Read Online The Convent by Maureen McCarthy - Free Book Online Page A

she’s cut loose again, hurtling along that infamous paved pathway, stepping on all the good intentions in the world!
    I sit up and stare out the open window at a dark clear night full of stars, feeling the frustration begin its slow miserable journey down from my brain into my throat and chest. Maybe I should go down there and yank her up by the hair. Smack her around a bit. She deserves it. Fifteen key points. She crossed-her-heart-and-hoped-to-die on every single one of them. Number one on the right was No secret eating in the middle of the night.
    An electric guitar riff strides into my ears as if it has a perfect right, followed by drums, then some screeching angst about purple sunsets. Is this sneering Johnny Rotten telling everyone what a hero he is, or The Clash vomiting over the crowd in some forgotten English club?
    Stella’s musical tastes are fixed strictly in the seventies. She also loves Neil Diamond, the mature Elvis in his white-studded jump suit, grim-faced Patti Smith, Joni Mitchell with her jutting teeth and early Sting.
    â€˜He lost it after The Police,’ she told me recently.
    â€˜Really?’ The sarcasm went straight over her head.
    â€˜Yeah,’ she sighed, like it cut her up to have to say it. ‘There was only one good album after that.’
    I lean across to the bedside table, grab the glass, gulp some water then flop back down. I turn over and look at the fronds of the top of the Jacaranda tree playing along the bottom edge of the window sill and try hard to think about something else.
    But it’s not working.
    This can’t go on. It has got to stop … now.
    I feel along the bed for the cotton nightie I threw off earlier. Thick tendrils of hair have escaped from the knot at the top of my head and lie in damp curls around my ears and neck. Sweat runs between my breasts and under my arms.
    After I’ve dealt with my sister, I’ll go have another cold shower.
    I creep downstairs, past my mother’s photo collection and out into the wide front hallway, stopping for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. Moonlight is shining straight through the stained glass panels set into the front door, making flecks of gold, deep-blue squares and patches of ruby red float along the polished wood floor.
    I make a mental note to tell Det about this when I see her next. She’ll laugh at me, but she’ll like it. She is an artist and light is her thing: moonlight, fluorescent light, candlelight, sunlight, old gaslights, and inner light too.
    Sure enough, Stella is in the family room at the back of the house. Wrapped in a sheet, propped against one of the heavy chairs in front of the telly – and yep, it’s some old bootleg video of the Sex Pistols. She’s spooning ice-cream from the tub into her mouth as though someone has switched on the automatic button. I stand in the doorway a moment because I don’t want to frighten her.
    â€˜Stella,’ I say.
    She doesn’t turn around, but she stops spooning the ice-cream so I know she has heard me. I take a few steps towards her. ‘Stella, it’s after three a.m.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜Bedtime.’
    â€˜No need to crack the shits,’ she grumbles sourly, still not looking at me. ‘It’s not exactly against the law!’
    â€˜I’m not cracking the shits.’ I walk over to her and hold my hand out for the ice-cream.
    She heaves a deep sigh and gives it up.
    I look down at the extraordinary mass of coal-black hair she inherited from Dad. It is springing out in tight curls from her head at virtual right angles, almost blocking a view of her shoulders, and I wish I could play some role other than big-sister-who-knows-best. She used to set me straight about a whole lot of stuff not so long ago.
    I put the tub of ice-cream down on the coffee table and take the thick pink hairband from around her wrist. Using both my hands I drag as much of her hair as I can up into a rough