‘But say you did tell him. That wouldn’t make him kill himself. I mean, who’d kill themself because they found out their mum had an affair twenty years ago? Not me. Not Cooper.’
‘Not me either.’
Libby sits back and looks thoughtful. After a moment she frowns, leans forward and speaks urgently. ‘Which night was that, Claire? The night you got wasted? When did it happen?’
‘It was the night Cooper died,’ Claire said. ‘I thought you knew that?’
Libby’s eyes go all weird and big and surprised. ‘Are you joking?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You saw him the night he died? At Sebastian’s?’
‘Yeah. Why? Is that—’
‘Oh my god.’ Libby runs her hands through her hair. ‘What’s going on? This makes no sense. None at all.’ She buries her face in her hands. When she looks up her eyes are wet. ‘I will have a drink, Claire. If I can? Just one. A small one.’
Before Claire gets a chance to answer, Libby gets up and walks to the kitchen. Claire feels a fresh twist of anxiety. She doesn’t understand why this seems to be such a big deal, and she wonders what she’s given away without meaning to.
If only she could remember.
Libby returns with a drink, takes her seat.
‘Sebastian told me he hadn’t seen Cooper before he died,’ she says. ‘He told me he hadn’t seen him for ages. He was adamant about it. Why would he say that? Why would he lie?’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly. Oh,’ Libby repeats. ‘What the fuck is going on? The more I think about this and the more questions I ask, the more I start to wonder what really happened.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There have been so many lies, Claire, don’t you see?’ Libby says. ‘I don’t think Cooper killed himself at all. I think it’s just a convenient excuse. I think something else happened.’
‘Like?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I have wondered if maybe he fell. I thought it was such a crazy idea that he would go and kill himself. But then Sebastian told me about Cooper’s father jumping off Bradley’s Edge and it seemed like . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Well, suicide suddenly seemed more likely. But now I find out Sebastian has been lying and I just don’t know. Maybe Seb’s protecting someone. Maybe he’s protecting himself.’
‘From what?’
‘Maybe someone pushed him.’
Claire feels the colour drain from her face. She picks up the packet of cigarettes, stands and walks over to the window. Her hands are shaking so badly now that it takes her a while to pull a cigarette out, even longer to light it. She draws the smoke back deeply, then exhales.
‘That would be . . .’ She’s finding it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe. ‘That would be very, very bad.’
‘It would be murder, Claire.’
Claire feels her heart beat so fast and so hard she wonders how her ribs can contain it. She raises her hand to her chest and presses the flat of her palm against it, as if she can control its pace, slow it down, keep it inside her. ‘Murder? Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m serious,’ Libby says unhappily. ‘Do you think I’m joking?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to keep on asking questions, Claire. I’m going to find out exactly what happened.’
55
LiBBy
When I get home from Claire’s, Atticus’s car is in the driveway, and I hear Hari and Cate’s voices as soon as I step into the hallway. I should be pleased that they’re here, glad they’ve made the effort, but I feel only a tired, sinking sensation at the thought of them.
They’re all in the kitchen with Mum. There’s a white box from Maisie’s on the table. Tea and cake and conversation. My heart sinks even further. The effort of it all.
‘Libby.’ Cate rushes over, puts her arms around me.
I’m glad for the shamble of her scarves and cardigan, for the brief opportunity of cover her embrace gives me.
‘Are you okay?’ she says. ‘No, of course you’re not. Dumb question. Sorry. Don’t answer that.’
I squeeze her arm, let go. ‘Hi guys. So good to see you. I’m just . . . I might just—’ I step backwards, force a smile. ‘I just need the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.’
I close the door behind me and go straight to the mirror. I find it bizarre that my face appears relatively normal. I look tired and my eyes are bloodshot and I’ve clearly lost a bit of weight, but there’s no real indication of how I feel. My guts are twisting, my mind is spinning; I feel knotted up, distraught and angry. I don’t want to go back out there and try to convince my friends I’m okay. I want to go somewhere private where I can scream.
When I emerge from the bathroom, they’ve made tea and taken everything onto the back patio. Cate and Hari and Atticus are already seated around the table, Mum is inside somewhere. I sigh inwardly and take a seat.
Atticus pushes a plate towards me. ‘Cherry chocolate. Your favourite.’
Cate pours tea from the pot. Adds milk and sugar to my cup.
I make an effort at conversation. I ask Atticus if he’s been painting. I ask Cate and Hari what they’ve been up to during semester break. I listen to their answers and act as though I care. I nod and smile and drink my tea. Eventually the conversation turns to what we should do on the weekend, and I allow my thoughts to drift back to Cooper.
‘Libs?’ Cate asks. ‘You’ll come, won’t you?’
I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I nod anyway.
‘I’ll try,’ I say.
‘You haven’t even touched your cake,’ Cate says. ‘You’re not hungry?’ Her voice is so kind and her expression so full of concern that I can’t hold it in any longer. I start blubbering.
Cate is out of her seat and crouching in front of me in an instant, her hands on my knees. ‘Oh, you poor thing. You know, it’s completely okay to cry. Let it out. Don’t try to keep it in.’
Cate’s self-help manual tone makes me laugh. ‘Of course it’s okay to cry,’ I say. ‘I already know that.’
‘Seriously though, mate,’ Atticus says. ‘Is everything okay? I mean, I know you’re grieving, but you look a bit stressed out. Like, really agitated.’
‘Of course she’s stressed,’ Cate says. ‘It’s completely normal. I’ve been reading about grief and all emotions are considered okay. Stress, anger, disbelief.’
‘Actually, Atticus is right,’ I say. ‘I am tense. I’m not okay.’
‘Oh, Libs.’ Cate squeezes my knee.
I make my voice as calm as I can. I don’t want to sound hysterical or overly emotional. I don’t want them to conclude that I’m crazy with grief. ‘I don’t think Cooper killed himself.’
Hari and Atticus glance at each other, wide-eyed with alarm.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘Before you all decide I’m crazy, just listen to this. Tell me what you think.’
I tell them everything I’ve discovered so far. Richard’s suicide. Tessa in the video. The fact that Cooper may have found out the day he died that his mother had an affair. Sebastian’s inexplicable lie.
‘I can see that it’s weird,’ Hari concedes.
‘It is weird.’ Atticus frowns. ‘But it doesn’t necessarily prove Cooper didn’t kill himself.’ He glances at Hari and then back at me. ‘I mean, Libs, couldn’t all that stuff indicate that he did kill himself? As in, it’s all a kind of motive . . . if that’s the right word?’
‘What do you think it means, Libby?’ Cate asks. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I don’t know yet. But it means something. I know it does. I was just around at Claire’s—’
‘You were?’ Atticus interrupts. ‘How was young Claire?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug at the irrelevant question. ‘Well, actually, no, she didn’t seem all that great. She looked unwell.’
‘Too much vodka,’ Hari says.
Atticus frowns.
‘Anyw
ay,’ I continue. ‘She couldn’t remember a single thing about that night. Apparently she and Seb were totally smashed, but I got the feeling it was an intense night. She was quite strange about it. And Seb is lying. Something definitely happened.’
‘Well, yes, something did happen, Libby. A terrible thing,’ Hari says. She speaks carefully and slowly as if she thinks I’m delicate or stupid or both. As though she’s afraid the truth might break me. ‘Cooper jumped off Bradley’s Edge.’
‘No. He didn’t.’ I push my plate away and stand up so quickly my chair topples over. ‘Cooper was happy. He had everything in the world to live for. He loved his job and he loved his life and he loved me. So what if his mother had an affair? So what? And Richard may have killed himself, but that means nothing. It’s not fair to judge a person on what their parents are like, and certainly not based on what they did a long long time ago. It’s not fair and it’s lazy and ignorant and so fucked. Cooper and I were in love and Cooper was happy.’ And it’s only as I speak that I realise how certain I am. How definite. I know it as surely as I know my own name, that the world is round, that the sun will rise each morning. Cooper didn’t jump.
THEN
56
LiBBy
When Cooper dropped me home after our trip to Sydney, Mum had dinner waiting for me. She was all cheerful and bustling, and I could tell that she was making an extra effort. It was her way of apologising for being critical. She didn’t need to, but it was nice anyway to see her in such a good mood. We ate together at the kitchen table, and we spoke briefly about my time in Sydney with Cooper before she told me about her own weekend. When we’d finished I got up and started clearing the plates.
‘Leave that,’ she said. ‘You look tired. You look like you need an early night.’
She was right, I was tired, but my fatigue was almost pleasant. After my strange episode of crying when Cooper dropped me off, I was now happy, ridiculously blissed out. I kissed Mum goodnight, went to the bathroom to shower, then went straight to bed. I texted Cooper before I turned my bedside lamp off.
Going to bed. Very lonely without you. xoxoxo
The next thing I knew I was waking from a deep sleep. There was a repetitive tapping noise at my window. At first I assumed it was just the wind, a branch or a tree, and rolled away, pulled the doona over my ears. But the noise continued, regular and persistent, and eventually I woke properly, got up and went to the window to have a look.
Cooper was standing outside.
I opened the window and grinned down at him.
‘I needed to see you,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘Come in. Hurry up.’
He hauled himself up and was inside within a second, his arms around me, and I held on to him greedily, desperately, as though we’d been apart for weeks, not just a few hours.
‘Mmm. You smell good,’ he said and then he kissed me: my neck, my collarbone, my cheek, my lips. His hands moved up beneath my pyjama top, his palms cool on my warm skin. He moved his hands down, pushing his fingertips beneath my pyjama bottoms, between my legs, making my breath stop in my throat.
‘Come on,’ I said, taking his hand, leading him to my bed. I lifted his jumper and then his T-shirt over his head. I unbuckled his belt, helped him remove his shoes and jeans. When he was wearing nothing but underpants I pulled back the doona and pushed him gently onto the bed. I got in beside him and pulled the doona back over us.
‘But you’re still dressed,’ he whispered, and I could hear the thickness of desire in his voice. ‘Not fair.’
I didn’t say a word; instead, I put my arms around him, pulled him on top of me. He lifted his face and smiled down at me, then he moved lower, kissing my neck, opening my shirt and kissing my chest and then my belly, tugging my pants down, kissing me lower still, pushing my legs apart.
For a moment I felt exposed, vulnerable, but then his mouth was against me and the feeling was so exquisite that I forgot to care. I woke sometime later and checked the time on my phone: 4:03. I could tell by the even way Cooper was breathing that he was deeply asleep. I lay there for a bit and just listened to him, relishing his warmth, his presence.
After a while I put my hand on his cheek. ‘Cooper,’ I whispered. ‘Wake up.’
His eyes opened and he smiled, and my heart flipped with the beauty of him.
‘Why? Why do I have to wake up?’
‘Because you have to go. I’m scared Mum will come in.’
‘What time is it?’
‘About four.’
‘Does she normally come in at four?’
‘No, of course not, but—’
He laughed softly.
‘Well, maybe she does and I’m asleep. I wouldn’t really know.’
‘What would she do?’ he asked. ‘If she came in and saw us?’
‘I don’t know.’ I tried to picture it. She wouldn’t do anything much. She’d no doubt just close the door and go away, leave us alone. But I’d be uncomfortable. I’d feel like I’d been caught sneaking around behind her back. ‘I’d rather ask her first. I’d rather be up-front about it, not just have her spring us like this.’
‘Of course. Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s my fault. I just turned up. Didn’t give you a chance.’
‘No. I’m so happy you came.’ I poked him gently in the ribs. ‘But now you have to go.’
‘Can I just say something first?’
‘No, you can’t. You’re banned from speaking.’
‘Just this one thing. Then I’ll shut up forever.’
I sighed. ‘Okay then. I’ll endure one or two more sentences.’
‘You know I have a bit of a reputation. As being a, you know, like, a bit of a . . .’ He hesitated, sighed. ‘This is embarrassing.’
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re a stud, right?’
‘That’s what some people think, apparently.’
‘And? So?’ I lifted my head to look at him. I felt a sudden sharp sense of dread. This was it. He was going to tell me that he didn’t want to take things so seriously. That I shouldn’t expect anything more. That it had been fun, but now . . .
‘It’s not true,’ he said. ‘I know I told you this before, but I just want to make sure you know that this is special to me. I don’t want you to think I do this every day with a different girl, or that it’s just some casual fling.’
I smiled, widely and uncontrollably, but it came nowhere near close to expressing the euphoria I felt. I pressed my face against his neck, kissed his skin, which was rough with stubble. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘People think I’m a complete lightweight. Some kind of stoned surfer or something,’ he went on. ‘But I’m pretty serious about a lot of stuff. Like integrity.’
He put his hand under my chin, lifting my face.
‘I won’t ever betray you, Libby. Or lie. Or hurt you deliberately.’ He looked suddenly vulnerable, almost afraid. ‘And I hope you can say the same.’
‘Of course, Cooper. God. Of course. You can trust me absolutely.’
‘That’s good. Because . . .’ He stopped.
‘Because?’
‘Because the thing is . . .’ He smiled and put his fingertip against my neck, tracing the ridge between my collarbone and shoulder. ‘I think I love you.’
NOW
57
CLAiRE
Claire has been drinking all afternoon, ever since Libby left. But alcohol alone hasn’t been able to hold her together. All afternoon she’s felt like she might fall apart, crack open and spill all over the floor.
Murder. That’s the word Libby used. Murder.
She refills her glass, then goes to the living room and crouches on the floor beside the coffee table. She digs between the sofa cushions where she keeps her stash and pulls out the bag of speed Seb gave her at Cooper’s funeral. She pours a little pile onto the glass, cuts it into two lines and has both of them in quick succession. She leans back on the sofa and drinks her vodka. The tas
te is sharp and nasty, but the feeling going down is mellow and warm. She grabs the bag of speed and tilts it on its side, spilling the rest out. Again she cuts it into two lines and snorts the first one up quickly.
After a while she feels easier in her skin – it’s the first time since Cooper died. The tight feeling in her chest starts to ease. The thrumming panic in her mind gets quieter. And suddenly, with the clarity that only being high provides, she knows exactly what to do.
She’ll confess. Own up. Tell the truth.
Well, the bits she can remember.
The decision brings such an immediate and massive sense of relief she almost laughs. She can’t believe she didn’t think of it before.
She’s knows she’s going to be in deep shit. But she’s okay with that. She’s so tired of hiding. Tired of the misery, the guilt. Tired of the fear that makes her feel like she’s filling with cement, slowly choking. And she’s sick to death of crying – the sore red eyes and the headache and the whole soggy mess.
Telling the truth will be so much easier.
She fills her glass again and drinks the vodka down like water. Then she leans over the table and snorts the last line.
Claire doesn’t react when the glass slips from her fingers onto the carpet. She just watches it roll beneath the table and a moment later lets herself slide onto the floor after it. She is suddenly boneless, can no longer hold herself up. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. It’s only plain white plasterboard, but if she squints a little, looks at it sideways, she can see light from the window reflected on its surface, squares and rectangles, lines and circles, black and white. When she closes her eyes she sees beautiful swirls of colour against her eyelids. Revolving patterns. Shadow and light.
‘Claire! Claire! Jesus Christ. Wake up. Wake up.’
Bree’s voice is muffled, distant, as though it’s coming through a thick pillow. She sounds distressed and Claire wants to tell her that everything’s okay, everything’s smooth and easy. There’s no need to sound so panicked. But she’s buried under something heavy. She’s flattened, unable to move. It’s not an uncomfortable paralysis; in fact she’s never felt so warm and cosy. It’s a soft weight that covers her. Safe and comforting.