Crow Shine

by Alan Baxter

  “Had no respect for her living, got none now. My dad’d still be alive but for that cunt.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  Wendy dropped her cigarette, ground it out with a booted heel. “You know nothing. Fuck off back wherever you came from.”

  She stormed off up the street, left Michelle paralysed with shock in her wake.

  “You okay?”

  Michelle jumped, turned to see Bob in the doorway. “Yeah, fine.”

  “I told you, Wendy doesn’t like anyone. She’s toxic, that one.”

  Michelle looked up the street at the retreating back of the woman with so much bile inside. “You’re not wrong.”

  *

  Rather than stay in the pub all day, Michelle spent the afternoon wandering the small selection of shops in town, sitting on a sun-drenched bench at the cenotaph, lightheaded with beer. She tried to imagine Clara growing up here, bored and desperate for something interesting. Desperate to get away from closed-minded judgements, to a place where she was free to be herself. She imagined it like her own youth, only with a particular Clara-flavoured dose of angry angst added in. Michelle had kept quiet growing up, bookish and patient. Clara’s tales told a very different story.

  Her phone beeped. She pulled it out, saw the reception flickering between one bar and none, a text message notification across the screen. Paul.

  Hey Mum. You okay? How’s the country?

  She smiled, tapped out a reply.

  Backwards. ;) You doing okay, love?

  The reply pinged back almost immediately.

  I’m cool. Been having terrible nightmares. Really dark, cold dreams.

  Michelle winced, desperate to gather him into her arms, smooth away his fears. Of course he was having bad dreams. She shifted for better reception, but there was none to be found. I can try to call you, love. Signal patchy.

  Nah, don’t worry, Mum. I’m okay. Love you.

  She nodded softly to herself. Her big, strong, grown-up boy. Love you too, darling. xx

  As evening drew near, she walked in the pleasant warmth across town to find herself some dinner. Every small town had a lawn bowls club with a bistro or restaurant of some kind and this place was no different. As Australian as the backyard BBQ, the bowling club’s cheap bar and average food was inevitable. Bob had told her the way.

  There was only the one pub, a handful of shops and one club before the town gave way to farms in every direction. Houses clustered around the town intersection like frightened children at their mother’s skirts, and then spread apart the further from town they were. The bowling club sat at the end of one street, the country store the last building before the smooth greens and garish lights of the clubhouse. Michelle stopped and looked into the window of Bob’s shop, rolls of wire and racks of tools, animal feed and chemicals for killing things or making them grow. She imagined Bob behind the counter. He would be back in the bar again, following the afternoon trade. Pub for lunch, pub all evening. How many places still had stores that closed for lunch? I like it here. Did he really? Or did he just not know anything else? Perhaps he was too scared to venture beyond the tiny town. Or maybe she was being judgemental again and he was a genuinely happy man. Happiness came in many shapes and guises. No one had it easy, but some had it far easier than others.

  The day was turning to night as she entered the club and immediately felt like she’d made a mistake. Here were the elderly residents of town, too old to bother with the raucous roughness of the pub, with a handful of all other ages scattered among them. Thirty locals turned as one and stared unashamedly as she entered. The bistro, as advertised out the front, $10 Steaks every night, was on the far side from the bar. She saw plastic chairs and white tables through there, a scattering of people among them.

  Ranks of televisions took up one wall to her left, the only patrons not looking at her were those with eyes glued to the dog races and traps, betting slips in hand. She took a breath, smiled as she strolled over to the bar. The few beers she had enjoyed with Bob at lunchtime had given her a buzz that had mostly faded, but entering the artificial light and low-level noise of the club reminded her she was still a bit drunk. Her rebellious nature rose and Clara’s fuck ’em all attitude urged her on. Grief seemed to be making her careless and she didn’t mind.

  “Schooner of New, please,” she said and the young girl behind the bar nodded, not cracking a smile. The girl was eighteen at most, heavily made up with dark kohl eyes and a tattoo on her forearm of a curling rose. The artwork was beautiful and Michelle told her so when she came back with the beer.

  The girl looked at her arm in surprise. “Garth Newhaven in the city. He’s a master.”

  Michelle decided there and then she was getting a tattoo, something for Clara. Clara’s had always been gorgeous, and she had been able to wear them with a solid pride Michelle had never been able to muster. Now she would. Every day now she would carry Clara’s pride with her. She got the girl to write down the name and address of the tattooist, ignored the kid’s crooked smile as she did so.

  She sipped her beer and walked through to the bistro. She ordered the ten dollar steak, took her number and turned to pick a table. Wendy Matthews stared at her with icy daggers from the far corner, surrounded by three other similarly built women, with matching hate in their gaze. Michelle steeled herself, held Matthews’ eye for a moment, before turning away. She chose a table on the other side of the room. She sat with her back to the wall so she could keep watch on the area, but didn’t look towards the group of eating women even though she felt their disdain heavy upon her.

  This was a fucking mistake.

  She thought of Clara again, living through this, all the time. As a child, a teenager. The thought made her angry all over again and she snapped her eyes to Matthews’. The big woman jumped and Michelle stared hard until Wendy looked away.

  That’s right, bitch. Do not fuck with me.

  She didn’t know if it was the beer or the ghost of Clara making her so audacious, but she liked it. Clara would be proud. She ate her steak, drank her beer and the whole time stewed on what Matthews had said outside the pub.

  My dad’d still be alive but for that cunt.

  What did that mean? How could Clara be responsible for a man’s death? Michelle pushed her plate away and stood, braced herself. She walked up to Matthews’ table and said, “We don’t have to like each other, but I really want to know what you meant about Clara and your dad.”

  Wide eyes and gasps of shock rippled among Matthews and her friends. One of them started to speak and Michelle pinned her with a hard stare. “Shut the fuck up, I’m talking to her.”

  She turned back to Wendy, knew she was making enemies by the second and just how dangerous that was in a small town. “Please,” she said more softly, pleading. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “You’re a fucking lesbo too, aren’t you? You her fucking lover?”

  “Yes.”

  “She ever talk about her life here?” one of the other women asked.

  Michelle turned to her, took in the scar across one eyebrow, the missing tooth. “Yeah. Told me how hard she had it, how ostracised she was, how she couldn’t wait to leave.”

  The women laughed. “I don’t reckon she told you the whole story,” another said. “We couldn’t wait to be rid of her. She made life fucking hard for lots of people.” The woman held up a hand as Michelle drew breath to protest. “And not just because she was gay. Yeah, she copped shit for that, but it was never the real problem. Her fucking activities were the problem.”

  Wendy stood, slapped the table. “Sal, that’s enough!”

  Sal slumped back in her chair, shook her head. “Is it? Really?”

  “It’s been quiet since she left and we’ll keep it that way.” She turned to Michelle. “There are no answers here for you, bitch. Come on, all of you.”

  Wendy pushed her chair in, stared at her friends, daring them to defy her. Slowly, reluctantly, they rose and followed h
er out.

  Michelle stood trembling, staring out into the bar, ignoring the faces looking back at her.

  *

  She left the club, lost in thought, stung by the words of the local women. What activities was Sal alluding to? As she walked away from the glow of the club into the gloom of closed shops, something struck her from the shadows. Her teeth clacked together and she cried out, more in surprise than pain.

  Wendy Matthews swam into view, her fist a blur as she swung another punch. Michelle tried to dodge, eyes wide in shock. She had never been in a fight in her life. She didn’t move quick enough and Wendy’s knuckles spun her equilibrium away. She hit the pavement with a jarring impact, mind reeling. My god, she’s beating me up!

  Wendy’s scuffed and worn Blundstone boot swung in, right into Michelle’s stomach, ripped the air from her lungs. As Michelle gagged and gasped, Wendy leaned forward, face twisted in hate. “Don’t think the local cops will care about this. Sleep with the door locked tonight and leave in the morning.”

  Michelle sucked short, desperate breaths, stunned tears blurring her vision. “Why?” she managed.

  Matthews turned away, strode off into the night.

  Michelle pushed herself back across the path, arms wrapped around her stomach. Her cheek sang with a bone-deep pain. She sat against a shop front, disbelieving. Movement caught her eye and she flinched, thought Matthews was coming back for more.

  “You ain’t like her, are you?” Sal, the one who had talked about Clara’s “activities”.

  “Like who?” Michelle asked in a weak voice.

  “Fucking Clara.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Sal looked down the street, where Matthews had gone, back to Michelle. “Your darling lover was a fucking witch.” She stabbed a finger after Wendy. “Her dad died protecting this town, thanks to your Clara’s black fucking magic.”

  Michelle tried to process the words, her mind still spinning from the attack. “Black magic?”

  Sal sneered. “Go see old Jenkins. At The Pines.”

  Before Michelle could ask more, Sal walked away.

  *

  Michelle got back to the pub and ordered vodka and tonic. Regardless of all the beer, she was suddenly not nearly drunk enough. Perhaps she should take Wendy’s advice and leave. Although that’s not what Clara would do. A witch? Black magic? How backwards was this hick town?

  Bob was at the bar, laughing and drinking with a couple of farmhands. She caught his eye and he wandered over.

  “Nice dinner at the bowlo?” he asked.

  “Decent steak, yeah.”

  “Told ya.” He frowned, leaned sideways to see her cheek. “What happened to you?”

  “Walked into a door. Is it bad?”

  “Gonna be a good bruise. A door, eh?”

  “Yeah.” She swallowed her drink, eyed the bar for another. “Old Jenkins at the Pines,” she said. “Mean anything to you?”

  “Sure. He’s bloody mad, everyone knows that. Complete nutter.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Bob shrugged, sipped beer thoughtfully. He ran one hand over his ample beer belly. “Ever since I was a kid he’s been a weird one. But after his brother died he really went doolally. Hey!” He looked up, surprise writ large across his face. “Talk about small town. His brother, what died, was that Wendy Matthews’ dad.”

  Michelle nodded, more disturbed than ever. “Where’s the Pines, then?” she asked.

  Bob told her how to get to the old farm and she ordered another drink, a double. It was an hour and several vodkas later before she went to her room. She did lock the door, but had no intention of leaving in the morning.

  *

  Drunk as she was, Michelle slept hard. She woke with a headache and a mouth like Gandhi’s sandal, but no one had come to harass her during the night. At least, not that she’d noticed. Her dreams had been twisted and dark, full of grief and spite and country people with menace in their eyes. The day was already hot as she showered. Walking out into the glaring sun was an assault on her eyes and mind. A couple of cafés competed for business on the main street and she started towards them in search of coffee and bacon.

  Something on her windscreen caught her eye, a scrap of paper under the wiper. It bore a hand scrawled message in blue biro.

  Go home, dyke.

  Michelle shook her head, screwed it up. That the best you idiots can do? But she didn’t fancy another beating, resolved to stay alert. The first café she came to was called Poppy’s and she went inside. The smell of cooking and coffee was both nauseating and enticing. She ordered coffee and a full breakfast, ate it in silence, feeling sorry for herself. It did the trick, her hangover began a slow retreat. She ordered a second coffee, drank it down and headed back to her car.

  The drive up to the Pines didn’t take long. One of the roads out of town led through wide open paddocks, across a struggling river that trickled through its bed desperately, and up a hill towards a ridge lined with the trees that gave it its name. She saw the farm gate from afar, the sign broken and peeling.

  The driveway was rough and pot-holed, leading to a weatherboard house equally run down, paint flaking off like the skin of a dying man. The home looked dark, all the curtains closed. She sat in the car for a while, her head pounding softly with each heartbeat. Eventually she dragged herself out and up to the front door.

  It opened before she could knock and an old man peered out at her, squinting against the light. He was stick-thin and bent over, pale skin blotched with liver marks. His eyelids hung heavy from red, rheumy eyes and his lips folded back over gums long since devoid of teeth. “Whatever yer selling, I ain’t innerested.”

  Michelle raised one palm. “Honestly, I’m not here to sell you anything. Just wondered if I could talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  And wasn’t that the question. “The old days?” she ventured.

  Old Jenkins narrowed his eyes. “The last thing I want to talk about is the old days. Off with ya.” He started to push the door closed.

  “Please!” Michelle said, surprised at the desperation in her voice. “I really need some answers.”

  “Answers ain’t always good to get.”

  “I’ll do anything. I don’t know where else to go.”

  The old man shook his head. “I don’t need nothin’.” He began to shut the door again.

  Michelle stepped forward, put a hand out to stop it closing. “It’s about your brother. And Clara Jones.”

  There was silence for a long moment before his resigned sigh. “Too hot and bright out here.” He left the door open and disappeared into the gloom.

  Michelle followed him in, bracing for the possibilities of what might lay inside. She was pleasantly surprised and berated herself again for being judgemental. She had expected a terrible smell, filthy floors, rotten food, maybe a mangy dog. But the house was immaculately kept, clean and fresh. She got a nostalgic rush at the scent of furniture polish and marvelled at the gleam on amazing turn-of-the-century tables and dressers, buffed to a high sheen. Paintings and framed photos adorned the walls, the town when it was just two dirt streets, families and farm animals, portraits and landscapes.

  Jenkins led her through to a lounge room with a cracked leather sofa and armchairs. A television muttered quietly to itself in the corner, too low to be heard. Jenkins switched it off, dropped the remote onto a coffee table. “Bloody rubbish,” he said. “I leave it on for the company.”

  “You live alone?” Michelle asked with a pang of sorrow.

  “Yep. Never married. ’Spose they all told you I was mad?”

  Michelle opened her mouth to assure him that no, no one had said anything of the sort. Then thought better of lying to him. “Yeah, they did. But you don’t seem mad to me.”

  “What does madness look like?” he asked, eyes suddenly hard. She shook her head, searching for an answer, and he turned away. “Drink? I got some lemon squash in the kitchen.”<
br />
  “Sure, thanks.”

  “Wait there.”

  He shuffled out and Michelle sank onto the sofa, looked around the room. There were a lot of photos, but nothing more recent than the ’70s. Was it possible he had been alone all that time?

  Jenkins returned with two glasses, ice cubes clinking, handed her one. “I don’t like to talk about Stan.”

  She swallowed some drink, marvelled at just how good it was. “Stan was your brother?”

  He looked at her with suspicious eyes. “What is it you want to know?”

  “I’m trying to find some answers, that’s all. Clara recently took her own life. I’m looking for . . . I don’t know. A reason, I guess.”

  The old man nodded, sank into his armchair. “Stan died for her, you know. And I did, nearly. They all think I’m mad, but they never saw what I saw. What Stan saw. The thing what got him.”

  Nerves fluttered through Michelle’s chest and she drank again, looking for solace in the normality of lemon squash. “Will you tell me what happened?” she managed eventually. “Someone told me Clara was a witch.”

  “My hateful niece, I ’spose.”

  “Actually, no. One of her friends. Wendy didn’t want to tell me anything.”

  Jenkins sipped his drink. “You and Clara together, was you?”

  “Over thirty years.”

  Jenkins stared into a corner, off into the past. “She was a good girl, really. Bit messed up, you know? She had this bolshy attitude, this hard as nails thing going on. I reckon you’d know that after thirty years with her.”

  Michelle smiled, nodded.

  “Told folk she was a lesbian when she probably shouldn’t have, much too young. It’s like she was daring them to have a problem with it and of course, most people did. Town like this. I don’t understand it, you’re just born that way, ain’t ya? Not like there’s anything you can do about it.”

  “Right.”

  “Right. Anyway, she made life hard for herself and I ’spose she decided if she’d already been marked out as different, she’d be as different as she could. Started wearing black and all this jewellery like five pointed stars and goat’s heads. Listened to all this godawful music.”