Chapter Ten
CHAPTER
10
Shelley’s housemate Jake has offered to retrieve the containers from the storage area under the house, and will come to the saddlery straight from work. I do what I can to make his job easier, propping open the half-door under the house and shuffling on my bottom like a crab to clear a path through the things Grandpa declared might be useful ‘one day’. Just as he warned, there’s less than a metre between the ground and the ceiling and the containers are behind everything else that’s been stored in the years after Dad died.
It’s cold, which Grandpa also warned me about. ‘No matter how hot the cottage and shed get in summer, it’s like an icebox under the house.’ The six containers, clear plastic with lids taped shut, are larger than I expected them to be.
‘I sealed them good and tight the day after Sam’s funeral,’ Grandpa said, ‘just in case the rats took a fancy.’
After sweeping the torch back and forth to search for rats, I clear threads of cobwebs from my face. There are boxes of film and camera equipment inside the containers, but I can make out other shapes too. Books. Folders. A trophy.
I told Jake where I’d be and left the door open. It’s already three fifty. Where is he? I work my way backwards around crates and cardboard boxes—Christmas decorations, photo albums, jigsaw puzzles, toys—and get to my knees at the door. Using my good arm but keeping my knees bent, I push up from the ground. A motorbike roars. I turn towards the sound and—
I thump my arm against a joist. Stars flash in front of my eyes and I suck breaths in through my teeth. Shutting my eyes, I hold back tears but a sob escapes.
Keith Urban, tongue lolling and tail wagging, appears at the door as I step into the brightness. A new flash of pain shoots from my shoulder to my wrist as I straighten. I grab my arm, count to ten. Recalibrate.
‘Mackenzie!’ The shout is from the front of the house, so I don’t see the bike until I round the corner. Big and black, parked next to my four-wheel drive. The Viking’s jacket is draped across the seat and his helmet rests on top. As Keith Urban bounces on the grass in front of him, the Viking crouches to ruffle his fur. He looks up. Startlingly blue eyes.
‘You’re early.’ My tone is too accusing. Too rattled. I feel like crying but this is not the time.
He lifts his shirt cuff, checks his watch. ‘Five minutes.’
My phone beeps with a series of texts from Shelley. Jake is sick. Should I come instead? Are you okay?
I text back. Sorry, no reception under house. Hope Jake’s okay. All good.
The Viking frowns as he looks me up and down, taking in my stained and dusty jeans, grubby T-shirt and filthy fingernails. ‘What happened?’
‘I asked Jake to help get the containers from under the house but …’ I hold up my phone. ‘He’s sick.’
‘Why didn’t James do it?’
‘He’s afraid of rats and spiders.’
After sending me one of his narrow-eyed looks, the Viking glances over my shoulder. ‘I can get them.’
The setting sun sneaks through the trees and into my eyes. My arm is painful. And now I have a Viking to contend with. When I brush back my hair, it’s sticky with cobwebs.
‘Wait for me here,’ I tell him.
I resist holding my arm to my body as I walk to the house. As I swallow two tablets and glug a glass of water, I reassure myself that my arm isn’t as sore as it’s been, it’s simply worse than it was. In the bathroom, I wash my hands. The skin on my face is paler than it should be—the freckles on the bridge of my nose stand out. As it takes ages to tie my hair back with one hand, I settle for smoothing it with water as I splash my face. I dry myself off with a handtowel as I retrace my steps.
Unlike me, the Viking isn’t in a rush to get this over with. He’s not looking at his phone or pacing, but standing on the second top rung of the fence near the gate. He shields his eyes from the sun with one hand.
‘You’re a long way from the ocean.’
Does he want to sail a ship? ‘Only a few hours.’
‘Your arm.’ He searches my face. ‘What happened?’
Does he have X-ray vision? ‘You can’t take the film today.’
Yet another frown. ‘Why not?’
‘There are other things in the containers. I’ll have to go through them.’
‘Did you know this before?’
‘If I had, I would have told you not to come.’ When Phoenix, out of sight in the paddock behind the house, whinnies, the Viking frowns.
‘You still have the horse?’
‘Sorry you’ve wasted your time. I’ll have them ready for you next—’
‘I said I’d get them.’
He walks beside me down the path but when the door, about half his height, comes into view his pace slows.
‘There’s a light, but it’s hard to see the containers at the back. I’ll go in first. I’ll show you.’
He looks past me as he rolls up his sleeves. He takes out his phone, puts on the torch. ‘Explain and I’ll find them.’
‘I’ve cleared a route, but you’ll have to crawl. There are six containers on the left-hand side at the back.’
Within twenty minutes, five containers are lined up on the path outside the door. And within another few minutes, along with the now familiar sounds of a solid weight scraping on the concrete and an occasional grunt and muffled curse, a sixth joins the ranks. I quietly stand back as, one at a time, he carries the containers into the living room. His face might have more colour than it did, but he’s not sweating or puffing or slowing his pace.
‘I’ll look through them tomorrow. I’ll let you know what I find.’
He stares at the containers as if itching to …
Take his knife from his boot? Slice through the tape like he sliced through my chest binder? Practical. Efficient. He wants to do things now. Without delay. Immediately.
‘How long have they been there?’ he asks.
I glance at the containers. A life. My father’s life. Sadness cramps my chest. Why didn’t I search earlier? Why didn’t I—
‘How long?’
‘Since …’ My voice wobbles. ‘Thirteen years and three days.’
After Dad died I was hauled, via court order, to my mother’s house in Sydney. By the time I got back, Grandpa had done ‘a bit of sprucing up’. Dad’s bedroom, the room next door to Grandpa’s, was now Grandpa’s sitting room. He told me that when I had friends over to watch TV or have a chat, he would be out of my way.
‘Mackenzie?’
‘I didn’t know …’
‘What?’ His voice is quiet.
‘I expected to see Dad’s boxes of film.’ My eyes burn. ‘I didn’t think about his cameras and the rest.’
He opens his mouth, shuts it. ‘Will Jake be with you when you open the boxes?’
‘Jake is Shelley’s housemate.’
‘Shelley will be here?’
‘What for? I don’t need anyone.’
‘James?’
‘What about him?’
‘I saw you together at the film set.’
‘Like I saw you and Chloe? Do you need her help?’
He frowns. ‘You told her if the documentary was made in Summerfield, it would be the closest location to Sydney.’
‘That’s a fact.’
Another frown. ‘You said you don’t draw flowers from photographs.’
‘I don’t. Usually.’
‘You drew for Chloe.’
‘She only wanted a sketch. It wasn’t important.’
‘Did you know it was for me?’
‘Not until I’d done it.’
When he steps closer the wattle trees, the banksia bushes, the grevillea at the letterbox … everything shrinks. He has dirt on his elbow. One sleeve is up, the other is down. ‘It was beautiful.’
‘Oh …’
The lift of his lips softens the planes of his face. ‘You told me you need to see where a plant comes from. Is that only for sketches that are important?’
‘I need to see where a plant belongs.’
‘In its habitat?’
‘More than that …’ I gather scattered thoughts. ‘If a plant is growing out of the earth or pushing through a crack between rocks, it’s easier to see what has shaped it.’
He considers what I’ve said. And then he points to my sling. ‘Can I touch this?’
I take a deep breath. ‘More advice?’
‘Yes or no?’
After I nod, he places a hand on my elbow. Assured and careful. Firm yet gentle. A contradiction. He’s a contradiction. He looks like a Viking. There are no Vikings. He’s ferociously confident yet …
‘I bumped it under the house.’
‘When you’re in pain, your pupils dilate.’
‘My freckles stand out.’
‘Your irises are an unusual colour.’
‘Grandpa says they couldn’t make up their mind what colour they wanted to be.’
This time, it’s a proper smile. He touches the sling near my wrist. ‘Hold your arm close to your body.’ He lengthens the strap at my neck, stands back, considers my stance, adjusts the strap again.
I’m surrounded by him. He smells nice. Too nice. He’s tall. Too tall. And handsome. Too handsome. He’s too …
‘Mackenzie.’ His voice sounds different. I look up. He looks down. I swallow. Swallow again.
I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath. ‘Thank you for your help.’
He looks at my mouth. Slightly open. Sharp breaths.
‘I went to the film set to see Astrid,’ he says gruffly. ‘I’m not with Chloe.’
My legs are shaky. My breasts tingle. ‘For now.’
He lifts his hand, growls a little. ‘Squeeze my fingers.’
I take a step back. ‘Why?’
‘To test the strength in your arm.’
Looking down to hide the warmth in my face, I take his hand and squeeze as hard as I can and—
‘Ahh.’ I grab the top of my arm with my other hand. My eyes water. ‘I didn’t hit it hard.’
He frowns. ‘When do you see your doctor?’
As I lower my good hand, he takes it. His grip isn’t too hard. Or too soft. Just right.
‘Mackenzie? When?’
Does he lean in? Do I? Our hands are between our bodies now. Pressed between our bodies. His other hand goes to my shoulder. I feel his breathing. I close my eyes. Just for a moment. Just for a moment I’ll stand here like this. Just for a moment it won’t be painful. Just for a moment I won’t be alone.
His hand slides over my shoulder to my back. With his other hand, he takes something from my hair and flicks it away. A cobweb? Another deep breath. It’s hard to tell whether it’s his breath or mine.
He speaks quietly. ‘I could drive you to the hospital.’
Please, please, please don’t talk.
‘Mackenzie?’
‘I see the specialist at the end of March. Two weeks.’
‘You should—’
‘The documentary.’ My voice is soft and jittery. ‘I’ll do what you say. I’ll do what you want. You don’t have to worry about me.’
His hand isn’t touching my face, but if I turned my head, we’d touch there as well. His thumb is close to my mouth, my bottom lip. If he wanted to touch it, would I stop him? Falling, falling, falling.
‘I think I do.’
My lips are open, tiny little breaths upon the skin of his thumb. I imagine it pressing, releasing, pressing again. He dips his head and …
‘You don’t know what you want,’ he says quietly.
I pull my hand free, sway for a moment, steady myself. His hands drop to his sides and, as if he’s not tall enough already, he lifts his chin. He opens his mouth. Closes it.
‘Erik wants Summerfield,’ he says. ‘He wants you.’
‘You want the film.’
He shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Keep it away from the light. Don’t open canisters, cartridges.’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted everything out.’
‘I’m away for two weeks.’ Another stiff nod. ‘Can I see you when I get back? Saturday night?’
‘So you can get the film?’
A brief hesitation. ‘We could have dinner.’
Even before I work out the date, I’m shaking my head. ‘I’m meeting Aiden that night.’
Everything about him is tense. But he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even frown. He takes out his phone and checks dates. ‘The next week. Friday afternoon.’ A stiff smile. ‘To get the film.’
‘Right.’ My throat is tight. ‘Five-thirty?’
He hands me a card. Kit Thorsen. Polar Institute. A string of qualifications. A phone number. ‘Let me know what you find.’
‘I’ll text.’
Another nod. And then he walks away.