After the Darkness
Author: Honey Brown
Date: 2012-01-25 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller; Crime; Fiction; Mystery; Australia; Psychological Thriller
Description: Trudy and Bruce Harrison have a happy marriage, a successful business and three teenage children. One fateful day they take the winding coastal route home, and visit the Ocean View Gallery, perched on the cliff edge. It's not listed in any tourist pamphlet. The artist runs the gallery alone. There are no other visitors. Within the maze of rooms the lone couple begin to feel uneasy – and with good reason. Trudy and Bruce will be ripped from the safe, secure fabric of their life and will have their world turned upside down and shaken. Attacked, trapped and brutalised, they barely escape the gall
Publisher: e-penguin

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

The Good Daughter

Author Interview

1

We made love that morning. It was the last day of our holiday and it seemed like a perfect way to end the trip. The light in the hotel room suited sex – the drapes were drawn, sunshine fell in a thin line across the carpet. I reached down and touched my husband while he slept. He was a morning person, and only needed a few moments of sleepy contemplation before a smile stretched across his face.

We spooned. It was good not to have to arch and grind, wriggle and writhe; pressing back against him was enough at that early hour of the day. Close like this, he knew what I wanted, and was in tune with me. He growled in my ear, and was manly without having to beat his chest. Leaping around naked and clambering over the furniture had its place, but not that day. An orgasm eluded me. I didn’t mind. I liked that he climaxed, though, and that his fingers gripped me, bit into my flesh. It was sexy to feel him lose control while I was so content.

Afterwards, he threw back the covers, got to his feet, clasped his hands, shivered his shoulders, and hotfooted it to the bathroom. I stayed curled beneath the quilt and closed my eyes to his eight a.m. exuberance. My morning contemplation lasted hours, and held fast through morning sex. He began calling questions from the shower, and I lay thinking how strange it was that after twenty years of marriage he had not yet modified his behaviour to better suit mine. He broached the big subjects at this early hour, with water falling all around him and shampoo in his eyes.

‘Are we selling the Smith Street property when we get back?’ he called. ‘Hey?’ he said, as though I’d answered.

I didn’t want to make decisions at that time of day. He knew this.

While he dried himself and dressed he persevered with his morning behaviour and I shuffled to the bathroom and sat dozing on the l00, persevering with mine.

We went down to the hotel dining room for a buffet breakfast. I read the paper and he looked out the window at the ocean. He had black coffee and bacon and eggs. I had green tea and a sample of all the food on offer. My plate was piled high. Food usually roused me from my slumber.

‘I think this is a nicer spread than they had out last night for dinner,’ I managed to articulate.

‘We should come back here with the kids. I can take them diving. I saw a hire place with all the gear. Remind me to ask for some brochures at reception when we check out.’

I tried a Danish pastry. While on holiday I ate without fear or favour. Just as well our breaks lasted no more than a fortnight, or I would spend the whole year losing the weight I’d gained. The newspaper was another thing that woke me up. A story could flick my on-switch.

‘There’s a bit here about that couple who jumped from the burning building.’

‘Were they a couple? I thought they were strangers who jumped together?’

‘Married, I think.’

My husband’s name was Bruce. Our surname gave his first name a little more pizzazz – Harrison. Bruce and Trudy Harrison. Some of his friends called him Harry. He was as perplexed by this as I was. Some of my friends called me Gertrude, as a joke. Bruce’s term of endearment for me was sweetheart. Spoken with a fair whack of Aussie drawl. He looked across at my paper.

‘Is that them?’ he asked.

‘That’s the woman. The man is in hospital with burns.’

‘So were they married?’

‘Yep.’

‘How high up?’

‘Four floors.’

The hotel dining room had a wall of panelled glass curved around the front, to make the most of the ocean view. The room jutted out, slightly, over the cliff. We were sitting in this overhang. I looked out the window and peered down to the beach below.

‘How high up do you think we are?’

Bruce pursed his lips and made a squeaky sound between his teeth. He loved questions of this nature. I could always lift him from a bad mood by asking him something like: What sort of timber have they used in this bench? He would have to touch the wood and look for the grain; he would always answer, and any stalemate would be broken.

‘Four storeys up,’ he said. ‘Did they land on concrete?’

I skimmed the article. ‘Doesn’t say. She’s got a broken arm and minor burns. Hey, what’s the point at which you reach terminal velocity?’

‘You have to be falling for eight seconds or so to reach that. You’re dead if you reach terminal velocity, no matter what you hit. The beach is probably about …’ he looked down at the sand again, ‘a three-second fall.’

‘The man is more smashed up, by the sounds of it. I think it’s annoying when there’s a story like this – when someone escapes death – the way the spin is always so positive. Death isn’t always the worst outcome. Permanent injury is the worst outcome. That guy in hospital might be wishing he were dead. Death is death,’ I said, ‘it’s a done deal for everyone involved, whereas serious injury is pain and suffering and cost and mental fatigue for everyone involved.’

‘Death isn’t a done deal.’

‘It misrepresents the truth when someone is dragged from the rubble of an earthquake or dug out from beneath the snow and everyone stands around cheering. They’re happy because they want to be – they feel like they’ve been a part of something exciting. But the survivor has to go off and survive; that’s not exciting. They’re probably made to feel bad if they’re not celebrating their miraculous escape. I don’t imagine it feels like a miracle if your face has melted off or your hands have to be amputated.’

‘Maybe if this man who jumped was ninety, I’d agree – he is better off dead. But not if he’s young, with kids at home. Death isn’t clear-cut to kids. They don’t deal with death like adults do. They’d rather the ones they love be around, in whatever shape.’

‘That’s because they’re selfish.’

‘Yes, but they’re children; they trump us.’

I folded up the paper and pulled my chair in closer to the table. I leaned my elbows either side of my plate and smiled across at my husband. I studied his face. Months could pass without me properly looking at him. He could see I was doing one of my rare physical assessments of him. He crossed his eyes. Inside my chest was that warm liquid feeling. Love. My body got all tingly.

‘You’re a super spunk,’ I told him.

He went a little red.

He would fall quiet now. After compliments or recognition he always did. That wasn’t why I’d given him my full attention, though, to shut him up. My actions were pure and my heart was light. The stress-free days had relaxed me. I appreciated him, flaws and all. I knew him too well to be a good judge of his face-value handsomeness. To judge how well he was wearing his years I had to look at other people’s reactions to him. The woman going from table to table topping up cups of tea and coffee had already given him the once-over. She’d checked him out when he’d walked to the table, watched him when he’d pushed back his chair to pick up his serviette, and she would probably glance at him more yet. She was about my age – mid-forties – but thinner than me, with way better legs. She was just the type of woman to scope Bruce in an instant. He was popular in supermarkets and department stores for this same reason. The stomping grounds for women of a certain age and restlessness were the new danger spots for me – not nightclubs or beaches any more. Girls didn’t see Bruce. Women did. He was greying at the temples, he’d been beaten around the head by the sun, his body had fared better for someone who gave it little regard, and his teeth were in good order. He wore long pants and long-sleeved shirts rolled up to his elbows. Under my direction he left his shirts untucked. He would lose some points if it weren’t for me. He would hitch up, belt in, wear his hair too long, and maybe even go out in light-blue jeans, sneakers and polo shirts. What self-respecting divorcee would take him then? Not that I wanted that to happen. But I liked him feeling good about himself. It made him easier to be around.

If I hadn’t been sitting opposite him that day, I guarantee the woman with the pots of tea and coffee would be topping up his cup all right. Whether or not he would be topping up hers was an age-old question, pertaining to males in general, and something, as a woman, I couldn’t answer.

We took our time at breakfast. He gazed out to sea. I grazed the buffet. We held hands on the way back to the room. I felt proud to be his wife. He had a twinkle in his eye because of the sex we’d had that morning. He grinned stupidly while we waited with our bags at reception.

It was a ten a.m. check out, and we had the day ahead of us. We had planned a leisurely drive home, lunch somewhere nice, and dinner at a roadside takeaway.

When we were in the car and on our way I sent a text to my mother.

‘What did you say?’ Bruce asked.

‘Home lateish,’ I answered, reading directly from the text, ‘thanks for having kids tonight as well. Nice not to rush. Will see them at school pick-up tomorrow.’

‘We should buy your mum a present.’

‘We will. That can be our mission today.’

The hotel we had been staying at was ten kilometres out from the small coastal town of Wensley. The main street was quiet. Soft autumn sun brightened the faded shop fronts. Most of the tourist places were closed because it was a Monday. We headed out of town and towards the long and winding coastal road – the scenic route. I took off my sunglasses and pulled down the passenger-side visor, squinting to see the depth of my crow’s-feet in the mirror and pursing my lips to see the lines around my mouth. I wasn’t a smoker, but I had those nasty creases, as though over my lifetime I’d set my mouth into a grim line too much. I checked my cheeks for sunspots and discolouration, pressed down my hair to look for any grey roots showing in amongst the blonde.

‘What a disaster,’ I said, sitting back and flipping up the visor. I put on my sunglasses with a firm shove of the frame between my eyes. ‘Remind me today I must not remove my sunglasses.’

‘You look nicer without make-up. It’s weird the way you trowel it on.’

‘Thank you, darling, I’m glad you think I trowel on make-up. I’m going to sit across from you sans make-up at lunchtime, in the harsh light of day, and see if that doesn’t put you off your toasted foccacia.’

‘You’re already thinking of what to eat next.’

‘I am.’ I laughed.

The road hugged the coastal cliffs. At times the sheer and sudden drop was disconcerting. The ocean rose and fell in a calm, shifting mass. It splashed softly against the cliff face and against the rocky outcrops. It seemed as though it were a feat of great restraint for the sea to remain so placid. I closed my eyes. The ocean was present in the brooding sound above the noise of the engine. When I woke, we were travelling on a section of road that took us through flat and dusty farmland. To my right, in the distance, was the cliff, although from where we were I couldn’t see the drop-off. The ocean was a dark-blue line below the light-blue sky, the land a yellow layer beneath. Round hay bales dotted the paddocks. There were few trees about, and no stock that I could see. Bruce saw I was awake.

‘There are some two-hundred-year-old fences up ahead,’ he said. ‘They’re original dry-stone walls, been there since settlement. I want to have a look at them. I’ve passed them before and never stopped.’

‘Okay.’

‘At our Cove Street site there are some leftover rocks,’ he continued. ‘I reckon they’re small enough and heavy enough to build a dry-stone wall. I might build one around the orchard. I think it would look nice.’ He opened his hand and moved it up and down as though to judge the weight of an invisible stone. ‘In a load delivered to the site there were these smaller rocks in with the bigger boulders, football-sized but heavy, and all different shapes. I’ve collected a pile of them.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘Look,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘a wedge-tailed eagle.’

I could tell my husband had been waiting for me to wake, wanting to chat as we drove along. I looked up at the bird. It was drifting like a black kite above the paddocks.

‘See if you can spot his mate,’ Bruce said.

‘Have you?’

‘Yep.’ He looked to the road so as not to give any clues of where the second bird might be. ‘But hurry up …’ he eased off the accelerator, ‘or you’ll miss it.’

I looked across the paddocks, and along the tops of the power poles. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl. I looked around at the barren paddocks.

‘You’re gunna miss it …’

I leaned over to his side of the car and looked where he was looking. ‘It has to be in the air, or we’d have passed it.’

His eyes darted to the rear-view mirror. I turned around in the seat.

The second eagle was flying low over the road behind us, three hundred metres or so back from the car, its wings beating rhythmically as it began its slow ascent. Its size was impressive. The wingspan was easily two metres across. Bruce craned his neck to look back at it. The car drifted onto the gravel verge.

‘Careful,’ I said, reaching for the wheel, though we were travelling too slowly to lose traction.

The bird rose above the car and out of our line of sight.

‘How impressive was that?’ Bruce said.

‘Which would it be – the male or the female of the couple?

Do they have roles, where the female hunts and male just cruises around being big and burly all day? That’s usually the case, isn’t it?’ I teased. ‘The females do all the work?’

Bruce scoffed.

As I relaxed into my seat I saw a small roadside sign ahead of us. If we had been travelling faster I doubt we would have noticed it. It was out the front of what, at first glance, looked to be private property. The house was set back, close to the cliff. I could only see the roof and what looked like the top storey. The lettering on the sign was faded.

‘What’s this place?’ I asked.

Bruce had better eyesight. ‘It’s a gallery.’ He slowed the car.

‘It probably won’t be open.’ He pulled off the road and parked beside the sign. ‘The Ocean View Gallery,’ he read. On the sign was a picture of a square house perched on the edge of the sea cliff. ‘An art gallery high above the ocean,’ Bruce read. ‘A sensory experience.’

For something that looked and sounded fairly spectacular, the sign was low-key.

‘I’ve never heard of this place. You’d reckon it would be in the tourist pamphlets?’

‘I’ve never read anything about it either. Will we go and have a sensory experience?’

‘Is it open?’

‘The gate is open.’

I looked up and down the road for other cars. There were none. I eyed the long grass beneath the sign. I was inherently more suspicious than Bruce. I didn’t share his unfailing conviction that things would always turn out for the best. I screwed up my nose.

‘I’m not sure. If it’s not popular, it’s probably past its use-by date.’

Bruce wound down his window. The air moved with the sea breeze. The day was heating up. The property’s driveway was sealed, which was surprising, because of the length of the track. The house looked to be about half a kilometre from the gate.

‘Well, we’re here now,’ my husband said. ‘Let’s drive down and have a look.’

2

My spirits lifted as we approached. The house was large and modern, with soaring three-storey windows and panelled walls.

The plainness of the place was a statement in itself. There were no gardens, nothing to soften the square structure. The house sat alone in its empty paddock, hard up against the openness of the ocean. How it should fit so well with its surroundings was hard to say. As we parked, and the size of the place became apparent, I began to think it was the dimensions that made the house blend in – it was an extension of the rock face and as hulking as the ocean. The tinted glass was thick. The walls were stone, the timber panelling bolted on. The area in front of the house was fully sealed, a square of jet-black asphalt that was almost like the building’s shadow.

At the bottom of one panelled section was a horizontal line, at car height, and about the width of two cars, but it was the light fixtures, more than anything, that gave away the existence of the garage. Other than this, there was no obvious entry point to the house.

A small wooden sign pointed to a path running down the right-hand side of the building.

I was drawn by the order, the tidy lines, and by the unmistakable air of wealth. I wanted to stickybeak, see how the top echelon of society spent their time and their money. I breathed in as I stepped out of the car.

‘I want this as our holiday house.’

‘Not much of a holiday – stuck in a box. Do you abseil down to the water?’ Bruce climbed out the driver’s side.

‘A helipad over there,’ I said in a playful, deliberately pretentious voice. ‘Pop in a landing strip perhaps.’

‘Are you leaving your handbag?’

‘Take some money in your pocket. Make sure you lock the car, though.’

‘You carry your phone. I’ll leave mine.’

Bruce took two fifties from his wallet, and then stashed it in the centre console. He leaned across and pushed my handbag under the passenger seat.

The entrance to the gallery was around the side of the house, down the path. The door was made of a tall piece of blue, semi-opaque glass. There were little air bubbles and darker blue streaks through it. Bruce’s forearm flexed as he pushed the heavy door. There was no handle. The door swung both ways. Please Enter was etched into the glass. I followed Bruce into the foyer.

The ceiling was the full three storeys high, and any first-time visitor would stop and look up. Bruce and I did just that. The top storey was a loft, and beyond the loft railing was an alluring glimpse of free-standing sculptures. We went from looking up to looking down at our feet. We were standing on a glass floor. It was thick and transparent, with the unsettling sight of the earth below. There were no beams supporting the glass or keeping it off the ground. It seemed to have been poured hot straight onto the earth, like clear molten magma left to cool.

I lowered my voice. ‘As a flooring option I don’t think it’s going to catch on. It makes me think of being buried, or those ant farms. You know, with the dirt in between two glass panes, and you watch the ants inside making their little tunnels.’

‘How would you get building permits for it? Maybe when it’s a gallery you get special license to do weird shit?’

‘I’ll keep an eye out for the “weird shit” section on future forms.’

I walked into the centre of the foyer. I couldn’t see a reception desk anywhere. There was no view of the ocean.

‘I don’t think you pay …’

Bruce was crouching, knocking his knuckles on the glass floor. He straightened as a door opened and a man walked into the foyer. He had a buzz cut of salt-and-pepper hair, and the same grey bristle over his cheeks and jaw. He was dressed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He wore thick-soled work boots. When he smiled, his face folded into myriad carved-up pieces. The lines were deep. He was older than Bruce, and also slimmer – this was perhaps why his face had such a craggy surface: no fat to fill it out. He loped with rangy ease across to us. His eyes were ice-blue and his teeth were small and chalky-white.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Bruce shifted his weight. ‘How you going, mate? We saw your light on, so to speak, and thought we’d stop by for a look. We’ve been this way a couple of times and never seen the place before.’

‘Good,’ the man said. He held out his hand. ‘Reuben.’

‘Reuben … Nice to meet you, mate. I’m Bruce. This is my wife Trudy.’

‘Quite a handshake you’ve got there, Bruce.’ Reuben turned to me. ‘Trudy,’ he said with charm. His grip was firm and his fingers were soft and warm, as though they’d just been washed and dried. ‘I’m glad you saw the place this time, and stopped.’

I was in a quandary. At a normal tourist stop I could talk to staff or gallery owners and leave my sunglasses on – the distance

I wished to keep would be standard – but here it was as though we’d come into this man’s home – it would be rude of me not to properly show myself. I took off my sunglasses. My gaze swung away from Reuben. The only days I didn’t wear make-up were when I was home with family. At home, without make-up on, I felt fresh-faced, clean, nude – empowered, even – but today I felt a different sort of naked. I could feel Reuben’s blue gaze assessing me. My eyes were not a good brown colour – that rich chocolate that oozes appeal and melts hearts. Mine were mid-brown, undecided on whether they wanted to be fudgy and sexy or odd and out of place. Mascara and the right eye shadow helped them get fudgy and sexy, and a soft sweeping fringe made them seem mysterious. Today my hair was coarse after days on the beach and afternoons in highly chlorinated pools. I felt as bottle-blonde as my hair must have looked and as insubstantial as my eye colour. Reuben was suddenly all the more worldly for seeming to be so comfortable within his skin. Bruce was watching me.

‘The roadside sign is small,’ I said. ‘We only saw it this time because we’d slowed. I think if you’re travelling fast the culvert hides it until you’re right on top of it, and then you miss it. You must lose a bit of passing trade that way.’

Reuben shrugged. ‘I’m torn,’ he said. ‘I want people to come, but I don’t want people to come. I always enjoy having them, but once they’re gone I tell myself – I can’t do that again.’

I was about to say, Can’t do what again? But Reuben drummed his hands on his thighs and said, ‘Right. The art is all mine; it’s right throughout the house. Each piece has been made here on the premises. The best thing to do is to start on the bottom floors. Do you want to wander through yourselves or would you like a guided tour?’

‘Wander,’ Bruce and I said in unison.

‘Excellent,’ Reuben said. ‘If you change your mind, or find a piece you’d like explained, just cooee.’

‘Before you go,’ Bruce said, ‘I have to ask – did you design this floor?’

‘I did. The house is my design. I built it.’

‘How were you able to get this floor passed? I’ve had house plans rejected for having a clothesline five centimetres too far to the right. This seems to be breaking all the rules.’

‘Do you do a bit of building?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you got friends in local government?’

‘Not friends as such.’

‘There’s your problem. It’s always who you know.’

My husband looked across at me.

‘Bruce is a bit of a stickler for the rules,’ I said.

‘Nothing wrong with that. I envy that quality in people.’

‘We won’t get lost looking around, will we?’ I said. ‘And walk in on your wife having a nap or something?’

‘No, you can go anywhere you like. The whole house is yours to explore. The beauty of having few personal possessions is that you have less to hide.’

‘So a wife would be a personal possession?’ Bruce whispered to me once we were through the first door.

‘He didn’t say he wasn’t married.’

‘I noticed you tried to find out pretty quick if he was.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘He made you blush.’

‘I was annoyed I had to take off my sunglasses.’

‘You like him.’

‘Yeah, I hanker non-stop for lanky grey-haired types.’

‘Rich lanky grey-haired types.’

We found ourselves in an unremarkable room. The floor was polished concrete. The walls were white. There was a long low bench in the middle of the room. There were a few mirrors about. I sat down on the bench, no longer enthusiastic about looking around.

‘Is it just me, or is this place set up to be disconcerting? If you’re in a house by the sea, you want to see the bloody sea.’

‘All artists set out to mess with people’s heads. That’s their job.’

I looked in one of the mirrors and watched myself sitting there; I tapped my shoes on the concrete and wondered if my white top had seen better days, and whether my wide silk skirt, with its swirly blue pattern, was as sweet and retro as I’d thought. I called it my ‘Carrie’ skirt, after Carrie in Sex and the City. My sunglasses were perched on top of my head. I took them off and slid an arm of the glasses down the front of my top, between my breasts. The weight of the glasses pulled my top down a little, exposing my cleavage.

‘You do like him …’ Bruce was softly sing-songing.

Behind me, the room led into another. I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed the windows facing the back paddocks and the parking area. I slid along the bench until I could see our car.

The second room led to various open spaces and a section that looked to be a living area. Even though I couldn’t see the ocean, I could hear it. It was muted, though. The wall where the coastal view should have been was white plasterboard, covered in mirrors. Instead of seeing the ocean, you saw yourself.

‘I bet the ocean is the last thing you see,’ I said.

Bruce had gone through into the next room.

‘People like this aren’t too hard to work out,’ I murmured.

3

The next room opened into a long passageway that led into the kitchen. A wide, rustic fireplace took centre stage amongst the streamlined kitchen appliances and uncluttered bench tops. A soft and inviting armchair was by the fire. The kitchen was also home to a staircase. We climbed the stairs and found there were no doors on the second floor at all. Partitions separated the different spaces. We stopped near the master bedroom ‘space’ and I leaned my body across the invisible threshold. Reuben’s bed was king-sized, with no headboard or bedside tables. The high-sided mattress sat directly on the timber floor. The bedclothes were quilted and fluffy, the pillows were like giant powder puffs. I saw some white shirts hanging in the walk-in robe, and some black pants folded on the shelf. I caught a glimpse of a neat line of shiny Italian-looking leather shoes.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ I said. ‘I hope that’s got a door.’

‘Do you need to use the toilet?’

‘No, I just want to check it out.’

I left Bruce and went to investigate. The back wall was a false one. Behind it there was a toilet, vanity and an open shower. There were few personal items or products in the house, and the bathroom wasn’t any different; there were some shampoo bottles, and on the sink, a bar of soap, but that was all.

‘No doors,’ I said, joining Bruce again. ‘Nice showerhead, though. One of those massive rain-storm-breaking-over-your-head ones. He’s living under a roof with the catchment equivalent of a small town – something tells me he wouldn’t have to install water-saving devices or stick to three-minute showers.’

There were more hollow rooms with single glass sculptures on display and mirrors on the walls. Still no ocean view. The sun shone through the windows on the paddock side of the house. Perhaps the place was open-plan for this reason – for the light to reach right through.

‘Let’s go now,’ I said. ‘I feel like we’re being cheated, or played, and it will be like we’ve succumbed if we do go in search of this ocean view. He must be pretty lonely if he doesn’t mind people traipsing through his house. Perhaps he gets off on it?’

‘Would you feel better if we’d paid?’

‘Yes. I would. We will pay him – that’ll put him back in his box.’ I laughed. ‘Big box. I think I’m annoyed because I can tell he wants to be quirky and memorable. I got the impression you didn’t like him either.’

‘Stop talking so loud,’ Bruce whispered. ‘I didn’t believe him,’ he continued in a quiet voice. ‘I didn’t think he’d built this place, or designed it, or even that he was the creative one. He looked like he’d taken those clothes straight from the packet, and those boots from a shoebox. Did you feel his hands? Not a working man’s hands.’

‘Sherlock,’ I said. ‘Maybe working with glass makes your hands soft?’

‘Shh. That’s what I’m thinking – not about the glass, but his woodwork is finished by hand, really finely sanded.’ Bruce reached out and touched the wooden sculpture beside us. He curved his hand over a protruding limb-like piece and slid his fingers back and forth over its raised bumps. ‘Feel that.’

I did. It felt like the back of someone’s hand – a smooth bent wrist and the tendons running down to the hard bones of the knuckles. There were no fingers on this hand though, if that’s what it was meant to be.

‘That’s a fine finish,’ Bruce said. ‘Working with that grade sandpaper your hands would be soft. He’s not just sawing off hunks of unfinished timber and running them through a saw bench. I’m waiting to see his workshop, though. It must be downstairs, in the garage. It can’t be in the loft; that’d be bloody stupid. I’m happy to take this little journey he’s got going on here, but if he’s made it so he has to lug everything up and down two sets of stairs – I’ll have some serious doubts about the man.’

‘What if there’s no workshop, and no ocean view?’ I made the noise from The Twilight Zone. ‘What if there’s only … smooth hands?’

Bruce pulled me close. He had his lips against my temple and wrapped his arms around me. He kissed me. ‘Then we run.’

I had the giggles. Reuben was nowhere to be seen. We went back to the ground floor, came to another spiral staircase, and started up. It bypassed the first floor and wound its way to the loft. Our footsteps reverberated loudly. I kept looking at Bruce and widening my eyes to make him laugh. We stepped up onto the top floor, out of breath.

The gallery was bright and airy, with a full bank of windows facing the ocean. Here was the spectacular view a person expected from a place like this – an unspoiled vista of the ocean and the cliffs. We walked towards the windows. There was no wood up here; everything was glass, in varying degrees of transparency. Some of the thinner sculptures were transparent, and, disturbingly, there were solid pieces of red glass embedded in them. The tinted glass was bleeding into the clear glass around it, like a heart melting inside a body, or a brain haemorrhaging inside a head. Where the red glass was situated lower in the sculpture, it seemed to suggest a woman’s womb, blood-soaked and revolting. In some sculptures there were two red eyes, staring out. I made a dismissive sound in the back of my throat and kept on towards the windows.

I was lightly sweating from the climb, and pushed the hair from the back of my neck. The house had not made things easy for us. I looked out to sea. The sight of the ocean relaxed me. The cliffs swung out either side of the house. We were in the centre of a cove. The ocean surged against the vertical stone faces – a gentle swell today. The sea rocked and swayed as though in a huge bowl.

Bruce looked away from the ocean and up at the ceiling. ‘How much would this place have cost?’ he whispered. ‘There are mega-bucks at play here.’

‘Mmm,’ I said approvingly. ‘Mega-bucks.’

Bruce shot me a look.

‘Perhaps Reuben is attractive after all.’

‘Don’t even joke.’

I leaned in close to him. We stood in silence taking in the coast, watching the sea and the sky. Seagulls wheeled about.

Bruce put his arm around me. ‘Worth the pretentious bullshit and the climb, you reckon?’

‘I guess. No sensory experience, though – unless you call sweating an experience.’

Reuben was standing close behind us when we turned. My heartbeat had settled and my sweat had cooled, but my insides lurched and a wave of heat descended over me when I saw how near he’d come without us noticing. Bruce’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ Reuben said, ‘didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’ve been up here the whole time. I didn’t want to intrude on that moment where you saw the ocean.’ He pointed behind him, through the sculptures, over to where the gallery joined the back wall. There was a low partition, similar to an office cubicle. ‘My desk is back there.’

Bruce moved forward, putting himself between Reuben and me. ‘Great place,’ he said. He planted one hand on his hip and rubbed the back of his head with the other. ‘Really quite amazing.’ He turned towards the windows.

Reuben eyed my husband’s body. He looked at my husband’s chest.

‘Although the lazy part of me would want to be able to lie in bed and look out at that,’ Bruce continued, ‘or at least sit in the living room and take it in.’

Reuben’s gaze dropped down the full length of Bruce’s body and ran slowly up again. It wasn’t – I didn’t think – a sexual thing. Reuben had an artist’s intensity about him: his gaze was openly curious. He seemed to be caught up in a moment of creative thought. Something about Bruce’s body sparked his interest. Reuben put one hand on his stomach and fluttered his fingers, impatiently, excitedly, against his shirt. He saw me looking at him and smiled as though his behaviour was perfectly normal. He slipped his hands into his pockets.

‘I suppose that’s why my place would be the same as any other coastal place,’ Bruce was saying. He spun on his heel and smiled. ‘Trudy and I have a small property-developing business, we’re always interested in how buildings come together. We don’t build anything on this scale, though. Actually, that’s not true – a block of units we built would have been about this size, but not with these grand dimensions.’

Reuben stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking strangely like a kid in a lolly shop. ‘There are lots of times I think I’ve over-designed it,’ he said. ‘There’s always a risk of that when you’re passionate about a project. I think it’s one of the things I worry about most. When you spend lots of time in your head, it’s easy to lose touch with your gut instinct. Would you like a coffee?’

Bruce brought his hands firmly together and rubbed them. ‘A coffee sounds good, before we hit the road.’

We wound our way through the glass sculptures. I wanted to catch Bruce’s eye, to let him know I’d rather just go, but he was one step ahead. He was matching Reuben’s stride. If not for Reuben’s grey hair, Bruce would, from the back, look like the older man. Reuben’s body was lanky and adolescent; he had a spring to his step. Bruce’s steps were heavy and grounded.

‘Coffee, Trudy?’ Reuben said.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘We have arguments about this,’ Bruce said to Reuben. Bruce looked back at me. ‘You take longer to decide if you want tea or coffee than you do making life-changing decisions, don’t you, Trude?’

‘Sometimes I give up and go thirsty.’

Reuben said, ‘You need someone to decide for you.’

‘No,’ Bruce said, ‘I’ve tried that. When you’re not looking she tips whatever drink you’ve made her down the sink, and makes herself the opposite.’

‘That’s because there’s no love in your drinks,’ I said. I didn’t mean it. It was an in-joke between us. When things appeared to be substandard – an ugly building, a dodgy meal, a Mazda or a Ford – we’d say ‘There’s just no love in that.’ We’d once said it about a friend’s newborn baby. It had been mean of us. Now we were super-enthusiastic about this child’s wonderful nature and beautiful aura whenever we were around her, as a way to make up for it. ‘No love,’ I repeated.

Bruce thought I was being rude, making sly comments about Reuben’s house beneath our host’s nose. He glanced back at me. I lifted my eyebrows.

On the other side of the partition was a desk. It was bare. The office chair was ergonomic. There were no chairs for guests. Beside the desk was a small bench, and on it an espresso machine. Reuben took two mugs from below the bench.

‘Tea, Trudy?’ he said. He took out a teabag and held it up for me to see.

‘I will have a coffee, thanks.’

‘Now how did you manage that?’

>‘A person will usually lean towards the more elusive thing,’ Reuben said. ‘Given the choice between something they can see and something they can’t, they’ll more often than not be drawn to the thing kept out of view.’

‘Actually, I’m pretty right, thanks.’

Bruce laughed. ‘Now she’s being stubborn.’

‘A drink of water?’ Reuben said.

‘No, thank you, I’m good.’

Reuben put my cup away. I could tell I had annoyed him. He rested his wrist on the sink edge and rubbed his forefinger over the back of his thumb. His hands were big, his nails short and clean. The cuffs of his shirt were now rolled back and I was close enough to see that his forearms were hairless, as though they had been waxed. I noticed, too, that Reuben smelt like his house – faintly antiseptic. There was a small scar on his earlobe from an old piercing.

‘How do you have your coffee, Bruce?’

‘However it comes is fine.’ Bruce took one of our business cards from his shirt pocket and put it down on Reuben’s desk. ‘That’s us there.’

‘Oh, please pass that here.’

Bruce handed over our card. It was navy with white print and a white border. It had MAD Property Developers in bold letters across the top. Our names and contact details were below. It wasn’t a very flashy card, and in Reuben’s hands it seemed even less so. ‘Mum And Dad property developers,’ Bruce explained self-consciously. ‘As in Mum And Dad: M-A-D.’

‘People remember the name,’ I said.

Reuben turned the card over. There was a picture of one of our apartment buildings on the back. ‘Very good.’ He put the card down on the sink and tapped his fingers on it, as though not to forget it.

I wandered over to the nearest window and glanced down at our car. It looked small and lonely. From up here I could see the property entrance and a stretch of road either side of the front gate.

‘The gate is shut.’

I’d spoken over the top of Bruce and Reuben’s conversation. They were finishing their drinks and discussing the size of the purlines used in the roof. They stopped talking.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s just that I noticed the front gate is shut now.’

Bruce walked up and looked out the window.

‘See?’ I murmured.

‘Yes,’ Reuben said, ‘I’ve been waiting for someone to come and kick-start my inspiration. At the moment people inspire me. I’m in a strong people phase – bodies, thoughts, aggressions, instincts, those kinds of things. It’s interesting you mentioned rules earlier. I’m always interested in those – who gets to set them and what it takes to break them.’ He smiled at us. ‘It’s the biggest thing of all, don’t you think? To make a person break their rules and forever change their habits?’ Reuben held out his hand to take Bruce’s empty cup. My husband frowned openly at the other man’s evasive explanation. He gave over his coffee cup.

Bruce and I watched Reuben abruptly leave. Once he was gone we looked at one another.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.

‘He must have driven out and shut the gate; he wouldn’t have had time to walk out and do it.’

‘His face has changed. He looks different.’ I tried to put my finger on what had altered. ‘He’s uglier,’ I said.

‘Unless it’s remotely controlled from inside the house?’

‘It’s like we’re his latest project. You should have seen the way he looked at you. He gave you the big head-to-toe.’ We stopped at the top of the spiral staircase. I ran my gaze over Bruce the same way Reuben had, exaggerating the leering aspect of it. ‘Hel-lo, sailor.’

‘He did not.’

‘He did. Maybe not quite like that – but definitely giving you the once-over. If he makes one of those devil sculptures based on you, I won’t be happy. Artists should have to get permission for things like that. He shouldn’t be able to use unsuspecting people for his inspiration. Not if he’s making red-eyed monsters.’

Bruce stepped back from the staircase.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Bit of vertigo,’ he admitted.

He took a breath and started down the staircase.

I followed him closely. My shoes were casual flats. There was no tread on the soles and I gripped the rail carefully. Bruce was moving with even more caution. His knuckles on the railing were bony-white and his wrists were flexed.

‘Are you okay?’

‘My heart is racing.’

‘You’re not usually afraid of heights?’

We shuffled down the stairs like a couple of retirees. If our children had been there they would have teased us unmercifully. Bruce breathed in deeply as he reached the ground floor. He shook out the tension in his arm. The sound of the ocean was clearer, but without the view it was hard to tell which direction it was coming from.

The area we were standing in was long and empty. Cold and unfriendly.

‘I don’t remember this when we came up the stairs. This wall wasn’t here …’ I turned around. ‘Or maybe it was this one.’ We were in what had been an open area off the foyer, yet the dimensions of the space had been changed. It was as though a new wall had been slid across to block the way through to the foyer. There was a door down the other end. I started towards it.

Bruce hung back. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he said.

I turned. He swayed. I ran back and grabbed hold of him.

‘I really don’t feel good …’

He backed up to sit down on the bottom step.

I knew right then. ‘Oh God, Bruce.’

‘Is it just me? Do you feel all right?’

‘Get up, we’ve got to go.’

‘Give me a minute …’

‘Stand up, Bruce, stand up now.’ I tried to pull him to his feet. My husband’s arm was heavy and limp. His breath was becoming slow. He leaned forward.

He went down that quick.

‘Bruce!’

I took hold of him under both arms, trying to sit him back up. His pupils were dilated, his lips parted. I tried to lift him into a standing position. I wasn’t strong enough.

‘Bruce, stand. Please stand.’

‘I locked the car …’ he said, confused.

The door at the end of the room opened, and Reuben came through into the narrow space. Bruce didn’t lift his head. Reuben was holding a small cylindrical object in his hand. I didn’t think quickly enough. My brain couldn’t make the leap; I was still on holiday, sightseeing with my husband. Reuben walked up to me and sprayed the contents of the can into my face. I squeezed my eyes shut to protect them; too late though.

‘You should have drunk the coffee, Trudy. It would have been a whole lot less painful.’

I stumbled blindly to one side and fell against the wall. The burning was intense. The idea that we were being attacked occurred, but it didn’t panic me, not yet. I simply thought, This man wants to hurt us. It came to me through the white-hot pain of my eyes. They were on fire. I lunged forward, groping the air – an involuntary action. The floor tipped. I was pushed, and fell backwards against the wall. Shielding my face with my hands, I opened my eyes. It hurt, fiercely, but I managed to see that Bruce was still sitting on the bottom step, his head lowered, his body limp, and that the door was ajar. Reuben had left the room. My eyes were burning too much to keep open. I got on all fours and crawled in Bruce’s direction. I knelt and ran my hand over his knees, up his arms, over his back. His breathing was shallow. The taste of the chemical spray was bitter in my mouth and burning at the back of my throat. My lips were hot. There was no chance of opening my eyes again. The pain was unbearable.

‘Bruce!’ I tugged on his clothes.

For the next few seconds I pushed and pulled my husband, trying to break through his haze. In dragging him from the step I was able to set in motion an instinct to crawl. He got down beside me and began moving. I remembered my phone. I stopped and took it from the pocket in my skirt. My hands were shaking so much I considered putting it away in case I dropped it and couldn’t find it again. In my darkness, I ran my hands over the touch screen. I would have to open my eyes to use it. ‘Bruce, stay where I can feel you.’

I started blindly tapping the phone, trying to bring up any number, dial anyone. The phone was suddenly gone from my hands. It seemed to disappear. I snatched at the air, as though the phone might be levitating in front of me. I felt my lap and the floor under me. Then it dawned on me that Reuben was there. He was standing over me. The phone had been taken from my grasp. My insides contracted. I became very still. There was the sound of footsteps, moving away from me again, growing softer. A door was closed, and, faintly, very faintly, I thought I heard a conversation.

Bruce burrowed his head into my lap. I rested my hands on his hair. My mouth had filled with watery saliva. I was frightened of swallowing it, in case the chemical burnt my throat. I leaned to the side and spat. Puckering hurt my lips. Mucus was running from my nose. Maybe Reuben wanted to watch us like this. Maybe all he wanted was to watch us crawl around his house. I began to whine with uncertainty and sadness – sadness, even then, so early on.

We started again in the direction of the door. The polished concrete floor was cool beneath my fingers. Something cracked under my knee. I realised I’d knelt on my dropped sunglasses. I tried again to open my eyes. They were two burning pockets of pain. The agony spiked when I eased my lids apart, but I could see though. My sight was blurry, but I wasn’t blind. The intensity of the pain caused me to grimace and grit my teeth. I crawled, holding onto Bruce’s shirt with one hand. I tugged to remind him to keep on coming. I tasted blood. My nose was bleeding, or my mouth. I must have looked like a rabid dog – on all fours, red squinting eyes, opened-mouthed and drooling, my nose dripping. That Reuben wanted to see this, or that he needed this as a source of inspiration, caused a pressure in my groin – the same place I had felt fear as a little girl; confronted by a shop owner, a stolen packet of Tic Tacs in my pocket. It was the feeling of being small and defenceless, at the mercy of a bigger person.

When I got to the far wall, I began feeling for the door. I told myself it would be open, and on the other side would be a basin, and once I rinsed my eyes I would be able to see, and we would regain some control. We would flee. Bruce slipped from my grasp. One second I had a handful of his shirt, the next it was gone. I snatched the air to get him back. I called his name, felt frantically for him, and opened my eyes wider. My head twisted with the pain. I saw Reuben take Bruce through the door. Bruce was hunched over, being easily led. The door closed behind them. I heard it lock.

‘No!’ I screamed. ‘No, no, no!’

There had to be an explanation. The spray in my face had been accidental. An ambulance had been called. Reuben would come back and help me. He’d locked the door for my own safety. It felt wrong because it was wrong. I also knew that it was real.

Why hadn’t something this big revealed itself to me? Shouldn’t I have had some kind of forewarning? I got up, tried the door handle for good measure; the door was definitely locked. I used the wall, and felt my way around to the base of the spiral staircase. I climbed the stairs on hands and knees, peering though the tiniest slits my eyelids could make. My eyes were hurting less. The stinging was receding, leaving in its place a scratchy pain, a gritty soreness. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I paused and wiped my face clean on my skirt.

Time was hard to judge. Surely it took no more than five minutes to get to the top floor, but it could have been much longer, or no time at all. I got to my feet. I stumbled towards the back window and squinted down at the car park. Our car was moving. I couldn’t make out the driver, or see if there was anyone standing on the asphalt. The car was backed up into the garage. Seeing it disappear frightened me. The keys had been in Bruce’s pocket. There were thoughts in my head I didn’t dare access. I made my way over to the desk and the coffee machine. I pulled the cord from the socket and threw the heavy machine over the balcony and down into the foyer. It plummeted and smashed on the molten glass floor below. This was a rebellious and fruitless act, but it gave me an idea.

I went to the glass sculpture nearest to the window and tried to push the sculpture over. It was bolted down. I tried some of the other sculptures, but they were all bolted down. I peered around for other heavy objects. There were none. I had perhaps wasted the coffee machine. The desk chair was all there was left. It was the wrong shape and too light, but I lifted it and threw it at the window. It bounced off. The window flexed. I went to the balcony and looked down at the foyer. Escape seemed so close. I tried with my poor vision to judge the drop. Was I being made to jump? Was the game to see what terrible thing I would do to myself, to be free?

I went around throwing the chair at the sculptures. Terror nipped and gnawed at me, threatening to take over. My body ached and my breath rasped in and out. Thirst became an issue. My arms became too tired to lift the chair, but I lifted it anyway. I was keeping my mind busy and making a racket. It was all I could do.

The head of one of the sculptures snapped off and dropped with a thud onto the floor. It was the size of a saucepan, and the shape of one too, but with the frying section filled in and solid. I threw the head at the window. It hit and dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. I picked up the head and threw it again, with all the might I could muster. This time the window cracked. But when I went up to examine it, squinting with my blurry vision, I saw the glass had some kind of protective coating. The crack was contained, like in a car windscreen. I pushed against the window, but its full strength remained.

Someone was coming up the spiral staircase.

Reuben came into the gallery as though everything was unfolding pleasantly enough, but I sensed his irritation. He looked at the crack in the window. His mouth moved – I think he swore beneath his breath or licked his lips. I was looking at him through two thin blurry slits.

‘Where’s my husband?’ I said. ‘Where have you taken him?’

‘He’s downstairs.’

‘What do you want with us?’

‘It’s not as bad as you think, Trudy. If you cooperate, I’m going to let you go.’

Although I didn’t believe him, his words were a glimmer of light. I lowered myself and sat with the glass head in my hands and my back against the window. I pretended I couldn’t see.

Reuben looked around the gallery at the sculptures. He walked towards me. I saw him looking at the glass head in my lap. There were wet patches down the front of his shirt. The toes of his boots were splattered with some kind of liquid. He slowed his steps and leaned down to look in my face. I concentrated on not changing my expression. He stared at my eyes. By now they were swollen and my lashes had dried together. It was no effort to squint; my eyes did so naturally. He took a length of black material from his pocket, and then seemed undecided what to do with it. He curled it back and forth around his knuckles while he thought.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said. I took from this that he was more interested in hurting Bruce. He confirmed it. ‘I’m not interested in you.’

I kept my head still. In my mind I could picture his face better than I could see it. The folds in his skin that had seemed loose and malleable were in fact hard and fixed in concrete; each line in his face was carved in, with a scalpel. His face, mask-like, didn’t give, shift, or change.

‘It works in your favour if you do what I say.’

I put the glass head down beside me and got to my feet. I was aware of not over-doing the blind thing – I’d played pin the tail on the donkey, I’d watched others blindfolded. I knew how easy it was to spot a faker. I stood with my hands by my side. Reuben pulled my wrists together behind my back and tied them. He wasn’t rough. He urged me forward. At first I thought he was guiding me in the direction of the balcony and that he would push me off, to fall to my death on the molten floor, but he brought me around and we went to the head of the spiral staircase. He held my arm the whole way down. He didn’t waste words on me now. At best I was a device to gain more from Bruce.

4

As Bruce had guessed, we had overlooked the workshop during our tour of the house. Reuben took me through a concealed door in the kitchen and into the garage. Our car was parked to one side of the empty double bay. The garage door was closed. Reuben stopped me in front of a large sliding door in the back wall of the garage. The door was chained and padlocked. I could hear Bruce shouting for help in the room. His voice was muffled.

When I was younger, walking into certain places – a new classroom, a next-door neighbour’s lounge room, a boyfriend’s bedroom – I would get slightly dizzy, my eyes would lose focus, my hearing would dim, and my sense of smell would intensify. I would stand vaguely dumbstruck for a second. Then I would move and things would return to normal. I might still be nervous, but all my senses worked. That feeling from my school years returned as I entered the workshop.

Reuben had tied Bruce to a long steel cabinet that ran half the length of the room. The unit was taller than Bruce, and deep, with large sliding doors. Bruce was facing it, his hands spread well apart and secured at the top of the cabinet. He had a black hood on his head; it made me think of the Abu Ghraib prison pictures, although Bruce was in a brightly lit workshop at the back of someone’s garage. Between his feet was a metal rod attached to manacles, which were fixed around his ankles. This kept him from bringing his feet together or putting them any wider apart. He was not spread-eagled; it was a more casual pose, but all the right muscles were taut, the male shape clearly defined. Bruce was dressed, but his shirt buttons were undone and his jeans were open at the waist, sitting low on his hips as though they’d just been roughly tugged back up. Both his jeans and shirt were wet. My feeling was that Bruce remained half-dressed for a reason: to prolong anticipation.

Bruce heard us enter and turned his head in the hood. His body twisted and he pulled down on the top restraints. The ties were leather, held in place by the closed cabinet doors. I could hear him breathing; he sounded cleaner, more like Bruce. The drug couldn’t have worn off that quickly, could it? Perhaps he’d been given a second drug to counteract the first.

Reuben said to me, ‘You can see.’

I had been standing with my head turned towards Bruce. When Bruce heard Reuben speak, he exploded. He thrashed against the cabinet doors. He stepped back as far as he could and pulled, roaring, against the restraints. Reuben grew still and watched him, plainly enthralled. I understood then, this was what Reuben wanted – to have Bruce mentally and physically present and to watch his reactions. When Bruce stopped to gather his strength, I heard the soft clunk of the cabinet as it settled back against the wall. I don’t think Reuben heard it. He was too caught up in watching Bruce. I became surer of what I’d heard – Bruce had pulled the top of the long and heavy cabinet from the wall. I hoped he still had enough rational thought to grasp the implications of that. I hoped some part of his brain knew what to do.

‘Bruce,’ I said.

He tensed, stopped pulling. I heard his breathing change.

‘Trudy?’ he said, confused.

Reuben kept as much distance as he could between Bruce and me. He led me down the right side of the workshop, while Bruce was on the left. Objects in the workshop jumped out at me – the lathe, the drill press, the saw bench, the vices, the chain block above my head and the gantry. All the smaller items that were usually found in sheds were not in evidence – stored away, perhaps, out of sight. At the back of the workshop were rubber and steel moulds and boxes of sand. There were glass beads in big open bins. Reuben took me to this glass-making area of his workshop. In the middle was an oversized table made of heavy stainless steel. Each corner leg was solid. I saw two coffee mugs sitting on the table – the cups from upstairs. There was something small in one of the cups, but the angle made it difficult to make out what it was.

‘Get on the table,’ Reuben ordered.

‘Why?’

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll hurt you.’

Having heard this, Bruce rested his head against the cabinet door and began rolling it back and forth. He breathed hard and made guttural noises, behaving not unlike a bull contained in a stockyard crush.

I didn’t know what to do. Trying to run or lashing out didn’t seem to be options. I felt powerless. There was no obvious restraining apparatus on the table. It was large enough for me to crawl away from Reuben and get some distance. I was like a child being asked by an authority figure to hold out my hand to be smacked. I leaned the top half of my body on the table and let him lift my legs. I sat with my knees up and used my feet to push back, away from him. He came around the other side and I turned and pushed myself in the opposite direction. I knocked over the cups. I kept moving backwards. My fingers fumbled, and brushed against a piece of card. I felt the glossy finish on the paper. It was our business card. One of the cups rolled off the table and smashed on the floor. I started screaming. If I screamed and screamed, it might somehow help.

‘Quiet!’ Reuben shouted.

He didn’t seem very adept at dealing with hysterical females. I was meant to be passed out, in a drug delirium, at the bottom of the staircase.

‘Shut up,’ he growled.

My screaming stopped dead in my throat the moment I looked above me and saw the large cowling overhead. It was attached to the roof by chains, and Reuben was lowering it. What I had thought had been a table, was, in fact, the base plate of a furnace. The cowling had a vent and a chimney. Once lowered over the base it would complete a furnace. Like in the Hansel and Gretel fairytale, I had climbed into an oven. I began to scream much louder then. The fear I felt overrode any urge to obey. I scrambled to the edge, fell onto the floor, got up and ran. There was nowhere to escape to – the door was locked – so when I got to the other part of the workshop, I ducked under a big central table. It had a bench below the tabletop. I hunched down low under this shelf.

Reuben followed me, cursing. He got down and tried to reach me. His face was screwed up and angry. The mask had dropped. He was some freak whose frontal lobes had been damaged, physically shaken in an accident, or mentally shaken by abuse. How he got to be like that didn’t matter, it didn’t alter the facts – he was crazy and deranged. He got down on all fours and looked at me with contempt.

‘Get out,’ he snarled.

He moved around to my side, and I shuffled away. He got down on his belly, about to crawl under the table to reach me, and I inched closer to the other edge, ready to duck out while he was on the floor and vulnerable.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you wanna play?’

I didn’t want to play. I wanted him to let us go. He began pushing the heavy wooden table across the floor, up the workshop, away from Bruce. I shuffled along under the table, going with it. I had no plan and no idea what to do. Reuben pushed the table as far as the stainless steel furnace base and then stopped.

There was a quiet moment. I could see Reuben’s lower legs and his boots. He was standing with his feet apart. I began twisting my wrists and trying to stretch the knot in my bindings. A piece of fabric wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good long-term restraining solution. Reuben had tied my hands with the aim of getting me to the workshop and onto the table, and no more than that: furnace on, problem over, annoying woman silenced. I was meant to be dead already. I worked on loosening my restraint. I wriggled my hands and felt a tiny amount of give. I wondered about the key to the workshop door. I didn’t remember Reuben putting it down when we’d entered. It must be in one of his pockets.

Reuben went over to Bruce, leaving me under the table. I put my head down as low as I could. My hands, bound behind by back, were now pressed up against the shelf. I couldn’t work the knot and watch what was happening at the same time. My vision was at about thirty per cent. Detail was lost. Bruce groaned. I blinked the haze from my eyes. Reuben had pushed Bruce’s shirt up. He was reaching around to the front of Bruce’s open pants. Bruce jerked and shuffled forward in his manacles to press his body against the cabinet. I began shouting and hollering. Noise was my only weapon. Reuben pulled Bruce forcefully back from the cabinet by the hips. He applied some sort of pressure-point hold to the back of Bruce’s neck. Bruce barked in pain, twisting his shoulders.

I screamed. ‘Bruce, pull back!’

Perhaps the shock of Reuben’s touch gave Bruce the strength he needed. He turned his body to one side and heaved on the top restraints. At first nothing happened, and Reuben stood there smugly – of course nothing would happen, he wasn’t so stupid as to tie a person to something that could be moved. I began to doubt what I’d heard. But on the second attempt, Bruce pulled with enough might to lift the top of the cabinet from the wall. Reuben was surprised. He did a foolish thing – he left Bruce’s side to put one of his hands on the cabinet, as though he didn’t believe it had moved, or as though he would right it if it tipped too far.

‘Bruce, move backwards! Pull!’

Bruce shuffled back. He did it without creating any slack, so the cabinet remained tilted slightly forward. It took some strength. He was groaning with the effort, and I heard in his voice what it took. Reuben had underestimated my husband. Bruce was not an overly big man, he was not rippling with muscle and hugely tall, but he did have uncanny strength when it came to lifting and pulling. Maybe it came from his labouring days as the lackey on worksites. He pulled the cabinet and it tipped forward further. There was a clear area behind him. It was where the table had been, the table I was still under. In his anger Reuben had moved the one obstacle to the cabinet, allowing it to come down cleanly, without anything to break its fall.

I didn’t need to tell Bruce. He knew the tipping point of the cabinet was a split second away. He shuffled backwards as best he could, and as far as the restraints would allow him. Reuben realised his error too late. The cabinet was coming down before he could even try to right it. It was too heavy to stop from falling once it had started. Bruce scrambled backwards, and I lost sight of him as he backed up. The cabinet came crashing down; everything inside it slid and clattered about.

In an instant my fear switched from the two of us to just Bruce. I couldn’t see him. I was sure he would be caught under the cabinet. A leg or an arm would be broken. I got out from under the table, and in the time it took, my fear was palpable in my chest. I was softly whining. My teeth were set. I struggled to my feet.

Bruce was face down on the floor, the top of his head touching the top of the cabinet. His hands were still tied to the unit, his body stretched out behind him. He must have escaped by the barest of margins.

I ran to him. His hands would have been crushed under the unit if the straps hadn’t been long enough. When I reached him I saw that Reuben’s body had caused the cabinet to bounce, saving Bruce’s hands from the worst of it. The cabinet now sat a little way off the floor. Reuben was holding it up.

‘Get this off me,’ Bruce said, meaning the hood.

‘Wait, I’m tied.’ I looked around. I went to the nearest bench and stood with my back to it to pull out a drawer. I had to put my face close to differentiate between the different items within.

‘Take it off,’ Bruce was saying. His voice was still not his own.

There was nothing sharp in the first drawer. I opened a second drawer. I bent down and looked. Pencils and sketchbooks. I gave up looking and ran to Bruce. I knelt beside his head, my back to him, and felt for the hood. It was wet in places. I pulled it off by grabbing bunches of the material. I leaned my body forward for the last bit. Bruce took a breath of fresh air before turning his face towards me.

‘Where is he?’

I couldn’t properly see my husband’s face to tell how drugged he was, though his quick questions were heartening.

‘He’s under the cabinet. I’m going to find something to cut through the ties.’

I got up and began searching again for something sharp. In a cupboard I opened, there was a gimp mask. I shut the door quickly. I blocked the thoughts of what was happening to us. Finally I found a Stanley knife. I took it over to where Bruce was and I knelt beside him; in the time it took to saw through the material around my wrists I could look at my husband’s face and be near to him.

‘Are you okay?’

He tried to stand, as though he had forgotten his predicament.

‘I’ve got a Stanley knife. As soon as I’ve got myself free, I’ll get you out.’

‘Where are the children?’

‘They’re not here, Bruce.’

Reuben was motionless beneath the heavy cabinet, and trapped by the weight of it. Judging by his silence, I believed the cabinet had knocked him unconscious. We would have lots of time to act if he began moving. If his head appeared, I would hit him with something until he didn’t move any more.

‘Reuben’s trapped,’ I said. ‘He can’t get out.’

Bruce twisted his head from side to side, relieving muscles, or trying to think.

‘You’ll be okay soon. You were drugged.’

‘Are the kids in the car?’

‘Bruce, they’re not here.’

It took a while to cut through my bindings. I had to hold the Stanley knife at such an angle that I couldn’t apply any pressure. I sawed slowly. I thought about putting the knife in a vice so I could rub against the blade, but then I would run the risk of cutting myself. It was distressing listening to Bruce talk. He kept referring to the children.

At last I was free of my ties.

I started immediately on Bruce’s leather straps. They were the thickness of a belt. I gripped the Stanley knife properly and it took no time at all to cut through the leather.

Once free, Bruce pushed himself away from the fallen cabinet and tried to stand, only to be hampered by the feet restraints. He fell awkwardly back. I touched his arm. He sat up, his legs out in front of him, splayed apart in the manacles.

His shirt was open. I wanted to button it up for him. He was wet. I wanted to dry him. His fly was undone. I wanted to zip it up. The manacles around his legs were held in place with a simple screw, and I started undoing one leg as Bruce leaned forward and began on the other. I couldn’t believe the way he worked his damaged fingers. They were bruised and bloodied, some of the skin was open and split, his nails already turning purple. Maybe the drugs dulled his pain. He finished before me, and opened the steel clamp around his ankle. He got his other ankle free and sat the whole restraint aside. He handled the steel contraption as though it was a common item, stored in the boot of his car.

‘We have to go now,’ I said.

I went to the workshop door. It was a sliding one made of thick steel. I attempted to open it despite the chain and the padlock, but it was no use. I looked for a smaller access door within the sliding one. There wasn’t one.

I said to Bruce, ‘I’m going to look for another door.’ The words spooked me. I thought by saying it I might feel braver about doing it. It didn’t work. ‘I’ll be right back.’

I approached the stainless steel furnace base. The cowling was still lowered. It was shiny and industrial-looking. There was no smell of soot or ash; it wasn’t that sort of furnace. It burnt clean. The lights down this end of the workshop weren’t turned on. It was dim, and that cut my vision to about ten per cent.

I knew I should be searching under and behind things, looking for a hidden door – it would be Reuben’s style to have it concealed – but I couldn’t bring myself to. There were disturbing shapes everywhere I looked – half-finished sculptures and strange moulds resembling sawed-through limbs and body parts – and lumpy bags full of things I didn’t like to distinguish or categorise. Bruce was too far away from me. My eyes were tiring. There was no door that I could see. I returned to my husband.

‘We have to cut through the lock on the door,’ I said.

The light above him was bright, and as quickly as I looked at it I recoiled. Bruce rested his fingertips on his forehead and exhaled – a long, steadying breath. He was getting his wits about him.

‘Come and see,’ I said. ‘There must be some way to cut through the chain on the door.’

I took his hand and led him. I kept my head low and used my vision in quick, sparing grabs. Once at the door, I rested with my eyes closed.

‘What will get through the chain?’

Bruce felt the lock and chain. In a way that broke my heart, I could see him trying to think rationally. I had posed a question. He felt compelled to answer it.

‘It’s high-tensile steel,’ he said after a moment.

‘What does that mean?’

‘We need a key.’

‘But we can saw through it?’

‘No.’

‘No? What about the lock? We can saw through that, can’t we? Bruce?’

‘We need the key.’

I squeezed his lower arm. ‘We don’t have the key. I don’t know where it is, but Reuben probably has it. Please think hard. How can we open the door without it? We’re in a shed full of tools – we must be able to open the door. We have to do it quickly. Someone else might be here.’

I moved past Bruce to the wall where the cabinet had been.
It was concrete. I looked at the shelving beside me, and at the long lengths of timber stored in order of size on each shelf.

‘A drill?’ I said. ‘Could we drill through the lock?’ I went around the fallen cabinet and began opening cupboards and drawers. ‘I’ll call things out as I find them, and you say if they might work –
even a slim chance. Okay? Bruce? Think of whatever way possible. Whatever it takes.’

I remembered the chain block and the gantry. I squinted up at the chains hanging from the roof and tried to see past the glare of the lights.

‘The chain block,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t we attach the chains to the door and pull the door from its runners? We could do that, couldn’t we? A chain block would be strong enough for that?’

Bruce didn’t respond. I dismissed the idea on my own. I saw that the chains wouldn’t reach. The gantry ran down the centre of the shed, but it stopped short of the door. We could perhaps rig up something – find more chain, extend the reach, but we needed a quicker and less complicated exit. I kept on searching. I jumped at the sound of a timber beam falling onto the floor. Instinctively I lowered to a crouch. I peered to see across the workshop.

‘Bruce?’

Another piece of timber fell onto the floor. I tentatively stood. Bruce was pulling the timber from the shelving.

‘What have you thought of?’ He picked up one end of the length of timber he’d chosen and began dragging it towards the cabinet. I stepped in front of him. ‘What are you doing?’

He stepped around me and dragged the timber to where he’d been tied to the cabinet. He slid the end of the square beam under the small gap, as far as it would go, and came towards me for the second piece of timber. His determination made my heart flutter.

‘What are you doing?’

He picked up the second length of timber and dragged it around toward the first piece, sliding the second piece of timber in tightly next to the first one.

‘Don’t lift the cabinet, Bruce. We haven’t got time for this. The cabinet is too heavy. Leave him there. Don’t go near him. There’ll be some other way.’

Bruce straightened and looked above for the chain block. The chains were hanging down from the gantry, but his perception of depth was out. He reached for them, and missed.

‘Bruce, please, you’re drugged. I’m begging you – don’t lift the cabinet.’

He took hold of the chains and pulled the chain block along the gantry track. Its very purpose was for lifting heavy objects off the floor. Bruce positioned it above the cabinet.

‘There’s a furnace down there,’ I said, pointing. ‘He was going to get rid of our bodies. He was going to burn us. We don’t know if he’s hurt. If you lift the cabinet and he’s not badly hurt, we’re back to where we started.’

Bruce pulled a length of chain through the gantry. It rattled loudly. He got it to the right length and looped it under the exposed ends of the two planks of wood. Once he had the second length of chain, he used it to pull the first chain tight. He walked down to where the control box was hanging. I wrapped my arms around my body. My husband was too influenced by the drug to comprehend any kind of reasoning, and too caught in the severity of the situation to be made to stop.

The electronic device for the chain block was at the other end of the workshop. Bruce returned with it. The cabling had its own rail, running parallel to the gantry. The control unit hung down to about shoulder height. Bruce stopped in front of me for a moment.

‘Do you even know what you’re doing?’ I said. ‘Think about it. Will you please not lift the cabinet?’

The control unit was about the size of a paperback novel. Bruce’s brow furrowed as he pressed a button. The chain block sprung to life. There was the sound of the chains running through the lifting device. The chain around the two planks of wood tightened. The timber began to lift.

I remembered seeing a hammer during my search. I turned to look for it. The chain block rattled and whirred. The two planks of timber creaked. I prayed the timber would snap and the cabinet would fall back to the floor. I heard things move and shift about on the shelves inside. I found the hammer and turned back to hand it to Bruce. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘take this.’

‘You keep hold of it.’

The cabinet lifted higher. The gears in the chain block struggled with the weight. The whir of the electric motor drowned out any other sounds. There was now room to crawl out from under the cabinet. One of the pieces of timber made a splintering sound. Bruce took his finger off the button. The lifting halted. The chain block fell silent. The room was quiet. Bruce crouched down and looked.

‘He was going to kill us,’ I reminded him.

I was too scared to look for myself. I never wanted to see Reuben again. The thought of his hairless arms and bristled grey scalp made me nauseous. The pressure between my legs had returned. Bruce got down on his stomach and began inching his way under the cabinet. I shook my head. I felt like crying.

‘It’s not safe …’

The timber beams were creaking. Bruce wriggled under until the top half of his body had disappeared. He was like that, lying still, for a moment, and then he began wriggling back out. He was dragging Reuben with him; I could tell by the way his legs had stiffened. The toes of his boots tried to dig in and find purchase on the floor. He edged his way back. I bent and looked. Bruce had a hold of the back of Reuben’s pants. Reuben’s head was turned away. His legs were tucked in. It was as though he’d huddled into a ball as the cabinet fell.

‘Leave him there,’ I said. ‘Come and get a weapon just in case.’

Bruce got onto his knees. He pulled Reuben clear of the cabinet. I watched, expecting Reuben to spring to life: a huge spider uncurling its legs to scuttle away.

Reuben lay on his side, not moving. Inside the cabinet some items shifted and clattered into new resting positions.

‘Don’t take your eyes off him …’ The hammer was tight in my hand. My body was shaking. I held the hammer out for Bruce to take. ‘Hit him.’

Bruce ignored the weapon on offer. He kicked Reuben in the head.

Reuben didn’t show any signs of consciousness. Bruce kicked him again. I realised this was what Bruce had to do – treat Reuben with disrespect, inflict the same hurt that had been inflicted on him. Reuben wasn’t moving, but Bruce pulled back his boot and kicked him again. I cringed at the ferocity of the blow, covered my mouth and looked at my husband’s face.

‘Bruce … stop.’

He kicked again. I heard Reuben’s skull crack. Bruce heard it too. He gave one more savage kick, and then he staggered back, away from what he’d done. His chest was rising and falling. Clammy sweat covered his face. Reuben’s blood was splattered on the floor and on Bruce’s pants. It was leaking, thick and dark, from a pulpy section of Reuben’s head. My mind had gone blank. I had no idea what to say.

For a frozen moment Bruce and I stared down at the body and the blood. Then I walked forward and I rolled Reuben’s body over, so that he was lying on his back. His legs flopped apart. The lifelessness caused me to lean away and look to my husband.

He came forward and crouched down beside me. Together we searched Reuben’s pockets. I found the key to the padlock and unlocked the door.

5

Our car keys were in the ignition and my handbag was still tucked in under the seat. Bruce’s phone was still in the hands-free cradle, his wallet in the centre console. My phone was on the dash; the screen was cracked, the base and back crushed and splintered. Also on the dash were my sunglasses, broken but returned to the car like my phone. I sat behind the wheel.

Bruce was out in the garage looking for a way to open the roller door. He found the remote control and the door began to open.

Bruce climbed quickly into the car. ‘Go,’ he said.

It was sunny outside. I had that feeling you get when leaving the cinema during the day – the strangeness of emerging into the sunshine after the darkness of the theatre to find nothing has changed, not even the weather.

I backed out into the parking area. The house loomed over me. I kept my gaze averted. I felt chastened, as though I’d been taught a lesson by an omnipotent thing. I didn’t know what lesson exactly, but I was contrite all the same.

‘All our things are here,’ I said. ‘My phone, my sunglasses. I think he was going to get rid of the car with all our stuff in it.’

‘Go.’

The terror actually heightened as we left. The open garage gaped behind us. My body grew rigid. It was difficult to steer or accelerate. I think a part of me knew even then that we weren’t leaving, not really. Some things you don’t escape from.

I remembered the bottle of water in the door compartment beside me. It had a pop-top lid, and I drove one-handed and drank. I squirted some on my forehead and let it run down over my eyes, passed the bottle to Bruce and used my skirt to dry my face. It had blood on it, as did my blouse. I’d skinned my knees, bruised my shins, torn some nails to the quick; there were tender spots all over my body. Bruce passed the bottle back. I finished the last bit.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

‘Not right.’ He did up the buttons on his shirt.

It was three o’clock. Two and a half hours we’d been at Reuben’s house.

‘We’ll get some distance,’ Bruce said.

I looked over my shoulder. ‘There was no other car. Was there?’

‘We’ll get some distance,’ Bruce repeated.

It was strange how strongly I believed Bruce had been through more than I had. I felt Bruce had been violated and exploited and brutalised and made to act violently. He’d been exposed to the full gamut, whereas I had only experienced the abridged version. I fretted for him, and not myself. I was already deferring the pain.

‘I want to ring the kids,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard them.’

‘You didn’t hear them.’

‘We’ll ring Steven.’

‘He’ll be at school.’

‘See if he picks up.’

My phone wasn’t working. Bruce’s phone had voice recognition. He said Steven’s name in the direction of the blue-tooth device attached to the sun visor, and technology took it from there.

While I waited for our son to pick up, I said, ‘What are we doing? What are we saying?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Steven came on the line. ‘Hey, Dad,’ he said. His voice was as deep as Bruce’s. It was hard to believe the owner of such a voice would be dressed in a school blazer, with grey shorts and long socks and ludicrously dishevelled hair.

Bruce turned his face towards the window, suddenly overcome.

‘It’s Mum,’ I said.

‘Hi, Mum.’

I bit my lip to stop from crying.

‘Hello?’ Steven said.

There were the sounds of life going on in the background, the hustle and bustle of a school corridor, friends joking around nearby. Our children were safe. Only Bruce and I had been catapulted to outer space.

‘Mum?’

‘Are you and the girls at school?’ My voice had an emotional waver.

‘Yeah. Are you back already? I thought we were staying another night at Grandma’s?’

‘Not yet. Yes.’

‘You sound really out of it. Are you okay?’

I was silent.

‘Mum? … Is Dad there?’

‘Not right now. I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right.’

‘Yeah, yeah, we’re fine. Hey, guess what? I got in!’

It took a second, then I remembered and realised he was talking about an under-sixteen state basketball camp.

‘I got selected to attend. In Canberra. I got in,’ he said when I was silent. ‘Can you believe that?’

‘No, that’s —’

‘I’m pretty pumped,’ he said. ‘Tell Dad for me, okay? I’ve got all the dates and info. He said if I got in he’d fly up with me and stay while it’s on. It’s not for a couple of months.’

I couldn’t respond. I could hear Steven’s friends interjecting and jostling around him.

The implications of what had happened began to sink in, and these were the tip-of-the-iceberg drawbacks; the real ones would be hidden below the surface; even the surface ones would ripple out. After Bruce and me, our children were next in line to be affected.

‘Mum? You still there?’ Steven was saying, ‘I can’t hear you. Ring back when you’re in a better spot, okay? Hello, hello … ? If you’re there – get Dad to ring me. See ya soon, bye.’

He hung up.

Bruce’s arms were crossed tightly over his lower abdomen, his forearms pushing in against his pelvis. His breath came short and sharp and his face contorted with pain or anguish, both.

‘Do you need to go to hospital?’

He shook his head. ‘Stop at a toilet.’

I pulled in at the first service station we came to. The toilets were around the back and I parked as near to them as I could. Before getting out, I turned to Bruce and went to touch him. He jerked away from me. ‘Are you hurt?’ I tried a second time to touch him, gently reaching out. He twisted subtly this time to avoid my hand.

Our bodies remained tense, so I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. Fear had made me retreat inside myself, and I imagined Bruce felt the same. It wasn’t a straightforward thing to accept a person’s touch again and open up.

‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Could you get me a change of clothes?’

I climbed over the seats and grabbed our overnight bags.

‘We can ring the police from here,’ I said, sorting through the contents of Bruce’s bag. ‘This is a good place to do it. We’ll go inside and ring.’

Bruce and I went together into the women’s toilet. Bruce chose the privacy of a narrow cubicle to get changed in. He half shut the door. Even this slight barricade between us unsettled me. ‘Bruce …’ The hesitation in my voice explained, and he pushed the door wider so that I could see him. While he got into dry clothes and used the toilet, I changed too. I rinsed my eyes and filled the water bottle from the tap. He came out and we swapped places. I left the door wide open while I used the toilet. He leaned over the sink and splashed his face.

‘What are we doing?’ I said. ‘We’re washing off evidence, aren’t we? We have to stop right now and think about what we’re doing.’

‘I can’t think. I can’t.’ Bruce sank down with his back against the bathroom wall. His eyes were wide, but his brow was smooth and unlined, slack with shock.

I pulled up my jeans.

‘Were you with me in the first room?’ Bruce said.

‘It’s going to be all right.’ I went across to help my husband to his feet. ‘We’re all right.’

I held him. We were equally stiff in one another’s embrace. Not rigid against each other, but tense, still frightened.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Bruce asked.

‘No.’

‘I killed him. Is that manslaughter?’

‘I don’t know.’

We stepped back. I couldn’t look into his face for fear of sinking down to the floor like he had. Bruce now wore shorts and a jumper and thongs. I wore jeans and the same shoes and top that I’d had on. I bundled our dirty clothes together in my arms. I could smell Reuben’s workshop on them – the scent of freshly cut timber, a supposedly pleasant aroma. Not any more.

‘Let’s go into the service station and ring from there.’

My husband looked at me, but it was as though he didn’t see me. ‘Tell the police I killed him?’

‘In self-defence.’

‘Tell them …’ He frowned.

‘What happened.’

‘He wasn’t moving.’

‘It doesn’t matter – he could have gotten up.’

‘He was unconscious.’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Bruce began breathing fast. His eyes grew bright with tears. He looked at the clothes bundled in my arms and shook his head at a private thought.

‘Bruce? It’s okay – the police are going to understand. You were drugged. He attacked you.’

This truth played out distressingly across my husband’s face. His eyes lost their teary glow and grew guarded. Evasiveness crept in. I’d never seen such caginess in him before and it was devastating to realise how completely Reuben had hurt him.

‘You were acting in self-defence,’ I reminded him.

‘I knew he was unconscious.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘He wasn’t moving. I kept kicking.’

‘You can’t say that to the police. You wouldn’t say that to them, would you?’

‘Were you with me in the first room?’

‘I was trapped at the bottom of the stairs and upstairs. Then I was in the workshop with you.’

‘Do you know what he did to me?’ Bruce said with sudden emotion.

‘Bruce …’

He breathed out to compose himself. He said, ‘He had to die.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I said softly, ‘that’s not what you thought; you didn’t know what you were doing.’

‘I did.’

I reached out for his hand.

‘The police will understand, everyone will understand.’ Bruce took my hand in his, but his damaged fingers closed loosely around mine and I realised it was too painful for him to connect with me this way.

‘You told me to stop kicking, but I didn’t want to stop.’

I cupped his hand in mine. ‘Don’t say that, Bruce …’

‘That’s the truth,’ he said.

‘You can’t say it though.’

‘Why not? He had to die.’

‘Okay …’ I murmured. ‘You need time. It’s okay. We’ll just keep driving.’

As if we were fugitives, I checked that the coast was clear before returning to the car. I helped Bruce into his seat. He was as depleted as I’d ever seen him. He struggled to lift his legs into the car. I began to wonder what the difference was between manslaughter and murder. Bruce’s raw comments had seeded doubt in me. I wondered if we’d be separated from one another during the interview process. If we were, I’d have no way of explaining that Bruce didn’t mean what he was saying. Might the police judge the things he said under the influence of a drug more truthful that what he said later, when recovered? I imagined Bruce saying his attacker had been unconscious, on the floor, and that he had kicked his head, kicked again even after he’d heard Reuben’s skull crack.

Most disturbing, it was the truth.

We drove on. Thoughts turned and tumbled in my head. Bruce’s breathing grew steadier. I touched his hand to check his body temperature. He was not cold, or overly warm, and he didn’t seem in as much discomfort.

We hit peak-hour traffic in the city. Our tinted windows gave us some privacy from the occupants in the cars on either side. Bruce straightened. He’d been sleeping. He seemed slightly recovered.

‘Where are we?’

‘In the city. Crossing the bridge. How are you feeling?’

‘A bit better.’

I heard him swallow.

‘The water bottle is beside you.’

‘How are your eyes?’ he asked me.

‘Sore. I can see okay, but it’s hard to keep them open. I’m a bit nervous about going through the tunnel. No room for error, you know.’

‘Should I drive?’

I glanced across at him. ‘Can you? Do you feel okay? Because we should turn before the tunnel anyway and go into a city police station.’

‘We have to go home first.’

‘Why?’

‘To check on the children. I thought I heard them. We should ring Steven,’ he said, as though he’d forgotten we already had, like he was stuck on a recorded loop.

An hour from home, Bruce was asleep again. I had my arms draped over the steering wheel and my chin resting on my hands. I peered at the section of road ahead then closed my eyes for three seconds. I softly counted one … two … three … and opened my eyes again. It wasn’t as dangerous as it sounded: my mind was alert. I wasn’t at risk of dozing off. I pushed it out to four seconds of driving blind. The cruise control was set at ninety kilometres an hour. We were in a one hundred and ten zone. Cars overtook with ease.

The final leg home was the worst. We came off the freeway and made it to our hometown, but then had the back roads to travel to our house. I had to keep my eyes open the whole time. My face was screwed up with the effort. It took everything I had in me to stop my eyes from shutting. I had no thoughts beyond that.

Bruce woke and talked me through the final turns. I couldn’t trust him to take over and drive, though – he still wasn’t making sense.

Before that day I’d cursed our decision to build outside of town, in the surrounding countryside of Delaney, living the middle-class ‘lifestyle property’ dream – on countless school nights, doing the sports-training run, I’d whinge about the lack of ‘life’ and ‘style’ involved in driving so many kilometres every day – but that afternoon the road seemed longer than ever. Then again, the quiet road on which we lived, tucked in at the base of the ranges with other country houses spaced between paddocks and neighbours hidden behind stands of trees, suited our current situation. Rural life had some merit when you were trying to keep a low profile.

Bruce and I crept home without being noticed. We were left alone to weave and stagger across the finish line.

Down the drive.

Into the carport.

And stop.

I turned off the engine and sat back. The sun had set. I closed my eyes. In my ears I had that high buzz you get after a concert.

With my eyes still shut, I pictured our ten hectares and our two-storey weatherboard home. It was a big timber house, painted a light, creamy yellow, with white windows and white balconies, white finials and turrets, and a soft grey roof. The curtains were the storybook type – off-white with wide yellow ties. The home was meant to invoke a feeling of family, with lots of entrances and exits to cope with heavy traffic, nooks and crannies to provide a sense of adventure, multiple living areas, over-stuffed armchairs, eight-seater tables, a long kitchen bench, and a parent’s retreat. You’d think we’d planned having a dozen children, and not stopped at the traditional three. There were even twelve hooks in the laundry. My reasoning had been that a family home could never have too many coat hooks. And, as it turned out, there was never a spare hook available. Had I factored in horse bridles, leads and saddle rugs, I might have filled every wall in the house with coat hooks. Outside there were paved areas, a half basketball court, and gardens in need of weeding. The shed was in the same style as the house, as was the stable.

As I sat there, the horses would be at the side gate, expecting all the family to be home. If I listened I would probably hear them whinnying and making that low thudding sound in their throats; talking, we called it. They often sounded like a couple of politicians muttering, ‘Hear, hear,’ during question time. I realised I would have to feed them. I remembered our cats. They would be on the veranda steps, tails up, rubbing their sides on the railing, getting ready to meow their wish to be pampered after two weeks on their own with nothing but a big bowl of dry food beside a locked cat door.

These homecoming rituals held no comfort for me now. I wanted to walk in, get under the shower, fall onto the bed, and not move until what had happened had gone away, forever. Was I really going to have to feed out hay, open tins of tuna and pour bowls of milk? Yes, I was. Which route was stranger – returning home after what we had experienced, or being taken into custody and questioned?

‘You did such a good job,’ Bruce was saying. Emotion had closed his throat and made his words tight.

‘It would have been pretty silly to die in a car accident.’ My attempt at lightheartedness only drew attention to how grave our situation was.

‘How are we going to tell the children?’ Bruce said. ‘What are we going to tell them?’

‘Maybe after telling the police it won’t seem like … such a …’ The sentence disintegrated on my tongue.

‘I don’t know if I can, Trudy.’

‘We should ring the police now, before we get out of the car. That way all we’ve done is driven home. There’s nothing wrong in that … is there?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Do you still feel drugged?’

‘Trudy, he —’

Bruce’s voice didn’t fade away at the end of this. The words had jammed in his throat.

‘He —’ he said, trying again.

I reached for my husband’s arm and held it, knowing his hand would be too sore to squeeze. The pain and fear I could see in him, it hurt me. But instead of softening and weakening me, it steeled me. My heart would have to beat for two.

‘How many people will have to know?’ he whispered.

I said, after a moment, ‘There wasn’t another car in the garage, was there? There were no cars on the road. No one saw us turn in there. Check everything is here again, check your wallet.’

He opened the glove box and took his wallet out.

‘Go through it.’ I saw that his hands were shaking. ‘Make sure everything is there. Did you have your sunglasses on?’

‘No.’

‘Where are they? Make sure they’re in the car.’

‘They’re here.’

‘He put everything in the car so there was no evidence of us in the house. If no one saw us go in there, and no one saw us leave, and there’s no evidence of us in the house …’

‘There’d be our fingerprints.’

‘It’s a gallery; there’d be lots of people’s fingerprints.’

‘How will we …’

I could see what he was thinking – what would we tell the children? How would we explain his injuries? How was it even possible to go back to normal life?

‘We could say we were … you were … in a fight.’ There was zero confidence in my voice. I was trying to convince myself.

‘What about your eyes?’

I’d forgotten about my eyes. I touched my fingertips to the corners, pressing the sticky, swollen skin. ‘We can’t do it, can we?’ I said. I thought again of Bruce at a police station, this time being led away into another room, handcuffed. That, more than anything else, was easy to envision. ‘You can’t tell them he was unconscious, Bruce – you can’t tell them that. You’re going to have to say he was getting up, or that he was moving. You can’t say you wanted him dead. You wouldn’t say that, would you?’

‘I don’t know.’

Once in an interrogation room, under pressure, being questioned, it was impossible to know what he would or wouldn’t say. He knew that. Add to that his shame and humiliation, and I truly doubted Bruce would do himself any favours. I even feared he would go out of his way to undermine himself, as punishment for allowing himself to become a victim.

I sat straighter in the seat. I pinched and wiped my nose. ‘Let’s just go inside.’

We didn’t move though. We fell silent. I leaned back again.

The enormity of what had happened swept over us. We didn’t talk. Vocalising our awe and disbelief would be stating the obvious. I wasn’t sure I had any clear-cut emotions to express. We sat beside one another in silence, contained within our heads. It was intimate and personal to be together, yet absorbed in our own all-encompassing thoughts. In my mind I was a speck floating on a dark sea, and Reuben’s attack, his death, was the head of an octopus, and the eight writhing tentacles were reaching in every direction and suctioning on to whatever they found, dismantling my life, taking apart my home, my family, tearing the heart out of my husband. I’d always been both fascinated and repulsed by those massive squid-like creatures dragged up from bottomless oceans. They made me question my view of things. Each unblinking eye seemed to hold the secret of life, and it wasn’t something they’d found looking skyward.

Just as depression could take the form of a black dog, or addiction the form of a monkey, my fear took the shape of a deep-sea octopus. I internalised it. So did Bruce. We did it together, as a couple. And we went inside our house. We were jumping to escape the fire behind us, with no thought as to where we would land.

6

Steven, our eldest, was almost sixteen. Hormones were more of a problem with him than with our girls. If anyone in our house had a monthly cycle, it was our son. He also spent longest in the bathroom, out-shopped us all, gossiped with the most enthusiasm and threw temper tantrums that shook the house. We did encourage his wilful behaviour, though. We called him ‘problem child’ to his face, lovingly. With affection we retold stories of his childish rages.

I’d come to pick up the kids in our second vehicle, the smaller wagon. Steven heaved his schoolbag onto the back seat and peered over at the empty boot. He got into the front passenger seat of the car and slammed the door shut.

‘Haven’t you been to Gran’s yet to get our stuff? I’ve just wasted two weeks of my life there. I don’t want to waste any more of it. And, just so you know, I’m staying home next time you and Dad go away. I don’t care what you say.’

He was not the calm boy I’d spoken with yesterday on the phone, although his hair was as ridiculously tousled as I’d imagined. More than ever, his adult voice didn’t suit him.

‘So do we have to go there now?’ he continued. ‘Couldn’t you have gone before picking us up? I’ve got so much shit to catch up on, Mum. You and Dad can’t just take me out of my life because you feel like time away. It’s fucking selfish.’

‘Don’t swear like that,’ I said, on autopilot.

The sunglasses I wore were narrow and dark, fashionable five or six years ago, extremely unfashionable now. They were all I could find in the house. I was hiding behind them. I had my hair pushed forward to cover my face. My make-up felt like clay on my skin. My lipstick was a sickly coating. I was struggling with sounds beyond the car window, distracted by a dry leaf stuck under the corner of the bonnet, and feeling light-headed. The mobile phone sitting in the console was the cheap prepaid device that floated around at home as a spare. It matched my sunglasses in terms of its age.

‘Why are you wearing those sunnies?’ Steven asked.

He hadn’t looked at me. He didn’t need to; the boy smelt bad fashion. It raised his hackles and offended him on a fundamental level.

‘I broke my sunglasses.’

He looked at me with disdain.

Any other time his mood would have caused me to smile. I’d have brushed off his teenage behaviour, and explained that he couldn’t be trusted home alone because he was so immature. I might have even gotten out of the car with the sunglasses on, to annoy him further. But that day I was unsure how to act. My mind wandered. I forgot for a moment what we were talking about.

Steven crossed his arms and appraised me. ‘What is up with you? Did you even tell Dad about the AIS camp? Why didn’t he ring me?’ His face dropped a little. ‘What’s the matter?’

The rear doors swung open. Renee and Summer lifted their schoolbags in. ‘Mummy!’ Renee squealed.

Renee was fourteen – taller than me, heavier than me. She was ballsy and brassy, with a mane of brown hair. She didn’t normally call me Mummy. She came running around to my door and pulled it open and embraced me where I sat behind the wheel. She might have even grown bigger in the time we’d been away. ‘Oh my God I missed you so much! It felt like you were gone for ages.’ She let me go. ‘Freaking hell, Mum, why are you wearing those sunnies? Are they your old ones? Wow, you look absolutely ridiculous.’

Summer climbed into the back seat. She was our youngest. Her name reflected how warm and sweet she had been ever since she’d come into the world. Steven and Renee had been loud, snotty-nosed toddlers mashing biscuits into the carpet and throwing sipper cups from their highchairs. Beautiful, breezy Summer had come painlessly into the world through Caesarean section. A mysterious blonde (there were no other true blondes in the family) and enchantingly small, she had been happy to bob around in the wake of her dark-haired siblings. She was yet to cause us any grief whatsoever.

‘Those sort of frames are probably back in,’ she said kindly. ‘Hi, Mum.’

Steven choked. ‘No. No,’ he said. ‘No …’ He was speechless. I was beyond redemption with my fashion faux pas.

Renee leaned away from me. She’d felt my distance. I hadn’t squealed her name and played at being young and hip, firing off questions, commenting on her hair, saying things like cool, excellent and OMG. I liked relating to my eldest daughter as a friend; it wasn’t kosher – all the parenting books advised against it. But we got on well, we had things in common, we planned to travel together one day. I couldn’t muster anything friendly that day though. I felt small in my body. My skin didn’t fit. The kids, the school parking lot, the day was overwhelming me.

‘What’s the matter?’ Renee said.

Summer leaned forward, between the two front seats, to stare closely at me.

‘Are you all right, Mum?’

So much for teenage children paying no attention to adults. They were like a team of beagles sniffing out drugs at an airport.

‘Are you and Dad fighting?’ asked Steven.

‘No. Please get in, Renee.’

‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Renee made a grab for my sunglasses. I quickly brought up my hand and held the glasses firmly to my face.

‘Why won’t you take off your glasses? Have you got a black eye?’

The three children fell silent.

‘I haven’t got a black eye.’

Renee got into the back seat beside Summer. I sensed the two girls staring at one another behind me. Steven was mute.

‘I haven’t got a black eye,’ I repeated. ‘Stop thinking that.’

I backed the car out of the parking space. There were cars and students and parents everywhere. I heard someone call out my name.

‘Mum, I think Mrs Murdoch wants to talk to you.’

‘I don’t want to see anyone.’

‘She’s running up to the car, Mum.’

I backed up faster, braked with a jolt, and accelerated away. In the rear-view mirror I caught a glimpse of Sue Murdoch standing in the gutter, her mouth open. The children grew solemn.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Everything is fine.’ I waited until we were away from the school traffic, then I said, ‘Your father and I were mugged.’ I shook my head. ‘Please don’t start asking a million questions. I don’t want you going on about it. They didn’t take anything. Your father stopped them. It was a quick tussle and that’s all. But they sprayed me in the eyes with … capsicum spray, or whatever they use. And that’s what’s wrong with my eyes. Your dad has some bruises.’

‘You were mugged? When? Where did it happen?’

‘In the city. Last night.’

‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you were mugged. Have you been to the police?’

‘The muggers didn’t get anything. There was no point going to the police.’

‘Did Dad fight them off?’

‘Is Dad okay? Show us your eyes.’

‘You’ll see them when we get home. Please don’t tell Grandma.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to worry her.’

‘But what happened? How did it happen?’

‘I’ll tell you what happened, but one time only. And this is me saying it for Dad too – so don’t start pestering him when we get home.’

‘I want Dad to tell us then,’ Steven said.

Renee said, ‘Of course he’ll tell us. They’ll talk about it.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘no, we won’t. You’re not listening to me. We don’t want to talk about it. I’ll be angry if you don’t respect us on this.’

‘Mum, you’re acting weird. Are you freaked out?’

‘Is Dad freaked out?’

‘No one is freaked out,’ I said. I tightened my hands on the wheel. It wasn’t going the way we had hoped. My delivery was all wrong. ‘This happened to Dad and me,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘and it’s our decision not to have everyone asking us about it.’

‘You do seem really freaked out, Mum.’

Renee said, ‘We just want to know what happened.’

‘Kids, please. You should be happy I tell you these things in the first place. Your father and I think you’re old enough to know about some things, and understand —’

‘Mum …’

‘I shouldn’t have to spell everything out to you now that you’re older.’

‘Did Dad hurt one of them?’

‘Okay, Mum,’ Summer said, ‘we won’t talk about it.’

‘We want it this way. We’re busy. These things can …’ My voice fell away.

‘Well, it’s a lot to tell us you’ve been mugged and had stuff sprayed in your eyes, and then tell us we can’t even talk about it,’ Renee said.

My driving was erratic. An approaching car beeped as I crossed over the centre white line. I swerved back onto my side of the road. The children braced as the car lurched sideways.

‘I wouldn’t have thought it would be too much to ask, but obviously it is. So if you feel you have to tell, and you feel you have to ask, well, you do whatever you have to do to make it all right for you. Okay? I can’t stop you.’ Tears were slipping down my cheeks. I angrily brushed them away.

Summer leaned forward. Her fingers rested a moment on my shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Mum.’

There were no more questions from the kids.

‘Tell Grandma I’m not coming in. Tell her I’m sorry. I’ll catch up with her as soon as I can.’

So concerned that seeing my mother would unravel things completely, picturing in my mind’s eye her anxious gaze at the sight of me, I parked out on the street and didn’t turn down her driveway. I left the motor running. Mum would take one look at me and there’d be no fooling her. Sunglasses or no sunglasses, she’d see straight into me. Her love would make me break.

There was a trimmed hedge along the front boundary. It blocked a view of the house. The narrow driveway had a bend in it, and the turning circle in front of the garage was tight enough to excuse me for staying out on the road. We often parked by the letterbox. The children walked down the driveway.

It was the house I had grown up in. It was the place Bruce had proposed to me, down on one knee in the lounge room, my mother in on the surprise and my father lying on a single bed set up in the corner, bedridden with cancer, smiling despite his pain. I doubted that Bruce would be able to go in either if he were in the car with me. To pull this off, to keep private what had happened, to hide what we had done, we needed a few days’ grace to ground ourselves, time to work out what we were doing.

Summer was the first to return. As well as her bags, she was carrying a cake container. ‘Grandma says welcome back. She made Dad’s favourite cake.’

Bruce had the TV on the twenty-four-hour news channel when we got home. The children unloaded their bags and luggage inside the doorway. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open, searching online news sites, but he closed the computer as we entered. His hands were swollen and bruised. When he rose gingerly to his feet, the children began to slow their steps. When he winced at some internal pain, they stopped completely. Steven in particular seemed to know there was something to hide in all this.

‘Hi, Dad,’ he said. He walked on through to the pantry. ‘Glad you’re still alive,’ he said casually over his shoulder. ‘Mum told us what happened.’

Renee and Summer stood staring at Bruce. Their gaze flicked between the two of us. I’d stopped in at the chemist for eye drops and painkillers. I’d also bought the day’s newspapers. I put the things in a pile on the table.

‘I think you girls have grown,’ Bruce said. His voice was strained. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Renee put her arms around him. She tucked her face into his chest and hugged him tight. He was stiff in her embrace. I could tell he was trying not to show pain or emotion. He touched the back of her head.

‘Okay, okay – we’re fine.’

‘Look at your hands,’ Renee said. She cupped them in hers. ‘Oh my God, Dad …’

Bruce had his shirtsleeves pulled low, buttoned at the wrist. Beneath the cuff there was heavy bruising. Renee turned his hands over and the left shirtsleeve rode up. Bruce closed his hand quickly around the cuff, but not before Summer, standing off to the side, saw the ligature marks. Her eyes widened in shock. A look of confusion and hurt passed over her features – I wasn’t sure whether she understood the marks, and was hurt for what had happened to us, or whether she was hurt to discover her parents were keeping something from her.

‘What did they look like?’ Renee was asking with a soft smile, referring to the state of Bruce’s banged-up fingers and split knuckles. Bruce had been able to tug his shirtsleeve low again, and had kept Renee from seeing his wrists.

He pulled away.

‘Leave him alone,’ Steven said. He had come out of the pantry. He positioned himself to eye his father up and down.

‘Well done on getting selected,’ Bruce said, and forced a smile. It was odd to see his smile, as though I’d resigned myself to not seeing it for a while.

‘Thanks, Dad. There’s fifty going. I’m probably a long shot to make the team.’

It looked as though Bruce wanted to say more, but wasn’t sure how to string the words together. It was just as well the children couldn’t see past his injuries. If they looked into his eyes they would see the significance of what had happened written there, as bold as black letters on a sheet of white paper. Bruce was unable to mask his feelings. It was amazing how much he could say without speaking. His eyes really did spell it out.

There was an awkward moment where we stood apart, none of us knowing what to do next. Summer was holding the cake container, too stunned to have yet put it down. We were suddenly very separate human beings. It was as though there were no blood ties between us.

I took off my sunglasses. My eyes were still swollen and red. The clear fluid that seeped from them had stuck to my lashes and dried. That morning there had been no ‘whites’ to my actual eye, only red. I squinted and shied from the sun coming through the window. It reminded me of how I’d shied from the light in Reuben’s garage. My mind grew dull with the strangeness of what had happened.

‘Jesus, Mum,’ Renee said. ‘Can you even see?’

I put the sunglasses back on. ‘They look worse than they are.’

‘Will they get better?’

‘They’re already getting better.’

Summer put down the cake container and stepped up to Bruce for a cuddle. As a family we grew quiet and curious. Summer was a pure soul, and her reaction was a barometer. If she was fearful, then it meant there was cause for fear; if she was sad, then it meant a sorrowful thing had really happened.

She touched Bruce with trepidation. Her hands hovered and didn’t settle. She wasn’t sure. It was as though she felt that the bad thing hadn’t happened yet.

Bruce cleared his throat. He gently pushed Summer away from him.

‘Did your mum explain how we aren’t going to talk about it?’ He was addressing Steven and Renee. He couldn’t look at his youngest daughter. ‘We’ve got things to catch up on with the business and we don’t want to be hammered by phone calls from family and friends. It’s important you don’t talk about it.’

‘Yeah,’ Renee reluctantly agreed. ‘You shouldn’t be so worried, Dad – getting mugged gives you street cred.’

‘It was a very tough thing for your mother to go through. I want you all to respect our decision to keep it quiet.’

On the TV in the lounge room there was the sudden burst of tense music that accompanied breaking news. Bruce’s expression grew blank as he listened. Summer was watching him closely. I heard the woman newsreader announce, ‘In a shocking story, just to hand —’

‘All schoolbags away,’ I said. ‘Lunchboxes on the sink, and then unpack your bags from Grandma’s, please, don’t just dump them in your rooms for me to do.’

I looked at my youngest daughter. ‘Summer, let’s go.’

Summer’s gaze was fixed on Bruce. I went over and took her hand. Bruce walked through into the lounge room while I went with the children down the hall.

As soon as I could, I returned to the lounge room. I stood beside Bruce. An old news story about the mounting cost of aged care was on.

‘Was it … ?’

‘A man was attacked by a crocodile in the Northern Territory.’

‘The garage door was open,’ I whispered. ‘Parking you’d be able to see?’

‘It’s mid-week,’ he whispered back, ‘not a lot of tourists would be travelling the road.’

‘We’re going to have to be more careful around the children. Summer saw your wrists.’

‘Summer already knows.’

7

Fortunately for us, while we’d been away Summer had decided what she wanted to be when she grew up. She’d found her passion, and was distracted, caught up in that. If either of the other two children had declared they now knew what they wanted to do as an adult, I wouldn’t be so quick to assume it was true. With Summer though, I knew. Up until that point she had liked everything – horse riding, swimming, surfing. She had fun doing all those things, but she could take them or leave them. Nothing had grabbed her. When she came and sought me out later that afternoon, I saw in her face she had something momentous to tell me.

‘I know it’s not the right time to tell you …’ The ‘mugging’ had taken the wind from her sails. ‘But I have to, because I want to cook dinner tonight.’ A warm spark entered her eyes and her lips curled up shyly, as though she was about to declare her love for a boy. ‘I want to be a chef.’

‘Oh, good.’ I picked up the chemist’s paper bag from the bedside table and screwed it up into a tight ball. Bruce was in the bathroom. The TV in the bedroom was on. ‘That’s really good.’ Then I remembered myself. ‘Sorry, darling. Tell me. I’m listening.’

During her time with Grandma, Summer had helped in the kitchen. Together they had pulled out the old family cookbooks and made mini feasts. My mother had tried to instil a love of cooking in me, but only the eating part of the process had piqued my interest.

‘We did twists on recipes,’ Summer explained. ‘This one dish, we made it five times. Grandma said I now make ravioli better than anyone in the family, even better than Aunt Collette. We’re going to have a cook-off next time Aunt Col’s in town. I want to make big food,’ Summer said, and she spread her fingers wide. ‘I want to make big food in a small kitchen.’

‘That’s good.’

She faltered. ‘It felt like I had to tell you.’

‘I want you to tell me. Sorry. What’s big food?’

‘Rich and full with real proper ingredients. Grandma says food should make your heart sing when you eat it. No fiddly little fussed-over thing will make you feel that. Mum, I never knew before why I got excited going to Grandma’s – I thought it was just because she was Grandma, you know? That’s how you’re meant to feel going to your grandmother’s house. But I realised I was excited about what she was going to cook for us. I was excited about watching her do it, and the smells and helping and seeing how it turned out.’ My daughter’s eyes were wet. Her hands came together and clasped under her chin. ‘I want to make food that makes you smile when you eat it. It’s like you and Dad say – the love. I want people to taste the love in what I cook.’

My forehead creased. It felt like someone had knelt on my chest.

Summer’s mouth turned down.

I reached out and touched her. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m happy for you, Summer. I’m crying because I’m happy.’

‘That’s not why you’re crying, Mum.’

Summer cooked an amazing meal that night. Renee came in from the horses and set the table. Steven put aside his computer and watched Summer ‘plate up’.

What I found remarkable was the thought my daughter put into the dish. She was desperate to show off her new skills, yet she toned it down for Bruce and me. The night couldn’t be a celebration, not after the mugging. She dished up a meat-laden stew with dumplings – comfort food. I’d never served dumplings in my life. She insisted we have it in the lounge room and relax in front of the TV, when all she really wanted was for us to sit at the table so she could watch us eat. She gave us small portions and denied herself the joy of filling our wide bowls to the top. Steven and Renee had already eaten Summer’s cooking at Grandma’s. They sat at the table and critiqued the meal, comparing it to her other dishes. But her brother and sister weren’t the ones Summer wanted to impress – she was pacing in the doorway, waiting for her parents’ reactions.

Bruce and I weren’t hungry. No news on TV of a wealthy artist found dead in his workshop, but it wasn’t the sort of story to slip under the radar. It would make the news. I massaged my temples. Bruce held the cutlery uncomfortably in his sore hands. He was breathing short and sharp. He’d bruised some ribs, maybe even fractured them.

‘When did you have the last lot of painkillers?’ I asked him.

He shook his head. ‘I’m all dosed up.’

‘They’re not working? It is your ribs that are giving you the most trouble?’

‘Not really.’ He didn’t elaborate on what was hurting.

‘I’ll get you something stronger tomorrow.’

Summer grew impatient, hovering by the door.

‘We’re so sorry,’ I said. ‘We’re not very hungry, darling.’

‘I knew that,’ she said in a high voice. ‘It’s okay. You tasted it, though?’

‘It’s beautiful – the broth is like velvet. How did you do that?’

‘Butter. Did you try any of the meat?’

‘I didn’t. I’m sorry.’ I passed her my plate and bowl. ‘Do you know how proud we are of you?’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

Bruce hadn’t touched his meal. I could see that the thought of eating had made him feel sick. He lifted his hand to his mouth. The smell of food was too much. He was silent, fighting off a wave of nausea. Summer took the food away.

When she was out in the kitchen, Bruce breathed deeply. He called, ‘Summer, will you please make that for me again?’

‘Sure, Dad.’

It sounded like she was crying.

‘Next week?’ he said.

‘Okay.’

Bruce went to bed early with the newspapers, even though a journalist would have needed to be in Reuben’s garage with us for the story to have made the next day’s paper. When I went in to check on him, he’d left the papers unread in a stack on the floor. He was sleeping, in his jeans and shirt, with his socks on. I sat on the bed.

I didn’t feel in shock, but there was every likelihood I was. Would Bruce and I look back with disbelief at our actions? Could a person’s shock be used in a court of law as a defence? Surely victims were allowed to act irrationally? The law should be that a victim can’t be blamed for anything.

I listened to the sounds in the house. Summer was in the kitchen. Renee was watching TV in the lounge. Steven was outside shooting hoops in the half dark. The horses were quiet.

The cats were curled up in their favourite chairs. I closed the blinds on the bedroom windows, went into the walk-in robe and pulled the plastic bag of soiled clothes from where I’d stashed them at the back of the cupboard. Bruce’s boots made the bag heavy. Through the plastic I could see the stained items. Blood had turned brown on my Carrie skirt. The swirling print was disturbing. The skirt seemed like a forgotten item from my childhood, something a strange lady visitor had worn, whose fabric, the colours, had been etched indelibly into my young mind. I felt as though I’d been a child the last time I’d looked at the skirt.

The highest shelf in the walk-in robe was home for our old tax records. Each year had its own box with the relevant years written on the front. The boxes formed a neat row all along the top of the small room. I liked that they were out of the way, but visible to me each day. If I took my finger off the pulse financially, and let things slip, tax time would come crashing down over my head, swamping me. The boxes were my constant reminder to keep on top of things.

I kept the records for ten years, and then I burned them. I was religious about it. Late July, I would carry in the new box, sit it on the floor, and out would come box number ten. I would shuffle each box along, so that the records remained in chronological order. Then I would lift the latest tax records into place. The routine made me happy. If I had control of our tax, chances were I had control of other things too.

The ten boxes ran from wall to wall, fitting the space perfectly. I walked to the end and slid out the box marked 99/2000. I made a gap. Tax time was three months away. I put the box on the floor and opened the cardboard flaps. That year’s paperwork came right to the top. A4 envelopes bulging with receipts were shoved down the sides. That year had been an eventful one.

The business had taken off. We’d made a profit; enough to build the house we were in. Summer had turned two. Renee had started kindergarten. Steven had started school. Bruce and I got back some personal space, and with that our sex life had rekindled. At the New Year’s Eve party we’d kissed like young lovers, and been told by our friends to get a room.

I pulled out the A4 envelopes and set them to one side. I put the plastic bag of bloodied clothes on top of the paperwork, and pressed the envelopes down, obscuring the bag.

When I carried the box out the back door, I saw it was a clear night; the moon was almost full, and the lights from upstairs helped illuminate the way.

In the shed, I turned on the fluorescents and went across to Bruce’s workbench. I took the small can of accelerant and found a box of matches.

Outside, against the shed wall, was a makeshift incinerator. A forty-four-gallon drum had been lined with cast-iron plates and raised on bricks. A door had been cut in the front, and a flue fitted to the top. I put the envelopes in the bottom of the incinerator, and topped them with a thick slab of stacked paperwork – bills and bank statements – and then I undid the plastic bag and took out each item of clothing. Maybe I chose to do it in the dark so that I couldn’t see what I was touching. I was careful handling Bruce’s boots – I feared there was brain matter on them. Once all the clothing was in, I squirted on the accelerant, making the clothes wet with it. I wanted the fire to burn hot. I pushed in the rest of the paper, lit a match and tossed it in, and shut the small door. The vents down the bottom were already open. I stepped back. The fire quickly took hold. Bits of blackened paper flew up the chimney and lifted into the dark sky. The incinerator began to hum with the blaze contained within it. When the smoke billowed grey and thick from the chimney, I knew that the clothes were getting scorched, burning up.

‘What are you doing?’

I jumped. The voice was my son’s, coming from out of the darkness. He walked up with his basketball held against his hip and stood beside me.

‘What are you burning?’

‘Tax. Paperwork. Nothing.’

The empty box that had held the paperwork was by my feet. He looked at it. ‘Why are you doing it now?’

‘I’ve been meaning to do it. I couldn’t relax. I’ve got to go to work tomorrow. Your father can’t do it. It seemed like as good a time as any.’

‘O-kay.’ He cleared his throat and watched the incinerator a moment. ‘Does it always get that hot?’

The flue was starting to glow red. The drum itself seemed to be throbbing.

‘I might have been a bit heavy-handed with the accelerant.’ ‘You think?’

The contained fire began making the sound of a jet engine starting up.

‘Can’t you shut the vents and cut the air or something?’

‘It’s all right.’

‘It’s going to take off, Mum.’

I moved forward and used the toe of my shoe to slide the vent across. The sound of the fire diminished but the steel drum made creaking and cracking sounds. I returned to my son’s side.

Steven was taller than me. At school he was one of the popular kids. He ran with a pack of charismatic boys and girls.

None of his male friends were particularly macho. Sensitive boys seemed to have replaced footy lads as the hot ones to watch. Girls had got curvier, bolder, more aggressive, and the boys thinner, funnier, and more anxious. I believed that Renee would have sex before Steven. Unless Steven already had, but I doubted it. He wouldn’t be able to last the distance without morphing into a spoilt brat and cracking the shits because it wasn’t as straightforward as he’d imagined.

‘I came to say sorry for swearing in the car,’ he said. His hair was flattened, now shaggy and heavy over his eyes. ‘It was crappy of me. I was in a bad mood.’

‘No problem.’

‘Have you and Dad embezzled money or something?’

‘No.’

‘Is Dad in trouble with the Building Mafia?’

‘What Building Mafia?’

‘There probably isn’t one, but you know what I mean. Is that who he had a fight with?’

‘We’re not in any trouble with anyone.’

‘As long as you don’t lose the house or some stupid shit like that – that would really piss me off. If we’re going to go totally broke, will you tell us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you coming inside now?’

‘In a minute. I’ll make sure this thing doesn’t explode.’

Steven wandered off in the direction of the house. His figure grew pale and ghost-like in the dark.

8

I got up early. It was a cold morning. I went quickly into the bathroom and saw that my eyes had improved. Before turning on the shower I leaned back into the bedroom and asked Bruce to switch on the news. He was still asleep. I padded out to unplug the clock radio and brought it into the bathroom with me. I set it up beside the sink, tuning it to the ABC, cranking up the volume. I listened to the news while I showered. At each introduction to the news items, I leaned away from the noise of the water. If it wasn’t about a man found dead or murdered, I went back to showering. With a towel wrapped around me, I put the TV on in the bedroom. Bruce stirred in the bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

He didn’t answer. I went around to look at his face. His complexion was healthier.

‘How are your ribs?’

‘Hard to tell right at this moment.’

I left him alone to wake up.

In the walk-in robe the 99/2000 box at the end of the shelf kept catching my eye. I’d returned the empty carton to the shelf. I’d been relieved as I’d slid the vacant box back into place. It had seemed prophetic that my orderly line was still achievable. Nothing was noticeably out of place. But it niggled at me that inside the box was nothing but air. The box was a placebo.

I heard Bruce making his way to the toilet.

‘Are you all right?’ I called.

‘Yes,’ he mumbled.

I pulled on a pair of tight-fitting black jeans, an open-collared white shirt, a fitted black jacket and my knee-high leather boots. Power dressing wasn’t something I usually did. I often wore these boots with a long skirt to soften the sadomasochist vibe they gave off. The jacket felt too tight and constricting. The collar on the white shirt was pointy and the cuffs were stiff and theatrical. I didn’t stop there though – I returned to the bathroom and spent time on my hair, flicking the ends, feathering my fringe over my eyes. I applied my make-up, softly shading my tender eyelids, hiding what I could. Then I went to my dresser, opened my jewellery box, and put on a long silver chain.

Bruce had returned to bed. He did a double take when he saw me. His eyebrows drew together. His head tilted. ‘What are you doing, sweetheart?’

‘If we’re getting back to it, this makes me feel a bit more like I can.’

‘Don’t go in today.’

‘I’m interviewing a tenant for Tyler Street. I have a stack of contracts that I have to go through. The septic thing at the block has to be worked out. We’ll probably have to get a tradesman in to replace the Kew Street boundary fence. You were meant to start on that today. I have to ring and let the Sedjaks know it won’t be happening. There are bills —’

‘Don’t go in.’

‘I have to take the kids in to school anyway. I’ll go to the office, put in a few hours, and come home. Otherwise, work will build up and build up.’ I moved closer to him. ‘We can do this. Right? This is probably more common than we could ever know. I don’t mean this exactly, but tough situations, bad things. Bad things happen all the time, it’s just that no one ever talks about them.’

He was watching me. The light was dim, and I couldn’t see his eyes clearly. His body language was difficult to read.

‘Do you agree? Do you think it’s common that people don’t report things, more common than going to the police?’

‘I guess.’

I collected up my wet towels and went into the bathroom to hang them up. ‘How are your hands?’ I asked, returning.

‘They’re okay.’

‘Ribs?’

He moved uncomfortably. ‘Still sore.’ He pulled himself up to sit with the pillows against the headboard behind him. ‘What about your eyes?’ he asked me. ‘You need to go to a doctor and make sure there’s no permanent damage.’

‘They’re fine. Bruce, I burnt our clothes last night. I burnt the tax and did the clothes with it. Steven came out and saw me. He thinks we’re in financial trouble.’

‘You did what?’

‘I had to burn them. We couldn’t keep them in the house. But I’m worried that the soles of the shoes didn’t burn. If they didn’t, we should bury them. And, also, I wanted to talk to you about the internet – we should be careful about what we google. Can’t the police tag certain words? Key words or phrases can be traced back to people’s computers. I’m pretty sure they can do that. If we typed in his name, for example, it might set off an alert. I was worried you might search the internet for things. Maybe they don’t release details for that reason, so they can use the internet as a tool? That makes sense – once the story has broken, everyone is googling it.’

I was talking fast, ideas tripping over one another and on my tongue before I knew what I was saying. Bruce’s tone when it came was a blow to my stomach – it was so measured and so at odds with mine.

‘You burnt the clothes.’

‘You think I’ve done the wrong thing?’ I asked, breathless.

‘No, I’m surprised, I’m just …’ His hands must have been sorer than he was letting on, because he turned his head and used his shoulder to rub his jaw. ‘I’m thinking …’

Before my eyes, my husband came back. It wasn’t a click of the fingers and he was right, nothing like that, not at all, but it was as though he could suddenly think and move a little more freely. It was like a noose had been removed from around his neck.

‘Did they burn completely?’ he asked.

I realised, for him, it had all hinged on the clothes. Without them he believed he had a better chance of covering up details of the attack. His jeans, his socks, his shirt, his shoes, his underwear; they’d all held traces of what he wanted hidden.

‘They’re all ash now,’ I said.

He nodded as he thought. ‘We might have been wrong in not going to the police,’ he began. ‘I think we’ve been in shock. Our decision might have been rash. We panicked. We don’t know enough about what happened to try and deal with it alone. What if someone else —’

Summer came into the bedroom, carrying our breakfast on a tray. She fussed about, smoothing out a flat surface on the bed for the spread. She’d garnished an omelette with thin curls of orange rind. She’d found some bacon in the freezer and fried it in strips, grilled tomatoes. Her small face was flushed with pleasure and the heat of the cooktop.

Bruce held my gaze.

‘You look a bit better,’ Summer said to him. She snuck a glance at his wrists. His long-sleeved pyjama top covered them. Her gaze danced over his battered hands.

‘This looks amazing, Summer.’ Bruce tasted the omelette. He made all the right sounds.

Summer began swaying from foot to foot. ‘This is going to be good. You can get better on my food. Mum doesn’t have to cook. I’ll be helping.’

Her excitement was as much for her father’s returned appetite as it was for his enjoyment of her food. When Bruce smiled there was no culpability evident any more; there was tightness and regret. Summer deserved more than our secrets.

Once she left, he said, ‘What if someone else was in the house? I keep thinking I remember hearing someone else. Things are coming back to me. We can’t deal with this on our own. It’s too big to keep to ourselves.’

‘I burnt the clothes.’

‘We’ll say we weren’t thinking straight.’

‘It’ll be obvious we were trying to cover it up.’

‘We’ll say we panicked.’

‘Bruce … we’d be interrogated even more now; you’d have to be so careful about what you say. Leaving like we did will make it seem like we were guilty of something. The system isn’t always fair.’ I said below my breath, ‘We would have to lie about him being unconscious. Even then you could be charged.’

‘What we’re doing isn’t right.’

‘We don’t know that. Maybe this is the right thing for us, for the children. What’s going to happen if you’re charged? How will we explain that we haven’t got our clothes? How do we know it won’t be turned around on us? I know what you’re doing, Bruce. I know what you’re thinking. But burning the clothes doesn’t make it better. We’ve destroyed evidence, on top of leaving, and his death. It’s too much. We can’t go to the police now.’

I climbed into the four-wheel drive. The car we’d taken on holiday. The vehicle Reuben had moved. Goosebumps formed on my arms. I tried not to inhale, for fear of smelling him. I closed the door and wound down the window. Renee sat in the front passenger seat. She smelt of hay and horse manure. I could breathe more freely thanks to my eldest daughter. There were flecks of chaff on her school blazer.

‘How smokin’ do you look?’ she said.

Steven climbed in the back seat. His hair was a carefully constructed bird’s nest. I could tell by his sucked-in cheeks that he wouldn’t be involving himself in conversation with family members this morning. Summer was last into the car.

I backed out of the carport.

Renee had her schoolbag between her legs and was fossicking through, dragging out folders and homework, piling them on the console between the two front seats. She stopped. ‘What’s that?’ She moved her foot and leaned down to look at the floor mat.

My body froze. A sharp pain shot behind my eyes.

‘What is that?’ Renee asked again.

I stared ahead, not taking my eyes from the driveway. Renee pulled her bag up onto her knee and drew up her legs. ‘Is that blood?’

‘Roll up the mat.’

‘Mum, is that blood? How did it get on the mat?’

We were at the front of the property. I pulled up and put on the handbrake. I got out and walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle. It was a foggy morning and the air was wet. I opened the car door. Renee was curled up on the seat, her face screwed up in disgust. My eldest daughter had an aversion to blood and all bodily fluids. Nursing would be a poor choice of vocation for her. I reached in and rolled up the mat. It was smeared with blood from Bruce’s boots. If I had more experience in such matters I would have remembered the mat and burnt it last night with the other bloodstained items, but I was a beginner, I was bound to make mistakes. I took the mat and shoved it into the boot.

The kids were silent all the way to school. Because of the fog I put the headlights on low and took it slow. Visibility was down to zero in some spots. Steven opened up his laptop, Renee filled in her school diary, and, behind me, I sensed Summer was staring off into the middle distance, all at sea.

I parked behind the line of school buses. The large secondary campus was positioned higher than the valley farmland around it, and foggy mornings only ever lapped at the oval edges and curled weakly through the admin buildings. The day was clear and warm here. The children climbed out of the car.

Summer was a cusp-child. Her birthday fell in the school age cut-off month. We could have held her back a year, but we chose to enrol her with her fifth birthday barely under her belt. She was a bright girl. We figured she’d fit in. Amongst the other Year Seven students though, she was small. Into the second school term and she remained a loner in her class.

Renee came around to my side of the car and kissed me. She levelled a serious gaze at me. ‘Did Dad go totally spare on one of the muggers?’

‘We’re not talking about it.’

‘God, it’s all so weird and heavy. Okay. See ya!’ She bounded off.

Steven stalked away without a goodbye or a backwards glance. I watched as a group of three girls standing on the footpath fiddled with their hair in an attempt to camouflage their stares. They were younger than he was. The girls in Steven’s grade were more brazen than that; they emailed him semi-naked pictures of themselves and sent him suggestive texts. Or so Renee had informed me. Girls courted Steven, not the other way around. Steven’s steps slowed as one of the girls from his year approached. Carissa was a big-boned, fun-loving girl, not unlike Renee – a busty brunette with a devil glint in her eye. She bit her bent finger as she summed up Steven for the day, and then her lips smacked together. The girl could swallow my boy whole. He hunched his back and curved his hand around the nape of his neck. She reached up to tousle his hair, and he twisted his head to avoid her touch. I saw the wide smile on my son’s face. I changed my mind about him still being a virgin.

Summer came around and gave me a peck on the cheek.

‘See you tonight, Mum.’

‘Summer, don’t worry. Everything is under control.’

On the outskirts of town, down a fog-enshrouded street, I stopped and took the rolled-up mat from the boot. I stuffed it into a bin out on the kerb. It was rubbish collection day. A boy dressed in the local primary school colours saw me do it. He grinned and gave me a cheeky thumbs-up.

9

Our town was called Delaney. The name meant ‘grove’. Poplar trees lined each side of the main street, and the symmetry of the trees gave the town an organised feel. For me, they also added a fairytale enchantment. At the moment the trees were green, but with a smattering of toasted-brown – the first touch of autumn. Visitors admired the grove. Locals had meetings about it, how best to maintain the trees’ iconic status.

Bruce and I had rented office space within the shade of the poplars. If the leaves fluttered across the footpath outside your business, it meant you were in the best position to do well. Poplar foliage was like fairy dust. Bruce and I barely scraped in, but the lightest sprinkle of glitter was enough. Our office was in a bank of one-room businesses – a nail technician, a hemp clothing store and a shonky investment broker. Bruce and I could have run our projects from home, but we didn’t want to meet new tenants at coffee shops or have them come all the way out to the house. The office made things easier.

MAD was stamped into a silver plaque hanging in our window. Bruce and Trudy Harrison, Property Developers and Managers, was written on the door. We now owned eleven rentals, all townhouses. We’d discovered that there was too much work involved in family homes on big blocks, and too much coming and going of tenants in units. Townhouses were for us. I loved my places. They were my babies. I’d get cross if a tenant treated one of them with disrespect. There was a certain Harrison touch to each place we built – recurring colours, favourite bricks, quality windows, classy gardens. Our townhouses were never vacant for long. Plus I didn’t over-charge on the rent. Resentful tenants were destructive ones, I’d discovered. I made sure my small stable of leaseholders never felt ripped off. And when the houses needed maintenance, I’d dispatch Bruce with toolbox in hand, or, if he was busy, send a reliable tradesman in his place.

I unlocked the office door. The air inside was stale. I’d stopped by our post office box on the way and the mail was in a bundle under my arm. MAD headquarters was rudimentary. There was a desk, chairs for visitors, a coat stand, a two-seater couch and a low coffee table. We had a small fridge and a sink, tea- and coffee-making facilities, a bank of timber filing cabinets and a big meeting table. At the moment the table was covered with fabric swatches for our latest job. Displayed on a big pinboard on the wall were pictures of each townhouse, drawings of some of our favourite developments, and before-and-after shots of our property makeovers. Renovation was the part of the business Bruce enjoyed most. His skill lay in spotting the potential in a rundown place, buying it cheaply, giving the place a facelift and selling it on, sometimes at double our purchase price; all it took was a lick of paint, some outdoor paving, and a new bathroom and kitchen. At the moment, though, all Bruce’s time was spent at the Cove Street building site, nearer to the city. Cove Street was our most ambitious project to date – an enclave of two-storey townhouses, eight in all. We hadn’t planned on keeping them, but with the market flattening out there was a chance we’d have to hold on to them for a while. It would stretch our finances thin. There wouldn’t be any fun fix-it jobs for Bruce until they sold. If only the economic uncertainty had been enough to have us cancel our holiday to the coast …

I put the mail on the desk and pulled up the blinds. The fog was dissipating. I propped open the door to let in some fresh air. There was no back entrance to the office, and no toilet – the four offices shared a bathroom at one end of the small complex. It was the street frontage we paid for, not the quality of the space. I put the potted jade outside the door, laid down the welcome mat, and lit a scented candle.

During our time away, I’d let the work calls go through to message bank. I sat down at the desk, pulled the diary close, and began listening to the messages. The first two calls were from people interested in leasing 17 Tyler Street. My thoughts returned to Bruce. I had the feeling my husband was pacing the house, still considering the police route. I turned on the desktop computer. The phone messages were a distraction. I wished the townhouse would lease itself.

‘Hello.’

A young couple had stuck their heads in the door.

I looked at my watch. ‘Hello?’ I ventured.

‘We’re an hour early,’ the young man confirmed. ‘We’re the ones who wanted to put in an application for 17 Tyler Street …’

The man had curly red hair, a friendly face and was a little overweight. The girl was a mousy blonde, with a meek smile and baggy clothes.

‘We can come back,’ the man said, ‘I saw you arrive and thought I’d let you know we were here, if you wanted to get the interview out of the way.’

I looked in the diary for their names. Bridget Browder was all I had.

‘I’m Trudy,’ I said, getting up. ‘I spoke to Bridget on the phone …’

‘I’m Finn,’ the man said as I shook his hand. ‘This is Bridget.’
I didn’t shake Bridget’s hand. She didn’t look like the handshaking type.

‘We can do it now,’ I said.

‘Bridget came by train,’ Finn explained. ‘We’ve been hanging around town, trying to kill time until ten.’

They didn’t look like my kind of tenants. I considered sending them on their way before they’d even sat down. Finn must have sensed it.

‘My new job is shift work,’ he said quickly. ‘I had a late shift and had to stay in town overnight, so Bridget came down on her own.’

‘Take a seat.’

‘It’s been hard with the hours,’ he said pulling his chair close to the desk. ‘It seemed easier she jump on the train and meet me here.’ He sat with the manila folder he’d brought with him across his knees. Bridget perched on her chair, a shy smile fixed on her face. Finn glanced at her. He fiddled with the edges of the folder. ‘Bridget is studying in the city. She boards there.’ There were dark circles under his eyes and creases in his shirt. He tucked his hair behind his ears and blushed.

‘You’ve done the virtual tour of the townhouse?’ I said. I turned the computer screen around so we all could see it and clicked on the property. ‘I like to go through the online tour with prospective tenants,’ I explained, ‘and make sure we’ve got the right place for them. You can ask me any questions as we go. I can arrange an inspection, but this is often enough. It means I can avoid taking people through when tenants are still living there. You’ve done a drive-by?’ I asked. ‘And seen the area?’

‘It’s a nice area,’ Finn said. ‘I love that there’s an old-fashioned milkbar on the corner.’

On the screen was video footage of 17’s front door. The door swung open. There was a view down the hall. The handheld footage was shaky. I’d never noticed before how disorientating it was. I pressed the up arrow key on the computer and the camera moved down the hall. I stared at the screen. Images of Reuben’s house flashed before my eyes. I was back there, in the first room with the bench, looking in the mirror, tapping my shoes on the polished concrete floor … I was on the second level, looking at his bed, the faint antiseptic smell filling my nostrils …

I continued to press the arrow key and move through the townhouse. I heard myself answer a question about the kitchen and my voice echoed hollowly in my head. I understood that life would now contain moments like this – sudden instances where I’d step outside myself, and reside in a strange and vacant place. I could hear myself breathing.

I got up from the desk. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m going out for a quick breather. Please feel free to continue the tour and look at anything on the site.’

I stumbled from the office and out onto the footpath. The last of the mist had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. My hands came to my face.

What were we thinking? What was I thinking? Of course we couldn’t do this. Bruce had killed a man. Kicked in his head. A man had tried to kill us. I’d been terrified, truly and horribly afraid. Tears blurred my vision. I looked up the street. I stifled a sob.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the young man. Finn. His gaze was pained, yet there was straightness in his shoulders – he knew something of sadness. He was not embarrassed now.

‘Sorry, I’m just …’

‘You’ve got a message.’ He held my phone out towards me.

Even through my haze I found it strange he’d picked up my phone and brought it to me. Or maybe my behaviour was such that I encouraged over-friendliness? I took the phone from him. My hand was shaking. The message was from Bruce.

Come home, he’d texted.

‘Bridget and I might come back later,’ Finn said with warmth. He had freckles all over his face. His hair was dark red. It was an unusual colour, unlike any red I’d seen before.

‘No, it’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m okay.’ I walked inside. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Bridget. She smiled weakly at me. ‘I need to get this place leased.’ I said it as much to myself as to them. I sat down and got out a blank application form. ‘What have you got?’

I poised my pen, ready to write. My hand trembled.

Finn returned to his chair. ‘What have I got?’ he murmured questioningly.

I nodded towards the folder in his hands.

‘Oh …’ He opened the folder and passed me a sheet of references. There was also a letter of recommendation, from his mother, by the looks.

‘Have you got your license?’

Suddenly hot, I took off my jacket. My thoughts wheeled chaotically. Did Bruce’s text mean the story had broken? Under the pretence of referring to lease-related information, I turned the computer screen around towards me and got up the ABC news site. I scrolled down the news items, found nothing, and brought the SBS site up on screen.

Finn took out his wallet. Bridget was playing with the clasp on her watch, clicking it in and out, in and out. I’d set them both on edge.

I confirmed with Finn that the address on the license was his parents’ address, and I asked for their names and phone numbers. I wrote down his email address.

‘To clear up any risk of a mistake …’ I took out a flyer of the property and passed it to him, ‘this is 17 Tyler Street. It’s three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a double garage, and it’s three hundred and forty a week.’

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I want it so much,’ he added softly.

‘I’d need two weeks’ rent in advance, and that would be held over until the end of the lease term. You’ve got no references from other places you’ve lived in?’

‘No, sorry. I’ve been living at home with my mum and dad.’ He rocked side to side in his chair. ‘I know …’ He smiled at Bridget. ‘It’s a granny flat. It’s separate from the house.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘At the Four Seasons Inn out on the highway.’

‘I’ll need a pay docket as well. A character reference from your employer would be helpful.’

He took a pay docket from his folder and passed it to me.

I took a breath. ‘Do you mind if I send a quick text?’ I got up and walked over to the pinboard.

Has something happened? I typed. I sent it and returned to the desk.

‘Right,’ I said, ‘where were we?’

The pay docket had food stains on it. Finn’s wage the week before was six hundred and fifty dollars, take home. He wasn’t going to be able to afford the place. I sighed. Interviewing more people seemed out of the question, in my current state of mind.

‘That’s the base wage,’ Finn said. ‘I’ve just started there. I’ll be promoted after the trial period. I also have a … an allowance.’ He leaned over the desk and pointed to a section in the letter from his mother. ‘I get money each month from my parents.’

I read the section of letter he’d pointed out. My mind had trouble taking in the words and their meaning. I frowned.

He laughed. ‘It’s embarrassing, I know.’

‘You get ten thousand dollars a month from your parents?’

‘It’s embarrassing, right?’

‘Have you got some kind of documentation of it, other than this?’

He passed me a bank statement. ‘My parents are fairly wealthy,’ he explained. The account balance was one hundred thousand dollars. The transaction record showed the monthly deposits of ten thousand, and no withdrawals. ‘That’s the bank account I’ll use for the direct debit,’ he said. ‘I was saving up to buy my own place. I was going to stay at home until I had enough, but I wanted to work somewhere away from the city, somewhere less competitive. The industry is very dog-eat-dog.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I’m a chef.’

I stared at him. Bigger coincidences happened all the time, but I was in an altered state. I took it as a sign. ‘That’s amazing …’ I said. ‘I really can’t believe that. My daughter wants to be a chef. She only told me last night.’

He tucked his hair behind his ears and lowered his head to avoid my stare. The tops of his ears turned bright red.

I passed him back his pay docket and bank statement. ‘I’ll get the contracts drawn up and ring you. And you take these and fill them out.’ I slid across a stack of forms.

‘Have I got it?’

‘The place will be vacant at the end of this week. You can move in any time after that.’

‘I’ve got it?’

‘If I’m not around, I’ll have someone come to the office and organise keys and things. I’ll ring if there’s a problem. Have you got my email address?’

On the desk was a small glass dish holding our business cards. I reached across and picked one up. The moment the card was in my hand everything else disappeared.

Nothing but the card was visible to me.

Our business card …

I remembered that one of our cards was lying on the floor in Reuben’s workshop. Our business card was within a few short metres of Reuben’s body. It might as well have been stuck to his forehead.

Finn eased the card from between my fingers. Again, through my fog, his actions struck me as oddly forward, but it barely registered, gone from my mind in a second, replaced with – How could I have forgotten our card? We’d had time, all that time, while looking for a way out, I could have stopped and picked it up, but no … we’d left it. I’d left it.

‘Thank you,’ Finn said. ‘Maybe you could email me about getting the electricity and other things like that worked out?’

A text arrived on my phone. I looked at it.

Need you here, Bruce had sent.

‘Yes,’ I said to no one in particular.

I expected police cars parked at random angles to our house and the front door wide open, Bruce in handcuffs, being led away. But he was sitting on the side steps drinking a cup of tea.

‘Our business card,’ I said before I’d reached him.

He shook his head, not understanding.

‘The business card you gave him upstairs, it was with the coffee cups in the workshop. He’d taken it down there. We left it there – our card is in the house. Our names and numbers are right beside his body.’

Bruce put down his cup. I watched the information sink in. He looked at the garden bed while he thought. At first he seemed perplexed, then weariness took over. ‘We forgot the card.’

‘I had it in my hand. I know exactly where it is. After his body, it’s going to be the next thing they see. It’s right there. It’s beside a smashed cup. Can we go and get it? We simply go back there, pick it up, and come back home. We can do it in a day. It’s only the long drive that makes it seem an over-the-top thing to do. Even if we’re caught doing it – it’s better than leaving the card there ready for the day he’s discovered.’

‘We’re not going back for the card.’

‘Why not?’

‘We’re just not going to do that.’

‘But the card changes everything. It’s all going to come out. Why did it have to happen to us? Why did we stop? I don’t understand. I don’t. I hate that we saw those eagles – I hate those birds. If we hadn’t slowed, we wouldn’t have stopped, and it wouldn’t have happened …’

I broke down crying. I sat on the bottom step and wept.

Bruce leaned in from behind and held me. ‘We’re going to the police,’ he said against my shoulder. ‘It’s going to be all right – it’s what we should have done. It’s my fault. I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s going to be all right as soon as we go to the police. It feels like this because we’ve done the wrong thing. Once we do the right thing, it will be easier – I promise. It won’t be anything like you’re imagining.’

10

We drove into an outer-city station because Bruce wanted some distance from our hometown. He didn’t feel comfortable about talking to our local police. The station we chose was a big one in a nice leafy suburb, Sunnyside. The station was having a quiet day. We walked in the front doors. I’d stopped crying. The octopus was lying doggo in my brain – this action had harpooned it. I took from this that Bruce was right. Everything would be easier from here. I’d changed into comfortable clothes. Bruce had on his sunglasses. His gait was stiff, but he wasn’t hobbling, his face had good colour. He looked normal enough. I’d not yet rung my mother. After we told the police the story, I could tell my mother. The police had to come first, now that we had decided to turn ourselves in.

‘I’d like to talk to a sergeant or someone in charge,’ Bruce said to the woman at the desk.

‘Okay, sir. Can I ask why, and let them know your name?’

‘My name is Bruce Harrison.’

The woman knew something was awry. She glanced at Bruce’s hands. She looked at my eyes. There was a two-way mirror behind her. I wondered who else had detected a shift in tone, and spotted that air about us. The police were adept at honing in on people moving outside the usual social constraints.

‘My wife and I were involved in an incident,’ Bruce said. ‘Someone has died, and we’d like to report it.’ He took off his sunglasses.

‘No problem, sir. Stay right there.’

It was going to be a busy afternoon at Sunnyside police station. I wondered how often people walked in and said such things. What a strange profession police work was.

A young constable took us down a corridor and through the main office. He chatted as he led us, talking about the weather, asking where we were from. He made a comment about how sore my eyes looked, and said he could organise someone to look at them. He mentioned that Bruce’s hands could be looked at too, and perhaps bandaged. If the young man thought we were in need of some medical attention now, he’d have been shocked to see us two days ago. We were taken to what looked like a spare office and told to sit and wait. It was the first step in the process. I wondered where we would go from there, and whether the rooms would become progressively more unpleasant.

A sergeant walked in. He left the door open. He was of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent. His skin was dark, his hair wiry and black. ‘Bruce,’ he said with a nod in my husband’s direction. ‘Trudy,’ he said with less abruptness, ‘I’m Senior Sergeant Johnson. This doesn’t sound too good.’

He stood over us. Bruce rose from his chair and shook his hand.

‘It’s not,’ Bruce said, sitting again. ‘It’s hard to know where to start.’

‘Sum it up, and then go back to the beginning.’

‘Sum it up …’ Bruce looked at me.

My hands were in my lap. I had butterflies in my stomach.

‘We were attacked in a person’s house,’ Bruce said. ‘He tied us up. He was going to kill us. We got free, and …’ Bruce brought his hand to his forehead and pressed with his thumb and forefinger. He blinked back tears, or perhaps disbelief. ‘In getting away, I killed him.’

The sergeant nodded.

‘In self-defence,’ Bruce added.

‘Okay then.’

The sergeant said we could call him Damien. I couldn’t help but think it was a tactic, a way to lull us into opening up. Everything Damien said was warm and congenial, but his body language was intimidating. He was very good-looking. It was difficult to guess his age. When he held my gaze, I found his handsomeness both disarming and alarming. He seemed aware of this, and kept his face turned away most of the time, looking out the window or at the walls, always listening though. He listened very carefully.

Bruce finished and Damien left the office. We were stunned by his quick exit. I reached across and rested my hand on Bruce’s knee.

‘This is better, you’re right, we’ve done the right thing.’

Damien returned with two more officers. They smiled and sat down behind us. Damien leaned against the edge of the desk.

‘Right, could you please tell all that again?’

The police believed us. They were supportive and kind. During breaks in the story, while calls were made and coffees fetched, they asked us if we had children, and what sort of work we did – they returned us to our normal lives and gave us a break from reliving the ordeal. They agreed what had happened to us was terrible. They’d heard all sorts of stories, but none quite like this. Bruce edited bits. He made it sound like we were only separated from one another for a few minutes. In my mind it was more like half an hour. He didn’t mention that he’d got wet, and nowhere in his story was it clear to me how he had got wet. My husband was omitting critical details. He did explain that we had considered not reporting what had happened, and that we’d burnt our clothes. He told them that we’d panicked, and that, looking back, we’d been in shock. He said the drugs he’d been given didn’t help either; he’d only starting thinking clearly that morning.

They said they would give Bruce a blood test. Given that the attack had happened only two days ago, drugs would still be detectable in his system. The chemical spray used on me might be identifiable too. We would be given full medicals, and samples would be taken. Our car would be impounded. The head of the Crime Investigation Unit was being called in, a detective experienced in high-profile cases. We would have to re-tell the story and make official statements. We had a long day ahead of us. But first …

They had to check the story.

Bruce and I were given some lunch. We got a Subway roll each and some Subway cookies. Bruce had a coffee and I had a cup of tea. I guessed that Damien was getting a patrol car to drive to Reuben’s house. Things would start in earnest the moment the body was found and the death confirmed.

Bruce and I spoke softly to one another once we were alone. We talked about the children and how we would text and tell them to walk to my mother’s after school, and how they might react when we told them the truth. We agreed we would take it one step at a time. It was much better to avoid second guessing what would happen next.

Damien came into the office alone and shut the door. He smiled tightly at us. ‘We’ve been able to get onto the owner of the house. He’s a businessman living in the city. He gave the Wensley police permission to force the garage door and search the property. I’ve just spoken to them now.’

‘We assumed our attacker owned the property.’

‘The garage door should have been open …’ Bruce murmured.

‘It seems no one’s been living there for a while.’ Damien went around behind the desk and sat down. He put his hands flat on the desktop. His fingertips were pale. He took a long, deliberate breath. ‘There was no body found in the workshop. The Wensley police are still there now. They’ve got permission to have a good look around. But as far as we can see … there isn’t a body.’

I looked at Bruce. ‘How can that be?’

His face had gone blank. He stared straight through me.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right place?’ I turned to Damien. ‘It’s a big square place right on the cliff. There’s a sign out the front, advertising the gallery.’

‘I can have one of the constables take a photo of the house and send it through if you like.’

‘I don’t understand. Did they find the cabinet in the workshop, lying on the floor? It’s half suspended from the gantry. We walked out and left it like that.’

‘I can see something has happened to you,’ Damien said.

‘Not something.’ Bruce made a fist and placed it down on the table. ‘What we said – that’s what happened.’

‘Yes,’ Damien agreed. ‘We’re being as thorough as we can be, but right now we’re relying on the goodwill of the owner.’

‘There’ll be bloodstains on the concrete in the workshop,’ Bruce said. ‘Did they check for that? Through a sliding door there’s a workshop. It’s out the back of the double garage. They mustn’t be looking in the right place. There will be blood on the floor in the workshop. There’s a furnace, and a gantry.’

‘I’ll make sure they look again.’ Damien didn’t get up though. He took his hands from the desktop and sat up straight. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘To start an investigation we need that first thing – in this case, the body. You’ve explained there’s no weapon, no clothing. You’re saying it’s highly unlikely there were any witnesses. It makes it hard. It’s unusual not to have something.’

‘You think we’ve made it up.’

‘No.’

‘What’s the owner’s name?’

‘He’s being very cooperative. He’s as concerned as we are.’

‘The crack in the top-storey window,’ I said suddenly. ‘Have they looked for that? Tell them to go up the spiral staircase to the gallery loft, and they’ll be a big crack in the window.’

‘It’s been looked at,’ Damien said.

‘It’s there?’

‘There is a crack. But the owner said it happened over four months ago. He suspects a bird caused the damage to the glass.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Bruce said, ‘he’s lying. The owner is involved. We put that crack there. Trudy did. Isn’t there some test you can do to see when it was made?’

‘Everyone believes something has taken place,’ Damien said, ‘but at the same time, there’s no body there; so you can see our dilemma.’

‘Not really, no – we’re sitting here in front of you telling you what happened. We’re telling you the owner is lying. Who is he?’

‘We’ll get you looked at, and get photos of your injuries. We’ll make sure we get everything we can now, so that if something happens in the future, we’ll have all the details. Your cooperation and full admission will be on file.’

‘You’re avoiding telling us the owner’s name.’

Damien pressed his lips together.

‘I can find out,’ Bruce stated. ‘I can find out the owner’s name.’ Colour was creeping up my husband’s neck. His elbows were pressed into the armrests. ‘You know what’s happened – he’s covered it up. You can’t be serious that you’re not going to start an investigation because there’s no body? People hide the bodies, that’s the point.’

‘I’m sorry, Bruce.’

I heard my husband’s teeth grinding together. ‘Let me guess – the owner is someone important.’

‘It has no relevance.’

‘Oh, I reckon it would.’

‘I’ll give you some time to get your head around this. It is confusing. I understand your frustration.’

‘You probably don’t.’

‘We’ve got your details. We’ll keep in touch. I’ll keep an eye on this.’

‘You do realise whoever got rid of the body has our card? They have all our details.’

‘That’s why you were right to come to us. You’re protected now.’

‘Are you going to give us real protection?’

Damien got up and opened the door. ‘Have some time together. I’ll go and talk again to the Wensley police.’

‘Are you going to give us real protection?’ Bruce said, louder.

Out in the office a group of young constables and station staff were standing in a huddle around a desk. They looked through the open door at us. Their conversation stopped. One man had a smile on his face. Bruce saw this too. He got to his feet.

‘I don’t think we will make full statements. From what you’re saying, we don’t have to. Is that right?’

‘We’d like it to be tidier. As much as we can do, we’d like to do.’

‘But it’s not looking like it’s going to be tidy for us.’ Bruce took my hand. I stood up.

‘Don’t go like this,’ Damien said. ‘If anything happens you’re going to need as much physical evidence as you can get. You’ve burnt your clothes. You should, at the very least, have your injuries photographed. My advice to you would be get this part done right, and have it there, just in case.’

‘In case a body turns up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because then we’ll be under even more suspicion? How does that work? The body turns up and still we’re the liars. I’m not going to tell you any more. You’re discrediting our story right now, already. I’m not keeping on with this if you don’t believe me.’

‘Why don’t you go into the courtyard, stretch your legs. I’ll talk some more to the Wensley police. I can get them to send through photographs of the house and workshop.’

‘Why? To show us it’s all been cleaned up and there’s nothing there? I don’t want to look at that. You want me to look at photos that insinuate I’m deluded and this thing I’m saying happened didn’t even happen?’

‘No one’s saying that.’

‘It happened.’

‘I can see that.’

‘We’ll go outside,’ Bruce said, ‘to our car. The car you can’t be bothered impounding. The one with a dead man’s DNA in it. We might go and get it cleaned. If you think something has happened, you’ll stop us. I’m not hanging around here begging and grovelling for you to believe us.’

‘Getting angry isn’t going help anyone.’

‘But mate,’ Bruce said with a sneer, ‘why would I be angry? I walked in here, confessed something to you, and now I can walk straight back out. That’s how you want it. So that’s what I’ll do.’

‘We should have the photos and tests now that we’re here,’ I said.

Bruce lifted his chin and eyed Damien. ‘I can’t be bothered.’

We left Sunnyside police station and no one tried to stop us. We’d been in there for two and three-quarter hours, about as long as we’d been at Reuben’s house. When we got to the car, Bruce leaned against the driver’s side door. He stared off down the street.

‘Do you think one person could lift the cabinet? With the help of the gantry?’ I asked.

‘Yes, probably.’

‘We can’t just go home,’ I said. I looked across the street towards the station, wishing a team of police would walk out and apprehend us – at least that would make some sort of sense. ‘We should go to our local station. They’ll believe us.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

‘What are we going to do?’ A light, insubstantial feeling came over me. I thought of the attack, and then I imagined it forever having a disclaimer hanging over it – not necessarily true. ‘What if no one believes us?’

Bruce was only half listening, caught up in the things that troubled him. ‘We’re a liability to someone with money, and those incompetent bastards in there can’t even see that?’

‘Damien said we’re protected because we’ve spoken.’

‘How? Only the owner knows we’ve gone to the police. It hasn’t been miraculously broadcast to every homicidal maniac that we’ve been in and made a statement. They know in there that the owner is involved. He has to be involved. Why else would he lie about the window?’

‘Bruce … you haven’t told them everything about what happened. It might be the one thing that makes the difference.’

My husband shook his head. He wouldn’t hold my gaze.

‘The police are at the gallery now. After we’d gotten away you mentioned another room. You said something about the “first room”. Do you remember another room? If they can find a secret room … You have to tell them.’

I knew what a tall order this was. The police didn’t believe there was a body, or an attacker in the first place, and I was asking my husband to go back in there and tell them the nonexistent attacker had sexually assaulted him in a secret room. What if an examination revealed nothing – would the police then imply he’d imagined sexual assault as well?

‘I’d feel like I was digging my own grave if I went back in there. It’s obvious they’re more interested in protecting the owner.’

A car travelled past and stirred up the leaves scattered on the road. Further down the street a man started up a leaf blower and began clearing his driveway of dry leaves. The sound of the noisy two-stroke motor travelled to us. I watched the man – one part of my mind recognising the normal task while another part of my mind seemed transfixed by the activity. My perception of things was warped. I looked around. Even the parked cars in the street seemed somehow not quite right.

‘Are we going to tell the children the truth now?’ I said. ‘Is telling them the right thing to do?’

‘If they don’t have to know …’ Bruce said. ‘I’m not sure. Would we be telling them to make us feel better, because we don’t want to lie? They’re not going to feel better. It would be different if it was being investigated and some sort of justice was likely, but this …’ he motioned to the street, the idyllic nature of it, to the man blowing leaves from the gutter. ‘I don’t know what this is or what it means? Do those cops expect us to go back home and forget it?’

‘We could tell the children some of it,’ I suggested. ‘We could say a man detained us and …’ As I thought about what to keep and how to word it, I saw what a flawed idea it was. Lie about how we got away? At the heart of my suggestion, I was meaning we could leave out the sexual assault. But was Bruce as conflicted about Reuben’s death? Did he want his children to know he’d killed a man?

‘Telling them some and not all only sets it up to be more confusing,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s right we tell them. I mean …’
he screwed up his face in frustration, ‘I can’t even tell them everything will be all right, because those fucking police make me believe it won’t be.’

‘What about other people? If we’re not going to tell the children, are we going to tell my mother? What about your parents? What about your brothers, Bruce? Could they somehow help?’

‘No,’ he said with bitterness. He leaned heavily against the door. After a moment his expression grew more reasonable. ‘Down the track maybe … I don’t know. I don’t want to get them involved in this …’

‘Maybe the police release us to see what we do?’

Another car travelled past, a low-slung V8 with two young men in the front. The driver deliberately revved the motor in defiance and disrespect to the police as he passed the station. The window was wound down and I heard the two men laugh.

‘We’ll wait,’ Bruce said, opening up the driver’s side door. ‘The police will contact us. They’ll follow it up. They have to. Telling other people only sets things up for more trouble. And I don’t know if I can deal with sympathy or offers of help right now anyway.’

He was referring to my mother. He climbed into the car.

When I’d settled in the passenger seat and closed my door, he said, ‘When and if we do tell people, Trudy, you know I don’t want you telling anyone about all of it. I don’t just mean my parents or my brothers. I mean no one. Not even your mother.’ He started the engine.

11

The eight townhouses at our Cove Street development were toffee-coloured, with steeply pitched roofs, and cream-coloured windows and balconies. There were four on each side of the large double block, facing one another across a shared garden space. As soon as the interiors were finished – flooring, paint and drapes – a high front fence would be erected and tall timber gates put in, making the homes an exclusive, gated community. Missed calls and messages regarding them were banked up on Bruce’s phone. Tradesmen and council officials had begun to ring me in search of him. The plumber, in desperation, had rung the house. Bruce had answered.

‘We double-checked that,’ he said. ‘It’s the required fall.’ He was out of the shower, wearing a long robe and slippers. His hair was damp. The skin on his face was tight and glossy. Only a day had passed since we’d been to the police station – they hadn’t called – and it seemed a cruel amount of time in which to readjust and return to everyday living. There was a sense, though, that the world did expect that of us. We weren’t going to be treated gently.

‘Is Nico there? Can he sort it out?’ Bruce lifted his work satchel onto the window seat and began going through it one-handed. ‘That can’t be right … What degree of fall are we talking?’ He found the Cove Street plans and walked to the bed with them, opening out the drawings. ‘Where did they dig the hole?’ Bruce leaned closer over the plans. His gaze darted over the drawings as he listened, but not with the intensity it usually would. He closed his eyes, as though to summon and draw in his energy, focus on the task at hand. ‘Out of the question,’ he said. ‘We’re not cutting through four slabs to sink a pipe half a foot deeper. What’s the guy’s name? Why isn’t it the original inspector?’

I could hear the plumber talking, although the only words I was able to decipher were the four-letter ones.

‘All right, I’ll be there in an hour.’

I began putting his work clothes out on the bed: a long-sleeved shirt so that not too much of his skin would be showing, heavy steel-capped boots, and I fossicked out the watch the children had given him for his fortieth, five years ago, and put it on his bedside table. I took away the newer watch, the one he’d had on … that day.

‘Yeah, I’ve been stuck doing some other things,’ he was saying.

I could hear the children arguing in the kitchen. I left Bruce and went to mediate. Summer had made the school lunches. The three lunchboxes were in a neat line on the bench. Not a cheese and Vegemite sandwich in sight. Two of the lunchbox lids were open and Renee was standing over the elaborate mix of baked slices, salsa-filled jacketed potatoes, corn on the cob and three-tiered sandwiches. She was red-faced, drink bottle in hand, hair frizzy and flyaway from being outside in the drizzly conditions with the horses. Summer was explaining why Renee’s lunch was the low-fat, smaller version of Steven’s.

‘Mum, look what she’s done!’

Catering specifically for each sibling’s needs was part of Summer’s loving nature, but Renee didn’t see it that way. She reached to open Summer’s lunchbox, and Summer grabbed it from the bench. My younger daughter’s metabolism, as with her blonde hair, was a throwback to some unknown distant relative, a gene donor blessed with an effortless ability to burn calories. Summer’s lunch was probably twice the size and excitement of Renee’s.

‘Give it to me!’ Renee snapped.

Steven was laughing. ‘Inspired way to tell you you’re fat.’

‘Mum!’

‘Steven, be quiet.’

‘Let me see your lunch, bitch!’

‘Renee, that’s enough.’

‘Give it to me!’

The girls began wrestling over Summer’s lunchbox.

‘Oh look, I got a piece of lemon slice,’ Steven said. ‘Thanks, little sis.’

‘Go away,’ I said.

‘And full-fat mayo on my chicken sandwich …’

Renee kicked in Steven’s direction.

‘Excellent,’ he encouraged, ‘some more exercise like that and you can have some lemon slice too.’

‘I’ll kill you,’ Renee spat.

‘By squashing me to death?’

I put myself between my two eldest children.

Summer escaped to the far side of the kitchen table. Renee gave up on her siblings, picked up the lunchbox and turned it upside down over the bin. ‘I’m not eating anything you make,’ she sneered at Summer. ‘Dad!’ she hollered.

‘Leave your father.’

‘Dad!’

‘He’s on the phone.’

Renee stormed off down the hallway. I followed. When I saw our bedroom door was shut, I ran. ‘Don’t go in there!’

Renee got there before me and swung the door wide open.

Bruce had heard us coming. He held the robe in front of him, partly covering his bare chest, backing up, halfway to the walk-in robe. He paused, not wanting to flee from his daughter. His work pants were on, buttoned, zipped up, but more than enough of his skin was showing for Renee to be instantly reminded of what had happened. She stopped short, gasped. As well as the ligature marks, scratches and grazing, there was a wide band of bruising across Bruce’s upper chest, a distinct and disturbing line. It hadn’t come about from anything that had happened to him while I had been in the workshop. Renee stumbled back into me, repelled by the sight of her father, the violence stamped into him like that, branded into him. I saw that she realised what Summer had – that we had lied about the true nature of the attack. Bruce couldn’t turn his back to hide his chest, because there was bruising at the base of his neck, the darkest purple in colour, aging slowly into black and green, and scratch marks down his back.

‘Sorry,’ Renee breathed. ‘I just wanted lunch money.’

‘My wallet is there,’ Bruce said quietly. He nodded towards the bedside table.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Renee murmured.

I’d already seen my husband’s bruises. After coming home from the police station he’d let me take photographs of his torso, face, arms, hands and ankles. This time I wasn’t shocked to see the extent of his injuries; I was ashamed. It was like I was somehow to blame – not for inflicting them, but at fault for letting my husband keep them secret. His refusal to acknowledge all of what had happened to him – too shamed even to show the bruising to the police, when it could have verified our story – should have been a neon light alerting me to the wrong turn we’d taken. He needed encouragement to open up, not a wife fleeing the scene, burning the clothes and staying quiet during the police interview, agreeing not to tell, as though there was something to be ashamed of.

Renee’s eyes locked on mine as she passed. You didn’t tell us that.

Bruce was motionless, waiting for me to leave as well. Dazed, I closed the door and left to join the children.

‘Do you need me to come to Cove Street after I drop the kids at school?’ I asked when Bruce came out of the bedroom. His satchel was in one hand, his phone in the other. When dressed, the only outward sign that he’d been through anything more than a brawl with a stranger was the vague yet edgy look in his eyes.

‘I don’t know what’s going on over there. Someone’s whinged to council and there’s been some kind of audit on the whole project. They’re saying our stormwater isn’t up to scratch.’

‘Can’t Nico deal with it?’

‘A man from the council turned up, out of the blue. They’ve dug a bloody trench. Since the environmental and water initiative thing, the council are over the top about anything to do with run-off. I don’t like the sound of it.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Drag out all the drawings and specs at the office. Bring them home. We won’t get certificates of occupancy until it’s worked out.’

‘Don’t worry. There’s always something like this.’

‘Not like this. Not if we have to replace the pipe they’re talking about.’

‘We’ve got that spare twenty grand up our sleeve, don’t forget.’

‘It’ll cost more than that to fix. I’d better get going. The guy is there now. I want to catch him before he leaves.’

‘What about breakfast?’

‘I’ll buy something on the way.’

I doubted that he would.

He took the four-wheel drive. Standing at the dining room window, I watched him leave. Summer was behind me, in the kitchen, remaking Renee’s lunch, a no-holds-barred, full-fat version.

Volumes of Cove Street paperwork – permits, plans, drawings, contracts, proposals, copies of council applications – took up two drawers of the office filing cabinet. I put the documents in piles on the table, pushing aside the swatches of material and moving a colour storyboard to the couch. I went through the piles looking for relevant information. Outside was overcast. The street was grey and subdued. The door was open. I gave up trying to concentrate and went and sat at the desk, staring at the computer screen, staring through it.

Eventually I typed artist sculptor great ocean road into the Google search bar. I hit enter. The links didn’t register with me, though. I stared through the screen, not focusing. I typed glass artist reuben. Again, I didn’t concentrate on the links. I typed in a few more variations on this theme – artist Wensley, glass reuben great ocean road, wood glass artist. My heart wasn’t in any of these searches. Perhaps I hoped the act of pressing the keys, typing out the words, would be cathartic. If I were truthful, though, this wasn’t the information I was seeking. I felt a sick feeling rise inside me, swallowed it and forced it down. The phone rang and caused me to refocus. I stared at the phone, didn’t answer it.

In the Google search bar I typed male sexual assault.

They were hard words to bring into the light. I felt like I was cheating on Bruce, trying to illuminate the thing he most wanted to remain in the dark.

I looked with glassy unfocused eyes at the links on screen. To click on any one of the websites would cement this feeling of deceiving my husband, delving into what he’d as good as asked me not to delve into. My head was swimming. There was a common thread to the words beneath each website heading. It was all about the problem of silence; of not speaking out, not coming forward, not reporting, not talking. But because I hadn’t typed in victims of violence or assault advice or coping with trauma, or anything relating to me or to the attack in general, I couldn’t bring myself to read any further. Was I right to research his hurt behind his back? If Bruce walked through the office door that moment, I knew I would quickly minimise the computer window. That alone told me I was not equipped to help him, not beyond standing beside him and loving him. He was still a man – whatever had happened had not taken that – and certainly capable of his own internet searches on the subject.

I closed the internet browser altogether. After a moment of further thought, I took the local telephone directory from the drawer and looked up Bruce’s parents’ number. For a few seconds I dragged the tip of a lead pencil back and forth beneath their number on the page. My contacts list had been lost along with my damaged phone. Truth was, though, I don’t think Rex and Joan’s details had been listed in my old phone. They lived in Delaney, not that far from the office. If Bruce ever needed anything, he tended to drop in and see them. And there never seemed a reason for me to contact them.

His mother answered.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Hi, Joan, it’s Trudy.’

There was a pause. Then a monotone, ‘Hi.’

My gaze fixed on the doorway. A guilty flush of heat swept over me. ‘A bit out of the blue,’ I said.

‘Hmm.’

In the background I heard Rex Harrison ask ‘Who’s that?’ as though all calls to their house were viewed as intrusive.

Joan didn’t answer him, maybe made a gesture or pulled a face.

I said, ‘My phone was damaged and I’ve lost my contact details. You haven’t got Todd and …’ for a terrible moment I forgot Bruce’s middle brother’s name, ‘… Kim’s number, have you?’

‘Well, yeah,’ she said.

‘Where are they at the moment?’

‘Todd’s in Kosovo and Kim’s in Yugoslavia.’ Her tone was priggish as she stated their foreign postings. ‘Not real easy to give ’em a call. How is Bruce?’ she said, as though he was standing behind me, like Rex was standing behind her.

‘Sorry, Joan, someone’s walked in the office; I better go. I’ll talk to you soon.’

‘Yep.’

I hung up.

My husband was also perfectly capable of tracking down his brothers. I could understand, too, why there was a strong chance he wouldn’t.

I saw that I had an email from the new tenant, Finn. I opened it.

That night, Bruce spread out the Cove Street paperwork on the study floor. He had dirt under his fingernails and muddy patches on the knees of his pants. ‘I can’t think who would have stitched us up …’

‘What was the complaint?’

‘The council are saying there wasn’t one; it’s a new initiative where they do random site checks. I don’t think so. None of the men have heard of it before. They said heavies turned up a couple of days ago, Tuesday, and went over the whole site with a fine-tooth comb, nitpicking. This was all they could find.’

‘Is the gradient right?’

‘So damn close. We’re talking ridiculously fine detail.’

Bruce pulled the building plans closer to him. He put his finger on townhouse four, ran a line through the three townhouses joining it, down to the townhouse at the front of the block, nearest to the front boundary. ‘We’re going to have to cut a channel in the slab, to get to the pipe. Some internal walls will have to come out and be replaced. We should be able to get around this bathroom, though.’ He tapped his finger on the first townhouse’s ground-floor bathroom. ‘But the paving that’s been laid out the front here will have to come up.’

‘Isn’t it the plumber’s fault? Shouldn’t they be paying to fix it?’

‘He’s going to do the re-plumbing for free, but we can’t expect him to pay for the rest. It’s as much to do with site elevation, proper earthworks in the beginning. He isn’t totally to blame.’ Uncomfortable with crouching, Bruce moved to kneel. ‘I should be able to make it up, though. I’ll do whatever jobs I can myself. Instead of getting the landscaper and gardener – I’ll do that. I’ll do the front fence, redo the paving myself.’

‘Can you, though? Should you be doing all that? How did you go today?’

He shrugged, unfolded a bent edge of the plans.

‘You’ll have to see a doctor, won’t you? Even just to get tests done?’

‘I will if you want me to.’

‘Not for me – for you, for your peace of mind.’

‘If I say I don’t want to go to a doctor and I don’t think I need to get tests done – is that enough, is that okay?’

‘I trust your judgement. Of course I do.’

Bruce spun the plans on the carpet to look closer at a specific measurement.

‘Perhaps we could go to VCAT and fight this?’ I said after a moment.

‘We can’t go and fight something out at VCAT, not right now.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘we can’t.’

12

Bruce went each day to Cove Street. I went each day to the office. When not at work I washed and pegged out clothes, mopped the floors, vacuumed, fed the cats, ironed clothes, tidied up after the children, cleaned the bathrooms – I didn’t stop. I wanted the octopus tentacles to be still. I wanted Reuben to sink to the bottom of the ocean.

Monday came – one week since it had happened – and Finn arrived at the office to pick up the keys for Tyler Street. He wiped his feet on the mat.

‘Hi, Trudy. Do you want me to close the door?’

It was a rainy day. Soggy poplar leaves were stuck to the bottom of the window. The breeze through the door was wet and brisk.

‘No thanks.’

‘There’s my car,’ Finn said, and he pointed to the tan-coloured Jag parked outside. ‘Yep, there she is,’ he repeated, gazing at it. Today he had on a chef’s uniform – black pants and a black tunic. His shoes were scuffed. His hair had gone wiry in the rain. ‘Do you like Jags?’

I looked at the car for a long minute. I had the house keys ready in an envelope. I put the envelope out for him to take. ‘Jags are good.’

‘Good.’ He laughed softly, and sat down, as though he was going to stay.

‘That’s all you need,’ I told him. ‘It’s all done.’

‘Won’t you come with me?’

‘I don’t really need to. They’ve left the place clean and tidy. I did a condition report yesterday; everything is in order. You’re right to go.’

‘I thought you’d come.’

I shook my head.

He looked sulky.

In the days leading up to the handover of the keys, Finn had been in to the office every day for one reason or another. My email inbox was full of messages from him, and his goofy hello kept bursting forth on the message bank. I think he’d latched onto me as his ‘friend in Delaney’. He certainly chatted as though we were close.

‘You look nice today.’

I looked down at what I had on – a narrow skirt, a plain shirt, a black jacket. I was in no mood for floral dresses. I had tried dressing the way I used to, but anything pastel and soft made me feel see-through and exposed. I wore heels because it felt right to be taller. I wore jewellery – Bruce’s gifts to me – around my neck and on my wrists and fingers, to ward off the dark spirits. I wore heavy make-up to conceal my uncertainty. My morning ritual was akin to pulling on armour. I knew what I was doing, and why. For now, as we struggled to come to terms with what had happened, we needed shields.

In my hand was a pen. I was tapping the end of it on a notepad, like a metronome set to a fast beat. The pen seemed to rise and fall in time with my thinking. Finn watched me. I got the impression he wanted to reach across and still the pen.

My mother walked into the office. She was windblown and damp from the rain. She wiped her feet on the mat and lifted her hand to tell me she could see I was busy and she wouldn’t interrupt.

She went over to the sofa. Her body was thin and bent. Her hands were crippled with arthritis. When Finn looked at her, she smiled at him.

‘Hello there. Don’t worry, I’m family. I can wait,’ she quipped kindly in my direction.

She looked at me and her gaze lingered. My avoidance of her since the holiday was its own telling factor. Sure, I felt better equipped now to hold her gaze, and my eyes were no longer swollen, my nails were trimmed, my bruises had faded, but seven days without a word was now cause alone for some alarm. The question entered into her eyes – What’s wrong? Finn sensed something passing between us. He picked up the envelope containing the house keys.

‘I’m so excited,’ he said. ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you.’ (He’d already sent me a long email saying how excited and grateful he was.) He got to his feet. ‘Will you come and visit me, when I’m all set up?’

‘Well, I don’t usually.’

‘I’ll have to have some disaster,’ he said and then smiled at my mother, including her in the conversation. ‘I’ll flood the laundry or something so I’m guaranteed a visit … Just joking.’ he said. He paused at the door and glanced again at my mother. He wanted an introduction.

I could see how Finn might smooth the way into my first conversation with my mother. ‘Mum,’ I said, ‘this is Finn. He’s a new tenant at Tyler Street. Finn, this is my mum, Elaine.’

‘Nice to meet you, Elaine.’

‘Judging by that uniform, you must work at the Four Seasons,’ my mother said. ‘I like their duck.’

‘I’m still trying to master it.’

While they spoke I formulated in my mind what I’d say to my mother. I wouldn’t lie; I didn’t want to, I doubted that I could even if I’d wanted to. I’d tell her the story we had told the police. Bruce’s edited version. It wasn’t untrue; it was amended. The office, perhaps, was the right place for it – her house might slip me into a childlike state that would be far too taxing to pull back out of.

‘The new restaurant there is very good,’ Mum was saying.

‘Thank you. I’ll close this,’ Finn said, reaching for the door handle, ‘it’s cold in here. I’ll see you later, Trudy, thanks again.’ He began to pull the door shut.

‘No!’ My voice shot out from my body. ‘Don’t shut the door!’

Finn opened it, cautiously.

The air in the office had begun flowing out the narrowing gap. Hadn’t they felt that? I took a deep breath. My airways were constricting. And now it was going to take a few moments for the office to refill with fresh air. My mother was watching me. Her concern had been replaced with something more urgent. Her brow drew in. I got up. ‘I’m really sorry, Mum, I have to go to the townhouse with Finn. The heating system is complicated, and the pilot light can be tricky to ignite. Did you catch a taxi into town? Do you need a lift home? I can drop you on the way.’

With Finn standing in the doorway she was unable to say what she wanted. Her head shook in frustration. ‘I thought we could have lunch together,’ she said with meaning. ‘When will you be back?’

I gathered up my things. ‘If I’m out I should keep going.’ I checked my watch. ‘I have to get to Cove Street. There’s been a hold up with the building there.’ I loosened the collar around my neck. ‘I know I haven’t thanked you properly for having the kids while we were away. We’ve been so busy.’

My mother used her elbow to lever herself up from the seat. ‘I have an appointment just before lunch.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘I’ll catch a taxi home later. It’s all right.’

‘It’s been a madhouse catching up on everything. Cove Street is causing some headaches. I’ll visit tomorrow, or maybe the day after that. I’ll ring you.’

We hugged. It reminded me of the way Bruce embraced his parents – with efficiency. A clean squeeze of my arms around my mother’s shoulders and a fast release, a step back, a closed-mouth smile. Unlike Bruce’s parents, though, my mother didn’t deserve such treatment. If I’d disappointed my mum by marrying a local boy and not choosing a career in keeping with family tradition, she masked it well. I saw the hurt my military-type affection caused her. She stood there, taken aback, before patting her windblown hair back into shape and heading for the door.

‘I love you, Trudy,’ she reminded me.

I followed Finn to Tyler Street in my car, parking by the kerb. Finn drove into the garage and walked from beneath the roller door, smiling. He pressed the button on the remote and watched the roller door close. Some junk mail had blown out of the letterbox and was on the concrete path. I bent down and peeled it off.

‘Here,’ he said, and took the wet leaflet from me. ‘Come inside, you’re getting wet.’

The previous tenants had been thoughtful enough to leave a doormat. I wiped my feet on it, checked around me. The doors leading to the bedrooms were open. The hall was short and led to a large open area.

‘Should I have a shoes-off rule?’ Finn said. ‘I guess it’s tiled through to the kitchen, we should be right.’ He stepped to one side and gestured for me to go in before him.

‘It’s your first time as a leaseholder, you go first.’

‘Okay, but only this once, Ms Harrison,’ he said with teasing familiarity.

‘Where’s Bridget?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to be here for the handover?’

He shook his head and went on. ‘She had something on today,’ he said.

I twisted the front door handle to check the door was unlocked. Sweat had sprung up beneath the rain on my face. The interior of the house was dim, clean, unfurnished. It smelt of carpet deodoriser and bleach. Finn appeared at the end of the passageway to see what was holding me up.

‘I’ll leave the front door open,’ I said.

‘That’s fine. Thank you for the flowers. You didn’t have to do that.’

In the kitchen, on the bench, was a bunch of lilies in a vase. I’d put them there the day before. I’d also left a handwritten note of welcome. Yesterday, looking through the house, I’d not felt this disorientation. The walls were closing in. The ceiling was pressing down. Was it because I was inside a confined space with a strange man? Was this how it would be for me from now on, believing every male could turn violent and sadistic, given the right environment?

Finn went across and opened the back patio sliding door. He did it without me having to ask. He pulled back the vertical blinds and pushed the door as wide as it could go. The cold wind blew in. His head was lowered, and he snuck a look across at me.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

The pilot light lit easily. The heating system was self-explanatory.

Finn was in the kitchen crouched in front of the oven.

‘I’ll head off,’ I said. ‘Good luck with everything.’

He opened his mouth to say something, but then changed his mind and smiled instead.

Outside the rain was being blown sideways with the wind. I ran to the car. I pulled the door shut, and sat in silence, breathing.

Weather lashed the car.

Inside was warm and padded.

My skin was covered in goosebumps. The interior of the car felt secure; everything was yielding. If I pushed the dash, it seemed to give a little. The steering wheel had inlaid leather grips, and when I pushed my fingernails into them, small half-circles showed. The roof interior was finished in the same soft trim that was around the door handles, and if I pushed the heel of my hand against it, I made a dent.

Tears pricked my eyes.

I didn’t know how to face my mother. I didn’t know what to say. All I knew was that the thing inside me would slip, smash, and everything would show. She would shatter my composure. It had to be all or nothing – a solid and complete wall – or else a torrent of water would sweep me off my feet. It wasn’t like I even had a choice. I couldn’t tell her.

I must have sat in the car for some time like that – patching up the cracks that seeing my mother had caused in me, breathing, touching the interior of the car, checking the compliant nature of things – because when I came to my senses the car windows were fogged. I started the engine and put on the air conditioner to clear the windscreen. Finn’s garage door was open and Finn was leaning against his car, watching me. It looked as though he’d been there for a while.

I wound down my window, sniffed and wiped my nose.

‘Sorry!’ I called, and shrugged. ‘Losing my mind.’

When I arrived at Cove Street, Bruce walked up to me. He took me by the arm and turned me around, leading me away from the townhouses, out of sight of the group of tradesmen standing on the nature strip. They were milling around a pile of soggy cement sheeting.

‘Something occurred to me,’ Bruce said. He waved his phone at me. ‘And I know I’m right.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I was thinking about how this audit happened just after we leave behind our business card. That’s quite a coincidence – that it’s our card and then it’s our business that gets this sudden hit. And do you remember that conversation about the glass flooring and that comment about knowing people in local government, something like that?’

I did remember it. A muted memory, one I deliberately dimmed. I nodded vaguely.

‘Well …’ Bruce squeezed his phone, as though he felt affection for it. His demeanour had an almost excited element to it; a vast change from the subdued man I’d woken to that morning. ‘The owner of the cliff house has got connections to council. I just found out his name. He has links with local government.’

The change in him made it hard to process what Bruce was saying. I had come expecting something very different. ‘You found out his name? How?’

‘I rang up the biggest crane hire group, asked if they remembered doing a job on the Great Ocean Road near Wensley. And bingo, they did.’ Bruce’s coat was dark with rain on the shoulders. The hood was hanging down his back. A gust of wind blew through and the tree above us released a shower of heavy droplets. ‘I said I’d lost his details – I’d spoken to the owner about the construction and he’d told me what crane company he’d used. I bullshitted. I said we had a job coming up and we needed cranes. The man remembered it. He looked it up on the computer and had it all there. He gave me the owner’s number. Let’s not talk about it here. I’ll follow you home.’

‘Did you tell the crane company your name?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if they tell the owner you were asking around?’

‘Who cares? Let him know – I’ll be pleased if he knows. Don’t you see? It’s the owner who put a call through to council – to have us shut down, to cause us trouble.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Guy Grant.’

I let the name sink into me. It settled uncomfortably, as though it had not yet found its place. ‘What makes you think he did that?’

‘He runs some charity thing in Melbourne, has council links. The crane mob said he’s originally from America, but has heaps of business ties here. We’ll see what we can find online about him. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

I saw the tradesmen glancing across at us. A truck carrying a rubbish skip came down the road. As a result of the pipe we had to replace, the development looked like a bomb had hit it. There were rolled-up sections of turf, lengths of piping, sheets of reo, deep tracks from earth-moving vehicles in the mud, and tradesmen’s utes parked like scattered playing cards amongst it all. The truck put down the empty skip. The men started picking up the wet cement sheeting and throwing it in. A couple of the crew waved hello to me. I waved back.

‘I should have a look at what’s been done while I’m here.’

‘It’s under control,’ Bruce said. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve got to find out more about Guy Grant. This is what I was trying to get the police to understand. A man with influence is dangerous to us, in so many ways.’

‘But the council said no one put in a complaint.’

‘They’re bloody lying. I know it, Trudy, I can feel it – the owner moved the body, he knows who we are, and he’s doing this. He’s watching us.’

13

Guy Grant was in his late fifties. He had dark hair and pale skin. He was a short, unimpressive-looking man. His features emerged blandly from his small head. He had an American accent and spoke in hesitant, disjointed bursts (we watched video footage of him being interviewed on Lateline). In one short clip he was rubbing his eyes behind his glasses (he sometimes wore a pair of glasses with light, steel frames). It was an unguarded moment. He’d either forgotten where he was or thought that the cameras weren’t on him. When he glanced up, his gaze was cold and hollow. Bruce played the clip over and over.

Amongst other things, Guy Grant had established a charitable foundation called WithArt. He owned studios throughout the city and stocked them with free art supplies, for the underprivileged and homeless to use. The principle was that self-worth and a positive outlook could be restored through art. Exhibitions of the artists’ work were gala yearly events. Guy had started the charity in his thirties (his wealth was considerable, into the hundreds of millions, from what we read) but it wasn’t familiar to me. Despite the obvious art link, we found no references to Reuben in anything we read.

‘I have to go and pick up the children from school,’ I said.

‘We’ll ring them and get them to catch the bus to your mother’s.’ Bruce leaned close to the screen. He clicked on an image and tried to enlarge it.

‘We can’t send the kids around there; I put off talking to her today.’

‘What do you mean?’ Bruce said, without looking up.

‘I was going to tell her today, but I couldn’t.’

He glanced sideways at me. ‘We agreed not to tell anyone. What were you going to tell her?’

‘We said we’d wait.’

‘I don’t think we should tell anyone at all,’ he said, while scrolling through information on the screen.

His demeanour, focused on the computer while we were having such a conversation, struck me as too much to deal with. I had to walk away from it. I got up and went into the bedroom. I shook my head.

‘Trudy?’

‘So we’re not telling anyone?’ I called. ‘We made that decision, did we?’

I heard him get up. He came and stood in the doorway. He held out his arms. I went to him and let him hold me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said against my hair. ‘I’m sorry if having this man’s name and information makes it harder. I should have realised it would upset you.’

‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to do.’

‘I’ve got to look into it.’

‘He might not be involved.’

‘He is.’

‘I don’t think if he’d gotten rid of the body he would risk ringing around and causing trouble; he would have assumed we’d gone straight to the police. Maybe the only reason he lied about the crack in the window, or even moved the body, was to prevent bad publicity. Maybe he wants it all to go away. He might not have even known Reuben. You said yourself you didn’t think Reuben had built the place or was the creative one. What if Reuben was just a squatter?’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘What if he was some homeless person who’d been to this charity and knew the house was empty, and Guy Grant could see how an attack and a death would affect the charity and its reputation, so he covered it up?’

‘Reuben was the architect, Trudy. What I sensed was that he was lying about who he was in a different aspect – the sort of person he was.’ A tone, detached and empty, appeared when Bruce said this.

‘You think Reuben was telling the truth when he said that he built the place?’

‘Yes. At the time, I knew something about him wasn’t right, and I assumed it was about the house. But when he was explaining how it was built, he knew what he was talking about. He was educated, more educated than that man.’ Bruce pointed into the study, towards the desk and computer.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I need to know that everything we do from now on isn’t going to be undermined. I need to know if this man moved the body, because if he did, if he knew Reuben, and knew the sort of man he was, and he covered it up – that makes him dangerous. I don’t think I’m being unrealistic about this. You were in that foyer, you heard what Reuben said about exactly this sort of thing – it’s who you know, it’s bending the rules.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question. What are you going to do?’

‘We’re dealing with murderers, Trudy. We can’t assume everything is going to be all right.’

I disentangled myself from him. ‘What makes you think chasing after them is going to make us any safer?’

‘Are you going to get the kids?’ he said as I went to leave.

‘And I have to see my mum,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say to her … Are we really not going to tell anyone, Bruce?’

‘If I can work out what happened, and prove it was real, maybe then … I can’t stand the ridicule of people not believing us again, Trudy. I won’t handle it.’

Mum’s house had become too big for her. She couldn’t bring herself to leave her kitchen behind, though. The oven was industrial-sized and the cooktop had six burners. There was space for a full fridge and freezer. Her dishwasher was state-of-the-art, and her old-style sink wasn’t manufactured any more and couldn’t be replaced. And then, I guess, there were all the memories of me growing up and Dad before the cancer. Bruce and I had suggested we’d dismantle the kitchen and she could take it with her; we would put in a cheap kitchen in its place and sell the house with the new one installed. She couldn’t afford this extra cost, though, and she refused to take any money from us.

I stopped by her house after picking up the children. Summer was with me. I’d dropped Steven and Renee down the street to hang out with their friends at McDonald’s.

Summer went straight through into the house, looking for her grandmother.

‘Gran,’ she called, ‘where are you?’

My mother was in the laundry. Washing her smalls in a tub of soapy water. Her underwear was small: plain cotton briefs and bras. She wouldn’t be caught dead in nanna knickers.

‘Ahh,’ she said, ‘my young apprentice.’

Summer clicked her fingers and did a little dance. She sang the words to a popular song – something about the party getting starting now that she’d arrived.

My mother looked past Summer at me.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, contrite.

She smiled, small and warm.

My kiss on her cheek was a little too precise, though.

Summer had taken pictures on her phone of all the food she’d been cooking at home. While my mother dried her hands, Summer held the phone in front of her face and went through them.

‘Yes, good,’ my mother said. ‘Did you make the pizza dough yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘What temperature was the oven at?’

‘The right temperature.’

‘Attitude already … I like it.’

I left them and went into the kitchen.

My mother had those tap fittings you see in disabled bathrooms, the long bunny-ears type you push sideways to use. This was the only concession she had made to her arthritis. I filled the kettle and put it on. Bringing Summer was my way of trying to keep the conversation light. They came into the kitchen talking to one another. My daughter was a bundle of energy, leaping up and down on the spot. She was telling Mum about the type of restaurant she wanted, and the menu she would have.

‘Good,’ my mother said, ‘eye the prize. Project yourself well past all the training. Put yourself in that restaurant, in the kitchen, buy the implements in your head – you can never dream too much. If some sucker says you should come back down to earth, you tell them if they’re so keen on staying grounded they should get busy digging their own grave.’

‘My teacher already tried to bring me down. I told her I wanted to have my own restaurant, and she said I should concentrate on getting an apprenticeship first.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. I feel like going to the school and slapping her.’

‘I don’t remember you slapping any teachers when I was at school,’ I said.

‘It’s a food thing, Mum,’ Summer explained. ‘All school does is teach cooking as measurements, the five food groups, charts and washing up. They don’t get what cooking is about. The teachers never even taste the food we cook. They have no love for it.’

‘They’ve lost all sense of it – they probably never had it in the first place.’

‘Do you want tea or coffee, Mum?’ I said.

‘I can’t decide. Tea, I guess.’

While pouring the water I noticed some wet towels caught in the rain out on the line. I finished making the cup of tea and went out the back to collect the washing. In the laundry, I put the towels in the machine to spin the excess water out of them. I stood and waited. Mum came in.

‘I can’t stay long,’ I told her. ‘I’ve dropped Steven and Renee down the street.’ I leaned down and checked that the drier was empty. ‘Is there anything else you need me to do? Should Summer chop some vegies for you? I could quickly change your bed?’

‘Trudy, darling, I know about the attack.’

My back was turned to her. I stayed that way, frozen. The last stages of the spin cycle began. The washing machine began to whirr. ‘Where’s Summer?’

‘She’s in the kitchen. I know you want to keep it quiet. I understand it’s really shaken you.’

Her tone was too relaxed. ‘How do you know? Who told you?’

‘Bruce rang just before. He said you haven’t been coping very well. He’s worried. But perhaps talking is all you need? I imagine it must have been a real shock. It’s good they didn’t get your purse, though.’

The washing machine began to rock on its legs. The towels inside banged about. I lifted the lid. The spinning slowed. I stared down at the rotating drum, lost for words, unsure what to think.

‘He said it was a bit touch and go there for a while. But there wasn’t much the police could do.’

‘He told you we went to the police?’ I turned and leaned around her to check for Summer in the hallway. ‘What did he say?’

‘Don’t be angry with him, darling. He said you might get upset that he’d rung. I think it’s nice he called. He’s worried about you. And it’s probably good for him to talk and get it off his chest. He did mention to me he’s not going to tell his parents or his family.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I can imagine – what would his father say? Although Bruce told me the reason you didn’t want to say too much was that one of the muggers was pretty badly injured. He should tell his father and his brothers that,’ she said with a sniff and an arch of her eyebrow.

I pulled the towels out of the machine and put them in the drier. ‘How long do you want these in for?’

‘I’ve always believed anyway,’ she continued, ‘you know I have, that Bruce is the toughest out of that family. It certainly doesn’t surprise me that he beat the muggers off.’

‘Should an hour do it?’

‘Oh … an hour on warm. Trudy?’

I turned and faced her. She came forward and pressed the back of her fingers against my forehead. Her small hands were bent and cold. ‘You’re warm, darling. Your eyes don’t look right. Is it the mugging?’ she asked. ‘Or is it something else?’

‘Just … stressed.’

‘You should have your thyroid checked. Does your heart race sometimes?’

I felt my own forehead. ‘It’s been busy at work.’

‘We’ll set Summer up with something to do in the kitchen and we’ll go out to the patio and you can talk about what happened. It sounded pretty nasty.’

I turned my face away. She was looking at me closely, squinting with concern. My heart was racing, and it wasn’t from an overactive thyroid.

‘I told Steven and Renee I wouldn’t be too long. I really should get going. I’m fine, Mum; it’s normal stress with work. The mugging was … not that bad. Harder for Bruce. You don’t have to worry about me.’

That night, Bruce came to bed with the laptop. He put a pillow behind his back and balanced the computer on his knees. He’d been locked away in the office since I’d arrived home with the children. His dinner had gone cold on the bench and been put away in the fridge. A blustery wind rattled the window. I could hear the occasional whinny from the stables, the horses unsettled by the weather. The WithArt website was on the laptop screen. ‘Look at this,’ Bruce said, and turned the computer to me. He’d found a photograph of Guy Grant standing with a group of adolescents, all dressed in the same work shirts and pants, ready for a workshop or hands-on session of some sort. The clothes looked crisp and new, and matched those Reuben had been wearing. ‘Recognise the clothes?’ Bruce said.

‘Why did you ring my mother?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know why you did that.’

‘Look what I’m showing you.’

‘You didn’t trust me, did you?’

‘I thought it would help you,’ he replied, offhand.

‘Really? It seemed to me you wanted to make sure it was the mugging story I told her. I’m not angry with you; I think I’m frightened. We’re not acting right, Bruce. It’s unlike you to do that. You must have known by telling her it would take away any chance of me leaning on her.’

‘Of course I didn’t think that. Would you please look at this,’ he said. ‘This something pretty big I’ve found.’

I switched my gaze to the computer, fought my feelings of betrayal.

‘Guy Grant isn’t the brains of WithArt,’ Bruce said. ‘He’s the money. Look at him … as if he needs a lathe or a drill press or a gantry. He looks like he wouldn’t even know how to use a screwdriver. He might have paid for the cliff house, but it’s not his vision.’ Bruce looked up from the screen and straight into my face. ‘So who do you build a house for? Whose passions do you support and indulge?’

The detective-like nature of the question threw me off. No matter what we did or said it made us seem unstable. ‘Your partner,’ Bruce said, answering his own question. ‘The person you are with.’ He opened a page he’d saved to favourites. On screen was a newspaper article, dated two years earlier, with a photo of Guy Grant and the Melbourne lord mayor standing beside a freeway. In the background was a line of bright-orange sculptures, shaped to resemble huge potted trees. I knew those trees. I’d travelled past them many times. The article was about the lord mayor’s support of WithArt, an ongoing initiative to commission a piece of artwork annually.

‘Guy Grant is the face,’ Bruce said. ‘Reuben was the brains and the creativity. There’s nothing anywhere about Guy being married. No wife. No kids.’

‘Wouldn’t there be pictures of the two of them together if they were a couple?’

‘Not if they were in the closet.’

He brought the photo of the adolescents in matching work clothes back up on screen. ‘Look at these clothes …’

‘Maybe there was a set of clothes at the house, and Reuben put them on.’

‘Is that really all you think? You can’t see how obvious it is that this man is involved?’

‘I don’t know what I see. I don’t think you do either,’ I said, close to tears.

Bruce closed the computer and put it at the foot of the bed. ‘All right. You don’t like looking at it. I understand.’

‘Do you feel like it’s my fault, Bruce?’ I said. ‘Do you blame me? I was un-drugged, I was the rational one. I was the one making decisions. Do you think I made all the wrong ones? Are you angry at me?’

‘How could I be angry at you, Trudy? How could I blame you? You didn’t want to go in there in the first place. You sensed something wasn’t right. I ignored it. I keep thinking how many times you tried to tell me you weren’t feeling right about the place, how many chances we had to leave …’ The bitterness of his regret looked to have settled on his tongue: he grimaced.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.

‘I had a gut feeling too; I usually go with that.’

‘I would never dream of blaming you.’

Bruce returned the computer to his lap. He opened the photos we’d taken of our injuries when we’d come home from the Sunnyside police station. We’d put them in a password-protected file. They were unprofessional and clumsy images. I think he wanted us to look at them to remind us that what had happened couldn’t be blamed on either one of us. He angled the computer so I could see them too. Those strange hours were in his skin, deepening his lines and wrinkles. They were especially evident in his unsmiling mouth. Seeing the photos now, the unsettling feeling returned – every bruise, cut and laceration was steeped in violence. We looked at each image in silence. The pictures of me were nothing compared to Bruce’s. Mine had a try-hard element to them. The scrapes and knocks a G8 demonstrator might thrust in front of a news camera – look, I was treated roughly! The redness in my eyes was the only thing that came with a backstory of pain and fear. I was reminded, looking at them, of that moment when my phone was taken from my hands. Reuben had been standing there, looking down at me as I had groped the air and felt blindly around me. I wondered if he smiled while watching me, or whether he took his murdering more seriously than that.

‘Does it feel real to you?’ I said. ‘Sometimes it’s like my body knows but my mind isn’t sure it happened.’

Bruce went through each photo again, quicker this time, looking at the shot in its entirety, trying to get an outsider’s perspective.

‘It’s the things I did that remind me the most. I should have stopped before killing him.’ He looked sideways at me in the dark. ‘I got it for a second, you know? I wanted him dead, I wanted him destroyed, and I wanted to feel it happen, and do it, and to …’ He breathed out. Even in the gloom I could see he’d turned pale. ‘It was like I’d been given permission to act like that, but not by God or anything good.’

‘By nature?’

‘Then why does it feel so wrong?’

‘Nature isn’t necessarily good.’

I looked into my husband’s eyes and he let me. He put the computer aside and I moved closer. I didn’t hug him; it seemed like a demeaning thing to do. I sensed it was important I didn’t overprotect. I lay down and he lay beside me. A therapist would no doubt have something to say about our method, but we used sex as a way to broach the topic of the sexual assault.

It was experimental. I was reminded of the first time we’d made love after Steven had been born – Bruce had seen me go through a physical ordeal then, he’d been shocked by the pain I had endured, the length of it, the trauma to my body and my mind (I’d screamed bloody murder), and even though I assured him I’d recovered in no time at all, four weeks and I’d felt fine, seemingly unchanged, a part of him had doubted I would ever bounce back. I touched Bruce with that same trepidation now, and beneath my touch was the hope that sex would remain good between us. I was as curious and careful as Bruce had been back then. I’d seen clues, I could guess what Reuben had done. I doubted Bruce would bounce back, and I was surprised when I felt his full erection.

I suppose you could call my husband a sexual being. I’d always assumed everyone was a sexual being, in one way or another, but my girlfriend had informed me otherwise: her husband was asexual and could happily do without. Bruce couldn’t. He also used sex to show affection and to communicate. I never had to coax foreplay out of my husband. Those pages and pages in women’s magazines about how to bring romance into the bedroom were lost on me. In many ways, Bruce’s needs were more complex than mine. Without sex, he felt disconnected from me, but, also, and more importantly almost, disconnected in general. Whereas I knew I would function well enough without it. This time, though, it was a mutual feeling – I wanted to use sex as a way to understand and to communicate my feelings, my willingness to not shirk a difficult issue, to tell him I wasn’t shying away from what had happened to him. We didn’t kiss. We didn’t stroke or smile or rub or graze. Orgasms weren’t what we were after. We tried sex with one another.

It was too early, though, to be having sex, to be having this conversation.

I started crying. It wasn’t the sort of crying a woman should do in bed. Tears slid freely down past my ears and wet my neck. Bruce touching me caused fear and hurt. The intensity of the terrible thing that had happened welled up inside me and couldn’t be contained. The hurt was big, bigger than me. Bruce’s body moving against me rubbed raw against my mind. Repetitive motion rasped like a steel file inside my head. I told him to go slower. My breathing was jagged. It filled my ears and put me crawling on hands and knees up the spiral staircase. My open mouth tasted the still air of the garage. I blinked and my eyes burned. I moved my arm and the sound of the sheet against my elbow was Reuben’s shirt brushing against me.

‘You get on top,’ Bruce suggested.

I knew it wouldn’t work.

‘Stop,’ I said.

Bruce bowed his head and pressed his face into my shoulder. His body tensed and I felt his breath, warm with grief, against my skin. That day was so real then. I’d been right – our bodies did know, the memory lived inside our bones; using our bodies had released it into our bloodstream. Those hours surged into our brains. We could taste, smell, feel Reuben’s house. Reuben was in bed with us, he was vivid. His thoughts in our heads and his will to hurt us were tangible. He was in the light sheen of sweat covering our bodies. We would have to get up and wash him off.

Bruce and I tried kissing as a last-ditch measure. It was a nightmare. The moment our lips touched it was as though our pain combined and the grief grew beyond all comprehension. We pulled away, shamed by the concentrated nature of the connection, by what we’d seen and felt in one another. My husband had been hurt by that man, but, more than that, he’d been disgraced. Honour mattered to Bruce, and it was that above all else that had been held down and taken from him. I felt it in his lips – it was in the cautious touch of his tongue against mine, the fear of passing over what he wanted left unspoken.

He sensed my insight and the shame between us increased. I crawled to the end of the bed and used the doona to stifle my sobbing.

Bruce sat hunched on the side of the bed with his elbows on his knees.

‘We’re in such trouble, Trudy,’ he said, and it was unlike him to be such a defeatist. ‘We’re absolutely fucked.’

14

For days after that we were subdued and softly spoken with one another. Blinking in the glare, I think, of the spotlight our attempt at sex had shone on us. I felt hollow and Bruce’s gaze was empty. Going through the motions of work and parenting wasn’t difficult; it was like we drifted from one chore to the next. We woke each morning in the same positions we’d laid down in, the quilt unruffled over our bodies, yet having hardly slept – closing our eyes and powering down into the sort of sleep computers switch to when left alone, never truly switching off, and never properly recharging. We ate, enough to keep Summer distracted by what next to feed us. We talked, enough to blend in and deflect any close inspection. There were times I was fooled by my own ability to seem okay, and I’d have an odd moment of not knowing exactly where I was in terms of my headspace. Then I’d remember the attack, I’d recall the hesitation in my husband’s lips when we kissed, and my head would drain of thought. The children sometimes shouted near me, or bumped their solid and vibrant bodies up against me, and I would be jarred back to real life for a moment, shocked by how loud and how colourful reality was.

As though recognising we couldn’t stay like that, we met up one morning in the driveway. There was no breeze and the sun was shining. It was cold, though. The trees seemed reluctant to shed their leaves.

‘This is another thing in our life we have to get through,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s our war story. We have to think of it like that. It’s hard to see it now, but it’s going to make us stronger.’

‘It’s probably normal,’ I said in support. ‘All these things we’re experiencing. If we did see someone, they would probably say it’s normal with trauma. There’s no way around it. To eventually cope we have to go through all this.’

Bruce nodded.

‘But we will cope,’ I said.

The children were waiting in the car, ready to be taken to school. Steven hung his head out the window. ‘Mum, any chance of us leaving this year?’

Bruce and I left in our separate cars.

When I arrived at Cove Street Bruce took me by the hand. He was my shield, keeping the tradesmen from chatting too long with me, smiling for me, bringing me in close to his side and getting short-tempered with the painters when they arrived with their spray units. He demanded they pack them up and do what I’d asked – paint the replaced interior walls by hand, the old-fashioned way, with rollers and brushes, a quality job, no fine misty spray drifting over everything and barely coating the plasterboard. He sat on an upturned crate with me in the downstairs bedroom of townhouse number four. We looked down at the wide strip of dark-coloured cement, freshly poured, semi-dry, covering the newly laid pipe underground.

‘Will we try these townhouses on the market?’ he said. ‘Even though things are still a bit depressed it might be worth a try. I want to get rid of them, don’t you?’

He was talking business as an additional way to ground us.

‘This is too far from Delaney to manage easily,’ I agreed. ‘The beauty of all our rentals is that they’re no more than ten minutes from the office. We should put these on the market for a break-even price. Forget about this being our big payoff project. I can’t be bothered making a killing.’

He put his arm around me and pulled me close. ‘I love you so much. You’re right, we’ll find a way to get on top of it. It’s not going to beat us.’

On the way back to the car my phone alerted me to a text. I stopped on the footpath. Why aren’t you at Four Seasons? I read.

I didn’t recognise the number. The Four Seasons reference was all I had to go on. I texted back, Is that you Finn?

Finn? came the quick reply. Who the fuck is Finn?

The message could only be from one of my girlfriends. No one else communicated with me this way. A second text came zooming in: Get your butt here and start explaining Finnnn!

My phone rang. I took the call. A cackle of female laughter greeted me down the line.

‘Trudy, Trudy, Trudy,’ my girlfriends sang into the phone. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m missing something?’

‘Lunch. Derr. Four Seasons Inn. You made the booking, love.’

‘Sorry, I’d forgotten. I’ll be there in about an hour.’

‘An hour?’

I could hear them laughing at something one of the other girls had said.

‘Start without me.’

‘Hurry up!’

I hung up. A text came through from the sedate member of our crew. Come and control them.

I arrived at the Four Seasons to the contrite faces of my friends looking at me from their table in the main restaurant. The hotel had not long been refurbished. Someone had taken the step of doing away with the plush fabrics and carpeted floors, but they’d stopped short of a full minimalist makeover. The chandelier remained. The chairs were upholstered. There were candelabras and lamps and tea trolleys. The wall to the left of the bar had been taken out and four plain pillars put in its place. Beyond the pillars was the kitchen, where the staff could be seen working. The kitchen smells and noises escaped and mingled with the dining room chatter.

I’d booked a table a month ago, just before Bruce and I had left for our holiday. The restaurant had become popular since the renovation. The tables I wound my way through were filled with women chatting. There were couples seated by the windows. One long table by the bar was filled with men in shirts and ties.

‘Blame her,’ Jem, the sedate one, said as I approached. She pointed at Nadine.

Nadine’s plunging maxi-dress could serve as an apt metaphor for the woman inside it – cleavage bared, long loose skirt sweeping the floor, material bunched up and untidy. Nadine was an accountant, three times divorced, with a child to each ex-husband. Bruce disapproved of Nadine. Jem, a low-key working mother, was more his style. Jem was on school councils, and snuck in each day to straighten her children’s bedrooms, in a way they might not notice. I’d like to be able to say that next to Nadine’s black sheep Jem was a dark horse, but she wasn’t even that. My other two friends were Bonita, a maths lecturer and academic, and Megan, a secondary school teacher whose marriage had disintegrated the previous year. She was still fragile due to that. Bonita was the eldest at forty-six, then me at forty-five, Jem at forty-four, and Megan and Nadine were tied on forty-one, the babies. I was closest to Nadine and Jem. I’d known them the longest.

Nadine explained to me in a stage whisper, ‘I didn’t know this Finn worked here? I was saying his name —’

‘You were shouting his name,’ Jem said.

‘The waitress went into the kitchen and told him we were talking about him.’ Nadine’s eyes grew round. ‘He came out. It went a little pear-shaped from there …’

‘He thought there was some issue with the food,’ Megan explained.

On the table were two empty bottles of wine. A pile of dirty plates was stacked at one end for easy collection; Jem would have tidied them for the staff.

‘Sit down,’ Nadine said to me. ‘No, don’t, stand up. Have you lost weight?’ She turned in her seat and said to Megan, ‘Look at her.’

‘Keep on with what happened,’ Jem whispered harshly.

‘Why do you look so gorgeous?’

I sat down. The kitchen was to my right. Over the tops of the diners’ heads I could see the staff busy at their different workstations. They wore black uniforms, with black baseball caps pushed down firmly over their hair. It was hard to tell them apart.

Nadine pulled her chair in close to mine. ‘I had to explain what happened and that we didn’t hate his meals. He looked like he was about to cry.’

‘Nadine frightened him.’

Bonita started laughing. ‘She really did.’

‘You’d have thought I’d taken his balloons and given them to the kid without the red hair and freckles. I had to tell him we weren’t complaining. I said we were talking to you and you mentioned his name. Then I said … I didn’t know the two of you were having an affair. I was joking! It was funny.’

‘It wasn’t funny.’

‘Then he really did look like I’d stolen his balloons.’

‘He’s too young,’ Bonita said, screwing up her nose.

‘After a bit of confusion,’ Nadine said, ‘he explained he was a tenant of yours, and —’

‘They were being stupid,’ Jem interrupted. ‘I told Nadine it was unprofessional, for you. You like to keep your distance from your tenants. She was carrying on and made it sound like you talked about him all the time.’

‘No one can take a joke any more! I was maybe too loud. I may or may not have said, Don’t worry, Trudy has a policy to only sleep with the tenants who request it on the lease.’ She laughed and slapped the table. ‘I was trying to get him to smile. God … I’d had some wine, shoot me.’

‘The poor guy had been out there roasting duck,’ Bonita said, ‘and then he’s sent out here, to Nadine shouting and flirting and falling out of her top and saying his landlord sleeps with all her tenants and he’s next in line. And look how gorgeous you look; he probably does want to fuck your brains out.’

Nadine snorted happily.

‘Shh, stop it, both of you. It’s terrible,’ Jem said. ‘You stir up trouble. You forget what it’s like to be married. She’ll have to tell Bruce.’

‘Oh, boo-hoo.’ Nadine stuck out her tongue.

‘Are you all right?’ Megan said to me. ‘It wasn’t as bad as they’re making out. He could see they were being stupid.’

‘Look at her,’ Jem said. ‘You’ve upset her …’

‘I’m not upset.’

‘You are.’

‘I’m not.’

I was.

I told them I had a virus. That was why I was bursting into tears at the drop of a hat, and why I’d lost weight. I wasn’t feeling myself. I wouldn’t be staying long. The virus was one of those new-school ones that hung around for weeks. I must have caught it while away.

‘How was your trip?’

‘It was fine.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Nowhere really.’

‘Don’t tell Bruce I made you cry, ‘Nadine said. ‘I’ll be blacklisted. What am I talking about? I’m already blacklisted.’

‘It’s irresponsible,’ Jem lectured her. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing that starts trouble in marriages. And you shouldn’t ask her to keep it from Bruce. She should tell him. That’s what married couples do. They talk to one another.’

Nadine took a swig of wine. ‘Thought we’d banned passive-aggressive talk.’

‘That’s me being openly aggressive.’

‘Now, children, down,’ Bonita said.

A virus. A mugging. Stress at work. I was turning out to be an inconsistent liar. The stories converged on me. Home beckoned as the only safe place to be. Bruce beckoned as the only safe person to be with. My stomach rumbled. My hands trembled with hunger. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal. The thought of eating here made me nauseous. There were people I knew at the bar. A couple of school mums were at the till paying their bill. A plate of food appeared in front of me. Nadine took the wedge of lemon from the side of the plate and squeezed it over the vegetables.

‘Order something else if you like. Have this as a starter. It’s yummy. I had it.’

A ‘warm salad of autumn vegetables’ had been placed between my knife and fork. Marinated feta sprinkled over roasted pumpkin, red onion, mushrooms and zucchini, seasoned with chilli flakes and oregano. Nadine took a piece of pumpkin from the plate and ate it. Red wine was poured into my glass, and pushed into my hand.

‘Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall endure the wrath of Bruce.’

Nadine had a not-so-secret crush on my husband. She brought him up at every girls’ get-together, gushed in his presence, and her ears pricked up at any mention of his name. It was hard to be open with her because of this. How could I confide in her? She might see any weakness as a door left ajar, a gap for her to slide through.

The legs of the chair screeched on the floor as I pushed back from the table.

‘I’m just going to make a phone call. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The lobby had also had a facelift. There were geometrical shapes where the round shapes used to be. Small triangle couches had been placed in private corners. White studded leather boxes served as seats, tables or low partitions, depending how they’d been arranged. I sat down on a leather box by the window and called Bruce. The gutter outside was filled with fallen leaves. Across from me in the lobby was a man in jeans and a sports jacket. He had dark hair, a small face and wire-rimmed glasses. His legs were crossed and a newspaper was folded on his knee.

A recorded message informed me Bruce was already on the phone.

With the girls, I texted. Not going great. I can get kids if you want me to? Miss you.

I sent the text and sat waiting for his reply. The man in the sports jacket was facing the window. He had a phone in his hand and was flicking his thumb repetitively across the screen. I must have been staring, because he turned and gave me a strange look.

A noise to the right startled me. Finn had come out from the kitchen. For a moment I didn’t recognise him. Black made him look slimmer and gave him some authority. The cap hid most of his hair and freckled face. He had a docket in his hand and his chest rose and fell.

‘I saw you get up and go,’ he said, out of breath. ‘I thought you were leaving.’ He glanced at the man.

‘I’m about to go,’ I said.

‘I wanted to catch you before you left.’

‘Sorry about what my friends said.’

‘It seems we’re having an affair,’ he said, and blushed.

The woman at the reception desk looked over. A member of the kitchen staff blushing, talking about affairs, and breathing heavily in the lobby was not adding to the hotel ambience.

‘Come back in,’ Finn said. ‘You haven’t finished your meal. I was going to make you a special dessert. I thought I’d do a little bit of everything for you and your friends. As long as that’s all right? On the house.’

‘I wasn’t going to stay for dessert.’

‘Please,’ he said, and he tried his sulky expression on me.

Returning to the table I was jittery, not holding eye contact, gripping my phone, talking about how Bruce was picking up the children and how I’d wanted to make sure he had it clear.

‘I have to go soon …’ I murmured.

Jem was silent, stirring her coffee. The other three were discussing if Bonita had drunk too much wine to drive.

‘We’ll all stop drinking now,’ Nadine said, and placed her hand over her glass, ‘and we’ll be right in an hour. Finish what’s in your glass. Then that’s it. Hide that bottle. Get the waitress to take it away.’

‘I’m not going to be right in an hour,’ Bonita said.

I pushed my meal into the centre of the table. ‘The waitress can take that too.’

‘Jem went out looking for you and couldn’t find you,’ Megan said.

‘I was in the toilet.’

Jem ran the curved underside of her teaspoon around the rim of her cup. My other friends were inebriated enough and distracted enough for her to get away with saying, ‘I did see you, Trudy, out in the lobby, talking to someone …’

She glanced up at me. I could see what she was thinking, and that she was disappointed. Of all her friends I was meant to be the one to look beyond the hard work of marriage and stay true to the goal – lasting love. Jem and I were ‘stayers’, that was what set us apart from the pack. If I was cheating on my husband, I was breaking our unspoken pact.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I told her. ‘We’re just friends.’

How I thought this clichéd statement would be enough to reassure her was proof of how low on commonsense I was.

The waitress came to the table and began clearing it.

‘Finn is sending something special out for you ladies.’

‘Well, well,’ Nadine murmured into her wine, ‘I do smell a rat …’

15

It was four o’clock before I got home. Summer was in the kitchen making rabbit ragout. A pile of sinew and gristle was beside the boning knife on the chopping board. The rabbit pieces had been browned and put to one side. Summer was now softening celery and onions and carrots in a pan. In the laundry, a bridle was missing from a hook, the back veranda was clear of a saddle, and one horse was missing from the paddock. Upstairs, Steven’s bedroom door was closed and I could hear him laughing, the low chuckle that accompanied his online actions. Something funny had been said to him over MSN, or he’d read an amusing Facebook update. His bed squeaked with movement.

I had to hunt Bruce down. I found him after five minutes of searching. He was in the orchard, between the fruit trees. When I saw him I stopped and watched for a moment, to see what he was doing. His legs were parted, his head was straight; he was motionless, not looking at anything in particular. When he saw me, he watched me come towards him with a steady, unsettling gaze.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘I’ve been threatened with an Apprehended Violence Order.’ Bruce wouldn’t leave the orchard. He stared at the fruit trees, the leaves, the spoilt oranges and lemons on the ground.

‘Do you remember I wanted to build a dry-stone fence?’ he said. ‘Before we slowed on the road, I said that to you – do you remember? Around here.’ And he pointed to the orchard’s boundaries. ‘I’ve got the rocks. Even before we went away I had it in my head to stop and look at those stone walls. I didn’t get to see them. I still haven’t looked properly at those walls. I was that close,’ he showed me how close with his thumb and forefinger, ‘that close to suggesting we put the holiday off until after we finished Cove Street. But I really wanted to look at those walls. I went on that holiday because I wanted to build a fucking wall.’

‘Come inside.’

‘I will burn these fruit trees if this isn’t worked out. I will set them alight and fucking burn them. Can you believe it? I’m the one to be watched? I’m dangerous? Shouldn’t I be the one taking out an AVO? I made one phone call. He got rid of the body of a man who tried to kill us. Can no one see the fucking anomaly there?’

‘Bruce. Come inside.’

‘They’re trying to make me look like the crazy one. I did the right thing – I rang and told Damien what I knew. And he got straight on the phone and told Guy Grant!’

‘He probably has to.’

‘ “Might”, “allegedly”; that’s how Damien talks about our attack. He blew off all my suspicions about what had happened at Cove Street. He doesn’t take me seriously.’

‘What made you call him?’

‘Because we need to do something!’

‘Come inside.’

‘Damien said I should take it seriously – me? If I do anything more I’ll be served with a notice, summonsed to court and any firearms will be taken off me. He asked if I had any firearms.’ Bruce pointed to his chest. ‘Have I got any firearms? No, but right now I wish I fucking did have!’ He walked a few steps, stopped, clenched his fists and braced his body in frustration, riling against the invisible opponent. ‘Fuck!’ he said.

My email inbox had two new messages, one from Finn and one from Jem.

Finn had written: Trudy, hope you liked the BIG dessert plate. Did your friends enjoy it? It was lovely seeing you today. Your chef tenant, Finn.

Jem had written: Will you be in at the office tomorrow, around 10? I’ll drop by xx

Bruce came into the study. ‘I’m going to ring Guy Grant.’

‘You can’t.’

‘I have to ring him. I’ll know by talking to him if he’s involved.’

‘How will you know that?’

My tone pushed Bruce out of the study. He backed away. His reaction was the same as mine when he’d asked me what I’d told my mother, although this was a more extreme version.

‘Would you please not talk to me like that?’ he said from the doorway. ‘Don’t you start questioning me. You’re the only one who knows we’re not crazy. Why do I feel like no one is on my side with this? Not even you.’ He turned and left.

He returned a few seconds later and stood agitated against the wall. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just not really sure how I’m expected to deal with knowing that there is a man out there who probably wants us dead and all the police can think to do about it is threaten me.’

‘It is the police you’re angry with,’ I said. ‘It’s like they will only investigate something if it’s by the book – there’s the dead body and there’s a guy holding a gun … Oh, yeah, I get it – the dead guy was shot by the guy holding the gun. It’s only in the movies the police track down killers. That’s how it seems to me. But, Bruce, you can’t go off like some vigilante. You can’t fix it on your own. Maybe it’s not something we’ll ever understand. How can you understand something like this? Even if Reuben was alive, convicted and in jail, we probably still wouldn’t understand why he did it. I think you’re searching for something that’s impossible to find.’

‘I know why he did it,’ Bruce stated. ‘Because he wanted to, because he could.’ He waved his hand to indicate that these questions weren’t what lingered in his mind. ‘What I want is to know what Guy Grant is going to do to us next. He’s not going to forget us. Eventually, whoever Reuben was, he’s going to be at least listed as missing. What then? What happens when we see his face on the news? What are the cops going to say then? Here’s a man, exactly as we described him, missing. You know what I think? I think it’ll come out who he was. And it will also come out that he and Guy Grant were together.’ Bruce twisted his two fingers, demonstrating the two men intertwined. ‘That’s what I think. And do the police ignore that? Do we shut up and take that too? Or will Guy Grant want us quiet before then, deemed mental?’

‘Don’t give him that. Step back. You can’t ring him. You know he’s not going to talk to you. What if he does? What if you find out he is definitely involved? How does that change anything? It doesn’t make anything easier. Are you going to find out his address? Hang around his house? Stalk him …’

Saying this triggered a thought in me. My mind veered and did a speedy U-turn. I remembered the man in the lobby at the Four Seasons Inn. He’d had dark hair, a small head and wire-rimmed glasses. The sports jacket he’d been wearing fitted perfectly across his shoulders, the soles of his shoes were un-scuffed. His thumbnail, flicking across the phone, was manicured. I’d looked right at him, and I hadn’t seen it … I saw it now.

The man in the lobby had been Guy Grant.

‘The police should be doing it!’ Bruce was saying. ‘They should be able to see that we’re a ticking time bomb to this man! Our whole family is in danger. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?’

I took a breath. My chest expanded as my lungs filled with air. Before saying anything though, I had to check my facts. I’d learnt that much.

Summer called that dinner was on the table. Alone in the study, I googled Guy Grant. I enlarged a photo of his face. But I needed to see him in glasses and in profile. I scrolled down and went to the footage of him – the unguarded moment, where he rubbed his eyes. The play button for the video clip was hard to click on because I was shaking so much. In the video he was wearing a sports jacket and jeans.

My hand rested at the base of my neck. I felt my pulse beneath my fingers. The man in the lobby had been Guy Grant. I should’ve guessed it by his aura alone. Wealthy people had a spark and glimmer to them, and the super rich had a golden glow. He’d emitted that golden quality; he’d not been an attractive man, but something made you look. The way he sat, the clean lines of him, there was money in the way his hair was cut and the way the paper was folded on his knee. Or was I imagining it? Did all nicely dressed men with dark hair and glasses look the same?

‘Come on, Mum!’ Summer was calling.

I racked my brain, trying to remember if he’d been in the restaurant. Had he been sitting alone at a table? Did I remember him standing by the bar?

‘Mum, are you coming?’

Summer was in the hallway, approaching. I had no time to think.

I closed the computer. If it was Guy Grant, how could he have known I would be at the restaurant? He couldn’t have. That was the simple answer. That was the truth. It couldn’t have been him. My eyes moved away from the screen and searched empty space beside it.

We sat down as a family and ate Summer’s rabbit ragout. Steven and Renee had a homework book open between them. Steven was tutoring his sister.

‘This always comes first,’ he was saying with a pencil poised above the page. ‘You’ve mixed up those two symbols here.’

Renee eyed the page with a look of consternation. Her knuckles were pressed to her lips and her body twisted in the chair. She reminded me of her father, the way problem-solving caused a physical reaction in her.

‘Dad, do you like the pappardelle pasta?’ Summer said.

I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye.

‘Mum, have you signed the forms I gave you from school?’

‘I will.’

After dinner Bruce went to the study and I watched TV in the lounge room. I stared blankly at the screen. Summer was lying on her stomach on the rug. She was writing out her restaurant menu. There were cookbooks open all around her. As she wrote, the tabby cat kept batting at the pen. On the TV was one of those formulaic US crime shows. The cops were investigating a paedophile priest’s apparent suicide – had he killed himself due to the shame of being outed as a monster, or had an old victim returned and put a bullet in his head?

I almost got to my feet, ready to walk into the study and tell Bruce I might have seen Guy Grant. I knew, though, that Bruce wouldn’t hear the word ‘might’. No matter how I put it, it would be as good as going in there and telling him Guy Grant was in Delaney stalking us. How would my husband react to that? What would he do, before we even had a chance to check the facts?

In bed, Bruce and I lay with our backs to one another. I stared off into the darkness on my side of the room and Bruce stared off into the darkness on his side. I thought about how much better it would be if our troubles could lift and switch and sink back down into opposing heads. Guy Grant, a name, a face on a screen, untouchable, didn’t panic me, not like it panicked Bruce. And Guy Grant’s presence in Delaney, flesh and blood, sitting in that lobby, wouldn’t panic Bruce, not like it panicked me. It was like we’d been allocated the wrong thoughts to sift through.

16

The last poplar leaves were falling. A few had blown inside onto the carpet. I was sitting in the MAD office looking out through the open door. I rang Finn. He answered in a sleepy voice. Before I had a chance to apologise for waking him, he said, ‘I’m pleased you rang. Did you get my email?’

‘I need to ask you a question and request a favour.’

I could hear him sitting up in the bed, rearranging the pillows and covers. ‘Shoot.’

‘Are you able to get a list of the people who stayed in the Four Seasons Inn last night, and maybe the night before? Can you do that?’

‘I’m not sure. Why?’

‘I wouldn’t want you to make a fuss. If you could ask someone who wouldn’t think much of it, or look it up on the computer on your own? I thought, if it was easy …’

‘Can I ask why?’

I shrugged and looked out towards the footpath. ‘It’s personal.’

He was quiet a moment. I stared out the window and watched a black car park across the street.

‘I’ll try,’ he said.

At ten o’clock Jem walked into the office. She was wearing a long top with a lace hem. Her pants were loose and her handbag big and bulky. Our greeting was as if nothing unusual had taken place the day before. She chatted about her morning as I made her a cup of tea.

‘You look great,’ she said, taking her cup and sitting down at the desk. ‘You’ll have Nadine hitting the gym and going on a new crash diet. You know she can’t stand it if one of us loses weight.’

Then she said, ‘There is that “weight thing” though, isn’t there? Megan lost weight while she was having an affair. Every time Nadine gets thin it’s when she’s met the new love of her life. You do look great, but also …’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘You don’t seem to be yourself.’ After a pause she said, ‘Why were you in the lobby with that cook, Trudy?’

‘I wanted to ask you about that. When did you see me? Whereabouts were you?’

‘I was outside, by the lobby doors. I saw you talking to him. I wouldn’t be saying this, but I’ve seen it before – we’ve both seen it – with Megan and Nadine, and Bonita, we can’t all mess it up. I’m not saying you and Bruce are at risk of that. You’ve probably got your reasons. But you don’t look happy. Whatever it is, it’s not suiting you. I’m sorry if that’s blunt. I know it’s probably none of my business. I’m only saying it because I care about you.’

‘Did you see a guy in a sports jacket and jeans in the lobby? He had dark hair and glasses.’

She was holding her cup of tea and blowing the steam from the top of it. She eyed me over the rim. I knew I was doing nothing to alleviate her concerns about me. I also knew she wouldn’t object or press her point too strongly. Jem didn’t do confrontation. It had been brave of her to come here and speak so frankly to me. She was a dear friend. Perhaps, if I were to tell anyone about what had happened, I would tell Jem.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was sitting in front of the window.’

‘Was he in the restaurant as well? Do you remember seeing him in there? At the bar? I’ve got this feeling he was at the bar. You didn’t happen to see what car he was driving? You didn’t see him get up and leave? I’ve been trying to think back to the cars in the parking lot. He would have been driving something snazzy.’

I looked out the windows and across the road. The black car was still parked there.

Jem gave me a look. ‘I don’t understand. Why is it important?’

‘You won’t believe me if I tell you – you really won’t believe me.’

‘Do you think he’s following you?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Has Bruce hired him? To see if you’re cheating?’

Another lie presented itself to me. They seemed to fall effortlessly around me. Like the dry leaves shedding from the poplars. Like fairy dust.

‘Does that sound strange?’

‘I can’t imagine him doing that. Wouldn’t he simply ask you? Has he asked you? And are you cheating on him?’

‘No,’ I said.

Finn’s brown Jag pulled up out the front. He looked through the office windows and saw I had one of my friends with me. I could see his face fill with indecision. He left the car idling a moment before cutting the engine. He stayed seated behind the wheel.

Jem turned and looked in the direction of my gaze. ‘Is that him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Trudy?’

It was easy to understand her doubting me, especially given that Finn didn’t get out of the car.

My phone rang.

‘Is that Bruce?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Hey, sweetheart,’ Bruce said down the line. ‘How are you? We didn’t talk much last night or this morning …’ He left the sentence hanging. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I’m okay. Are you?’

Jem was staring at me.

‘The building inspector’s at Cove Street to check what we’ve done,’ Bruce said. ‘I’m about to go there now.’

‘Do you need me to come?’

‘No … Trudy,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I got angry. I know you don’t need that.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

Once I’d hung up, Jem said, ‘How can you do this?’ Her eyes had lightened. There was colour in her cheeks and breathlessness in her voice. ‘I wouldn’t have the nerves for this. You say that to your husband and then you go off … with him? Is that what you’re doing?’ She glanced out at the Jag. ‘No wonder people lose weight … Where do you go? Is it in one of your townhouses? It’s so bizarre to me. I’m going home to watch Oprah and have a salad sandwich. I haven’t had sex for months, no … a year. Shit. And you go off with this boy and do … What? What do you do? How often do you do it? How old is he?’

‘He’s older than he looks. He’s twenty-nine or something.’

‘I think he’s lied to you about that.’

‘No, I have a copy of his license, and a note from his mum.’ I smiled. It was my first smile since it had happened. I touched my hand to my face and felt the smile fade beneath my fingers. My friend misread my troubled expression.

‘Jesus, Trudy.’

‘Do you want him?’ I said. Nothing I could say would make much difference anyway. ‘I think I should send him around to you. From what I can gather he likes older women. You’re thinner than I am, and you’ve got the best bum out of all of us. He’ll have hit pay dirt with you. If you haven’t had sex for a year he won’t be able to keep up with you.’

‘I know one thing – it wouldn’t bother Robert much if I did. But Bruce would be devastated about this. He adores you. I don’t know, you and Megan, you have these husbands that worship the ground you walk on, and you both turn around and cheat as though they’re the biggest bastards ever.’

‘I’m not cheating on Bruce, Jem.’

Before leaving, she said to me, ‘In all seriousness, Trude, I saw how he looked at you in that lobby. I don’t think he’d swap you for me, or anyone for that matter. When he comes in here, just take note of the way he looks at you.’

Finn came in with a sheet of paper in his hand. I did as my girlfriend had suggested, and I paid attention to his face. His lips were red, his eyes were bright and his brow wrinkled. His steps slowed under the directness of my gaze and an uncertain smile broke across his face. Then the smile was gone and he was swallowing, chewing at his bottom lip, then he was smiling again, his eyes were downcast, his cheeks burning red. In the seconds it took him to walk to the desk, his expression had changed multiple times.

He sat down and waved the piece of paper.

‘I got it,’ he said. ‘They asked why I needed it, but I told this cool story about how I wanted to compare it with the restaurant records, to get an idea of how many of the restaurant patrons booked a meal to their rooms and how many paid direct.’ He passed the sheet of paper over to me. ‘Pretty clever of me, hey? To come up with that.’

‘Thank you.’

I flattened the printout on the desk.

I leaned close, and scanned each name. No Guy Grant. He wouldn’t have used his name, though. It was foolish of me to think that he would. Finn was silent, watching me. I picked up a pencil and went through the list, circling the single rooms and the corporate rooms and the suites that might appeal to a man staying alone. The longer I stared at them, the more all the names began to look invented, and poorly invented at that – John Jones: what sort of generic name was that?

‘Do you get any sense of the hotel customers?’ I said, looking up at Finn. ‘If they come into the restaurant, you must get to know who’s come down from the rooms? Has there been anyone over the last few days that has stood out to you, or any talk of a wealthy guy?’

Finn shook his head. ‘I don’t get out of the kitchen much.’

‘When you came out into the lobby and I was sitting by the window, do you remember the man sitting in front of the other window? He had a sports jacket on.’

‘I do remember him.’

I nodded. This didn’t surprise me. Guy Grant had the glow.

‘I wonder if he’s still there? I need to make sure he’s not the person I think he is.’

Finn said, ‘Do you want me to go and ask the staff on the desk? If I describe him to them, they might know.’

‘Would you do that for me?’

Finn looked down at the floor for a moment. His hands were resting on his knees. After a pause he looked up and gave me an apologetic smile.

‘I’d pretty much do anything for you, Trudy.’

I stayed in Finn’s car while he went in with my description of Guy Grant to relay to the reception staff. His car was tidy. The seats were laidback and comfortable, made of leather. The steering wheel had the Jaguar insignia on it. I had a peek in the glove box while he was gone. He had a small packet of tissues, some sunscreen, and a folder of business cards – restaurants and catering places mostly. I closed the glove box as he approached.

‘They don’t remember him,’ Finn said as he climbed in. ‘They don’t think he stayed. I didn’t want to ask too much more. The woman on the desk is starting to think I’ve got a problem.’

Back at the MAD office, I closed the blinds, shut the door, and sank down into the couch. It was an indulgence for me to be afraid of closed spaces. Only the spoilt wallowed in fears and phobias. Finn sat down beside me.

‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’

‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me, Finn.’

The Roman blinds were made of thick material. I turned and pulled aside a blind to see if the black car from that morning was still parked across the street. It was gone. I should have taken down the number plate. I needed to get better at this. I let the blind fall back into place. The office was muted and dark once more.

Finn settled into the cushions beside me.

‘I think you should probably go.’

‘I’ll just stay a moment.’

He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in to rest his lips against the back of his own hand. It was a partitioned kiss, separate but intimate. The gesture made my heart sink and my head grow light with disbelief. It was as though my friends’ mistaken beliefs were self-fulfilling prophecies. Finn and I hadn’t even been real friends before now – had we? – let alone the sort of friends to confide in and touch one another. Or had the innocence slipped away incrementally, and only now that it was gone did I notice?

He sat back, a little. He was talking, explaining his understanding of what I was going through. I wasn’t listening. There was too much turning in my mind. The gist of his narrative was as much as I could manage. He seemed to think we had some common ground. He touched my leg. It occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling fear. The anxiety his proximity and touch were triggering was mild in comparison to what I’d felt in bed with Bruce and what I’d felt in the empty townhouse. He inched nearer. Still nothing. His voice had dropped. He was saying something about not fitting in, and feeling as though life played out around him. But he didn’t feel that way with me. With me he felt in sync.

He kissed me.

I waited for the shock, surprise, fear, panic – anything. But I felt absolutely nothing. There was a warning bell, a red light flashing way back in my brain. What are you doing, Trudy? I eased away. He was breathing heavily; he was feeling something while I was feeling nothing … I frowned. How strange that I wanted to feel a jolt, a clear, sharp and precise feeling, like fear. I needed that. It was as though I’d had botox injections to my brain, when all I wanted was for my natural responses and instinctive behaviour to return. Terror, fear and panic had been ugly, frightening, but not as frightening as being numb. At least then I’d known I was … alive, in sync. Finn’s words made sense. If he’d been stuck like this too, in this strange nothing world, it seemed wrong to deny him this moment of connection. Sad people did perhaps have a duty to help one another out.

But Finn and I weren’t in sync, not really, not at all. He didn’t understand me. He pressed against me and kissed my neck and thought to touch me; he was aroused and thought I might become that way too if he kissed and touched me more. He was talking quickly in my ear, whispering, ‘I understand.’ But he didn’t.

What woke me from my torpor was the terrible sudden thought that I wanted him to hurt me. I wanted to be shaken, pushed back, and hit. Then at least I’d feel. I cringed from the realisation, and cringed from him at the same time.

‘Oh God,’ I said.

He stopped abruptly, sat back, straightened his clothes. I looked down, to check that I was dressed. I was. I wasn’t sure how far we’d gone or how much we’d done. Already I had no recollection. My forehead was burning hot against my palm. I couldn’t breathe for the tightness in my chest. I didn’t want to think, and shook all thoughts from my mind. I hadn’t let it happen. Not really. It simply hadn’t happened.

‘That …’ Finn said, and swallowed, ‘was wrong of me. I’m sorry.’

‘Would you please go now?’

17

After a week of hectic work for Bruce and the crew, Cove Street passed inspection. The occupancy certificates didn’t necessarily calm Bruce, though. I sensed they made him feel foolish, as though he’d jumped to wild conclusions about the reasons for the audit. He put the documents in the study for me to take into the office and file away.

We had to throw the usual party for the tradies and the crew, to toast their work. Several of them had gone above and beyond on this build. They were loyal and professional men, friends, who never let us down. Bruce manned the barbecue, his beer going warm on the upturned roll of foam underlay beside him. The men grabbed his shoulders in an effort to startle him; they shook him, slapped his back, gripped him around the nape of the neck and playfully squeezed him with affection.

‘Big fella!’ ‘Harry!’ ‘Harrison!’ ‘Fucking Jesus, man!’ said right in his ear. ‘You getting rich enough, old boy?’ ‘Magnate.’ ‘What’s next?’ ‘Bruce!’ ‘Boss!’

They leaned in over the hotplate, trying to make eye contact, smiling hard to inspire a smile in him.

‘Not feeling too well tonight,’ he offered. ‘A bit off colour.’

‘Crook?’ ‘Sick?’ ‘Bullshit!’ ‘Beer will fix that!’

Sickness wasn’t a topic the men were comfortable with. When Bruce didn’t make light of his mystery illness or snap out of it, they visibly squirmed. They started looking green around the gills themselves.

An invisible quarantine tent went up around him. If he was spoken to it was from a safe distance and through this imaginary barrier. The men could see it was an emotional condition ailing Bruce, and that, more than any virus or stomach bug, had them backing up. They weren’t unfeeling in their response; there was real concern in their faces as they turned away from him.

I kept finding reasons to go to our car. I stood on the side furthest from the light and noise, breathing steady breaths, closing my eyes and running my fingertips back and forth across my forehead. Recharging, ready for another burst of remembering names and concentrating on what people were saying and monitoring my answers to check that I was making sense.

It was my turn to cover for my husband. I couldn’t put my arm around him like he had with me when he’d taken me through the townhouses and told the painters to do the job I’d ordered. I couldn’t talk for him, smile for him, chastise anyone who didn’t show him respect. Doing that would only make things worse. The best way to help my husband was to behave as if absolutely nothing was wrong. We were a tag team – and not so dissimilar in the way we see-sawed through different phases. When I had been burning evidence and planning an all-night drive to retrieve our business card, Bruce had been the voice of reason, and when he’d been imagining Cove Street sabotage and was ready to test the police, I’d talked him down off his ledge. It was a good thing we weren’t always in line with one another. This way we had one another’s back.

With no curtains on the windows and the rooms bare and empty, townhouse number one was a bright rowdy box of activity in the darkened street. Barbecue smells filled the damp air. Some of the men had brought their girlfriends and wives. The women wore inappropriate footwear for what was essentially still a work site. They tottered and tripped their way to the portaloo, giggled for the first hour, got surly with their inattentive boyfriends and husbands after that.

Nico, the builder, came and found me. He was drunk enough to speak without hesitation.

‘Trude, what’s goin’ on?’ Nico was a greyhound of a man, gaunt, light on his feet, big-hearted under a stripped-back frame. He waggled his fingers in front of my face like a magician, as though conjuring up the ability to read my thoughts. He shivered in the cold. ‘Can’t fool me …’

‘How’s he going in there?’ I asked.

Nico shut one eye, pressed two fingers to his temple and made the action of cocking a trigger with his thumb, shooting himself in the head. ‘Not good.’

‘No.’

‘Not a happy camper. You two on the rocks?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘Good. Long as it’s not that.’ He shivered again. ‘Jeez. Cold.’ He darted off behind a gum tree. ‘Block your ears, this might go for a while.’

On the way home in the car Bruce talked about how well he thought the night had gone. Everyone seemed to have had a good time. The steaks had cooked up nicely. There’d been enough beer. Some of the boys would have sore heads in the morning. It was as though he was reading from a transcript of a previous trip home we’d had after such a party.

I found myself playing along. ‘I didn’t know the sparky’s apprentice was home from his overseas trip.’

‘Cut it a bit short from what I can gather.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Sounds like he enjoyed himself, though.’

‘Yes, it did sound like he enjoyed himself.’

Finn wrote me emails and sent me texts. He was just as he had been before, coming into the office, standing too close, being too familiar. It was a relief, because it was as though nothing had happened between us. He’d not changed the way he was towards me, and he’d not disappeared. I got to underline that we were no more than friends. I waved him back and frowned when he flirted. I acted as though there was no basis for his behaviour. I did go into the office each day, though. Found myself wondering when he’d turn up and what bumbling attempt at intimacy he would make.

Bruce went to Cove Street, laid flooring, put down paving, watered turf, fitted curtains and did other fiddly final jobs.

I put the jade plant outside the office door, swept the poplar leaves from the footpath, paid some bills, did some paperwork, and waited for Finn.

‘Whatever happened to Bridget?’ I said one day as Finn walked in through the door.

‘Hello to you to, Ms Harrison.’

He was wearing what I’d come to think of as his favourite shirt – a tan-coloured one, with short sleeves, high breast pockets and a button-down collar. He had on red jeans and blue sneakers. It was verging on a nauseating clash of colours, but on some level it worked, just. He’d perhaps lost some weight in the weeks he’d been in town (Jem would be proud). His face was slimmer and more manly. His love handles were vanishing. He walked with a bounce and his eyes sparkled.

‘Bridget?’ he said, as though he’d forgotten who she was.

‘The girl you’re meant to be living with.’

‘Oh, her. I split up with her. Hey …’ he said, ‘the girls on the desk at work reckon that man is back at the hotel again.’

‘He’s there now?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘The same man?’

‘Oh yeah, baby,’ Finn said, mimicking Austin Powers. Then his expression grew serious. ‘He’s booked in under John Jones. Do you want me to go and knock on his door and see if it’s him? I can make like I’m up from the kitchen and went to the wrong door for room service. Easy.’

‘You could see if it’s him and then just leave straightaway?’

‘Let’s do it.’

‘Really?’

It was an obvious effort for Finn not to slip back into an Austin Powers parody to respond to this. As it was his answer wasn’t without mischievousness.

‘If you come with me, I’ll do it,’ he said.

Finn parked around by the hotel loading bay and service entry. He took me through the service door and then away from the sounds and activity of the restaurant kitchen. He put on his black apron, wrapping the ties around his middle, right around to the front, knotting them off tightly against his stomach. We went down an empty and unfriendly staff corridor. Jokingly, he took the black cap from his pocket with a flourish, twisting the peak back into shape and smoothing the cap down over his head, tugging the front low over his eyes, pretending to be undercover. We walked past storage rooms and into a dark, narrow passageway, through a door marked Staff Only. We emerged into the foyer, down the back, out of sight of the reception desk. Finn ushered me to the elevators. I noticed the dark mirrored finish of a domed ceiling fixture above us, concealing the security cameras inside.

The interior of the lift was also mirrored. I checked my reflection. My hair was up. I’d pulled down a few strands that morning to avoid looking matronly. I had on a black dress, figure-hugging, with a wide black belt and my knee-high boots. My necklace was a plain red square hanging on a thin leather strap. Finn was looking at my reflection too. A stealthy grin stretched across his face. The lift doors opened.

The Four Seasons Inn was a three-storey hotel. We were on the third floor. The decor was conservative up here. Delaney wasn’t a holiday destination, nor was it the place for a romantic getaway. The hotel was there to service business types, and set up to host seminars: a junket hotel. We stopped close to room 3023. I wrapped my arms around my body.

‘Will I wait near the lift?’ I asked. ‘Don’t say anything to him, will you? All I want to know is if it’s him. Look at him and come away, okay? Then we’ll go.’

Finn took me by the hand, leading me, using his free hand to open up a door behind him, pulling me into a disused hotel room. It was filled with cleaning products, stacks of toilet paper and other bathroom supplies. The bed remained, stripped down to the mattress, with trundle beds pushed in all around it. I was instantly wary of the bed – every other flat surface in the room was being used.

Finn didn’t let go of my hand. His grin was guilty but no less sly.

My heart began pumping hard, and slow. I glanced over my shoulder, at the heavy door that had swung shut, the silver handle, the chocolate-coloured carpet, the papered wall beside me. Even if Finn hadn’t been holding my hand, he’d have to stand near to me, because the room was so cramped. The curtains covering the two small windows were pulled across, the light was murky and the air empty, no substance to it. I opened my mouth to get a decent dose of oxygen.

‘Is he even staying at the hotel?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Finn answered defensively, and then added, ‘Well, they said he was yesterday.’

‘You haven’t checked to see if he’s here today?’

‘I’ll find out when I knock. Will you tell me what it’s all about when I come back?’

‘No.’

‘Will you kiss me when I come back?’

‘No.’

‘I might not go then. Until you kiss me.’

He made a humming sound in his throat.

How naive had I been? I couldn’t even blame him. Shy suitors get impatient too.

‘Waiting by the lifts is going to be the better option.’

He stepped closer.

The wallpaper had textured strips between wide bands of smooth paper. The textured part was velvety beneath my fingertips. Strands of my hair clung lightly to the downy strips as I pressed back against the wall. The skirting board had a bevelled edge; the heel of my boot caught on it momentarily.

‘I apologise, Finn, if I’ve given you the wrong impression.’

‘But I like the impression you’ve give me.’

He took off the black cap and tossed it onto the floor. Letting go of my hand, he began to undo the knot at the front of his apron. ‘I’ll go over and knock in a minute.’

I used my free hands to still his. ‘I know I’ve perhaps not been clear enough. I do feel guilty, because I think I’ve let you misinterpret my reactions.’

And shy suitors can get angry too.

A flash of dark thought ran through him. It was easy to read. How much groundwork did a guy have to do? This was where we were headed, where we’d been headed for weeks. Dropping by for coffee and talking is all well and good, but now we have the sex. I was reminded then of his overconfidence during the interview. And in thinking this, an image of the workshop, the furnace and gantry passed like a shadow across my mind; I pretended not to have the vision, though.

‘You can’t be serious, Trudy? What do you think we’ve been doing?’

I’d forgotten about this side of boys and men. And Finn’s efforts hadn’t been half-hearted either, unlike the young men I remembered from nightclubs, who thought buying one drink entitled them to certain rights. No, Finn had applied himself. Too late it was dawning on me how vigorously he had pursued me. Calling, texting, emailing, the new clothes, new haircut, a straighter way of walking, girlfriend ditched, pleasantries exchanged with my friends, dogged in the face of my odd behaviour. He finished undoing the knot beneath my hands and pulled the apron ties apart. As he went to slip the apron off over his head, I stepped sideways. He stepped sideways too, forgetting the apron, letting it hang, pressing his body against me, pinning me to the wall.

The smell of freshly cut timber filled my nostrils. I heard the sound of the workshop door sliding open. ‘Finn, what are you doing?’

‘You knew this is what it was about,’ he said, and kissed me.

There were strong feelings this time, clear precise things I knew I did not want. At the same time though, I was too afraid to put my hands on his chest and shove him. I didn’t want to move in an aggressive way or struggle. I didn’t want to scream. Screaming would intensify my fear. I knew that I didn’t want to kiss him, touch him, be in the room with him. I wanted him to stop. I didn’t want to have to force him to stop, though.

I tried what should work. ‘Finn. Don’t.’

He felt my body through the fabric of my dress, cupped my breast, lightly bit my neck.

‘Stop now.’

Shy suitors get assertive too.

‘I know you’ve been hurt. I understand. I’ve been hurt too. It’s okay.’

He reached down and lifted the hem of my skirt as he ran his hand slowly up my leg. He was holding me against the wall, keeping me in place with his body. I could feel his erection against my hip. I’d misjudged this man. He probably had been hurt. That didn’t mean he was weak, though. He might have some insight into fear and sadness, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of causing fear and sadness in others. ‘You want this,’ he said.

‘No, Finn.’

‘I understand.’ He kissed me again.

I turned my face away, drew in a breath.

‘Touch me,’ he said.

He grabbed my hand and put it under his loose apron, on his erection, made me rub the length and size of him. His eyes half-closed. This level of arousal had not come about in the last few minutes. Hours, days, weeks, it had been building. Perhaps ever since he’d walked into my office. He didn’t find me attractive in spite of my despair, but, in large part, because of it. When I tried to pull away, he made me rub harder.

The hotel floor was quiet. It felt as though the third level was deserted. I yanked my hand free and braced to push him off. My teeth clamped down in readiness. I felt a rising sense of my own entitlement. But he clasped my shoulders and moved me sideways, towards the bed. He took me to the foot of the mattress, using my unsteadiness and shock, unbalancing me and making me sit. Boxes and supplies had me hemmed in. Beside a freestanding lamp stood a bucket of cold dirty water with a mop sitting in it, a line of scum around the handle. Antiseptic smells flooded my nostrils. The light was poor. My vision was down to fifty percent. When I tried to stand he held me down. His hands stayed on my shoulders. I’m not going to hurt you. He wound the black apron ties back and forth around his knuckles. Knowing in my heart of hearts that it was Finn – a different stranger, a different trap I’d wandered into – that it was a black cooking apron in his hands, not ties to bind me, didn’t stop my mind from freezing and freefalling at the same time. Knowing didn’t stop the fear. It came from every direction; I could hear it, a rush, a building roar. Nothing stopped it. Nothing could. I covered my face, pressing my fingertips into my eyes. Too terrified to move.

‘Shh.’ He pulled my hands away, eased me back. ‘Lie down.’

No one had pushed me onto my back that other day. No one had kissed my neck or stroked my face or breathed into my hair, muttering things about attraction and desire. That saved me: knowing I was not back in the house, but in a disused hotel room in Delaney. The fear was slow to drain away though, and while it did, Finn used his knee to push my legs apart, telling me I didn’t have to fight, insisting that I’d like it. When he released me I blinked, saw that he had gotten to his feet and was hurriedly undoing his belt. I sat up and pushed my dress down. The room tilted. The door seemed way off at the end of a tunnel.

‘Don’t,’ I heard myself say. I sat up and moved to the edge of the bed. Not yet confident it was over, all I said was, ‘I have to go.’ I didn’t want to provoke him.

Finn angrily stepped back. Fed the belt back through the buckle with a stiff, shoving movement.

My dizziness increased. I couldn’t stand up.

‘Jesus,’ he said.

I felt precariously close to the edge of a great dark hole.

‘You didn’t tell me to stop coming ’round after I kissed you,’ he accused.

‘I’ll catch a taxi back to the office.’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What did you think we were doing, Trudy?’

I rose unsteadily to my feet. Got my bearings. ‘I have to go now.’

Finn sighed. ‘I’ll take you back. And, just so you know, the girls really did say that guy was here yesterday. He’s been in a couple of times over the last few weeks, always during the day. He orders room service, pays by cash, orders the most expensive bottle on the wine list. He’s just some guy cheating on his wife, Trudy. I think you know that. I think you knew why I wanted you to come here. I think you’re playing with me.’

A woman was standing outside the office so I got Finn to do a blocky.

‘I’m sorry,’ he was saying now. ‘That’s not how I wanted it to turn out. It’s only because I feel so much for you. I’m so sorry if it seemed … Say something, Trudy.’

I made him let me out further up the street.

‘Trudy?’

‘Don’t come and see me any more,’ I said as I shut the door.

I walked back towards the office. Sue Murdoch, the teacher who had tried to flag me down in the car park a few weeks ago, the one I had accelerated away from, was coming up the street.

‘Hi, Trudy,’ she said. ‘I was looking for you.’

I couldn’t tell if she was trying to track me down in an official capacity or as a friend.

‘Hi, Sue.’

‘Are you okay?’ she asked as she drew level with me. ‘You look …’ Sue’s wooden bangles clacked together as she suddenly fossicked in her handbag and took out a tissue. She sneezed into it and gave me an apologetic look. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with what I’ve got. You look very pale.’

‘Getting over it, I think.’

Between swipes at her nose, Sue said, ‘I was down this way and going to stick my head in to the office and say hello. I’ll walk back with you. Promise I won’t sneeze in your direction.’

‘I’m sorry about taking off on you that day in the parking lot, Sue.’

‘That’s okay, I could see you were in a hurry. It’s part of why I wanted to catch up with you, though. To talk to you about this call I received.’

Finn had parked a few shops further down the street. I felt his gaze on me as we walked past the Jag.

‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ Sue said.

At the office I fumbled with the keys. I heard the Jag door slam. I’d left my mobile phone on my desk and it alerted me to a new message as I walked in. Sue took a seat. I looked at my phone and I saw the text was from Finn: Forgive me …

He gave me a tight, pleading smile as he wiped his feet on the doormat. His phone was in his hand. Sue turned in her seat to look at him, surprised, as Finn made a beeline for the sink and put on the kettle.

Despite my anger at him, I felt I had to introduce him. ‘Sue, this is Finn. He’s one of our tenants.’

‘Hi,’ Finn said, his back to us.

Sue looked at me to see if I was made uncomfortable by his manner.

I was. My phone lit up again. Finn must have typed this message one-handed and superfast, in tech-head time. I’m in love with you.

I set my phone to silent.

‘Have I caught you at a bad time, Trudy?’

‘Coffee?’ Finn asked and held up a mug.

‘No thanks,’ Sue answered, ‘I’m pretty right. I won’t stay too long.’

‘Trudy, you want a drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said abruptly.

Sue raised her eyebrows and gave me a look, meant to reassure me that she understood the problem – an overfriendly tenant crossing the line and taking up my time. ‘I won’t hold you up,’ she said with emphasis. She lowered her voice. ‘Let me tell you quickly about this call I received. You might be able to explain it. I know it’s probably nothing, and a little while ago now. I kept it for you to listen to, but after I missed you in the car park, I deleted it. I wish I’d kept it now.’ She unzipped her handbag, took out a tissue and sneezed again. ‘It went through to my message bank. I think you must have knocked your phone and it accidentally rang me. The recording was hard to hear.’

‘When was this?’

‘That last weekend of your holiday. I rang you – remember? – about who was picking up Steven from the school debate night. It was the day after that.’ Sue glanced at Finn and hushed her voice again. ‘The recording was strange. I couldn’t really make out what was being said. It was whispered and fast and … quite dramatic. It sounded like … I’m not sure what it sounded like. It had this creepiness though. That’s why it’s been nagging away at the back of my mind and I wanted to —’

‘What did you hear?’

‘It sounded like … two men planning something.’

‘When was this?’

‘It would have been a Monday. Then I saw you in the car park on the Tuesday afternoon, and I wanted —’

‘Do you remember what time you got the call?’

She thought a moment. ‘It was around lunch time. I remember listening to it during lunch, and wondering if I should ring to check if you were all right. I even tracked down Steven in class and asked if you were back yet. When he said he’d just spoken to you on the phone, I realised I was being melodramatic.’

‘Did you say you deleted it?’

‘When I saw you were alive and well.’ She smiled. ‘I would have felt really bad if something had happened to you and I’d got the call and done nothing about it. Anyway, I was down this way, and thought I’d drop in, say hi, and mention it. There was definitely something strange about it.’

‘Two men?’

‘Yes. Discussing something about who would leave the house, to go and get a car … ? It wasn’t what they were saying, more the tone of it.’ She shivered. ‘It was creepy. I even got some of the other staff to listen to it. Linda from the office thought maybe I should ring the police. It was after talking to her I went to find Steven.’

‘Do you remember anything else about it?’

‘One of them sounded a bit American.’

18

When my father was alive, Mum often withheld news from him. Don’t tell your father, she would say. He doesn’t need to know. Something as simple as a party invitation would be secreted away. My mother would decide they’d go, as a couple, and then slide the invite under bills and out of sight. She wouldn’t tell my father. Moments before the event she’d bundle him into the shower and inform him that they were going out. I know why she did this. He was an intense man. If she showed him the invitation and spoke to him about it, he’d get wound up – there’d be someone going to the party he didn’t like, or the night wouldn’t suit him, or he’d ring the people and want to do something to help, offer our barbecue, see if they needed an extra pair of hands setting up. My mother wanted to avoid all this fuss. She preferred things to run smoothly.

When Bruce arrived home that afternoon I didn’t tell him straightaway about the phone call. My only explanation for this was that I was trying to work out how best not to cause a fuss. Bruce had picked up the children from school. It was something he liked to do. He enjoyed watching them come out across the school grounds. It was a chance for him to get a look at their friends, and see for himself if they were happy and fitting in. He liked the drive home with them, listening in on their conversations. Once at home they went off in separate directions and didn’t communicate as freely.

Bruce came into the bedroom and sat on the window seat. The white concrete dust in his hair made him look like a 9/11 survivor. He seemed to contain within him those same shattered emotions. We didn’t talk.

After a while, he pushed to his feet and went out into the backyard. I followed.

He stepped up onto the tandem trailer and began unloading the rocks he’d collected from the Cove Street site. They were for his orchard dry-stone wall. He pitched the stones onto the grass, not caring where they landed. I sat in the fold-out chair beside the incinerator.

‘I have to tell you something,’ I began. ‘I’m worried about how you’re going to take it …’

‘It’s not up to you how I take it,’ Bruce said, without breaking from his task. ‘It’s not up to you how I deal with things.’ The bitterness in his voice was disproportionate to the moment.

‘What’s the matter?’

He stopped shifting rocks. ‘I ran into Robert today. He told me he had some catering thing to organise and asked for the name of the chef we’re friends with at the Four Seasons Inn …’

‘Oh.’

‘I said I didn’t know who he was talking about.’ Bruce picked up a rock and hurled it onto the messy pile. The stone clipped and chipped the others. ‘He sure clammed up quick after that. I don’t want Jem’s husband looking at me like that, Trudy. Who the hell was he talking about?’

‘He’s a chef at the restaurant and a tenant, that’s all.’

‘So why did Robert look like he’d just stepped in dog shit?’

‘There was a bit of a misunderstanding – you know what the girls are like. At the lunch date they were being silly, teasing me about how they thought Finn liked me … Jem’s probably said something to Robert and he’s panicked. But it’s nothing.’

‘He’s a new tenant?’

‘Yes, he’s only been leasing with us a month.’

‘Since we got back? And you’ve made friends with him? Tell me, Trudy, how is it you actually manage that? I can’t say I’m up to making new best buddies at the moment, but you seem to be.’

‘Bruce, please don’t be angry —’

‘So you are friends with him?’

The tilted and lowered way Bruce looked at me sent a different type of fear than what I’d felt earlier that day fluttering through my chest – lighter, higher in my body. Fear of hurting my husband. He was right: a friendship made in the wake of what we’d been through was a loaded situation. His posture was wary and alert. He reminded me of an untamed animal, warning me to back up quick.

‘Not really a friendship,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing.’

Bruce pitched more stones off the trailer. The breeze pushed his hair to one side. His shirt was pressed flat to his torso.

‘We can’t be angry with one another. See what’s happening?’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Who exactly is he?’ he demanded.

‘It’s not me,’ I explained. ‘I’ve told him to stop dropping in.’

Bruce’s gaze filled with bewilderment. ‘How often does he drop in?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How often?’

‘It’s been … every day.’

‘What?’

I moved closer to the trailer, thought better of it, and stepped back again. Bruce backed away from me also, putting himself on the far side of the trailer, the pile of rocks between us. ‘I would never have thought either of us would want to hurt the other after what happened,’ he said. There was a rock near his boot. He kicked it to the end of the trailer. ‘I’m really trying to hold it together, Trudy.’ He tapped his thumb against his chest. ‘In here. It’s not easy. If you’re going off behind my back because you’re angry there are things about that day I won’t talk about – I’m only not telling you because I can’t.’ He pressed his hand into his chest. ‘In here I can’t. And in here.’ He tapped his fingers forcefully against the side of his head. ‘I can’t …’ He wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed. ‘I can’t physically say it. Is that really what I have to do for you to show me some support?’

I felt small. My skin shrunk closer to my bones. ‘I’ve been supporting you.’

‘The last thing I need is to find out you’re spending time with someone else. What do you think that says to me – you choose now to hide something from me?’

‘Bruce …’

He picked up a stone and hurled into the distance. ‘Why would you do this? All I want is you, all I need to get through this is you, and you choose someone else?’

‘I haven’t chosen anyone else.’

He pitched a heavy rock into the grass. ‘You really have no idea, do you? I have to believe you have no idea, because if you know, and this is what you do … What if I’d gone off and found some secret female friend to get me through this? How would you feel about that? I’m frightened of what will happen if you tell me there’s more … Friends don’t visit every day.’

‘I think he saw I was vulnerable. I don’t think he’s a very good person, actually. I let it go on too long, but only because I haven’t been —’

Bruce shied as though to dodge my words. ‘No, stop right there. Let what go on too long? Is he just a fucking friend or not?’

My hands were at my hips, but not in a defiant sway; my fingers rubbed together and twisted either side of me.

‘You know what,’ Bruce sneered, ‘don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.’

‘I wasn’t paying enough attention to notice how he felt about me.’

‘Careful,’ Bruce said between his teeth.

‘I don’t know how to explain it. Other than I don’t feel anything for him.’

‘Have you kissed him?’

I shook my head, but it was slow, one of those shakes that actually confirms.

‘You have?’

‘He kissed me.’

‘Get away from me!’ Bruce screamed suddenly. He stepped down from the trailer. I backed up quickly. He narrowed his eyes at my reaction. ‘You think I’m going to hurt you? Is that what you think? Let me make something really clear – I don’t want to hurt you! I could never hurt you!’

‘Please don’t be upset.’

‘All that makes sense any more is that I have you and the children – that’s it for me! I can’t see other people, I can’t hear what they say, I can’t see outside my fucking head! I feel nothing! Not one thing! Nothing hurts. Nothing gets in.’ He took a broken breath. ‘Except you.’ The rocks tripped him up as he matched each of my steps towards him with a step in retreat. ‘And you’ve been seeing someone else … ?’

‘I haven’t,’ I cried.

‘How many times have you kissed him?’

I shook my head.

‘Answer me!’

‘I never wanted to.’

‘How many times?’

‘Twice.’

Bruce turned and walked away.

‘Bruce!’

As he left I heard him say, ‘Sometimes it’s like we weren’t in the same house that day.’

It was after dinner and dark when he came in. The children were in their bedrooms. They knew we were fighting and had made themselves scarce. I went through the house and found Bruce lying on the couch in the lounge room. I knelt beside him.

‘You don’t have to talk to me,’ he said. His body was stretched out and his voice was clean and sure. ‘You’ve got your own things to deal with, and your own way of dealing with them. It’s not your fault. I don’t think either one of us has any say over what happens to us now. I was wrong to think there was a way to get on top of this. What he did to us … it drags us around. I have no clue whatsoever where it’s going to take me. It’s out of my control.’

‘I feel the same. I find myself doing things and I don’t know why I’m doing them.’

‘Have you slept with him?’

‘I promise you I haven’t.’

‘Have you told him what happened to us?’

‘I would never, Bruce.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘Of course not. All I think about is you. Darling … you don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to say it. I know that’s why you didn’t want to go to the police. I know that’s why you were pleased I burnt the clothes. And I know that’s why you rang my mother before I got there. I understand you don’t want it to come out. I don’t know that’s the right thing for you, but I understand it. Bruce …’ It wasn’t my place to cry, so I clamped my teeth down on the urge. ‘I’m so sorry he hurt you.’

He said after a moment, ‘At work one of the guys was pulling a chain off the back of his truck, and the sound reminded me of the chain block in the workshop. Things keep coming back to me. I’ll be talking to someone and suddenly I’m back there. It’s like I can’t join in any more, with conversations or anything. People laugh and I don’t know how they manage it. I look at them … and I don’t know how they laugh. Everywhere I turn there’s something that reminds me. Why did we go so blindly in there?’

‘Will knowing more make you feel better?’

I posed this question genuinely, and I was quiet, waiting for his response.

‘What else will? We can’t live like this. We’re treading water. What happens when we can’t tread water any more?’

My hands and nose were cold in the still air of the bedroom. My limbs were heavy with the gravity of what I’d just told my husband. He was crouched beside the bed while I was sitting on it.

‘It seems likely Guy Grant is the other voice,’ I said. ‘She said it sounded like he had an American accent.’

‘Of course it’s him. When did Sue see you?’

‘Today.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I was going to. We fought … I don’t know. I didn’t want you to get angry. I can’t … I can’t stand thinking about any of it. I’m frightened of what will happen if it becomes real. I can’t help thinking it’s going to be like the cabinet – once we lift it, it’ll get so much worse.’

‘They must have realised their mistake. Worked out they were accidentally on the phone to someone. Where’s your phone?’

‘The broken one? It’s in the study.’

‘Go and get it.’

When I gave the phone to Bruce he twisted it until it cracked apart and began to sort through the phone’s internal bits and pieces.

‘The sim card isn’t here. You didn’t take it out?’

‘Positive. The phone was crushed. I couldn’t work out how to open it. I got my calls diverted to the spare phone.’

The lamp was shining on the broken phone. Bruce looked on the floor for any dropped components.

‘Why didn’t we think of this? Guy Grant has your sim card. He has all your contacts, all your details …’ Bruce spread out the phone parts for another look. ‘He’ll know it was Sue Murdoch he was on the phone to. We should probably ring her. When did she say she deleted the recording? The police will be able to retrieve it. We’re going to have his voice … Trudy, we’re going to have his voice. You’ve got to talk to Sue and tell her. She can come with us to the police station.’

‘Will they be able to retrieve it if it was deleted?’

‘If they can’t retrieve a recorded message, what the hell can they do?’

I got to my feet. ‘I’ll ring her.’

Bruce walked towards the wardrobe. He ran his hand through his hair, brushing out the concrete dust. ‘I’ll get changed. We’ll do this tonight.’

‘If he has my sim card,’ I said, pausing, ‘he’d have my phone calendar.’

Bruce stopped. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘I couldn’t work out how he would have known I’d be there, but … I think I saw him at the Four Seasons Inn three weeks ago, when I was there with the girls. He was sitting in the lobby. He looked right at me.’

‘Guy Grant was at the Four Seasons Inn in Delaney?’

‘He was looking at something on his phone. What if it was our pictures? He’d have photos of our children. He knows our address, where the children go to school …’

Bruce came across and took me by the arm. ‘Tell me everything that’s happened from the minute we got back.’

19

We sat side by side on the window seat. I went through each thing in detail – the first day at the office, the interview, Finn’s attachment to me, the lunch at the restaurant and seeing Guy in the lobby, Finn in the lobby, the dark car parked on the street, Finn getting a print-out of the list of patrons. A pattern began to develop. Each time I mentioned Guy, I mentioned Finn. Bruce was quiet, but his breathing grew audible and his body language spoke loudly. I touched his knee. He rested his hand on mine, but his fingers were cold and rigid.

‘I know it sounds like I’m talking about Finn a lot.’

‘He was there the first day you went into the office? And he works at the place you saw Guy Grant, and he’s moved into one our townhouses?’

‘Finn’s not involved.’

‘Had you ever seen him before he came into the office?’

‘No, but the appointment had been made before our weekend away. It was booked before we left.’

‘In your calendar, in your phone, along with your lunch date with the girls?’

‘Yes.’

‘If Guy Grant knew you’d be there that day at the restaurant, it also means he knew you were scheduled to meet a new tenant at the office.’ Bruce paused. ‘Did you have down that you were meeting a new tenant called Finn?’

‘The appointment was with a woman called Bridget. I was meeting with her.’

‘Who’s Bridget?’

‘She came with Finn. He took the lease out in his name, though.’

‘So she’s living at Tyler Street too?’

‘Well, no. She’s gone. It’s just Finn there.’

Bruce moved along the seat, putting distance between us.

‘Listen to the things you’re saying, Trudy – you just told me that the person you arranged to meet at the office didn’t take the lease. Instead, this Finn walked in and took over the interview and the lease, and is now living in our townhouse, pursuing you, ringing you every day, spending every day with you, working at the place you saw Guy Grant …’

‘Yes, but —’

Bruce got to his feet. His hands were clenched. ‘Who is he? Where did he come from?’

‘I’ve got all his details. I’ve got a copy of his driver’s license. He saw I was distressed and thought he could take advantage of it.’

‘Think,’ Bruce demanded. ‘Think hard about what you’ve said to him and what you’ve told him about us. Consider, Trudy, that this is the biggest thing in Guy Grant’s life. We could expose him for who he really is. Don’t you think he’s going to put some resources and money into containing that?’ Bruce slowed his voice and spelt it out for me. ‘Could he have paid Finn to come to Delaney, get a job here, move into one of our houses, get close to us, and watch us? Think about everything that’s happened and tell me if that is at all possible. And think quickly, because I’m starting to think that’s exactly what’s happened.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll think, but please sit down.’

Instead, Bruce folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. His face was unreadable. I turned over things in my head. I thought about Finn’s bank balance and the cash deposits, the way Bridget had been so quiet and nervous throughout the interview, Finn’s lack of references, the coincidence of his workplace, his role as go-between. I thought about his attraction to me, the increasingly disturbing nature of his advances.

‘It can’t be …’

‘I see just by looking at your face that it can.’

‘Some things fit, but other things don’t. I’m trying to remember his pay slip … I didn’t do any of the usual checks. I suppose the pay slip could have been from a different place, and he could have got the job at Four Seasons after he came in that day.’

Bruce took three rapid steps back, and stood at the end of the bed, staring at me from there. ‘You haven’t brought him out here, have you? Has he met our children?’

‘No!’

‘Have you introduced him to our children or not?’

‘Of course I haven’t. He hasn’t met the children.’

‘When were you going to tell me all this, Trudy? You find out Guy Grant is in Delaney and you don’t tell me? Why? There’s got to be a reason, other than you being worried about me getting angry. A killer is in my hometown watching my family, for Christ’s sake. Why wouldn’t I get angry? What sort of a man would I be if I didn’t get angry?’

I pulled as far as I could away from him, even though he had already put himself a long way from me. ‘I’ve been confused, I can’t …’ My mind was a muddle of facts as well as a tangle of emotion. If it was true, and Finn was involved … It was like I’d let the octopus into the office, let it get comfortable and wrap its tentacles around everything. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination – the octopus was real.

‘We’re going to the police station,’ Bruce said, ‘and the kids can’t stay here alone. We’ll take them to your mother’s.’

‘Finn has met her,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe they shouldn’t go there.’

Bruce’s face grew pale with anger. ‘He’s met your mother? You introduced him to your mother?’

‘It was at the office. It’s not how it sounds. ’

‘Okay, the kids will have to go to my parents’ place. Or has Finn met them too? Have you introduced him to everyone in the family? Are you sure you haven’t slept with him, Trudy? Tell me if you have.’

‘I haven’t. Before going anywhere we need to stop and think clearly about this. I need to have it right in my head. We can do some checks ourselves to see that Finn is who he says he is.’

‘I’m going around to see him.’

‘What? No.’

‘You ring Sue Murdoch and tell her we’re going to the police about that call and I’m going around to see him, face to face. Even if he’s not Guy Grant’s puppet, he still saw Guy in the lobby – Finn’s a witness; he’s involved whether he likes it or not.’

‘He’s going to panic if you turn up there.’

‘He should panic.’

There was no answer on Sue’s landline. I rang her mobile, which went straight through to her message bank. A sick feeling washed over me.

Bruce came into the study. ‘You can’t get onto her, can you?’

‘I don’t know if I’m being paranoid … but Finn came into the office today while she was there. He offered her a coffee. He offered me one too. There was something about the way he did it … It reminded me of Reuben. And he left straight after she did.’

‘Jesus Christ, Trudy, he was there when you found out about the recording? Sue’s probably in danger. We might be, too. We’ve got to get the kids out of here.’

Things sped up then. They became physical and actual. On some level I had known they would. It was why I’d been avoiding telling my husband. Bruce brought authenticity to each thing he did. He left the bedroom, his voice was loud through the house. ‘Get up,’ he called to the children, ‘pack an overnight bag. You’re staying the night at your Nan and Pop’s.’

There were the sounds of the children’s beds creaking, their doors opening, and their footsteps down the hall.

‘Your mother and I need to sort something out,’ was Bruce’s hasty explanation to them.

I heard Summer and Renee whispering outside my door. I ventured out. My daughters were dressed in thin cotton nighties, their faces white from sleep.

‘Do we really have to go?’ Renee asked.

‘I think so.’

‘What are you and Dad fighting about?’

Steven came down from upstairs, dressed in warm clothes. ‘Mum’s having an affair,’ he told the girls.

‘Steven!’ Bruce bellowed from the kitchen. He stormed down the hall. The children and I had created a logjam in the hallway. Bruce couldn’t get past without pushing through.

‘I heard you talking about it!’ Steven shouted over our heads at his father. ‘Don’t talk so loud if you don’t want us to know! His name is Finn. I heard you ask if he’s been here to the house.’

‘Mum?’ Renee said. ‘Are you leaving Dad for someone else?’

‘No one say another word!’ Bruce said. ‘Go and get your things together.’

Summer’s fingers brushed against mine. Her face tipped to me. ‘Finn?’ she said. ‘The chef?’

The softness of her touch, her quiet voice, the gentle creasing of her forehead, might well have been an explosion, a hand grenade going off.

Bruce shoved through to us. He grabbed hold of Summer’s shoulders, spinning her to face him, trying not to squeeze her too tight, but squeezing her too tight all the same. He leaned down to look into her face.

‘How do you know him?’

Summer glanced at me. She saw our panic. She grew panicked too. ‘He was … He was at the kitchen we went to with the school.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ she stuttered.

‘What did he say to you? Tell me!’

‘He said … He told me I was special. He said I had a talent.’

There was a note of hurt in our little girl’s voice. She had believed him. Whether it was a coincidental encounter, an honest comment, hardly mattered. Bruce knelt on the hallway boards. He looked weakened. I knew all capacity for rational thought was leaving him. He posed the questions a parent never wants to ask their children, let alone their youngest and most fragile. ‘Did he frighten you? Did he touch you? Did he take you away from the other children?’

‘Yes,’ my daughter said, in answer to Bruce’s last question. Bruce rose to his feet.

As a family we gathered in the kitchen. The cats sat watching. Their tails were curled in around their legs, twitching against the tops of their toes. Bruce pulled me into the pantry.

‘If you thought you’d seen Guy Grant there, why on earth would you let her go to the hotel?’

‘I didn’t even know she was going.’

Bruce’s sudden distrust of me was evident in his eyes. He doubted everything about me now, even my appearance – my familiar face was a trick.

‘Why did he single out our daughter, Trudy? What if he was trying to take her?’

‘I’m worried too. I don’t like at all that he went near her. Something happened today, I didn’t want to add to things by telling you.’

‘Has he hurt you?’

‘All I wanted was to check if it was Guy Grant at the hotel. It seems like such a stupid thing to do now. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wanted to be sure, so I went to the hotel … with Finn. To check. He took me into a room. No,’ I said, seeing the hurt and fear that filled my husband’s eyes. ‘Please. We didn’t. I stopped him.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He wouldn’t let me leave.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He got me in a spare room, and … pushed me back on the bed. He knew I was frightened. It took a bit to get him to stop. ’

Bruce put the car keys into my hand.

‘Take the children. I’m going straight around to the town-house. Which one is he in?’

‘Ring the police.’

‘Take the children to my parents’ place. Which one is he in?’

I shook my head. ‘You can’t go around there, not like this.’

‘Okay, I’ll find out where he is myself.’ He stepped out of the pantry. He returned. ‘Don’t ring the police. Okay? I won’t forgive you if you do.’

‘Bruce, what are you going to do?’

‘It’s my family. I’m going to deal with this.’

‘Mum,’ Renee said in the car, ‘you’re frightening us. Summer says that man only kept her back from the others for a moment. He didn’t really scare her. She feels guilty now Dad’s so upset. Mum, shouldn’t you stop him?’

Reflected in the rear-view mirror, just visible in the dimness of the back seat, was Summer’s face, staring out into the night. Her mouth was parted, her eyes were wide. She knew what was happening. The bad thing was in the process of playing out. Her pure soul felt it, and was rooted, terrified, to the spot.

20

Bruce had rung ahead and told his parents we were coming. They were standing in the dark on the lawn as we pulled into the drive. The white weatherboards of the house glowed ethereal in the dimness of the porch light. The Australian flag, hoisted on a pole attached to their carport roof, was flapping in the night wind.

Bruce had put off for a long time my first meeting with Rex and Joan Harrison. As a preamble he’d simply said, ‘Get ready to tighten your bootstraps.’ Every time I visited the house I recalled a story Bruce had told me about his father, and now proved to be no exception, or maybe it was now, more than any other time, when the importance of the tale hit home. After Steven was born Bruce had confessed to me that his father had once, in a rage about a pushbike supposedly stolen from their driveway, pointed a pistol at Bruce’s eldest brother’s head. Rex had done it unashamedly, in the openness of their backyard, beneath the clothesline, and interrogated his son, to see if the bike had been stolen or if the young teen was lying. It turned out Bruce’s brother had been lying – he’d sold the bike for money to buy concert tickets. The confession could never justify the means by which it was obtained though. The incident had caused in Bruce a profound dislike of guns. He said his mother, looking out the kitchen window and seeing Rex hold the gun to Todd’s head, had screamed so loud that the neighbours three doors down had heard. His mother’s scream was what Bruce remembered most – the shock and horror in it. After that his father had sought help for his behaviour, he reformed, never handled weapons at home again, but … damage done, as Bruce had put it.

I didn’t get out of the car. Joan came up to the open window. There was a degree of smugness and contentment in her expression.

‘Thank you for this, Joan,’ I said.

‘Don’t mention it.’ It was the most chipper I’d ever heard her.

‘I know it’s late, and —’

‘It happens to the best of us,’ she said, ‘the best of us’ a slur about our wealth and our out-of-town address, two things that amounted to snobbery in her eyes. The comment also led me to believe that Bruce had let them think our troubles were marital ones.

‘I’m so sorry about this,’ I called to Rex.

The children were out of the car. Rex had walked up to Steven, placed a hand on the top of his head and was holding Steven still while appraising him. I could guess what Rex would say next, what he always said. ‘You’re a good-looking lad, aren’t ya?’

The girls would be mostly ignored.

‘Rex!’ Joan barked. ‘The kids are upset! Leave ’em.’

‘They’re all right,’ I heard Rex say. ‘Blueing parents are a part of growing up. Come on,’ he said, his arm around Steven’s shoulders, ‘it’s bloody cold out here.’

‘Thanks again, Joan,’ I said.

I backed up the driveway. The children looked over their shoulders and watched me leave.

They say there’s a time in every child’s life when the rose-coloured glasses come off, and they see their parents as they really are: flawed human beings. Our children saw the fault lines in us that night. The headlights swung away from them and it occurred to me that our efforts to shield them from the truth were backfiring.

I drove to the MAD office. The main street of Delaney was deserted. Lights illuminated the bare poplar trees. The trunks and limbs were bathed in an orangey glow. The last few stray leaves fluttered along the darkened shopfronts. Our office was brightly lit. Our four-wheel drive was parked diagonally outside, not in line with the parking bays. I could see Bruce inside, fossicking through the filing cabinet, probably looking for the spare keys to our rental properties.

I pulled in to park.

It had been a while since Bruce and I had been together in the office. I’d forgotten how much space he took up. The close walls and low ceiling made him seem taller, bigger, noisier. Two strides and he was across the room, pulling open the top drawer of the desk, taking out my hardcopy files of tenant details. My chair was pushed aside. His elbow creased my notepaper. ‘Are the kids all right?’

‘Not really.’

‘They’re safe there,’ he said.

‘Bruce, I have Bridget’s phone number – you know, the girl who made the original appointment.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’m going to ring her. We’ll know then if Finn is who he says he is. Just give me one minute.’

I searched my desk diary for the number and dialled. Bruce had found the spare keys to Tyler Street.

‘It’s ringing,’ I told him.

Bruce paused by the door.

A woman answered. ‘Hello?’

‘This is Trudy Harrison from MAD property development, sorry for ringing so late. Is this Bridget Browder?’

‘No …’ the woman said, as though hedging her bets. ‘You must have the wrong number.’

It was her, though. I recognised her voice. ‘Bridget? I’m the person you spoke to about the rental property in Tyler Street. In the Delaney office.’

‘No … sorry.’

‘This is …’ I searched the diary page for the number, ‘0432 867 597?’

‘I have to go.’

‘Wait, Bridget —’

Bruce walked out the door. The line went dead in my ear.

Was I doing it again, being too slow to react? Reuben had walked towards me with a can of chemical spray and I’d not been quick enough to hide my face. Was I refusing again to see what was right in front of me? I ran to catch my husband. Above all else, I knew it was important we weren’t separated from one another, because that was when the worst things happened.

We went to 17 Tyler Street. Bruce drove. I heard and felt the car’s noises and jolts as though from far away. My ears picked up strange new inflections and unusual tones in everything. My eyes were wide and dry. I was seeing the world through a different lens. The night air spoke to me. It pressed its chill through the windscreen and imprinted a cold tale against my face.

The townhouse was in darkness when we arrived. The car clock read 11:23. The bright numbers burned with intensity, as if they contained a message. I heard a car misfire in the distance; this held extra meaning too. It sounded like a gun going off.

Bruce had brought the spare remote control for the garage roller door. He pointed the device and swung our car into the driveway. The headlights shone on the garage floor as the roller door slowly opened. Both parking bays were empty. Bruce might have backed up and driven away, left to check the Four Seasons Inn, but the headlights revealed the bare interior of the garage, devoid of boxes or belongings.

‘He’s already left,’ he said, and drove in and parked on the left side of the garage. The roller door closed behind us. Bruce got out of the car. ‘I’ll check inside. Stay here.’

There was direct access to the townhouse through a plain white door in the rear wall of the garage. When Bruce said he’d check inside, I thought he meant he’d unlock the door and stick his head in, but he disappeared into Finn’s home.

I got out and followed quickly to catch him.

Bruce knew his way around the townhouse. We’d designed and built the place, after all. We knew the layout. He’d turned on the inside light and walked down the narrow passageway.

For some reason I was expecting to find a spartan bachelor pad, but Finn had made the place cosy. There were handmade rugs on the walls and floor cushions scattered around, lots of small coffee tables and cookbooks in piles. His kitchen things wound pleasantly into the lounge room – mixing bowls became ornamental in the casual surrounds. It was an inviting home to walk into. The single light turned on down the passage provided enough illumination. The living area looked even cosier in the dim conditions. I shook my head; the surrounds cemented my feeling that we had taken a wrong turn. I felt sure if only we could wind back and go over the last few hours we would find the place where the answers were, a spot we’d glossed over too quickly.

‘He’s just at work,’ I said. ‘We can’t be in here. Let’s go.’

There was a frying pan in the kitchen sink and some unopened mail on the bench. Bruce turned the envelopes towards him and read the name and address. He pushed the letters away without making comment. He started opening drawers and looking around. I didn’t speak, but Bruce held up his hand to silence me anyway.

‘Shh,’ he said, tilting his head towards the garage. ‘Stay quiet so we can hear if he comes.’

Bruce opened Finn’s laptop and turned it on. While waiting for it to start up, he walked down to the bedroom. I stayed where I was, standing by the sink. The people in our second townhouse, a young couple, were playing techno music. I listened to the mindless doof doof of it. Bruce returned with a folded wad of one hundred dollar bills. He tossed the money on the bench beside the mail.

‘Why would that be in his bedside drawer?’

‘His parents are wealthy,’ I explained. ‘They give him ten thousand every month.’

‘In cash? I doubt it.’

I shook my head. ‘This is a mistake …’

The computer had booted up. Bruce began opening things on Finn’s computer. My husband’s hands weren’t shaking – his browsing seemed almost leisurely. I could see he was wired though – his jaw was set, his hands curled into fists when he wasn’t using them, both feet were planted on the floor.

‘There are certainly a lot of emails to you.’

Outside, a car passed in the street. I listened. Bruce kept clicking away and opening emails and reading. The sound of the car grew faint as it continued down the road. Wind was whistling through a gap in the roof. The backyard gate was banging.

‘Here’s something.’

I stepped nearer to the computer. Enough doubt remained for me to be caught a moment too. Bruce had found a draft email Finn had written. It wasn’t addressed to anyone as yet, although it was clear who it had been composed for:

Trudy, it began, this is a coward’s way of telling you, but whenever I’m with you in person I lose the nerve. Ever since that first day in your office all I’ve wanted is to be open and honest with you. All I want, all I think about, is telling you the truth, and telling you what you’ve made so clear to me. I’ve been afraid to tell you about why I’m here, and why I wasn’t honest about where I’ve been. Sometimes we get so stuck. I’ve been stuck. You make me realise that. You make me feel so —

I jumped at the sound of the roller door opening. Bruce began shutting down the computer.

‘I have an idea.’

We’d left the access door ajar, and the noise of the car pulling in was loud through the house. Bruce walked a short way down the passage and stopped. He peered through the gap in the open door.

‘What sort of car does he drive?’ he called as quietly as he could.

‘A brown Jag.’

Bruce walked briskly back to me. He took out his phone. ‘I’m going to stand around the corner. Right there.’ He pointed to the dark front hallway. Out in the garage, the roller door began to rattle down. Bruce handed me his phone. ‘This is recording,’ he said. ‘I’m going to hang back. He wants to tell you the truth. This might be our only chance to get a confession out of him.’ The Jag engine had stopped running. ‘Don’t ask him directly about Guy Grant, just say you don’t understand what’s happening between the two of you, and see what he says. I’ll be right here. Anything we get is going to help us,’ Bruce whispered. ‘He’ll clam up as soon as the cops are involved.’ He walked to the other side of the kitchen and took a paring blade from the knife block. ‘Sit him down the end of the bench where I can see him.’

The Jag door creaked opened and slammed closed.

‘Don’t take the knife,’ I whispered.

He backed into the front hallway with it.

‘Trudy?’ Finn called. He pushed the door open and walked into the passageway from the garage. ‘Are you here?’

The stack of money was where Bruce had tossed it on the kitchen bench. I snatched it up and lobbed it over towards where Bruce was hiding. The money landed with a smack on the tiled floor, in a dim wedge of light. I watched as Bruce’s leg appeared out from the shadows and the toe of his boot came down gently over the money. He dragged the cash back into the darkness with him.

Finn came into the kitchen. He was wearing his black uniform. In one hand he held his apron. He wasn’t wearing his black work cap, but his hair was flat on top, as though he’d removed the hat in the car. While he stood there he tried to push some volume into his hair, with little success. His face was oily from work and his eyes were red with fatigue. As far as I could tell he was Finn Wieszczynski, a twenty-nine-year-old who had a thing for emotionally fragile older women in heels and tailored jackets. The small amount of suspicion I carried, though, seemed to be enough to keep me on this strange course.

‘You’re here,’ he said. He touched the collar of his shirt with his free hand. He pressed his palm to his collarbone. ‘I had this feeling you would be.’

‘Sorry I came inside.’

‘It’s all right.’ He walked forward and put the apron on the bench. ‘I’ve thought about your set of keys.’ He scratched his temple and grinned. ‘I won’t tell you in what context I’ve considered it.’ He turned on the down lights over the bench and collected up the loose mail and placed it by the salt and pepper shakers. In the new light and with the bench tidy, he seemed able to look at me. He breathed out. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I’m so sorry about today. I’ll make it up to you.’ He glanced at the phone in my hand.

I looked at it too. The screen had gone black; I assumed it was still recording. I placed it down on the bench.

‘I don’t know what’s going on, Finn. I’m confused about what’s been happening.’

He nodded. ‘Do you mind if I have a really quick shower? I stink of deep-fryer fat and burnt satay. I’ve had a nightmare evening. I’ll get you something to drink. A wine?’ he opened the fridge. He showed me a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

‘I want to clear it up now.’

‘Let me have a shower. We’ll sit down and talk.’

He closed the fridge door and quickly crossed the distance separating us. His hand was on my arm. I looked at his fingers resting on the soft woollen fabric of my dress. His hands looked tanned in the dim light. From Bruce’s vantage point he would be able to see Finn touching me. If Finn looked, he would be able to see Bruce watching him. The down lights had reduced the shadows. Where it had been inky black before, it was now dim. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Bruce’s shape. He was standing with his back to the wall, his head turned toward us, watching. It was a B-grade movie pose.

Finn squeezed my arm. His expression grew soft and serious.

‘I know you’ve been hurt.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I want to kiss you so much …’ He eased back. ‘I won’t. I hope I haven’t already put you off with how I smell. Let me shower. I’ll be quick.’

‘Shower?’ I said. ‘In your ensuite?’ Bruce’s shape disappeared. He’d picked up on my reminder that the master bedroom was off the hall.

Finn’s smile was a mixture of delight and approval. ‘Yes. Why?’

There was a dull thud from the front bedroom while Finn spoke. He seemed not to have heard it. Bruce knew the town-house floor plan, but that didn’t stop him running into Finn’s furniture in the dark.

‘No reason,’ I said.

‘I have to tell you, Trudy. My last text to you … I meant it. I know you don’t feel the same way. All I want is that you trust me. We’ll talk; I want to. Please don’t leave while I’m in the shower.’

He didn’t turn on the hallway light, perhaps not wanting to scare me away with bright lights. He left his bedroom door open and put on his bedside lamp. The glow of warm light spread out into the hallway. I picked up Bruce’s phone and waited in the kitchen until I heard the shower running, then I went down the hallway towards the front bedroom. Bruce was standing in amongst open boxes and home-gym equipment. I manoeuvred through the various obstacles. The weight bench had a towel draped over it.

‘He hasn’t said anything, ’ I said in a low voice, ‘I don’t think he’s going to. Let’s go.’

‘He said he wants to talk. Is it recording?’

I passed the phone to Bruce.

‘Where have you put the knife?’ I said.

‘Right there.’

It was beside me on the weight bench. Boxes stacked up around it – boxes from a washing machine, a flat screen TV, a microwave. There was a set of dumbbells by my feet. Bruce had done well to steer through everything without any more than a single thud.

‘The phone battery is low,’ Bruce said. ‘Where’s your phone?’

‘In the car.’

‘This is at ten per cent.’ Bruce looked out the door. From where we were we could see into the master bedroom. One corner of the bed was visible, and the front section of the room. ‘Go into the bedroom. That way we’ll have him trapped. He might try to run when I come out.’

‘I really doubt that he’s involved, Bruce. Why don’t you go outside and come around and knock on the front door? That way things won’t seem so strange. It won’t look like we’ve broken in. Knock and ask him outright if he’s involved.’

‘Guy Grant will have thought of all of this,’ Bruce whispered. ‘There won’t be any links. He’ll have covered his tracks. If I confront this man, he’s not going to tell me. He approached our daughter. If he’s involved, he’s not getting away.’ Bruce set the phone recording again and passed it to me. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as the water stopped running and the shower door slid on its rollers. ‘I’ll stand right by the bedroom door. I’ll be there and watching; I’ll be close, don’t be afraid. I won’t let him touch you.’

I held the phone. It was too risky now to talk. I left the room and went across to the master bedroom. Finn was rustling around in the walk-in robe.

Finn’s futon bed had a bright green doona and light green pillowcases. In here it was easy to pick his age. There was a thick shagpile rug on the floor and a stereo system in the corner. There was a huge TV on top of a coffee table. I spied a lava lamp and an Austin Powers DVD box set. I stood at the foot of the bed and placed the phone on a nearby wooden chest as Finn came out from the walk-in robe. He had dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was towel-dried. His feet were bare.

‘New jeans,’ he said, and walked in a circle. The cuffs and pocket edges were already frayed – designer-applied wear and tear – and there were faded creases either side of his groin. ‘And the T-shirt is new too.’ It was brown with yellow barcodes printed on it. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s good.’

‘Good,’ he said and chuckled. He moved in the direction of the door. ‘I’ll get us a —’

To stop him leaving, I sat down on the bed. ‘Sit with me.’

The sharp veer he took towards me was deliberate, intended to be comical – he acted as though he was compelled to come my way. I tried to smile. It felt stiff and grim. He sat down beside me. His leg rested near mine. My husband was out in the hallway and Finn put his hand on my knee. ‘If you knew how much —’

‘Why did you come to Delaney?’

He drew back a little.

‘I tried ringing that woman who came to the interview with you, and she denied —’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll be really honest here. I know someone has physically hurt you. It’s hard for you to trust. I know that. It’s why you can’t shut the office door and why you get nervous about me touching you. I’m happy you’ve trusted me as much as you have, really happy. That’s why it upset me today when you pulled away. You can trust me.’ A sentimental look came into his eyes. ‘I feel like I can trust you too. It means so much to me that you might understand. It’s been so good for me to get close to you. I’ve found out things about myself.’

I shook my head in frustration. The phone was sitting, still and sleek, on the wooden chest, battery life draining from it. Bruce’s impatience, and anger, was winding its way into the room.

‘Who puts that money into your account?’ I said.

Finn straightened. ‘I told you. My parents.’

‘Why did Bridget say it wasn’t her when I tried to talk to her on the phone?’

He closed his eyes and slowly reopened them. I was sure we’d reached that point: breakthrough. All would be revealed.

‘Bridget and I were never going out. She’s a friend from college. I heard landlords don’t like to rent to single men. So I got Bridget to make the appointment and come with me. She was never going to stay here. I made it look like it was something it wasn’t.’

I glanced towards the open door.

‘Sorry for doing that.’

I pressed my knuckles to my lips and thought. I looked at the wedge of light in the hallway and wondered if Bruce was in a position to see Finn. I could see no hint of him in the shadows. But if he could see into the room, surely he’d realise what I now knew – Finn’s involvement was only through me. There was nothing in his face or body, in his clothes or belongings, in his car or job or anything, to suggest a connection to Guy Grant. And now he was launching into a full rundown of his life.

‘I need to start at the beginning, or at least explain to you that although my parents give me that money, it’s not been the best thing for me. I’ve wasted a lot of years, and spent a lot of time in bad relationships. People might think that having a big cheque roll in every month means you live without a care in the world, but that’s not how it’s been. The money has drawn the wrong people to me, and got me into some bad situations.’

I scratched my neck. Even with Finn not being involved, the octopus was alive and well and latching onto everything; the tentacles were drawing the different parts of my life towards its monstrous Reuben head, upon which it would feed, eating up everything.

‘Finn …’

‘Please, I need to say this. I think it will explain a lot. The woman I was with before coming here was married. She was hot-headed and sometimes … violent. The whole thing went on too long. When I left, at last, she accused me of assaulting her. It was a mess. She went to the police, telling them I did all the things she did. Charges were laid. It was my word against hers. It only worked out because my parents were able to get in a top defence lawyer. She dropped the case. I came to Delaney to start over. I didn’t want to tell you because I was worried you would think I was replacing this woman with you. I’m not. I walked into your office and … You were so hurt. And so beautiful. You were so brave that day, Trudy. I felt close to you. I knew I could help you. I wanted to.’ He moved closer to me. The futon mattress sank lower with our combined weight. ‘I think you’ve known for a while now how I feel. I’m not saying you have to leave your husband; all I’m saying is – do this, like what you’ve done tonight. Come to me. This is all I want. And I think, Trudy, you have to ask yourself – why did you come to the hotel with me? I mean really, not for any made-up reason. Why didn’t you stop me coming to see you after we kissed? Why are you here now? I know it’s hard, and it frightens you, but I think if you look past that, the truth is you want this.’

By ‘this’ he meant the brushing of his fingers against my elbow, the shift of my forearm to allow access to my lap.

‘The truth is you want more.’

The ‘more’ signalled a slide of his hand between my knees, the widening of my legs.

I pushed his hand away. ‘No.’

The streak of spite I’d witnessed in him at the hotel returned deeper and darker, as though it had been percolating inside him, growing stronger and increasingly bitter. The hot-headedness he’d spoken of … it wasn’t something he’d had to deal with in the married woman he’d spoken of; it was something within Finn, a character trait of his own.

His hand closed firmly over my kneecap. ‘You can’t keep saying no to me. You don’t want your husband to find out about us, do you?’

Bruce walked in.

21

Although Finn was shocked, it was clear he had been in situations not too dissimilar. His mouth grew hard, his jaw resolute. He was accustomed to angry husbands. As Bruce reached to grab hold of him, Finn crabbed backwards on the bed. Bruce leaned over the futon, snatching at his legs, trying to take hold of one of his ankles. Finn climbed off the bed and bolted towards the door. Bruce got there first, slamming it shut. He put his forearm across my chest and marshalled me backwards, hard up against the closed door, planting me in a safe place, his body in front of me.

Finn shoved Bruce in the chest. ‘Get out of my house!’

Bruce punched Finn in the face.

‘Bruce!’

Fear, hurt and confusion; together they made for a perfect storm. Finn regained his balance and took a swing in retaliation. Bruce turned him around and took hold of him from behind. Finn thrashed about, kicking wildly. Bruce stumbled sideways, knocking me against the door handle. It pushed painfully into my side. I cried out. Bruce looked to see if I was all right and then sneered in anger, as though it was Finn that had stumbled into me, and he king-hit Finn.

‘Bruce, no!’

Finn staggered, and while he was bent over and unsteady from the blow, Bruce squeezed the back of his neck. I rushed to try to stop them, but Finn wheeled around to twist free and his body collided with mine. I stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, the wind knocked out of me. My husband squeezed Finn harder. Finn’s right arm flayed around, trying to fend him off. Bruce craned his head, avoiding the worst of it. He squeezed until Finn was down on his knees, his face screwed up and his torso rigid and twisted.

‘Touch my wife,’ Bruce sneered down at him. ‘Go near my kids.’

As I got to my feet, Bruce’s free hand opened and angled towards me, telling me to stay back, warning me not to intervene.

‘Let him up!’

‘Has Guy Grant put you up to this?’

Finn’s eyes were narrowed. His lips were thin white lines. ‘Fuck you.’

I had to wonder if Bruce had known about this pincer-hold method of containment before that day at the house, or whether he’d learnt of it from our attacker. You needed a man’s strength for it, and it worked better the more height you had – with Finn kneeling, Bruce had absolute control, he could put his weight behind his grip; he squeezed and pushed. Or maybe he’d learnt it from his father.

‘He’s not involved!’ I pulled at Bruce’s arm.

The second the pressure lessened, Finn pushed away, spinning and kicking out at Bruce. I spread my hands in a hushing, shushing action, willing commonsense.

‘Don’t fight him! Both of you, stop!’

But neither of them heard me, or would have stopped even if they had.

One of Finn’s kicks landed between Bruce’s legs. The aim was slightly off, but my husband’s mouth opened in a soundless scream. It looked for a moment like his knees would give; he leaned forward and reached out as though to go down onto all fours, but then grit his teeth, breathed through it. He straightened and punched Finn in the face again, this time with better placement, a cleaner, sharper hit. Finn slumped.

The emotions of the night were running like liquid into one another, so many different reasons, crossing over; it made for a confusing confrontation. Bruce pulled the front of Finn’s T-shirt over Finn’s head, and halfway down his back. The T-shirt was tight-fitting, and the effect of having it peeled this way drew Finn’s elbows together, trapping his arms behind him. Something about the way Bruce was using Finn’s clothing told me he had first-hand experience. It was perhaps what Reuben had done to Bruce. Bruce took a fistful of red hair and pushed Finn’s face into the carpet. I didn’t think Reuben had done that. Bruce’s face would have been bruised. Not everything was a replay of that day. Bruce was not caught in a time warp – was he? What had happened to him was integrated, meshed; it came out here and there, in bits and pieces. I saw flashes of it. How bizarre, and truly devastating, that my husband instinctively played out the events of that day. What did that say about us, about my husband, and how doomed we were?

We were doomed. Old Trudy, the real Trudy, the one who wore floral dresses and giggled at the seriousness of school assemblies, was in the room, watching in horror, in disbelief at how unhinged things had become.

Finn’s stomach folded and creased over the waistband of his jeans. Bruce put one knee on Finn’s shoulder and reefed Finn’s head around to the side. Finn was stiff, yet compliant. There were many ways to try to get free, but he wasn’t trying any of them now. His eyes were screwed up and he was sucking in air through his teeth. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. His pupils dilated, and contracted again, focusing on me. I don’t know what he saw. I felt confused, drained and shattered. The topknot in my hair had slipped. Long blonde wisps had escaped. My feet ached in my narrow boots.

‘Let him up, Bruce. Let him explain.’ The phone had been knocked onto the floor. It was still recording. As a way to get through to my husband I picked it up and sat it back on the chest. ‘Let him tell you.’

Bruce hauled Finn to his feet, and as he did he put to him forcefully, ‘You know Guy Grant!’

‘Yeah,’ Finn challenged, slurring, almost revelling in the confrontation. ‘Whatever you wanna hear.’

‘No! He doesn’t know him!’

It was all too clear how complete the confusion was about to become.

‘Why did you go near my daughter?’ Bruce bellowed in Finn’s face.

‘He doesn’t know Guy Grant!’

‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ Bruce screamed.

The intensity of Bruce’s fury seemed to register then. The cocky sneer dropped from Finn’s face. He broke free from Bruce’s hold and lunged for the bedroom door. He managed to get it open and ran into the hallway. Bruce caught him at the front door. He hauled him away from the doorknob.

‘He doesn’t know Guy Grant!’

They wrestled in the hallway a moment. Finn’s T-shirt came off during this struggle. It fell onto the doormat. Finn pushed past Bruce into the living area. As he ran he saw the knife. Bruce had laid it down alongside the skirting outside Finn’s bedroom door. I saw the moment when Finn’s fear became something else, as mine had done when I’d looked up to see the furnace cowling above my head. Now he sprinted. There were three exits he could choose from – the living area sliding door, the laundry door, or out through the garage. He chose the sliding door. He jumped over the coffee table, tripped over cushions, and was able to reach the handle before Bruce pulled him back. Finn’s fingers slipped on the smooth plastic as he was wrenched away. Bruce took hold of Finn by the waistband of his jeans and threw him sideways into the couch. Finn landed safely in the cushions.

‘Don’t move!’ Bruce demanded.

Finn climbed over the back of the couch, falling onto the narrow floor space between the couch and wall. He shot out and made a dash for escape route number two – the laundry. I moved to stop him.

‘No,’ Bruce said, ‘stay back, you’ll get hurt!’

The laundry door had a deadlock. If it weren’t for this, Finn would have made it into the backyard. But before Finn could get the door open, Bruce overpowered him. Their bodies knocked and bumped. I stopped in the doorway and turned on the light. Bruce pushed Finn’s head into the laundry trough beside the back door. The steel in the basin twanged and the thin base buckled. Bruce turned on the cold-water tap. The water poured over Finn’s head and splashed on the tiled floor.

As I rushed forward, I slipped and came down hard on my right knee. I suppressed how much it hurt. I got straight back up, but was immobilised as pain gripped me. I bent over, clutching at my knee.

Bruce leaned in and used his body weight to control Finn, who began kicking against the cupboard below the sink, gripping the basin sides with both hands and levering back with all his might. The basin had one of those plugs that live in the plughole. Finn’s forehead must have pushed the plug down into its sealed position. The sink began to fill.

Touching my husband’s back I could feel he was completely closed off from me. Men don’t appreciate their physical strength, compared to that of a woman. It’s why they forget to lock up a house at night, and women never forget. Bruce didn’t feel twice as strong as me; he felt ten times the strength. There was no way I could stop him. I pulled at his shoulders, to no avail. Pleaded with him to stop. I knew he sensed on some level that I was there, because he moved, so that I couldn’t reach the tap to turn it off.

Finn looked to draw on those reserves of strength stored away for times like these, superhuman strength; he was able to straighten in Bruce’s hold. He began screaming, hollering, at the top of his lungs. The doof doof music was still playing next door. No one could hear him. Bruce regained control and pushed Finn’s head back under the tap. He held it there with both hands. Bruce’s feet slipped, but he was wearing boots, and had the benefit of tread. Finn’s bare feet slid about without any chance of gripping.

People could drown in a small amount of water. When our children were young, Bruce and I had been vigilant. We’d upturned buckets and put the cats’ drinking bowls up high, we’d covered the drums of grey water collected for the garden. Our kids weren’t going to drown in an inch or two of water, not on our watch. Some new parents were paranoid about accidental choking, others lost sleep over cot death, or an unexpected fall, but Bruce and I had fretted about shallow drowning. The bottom of the sink filled. Finn gurgled and spluttered. The tap water was flowing over his head, even when he turned his head he couldn’t take a proper breath.

Torture didn’t work as a way of extracting information from a person. I’d read that somewhere, or seen it on TV. Finn would be shutting off, losing all sense of what to say or do. Pretty soon he would say or do anything to make Bruce stop. Torture could bring about compliance, but not honesty. Bruce had been tortured to the point of compliance. I knew that now. Reuben must have held Bruce underwater in the other room Bruce had spoken of; that was why his clothes had been wet. Sadists used torture in the manner it should be used, to placate. Shackling Bruce had been easier after that, touching him had been easier. I only needed to look at my husband’s actions to know what had been done to him.

Bruce was no sadist, though. He let Finn up. Finn gasped, open-mouthed, water streaming down his face. I backed away, shaking. I was dumbstruck, shocked by how deep and wide the hurt was, concerned for my husband, wanting to comfort him, even though it was Finn in need of assistance. Bruce leaned on the washing machine, taking in deep breaths, drying his hands on the sides of his pants. The two men were in a time-out as they recovered. Water dripped. Finn coughed and breathed. My husband frowned in thought. Only now was he able to look back and see what he had done. He was becoming aware of the uneasy truth. His boots were wet. His pants were soaked. He looked down at his body. I sensed his growing distress at his own actions.

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

‘No, it’s not.’

Finn slid down to sit on the wet floor, his back against the door. Beneath his freckles, his face was the colour of uncooked dough. Water dripped from his hair. His legs were stretched out in front of him, in a pose that struck me as both defeated and defiant. It was how Bruce had sat in his manacles.

‘Get out now, you fucking psycho,’ Finn said to Bruce.

‘How do you know Guy Grant?’

‘Get out of my house!’

‘You’ll tell me why you approached my daughter!’

‘Please just answer that,’ I said. ‘Finn, why did you talk to Summer at the restaurant?’

‘I was being nice! I saw her name on the list of students, and I was being fucking nice!’

‘Hey,’ Bruce barked.

‘Fuck you! You tried to drown me!’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘He did!’

‘Do you know Guy Grant, or not?’

I saw Finn’s eyes moving past me to fix on the open laundry door.

‘The hotel guy, ’ I explained. ‘He’s involved with someone who attacked us.’ Finn’s expression didn’t change. ‘Would you testify to the police that you saw him in town? We can go to the police now.’ I looked at the wet clothes, Finn’s battered face. ‘Or once you get dry. That’s why we came here, to ask if you can testify to seeing him and confirm he was in town.’

Finn pushed some wet hair from his eyes. His tongue moved and probed inside his mouth. I could see he didn’t like looking at Bruce, or looking in Bruce’s direction. ‘The desk girls told me he was there.’

‘Will you testify you saw him?’

After a second of thinking, Finn answered, ‘No. Just get out of my house.’

‘Too bad,’ Bruce said, ‘you’re going to whether you like it or not. Trudy, get my phone. We’re ringing the police. You assaulted my wife today. You prey on upset women, you took a schoolgirl away from her school group, and I don’t trust you as far as I could kick you.’

‘You tried to kill me!’ Finn bared his teeth and tapped a finger on an incisor, indicating a chipped tooth. ‘You broke into my house, beat me up and tried to drown me – you’re a fucking psycho.’

‘Assault someone’s wife and approach their kids and you’d want to expect something. I don’t think the cops will be too surprised that I hit you. We’re calling them.’

Finn suddenly began getting to his feet. Once standing, he sniffed and jammed a thumb up under his nostril, rubbed hard. ‘I’ll testify if we go there. Only if we go there, though. I don’t want the cops and some fucking circus here.’

We waited in the kitchen while he went to the bedroom for a jumper. We walked ahead of him when he appeared again. He was carrying a pair of socks. His feet remained bare. The light in the garage was bright. It bounced off the windscreens of both cars.

At first I thought it was this harsh light that made Finn look so different. He was almost unrecognisable as the pleasant redhead who had tapped lightly on my office door. Bruce, keen to go, was standing between the two cars. Finn carried his shoes to the driver’s side door of his Jag. My eyes followed him. He reached behind his back and pushed at something beneath his jumper, as though tucking a shirt into the band of his jeans. It didn’t look to me, though, like he was wearing a shirt.

I said quietly to Bruce, ‘Be careful.’

‘I’m following you there,’ Finn said.

‘Get in the car,’ Bruce said to me.

‘I think he’s got a weapon …’

Our whispered conversation had Finn glancing across. From the relative safety of the far side of his car he said, ‘You know what? I don’t need this bullshit. Just get in your car and fuck off. Go home and tell your husband, Trudy, how you led me on. It takes two to play the fucking game. The man at the hotel is no one. Say what you want to the cops – I’ve done nothing wrong. You wanna charge me with something? You go for it. My parents will bury you. If I were you I’d plan on selling every one of your houses if you want to match the legal team they’ll set onto you.’

‘Is there a reason you don’t seem keen for the police to come here?’ Bruce said.

‘Shut up,’ Finn sneered at him. ‘You’ve got some balls. You should be happy I just want you to piss off.’

Bruce was silent.

‘Not screaming at me now?’ Finn said. ‘Come round here now and try to hit me.’ The thing jammed down the back of Finn’s jeans was feeding this bravado. ‘What’s stopping you?’

‘Did you follow Sue Murdoch out of the office today?’ Bruce said.

Finn laughed. ‘Um … whatever.’

‘Are you paid to be here?’

‘Yeah, okay, I sure am.’ Finn put his shoes on the Jag’s roof, leaned his body against the closed driver’s side door, reclining against it, as though getting comfortable. ‘You must think you’re pretty important. Even if you were attacked, what makes you think anyone would give a shit?’

This effort to appear relaxed was an act, though. Finn was very pale. One eye squinted shut as he looked to deal with a flash of pain. The garage lights seemed suddenly too bright for him. He shied from them.

I said, under my breath, ‘Maybe he wants whatever he’s carrying out of the house in case the police come. Let’s just go.’

‘Tell you what …’ Finn took the shoes off the car roof. ‘You two stay here and do whatever mental thing you reckon.’ He reached for the door handle of his car. ‘And next time you hear from me it’ll be through …’

His last word was slurred. A blood vessel had burst in his eye. Any remaining colour dropped from his face and blood oozed from his nostril. It followed the line of his upper lip. He swayed. The shoes he was holding dropped onto the dusty concrete.

‘Bruce, he’s going to faint!’

Finn was upright and speaking one second, the next he was dead-eyed and falling back. His head hit the concrete with a sickening smack. It was as though the concrete accepted Finn’s skull and Finn’s skull accepted the concrete. We ran around to him. Bruce lifted Finn’s upper body from off the floor. There was a patch of blood where Finn had landed, but as I looked at his anaemic face, I had a feeling that the bleeding was happening inside, contained within Finn’s skull; it had started before he’d fainted.

Bruce took his hand out from beneath Finn. My husband was holding a small pistol. It didn’t look real. I’d never seen a handgun out of a holster, up close. Weren’t they bigger, blacker and shinier than that? Bruce opened his hand, taking the tips of his fingers away from the chequered timber inlay in the grip, leaving the weapon resting on his palm. He tilted his hand and let the weapon slide onto the floor.

‘Call an ambulance,’ he said.

I ran to our car. Finn began to twitch and convulse on the floor. I heard his body jerking and his bare heels rubbing against the concrete.

‘Hurry!’

It took me a few seconds to find my phone. I had a text. It was from Sue Murdoch. Just got your message. Had my phone off. Hope everything is ok?

Finn grew still. The garage was suddenly much colder and starker.

‘No, no,’ Bruce began to say, ‘no …’

I ran back to my husband.

He was holding Finn, gripping him tight as though to squeeze the life back in, but life had slipped out, through my husband’s fingers. It had seeped out through the cracks we’d made. There’d been no stopping it.

22

The first thing I did was put the knife back in the kitchen. I rubbed the handle with a tea towel after sliding the blade into the knife block. Then I kept the tea towel with me and wiped over the computer keyboard, and around the edges of the screen. I wiped down the kitchen bench, the drawer handles, everywhere I thought Bruce had touched. The wad of notes was on the floor where Bruce had dragged it with the toe of his boot. I put the money in the bedroom bedside drawer. I went out into the hallway and picked up Finn’s T-shirt, folded it, and put it away with his other T-shirts.

Bruce’s phone was still recording. The battery was down to three per cent. I turned the phone off, put it in my pocket. I cleaned up in the laundry, using a towel from the dirty laundry basket to dry the floor.

Returning to the garage, I found Bruce kneeling beside Finn’s body. He had eased Finn down onto the floor, placed him carefully, arranging his arms to lie either side, close in to his torso, and had turned Finn’s hands so that they were facing down. Bruce looked at his own hands, his knuckles, and clenched his fists and opened his hands slowly, as though hoping this might disperse the redness. He looked at the side of Finn’s neck, where he had squeezed him.

‘Is it bruised?’

‘It’s red.’

We looked at the handgun on the floor.

‘You touched it.’

‘We’ll wipe it down.’

‘They’ll be able to tell it’s been wiped down.’

‘I’ll say I touched it.’

‘It won’t be registered. That was probably why he wanted it out of the house. We should perhaps … get rid of it.’

‘Our coming here can be explained,’ Bruce said.

‘What if the recording on Sue’s phone isn’t clear? We haven’t heard it. It might prove nothing. Or what if the police can’t retrieve it? None of this will make sense if there’s no proof of our attack.’

‘He fainted.’

‘I think he had a seizure, before he fainted. You realise, it’s going to look like you came around here thinking I’d had an affair? Robert told you today about Finn. This happened the same day you found out your wife might be cheating.’

‘There were so many coincidences linking him to Guy Grant …’

‘I’m not sure there were.’

‘We thought he was involved.’

‘It’s going to sound like we’re crazy.’

‘Not if the recording proves our attack.’

‘It makes it even worse that Finn had a past with married women.’ I touched my forehead, rubbed at the magnitude: it was collecting in my brow. ‘This is breaking and entering, and assault, and if he haemorrhaged as a result of one of your hits, with all those calls and emails to me …’

‘He had a gun. He still might be involved.’ Bruce stayed kneeling by the body. ‘If we could just know Sue’s recording was real. Guy Grant has been here in town. Won’t there be security camera footage of him at the hotel?’

‘I’m not sure it was him now.’

‘He was there that day – he was in that house when we were being attacked. We should be warning Sue … shouldn’t we?’

‘It’ll sound like we’re crazy.’

‘Will it?’

‘Are we?’

The handgun sitting on the floor only intensified this sense that we’d lost our sanity. Chefs don’t have pistols stashed in their bedrooms – do they? It was like we’d conjured up the gun, conjured up everything. Right then, I even questioned that Reuben’s attack was how we’d perceived it.

‘Why is this happening?’ I said.

We fell silent.

My thoughts ran in two clear parallel lines. One concerned the Trudy and Bruce I knew, remembered from another life: that line included the police, possible jail time, and the necessity of explaining actions we didn’t understand ourselves – it encompassed shame, admitting to our bad decisions and bizarre behaviour. The other line was this night, now, the world as no one else could see it except for me and Bruce, and it included things like the gun, the music playing next door, the garage dust stirred up in the air, my aches and sore spots, my throbbing knee, Bruce kneeling beside Finn’s body. The two streams of thought were like railway tracks – undeniably separate, but ahead the gap between them narrowed, suggesting these two tracks would somehow eventually merge, promising some hope that all could be reconciled with time and distance. I was conveniently forgetting that this merging of the tracks was an optical illusion.

At least Bruce had maintained his one-track mind.

‘There are no choices here – we call the police. That’s the mistake we made the first time, thinking there was a choice.’ He checked his watch. It was nearing one a.m. ‘They’ll be able to retrieve the recording from Sue. I touched the gun accidentally. There will be proof Guy Grant was here in town. It will be clear to anyone that the suspicions we had toward Finn were reasonable, considering what we’ve been through, and tests will show Finn died from hitting his head, from fainting.’

I nodded. I wanted that to be true.

He dialled Damien’s number and set the phone to loudspeaker. I heard him swallow. ‘We’re telling the truth.’

Damien answered. His voice was businesslike despite the late hour. ‘Hello.’

Bruce’s gaze flashed sideways to me, suddenly unsure. ‘Damien …’

‘Bruce,’ Damien said, as though he’d been expecting him to call.

‘We found out that there’s a recording of our attack …’

My husband was mumbling, stalling, giving himself time to fashion a less damning account of what had happened. I could see he was thinking of what to omit. His gaze moved around the garage and travelled over Finn’s body – his wet clothes, the bruising.

‘I planned to ring you in the morning,’ Damien was saying. ‘Did you see it on the news? I think it backs up your story. Frustrating for you too, though. Victims often have strong reactions with the sudden death of a key person. It can be the wrong sort of closure.’

Bruce looked at me and shook his head, confused by what Damien was talking about. I put my finger to my lips. Go carefully, I mouthed.

‘What was that you said about a recording?’ Damien asked.

‘There’s a phone recording … from the day of the attack. It was taken while we were in the house …’

‘You’ll have to speak up. Did you say there’s a recording of your attack?’

‘The recording was saved on message bank. It was made from Trudy’s phone by accident. It’s been deleted. Can the police get it back?’

‘Speak up, mate. I can’t hear you very well. Have you heard the recording?’

‘No.’

‘Sent from Trudy’s phone, you say?’

‘Yeah,’ Bruce murmured.

‘I thought you’d rung about Guy Grant’s death.’

Bruce fell silent. In unison we both stared off across the garage. It was as though our heads had to be tipped just so to process this unusual information. Either that, or there was a section of the concrete floor that held the key to understanding this news, and together we stared at it.

‘You there?’ Damien said.

I touched Bruce’s arm. ‘Hang up,’ I whispered.

‘I’m here,’ he said.

‘Did you know he was dead?’

‘No.’

‘Suicide. Shot himself in the head. Looks like he’s gone to the family estate in Utah to do it. Discovered today. It’s been on the news here. I thought maybe you might have seen it.’

After a pause, Bruce said, ‘When did he do it?’

‘They haven’t determined exactly, but it’s looking like as long as a month ago. I’m just getting what’s on the news at the moment.’

‘A month? But he was here in Australia … ?’

‘Mate, he was flying out the day you came into the station. I wasn’t in a position to tell you. We couldn’t stop him from leaving, not with what we had.’

I think Bruce almost hung up then. His brows pinched in, pained and deceived. ‘He was fleeing the country and you didn’t stop him? Why wouldn’t you tell us he was doing that? You threatened me with an AVO. I believed you. He wasn’t even in the country? He hasn’t been here the whole time?’

‘I’m really sorry, Bruce. I feel like you got the short straw with this, all the way through you pulled the short straw.’

‘Will you even look into the recording now that he’s dead?’

Damien’s breath came heavy down the line. ‘Deleted, you say? Sometimes it can be a bit tricky to —’

Bruce hung up.

23

We loaded Finn into the boot of his car. I held him by his feet, Bruce held him by his shoulders. The body smelt of urine and faeces. The fact that I was trembling, staring glassy-eyed while lifting the body, was made irrelevant by the enormity of what we were doing. We did what it seemed like we had to do. That was our focus – getting it done. It wasn’t even like we were getting rid of Finn’s body to save ourselves: it wouldn’t save us, not in our souls. Events had forced our hand. The events were to blame. But that sounded terribly like the catch-cry of the criminally insane …

Bruce arranged Finn in the boot so that his head wasn’t bent at an uncomfortable angle. I began to softly whine. It didn’t halt proceedings. Tears stung my eyes. It hurt to find ourselves on the fringe like this, abandoned.

There was a wet patch where Finn had been lying on the garage floor, but some of the wetness was due to his water-logged pants. I concentrated on that. The weakest thing for me to do would be to fall apart. I wondered if the concrete would dry without a mark or a stain, or without smelling too potently of body fluids. Then, reasoning that Bruce had more to lose than I did if his prints were found on the gun, I handled the weapon, using the sleeve of my dress to wipe it down. The gun was dense and weighty. It felt real. More real than everything else. It was an object that wasn’t confused about what it did or what it was. It was nerve-racking to swap it from hand to hand, carefully avoiding the trigger. I could see the craftsmanship and design in it, a perfected piece of engineering. With my sleeve pulled down over my hand, I carried it and put it in the boot beside Finn’s body. Bruce and I faced one another before closing the boot – our last chance to change our minds.

‘If we do it, we have to do it right,’ Bruce said.

‘I want it to be over.’

‘That’s what we’ll do,’ he said.

He backed Finn’s car out of the garage and I reversed out the four-wheel drive. The roller door rattled down. Bruce had the remote. The street was dark and still. We had a long drive ahead of us.

The time behind the wheel turned out to be strangely soothing. The Jag’s tail-lights were all there were before me: two red glowing eyes staring back at me, bleeding in a sea of darkness. Bruce and I drove through the sleeping city, and out the other side, down the empty freeways, alone in our separate vehicles, but close, the two of us. I felt Bruce and he felt me. I loved my husband more and more with each kilometre that passed. We were so thankful to have one another. We would love each other from different jail cells, if need be. Love was all that mattered now. We’d taken it back to that, the most basic thing.

The sky grew lighter and the Jag sat low and hugged each coastal bend. Today the sea was wild and the sky was grey. The waves crashed against the cliff faces. We’d taken the scenic route. We passed roadside tributes – they cemented the truth of what we were about to do. Each time the Jag braked and slowed for a corner, I thought Bruce had picked a spot. He kept going though. He drove as though he had a certain piece of road in mind, a sheer unguarded drop.

The road swung away from the ocean. Farming land stretched out around us. To the left were the two-hundred-year-old stone fences. Bruce didn’t slow for them. I looked up into the sky for eagles, but it was too windy for them today. Strong gusts pushed the four-wheel drive across the centre white line. I steered it back on course.

The Jag indicator flashed.

The cliff house gate was open.

We had returned to the gallery.

We entered the property from the opposite direction this time. Wind lashed the cars. There were muddy tyre tracks on the driveway.

On the square of asphalt in front of the house was a rubbish skip and piles of salvaged timber. No tradesmen’s cars were parked there yet this morning, but there was evidence they’d been there the day before: freshly churned-up mud, an empty Cheezels box blowing about, a hi-vis jacket flapping on the end of crowbar propped against the garage door. The men might turn up at any moment. It was seven o’clock.

The sound of the sea met me as I climbed from the car. Ocean filled the air as well as the cove below the house. The sky moved and the weather came at me in waves. The long windows of the house acted as mirrors, reflecting the grey clouds. Bruce walked towards me. He pointed towards the cliff edge and then the road.

‘It’s the only safe spot,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place a car can’t turn the corner and catch us doing it. And I couldn’t stop thinking all the way up here – even if we sit him in the front seat, there’s all that forensic evidence if his body is found. The windscreen will probably come out on impact and his body could easily wash ashore. We should push the car over, but, maybe … we should take the body inside and … burn it.’

His suggestion didn’t surprise me, I was perhaps past that; it saddened me, it made me want to hold him. All that time travelling and his mind filled with the kinds of things he should never have had to contemplate. I saw it in his eyes, what a nightmare trip it had been in Finn’s car, the body in the boot.

‘I don’t think we can,’ I said quietly, meaning I didn’t think our souls, or minds, could handle it.

‘But I think we have to.’

The garage door was closed. The hi-vis jacket slapped and flapped against it.

‘I’ll have to check first that the furnace is working. He’ll wash ashore otherwise.’

‘Like cremation?’ I said after a moment.

‘The same as burying a body,’ Bruce assured me, ‘the same as digging a hole or putting him in the sea.’

That was what we told ourselves.

Bruce and I peered through the ground-floor windows. The wall inside the house, the one blocking the view, had been removed. We could see right through to the ocean. We walked around to the side entrance. The blue door and the wall around it had been taken down for access and replaced with a makeshift door and chipboard wall. An open-plan house such as this couldn’t be left exposed during a renovation, not in this type of environment; a southerly could blast in, fill the home, and rip the roof off, or pull the building from its footings. The makeshift door was locked. We knew, though, that there was nothing worse for a busy tradesman than turning up to do a job, only to find the worksite empty and the job locked; invariably, the guy in charge, the one with the keys, was hours away. To save this from happening, a key was always kept on site, in a spot easy to find. There was a brick beside the door. Bruce shifted it and picked up the key.

The molten floor was covered with a thick tarp. Walls and doors and partitions had been removed throughout. As a home it now made much more sense. There was nothing stopping us from seeing into the heart of the place. The windows displayed the spectacular sight of the sheer cliff face sweeping around each side of the cove, with the white peaks of the open ocean in the distance. The first room, the one that had held the mirrors, and the long bench I’d sat on, was no longer small, but large and filled with natural light.

There were drop sheets on the floor, scaffolding, raw timber edges, exposed electrical wiring, saw horses and the leftover wrappers from the workmen’s lunches.

‘We have to hurry,’ Bruce said, ‘these guys could turn up any minute.’

He took my hand. He was breathing with an open mouth like I was, panting with the anticipation of what we were about to do, and the strangeness of being back here, finding things so changed, yet so much the same.

Bruce and I walked into the kitchen. To our right was the ocean view. The jagged shoreline stirred up powerful thoughts and feelings, wind howling, the waves crashing and the water foaming. The door leading to the garage was unlocked. Bruce opened it and stopped. I heard the breath catch in his throat. The empty garage lay before us. Bruce took a step backwards and opened a door leading into a walk-in pantry. Up the back of the pantry, he pushed a narrow door. Bruce felt inside the doorway for a light switch. Halogen lights came on and illuminated a small room. It was a wet area, a washroom: tiled floor and walls, an open shower in one corner, a mop and bucket, a plastic apron, and lengths of thin rubber tubing, the type that is sometimes used for securing young trees to stakes. In the other corner of the room was a sink. On the walls either side were vertical handrails. The floor was slanted, toward a large drainage grate. On the shelves above the sink were boxes of rubber gloves, pump-packs of disinfectant and hand sanitiser, and an assortment of hospital-grade cleaning and sterilising items.

My heart sank as it dawned on me – Reuben had been a hygienic man, a meticulous man; he had wanted Bruce clean before he took him to the workshop. On the wall beside the sink was a length of hose, looped and hanging neatly from a hook, on the end of which was a tapered metal fitting. Reuben had prepared my husband. He’d used the rubber tubing to tie Bruce to the rails, he’d put Bruce’s head underwater, perhaps to maximise the fear, perhaps to keep him quiet, and did what he needed to for a stylised, sanitised rape.

I sank down in the doorway to wait until the tradesmen turned up, and then the police, so they could lift me to my feet and take me away. I didn’t care any more what happened. My heavy limbs could not support me. Bruce put his arm around me and lifted me to my feet. He turned off the lights and, in the semi-dark, said, ‘I’ll do it. It was my fault. I brought us in here. Go and wait outside.’

I knew, though, that left alone in there, my husband was at risk of never coming back.

I used the built-in remote control to open the garage roller door. I heard the crowbar outside fall to the ground and, as the door lifted, I saw the hi-vis jacket still flapping in the wind, now caught beneath the fallen bar. Bruce pushed the steel sliding door of the workshop wide so that there was enough space for a vehicle to drive through. All the things we remembered were there – the long cabinet, the gantry, the drill press, the table I’d hidden under. Lengths of timber were stacked on the row of shelving.

Bruce bent and touched the floor where Reuben had lain. He rubbed his knuckles over it. ‘Feel it.’ I bent and quickly felt the concrete at my feet. It was covered in a thin coating of polyurethane. It was the colour of concrete, and mostly had the texture of concrete, but the entire floor was waterproof. Bruce straightened. ‘The place was designed to trap and kill. They thought of everything.’

‘Let’s hurry.’

The furnace controls were on the cowling. Bruce lowered the dome over the stainless steel table that formed the base. He turned the dial to a high setting and pressed the large red button. We heard the gas ignite. There was a soft jet roar that slowly built. I faced the workshop entrance. If someone appeared, I wasn’t sure what I would do – call for Bruce to attack them? Bruce pressed the large green button and turned the dial back to the off position.

‘We’ll bring the Jag right in,’ he said. ‘Help me push aside some of the stuff.’

The wind blew through the open doors. Bruce backed in the Jag. Each thing we did was rushed.

Lifting Finn’s body, we struggled with the weight of him, trying to handle him with respect, but unceremoniously dumping him onto the furnace base. We lay him straight and folded his arms over his chest, but didn’t pause for reflection, not yet; it also felt like it wasn’t our right to feel remorseful. I closed the boot on the handgun and Bruce lowered the cowling. I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Bruce started up the furnace.

Taking Finn from the boot and placing him on the furnace base took no more than a minute or two, but those hurried moments were recorded within me, taken down with painstaking accuracy without my knowledge or consent, against my will. I would remember the weight of his body, the cold feel of his skin, the paleness of his feet, the hardness of his ankles, his toes, trimmed toenails, clean soles, wet soggy jeans, no body heat to dry them, in the back of my nostrils there would always live the lingering smell of cold excrement and urine, the rubber trim on the boot, the Jag’s exhaust fumes. I would see in my mind’s eye the shiny steel of the furnace, and feel it smooth against my fingers, and whenever Bruce glanced across at me, I would remember his glance that day – a bottomless gaze, no safety net to catch us.

Finn’s head pushed forward against Bruce’s midriff, Finn’s pale and freckled arms … All those things and more, an unending stream of detail, enough to fill every day and every night, every meal at a restaurant, every dessert, any ocean view, each autumn leaf, each rainy day, windy day, each redhead passing in the street … Finn would be there, being lifted from the boot. His death lived in me.

His final moments were anything but final. The furnace grew hot and the sides radiated heat and Bruce turned the dial to its hottest setting. But Finn didn’t burn away.

When we lifted the cowling, he’d become a perfectly preserved skeleton of ash. His skull, ribcage, pelvis, all were intact. Bruce and I could see the bones of him without the blood and gore. He was odourless, soft, feather-light, grey and so intricate. And then the wind swept through the workshop and we saw his jaw and fingers disintegrate. Bruce lowered the cowling to stop the ash being blown about. He turned on the extraction fan within the furnace, and Finn’s ash skeleton was sucked up into the flue, jettisoned out into weather, over the cove.

We scattered Finn to the wind and the water. He was absorbed into rock and grass, he soaked down into the roots of trees. Standing beside the furnace, I even breathed him in. I wet my lips and tasted ash. I wiped my face and realised part of him had settled as a fine dust on my face. Bruce gagged, and spat. He dry retched, scrubbed his face and combed his hands back and forth through his hair. ‘Oh, God …’ he was saying.

My husband was despairing and I thought I was holding myself together – until I realised that my sense of this had manifested in a physical action; I had wrapped my arms around my body and I was squeezing myself, rocking back and forth, drawing all my muscles in, to stop from falling to pieces.

We left the workshop the way we had found it. Bruce drove the Jag out through the garage and around to the cliff edge. I ducked out under the lowering roller door and waited while it closed. I put the crowbar and workman’s shirt back in place and ran from the house, as though it might draw me in – sprout tentacles and reach out to grab hold of me, pale legs emerging from beneath the big square box, the house transforming into the deep-sea monster I knew it to be, the glass and steel turning opaque-blue and fleshy, crawling down the cliff face, into the ocean, taking me with it. As though I hadn’t already gone.

I glanced up at the windows. The day and the weather were reflected back at me. It crossed my mind that Bruce and I should drive off the cliff. With the drop right there in front of us, suicide presented itself as an option. We had our children to consider, though, and they’d prefer us around, in any shape. Bruce shifted some rocks so that the Jag’s undercarriage wouldn’t snag. He threw the rocks away into the grass. Each stone landed with a thud. He parked the Jag’s near to the cliff edge, wound down the two front windows, and with the vehicle in neutral he climbed out. Bruce ran to our four-wheel drive. He had his eyes on the driveway. I went to the cliff edge and peered over the sheer drop. Briny wind whipped my face. On hands and knees I crawled to the very edge. The ocean shook. No sand below, but agitated water, lifting, smashing and spraying up the cliff face. Bruce approached in the four-wheel drive. He drove at a reckless speed over the rocky ground. I got to my feet. Something out the front of the property caught my eye. A vehicle with a flashing light on top was pulling up at the gate. The flashing light was all I could see from where I stood. The vehicle continued on slowly past the gate and up the road, then stopped. The flashing light began to move backwards. The vehicle was a truck, backing in through the gate.

‘Bruce!’ I screamed.

He had stopped the four-wheel drive behind the Jag. He turned and watched the flashing light a moment.

We had time, if we were quick. I moved away and gave Bruce room to get it done.

The front of our car was high and the back of the Jag was low. Bruce accelerated and bumped the Jag. The smaller car rolled a short way over the uneven ground. Up at the gate, the truck was being driven forward again, repositioning, to take another shot at the angle. Bruce bumped the Jag again. The Jag lurched forward and its front tyres came to rest on the cliff edge. It was heart-stopping to see the car so close to going over, so near to disappearing, and frightening that Bruce was only a short car length from going over as well. Bruce nudged the Jag again. The Jag’s tyres went over the edge and the car clunked down heavily onto its chassis, the bonnet sticking out over the cliff. It wasn’t going to roll and drop nicely into the sea for us. Bruce was going to have to push the bellied-out Jag the whole way. The beeping of the truck was audible above the sound of the wind and sea. I stood staring, waiting for the truck to come into view. My bones felt as powdery and light as Finn’s had been. I was about to be picked up and scattered across the cove. The sound of the truck reversing halted. The flashing light stayed in the same position. Even the unlawful were allowed some good fortune.

The Jag’s undercarriage screeched and complained. Bruce had to rev high to get up enough power to move the grounded car. Tipping point turned out to be well back. Bruce couldn’t back up and ram the vehicle forward – he was too near to the cliff edge and the ground was too uneven – he had to push it the whole way. The Jag’s chassis scrapped over rocks and jutted out further over the cliff.

Bruce was gung-ho about things to do with vehicles and machinery. He liked to think his mechanical knowledge superseded all logic and commonsense. As the Jag began to tip forward over the cliff, its rear bumper hooked onto the four-wheel drive’s bullbar. Bruce hadn’t factored in the likelihood of this. Or, if he had, his calculated gamble hadn’t paid off. The Jag leaned forward over the cliff and began dragging the four-wheel drive with it. Bruce slammed his foot on the brake, but the big vehicle still slid forward. Bruce frantically crunched the four-wheel drive into reverse. I ran as near as I dared to the two cars. The four-wheel drive’s back wheels began spinning in the rocks and slippery ground as Bruce madly reversed. The front wheels were less than a foot from the cliff edge, and inching closer. The entire body of the Jag was over the cliff now, hanging, suspended.

‘Get out!’ I screamed.

Bruce opened the door, while keeping his foot on the accelerator. He needed a clean jump, because the moment he stopped reversing, the vehicle would be pulled over the edge. He readied himself to make the leap.

I’d been mistaken. Here was the fall, the jump, the drop, the leap. This was the final destination. Bruce thought so too. His face was grey, his eyes were locked on mine as though to say goodbye. And I saw that as much as he didn’t want to leave me, he was relieved. We’d gone too far, done too much. I reached out to take his hand, but he wouldn’t take it.

‘No!’ I said.

At that moment the bumper came loose from the bullbar. The Jag plummeted down towards the water. Out of the corner of my eye I watched it go. It was an amazing sight, the vintage car freefalling against a backdrop of an angry ocean. Released, the four-wheel drive shot backwards, away from the cliff, with Bruce safely inside. The open door flashed by close enough to clip my nose and chin. It missed knocking me to the ground by the barest margin.

Bruce climbed out of the four-wheel drive and walked a little way into the paddock. He sunk down onto the grass, his legs gone to jelly. I crept to the edge of the cliff and watched the Jag, upside down in the waves, a beetle on its back, sinking slowly, rocking back and forth as it was cradled in the rough swell. Blood began to drip from my nose. It ran over my fingers that were pressed to my face. Then it came fast and thick. Its metallic taste covered my lips.

The beeping of the truck started again. The vehicle reversed into view. It was transporting a crane. Wide Load signs were attached front and back. Bruce sat on the grass, watching the truck over his shoulder. I lifted my dress to my face to stem the flow of blood.

Bruce got to get his feet, and I stepped away from the cliff edge. The Jag had sunk below the surface and was gone.

We left without acknowledging the truck driver. The house was a worksite, with different tradies always coming and going: our four-wheel drive wasn’t out of place. The truck driver didn’t give us a second glance.

Blood began to clot and coagulate in my nose. It dried on my fingers and was a thin, cracking mask on my chin and around my lips. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognise myself. My face was the colour of porcelain beneath the blood, my eyes wild and red, the lines in my face deep, etched in, carved in stone. I began to pick at the flaky blood on my cheek.

There was a text message from Damien on Bruce’s phone. Bruce turned it to me and held it up so that I could read it myself.

Friend of Grant reported missing. In today’s paper. Fits description of your attacker. Take a look. Ring me.

It was too late even to cry.

24

Bruce stopped by the old stone walls. He parked in the culvert, got out and walked up to the low fence. No mortar had been used in the construction. The stones were sitting on top of one another, nothing holding them in place or binding them together. There was an art to their careful placement. Modern-day farmers had added some height to the wall, attaching poles and stringing up chicken wire, and these add-ons detracted from the original construction. The simplicity had been ruined. Bruce put his hands on the rocks, and shifted some of the top stones. A person could tear down the wall if they wanted. All it would take was the removal of one stone at a time – a time-consuming process, but no brute force needed, only patience. The wall couldn’t be pushed over, or even rammed, it was too solid for that; it could be dismantled though, stone by stone.

When Bruce returned to the car his expression was bare, he was without thoughts any more. He climbed behind the wheel and we travelled on in silence.

At the same petrol station we’d stopped at the day of the attack, Bruce bought two sausage rolls, two cups of coffee and a copy of that day’s paper. Billionaire Dead, Millionaire Missing was the headline. All the searching Bruce had done, looking for a picture of Guy Grant and Reuben together, and there they were, larger than life, the two of them on the front page of the paper. Reuben’s real name was James Ackerley. The photo was an old one. He had a full head of brown hair and an earring. Guy Grant was rounder and wearing oversized, unattractive glasses. They were standing beside one another outside an art gallery. Ackerley was looking away, smiling. As well as describing Guy’s suicide, the story mentioned Ackerley’s family listing him as missing – last seen leaving the Qantas arrival lounge in Melbourne on the morning of 13 April. The article detailed Guy and Ackerley’s friendship as going back as far as their early twenties, when they had met at an exclusive gathering for top university graduates, hosted by Guy Grant’s late father and held on the family’s Utah estate …

On page three the story continued, focusing more on Guy, with pictures of him and his father – a tall, lean and grey-headed man, strikingly like Ackerley. One photo showed a large group of young men on the steps of a homestead, Ackerley among them, his head circled for the reader’s benefit, with Guy and his father standing off to the side. Guy was a similar age to the other men, but noticeably not one of the group; he was unsmiling, with rounded shoulders, dressed in jeans and a baggy jumper, beside his father. Written on a banner above the group of young men was Meeting of the Young Minds. The story mentioned Guy’s ongoing struggle with mental illness, hinting at a childhood and youth spent weighed down by the burden of his father’s expectations. At school, Guy apparently hadn’t excelled in the way his father had. This disparity between father and son was further underlined by the fact that after his father’s death Guy had cut all ties with the American academic world. He’d moved to Australia, used his inheritance to start WithArt, and settled near his close friend and gifted artist, the now missing James Ackerley. A friend and board member of WithArt was quoted as saying that the wealth and privilege Guy had been born into had been a blessing for the homeless and underprivileged of Australia, while being less a blessing for the man himself.

Bruce had remembered to get tomato sauce for my sausage roll. I went to the toilet, washed my face and cleaned my hands. I dried them by waving them in the blustery conditions. When I returned to the car Bruce was brushing the pastry flakes from his lap. He folded the paper and put it on the back seat, handed me my sausage roll.

The call he made to Damien was short. He didn’t set it to loudspeaker. ‘It’s Bruce Harrison,’ he said. ‘… Yes, I’ve just finished reading it. You mean the man with him on the front page? No, it’s not him. He’s not our attacker. I’m absolutely sure.’

We still functioned. We weren’t broken. We were dismantled.

Before going to get the children from Bruce’s parents, we returned to Finn’s place. Bruce went through the rooms checking that everything was in order and that there were no signs of a struggle. I found, on the middle shelf of the walk-in robe, a velvet-lined timber box, about the size of a young girl’s jewellery box. It looked as though it had been hurriedly pulled to the front of the shelf – clothes were messed-up around it. The lid was open. My nose to the box, I sniffed the oily metallic scent of the gun. Tucked into a pocket of velvet beneath the lid was what looked to me to be love notes. I guessed they were from the married woman he had told me about. It felt wrong to read them, though. It seemed fitting to me that Finn had kept the dark element of himself side by side with evidence of his sweet freckled charm. In me, I believe, Finn had spotted – like the police at the station had – a person moving outside the usual social constraints. Being a victim had put me on his radar. Whether he had loved me, or loved the injured element to me, was something only he could answer, but it did seem to me to be the latter. Using Finn’s character flaws to make less of what we’d done, though, was as corruptible as Rex Harrison’s using his son’s confession as good reason for brandishing a gun. There’d be no forgiving it, ever.

I packed some of Finn’s things into an overnight bag. The coat I chose could be rolled up tight. It didn’t take up too much room. The shoes I chose were flat canvas sneakers. There was a chequered scarf I packed, and I didn’t leave behind his favourite T-shirt. I took the money from the bedside table drawer and put it in with the clothes.

On the way out of the bedroom, I saw a small navy button on the floor. It could have been from any shirt, male or female – it was plain and nondescript. It was from Bruce’s shirt, though. He walked up as I retrieved it, and looked down the row of buttons on his shirt to the space where one was missing. If it hadn’t hit us before, it did then. What we’d done was criminal. And we’d be caught.

Bruce and I got down on our hands and knees and crawled into the bedroom. I looked under the bed, Bruce went across to where he had pushed Finn’s face into the carpet and he separated the woollen pile, looking right down at the coarse weave of the base mat for blood.

I ended up finding a blonde strand of my hair on the shag-pile rug, a smear of blood on the wooden chest.

For two hours we searched the other rooms, CSI-style, crawling around with our face inches from the floor.

‘I’ll get the kids,’ Bruce said when we were done. ‘I’ll drop you at the office first. You go straight home and hide his bag of things.’

‘What will you tell the children?’

‘That we’ve patched things up.’

After hiding the bag, and before Bruce arrived home with the kids, I made the children’s beds and straightened things in their rooms, doing what I could to make it seem as though they hadn’t been dragged from home in the middle of the night. I turned on the heater in the lounge room and put on a pot of coffee.

When I came out from the shower, I heard that they were back. As I dressed there was a soft rap on the door. Renee peeked in. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘How did it go at Nan and Pop’s?’ I said by way of an answer.

Renee came in and sat down on the bed. ‘Pop remembered I was the one with the horses this time.’

‘Ah, progress.’

‘Are you and Dad gunna be all right?’

‘Yes.’

I’d pulled on tracksuit pants, a soft cotton T-shirt and a light pink jumper. Renee fiddled with the end of the scarf she was wearing. Her hair was unwashed and tied back.

Summer came through the door and sat down beside Renee. My daughters were silent, unsure what to do or say.

I sat with them, completing the row of girls.

‘Your father and I are sorry,’ I said.

Beside me, Renee twisted her mouth and twitched her shoulder. She blinked away her tears. ‘Pop wasn’t too bad actually. He brought out a jigsaw puzzle.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘No, it was okay. Although it was of a tank.’

‘Dad said you went for a long drive and worked it out?’ Summer said, and she leaned out past Renee to look at my face, watching me, needing to see for herself if we were being honest. ‘He said you drove to the ocean.’

‘Yes, we did.’

25

We waited. A week passed without us being caught, and, like cancer patients sent home to die, we were aware of each day, each passing hour. We spent time with the children. Bruce went horse riding with Renee. I became Summer’s offsider in the kitchen. Steven was harder to approach. The girls weren’t put at ease or entirely comfortable with our efforts to make up for our behaviour and show our love, but Steven was stubborn in his unwillingness to go along with it for the sake of a happy family façade. He went to his room at every available opportunity and shut the door. His comment to me when I tried to talk to him was ‘Don’t leave Dad.’ Said with bitterness, believing I had cheated. My daughters were not as confident that they knew enough to choose which parent was more at fault. When the children were at school, Bruce and I spent our time reminiscing. I came across him alone in the bathroom, running his hand along the bath’s chipped edge. At the age of five Steven had smashed a Tonka Truck repeatedly against the enamel – a bath-time temper tantrum, an expensive claw-foot bath, a brat of a child, a sturdy toy not meant for bath play. Bruce had shouted until he’d turned red in the face and I had smacked Steven’s hand. Steven had wailed and sobbed and thrown the Tonka Truck at us. His wilfulness had Bruce and I ducking out into the hallway, covering our mouths to stifle our sudden laughter. So many times, when the children were young, we had felt like kids ourselves, playing at being parents.

Bruce caught me in a similar moment of reflection – standing outside in the weak winter sunlight, looking up at the bent netball ring and pole. I was remembering how Renee and Summer had played a game of netball from the horses’ backs. Renee rode underneath the hoop and reached up for an easy shot. The horse had suddenly walked away and she had grabbed the ring and hung from it. Bruce and I had been watching them from the lounge room window, smiling at the girls’ antics, until the netball ring and pole had bent, and then Bruce had sworn and I’d mumbled about the dollar cost of stupidity. Renee had been old enough to regret her actions and curse her own behaviour. Bruce had refused to replace the pole with a new one. It remained there as a reminder not to play netball on horseback.

Bruce and I were preparing for the moment we would be taken away from our children. We were getting our fill of all the things that would soon be a part of a different life, our old life, the before. Memories were going to be important.

The day I returned to the office, prepared to put in a full day at work, a local police officer walked in the door.

‘Hi, Trudy. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?’

I knew him from Steven’s basketball games. He was one of the fathers. Alan. His eyes were watery, his nose was red, and there was a rasp to his voice. He was a heavy drinker. At the six p.m. games he was bright-eyed, talkative, high-fiving the children as they came off the court. Lubricated by six o’clock. He peaked early evening. It was ten a.m. now, probably the worst time of the day for him. He pulled a remorseful expression. ‘I’ve just come from the Four Seasons Inn. A young man living in one of your townhouses has been reported missing.’

Impossible for me to judge how I went answering his questions. Not only did I have my spoken responses to worry about, every facial expression had to be thought about as well. I can only imagine that I came across as false. If he suspected something, he noted it in private, maybe wrote it down on his jot pad, alongside times, days and dates. ‘So far I’ve got him last seen at the Four Seasons late on the Friday night. When did you last see him?’ I wondered, did police have a type of shorthand, a way to quickly indicate on paper when they thought a person was not telling the whole truth?

Wanting to appear forthcoming and easy with the facts, I explained that Sue had been at the office the last time I’d seen Finn. Then I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

‘Sue Murdoch from the school?’ he said without looking up.

‘She was sick with the flu. I think she’s back at work now.’

I prayed she wouldn’t mention the strange recording she’d received on her phone, and if she did, I hoped it would seem irrelevant. It was now a godsend that it had been deleted.

‘I’m afraid, Trudy, I’m going to have to ask … some of the staff at the Four Seasons suggested that Finn was more than friendly with you.’

‘Nothing like that,’ I said. ‘He called me and left messages, but it was …’

‘A one-sided thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bruce know about it?’

I shook my head.

‘Do you have a spare set of keys for the townhouse?’

Concerned that my hand was trembling, I placed the townhouse keys down on the desk for Alan to pick up and take himself, and then sat back down with my hands curled together on my lap.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll return them as soon as I can.’ He looked at his watch, rubbing the face as he contemplated the time. His tongue ran slowly along his lips. He swallowed and I could hear the dryness in his mouth. ‘I might go round there now, before the parents get there.’

Alan smiled at me across the basketball court the following night. He cheered when Steven scored a basket. At halftime he came and stood beside me.

‘A few of his things are gone,’ he said, ‘from what his parents can see. They’re thinking he’ll turn up. He withdrew a fair whack of cash a few days before he disappeared. He’s got something of a record, too. I wouldn’t have him back in the townhouse if I were you. No convictions, but more than enough for me to suggest you distance yourself from him. I’ve checked all those emails he’s sent you and it’s clear you kept it professional; there’s no problem there. Sue Murdoch mentioned that he seemed out of line that day at your office. She said she could see he made you uncomfortable. I don’t want to put the wind up you or nothing, but if it was my wife some young guy like that was obsessing over, with a background like his – I’d be keeping an eye out.’

The game resumed.

‘I’ll drop the townhouse keys back to you in the morning,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll give it another a week or two, but if he still hasn’t turned up, I’ll talk to his parents about getting his gear moved out of there for you. Oh, and by the way, I forgot to say how great it is that Steven’s been picked to try out for the state team.’

‘Yes, we haven’t had much of a chance to think about it.’ The removalists came for Finn’s things two weeks later. I unlocked the townhouse and let them in. It was raining. The team of men laid down plastic sheeting to protect the carpet. They started in the spare room, packing up the exercise equipment, putting the weights in hessian sacks. An old battery-operated radio was put in the front hallway, against the skirting, and the talkback station was turned up loud. The topic of discussion was the obesity epidemic. ‘Is fat the new black?’ the shock jock put to the listeners. A stream of calls ensued. I walked around the house with a clipboard and a pen, pretending to do a condition report. The four men worked fast. They cleared the front room and started on the kitchen, working side by side. They had cardboard discs that they slipped between the plates and expandable cardboard tubes that they slid over the glass tumblers and wines glasses. They picked up the cutlery in bunches and wound tape around each tight cluster, and then they tossed the bundles in the bottom of a box. At midday they stopped and went into the garage. The roller door was open. They sipped their drinks and ate sandwiches and stared out at the rain.

The washing machine had been wrapped in a blanket. The water hoses were taped to the lid. The cupboard below the sink was open. With the sleeve of my jumper, I polished the steel on the edge of the sink with my cuff, and then rubbed each tap. There was a white speck of something resting against the sieved side of the plug in the sink. I leaned closer. It was a piece of broken tooth. I tried to wash it away, but it wouldn’t fit through the plug sides. It rattled against the stainless steel. I swallowed my gag reflex. Wincing with disgust, I pinched the bit of tooth between my fingertips, opened the back door and threw it out into the rain. I couldn’t get rid of it quickly enough. For the next few moments I concentrated on not vomiting, and not crying. As a way to distract myself, I ticked off on the form that the laundry was in good order.

The stains on the garage floor were faint, and could easily be mistaken for engine oil or radiator fluid, but there was some discolouration. An unfinished bottle of Pepsi stood beside the box one of the removalists had sat on during his break. I unscrewed the lid and put the bottle down beside the stains. Then, with my foot, I tipped it over. The dark fizz flowed over the floor. Doing it this way made it feel like it was an accident; I really had bumped it over. I wrote on the condition report: Discolouration on garage floor due to removalists.

In the cliff-house workshop, I’d been confronted with a lock and a heavy chain barring the door, yet had attempted to open it. Here I found myself again, willing reality to disintegrate.

26

Winter, the worst time of year to sell, and we put all our investment and rental properties on the market. We told the children it was the business we were getting out of. It was Delaney Bruce and I were thinking of exiting, though. Things had quietened down and Guy Grant’s suicide was no longer headline news, but during one online search I came across Finn’s picture on a missing person’s website, and in my response it became clear we’d have to rethink every aspect of our lives. In the photo, his eyes were filled with disquiet, as though he foresaw his untimely end. For weeks, since that night, I’d not braved a look at myself in the mirror. I’d been avoiding looking into my eyes, knowing what I’d see would only frighten and upset me. Looking into Finn’s eyes was like looking in a mirror. It was as if I’d absorbed Finn’s uneasiness. Panic overtook me. I began to wonder if some part of Reuben had also been transferred into me. Could I feel him all the time? Huddled on the study floor, I rubbed and clawed my head; it was like I was trapped inside my own mind with the two people of whom I was most terrified.

Bruce came in and found me like that, curled up on the carpet, the missing-person page up on the screen.

He helped me back into the office chair. One of the children dropped what sounded like an open pencil case in the hallway, and they began picking up the contents. Bruce and I couldn’t leave the office until they’d gone. He kissed my temple and whispered for me not to cry. On the computer page, along with Finn and pictures of other missing Victorians, was James Ackerley. He was lounging in an armchair, looking smug, rich and evil. Not the man I was trapped inside my head with; the James Ackerley that haunted me was called Reuben, and he was not so much evil as sick and real and brutal.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Ackerley on a webpage. Since we’d known his real name, we’d found a lot online about him. His house designs were along the same vein as the cliff house, his art contained coloured glass, his woodwork was smooth and full of curves and limb shapes. He was often described as ‘media shy’. A talented artist and gifted architect who had achieved great success and garnered respect from his peers, while remaining a reclusive and mysterious figure. It was the first time that I’d seen him on the same page as Finn, though. It must have been the two of them together that caused me to break down. My body shook uncontrollably. Bruce spoke quietly and comforted me, saying we’d make a fresh start somewhere else. We’d get away.

Finn’s parents rang me, once. His mother sounded old and frail in her message. She was wondering if I had copies of Finn’s license, or any of his identification, to help her in sorting his affairs. I didn’t ring her back. How could I? But I wished I was able to talk to them about Finn, to discuss with them the reasons for his troubles, for them to help me better understand who he really was. I also wished I could tell them what had happened. My mind craved a cleaner outcome, and I knew that Finn’s parents would now live out their days yearning for the same. I longed for yin and yang, black and white, no grey in-between.

27

The day the For Sale sign went up out the front of our Mill Road home, Steven threw his basketball bag down the stairs. In an effort to soften the blow of moving, we’d told the children we were going to try the house on the market. The ambiguity of this statement had seemed to work, but the sight of the sign out by the letterbox hammered home the reality.

‘Just admit it!’ Steven shouted.

Bruce and Steven were due to fly to Canberra for the basketball camp. Bruce was at the bottom step, their packed overnight bags either side of him, the basketball bag at his feet, looking up at Steven. From further down the hallway, I could see the lower part of Steven’s legs, mid-thigh down. He was dressed in dark track pants and sneakers. He stayed at the top of the stairs, looking down at his father. Judging by the silence they were holding eye contact.

The shouted demand, the bag hurled down the stairs, was in keeping with the Steven I knew, but when he spoke his voice was suddenly calm, reasonable and restricted, man to man.

‘We know that chef is missing, Dad. Mrs Murdoch was talking about it at school. She said the police came to see her because she’d talked to him in our office. The girls know too. What are we meant to say if we’re ever asked?’

A soldier’s son must wonder what his father has done in battle. In bedrooms around the world, boys must lie awake – as I knew Steven had been lying awake, as I guessed Bruce had lain awake as a child – thinking of the things their military dads had seen and done. Good men exposed to the darkest actions and good boys exposed to the darkest thoughts. A hot ball of grief formed in my throat.

Seconds passed before Bruce answered. If he’d predicted this conversation and formulated answers, it didn’t show. His tone matched Steven’s.

‘Tell the truth. Always tell the truth.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

‘Tell what you know to be true.’

‘Is that why you’re not going to tell us – so we don’t have to lie if we’re asked?’

Bruce picked up the overnight bags. ‘We can’t be late.’

‘We’re not going,’ Steven said. ‘You can’t be away from home. We can’t leave Mum.’

Tears spilled down my cheeks. I couldn’t know the kinds of conversations Bruce and Steven usually had in private; I doubted very much, though, that my son was always this grown-up and considered with his dad. We’d caused Steven to mature quicker than he perhaps would have on his own.

‘Your mum and I don’t want you to miss this opportunity.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We have to be home right now.’

‘But you have to go,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s all we want, for you kids to be all right.’

‘We’ll be all right if we’re together.’

‘Please,’ my husband begged, ‘you might not get another chance.’

‘It’s just basketball, Dad.’

Thinking back, it was the moment in the gallery when our tidy minds had been forced to open wide to grasp a new reality. That was when Bruce and I had lost all our commonsense, along with so much else. I’d realised my husband had been drugged, and, for Bruce, he’d come to and found himself tied to steel handrails either side of a sink. Our perception had been scuppered to the bottom of the cove. It took Steven to show us that. He walked to the bottom of the steps and collected his sport and overnight bags. He touched his father’s shoulder, and carried his bags back up to his room.

Renee was out by the stables, rubbing down her Bay mare. The ground around the stable door was muddy. Green grass was isolated to clumps. Renee lifted the horse’s hoof and used a metal pick to pry away the packed soil covering the horseshoe. The horse’s nose was buried in a bucket of chaff. Her nostrils flared and breathed inside the bucket.

‘We’ll make sure the new place has room for the horses,’ I told Renee.

Renee’s second horse was inside the stable, confined to its horsebox, pawing the fresh hay covering the floor, swinging its big neck and head up and down. Both animals wore halters. Leads were draped over the bottom half of the stable door. My daughter was wearing gumboots. There was mud smeared on her riding pants. She pressed the side of her face to the muscular flank of the horse as she lifted its rear hoof.

‘You probably need to talk to Summer more than me,’ she said. ‘Have you seen her bedroom? She thinks it’s her fault we’re moving. I think it’s probably good we go. It’s kind of hard to know what to say sometimes, I mean just in the family. It’s not the same any more. We miss what it was like. That’s all we want, Mum – we want to be a family again, the way we were before.’

Summer had packed up her bedroom. The bare minimum was left – her bed, neatly made with her favourite teddy bear against the pillow, her school dress hanging in the wardrobe, her school shoes beneath; only the top half of her chest of drawers was still in use. Her posters were off the walls, her ornaments were wrapped in newspaper and put in boxes, her collection of beaded and tasselled cushions were in black plastic bags, piled up in the corner, along with her soft toys. She avoided looking at me as I entered. In a box full of rubbish inside her door was a pile of old homework and school things. On the top was a school note I had signed, permission slip missing, hastily torn from the note. I leaned down and picked up the note. It detailed the excursion to the Four Seasons kitchen for the Year 7B cooking class. I must have signed the notice blindly, one of a never-ending stream of school notices. I’d probably not listened to Summer’s excited chatter about the visit.

‘I know you’re worried about Grandma and the move,’ I said. ‘We’re going to try to talk her into coming with us.’

‘Okay.’

A second box, sealed up with tape, was also at the door, destined for the bin. I pushed it with my foot. It was heavy, full of books.

‘Are these your cooking books?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Don’t throw them out, darling.’

I picked up the box and carried it to the far side of the room. I put it down with the boxes of the belongings she was keeping. Before leaving I kissed her forehead.

‘Dad and I are sorry, Summer. We’re so sorry.’

There was nothing else to say. My daughter wasn’t a pretender, not to others, and most of all not to herself.

The Delaney townsfolk had differing opinions on the reason for our departure. Some believed the GFC had claimed us, or that we’d taken on one project too many; others wondered if our marriage was on shaky ground and we were liquefying our assets in preparation for a split. Cove Street sold for a packet. A consortium swooped in and bought all our rentals. Mill Road went to a wealthy couple from the city, who agreed to a quick thirty-day settlement.

At a cafe date with my girlfriends, I went some way toward explaining the real reason we were moving on.

‘Bruce and I don’t want to build houses any more. We’ve had enough of property developing. It doesn’t interest us – our heart’s not in it.’

‘Where will you go?’ Bonita asked.

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘A seachange?’ Jem suggested.

‘Probably not the sea.’

‘What about the kids?’

‘Adversity builds character,’ I told them. I thought about this a moment, and qualified it with, ‘In children.’

‘But not in adults,’ Nadine said. ‘Adversity in adults makes them pull up stumps and leave their hometowns.’

‘I suppose it does.’

My four friends fell quiet. The Finn Factor would not be broached. It hung in the air, a pall over my friendships. Nadine squirmed in her seat, desperate to bring up his disappearance. My coffee had gone cold and I hadn’t taken my handbag off my shoulder. Despite the awkwardness, I could see my friends didn’t believe the worst – they couldn’t make the leap. They were out having coffee, and after it they would be ducking into the supermarket for last-minute groceries, driving to the school, picking up kids, getting dinner, sitting down to their favourite TV show, having sex with their respective partners – or in Jem’s case, not having sex – and waking up to do it all again. Without a stranger breaking into those lives, swinging a wrecking ball through everything they held dear, they’d never truly believe we’d had a hand in Finn’s disappearance. My friends could not know how real the attack was proving to be with time – more real than coffee, and shopping, and sightseeing with your husband. Brutality somehow managed to make a mockery of everything that was not brutal.

Outside the open windows, on the footpath, a man was trying to unbuckle a squirming child from a stroller. He was dressed in a dark suit, and the mother of the child was opening the door of a BMW, readying a booster seat for the child. ‘Daddy, daddy,’ the toddler was crying, wanting to stay with him, refusing to get out of the stroller.

With a weary sense of shock, I saw that the child’s father was the man I’d seen in the lobby at the Four Seasons Inn. He was wearing steel-framed glasses, his hair was short, his jacket expertly tailored. In the light of day, he was too young, too tall and too handsome by far to be Guy Grant. Jem was looking out the open windows at him also, having followed my line of sight. I could see she found him vaguely familiar.

‘I’ll ring and let you know when we’re settled,’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Promise you’ll ring?’ Jem said, and grew teary-eyed. ‘We’ll still be able to contact you, won’t we, on your mobile? You won’t change that number?’

‘That’ll always stay the same,’ I said.

Bruce had a similar type of conversation with his mates, although his conversation didn’t involve actual words. Long and uncomfortable silences spelt out the death knell for his friendships.

‘I heard them breathe out when I walked away,’ Bruce told me. ‘I heard it – the actual sigh of relief that I was leaving.’

28

Right before we were due to leave Delaney, Damien from Sunnyside police station rang and asked to meet with us. Fear swept over me. It was the first strong emotion I’d felt since the day I’d seen Finn and Ackerley together on the missing persons webpage. I was sure the Jag had washed ashore, or that the police had some kind of cross-checking computer program that picked up matching names and places in reports and investigations. The word ‘Delaney’ would have triggered an alarm, the name ‘Trudy Harrison’, the acronym MAD, had fired off an automatic email to … someone. Damien would want to see us because he had learnt through smart detective work and through techno wizardry that Finn Wieszczynski had links to us.

Bruce thought the same thing. He said to me, ‘This might be it.’

A part of us hoped it was.

Damien came into the MAD office carrying a laptop. A shadow of a beard showed on his cheeks. He was out of uniform, wearing a T-shirt beneath a suit jacket, teamed with skinny-leg black jeans and a slim leather belt. His shoes were square across the toe, but fashionably long and slender. I was sweating beneath my clothes, sitting behind the desk, too nervous to stand. Bruce went forward and shook his hand.

‘How are you, Bruce?’ Damien tipped his head to the side. ‘How are things?’

I saw him give my husband’s hand a meaningful squeeze.

Bruce let go and backed away. ‘Oh, you know …’ he murmured.

‘Hello, Trudy.’

‘Hello, Damien.’

‘Thanks for meeting on such short notice. We’ll sit here, will we? At the desk?’ Damien pulled a chair nearer to me, making things less formal.

The most likely spot for Bruce was beside me. But he sat where a visitor would usually sit. Bruce and I needed the desk between us. Being close to one another caused an unsettling intensity between us. With some distance, we could look at one another without feeling each other too acutely.

Damien set up his laptop, and turned it around so we could both see it. He cleared his throat. ‘Nice town, Delaney.’

‘Yes.’

‘Every main street needs a grove of trees like that.’

‘Yes.’

‘Children good?’

‘Yes.’

Damien grinned. ‘Small talk done?’ He was especially handsome when he grinned.

‘Seems like it.’

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Damien told us. ‘I suppose you can guess.’ He leaned around to look at the screen of his computer, and fell silent for a moment while he brought up an electronic folder. ‘Okay,’ he said, straightening. ‘First, you’ll have to excuse my excitement. I’m not usually like this. It’s just that after you told me about the call made from Trudy’s phone, and then with Ackerley being listed as missing, I did some tracking down. I’ve been able to retrieve the recording.’ His hairline lifted. ‘Interesting listening. You said you hadn’t heard it?’

‘No.’

‘You can listen to it with me. Before that, though …’ He clicked open the folder.

On the laptop screen was a picture of James Ackerley. He was in a tuxedo. There were people queuing out the front of a theatre behind him. The footpath he was standing on was wet with rain. I couldn’t see his hairless forearms or his chalky teeth. What I could see was his greying hair, his lined face, and his lanky arrogance. I turned my head so I didn’t have to look at him.

‘Now, you’re sure this is not the man who attacked you?’

Bruce was facing the computer screen, but his gaze wasn’t on it – he stared over the top of the computer.

‘Not him?’ Damien said.

‘No,’ Bruce murmured.

Damien shifted his chair along, and sat forward to see the screen from our viewpoint. He angled it to improve the light.

‘I’ve got more photos.’

Damien brought up an album of photographs on screen. He began clicking on them, enlarging each one in turn, layering them on top of one another. They were all of Ackerley. He was smiling at the camera in some of them, in another he was holding a designer beer in one hand and a curved glass trophy in the other.

I stopped looking and watched my husband. His eyes were fixed on a point beyond the computer screen. The pictures were visible to him on the outskirts of his vision. He was calm, as long as he wasn’t looking directly at the photos. He moved in the chair with caution, not breaking concentration – it would take one glance down to ruin his composure.

‘Look carefully,’ Damien said. ‘You’re sure that’s not the man?’

Bruce turned his attention to me. I shifted the computer more my way to save him having to look at it.

‘No, it’s not,’ I replied.

Damien tugged down on the lapels of his jacket and smoothed his hands down over them. ‘He fits the description you gave at the station. Perhaps if we go to the recording.’ Damien moved forward to sit on the edge of the chair.

‘We don’t want to listen to it.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘No,’ I said with a nonplussed shake of my head. ‘We don’t want to hear it.’

Damien looked over at the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, and at the sofa pushed into the centre of the room. The pinboard was down and leaning against the boxes. He took an even breath. Once again he smoothed down his lapels on his suit jacket. He closed the computer as though to reassure us we were more important than anything on the screen or stored within the hard drive. He was more like a salesman than a detective at that moment. What he said next seemed practised. In the car, on the way to us, I’d like to bet he’d spoken out loud, finessing his pitch.

‘I can confirm two things,’ he said. ‘One – Bruce, I think you were right. I went to the city planning department and asked if Grant had put a call through about your business to anyone. And a couple of the men there were very cagey. My feeling is Grant did pull some strings to cause you trouble. A full investigation would uncover it. If it was before you came into the station – that’s proof alone. Two,’ he continued, ‘Grant is one of the voices on the recording. You can hear him fairly clearly since we’ve cleaned it up. The other voice is harder to hear. Grant and this other man are talking about what to do with a broken-down car. At first I thought it was your car they were talking about, but it becomes clear that it’s Grant’s car that’s stuck in a culvert … Do you remember seeing a car on the side of the road?’

I shook my head.

‘Grant seems to have just arrived. I think he’s had to walk. He says he wants to use the “Hundred Series” – which, interestingly, is the type of car Ackerley drove – to pull the car out. It’s unclear what the other man says. We think he says he can’t leave “the two alone in the house” …’ Damien rolled his hand, as though to say this comment supported our story. ‘Grant says it won’t take long and that the car can’t stay where it is, it will draw attention and someone will report it as an accident. They argue. Grant talks about veering to miss a bird, and running off the road into the ditch.’

Damien’s passion for police work was evident now he’d spoken at some length. I was focusing on the timbre of his voice, and on the details of his face, his lips, the way they moved, his wide nostrils, the dark hairs between his eyebrows, deliberately occupying my mind with small details. I had to. Too much of what he was saying was upsetting. Bruce was motionless, except for the rising and falling of his chest. We couldn’t let ourselves come to terms with what Damien was saying – not while we were sitting in front of him. We had to remain calm. My fingers fluttered nervously, involuntarily, where they were resting on the tops of my arms. I gripped my biceps to stop my fingers twitching. My head didn’t move, my expression didn’t change, but I told Bruce through my stillness that we couldn’t sit there for too much longer. The facts were suffocating.

‘It sounds like the other man walks off,’ Damien was saying, ‘and you can just about hear Grant’s heart sink when he realises the phone’s been on the line to someone. There’s a silence, then the call cuts out. He knows what’s happened, although he probably doesn’t know it’s been recorded. Sure you don’t want to hear it?’

‘We don’t,’ Bruce said.

Damien sat back. ‘What I think happened next, was Grant took the other car and left to pull his vehicle out alone, maybe to park it normally so it wouldn’t draw as much attention. While he was gone, you two got free, and left. You said there was no car in the garage? And you don’t remember seeing any other cars at all?’

‘No.’

‘In your account –

I remember because you two didn’t seem to notice the inconsistency – you both talked about the gate being closed while you were upstairs, just before you were attacked, but then you made no mention of having to open the gate when you left. I questioned that. I’ll admit it caused me some doubt about your story. But it makes sense now. Grant, in a rush, has left to move the car and reopened the gate. It’s open, so you drive straight out. If you don’t remember seeing the car on the road, Grant must have been coming from the Wensley direction, while you turned and continued down the coastal route. It seems to me you got away just in time, before Grant came back. Listening to the recording might jog your memory. If you can help us confirm even just a few of these things, we’ll be able to continue forward.’

‘Forward to what?’

Damien opened the computer again and minimised the Ackerley photos. He typed a search into the internet browser, Great Ocean Road deaths.

‘Let’s see what this brings up.’

He hit the return button. A list of news sites and related links came up on screen. Damien clicked on the first link. Two young men had gone over the edge of the Great Ocean Road six years ago. The car was retrieved, but their bodies were never found. There was a picture of the men, grinning at the camera: a couple of lads, enjoying life. Damien went back to the main page and clicked on the next link. A single man, touring Australia on his motorbike, had gone over the cliff edge, four years ago. The bike had been found on rocks at the base of the cliff. His body had never been found. This story was particularly poignant, because the young man was riding bravely against the odds – he’d injured himself in a workplace accident. Damien took a biro from his pocket and used it as a pointer to circle the young man’s name. Reuben. It wasn’t so much this that made my blood run cold; it was the photo. I felt Bruce freeze up also. The young man was on his bike with his arms crossed. His hands were intentionally displayed – he had no fingers on his left hand. The knuckles were prominent, the veins were standing out, his wrist curved and slender. Damien went back to the main page. He brought up a third story, but I wasn’t looking any more. Bruce wasn’t either. He’d made the connection between the man’s hand and the carved wooden stump we’d touched at the house. We’d run our fingers over it. We knew.

‘What was strange about these accidents,’ Damien was saying, ‘was that there were no skid marks. No sign of the vehicles losing control at the last minute. The Wensley police remembered the accidents for this reason. The vehicles were only found because the ground on the very edge of the cliff had scrape marks – as though the cars had been pushed over.’ Damien leaned forward, eyeing us in turn, trying to engage us. ‘What better way to get rid of a car, than over a cliff and into the sea? If it’s found, it was an accident, if the bodies aren’t in it, they were washed away. What happened to you wasn’t rushed or unplanned. Each thing you described, it takes time and experience to set up things that way. Bodies were able to be burnt away to nothing, vehicles were easily gotten rid of, missing people were easily explained …’

Damien kept on talking. His voice had an excited waver. With a case like this he could be catapulted to fame. He was handsome enough to be a star. But he should have acted quicker on this occasion, and not turned us away. Not that Bruce and I were being mean-spirited. Bruce, in particular, wanted nothing more than to tell the truth. Damien was detailing how big the investigation could be: divers could scour the coastline, each car accident could be revisited, car bodies brought up from the ocean floor, old reports combed through. But for all that to happen, we would have to retell our story and go on record.

‘Grant knew the story was going to break. Even if Ackerley wasn’t your attacker, I can’t help but think that he was involved there that day. I know things weren’t handled well in the beginning. And I understand I should have told you Grant had left the country. It might not seem like it, but I was worried that without threatening you with an AVO, Bruce, you weren’t going to stop, and you could have got yourself into real trouble. I can promise you a thorough investigation now, though. You’ll both be looked after. As chief witnesses we can protect your names and identity.’

‘Can’t you just use our statements from that day?’ Bruce asked.

Damien quietly responded. ‘They weren’t logged.’

‘You didn’t even write up our visit to the station?’

‘It was … No.’

‘Well, we’re sorry, Damien,’ Bruce said, ‘but we can’t help you.’

‘It’s not something we remember clearly any more,’ I said. ‘Our memories of it aren’t good. We wouldn’t be confident in retelling it. If anything, our confusion might hinder things.’

‘But there is no case without you.’

Bruce leaned back in the chair and rested his hand across his lap. ‘We can certainly understand your frustration,’ he said.

29

The same removalist company that had handled 17 Tyler Street’s furniture was handling ours. The same radio was in my hallway, down by the skirting, turned up loud for talkback, and the same men were cherrypicking furniture to load into the trucks. To jurors or people going over a criminal case, these sorts of double-ups and matching details were, perhaps, what provoked puzzlement and gasps at the audacity. But to be in it, living it, the truth was that the removalists had done a good job of packing up Finn’s belongings, so I rang them to pack up mine. If we ever did find ourselves in court, at least it would be the one lot of removalist men for the defence and prosecuting teams to track down and question. Bruce walked up and stood beside me as we watched the trucks get loaded.

It was spring and our place looked as good as it ever had. We’d pruned, planted, topped up, trimmed and shaped the garden. Bruce and I walked out to the gazebo. Filtered sunlight fell around us. The new leaves of the wisteria were sprouting through the lattice and up over the shingled roof. The jonquils and daffodils were in full bloom. The idyllic surrounds were dreamlike. I stared at a grey wren perched nearby. Its mate landed. The little birds perched on the seat. Bruce sat across from me on the other side of the gazebo.

‘Do you think it was one of those eagles that made Guy Grant run off the road?’ I asked.

Bruce said, ‘We’ll never know.’

There was the sound of the trolley being wheeled along inside the empty rooms of the house. The murmur of talkback stopped as the radio was unplugged and taken away.

The house was empty except for the walk-in robe. In the small room, amongst the valuables we’d set aside to move ourselves – family crystal, jewellery boxes, a folder of wills and birth certificates – was the 1999/2000 tax box. In it were the things we’d taken from Finn’s house: his bag of clothes, wallet, shoes, favourite shirt and the money from his bedside drawer. We carried it down to the incinerator.

We couldn’t bring ourselves to light the match, though. We felt we had stop then and not after we’d done one last unlawful act.

We returned the things to the box and taped the lid down, packed the box into the back of our car.

The children were at my mother’s. It wasn’t until we arrived there and Renee came out to the car, asking if we were all right, that Bruce and I realised we’d locked up our family home and driven away from it for the last time.

It was afternoon. A couple of the neighbourhood dogs were barking. Our cats, confined to my mother’s spare room, were lying in the full-length window facing the garden and the hedge. Summer was sitting with them, the lace curtain up over her shoulders.

My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Steven was shut away in the dining room, on his computer. Bruce went down the hallway. He stopped at the spare room and knocked before opening the door a small way and squeezing through, mindful of any escaping cats. I saw, though, that Summer had left the room and was now outside, crossing the lawn, moving herself away from the house now that we were in it.

‘The kids might take some time,’ my mother said, walking up behind me, seeing how Summer had left the house.

In the past, whenever I’d been asked who Summer was most like out of Bruce and me, I’d never known how to answer. I’d sometimes said that she was most like me, because I related to her willingness to try different things, her search to be inspired. Watching her walk away now, I thought that, in fact, Summer was most like her father. She was a stickler for the rules. And she always blamed herself.

I went into the spare room to find Bruce sitting on the floor with his back against the foot of the bed, staring at the wall. I sat down with him. The room smelt of tinned cat food.

‘I don’t think she’s ever going to look me in the eye again,’ he said.

‘She will.’

I settled in close beside him, felt his warmth, wrapped my arm around his arm and pressed against him. The cats seemed to know to leave us alone. A dog would have come over and gotten all excited that we were down at its level, but the cats stayed on the windowsill, not even acknowledging our presence.

Dad’s old shed had a dirt floor. My father’s things had long been passed on, sold or packed up and stored away. The dusty light globe struggled to illuminate the empty wooden shelves and bare benches. The lawnmower and the fuel can beside it were the only two things that gleamed; everything else absorbed the light. I thought about my father and what he would make of what had happened. I believed I would have told him. If anything, he would have played it down. It was intense enough on its own. I sat down on the mower and I sobbed, out there where no one would hear me cry. I didn’t stop when my mum came in through the door. She reached beneath the bench and dusted off two foldout chairs. We sat down on those, her chair close enough so that she could rest her hand on my shoulder, sometimes gently rubbing. Mum thought we were leaving town to make a fresh start in general, that our marriage had encountered a rough patch after the mugging. It had.

‘The mugging’ would come to be a code, and perhaps, too, a crutch in our family, a way to avoid the shocking nature of the truth. It was the fairytale version of events, an age-old reminder of the way humans have always devised stories to help lull the mind into accepting what is ugly. This story was fittingly invented in the town I had grown up in, and it started in earnest in my father’s shed on this, our last night in Delaney. Mum was one for traditions and she was good at bedding down the new ones. She embraced the story and didn’t question the gaps in it.

I’d not moved past that day, I’d not yet left the gallery, because that was where I was – upstairs, the glass sculptures around me, the surge of the sea, the helplessness – while Bruce suffered in a room below.

I started there, and, under the guise of detailing the mugging, went through each thing that had terrified me. I was able to say a lot – about being separated from Bruce, about not being able to see, about the violence, about the fear of dying. Most importantly, I was able to say how I felt, the fear, and how it had changed me, and how hard it was to forget. In my mind I saw the gallery. In Mum’s mind she saw an alleyway, or … I’m not sure what she saw. Maybe she knew more than she was letting on.

When I was finished talking, she said, ‘I’ve cooked you that cheesecake you loved when you were little. I told the children not to touch it.’

We’d grown cold in the shed and it was time to go in.

30

Our last stop on the way out of town was Bruce’s parents. It wasn’t unusual for us to leave them until the end. Bruce had called in to see them once or twice during the last few months, always in a rush, though, never with the time to sit down or stay, no need for hugs, best wishes or goodbyes, unlike this time. Just as I’d taken Summer as my tactic to keep the conversation light when I’d first seen my mother after the attack, Bruce took all of us along for this visit. The house smelt of cold tea leaves and burnt toast. We filed in, through the front door and down the narrow passageway, past the framed photographs of Bruce’s brothers on the walls, in their army uniforms, at official events and also snapshots sent from while they were on duty. The photos of Bruce were on a different wall, around the corner in the lounge room. It was, sort of, understandable – the hallway photos had a theme: military regalia and combat. To put Bruce in amongst the berets and camo gear would look odd. In Bruce’s photographs, he was in King Gee pants and work shirts, or shorts and T-shirts, there was always a patch of green lawn in the background, a section of blue sky, a wheel-barrow or a saw horse.

If I felt the images of his brothers pressing in on either side of us, then Bruce must have felt it doubly, tenfold.

In the kitchen, Joan was on the phone.

Rex had let us in and followed behind us. ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘It’s Todd.’ Todd was the eldest son, the one who’d lied about selling his pushbike and had a gun aimed at his head for it.

We sat down at the table.

‘Nah, Rex hasn’t got it,’ Joan said down the line.

‘Rex’ was how his children referred to him. He was rarely ‘Dad’. Looking at him now, you could see the man he’d been – nuggetty despite his age, bullet eyes, a flattened nose, even his hair was refusing to recede and was holding out against the grey. He’d retired early due to an injury no one in the family ever spoke of. All Bruce knew was that it was something to do with his spine. It had happened during a training exercise – the secretiveness came from the shame of that. If it had been an injury sustained during battle I imagine every detail would be known. Joan looked older than Rex, although she wasn’t. Her hair was to her shoulders and parted in the middle; it was the hairstyle she’d had the entire time I’d known her, dyed coppery-brown. She dressed youthfully, in jeans and tops, and gave the impression of wanting to retain her girlishness, but the sparkle needed to pull it off wasn’t there.

She continued to talk on the phone. Rex had turned to the window and was looking out into the backyard, his way of telling us to stay quiet so he could listen to Joan’s half of the conversation.

‘Oh yeah … okay, yeah …’ she said.

There were only four chairs at the table. Steven had pulled over a stool and propped on that. Bruce gave a small and disappointed shake of his head when it became apparent that Joan would make no attempt to wind up the call or take it to another room, or even signal that she saw us there, crowding her kitchen. We were the invisible family. Steven and Renee began to fidget. Summer roamed her gaze around the room and spent time looking at her Pop, taking the opportunity, perhaps, to study him. Her eyes travelled right down to the soles of his lace-up boots and lifted slightly to linger on his double-knotted shoelaces.

Then Joan said, ‘Bruce is here, I’ll put him on.’

My husband tensed.

‘Here,’ Joan said, ‘it’s your brother.’

Bruce swapped places with Joan, standing beside the fridge, taking the phone and turning his face away, towards the window, a view of the backyard and the clothesline, a Hills Hoist; those steel contraptions would perhaps outlast all of us.

‘G’day, Todd,’ Bruce said.

Rex and Joan looked at one another. Rex sucked his teeth and seemed uninterested in the particulars of the conversation now. The fact that the two brothers were talking was entertainment enough for him. He grazed his knuckles back and forth beneath his chin and snorted softly, laughed quietly.

‘We’re renting until we find a place to settle,’ Bruce was saying. ‘I don’t think we’ll end up too far away from Delaney. Somewhere close enough to the city so we can have a choice of some good schools for the kids. But how are you?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a couple of things on the news and it looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.’ He was quiet while Todd spoke. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a moment, ‘not like that when you go out for bread and milk here.’ Bruce swallowed and nodded while he listened. Todd must have gotten off the topic of peacekeeping and onto fishing, because the next thing Bruce said was, ‘Oh yeah, mackerel … yeah, no, never.’ Bruce was silent for a stretch, before nodding and saying a quick, ‘Oh, right, okay, yeah, you too. No worries.’

Bruce hung up and returned to sit at the table.

‘What did he say to ya?’ Rex said.

‘Told me about some fishing he’d done, said things aren’t too bad over there. He sounds like he’s doing all right.’

‘Of course that’s how he sounds,’ Rex said harshly. ‘What do ya reckon he’s gunna say in a five-second conversation?’

Bruce was silent.

‘I’m just glad you didn’t tell him how you’ve sold your twenty houses and you don’t know what to do with your time.’ Rex sniffed, looked at the children, a twinge of guilt perhaps for not holding back in front of them. ‘He’s been through some shit,’ he muttered. ‘Put on the kettle, Joan.’

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Bruce said, ‘unless Trudy or the kids want a drink?’

‘I think we’re all pretty good.’

‘We can’t stay long.’

‘I’ve written the boys’ numbers down like ya wanted,’ Joan said. She took a piece of paper from beside a stack of messy paperwork and handed it to Bruce.

‘Do me a favour, though,’ Rex said. ‘Don’t ring ’em to tell ’em you can’t decide what European car to buy next, will ya? Use your head.’

‘I’ve already got their numbers,’ Bruce said, placing the note down in the centre of the table. ‘I’ve called them recently, a couple of times actually. But I don’t think they’ve got my number, because they don’t return my calls. Let’s go,’ Bruce said, getting up.

Rex shrugged as if to say – that was how you wanted it; you chose not to be one of us. ‘That’ll be that, then,’ he said, ‘won’t it.’

‘I guess it will.’

Pale green leaves covered the branches of the trees. New growth was everywhere. Magnolia trees were in flower. The poplar trees were less whimsical with their flush of vibrancy. Brick homes and the sound of lawnmowers gave away to the small industrial estate, and then that petered away and we turned onto the freeway. Bruce was driving. He was leaning forward with his forearms resting on the steering wheel, glazed-over vision, slow breaths, no chatter, the kind of introspectiveness that usually accompanied the last leg of a trip, not heading off. We merged onto the freeway and left Delaney behind.

Epilogue

Bruce and I own a vineyard now. It has a winery and restaurant. We call the place All Seasons Winery. Don’t hold it against us. We needed a degree of honesty, some half-acknowledgement of what we’d done. We also thought it was a good name because it implies that we are open for business all year round. And we are. We never close. Bruce gets up early each morning and comes to bed late each night. In between, he sweats and toils and burns up all his energy. He crams his head with harvest dates and irrigation strategies, weather forecasts and ways of controlling the birds. He is always busy trimming, pruning, boom spraying and netting. He’s recruited men experienced in winemaking to help him learn the basics. All he wants is to make a decent drop. He doesn’t care about winning awards.

We hoped by buying a place with a restaurant we might reignite Summer’s love of cooking. And it’s worked. I’m in charge of the front of house. I kept on the old kitchen staff. The chef is experienced and capable, and she’s taken Summer under her wing. It’s a toss-up as to which my daughter is more passionate about, the head chef or the food. Fifteen now, Summer has ‘found the love’ on a couple of levels. Of my three children, Summer was the last one I would have picked as bisexual or gay. It seems she’ll forever surprise and warm our hearts.

Steven’s maturity – we’ve discovered – comes and goes. He’s given up basketball and is taking an unspecified break from studying civil engineering. He works, sporadically, in the vineyard with his father. He’s made friends with the two farm-hands, and they go off together surfing most weekends. Renee tells me that the three of them smoke too much dope, and that Steven is sleeping with a single mother. Bruce is forever pulling him aside and imploring him not to overdo the drug-taking, and not to get a girl pregnant. He’s almost twenty, and there’s not much else, as parents, we can do.

Renee has paddocks for her horses, and is doing well at uni. She’s studying to be a vet. Her aversion to blood is her only stumbling block. She’s exposing herself to as much blood as possible, as a strategy to overcome her fear. It seems to be working. Each time there’s a knife accident in the kitchen, a comical situation ensues – Renee is called, and she drops everything and sprints to the restaurant. Some of the staff are kind enough to hold off getting their finger, or fingers, bandaged, so that Renee can get her dose of self-prescribed treatment.

The house we live in now is large and modern. The furniture is spaced out – I like big areas, clean surfaces, no clutter. The kids are home less frequently, and when they are, it’s as though they’re only passing through.

Attached to the house is a granny flat. Mum has moved in there. She doesn’t spend as much time over at the restaurant as I thought she would. The efficiency of the kitchen unsettles her, makes her feel outdated. Small food in a big kitchen, I heard her mutter once. Summer goes to cook with her on occasion. It’s no surprise, though, that the bigger, faster restaurant draws Summer more, and the sexier chef.

Sometimes I wish I’d listened to the recording; that way I might have a better understanding of who Guy Grant and James Ackerley were. Then I remember that the recording is a few rushed minutes of their lives, and it wouldn’t be a true representation, just as the recording of Bruce and me from the night at Finn’s isn’t a true representation; after listening to it on Bruce’s phone, we deleted it. We will never really know what happened to us that night. I will never really know what happened to Grant and Ackerley to turn them into what they were. In some ways Ackerley is easier to understand. It seems to me he gave in to the brutality, let it become his life. And he did that thing artists so often do – he mined the darkness.

We still have Finn’s things. No more desecration. Bruce and I would hate to think we’re in denial about what we did. I put the box in the study, with the other tax boxes, on the second shelf of the long bank of cupboards that run the length of the room. The box fits neatly in the row. I find it comforting that some order is achievable.

We found my sim card, by the way. It was below the four-wheel drive’s front passenger seat. Flicked under there, I think, when I’d taken up the bloodstained mat from beneath Renee’s feet. It must have fallen from my broken phone. It was upsetting to put the card into my new phone and have all my old contacts and details appear before my eyes, all my photos, too. There was one of Bruce and me with our arms stretched wide on the muddy and vacant Cove Street block, big grins on our faces. The couple in that photo makes my heart contract with hurt, for what I know is waiting for them just around the corner. I miss them like you’d miss a primary school friend – you know the beauty and innocence of that friendship and that time are now irrevocably gone.

Bruce and I are doing all right, though. We’re coming up to our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We don’t have sex as much as we used to, but that might be because we’re almost fifty and our libidos were due to slow. The sex we have is fine; I don’t cry, the steel file doesn’t start up in my head. The octopus has found a place in the bottom of my brain. He lurks about down there, semi-settled, sometimes restless.

We don’t talk about what we did. But it’s always there between us. It’s intimate and tender, horrible and bleak. I can’t say we’ve come to terms with it. Although, more and more, there are times when we do feel like any other couple. Normal. Just recently, Alan, the police officer from Delaney, came with his wife to eat at the restaurant. Bruce and I went over at the end of their meal and sat down to share a bottle of wine with them. They filled us in on everything that had been happening in Delaney.

As I sat beside my husband, and he rested his arm on the back of my chair, I realised that feeling between us, the fear, the shame, the unsettling energy, had gone. It had been replaced with something different: synergy. We drank our wine and spoke easily and looked into one another’s eyes. I smiled at Bruce, and in my smile I incorporated everything that had happened, even the bad. In that moment we were stronger than we had ever been. It felt less like we were surviving and more like we’d survived.

1

No coincidence that Zach Kincaid takes the bus seat next to her on the last day of first term, during the trip home, when there are only the out-of-towners left, the kids that stare glassy-eyed out the windows, not watching as he kicks his bag towards her under the seats – as though to herald his imminent arrival, all hail King Kincaid – and heaves himself up from where he is positioned dead centre in the back seat, not listening as he slides in beside her and starts with the taunts.

‘Bark for me, Beccy,’ is his favourite, and what he says after a moment of staring at the side of her face.

‘Woof.’

‘We both know you can do better than that.’

Rebecca closes the book she’s reading and drops it into her open school bag. She zips up the bag and pushes it with her foot until she feels it nudge up against his bag. She can smell him. It’s a familiar scent, as much in his clothes as on his skin. The Kincaid family scent. Fresh linen best describes it, but even that’s not right. It’s unnerving but not unpleasant. It stirs up memories of his house, the hushed rooms and dusted sideboards, clean carpet, the hum of electrical appliances. She hopes her family scent is well hidden under a layer of Impulse deodorant – none of the damp smells that no amount of airing can dislodge from the rooms of her house, none of the dog smells, the garage degreaser smells that seem to have worked their way into every porous surface within a one-kilometre radius of her father’s shed and into the weave of every cushion and every curtain in the house. If Zach can smell her, if he smells her as acutely as she smells him, she hopes it’s just the sweetness of the deodorant.

‘So, Rebecca, what are you doing over the Easter holidays? Anything exciting?’

‘I might come over and visit you – we could do something exciting together.’

He smiles, crooked teeth on show, top lip curled. Here on the school bus she can more than match his leering smile, always able to go toe to toe with him in a public place where she knows he can’t really do much harm.

‘I know you’re toyin with me, Toyer. All talk.’

Rebecca twists her lips and eyes him. Strange that it doesn’t seem to matter that, when broken down into separate pieces, his features are anything but perfect. Even when put together the picture isn’t great. An illusion really, his handsomeness, a trick of perspective: smoke and mirrors. Something only boys can pull off. Girls need at least one redeeming feature.

Rebecca says, fed up, bored already with school holidays, thinking she’s perhaps bored of Zach Kincaid, ‘You’re so full of shit. I bet if I touched you, you’d run a mile.’

‘You reckon, do you?’

She mimics his voice, widens her eyes, makes out he’s childish – ‘I reckon.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

He’s looking at her, his gaze going from feature to feature, over her hair, down her neck. He’s avoiding her eyes though, because to look into her eyes would be to confirm too much. She glances around the bus. No-one behind them. Couple of landed gentry swots reading further down in front of them. The kid opposite has got that zombie gaze, eyes fixed ahead, fringe stuck to his damp forehead, not liable to wake from his trance even if they did start making out.

Zach says, his voice lowered, words thick in his throat, ‘Let’s go up the back.’

He goes without looking at her, bending for his bag and staying bent, stepping into the aisle and sliding onto the back seat in one fluid movement. He slouches in the shaded corner, averts his face. Rebecca follows, holding onto the steel backs of the seats, tossing her bag in beside his.

She learns that up close he has a smell all of his own – not the family scent, a softer scent that clings to his skin, in his hair, strongest behind his ear where his hairline meets his neck. She finds out he’s unsure and nervous – his hands shake, he blushes, she can feel the pulse in his neck, his heart is pounding in his chest, and he squirms like a child when she unzips his jeans. He pales and swallows when she touches him. He whispers for her to stop, and she’s bemused – stop? She’s only touching him. But he clasps her hands, pushes them away, says Careful, like she’s handling volatile liquid. He seems to want to put an end to what was only getting started. When she won’t let her hands be brushed away he says, Jesus, Rebecca, and bites his bottom lip.

It’s as though he can only bear the quickest glances down at what she’s doing. He breathes more heavily than she does.

She says to him, ‘You’re not going to kiss me, are you? It’s all right for me to kiss you, but there’s no way you’re going to kiss Rebecca Toyer.’

‘Shit,’ he mumbles, ‘I don’t know …’

She tries to kiss him but he tilts his head to avoid it.

‘Someone might see us,’ she teases, then asks, ‘Would you kiss me off the bus?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you think that’s really pathetic? It’s very clichéd, you know – good and bad side of the tracks, the fact that you’ll go to school and tell everyone Toyer sat up and begged for it, had to throw the poor girl a bone. Don’t you think I know that’s what you’ll say? If I was a rich kid like you I wouldn’t be so hung up on what people thought.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

He doesn’t answer.

For a while she looks at him, her hand still down the front of his jeans, the jolts from the dirt road coming up through the chassis, dust and sunlight mixing together in the air.

‘My mother told me about boys like you. She said boys like you sleep with the sluts and marry the virgins and then sleep with the sluts again. But then my mother also told me educated women are a waste of space. So I don’t think I should take too much notice of her advice – what do you think? I bet your mother has warned you about girls like me.’

He’s not listening, his eyes are half shut and his hands are by his sides now. She touches him less self-consciously, curious, the first time she’s let her fingers feel their way over a boy’s erection. She knows he thinks she’s more experienced than she actually is, and in a way that makes her bolder.

‘You know what else my mother told me? She said no-one with money will ever want me. And you’ve got money, Kincaid. Aren’t you worried that being near me might whittle away your fat inheritance? Is this one hectare gone?’

‘Stop,’ he says, closing his hand around her wrist.

‘Wonder what sex would be?’ she whispers in his ear. ‘A whole 100 hectares?’

He bends forward and shoulders her away. He swears under his breath, his neck and back tense, and a shudder of what seems like revulsion ripples through him. ‘Fuck.’

Rebecca senses her mistake, thinks perhaps she’ll never get the kiss she wants from Zach Kincaid, never get to know what it’s like to have his hand rest on her knee, or to hold his hand, or to have his arm possessively around her shoulders, so close to at least getting the kiss.

Years of setting up defensive strategies cause her to say, ‘Got a hanky? Or do you want to borrow mine?’

‘Piss off.’

But as she goes to move he hooks his foot around hers under the seat. He gives her a sheepish grin over his shoulder.

‘I would kiss you on the bus, Rebecca.’

‘Out the front of school?’

‘Maybe.’

HONEY BROWN, author of Red Queen, The Good Daughter and After the Darkness talks to Carol George of Penguin Books Australia

What inspired you to write The Good Daughter?

I was thinking back to when I was at school during the 1980s – a period not much written about – and how sexual harassment and bullying (sexual bullying), was sort of the ‘norm’. After quizzing my daughter, I realised that thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be the case today.

Back in my day it was pretty normal. We didn’t talk about it much. And I know it seems extreme, but it didn’t upset us because it was so normal.

Sexual bullying was accepted behaviour?

Yes, I think so. Girls accepted it and boys thought it was the thing to do. Everyone else was doing it, so …

Did it have much impact on you?

No, I don’t think so. I wasn’t that exposed to it, but I saw it happening around me and embellished those experiences in The Good Daughter.

Were any of your girlfriends given a hard time?

Yes, they were.

The Good Daughter is very evocative of small town life.

Small towns are so interesting – the book’s setting is a bit of Tasmania along with all the small towns I’ve lived in. Tassie seems to have it in particular, all these really rich characters. Small towns have these great, really individual people who inspire you.

Your book exposes the warm-hearted aspects of small town life along with the more, brutal ones.

Yes and I love that good and bad, it’s in all my writing. And in my characters, the play of those two elements. Everyone has that in them. And it’s sort of what makes people interesting. And again, it’s what makes the town interesting. It’s not just a goody two-shoes town. It’s this mix and that’s always intriguing.

Thinking about that, there are the corrupt police, the rich, bullying land owner … in fact most of the men in The Good Daughter are not very nice people.

I know! I love men and as characters, I adore writing about them so I don’t know why my male characters are often quite hard. But I hope that a softness shines through towards the end.

As one who grew up in small towns, have you observed a lot of hard men?

I guess so. I’ve certainly been surrounded by hard men, really rural men. The real man’s man – I seem to have a lot of them in the family. My husband’s like that.

Much like your previous book, Red Queen, The Good Daughter has a very unnerving sense of menace about it.

Yes, I don’t know why that is. Some people say in that first line of Red Queen they get a bit shivery. I don’t set out to do that, it just happens and I wonder if it’s because my writing is minimal. Maybe when you pare back like that it sets people on edge?

It’s a talent to be able to write like that.

I think it’s my style. I would really like to be able to write something light and funny but I can’t! It’s my natural way of writing and there’s no way around it.

Have you ever been menaced?

Umm, I guess everyone has a little bit in their lives. Perhaps by writing I talk about it. I choose to express myself through novels so I prefer not to talk about all the things that have happened to me.

So my instinct that something’s happened to you at some point in your life is correct?

I don’t know … I think lots of things happen to lots of people …

It doesn’t take much to feel menaced though, does it?

Especially for a woman. I think a lot of the time men don’t understand that. We go around locking doors and men say, ‘Why are you locking doors?’ I think we feel naturally vulnerable.

Would you describe The Good Daughter as a thriller?

No, as an edgy drama. A drama with some really dark elements. It’s just what comes out when I sit down and write. I don’t write to fit any genre.

Do you read all sorts of books?

I read right across the board. I try to expose myself to lots of different stuff. I can’t enjoy good trash any more though, like I used to. I used to read a lot of Mills & Boon as a teen. Then later, before I started writing, there was a whole lot of living and working and not much time for reading.

It wasn’t until I decided to write that I went out and bought all the classics and studied and crammed over a period of 5–7 years. Read everything I could. Did my own training.

What did you set out to achieve in writing The Good Daughter?

I wanted to write a good story, something I was proud of and something people could enjoy. I don’t push an issue but as I write, issues crop up. It’s the characters that draw the plot to them. I always know how it’s going to end, but the middle is a bit of a mystery.

Apart from sexual harassment, small town life and macho men, any other themes in The Good Daughter?

I also like the idea that the past plays out in the present and the future. As my children grew up, I could hear myself sounding and saying things exactly like my parents. And doing the same things. It’s quite unsettling because these are maybe things you didn’t like in your parents. Even though you love your parents, you didn’t want to turn into them. I love the idea that the past creeps up on you and that you fight against it.

I also like the way my story shows that isolation in a small town can happen at both ends of the scale. Rebecca’s really poor and she’s isolated because of that but Zac, on the other hand, is really well off and popular but that still pushes him to the fringe. I think that’s why they’re attracted to one another.

You began writing when you won a short story contest?

Yes I sent my first book, Red Queen, to an ABC contest for Unpublished Manuscript of the Year, that was around about 2008.

What made you write Red Queen?

I started writing a short story about a woman who broke into a rural property and as I really liked the premise, I scrapped the story and turned it into a novel.

You’ve sold the movie rights to Red Queen?

Yes, the director and producer have been looking at some of the country around my father’s property in Mansfield and they are thinking of filming it there. There’s even a cabin there they are looking at.

What prompted you to write the short story?

I don’t know, just did, I guess. The stories are in my head so I have to get them out.

No event in your life gave you the space to write?

I suppose it perhaps started when I was having the children and finished working. And I wonder if my accident sort of fast forwarded me to a place where women usually write, which is probably in their 40s and 50s when they’ve got time.

We can multi-task but writing is something that if you really want to do well, you have to give everything to it. It’s so distracting to be a writer and a mum and so many other things that women have to be. In a way my accident has perhaps given me the space to concentrate.

How many children?

Two, eldest Madison is 13 and Tom is 11.

I know the accident in which you were crushed by a cow left you paralysed, but I also know that you’ve said these days you and your family are so used to it, you hardly notice it.

It’s true, it happened back in 2000 and we’ve all adapted to it, which is good, but there’s a tinge of sadness to that too. When it happened I really fought the idea of acceptance. I was stubborn about it. Felt in a way that that would be giving in. It just goes to show the human condition, whether we like it or not, we will adapt.

But I am pleased that I cope better and that I do feel better about it and am content and happy again. Human nature has pushed me on.

Is it right you have no movement in your legs but you do in your arms?

Yes. I’ve got some feeling and movement in my legs but it is minimal. I can walk but I use callipers. I spend the majority of my time in a wheelchair because it is easier to get around.

It must have been a big shock when you were first told?

In a way I was never told – the doctors were lovely and always said there was a chance. But I felt it myself the moment it happened. That it was extreme and that you don’t come back from that. I just knew that straight away.

Your back was broken, wasn’t it?

Yes, but it wasn’t necessarily that. I just knew, ‘right – this is major.’ I knew everything would be different from then on.

Was it very painful?

Extremely, I don’t think about it a lot or talk about it – as a family we never talk about it. It feels strange to be talking about it but it doesn’t upset me, which is good.

I think it’s the same as childbirth. I don’t remember the pain as such. What I remember is the shock of the pain and absolute disbelief that something could hurt that much and that you could still be conscious. The shock was like, awe-inspiring.

Was your husband there?

Yes, he was there with the vet because we were trying to herd this sick cow in and that was the cow that fell on me. Everyone there knew too that it was serious.

It must have been a terrible experience for your husband too.

He thought I was dying. He was just standing there waiting for it to happen. They sent a helicopter and it couldn’t land because of the terrain, so an ambulance had to be sent. I’m not fully aware of how much time passed but it must have been quite a while because in that time my husband had rung a friend and he had come. So there was a long period for my husband of just waiting.

Has he recovered from that emotionally?

We’ve talked about it from time to time but we don’t really talk about it a lot. I’ve got a feeling that’s normal for families who have these shocking accidents.

How long have you been together now?

Ten years.

Where were you living when the accident happened?

In Callignee in the Latrobe Valley.

You’ve moved around lots, lived in many different places together, haven’t you?

Yes, we travelled around Australia lots and I’m really pleased we did that when we were young.

You were following the work?

Yes (laughing), we were following the money. We were broke. That does give it a different slant. I think people think it sounds romantic, but when you’re really travelling to make a buck it’s a whole different thing.

Yes it’s much tougher and worrying, isn’t it, not knowing if you’ll have the rent?

Yes – and all that arguing. I think people imagine it’s this fun time floating around in the sun, but it’s actually fights and storming around (laughing) …

Ever go overseas?

John and I planned to, but I lost all my money in the Pyramid crash. Had the flights booked, we were going and then, bang.

Your partner is an agricultural worker?

By trade he’s a diesel mechanic and a fitter and turner. But he worked in a lot of the mines.

How long have you been settled in the one place?

Not long (laughing) – been in Warragul nearly 4 years.

You breed those beautiful black-faced sheep?

Yes, black-faced Suffolks, we have about 40 breeders. It’s a lifestyle property. My husband works in irrigation as an irrigation technician. Or at least I give it that name (laughing) because I really have no idea what he does.

Size of your property?

About 40 hectares … I get confused between acres and hectares.

Me too, I’ve got the problem with feet and metres too …

Same here. I’ve accidentally made some people dwarves in my books – thank goodness for my editor.

A lovely place to live?

Yes it’s so beautiful here, green rolling hills, that storybook look about it – really picturesque. Trouble is, it looks gorgeous but it takes so much maintaining.

Where is Warragul?

About an hour and a half out of Melbourne, just past Pakenham.

Your name Honey sounds hippy-like, but it was inspired by a billboard near Bairnsdale where you come from originally, wasn’t it?

More a flaking old painted sign on some corrugated iron (laughing). Not quite up in lights. I think it said in huge letters, HONEY FOR SALE. It was mini landmark. But not an attractive one. Think all the townspeople felt relieved when it came down. Dad was a scrap dealer in the town.

Brothers and sisters?

Older sister and brother. But I didn’t meet my brother until I was 15 because he was adopted out. But we’re great mates. And it was a really positive and happy reunion.

Can I ask why he was adopted out?

They’ve since separated, but he was Mum and Dad’s firstborn and they were quite young. And way back whenever that was, there was no way you could keep the baby. Mum was whisked away to Melbourne and made to give the baby up.

We were living in Tassie at the time of the reunion and I was a teenager, a real drama queen – so I didn’t cope well at all. He teases me a lot about it now and we’re close.

So there was a very happy ending?

Yes – and he’s a writer, for magazines, and he’s quite well known in the fishing world. He was a published writer before me!

How old are you, Honey?

Thirty-seven or thirty-eight … can’t remember!

Describe yourself in three words?

Curious, kind-hearted and creative.

And you love … ?

The environment, animals and people.

I have two dogs, a blind labrador called Barbie, a springer spaniel called Banjo – and we’ve just got a new kitten called Jet. He’s black and white. My husband and daughter took Banjo to the vet and they came home with Jet, who had been abandoned. They couldn’t leave him there. The whole family’s having a love affair with Jet – we’re all smitten.

PRAISE FOR HONEY BROWN

RED QUEEN

‘A taut psychological thriller … the most filmic of stories.’ Sun-Herald

‘A cracker of a thriller involving a peculiar menage a trois camped out in the bush. There’s a good chance you may miss your train or bus stop, or show up to work with Vuitton-like bags beneath your eyes from a sleepless night trying to race to the last page.’ Vogue

‘These characters are superbly drawn and Brown’s manipulation of her stylish, erotic, unusual cinematic story firmly places this novel into the welcome league of the must-reads.’ Courier Mail

‘A prevailing mood of menace and threat in a frightening world make this first book a promising debut.’ Sunday Telegraph

‘Two brothers, one woman and a virus make Red Queen a compelling read.’ Sunday Tasmanian

‘A taut, unsettling thriller that never takes the easy or expected way out of any situation … Red Queen is a great read – definitely an author to watch.’ HorrorScope

THE GOOD DAUGHTER

‘A thrilling read – one that captures the brutal essence of Australian small-town life, in which characters shift along a sliding moral scale. Honey Brown’s writing carries the same dark, atmospheric weight of Sonya Hartnett’s books, with an authenticity that will resonate with teenage as well as adult readers, particularly fans of crime fiction.’ Bookseller+Publisher

‘A force to be reckoned with … [Brown is] a gifted novelist and a natural writer, her style subtle, elliptical and spare. There’s something shatteringly archetypal about The Good Daughter, as though Brown has somehow hit an artery in the soul. It recalls songs, stories, movies, novels and writers from both Australia and the US, from Annie Proulx and Cormac McCarthy to Kenneth Cook’s classic Wake in Fright.’ Sydney Morning Herald

‘Engaging as hell … Filled with more lowlifes than a sports bar on Friday night, and brimming with tense scenes.’ Australian Book Review

‘Brown is a masterful storyteller, building tension as lives and reputations unravel and tempers explode.’ Sunday Tasmanian

Honey Brown lives in country Victoria with her husband and two children. Her debut novel, Red Queen, was published in 2009 to critical acclaim and won an Aurealis Award. Her second novel, The Good Daughter, was longlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award and shortlisted for the Barbara Jefferis Award.

VIKING

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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2012

Text copyright © Honey Brown 2012

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ISBN: 978-1-74253-451-0