Darkest Place (5 page)

The mattress lurches like a dinghy in rough water.

Harsh, fast gasps fill Carly's head. They are sharp in her chest.

She is afraid. It's not the sound or the lurching. It is what is above her. Large and silent.

On the bed with her.

She wants to scream. It's building in her chest. Trapped there, scratching at her lungs as though her ribs are the bars holding it back.

She hears breathing. Not her own. Deep and unhurried. It whispers across her face like a warm cloth. It turns her skin to ice.

She lashes out. Hits, twists, kicks. She sees it in her mind, feels it in her muscles. But it doesn't happen. She doesn't move.

Neither does he.

She sees him now. A shape in the darkness. Above her, black and motionless. He is watching. She watches back. Fear roaring through her bones, pulse thumping in her ears. Her voice is wedged in her throat now and choking her.

No. Something else is squeezing, pushing down, making blood pound in her face. Warm hand, hard fingers.

She doesn't want to see. Doesn't want to feel. She shuts her eyes. Waits.

 

Shivering by the front door, Carly held tight to the hair dryer, adrenaline pricking across her scalp as she listened to the footfalls in the corridor outside. The knock made her jump.

Different officers: a woman asking the questions, a man keeping an eye on the corridor.

‘In my room,' Carly told them, mouth so dry she could barely get the words out. ‘He … he was …
on the bed
.'

Same procedure – lights glaring and a brief, alert search. Carly watched from the hall, saw for herself the apartment was empty. She hugged her hair dryer to her chest as more officers arrived, grateful for their bulk.

‘Carly.'

She blinked at the uniform in front of her.

‘Dean. I was here last week. We talked, remember?'

Dark hair, dark eyes, kind voice. She grabbed his forearm like it would stop her from sliding to the floor. ‘He came back.'

‘Did he hurt you?'

She shook her head. ‘He … was …
on
the bed. On the
bed
.'

He steered her to the kitchen. She gulped water from the tap, coughing and gagging in her hurry to slake the dryness, then leaned against the pantry, arms tight across her chest. ‘I locked the doors. The doors were
locked
.'

He pulled a notebook from his jacket. ‘Let's start with what happened.'

Carly went through it – waking up, someone on the bed, silent except for the breathing, still except for the hand at her throat. Her voice trembled through the retelling but her eyes, when she was done, were hot and dry, the tears waiting like steam behind her lids.

‘Did you get a better look at him?'

‘It was dark and … he was a shape.' She used shaky hands to draw a hood in the air around her head. ‘Like before. A balaclava and hood.'

‘You saw that?'

‘Not the detail. The
shape
.'

He left her to speak to the female cop who'd been at the door. A low-voiced conference, nods and references to his notebook, fingers pointed at the doors and the loft. Carly assumed he was telling her about last time. Twice, two visits. Not someone letting a prowler in, not her stupid enough to leave her door unlocked. He'd come back. Fuck. The realisation made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and the fists tucked into her armpits to tremble. He returned with the dressing-gown another officer had fetched from the loft.

‘The doors were locked.' She said again. ‘I made sure.'

‘What time was that?'

‘I checked them both before I went to bed around ten.'

‘Have you given anyone else a key?'

‘No.'

‘A neighbour, maybe? You know, in case you lock yourself out.'

‘
No
.' She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘I've only been here a week and a half, I don't know my neighbours like that.'

‘That's right, you've just moved in.' He replaced the notebook in his pocket. ‘I'd like to look at the points of entry with you again.'

She felt like she was walking on puppet legs, jerky and uncoordinated as she went back to the front door. ‘I make sure I shut it properly every time I come in.' It was open now so she pushed it to the jamb, checked the deadlock like she'd been doing. ‘No way it can be pushed open.'

Dean gave it a tug. ‘And the balcony?'

It was the same lock he'd inspected last week, but she wanted to show him again, make sure he didn't mix it up with another break-in with a flimsy back door. As they passed the three other officers standing in a huddle by the sofa, the woman broke away and joined them.

‘Carly, hi, Jacinda. How are you feeling?' she said.

Jumpy, fuzzy, thirsty. ‘Fabulous.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure. Dean told me you had a break-in last week.' The tone of her voice said
I'm asking the questions now
. ‘You thought the offender was still here when we arrived?'

‘I didn't know. I didn't see him leave. I thought he might've …' She glanced around the furniture and benches that had cast shadows in the gloom from the street. ‘I don't know.'

‘Did you hear anything down here?'

‘No, but …' She knotted fingers together. ‘I was scared.'

‘Sure.' Jacinda nodded. ‘Can you show us the locks here?'

Carly turned the key, pushed, and a gust of cold air hit them.

Jacinda rattled the right-side door, tried the top fastener. ‘Can you step out with us?'

Carly stood on the balcony, something trembling inside her, and not just because of the bitter early-morning breeze.
The two cops inspected the drop over the edge and the apartments either side, their equipment belts clunking on the railing, passing each other wordlessly as they swapped sides. Voices inside made Carly turn. A cop crossing the floor, heading into the hallway.

He opened the front door and a voice carried to the balcony. ‘What are you doing here?' It was the practised flat tone of a police officer but something in it made Carly pay attention.

‘I live in the warehouse.' Male voice, muffled from the distance.

The door swung wider and her eyebrows rose. It was Nate. Up and dressed. At four o'clock in the morning.

‘Is Carly all right?' Nate was trying to look past the cop and down the hall.

‘You know the owner of the apartment?'

‘We're
neighbours
. Is she all right?' There was a slight tussle of bodies as Nate tried to come in, the cop blocking the doorway with his body.

‘The situation is under control,' the cop said. ‘You're not …' An exchange of low, harsh words, the cop's stance turning stiff and broad, edging Nate back into the corridor.

‘I didn't realise you could see the harbour from here.'

Carly turned back to Jacinda, who was talking to Dean as though she was a potential buyer and he was the agent.

‘I wouldn't climb up there,' Jacinda said.

Dean tipped his head side to side. ‘Not impossible, though.'

‘No.'

Was that what they were thinking? Someone had climbed the outside of the building to get in?

Jacinda turned to Carly. ‘When was the last time the windows were cleaned?'

‘Last week. After the fingerprinting was done.'

‘Makes sense. Leaves a mess, doesn't it?' She turned to Dean, lowered her voice. ‘I'll get fingerprinting back.' Raised it again for Carly. ‘Okay, we're done. Sorry to keep you out in the cold.'

There was only one cop left in the apartment, tapping on his phone. Jacinda called to him as she stepped through the door. ‘Hey, Flinto, put the kettle on for Carly. It's freezing out there.' Then she headed for the front entrance, looking both ways before disappearing into the corridor. The purpose in her stride made Carly wonder if Nate was still out there.

‘Carly?' Dean's hand closed around her elbow.

She pulled away, goosebumps rising on her arm. ‘What happened with the fingerprints they took last week?' she asked.

‘I haven't seen a report.'

‘How long does it take?'

‘It can be a while. I'll follow it up.'

He flicked a look at the front door, made no attempt to move – it made Carly wonder if he was waiting for his colleagues to deal with her neighbour or deciding to stay for a chat.

‘Have a cup of tea,' he said. ‘Better than coffee for the shakes.'

They weren't going anytime soon. ‘Okay.'

‘Take care, Carly.'

She followed Dean and his partner to the corridor, wondering what had happened out there, wondering if Nate was in handcuffs being read his rights, but the floor was deserted when she looked out. Watching them to the lift, until Dean waved a
Goodbye/Go back inside
, she turned and saw a stripe of brightness under Nate's door.
Whatever had been said out of Carly's sight, it hadn't sent him back to bed.

She shut the door, checked the lock. Twice. Hurried through to the French windows. Dean had fastened them but she needed to do it herself to try to calm the agitation that was building. She made tea with trembling hands, scalded her lips as she drank, impatient for it to cool. It was itching inside her now – under her skin, in her legs, her lungs. She wanted to walk but it was dark outside. She flicked on the telly to hear real voices, filled the sink and found things to wash to keep her hands busy.

It
. Her psychologist called it anxiety. That was the clinical explanation.

It
was her cross to bear, the memento of what she'd done, her penance.

It
was the face of guilt and grief, reproach and fear. The agitation that lay on the surface above it all, making sure she remembered.

Carly picked up a tea towel and started on the small mound of dishes. A long time ago, she'd accepted the anxiety as a passenger on board her life – fighting it had always felt like denying responsibility. Staying busy, giving the restless energy an outlet, helped to keep the images turned down so they didn't make her crazy, so the people she'd hurt wouldn't have to be reminded that the sole survivor was the weak one. Thirteen years on,
it
was a low hum most days. Times like this, though, when fate seemed to be trying to even the score, it grew loud and strong inside her, trying to make her relive the night that had almost killed her too.

She squeezed her eyes, felt glass snap inside the tea towel. Blood oozed from her middle finger, the sight of it felt like an explosion in her head. She climbed the
stairs, held her finger under water in the ensuite, telling herself tonight wasn't about that, she'd paid her price for the blood she'd spilled. She taped her finger, cleaned the basin and the mirror and the loo while she was there, gritting her teeth on the memories that were clamouring to be heard.

She finished in the kitchen and started on the downstairs half bath but
it
was too loud tonight and the effort to contain the restless, anxious jittering in her bones finally exhausted her, finally made the idea of just letting it out feel like comfort. A cigarette when you were fighting the addiction. The touch of a man's body when loneliness was overwhelming.

And there it was.

Did you guys turn into wusses while I was gone?

The challenging laughter of her own voice brought a cold sweat to Carly's face.

Come on, one more time before you all become boring old farts.

She sat on the floor at the edge of the French windows, fists clenched as she waited for the show.

They'd started late, all four of them slow with hangovers and tiredness. Debs complained of a headache, Jenna wondered if they were going to have enough time, Adam stopped once to heave.
Wusses
, Carly teased. She and Debs had been joined at the hip since preschool. They'd met Adam and Jenna on the first day of high school. Together they'd been the quartet, a royal flush, an Awesome Foursome. The canyon was an hour and a half out of town, an overnight excursion: waterproof gear, helmets, harnesses and ropes. They'd done it half-a-dozen times before, abseiling the falls, sleeping under the stars at the base of the cliff, hiking out in the morning.

It's fucking freezing up here, Carl
, Adam said as they walked the ridge, the valley hundreds of metres below them.
Crybaby
, Carly called back. He was silent for a while, she figured he was battling his hangover or ticked off with her smug Sydney attitude again. Then his voice lifted:
Emma's pregnant
. Their shock echoed off the high, sheer cliffs of the chasm.
What? Bullshit! Pregnant?
They stopped for details, Carly wasted more time leading a toast with energy drinks. It was late when they started the abseil.

There were twelve sections, each dropping to a narrow ledge that stepped out to the next descent. Debs and Adam hadn't been canyoning since Carly had left town, Jenna was working in an office and had lost her old fitness – and all three were slow. At the fourth shelf, they needed head-mounted torches in the dusk. Resting on the fifth, close enough to the waterfall for its icy spray to dampen their clothes, their spirits waned to anxiety about how far they still had to go.

I think the next couple of shelves are wider
, Debs said.
We should spend the night on one, tie ourselves on.

I'm not sleeping on the cliff
, Jenna said.

We'll be doing most of it in the dark
, Adam warned.

Not if we stop pissing around talking
, Carly said.

She led the way, faster and fitter from the rock wall at uni. Teasing and cajoling, she egged them on, thinking about the relative comfort at the bottom versus a cold, exposed night lashed to a tree. The next ledge was wide but with an incline sloping towards the sharp edge of the shelf.

Here
, Debs said.

Jenna was sitting against the rock wall.
I wouldn't have bloody come if I knew we were going to sleep here.

She was always first to complain. Carly and Debs looked to Adam for another opinion.

I don't know
. He dropped his pack from his shoulders, rubbed his arms.
I'm not feeling so great.

What's wrong?

Tired, hung-over
.
I had that flu last week, it feels like it's freshening up.
He shrugged.
What do you think, Carl?

She was the game one, the scout, the one who mapped their routes – and it was only now she wondered if they were up to this canyon. She'd glanced around as though she was the expert, arrogant even then. They were halfway down, Jenna and Adam were slow but managing, the incline made it feel like they were slipping when they were standing still, so she made the decision.
We keep going.

Debs wasn't happy but a brief argument decided they'd reassess fitness and conditions at the next ledge.

It had suffered a rock fall since the last time they were there, the widest part reduced to standing room only. It was almost eight thirty and would have been pitch-dark except for a full moon. Their torches jerked and slid around what remained of the crumbling ledge.

Fuck
, Debs said for all of them.

Christ, I need to lie down
, Jenna groaned.

Don't. The ground's not stable.
Adam scuffed a shoe, sending pebbles tumbling over the ledge.

He was shivering, Carly saw.
We keep moving.

Where, for fuck's sake?
Deb's voice was sharp with anger and alarm.
We can't fucking see.

There
, Carly aimed her light.
We can anchor on that tree. We used it once before.

Silence as four torch beams settled on the craggy, stunted trunk that clung to the rock shelf. The path to it was a narrow ledge, only wide enough for single file,
sloping steeply towards the drop into the valley, the rubble underfoot slippery. She took the lead, faking confidence, hoping the darkness hid the trembling in her legs.
Come on, it's fine.

Carly kept her light on them as they moved slowly towards her, keeping distance between them like they'd been taught, so one falling person didn't take everyone with them. It didn't matter. There was a skittering of stones, a snap-crack under Carly's feet. Jenna gasped. Adam swore. Debs' head lifted, fear in her eyes as they met Carly's. Then the whoosh, as though the canyon had taken a great gulp of air. The night filled with screaming. Carly's body tumbled and twisted, suspended and pelted by the darkness … all the way to the agonising, bone-breaking thump on the shelf below.