Do Not Go Alone (A Posthumous Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  No sooner has she stepped out of the kitchen, he is reaching for his phone again and stabbing at a number. He waits, tapping a fat thumb on the wooden tabletop.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  He frowns, starts to hang up, then pulls the phone back to his head quickly and spits into it. “I knew you were there! I knew it!”

  Then he glances towards the kitchen doorway before whispering, “What the hell did you do? Just tell me. Just say it!”

  He listens for a second, then says, “Don’t act dumb and don’t bloody tell me to calm down.” Then he does calm down, his voice dropping considerably. I can barely hear him as he says, “We had an agreement. You promised me. You promised—”

  Then he abruptly hangs up as Ruth walks back in.

  I don’t know what she says to him then. I have no clue.

  Suddenly I am whirling through time and space. I am shuffling down the hallway in my pyjamas, from the direction of the study. I am thinking, Someone needs to vacuum that crap off the carpet, but I don’t have the heart or the energy to do it. I can hear voices.

  Someone says, “It is what it is, mate; we have to suck it up,” but the voice is slightly muffled. It’s coming from the kitchen. It’s another day, another time. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the anguish in the tone is incongruous.

  “But he can’t do that! We had an agreement! He promised!” It’s a man’s voice, clearer now. My brother Peter, I think, but I didn’t realise he was back from London yet.

  “Tell me about it! Jan’s spewing. She’s irate!” That’s Paul, equally as vexed. I haven’t heard that tone in months.

  There’s a pause, then “What’s Jan got to do with it?”

  What? I think. What are they talking about? I stop just outside the door and keep listening.

  “It’s got everything to do with Jan! Jesus, we’ve been stone broke for years, we’re selling our home for Christ’s sake, moving into a friggin’ shoebox with four kids, and he’s just gonna sell Nevercloud on a whim? For her? Without even thinking about it!”

  Another pause and then Peter sighs loudly, but his tone has calmed considerably as he says, “I’m sure he’s thought about it, Paul. I’m sure that’s all he can think about. That’s the problem; he’s not thinking straight. We need to tell him. That’s all.”

  There’s a scoff. “What do we tell him, mate? ‘You can’t do it, Dad! She’s just not worth it!’?”

  There is silence. It seems to go on forever, and then finally Paul speaks again, his tone back to placatory.

  “You’re right. He loves her; what else can he do?” Then, to book end the conversation, he says, “It is what it bloody is.”

  I waited a few minutes, then strode casually into the kitchen and feigned innocence as I smiled at my two brothers who stood at opposite ends, arms wrapped around their chests, cheeks ruddy.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” they replied in unison, clearly hiding something.

  I smiled at them like a shark. I remember that. I was super patient. I knew I’d get it out of them. Eventually.

  I was a big fan of games like hide-and-seek when I was a kid. I could play it all day for hours. My brothers loathed it, or at least they came to loathe it, so persistent was my passion. As the youngest in the family I was also the smallest, which meant more hidey-holes were open to me than my taller, lankier siblings, and they got so incensed when they couldn’t find me.

  I hid above the fridge once, in a cupboard half-filled with brilliantly coloured bottles. Spirits and liqueurs I realised much later. How I got up there and how I managed to squeeze in amongst the Galliano and the Cointreau is anyone’s guess, but I was good like that, a champion hider. And I had the patience of a predator. Happy to wait it out.

  Of course, eventually, frequently, the boys gave up on finding me and headed back to their bedrooms, but that didn’t worry me. I just waited until one of them reappeared to fetch a drink and then burst down upon them, causing them to shriek.

  I always won that game. I really liked winning.

  My brothers fought frequently, but the one thing they agreed on was that I was annoying. They were united in their loathing of me. I mean, I’m not playing the sympathy card here. I know they loved me, love me still, but they found me so aggravating, like my simple presence sent red-hot bolts of anger through them both. They said it was because I was bossy and told lame jokes at dinner and was “a spoiled little shit.” They said Mum and Dad treated me differently. But I think it had more to do with the fact that it gave them something to unite against, otherwise they had nothing.

  Peter and Paul may sound like a unified team, all Christian-like, but they never really had time for each other. They loathed me from time to time, but it was each other they really despised.

  Tessa used to call them Stork and Sleaze, a less polite version of Chalk and Cheese. One was a homebody, mad about babies, the other a playboy, mad about babes. That was Peter, of course, the eldest, the one who lives in London and stays in strange hotels and is still missing in action.

  Peter is thirty-five going on fifteen. Apart from the adult job—he’s an obscenely overpaid banker—he’ll never grow up. Doesn’t want to. Makes no apologies for it either. Dad had hoped he’d settle down, maybe even run the farm, thought he had a knack for it, but that never happened, and I guess that’s when Uncle Simon stepped up.

  I know Dad regrets that. I know he would like to live at Nevercloud permanently, himself, Mum not so much. So to hear they might be selling the place makes me sit up and take notice. Why would they be selling it? Did Mum force Dad’s hand?

  As for Paul? He wanted a wife and kids before he was twenty, and he almost got his wish. His eldest, Meg, is about ten or eleven, and he’s just turned thirty-three.

  I think he’s happy.

  I thought he was happy.

  I thought a lot of things once.

  Paul’s one of those people who’ll always just get by. His face might resemble a quivering sand dune, but he won’t leave any footsteps on the beach, he won’t cause any waves, and he won’t hurt anyone, or at least I didn’t think he would. He works for the council, in a clerical position of some sort. I’m embarrassed to say I can’t tell you precisely what. Every time it came up, I just glazed over.

  I always assumed it was the perfect job for Paul though: nine-to-five, rostered days off, set job requirements, stable salary. And, being government-based, very, very difficult to get fired from. Knowing Paul as I did, he only ever would have put in just enough effort to stay on the right side of the annual performance review, but maybe he hasn’t put in nearly enough effort lately, maybe he’s on strike two.

  Or did he lose the unlosable job? Is that why he’s in such financial straits?

  His wife Jan’s no use, of course. She’s a stay-at-home mum, which I’d normally admire except she never actually left the home, even before the kids came along. She’s just always sat on the couch and waited for Paul to bring home the bacon. And now, it seems, the bacon has turned to the budget cuts.

  Why did I not know that? Did they not tell me, or was I too entrenched in my own problems to really notice?

  Now as I watch Paul standing at the kitchen sink, a fingerprint analyst smudging his thumbs onto a plastic-coated sheet while he thinks only of his wife, I can’t help but wonder.

  When did Paul become so broke he had to downsize? Why did he never tell me life had become so tough? I’m sure I would’ve remembered if he had, just like I know I never did find out exactly what he and Peter were talking about that day in the kitchen, despite my earlier confidence.

  “Have you flipped your lid?” Paul said, his voice as fake as the cream in my cake when I asked him about it later. “Dad’s not selling Nevercloud. Don’t worry, little sis, you must have misheard us.”

  But I know what I heard, and it’s his deceit that has me worried.

  Then out of the blue something hits me like a second b
ullet through the brain. I can’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me earlier. As I watch Paul wipe his inky fingers on a paper towel, I start to wonder: Where are my parents?

  Why aren’t they answering that stupid iPhone?

  How long does it take for news to reach them, for them to scramble for the car and get back on the highway? Surely someone has spoken to them by now? Surely someone has asked them to come home?

  There’s a chill running down my spine, or it would be if I still had one.

  Oh God. Please don’t tell me my beloved parents are lying somewhere, bullets in their heads, their hair as messy as mine.

  Before I can give that horrifying thought more oxygen, an engine roars to life and shakes me back to reality.

  Okay, Maisie, deep breaths. No point getting hysterical. At least not yet.

  I drop the ugly images and continue to look down.

  Outside, the last of the revellers are leaving, and I am glad of the distraction. I see Roco wave a hand out of his Corolla window to Leslie and Jonas, who wave back, Leslie’s car keys tinkling as she does so.

  Roco has Tessa in the passenger seat, and I am sadly not surprised. She looks very comfortable there. Like she belongs. And Una is trudging along the street, hands wrapped around her belly, shoulders hunched.

  “Need a lift?” Leslie calls out, beeping her SUV to life as she does so.

  “It’s one block, you lazy buggers,” she calls back. “Pretty sure I’ll be safe.”

  Then I watch as both cars accelerate away and she reaches for her phone again, her expression desolate. It doesn’t last long. The second her screen lights up, her eyes follow suit. She stops in her tracks, turns swiftly around and starts striding towards my house. Then her footsteps slow down, she stops again, hesitating momentarily before turning once again and resuming her walk away. She’s confused or tentative or torn.

  Or something.

  After a few more strides, Una stops yet again, but this time she pulls her phone towards her and stabs at the screen a few times.

  Then she places it to one ear and I hear her say, “Oh, David,” before everything goes silent.

  Chapter 12

  My first thought is one of overwhelming relief. I feel myself exhale, my spine thaw out. Okay, good. My parents are fine. Of course they’re fine. What was I thinking!

  If Una is talking to my dad—and I have to assume she is, judging by the river of tears streaming down her face—that means he’s alive and kicking, and Mum must be by his side.

  Then a second thought wrestles its way in. Why is Una’s conversation with my father hidden from me? I know I’m dead. She knows I’m dead. What’s there to hide?

  I watch more keenly as Una gives up walking completely and slumps down onto the sidewalk, her long legs folded into the gutter, her voice still hidden, her sobbing intensifying. She’ll short-circuit her device if she doesn’t stop.

  Her tears should be comforting to me, so why do I suddenly feel like a dirty old man, peering through the curtains at the naked chick in the next apartment? Why should I feel like the intruder when it’s me they’re talking about?

  Or is it?

  I give myself another shake. What else could Una and my dad be discussing?

  Come on, Maisie, now you’re just being odd. This is a good thing! My parents must have given Una their new number—for whatever reason, let’s not complicate things—and now at least they’re in the loop. Now they can pull together and sort it all out. And I know exactly how things will play out. They’ll pull on some clothes, throw their suitcase in the car, then get straight back on the highway and be home in four hours.

  They’ll be devastated, of course they will, but together they’ll work out who did this to me. Together they’ll help solve my murder.

  Except…

  Well, when it comes to my parents, together is not a word that suits them these days. My parents haven’t exactly been a unified force of late, not like the old days when their love traversed time and space. And I mean that quite literally—Dad was pushing forty and lived in the country, Mum was a city girl who’d just turned twenty-five.

  Have we got time for a little detour? I think it might help.

  You see, my folks first met in a paddock near Gilgandra, not far from Dad’s property, at a Bachelor and Spinster Ball. That’s just a big ole barn dance, really, where single country folk dress up, drink up and hook up if they’re lucky.

  Except my parents didn’t just hook up, they fell in love. And I always assumed that Dad must have fallen harder because even though they met in the outback, he was the one who ditched the dust for the Big Smoke, following her all the way to Sydney. Mandy had a thriving career at an insurance firm in the CBD at that time. She gave it all up when she had me. I never did understand that. I didn’t really respect it either, if I’m being honest. There was never any question that Mum would settle in Dubbo—“I just wasn’t country stock”—and I guess he never pushed her. Maybe he never asked.

  Apart from that one-off trip to the country—a friend dragged her along, she wasn’t even going to go—Mum couldn’t abide the rural life, told anyone who’d listen, and so Dad had to suck it up I guess and pour his love of the land into a landscaping business that proved lucrative enough. But I know he was unsettled. I’ve always felt his detachment, like a mighty oak reduced to weed status because it happens to be rooted in the wrong place. And, to be honest, I never really cared. Selfish of me, I know, but I was with Mum on that one. I didn’t mind the odd visit to the dustbowl they called Dubbo, but I didn’t want to live out there! Yikes. Imagine the social life!

  The suggestion to return to Nevercloud came up from time to time, usually on the long drive home from visiting Gramps, when they thought I was fast asleep in the back. Dad would always bring it up, and Mum would always hear him out.

  “You know I love it out here, don’t you, dear? You know I miss the old place.”

  “Yes, love, I know.”

  “You know the kids would love it too, especially the boys, especially Peter.”

  “Oh, they’d die of boredom, Peter more than any of them!” She’d scoff, and I’d silently high-five her from the back.

  “It’d do him some good.”

  “He can do good in London, love.”

  Dad would scoff at that. He didn’t have much time for bankers; it was banks who were always nipping at the heels of poor country folk, repossessing properties that had been in families for generations, providing the final straw for breakdowns and suicides and all that violin-playing stuff. That’s what Mum would scoff at. She didn’t blame the banks, and neither did I. They might be evil behemoths with all the power, but even they couldn’t make it rain. You couldn’t blame them for the drought.

  “I’m just saying, Peter would be… well, he’d be better in the bush. He’d be happier, more settled.”

  This was usually the stage where Mum would sigh and say something like “This is about you, David, so let’s not pretend it’s about the kids. This is about you being happier and more settled.”

  “And what the bloody hell is wrong with that?” he’d snap back, his voice as dark as the crows above the rotting carcasses we passed. Then he’d say something like “I’ve got roots out here, you can’t ignore that. You can’t just wish that away.”

  I’d hold my breath while Mum would steady hers before answering carefully, firmly, “I don’t wish that away, David. I visit Nevercloud every single time you ask me to, and so do the kids. We don’t particularly enjoy it, but we’ve never denied you that. It’s not just about you though, is it? It’s about all of us. Our roots are in Sydney. They have been here for decades.”

  By the time we reach the outskirts of the city, Dad would have lapsed into a sullen silence and Mum would be breathing a little easier, but I knew each bout, as benign as they seemed, took something from them, left them feeling a little bruised and bloody, their marriage a little more battered.

  Is that why Dad was thinking of selling Never
cloud? Was he finally throwing in the towel? Had Mum finally insisted upon it, or was he doing it to patch up their marriage?

  As I watch Una continue to talk and sob and sniffle and sigh, wondering what the hell she could be saying to her friend’s dad for so long, an image of the soft pink envelope pops into my mind, followed by the furtive look on Vijay’s face as he tried to get Una’s attention in the laneway.

  I start to join dots that really shouldn’t go together, that make my stomach turn, when a loud voice calls out.

  “The sneaky bastards!”

  For a moment there I think that voice is commiserating with me, but then I realise there’s a new commotion going on, down in the guest bathroom by the pool, and this time Officer Craig is at the centre of it. He’s standing by the door watching as a SOCO with receding orange hair holds something over the cistern while it drips.

  It’s a ziplock bag with a white box inside. Looks like more medication to me.

  “Drugs?” Craig says, eyes alight.

  “Better,” the SOCO replies, reaching into his pocket for a fresh evidence bag. “Illegal drugs.”

  Craig beams from one giant ear to the other.

  Chapter 13

  I give myself a shake. Okay, time to concentrate.

  A bag of illegal drugs has just been found stashed in the outside toilet, and it’s far more pressing, me thinks. I don’t know what Una is up to or what that pink envelope signifies, but I need to get my priorities in order, and my friend’s bizarre behaviour cannot be one of them nor can my parents’ shaky marriage.

  I watch now as the redhead drops the tablets into the evidence bag, zips it up and then pulls out a marker pen to scribble something on the front.

  “Can I show the DI?” Craig asks, and he shrugs, handing it over.

  “Just get it straight back to me. I have to process it.”