Free-Falling (3 page)

‘Don't you have a boyfriend or something? I've seen you with him before . . .'

She didn't respond. She just drew him towards her once more and continued to kiss him forcefully.
I need this. I need to feel something
. . .
anything.
She kept kissing and kissing until he kissed her too. He fell into her arms and kissed her neck hungrily. Next thing, she was tearing desperately at his shirt, pulling it off over his head. He ran his hands across her body
while she writhed against him and dug her fingernails into his skin. She tried to keep her mind blank, but a voice spoke out from within.

Don't! Stop before it's too late!

She stiffened underneath him and stopped kissing him abruptly.

What the hell am I doing?

‘This isn't right,' she whispered, on the verge of tears.

Then she pushed him off her and strode out of the apartment, leaving him on the couch, dazed. She took the lift up to her place and found her apartment door unlocked.

It felt empty.

She felt empty.

Why the hell aren't you here, Andy?

And the tears began to flow again.

Chapter 2

Evelyn

The day after her son died, Evelyn spent the afternoon playing video games. She wasn't very good at them; she'd never actually played them before. But she pulled the outdated games console from Andrew's old bedroom closet and, after swearing a lot, figured out how to plug it into the TV.

She smoked half a packet of cigarettes as she played, even though she had never smoked a day in her life up until today. Even though she had never let a single living person step inside her house with a cigarette in their hand. Now there was a pile of butts squashed into her Royal Doulton centrepiece bowl on her cedar coffee table.

She had found the packet stashed in a corner of his closet as she wrestled the Nintendo out from amongst the junk.
I never knew he smoked. What else did I miss?
Had she found that pack of cigarettes ten years ago, she would have wrung his neck. But the anger that had briefly sizzled in the pit of her stomach when she'd seen them – hiding amongst the old Lego collection that he hadn't quite been able to let go of and his mint-condition, never-
opened Star Wars game (his plan had been to sell that one on eBay in another twenty years or so) – was quick to extinguish as she realised there was no one to be mad at.

When her non-smoker lungs had reached their limit and she'd grown tired of being killed over and over in the extremely violent video game, she got up from the couch and walked to the bathroom. She scrubbed the cigarette smell out of her hands and fixed up her hair. She put on a little lipstick, a little blush and smoothed her pants.

Then she went shopping.

She was an expert when it came to keeping her composure in public, skilled in the art of emotion-blocking 101 (as those
Americans
would put it). Tears were simply unnecessary; hysteria was quite out of the question. Chin up, brave face, feelings far from bubbling at the surface. Quite the contrary: they were buried safe and deep, locked away – zip it up, throw away the key, my lips are sealed, nothing to see here.

Yadda bloody yadda, who the hell am I kidding? My goddamn son is dead.

Oh, look! The new summer range is out at Noni-B! A tasteful charcoal suit should be perfect for the funeral. And I must get in contact with that charming florist they were planning on using for the wedding.

‘Socks? Underwear?
Winter
socks?
Winter
samp>underwear?'

‘Yes, Mum. All manner of seasonal underwear and socks. Check it out: here are my autumn socks, and those ones are spring, and ooh, look, here's a pair of summer undies – aren't they just to die for?'

‘Don't mock me, child. I brought you into this world and I can bloody well put you straight back where you came from.'

‘Delightful imagery, Mum.'

‘You'll have to forgive me, I'm a little rusty on account of the fact that two-thirds of my family are getting on a plane in less than twenty-four hours and travelling halfway around the world for goodness-only-knows how long.'

‘God, you're not going to start the guilt-trip thing again, are you?'

‘I'm merely stating a fact, Andrew. Right, where is that twin brother of yours? Has he even started to pack yet?'

‘You're kidding, right? Don't even expect James to be packed when the taxi's waiting outside tomorrow morning. I keep telling you, why get your hopes up? You've just gotta keep lowering that bar and one day he is going to shock you when he steps on over it and strides off into the sunset.'

‘Sweetheart, you know it upsets me when you use unnecessarily descriptive metaphors. You sound like a gay man.'

‘Jesus, Mum.'

She stood in the change room in Noni-B, staring at her semi-naked body in the mirror. She put her hands on her hips and twisted back and forth.

Flabby white skin, the scar from her caesarean.
When did my body get so old?

She pulled on the trousers, zipping them up over her tummy and patting them smooth. Next was the crisp black shirt under the charcoal suit jacket. The vulnerability of her naked body slipped away to be replaced by a confident (slightly younger?)
and much slimmer image. Beautiful manicured nails. Neatly set, short, auburn hair (not a hint of grey showing). Gorgeous pearl earrings.

She was perfectly in control.

Composed.

Even-headed.

Reckless.

She tucked the tags of the new clothes out of sight, picked up her handbag and, leaving her old pants and blouse in a heap on the floor, strode from the change rooms and out of the shop. The security tag set off the beeper but she happened to be leaving at the same time as a mother and her two daughters and they immediately turned back towards the shop assistant – big, exasperated smiles as they opened their bags wide for inspection.

Evelyn didn't stop until she'd reached a coffee shop on the other side of the shopping centre and sat herself down at a table in the corner. Her heart was beating furiously; she felt both exhilarated and completely ridiculous. Why on earth had she done that? No one in the store had even looked at her twice as she'd marched out of there, head held high. In hindsight, she realised how lucky she was to have escaped unnoticed in a completely different outfit from the one she had walked in wearing. She hadn't even thought about what she was going to do about the security tags until now. The adrenalin of the whole crazy incident started to drain away as she ordered herself a latte and let her mind drift.

I should pick up some bread at the supermarket on the way out.
Really should have got a load of washing on the line today – the sun is simply gorgeous.
I should catch up with Vi sometime soon – we haven't got together in weeks.
I really should call my son and tell him that his twin brother is dead.

She reached into her handbag for her purse. She wanted to get out of there before anymore jarring thoughts jumped into her head. She frowned when she couldn't place her hand on the purse straight away. She pulled the bag up onto the table and started fishing through its contents. She froze. It had been in the pocket of her other pants. The ones she had left on the change room floor in Noni-B.

She would have to be the absolute worst thief ever.

‘Boys, what the hell were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all? I mean, I really thought you two had at least half a brain between you. Maybe I was wrong. Well, was I?
Boys
?'

‘He made me do it.'

‘Oh, James, I will
not
accept such a clichéd excuse from my creative son. Come on, give me something better than that.'

‘Mum, please, it's true – it was all my fault . . . I really wanted a skateboard. I made him help me steal it.'

‘See, I
told
you, he
made
me do it.'

‘You two must have rocks in your heads. Andrew, you haven't been near a skateboard since you fell off bloody what's-his-name's one from down the street. I'm having a very hard time believing you would so badly want one of your own. You, James, are a different story. Either way, you are
both
in big trouble.'

She stood up and headed to the café counter, ready to explain her situation – to an extent, anyway. The manager behind the till was too busy reprimanding a teenage waitress to even notice
Evelyn. She glanced around and saw that the only other visible staff member, a waiter about her sons' age, was leaning on a chair and flirting with a pretty girl, while her shy boyfriend flushed with embarrassment across the table.

Well really, why bother trying to explain?

Once a thief . . .

She marched out of the coffee shop and made a beeline for Noni-B. She had just reached the entrance of the store when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

‘Yoo-hoo! Fancy seeing you here!'

For goodness sake, are we really that old that we need to say things like ‘yoo-hoo'?

‘Hello there, Marge, how are you?' she asked briskly, as she turned to see her well-rounded, well-meaning neighbour bustling towards her, pushing a stroller with a likewise rather well-rounded little boy perched on the edge of the seat. He was looking grandly at the shops as though he were being chauffeured through his own kingdom. She momentarily envisioned his future, saw him as a pudgy, mid-thirties businessman barking orders at a secretary, and then realised that her neighbour had launched into a long and irrelevant story about her grandson's amazing ability to navigate through the shops.

‘. . . and the little mite always finds his way to the Darrell Lea chocolate shop on level three! Can you believe that? He's learned that all by himself. So I say to Bob, “Who could resist the clever little fellow?” So of course I just have to pop in and let him choose a little choccy as a reward. But we don't tell Mummy about that, do we, Pumpkin?' she gushed indulgently at the little boy. The child turned to look at Evelyn and, she could have sworn, gave her a conspiratorial wink, as though to say, ‘I know I'm onto a good thing here.'

‘So how have you been? Bought yourself a new suit, I see.' Marge had finally managed to wrench her gaze from her grandson and was now eyeing the stolen clothes with just a hint of envy in her eyes.

Right, keep your composure, she doesn't need to know what's going on in your life, and she certainly doesn't need to know what you've been up to today. Let's tread carefully here.

Oh, fuck it.

‘Well, Marge, my son died yesterday. Was killed, in fact. No, not James, Andrew. So I have spent the day playing video games, smoking half a packet of cigarettes and stealing this suit from Noni-B over there. However, I'm just about to head back into Noni-B to fetch my purse, which I left in the change room, something I realised while drinking a latte down at Percy's coffee shop – also stolen, by the way. So if you'll excuse me, I really must collect my purse before one of those ditzy young sales girls finds it and puts me in the rather uncomfortable and inconvenient position of being charged with theft when I'm far too busy arranging a funeral. But before I go, Marge, I do feel compelled to tell you that that grandson of yours needs to hop out of that stroller and walk off a few pounds. Finding his way to Darrell Lea every time you're here is not only far too simple for a child who should really be in kindergarten, but is also not doing the little fatty any good whatsoever.'