‘We’re not done yet.’
‘No,’ Cal says. ‘You promised, Noon.’
‘We have to get off the road.’
The drainage ditch is deep and grass-lined, and dry at the bottom, for which Riley is grateful. Grey storm light falls in, making their faces wax-pale.
‘Stop, Noon,’ Cal says. ‘I won’t. I can’t, not again.’
Noon puts a hand on his face. ‘Whatever choices we had,’ she says, ‘they’re done. We made them long ago.’ She grips the back of his neck. ‘Do you understand?’
After a moment he nods. Noon kisses his cheek gently. ‘It will be ok.’
They crawl along the ditch in single file. A street sign looms above.Snow Line Rd.Noon climbs out and beckons. Riley and the others follow her at a jog. They go into a backyard via a gate with a broken latch. Then they go down through the small neat yards, hopping fences, until they come to a pretty green garden and a clapboard one-storey house with flowers in boxes at the windows. A shape detaches from the shadows and Riley catches her breath.
‘Did you get it?’ Noon breathes at Midnight, who nods and raises the plastic bag she holds tight in her fist.
‘What are we doing?’ Riley’s voice comes out louder than she meant. She doesn’t like this.
Noon puts a finger to her lips. ‘We’re waiting,’ she says, softly. ‘And watching.’
The drapes are open and the inside of the house is as neat as a pin. A window is cracked open, it’s a warm night, and bugs slam themselves against the bug screen. Cute things are everywhere inside. On the counter sits a mug saying insert coffee here and an upward-pointing arrow. A kitten calendar hangs on the wall. Everything is pink or baby blue – pink rug, pink tablecloth, baby-blue apron hanging on the hook by the pale-pink tiles.
After a few minutes of watching the empty room, Noon whispers, ‘Are you sure—’
‘She does it the same time every night,’ Midnight says. ‘I found her last year. I watched. I knew we’d need her.’
Riley crushes a mosquito against her neck. Its full sac of blood bursts on her skin.
A woman comes into the kitchen. She’s blonde and delicate. She looks right among the pastels and prettiness. ‘Come on, kids,’ she calls.
Two children come into the kitchen. The girl wears a pretty, very clean dress with flowers on it. The boy wears shorts and a collared shirt. They’re around six and eight years old, maybe. Their hair is perfect. The girl’s looks like it has been styled with curlers. The boy’s is smooth, parted to one side, shining.
The woman pulls a kitchen chair out into the middle of the floor. She takes a bottle out from under the sink. ‘Alicia, you first.’
The girl sits on the chair. Her mother soaks a pad of paper towel in whatever is in the bottle, and then puts it in front of the girl’s nose. ‘This will make you better,’ she says, and puts a plastic bag over the girl’s head. She struggles, inhaling fumes. The bag concertinas in and out with her breath. Her mother holds her firmly down on the chair. When Alicia starts to sag, she takes the bag off her head and kisses her. ‘Good girl. Go lie down, now. We’ll go to the doctor in the morning.’ She beckons to her son, ‘Come on, Benjy. Your turn for medicine.’
He holds back, mouth pursed with fear.
‘Daddy will be home tomorrow,’ the woman says. ‘You want to be all better for when Daddy gets back, don’t you?’
The little boy nods.
‘What are we doing here?’ Riley whispers at Noon. Her body convulses with disgust. Noon strokes her back, puts a finger to her lips.Wait.
Riley can’t watch it again, so she stares at the flower beds, the cutely dressed gnome fishing from the ornamental pond.
Bedtime is early, 7 for the kids, 9 p.m. for the mother. At last, through the window, the warm glow of the bedside lamp goes out, but they wait an hour longer to give everyone time to fall asleep.
Noon lifts Riley up from where she’s crouched. ‘This is the time to go,’ she says quietly. ‘If you don’t want to be part of this – it’s now.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Riley feels sick, like it was her who breathed in the fumes, her head inside the plastic bag. She takes a deep breath. ‘Actually it doesn’t matter. Let’s go.’
‘Are you sure?’ Noon holds her at arm’s length. Riley feels her measuring look.
Riley nods and pushes Noon gently away. She follows Midnight through the dark.
Midnight picks the lock on the kitchen door easily. There’s no deadbolt, it’s a simple mechanism. This neighbourhood is like one of those places you see on TV, Riley thinks, where everybody says nothing bad ever happens and nobody locks their doors. They’re wrong of course: bad things happen everywhere all the time and always have.
