Vengeance Blind Page 11

  * * *

  Guy listened to the ringing. He was thousands of kilometres away, yet the sound was clear. On the fourth ring, he cursed loudly, only to bite back the word when the call connected.

  “Hi, babe.” His words came out in a rush of relief. “I was getting worried.”

  “Guy.” Hearing his name on his wife’s lips settled his nerves.

  His initial relief turned to irritation, not at Belle, but at Bethany. As if things weren’t bad enough without his sister-in-law getting him all cranked up. “Just wanted to check in and hear your voice.”

  “Oh, that’s nice… I… I miss you.” The emotion in her voice caught him off guard and with his bed still warm from another woman, his throat constricted.

  “I miss you too.” As he said the words, he realised how much he meant them. “I’ve been thinking about you. I shouldn’t have left you.” He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “The movie’s a wash so I’m coming home.”

  “What?” She was surprised. He could hear it in her voice, but so was he. They’d both believed this was his big break. “What do you mean? When… I mean when will you be back?”

  “Yeah. I know it’s fucked up, but you know how these things go...”

  “When will you be here?” There was an edge to her voice, demanding, almost shrill.

  Guy tried to laugh away the awkwardness, but all that came out was a hoarse bark. “Relax, Belle. I’m okay with it. You shouldn’t get upset. There’ll be other movies.” He tried to sound unconcerned, but he could hear the desperation in his own voice. “You’re not pissed at me, are you?”

  There was a pause. He could hear her breathing. He couldn’t blame her for being angry. He’d gone off and left her when she really needed him and then he’d managed to blow the chance of a lifetime. It was a miracle that someone as good and kind as Belle put up with him. If she knew the things he’d done – if she knew what sort of a man he was she’d be disgusted. Hell, he was disgusted at himself.

  “Belle?” He stood up and walked to the window. The city outside was a cross-work of lights swathed in blackness. The lights made him feel small and worthless.

  “I’m not pissed.” Her voice sounded stiff. “There’s just things to sort out, you know with the girl from the agency. I’ll need to tell her you’re coming back.” The words were tumbling out so quickly, he was having trouble keeping up with her. “She’ll want to know when… when her job’s finished. We can’t just spring it on her. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Okay. Okay.” He turned back to the bed, checking the time. “If everything’s on time with the flight, I’ll be there by tomorrow lunchtime. But I don’t see what the big deal is. I’ll just pay her for the whole day.”

  “No. No, it’s not a big deal.” She sounded calmer now. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. I–”

  “Hang on.” Usually he was the one in a rush while Belle always wanted to talk, but now she seemed eager to finish the conversation. “Can you let your sister know you’re okay? She’s been trying to call you.”

  “Yes, yes, I will… I love you.”

  “I love you too and I…” He stopped, realising she’d hung up.

  * * *

  The girl, Georgia, ended the call and began flicking through the contacts. “What’s your sister’s name?”

  Belle ignored the question. “You heard Guy. He’ll be back tomorrow.” She was playing for time, not wanting to give Georgia her sister’s name. While Bethany was still worried, there was a chance she’d call the police. “I’ve told you I wasn’t the one who hit you. I’d never do something like that, I swear. Why don’t you just go before he gets back? If you go now, you can leave the State.” Belle couldn’t take her eyes off the phone and the way the girl’s finger jabbed at the screen. “You could drive me to an ATM. I’ll give you money and… and you can disappear.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Georgia spoke without looking up. “I bet you wish you’d killed me instead of just taking my foot.”

  Still emotional after hearing Guy’s voice, Belle slammed her hand down on the arm of the wheelchair. “I didn’t hit you! Whatever you think happened, you’re wrong.”

  Georgia looked up, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Bethany?”

  Belle’s shoulders sagged. Bethany was her last chance, but now that small glimmer of hope had disappeared.

  Georgia held the phone and began reading one of Bethany’s last texts. “Hi, Sis.” Her voice was breathless and overly cheerful. “My two boys have been in the pool all morning so I’m off to buy you a special gift. Here’s a clue. It’s something you wear and something you drink. Ha ha!” Georgia looked up over the top of the phone, her tone changing with her mood. “You’re sister sounds like a moron.”

  Belle closed her eyes. Bethany sent the text two days ago and at the time Belle had laughed so hard she thought the wire in her knee might spring open. From anyone else, a T-shirt with a beer logo, even one Bali was famous for, would seem like a cruel joke when bought for a recovering alcoholic. But with Bethany, it was different. The two sisters shared a wicked sense of humour that was lost on everyone else. Even Guy couldn’t understand why the two women thought their offbeat jokes were so funny.

  With her cheek still stinging from the slap the girl gave her when they were outside, Belle bit off a response. “Irony’s lost on someone like you.” As soon as the words were out, Belle knew she’d gone too far.

  Georgia’s eyes widened and colour filled her cheeks. “What do you mean someone like me?” She slipped the phone in her pocket and took a step closer to Belle. “Well?”

  Belle turned her wheels, trying to back away, but Georgia caught hold of the chair. The threat of violence was almost tangible, clouding the air like smoke. Belle could hear her heart thundering in her ears as the girl let go of the chair and balled her hands into fists.

  It was madness to provoke the girl, but maybe insanity was catchy, because even though Belle knew it was reckless, she couldn’t resist speaking her mind. “Someone like you?” Belle’s voice was shaking, not with fear but anger. Anger for herself and for Arthur, but mostly for the girl in the boot. “You’re insane. A killer. You could never understand how normal people communicate. You have no...”

  Georgia struck, lips pulled back and teeth bared. She lifted her fist and pounded it down onto Belle’s injured knee. The nylon brace on her leg hardly stifled the impact of the girl’s blow. The pain was instant and white hot. Belle’s head rocked back and she screamed, a long and tortured sound that tore at her throat. Her hand clamped over her patella while inside the floating bone it felt like a beehive alive with a thousand burning points of agony.

  She wasn’t sure if she lost consciousness or her vision merely dimmed, but suddenly there were grey spots clouding her eyes. The world, the sitting room, and Georgia disappeared until there was nothing but pain.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Joan settled on an omelette. She considered adding a glass of wine to her evening meal, but as her mother always said, Wine should be for enjoyment, not mood control. Drinking alone was sure to end in tears. She didn’t need to look any further than her neighbour to see that truth play out.

  Pushing the meal around her plate, Joan couldn’t shake the feeling she was missing something. The mouth-watering mixture of fresh eggs, cheese, and green capsicum should have been enough to tempt her failing appetite, but the incident at the Hammers’ house played over in her mind, making it impossible to give her attention to the food.

  She scooped up a forkful of food and pushed it into her mouth, oblivious to the sweet, nutty flavour of gruyere cheese. It wasn’t just one thing that was off about the encounter, there was a string of things. Small things that niggled away at her thoughts.

  Mostly it was Belle’s eye-patch. The gauze looked dirty and wrinkled; the tape peeling up at the edges. The patch needed changing. So why was it that neither Belle nor the caregiver seemed to notice?

  Joan p
ut her fork down and tapped a finger to her lips. She turned in her chair and looked out the kitchen window. It was fully dark now, but there was enough light from the house to see the jacaranda. In the wash of yellow light, the bare branches looked claw-like. Thinking about claws, something else came to mind.

  Belle’s fingernails. In her mind’s eye, Joan could see the author rubbing her temple as though trying to massage her thoughts. Her nails were bitten. But bitten wasn’t the correct word. Bitten would be normal enough. No, Belle Hammer’s nails were gnawed. They were bloody at the edges and around the cuticles. It wasn’t a big thing. The eye-patch wasn’t a big thing either, but together the two smaller things were worrying and odd.

  Staring intently at the window but not really seeing, Joan only noticed the set of yellow eyes when they moved closer. She didn’t need to see the animal’s soft brown fur to recognise the ringtail possum. The creature’s reflective lenses amplified the light, giving the impression of huge yellow globes. Leaving the cover of the peppermint trees to venture close to the house was a bold move on the little marsupial’s part.

  “Careful, girl.” Joan spoke aloud as though the possum could hear her through the glass. “There are foxes in these woods.”

  In response to Joan’s voice, the animal’s eyes darted left then right. She waited, expecting the possum to flee, but instead it continued to watch her. The idea of vulpine predators watching in the cover of darkness made Joan shiver and the girl’s face, the one who introduced herself as Belle’s carer, came to mind.

  Joan dragged her gaze away from the possum and stood. Picking up her plate, she went to the fridge and stowed the food. Was she making more out of the incident because the girl had been rude to her? Or was it because the look in the girl’s eyes worried Joan more than Belle’s dirty eye-patch and ragged fingernails?

  But there was more, something that had drifted on the edge of her thoughts since the walk home, a maddening wisp of information dancing just out of reach. The sensation was like walking into a room and forgetting what you were about to do. Standing with her hand on the fridge door, it came to her. The white car. When Joan turned on her torch just as she was about to walk away, the beam landed on the boot. What she’d seen hadn’t struck her as unusual, not at the time, and not while she was reeling with hurt and embarrassment.

  Now, staring at the fridge door, the smudge of mud she’d seen on the white car’s back panel gave her pause. She’d given the vehicle no more than a passing glance. Red mud wasn’t out of the ordinary, not in Western Australia where the land seemed to consist of white sand for a few kilometres back from the coast and then at some point morphed into red earth.

  Joan turned from the fridge and scratched her head. She hadn’t inspected the car, but didn’t remember spotting mud on any other area. I didn’t even see the front of the vehicle. It could have been caked in mud. Was it mud? Or was the mark she’d seen a smudge?

  “Damn it.” She twisted her wedding ring, turning it on her finger. “It was too dark to be mud. Mud would look orange, but the smudge was almost brown, like…” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say it aloud.

  Not saying it didn’t change what she was thinking. Blood. Not mud, but blood. And not a smudge but a palm print. If she hadn’t been so emotional, she’d have stopped and taken a closer look. But remembering the way her cheeks burned with shame and her eyes filled with tears still stung. She’d been disarmed, that was the word for the way she’d felt leaving the author’s porch.

  “It could have been blood.” She was speaking to Roger now, imagining him at the sink, his head half-turned, one quizzical eyebrow raised.

  She could almost hear his voice. “If you think it was blood, then do something about it.”

  Joan wanted to do something, but what? Still twisting the ring, she glanced out the kitchen window. The possum was long gone. But the little folivore made her realise that there were things, dangerous things that hid in plain sight. Like the foxes waiting for a possum to venture too far from the safety of the peppermint trees. Could that be what Joan had seen at the Hammers’ house? Something sinister unfolding right in front of her?

  The idea of calling the police came and just as quickly went. What would she tell them? Belle’s dressing needed changing? There was a suspicious smudge on the car? No, the police would dismiss her as the local sticky-beak. She made a clicking sound with her tongue. If she had Belle’s husband’s number, she could call him. At least if she spoke to him and laid out her concerns, he could decide what to do.

  She didn’t have the man’s number, but she knew someone who did. Not giving herself time to ponder, Joan grabbed Roger’s jacket from the hook on the back door and slipped it on. This time she would take the car.

  * * *

  “Okay. Bethany just sent a pic.” Georgia was talking, rambling on about text messages.

  Belle raised her head, trying to focus on the girl’s voice, but the pain in her knee was like a point of steel grinding into her leg. The caregiver had hit her hard, maybe even hard enough to tear the wire that held her patella together. Earlier she’d been desperate to escape and get help, but now all Belle wanted was relief from the pain.

  “Can I have my pills?” Her throat was raw from the screaming, making it difficult to push the words out.

  Georgia was perched on the end of the sofa. Behind her, the front window was black and cold. “No.” Her voice was light, almost friendly. “No more painkillers for you.” She stood and approached Belle’s chair. “Here, this will cheer you up.”

  Belle’s pulse kicked up a notch and she shrank back in the chair, using her hands to cover her knee. Georgia rolled her eyes and gave a sharp chuckle.

  “I just want to show you the picture your sister sent.” She stood a metre or so away and held out the phone.

  There was a smudge on Belle’s lens, but leaning her chin forward she was able to make out her sister’s face, tanned and smiling. Jack grinned from Bethany’s lap and behind them was what looked like a beachside restaurant. Her vision blurred and her sister’s image became little more than a dark haze. For the first time since the nightmare began, it occurred to Belle that she might not ever see her family again.

  Belle reached for the phone, but Georgia snatched it away. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her she looks great.” The girl pursed her lips and stared at the screen. “Although she really does look like a fat cow in that sarong.”

  A tremor ran through Belle’s arms and shoulders. The pain was settling into a brooding ache, but her body was still jumpy with adrenalin. Moving slowly, trying not to jostle her knee, she turned the chair and headed for the archway.

  “Where are you going?” Georgia’s voice followed her.

  “Water.” Belle didn’t have the strength or the desire to speak to the girl who was now her captor.

  Listening, waiting for Georgia to race after her, Belle wheeled through the dining room and into the kitchen. When the girl didn’t follow, Belle let out a shaky breath. Being alone, even if it was only in the next room, felt like a small measure of freedom.

  Belle let her face drop into her hands, pushing her palms against her clammy cheeks. The girl was torturing her, punishing her for something she didn’t do. After what Belle saw in the boot, she knew Georgia was capable of much worse. How long would it be before Belle ended up like the girl?

  She took a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted off the cap. After swallowing a few mouthfuls, she held the bottle against her face, relishing the cold on her skin. The kitchen, though fairly spacious, seemed smaller; the cupboards overhead loomed too high and seemed ready to tip and crush her. For the second time that day she felt small and helpless.

  All on your own? Why, with so much immediate danger, couldn’t she get the man’s voice out of her head? He wasn’t real. The memory wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But the sneakers were real. She remembered those red sneakers and how much she loved them. The way the gold ribbon sparkled. The dab, dab, dab of the rubbe
r soles on the department store floor.

  His hair looked slippery, greasy and curling around his collar. The car door creaked open and the man pushed her inside. There were squashed cans on the floor and an old towel on the back seat. The smell, like the gunk that her mother cleaned out of the tray at the bottom of the stove, it was in her mouth, making her cough and choke.

  “Okay. Be real quiet now.” His face growing bigger and slick with sweat.

  She was crying – big hiccupping sobs that racked her chest until she had no breath left. There was blood. At first she thought it was from her knee, but then she could see it on his hands.

  The water bottle in Belle’s hand had grown warm against her face so she set it on the counter. Her chest was heaving as though she’d swam ten laps. Something was happening to her mind. It was the only tangible explanation for whatever these flashes were. They’re waking nightmares. She’d just seen a dead body, the first dead body she’d ever laid eyes on. Was it any wonder her brain was having trouble coping?

  She spun the chair around to face the dining room. The problem wasn’t some half-remembered scenes from a movie. They were graphic, terrifying scenes that had wormed their way into her brain like a parasite. The problem was the crazy woman in her house. And, if she had any chance of getting through the madness that was unfolding, Belle needed to stay in the here and now.

  She’d been in the kitchen too long. If she didn’t get back in the sitting room soon, Georgia would come looking for her. Belle scanned the room, taking in the dirty dishes on the table and the pile of crockery in the sink. The room was starting to smell like rotting fruit. The carer had been in her house less than twenty-four hours and everything was descending into chaos.

  The plan to lock herself in the bathroom was beginning to seem like her only option. But that still left Arthur. Belle raked her fingers across her scalp. What could she do? The now familiar feeling of hopelessness welled up and with it, unwanted memories again threatened to surface.