by Joanna Baker
‘We can’t.’
‘He’s a child.’ Courage, that was all. Paul had to be made to see.
Her child. She took a step, went down on one knee again.
‘He’ll stop you. He’s too strong.’ Paul was whispering just above her. ‘If you go back in there it’ll make it worse.’
‘What else can he do to me?’
‘Nothing.’ His fear was coming through his breath, the sound of it scratching in her hair. ‘He said he’d take it out on the child.’
Chapter 19
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Veronica tried to lift her head but the world lurched, so she kept it down and focused on a stone. Half bent, and with Paul holding her shoulders, she found she could move her feet, and they began the slow progress towards the street. It felt as if there was an iron rod pushed through her stomach and with each step it stirred her intestines.
She stumbled on the rough driveway, felt the briar rose grab at her hair. Then she was on the footpath. She heard the roar of a passing vehicle, and lifted her head. The rod inside her flipped and pushed her stomach up, and then her legs gave way and she was kneeling over the gutter, being sick again.
‘Get the phone.’
‘No police.’
‘Paul.’
‘He’s not hurting Mayson. He hasn’t been hurt. You heard what he said. Mayson is all right if we stay away. And we don’t want the police. We need Roland. And we need to get you checked over.’
Veronica stayed kneeling. She looked at an ice-cream stick in the gutter water, and at something that might once have been a bus ticket. After a minute or two there were more noises from the street – a screech of tyres and an angry blast on a car horn. She tried to look up, set off a really frightening hot pain, and looked down again to anchor her gaze back on the bus ticket.
‘What was that?’ she said.
Above her, Paul, who, she now realised, had a hand on her back, said, ‘Nothing. Someone crossing the road.’ After another few seconds, he spoke again, but not to Veronica this time, to someone else. ‘Hello.’ The tone was uncertain and unfriendly.
A pair of polished shoes appeared at the edge of Veronica’s vision: brass buckles, low heels, stockings over varicose veins. She put her hands on her knees, managed to straighten an inch, then another. She closed her eyes and pushed quickly back, waited while the world settled. Above the smell of vomit there were other smells: brandy, and something else, something stale and sour, rotting daisy stalks, left in a vase too long.
‘We’ll get you to the car,’ said Paul. ‘Will we call one of your doctor friends? Or are we going to outpatients?’
Veronica opened her eyes, pushed her fists into her stomach. ‘Judith.’
Judith wore a green wool coat, fitted waist, structured shoulders, big black buttons. She had a large golden clip in her blue-black hair. She waved a shaking hand, heavy with rings, a meaningless theatrical gesture. ‘I know where he is.’
Now Veronica could hear voices coming from Belle’s house, muffled but audible through the thin verandah walls and front windows. A child spoke a short word, then another word. Not a cry, no sound of pain or fear, just a short phrase. And a man’s voice answered calmly. It sounded as if Paul was right, Mayson would be unharmed, at least for now. But Dane could be watching them. The curtains had parted slightly.
‘We have to go,’ said Paul.
Veronica stood up. It was a slow process, accomplished mainly by pushing with her hands on her knees and with Paul pulling at an armpit.
‘Thank you, Paul. You go now.’
It took him a moment to work out what she’d said. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Judith knows where Roland is.’ Veronica looked at Judith. Judith said, ‘Not him. Just you.’
There was more sound from the house now, Belle’s voice, raised but happy. Veronica turned to look, hurt herself and bent forward, hands pressed to her stomach.
Judith smiled, not nicely. She said, ‘She must be wicked to deserve such pain.’
Judith turned and walked back towards her shop and Veronica followed, still bent over, moving slowly. It wasn’t just the pain. She was reluctant to move away from her grandson. But from the tone of the voices coming from the house it sounded as if he would be all right, at least for a few minutes. She considered calling the police. She could have Dane charged with assault. But that would make a connection between her and Belle, and thus between her and Treen. And it would make it more likely that they would discover a connection between Treen and Roland. And Belle, unstable as she was, had threatened to accuse Roland of killing Treen.
So the situation required more thought. Veronica needed to pause. And Judith knew where Roland was.
Behind her, Paul started the car. She turned to look. He was staring at her, but when she waved him on, he did a U-turn across the street and headed back towards town.
By the time they got to the shop she was dizzy and out of breath but the walking had dissolved the knots in her abdomen into a manageable ache. They went inside and picked their way through the gloom, the maze of shelves and shoeboxes, the dusty smell, the sound-deadening paper. Judith led her out the back and past the stairs to the reading room, where Veronica sank into a chair. She held her breath while the pressure in her stomach eased.
Judith picked up a book from the floor. She stood with it lifted in front of her and her mouth open as if she wanted to say something about it.
Veronica said, ‘Where is he?’ If Judith wasn’t going to take her she’d get a taxi.
There were deep wrinkles running down Judith’s upper lip. Her eyelids, lowered, were brownish. One piece of hair had escaped from the French roll and stuck out over an ear. A mad old thing. Who knew why she had really brought Veronica here, what she was hoping to get out of it. But she had to be made to see, had to tell what she knew. Words. Veronica needed to summon the right words.
She took a breath. ‘Look. All right. Judith, I can see that you are important to Roland. I know he has always been very taken with all this … with you. You are definitely the sort of person that fascinates him.’ Roland was always inclined to confuse eccentricity with depth. But she wouldn’t say that. Flattery. That was the approach.
Something in her stomach had gelled into a cold weight. She sucked in more air and moved in the chair. It sent a pain deep into her hipbones, but she felt better. ‘I also see how gratifying it must be, how entertaining, to have a young man come to you with tales of his parents’ – society’s – moral failings.’ Not flattering enough. She tried again. ‘I don’t mind that. Really. Believe me, most of the time you’d be welcome to him. But he’s a father now. He has to grow up, grow out of it.’
Judith smiled suddenly. She had thought of something and this was delight at her own cleverness. It was an ugly sight, showing small grey teeth, the eyes triangular.
Veronica said, ‘So, where is he?’
Judith waved the book. ‘The Cheeryble Brothers.’
‘Oh, come on. This is no time for that bullshit.’ Veronica flapped a hand on the greasy arm of the chair. ‘There’s a child in that house who might be mine. And a man who hurts people. I need to do something. I need to make him safe and I need to find Roland.’
‘Yours?’ The question was thoughtful, as if Judith was trying to work out the kind of attitude that lay behind such a claim.
‘Yes, mine.’ Veronica sat up too suddenly. A spasm caught her. She crouched forwards. She wondered what Judith would do if she vomited again, wondered how the old carpet would take it. The pain passed. ‘Just have some human decency. Just tell me what you know.’
Judith put the book down on a table and looked at Veronica, intrigued by the request. ‘I know that it takes courage to go through a darkened doorway.’
Was this some kind of cryptic compliment? ‘Well, yes. It did.’
‘I know that a hero looks into the wind, that a sad person shrinks.’
So no, then, not a compliment. Just nonsense. ‘Oh, marvellous.’
; Judith waved at a shelf to make it clear where all this wisdom was coming from. ‘I know that there is a light world and a dark world, and they are not very far apart. I know that you in the light have no idea of anything on the other side, that you choose not to know. I know that every now and then a messenger slips through. They try to tell you what they have seen, but you can’t understand them.’
She was speaking primarily for her own pleasure. Her expression became mournful. ‘And every now and then someone from our world goes the other way. Some do it deliberately. They step into the dark. Others simply walk around a corner and find themselves falling …’
This made Veronica sit up. ‘Who? Are you talking about Roland?’
Judith was watching her intently now. It was a new expression, sharp and surprisingly – disturbingly – intelligent. ‘I’ll take you to him.’
Chapter 20
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Judith’s car was an ancient Peugeot. Climbing in brought Veronica more pain and nausea, but by pressing her hands into her stomach she managed to protect it from the worst of the jolting. At Antill Street, Judith turned right, then she crossed Davey Street and turned left.
‘Is he at Lesley’s?’
No answer.
Veronica thought and then asked, ‘Have you been here before?’
Fitzroy Place was a short, wide avenue, lined with plane trees. The houses here were large and heavy. There was no-one visible, working in a garden or walking, and, as always, the stillness of the place left Veronica feeling that she was being watched from behind thick curtains. She felt doubly conspicuous today, in the rumbling old car. They drove halfway down the street and the plane-tree trunks, carefully spaced, seemed to measure their intrusion.
Judith parked outside Lesley’s house. The blue Honda was parked in the driveway. Hopefully that meant that Roland was here. Veronica got out of the vehicle. The movement caused her stomach to cramp and she leaned forward while it settled.
When she straightened, Judith was beside her on the path, scowling at Lesley’s place. She made a small hissing sound. It was a 1930s house, two storeys, in dull brick. The front garden had concrete Grecian urns painted white, budding camellias trapped by box hedges and conifers clipped into balls.
‘This is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller’s cotton and fine wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds.’ The effort of projecting the words made Judith’s head wobble on her wrinkled neck. She was quoting a book, of course, trying to communicate something in her obscure way, or, more likely, trying to confuse things. In the daylight she looked even more unwell. Her skin was grey and thick, the upper lip almost orange. The shoulders of the coat had moth holes.
Veronica said, ‘I wonder …’ Best to be blunt. ‘It won’t help if you come in. Please stay here.’ She turned her back.
It was Gordon who answered the door. He always did that. The Sopels’ marriage ran on an outdated model and this role was important to him – the husband as the interface between his family and the world. When he saw Veronica he put both fat hands out in front of him, shining with pleasure.
‘Well, isn’t this a nice surprise.’
Veronica couldn’t take his hands. To lift hers would send her stomach into a spasm. She hoped he wouldn’t try to hug her, or pull her off balance.
‘Bit early for a Saturday, isn’t it? Got you all hopping, has he? Running around in circles for him?’
Did he mean Roland?
There was no chance to ask. He turned his head a fraction and raised his voice. ‘Lel!’ Then he said, ‘Or were you just passing?’ He guffawed, too loudly, maybe recognising the inanity of the suggestion.
Gordon was a big man, short necked and powerful, gone fleshy. He stood with his shoulders back and his stomach out, carrying his fat with pride, as if it were still muscle. ‘How’s the batching going? Finally getting to you?’ He shouted again. ‘Lel! We should’ve had you out for a meal, shouldn’t we? The old bloke’ll be home before we get around to it, if we don’t get a move on. And if it’s good enough for the goose, eh?’
He always talked in mangled cliché and with a head-ducking movement, his voice full of enthusiasm and also a kind of childish surprise, as if he was constantly discovering things for the first time. ‘You can bet your socks Alan’ll be doing all right on the chaff bag, especially with Brian and Lofty Milliken along. You can bet he is. And why not, I say. It’s not as if he can’t afford it.’
This was also familiar. Within five minutes of meeting Veronica, he always managed to refer to money in some way. He was a real estate agent and developer, and a property manager, and still thrilled by his own financial success. Veronica liked him, his naivety, his good-natured clumsiness.
Lesley had come up behind him, wearing the expression she usually wore when Gordon was talking: a kind of pained forbearance.
‘This is great. We were just saying, weren’t we, Lelly that we hadn’t seen Vee for yonks and yonks.’
Yonks. No-one ever said that twice. When the kids were little it would have set them giggling.
Lesley was wearing beige pants and a tunic top and waving a mobile phone. ‘Veronica. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.’ She looked for the car, saw something else.
Judith spoke near Veronica’s ear. ‘It is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air.’
Lesley ignored her. ‘You haven’t brought Paul, have you?’
‘Paul? No. Why?’
‘Oh, thank goodness. I just couldn’t face him. Not today.’
‘Face him?’
Judith said something about cold sunlight. Lesley’s lips pulled tight with distaste. ‘Is your friend …?’
‘This is Judith.’
Judith said, ‘There is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves.’
‘Goodness.’
Veronica said, ‘Sorry. She wouldn’t tell me where we were going until we were nearly here and then she followed me to the door.’ She wasn’t explaining this properly. ‘Doesn’t matter. She said Roland was here.’
‘Roland? No.’ Lesley dragged her eyes from Judith and turned to look behind her, where Gordon was standing one pace back, listening to them. ‘Of course not.’
‘But you have seen him again?’
‘He came yesterday afternoon, after he’d been to see the McShanes. He returned the car.’ Lesley hurried on to a new subject. ‘Now listen, you must ring Georgie. She’s looking for you. She says you’re not answering your phone.’
Judith jostled Veronica from behind.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll just get her to wait.’
She turned but Judith pushed past them both, muttering something about a thief in the night, and went into the front room.
‘Oh.’ Lesley had enough grace to sound amused. ‘All right. We’ll go into the lounge.’
But before she left the corridor, Veronica stopped. Standing with Gordon in the kitchen doorway there was another woman. A solid figure with a large round head.
‘Come on, Vicks,’ Gordon ushered her away.
Veronica said, ‘That’s the woman from the gallery.’
‘Oh, never mind her.’
Lesley led Veronica into the lounge room. Lesley’s clothes were in one of those European knits that stretch with the body and then fall heavily back into place. She put the phone on a corner of a coffee table. ‘I have to put this somewhere obvious. I’m constantly losing the bally thing. I’m the same with reading glasses.’ She lifted a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck. ‘Hence the granny look. Paul is mortified.’
Lesley’s house always smelt faintly of new carpet. The room they were in was full of polished wood and painted a creamy colour, with a hint of greenish grey for sophistication. It had a strange muffled feeling, a kind of extreme refinement that made it hard to breathe, as if some crucial element had been removed from the air.
‘Oh, it’s cold. We can’t afford to heat our whole houses anymore,
can we?’ Lesley went to a wall heater and turned it on. ‘It’ll take a while.’ She regarded it regretfully.
Veronica wondered how to begin. Roland had been here again. Lesley must know where he was, but she seemed reluctant to talk about it. Maybe because of Judith.
Judith had gone to a sideboard and picked up a photograph in a frame. Now she was watching the back of Lesley’s head. She said, ‘The desolation of boredom and the clutch of giant despair.’
Lesley said, ‘This is the …?’
‘Judith. She used to be called Josette.’ The name had always escaped her. She’d had to look for the stamp again, in the battered copy of Oliver Twist. ‘She runs second-hand bookshops.’ Veronica’s and Lesley’s eyes met. They needed to get rid of Judith, but they couldn’t very well manhandle her out. Lesley raised her eyebrows, pulled a face and then turned, smiling.
‘Well, yes, Judith. That’s my mother.’ She took the frame and stepped back. Then, to disguise the recoil, she held it out to Veronica. ‘You remember Mum, don’t you? It’s quite a nice photo, this one.’
Veronica did remember Mrs Dowling, the smooth curl right in the front of her hair, her glare, the way her cheeks sucked in at the centre so that it was obvious that her teeth were shut tight.
Lesley said, ‘Of course, this is before she became sick.’
Mrs Dowling always seemed to be demanding something of you, but because her mouth was clamped shut she couldn’t make it clear what it was that you weren’t doing.
Lesley took the photograph and put it down beside a vase of winter hydrangeas, richly coloured, claret and olive green. ‘Oh dear.’
The light was grey in here, not flattering. Lesley repositioned a flower and then locked her hands. For a moment she twisted them backwards and forwards, rubbing the back of one with the palm of the other. Her thoughts seemed to drift. ‘We flog away at things, don’t we? We make sure things are all clean and straight and in perfect taste.’
Veronica made a sympathetic noise. Lesley was thinking about her mother, they way she had disappointed her. I caused my mother a lot of pain. There was a sound. Judith had opened a glass-fronted bookcase. She was studying a row of matching leather-bound books. She took one down and opened it with a crack. Lesley winced.
