Grand Slam (34 page)

I left at 4 a.m. I had to go that early in case Andrew woke up and caught me. He wouldn't have let me go. He would have handcuffed me and taken me to Jack's house. I needed to do it without him. I just didn't know how yet.

I nicked Andrew's car keys, left a note with a huge apology and promises to make it up to him ‘for the rest of my life'. I said I was going to see Jack because I was worried that our (so-called) relationship was over. Andrew wouldn't believe me, not really, but I thought it might delay him.

I drove to Chadstone and parked at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac about half a kilometre from Mum's house. I set the alarm on my phone and went back to sleep. There was no point getting ahead of myself. Mrs Booth wouldn't leave for church until around eight thirty or later. I still hadn't decided what to do if Ruth was home.

At six, Andrew called me. I didn't answer and felt really bad. He left a voicemail and I listened: ‘C'mon, friend, don't do this to me.' He sounded hurt and worried. It made me cry.

I couldn't go back to sleep; instead I put my phone on silent and sat there, staring at the windscreen, listening to the chirping birds. My phone rang a few more times. I didn't look to see who was calling and at eight thirty, I turned it off.

In my breaking-and-entering outfit, I trotted down the road, looking over my shoulder, to Mrs Booth's street. I wondered if Andrew had already been there to try to find me. If he had, I wondered how he got there. Nicked a car? I snuck up Mrs Booth's driveway, peeked in the garage. Her car was gone but an old Toyota was there. Bugger.

What to do now? Only one thing. Knock on the door, say, ‘Hi, Ruth. Remember me? The one who laughed about you behind your back when we were kids? That's right, the arsehole who lived behind . . . oh, you do remember . . .' But what would she do? Invite me in? What would I do once in there? I couldn't just go hunting around the house.

I knocked on the door, deciding to just wing it. If she didn't let me in, then I'd have to think of something else. Set the house on fire or something. There was no answer. I waited, knocked, waited, knocked. It occurred to me then that Ruth might have gone to church with her mother. She might not even be home. I went around the back, looked up at her bedroom window. Wind whistled through the hole in the basement doors. It wasn't windy. I shivered, and stepped onto the trellis.

Ruth's bedroom window was open. With my fingers over the sill, I peered inside, listening. Nothing. ‘Hello?' I called out, without thinking what I'd do if someone responded. But there was only silence. I slipped in through the window, landing with a thump on the floor. There was a sudden movement and I gasped, hand over my mouth. Minx the cat appeared. ‘It's only you, Minx.' I gave her a pat. ‘You're not so scary, really.'

‘Oh, but
I
am,' said a voice from the door.

I froze, but didn't look up. I wanted to compose myself, come up with a reasonable explanation as to why I was sitting on the floor in Ruth's bedroom, patting her mother's cat. I cleared my throat, and looked up. ‘Hi . . . Charlotte? Charlotte!'

Charlotte Johnson stood there in the doorway of Ruth Booth's bedroom, wearing my high heels, my wig, a dress that looked suspiciously like mine, and carrying a gun that also looked suspiciously like mine. And which she was pointing at me. Emilio's lucky charm was, of course, around her neck. I stood slowly, hands raised, keeping my eyes on the gun.

‘Charlotte, what are you doing here?'

She spat a laugh. ‘I'm not
Charlotte
, you idiot.'

‘Then . . . oh my God!'

‘I'm Ruth fucking Booth, remember? The one you laughed at and spied on over your stupid fence.'

‘You look so different!'

She turned her head, ran a finger down her straight nose. ‘Do you like it? It's new.'

‘You've had plastic surgery?'

‘Yep.' She glared at me. ‘Do you remember how horrible you were? Not Steve. He was nice.'

‘I thought he was just as horrible as me.'

‘No way! You were so mean.'

‘You were a bit weird back then, Ruth.'

‘Don't call me Ruth!'

‘Sorry.' Oh my God.
Oh my God!

‘Don't you want to know my plans?'

No. Not if they involve burying me in the basement. ‘So that
is
my wig,' I said by way of distraction.

‘It is not! Okay, it might be. I found it in a rubbish bin.'

‘At the tennis?'

‘Yeah.'

‘It's mine.'

She laughed. ‘Who cares! Mine now, stupid. And I'm going to —'

Just then I heard the front door open and close. ‘Yoo hoo!' Mrs Booth was home. Footsteps came up the stairs.

Ruth was delighted. ‘Perfect!'

‘Don't come up here, Mrs Booth!'

Too late. She appeared at the door, staring at Ruth, then at me. She looked Ruth up and down, at the gun in her hand.

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Ruthie, what now?'

‘
Don't call me Ruthie!
'

Mrs Booth tsked and rolled her eyes, just like my mother does if I leave the fridge door open. ‘I had a feeling you were planning something today.'

Ruth spat, ‘What kind of parents call their daughter Ruth Booth? Huh? Horrible ones, that's what kind!'

‘It's not nice to point guns at people, Ru— sweetheart.'

‘Don't talk!'

Jack, where are you now? In Bass Strait? Andrew, why didn't I bring you with me? Why didn't I listen to you? Why didn't I listen to my mother and go to church?

Which reminded me. ‘How are my parents getting home?' I said to Mrs Booth.

‘Mr Bennett will bring them.'

‘Old Mr Bennett? Is he okay to drive?'

‘Hello?' said Ruth. ‘We're supposed to be talking about
me
!'

Mrs Booth and I shut our mouths.

Ruth waved the gun. It didn't look like the safety switch was on. ‘Now, listen up.' She poked Mrs Booth. ‘You, Mummy dearest, are going into the basement where you'll die.'

Oh, goody, the basement.

‘And
you
 . . .' she pointed at me, ‘are going with my mother and I'm going with yours.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm taking your life, Erica Jewell. Your job, which is pretty much mine anyway 'cause you're shit at it —'

‘I am not! You hid my filing and copied my media release!'

‘Whoopsie do, big deal. Maybe I should let you live so you can do my filing. Anyway, I'm taking your house, which I reckon will be nice after the renovation, and your boyfriend —'

‘You leave Jack alone!'

‘Not
Jack
, stupid. I don't want
Jack
.'

‘You mean Emilio?'

She cackled.

Mrs Booth said, ‘You can't just go taking over people's lives, Ru— sweetie.'

‘
Don't call me sweetie!
'

‘Well, what can I call you?'

‘Call me Erica. Erica Jewell. That's who I am now. Besides, I'm through with you, weird old woman.'

‘I've tried to be less weird, Ru— swee— Erica. I've tried very hard, as you can see.' She looked around the room to prove her point, and, now that I knew what was going on, I could see that Ruth's bedroom looked very much like mine, but a tidy version. And, come to think of it, Mrs Booth's bedroom was a lot like my own parents'.

‘Too late! I'm getting real parents. Proper, normal ones. A
father
. I'm going to be Mr and Mrs Jewell's daughter from now on. They love me.'

‘They're not normal.'

‘Shut up!' Ruth stepped back, waved the gun. ‘Come on, you two, down to the basement.'

‘Um, can we go somewhere else? Like, tie us to the railway line?'

‘Nope, the basement. Move!'

Mrs Booth and I walked ahead of Ruth, down the stairs with hands raised, past the front door to the basement door. Mrs Booth opened the door, flicked on the light, and I followed her down to the place that nightmares are made of. Actually, it wasn't so bad. There was normal kind of stuff there. Storage cupboards. An old wardrobe that would probably be a bit spooky in the dark. But no bodies, from what I could see. There were two chairs and some rope. I could see where this was going.

Ruth tied us up. Chairs back to back, some distance between us. That's okay, I thought. We'll get away eventually. Someone will come. It will be all right.

‘What are you doing over there, um, Erica?' said Mrs Booth.

Ruth was fiddling in the corner, by the hot water system. She crouched low, reaching behind it. She stood and smiled at us. ‘Smell that?'

I sniffed. ‘No.'

‘You will. Soon you'll smell the gas.' She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, this is fun! Wish I could stick around to watch you burn.' She checked her watch. ‘But I've got a tennis match to stop. Ta ta!' At the top of the basement stairs, Ruth lit a candle.

Gas. Candle. I wondered what would happen. I wondered how long it would take for it to happen.

Where had Ruth gone now? To Emilio? To watch him play? No, she said she had a tennis game to
stop
. But he wouldn't be able to play anyway if I wasn't there with his precious amulet. Oh, shit. I
will
be there with his precious!

I heard Mrs Booth's chair shuffling around. ‘Stupid girl,' she said.

As I tried to free my hands, I apologised to Mrs Booth. ‘When I was a kid, I thought you were a witch.' I didn't mention that, up until half an hour ago, I thought she still was.

‘That's all right, Erica. Admittedly, I thought I was a witch too. I thought I had special powers that could stop my husband running off and that could turn my daughter into a decent human being.'

Mrs Booth grunted.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Nearly there.'

Mrs Booth appeared in front of me, hands untied.

‘How did you do that?' I said as she tugged at the ropes on my wrists.

‘Ruthie was a shocker at Girl Scouts, don't you remember?'

‘Ah, no. I avoided Ruth at Girl Scouts. Sorry.'

‘She used to practise her knot-tying on me. Even back then I worried about her. She seemed to get so much pleasure out of tying me up. There,' she said and I released my hands. I rubbed my wrists but they didn't really need rubbing, there hadn't been enough time for any damage or rope burn or anything like that.

‘I can smell the gas now. The candle!'

I rushed across the room to the stairs but too late! A flash of blue ignited the space above the candle. A wave of flame rippled across the ceiling.

We ran like frightened rabbits, back and forth, not knowing where to go. The stairwell to the interior of the house was now blocked by fire but the door was locked anyway.

‘Mrs Booth! Where are the stairs outside?'

She pointed. ‘Behind that old wardrobe.'

We rushed at it, pushing, grunting from the effort. The wardrobe crashed forward. An internal door, with stairs behind it, was locked.

‘Oh, fuck!' yelled Mrs Booth and smacked a hand over her mouth. ‘Excuse me!'

‘Where's the key?'

‘My husband has it!'

‘Where is he?'

‘Who knows! With Mrs Smith?'

The burning ceiling closed in on us. Bits of it fell. Holes appeared above us, the timber frame exposed. Flames were directly above the hot-water service, the source of the gas.

‘Can we shut off the gas?' shouted Mrs Booth.

‘Too late!' There were tools at the end of the basement – an axe – and I rushed to get it. ‘Stay low! Below the smoke!'

I swung the axe at the basement doors. It bounced off. I swung again, with more gusto. A crack appeared in the door. A shock zapped up my arm and I dropped the axe. There was a small explosion behind me. The woosh of something big igniting. The storage cupboards. I picked up the axe, swung with all my might. A hole appeared. The rush of air fanned the ceiling flames and the heat intensified. More pieces of ceiling fell around us. I swung and chopped. The hole opened up. Mrs Booth screamed. I threw the axe away and we pulled at bits of splintered door, opening the hole wide enough to climb through.

‘Go!' I gasped, shoving Mrs Booth at the hole.

I followed her through, up the stairs and onto the back lawn, coughing, swiping at the cobwebs on my face.

‘We can't stay here.' I took Mrs Booth's hand and we ran around the side of the house to the front.

Neighbours were gathering. Some were on their phones, taking photos or making calls. Smoke poured from the basement windows. I heard sirens. ‘Everybody get ba—' A mighty explosion ripped through my words. Pieces of Mrs Booth's house fell around us. We ran up the street.

‘Minx! Oh my Minx!' Mrs Booth stopped running.

I took her arm. ‘Nothing you can do, Mrs Booth.' She started crying. ‘Nothing you can do,' I soothed, leading her gently forward, hoping like hell Axle hadn't been in there too.

As we rounded the corner into my street I could see Mum, Dad and old Mr Bennett standing out the front of Mum and Dad's, watching the spectacle behind it. Mum held Minx, and Axle sat on Mr Bennett's wheelie-walker. Mrs Booth rushed at them.

‘Minx! Minx!' She took Minx from Mum, crying and hugging.

‘Did your company cause that explosion?' said Mum to me.

‘Not this time.'

I needed to get to Emilio but I had nothing. Ruth had taken my bag with Andrew's car keys, my phone, wallet, everything. I needed a car.

‘Um, Mr Bennett, can I borrow your car?'

‘Erica!' said Mum. ‘That's inappropriate.'

Mr Bennett said, ‘I can drive you, lassie.'

‘Oh, really, I'm in a hurry.'

Mr Bennett turned his walker and Axle jumped off. ‘Where do you want to go?' He shuffled across the road to his old blue Commodore.

I looked around for options. What options? If I waited for a taxi I didn't have money to pay for it anyway. Dad wouldn't give me any money – I'd learned that when I was sixteen. And his car was broken. Not that he'd loan it to me anyway.

Mr Bennett arrived at his car. He struggled to open the boot.

‘Here, let me help.' I rushed across the road and hooked my fingers under the boot, pushing it up.

Mr Bennett slowly folded his walker. He tried to lift it.

‘Here.' I tried to take one side.

‘I can manage.'

‘Really, I can help.' I didn't give him a choice, snatching up the walker and chucking it in the boot. ‘I'll drive if you want.'

‘No-one drives old Milly but me.' He wobbled to the driver's door.

By the time he sat in the car, I was buckled in and chewing my fingernails. Maybe I should help him with his seatbelt; God, he even did that slowly. Pulled the seat belt like moving fast might detonate something. It was like no part of his body knew how to do something faster than a snail would. I tried to help him with the buckle but he smacked my hand away. I could feel the anxiety growing in my chest. I clasped my hands in my lap, stared out the window, and watched the grass grow.

Mr Bennett started the car. He indicated, checked his rear-view and side mirrors, looked over his shoulder, wound down the window and called out goodbye to Mum and Dad, wound up the window, checked his rear-view and side mirrors, looked over his shoulder, and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Where to, lassie?'

‘Rod Laver Arena.'

‘Eh?'

‘Rod Laver Arena.'

‘Eh?'

‘The tennis.'

‘Eh?'

I put my hands around my mouth and leaned close. ‘The tennis!'

He gave me a dirty look, leaned away. ‘No need for shouting.'

I continued shouting, but from my side of the car, ‘Actually, can you just drop me on Dandenong Road and I'll get a cab. Except I'll need to borrow the cab fare.'

‘I can take you all the way. You can pay me later.'

Mr Bennett drove at 50 kilometres per hour in the right-hand lane of Dandenong Road, which has a speed limit of 80 kilometres per hour. Every second car that passed us blew its horn. The driver of every third car screamed abuse at us. Mr Bennett turned on his radio. Elevator music twinkled out of it.

‘If you turn up here,' I pointed, ‘we can join the Monash Freeway. It'll be much quicker.'

‘Not paying those thieving bastards.'

‘You mean the tolls? I'll pay for them.'

‘Nope.'

‘But . . .' What was the point? Mr Bennett's saggy old jaw was set.

‘You can go in the left lane if you want, Mr Bennett. We don't have to turn for ages.'

Mr Bennett indicated and slowly moved across three lanes of traffic to the left. He checked his mirrors first, but by the time he'd done that and finally made a move, cars were on top of him, screeching, braking, honking and abusing. I sank low in my seat.

It took well over an hour to get to the tennis because Mr Bennett wanted to avoid the tolls on the Monash, and he chose to drive up Chapel Street. I had a go at an out-of-body experience, but it's hard to do with the distractions of Chapel Street. The anxiety grew, and I tried to calm myself. To think. What did Ruth say? She was going to stop a tennis match. How would she do that? By luring Emilio with his lucky charm. And that would work, I knew. I checked my watch. Emilio might have gone to the stadium by now. I thought I'd go there first, and if he wasn't there I could track back to his hotel from that point. Maybe Emilio and Ruth were having herbal tea in his room. Maybe they were in the shower together. Good luck to them, I thought, then retracted that. No, I didn't want Emilio to have a shower with Ruth Booth. Emilio wanted to have a shower with me. Just me. Not that I was going to have a shower with Emilio, of course, but it was nice to think I was special to him. I slapped my face and Mr Bennett stared at me.

‘There was a mosquito.'

I wondered where Jack was. I wondered where Andrew was. I wondered if they'd been trying to call me. I wondered if Ruth had answered their calls and pretended to be me: ‘Erica Jewell speaking . . . oh, hi, Jack . . . no, I'm fine, you go to Bass Strait with Sharon . . . why don't you stay a few extra days? Go on to Tassie and have a romantic time at their wineries . . .'

By the time we got there, I'd already decided my life was over. Possibly also Emilio's life was over, and maybe Jack's too. His helicopter might crash in Bass Strait. Mum and Dad's life would be over too if they had to bury their daughter. Although, with their new, improved, fake daughter, they might recover and carry on.

I wanted Mr Bennett to park out the front of Rod Laver so I could just jump out, but he insisted on finding legal parking.

‘But I'm just going to jump out, Mr Bennett. You can pull up
right here.
'

He crawled past the taxi parking area and drove up Swan Street. I knew there was no legal parking. I knew he'd drive for another hour trying to find some. The lights changed to red and I pushed open the door before he stopped.

‘Thanks heaps, Mr Bennett.' I jumped from the moving vehicle. He was going so slowly I was able to run alongside his car to shut the door.

I ran around the back to the players' entrance. I didn't have my pass. I knew the guy at the door.

‘Can you let me in?'

‘No, sorry.'

‘Please? It's a matter of life —'

‘Erica! Oh, thank God, you're here!' Teresa came rushing forward and I took a big step back. She took my arm and pulled me inside, past the protesting security guy. ‘Please. I can't find Emilio. He's not at the hotel. He's not here!'

‘What have you done with him?' I said but I already knew what had happened. Ruth got to him first.

‘I have done nothing! Nothing! Why do you say this?' She stared at me, incredulous and hurt.

I took a big breath. ‘When did you last see him?'

‘Last night.' Teresa sobbed. ‘Oh,
mi carino
, where could he be?'

I put my hands on her arms. ‘We'll find him, don't worry.'

Teresa led me through the corridors. ‘Let us check his dressing room.'

‘Wait. You haven't checked there?'

‘Not yet.'

Teresa became suddenly calm as she tried to convince me to walk with her through the scattering of people in the passageway. ‘Come along, Erica. We must hurry!'

I held back. With the tournament nearly done, the behind-the-scenes crowds had thinned substantially. I followed Teresa, but at a distance. She entered Emilio's dressing room. There was no security guard at the door, and there should have been. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. From the open doorway, Teresa called to me. ‘Come along, Erica.'

I went to turn away, to run, but from behind someone shoved me through the dressing room door. Inside was the tall, fat man from the boat. Martin McGann's friend. And his buddy, who'd pushed me from behind, Mr Short and Skinny. The men from the lunch heist. And Teresa.

‘What are you doing —' I started but Tall and Fat rushed at me.

I backed away. Teresa stopped me with her arms around my shoulders. I spun out of her grip, turned on her, fists raised. I stepped in to fight her but a blow to the back of my head sent me reeling. I lay on the ground, counting the feet around me. I tried to lift myself but I suddenly weighed more. My vision blurred, and, just before lights out, I heard Teresa say, ‘She does not know where he is.'