Shadows (3 page)

The Pan Beach library and gallery looms over the esplanade, its gleaming glass façade reflecting the sky and rolling surf across the road. A towering wave sculpture on the roof casts an abstract shadow over the beach every afternoon. The centre opened just before I hit town, and it still sparks arguments about whether it has put Pan Beach on the cultural map or sold its soul to the sea-change millionaires whose mansions dominate the headland. It’s my haven. All those books downstairs, the art upstairs, and the smell of freshly ground coffee coming through the window that connects the Green Bean to the library.

But this morning I sense the panic as soon as the automatic glass doors close behind me.

All but one of the couches around the window to the
Green Bean have been pushed aside, and about thirty-five people are sitting in plastic chairs, waiting. On the lone couch is Jacques, whose exhibition opened upstairs last night. He’s not supposed to be sitting alone.

I find Jane, our pregnant head librarian, with her head in the toilet.

‘You have to take the session,’ she says.

‘Uh-huh. Jacques is a freak. Find someone else.’

She rests her cheek on the toilet seat, her face pale and sweaty. ‘You know more about art than anyone else here.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Last week you debated the differences between the Uffizi and Accademia galleries like you’d spent a year in Florence.’ Jane wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Just do it, please.’

Normally, I’d stand my ground, but if there’s no way she can interview Jacques without throwing up all over him, as entertaining as that might be…

I refill her water bottle. ‘Where are your questions?’

Two minutes later, I’m on the couch with Jacques. Mid-sixties. Lanky. Makes objects from human hair. And toenails and fingernails. Pretty much anything discarded from the human body, even dead skin. Upstairs is a bizarre array of items—cups, a birdcage, parchment, soap and, most disturbingly, a wedding dress—all made from things that were once part of the human body.

The gathering is a mix of familiar faces—all wearing more black than is usual in Pan Beach, some with notepads and pens—and a few backpackers attracted by the free orange juice and muffins. I clear my throat, welcome Jacques, and everyone settles down.

‘So, Jacques,’ I begin. ‘How do you source your materials?’

He nods, expecting the question. ‘My niece has a day spa. The things I use to create my objects are all a byproduct of her work.’

‘A local day spa?’ There are three in and around town. A perfectly manicured woman in the front row looks ill, probably wondering if she’s inadvertently featured in Jacques’ creations.

‘No, no. It’s in the city.’ He sits forward, wanting a tougher question. But I’m not done with this one yet.

‘Was she at all concerned about what you planned to do with the materials?’

He smiles and eases himself back against the couch. ‘It’s interesting you assume she would be repulsed by the request. That goes to the very heart of the nature of my work.’

‘I think it’s a valid question.’

‘Of course you do. But you are young, and perhaps you can’t see beyond your limited experience to think laterally.’

I smile back at him. ‘So, my question isn’t legitimate because I’m young? I thought your work was meant to
speak to everyone, not just those
experienced
enough to understand it.’

Jacques sits back up. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He touches his bald head.

‘Is there any of
you
in your work?’ I glance up at his head and there are a few muffled laughs.

‘Would it upset you if I said yes?’

I write about disembowelment and beheadings. What do I care what some creep does with his nail clippings? But what I say is, ‘Not at all. It’s one of the great things about being young: having an open mind.’ Although, quietly, I hope that if he’s used his own hair, it’s come from above his navel.

I check the audience. Definitely engaged, which is better than them staring off into space, wishing they’d just gone to the Green Bean and read the paper.

A movement to my right catches my attention.

It’s Rafa.

He’s leaning against the end of the nearest stack. It’s as much of a jolt seeing him now as it was in the bar. I’d started to wonder if I’d imagined his likeness to Matt. But it’s broad daylight, I’m completely sober, and Rafa is still a dead ringer for him. All broad shoulders, toned arms, and short, mussed hair. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but he’s been waiting for me to discover him. He gives me a slow smile.

I’ve lost track of what Jacques is saying.

‘…and it makes all the difference, don’t you agree?’ Jacques is looking at me, eyebrows raised. I give a noncommittal nod.

‘Good,’ he says, and I hope I haven’t just given him the upper hand in the conversation. ‘Human hair has been used in artwork and in other objects of beauty for thousands of years,’ Jacques continues. ‘I’ve simply taken the notion a step further. As humans, we can hold something of value for generations, and then discard it as worthless. We throw away what no longer has meaning or purpose for us—often with feelings of disgust—ignoring the fact that it may still thrive in another form. My work is a metaphor for how society turns its back on the things that were once integral to its existence, like religion and philosophy, or understanding the stars and the elements.’ Jacques’ face is alive now, his hands in the air.

Rafa picks up a pencil and feigns stabbing himself in the eye. My nostrils flare from the effort of not reacting.

‘These things that we reject…they don’t just disappear. Many of them may even outlast us.’

The session ends. I direct Jacques and a few curious hangers-on back to the muffin table so I can pack up the chairs. I half-expect Rafa to help, but he stays leaning against the bookshelf, hands in his pockets.

When I stack the last chair, he comes over. He’s dressed
more like a local today, in a white cotton shirt and lightweight cargos, but he’d never be mistaken for a surfer.

‘I didn’t realise you were a fan of Jacques’ work.’ I fuss with the last chair to avoid making eye contact.

He gives a short laugh. ‘What a tool.’

I check to make sure Jacques hasn’t overheard, but he’s too busy talking about himself. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just wanted to see you in action.’

I don’t know what to say to that, so I head to the Green Bean window and he follows. The smell of coffee and fresh blueberry friands makes my mouth water.

‘You distracted me last night,’ he says, close to my ear to be heard over the clattering cups. ‘Caught me off guard.’ He’s not that much taller than me, but for a moment I feel dwarfed by him. ‘We still need to talk.’

‘About what?’ I catch Maggie’s eye in the cafe and she comes over before he can answer. Her smile falters when she sees Rafa.

He steps around me and rests his elbows on the counter. ‘I should have introduced myself last night. I’m Rafa.’ His smile is all warmth and charm. He may have licked my neck last night, but he didn’t give me
that
smile.

‘Oh,’ she says, completely thrown. ‘I’m Maggie. Gaby’s housemate.’ They shake hands. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll
have my usual,’ I say.

She grins. ‘I know what you’ll have. I was asking Rafa.’
‘I’ll have an espresso, thank you, Maggie.’

Maggie looks from me to Rafa and back to me again. I know that look.

‘What time are you knocking off?’ she asks me.

‘Four-thirty.’

‘Why don’t you bring Rafa home for dinner? Jason’s coming over.’

I lift my eyebrows at her. ‘Who’s Jason?’ Maggie has a steady string of admirers, but few of them make it past our front door.

‘He’s a law grad who’s taken a year off to have some fun.’

‘And when did you meet him?’

She gives me a sly smile. ‘Last night.’

‘The shirtless six-pack?’

‘I keep telling you, all sorts of people come here to surf.’

I glance at Rafa. I’ll admit, I’m equal parts fascinated and disturbed by him. I don’t understand why I have no memory of Jude knowing him, or why he acts like he knows me.

‘Well?’ Maggie sets out cups for our coffees.

‘You want to try out Maggie’s cooking?’ I ask Rafa.

He shoves his hands back in his pockets. ‘Sure.’

I leave Maggie at the fish market on the way home, and walk up the hill, awkwardly holding a bottle of white wine. I’m breathing heavily when I reach our front gate and
preoccupied with the latch, so it takes a second to see him.

Rafa is standing in our tiny front yard under the jacaranda tree. The last of the purple blossoms disappeared a few weeks ago, and the tree is now a dense canopy of green. Rafa is dead still, watching me intently. The afternoon light has turned orange.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You’re not due here for another half-hour.’

He doesn’t move and something quivers in my stomach.

‘Just drop this shit, Gabe.’ He says it softly, as if it saddens him. ‘As much fun as last night was, I really don’t have time for games.’

I stand there, the bottle ice-cold against my chest. My fingers are numb.

‘You’re supposed to be dead,’ he says.

I cross the yard and put the wine down on the front steps. When I face him again, he has turned a little to the side and is flexing his fingers. ‘I didn’t come here to fight, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.’ His smile is wry. ‘I reckon I could take you in record time. You’ve gone soft.’

The power of speech finally returns to me. ‘What the
fuck
are you talking about?’

He paces under the tree, in the leafy shadow, his eyes on me. ‘You can drop the act. Your little friend’s still down the street.’

‘I don’t know who the hell you think I am—’

‘Fuck, Gabe, if you didn’t want to be found, why’d you
post that story on a website you’d know I’d read?’

My mouth falls open. ‘You read that?’

‘How do you think I found you?’

I step back and grab on to the railing of the front deck. The flowering shrubs by the fence blur and my legs feel weak. Pressure builds in my head. ‘You need to go.’

‘Just tell me how he died. Tell me what you did. If you and Jude got yourselves into trouble, I can help—’

I slam my fist on the railing. ‘We weren’t into anything! We were arguing over music and he took his eyes off the road. We rolled and went through a fence. A post came through the window and took his head off. Is that what you want to hear?’ I’m shouting at him, and I can’t stop. ‘His blood was all over me and I couldn’t find his head. I don’t know why I’m still alive—I wish I wasn’t!’

I’m shaking. From grief and rage and shock. Nothing feels real except this. Nothing ever feels as real as this pain. Except the loathing I have for Rafa right now. I’ve never spoken about the accident. Not when they cut me from the car, not when I was in the hospital, not when I was in rehab.

Rafa has stopped pacing. ‘His head?’ He swallows and looks away.

I’m taking deep breaths, trying to hold back tears. I am
not
crying in front of him.

Rafa rubs a hand over his face and his shoulders fold.
‘I wish I knew what the hell was going on here.’ He glances towards the road and sighs. By the time I look at the front gate and back to where he’s been standing, he’s gone. Dead leaves and a stray dandelion settle to the ground. I blink. Nobody moves that fast.

I don’t want Maggie to find me like this, so I go inside and lock myself in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the pale blue tiles on the floor. If I let go now, I won’t be able to stop. I run the shower and get in, shaking, and wait for the warm water to calm me.

What the hell
is
going on?

By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine. Jason turns up on time with a bottle of wine worth more than the entire contents of our fridge. He seems keen to impress Maggie, but he doesn’t talk in riddles, kiss her fiercely or demand to know why she’s not dead. So how serious about her can he be?

‘Is Rafa still coming?’ Maggie is pouring a second round of drinks. Her fish is in the oven and the kitchen smells of ginger and lime. Newt Faulkner is strumming out a tune from the speakers on the bench.

‘I doubt it.’

She puts the bottle down. ‘What happened?’

‘We had words.’

‘Gaby,’ she chides. ‘You hardly know him. How can
you be arguing already?’ But I can see in her eyes that she has an idea, and it’s not as comforting to her as I thought it would be.

Jason is sitting on a stool by the bench, relaxed and easy in our cramped home. ‘Men,’ he says and smiles.

He’s certainly easy on the eyes. His hair is even fairer than Maggie’s, and hangs to his shoulders in soft curls. He’s got an open face, with startlingly blue eyes. All this and a lawyer? Maggie may have hit the jackpot. She obviously thinks so—she can’t stop looking at him.

‘Shame they’re all bastards,’ I say to Jason and raise my glass.

He chokes on his drink, and then recovers. ‘So young, and yet so jaded.’

I shrug, and give him my best jaded smile, forcing myself to be sociable for Maggie’s sake.

‘So where are you from, originally?’ he asks.

Small talk. Great.

‘All over.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, my parents travelled a lot.’

‘Where are they now?’

Clearly Maggie didn’t cover every taboo topic with surfer boy here. ‘No idea. We lost touch a few years ago.’

His brow creases. ‘But what about when…’ He stops. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’

How can I go almost a year without talking about Jude and then have this many conversations about him in less than twenty-four hours? ‘They had Jude’s funeral while I was in intensive care, and they took his ashes with them.’

Jason opens his mouth and then closes it without speaking. I don’t blame him. What can you say to that?

My glass is empty, so I take it as my cue. ‘Look, I might just leave you two to it.’

Maggie blocks me on the way to the door. ‘Gaby. You need to eat, and I’ve made enough food to feed an army.’

Jason smiles. ‘And then maybe after dinner, we can head down to Rick’s and see who’s around town.’

Maggie gives him a look that says he’s heading in the right direction to make it well beyond the kitchen tonight. And on his first attempt too. I’d cheer for him if I wasn’t so preoccupied with my own troubles.

‘We could do that,’ I say. Part of me wants to see Rafa and punch him in the head. Part of me wants to beg him to tell me what’s going on. Only a very, very small part doesn’t want to see him at all. ‘But don’t come crying to me if it ends badly.’

The fish is delicious, and I’m glad Maggie made me stay for it. Jason helps her clean up as I push my wine glass around the table. They have an easy way with each other that makes my chest ache. He’s been asking her about organic food, telling her about a time he drank a
fifty-dollar cup of coffee made from berries that passed through some Asian cat’s stomach. She says it sounds disgusting. They laugh a lot. Maybe if I’d shown more interest in Simon I’d be enjoying that sort of uncomplicated attention myself right now.

We take a shortcut through the park halfway down the hill on our way to the esplanade. With the sun now behind the headland it’s deserted. The lamps have come on under the camphor laurels, and the barbecues are squat silhouettes beyond the playground. The smell of burnt sausages lingers in the air.

My stomach is churning at the thought of seeing Rafa at the bar. Will he pretend nothing’s happened? Will we talk? What if he’s not there? What if he is?

I’m still stewing over it when a figure emerges out of the trees and steps onto the path ahead of us.

‘I don’t believe it.’ The voice is deep, male and surprised. I look at Maggie and Jason, assuming one of them knows him, but they’re looking at each other and me with the same expectation.

I step forward. There’s enough light from the dusk sky to see that he’s in his mid-twenties, with straight dark hair to his shoulders and a goatee. His long-sleeved shirt and heavy-duty jeans suggest he hasn’t been in town long.

‘Gabriella.’

I freeze. Nobody calls me that. Ever.

He’s shaking his head, slowly. ‘I would have sworn this was a trap. I never expected to find you here.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t believe you’re alive. Why didn’t you just come home?’

A coldness settles in my stomach. I’ve never seen this guy before.

‘Friend of yours?’ Jason asks, moving in front of me in an oddly protective gesture.

‘No. And I’m getting sick of being told I should be dead.’

Goatee lets out a small laugh. ‘It’s just a shock to see you.’

A breeze stirs behind me, caressing my hair. Goatee’s face hardens. ‘So, it’s true then.’ All friendliness is gone from his voice.

I turn and stumble. Rafa is standing close by, not looking at me. ‘Finders keepers,’ he says.

‘Rafael, you have no claim here.’

‘How can you be so sure? You didn’t even know she was alive.’ Rafa moves closer to me, and even though Goatee is a few metres away, he steps back. ‘You don’t know what happened, do you?’ Rafa asks.

‘Do you?’

Rafa ignores him. ‘How did you find her?’

‘Followed you.’

‘Bullshit. You can’t track me any more than I can track you.’

Goatee smiles. ‘You need to get with the times, Rafa. We tracked you online. Honestly, we thought you were bored and planted that story to draw us into a fight.’

I look from one to the other. This has to stop. ‘Will somebody please tell me what the
fuck
is going on here?’

Goatee tsks. ‘I see you haven’t lost that foul mouth.’

Maggie is beside me, linking her arm through mine. ‘Let’s just go. We’ll get to Rick’s and then we can sort out all of this inside.’ She pulls me across the path towards the playground and, beyond it, the bright safety of the supermarket. We’ve taken only half a dozen steps when something flashes out of the trees and slams into us.

Maggie cries out and we both hit the grass. Pain jolts through my shoulder and I raise my head to see a girl roll past me and spring back up. She’s about my age, dressed in a dark shirt and jeans, like Goatee, her black hair tied in a severe ponytail. She’s already crouched, ready to attack again. Her head whips around to Jason, who’s helping Maggie back to her feet.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says to him. ‘Just stay there and you won’t get hurt.’

I scramble back, the grass cool and slick under my fingers, and she follows, more cautious now.

‘What do you want?’ My voice is hoarse.

‘Taya,’ Goatee says, flicking nervous glances at Rafa, but moving closer. ‘Be careful.’

Taya hasn’t taken her eyes from me. ‘I want to know why you betrayed us.’ Another step. ‘Was it worth it? Did you find Semyaza?’

I back up against a tree with nowhere to go. Panicked, I look for Rafa. I try to stand, but my legs don’t want to work.

‘You know they’ll do what they have to, Gabe, to take you back,’ Rafa says. He’s still on the other side of the path, his face in shadow. ‘I suggest you drop the bullshit right now. Get up and fight.’

‘You bastard.’ Jason glares at Rafa, and then charges across the path at Goatee. Goatee doesn’t flinch. He spins around and kicks Jason in the chest, hard, sending him flying.

‘Stop it!’ Maggie rushes over to him. ‘Rafa, what’s going on?’ She helps Jason sit up. There’s blood trickling from her knee.

Rafa doesn’t move.

There’s grass and a piece of broken glass under my fingertips. In the distance, bass thumps from somewhere on the esplanade. The dusk has slipped out of the sky and the dark is hunkering down. As I crouch there, it occurs to me this may be my last twilight. I may actually die here. A few months ago, I might have welcomed it. But not now. And not here, like this.

A jolt of adrenaline launches me to my feet, but before I can swing at Taya, she smashes her fist into the side
of my head. The park reels around me and I reach for a branch to steady myself as she grabs the back of my shirt. I’m airborne. And then I slam into a tree. I bounce off it. Face-plant into the dirt. My ribs are in serious trouble. There’s blood in my mouth and on my face. I’m still trying to work out if I can move when someone kicks me in the kidneys. White light explodes behind my eyelids. I grunt and curl into a ball, but the kicks keep coming. Dimly, I hope Maggie has got away.

‘You’re a traitor.’ Taya is panting as she lays her boot into me, this time to my spine. ‘You’re going to tell us—’ But she doesn’t finish. There’s a yelp, and then silence. I lie there, every breath like a knife in my lungs.

And then Rafa is kneeling down in front of me. He touches my face and tries to roll me over, but my whimpering stills his hands.

‘Oh, shit,’ he says. ‘Shit. Shit.’ He stands, and all I can see are his boots as he paces in front of me. I’m losing consciousness when he crouches down again, his warm fingers back on my face.
‘Fuck.’