The Dark Part of Me (11 page)

Exactly five years since the day Mrs Bailey shot herself, Hollie and I are home alone, eating pizza for dinner and watching
Wuthering Heights
on video for the zillionth
time. Mr Bailey is stuck at the office. Danny isn’t home from footy training yet.

Hollie takes a half-hearted bite of pizza. ‘It’s past nine. Danny should’ve been home an hour ago.’ She jumps up and paces back and forth in front of the telly in one of
her mum’s satin evening gowns and high heels.

‘Hollie! Get out of the way. This is my favourite part.’ It is the bit when Cathy dies in Heathcliff’s arms.

Hollie waves at the screen. ‘Why couldn’t he just be nice?’

‘But he’s mysterious,’ I say. ‘Women love that.’

‘He’s too moody.’

‘You’re so boring, Hollie.’

‘No, I’m not.’

The doorbell rings. ‘There, I bet that’s him,’ I say.

‘He’s got a key,’ says Hollie, scampering down the stairs.

I press pause on the remote and follow.

There are two cops in uniform at the door. They are serious with grey faces.

‘Can we speak to your father?’ the taller, meaner-looking one says. His eyes dart from Hollie to me like he’s trying to work out if we’re sisters.

‘Dad’s not home,’ says Hollie, arms folded.

‘Your mother, then?’ says the shorter cop, shifting from one leg to the other as if he needs to do a wee.

‘Mum’s dead,’ says Hollie, matter-of-factly.

The cops exchange a look.

‘Mr Bailey will be home later,’ I say.

‘How old are you girls?’ the meaner cop asks.

‘Eleven,’ I say.

‘You shouldn’t be here on your own,’ says the shorter cop.

‘We’ll wait for your dad,’ says the mean cop.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, a chill spreading through me.

‘Where’s Danny?’ Hollie shouts. ‘What’s happened to Danny?’

‘Calm down,’ says the short cop.

I wonder if I should invite them in but they push inside anyway. Hollie runs upstairs to her bedroom, slamming the door. The cops wait in the parlour, sitting upright on the yellow chaise
longue, drinking cups of tea and eating fruitcake which I bring them. When Mr Bailey arrives back and sees them, he rings Mum to come and pick me up. It’s not until the next day that I find
out Danny has killed his schoolmate, Matty Taylor.

‘Go away.’

‘But it’s past noon. You can’t lie in bed all day.’

‘Mum, just leave me alone.’

‘Hollie’s been on the blower wondering where you are.’ Mum was drawing up the venetians. The midday sun streamed in, fierce and burning.

‘Don’t do that! I’m really tired, OK? Just get out.’ I shoved my head under the pillow and waited for Mum to scat. My chest ached under a heavy weight, as if a huge black
crow was sitting on my ribcage. Blurred visions from the night before crammed my brain:

The Asian chick.

The orange jumper.

Bourbon. Pot.

Vomming in the marigolds.

Lying down dead on the road.

And then Danny, turning up out of nowhere like he was Scott’s long-lost mate. Did that really happen? But thinking just made my hangover worse.

‘Are you upset about something? What happened with Scott?’ Mum plonked down on the edge of the bed, her soft hip squashing up against my backside. ‘As long as you didn’t
sleep with him, that’s the main thing.’

Inside my head I chanted,
fuck off fuck off fuck off
over and over, my molars grinding against each other, my eyes screwed tight as bolts. I dug my nails harder into my thighs.

‘Well, don’t just lie there. Tell me what happened. Has he got another girlfriend, is that it?’ From under the pillow, I could hear the muffled sound of next door’s kids
shrieking and thrashing around in their pool. Mum was prodding me in the back, but I wasn’t going to let her win. ‘Well, if you’re not going to talk to me you can at least get out
of bed and call Hollie back.’

I knew why Hollie was calling. It was Saturday and I’d promised her a session of Shakespeare in the cave. Any other day but not today, not after I’d fucked it all up.

Mum wrenched back the top sheet. I hadn’t bothered to change out of last night’s clothes.

‘You didn’t even take your shoes off!’ she squealed. ‘I’ll have to disinfect the sheets. Just how much did you drink last night? Your car’s not in the
garage.’ She ripped the pillow off my head. I could just imagine what my face looked like; racoon-circles under bloodshot eyes, smudged lipstick, my fringe sticking up all over the place. I
stared at her, wild-eyed, feverish, wanting her to be disgusted.

‘You’ll end up like your father if you don’t watch it,’ she said quietly, as if she barely dared.

My hand shot out and slapped her across the face. ‘What did you say that for?’ Mum jerked back in alarm, a prick of fear in her eyes. Her shoulders hunched. My fingers were
stencilled bright red on her cheek, like an aboriginal hand-painting. She pressed her hand to her face as she got up from the bed and walked stiffly towards the door. My palm stung from the smack.
I couldn’t believe I’d hit her.

‘Mum. I didn’t mean it.’ She turned around and stared at me, her lips tight. I drew my knees up against my chest, bowed my head, letting out a sob of remorse.

‘Don’t cry.’ Mum came and sat down on the edge of the bed. She touched my arm.

I looked up. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You’re nothing like him.’ Mum hugged me, her forehead touching mine. ‘I’ll go and make you a cup of tea and some toast.’

When she returned, I asked her about her hot date with Randy. A broad smile spread across her lips.

‘You mean Andy.’

‘Yeah. Randy Andy. Was he randy?’

‘It wasn’t like that at all. No. He was a perfect gentleman. He took me to this really swanky restaurant overlooking the river and then we went ballroom dancing.’

‘Yeah. And then after the dancing?’

‘He drove me home.’

‘Did he kiss you?’

‘He kissed me goodnight.’

‘On the lips?’

‘On the cheek.’

‘Good girl, Mum. Don’t do anything rash now.’

‘Don’t be smart.’

‘Did he come into the house? Did he see the plastic everywhere?’

‘He didn’t come inside.’

‘Didn’t he want to?’

‘Stop it, Rosie. He’s a perfectly lovely man. He’s picking me up tonight at six-thirty to go and see
Phantom
, so you can meet him if you like.’

‘I’m working.’ It was my plan to avoid meeting Randy Andy for as long as I possible.

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘I’ve told him all about you.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s some kind of a scientist out at the university. But he didn’t really go into it.’

That was right. While I was killing the Asian Bitch and vomiting my guts out, Mum had been tangoing with some nerdburger who hadn’t the balls to give her some decent tongue.

I am six years old, lying in bed listening to Mum and Dad fight. Tomorrow is Easter so I’m trying hard to get to sleep, worried that the Easter Bunny won’t come if
I’m awake. I stick my fingers in my ears and cover my head with a pillow but I can still hear them shouting.
Shut up. Just shut up
. I say it over and over, my fists tight as rocks
against the mattress. Their voices are muffled but I can tell them apart: Dad’s booming thunder; Mum’s timid squeak. It’s like Dad has grown into a giant and Mum has shrunk to the
size of a mouse. I can hear Dad kicking the lounge chairs around and punching the walls, the fibro crumpling like paper. Each time he makes a hole, Mum goes to Shoppingtown and buys a new laminated
poster so that there are posters all over the walls, Blu-tacked at odd heights: a clown with diamonds for tears; a ballerina with pink legwarmers; a ‘Life Be In It’ one with Norm the
fat guy; the Daintree rainforest with the slogan ‘Queensland – Beautiful One Day, Perfect the Next’. But my favourite is the talking vegetables with smiling faces and shiny
button-eyes. It’s in the hallway, hiding one of Dad’s kicking holes. In my imagination, the carrot says, ‘I’ll make you see in the dark’, the fat potato with specs
says, ‘I like sitting on the couch’, and the family of peas say, all in happy unison, ‘We love it in our cosy pod.’ Sometimes I sit down cross-legged to chat with the
friendly veggies. That night I am scared and want to talk to them, but they are fast asleep, being good for the Easter Bunny, too.

Dad tears through the house like Cyclone Tracey. Mum begs him to stop. Then, I hear a big smashing sound. I scamper out of bed, down the dark hallway, past the sleeping vegetables, towards the
living room. I hang back in the shadows, wondering where Dad is, afraid. Mum is slumped in the corner near the sliding door which is shattered, shards of glass hanging like icicles from the frame.
Her head is bowed to her chest, and her feet, twisted at a strange angle, are cut and bloody. I want to run to her but Dad is kneeling beside her, speaking in a low voice. His back is to me so I
can’t see what he is doing. I creep out into the light, softly, softly, so he can’t hear me.

I can see better now. Mum is breathing, her breasts straining in and out against her flowery, cotton shirt. She stares at Dad, her eyes blank and stony. A streak of blood, red as paint, runs
down her left cheek. I crawl in closer, crouching down in the shadows under the kitchen table, scrunched in a ball, watching.

What have you done to my mum?

But Dad’s words are gentle. His fingers are tender as he picks splinters of glass from her legs and her feet. ‘Janice, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never
meant to hurt you. Janice, I love you.’ He kisses her forehead but she winces and pulls away. He is crying. I haven’t seen Dad cry before and it makes me feel so sad.

From the floor, he takes the neck of a broken beer bottle and twists the jagged edge into the white inner side of his forearm until blood spurts out of his skin. Without thinking, I dash out
from under the table yelling, ‘Stop, Dad! Stop!’

He looks up, unseeing, as if he doesn’t know who I am.

‘Rosemary! Go back to bed, pet. Go back to bed!’ Mum says, struggling to get up.

Dad turns and runs out of the house, blood dripping from his arm onto the carpet.

In the morning, I wake up early. At the foot of my bed, in a basket lined with yellow tissue paper, are six Easter eggs wrapped in brightly coloured foil. I run with the basket of eggs into Mum
and Dad’s bedroom, but Dad isn’t there and Mum is fast asleep. For a long time I watch her sleeping, her face peaceful but covered in cuts and bruises. Any other day, I would wake her
up by jumping on the bed or tickling her feet. But that morning I just watch her sleeping. I pick out the prettiest Easter egg, wrapped in nice pink foil, and snuggle it in the crook of her folded
arm.

After a cool-off dip in the pool, I chucked on cut-offs and a boob-tube and headed around to Hollie’s. It was no more than a ten-minute stroll, but the heat made me
cranky and, by the time I got there, I was in no mood for Shakespeare.

Hollie was sitting cross-legged on a shady patch of the driveway, the
Complete Works
open in her lap, a wicker basket at her side. A wide straw hat eclipsed most of her face save her
lips which were busy mouthing lines from Midsummer. After the way she’d carried on the day before, I decided not to mention Scott unless she brought him up. I strode up the drive and stood,
casting a giant shadow over her.

‘My Fairy Queen.’ I bowed.

Hollie was so engrossed that I startled her. She leapt up. ‘Darling, I’ve been waiting ages for you.’ She was wearing a long, white dress and lace-up boots. ‘But, no
matter, you are here at last.’ She sometimes had a peculiar, old-fashioned, pommie way of speaking, like she’d been taking her English Lit lectures too seriously. Offering me her hand,
she said, ‘Shall we henceforth attend our forest chamber, my noble Oberon?’

‘Listen, Hols,’ I said. ‘How ’bout we go and get a chocollo at Shoppingtown?’

Chocollo was Hollie’s favourite low-fat chocolate icecream. But she wouldn’t have a bar of it.

‘As Titania, Queen of the Fairies, I order thee, my noble Oberon, to uphold thy sacred vow to lie with me in our leafy chamber. I even made us a special picnic and everything.’ She
lifted a gingham cloth off the top of the wicker basket. ‘See?’ There was a bottle of pink champagne, two crystal flutes, a baguette and a pot of the vile fish-spawn Hollie adored.

‘Oh, alright,’ I sighed. ‘But only for an hour or so.’

Hollie picked up the wicker basket and tucked the
Complete Works
under her arm. She slipped her hand in mine and, like two English ladies taking a turn in the garden, we set off up the
bush track into the national park, a scrubby tract of bushland which stretched from Chapel Hill north towards The Gap and west towards Enoggera State Forest. From the end of Hollie’s
cul-de-sac, the guttered dirt track rose steeply up the hill to a flat clearing at the top. Turn right and you ended up on a road which led to a tourist look-out point where Scott and I used to go
to pash and eat ice-cream. Further up the road were the television stations, all four of them, their steel satellite towers blinking snazzy red lights across the prehistoric terrain. But Hollie and
I would always turn left at the clearing and crash headlong into the bush, zig-zagging between the stringy barks, rocky outcrops and dried-out gullies, following our secret way to the cave.