Darkest Place (15 page)

‘e-Greeting cards,' Dakota said, looking up from her list.

Carly shook her head. ‘Something in e-publishing.'

‘Such as?'

‘I don't know, but you read and you're good on the computer, you could put them together.'

‘That's specific.'

‘It's brainstorming, not a recipe.'

Carly grinned. ‘We should get back to class.'

Dakota tucked the page into her pocket. ‘So you found your watch?'

‘In the cutlery drawer.' Carly rolled her eyes as she dropped their coffee cups in a bin.

‘I've started on Round Two, by the way,' Dakota said.

‘Round Two?'

‘The “Anything Carly Showed Interest In” list. We can start culling that when I cut your hair.'

Carly ran a hand over her ponytail. ‘Won't you need to concentrate?'

‘Nah, if I make a mistake, I'll just cut more off. You'll look good with short spikes. Just kidding.'

 

Carly turned to see what the commotion was about at the other checkout. The owner of the little supermarket in Baxter Street was towering over a woman who was bustling and huffing to get around him.

Oh dear. It was Christina.

Carly watched for a moment, catching a few words: ‘I did not,' from Christina, ‘… haven't paid,' from the owner. Christina was shoplifting? Then the scuffle was over, and as Carly paid she saw Christina leaving, weaving a little, bumping into the automatic door as she passed through. Christina was drunk and shoplifting?

Outside, the afternoon air was cold enough to steam Carly's breath. Christina was leaning against a parked car, a hand to her forehead, getting wet in the rain. Maybe she was sick.

‘Christina?'

The woman looked up and flushed. ‘Oh god, oh damn. I'm so embarrassed.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm mortified. That man thought I was stealing rolled oats. Who steals rolled oats?'

‘You're in the rain, Christina. Come and sit down.' Carly took her elbow and steered her to a seat outside the pharmacy. She didn't smell of alcohol but she was unsteady and loose. ‘Do you feel all right? You seem … not quite yourself.'

‘Bernard's away. That's what's wrong.'

She needed a carer? ‘Does Bernard usually do your shopping?'

Catching her breath, pulling herself together, Christina laughed a little. ‘No, he's a milk and bread man only. It's just, well, I get muddle-headed when he's not around. Never tried to steal anything. He won't be happy if he finds out.'

‘He'll be mad at you for that?'

‘Not cross. He worries about me. Ever since that business with the farm. He knows I don't sleep well when he's gone. That's what this silly thing with the oats is about. It makes me dreadfully off the air.' She shook her head like she was shaking out the cobwebs.

So Bernard was her husband and maybe she took sleeping pills when he was away – maybe one too many this time. ‘You want to share my umbrella on the way back?'

Christina patted at her shopping bags. ‘I had one. Somewhere. If you don't mind.'

She bumped and bounced off Carly as they crossed the road, Carly eventually linking an arm through Christina's and holding her close.

‘Is it nightmares?' Carly asked, thinking about the violent robbery at Christina's farm.

‘Yes and no. All part of that nasty post-traumatic thing they said I had. Just a lot of trouble sleeping when I'm alone, really.'

It didn't sound like sleep paralysis but it felt like company. ‘Do you worry about security in the building?'

‘No, no. The security is excellent. Oh, except for that recent incident, you poor thing.'

‘The police said there'd been other break-ins. A year or so ago.'

‘Oh, yes, and that. I'd forgotten about that.'

Possibly Christina didn't need to be reminded if Bernard was still away, but the police had told Carly next
to nothing, and if the hand on her throat was … ‘Do you know what happened?'

‘There were two or three, from memory,' Christina started as they made their way arm in arm towards the warehouse. ‘In about just about the same number of weeks. Phillipa Bakewell was the first, I think, and Tobias on the second floor. Yes, and Lola Matthews, which was a little awkward, as it turned out, because her husband had left her for another woman and she'd been keeping it a secret. Hoping he'd come back, I heard, which didn't eventuate. Their apartment went on the market quick smart after that.'

‘They were robbed?'

‘Oh yes, I think so.'

‘At night?'

‘That's right, now I remember. Tobias saw someone in his apartment, and after it happened again to poor Lola the security doors were adjusted so they'd close without having to be pushed.' Christina stopped at the entrance to the warehouse, at the bottom of the stairs opposite said security doors. ‘I could do with a push myself today,' she puffed. ‘You go on ahead, if you like. I'll be out of the rain from here.'

‘No, I'll wait. Make sure you get up the stairs,' Carly smiled like she was joking.

Christina took a couple of deep breaths and hauled herself up and through the doors. ‘Now that I'm thinking about it,' she said as they crossed the foyer. ‘There was that other woman a few years ago who made a big fuss about security. What was her name?'

‘What was the fuss?'

‘Something about an ex-husband. Oh yes, Maggie something, east wall, I think. She said her ex had got into her apartment one night and, well, I don't know. He scared
her, that's for sure. Probably why she left him. She didn't stay long after that. Lost a fair bit of money on the rent she'd paid in advance, I heard.'

Carly hit level five in the lift.

‘You don't need to come up with me, Carly. I'll be fine from here.'

‘Are you sure? I don't mind.'

‘The cold and the rain and a nice chat and I'm feeling a bit less muddle-headed.' Christina pulled a face. ‘Still mortified, of course.'

‘No need.' Carly stepped out on her floor. ‘Let me know if you need a hand with shopping while Bernard's away.'

‘Thank you, Carly. I'm sure I'll be fine.'

Personal shopper
, Carly thought as the cab closed. There were enough residents in the warehouse to keep her in work.

She locked her door, hooked up the chain and walked through the apartment, thinking about the other break-ins. Christina's version wasn't the eight or nine over six years that Anne Long had mentioned. Maybe Anne was being casual with the numbers, maybe there were others that Christina didn't know about.

Maybe they had no relevance to Carly's ‘intruder'.

The only relevance was that Christina had reminded Carly what could happen if she didn't get some decent sleep. She made a cup of the chamomile tea she'd been drinking. Had another after dinner, then got on the floor for some stretching and deep breathing before bed. She kept the lights low as she undressed and cleaned her teeth, slipped under the doona and told her subconscious to relax.

 

Carly lurched forward, down. The stairs shuddered. She slammed into the wall, hit the handrail, missed a tread.
Grappling as she fell, slowing herself, she slipped and tumbled until the floor hit her in the back like a thwack from a cricket bat.

She lay for a moment, one foot in the air, the ankle wedged between two steps.
Brooke
, she thought, taking half a second to assess for pain before yanking her leg out and scuttling away on hands and knees. She was around the corner into the mouth of the hallway before she remembered.

Sleep paralysis, Carly.

Knees to her chest, sweat hot in her hair, she touched her cheek, her ear, her throat.
Was it?

She reached for the switches above her head, squinting as the hallway and living room filled with light, flicking her gaze around the walls, the stairs, the loft. She was alone. Like every other time. Terrified and sobbing and doing it to herself. What more evidence did she need?

Pushing to her feet, she pitched left and right down the hall as she stumbled towards the front door, sinking to the floor again. The same place she'd ended up every other time, comfort in the tight, familiar corner.

Sounds in the corridor froze her sobs. Footsteps. Approaching, retreating, coming back. Then a tap on the door.

‘Carly? It's Nate.' His voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I heard noises from your apartment.'

She wiped her tears with the heel of a hand, didn't answer.

‘I know you're on the other side of the door, Carly.'

She didn't want to talk to him. Didn't want comfort. She wanted the night to end and the day to start, to be outside and walking and past it all.

‘Let me help, Carly.'

She remembered his words the night he bought the Indian takeaway, before she tried to kiss him.
I don't want to sit in there doing nothing if there's something I can do to help
. There was nothing he could do to help. It was all in her head and she didn't want him to know what was wrong with her.

‘I'm okay.' The tremor in her words made it a lie.

The next time he spoke, he sounded as though the door was all that separated their faces. ‘I thought you fell. More than once. Are you hurt?'

Injured, no. Aching, everywhere. She spread her hands, saw half-moons carved into her palms from her nails. ‘No.'

‘Are you alone?'

Was he thinking intruder or a one-night stand that got out of hand? ‘Yes.'

‘I'm right here, Carly.'

She could almost feel him. And she wished he'd go away so she could wait out the night in her hallway corner. Alone, the way she'd done it for years. ‘You don't need to be. It's the middle of the night. Go home, Nate.'

‘No questions. Like I said.'

He'd told her it didn't matter what she'd done. But it mattered to her – that he wanted to help someone in need and she was only scared of the dark. That he was brave and she was broken. ‘Go home, Nate. Please.'

‘I don't want to sit in there with you here like this.'

His frustration lit a spark. She fired words back, glad to feel something other than misery. ‘It's none of your damn business.'

‘Carly …'

‘Go away and leave me the hell alone!'

Stuart was behind the dispensary counter in the pharmacy. It made Carly falter. She was buying sleeping pills – she didn't want a discussion about the medication and the dates and the doctor who'd written the script. But she had to get to class and she couldn't do the terrified stumble down the hall again. She needed to sleep tonight.

She stood at the counter for a minute before he pulled his eyes from the computer screen. ‘Can I help you?'

She waited a beat. ‘Carly. From the warehouse.'

A small shake of his head. ‘Of course.'

He took a moment to read the script, looked up at her as though he was making his own assessment. She found a brochure on the counter to study.

‘Carly is short for Charlotte,' he said.

‘Yes.'

‘You're not from around here.'

‘No.'

He squinted at the script. ‘Burden.'

‘Yes.'

‘North-west, isn't it? Past Tamworth.'

Okay, he got a point for that. ‘Most people have never heard of it.'

‘I guess I'm not most people.'

That's for sure.
‘I'm a little short on time. How long will it take?'

He nodded as though she'd asked for advice. ‘Have you had this medication before?'

‘Yes.'

‘I notice the script was written several months ago. Have you started any other medication in that time?'

‘No.'

‘You should check the contraindications if you do. Even if it's a herbal supplement.'

‘Okay.' She checked her watch, hoped it would prompt him.

‘Do you have any other questions before you start on it again?'

She hadn't asked any to start with. ‘No.'

‘You can come back and ask anytime.'

For god's sake.
‘Thanks.'

He straightened and smiled as though his job was done. ‘It'll be about ten minutes. I noticed you looking at the vitamins. Do you need some advice while you wait?'

She held up a hand. ‘No, really. I'll just have a wander.'

 

‘The courtyard?' Carly tipped her head towards the area beyond the campus cafe.

Dakota pulled a face. ‘It's friggin' freezing outside.'

‘It's not that bad, and I've got gloves if your delicate constitution can't handle it.' Carly picked up their coffees and started walking.

‘My delicate constitution could do with a blanket and a gas heater.'

Carly needed the cold to fight the post–sleep paralysis aches and tiredness. Dakota zipped her jacket to the throat and wound her scarf around her throat until she looked like she was wearing a neck brace.

‘Hand over the gloves.'

It was Newcastle, never as cold as Burden, but Carly found the gloves in her bag, feeling a little guilty she was subjecting Dakota to it.

‘Did you mention why we're out here?' Dakota cupped the gloves around her cappuccino.

‘I needed something to wake me up. I couldn't keep my eyes open in that last class.'

‘You should've said. I could've slapped you. It would've been warmer.'

Carly grinned. ‘I'll remember that next time.'

‘You look a bit shit today, if you don't mind me saying.'

‘I do mind. I'll have my gloves back now.'

‘Is it the sleep thing again?'

Carly hesitated. ‘Sleep thing?'

‘A while ago, you weren't sleeping. I wondered if it was that again.'

A shrug. ‘It comes and goes.'

Dakota scooped foam from the top of her cup. ‘How does it work? You don't sleep at all? You wake up and stare at the ceiling for hours? Walk the floor? Read until your eyes hang out?'

Carly didn't want to think about it. ‘A bit of all of that.'

‘Not much fun.' It sounded like a throwaway line but Dakota reached out and laid her hand on Carly's arm.

It surprised her, made her think about telling Dakota about the sleep paralysis. She just wasn't sure her easygoing
twenty-year-old attitude would make her feel any better. ‘I have … nightmares. I don't sleep afterwards.'

‘Not fun at all.' Dakota gave Carly's wrist a comforting squeeze, must have felt her watch underneath. ‘How's our time?'

It would be nice to dismiss the subject so easily, Carly thought as she hitched her sleeve. ‘Another five before we need to start walking.' The chill air felt good on her hot skin so she pushed up the other sleeve, hoping a few goosebumps might help her energy levels.

‘Hey.' Dakota pulled the arm to the table.

There were four dark ovals on the pale flesh above her wrist. Companions for the ones on her knees and shins and the green one brewing on her hip that she could feel through her jeans. ‘Bruises.'

‘Well, yeah. What did you do?'

Bounced off the steps and the floor. She looked at her other arm, at the long, thin bruise that seemed to grow from her watch – that one had got stuck in the rails. ‘I slipped on my stairs.'

‘Ow.' Dakota ran fingertips across the four ovals. ‘Did someone grab you?'

‘What do you mean?'

Dakota spread her hand on Carly's forearm, the pads of her fingers finding the four marks as though they were a guide. ‘My brother used to give me bruises like that with a Chinese burn.'

Something snaked along Carly's spine.
A dream, not real … A dream, not real …
But the warmth of Dakota's palm reminded her of another hand, gripping hard, holding her down. She snatched her arm back, rubbing the sensation away.

‘What?' Dakota asked.

‘Nothing. I …' Carly pushed at her sleeves, covering the marks like they were shameful. ‘I …' She'd fallen down stairs, crawled around like a baby. Any number of things could've put those smudges there. ‘We should go now. Keep the gloves, you can give them to me later. Tomorrow, whenever.'

Dakota hooked her bag over a shoulder. ‘You okay?'

‘Yeah, sure. Let's go.'

 

Carly stood at the bottom of the stairs eyeing the railing that ran to the loft. Stainless steel, the top bar a circular tube, vertical bars underneath like the rungs of a ladder. They were wide enough for a fist to pass through, close enough to stop a kid getting its head stuck. Last night, they'd stopped her from falling into the kitchen below.

She looked again at the dark ovals on the inside of her arm, held her forearm to the railing, comparing the struts and bruises. She sat on the steps and moved her arm about, trying to find an angle that would explain them. She walked to the top and looked down. It must have happened on the stairs, she'd bounced like a pinball.

Maybe the four bruises were from more than one bump. She mimed slipping and twisting and thwacking the handrail so that her forearm hit several times but it didn't feel like it had last night.

Studying the marks again, she glanced around for something else with knobs or protrusions – but it was a staircase, just steps and railing.

She'd tumbled and lurched about, there was no accounting for bruises sometimes, she told herself. She gave her arm a brisk scrub like the lesson was done and she could rub it out now. Sleep paralysis, she recited. Classic indicators:
sense of menace, weight on the chest, choking sensation. She lifted her forearm, touched her fingers to the ovals, aligning the tips to the marks.

‘Fuck.' Fuck,
fuck
.

Then she was on her feet again, checking the deadlock, the chain, and across the room to the French windows. The doors were locked. They were locked this morning. They'd been locked every damn time.
Sleep paralysis, Carly.
Awake and asleep at the same time. Scaring the shit out of herself. She must have done it to herself, then. Right? Frightened, panicking, standing at the windows and holding herself so tightly she bruised her own arm. It had to be that.

But what she remembered was the weight of a man on her body, his breath on her face, his hands pinning her down.

 

An edgy uncertainty hummed inside as Carly stood to one side of the French windows once again. Not thinking about the bruises now, exhausted by the round and round of theories and possibilities. By sleeplessness and dragging fatigue.

She watched lights come on in the neighbourhood, traffic and pedestrians until they thinned to a trickle. Through windows, a woman stirred at a stove, a man drank beer in front of the TV, a teenager had her feet on the desk and a keyboard in her lap. Carly thought about the sleeping pills on her counter, undecided – about holding them in her hand, about bruises she couldn't explain, about whether sleeping through the night was safer than waking.

A figure in the street made her lift her chin for a better look. Shoulders hunched in a jacket, slight hitch to his
gait. Nate. A twinge of guilt as she remembered his voice on the other side of the door – and her own,
Leave me the hell alone
.

He was moving awkwardly, and not just from his bad knee. The pub he hadn't recommended was around that corner, perhaps he'd had a few. He held a palm to his forehead for a moment, staggering a little. Maybe he'd been drinking for a while. Then he turned to cross the road and she saw blood on his face.

Swinging the balcony door open, she watched from the railing as he stumbled down the kerb, a hand grazing the tarmac as he struggled to stay on his feet. She was four floors up, a shout wouldn't help, so she waited to see where he went. When he'd disappeared into the warehouse entrance, she grabbed a towel and headed for the door.

She'd never seen him in the lift but she stood at the doors, figuring he wouldn't take the stairs if he couldn't cross the road without falling. Except there were no sounds from the cogs. Leaning out into the atrium, she searched the foyer below. If he was there, he wasn't making any noise.

She made plenty hammering down the stairs, hurling herself around the turns, then pulling up suddenly at the bottom, a prickle of nerves across her shoulders as she remembered the bruises on her arm.

The forest of columns was eerie in the gloom, and deserted. ‘Nate?' Her voice bounced softly around the hollow centre of the building. There was only silence in its wake. Moving quickly, quietly, she headed for the security doors, saw him under the light in the entry bay – on the ground, slumped against the wall.