by Tim Pegler
She moves closer to me. So close! She looks up. Smiles sadly. Whispers: ‘Thanks.’
Then she bumps the gate open with her hip and walks down the onion grass-fringed path. I watch her go. Wait until she’s inside.
I’m shaking. It’s not the cold.
CHAPTER 23
ERIN
Dad’s started writing. The prison notepaper is sterile white with blue lines. Don’t know what else I expected; something pretty with ‘Her Majesty’s Prison, Ararat’ across the top? I wonder whether the wardens read the letters before mailing them, whether Dad had to pay for the stamps. Why he’s bothering writing. I’m sure as hell not writing back.
Today’s letter is his third. I don’t even know how he found us. Mum must have written to him to tell him where we are. Or Rhona, maybe. Not me.
The mess of handwriting is childlike, the letters too clumsy for the lines, like he’s writing with a crayon. He crams as many words to a page as possible. Maybe there’s a ration on paper.
Dear Erin, how’s the job? It’s good you found something so quick. Thanks for looking after Mum. Maybe you can go back to school when I get out of here, if you still want to. I have asked about parole but got no answers yet. Don’t say nothing to Mum ’cos I don’t want to get her hopes up. Ronnie Shaw, the chief screw in this wing, he says there’s no chance. He reckons that Mr McMaster has written to the court, saying my sentence isn’t long enough. Crikey, it was only a bloody ram! Them’s the breaks, eh? Listen, Erin, I need a favour. A mate of mine is coming to Rushton and needs somewhere to stay for a couple of nights. His name is Terry O’Brien. Rhona knows him from the old days so it should be fine. Keep an eye out for him, eh? Thanks, love. Well, it’s lights out time here. Look after yourself, Dad. P.S. How ’bout a letter?
I used to love it when Dad called me ‘love’. It always made me feel special. This time it doesn’t earn him a pardon or a reprieve. Who does he think he is, telling us to put up his mates? There’s no way I’m … There’s knocking at the front door.
I hurry down the passage, wondering who would visit. Through the peephole, I see Rhona and a stranger, a squat man with greying curls and a florid, jolly face. Rhona already has a spare key in the lock. When I pull the door open, she passes the key to the stranger.
‘Erin. This is Terry, a friend of your father’s. He’s going to be staying here a few days.’
Terry grins across at me. ‘Obie. My mates call me Obie. Thanks fer puttin’ me up.’
They’re past me and down the hall before I can think of anything to say.
In the kitchen, Mum puts the jug on while Rhona does the introductions. I hover by the doorway, trying to catch Mum’s eye. Eventually she says, ‘I’ll just ask Erin to nip out for milk. Won’t be long.’
Out of earshot, I whisper to her. ‘Mum, we can’t do this. Tell them we can’t. We don’t know anything about this man. I don’t …’ Mum puts a finger to my lips, hushing me. ‘I know, Erin, I don’t like it either. But it’s not our house so we don’t have any choice. And sometimes, with your father’s friends, it’s better to have them where we can see them … He can sleep in the back veranda room. I’ll get some sheets. You rustle up that milk.’
I dawdle across to the corner shop, fuming. Dad’s done us over again. Who knows what he’s up to! I’ve a bad feeling about Obie. If it wasn’t for Mum, I’d run away — run away to God knows where. I’ve had it with Dad. I don’t want to be dragged into any more of his schemes, ever again.
Back home, the jug has stopped gargling. I can hear Mum shuffling about in the back room and Rhona’s snappy tones. I stop short of the kitchen doorway, listening in.
‘Sixty per cent, Terry. Not a penny less … (something muffled) … organising storage ’til the heat dies down, that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.
‘I don’t know what possessed you and Paddy to call me about this particular problem … you and I were finished a long time ago. Anyway, consider the matter taken care of. Bring the van around just as I said.’
Obie is pleading ‘Come on, Rhona, I’m an old mate’ as I enter the kitchen. The conversation stalls immediately. Rhona snatches her handbag and keys from the bench. Obie glares at her, sullen. It’s clear who has the power in the room and it isn’t Obie. Rhona fires off ‘Just the way we agreed’ and then clatters down the hall.
As I pour the tea, Obie makes an attempt to break the ice. ‘So you’re Paddy’s daughter, eh? Good thing ya got ya looks from your mum, ha ha.’ I say nothing, just stand and watch him. He gets the message. Gulps down his tea, mumbles ‘Back later’ and tramps out of the house. I help Mum finish making his bed, wondering what the hell we’re tangled in now.
On the way to work I tell Ned about our unexpected guest. Tell him my suspicions that Dad is up to something and that Rhona wants a piece of the action. Unusually for Ned, he frowns. I think he’s getting protective of me. It’s cute. Last night he even made me detour an extra couple of blocks so we didn’t go past the house with the cacti and the concrete animals — the one where the moron abused him last week. When I realised what was going on, I put my foot down. No bully tells me, or my friends, where we can walk. Tonight I gently take Ned’s arm — he doesn’t flinch — and steer him back to the normal route.
‘If that idiot calls out again, we’ll give him a piece of our mind,’ I say, boldly. ‘And we’ll keep doing it until the moron gets the message.’ Ned looks uncertain, anxious. As we pass the hideous garden, I wonder what history exists between the bully and Ned. And whether I’ll ever find out.
The cops thump on the door at six o’clock on Friday morning. A loud-hailer wakes the entire street (and possibly the entire block). ‘Terence O’Brien, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands in the air.’
Grabbing for my dressing gown, I scurry for the window. There are at least three police cars, all with blue lights flashing. I hear footsteps in the hall and peek out my door. Obie’s lurching down the hall, pulling a jumper over his head. He’s bleary-eyed but seems unsurprised. Spotting me, he mumbles a message for Mum.
‘Tell ya mum I’m sorry the bastards woke her. Tell her it’s nuthin’. They’ve got nuthin’.’
I watch as he emerges, hands raised in resignation. A uniformed officer strides up to him, spins him round and cuffs him. They lead him to a car.
I knew this would happen, that whatever Dad was up to would be contagious. He’s the definitive ‘likely suspect’, my Dad — the first person the coppers call on whenever there’s trouble.
More knocking. ‘Mrs Murphy? Police. We have a warrant to search these premises.’
I open the door to a detective who flashes me some paperwork. I pull my gown tighter around myself, unsure if I should ask to see the warrant. But I say nothing. He signals for three uniformed officers to enter. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Peters,’ he says. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can.’
‘Mum’s sick,’ I blurt in reply. ‘She might still be asleep. Can you try not to frighten her?’
The police work their way through the house until they get to the locked room. ‘What’s in here?’ the detective asks.
‘I honestly have no idea,’ I reply. ‘But I’d love to know. It’s been driving me mad.’
One of the uniformed officers kneels down and places a tool into the keyhole, twisting and jiggling it until there’s a clunk. The detective steps forward, turns the door handle and opens the door.
Inside, in the centre of the room, is a dusty grand piano, a stool and a music stand, all astride an ancient rug. There’s a fireplace in the corner but that’s it. The police lift the piano lid and peer inside. Then they move through the rest of the house, even shining a torch down the dunny in the back yard.
They don’t find whatever it is they’re searching for. I’m sort of disappointed. I reckon they are, too.
CHAPTER 24
NED
Erin’s story about the police unsettles me. Fires me up inside. She shouldn’t have to deal with it, n
ot with her mum crook. It’s not right. The cops should leave her and her mum alone.
She says they interviewed O’Brien about some stolen goods. Couldn’t charge him because they didn’t find the stuff. Paddy’s been interviewed too. He said nothing, of course. Apparently O’Brien and him shared a cell in Ararat gaol. O’Brien has been released ‘pending further inquiries’. He hasn’t been back to Erin’s place.
‘Trouble’s always just around the corner for us,’ Erin says. ‘I wish Dad would leave us in peace.’
Erin stops walking. Stands so close I feel her warmth. Looks up at me with her wide, sky-blue eyes. Normally I don’t like it when people stare. This is different. No invasion. I hold her gaze for a moment. Hope my eyes can speak. Tell her I understand, care, feel, want.
‘We’re the same, you and I,’ she says. ‘More exposed than we want to be. Always on the run. I’m … I’m real glad we’re friends.’
Inside, I feel an unfamiliar snap, crackle, pop. An opening up. A casting aside of curtains and shadows. We start walking again and I’m self-conscious, surprised. Feel blood blushing to my cheeks, rushing to my groin. Wonder if a virgin smile is curling the corners of my mouth.
The moment is cancelled as we approach Collier’s joint. He’s at the gate. Waiting for something. Or someone.
‘D’ya hear your girlfriend’s place was raided by police last week, Neddy-boy? Her old man’s a crook. I wonder if she and her mum are …’ Crack! Erin slaps him.
Then it happens. And I’m watching, three of us in slow motion. Sensing myself step in between Collier and Erin. Tense. Protective. Terrified. Feeling his T-bone fist collide with my temple. Seeing them tilted, angled, wrong, the ground crashing into me.
Collier with an elbow around Erin’s throat. Dragging her, thrashing like a rabbit, to the garage. Fighting the urge to close my eyes, black it out. Paralysed, apart from eyelids batting away whirling diamonds. Squinting up the drive, past faded gnomes, a magpie with a chipped beak and a glum Aboriginal warrior, leaning against a rusty spear. Staring between the tyres of the Colliers’ Falcon. Seeing pieces of them. Blurry snapshots. Him astride her on the oil-stained concrete. His paw clawing at her clothes. Another clamped around her jaw. Her face porcelain.
I’m coughing, swallowing blood. Can smell rage and terror, sucking the air away.
Pain like Chinese firecrackers. Afraid. So afraid. Curling up, just like when I was a kid, and rocking. Trying to shake it off, to take off to another world. Rocking, rocking, rocking. Flashes of them beyond the garage door, a horror I can’t shut out. Erin’s hands grasping at the concrete. Collier rolling off her. Rising slowly. Kicking her like an empty can.
Seeing her gasp with new pain. Rolling away from his boots, onto her knees. Standing, unsteady. Bending, urgently tugging her trousers up. Limping down the driveway.
She sees me. And runs.
Hearing wailing through the rocking and thrashing — a siren of loss. Realising it’s me.
Slow myself. Silence myself. Breathe. Breathe. Stop rocking. Breathe. Uncurl. Breathe. Stand, swaying. Breathe.
Snatching Erin’s shoulder bag from the gateway. Clutching it, uncertain. Loping to her house. Opening the gate, timid and appalled. Pacing silently to the veranda.
Considering banging on the door. Running around the house, slapping at the windows until she agrees to see me. Until she says she doesn’t blame me.
Feeling inside out. Gutted by the thought of her clawed and bruised. Humiliated. Defiled.
Hating myself for failing her. I’m useless. Ashamed. Guilty.
Dropping the bag on the doorstep. Fleeing.
CHAPTER 25
ERIN
I’m on Dad’s knee, steering the ute as we bump across a paddock towards a dam. Mum’ll go yabbying. Dad will splash about with me or lie under a red gum and snooze. It’s hot, real hot, and the ute’s windows are down. Long yellow grass is whipping at the car, flicking spiky seeds inside. It’s Christmas, my family is together and we’re happy. I turn to grin at Mum and feel my body turn to ice. Lachlan McMaster is beside me, groping for my breasts. I’m perched on the lap of another man — a man whose face I can’t see but I know by his smell, and his hands, wide and ginger on the steering wheel. The driver’s chortling, spraying spittle about my ears as he shoves me back towards Lachlan. Outside, the sky is burnt orange. Faces peer through the windscreen; hordes of ghoulish faces staring, frowning, judging. I smell dust, greasy hair and Lachlan’s aftershave — the stink of memories I’m desperate to forget. I’m writhing, screaming, gasping, gagging, shaking, waking.
I roll off my bed, wincing as my feet hit the floor. I dash through the house, ribs kicking me with steel-toed boots at every stride. My head and pulse drum a frenzied bass-line. I make it to the toilet … just … and throw up, over and over. I sink to the dunny floor and lean my head against the cold bowl, wrap my arms around myself and howl.
I managed to keep myself together last night. Well, enough to call out ‘I’m home’ to Mum in the lounge, rustle up some vegies and a snag for her dinner and then retreat to my room, closing the door behind me. I felt like I was breaking apart, each atom rejecting its neighbour. Breaking apart and dissolving, vanishing in an acid stew of fury, fear, loneliness, grief, terror, humiliation, desolation, disgust. I couldn’t settle, couldn’t sleep. Lay shivering and sobbing in bed until, as dawn crawled in, I fell into a doze, only to be slapped back to consciousness by the nightmare.
I ache as though I’ve been swimming against a current for sixteen years. And there’s no fight left, just pain and defeat — exhaustion. I want to be swept down, away into an unthinking, unfeeling blackness, far from this cursed life.
Mum will be limping out to the dunny any minute now. Unlike the rest of her sore and swollen body, her bowels function like clockwork. I don’t want her to see me — don’t want anyone to see me — so I struggle to my feet, stagger back inside. In the bathroom, I lean across the vanity and turn on the cold tap. I cup the water in my hands and press it to my face, feeling the cold sliding down, dripping onto my chest. My left cheek stings. In the mirror I see a dented, broken face, cloaked with misery and tragically familiar. I’m starting to look like my mother.
Tears pool again. I’m determined not to make a sound. I swallow sobs like bricks, wondering angrily why I’m bothering. Who the hell cares? I feel like punching the mirror, ripping the medicine cabinet off the wall. Instead, I lean forward, two hands on the vanity, refusing to look up at the reflection. I wait until my breathing returns to normal, then limp from the bathroom, making sure I avoid Mum.
In my room I grab some coins and throw a coat over my pyjamas. Then I slink out to the phone box. I want to call Mick and get home before I bump into anyone, particularly Ned.
Mick sounds drowsy but I don’t care if I’ve woken him.
‘Umm, Mick, it’s Erin. I’m … I’m real crook. I, err, I just wanted to let you know I won’t be able to come in … for a few days.’
‘Oh righto, Erin. No worries. D’ya need anything?’
‘Nah. Thanks.’
‘OK — lemme know when you’ll be back. Hope ya feel better soon.’
As the phone-box door clunks shut, I’m crying again. I feel genuine affection for Mick and shame at lying to him. He gave me a chance, helped me start fresh. Helped me pretend I could live a normal, trouble-free life. Ha! Who was I kidding? Yeah — myself.
I take a long shower, scrubbing every inch of my body. Getting dressed, I feel dirty just touching the tiled floor. In the sharp morning sunlight, I see grime everywhere. I find a brittle wooden brush under the sink and scour the bath and shower tiles. When I’m finished in the bathroom, I move on to the kitchen, cleaning every surface — even emptying drawers and stacking cutlery back in matched piles. I make my way through the house, dusting and polishing until my palms and fingers bubble pink with blisters. I struggle to stand. My ribs pound like a disco sound system.
The door to the piano room is still unlocked. I
tiptoe in, wondering why the room was such a secret. I dust the piano and then lift the lid on the stool. Sheet music is piled higgledy-piggledy inside. I shuffle through the yellowed pages, not recognising any of the titles. Nestled among the music is an album of photographs and postcards sent during World War I. Tucking it under my arm, I head back to bed.
I find it hard to concentrate on the album. What am I going to tell Mum about skipping work? Will I ever be able to go back? Should I go to the police? Will I ever be able to face Ned again? Just the thought of seeing him makes my stomach flip. Then the idea of never seeing him is like tearing out a lung. I miss him something chronic.
I feel guilty. I can still see him stepping forward, shielding me. Getting whacked. But I’m angry with him too. I feel let down, betrayed. I wanted him to be my white knight. Instead, I see him terrified and rocking on the footpath, only metres from me. Not coming to help.
Knowing he was there throughout is confronting, comforting, confusing, conflicting. Unable to unravel my feelings, I focus on the tattered photo album. It shows two sisters who lived in this house. The faded ink on the back of the postcards shows their fiancés went off to World War I and didn’t return. The sisters never married. I wonder if they watch Mum and me from beyond the grave; whether they approve of us, understand us. Two more lonely women bogged in the quicksand of grief.
CHAPTER 26
NED
Leaving early this morning, unable to force down breakfast. Surging through streets of frosted tears to Forest Street. Surging, then waiting. Stamping like an impatient stallion, my breath sending clouds into the crisp, early autumn air. Waiting. Waiting for Erin to step through that squeaky front gate and come walk with me. Waiting to see if she’ll look me in the eye. Forgive me.
