Sweet Damage by Rebecca James Page B

behaviour, and very sorry.’ He lifted his hand, palm out, when she started to object. ‘Still, I think it would be much better if you didn’t say anything. Don’t mention the war, so to speak. She’ll be over it soon. We’ll just forget it ever happened.’
    â€˜Of course,’ she said.
    â€˜It must seem odd to you at times, the fact that Fiona and I spend so much time together?’
    â€˜No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’ And it was true, she’d been too busy enjoying their company to question things.
    â€˜You see, Fiona and I have this history in common that nobody else can quite understand. I’m still the only person who really gets her. I’m the only person she can count on to care about her.’ He frowned deeply.
    â€˜I don’t know how she’d get by without me. Or I without her.’
    I care, Anna wanted to insist. I care too. But she kept it to herself. She would have plenty of time to prove herself.

22
    I DON ’ T SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT . I’ M I N BED BEFORE MIDNIGHT for a change, but every noise, every creak and groan of the house, has me sitting up in bed, heart racing. I’m too wired to sleep, every cell alert and ready to react. I hear a faint, repetitive banging in the hallway and jump out of bed and switch on the light, my fists raised defensively, only to find it’s the bathroom blind being blown against the windowsill. At around two a.m. I give up, go downstairs to the living room and watch the second half of a foreign crime movie on SBS. The effort of reading the subtitles makes my eyes ache and I doze off, waking with a start when a gun goes off on screen.
    I go back upstairs and toss and turn restlessly for a couple of hours, only properly falling asleep when the sun has started to rise and I no longer feel intimidated by the dark. I get up reluctantly at twenty to seven when my phone alarm goes off.
    Only Lilla could convince me to sacrifice sleep for such an early-morning trip into the city. A pointless ferry ride.
    I have a quick coffee in the kitchen standing up, leaning against the bench. I look out at the sky, the clouds moving across it, forming shapes and visions, illusions. I remember the first time I went in a plane as a kid, being so disappointed at the way the clouds seemed to dissolve into nothing as the plane flew through them. Up close they had no substance at all.
    It’s already hot outside, and I feel immediately enveloped by the humidity, as if somebody has thrown a damp blanket over me. I walk down to Manly, arrive five minutes early and wait for Lilla, who is, typically, five minutes late.
    I’ve caught the Manly ferry into the city hundreds of times, but I’ve never done it in peak hour before and I’m surprised at the crowds of people getting on, the push and crush of bodies, the grim faces, the boring work clothes. The general mood of miserable resignation reminds me why I’ve never wanted this kind of life.
    â€˜I feel like we’ve teleported to London,’ I say to Lilla, as we move slowly along with the crowd.
    â€˜You haven’t even been to London, you dick,’ she says. ‘It’s just people going to work, Tim. It’s what people do. They grow up. Get real jobs.’
    â€˜Whatever,’ I shrug. I’m not in the mood for an argument about my choice of occupation. It’s okay for Lilla. She’s always known she wanted to do something with art. She studied Fine Arts at uni and though she didn’t ever finish her degree it still helped her score a job with an acquisitions firm in the city. It’s only a secretarial position at the moment – but Lilla’s nothing if not ambitious and I believe her when she tells me she’ll climb her way to the top. Lilla’s one of those rare, lucky people. She knows what she wants. Not all of us are that certain.
    We board the ferry and she drags