Riptides Page 7

  ‘What had she done?’

  ‘Broke my heart when she told me about the times she’d gone back before she met me. Kept making the same mistakes as far as I could tell. And no one to help her, because how could they? And don’t say she should’ve called the police! Ha! She was up against them, too. But I’d had enough of it, the pain it was causing her. Wish she’d told me earlier. I’m not young but my noggin still works. I had a plan. She knew that. Even drew me a map.’

  ‘Dad, what?’ I try not to sound annoyed, but his ramblings and half-stories are getting on my nerves. That, and the fact I don’t want to be here, and my sister, and my gut-wrenching guilt. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘That young cop who came around, Roberts. He doesn’t know. I can tell. But there are others who do. World’s gone to hell, Charlie.’

  ‘Dad, what’s the “go back” bit, the map? Do you know where she was going?’

  ‘Maybe. But no, it doesn’t make sense. Why would she run off and do it the night I’d arranged for you to meet her, the night after I’d asked her to marry me? I said I had a plan, and she knew that.’ He sighs. ‘I worry about him. I never told her how much I worry about him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad.’

  Abby taps on the door. Taps. Timid and bossy at once.

  ‘Not now,’ I call out. ‘Dad.’ I reach out and touch his shoulder. ‘Who’s “him”?’

  Abby opens the door. ‘Everything all right?’ She walks in and stands next to the bed, arms wrapped around her like a straitjacket.

  ‘I said “not now”. I know you heard me.’

  She furrows her brow. ‘Would you like something to eat or drink, Dad?’ She lets her eyes wander around the room.

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Should I put fresh sheets on the bed? Tidy the room?’

  I silently curse her for coming in before he finished his story.

  ‘I’m sorry she’s gone, I am.’ Her voice quavers. ‘Do you have a picture? A photograph of Skye?’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I scowl.

  ‘No,’ Dad says. ‘For someone so beautiful, she didn’t like having her picture taken. Maybe she’s in the background of a house shot, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, your camera’s here, on the dressing table. I can get the film developed if that would be helpful. I’ll go to the chemist.’

  ‘No.’ He sits bolt upright. ‘Don’t touch anything. Leave it alone.’

  And then I hear my father let go of a sob, like a child. I sit in my chair, paralysed, and watch as Abby perches on the edge of the bed by his side and places her arm around him with a touch so light it’s as though her arms are hollow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Monday 9 December 1974

  Charlie

  ‘Dad.’ I stand in his bedroom doorway. It’s early in the morning but I see that Abby has already left him a tray of breakfast to ignore. ‘Cops are here. They want to talk to you.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anybody knock.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they’re here anyway.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Guy from the other day and another one. Country cavalry.’

  ‘I need to put on a shirt. My shoes, I don’t know where my shoes are.’

  ‘Dad, it’s okay. I don’t think they’ll care what you’re wearing.’

  ‘Is Abigail here?’

  ‘She’s gone to get the newspaper, but I can handle a couple minutes’ small talk by myself. Do whatever you need to.’

  ‘Go on then. Don’t leave them waiting.’

  Roberts stands in the middle of the living room, not doing anything in particular, like a soldier at ease, straight-backed, hands folded over his crotch. Despite his muscle-man arms, there’s something almost girlish about him. The other cop, Roberts’ superior, Sergeant Doyle, has his back to me, and is staring out the window at the bush. He’s a different story from Roberts. Meaty, wide, speckles of white in nut-brown hair, in his late forties, at a guess. First thing I’d noticed about him at the front door were his cattle-dog ice-blue eyes and beer gut. I hear him belch. He’s the type of cop who arrested us at uni demonstrations, who twisted arms, gouged skin with hard fingernails, who kicked the door in at parties. I know his type. Fuck.

  ‘He won’t be long,’ I say to Roberts.

  The sergeant turns around, eyes me up and down more carefully than he had at the front door. I reckon now we both have one another’s number. ‘Your sister about?’ he asks.

  ‘Went into town. She’ll be back soon. So . . .’

  I feel like I’m being interrogated already and try to make my face and stance seem as relaxed as possible.

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’ I can’t be much younger than Roberts but I feel like a child about to be busted, awkward and as transparent as glass.

  Roberts shakes his head, takes a small Spirax notebook and biro from his shirt pocket.

  ‘You been out of the country recently?’ Doyle asks.

  How could he know that? Did Dad say something to Roberts? ‘Bali,’ I say.

  ‘Thought so.’ Doyle looks at my shirt. ‘Don’t see that type of get-up around here. Not on blokes anyway.’

  Prick. I don’t have a snappy comeback and even if I did I couldn’t say it. It’s irrelevant anyway, since Dad walks into the room, dressed as inoffensively bland as I guess cops prefer.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says. There’s name-exchanging, condolences, trouser-adjusting to sit down in chairs; I want them gone already but they’re just starting. I watch Doyle. He has a slow toad-like demeanour but I reckon he’s taking everything in, watching me, Dad, the house. I wish I could talk to Abby before she walks in. She doesn’t have much of a poker face at the best of times.

  Roberts clears his throat, pulls back his shoulders.

  There’s no way they could know. Is there? Are fingerprints washed away by rain, and would a country cop even have fingerprint equipment? Did one of us drop something? Did the car leak oil?

  Dad studies the empty coffee table. ‘Charlie, do I have to –’

  ‘It’s cool, Dad, no one wants a drink.’

  ‘I do. Make me a cup of tea.’

  I stand in the kitchen, fill the white plastic kettle and rinse limp tea leaves from Dad’s tin pot, hearing the water hit the steel sink and the ping of bellbirds and gentle whoosh of wind through the open window. My hands are shaking. I’m getting water everywhere.

  ‘I’ll be brief. I’m sure you’re –’ Roberts starts. Dad waves away the rest of the sentence. He clearly has no desire to be comforted by a stranger. ‘I have some concerns about your fiancée’s accident. Her body was –’ He registers the pain on my father’s face. ‘Your fiancée was lying a short distance away from the car, the door was closed, and the way she was placed –’

  ‘Placed?’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem, sir. It seems someone took the body out of the car. She couldn’t have fallen out at that angle, in that position. The door was closed but the window was open, and the rain damage indicates the water came in through the window.’

  ‘Slow down, son. What does the window have to do with anything? She fell out the window?’

  ‘No, sir. The window was open when the car crashed, which means the rain started after the accident. She’d have had her window up in a storm.’

  Dad nods.

  ‘And she couldn’t have closed the door herself after the accident,’ Roberts says.

  ‘Why not? There’s your answer. She left the car before the rain started, and tried to walk for help.’

  ‘The medical examiner says she died of a blow to the skull from the steering wheel. And –’ Roberts hesitates – ‘even if that hadn’t been the case, she’d smashed her left kneecap on impact, so she wouldn’t have been able to walk. I’m sorry.’

  I put Dad’s teacup on the coffee table. He makes no move for it, sits like a Pompeii statue.

  Roberts stands up and walks to the window. ‘It’s a strange position to find a body
in, laid out on the ground like that, with her arms folded across her. The others think –’ He turns back to face Dad. ‘What we’re considering is if there’s a chance someone was in the vehicle with her. And if you’d have any ideas about who that might be.’

  When there’s no response, Roberts looks to me.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘No.’ He speaks in a whisper. ‘She left here alone.’

  ‘Has she ever picked up hitchhikers, sir?’

  ‘She knows better.’

  ‘Then is it possible she drove in the other direction first, up to the national park?’

  Dad seems baffled. ‘You know there’s nothing up there.’

  ‘Not normally. But if she’d arranged a liaison, or . . .’

  ‘Please tell me, Constable,’ Dad says, riled now, ‘that you have some theory not based on random speculation.’

  ‘Sir, someone moved her. We need to talk to that person. So if you have any idea of who that might be, it would help our investigation.’

  Doyle has stayed silent throughout. He’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the place, watching my father.

  ‘Was she robbed?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Her belongings are in the police-station safe. Her bag was untouched, and there’s money in her wallet.’

  ‘And there’s absolutely no chance she could’ve fallen out of the car in this exact position?’

  ‘None at all, sir. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Rain got rid of any footprints, I suppose?’

  Roberts nods.

  ‘So you’re saying someone moved her onto the ground, took nothing, then left her there?’ Dad moves forward, elbows on his knees.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  I stand up. ‘I’ll get some water.’

  ‘Sit down, Charlie.’ We wait for him to continue speaking. ‘Do you know the work of C. S. Lewis, Constable Roberts?’

  He reaches for his notebook. ‘Does he live locally?’

  I shouldn’t laugh but I do. It’s an icebreaker. Roberts blushes slightly but otherwise ignores me.

  Dad glares at me then turns his attention back to Roberts. ‘To the best of my knowledge he never visited these parts. But he was a wise man and he knew about grief. He said, “The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before.” I have to go through this, Constable, whether I want to or not. I think you might be holding back some details. But I need to hear what you know, no matter how unpleasant.’

  ‘He was a writer,’ I say to Roberts. ‘C. S. Lewis. Wrote kids’ books.’

  ‘I see.’ He brushes invisible dust from his shirtfront and locks eyes with me. ‘There’s one other thing. Skye’s brother has arranged for the body to be transported to Darwin for burial once the medical examiner has finished his work.’

  He’s sharper than I gave him credit for. Such a quick return to power.

  ‘A brother,’ I say.

  Dad sinks back, deep into the curve of the couch. ‘She’ll be buried up there? Of course.’

  I feel a rise of fury that my father is in a position that is so emasculating, so humiliating. And then I remember I’ve caused it.

  ‘Do you have any idea where she was going?’ Doyle seems impatient with the conversation, is taking over to move things along. It seems no one is going to address my father’s comment that they aren’t telling us everything. But they’re cops. They ask the questions.

  ‘Thought she was going to a birth,’ Dad says, and explains the phone call minus yesterday’s strange ramblings.

  Doyle waits a moment then asks, ‘Do you know much about your fiancée’s life before you met her?’

  ‘Not much,’ Dad says. ‘She was a private person.’

  Doyle heaves himself to standing, hoicks up his pants, his black belt almost entirely hidden beneath his lump of a stomach. ‘Mind showing us where she stored her keepsakes, letters and so on?’

  Roberts has kept a fairly neutral expression until now, but I can see from the quick dart of his eyes that he didn’t expect this question. Neither did Dad.

  After Dad and Doyle to and fro over whether this is necessary and what point it serves, it’s clear that Doyle is going to search the house anyway. So it’s best if we at least watch while he does. Dad leads the two cops to his bedroom, where they rifle through the bedside drawers, the dressing table. Doyle tells Roberts to check under the bed.

  They search the bathroom drawers after this. ‘You want to know what brand of shampoo she used?’ Dad asks. ‘That’ll help your investigation, will it?’

  They don’t answer. Doyle heads back to the kitchen, muttering to Roberts then more loudly directing him to open drawers, search behind tins, reach into the back of cupboards. Whatever they’re looking for, they don’t find it.

  When they’re done they offer cursory nods, the cop sign-off – ‘we’ll be in touch soon’ – and leave. After the door closes, Dad goes to his room.

  The same morning the cops visit, there’s another knock on the door. Abby’s still out; Dad and I arrive at the door simultaneously though we’ve come from different parts of the house. A plump woman who’s maybe a handful of years younger than Dad stands on the threshold. Dad introduces her as Donna McCarthy.

  Donna puts a warm hand on my cheek and gives me a gentle pat. ‘You’re the spitting image of your father.’ She turns to Dad and tilts her head to one side. ‘John. Come here.’ She folds her fleshy arms around him and then pushes him away so she can examine his face. ‘How are you holding up? You look peaky.’ She turns to me. ‘Have you been taking care of him?’

  I don’t recall either of us inviting her in, and I’m not sure how she’s managed to carry in a wicker basket full of food without me noticing while also steering Dad to the couch, and yet, here we are.

  ‘Now.’ She lifts her basket onto the bench. ‘Skye’s going north to her family, which is as it should be.’

  ‘How could you know that?’ Dad says. ‘I only just heard it myself.’

  ‘Never mind. The poor family, my heart goes out. Can you imagine?’ She makes a disapproving face at her own question. ‘But we need to say goodbye. She was special to me, John. She was a lovely girl. Milk?’

  ‘Black, with one.’

  ‘Oh, I know that.’

  Donna seems like a woman who’s inclined to cheerfulness but she goes about her business with quiet gravitas. I can see she’s trying to behave in what she thinks is an appropriately sedate manner. Dad notices this, too.

  ‘Go on, say it.’

  ‘Say what, John?’ She wipes the chopping board energetically.

  ‘Donna, you don’t have to stop being yourself. I say, black with one. You say, like my men. It’s what you say.’

  She tilts her face down, adding another chin. ‘I don’t think it’s suitable to be making jokes at a time like this, John.’

  ‘No, you’re probably right.’

  She places a tray in front of us – white-bread sandwiches (sliced cheese, tinned beetroot, tomato), chopped apple, tumblers of Coke – and sits, the cushion issuing a loud puff as she relaxes into the chair.

  ‘I want to be mindful of your loss, of what we’ve all lost.’ Donna takes a sip of her drink then speaks directly to me. ‘It’s only a thing I say, a bit of fun. About the black men.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind, Donna? I can almost hear your brain ticking.’

  It turns out other people have a stake in Skye’s death. Her mates from the chemist, where she worked with Donna, as well as the women she’d acted as midwife for, and their husbands, and all the rest of the people she knew around here want some commemoration of her passing from their lives, regardless of where her body is ending up.

  Donna places her drink on a coaster. ‘A ceremonial rose-planting is what I had in mind. Before you head to Brisbane with Charlie and Abby. If you give the nod I’ll ring around for a gathering tomorrow afternoon. Kathy and I can get together a slice, some melon, scones. The boys will plant the bush. We’ll need a table.’
She peers out the window. ‘That one will do. We could play some songs she liked.’ She turns to me. ‘Linda Ronstadt. Quite fond of her.’

  I smile.

  ‘Funny name isn’t it? Ronstadt,’ she says.

  Dad takes a slow breath. ‘Do we have to do this, Donna?’

  ‘We do, John.’

  Donna opens her mouth a few times to speak and then stops. There’s something else she wants to say but she’s second-guessing herself, or having trouble finding the words. She gulps like a goldfish a few more times then says, ‘Was she unhappy that night, John? She did get down in the dumps sometimes, go silent on us. Was she out of sorts when she got in the car?’

  ‘Not especially,’ Dad says.

  ‘And there’s some confusion about where she was going, I gather?’

  ‘How, Donna? How do you know these things?’

  She tilts her head. ‘Well I don’t know why she crashed into a tree, I’ll tell you that for free. We’ve been on that road a hundred times together. John –’ She opens and closes her mouth again, then speaks in a rush. ‘Is there any chance she did this on purpose?’

  It’s obvious Dad feels some affection towards Donna, but he looks daggers at her. ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘With the hormones, and Christmas coming – Christmas is a difficult time for some people. And I thought if the phone call upset her or you’d had a blue – I’m not saying that doesn’t happen to every couple. Rod and I have our moments. It’s just hard to understand how she ended up in that ditch unless she wanted to be there.’

  Dad stands up, and Donna, mercifully, recognises this as a signal it’s time to leave. I wish I could tell her Skye didn’t commit suicide, that she can put that worry to rest, and that I’m sorry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tuesday 10 December 1974

  Charlie

  A funeral without a body seems supremely weird to me, but Donna says the ceremony will be a farewell, not a funeral. I don’t know how Dad will cope with being around other people. He barely has the energy to shower, and stands in the hallway in his pyjamas, confused about why he’s there.