I shrieked into my cupped hands, stifling the disturbing sound. I bit down on my fingers until they hurt.
The lady kept glancing back at the house, talking animatedly. Then she was done talking. She opened the passenger door; the interior light popped on. She got in, shut the door behind her—encasing herself in darkness—and waited.
She waited, and so I was forced to wait.
Wait for what? I queried distressingly. What could we possibly be waiting for?
Perhaps the end of life as we know it. I don’t know.
My throat and lungs became constricted with fear. It was as if I was trapped in a room full of noxious fumes. I felt that I would suffocate. Suffocate or pass out.
Panic-stricken, I paced the room. It felt a lot smaller than it had a few moments ago.
What can I do to better the circumstances, I wondered, to pull myself out of this god-forsaken rut? Should I go out there and speak with her? Should I try explaining to her that I’m all alone in the house and don’t particularly like opening the door to strangers? That I’m sorry you had to wait—you seem like a nice lady—but I wasn’t sure whether I could trust you or not?
For once I hated being in the dark by myself. I hated not knowing what was going to happen next. Or what was going to happen to me next.
Whom did she call? A friend? Did she call a friend and ask them to come over? I need your help, friend. No one’s answering, but someone’s home. Help me break down the door, will you?
Two against one, I thought. That isn’t fair.
Maybe she’s expecting more than one friend. Maybe she’s expecting an army.
I entered the kitchen and in the unrelenting darkness poured myself a glass of water. I guzzled half but had to tip the rest out. I put the glass upside-down on the bench.
What to do? What to do?
What I did was turn and stagger like a blind person across the hallway. I couldn’t see a thing. I bumped into the closed door of the ‘tomb’. And suddenly I heard a long-drawn-out wail. Coming from within? I wasn’t sure at first.
The sound was no less unnerving than the high-pitched caterwaul of a dying animal.
Seconds passed and I realised with infinite horror that it was coming from within me—from inside my own mouth.
And like a dying animal desperate to conquer its own pain, I started to claw at the door, and to bang my head against the unyielding wood. I pleaded with Dad to stop. To please, stop punishing me! Send this woman away. For once in my life, leave me in peace!
And just like that I knew what I had to do.
With a slight headache I stepped away from the door, turned and made my way to the front of the house with a mechanical-like calmness I hadn’t possessed earlier. I unlocked and opened the front door and was instantly blasted by a glacial wind.
Hand gripping the doorframe, I stared out. Three featureless shapes moved agitatedly about on the unlit porch. I flicked on the outside lights, and there stood Shirl with two sufficiently armed and pragmatically dressed members of the police force—one male, the other female. All leery of me as I approached them barefoot and inadequately dressed for the cold night air.
My long hair billowed about me. A few untamed strands got caught between my lips, but I hardly noticed them. “Hello,” I said calmly.
“See? I told you someone was here!” spewed the woman named Shirl. “Where’s Rene?”
“Please, Ms Toby. Stay out of this for just a moment. Who are you?” asked one of the police officers, eyeing me rather suspiciously.
“Justice Spiel,” I answered. It wasn’t a tricky question.
“You must be feeling the cold, Miss Spiel,” said the policeman. He had a face shaped like a spatula and a pair of eyes like celadon lamps that looked shrewdly at me. “Feel free to put on something warm.”
“I was hot inside,” I said airily. “But thanks for your concern.”
He tried peering over my shoulder into the house. “Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“So you’d know someone named Rene …”
“Marshall,” Shirl Toby volunteered impatiently. “Rene Marshall. He’s a good friend of mine.”
I bet he was, I thought, glancing at her cleft.
“I know him,” I said. “I’m his daughter.”
“Rene doesn’t have a daughter,” she insisted.
“Ms Toby,” the policeman warned.
I nodded. “As far as I know, for sixteen years.”
“You said your name is Spiel,” he argued.
“My mother’s name was Spiel, and I have a personal preference for it.”
“Where is Mr Marshall? Your father,” asked the policewoman. She was smaller than me, but not dainty, and fresh-faced like a teenager. A teenager dressed to kill in a very adult costume, toting one very adult handgun, which was extremely visible beneath the flap of her navy-blue jacket.
“He’s gone away for a while.”
“Away?” said Shirl. “Away where?”
“Some place…far north.”
“What kind of place?”
“I’m not sure exactly. It has something to do with work. It’s a business trip. He never provides me with details. I never ask for them.”
“Whose car is that parked in the driveway?” asked the policeman.
“It’s my Dad’s. Another man accompanied him. They travelled in his car.”
“For how long will he be away?”
“Again, I can’t say for sure. He’ll call me sooner or later, to let me know.”
“You’re here alone then?”
The lies rolled smoothly off my tongue. “Sometimes. Sometimes my aunt stays.”
“Is she staying over tonight?”
“Not tonight, no. But she dropped by earlier with a casserole.” I added unnecessarily, “It was too meaty.”
“Well, I’m not convinced,” huffed Shirl Toby.
“You can sample the leftovers if you want.”
Ms Toby stepped forward, poked an acrylic nail as gaudy as her eye shadow and lipstick in my face. “Don’t get cute with me, missy. Rene wouldn’t have gone anywhere without first telling me.”
I remained unfazed. “Like I said, it’s a work thing. He was required to go without further delay.”
“He would’ve called,” she snapped.
“He probably meant to call you, but didn’t have the time. There’s no need to be suspicious, lady,” I said. “You’ll see him again, and you’ll get your explanation.”
The policewoman asked me, “Why didn’t you come to the door when Ms Toby knocked?”
I had all the right answers. “I don’t know this woman who claims to be Dad’s friend. He’s never once mentioned her to me before. I was being cautious.” I paused theatrically, as if considering my actions. “I did the right thing, didn’t I, officers?”
The policeman, smiling winsomely, nodded. “You should always be cautious.”
And that was the end of it.
Shirl Toby protested further, but the policeman and the policewoman told her to go home, to stop worrying.
And if you want to contact Mr Marshall, they suggested, telephone first. The last thing anybody wants is trouble.