Darkest Place (10 page)

Carly was in the corridor with the shiraz before she let herself think about what she was doing. A familiar mood had descended. She needed company, interference, something to block the thoughts that were gathering. Anne Long and her advice, Adrian, her mother – reproach would follow and she didn't want it.

Nate had left his door open. She knocked and went in. High ceilings, French windows, exposed brickwork, stainless steel. All the same features were there but they were turned around and out of place: the loft stairs on the opposite side, extra doors and a different-shaped kitchen.

‘Wineglasses are underneath.' He pointed at the island bar. ‘You pour while I put this stuff away.'

She liked his brevity even more tonight. Finding two large glasses, she poured a decent measure into each and set them on the counter. On the other side, Nate turned from the fridge and picked one up. ‘Cheers.' He mimed a tap against her glass as though that was as close as he wanted to get. He took a single mouthful and went back to his unpacking.

Carly wound a path through his living room, eyes skimming matching leather seating, a low table, a large
flat-screen TV. One wall was painted deep blue, a single black-and-white photo at its centre – a yacht under spinnaker. No cushions, no books, no knick-knacks, as though an effort had been made to select furniture and colours but the money or the interest had run out. Carly stood beside his windows and looked into the street. Same view, slightly different angle. If anyone was watching, they'd see her here – with her muscular male neighbour.

Shortening her gaze, she took in the reflection of the room. The groceries were gone and Nate was at the counter, fingers on the stem of his wineglass, watching her across the space. Probably wondering what the hell she was doing here. Don't be the weird neighbour, she told herself. The one who invites herself for a drink and then is tense and silent. She found a smile as she turned. ‘Your apartment has a different layout to mine.'

‘It's a two-bedder. One up, one down.' He pointed at the loft and a doorway she didn't have. ‘Our ensuites are back to back. Nuts?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Nuts. Some people are allergic.'

‘Oh. No, I'm not. Don't go to any trouble.'

‘It's nuts and a bowl. Take a seat.'

She sat on one end of a sofa. Nate flicked lights on as he made his way over, slid the nuts onto the low table and took the chair beside her. ‘You're my first guest. Lucky I picked up the dirty socks.'

‘First ever?'

‘Since I've been back.' He tipped his head from side to side. ‘In a long time.'

Carly thought about the grimness she'd seen in him, wondered if he preferred to be alone or if no one wanted to visit. ‘How's your knee?'

‘No better, no worse.'

‘Any news from the specialist?'

A hand moved to the kneecap, thumb kneading one side. ‘I see him in a month.'

‘Will he assess you for work?'

‘For surgery. There's a chance it'll repair on its own. If it hasn't, I'll have to go under the knife.'

‘What does that mean for your job?'

‘Long recovery, depends how well it goes.' His shrug was tight-boned and brief.

She wasn't about to tell him to buck up, it'll be fine. ‘Good luck.'

He nodded, glancing around as though looking for something else to talk about. ‘I need to get some ice on it. Do you mind?'

‘No. Please.' Carly munched on cashews as she watched his stiff-legged gait to and from the freezer, empathising with his pain and recovery, remembering what it was like to be fielding questions about it. As he positioned an icepack around the knee of his jeans, she said, ‘What did you do before you worked on the oil rig?'

‘Designed stuff. I'm an engineer.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that what you do on the oil rig? Design it? Bits of it? Renovations and extensions.'

Amusement flickered on his lips. ‘Bathrooms and sundecks?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘No. I'm a roughneck. I do grunt work, operate machinery, a bit of maintenance.'

Long hours, hard work and cramped quarters
, he'd said another time. She'd come here for a better life, why did he leave for something worse? ‘You didn't like being an engineer?'

‘It's fine, but I'll be heading back to the oil rig if my knee holds up.' He shrugged. ‘The money's good. It paid off this place.'

She thought engineers were well paid. ‘Is that what you wanted?'

‘I wanted a lot of things. Mostly to leave.'

And now he was back here, poor bastard. ‘I get that. Sometimes leaving is the only thing left to do.'

His eyes found hers. ‘Yeah.'

‘Will you stay if your knee … ?'

‘Haven't thought that far. You?'

‘I'm never going back.'

‘An ex?'

‘He's just part of it.' She hesitated, not sure she wanted the conversation to keep going in this direction. ‘You?'

‘She's just part of it.'

She took a sip of wine. He took a handful of nuts.

‘Short conversation,' he said.

‘And we were doing so well.' Except now he was tapping a finger on his glass, reminding her she'd invited herself. ‘Maybe I should go.'

His gaze settled on her again. ‘Or stay for a top-up.'

Did she want to? She glanced at the windows, the night beyond obscured by their reflections. More appealing than her apartment tonight. ‘A top-up would be nice, thanks. Keep the ice on your knee, I'll get it.'

Refilling their glasses, she ran through a list of topics to keep the conversation on track. He hadn't asked her any questions yet but they were settling in, he would eventually, only she'd come here to stop thinking about the past. ‘What did you design when you were in engineering?' she asked as she sat back down.

‘Civil projects. Roads and bridges, mostly. A few storage facilities and warehouses.'

‘Like this one?'

His eyes did a quick flick around. ‘Nothing as interesting as this. Nothing I'd want to live in in eighty years' time.'

‘The builders of this one probably thought the same thing.'

He nodded, the finger tapping the glass again. ‘So, Carly, what's going on?' The tone was casual but his eyes were asking something else.

She shrugged. ‘Drink with a neighbour.'

‘I don't think you came here to talk about oil rigs and warehouses. They're not that interesting.'

‘You'd be surprised.' She put her half-empty wineglass on the coffee table. Maybe now it was time to go.

‘You were upset, I could see that. You want to tell me about it?'

Not at all. She wanted him to think she was his nice, smart, well-adjusted neighbour, to take her
I'm never going back
as a clean break. But she'd plied him with questions tonight and kept him awake other nights. He probably deserved something.

‘I had reason to phone my ex today. It wasn't fun. I needed to stop thinking about it.'

He nodded, slowly, like he was considering a response. Maybe deciding to tell her he was a good listener. She shuffled to the edge of the sofa, ready to leave.

‘So … did you find the fish co-op?' he asked.

She frowned for a second, then realised he was changing the subject for her. ‘Yes, several times,' she said, grateful, impressed he'd remembered her earlier question.

‘How about the Indian takeaway?'

‘Had the butter chicken, avoided the vindaloo.'

He smiled. She smiled back. They chatted some more – about her course and the walk to the breakwater his knee wasn't up to, the cafe, the markets and the weather. Short, brisk summaries that kept her brain moving and seemed to warm up his conversational skills. He managed to speak in whole sentences, even laughed out loud once.

‘Another?' Nate asked.

‘No, I've had enough. I should go.' She was ready now. ‘If I stay any longer, you'll never want another guest.' And she might end up in his bed.

He walked her to his door. ‘Have a good night, Carly.'

‘It'll be better now. Thanks.'

The memories had pressed hard today but she'd hadn't let them take over. And now she was going back to her own space, where she wanted to be.

Which would be perfect if only she wasn't scared of it.

 

Saturday stretched ahead of Carly like a long road through a desert – just her and an assignment, alone in the apartment with its shadows and loft and agitation. Sitting at the small outdoor setting in the living room, she arranged pens and notebooks beside her laptop as though being organised would make a difference. She rubbed her neck, drummed a thumb on the keyboard and wrote … nothing. Got up and paced around. The space felt too small, too dim, too … oh, fuck it.

She was at the markets looking at handmade jewellery, blaming her tiredness on the lost earrings that she'd finally found in the fridge, when she heard her name being called.

‘Over here!' Damien was manning the community gardens stall, the office clothes gone and the hat back on. ‘Wish we had the egg-and-bacon-roll queue,' he called.

She worked her way to his table, more comfortable about chatting with him in a crowd with his plants.

‘Have you signed the petition against the multi-storey car park?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘It's doing the rounds. So's the renovation proposal for the warehouse on the corner. Looking pretty green.'

‘Oh, right.' Environmentally, not colour, she assumed.

‘Heard any more from the police about the guy that broke in?'

Carly thought about how to explain it. He was community minded, maybe a little left wing. A simple
They think I made it up
might get some kind of can't-trust-the-bastards response. It would feel good to hear someone say it – except he lived in the warehouse and Chinese whispers might turn it into
She made it all up
.

‘They're still looking into it,' she told him.

He nodded distractedly, his attention on a new customer as she waved and left.

She avoided the apartment a while longer, walking all the way to the breakwater, pushing through the weariness of bad sleep and old nightmares, lingering over coffee, imitating relaxation. The assignment was due on Monday, she told herself over a second coffee. She could finish it in a few hours if she got stuck in.

She was on the way home when she saw Brooke on a bench seat on the path up ahead, the fat boot stuck out in front of her, something despondent in the set of her shoulders. Carly slowed, remembering the conversation with her after the book club. Carly sympathised with her grief, how could she not? But today she didn't want to be reminded of friends and tragedies, wondered if she could slip past unnoticed – and then Brooke looked right at her.

Carly waved, didn't see the tears on Brooke's cheeks until she'd stopped beside the bench. Brooke's attempt at a smile looked like she wished Carly
had
kept going and, for half a second, Carly thought about it. But they were three steps from the edge of the harbour and a drop into deep water. Alone wasn't always best. ‘How are you doing?' she asked.

Brooke turned her eyes to the harbour. ‘Having a bad day, actually.'

There was ice in the wind and Carly's ankles were aching, but she knew about bad days. ‘Feel like some company?'

It was a second or two before Brooke replied. ‘I was thinking of when I'll be able to walk along here again.'

It was a good start. Carly sat down beside her. ‘How much longer are you in the boot?'

‘A couple of weeks.'

‘It's a long walk from the warehouse on crutches.'

Brooke hooked a thumb over her shoulder at a parking bay. ‘I drove. It's an automatic, I only need one foot. I'd ask you how your walk was but I don't want to be jealous.'

Carly chuckled softly. ‘Are you off work?'

‘I work from home. I've been doing everything over the phone for the last four weeks.'

‘You were lucky there.'

‘Except now I spend my days stuck in the apartment staring at a computer screen and going a little crazy.'

‘Not so good, then.'

Brooke took a breath and blew it out. ‘I've been struggling with depression for a while. Since Talia's accident.'

‘Not being able to get out and go for a walk makes it worse, doesn't it?'

Brooke looked at her properly then.

Carly shrugged. ‘I've been there, too.'

‘Depression?'

‘Anxiety.' Carly almost left it at that – she'd wanted to keep it to herself here but Brooke seemed alone in her struggle. ‘I worry that something awful will happen without warning, that I'll lose people I love. It happened once, it's hard to forget.'

Brooke watched Carly a moment more. ‘Do you take medication?'

‘At times.'

‘So it came back?'

‘Comes and goes.' Sometimes better, sometimes worse.

Brooke pulled in a long breath. ‘Talia had depression. Good days and bad days. Days she could hardly move. She thought it was something creative people suffered.' Brooke's shoulders lifted and fell. ‘I'm a graphic designer, I suppose that puts me in the same category. It's just, I feel like she passed it on to me when she left.' She gave Carly a wounded smile. ‘Ridiculous, really.'

Carly wondered about the car accident, whether a suicide attempt had been suspected, but she didn't want to upset Brooke any more by asking. ‘How is she doing now?'

Her voice broke on the words. ‘Not so great.'

Neither was Brooke. Maybe she needed to talk about Talia with someone who didn't know her. ‘How did you and Talia meet?'

‘We're both from Perth. She was … I had …' She stopped.

‘You came over together?' Carly prompted. ‘No, I didn't know her in Perth. I moved over with my boyfriend. When we broke up I was trying to find a flatmate to share the rent and someone told me the new girl on the fourth floor was from the west. I knew she'd
bought her place … your place … but I fronted up and introduced myself, thinking she might know others from Perth looking for somewhere to live. After a couple of glasses of wine we were friends. It was a kind of instant connection.'