Nine Letters Long Page 7

  The Venus Cuza College stands alone on a corner. On one side of the street, shops and cafes buzz along with a spring Saturday morning in Sydney.

  The smells of coffee, freshly toasted bread and bacon fat seem like they’re coming from a different world. Couples hold hands, a mother chases her toddler down the street, and a table of friends lounge around enjoying their fry-up. Evie watches them, wishing she was one of them.

  But Evie’s place is on the other side of the road where no sign or sound of life exists except for a man in white overalls painting a sign at the front of the college. Evie walks towards the building, her beaded slippers scuffing along on the pavement. She counts her steps – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight … The painter turns around.

  ‘G’day,’ he says. His accent sounds like the man’s she met at Victoria’s. ‘Sorry, you want to get past?’

  As he steps away from the entrance, Evie sees there’s a long set of stairs leading to another glass door.

  ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ Evie answers. ‘I’m, um, waiting for someone.’

  The man looks at his watch. ‘The girls won’t be down for a while. Why don’t you go up and wait?’

  ‘No … I’ll … I’ve got stuff to do,’ Evie tells him. ‘What … exact time do they finish … again?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’ He swirls a fine brush in a tiny tin of paint. ‘My daughter’s up there,’ he grins. ‘She does the Saturday class. Loves it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m just doing a job for the owners. Nice new door and all.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Vandals smashed in the old one the other night. Glass everywhere.’ Carefully he draws a line on the glass with gold paint. It becomes the letter N. ‘Bloody street gang probably. Up to no good. Fair bit of vandalism round here.’ He dips the brush back into the paint. ‘Anyway, now they get a brand-new door with smart gold names on the front. Good timing, really. For Ian, that is.’ He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. ‘Sounds funny calling him that.’

  ‘The Venus Cuza Ladies’ College of Deportment and Modelling’ is already painted in a fancy cursive style. The letters are shiny and gold.

  ‘The cops are too soft in this country,’ he continues. ‘These fellas that do all this vandalism get off with a warning! They’ll never learn.’ His brush completes an R. ‘So, you don’t do the classes, eh?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t. Um, a friend does.’

  ‘Well, you just watch the door.’ He points up the stairs and smiles. ‘Soon they’ll come on down. All those girls, so beautiful.’

  ‘Watch the door,’ Evie repeats his words in her head. ‘That’s what Caz meant by “Look the door”!’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Evie says to the painter. ‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘No worries, love.’

  Evie crosses the road to where the new gelato bar is and orders a takeaway latte. This way she can sit on the wall that separates the café and the footpath, and watch the entrance to the college.

  Caz’s messages repeat in her head. ‘Scared. Look the door. Paris talk. Careful. I need assistance and help. Scared. Look the door. Paris talk. Careful. I need assistance and help.’

  The painter begins to pack up and a minute later the first girl comes down. She says something to him and points up the stairs. He laughs and nods. Soon, three more appear. Evie thinks they couldn’t be any older than twelve. They carry large bags on their shoulders and seem to be engrossed in conversation. Gradually, girl after girl trickles down the stairs. The painter leaves with his daughter. Two girls caked in make-up wait together at the entrance.

  Evie waits at the pedestrian lights. Beep, beep, beep – her heart pounds in time as she watches the other side of the road. ‘Wait, Paris, wait. Don’t come out yet.’ Beepbeep beepbeepbeepbeep – the walk sign flashes.

  The girls out the front are waving to the red car at the lights. It must be their lift. Quickly, Evie walks towards them. ‘Is Paris up there?’

  ‘Yep,’ they reply as the car pulls into the kerb. ‘She won’t be long.’

  The new door now reads ‘Nora L. Cuza – Manager’. Next to it, in the same shiny gold enamel, are the letters I and A of the next word, yet to be completed. Evie resists the urge to run her finger across the wet paint. Instead, she tucks her hands in her pockets, takes a step back from the entrance, and watches the door.

  Evie feels Paris before she sees her. The familiar tightness crushes her chest and, for a few seconds, she can only breathe in short, sharp hiccoughs. White runners appear on the landing and Evie hears the click of a lock. Then down she comes, taking one step at a time – Paris. Evie can’t see her face for her head hangs so low. Instead, she notices a twig-like arm sliding along the banister.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Paris takes out a key and secures the lock. Her hair is a mousy brown and tied back like her mother’s in a knot at the nape of her neck. From behind, Evie notices her leggings and the way the material sags around her bum.

  Evie covers her mouth and swallows. ‘Paris?’

  She turns around. There’s no eye contact.

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice is stronger than Evie expects.

  ‘I’m … well, my name’s Evie …’

  ‘What do you want?’ Paris’s eyes flick up to Evie’s, then dart away.

  ‘I’m here to –’

  ‘To what?’ She is walking away. ‘They told me about you.’

  ‘Paris, stop,’ Evie begs. ‘Please. Just stop for a minute.’

  Paris’s steps are faster. Evie follows, her slippers flapping on the concrete.

  ‘Please, just listen …’

  Now, Paris is running. ‘Go away,’ she calls. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘No – please.’ But Evie stops dead in her tracks.

  Paris’s spindly legs fly behind her, almost hitting her shoulder with each stride. How can Evie chase her? At any second, they look like they will snap in two. So, instead, she watches her flee.

  Just as she disappears around the corner, Paris turns to look behind, and, for the first time, Evie meets her face. Her eyes are hollow and frightened, and her mouth is twisted with a shame that guards her silence. For Evie, it’s like seeing her from the inside out. A foreboding filled with such darkness and fear lands on Evie’s skin and wraps itself around her.

  ‘Oh my god.’ Evie leans against the wall covering her mouth. The bile tastes bitter on her tongue. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Evie sits on her bed, picking at her toenails. A magazine lies open on her lap. She can’t even be bothered looking at the pictures. All she wants is to sleep and disappear, but she can’t. The irritation nibbles at her skin. It feels like ants crawling all over her. She rubs her face and pulls at her hair, saying over and over, ‘I stuffed up. I stuffed up. How am I going to face her again? What am I going to do!’ Evie jumps off the bed and begins to pace the room. ‘Tell me, someone.’ She makes a fist at the ceiling. ‘Tell me what to do. When I don’t want to hear from you, you bug me, and now when I do you’re silent! What can I tell Paris to make her listen? Eh? What can I tell her?’

  ‘Evie?’ Her father taps on the door. ‘Who are you talking to?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just … practising a poem, Dad.’

  Silence. Evie holds her breath.

  ‘Sounds dramatic.’ Then his footsteps fade away.

  ‘Get it together.’ Evie runs her fingers through her hair. ‘I can’t lose it. Not here. Especially not here.’ She sits back on her bed and hugs the pillow. ‘There’s got to be a way through this.’ She buries her face in the feathers. ‘There’s got to be. I’ve just got to …’ She breathes into the pillow, suddenly pulling away. The scent of the down has thrown her. It’s dry and dusty. It wants her to remember something. But what? She sniffs it again but it’s gone.

  ‘It must be nothing.’ A tiny white feather sits on her top lip. She picks it off and studies the fineness of each strand on her fin
gertip. ‘It’s nothing,’ she tells herself as she flicks it off. ‘Nothing. Come on; get a grip, girl. Not everything has to mean something.’

  From under the mattress, Evie pulls out her diary and begins to write to Athena. ‘You got me into this,’ she tells her. ‘So the least you can do is point me in the right direction ’cause I don’t know where to go next.’ Evie pulls the doona over her. It’s almost six-thirty and a southerly is rustling the tree outside her bedroom window. Its branches scratch the glass. ‘How am I meant to help someone who won’t even talk to me? I feel like I’m back where I started, not that I even know where that is. All I do know is that I need something more to tell Paris. And I need some strength to face her. There’s something really wrong with that girl. I have never felt the way I felt when I saw her today and I’m not sure I know how to handle a feeling like that again. So what am I going to do?’

  Evie taps the pen on the page. ‘I need some help! I actually need someone to help me. There’s nooooooo way I’m asking Alex this time. But I keep wondering – has Zac’s parents being Romanian got anything to do with this? ’Cause I can tell you now, I am not under any circumstances asking Zac for help. But it’s all looking like a bit of a coincidence. Roxy’s sister working at the Penis, all these Romanian connections suddenly popping up everywhere. So why isn’t it making sense?’

  There’s a knock at her bedroom door. Evie sees the handle start to turn. Quickly, she shoves her diary under the doona.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ It’s her father – again. ‘Mum wants to know what you’re doing for dinner?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We’re going out with Theo and his new squeeze. Remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Evie nods. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Nothing on with Al and the girls tonight?’

  ‘Nothing I want to go to.’

  Nick ruffles her hair. ‘You didn’t get to the hairdresser?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘Still looks cute.’

  Evie shrugs. He cocks his head and looks at her. ‘You okay, Evie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sure? You seem, I don’t know, a bit distracted.’ Evie can feel him searching her face for an answer. But she will give nothing away. ‘We’ve been through so much, you know. I really hope you’d tell me if …’ He pauses. ‘If there was something going on. I know that business with the séance didn’t amount to anything but don’t feel like you’ve got to protect us, Evie. We’re the grown-ups, remember.’

  ‘I’m fine, Dad. Really.’

  ‘Well.’ He gets off the bed. ‘We’re here if anything gets … too difficult.’ He walks to the door then stops, not turning to face her. ‘So I’ll tell Robin you’ll get your own dinner?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay.’ He still faces the door and now Evie knows he suspects.

  Evie heats up the leftover pasta from the other night. She flicks through the TV channels but her mind isn’t up to concentrating. It’s filled with the face of Paris Cuza. Evie closes her eyes, watching the girl in her head. She’s frightened. She keeps a dark secret; Evie knows that. What Evie doesn’t know is how to reach her. ‘Tell me,’ she says to the face in her head, ‘tell me – anything.’

  At first, Evie thinks the groan and rattle is coming from the pipes in the upstairs bathroom. But, when she hears it again, she realises it’s not that sound. It’s different. Evie tiptoes to the stairs and looks up. It’s like a tapping now. Like something is trying to get in – or maybe get out.

  Slowly, Evie climbs the first few stairs, stopping each time she hears a tap. It’s definitely coming from up there.

  ‘Hello?’ she calls. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  Evie creeps up the next flight of stairs. It starts again. More distinct this time. She stops, terrified to even breathe. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap … TAP TAP TAP TAP … Evie runs up the stairs, two at a time. With each stride, the sound grows more frantic until it’s become a BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  The floor trembles under her feet as she charges down the hall. She pushes open her bedroom door, throwing herself in the doorway, then stops so suddenly she falls back against the wall and goes crashing to the floor.

  ‘Oh god! Shit!’

  BANG BANG BANG BANG … The doors of Evie’s cupboard are opening and closing. The hinges jump and rattle as they fly in and out, faster and faster each time. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  On her hands and knees, Evie tries to crawl out of her room but it’s like a vacuum is keeping her in.

  ‘Please. Please.’ She curls up in a ball. ‘Stop it. Please,’ she cries, covering her ears and face with her arms. ‘Please stop it. Stop it, Caz!’

  The cupboard doors keep flying open then banging shut. BANG, open – BANG, open, BANG, open.

  Evie is crawling towards them. ‘Pleeease. Pleease. I want to help you. I do.’ Her arm is stretched out in front; she can almost touch the doors as they swing out. ‘Please make it stop.’

  They open and bang shut, almost catching her hand. Again they fly open then … nothing. Suddenly, the room is silent.

  ‘Thank you.’ Evie buries her head in the carpet. ‘Thank you,’ she mumbles. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  For a couple of minutes she stays there, unable to move, her heart pounding against the floor. Finally, she sits up and stares into the open cupboard. Her shelves lined with jumpers and jeans and boxes of photos seem like they belong to someone else’s life. How could anything so normal be part of her?

  She peels herself off the ground. Her knees feel like mush, barely able to hold her up as she staggers to the open doors of the cupboard.

  ‘I’m getting it. I’m getting it.’ She leans into the shelves, whispering, ‘Just wait, Caz. Just wait. I’ll be with you, Caz. Just wait. Just wait.’

  Sitting on the floor, she sets up the board and lights the two white candles.

  ‘Please keep this room safe. And the people in it. I ask to call on the spirit world with good intention and reason.’ Evie speaks quickly. She’s not sure how long she has. Caz’s impatience still echoes from the cupboard doors. ‘If your sister Caz may speak, I call on her in the hope I may help her and give her … peace.’

  The second Evie places her finger on the planchette it starts to move. Up and down the board it travels.

  ‘I want to help Paris,’ Evie says. ‘I know something’s happening to her, Caz, and I know you want to tell me. But I need more …’

  Impatiently, the pointer swings around clockwise and travels to the letter S. Evie grabs the pencil next to her foot and scribbles ‘S-A-Y-T-O-H-E-R’.

  ‘Say to her,’ Evie writes. ‘Say what?’ she whispers. ‘Say what, Caz?’

  The needle moves to the next letter, A. For a second, it waits then moves to the next. It does the same at each one, pausing long enough for Evie to jot it down. ‘S-A-Y-T-OH-E-R-A-N-D-R-A-A-N-C-A-C-O-S-M-I-N-P-E-T-A-R-IR-I-N-A-N-I-S-T-O-R.’ Evie looks at the line of letters. All she can decipher is ‘say to her’.

  Evie scans the jumble scrawled down the white page. Her finger still rests on the pointer as she waits. Waits for more. Waits for something to make it all make sense. But she gets nothing. For now there is no one there. It seems Caz Cuza has left the room.

  Evie can’t work it out. Why the urgency to give her a message that makes no sense? Why leave it just like that? Blowing the candles out, Evie begins to pack away the board. Suddenly, a rush of air flaps across her. She squeals, throwing her hands up to guard her face, smelling a dry, dusty scent on her hands. Evie sniffs her fingers. They smell like the feathers in her pillow.

  ‘What is this all about, Caz?’ she asks, pushing the board under the bed. ‘How am I ever going to figure it out?’

  The new letters are copied into the exercise book Evie has kept as a record of the messages. Even with them sitting neatly on the line, nothing is clearer.

  ‘A N D R A A N C A C O S M I N P E T A R I R I N A N I S T O R.’

 
She tries breaking them up, splitting them into groups – everything, anything, to try to understand what they mean.

  Then she recognises a name within the jumble – IRINA. A girl in Evie’s maths class is called Irina. She takes out those letters and works backwards. The word ‘PETAR’ forms, and gradually Evie identifies what she thinks could be a list of names.

  ‘Irina Petar Cosmin,’ she repeats. ‘Who are these people?’

  She runs her finger along the hidden names lost in the remaining letters. ‘ANDRAANCANISTOR’. ‘Who are you?’

  Evie goes back to the original message. ‘SAYTOHER ADRAANCACOSMINPETARIRINANISTOR.’

  ‘Say to her something, something, Cosmin, Petar, Irina. That means the last name has to be Nistor. Cosmin, Petar, Irina, Nistor? I don’t get it. But that doesn’t mean Paris won’t.’

  Suddenly Alex’s words from last week come flooding back. ‘Only that weird-looking skinny chick hangs around there on a Sunday.’

  ‘Yes!’ Evie tears out a sheet from the book and begins to write.

  ‘Dear Paris,’ she chews her top lip, racking her brains for the right thing to say.

  I do understand why you didn’t want to speak to me today. I mean, why would you? You mightn’t know me. But you knew who I was.

  I can’t force you to tell me anything. But I want to let you know you can trust me. I can’t explain it in a letter – it’s too complicated and maybe even a bit dangerous.

  So you know for sure you can trust me I want to tell you these names – Cosmin, Petar, Irina and Nistor. Hopefully these names will mean something. Your sister gave them to me so I could give them to you. You know she speaks to me, don’t you?

  Don’t look for me. I’ll find you.