by Susan Allott
He smiles uncomfortably. “Joe was ’round at Mandy’s place the minute Steve was out of sight. Steve was away with work for days at a time back then. Took him awhile to figure out what was going on.”
“Did he leave her?”
He pulls at a protruding twig in the hedge. “Last time I saw Steve Mallory he was packing up his truck to leave. I saw Mandy standing there trying to talk him out of it. She made a bit of a scene.” He nods up the street. “And he drove off without her. Left her behind.”
“Are you sure? He didn’t come back for her?”
“I didn’t see Steve again,” he says. “You sure you want to hear the rest?”
She nods and looks away at the bare shrubs along the edge of his lawn where he’s cut his roses and hydrangeas back. In a bar somewhere she orders another drink. Ice knocks against the glass.
“Mandy was here on her own for a while after Steve left. I saw your dad coming and going out of her house. They didn’t bother hiding it. Kissing on the veranda, that sort of thing.” His face colors and he looks down at the grass. “It was getting to the end of the summer by then. Still hot as hell. Mandy liked to hang her laundry out in the sun. Sometimes she’d be out front, giving the plants a bit of water. She always waved and said hello. Then one day I didn’t see her. I looked for her like always, but she didn’t come out into the yard. Same the next day. And then I saw your dad coming out of her back door.”
He falls quiet. The afternoon stops. Isla thinks she might throw up, here on Doug’s lawn, among his clippings and gardening tools.
“I was in the backyard,” Doug says, “looking across to the Mallorys’ place, and I saw him leave Mandy’s house. He locked her back door behind him and went into his house. He didn’t see me. I went and knocked on Mandy’s door later on, but no one answered.”
“Did you see Mandy again?” She hears how desperate she sounds.
“No, love. A day or two later, you and your mother came back.”
She covers her mouth, swallowing bile. “Didn’t anybody wonder where she went?”
“I know I did. It never sat easy with me, that she didn’t say goodbye.” Doug smiles weakly at her. “Nobody wanted to upset your mum, Isla. She had a new baby soon after she got back. Nobody wanted to tell her that her husband played away, God love her. We didn’t mention the Mallorys and we got on with our lives. You know how it is.”
“I think I do.”
He scratches his head through his hat. “Sorry.”
She lets herself out of his gate, leaving him kneeling on the grass, gathering leaves and twigs into a bucket. She stops at the corner where Bay Street meets Dawson Place and vomits into the roots of a lemon tree. Across the street, someone pulls the roller blind down in their front room. The houses are smug looking, she thinks, with their neat exteriors, dark windows reflecting shrubs and hedges. This is the community she grew up in, where people know everything and say nothing. A man can kill a woman and his neighbors will look away. She vomits again, wipes her mouth, and sobs loudly for her dad, whom she no longer believes in, whom she still loves. She turns toward town, where she will find her seat at the bar and she will stop thinking and remembering. It will all stop, finally. She quickens her step.
42
Sydney, 1967
There was an inch of instant coffee left in the jar. Joe filled the kettle and lit a cigarette, sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to boil. He didn’t want coffee, but he’d poured all the alcohol in the house down the kitchen sink half an hour ago. He was shaking a little and his bones were aching. Chattering teeth. He’d have to take a shower before he went anywhere, find a clean shirt.
He went to the back door and found himself trying to catch sight of Mandy. She hadn’t come outside in a while to hang out her washing or sit under the vine. He didn’t like that he was standing here hoping to see her. It was getting to be a habit.
She’d gotten under his skin. He could think of nothing but how to make up for that day he went over and outstayed his welcome. A dark shame washed through him at the thought of it. He remembered her face, the way she’d looked at him. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as he feared. Hard to know, with his memory shot to pieces and the constant shadow of self-loathing, the sweaty distortions between drinks. But he had a feeling he’d scared her. He’d been a fucking creep. He clenched his fist, the not-quite-healed one, and the pain was a brief distraction. He would make it right. He needed to wipe the slate clean, to overlay that day with a new, better one.
The kettle rumbled. He looked again across the yard into her kitchen, but there was no sign of her. It was getting dark. When she didn’t appear, he opened up the drawer next to the stove, the second one down with all the odds and ends: the dishcloths and the can opener, the cotton reels and the paperclips. He felt around for the keys, the ones with the string looped through them, with Steve and Mandy written on a cardboard tag. He knew they were there, he’d only checked this morning, but he kept returning to them, rattling them in the cave of his cupped hand.
He spooned granules into a mug and lifted the kettle. He poured, missing the mug, and splashed scalding water over the counter and his bare foot. The pain was clean and thrilling, and in shock he thumped the counter with his broken bloody hand. Fuck it. Fuck it. He hopped across the room and back, found a damp cloth, and threw it over his foot. It hurt more than his head, which was something. He sat and shut his eyes a moment, let the room spin slowly, let the worst of it pass. The cigarette he’d lit earlier had burned down in the ashtray, so he lit another one and picked up the coffee, managed a sip, and put it down before he burned himself again. His scalded foot was starting to blister. A livid red welt across the skin.
The coffee was harsh on his empty stomach, but he sipped it anyway. He had two calls to make and he needed to make them sober, to say the right thing. He’d come to hate the phone these past few months.
He took the coffee through to the lounge room. The TV was on—Harold Holt talking about Vietnam again. He turned it off. It was dark, but he didn’t want to open the curtains and look at the state of the place. There was a scrap of paper somewhere, a note he’d written to himself after he left Mandy’s place so he’d remember what she’d told him. He felt around on the couch, found a cigarette burn and a sock. He lay down, pushed his face into the filthy cavity behind the cushions, and allowed himself the darkened, private knowledge that he would go to the bottle shop after he’d made these calls. He would replace the bottles he’d tipped down the sink. He would not be able to stop drinking and the best he could do was to manage it.
Sitting up, he looked at the phone on the coffee table next to him. The note was there, where he’d left it. He picked it up, dusted away the cigarette ash. But first he dialed the UK number from memory.
“It’s me,” he said, when his wife picked up.
“Joe? It’s early here. Everyone’s asleep.”
“I can’t live without you.”
A pause. He thought of Mandy, the way she’d lain back for him on her kitchen floor with her jeans around her knees. The way she’d unbuttoned her blouse that day, the way she’d held him by the neck. Her smell.
“I love you,” he said, with his head full of Mandy. “I love you so much.”
“Do you mean that?”
Her voice offended him. He held the receiver away from his ear. “Come home, Louisa. I’ll make you happy if you’ll come back. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll never drink again.”
“Will you forgive me?” she said.
“Of course I’ll forgive you.”
He put the receiver down on the carpet when she started to cry. He waited, drank some coffee. He’d divorce her once she was back in the country with his daughter. He’d get a solicitor and throw the bloody book at her.
“We’ll come back,” Louisa said, eventually.
“Do you mean it this time?”
“Yes,” she said. “I love you, Joe.”
There was a moment of interference and then he heard
her say goodbye. He cut the line off with his finger, muting the bell.
The second call would be easier. He picked up the scrap of paper and dialed the number he’d written down, next to the words he needed to remember: Marlo. Beach cabin.
“I want to report a crime,” he said.
43
Victoria, 1967
Steve woke early with the cold. William stirred beside him, and Steve pulled the blanket up to cover the boy’s chest and shoulders. He spread his jacket over the top—the good one he got for Christmas with the quilted lining. William gave a throaty murmur, sighed, and slept on. Each morning it was a little cooler. The wind came in off the ocean, shaking the window in its frame and rattling the door. They wouldn’t be able to stop here much longer.
He lay beside William and watched the light brighten through the gaps in the timber. This time of day was hardest. His head wandered off to dark places. He found himself remembering specific children, their names and their voices, the things they’d said when they figured out they weren’t going on holiday, after all. Sometimes they all came to him at once in symphony, but mostly it was one at a time, with a clarity that made him want to rip his skin off. Today it was the boy with the pale green eyes—Dale, his name was—who’d kicked and yelled for the first few hours and tried to jump from the truck when he’d told him the truth as they’d turned off for Kempsey. Steve lay on the bed feeling Dale’s bare foot against his spine, kicking the back of his seat as he drove. The sound of him shouting and howling. Trying the doors.
William wasn’t going to make up for it all, he knew that, but it was a start. He sat up straight in the bed, his back rigid at the thought of it. He was going to do right by this child. He would give him everything.
The boy shifted again and turned his head, his mouth pressed sideways against the mattress in a loose pout. There was a flush in his cheek, Steve thought. He held his hand to his forehead and felt heat there, not too bad but he lifted the covers off him just the same. The jacket had been too much, that was it. He put milk in a pan and set a low flame beneath it.
He pulled the curtain back from the small window. The sun was up. A wide blue sky with nothing in its way. The beach was empty, just a few gulls down on the shore. They didn’t see many people: the odd surfer, or the occasional tourist clambering down over the dunes from the road. The locals knew to avoid this stretch of water, where the Snowy River flowed out to sea, meeting waves ten feet high from the south. You never knew when the current would shift, when a southerly would pick up. More dangerous than beautiful, to most people’s minds.
Mandy had loved it here. He’d brought her down to be sure she was the woman he should marry, to see how she felt about this place that for him was perfect. She hadn’t wanted to leave.
“Come on, then.” He lifted William onto his knee. His nappy was wet, but he was hungry so he let him drink his milk. “Wait there,” Steve said, once he’d finished. He sat the boy down on the floor with the empty bottle. “Let me get a clean nappy. Get you nice and dry.”
William sat with his legs outstretched and hit the bottle against the timber floor, laughing at the noise. Steve stood and watched him. He’d be crawling next. All that strength in his small body, all that life.
“You’re getting big, mate,” Steve said.
The boy held one arm in the air and shrieked in reply.
“Getting noisy too.”
William laughed. He had a helpless laugh when he got going. Steve leaned forward and tweaked his little nose between his fingers, making him laugh harder.
“You’re a big, noisy bloke, ain’tcha?”
The boy fell quiet and his face became preoccupied. There was a bad smell.
“Oh, mate. You didn’t.”
He did. The stink was something shocking. Steve opened the door and let a cool breeze in off the ocean. The clean nappies were strung out to dry at the window, so he lifted one down and caught a clear view of the beach. There was somebody there, crossing the sand. A man was walking toward them purposefully, looking up at the cabin, moving with great, slow strides. It was like looking at himself. Ankle boots, blue uniform, police badge.
Steve dropped the nappy to the floor. Fear thumped hard inside him.
William looked up at him and laughed, cocked his head, expecting a response. Steve considered, in a panic, whether he could hide the child, if he could keep the cop outside, if he could meet him on the beach. William squealed, loud and high-pitched.
The cop saw him through the window and quickened his pace as Steve made for the door. The latch was stiff; he pulled it down but he knew it wouldn’t hold and there was no time to find the key. He heard the cop’s feet in the sand, getting closer. His grunt of effort as he shoved the door from the outside. The latch snapped under his weight. Steve pushed back against him from the inside, feeling his equal force, his strength. The door inched open and the cop jammed his boot in the gap.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “You’re going to have to let me in.”
The copper stood on the sand and caught his breath. His face was confused. Appalled. A white fella holed up on a beach with a black kid.
“What’s this about?” Steve let the door swing open and did his best to fill the doorway. “This is private property.”
“We had a call,” the cop said, panting. He lifted his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow onto his sleeve. “From Sydney. You got a little lad with you?” The cop looked past him into the cabin.
Steve heard William behind him, babbling to himself. The ocean crashed loud on the beach. The copper watched the boy, nodded once, and returned his gaze to meet Steve’s. He dug his thumbs into the small of his back. He was a big bloke, not in the best shape. He looked more tired than a walk across the beach should make you.
“He’s a ward of the Welfare Board in New South Wales,” the cop said. “Someone kicked up a fuss. Called a few times. We’re tightening up the records.”
Steve considered charging past him, pushing him to the ground, running with the boy till he found a place to hide. But his legs were heavy; he could barely stand. “This is temporary,” he said. “This cabin. Just temporary.”
The cop looked at him blankly. A line of sweat ran down his face and dripped from his jaw.
“I’m waiting for my house to sell. We’ll move on from here soon as the money comes through. Just a few more weeks.”
The cop shook his head and wheezed. “My boss wants this kid out of his hair.” He thumped his chest with his fist and cleared his throat. “Like I said, he’s a ward of the Board in—”
“He’s well cared for.” Steve’s guts turned over. The cop was barely listening. He’d have seen people pull their hair out, soil themselves, drop to the ground and beg. “He’s like a son to me,” Steve told him. A wave broke on the beach, drowning out his words. “I love him like my own son.”
Behind him, William started up a whine. The copper took in the size of the child: his weight and build. His nostrils flared with the stink of his nappy.
“Christ.” He leaned back from the door. Covered his nose. He turned his back, but Steve heard him. “Filthy bloody animal.”
Steve stepped down onto the sand. He felt the insult personally. The shock of it returned the strength to his limbs, quieted his fear, reminded him that he was on the right side now. A cool breeze came in off the ocean and he breathed it into his lungs. He had to be smarter here, for William’s sake. He was getting this all wrong.
“Look,” he said. “I’m in this game myself. My dad was a cop before me and his dad before that.”
“You’re a cop?”
Steve nodded. “Nearly ten years, based in Sydney.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“You caught me off guard.” He jerked his thumb at William. “I know this looks strange. He’s a kid I removed myself a couple of months back. I got attached to him. I’m hoping to adopt him once I’ve got myself together.”
The cop looked at Steve a long time.
“It does seem strange to me, to be honest, mate.”
“I bet.” Steve managed to laugh.
“They didn’t mention you were a cop when they sent me down here.”
“Must have been crossed wires somewhere.” Steve tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. “You could call my boss, up in Sydney. Sergeant Perry. He’s based at Parramatta. He’ll vouch for me if you speak to him direct.”
He nodded slowly. “He’s signed this off, has he?”
“That’s right. Got his permission before I headed down here.” He looked away, feeling the lie in his face.
“I don’t know, mate.” The cop looked at his boots, weighing this up. “Don’t think I can walk away from here empty-handed.”
“Speak to Ray,” Steve said. “You don’t want to drive all the way up to Sydney with a baby if you can avoid it. Took me days to get down here with him, what with all the stopping and starting.”
William’s whine became a wail. The cop turned and looked out at the steep face of the beach, the gulls settled on the dunes. There was no one about for miles. “Maybe I’ll leave it for today. Give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Steve gave him a nod, forced a smile. He gripped the doorframe for support.
The copper looked at William with distaste. “Do me a favor and keep him out of sight, would you? Don’t go attracting attention to yourselves.”
“No worries,” Steve said.
“Sergeant Perry, was it? Parramatta?”
“That’s the one, mate.”
The copper turned and started back toward the road, lifting his legs high to keep the sand out of his boots.
A call from Sydney. Steve let the phrase fill his head as he got the boy cleaned up. Mandy must have told them where they were. He needed to stay calm, keep that thought at bay for now. He wiped the boy down and noticed a rash across his belly and down his legs. Looked sore. He picked William up and felt the heat coming off his skin. Might be the start of a fever. He’d let him sleep a while. They’d have to wait till nightfall to load up the truck and get themselves ready to move on.
