Chapter Two
Crazy?! No No No...
She’d believed once that the town’s people would have gladly murdered her.
Walking to the Jeep felt like she was walking in jelly. Every step brought her closer to the blind reaches of the trees, but also closer to the safety of steel bodywork. She held the key ready, to act as weapon if need be, and swung her head, panicked that she might be surprised. Snap. Cracked a knuckle. The stress Graves had brought hadn’t left her; vigilance could be key, even if not needed, even if she were safe right now. She rejoiced that she was wearing only one layer. The sun was gloriously humid, clogged in cloud moisture as it drove through the leaves, tinted to green as it hit her face, its hottest for the day.
The driver’s door was open before she knew she had the key inside, and she was locked away from the trees as quick as she could. She gave the boathouse one last look, weirdly determined that when she returned it would surely be broken into, but she’d set the alarm to its most mistrustful setting; if a bird decided to have stomach cramps on the roof, the authorities would hear.
Double-pumped and slid the beast into first, and was out in the finger-width laneway before she let the revs reach loud. She’d learned how to drive on this very Jeep, two years ago, when she’d come to Gnash on a autumn holiday. That was the only thing she remembered fondly of the uncle; he’d taught her how to drive extremely well, inherited none of his bad habits, born on a seat belt. An exquisite import, a hematite Range Rover Sport, completely ready to take on the rural bogs of the Vegas Strip ravines, yet its sump and oil pick-up were wasted on teasing back roads and popped potholes. A car with an erection for foul play. Floor mats in yellow and pink neutered the animal, and Hello Kitty got a good look up her skirt every time she took to the wheel. Decorative umbrellas from ice-cream stands and virgin cocktails hung from the sunroof dial.
She’d believed once that the town’s people would have gladly murdered her. Her life had reverted to normal after their last knock at her door – quickly, expertly, she’d made it happen - and that the husbands, fathers, brothers and sons were still intent to see her over the town border, or buried somewhere within.
She fed off the paranoia now; it kept her safe, and she found herself dreading the day her suspicion would slack. That would be the day she’d be killed. Vigilance was key.
Be safe.
Be wise. She couldn’t make herself believe that this was nothing. That that phone call had been nothing. That the priest was overreacting. That she might be in a lot of trouble. That there had been nothing outside her kitchen window. The call came rushing back at her and she yanked an imaginary phone away from her ear, punching it off, turning the TV up. The taste of stress. She was about to undergo torture to the fullest; she didn’t need this.
She'd have to worry about it when the town beat the door down.
Yanked on a pair of sunglasses and pulled the visor down. Any obstruction to vision was lethal. Cliffs could kill you just as easily as townsfolk could. She checked the dash clock. Ten minutes to make a twenty minute drive. She bent an ankle and broke the speed limit, knowing one way or another, the police would probably be seeing her home tonight. She ducked a crest, punched the counter when she took in the empty straight to town. Gnash was good for breaking dawdling. A traffic light brought her to a stop for a moment and she halted, impatient, using this time to fix her face in the mirror; she’d pretty much just pillowed her head into her make-up bag before exiting the house. Smoke on the eyes, bare lips. Pretty. Vain, she was, but she knew how hideous she was on the inside. Fair trade. She darted a CD in and wound hair into a low ponytail, checking both mirrors before taking off again.
She searched the fields she passed for her mob, saw none, wasn’t relieved.
Hundreds of miles above, clouds parted and lightened, disappearing as heat seared through them, ducking around molecules of young rain and seagulls to scald the paint of passing cars, turning the Jeep into its true shade of navy and sending prisms of red and green off the silver edging. Kere pumped the cold air and slid the window down, leaning head outside to cool. The road beyond spread out, then stopped and retracted inwards, smoothing into a T that slid quickly behind two grass ditches. It was at this point that she killed the engine and parked the wheel atop a curb, and sat there, hands on wheel, lower lip in mouth. Before her, the two-headed road sign sent sharp reflections, the black letters bubbling and aged.
Deaf against the voice of Joans Grace roaring inside her head, and the ticking off the clock, she unlocked the door and stepped out. The road was quiet, catering for only two or three houses before her own, but the junction ahead buzzed. Kere crept along the ditch, stepping over beer cans, until the ditches parted and a full view of the Gap was visible. The road went straight, then bent down with a rather large valley that led to the next town, slipped out of sight under the girth of another crest. The simmering beams of light shooting off the bonnets of cars in the distance. Ten perfectly parked cars. One of them would be the priest’s. Trees and gradient kept all from view. Kere swore and turned back to the Jeep. The cars taking to the Gap slowed as they met the bottom of the crest, something down there in their way.
Curiosity very much alive, but survival instinct rallying her, she got back in the Jeep and pulled away to the right. She drove the rest of the way to town dangerously, skirting pavements and annoying stray dogs. Mind creeping over ten parked cars. She’d hadn’t been through the Gap in weeks, preferring the life of a pretty hermit to spending time with friends, and the only horrific thing she'd ever done there was run over a fox. She’d grieved for her headlight while she’d buried the thing.
The forest – the Grey - nicknamed as so because it got more valley fog than the rest of the country, was clear this morning, but the heat would haul back the stuff at sun fall. It opened into thigh-high ditches, irrigational treks and spring trees, the tips of the awnings turning red as they burned. Thatch fences kept the animals off the tarmac, smoggy visibility already keeping the drivers on edge, and yet deer still ate their way through, leaving heaps on the edges and carcasses on the white line. The stretching bark above kept the sun off. Forest bridges somersaulted over the road every once and a while, leaving vehicles vulnerable to a stoning in the summer and a snowballing in January.
The roads came alive when she got there, everyone out for late lunches, or younger kids getting ready to be taken home for lunch. Pavements gave little room for two-way foot traffic. She sped the cars on in front with her horn, seeing a jam in the works as an oil carrier decided to overtake ahead. Five minutes. Gnash was alive today. It was the heat. The scent of something odd. Gnash was the only town that could sweat.
No one left the town happy they’d come, probably duped into spending a night by fancy pictures of trees and otters, and breath-robbing views from the cliffs. The outskirts were presentable enough and looked good when it was foggy, but everything inside the “Welcome to Gnash(Ville)” signs could pass as a bad western set. Town spirit strove to build up something that didn’t exist, and instead of paying for new roads to lead more tourists to disappointment, they would be better suited forking out some cash for weed-control. Limp, dank, lifeless? The first half of any shampoo ad would give you the gist. If Kere ever watched the news and took in the taped assaults in ochre Iraq, she would burst off her seat and roar “I’ve been there.”
Apparently, a vinyl player had factored in with some GIANT EVENT OF GNASH’S HISTORY, which had happened way-back-when-no-one-cared, which some intellect had decided to honour.
Gnash was the only town lucky enough to have a rouge de rance gramophone player in their town square. No word a lie. Nuff said. She hadn’t been shocked; a town with one B&B and barely a school was scandalous enough. In the sun of today, it looked like ... something unholy. The only thing that linked this evil to any of them was the fact that every house in town had a seven inch record in a glass box. Every single house. Gnash Tradition. Pretty glass box. Do not touch it, don’t even think about playing it. Kept bad things away. Beck kept his in the attic, above her bed. Though owning a vinyl player all his life, Beck had been raised knowing the cassette was on its way. The record had yet to be played. In any house. Bad luck. It was an odd normality, like remembering that you grew up beside a graveyard.
She stopped, raced across the street and returned with a loaded bagel. She shoved it in her mouth and exited the town, back into the slightly healthier green of the countryside.
She made it to Milla Howt’s office late, down by six minutes, and she bucked out of the Jeep without locking it, took down down the door. Howt’s office was one of several, styled like a landscape garden, it was the one building that an outsider had modelled, and had got right. A trench led water from the Hames to the front garden, plunging the grass down with machinery to create a cluster of artificial waterfalls, inviting frogs and birds to wash and thrive. In the daylight, it looked the part, and you parked in style. Rocks led the way to the front door, fitted with silken lanterns that were never used, where a candyfloss bridge brought you to the entrance. A miniature teahouse held the exterior offices, where the staff met for talks on their tea. It was gorgeous, but the ugliness of the woman inside killed the splendour with fire. From heaven above.
She raced into the lobby with her hands up, shrieked “I’m here!” into the empty foyer. The theme died at the door; inside was for business cabinets and computers. Windows let in enough breeze from the cherry trees to let you know that salvation was a paper wall away. A water cooler bubbled in the corner, half full, and the room gave up its space for the giant glass table in the centre, serving as both centre piece and an unexpected obstruction to the ignorant arrival. Her shoes greeted plaid carpet and she nodded at the receptionist, a man she knew the name of, but couldn’t remember, but knew it sounded stupid. She made up for her lapse in memory by making a “Holy crap! Is that you again?” wave and face crinkle, and he responded with his own cheek scrunch and a point to the clock, signalling she was late and that Milla was busy. She put her hands together in jubilation for him and took a seat by the fish tank, scooting back once she discovered that the fish inside had been replaced by uglier ones. She shivered, suddenly feeling wet and slippery, picking a magazine at random.
My office, one hour; you’re regular slot.
Looking around, the room hadn’t changed. A bit. Pretty, yet it drove her stomach up into her mouth, her mouth had never been drier. The room made her sick. A heartbeat that made her ears rock slammed out of her, hard and painful against ribs, and whatever heat she’d taken in from outside left her. Shivered, couldn’t help it. One eye on the office. Her foot rocked on its own, and she chewed her cheek off as she watched the clock, knowing that in several seconds Milla would be free, and the assistant would be called in to dispose of the fast food containers. She was sure of it.
Claw your way out, Kere...
Her cell went off. Loudly. She heard footsteps in one of the offices.
Blind with rage, she fumbled with her bag, whipping the phone, forgot which tone signalled a call. One new message in the corner, little stylized envelope. She opened it with her thumb.
your fucked in eng. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Beneath: Jemma.
She was a bit tired of people telling her that she was fucked. She’d barely been greeted all morning. She tapped the cell screen, not at all phased. A small reminder flashed from the corner, an alarm set to tell her she’d missed a hair appointment in the John Freida outside Gnash that morning, but she ignored it also. Pulling on a congealed blonde tangle, she told herself she didn’t need it.
Jemma liked to overreact.
Listened, feeling her heart sink deep into her ass as an office door opened. Her fingers fired off a don’t care, she stood, turning the phone off as she gave Milla Howts her best venom. The older woman looked her up and down, nodded, not overly happy to see her either, but still smug. She stood in her doorway, blocking the whole room inside, and began whispering – probably - to the receptionist about how some birds had thrown fast food in her windows. The assistant nodded, embarrassed about something, and turned away, back to his desk. He returned a second later with a box of tapes, and a new video camera, all trinkets Milla kept at arm’s length; she trusted her eidetic memory, used these tools for show and nothing more.
Milla nodded again and waddled back into her office, leaving the invitation. Took her time, on edge as Kere strolled across the room, swinging the door closed so that Dr. Millanora Howts: Psycologist faced the foyer.
The room was freezing, as it was every time she was here. The air was high, the windows open, balcony door ajar. All faced the river, so no heat was here. The constant scent of bubbly fruit wine: Eau De l’Expensive. Same as Becks. The Howts were half French (‘Owts), so they made an effort to show this as much as they could. In Milla’s case, she had imported French pine into her home and office, wrapped some around her gearstick. Fake fireplace granted no heat from the corner, grate behind a gorgeous-ivy fireguard. Dark chaises and silk-embroidered settees in silver leaf sat by the desk, but were strictly off-limits. You got the hard, backed lavish porter chair at the window or your two feet. Boom. You just got roasted.
Milla was already behind the desk, a golden console table, and was scribbling already, then picked up the phone and dialled. Kere waited by the door and shivered, throwing arms around herself to be smaller. Breath was cold. Regretted her choice in clothes.
The phone rung once, and then a gravelly voice answered. “Yeah, this is Dr. Howts. Crisis averted. She’s here. Some minor car trouble. Thank you.” Hung up, threaded hands together.
Kere huffed and moved to the window, disobeying orders and settling herself down atop the black velvet, fired legs over the arm. “I was only a few minutes late. And, faith, woman.”
The older woman looked unruffled. “You’re always a few minutes late. Sixty, for the past month. It simply isn’t done.”
Kere shrugged and stared, wondering if Milla’s kids ever got scared when they looked at her for too long.
“Okay,” the therapist began piling paper, “I’ve a meeting at two, so I have no intention of keeping you late, but be here every week, one o’clock, every Tuesday, or I’ll call the fuzzlies again. Understood.” Wasn’t a question.
Kere narrowed her eyes, hating this woman more than ever. She didn’t reply, couldn’t think of one. Hated that this woman could grip her tongue.
“Good, enthusiasm, I like it,” Milla said, reaching into her desk and retrieving a pink folder, opening it and withdrawing a single sheet of paper, Kere’s file. “And Kere once again turns into the charming Kathleen Una Reventon. I like this energy. Let’s get started.”
Kere wiggled her shoulders, cracking tension along the arms of the chair. She slanted her eyebrows; instant interest.
“Today is the . . . ,” the woman checked her watch, where the time and date flashed in analog. She drew a line atop a blank page and her hand became a blob of paleness. “Thirteenth. Making this our . . . fourteenth session in . . . four months. How . . . time . . . flies . . . when . . . you’re . . . having . . . fun . . .”
I hate my therapist.
“Can I record this session?” The older woman didn’t wait for an answer, and flipped on her memo recorder. She began to scribble.
“No, you may not.”
Milla waited a little before she stopped writing, practically broke the pen, turned her gadget off slowly, madly. She gave something that looked a lot like a passionate stare across the room. It did not belong there. The younger girl tried not to grin. “Kere, you have to get over this. I need to record sessions to replay them later. No offense, but I’m making no headway with this-“ she waved her finger from girl to recorder, did it a few times “-There, I said it. Whatever you have about people finding out you’re with me needs to disappear.”
“Don’t record.”
Milla rolled her eyes, and stashed the recorder in her pocket, and went back to writing. “How have you been sleeping?” Down and dirty.
“I sleep every night.”
Swish swish. “Sleeps regularly...” She spoke in whispers, but Kere knew protocol. Her pen flicked across the page, wet dashes of ink when her grip faltered.
“How are the dreams?”
“None.”
The older woman raised her eyebrows, and paused, then spoke aloud as she wrote. “Still can’t dream...” She was begging to be contradicted.
“And, what time do you roughly go to bed at. Early, late..?”
“Ten-ish, I think.” Lies. Midnight was usually a good night. Depending on TV football.
“So, normal?”
Kere nodded. “Every night.”
“Then, how long does it take you to fall asleep?”
Kere scratched her nose and shrugged, bored. The same repertoire of questions every meeting was beginning to gnaw at her patience. “Same as usual. Couple of hours.” Same answers; they felt off to be saying them again. She’d left these meetings to never come back.
“And what do you do in these hours?” The woman wrote on, as if Kere’s one-worded answers spoke volumes.
“Think. Day dream.”
“What do you day-dream about?”
“Falling asleep.”
Milla nodded,. “And are you still afraid to sleep? Is...that...fear...still...there...?”
It was an extremely personal question for her to answer, but she’d done it every other session, so it left her mouth on its own. “Sometimes.”
“Why?”
She paused, but knew she should to tell the truth; Milla could detect everyone’s bullshit but her own, and then she would definitely be held back after the hour, possibly forced to attend two-hour sessions from now on. Bit the bullet. “Just in case I do start to dream.” Swallowed it.
“What do you think you would dream about?”
“I don’t think it’s possible to really know...”
“What would you want to dream about?”
Stupid questions. She shrugged, but the answer flashed before her so fast it made her jump; toy gnomes arranged in the garden, magic cakes that could only be eaten when you’re down. “Thicket.”
Swish swish. “Do you miss your old home?”
She nodded, suddenly terrified, reaching for her throat. Felt the unmistakable bump of a lump forming there. She swallowed and breathed through her mouth from that moment on.
“You’re eighteen now. Why don’t you move back? School can be transferred, your uncle will understand. No one is making you stay if you’re unhappy.”
Kere was shaking her head before she’d even realized Milla’s question. “I can’t go back.”
Milla understood; she was good at this. “Because of tension.” Swish swish. “Because of your father.”
Kere didn’t respond. They were slowly backing into dangerous terrain, willed the clock to spin faster. She’d done her part. She’d come and spoken, now she could leave. Milla had her fingers wedged in and wouldn’t stop until she pried a something out. She needed to bite her fingers off.
“Tell me about your father.”
Claw you way out, Kere. Kere picked up her bag, stood up, throwing her body language at the woman and demanding she be let out of the office quietly. “He was a nice man. I miss him very much. But I’m leaving now.” She cut towards the door, hand out to clasp the lion’s head.
“Kere, sit! Boarding school!”
She wasn’t listening, and rocked the door open, letting the heat from the foyer embrace her cheeks and wipe goosebumps away. The assistant – Maik Ludlow, SUCCESS!– was gone, his seat swivelling.
Milla was up out of her seat, but was making no shape to move toward the door, where Kere had found herself hovering. “Okay, Kere, I can’t make you stay. But the sooner you start talking, the sooner I can send you packing. If you don’t talk to me, you talk to somebody else, but you will have to talk to be free of people like us. You’re still a hazard.”
Kere lowered her jaw, tongue moving with the word hazard. People like us. She was a hazard to not a soul but herself, but no one would take her word for it. They needed weekly meetings to prove she was safe, but Milla had overstepped, decided to delve deeper, or attempt to delve deeper; Kere shot her down hard every time. People needed secrets. People deserved secrets.
Secrets were needed to escape the psychologists. Now secrets needed to be told. The thought of a free Tuesday, for every week of the rest of her lovely life was intoxicating. Milla had got her; she couldn’t ignore any more appointments. Jail time. Once school finished, she could do nothing for weeks, no worries. It felt sweet enough to taste and she closed the door.
She hadn’t even sat down before Milla had ordered. “Tell me about your father.”
Kere lowered herself into the chair again and placed her bag on her knees. A lump. Dug nails into the satin. Swallowing was sore, a reminder that if she spoke too much without wording it right, she’d risk everything.
“My father was a nice man. I miss him very much.” Breath.
Milla nodded, her face stiff, but still holding the potential to be cruel. “He was a policeman, wasn’t he?” She worded it like another question, but she already knew the answer. She liked input. She wrote another line, marking the date and time. It was at that moment that they entered the unknown; this was usually the part where Kere raced from the office and drove around town until she’d calmed down. She usually killed things, road kill. She couldn’t run.
“He was. But a good one. Not like the ones in Gnash.” Her voice had taken on a murderously soft edge, and she hated it. Absolutely despised it. She’d only ever used it once before, when her house had been broken into.
“I’m sure he was.” The sliver of sincerity in the older woman’s voice was ill-fitting, but Kere warmed to Milla a little then. Still hated her. “What was the relationship like?”
Banal and neutral. The lump had cut off all hope of deep breaths now. “We got on fine. We fought and shouted and stuff, but it was forgotten later. He was hard to live with, but he learned how to work the house when I went to school.”
“Did you guys ever have any big rows?” She demonstrated this with a wave of her hands.
“Never.” It was a lie, but there was some things you never told strangers.
“That’s hard to believe, Kere, but whatever you want... Now, I’m going to go about this as gently as I possibly can, but fuck it; from now on, nothing is off-limits. It doesn’t have to be today you tell me, but eventually you need to spill. It sounds harsh, but, by law, I have to check thoroughly. And, we both never want to see each other again, so...” It was spoken softly, but the meaning was there. Kere concurred with a nod.
“Now, your father has passed,” Milla went on, flicking through a sheet that was a police report. She began speaking, since she was incapable of reading into herself. “He died seven months ago. The killer hasn’t been found as ... of ... yet. Reventon was murdered.” She didn’t look up. “In his bedroom in Thicket.”
Kere nodded as the older woman spoke, agreeing with each point. The file was a copy of her statement.
“Were you in the house that night, Kere?”
Another nod.
“Where were you in the house that night?”
Another nod. No answer. Dangerous terrain. Milla moved around.
“Did you hear anything coming from your father’s room during the time of the break-in?”
Another nod.
Milla gestured. “Did you go to see what it was?”
A shake.
“Why not?”
A shrug. This lump was practically at her teeth.
The silence took on a life of its own. Like a demonic cloud, it glided and slid over the office, binding mouths closed and leaving imaginations loose. She breathed louder to combat the blazing quiet, but the sound was sucked too fast out the window. The ticking boulle clock by the ivory chairs was suddenly painful to take in, and Kere lifted one shoulder to cover an ear. It was embarrassing.
“Were you scared of what was in your father’s room?”
She didn’t respond, but she loved the woman for asking the question instead of her. She hoped her silence would suffice, and she did not want to walk that far into the night. She didn’t want to feel her old bed beneath her. Weak, weak, weak night. Forgive me. Memories of her weakness plunged into her like a swan dive into broken glass. Her weakness. Hazard. People like us. She’d never forgive herself. She swallowed and nearly choked.
“Speak, Kere. When did you discover that your father had died?”
Kere cleared her throat, clinging vehemently to whatever dignity loathing would lend her, and stroked flint off her knees. “I heard him call for me sometime after four, but I think I must have fallen asleep.” Another lie, but if she replied that she’d ignored her father to save herself, she just might have slept in the fish tank when she left. The hideous exposure had returned to her voice, and she smoothed fingers along her neck.
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question, but it stops another. Right Kere...” Milla breathed. She stared longingly at the recorder, and Kere could see that she wished she’d snuck it back on. “I need you to tell me why you didn’t go into your father’s room after you heard him call for you. Honestly.”
The quiet fell on the office again, and Milla hooked her gaze onto Kere’s face. She could feel herself paling, and she suddenly regretted waking up, regretted answering the phone, regretted being too cowardly to face the police when they asked why she’d missed a month of meetings, but most of all, she regretted ever having forgotten that she’d killed her father.
“You need to hear these words, Kere.”
A thundering need to flee settled on her, needed to be lost in open air. She could break down the door, or shatter the window. Or pull the gun from her bag and end the sessions once and for all. Escape was pointless; she’d do time if Milla caught a whiff that she was risky. A hazard. Screw the oath; she’d cry in the car.
She bit back another lie, and felt her lips get drier. Milla opened her mouth again, no doubt to hurry her, but Kere cut her off with a desperate shake of her hand. If she had to do this at all, she’d accomplish it herself. It was her punishment.
“I was too scared.”
There. It was out.
She wanted it back in. Another lie to say she’d just lied. She would never do such a thing. It was out. She took a shivering breath. The relief that she’d been told would come with confession didn’t.
A beat of silence settled, until Milla trudged through it, so cool and refined she was almost clumsy. Kere knew what it would be before the hideous words scarred into her, just as they always did when Milla saw a guard fall. “On October the 23rd, where you or where you not removed from Gnash Pond by citizens of an extraterrestrial race?”
She didn’t react. Didn’t speak. Barely heard. She opened her mouth, but did not scream. Ears thick with blood. All she said was, “You talk about that again, and I walk,” and zipped her handbag closed.
She wouldn’t forgive herself for that either.
“That was brilliant, Kere,” the other woman half-whispered, an intensely comforted expression on her face. She recovered from the failed probe well, shook it off like she always did, and took a certain amount of triumph from her otherwise-successful ventures. She’d broken Kere. Pleasantly. “We will meet again, this time, next week. Go home.” Like a switch had been flicked, the office immediately conjured the thought that the father had been the only subject for the whole meeting. Talk of October fell out the window. Kere pushed it there.
She reached for her bag, and made to stand, stopped mid-straighten when Milla waved for her to stop.
“Next week, you talk more. No other way around it. I’ll give you this week and this week only to remember how it works in this office; you listen, then spill your guts. If you don’t, or don’t do it quick enough, we move forward with intensive hypnotherapy. We’ll get it out of you yet.” Her voice could have slit through throats, but the older woman soon cracked a smile. “Then, you can begin to heal.”
Kere glared across the golden table, suddenly shaking with red outrage. Milla infuriated her. Her face purpled. Dizziness. For some reason, she wanted to run for the receptionist; this woman is alarming me! She’d already fought hard against having their sessions audio-booked, and she’d been almost violent when the subject of hypnotism came up. No way. Fingers in her head. Never. She didn’t remember things for a reason. Sleeping monsters, sleep on.
It took a while for her to muster the energy to move again, and when she did, she hobbled outside. The heat was now uncomfortable, and she fired up the cold air in the Jeep. She rested both hands on the steering wheel and stared at the teahouse, and all the pretty things around it. The most beautiful place in this whole interesting town was the one place she’d soiled. She’d brought the truth here. She felt sorry that she’d brought demons to this place, and worse still that they wouldn’t stay. They’d follow her home and keep her awake.
Like they did every night.