Intruder Read online

  ‘Let me guess – jazz night in the Valley?’ I ventured, keeping it cool for Al’s benefit.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Boxing Day special. You kids want dinner? I’ve got potato salad, green peas and chops.’

  Al shook his head. ‘My mum’s expecting me home. But thanks anyway, Mr Jones –’

  ‘Jimmy,’ he replied automatically, his eyes moving restlessly between the two of us. ‘Your dinner’s ready when you are, Kat.’ He nodded at Al, then disappeared back inside.

  Al turned towards me, his brow creased. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight, staying here on your own?’

  ‘’Course I am.’ I forced a breezy tone. ‘I’ve got stickers, a fake alarm and a dangerous tripping hazard. What more could I want?’

  He didn’t return my grin. ‘You know, Bill lives just round the corner. He’d keep an eye on you –’

  ‘God, no, that’s the last thing I want!’

  Al drew back at the vehemence in my voice. I reined it in; we had to get this sorted – that’s why I invited him here.

  ‘Just leave Bill out of it, okay? Don’t say anything to him about my dad working nights, or me being here by myself. Please.’

  ‘But he could help.’

  ‘No, he can’t. All he can do is cause trouble for us.’

  Al shook his head in frustration. ‘I don’t get it. How can having a cop looking out for you when your dad’s not here and there’s a prowler around be a problem?’

  ‘He’ll make a big deal that Jimmy’s not around. I don’t want him to know, all right?’

  Al wasn’t convinced. ‘Look, Bill’s a good guy. If I just ask him to –’

  ‘No. Stay out of it.’

  ‘Fine,’ he muttered, snapping his fingers at Sequoia, who’d just wandered back up the drive. ‘We’ll go then.’

  So much for getting him on side.

  ‘Wait –’ I said.

  Al grabbed the leash off the front steps and clipped it onto Sequoia’s collar, his face guarded. But at least he waited.

  I ran my tongue over my lips, tasting my own fear. If I want Al to keep my secrets, I’ll have to explain why . . .

  I’d already let my guard down with him, revealing more about myself than I had in a long, long time. It had felt good to unload, and Al was right, it was easier to talk to a stranger. But how much longer could I keep calling him that? Now that he’d shown me his scars, been to my house and met my dad?

  The problem was that Al didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know the worst of the secrets that I’d kept locked in the hollow chambers of my heart.

  No-one knew. I’d never told anyone. Because up until now, there hadn’t been anyone to tell.

  Twelve

  Confiding in Al was a risk. It could drive him away. But if it bought his silence at the dog park, it was a risk I had to take. To protect Jimmy . . . and myself.

  The disloyalty of what I was about to do twisted my gut and I was grateful for the dusk falling around me a like a cloak.

  I searched the darkness for something, anything, to focus on, until my gaze finally snagged on the roses glowing in the dimness at the edge of our yard.

  White roses for loyalty, for a love stronger than death.

  I could do this. I could say the words out loud, just as long as Jimmy didn’t hear them, and I didn’t have to see their impact on Al’s face.

  ‘When my mum died –’ the words tasted like ashes in my mouth ‘– my dad, uh, he didn’t cope real well . . .’

  They’d been together since they were fourteen years old. She was the one, Jimmy always said, the only one for him.

  I cleared my throat, struggling to form the words into the right shape, to get them past the blockage at the base of my throat.

  ‘He had a, um, a kind of breakdown.’

  I wasn’t sure how many kinds there were. I only knew that I never wanted to see one again. We’d never talked about it, Jimmy and me. Not when it happened, and not once in all the time since. It had changed him. The fear that it would happen again had changed both of us.

  The roses had dissolved into splotches of pale light. Thorned wraiths that should have been guarding the boundary between our two properties; barbed sentries that had failed in their duty to keep all trespassers out.

  Al hadn’t moved. He was waiting for me to finish what I’d started.

  ‘The police had to come . . .’ My voice sounded small and far away, like it was coming from the younger self I had been back then. ‘They called an ambulance to take him to the hospital.’

  I paused until I could trust my voice. ‘They took me too . . . I thought they were taking me to my dad, but they didn’t. They put me into care . . .’

  I refused to look at Al, for fear of what I would see in his face. I kept my voice flat so that it wouldn’t betray me.

  ‘Bill’s a policeman. He’s used to placing kids into care. For him, it’s just part of the job. If you tell him that my mum’s dead and my dad works nights, what do you think he’ll do?’

  The evening chirp of the crickets swelled to fill the silence between us. I wondered if he was going to answer me at all and risked a quick glance his way.

  Al’s shoulders were hunched forward, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his old threadbare Canterburys. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft I had to strain to hear it.

  ‘My mum and I lived with my grandma for almost a year after my dad left.’ He studied the dry crackle of grass at his feet. ‘She’d supported him the four years it took him to finish his PhD. Then he decided to take a job in the States – along with his new girlfriend, instead of us.’ He looked away. ‘I was only four, but I remember Mum crying a lot. Guess she didn’t cope real well, either.’

  ‘What about you?’ I whispered. ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘I hardly remember him. He wasn’t around much.’ He hesitated. ‘I miss the idea of having a dad, if that makes any sense. But him as a person?’ His lips twisted. ‘Someone who didn’t care enough to stick around for his kid?’ Al shook his head, and fished out his mobile. ‘Give me your number and I’ll text you mine. That way you can phone me if you get freaked out tonight.’

  He looked up expectantly and the knot in my throat loosened. But all I could manage was a tight smile and a nod of thanks.

  Al shrugged. ‘I’m just round the corner. I can be here in a flash. It’s not like I’m doing anything else.’

  I forced out a ragged laugh. ‘Not even sleeping?’

  ‘It’s holidays, I can do that anytime.’

  I recited my number and watched him punch it into his mobile and hit Send. A moment later my mobile bipped in my pocket. When I checked it, his number stood out on the backlit screen.

  A tiny hint of warmth pulsed through the cold fist in my chest.

  A couple of hours ago Alexander Armitage had been a perfect stranger. Now he was the closest thing I had to a friend.

  One part of me was happy about that. Two parts were afraid. When you gave people your secrets, you gave them power over you; and I had broken the rule that my dad and I had lived by since my mum died. It made me awkward where I should have been grateful.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, Al?’

  He shook his head. There was nothing left to say but goodbye. Al pushed open the gate, promising he’d be back, if I needed him.

  ‘Count on it,’ he said, slipping out into the darkness, Sequoia trotting obediently at his heels.

  ‘Count on what?’ Jimmy stood in the open doorway, holding two dinner plates in his hands.

  Herc levitated off the path and bounded up the front steps. The smell of chops reeled me in after him.

  ‘Nothing.’ I grabbed one of the plates as I made my way inside.

  He caught me by the arm. ‘Where did you meet that kid? Who is he?’
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  ‘I told you. His name’s Al. I met him at the dog park.’ I pulled away, frowning at the set of his jaw, the knot of muscle tightening beneath the skin. ‘Shouldn’t you be happy that I have some company for a change?’

  He didn’t answer, and I stepped past him into the house, Herc dancing alongside the dinner plate in my hand.

  I fed him first, to stop him eyeing off my meal. Jimmy followed me into the TV room, and we ate in uneasy silence, flicking between free-to-air stations, all with nothing on. Jimmy had even less interest in the Boxing Day Test or the Sydney Hobart Yacht Race than I did, and looked relieved when it was time for him to go to work.

  ‘I’ve locked up,’ he said, car keys jangling in his hand. ‘Outside lights are on. Edie’s next door. She said the dog can sleep here.’

  I nodded, eyes fixed on the screen.

  ‘I’ll call you in the break between sets and pop home between the gig and my shift at Crusty’s. Call me if you’re worried about anything.’ He pressed his lips against my hair. ‘And Kat –’

  I looked at him, wondering what he could possibly say to make this night on my own more bearable.

  ‘I don’t want that boy coming round while I’m not here. Okay?’

  My knife and fork slid off my plate and clattered onto the floor. ‘Shouldn’t you be more worried about that prowler coming round again?’

  The tic danced at the corner of his eye. ‘Like I said, the place is locked up tight and lit up like a Christmas tree. He won’t be back.’

  ‘You hope,’ I muttered, grabbing the cutlery and heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Katty, you have nothing to worry about. Edie will keep an eye on everything.’ He followed me in and rubbed my shoulders. ‘Look, I have to go –’

  ‘Fine. Go.’ I dumped my plate in the sink, stomped back into the lounge and threw myself across an armchair, channel-surfing with a vengeance.

  He picked up his pork-pie hat from the couch and dusted it lightly against his leg. ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said finally.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, my voice tight. ‘I can phone triple 0 if I need any help.’

  The silence that followed prickled with hurt, but I kept my eyes fixed blindly on the TV screen until his footsteps receded down the hall, and the lock clicked shut in the front door. I stared till my eyes watered, and our old Mazda with its dodgy exhaust had grumbled off into the night.

  Herc pushed himself up off the floor and rested his heavy jowls on my knee.

  ‘Go away.’

  His waggling eyebrows stilled and then fell as though I’d hurt his feelings.

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’re a dog – go do dog things.’

  I pushed his snout away. He pushed back, questioning, then hopeful. Nudging his head back onto my knee. Snuggling in underneath my hand.

  The velvet folds of fur and flesh rolled and quivered beneath my palm. Warmth leaked into the cold knot in my chest and, without thinking, I dug my fingers in and held on tight, seeking the comfort of another living being in the desolate landscape of my evening.

  ‘You’re as dumb as a box of rocks,’ I whispered, massaging the hard bones of Herc’s skull. Working the tips of my fingers through the wrinkles bracketing the deep brown of his eyes until I had his jaw cupped in my hands. He sighed and closed his eyes.

  I lowered my face and rested my forehead on his. Breathing in his earthy animal pong, and swallowing hard against the unpleasant reality that had stuck like a hair in the back of my throat.

  ‘Looks like it’s just you and me, boy,’ I whispered.

  I couldn’t count on my dad. Not anymore. Jimmy was part of the problem, not part of the solution.

  Last night had frightened me more than I could ever admit, especially to Jimmy. It was the first time I had seen him cry since that day they took him away.

  I’d buried that memory in the deepest, darkest corner of my mind, and kicked dirt over the trapdoor that led down to it. Talking to Al had levered it open, and now the horror of that day was creeping slowly back up towards me.

  Thirteen

  Two months after Mum died I had tried to convince myself that the worst was over: her funeral, behind us; my scar beginning to heal. Even the evil witch from next door had melted into the shadows.

  After the dog attack she’d tried to worm her way back into our lives, but my implacable hatred had finally driven her away. She told Jimmy she was giving us some ‘space to grieve’, and had left town for a holiday destination so remote it didn’t even have internet or mobile-phone coverage.

  Jimmy was back working nights. Exhausting himself with double shifts. Stumbling through each day on autopilot, trying to navigate a life he no longer recognised. I’d caught him muttering about losing his bearings to my mother’s photo above the piano. It never occurred to me that he was at risk of losing far more.

  A week after the evil witch left, I found him on his hands and knees among the rosebushes. Babbling about loyalty and a love stronger than death. Grubbing at the hard-packed earth with blackened and broken fingernails, my mum’s funeral urn propped in the dirt beside him.

  Thinking I could help, I ran back into the house and armed myself with a set of bright red gardening tools – a mini hoe and a fork that Mum had bought on a whim, in a moment of optimism, on a day when the sun shone bright, and planting and growing still seemed possible in our lives.

  His eyes had latched onto those never-used tools, the unblemished edges, the smooth lacquered metal and unstained handles. He stopped scrabbling and the moment hung frozen in the air. Then his chest contracted sharply, as though someone had struck him in the heart, crushing him with the blunt force of an inescapable fact, and something broke, deep inside him.

  The surface cracks fanned out, making the small muscles in his hands twitch, travelling into his core and triggering a moan that burst from his throat and built into an unrelenting howl that warped the brightness of the day. The impact drove me back, the tools falling from my hands. Tripping and scrambling backwards on my heels and my hands, as my father unravelled in front of me.

  The determination that had held him together for so long had finally snapped. The person that I knew peeled away, leaving something I didn’t recognise, heaving and wretched in its wake.

  A decade’s worth of unshed tears ran in muddy tracks down his face. He continued to grub at the hard soil with the metal edge of the urn, splintering his bloody nails. Sobbing her name, over and over, slamming his fists into the ground, crying that it was no use, all of it a waste, a lie, a pointless mongrel joke, the bastard doctors, the bullshit cures, the butcherings, the false hopes, the slow poisoning with chemo.

  Deaf to my screams, he staggered back into the house, dragging out the wasted efforts of Mum’s last six months and dumping them onto the lawn. The yoga mats, the self-help books, the massage oils and macrobiotic diet plans, the herbal teas, crystals, relaxation tapes, unfinished packets of painkillers, medicines, even the cane she’d used at the end to help her climb the stairs. He destroyed them all in a bitter bonfire while I curled into a ball and cried, waiting for his fury to burn itself out.

  That’s when they arrived.

  Drawn by the plume of greasy black smoke, thinking they were dealing with a simple case of illegal backyard burning. Finding, instead, a man mad with grief, trying to separate the melted pages of a photo album that had been caught in the blaze, oblivious to the charred skin on his hands and his forearms, blind and deaf to the twelve-year-old daughter rocking and sobbing beside him.

  The older cop knelt down and held him like a child while the other scooped me up and phoned for the ambulance that took him away . . .

  And then they took me . . . but not to my dad.

  No words could explain the terror and loneliness of that first night in foster care. Or of the nights that followed, as a broken kid in a bunk bed, tended
by well-meaning strangers. Or the swelling rage when the evil witch finally turned up, back from her holiday, to fetch me home. The mortification of having to leave with her, to live with her, the woman who had betrayed my mother, left me mute with fury. But I had no choice – because the only thing worse than accepting her help was being left where I was.

  I drew the line at entering her house, so she moved into ours. Then I retreated into a silence that lasted until Jimmy came home. When he walked back in, he was thin and pale, with bruised rings under his eyes. Only the faintest echo of his old determination remained.

  ‘I need to go back to work,’ he whispered. ‘Get our lives back on track.’

  Like Mum’s death was a minor derailment.

  I understood, even back then, why he found it easier to be at work, to be busy, than to deal with the gaping hole at home. I didn’t argue. I was afraid of the tic in the corner of his eye, the faint tremor in his piano-playing fingers, the pink plastic scars just starting to heal.

  I didn’t complain; I just drank down my glass of cement and hardened up. Enough for the both of us.

  Fourteen

  Herc had somehow ended up on the couch, his bulldozer head ploughed into my lap.

  I fiddled with his ear, glad for the company. As useless and flatulent as he was, Herc was better than having nobody. Jimmy kept saying I’d be safe, locked in the house with a fake-scary pooch and a busybody neighbour next door, but he hadn’t convinced me. I was jumpier than a puppet on a string. ‘Up and at ’em, Herc. Sitting here is making me crazy. Let’s do something.’

  He cocked his head, dribble hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Herc.’ I pointed at the floor. ‘DOWN.’

  His face slumped, but he did as he was told and slid reluctantly off the couch.

  ‘SIT.’

  He settled onto the floor, his hind legs sliding apart on the polished floorboards.

  ‘Good boy. Now, STAY.’

  I went into the kitchen and retrieved his liver treats. If I was going to distract myself with the dog, the least I could do was reward him for his service. His eyes locked onto the packet as I walked towards him, twin drools now bracketing his face.