20
A new mall was being built on the edge of town.
A luxury shopping experience, the billboard promised.
Right then, it didn’t look like a luxury anything.
It was a square of bulldozed dirt, haphazardly dotted with scaffolds, a few slabs of cement, and a Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign zip-tied onto the fence.
Nicola wasn’t the first person to ignore that sign. The chain mesh had several human-shaped holes cut into it.
Is this where you buy pot? I asked, leaning out of her backpack to look around, the plastic jaws of the open zipper digging into my duct tape.
It was night, the light on Nicola’s phone aimed at her feet. With every step she took, the shadows jerked and wobbled, dancing off the scattered pieces of construction equipment.
Not that I was scared. No. No way. I was the haunted doll.
I wasn’t scared of the dark. It was the dark that should be scared of me.
But I’d admit I was . . . apprehensive. This wasn’t a breed of dark I was used to, the edges of it sharpened by Nicola’s light, the depths of it made deeper, and darker.
“I buy my pot from Paul,” Nicola said, unbothered.
Wait, Paul? As in your boss Paul? Comb-over, bifocals, and suspenders? That Paul?
“I don’t know any others.”
Oh . . . I thought he was, like, Mormon or something.
“He is.”
And a drug dealer?
“Humans are funny like that,” she said.
Complicated?
“I was going to say hypocritical.”
She stumbled over a small pebble, the light from her phone swinging suddenly to the side, making the shadows rush forward.
I sank deeper into the backpack.
My car was beneath me, the hard plastic of its wheel rim scraping against my porcelain leg. Also in the bag were a couple of cans of spray paint, a face mask for Nicola, and some printed copies of a missing-person poster with my old face on them. Our Plan B go bag.
Is that why we’re here? I asked. To discuss the nature of humanity? I’m going to be real with you, Nic. I never was much on philosophy. The dark continued to dance as Nicola strode across the lot. Also, if it’s a deep and meaningful conversation you’re after, I think we can do that on your sofa.
“This is more fun.”
Is it?
“We’re not here to chat,” she said. “We’re here to commit crimes.”
But not a drug deal?
“Not a drug deal.” She pointed up at the billboard promising luxury.
It was big, really big, the sort of big that belonged in cities but felt out of place in our small, rural town.
I had no idea how many eyeballs saw it a day.
A marketing professional in a suit somewhere probably knew. I bet it was a lot.
“What do you think?” she asked, sounding proud of herself. “Come on. You’ve got to give it to me. It’s better than a bathroom mirror.”
Nic. You’re a genius.
She grinned at me over her shoulder. “Either that or I’ve become addicted to vandalism. The high of paint fumes. The adrenaline of maybe getting caught.”
If you want adrenaline, we could always go back to Plan A. Stop messing about and just kill the arsehole.
Her grin grew sharper, drier. “Maybe you’re the devil after all. Maybe I’m slowly being corrupted by your weird, creepy little voice.”
What did Batman say? You either die a hero or live to become the villain.
“Two things. (A) That wasn’t Batman, and (B) that sounds an awful lot like you’re framing yourself as the hero.”
Naturally.
“Maybe I’m overdue a villain era,” she muttered, more to herself. “Team up with the devil. Do some damage.”
Damage some doers, I suggested.
She laughed. “You are a devil. But, hell, hanging out with your spooky ass beats sitting around wondering if it would be neater just to kill myself anyway.”
I probably should’ve said something then, the sort of thing a friend is meant to say to another friend when they admit something dark and messed up.
Before I could find the words, the moment slipped away and an awkward silence shuffled in, broken only by the rumble of the nearby highway and the barking of distant dogs.
I watched the hungry shadows and tried not to let the thoughts inside me manifest into words.
Nicola was the only person I had in the world.
I needed her, more than I’d ever needed anyone.
But strangely, I still didn’t know if we were friends.
We were partners, accomplices, coconspirators .
. . but friends? We hadn’t been friends in school.
I hadn’t even known her name. We stayed up and watched The Walking Dead together, but I was pretty sure that if she could watch TV with anyone in the world, my name wouldn’t be on the top of that list.
I owed her everything. She’d rescued me. She was helping me. She’d bought me a car. She was a good person. But that didn’t mean she wanted me to attempt to comfort her. It sounded like an excuse, even in my own mind.
“Are you awake, Lu?”
Yeah, I responded. Yeah. I’m sorry that you . . . um. Yeah. I’m sorry.
Nicola kept walking, the light from her phone illuminating piles of dirt, concrete walls, scaffolds, and holes sprouting with rebar.
Eventually, she came to the base of the billboard and shone her light at the metal legs.
The first was unremarkable. The second had a ladder crudely welded onto the side.
In my admittedly unprofessional opinion, it looked flimsy as fuck.
“Shit,” Nicola whispered.
What are you doing?
“Hold my phone.” She held it over her shoulder, light shining forward. I wrapped my arms awkwardly around it, hugging the massive touch screen to my chest and twisting to direct the beam toward the ladder.
Are you sure about this? I asked.
“Nope,” she said, and started climbing. I sank a little deeper into the backpack, still clutching the phone.
I wasn’t sure I was doing a very good job illuminating anything.
I could see the dark brown of Nicola’s hair, the freckles at the back of her neck, and not much else.
But Nicola didn’t complain. She just kept climbing.
We were halfway up when the ladder creaked, metal squealing against metal. Nicola froze, her breath stopping short and her shoulders shaking. I clutched the phone tighter as the ladder creaked again, a low, angry moan.
“Fuck,” Nicola whispered, tangling her limbs with the rungs. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Don’t worry, I said. If you fall and die, I’ll let you share my doll body. I meant it as a joke, but she didn’t laugh.
“Fuck,” she said again. “What the fuck am I doing?”
We can go down.
“No. No. Fuck, I . . . just . . . Talk.”
Talk?
“Say something,” she snarled. “Just say something.”
I racked my brain for something, anything to say. I . . . eh . . . Why’d you drop out of uni? It was the only thing I could think of.
“That’s what you want to talk about? Me being a useless flunky?”
No. I . . . I’m sorry. I—
“Did you mean that?” she asked, breathing fast. “About being able to share your doll body? If I die? Will I be able to possess the doll?”
You’d need to pay rent, I replied.
This time she did laugh, a tight, strangled sound that might not have been a laugh at all but a sob.
For a long time, we hung there, her limbs tangled with the ladder as she breathed in and out with a steadiness that made me think she was counting in her head. Her knuckles were bone white, her forearms laced with veins. Despite the cold air there was a sparkle of sweat on her hairline.
“I was already on my third try when we met at Ginger’s party,” she said suddenly.
Your third try?
“At university,” she said, speaking to the ladder.
You don’t have to—
“Shut up. I’d moved to Sydney to attend med school. Dropped out in the first semester.”
Why med school? I asked, just to keep her distracted, just to keep her talking.
“I dunno. I guess that was the problem. I had picked something impressive sounding, not something that I really wanted to do.” She reached for the next rung.
“For my second try, I went with veterinary science. Made it all the way to semester two before I crashed and burned. Take three was architecture and take four was philosophy.”
That’s a lot, I said dumbly, still clutching the phone, trying to hold it steady as she pulled herself up.
“Yeah,” she said. “My last try was fine art. Week one, I made a joke about the size of Michelangelo’s David’s cock. No one laughed. Couldn’t show my face there again.”
You never seemed like the type to make cock jokes.
Her laugh was tight, forced, almost angry. “I can make cock jokes. Did you hear the one about the guy who died of a Viagra overdose? They couldn’t close his cask—”
That’s a death joke, not a cock joke. You’re telling the dead girl a death joke.
“Yeah, well, you asked the local disappointment why she dropped out of university, so I figure we’re one to one in the insensitive-arsehole competition.” She started climbing, slow and steady, one hand, then one foot, then the other hand, the other foot.
I didn’t mean to be an insensitive arsehole, I said. I just thought you’d love university.
“Me too,” she said; then she repeated it, softer, sadder.
“Me too. School was easy. I figured uni would just be the same thing. But then I got there and . . . and it was hard. It was really hard. I don’t know why.
I guess I was just second-guessing myself at every step.
Is this really what I wanted to do? Is this who I wanted to be? ”
I knew the feeling.
“And then my hearing loss got worse, the audiologist said it was time for hearing aids, which was just . . . another thing, you know.”
I have a question, I said.
“Yeah?”
You’re saying “aids” plural, but I’ve only ever seen you wear one.
“When you live your whole life on low volume, full surround-sound stereo can be pretty overwhelming. I usually leave one at home, top drawer beside my bed. Haven’t you noticed which side it’s on switches?”
I hadn’t noticed that. Oh. Yeah. Sure.