A Child's Book of True Crime

by Chloe Hooper

  I found myself laughing. Laughter which made people turn and stare. If Veronica had convinced Thomas to join her replaying the Black Swan Point story, perhaps she’d need to watch her own back. She must have known, in fact better than anyone, the tale’s alternative ending. The police searched tirelessly for Margot Harvey for two weeks; then declared her deceased. It was ruled that on the balance of evidence she had contributed to Eleanor Siddell’s killing. But what had happened to her? Why was Margot’s blood found all over her house? Presumably Veronica had tried to find the answer.

  The locals claimed she’d visited Graeme Harvey in the cancer ward, bearing an opulent bouquet. She had also taken along some crime photos hoping to jog his memory. It was suspicious that Margot had left so few traces at the crime scene. It was suspicious that the abandoned station wagon was spotless. However, what really confused Veronica was why it took the pathologist’s testimony to jolt the good vet from his concussion? In the ward, Mrs. Marne had reached into her briefcase and pulled out the photos. She felt the poignancy of this exchange. She was helping him confront his ghosts: “Here’s your blood on the blue shag bath mat. Here’s your wife’s blood too. How did she come to bleed again? You do remember, don’t you?” The dying man tried to scream but without his trachea made very little noise. A nurse checking the room, saw Veronica on the verge of tears. “Oh! A visitor: lovely! I’ll leave you a bit longer.”

  • • •

  The boys’ cricket whites billowed against their skinny bodies; the material, on their backs, like sails. It was strange, but despite the Marnes’ threats for the first time in a long while I felt totally alive. I felt as if every particle was swimming before me with improved resolution. Fear, like guilt, must have a way of increasing the pixelation of everyday life. It was Lucien’s turn to bat. He walked onto the oval, staring down as if wishing to be swallowed. I shook my head. The relationship between teacher and student was so intimate. People gave me their children every morning. I had them for the whole day. Then, these same people gave me the children again the next morning. For eight months the kids had been like members of my family. I taught them their most essential lessons: how to read, how to write, how to treat others. I taught them skills they’d have for the rest of their lives.

  Lucien got into position, holding the bat the way his father had shown him. He was trying hard to concentrate, but looked panicked. Thomas stood nearby yelling directions. Watching his child, it was easier to understand him: he had probably been hardened day by day.

  The bowler took a long run, and it seemed forever until he threw the ball. It missed the wicket, and an ancient dog with a windup tail snatched it in his mouth, then hobbled away. A chase ensued: the dog was apprehended, but refused to drop it. “Drop the ball!”

  “Drop! Drop!” The bored fielders were having a hard time standing still. While a father negotiated with the dog, the fielders were air-batting, or air-bowling, or fiddling with themselves.

  Lucien was trembling with concentration. His father called out, and the boy smiled weakly in his direction. Another ball flew toward him: he missed it. An expression came over Lucien’s face I hadn’t seen before. He looked frightened. His father called again, angrily. The boy looked toward Thomas as the ball approached, and it shot past him for the third time.

  How many parents will admit their fantasy is to be childless? I watched Lucien fight back tears. His body language revealed his fit in the world; his shoulders were stooped, his gaze averted. For a long time I’d thought it the pose of a young philosopher. It was also the pose of a child not wanting to be seen. The Marnes had fostered their son’s mature demeanor because they couldn’t stand the “kidness” of him. Thomas had written me his long notes about curricula so he didn’t have to talk to Lucien about hopscotch and the tooth fairy. The tragedy of parenthood must be that you make this baby, and you start off loving the baby in all the ways you wanted to be loved. Then the baby, slowly, grows into something you don’t recognize: a separate person with your own worst faults. The tragedy of having children must be learning firsthand that in every parent there’s a black box of infanticidal thoughts. Lucien had drawn pictures of himself blind, beheaded, and bullet-ridden: who would be most likely, in his wildest nightmares, to perform such atrocities? According to child psychologists, often monsters are mothers and fathers in disguise.

  The batting team was reacting to Lucien’s poor play in high-drama mode. They were shaking their heads, kicking at the grass. The fielders were playing air guitar and sitting down in mock contemplation, staring at the sky. Thomas seemed just as revolted by his son’s form. Darren called out, expressing Mr. Marne’s opinion: “You play like a girl!” Even the kids on Lucien’s team laughed and sniggered. “Lucy! Lucy!” they started yelling and their parents did nothing to stop them.

  Lucien stood holding the bat. For a split second it seemed the tears would spill. Then he smiled good-naturedly. He smiled at full volume. And I remembered the textbook had suggested that if a young child spontaneously added to his drawing a unicorn, or butterflies, or a rainbow, one was supposed to heed the warning. Aren’t they meant to draw these things, one might have thought; didn’t I? Apparently in stressful situations young children will draw what appears to be happy: just as we think we should pretty up the truth for them, they do it straight back.

  “Lucy!” the boys called, then they clapped. “Lucy!” Clap-clap-clap. “Lucy!”

  Lucien smiled merrily, like he was in on the joke. He was smiling even as he was bowled out. The bails flew off, and the winning team tried to make that primordial noise, that tribal noise to do with winning that comes from deep within one’s belly: a guttural roar like the cricket spectators made on television. Their voices had not yet broken, however, so the noise was high and choirboy sweet. The boys threw their hands in the air, all yelping with delight. From a distance they looked like gulls. They ran to each other, slapping their friends on their backs. In the melee, Lucien tossed his white hat over his head. The hat blew a few feet away, and while the others were hugging, he ran to catch it. He threw it again and again, and the same absurd thing kept happening. Thomas’s face was blank with humiliation. But I understood what Lucien was doing. He was adding butterflies, and unicorns, and a rainbow. And take note, I thought, by being so merry he was sabotaging his enemies’ plans.

  I smoothed my dress over my hips and smiled. An ice-cream van, with cones painted naively on the paneling, pulled up in all its psycho-clown glory. The children on the field—especially those from the losing team, crying—now perked up. They forgot about the cricket, consumed by the age-old dilemma: “Should I get a rocket ice cream with competition details inside, or a spaceman with a bubblegum nose?” All the boys were filthy with grass stains, trying to do deals. Negotiations had begun regarding sleepovers or play dates for the evening. Younger kids ran around catching insects in their drink bottles. Some first-graders were scaling the walls of the girls’ toilet block. This was Oedipal athletics: if the little gender warriors saw the secret way girls tinkled they’d all rule the world, or spin into a decline.

  I stood near some mothers, wanting to blend in. They talked in hushed tones without acknowledging me. Surely they’d heard, like their husbands, what had happened to my car. Everyone must have known. They all ignored me, peevish about some lesson I’d taught they’d found offensive. Trying to stay calm, I approached Lillian Hurnell. She was holding her two small dogs on a lead, talking closely to Dawn Nesbit, the physical education teacher. “Isn’t it a stunning day?” I called.

  “It’s still quite chilly, Kate,” Lillian answered. “If you’ve got a fever, perhaps you should wear a cardigan.”

  “I think I got excited to see summer coming.”

  “Perhaps a bit too excited,” said Dawn.

  I glared. Dawn, with her lace ankle socks and cutoff overalls, was not very good with other women. I noticed, however, how quick she was to console any fathers in need. Every time she complimented a boy on his batting o
r hand-eye coordination, it was really a way of complimenting the father. These men looked at Dawn all the more closely, thinking, I guess she’s not that ugly. It was an ingenious way of luring them into her web. I wondered how many she had slept with—she’d been teaching here an awfully long time.

  “The Marnes should’ve put that boy in the car,” Dawn said, “and driven him straight home.” She and Lillian turned to stare at the couple. While Lucien purchased an ice cream, Veronica stood waiting, looking uncomfortable. Thomas was drowning his sorrows with a beer.

  “Can’t children be mean?” I thought aloud. “So breathtakingly mean to each other? At least adults have codes.” My voice sounded strange. “But a child will say: ‘I hate you!’; ‘All the kids hate you!’; ‘You are ugly, you smell.’” I laughed. “‘All the freckles on your face look like flecks of shit!’”

  “Kate,” Lillian interrupted. “Will you be the garbage monitor, please?”

  Dawn grinned: this was usually a job for two fourth-graders.

  “Of course, Lillian.” I went to get the bin and the kids came up, dropping their rubbish inside. Soon it was heavy with soda cans and rejected sandwiches. I could barely drag it.

  “Let me help you!” Nursing his beer, Thomas strolled over.

  Everyone stopped talking. Even the children waiting for their ice creams turned to watch. He took one handle, and together we started carrying the bin to the recycling station behind the art room. Thomas, unaffected by the attention, stared hungrily at my floral dress. Like a villain in a silent movie, all his carnality registered in his eyes and eyebrows. I gazed past him, back to the wall of staring faces. No longer was there such a thing as safety. No longer was there right or wrong. Now everyone seemed to me as though they were descended from a convict. The butcher had been sent down for enticing a young female into his hut, giving her cakes, and taking liberties with her. The baker had been singing an indecent song. The rich man: whilst at Impression Bay he made cards from the leaves of the Bible, and was given thirty lashes. The poor man: he attempted against the order of nature to commit with a ewe the detestable and abominable crime called buggery.

  • • •

  Behind the art room wall, out of view, I dropped the bin. “How long has Veronica known for?”

  He took a deep breath. “Since, I don’t know, the beginning.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why did you presume I wouldn’t tell her?” He stared into the rubbish bin, then laughed. “She’s probably relieved you take me off her hands. It’s one less thing for her to worry about.” He relaxed his face, straightened up, and looked at me with an expression I had never seen before; his features were so regular that he was blindingly handsome and completely inscrutable. “Would you like a drink?” He held out the beer bottle.

  “You were talking about leaving her.”

  He sighed, and then in his lawyer-voice, told me, “Kate, marriage is a complicated thing. It’s very hard for two intelligent . . .” He paused, a smile forming. “Marriage is complicated.” He had started to unbutton my dress, and he could now see clearly I wasn’t wearing a bra. Leaning down, he pinned me against the wall. At first I tried to struggle, but he was forceful, and receiving his kisses I remembered again why people kiss. I wanted to put my lips to his face and take the tiredness from it. I wanted to show him I could make him lighter. The ice-cream van sang a tinny carnival song. I received each kiss, scared the whole blue recycling bin would tip over and spill, too electrified to move. When finally I did pull away I reached for the beer bottle and took a swig. “It tastes funny. Drinking it makes me feel funny.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Where does it make you feel funny?”

  “I don’t like to say.”

  “Tell me then”—he raised my skirt—“what you learned today at school.”

  I jutted my chin. “Today’s Saturday.”

  “Tell me what you learned last week.”

  I twisted a lock of hair as he slid his hand between my legs. “James and the Giant Peach is a book by Roald Dahl about a boy who likes sex.” Wide-eyed, I whispered, “This boy likes entering the peach. It’s warm and sweet.”

  Thomas ran his index finger along the line of my breast. “Your skin is glowing.”

  “Oh, I was playing in the playground.” I moaned. “I like the swing and the slide.”

  “The monkey bars?” He smiled.

  “Yes, I like that.” His finger was now inside me.

  “No one saw your underpants did they?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What noise does the kitty-cat make?”

  “Meow.”

  “What noise does the horsey make?”

  I trembled. “Neigh.”

  “And when he swishes his tail?”

  “Oh, Swish-swish.”

  “You’re a smart little girl.”

  “I like animals,” I said breathlessly. “I once found a baby bird, oh, and fed him honey.”

  “Does this hurt?”

  “Oh no.” I leaned against him. “The big boys do this all the time.” I moaned again. “Should I be talking to you? I’m not supposed to . . .”

  We heard footsteps. Quickly I broke away, scrambling to pull up my underwear. I wagged my finger at Thomas, but his face was tired, and he only shook his head. Just as he stepped back from our embrace, just as I buttoned up my dress, Lucien came behind the shed, carrying a Space Invader ice cream. Lucien, with his father’s eyes and eyelashes and half-smile, looked first at Thomas, then at me, and back to Thomas again. The garbage smell made me feel ill.

  “Lucien, you’re not supposed to eat those!” The ice cream had a bubblegum nose.

  “Dad, I’m not going to swallow it.”

  “It’s not good for you.”

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “Lucien, give it to me!”

  Thomas took the ice cream from his son. He dug out the bubblegum nose with his wet index finger. Rolling the gum-ball, blue food dye stained his skin. I watched him realize that he couldn’t throw the gum in the trash, while this little boy stood watching; all the hat-throwing bravado stripped away.

  “You bowled very well today, Lucien,” I said quickly.

  Lucien just stared at his noseless spaceman, making a grunt.

  “Thanks for your help, Mr. Marne.”

  I walked away, sad for Lucien: I could hear Thomas engaging him in a conversation about his cricket form. Now his bowling had improved, his batting needed some extra attention. I reported back to Lillian Hurnell, who was standing with a group of parents. My walk may have been jaunty, full of rude intonations, because when I asked, “Is there anything else I can do?” Lillian stared at me, then at my dress, without smiling. “Why don’t you go home, Kate? You’ve done quite enough today.”

  I looked down and noticed two buttons were still undone from our embrace. “Well, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I walked out the gates, and felt a wave of disapproval rising within me: Imagine fucking your own child’s teacher! How could he do that? Even if the boy was a poor sportsman, how could he do that? It was disgusting! She was a young woman, a barely hatched woman, away from home for the first time. A little naive, I smiled. A little out of her depth. At the very beginning of a career to which she was possibly ill suited. Living in a shit-hole town when she could have been doing a masters in child psychology or any-other-fucking thing!

  As I made my way down the Main Street I had to pass the silver car. Thomas seemed cross, and Veronica looked over, barely managing the mask of politeness she usually had perfected. Thomas was trying to persuade Lucien to take his grass-stained shoes off before getting into the backseat; the cramped backseat of his expensive car that I knew all too well. He was taking off his shoes the same slow, cross-legged way as my old lover. “Lucien, hurry up, will you?” Thomas said impatiently. He wasn’t being cruel; he was just being a father. Still, it was unattractive t
o watch. I’d quite liked it when Thomas disciplined me, but it was almost sickening that he did it to someone else—and so seriously. I suddenly wished Lucien and I could just leave and go somewhere safe together, away from these people.

  • MURDER AT BLACK SWAN POINT •

  Improvising with great aplomb.

  Try it again, Kitty!”

  Using an old beer bottle, the bushland creatures replayed a key scene. Percy Possum, Kitty’s acting partner, wrapped himself around a silver gum branch, getting into character. Percy was a renowned gossip, having lived in nearly all the locals’ roofs, but his dramatic flair made for an invigorating performance. Percy raised a paw to his brow. “Yes! Yes! I have betrayed all our vows,” cried the possum, giving the rendition his all. “I am an adulterer!”

  Oh! The animals winced as Kitty picked up the bottle. Improvising with aplomb, the koala opened her vacant eyes wide. She brought great insight to Margot’s plight, capturing her rage and humiliation and—after miming the bottle strike—her horror at having bloodied her beloved husband. As the two performers took their bows, the assembled animals offered polite congratulations. But they were all thinking the same thing: why had Graeme Harvey not alerted the police to the mixed bloodstains on his bedroom and bathroom floors? He must have realized they did not belong solely to him—his wife’s blood had also been spilled.

  “Being the victim of a crime’s fallout can be extremely upsetting, even leading to what’s known as post-traumatic stress disorder,” Terence Tiger now advised his friends. “Memories can become vague and disorganized; apparent falsehoods may be the result of nervous shock rather than any deliberate attempt to mislead.”

  “So Dr. Harvey may have just been a little forgetful?” inquired Kitty Koala hopefully.