Spirits

Chapter Four

Farrell drove his father's car down the driveway crushing several of the thistles that grew amongst the stones and pulled up by the old stables. They had been converted into a garage decades ago when the cost of keeping horses outweighed their usefulness. His own car sat beside him in the driveway. Unlike the sleek curves of his father's classic car Farrell's car looked more like a battle-scarred scarab beetle. The black paint was sun faded and rusting around the edges and the body had more than its fair share of dents and scrapes. But despite its cosmetic imperfections there was something about it he couldn't help but prefer. Given a choice between the two cars, he'd choose his every time.

Farrell killed the engine and glanced at his house. He didn't need a house this big, no one did, and he had neither the time or money needed to keep it.  Eventually it would fall into disrepair and become valueless anyway. Surely selling now was the best option, but he knew it wasn't that simple.

He pulled on the handbrake and something slipped out. A thin rectangular package that had been wedged between the passengers seat and the gearbox now lay on the passenger side floor.  It was wrapped in brown paper and as he picked it up and turned it over he saw the address written in his father's handwriting. The words stared back at him. It was his address.  He hadn't spoken to his father since he left, he wasn't even sure how he knew where he lived. Why had his father never sent the package? He wondered what was inside.   His fingers hovered over the brown paper, ready to tear it open, but he hesitated. Did he really want to know?  Whatever it was, it could wait. He slipped the package into his jacket pocket and got out of the car.

Farrell noticed the musty smell of the house had begun to dissipate as he walked into the entry hall. Although the open windows let in fresh air, they also shed light into corners that hadn't seen the sun in a long time, highlighting just how worn and dusty the room really was. He took a step into the hall and was almost knocked off his feet as Nanna scurried past him carrying a tray rattling with a teapot and cups.  He rushed after her into the lounge room, trying to make sure she didn't break anything, only to find that they had company. Two girls were already in there with Nanna. One sat on the lounge, the other stood with her back to him on the far side of the room. Nanna set the tray down and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping away the thick layer of dust that had gathered on the coffee table.

"I told you he would be back shortly," Nanna said as she added several fragrant herbal teabags to the boiling water. The girl on the lounge didn't look up when Farrell entered the room, her eyes were fixed on a brown paper pad on her lap as she scribbled erratically with a charcoal pencil. A sharp click followed by the whir of a tiny motor drew his attention to the other girl. Farrell's heart skipped a beat, the sound was as familiar to him as the girl who stood by the antique wooden doors. She turned to face him, the freshly ejected photo still dangling from the camera. Of all the people he was worried he might see when he came home, she was at the top of the list.

"Lewis, this is Rose," began Nanna, "and her sister-"

"Ingrid..." said Farrell.  She shook the photo and the image of the carved wooden doors slowly faded into view. Just as Rose always had a sketchbook and pencil, Ingrid was never without her camera. She pressed on the top of it and it collapsed down into a metallic rectangle.

"Oh, you've met," said Nanna, pouring three cups of tea. "So how do you know each other?" He looked at Ingrid and opened his mouth to answer, but nothing he could think to say felt right.

Ingrid walked over and took a seat on the lounge next to her twin sister. She looked different from how he remembered her. Her hair was shorter, now swept across her forehead in a messy pixie-cut. The dark eyeliner was new too, but it didn't hide the tightness around her eyes, like she hadn't slept in days. She pulled nervously at her sleeves as Farrell took a seat opposite them.

"Oh my, I've forgot the milk," Nanna said, and dashed out of the room leaving them alone.

"I'm sorry, she's... not quite herself," said Farrell. Ingrid smiled awkwardly.  They sat in strained silence waiting for Nanna to return.

"I didn't realise you were back," said Ingrid.

"I'm not," said Farrell, a little too quickly.  "I'll be gone again in the morning." He paused, a little confused.  If Ingrid didn't know he was here, then why would she have come?  He looked at Rose and noticed for the first time the cast on her arm, her torn night gown and a long line of sutures that held together a gash along her cheek.  She never looked up from her sketchpad, but something about her felt guarded, insular, lost in her own thoughts behind unfocused eyes. He was so shocked to see Ingrid he'd missed it.  They were here to talk to his father.

Although it was strictly forbidden, on the night he left he'd told Ingrid his family's secret, he thought he owed her at least that much. She hadn't taken it well.

"I'm sorry, my father isn't here," he said. It came out colder than he'd intended.

"We need his help," said Ingrid. He looked at Rose as she continued sketching in her book, not listening to a word they were saying. "Maybe you could help?" said Ingrid hopefully.

"You know better than anyone why I left," he said.  "You know I can't." Ingrid's expression turned instantly defensive. 

"If you are refusing to help my sister because of us-"

"It's not that I don't want to help-" began Farrell.

"She said she was going to kill me..." said Rose.  Both Ingrid and Farrell turned, startled that Rose had spoken at all.  Her voice was soft and distant, her eyes still staring unblinking at her sketchpad.  "I closed my eyes and waited to die.  I thought I was dead, but when I opened my eyes she was gone." Ingrid reached across and took her sister's hand.  Farrell was silent for a long time.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not my father," he said.  "There is nothing I can do."

"What are we supposed to do?" said Ingrid, desperation creeping into her voice.

"I-" began Farrell, but he stopped himself. He didn't have an answer.

"Can we stay here?" said Ingrid, biting her lip hopefully.  It caught Farrell off guard. "Please, we'd be a lot safer with you..." Farrell shook his head. 

"I don't think it's a good idea, I'm leaving in the morning.  You should do the same. Get out of town for a few days."

"Please, just tonight, we will leave first thing tomorrow.  We can't go home..."  There was a pleading in her voice that tugged at Farrell and he knew that no matter how bad an idea it was, he couldn't say no.

"Just for tonight..." he finally conceded. Ingrid rushed forward and hugged him.

"Thank you," she whispered. For an instant, with Ingrid's arms around him, it felt as though he had never left.