Page 79 of A Murder is Going Down

Patrick pours hot water into his mug and takes his time bobbing the teabag around before adding the milk. It’s soothing to watch.

‘What are you up to now?’ Patrick asks, putting the milk back in the fridge and tucking an open packet of Tim Tams under his arm.

‘Protecting the Tim Tams from you?’

‘You know, we never got around to watchingNosferatu,’ he says.

‘I was hoping you’d forgotten that.’

‘How can you love horror movies and hate vampire movies?’

‘I have taste.’

‘If I promised you a biscuit, would you come and hate-watch it with me?’

I’m not made of stone.

In the living room we flop onto opposite couches, stretching out, and it’s almost like the last few days haven’t happened. The curtains are closed, in Patrick’s words ‘to heighten the cinematic experience’, and the film is about to start when I decide I can’t help myself. I’ve always hated movies where a simple conversation is all that’s needed to clear up a misunderstanding between two people, but it’s never allowed to happen for plot purposes. Why am I living my life like that?

‘Hey, Patrick, you only came to PerthafterFelix died, right?’ I ask. ‘Not before?’

He seems baffled. ‘That’swhyI came here. Why?’

My insides go as dark as the bloody lighting onNosferatu. ‘No reason.’

Now

‘Tell me what this is all about, Heidi,’ Marianne says.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘This lift. This story you’re telling me. What is it all about?’

I give her my best confused face, wishing I’d thought to practise it in the mirror at home. ‘You’re making no sense.’

‘I know that you’re involved in this. I don’t know how or why, exactly, but I know.’

‘How?’ It’s not the question I should ask. I’m revealing too much. But I have to know how I stuffed up.

Marianne smiles, like she was hoping I’d ask.

‘Before, when I mentioned the building’s manager, I called him Hap,’ she says. ‘That’s what I call him. It’s aDeath of a Salesmanreference, kind of an in-joke betweenus. But his real name is Harold. I didn’t call him that, butyoudid when you mentioned him. How do you know his name?’

‘I … don’t think I said Harold.’ It’s the best I can do and it’s not great. Nobody has to tell me it’s not great.

Marianne is unimpressed. ‘What’s it going to be? Out the hatch or start talking?’

‘Can I finish my story first?’

‘No.’

‘I’d really like to finish my story.’ My voice is deeper. More like myself and not this person I’ve been pretending to be in here. I’ve dropped the act. There’s no point anymore. Marianne might not know who I am or why I’m here, but she knows I’m not some random teenager who got stuck in this lift with her by mistake. (You knew that too, right?)

‘Tell me what this is about!’ Marianne demands, crossing her arms.

We’re both standing now.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I say, which never sounds as reassuring as it should.