Darling Girls, page 2
Norah was starting to wonder if this was worth it. All she wanted was a few odd jobs done. Probably only a couple of hours’ work.
A few years ago, when she’d discovered she could get the majority of her household maintenance taken care of easily – and, of more importance, cheaply – by having dinner with a man and planting the faintest suggestion of sex in his mind, she’d thought herself a genius. Particularly since she rarely had to deliver on the sex. Even on the occasions when she did, it was worth it; growing up with a scarcity mentality, Norah was nothing if not parsimonious. And as Kevin had listed ‘handyman’ as a quality in his online dating profile (something that would inevitably become the fifth disappointment), she’d thought this would be a fairly straightforward transaction. They’d wake up Saturday morning, he’d complete a few odd jobs, and be gone by lunchtime.
No such luck.
Norah’s therapist, Neil, was forever telling her she had a dysfunctional attitude towards sex.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘the opposite is true. I have sex with a man, and he fixes my hot-water service. Or cleans out the gutters. Or pays a bill. Sex quite literally allows me to function.’
Neil was unmoved. ‘Sex isn’t supposed to be quid pro quo, Norah.’
‘No?’ She considered that. ‘Then what is it supposed to be?’
Neil hadn’t responded straightaway, which made Norah think she’d won. But it turned out he was just taking his time to answer, acting thoughtful when he was probably just taking advantage of the fact that he was getting paid by the hour.
‘It’s an act of mutual pleasure,’ he said finally.
‘Exactly,’ Norah said. ‘He gets pleasure from the sex, and I get pleasure from the free help around the house.’
Neil had got exasperated then. ‘Norah, I suspect your skewed idea of sex and its power stems from your childhood. Do you want to talk about that a bit?’
‘No.’ Norah wanted to keep proving her point. She knew she could go several more rounds with Neil, each time reinforcing the fact that sex was, in fact, a transaction. Instead, Neil wanted to talk about her stupid childhood. It was a crying shame.
‘Do you like kids?’ Kevin asked her eagerly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I like dogs.’
Specifically, she liked the big stupid ones, the ones that barked at the wind and got underfoot and bowled you over every time you walked in the door. Norah had three of this particular type of dog: a greyhound-Great Dane cross named Converse; a regular greyhound named Couch; and a mutt (who almost certainly had some bull-mastiff in him) named Thong. They were all named for the first item they destroyed after coming to live with Norah.
Kevin beamed, revealing comically large front teeth. He resembled a marketplace caricature. ‘I have a Jack Russell called Harvey!’
For the love of God. The worst part of dating, she’d told Neil at their last session – far worse than the sex, if it happened – was the conversation. It was not only tedious but pointless, given that if they were to become life partners eventually, then they would most likely spend the next thirty or forty years gazing at either the television or their phones in companionable silence. Why not practise some of that silence now, to get the feel of it? See if the silence felt right.
Norah signalled to the waiter who was lurking nearby.
‘Can I get you anything, ma’am?’
‘A lobotomy,’ Norah said. ‘And make it a double.’
The waiter smirked.
Outside the window a couple of dachshunds passed by with their owners. Norah waved at them. Kevin ordered a margarita.
‘What is it you do for a living, Norah?’ Kevin asked as the waiter shuffled off.
‘I run my own business.’
‘Really?’ Kevin leaned forward to get a better look at her boobs. ‘What kind of business?’
‘I complete online IQ and psychometric testing on behalf of idiots who are applying for jobs.’
Kevin’s puzzled face demonstrated that he would almost certainly need her services if the circumstance arose. She wondered if she should give him her business card. ‘Psychometric testing?’ he repeated.
‘Businesses these days are stupid enough to think that they’ll get better employees if they force them through a rigorous screening of ridiculous tests,’ she explained. ‘Instead, they get the most inventive cheaters. Which, admittedly, often translates to success in the workplace . . .’
‘So you complete the test for them?’
‘Guaranteed pass or your money back,’ she said in an American infomercial-type voice. She liked her infomercial voice, and often wondered if she should audition to use it professionally. ‘I usually get a few wrong so they don’t mistake the person for a genius. That would be irresponsible.’
‘How does it work?’ Kevin asked.
‘It’s pretty easy. I use a VPN that places my IP address at the client’s location, then I log on at the same time as the candidate and complete the test while they sit there. They fill out all their own details and submit it from their own computer. For the privilege I charge them three hundred dollars a pop.’
‘Three hundred bucks? You must be pretty good at those tests.’
‘What’s shocking is how bad most people are at them. Makes me worry for the world, it really does.’
She’d been enjoying her monologue – Norah liked nothing more than talking about what idiots people were – but her mood dipped when she noticed Kevin staring at her. His eyes were all gooey.
She sighed. ‘What?’
Kevin bared his teeth in a weaselly smile. ‘It’s just . . . you’re really pretty.’
Norah was aware that she was attractive. She wasn’t blind and, unlike Kevin, she wasn’t a halfwit. She was six feet tall – most of it in her legs – with unblemished olive skin and tumbling brown hair, courtesy of her Lebanese mother. Presumably she had her father to thank for her bright blue eyes, but as she had no idea who he was, she hadn’t bothered. People went wild for her eyes. They regularly stopped her on the street to comment – at least they tried to, but usually Norah forestalled them, saying, ‘Yes, I know I have amazing eyes, thanks for noticing.’
It baffled Norah that her breasts weren’t given more attention. They were, objectively speaking, an exercise in perfect symmetry, scale and shape. A few years back, when Neil asked her to think of one thing she was grateful for, she hadn’t hesitated. ‘The girls,’ she said, glancing down.
Neil had looked confused, so she’d lifted her top. She’d had to endure a lengthy lecture on ‘appropriate behaviour in therapy’ after that.
Kevin was still smiling at her. ‘I just . . . I can’t believe I’m on a date with you.’
Norah had come to the conclusion that no amount of help around the house was worth spending time with Kevin when her phone began to ring. The gods, it seemed, were smiling on her.
‘Must take this,’ she said, seizing the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking to Norah Anderson?’
‘Yes.’ Norah pressed a finger into the ear not holding the phone to block out the ambient noise. ‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Detective Ashleigh Patel.’
Norah frowned. The fact that she couldn’t recall any dealings with a Detective Patel didn’t mean anything necessarily. When you were in trouble with the cops as often as Norah was, the names and voices tended to blur.
‘Sorry, Detective,’ Norah shouted, ‘I’m in a restaurant and it’s a little hard to hear. I’m just going to step outside.’
She waved at Kevin, who nodded, and walked out of the restaurant onto the busy street. ‘Okay, I’m outside. What’s this regarding?’
‘It’s to do with an investigation I’m working on.’
‘What investigation?’ Norah kept walking away from the restaurant. She wasn’t planning to return. She doubted Kevin would be able to fix the fan in her bathroom anyway.
‘I’m part of a team investigating a crime we think may have occurred around the time you were living at Wild Meadows foster home.’
Norah stopped walking so abruptly that a man crashed into her. She spun around and shoved him away, glaring as he called her a ‘psycho bitch’.
‘Are you all right?’ the detective asked.
Norah didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her heart was pounding in her ears, like when she swam laps underwater. ‘Fine.’
‘What I have to tell you is a little distressing,’ the detective cautioned. ‘It might be helpful if you were with someone right now.’
‘Norah!’
She glanced back over her shoulder. Kevin was striding towards her. Shit.
‘I grew up in foster care,’ she told the detective as she began to jog. ‘I’m comfortable with distressing. Shoot.’
‘Hey!’ Kevin called. ‘Wait up!’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the policewoman asked.
‘I’m fine.’ Norah slowed, partly out of shock and partly because she was out of breath. She hadn’t run since the last time she’d been chased by police, and she was out of shape.
‘Okay then. Well, some excavation work has been done at your former foster home. And while they were down there, they uncovered –’
‘Norah!’ Kevin called again, closing in her.
For fuck’s sake.
She stopped short. It was all too much. Police. Wild Meadows. Kevin. Something had to give.
‘Hold on a second,’ Norah said to the detective. She lowered the phone and waited until Kevin was right behind her before she spun around, taking him down with a right hook. It was a solid punch. Strong and from the chest.
Kevin fell to the pavement, his nose spurting blood. ‘Jesus!’ he cried. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Are you there, Norah?’ the police officer was saying.
Norah lifted the phone back to her ear. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that. Go ahead.’
3
ALICIA
Seven hours. That’s how much time had passed since Alicia had collected two-and-a-half-year-old Theo from the police station and brought him to his new foster home. Seven hours since he’d scampered out of her grasp and disappeared under the dining room table. Seven hours since Alicia had sat on the linoleum floor and promised him she would wait until he was ready to come out. Alicia always kept her promises to the kids. Which meant she might have to die on this linoleum floor.
‘Hey, buddy, I think Bluey might be on the TV,’ Alicia tried, without much hope. ‘Should we go and see?’
Theo didn’t turn his little blond head from the wall. She had to admire his resolve. Since they’d arrived, he hadn’t spoken, he’d refused all food and drink, and, if smell was anything to go by, he’d soiled himself. Still, he wouldn’t budge.
Last night, he’d been taken to the police station by a neighbour who’d discovered him playing on the road at midnight, wearing nothing but a dirty nappy. Apparently his father had been too inebriated to realise he was gone. His mother had yet to be located and it wasn’t looking hopeful. Alicia had hoped that returning Theo to Trish’s, where he’d spent a few months earlier in the year, might provide Theo with some reassurance; but, if anything, the understanding of what was happening made things worse. His head remained down, his tiny, twiggy arms remained ramrod straight by his sides.
‘Do you like chocolate?’ she asked, as Aaron, another foster kid, sloped into the kitchen and began rummaging in the cupboards. ‘I’ve got a KitKat here. Want some?’
Alicia broke off a chocolate finger and held it out to Theo under the table. To her delight, he scooted across the floor to inspect it.
‘Ow!’ she cried, as she felt the sharp milk teeth clamp down hard on her own fingers.
Aaron, who’d retrieved a bag of crisps and was devouring them in huge mouthfuls, snorted. ‘You walked into that one.’
His comment delighted Alicia no end. In her experience, when kids felt comfortable enough to diss you it meant you were doing something right.
As for the bite, Alicia had suffered worse. The fact was it took a certain kind of person to choose a woefully paid, underappreciated career in which most of the people you dealt with wanted to cause you physical harm. Alicia didn’t blame the kids for disliking her – in most instances she was the one who separated them from their parents. It made sense to Alicia that they would want to hit her, kick her, spit on her. It wore a lot of social workers down after a while but for Alicia the opposite was true: knowing these kids had some fight left in them buoyed her. If there was one thing foster kids needed, it was fight.
Besides, Alicia had learned to accept being poorly treated a long time ago. It felt familiar – even comforting. Like coming home.
‘Oh yeah?’ Alicia said to Aaron. ‘You think you can do better?’
‘Five bucks says I can.’
‘Make it ten.’ Frankly Alicia would have paid a hundred, but Aaron held out his hand to shake on it, so Alicia did.
Alicia wasn’t Aaron’s case worker, but she had a soft spot for him. At seventeen, Aaron had reached those precarious months before he aged out of foster care, and she always felt for those kids. The last time she’d seen Aaron she’d given him her card and told him to get in touch if he wanted some information about services and programs for kids ageing out, or scholarships if he was interested in university. So far he hadn’t reached out, and she suspected her card was in the rubbish bin, but there was always room for hope.
‘Watch and learn,’ Aaron said, grabbing a fistful of his crisps and holding them under the table, palm up, like a kid feeding an animal at a petting zoo.
‘Be careful,’ Alicia said. ‘He’s got a sharp set of chompers.’
As Theo glanced towards Aaron’s outstretched hand, Alicia’s phone rang. Normally she wouldn’t answer the phone in this situation, but given that she likely wasn’t getting out of here any time soon, she decided to make an exception.
‘Ten bucks,’ she said to Aaron. She stood up and accepted the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking to Alicia Connelly?’
‘If you’re a debt collector, no,’ Alicia said. ‘If I’ve won the lottery, yes.’
She glanced at Aaron, who rolled his eyes. Theo was looking at Aaron’s outstretched palm.
‘Alicia, my name is Detective Ashleigh Patel,’ the woman said. ‘Have you got a minute?’
Alicia glanced at her watch. Six pm. Not the latest call she’d had for crisis care, but late enough that it would be a struggle to find a family who’d be ready to take in a child tonight. Usually, it was a case manager who called to give her the particulars of a child’s situation, but occasionally she did receive a call direct from the police. She got out her notebook and clicked her pen, waiting for the onslaught of grisly information – about the physical and emotional state of the child or children, their age or ages, and any previous history in the foster system.
‘Sure. What have you got for me?’
A pause. ‘Actually, this is related to an investigation I’m working on. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’
Alicia unclicked her pen. ‘What investigation?’
Theo started eating the crisps directly from Aaron’s hand, like a baby goat. Aaron made a grossed-out face as he held his other hand out to Alicia, rubbing his index finger and thumb together. Ten bucks, he mouthed. Alicia reached into her pocket for her wallet.
‘It’s in relation to a discovery made at Wild Meadows foster home in Port Agatha. I understand you grew up there?’
Alicia froze, her hand still in her pocket. ‘What?’
‘I said it’s in relation to –’
‘Yes, sorry. I heard.’ She walked to the kitchen counter and leaned against it for support. ‘And yes, I . . . I spent a few years at Wild Meadows when I was a kid.’
Alicia’s chest became tight. She had been waiting for this phone call for twenty-five years. Not looking forward to it . . . but waiting. It felt important. Like the part of the movie when the truth starts to come out and the prisoner begins to believe they might have a shot at escaping death row.
‘Well, as you may or may not be aware, Wild Meadows has recently been demolished. And while excavating, the construction workers uncovered –’
Aaron lowered another fistful of crisps under the table for Theo. Salt and crumbs were all over the boy’s face and the floor.
‘– human remains. Bones, really. It looks like they’ve been there a while. Possibly since the time you were living there.’
Alicia began to shake. She may have been waiting for this call for years but that didn’t mean she was prepared for it. How could one prepare for something like this? Something that would, should, blow up her entire life?
‘Are you there?’ the detective asked.
‘I’m here,’ she said. But she wasn’t; not really. She was already back at Wild Meadows, reliving everything that had happened there twenty-five years ago with new clear eyes.
4
JESSICA
After the call from Detective Patel, Jessica cancelled her afternoon appointment (citing food poisoning, and offering the client a free ‘Garage Storage Intervention’ session valued at $599 – a little excessive, perhaps, but warranted under the circumstances) and drove directly home. By the time she got there, her sisters were already waiting in her living room.
Jessica hadn’t told them to come; they just showed up. They always gathered at Jessica’s house, perhaps because it was the most centrally located, but also because it was the nicest. Both Norah and Alicia lived happily in student-like accommodation, whereas Jessica lived in a beautifully renovated Edwardian home with three bedrooms, ceiling roses, two original fireplaces, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a sparkling aqua-tiled pool that she never swam in and, frankly, found it difficult even to look at. (Jessica hated pools. Every so often she considered filling it in.)
‘Who do you think it is?’ Alicia asked.
Norah frowned. ‘Who do I think who is?’
‘The body, you goose.’
‘Oh. Right. Don’t know.’
