Darkest Place (4 page)

It was late in the day when Carly crossed the foyer carrying her dinner – fish from the co-op and locally made sorbet from the little supermarket in Baxter Street. Elizabeth Jennings was sitting on her bench.

‘And this is the young person I was telling you about.' The words were meant for the woman beside her but carried around the foyer like an announcement.

Elizabeth's companion smoothed her sensible grey hair and straightened her jumper. ‘Hello, hello there.'

‘Carly,' Elizabeth said in her schoolmarm voice. ‘May I introduce you to Christina Matheson, a stalwart of our book club. Christina, this is Carly Townsend, our newest resident.'

Age might be troubling Elizabeth's joints but it hadn't affected her memory. ‘Hello again, Elizabeth. Nice to meet you, Christina.'

‘Welcome to the warehouse.' Christina said it with a chortle, all rather amusing. ‘Elizabeth has been telling me you're joining us for our Dickens night.' She was short and wide, wore joggers and ribbed tights with a denim skirt, her voice fast and breathy as though she'd been running.

‘Yes, I'm looking forward to it.'

‘Christina is a book reviewer,' Elizabeth said.

A serious book club, Carly thought. ‘Really?' She smiled, hoping neither of them asked her about Dickens now. Like a test. ‘Oh look, here's the lift.'

‘It's been and gone three times since I got talking,' Christina laughed. ‘I really must get in this time.'

‘Elizabeth, do you …' Carly almost said
need a hand
before remembering the woman's reaction last time. ‘Are you going up?'

‘Thank you, Carly, but I'll enjoy the light for a few moments more.'

As the doors closed, Christina hit the buttons for the fourth and fifth floors – she must live in one of the big apartments at the top of the warehouse. ‘I've got multiple copies of Dickens,' she said. ‘I can drop a couple off to you.'

‘That's not necessary …'

‘Which one would you like? Or I can give you a selection. Yes, I think that's best. Too hard to decide on the fly, don't you think?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘Are you enjoying the apartment?'

‘Yes, it's …'

‘Lovely to have someone in Talia's apartment. A dear, dear girl, such a dreadful way to leave, and not getting to say goodbye. We all wished we could have, signing the card Brooke sent around just wasn't the same thing. I could hear little Talia playing up on the fifth-floor corridor, you know. Sometimes I'd take the long way to the lift just to listen. She was a member of our book club, too, and we miss her contribution. Oh, it's been hard on Brooke. Have you met Brooke yet?'

‘No, I …'

‘She'll be glad someone has moved in. I think knowing the place was still empty made it harder for her. She's about your age. You'll know her when you see her. She's the one with the crutches. She'll be at the Dickens night too. Here's your floor.'

Carly stepped out, turned to say goodbye.

‘Lovely to meet you, Carly. I'll get those books to you quick smart. Should be a lively discussion on …'

The doors closed. Carly grinned. ‘Wow, speed talking.' Maybe Christina was the reason Elizabeth had decided to enjoy the light for a while longer.

Christina obviously thought Carly knew more than she did about the woman who'd lived in her apartment. It was the first time Carly had heard the name Talia. All the real estate agent had said was that she'd studied at the conservatorium, went back to Perth unexpectedly and the property had sat empty for six months – a shame, because the single-bedroom lofts were always snapped up.

Opening her apartment, the soft clack of the lock, the deep gloom beyond the door made her scalp tingle with wariness. She pushed the door wide, reached in and flicked the light switches, all of them, a bold glare filling the long hallway, thanks to Nate. The dimness at the other end held her gaze for a moment. Her doors had been locked, she told herself. No one could get in with the doors locked … unless they'd copied her key or …
Don't start, Carly
. She locked the door, walked the hallway feeling like there were eyes on her back, lit the apartment up like a showroom.
Empty, see?
Still, she turned on the lights above the stairs and in the loft, tipped her head back to look into the bedroom.
Happy now?

When the fish was in the oven, Carly pulled on a jacket, poured a glass of wine and stepped onto the balcony for the first time since the police had been there. It was cold and breezy, a salty tang from the harbour in the air.

The phone in her pocket buzzed an incoming text. She took a large, bracing mouthful of wine before she lifted it out.

Are you okay? Have you found a doctor? You can come back, you know. Selina and the kids send their love. Call me, I'm your mother.

Carly closed her eyes, clenched her teeth. She was never going back. She shouldn't have gone back the last time. A long weekend had turned into thirteen years of pain and tragedy and punishment. Everything she'd wanted for herself had been ruined by her own bloodied hands, the proof of it in the lives of the people she'd seen every day.

She took another sip, not managing to swallow down the irritation. Her mother had never understood why Carly couldn't just get over it.
You didn't do it on purpose
, she'd say. Then it became,
You can't have everything you want, no one can
. Eventually she didn't trust Carly to get over anything.

Her mother would keep texting until she got a reply so Carly finished her wine and stabbed out a message:
I'm fine. The apartment is fine. I'll call when I'm ready.
Carly fixed her eyes to the view, battling the temptation to think about it, to feel the familiar cold sweat of guilt. Recrimination was a habit; it was easier than being kind to herself. But it was time now, she reminded herself. She'd endured her punishment and she'd left that version of herself behind in Burden.

Turning, she let her gaze rest on the apartment glowing under its new lights and thought of Talia, the woman
who'd played music here. Carly imagined something classical and soulful filling the air, wondered what disastrous event had sent her back to Perth. She felt sorry for Talia that she'd had to leave – and grateful she had. Lifting her glass in a toast, Carly said, ‘Have a good life, Talia. I owe you one.'

 

A man and a little girl were at the warehouse security entrance when Carly reached it, out of breath from a fast walk back from the harbour. The pair had matching blond curls, the man buzzing an apartment, plastic shopping bags and a pink teddy bear in his hand. The little girl was pulling faces in the glass door.

‘I forgot my key,' he announced into the intercom.

‘Again?' a woman replied and the entry door clicked open.

Was that all it took to get someone to release the lock? A friendly voice and an excuse? Carly still hadn't seen an email from Howard and he hadn't answered his door when she knocked on her way out this morning. It was sloppy. Her neighbours should be warned.

‘I'm going to be a tiger today,' the little girl said, tipping her head back to tell Carly.

‘Lucky you.' Carly pulled the security door closed, checked it had engaged, and crossed the foyer behind them. The girl skipped through the shadows holding the man's hand, all skinny legs and bouncing curls. The sight made Carly's palms prickle with heat, yearning for small fingers to hold. She'd wanted to leave that in Burden, too.

‘Last time I was a clown,' the girl said as Carly waited for the lift with them. ‘And the time before that I was a pirate.'

‘Wow, you get to be lots of things.' Carly returned the man's amused smile.

‘I've been practising my growl.' The girl clawed the air, making a sound that was somewhere between a gurgle and a cough.

Carly jumped, hands to her mouth in horror. ‘Gosh, you scared me.'

‘It's okay. I'm not a tiger yet. I have to get the goo first.'

‘Of course you do.'

‘Face paint.' The father said, tapping the button for the second floor. ‘At the markets.'

‘There are markets?'

‘In the primary school.' He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Every Saturday.'

‘I'm going to school there next year,' the girl chipped in. ‘We live on the second floor. Where do you live?'

‘I'm on the fourth floor.'

‘My name's Alice. What's yours?'

‘Hi, Alice. I'm Carly.'

‘Oh,
you're
Carly,' the man said, his tone more like finger-pointing than identification.

She hesitated. ‘Yes.'

‘We got the email last night. I didn't know anyone had moved into that apartment.'

‘Email?' Last night?

‘The group one from Howard.' He reached for Alice's hand as the doors started their opening slide. ‘We get a bit lax with security around here. It's not like we're in Sydney. Best to keep yourself locked in if you're nervous.' He shrugged as he stepped out, dismissive, not apologetic. Alice took a standing jump over the door tracks. ‘It wasn't us, by the way,' he said.

Carly kept a smile on her face until they were out of sight. ‘What the hell?' Why hadn't
she
got the email? And what had Howard told everyone?

There was still no email five minutes later when she checked her laptop. Had he written about her, not to her? She headed back to the lift, planning another discussion with Howard. But as she stepped out on the ground floor, she passed the noticeboard and stopped. Glass-fronted, with notices about garbage collections and a bridge club, the community gardens and a couple of newspaper articles. She'd been talking to Alice when she came in and hadn't even glanced this way. Surprising, really, considering the poster-sized notice with her name on it.

SECURITY ALERT
was written in large, black capitals at the top, then:
Apartment 419 (CARLY TOWNSEND, our newest resident) was BROKEN INTO early Thursday. Carly believes the intruder was BUZZED IN by a resident. She is upset building security is being breached and is worried about her safety. The entry doors and intercom are for the safety of EVERYONE! DO NOT let in anyone you don't know.

Carly's face flushed as she read it. She'd asked Howard to remind people to be mindful of security, not provide her name and apartment number – and it read like she thought everyone else was to blame. No wonder Alice's father had sounded defensive.
Carly Townsend: here a week and pointing the finger.
Like she had a right.

She slid open the glass and tore the poster from its thumbtacks, wondering what Howard had put in the email. Juicy e-gossip about the new resident? Something for them to think about when they passed her in the foyer, to discuss among themselves in the lift and garage? She was only glad she hadn't gone back to her maiden name;
no one would find headlines about Carly Townsend on the internet.

Carly knocked on Howard's door but either he wasn't home or he wasn't answering. She found his number in her mobile and texted:
I did not give permission for my name & apartment number to be made public. Have removed your poster from the foyer. Why have I not received the email? Pls forward asap.

Then she left the building, walking fast down the street, trying to shut out the memories that were pushing and shoving at her. The furtive glances, the backs that turned, the conversations that stopped when she passed. More than a decade after the deaths and the police investigation, after the accusations and shunning, people still remembered; it was in their eyes, their reservation, the distance they kept. Even when they didn't, she saw it in the face of the little boy who would never know his father, just a young man when Carly had last seen him, when she'd held his hand through a long cold night he'd never woken from.

Carly swiped at the tears on her lashes. Don't do it, she told herself. She was
here
and her neighbours couldn't know any of it. Howard had made her the demanding new resident, possibly the stupid new resident who'd left her door open. It didn't make her the anxiety-ridden, twice-divorced, childless woman who'd thrust an entire town into mourning.

The markets in the school grounds were busy and bright with fruit and veg stalls, plants and T-shirts, food cooking on hotplates and in woks, a jazz band and a woman in a tutu painting children's faces. It smelled and sounded great.

Carly wandered around, bought a bunch of basil and a bag of mandarins, searched for Dickens on a table of second-hand books. She watched a woman turn pretty green beads into drop earrings then handed over five dollars for them.

Someone backed into her as she moved away; there was a brief tangle of their bags before she looked up and recognised a face from the warehouse. A man who'd only ever nodded and kept walking, so she copied his example, not wanting to make friends with residents this morning.

‘Hello.' He stepped into her path. ‘You're new at the warehouse.'

‘Yes.' That's me, the one in the email.

‘We've passed in the lift.'

‘Several times actually.'

‘That's right.' He pointed a finger,
Well done
in his tone. ‘It took me a second to place you. I tend to be distracted when I come and go. Lots to think about.' He tapped
his temple as though there was a party in there keeping him occupied.

‘Sure.'

‘I work at the university and I'm always overseeing several projects at a time,' he said, a tilt to his head as though it was complicated but he managed.

‘Oh.' Carly wondered if she was meant to be impressed. She was just pleased he hadn't connected her to the email. ‘I'm Carly.'

‘I'm Stuart.' Mid to late twenties, she guessed. Thin, a little stooped, pale and, well, nerdy-looking.

‘Nice to put a name to your face.'

‘Likewise. I apologise in advance if I forget.' He tapped his temple again, waited as though she'd just have to ask.

Possibly it was fascinating, possibly so interesting she'd be jealous she wasn't at uni again. ‘See you in the lift then.'

She bought a coffee and was looking at vegetables growing in pots when she noticed a man edging towards her. ‘Interested in getting your hands dirty?' His face and shoulders were in the shade of the oversized canopy of a straw hat.

She backed off a step. ‘Sorry?'

‘The community gardens. We sell these plants to help fund ourselves.'

Carly glanced around, hadn't realised she'd been standing at the community garden stall.

‘Ever done any gardening?' he asked. ‘We can always do with extra hands.'

He was thirty-ish, she saw now, lean, wearing old jeans and grinning with horticultural enthusiasm – and she'd spent most of her life in a small country town where backyards were the size of a paddock and everyone had a vegetable patch. She didn't need a reminder.

‘I only moved here a few days ago. I'm enrolled in a course, not sure I'll have much time.'

He shrugged. ‘If you change your mind …' He handed her a flyer. ‘Was that you moving into the warehouse last weekend? I'm Damien, by the way. South wall, third floor.'

Carly hesitated. She'd come here to meet people who knew nothing about her, now she didn't know what her neighbours knew. ‘I'm Carly. East wall, fourth floor.'

He clicked his fingers. ‘You're the one who had the break-in.'

‘Yeah. That's me.'

‘Oh, hey. Sorry about the security doors.'

‘
You
buzzed someone in?'

‘No, no, I just feel bad it happened. Guess there's no point asking how you're enjoying the place.'

‘Actually, the apartment is great, it's just the uninvited company that's off-putting.'

‘Understandable. You could come over to the gardens and work out the stress with a little digging and hoeing.'

‘Or I could have a stiff drink.'

‘That's an option too. Let me know if you're looking for company for that.' He took back the flyer he'd given her and turned it over. ‘My mobile number is at the bottom.'

 

Forgot to add you to the list. Have sent you the email. Feel free to put your own notice on the board. Howard.

Carly read the email on her phone as she waited for the lift. It was the same message with embellishment: Carly's door not latched properly, Carly in bed when someone broke in, Carly attracted to the building because of the security, disappointed it let her down. Subtext:
Carly not
taking responsibility for her own mistake
. What the hell did he know?

A voice sailed across the foyer. ‘Hold the lift!'

Carly kept it open as Christina hurried through the light and shadows of the atrium. ‘Thank you, thank you. I had two cups of that delicious coffee at the markets and the bathroom is on notice.' She stepped past Carly, hand to her chest and puffing.

‘Did you run?' Carly asked.

‘No, no. I got a ride. Just unfit.' She pointed at Carly's shopping bag. ‘So you found our little gem.'

‘The markets? Yes. They're terrific. What did you buy?' she asked, hoping to keep the conversation away from Howard's email.

‘Oh, Carly.' Christina sucked in a sudden breath. ‘I read about your little run-in.'

Excellent.

‘Terrible thing. Terrible,' Christina said. ‘It happened to me once, back when we were on the farm. These two cretins robbed the house. Just walked right in and, oh …' She huffed an exclamation, anger and horror. ‘They hit me over the head with a roof tile and tied me up. Poor Bernard came back for dinner and found me covered in blood and his good wine gone. Ridiculous, the whole thing, of course. There was nothing valuable in the house, it was all in the paddocks.' She paused, shook her head. ‘Oh, but you. Howard said you weren't hurt. It's not all about stitches and broken bones, though, is it?'

No, it wasn't, Carly knew. She took a second to let the image of a blood-covered Christina fade. ‘That must've been awful. Were you badly injured?'

‘Just a few stitches. Bernard always said I had a thick head. It upset me for a while, though. A nasty business.'
She gave Carly's arm a firm pat. ‘Best not to let that go on if you start feeling that way.'

Carly had always thought feeling that way was part of her punishment. ‘Thank you.'

‘Oh, and Carly,' Christina called, moving into the centre of the cab, talking as the lift started to close. ‘I wasn't sure if I had the number right but I left you a …' The last word was cut off. It probably happened a lot with Christina.

There was a package by Carly's door. Three books tied together with string, a brown paper bag on top.
A Tale of Two Cities
,
Oliver Twist
and
Great Expectations
. An appropriate selection, Carly thought. There was a muffin in the bag and a note scrawled on the side.
White chocolate and raspberry. Happy reading. Christina.

Carly glanced back at the lift. Christina wasn't all talk.

 

It was a long time since Carly had sat in a classroom. This one wasn't a lecture hall, there were no professors and no one was talking social theory, but three days in it felt full of promise.

Almost fifteen years ago she'd started a university degree in Sydney. She'd planned to forget small-town New South Wales, get educated, explore the world, have a career, live a big life. Halfway through she went home on a cold June long weekend and never left.

Back then she'd been studying social science with a major in anthropology. Unendingly fascinating and totally pointless in the job market, which was why she'd spent a decade yearning to finish and now that she had a chance to study again, she'd enrolled in a twelve-month small business certificate at TAFE.

The house she'd owned with Adrian had been sold before they'd even spoken to a divorce lawyer. Carly had used most of her share to buy the warehouse apartment and enough money left to support herself for six months, if she was frugal. She'd need a part-time job after that but for now she was a full-time student.

She was one of twenty-four students – the oldest was a fifty-something bloke who'd left a desk job to open a cafe, the youngest a pimply plumber. Carly was the only student with no plan for a business. She'd worked in her parents' post office most of her life and figured all that experience would point her somewhere by the time she'd finished. The teacher warned that having no concept might make some of the assignments more difficult.
So what?
Carly had thought. She'd be doing assignments and being someone new.

She spent the afternoon sitting next to a guy in a high-vis shirt who smelled like he'd been digging sewers before he came to class.

‘It's Carly, right?' the girl on her other side asked as the class broke up. She had blue streaks in her jet black hair and a dad who was funding her mobile hair salon on the proviso she did the course.

‘Yes. Sorry, I've forgotten your name,' Carly said.

‘Dakota. Never been there, snows a lot.' She grinned, which made the stud in her nose bobble about. ‘God, I'm starving.' She yanked opened a packet of biscuits, held it out to Carly. ‘Pizza flavour. You want one?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Do you drive in?'

‘Yes.' Carly smiled cautiously. Was she asking for a lift?

‘Great. Company to the car park. I hate walking in the dark.' Dakota leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘I was worried stinky guy might offer.'

Carly glanced around, checked he'd gone. ‘You could smell him where you sat?'

‘Smell him? I'm going home for a shower.'

Carly had been aiming for serious-older-student but it was too late, she was already laughing behind her hand.

It was after five when they started the ten-minute walk to the car park. Carly gave Dakota only the basics: she'd just moved to Newcastle, had an apartment a couple of Ks away. Dakota said she lived with her dad, broke up with a boyfriend three months ago and needed something new in her life. And her streaks had been pink until last weekend. As they stopped under floodlights in the parking lot, Dakota offered to do Carly's hair when she next needed a cut, ‘mate's rates'. Carly glanced at the blue and said, ‘Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.'

‘Have you found the campus cafe yet?' Dakota asked.

‘No, have you?'

‘I scouted it out on my way to class this afternoon. We should check it out tomorrow, do a taste test on the coffee.'

Carly played it cool, like she got invitations to coffee all the time. ‘Sure.'

Dakota grinned. ‘Great. A class buddy already.'

Carly's smile was wary. She'd come here to make friends but now the opportunity had arrived, it made her anxious. The last friends she'd had, she'd killed.