Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

The morning of the inquiry broke hot and still. Aimee pulled dress after dress over her head, rejecting them all. The black was too funereal. The coral floral too cheerful. And she was still far too fat for the red and white; it made her look like a beach ball, the way the stripes widened around her middle. Not that anyone would care what she was wearing. By the time she’d spoken, Aimee’s waistline would be the last thing anybody was thinking about, including Aimee.

  We shouldn’t even be having an inquiry, Melinda thought as she pulled on one of her ‘approachable’ wrap dresses. If there was a chance she was going to be outed as a murderer, then she wanted to look like a nice one. Melinda had spent all weekend on the ATSB website, and there was no precedent for this. The bureau released most of its reports online, with maybe a small press briefing in high-profile cases. But Hensley Council had got involved, insisted on a public flogging in the town hall. Evidence would be raked over, witnesses called. The community needed answers, apparently. That was the problem with living in a country town — everyone cared a bit too much.

  Lou’s first thought was to wear a pair of jeans. The inquiry was all Rex’s idea — a chance for the mayor to show his caring side, while demonstrating that he had the power to boss a federal agency around. She wasn’t dressing up for that fucker. But her hands went instead to the expensive crepe she’d bought for her birthday. She pulled it out; there was only a small grass stain, and most of the creases were at the back. It looked respectful, that was the main thing. Lou didn’t have to go to the inquiry now she was no longer staff. She was choosing to, out of respect, for Pete, for Lincoln — the father of her daughter’s baby, after all — and for Tansy herself. Lou tugged at the front of her dress, tried to pull it higher over her boobs. And Melinda; she was going to remind Melinda that she needed to pay up.

  ‘You feeling okay?’ Nick glanced sideways at Aimee as he drove, the first vaguely caring words he’d spoken to her in three days. She allowed a small balloon of hope to rise in her chest, then remembered he’d be a lot less caring by the afternoon.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, aware of the kids in the back. She hadn’t wanted them to come, but Nick insisted. A learning experience, he’d argued the night before. Good for them to see local government in action. This morning, he’d decided they needed to attend for emotional reasons. ‘They’ve been affected by this as well, Aimee.’ But really, he was worried about leaving them alone. The scene by the river with Cameron had rattled him too. He just wouldn’t admit it.

  Aimee looked back at Byron, glued to his iPad, at Shelley already texting. Would she be able to go through with it, in front of them? It might have to be part of their learning experience. Aimee pushed down visions of her children in therapy, suffering PTSD as a result of watching their mother torn apart by a baying mob. Only vocally, she hoped. Although emotions were running high; anything was possible.

  The town hall was almost full by the time Melinda arrived, with seats set out to the wall on both sides.

  ‘We’re expecting nearly five hundred,’ Sharna reported as she walked Melinda down the narrow central aisle, as though she was an usher, as though this was a Broadway show. ‘Television cameras too.’

  Melinda’s dad was already there, seated near the back. ‘Somewhere in the middle please, Sharna,’ Melinda said, eyes firmly forward. People were looking at her funny, or was that her imagination? God, she was going to end up as paranoid as —

  ‘Oh, but you’ll want to be near your friends.’ The postmistress kept walking and Melinda had no choice but to follow. Aimee was three rows from the front, where a small desk and microphone had been set up. ‘I saved you girls a row.’

  ‘There’s no need —’

  But Sharna had her arm, was making people move as she guided Melinda towards her angry cousin. ‘Here you go, Aimee. Look who I’ve got for you.’

  ‘I’m not sitting next to her,’ Aimee said flatly. Because she wasn’t.

  ‘Well, you can swap with Nick then,’ said Sharna, who didn’t seem overly surprised.

  ‘No.’ Aimee, Melinda and Nick spoke as one.

  ‘Well then, you two can move over, and Lou can sit in the middle.’ Sharna was already waving at Lou, who was walking in with a tired-looking Tansy. Aimee did a double take; was she wearing a cocktail dress?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Melinda, ‘but I’m not sitting next to Lou.’

  The seven of them stood there, waiting for Sharna to sort their mess out. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Who doesn’t care who they sit next to?’ The children raised their hands. As Sharna moved them around like human chess pieces, Aimee could see her hiding a smile. ‘Everyone happy? Good.’ Although no one was happy, a blind man could see that.

  Pete sat rigid in his front-row seat, Cameron an angry sentry next to him. He could feel the anticipation of the crowd behind them, as though they were waiting for a footy match to kick off. There’d been a few campaigns, Cameron had told him. Justice for Lincoln, a collection for some kind of memorial. All for a boy who hadn’t lived among them since he was seven. But the people of Hensley prided themselves on being a tight community. It was one of the reasons Pete had moved; life had begun to feel claustrophobic. Reprimanding pupils in the morning, then having to answer to their parents in the supermarket or the pub or even the street later on. There was also a sense of entitlement in Hensley that he hadn’t wanted his own kids growing up with. This idea that they were luckier than other people. Although look how Pete’s own luck had changed, almost as soon as they’d left town.

  ‘Should we make a break for it?’ Cameron murmured in his ear. ‘I’ll distract them, you start the car.’

  Pete gave a quiet laugh, despite himself. But Cameron was right. Hensley wanted blood.

  Lou tugged at her dress as she took her assigned seat at the end of the row. Next to Tansy, who was chatting away happily to Melinda, who sat beside a scowling Byron, who was pointedly ignoring a grim-faced Nick — wow, that was quite a lump on his forehead — who had surprisingly elected not to sit next to Aimee, who just looked exhausted. Between them, Shelley was texting. Lou’s closest friends, and none of them had even said hello. She pulled out her phone, fiddled around with the banking app she’d downloaded. Your money in real time. But her money still wasn’t there. She looked over at Melinda, who was pretending not to watch her. There were maybe two hours, Lou reckoned, before her threats lost their power. She moved her bag onto her lap and opened it so Melinda would know she meant business.

  Lou had brought the report with her. Melinda swallowed down a little ball of sick and tried to listen to what Tansy was saying about the pram she wanted to buy. Now that she knew, her brother’s involvement was obvious. Tansy had her mother’s lips, Matthew’s slouch, Melinda’s attitude. I’ve always liked her, she thought, trying to ignore the stack of papers in Lou’s lap. They’d had fun during Tansy’s driving lessons; Melinda would have enjoyed being an aunty. Which was never going to happen now. Tansy paused for breath and Melinda quickly leaned across her.

  ‘I’ve sent it,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Then where is it?’ asked Lou. She held up her phone, and Melinda winced. God, was that what they were living on? No wonder Lou was angry. But she kept her face impassive.

  ‘It’s coming,’ she said. ‘Hang fire.’

  Aimee tried to ignore the faint electrical pulsing in her head as a council worker fumbled with the microphone. She’d started taking her pills again, had swallowed the first only a few hours after they’d rescued Byron. Which was a rescue, thank you very much. She could see Cameron two rows in front, feet sprawled wide with no regard for anyone else. Aimee glared at him, feeling the slight zap of her brain chemicals recalibrating. Life in her lovely house had become something to be endured. Byron still wasn’t really speaking to her; Shelley seemed wary, while Nick had spent the weekend acting as though she didn’t exist. Taking the kids off on errands, leaving her at home to talk to the cat. At least Oscar had stopped crapping everywhere — the only thing that was goin
g right. That and the fact that the pills seemed to be working already. Aimee usually hated being medicated, worried the drugs would make her numb, but at the moment, numb sounded ideal.

  Melinda sat upright as the mayor approached the microphone. There were an awful lot of journalists, but then the story had attracted national attention. She could understand why: a dead child, a father in the frame, a small community devastated by tragedy. Melinda risked a glance over her shoulder to where the press had been corralled behind the kitchen serving hatch. The photographers starting clicking the moment she turned around.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ said the mayor. ‘Thank you for taking the time to join us this morning.’

  Melinda’s phone went off, and people turned to stare.

  ‘If you could please silence your mobile phones.’

  The ring tone grew louder as Melinda fumbled in her bag. Louder still as she finally felt the smooth edges, flicked the little button to make it stop. She slipped the phone into her lap, not taking her eyes off the podium. The whole room was watching her now.

  ‘We’re here today to witness a public inquiry into the New Year’s Eve crash of a private plane into the ranges alongside the Hensley–Meadowcroft Road, an area known to most of us as Maddocks Clearing. A crash that claimed the life of sixteen-year-old Lincoln Kasprowicz.’

  The phone in Melinda’s lap was vibrating, trying to attract her attention, but it couldn’t have it. Melinda kept staring at Rex, nodding to show how seriously she was taking everything.

  ‘I’d like to hand over to the ATSB officer who has been leading the investigation, Steven Birch.’

  The two men shook hands; there was an explosion of camera flashes from the kitchen serving hatch. Melinda felt her stomach lurch. Here we go, she thought, as she laced her fingers together to stop herself from checking her phone. Here we go.

  CHAPTER 38

  ‘On the thirty-first of December, at approximately 9.30 pm, a Cessna 182, registration VH-QDK, took off from runway two at Meadowcroft Airport. There were two people in that plane: the pilot, Peter Kasprowicz, and his son, Lincoln Kasprowicz.’

  Aimee leaned back in her seat as the details of the flight were read out. The weather conditions, the visibility. The language was familiar; this was essentially the report Damien had read to her in his musty hotel room. It sounded, as it had then, like a story, maybe a feature from a weekend newspaper supplement. The type of thing Aimee had hoped to end up writing. It sounded like something that had happened a long way from here.

  Aimee tilted her head to one side as she listened. She felt oddly relaxed, for such a tense environment. There wasn’t a sound in the room as the investigator ran through the plans for the Hensley fireworks display, an event Aimee herself had helped organise. But there was nothing to be nervous about. It wasn’t only medication that had Aimee sitting calmly in her uncomfortable plastic chair, waiting patiently for her moment. It was also the fact that her decision had been made. Another thing the doctors should have told her: panic came with indecision. The moment she’d chosen, that particular drumbeat had ceased.

  Lou sat rigid as the first witnesses were called. Ordinary mums and dads, blinking at their unexpected role in this chapter of town history. She gripped her phone as one by one they spoke of seeing the plane above the river. The right turn it had taken towards the hills. Silly to be nervous, given she knew everything that was coming. Lou had read the report twice more over the weekend, had sat on the back porch with a pack of Benson & Hedges and virtually memorised the damn thing.

  ‘Did the aircraft seem to be in any distress?’ the ATSB officer asked Sam the newsagent.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t think so. It was all in one piece, and there wasn’t any smoke or anything. It was flying in a straight line.’

  But there was nothing to stop any of these people from remembering a glowing lantern bobbing across the river, straight into the Cessna’s flight path. At any moment, someone could say, ‘Of course, there was the little flame I saw just before the plane went down.’ And then the report in Lou’s lap would be worthless. She checked her phone again.

  By the eighth witness, Aimee’s head was beginning to jerk. She forced herself to pay attention as an older man in faded overalls — ‘the aero club’s mechanic at the time, now retired, Martin Smith’ — described the workings of the plane in intricate detail. She could hear the signs of people getting restless: the rattle of chewing-gum containers, the faint tap of fingers on phones. Restless and hot. There was no air in the hall; Aimee’s hair was damp on the back of her neck. She tried discreetly to check if she had sweat marks.

  ‘Can I go outside?’ Shelley whispered as the mechanic began to explain the plane’s fuel system.

  Aimee nodded. ‘But stay close.’

  ‘Me too,’ muttered Byron, as he slid from his chair.

  Aimee smiled faintly as she watched her children weave past knees and handbags towards the fire exit. It would be easier without them.

  Nick caught the smile and leaned towards her. ‘How you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ she replied, and meant it.

  He reached over and took her hand, a move as unexpected as when he’d held it in the Meadowcroft Chinese on their first date. Sixteen years, two children and one nervous breakdown ago. Aimee felt her eyes prickle.

  ‘Hang in there,’ Nick whispered. ‘I’m proud of how you’re holding up.’

  Melinda finally turned her phone over as an aviation expert from Sydney began to explain the intricacies of engine testing. Hardly anyone was listening now; the fire door kept banging as kids escaped to the relative cool of the street. But her phone was alive with messages, its little screen full. Clint, wanting to talk to her. Lou, wanting to know where her money was. Melinda raised an eyebrow: her money? Oz transfers take one day, Lou had messaged. Not over weekend, Melinda wrote back. Because she’d sent the money on a bloody Friday night, hadn’t she. Check again, she told Lou. There were barely forty centimetres between them, yet she was negotiating as though Lou was a jewellery manufacturer in Taiwan trying to hammer her on price. Trust me. She could hear Lou snort as she read that one. But what was Melinda supposed to do?

  Pete listened to the details of his accident as though it had happened to someone else. What amazed him was the lack of hard facts, rather than the information they’d collected. No flight plan had been logged; they hadn’t had to. The aircraft hadn’t been fitted with a data or cockpit voice recorder — neither was legally required. No one had actually seen the plane go down. There was talk of video and a television was wheeled in, but it didn’t sound like it showed much. Pete listened to the tinny recorded bangs of the fireworks and remembered Lincoln’s delighted laughter. The last happy sounds his son had made.

  But still, there didn’t seem to be any actual evidence. Just a long list of possibilities being slowly ruled out. If Pete had been a different sort of man, he could have stuck to his story about engine failure, and it would have been hard to discount. Which would have spared both him and Aimee Verratti a lot of grief. Pete rubbed a tired hand across his face. He’d tried to convince her the scrap of paper didn’t mean anything, but he wasn’t sure she believed him.

  Lou stared at the back of Pete’s head as Frank, the community ambulance officer, began speaking about lacerations and compound fractures. You had to give the man credit; he didn’t even flinch as his son’s injuries were read out. Beside her, Tansy took a shaky breath. Lou bit her lip. She should be feeling more guilt, or at least more grief. Lincoln was the father of Tansy’s child, of Lou’s grandchild. It should be her obsessing about the accident, not Aimee. Maybe she just didn’t put very much stock in fathers. What’s to say Lincoln would have been any more responsible than Matthew? Or the rest of the Baker family. Lou checked her phone again. Still nothing.

  ‘I’d like to call upon ATSB investigator Damien Marshall to discuss the findings at the crash site.’

  Lou’s heart sped up. They were getting there —
to the discovery of the notecard, the only card Lou held. If she was going to say something, it would have to be soon. Could she do it? Lou looked wildly around the hall, full of Hensley old guard. She accidentally made eye contact with Melinda’s father; he smirked at her. Lou scowled back. Yes. She totally could.

  ‘I’m going to the loo,’ whispered Tansy. ‘I don’t feel great.’

  She slipped out of the row, removing the buffer between Lou and Melinda. Lou placed her report-filled handbag on the empty seat. Just to remind her.

  Melinda watched the wordless exchange between Lou and her father. ‘Nick,’ she murmured. ‘Tell me something. Have you guys ever liked my dad?’

  ‘Not really,’ he whispered. As though he didn’t even have to think.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Pulls you down. Always has.’ Nick spoke without moving his lips.

  You only stay here because you’re trying to impress your father. Melinda thought sadly of the life in Melbourne she’d given up, the compromises she’d made to base herself out here. Just to listen to him bang on about whatever Matthew was up to. When she was the one who’d moved back to Hensley, the one who was bringing revenue into the town. She was the one making something of herself in her local community.

  ‘He’s jealous of you, you know that.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Course he is.’ Nick shot an anxious look at Aimee, then kept quietly talking. ‘Here you are, this business big shot, raising millions, and he’s still a small-town lawyer helping people contest their parking fines. He’s okay with Matthew because he’s not a threat.’

  ‘But —’

  Aimee shuffled over next to her husband. Melinda braced herself as she leaned across. ‘Totally true,’ Aimee hissed.

  ‘Right.’ Melinda sat slightly stunned, as though the world had realigned itself. ‘Thanks.’

  It didn’t mean she forgave her. Aimee sat back in her seat as Damien walked up to the microphone. But Melinda had been trying to impress her dad for far too long. Aimee had never figured out whether he refused to acknowledge his daughter’s amazingness because it threatened his own sense of self, or because he liked her fighting for his attention. It didn’t matter. It was cruel.