Ballad for a Mad Girl Page 6

  A hand on my arm makes me jump. Arnold Pettigrew. ‘That’s not Amber,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s that missing girl, Hannah Holt.’

  ‘I know that, too,’ I reply, but I don’t know how. I feel connected to her in some way, but I don’t know her story beyond an urban legend and a blurred image on a Missing poster.

  I do know this: she’s under my skin.

  ‘Grace, a couple of years back, you left a dollop of red paint the shape of a lipstick kiss on my chair. Do you remember?’ Mrs Miskov is leaning over her desk, her hands busy moving the wooden limbs of an artist’s mannequin. ‘I certainly won’t ever forget.’

  ‘That wasn’t me.’ I’m slouching, sullen. It’s half past three and I’ve probably missed any chance of a ride home.

  She frowns. ‘I’ll admit, I had my doubts at the time. It was juvenile and your methods are usually quite sophisticated. You know, if you put half the time you spend perfecting pranks into learning, you’d be a joy to teach. I’m not the only one who thinks so.’ She touches the rolled-up drawing lying on the desk. ‘Case in point. Unless…’ She waits.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless this wasn’t you, either.’ She moves her hand as if to swat a fly. ‘I think the best way to sort this out is for you to complete a little exercise.’ She places the mannequin in front of me. It’s poised in some kind of ballet move, balancing on one foot, arms above its head. She hands me a pencil and a sketchbook.

  ‘I don’t…’

  ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes. I’d hate to distract you. Is fifteen minutes enough time to practise your dark magic?’ She smiles as she closes the door.

  I pick up the pencil and open the sketchbook. She was right to have doubts: I wasn’t responsible for the paint on her skirt. That was kids’ stuff. I’ve never pranked Mrs Miskov; I like her, even if she thinks the worst of me. I stare at the mannequin. I feel nothing again. I wonder if this is all some kind of passing sickness—like the year I had hives, suddenly and for no apparent reason—or if I’ll have to wonder what’s real and what isn’t for the rest of my life, if crazy is my new normal.

  I draw the figure as I see it—stick-like—and autograph the bottom of the page. Sit back, drumming my fingers on the desk. Stare at the wall. Bite my nails.

  Last night, I wrote a thousand-word essay, effortlessly, when I should have been sleeping, and today I’ve sketched a dead girl. I have a brain tumour—that must be it. Like in that movie with John Travolta, when he has headaches and sees flashing lights and he turns into a genius and invents life-changing technology and learns a whole new language in a single day. But he dies. A tumour is a distinct possibility—an awful one. I’d rather believe in the possibility of ghosts and possession—but ghosts are high on my family’s list of No Such Things, along with aliens and honest politicians.

  I reach for the drawing, unroll it, and pin down the edges using Mrs Miskov’s tape dispenser and stapler. The charcoal has smudged but the girl’s face is still eerily familiar. She’s unhappy, maybe angry. She has a glint of a challenge in her expression.

  I roll up the sketch and shove it into my bag. It’s mine, regardless of how it came to be.

  I’ll just have to accept my punishment. I close the sketchbook with a slap, and the sound sets off the mannequin’s sudden collapse, like it has no bones.

  On Saturday night, in a desperate attempt to reclaim my old self, I call Kenzie, Pete, Gummer and Amber to tell them we’re crashing Tamara Fraser’s party. Nothing like a prank to make me feel like everything’s right with the world, and Tamara is the worst kind of private school snob. She needs binoculars to bring the view down her nose into focus.

  Gummer’s in. So is Pete, and Amber doesn’t need any convincing. Kenzie and Mitch had plans for a quiet night in—it takes me a few minutes to talk Kenzie into it. She covers her phone but I can hear him: Why do you let her do this? You promised…Tell her we’re busy. Kenzie spits something sharp and he backs off. It’s all I can do not to take a dig at her for letting Mitch murder her mojo, when she says, ‘Sounds like fun,’ and tells me she’s glad I’m feeling better. They’ll meet us there at nine.

  Cody and Dad are working on the car in the shed, and judging by the pop-shhh-tinkle sounds, they’re working their way through a carton of beer. I lock my bedroom door from the inside and leave the TV volume loud enough for them to think I’ve fallen asleep with it on.

  For the first time in ages I let Gummer pick me up. He doesn’t seem his usual level of wasted—at least not until we park at the end of Tamara’s street and he lights up. The house is an elegant two-storey with a miniature replica for a letterbox and a perfect, sloping front lawn. From here, the house twinkles with fairy lights like it’s still Christmas, but there’s nobody out the front. In Swampie terms it’s not a real party unless it spills onto the street.

  I text Amber. She replies to say she’s already here, inside the house, which confirms my suspicion that she was invited. Pete turns up ten minutes later on foot, since his house is only three streets away, and climbs into the back seat. While we wait for Kenzie and Mitch, a nasty feeling is eating away at my insides. Not nerves—something else.

  ‘That lawn is begging for a burnout,’ Pete says.

  Gummer breathes out smoke. ‘Way to announce our arrival, Doughboy.’

  I fan my face. ‘Gummer’s right.’

  Pete says, ‘Someone text Kenzie and Mitch. I need a drink.’

  It’s Kenzie and Mitch now. No more Kenzie and Grace.

  ‘I don’t think they’re coming.’ I get out of the car. ‘Let’s go. First one to puke on the carpet is a legend.’ I’m striding up the driveway, Pete and Gummer close behind.

  Pete’s laughing, asking, ‘What am I if I pee in the pool?’

  Gummer says, ‘Stupid. The water will turn red and everyone will know it’s you.’

  Pete snorts. ‘That’s the whole point, dickhead.’

  Gummer’s comment about the water turning red makes me giggle. I’m thinking three amigos will have to do. Kenzie thinks she’s in lurve. Amber’s always had one foot outside the circle, and Mitch thinks he’s better than the rest of us.

  ‘Guys, I need a diversion,’ I instruct. ‘Get everyone to come out the front. Nothing too destructive. Or self-destructive.’

  We go in through the side gate and follow the music. A wide path winds through a lush tropical garden, leading to a set of steps and a large deck. R&B, lots of bass, seems to be coming from all corners of the backyard. I can’t see any speakers. A couple of Sacred Heart Year Twelve girls are leaning over the railing. They nudge each other and shuffle aside on their heels, leaving the next group to raise the alarm: a circle of nine or ten, boys and girls, sitting under a huge Balinese thatched hut off to one side of the pool.

  ‘Swampies!’

  Gummer peels away left and, as faces turn, he raises his hand and spreads his fingers in a Vulcan greeting. He wanders through the open double doors and into the house, grooving to his own beat, followed by a conga line of concerned citizens. Pete heads straight for the outdoor bar and helps himself to a beer. In the ensuing tussle between him and a Sacred Heart white knight twice his size, a glass shatters on the tiles.

  I skip back down the steps, duck behind a giant palm, and wait.

  ‘Hey.’

  I jump, but it’s only Amber. I grab her elbow and pull her behind the tree. She’s wearing something short, black and slinky, with high heels that make her seem six inches taller. They sink into the soft dirt.

  She slips them off, muttering to herself.

  ‘How come no one yells Swampie when you turn up?’ I say.

  She just smiles. ‘So, spill it. What’s the plan? Just don’t hurt Noah. I need him in one piece.’

  ‘Traitor. You didn’t answer my question. Whose side are you on?’

  ‘My side,’ she says. ‘The trash and trouble side. Let’s face it—they need us and we need them. Otherwise this whol
e town would choke on its own boringness. Plan?’ She snaps her fingers. ‘And where’s Mitch and Kenzie?’

  The buzz in my ears has started up and I feel sick. ‘Tamara Fraser’s swimming pool is far too blue.’ I reach into my pocket.

  ‘Go on,’ she says.

  ‘I have a bottle of Rockin’ Red Party Pool dye.’

  Amber laughs. ‘Welcome back, Grace Foley.’

  ‘Hey, I never left.’ It’s a droning now, like a fever of mosquitos. ‘Can you hear that?’ I slap at my face.

  The music shuts off.

  ‘What? I can’t hear anything. Wait, here comes the cavalry.’

  Pete’s yelling. He’s flanked by two senior guys who have him headlocked as they drag him into the house. I bet Gummer’s somewhere inside, calmly causing chaos. Amber and I wait until everyone follows, leaving the backyard empty, with hardly a sound but the waves slapping against the pool steps.

  She picks up her shoes.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to referee. Someone has to make sure nobody gets hurt.’ She disappears through the doors. All the noise is now coming from the front of the house.

  Every instinct is telling me to get out of there, but Pete and Gummer have kept their end of the bargain—I need to keep mine. It’s been a long time between laughs.

  I swallow the sour burn in my throat, leave the shadows and creep over to the edge of the pool. Despite the warmth of the breeze, the hairs on my arms are standing on end.

  A crackle of static makes me jump. I glance back at the house: every room on the ground floor is flooded with light, but I can’t see anyone inside. The static is coming from the speakers. I see them now, impossibly small, six or so dotted in high corners around the deck, the hut and the bar.

  The pool is long and narrow, a whirlpool of current stirred by a set of swim jets in the shallow end. I unscrew the cap, kneel down, and tip the contents of the bottle of dye into the stream. For a moment I wonder if it’s enough, but the colour hits the current and vibrant red clouds swirl like the blowback of blood into a syringe. Within seconds it settles into an even mix: a brackish purplish red. It’s revolting. It’s beautiful.

  My rules for self-preservation kick in: leave no evidence, exit the scene, tell no one. Bow out before the punchline. I stuff the empty bottle into my pocket and rub my pink-stained hands on my black jeans. Somehow, I’ve managed to spill dye on myself: a mark that looks like skinned flesh covers my forearm and there’s a bloom of red, like a gunshot wound, over my left boob. Swearing, I reach into the pool, rinse my arm and splash water on my chest. The red is spreading now and my palms look as if I’ve committed murder.

  I stand too quickly, sway, and reach for a deck post to support myself. I feel drunk, outside of my body. The bitterness in my mouth is in my veins, too. Staining the pool must have only taken minutes, but it’s as if I’ve been here for hours.

  I stagger to the steps, heading for the path at the side of the house. As I reach the deck, the speakers screech a burst of feedback. The nearest one sparks. I duck and weave, but each time I move, the speakers whine and fizz. I’m desperate to leave, terrified they’ll hear me, and the worst of it is the voice in my head telling me look up, look up, something is coming. I have to leave before they all come back outside, and I have to put distance between myself and whatever is coming before I pass out, throw up, crack up or, God help me, look up.

  My body hums and twangs with vibration. It’s an oddly soothing sensation now. I stop moving. And I look up.

  A black shape hurtles from the darkness. It’s a bird, small and graceful in flight. Just a bird. But the bird swoops at a sudden and horrifying angle, flying straight into the wide glass doors at the rear of the house. The impact is devastating—it drops like a stone. Shock squeezes my chest, but before I can move to pick it up, there are more flutterings, the rustle of many wings.

  Pshoom. Pshoom-pshoom-pshoom. Pshoom-pshoom. Six of them, shooting like black bullets into the pool, leaving plumes of luminous bubbles. When their tiny bodies break the surface, somehow I know they’re dead.

  I’m released by whatever was keeping me still, left alone with shock and confusion and carnage. I crawl up onto the deck and pick up the body of the first bird. It’s broken but still warm.

  But I’m not alone.

  Kenzie’s standing at the side of the house. She’s frozen to the spot, staring, dressed in full prank gear—black T-shirt, black boots and jeans. She might have been late, but up until this moment she was still with me. I imagine what she sees: me, cradling a limp crow, the stained pool, the floating bodies, the crimson puddles on the tiles.

  I drop the bird. I hold out my hands, truly shockingly red palms up, asking her for…help? Understanding? Forgiveness?

  Kenzie shakes her head and turns away. She’s crying. She doesn’t recognise me anymore.

  I don’t blame her for leaving—I know how it must look. And I know that whatever horror I imagined was coming might take the shape of a suicidal bird or a vision, a smudge on a wall, a dog bite, a bad dream or the uncanny likeness of a dead girl, but those things are not its true shape. And it isn’t coming; it was already here.

  Gummer’s driving. It’s Sunday night, just before dark, and Yeoman’s Track is deserted. After the pool prank, Gummer took me home and stayed the night on our couch. I haven’t told him about Kenzie. By his count, we’re tied one-all against Sacred Heart as we head into the school holidays, but at least we’ve clawed back some credibility after losing the pipe record.

  ‘This is a bad idea,’ he says. ‘Why do you want to come back here? Are you challenging?’

  ‘Dad says I am.’

  He snorts. ‘I meant are you challenging Wentz? You’ll need a Heart for an official time.’

  ‘We’re here in an unofficial capacity. I need to know if I’ve lost my nerve.’

  ‘Huh. I’m beginning to question your mental capacity. Pretty sure you’ve lost your mind.’ He makes another snorting sound, drives through the hole in the fence, and skids to a stop near the quarry. He opens the window and sticks his head out, looking up at the darkening sky. And smiles.

  ‘What are you so bloody happy about?’

  ‘I’m thinking if I’m ever going to be abducted by aliens,’ he says, ‘it would be on a night like this. With a lunatic like you.’ He Bluetooths his phone and selects a playlist.

  ‘Gummer?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What did Amber do to you that night of the pipe challenge?’

  He squirms. ‘How do you know anything happened?’

  ‘Because Amber’s Amber. And because you’re squirming.’

  He thinks. Eventually, he says, ‘I don’t know how to explain it. She likes messing with people’s heads. It’s like she’s a kid with a new Nerf gun. She feels compelled to shoot, even though she knows it’ll hurt.’

  ‘Nerf gun?’ I frown. ‘Is that a terrible metaphor for boobs or something?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ He laughs. ‘Let me put it this way—having Amber try out her moves on you is like swimming through a warm patch in a public swimming pool.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s both pleasant and disturbing.’

  I turn away and stare out at the quarry. ‘Don’t you miss the way we all used to be?’

  Gummer shakes his head. ‘Everybody hooks up. Look at Friends. It’s in the script—it’s inevitable.’

  ‘It’s predictable. Wait a minute…you watch Friends?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Sex gets in the way of everything. I want to go back to BMXs and murder in the dark.’ I get out of the car and scuff through the grit to the edge of the gully.

  I’ve been out on the pipe without a spotter before, but I’ve never felt as alone as today. Gummer isn’t the most attentive human being. He’s still sitting in the car, focused on his phone. It takes me ten minutes of playing hokey-pokey before the dust settles and I can muster the gumption to squeeze through t
he grille. Now that I’ve looked down, it’s like I can’t not look down. All I can think about is the drop, while Gummer’s music rattles my brain like the soundtrack to a slasher movie: My Bloody Valentine, Megadeth, Slayer. For a pacifist, he sure listens to some violent stuff.

  I sit down, straddling the pipe. The concrete’s still warm. There isn’t a breath of wind. A sheep’s skeleton is draped over the rocks below, covered with a dirty blanket of shrivelled skin and fleece, and the sinking sun throws a pale orange light. I’m wasting time—daylight means protection. Everyone knows that.

  I inch along, working my way to the middle of the pipe, scanning the words of graffiti that might have been there for five minutes or thirty years. About fifteen metres along—I might have missed it if I didn’t lean forward and run my eye along the side of the pipe—I find a tiny black bird, sitting on a power line. It’s scratched and faded to grey. Once, it might have been black.

  Hannah Holt.

  Try not to think something and you can’t help but think it; the mind is tricky like that. On the left-hand side under my knee, another bird, this time shooting forwards in flight. And two more, just centimetres away from each other, beaks open.

  Hannah Holt.

  Three metres further, two more birds. They’re falling, tangled together.

  Hannah Holt.

  Finally, here’s the word in looping scribble—and the last lonely bird. I whisper her name, seven times for seven crows.

  I start to cry.

  Seven for a secret never to be told.

  I’m crying for somebody I never knew. I’m crying for the mother I lost and for the friends I don’t understand anymore, for the funny girl I used to be. But mostly I’m crying with relief, because the fragile possibility of ghosts means everything.

  If I can feel the unquiet spirit of a long-dead girl, maybe my mother is still here, somewhere. Maybe she can hear me.

  ‘Kenz, don’t hang up! Please let me explain.’

  The sixth time I called, Kenzie finally answered. I’m in my bathroom with the bright white tiles, sitting in the bathtub. All of the upstairs lights are switched on, so I can see anything coming.