Darkest Place (16 page)

He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes and blood. One leg was out straight, as though it had slid from under him. The other was bent, supporting the hand that was holding one side of his face.

‘Nate?' Carly squatted beside him.

He looked up. There was blood between his fingers.

‘I saw you from my balcony.' She wadded the towel and held it out to him. As he pressed it to his face, she saw a dark, congealing blob forming on his eyebrow. ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?'

He shook his head.

‘What happened?' She was thinking hit-and-run, a fall.

‘Someone's fist.'

‘Oh my god. You were assaulted?' Carly glanced warily into the street. ‘Are they still out there? We should call the police.'

‘No.' It seemed to cover all her questions. He shifted, tried to get up, stopped with a hand to the wall, pulling in deep breaths.

She grabbed an elbow, hoped he wasn't about to throw up. ‘Do you need an ambulance?'

‘No.'

‘You might need stitches. You could be concussed, you're slurring a little.'

‘It happened at the pub. I'm pissed.'

Oh, right …

‘Someone hit me. I hit something.' He got both legs under him, waited a second before pushing upright. ‘A table, I think. Possibly a chair. And the deck. I definitely hit the deck.' A couple of unsteady steps.

Carly grabbed hold of him again, pushed the security door before remembering she'd only planned to wait for him in the corridor. ‘My keys. I left them inside.' Goes to bleeding man's aid, gets locked outside. Good job. ‘Have you got yours?'

He patted his jacket, almost pushed himself over. Leaned against the wall and tried again. She wasn't sure if it was alcohol or concussion, only knew he was never going to find them slapping like that.

‘Here, let me.' She pressed palms to his pocket flaps, felt cold leather and solid chest. Worked her way down, searching for compartments in the lining and the pouches he stuffed his hands into.

‘Jeans?' She glanced up, found his eyes on her.

Without shifting his gaze, he opened one side of his jacket, the warm, musky scent of his skin filling the space between them. She hesitated and then briskly, like his body under her hands wasn't making her mouth dry, she felt the front of his thigh, reached around to a back pocket, fingers skimming thick denim and the curve of firm buttock. She tried the other side, up to her shoulder inside his coat, cheek resting on the soft fabric of his shirt. ‘No keys.'

He watched her for a long, silent moment.

‘Okay, well … I'll buzz.' Carly pressed Christina's number. ‘Hi, it's Carly. I've locked myself out.'

‘I was only thinking of you tonight.'

‘Great. Can you …'

‘I've pulled out some books I thought you might like.'

‘I'm locked …'

‘Novels, mostly. Come and get them anytime. We could have a coffee.'

‘That'd be great. Christina?'

‘Yes, hon.'

‘Can you buzz me in?'

‘Oh for god's sake, what am I doing blathering on like that? It must be freezing out there. Here you go.'

Carly turned to Nate as the door clicked. ‘Christina from the fifth floor. Apparently she's got a library up there.'

‘Why are you here, Carly?' It didn't sound like
here on the doorstep
– it was more like
here at the warehouse
or
in Newcastle
. Maybe even
here in his life
.

‘To get you inside,' she said.

Nate staggered along beside her, veered away before they reached the lift.

‘It's this way.' She grabbed his arm.

‘I'm taking the stairs.'

‘You're bleeding.'

‘I always take the stairs.'

‘Give yourself a night off.'

‘I don't
deserve
a night off,' he growled.

It made her wonder about the raw look she'd seen in his eyes at other times. She softened her voice. ‘Everyone deserves a night off when they're bleeding.' She gave his arm a tug. ‘You can go back to beating yourself up tomorrow.'

There was something defiant in his eyes as he resisted.

‘Besides,' she added, ‘there's no way I can get you up those stairs. There's fucking hundreds of them, in case you haven't counted.' She hustled him around, grateful for his unsteadiness as she steered him across the foyer.

‘It's not meant to be like this,' he said when she'd pushed him into the lift.

‘No. You're not meant to come home like this. Drunk is okay. Everyone needs to do that sometimes. But not concussed and bleeding and peeled off the front step. That's not good.'

On the fourth floor she got him out and stared across the atrium at her door. It was wide open. She'd left it that way, she remembered, only planning to go as far as the lift. But there were bruises on her arm and it was night and quiet and an open door was as good as an invitation. She glanced around the dim corridors as they crossed the walkway. How long had she been gone? Ten minutes?

Nate stopped outside his place.

‘You'll have to come to mine,' she said.

‘I'm okay.'

‘You're bleeding and wobbly and you have no keys.'
And anyone could have walked into mine.
Even drunk and concussed, she'd feel better if he was there.

‘This isn't right. It's all fucking wrong.'

‘It's fine. I can clean up your eye and you can sleep on the sofa.' He slowed as they got closer. What was the problem? ‘Nate, it's okay.'

‘It's not. I fucked up. You shouldn't have to do this.' He propped on the threshold, a hand on the jamb.

‘I'm already doing it.' She cast her eyes down the hallway, wished he'd keep walking.

‘No, Carly. I should be helping
you
.'

Something tight and shameful caught in her chest then. She'd told him to leave her the hell alone this morning. ‘You
have
helped. This …' She touched fingers to his bloodied temple. ‘Dragging you up here – awful for you but it's a circuit-breaker for me.'

It consoled him enough for Carly to get him to the living room and into a chair. ‘Wait here a minute.' Flicking lights, she ran up the stairs, checked the loft and the ensuite. No one there. Scaring herself again.

Nate sat on the toilet lid in the half bath while she washed his wound. Breathing through her mouth so she didn't catch the copper smell of his blood, telling herself she hadn't done it to him. He kept still as she worked, only pulling in a sharp breath when she sluiced it with antiseptic.

‘I think you might need a stitch,' she said, her torso pressed to his shoulder in the tight space.

‘Tape it.'

‘It'll leave a scar.'

‘It won't be the first. Tape it.'

She didn't argue, glad to get it covered. ‘Have you eaten dinner?'

‘Don't go to any trouble.'

‘I'll take that as a no. Omelette okay?'

Ten minutes later, he was out of the shower and back in the same clothes as she handed over a plate of eggs and toast. He'd opted for bourbon instead of painkillers and she topped up his glass, poured one for herself and sat on the coffee table while he ate on the sofa. He still smelled of second-hand cigarette smoke and blood but it was faint under the clean soapiness. There was a rip in the knee of his jeans, a piece of skin missing from a knuckle and a knot of swelling on his cheek. But it was the deep
purple bruising starting around the eye that spoke of the violence behind it all. It made the small, brown smudges on her arm seem inconsequential. Seemed to confirm she had caused them herself. She waited until he'd put down his fork before asking, ‘So what happened?'

‘I got hit.'

‘No kidding. Did the other guy?'

‘No.'

‘You didn't swing or you missed?'

He ran a finger around the edges of the bandage on his head. ‘He wanted to take a shot at a kid so I got in his way.'

Carly frowned. ‘A kid? A little kid was at the pub?'

‘Some skinny young bloke with brand-new ID and no brains.'

Not a bar brawl then. ‘You stood up for a teenager?'

‘Don't make it something it's not. I didn't get anything I don't deserve.'

He thought he deserved a punch in the face? Carly had thought she'd earned the slap from her first husband but she hadn't stepped in front of his hand. What had Nate done? ‘Just wondering. Does it make it go away or bring it all back?'

He hesitated. ‘What?'

‘Whatever makes you step into a punch aimed at someone else. Does the pain block it out or make you remember?'

‘You studying psychology now?' A small, chiding smile. ‘Are you trying to forget or remember when you're crying at your front door?'

She felt the stab of pain he'd intended to inflict, thought,
fair enough
. If he deserved anything, it was an explanation. ‘Coming here has put distance between me and what happened. The other night … nights, it's something else. I'm sorry I told you to go to hell.'

He nodded.

‘I'm sorry you think you deserve to have your head caved in,' she said. ‘My experience runs to that, too, and I can tell you that physical pain doesn't take it away. It's just another load you have to carry around.'

He took a mouthful of bourbon, nursed the glass in his hands. ‘Your friends, the ones who died?'

Carly wasn't sure she wanted to talk about them. ‘Yes.'

‘Did you kill them?'

She took a sharp breath, snapped her face away, guilt and shame pounding in her chest like it always did.

But Nate must have taken it as a ‘no'. ‘Then your experience can't tell me anything.'

It made her look back at him. He'd killed someone? Reckless and unthinking or … she dropped her eyes to his calloused hands. Had they pulled a trigger? Thrown a lethal punch? Held someone's throat and squeezed? She lifted fingers to her own, saw him watching her, waiting.

And she got it – he wanted her to recoil in disgust, even fear. It was another way to hurt himself, she knew all about that. So she kept her face still as she sipped her drink. ‘The boating accident you mentioned?'

He glanced away, like she had. ‘I never said it was an accident.'

He wasn't planning to talk about it either, that much was obvious. Which was fine because she hadn't wanted to push fingers into his wounds, just let him know he wasn't the only person on earth dealing with a burden of shit. ‘Is that why you're up at three o'clock in the morning when I'm at my front door?'

His eyes found her face again. ‘Yeah.'

‘The dark hours suck, huh?'

A softening of his lips. ‘Yeah.'

‘How's your head?'

He poked roughly around the bandage. ‘Sore.'

‘It will be if you do that to it.' She took his wrist, pulled his hand away. ‘How about trying to sleep now?'

He left his wrist in her grasp, gave an upward nod.

‘If you wake up before dawn,' she added, ‘turn on the lights and I'll come down and we won't talk about it.'

‘You don't need to do that.'

‘I might be grateful for the opportunity. Let's see what the night brings.'

He caught her fingers as they slipped through his. ‘Thanks.'

Carly held her breath, aware of the heat in his touch, the roughness of his skin, of something intimate in the connection. Then he released her, an apology in his eyes, as though her silence had been a reprimand.

She wanted to tell him it was all right, that it didn't have to stop there. ‘I'll find you a blanket.'

Carly moved quietly around the loft, cleaning her teeth, changing into pyjamas, aware of Nate one floor below, only a staircase separating them. Was he thinking of her as she peeled off her clothes? She was thinking of him and his hands – that for a brief, cold moment she was naked and he was warm.

His words replayed in her mind as she lay in bed:
I never said it was an accident
.

There were awful ways to die at sea. Awful ways to survive, too. Lots of ways to feel responsible. That would haunt your memories and make you stay awake at night. And screw with your mind.

Nate was still asleep when she came down in the morning. She scrawled a note:
Gone to class. Help yourself to breakfast
. Set it on the coffee table and took a moment to observe the sleeping body on her sofa. The etched lines of his face were softer in rest, the tight grimness smoothed out, something gentle and less hurt in its place. She could smell the warm sleepiness of him. It made her think of waking beside a man, still hungry for him.
You don't want me like that
, he'd said. Except she did.

 

Carly waved at Maxine, who was waiting by the lift on the fourth floor, and at the nice woman on the third floor who wore the bright headscarves. Stepping off the zigzag stairs onto the first level, she spotted little Alice and her dad in the foyer below, heading out to work and day care. The girl's singsong ‘Hi' to Stuart as they passed him echoed upwards like the tinkle of a bell. Carly grinned at Stuart's response, glancing around as though the greeting might have come from voices in his head.

Carly knocked a cheery rat-a-tat on Elizabeth's door. Since finding her asleep on the bench, Carly had dropped by every couple of days, asking if there was anything Elizabeth needed while Carly was at the shops – the older woman probably wondered why Carly was always running out of stuff. She waited thirty seconds and knocked a little louder. When there were no shuffles from the other side, she pressed her ear to the timber, hearing voices from a radio or television.

Crossing the corridor, Carly looked over the railing, saw the bench seat was empty. She checked her watch, decided to give Elizabeth another minute or so – she was slow and it was cold and damp this morning. Maybe she was in the shower or ignored callers this early. Or out already. Before eight, with the radio still going?

Checking her watch again, thinking about parking prospects, Carly gave it one more try and left.

 

At lunchtime, Dakota pulled out the Big Long List. ‘Tutor.'

‘Of what?'

‘No idea. Student counsellor.' Fast, terse, hung-over.

‘I don't have any advice to offer,' Carly said.

‘You could have told me not to drink so much last night.'

‘I might've if you'd rung.'

‘I was going to. I pulled out my phone to tell you to get your arse down to the pub and meet some of my friends. Then someone handed me a drink and the next time I looked at my phone it was almost midnight. Fortunately for you, I was sober enough to remember your sleep thing and decided I wouldn't be a very good friend if I woke you up.'

Carly grinned, happy to be thought of in so many ways. ‘Fortunately for me.'

‘So this cheerfulness – you had a good night then?' Dakota asked.

‘I had an … interesting night.'

‘Weird dreams?'

‘No. The guy next door got beaten up. I rescued him from the street entrance, he bled in my bathroom and slept on my sofa.'

‘So how old is this neighbour?'

She shrugged. ‘Mid-thirties.'

Dakota raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice-looking?'

‘Not this morning.'

 

Rain pattered, the windscreen wipers beat a steady rhythm – more jazz than Hollywood horror flick, Carly decided, unusually, pleasantly cheerful. It was late afternoon, the little supermarket in Baxter Street would be open for another hour; she could stop by the first floor on the way up and make a quick trip on foot if Elizabeth needed anything. Nate might be home by then. If he dropped by, she'd see how it went, she told herself again. Don't drive it. She was Carly now, not Charlotte.

Reading a text from Dakota in the lift –
Vintage specialist??
– she was grinning as the doors slid open on a crowd in the foyer. More people than Carly had ever seen in one place at the warehouse. Little groups of them, quiet and still in the grey light of the atrium.

Christina appeared, hair damp, tiny raindrops sparkling like glitter on her green cardigan. ‘Oh, Carly.' She came all the way into the lift, took Carly's elbow and steered her forward.

‘Is there a meeting?' Carly asked as she was led past small clusters of residents, wariness making her glance around. Howard Helyer was talking to a man in a suit. The guy with the bike was at the bottom of the stairs, toes turned up in his cycling shoes. Ahead of them, Dietrich acknowledged Carly with a nod. Brooke was there and she was crying. Carly's feet slowed.

‘George Pankowitz rang me,' Christina said. ‘He thought I might've had a key. We had to chase down Howard. It took a while but, well …' She paused, and her voice became thick and trembling. ‘It was too late anyway.'

Carly's mind caught on
key
and thought
Nate
. Oh god. Had someone come after him? Got through the security door and beat him up? She swung her head, searching for him among the crowd. Maxine, Roland, Stuart, Alice's mother. No Nate. Movement above caught her eyes. Figures were at the railings overhead: two there, another four higher up. Had someone thrown him over? He'd told her he deserved to get hurt. Had he jumped?

Carly dug her feet into the floor, turning Christina to face her. ‘What? Tell me.'

Taking her hands, Christina said, ‘It's Elizabeth. Carly, honey, she's gone.'

‘What?'

‘She passed away. The ambulance has just left.'

The air evaporated from Carly's lungs.

‘She knew everyone in the building. All these people are here to see her off.' Christina dabbed at the droplets of moisture in her hair. ‘Some of us went out to the street to watch her go.'

Carly looked closer at the faces now, saw what she hadn't before: shock and sadness. ‘There was an ambulance?'

‘It was George Pankowitz. Her neighbour.'

‘He
killed
her?'

‘He heard her radio going when he came back from golf,' Christina went on. ‘He thought it was strange she was playing it so loud. He knocked a few times and thought she must've forgotten to turn it off as she went out. But when it was still going hours later, he got worried. That's when he called me. Did I tell you that already?'

Carly took a breath, wishing Christina could be concise for once, understanding she probably needed to talk this time. ‘And what happened?'

‘Oh, I can't stop seeing it.'

‘Where was she? In her chair?' A peaceful passing with her memories?

‘I thought she might've slipped in the shower and she wouldn't want George to see her like that. I thought I could put a towel over her first or …' A sob as Christina pushed a tissue under her glasses. ‘She was on the floor beside the bed. She'd pulled the bedside table over. There was blood all over … Everywhere. On her face, her nightie.'

Carly shut her eyes on the image, on other images of bloodied bodies. She wound an arm around Christina's shoulders. ‘I'm so sorry you had to see that.' More pictures to join the ones that were already keeping Christina awake at night.

‘She must have fallen first and was trying to get up,' Christina said. ‘Her clock radio was on her chest, she was holding it there, as though … as though it was all she could do to call for help. It was so loud I could hear it from the front door.'

Carly had heard it too, and the memory of it now slid through her bones like a chill.

‘Maybe she wasn't feeling well,' Christina was saying. ‘Maybe it was a heart attack. The ambulance people can't say …'

Carly pushed her voice through the choking sensation in her throat. ‘I knocked on her door this morning. I could hear the radio then. I thought … oh god.' She'd thought about getting a car park at the campus. Reckless, selfish.

‘What time was that?' It was Dietrich. He was beside Carly now. Brooke, too, her eyes bloodshot and glassy.

Carly looked from one to the other and felt as if she'd failed them. Failed everyone here. ‘I'm so sorry.'

Brooke took Carly's hand. ‘She was such a lovely person. So lovely and bossy and …'

‘What time did you see her?' Dietrich asked.

‘I didn't.'
Oh god, I just left
. ‘It was just after eight. I could hear the radio from out in the corridor and I … she didn't answer so I …
left
.' Carly covered her face with her hands, a familiar shameful heat filling her chest. ‘She might've been alive then. She might be now if I'd …'

‘You mustn't blame yourself,' Dietrich said.

‘Oh, Carly.' Brooke squeezed Carly's hand some more.

Christina fussed, passing Carly a tissue, patting at her hand. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. You mustn't think like that. It was lovely that you went to see her, she would've liked that and of course you didn't think anything about the radio going like that. Who would?'

George, obviously, and anyone else who'd been involved in the search for a spare key. Carly had only thought of herself.

‘Well,' Christina said on a huge sigh, ‘I don't know about anyone else but I could do with a drink right now. Would you like to join me?' The sweep of her glance sent the invitation to Brooke, Dietrich and Carly.

Brooke nodded. ‘Yes, a cup of tea.'

‘I think this calls for something a bit stiffer,' Christina said.

‘I can't …' Carly started. ‘You go up. I need to …' She stepped back. ‘Walk a bit.'

Carly strode to the stairs, her vision blurring, not looking back as she took the first flight two at a time. Not wanting them to see the swell of emotion that was building inside her. Hurrying quietly past Nate's apartment, she opened her door, pressed her back into the corner and let self-reproach pour from her in an agonised groan. She held her stomach, doubling over as though she was injured, the bag falling from her shoulder, its contents scattering across the floor.

She stayed there, dragging in breath, tightening fists in her hair until it hurt. Sounds from the corridor made her straighten. Just someone passing but it pulled her from her pocket of pain to feel the agitated, faltering breathlessness that was starting inside her.
Christ, not now.

She scattered the detritus from her bag as she stalked up the hallway, trying to ward off the panic attack. Arms folded, hands clenched, she continued around the living room, pacing it out as though she was walking to the breakwater – until she saw it. The vase. The flowers gone now, just the empty etched silver that Carly hadn't returned.

Fuck.
Fuck
. What had she done?

If she'd checked properly, Elizabeth might be alive and Christina wouldn't have seen her friend's bloodied body. But she hadn't, and Carly had spread grief and shock like it was a disease she'd carried from Burden.

She sucked at the air, keeping her eyes wide, her focus on the apartment instead of on other places she'd been. The unopened packet of sleeping pills was still on the counter. It was early evening, the light was fading inside and out – and yeah, she wanted to sleep tonight. Not just
because of the man that trampled through her subconscious. She wanted to close her eyes and see nothing until morning.

Snatching up the packet, she drew out a foil sheet of pills, punched two into her hand. Two small discs. She could barely feel them in her palm, no weight at all, and yet her breath was shallow, her heart thudding. Fear, memory, shame, yearning.

She held them for a long time. The hum of the lift was a distant vibration. Quiet knocks and taps and muffled voices drifted to her. A louder, closer
clack
made her head snap up.

It was followed by soft, urgent footfalls … in her hallway.