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  Twiceborn

  Marina Finlayson

  Copyright © 2014 Marina Finlayson

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Marina Finlayson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Act 1968 (Cth).

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.

  Cover design by Cormar Covers

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Published by Finesse Solutions Pty Ltd

  2015/06/#04

  Author’s note: This book was written and produced in Australia and uses British/Australian spelling conventions, such as “colour” instead of “color”, and “-ise” endings instead of “-ize” on words like “realise”.

  For Mum and Dad. Wish you could have been here to see this.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Glass is right up there with mankind’s great inventions, like the wheel, penicillin and chocolate. Not only can you see through it, but you can look into it, and a shop window, even tinselled-up and sprayed with fake snow for the silly season, gives a great reflected view of what’s behind you. In my case, that was Centre Court in all its Christmassy glory, and two guys showing way too much interest in a pregnant woman.

  Giant baubles hung from the ceiling behind me, and a dozen white kangaroos hauled Santa’s sleigh across the back of a temporary stage area, the only concession to the summery reality of Christmas in Australia. Santa himself had retired to the North Pole for another year, and his throne with its posse of photographers had been replaced by racks of bargain swimwear, much more suited to the season than snowmen and furs. The place was jumping with people, all out to find a great deal in the post-Christmas sales, as if they hadn’t had enough of shopping before Christmas. Madness. Throw the word “bargain” around a few times, and people will swarm the tiredest old dreck like bees in search of a new hive. Or maybe locusts, ready to strip the place bare.

  They even buzzed like swarming insects. Voices raised in conversation and laughter, plus the occasional shrieks of a tired child, formed a background roar that still failed to drown out the tired tinkle of Christmas music piped over the top. I’d only been here ten minutes and already I’d heard White Christmas twice. Two times too many in my book.

  Without turning I scanned the reflected crowds heaving behind me, one hand on the small of my supposedly pregnant back. My two tails still followed.

  One stood in front of a big touch-screen centre directory, pretending to be absorbed in locating the shop of his choice. Did they have a shop for spies here? Spooks “R” Us, maybe? He was a smallish guy, mid-thirties, receding brown hair. His mate was taller, a little younger, and too cool to take his sunnies off indoors. He was outside the jeans shop opposite me, pretending to talk on his mobile phone. Or perhaps he really was talking to someone.

  Yeah, we’ve got her in sight. She’s checking out the shops. Doesn’t know we’re watching her. Sure, Boss, I’ll let you know as soon as she meets her contact.

  Bet Boss wouldn’t be pleased about the sunnies thing. Making yourself look like a tosser was a personal choice, of course, but it meant Sunnies Dude stood out from the crowd. Despite the heat and glare outside, no one else in here wore sunglasses. What did they teach these guys in spy school? Didn’t he know he should be trying to blend in?

  I meandered away, dragging my tails behind me. Beats me how I always managed to acquire them on these jobs. As if they had a sixth sense or something. You’d pick up the package with no one in sight, but before ten minutes had passed, hey presto! Someone would be following you.

  Being stalked by strangers is an odd feeling. Guaranteed to get the adrenalin pumping, at least, so that’s something. The old fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, bypassing the brain altogether, so for a while I remember what it’s like to feel alive. Not that they ever do anything but watch. They only want to find out where the package is going.

  It’s my job to make sure they don’t.

  Don’t ask me what’s in the packages. Ben won’t tell, though he promised me it’s nothing illegal. I figure there’s just some super-secretive people around. If it floats their boat to sneak secret messages around Sydney, well, good luck to them. As long as they pay me I really couldn’t give a crap.

  One time I peeked. I didn’t mean to, but they’re these thick beige envelopes, nice quality but kind of lacking in the glue department. They’re always sealed with a blob of red wax. Fancy, but not terribly practical—sometimes the whole blob of wax comes right away from the envelope.

  So I had a look, in case it was full of white powder, or hundred dollar bills, or something equally dodgy. I may not care about much any more but no money on earth would get me to deliver drugs. But I couldn’t even tell what it was—a roughly disk-shaped piece of shiny hard something. It didn’t look like any plastic I’d ever seen, and there was nothing written on it, nothing to explain why anyone would give a toss who received such a thing. But clearly someone did.

  I threaded my way through the crowds. Some of them saw my enormous belly and gave way for me. The trick was remembering to walk like a pregnant woman instead of striding out in my usual fashion.

  The food court lay ahead, tucked behind two monstrous escalators. The aroma of hot chips and deep-fried everything wafted toward me and my stomach growled, reminding me I’d forgotten lunch again.

  “Mum!” a child’s voice screeched.

  Instinctively I turned toward the sound, and my heart clenched as I glimpsed a mop of light brown curls through the swirl of bodies. Only for a moment, but it was enough to set my pulse hammering in my throat. I stopped, and a woman bumped into me, apologising when she saw my pregnant belly, though it wasn’t her fault.

  When would I learn? I drew a deep, shaky breath. Lachie was gone. It would never again be his voice calling Mum in a crowd, never be his curly head I glimpsed from the corner of my eye, yet still I saw him everywhere. The turn of a head, a piping childish voice, even a T-shirt in his favourite blue and white stripes—anything could stop me with a hammer blow to the heart, even now, seven months after the accident.

  I’d dreaded Christmas in my empty house. It’s not good to spend Christmas alone, Ben had said. You’ll feel better if you come up and see the family, Katie, Mum had said. Maybe they were right. I’d gotten as far as booking a flight, but in the end I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch my nephews and nieces opening their presents when this time last year Lachie had been with them, tearing the wrapping off yet another box of Lego with squeals of unholy delight. Look, Mum, it’s the Dark Fortress! His bright curls had bounced with excitement, his mind already leaping forward to the thrill of the post-lunch construction even as he reached for the next present in the stack.

  Turned out, Christmas was no worse than any other day. Pain was pain, regardless of the date on the calendar. I pushed away the memory of his glowing little face. Deep breaths. Okay, focus.

  A sign beside the escalators pointed down a service corridor for toilets, phones and lifts. I threaded my way through rows of bright yellow tables filled with munching people and entered the corridor, pursued by the smell of Chinese takeaway. Skirting the crowd waiting for the lifts, I headed for the toilets. At the door I stopped for a woman coming out and threw a casual glance back the way I’d come. Sunnies Dude had stationed himself at the entrance to the corridor. His partner was coming my way.

  I slipped inside, my heart stuttering a little. Surely he wouldn’t follow me into the ladies’ toilet? I waited in line—there was always a line when the sales were on—and watched the door.

  I had not
hing to use as a weapon, and a quick glance showed nothing useful in the gleaming white room either. The soap dispensers were secured to the sinks and the hand dryers to the wall, their roar muffling a saccharine rendition of Silent Night. No respite from the Christmas schmaltz anywhere, not even in the bathroom.

  Geez, what was my problem? These clowns never did anything. No need to be jumping at shadows. But when the door opened, I had my handbag ready to swing.

  A tiny Indian woman entered, a little surprised to find me glaring at her. No sign of a marauding bald guy. I turned away, letting out a breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. He must have gone to guard the other end of the corridor, in case I went out that way.

  As I reached the head of the line, one of those mother-and-child stalls with two toilets, one big and one small, opened up. It smelled strongly of pine air freshener and something much more toilet-y that the freshener couldn’t quite cover up. Little people don’t have such good aim and they tend to get distracted at critical moments. At home I still had a ping pong ball bobbing in my toilet, from the days when I’d been encouraging Lachie to focus on aiming properly.

  I hung my bag on the hook on the back of the door and got to work.

  First off was the curly black wig. Thank God for that. The shops were air-conditioned, but the wig was synthetic, and wearing it felt like walking around with a hot water bottle on my head. It had been hot as hell outside in the bright summer sun. I unpinned my sweaty hair and fanned it out, letting the air circulate.

  Next came the dress, floral and tentlike. I wadded it up and shoved it into my handbag after the wig, then reached round to the straps that held the prosthetic belly on. The rip of velcro heralded sweet relief as I eased the heavy thing off.

  In the hollow of the fake belly nestled a big roomy carry-all containing my new outfit, a short denim skirt and a black top that revealed my own flat stomach, the taut abs a new feature. Had to do something to help me sleep at night, and in the end Ben had convinced me that exercise was a better option than alcohol. Smart guy. I sat on the toilet seat to strap on the red stilettos that completed the outfit.

  Maybe the shoes were a mistake. Ben had looked worried when I’d picked them out of our stock. But then, “worried about Kate” was a pretty common expression on Ben’s face these days.

  “What are you going to do if you have to run in those?”

  I’d snorted. “There won’t be any running.”

  I wasn’t feeling so cocky now but it was too late for second-guessing. The black flats I’d worn as the pregnant woman would spoil the whole effect. I shrugged. What did it matter anyway? When the worst thing you could ever imagine has already happened to you, it puts everything else in perspective.

  I buckled my shoes and gathered everything up. My original handbag and clothes went into the hollow of the fake belly, then I stuffed the lot into the carry-all and headed for the basins.

  Like every other woman there, I checked my face as the cool water splashed over my hands, leaning in close for a good look. Mirrors are probably the best use ever of glass. How did we ever manage without them?

  The concealer under my eyes was holding up despite the heat. Just as well. The dark circles were a permanent feature these days and they made me look more thirty-nine than my real age of twenty-nine. Weary green eyes stared back at me. Still, no man would be looking at my face in this outfit.

  I glanced down in time to see a red swirl against the white basin as the water disappeared down the drain. Weird. I turned my hands over, curious. Palms clean. Backs clean. Hang on … I caught my breath, stomach knotting uneasily. I dug at the brown stuff under my nails, creating more red tinges in the water. What did that come from? I lifted one wet hand to my face and sniffed.

  The unmistakeable iron scent of blood caused a wave of dizziness so strong I had to clutch at the basin to stay upright, swaying on my red stilettos. What the hell? A sudden vision of my hands, covered in blood, made my stomach heave in protest. I could see them so clearly, reaching … reaching for something. Bloody hell. Had I finally lost it? Was I having visions now? My sight blurred and prickled with darkness, the bathroom disappearing around me. No, not visions. Visions didn’t come with bonus traces of blood under your fingernails. I clenched my hands on the cold enamel of the sink, holding myself up by sheer force of will while I waited in the spinning darkness. My whole body broke out in a hot sweat.

  “Are you all right?” A hand on my arm. I turned my head toward the voice, vision returning in speckles of light. The Indian lady hung on to me, though she barely reached my shoulder. I don’t know what she thought she’d do if I fell.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “Just a little dizzy.”

  “Maybe you’re dehydrated. It’s a very hot day, you know.” Her tone was severe, as if I might not have noticed the heat, and what are the young people coming to these days? “You must drink plenty of water in this weather.”

  “You’re right,” I said, splashing my burning face. Summer in Sydney was always sweltering. Maybe I was coming down with something. Sure, something that puts blood under your fingernails. I felt ill. “Thanks.”

  I checked my reflection again. The concealer definitely needed some work now. My face was pale and sweaty, and mascara had oozed onto one cheek. My eyes had a haunted look, but that was nothing new. I dug my makeup out and got to work, ignoring the way my hands trembled. A slash of red lipstick. Mascara. Come on, Kate, pull yourself together. I scraped my hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail and clipped a fake fall of hair to it. It matched my own auburn colour and turned my modest ponytail into a luscious length that reached my waist.

  Much better. The woman in the mirror looked maybe twenty-five. She was no supermodel, but dressed like this she was definitely a head-turner. Most importantly, she looked nothing like the dark-haired pregnant woman in the frumpy maternity dress who’d waddled into the bathroom five minutes ago.

  Time to put it to the test. I had a job to do, and I could worry about mysterious blood later. With the heavy carry-all settled comfortably on my shoulder, I sashayed out of the bathroom and down the corridor, putting a little extra swing into my hips as those red stilettos tapped their way past the crowd at the lifts. I breezed past Sunnies Dude, still stationed at the opening of the corridor, on the look-out for a pregnant lady who would never leave that bathroom.

  My swaying denim skirt and long legs had the desired effect. His head swivelled, checking me out as I went past. I concentrated on projecting a calm I didn’t feel as my stomach roiled, but I doubt his gaze got as far as my face. I wondered how long they’d wait before one of them had to brave the ladies’ bathroom in search of their missing woman. Wouldn’t want to draw the short straw on that one.

  I strode away to make the drop, ponytail swishing against my bare skin. As I left the centre the heat hit me like a furnace blast. Even down here in the canyons between Sydney’s skyscrapers summer lay hot and heavy. A busker with a saxophone made a half-hearted attempt at jazz, looking like he’d rather be almost anywhere else. At least it wasn’t Christmas carols.

  Sweat sprang out on my face, under my armpits—even my feet soon felt sticky in their strappy red heels. Not the greatest choice for walking. The balls of my feet were burning already. Thank God I didn’t have far to go.

  I ducked into an arcade that led through to George Street. Where was I going? My steps faltered. Stopped. What in hell was wrong with me? How could I forget something like that? Shoppers and office workers sneaking home early streamed past as I scrabbled through my carry-all for the familiar beige envelope in a sudden panic. I couldn’t even remember seeing it as I’d changed. Some courier I was.

  But it was there, right down at the bottom under wigs and stomachs and all the rest of my gear. Maybe a little crumpled. If pristine condition was part of the deal I was screwed. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hauled it out, then stopped short at the address on the front.

  Well, not even an address. Just a name.

 
Mine.

  “What the hell?” I leaned back on the glass shopfront of the nearest boutique, feeling the thumping bass beat of their music vibrating against my back, and stared at the shaky handwriting. Kate. Nothing else. No address, not even a surname. Could it be some other Kate?

  I turned it over and broke the thick wax seal. Who was I kidding? It had to be for me.

  I drew out the single sheet of paper inside. No weird shiny disks this time.

  You are in danger, it said. Do not go home or try to contact anybody. Go straight to a hotel and wait for me.

  That was it. Frowning, I turned it over to be sure there was no more. No signature, or any explanation of how the writer meant to find me at some random hotel. And I was supposed to take this seriously?

  I shoved it back in my bag. Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time I got back to the The Dress-up Box, that sick feeling I’d had in the bathroom had come back big time. My stomach had been hesitating between diarrhoea and throwing up all the way back from town, but now it seemed pretty committed to the throwing up idea.

  Ben had set up The Dress-up Box in an old warehouse space, cool and cavernous, with windows along the back wall too high to open and too dusty to let in much but the vaguest hint of daylight. Row after row of costumes packed the floor, leaving a warren of little pathways in between. Magic happened down those paths. Anything from a romantic velvet ball gown to a Cavalier’s feathered hat could be waiting around the next corner. We stocked wigs, shoes, swords, hats and any other item of fancy dress you could imagine. Our neighbours were smash repairers and auto electricians, but being in an industrial area meant cheap rent, and the business didn’t rely on passing trade anyway. No one experiences a sudden desire to dress up as Zorro or Cleopatra just because they see a costume shop.