No Safe Place

by Jenny Spence

  Apart from us it’s a predictably dismal turn-up. We’re passed by a minibus loaded with pensioners, Mabel’s Bingo buddies, who’ve come for the outing as much as anything. They pile out in the car park next to the chapel, bundled into old overcoats, the lapels shiny with egg-yolk and old grease stains. The men wear beanies, the women look anonymous under wilted hats and scarves.

  In front of the chapel a couple of pinched-faced middle-aged women, possibly distant relatives, are making conversation with an apple-cheeked young funeral celebrant who gives the impression this may be his first funeral. Or maybe he’s the one you get with the pensioner’s discount. Mabel’s two nephews, big cheerful fellows with rapidly receding sandy hair, are standing with the undertaker. Their names escape me entirely. One is accompanied by a broad-hipped wife with bleached-out hair and lipstick on her teeth. Pam? Sandy?

  I stick close to my scrum. If anyone’s looking, all they’ll see is an amorphous bunch of people. We hover, eager to get in out of the cold.

  “You okay, Elly?” asks Rocco, who specialises in niceness. “Sleeping all right?”

  “The days are getting better, but the nights are still pretty tough,” I say. “How’s Jason?”

  “He sure needs some TLC after what he’s been through.” Rocco stretches out an arm without looking, and Jason snuggles in. “I’m taking him to Bali for a nice little break in a couple of weeks.”

  I’ve known them for too long to be indignant. If Jason’s thirst for drama nourishes their relationship, who am I to criticise?

  “Rocco, have you been working at home?” I ask. “Has anyone from Telstra been coming around, offering deals?”

  “Not lately,” he frowns. “Why, do you want to change?”

  “What about you, Alf?” I ask my other neighbour, who spends a lot of time at his front window. “Have you seen anyone knocking on doors?”

  “Can’t say I have,” says Alf. “But there was a Chinese lady scrubbing your front steps yesterday when I was going up the street. You coming back soon?”

  Before I can answer, the nephew with the wife reaches us, doing the rounds: there’s some hand-shaking and general murmurs of sympathy.

  “Thanks for coming,” the nephew says to me. “Aunty Mabel would have been real glad. She thought the world of you.”

  “I feel terrible, Frank,” I say, the name miraculously darting into my brain. “I think whoever shot her might have been aiming at me, and Mabel got in the way.”

  “Sort of threw herself in the path of the bullet?”

  “Well, I suppose in a manner of . . .”

  “She was a heroine, Auntie Mabel.” His voice catches. “A great lady.”

  He moves on, his wife clinging to his arm. I see them talking to his brother a little later, the two men waving their arms and forming images in the air, discussing their aunt’s noble act. They exchange a long hug.

  These places are usually pretty well organised but the previous mob runs over time. The guest of honour must have been pretty popular, because the car park is overflowing, and now and then we can hear different voices inside, having their say, with more laughter than seems decorous. At last the doors are thrown open and a lot of ancients stream out, talking animatedly and waving walking sticks. As we shuffle in to replace them, I’m aware of a couple of uniformed figures taking up positions at the back, and a tall figure in a dark overcoat. Lewis.

  It becomes clear as soon as the service begins that this is going to be a generic funeral, run by the undertaker and the young celebrant, neither of whom has any idea who Mabel was, or even how she died. “Taken into God’s embrace” is not the phrase I would have used. If God suddenly found Mabel’s bulky figure hurtling into his arms drooling blood, as I did, I imagine he would have got quite a fright.

  As the celebrant drones on, my mind wanders back to my parents’ funerals, within two years of each other. I spoke at both, determined to do them justice and capture the essence of their lives, once so full of hope and love, ending in hospital beds with a last harsh breath. I still remember the raw emotion on the upturned faces as I touched on the more poignant details of Dad’s life. And at Mum’s funeral I was almost drowned out by wringing sobs from Charlie, the last remaining member of the Canton Creek collective, who sat in the middle of the front row, gazing up at me with fierce concentration.

  After what Lewis had told me, I was hoping someone would fill us in on Mabel’s life, but instead we endure the blandest of services, mercifully short, followed by the inevitable Twenty-Third Psalm as Mabel’s coffin rumbles through the automatic doors to the furnace at the back. In no time we’re queuing up to file outside again.

  Lewis is by the door as I come out, and I sidle up to him.

  “Any luck with those phone numbers?” I ask.

  “Elly!” he says. “Hey, I didn’t recognise you.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ve got eyes everywhere today. Maybe you can help me put names to some of these faces?”

  “Not sure about the oldies,” I say. “We could be working with a master of disguises. But the rest are pretty straightforward.”

  I give him the names I know, and he takes discreet photographs on an iPad and adds voice notes. This method seems to put him a step ahead of his colleagues with their little notebooks.

  The nephews shake people’s hands as we come out, but there’s a sudden flurry as the incongruous tones of the Simpsons theme fracture the mood. The other brother – Murray – moves a couple of metres away, and we all hear him hissing into his phone.

  “You’re a bit bloody late. No, don’t bloody . . . Where? Oh, for Christ’s . . . Yeah, that’s us. All right, but shake it up. Jesus, woman. This way!” he says, looking up and waving.

  We all look towards the point where the road from the entrance branches, heading towards the different chapels. A taxi is doing a U-turn and a woman is nearby teetering on ridiculously high heels, looking around. She spots Murray and waves back, then starts tottering across a broad stretch of gravel towards us.

  I watch the woman, paralysed. She’s about my height and build, with a mass of wavy dark hair halfway down her back, just like mine, though the colour looks a bit unlikely. She’s dressed in a sort of parody of mourning: little black hat with a veil pulled down over her face, black mini skirt and a short black fake-fur jacket. Her long legs are encased in lacy black stockings.

  She’s me, in a parallel universe. Me, if I didn’t favour practical clothes and comfortable shoes. Me, face covered by a veil that hints at a disguise. Me, oblivious, out in the open, shouting Come and get me.

  Frank’s wife scowls. Murray grins, pleased with himself. I grab his arm.

  “She shouldn’t be here!” I stutter. “Tell her to go back!”

  “Huh?” He’s putting his phone away.

  The woman is taking a short cut across the gravel towards a little bridge that leads to the chapel. There are graves on her left, but a dense stand of eucalyptus trees on her right. Anyone hiding in those trees would have a clear view of the chapel, the road, the bridge and the car park. And her.

  There’s no-one else around, apart from our little group. I run back to Lewis.

  “Get her out of there!”

  “What! Elly, you don’t think . . .”

  Nobody’s doing anything. The only cover is a bit of a hedge, which the woman’s already passed. I start running towards her, gesturing wildly, yelling.

  “Turn around! Go back!”

  She takes a few more steps before noticing me. Then she hesitates, wobbling. There’s a sudden disturbance on the ground in front of her. One or two little stones fly up, just missing her ankle. I change my gesture to a sideways movement and scream at her.

  “Run! Run! Get behind the hedge!”

  She stops, irresolute, then takes a hesitant step to one side, and starts to turn. I reach her in a flying tackle. Her head jerks and her feet are momentarily lifted from under her, then I’m s
prawling on top of her on the rough ground in a horrible parody of Mabel’s end.

  The woman’s cheap black coat is tickling my face and I can smell her stale musky perfume. I raise my head and look away, back towards the others. No-one else has moved except Lewis and one of the uniformed cops, who are running across the bridge and into the trees. Lewis has a gun in his hand, but there’s no sound.

  Then I hear a muffled voice: “Get off me, you fucking bitch! What the fuck are you doing?” she gasps, bucking and kicking at me.

  I scramble to disentangle myself and we struggle to our feet. Murray comes forward to help her, and she starts giving him an earful. Some of the others are edging towards us, but there’s a general air of embarrassment, and no-one is looking at me. I notice guiltily that my victim has big holes in her black lace stockings, and I pray she won’t look down any time soon.

  The other policeman comes through the small crowd and starts pushing people back. He’s engaged in a hands-free phone conversation, and as soon as he gets everyone heading back towards the chapel he goes down on hands and knees and starts scrabbling around in the gravel. I stay back, reluctant to join the others. He looks up.

  “Could you please wait by the chapel, ma’am?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m just going.”

  I hang around.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “It’s possible a shot was fired,” he says grudgingly.

  “I think it hit the ground right in front of her,” I say helpfully. “See that mark there? Could it have ricocheted?”

  There’s a fairly obvious gouge in the gravel now that he knows where to look.

  “Please, madam,” he says. “I’ll take it from here.”

  The other officer has come back and is rounding up the mourners and herding them into the car park beside the chapel. The pensioners have elbowed their way ahead in any case, and are stampeding for the toilets.

  I tag along, still disinclined to talk to anyone. Murray’s girlfriend shoots scowling looks back over her shoulder. Jason is sobbing, and Rocco is also giving me the occasional glare.

  Lewis materialises beside me.

  “Lost him.” He’s out of breath. “He had a car in that other car park, near the station.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” I ask, my mouth dry.

  “Just a figure in a long coat. Bastard sure can run.”

  I shudder.

  “Sorry about that.” His voice sounds a little shaky. “I honestly never thought he’d have the nerve.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot at him?”

  “No point shooting at someone running through trees,” he says. “That’s a really difficult target. Think about it.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” I start drawing mental diagrams. “Brownian paths, and stuff.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Now what?”

  “Constable Dimitriou found a bullet embedded in that sign over there. That’ll be the one that ricocheted off the path. We’re getting forensics up here to see if there are more. If he went for a head shot and missed, it could have gone a long way.”

  “Will you be able to see if it came from the same gun?”

  “It wouldn’t. He’d have to use a long-range rifle for this.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  The funeral celebrant and the pensioners are climbing into the minibus, and Jason and Rocco have cadged a ride. Frank and his wife are standing by a big four-wheel drive plastered with ‘Carn the Bombers’ stickers. I move forward to shake their hands again.

  “We’re having a wake at our house,” says Frank. “You’re very welcome to . . .”

  The blonde bombshell overhears.

  “If that crazy bitch is coming . . .” she starts.

  Lewis steps over and shows her his ID.

  “Detective Senior Sergeant Lewis,” he says. “And you are?”

  “Barbara Bobbins,” she mutters.

  “Please don’t leave the scene until Constable Dimitriou has taken your details, Ms Bobbins. We may be needing a statement from you.”

  “Huh? Watcha want a . . .”

  “There was a man with a gun over there,” he says, gesturing towards the eucalypts. “He took at least one shot at you, and if it weren’t for Ms Cartwright here you’d probably be dead by now.” He runs a finger across his throat and Barbara’s eyes bulge.

  “Looks like a bullet hit the ground right at your feet,” he says. “It’s thrown up some stones, shredded your stockings. Pity about that.”

  He takes my arm and turns towards his car. Murray runs after us.

  “Hey! Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is this something to do with Auntie Mabel?

  “We’re investigating. Just watch yourself. We’ll get back to you,” says Lewis before unlocking his car and gesturing me towards the passenger door. I slide in obediently. He puts his foot down and speeds between graves decorated with riotous plastic flowers out into Sydney Road.

  I explode with laughter. “Sorry,” I gasp, trying to stop. “Sorry . . . That woman! Sorry.”

  “You missed a golden opportunity there,” he says mournfully.

  “What?”

  “Could have got him off your back forever. No great loss to the world, either.”

  I scream with laughter again. But it doesn’t take me long to get over my hysterics and come down. Right down, because now I know the phantom who’s been stalking me is real, and I didn’t get him off my back.

  “Why did we leave?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be back there, investigating?”

  “It’s all in train,” he says. “Dimitriou and Jones can manage without me for a while. Thought I’d get you out of the danger zone.”

  “Now you see why I’m being careful,” I say.

  “Yeah, well I’d better warn you,” he says. “In some people’s view this is going to reinforce Mabel as the original target.”

  “Mabel?”

  “Strong link between Mabel and our charmer back there.”

  I bury my head in my hands.

  20

  Lewis drops me at the office and insists on escorting me right up to our door. I don’t protest. Even with him close beside me, his head swivelling in all directions, the back of my neck prickles, and I wonder how I’ll find the courage to emerge from the building at the end of the day.

  I go straight to the rest room, pull off my scarf and take a long look in the mirror. I’ve never played around much with my appearance. My hair is heavy and can be a nuisance, but the few times I’ve had it cut short I’ve felt naked, and nothing seems right until it’s grown back. This is my identity, gazing back at me, and I resent the cold logic that tells me I have to give it up.

  Back at my desk, I open a few work files and try to get busy, but my heart’s not in it. There’s no-one in the cubicles around me, so I pick up the phone and start calling the Paths to Fitness gyms on my list.

  The replies become grindingly predictable. Brian O’Dwyer? Sorry, never heard of him. Brian who? No, sorry, but they have very good instructors. Would I like to join up? They’ve got a special on this month. No, sorry, no Brian O’Dwyer. They have a Brian Patterson. No. No. Am I a member? They have a great deal for new members this month. And so on.

  Hoping Derek hasn’t noticed how little work I’ve been doing the last few days, I gaze morosely at my screen and start flicking through emails. There’s an unopened one from Derek himself but it’s not a rebuke, it’s about the Sydney job.

  Sydney, I think. No-one need know I’m there. The others are working on the investigation and they’ll find whatever there is to be found. I could remove myself from the firing line. Just the thought makes me breathe a little easier.

  I’m browsing through whitepages.com, looking to see if I’ve missed any Paths to Fitness gyms, when another name catches my eye. Fitness Tracks. It sounds like a gym, but I’ve never heard of it. A quick search shows that it’s a lifestyle enhancement centre in
Collins Street, catering exclusively to the busy corporate sector. In other words, an expensive gym.

  Patrick Donnelly could have got his wires crossed. I dial the number.

  “Brian O’Dwyer?” says a bright young voice. “I’m so sorry, he’s moved to Sydney. Can someone else help you?”

  I’m shaking, and I have to make a huge effort to pull myself together.

  “Oh, um . . . No, it’s a personal call,” I manage. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he . . . I don’t think he said anything about moving.”

  “Well, you know Brian,” laughs the receptionist. “There’s some gorgeous chick and she lives in Sydney, so off he goes. He’s still got the same mobile, but.”

  “Oh, ah . . . I lost my phone and I didn’t have my contacts backed up,” I say. “Have you got his number?”

  “Are you a member here? What did you say your name was?” Her voice is a little sharper now. The phone is burning my hand, and I drop it into the cradle.

  Brian O’Dwyer is in Sydney. Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a haven after all, but still . . . If I’m careful, if I make sure nobody knows I’m there, maybe I could turn the tables. Maybe I could stalk Brian O’Dwyer.

  I wish I knew what he looked like.

  Derek is in his office, absorbed with something on his computer screen, and I walk straight in.

  “Is that Sydney job still going?” I ask.

  “Sure, yeah,” he says. “I’m trying to find someone now.”

  “I think I should do it,” I say. “Could you get me organised to start on Monday?”

  “Should be fine,” he says, looking a bit startled. “They want it done fast.”

  “I think I’m in danger, Derek,” I explain. I describe what happened at the cemetery.

  “You’re right,” he says. “Right thing to do, you get out of town. We sort this out.”

  “One thing though, Derek. I think it’s best if I work under another name.”

  Our eyes meet briefly. Derek knows that I know he once had another name himself. When he came to Australia it suited him to change his identity. I have no idea why, and I’ll never know, because I’ll never ask. He knows I won’t pry, and he knows I’ll never mention it.