The Wall (7 page)

wrong?'

She was twisting around, trying to keep her face hidden from him,

and she asked him, 'Can you remember where I left my camera bag?'

She walked away from him in a way that suggested hurry. Greg stood

very still and watched her.

'No, I don't.'

'It's so dark that I can't see where I left it,' she remarked, using the

excuse to move even further away from him. The problem was that

he followed. She backed up again.

'I could bring it to you in the morning,' Greg offered quietly.

'No! That's all right,' she tried to mollify her terse answer. 'I think I

can find it, and I don't want you to go to any trouble on my account.'

Why did he make her feel so threatened?

'It's no trouble,' he was still quiet, and very still.

Sara turned and abandoned the conversation, just leaving Greg where

he stood. She went to the bushes and started to feel around with her

hands, remembering that it was somewhere near the edge and just out

of casual sight. She heard footsteps behind her and refused to look

up.

'What happened?' the quiet voice came to her. She stopped looking a

moment and then continued, her mouth dry and hands shaking. Ever

since she had started to entertain doubts about him, it had thrown all

their conversations into a different light. What if he was a reporter?

What if he was sent by Barry to keep an eye on her? It was

something that Barry would do.

'What do you mean?' she asked, stalling for time. Her groping hands

found the bulky bag, and she swung it up to her shoulder with relief.

She had to get out of there; she had to get away from this man.

'What happened just now? Something did, what I don't know, but I

can tell you just when it did. You've thought of something, and you're

shying away like a startled rabbit.' That quiet voice could be so

terrible, she found, listening to it with ears pricked with fear. 'What

did you think of, Sara? Has something started to bother you? Have

you forgotten to tell me something about yourself, like, are you a

reporter out for a story?'

'What?' she gasped, astounded. It was so close to what she had been

thinking that she sagged from the shock. Then she remembered. She

had been acting oddly, and if Greg was involved with something

illegal like she suspected then he wouldn't want reporters around any

more than she would. Of course he'd be suspicious. 'No, I'm not a

reporter. I just want to go home.'

'Then I'll walk you.' In spite of all her protests, he did accompany her

on her walk with a pleasantness she - didn't find at all relaxing. Never

had that five-minute walk from the beach to her back door seemed so

long or so uncomfortable. He asked her all sorts of searching

questions, and she fumbled through most of them like a first-grade

girl caught lying. Thrown off balance and feeling immeasurably

shaken up by his curiously menacing attitude, she couldn't think how

to answer some of his more pressing questions. She finally flared up

at him in anger, telling him to leave her alone, and whirled away to

sweep into her house and lock the door behind her with a trembling

hand.

INSIDE the door, Sara leaned up weakly against the wall, listening for

sounds from outside. She couldn't hear any, and moving to the

curtained window, she twitched it aside to peer from the darkened

kitchen into the equally dark night. There was nobody there, and that

was why she felt so shocked when she glanced casually out the front

window before retiring to bed and saw a tall dark shadow just off the

road and under the trees. He appeared to be staring at the cabin, and

she backed away from the door in a panic, in spite of knowing that he

couldn't see her.

Just knowing that Greg was watching the house made her rush

around, bolting the front and back doors in addition to locking them,

and she made sure that every window was closed and latched. Then,

sitting on her couch in an empty, cold living room, she stared into

space, shivering.

She finally went to bed late that night and as a result slept heavily

and deeply into the morning. It was eleven o'clock before she even

opened her eyes. A depression settled over her when she realised the

time. What did she have to get up for? Where did she have to go?

Whom did she get to look forward to meeting? These questions and

others plagued her throughout the small remainder of the morning.

She didn't bother to get dressed; she wasn't going to get out of the

house, and no one would be seeing her.

After feeling so good about herself for a long stretch of time, this

depression hit her hard. She listlessly made herself a cup of tea and

took it into the living room. Setting the cup down on the coffee table,

she took the time to belt her dressing gown more firmly around her

small waist before sitting down. Just as she was sinking into a curled-

up position on the couch, a firm knock sounded at the front door,

making her nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the rectangular

frame of wood, as if expecting someone to bash down the door and

force an entry into the house. Who in the world could be wanting to

see her? Perhaps it was someone who had taken a wrong turn off the

nearby highway, and wanted to know directions. Sara considered this

possibility for a moment with her head cocked to one side, as the

knocking turned to imperative pounding, and she decided that it

couldn't be that. The road was little more than a hard-packed dirt

path, and was obscure. It was impossible to mistake the way, and

impossible not to find the way back to the highway. All one had to do

was turn around.

She slipped quietly up to the door and peered through the peephole

with curiosity—then recoiled as if stung. Greg's tall commanding

frame fully filled the small magnifying glass, his dark face looking

sombre, even stern. She didn't like that look. It frightened her. She

backed away from the door and climbed on to the couch slowly,

watching her front curtained windows as if she expected him to crash

into the room. He didn't, but the pounding continued for some

minutes, along with his deep voice calling her.

'Sara? Sara!' he shouted through the door. 'I know you're in there,

because your car is in the garage. Let me in, please! I want to talk to

you. Sara? Are you all right?'

She picked up her cup of tea and sipped it carefully, listening to his

calling. Finally, seemingly to take ages in her mind, the calling

stopped and footsteps sounded on the small wooden porch. She

sighed and began to relax, only just then realising how tensely she

had been holding herself. That was why when she heard hard

knocking at her back door, and the rattle of her door knob, she

jumped like a startled colt. Unable to help herself, she crept into the

kitchen to listen to Greg calling to her, a thread of impatience

running through his deep voice. Eventually he stopped, and she went

about the small routine of fixing herself another cup of tea. After

staring at the wall opposite the couch for quite some time and

consuming several cups of tea, she finally managed to rouse herself

enough to take a shower. Leaving her hair wet and hanging limply

down her back, with the dressing gown belted once more about her

waist, she padded into the living room, seating herself at the old

upright piano and stared at the keys with sadness.

She wanted to play but couldn't seem to find it within herself. She

wanted to be creative and work out a new, strange melody to

adequately describe just what she was feeling inside, but she couldn't

seem to pick up her heavy hands and play. She wanted to sing, to

pour out her guts and to fill the room with her voice, to release all

that was inside and aching to get out, but the music just wasn't there.

For the first time in her life, Sara couldn't play.

She sat looking down at her hands, and tears slid down her face.

What had she done to herself? Had she really damaged her own

music beyond repair? She couldn't accept that. Her music would

always be with her. It was as much a part of herself as her breathing

and thinking. She would only lose her music when she laid down her

head and died. Somewhere, deep down inside, it was still living.

One hand tentatively reached out to caress the keyboard with a

reverent, loving finger. She loved it so. She would never, ever

sacrifice her own desires to play what others wanted to hear. She

would make music only for her own fulfilment, and offer that to the

public. She would play now, only for herself. Both hands came to

rest on the keys, and she flexed her fingers, once, twice. Then a

resounding crash filled the room as she played a half-forgotten

melody that she had written years ago. It had never gone beyond the

stage of pure sound and personal satisfaction, and she was suddenly

very glad for it. It was her own song, nobody else's. She had not sold

it for money; it belonged only to her.

She faltered through the execution of the melody, stopping several

times to go back over certain parts of it again, refreshing her memory

and reviving the song. She had written it in a furious burst of anger

when she was barely twenty. Her mother had just died, and all Sara's

pain, grief, and anguish had spilled into the song. Playing it now was

like some kind of purge to her soul. It cleaned her out and filled her

up again with something new.

Afterwards, feeling hungry for the first time that day, she went to the

kitchen and ate a hearty meal. The afternoon was fast disappearing,

and she turned on a table lamp in the living room and prepared to

settle down with a good book.

She had just barely begun to read when a knocking sounded again at

her door. Should she answer? She didn't particularly want to see

anyone. Greg's voice sounded through the door, and she detected a

note of anxiety. 'Sara? I hoped to see you on the beach today. Are

you not feeling well? Can I help you in any way? Do you need a

doctor?'

As she listened, strangely touched by his concern, slow tears filled

her eyes, but she wouldn't let them overflow. She had to blink rapidly

to make her vision clear. Why should he care? Was this just a ruse to

get her to open the door?

Footsteps sounded on the front porch like they had this morning

when Greg had gone away, but she began to hear funny noises, things

being pounded against the outside wall just back from the porch. It

sounded as if he was hitting something in between the back door and

the stone fireplace, to the left of the house. Eventually overcome by

curiosity, Sara slipped into the kitchen and tried to peep out of the

curtained window, but she couldn't see anything. The footsteps were

making regular, short trips back and forth, and it sounded as if there

was something metal outside.

She slowly slid back the bolt and turned the lock in the doorknob,

still listening intently. Grasping the handle and turning it, she pulled

the door open quietly to peer outside, her half wet hair hanging

around her in a tumbled mess and her large eyes uncertain, wary. She

saw Greg approaching her way from a pick-up truck, his powerful

arms filled with neatly cut firewood. He already had a nice amount

carefully stacked against the house. He in turn saw her head and one

shoulder peek around the half-opened door, and he took in the large,

startled look in her eyes, the pale skin, and the slight circles

underneath those huge questioning orbs. She looked like a small,

puzzled child.

Setting down the firewood in a careful movement, he made no

immediate attempt to come nearer to her, for she looked as if she

might bolt and slam the door shut at any sudden action. 'Hello,' he

said calmly, as if talking to an unsettled horse. 'I remembered that

you said you needed firewood, and I had a few trees I've been

planning to get rid of for some time. Is it all right stacked here, or do

you want it someplace else?

'What?' she asked, feeling stupid. She felt stunned at this uncalled-for

gesture of goodwill, and edged a little further from behind the door.

Greg saw that she was in a quilted dressing gown that fell nearly to