The Red Cardigan by J.C. Burke

opens her diary planner. Her hands shake as she flicks through the pages to the note she made yesterday: 24/211 Lancet St, Randwick. Take the 503 bus from Wynyard and get off at car wash in Randwick. Corner of second street on left.
    At the bus stop she wedges her bag between her feet to steady her. The traffic whizzes by but everything looks and feels like slow motion. Even the noise on the road has slowed to a weird, echoing drone. The step on the bus seems higher,the driver’s nose looks too long, and the machine takes forever to spit out her ticket.
    Evie stumbles onto the bus, taking a seat on the right-hand side. As the pin approaches she turns and stares out the window. The girl isn’t there.
    This time, Evie’s eyes follow a barricade that runs the length of the sharp bend. She realises she has never considered why the barricade is there. But now she knows. She calculates that at least twelve years ago a young girl was killed here. But she still has to see it for herself.
    At Hyde Park Evie gets off and runs to the state library. She’s done this for school assignments at least a hundred times. It’ll take ten minutes, fifteen tops. She chucks her bag in a locker and finds the newspaper drawer marked 1991. The roll for March is the first one she spots. She grabs it, hooking it onto the machine. Madly scrolling through sport sections and classifieds, the days of March 1991 rush before her.
    Nothing. She takes out May, July, December, September and does the same.
    Click– it’s there, 25 September 1991: ‘Girl Killed in Hit and Run’. The top paragraph of ‘News in Brief’. The words are jumping off the page like tiny black fleas. ‘Notorious bend – the pin – Bridgepoint Road – seven years old – massive blood loss – head injuries – killed instantly.’
    Evie’s fingers won’t cooperate as she tries to roll up the reel. She attempts to stuff it into the box but it keeps spilling out. She shoves it into the drawer and bolts.
    Back at Hyde Park, she waits for the 503 to Randwick. It’s due in eight minutes. First period is nearly finished. Shechecks her timetable – a geography documentary. She won’t be missed. Alex has a late start on Thursday mornings.
    Evie digs around the bottom of her bag for the eye drops. Her hands still shake as she squirts the drops in her left eye, most of it running into her mouth, their coolness still soothing the ache. She blinks, washing them through the redness and as she does a blurred pattern of shapes appears on the footpath. Three cylinders above four triangles, just like the ones in her drawing. When she blinks again they disappear.
    The 503 approaches. The square cabin of the bus speeds towards her and a thundering clamour shakes beneath her feet. Evie feels like she is falling, falling between the wheels. She screams and jumps back.
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    â€˜What?’ Evie looks up. A lady is touching her arm. The others in the queue look embarrassed. She takes her arm away. ‘Yeah. I’m okay.’
    Evie hides in the corner of the back seat. A grassy smell lingers. She sniffs the end of her plait, thinking it must be the chemist brand shampoo. What Victoria will look like and all the things they will talk about drift through her mind. Evie feels peaceful, almost sleepy. Closing her eyes she hears the rumbling of the wheels and the squeal of the brakes as the bus takes her up Elizabeth Street to Randwick.
    Â 
    She is not what Evie expects. Victoria is tall. Her eyes are large and brown and blink slowly as she speaks.
    â€˜I thought I might see you today,’ she says softly. ‘Come in. Dear, dear, your eye is very red. I wonder what that means?’
    Evie steps into a small room wall-to-wall with photos. A cookbook is open on the table and the crossword in the newspaper is half done.
    â€˜Would you like a cup of tea, Evangaline?’
    â€˜Thanks.