Rachael's Gift by Alexandra Cameron Page A

the cops exactly.’
    ‘I asked you to wait,’ Camille said.
    ‘You knew about this?’ said Rach, her chest heaving up and down. Camille and I didn’t answer; Rachael’s face grew hot with anger. She thrashed her arms and growled, ‘I don’t fucking want to do this! He never fucking touched me, okay? It never happened. I fucking lied. You happy now?’ She ran into the house and slammed the door behind her.
    Camille put her hand on her hip, her face smug. ‘Look what you’ve made her do. She’s so scared of what will happen and what this teacher might do to her – you’ve forced her to lie to us. She’s so terrified that she’d rather be known as a liar!’
    Rage furled out of my nostrils. ‘
I
made
her
lie! Oh, that takes the cake. As far as I know, this is the first time she’s actually told the truth!’
    Cam’s eyes dilated in shock and then anger. I felt a hot spear of guilt, buried it and said again, ‘We’re going to Anne and that’s final.’
    She inhaled sharply and then reached out, touching my arm. ‘Wolfey,’ she said, her voice softer. ‘Honey, please. Please. There’s something else . . .’
    I looked away. Another bloody excuse. I was not budging. Not this time. I shook her hand off me. ‘I’m scared there’s something wrong with her, Cam, and I’m sick of dicking around.’
    She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re going to ruin her. Don’t you realise? I can’t let you do it.’ Her chest heaved and then some kind of realisation dawned in her face. ‘Oh my god, you don’t love her. You wouldn’t do this if you did.’
    It felt as if my veins were bursting. ‘Of course I love her,’ I shouted. ‘It’s
because
I love her!’
    ‘This is not love.’
    I stabbed my finger in her face. ‘You love her too much.’
    Her expression transformed, a light went on in her eyes and her breath evened out. ‘You’re a fucking traitor,’ she hissed. ‘I won’t let you do that to her.’
    We’ll see about that, I thought as I walked away from her.
     
    *
    Later, she came to me in the dark, my head cloggy with sleep and whisky and dreams that made me sweat. Had I felt her breath on my skin?
    I reached out for her and cupped the back of her head in my hand, her hair falling over my arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. Feeling dizzy on her smell. Tasting her skin. ‘But don’t you have any doubts?’
    Had I heard her voice? A murmur. A sigh. A shiver. Lips on my cheek.
    I stirred. The light seeped through the blinds, the bed next to me was empty.

Part Two

Wolfe
    The ocean left a crust on my skin, grafting patterns on my shins. It had been a thrilling set, topped only by the awesome fireball that roared over the rooftops and made everything glow. I’d gone in hard, my muscles burning with the effort and now my limbs sang, high on oxygen and endorphins and adrenalin, warmth spreading from my belly right to the hardened calluses on the ends of my fingers. Somehow the colours seemed brighter, the world sharper and I felt as if I could eat for ten: tonight was a fish and chips kind of night.
    I put the Ford into gear, turned the radio up and banged my thumbs against the steering wheel to Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’. I called Camille and left a message:
Picking up fish and chips – any requests?
Travelling slowly around the bends, the Volvo estate driver got frustrated and rammed his foot on the accelerator, flipping me the bird. I waved back. The big blue grew darker towards the horizon, the sun travelled in the opposite direction, Mr Brown hung his head out the window, his tongue loose and white with drool: it was a beautiful evening.
    The old fish-and-chip shop was on the corner where the suburban road met the main one. Cam still hadn’t called. I ordered anyway – potato scallops, battered cod, fresh-cut chips, and just because I felt we needed something special, I got a kilo of cooked prawns and a dozen Sydney rock oysters. I ran across the road to the