Page 35 of All the Forbidden Things
“Not really. You can call the boys and let them know. I’m sorry we’re not gonna be around for a while. I know you’re going through your own shit right now, and I’m sorry that—”
“Dude, seriously. Fuck off with all that. I’m a big boy. Go be with your sister, and just let me know if there’s anything I can do. Anything, I mean it. And keep me posted on how she’s doing. Did they get him? The bloke who did it?”
“His wife shot him. From what Aaron’s been able to find out so far, his wife came home, found him on top of Billie, and blew his head off.”
“Fuck me. On top of her? Fuck, Cal, did he . . . she wasn’t . . .”
“She wasn’t raped. She probably would’ve been, but the wife saved her.”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
“Yeah.”
“You doing okay? The girls?”
“We’re all pretty shook. We’ll be better once we get there and can see for ourselves what her injuries are.”
“Man, poor Bamm. Give her our love.”
“I’ll tell her you called her that.” Some of the stress has gone from his voice, and I think I can now hear him smile.
Because of Billie’s red hair, she’d reminded me of Pebbles from the Flintstones when she was younger, but I’d gotten the characters’ names mixed up and called her Bamm-Bamm.
“She’ll probably flip her middle finger, call me Wilma, and tellyouto tellmeto fuck off like she used to when she was a kid.”
“Fuck, I hope so. At least that’ll mean she’s still the fighter we love. I’m worried sick about how this will affect her mentally. The kid’s been through so fucking much already.”
I blow out a breath as I contemplate this. Billie was with her parents when they were killed by a suicide bomber at a hotel in Bali. Pete and Lainy died instantly, and Billie was buried with their bodies under the rubble of the hotel lobby, which had collapsed around them in the blast. It took rescuers several hours to secure the area and reach her. She’d suffered terrible night terrors and had seen counsellors and psychologists for years afterwards.
“She’s tougher than she looks, that one. As long as she’s got you, Mel, and Kenz, she’ll get through this.”
“I fuckin’ hope so.”
“She will. Go be with your sister, just keep me updated. Love you, man. Love you all.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call. Mum is now sitting where I’d been on the sofa, and I collapse down next to her.
“Billie’s been assaulted. She’s okay but in the hospital. Cal, Mel, and Kenzie are flying over to be with her. What the fuck, Mum? What the fuck is happening right now?”
My shoulders shake as I fight not to sob, but I’m not crying just for me anymore, my tears are born of anger, tiredness, and confusion. I feel like a pussy as my mum silently hands Layla back to me, then wraps us both in her arms and lets me cry.
Billie
It was late here bythe time my brother and I had finished talking, and all I’d wanted to do was sleep. But, every time I’d closed my eyes, I saw Michael’s face hovering over mine. Those small eyes bulging from his puffy face, flushed purple with rage. I’d been able to smell his whiskey breath and almost feel the sweat that had dripped from his forehead and top lip onto my face. I’d recalled his hands squeeze tightly around my neck, and the incredible pain I’d felt when his teeth had clamped together over my breast. The sound of Oliver shouting from my bedroom for his dad to stop and Amelia’s distant screams had filled my ears, over and over. But more than anything else, more than all the horror Michael Bosworth inflicted on me last night, was the overwhelming anger. It had kept me awake last night and still boils inside me now. A rage so fierce that even after the adrenaline and fear had stopped coursing through my system, my heart’s tempo has refused to slow. I was pissed off that I hadn’t been able to defend myself and that I hadn’t been able to shield Oliver and Amelia from what they might’ve witnessed. Bitter resentment towards Carmen for initially putting her public image before the safety of her own children and me ate at my insides, but most of all, I was consumed with fury and outrage that Michael had felt it was okay to do what he did. How dare he. How fucking dare he put his hands on me. And what makes it worse, I think, is that the fucker is dead, and I have no idea where to direct my rage.
My blood pressure had spiked a couple of times, so the nurse had given me a sedative, which had obviously worked well enough for me to sleep through my brother arriving. When I open my eyes, he’s sitting in a tub chair at the side of my bed. His left ankle rests on his right knee, his elbow on the curved edge of the chair, his jaw resting between his thumb and index finger, his blue eyes on me.
We stare at each other in silence before Cal gets up and leans forward to wipe a tear from my cheek with his thumb. I hadn’t even realised I was crying, and now that I’m aware one has escaped, the rest break through my wall of will and determination, and I can no longer hold them back. As painful as it is with my two cracked ribs, I let out a sob.
Callum doesn’t hesitate in climbing onto my bed and pulling me into his arms. Exactly like he did when I was just seven, he holds me while I cry. And just like then, I cry tears of happiness at seeing him, and tears of sadness at what Oliver, Amelia, and Carmen have lost and will now have to face. Tears at the unjustness of the world, that my parents aren’t alive to be here for me, that life just fucking sucks sometimes. But the tears I cry hardest, those that fall fastest, are my tears of rage, anger, and indignation at once again being attacked and how helpless and humiliated I feel.
I was just a child when a suicide bomber walked into the lobby of our hotel in Bali and blew up himself and seventeen other people, including my parents.
We were waiting for our rental car to be delivered. He’d smiled as he walked towards me, his hand held to his chest, eyes aimed at me as he pressed the button that ended my life as I knew it.
I’d been on my knees, playing with my doll and, apparently, that was what had saved my life—being low to the ground. All I could remember after was the anger I felt. How dare he take my parents away like that, how dare he take them at all. They were good people and had done nothing to him. I was angry with myself for being so helpless. I should have done something, should have realised his intentions or thwarted his plans. Just like I was then, I’m consumed by how irrelevant and inconsequential I feel. Like the world doesn’t care about me, that it ignores my wishes and allows my fate to be dictated by others, my choices taken away.
