The Protected (11 page)

‘Yep. Took me on a picnic and gave me the it's-not-you spiel. Thought he was more imaginative.' She picked at a loose thread on my doona cover. ‘Apparently I'm a really gorgeous girl who he doesn't want to date.'

‘I'm sorry, Katie.'

‘Maybe you were right – not quite enough going on up here.' She tapped her temple.

‘I didn't—'

‘Never been dumped before.'

‘Me neither.'

A faint smile. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.

‘I slept with him, you know. First one. Don't look so surprised. Think I might have been in love with him. What an idiot.'

‘You're not an idiot, Katie. You're not.' I shifted so I was next to her. I put my arm around her shoulder, not sure how she would react. She didn't shake me away.

‘So a shit day all round, hey?' she said.

‘Yeah. A shit day all round.'

The next morning I stood in the doorway, Katie's spare backpack on my back. Katie had already left for the bus stop. I called goodbye to Mum, she was out the back on the deck, I think. And I went to step out the door, onto the porch. Twenty to eight, right on time. But I just … couldn't. And it was like the world around me was folding in on itself. And I was folding in on myself. There would be no end to this. No end. And my knees gave way beneath me and I let myself fold down onto the ground. And if I closed my eyes, curled into a ball, didn't move, didn't speak, I wasn't there at all.

Wasn't here at all.

‘Hannah! What's going on? Stand up!'

I wouldn't. I heard her swear under her breath. If Dad had been there he would have understood what was happening. But he wasn't. He had already left for work. I didn't open my eyes. Mum physically tried to get me to my feet but I shook her grip from my arm.

‘I'm never going again,' I said quietly.

‘Don't be silly.'

‘I'm not going.' I got up and went into my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, pushed the desk across it so it wouldn't open. I crawled into bed and listened to her knocking until she gave up.

***

Eighteen

‘Han Nah, Han Nah,' Mrs Van walks across her lawn with her hand on her hip like she's trying to stop it falling off. ‘How are you? I haven't seen you for so long. Your mother, she must come out of the house! Oh Han Nah! Your poor sister, dead and gone.'

Mrs Van is the only person I know who is quite happy to talk about death.

‘How is your mother?'

‘Okay. The same.'

‘It's not good for her to be inside all day. I tell her to come talk to me but she won't. I pray for her Hannah, and for you and your father. Why don't you come inside and I'll make you some nice tea. I make more boterkoek today. For the fair, at the church. Like I have nothing else to do. Do you not see my yard? Do you not see how busy I am?' She shrugs. ‘But what can I do? Who else will make the boterkoek? No one. At the end, Hannah, we are all on our own.'

Yes. According to Mrs Van, in the end we will all be on our own, arguing with the lawnmower, making endless cakes and waiting to die.

Not Katie though.

She takes my elbow and tugs me across the grass. ‘Come, come.'

What am I to do? Left to choose between two lonely women fixated on death. I choose the one with the cake.

Mrs Van's entire house is about the size of our lounge room. I've been in it before, but not for years. She leads me into her sitting room where there is brown fluffy carpet and two of those big recliner chairs old people seem to adore. She makes me sit down and gets me a cup of tea without asking if I want one. It has about fifteen sugars in it. She puts a slice of cake on the coffee table in front of me and sits down in the other chair. There are photos of smiling people all over her sideboard and walls, some of her grandchildren and lots of black-and-white ones. She points to an old photograph of a tall guy in a uniform. He's totally gorgeous. James Dean gorgeous.

‘This is my husband, Joss. He was very handsome. Look how handsome he is.'

‘He's a hottie, Mrs Van.'

‘A hottie,' she laughs. ‘This is good, yes? Yes, he was a hot-ti, as you say.'

‘Did he die in the war?'

‘The war? No. They try to kill him, he gets shot twice.' She holds up two fingers. ‘But he said to me “Hilde, they'll have to do better than that!” No, no. He died fifteen years ago. The cancer. I miss him every day.'

She points to a picture of three young girls.

‘This one is me and these my sisters. This one, Jani, she's still in Holland.' She pauses and points to the eldest of the girls. ‘This, Marieke,' she says. She leans forwards a little. ‘You listen to me, Hannah. I know the hurt. And I pray for you every day.'

She holds me in her gaze, she doesn't waver. ‘People say stupid, stupid things when someone you love dies. Rubbish. Nothing gets easier, Hannah. You just go on with life.'

She is tiny in her big chair, thin insect limbs. But there is nothing frail about her.

I don't ask her about Marieke. She sips her tea and gazes out at her lawn, probably surveying all the work she still has to do.

‘Sometimes it's very hard to go on,' she says after a while. ‘I know this. But we do, don't we?'

I say yes but I don't know if I really believe it, not every day.

*

Dinner. Dad cooks steaks on the barbecue, I make a salad. Well, it passes as a salad: a few lettuce leaves, a sliced carrot and half a grainy tomato from the back of the fridge. (Nanna's due any day now.) Mum doesn't eat anything, she just sits there and looks at the food for fifteen minutes while Dad talks and talks with his mouth full. After a while he runs out of things to say and we sit in silence. Mum looks up from her plate.

‘We should go to the cemetery on the … on Katie's anniversary,' she says.

Dad stops chewing.

‘The three of us. Yes, that's something we should do.' She picks up her fork.

Dad puts his down.

‘Love, if you want to go that's fine, that's good. But I … I have a meeting on Thursday.'

‘You have a meeting on Thursday?'

‘Yeah … I've got to meet the Perth manager. It's okay though, love. You go. You and Hannah go.'

Mum stares at him, her eyes bright and sharp, drilling. She shakes her head. ‘I cannot believe you.'

‘Paula.'

‘If only we all had a meeting to go to, maybe we could all pretend she's on a holiday.'

‘Paula,' Dad's voice is calm, measured. ‘Paula, not in front of Hannah.'

‘Not in front of Hannah? Why not? Everything else has happened in front of Hannah!'

I think of Josh's parents. Of his dad on the Gold Coast with a woman called Sonia. I want to get up and leave but I can't. I am tethered there between them.

‘She's got her assessment coming up. They're going to decide whether she remembers what happened or not. So she can tell the court, Andrew—'

‘That's enough, Paula.'

‘Oh, is it? I think so too, Andrew. I think we've all had enough. But we don't have a choice do we?'

My dad closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He crosses his long arms, the arms that wrapped around my mother. Folds them across his chest.

‘Well, some of us don't anyway,' she says.

Nineteen

Josh sets a cold bottle of juice down next to me.

‘How much was it?' I ask.

‘It's all good. I gotta deal going with the canteen lady.' He winks at me.

‘I really do not want to know.'

‘Just happy to reap the benefits, are you? Typical.'

Josh sips his Coke. His shirt is crumpled and untucked, as usual. Tie nowhere to be seen. He unzips his bag and pulls out a book.
The Hunger Games
.

‘You like books? Read this? It's good. No pictures of Jennifer Lawrence, though. Which is a shame. I finished it in, like, a week. What? You look shocked. I can read, you know. Just don't tell Black. You'll ruin my reputation.'

‘You like him, don't you?'

‘Black?'

‘Yeah. I think you're quite fond of him.'

‘“Fond”? Bloody hell, you are Jane Eyre.'

‘I'm just saying, I think you … respect him more than you let on.'

‘Yeah, well. At least he gives a shit if I don't do my homework.'

He looks away, takes another swig of Coke.

‘You know there's a whole other world beyond this veranda. There's like space and trees and other places to sit and even other people – crazy, I know. Some of them are actually friendly. Ever think of venturing out?'

‘No.'

‘You afraid of them, Janie?'

‘No. I'm really not. I just. I like it here.'

‘Don't want anyone's pity?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Yeah, well. You don't have mine. Except when it comes to your sandwich-making skills.' He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it. The crossword. ‘With the unstable lawyers? Six letters. Third letter “F”.'

‘Um. Infirm.'

‘Well, that's just ridiculous. How do you do that?'

‘Not sure … Was it better after your dad left? I mean, was it a relief that the tension was gone or something?'

‘No, it wasn't a relief. That's what they want you to think, though. As if two Christmases is compensation for a fucking family.' He pauses, flicks the pen between his fingers. ‘My mum goes on dates now. She's decided she's ready to “get back into life”. As if going for Chinese with some pathetic, balding creep is getting into life. Do you know how weird that is?' He laughs, but it clearly isn't funny. ‘I have to meet these guys who come to my house to pick up my mum. “Hello there, young man. My name's John, I'm a wanker. Why else would I be single?” You know what she said to me? She told me that she's still a woman with needs. Those are words you don't want to hear coming from your mum's mouth.' He sighs. ‘So, short answer, no it's not better.'

‘I think my mum would be too depressed to go on dates. And Dad's pretty much a cripple now …'

‘So he'd need to go out with someone who could like, carry him? That's awkward on a first date.'

‘Yeah. True.'

‘I don't get it, Jane.'

‘Don't get what?'

‘I don't understand why you used to cop it. You seem all right to me.'

‘No one else thinks that. I'm too serious. I take things too seriously and I've got a stick up my butt.'

He cracks up.

‘Sorry, I don't mean to make light of your problems.' He bites his lip, watches me. ‘You're serious, sure. But that's a good thing. You take people seriously, Hannah. You listen.' He pushes his hands through his hair and leans back against the wall. ‘Do you know how rare that is? Most people just wait till the other person finishes so they can talk about themselves again. It shits me. They don't listen. But you …' He looks away. ‘You act like the way I feel is important. You make me feel valid.'

‘Okay. Thank you.'

‘You're welcome.' He clears his throat and takes a pen from his pocket. ‘Moving on toward Henry. Four letters.'

‘Ford.'

‘You see, this is why I hang out with you, Jane.'

Anne hands me a mug of jasmine tea.

‘I'd give you something stronger, but I'd lose my job,' she says. She sits opposite me and takes up her notepad. ‘Remember what I said, no talk about the weather, although it is appallingly hot.'

‘Yeah, it is.'

‘I heard a rumour, and this is crazy, that you might have a friend here. An actual friend. That true or am I being gullible and optimistic?'

‘It might be true. I guess.'

‘A male friend.'

‘He's not my boyfriend.'

‘Do you want him to be?'

Katie chips in,
Don't ask her about guys, she'll freak out
.

‘Um, I don't really see why I have to talk about that.'

She smiles. ‘Wait. Have I found something you're even less keen to talk about than the car accident? Is that possible?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Great, well, let's talk about the car accident, since you're so keen. There's going to be a hearing soon. Yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘And as a witness, the police want to question you at the trial.'

‘Yes.'

‘Under oath. But you need a psych assessment first.'

‘Yes.'

‘You haven't given them any information.'

I look at her and she does the same old thing and looks right back at me, unflinching.

‘I don't remember.'

‘Sometimes when faced with really traumatic stuff, our minds sort of shut down to protect themselves. You've heard that before?'

‘Yes.'

‘I think maybe that's what's happening for you.'

‘I hit my head.'

Anne shrugs. ‘Sure. But with most concussions, when the person hasn't been knocked unconscious, the missing pieces fall back into place after a time. That hasn't happened for you, has it?'

I don't answer her.

‘You know, when you're ready, you might start to remember things, Hannah. I want you to be prepared for that.'

How do you get ready for that?

‘Hey, Jane.'

The last bell of the day has rung and students spill out of classrooms and head towards the bus bay. A mass exodus. Josh stands in front of me, blocking the flow of people and forcing everyone to go around us.

‘How are you?' he asks.

‘Um, good. But I need to get the bus.'

‘No, see, you should come to the skate park. There's a bunch of us going. Take a load off, see me attempt a kickflip three-sixty, it'll change your life.'

‘Change my life?'

‘Yeah, the sheer beauty of it will change your perceptions of the world, Jane. You will never see a skateboarder more average than myself.'

‘I'm supposed to come and watch you skate?'

‘Yeah. Bring me refreshments and stuff.'

‘How liberating.'

‘Very. There'll be other girls there, you can talk about how cute I am. Seriously, come hang out. Talk to some other humans. You might like it. I know you've got your whole solitary-confinement thing going on, but you might actually not have a crap time.'

Soon my bus will arrive and open its doors, ready to take me off into another afternoon of predictability. Safe predictability.

‘Janie, come on, offer is closing.'

‘Okay.'

‘Okay?'

‘But I'm not bringing you drinks.'

‘We'll see. To the car park, Jane. Sambo awaits.'

‘Sambo?'

‘Sam Wilks. You know him? No, you don't know him. Year twelve. Lives next door to me. Has a ride, which means I have a ride, which means you have a ride. One of the many benefits of being mates with me, 'cause you seem to need reminding. You're getting that Captain Square look in your eyes. It's not a stolen car, Jane. We're not “joy-riding”. It's Sambo's mum's station wagon. A Volvo for frig's sake. C'mon, move those feet, sister.'

When we get to the car park I see that Sam Wilks is leaning on the driver's door of what is indeed a Volvo station wagon. His uniform is even less … uniform than Josh's. He has a shaved head and about six holes in each ear, which he is methodically filling with earrings fished from his shirt pocket.

‘Bit tardy there, Joshie,' he says. ‘Gotta boost this joint. Workin' tonight.' He looks up, squints a little in my direction. ‘Hannah, yeah? Sam. Get in. And you,' he points at Josh, ‘no eating in the car. You get crumbs on the seats and my mum will kill me. I don't need that crap, man.'

Josh gives him a salute.

‘And youse are gonna have to squish up in the back, yeah? Got Mark and Ollie comin' too. If they hurry the frig up.'

Mark and Ollie do turn up right as Sam is starting the car. They are ex-Reacher Street, like Josh. One of them (I don't know which) is drinking a carton of iced coffee, which Sam makes him finish before getting in the car. Perhaps sensing my reluctance to be squished between two guys, Josh offers to take the middle seat. I slide in next to him and our shoulders touch. When we leave the car park Sam drives at a pace that would put most nannas to shame.

I send Mum a text: Be home later, going to skate park. If she bothers to read it she will probably think it's Katie's ghost texting her.

It's probably not much of a surprise to hear that I haven't spent a whole lot of time hanging around the skate park (or loitering as the case may be). I discovered upon exiting Sam's car that it is not the debauched drug den the local paper predicted it would be when it was opened. On this particular afternoon, though, it does seem to be a popular hangout for teenagers whose fake IDs were outed by the Bowlo long ago. Josh seems to know most of them. He must notice my face when I spot a group featuring a few Clones because he says in my ear, ‘Don't worry, Jane, those punks give you grief and I'll give 'em a kickflip to the head. Just give me time to practise first.'

There's two more ex-Reacher Street girls who came to St Joseph's at the same time as Josh. They sit on the concrete in the shade and give Josh a wave. He goes over to them and I follow, trying not to feel like the lost puppy that used to follow Charlotte around.

‘Ladies,' he says by way of a greeting. Maddie, whom I recognise from my English class, rolls her eyes in a way that is more friendly than anything else.

‘Afternoon, Joshua.'

Maddie has wild curly hair like Katie's was and I notice her blue school skirt has been hemmed with bright red thread.

‘You bring food?' the other asks. She's Asian and very beautiful, straight black hair to her waist.

‘Yes, Lola. You're lucky I haven't eaten it. You know what Sambo's like with his car.'

‘Oh she knows,' says Maddie.

Lola gives her a death look. ‘One more word, Maddie and I will hurt you.'

Maddie holds up her palms in surrender. Lola looks at me and smiles.

‘Hannah, yeah? I'm Lola. Way to go with the introductions, Josh.'

He's not listening, too busy watching Sam attempt a jump which looks like it could end in death.

‘Hi.'

‘Hi. Sit.' They both shuffle over to make room in the shade.

‘So Josh has dragged you along to watch,' Maddie says.

‘Something like that.'

‘Always desperate for an audience.'

‘Poor guy,' says Lola.

Josh turns. ‘At least wait till I'm out of earshot.'

I sit next to Maddie and Lola and neither seems to mind that I am mostly silent. Josh, as it turns out, is more gifted with a skateboard than I'd expected and while he's skating Maddie raids his bag and finds a packet of corn chips.

‘So what's the go with you and Josh?' she asks, offering me a chip.

‘Like it's your business!' says Lola. She turns to me. ‘Maddie and Josh were, like, married for two years. Now she acts like she's his mother.'

‘I do not! I'm just asking.'

‘We're not together or anything,' I say carefully. Maddie smiles and shakes her head, her hand on my shoulder.

‘Lola's talking about ages ago. There's no problem, I'm just curious.'

‘Like I said,' says Lola, ‘she thinks she's his mother.'

‘Would you shut up? I'm trying to have a civilised conversation here.'

‘You're interrogating the poor girl. Ignore her, Hannah.'

‘Should we talk about Sam Wilks then, Lola?'

‘Arghh, shut up!'

‘Look, Hannah, I'm not interrogating you. It's just, I've known Josh a long time. Promise me you won't break his heart?'

I can't imagine having the capability of breaking anyone's heart.

‘Oh God, you look scared. I'm not saying anything! Relax!'

‘I told you not to threaten her,' says Lola.

‘I'm not! I didn't!'

‘It's okay,' I say. ‘I understand. There's really nothing going on, he's just … we're friends.'

‘I know. Sorry.'

‘Like I said, you think you're his mum,' says Lola, offering me a Malteser which is also from Josh's bag.

‘Do not.'

‘Do too. You need therapy.'

‘Most people need therapy,' I say, and this seems to go down quite well.

Sam Wilks pulls the station wagon up in front of my house. I get out and Josh follows me. He hands me my bag, walks around and leans on the back of the car, maybe in an attempt to get out of earshot. He folds his arms and looks at me, right at me.

‘I like you, Hannah.'

His eyes really are very green.

‘I know you think you're the most screwed-up person in the world, maybe you are, but I want you to know that I like you and that everyone is screwed up to some degree. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I don't expect anything from you. I just want you to know that.'

‘Okay.' My voice is barely a whisper.

‘I'll see you later, yeah?'

‘Okay.'

He grins. ‘You've gotta stop being such a flirt. It's killing me.'

Mum comes out of her bedroom as I step through the front door. I wonder if maybe she is going to ask who my friends are, who gave me a lift home. She doesn't.