I Will Not Run (2 page)

Chapter 2

Winter

Dairy Entry Number Two: Thursday, 10
th
July

Last night was a good night, one of the best because Bruno stayed away. The card game at Joey’s went on till late, and then who knows what he got up to after that. Another woman would be a likely bet.

You must be wondering, dear diary, how I can bear to be intimate with my husband. I can’t. But that’s okay because he prefers younger women anyway, and I’m only twenty-nine. I hardly get bothered. Now and then, there’s no escape. Bruno is a taker and if he doesn’t get exactly what he wants, he punishes me in a variety of ways. Don’t underestimate my husband; he is the most resourceful man you could ever meet.

A few weeks back I got a call from Mum, from her hospital bed. She was crying. She’d blacked out in her living room at home and, according to her, nearly died. Thankfully Mrs Avery, Mum’s neighbour, popped around and found her asleep in her chair, in a room filled with smoke.

That morning, same as every wintery July day, Mum lit the wood burner in her front room and sat in her comfy chair, leafing through old copies of
Peoples Friend
. She dozed, cat-napping the morning away, having no idea that the flue in her fireplace was blocked. Colourless, odourless smoke seeped into her living room. One moment she was in her chair and the next, she was in a hospital bed choking and groggy.

Before I darted to the hospital, I phoned a local maintenance man and sent him over to Mum’s place. He found two dead possums jammed halfway up her flue. How the hell did that happen? The doctor reckons that if the neighbour hadn’t found Mum when she did, Mum would have died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

She was discharged the next day and of course I drove her home. I tucked Mum into bed, put a pot of soup on to simmer and was about to clean up when something caught my eye. There was a man’s bright gold cufflink sitting on her windowsill, winking in the sun. I’d recognise that gaudy dollar sign anywhere.

“Mum.” I fingered the cufflink, bringing it into her bedroom. “Did Bruno pop around yesterday morning?”

“Don’t be silly.” She had a pounding headache and was in no mood for annoying questions.

“It’s just that this is his cufflink. He worn this exact one yesterday, I remember noticing because I hate it so much. What’s it doing here?”

“How should I know? Maybe
you
dropped it. Maybe it got tangled up in your jumper and you carried it in. Why are you quizzing me? You’re the one that left it here.”

That cufflink didn’t get c
aught up in my clothing when I dressed this morning and I certainly didn’t drop it on her windowsill. This was Bruno’s doing. The cufflink was his way of leaving me a note. His message went something like this:
I wasn’t trying to kill your Mum, otherwise I would have shut the window and sealed under the door and gassed her properly. But you need to see how capable I am
.

Keep Calm and Carry On.
That slogan was written for me.

I shock myself sometimes. I might be walking past a glass door or a window and happen to catch sight of my reflection. My face usually looks morbidly pale and my forehead dropping under the weight of it all. I trudge through the house as if my world is about to cave in. Of course I’m worried but at the same time, I want the end, the inevitable to hurry up and come.

I try not to think about everything that could go wrong with my plan, not in the waking hours anyway. At two in the morning, it’s a different story. During the bleakest part of the night, my brain conjures up the worst. While Bruno sleeps, I lie there, flat-out-scared. Then morning arrives and I summon my nerve and straighten my back. Having a stubborn nature helps. Apparently, when I was born, I lay in my hospital crib and listened to giant hail stones that were the size of tennis balls, pummel the roof. And when lightning struck the building and the power went out, I slept quietly while the other babies around me screamed. After that night, one of the nurses suggested that Mum name me ‘Winter.’ She said it suited my stoic nature and also matched my icy blue eyes. All the nurses agreed that I had the bluest eyes they’d ever seen. Nurse Nora said they were like a bottomless fiord lake that was both beautiful and deadly at the same time. Mum loved the drama of it all, and that’s how I got my name.

Back to my day. I spent the afternoon doing those boring jobs that I always put off. I hate ironing Bruno’s shirts. Actually, I hate even touching them. Sometimes the heat from the steam releases his scent and when that happens, I gag. The sleeves scare me too, ridiculous as that sounds. I shy away from them, fearing they might whip up all on their own and slap me in the face.

Bruno puts a fresh shirt on two or three times a day because he sweats so much. Men with muscles overheat. Despite the huge number of shirts he owns, rows of them in every colour and pattern, they all look the same. He says his clothes speak on his behalf and that his swanky tight shirts—his word—reflect his renegade nature—my word, he doesn’t know any big ones. If you ask me, his clothes are just plain vulgar. It’s easy, choosing him a present these days. I just pick the most over-the-top creepy retro shirt I can find and say
Happy Birthday, darling.
He says my taste is improving.

I hang his shiny, stretchy, soldiers in the wardrobe; line them up according to colour, all present and correct.

My next job every afternoon is to feed his pets. When I first came here, his ferrets used to creep me out but not anymore. They are cuddly and cute and give me all the affection I need. Dear diary, here’s my dating advice for woman on the look-out:
a ferret is much more fulfilling than a husband
.

We have a dog too, Chester. Chester is very old so he does nothing all day but sleep and of course eat at every opportunity. Bruno feeds him too much. Worse than that, Bruno feeds him off his own dinner plate, and I don’t mean pouring his leftovers into Chester’s bowl. I mean he lets the dog take mouthfuls of his own dinner right off his dinner plate, lowering the plate for the dog to eat first. Then, when Chester has had a good mouthful, Bruno eats the rest. It’s disgusting in a dog-slobbered way. I love Chester but there are limits. Chester is Bruno’s baby. He is a devoted old dog and in other words, he is everything I’m not.

After feeding the ferrets and Chester, I heated up one of those quick dinners you find in the freezer section of the supermarket, the ones that could be chicken or veal or fish and you’d never know what you were eating if you didn’t read the label first. I can’t be bothered cooking just for myself. Normally on Thursdays, I’ll drive all the way into town to Mum’s and have dinner with her but today I had to come up with an excuse. The side of my face is swollen. Mum would pick up on that quick-smart.

Back to my day. It wasn’t dragging; it never does with Bruno gone. Soon enough, the night came seeping in through the living room windows. The late hour got my hopes up, maybe Bruno will stay away two whole nights in a row. I was feeling lucky.

After my bland dinner, I decided to treat myself to a bath, a long hot soak with all the trimmings to celebrate him being gone. I added bath oil and salts and a few drops of perfume. I grabbed champagne and my house design mags and planned to stay in till my toes puckered.

I’d been in the tub ten minutes when I heard the noise.

It sounded like a door coming ajar but of course I ignored it. I remember how frightened I was when I first arrived here, until the creaks and groans became part of my everyday life. Out here, there are no city sounds to mask the possums in the trees or to disguise the scratch of the galah claws against the roof.

I placed a towel under my head, rested against the back of the bath, and in no time my lids were growing heavy, wanting to close.

It happened again. This time the sound was different and if I had to choose I’d pick floor boards protesting, creaking and straining against weight. But of course the weather would be to blame. In the city the wind might weave delicately between the leaves but out here, it bolts around the house faster than a greyhound dog. I was still lying down but my eyes were open and that relaxed feeling had packed its bags.

There was a long silence.
Get a grip
. I forced myself to take a deep breath and relax my lids. Eventually, they did close.

Then I heard the tinkle.

I’d recognise that sound anywhere: it’s the noise the glass panels in the living room make when you pull on the lounge door. Of course the wind could be to blame for that too, sneaking in and teasing the loose panes of glass. It’s ridiculous to get worked up like this. I’ve lived here for nearly ten years. I know how noisy these high cliffs and sandstone hills are. Champagne, that’s what I needed.

I had the glass almost to my lips when the crash came.

I jumped hard making the champagne surge up out of the glass. Something had either fallen off the wall, or someone was in the house. My heart was
gaa-thumping
making me clumsy, making it near impossible to step out of the bath. Fortunately I had my robe in the bathroom with me so I slipped it on, not caring about drying myself, not even noticing how wet I was. I stared down at the door handle, trying to make up my mind, and trying to breathe at the same time. I’d charge out. I’d confront whoever was out there. Ever so carefully, I put my hand on the handle but instead of gripping it and bursting into my bedroom I surprised myself by sliding the bolt into the locked position. Okay, so I was locked in. Now what?

Sit and wait
. I slid to the floor and sat, facing the bathroom door, heart chugging away. If a fleck of paint fell, I’d hear it. The clock on the bathroom wall ticked around, showing me just how long a minute could be. Then I heard a tearing sound. Someone
was
out there, really out there. As silently as I could, I trickled the wine into the bath. Now I had the upturned bottle in my hand. I was ready—or so I tried to tell myself.

It was as if he heard me because the handle started to turn. Or did it? Was I imagining things now? No, it really was turning. Suddenly the door shook and shuddered and I froze, screaming silently, keeping it all in, and not daring to let a single sound out of my throat. I did nothing but stare at that lock and will it to hold.

Then the kicking started: big boots ramming into my bathroom door. It was a strong door, a solid door, and it would hold. I chanted the words over and over in my head, saying them, believing them, willing them to be true.

Eventually he gave up his fight and moved on. This time, he made no attempt to be quiet, moving through the house in a blind rampage. From the chaos I heard, I knew the house was being ripped apart. I plugged my ears with my fingers trying to keep the violence out, trying to distance myself from the sounds of kicking and hacking and danger. It took an eternity for the house to be still again and even longer for me to summon up the nerve to release the bolt.

When at last I could stand, I unlocked the door and gave the wood the tiniest shove. It drifted open. I peeked out into my bedroom. Every drawer and every cupboard had been upended and emptied out all over the floor. Clothes, underwear, receipts, shoes, cans, tubes, and jars were all tossed on the floor in layers, one thing on top of another like the hill of rubbish at the local dump. The lounge room was a tumbled chaotic mess too: magazines, cushions, bowls, ornaments, vases, and books flung everywhere. Even the kitchen was awash with spilt food and broken plates. I stepped over cups and glasses on my way to the laundry.

The back door was open and he was gone.

I looked into Chester’s kennel but the doghouse was empty. That dog could be anywhere. Our property is hectares huge. Chester, being almost deaf, probably never heard a thing.

The intruder was obviously searching for something, something he wanted badly. But who would dare break into Bruno’s home? Everyone around here knows him, or at least they know of him. They’ve heard the stories. There was only one reason for this, one thing we had that others wanted, one thing worth incurring Bruno’s wrath for: drugs.

I tiptoed back to our bedroom, to the vault behind the bed. The intruder had pulled our bed away from the wall so that he could reach the safe. The little door was hanging wide open, dangling by one hinge like an arm almost off a body. Bruno never used that safe properly. It wouldn’t have been locked because it never was. Bruno was too lazy and slack to memorise the combination. Anyway, his hand was in there all the time, so why bother locking the thing. Sometimes he didn’t even shut the door. Well, there was nothing in there now, nothing but a few empty plastic bags and a sheet of printed labels.

I had no choice. I had to phone Bruno. I hated doing it, hated summoning him home with bad news. The waiting, that’s the worst bit. To stop myself from getting agitated—the thought of him coming home is even worse than the reality—I decided to write this up. So, here I am, writing in my diary and waiting for my miserable husband to rumble home in a fury. Obviously, I’ve got the whole house to clean up now, but I’d better leave everything just the way it is till he sees. He wasn’t in a good mood on the phone. Imagine how he’ll be when he sees this mess. Here’s hoping his heart holds up to the shock—or not.

Chapter 3

Winter

Friday, 11
th
July

Bruno came home last night, half an hour after I phoned. He stomped right through the smashed china, snapping the heads off the baby wineglasses on his way to our bedroom. He headed straight for the little safe behind our bed. He found it empty of course.

His cheeks flashed red, bright as a warning beacon. He reached for the nearest thing—my Whitley print—and ripped it from the wall, hooks and everything, hurling it through the air like a Frisbee. The frame smashed against the far wall, the glass crackling into a spider’s web. I stood deadly still, trying to make myself invisible. He turned to me, his voice eerily quiet.

“I left you in charge.”

“What?”

“Where were you?”

“In the bath, but . . .”

“If you’d been in the kitchen or in the lounge or somewhere you should have been, you’d have seen those low-lives crawling up my driveway. You always do what you shouldn’t. Why’s that?”

His voice was rising, that muscle in his neck beginning to pulse. I did what was safest and stayed silent.

“Do you have any idea how much money I lost tonight? Do you?”

I shook my head, the smallest of movements.

“Answer me.”

“They took everything.” I looked down at the floor; everyone knows you don’t make eye contact with a rabid beast. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d have smiled because I like the thought of him losing. I want someone to get the better of him. But of course the knots in my stomach wouldn’t let me smile.

“The bastards took it all, even my weed. How low’s that! They couldn’t even leave me a cheap smoke.”

I wanted to remind him about the carnage all around us: my clothes, my treasures, my safety. He snatched the antique jewellery box still sitting on my dresser and threw that too. My jewellery fell out. That was a surprise. He didn’t notice that detail though because he was too worked up. He’d gone blood red and beads of sweat were running like rain out of his hair. Then he gripped his head, cradling himself, trying to calm the storm inside, the storm that came from swallowing too many chemicals.

I backed away into the bathroom trying to slink out of sight. After a moment though, he let go of himself and turned to find me again.

“I’ve made up my mind. You’re going to learn to shoot. And I don’t want to hear another word about your stupid phobia. Who’s ever heard of a gun phobia anyway? You made that bullshit crap up. I’ve decided it: you will learn to shoot and you’ll be bloody good at it too.”

I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.
Instead of answering, though, I changed the subject. “You must be starved.” Food usually picks up his mood. “I’ll cook you up something nice.” He always likes to eat.

He didn’t answer.

I rushed towards the kitchen. It was strange, but there was something satisfying about cooking in the carnage, the chaos of my life all around, so visible for once and such a change from living with the trauma locked inside my head. I found my heavy pan and set to work around the shattered glass, melting ice cream and spilt oil.

I fried eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, hash browns, and potatoes and only stopped when there was literally nothing left to fry.

“Thanks,” he murmured. That isn’t a word he uses much. Before he tucked in, he made a mess of his sausages and eggs and bacon, piling the lot into one gooey heap. Then he lowered his plate and let the already fat Chester take a big lick off the top. He waited, watching the dog, like he expected Chester to turn into that Muttley cartoon from television and say
Thank you,
and giggle. Instead, Chester whined and dribbled for more, wanting Bruno’s dinner back. But Bruno whipped his plate away and ate the rest himself. After the meal, he smoked two cigarettes, flicking the ash onto the floor.

“We’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. You can clean up tomorrow.”

I agreed, like I had a choice.

“I’m going out.” He jumped up, sending his chair flying backward, crashing against the floor. “Got to put wheels in motion.”

I bet he did! Bruno will be hungry, salivating at the thought of catching his intruder. He’ll be the blowfly that won’t give up, the dog that smells the rat, the cockroach that knows cold pizza is near. He’ll offer money for any info, any lead, for anything at all and he won’t let up till he has his thief. Bruno does not have a forgiving nature.

I was buoyed up. He was going out, he just said so. The relief was a balloon lifting me up, sweeping me through the room. Together Bruno and I searched through the giant bonfire of our possessions, hunting for a clean shirt. We managed to find one that wasn’t doused in powder or perfume or dirtied in some other way, fishing it out from beneath the rubble. Bruno buttoned up the shirt, snatched his keys and fired off another order. But that was alright, give me orders, fine, just go out that damn door.

“Make up more of my juice caps. I’ll need another dose ready for when I get back.” Then, remembering that his stash had been taken, he stomped off to the garage. Perhaps his thief was stupid enough to miss the overflow hidden in there. He came back, a plastic bag swinging under his arm.

“They missed this, bloody amateurs.” He threw the bag at my feet then slammed the backdoor shut. The heavy wooden panels missed my face but only by a smidgen.

When he was gone, I opened another bottle of wine and downed a glass in one. I felt better after that. I topped myself up before going in search of the little weighing scales. We keep the empty steroid capsules in the garage, in a box beside the capping machine.

Sitting at the kitchen table, with the tools of the trade all around me, I recited the proportions I know so well: one quarter steroid powder to three quarters filler. I poured a small amount of white powder onto the weighing scales and studied the pile. It looked so tiny. Maybe it was time to increase his dosage. Would he have a clue how much he swallowed? To help me decide, I got up and wandered about.

I ran my finger over his leather chair, over the wide padded arms and over its hot animal smell. That chair is not wearing well. The stitching is unravelling. It is horrid to live with. The foot rest shoots up without warning, taking a swipe at me as I pass. Who’d put up with such an unpredictable piece?

If I increase his dosage, my life will get worse. Bruno’s rages will deepen, his moods will become even more random and erratic and his temper will flair more easily. Is that what I really want? Most importantly, his heart will struggle under the strain. His heart is already strained, but at the moment, it’s coping. If I increase the dosage, I might tip the balance.

I moved back to the kitchen table and sat. I picked up the plastic bag and poured more steroid powder onto the scales, much more, a whole lot more. It didn’t take long to fill and close the capsules, wipe down the capping machine and pop his new super pills into the bathroom cabinet.

He wasn’t around so I let the edges of my mouth turn up into a smile.