Forgotten Read online

  I don’t know why, but I found it curiously odd. Perhaps it was the unconventional way it was angled, across the painted parking lines rather than within them. Perhaps it was the way its sun-stripped bonnet was arrowed directly towards the opened gate.

  I took note of the driver’s window. It was wound down. Only one person sat in it, wearing a black leather-like jacket with a matching hood. A branch of a nearby wattle tree, thickly covered with green and gold foliage, threw a slight shadow against the figure, just enough to give it a less than friendly impression.

  “… But I’ve decided… not today.” Mel’s banter cut through my thoughts.

  I tried to refocus on what she was saying but I found it difficult. For whatever reason, the whole Holden scenario made my skin burst into uncomfortable bumps. I interrupted her, calling her name twice.

  She glared at me. I hooked a sneaky glance in the vehicle’s direction. “Do you know that car?”

  An exaggerated huff followed. She scrutinized the vehicle and then dismissed it with a rapid flick of her hand. “It’s a car, Claudia, like many others that travel our roads.”

  I didn’t much care for her patronizing tone. “Have you seen it before?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not doing that whole ‘someone is stalking me crap’ are you?”

  That stung. Since childhood, I often had the peculiar sense of being watched from a distance.

  Just your imagination, I could hear my mother saying.

  Exactly, my father’s typical response.

  But Mel had always believed me.

  As if just realizing it, Mel’s face softened. “I’m sorry.”

  I returned my attention to the driver. There was something weirdly familiar about him. But be damned if I could place what that something was.

  In that instance, he faced the exit. The engine revved loudly. Tires howled. And just like that, the car disappeared leaving behind the distinct smell of burning rubber and a wisp of smoke.

  “That was odd.” Mel sounded unusually subdued.

  I almost choked. Odd didn’t remotely cover it. I turned to Mel. Her expression appeared quite puzzled, her normally ruddy skin pale as she stared into the smoldering vapors of a now long departed car.

  I gripped her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Her bright pea green eyes blinked back to life. “Of course I am. It’s just a fricking car, with some jerk of a driver.”

  “You think that’s all it was?”

  “There could be a zillion reasons why he was here, like casing the school to break into over the holidays.”

  I wanted to believe her but couldn’t. The whole incident had remarkably unsettled her. As for me, I couldn’t shake off the familiar thing.

  “I’ll let security know before I leave, just in case,” Mel added.

  I hugged myself, ran my palms over my cool skin. All of a sudden, the thought of being alone wasn’t so appealing. “Drinks sound good,” I murmured.

  Mel tried to appear delighted but it was forced. “You won’t regret it.”

  For a moment, she studied me, then shook her head, collected her tub and began marching in the direction of the office.

  “Go do whatever it is you have to do,” she called out, “then get that skinny little arse of yours down to The Local. And don’t forget to brush your hair; it looks like a family of scavenging birds has nested in it.”

  Original Mel was back.

  ***

  Finding a parking spot outside The Local Watering Hole was a near impossibility. I lost count at the times I swore. I finally found one between a contemporary white motorhome and a rusty old Commodore. After three attempts, I eventually squeezed into it.

  As I made my way to the pub’s entrance, I absorbed the extraordinary views. Elevated high on Nankari’s southern headland, I could see most of the jagged coastline and the exquisitely smooth waters of the bay. On such a muggy afternoon, the steady sea breezes made The Local a perfect drinking spot.

  I took a deep breath, then entered the place. When I did, I felt as always, like I was suddenly transported back to 19th century Australia. And as a history enthusiast, I loved it. Loved the large, rustic barrels that served as tables, the black wrought iron stools, with worn out cushions, as seats. Loved the honey-colored paneled walls decorated with original leather saddles and semi-rusted farming equipment.

  And most of all, the oil paintings, fertile with red, oranges and yellows that perfectly captured an environment too harsh to survive in, the freedom the land offered, too seductive not to try.

  The smell of beer was as always, fresh, pungent and enticing, and the buzz of patrons’ voices loud but homey. I swung my newly brushed hair to one side, straightened out imaginary creases from the bright green dress hugging my body and headed towards the bar intending on arming myself with the largest drink I could.

  Outdoors was busier still. Sets of oiled-timbered picnic tables lay scattered on the wide panoramic deck along with more rustic barrels. Each carried the weight of jovial customers.

  I found Mel at one of the tables. A bottle of champagne sat in an iced-filled bucket; a generous serving of hot potato wedges spread before her.

  Champagne I loved. I parked myself across from her, downed my own glass and made for a rapid refill. “It’s just magical here, isn’t it?” I said, soaking in the sun-kissed sky.

  “Mmmm,” Mel mumbled between mouthfuls of chili-covered potato. “And so are these wedges.” She scoffed a few more. “So what’re we doing with you these holidays?”

  It was as if she were ticking off an item from a ‘Things to Do’ list. “I’ll be fine.” I licked the chili sauce off a wedge and decided it was too greasy.

  “No you won’t.” That direct, that honest. “Seven weeks? Too long for you doing nothing. Only make those nightmares of yours worse.”

  Mel was referring to a set of dreams I’ve had for as long as I could remember, very alike to each other, very frightening. Sometimes, they occurred on consecutive nights. Other times, days or even weeks would pass before I would have one again.

  We chatted for a while. Mel began listing a number of possible holiday-occupying options, while we basked in the glorious twilight, tasting champagne bubbles.

  A roguish sea breeze played with a wisp of my hair. I lazily fingered it behind my ear. Mel was right about coming. I felt amazingly at peace. Even the fading memories of the white Holden now seemed inconsequential.

  “Hey,” Mel whispered. “There’s a guy looking this way. And, yum, he’s simply gorgeous.”

  I immediately recognized her impish grin and rolled my eyes.

  “No really, he’s soooo cute.” She tapped my arm. “Look now. He’s turned away.”

  I didn’t know why I went along with those silly fantasies of hers, but I did turn in that direction. On the other end of the deck was a man with coal-colored hair leaning against the railing as if he owned them, a beer glass cradled in his hand. Mel, as usual, was right. He was good looking. Tall and powerfully built, he transmitted an air of superiority and confidence. In that precise second, he turned and caught my eye.

  Ah, shit.

  I hastily looked away. “Really, Mel, need I remind you that you’re already married?”

  She appeared gobsmacked. “Not for me, Claudia. For you.”

  “What?” The suggestion took me aback. I glanced at Muscle Man, unsure of how to respond. This time he was smiling at me, quite generously.

  Shit, again.

  I closed my eyes and swung back around. No doubt about it, he was something else, but Mel knew it was the last thing I wanted. I had another sip of champagne. My head began to feel like the bubbles, light and frothy.

  “Very nice!” Mel sighed, “But I’m not surprised someone that delicious is eyeing you off.”

  My eyebrows rose in question.

  Her own rose higher. “Don’t give me that ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ face.”

  I said nothing. It was safer.
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  The twinkle in her eyes returned as she stole another peek over my shoulder. “Someone like him could keep you entertained these holidays.”

  Was she for real? “I don’t need a man to entertain me.”

  “Well one could argue that point.”

  My eyes tapered.

  “But one won’t,” Mel said. “He’s still impressive, though, very impressive.”

  Did Mel just moan? I shook my head and stood, deciding we needed more ice and a break in the conversation. I strolled towards the bar, aware of the thickening crowds on a typically packed Friday.

  Upon my return, I glanced towards Muscle Man. Well, perhaps not so much him, as his biceps, noticeably accentuated beneath the short sleeves of his white polo shirt. Impressive, yes.

  He was looking straight back at me. I should’ve blushed or something. But a visible change in his expression troubled me instead. He was frowning, his interest redirected to something inside the pub, to the right of where I was now standing. When he looked back at me, his frown had creased further. He then flicked his head to my right.

  I instantly checked the area, but only saw a raucous group of males larking about. Looking back at Muscle Man, I noticed him repeating the pattern, catching my eyes and flicking his head some more.

  For a blink, I had the impression he was trying to tell me something.

  For a blink, I was interested in what that something was.

  Was someone watching me?

  Yet again?

  Or was I simply being paranoid after the Holden incident? I spun around for a second time, searched with more care, but still failed to spot anyone recognizable. What was going on?

  Always trust your instincts, Carino.

  I can’t see anyone, Papa.

  Doesn’t mean they are not there.

  Damn it.

  I side stepped a table of giggling girls eyeing off the rowdy youths, gave the area beyond them one more thorough search.

  Nothing.

  I began to feel ridiculous. I turned to Muscle Man. He had his hands thrown to either side of him, shrugging his broad shoulders. Then with an apologetic expression, that seemed seriously exaggerated, he lifted his beer as a gesture to join him for a drink.

  Was that what this entire performance had been about?

  A mere ploy to charm me?

  I instantly felt irritated. Not just from his blasé reaction or his obvious brazenness but by my own gullible readiness to go along with it all. I turned away, deciding I wouldn’t glance his way again.

  “Saw you looking at him,” Mel sang when I returned.

  “And won’t be looking again,” I sang back. “The man has issues.”

  “What man doesn’t, girl?” Mel laughed and sculled back the last of her drink.

  I laughed in return. It felt so damn good. I freed the champagne bottle from the mountainous chunks of ice and shook it from side to side, stressing the dribble at its bottom. “I tell you what,” I said in a more light-hearted tone. “It’s time for another bottle. So no more serious stuff about guys and their whacky behaviors! You in?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  I leaned back, grinned and felt more relaxed than I had in a long time.

  ***

  But what I was yet to discover.

  Someone had been watching me that day at the pub.

  Someone wearing a black leather jacket.

  With a matching hood.

  Chapter 3

  Claudia

  December 3, 2010

  9:15 pm

  A FEW HOURS later, Mel’s ever-obliging husband, Peter, dropped me home.

  I slipped out of their car and gazed up at the buildings towering over me. The night hid the beauty of their earthy-colored exteriors, the ivories and taupes and rich, deep reds. But it couldn’t mask the lights randomly glimmering from identical rows of tinted glass and partially curved balconies with white, metal balustrades.

  This was Zephyr, a large, contemporary complex situated directly opposite the bay.

  This was my home.

  Renting a unit there was more expensive than others further inland, but I didn’t care. I loved its coastal position, the tranquility of its beautifully manicured gardens and more importantly, the high security it offered.

  “We’ll wait ‘til you’re inside the gate,” Peter drawled.

  I muttered my thanks. Hazy from the champagne, I stumbled to the steely entrance. A bright, sensor light immediately kicked in making me wince. I fingered my password into the code pad. It flashed Incorrect in neon red. I growled and tried again. A third attempt finally saw the gate swing away from me.

  Mel semi-emerged from her rolled down window. “You look pissed, Cabriati.”

  I pulled an indignant face at her. Pissed I was not. Mellow and relaxed, definitely.

  Mel laughed as the car rumbled away.

  I swung the gate closed, heard it clang into place. I then sauntered along the cobbled pathways, swinging my bag. Subdued lighting from the tall, arched streetlamps guided my way. I raised my head and breathed in the delights of the night air. Its cool touch brushed my heated skin, bringing with it the mouth-watering aromas of a distant barbecue, the sweet sounds of the ocean waves licking the shores.

  The sound of the gate closing made me stop.

  Someone else returning home, perhaps?

  I turned. Moonlight shed a dull, ghostly light along the tall, concrete walls and its darkened entrance giving it an almost menacing appearance. I narrowed my eyes and searched, but saw no one.

  Did I imagine it?

  For the third time that day?

  I quickened my pace and the tapping of my heels became more pronounced. A branch cracked, leaves crunched. I stopped and swung another look behind me.

  Again, no one.

  “Is anyone there?” I called. I cleared my voice. It sounded too scratchy.

  Silence.

  I resumed my pace. A troubled feeling inched under my skin, digging deeper with each hurried step. I was amazed how alert I’d suddenly become. Visions of my unit, the protection it offered only sharpened that feeling. I turned again at yet another unexpected sound, like strong nails scratching a blackboard.

  Still nothing.

  Fear gripped me. It rebuked me for being irrational. It also instructed me to move faster. And I did, scuttling past the initial buildings. A howling dog sparked more shivers, more fear.

  Always the fear.

  I was almost running. My breathing jagged, rapid. My heart drumming harshly against my chest.

  When I saw a figure standing rigidly near one of the lampposts, I slammed still. My hand gripped my mouth and stifled a scream. The figure hastily stepped into the light.

  It was a woman, tiny, almost childlike. But her faintly creased brow, the soft semi-circles cornering her mouth and the lines fanning her eyes, suggested someone much older. Her golden hair was wrenched high, set in a thick plait that tumbled over her shoulder and down her white shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly, appearing quite alarmed herself.

  I said nothing. I was too busy sucking in air.

  She was pulling her plait, twirling it repeatedly around her small fingers. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  I immediately felt a little crazy about my behavior. I had probably frightened the poor woman more. “It’s me who should apologize.” I forced a feeble smile.

  A short, uncomfortable silence followed.

  “So, was that you who just came through the gate?” I had to know.

  But she shook her head.

  I grimaced. Strangely, the woman continued staring at me. She was partially smiling but her lips were trembling and her eyes were moist. I stepped closer. “Are you all right?”

  She wiped her finger beneath each eye and nodded. “It’s just that… that I have been waiting for such a very, very long time.”

  It was an odd thing to say but she appeared so sad, so fragile. I wanted to help. “Who are you waiting for? Ma
ybe I know them.”

  The lines on her brow deepened and her plait twisting became clumsy and jerky. “I’ve… actually been waiting… for… you.”

  What?

  She frowned in a way that made me think she feared my reaction. I, on the other hand, wasn’t sure how to react. Instead, I did a hurried scan of her, looking for anything familiar. But there was nothing. Maybe she had the wrong person.

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  Her ‘yes’ was soft and unsteady.

  I leaned in closer, studied her again, this time with more care. That’s when I noticed her eyes, richly dark, emotionally intense.

  Eyes I had seen before.

  I gasped. “Who are you?”

  The woman took a small, tentative step towards me. Her troubled expression was gone. Instead, her face now twinkled with a recalled affection. “Cordy-Bear” she murmured. Tears rolled down her paling cheeks.

  I staggered at the name. Another memory hit me. A different one, infinitesimal at first, but eventually bursting into images of a much younger woman: one with the same loving eyes, the same generous smile.

  And one who would use that name often.

  “Who are you?” I spluttered again. My fingers were wobbly and my bag slipped from them. I heard it land with a soft thud.

  The woman drew closer still and with the same tenderness, clutched one of my hands between both of her own. An immediate sensation of comfort followed. Her skin was velvety, so smooth and inviting and the soothing smells of cinnamon and vanilla emanated from her. Her familiarity, her unfamiliarity confused me, yet oddly warmed me.

  And for one brief, crazy moment, fear left me.

  And it felt so damn liberating.

  My smile was huge.

  Hers showed such joy.

  “I have things to tell you,” she whispered, “important things.”

  I merely wanted a credible explanation for our unusual connection. As if sensing my need, she released my hand and began fingering inside her bag. I held my breath. The object she pulled out was white, flat. An envelope? She placed it in my hands and closed my fingers over it. As she moved away, I noticed it was indeed an envelope, a large one with my name exquisitely inscribed on its front.