The Recipient
Casey fixed her eyes on Kirkwood and drew her hand away from her mouth.
“Lasterby Road,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 15.
Casey stepped through a pair of large glass doors and paused at the top of the steps. A stone path led away from the Victorian-era hospital building, across the manicured lawns toward a nearby car park. Beyond a high fence was the outside world.
Hesitating, Casey turned and looked back over her shoulder, ensuring that Kirkwood and Lionel were close behind. Lionel carried her small travelling case, which he used to gesture at the doorway.
Anxiety prickled at the back of her neck as she walked along the path. Her mind cast itself back to the day she had left that other hospital, after her transplant. She recalled the same sense of fear. Here and now however, she quickly dismissed it as absurd, reminding herself that this place had been a prison that had, albeit temporarily, stifled her freedom and forced her to open herself up to far more scrutiny than she had ever wanted.
She was yet to determine whether that had been a wise thing to do, given that another reality began to emerge as she walked out from the shadow of the building. She would now be subjected to another type of prison: her parents’ home and the suffocating scrutiny of her mother. She bit down hard on her lip at the thought of it.
As they approached the car park, Casey looked ahead to see her parents approaching from the far side of a group of vehicles that included not only their 4WD, but Casey’s own Volkswagen sedan. She glanced questioningly at her father. He managed an awkward smile but Edie’s taut expression betrayed an obvious discomfort.
Stopping before her car, Casey looked down and away from them, unable to meet their eyes. Peter embraced her awkwardly, planting a kiss on her forehead.
“Good to see you, love,” he offered, as though reciting a scripted line.
As he drew back, Casey nodded over his shoulder at her Volkswagen. “What’s with my car?”
Peter glanced at Edie, then across at Lionel who allowed a subtle smile to tug at the corners of his mouth.
“We thought it would be a good idea if Pa drove you back to the warehouse…and perhaps stayed a while there. You know, just until things settle down.”
Casey raised her brow in surprise and she turned to her grandfather. “Is that right?”
Lionel nodded as Peter then Edie stood in stony silence.
“Your father and mother and I felt that it would be better for you to get yourself back into a routine as quickly as possible. I suggested I might stay with you, if that’s all right. You do still have that guest room upstairs, don’t you?”
Casey cast a conspiratorial glare at both Lionel and her father. One corner of her lips pulled upwards in a smile and she could not help but flick her eyes towards Edie. Her mother turned her head away stiffly.
Peter placed his arm around Casey’s shoulder and gently steered her away from her mother.
Lowering his voice, Peter looked into his daughter’s eyes.
“Look. Think of this as a way to keep Mum happy. She’ll accept that you’re not on your own and you’ll be able to get yourself right again in your own space, albeit with a fairly innocuous chaperone. Agreed?”
Casey gave her father the pretence of considering what he had said, even though she already knew that what he was suggesting was a win-win for everyone…except Edie.
She nodded finally. “I won’t argue with that.”
Kirkwood, who had been standing at a respectful distance, approached and handed Casey an envelope. “You’re all set. I’ve made a time for you to come and see me on Friday, okay?”
Casey nodded. “Thank you.”
Kirkwood gently squeezed her hand. “You’ve come a long way, Casey—a really long way. But there’s more to do.”
Casey smiled softly and turned towards her car. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted her mother’s expression had changed subtly, having witnessed that last exchange with Kirkwood.
It had softened.
___
As Casey climbed the stairs to the warehouse ahead of the others, she had a flicker of panic, having realised that she hadn’t seen it since the night of the accident. No one had mentioned the state that it had been left in when she had been taken by the ambulance, so she had no idea if anyone had thought to clean the embarrassing mess she had caused.
As she alighted onto the corridor outside the industrial door she froze. The corridor was clean—and not just a little bit clean, a lot clean.
The flickering light bulb above her head that she had ignored for so long had been replaced. In fact all three of them had been replaced so that the entrance to the warehouse was now significantly more inviting. The faded granary poster seemed more vibrant, just with the amount of light that played across it. A potted plant stood just outside the big green door below a high window that allowed bright sunlight into the corridor.
This window had been boarded up for years.
Casey paused before the door and glanced conspiratorially at Lionel and her father. Slowly, she drew her keys out from her shoulder bag and slid it into the lock, sensing that she knew what she was about to find inside.
Hauling the great door aside, Casey looked in on the apartment and simply nodded. It had been completely cleaned from top to bottom. The shattered glass from the window had been swept away and indeed the window itself had been repaired. Her bed had been made up with fresh linen. There was nothing of the trauma of her accident. It now seemed so long ago.
Setting her keys down on the kitchen counter, Casey surveyed the handiwork with appreciation while Lionel drew aside the large curtains and opened the door out onto the balcony. A fresh sea breeze filtered in from outside and Casey drew it in.
“I’d almost forgotten how wonderful that view is,” Lionel remarked as he set Casey’s case down on her bed. Casey turned and gestured with a nod towards the mezzanine.
“I’d show you where the guest room is,” she said. “But I guess you’ve probably worked that out already.”
“I did endeavour to respect your privacy.”
“There’s nothing but junk up there anyway,” Casey smiled warmly at her grandfather. “The company will be good.”
“Do you want me to hang about and cook something?” Peter offered. “I know it’s a little early.”
Casey rebuffed him with a smile. “Thanks, Dad, but we’ll be all right. You deserve a break and besides, you’d better get Edie home.”
There was a moment of awkward silence at Casey’s acknowledgement of her mother’s absence. Edie had decided to remain in the car.
Peter shrugged. He leaned in and planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. “The kitchen has been stocked. Just let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Casey nodded to Lionel, then walked her father downstairs to the path leading up from the street. Casey glanced across at the 4WD, saw the shadow of her mother’s profile behind the darkened passenger window. A knot of sadness tugged at Casey’s stomach and Peter noticed her shoulders droop slightly.
“She’s never going to accept all of this,” Casey said sourly.
Peter followed Casey’s gaze.
“You’ve taken some big steps. She’ll come around. Just give her time.”
“I’ve given her time, Dad. Too much bloody time.”
“You’re getting yourself together. Sooner or later, she’ll see that.”
Casey offered him a sad nod, then turned back toward the warehouse.
“Talk to you soon.”
Casey found Lionel sitting on the edge of the sofa when she returned, holding a tea cup in one hand, gazing upon the portrait of Jeanne Hebuterne.
He nodded at the countertop, upon which sat an identical cup. Languid wisps of steam rose from the cup and, as Casey turned to it, she caught the sweet scent of chai rising on the steam. It was her and her grandfather’s favourite.
“Mmm,” she mused pleasurably, taking up the cup. “I knew you wouldn’t
forget to bring your stash.”
Lionel chuckled as Casey joined him. He turned his attention back to the portrait. “I managed to get most of the stains out of the canvas without too much trouble. Though I’m still worried about one or two of them.”
Casey squinted, trying to see what stains her grandfather was pointing out. “I can’t see anything.”
Lionel stood and approached the portrait, extending a finger out towards the right cheek of Jeanne Hebuterne, then beside it where long tresses of her red hair fell down over her shoulder. A trio of darkened splotches stained the canvas.
“They’re stubborn,” he observed gruffly.
“Like their owner.”
Lionel glanced at his granddaughter. He couldn’t help but smile at her dark humour.
“I remember when Ruth and I bought this for you,” he said. “We’d trudged around Sydney for days searching for it. It became something of an obsession.”
“Can’t imagine where you got that from.”
Lionel chuckled. “Your obsession with his art did seem to arrive out of left field. It was as though you had found Modigliani all at once,” Lionel clicked his fingers for effect. “Suddenly, you just had to immerse yourself in him.”
Casey tilted her head.
“It’s rather a curious taste,” Lionel continued. “For someone so wedded to the intricacies of information technology as you are. I can only imagine how…monochrome, all that code and programming must be. All those zeroes and ones.”
Casey smiled at her grandfather.
“It’s not that rudimentary, Pa.”
Casey approached the portrait now, gazing up into the eyes of Jeanne Hebuterne. She had become somewhat central to Casey’s love of the art of Amedeo Modigliani.
“You do have a point,” she acknowledged. “All that code. All those equations. They’re absolute. Linear. They are set out exactly as they should be. Where others see them as rigid and uninspiring, I see a kind of beauty in them.” Casey paused, sipping thoughtfully from her cup. “But, I guess I’ve come to yearn for things that are different from what I do. This art is a perfect example. Modigliani’s work…it lives and breathes. I love the stylisation. I love his use of colour. You put ’em together and there’s something definitely stimulating about it.”
As Casey gazed at the portrait, she let her mind wander. All of those things were true. Casey was drawn to something within the works of Modigliani—this work in particular—and it was something powerful.
Though she couldn’t determine what that something was.
___
Casey reclined in her chair on the balcony and gazed out at the star-filled night sky. She sighed. It was good to be home.
Cradling a glass of water in her hand, Casey gently swirled the liquid within, watching how it caught the light from inside, then she closed her eyes. The sounds of Bach’s “Goldberg Variations” piped through from the stereo, courtesy of her grandfather.
She smiled.
She loved Lionel’s choice of music. It was soothing. It allowed her mind to drift.
Yet, no sooner than she found herself relaxed, a question began to tug at her consciousness.
What is that place?
She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to crush the incessant question but it would not go away. It persisted. Then an image coalesced.
The road sign.
From the moment she’d latched onto that final, fragmented image from her dream during Kirkwood’s session, it had needled her consciousness, nagging her for days. The last thing she wanted now, having just returned home, was to be pulled back into the nightmare.
And yet, the moment she closed her eyes, she was drawn involuntarily to it.
As if part of her actually wanted it.
“Fuck,” she cursed under her breath, opening her eyes and drawing the glass up to her mouth.
Even with her eyes opened and focused on the sea beyond, she could still see the lone sign.
Lasterby Road.
Why is this place so vivid?
She couldn’t recall ever having been to a Lasterby Road anywhere and yet, the image seemed as strong as a memory.
Though she felt the familiar echo of fear from her nightmares, her curiosity gathered momentum until it gained the upper hand.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. Pushing up from her chair, Casey stepped through the doorway and into the apartment.
Lionel was tucked into one corner of the sofa, his head bowed over, fast asleep.
Tip-toeing across the room, Casey sat at her desk and booted up her computer. Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she initiated security measures, ensuring her network activity was secure behind her customised virtual private network, then she opened a browser window. She considered using the darknet, but decided against it and ran an open-web search for Lasterby Road.
Almost immediately, a slew of results flashed up and Casey examined them carefully. Though there were dozens of references to Lasterby Road, much of it appeared to be fragmentary data. Descriptions from news sites all around the world. Obscure references from various local government websites. A few message board postings. Some images. None of them appeared noteworthy. The results blurred into one another.
What am I looking for?
Is it even a question of what, rather than where?
Casey opened another tab and navigated to a satellite imaging service where she was greeted by a high resolution image of Australia, complete with a number of statistical overlays and option panels surrounding it. Touching the search pane with her finger, she hesitated momentarily, then typed in ‘Lasterby Road’ on the keyboard.
She was greeted with thirteen results for thoroughfares named Lasterby all across the world as the on-screen map zoomed out to reveal the locations her search had yielded. They included the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, South Africa and Australia.
Lifting one leg up onto the seat and leaning into it, Casey retrieved her glasses and put them on. Manipulating the display with her finger, she appraised each of the pins on the global map.
She sighed. Frustration needled her.
Scrolling her finger across the map, she centred it over the land mass of Australia. If this were to be a question of where, she could start by ruling out all of the locations outside of Australia. If she was certain of anything at this point, she had never been to any of them.
Double-tapping the screen, she zoomed in on the five Lasterby locations in the south-eastern corner of Australia. One in rural South Australia. Two in New South Wales and the remaining two in her own state of Victoria.
Casey squinted, noting that the South Australian Lasterby Road was a dirt track that snaked across a ruddy and vast landscape: pastoral countryside. She recalled the sense of desolation from her dream. The environment in it was akin to rural farmland rather than the vast barren scrub on the screen here. In her gut, she knew this wasn’t it.
She manipulated the map over the two New South Wales locales. One of the entries here was again a dirt track running through hilly terrain, close to a township and Casey lingered here for several moments, noting the presence of trees clumped together. The proximity of the township didn’t feel right.
She moved away to the second location but when she clicked on the pin there, the description was for a Lasterby Street in what appeared to be a residential development close to the coast.
She homed in on the two remaining pins.
One hovered over a winding fire road in dense, mountainous forest well east of Melbourne’s urban sprawl. The other denoted a long strip of bitumen, running in a roughly north-south line in the left-hand corner of Port Phillip Bay.
She lingered here, zooming in on the pin. The landscape here appeared to be grazing country. A small mountain range overlooked acres upon acres of meadow from the northern edge. Again it was desolate, in a similar vein to her dream, but it seemed too desolate. There was nothing that looked familiar.
And then…
 
; As Casey zoomed out, her eyes hovered over a thin dark line flanking a portion of the road at its southern end. Tapping her finger in the centre of the line, the image zoomed in, then shifted and flashed as it re-focused, revealing the detail. Trees with elongated limbs, dark, needle-like foliage and long shadows cast outward to the left of the line indicating an afternoon sun.
Pine trees!
The tall, devastated pine trees from her nightmare flashed in her mind and Casey felt her stomach plunge.
To the south of the line of pines, Casey spotted a dirt track that intersected with the bitumen. A few feet from that intersection, she saw a dark, L-shaped object: a fence.
An old stone fence.
Her eyes darted between the line of pine trees and the rubble on the opposite of the road, Lasterby Road.
Was this the place?
An isolated pocket of countryside in the south-western corner of Port Phillip Bay. Casey sensed, from the lay of the land and the lack of population surrounding it, this area was vast and open—the kind of place that would terrify her.
She gazed at the landmarks, trying to discount their significance. It couldn’t possibly be right.
But deep down inside, she knew.
“Can’t sleep?”
Casey jumped at the sound of her grandfather’s voice. He was standing right beside her.
“What is this?” he queried, leaning in.
Casey reached forward and tapped the screen. An information panel popped up.
Lionel read the description.
“This is what you’ve been dreaming about? This place?”
“I have no idea, Pa,” Casey lied.
Lionel tapped the screen, causing it to zoom out enough so that he could judge its proximity from the centre of Melbourne. It was a little over an hour’s drive, despite the fact it was in the middle of nowhere. He looked at Casey’s steadfast gaze. He sensed that her mind was working furiously.
“I thought you were scared of open spaces.”
Casey looked up at her grandfather.
“I…I…” Her voice caught in her throat as she glanced back at the screen. “Something happened there,” she said, pointing with a slender finger. “Something important. It’s been stuck in my mind for so long, Pa.”