Darkest Place (21 page)

Nate stayed with her through the early hours of the morning doing little more than watch her as she paced the floor, hobbling and agitated and frightened. She didn't care, it didn't matter – because she
knew
.

Someone had been there. Someone had almost choked her. Someone had slammed her into the chest of drawers. And the knowledge was like freefall – exhilarating and terrifying. It wasn't her, she didn't need a psychiatric ward, she wasn't fucked up, someone else was. A man who knew her name, who'd had his hands on her, who was amused by her fear. Who could get into her apartment.

Was it Nate? She didn't think so. Not now. The image of him had been in her mind. And yet, when he tried to put his arms around her, she shoved him away and scuttled out of reach. She didn't know why, didn't try to understand it, just kept up the pacing, giving the anxious, edgy energy an outlet so it didn't spiral out of control.

When the early-morning sun stretched deep into the living room, Nate joined her at the windows. ‘You look a bit better.'

‘My throat hurts and I'm bruised all over.'

‘You seem more rational.'

‘Sorry about the knife. I was scared.'

‘It seemed more than that. It seemed …'

‘Crazy?'

His eyes held hers for a moment. ‘What did you have for dinner last night?'

‘What?'

‘Dinner. Amuse me.'

‘Stir-fry and a glass of red.'

‘Here?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘You were hyper. Totally wired. Ever since I came in. Pacing the floor and talking at the speed of light.'

She turned her face away. Anxiety could look like that.

‘Sleeping pills wouldn't do that,' he said.

‘I told you, I didn't take any.'

‘I'm wondering if you took something else.'

‘Got stoned and forgot to mention it?'

‘No. You said it's happened before so maybe it's something in your kitchen, or an allergic reaction or …'

‘Shock.'

He looked at the view, eyes aimed at the marina. ‘You're right. It was probably shock. You scared the hell out of me with that knife. What's the name of your friend with the books?'

Carly frowned. ‘Christina?'

‘I want to call her, see if you can stay with her today.'

‘I've got classes.'

Nate watched her a second, touching her for the first time since she'd pushed away from him, running a finger gently across the scratch on her cheek. ‘I don't think you should be driving today.'

Something cold slid along Carly's spine. Talia had put holes in the walls, she'd written her name in the dust on the manhole cover. She'd gone out one morning and driven into a tree.

‘The apartments on the top floor are all three- and four-bedders. They have bedrooms with ensuites on the lower levels,' Nate said.

Carly's gaze wandered around her own lower level. ‘And?'

‘You could sleep in one of them instead of a loft.'

 

‘I took a sleeping pill,' Carly told Christina over lunch. ‘Woke up disoriented and stumbled into a chest of drawers. Knocked over a mirror and fell on it,' she shrugged. ‘Not so clever. Then I tripped on the stairs when I went looking for a bandage.' She'd then slept in Christina's downstairs bedroom for three solid hours.

Christina pushed another sandwich towards her. ‘What happened to your face?'

‘I must have scratched myself in the bumbling around.'

Carly stayed for the day, working on an assignment at Christina's dining table while Christina sat opposite writing reviews. It was easier than Carly expected, not chatty and annoying but productive and cooperative.

Nate called during lunch and again in the early afternoon, asking how she was, what she was doing, who was with her. It reminded her of his questions about the sleeping pills, made her feel monitored. She'd been there before, didn't want to be there with him. He sent a text a little before four.
Don't go home yet.

Not planning to.

Forty minutes later, he sent another.
Don't leave till I get there.

Christina looked up from her keyboard. ‘What's the frown for?'

‘Nate checking in. Again.'

‘I think his interest might be a little more than neighbourly.'

If only she knew. An old aggravation made Carly want to tap out
Don't tell me what to do
. But she sent nothing: passive aggressive non-commitment.

Five minutes later.
Carly?

Still at Christina's.

Wait there for me. I need to show you something before you go back.

She hesitated before replying. Was it something pertinent to going home or an invention to make her stay? She wanted to ask, see what he came up with but, well, there was no reason to make a point of it now.
Christina invited me for dinner.

She met Bernard, Christina's husband, when he got home from work. He poured wine as Christina retold the sleeping-pill/hand-cutting/stair-falling story, not a hint of eye-rolling at Christina's hand-to-chest retelling. Carly liked him for that.

‘Why sleep on your sofa tonight when you can stay in a comfy bed here?' Christina said. ‘You can prop up that foot properly and not worry about breaking your neck just getting to the kitchen.'

Carly wanted to be independent, stoic, the things she'd come here to be, but the thought of another night in her apartment – with a twisted ankle and no quick escape – made her accept the invitation. It was almost ten when she preempted Nate with a text:
I'm staying the night at Christina's
.

She figured he'd reply or call, a
How are you doing
? or
No need for me to rush back then
, but nothing came
and at ten thirty, in bed, needing sleep and sick of waiting to hear from him, she dialled his mobile. Left a message: ‘Sleep well, see you tomorrow.' Told herself she'd wanted him to back off, she couldn't have it both ways.

She still hadn't heard from him when she left Christina's the next morning but as she stepped from the lift, hobbling on her sprained ankle, she saw his apartment door was wide open. Carly knocked on the jamb, heard a muffled bump, saw a shadow move through the light at the end of the hallway and felt suddenly, acutely aware that she couldn't run and hide.

A woman appeared. ‘You after Nate?'

Thirty-ish, jeans and boots, short blonde hair, something sharp in her tone. Carly felt questions and doubt start to gather. ‘Yes.'

‘He's not here.' The woman talked as she walked towards Carly. ‘He won't be back for a few days. Possibly more.' Her voice was curt, the volume as loud at the door as it had been at the other end of the hallway. Anger or umbrage, Carly thought. ‘Are you Carly?'

Maybe it was an accusation. ‘Yes.'

‘Nate mentioned you. I'm his sister, Bec. Look, I'm really sorry. He's in hospital. Someone beat the shit out of him.'

Carly's heart thumped. ‘Who … wh– … how is he?'

‘Yeah, sorry, I should've told you that first.' Bec took a breath and heaved it out, something Nate-like about the way she reined herself in. ‘He's got concussion and a broken jaw, a couple of fractured ribs and his knee …' The sigh was fury. ‘The bad knee is totally screwed. It's when, not if for the surgery now.' She turned abruptly, started back down the hallway.

Carly hobbled behind, trying to keep up with the pace and the information.

‘He's sedated for the moment,' Bec picked up a mug from the kitchen counter. ‘Because of the head injury. They did a CT scan and there was no brain damage but he was agitated and in a lot of pain and apparently that's what they do. I thought I'd pick up some stuff for him, have a coffee while I'm here. I've been at the hospital most of the night.' She paused, looked Carly over. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a chair?'

‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Can I make you tea? Coffee?'

‘No, thanks. What happened?'

Nate's sister shrugged. ‘Some kids found him and called an ambulance. Near the marina.'

Eyes slipping to the street beyond the glass, Carly remembered watching him cross the road on another night with blood on his face. ‘Had he been to the pub?'

Another shrug. ‘He was found at seven. I don't know where he was before that.'

Carly had been sipping wine, ticked off because he'd checked up on her – and his bones were being broken. ‘What are the police saying?'

‘They think someone took to him with a metal bar.'

Carly's hand flew to her mouth.

‘They think it might've happened in a laneway and he managed to crawl to the waterfront before he passed out.'

She blinked hard, tried to think of something useful. ‘A couple of weeks ago, he stepped into a fight at the pub around the corner. Someone split his eyebrow open. Maybe they had another go at him.'

‘Do the police know about this?'

‘He didn't go to the police.'

‘Were you there? Do you know who it was?'

‘No. I found him afterwards.'

‘You should tell the cops.'

Carly hesitated. If they checked her name, they wouldn't believe her. ‘I don't know anything.'

Maybe the pause sounded more defensive than truthful, because Bec took a moment to look Carly over again: scratch on her cheek, bandage on her hand, only a sock on her sore foot. ‘How did you get hurt?' It wasn't concern, she wanted to know if it might've involved Nate.

Taking a breath, ready to repeat the easy answer, Carly hesitated again. Nate said he wanted to help work it out. Maybe he had. Maybe … what? Someone in her loft, three thirty in the morning, scaring a woman while she slept – and Nate beaten with a metal bar on the street in the early evening. Within walking distance of a rough pub and homeless people and drug users in derelict warehouses. ‘I fell down my stairs.'

His sister watched Carly a moment longer, heaved another breath before she saying, ‘You want to help me look for some clothes for Nate?' She rinsed the mug. ‘PJs, if he's got any,' she said as she climbed the stairs. ‘Some clean clothes, T-shirt, trackpants. With any luck, he'll be awake to put them on today.'

Carly held onto the handrail as she trailed behind, head down as she negotiated the stairs with her limp, only looking up as she reached the top.

‘Socks and jocks, too,' Bec said from the wardrobe. ‘Any ideas where to look?'

Carly didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling. On a square hole that opened into the black void above.

‘Yeah, I don't know what he was doing,' Bec said from the other side of the room. ‘The cover is on the bed.'

Bec didn't mean the bedcover. She meant the dirty white square that had sunk into the thick padding of the doona. A vent cover. Carly lifted her gaze from it to the black hole in Nate's ceiling, her pulse picking up as she peered at the darkness beyond.

Carly saw the whole tableau now – the stepladder positioned under the vent hole, the toolbox on the floor, its lid folded open, a screwdriver across its top shelf. Nate had taken the vent cover off.

Nate had access to the ceiling.

‘Can you look for a razor?' Bec said. ‘And toothbrush and toothpaste.'

‘Sure,' Carly said, staring at the scene a moment more. The ladder had five steps, high enough for someone to peer into the ceiling, but the square wasn't much bigger than her laptop. A tight squeeze to climb through.

‘You okay?' Bec asked.

‘Yeah. Razor. I'll check the ensuite.' Carly frowned in the doorway, remembering, rethinking. It was her bathroom but in reverse. Their lofts were back to back, mirror image. She lifted her face to the hole again. It was in the space between the bed and the side wall, opposite the ensuite and built-in wardrobe. Carly didn't have a vent there. There were no vents in her ceiling.

Had Nate put this one in? When? She'd slept four nights here, couldn't remember seeing it. Had she even looked?

She heard Nate in her head:
Mine's in the ensuite ceiling
. He'd meant the manhole. She peered up at it, the brass key plate in the same place as hers above the vanity. She looked back out to the bedroom. The vent was off to the left, far enough left that she had to stand in the doorway before she could see it. Too far left to open into the tunnel Carly had seen through the manhole.

‘Found it yet?' Bec called.

‘Still looking.' What had Nate said about the tunnel?
Those huge timbers up there are the original beams, they hold up the fifth storey
. There would be more beams up there, parallel rows of tunnels in the ceiling.

Carly stared at herself in the mirrored cabinet. Nate had a hole in his ceiling that opened into a long, dark tunnel that ran above her apartment.

‘How are you doing?' Bec was at the door.

Carly pulled open the cabinet, no idea what she was looking for as her gaze ran across packets of soap, shaving equipment and bottles of … pills. A bunch of them, Nate's name on the label.
What did you take?
he'd said.
I'm wondering if you took something else.

‘Drop them in here.' Bec held up a small overnight bag.

Carly grabbed a razor, and toothbrush and toothpaste off the vanity, flipped them into the bag. ‘I'll just be a second.' She pointed at the hole above the bed. ‘I want to see what's up there.'

‘Now?'

‘Maybe the cover should go back on while Nate's in the hospital.'

Bec made a face. ‘Rats?'

Carly hadn't thought of that. She made a face back. ‘Could be.'

Bec looked at the opening for a moment as though deciding how much time she had or whether Carly should be left alone in her brother's bedroom, maybe imagining a stream of rodents spilling out of the ceiling. ‘Yeah, okay. I'll hold the stepladder so you don't twist your other ankle.'

At the top, standing on tiptoes, only the crown of Carly's head made it into the hole. If her shoulders had reached, she'd have to turn on the diagonal to get through, corner to corner. If Nate had used this ladder to get into the ceiling, it would've been a much tighter squeeze. She craned her neck to peer into the space. No tube or chute for air conditioning, no rats either. Just the sensation of dry air and space.

‘Careful of traps,' Bec called. ‘He might've been setting baits.'

Yes, maybe that was all he was doing. She felt cautiously around, felt only the stiff padding of insulation. No wires or pipes – at least not within reach.

‘Anything?' Bec asked as Carly climbed down.

‘No.' Nothing that told her why Nate had taken the cover off.

‘No droppings?' Bec asked.

‘Not that I could feel, thank god.'

‘Should we screw the cover back on?'

‘I don't think my arms are long enough. We'd have to get a ladder from the storeroom in the foyer.'

Bec checked her watch. ‘Next time, maybe. I want to get to the hospital. Are you coming over?'

She was Nate's neighbour, Bec suspected they were more. Twenty minutes ago when Bec told her Nate was in hospital, Carly had wanted to go straight there. Now she'd seen a hole in Nate's ceiling.

She checked her own watch, as though deciding how much time she had. ‘I need to be somewhere soon. I'll go over later.'

Maybe not even then.

 

There were dried drops of blood on the floor where Carly had waited for Nate in the dark with a knife. There were more at the bottom of the stairs, smeared where she'd fallen. A rust-stained tea towel in the kitchen sink.

She needed a change of clothes and a shower but the loft seemed dark and ominous at the top of the stairs. The last time she'd been there, she'd been attacked and terrified.

She closed her eyes, remembering Nate in the moments after he arrived – inviting her to drive the knife into his throat. Voice calm, pain in his eyes.

He had a fucking hole in his ceiling.

Anger heated her fear but she cautioned herself. She was frightened and confused, burned by men who'd hurt her – and it might be just rats. Dread was always her first instinct, that hot, oily ooze of fear through her veins before the anxiety started. But what if he'd pulled the cover off to try to figure it out – how someone could get into one of the apartments, how they could do it silently and without being seen. Carly
wanted
it to be that, but …

She eyed the wall that separated their apartments, lifted her gaze to the loft above, thinking about their back-to-back ensuites. If he was getting into the ceiling through his vent hole, how was he getting into her apartment?

She crossed the room, stood under the loft and looked up. Their bedrooms were mirror image. Her ensuite was on the right, Nate's was on the left. His vent was on the right side of the room, she didn't have one. Unless … the
vents
weren't
mirror image. Unless the vents had been put on the same side of every loft, regardless of layout. She turned around, kept her eyes focused up, picturing what was there. Nate's vent was on the right. On the right of her loft, there was an ensuite and … the built-in wardrobe.

She hop-skipped to the stairs, loped across the room, slid the wardrobe open and looked in. The storage space was deep enough to take a step inside, the top shelf low enough to reach with an arm extended over her head. Like the rest of the loft, it had no natural light, but it was like a dungeon in there. Carly flicked a switch and the rack of bulbs above the doors came to life.

Stepping in, peering past the shelving, Carly eyed the dark empty space that went all the way to the five-metre ceiling, black beyond the reach of the bulbs. All she could make out was the straight line where wall met ceiling.

After a detour downstairs for a torch and painkillers, she shone a beam around the upper reaches of the wardrobe, the circle of light bouncing and jerking before hitting its target, shining straight and still like an accusation.

It wasn't a vent, at least not the same as Nate's. It was a rectangle about twice as wide, covered with a grate of tiny squares.

Carly stared at it for a long time. She moved the light around, too, checking the walls, the shelves, the floor. But kept going back to the trapdoor – yes, it was a trapdoor with two little knobs on one side.

In line with the vent in Nate's apartment.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

She looked back into the loft, positioned herself where Nate must have when he climbed in at night, saw the chest of drawers where the mobile had sat, aimed at the bed. The sheets had been straightened since then, the doona
pulled up. He'd done that while she paced the floor downstairs with her cut hand and twisted ankle. Clearing up the mess left after she'd fought back. She remembered the surprise in his panicked exclamation. And his arm against her throat.

A hand flew to her mouth as she lurched across the room, her throat filling with bile.

 

Nate's girlfriend had drowned off a boat he skippered. He'd called her name in the darkness and she never answered. His new neighbour, Carly, was the same age as the woman he'd loved. He'd called Carly through the door and she'd told him to go away.

Carly stood at the French windows, her gaze on blue sky while her mind reeled with dark thoughts.

Cut me. I don't care
, Nate had told her. Had he broken in and scared her so she'd need him? Had he wanted to redeem himself and save the girl this time? Sleep with her so it was closer to the original version of his tragic story?

She didn't pace up and down, she didn't need an outlet for the anxious energy – she needed to remember what had happened this time, to figure it out.

Nate had been outside her door every time she'd stumbled terrified through the apartment. He'd told her he was known to the police for an argument over his sister's ex – and Carly had taken his word for it. Nate had attached her security chain and changed her locks. The visitor in black never came when Nate was in her bed. The motion sensor app had worked all night when he was there and it had stopped when he wasn't, moments before she was attacked.

Before
Nate
attacked her.

‘Fuck. Oh, fuck.'

Not fate coming for her. Carly had done this herself. She'd reached out when she was lonely and scared, repeated things that had hurt her before. She'd behaved as though she'd learned nothing.

She tightened the arms that were folded across her chest, held on like it was a restraint. Her skin felt dirty, the view too bright, the apartment dull and ugly. The police hadn't believed her. Neither had Liam. Nate, though, had been clever. He'd listened, he'd empathised, he'd let her think he was trying to solve the puzzle while he kept himself out of it. Then he'd left the warehouse with his vent open and didn't get back to close it.

Anger threaded its way into her thoughts. And something else, something she recognised, that she'd tried to cull from her personality. The drive that had put her friends on a ledge that collapsed beneath them. The part of her that had pushed, cajoled and manipulated to make things happen. All through school, she'd wangled permission to parties and camping trips, she'd got them into the Rural Fire Service when it wasn't taking recruits. She'd got herself into a uni in Sydney. And she'd talked Debs, Jenna and Adam into going to the canyon when none of them had wanted to be there.

With Nate hovering in her thoughts, Carly saw again the moment before she'd sealed their fate: Debs, Jenna and Adam turning as one to her.
Do we stay or do we push on?
For thirteen years, Carly had been haunted by her reckless, arrogant confidence. Only that wasn't what she felt as she remembered the look in their eyes this time. They weren't relinquishing the decision to someone else, they weren't waiting to be told what to do. Not all of them, not Debs. They'd looked at Carly because she got things done, she
found a way. She talked parents around, she hustled transport to get them where they wanted to go, she found the best climbing gear at discount prices. They never trekked until she'd analysed routes, assessed the risks, mapped the path. They'd looked to her because if anyone was going to get them down, it was Carly.

It wasn't shame or guilt winding its way through her now. It was the emotion she'd felt standing on that cliff face in the darkness, the emotion she hadn't remembered until now. Resolve and purpose.

It wasn't over. Nate was in hospital and he was coming back. There was no fixing it but she could change it. Now, while he was in a bed, before he tried to stop her.

You should tell the cops
, Bec had said. She'd meant the fight Nate had been in two weeks ago. But Carly could tell them other things, show them her bruises and what she'd found in her wardrobe. The police had been to her apartment, there were official records of the break-ins … yeah, and they could look up her file and escort her to another wing of the hospital. Have her sedated, too.

No, she needed more. She needed to get in the ceiling and see how he'd done it. Take photos and find evidence that proved Nate was crazy, not her.