Darkest Place (13 page)

She hadn't checked last night but the police had asked on the other occasions. ‘Between three and four.'

‘I've pulled your notes up and I notice when you've had sleep issues before, you reported waking around the same hour, three-ish sometimes, around four or five other times, and the memories and circular thoughts would start.'

When it was bad, she'd paced the house and garden, sometimes wrapped in a blanket, sometimes she'd pull on clothes and walk the streets of Burden. She'd think about what she'd done, what she hadn't done, what she'd never do. ‘Does that mean something?'

‘It's interesting that the events you're experiencing now have occurred around the same time. It suggests you might've slipped back into a disturbed sleep pattern.'

‘I'm not waking at that time on other nights, though.'

‘Are you sleeping through?'

The first two nights in the apartment had been bliss. After she'd seen someone in the loft, she'd spent a lot of restless, anxious hours in bed. Lately, she'd spent more of the night awake than asleep. ‘Not really.'

‘You might be slipping in and out of deep sleep without becoming entirely conscious. That might explain the root problem. I have in my notes that your GP wrote you a prescription for sleeping pills a couple of months ago. Have you tried …'

‘I didn't get it filled.'

Liam waited a beat. ‘I've noted that when you took sleeping pills at other times, you felt it helped break the waking cycle.' It wasn't a question but he stopped as though he'd asked one. When she didn't answer, he prompted. ‘Charlotte?'

‘There were sleeping pills in my hand when the ambulance came to the house.'

‘You didn't take them.'

‘I took more than I should have.'

‘We've talked about your account of that day.'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want to talk about it now?' This time when she didn't respond, he went on. ‘You said you remembered thinking about taking the first two but couldn't remember if you had.'

‘Yes.'

‘You said you took the third one because you were desperate for rest. You wanted to lie down but your body wouldn't stay still.'

She closed her eyes, the shouting and commotion of those fraught hours pressing at the edges of her mind. ‘I know. It's what happened. It's just … I don't want to be there again.'

‘Where?'

‘Devastated and with an option.'

‘You had more than one option. You chose another one.'

She had wanted to die on that cliff, had only lived because she couldn't get to the ledge and roll herself into the canyon. That day in her old bedroom, the door was busted in while she was weighing up the cost of the losses she was still enduring. ‘I'm not sure I chose anything.'

‘How do you feel about it now?'

‘I don't want to kill myself, if that's what you're asking.'

‘What are you worried will happen?'

She heaved out a breath. ‘The usual. I'm worried I'll make the wrong decisions. That I'll be reckless and selfish.
That I'll ruin everything.' Maybe she already had. Sleep paralysis, shit.

‘All the more reason to make sure you get enough rest and look after yourself. You're strong, Charlotte. I believe in you. Think about getting the sleeping pills.'

Carly stood at the window, wanting Liam to be right. She didn't want a man breaking into her apartment and she didn't want to be crazy. But a dream?

Okay, not a dream, a nightmare finding its way into her consciousness. It explained the locks, the security chain, the lack of fingerprints, the lost time. It made more sense than anything else.

She glanced around the view outside, then turned and eyed the room. There was no one watching and there was nothing sinister in the apartment. She wasn't crazy and she wasn't about to be murdered in her bed. It was better than she'd hoped – and still scary. If it was in her head, she could be waking up with that shadow on her bed forever.

She wandered through the living room, thinking about the other dreams that plagued her that were based on real life. Memories from the canyon and losing her babies. Liam had helped her understand why her brain held onto those images and why it threw them back at her when she was frightened or anxious or stressed.

There were other themes that were replayed in her mind – running, laughing, screaming. And complex plots
threaded with foreboding that left her agitated and fretful, the anxiety sometimes spiralling into panic attacks. Liam had encouraged her to examine them, to look for connections to her state of mind, use them as an indicator for her own mental health rather than worrying about what might happen to someone else.

The sleep paralysis visions could have been worse, she thought, climbing the stairs. She could have dreamed about spiders crawling all over her or Hannibal Lecter chewing off her face. There'd be logic in that – she hated spiders and
The Silence of the Lambs
scared the hell out of her. And she wouldn't have called the police. She would've opened her eyes and known it wasn't real.

Standing by the bed, she studied the space that at night was filled with shadows, wondering about the psychological connection between her and the man in her dream. He was in her bedroom but it wasn't about sex and he wasn't trying to rape her. Was she frightened of being alone? Worried about safety? Scared of the dark? Yes to all of that, but only since she'd seen him.

She hauled the sheets from the mattress, tossed them over the railing, stood in the ensuite and studied her image in the mirror. Not wild-eyed now, only weary. Whatever the hell her subconscious was up to, it wasn't what she came here for.

She met her own gaze in the mirror and made a decision: she couldn't stop her psyche from trying to screw things up, but she wouldn't let her conscious self do it.

 

The lethargy had arrived by the time Carly got to class, like a weight on a chain around her neck. Sitting in the sun outside the campus cafe at the morning break she struggled to keep her eyes open.

‘Any ideas yet?' Dakota asked, pushing a cappuccino across the table to Carly.

‘For what?'

‘A business?'

‘Nothing yet.'

‘I think we should work on it.'

Carly squinted at her.

‘This assignment has been really useful,' Dakota said. ‘I think we should be applying it to a concept for you as well.'

‘Applying it to a concept?'

‘Impressed?'

‘It's a long way from
Dad's making me do the course
.'

‘Ha-ha. I'm serious, though. We should both be getting something out of it. So, like … what are you interested in?'

Carly took a breath, blew it out, tried to work through the fuzz in her brain. ‘A business that will support me.'

‘No, I mean is there something you do, you know, a hobby, that you could turn into a business?'

‘I walk. I read. Don't think there's anything in that.'

‘Okay, then what are you good at?'

Screwing up. ‘Nothing fabulous.'

‘Come on, you must have skills. What have you been doing with yourself until now?'

Nothing she wanted to tell Dakota about, but her insistence was nice. Carly rubbed hands over her face, sat up a little straighter. ‘I worked in a post office for years. Stationery supplies and mail delivery in a world that now does everything via the internet.'

‘Right, I see the problem. Oh, wait, retail. You could open a shop.'

‘Already crossed that idea off the list. I've had enough of standing behind a counter.'

‘Fair enough. What's the time?'

Carly tugged at the sleeve of her jumper, saw her bare wrist and remembered. ‘Don't know. I couldn't find my watch this morning.' She was sick of losing things – the earrings, a lipstick, her favourite bedsocks.

Dakota pulled out her phone and checked the screen. ‘Time to get back. Don't think you're off the hook though. We'll be continuing this conversation later, Ms Townsend.'

Collecting their cups, not wanting to discourage her, Carly said, ‘I haven't really been thinking about it. Still settling in, I guess. I'll try to put some brain power to it.'

‘Me too. It'll be fun.'

As they walked back to class, Carly glanced at Dakota's blue-and-black hair, the piercings and funky boots, the bounce in her step. Carly had been a country girl, she'd never looked like that, but the grin, the lightness – Carly remembered having that. In another time, another life.

 

Determination and resolution had got Carly to class but the effort to think and smile and make ordinary conversation had burned it up, and now, in the shadows of the warehouse garage, her nerves began winding up again. Stuart got in the lift at the foyer, nodding vaguely like he always did, head pushed forward on his long bird neck as he watched the numbers above the doors. She thought about saying hi, remembered their exchanges on other days –
Yes, we've crossed paths a few times
– decided she didn't have the energy. What kind of shit did he carry around in his head that he didn't notice other people?

He got out on the second floor. Carly hesitated a second or two then stepped out after him, walked to the atrium and peered through the evening gloom. The dim lights
along the corridors made it feel like she was looking into a spaceship. Her apartment was up there, it was cosy and classy and tonight she dreaded going back to it. She headed for the stairs, delaying the moment a while longer.

Nearing the third floor, she heard footfalls above. At the turn, Nate swung down. They both stopped, eyeing each other from opposite sides of the landing.

‘Hey,' she said, embarrassed about the last time they'd spoken – through her door in the middle of the night.

He took a moment to speak. ‘Eaten yet?'

Not the response she'd expected. ‘No.'

‘I'm heading out to pick up Indian. Feel like sharing butter chicken and a couple of naan?'

She was starving and hot, spicy food sounded great but she watched him a moment, not sure if he'd decided to forget what had happened or if he was looking for a chance to talk. ‘Thanks but I've got …' Vegemite and toast. ‘Something waiting.'

He nodded, silent and watchful. Her face heated as she waited for him to broach the subject of last night. ‘Sure,' he said. ‘Need anything in Baxter Street?'

‘No. Thanks, though.'

Another nod, another moment of silence. ‘Okay.' He stepped past her and continued down. Carly watched until she couldn't see him, surprised and relieved it had ended there, wondering if he felt the same way.

Letting herself in, she turned the light on, hooked the chain, checked the locks, eyed the darkness at the other end of the hallway and felt her pulse pick up. Scared of the dark. Of going to sleep and waking up. Of herself. Fuck.

She should google sleep paralysis, she told herself. Calm her nerves, give herself something to focus on. She dumped her bag, tossed her coat and stood at the window.
No fingerprints, she told herself. Locked doors, no one watching. It was just her. Alone for hours.

Her prescription for sleep medication was still in a drawer. As she thought about it again her hand curled into a fist, the memory of small, hard ovals in her palm. No, she didn't want the pills, she didn't want to feel like Charlotte. She didn't want the memories, either. Not tonight. Not if she wanted to sleep.

She went to the fridge, pulled a slip of paper from under a magnet. Nate's number, the one he'd pushed under her door last night.

‘Nathan Griffin,' he answered.

So that was his name. ‘It's Carly. Can I change my mind?'

A pause. ‘Sure.'

‘Pappadums too?'

Muffled voices on his end. ‘Done.'

 

‘I bought a bottle of red while I was waiting.' Nate had hung his leather jacket over one of Carly's garden chairs and was unpacking takeaway containers on the table.

She collected plates and cutlery, taking in the muscled shoulders and biceps under his long-sleeved T-shirt. She needed conversation, not someone to sleep with, she warned herself. ‘Great. I need a drink.'

Across the room, he lifted his head, a question in his raised eyebrows.

‘Long day,' she said. And a few drinks might help her sleep.

They ate butter chicken and something deliciously spicy with vegetables, dipping and scooping with the naan and spreading pappadum crumbs over the table. She set the pace with the alcohol, finishing her first glass while his was
barely touched, the food and alcohol helping to flatten out her anxiety. He kept the conversation moving: weather and the harbour, her car and the one he'd sold a few months ago, her study and his work.

‘You're working?' she asked.

‘Couldn't stand doing nothing.'

‘Back to engineering?'

He shook his head. ‘At the marina. Stripping back the timber on an old boat.' He leaned back in his chair. ‘You always have this many lights on?' he said as though he'd just noticed.

The only light that wasn't burning was the one above the stove. Now she looked, it seemed like overkill or reckless use of electricity. Carly gave a small grimace. ‘Forgot about them.' She got up, flipped a few switches, crossed the room and flipped some more. Sat back down and took another sip of wine. The loft and stairs were in darkness now, shadows pooled in corners, the hallway was murky and silent. She got up again, turned a couple back on, saw Nate watching her with a crease between his brows.

Be the calm, normal neighbour, Carly. It would look better if he was going to ask about the sobbing and thumping in the night. ‘That should do it.'

‘Sure.'

She picked up the wine bottle. ‘Another?'

It took him a moment to answer, his dark blue eyes on her, a hint of
Maybe you've had enough
creeping across his face. Then he shrugged. ‘No one's driving tonight.'

Crockery and cutlery clattered into the sink when Carly cleared the plates, a little woozy and unsteady. Nate opened the fridge to stack in leftovers. Maybe he'd leave now the meal was over. Probably better if he did, she told herself.
She'd been awake since three – only she wasn't ready to close her eyes.

As he straightened, she held his wineglass out to him, took her own and wandered to her usual position at the edge of the windows, watching his reflection: one hand in the pocket of his jeans as he stood by the fridge, the soft fabric of his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His face was turned towards her, the image not clear enough to read his expression.

‘The windows make me feel a little exposed at night,' she said.

‘I like being able to see out.' He crossed the room to them, stood dead centre.

Carly imagined what he looked like from the outside: solid, strong, undaunted. She did her circuit of the view – black bulk of the warehouses, soft lighting of quiet homes, the street below. ‘I worry about who can see in.' Even now, bad dreams or not.

‘Carly.' There was something decided in his tone.

She turned, resigned to his questions now.

‘Whatever it's about,' he said, ‘if you need help, you can ask me.' He took his hand from his pocket, patted the air. A dual message:
I'm not asking
and
It's okay
. ‘I don't care about the cops,' he said. ‘If they're part of it, it makes no difference to me.'

She took a breath, said nothing, no idea what conclusion he'd come to on his own.

‘If it's something you've done, if you're in trouble, I don't care when or what. I want you to know that.'

Something she'd done? Did he think the police had come uninvited? That
she
was the problem?

‘I just want you to know I'm here, next door. No questions, if that's the way you want it.' He raised his eyebrows, asking her to believe him.

‘Nate, I …' It was so far from the conversation she'd expected that she didn't know what to say.

‘I don't want you to think you're on your own, Carly.' He cocked a thumb at the wall between their apartments. ‘And I don't want to sit in there doing nothing if there's something I can do to help. To stop it, if that's possible.'

He thought she was in danger, and the biggest danger was from herself. He finished his wine with a toss of his head and turned away as though she'd asked him to leave.

‘Nate.'

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘You don't need to say anything. Now or any other time. Just don't forget I'm here.'

‘Nate,' she called again as he started for the hall. She didn't want him to leave and not just because she was scared to be alone. She wanted to tell him it was simpler than he thought, that she hadn't done anything, that she was grateful for his words. She spoke quickly as she hurried across the room. ‘It's not … I'm not …' She took hold of his sleeve, wanting him to know, at least some of it. But his eyes made her hesitate, wondering if he'd feel the same way if he knew it was all in her imagination.

So she told him something else. ‘Don't go. Not yet.'