Paper Alice (9 page)

I didn't look at anyone – least of all the figures on stage – as I proceeded to scurry out around the back
row towards the door, as fast as my tottery legs would carry me. I gave a tiny, fluttery wave and vanished out into the foyer and the wonderful darkness beyond.

I don't remember getting back to the car, or even much of the drive home. I think I forgot about the pub get-together until I was almost on the bridge. Anyway, I wouldn't have been able to make any sensible conversation if I had showed up. And considering the state I was in, it's just as well the rain had stopped by the time I had to tackle the bridge.

Dad was slumped in front of the TV when I finally made my way up the stairs from the garage, staring at the screen with that listless, half-absent look of his. He gave a little start when he saw me.

‘Hello – that was quick . . .'

‘Yeah . . .' I gave a shaky laugh and plonked myself in a chair beside him.

He looked at me.

‘Dud night?'

I sighed and rubbed my face in my hands, wondering whether or not to launch into an explanation of the whole thing. Dad, of all people, would be able to put it into perspective.

Then my phone beeped. Dunc.
Where the fck r u??
it said. And there was a voice message from him too, which he'd left when he couldn't get through to me in the Cave. An earlier, politer version of this one.

Sorry babe got horrible headache. gone home to bed speak tmoz
, I typed, signing it
xx
. I pressed send, then switched it off.

‘Whatcha watching?' I asked, glancing absently at the screen.

It was the History Channel; Dad's favourite of late.

He sighed. ‘Oh, a doco about the war criminals who escaped scot-free after World War II. Depressing, really.'

It takes a lot less than that to depress you at the moment, I thought. The commentator was talking about a Lithuanian said to be responsible for the murder of hundreds of Jews during World War II. An elderly man with a little dog on a lead hobbled down a street that looked as though it was in London, making furious piss off-type motions at the camera.

I stared at him as he turned in at his gate and started fishing desperately in his pockets for his keys. Did he feel guilt, I wondered vaguely, or was he still Nazi to the core, unrepentant, even proud of his hideous deeds? And his family – were they in on it too, or had he covered his tracks completely?

The scene cut to familiar-looking footage of Hitler reviewing his troops, almost a caricature of evil as he stiffly saluted the passing rows of goose-stepping soldiers.

I was suddenly reminded of Andy's over-the-top Herr Commandant act and, in spite of myself, smiled.

‘Home already?'

This was from Mum, who had just come down from upstairs.

I shrugged. ‘Yeah, I didn't really feel like going on to the pub.'

But her attention had gone to the screen.

‘What are you watching?'

‘A doco about Nazi war criminals,' said Dad, still staring.

Some grainy old film showed an officer giving a signal to a row of marksmen. The guns discharged and
a line of people, one a woman carrying a baby, toppled like sticks into a ditch.

‘Incredible,' I murmured, feeling sick. It was hard to believe we were actually watching people being murdered.

‘For god's sake!' cried Mum, her voice suddenly super harsh. ‘Turn it off!'

I swung round in surprise, but she'd already turned and was marching back up the stairs.

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, but when I finally did, I dreamt that I'd walked into some kind of huge cave. Except the walls weren't made of rock; they consisted of hundreds of moving, grinding gears that were like mouths. Mouths that chewed with the rolling and clanking of mechanical teeth, waiting to pull in and grind up anyone or anything that came close.

I knew my fate, yet still I kept plodding on towards them, the rhythmical pounding becoming louder and louder until my head seemed about to shatter with the din. And then a churning roller grabbed the hem of my shirt and I was yanked forward. I yelled . . . and yelled, as I woke up, sweating and cowering, right on the edge of the bed.

W
hen I finally opened my eyes properly the next morning it felt as though I'd barely slept. The sunlight flooding in made my head ache; the brightness and stillness somehow making me feel worse than if it had stayed raining and overcast.

I picked up my phone to check the time: 9.08. No way would I make my first lecture at ten.

I lay there, flat on my back, staring at nothing. No birds singing, dogs barking, or engines revving. Just me and the bright silence.

Tears suddenly welled in my eyes and ran down the sides of my face. All at once everything seemed so . . . disorienting. As though I'd been dumped in some alien, unfamiliar landscape, with no signposts in sight.

I brushed at the tears; told myself not to be ridiculous. If I got up, showered and had some brekkie I'd feel better. But still I just lay there, images popping into my brain like horrible flash cards.

That guy for example, the compere, smiling over the darkened heads, calling me Wilda . . .

How and why had this whole Wilda thing suddenly got to me so much? Sucking me down, as though into some murky, evil-smelling bog.

I couldn't believe that I'd actually claimed Wilda as my
sister
. What on earth had got into me? That boy, or others who'd been there, would be sure to mention it to her.
Hey, your sister looks just like you!

She probably didn't even have a sister! And when she heard about it she'd be angry and come after me – the imposter. Track me down. I could hardly blame her.

It made me feel quite unsafe, as though I had a price on my head.

I rolled onto my side, drawing my knees to my chest. At least I'd got a couple of things straight. Wilda did go to UTS, and she did write plays.

Then I realised: I hadn't even looked her up on Facebook, or Googled her.

I glanced at my computer, threw back the doona and started to swing my legs out. But then stopped, lay back and curled up under the covers again.

What I needed was to forget Wilda, not find out more about her.

Suddenly I really felt like speaking to Dunc. I groped for the phone.

He was still in bed too – asleep, judging from his voice.

‘H . . . hey . . .'

‘Hey,' I said, smiling, picturing him lying there, all warm and familiar.

‘It's me-e . . .'

I heard him yawn, pictured him rubbing his eyes. ‘What happened . . . last night?'

I could hear the edge of annoyance in his voice; did my best to sound apologetic.

‘Like I told you, I got a really bad headache – for some reason – so I came home and went to bed.'

It was almost the truth.

‘Oh . . . So – what was it like – the thing at the Cave?'

No enquiry, I noticed, as to how I was feeling now.

‘It was OK . . .'. He certainly wouldn't have enjoyed it, I knew, not the first couple of readings anyway. ‘I'll tell you about it when I see you.'

‘When?'

‘When what?'

He yawned again. ‘When am I gunna see you?'

I pictured him there all alone, his parents at work. I grinned.

‘How about now?'

Dunc's place is only about five minutes away. I wondered if Dad had taken his car.

‘That'd be nice . . .' I could hear him starting to smile too. ‘But what time . . .' He broke off; there was a rustle of bedclothes as he reached for his watch.

‘Shit, my Stats tute's in half an hour! Can't miss any more.'

I sighed. Suddenly I really wanted to be snuggled up to him.

‘OK . . . See you later, maybe . . .'

‘Yep – bye.'

He blew me a quick kiss and hung up.

Of course I did look up Wilda – on a library computer the next day. She'd been there all the time in the back of my mind, like a ragged cuticle I couldn't leave alone.

But when I searched Facebook, she didn't have a page. In fact, surprise, surprise, there were no Wilda Lichtermanns. I know lots of people choose not to paste themselves into cyberspace, but the fact that she wasn't there somehow made her, and the whole thing, seem more unreal. As though she was all a product of my disturbed mind.

And then, I have to confess, I looked up Andy Mead, and he wasn't there either. Not the Andy Mead in question, anyway – there were several others. I quickly clicked out, suddenly feeling another clunk of misery, mixed with a weird kind of paranoia. As though there was a whole lot of semi-invisible people, just out of reach, who were somehow becoming mixed up in my life . . .

I did google Wilda.
Wilda Lichtermann + UTS
brought up a few entries – all connected to a play she'd written that had been performed by the UTS drama society last year. The play was called
Risk
. But when I tried to find out more by resubmitting
Risk + UTS + drama
, the site for the drama club was down. And a search for just
Wilda Lichtermann
produced the same results.

I glanced left and right, all at once feeling horribly uneasy again. But down the row on either side people were tapping away as usual, gazing at their screens, absorbed in their own concerns. No hand came down on my shoulder, no accusing face suddenly loomed into mine.

I clicked into my email.

For most of that next week I went around feeling vaguely anxious. As though I really was a wanted person. I found myself avoiding crowded lunch-time
places like the refectory or the lawns at uni where someone from the Cave might recognise me. And when Milly wanted me to go on a funding cuts demo with her, I made up an excuse not to. I knew that at least half of the Drama Society membership would be there too.

In fact, nothing much out of the ordinary happened – uni, home, out a few nights. Plus I worked two shifts for Bunters – a corporate cocktail party one night and serving in a sponsor's box at the football on the Saturday. I did manage to slip on a prawn canapé and end up on the floor with an entire trayful of drinks lying in ruins around me, but that's another story.

Dunc and I went out a couple of times – to the pub with friends and to a movie (
Rogue
) that in my current frame of mine I really didn't feel like seeing. But when we tossed a coin between that and my choice, a Spanish film, he won.

Luckily he ended up staying both nights at my place. I never much liked going to his house – everything is so scarily immaculate there and I always got the feeling his parents didn't quite approve of me. They were nice to me and everything, but I'm nowhere near the princess I'm sure they're hoping for for their darling Duncan.

If his elder sister Sophia is anything to go by, then I'm way off the mark. She's already a junior associate in a big city law firm, loves dressing to the max for things like the races and wouldn't even look at a pair of jeans that cost less than two hundred bucks.

I suppose you could have said the same – in a different kind of way – about Mum not really approving of Dunc. However, by the time we got up
on the Sunday morning my oldies had already left to go sailing with friends on the harbour, so we had the place to ourselves for the day. Milly and a couple of others came over, and we ended up lolling around and watching a couple of DVDs. I had another assignment looming, but as usual that could wait.

And then the very next day, just as I was starting to relax, the ticking stopped and a small bomb went off.

‘Hey – Alice-stroke-Wilda's sister!'

I froze, my breath seizing in my throat, then spun around. As did Dunc, who was walking with me along one of the colonnades.

There he was, Andy, sitting cross-legged with some people just across the lawn. In another torn T-shirt and baggy jeans. Eyes glittering through the shaggy fringe.

‘What the–'

That was Dunc, beside me.

‘Hey,' cried Andy to his companions, who were turning round, glancing over their shoulders. ‘Look! It's Mysterious Wilda, or Alice, or whatever her name is!'

The other two were in fact Chet and his housemate, May. They gave little waves; I guess I must've made one back. I was mainly focused on Andy, who to my horror had jumped to his feet and was heading towards us.

It was almost an out-of-body experience; I could see myself standing there, rooted to the spot. And then he was with us, smiling.

‘Hey – how's your sister?'

I stared at him – it was impossible to tell if he was joking or serious. Had he already heard about my fraudulent claim? Had he perhaps even
met
Wilda?

I felt like turning round and running, as far and as fast as my legs would carry me.

‘What the–'

This was Dunc again, like a stuck record. Andy and I both looked at him. Brow furrowed, he was staring from Andy to me and back again.

Andy's amused gaze swung back to me and I knew he'd got an instant handle on him.
The boyfriend
. . .

This was my chance, I suddenly thought, to clear things up – about Wilda.

‘I'm not–' I started.

But Dunc was butting in, over the top of me.

‘What the hell's going on?'

His normally even tone sounded quite harsh. I inwardly cringed, willing him to chill.

Andy, however, was already backing off.

‘Hey,' he cried, laughing and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, ‘just kidding!' But when he sneaked a tiny glance at me again I could see the curiosity alive in his eyes.

I tried again.

‘Look,' I said, conscious of my own red face, ‘I need to explain–'

But Andy wasn't letting me. Not now, anyway.

‘It's cool,' he interrupted. His eyes glinted. ‘No need!' He turned to Dunc. ‘If Alice here wants to remain mysterious, that's her prerogative.'

Then he grinned at me again and I was torn between wanting to throttle him and bursting out laughing.

‘Gotta get back,' he added, his glance taking in both of us.

Subspecies
, I imagined him thinking,
boring couple
.

‘Catch ya.' He turned and went back to Chet and May.

Silence. I couldn't even bring myself to look at Dunc.

‘Come on,' I mumbled, ‘let's get a coffee.'

‘I
told
you,' I repeated, ‘it was that
other
guy – the one in the Rose and Star – who told him I was Wilda.'

Dunc shrugged, his gaze staring blankly across the half-empty cafeteria. A waitress at the next table was stacking plates onto a tray and pushing in chairs.

‘Whatever.'

‘Well it was!' I stared at him; his eyes refused to meet mine.

‘
Dunc
–'

His gaze swung back to me. ‘If you say so, OK?' Another shrug. ‘I really couldn't give a shit; it's you that seems so keen to tell me everything.'

Our eyes met.

‘What's
that
supposed to mean?' I asked finally.

He made a slight, strange face.

‘You tell me.'

‘Oh, for god's
sake
!' I cried, banging my cup down on the saucer. Then I glanced sideways; the waitress was eyeing us, semicuriously. This, I thought vaguely, was probably about her fifth girl–boy tiff for the day.

I leant forward, lowering my voice. ‘This whole thing's so stupid – it's been blown out of the water! It's not
my
fault that bloody girl looks like me!'

Dunc picked up his spoon and started scraping the froth around.

‘Yeah, but you didn't have to go chasing after her.'

No, I thought, I didn't. But instead I retorted:

‘Well, why the hell shouldn't I? It's a free country – it's only natural to be curious.' I paused, then added, ‘I bet
you
would've done the same thing in my place!'

He shrugged yet again, his expression mulish.

No, I thought suddenly, you actually wouldn't have – done anything about it.

I felt like shaking him.

‘You go looking,' he said, after a moment, ‘you'll find all sorts of trouble.'

I got a momentary flash of copper-coloured scales and a small, black eye glinting. I swallowed; picked up my cup.

‘Oh, for god's sake! What
is
this? A few coincidences – so bloody what?' I took a sip and added, ‘It's all a bit of a laugh, actually–'

‘Yeah, well whatever-his-name certainly seems to think it is!'

I looked at him; he was looking hard at me. He's jealous, I thought suddenly.

My gawky reaction to Andy just now came rushing back to me; I could feel a humiliating blush start rising in my face, all over again.

Had I really been that uncool?

I dropped my gaze and took another slurp of coffee, despite everything, fighting a crazy urge to giggle.

‘Who?' I murmured finally. ‘A-Andy?'

I realised I hadn't introduced them.

‘Oh,
Andy
, is that his name?' He scowled. ‘Mr Ultra Cool.'

‘Dunc–'

‘Those rags he was wearing,' he added bitterly. ‘Probably all designer labels.'

I laughed, grateful to be able to channel the giggles into something legit. ‘I don't
think
so – he's not like that at all.'

Then of course, immediately regretted my words.

‘Oh, isn't he?' Dunc scowled again. ‘You seem to know him awfully well already!'

I stared back at him, still struggling to control myself. It was ridiculous – as though he was forcing me to admit to a situation that didn't exist.

‘Oh, for god's
sake
,' I repeated, taking shelter behind righteous anger. ‘Don't be so pathetic!' I leant forward again and put my hand on his. ‘I . . . don't know him, not at all! I just happen to have bumped into him a couple of times, that's all.'

This finally seemed to penetrate. He conceded a wry little laugh and squeezed my fingers. So I consolidated my gain by shifting onto the attack.

‘I mean, it's not as though I've
chosen
to see him! I don't go and sit with him in
lectures
or anything, like you and your lovely Miss Commerce!'