The Protected (6 page)

I could see the look of dread on her face. She left the group she was standing with and came over to him, her expression somewhere between mortification and white anger. She said something to him that I couldn't hear. Whatever it was, Dad didn't like it.

‘Why was your sister down the end of the street, by herself, crying?' he shouted.

I could see her hissing at him to keep his voice down.

‘She was down there, by herself, upset! Why did you let her leave on her own like that?'

‘It has nothing to do with me.'

He pointed to the car. She stormed down the drive and got in, slamming the door shut. ‘What the hell, Dad?!'

Dad slammed his own door shut and started the car.

‘Dad! This has nothing to do with me!' she glared at me. ‘Hannah! What the fuck?'

‘Watch your language, young lady!'

‘Why am I even here? What the hell did I do?'

‘What did you do? You let your sister leave that house, in the dark, by herself when she was clearly upset.'

‘Why is she my responsibility?'

‘She's your sister.'

‘Yeah and she's a social fucking retard.'

‘Katherine, you do not speak like that!'

‘It's true! This has nothing to do with me.' She shifted her death stare in my direction. ‘Thanks a lot, Hannah. How am I supposed to recover from that? Drag me down too, why don't you.'

The next day I caught the bus to school as usual. I took my normal seat, third from the front on the right. Katie joined her friends in the back. I put my earphones in my ears and watched the road roll past.

Something wet hit my back.

I turned around, there were two Clones sitting up the back near my sister. They were smirking. The rest of the bus shrieked at the brown banana-goo seeping through my school shirt. I looked at Katie, she looked back at me, an expression I couldn't read. She didn't say anything.

A message beeped on my mobile, private number. ‘Lezzo Pervert' was all it said. I put it back in my schoolbag and tried to ignore the rest of the messages that were coming in – my phone was vibrating so much it nearly jumped out of my bag.

I saw Charlotte in the corridor before homeroom. She didn't look at me. She walked straight past. I turned around, followed her, practically ran to catch up to her.

‘Charlotte? Where are you going? Charlotte?'

She was trying to stay stoic, but the years of our friendship pulled at her, I could see it in the way she hesitated.

‘I can't talk to you.'

‘Why didn't you do something, Char? You were right there and they were saying that stuff, why––'

She stopped walking, glanced around nervously.

‘Did you touch Amy?'

‘How could you even think that?'

‘It's just a little creepy, Hannah. Why haven't you made any new friends? Why are you so … so into me?'

‘Into you? What the hell, Char?'

‘You know what I mean.' She couldn't look at me. ‘I feel sick, when I think about it, Hannah. I mean, we've slept in the same bed …'

I stood there stunned, tried to put it together in my head.

‘I want you to leave me alone, Hannah.'

And then she walked away.

***

Anne's pen doesn't leave the paper as I speak. There is something weirdly validating about having someone write down every word you say as if it is crucially important. When I pause she looks over what she has written.

‘That must have been devastating, when Charlotte abandoned you like that. Not to mention your sister.'

I don't say anything.

‘How do you feel about what happened?'

‘Katie never had anything to do with me at school anyway …'

‘So you didn't expect her to stick up for you? Hannah?'

I look up at her. ‘She's dead, I can't …' I let the sentence dissolve. I can't picture Katie in the room anymore. She has gone.

‘What about Charlotte?'

I can feel it in my chest, the sharp anger. I focus on the swirly pattern of the carpet.

‘Hannah?'

‘I don't know. I don't. Can we stop now? Can I go?'

‘If you want. But the way you feel about what happened isn't just going to go away if you ignore it.'

‘I just want to go to class.'

She smiles. ‘Fine. But you promised me no bullshit. Don't forget it.'

Eleven

My career aspirations before Katie died:

* Vet

* Author

* Catwalk model (this was the phase when I just said whatever Katie said)

* Vet

* Historian

* Anthropologist

* Author

Seven-thirty on a Sunday morning and I hear a car pull into the driveway. Without getting out of bed, I peek out my window and see Nanna striding up the front path, arms laden with grocery bags. This time Grandad is trailing behind her. I hear Dad swearing under his breath as he goes down the hall to let them in.

I find my slippers under my bed and pad out into the kitchen. Grandad has parked himself at the table and Dad places a mug of tea in front of him. The steam fogs up his glasses as he takes a sip.

‘There she is!' Grandad says when he sees me.

I give him a kiss on the forehead. ‘What're you guys doing here so early?'

‘Don't ask me, love, I'm here under captain's orders.'

The captain bustles over, dressed all in pastels, gold bracelets shimmering on her pink arms. She gives me a lipstick kiss on the cheek. Dad goes up the hallway, presumably to try to get Mum out of bed.

‘Now,' Nan says. ‘Did you pack your golf clubs, Verne?'

‘In the boot,' Grandad replies.

‘If you leave now you can get a round in before the heat turns up.'

My mother walks down the hallway, hugging her dressing-gown around herself. Grandad stands up and goes over to her. He puts his arms around her and she leans her head on his shoulder. He murmurs something to her and she nods.

‘I was just saying if the men leave now they will get a round in before it gets too hot,' Nan says.

Nan always refers to Dad and Grandad as ‘the men'. As if they are a subspecies useful for fixing dripping taps and not much else. Mum doesn't comment on the golf plans. She walks over to the kettle, pours hot water into a mug and takes it out onto the deck.

Nanna sighs dramatically in a way that is pure Katie. ‘It's going to be one of those days,' she says to Grandad, with a glance towards me, as if I'm five years old and don't understand what she's talking about.

‘Um, I don't know if Dad will be up for golf, Nan. He can't, um, walk very far.'

She raises her drawn-on eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it will do him good.'

Grandad gives me a helpless shrug.

My mother is sitting on the deck. She has perfect posture because my nanna used to make her walk around with a book on her head when she was a girl. Seriously. She is sitting with her back to the screen door, looking out over the gully.

‘Hi. Do you want something to eat?' I sound like a waitress. May as well call her ‘ma'am'.

She turns a little in her chair, looks up at me, her eyes dark and tired. She looks old. ‘No. Thank you.'

‘What's Nan doing here?' She has already brought food this week.

My mother sniffs, takes a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her flannel robe.

‘She thinks we should sort out Katie's room. She doesn't
think it's healthy to leave it like a shrine.'

I look at Mum, in her dressing-gown, arms wrapped around herself. Withered. She doesn't really look like my mother anymore. I want to go back inside, but I am anchored there, next to her.

‘I don't want to get rid of her things,' I say.

‘I know.'

‘Do you think we need to get rid of her things?'

She shakes her head and I don't know if that means she doesn't want to get rid of Katie's things or she doesn't want to talk. I wonder if there's any chance of me sneaking in and getting a few particular items out of Katie's room before they find them. The back door slides open and Nanna sticks her head out.

‘Breakfast! Come on, Paula! Hannah!'

The only time I ever eat porridge is when Nanna makes it. She cooks it slowly on the stove, not in the microwave like Dad tries to. She places a steaming bowl down in front of me, dollops a spoonful of honey on top. It doesn't seem right for a summer's morning. My mother moves hers around with the spoon.

‘I don't know about this,' she says.

‘It's good for your bowels,' Nan replies.

‘No, not this, I mean … I don't know if it's a good idea to go through Katie's things today.'

Nanna chews a mouthful of porridge, orange lipstick smooshing around on her lips. She swallows.

‘When are you going to do it then?'

‘I think Andrew and I should do it when we're ready.'

‘Darling, I don't think you should be counting on Andrew.' Nanna puts down her spoon and sips her tea. ‘The fact is you may well end up on your own.'

‘I'm not talking about this now.'

I put my head down and shovel the porridge into my mouth, it settles in my stomach like wet cement.

‘You have to face it, love. I know it's a difficult thing to do, but I don't think you can move forward if––'

‘I don't want to move forward.'

‘Well, that's pretty clear.'

Mum shakes her head, jaw tight. Her hand trembles as she moves the spoon around, stirring, stirring.

‘Hannah, why don't you go and watch some TV, take your breakfast,' Nanna says to me. ‘Go on, just this once.'

I take my breakfast into the lounge room, keep the volume on the TV down low.

‘Have you spoken to the lawyer with him? Do you know what he has said to the lawyer?'

‘He was knocked unconscious. He doesn't remember what happened. You know that, I've told you that.'

‘Is that what he told the lawyer?'

‘What? Yes!'

‘Were you there when he said it?'

‘Mum, for goodness sake. We are handling it, okay? Leave it.'

‘Well, from where I'm standing, it all looks like avoidance. Avoidance of reality. You can't run from it forever. It's only going to be worse for you if you carry on as if Katherine is about to walk back in the door. The first step you have to take is to sort out her things.'

Mum doesn't say anything.

‘The only way you are going to heal—'

There is a crash – the cracking, exploding sound of porcelain hitting the tiles. I leave my bowl on the coffee table and go to the doorway. Mum stands there, bowl shattered at her feet, porridge splattered everywhere. Nanna makes a move to get up and clean up the mess. But my mother speaks, her words hard and forced.

‘How can I heal?'

Nanna opens her mouth. Closes it again. Neither of them notice me standing there.

‘Go on! You tell me! You tell me what I can do to feel better, you're so full of ideas!'

‘Paula––'

‘Maybe you can tell Hannah what to do, too. Because I haven't just lost one daughter. I've lost both of them.'

‘No you haven't,' Nanna lowers her voice to a whispery hiss. ‘But you will, if you don't pull yourself together.'

‘How? Get my hair done? Will that fix it, do you think?'

‘It'd be a start. You've got to get back to yourself. Little things make a difference.'

‘A difference to what? The fact that my daughter was killed and I might be living with the person who killed her?'

Mum sees me then, standing in the doorway. Nanna turns around, begins to say something, but I don't stay to listen. I go up the hall into my room and shut the door. I hear Mum follow me, she knocks on the door, says my name, I don't answer. She knocks again. I pull my desk across the door, blocking it. And then I sit on the floor, underneath the desk, like Katie and I used to do when we were little kids. I sit there for a long time.

***

Two Facebook pages were created in my honour in the week following the party. The first was ‘Victim's of Hannah McCann Unite!' (The Clones didn't have the best grasp of punctuation.) It said I was a lesbian sexual predator. Two days later there was another, ‘Hannah McCann is a Man!' The fact that I couldn't be a man and a lesbian didn't bother them. Added to that were the unflattering pictures of me the Clones put on their Instagram accounts when they weren't posting selfies.

Katie didn't speak to me until Friday afternoon when we were walking home from the bus stop.

‘So? What are you going to do to fix the fact that you're the resident freak?'

I must have looked surprised.

‘So we're clear: I'm only talking to you because I feel sorry for you. I am still pissed off at you for dragging me into your fucking mess.'

‘I didn't drag you into anything.'

‘So what was Dad's little display at Tara's party about?'

‘I didn't blame anything on you.'

‘I noticed you didn't stand up for me either.'

‘I didn't stand up for you?! Are you serious?'

‘You're not exactly drowning in friends at the moment, Hannah. So I wouldn't be playing the blame game if I were you.'

***

TWELVE

Katie's most played songs:

* ‘Cannonball', The Breeders

* ‘Lithium', Nirvana

* ‘Arabella', Arctic Monkeys

* ‘Gold Lion', Yeah Yeah Yeahs

* ‘Pictures of You', The Cure

* ‘New York, I Love You', LCD Soundsystem

* ‘Heavy Soul', The Black Keys

* ‘Lust For Life', Iggy Pop

* ‘London Calling', The Clash

* Basically every song from the Trainspotting soundtrack

* ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps', The Beatles

The following night, when my parents are asleep, I get up and go into Katie's room. I turn on her bedside lamp and close the door behind me. I pull back her doona cover and lie down on her bed. She would be pissed off about me invading her space, I'm sure. But she is gone, completely and utterly not here. The sheets haven't been changed since the last time she slept in them – Mum wouldn't let Nanna in here and I think Nanna was too scared of her smashing more stuff if she pushed her. On the floor under Katie's bedside table is her laptop in its case. I lean over and pick it up. I prop her cushions up behind me and set the computer on my lap. I plug the power adaptor into the wall socket by the table. The top of the case has a fine layer of dust over it. I open it and push the start-up key. It takes a few moments before the screen lights up and the laptop plays three chords, heralding its return to consciousness.

I open her browser, click on the history tab and unfurl the list of websites she last visited. There are several fashion blogs, Facebook, Twitter, more fashion blogs and several university sites. I follow the links and find a course outline for a Bachelor of Arts in Communication (Information and Media) and another for a course in Fashion Journalism at a design school. The marks needed to get in are really high. There is another link to information about the swim program at the Australian Institute of Sport. I close the browser and go into her media file. She would scream at me if she could. I open her photo folder and thousands of shots of Katie and her friends splash across the screen. I scroll through them. There are none of me and her, none of her and Jensen. Jensen's face doesn't appear anywhere.

***

I knocked on her bedroom door and waited. Waited, waited. Finally it opened a fraction and she stood there without saying anything like, ‘Come on in!' or, ‘Yeah, I'd love to have a sisterly chat and hear all about your problems'.

‘Permission to enter?' I asked.

She contemplated me for a moment and I wondered if she was going to ask me to fill out a visa application. Then she opened the door further and stepped aside. She closed the door behind me. Her bed was strewn with textbooks and torn exercise pages scrawled with handwriting. I went to move some aside, make some room, but she beat me there, sweeping them into a pile, her face ducked away from mine. Almost like she was embarrassed. That would be a first.

‘I'm sort of busy, what do you want?' I sat on her bed. She rolled her eyes and sat next to me.

‘I just, I just want to … talk. I don't know what to do. You've never had to deal with … this and I––'

She gave a short laugh, scoffing.

‘What? You haven't.'

‘Well, that's bullshit.'

‘What? When?'

‘No, no, go on. I'm all ears,' she said in a way that suggested the opposite.

‘I just, you have to tell me what to do, Katie.'

She took a deep breath, turned to face me. ‘Okay. Let's talk about this. Are you, in fact, a lesbian? And before you answer, there is nothing wrong with being a bit lez, yeah? Ruby Rose, hello? So. Are you?'

‘No! Katie, I'm not gay!'

‘Okay, you need to calm down there because like the lady doth protest too much or whatever.'

‘Since when do you quote Shakespeare?'

‘Let's get this straight. Ha, sorry––'

‘That's not even funny.'

‘Yeah, it is. Did you or did you not give Amy whatserface a bit of a, you know, bit of a touch up?'

‘Katie! I just told you.'

‘Okay. So no girlie love going on there. I mean, of all people I'd be surprised if you went for her.'

‘Just tell me what I should do.'

‘You mean aside from publicly making out with some guy?'

‘Preferably.'

She pulled her hair forwards over her shoulder, twisted it around and around. ‘Because that would help.'

‘Katie. Come on.'

‘Although, then they'll just call you a slut, so it's lose lose.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Spanner, I don't know. You care too much. You care too much what people think of you. It's obvious and it makes it easy for them, you know?'

‘I make it too obvious that I don't like having food pelted at me?'

‘You just …' She sighed. ‘You just want them to like you so much, you need to stop trying so hard.'

‘Stop trying not to get called a lesbian? It's easy for you to say all this when everyone thinks you're a goddess.'

She released her hair and it fell loose, untwisting. ‘Yeah? And where's that going to get me exactly, Hannah? Jeez, you're naive. Leave it. Just leave it. Stop taking everything so seriously. They'll get bored. They'll move on. Can you go now? I'm busy. I've got an English essay.'

‘Yeah? What on? Gatsby?'

‘Seriously, Hannah, leave. Now.'

‘I can, you know, look at it if you want.'

‘Out.'

***

I sit at the ag plot during lunchbreak with my legs stretched out in the sun, back against the fibro-clad wall and listen to Katie's iPod. I am up to number one hundred and fifty nine: ‘
Heart-Shaped Box'
by Nirvana. Up until the last few days I knew very little about Nirvana other than the fact that Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head. After listening to ‘
Lithium'
, ‘
Drain You'
, ‘
Come as You Are'
, ‘
Jesus Doesn't Want Me For A Sunbeam'
and now ‘
Heart-Shaped Box'
I feel I know Kurt Cobain quite well.

The goats pick their way through the long grass, chewing their feed with little corn-teeth, bleating occasionally. Then suddenly they startle, heads bobbing up, before turning and skittering down the far side of the paddock. I look around, tug my earphones from my ears. If a teacher finds me it will be interesting to see if they give me a detention for being out of bounds. But it's not a teacher. It's Josh Chamberlain.

He dumps his backpack a few metres from me, leans against the wall like he is waiting for a bus.

‘Hey,' he says, super casual.

‘Hey.' I wait. He doesn't say anything more, but takes a small folded piece of paper and a pen from his pocket. He unfolds the paper and squints at it.

‘Noxious weed. Seven letters, fourth letter “t”?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Noxious weed. Seven letters, fourth letter “t”, oh wait. Last letter “a”.'

‘Lantana?'

‘Bingo. Well played, Jane. Animal dance, seven letters, third letter “x”?'

‘That's easy: foxtrot.'

‘Easy for some, Jane.'

‘Are you doing the crossword?'

‘No. I'm just asking you random questions. Yes, I'm doing the crossword. What are you doing round here?'

‘Just having lunch.'

‘In secret. Very mysterious. Chicken, seven letters? Wait. Poultry.' He writes on the piece of paper. ‘Nice shoes by the way.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Your shoes, they're new, yeah?'

‘Oh, yeah.'

‘You're gonna get busted if you're caught down here, 'specially with me.'

‘I was here first.'

‘You'll have to speak up, I can't hear a word you're saying.'

I swallow. ‘I was here first,' I repeat, a little louder.

He gives me a grin. ‘Whoa, did you just crack a funny, Jane? I'm pretty sure you did. Stop the press.'

I feel myself blushing, feel my breath drain from my lungs. The feeling that this is all a hideous prank resurfaces. But Josh is still smiling.

‘My mate got expelled for being out of bounds,' he says. ‘Can you believe that? Who gets expelled for being out of bounds? He used to go down the bush and sell his dad's smokes to kids from here.'

Probably to my sister.

‘School couldn't prove it though, so they just did him for being out of bounds. He works up on the Gold Coast now. Movie World. Wears a Bugs Bunny suit or something. Don't laugh, I'm dead serious. Reckons he's gonna get me a job working the Batman ride. You ever been on the Batman ride?'

‘Um. No.'

‘You should. Very good ride, that one. Very clever stuff. Helps if you like Batman, though. I like Batman, but I can't watch the second one, the one with Heath Ledger. Man, that freaks me out. Does my head in.'

Josh slides his back down the wall and sits next to me. He takes two cigarettes from his pocket, holds one out to me. ‘Care to join?'

‘Um, no thank you.'

‘Wise choice.' He puts a cigarette between his lips. The other he slots behind his ear. ‘Cigarettes will kill you, Jane. So, how come you're around here all on your lonesome?'

‘It's complicated.'

‘Smoking cones, I bet. I tell you, it's always the quiet ones. Why are you smiling? Drugs are no joke, Jane.'

He lights the cigarette, inhales and breaks into a coughing fit, which seems strange for someone who's used to smoking. ‘I'm new here, in case you hadn't noticed. And I don't think you have noticed, 'cause I've tried to get your attention on several occasions and you've just––' He moves his flat palm up and down in front of his face, expressionless.

‘Stonewalled me. Straight up. Have you considered taking up professional poker playing? 'Cause, I think you've got a real skill there.'

‘But, um, I talked to you in Penrith …'

‘Yes you did. But the other day, I was in the library writing some poetry and you walked in and I'm all, like waving and shit and you didn't even see me.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes really.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Apology accepted.'

‘You've come from Reacher Street High, haven't you?'

‘Yep! Halelujah, I've been saved by the Catholic school system! My mum's got this effed up idea that I should go to a Catholic school for the HSC. Makes Dad pay the school fees. Part of the divorce settlement. She would have gone private, really stuck it to him, but not even good ole Dad could afford that. Totally sucks, though if you ask me, he has to pay for a school I don't even want to go to. She's just doing it to piss him off. Your parents divorced?'

‘Not yet.'

He stubs out the half-smoked cigarette and throws it into the paddock. Which also seems odd for someone who smokes.

‘You can't do that,' I say.

‘Beg yours?'

‘Throw your cigarette away like that. You'll start a fire.'

He laughs. ‘I don't see a fire.'

‘That's how they start.'

‘Who are you? Officer Sensible?' Josh gets to his feet, jumps down off the veranda onto the grass. He ducks down, picks up the cigarette and holds it up for me to see. ‘Phew! Disaster averted.' He hoists himself back onto the veranda. It's not much of an effort, he's very tall. ‘Well?' he asks, sitting back down.

‘What?'

‘Aren't you going to thank me?'

‘For picking up a cigarette that you threw on the ground in the first place?'

‘I noticed you don't have a heap of friends. Wonder why that is?'

I don't say anything. He holds up his palms in surrender.

‘Sorry, sorry, I know, I know. I'm supposed to be nice to you.'

‘What?'

He shrugs.

‘What?'

‘You know.' He stops, bites his lip. ‘Your sister. I remember that morning, a year ago, yeah?'

Everyone remembers that morning. People around here are still talking about the traffic chaos it caused.

‘Yes.'

‘Were you in the car too?'

‘Yes.'

‘What happened?'

‘A truck hit the car.'

‘Shit.'

‘Yeah.'

We sit in silence for a while. Josh takes a bottle of Coke from his bag. Has a swig.

‘Do you miss her? Sorry, that's a really dumb question.'

I think of all the people who had asked me that: people with framed diplomas on their walls and couches in their offices.

‘We didn't get along very well. But yes.'

The goats have slowly made their way back up the paddock. They watch us warily, chewing the grass.

‘So, why are you around here by yourself?'

‘Like you said, I'm no good at the whole friendship thing.'

‘I like how you say that as if having friends is a fad you don't think will catch on.'

‘That pretty much sums me up.'

‘Ah, Jane. You're not so bad. Just need to work on your attitude a bit.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah. I've done a lot of work on my attitude, under Black's recommendation. Was headed for a life of crime, you see, before kind Mr Black swooped in and saved me from myself. He'd be concerned about you, if he knew you were out of bounds. It's a slippery slope. That's what he told me. One minute you're drinking your popper behind the ag building, next you're holding up the TAB. You're laughing again, Jane. You gotta take this seriously. Not a joke.'

The bell rings for class.

Josh picks up his bag. ‘What's next for you?'

‘Biology.'

‘Same. Hey, let's just stay here, could have a little Biology lesson of our own.' He grins. I fail to hide my shock.

‘That was a joke, Jane. See, you were doing well, you got the others, but you missed that one. Can I walk with you? Or do I need to marry you first?'