by Renee Kira
‘It must be good to have him home with you,’ I say.
She doesn’t answer.
15
Isobel
When I slip my charger into the port of Veronica’s laptop, it occurs to me that we even have the same computer. I spend the next two hours going through every file on a dead woman’s laptop. I open the deleted items. Veronica used a MacBook. What some people don’t realise is that you need to delete your deleted items. Otherwise, they’ll just sit in the recycling bin for days. Or in my case, months.
My laptop sits on my desk, next to Veronica’s. Hers is open and mine is closed. They are almost exactly the same model. Another weird coincidence to give me the creeps. Then again, who doesn’t use a Mac these days?
It’s weird to be thumbing my way through her life like this. Scouring search results and chatting to her ex-boyfriend was one thing. Going through her private correspondence is another.
So far, I’ve read some very boring work emails, pages of property ad copy, and clicked through the photos of houses she sold. Thinking she might be one of the few people left in the world who only use their laptop for work, I am about to give up.
I see the rubbish bin icon on the bottom of the right-hand side of the screen. If she was anything like most people, she never emptied it. When I open it, I find hundreds of files. After sorting by date, I scan each file name, looking for something relevant.
A folder named “hospital” catches my eye. There are plans of the old hospital, original floor plans. There is also a plan of a proposed development. Twenty-four modern townhouses. Close to the town centre and the beach, they could be worth a lot of money.
In a box in the left-hand corner of the plans is the name of the draftsman who had drawn up the townhouses. Beneath in neat square font: Client: V Hayes.
She had the plans drawn up herself. The deal she was trying to do was not for a client. She wanted to buy the site and develop it herself. Or did she already own it? She would need a lot of cash to get that together.
Her entire email folder is empty. That makes me think someone has deleted whatever was there. The only person with access was Maya. And she was the one who had volunteered the laptop to me. What would she be hiding?
I try the same trick again in the mail program, but the deleted folder is empty. A message pops up asking if I want to set up a new mail account. It’s as if she’d never used this laptop to email anyone.
Which is a possibility. She probably had a work email address. A few years ago, the company I worked for moved their email to a web-based server. Instead of using the installed mail client on a computer, you use a web browser to retrieve your email from anywhere.
It takes a few tries to find it. Google Mail isn’t set up. Then I try Outlook. It’s not as popular as it used to be, but still worth a shot. I get lucky. Not only is it the right program, but her username and password are already saved.
Why haven’t the police done this? They must be aware she had a laptop. Why aren’t they looking for it? Was it possible she had a second work computer? Are they not looking hard enough?
There are only a handful of emails in the inbox, all work related, mentioning offers or inspections. There is nothing about the hospital. There is something in the draft folder. An email that was written by Veronica but not sent. The blank bar at the top shows no recipient.
Thank you for taking the time to meet with me last night. I know that the subject matter is delicate.
I appreciate that your client doesn’t want to move forward without evidence. However, I believe that there are medical records in this regard that will clear up any doubts.
I will be able to forward these to you on Wednesday.
Veronica had stopped typing there. She might have planned to finish it later, or decided to not send it at all. There is no way of knowing. Either way, she had never sent it.
Wednesday. I look at the draft date and then open it on her calendar. It’s the Wednesday before she died. There was only one appointment scheduled that day. Nine am at the old hospital. There was no name or phone number attached like her other appointments.
A medical record. There couldn’t be any documents left at the old hospital though. The place had been shut down for years. Anything like that would have been moved to a storage facility, especially sensitive information.
Veronica would have been there only a few days before she died. Whatever the ‘delicate subject’ was, her evidence could have been inside that hospital.
There’s only one way to find out. I guess I’m going to the old hospital.
16
Maya
I have an idea, but I don’t dwell on it. If I do, I’ll talk myself out of going. When I get out of the car, I know this is a mistake. She’s not going to want to see me. But I walk across a row of pavers that divides a rose garden and I ring Heather Hayes’ doorbell anyway.
This idea felt less crazy in the middle of a sleepless night. It occurred to me Heather is the one I should be talking to. If there’s another soul that’s mourning the loss of Veronica, it must be her. I should have come here sooner.
The other side of the argument is that she likely doesn’t want to see me, or anyone. She was hostile before this happened. She could be flat out aggressive now.
I hear Veronica’s name spoken in the streets each day, but no one actually talks about her. Not who she was as a person or what she did. She was a mother who gave out hugs and a friend who lent an ear. They say her name, but only talk about how she died and where she was found. And what she might have done to deserve what happened to her.
She used to be a person, now she’s a victim. She’s that picture stuck to every news story. I’m not sure where it came from, but now it’s the one that gets flashed on the front of the news websites. Veronica has become a construct.
No matter why she died or how, her death is an injustice. Someone’s mother and someone’s daughter is lost to them. Someone’s life ended too soon. I want to undo it. I want that wrongness to ebb away like an outgoing tide.
Sad is a two-dimensional description. People know I’m sad, but not the rest of the dark rainbow that makes up my emotions. I feel cheated, uneasy and also full of dread that this isn’t over yet. I’ve been left alone with all of it. David is avoiding me. Lucy listens but gives no solutions.
So I find myself here, outside an average-looking house in an average part of town. Brick veneer, tiled roof. Two large windows facing the street. A tidy garden with shrubs and roses. The roses are not average, they’re quite spectacular.
Heather opens the door. Her brown eyes are too large for her face and her cheeks are sunken. She’s not been sleeping either. She gives me a look over, her hand still on the brass doorknob. I’m worried she’s going to close it on my face.
‘Hi,’ I say. I suck in a deep breath of air as I wait for her reaction.
‘Maya,’ she takes a step back and opens the door for me. ‘Did you come to see Max?’
I didn’t and I immediately feel guilty. ‘Is he home?’
‘No.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘Back at school now. I thought that was best.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I wanted to drop by and see how you were doing.’
‘As well as can be expected,’ she says, turning around. She walks ahead, leaving the door open for me to follow her.
Inside, the house is all original. Everything looks the same as it would have twenty years ago. It’s impeccably neat. I take a seat on the black leather couch, the newest-looking thing in the house, and wait for Heather to do the same. Instead, she walks straight past me to an ironing board set up in the corner of the lounge room.
She doesn’t speak, instead she switches the iron back on, casting a look of disdain to the twisted lump of clothes in a washing basket beside her. Only now to I notice the neat piles of clothes on the buffet along the wall.
‘Is it washing day?’ I ask, more to start a conversation than anything.
She looks up, squints sl
ightly, then shakes her head. ‘Oh, no. I’m just getting through Veronica’s things.’
‘They’re Veronica’s clothes?’
‘Yes. This is the last lot. I’ve washed them all and put them back in her bedroom.’ She states this in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Right. That must be awful, having to go through her things.’
‘Well, yes. But we got through it in a day, Neil and I. We brought across all of Max’s things and set them up in the spare room for him. When I was in her house, I realised I couldn’t leave her things there. It felt like I was leaving her there. So it’s all in her bedroom.’
I don’t think it’s been her bedroom for a long time, but I nod in agreement, anyway.
‘How is Neil?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Back at work now.’ Her big eyes are glassy and there’s something vacant about her expression.
‘I miss her a lot,’ I say after a long silence.
She nods as if I have stated the obvious, but she says nothing. I think this may not be the right person for me to be talking to at all. I should go. I’m about to stand, but Heather starts talking.
‘I keep buying Tim Tams.’
‘What?’
‘She loves them. No one else here eats them, but they were her favourite. Every time I walk past them in the supermarket, I pick up a pack. I can’t stop myself.’
‘Oh.’
‘There’s six packets in the cupboard now.’
I nod. It’s strange, but is it any stranger than me wearing the ring she bought me every day, or reading the novel she lent me? I watch her return to ironing, almost manic. Perhaps her mental state is not so good.
‘I should leave you to it,’ I say. ‘I wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you. And that I haven’t forgotten Veronica.’
I stand up. She nods, her lips pressed firmly together. She doesn’t move away from her ironing. I guess I’ll let myself out.
‘Take care of yourself then,’ she says.
‘You too.’
‘And keep yourself out of Veronica’s troubles.’
I freeze on the spot. ‘What troubles?’
As she places the iron on its side she puts a hand on her hip. ‘Well, it wasn’t random, was it? Someone did it to her. She was always… getting into things.’
‘Things?’
‘Well, I don’t know the half of what she was doing. But she was planning something. Said it would change her life.’
My stomach drops and my voice comes out flat. 'Change how?’
‘She never told me. Sometimes she got excited over nothing, about things that didn’t end up happening. She was always like that. Even as a little girl.’
‘And you think this was something bad?’
‘How else could this happen to her? But you need to keep out of it, Maya. I’m not sure what it was, but steer clear.’
I nod. ‘I’ll see you soon, Heather.’
‘And I saw you with Isobel Franco at Veronica’s funeral. Keep away from her too.’
‘Isobel? Why?’
‘She’s trouble.’
‘Okay.’ I can’t tell if what she is saying is real or if it’s paranoia speaking. Her ironing Veronica’s clothes along with these strange accusations have me worried about her. ‘Talk soon, okay? Do you have my number? You can call me anytime.’
‘Yes. I think I do,’ she nods.
Before I get to the front door, she calls out again. ‘I mean what I said about Isobel. They’re not a good family. The father has a history. I’ve been finding out all about it. Very dark stuff.’
17
Isobel
I’m not the first person to break into the old hospital, judging by the broken glass and misplaced plywood. Getting in is the easy part. It’s when I’m inside that everything starts to go wrong.
The last time I was inside this hospital, I was a kid. From time to time, I drive past, but the gardens out the front are overgrown, and it’s hard to see much.
The car park was still there and wide open. Of course, there aren’t any cars. The hospital is a double-story dark-brick building, built in the seventies. The window frames are mission brown and the roof is flat. Most of the windows and doors have been covered with plywood sheets. I’ve brought a crowbar, a hammer, and some other tools from my father’s shed. I hope he doesn’t miss them before I get them back.
It turns out I don’t need to get the tools out of the boot. As I walk to the back of the building, I see sheets of plywood discarded on the ground. As I get closer, I can see someone else has been here first, ripping off the plywood and leaving me an opening.
It doesn’t take long to find an open space low enough to the ground. The lowest part of the window is below my knees, but the gap isn’t much bigger than me. I think I can drop through legs first and land on my feet.
I’m careful as I ease myself through, looking out for shards of broken glass. It takes a few minutes, but I carefully navigate the gap without hurting myself.
I think this is the basement. I stop, and for a few minutes I listen. I want to make sure I am alone. There’s nothing at all to hear. Not even the rustle of paper or the hum of a machine. If someone broke in here, they’re long gone.
There is no electricity, and barely enough light inside for me to see. The grey linoleum floor is cracked in places. Dirt and leaves from the outside have blown in and are scattered across the floor. As I start walking through the corridors and looking through each room, I’m surprised to find furniture. I would expect it to have been sold off and the place emptied years ago. Visitors’ chairs, desks, and even beds are still in place. Whoever was in charge of the shutdown did a terrible job.
If there’s a records room, it’s likely to be here in this basement. There was little trace left of the hospital online, let alone a floor plan. The documents on Veronica’s computer gave me a site plan, but this showed only the dimensions of the land and the position of the building.
I push through a set of heavy steel doors that lead to a staircase going deeper. It gets darker as I descend. The smell of mildew filters through the air. Again, I stop and listen for a few minutes, making sure I am still alone.
At the bottom of the stairs, I find myself in another corridor. Pulling the torch I’ve brought out of my pocket, I flick it on as I make my way further into the darkness. The first door I open leads to a large, sparse room. The high glass windows sit at ground level outside provide little ventilation or light. I can still see more shards of glass, pushed inwards on the floor.
The next door is timber and painted beige. There’s a padlock, but it was bust open long before I got here. I push the door open and let myself in. Piles and piles of archive boxes tell me I am in the right place.
Metal shelving is fitted around the perimeter of the room, with stacked boxes from the floor to the ceiling. There is an index stuck to each box, but no order in how they are stacked. ‘Intake - April - 1985’ is beside ‘Purchase orders - IT Department.’ Either they had a terrible administration team or these boxes have been moved around a hell of a lot.
One box is on the ground. ‘Plans and permits’ is written in thick black marker on its side. Could this have been what Veronica came looking for?
Kneeling on the ground, I pull the lid off the box. Inside are blueprints and plans of the hospital. I fold them outwards, I guess they are the original drawings by the architect who designed the place. I pull out more paperwork. There are similar documents, some of them with council permits. They are old. Older than me and older than Veronica.
At the bottom of the box is a smaller piece of paper. At first, I think it’s a packaging slip. But I look closer; it’s a birth certificate. It’s Veronica’s birth certificate.
There are more medical documents, all of them Veronica’s. Someone had put it all in this box, underneath the plans. Had Veronica come here looking for information about the hospital or herself? Was it something more personal than a business deal gone bad? And why put them under all these o
ther documents?
A large clatter outside of the storage room brings me back to reality. I drop Veronica’s birth certificate; the paper floats to the floor. I hear the low creak of a heavy door opening followed by slow footsteps. Someone is coming down the stairs to the basement.
Nausea fills up my stomach. Are they looking for the same documents I am? Or are they looking for me?
Whoever is here, I don’t want to cross paths with them. With all my focus on getting into this place and what I might find, I haven’t considered how I’m going to get out. Or who else might be here.
If there’s a second way out, I need to find it. Fast. I can hear their footsteps echo in the empty corridor. They’re getting closer.
With the hope that the darkness will hide my movement, I slip out of the storage room. I keep my steps slow and quiet and my body close to the cold concrete walls.
I make my way down the corridor, away from the sound of footsteps. At its end, I can make out another door. I try to open it, but the handle doesn’t turn. In desperation, I shove the full weight of my body against it. It doesn’t help. The thing isn’t going to budge.
Has the noise given me away? I strain my eyes searching the darkness. A shadowy figure disappears into one of the rooms of the corridor, then reappears a minute later. They are searching each room, one at a time, like I was doing not so long ago. I haven’t got long until they find me.
My last attempt, I slam my shoulder into the door with the full force of my weight. It gives a small creak then gives. Another shove and it opens, a loud groan vibrating down the whole corridor. I slip through the small opening created, just as I see the shadow come out of the storage room. They’ve heard me.
This new room has more light, with a row of high windows meeting the ground level outside. Again, most of them have been smashed in and the floor is covered with glass. The floor and the walls are covered with linoleum and there is a row of steel compartment lockers along one wall. I’m in the morgue. There’s no second door in this room. I’m stuck in here.
