“Thanks,” I said. “We might take you up on that.”
“And if you ever want a reading, El, I’m the second house up on the Jarra headlands. The one with all the glass. Stop by. Even if it’s just for a cup of tea. Or glass of wine. Or if you just want the lowdown on this place, because believe me, there’s plenty of it.” Her gaze ticked to Martin.
“Thanks. I will.” And I meant it.
“She seems nice,” I said to Martin as she left us.
But Martin was focused on Rabz, who was setting two plates in front of us, each with a steaming meat pie, hot chips, and tiny peas. She poured Martin another beer and I realized I’d finished my wine. How many had I had? Two? Three? Rabz nodded to my glass and I said yes.
Martin tucked into his food, clearly ravenous. I picked at mine. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact with me.
“Martin?”
His gaze met mine. I felt undercurrents. Was he judging me for my drinking? Or was it the greenies upsetting him?
“You haven’t said a word to me since she brought the food—” I reached for my fresh glass but my motor skills were off and I bumped it with the back of my hand. It toppled over. Shock crashed through me as wine splashed over the counter. I lurched up and lunged for the glass to stop it from rolling off and onto the floor, knocking over my barstool in the process. It toppled back onto the floor with a violent smash.
People stopped talking, turned.
“Jesus, Ellie!” Martin grabbed a napkin and tried to sop up the spill. Rabz hurried over with a dishcloth, calling for the young server to help.
“I . . . I’m so sorry, I—” I was shaken. Sounds around me turned into a droning noise. Everything seemed unsteady.
Martin’s eyes turned thunderous. He righted the stool angrily while I braced against the bar for balance. The whole pub was swaying.
“Please don’t worry,” Rabz said quickly, lightly, trying to defuse things. “Happens all the time.” She motioned to the server to bring me another drink.
“Yeah,” snapped Martin. “I’m sure it happens all the time—people get drunk all the time. And she doesn’t need another.”
“I’d like another,” I replied, determined to save face, to prove it was an accident. “I was just clumsy.” But even I could hear the slurring in my words. I should go to the bathroom. I should splash water on my face. I let go of the bar, but my knees gave out under me. I grabbed for the counter again, knocking my plate off. It smashed onto the floor, breaking into shards and sending tiny green peas rolling everywhere.
Martin swore. I felt his hands on me, holding me up. His grip too tight. I heard noise, music, talking, laughing—all the sounds running into each other. I felt far away.
“Better take . . . home . . . ,” Martin was saying something to someone. “. . . too much to drink again.”
“I . . . only . . . had one hand half . . .” My words came out in a mumble.
Martin supported me with the help of Rabz. I heard Rabz say, “Have you got your ute here?”
Martin said, “We walked.”
“Take my car. It’s outside. You can bring it back later.”
We stumbled outside. It was dark. Fairy lights swinging. Hot wind. Distant booming surf. I heard bats fighting in the tree overhead. A car lock beep. He helped me in.
“Were you drinking before we got here, Ellie? Or is it the pills?”
I shook my head. The world whirled. He buckled me in. The engine started. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. The whole world was tilting, spinning, round and round, faster, faster. I was going to throw up.
“I said, did you take more pills?”
“Wh . . . what?”
“Ativan—more benzos?”
But I couldn’t make out words anymore. I felt the car turn. I was sinking into the dark . . . beautiful, dark, silky soft oblivion.
THE MURDER TRIAL
Pretrial forensic evaluation session.
We’re back on the subject of my mother’s death. It’s my second appointment with the forensic psychologist in his Sydney office. I walked out on the last one when I felt he was trying to trick me. After sleeping on it I decided to return and follow through with the next appointment.
I need this trial to go the right way. My way. And after all, mental trickery goes both ways, right?
“You were nine, Ellie,” he says. “You were in the house alone with your mother. At what point did you realize she was in trouble that day?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let’s try and go back, shall we? What do you remember doing right before you realized your mom was in trouble?”
“I . . . I think I was drawing in my room.”
“You’ve always liked drawing?”
I nodded.
“Do you recall what you were drawing?”
An image flares through my mind. Vines strangling a little girl who was walking through a forest searching for her dad, who was a big strong woodcutter with magical powers.
“No.”
He studies me. I hold his gaze.
“Did you mother call out to you?”
“I . . . No. I just heard a thump and something break. I went to see what happened. I found her lying on the floor in her bedroom.”
“Where exactly on the floor?”
“Between the bed and the wall. Near the nightstand.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to wake her. I shook her. There was foam coming out of her mouth. Nothing would wake her.”
“Was it the first time you’d found her like this, Ellie?”
I feel heat in my head. “No. I’d found her like that twice before already.”
“What did you do those times?”
“I phoned my dad.”
“And this time—did you call him?”
“I . . . I can’t remember. I just remember him arriving. Later. After the ambulances and a fire truck. Lots of people with big boots in the house and lots of equipment.”
Slowly he says,
