FRIDAY: After closing the hatch, I wiped myself out drinking and snoozing in the sun until a message woke me – Mum. I shocked myself with the perfection and succinctness of my reply, which was this:
Fuck you.
I don’t regret it. I don’t have anything to add. How many times have I asked for help since Asha moved home? She broke my fucking nose! We need family therapy! I need help! All she did was tut-tut us both – ‘Oh you two!’ – or tell me off for needling her and being whiney. It was better when we were little, but when I think about it she never stood up for me then either. She was just around more. And I was so in awe of Asha I didn’t question her stardom; her status as the best, the cleverest, the one who knows, the one who is always right, the one who must be obeyed.
Dad helped when I was younger. We’d do things together, and he’d make me feel safe and important. He’d read to me at night for ages: everything from Katie Morag to Robbie Burns. He’d take me to the theatre to see things Asha and Mum weren’t into, like The Lion King and Les Mis and stand-up shows for children, which we both decided were patronising and unfunny. When I was a bit older we got into zombie shows, and he’d scratch my back softly on the sofa as we watched heads being shot and stabbed and stomped on. Fuck him too. Where is he now?
I think I might hate my mother. I think I might hate my father. It’s making me feel better, writing that down. I hate my parents. Get them both to fuck. I’m sleepy again, seeya later.
*
I just put my ear against the floor, just next to the pottery wheel. Asha was praying, not to Nellie – not sure she wants that kid to come back to life anymore – just to Gee-suss etc.
‘Asha?’ I said.
She stopped praying.
‘If I open it will you stop beating me up?’
I could hear her climbing the ladder.
‘You have to promise or I won’t open it.’
She was at the top. I could hear her.
‘Do you promise?’
Nothing. She was pushing at the hatch. I sat on the pottery wheel.
‘Do you promise?’ She was taking so long to answer that I did a twirl on the wheel. I was aware, doing this, that I might be going slightly mad.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a bad voice.
‘Really really?’ I said, still twirling.
‘Really really.’ Good voice this time but I could tell she was finding it hard to pull off.
I dragged the wheel away from the hatch and prised the stone open about an inch with the screwdriver. Asha’s evil cat-eyes glinted at me through the crack and startled me. I opened it another centimetre and could see that her face was not the kind to keep promises. She pushed against the stone with all her might, growling, ‘You fucking arsehole! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!’
Before I knew it I had tossed the screwdriver and jumped on the bluestone, slamming it back into position. I could hear a bang and a scream. She had fallen from the ladder.
Silence. Oh dear, I’d hurt her.
‘LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT YOU FUCKING BITCH!’
No, the fall hadn’t changed her a bit. She was the same old Asha as she ever was. I dragged the pottery wheel back in place and shut the bedroom door.
The glazier came in the evening and fixed the back door. I let him in the back gate and closed off the hall, so he couldn’t hear a thing. I fell asleep in the mezzanine with the screwdriver under my pillow.
*
SATURDAY: By this afternoon Asha had stopped yelling and banging, and I just couldn’t get enough of the peace and quiet. I pottered round, tidying things up. The house is cosy now. I’m liking it. Fatima from uni phoned, and I told her I’m going to Perth and will be in touch when I get back, but I am never gonna ring her back. What kind of best friend is she anyway? She hasn’t visited me once since I moved here. I’ve visited her three times. It’s like Ballarat’s in South America or something. I’ve moved myself into the mezzanine. I’ve filled thirty black rubbish bags with Dad’s stuff and fourteen with all the broken rubbish Mum’s never going to upcycle. The bike shed is stuffed full.
*
SUNDAY: Thirty-one degrees today! Spock rang and I told him I’m not wanting to see him anymore. I reckon he’s just hoping I’ve tried the stuff in the tin and that I’ll want to pay for it now, that’s the way they do it, I’ve heard. I read two books in the courtyard. I’m a bit burnt.
*
MONDAY: The guy from the lolly shop at Sovereign Hill rang saying there’s a shift available two weeks on Monday. I told him I wasn’t looking for work anymore because I had won the lottery. Asha yelled this morning so she’s okay but still scary. She’ll be safe down there unless she falls down the shaft. There’s plenty of biccies and wine, candles too, and two blankies. I reckon she’s just taking turns at drinking and sleeping and praying.
*
Later: Fuckety fuck, she’s not made any noise for yonks, and she’s defo not on the ladder and I’m panicking that the tagging people will notice non-movement. Maybe the alarm will beep if she stays still for too long. I’ve Googled it and I can’t find any info, but I reckon they’d check for dead offenders, don’t ya think? The cops might show up at the door. Or the mental-health people for that court assessment. Or the alcohol counsellor she’s supposed to see. Shite, I am really going to have to open that thing up and let her out. I know what I’ll do. I’ll open it before I go out. It’s not like she’ll tell the cops or the psychs or the counsellor that it’s terrible here and she wants to leave. They’ll send her to jail if she says that. I have all the power for once. It feels good.
*
Dad’s big event tonight. I’m going. Gonna pop in and see Mrs S first.
I’ve just written a note for Asha:
Sorry, but I was scared what you might do to me. Truce?
Gonna just move the wheel and leave the note on top of it and open that hatch fast as I can and make a run for it.
Wish me luck!