The Fourth Season

by Dorothy Johnston

  ‘What did Laila tell you about the Maria Rosa?’ I asked.

  Bronwyn sighed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Who’s she?’

  I put my hand on the car door. ‘Mary Rose in Spanish.’

  ‘What is this, a language lesson?’ Anger pulled Bronwyn’s features forward and downwards, tensed and braced her hard, squarish body. I picked her as a player the opposing team underestimated until it was too late.

  She replaced the water bottle on the passenger seat, but looked as though she’d like to brain me with it instead.

  ‘What about shipwrecks in general?’ I asked, seeing she was about to get behind the wheel and leave.

  Bronwyn half turned and gave me a searching look. ‘Why are you asking me all this?’

  ‘Laila liked shipwrecks,’ I said. ‘She was fascinated by them.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I worked it out.’

  ‘Did Tim tell you, that soppy fool she used to share a house with?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That old guy with the beard?’

  I assumed she meant Bill Abenay. ‘No,’ I said again. I could see Bronwyn struggling between wanting to be rid of me, and needing to find out how I knew. She’d confirmed what I’d wanted to know because she hadn’t been smart enough to deny it immediately. In a minute Bronwyn would work this out and then she’d be even more angry.

  ‘Laila told you about her meeting with Senator Fitzpatrick,’ I said. ‘Did she tell you what the meeting was about?’

  ‘The environment.’

  ‘What part of the environment?’

  ‘All of it. How should I know?’

  ‘Who gave Laila her red waistcoat?’

  Bronwyn faced me fully then, making fists of her large freckled hands. ‘Laila wasn’t particularly encouraging to men,’ she said, spitting the words out, ‘but there was always a line of them waiting for a chance. And they were always giving her presents.’

  ‘What about women friends? Did they give her presents too?’

  I was still holding on to the car door. Bronwyn pushed my hand roughly away.

  I stood my ground and asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Laila wearing her waistcoat?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Was it at the Tradies?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘I work next door, remember? I’m friendly with one or two of the waiters.’

  Had I just dobbed Jake in? Waitresses, I should have said. But I didn’t want Bronwyn going after Pam or Jess.

  Bronwyn pushed me again, harder this time. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Katya wasn’t watching. Kat was too busy running after the ball, but the coach was looking my way.

  I stepped back. Bronwyn reversed so fast that gravel flew up. I noted the number plate as her hire car hurtled out the gate.

  Walking home, I was happy to listen to Kat’s excited chatter, and not to let my own mood cast a shadow over her, but once we were inside and my daughter in the shower, I went into the office and sat down.

  Ivan had made a start on dinner and Peter was over at a friend’s. I needed time to think, and my thoughts immediately returned to Laila.

  Part of Laila’s charm, and her success with men, it seemed to me from the little I’d observed directly, was the effortless way she eclipsed, not only any rival, but the notion of rivalry itself. If Bronwyn was right about the presents, it might be because Laila wasn’t interested in having anybody, man or woman, win her with displays of generosity. The more I thought about this, the more it seemed to be an aspect of Laila’s cleverness. Laila appeared to be above competition so that she could, with greater ease, and behind their backs, play off her rivals one against the other. I was aware that jealousy might be leading me to this suspicion, and that I should guard against it; but all the same I resolved to ferret out and question anyone who’d known Laila and been immune to her charms.

  I rang Clare Fletcher, who told me that Don wasn’t in. When I asked about Don’s brother Cameron, Clare sounded exasperated at first, but relaxed after a few moments. It seemed she didn’t mind talking about Cameron, and that the main point about him was that he was rich. Clare sounded wistful, as though she might, at some time in the past, have had her choice of brothers and picked the wrong one.

  My next call was to Phoebe, whose counsellor had told her she needed calming experiences and positive re-enforcement to help her deal with the trauma.

  ‘I’m doing an aromatherapy course. It’s very beneficial. You should try it.’

  I said I’d keep aromatherapy in mind.

  ‘I’m sure it would do you good, Sandra. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a pretty uptight person.’

  I thanked Phoebe for her advice and pretended to write down her therapist’s name.

  Before Phoebe could hang up, I asked, ‘Why do you think Laila was so fond of her red waistcoat?’

  ‘What do you mean fond?’ Phoebe sounded suspicious, but curious enough about the question to find out what I meant.

  ‘Was it a present from someone?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Phoebe said, considering. ‘But it wasn’t like Laila to care about presents, if you know what I mean. You know the police showed that waistcoat to me? Freaked me out like totally. Like the embroidery was frayed and the colours had all run. Plus, it had this big oily stain. They wanted to know if Laila had been wearing it around like that.’

  ‘Had she?’

  ‘Of course not! Laila wasn’t fussy about clothes, but she was always neat.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw the waistcoat undamaged?’

  There was a paused while Phoebe thought. She said, ‘I guess it was before she went on that trip to lake whatsitsname.’

  ‘I heard Laila came back sick,’ I said, recalling Bill Abenay’s calm, unhurried voice, his large, hairy arms as he handed me my coffee.

  Phoebe chatted amiably about Laila’s cold that had turned into bronchitis, how Tim had fussed around her like an anxious hen, but it seemed that she had nothing new to tell me.

  Ivan called to tell me dinner was ready. He’d put some effort into the meal and I complimented him, but the fact was, I hardly tasted it. After cleaning up, I left Peter to his music and Kat to a television show she liked, and returned to my solitary thoughts in the office.

  After their first dive, Bill Abenay had told me, Laila had said she wanted to dive the homestead again, but on her own this time, ‘for practice’. When he’d asked, ‘Practice for what?’ she’d replied, ‘Just practice.’ In Abenay’s opinion, it was a crazy idea. Laila had never been near Lake Jindabyne before that weekend, beside which, though the structure might appear stable, it might fall at any time.

  ‘All of which added to the excitement for her. I could see that, but I wasn’t about to agree,’ Abenay had said.

  I got out my notes and jogged my memory further.

  After Abenay had told Laila what he thought, she’d gone off in a huff. Of course he’d forgiven her. The question of forgiveness never came into it really. But he’d been concerned enough to follow her as she tramped around the shore on foot. She’d got as far as the boat ramp when one of the instructors who took out fishing and diving groups appeared in his four-wheel drive. Abenay recognised the vehicle and knew the man by sight, though not his name. He didn’t see Laila speak to him, and had no reason to suppose they were acquainted. But the presence of another person made him feel awkward, as though he was spying, so he turned around and went back to the cottage, confident that Laila would walk off her bad mood.

  She’d appeared about three-quarters of an hour later, ‘soaked as though she’d been swimming in her clothes.’ She’d said she’d fallen off the path. It didn’t seem to have occurred to Abenay that someone might have pushed her. But if this had been the case, surely Laila would have been upset. Instead, according to Abenay, she’d been cheerful. ‘Came in laughing, dripping like a mermaid. She apologised for having been silly. We had a
good day after that.’

  I’d asked if she’d taken her phone with her when she went off in a huff, but Abenay hadn’t noticed. She’d been wearing her red waistcoat though, he remembered that. When she came back, she’d been carry­ing it folded up under her arm.

  Twenty

  Don Fletcher finally phoned next morning, asking for an update. Recalling how he’d pocketed Laila’s diagram and sketch, I felt uneasy about meeting him again, but told myself there was nothing he could do to me in a public place.

  I suggested the Tradies cafeteria, thinking that Don might object; but he showed no surprise at my choice, and no sign of being familiar with the club.

  He stood with his shoulders stooped and head down while I showed my membership card and chose a table in full view of the counter. I was hoping that the young waitress who’d told me someone had been asking about me would be able to identify Don, or else say for certain that he had not been the man.

  The expression in Don’s eyes was hunted; he looked gaunt and ill. There were stains on his jacket, and he seemed to carry shadows with him, shadows he seemed both to welcome and recoil from. Registering his deterioration, I felt cold suddenly, and drawn into it without understanding why.

  Don’s decision to offer me money had been a calculated one, but it had not been Don doing the calculation. No doubt someone else had written the script for this encounter too, but it was up to Don to deliver it, and he was having trouble.

  He studied the menu in silence for what seemed like a long time, while I studied him.

  Don’s was the sort of skin that went sallow in the autumn, summer’s tan fading to a mustard yellow. The room’s dim light—for outside it was cloudy, clouds once again offering hints and half-promises of rain—accentuated the deep pouches underneath his eyes.

  He raised them to complain about DS Brideson, then about his wife. He seemed not to notice my scepticism, and almost to have forgotten that I’d met Clare and formed my own impressions.

  My feeling of coldness, of being physically chilled, of having stepped into deep water out of sight of land, returned with greater strength when I asked Don what his brother had been doing outside the internet cafe.

  Don pretended not to know what I was talking about at first, but, by the way he picked up the menu again, grasping the corner tightly, I was sure my guess was right. It had been Cameron that night last October, and it had been Cameron watching me as well.

  Don told me that I must be mistaken, trying to sound brusque, but managing only to sound confused and fearful.

  ‘You’re close to Cameron, aren’t you?’ I said.

  I watched Don framing a denial, then giving up.

  ‘Do the police know of the connection between Laila and your brother?’

  Don licked his lips, pulling himself together. ‘There is no connection.’

  I knew this was a lie, and Don knew that I knew it. In a few short sentences, we moved beyond superficial lies and their consequences, while much bigger ones waited in the wings.

  The more mystery surrounded Cameron Fletcher, the more curious I felt. What was his connection with Laila? Had it come about through Ben Sanderson perhaps, or in some other way? I recalled the photograph of Laila on the dive shop’s website. Cameron had put it up, and was keeping it up there, I felt sure. It was part of a game he was playing with the police, and with me as well. I felt sure that Cameron was confident he could squash me any time he liked, and reminded myself that he might well be right.

  I remembered the outline I’d glimpsed alongside Don’s at the pool that night, solidifying then dissolving through the mist; the voice that had, for an instant, been so clear. Yes, Cameron was the dangerous brother, the one who needed watching and yet continued to evade my gaze. Chameleon-like, he changed from a man of average height and build, a short-haired shadow momentarily caught by a street light, to a jaunty figure in a baseball cap, curb-crawling in a small red car. Cameron had been watching Bronwyn’s house, I felt certain of that too. But why? And did Bronwyn know? Cameron had been moving round the city, half invisible, yet flaunting himself at the same time—flaunting his skill and cunning.

  I knew I should get up from the table straight away, go straight to Brook and tell him. But would Brook believe me? Would he even agree to see me? I admitted to myself that the answer, probably, was no.

  Don asked about Ivan, how Ivan was getting on. When I told him a bit better, Don looked both annoyed and dissatisfied, as though expecting to hear that Ivan was still wallowing in misery, or better still, on the brink of being charged.

  Don struck me then as behaving like a child who fears arbitrary punishment, who has early learnt to fear it, who sees the path ahead as full of giant stones and yet stumbles on along it, from lack of choice, or the inability to imagine a way out.

  After a few more desultory questions, he got up to leave, having barely touched the coffee it had taken him so long to decide on ordering. From the back, his coat looked ragged, a tear beginning at the shoulder seam. I thought of Laila’s waistcoat with its marks of dirt and oil.

  It struck me that he hadn’t said anything about terminating our agreement. I understood that I would have to be the one to do it, and almost called him back.

  I left some money on the table and hurried out into the street. Don had disappeared.

  . . .

  An item on the evening news declared that announcement of the Bass Strait marine park had been postponed yet again. Speculation was mounting that there might be no park at all. The oil and fishing companies were lobbying furiously, I assumed, but their lobbying was going on behind locked doors. This time, there were no leaks to the press.

  When I glanced behind me, Peter was standing in the doorway.

  He cleared his throat, and then spoke clearly. ‘I’ve been thinking—Kat and I could go and stay with my father for a while.’

  Peter allowed a special emphasis to fall on the word father, almost that of an adult son speaking about a revered, but absent parent.

  He had the high moral ground to himself, and he knew it. I felt a spasm of dislike for my son, seeing him, in ten years’ time, as an upright, pompous young man. Then I told myself this wasn’t fair, and that he had every right to get away from the atmosphere of anxiety and tension.

  When I told him I was sorry, Peter lifted his chin; it was not quite steady.

  ‘We could go at the weekend. Kat as well,’ he said.

  ‘What about soccer?’

  ‘My father will take us.’

  ‘Why don’t you phone and ask him?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Awesome. Can I be the one to tell Kat?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I pictured the house along the Murrumbidgee, a house into which Derek had poured all his skill as an architect, conceived and built for the second family he and Valerie had failed to produce. In a rare confiding moment, Derek had told me of Valerie’s deep disappointment. I imagined that house—substantial, comfortable, elegant—breathing in and out with the pleasure of having children within its walls. I imagined Valerie’s maternal hands, and the blush of baking that wasn’t too much trouble, and the kitchen full of wonderful smells. And outside the river, narrow and truncated, yet still flowing, the eucalypts that hid only grass, not men whose intent was evil. I told myself that if Pete and Katya were safe, then that was all that mattered, and who was I to begrudge Valerie her pleasure?

  . . .

  As my children walked down the drive to Derek’s waiting car, Kat turned and looked at me over her shoulder. She was carrying a small backpack, Peter a larger one, and as Kat turned, she re-adjusted it, her eyes seeking mine. Derek waved, and Ivan, who’d come to the front door, waved back.

  Peter did not turn around. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from calling out to him. Peter kept his eyes down, but the pulse beating in his neck told me how alert he was, braced in expectation of yet another false move by his mother.

  Katya raised her hand and her lips parted for an instant.
Her expression was familiar and strange at the same time. She wasn’t nervous about spending a few days with Valerie and Derek. I was aware, rather, of the sense that my daughter was holding herself in, holding her breath until she escaped the threat that remained at home, with me.

  She smiled at her father, but I thought it was a sad smile.

  Derek had driven in alone to pick them up. Valerie would be getting things ready. My heart went cold again, and I told myself not to be stupid. I was lucky my children had somewhere to go for a break. Derek and Valerie were perfectly capable of looking after them. But still, I had to stop myself from rushing down the driveway, grabbing Katya by the arm and pulling her inside with me.

  The car left and Ivan turned away. I felt like staying outside for a little while, my spirits suddenly lifting at the thought that, for the next few days and nights, I would not need to consider my children’s needs, or timetables. I could stay out half the night without feeling guilty, sleep the afternoons away. There’d be no jolt at ten to three, reminding me that I must be at my post, watching the school oval, waiting for that singular flash of yellow that distinguished Kat’s T-shirt from all the others, Kat’s black, bobbing curls.

  Who, or what, I wondered, had given my daughter that complicated gaze, the mixture it expressed of duty and relief from duty, an inner balancing remarkable, surely, in a six-year-old? Kat’s shouldering of responsibility was so different from her brother’s, yet there were similarities as well. How had she learnt it, and from whom? Those clear black eyes, that pale face with its chin upturned, expressed the confidence that, whatever the current trouble, it would end. In response, in gratitude, a sliver of hope inserted itself under my skin and stayed there.

  I feared to scar my daughter with my own fear. I feared also for her bright pure courage, her belief that anything is possible once you’ve scored a goal.

  Twenty-one

  Ivan huffed and puffed about wild goose chases, but I didn’t care. Once the idea occurred to me, my need to get out of Canberra was suddenly so strong that there was no way I was going to allow him to deflect it. Plus, getting our car back called for some kind of celebration.