by Brandy Scott
Pete shrugged into the senior constable’s palm. ‘Still unconscious,’ he said. ‘They reckon he just needs time, but . . .’ Pete didn’t feel he was getting the full story there, either.
‘Well, best listen to them.’ The hand lifted, a lightening that left his shoulder feeling strangely vulnerable. There was a teeth- edge squeal as the chair across from him was pulled out, a sigh of air as something heavy settled into it. Arthur had been a good hundred kilograms last time Pete had seen him. Maybe more.
‘Sorry to have to bring you all the way down here.’ A pen clicked. ‘But we need to make sure all the statements are recorded properly, so the ATSB don’t have a fit when they take over.’
‘They’re not here yet?’ The Australian Transport Safety Bureau would have people in Melbourne, surely.
Arthur sighed. ‘You weren’t the only New Year’s crash, believe it or not. Helicopter went down on the Mornington Peninsula early hours next day.’ A few more quick pen-clicks. ‘Three American tourists, including a tennis player everyone else seems to have heard of. Pilot. No survivors. So you’re not top priority, unfortunately. But for good reason.’
‘Bloody hell.’
The door slid open again. ‘Sir?’ The young policeman. ‘Anything else you need in here?’
‘Coffee’d be good.’ A little rattle: the pen being placed down on the desk. ‘Peter?’
‘I was thinking more about helping with the interview, actually.’
‘Don’t get shirty, Simon.’ The chair creaked. ‘Two coffees. And a plate of biscuits, if we’ve got any.’
The door rattled shut without comment.
‘I’m going to record this, if that’s okay. Procedure says you have to be able to read to sign a statement, so —’
‘Of course.’
There was a fumble and a click. Arthur cleared his throat, a phlegmy rumble. Did he still smoke? Probably. Heart attack on legs, Julia had called him. Fabric whispered against wood as the policeman leaned over the table; Pete could feel the energy in the air push towards him.
‘Right. This recording’s being made at the Hensley Police Station, Victoria. It’s, ahhhhh, just gone seven pm, Friday the third of January. Leading Senior Constable Arthur MacKenzie, here with —’
‘Peter Kasprowicz, of 16 Gosfield Pass, Meadowcroft 3452.’
The chair creaked again. ‘We don’t need to be too formal. You’re not suspected of anything. We just need to get the facts down, while they’re relatively fresh. And this way I can pass the recording to young Simon here to transcribe, rather than writing it up myself.’
There was a grunt as a cup was placed on the desk in front of Pete. ‘Thanks,’ he said, discovering something that felt like a Chocolate Wheaten on the side.
‘Where’s mine?’ said Arthur.
‘None left.’
A shuffling, a rearranging of heavy bloke. ‘So let’s run through the basics. What time did you guys go up?’
Pete sipped at the blessedly hot coffee as he went over the details. Letting themselves into the aero club just after sunset, the slow meander down the river. Yes, they’d drawn up a flight plan. No, they hadn’t stuck to it exactly, but close enough.
‘And you’ve got your licence.’
‘Yes. I mean, I assume it burned up with the fuselage, my whole wallet did. But I’m qualified.’
‘And to fly at night?’
‘I’ve got my full instrument rating, yes.’
‘Which means . . .’
‘It means you’re trained to fly using instruments rather than sight.’ Pete could almost feel the wince across the table. ‘For night-time, bad weather, that kind of thing.’
‘I see.’ Arthur paused. ‘I’ve got to ask. Why did you go up that late anyway?’
‘It was a treat,’ said Pete. ‘A promise.’ Lincoln had been pestering for months. If your marks are good enough, Pete had said. Knowing they always were.
‘A promise?’
‘It was his birthday last week. I said I’d take him up at night.’
‘But with the fireworks —’
‘That was the whole point.’ Lincoln had seen a YouTube video of a pilot flying over San Francisco Bay on the Fourth of July. The man had set the video to opera, fireworks from dozens of individual displays blooming below him like electric flowers as the music soared. Ours probably won’t be that impressive, Pete had warned, but they’d been almost serenaded by tiny pockets of bursting light from vineyards holding their own celebrations. And then the big display, the town fireworks, early for the kids. One of the last things he’d seen, full stop.
‘Not dangerous?’
‘Not really. Fireworks go off around eight hundred feet, one thousand tops. We were well above that. And you’re not that close either. It’s like watching something on telly, rather than being amongst it.’
‘Ah.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Pete. It had been, all the tiny coloured stars exploding, raining down on the river, straight into their own reflections. Lincoln had laughed and laughed, gurgling slightly like he used to when he was a toddler. Pure joy.
‘And you didn’t have any worries about the plane.’
Pete shook his head. ‘Smithy keeps her in good nick. Always has.’
‘He’s getting on, though.’
‘He’s solid. I’d trust him with my life.’
Arthur sucked air through his teeth, or maybe it was coffee. Pete nibbled at the edge of his biscuit.
‘So what happened?’
Pete shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. Just as he had to the doctors, his sister, Simon the statement-taking coffeemaker. ‘I can remember the fireworks, and thinking it was probably time to head back, then nothing. I don’t even remember making the turn.’
‘Right.’
‘They say it might come back. Like my sight. But at the moment — nada.’
‘You didn’t get distracted? By the bangs?’
‘I’ve been up at night dozens of times. And you can barely hear the fireworks. They’re little bursts of light, that’s all.’
‘Something wrong with the engine? Was it making any noise?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you stall?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hot coffee breath as the policeman leaned forward. ‘You don’t have to worry about liability. Your licence means you’re insured, regardless of fault.’ A pause. ‘Maybe you got disorientated. Confused.’
‘Arthur, I honestly don’t remember.’ Pete felt for the rest of his biscuit. ‘I wish I did.’
‘Peter.’ There was a rattle, cup on saucer. A scrape as the crockery was pushed across the table. ‘Mate. There was alcohol in your system. The ATSB are going to want to know about that.’
‘I’d had a beer. After lunch.’
‘What time?’
He’d thought about this. ‘Three, three thirty? I’d just finished mowing the lawn.’
‘Just the one?’
‘Two maybe. But I don’t think I finished the second.’
‘Funny it still showed up seven hours later.’
Pete shrugged.
‘Any chance you might have had another later on? New Year’s, after all. Maybe with dinner, with a friend —’
There was a scuffle in the hallway, a muffled argument and a thud on the wall.
‘Hang on.’ Arthur pushed his chair back, but the door rattled open before he could get up, banging on its rails. Quick steps, heavy breathing. The air became static with energy.
‘Stop talking, right now.’ There was a foreign twang to the voice, slightly American, but the same indignant tone as ever. ‘You can’t do this. You can’t question him without a lawyer. Pete, don’t say anything.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Simon. ‘I tried —’
‘It’s okay, Cameron.’ Pete twisted towards the voice. ‘He’s not really questioning me. It’s just an informal chat.’
‘Nothing’s informal with this lot. Turn that damn thing off, he’
s not telling you — Bloody hell!’
Pete touched his face self-consciously, waiting for his son to move towards him. But Cameron stayed on the far side of the room. Still not forgiven then. So why even come?
‘Cameron.’ Arthur stayed seated as well. ‘Been a while.’
‘Constable.’
‘Keeping out of mischief?’
‘Always.’
Pete flushed at the sarcasm, the lack of respect.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Don’t worry, Constable, I’m not back to bother you.’ Singsong. ‘But if you’re done with your “informal chat”, I’m going to take my wheelchair-bound stepfather here back to the hospital. Where, as I think you know, my little brother is lying in a bloody coma.’
‘No need to get all bent out of shape, Cameron. We’re only trying to find out what happened.’
‘I don’t think now’s the time, do you? God, don’t you bastards have any sense of decency?’
‘Cameron!’ said Pete. ‘Arthur, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you apologise.’ There was a creak as the policeman got heavily to his feet. ‘Bad kids happen to good parents all the time. See it every day.’
CHAPTER 11
Lou lay staring at the cracks in the ceiling and tried to ignore the growing realisation that Melinda was probably right.
Not about everything. She was way out of line suggesting Lou had done anything wrong in the way she’d raised Tansy. Lou bunched pilled sheets in angry fists. She’d made every sacrifice asked of her, including some she was still too ashamed to tell anyone. Nor was Lou buying into the theory that Tansy had somehow been destined to get pregnant just because Lou had. Tansy had grown up with condoms in the bathroom drawer, offers to put her on the pill when she needed it. Lou had done everything right there as well.
And yet here she was, listening for clues — a toilet flush, a boiling jug — to figure out whether her daughter had even come home the night before.
Lou kicked at the bottom of the sheet, wriggling her feet free into the sticky warmth of her parents’ bedroom. Maybe she should have spoken to Tansy more about her own pregnancy, how much it had turned her life upside down. How bloody hard it was. Maybe she should have been a little more honest about the facts of her daughter’s conception. Lou hadn’t wanted Tansy to feel guilty, or that she was a burden. But maybe it would have made Tansy more responsible. Less . . . pregnant.
Regardless, it didn’t mean anyone got to criticise. Especially not Melinda, with her plush apartment, free from tantrum-throwing teenagers and subsidence. Lou stopped worrying about her own failings and turned to the more comfortable business of resenting her friends. Melinda, who was spending the weekend in a five-star hotel, surrounded by adoring groupies. Melinda of all people, who knew what it was like to work your arse off. Lou had thought Melinda understood; clearly not.
And Aimee didn’t get to look at her smugly either. Aimee, who’d moved straight from her parents’ house to her husband’s vineyard, who was able to sit around writing bloody poetry all day because she’d never had to worry about how she was going to pay the rent. No, neither of them got to judge.
But Melinda was also, annoyingly, onto something. Because Lou and Tansy were stuck in a cycle, of bad behaviour and pointless punishments. Lou tried to be strict; Tansy resented her. Lou tried to be understanding; Tansy took the piss. Lou tried to give her daughter space to make her own mistakes, and look where they were now. Lou smacked her pillow in frustration. Worst of all, she didn’t know how to make it stop.
Lou glared up at the flaking plaster, the same cracks her parents would have stared at. This whole bloody house was a cycle. At least she wasn’t lying in their actual bed. That had been the one change she’d made when she moved back in. The thought of sleeping on their ancient mattress, imprinted with pious late-night tossing and turning over Lou’s own bad behaviour, was a bridge too far, even on her budget. Lou had splurged on an IKEA special: marked down, due to shop-floor wear and tear, but at least it was new.
The rest of the room, though, was still exactly the same. Shiny shantung curtains, complete with pelmets and tie-backs. Spindly bedside tables, with thin gold handles that bit your palms. Textured wallpaper. Louvred wardrobes. A brown-tipped sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed that Lou had always thought looked like a run- over dog. Lou had just left it all, and so the entire house looked as though it had been pickled in 1978, down to the service-station calendar hanging in the toilet.
God, she hated it. Lou felt her neck muscles tighten every time she walked in the front door. And yet, inheriting this house had been one of the best things that had happened to her. The whole town had given her the silent treatment after the accident, aware that no peace had been made before poor Bev and Ken passed away. And for her to still take the house with all that bad blood, move in before they were even cold in the ground? Clearly she had no shame. That month had seemed never-ending. Lou had gone to the funeral but not spoken, sat dry-eyed at the front ignoring the whispers behind her. Melinda and Aimee stuck loyally close, popping round every five minutes in case Lou needed to share regrets about things not said. But Lou had no regrets. The Cold War had been her parents’ fault, and if they were too stupid to change their will, too bad. It had got her and Tans out of their nasty rental, put a much-needed two hundred and fifty dollars back in her bank account every fortnight. She’d thank them, but even dead, they weren’t on speaking terms.
Lou shrugged her way out of bed, pulled her T-shirt down over her undies. Tansy’s room was empty; no real surprise. Lou was almost beyond caring. Almost. She shuffled towards the kitchen, with its fugly orange tiles and brown linoleum. What had happened in the seventies to make people think clashing earth tones were a good idea? She placed the kitchen on a mental list of renovations that she’d never have the spare cash to tick off. We’ll get to it right after we install the home cinema, ha ha. She flicked the kettle on and fumbled in the bread bin for a loaf that wasn’t there. Just two ratty crusts. Typical. Everyone else got the soft and bouncy middle slices of life; Lou seemed destined for the hard edges.
Her phone beeped with an incoming message, but Lou didn’t bother reaching over to read it. Didn’t have to; she knew who it would be from and what it would say. Aimee, trying to smooth over Melinda’s comments. Making sure they were all still friends. There would be one from Melinda herself in about an hour, not apologising as such, but making an oblique reference to late nights and high emotions. Maybe suggesting a trip to the city, where she’d try to buy Lou something expensive which Lou would refuse. And then they’d all go back to normal: loving and supporting and gently insulting each other, for another thirty years. They were stuck in a cycle too.
Lou took a gulp of instant and made a face. Predictable was fine, as long as the future you could foresee didn’t make you want to stick your head in the oven. Although not this oven, the gas was dodgy. It’d cut out before Lou would come close to finishing herself off. She stirred the lumpy coffee with a finger, then dumped it in the sink. Melinda was going places; even Aimee, who never physically went places, had movement through her husband, her children, the vineyard. But Lou? Lou was circling round and round the plughole, a lukewarm cup of cheap granules and sour milk going slowly down the drain.
Lou rinsed out her cup — Royal Doulton with gold rims, the best china she was never allowed to use as a child, which she now shoved rebelliously in the dishwasher, not caring if it chipped. A face appeared at the mottled glass above the sink, then ducked away. Lou had the door open and was out on the steps before the figure could make it round the side of the house. ‘TANSY,’ she roared, not caring what the neighbours thought. ‘Get your arse in here.’
Tansy slunk in, looking surprisingly fresh for someone who had stayed out all night.
‘I was at Chloe’s,’ she said pre-emptively, before Lou could start interrogating. ‘Her parents were there. They dropped me off. You can phone and check.’
Lou stared at her
self-righteous mini-me. ‘It was my birthday,’ she said.
‘I bought you a present. And a card.’
‘You disappeared, during my birthday party.’ Lou searched her daughter’s face for any hint of remorse. ‘Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?’
‘I was there for most of it,’ Tansy reasoned. ‘And they’re your friends anyway. You didn’t need me hanging around.’
‘You didn’t even say where you’d gone.’
‘I came back,’ said Tansy. ‘Later. And everyone had left. So technically, you bailed on me.’
‘I did not,’ said Lou. ‘I was at Melinda’s. And you text if you go somewhere. Or you call. You ask permission to stay over. You know the rules.’ She banged her fist on the kitchen table. ‘For fuck’s sake, Tansy.’
‘Don’t swear at me!’ shouted Tansy. ‘This is abuse. I should call Child Wise.’ She turned and ran out of the kitchen, short little legs pumping. Lou ran after her, their thumping feet making the watercolours lining the hallway jump and rattle. Lou caught the side of Tansy’s bedroom door as she flung it open, and held on tight so her daughter couldn’t slam it shut in her face.
‘Bugger off,’ shouted Tansy, as she tugged on her side of the door. ‘Leave me alone.’
Lou clung and pulled, but Tansy was stronger. ‘Tansy,’ she warned. ‘Let me in, or you’re grounded.’
‘I’m already grounded,’ Tansy yelled, as she gave a final yank on the door, forcing it closed. Lou’s fingers, still curled around the edge, were smashed against the doorjamb.
Holy. Fuck. Lou screamed as the door bounced back off her flesh. The walls swung and Lou buckled, falling into a crouch over her wounded hand.
‘Mum?’ Tansy dropped down beside her. ‘Oh God. Mum. Are you okay? Show me.’
Lou swallowed back vomit. Forget childbirth, this was pain. She rocked over her hand as the floor shifted, bright spots of light blinking and disappearing on the carpet.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tansy whimpered, as Lou pushed past her and stumbled towards the bathroom. She shoved her fingers under the lukewarm trickle that counted for cold water in summer.
