother can’t see me, and call the number that sent the message.

  “The number you have called is switched off or unavailable. Please check the number and try again,” a woman’s voice tells me. I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk into the living room.

  Andrew and Paul are sitting with the dad, who is still staring into the middle distance. The news is on television, but again, no one seems to be watching.

  “How did it go?” the mom asks, coming into the lounge room, her rubber gloves back on.

  “Has Vince burst that vein in his temple yet?” says Andrew.

  “It was fine,” I say, sitting down on an empty chair. The cat, Hector, jumps up onto my lap. He curls up into a ball and I stroke him behind the ears. My heart is starting to slow now, but I still feel panicky. It’s good to be doing something with my hands.

  “Anything come back to you?” Paul asks.

  “Not really,” I say.

  We stare at the news. The new prime minister comes on for a press conference. He’s lit unflatteringly from behind, exaggerating the pink of his large ears. They cut to children and their moms being led off a little boat by men in army uniforms with big guns.

  “Who is that?” I say, realizing the opportunity.

  “Who?”

  “Him,” I say, when the prime minister comes back on screen.

  “You don’t know who Tony Abbott is?” says one of them—Andrew, I think.

  I look down, pretending to be embarrassed.

  “It’s our prime minister,” says the dad.

  He is still staring at the screen. Paul and Andrew are looking at me, but their expressions are all wrong. They look surprised and confused, when I was going for pity. I realize I need to keep the brothers talking. Usually people like you more if you manage to get them to confide in you.

  “Do you remember the last time you both saw me? It might help to piece it back together.”

  “You can’t remember?”

  “Not really. It’s all a bit blurry.” Already I wish I had asked them something else. The past was dangerous territory.

  “Well,” says the one I think is Andrew, “I have to say…you were a bit of a bitch!”

  All three of us laugh, the tension broken. I give myself a mental pat on the back.

  “No, I wasn’t!” I say, just because it seems like the right thing.

  “You kind of were, Becky. You said you would take us to the pool, remember? Then you freaked cos you found a dirty magazine in my backpack,” Paul says.

  “Then we never saw you again,” says Andrew. “Way to give us a complex about sex!”

  We laugh again, although I notice the one I’m pretty sure is Paul watching me carefully. It’s like he’s expecting me to say something. I almost jump out of my skin when there’s a knock on the door. I hear the mom go over and open it.

  “It’s for you, Bec,” she calls almost immediately.

  I walk over, imagining a man, the black van behind him waiting to take me away. He can’t take me from here, not with all these people around. But the woman standing on the steps looks corporate and successful, wearing a dark green blazer and matching skirt and shiny sheer stockings. Her blonde hair is swept off her face in a bun. She’s staring at me like I’m a ghost, her mouth open and her eyes wide.

  “Bec?” she says, and then, just before she lunges toward me, pulling me into a tight hug, I recognize her from the video.

  She pulls away from me, crying, snot streaming down her face.

  “Lizzie.”

  6

  Bec, 12 January 2003

  Bec had an early shift that morning. It didn’t matter; she hadn’t really been able to sleep. The chair was wedged firmly under her door handle, but in the back of her mind she knew if it really was something paranormal then it probably wouldn’t make much difference. Plus, it was so hot and stuffy in her room. Even with the air conditioning, she could feel the heat pushing its way in through the bricks and glass of the house. It was going to be forty-three degrees today.

  Bec lay still and listened to the sounds of her mom and dad moving around downstairs: the clinks of her mother rinsing out their cereal bowls, the beep as she pulled open the dishwasher. Her dad’s voice was a deep mumble, but she couldn’t hear her mom speaking at all. She waited until she heard the front door shutting, then the motor of the car running outside, to get up, pulling off her sweaty sheets and going straight downstairs to get some water.

  Her mom had a way of erasing any signs of her presence from a room. The kitchen looked, as always, like a set. Not a place where they all lived and breathed and ate. Even the sink was totally dry, not even a drop of water. She smiled to herself, knowing once the twins woke up it would look very different. Walking past the kitchen table, she ran her fingers across the warm wood. There was a moment at dinner last night where she had considered telling her mom about the specter. But, as usual, her mom was so focused on her brothers she barely even looked at her. Sometimes it was as though her mom forgot she had a daughter, as well. If Bec were honest with herself, she knew there was no way her mom would believe her anyway. She’d think Bec was either lying or going mad.

  Bec heard a bang. Before she even thought about it, she was on the floor, cheek pressed against the kitchen tiles. Then she heard it again. It wasn’t a gunshot; in fact, it didn’t sound anything like one. She got up and peered through the sheer kitchen curtains. Max, the neighbour, was nailing down the loose paling in the fence. Bec took a breath. Of course it wasn’t a gun. That was silly. But the sleek shine of the shotgun came into her head without her being able to stop it. She’d been in her parents’ closet a few months back, intending to try on her mom’s new black leather heels. Just to see if she could walk in them. It was wedged right up the back, behind the hangers. It looked new. The dark ebony of the handle was spotless; the long barrels gleamed. She had never seen a gun before. It definitely hadn’t been there last time she’d looked. When she’d reached out to touch it, the steel felt cold and smooth under her fingertips.

  Running water into the glass, she took a big gulp and almost spat it back out.
The water from the cold tap was running so hot, it burnt her throat. Holding her hand underneath, she waited for the water to turn back to cold. It didn’t. The pipes outside must have heated up in the morning sun. She put the glass down, very purposefully right in the middle of the empty bench top, and went upstairs to get ready for work.

  * * *

  As Bec walked down to the bus stop she felt that now-familiar crawling feeling on the back of her neck. She clenched the muscles in her shoulders, trying to make the feeling go away. It was in her head; it must be. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shape move. She whirled around. It was just a kid, staring at her. He was about ten and had been sticking up posters on trees. He was wearing tiny short shorts with pictures of footballs on them. The sun lit up the downy white hair on his legs.

  “Have you seen him?” he asked.

  Bec looked at the paper in the boy’s hand. It was a missing poster for a white Maltese terrier. The boy had put one on every tree. He looked at her hopefully, eyes red and blotchy.

  “No—sorry.”

  He turned before she could see his face fall. Poor kid.

  “I’ll keep an eye out!” she called, and he smiled at her sadly over his shoulder as he started ripping tape to stick a poster to the next tree.

  She remembered when her parents had put signs like this out for their cat Molly. They’d left them up only a week before they brought a surprise home: a tiny little black-and-white kitten. Hector. It made her sad how replaceable they thought Molly was. It was like they thought that she wouldn’t even notice the difference. It was stupid, she thought as she sat down at the bus stop. No one could really disappear. You always still existed somewhere.

  Through the glass, Bec watched Luke as he filled up the deep fryer. His eyes were blank, his thoughts focused inward. She liked that she never knew exactly what he was thinking. His eyes changed when they looked at her, though; she liked that the most. They always softened and crinkled in the corners. She wondered how he must see her. He probably thought she just woke up like this, with perfect skin and hair. That she was young and pretty and found life so easy. She wondered if he ever thought bad things about her, if he ever thought she was silly or naive.

  When she knocked on the door and he looked up, a melted pleasant ripple went through her. “Let me in!” she called. “I’m cooking out here!”

  “What’s the magic word?” he asked, walking toward her.

  “Is it dickhead?” she called back.

  He laughed and bent down to unlock the door. Looking down at him squatting at her feet sent a strange pleasurable jolt through her body. If the glass wasn’t between them she could have reached out and pulled his head toward her. He got up and pulled the door open and she felt her face flush for a moment, embarrassed.

  “On time for once,” he said.

  “Only for you,” she replied, walking straight past him and hoping he wouldn’t notice her burning cheeks. She dropped her bag in the back, waiting to come back to the front counter until she was sure the blush was gone.

  “Do you think it will be busy today?” Bec asked him, as she clipped the nozzles onto the Coke machine.

  “Well, personally, I can’t imagine anything more disgusting than eating deep-fried food on a forty-degree day.”

  When they opened the doors there was a small group of people waiting. Matty came running into the kitchen, tying his apron on as he went.

  “Sorry, mate,” he said to Luke.

  “You know I don’t care,” Luke replied.

  “Hot cakes,” barked a middle-aged man, “maple on the side.”

  “Sure, that will be three dollars and seventy-five cents.” Bec tried to smile.

  When they’d served the first wave of customers it got quiet again. The people all sat alone, shoveling food into their mouths.

  “Why does he always ask for maple on the side?” Bec said quietly to Luke. “He comes here every morning. He knows that we serve it prepackaged.”

  “It’s cos he’s a snob.” Luke didn’t lower his voice. “Cos we’re in this suburb, people like to pretend to be ritzy even if they are eating at fucking Macca’s.”

  She’d never thought about it like that before. Bec watched as a mother quietly scolded her child as he threw fries at her, looking around to see if anyone was watching. The woman didn’t look at the counter, though. Bec realized that the woman probably didn’t care if she saw. Because she worked at McDonald’s, she didn’t count as someone to be embarrassed in front of. Luke was right; these people thought they were better than her and better than where she worked, even though they were choosing to come here. The thought brought with it a powerful wish to succeed, to do something amazing and put them all in their place. She wasn’t sure what exactly. She was reasonably good at most things at school, but not really great at anything specific. Sometimes she and Lizzie talked about starting a styling company. It started off as a bit of a joke. They would sit at Gus’s Café and carefully watch people pass, then discuss how they’d re-dress that person if they could. They’d decide on what styles would suit their body types, what colours would suit their complexion. It had started off kind of bitchy, but now they both took it really seriously.

  Luke and Matty joked around next to the stove, making dirty jokes that she couldn’t quite understand. She desperately wanted to be part of the conversation, but didn’t want to act like an annoying little sister. Bec wondered how they could be happy still working here. Luke was twenty and Matty must be at least twenty-seven. Matty had told her once that he’d studied creative writing at uni. He’d written a few short stories that had gotten published in magazines and even written a novel once, but that it had never gone anywhere, so he’d just stopped writing. That made her sad. Just giving up on your dream that way. But Luke was worse. He was really smart but he never even went to uni. Sometimes it felt to Bec like he was just bowing out of life. Bec was sure when they finally got together that she could help him, though, make him see that his life could be amazing if he just tried a little.

  “I always wonder what you’re thinking so hard about,” Luke said. He was staring at her. Do not blush, do not blush, she thought.

  “Your arse,” she said slowly. “I just can’t stop thinking about your arse.”

  “You’re so filthy!” he said.

  Matty howled with laughter from the kitchen, but before Luke quickly turned away to lift the chips out of the oil, she saw the beginning of redness on his cheeks.

  The day wore on and it only got hotter. Matty sweated onto the burgers, offering inputs every so often to her and Luke’s conversation. She liked Matty but she kind of wished he wasn’t there. It made Bec feel like she had to watch what she said and try not to be too flirty or obvious about how she felt. Still, working with Luke always left her feeling elated. Both of them talked to her as if she was an adult, like she was just as smart as them and not some dumb kid who had no idea what they were talking about, even though that was how she sometimes felt. It didn’t bother her, though; just knowing that they saw her as an equal was enough. She made a mental note of some of the things they were saying. She would look them up on the internet when she got home.

  Bec noticed a backpack under one of the tables. Black and nondescript, it was bulging full. She tried to ignore it; someone had probably just forgotten it. Instead she played a game of “Spot the bad tattoo” with Luke. Since it was such a hot day, people who didn’t usually bare flesh suddenly had no choice and all of a sudden you saw all the wrinkly barbed wire on arms and the faded dolphins on ankles. After half an hour, though, the backpack was still there. Bec imagined the force of the blow as it exploded; she imagined the bits of their bodies lying in a blackened, mangled mess.

  She pointed the backpack out to Luke, but when he went to get it, she stopped him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I dunno. I don’t want to sound stupid. It just freaks me out seeing it there by itself.”

  “If you see somet
hing, say something!” Matty called from the kitchen, doing his best impression of the television ad.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just…” She trailed off. She was quickly feeling a bit stupid. Maybe she’d just seen too many news reports. They’d watched them all day at school during the terrorist attacks.

  Matty came out of the kitchen, mopping his brow. He was looking at her in a strange way. His large stature seemed imposing again all of a sudden.

  “Come on, don’t be an idiot. Those ads are just plain racism,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “It could happen. It did happen!”

  Matty took a deep breath and leaned hands against the front counter. He looked angry.

  “We try to breed out the Aborigines, we send people looking for refuge to that Villawood concentration camp, and the ones that finally get through we set up for bashings with that racist propaganda. It’s like White Australia all over again.”

  Bec really did feel like a dumb kid now. She didn’t really understand what he was saying.

  “If you believed in a Day of Reckoning,” he continued, “all of us would be goners. We’d be wiped out, sucked into the ocean. What we are doing is disgusting and it’s only getting worse.”

  “Or eaten by a giant whale maybe?” Luke said.

  “Moby Dick!” exclaimed Bec and they both started laughing.

  Matty said nothing and went back into the kitchen. Again, Bec wished that he wasn’t there. He’d scared her a little bit, calling everyone racists and saying they were going to be wiped out. It almost seemed like he was including her in that. She’d seen him go on rants like this before. Calling John Howard a bigot and a homophobe and all kinds of things. Her parents weren’t too fond of the prime minister either. No one seemed to be. But Matty was so extreme about it.

  A man came in then, all sweaty and sunburnt. He breathed an audible sigh of relief and holstered the backpack onto his shoulders. Luke made a face at her and Bec felt silly then. She hated when things were awkward at work. Going to stand next to Matty, she rested her head against his shoulder.