Times of Trouble
Victoria Rollison
Published by Victoria Rollison at Smashwords
Prologue
Wrapped in her huge fur coat, face hidden below the soft hood, she marched angrily along the street. She hadn't realised it was freezing until she got outside, but she was too proud to go back. Slamming the door was her final word in their latest argument.
Ever since the text message arrived, she had tried to get him to talk about it, to come up with a plan to make this problem go away. How could he be too arrogant to admit they were in trouble? He didn't want to be told he should have listened to her in the first place. So they just ended up yelling at each other. When he said everything was fine she wanted to believe him, and probably could have if there wasn’t so much fear in his eyes.
As she strode through Battersea Park, her phone rang again. He’d been calling every couple of minutes since she left, and was no doubt getting angrier and angrier when she didn’t answer. It was one of their worst arguments. He totally freaked out when she said money wasn't everything, and she wanted to stop working. And when she screamed that she planned to leave London, he looked like he was going to throw something at her. It wasn't just the text message, or the heat of battle, prompting these threats. This damp, cold city wasn't exciting anymore. Her life used to feel sophisticated and special. But lately it just felt lonely.
She crossed back over Albert Bridge, turned away from the wind, and rubbed her nose to warm it. She could picture him pacing the apartment, shoulders hunched, phone pressed against his ear, cursing her for not answering. He hated it when he lost control of her, when she wasn't doing what she was told. She would stay with Katie tonight, give him time to calm down and start thinking about how he might fix things.
As she glanced at her phone, he rang again. This time she answered, and said abruptly: 'I'm not coming back tonight Danny...'
'Where are you? Just come home babe.'
'No, I'm tired of this. I'm so stressed out and...' Her outburst was interrupted by the sound of the intercom bleep in the apartment.
'Did you forget your key?'
'No, I told you, I'm not coming back tonight.'
Through the phone, she could hear the speaker next to the door crackle, and could just make out a male voice saying: ‘I’ve got a delivery for the penthouse’, and louder, her boyfriend replying, ‘Ok, I’ll buzz you up’. Then he was back on the line.
‘There's a delivery. Are you expecting anything?’
He sounded tired and tense. Maybe she should go home, and try to make up. She heard his footsteps cross the foyer, and the clunk of the deadlock clicking open. Then she heard two sounds in quick succession. The first was the crack of a gunshot, deafening through the phone. The second was the clatter of his mobile hitting the floor. Her heart seemed to turn in her chest, and her hand trembled, as she heard two voices echoing in the apartment.
‘Where is she? ...Check the bedroom... She isn’t here.’
She could hear them stamping on the polished floorboards. Finally the door slammed, and then there was an eerie silence. She screamed into the phone for a few seconds, but he didn’t reply.
She stood momentarily frozen to the spot. Was there any chance he was still alive? She couldn’t risk going back to check. She focused on her phone, ready to call an ambulance. But she didn’t want anyone to know who she was. She didn’t want people asking questions. She threw the phone away from her as hard as she could. It ricocheted off the bridge railing and splashed into the water, hardly noticeable in the vast Thames murk. Then she turned, and staggered towards a phone box. Barely able to control her panic, she dialled 999, and gave the operator the apartment’s address. There was nothing more she could do for him. She had her purse, and the clothes she was wearing. She had to run. First she would warn Katie. Then she would disappear.
Chapter 1
At first I thought the bank had made a mistake. Some processing error or administrative glitch, which sent this letter to the wrong customer. I even checked if it was actually addressed to us. Maybe the postman put it in the wrong mail box? But of course he didn’t. It was addressed to Sandra Goddard, my mother, who had lived in this house for twenty years. The postman knew that, and apparently the National Australia Bank did too. It just didn’t make any sense. How could mum be defaulting on a mortgage, when she owned this house outright for over ten years? I vaguely remembered the day she and dad celebrated their last mortgage payment. I must have been about thirteen, as dad left before my fourteenth birthday. At least mum got the house, fully paid for.
The huge red letters LATE PAYMENT screamed at me from the top of the page. I heard mum come inside, and start unpacking the groceries. She jumped as I confronted her in the kitchen, waving the bank’s notice in my hand.
‘Mum, what the hell is going on with this letter?’
‘I’ve told you before not to open my mail.’ From her expression, it was obvious she quickly worked out what the ‘letter’ was about, and wasn’t planning on discussing it with me.
‘But what’s going on? You never pay anything late! And why do you need a mortgage?’ I was surprised to see that mum looked more scared than angry.
‘Ellen, it’s none of your business. Just forget about it!’ she said repressively.
‘But if you don’t pay a mortgage on a house, they take it away from you! I live here too!’
‘For god’s sake, it’s not going to come to that. I’ll sort it out.’
‘I should have known you’d be too proud to tell me about it. You love this house. How could you risk losing it? And why do you need the money anyway?’
‘Just leave it Ellen’.
She side stepped round me, determined as usual to avoid a confrontation by leaving the scene. I heard the front door close and the car start.
Money was something that was never discussed in our family. After dad left, I always suspected things were a bit tight. It wasn’t like we could ever afford a new car, or an overseas holiday. I don’t think dad ever paid any maintenance; back in those days I suppose it was easier for fathers to get away with disappearing, and forgetting they ever had a family. Mum wanted to spend as much time with us as possible. So she found a job as a teacher’s aide, where she worked school hours, and had plenty of holidays. After a while, we never mentioned dad anymore.
For a moment, I wished I had never gone to the letterbox. Or been curious enough about the letter to open it. But as usual, I was bored, and the postman arriving was the first interesting thing that happened all day. How sad was that? Having seen it, I couldn’t just ignore it. I sat in stunned silence for a while, and then tried ringing mum’s mobile about five times, hearing it go straight to voicemail. Mum was a smart woman, a little rigid in her views sometimes, but certainly never silly about money. Had something changed? My mind raced over different possibilities. Did mum have a gambling habit? She was always a bit neurotic: did this make her susceptible to addiction? Had she taken out a loan to cover a debt to someone? Had she just been spending the money without me noticing? What if someone tricked her into giving them thousands and thousands of dollars? Was she losing her mind? She was only 54. How much money were we talking about? And why had I been left totally in the dark about this?
Then on top of all this, came the final blow: my feeling of guilt. I never moved out of home because I needed mum. She was there for me through all the ups and downs of my piano career, if you can call a failed attempt at fame a career. She always encouraged me to keep going. Even if it meant going without things herself, to save up for the entry fee for another competition or the next interstate trip. When I gave up, after 15 long years of trying, I wasn’t in any state to move out. Even if I wasn’t close to nervous breakdown half the time, popping HP’s to get out of bed in the morning, I couldn’t afford to move out. Simple as that. I was pathetic. Mum cared for me, paid all the bills, bought all the food, looked after the house. And all the time, she was worrying about some mortgage which she obviously couldn't afford to pay, while I lounged around like a lazy, miserable freeloader. My measly income as a piano teacher didn't go very far, and mum always said she was happy for me to live rent free until I could afford to contribute. But why didn’t she ask me for help when she couldn’t pay the mortgage? I didn’t earn much, but she never even asked. Did mum think I was so selfish I wouldn’t want to help? And why hadn't she told me about the mortgage in the first place?
After a couple of hours passed, in which I kept my mind distracted by playing an entire book of Beethoven’s Sonatas, I heard mum’s car pull into the drive. I had no idea what mood to expect her to be in. She looked surprisingly fine as she walked in, and sat on the sofa. I finished the piece, hoping she could enjoy a short recital before having the inevitable conversation with me.
‘I’ve always liked that one,’ she commented, which she said so often I couldn’t think of anything I played that she didn't like. I turned around on my stool, inviting her to tell me what was going on.
‘What would you like for dinner? I’ve defrosted some chops but we could have them tomorrow if you don’t feel like them now. It’s a bit hot for chops.’
‘Mum, don't worry about dinner. Why have you taken out a mortgage and stopped paying it? We could lose the house...’
‘Darling, it’s not your concern. Please don’t stress. I’m going to sort it out.’
‘So you're not going to tell me what you used the money for? You’ll just wait until the day they come to take the house, and then tell me I have to find somewhere else to live?’ Tears welled in my eyes.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic Ellen! I’ve got a bit behind on a mortgage which was used for something that doesn’t concern you. It’s my business, and I’ll tell you about it when I’m ready.’
Was she serious? How is worry about losing your home melodramatic? Was it mum’s pride – or did she think I was too much of a mess to be able to deal with whatever it was?
‘What are you going to do when they come to take the house? Ask them not to? Because it will be too late by then. What's wrong with you?’ I could no longer keep the anger out of my voice.
Mum was finally starting to lose her composure. ‘It won’t get to that, I hope.’
‘But mum, can’t you even tell me how much it is? You obviously haven’t been able to afford it so far, so what’s going to change between now and tomorrow?’
Mum shrugged, and her head dropped. She didn’t even have words to convince herself now. And to my dismay, she started to cry.
‘Please tell me what’s going on. How much money do we need?’
‘Ellen, I promise it will be ok. I can see you're upset I haven't told you what’s been happening, but, well, you know how things have been with you, and I didn’t want to make it worse. I promise we won’t be homeless.’
‘Let me help you.’
Mum nodded. I was finally getting somewhere.
‘Can you at least show me the paperwork?’ She nodded again, and surprisingly, got up from the sofa to fetch it.
She handed me a manila folder labelled ‘mortgage’, and left me to read it. There were only few sheets of paper inside. On top was an official contract, with a lot of jargon and terms and conditions. It was dated 1st November 2008. Almost 3 months ago! On the second page there was a section, filled in by hand, showing our address under the heading of ‘secured asset’. Then the maximum loan amount was written under ‘mortgage facility’. It said $20,000. I felt a small sense of relief. Surely the payments on a $20,000 loan weren’t really huge? There were only three monthly statements, and I flipped through them. It appeared mum had been paying $155 for the first month. Not so much money really? I looked at the most recent statement. The repayments on this were $530 a month. They almost tripled since November! No wonder she couldn’t afford them. That was a huge chunk of her pay. It took me a lot of muddling through, and laying the statements in order side by side, until I worked out the loan amount increased over the last 3 months from $20,000 to $50,000, and then more recently to $80,000. I also worked out exactly how much was due to stop the threat of repossession- $610. Definitely not enough money to lose your house over. But also more money than either mum or I had.
I knew immediately what I would do to get this money. That would at least keep the bank from taking the house. I knew mum would feel bad about how I was going to raise the funds. And I thought I might feel even worse. So I decided to do it before I told her, and before I lost the nerve to act. Then and there, I listed my piano for sale on eBay. I set the reserve at $5,000 because similar looking baby grand pianos seemed to be selling for about that much on the site already. My plan was to pay back the debt, and then have enough left over to keep paying the mortgage until we worked out how else to pay it.
Mum and I named my piano Picasso because we thought he was beautiful, even if he did take up most of the space in our front room. I spent more time with him than any other creature on the planet, other than mum of course. And, sad to admit, I thought of him as my friend. Sometimes I talked to him, telling him how I was feeling, or got angry at him when I was mad. I won him in a young performers’ competition when I was 17. I was absolutely sure I‘d won as soon as I finished my final piece, Schubert’s Sonata in B-flat major, D. 960. I must have practiced that sonata hundreds of times in the weeks leading up to the competition. Mum knew every single note. She would sit and listen to me practising, wincing when my finger missed a beat or when a flat turned into a sharp. As I played the final triumphant bars that night at the competition, I risked looking out over the audience, and saw her with her chin resting on her clasped hands, willing me to play it perfectly. I wasn’t surprised when the judges announced me as the winner. I was so sure of myself back then. I thought I was destined to win every prize. Destined to win scholarships, get prestigious recording contracts and perform with famous orchestras. That’s why it took so long for my faith to waiver, and eventually come crashing down around my ears.
I didn’t get out of bed for a month after I finally came to terms with the fact I wasn’t going to be a solo pianist. I might be good, but there were always people who were better, or luckier, or in the right place at the right time. The final realisation came when I was eliminated in the semi finals of the Sydney International Piano Competition. I knew the great concert pianists had already made it by the time they were my age. I got close, but not close enough. The adjudicator’s critique of my performance was the final blow to an already flimsy hope. I remembered her words like it was yesterday: ‘Miss Goddard obviously has an impressive talent. Her recital was very well executed, and technically brilliant. However, it lacked a certain quality, a heart, you may say.’ I didn’t even have time to hate her, because I was too busy hating myself. Mum and I spent days discussing what she meant, how I could manufacture a solution for this ‘heartless’ problem. You see, people had said this to me before. Did I need to look like I was enjoying myself more? Or try to connect with the audience better? But no matter how much I practised playing with ‘heart’, I couldn't convince myself anything changed. So I gave up.
It was the darkest time of my life, those first few days after realising there was no point going on. I woke up every night at 3:00 am and spent hours trying to get back to sleep, my mind full of hatred and hurt at my ruined dreams. It wasn’t like someone I loved died. It was worse than that. I felt like I had died. The person I planned to be had died, and with that realisation, my will to live disappeared. The weeks that followed were like a muddy dream, filled with days of tears, the occasional meal, sleep, and sulking. Mum put up with all this. I lost a lot of weight, and sure, I wasn’t exactly looking after myself. Showering and brushing my teeth were completely lost from my daily routine. But the thing that worried mum most was my lack of speech. The day she demanded I go to the doctor with her, she claimed I hadn’t said a word for three days. The doctor put me on HP’s. My prescription was for anti depressants but I hated the word ‘depressed’ so I called them Happy Pills.
After a while, the HP’s started to work a bit. It wasn't that I felt happy, but the deep, hollow misery was blunted. One day I got out of bed, and said to mum that I had to do something with my life. I couldn’t become an invalid at the age of 24. So I made do with the only career choice I had left - piano teacher. When I finally felt brave enough to leave the house, and people asked me how my piano playing was going, I brought out the old line ‘those who can do, those who can’t teach’, so as to give them a laugh, and show I was coping fine. But I wasn’t fine and I’m still not fine.
I slowly realised I had spent most of my life hiding behind my piano playing. It was like my talent was such an important part of me, I never bothered to become anyone except ‘Ellen the amazing pianist’. And without that, who was I? I’d never been very sociable. I’d never been extroverted, or even what one might call friendly. But I could wow people by playing beautiful music, which made me happy. I pictured people who knew me listening to me play, and feeling proud they were part of my life. But why would anyone want to know me if I wasn’t a pianist? What else did I have to offer them apart from that? And now I didn’t see anyone. Except mum and my students. I guess my students couldn't come anymore, now I was losing Picasso. But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today mum’s problem took centre stage. It had been hanging over her all this time, and I was too self centred even to notice. It was amazing how the sudden threat of homelessness put life into perspective.
I felt a bit better for knowing how much we owed. But I still had absolutely no idea how we came to owe it in the first place. And it dawned on me that mum didn't tell me what the money was for, because whatever it was, she knew I wasn’t going to like it.
Chapter 2
When she left her family, she told them she was going to find a better life. Her mother was devastated to see her leave so young, but she had no way of stopping her. There wasn’t enough money to keep her at school, and her younger brothers and sisters needed mothering more than she did. She could hardly believe her luck when the man came to their house, and offered her a job as a nanny in London. Was it really as easy as that to move to another country? With a job in England, she would send them as much money as she possibly could. Her friends were so jealous she was going to London. That’s where the celebrities lived; that’s where people had a chance to make it big. But when she arrived, the job wasn’t what she thought at all. She told him she'd never done anything like it before. He didn’t seem to mind though, and was hardly listening when she checked to make sure he knew how old she was.
‘You are beautiful, Veronica. You are going to be a huge star,’ was all he said.
The first scene they shot wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be. There was only one man, and it didn’t last long. They told her what they wanted her to say, and what they wanted her to do. It almost was like acting, sort of. Her English wasn't great, but luckily they didn't care. They seemed pleased it was the first time she had had sex. She would never admit to her family she lost her virginity this way. But you had to lose it somehow, and wasn’t this quite an exciting way to do it? It hurt a lot, but she knew it probably would; a friend told her the first time was always like that. The man was experienced at least, and he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. She even felt proud of herself at the end, when he told her how well she had done, how many great shots they got. It gave her enough confidence to feel she could get through the second scene only two days later. Different hotel room, same crew, different actors.
These men weren’t as nice as the first man. They were rough, and hardly said anything to her. One threw her all over the bed, changing positions every few seconds, making the sex disjointed and painful. And the takes all seemed to last forever too, much longer than she was comfortable with. There were at least three men in each scene, each one with more energy than the last. She tried to make it look like she was enjoying herself. She tried to ignore the pain searing up her thighs, and making her stomach hurt. She didn’t want to make them angry if she didn’t perform.
She felt sad at the end of that day, and the sadness hadn’t gone away since. The man who hired her let her stay in his apartment, and sometimes took her out to bars. But he also expected something in return. She thought he might have liked her to begin with, but it soon became clear he was only interested in sex. Whenever he wanted. Sometimes he told her she was doing well in the films, but she felt something wasn’t right. Why did he let the men be so rough? Not just rough, but cruel. One slapped her really hard in the face and the crew didn't even react. Another one tied her wrists behind her back and threw her on the floor. She almost cried out in pain, but managed to stay professional, even though her leg was bruised and sore. Then the man she was staying with disappeared, but luckily she had a key to his place, so she stayed there alone. No one ever said where he’d gone, but the work kept going. Other men were organised to deliver her to the set. She hated it more and more each time.
She didn’t know who to turn to about how she felt. Nearly everyone she met in England seemed wrapped up in themselves, and not at all interested in her. She managed to make one friend, a girl she overheard speaking her language at the grocery store. She didn't tell her what she did for a living though; she was too embarrassed to explain. Then there was a girl on the set of the film one afternoon, to whom she spoke for a little while, admitting she wasn’t enjoying herself. The girl, Molly was her name, was getting her makeup done at the same time for filming in another room. She was older, and seemed really friendly, motherly almost. She wished she could talk to her again now. But she hadn’t seen her since then, and that was months ago. At the time she told herself if this girl was ok with the filming, maybe she was just immature. Maybe this was what it was like to be a real actress.
Today she overheard them say it was the final scene, so at least she could look forward to having a break for a while. She had been brought to a different hotel as usual, but something seemed strange. There were usually a crew of three or four on the cameras and the lights, a lady doing makeup and a couple of younger guys who ran errands and bossed her around. But today there were only two men whom she'd never seen before. They told her to do her own makeup, and didn’t even give her anything to wear. Usually they gave her lingerie; expensive lacy pieces that made her feel grown up. But she was only wearing plain white briefs and a black bra today. Was this ok for the film? When she went into the bedroom, she could see Big Ben from the window. Maybe she could do a tour of London once she was paid, and explore this city she was living in.
While one of the men was organising the lights, the door opened and another man strolled into the room. Unlike the other two, he was wearing a suit; she thought he was perhaps the boss. She had never seen him before.
The man with the lights said: ‘We’re almost ready to go, Jared.’
The newcomer had a smile on his face as he opened the mini bar, and took out a bottle of champagne. ‘We’ve nearly finished. Let’s celebrate before we start. Lance, Ian, do you want some bubbly?’ He poured four glasses of champagne.
Then he said to her: ‘I’ve got a special treat for you. It will make this one better than the others.’
She didn’t know what he meant by this, but could sense it was not a good idea to disagree. He handed her three small tablets, and watched closely as she obediently put them in her mouth and took a small sip of champagne. She hated the taste of alcohol, and hardly noticed the bitter taste of the pills as they slid down her throat. The three men gulped their champagne, and then got down to business.
The scene started much like the other scenes. Jared stood in the corner, and watched as one of the men filmed. The third man positioned her on the bed, and then striped down to his underpants. Usually there were lines to say, but she hadn't been given any today, and the man seemed to want to get started with the sex straight away. She tried to look pleased as he started to rub her breasts and put his fingers inside her. But unlike other times, she was finding it hard to concentrate on how she was performing. A dark cloud seemed to be forming in her mind, making the room more muted; everything seemed slow and grey. Just as she felt her eyelids close, she was shocked awake by the man tearing her underwear off in a violent rip. He used one hand to hold her down, and the other to pull on the cotton. The elastic burnt her skin as it snapped. His fumbling hand tore at her bra, breaking the straps, and leaving red marks on her shoulders. Tears welled in her eyes. She had hoped this scene wouldn’t be as rough as the others, but it looked like it was going to be even rougher.
She knew she shouldn’t struggle, but she couldn’t help it when he forced her legs apart, and started pushing himself inside her. He drove in hard and deep, with more force than she could bear. The pain was worse than it had ever been before. And even though her head felt fuzzy and dazed, this didn’t stop her feeling like her insides were being torn apart. He thrust so hard her head was slamming into the backboard of the bed. She cried out in pain, no longer caring what they thought of her performance. She just wanted it to end. She could see Jared standing in the corner behind the camera man, completely ignoring her eyes pleading with him to make it stop. The man started clawing at her breasts, leaving scratches down her chest and stomach. No one seemed to mind her crying and pleading. Even with her mind jumbled, she could tell they wanted her to be desperate. They wanted her to look like she was trying to get away.
The cameraman was close to the bed now, and seemed to be focusing in on her, enjoying her anguished despair. Just when she thought it might be about to end, the man on top of her seemed to get another wave of energy, and attacked her with renewed force, throwing her body into a new position, and twisting her legs towards him like she was a doll. She felt clumsy and heavy as she tried to escape his grip. As he changed position again, this time pushing her back against the top of the bed with a sickening crunch, she finally saw Jared move towards the bed. How could he watch her go through this? When he lent in to speak to the cameraman, she heard his words: ‘Get on with it, he’s almost done’.
Get on with what?
She struggled even harder, trying to force the heavy body off her. But she was wedged between the man and the bed head. The harder she struggled, the more force he used to thrust into her. The pain got so bad she almost wished she could black out, to make it go away. She tried to scream but his hand was over her mouth. And just as she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, both his huge hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t get any air into her lungs, and everything did indeed start to go black.
The cameraman moved the camera even closer to her, zooming in on her face. She could see Jared still standing in the corner, motionless. His face was devoid of concern, and even had a glint of satisfaction that repulsed her. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she tried to open her mouth enough to bite the man’s wrist, but he was too strong; she couldn’t move her jaw. She didn’t want them to have the satisfaction of looking into her eyes, so she closed them, and clenched her mouth shut. Her head felt ready to explode; the pressure was unbearable. And then it was over.
Chapter 3
Mum avoided me for the rest of the day. She was sick of me asking about the mortgage, and I think she was also worrying about how she was going fix everything, since she was clearly out of ideas. I tried to go to sleep early, but my mind wouldn’t let me rest. Part of me wanted to storm into mum’s room, and demand an explanation. The other part wanted to run to the computer, and cancel the auction. I did finally fall asleep, but my dreams were full of dark imaginings.
I slept in as usual, having no real reason to get out of bed. Eventually curiosity motivated me to drag myself to the computer. Mum was outside gardening, the clip of her secateurs as she deadheaded the roses audible through the study window. I sat staring at the auction for a while. There were a few people watching Picasso, and one person had already put in a bid. I felt better knowing we would have a solution to the immediate problem - some cash. I was so engrossed in watching my piano disappear, I didn’t hear mum walk into the room, and peer over my shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’
She knew as soon as she saw the screen what my plan was. She stared at me with a look of such pained horror that I jumped out of my chair, and wrapped her in a hug. Mum wasn’t expecting my suddenly intimate embrace, and almost toppled sideways. As we righted ourselves, she started to protest.
‘Darling, you can’t sell Picasso. It’s like selling part of the family. I just can’t let you do it.’
‘I can get at least $5,000 for him. That would pay the mortgage for quite a while. When you’re ready to tell me what the hell happened to the $80,000, we can talk about what we need to do once this money runs out.’
Finally mum looked defeated; the mention of the exact amount of the debt rattled her. She knew we needed the money.
‘But your students. You start a new term next week. What will they play when you teach them?’
I hadn’t thought that far so I just shrugged.
The tension in the house was so thick, I sat outside on the back lawn to eat my breakfast, hoping the cool breeze might help me to breathe easier. Mum came outside, and stood for a while as if deciding whether to speak or not. Eventually she sat down, making an effort to be cheerful, even though the stress was seeping out of her like sweat.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk at the park? Then I can explain what’s been going on.’
‘So you’ve decided to tell me after all?’
‘What with you selling Picasso, I know it’s too late to keep this all from you.’
I nodded in agreement, and we both went inside silently to get changed. For me, it meant throwing on a t-shirt and a pair of old cargo pants. Mum always took much longer to get ready, so I passed the time by playing a few of my favourite piano pieces, aware of having to make the most of my time left with Picasso. I ended up with the last movement of the Schubert B flat sonata I‘d won him with, which was appropriate, since it was the last of Schubert's ‘Last Sonatas’.
Mum looked just as she always did after cleaning herself up from gardening, with her freshly applied mask of makeup. Even when on school holidays and facing a crisis, she still saw no reason to dress down. I'd cheerfully wear track pants every day for the rest of my life, but mum thought that was vulgar. She dressed carefully each day in a dress suit, or short sleeved shirt, skirt and cardigan, stockings and sensible heels. Her slim, short frame had been the same size for my entire life, and some of the clothes she wore were nearly as old as me. Her long fair hair was always carefully wrapped into a bun, the flyaways plastered to the side of her head with hair spray. I never understood where she found the motivation. Or why she felt the need to look like a librarian.
We barely spoke on the way. On our last long walk, mum told me she too was mourning the loss of my career as a pianist. My first reaction was outrage. How dare she tell me she was sad? How was that meant to make me feel better? But as she kept talking, I realised she wasn’t sorry I failed. She was just sorry I wasn’t going to be happy. She wanted me to live my dreams as much as I did. I felt then that mum and I were in this together, and maybe everything would be ok. The day after, I finally worked up enough courage to place an ad in the local paper for people wanting piano lessons. Eventually I had a couple of enquiries, and two students soon became three, then five and then eight. It wasn't exactly a full time job, or even part time really, since the lessons were only half an hour each a week. And it wasn't the job I wanted; it was just the only option I seemed to have.
I hoped after teaching my first lesson, I would feel some satisfaction at guiding a new pupil around the piano. But I hated it. I absolutely hated it. I had no patience with my students. I had no concept of how difficult it was for a beginner to play the piano. And to top it all off, I didn't even care if my students never got any better. Listening to them clumsily prod and trip over the keys just gave me a headache. I looked forward to the end of each lesson, so I could go back to my bored stupor. All these students would have to be called this afternoon. How embarrassing to cancel their lessons because I didn't have a piano. But we had nothing else of real value to sell, so I had done the only thing possible. Sold the goose that laid the golden egg (if you could call $25 for a half hour lesson a golden egg).
I stood by the car waiting for mum to get out, but she seemed to be stalling again.
'I can see how difficult this is, mum, but how bad can it be?’
I’ve never been a patient person and now I was getting to the point where I wanted to shake her and see if the words just tumbled out. Eventually she stepped out of the car and started walking so briskly, I had to trot keep up.
‘Ok Ellen. A few months ago, I got a very strange email from an address I didn’t recognise. At first I thought it was spam, and I almost deleted it. But luckily I didn’t, because god knows what would have happened if I had.’
Visions of Nigerian email scams, and suckers sending thieves their bank account details over the internet, flooded into my mind. Please don’t tell me mum had fallen for something like that?
‘Can't you tell it any quicker ...’
‘Yes, yes, I’m getting there. So, the email was from an address I didn’t recognise.’
She’d already said that.
‘What did the email say?’
Much to my surprise, she'd brought a prop. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket and handed it to me. She had printed the email.
The first thing I noticed was the subject line: ‘Ob La Di Ob La Da’. And I immediately knew, just as mum must have, who this email was from. The message was short, but the implications of what it said caught in my throat: ‘Except it doesn’t. I need somebody. Not just anybody’. To anyone other than my mum and me, this message would have been meaningless spam. But I could see what mum saw. It was from my sister Sophie. And she was in trouble.
My mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. Mum could tell I had cottoned on. We both stopped walking.
‘Ob La Di Ob La Da, Life goes on, Bra, La-la how the life goes on.’ I spoke the words in a monotone; it wasn’t the moment for song.
Mum nodded. ‘And she needs help.’
‘Help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody, or else her life won’t go on.’ More Beatles lyrics.
Mum nodded again, this time more slowly.
The email had been sent from a nonsense address, tpjk67@hotmail.com, on the 15th October last year.
‘What happened when you wrote back? How could she have known your email address? You haven't had one for long’.
Mum was now red in the face, her forced calmness disintegrating.
‘When you put my name in a search engine on the internet, my email address comes up as the contact on my book-club's website. That’s how she must have found me. When I replied, the email bounced back. It said the address didn’t exist. But it did exist because it was right there. I must have tried it 20 times, and it just kept bouncing back. I asked her where she was, what was wrong, how could I help? But the message just kept coming up that there was a permanent error, from some mailer daemon.’ Mum’s voice started to shake. She sounded shrill and panicked as she recounted her frustration.
‘The account must have been deleted after she sent the email,’ I said. ‘But why didn’t she tell you where she was? How were you meant to help her if she didn’t give you any details?’
‘I can only imagine she meant to write more at a later time, but couldn’t. Or someone else could see what she was writing, and she didn’t want them to know where she was. There has to be some reason.’
Trust mum to give Sophie the benefit of the doubt. So like a mother to look past her child’s faults. My fear for Sophie was suddenly replaced by an extraordinary irritation only a sibling can feel. What the hell was she doing? We hadn't heard from her for seven years. And suddenly this cryptic email showed up out of the blue, asking for help, but not providing us the means to give it. It was completely useless. Why contact us by email anyway? She knew where we lived. It was her home too once. We still had the same phone number we always had for god’s sake!
Mum seemed to be lost in thought, but there was more to tell. About the money, for one thing. She took a deep breath and went on talking.
‘I decided right away I couldn’t just ignore the email. But I felt so lost, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell you about it because you would have been so worried, and you were already very upset about, well you know, things.’ She paused, while we both contemplated the understatement of the century. I hadn’t left my cave (bedroom) for a month around the time it was sent. No wonder I failed to notice mum getting stressed about an email from Sophie.
‘Anyway,’ she went on,’ I did some research. I found a private investigator who was willing to help me find her. You must understand Ellen, I couldn’t just do nothing. You do understand don’t you?’
Of course I understood, but I was still trying to come to terms with what it must have been like for mum for the past few months. I didn’t know what to say.
‘The private investigator, Liam Kingsley, has done a wonderful job. He really is very good. Whatever trouble she is in, I know she is still alive Ellen. He is sure of that. She doesn’t seem to stay in the same place for very long. But she’s definitely still alive. I really feel he is getting closer to finding her.’
Relief rushed through my veins. I didn't want to admit there was a possibility Sophie was dead. She wouldn't send an email like that unless something was drastically wrong, and the email account disappearing was not a good sign.
‘Is she still in London?’ I asked.
The last time we saw Sophie, she was 20 years old and getting on a flight to Heathrow. Mum didn’t want her to go, and I remembered them arguing about it. Sophie never forgave mum for ‘letting dad leave’. I could see she wasn’t to blame, and I recognised how hard she worked to look after us after he left. But Sophie had to take her rage out on someone and mum copped all her anger. She told us she was going to be a famous actress, and dad would be sorry when he found out his daughter was a star. Then he would return to us. That was her plan. To lure him back.
I remembered I thought Sophie was the most beautiful person ever. And she used to be my friend, before all the yelling and crying. She had huge green eyes, and long black eyelashes. Her hair was such a dark brown she told people it was black, just like dad’s. I remember she used to spend hours and hours in her room dressing up, putting on mum’s old clothes and swanning around in high heeled shoes. She always had The Beatles blaring from her stereo. Sometimes she would let me come in, if I promised to help her put makeup on.
But everything changed between us after dad left. We never spent any time together, because I was scared of her. When I was practising the piano, she would turn her stereo up even louder to drown me out. And she would tell me I was just a frumpy nerd, with a piano as my only friend. She wasn’t far wrong.
She promised to call when she got to London, but she never did. Mum and I had one postcard from her, a couple of months after she left. It was a photo of London Bridge, and it read: ‘Hi Mum and Ellen, I’ve got an audition for a play in the West End. Told you I was going to be a star! I’ll send all my loving to you xx’.
I remembered mum saying at the time: ‘Pity she doesn’t write home everyday’.
I didn’t understand then how sad mum was that she never heard from Sophie. I always assumed Sophie had become some sort of West End stage star, not big enough that we ever heard of her, but well known and loved, so she didn’t need a family anymore. We were all the way back in Adelaide, and she was living a real life in London.
As time went by, I asked about her less and less, because I could tell mum didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to admit her eldest daughter had left us, just like dad. Eventually we never spoke of Sophie at all. Sometimes I wondered where she was, and what she was doing. But most of the time this day dreaming was jealousy and resentment. She was off living her exciting London life, and she never even wondered what was going on with us. I guess I tried to make up for it by being really good at the piano.
But now she was back in our lives. I felt a mixture of worry and anger. Especially because I suddenly understood where all the money had gone. It was spent trying to find her! And that spending meant we almost lost our house, the one she was so desperate to leave as soon as she could. And now I’d gone and sold my piano; as she put it, my only friend.
Mum was so lost in her own thoughts she wasn’t listening to me anymore. Maybe she was remembering Sophie, like I was.
‘Mum, hello, is she still in London?’
Mum shook her head. She looked scared to speak, as she could see the anger rising in me.
‘No, she was in London for a long time. Liam managed to work out that she flew to Sydney recently.’
Unbelievable. She had come back to Australia, and was only a two hour plane trip from home, yet she didn’t feel it necessary to get in contact with us? What had we done to deserve this?
‘So you’re telling me you’ve paid this private investigator $80,000 to find Sophie, and he hasn’t managed to do that yet?’
I felt very hostile. Sophie was still missing, and this Liam person had $80,000, which is a shit load of money to be given for three months’ work, even with expenses. Who the hell was this person?
‘I can see you are hurt, Ellen. You are hurt I didn’t tell you about this when it happened, and you have always felt hurt that Sophie disappeared from our lives. But there are lots of things you don’t know, and Liam is doing a good job.’ Who was she trying to convince? ‘When we get home I’ll show you all the correspondence I’ve had with him since I gave him the job. Then you’ll know as much as I do. He keeps me regularly updated via email.’
‘Mum, I want to meet with this guy. Or at the very least speak to him. I think it’s time I got a lot more involved in this...situation.’
The look on mum’s face gave away her amazement that I was offering to help. It reminded me how weak she must have thought I was; what a hopeless invalid she had for a daughter. But this was no time to feel sorry for myself. If ever there was a time in my life to get it together, it was now.
We had hardly gone far by this time, but after what I had discovered, I just wanted to turn around and go back to the car. Mum powered forward though, determined to finish the walk. Thankfully she didn’t try to ease my anxiety with chat about the weather, nor did she mention Sophie again. I knew I shouldn’t blame mum for her part in all this. Sophie was her daughter too, just as much as I was. And mum made plenty of sacrifices for me.
When we got home, she went to the computer, and opened an email account I had never seen before. I thought of her sitting there as she often did in the evenings, waiting for me to turn the TV on, or play the piano, and checking for any news of Sophie. I always thought she was playing computer solitaire. She must have been terrified when she thought something had happened to Sophie. No wonder she just handed over whatever money she could get.
Mum left me to it with the emails, just as she had done with the loan statements. I felt like she was starting to relax a bit; maybe she was relieved she didn’t have to keep lying to me. And with the mortgage sorted for the time being, she could concentrate on this not so secret search for my sister.
Before I read the emails, I had a couple of other things to do. I checked how Picasso’s auction was going. It finished in an hour, and the bids were up to $5,800. Hopefully there would be a bidding war right at the end, and we could get over $6,000.
Next I called all of my eight students. I forced myself to do it straight away, or I’d put it off forever. The parents of the children didn’t seem too fussed when I said I wouldn’t start the term for another month. And the two adults were also, slightly worryingly, quite happy to put off their lessons. I felt guilt and relief as I hung up from my final call, acknowledging I was quite glad to take a longer break from my very new career. This was also not a good sign. But I had other things to worry about now, and with this chore over, I was ready to find out exactly what this clever little Liam had discovered.
Chapter 4
Someone had betrayed them. Sydney was now as dangerous as London. It was three months since Danny was killed. Three months, a flight to Sydney, and 12 hotel rooms. Then, two days ago, Sophie glimpsed a man who kept a short distance behind her as she shopped for groceries. He looked like a tall, skinny, scabby faced teenager, with outdated sun glasses, and an oversized suit. His hunched stride and huge feet made him look like a weasel or a rat, maybe a mixture of the two. He wasn’t doing a great job of staying hidden; at one point she slowed down so much that he overtook her, and then stopped to tie his shoelace to let her pass again. She was into a shop and out the back door before he even had time to stand up. She had almost laughed to herself that they sent such an amateur to watch her movements. But what did she know? Maybe he was armed, and over-confident. She was glad to have lost him, in case his orders weren’t just to watch. Maybe he was the one who killed Danny. Her stomach wrenched at the thought.
So now it was time to run further away. Katie would go first; no point exposing both of them at once. Last night was the first they had spent together in Sydney for weeks. They had chosen a hostel close to Central station, from where they would make their escape. Katie had been scared, but resolute, when she left moments ago. Charlie was strapped to her front, gently clawing at her chest, enjoying the rhythm of her steps.
But as Sophie watched her friend cross busy George St from the hostel window, she could see almost immediately, with a lurch of fear, that Katie and her son were being followed. It was the sunglasses she spotted again today. And the hurried walk, standing out in the crowd of wandering shoppers. As Sophie picked up her phone to warn Katie, she could see that in a few seconds she would be out of view. Even from this distance, the bulge in the front of the baby sling was noticeable. Anyone else might expect it to be a bottle or an extra nappy. But rolled into this pouch was $2,000 in cash, the key to Katie's new life, and a mobile phone with a new number that only Sophie knew. She saw Katie's hand reach into the front of Charlie's sling as her phone started to vibrate. She answered it after two rings.
'What is it Sophie?' She sounded as panicked as Sophie felt. A phone call hadn't been part of their plan, so Katie could tell something wasn't right.
'Don't look around, but the ratty sunglasses guy is following you.' Sophie left the window as she spoke, and headed out of the hostel.
'Shit! How the hell did he find us this time?'
'Just keep going, Katie. I'll be right behind you.'
'Are you sure I just shouldn't turn back? We can get a room somewhere else and maybe... maybe he'll lose us, and I can get to the station tomorrow.'
'No. You're on your way now. He can't know where you’re going. Just walk a bit faster and don't look back.'
'Where are you Sophie? I'm shitting myself.'
'Just keep moving. You're not far away now. You don't want to be late. The train only leaves twice a day.'
Sophie started jogging to catch up with the man. As she spotted him weaving around a group of slow moving tourists, she realised he wasn't alone. There was another man with him, who looked more confident, and stronger. He kept pointing ahead of them, making sure they could both still see their prey. They seemed to be purposely keeping a short distance between themselves and Katie. But they weren't backing off.
'I can see the tunnel. As soon as I get down there, I'm going to run. I'll call you back from the station. Don't follow me Sophie. I don't want them to find you too.'
Katie rang off, and Sophie felt a rush of relief. Katie was going to make it onto the train, and they'd never find her. Sophie had discovered, on a map in the hostel, the pedestrian tunnel under George St that led straight into the station. The men wouldn't know about it, hopefully. Katie would literally disappear under Railway Square, and would be far away before they worked out where she had gone. She was proud they had plotted Katie's escape so easily. Their old lives kept them immune from the stresses of waiting in line for a bus that didn’t arrive, or having to spend money getting from one place to another; Danny had always ensured they were driven everywhere. Now they had to fend for themselves.
Sophie knew it was probably best to hide now herself; to run to the flat she had rented outside of the city. But she couldn't bring herself to stop following. She wanted Katie and Charlie to get on that train, and it felt wrong to walk away before she knew they were safe. As she came to a busy cross road, a row of traffic blocked her way, and she lost site of the two men. She was only 50 meters from the tunnel herself now, and no longer felt invisible. As she darted towards the entrance and down the escalator, the mobile phone she was still clutching started to ring.
'Are you on the train?'
'No, I've got my ticket, but the train isn't ready to board yet. I'm on the platform. Is there any sign of them?'
'No, I lost them. I'm in the tunnel. You're going to be OK, Katie. Give Charlie a hug for me. I'll see you in a few weeks. Text me when you‘re on your way.’
'Ok. Thanks Sophie. You look after your...'
Katie stopped talking mid word, and the sudden silence made Sophie's heart stop.
'What is it?' she asked.
'They're on the platform. Shit. They've seen me. I'm going to leave Charlie...'