‘…find me.’ I finish your sentence.
When you open your eyes, the pupils aren’t as huge as before, and your eyes are still blue as summer skies, so much deeper and wider than Nick’s. Whatever power I thought I had a moment ago evaporates in the heat of the car.
‘Open the door, let me go,’ you say. ‘Don’t follow.’
I shake my head. I’m not letting you go anywhere.
‘Whatever you think you’re doing, Gem’—I flinch at your abbreviation of my dead name—‘you know it’s stupid for us both.’
Your voice is slow and lazy. You smile, just a little. Do you think you’re back in charge, back controlling me?
‘No,’ I say. ‘This time you listen to me.’
Your mouth hardens, but before you can wrench free, I reach down to the footwell and grab the shiny silver iron from the department store. Your eyes widen.
‘What the fuck?’ you yell, struggling to push me off.
I slam it into your head fast, once, twice, until you crumple back against the seat. I gasp at the sudden blood on my trembling hands, on you. But you’re quiet again, eyes closed, compliant. Now we can get on with things. Now it’s my turn.
Still shaking, I squeeze into the front seat and drop behind the steering wheel, my hands sticky with your blood as I try to insert the key in the ignition. Thank God there is still nobody else in the side street. Only us. I start the car and drive. I don’t want to turn around yet, don’t want to look at you, at what I’ve done.
I watch the car from above, seeing it weave through the city streets, marvelling at how it signals and changes lanes. I’ve no idea how I’m managing to drive, or where I’m going, but somehow, we’re moving forward. All I know is that I can’t take you to my hotel room like this.
The pounding in my ears is deafening as I remember how I hurt Nick, and as I realise what I’ve just done to you is so much worse. I am so much worse. But you deserve this. You were going to do it again. I am a vigilante. I make myself say the words out loud, say them to you in the back seat, even when there’s no response.
Eventually, I screech into an empty car park somewhere to the north of Fremantle, familiar somehow. And then I realise: it’s the place where I got your suit. Your suit? I almost laugh. What the fuck was I thinking? That I’d pick you up, you’d change into the suit and we’d go for dinner on the beachfront, as if the past ten years never happened, as if you never did what you did?
I breathe into my spine and pull off my hoodie. I need to get a grip.
You still haven’t moved. I lean over and check your pulse, my hands shaking so much I can’t keep my fingers steady againstyour neck. I take off my seatbelt and come closer, holding my hand above your mouth.
A breath. You must be concussed, that’s all.
I rest my fingers on your arm. You’re warm. I want to clean your face, make you better, cut your hair and shave off the rest of your beard.
I am crazy.
Rhiannon told me to bring you back into my life, invite you in, see where it takes me. And where is that? A dead-end car park beside the Swan River. Perhaps I should haul you from the car and tip you in? Could it be that easy?
My vision is blurring, and I have to shut my eyes until I’m steady again. What am I doing? I should be taking you to the hospital, not to the hotel, not into the river. I should be turning myself in.
I take a deep breath. I won’t do any of that.
I know where to take you; I know what I have to do.
I crush one of Mum’s sleeping pills with the small knife and dissolve it in a bottle of water—ready for later. I cover you with the soft rug from the department store, check my face in the rear-view mirror for blood, and then I start driving again.
I need to put distance between you and the schoolgirl, between you and the woman in Banksia Drive, between us and the city. We should hole up somewhere, wait until it gets dark, but what if you wake up and start struggling? I can’t risk that while we’re still in the city. I could tie you up, tape up your mouth or put you in the boot, like you did once with me. But I can’t carry you to the boot by myself, and I can’t exactly ask someone for help. What would I say?We were out drunk, celebrating. He had a little too much.It’s easier to get away withkidnapping when you are a man, not a woman.
Kidnapping.I say it out loud.
Because this is what I’m doing, isn’t it? I’m you now. But I’ll finish the job; I’ll do it better.
The tears come so gently that I don’t realise I’m crying at first. It’s only when I’m gasping for air and can’t drive straight that I’m aware of my wet cheeks. I remind myself of the schoolgirl in the park, of how you looked at her, how you followed her, of what you could do, of what you did to me. I tell myself that I’m preventing that schoolgirl from being damaged, like I’ve been all these years. I’m saving her. Maybe I’m saving that woman in 31 Banksia Drive from you too. I glance at your backpack in the footwell, wondering again what’s in it. Is it possible you weren’t planning to return to her at all?
You make a soft, gurgling sound, and I lean back and touch your boiling skin. I pull over under the shade of some massive she-oaks and sob. I’m making enough noise to wake you, and yet you’re motionless. I don’t know what to do. It’s already the afternoon and I’m out of the city now; the roads are emptier. I take a sip from a fresh water bottle, then crawl into the back seat with the bottle I prepared for you earlier. You must need fluids. I push your shoulder, but you still don’t wake up. You’re breathing harder now, hot, sticky breath on the back of my hand.
‘Come on, Ty.’