It takes me a full half-hour to apply make-up the way I was shown. I do a pretty decent—though amateurish—job of it. I even smile at the image in the mirror, for once recognising it as human—not beast.
Yesterday I walked to the public library to research a topic for my science essay. Bracketed by well-tended gardens, decorative fountains and ornate cast-iron benches where people can sit in the shade and read, the library is an impressive sandstone edifice. Situated beside it is an open-air theatre designed for community performances including musical and drama, which are held about once a month or twice, if the talent is there.
I have known the chief librarian, Nola Tinny, for years ever since I developed a passion for reading and learning. She’s a short middle-aged woman with two raised moles on her chin and two rows of crooked, coffee-stained teeth. Her short crimpy hair is the colour of burnt paprika. A lifelong denizen of Little Creek, Nola Tinny is about the only person I know who always has something positive to say to me. Her sincere but unprepossessing face is seldom—if ever—an unwelcome sight.
As I approached Nola’s station behind the circulation desk, she turned from her computer monitor to gaze upon me with an air of uncertainty. Like I’m a stranger to her, I noted, but looking familiar nonetheless.
I was quietly amused. Today when I looked in the mirror, I was almost a stranger to myself. It’s astounding what a difference a bit of face paint and new apparel can make to a person’s outward appearance, not to mention their sense of worth.
Where I am concerned, I feel they’ve made a colossal difference.
I deposited a couple of hardcovers into the returns slot. “Good morning,” I said.
“Morning?” she returned dubiously. It was more of a question than a sure greeting.
I consulted my new watch. “Yep. Not quite lunch time,” I assured her with a smile.
Nola Tinny smiled back. Her smile is a grotesque affair, but it spans her entire face, reaching her bespectacled eyes, and I know that it’s genuine. That’s all that matters to me. “I trust they’re not overdue,” she said good-naturedly.
“Of course not.” I paused. “You don’t recognise me, do you, Mrs Tinny?”
“I was…” Shaking her head, she looked embarrassed. “No, I’m sorry. There is something about you…”
“Justice.”
“Justice?” she echoed with an unsightly frown. “Oh!”
“I could be here awhile,” I said.
“I’ve never known you to just pop in and not stay awhile.”
“That’s true. I’ll see you later.” I smiled and walked off, aware of her gaze still fixed on me.
The computer room is at the opposite end of the modern L-shaped building. To get to it I had to walk through the study area, which was pleasantly quiet save for the hypnotic hum of the split system air-conditioner. I passed a young man with scruffy hair and a stubbly but handsome face sitting in one of the locked study carrels. He was ogling me through the smudged panel of glass.
A deep blush suffused my neck and cheeks. It was the first time I had been ‘checked out’ by the eyes of the opposite sex. I had on a knee-length skirt, a vintage mauve jumper knitted with raglan sleeves and a funnel neck, and over that the thick wool coat from J. V. Ashcroft. I’ve been going everywhere in my coat and feeling that I look almost sophisticated in my new outfits. I feel as if I can go anywhere, be seen by anyone, without being sneered at or considered downtrodden.
Sometimes I think none of it’s real, that maybe—through paranormal means—I’m living somebody else’s life. Somebody who deserves to wear nice clothes, and who deserves to have good things happen to them.
Perhaps it’s all an illusion, I mused. People who know me will continue to see the old me. The girl who wore second-hand jumpers with drooping necklines and sweat stains. The girl with the uneven complexion and the limp, lifeless hair. The girl who was scared to look people in the eye lest she glimpse the hatred and revulsion in them.
I was crouched on the floor, combing the bottom shelf for a particular science book, when someone crept up behind me. Well, maybe not crept up behind me so much as strolled innocently up the aisle, where they had every right to be. I was being paranoid and jumpy.
I stood a little too fast and got light-headed. I shut my eyes and begged my heart to stop racing. I was like a bird under imminent attack, preparing to take to the sky, to limitless safety.
Whoever is there, I thought, please go away. Please.
I turned, and when I saw who it was, I marvelled at the coincidence of her being there, in that same aisle, at the same time as me.
I slowly let out my breath. Harmless, she was, and, as I recalled, extremely affable.
“Excuse me,” said Pander.
I nodded my head slightly, almost cautiously, being polite. I stepped back, allowing her to pass. The aisle was narrow; her bag nudged my arm.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing up at me.
Pander didn’t recognise me at first, which didn’t surprise me. She shared that same look in her eyes as Nola Tinny. Smiling a confused little red-lipped smile that revealed two dimples and zero teeth, she stared at me. I wanted her to move on and not attempt to unravel the mystery of who I was, but she was adamant. “Hi. Do I know you?”
I hesitated, and then gave another subtle nod. “Sort of,” I said.
“You go to my school, right?”
“Or vice versa.”
She smiled at that. “What’s your name?”
“Justice.”
“Justice,” she repeated. “There’s likely one person I’ve met with that name…” Her big blue eyes lit up the second she remembered me. “Justice! My goodness, is that really you?”
“In the flesh.”
What there is left of it, I thought.
“You took our photo once. Mine and—”
“Yes,” I interrupted her, conscious of how loud she was speaking. “How did it turn out?”
“Oh, great. Yeah, really great. I’m Pander, by the way.” She held out a hand and I studied it a moment before shaking it.
“I know who you are. I mean, I knew your name already. You’re not exactly unheard-of.”
She rolled her eyes, without being impolite. “So tell me again what makes me so popular? Maybe it’s my orange tan and bleached hair extensions.” Pander has fair Irish skin and dyed black hair, as black as crows’ wings, cut boyishly short. “Or maybe I’m just too nice. Maybe I should go wild, break a few laws. Sully my nice-girl reputation.”
Being popular has got little to do with your nice-girl reputation, I thought, although being nice doesn’t hurt it any. You have everything most girls our age could only wish for—cuteness, brains and a model boyfriend.
“Just kidding. My goodness,” she exclaimed again. “Haven’t you changed!”
I blushed. “Thank you,” I replied. Then I blushed even more. Because it wasn’t like Pander had said, “My goodness, don’t you look nice!” It was simply a compliment for Pander to have said that I had changed. That I was no longer a…I don’t know. A gorgon. Yes, a gorgon. A terrifyingly ugly woman.
“Hey, I don’t mean to embarrass you or anything. Jeez, you look great. I love that coat. J. V. Ashcroft, right?”
“You know your fashion labels.”
“I know what’s expensive, is all,” she conceded. “Therefore I know what to avoid.”
We stood there for a time, prohibited to speak at length, nevertheless discussing the latest fashion and how she’d love to look as cultivated as me—“Specially for Bain,” she added—but couldn’t afford to. Her cheeks were notably florid. At one stage she stopped talking to look down at her own basic ensemble with a measure of hopelessness and disdain. “I wore this top yesterday,” she confessed, “and two days before that.”
Hey, I thought, I used to wear the same top two weeks in a row. I used to look frowzy and unclean. But I didn’t tell her that. Instead, I assured her she had nothing to worry about.
“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Pander,” I said. And it was. Really nice.
“Same here.” She grinned impishly at me. “I still can’t get over the remarkable difference.”
I was defensive. “I’m still me.”
“Oh, yeah. I know that. You just don’t look like you. Well, you know what I mean.”
I half nodded.
“Listen, Justice,” she began. “A few of us are seeing a movie tonight. Probably a try-hard comedy, although if Bain and his cousins get their way, it’ll be an action-war movie with blood bombs exploding in every scene.”
I smiled, attempting to display some enthusiasm for her. “Sounds gory.”
“Gory but fun, I guess. Would you like to come? You’re more than welcome to.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, without giving it some thought.
“Come on, I’d love it if you could. We’ll pick you up at—”
But I was intractable. “Thank you, anyway.”
She said more quietly, “There’s no need to thank me, Justice.”
My cheeks burned.
You don’t know what you’re saying, I wanted to tell her. You’re so wrong. I’ve never been asked to go to the movies by anyone. Never!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
But as Pander said goodbye and left me to find the books I was after, my head was shouting no.
No! No! No!
I can’t. No way on God’s earth can I possibly go!
Throughout the long afternoon, I sat in an outlying section of the building and did my essay. I got up occasionally to use a computer, retrieve a book or to use the toilet facilities, but otherwise I was glued to my chair, seldom lifting my eyes to assess the people around me. Some of them were obviously bibliophiles (or would that be bibliomaniacs?) browsing the multi-tiered bookshelves in search of escapism.
By the time I arrived home the sun had set and the wind was fiercely chilling. I put the electric heater on to warm myself. Then I made myself dinner by pouring a can of tomato soup into a saucepan and heating it up on the stovetop. After this I did some housework. I vacuumed the carpet, dusted and polished the furniture and disinfected the bathroom and toilet. I used to set aside time to complete these household tasks when Dad was alive, but not very often, maybe once a fortnight, maybe twice, if I didn’t have much homework. Even Dad was inclined to say homework came before not living in a pigsty.
I don’t enjoy cleaning, but it keeps me busy. And it keeps my mind off certain things. Off certain people, both dead and alive.
There’s some ugly mould on the bathroom ceiling that I was unable to scrub off. Perhaps one day I’ll paint over it.
When I was done with things, it was still fairly early. I contemplated going for another walk. It’s great exercise, and it’s a real mollifying experience walking the dark windy streets by myself. I ought to be apprehensive or something, but I’m not. The neighbourhood is pretty safe anyway. It’s people like me, I realised, that you have to watch out for.
People like me?
What type of person am I?
The phone sounded, startling me.
“Not again,” I moaned. But then I told myself I couldn’t ignore it the rest of my life. People would get suspicious if I did that.
Maybe they already are.
It was this unspoken thought that prompted me to answer it.
Entering the bedroom, I defiantly flicked my silky hair out of my face. “Hello?”
“Oh.” Surprise in their voice. “I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
This time the caller was a woman.
I had half expected it to be Mr Yasko. How’s your Dad holding up? He’s not really sick, is he? What are you up to, young lady? You won’t tell me? Fine! I’m coming over!
I was mighty relieved not to have to answer any more of his questions. For now, anyway.
“Who are you after?” I asked, confident that it was the wrong number.
“Rene Marshall,” the caller replied.
“Who?”
Rene Marshall.
“Rene Marshall,” she repeated accurately.
“I’m sorry. He doesn’t live here,” I told her, and thought wryly—not anymore.
Who is she? I wondered. A work colleague? A friend? A girl friend?
Not possible.
A man like my father doesn’t have friends, he has enemies. And he most certainly doesn’t have girlfriends, because he doesn’t know how to be affectionate, or respectful, or any of the other ingredients needed to uphold a healthy relationship.
I was baffled. I was—intrigued.
“You probably misdialled,” I told her.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then someone’s done a number on you,” I cracked.
The caller uttered a short laugh. When she spoke next, however, she sounded genuinely let down. “Yeah. Typical.”
“You sound like you were relying on this person.”
“Of course I was.”
Of course. People rely on people all the time. But Dad? No one relied on him, not for anything. I never did.
Well, I relied on him to be an absolute bastard. He was first-rate.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked her, in a manner that denoted compassion and empathy. Yet I wasn’t concerned for this woman, whoever she is. I was far from being concerned for her, actually. I was, plain and simple, curious.
I wanted to keep her talking. Siphon out information that would help me to understand her association with Dad, and why she was calling him. Why tonight? Why at all? What does she want with him? Does she know he has—had—a daughter?
“No,” she answered, but not unkindly. “I don’t want to make a headshrinker out of you. You sound pretty young to me.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been through a lot.”
“Well, you know how it goes,” she said. “A man likes a woman, a woman loves a man. But he’s too lily-livered to commit, and she’s too desperate to take no for an answer.”
Desperate? I thought. To be hooked on my father? That’s an understatement, lady.
You’re out of your mind.
“Do you know where he lives?” I asked her.
Yes.
“Yes. Unless he’s given me the wrong address also.”
I doubt it, I thought.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I said anyway. “You might find yourself at a graveyard. Or something.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Sounds to me like he’s not worth the trouble.”
“Whether he’s worth it or not is really up to me to decide. Sorry to disturb you,” she said quickly, and hung up.
I held the receiver away from my face and spoke to it like I was stupid or dumbfounded or something. “You’re sorry?”
I sighed, cradled the handpiece and stood. My tone was ominous; “We’ll see.”
I addressed the clock on the bedside table and decided I would go for a walk after all. Just a short one. I put on my coat, turned off the heater, doused the kitchen lights and escaped the house.
Escaped the house, like it’s a prison.
I went out the back way. The night was achromatic, composed of black, white and grey tones only. I looked up at the sky. The earth’s satellite was a perfectly plump round disc. Quite like a cold, un-blinding sun, I thought, bathing the yard in alabaster light. Clouds framed and masked its noble face like frizzy grey wisps of old-lady hair. The shadows were small but deep, shapeless like accidental ink spillages.
Pulling my coat tighter around me, I moved deliberately to the second bedroom window—I now think of it as the ‘tomb’—and stood there in a section of white zodiacal light, analysing the glass. I spooked myself. I imagined Dad suddenly flinging aside the floral curtains and shouting something befitting like “Boo!” at me, spraying the window with gore as black as squid ink. But the only ghost I spotted was my own obscure reflection, staring back at me from less than two feet away.
I’m not sure which of the two terrified me more—imagery or reality. Because in reality, I looked pale and haunted. I looked like a person who wasn’t quite all there. Who perhaps isn’t quite all there and never will be. But what does that mean?
I scuttled away, out the side gate. I predicted that I would end up at the lake, and I did.
It’s a favourable place to visit. Peaceful.
During the day, but especially at night, I sometimes like to follow the paved footpath that wends its way through the park, sticking close to the lake’s serpentine shores. But mostly I like to meander through the wooded area between the lake and the school, heeding the nocturnal calls and sounds of arboreal creatures scampering amongst the trees.
Ahead of me, the school was a patchwork of thick darkness and sheer transparent moonlight. Soon I found myself wandering through the maze of classrooms and office buildings, feeling like I owned the place, feeling powerful and fearful at the same time.
And lonely. Most of all, I felt lonely.
I was lost yet surrounded by familiar things.
As far as I could tell, the grounds were otherwise uninhabited. The only sounds I heard came from places far-off. Places where families and friends collectively were having fun—as they should have been on a Saturday night. The sound of a passing car was rare and soothing.
My own world was empty. Those that existed beyond mine were crowded, filled with unsuppressed happiness and life.
I thought of Pander, and wondered if she was enjoying the movie. I was sure she was enjoying the company and mixing with people, sharing popcorn, jokes, laughter. Happy smiles all round. I told myself, very firmly, that I would go and see the next movie that even remotely appeals to me. I’ll go by myself if I have to, I thought. I will. I promise.
I stood there for a spell, gazing up at the stars and various constellations, wondering about them and indeed admiring them, feeling both amazed and intimidated by the enormousness of creation.
The walk home wasn’t a long one, but the evening was chilly enough to make it an even shorter one. I cut the time in half by quickening my pace until I was practically jogging. I hurried east along Woodbine Street, then I turned right into Leyton Avenue, where there was enough manufactured light to ward off potential muggers. Not that I was afraid of bumping into someone like that. And anyway, the real danger wasn’t waiting for me outside on a seemingly deserted residential street. The real danger was waiting for me back at home.
As I was to discover, I returned home much too soon. Another vehicle was parked in the driveway, parked behind Dad’s battered old Laser. It was a cherry-red convertible, brand spankin’ new.
It’s gotta be her, I thought. The lady on the phone. The one who’s in love with Dad. The one who’s in love with a dead man.
I walked on by, casual-like, with my heart in my throat almost choking me.
At the front of the property, a seven-foot-high hedge skirts a waist-high brick fence, providing sufficient cover. The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could either carry on walking until my feet ran out of pavement somewhere in the heart of Timbuktu, or I could stay where I was—but stay low—and observe the house for telltale signs of a misdemeanour like busted windows.
I decided to stay and lie low for a bit, because more than anything I had to know what I was dealing with here. What I was up against. Another complication, yes, but how great?
I was not unlike a vigilant soldier on the lookout for an opposing military force. The woman was my enemy, I already knew that. I already knew that she was no friend, no confidante, of Rene Marshall’s daughter/executioner.
With some difficulty, I leapt over the fence, through a gaping hole in the foliage and squatted. Branches stabbed my back, my arms and my face. Moist leaves clung to my cheeks like leeches flattened underfoot. I hoped I wasn’t ruining my clothes. The muddy ground was soft and friable beneath my boots. Probably worms down there, I thought, and spiders everywhere else. I don’t want to think about the spiders. Might scream. Might inadvertently expose myself.
I peered out of the hedge through a motif of small heart-shaped leaves and jutting branches and twigs and saw more darkness. Never-ending darkness. But I sensed she was out there somewhere, probably being as sneaky as I was. Which made me think she could be just as smart as I am—and equally cunning.
The thought didn’t appease me in the slightest. That’s because I am used to people being dumber than me.
We have company Dad, I thought. It’s your lover, come to serenade you.
But I didn’t know if that was true, that part about her being his lover.
I couldn’t see anybody moving out there amongst the shadows as sticky as black treacle. The verandah is well-hidden by a typical overgrown shrub, its branches shivering visibly as if sensitive to the presence of death and decay. It impeded my view of the front door. So I couldn’t say for sure if somebody was standing there, waiting to be greeted by an occupant of the house.
I cocked my head and listened for footsteps, approaching or otherwise. I listened for voices. The universe was preternaturally quiet. Wind rustled the trees that flanked most of the street, electricity buzzed overhead. Yet the earth was void of human breath, of human intelligence.
But, of course, such a concept was beyond ridiculous. Even for me.
A short while later a motorcycle zoomed past the house, then an old pick-up truck. I heard the guttural barking of a dog.
I don’t know how many minutes went by; I couldn’t read my watch. Several of them did. Then I spotted her: a brunette wearing shoes with a stiletto heel—although her tall, slim frame wasn’t an illusion. Nor was her incredible bust.
She wore a shiny black overcoat, unbuttoned but tied at the waist, and a black leather skirt that was awfully short—too short for this nippy weather. Her top was cardinal red, low-cut with sequins. The fabric was diaphanous, so I didn’t have to squint in order to see her bra. Her pantyhose were black, also see-through. Her jewellery was chunky, noisy and cheap-looking. Bangles draped her forearms. Beads crowded her neck.
She looks like a slut, I thought.
Or a walking disease, traipsing her filth all over my property, my home.
The walking disease came round the side of the house, from the rear. She was investigating every square-inch of the house and being dangerously nosy.
Is she concerned? I wondered. Concerned about Dad? Does she fear something’s happened to him?
Was she his girlfriend? His callgirl?
Who exactly is she?
I ducked down further, putting my face in my lap and closing my eyes, trying to make myself impossibly small, virtually unseeable. I continued to listen, for there was very little else I could do. Her amazing shoes tapped sharply, brusquely on the hard concrete drive. I knew where she was without actually having to look up.
I didn’t move again until I was dead certain the car—and the intruder—had gone.
Then, slowly, carefully, I pulled myself out of the leafy hedge. I looked up and down the dark somnolent street. Nothing.
Still, I felt far from safe.
I ran for the front door, wanting to get inside, wanting to lock myself in.
Something on the mat caught my eye: a pretty pink envelope. It had a flowery fragrance to it, like potpourri.
I picked it up and took it inside with me. I switched on the hallway lamp, discovered it was addressed to Dad.
I ripped it open. The letter read simply, Rene. Where the hell are you? I miss you. Why don’t you call? I haven’t done anything to upset you, have I? Your car is in the drive, so you mustn’t have gone too far. Please get in touch soon. You have me worried. Love you—Shirl xoxo