‘Pffft! Isn’t that place for old people?’
‘It’s actually really—’
‘Paaatience,’ Paulina sang, closing her eyes. Then they started leaking. ‘I’m gonna die alone.’
‘Patience, babe.’ Sighing, Carli patted her back. ‘Patience.’
‘I called Vinnie.’
‘No, babe. You can’t be doing that. No.’
‘But I’m sorry! He needs to know I’m so sorry.’
Carli sighed. ‘You need to leave him alone.’
‘Please, can’t you tell him? I feel like I’m dying.’
‘You’re just drunk. It’s worse when you’re drunk.’ Carli broke away from her. ‘It’s a bad thing, what you did. I don’t know how else to say it. If Kyle did that to me, I don’t think I could—’
‘What? So, you reckon he’s only gonna have sex with you forever?’
‘Stop it.’ Something passed across Carli’s face, like she’d just got a whiff of dogshit. ‘It’s my wedding night.’
‘Please, just. Tell Vinnie I’m sorry? Maybe if you call—’
‘Kirsty! Can you take her? I can’t do this!’
Carli left Paulina wet-faced on the dancefloor. Kirsty took her place, and Adrianna with her; both of them pinching Paulina’s arms and telling her to shush, drink some water. In the bathroom, they got her to drink from the tap, cleaned up her mascara. While she was locked in a cubicle, she heard them bitching. ‘She’s a disaster.’
‘I know. Totally desperate.’
Paulina flushed, walked out of the cubicle, and rinsed her hands with deeply feigned composure. ‘Better?’ Adrianna asked. Paulina nodded, got out her lip gloss and reapplied it. She looked sexy. At least there was that.
‘I wanna dance,’ she said.
They danced. To some R’n’B crap, bubblegum crap. Danced long enough for her to feel like she looked normal, though the hate was thrumming in her brain like bad music.
‘Wanna smoke, Pauls?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Nah! Dancing!’
‘Want more water, Paulina?’ Adrianna asked.
‘Cheers, babe!’ As soon as Adrianna’s two-faced back was out of sight, Paulina tiptoed up to the DJ.
‘You know you’re shit, right? You must know.’
‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. You know a monkey could do your job?’ She leaned closer. ‘Hey, have you heard of Smashing Pumpkins? Everyone’s heard of them. “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” C’mon!’
The DJ bowed his spiky blond head.
‘Hey. Play some Sonic Youth?’
‘Who?’
‘Sonic Youth!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Bauhaus! Play Bauhaus. Have you heard of Peter Murphy, you stupid shit—’
‘Paulina!’
‘Oh! Cheers.’ Paulina smiled sweetly and accepted the water. ‘Didn’t see ya there.’
Adrianna turned to the DJ. ‘Tommy, I’m so sorry.’
‘So sorry, Tommy!’ Paulina parroted.
Then she chucked the water at his head.
Paulina had been back at work three weeks when she got the email. Three weeks on best behaviour: up at five-fifty to chuck out her bottles from the night before, then Aerobics Oz Style in her room, jumping away her hangover. Showering and leaving the house in a pencil skirt, pastel shirt, plastic clip in her hair, sunnies on, and Discman clipped to her waistband for the hour-long bus ride. Swallowing two Panadol with Berocca at her desk and resisting the urge to spew whenever some fat-arse walked past with a crumpet or tub of yoghurt. Doing her time, day in, day out.
Till she got Carli’s email:
OUR FAIRFOLK HONEYMOON!
There was a photo attachment of Carli and Kyle on a white-sand beach with sky-scraping pines in the background. Carli was grinning so much she had dimples. Paulina zoomed in on Carli’s love-handles, stretch marks, cottage-cheese thighs. She zoomed out again, hovered over the trash icon. But there was something about those pines.
That lunchbreak, instead of smoking as she power-walked around the block, Paulina stubbed out her cigarette in front of a travel agency.
‘I wanna go to Fairfolk Island,’ she told the chick at the counter.
‘Fairfolk Island.’ The chick furrowed her brow. ‘Is that near Tonga?’
‘Dunno. But that’s where I wanna go.’
‘Let me see if I can find a holiday pack—’
‘Babe.’ Paulina crossed her arms. ‘I don’t want a holiday. I wanna live there.’
COOKIES
‘It’s her,’ Vera said. ‘She’s my tenant.’
Cows lowed in the hills around them. Cook’s Falls trickled laboriously, like an old man pissing in the middle of the night. The grass was still damp from the storm, the earth soft as putty.
Dr Jimmy Greatorex nodded his thanks, pulled the plastic back over Paulina Novak’s face.
Vera took a deep breath and walked back to the mother.
Already, the mother was a wreck. Had to know, already, that it could only be bad news.
And yet, seeing Vera, her eyes shone hopefully — as if it were still possible for all that knowledge to be undone.
‘It’s her,’ Vera repeated.
There was a silence, like the world had simply ended. Then the worst sound Vera had ever heard in her life.
By far the worst. Worse than a Mutiny Day domestic. Worse than a cow giving birth. Worse than the Great Rabbit Cull of ’65. Whatever sound Paulina had made when she went through the hell she went through, the sound the mother was making had to come close.
When it stopped, their relief — well, maybe they didn’t move as quickly as they should’ve.
For like a woman possessed, the mother lurched toward the black plastic, which was shining like seawater in the floodlights.
‘Let me see her. I have to see her one last time. I don’t care.’
They got to her before she got to Paulina. But she’d seen enough.
Not as much as Vera, but enough.
The foetal huddle under the plastic. The coy peek of a sneaker, its angle all wrong.
‘You did it, you finally did it.’ The mother sobbed. ‘Baby. Poor baby. I’m sorry.’
Vera wondered if it’d be kinder to let her keep believing it had been Paulina’s choice.
It was Sergeant Hank Turner who explained it wasn’t. The mother just shook her head.
‘No. You’re wrong.’
The nature of her wounds. The position of her clothing, he continued to explain.
‘No,’ the mother argued. ‘Tell me the truth.’
Vera longed to get away from the mother. Get away from her, and the sickly, sticky dark of Cook’s Falls. ‘We’ll know more after the autopsy,’ the Sarge compromised. ‘But her clothing. It was cut clean.’
Somehow, that got through to the mother. ‘Somebody hurt her?’
‘We’ll know more after the autopsy,’ the Sarge repeated. ‘We’ll find answers.’
The mother started sobbing again, hyperventilating, until Rocky got the flask in her mouth. ‘She was just going for her walk.’ She swallowed, red-nosed. ‘She walked every day.’
‘Aye.’ Rocky fed her more liquor. ‘Same time every day.’
The Sarge turned to Vera, lapsed into Fayrf’k. ‘She’s staying at Mutes’?’
‘Aye.’ Vera shook her head. ‘But look at the state of her.’
‘Nay husband. Single mother?’
‘Widow.’
‘Nay other children?’
‘Jus’ Paulina.’
‘Poor ulvini.’ The Sarge frowned. ‘Nay people at all?’
‘Paulina mentioned an auntie. Rich.’ Vera rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘Nay flights till Tuesday, but. Easter.’
The Sarge cussed under his
breath. ‘Can you take her till then?’
‘Don’t have much choice.’ Vera glanced at Rocky, over the top of the mother’s fair, bedraggled head. ‘I’ll put her in Miti’s old room.’
Normally, the Sarge would’ve blushed at that. This time, he just nodded. ‘Jimmy’ll give her something. For sleep.’
‘And the rest of us?’
‘Want something?’ The Sarge looked surprised.
Vera waved her hand. ‘I’ll be fine; I’ve been up since dawn. You’ve got some sleepless nights ahead, but.’
The Sarge grimaced. ‘The mainland can have this, eh. Mainie girl, mainie problem.’
Vera inclined her head towards a plot of land just over the hill.‘Bes’ tell the mainland police to pay a call to Mister Minister of Culture, up there. She had him over, other week. Got him pretty riled up.’
By the time they got the mother back to the house, whatever Jimmy Greatorex had given her had worked its magic.
‘Alice in Wonderland?’ she asked, eyelids sagging as Vera pulled the cartoon-covered bedspread over her. ‘Why Alice?’
‘My daughter Miti chose it. This was her room.’
It was possibly the cruellest thing Vera could’ve said, under the circumstances. But the mother just nodded and closed her eyes.
‘It’s nay “Novak”.’ Vera shook her head at Rocky, as they sipped their beers and picked at their Lent fish. ‘That’s the dad’s name. If she’s got people, they’re nay Novaks.’
The phone rang; Vera reached for it mechanically. Kymba Burney-King. Somehow already she’d heard Paulina was dead, was asking was it an accident?
‘Nay.’ Vera sighed. ‘Looked deliberate.’
Next time the phone rang, Vera didn’t touch it.
‘Funny pine?’ Rocky offered, nodding toward the clay jar on the mantle.
‘Nay. I bes’ call Miti.’
Rocky shrugged. Struggled out of his armchair, legs knotted with veins and thin as fishing poles, and got a green nugget from the jar.
Vera had to ask. ‘Anybody see you fishing today?’
Rocky inclined his head in Jake’s direction, gave her a wonky smile. Vera couldn’t smile back. After replacing the lid, he added, ‘Some surfers, too.’
‘Go on, then.’ Vera waved him outside. Picked up the phone to call her daughter in the time zone where she was living now; still living.
Vera woke even earlier than usual. She went out to the woodpile in her boots and bathrobe, gazed across the orchard at the little blue Mazda parked outside the cottage. Probably, The Car Kings would buy it back at a discount. Unless the mainland wanted it for evidence.
She got the hot water system fired up, nice and early. When the officers arrived to go through Paulina’s things, she was ready to take their orders. ‘Coffee, tea, Milo?’
Miss Katie got underfoot as Vera was bringing the tray of mugs to the officers, snuck into the cottage and started sniffing around.
‘Probably thinks she’s getting a feed,’ Vera apologised, taking back the squirming cat. ‘Paulina was always feeding her. More often than she fed herself.’
A little later, Rocky hauled his boat from the garage. Snorkellers. He’d promised to take a group of them out to the reef, cheaper than the tour companies did it.
‘She up yet?’ she asked, nodding back at the house.
Rocky shook his head.
Vera didn’t have much appetite, but she made herself some porridge, flicked on the TV. The news hadn’t reached the mainland, yet.
Later, the burly chef from Mutes’ came by with a shiny hard-shell purple suitcase, which looked crushable in his huge hands. His eyes were bloodshot.
‘You know her well?’ Vera asked.
‘Saw her every day.’
‘So did a lot of people.’ She looked at his hands, wondered if they could’ve done all that damage. ‘Take care, eh.’
The mother was still under her pile of blankets when Vera wheeled the suitcase down the hall and into her room. Her eyes fluttered as Vera entered, opened their milky-grey glaze just long enough to confirm there wasn’t anything in the world worth seeing. ‘There’s fresh towels in the bathroom, when you’re ready,’ Vera mumbled, and gently made her retreat.
The Sarge swung by a bit after eleven, asked the million-dollar question. ‘Is the mother up?’
‘Nay yet.’
‘We need her to make a statement.’
Vera knocked softly on the mother’s door, peeked inside without looking. ‘Judy?’ The name felt strange on Vera’s lips, like the name of someone else’s child, suddenly put in her care. ‘Sarge wants you to come to the station. Make a statement.’
The mother didn’t move. After a while, though, she made a creaky sound, and a little later, quavered, ‘I’m coming.’
The Sarge was by the mantle, sniffing the contents of Rocky’s clay jar.
‘Thought you said this was a job for the mainies?’ Vera crossed her arms.
‘Gotta look busy or there’ll be mass hysteria.’ He recapped the jar. ‘The way the vinis are carrying on, you’d think she was one of our own.’
‘Couldn’t’ve happened to one of our own,’ Vera humoured him. ‘They all fly the coop as soon as they hit eighteen.’
‘Modern women, eh.’ He stuffed himself into Rocky’s armchair. ‘You told Miti yet?’
‘You here to talk about Miti, then?’
‘Jus’ making conversation. We can talk about the mainie girl, if you rather.’
‘Paulina.’
‘How long’s she been your tenant?’
‘Since June, thereabouts.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘She liked her music loud. Smoked inside the cottage, sometimes. I told her off.’
‘I can imagine.’ He shook his head. ‘Still remember you calling me a kuka plana when you busted me and Miti.’
‘You’d do the same if you caught a married tane climbing in your daughter’s window.’
Reddening, he drummed his fingers on the armchair’s scratched-up fabric. ‘She do drugs? The mainie?’
‘Nay. Drank, but.’
He nodded at the window. ‘Good view.’
‘Nay much to see, verly.’
‘You saw Ric White.’
‘Jus’ that one time. He left in a hurry. Slammed the door. Jake barked at him.’
The bedroom door creaked open; bathroom door clunked shut. Vera ducked into the kitchen and made Milo and toast; laid them out with a selection of spreads. When she returned, the Sarge was standing at the window, looking out.
‘Good view,’ he repeated. ‘Must see all her visitors.’
‘Nay many, verly.’
‘Girl like that? They’d be pounding on the door.’
‘I must be going deaf.’
‘Heard she was pretty friendly with a nephew of yours.’
‘Eddy?’ Vera shrugged. ‘Aye. I heard that too. Second-hand.’
‘Never seen him around, then?’
‘If I did, I’d get him to fix that on his way out.’ Vera nodded at the cracked wall socket behind the TV. ‘She’s friendly with Joe Camilleri’s boy.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Only ever saw them smoking on the porch and blasting music. I’d tell them to turn it down and he’d go home. Never spent the night, far as I know.’
‘Girl like that? Why wouldn’t he?’ The Sarge stroked his double chin. ‘Butcher’s son. He’d have all the tools.’
Paulina’s cut-up face rose up in Vera’s mind like a curse.
‘She was gone a few days, last spring,’ Vera heard herself say. ‘Came back with bruises.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘She say how it happened?’
‘Said she fell. Looked like Fairfolk chivalry, to me.’
‘Any visitors?’
‘Jus’ me. I brought her food. Seemed like she needed it.’
‘Scared?’
‘Never admitted it.’
‘She with Camilleri’s boy, then?’
‘Nay. He only started coming a few months ago.’
‘How many months?’
‘You should ask her diary.’
His pale-green eyes widened. ‘How’d you know she kept a diary?’
‘She accused me of reading it.’ Vera laughed. ‘Like I’ve nay got enough to do, around here.’
The Sarge laughed too. Stopped short.
The mother.
‘There’s some breakfast on the table,’ Vera switched from Fayrf’k to Queen’s English.
The mother pulled out a chair, slowly, like it was made of lead. Sat in it stiff-backed and stared at her food like it was rotting flesh.
‘If you want something else, let me know. I can fry you an egg. Porridge.’
The mother picked up a piece of dry toast with the slow movements of a stroke patient. Bit into it, getting more crumbs on her lips than in her mouth. The white of her scalp was visible beneath her straggly damp hair. It was too painful to watch.
Vera sat on the couch and waited. The Sarge joined her.
After a few minutes, the mother seemed to give up on her toast. Vera cleared the table. The Sarge cleared his throat.
‘Alright, Mrs Novak.’ He touched her shoulder gently. ‘Ready when you are.’
The mother turned and looked at him, at Vera, with pure hatred.
Rocky got home while Vera was repairing a TV in the garage. ‘How were the snorkellers?’
Rocky shrugged. ‘Went to Cookies instead.’
Vera grimaced. ‘Fairfolk Tourism nay dead.’
The Sarge dropped the mother off late that afternoon, looking like she’d been on the worst date of her life. She didn’t want food or drink, just bed. They left her to it. When Vera finished fixing the TV, though, she got Rocky to help her lug it into the bedroom. Miss Katie tagged along, getting in the way again. Vera stepped on Katie’s tail and, offended, she bolted under the bed — wouldn’t come out, no matter how they coaxed.
‘Hope she’s not allergic.’ Vera frowned, looking from the mother’s lumped form to the glowing eyes.
They left the remote on the bedside table, along with a jug of water and a toastie.
The Newcomer Page 3
