I Will Not Run (7 page)

The rifle range came into focus. “I’m impressed.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. Everything he did impressed me.

“I knew you would be.”

Turn your head and kiss me, damn it.

His film jumped around a bit making me giddy but I watched it anyway. What else could I do? I would have much rather unbuttoned his shirt but he wasn’t offering that option. So, I tried to tell my flooding hormones to cool it.

Dom had always been hard to distract. He was single minded and determined about everything he did. He was the type that refused to lose. Sometimes I wondered if winning was what mattered most to him.

Bullets hitting targets flicked onto the screen. This little film clip had the potential to be traumatic for me. I could feel my anxiety levels rising, my heart picking up tempo, the first flush of sweat pricking my skin but I took a deep breath and forced myself to watch.
Another deep breath
. The moment when I’d have to look away was fast approaching. Then Dom came onto the screen and waved at me. I laughed and waved back.

In his film, he chatted away, showing me how to hold the rifle and how to stand correctly. I watched and nodded and even tried to smile because I knew the real Dom would be spying on me, sneaking peeks from the corner of his eye.

I didn’t listen to a word he said though, not really. My mind kept wandering, noticing other things like how well he filled his jeans, no old man stomach there. I love his wavy dark hair. It’s too cute the way one of his curls keeps falling over his forehead and he has this habit of brushing it aside. I don’t know why he bothers because it only falls right back into place. I started to smile, genuinely amused, watching that curl flop about. I counted the seconds, between the curl falling and the hand swiping it away. I wanted to laugh and cheer when the curl came back.

I could have watched his movie a second time, but only because of his starring role. Sitting pressed together on that rug helped, especially now that our thighs were touching. I’d forgotten how good it felt to butt up to someone you cared about, someone you wanted against your naked skin.

“Winter, gorgeous girl,” he said, switching the tablet off, “I need to talk to you about something else important now.”

Chapter 9

Winter

Monday, 21
st
July

I had no idea what Dominic was so determined to talk to me about. I wasn’t worried though because I figured it would be another of his Bruno’s-a-madman speeches.

“I need you to pay attention to this baby,” he said, throwing a best-buds arm around me, hugging me tight. Wow, the blood-rush, it flooded my whole body.

“You’ve got to listen to this, okay?”

I’d listen to anything, even him ranting on about my bad-ass husband, as long as he kept squeezing my body like that.”

“It’s about Buttercup.”

I flinched, dropping from a great height. Those few words sobered me up; three words that felt like three policemen with warrants knocking at the front door. Somehow I managed to stay put on that rug and not run.

His tone was serious. The fun of the afternoon clearly over. I inched my body away from his.

“I heard that Buttercup’s death was an accident.”

I shook my head but couldn’t bring myself to answer.

“There was nothing more to it than that, apparently. You do understand, don’t you, darling?” He grabbed my hand, then brought my fingers to his mouth and kissed each tip, one by one.

Okay, so now the shock was abating. This tactic of his was working pretty well. I was beginning to float. His soft full mouth sucked each fingertip, long and slow, moistening and warming the ends. I sat in silence, taking what he was giving, trying not to think of sex. But the muscles between my thighs were starting to respond.

It was a ploy. I tried to tell myself that. He wanted to discuss Buttercup’s death and this sensual thing he was doing to my fingers was supposed to distract me. Damn it, it was working too, but not as much as he hoped. I guess some things aren’t smoothed over so easily.

I cleared my throat but left my hand where it was. “No, you’re wrong, Dom. My sister’s death wasn’t an accident.” I drew in a deep yoga-style breath, held it for a few counts then slowly let it out again, searching for calm.

“I was there when Bruno gave her the car. He threw the keys at her and Buttercup caught them and smiled up at him like he was the kindest, most generous man in the world. I ran up and snatched the keys out of her hands, knowing she’d hate me for it and I’d be the bad guy again. Bruno knew what he was doing, no mistake. He got a kick out of driving a wedge between my sister and me. He likes upsetting my family. You’ve gotta believe me, Dom. Bruno doesn’t do anything by chance.”

He said nothing more about Buttercup, and neither did I. Instead, I sat there, staring into the next field, my lips pinched together in a tight angry line. While I gazed into the distance, I let the memories come flooding back . . .

It was Buttercup’s birthday. She was excited, of course she’d talked about nothing else for weeks. We spoiled her, and why not? She was my sister, my younger sister—ten years younger—and she had more troubles than most. Everyone that met Buttercup thought she was way younger than she really was. I put her immaturity, her babyish ways down to her Asperger’s Syndrome. She was diagnosed about ten years back. They said she was only mildly affected but it was enough to make her different. Buttercup had always seemed out of kilter with everyone else. According to the doctors, being an ‘Aspie’ meant
that she had trouble responding to people appropriately. If someone said, “How are you?” she’d rattle on, telling them really truly how she was.

And she was hopeless at reading non-verbal communications as well. She could recognise a happy smile and crying eyes but not much in-between. A troubled look went right over her head. I guess, because she didn’t understand facial expressions or gestures, she seemed way younger than her nineteen years.

But somehow she sensed that Bruno would give in to her birthday pleading. All she had to do was keep nagging and she’d get her own way in the end.

“Please, pleeeeease, Bruno. Please buy me a car.”

I put my arm around her and tried to lead her away. “We’ll buy you something else, hon. How about a trip? You and I could go away on a holiday together. Somewhere overseas maybe. I’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I want a car. I want one this year and don’t pretend you’ll give me one later, because I know you won’t. It’s the
only
thing I want.”

She could be as stubborn as a five-year-old sometimes, stomping her feet. Bruno enjoyed her tantrums and if they upset me, then that was even better.

“But you don’t know how to drive, Tuppence,” he taunted. “Now, if you think you could learn, then I might just buy you something small with four wheels.”

I glared at him, my nails biting into my palm. But I couldn’t let him see how freaked I was at the thought of her behind the wheel. Still, I couldn’t very well say nothing either. This was important, imperative, top priority: Buttercup must never be allowed to drive.

Later, when we were alone, I said, “She can’t have a car, no way, you know that, right?”

“Do I look friggin’ stupid? If I buy her a car, she’ll drive herself into a tree.”

My face sweated up just thinking about it. She’d slam her foot flat to the floor, over-steer, and never recognise the danger she was in. But if I insisted, pushed my point too hard, then I risked pushing Bruno into doing the exact opposite of what I wanted. He liked to show me who was boss. I’d said enough. I should have left it there, but I just couldn’t.

“You’re taunting her, why?” I followed him into the lounge. “You as good as said you’ll buy her a car. Why would you promise her that? You know she can’t ever have one.”

“Watch your mouth,” he growled.

My heart was hammering,
thump, thump, thump
, but I needed to hear him say it:
No car for Buttercup
.

“Promise me that you’ll never buy her a car.”

He waved me away, turning his back, his eyes skirting around searching for the remote. I stood behind him, hating him more than ever, hate layered on top of hate. I wanted to rush up and hack out his eyes. I fantasised about pulling his monster hunting knife off the wall and ramming it through his heart. Maybe I could grab his baseball bat from the wardrobe cupboard and wack him across the knees, just like they did in the movies. But, despite my raging, howling desire to maim or kill him, I managed to haul myself back into line.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said, surprising myself, sounding like someone else. I didn’t make deals with Bruno and he certainly didn’t make them with me, his lowly wife.

I had his attention and it wasn’t comfortable. His snake eyes were on me, and I’ll admit it, I was having second thoughts, but too late. I had to come up with a deal now, right away. The words were out and there was no taking them back. Bruno would never let up now, he’d insist on hearing a deal, any deal, and if necessary he’d beat one out of me. He’d want to know what the hell I have to offer. What could I give that he couldn’t simply take?

“Here’s the deal. Don’t buy her that darn car and I won’t ever mention the hidden photos I found. I’ll pretend I know nothing about them.” I got up off the couch and headed to our bedroom where he’d hidden a bundle of his own photos. I never looked back, didn’t risk looking at his face lest my legs stopped working.

“What bloody photos?” he yelled out after me. “What are you on about, woman?”

They were in our bedroom, in his chest of drawers, or more accurately behind his bottom drawer. I had to pull his drawer right out of the chest and place it on the carpet to reach the packet.

I walked back into the living room carrying the bundle. My stomach was lunging up, threatening to spill into my mouth. It felt like I had a giant tape worm inside me, and I had to swallow hard to keep its head down.

He watched me dump the pile of snaps on the coffee table, then spread them out. Instead of studying the photos, all his attention was focussed on me, like he was seeing a version of his wife he hadn’t seen before.

Was I really doing this? I waved my arm around, inviting him to look then stepped away.

He didn’t look, so it was clear he was very familiar with those snaps.

They were photos of schoolgirls: the same three girls in each photo. The girls were around twelve or fourteen, all in school uniform, or more accurately, in school straw hats, gloves, long socks, school ties, and not a stitch more. Two of the girls faced the camera. The young things were not smiling, in fact they looked downright miserable. One of the girls was faced away from the camera and stood further in the distance just showing her back so it was impossible to tell her age but the girls staring down the lenses were not eighteen. Not by a long way.

“This is child pornography.” My voice was wobbly, like a child on the verge of tears. I coughed to hide my fear. “I think the police would call these ‘primary source.’”

His teeth ground together. “You better not have shown them to anyone.” He scooped the bundle up and stuffed them into his pocket.

“Oh, just so we’re clear,” I said, becoming that brave other person again, the one that stood up to Bruno, the one that definitely wasn’t me, “I’ve got the original prints stashed away where you’ll never find them. Those are just copies. The originals have your fingerprints all over them, and I really do mean all over. I reckon they’d be enough to get you locked up, just till the police came up with a stronger charge.”

He blinked, struggling to comprehend. Hell, I was struggling to comprehend too. I’d just threatened him, and I’d never done that before. This was definitely the most dangerous thing I’d ever done. A blend of anger and hatred washed into his eyes. I recognised that look because I’d seen it before.

“We have a deal then?” I snapped, sounding short-tempered and angry myself. But inside, everything was sloshing around worse than a washing machine. I struggled to stand with a straight back and not slump into a frightened ball. “You agree then? No car for Buttercup?”

He took a step towards me, and I knew with sickening certainty what was coming. There was no avoiding it, so may as well not back down. He was coming for me, and it wouldn’t matter if I ran and hid or cowered because he’d only get me in the end.
Be brave now
. The sweat was popping out of my skin and as hard as it was to stand there and not make a dash for safety, I stood my ground. Don’t go to the toilet on the spot. Don’t humiliate yourself like that. He’s not worth it. My heart was so loud it drowned out the sound of his creaky leather boots moving forward. The tiniest whimper sneaked out of my throat.
Come on, girl, you’ll
survive this
.
It will be over before you know it. Just hurry, please . . .

He slammed his fist into the side of my face. I reeled backwards and fell against the coffee table. For a moment I felt nothing, just a lovely icy numb but the cold soon thawed. And when the pain came, the flood gates were stretched wide open.

He snatched a fist full of my hair and pulled, dragging me, forcing me to stand. My hands flew up to my head, easing my hair out of his grasp, desperate to relieve some pressure.

“Skank.” He spat the word out, saliva spraying my face. Then he used his free arm to make another fist. He pulled his arm back and smashed into my other side. I must have yelled out. It’s hard to know exactly. The pain,
that’s
what I remember. Everything went dark and wavy.

The back of my head felt wet and sticky and there was blood running from my nose too. I swiped the annoying stuff away, not wanting it inside my mouth. I told myself that the punishment was worth it, that I’d done all I could to keep Buttercup safe. It would be enough.

It wasn’t. Two weeks later he came home with a brand new Suzuki. Bruno had paid to have a custom paint job done too: buttercup yellow. The car sat there like a trophy for me to see, parked in our driveway so I couldn’t miss it. Every morning, there it was, sitting in front of my bedroom window: a bright-yellow harbinger of doom.

“She can’t have it, not ever.” I must have said that a million times.

“She can drive around the paddocks,” he responded.

“But she’s got no sense of danger, you know that.”

“Then give me the original set of photos and I’ll take the car away again.”

There was no other set. I’d made that bit up but of course Bruno wouldn’t believe me, no matter how hard I tried to convince him. He just kept repeating himself:
Give me the originals and the car will disappear.
I think he knew very well that he already had the original copies, the only copies, but he was enjoying this new game too much to stop playing it.”

The Suzuki stayed put.

I’m tired, dear diary. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. These memories are so harrowing. I can’t hack writing down too many at once. But, you know what? This diary writing is working because I honestly believe that I’m growing stronger.