twenty

Fact: I don’t know what made me decide to cross the road and go up there.

There was no one reason I acted in the way I did. It was partly the rush of having just given Grant Benson all that he deserved. I was also tired of feeling scared. I wanted to face Lyndon, and I wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt me. I also wanted to believe he wasn’t responsible for the murder of someone he had known since kindergarten, someone who had been his friend and, if the rumours were true, someone who had become his girlfriend.

I suppose I presumed I would be able to help him. I would warn him that Cassie had gone home to call the police, and that it would be better if he called them himself, now, voluntarily. Even if he refused (which I knew was likely), I hoped he would wait until they arrived, prepared at least to face them, rather than being surprised and doing something stupid that would only make it look worse for himself.

In retrospect, I guess that was my plan, although at the time everything seemed to happen so quickly that I don’t think I really had any clear idea of why I was trying to persuade Cassie to do as I asked.

She argued with me. She told me he could be dangerous. But I insisted I’d be fine.

I ran across the road as soon as the lights changed, jumping over the low cement wall that bordered Lyndon’s block of flats. The layout of the two buildings was almost identical, but I had to pause for a moment to try and remember which floor he had been on and where the entrance would be for that particular flat.

I ran up the stairs, the sole of my thong almost catching on a torn piece of carpet. I lurched forward, holding my hands out to stop myself from hitting the steps. At the top, I stopped, wanting to get my bearings and my breath.

There were four apartments on each floor. Lyndon’s had been to the left. I looked at both the doors, uncertain as to which I should knock on. I approached the first, leaning my ear in close to see whether I could hear anything. I then turned to the second. It wasn’t closed properly.

It was only as I pushed it cautiously, that I realised I was afraid. My palms were sweaty and my breath was caught high in my chest. I stepped inside, the hallway was dim, and there, in the lounge room at the end, was Lyndon, clearly visible in the light from the window. He was staring directly at me, an open bag of clothes at his feet.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

I know I opened my mouth to utter some kind of sound but I am fairly certain nothing came out. We just looked at each other, both of us tense.

When Lyndon used to stay at our house, he always looked anxious. It was only after a few hours that he would relax, the guard slowly dropping, the smile appearing. Right then, as we both stood in his flat, he looked like the boy he had once been, the kid waiting to see whether everything was okay, not giving an inch until he knew that he was safe.

‘I saw you,’ I eventually said, my voice quavering, ‘from down on the street.’

He glanced behind him for a second, to the open sliding glass door that led out onto the balcony. The pale netting curtains lifted in the breeze from the open front door and then fell again.

The flat was almost bare. There was only an old green lounge chair, half vinyl and half striped wool, and in front of it a chipped coffee table. To the right was the kitchen. The cupboard above the bench that separated it from the living space was empty, apart from a brown coffee cup and a beer schooner.

‘Are you moving out?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer.

‘Where’s your brother?’

He shrugged. ‘He went over a year ago.’

I hadn’t known.

‘So you’ve been living on your own?’

Again, he simply shrugged. And then he shook his head. ‘What’s it to you?’

I couldn’t imagine how he’d survived, what he’d done for money or food and then, as though he could read my thoughts, he said he’d coped. ‘My brother sends me what he can. It’s enough.’

He stood up straight now, staring at me, as he pointed to the still open front door. ‘Out.’

I didn’t move.

‘I never asked you in, so get the hell out.’

My hands gripped the side of my jeans and I didn’t take my eyes from him. ‘You know the police have been looking for you?’

I had assumed he’d realised and I was surprised when he shook his head.

‘I went north to see my grandma. She’s dying.’

I glanced down to the bag at his feet, realising then that he had been unpacking, not getting clothes to take away as I had at first thought.

He was panicked now, scratching at his elbow as he paced across the living room. ‘It’s Amanda, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Why?’ As he leant right up close to me, I saw the red veins in the whites of his eyes and the pale stubble across his chin. ‘Why me?’ He had his hands on my shoulders as he demanded an answer.

I knew Cassie was at home calling the police. They would be here soon. If I told him that now I ran the risk of him running.

‘Tell me.’ He shook me.

I tried to explain about Cherry saying she had witnessed him going to meet Amanda on the afternoon she died.

‘It’s not true.’ It was all he said, at first. He walked to the sliding door, lifting the net curtain to try to see down below to the street.

‘Why would she say that?’

I could see the agitation building now, and I didn’t know how to answer him.

‘Why?’ He demanded a response.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not true.’ He was staring straight at me, challenging me to argue. ‘It’s a lie.’

‘Then you should tell the police,’ I urged him. ‘If you go to them and explain that you weren’t there, it’ll be all right.’

He was stuffing his clothes back in his bag, and ignoring me.

‘If you run away then they’re going to think you did it.’

His look when he zipped up the bag was one of complete scorn. ‘That’s what you all think, anyway. Don’t you? You reckon I killed her.’

I was shaking my head.

‘You really think I could go to the police and they’d believe me over her?’

He had his bag slung over his shoulder now. How I had thought I would be capable of stopping him was beyond me.

‘Get real.’ His sneer was harsh. ‘I’ve got a dad in jail and a brother who’s been wanted for armed robbery. Of course they’re going to pin it on me.’

We must have both heard the siren at the same time because I saw the panic in his eyes as the harsh wail was abruptly silenced, the car coming to a halt on the street below his balcony.

‘Don’t do it,’ I urged him, as he lunged for the front door.

He brushed me aside.

‘There’s no point in even trying to run now. They’ll catch you.’ I was crying, the tears hot on my face, as I held on to him. ‘Please. If you stay calm, you have a chance. I’ll go down to the station with you.’

I felt the change in him. The tension loosening in his forearm as he heard them coming up the stairs, their footsteps loud on the concrete.

‘Just call out.’ I pointed to the open front door. ‘Tell them you’re here and you want to talk.’

His voice was cracked as he tried to utter the words.

I called with him.

‘It’s okay,’ I told the policeman who’d emerged in the doorway, aware that I was still crying. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

Lyndon was on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, nodding.

‘He didn’t do it,’ I told the policeman.

But he ignored me, and I watched as he hauled Lyndon up, forcing his hands behind his back, before walking him to the stairs, and the police car waiting down below.