front of me. The place looked like someone had just moved in and only made a half-arsed effort to unpack. Boxes littered the floor, some sealed, others splayed open and spewing crumpled newspaper. A bookcase had been assembled sans shelves, the couch was cushion-less, and an enormous rug leaned against the wall, still rolled up and secured with packing tape. The music came from a laptop perched on a tea-chest with a pair of iPod speakers attached. Empty bottles and saucers full of cigarette butts cluttered every available surface, and the place reeked of stale booze, smoke and dirty socks. At least it didn’t smell like blood anymore, and I chalked that up to a sensory hallucination, brought on by fear and post-traumatic stress, most likely.
As I inched forward, heels clicking on the polished wood, I made out a pair of sock-clad feet sticking out from behind a packing crate over by the windows, soles pointing to the ceiling. Hurrying over, I found Nick. It was too dark to see if he was alive or dead so I grabbed the cord for the blinds, zipped them up and was momentarily blinded by brilliant sunlight. He lay completely still, wearing the same clothes he’d had on at the writers’ festival, just filthier and more rumpled. I couldn’t see him breathing and my heart trilled as I bent down to try to find a pulse. As soon as I touched his throat he jerked, and I jumped back and let out a girly little scream. He produced a shuffling, hog-like snore in return, and I was so relieved I coughed out air and started laughing and shaking my head.
‘You arsehole, Nick.’ I nudged his ribs with one pointy toe. He didn’t wake up, just muttered and rolled his head to the other side. On the floor next to him I saw a bunch of photos. I bent and picked one up. Him and Isabella, arms around each other in front of one of those old country pubs with a big wraparound veranda on the first floor. Her hair was longer, he was a few kilos leaner and they looked happy. Nice, but for the fact the photo had been ripped in two, then stuck together again with clear tape. I’d certainly had my weird, obsessive moments, but I’d never done anything like that. Had I? I let the photo flutter from my hand and looked out the window. Hell of a view. Beyond a large sundeck made of sixties-looking crazy-paving, the muddy Yarra wound, trailed by bike paths and lined with oaks and willows. Pretty.
Nick was going to have one hell of a hangover when he finally woke up, so I went all Florence Nightingale and clip-clopped over to the kitchen, rinsed out a glass, filled it with water, took it back and placed it in his line of sight. I dug around in my handbag for some Nurofen Plus, my hangover cure of choice, and generously left the whole pack propped up on the glass. It was the least I could do since I was keeping his money.
The song finished, then immediately started again. How long had he been playing it, over and over? I unplugged the speakers from the laptop on my way out.
It was time for me to get to work, and I wanted to leave before he woke—it would just be embarrassing for both of us. I descended the stairs, feeling like a prize dickhead for freaking out over nothing, until I reached the ground floor and the meaty smell hit me again, even stronger than before. I looked towards the door at the end of the corridor and instinctively knew it was coming from there.
chapter nine
I stood very still at the base of the stairs, looking down the polished wood hallway to the matt, dark blue door and feeling as though if I stared hard enough I might be able to figure out what lay behind it. Without music the house was quiet, the only sounds those that filtered in from outside: distant traffic, whirring cicadas and the faint, crunching chime of a bicycle bell.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched, although it was impossible. There were no windows in the entrance foyer, no old-fashioned keyholes, no large gaps underneath the doors.
Skirting the
As I inched forward, heels clicking on the polished wood, I made out a pair of sock-clad feet sticking out from behind a packing crate over by the windows, soles pointing to the ceiling. Hurrying over, I found Nick. It was too dark to see if he was alive or dead so I grabbed the cord for the blinds, zipped them up and was momentarily blinded by brilliant sunlight. He lay completely still, wearing the same clothes he’d had on at the writers’ festival, just filthier and more rumpled. I couldn’t see him breathing and my heart trilled as I bent down to try to find a pulse. As soon as I touched his throat he jerked, and I jumped back and let out a girly little scream. He produced a shuffling, hog-like snore in return, and I was so relieved I coughed out air and started laughing and shaking my head.
‘You arsehole, Nick.’ I nudged his ribs with one pointy toe. He didn’t wake up, just muttered and rolled his head to the other side. On the floor next to him I saw a bunch of photos. I bent and picked one up. Him and Isabella, arms around each other in front of one of those old country pubs with a big wraparound veranda on the first floor. Her hair was longer, he was a few kilos leaner and they looked happy. Nice, but for the fact the photo had been ripped in two, then stuck together again with clear tape. I’d certainly had my weird, obsessive moments, but I’d never done anything like that. Had I? I let the photo flutter from my hand and looked out the window. Hell of a view. Beyond a large sundeck made of sixties-looking crazy-paving, the muddy Yarra wound, trailed by bike paths and lined with oaks and willows. Pretty.
Nick was going to have one hell of a hangover when he finally woke up, so I went all Florence Nightingale and clip-clopped over to the kitchen, rinsed out a glass, filled it with water, took it back and placed it in his line of sight. I dug around in my handbag for some Nurofen Plus, my hangover cure of choice, and generously left the whole pack propped up on the glass. It was the least I could do since I was keeping his money.
The song finished, then immediately started again. How long had he been playing it, over and over? I unplugged the speakers from the laptop on my way out.
It was time for me to get to work, and I wanted to leave before he woke—it would just be embarrassing for both of us. I descended the stairs, feeling like a prize dickhead for freaking out over nothing, until I reached the ground floor and the meaty smell hit me again, even stronger than before. I looked towards the door at the end of the corridor and instinctively knew it was coming from there.
chapter nine
I stood very still at the base of the stairs, looking down the polished wood hallway to the matt, dark blue door and feeling as though if I stared hard enough I might be able to figure out what lay behind it. Without music the house was quiet, the only sounds those that filtered in from outside: distant traffic, whirring cicadas and the faint, crunching chime of a bicycle bell.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched, although it was impossible. There were no windows in the entrance foyer, no old-fashioned keyholes, no large gaps underneath the doors.
Skirting the
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