The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request. Ingrid Alexandra
two a.m. one night in early September, just over three months ago now, I grabbed the overnight bag I’d stashed in the cupboard while Mark was passed out, hailed a taxi and went to Aunty Anne’s. She didn’t say a word when I arrived. I stepped into her arms with a strangled sob and she just held me, listened as I told her fragments of the story, brought me endless cups of tea. She made up my old room and I knew without her saying it that I was free to stay as long as I wanted.
I spent a week holed up in that room, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. The collection of books, posters and stuffed animals seemed then to belong to a different person, a version of myself I no longer recognised. Like a childhood friend I’d outgrown. The rose-petal wallpaper and smiling stuffed toys that I once found so comforting now seemed to be mocking me, not oblivious but apathetic to the fear I felt in my bones. Everything felt unbalanced, wrong. Yet I was too afraid to leave my room, too afraid of what lay in wait beyond those four walls.
My fears weren’t unfounded. Mark came a couple of times, making his threats, even after Uncle John threw him out on his back. I knew I couldn’t stay there. Not when he knew where I was.
I managed to muster the energy to change my phone number and only gave it to the people I trusted. It was a shock to realise how shallow that pool of people had become: Aunty Anne, Uncle John and Cat. There was no one else. No friendships to show for the years I’d spent with Mark, no one who cared enough to wonder whether I was okay.
Cat came. Of course she did. Aunty Anne called her, told her just enough, and it wasn’t long before I heard a familiar knock on my bedroom door. Rap-rap-rap. Rap!
I remember the shame of having to tell her the dirty, rotten truth. Having to admit she was right. But Cat’s calm, no-nonsense care was just what I needed. She didn’t dwell, didn’t say she’d told me so. She let me speak but didn’t let me steep in my misery. This is our chance, she said. This is our chance to do what we’ve always wanted and get out of this dump. Start again. In Sydney, by the beach, the way we used to dream.
So we did it. Or Cat did it, I should say, and I willingly followed. Barely two weeks later, we were piling ourselves and our luggage into a coach, exuberant and terrified, waving goodbye to Aunty Anne as she stood on the porch, a hanky pressed to her mouth. I don’t know what she was feeling, whether she was fighting tears or some other emotion. Aunty Anne’s thoughts were rarely unknown, but her feelings were always a mystery.
Doctor Sarah dealt out her rules, of course. As did my aunt. But they both trusted Cat. They knew she knew my story, had my back, and would take care of things. Of me.
And so here we are. Starting over. Away from Mark and everything that happened in Melbourne.
Sometimes, still, the guilt slithers in. The seeds he sowed grow inside me. It’s all my fault – I’m useless and selfish. I shouldn’t have left him. I think of busy Brunswick Street, of the apartment, of those crazy nights and lazy days, the salty tang of fear. I can almost feel the permanent brick in my gut, the waiting and wondering, the rotting from the inside. What will he do next?
I think of those moments when he trusted me enough to let his mask slip, and I saw what no one had ever seen. Something small, startled. Something decaying slowly, eroding what remained of the good in him. Because there’s good in everyone. Isn’t there?
I suppose it doesn’t matter. Mark, and my life with him, is in the past, and there’s no going back. Melbourne is haunted now. Every street, every bar, every café. The ghosts of Mark and me are everywhere.
‘Mary.’
My fingers dig into the pillow and a groan escapes.
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary.’
I open my eyes to a room full of shadows, my heart thundering. There’s a low whisper somewhere nearby.
Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhh.
Is someone whispering? Is it the waves?
A scream pierces the air, followed by a thud.
I lunge for the lamp switch, and yellow light spills into the room. Jaunty shadows paint the walls, but there’s no one here.
‘You dumb, fucking bitch! This is the last time!’
‘Fuck you, you don’t even care! You never did!’
The voices are coming from outside. It’s the couple upstairs, fighting again. They must be on the balcony.
I sigh with relief, but my heart is still racing and my mouth is dry. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and tiptoe out the door. The clock on the microwave reads 03:30 as I creep through the fragrant summer darkness into the kitchen. I could wait until my vision adjusts, but I’m dying for water, so I slide my hand along the hallway wall until my fingertips find the switch. Fluorescent lights blink to life and it’s a moment before I can see.
Rachel stands in front of me.
With a shout I stumble backwards, the small of my back slamming into the countertop. ‘Ow. Sorry, I … I didn’t think anyone …’ I stop. There’s something funny about the way Rachel’s standing. And her expression. She’s hunched over the counter, both hands flat on its surface, staring into what would have been darkness before I turned on the light. ‘Rachel?’
She remains silent, staring ahead. A strange chill creeps through me.
‘Rachel? It’s just me, Mary.’
She cocks her head, those golden-hazel eyes meeting mine, but they’re blank. Unseeing.
I take a step backwards. Then something changes. I can’t explain it. It’s like there was a film over Rachel’s eyes, and now it’s peeling back and they’re clear again. She’s looking, not through me, but at me.
‘Hey.’ She smiles, blinks. She stares down at her hands, still pressed flat to the counter, and pulls them away as though she’s been burned. She puts them behind her back, turns to me, smiles wider. ‘Just, uh … came to get some water.’
‘Right, yeah. Me too.’ If I knew her better, I’d make some joke, tell her she was out of it like a zombie. I’d ask her if she was sleepwalking, whether that’s something she does sometimes. I’d make sure she’s okay. But we only met two days ago, this is her first night here, and ingrained social etiquette overrules. I say nothing.
‘Did I disturb you?’ Her pretty smile is still in place, but there’s something in her expression. Worry? I can’t help but notice the network of blood vessels in the whites of her eyes, like fine red cobwebs, and the dark circles beneath.
‘No! No, you’re fine. I’m just thirsty.’ I quickly grab a couple of glasses from the washing-up rack and fill them at the sink. I hand one to Rachel.
It’s as if the gesture vanquishes Rachel’s strange mood. Her eyes shine as she takes the glass. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sure.’ I shrug, looking away, feeling like I should say something more, but what?
Muffled shouts sound from outside and Rachel glances towards the balcony doors. She purses her lips. ‘Are they always like that?’
I mirror her expression. ‘Often, yes, unfortunately.’
Rachel sighs softly. She turns to me, and the way the light hits her eyes makes them gleam. ‘Are you okay? After the other day, I mean. I got the feeling something really bad happened.’
‘Oh. No … well. It’s nothing, honestly.’
There’s the sound of a door banging, more muffled shouts.