A Little Crushed (4 page)

“How?” Max, although fascinated, remained dubious. His brain conjured up an image of the waif-like girl with the mass of rich brown hair. “Rebecca is so slight, hardly a power house. How can the police be sure she did it?”

“She’d gouged out his eyes.” Fiona poured herself a refill, her tone almost victorious. “She blinded the bastard, and then she bashed his head to a pulp. The detective said his face was nigh on unrecognizable. He must have fallen on her, and she banged her head on a rock. The police found the lump of wood she used still in her hand. His skin was under her fingernails. The forensic team was in no doubt Rebecca killed him. The exactly
how
is what we don’t know.”

“Does Rebecca’s story corroborate the police theory?” Max pushed his plate to one side, appetite long gone. The thought of what the poor girl must have suffered made him sick.

“That’s just it. She doesn’t have a story.” Tom stood and crossed to a small glass drinks cabinet behind the sofa. “Rebecca was in a coma for weeks. Not because of the blow to her head, but most likely, the specialists said, because her brain went into defense mode. Better to shut down than face reality.”

“But now? Surely…”

“She remembers nothing, Max.” Tom handed him a tumbler of his best single malt. “At least not enough to fill in the gaps. From the time she set off into the woods alone to when she finally woke in the hospital, her mind remains blank. Again, the psychiatrist appointed to her case says it’s a self-preservation thing. In her sub-conscious, Rebecca has chosen not to remember. But he says one day she will need to deal with it. Memory loss is common amongst victims of abuse or trauma, but at some point…well who knows?”

“I can’t blame Rebecca for wanting to forget.” Max sipped at his whisky. He needed it more than beer. “It’s so hard to fathom, like something plucked straight from the pages of a Patterson novel.” He groaned. “All those things I said to her…”

“You weren’t to know.” Fiona patted his hand. “No one does. Her father wants it kept in the past. He disagrees with her doctors. He sees no need for his daughter to relive the nightmare. To be honest, I think I agree with him.”

Max placed the half-empty glass on the table. He no longer wanted a drink. His mouth tasted sour. “So now what do I do?”

Tom blew out a low whistle. “You do nothing. Look, I didn’t tell you this to imply Rebecca does not have to follow rules. It’s more of a heads up. A way of telling you, however abrupt, and yes, sometimes arrogant she gets, you mustn’t take it personally. She has encased herself is this armadillo shell, but it isn’t the real Rebecca.”

“Point taken. Still, I wish I hadn’t gone in with all guns blazing.” Running fingers through his hair, he stood. “I best be going.”

“Stay awhile.”

Fiona said the generous words, but her expression spoke the truth. She was not comfortable with his being in town. He couldn’t blame her; he hadn’t treated her well.

“Thanks.” He gave her a swift peck on the cheek—brotherly, but her tension transferred to him. “I’ll pass. Some quiet solitude is what I need after the day I’ve had. Besides, I’ve got a pile of year nine marking to wade through. Tell me, just out of interest, spelling is still taught in this God-forsaken country of yours, isn’t it?”

“Naw. We abolished it. Politically incorrect, you know.”

Max shook his head; it was another leg-pull. It had to be.

* * * *

“And just why is it we are going to the library instead of Shakes?”

“Oh come on, Em, even
you
can’t be that dense. Do you honestly think I’m going to write out all those lines? I’ll do one page and photocopy it. He’ll never know.”

“I don’t know…” Emma puffed, jogging to keep up. “He seems pretty much on the ball to me.”

“Rubbish. He’s just flexing muscle for show.”

“And what muscle it is.” Emma sighed. “Oh, how my young heart is newly captivated. Still, I don’t think I’d like to cross him. He looks as if he has a wicked temper. All fiery and sexy.” She giggled. “However, I would sit on his face.”

Rebecca stopped walking. “Emma Brown, first off, that is so gross, and second, don’t you dare fancy him. That man is the enemy, and don’t you forget it.”

“You are such a fascist. I can fancy who I like. Look, it’s him.” Emma waved as a sleek, black BMW convertible purred past. “Wow, nice car. Teachers are obviously onto a good thing, unless he is secret Mafia, of course. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“That
car
says it all,” Rebecca snapped. “You’re pathetic. I’m going, and don’t bother calling me.”

An hour on, Rebecca’s pique had dissolved into an all-too familiar cloud of depression. She hated fighting with Emma, but lately she couldn’t seem to control her temper. Rubbing at the increasing throb at her temples, she fixed her face into the well rehearsed
, hey I’m okay, folks
smile and walked into the kitchen.

Her father, for once home early, sat at the island, probably doing Jack’s maths homework, while her mother stood at the new, state-of-the-art range, creating, Rebecca hoped, a reasonably edible dinner. What her mum lacked in culinary talent, she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

Avoiding her father’s probing stare, Rebecca feigned casual and opened the fridge.

“Good day at school?”

Cursing her sister’s penchant for spiteful gossip, Rebecca closed her eyes and counted to ten.
One...two…
“Okay, here’s what happened—although I am sure Vicky spared you no details.” Fixing her gloating sibling with her best ‘manic inmate’ stare, she lobbed the juice cartoon at her sister’s freshly straightened locks.

 Vicky’s shriek sent Wally running for cover. “Oops, silly me. I thought it was empty.”

 With rivulets of orange juice running down her face, Vicky leaped from her chair and ran from the room.

 “Oh, Rebecca.”

 Her mother’s pained sigh set Rebecca’s frustration close to danger level. She’d much prefer it if her parents raged at her.

 “So let’s have it.” Arms folded behind his head, her father leaned back, Jack’s homework forgotten.

 “What?” Swiveling a chair around, Rebecca mounted it, cowboy saloon style. She knew her lack of femininity annoyed her mum. She dragged the bowl of cake mix across the oak refectory table and stuck in her finger. More disapproving glares. “Don’t you trust Vicky’s mole? I am sure David Keeley took great pleasure in recanting my demise to his snot-nosed bitch of a sister. I don’t know why you let Vicky hang around with her, Dad. She’s a total retard. You know she shop-lifts—”

 “Don’t change the subject.” Reaching over, her father caught her hand. “Tell me what happened. If this teacher is giving you a hard time, I want to know about it. I will sort it. You don’t need the str—”

 “Oh, for goodness sake.” Rebecca jumped up, unwelcome tears welling in her eyes. “Why don’t you all get it? I don’t need this constant mollycoddling and pussy footing around me. I don’t need you to fight my battles. I never did. Why does everything have to be different all because of the ‘accident’?” She hooked her fingers in mock quotations. “I am so tired of the ‘accident.’ I got over it. Why can’t you?” Stooping to grab her bag from the floor where she’d dumped it, she whistled for Wally and stormed from the room.

 Upstairs, Rebecca threw her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed. Wally landed on her stomach with a thump.

 “You’d bite Mr. Jackson if you met him, wouldn’t you?” She fondled his silky ears. “You’d rip him to shreds.”

 Wally regarded his mistress with sad, drooping eyes. They both knew the only thing he’d ever bitten with any measure of success was his own tail.

 “Ah well…” Rebecca clasped her hands behind her head and continued the conversation with her captive audience. “What an interesting start to the term. I’ve managed to alienate the new teacher, piss off mum and dad, and fall out with Emma.”

 As if on cue, her mobile went off. Wally broke into a Hound of the Baskerville howl and covered his ears with his paws. How he hated that sound. Rebecca didn’t blame him. Jack had sneakily taken her phone and programmed in a ringtone of some hip-hop garbage. The problem was Rebecca wasn’t techno savvy enough to know how to fix it. She retrieved her mobile from under the pillow.

 “I promise I won’t fancy Mr. Jackson,” Emma pleaded. “Am I forgiven?”

 Rebecca rubbed at her nose. She knew it upset Emma when they argued.

 “I forgive you.” She didn’t really.

 “I don’t fancy him.” Emma rushed to convince her. “Honest.”

 “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Have you started his stupid essay yet? No? Not to worry. You can copy mine tomorrow.”

 “Oh, thanks.” Emma gushed relief. “You’re a real pal. Just out of interest though. How tall would you say he is? Six-foot-one, six-two?”

 Rebecca threw the phone across the bed in disgust. She was going have to do something about Emma. What had happened to their ‘no-boyfriends-before-we’re-twenty’ pact? Rebecca blamed
Twilight
. All this romance twaddle was just not healthy. Emma could not fathom how she did not find Edward Cullen hot. Rebecca blew a scornful raspberry onto Wally’s head. He grunted his accord. “What’s so hot about a guy who can’t eat and glitters in daylight?”

 Again Wally agreed. Rebecca’s smile turned to a frown as the too-familiar nausea rippled in her gut. The thought of coming up close and personal with any male set her heart racing. Picking up her jotter, she gripped it tight and tried to focus on the essay title Aussie Ausbore had set the class.
Aussie Ausbore
. She giggled. “God, but I’m a wit, Wally. Pretty good even if I say so myself.” The nausea dissipated, and the clammy feeling left her body. Good. She was in control again.

 Rummaging in her bag, she extracted a pen, and crossing her legs, she began to write. Her essay would be such an effort of such outstanding genius his green eyes would widen with awe.
Green eyes
? She stopped writing. Now where had that come from? She expelled a huge sigh and threw down her pen. The essay could wait. Dragging a by now semi-comatose Wally up on to her chest, Rebecca thought about the teacher. No—she shivered. She wouldn’t think about him. Thinking about him made her uneasy. She’d focus on planning revenge on Vicky. No she wouldn’t. Rebecca rubbed at her brow. She was tired; too tired to think about Vicky. Her silly sister wasn’t worth the energy. It was no good. She had to get the stupid essay done. Shaking her head, she retrieved her pen from beneath Wally’s too-large bum. She really was going to have to walk him more.

 * * * *

 She ran; ran so hard the sound of her own breathing hammered against her skull. Her heart raced. A tight band clawed at her chest, the pain excruciating, but she couldn’t stop. To do so would be to die. Low-hung branches scratched and whipped her face. She wiped her cheeks, feeling the warm stickiness, knowing it was blood, her blood. Feet tangled in hidden roots, and she tumbled to her knees. Panic caused bile to rise into her dry, raw throat. “No,” she moaned. “I have to keep going.” Drawing on every last vestige of strength left in her battered body, she stumbled to her feet. He drew closer. She heard his heavy lop-sided gait as he crashed through the trees. His foul, enraged curses carried through the still of the night, searing her ears and chilling her to the core. “No, please. Daddy, where are you?” Her dry sobs were futile, she knew. She was on her own. No one was coming to save her. He was closing in. His acrid stench filled her nostrils, and she whimpered. Down she went again, knees connecting with a sharp stone, cutting into already too abused flesh. Her skin crawled as her pursuer curled a calloused hand around her neck. “Not so fast, you bitch…”

 Rebecca shot up in bed. Hand shaking, she found the lamp switch, and the room flooded with welcome, warm apricot. Whimpering his own fears, Wally shuffled onto her lap and licked the tears from her cheeks. “It’s okay, Wally,” she whispered, fondling her loyal friend’s silk ears. “He didn’t get me. He didn’t get me.” Clutching the dog to her damp, sweat soaked body, she wept into his coat. “You won’t tell, will you? No, I know you won’t. You understand. Best they believe what they want. I don’t have to remember, do I?” She turned off the light, and she lay, mentally exhausted, back down against the pillows. She was safe. She only dreamed the dream once a night. For now, it was over. She closed her eyes.

This time she didn’t run. She couldn’t any more. Her legs held no strength, her lungs empty of oxygen. Blood covered her hands, smeared her torn and dirty T-shirt. Head bent to her knees, she curled into a foetal ball. She cried again, but this time her tears were for her father. He wasn’t coming. No one was.

“Rebecca.”

 Head raised, she squinted through the threatening dark. A silhouette, tall, upright, stepped out from the shadows, whispers of ethereal moonlight dancing on his smooth, strong face. He held out a hand. “Rebecca, it’s okay. I have come for you. You’re safe now.” Warmth thawed her frozen soul. She believed him. She trusted him. His gentle tone held compassion; love. He would protect her…with his own life, if need be.

 “Daddy.” Tentatively, she reached for his outstretched fingers. They entwined with hers. His touch calmed her. Everything was going to be all right. “Daddy...hold me.”

Strong warm arms scooped her up and held her close in their protective folds. “Shh...don’t cry, honey. I am here. I will always be here. No one will ever hurt you again. I would rather die than let that happen.”

 Breathing in the warm scent of him, Rebecca closed her eyes and let his words lull her to sleep. Cool lips brushed against her cheek. Her eyes flew open. Raising her head, she stared into eyes the colour of sea-green…

 
Rebecca woke with a start. Fingers twisted in sheet folds, she pulled it over her head. My God—what was wrong with her?

 * * * *

As he turned up the heating, Max decided the Brits were bloody mad. Fifteen degrees and out came the T-shirts. He was so cold he was sure his nuts had shriveled to the size of marbles.

 He went to the fridge. Not good. An unhealthy looking slice of last night’s pizza lay curled up, still in its carton, sharing shelf space with—naturally—six cans of Aussiland’s finest. He firmly believed in boosting his homeland’s economy. Oh well, better than nothing. He grabbed a tin. His first day on the job, and he was ready for the teachers’ retirement home.