Black Painted Fingernails by Steven Herrick

Author:Steven Herrick [Herrick, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2011-10-10T20:00:00+00:00

Sophie opens the corn chips and pours them onto a plate next to the dip, then unwraps the chocolates and arranges them on the silver foil. She places everything between me on the bed and her on the chair. She lifts her legs and rests her feet on the mattress. Her toenails are painted black. She checks the TV guide, and flings it disdainfully into the corner with the Bible. 'Let's turn off all the lights and draw the curtains so it's dark, like we're camping in the forest. We can tell stories, with the Scotch to keep us warm.'

This morning I was driving west to six weeks of lonely work in a school with a dusty playground and a pot-holed car park. Now, I'm romping through the imaginary woods with a woman whose last name I don't know.

Sophie gets up to switch off the lights. Her silhouette draws the curtains. She walks to the foot of the bed.

We both speak at once.

'Me first?' she says.

'You first,' I say.

'Truth factory, James?'

'Always.'

'It's not pretty.'

'I won't tell a soul.'

Sophie takes a swift hit of whisky. 'I was eighteen and still living at home. I'd finished school and, yes, I could have gone to university, but there was Dad and my two brothers. I stayed home looking after three men, three boys . . .'

She shifts uncomfortably. Her head is bowed.

'. . . until one night.'

My hands clench. 'Sophie, you don't have to—'

'It's . . . it's time I told someone.' She reaches for a chocolate and her laugh sounds forced. 'Chocolate makes everything easier.' She takes her time eating it, as though considering whether to go on. 'One night, it was stinking hot in my room. All I could hear were mosquitoes buzzing through the screen and the hum of the neighbour's air-conditioner. Even with the window open, there was no air, and the sweat was just trickling off my body.'

She sighs, unable to stop the story unfolding. 'I slept badly. In the morning, I woke to a sound just like the air-conditioner, only closer.'

She takes a sharp breath. 'Leaning over me is my brother, filming. He's fiddling with the lens, zooming in for a close-up. He's so involved, he doesn't see I'm awake.'

I shake my head involuntarily, not wanting to hear what happened next.

Sophie's voice is low, measured. 'I pretended to be asleep, trying to decide what to do. And then I felt his breath. His hand touched my breast!

'I jumped up . . . and smacked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He dropped the camera. It bounced on my bed and I grabbed it, wanting to kill him. I swear I could have killed him. I hurled the camera on the floor. A piece shattered and stabbed him in the shin. He's holding his balls, doubled over in pain, screaming at me for breaking his camera! My sixteen-year-old baby brother.'

From next door, I hear water running, a woman's high-pitched scream on the television, the dull thud of shoes tossed on the floor.

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