The Cry

by Helen FitzGerald

  Her first impulse was to turn round to look in the back seat. She was thankful that the pain in her neck and head and ear (that’s right, she had an ear infection. Shock and adrenaline had taken care of that till now) made it impossible to do so. She touched her sore cheek.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Alistair said. She moved her head as far to the right as her neck would allow her, and winced. Alistair’s lips had changed in colour and halved in size. She looked down at his hands and wondered if the wheel might snap from the force of his clench.

  As usual, he was driving too fast and hadn’t bothered to put his seatbelt on. He was leaning in, his face a little too close to the windscreen.

  Joanna was scared of him. He’d hit her. He’d never done that before.

  She wondered if he was scared of her too. Perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t divert his eyes from the road to look at her.

  They were both scared now, of everything.

  ‘Joanna . . .’ A whisper, this first word, rising deep from his throat. ‘You can’t abandon me.’ His mouth fell open and stayed open, droplets of spit-tears gathering on his lower lip. His shoulders slumped and so began the chant: ‘Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me . . .’

  Forgetting the pain, Joanna undid her seatbelt, manoeuvred her face down under his arm and nuzzled it into his chest. She inhaled, searching for his fresh soap scent, but all she could smell was sweat and aeroplane. She breathed through her mouth. ‘Hey, hey . . .’ she said. ‘I won’t. I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise. I promise. I won’t leave you. I won’t ever leave you.’

  The Plan of Attack

  Her breasts were rocks, volcanic ones with hot liquid beneath, bubbling and pushing to get out. She touched the left one, above her T-shirt. The heat radiated through the material and onto her hand. It must be seven hours or so since – this sentence was going in a direction she did not like. She caught the thought in time and refashioned its end – seven hours or so since. Just since.

  Joanna realised she was going to have to catch and refashion almost all her thoughts from now on.

  She knew what not leaving Alistair meant; the basics of the decision he’d made, to which she’d agreed. They’d fine-tune the plan at the cottage. Till then, they needed to remain calm, and drive.

  The sky above was smoky now, like London fog only darker, thickening as they got closer to Geelong.

  She pulled her T-shirt and bra forward and peeked inside. Her nipples had trebled in size but were not leaking. If a certain noise happened now, they would spray with the force of a power hose. This noise wasn’t going to happen, ever, so what of her breasts? They’d probably continue to expand, painfully, until they exploded. Joanna would rather not die this way. Back at the embankment with the duty-free bag would have been preferable.

  Or she could die here, now. Neither of them had their seatbelts on. Noah was dead already. A large, thick metal sign for Avalon airport was ahead of them. Alistair was driving at over a hundred and thirty kph. All she had to do was grab the wheel and swerve at the right moment. In five seconds, four, three . . .

  No, she wasn’t allowed to think like this, she’d promised. ‘I need to express,’ she said.

  Alistair’s knuckles were more relaxed now that Joanna was not leaving him; now that ‘facts’ three through ten had become fiction. ‘Can you hold out twenty minutes?’

  Alistair talked in Aussie time – twenty minutes equalled at least forty. But ‘Yes’ she would wait.

  Beep Beep!

  Alistair’s mobile made her jump, rock-breasts attempting to separate from her body on landing: Ow.

  He lifted the handset. ‘Reception’s back. Five missed calls . . . Mum.’

  Elizabeth was at home waiting for their call. She’d been tidying the garden and rearranging the furniture in her house in anticipation of their arrival. Her only child! The love of his life! (‘I know she is, Alistair!’) And her only grandson! She’d been crossing the days off the personalised calendar Alistair had sent her for Christmas, which was only three weeks after Noah was born. For each month of the calendar, there was a photograph. The one that would be on display now, February, was of Noah in his pram at the front of the flat in Edinburgh, the blue bunny blanket she’d sent wrapped around him as he slept.

  ‘I’d better ring,’ Alistair said.

  ‘Not while you’re driving!’ Joanna would have insisted on this at any time but now it was more important than ever. The cops might see him. And if he stopped to make the call, she might be tempted to turn round and look in the back seat. ‘Slow down and put your belt on. I’ll do it,’ she said, holding out her hand to take the phone.

  He prepped her before handing it over and she was glad, because his last piece of advice (‘Pretend you lose the signal if things get difficult’) came in handy almost immediately.

  ‘Elizabeth, it’s Joanna.’ She put as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible, but hadn’t managed an exclamation mark’s worth. ‘We just passed Avalon.’

  She held the phone away from her ear to soften Elizabeth’s loud, over-excited voice – ‘Oh, darlings! So close! I can hardly believe it? I’ll put the kettle on. Was the flight okay? How’s Noah?’

  Joanna put the handset back to her ear and used Alistair’s suggestion. ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth? You’re breaking up. I can’t . . . Elizabeth . . . Listen, if you can hear me . . .’ (she knew she could) ‘. . . We’re going to go to the cottage first. Noah needs a feed. We’ll be at yours as soon as we can. We’ll call you when we’re on our way. Elizabeth? Sorry, you’re . . .’

  Joanna hung up, covered her face with her hands, and stayed in that position all the way to Point Lonsdale.

  *

  The small beachside town was deserted. There were no cars in the driveways of the large houses opposite the beach, no children in the play park, and no one sitting at the tables laid out in front of the town’s three cafés. From the car, Joanna couldn’t see all the way down to the beach, and wondered if that’s where everyone had gone.

  Despite Elizabeth’s pleas to stay at her house, they’d wanted to be on the beach, and to have time to themselves. Their holiday cottage – a white Victorian weatherboard – was a hundred feet or so beyond the end of the small strip of shops. Alistair parked in the driveway and opened the car door. She stepped out of the car and into what felt like a fan oven. Alistair found the key under the mat, helped Joanna into the master bedroom, told her to lie down, and came back a few minutes later with the breast pump. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Noah was at her breast, his tiny fingers toying with the soft flesh around her nipple, but this produced more tears than milk. After ten minutes or so she passed the apparatus to Alistair with two hands, as if she were giving him the baby.

  ‘Doesn’t look like as much as usual,’ he said.

  ‘It won’t come,’ Joanna replied.

  He grabbed the pump and the near-empty bottle, took it away, and came back to the bedroom to go over the plan.

  *

  There was so much to remember and so much to forget.

  She should remember turning the air conditioning on, having a shower – she could go first – and putting concealer over the mark where Alistair had slapped or punched or whatevered her.

  She should forget Alistair emptying the Boots bottles down the sink and putting them in a plastic bag to dispose of elsewhere.

  She should remember that she sat on the bed, pump at her breast, because she would have done that if he was alive. Remember? The milk was for Elizabeth, who was going to take Noah for the next twenty-four hours and give them some time alone.

  Forget that he added some water to the small amount she’d managed to express, and that he’d asked: ‘Does this look right? Joanna? Joanna!’

  Remember putting a load of washing on, including her vomit- and milk-stained T-shirt and the cloth covers for Noah’s buggy-cum-car seat, and changing into shorts and
flip-flops.

  She should forget seeing Alistair put a small garden trowel in the packed-as-normal baby bag. (No shovel in the shed, damn!) Forget him searching for bin bags and placing a large black one on top of the car seat.

  But remember unpacking things carefully. Babygros into drawers. Toothbrushes into bathroom.

  Forget him tossing the dirty nappy he must have removed from Noah in the bin. ‘No Joanna!’ Alistair yelled. ‘You remember I changed his nappy! Remember it!’ He froze. ‘Hang on, maybe they’ll be able to tell from his nappy that he was dead. Could they tell that? Shit!’ He raced to the bin, removed the dirty nappy, and put it in a plastic bag with the Boots bottles. So, this meant . . . she should forget all that . . . Yes, forget the stuff about the nappy.

  She would never get this right.

  *

  ‘It’s not too late,’ she said, begged, as she walked behind him towards the car, careful not to look at what he was holding in his arms.

  He didn’t reply. Or he didn’t reply in time, because a woman of around forty had arrived in the driveway with a huge smiley holiday ‘Hello there!’

  Alistair’s hello was a little over-enthusiastic, Joanna thought. ‘Hi!’ One hand removed itself from the bundle of death in his arms, and extended as far out as it could to shake hers. ‘Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘You found the key, then. Ah, is he asleep?’ She crooked her head to get a glimpse of the face Alistair had buried in his chest. The rest of him was wrapped in the blue blanket.

  ‘Just.’ Alistair turned to make sure she couldn’t see. ‘The house is gorgeous!’

  ‘We like it. Quiet here, hey, with schools back; that and the heat. Blimey!’ She fanned her face with her hand. ‘You’ll have the beach to yourselves.’

  A glaring look from Alistair made Joanna realise it was her turn to say something. ‘Are . . .’ Her voice caught. She coughed. ‘Are the fires near here?’

  ‘Terrible thing. Ten dead that we know of. They’re a way away. And there’s a cool change coming in an hour or so. Lonnie will be fine.’

  ‘We’re just heading out,’ Alistair said, opening the car door to hurry this along.

  ‘The supermarket’s open till eight. It’s a bit more expensive than the big Coles in Ocean Grove, but it’s nice to support the locals. And there’s a milk bar on its own at the other end of the town, just before the roundabout. I’d recommend Pasquini’s for coffee and lemon cake. Lovely people.’ With this, she patted the blue blanket. ‘How old?’

  ‘He’s only sixty-four days old.’ Joanna did not remember saying this, but apparently she did.

  ‘The bloss. Well, I’ll let you get on!’ She turned and walked towards the end of the drive, pointing to the seventies brick house next door. ‘Anything you need, just open the door and holler. Loudly! Jeff plays that horrible jazz all day long.’

  10

  MELBOURNE SUPREME COURT

  27 July

  Mrs Wilson didn’t look happy in the witness box: her face bright red, forehead sweaty.

  ‘Did they seem happy to you?’ Amy Maddock asked.

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Anything unusual about them?’

  ‘No. I mean the baby was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.’

  ‘Did you see the child?’

  ‘Yes. Well, he was wrapped in the blanket. His dad was holding him.’

  ‘What was she doing?’ The lawyer managed to load the she with so much negativity. A skill, that.

  ‘Nothing. Getting ready to get in the car.’

  ‘Did she seem like a loving partner to you?’

  Matthew Marks: ‘Objection!’

  Judge: ‘Sustained.’

  ‘Did she seem like a good mother to you?’

  Matthew Marks: ‘Objection!’

  Judge: ‘You can answer this question, Mrs Wilson.’

  Why it was okay to ask this question and not the partner one, Joanna would never understand.

  ‘I remember she knew exactly how many days her baby had been in the world.’

  ‘Did she seem like a good mother?’

  ‘I have four children, do I seem like a good mother to you?’

  Judge: ‘Answer the question please‚ Mrs Wilson.’

  She straightened her back, face even redder now, forehead dripping. ‘I saw them for five minutes. He seemed hot and tired. She seemed hot. And tired. I have no idea what kind of mother she was.’

  11

  JOANNA

  15 February

  Getting the Job Done

  ‘It’s not too late,’ Joanna said again as they drove out of town.

  He didn’t answer her. Later he would say it was because she hadn’t asked him anything.

  It took five minutes to get to the house, which was on the side of the swamp-like bay connecting Point Lonsdale with the historic seaside village of Queenscliff. A broken power line hissed and spluttered and arced at the side of the road. A single line of houses edged the bay. One of the houses belonged to Alistair’s best friend’s family. He’d been there on holidays as a student, and had emailed to ask about renting it. His best friend had replied the following day:

  Sorry, mate. It’s mine now, actually, but I’ve not quite finished the reno. No kitchen, water and power, I’m afraid. And yeah, let’s catch up when you’re here.

  Phil

  Joanna had booked the cottage on the beachfront instead.

  Alistair got out of the car, knocked on the door to check no one was in, walked round the house to scour for signs of life and security cameras, then disappeared round the back.

  Joanna sat, frozen, in her seat. Something had happened to her since they left the cottage. She had gone completely numb. She pinched her arm and couldn’t feel anything. She slapped her face and didn’t feel anything. She turned and looked in the back seat of the car – at the bundle of blue – and didn’t feel anything. She got out of the car, opened the back door, unbuckled the baby seat, removed the blanket-covered bundle from the plastic-covered car seat, held it, didn’t feel anything. When Alistair returned to the front garden and took the bundle from her, she felt nothing.

  ‘Sit down, put your head between your legs,’ he said. ‘You’re going to faint. The garden’s just like I remember. It’s pretty, Joanna. There’s a beautiful Lilly Pilly tree, you know, like the one you want to plant. Sit down, don’t move. Let me take care of it. You comfortable? Don’t come round the back, you hear me? Stay there.’

  ‘Let’s not do this. It’s not too late,’ she said, but her legs had muffled the words and Alistair was gone anyway.

  *

  A cry.

  She lifted her head from between her legs. As far as she knew, she could have been in that position for hours. There it was again. She’d never heard anything so beautiful in all her life.

  The sound was not a cry. It was a siren.

  Joanna got out of the car and looked up at the smoky sky. A helicopter, in the distance. The siren was a fire engine in all probability. She was about to yell for Alistair when he ran towards her, jumped in the car and started the engine. ‘Get in! Quick!’

  Alistair turned the radio on as they headed down the drive. ‘If you live in Lorne and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late.’

  He turned right out of the driveway, skidding onto the empty road towards Point Lonsdale. He’d washed his hands – there must have been a garden hose – but she could see dirt in his fingernails.

  The radio droned . . . ‘If you live in Anglesea and you are seeing flames, do not leave your house . . .’

  It was too late.

  *

  ‘Only one more thing to do,’ Alistair said. He was looking after her. He always looked after her. She repeated his words in her head, over and over. Only one more thing to do, only one more thing to do, only one more thing to do.

  Silly Joanna. She almost believed it at the time.

  The black sky was a different black. When it cracked and
let loose, she realised this was because clouds had joined the smoke.

  The cool change.

  Alistair often romanticised about them. ‘Two to four days of crippling heat that make you want to move into the fridge on a permanent basis, and then the skies open and you dance in it!’ She loved it when he talked about home. His face moved so much more.

  Huge drops of rain, like stones, began to fall on the windscreen. Sparse at first, then more and more. They could barely see the shop when they parked across the road from it.

  They looked around – no people, no cars – then looked at each other.

  Only one more thing to do.

  ‘Any questions?’ Alistair asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘You want to go over it again?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘You ready?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good girl. Stay calm and remember the plan.’ He kissed her on the forehead, got out of the car, and walked over the road and into the milk bar. She could see him taking baby wipes from the shelf as required by the script.

  She counted her breaths all the way to 120, as required, then got out of the car and walked across the road and inside the small milk bar.

  He hadn’t specified what she should buy, so she grabbed the first thing she spotted – a packet of Tampax – and put them on the counter.

  The young shop assistant continued to thumb at his phone as he handed them the change, not looking up or replying when Alistair said thanks. He’d have to stop and take notice in a minute, Joanna thought, as Alistair held the door open for her to exit.

  A vehicle drove past and splashed her legs.

  But no, all clear, no one else in the street now.

  They walked across the road together. Alistair opened the car door. Looked inside. Yelled something at Joanna. She didn’t respond. He yelled it again. That’s right, she was supposed to respond.

  He yelled it a third time: ‘He’s gone!’