Double Exposure (5 page)

Eight
Debris

Two o'clock.

The moon is brilliant, almost full and suspended halfway between the roofline and the top of the sky. For once the stars shine sharply against the backdrop of the night, defying the ambient glow of the city.

Staring out of the window, T.J. lies propped up on three pillows, waiting for sleep to come but knowing it is hopeless.

In the next room Ty lies sleeping and she fights the instinct to go and check that he is still breathing. Two years, and still at times the irrational fear surfaces, usually at night when the house is quiet and the chaos of the day subsides, so that there is nothing to distract her imagination from its darkest machinations.

But this time it is not Ty who keeps her awake.

Unconsciously, she touches her lips with the tips of her fingers, remembering his kiss …

The noise, when it comes, is slight – a soft scuffing of shoes on the boards of the veranda, a chair moved a fraction. Not enough to wake a sleeping person, but in the silence of the early dark it is distinct, and a sudden fear closes like a cold hand around her chest.

Sliding silently out of bed, she makes her way carefully out through the bedroom door and down the passage to her son's room.

In the light from the moon, Tyson is sleeping, his thumb in his mouth, his tee-shirt gathered up around his chest and his back exposed. She takes a step towards the cot, then freezes as the shadow passes in front of the window. A tearing sound and she is galvanised into action.

Without removing her eyes from the direction of the threat, she reaches behind her for the switch and the room is suddenly alive. Then she is at the cot, picking up the sleeping child, who stirs but doesn't wake.

Holding him close to her chest, she stands, staring at the window. The shadow has moved away from her line of sight, but she can hear his footsteps on the floorboards outside. He is no longer attempting to be quiet. One of the veranda chairs topples with a crash into her mother's planter-stand, as the intruder leaps the rail into the garden beneath. His retreat is accompanied by a chorus of barks from the dogs next door.

T.J. releases the breath she has been holding. Her legs are frozen to the spot and she fears she has squeezed the boy too tightly, but he sleeps still, undisturbed by her fear, wriggling into a more comfortable position against her shoulder.

‘Mum!'

The voice is hers, but she hears the scream as if from a distance. The child in her arms jumps with shock. Tears are spilling from her eyes and her vision is blurred.

‘Mum! Come here …
Please
…'

Outside, a single cloud drifts across the face of the moon and the barking chorus is picked up by a dog across the street.

As her mother appears in the doorway, hair sleep-tangled, eyes struggling with the light, T.J. turns towards her.

‘He was here. I heard him. Mum, he was coming for Ty …'

*

T.J.'s story

The police were there in minutes. They were sympathetic, comforting and totally helpless to do anything.

Did I see his face? Did I remember anything that might help identify him?

They listened politely, when we told them our suspicions, but without evidence to support our fears I knew what the results of their ‘enquiries' would be. An angry ex-boyfriend acting on a grudge seemed a whole lot less likely than a botched burglary – especially as there had been a spate of break-ins in the area over the past few weeks, all with a similar M.O.

The constable gave me her card.

‘Just in case you remember anything.'

But she knew I wouldn't. All I'd seen was a shadow and all I'd heard were footsteps on the veranda. She asked us not to touch anything outside until the detectives had been the next day.

‘We might get lucky,' she said. ‘He might have got careless and forgotten to wear gloves.'

Again, she didn't seem hopeful, but we did as we were told.

After they'd left, I walked outside, my hands thrust firmly down into the pockets of my dressing gown. The chair lay among the debris of smashed pots, plants and spilled soil and as I crouched down beside Ty's window, the night air suddenly seemed a couple of degrees colder.

Bisecting the fly-screen diagonally, a thin cut spanned the entire length of the window, which I had left open just a few centimetres to allow for a flow of air. Only the flimsy barrier of the screen had stood between the intruder and entry. Leaning forward, I examined the cut. It was sheer and perfect, no snagged threads, no deviations. Just a single fluid movement. The blade that made that cut was razor-sharp.

I remembered the tearing sound and shuddered.

The next day was Thursday.
Mums and Bubs
day. Not that I was in the mood for a movie.

I think I was just hoping Cain was on-shift. I could have called, I suppose, asked him if he was going to be there. Or I could have phoned early and got him to call in sick. If I'd asked, he would probably have spent the day with me, listening to my account of the ordeal and putting his arm around me.

But that wasn't what I wanted.

What I wanted was to sit in the dark, holding my son and letting someone else's fantasy wash over me, until the terror I was feeling became just another celluloid dream, banished by the end-credits.

All I needed was to know that he was outside. Just in case.

Nine
Double exposure

In the dream, the scream is always silent.

A cry inside your head that fails to penetrate the water pressing in around you. The soundless panic that courses through your blood and cramps your gut and urges you to quit.

Let go.

Release the life-breath that you hold inside with gritted teeth.

As the shadow slides away below you. As the emerald surface shines …

Then, sudden as a thought, the terror fades, rising away from you towards the green light, like the bubbles of silver air, and in its place you feel the calm.

The slow floating tumble down.

Down …

Always down …

You close your eyes … feel the gentle pull of the current against your skin … feel the soft whisper of the water against your ears.

And forget the panic. Forget the knot twisting in your gut. Forget …

When the distant surface shatters with the dull thud of entry, something wills your eyes to open, to glimpse the source of the intrusion, but the effort is too great.

Colours are lapping at the edges of the dark, the water whispers, the shadow slips away.

And the air leaks silver from your open mouth …

*

Cain's story

Chris is sitting in lotus position on the floor at the bottom of the bed, watching me as I wake.

Maybe it's his presence that's woken me. I don't know. All I do know is that he's smiling. Watching me and smiling. Like he knows something I should know, but isn't about to share it with me.

At least, not right away.

‘Want to get some breakfast?' he asks, uncurling his legs and standing beside the bed. ‘I've got something to show you and I don't want you seeing it on an empty stomach.'

‘What?' I ask, but he's already on his way to the kitchen. ‘Why?'

I look at the clock on the bedside table. 9:47.

Figures …

Of course he'd wait until they were gone before venturing into the house.

I walk past their bedroom – immaculate, as usual – and turn towards the stairs. Then a sudden feeling of
déjà vu
turns my head back towards the dresser. It's there again. The glint of ruby in the shaft of morning sunlight. A single stud.

I pick it up and open the lid of the jewellery box, ready to place it in its allotted position. The music begins, tinny and childish. Unsophisticated.

It strikes me suddenly that somehow that music, the kitsch ornateness of the box itself and the ordered layout of its contents symbolise my mother perfectly.

The gold trinkets shine against the red velvet of the lining. Chains and bracelets, hanging perfectly parallel, rings, earrings – hoops and studs – each in its preordained slot …

It's only then that I notice the absence. The matching stud is missing. My eyes sweep the dresser surface and then all the surfaces in the room, but they are bare. Dustless and uncluttered as always. No sign of the missing stud.

‘Come on, bro!' Chris sounds excited, demanding.

One more scan of the room reveals nothing. I place the lone earring in its slot in the box and close the lid, killing the music. A vague feeling of dread ghosts across the surface of my thoughts.

But only for a moment.

‘Cain? Come
on
, dude. It'll fall off if you keep playing with it! Get down here, or I'll eat it all myself.'

And he would, too.

I take the stairs two at a time …

‘Did she actually see him?'

Chris is steering one-fingered, his right elbow resting on the sill of the open window, his eyes flicking between the road and my face.

‘No …' I'm distracted, remembering T.J.'s face as she recalled the incident, the haunted look behind her eyes, the way she'd twisted the serviette into a tight string before dropping it onto the table in front of her.

Ty was staring at Nilgun as she made the coffee and Nilgun was smiling back at him …

The silence draws me back and I become aware that he's waiting for more information. I shake my head to clear it and focus on the conversation.

‘She didn't see anything. It was dark outside. All she saw was a shadow. But it was him.'

‘How could she
know?
You said it yourself. There's been a whole spate of break-ins lately. Why couldn't it just be a strung-out junkie looking for fix-money? Seems to me it's a more likely explanation.'

I can tell when Chris is playing devil's advocate. He asks a whole string of rhetorical questions.

Then answers them himself.

What he's waiting for is for me to dig a little deeper. To unravel whatever is really bugging me. To get to the secret core of fear that's hiding there.

I start digging.

‘He's been calling the house. At all sorts of odd times. Sometimes he just sits there at the other end of the phone and doesn't say a word. Just breathes and listens. Other times he's abusive and threatening. He's got this fixation with Ty and … well, it was the kid's bedroom he tried to break into. If it's not him, it's an amazing bloody coincidence.'

He gears down and takes a left. Too fast. The tyres protest and he brings his other hand into play to correct the swerve.

‘Coincidences happen,' he says. ‘Anyway, what're you planning to do about it?'

‘Do?'

Why is it I always feel like he's three steps ahead of me?

Perhaps because he invariably is. At least three steps. It's enough to give you the screaming craps.

Look, it's not that he sets out to act superior – he's too confident for games like that. But the effect is the same. It's like living in the wings, watching the performance take place centre-stage. Or sitting in a darkened theatre while the life you wish you were living flashes like a vision across the screen, and it dawns on you that your entire existence takes place in its reflection.

Chris has the kind of mind that grasps the big picture intact, then breaks it down to the most minute of details and manufactures solutions before most people can even recognise the potential problems. I gave up playing chess against him in the seventh grade. No point. He was usually into the endgame before I'd worked out my opening gambit.

He's still waiting. I try to sound like I've thought about it. Like I've got some semblance of a solution. Which, of course, I haven't. ‘There's not a whole lot
to
do. She's got an AVO out on him. If they catch him within a thousand metres of the kid, he's history.'

‘Yeah, right! Like that's going to happen!' He shakes his head and accelerates through an orange light, a millisecond ahead of the red-light camera. ‘How're they planning on catching him? Leave out a saucer of milk? What if it
was
him last night? They can only act on the AVO if he's caught breaking the conditions. D'you think he's gonna wait around until they're good and ready to respond to a call for help? You said yourself, he's obsessed with the kid. And your average obsessive isn't generally the ideal candidate for obeying bullshit court orders. So, what are
you
planning to do?'

As usual, I'm left staring at my pieces, wondering how he's managed to outflank me.

Again …

‘I'm …'

The words run out and I shrug. He brakes for a crossing and chews his bottom lip. An old bag-lady pushes a laden supermarket trolley across in front of us, each step a carefully considered act of concentration. Her filthy clothes are unmatched, and the hat that covers her hair has knitted flaps that hang down over her ears. She looks at us through the windscreen, then shifts her attention back to her trolley, pushing her life in front of her like an intolerable burden.

Chris is staring after her as he speaks.

‘You're totally out of your depth, bro.'

As the car moves forward, he turns to face me. ‘You know that, don't you?'

I nod and study the road ahead.

The main living area in Chris's pad consists of a lounge-room, a galley kitchen, a small bathroom and a separate bedroom. It's warm, cosy and contained. A few framed sketches and photographs on the walls, polished timber floors and second-hand Chinese rugs. It suits him.

It's the studio that's special. Behind the main living area is a huge empty space. Part of it has been partitioned off and light-proofed to make a darkroom, but the rest is stark and open with high rafters and lots of natural light from huge skylights and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the street. The place was an old warehouse that someone converted to an imitation New York ‘loft' sometime in the early-seventies, when they were gentrifying the inner city. That much space that close to the city should cost a fortune. Far more than he makes working nights and early mornings at Inferno – even when it's supplemented by tips and the sale of an occasional drawing or photograph.

It's owned by the barrister father of one of his friends, who has more money than God and likes to think of himself as a bit of a patron. You know, season tickets to the opera, donations to artistic ‘causes' – that sort of thing.

I guess Chris has no problem being considered one of those causes.

And it is a great pad.

Ideal …

He holds back the curtain between the living area and the studio, then steps aside, allowing me through.

And I see what he's been so excited about.

Hanging from the wall-hooks, or set up on makeshift easels throughout the space, are the creations he's been working on so secretively for the past weeks and months.

It's a mixed-media concept exhibition. Photographs and artwork arranged in complementary pairs.

Words rise, but they hang frozen in the gap between thought and tongue. Unmoving, I take in the scope of what he has done.

I want to cry and laugh at the same time, to release the breath that has stalled in my chest. Instead, I just stare.

‘Well?' He has moved up beside me. In that single word hovers the artist's trepidation. His fear of failure.

Slowly, I am drawn towards the freestanding pairing nearest me. The black-and-white photograph is of an old man slumped asleep against a graffiti-daubed wall. His clothes are threadbare and mismatched, a woollen cap is pulled down over his ears and fingerless gloves protect his hands. The edge of an old shopping trolley is visible out of focus at the edge of the frame, but the complex shadow it casts falls hard-edged across the pavement at the old man's feet, looking for all the world like the bars of a jail-cell.

In the frame beside the photo is a drawing, highlighted in charcoal and pastels, of a figure frozen in the same pose, head bowed, legs stretched out, hands lying loosely at his sides.

But there the similarity of the images ends.

In the drawing, the old man is transformed. The wall is gone, replaced by an armchair in front of a quarter-paned window that opens onto the blurred suggestion of a garden. A footstool stands in substitution of the hard pavement and the jail-bar shadow of the original image is transmuted into a patterned rug beside an open fire. The cap has disappeared, revealing a down of white hair, and the old man is dressed in a loose shirt and comfortable pants. Slippers replace the scuffed and worn shoes of the photograph.

The contrast is shattering.

I move on.

Two young lovers stand, eyes locked, fingers gently touching, silhouetted against the spray of a fountain, while in the frame beside them their images have aged. Wrinkled hands touch with familiarity, the fountain has become a tree in autumn and the young shoulders have stooped slightly in the transformation.

But the eyes … Somehow he has made them shine, brighter than the original and as youthful, even within their mask of wrinkles, and the blush of attraction in the youthful faces has become a shared expression of a far deeper … understanding.

I move from pair to pair, drinking in the power of my brother's imagery. Romantic at times, idealised, but then, without warning, the vision that darkens.

The young boy, crouched over his toys in the sand of the sunlit playground, becomes, in pastels of grey and brown, the twenty-something soldier cowering in despair, his gun held loosely by its strap in nerveless hands, while the starburst of a shell illuminates the battlefield around him.

The girl of ten or twelve is captured by the lens with the chaos of the shopping mall muted, out of focus, behind her. Her eyes are fixed on something that has made her smile. In her hands she holds a bag containing something new and precious and expensive.

While beside her on the drought-cracked soil of another land, her sister image stands dark-skinned and naked, hands clasped empty before her, while in the middle distance a dog searches the rubbish for food.

And at the end of the room, illuminated by the shaft of sunlight falling from the huge window, a young prostitute leans suggestively against a pole, her eyes staring a direct challenge into the camera, an out-of-focus neon glaring like a mock-halo around her head. But here, for once, the pattern is broken, for in the companion space beside the full-length photograph, he has chosen a different perspective.

Filling the frame, the girl's face is reproduced in oils, beautiful, like a Pre-Raphaelite portrait, the colours rich, the detail immaculate, in her eyes a knowing innocence, her halo a gentle, almost invisible shimmering of gold.

I try to speak, but the words won't come.

‘Chris,' I begin, ‘I'm …'

But I guess I don't need to say anything. He flashes a relieved smile and turns towards the dividing curtain.

‘Want a cup of coffee?'

I nod, but he's already gone. I look back towards the end of the room. From the photograph the girl's eyes stare back at me, simultaneously seductive and accusing. From the painting, they hint forgiveness.

And yet the faces are the same …