Brigitte drags her by the arm to bed — past a hole in the plasterboard wall that’s the same shape as her plastic toy tiger.
Aidan is sitting on Finn’s bed, reading him a story. He pauses, looks at Brigitte over the top of the book, and then keeps reading. He’s wearing the shirt with the missing button. She feels a flutter in her chest: a side-effect of Doctor Rhys’s medication?
Phoebe chooses Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham. Again. Brigitte tucks her in and lies next to her. ‘That Sam-I-am! That Sam-I-am! I do not like that Sam-I-am.’
‘Sam is Daddy.’
‘Yes.’ Brigitte turns the page.
‘Daddy is sleeping with Kitty under the ground now.’
Brigitte puts Green Eggs and Ham aside, and cuddles Phoebe. She smells of sandalwood and rose. She rests her face in the crook of her little neck, kisses her, and strokes her fairy-floss hair until she falls asleep. Finn and Aidan have fallen asleep, too. She kisses Finn’s lips and turns off the light.
Aidan stumbles out a couple of hours later while she’s watching TV and procrastinating about writing her article. His button is in the sewing box in the laundry; she should sew it back on for him.
‘Good night,’ he says.
She nods. Her back is hurting, and there are shimmers of pain in her pelvis.
When the light goes off in the bungalow, she opens a bottle of wine and takes two painkillers.
16
Ida rests on the chair by the lift, her head lolling forward onto her chest. Nobody notices that she looks kind of bluish-grey, like over-boiled egg yolk. Brigitte tells Petula, who waits until all the residents have made their way into the dining room before calling an ambulance to take her away.
Papa’s seated near the end of a long table, turning a paper napkin over in his hands. He smiles when he looks up and sees Brigitte squeezing past chairs to get to him. She kisses him and takes the chair in front of her place card. He’s wearing his only suit — brown and mothballed.
The staff are wearing Santa hats, and the walls of the dining room are lined with tinsel. Crackers and paper tablecloths bordered with holly and ivy adorn the tables. A balding man plays Christmas songs on a keyboard in the corner: ‘White Christmas’. Two carers try to get Rose to take her medication, but she won’t sit down. Joyce spits something into her napkin, and Roy complains that the paper hats in the crackers aren’t as good as last year’s. It’s just like the Christmas party at kinder earlier in the week.
When the staff bring around jugs of fruit punch, Brigitte fills two plastic cups with it. ‘Merry Christmas, Papa.’ They touch their cups together. She takes a big drink.
‘Kids at school?’ Papa says.
‘Kinder.’
‘You right?’
She looks into her cup.
Papa pats her arm, ‘You’ll be right.’
She tops up their drinks.
Petula and the resident podiatrist come over for chats. While the podiatrist is talking bunions with Papa, Petula bends down to Brigitte and rubs her shoulder. ‘We have people you can talk to here — counsellors, not just for the residents.’
‘Thank you. I’m OK.’ She tries to smile.
‘Hard time of the year to be without a loved one. Especially with little ones. Just let us know if you need anything.’
Brigitte nods, and tickles the roof of her mouth with her tongue.
‘What’d she say to you?’ Papa asks when Petula moves away.
‘Nothing. Just merry Christmas.’
‘None of her bloody business.’
Brigitte takes a big sip of punch.
She’s had three cups by the time the staff start relaying plates of lunch to the tables. Ham, roast meat (presumably beef, or maybe pork), potatoes, cauliflower, mushy peas, and tomatoes from a tin, all drowning in a pool of anaemic gravy.
She picks at the food, eating less than Papa does. They both wave away the Christmas pudding and custard, but have more punch.
Her head wobbles as she rests it on her hand and listens to Papa talk about the war. She’s had too much to drink. And the Valium wasn’t a good idea either. Stupid. She has to pick up the twins from kinder in an hour. She refills her cup with water.
The punch wasn’t that strong. She should be right to drive — doesn’t have far to go. She fumbles with the keys and opens the car. There’s a lot of traffic in Church Street. It takes a long time to get a clear run to make a U-turn.
Uniformed cops are stopping cars on Nicholson Street. Shit. Random breath-testing. She smiles at the uniform: Please just let me go past. But he doesn’t — he waves her over. She breaks out in a sweat as she parks and turns off the ignition.
‘Have you drunk any alcohol today?’ the uniform says.
‘Um, might have had a glass of punch. I thought it was non-alcoholic, but maybe it wasn’t. At the old people’s home. Their Christmas party.’
He tells her to blow into the tube on the device.
‘I’m Sam Campbell’s wife. Do you think you could just let me go through?’ She tries a slow blink, but it doesn’t work.
‘Sorry, m’am. It doesn’t matter whose wife you are, you still have to take the breath test.’
Prick. He has no idea what he’s doing. She blows.
He looks at the reading; she inhales deeply, holds it, feels dizzy.
‘Unfortunately, your blood-alcohol content reading is over the legal limit, m’am. I’m going to have to ask you to step out of your vehicle and accompany one of the officers to the station for a second breath-test.’
Fuck. She exhales, rubs her forehead, and does as she’s told.
‘Can I make a phone call? I need to organise somebody to pick up my kids.’
He nods. He’s young, too cocky.
She calls Ryan.
‘Hey, Brigi. What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Can you pick up the twins from kinder?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just do it, will you?’
‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been pulled over for drink-driving, all right?’
‘What!’
She kicks the dirt on the side of the road.
‘Did you tell them who you are?’
‘They don’t care.’
‘Call Aidan then.’
‘I don’t want to call him.’
‘Just call him.’
‘No.’ She hangs up.
***
‘Brigitte. What the fuck?’ Aidan strides into the colourless room where she’s being detained at Richmond police station. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
She looks up. He seems taller than she remembers. And more attractive. She looks away. Ryan better not have called him. Maybe he just heard — somehow. Fucking cops always know everything. Almost everything.
‘Where’re the twins?’
‘Ryan’s getting them.’
‘Pretty fucking irresponsible.’
She feels like a naughty teenager.
‘Come on.’
‘What?’
‘Take you home.’
‘Aren’t you busy working?’
‘Yes.’
She’s been sitting too long; her back is aching, pain radiating into her legs. It takes two tries to get out of the chair. He reaches for her arm, and it is pity, not lust, she thinks she sees in his eyes. She pushes him away.
‘You should go back to the doctor.’
Doctors have never helped anything before. They let Dan die, couldn’t save Sam, and made her live when maybe she wasn’t meant to. Or was that supposed to be God? Doctors and God — both fucking useless.
On the way out through the
automatic doors, Aidan says, ‘Sam said you just need another back operation and you’ll be right. But you’re too stubborn to go back.’
‘Is that right? That what you two used to sit around talking about, instead of catching criminals?’
He drives her home in a marked car. It stinks of takeaway food and sweat. She doesn’t believe that it was the only vehicle available.
‘Will I lose my licence?’
‘No.’
‘What about my car?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring it home tonight.’
She chews her fingernails.
‘Must’ve been good punch with the oldies.’
She doesn’t speak, and has a quick sideways look at him — he’s trying not to laugh.
Of course, Kerry has to be out in her front yard when they pull up across the road. Brigitte rushes inside, past Ryan in the hallway. The twins run out to see, and she hears Aidan turn on the siren for them.
***
It’s 7.55pm on the microwave clock. The twins are asleep, but Aidan’s not home yet. Sober and drug-free for the first time since Sam’s funeral, Brigitte stares out the kitchen window at next door’s brown brick wall, wondering — not worrying — where he is. Probably out somewhere with his wife.
Some of the tension leaves her shoulders when she hears the click of the padlock and the squeak of the side gate. But she jumps when he taps on the window. She slides it open.
‘Can I come in?’
She tilts her head towards the kitchen door and unlocks it. He’s holding a pizza in a cardboard takeaway box, and has a bottle of red wine under his arm. ‘Car’s out the front.’ He throws her the keys. ‘Air-con wasn’t working, so I had it fixed.’ She follows him to the lounge room, where he places the pizza and wine on the coffee table. ‘Didn’t feel like eating alone tonight. Hope you don’t mind.’
She’s about to say she does mind, stops herself, and says, ‘Thank you. For everything today.’ The pizza smells good; she feels hungry for the first time in a while.
She gets some glasses and plates from the kitchen, comes back, and sits next to him on the floor, their backs against the couch — too close. She moves away a bit.
They’ve finished the pizza, and she’s on her second glass of wine when she says, ‘Was I a suspect?’ A guilty person wouldn’t ask that.
He swills the wine around in his glass. ‘A person of interest at the time.’
‘Do you think Sam thought I did it?’ Of course Sam thought she did it.
‘Who knows what Sam was thinking?’ He drinks some wine. ‘I bet I know what he was thinking with.’
She narrows her eyes.
‘And he almost lost his job over the missing evidence.’
Silence. The boom gates ding-ding-ding at the train station.
‘Eric Tucker was scum,’ Aidan says. ‘Used musicians to carry drugs, history of domestic violence, victims all too scared to lay charges. He got what he deserved — doesn’t matter who did it.’
‘Why was I at his apartment?’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Ever heard of the internet?’
‘Looks like you may have lived there.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I lived with Nana and Papa.’
‘That’s what Eddie and Ryan say.’
‘You think they’re lying?’
‘Dunno.’ He pours more wine. ‘Tell you the truth — I reckon somebody else was there. A friend, a neighbour, maybe the boyfriend.’
She rubs the scar on her forehead.
‘Or the caretaker. Maybe he did more than just find the body.’
‘The caretaker!’
‘Yeah, Shane McMahon.’
She opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing. He waits a couple of beats before correcting himself, ‘Sean McMahon.’
Good trick, Aidan. But anybody could have learnt that name from the news. Not saying the name makes her look as suspicious as saying it. ‘He topped himself with a shotgun up at his parents’ farm, not long after Tucker was murdered.’
She doesn’t flinch. He plays eyeball chicken with her. He blinks first — a slow blink, with long lashes.
‘And the boyfriend?’ She has to ask.
He nods. ‘Matt Elery. Says you were with him at the time of Tucker’s murder.’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s lying. And if he was my boyfriend, why didn’t he come to see me after the accident?’
‘This is the funny bit. Reckons Sam told him you’d disappeared, that the police never found you.’
She frowns, and stares into her glass.
‘Want me to organise a meeting?’
She shakes her head slowly, and looks at the rug on the floor.
‘Have a think about it. But I won’t be working on this for much longer,’ he says. ‘The Cold Case Unit’s being scrapped. I’m being shuffled back to Homicide — the Purana gangland taskforce.’
‘But, Aid.’ Her head snaps up. ‘That’s really dangerous.’
He turns and looks at her like she’s crazy. Somehow they’ve ended up sitting close together again, their legs almost touching.
‘What about this case?’ She picks at the fringe on the rug.
‘It’ll be quietly filed away, so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.’
She doesn’t believe him. He finishes his wine. She feels sleepy, her head heavy; she would like to rest it on his shoulder.
He stands, and places his empty glass on the table. ‘See you in the morning then.’
‘And …’
‘Yes?’
‘Were you really investigating me the whole time, even at Manny’s party?’
‘What do you think?’
She shrugs, and watches him walk towards the kitchen. He stops and turns in the doorway. ‘I wasn’t. Not at Manny’s party.’ He closes the door softly behind him as he leaves.
17
‘Where’s Aidan?’ Red sauce splatters on Phoebe’s cheek as she slurps up a strand of spaghetti.
‘Out,’ Brigitte says.
‘Out where?’
‘Having dinner with a friend.’
‘His wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will he be home to read us a story?’ Finn says.
‘No.’
Phoebe pushes her bowl aside, her bottom lip comes out, and she starts crying. Finn joins in.
‘Stop it!’ Brigitte’s back is killing her. Since the drink-driving incident, she’s been trying to be responsible, curbing her alcohol intake and taking the meds only when she really needs them.
‘Hurry up and finish your dinner. It’s bedtime.’
They bawl louder. Brigitte covers her ears and grinds her teeth. Maybe just a Valium — even half of one — wouldn’t hurt.
Without Aidan’s help it takes longer to get the twins ready for bed. When they’re finally asleep, Brigitte sits at the table with a hot-water bottle against her back, and her head in her hands.
Her stomach flutters when she hears the side gate. She wasn’t expecting him this early, was even thinking he might not come home at all tonight. But it’s not the usual click and squeak — it’s a rattle. Brigitte frowns, stands, and walks to the window. Another rattle. She pulls back the curtain. It’s raining and dark, but she can tell that the figure on the other side of the gate is not Aidan. The figure tries to climb the gate, falls awkwardly to the ground, and has a couple more failed attempts. Brigitte watches, frozen, as the figure looks around — doesn’t notice her at the window — wheels the bin over, and uses it to stand on. She holds her breath, her heart bolting as the figure straddles the top of the gate, pauses for a moment, and then tentatively drops down in the sideway. Gruesome crime-scene images flash through her mi
nd. All women alone, with young children. You need to be careful: Aidan’s words. She hasn’t been careful. She hasn’t even locked the back door.
She unfreezes, wrenches her phone off the charger in the kitchen, and calls Aidan as she locks the door. The figure runs down the sideway, past the window.
‘What’s wrong?’ Aidan takes the call, and she can hear restaurant or pub sounds in the background.
‘There’s somebody in the backyard.’ Her hands shake, and she can hardly breathe.
‘Sure it’s not just a cat?’
‘It’s a person.’
‘Calm down.’ The restaurant sounds fade, and a door closes. ‘Stay inside with the kids, check the doors and windows are locked, and I’ll get a car to come around.’
‘Aidan, I’m really scared.’
‘Be there as soon as I can.’ He hangs up, and she rushes to check on the twins. They’re sound asleep.
A squad car comes, with the siren on, within minutes. The police lights flash puddles of runny colour on the wet road.
It appears that the intruder jumped the back fence and ran off down the laneway. After they’ve looked around and completed an incident report, Brigitte walks out to the car with the officers, and apologises for wasting their time.
‘Not at all,’ the woman says. ‘Lotta crazies around. Can’t be too careful.’
Most of the street’s residents have come out of their houses to see what’s going on. A taxi pulls up, and Aidan steps out. With his wife. Brigitte’s heart flips, and she starts shaking again. She hugs herself and rubs her upper arms — pretending to be cold or still scared. This is worse than the intruder. God, she needs a drink.
Aidan strides towards her. ‘You OK?’
She nods.
‘The twins?’
‘Slept through it all.’
He goes over to have a word with the officers, and then he and his wife follow Brigitte down the sideway. He stops to lock the gate, then catches up and introduces them outside the back door. He calls her ‘Brig’, and she’s not sure if she’s pleased or annoyed by the familiarity. She feels her neck flush. His wife’s name is Megan. She’s tall and strong-looking. She looks like a lawyer, wearing a designer suit and polished shoes with high heels and little buckles on the sides. Her glossy, brown hair falls to her shoulders, a line across the middle where it must have been pulled into a ponytail or a bun. Brigitte pictured her as blonde. And smaller.
Please Don't Leave Me Here Page 9
