Free-Falling (27 page)

‘What's the matter, McGavin? I've heard you're up to your third solo jump. Took an extra one with Chad the other day, did you? I'm not going to lie to you: it hurts me deep down that you'd trade me in for a tool like him . . . But you should be on top of the world, shouldn't you? You're turning into a pro these days!'

She wasn't really paying attention to him, though, just staring off into the distance, looking depressed.

‘Oy, woman, you listening to me or what?'

‘Huh? Oh, sorry, Bazza, just got some things on my mind. What's that you were saying?'

‘Never mind, don't worry about it. But look, you got things on your mind – Doctor Bazza is here to help. Haven't had the chance to catch up with you in ages. I'm taking you out to breakfast tomorrow morning. I haven't even heard what happened when you went to bail your son out of gaol before Christmas.'

‘I don't know, Baz, things are a bit . . . stressful at the moment.'

‘I kinda guessed that. Which is why I'm not taking no for an answer. Breakfast. Tomorrow. Eight am.'

He took her to his favourite café, and was doing his best to get to the bottom of what was making her so unhappy when something she said took him completely by surprise. She had never told him exactly how her son had died, only that she had lost him fairly recently and definitely unexpectedly. For the first time she was starting to mention some of the details, and as she spoke he realised they sounded pretty damn familiar.

Ezymart.

On Pitt Street.

Shot during a robbery.

He felt his skin going cold as the realisation of what it was she was describing dawned on him. ‘Evelyn, I'm sorry to ask you this, but when did your son die? When exactly?'

Back at home he flicked on his computer and went straight to the
Hills Shire Times
website. He searched through the archives for the September issues, then started scanning the articles for the right one. It took only five minutes to find it. There was that familiar black-and-white face again. He looked at the name under the photo.

Christ.
All this time, his favourite, new (and slightly damaged) client had been the mother of the guy from his own apartment block. And the girl he'd had a thing for was the ‘evil' fiancée' she hated so much. He'd presumed all along that Belle was short
for Isabel, but now he realised it was short for Belinda. But the big news was that Evelyn clearly had no idea that Belinda was pregnant. He hated knowing secrets.

He could see why Belinda hadn't told Evelyn though. Ev clearly had it in for her. But, at the same time, he understood Ev's side of it all. She was struggling to get over her son's death, needed someone to blame and had fixated on the girlfriend.
Just stay out of it, Baz. This has got nothing to do with you.

He managed to avoid Evelyn completely for almost the next two months – arranging his shifts so he wasn't at SkyChallenge when she had jumps booked in. But eventually he started to feel guilty, and decided he should at least explain why he was acting so strangely, even if he didn't tell her the entire story. He could explain that it turned out he knew Belinda (and, to an extent, her son) without revealing that she was pregnant, he supposed.

Nothing could have prepared him for his next encounter with McGavin though. Five thousand feet from the earth and the woman forgot to pull her chute. It had been up to Bazza to pull it for her, and only just in time too. After he'd pulled her chute – a moment when he wondered if he was going to be pulling his own too late – a thought had flown through his mind. A totally unexpected thought.
I want to see Belinda again.
So I do still have a crush on her. And maybe it's a bit more than a crush. Maybe I kinda really,
really
like this girl.

Back at home that night, he thought it through. This was
insane
. He hardly knew her. The extent of their conversation together consisted of, ‘Hey, are you all right after crashing through the branches of that tree?'
For Christ's sake. I mean, what was that?
How could he be falling for a girl without knowing anything about her? Not to mention the fact that the
girl had a baby on the way. Was it crazy to want to get involved with her?

All right, this was it. He was going to have to go upstairs and talk to her. It was time he apologised for the night they'd kissed, explained that he hadn't realised at the time her fiancé had just died, and told her he wanted the chance to get to know her properly – even if she did have a baby on the way. And if she really did have a new boyfriend, or simply wasn't interested, then he'd move on – for
good
this time. He strode purposefully out of his apartment and down to the lift. He was about to press the third-floor button when his nerves got the better of him.

‘It's not like I can really turn up at someone's door empty-handed, can I?' he reasoned with himself.

He pressed the ground floor instead and took a walk up to the shops. Deciding to skip the flowers this time, he scanned the chocolates in the confectionery aisle instead. A giant, bright sign caught his eye.

‘Sweet, pineapple's the best flavour,' he murmured to himself. He grabbed a block of the chocolate, wondering if it was a mistake – there was no way to guarantee that pineapple would be her favourite too. But for some reason, it seemed like the right choice, so he took it to the check-out and headed back.

Once again, when he got in the lift, he hesitated as he went to press the third-floor button. Shouldn't he go back upstairs and change? He had just taken a fairly brisk walk, after all.

A quick change of clothes turned into a shower, shave and a good half an hour deciding which shirt to wear. Then when he went to pat on some aftershave, he splashed on a little too much. He was almost considering jumping back into the shower to wash
it off, but he snapped himself out of it. ‘Come on, Baz, let's not make too much of a big deal of this. Pull yourself together and go talk to her!'

Back in the lift, he finally pressed the third-floor button and headed up to the next level. He walked nervously down to her door, lifted his hand to knock and then stopped. He could hear a voice. Hers? He listened more closely. Yep, she was definitely talking to someone.
Probably got her boyfriend in there with her,
he thought, his heart sinking with disappointment. Another voice piped up at the back of his mind:
You don't know that! You can't even hear a guy's voice!
But he was too nervous about her opening the door and looking at him like he was an idiot. He placed the chocolate on the floor outside the door and crept back down the hall.
The fairy godmother strikes again,
he thought bitterly.

Hours later, Bazza was fast asleep in bed when the sharp beeping of a text message rudely invaded his dreamless sleep. He rolled over and opened his eyes groggily. He blinked until everything was in focus and looked first at his bedside clock.
3 am
.
Who the hell was texting him at bloody 3 am?
And, more importantly, since when was his phone set to beep that fricken loudly?

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and reached out for his mobile. The text was from a number he didn't recognise, and simply said:

‘I'm not late for a damn thing,' he mumbled irritably at his slick-looking Nokia. He was in the middle of switching the phone off so it didn't wake him again when he heard the noise.

He was suddenly much more awake.

That was definitely the sound of a girl screaming, and it was coming from the apartment directly above him.

Belinda!

Part Five

The First Day – Again

Chapter 17

Belinda

On the day that Belinda felt her very first contraction, she stepped back from her apartment door and leant against the wall, the block of chocolate clutched in her hand.

All right, let's not get carried away – that could have just been one of those fake contraction thingies, right? What were they called? Braxton Hicks or something? No need to overreact.

She made her way to the couch and sat down to see if there was another one. When five minutes had passed without anything happening, she started to calm down a little and focused instead on the chocolate in her hand. How could this not be a sign of Andy haunting her? She picked up her phone and dialled Stacey's number. Too bad if she wasn't talking to her at the moment; she needed a voice of reason and she needed it right now.

‘What is it, did your waters break? I'm on my way!' Stacey answered the phone without even saying hello.

‘Shit, calm down, Stacey, it's not that. That's not why I called.'

‘Belinda, you gave me a heart attack. Why are you calling me at almost midnight if it's not because you're in labour?
I'm still mad with you, you know. So you better have a good reason.'

‘Yeah, I know – any chance we could just skip that whole bit for now, though? I need your advice, something's happened . . . I think Andy may be back.'

‘God, what is it this time? The dishwasher's unpacking itself, is it? Because if that's it, it's not Andy. He never used to unpack the dishwasher. Trust me, I know – you were always complaining to me about it.'

‘Shut up, this is serious. Look, I just got this weird call from Mrs McGavin. All of the sudden she wants to be my new best friend, and guess what? She knew I was pregnant. You want to know how?'

‘Maybe because she's seen you somewhere and you look the size of a house?'

‘No. It's because she told me what Andy was buying the day he was killed. Stace, he went into that shop for a pregnancy test. He knew. He knew I was pregnant before I did.'

‘What? How could he? Is she sure about what she saw?'

‘Yep. She was certain. And she wants to get together with me tomorrow to chat about it all. But look, that's not all. When I got off the phone, I was going to go for a walk, I needed to clear my head. And when I went to the front door—'

Stacey cut her off mid-sentence. ‘You were going to take a walk? At this time of night? This far into your pregnancy? Are you stupid or something?'

‘Let me finish, for God's sake. When I opened the door, there was a block of chocolate waiting outside for me. It was Cadbury Snack, and it's all pineapple pieces, just like the block Andy got made up specially when he proposed to me. It has to be him, right?'

‘All right, Belinda, you've got to get past this. I'm sorry, but I'd
say it's more the hand of the marketing team at Cadbury than the hand of “Andy the ghost”. It's just a new promotion they're doing. I've seen them everywhere at the supermarkets – “choose your favourite bits”. And I know where they got the idea too. You knew how Andy got that first block of chocolate for you, right?'

‘Umm . . .'

‘Belinda, come on. Who do we know who works at Cadbury?'

‘Oh, right. Shanks, of course.'

‘So, after Aaron had that one-off block made for you, he then put the idea forward at this big marketing meeting. He got a promotion and everything. And the new product line just came out last week. Maybe it was Aaron who dropped it off for you. He would have known how much it would mean to you.'

‘Okay, this is wrong on so many levels. First of all, how do you have any idea what's been going on in Shanks's life? You
hate
the guy. And since when does Shanks get
promotions
? And why would he be dropping off “meaningful” gifts to me without a note – I'm sorry, but he is not the sentimental type.'

‘I don't bloody know. I just know it's not Andy, all right? And the reason I know so much about what's going on in Aaron's life is because, well, I'm
in
Aaron's life.'

‘WHAT?!' Belinda nearly fell off the couch. ‘You mean you and Shanks . . . you're seeing each other? Since when?'

‘I told you you've been a bit self-obsessed lately. Look, I'll explain it all to you tomorrow. I'd really like to get some sleep right now. Just accept the fact that it's not Andy, okay? And promise me you're not in labour?'

Belinda paused before answering – just at that moment another pain clenched her stomach and then released moments later. ‘Nope. Nothing going on here. I'll talk to you tomorrow.'
She kept her voice as smooth as possible, adding then, ‘Sooo, are we all okay then?'

‘I'll think about it and let you know. Goodnight, Belinda.'

‘Goodnight,
Stacey.
'

She hung up the phone and looked down at the block of chocolate.
So these things are everywhere, huh?
She had to admit she found that a little irritating. This was
her
chocolate. Her special engagement chocolate. So now anyone could have a block of it? Could there be any more revelations today? First, Andy's mum telling her that Andy had known she was pregnant; and now, apparently, Stacey and Shanks were an item. That just did
not
fit.

She picked up the chocolate again; she figured she may as well have a piece anyway. But seeing the row of all pineapple pieces made her stomach lurch a bit. It was just like that moment back at Clontarf, opening up the wrapping to see nothing but her favourite pieces, and then looking up to see the pride and satisfaction on Andy's face. The glint in his eye as he'd leant forward, propped himself up on one knee and pulled the ring out of his pocket.

She sat eating the chocolate, savouring the taste, and tried to keep that picture of Andy in her mind. That intensely happy moment when his face was full of childlike glee . . . It was enchanting. But instead, a different picture kept coming into her head. She was imagining him in that convenience store, picking out a home pregnancy test. Was he happy at that moment too? Was he excitedly thinking about how he was going to be a father? She knew for a fact he wanted to have lots of children one day – they'd even argued about it once. She'd snapped that she was far too young, and flippantly said maybe she didn't even want them at all. But it was a lie: while she most definitely wasn't planning them any time soon, she'd known she would want them one day.
The only reason she'd said she didn't was to add fuel to the fight.
Just for the bloody sake of it, for God's sake.

She could kick herself for it now. All those happy times they could have had together and instead they just fought
so
much. She wished she could go back in time and slap herself.
Stop being such a bitch. You're going to lose him one day and then you'll regret saying all those nasty things. Just grow up!

Another pain squeezed her stomach and she glanced at her watch. Huh. Wasn't it about ten minutes ago that she'd felt that last pain? And then wasn't the first one another ten minutes before that? ‘Pain that comes and goes at regular intervals.' That was one of the things she'd been taught to watch out for. ‘It's hardly ever like the movies when the woman's waters break while the other diners in the restaurant look on in horror, and then the husband rushes her off to the hospital,' the midwife had explained to the class. ‘It's more likely that you won't even be sure at first whether or not you're actually in labour.'

Belinda found a scrap of paper and a pen and wrote down the time of each contraction (if that's what they really were) and then watched the clock, waiting to see if there would be another. She tensed as the clock ticked its way round to twenty-five past twelve, the time she would be expecting the next one. As the clock hit twenty-six past, she started to relax. There we go: it's already been eleven minutes and no new contraction! It must be a false alarm! But just then her stomach hardened and a wave of pain rose up, then immediately calmed back down again. All right, so does it count as regular contractions if it's just a minute or two off?

She wondered whether she should phone Stacey back and let her know that she was
quite possibly
going into labour, but decided against it. Stacey would come flying straight over here, full of all sorts of helpful advice and tips, and probably start pushing
her out the door to go straight to the hospital. Although Doctor Vashna
had
said something to her today about not wasting any time when labour began. Why hadn't she paid more attention! For some reason she was nervous about getting it wrong. What if it wasn't really labour and they turned her away at the hospital with laughter in their eyes?
How is this girl going to be a mother? She doesn't even know when she's in labour!

She double-checked that her bag was all packed and ready to go (just in case) and decided to try taking a bath. The midwife at the antenatal classes had suggested a soothing bath could be good during early stages of labour. She lugged the portable CD player into the bathroom with her so she could listen to some ‘calming' music, and lit a few scented candles as well. Then she ran a giant, warm, bubbly bath and slid carefully into it.

Hey, this wasn't such a bad idea!

She found that the warmth of the water around her stomach eased the pain quite a bit, and the ambience of the gentle flicking candlelight and her favourite Angus and Julia Stone CD was making her more and more comfortable.
Man, if this is what labour is like, it's going to be an absolute cinch!

She looked around the room and briefly wished she'd planned a home birth. She thought she could quite happily go on through with her labour right here in the bath. Her babies would meet a serenely relaxed mum. They would be in awe of her confidence! She closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.

She awoke abruptly a little while later to a loud clanging noise in her living room. Her first thought was,
Oh, Andy, did you knock over the lamp again?
And then she sat up with a start.
Of course it's not Andy. Andy's not alive, you dimwit!
So who the fuck was in her apartment?

She heard a voice then, a guy's voice, but she couldn't hear
what he'd said over the sound of the music that was still playing.
It must be a burglar,
she realised with horror. Maybe even someone who knew she was a single girl alone in the apartment. And he'd know she was here in the bathroom too. Dammit, why had she put that stupid music on?

Gripped with fear, she clambered out of the lukewarm bath and snatched a towel from the rail to wrap around herself, then searched frantically for a weapon. At that moment, she was overcome by a contraction, and this one was definitely very different from the twinges she had felt earlier.
Holy fuck! I am in labour!

And apparently her labour had progressed itself along rather nicely while she'd slept in the bathtub. She clutched the towel rail for support as the pain rose up, held her stomach, vice-like, for a few seconds, then petered back away again.
What the hell was that?! I'd like the old contractions back, please!

As the pain subsided, she remembered her situation again – trapped in the bathroom with an intruder in her lounge room, quite possibly on his way to the bathroom to attack her.
Oh God,
she thought,
Why the hell didn't I just tell Stacey earlier?
Why had she been so worried about being humiliated if she turned up to the hospital too soon? Now she pictured the nurses at the hospital shaking their heads disdainfully at her:
What kind of a mother doesn't even realise she's in labour and then lets an intruder into the house when her babies are trying to be born?

For goodness sake, Belinda, concentrate!
She wondered how many minutes she had until the next contraction. Hopefully long enough to fight off the attacker if he came in here. She placed her hands protectively on her stomach.
Don't worry, guys, your mum's a fighter. I'm not going to let him hurt us.

She picked up one of the biggest, heaviest candles from the edge of the bathtub, blew out the flame, then gripped it hard in
her hand. It was the only thing she could think of to use as a weapon. She desperately tried to remember the self-defence class she'd done in high school. All that was coming back to her was the words: ‘Eyes! Nose! Throat! Groin! Foot!' That's right, you started off in an aggressive fighting stance and yelled out first, ‘Back off!' Then attack: fingers in the eyes, heel of the hand into the nose, fist into the throat, knee into the groin and finish it off by stamping your heel down on the arch of their foot.

I can do this. I can protect myself and my babies . . .

. . . just as long as I don't get another contraction before he comes in here.

She stood ready, her heart beating furiously, her eyes fixed on the door handle. The handle began to twist, the door started to open. A tall, dark figure was stepping into the room. He started to speak but she didn't give him the chance to say whatever it was he was planning. She hurled herself at him, battering him with the candle, screaming at the top of her lungs: ‘BACK OFF!'

In a flurry of movement, she started working her way through the self-defence manoeuvres, jabbing her fingers at his eyes and trying to punch him on the nose. It wasn't quite as she'd planned: the moves weren't so easy when you were doing them to a real live person rather than a nice, compliant dummy. But she managed to aim her knee into his groin with surprising precision, despite having her massive belly in the way, and then stomped hard on his foot. He instantly crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain, and started crawling back out into the living room. She dove on top of him and held him down, pressing her knee into his back. And then a thought occurred to her.
What now?