The Hermit Next Door Read online

  A longing to speak with his siblings pressed down him, more than usual. If only he hadn’t been the only survivor. It was too much to bear alone.

  One thing was for certain. Willa Jones had been paying the money to appease her guilt. The picture of her brother matched the description the teacher had given him. She had been keeping tabs on him. And he was going to need to speak with her.

  Chapter 15

  “Tell me why you stopped being a social worker,” he said, his fingers moving over the guitar gently picking out a flamenco melody, pretending to be only partly interested in the answer. She knew better.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust you.”

  “You think I’ll tell everyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because it might sell you more records.”

  “I don’t just care about selling records you know. If I did, I would be on a plane right now.”

  “Why aren’t you? I don’t need you here.”

  He stopped plucking the strings and held them still. “I have to tell you something.”

  Her stomach flipped over itself nervously. Was she ready for this? Was he going to try and kiss her again? One part of her brain screamed no while the other part stayed curiously silent. “Tell me, if you must.”

  “I know what happened.”

  “What?” She knew—instinctively—he wasn’t talking about the other day at the river. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  His face looked sad, sorry. It annoyed her. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Peter told me.”

  “He what? I don’t believe you,” she said, watching him closely, her eyes unbreakable with his. It was difficult to think straight. “I just don’t believe you.”

  “Please, Willa, stop looking at me like that. It’s okay. I understand—“

  “You understand nothing. Why would he tell you? Tell you? A man with no filter for right or wrong, untrustworthy, unethical who will not think twice about taking advantage of any situation to propel his own—.”

  “Stop, Willa, please. I don’t want to upset you,” he said, standing up in front of her so that she had to look into his face. “Peter trusted me.”

  She let out a snort of disgust that ended in a sobbing hiccup. She pushed him away and tried to find a space in the room that she could own. Her bloody brother was letting her down again, in the biggest way he knew how. He was punishing her for bringing chaos to his little part of the word. She hated him with all her might and gritted her teeth in frustration. She would just have to convince Jack that it was best to keep the incident a secret, and not let the press find out. There could be no advantage in it for him.

  “Ok, what do you want to know?” she said finally, making her way to the couch and sitting in the corner.

  He looked partially relieved, partially conflicted. What was he thinking? He really did look like he cared. Boy, what an actor.

  “You blamed yourself?”

  “Of course. They were on my case list. Those children were my responsibility.”

  “You were twenty one years old.”

  “So?”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else helping make those kind of decisions?”

  “Sure there was. But none of us wanted to break up this family into multiple foster homes on the basis of a hunch or bad feeling. There was no real evidence. Our decision was to support the father, conduct regular visits and keep the children in their own home.”

  “You found them?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Brutally.”

  “But he left the baby.”

  “Daniel.” She closed her eyes, remembering the whimpering sounds of the child amongst the backdrop of red. The single sound of life amongst death. “Yes. Left him untouched.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It was impossible to know. The man acted sane, always spoke well, house was tidy, children were fed and rarely missed school.”

  “So why was he under scrutiny?”

  “Because his story about his wife’s death weeks before was not without suspicion. And the children never quite seemed right. Of course their mother had allegedly committed suicide, but it felt a little more than that. Like there was a blanket of containment on them. The teachers had made a report, hence social services involvement.”

  “Did you ever see Daniel again?”

  She flicked her eyes up at him as if it was a trick question. “No. Of course not. He was fostered out to a family who took good care of him, but I never made contact. He can’t know who I am. I couldn’t face him.”

  “Why? Because you think he’ll blame you?”

  She avoided the question. She blamed herself entirely—why wouldn’t Daniel? “What would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Willa.”

  She breathed a long sigh, having heard this line so many times before. “Do you have to be so predictable, Jack? Can’t you just say, you’re right, Willa. You screwed up, big time. Yes, I know. But if my choices had been different, it could have been prevented. Choices are dangerous, scary things, particularly in the hands of people who aren’t smart enough or experienced enough to make them.”

  “So better not to make them at all. Is that your point? Hide yourself away so you never have to make a choice again.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I get it, I really do.”

  She placed eyes on him that a mother might show a toddler who tried to convince her he wasn’t ready for bed. “I’m sure you think you get it. But you never really could.”

  “What happened next? After that day.”

  “I had a little stay in a psychiatric facility.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two years.”

  “And then?”

  “Moved back home with Pete for a while and then made a life down on the river.”

  “Do you think Daniel’s been looking for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is the worst thing that could happen if you met him?”

  “He would want to kill me.”

  “Assuming he’s a psychopath like his father?”

  “Don’t play these worst case scenario games with me, Jack. I deal with the demons in my head every day. I don’t need you to remind me they’re there.”

  “It’s seems that you’re giving this situation power—it has a life of its own that’s draining away any chance you have to enjoy life.”

  “You’re very transparent, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know why you are doing this. You think that if I meet him then there won’t be any need for me to stay hidden, anonymous. Then you can get your photographs and media releases and make more money. Don’t pretend for a second that this is about me, because we both know that isn’t true.”

  His shoulders drooped and the sadness in his eyes tore at her conscious a little. Was it really possible that she could hurt him with her words?

  “You couldn’t be more wrong, you know,” he said.

  “In what way?”

  “I just want the best life for you that you can have, a life where you can enjoy friendships and interact with people. See the most beautiful locations across the world…the joy of hearing a great concert…or eating a beautiful meal at a favourite restaurant. I want you to experience life, Willa. Live your life.”

  “Why does every life have to be lived in such a communal way? Like my life belongs to you or everyone else. Like my abilities are somehow yours to negotiate. Can’t I exist without anyone or anything being affected? Take nothing, give nothing? Isn’t that balance?”

  “Maybe your treasures, your gifts—maybe they don’t belong to you. Maybe they are intended to be shared—to enrich—to delight, to give others the peace y
ou crave for yourself. What if your stardom is what brings balance to others?”

  Willa’s voice shook as she tried to make him understand. “You might have taken the sound, the interpretation, the music—but you can’t own the backstory, the person. That is mine and I can’t share it. Anonymity is my one hope of staying sane and normal. It is essential to my soul and to my spirit…it’s not for sale…it’s not negotiable…it’s not anyone else’s to take.”

  “So you are saying the essence of your music is not bound to your identity. It is separate.”

  “Yes. Let it be separate, Jack.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  It was difficult to be sure, but Willa had the sense Jack was avoiding her. She put it to the test a couple of times, asking him if he would come for a walk to the river or if he wanted to play through some music in the studio. He declined each time, citing some important task that was keeping him busy. He sat with her over meals but little else.

  She began to develop ideas in her head about why. Could he not stand to be around her because of her neglect all those years ago? It was the only explanation that made sense. Yesterday he’d almost taken her into his arms. She could still feel the memory of his dark eyes on her face. Now he couldn’t even look at her.

  Of course, it was to be expected. She deserved to be treated with disdain and detachment. It was warranted. But she hadn’t counted on it hurting so much. His opinion of her shouldn’t matter a toss, yet it did. She cared a great deal. Sure, he’d been ruthless and unethical, drunk and stubborn. He was also funny and kind and protective and clever and considerate. They had so much in common, so many mutual thoughts, she wasn’t sure sometimes where she ended and he began.

  The last eighteen years of solitary life should have prepared her better, but his disinterest left her with an ache of loneliness like she’d never experienced.

  Could she make him like her again?

  As Willa washed dishes and Jack dried them, the lights flickered and then dropped out. The music filtering through the speakers stopped just as abruptly, casting a deadly silence across the room. Neither of them moved for a minute, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dark. When it was clear the power wasn’t coming back on, Jack wordlessly put down his tea towel and used his phone to light his way outside, presumably to find the meter box.

  Willa wiped her hands and went in search of candles, bumping her head, her legs and her toes in the process. The fire was lit in the lounge, casting warm shadows across the room against the blackness of the night. She heard the metal clang of a meter box close before Jack found his way inside, shaking his head. She watched him call the power company and he put the phone on speaker so that she could hear the recorded message. There was no indication of how long it would be out.

  Lighting the last candle, she blew out the match and sat on the sofa, willing Jack to join her. She didn’t want to be left her alone now. It was dark and silent and she needed the company. It was strange—her Willa Jones—needing company. Only a few weeks ago she would have laughed at the suggestion.

  In the darkness she could barely see him but somehow she could still feel his irritation. She curled her legs up beneath her and she heard a loud sigh before he sat down beside her, resting his neck on the backrest.

  “It’s lucky there’s a wood fire or we would be freezing.”

  “Are you still cold?” he asked, making a move to add more wood.

  “No, no,” she said, stopping him with her hand, and then taking it quickly back. “I’m almost too warm, actually.” He settled back down and she relaxed into the seat.

  She didn’t speak, absorbed in watching the flickering flames and the occasional spit of gum sap burning. The smell of eucalypt drifted through the room but tonight it could not content her as she sat, uncomfortable in his silence.

  Her mind kept finding its way back to the same thoughts, no matter how hard she tried to deny them. Maybe if she could get him to open up about his past, then he wouldn’t be dwelling so much on hers. The darkness made her brave. “So Jack, now you know my demons, what about you? What are you afraid of?” she asked.

  He took a moment to think about it and for a terrifying minute Willa thought he was ignoring her. But then he answered in a light voice, “Tinea. Any kind of fungus really. I’m a little bit obsessive about foot hygiene.”

  “Really?” she said. It was a relief to be communicating again. “Interesting.” Clearly, he wasn’t about to share anything without more encouragement and whilst she found his lack of transparency admirable, it was, at the same time, annoying. “What about your childhood,” she tried again. “Any interesting anecdotes?”

  “Yes,” he answered seriously. “Actually, I did experience some trauma as a child.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I was a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, I had a terrible phobia that took years of special attention to resolve.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was serious or setting her up, so she proceeded with caution. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said. “You see, if I had a cold or allergies, and I had to blow my nose, if there was a lot of mucus, I would look at the contents of the tissue and…and…scream out in fright.” He threw up his hands, making her blink.

  “You were scared of your own snot?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” he said nodding.

  “I’m starting to see a pattern forming here,” said Willa, pretending to look serious.

  “Are you, doctor?”

  “Fungus—snot—you really are still a child.”

  “Pass me a tissue and I’ll show you—“

  “Get out of here.” She slapped him on the leg and his eyes shot up to meet hers, as if he had also felt the charge of current at her touch. He stood up and moved away, and Willa closed her eyes to try and ease the hurt she felt. But he returned, guitar in hand, and began playing the tune again from the other night. ‘What is with you and that song?’

  ‘When I was college I used to busk, to help make ends meet. This was one of the songs I used to play.”

  ‘Was there any money in busking?”

  ‘Sometimes.”

  “I bet you made plenty.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Good looks, charm, talent. People pay money for that.”

  He looked down at his fingers as they moved across the strings, as if considering how he might react to such a compliment. Willa held her breath, hoped he would continue.

  “I was broke, young and vulnerable. And this one day, I’m out busking in the square, playing this song, and this guy in a suit comes up to me and asks if I wrote it.”

  “If you wrote it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was studying classical guitar, majoring in composition. I wrote this piece of music.”

  “You wrote this song? The one you are playing now? The Brian Miller song? You’re telling me you wrote it?”

  “He offered me one hundred dollars, just to play it for him. He pulled out one of those Dictaphone recorders and I did it. He gave me the cash and I never saw him again. Next thing I know, three months later, there’s my song on the radio, with Brian Miller’s lyrics, taking the credit for writing the whole thing.”

  “Didn’t that song win best—.”

  “It won a Grammy, yes. Biggest selling single of the year and song of the year.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Like I said, I was young and broke so I didn’t have a whole heap of options. I had no proof I wrote it, no proof I’d even met the guy. I showed up at the record company and demanded to see him. Of course he claimed he’d never met me and had me thrown out. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “So just to be clear, you actually wrote this song?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you written any more songs?”

  “No. And to be fair, when I wrote this particular piece, it was a composition,
not a song.”

  “Will you write me a song?”

  He smiled but shook his head. “I never wrote another piece of music. I hadn’t played the guitar since then either, until I met you.”

  “Why? That seems so incredible.”

  “I dropped out of music composition and began a business arts degree. Somewhere along the way, I decided if I couldn’t get the credit due to me, then I sure as hell deserved some retribution.”

  “Oh Jack. What did you do?”

  “I finished college, got in at ground level at the corporation that owned this guy’s record company. And I worked my way up. I got hired at EP Records as the office assistant after only six months and spent another twelve years climbing the ladder until I was his assistant director. He didn’t realise who I was and once I had his confidence, it wasn’t hard to manipulate him into boasting about his successes. Turns out there were dozens of musicians who had been plagiarised over the years and with some patience and meticulous planning, he found himself facing a number of nasty criminal charges. I’ve been the CEO at EP Records ever since.”

  “Was he convicted?”

  “He killed himself.” Jack was still etching out a tune on the guitar and didn’t falter as he spoke the words.

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “I know you want me to say I felt terrible, but I didn’t.” He let out a long, drawn out sigh before conceding, “At least, not at first.”

  “Did you ever get credit for the song?”

  “No, I didn’t want anyone at the company to know my involvement.”

  “It’s a beautiful song.”

  “It is when you sing it.” He placed his hands over the strings to quieten them and gently placed the guitar on the floor. His voice was small and strained when he eventually spoke again. “I should say that whilst I didn’t, for a second, regret exacting my revenge on the guy, it did change me.”

  Willa lowered her voice to match his. “How so?”

  “It was gradual. Over a number of years.”

  “So your dream of becoming a world famous composer was squandered when you became a ruthless record producer.”

  “Ouch. That hurts. Ruthless am I?”