Salvage (13 page)

‘I’m sorry, Helena’s still not well.’

‘Oh no,’ Melanie said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Can I see her?’

He glanced at the door, then back at her, and crossed his arms. ‘She’s sleeping.’

‘I just need to know she’s all right. If there’s anything I can do.’

‘Not tonight.’

‘I need to see her.’ She walked up the stairs. Paul blocked her.

Richard stepped up behind her, reaching for her wrist. ‘Mel?’

‘Let me see her, Paul!’

He stared at them both, then said with a shrug, ‘As you wish.’

Infuriated, she shouldered past him and wrenched the door open. ‘Helena?’

The room was lit by candles, enough to illuminate a cathedral, and the glare of the muted television. Incense coiled thick in the humid air.

Helena lay on the sofa, wearing white, one arm out to the side, the other across her chest. Sleeping. Sleeping or dead.

Melanie ran across the room. ‘Helena!’

The woman stirred. Blinked. Took ages to focus. ‘Melanie?’ A smile slowly blossomed. ‘My beautiful Melanie, you’ve come back to me.’ She tried to sit, to reach, but could barely rise. Melanie leaned next to her, stroking her cheeks. Helena felt incredibly cold.

‘What’s he done to you?’

Helena shook her head. 

Melanie examined her. A dark spot on the inside of Helena’s arm didn’t move under the rubbing of her spit-wet thumb. She glared at Paul, standing near the door with Richard. ‘What have you done to her?’

‘She’s medicated, that’s all. Too much sun. She needs rest.’

‘She’s drugged to the eyeballs!’

‘The medicine is powerful.’

‘She needs a doctor. Richard, I think she’s really sick.’

‘You should listen to Paul, hon.’

‘Richard, please!’

He held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘There’s no barge. Not till morning.’

‘Then a helicopter, a boat. We have to do something.’

Paul stalked over to stand between her and Helena. ‘Honestly, she’s fine. This is what happens. She has too much excitement, then she must rest. I know it must appear scary to strangers, but this is the way it is.’

‘I understand.’ Richard came over and took Melanie’s hand. ‘We can take a raincheck on dinner.’

‘I don’t think we’ll be able to see you again,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll be leaving soon.’

A wave of disappointment crashed over Melanie. She yanked her hand from Richard’s. ‘You’re going? Why? When?’

‘Soon,’ Paul said, brutally. ‘We need to go home.’

‘But Helena doesn’t want to. She likes it here.’

‘Helena’s condition is getting worse. We have doctors who can help.’

‘Surely we have doctors here who are just as good.’

‘Her condition is quite rare and we have people who understand it. Believe me, it’s for the best.’

Helena struggled up on to her elbows and called Melanie. Richard said something to Paul about hospitals as Melanie crouched by the stricken woman, aware of Paul’s gaze fixed on her. She felt as if she was a target, as though a little red laser dot was burning into her back with a bullet set to follow.

Helena pulled her down close, her whisper hissing through her teeth with sudden desperation. ‘I can’t go back. You have to come get me. Tomorrow. Please. Don’t let him take me away.’

Her fingertips dug into Melanie, robbing her of breath.

‘Helena!’ Paul loomed behind Melanie’s shoulder, reaching as though to pull her away.

Helena fell back, eyes fluttering, breath soft and irregular.

Melanie gripped the woman’s shoulders. ‘Helena, are you okay?’ She turned to Richard. ‘This isn’t right. We have to do something!’

‘It’s not up to us,’ he said. ‘Paul and Helena know what’s best.’

‘Listen to your husband,’ Paul told her, pushing past to lay a hand on Helena’s brow. ‘You can see she needs to rest, how tired she is.’

Richard led Melanie away with a gentle but determined grip on her arm. ‘I’m sure we’ll see them before they go. Even if it’s at the ferry. You don’t know when yet, hey, Paul?’

‘Soon, but no, I haven’t got the final details. I’ll let you know so the ladies can say goodbye.’

Melanie glared, angered by his smug tone, but let Richard draw her outside. She felt as if she was emerging from a cave, it was so bright and airy after the dim, incense-choked cabin. Her thoughts whirled. How could she get Helena away?

Melanie was so concerned about Helena that she barely touched the dinner that Richard cooked. He got the shits and retired to his laptop, more an excuse to sit away from her and drink bourbon than actually do any work.

She pretended to read, her senses alert for any sign of Helena, and fended off his groping hands when he finally stumbled to bed. It rained, and she lay there, listening to the percussion on the roof and Richard’s snores until sleep finally overwhelmed her agitated mind.

In her dream, sunlight slanted through the clear water, painting patterns on the white sand floor of the lake. She dived through the sunbeams, her naked body slicing through the water with all the speed and grace of a seal. The tea-tree oil tinted the shore an iodine brown and made her skin so very smooth. As she swam, the scar on her stomach washed away with the barest hint of bloodstain. Her cunt closed over. She didn’t miss it.

Below, she saw Helena, lying still against the bottom, her eyes glassy, bubbles escaping from her nostrils. She swam down, the water getting darker. Shapes appeared: the rusted hulks of cars.

‘She’s over there,’ Helena said, pointing.

Infant Claudia sat buckled into the baby seat of a ruined car, her long blonde hair undulating like weeds. The car was slowly sinking.

Melanie stroked through the viscous water, feeling it press against her. Her lungs burned. And then strands of wire erupted like tentacles, whipping through the water like sea snakes. They wrapped around her arms and legs. Barbs caught her flesh, ripping inky clouds from her skin. She screamed but the wire wrapped her tighter and tighter until she could only sink. Claudia waved from the empty window as the car disappeared from sight.

Melanie lay gasping on a beach. There was no sign of the barbed wire, no wounds in her flesh. She had her period, the blood leaking vividly across the sand and staining the water with crimson swirls. Claudia, she knew, was gone.

‘We can’t drive,’ Helena said. ‘We’ll have to walk.’

Helena sat cross-legged on the bonnet of a truck, plucking at the strings of a guitar. ‘Do you know how to make this work?’

Richard held out a mobile phone. ‘I’ll ring Leanne,’ he said. ‘She’ll know.’

Helena opened her legs and Richard moved between them. Helena played a song that sounded familiar but Melanie couldn’t identify.

‘I guess that just leaves you and me,’ Paul said. He held a gory knife.

Melanie ran. And ran.

It was a relief when dawn finally brightened the room to a grey palette of monotone shapes.

Melanie, exhausted by worry and nightmares, slid out from under the bedclothes, careful not to jag Richard where a sheet twisted around his legs. He snuffled, reached for her, found the empty space and fell back into sleep. Her heart rate accelerated as she dressed, hauling on knee-length cargo pants and a shirt. She pulled her hair back into a stumpy ponytail, pushed her purse into the button-down pocket of her pants, and wrote Richard a note to say she’d gone walking. She eyed the kettle, her mouth dry for tea, but, afraid of making any further noise that might wake Richard, she settled for a glass of milk.

Melanie collected her hat and serape and slid the door open as quietly as she could. Outside, the chill early-morning air prickled her cheeks and nose. Grains of sand rubbed at her soles as she slipped her sandals on. The sun glowed round and brassy at the end of a golden path rippling across the sea, its arrival greeted by the trill of magpies and the raucous cry of seagulls. A few shrinking puddles were the only sign of last night’s downpour.

She contemplated taking the Jeep, but knew the noise would wake Richard and alert Paul when she arrived. She could do without facing either of them. Besides, she wasn’t really that confident about driving on the island’s sandy tracks. She didn’t have a plan; just knew that she wanted—needed—to help Helena. The details could wait until she got there.

Melanie trudged along the track. A line of sweat had formed on her spine and forehead by the time she reached Elysium. The cabin appeared quiet, the curtains drawn, the SUV still parked out the front. She sneaked up to the nearest window and listened.

Silence.

She took off her sandals and tiptoed up the stairs. The curtains were drawn against the door. Her reflection looked back at her, as insubstantial as she felt. She tried the handle. Locked.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stood for a long moment, wondering what to do next, expecting at any moment for Paul to yank the door open. Or to step up from behind her, a hand clamping on her shoulder.

Melanie headed around to the side of the building, picking her way across patches of hot earth and spiky grass, her sandals in her left hand. She reached the side door, the one that opened on to the laundry, the one Helena had mentioned wouldn’t close properly. She pulled on the handle. The door didn’t budge. She put her sandals down and, using both hands, pulled harder, desperation charging her muscles. The whole hut seemed to shake as the door jerked open, almost throwing her off her feet. The doorway into the bathroom was shut; maybe the sound hadn’t carried.

She couldn’t hear any movement.
As still as the grave
, she thought. Out in the scrub, a whipbird cried out as though taking bets on her chances of being discovered. It made her feel stupid, this creeping around. Why couldn’t she just come in and see Helena? But she remembered Paul’s wildness from the night before, and Helena’s desperate plea for help. There was something wrong here, and stealth was the only option.

Melanie took a deep breath, willed her heart to be quiet and steady, and stepped into the house.

The tiles were cool on her bare feet. The smell of bore water rose to meet her, cut with a hint of incense.

The bathroom door opened smoothly and quietly. A tap dripped in the sink and she fought the urge to shut it off as she passed.

The living room was dimly lit, sunshine beating against the curtains. A single sliver of bright laser sliced across the dining table where a crack let the daylight in. A sparkle on the kitchen bench caught her eye: a syringe in two pieces, lying next to a bowl and a cutting board.

A low moan wafted down from upstairs.

And then another.

Helena? Were she and Paul
fucking
?

The quiet rose up, making her ears throb.

A rustle as bodies moved. A creak of bed or floorboards.

What if they saw her? What would they think?

The sounds seemed incongruous against Helena’s panic of the day before.

She crept across to the kitchen where the syringe lay. Was this the real reason for Helena’s illness? Was she a junkie and this her attempt at going cold turkey?

Melanie’s brow furrowed with confusion as she surveyed the bench. A clove of garlic had been crushed into a paste with a mortar. A plastic container of salt and a medicine bottle of tablets sat nearby. The label was for an analgesic made out to the name of Eggleston. She sniffed the bowl, tasted the residue on a finger tip. Salt and garlic. What the hell were they up to?

A cry! She froze. The floor of the mezzanine creaked with a sudden movement. Melanie glanced at the bedroom, expecting to see Paul staring down at her from the low railing. But all she could see was the foot of the bed and the top of a wardrobe set against the far wall. She picked a mid-sized knife from the block and ran, reflexively crouched, to the foot of the stairs. She didn’t expect to actually stab anyone, but the feel of the haft in her hand gave her courage, and at least the threat of the long blade might buy her an escape should Paul get violent.

The moans from upstairs gentled.

Whatever they were doing, it clearly wasn’t straight sex. Did she really have the right to intrude? She should just get the hell out of here.

Helena called out: ‘No!’

Melanie sucked in a breath as she summoned her courage, her feet already moving on the stairs.

‘No more, Paul!’ Helena groaned.

Melanie gripped the knife and crept up the stairs, aware of there being no balustrade, afraid of being betrayed by a squeak of timber. 

‘Just a little more,’ Paul murmured, his voice sounding thick and low with lust.

Melanie peeped over the landing. A duchess and mirror sat to her right, the mirror covered by a sheet. A guitar she hadn’t noticed before was propped against the wall, a Bob Marley sticker bright against the timber. The two backpacks she’d seen previously peeked out from under the bed. And, as she slowly raised herself, she could see Helena sprawled on her back, arms tied to the bedhead, her legs apart, and Paul on top of her, naked, and blood—blood—the glinting, viscous liquid spilling across Helena’s neck and breast, and his face buried between her breasts as he slurped on the syrup. 

‘What the fuck are you doing to her?’ Melanie said, only then realising she’d said it out loud.

Paul jerked upright on his knees, eyes wide with shock inside a mask of crimson smears.

And Helena, more slowly, turned towards her, joy lighting her oh-so-pale features.

Melanie ran up the last stair, thrusting the knife in front of her as she screamed for Paul to get off Helena, to leave her alone. ‘You freak!’

He stepped off the bed, so quick, his hand a blur. A stinging impact smacked the knife from her grip. She heard it hit timber and bounce, and then she crashed into the wall. The mirror shivered with the impact. Paul’s hands closed around her throat.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked, his grip too tight for her to answer. ‘You stupid fucking
poutana
!’

She scratched at his hands, her vision filling with sparks against a falling darkness. All she could feel was the pressure of his fingers squeezing her windpipe and a rising burn in her lungs.

Helena sobbed in the background, telling him to let Melanie go. His grip tightened.