‘Thanks for only being a passive-aggressive bitch.’
Judy yawned. ‘I’ll give him hell if I need to.’
The next day, Judy drove her to the airport. They both cried at boarding time, but Paulina stopped on the plane; she was seated next to a bronze-haired chick her own age.
‘Was that your mum?’ the chick asked in a pommy accent. ‘She’s cute!’
Paulina laughed. ‘She gets really emotional every time I come and go.’
‘My mum’s the same.’ The chick swept her eyes across the sea of grey heads around them. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Yep!’ Paulina clapped her hands. ‘Fairfolk’s full of geriatrics! And everything’s way overpriced and there’s nothing to do but watch cows and boats and get drunk. You’ll be so bored! Did Merlinda recruit you?’
The chick nodded. ‘I’m doing three months of farm work. Do you know what an “apiary” is?’
‘Fucked if I know!’ Paulina turned serious. ‘I was like you, once. They’ll call you a “mainie” even if you’re not a mainland Australian; it sort of means “newcomer” but sometimes like “slut” or “dickhead”, too. You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to lots of things. It’s the prettiest place on earth.’
‘I’m Brooke.’ The chick held out a hand covered in henna tattoos and chunky silver rings. There was a faded nightclub stamp on her wrist. ‘I’m so glad I’m sat next to you.’
They were best mates by the time they landed. Rabbit was waiting on the tarmac.
‘That’s my boyfriend!’ Paulina pointed him out to Brooke as they disembarked. ‘He’s really old, hey?’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything,’ Brooke said diplomatically. ‘Is he rich?’
‘Yeah, sorta. But that’s not why I’m with him.’ Beaming, Paulina bounded over to Rabbit. ‘I missed you, babe!’
‘I missed you too, gorgeous.’ He clutched her waist. ‘The house has been very quiet without you.’
‘Nice meeting you!’ Brooke called out. ‘We should grab a bevvy sometime!’
‘Yeah — call me!’ Paulina replied, then kissed Rabbit. ‘Babe: I really missed you.’
Two days later, Paulina started bleeding while restocking the drinks fridge at Foodfolk. She paid an hour’s wages for a box of maxi-pads and told no one how much pain she was in.
PERSONS OF INTEREST
Judy didn’t know when she started noticing them. But suddenly, they were all she could see.
‘I saw another one today,’ she told her therapist, Agnes Tran. ‘Just a little one.’
‘How little?’
‘Three, four?’ Judy shook her head. ‘She was just a tiny thing. She was hanging off the bike rack outside Woolies like it was monkey bars. Then her mum told her off and tried to move her and she had a tantrum and I … just watched.’
Agnes nodded.
‘Paulina had so many tantrums.’ Judy tried to laugh, but like always, sounded like a small animal being trampled. ‘And this one, she had hair just like hers? All dark and wavy and soft … I didn’t touch it. But it looked so soft.’
Judy gave in to the weeping. It was better, doing it in here than out there.
‘I just wanted to grab her and hug her tight and take her home. I want to grab them all; it doesn’t matter if they’re three or thirty. Gawd, I sound like a kidnapper.’
‘You sound like a grieving mother.’
‘Nobody tells you it feels like this.’ Judy’s face flushed. ‘Every time I see one of them, I get hot all over, my heart starts racing, I can’t think straight, I just want to touch them and smell them and — I don’t know. Is that wrong?’
‘There’s no right or wrong way to grieve,’ Agnes said. Agnes said this a lot, but Judy didn’t mind; by now, she knew her life was a broken record.
‘I know it’s wrong,’ Judy said. ‘They’re not her. They’re only her in my head and if I got close, they’d stop being her in a second. There’s nobody like her. Just … I’m so scared.’
She reached for the tissues.
‘What are you scared of, Judy?’
‘She’s losing her edges.’ Judy wiped her nose. ‘I used to be able to look at that photo, the one in Croatia? Then it was all over the news, and now … it doesn’t even look like her. It doesn’t make sense when I see it. You know the one?’
Agnes nodded.
‘It’s a beautiful picture. But it doesn’t look like her anymore.’ Judy dabbed her eyes. ‘It’s happening with other pictures, too. It happened with her answering machine message; I used to listen to that, and it was like she was in the room. Now — nothing.’
‘You’re still in shock. You won’t feel this way forever.’
‘What if I do, though?’ Judy looked at Agnes helplessly. ‘What if this is the only way I can live with it?’
She broke down again.
‘You won’t forget her,’ Agnes reassured her. ‘I promise. You won’t.’
Tears streamed down Judy’s cheeks. ‘It’s happening already. I’m forgetting how nasty she was.’
‘Do you still have your journal?’ Agnes asked this every time, as if she believed Judy would someday just chuck it out with the weekly rubbish.
‘Yes.’ Judy stared into her lap. ‘I’m such a terrible writer, though.’
‘You’re a fine writer. I want you to write something this week about something nasty she said or did. The nastiest thing you can think of. You’ll read it to me next week. Okay?’
Judy nodded; glanced at the clock on the table, its face turned away from her.
‘We still have a few minutes.’ Agnes said. ‘Are you ready for bin day tomorrow?’
‘I s’pose.’ Judy tugged at her sleeves. ‘I was planning to get home early so I won’t have to deal with them in the dark. It’s harder in winter. It gets dark so early.’
‘It’ll get better. We’re past the solstice. You’re still using the yellow bin liners?’
Judy nodded. ‘They’re better than the black ones. It’s just other people’s rubbish I still have to see? And sometimes I’ll just be driving, any day of the week, and see someone’s rubbish by the road. That’s worse. I don’t know how to prepare for that.’
‘She wasn’t rubbish, Judy. You know the way she was found wasn’t who she was.’
‘I know.’ Judy’s chin trembled. ‘Just, it takes me back … I see the black plastic then I see her poor ankle, and I can’t do anything. She’s so hurt, and I can’t do anything.’
‘You can keep breathing; that’s what she’d want.’ Agnes took a deep breath. ‘Can you breathe with me, Judy? Show me how you’ll breathe.’
They spent the last minutes of the session breathing like it was a yoga class.
‘It’ll get better,’ Agnes repeated, rising. ‘Some days will be harder than others, but you won’t be scared of bin day your whole life. You won’t kidnap anyone. You’re still Paulina’s mum, and she’s still Paulina. Death can’t change that.’
‘Thank you.’ Judy stood, smiling politely.
Agnes walked her to reception. ‘See you next Wednesday.’
At reception, Judy handed her card over to Jo. Jo’s hair was the wrong colour, but she wore it in a ponytail and her wrists were skinny. Judy watched Jo’s wrists, her swishing ponytail. When Jo asked Judy if she’d like a receipt, she said, ‘Yes.’
She always said yes.
She always got take-away after therapy from the Happy Dragon Kitchen in Cherry Hill Plaza. She always got lemon chicken to eat that night and beef lo mein for the next night. She always bristled if anybody bumped into her, or if she had to repeat herself — her voice was chronically soft these days — or if the food took especially long. How dare you make me wait! Don’t you know my daughter was murdered? Don’t you know my life is hell?
She always ate in front of the TV. She ate the
way Paulina would: begrudgingly, with tiny bites, taking an eternity to chew the candied skin and gluey white flesh. She kept the volume low, unless she saw a girl who resembled Paulina. Then she focused intently.
She did her homework for Agnes in front of the TV. It was hard. Not emotionally, but mentally. Grief had fogged her brain so thick, she knew it was permanently damaged.
When Paulina was eight, I cut her fringe. She hated it and threw the hair clippings at me.
When Paulina was fifteen, she had her friends over for a sleepover. I bought them lots of lollies and ice cream. She called me an embarrassment, told me to get a life.
When Paulina lost her baby, she blamed me. Said she hated my genes, she’d rather kill herself than be like me.
After finishing her homework, Judy closed her journal and turned off the TV. She climbed upstairs and brushed her teeth, applied night creams, examined her roots, examined her collection of lipsticks, went to her bedroom to lay out tomorrow’s clothes.
It was drafty in her room. ‘There’s a draft,’ she said, because that was something Marko would say — as if they’d all catch their deaths from a bit of cold air — and it had comforted Paulina when Judy kept saying it after he was gone. ‘Better put some socks on.’
She started crying softly.
Once Judy’d finished her ironing, she went to Paulina’s room and changed into the Bauhaus T-shirt. It no longer smelled much like Paulina, but there was still comfort in the fact that Paulina had loved it, and that it had touched Paulina’s skin as it now touched Judy’s.
Wearing the T-shirt, Judy slipped under the sun-and-moon bedclothes, inserted one of Paulina’s CDs into the player, and let the music and her weeping lull her asleep.
She was prepared to pass the rest of her life like this.
Caro insisted on Friday night dinners, though. She’d gotten the idea from a TV show called Gilmore Girls, where there was a rich grandmother who blackmailed her daughter into dining with her every Friday night. Caro claimed the show was popular with her Year 10s.
‘How was bin day?’ she asked, ushering Judy into her overheated Mercy Cove mansion. ‘Are you still using the yellow bin liners?’
Caro’s cheeks were blotchy. It was hard to tell if this was because of the heat or the glass of red in her hand or simply the pressure of being Caro.
‘Yes, I’m still using the yellow bin liners,’ Judy recited like a pre-schooler.
‘Whatever you have to do to make life easier, Jude.’ Caro kissed Judy’s cheek and dragged her into the hallway. ‘You look nice. New lipstick?’
Judy nodded, placed her handbag on the counter, and unspooled her scarf from her neck. Tim turned around from the stove where he was stirring a risotto and gave her a wink. ‘We just opened a very fine Nebbiolo.’
Caro got her a glass and sploshed in a generous amount of liquid.
‘Not too much,’ Judy said. ‘I’m driving.’
‘You’re not driving! You’re sleeping over!’ Caro always said this.
‘I can’t. I have to … water the plants.’
‘Oh, the plants!’ Caro mocked her. ‘Not the plants! Oh, what’ll we ever do about those poor, thirsty plants—’
‘Caro,’ Tim warned.
‘Well, anyway! You’re going to want to stay once you hear this.’ Caro splashed a little more wine into Judy’s glass, then topped up her own. ‘Get this: that white Land Cruiser that was seen on Klee Welkin Road just after eleven? With the arguing couple inside? Someone reported a man cleaning it very vigorously around two o’clock. Blasting it with his hose, vacuuming the boot, the whole hog!’
Judy took a sip of wine. ‘The same Land Cruiser?’
‘How many can there be on that island? And, look, I know what you’re going to say: they didn’t get a good enough look to see if the woman was Paulina, but look at the timing!’
Tim came up behind Caro, massaged her shoulders.
‘Personally, I always sing and whistle when I clean the BMW.’ He looked at Judy. ‘I know it’s not much, but it’s something.’
Judy shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘Anyway, Wozzy said he’d get back to us when he’s done questioning the bloke.’ Caro was calling Detective Wozniak ‘Wozzy’, these days. ‘And he’s taking a long time. That could mean a cross-examination. Why don’t you just stay over?’
Judy sipped. ‘I don’t know, Caro. Who is this car-washing bloke?’
‘Wozzy won’t say.’ Caro shrugged off Tim’s hands, strode to the fridge and cooled herself in front of it. ‘But he’s a definite person of interest. And if he is the one, his clean car won’t save him. We’ve got prints. We’ve got witnesses.’
‘I don’t know, Caro,’ Judy repeated. ‘I wish I could be as optimistic as you.’
Tim went back to the risotto.
‘Cases have been solved on less, Jude.’ Caro slugged her wine. ‘Look, I know. I wish we had an obvious motive. That dirty old rabbit man, he had motive. That perv who vandalised King’s Lookout; he did, too. But motive means nothing without evidence.’
Tim shuffled over to the intercom. ‘Bronson: come set the table.’
As Caro harped on about the possibility of DNA evidence in the boot of the Land Cruiser, Bronson crept downstairs. ‘How are you, Bronson?’ Judy asked. ‘How’s work?’
Bronson shrugged. ‘Pays the bills.’
‘Not our bills.’ Tim set a steaming bowl in front of Judy, then Caro. ‘Darling wife: no forensics at the dinner table, okay?’
‘Darling husband: can we talk about the wine situation?’ Caro distributed the last of the bottle between their glasses. ‘Let’s try the Barolo?’
Despite steering clear of forensics, Caro’s dinner conversation wasn’t much better. ‘How’s that Vietnamese girl working out for you? Are you making progress?’
‘That’s private,’ Judy rebuffed her. ‘And Agnes isn’t a girl. She’s forty-three.’
‘Milly’s age,’ Caro remarked slyly. ‘Have you thought about calling Milly?’
Judy forked a tiny bite of risotto into her mouth. ‘It’s very good, Tim.’
‘I’ll give you a container to take home,’ he said.
‘That’s a wonderful idea!’ Caro exclaimed, as if he’d just thought of a cure for cancer. ‘Jude, you look like you’ve lost more weight. Are you eating enough?’
‘Are you?’ Even with the weight Judy had lost, Caro was a stick by comparison.
‘This guy makes sure of it.’ Caro absently patted Tim’s hand. ‘He can make sure you do, too. Come on, Jude. Cut the crap. You need to stop rattling around in that haunted house of yours. It’s positively Gothic!’
‘It’s not Gothic.’ They’d been through this. ‘It’s my home. It’s my family’s home.’
‘We’re family,’ Caro urged. ‘Look: I’m not saying forever. And I’m not saying sell the place. But why live there? God! You would’ve killed to live in Mercy Cove when we were young. Remember how Dad used to drive us past all the mansions in his taxi?’
Mercifully, the phone started ringing. Caro jumped to her feet.
‘Wozzy! No, it’s not too late. Perfect timing, actually! The whole family’s here. Oh.’ Caro’s tone shifted. ‘Are you sure? Six witnesses? But how can you be sure? Oh. And he’s given his fingerprints? Well. Thanks for getting back to us. Onward!’
Caro hung up the phone, threw a smile in the direction of the dinner table.
‘Well, Land Cruiser guy was surfing till midday, at least. A bunch of people saw him. Then he came home and ate lunch with his wife and kid and the wife’s friend. Well!’ Caro refilled her wine glass. ‘One less bastard out of two thousand for us to worry about.’
Caro trotted upstairs. Bronson shovelled the rest of his risotto into his mouth. ‘Can I go play GTA?’
Tim nodded grimly.
‘You kno
w, she’s actually better when you’re around,’ he told Judy. ‘She puts on a brave face. We’d love to have you here. All of us.’
‘She’ll give me the shits. Sorry.’ Judy smiled weakly. ‘How is she, really?’
‘Angry all the time. She wakes up angry. She goes to sleep angry … if she sleeps at all.’ Tim sighed. ‘I’m worried her heart’ll give out before we get any answers.’
Judy reached for Tim’s hand, squeezed it.
Tim drew his hand away. ‘I’ll get you a container.’
Face flushed, Judy went upstairs to check on Caro.
Caro stayed a long time in the ensuite bathroom; so long, Judy had time to apply her expensive hand cream, and wait for it to dry, and snoop inside the bedside drawer.
‘Oh.’ Caro’s face looked uncharacteristically pale when she emerged. ‘What are you doing with that thing?’
‘“Ulvini Songs”.’ Judy grimaced. ‘Gawd. I completely forget about this.’
‘I haven’t listened to it. Tim has.’
Judy looked at the hand-drawn album art: Paulina, driving a tour-bus full of old people. ‘That boy captured her well … her face.’
‘Keep it.’ Caro shrugged. ‘What the hell. He’s not a person of interest anymore.’
Judy rose from the bed. ‘I used some of your hand cream.’
‘You fucking bitch.’ Caro smiled dryly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to sleep over? We can take a walk on the beach in the morning. Tim can make us pancakes.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well!’ Caro embraced her swiftly. ‘I’m going out for some fresh air.’
Judy watched as her sister slipped onto the balcony and moved the pot plant. A moment later, she was cupping a flame, inhaling.
Downstairs, Judy gathered up her scarf and handbag. ‘I’m heading off.’
‘Already?’ Tim looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry this Land Cruiser guy wasn’t the one. Even I got hopeful. Other fish in the sea, huh?’
Judy shrugged and accepted the container of leftovers. ‘Take care, Tim.’
They didn’t hug.
Driving through Macquarie Park, Judy passed a building site: black tarpaulins rippling in the moonlight. She tried to breathe the way Agnes had taught her.
The Newcomer Page 14
