Fury (7 page)

“Yes. That’s right. And for your own information I wouldn’t call him a
gentleman.”

“Keep your personal observations to yourself please, Miss
Boans. Mrs Wally did you witness any of this?”

“No,” replied Mrs Wally flatly and her face dropped as best as the botox would let it.

“But, sir!” I said, a little louder now. “Just because you have a grudge against me doesn’t mean you can just refuse to believe me! I’m telling you the truth.”

Principal Hollerings put a hand to his forehead. There was a horrible throbbing vein there.

“I ran into Mr Biggins on my way here. He said that Mr Fernandes slid the entire contents of his lunch onto his head. What do you have to say about that?”

Principal Hollerings stared expectantly at Neil. Mrs Wally turned to stare at Neil. I looked at Neil as well.

“It was an accident,” replied Neil. “Jeremy was running. I thought that one of the school rules prohibits students from running indoors? He wasn’t watching where he was going and he ran into, well—my lunch.”

“Is this true?” exclaimed Principal Hollerings. “Did you see any of this occur, Mrs Wally?”

“No, unfortunately.” Mrs Wally replied. You should have heard the disappointment in her voice.

“Miss Marianne Jones—the school’s
best
student—and Miss Alexandria Gutenberg were both present, sir. I am sure they will serve as credible witnesses,” added Neil.

Mrs Wally flashed him a suspicious look, but didn’t say anything.

“Miss Jones and Miss Gutenberg?” Principal Hollerings
paused. “In that case, Mr Fernandes—consider this a warning. You are currently on detention, so I advise you be more vigilant with your behaviour. Miss Boans, I advise you to do the same. I am disappointed in the both of you. This is your last and most important term of study. Please do not neglect the reputation of Priory Grammar for the sake of your immature games. You are both dismissed.”

Mrs Wally watched with a dumbstruck look on her face as Principal Hollerings waddled into his office.

“You’re coming back to the canteen with me, missy,” said Mrs Wally with her hand extended toward me.

The school bell sounded.

At Priory, they say that the sound of the traditional bell is too violent, so have replaced it with the soothing tones of the chimes that you hear in airports. It makes me think of all these students pacing back and forth through the wide glass halls with our heavy bags. Forever trying to get somewhere else.

“See you tomorrow then, Mrs Wally,” I said to her and smiled. “I gotta get going to class now.”

I pulled my school shirt free of my skirt and looked at the stain. Yuck. I started unbuttoning from the bottom and then stopped when I realised Neil was staring at me.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to History. It’s on the way to the Chemlab,” he said.

We left quickly.

“Well, at least you know you’re definitely at Priory. School of Hard Knocks, Jocks and Designer Frocks. We’re not in
Hogwarts anymore, Hermione.”

“You lied to Principal Hollerings,” I said, looking at the ground. “About Lexi and Marianne being there. I can’t believe it. Why would you do that?”

Neil smiled.

“You don’t have to protect me, you know!”

“Of course I have to.”

“I am not a weak little girl.”

“Of course you are. The truth would crush you like the tiny flower you are.”

I punched him in the arm. Then I realised that I was not five years old anymore and I stuck my hand behind my back.

“I’m sorry you wasted your lunch,” I said.

“No problem. I accidentally tasted some when it splattered off Biggins. It was pretty horrible.”

My mouth couldn’t help but twitch upwards. I snuck a look at him. Sometimes I think Neil is cute. With his super-skinny frame, retro clothes and longish black hair that hangs in his eyes. But then I think of Neil when I knew him as a five-year-old, running around outside in his pyjamas with spaceships on them…

“Don’t forget to tell your friends,” said Neil.

“Tell them what?”

“About what they just saw. In case we are ever brought in for questioning. Seeya.”

“Oh,” I replied.

Neil winked and he was gone.

In case we are ever brought in for questioning.

Isn’t it funny? The things that we say, that come back to bite us. Maybe there’s no such thing as innocent words after all.

It is evening now. The clock behind my head is pointing to eight o’clock. But what would I know? This room has no windows and the fluorescent light is on all the time, so for all I know it could be eight in the morning of the following day. Why should I care anyway?

I try not to think of Mum, but my thoughts wander to what she would say right now if it had been just another school night. On a day when she would actually decide to
come home from work. It would be something like,
we should try that new Japanese up the road
or
have you seen Fluers du Mal’s new summer menu? I simply lurve the sound of the duck leg confit. Yum.

“Are you going home?” I ask Dr Fadden. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or a family to go to?”

Dr Fadden looks at me with his unreadable brown eyes.

“No.”

No
to the going home part, or
no
to the girlfriend and family, I wonder.

“If you can help me wrap up this interrogation quickly then
you
might be able to go home.”

“Why are you still stuck on that?” I ask. “It’ll mean going home to my mother and I’d rather not see her again,
ever.
Write that down in your little notepad. So you don’t forget.”

“If that’s all I’m going to get out of you then I might as well call it a day.”

I look up at him.

“No, don’t leave me!”

The doctor looks at his watch.

“Well, I’ve got to allow myself the luxury of, say, some semblance of ordinary life. I’m not the prisoner here after all.
You are.
I’m not going to suffer just because you want to.”

“I am not a prisoner. I haven’t been found guilty of anything.” I grimace. “Wait, don’t put me back in that horrible holding room. I think I saw a cockroach in there and … I don’t want to be left alone.”

Dr Fadden takes a good long look at me. I put on my most pitiful looking face. It’s a good thing I’d been practising in front of my laptop recently, looking for something suitably
smexy
to update my avatar.

“Then tell me about the second body,” says Dr Fadden casually.

I swallow. It feels like I am swallowing ball bearings. They go clunk when they hit the bowling ball sitting in my stomach.

“I don’t want to talk about the first body; what makes you think I want to talk about the second one?”

“Because I know it’s different.”

“I—
we—
had nothing to do with that. Like I told you, I didn’t even know about it until I was brought here.”

I force myself to shut my mouth. That wasn’t true, and I knew it.

“Come on, Eliza. I know and you know there’s a connection. Give me a carrot here.” Dr Fadden is pushing me like a goddamn pimp.

“I’ll talk about Ella if you let me come with you. It was all her fault.”

“Ella’s been cleared and sent home. By the way, she spins a very different story.”

“Take it or leave it.”

Dr Fadden bites his bottom lip. His eyes search mine.

“Fine. But I’ll get into trouble if they find out about this, so I’m warning you—”

“I won’t try anything. Anyway, if you manage to get all the info out of me, doesn’t ‘the end justify the means’ and all that Maccabelly or whatever crap?”

“Let’s go,” says Dr Fadden flatly.

“I’ve got blood spatter,” I say and I pinch at my school shirt.

Dr Fadden’s solution is to give me a woman’s blue trench coat. It’s not glamorous and it smells a little like cat piss, but it fits. I wonder if it’s an ex-evidence sample and I’m rubbing myself in someone’s guilty DNA.

Dr Fadden grabs me by the arm. “Let’s go now.”

This seems to be another recurring motif. The me-being-dragged-around thing. Maybe I should just get used to it.

On Monday we noticed something different about Ella. Something—or more precisely, someone—had altered her school blouse. The sleeves had been embroidered with a white silk pattern that crept gradually up the sides of her arms, and the shoulders had been pleated. I guess it’s nice if you go for that whole Victorian picnic-at-hanging-rock-chic. Okay, I’ll admit it. It looked stunning.

“Do you think Ella knows how to sew?” I said to Marianne as we strolled arm in arm toward the library. “That could really come in useful.”

It is a pain getting to the library. It was designed by some snotty famous architect who agreed to build it on the
condition it was on the other side of the lake. So it wouldn’t be, like, touched or God forbid, actually used by the students. I mean, it’s a
work of art.

“Well, she knows how to do everything else doesn’t she?” replied Marianne bitterly. “I went to look at dresses in Old Mooreland with my mother on the weekend and I couldn’t find a single one I liked. I mean, I couldn’t find anything that didn’t have a gaping hole in the front, down the back, up the sides or a combination of all three.”

I grinned. “I can’t believe you’ve started looking already for the end-of-school ball. Oh, I forget—you’re the head of the Ball Committee. So naturally, you have to look better than everyone else.”

Marianne blushed and said nothing.

We enter the round, glass and metal library. If the library really was supposed to be a work of art, it would be less the National Gallery and more like the new limited edition giant cotton spool from Swarovski. Study desks like long metal operating tables gleam inside. In summer the library is burning hot and in winter it is freezing cold. Obviously this famous East Rivermoor architect didn’t really think functionality was a big factor.

“I can’t even believe you’re on the Ball Committee! I have no idea how you’re going to be able to suffer all those bimbos and supermodel wannabes.”

“Have you ever heard of extra-curricular activities, Lizzie?” Marianne replied, grabbing the books out of her bag.
“My mother says it makes you a more accomplished person. Maybe you should try it some time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I shot back. “The real question is—when are you going to do something for yourself for once and not your mother? I’ll ask Ella who made the alterations for her.”

“Thanks,” said Marianne grudgingly. It meant that we had made up from the other day. It was her way of saying
that’s okay
and my way of saying
I’m sorry.

“Why thank you!” beamed Ella. “It is really pretty and feminine, isn’t it? I have no idea why anyone would wear the white dress shirt as it is.”

If I was not mistaken, Ella was quite happy to wear that white dress shirt
as it was
just last week, but I didn’t say anything.

“Did you, um, do it yourself?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I can cross stitch, long stitch and lacework, you name it—but I can’t take credit for this. My mum did it on the weekend. She’s a much more accomplished needlewoman than I.”

“Did it take her long?”

“Not at all. My mum makes all her own clothes because she doesn’t like, er, modern clothing
.
She’s trying to ‘bring Regency back’. Have you heard of Dot & Dash Designs? Well, that’s my mum. Why do you ask?”

Have I heard of
Dot & Dash
Designs?
Hello
—does Jane
Ayres thinks the sun shines out of her own ass? If there’s a couture label that Eliza Boans has not heard of, then it’s one that doesn’t exist. Dot & Dash happen to be this year’s
numero uno up-and-coming talent to watch
as decreed by the
East Rivermoor Eye.
I thought it was named after two separate designers. Now I realised that the name refers to one. Mrs Dorothy Dashwood.

I replied with something that contained more drool than legitimate English
.
I composed myself and said coolly, “Well, actually Marianne asks. It’s to do with, um, the end-of-school-ball and she needs a dress that is kind of …
special.”

“Oh, of course. Are you all still coming over to meet my mum? She has a whole sewing room with the most delicious gowns. She sells them to really exclusive clients who pay a lot for them, that’s how we could afford to move to East Rivermoor…” Ella trailed off. “But, of course, she won’t charge Marianne. Will you come over today? It will be so much fun!”

I thought about my Principal Hollerings-issued restraining order. And I thought, stuff it. I should be able to see Ella out of school hours if I want to. And after all, she was the one inviting me.

“Of course,” I replied. “The other two will be super excited when I tell them.”

Would they ever.
To have the opportunity to go to the home of the creator of Dot & Dash? They would literally
kill
for the opportunity.

“Meet you at the gates after school then. I have to rush to Human Bio now. Oh, and sorry I can’t look for you during lunch, I’ve promised to be somewhere else. Bye!”

I watched as Ella hitched her schoolbag onto her shoulder and waved excitedly at someone in the crowd of migrating students.

That someone was Jane Ayres. I watched the two of them walk together head-to-head until they become swallowed up by the white and grey undertow. So I guess that’s who her new
buddy
is. I made up my mind to keep that piece of info away from Marianne. I knew it would only make her cranky.

“So, you’re interested in fashion then?”

Dr Fadden has left his notebook behind at the station and is trying to make small talk.

“What girl isn’t?” I sniff and wipe my nose.

It is disgustingly humid outside, but it is the most exhilarating experience of my life. After being locked up in a little white box, the blackening sky outside is beautiful. The lights of the cafés and shops make my eyes water. I pull the stranger’s trench coat closer to my body. I feel so small, so pathetic. Like the evening sky could reach down and crush me there and then, without anyone even noticing—or caring.

“We won’t go too far away, is that okay with you?”

I nod furiously.

I wonder why he asks my opinion. Is it human nature
I wonder, this unconscious need to please? To be affirmed?

“This place does decent food and coffee. It’s got airconditioning anyway.”

Dr Fadden opens the door for me and I hop inside, rocking on my heels, fists balled up inside the trench coat pockets.

“You come here for dinner every night?”

Dr Fadden does something with his head that could mean either yes or no.

“Burger and chips?” he asks.

“Okay. Can you make sure it is a lean meat burger? And no ketchup please. I don’t do ketchup.”

I sit down at a table for two that is covered in a chequered plastic tablecloth that is sticky to the touch. Dr Fadden orders at the counter. I look down at my feet; I forgot I’m still wearing my new Manolo Blahniks. I kick the straps off impatiently. The backs of my feet are all bruised and my toes ache.

“My mum’s in the legal system too,” I tell Dr Fadden as he sits down opposite me. “She’s always schmoozing it up in cocktail lounges, so shouldn’t you be somewhere nicer?”

I see his eyes flutter toward the ceiling for a micro second.

“You hate being here.” I narrow my eyes at him. “When you were young and still had dreams did you ever think it’d end up like this?”

“I like my job,” says the doctor. Well good on him. At least I know he likes one thing.

“We are not here on a play-date to talk about me. You know we only need to talk about one person. Here, I ordered a drink for you.”

An angry-looking waitress plonks a tall metal cup in front of me. Guess I don’t blame her. If I worked here I would be angry too.

Maybe for the first time in my life I can relate to someone else; maybe working at the canteen has changed me. Just imagine what my father would say if he hadn’t been absent for ten years already. He would say, “Eliza, you are learning to be humble, I’m proud of you.”

I look inside the metal cup. It is a strawberry milkshake. I pick out the sinking plastic straw.

“This is a straight straw. Can I get a bendy one?”

Dr Fadden motions for the waitress without flinching. The same waitress comes over and she looks at me with contempt. She goes away and comes back with a red and white striped straw. A bendy one.

“By the way, this is skim milk isn’t it?” I dip the straw in and take a sip.

Oops. About the “humble” thing. I guess I’ll have to try again.

“Can you get me a drink as well?” The doctor asks.

“What would you like?”

“I don’t care. As long as it’s served up in a wine glass.”

The waitress gives an understanding nod and one last glare at me before she walks off.

“I’m not his precocious Gen-Y daughter y’know,” I mumble more to myself than anyone else. “I’m not that bad.”

“You know according to phrenology, women are seen as incapable of committing crimes because they are considered the weak and passive sex,” says the doctor.

“Excuse me?”

“Facial profiling. It says that women who are born criminals will exhibit physical characteristics such as excessive body hair, wrinkles and an abnormal cranium.”

My hand flies to my face to touch the space between my eyebrows and I can see something resembling a smile on his face.

“That’s not true!” I frown. “Or funny!”

“You wanted to know why an anthropologist was assigned to you and I’m telling you what I do.”

“Fine then. I’ll do the talking,” I say, backing down and away. “As I was saying before, Ella invited us over to her house. Well, Ella’s mother’s dress studio was like—WOW. Sure, they could only afford the worst house in East Rivermoor, but the important thing was despite where they came from before, they were now living in the best neighbourhood…”

“Keep on track, Eliza,” reminds Dr Fadden. “You promised me you were going to talk about Ella.”

“Oh yeah,
that,”
I reply.

“Oh my God,” I mouthed.

Behind me Lexi was also staring with her mouth open. I don’t think she’d closed her mouth since I let slip about Ella’s mum.

Ella finished securing the French doors back against the wall and bounced forward to join us. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“More than lovely!” breathed Lexi.

We stared greedily around the room, trying to take in as much as possible. Both walls were stacked with the most gorgeous fabrics in shelves that rose up to the ceiling. High in one corner a roll of cream muslin had rolled to the floor, leaving a trail like some fantasy spider’s thread. The huge bay window bathed the room in late afternoon sunlight, turning everything gold.
Oh yeah,
I had reached the end of the rainbow all right.