Beautiful Malice (18 page)

“Maybe. I can’t possibly say. But I think you’ve got as much chance as anyone else of staying together. Some people get married after knowing each other for years and still end up divorced. There are no guarantees in life.”

“But I’m so young.” And I’m not sure why, but suddenly I’m expressing all the doubts and fears that I’ve barely allowed myself to think. I want more of my mother’s reassurance; it feels so good to hear her say such positive things. I can’t get enough. I want her to tell me everything will be okay, that she loves me, that she believes in Mick and me. “Nobody my age has babies. Nobody.”

“I didn’t think you were so concerned with what other people did or didn’t do.”

“I’m not. I don’t mean it that way. It’s just …”

“I know what you mean, darling. Yes, it’s a huge thing; yes, it’ll mean you lose a lot of the freedoms that other people your age have. And that will be harder than you can imagine. But it will open another world to you as well. It will add a magical, wonderful, life-changing dimension to your life. Motherhood does that.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “And your father and I will always be here to help you. And your Mick. As much as we can. It would be our privilege.”

“I’m just so glad you’re not angry or upset.”

“Not upset. Goodness me, no.” Again she grins. “I’m ridiculously excited, actually. Excited for you and Mick. Excited for your father and me. And nervous. And thrilled.”

I’m unused to seeing her like this—so open and generous with her emotions—and my astonishment must register on my face.

“What is it, darling?” she asks. “What’s wrong? You look funny.”

“Sorry. It’s just … you just seem so different. Really happy. You and Dad. It’s great, of course, I’m just … I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

“Oh, darling.” And then she pulls me toward her so that my cheek rests against her chest. As she talks I can feel the comforting rumble of her voice, the rhythm of her heartbeat. “Oh, my darling daughter, I know. We haven’t been fair, have we? Your nasty little friend actually did us all a big favor. We were so worried, me and Dad, when she called and said those stupid things about you. We were so scared, so scared of losing you. And then when we discovered that you were okay”—she takes a deep breath—“it was like being given a second chance. And I know, darling, I
know
how you’ve felt about Rachel. I know that you feel guilty for that day, that you feel guilty that you’re still alive when Rachel’s dead. And I hope you can forgive me for never mentioning it, for never making it clear that I think you have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, that you absolutely
must
get on with your life. There has to be some kind of end, some kind of … oh, I don’t know … what’s that awful word people like to use these days?”

“
Closure?
”

“Yes. That’s it. Closure. There must be some closure. For you, at least, my darling. She was your sister, not your daughter. It’s not right that you should suffer forever. It’s not right that this should ruin your life.”

“But—” I want to tell her about my new insights, explain why I don’t need her to say this.

“No.” She interrupts, putting her hand beneath my chin and looking at me tenderly. “I’ve been unfair. I’ve known that you’ve been suffering and I’ve been too caught up in my own pain to have the energy to do anything about it. I’ve known for a long time that I could help you feel better if I could just bring myself to say a few simple things. And I didn’t. And I’m deeply ashamed of myself. But I can say it now, my darling.” She clears her throat and continues. “Your father and I don’t blame you for what happened to Rachel. We never, ever did. If anything, we blame ourselves. And don’t, for a second, imagine that we wished it had happened to you instead of her. We loved you both equally. We always did. We nearly lost you once. We can’t lose you now.”

I nod but cannot speak. I’m afraid that I’ll burst into tears. Sob like a baby.

“And outrageous as it may be to ask, I have a couple of favors I need from you,” she continues.

“Of course, Mom, anything.”

“First of all, I need you to forgive me. For my selfishness. For not being a proper mother for the last year, for even letting you entertain the thought that your father and I might blame you in any way. Because we absolutely do not. We never did.”

And then I do start to cry. I can’t help it. Everything I believed with such certainty only moments before seems suddenly very distant and unimportant. Knowing that she doesn’t blame me provides immediate and glorious relief and gives me more joy than I could have thought possible. I hold my mother and sob in great heaving breaths against her chest. She hugs me tight but keeps on talking.

“And the second thing I need you to do is live your life. Live the best and happiest life you can. And you must never, never,
ever
feel guilty about being happy. Don’t you dare. And if you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for us. For me and your father. Because if you’re not happy, my darling, if you don’t live your life, then we’ve lost everything. We’ve lost both of you.”

I
n the end, Mom wants to tell my father that I’m pregnant when they’re alone together—give him the chance to digest the news in private. She thinks he’ll be shocked and upset at first. “Completely normal for a father,” she says. “You’ll always be his innocent baby girl, after all. But he’ll come around, he’ll get used to the idea, and he’ll be as excited as I am, eventually.”

And as I knew we would, we get a lecture about the motorbike from my father before they leave. He’s relieved when we tell him that it’s for sale, and he makes me promise never to ride on it again, and makes Mick promise to ride carefully, if he has to ride at all.

When they’re gone, Mick and I turn the lights out and go to bed. Mick is particularly tender and gentle, he tells me he loves me again and again, and we curl tightly together, my head on his chest.

“I know you must be sick of talking about Alice,” he says at last. “But are you okay? You’re not freaking out about her?”

“No,” I say. “I’m too happy to even think about her.” And although it was far from Alice’s intention, I’m feeling thrilled about the evening with my parents. Mom hasn’t been so openly emotional in years and it was wonderful to have her be so effusive and warm, an unexpected delight to have her reassurance—not only about the baby, but about Rachel as well. “I mean, Alice is clearly a nutcase,” I continue, “and I’m glad we’re not friends anymore. But she’s really only hurting herself. She’s making a big fool of herself. I feel sorry for her.”

“Yeah.” Mick yawns. “Me, too. She must be a real sad case. Desperate.”

“Yep. And anyway, what can she do? When we move she won’t even know where we are. And I’m going to change my phone number. She won’t be able to call me. What can she possibly do to me now?”

“Nothing,” he says. And he leans over and turns the bedside lamp off, kisses my lips in the dark. “You’re completely safe. She can’t do anything to hurt you.”

34

T
he next day, Mick receives a package. It’s delivered while he’s out at band practice, and when he gets home in the late evening I show it to him. He doesn’t immediately rip it open like I would, just looks at it with disinterest, puts it on the coffee table.

“You should open it,” I say, picking it back up. “It might be something exciting. A birthday present.”

“Doubt it. It’s not my birthday for months.”

“Oh, come on. I don’t know how you can stand it. Not knowing what’s inside. Hurry up, I’ve been waiting all day.” I push the package into his hands. “Open it.”

Mick shrugs, turns it over. It is wrapped in plain brown paper, with no return address. “It’s just something really boring, I can tell. A booklet from the IRS or something. Unless …” he says, grinning, “unless you sent it. You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’ve been waiting, why you’re being so impatient.”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t. I promise.”

Clearly he doesn’t believe me. He shakes his head and continues smiling as he opens the package. Inside is some kind of book or photo album. There is a black-and-white picture on the front cover, some writing.

“Do you know who you’re with?”
he reads aloud, and he’s still smiling, but now he sounds puzzled. He turns the pages, holding it high so that I can’t see inside.

“Mick.” I laugh. “I didn’t send it. It’s not from me. I don’t know who …” But I stop when I see his expression. His smile has become a frown; all the color has drained from his face. “What?” I say. “Mick? What is it? What?”

“Jesus Christ,” he says. And suddenly I know who the package is from.

“Let me see,” I say, reaching for it. “I want to see it.”

“No. You don’t need to. Don’t. Please. Just don’t.”

“Don’t be stupid, Mick. Let me see the damn thing.” My voice is sharper than I intended. “Sorry,” I say. “Please. Just let me see it. It won’t help to hide it from me.”

He hands it over, reluctantly. “Katherine,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s crap. Just … She’s nuts. Don’t let it—”

“Sure,” I say. “Sure. I know. I know all that.”

The front page shows an old newspaper picture. It’s a photo of me and Rachel—a family portrait that somehow got into the hands of the press after Rachel died. We are at the beach, standing side by side, our smiles enormous, our hair windblown and wet. We have our arms around each other. We look so happy, so innocent …

The picture has been torn in half in a deliberately jagged way and stuck down over the front of the album. Above the picture, letters—a random mix of upper-and lowercase—have been cut out from a newspaper and pasted together: Do yoU reallY KnoW wHo yOu’RE wITH?

The next page is covered with editorial excerpts from the time right after Rachel died. And though they are all clearly from different articles, Alice has cut and pasted them together to form one long, rambling piece. She has also constructed her own disturbing headline.

wRonG peOple CoNVIcted??? tHe gUILty goEs freE???

But who is really responsible here? Surely, in these so-called enlightened times, we can’t expect a group of disadvantaged and undereducated youths to take sole responsibility for a crime that spotlights all that is lacking within the typical twenty-first-century person’s notion of what constitutes a sufficient duty of care toward those younger than us?

Grant Frazer was abused as a child. He was beaten black-and-blue by his alcoholic father almost daily and denied love by his drug-addicted mother. It’s not surprising he grew up with no social conscience.

The Boydell sisters had a life of wealth and privilege. Their home is spacious and elegant, their backyard a child’s fairyland complete with secret gardens, tennis court, and a swimming pool.

An expensive education didn’t prevent Katie Boydell from taking her fourteen-year-old sister to an illegal and unsupervised party and allowing her to drink herself under the table.

Who is really responsible here? Who is really to blame?

After so long, I’m surprised to notice that these words still have the power to sting. I still feel the overwhelming desire to scream out in protest, to defend myself, to explain and justify.

The following pages are filled with photos and articles from different newspapers—they are chopped and cut up and placed all over the page and there seems to be no order to their placement. It is the large letters pasted over the top of the pictures and articles that are most striking:
COWARD
.
KILLER
.
SIBLING
RIVALRY
.
BETRAYAL. IRRESPONSIBLE
JEALOUSY
.

The second to last page has a color photo of me on it. It’s a real photo, and very recent—the only one not taken from a newspaper. I have my head tossed back in laughter. I look ecstatically happy.

“KatHeriNe PatTerSon NoW. LiFe wiThout Her sisTEr” reads the headline that runs across it.

The final page reads simply, “kAtherINe paTteRsOn KAtiE bOydeLL——viCtIm or MuRderER?”

“Fuck this.” Mick snatches the album from my hands, slams it shut, and tosses it violently across the room so that it crashes into the wall, drops to the floor. “Stop looking at it. It’s sick.”

I say nothing. I can’t speak. I can taste the bile rising in my throat. I turn away and go to our bed, lie down on my side, curl up into a fetal position.

Mick sits beside me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we should call the police,” he says gently. “She’s going too far. This is harassment.”

“No.”

“But we have to get her to stop.”

“I don’t want the police involved.” I’m terrified to bring it all up again, to have the past dredged up like a stinking corpse, the police useless and bumbling, the press like vultures tearing at putrid flesh. “They won’t do anything. They can’t.”

Eventually we fall asleep, our arms wrapped tight around each other. When I get up in the morning, the album is gone.

35

O
ver the next few days, while Mick is working, I spend a few hours each evening getting ready to move. I go back to Vivien’s place and pack my things. I’m no longer as tired as I have been and I enjoy organizing my stuff, dreaming about my new life with Mick. The fact that my parents so obviously like him, and that Mom was surprisingly happy about the baby, has dispelled most of my doubts. We’re doing the right thing. We love each other. It’s going to be wonderful.

I e-mail Vivien to let her know that I’ll be moving out. I promise to collect her mail and keep an eye on things until she returns. I end the e-mail with an apology for the short notice. She writes back:

Don’t apologize! I
KNEW
there was a reason you were looking so happy, and I think it’s absolutely marvelous that you’ve met someone who makes you feel that way
.
Can’t wait to see you (and meet your Mick!!) when I get back home
.

Take care. Lots of love
.

Viv xxx

It takes three evenings to finish packing my things and to clean all trace of myself from Vivien’s apartment. I want to leave it spotless, sparkling, as a thanks to my aunt for letting me live there. I finish at ten-thirty on Friday night and wonder if I’ve still got time to go and see the end of Mick’s gig. He’d promised to call me when he finished, to get a lift with the lead singer up to Vivien’s and give me a hand with the packing. But he hasn’t called, and I assume that there has been a good crowd tonight and that the band’s still playing. I decide to go and pick him up, surprise him.

It’s raining and the road is wet and dark, so I drive slowly and don’t arrive until after midnight. The pub is quiet, almost deserted, the stage all empty.

Mick’s not waiting in the bar, so I go backstage. I hear his voice and head toward a lighted doorway. I stop and take a step back when I see her in the room. Alice.

She is leaning against a table, her long legs crossed in front of her. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she is saying, her voice slurred and heavy with alcohol. “How can it hurt?
Who
can it hurt? How will anyone even know?”

Mick has his back to her. He is rolling electric cords together. He shakes his head.

“You’re insane. I’m not having this conversation. Go away.”

“Oh, come on.” She laughs, flicks her hair back provocatively. It’s a wasted gesture; Mick is not even looking at her. “Free sex. That’s what I’m offering. Unconditional great sex. Why would you say no? What kind of man are you?”

Mick laughs curtly. “I think the question is, what kind of person are you? What kind of friend?” And then he turns to face her, sees me, stops. “Katherine.”

Alice turns my way. For an instant she looks alarmed, but she recovers immediately, smiles, puts her hand out. “Katherine!”

I stay in the doorway and stare at Alice. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I saw an ad in the paper. And I thought I should be supportive, come down and listen to my friend play.” She reaches out toward Mick, smiles. “Actually, I thought you’d be here, Katherine. I was really hoping we could catch up. You’ve been very difficult to find lately.”

For a moment I consider confronting her, asking why she is so hell-bent on hurting me, but I decide against it. There’s no point. I don’t want to hear her explanation—there is no rational or forgivable excuse for what she’s done—and I don’t want to listen to one of her insincere apologies. I just want to get out of here.

I look at Mick. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep.” He stops rolling the cords up and kicks them into a rough pile. He is usually meticulously tidy, but he’s clearly as desperate to get away from Alice as I am.

“Goody.” Alice claps her hands together, stands, staggers a little. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know where
you’re
going.” Mick’s voice is icy. He steps over the cords and puts his arm around my shoulders. “We’re going home.”

“I’ll come with you. In fact, that might be fun. The three of us.” She stays close behind us as we leave the bar, walk up the street to where the car is parked. “Three is better than two. Don’t you think, Katherine? Huh?”

When we reach the car, Mick unlocks the passenger door for me, but before I get in, I turn impulsively to Alice. “Go home. Go
away
. And from now on, just leave us alone. Stay out of our life. You’re sick. I feel sorry for you. You really need to get some help.”

She shakes her head, sneers, her lip curling. “I’m sick? Me? That’s weird. I thought you were the one with the problem, Katie. I thought it was you, you who abandoned your sister—”

“Katherine!” Mick’s voice is firm. He’s behind the wheel now, has already started the engine. “Just get in. Get in and shut the door.”

And so I do. Mick locks the doors, puts the blinker on, checks the rearview mirror. Alice keeps her eyes locked on mine through the windshield, and I find it impossible to drag my eyes from hers, to look away. And just as Mick pulls away from the curb, Alice smiles—a cold and empty stretching of the lips—and steps forward, straight into the gutter.

I scream out, “Mick! Stop! Wait!” But it’s too late and there’s a dreadful, sickening thud as Alice falls.

“Fuck! Jesus.
Fuck!”
Mick slams on the brakes and is out of the car in an instant.

I cannot move, cannot bear to look. My heart is thudding, thudding, and I stare blankly through the windshield at the oncoming rush of traffic.
It’s over
, I think.
She’s got what she wanted. Ruined everything. It’s over. It’s over
.

“Alice!” I hear Mick shouting. I can hear the panic in his voice. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Alice!”

And then I hear it: the high-pitched hysterical sound of her laughter.