Under the Midnight Sky Page 5

  I shrugged. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘You must miss him?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Tom made a sound in the back of his throat, a clearing. ‘I cried for months when I lost my dad. We were really close. He was my big hero guy. I still miss having him around.’ He must have noticed my bug-eyes, because he added hastily, ‘And no, you can’t use that in your damn interview.’

  I tore off another piece of wadding. ‘Does that mean there’s going to be an interview?’

  He rotated his arm, inspecting the cut. ‘We’ll see.’

  I rummaged in the tin for sticking plaster and scissors, hiding my smile as I snipped plaster off the roll. Inside I was high-fiving myself. Already I could see my byline on the front page of the Express as my Deepwater feature circulated all over town. But then, as if to mark the hugeness of the occasion, a thunderclap exploded overhead. I jerked to attention and dropped the scissors.

  Tom collected them and passed them back to me, his brows drawn.

  ‘A bit jumpy, are you?’

  ‘Just not too keen on the rain.’

  Right on cue, the sky split open and rain started hammering down. Outside, the day had darkened even though it was barely ten o’clock. The camellia bushes danced back and forth in the wind.

  I doused Tom’s cut with Betadine and dressed it with gauze and a firm bandage, then out of habit, patted gently along the dressing to smooth the creases, the way I had done a thousand times with my father.

  ‘Good news is you won’t need stitches.’

  ‘The bad news?’

  ‘You’ll have a nasty scar.’

  Tom settled back into the sofa, the age-worn leather creaking under his weight. ‘That I can live with.’

  Taking the bundle of bloodied gauze to the kitchen, I threw it in the bin, along with my ruined hanky. I found a dustpan and broom and swept up the broken glass, then collected my things from the verandah. Pulling on my cardigan, I returned to the lounge room. There was no hope of an interview today, and anyway, my stomach was starting to lurch and roll. The drive home would take an hour or more and I’d spend the whole time hunched over the steering wheel, trying to navigate the potholed road as I gagged on the smell of mud leaking through the vents. Might as well get it over with.

  I was deciding how best to say my goodbyes and encourage another meeting, when the rain began to roar down. My shoulders jerked up around my ears and I tugged my cardigan so tightly around me that a button popped off.

  Tom frowned down at the button, and then at me. ‘Hell of a drive back to town in this weather. You know, that bridge washes out in heavy rain. Not sure I like your chances of getting home today.’

  The rain grew louder. Outside, the camellias had vanished behind a grey haze. The ghostly white arms of a naked birch swayed as if the tree was in anguish. I wiped a damp palm on my trousers. Of all the places to have a panic attack, why here, why now? I’d travelled to Ravensong hoping to convince Tom Gabriel to agree to an interview. But I’d never persuade him now, not like this. Not while I was a trembling mess who might blurt something stupid, or say something I’d later regret.

  Taking a roll of mints from my pocket, I offered him one. ‘They’re sugar-free,’ I told him over the din.

  He peeled one off and handed back the roll, and we chewed for a while, listening to the rain. The pulse in my throat began to slow. The knots in my shoulders loosened. I went to the window and squinted through the haze to where I had parked my car in the driveway. A huge grey puddle was spreading across the gravel. It already looked deep.

  ‘Your driveway’s flooding,’ I said, my voice strangely robotic.

  Tom turned to me, his eyes serious. ‘I don’t mean to rattle you, but that road will be unsafe to drive by now. It doesn’t take long in weather like this. And in the forty minutes it would take you to reach the bridge, I’m guessing it’ll be well under water.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘You know, there’s a ton of rooms upstairs. You’re welcome to pick one.’

  ‘You mean stay here?’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. You really helped me out today, climbing through that window. Playing Florence Nightingale. I dread to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t arrived when you did. There’s lots of food, plenty of DVDs. Don’t worry about me, I’ll stay out of your way.’

  I retrieved my button and tucked it in my pocket. ‘It’s really pissing down, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, not a good sign. If the bridge goes under, you could be stuck for a couple of days.’

  A couple of days? Marooned out here with him in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps I should take my chances on the flooded road. But my skin grew damp at the thought and my pulse began to skip. Maybe staying here wasn’t such a bad idea? Tom might be more inclined to give me that interview.

  ‘You get internet out here?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve got a satellite connection, but it’s limited to sunny days.’

  ‘You’re isolated, aren’t you?’

  Tom picked at the dressing on his arm. ‘No one else around for miles.’

  ‘You don’t get lonely?’ I hadn’t meant to ask such a personal question, but Tom didn’t seem fazed by it. He settled back against the cushions.

  ‘I’m too busy to feel lonely. No rest for the wicked, and all that.’

  Was it my imagination, or did his voice hold a twinge of regret? Intrigued, I took a step nearer. ‘One of the upstairs rooms, you said?’

  He nodded. ‘Take your pick. The upper wing has its own outside entrance, but it’s got inside access too. It’s private. There’s even a bathroom, although I suspect the plumbing’s dodgy. Just a shower. The bath, should you want one, is in the washhouse outside.’

  He lifted a brow as though expecting me to baulk at this, but I just nodded as if bathing outside was an everyday occurrence. ‘Mind if I check it out?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He pointed to an oak sideboard. ‘Keys are in the top drawer. The hallway’s through those double doors. There’s another door at the far end of the hall that leads upstairs.’

  Pocketing the keys, I headed along the hallway to check out my new digs.

  The three upstairs bedrooms had soaring ceilings and windows that overlooked the garden. All had double beds and huge wardrobes full of jangling coat hangers. Halfway along a tight hallway I found a fourth room. Not quite an attic, but it was narrower than the other rooms and oddly shaped. A single cast-iron bed huddled under a dusty patchwork quilt. Opposite the bed was a small wardrobe and a wicker chair. Going over to the window, I pushed aside the faded gold curtains and squinted through the blur of driving rain. Beyond the garden was dense bushland that formed the northernmost tip of Deepwater Gorge Reserve. The landscape here lacked the wow-factor of the parklands closer to town, so hikers and campers rarely bothered making the trip. Yet its wild beauty hummed in my veins. Rolling mountains slept beneath their dark blanket of trees, oblivious to the rain. Steep gullies dipped down to the river, where the water boomed along craggy banks.

  Below me in the garden, wide brick pathways meandered between overgrown trees and disappeared into the shadows. In places, the red bricks were already submerged under a muddy skim of water.

  I returned to the lounge room.

  ‘Well?’ Tom said. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  ‘It’s a lovely room. And to be honest, I hate driving in the rain.’

  Tom collected his crutches and got to his feet. The colour had returned to his face and, though he didn’t smile, the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth that were there earlier had melted away.

  He put out his hand. ‘Right then, Abby. Welcome to Ravensong.’

  His fingers were large and warm, so gentle around mine that my muscles unwound. Time slowed. The room shrank, he was very close. So green, his eyes. I imagined diving into deep river water and going under, unable to breathe, maybe even starting to drown, but – for an instant – not caring. Tom’s brow creased and his ey
es narrowed, a fleeting look of concern. Was I gripping his fingers too tightly, gazing at him too intently? I broke contact and drew away. Great. Now he’d spend the day worrying that he’d just invited a crazed stalker woman into his home.

  To cover my gaffe, I said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa right now. Want one?’

  While the kettle boiled, I stood at the kitchen window. Rain pooled along the pathways outside and bogged the grass. I wouldn’t be out in it for quids, but neither did I fancy being cooped up all day. I’d be stir crazy by lunchtime if I didn’t keep busy.

  Back in the lounge room, I passed Tom his mug, and then sank into a big, comfortable chair opposite, blowing on my tea. ‘Place is a bit of a mess,’ I said casually. ‘I’m wondering if you’d be open to an exchange.’

  Tom took a gulp of tea and winced. ‘Exchange?’

  ‘You look like you could use some help unpacking. Tidying up.’

  ‘In exchange for?’

  ‘That interview you said you’d think about.’

  I waited for him to explode again, the way he’d done on the verandah. But he only blinked at me, then scratched the stubble on his cheek and sighed.

  ‘You’re right, the place is chaos. It bugs the hell out of me. Since the accident I’ve been useless. I thought I was coping. But I’m under pressure to finish my new book, so . . . I guess it all got away from me.’ He frowned down at his knee brace for a moment, then fixed his cat-green gaze on me. ‘You make a pretty decent cup of Darjeeling.’

  ‘Wait till you try my toasted sandwiches.’

  His lips curved, not quite a smile. ‘You’ve no idea how good that sounds.’

  ‘Then we’ve got a deal?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  6

  She was cold. Couldn’t stop the shivers. And her head hurt. God, it hurt. She tried to blink but her eyes were full of grit; she couldn’t open them, not even a crack. She ran her tongue around her mouth. Tasted blood. Swallowed.

  Jeez, her head.

  If she focused hard, she could move her hand. She slid it towards her face and probed her fingers against her eyes, rubbing away the gumminess. It was too dark to see, so she felt around. She was lying on something soft – a mattress? The rough blanket under her was stiff and smelly.

  This wasn’t her bed.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make sense of the jumbled things in her head. The argument with her mum’s dickhead boyfriend. Her mum screaming at her to piss off and go. Then she was waiting on the roadside. Hours and hours in the sun, her bag heavy. She had long since drained her water bottle and her throat was parched. Just when she was giving up hope, a car pulled over and she got in. After that was a blur. She had a glimmer of lashing out and stumbling away through the trees. Falling and getting up again, blinded by the blood pouring out of her hair, but she didn’t stop, didn’t dare. So desperate to get away from something, someone—

  —crashing through the trees behind her in the dark.

  Her breath hitched on a sob. ‘Mum?’

  The word was muffled, as if the dead blackness around her had soaked it up. She rolled sideways off the thin mattress onto her hands and knees, and got to her feet. Reaching out, she shuffled forward until her fingers bumped against something flat and metallic, damp. A wall. She moved along it, tracing her fingertips over its cold surface, eyes blinking wide, but there was nothing to see, just black. No door that she could find. No window. Where was she? And why was she here? If it was someone’s idea of a prank, it was totally unfunny.

  She hammered the wall with her fist. ‘Let me out of here,’ she yelled, her voice hoarse and ragged. ‘Let me out!’

  The darkness gobbled her words into its dull, dead silence.

  Her legs buckled and she slumped back onto the ground. And as she retched what little was in her stomach onto the dirt floor, it occurred to her that it didn’t matter why or how or where. Or even whether someone had done this to her. All that mattered was that she was trapped. Alone in some forgotten hole. Lost in the blackness.

  And no one knew she was here.

  7

  That afternoon I cleaned up my room and made the bed with fresh linen from Tom’s cupboard downstairs. Then I tackled the kitchen, clattering happily away at the sink and dragging out several loads of empty bottles to recycle. By the following day, I had vacuumed the entire lower floor, dusted and mopped, and unpacked half-a-dozen boxes – mostly books. I had flipped through the books, hoping that Tom might have pressed a secret or two between their pages, but there were only a few tattered bookmarks and the occasional dried flower.

  Good to his word, Tom kept out of my way. He holed up in his office for most of the time, pecking at his typewriter and creating a mountain of waste paper, which I later shredded and set aside to recycle. When I delivered toasted sandwiches and tea, I’d attempted some small talk, but it mostly fizzled. He seemed preoccupied. No doubt filled with remorse over having promised me an interview, but fair was fair. We’d made a deal.

  After dinner, I retired upstairs with an armload of Tom’s novels. If I wanted to understand the man better for my interview, then I would have to brave his creative world. I showered and washed the dust out of my hair, then flopped into bed. I wrote in my notebook for a while, jotting down ideas for interview questions to ask Tom, and then I sewed the button back on my cardigan with borrowed needle and thread. When I started yawning, I reached for one of the novels on the bedside table.

  It was the story of two young brothers, survivors of a plane crash lost in the bush, on the run from their uncle, who planned to kill them and claim their inheritance. I read past midnight. When I put the book aside, I sat staring at the window, into the darkness that peeped through a gap in the curtains. My legs jiggled and my thoughts whipped around like feathers in a windstorm.

  It wasn’t the story. It was being here, in this enormous house in the middle of nowhere. No mobile reception, no TV. No knowledge of people nearby, and none of my familiar things piled around to comfort me. There was only bushland obscured behind a blanket of driving rain. And him. Somewhere below me, warm in his pyjamas, breathing the same cold air, vulnerable in sleep. Or perhaps he was lying awake, thinking about me. Resenting my presence here, despite our agreement. Feeling intruded upon, counting the days until the weather cleared and I was gone.

  The rain’s eerie song on the roof broke into my thoughts, haunting, like an echo from a dream. Or in my case, a nightmare.

  Switching off the light, I turned to face the wall and clamped my eyes shut. But my feet began to jiggle. I rolled over, then rolled again. I could still see Tom’s face as he spoke about missing his father, the pink flush in his cheeks and the hesitation in his eyes, as though he was unaccustomed to opening up to anyone, least of all a stranger. Which made me wonder. Why was a smart and attractive man living a solitary existence in this remote house, rattling around in its huge echoey rooms, always alone? He said he never got lonely, but I didn’t believe him. People needed people, my brother was fond of saying, the way a night sky needed the stars.

  I kicked my ankles free of the tangled sheets.

  Despite the house’s remoteness, I could see why Tom loved it. With its lofty walls and lovely old landscape paintings, and its echoey back bedrooms with their relics from another time, it was a writer’s paradise. The library had immediately become my favourite place on earth. For most of this evening I had poked around in there, the chandelier blazing overhead like my own personal galaxy of stars. I had run my fingers along the wall-to-wall shelves, browsing children’s books from the early 1900s, peering into crumbling, leather-bound volumes of poetry, and beautiful old atlases and dictionaries. I had chosen a couple of novels and tucked myself into an old leather chair in a cosy corner, blissing away the hours until I started to yawn.

  I was yawning now as I snuggled deeper into the bed. Drifting off. Rain pounded the roof. It hissed against the window pane and splashed below in the garden. And then I was dreaming.

 
A kid again, trudging along the forest trail, lost in the bush that rainy day. Only this time someone walked by my side. My heart crumpled like a poppy petal. It was Alice. I didn’t want to look at her, but I had to. I owed her that much, didn’t I? She had started at my school the year I turned twelve, and had latched onto me at once, taking me under her skinny, motherly little wing. For five months we’d been inseparable. Siamese twins, joined at the hip. Our dark heads always together, whispering secrets, me and her against the world. I had finally done the impossible; I had found someone who loved me. So I uncrumpled my heart and looked, and there she was in my dream, exactly as she’d been back then. A bright twelve-year-old girl with blackish hair and large brown eyes, and the round little face of a pixie.

  Tears flooded out of me. ‘Oh, Alice. I’m so—’

  Sorry, are you, Abby? You should be . . . why did you run away? You made him mad and then he came after me. And he was more careful after that, more alert. Never let his guard down like he did with you. Never gave me a chance to run . . .

  ‘Go away, Alice.’

  Obediently, she faded into the past. I lay motionless. Still half in the dream, trapped there by the din of rain on the old roof, but awake enough to scold myself. When was I going to learn? When would I stop dreaming about her, stop obsessing over her, blaming myself for what had happened to her? Wishing I could go back in time and warn her. When was I going to allow myself to have the life I wanted . . . the life that I had stolen from her?

  • • •

  When I noticed the silence the following afternoon, I went outside. The rain had stopped. A bank of storm clouds parted and the first few watery rays of sunshine broke through the overcast sky. I checked the front driveway, but it was still mostly submerged beneath a mud lake. The back garden was higher and had escaped the worst of the floodwater, so Tom suggested that we head out there for the interview.