Mar 3. Tuesday.
Peter said we must be very professional at work. I was annoyed. I have never been anything but. He has promised me something special for tomorrow night. Mar 4. Wednesday.
Mar 5. Thursday.
Mar 6. Friday.
Mar 7. Saturday.
Mar 8. Sunday.
Mar 9. Monday.
Mar 10. Tuesday.
Mar 11. Wednesday.
Mar 12. Thursday.
M Day.
I kept boxes full of clippings about Peter in the same place as I stashed the diary. Mum would be disgusted; I get that many newspapers I could set up my own recycling plant. One box was for good stuff, things where Peter was hero. That box was full. The other was for negative articles; just a scattered few. My favourites were those which lampooned Peter for his meticulous footwear, wondered why he spent so much on shoes when people were starving. One cartoon had Peter lying back in a sun lounge, while children dressed in rags licked his shoes. "Yum, beef flavour," one says.
I didn't miss Samantha. I hadn't wanted a housemate anyway. Adrian and I were seeing a lot of each other, and we liked privacy. He managed to spend an hour on my birthday with me. He brought flowers, kissed me, looked sheepish and sad. I shared my Granny card with him:
"Kiss kiss smooch smooch
How'd you like
To be our pooch?"
I rang up and said, "Woof woof."
"Hello?" Grampa said. "Who's there?"
The next time Adrian came over, he said he was there to break up with me, but he could have done that over the phone. Or not done it at all – he could have just not spoken to me. But he wanted one last fuck. He pretended he didn't, but he was in no hurry to leave. I offered him a brandy.
"Just a small one," he said, and he settled himself on the couch. I got the bottle. Straddled him.
"No glasses," I said, and I poured some down his throat. He gulped and swallowed; some spilt on his chin. He wiped it away before I could lick it up. I tipped my head back and filled my mouth with brandy. He leaned into me, his lips at my throat. He groaned. "We can't do this, Steve," he said, like I was begging him for it.
"Okay. Would you like some biscuits? I just bought them. Nice and fresh."
"Can we have them upstairs?" he said.
I laughed. "So long as you don't twist this and remember it as my idea."
"I won't. I swear. Come on," and he led me upstairs, where it was great, because we thought it was the last one.
"I wish things were different," he said afterwards. He was in post-coital euphoria. He had forgotten how flawed I am. "We could go away somewhere, live together. Imagine being like this every night."
"Why don't you leave her, then?" I said, just to see his reaction. I didn't want him.
"I couldn't," he said, wanting me to talk to him, convince him.
"Yes, you could. Just pack up and leave. She doesn't need you. She's got your family."
But she did need him; I'd seen her looking. It was like the line of sight was a life-line; if it broke she would drift to some terrible place.
"You're meant for so much more," I said. That was Peter talking; he believes in complete unaccountability, that you should only be judged on the actions you are currently performing, not those of the past or the future. Peter found it difficult with me. Every time I did something he said, "Oh, Steve," and it became harder and harder to relegate things to the past.
Adrian liked my body naked. "You're so perfect, everything in place, but you've got these scars and scratches everywhere."
I liked it at first, the way he kissed the markings of my body. But it went on for so long, the kissing, I stopped laughing and wriggling and pointing out others. I lay stiff as concrete and just as smooth. He realised, stopped. "How about a hug?" he said. He sounded like a father.
"I'm too big for hugs," I said. The words made my stomach clench like I'd swallowed lemon juice.
The next time I saw Adrian he'd had his head shaved and he talked loudly. He wanted the family to hate him so they would be glad when he left. I winked at him in the driveway and he grinned.
"I quit my job. I'm going to be an artist," he said. He had a painting in the back seat which he presented to his parents. It was "Untitled". It was a wonky lamp throwing purple light onto an empty table.
I looked at him and for a moment thought it was all possible. That we could be together, that I could have a lover, a husband, I could be stepmum to his kids and learn how to cook, I could clean the toilet and get a good job, one where people don't die, I could make a clean start of it.
But when I closed my eyes I saw the book, Peter's confession, everything he ever told me. The things he told me last time, when I videoed my death in the bath. And I knew that nothing normal was possible.
Peter wanted to know what I'd done to Adrian, to make him behave like that.
"I'm surprised you've got time to notice, you're always at council meetings. I never see you." I was acting as his chauffer, taking him the places he wanted to go. It meant he could read his notes or whatever in the back seat, while I did all the driving. I think he liked the image it gave him; man being driven around in cool old car.
"Maria is upset. She says he's changed."
"It's always my fault, isn't it?" I said. "I suppose Dad was my fault too." I changed lanes too fast. The man behind swerved to miss us.
"So you knew?" he said.
"So you knew?" I said.
"Only a bit," he said.
"How could you 'only a bit' know?" I was flustered, and made a wrong turn. Peter looked at his watch.
"I didn't believe it. There was no proof. It was only what Mum thought. So I thought it too," he said.
"I found proof." I closed my eyes and imagined backyard. I saw it segmented; there was Dad's bit, taking up most of the room, and my bit over in the corner, my little effort, my visitors to the dark room.
"But why didn't you or Mum tell anyone?"
"She only started thinking it for real once he was dead. And I could never figure it out. Who would I tell? Who would it help? What would it do to us?"
"Fuck all to me," I said.
"Why don't you tell, then?"
"I speak to Dougie Page about it. He's investigating. I'm trying to slow him down," I said. "I don't know why you were so incurious. Didn't you ever want to know what all those midnight noises were? That weird dragging sound spade on dirt sound, doors slamming? Voices, things dropping? Weren't you curious as to what the ghosts were doing?"
"There's no such thing as ghosts."
"Yeah, right, we all just imagined what happened after the séance."
"It was Dad."
"Dad at the séance?"
He shrugged. "Dad who made those noises, Stevie."
"Why are you denying the ghosts? There's no need to be scared of the afterlife." Though even saying this scared me; I caught a glimpse of the slighted people Peter would find after his death. I could smell them.
"Nothing to be scared of." I said, but let him off the hook. I didn't make him discuss the séance again. I pulled into the council hall and let him out. I felt taller with knowledge. I saw Peter staring at me, thinking, "Do you know? Did you hear what I had to say?" I liked him looking at me.
"I'm thinking of a veggie garden in the backyard at home," I said. "The soil is so rich."
Later on, I took a box of findings to his home, made him go through and guess who the items belonged to.
I found a shoe heel, a pen, an empty face cream container and a small silver ring.
Dougie watched me clean the things and put them on my special shelves. "You should get rid of that stuff, Stevie. When the police arrive, they're going to be able to use all of it. Every last bit."
"They won't come."
He looked at me.
"They're coming, Steve. I don't know how long, but they're coming. They're the next generation. They didn't know your dad. They don't have the loyalty we did."
"What do you mean?
The other cops knew?"
Dougie started to cry. I hadn't seen that before. I wanted to look into his eyes, see what I could see when he cried. "They knew. We all knew. And we knew why. But we couldn't let him go on."
"What did you have to do with it? You didn't arrest him, did you?"
Dougie shook his head. "We couldn't do that. But when those two were found, the man and his victim, and what your Dad did to the man was something… it was an escalation, they call it these days. We knew we had to do something about it."
"I don't want to know any of this. I'm better not knowing. Why are you telling me?"
"Because I'm trying to terrify you, Steve. I want you to run. Go. Get out. Because I don't want to have to help them convict you."
"You killed Dad."
"We let your Dad be killed. But there's no difference. No difference."
I was confused.
"I don't understand why you've been investigating all this when you knew the answers all along."
"I didn't want you getting someone else to do it. Someone who wouldn't know what to do with the answers. I wanted to protect you from prosecution. Persecution. I guess I've failed."
"Well, they've got nothing on me."
"Do you know a woman called Mrs Beattie? She died in Queensland. Police want to talk to you."
I had nothing to do with that. I wish I had.
Apparently no one knows where lolly shop Mrs Beattie is. She didn't even make it to the Gold Coast after all. Silly woman; it would have done her good. The local paper is curious, and it is formulating a list of other missing local people. Gary, for one. Step by step they are coming to the Searle house.
And then I did a terrible thing. Terrible. But Peter hated me anyway, once he realised I knew all his secrets. So there were no deterrents. Nothing.
His daughter Kelly, at fifteen, knew she was onto a good thing with me. She begged to be allowed to visit when I invited her. Maria and Peter refused, but she begged and begged till their eardrums burst and they said yes. No, that's not true. They would never have said yes, not even at gun point. The kids were staying at Maria's parents and I wanted them to stay with me, because I knew Maria would hate it, would never allow it. I had been spending some time at her parents' place when the rest of the family wasn't there. Her mum was teaching me how to cook; we were having a bit of a break-through. I could make marvellous asparagus soup, and my poached chicken was perfect. I sat quietly with the father and we read newspapers without that irritating commentary most people seem to feel is necessary. Her parents liked me. Best thing about it was imagining my name being mentioned, people jumping at the invasion. Adrian red, Maria angry, Peter concerned. The kids were there for a week while Peter and Maria were away on a "fact finding trip". I called it a "fuck finding trip". I called on Wednesday morning. Twelve rings, then a harried father answered.
"It's Stevie!" I said.
"Stevie, Stevie, hello Stevie!" he said. The kids squealed in the background.
"How are you?" I said.
"Oh, good, good, got the girls here, they're a bit much."
"That is a bit much. Really. Do you need a hand? I'd be happy to come over."
"No, love, couldn't ask that of you. Though we are out of ice cream and it's hard to get out. I don't suppose you could pick some up for us? You know what kids are like about ice cream."
"I'll be right there." They hadn't figured out yet that the girls were nearly grown up.
The poor old buggers were exhausted. I made them a cup of tea and packed a few of the girls' things.
"They'll come and stay with me tonight," I said. The girls squealed. They like me, probably because I can't stand them. Maybe I should get a cat; they work on the same principle. I wondered what Maria's parents would say about me and Adrian. I'm sure they'd like me as a daughter-in-law. This is what should happen. I marry Adrian. I have that life. Adrian's parents are mine, now, and so is his family.
That's what should have happened.
We stopped at the shops on the way home, slow, slow shop, for bad food. Carrie tried to impress me with shocking facts.
"Did you know that nails and hair keep growing after you die and they dug up one old guy and the whole coffin was full of hair and nails?"
"It's not actually true, sweety. The body shrinks up, so it looks like nails and hair are growing, but they aren't really. Did you know you can survive in the desert by drinking your own wee?"
"Oooo, gross!" she said. I was the master of the revolting. Carrie went to play TombRaider 6000 or whatever. I had Kelly to myself. I hadn't planned to do the terrible thing, but we were exploring, squatting down under the beds and finding treasures, and she kept doing Silent But Deadlies.
"What have you been eating, Kelly? You're too old to be farting like that," I said after one particularly deadly one. She looked at me innocently. "It's not me," she said, and I was slighted, slighted, that she should blame her own fart on me, although it was just something kids did. While I was steaming about it, she found a bottle of pills under Mum's old bed. I really fucking hate cleaning up. I tell people I like to leave Mum's room as it was, because she left it the way it was when Dad died, so it's a shrine to both of them. But it's really because I hate cleaning.
She found one of the bottles of pills left over from my selling days. Kelly found them, shook off the dust and heard the rattle.
"What are they?" she said.
The thing is, in the back of my mind I knew they were many years past their Use By and would be ineffective. I knew this.
"Diet pills," I said. "But they're stale. How about some apple, downstairs?" Thus, I left the decision up to her.
"Oh, well," I said. "You keep exploring. I'm going to get the dinner ready." We all loved barbecued chicken; I had three in the fridge, one for each day. We stripped off bits when we were hungry, standing with the fridge door open, stuffing white meat in. But I'd promised Maria's Mum to give them salad every day, and I knew questions would be asked, so I opened tins and set the table. When Kelly didn't respond to my call, I knew I had done a terrible, terrible thing. I called an ambulance and then, then I climbed the stairs to look into eyes I would have to hold open. I shivered, shuddered. I ran.
That's what should have happened. Most of it did; but I didn't call an ambulance. I shivered and ran up the stairs, and she was curled up on my bed, wanting to be found.
"Stevie," she said, sweet little voice, and I could see her eyelids flicker, what was she seeing, and I couldn't wait any longer but I did, just a moment. Then I stuck my finger down her throat – fuck the duvet, I thought, I'll get a new one – as the pills came up. I could see them, pink and gelatinous, the coating barely eaten through. We got up and walked around, around my room, Mum and Dad's room, Peter's room, bathroom.
"I'm tired, Stevie. I want to sleep."
"Tell me a story instead. Tell me where you just went."
She was breathing strangely. "What's wrong?" I said. She sucked air in through her mouth with her tongue sticking out, blew it out through her nose with her face screwed up.
"The air tastes all right on the way in and foul on the way out," she said.
We went to my room where I scrabbled around for a sweet cough lolly. "There, this'll make your mouth taste better," I said.
"Lollies are fattening," she said. We walked. She began to lean less heavily on me.
"Tell me about the place you went," I said.
"There wasn't a place. Ow." I squeezed her arm. I knew there was a place.
"Why won't you tell me? When you went to sleep and you went to another bedroom where the walls were round like a ball and it was dark as dark and cold as cold and there were people with sharp teeth to eat you up."
She began to cry and didn't stop. Peter came to collect her; he said, "That's it, Steve. The end," but it already had been. It was like he was telling me what to do. I saw her face, still crying, turned to face me as they drove off, and she could not resist a wave. I waved back. The girl had forgiven
me already. Maria would have me arrested, crash bang fuck off Steve.
Peter won't answer the phone. I can only get a minute of words on the answering machine, and I'm trying to be concise. Maria called me to say I was to leave her parents alone.
"They're my mum and dad, not yours, and they love me. I am the daughter. Just because your Dad was a bully and your Mum was a slut doesn't mean you can claim somebody else's parents."
"What are you talking about, witchy poo? You never knew my parents. How are you fit to even talk about them?"
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