by Zane Lovitt
Penn’s snort is loaded with disbelief, appears to bring more tears to his eyes. ‘They were fighting over who shouldn’t have him. At least, neither of them wanted the day-to-day responsibility of living with him. They each sought a fresh start, you see? Their immediate family was the thorn in their respective sides, and they were going to court to determine who should be properly unshackled.’
Penn smiles, entertained by himself.
I say, ‘Did you know there was some argument about whether you’d be called at the trial?’
‘Yes. It was Piers who wouldn’t have me there.’
‘Why not?’
‘He didn’t want it announced to the world that I was shtupping his wife, most likely. And at the end of the day, they knew they couldn’t hang the crime around my neck.’
He sighs. When he speaks again, exhaustion lightens his voice.
‘It was a hard time, you know. Mister Jinx, and then Cheryl. After that, everything sort of…collapsed for me. And here I am.’
He gestures at his surroundings. A small prison cell in a forest. And what better demonstration than the beige cardigan, who appears at the door now and says, ‘Group time, Ken.’
She’s got a name card that I see for the first time in the light from the corridor: Dorothy.
Penn blinks at nothing. It seems like several seconds before the words reach him. Then he twitches, waves Dorothy away. ‘Yes, yes.’
Her eyes fall on me. Something jingles in her hands.
‘Your girlfriend caught a lift back.’
And she lays my car keys down on the small ornate stool where Beth had been sitting.
‘Who with?’ I say. But she’s gone. Despite how she must have heard, she does not come back.
Penn’s skinny white legs sweep out from his robe like crab claws and search sightlessly for the slippers beneath the bed.
‘I’m afraid our little chat is over,’ he chuckles at nothing. ‘The group sessions don’t do much for me, but apparently if I don’t attend the other fruitcakes get the idea that they needn’t either.’
‘Thank you for speaking to me.’
‘No need to thank me. I wish you well in…what was it again?’
‘We’re just inquiring about the Alamein murder.’
‘Yes, yes.’
I move to the door and retrieve my keys, but before I can exit, Penn says, ‘I was happy to talk, you know. I knew someone would come one day. Expected you. You needn’t have pretended that your girlfriend deals in antiques.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I say, a nod to chivalry. ‘And she does deal in antiques. Antique furniture, at least.’
Penn snorts again. ‘I find that very hard to believe.’
‘Why?’
Even as he holds up a clean pair of boxer shorts, he points to my knees. I look down to see the stool.
‘That’s a Gerthausen, a claw-footed bath stool. It’s the one thing I brought with me when I came here and it’s all I’ve got left. If the freaks in this place knew how valuable it was, they’d murder me for it.’
I can see now, in the stain, in the curvature of the wood: it is no mere chair.
Penn climbs into his boxers, barely keeps the robe shut.
‘Someone with even the vaguest interest in vintage furniture, my dear boy, would not so willingly have rested their arse on a modern Teutonic masterpiece. Even so delectable an arse as hers.’
43
‘I—am—so—sorry.’
She underscores each word with a flat palm pushed against the air around her hips. Her other hand holds open the door.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I step into the familiar living room, bright and neat. Steam rises from the kettle in the kitchen, as well as from a cup of milky tea on the dining table. Her laptop is there too; a green light indicates that it’s powered on, but the display is shut.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ she says. ‘It was just like…super creepy. Don’t you think?’
‘How did you get back?’
‘This guy was coming into the city? Um, and he worked there? He drove me all the way home.’
Of course he did. Up until a couple of hours ago, I would have done the same.
She asks, ‘You made it back okay? Did you come straight here?’
‘No, I went home first.’ I point to her computer. ‘How’s business?’
‘Fine.’ She hugs herself. ‘Slow. You want a cuppa?’
‘Sure.’
She skips into the kitchen and opens a cupboard.
‘So what did Ken Penn tell you?’
‘All kinds of stuff,’ I say. ‘You know, when I was at home, I looked up the Australian Business Registry. There’s no business in your name.’
‘Why are you checking up on me?’
Beth turns her back, pours from the steaming kettle.
‘Something to do.’
‘I told you. I’m just getting started. I haven’t registered anything yet.’
‘Right,’ I dig my hands into my pockets.
‘Milk or sugar?’
‘Yeah, milk, one sugar, thank you.’
She moves to the fridge. It’s small, like the rest of the kitchen. A vague, yeasty smell touches my nostrils, might be the recycling bin in the corner, filled with beer bottles that have probably accumulated over months.
‘Something else I found when I was home, some old-fashioned furniture for sale on eBay. Melbourne vendor. They’re getting a lot of bids.’
Beth has her back to me again, pouring the milk.
‘They should go through a broker. They’d get a better price.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Does Rudy know you’re selling his stuff on eBay?’
She turns to face me, holding a full mug, perplexed. All the naivety her face is capable of, like the day she first opened the door to me, is on display for potential buyers.
‘What?’
But I am not in the market.
‘Does he know you’re clearing it all on eBay? That you’re not going through a broker. That you’re not this antique furniture wizard.’
‘I’m not selling anything on eBay.’
She waits for me to agree.
‘No,’ I say. ‘You’re right. I’m just kidding around.’
Bemused, Beth places the tea on the dining table.
I say, ‘The person selling this stuff is tagged Gemma-four-eight-nine. Full name Gemma Wallace.’
At this she giggles, questioningly.
‘But it’s funny…’ I say. ‘She’s also selling a brand new digital SLR, identical to the one Rudy bought for you.’
‘I don’t understand…’ And she looks as though she’s really trying to.
‘Your twitter password is six-three-M-five-seven-oh-N-three. That’s leetspeak. And I know you know what leetspeak is.’
‘How do you know my password?’
I can see her considering anger as a method of deflection.
‘In leetspeak, six-three-M-five-seven-oh-N-three translates as Gemstone. Which might be a cute play on Gemma. Is that a coincidence?’
What’s funny is, knowing personal stuff usually helps you to hack someone’s password. But knowing Beth’s password has helped me hack her personal stuff. And she’s bug-eyed with disbelief.
‘Well it must be—’
‘What do you bet I can open that laptop and find open the eBay account for Gemma-four-eight-nine?’
Her face darkens. The time for laughing it off has passed. She drops any effort at pretence, empties the life from her eyes and adopts a look of utter boredom.
‘So what?’
‘So you don’t have an antique furniture business. You told Rudy you did so he’d let you sell his things online. I saw him yesterday, varnishing away like a sap. Did you tell him to do that, Gemma? Is he going to see any money from the sale?’
‘Of course he is.’
‘Of course he is.’ I can’t help but bring a cynical tone. ‘How much did you pay for his car?’
‘I had to pay the registration.’
‘But you got the car for free, right? And somehow he thinks you were doing him a favour?’
She says nothing.
‘After I came knocking on your door on Thursday, you thought things were drying up for Rudy, wanted to get your hooks in for one last grift. You asked him to meet you in town, gave him the sob story about the damage to your car and how you weren’t insured, conned an expensive camera out of him and suggested you sell his furniture.’
Beth shrugs: it’s not like I’m accusing her of murder. I sip my tea, assume it isn’t poisoned.
‘The woman at Claireborne, the one with the hair, she recognised you. That’s why you were creeped out. That’s why you left, you were scared she’d give you away and that I might get the right idea. What is she, a relative?’
‘Fuck no.’
‘An old friend of the family Wallace?’
‘No. Just…I boarded with her once. A long time ago. I barely know her.’
‘She knew your real name.’
‘My real name is Elizabeth.’
‘Bullshit.’ I put down my drink. It’s difficult to be accusing with a slightly too-full mug of tea in your hands. ‘If Elizabeth was your real name, I’d have found a criminal record when I looked you up.’
‘Gemma used to be my name. It’s not anymore. And you didn’t find anything on me because I’m not from here.’
‘Not from where?’
‘Australia.’
‘Where the fuck are you from?’
‘It’s not important.’ She tips herself away, leans against her front door. ‘I’m Australian now.’
‘When did you come over?’
‘Years ago. When I got here I stayed in a boarding house where Susie worked, just while I got on my feet. It didn’t last long.’
‘So this isn’t your real voice. You’re putting on an accent.’
‘No. This is how I talk now. And I’m Elizabeth now. This is who I am.’
I search the room for threats. Just like I did in Ken Penn’s room. Just like I always do, I suppose, when I find myself in the home of a total stranger.
‘Why did you leave there? Wherever you’re from.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Was it…Did you do something?’
‘I’m not a fugitive, if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘But you ran away.’
She doesn’t care to answer, lets her head fall back against the door, a teenager suffering through another lecture from her boring parents.
‘When did you get the photographs? This morning? When I was off with—’
I catch myself. You’ve got secrets too, Jason.
‘—my family?’
‘He called me. Wanted to know why I hadn’t done the pictures yet. I didn’t want to get him suspicious.’
‘Of course not. Can’t endanger your insurance payout, now can we.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Fuck me? You’re only friends with him for the money.’
She raises her hands in a silent, grand gesture.
‘So are you. You’ve got a client. You’re getting paid. This is another day at the office for you.’
Angry but restrained. She doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. I open my arms in surrender.
‘And what about sleeping with me? That was just more fluffing, to get me on side?’
Beth turns back and pouts. ‘No.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Don’t tell me how I feel.’
‘Oh, I bet it’s true fucking love. So long as I’m walking Rudy to his own funeral. I’m your dream guy. And what about your story, how he took the Volvo to gas himself. That’s all bullshit too, isn’t it.’
‘No…’
‘Yes it is. You wanted me to think he’s got a death wish. So then I’m more likely to help him along.’
‘He does—’
‘Say it. You made it all up.’
‘No.’ Her right hand makes a fist at her side. ‘Whether or not there was insurance, I’d be helping Rudy end things as near as I could to how he wants. I’m not lying about that.’
‘You’re laying it on a little thick, Gemma—’
‘Even if there was no money…’
Those blue eyes hold on me, screwing their conviction into my head.
And it does occur to me that what I’m about to do is sabotage everything. Everything. My arrangement with Tyan. My relationship with Tyan. All it would take is for Beth to go to Rudy and it’s bombs away…
‘There is no insurance,’ I say, looking to each of her ears quickly, then her eyes. ‘Rudy believes it, but it’s all made up. I made it up.’
44
Her eyes shrink in half. Something seems to happen in her mouth.
‘Bullshit.’
‘That’s how I met Rudy. On Friday. I was pretending to sell him insurance. And he bought it because he doesn’t know any better. It’s not real. It’s pretend. It’s what I did to get close to him.’
Her head shakes. I’m not sure if she knows it’s shaking. She laughs. I’ve just revealed myself to be the Great Satan.
‘No way. I saw it. The contract. Fortunate Insurance.’
‘Printed off their website.’ I point to her laptop. ‘I can show you if you like.’
‘Come on, there’s—’
She cuts herself off, looks around the room for the third umpire, finds only white walls. There’s what? No way Rudy would fall for that? No way she would fall for it?
‘Didn’t you notice it was stamped with tomato sauce?’
‘I…’ She gazes at the ceiling. ‘There was a name on it. Anthony Halloway. Anthony Halloway from Fortunate Insurance.’
‘Rudy thinks that’s me.’
Beth reels, away from the door and into the kitchen. White hands take hold of the laminate counter and her head sinks below her shoulders.
‘You’re saying there’s no policy.’
I want to comfort her, stop myself from wanting that.
‘None at all.’
She’s stuck in that hunched position.
I pick up my tea, not because I’m thirsty but because accepting her hospitality is about all I can do for her.
‘You…’ She trails off. Then she sighs like she’s stuck on a crossword question. Head gently wobbles.
After several seconds I take another hit of tea and then I figure she’s waiting for me to leave. With one more glance to her motionless frame, lit by the naked globe that hangs above her and her long, slow breaths, I leave and shut the door gently.
Plodding down the stairs it occurs to me that Beth knows everything now. After all this lying and sneaking, she is in the loop. Except she doesn’t know about my special relationship with my client. She doesn’t know just how I’m getting paid.
Outside it’s as cold as I’d expected and in the shadow of the driveway it is darker. I bury my hands in my pockets and shuffle toward the gate.
The first bottle hits. On the concrete to my right.
‘Fuck yooooooo.’ A torrid shriek.
She’s out on her balcony, just a shadow two storeys up and I barely recognise the voice, see she’s holding a beer bottle. It winks at me in preparation.
‘Fuck yooo. Ya lying piece a shite!’
She lets fly and I have to duck. It breaks into angry pieces across the concrete and scatters among the council bins. From such a height she gives these missiles phenomenal velocity.
‘Ya cunt, ya!’
Despite the danger I have to stop, perfectly still and facing her. Not to show her my defiance, but to be sure I’m hearing her correctly.
‘Ye gote a tiny fuckin wully,’ she announces to the other flats and houses, or at least, what proportion of them can understand words screamed in such a solid Scottish brogue. ‘Jason Ginaff ’s gote a tiny pencil dick!’
It’s surprising. Not that she’s unimpressed with me, but that she’s willing to end
things so bitterly.
I don’t see her launch the next bottle. It crashes against the gate behind me and I flinch, cower, raise my hands because there might be more I can’t see.
‘Ye fuckin lying cunt!’
My defiance evaporates. I hurry to the gate, crushing glass beneath my shoes and I almost trip on the knob of a bottle end but I make it and lurch through the wooden shield and shut it closed even as another bottlesmash pierces the quiet and raindrops of stinking glass crackle inches from my head.
I’m safe. For good measure, I run.
45
All the way to Tyan’s house, I’m managing the heartbreak. Though, to be clear, you feel this sort of thing in your stomach. Acidic and squirming like an alien pregnancy, sired by that alien voice, so jarring against a backdrop of eucalypts and southern stars. Tyan’s angry words come back to me: Who is Elizabeth Cannon?
All the way to Tyan’s house, I’m wondering what will happen. She might go to Rudy and tell him I’m a fake. Either by full-frontal confession, including how we slept together, or, more likely, by way of an elaborate fiction that few people would believe but one of those people is Rudy.
On the other hand, she doesn’t want me counter-confessing: telling Rudy that she’s a fraud, that she only came clean with him because the insurance is a fraud. That she seduced me, and she did that so as to nudge along Rudy’s impending suicide mission.
All the way to Tyan’s house, I consider telling this to Tyan. Beth is officially a wildcard now, and he’d want to know about that. But it would mean telling him I outlined our plan to a third party. He wouldn’t like that. I resolve not to tell him.
It’s almost ten when I pull up on Suttle Street and Tyan’s Kia sedan is there in the driveway but no lights burn inside the house. Ringing the doorbell doesn’t alter that and after I ring again I still get nothing. My next option is to go round the back and I stomp my feet all the way, partly because it’s cold, partly so Tyan doesn’t think I’m Rudy sneaking up on him.
At the end of the drive is a garage door and a stone path that breaks right between another shed and the back of the house. It ends with an arched entry to a small enclosure and I see nothing but black within. Beyond the garage is a grey lawn that demonstrates the size of Tyan’s block and culminates in a garden bed I can barely make out for the darkness.
