Second Sight

by Aoife Clifford

  ‘It happens,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t mean anything. Just automatic. Nerve twitches.’

  But I know she is wrong.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, getting down on my knees. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I sit there with him for half an hour, saying Grace’s name over and over.

  His eyes remain closed and his hands don’t move again.

  12

  Tess’s car isn’t in the driveway and no-one answers the doorbell. I go through the side gate into the back garden. The spare key is in the usual spot, under the third flowerpot to the right of the back door – surprisingly lax for a police family, but Dad always assumed that no-one would be stupid enough to rob the local cop.

  My overnight bag is right by the front door as if Tess wants to keep any visit to pick it up as short as possible. I sit down at the kitchen table and take out the necklace again.

  Could this really belong to Grace?

  I find a pen and slowly run it underneath the necklace until it’s halfway along, then lift it to eye level. It’s unbalanced, threatening to slide back down. I stare at it until the rest of the world goes out of focus.

  The memory is insistent now, almost throbbing like a headache.

  The spring clasp had snapped. It was Amy who had the idea to use a paper clip, looping both ends onto it as a temporary fix, apologising all the while. Grace kept patting it the rest of the afternoon to make sure it hadn’t fallen off. That weekend the three of us caught the bus to the next town to get the clasp replaced. She was upset because even after clubbing all our money together we could only afford a sterling silver one. Amy and I spent the whole trip home telling her that nobody was ever going to notice, but she told us that she would.

  I drop it back down on the table. One end of the necklace is all covered in dirt, the clasp well hidden. This should be handed over to Gavin exactly as I was given it and yet I put my hand back into the zip lock bag and carefully pick up the end covered in earth. Chunks of dirt have been dislodged but I need something fine to scrape off the final stubborn layers of compacted mud. Putting the chain down on the table, I rummage through the kitchen drawers for a toothpick and begin chipping at the grime, digging down until the wooden tip clinks against the metal. Then, blowing away the dust, I scrape away a patch to see a dull silver clasp appear.

  My heartbeat fills the room.

  The front door opens. I am sliding the chain back into the envelope when Tess comes into the kitchen, balancing a grocery bag in the crook of her arm.

  ‘How did you get in?’ she demands.

  ‘The spare key. You should change the spot.’

  ‘And perhaps the locks,’ she says.

  The ‘this is your home too’ sentiment didn’t last long.

  ‘Quite a dramatic exit yesterday, taking the chief mourner away with you.’ Her tone is one of sarcasm with highlights of small town gossip. ‘Two people stopped me in the supermarket to mention it and then I had the butcher saying he spotted Dad’s Mustang at Ocean Breezes early this morning when he was heading into work. He was assuming it had been sold.’

  I start praying that the picnic spot was secluded enough.

  ‘It was Donal’s decision not to go to the wake,’ I try to explain.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath, but she hasn’t finished.

  ‘And Gavin’s worried you’ve damaged the prosecution’s case. The defence could have a field day. Spending the night with the victim’s brother. Hardly an unbiased witness.’

  That does make me sit up.

  ‘How would they find out?’

  Tess snorts with derision, which I probably deserve.

  ‘Fine. I’m just going to grab a few of my old photos and go.’

  She gives me a look that has a fair degree of sisterly smugness attached. Our arguments are never resolved, they’re just rounds that are won or lost. She walks into the kitchen to put away her shopping.

  I try to think about what pictures I might have of Grace that would include her chain. Dad always kept the photo albums in the bookcase in chronological order, as if they were files at work. There’s his wedding album, our baby ones, us as kids, family holidays. There was one for every year except the year I’m looking for. It’s missing.

  Frowning, my next stop is the old mahogany dresser where loose photos and brown strips of negatives sit in plastic concertina cases. Plenty of our photos never made the albums because my father was a dreadful photographer. Most tended to look like shots of a crime scene, with missing limbs, heads half chopped off and shifty expressions. I grab out handfuls and begin flicking through my family’s past. I was given a camera for my fifteenth birthday and all I ever did was take photos of my friends.

  Grace doesn’t appear.

  I take the drawer out and dump the contents on the table. There’s teenage Amy, braces and glasses and me with a healthy scattering of acne. Grace probably took that picture. Another has the two of us standing outside, the sun making us screw our eyes shut. Again, Grace is missing.

  It is as if she has disappeared from my photos as successfully as she did in real life.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say aloud. ‘Where is Grace?’

  In an instant Tess is standing over me. ‘What are you doing making all this mess?’

  ‘I’ll put it back.’

  ‘You can’t just come here and start wrecking everything.’

  There are dozens of pictures of a beautiful Tess smiling up at me from the table and they make me angry. ‘Not happy with wiping out all traces of Dad, now you’ve been throwing out my photos.’

  ‘I haven’t touched your stupid photos and that isn’t what I’m doing to Dad.’

  ‘Really? When was the last time you visited him? Because I didn’t see your name in the visitor’s book at all.’

  ‘Get out,’ she says. ‘Get out of this house.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’ I’ll go the police station and give the necklace to Gavin before driving home.

  Walking down the corridor, there’s movement behind me. I turn in surprise. Perhaps she’s come to apologise, perhaps she’s waving a carving knife.

  ‘Why do you want photos of Grace Hedland?’ she asks.

  13

  I leave without saying another word to my sister and drive straight into town along the beach. On the car radio the local announcer is almost breathless telling listeners that the mystery of The Castle’s bones has gone viral on social media. Kinsale is now ‘Bonestown’.

  I turn left at the surf club and there, tucked away in a side street, is the police station. It is an uninviting brick building, designed to be locked up and left when all the cops are out on patrol. As I walk towards the familiar blue-and-white chequerboard sign sticking up on a rusty pole out the front, a group of journalists swoop down on me, beady-eyed. Logos of different city TV stations are stuck on cameras and there is a station wagon rakishly parked right outside, as if the journalist had arrived in a hurry.

  ‘Just getting a stat dec signed,’ I lie.

  They judge me to be unimportant and quickly return to chatting among themselves in a friendly but combative way.

  The police noticeboard is full of sun-faded posters advertising victim assistance, counselling programs and giving the contact numbers of the closest 24-hour station, two towns up the coast, for when this one is unattended. In reception, Pat Fulton sits behind a glass partition, talking to a man at the counter who seems to be showing her his new neck tattoo. Pat has been the office manager at Kinsale Police Station my whole life. It feels very strange to be walking in here without Dad being somewhere in the building.

  ‘I hear you’re back playing the pokies, Tye. Where’d you get the money to do that?’

  The tattooed man mumbles something inaudible.

  ‘You don’t want to get in trouble again,’ she says. ‘Wouldn’t want bail revoked.’

  If most things in Kinsale seem a bit smaller and shabbier, Pat Fulton is the exception. Everything about her is large: the
hedgehog spikes in her silver hair, the chunky jewellery on her fingers, and her laugh, which was always loud. She sits there ballooned behind the glass, wearing an expression that always made me feel guilty.

  The one-sided conversation with Tye comes to an end and he shuffles past.

  ‘Why, it’s little Eliza,’ Pat calls. ‘Heard you were in town for the memorial.’

  ‘Just wanted a quick word with Gavin,’ I tell her. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Up at The Castle,’ she says.

  ‘Is this about the skull?’

  ‘They’ve recovered a complete skeleton now. That’s the reason those vultures are out the front. Some bright spark hired a helicopter to get aerial footage and made a nuisance of themselves. I’ve had three complaints in already.’ Her mouth curdles at this. ‘Anyway, can I help you?’

  ‘It might be nothing.’

  ‘If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that, I’d be lying on a beach in Bali with a mojito right now.’

  ‘Does it usually turn out to be something?’

  ‘Nope, mostly it’s a waste of time. Tell you what . . .’ She looks up at the clock behind her. ‘We’re not going to get many people coming in with those clowns out the front. I’ll just close up and we can grab an early lunch. Do you eat tuna salad?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good, you can have Gavin’s because he won’t get a chance. Give us a minute, I’ll divert the phones.’

  Coming out from behind the glass with a large plastic bag in her hands, she puts a sign on the front door directing people to use the external phone if they need help, and then locks the door behind us. The yells begin the moment we’re spotted. Reporters start to swarm.

  ‘Has a decision been taken to dig the entire site?’ asks the tallest one, swinging his camera up to his shoulder, a fluffy boom mike attached. ‘Can you confirm that Luke Tyrell is a suspect in this death as well?’ says another, while a third comes forward brandishing his phone. He sticks it right in Pat’s face. ‘Have more bodies been found?’

  ‘Just the filing clerk, fellas,’ she says, ‘heading out for my lunch break,’ and she ploughs through them like an icebreaker. I duck my head, clutch my handbag and follow in her wake. If this is what it’s going to be like giving evidence at Luke Tyrell’s trial, I don’t want to do it.

  They fall back again. This time the muttering seems more mutinous. We walk out of hearing distance and Pat slows down, ‘Now, let’s get in my car and we’ll eat up at the park, away from busy ears.’

  ‘I’ve got the Mustang,’ I say. ‘I can drive.’

  ‘Mick’s?’ she says, delighted. ‘Begged him for years but he never took me for a spin once.’

  We’re almost at the car when there is the sound of footsteps behind us.

  ‘Excuse me.’ It’s the girl with mermaid-blue hair who I saw at the memorial. She’s wearing the geek girl uniform of a short-sleeve checked blouse, A-line skirt and silver brogues.

  ‘Could I get a copy?’ she asks.

  ‘Of what?’ says Pat.

  ‘The police statement about Luke Tyrell being a suspected serial killer.’

  Behind her the journalists, all men, are clutching coffees and sniggering in our direction. The tallest one cranes his neck to try and see her expression.

  ‘If Luke Tyrell has anything to do with those bones,’ says Pat, ‘I’ll run through this town naked and they can put that in all their news bulletins.’

  ‘So no statement?’

  ‘They’re having you on, love,’ says Pat. ‘No serial killer, no statement.’

  The girl’s face hardens at the hoots of laughter behind us. She gives a kind of this-day-could-not-get-any-worse sigh. ‘And they won’t pay for their bloody coffees either. They say it’s my shout.’

  ‘Giving you a hard time?’ Pat asks.

  ‘Just new girl shit,’ she says, her jaw tightening. ‘Stella Gibson,’ she adds, sticking out her hand for Pat to shake. ‘I’ve just started interning at the Coastal Times.’

  Pat narrows her eyes.

  ‘Interning?’ she asks. ‘Do they pay you?’

  ‘It’s good experience for my CV,’ says Stella. ‘At least, that’s the theory.’

  ‘How’s the practice?’ I ask.

  ‘Got that CCTV footage of Luke Tyrell’s attack in record time. That went viral around the world.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Pat says. ‘You got business cards and a pen?’

  Stella nods.

  ‘Give us one like you’re arranging something.’

  Stella delves into her bag, which is the size of a small child.

  ‘Now put our heads together like we don’t want to be overheard. You too, Eliza.’

  I move nose to nose with Stella, so close I can see mascara clumps on her eyelashes.

  ‘Good,’ says Pat. Her lipsticked upper lip curls, exposing denture-plate pink gums and slightly snarled teeth.

  Behind us the chuckling dies down.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen here for most of the day but try around 5 pm. No guarantees, but google the name Dr Pernilla Adler and don’t tell those idiots anything.’

  Stella smiles, beginning to enjoy the ace girl reporter act.

  ‘What’s happening at 5 pm?’ I ask after Stella leaves.

  ‘Adler is the forensic anthropologist on site. Gavin will be pushing hard for some concrete details to be released to stop all the speculation. If he gets anything, they’ll release it then to make the TV news bulletins.’

  ‘I’ll make sure to watch.’

  ‘Really?’ Pat asks. ‘I’m sick to death of the whole thing. That development could bring some good jobs to Kinsale and now it’s all up in the air.’

  We drive through Main Street, which seems empty except for multiple Janey Bayless posters, which range in size from modestly small to narcissistically large.

  ‘How’s Janey’s campaign going?’ I ask Pat.

  ‘Pretty well, I think. This Castle stuff could throw a spanner in the works, though. Finding a skeleton in a place you once owned will set tongues wagging.’

  I turn right and drive past the supermarket, two bottle shops and the Chinese restaurant. ‘You don’t think she’s involved?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘If the police didn’t find that body, the developers would have. Janey’s no dill. She didn’t put it there.’

  Pat nods at the Norfolk pines that keep this part of the shoreline in constant shade. ‘When we were all in the water, the day of the bushfire, I kept watching those trees,’ she says. ‘Just staring at them, thinking if they go up, it will be the biggest bloody sparkler ever.’ She directs me to pull over.

  ‘What was that day like?’

  It’s a question I never asked my father. I suspect he wouldn’t have answered even if I had, because he never spoke to us about his work.

  ‘Scary. But the aftermath was worse. The searches, the funerals, the buildings lost. It just wore everyone down.’ Her face slips slightly. ‘This place might not look so different to you, everything growing back now, but it’s changed Kinsale.’

  ‘Amy said it’s like the entire town is suffering from PTSD.’

  ‘Well, she’d be dealing with it every day, same as us at the station.’ Pat sighs. ‘Families that were here for generations just upped and left. Assaults and domestic violence all skyrocketed, and don’t get me started on the drugs. Still, it’s not everyone. Some people just woke up the next morning and got on with life as normal. And then there’s some like Janey. That fire was rocket fuel for her, running for mayor, organising the class action. Now we can look forward to people’s settlements being finalised and some money coming back to the town.’

  ‘Settlements?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re all suing the power company. Janey’s lead plaintiff on account of The Castle being so badly damaged.’

  The guilt is needle sharp. The last time I spoke strategy to Colcart, they point-blank refused to even contemplate settling. Perhaps on my return, armed
with Rob’s expert report, they might see reason.

  ‘Our lawyers say they’re bound to cave. Too much bad publicity otherwise.’

  So that’s what the defence lawyers are saying. Not just telling their clients they will have their day in court but promising them an actual settlement.

  ‘Do you want me to grab the bag?’ I ask, to change the subject.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘We’ll sit up on the bench.’

  We walk through the empty playground where Amy, Grace and I smoked cigarettes for the first time. I think it was Amy who threw up. Pat leads me past the faded blue nautical themed tree house with anchors, portholes and a smiling cartoon whale slide up the hill to a wooden bench. A tarnished plaque on the back of it reads ‘In Loving Memory of Travis Young’, then after the dates ‘Forever Young’ is written in copperplate script. It’s hard to know if the pun was intended. The name rings a bell but it doesn’t come with a face attached. I have a vague memory of a big town funeral that my father attended but refused to let me go to.

  Pat settles herself down.

  ‘When did this get put here?’ I ask.

  ‘Must be ten years ago now. His mother couldn’t face visiting the cemetery anymore so the family did this instead. His favourite spot in town apparently.’

  There is broken glass littered throughout the pine needles on the grass, cigarette butts and chip wrappers under the swings.

  ‘The cemetery must be bad.’

  ‘Most of the town can’t face that place. Too many people ended up there too early, your mum included.’

  Dad never took us to the cemetery, preferring to go by himself.

  ‘Still, Maggie Young’s an idiot,’ Pat went on. ‘Babbles on about the importance of family and then when her mother loses her house in the fire, shoves her in the nursing home. Poor old Mary.’ I start at the name but Pat keeps talking. ‘And Travis was nothing special. Got pissed and wrapped himself around a tree.’

  ‘So,’ says Pat. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘I was given this yesterday.’ I pull out the envelope from my bag and open it up to show her the necklace. It still doesn’t seem real, but I’m more convinced than ever that it belonged to Grace.