The Protected (4 page)

Despite all of that, I wasn't worried about Tara. I figured I would just keep out of her way and maybe get the hem of my skirt taken up. I didn't care what Tara and her little posse thought about me. I had Charlotte.

***

Seven

Down the back of St Joseph's, behind D Building is an agriculture plot. The ag students have to change into overalls and gumboots for class because they spend their time mending fences and chasing the small herd of goats that the school has bred. (A very useful life skill to have, I'm sure.) There's one building with a
classroom and another storeroom that houses an
egg incubator and textbooks about crop rotation. A veranda wraps around the building and it is the perfect place to have recess and lunch. I sit there unseen, except for the goats who peer at me occasionally, shuddering nervously if I make a sudden movement.

I have a very direct and discreet route from the Science labs across to the ag plot. Technically students are not supposed to be at the ag plot unsupervised, definitely not at recess. But it is one of the few hidden places that the Clones haven't colonised for smoking.

I am aware of someone walking right next to me, but I keep my eyes firmly ahead until he speaks.

‘Hey, Jane Eyre.'

I don't know what to do. I glance at him and keep walking.

‘Can I have a word?' Josh ducks in front of me, walking backwards to keep a few steps ahead of me.

‘Okay.'

‘Can you slow down?'

I slow.

‘I want to apologise. For the fruit. Totally didn't mean to hit you.'

‘That's okay.'

‘You are literally the last person I would want to hit with fruit. There are so many other people who are more fruit-hit worthy than you.'

‘Okay.'

‘Good. Where you going?'

‘Nowhere.'

‘You walk pretty fast for a girl who isn't going anywhere. You going to sneak a smoke?'

‘No.'

‘Nice try, Jane Eyre. I know your type – smart, quiet, smoke like a chimney. All right, well, I'll see you around. Take it easy.'

And with that he wanders off towards the canteen.

*

In the afternoon I get home and my mother is sitting on the couch – an island in a sea of paper: junk mail, discount pizza coupons, bills, the local newspaper (complete with a fascinating headline about a ‘monster mushroom' the local dentist has found in his backyard). She is examining a letter from the solicitor's office. I recognise the letterhead. After a while she notices me standing there and looks up, her expression like I'm another piece of administration that needs tending to – and I've jumped the queue.

‘Um, I was wondering, were you going to go to the supermarket at some stage? It's just, we're kind of low on a few things … food and stuff. Nan bought some but there's stuff we need.'

She looks like she can't quite remember what food is.

‘Grab my purse, you can buy your lunch at school tomorrow.'

‘Yeah. They don't really sell toilet paper at the canteen, Mum. Sorry …'

She looks down at the piles of paper around her and I'm nervous she's considering them as a viable toilet paper substitute.

‘You can get the bus to the shops near Johnson Street.' Her voice faults a fraction over the street name. ‘I'll give you some money.'

And once again my lifestyle merges ever closer to that of an eighty-year-old's.

*

At four in the afternoon the sun is no weaker than it was at noon. I wear a jumper anyway. It's a habit I have, like an extra layer of protection between me and the world. There is the faint smell of charred eucalyptus on the breeze. Back-burning, probably. All those tiny bush-creatures incinerated in place of our homes. Better to be safe than sorry.

The bus is suitably furnished with a handful of nannas. They all sit up the front, clutching the seat handles, umbrellas in tow in case the sky should suddenly change from searing blue and inflict a nasty surprise on us all. Nanna used to take us on bus trips to the shopping centre near her house. Katie and I never caught buses before high school and the whole experience was as exciting as the shopping centre itself. Nanna would give us each a handful of coins which we would dutifully hand to the driver and deliver our well-rehearsed line, ‘One child to Eastways Shopping Centre, please'. My coins were always slippery in my palm by the time they got to the driver.

Katie rarely gave Nanna any trouble. When Mum came to collect us from Nanna's she would ask quietly, ‘How was Katie?' and Nanna would reply that she was an angel and she didn't know what Mum was always going on about. Later, Katie would proudly empty her pockets and show me all the stuff she had nicked from Kmart.

The bus stops at the Johnson Street intersection. I can see where someone has tied a bunch of fresh tiger lillies to the telegraph pole on the corner. I have no idea who keeps doing that.

The supermarket is clogged with the usual after-school crowd: primary school kids brandishing Paddle Pops, mums pushing trolleys laden with groceries, teenagers using the magazine aisle as a library. I spend what feels like hours in front of the cheese section trying to remember if it's Tasty we usually get or Colby. Then there's the plethora of brands to choose from. Seriously, you could spend days in here just trying to decide on a block of cheese. I end up picking one at random because it seems easier and continue to inch along the dairy aisle toward the next challenge: milk.

And then I see them, right in front of me, and it's too late to turn around or duck past like I haven't noticed. Tara is holding a carton of chocolate milk, she seems to be assessing the nutritional content. Charlotte sees me first and I recognise the brief moment of panic on her face before she manages to open her mouth.

‘Hi Hannah.'

Tara looks up from the milk. ‘Oh. Hi Hannah.'

‘Hi.'

There is an awkward pause. ‘Hey, there's a party at Jared Marsh's this Saturday. You know Jared? You should totally come. You on Facebook? I'll message you the deets.'

Beneath my jumper a line of sweat runs down my back.

‘No. I'm not on Facebook anymore.'

‘Oh. Well, I'm sure Char still has your number—'

‘I changed my number a while ago.'

‘Oh, yeah. Ha.'

I push the trolley past them, continue up the aisle.

‘Well, see ya then, Hannah.'

I end up going home with a block of cheese and a pack of toilet paper.

‘How do you feel about them?' asks Anne the next day.

‘Nothing. I don't know.'

‘You didn't feel anything? God. I'd want to scratch their eyes out.'

That's what I'd do
, says Katie.

‘Yeah. I don't know. Charlotte …' I don't finish.

‘Charlotte?'

‘I know she feels bad. About everything that's happened.'

‘What was it about her that makes you say that?'

‘I just. I know her really well. Knew her. I can tell. She gets this kind of frozen look around her eyes, like she doesn't know what to say or do. I just, we were very close for a long time.'

‘Like sisters?'

‘Yes.'

‘That must be very hard on you, knowing that here is a person who would have been your refuge, your support before and now she's not there for you. What did you feel in your body?'

‘Nothing … I don't know. Sick, I guess.'

‘Did you feel like you did the other day? When the thing with the fruit happened?'

‘No.'

‘Why, do you think?'

‘They can't hurt me anymore. It's all stopped. It's not like it was before Katie.'

Eight

Items found in Katie's drawer in the bathroom:

* Wax strips

* Three razors

* My Little Pony Band-Aids

* Cosmetics including five Mac eyeshadows and a Chanel lipstick that I suspect were stolen

* Eyelash curler

* Hair straightener

* Tweezers

* Mouthwash

* Dental floss

Items found in Katie's secret hollowed-out book:

* Condoms

Ms Thorne has given us all a permission slip to take home and have signed by our parents. It's the usual legal formality, a bit of paper that says if I drown at the pool my parents won't hold anyone to blame but themselves. That's unlikely – both the drowning and the blame, I mean. The permission slip is still in the pocket of my backpack and I have avoided it the way you might avoid radioactive material. The consequences of mishandling it could be catastrophic. I haven't been to a pool since Katie died.

Dad started us both swimming when we were toddlers. He said us McCanns were built for it, with our long limbs and big feet. Katie was thirteen months older than me, she started swimming lessons first. She taught me how to do handstands in the water and curve my body in somersaults belly up. She told me stories of kids that had been sucked through the pool filter and limbs devoured by Creepy Crawlies. By the time I was old enough to start lessons she'd already taught me freestyle and I got put up a level.

I followed her into the squad as soon as I was old enough. Swimming made sense to me. The rhythm of freestyle was as natural as walking. I felt at home with water rushing past my ears and an ache climbing in my legs from the kicking. It's a strange, quiet, isolated space to be in – cocooned in the water. Solitary. Meditative. Just you and the water and a clock. There's something kind of anonymous about it, no one but the coach is watching you. Not like a team sport when the subs are on the sideline watching, heckling everything you do, pointing out every mistake you make.

I like the discipline of swimming, the control you have to have. You can't be too desperate for the next breath, if you hurry it everything stuffs up, goes out of kilter; your stroke gets shorter, sloppier. It's all about patience, controlling that feeling that if you don't inhale immediately you will die.

I don't think that's what it was like for Katie. I think for her it was a game that she was very, very good at. Coach said she had an economical stroke, the smallest amount of effort for the best result. Her name got chalked up on the squad records board. She did regionals, then states, then nationals. I did regionals and states, once nationals. Mum and Dad were pretty good about it. They tried to give us equal encouragement and they made a fuss about my red ribbons and silver medals. I didn't really care that she was better at it than me. That wasn't why I kept it up. There was no one else from my grade at school in the squad. I was left alone other than when Katie would joke with me. There in the pool with both our heads under the water was the closest I ever got to her.

I don't want to be anywhere near a swimming pool, especially not with school.

*

I sit opposite Anne, my rent-a-friend, in the period before lunch.

‘How are you today?' she asks.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the permission slip from Ms Thorne. I unfold it and hand it to Anne.

‘I can't go to swimming training. Can you make my appointments with you for PE class for the next month?'

‘Why? I thought you liked swimming?'

‘I can't …'

‘Okaaay. Remember the very first time I saw you, Hannah? I asked you one thing. Remember?'

She waits, but I don't say anything.

‘I asked that you not bullshit me.'

I suck my lip in between my teeth. Swallow.

‘Hannah?'

‘I can swim. I'm a good swimmer. I used to do squad … with Katie.'

‘Aha. So you don't want to swim because it reminds you of Katie?'

I nod.

‘And you don't want to remember?'

‘No.'

‘Because to you, remembering is dangerous.'

I don't say anything.

‘Look, I can do that for you. I'll organise it. But I need to talk to you about something. How do you feel about the court date coming up?' She checks her notes, even though I'm sure she doesn't need to. ‘It's in about a month. How do you feel about maybe being questioned?'

‘I don't really feel anything about it. I mean, I still don't remember what happened …'

‘Yes, that's why they're going to order a psychiatric assessment, so they know you're telling the truth.'

‘Do you think I'm lying?'

‘No, Hannah. But they need to know, for the sentencing. They're not going to be as … gentle as me. Sometimes we block out things that are traumatic—'

‘I hit my head. I don't remember.' I know my voice is going all high-pitched crazy-person style, but I can't help it. Anne holds up her palms.

‘I want you to know that you are safe in here, Hannah.'

I stare out the window at the treetops, leaves utterly still, not a breath of breeze.

‘You don't understand,' I whisper.

‘Then maybe you should help me understand.'

The days drift by, nothing marking one from the other until Saturday arrives and breaks the rhythm of school. I sit on the top step of the back deck. Nine o'clock and the concrete beneath my bare feet is already warm. My father stands watering the garden, sun-safe to the point of obsessive beneath his UV-proof long-sleeve shirt and Cancer Council-approved wide-brim hat. I have skin like his, ivory white. Katie's was a few shades darker. Sun makes me burn, it made Katie glow.

When I saw her for the last time her forehead and left temple were smothered in thick make-up like plaster, to cover the injuries. I had never seen a dead person before. Her stillness was horrible and unnatural and I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her. ‘Enough, Katie! You have our attention!'

They said she was at peace. ‘They' being the people who nod compassionately when you hand them the cheque to pay for the satin-quilted white casket. Like it makes any difference what you bury her under the ground in.

My dad used to whistle when he was gardening. He is quiet now, face set in concentration. Every now and then he glances in my direction, as if he is checking I'm still here. His movements are stiff, he won't last much longer outside, then he'll go in and have some painkillers; listen to the radio, read the paper.

I hear the sound of the doorbell from inside the house. My mother answers the door just as I get there. I didn't even know she was awake. On the doorstep is Mrs Van, our neighbour. She is holding a baking tin and wearing her Big Banana T-shirt.

‘Boterkoek,' she announces. It is a Dutch specialty, a dense crumbly cake that basically tastes like a giant piece of shortbread. She brings one regularly: a cake and a reminder about God. Most people avoid talking about the serious stuff and stick to small talk, like they are afraid that if they mention the accident or Katie we'll start crying uncontrollably and they won't know what to do. People, I have discovered, will do anything to avoid awkward situations. This involves using phrases like, ‘It must be almost a year since you lost your sister'. As if she jumped the fence and ran away like a restless pet. Mrs Van is the opposite. My mother sighs. Mrs Van thrusts the tin towards her.

‘Mrs Van, we don't need cake. Okay? Thank you.' Mum starts to close the door. Mrs Van wedges her foot in the way.

‘It is a small kindness. Kindness comes from God. God told me to bring you boterkoek and I have done this. You must not reject God when he offers you a kindness.'

‘God can f … fob off.'

‘You don't want God to fob off. Your daughter is dead. You need God.'

‘Thank you, but I don't need to be told what I … need. I need to be left alone.'

Mrs Van looks at me over my mother's shoulder. ‘Han-nah! Look! I have made boterkoek. Take it!'

I smile and accept the cake tin from her while Mum glares at me. ‘Thanks, Mrs Van.'

Mum closes the door. She doesn't say anything to me.

I boil the kettle and make myself and Dad a cup of tea. I carry the tea out to the deck, cut some boterkoek and bring that too: breakfast. We used to have a cooked family breakfast on Saturday mornings. Katie decided she was vegan and made Mum buy those vegan sausages that look like plasticine. She sat there with her fake sausages, so self-righteous. Until she tried one. Dad asked her how it was, not even Katie could lie her way out of that one.

My father goes to the tap and turns off the hose. There is a grimace of pain in his face, even though he tries to hide it. He stiffly climbs the steps up to the deck. He has three metal pins in each leg and will never run again. I have never heard him complain about it. Neither he nor Mum ever mention it. It feels so strange, to watch your own father powerless like that. The person who used to lift us above his head, chowing down on painkillers, unable to stand for more than an hour.

‘Tea?' I ask.

‘Cheers, Han.' He takes the mug in his hand and lowers himself into the chair. ‘Your mum want anything?' he asks, even though he knows the answer. I shake my head. We sip our mugs of tea and look over the gully thrumming in the heat.

‘Can I ask about the school counsellor?' He waits. ‘I'm going to take your lack of response as an enthusiastic yes. Is it going okay?'

‘It's going okay.'

‘She any good?'

‘She's better than any of the others.'

Later that night I hear them talking. Her voice is not something I know. Neither is his. I should not be here in the hallway. They think I am in bed.

‘Are you lying?'

‘Jeez, Paula. Why don't you just say what's on your mind?'

‘If you are lying and you remember what happened and you make her dredge it all up––'

‘Why would I do that? If I remembered? Jesus. It wouldn't change anything. The cops are going to go with what she says. Why would I put her through all this if I knew? I'd just tell them. But I'm not going to put my hand up and say “Yes it was all my fault”, if it wasn't. I will go to prison, Paula. And the bastard who was driving the truck, who hit us, he gets off scot-free. Is that what you want?'

‘I just want to know what happened.'

‘So do I. Don't you think I want to know if I killed my own daughter? Do you know what it's like to live with that every day? I want to know. You think I would lie to save my arse?'

Nothing.

‘Shit, Paula! Do you even know me? What? Say it!'

‘How could you let that happen? She was our baby. You are her father.'

‘I'll leave. I'll go. I should have gone months ago.'

‘Where? Where will you go?'

‘My brother's, a motel, it doesn't matter.'

Silence.

‘Do you want me to?'

‘It's just. Hannah.'

‘Well, what do you want me to do? I will do it. Whatever you want. If you don't want me here, well, I'll go, Paula. Heck, if you want me to top myself, I'll do it. It would be a relief.'

‘Don't you even say that. Don't you even say that. A relief? Why should you get relief from this? Why? Why should you?'

‘Do you want me to stay here so you can yell at me?'

And she cries and cries. And then the next day we all carry on as before.