Steeplechase by Krissy Kneen

fabric. I pick up the phone, hold it to my ear. She is watching me closely, perching on the lounge chair opposite, tucking her feet up underneath her. Her gaze is steady and unwavering. I hold the phone hard against my ear and breathe in. The smell of her breath on the mouthpiece, the sticky slip of her fingerprints against mine.
    â€˜Hello?’
    If I listen very closely there is the sound of breathing. My breathing perhaps, reflected back to me, but I want it to be his breath. I want to share him with her. Raphael has stolen my sister from me and I want so much to join them in their game.
    She is watching with her large dark eyes. I know that mine are pale and furtive in comparison. For now, just this moment, I have her complete attention.
    â€˜Hello?’ I whisper into the handset. My fingers are trembling. I can hear the breathing, my own or someone else’s, but it is loud and fast, scrappy breaths as if whoever it is has been running or is perhaps afraid.
    â€˜Is anyone there?’
    I close my eyes but she is still watching me. I can feel it. My head throbs. A nerve in my temple starts to twitch.
    Please, please please please answer the phone. Answer the phone.
    If you don’t answer she will be lost to me. You will have her all to yourself.
    I hear a catch in my breath, a sob. I bite my lip, open my eyes. I think I might cry. I sniff. Don’t let her see you cry. My lip is trembling and the more I try to stop it, the larger the twitching seems.
    The voice is far off. It is like static. It is almost not a voice at all, it is the hiss of fibres rattling soundwaves from one place to another, the clicking of electric signals, but when I strain to make sense of the hiss there are words in it.
    â€˜Can you hear me?’ My eyes widen, my hands are clammy on the phone.
    â€˜Yes,’ I say, ‘yes I can hear you.’
    â€˜You can hear me?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You can hear me?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    I look up. Emily is staring at me. It is as if she is seeing me for the first time in months. There is a look on her face, relief perhaps, a relaxing of the muscles around her mouth. She smiles and it is a genuine smile.
    I can hear him. She knows I can hear him. It is as if his voice, tiny and muffled, hidden in a thick fog, is a ladder between her world and mine. I cling to the rung I am holding with everything I have. My knuckles are pale and tight, my fingers ache.
    I hunt for the staticky words and find them. ‘Is this you?’
    He says, ‘Yes.’
    â€˜I am Emily’s sister.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ says Raphael.

Paintings
    Paintings by Emily Reich. When I open my eyes they are all there lined up on the wall. John could bring his little friend around for a tour. I am rich. Under the painting of the burning cow my shoes lie scuffed and cheap and worn at the heel. My dress is a fallen thing beside them, fading slightly, the hem frayed. A small hole burnt into the skirt provides a peep show of the floorboards below. My car door does not close properly and the interior light runs the battery down unless I am vigilant. The pilot light in the gas heating is erratic. Yet here I am, rich beyond my wildest dreams if you count my sister’s work as currency.
    John reached out a finger the first time he was here, naked, all the awkwardness of consummation behind us. He stood with the comfortable overhang of his belly shading a shrivelled penis. Little snail, I thought, and watched him stretch out that one finger and touch the thick paint on the surface of the canvas. Like he was touching god. He seemed frightened, as if an alarm might suddenly trip and catch him here despoiling a national treasure.
    I am drunk. My face is numb. My hand is almost a blur in front of my eyes. I touch my cheek with clumsy fingers. A hot wave of liquid rushes up my oesophagus. I sit up and it retreats. I must not lie down. We lay down on this couch, John and I. I stand and move