The Naked Room by Diana Hockley Read Free Book Online Page A

expression on my face. My fear is obviously hilarious.
    Scarpia gives me a convivial wave as they whisk out the door. Unpainted splinters of wood prick my bare skin as I lean against the wall, breathing heavily. The packet of sandwiches they left holds no interest for me right now, because all I can think about is losing a finger.
    Or more.
    They had to know where I would be on Friday night in order to grab me. Of course, someone helped them. I may have been pointed out innocently or did Scarpia and that cow of a female go to a concert? Is that how they identified me? But how did they know about my father? Do they know him? Or someone they know has to be privy to mum’s secret. Georgie or Aunt Rosalind? They would never betray us, never. So, who else did she tell? I want to cry. Pull yourself together. Did she tell someone like a solicitor or a doctor, and did he let the cat out of the bag? This is doing my head in; I’ve got to let it go for now.
    The paper is my only contact with reality. I should be grateful, but it’s been given with the intention of taunting me.
    CARPENTER CANCELS CONCERT screams the headline at the top of the main column. Apparently a disaster was averted by pianist, Lyn Donovan, who took my place for the first half of the concert. The inference is that after the massive publicity hype, the audience was let down by my non-appearance. Tears well up in my eyes. How can he? I’ve only missed one concert before when I had appendicitis, performed with a raging temperature–London, in the throes of pleurisy, Paris and a broken love affair.
    Forget it, you drongo, and get back to work.
    I’d dragged at the corner of the grill on and off most of the night trying to loosen the screws. The edge of the screen bit into my hands making them bleed and breaking my fingernails. The glass is too dark for anyone to see me from outside, but there’s only a great big lawn between this building and a clump of gum trees about a hundred metres away. Exhaustion flows over me; I can’t stand any longer…
    Ally! Ally, come here! Jess runs in front of me, wearing a paper bag over her head. I laugh and race across the rocks, waving to the boats out at sea. We chase each other around the base of the lighthouse. Laughter drums in my ears, bounces off the sand. Screaming with excitement we run toward the rock, which rears high above the surf.
    My mother stands behind me. ‘I told you not to go near the Wild Pony, Ally! When will you listen to me?’
    The kid hovers nearby, clasping his little hands in supplication, curly brown hair tossing in the sea breeze. ‘Please don’t make me, Ally! Please don’t make me.’
    ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard! Ya guts are made of mustard! Go on, I dare you to climb it!’ we chant.
    I pick up a boat lying in the sand nearby and start smacking him in the face—
    Tears stream down my cheeks. I struggle to sit up, draw my legs to my chest and wrap my arms tightly around them. Cut the self pity, Ally. I force my hands to stretch, pushing away the withdrawal symptoms from not following my practice program. There’s a saying in the music world, and it’s true. If you refrain from practising one day, you will hear the lack. Two days and your colleagues will note it, but three days and your audience will too.
    Two days–and how much longer will I be here? I can’t bear to think about it. My cammie stinks from the dried blood. My thoughts drift like scarves floating in the wind, and a long-ago conversation pops into my head. Pam, Jess and I were sitting in a coffee shop after a lecture one afternoon when Pam asked, ‘What would you do differently, if you could live your life over?’ We laughed and made asinine remarks, but now the comment has relevance.
    Masters Island kids were a law unto ourselves. I wish I could return to the times we had, playing pirates–old Mr Appleton’s walking sticks made great swords–running races along the beach, being towed along by the ropes which we