Page 2 of The Sirens

1

LUCY

MONDAY, 11 FEbrUARY 2019

Hamilton Hume University

Broken Hill, NSW

Australia

900 kilometres inland

It’s the scream that wakes her.

The room smells of must and sleep. She can feel the rapid beat of a pulse, the tender cords of a throat. Fingernails rake at her hands.

A grey dawn filters through the slats in the blinds, and in its light Lucy sees Ben below her, his eyes bright with fear. A blood vessel has burst in his left sclera, forming a red star. She stumbles back from the bed.

‘Lucy,’ he splutters, one hand clawing at his neck. ‘What the—’

The words choke out of him, his voice strangled.

Strangled. Her hands on his neck, the bulge of his eyes.

She’d been strangling him.

He sits up in bed, switches on a lamp. She bucks away from it like an animal. There is movement outside, in the corridor. A knock at the door.

‘Ben, mate? Are you all right? I thought I heard—’

She moves slowly, as if through water. Her pulse hammers at her throat. The knocking intensifies; Ben is coughing now. Calling for help.

The press of the door at her back. She grasps the doorknob with sweaty fingers, uses it to ground herself. The door is already unlocked, the faulty dead bolt jangling. She wrenches it open, pushes past Nick, Ben’s room-mate, and runs down the corridor up the flight of stairs to her own room.

Once inside, she leans against the door, breathing heavily as she struggles to process what just happened. Her dorm room is pin-neat as always, the books in careful piles on her desk and bedside table. But the bedclothes are rumpled, the air stale. Her sheets feel damp, as if she’s sweated through them.

She tries to draw the events of the evening back to her. Not willing to face the canteen, she’d skipped dinner; soothing her anxious stomach with ginger tea in her favourite mug brought from home. Then she’d put on a podcast and settled in for an early night, hoping the distraction would vanquish thoughts of Ben, and what he’d done.

There’d been a dream, she remembers now: cold water licking her skin, stones digging into her feet. The scrape of rock against her skull. A man’s hot breath in her face, his fingers digging into her flesh – fear warring with the desperate need to fight, to survive—

And then she’d woken to find herself straddling Ben’s chest, her hands clawed tight around his throat. Horror sweeps through her, numbing her fingertips, her lips.

She’d been sleepwalking. Something she has never – not once in her life – done before.

She looks at her hands, watches them tremble. Had she wanted to hurt Ben – to kill him, even – after what he’d done to her? Or had it been the dream, which lingers still like a bad taste in her mouth – the gnaw of fear, that primal need to fight, to survive? It was as if some limbic part of her brain had directed her to his room, a puppet led by its master.

A panicked glance out of the window tells her that the sun is rising now, turning the sky pink. She sees a dark blur of movement in the quadrangle: a uniform with neon lettering. A campus security officer. Ben – or his room-mate, Nick – must have called after she fled.

She imagines what he’ll say: I woke up and she had her hands on my throat – she was trying to kill me. Her thoughts whirl; she tries to slow her breathing, but finds that she can’t. The panic rises and rises, an awful heat in her blood.

There’ll be an investigation, she’s sure of that. She’ll be suspended, possibly even expelled. God, could they get the actual police involved? Could she be arrested – charged – with assault?

Everything she’s yearned and worked for. Gone. She pictures Ben: bruises blooming around his throat, the gouge marks from her nails in his flesh. She did that. Even if she doesn’t remember it, even if she wasn’t awake .

But who would believe her, especially after what happened?

After all, they’ve already taken his side.

Sweat dampens her armpits, the urge to flee rising inside her.

But where can she go? She can’t go home to her parents. That would mean telling them that she, Lucy, their good girl , attacked someone. And, worse, it would mean telling them why , telling them what Ben had done. No, she could never. But then, who? Who will help her, provide refuge while she works out what to do, how to fix things?

And then the answer comes to her. She changes quickly, scrabbles inside the small cupboard for an overnight bag. Underwear. Clothes. Wet wipes. Moisturiser. Laptop. Laptop charger. A notebook. She packs with shaking fingers.

She opens the drawer of her desk, retrieves a battered postcard, runs a fingertip over the address scrawled on the back.

Cliff House, 1 Malua Street, Comber Bay.

There’s only one place she can go, one person who might understand.

The road stretches on endlessly in front of her, merging with the horizon. Around her there is nothing but empty gold scrub, miles and miles of it. Dusky pink corellas – her mother’s favourite bird – burst from a withered tree as she passes.

There are no other cars. She is alone.

She reaches to the passenger seat for her iPhone, wedges it between her thighs as she calls her sister. After several rings – Lucy holding her breath in the silence between each one – the phone clicks.

‘Jess?’ she says, hope catching like a burr in her throat. But then her sister’s pre-recorded voice comes bright and terse down the line.

‘Hi, you’ve reached Jess Martin. I’m unable to come to the phone right now—’

‘Fuck,’ Lucy whispers as she hangs up.

Her eyes well with tears, blurring the landscape in front of her.

She tells herself that it’s all right. That Jess will answer eventually, that she’ll know how to help.

Won’t she?