I’m still arguing my case,
even as Wolfboy unlocks his door. I’m so busy talking I barely register how odd it is to be at his house again.
‘Why can’t you talk to Paul yourself?’
‘I’m no good at talking, you know that.’
The house is as quiet as it was the first time I was here. There’s a light on in the front room.
Wolfboy lowers his voice. ‘Paul likes you. I’ll say the wrong thing.’
‘Paul hardly knows me,’ I say, as I follow him into the lounge room. A girl is curled up on the couch, book in hand. She’s moon-pale even by Shyness standards. At first I think I don’t know her, but then I realise I do.
I wave. ‘Hi, Blake.’
‘Wildgirl, hi.’ She looks at me through an owlish pair of specs. ‘You came back.’
‘I couldn’t keep away.’ Blake has changed from the scared girl I met those months ago. Now she’s dressed in clothes that fit her and she talks directly to me. Her skin and eyes are clear.
‘You look so pretty,’ she says.
I look down at my jumpsuit. I’d forgotten I was all dolled up still from the Shopping Night. ‘Thanks. It’s a killer going to the toilet in this thing, though.’
‘Where is he?’ asks Wolfboy.
Blake folds her book and sits up. ‘In his room. I tried to talk to him when he came in, but…I moved in here so that I’d know if he left the house again. What are you going to do?’
‘Nia’s going to talk to him.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘What was the point of you coming with me then?’
He’s right. I should be making my way home already instead of trailing him.
‘He won’t talk to me about his ex, but he might to you.’
‘Her name was Ingrid,’ says Blake.
‘And then try and casually slip something in about the Datura Institute and Doctor Gregory,’ Wolfboy adds.
‘Oh, that’s going to sound real natural.’
‘They did it,’ says Blake. ‘Paul had never done it with anyone before.’
Oh, good god. Way too much information. I throw my hands up. ‘All right, everyone chill. I’m going in.’
I walk up the dark hallway. Paul’s door is ajar. Words cannot describe how awkward and stupid I feel tapping on it. When he doesn’t answer I push it gently open. He’s sitting on his bed in darkness, looking at his phone, music playing quietly in the background. At first glance he doesn’t look capable of causing everyone so much worry.
‘Hey,’ I say, which I figure is an okay place to start.
Paul looks up. He locks his phone and tosses it on the bed. It’s too dark to see his face properly.
‘Remember me? Wildgirl? We danced up a storm at Little Death that one time?’
After a pause, Paul answers. ‘What are you doing here?’ His words are slow and thick, but the question is smart. I’m counting on him not being smart enough to figure out that this whole scenario is a little weird. It’s so obvious I’m Wolfboy’s messenger.
‘Just visiting,’ I say, keeping it simple.
Tiny speakers sit to the side of the bed, producing tinny music. The chorus to this song sounds like it goes: pain, pain, pain, pain, pain. Paul doesn’t look at me sitting crosslegged next to his mattress.
‘Where’s Jethro?’ he asks. As if on cue Wolfboy walks across the floor overhead. An electric guitar starts up. We planned it that way so Paul would know Wolfboy wasn’t eavesdropping on us.
‘Not sure,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Around. Do you mind if I switch on a lamp?’ I don’t wait for permission.
The light gives me a chance to see what everyone has been fussing about. Paul’s black hair could have been cut with gardening shears and he’s scarecrow skinny. But the real clincher is when he finally turns to me. His beautiful amber eyes look like cloudy honey. He’s seeing me without really seeing me. His sockets are lined with deep purple, the only spot of colour on his moon-tanned skin.
‘Lady In Red.’ He stares at my velvet jumpsuit. ‘Am I awake?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me: are you?’
‘There’s a girl in my bedroom, so it must be a dream.’
‘What about the other girl?’ I ask, crossing my fingers in case I’m being too blunt.
Paul frowns, struggling to remember, or understand what I’ve asked him. Behind his struggle is the backdrop of music. The chorus is definitely the word ‘pain’ yelled over and over again, and the verses are pure wailing.
‘Ingrid?’ I say, when it becomes clear Paul can’t or won’t remember.
Paul flushes with delight when I say her name, but a split second later his expression is of pure despair. A tear rolls down his pale cheek.
‘I don’t understand,’ he says.
‘Don’t understand what?’
‘I don’t understand,’ he repeats. He beats the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘It doesn’t make sense. First she says it’s there, and then she says it’s not there. Where did it go?’
I pull Paul’s hand away from his face. ‘Everyone is so worried about you, Paul. They’re worried you’re caught up in something bad.’
‘I’ve done bad things.’ Paul looks me in the eye, and for a moment his gaze is certain and true. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’
‘Who won’t forgive you?’
But Paul has flown off again. Into space, into orbit, looking at the ceiling.
‘I want to forget,’ he says.
I sigh. This is almost impossible. Paul brushes his hands over his sleeping bag, making it whisper. I can’t think of another way to get through to him so I start talking, hoping that somehow a few of my words will sink in.
‘Paul, you’re obviously going through a tough time. But you have friends who care about you. So, whatever you’ve been doing recently, it doesn’t matter. You could tell them. Or me, if you want. If you talked about how you were feeling it might make you feel better. You shouldn’t be spending time with people who don’t know you. Like these blue people, how do you know they…’
I trail off. Paul has stopped smoothing the sleeping bag. Have I said too much?
‘Do you want to see a photo of her?’ He fumbles to find his phone in the folds of his bed.
‘Sure,’ I say, surprised.
Paul presses something on his phone and then hands it to me. He’s having another moment of clarity. ‘I deleted them all. But I had to keep one. Just one.’ Paul shuts his eyes as if he’s praying. ‘No one tells you how much it hurts. The insides of my body are bleeding. I’m being ripped apart. I can feel it. It’s not in my head. My whole body hurts.’
Ingrid and Paul are sitting together at a party in someone’s backyard. They look like they’re anything but hurting. Paul smiles at the camera, his arm draped over her shoulders. Ingrid looks off to the side, laughing at something or someone out of view. She’s elfin and pretty, with short dark hair and a sparkle about her.
‘She’s gorgeous.’ I touch the screen to zoom in on her. A weird menu flashes up over the top of the photo. Paul’s phone is heaps fancier than mine. I tap the menu irritably. Go away, bossy menu. The screen goes black and then a photo comes up again. But it’s not the same one.
I get a sick feeling in the very bottom of my stomach.
I press arrows back and forth, trying to find the photo of Paul and Ingrid. But it’s gone. There are other photos clearly taken at the same party, of other people, but not that one. I’ve deleted it.
The sick feeling grows. ‘Um, Paul, I think there’s a problem with your phone?’
He snatches it from my hands and scrolls frantically. ‘What have you done?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Your phone is so confusing, I think I might have accidentally—’
Paul throws himself at me, knocking me flat on the carpeted floor. I attempt to sit up, but Paul is above me, trying to pin my arms by the side of my head. I can’t believe he has any strength at all in his twiggy arms.
‘Cow.’ His eyes are wild, his face an avalanche.
I get scared. Not for myself, but for him. He lets go of my arms to slap my face, and I use the opportunity to pull his hair. He yelps and gets hold of my fingers, bends them backwards. I scream.
I half-sit up and kick my legs, hoping that I’ll manage to kick him in the nads, but we’ve reached a stalemate: I can’t throw him off, and he won’t let me up. I’m out of breath. I’m the worst fighter in the world and Paul is not much better.
I give up and fall backwards, not caring anymore if Paul wants to hit me. Somewhere during this the electric guitar upstairs has stopped. Paul notices it too, because he pushes away from me and runs from the room.
I look backwards, arching my neck to see an upsidedown Blake in the doorway, flapping her arms and saying ‘Oh, oh, oh’ like a demented bird, over and over again. There’s the sound of boots in the hallway, then Wolfboy replaces her.
A rush of cold air from the open front door sweeps up the hallway.
‘I’ll kill him,’ he says. But instead of chasing Paul out the door, he sinks to his knees and helps me up.