The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (39 page)

It was like an ambush!

It was like one of those
interventions
when they try to get people to stop taking drugs!!!

I could only calm them down by promising to go to the doctor as soon as I get back from the Blue Mountains.

But after that, the atmosphere had changed.

And I kept looking at the phone, waiting for my dad to ring.

And now it is after 11.00 pm, and there's less than an hour of my birthday left.

To be honest, I'm tired of getting things wrong. When it first happened, at the lawyer's office, I thought:
well, that's a good
lesson.
But since then I've had enough of learning. Eleanora turning out to be a lonely lady with a baby. And Dad not being the one who phoned this morning, or sent that postcard—

Hey, an e-mail just came in—I won't have any expectations . . .

Ha! It's from my dad! He made it, after all, just in time . . .

I'll read his birthday greetings, and then I'll go to bed.

TO:  
[email protected]
FROM:  
[email protected]
SENT:   Friday, 11.20 pm
SUBJECT:   Your e-mail

Hi Bindy,
It was around this time a few weeks back that I received an e-mail from you. You may recall that you said Anthony was downstairs in the hallway sorting laundry.

Now, the funny thing was, Anthony himself phoned that very moment to say ‘hi'. He was calling from a party, he said, at Sam's place, and hadn't been home all day.

That didn't bother me too much—thought you must have been mistaken—but it did get me wondering.

And today, I finally got back to Sydney from Tas., & didn't go straight home. Was driving by that drama school Anthony wanted to go to, and, on a whim, stopped the car—and guess what? He's enrolled. Guess who pays the fees? Your mother. Recalled that Sam's family moved to the city to be closer to the school—so, when I got home just now, I called their place, talked to Sam's parents, and the truth came out.

Turns out your brother's not staying there with you and your Auntie V., Bindy. He's staying with his friend, Sam, and going to a school that I forbade.

I'll talk to your mother about this when she gets in. She wasn't here when I got home. That sounds like her car now—

But wanted you to know right away—

Bad enough that your mum and Anthony deceived me.

Never thought my Bindy capable.

Dad

My Buddy Diary

By Bindy Mackenzie

Friday, 11.30 pm, My Birthday
I have just done something remarkable.

I have phoned Finnegan Blonde.

I did not know what else to do.

I have his number programmed into my mobile, from our first buddy session. I pressed the button. I held the phone hard against my ear. The sound of his voice seemed to fling me across the room.

But it was just voicemail.

I left the following message:

‘Hello. This is Bindy Mackenzie. I hope I have not disturbed you. I am phoning in accordance with the Buddy Plan. I'd like to request an appointment with you. Okay. Thank you very much.'

Then I pressed END.

FROM THE TRANSCRIPT FILE OF BINDY MACKENZIE
Very late Friday—no, I suppose it is very early Saturday
It is 1.45 am on the night of my birthday.

I am in a nightclub.

I sit at a round table which wobbles as I type. The table is on a balcony, just above the stage. From here, we watched a band perform
—
vanished now.

The music was a revelation
—
I felt it pound through my being. I believe I swayed, jigged and tapped in my seat
—
I almost wished we'd chosen to be down amongst the audience rather than safe up here at a table. Still, from here I could see the band clearly. I saw sweat form and slide down the lead singer's cheeks. I saw a bearded man, dressed in black, in the shadows just off-stage. I wondered: why? And then, as I watched, the lead singer finished a song
—
and lifted his electric guitar from his shoulders. The bearded man slid forward from the shadows, took it in one hand, and offered, instead, an acoustic guitar. The lead singer accepted. He slung it over his shoulders. He tried it out. The drummer hit his drumsticks together, to beat in the next song.

The chair beside me is empty. Finnegan has gone to get drinks.

From downstairs, I hear:

A young man's voice:
The drums were just visceral sounding.
A girl's voice:
We shouldn't always stand next to the speakers like that? In the end, we'll end up deaf.
An excited voice:
They didn't do that hanging tree song, do you want to get a taxi, I don't want to wait for the bus, or do you reckon we should wait for the bus?

[
These are the voices of stragglers, wandering out of this nightclub now, under the bright, white lights, leaving crushed paper cups, cigarette stubs
—
now the room is almost empty
—
but look, it's the drummer and the bass guitarist! They are smoking cigarettes
(
disappointing
).]

Drummer:
Every week we rehearse, and there's never one rehearsal where everyone's—
Bass guitarist:
On time. I know.
Drummer:
Yeah, that, but I mean, every week there's some attitude. There's just—it's like the difference between the band and everything else is just—there's just no difference. It's like life.
Bass guitarist:
Exactly. You've got to take life as it is. It's like when Zoe's here and, like, her vocals just don't tell us where to go? And I'm like, I'm like—you know. And like with Michael, I'm like,
You've gotta memorise it, man. You don't use sheets.
To Michael, I mean. And it's like—you know, you gotta make that choice. Every day. It's like, you gotta stop it all manifesting.

Night Time Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Saturday, 3.00 am

Back home from the nightclub, and cannot imagine sleeping.

My ears still ring, oddly, from the music.

Strange, unexpected evening!

What happened was this: I left a message on Finnegan's phone. Once I had done so, I felt flooded with relief, as if, somehow, I had just fixed everything with my dad. When I saw Dad's e-mail I felt my face freeze from the inside. I felt despair so pure it made me panic. I phoned Finnegan, scribbled an entry in my Buddy Diary, and sat on my bed, calm.

Then, almost immediately, I wanted to shoot myself. I was no longer frozen, but burning with mortification.
What had I done?

I had phoned Finnegan Blonde! At 11.30 pm! And he would get my message and think:
Aren't we seeing each other tomorrow at the Blue Mountains? Why is she phoning me now? Why didn't she just wait and talk to me tomorrow like a NORMAL person?

But, I argued, defending myself, what else was I supposed to do? My world was at an end. I could scarcely call my
parents—they would be confronting one another, and I would only make it worse. I could not call Anthony—it was too late and I might wake Sam's family. Veronica and Jake were asleep.
I had to talk to somebody.

And Finnegan had said he likes the night time! He said he likes to stay awake all night!

But every night?

He was probably fast asleep when I called! Because we're going to the mountains early tomorrow! I probably woke him up from a happy dream! And right now he was staring at his phone, thinking to himself:
whoever phoned just then? Whoever left that message? I will kill them.

I was wondering whether there was a way to contact a phone company and get a voicemail message deleted from someone else's phone—when my phone rang.

It was Finnegan.

‘You want to meet right now?' he said.

I was surprised into silence.

‘I'm on Gilbert Road. Just coming up to the lights on Old Northern Road. That far from you?'

I shook my head slowly, although he could not see me.

Then I gave him directions. I was still wearing my new clothes, and felt relieved that I had not taken my hair down yet. I slung my laptop over my shoulder, slipped through the back door, and found myself, alone and trembling, on the cold, dark street.

A small, white car slid up.

And there was Finnegan Blonde, leaning over to open the passenger door for me. His eyes widened when he saw my laptop, then the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. I bring my laptop everywhere: I feel lost without it.

I had trouble with the seatbelt and Finnegan glanced over
as he accelerated away from the kerb. This panicked me: he was glancing over and seeing me fail with the seatbelt! I gasped slightly, wrenched the belt again, and plunged it into its clasp. Relief.

Then, as he drove, he began to chat in a low, idle voice— something about the streetlights around this neighbourhood, about a possum he'd just seen running along a wire, about the band we were on our way to see, about the guy he knew who ran the club—glancing and talking, while at the same time
driving.
Turning the steering wheel,
changing
gears, switching on indicators—all of it!

Driving! Was he old enough to drive as well as this? I had seen no P-plates on the car. Should I remind him of the penalties for failure to display? I decided against this.

It occurred to me that he was talking to try to relax me.

I realised I must look anxious.

For some reason, I was sitting with my back straight, not allowing it to touch any part of the seat. As if I were afraid the seat would smudge my back. Also, I was holding my chin up, at a peculiar angle, looking out of the car window—as if I was intrigued by the tops of telegraph poles.

I knew I must look curious, yet I could not seem to make myself relax.

I tried opening the window. A chill breeze wafted in. This tensed my body further.

‘Mm,' I said, now and again, in response to Finnegan's words (I was still peering up out of the window).

Eventually, he stopped talking and we drove in silence for a few moments. My teeth began to chatter from the cold.

Actually, the sound of my teeth chattering filled the car.

Finnegan glanced over again.

There was concern, and confusion, on his face.

‘You want—' He began, then changed his mind. ‘You can close the window if you like.'

‘No, no,' I shivered, ‘it's fine.'

But I was freezing.

A few moments later, I very quietly closed the window.

Generously, Finnegan switched on the heater. I think the word for the expression on his face is ‘consternation'.

Now, as my body warmed, I did relax a little, and my teeth slowly stopped their clattering.

Finnegan turned on some music.

‘This is the guys we're seeing,' he said, pointing to the CD player. ‘This is their demo CD. I used to kind of follow them up in Queensland.'

Only then did I register what he had been saying—we were going to
see a band.
In a
club.
At
midnight.

I stared at him in wonder.

But it was easy.

I went to a nightclub and saw a band. And it was easy!

Well, it helped that Finnegan knew the manager, I suppose. We did not go in the front door, where crowds were gathering, and where, I expect, they would have asked us for proof of age. I had been feeling fatalistic about that—I had decided to shrug slowly, open out my hands and say, ‘You got me. I have no ID. And do you know why? I am not yet eighteen.' I wondered if the police would be called at once. Or whether Finnegan and I would pivot on our heels, sprint to his car, and go to a safe bright place instead, like McDonald's. Maybe we'd have to dye our hair in the bathrooms and don overcoats! Take off on a wild roadtrip to Queensland!

However, Finnegan led me around the side of the club, and a shifty-looking fellow let us in.

We found ourselves amidst gathering crowds on the dance floor in front of a stage.

Finnegan was polite.

‘Something to drink?' he said.

I shook my head quickly, in a panic. Something to
drink
! Was he serious?!

‘You want to go up to the balcony,' he suggested, ‘where we can talk?'

This time I nodded, coolly.

He took the narrow stairs onto the balcony, two steps at a time. I followed more slowly.

There were only three or four tables lined along the balcony, and we were alone. It was much quieter here. My heart began to thud. I had scarcely said a word since I got into his car—but now he would expect me to speak.

‘The band won't start for another half hour,' Finnegan explained, elbows on the table. The table wobbled violently, and he lifted his elbows and began to shift it around. ‘So, how's things?' he said, as he battled with the table.

He was giving me an opportunity to talk!

At once, it seemed ridiculous.

That I had phoned in the middle of the night to discuss a family situation!

Was I mad?

I felt faint with horror. Then: a flash of inspiration.

‘I invited you to this meeting,' I began (and felt pleased with my official tone), ‘because I am concerned about some members of our FAD group.'

He raised his eyebrows, sitting back, gazing at my face. I thought there was the slightest smile at the edges of his mouth.

‘As I'm sure you know,' I said, ‘Sergio and Elizabeth are—
seeing one another. But earlier this week, while at Castle Hill library, I clearly saw Sergio with
Astrid
—and they were— behaving like—
they
were together.'

Finnegan's eyebrows again. But he leaned forward, serious.

‘You think Sergio's cheating on Liz?'

We discussed the issue for a while—at least, I expressed my views on cheating, its prevalence in the school yard, the responsibility of the third party observer, my shock at seeing Sergio with Astrid—and Finnegan appeared to accept what I was saying.

Then he tilted his head at me and said, ‘Are you sure that Sergio and Liz are together? I know they're friends, but I thought I'd heard something about Liz being with a guy from Brookfield.'

Now I stared at him in shock.

‘I was kind of thinking of asking Liz out myself a while back,' he explained, ‘but then I heard about this Brookfield guy. Em's got a guy at Brookfield, too. Someone named Charlie? I guess it's the place to get guys if you're an Ashbury girl.'

‘Sergio and Elizabeth are not
together?
' I whispered. ‘I've been wrong about that
too?
!
.
How many mistakes can a single person
make?
!'

And suddenly I found that I was telling him my story.

How I had been making mistakes all day, thinking the phone ringing was my dad and it was really just the piano teacher, or the bookshop owner ringing to tell me I'd lost my job, and
then
I told him how I had made the mistake of sending an e-mail to Dad a few weeks ago, saying that my brother was downstairs, at the same time as my brother was phoning him from the other side of the city.

‘Huh,' said Finnegan, frowning ferociously—that is, trying really hard to understand what I was saying.

I told the Anthony story. He shook his head rapidly, now and then, as if to clear away confusion. His face was serious. It was as if he
knew
that this was the real reason for my call.

‘So,' he said, drumming two fingers on the table, ‘your brother wanted to go to a performing arts school, and your mother wanted him to go to this school, and your mother was happy to pay the fees—but
still
your dad wouldn't let him go?'

‘Right,' I said. ‘Right, so that's why—'

‘So that's why you all decided to pretend that your brother was still going to Ashbury with you, and living with your Auntie Veronica like you, when he was actually living with his friend, Sam, in the city, and going to this school?'

Such a sharp mind!

To remember all those names!

To pinpoint the issues!

I nodded, in awe.

‘You weren't worried that your dad would come by to see you guys at your Auntie Veronica's some time, and—I don't know, ask to see your rooms?'

‘Well, no, see, my dad isn't the type to—to visit—and he'd never—I can't imagine him asking to see our . . .'

‘So your
dad
,' began Finnegan, slowly, ‘your
dad
is the kind of guy who—'

Maybe he saw panic in my eyes, because he changed direction.

‘Well, what I think,' he said, ‘is that was an unfair situation for you to be in.' And he seemed genuinely angry!

But he calmed down almost immediately, and said, ‘I betcha it'll all be better now it's out in the open. And I bet
your dad forgives you right away. What else could you do? If you'd told him about your brother you'd've been a dobber. Does he want a dobber for a daughter? Besides, it's three against one.'

He smiled a dazzling smile.

Next he turned and looked towards the stage, frowning slightly, so I thought he was wondering when the band was about to start. But he turned back with the same thoughtful frown and said, ‘We'll be going to the mountains tomorrow, so that's good. You'll be out of town while your family sort this out, and by the time you get back, it'll be fixed. Your dad'll get over your brother going to that school, now it's a done deal. And he'll get why you had to cover for your brother. You had no choice.'

I was not so sure.

‘Well,' I said, ‘it's my birthday today, or, I guess it's over now because it's after midnight, but it was my birthday today, and Dad didn't even say happy birthday! That's how mad he is with me. Unless he just forgot.'

Finnegan breathed in sharply, and let his elbows collapse on the table so that he leaned closer to me. ‘It's your birthday,' he said. I think his voice was tender. I was having trouble concentrating on tone: his face was so close to mine.

‘Well, not really, not any more.'

‘It's still your birthday,' he asserted. ‘It stays your birthday until you fall asleep.' He sat back in his chair. ‘Happy birthday.'

I felt desperately embarrassed.

I thought:
enough about me! I must ask about him!

What are his interests? Should I ask about his home town in Queensland? That cousin he used to play imaginary games with as a child? How the cousin died last year? His family?
Siblings? What he thought of Ashbury compared to his old school?

‘Isn't it amazing,' I said, ‘that the city of Cincinnati is built on a foundation of pigs?'

At that moment, the lights dimmed and the band ran onto the stage.

It was after the band had finished performing that it happened.

First, Finnegan went to get drinks for us—I had seen someone at another table with a Coke, and realised that soft drinks were allowed. I was not sure what to do while waiting for him, so I opened my computer and typed up transcripts.

I was so busy typing that I did not hear Finnegan return.

I did not realise he was standing behind me.

I did not realise, that is, until two glasses were placed on the table—and
I felt two hands in my hair.

Now, I wear my hair in tightly coiled plaits, pinned to either side of my head.

Finnegan's hands, to be perfectly honest, were not quite
in my hair.
They were, however, slowly taking the pins from my plaits.

I did not know what to do.

I sat very still and quiet.

His fingers worked away gently, taking one pin at a time, and dropping them onto the table. He then began unwinding my plaits, pulling them apart.

After a moment, he spoke.

‘What are you always writing on that thing?' he said, meaning my laptop.