The Dark Part of Me (32 page)

The day of the service, the drought broke. It was the first skerrick of rain since September and it didn’t just rain, it chucked it down so hard the heels of my black strappies sank in the
mud. It was a small gathering, mostly relatives. Randy went on behalf of Mum, who couldn’t face the cemetery germs. Hollie mumbled to herself the whole way through, as we clung tight to each
other under a huge black umbrella, staring down at the chunk of engraved marble bashed into the earth:

After the service, Hollie got a bit better. At least she was talking. We both had trouble sleeping. Each night, we lay awake together, clutching each other. Hollie sobbing, me
silent, numb. When I did fall asleep, I saw faces grinning from my hell-fire dreams. I was a skeleton walking through roaring flames, flesh melting off my bones, my eyes red as the devil’s.
I’d wake up cold-sweating into the sheets, and Hollie would hold me tight and kiss me all over until I stopped shaking.

Once my burn had healed, Randy offered me a job at his cancer-germ lab out at uni. At least when I’m working I don’t think about how, if I’d told the cops about Bomber’s
threats, Danny mightn’t be dead. Although Randy is the big cheese, he took me under his wing. He taught me how to prep petri-dishes with e.coli and how to use an electron microscope and how
to record observations on the computer. It’s not so bad. I get ten bucks an hour and the days go fast. I’ll admit it’s better than the coffee shop, although I won’t be
staying much longer. Of course, I missed my flight on New Year’s Day but I’m still going to London. I’ve already booked my ticket. This time nothing’s going to stop me.

It’s strange being at uni again. One lunchtime, I was in the cafeteria eating lunch when Kirstie came up to me. She was in third-year law, same as I would have been if I hadn’t
dropped out.

‘You back doing law?’ she asked, inspecting her nails.

‘No,’ I said, my mouth full of ham sandwich.

‘What then?’

‘Germs.’

‘Germs?’

‘I’m studying germs.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled, real fake. ‘That’s nice.’

I slurped on my Coke.

‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ she chirped.

‘What news?’

‘Amber had a boy.’

‘Good for her.’

‘They’ve called him Tom. Tom Greenwood. Good strong name for a boy, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah,’ I laughed. ‘But he could still turn out faggot like his dad.’

She gave me a weird look and lowered her voice. ‘I heard you’d moved in with your… friend.’

‘Her brother died.’

‘Yeah, but that’s not the whole story, is it?’ She flicked back her hair. ‘Who would have thought you’d turn into… ’ She leaned in and whispered,
‘a dyke,’ before turning and clacking off in her kitten heels.

The weeks slip by. After the rain, the bush grows back, lusher and greener than ever. The evenings turn chilly. Hollie and I spend the weekends re-decorating Mrs Bailey’s bedroom. We paint
the walls buttercup and clear away all the stuff from the night she killed herself. We hang a print of
The Lady of Shalott
on the wall and swap the satin bedspread for a big, fluffy doona,
but Hollie insists on keeping the waterbed because, as she says, ‘it’s comfortable and luxurious.’ The past few months, we’ve grown so used to living together. With Danny
gone, all we have is each other, but I know it can’t go on like this for ever.

I get up early and make her breakfast in bed – croissants and chocolate muffins and freshly squeezed orange juice and a pot of Russian Caravan tea.

‘Rise and shine, birthday girl.’ I kiss her on the lips.

She opens her eyes, sees the tray laden with goodies and smiles. As she props herself up against the pillows, my heart flares. She is so beautiful. Her face escaped the fire but her hands were
badly burnt. They rest on top of the covers shiny-pink and puckered. I pull back the curtains. The sky is low and grey with fast-flitting clouds.

‘Present now or later?’ I say.

‘Now, please,’ she says.

I lean over and pull a pale-blue envelope from the top bedside drawer and gently place it into Hollie’s hands. I’m dying for her to see what’s inside but she takes ages to open
it, her fingers stiff and clumsy. Eventually, she slips out the card – two little sepia girls on swings – and two plane tickets to London drop out. She picks them off the doona,
inspects them and looks at me in amazement.

‘When do we go?’

‘Tomorrow.’ I can’t stop smiling.

‘For how long?’

‘As long as we want. I’ve got heaps of money.’

Her face drops. ‘But I can’t.’ She hangs her head.

‘Why not?’

‘Danny.’

‘Hollie, he’s not coming back.’

She shakes her head, looks up mournfully. ‘Can’t we just look?’

‘For God’s sake, Hollie, how many times—’

‘Just once more. Please.’

I sigh, heavily. It is her birthday. ‘OK.’

I change into a tracksuit and sneakers. Hollie togs herself up in one of her mother’s crêpe-de-chine cocktail dresses and heels. She pulls her hair up in an elegant French roll with
wispy tendrils hanging down and wears white silk gloves to cover her hands. I spot the wicker basket at her feet and ask her what’s inside.

‘Oh, just some food for Danny,’ she says. ‘He’s sure to be hungry.’

Outside, it’s overcast and cold. From the top of the mountain comes a biting wind. Blustery gusts snatch leaves from the trees, flattening the spinifex. The crickets whisper, barely there,
grown shy without the heat. All the way up, Hollie chats non-stop about how wonderful it’ll be to see Danny again. I want to tell her how much I love her, how beautiful she looks, how much
fun we are going to have overseas, but all she can think about is Danny. We reach the clearing. The wind lulls as if we have entered the eye of a storm. We turn and run, knowing the way like in a
dream where you do things inexplicably, without reason. The cave appears. Hollie stops, reverent, head bowed.

‘Go on,’ I say, impatient to be back in the warm.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Listen.’ There’s no sound except the wind, whooshing past our ears. I push her forward, through the young vines which are just starting to bud
again, and follow her into the cool and shadowy void.

‘Look,’ she says as we are nearing the egg rock.

A faint, orange glow is coming from the back of the cave. I reach for her hand but she’s jumped up and is rushing towards the light. ‘Hollie. Wait.’ But there’s no reply.
I step gingerly, trepidation in my heart. It can’t be him. But someone, or something is there. Hollie gasps. ‘Danny,’ she whispers. But it’s not possible. After all this
time. I slip in beside her, the damp rock flush against my arm.

A man with dark skin and dark hair squats over a small fire with his back to us. He’s wearing a yellow T-shirt and ragged shorts. The fire crackles and spits. The smell of burnt animal
flesh fills the air. Our eyes stretch wide until they smart and throb in the fire-smoke and still I can’t believe it.

Hollie speaks, ‘Danny?’

He turns, slowly, as if perhaps he knew all along that we were there but was waiting for us to say something. It is not Danny. A young aboriginal man stares at us and then he speaks in his own
language, which we cannot understand. We shake our heads and he laughs and holds out his hand, but we’re too stunned to take it.

‘My name is Micky. Danny told me about this place. It belonged to my people.’

‘But this is
our
cave—’ Hollie starts, but I squeeze her hand to silence her. Micky grins and, without a trace of menace, says:

‘Go, this is my place now.’

I would like to thank Richard Francis for his advice and encouragement during the early drafts of this novel. Thanks to my father for his invaluable knowledge of cricketing
facts and lingo. My heartfelt thanks to Caroline Dawnay and Clara Farmer. And, my eternal gratitude to Charlie Aspinwall for his unflagging patience, faith and dedication to the cause.