The Cry

by Helen FitzGerald

  ‘Shh, shh.’ He was going at himself, eyes only on her bottom half which could have been anyone’s from that angle.

  ‘I’m leaning Noah’s head back.’ Joanna grabbed Alistair’s face and pulled it towards hers.

  He put his hand over her mouth and closed his eyes. She tore it off angrily.

  His features gathered for the climax.

  ‘Open your eyes.’ A louder voice this time. But he didn’t obey, wouldn’t, too close.

  Almost a yell this time: ‘I’m killing our son, Alistair. I’m killing Noah.’

  *

  After pushing Joanna away, Alistair turned to his side and fell asleep. Fell a-fucking sleep. She lay on her back and listened to the hiss of her angry breaths. It was part of the same thing: the affair, the incident. All part of the same screwed-up relationship. Right now, she couldn’t recall one happy moment with him. She couldn’t recall ever feeling confident with him. She couldn’t recall making one good decision with him.

  Before him, she was an unfathomably happy Act I character, unaware that she was doomed to die by the end of Act II.

  She stared at the ceiling and said, ‘I want to be me again.’ It didn’t wake him. She got out of bed, slipped as quietly as she could into her jeans, T-shirt and trainers, took her phone with her into the toilet, locked the door, and dialled her counsellor in Glasgow. ‘Anne, it’s Joanna Lindsay.’

  ‘Joanna, my God I’ve been thinking about you. Are you okay? What time is it over there?’

  ‘Can I talk to you? I can send you money over tomorrow.’

  ‘Go ahead. Forget the money. I’ll just go into the other room.’ It only took her a few seconds. ‘Okay, I’m alone. Talk.’

  ‘I need to get off the triangle.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You know, the triangle. I’m trapped.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Right now I don’t know which one I am. I could be all three.’

  ‘Is there someone you love nearby, Joanna? Does someone know where you are?’

  ‘I paid you thirty-five pounds a session. I sat on your sofa and listened and all I wanted was an answer and that’s all I’m asking for now. I’ll pay you double, seventy quid, more, I’ll give you my house! How do I get off? Tell me. Please! How do I get off it? I’m banging around from corner to corner and I can actually see the lines when I’m with him now and I have to get off it I have to get off it.’

  Anne’s voice slowed, lowered, flattened: a soft, counselling monotone. ‘Joanna, I am listening to you. Where did you say you are again? Is there anyone with you?’

  ‘Oh God! You don’t know! No one knows!’ Joanna hung up, got what she needed from the cabinet in the bathroom, a torch from the laundry and car keys from the hall table. No one outside. They’d probably all moved on to a fresh search, for an even cuter kid.

  *

  She knew where the house was, having looked it up on Google maps about a hundred times on her phone in the toilet, deleting her browsing history afterwards. She drove the silver Ford Alistair hired out of Geelong and along the long, straight, dark, Bellarine Highway. It took her thirty minutes to reach the house. She hadn’t noticed anything about the house or the area the last time, but now it seemed as eerie and as flat as the highway she’d just travelled there on. A light fog hung over the flat grassy swamp, which a still strip of moonlight cut in half. There were no hills and no high trees around the lake, just flat land that melted into a distant horizon. A railway line ran along the edge of the lake opposite the houses. The steam train, she supposed: the one Alistair and Alexandra had been married on. If the houses on this street were occupied, the occupants were asleep. No lights, anywhere. Dead silence.

  She drove past the large two-storey house slowly to check there were no cars in the driveway, then turned back and parked at the front of the property.

  All the lights were off. Curtains drawn. She crept down the side of the building and pointed her torch in the kitchen window. A few of the kitchen units were open – empty, as far as she could see. The cooker still had plastic on it and was unplugged. The new Smeg fridge rested on a trolley in the corner. Satisfied that no one was home, she walked from the paving stones at the back door into the garden, torch pointing up in search of the tree.

  Shit! Joanna’s shin bashed against something. She pointed her torch down – a short fence. She followed the line of light around the fence. It surrounded a rectangular pool. The edge of the pool was only six feet or so from the high garden fence. She stood up, walked to the high fence, and swept her hand along it all the way round the perimeter of the back garden.

  The pool was surrounded by recently laid paving stones. A rectangle of wood chippings was at the back, a rockery at the left, a fountain in the centre-back, and a large square compost bin in the right corner. The block was a meticulously landscaped quarter of an acre at most. She couldn’t see any freshly dug earth. And there were no trees.

  Panting with confusion and fury, she stood on the bottom rung of the wooden fence and shone her torch over it, doing the same from all sides. It looked as though the garden had been subdivided. There was a large block at the back, with a small driveway at the side of Phil’s. The block was levelled and flattened, and had a For Sale sign. The grass had grown after the levelling, which meant the land had been cleared a long time ago, well before the incident. She raced back around the side of the house, jumped in the car, and drove all the way to Geelong with no belt on, her foot flat on the accelerator.

  *

  Alistair looked surprised to wake with a woman straddling him and a key digging into his neck.

  ‘Where did you put him?’

  ‘What? Joanna, shit. Ow! Get off me.’

  ‘Tell me where you put him or I’ll yell the truth so your mum can hear.’

  ‘Get the key off. It hurts.’

  ‘Elizabeth! I killed . . .’

  ‘Shhh. Okay, okay.’

  The key was pressed into his flesh so hard it looked like he had a small cave in his neck. She didn’t care. ‘Where did you bury my baby?’

  ‘You went there?’

  ‘You never answer a question, always another question. I am asking you a simple thing. Where did you put Noah? You said the garden was two acres, that there was a Lilly Pilly tree. You said it was beautiful. Where is he? Is he in the compost bin?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The rock garden?’

  ‘No. Ouch, God, I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember where you buried our son? Is he even in that garden?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he is. Please, you’re cutting my skin now.’

  ‘In the woodchip part? Where? The left? The right? The middle?’

  ‘Yes, under the woodchip but I don’t know where exactly. I was in shock. I was in a hurry.’

  ‘You really don’t remember? I thought you remembered things, Alistair. I thought out of the two of us you were the one who remembered things. Next to the fountain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re just saying that because your neck’s bleeding.’

  ‘I’m trying to. I can’t. It’s blank. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So where do I go to talk to him?’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Where do I go? Yes, talk, where do I talk to him? Where do I say sorry? Where do I say goodbye to my son?’

  ‘We can’t visit him. What do you think you’re doing, going there? What if someone saw you?’

  ‘You’re the one who remembers everything and you don’t remember digging a grave with a tiny trowel and putting my little boy in the ground and throwing earth on top of him, on top of Noah’s face and Noah’s legs and arms and toes, and then patting it down, patting it down, even though it’s your son down there, you patted earth down on top of him. You don’t remember where that was? By the rockery? Next to the fountain? You don’t remember?’

  Alistair grabbed her wrists and pinned her down so quickly she was still feeling anger instead of fear when s
he realised she’d lost the power. He had one knee on each arm and a hand on her mouth.

  ‘Shhh, don’t kick, ow, calm down Joanna, calm down, we’re on the same side. I just didn’t want to upset you. It was important to you, that it was lovely, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. That’s all. We’re on the same side.’

  The same side? Against who, Noah? She couldn’t say this because his hand was pressing on her mouth so hard that she couldn’t bite him either.

  ‘Shh, shh, my love. Shh. Come on. Jo, Jo-Jo, shh . . .’

  *

  Noah was not under a tree. His place would not bear Noah fruit. No one would remark on the beauty above him, or make jam – or jelly – after picking from him. Joanna would never hear his cry, feel connected, say goodbye. She had clung to this in these horrible weeks, clung, and it was a lie.

  She hushed, just as he ordered. She hushed and didn’t mention the tree, or the fucked assumptions they made about their roles on that first dinner date: that Alistair is someone you should listen to, that Joanna is forgetful. She didn’t mention the drama triangle, or her killing Noah, or the triangle, which was so clear to her now that other people would surely see it. And they would know what she was now: the Persecutor.

  She had a plan. Not Alistair-style, involving facts and the like, a Joanna plan, involving doing the right thing.

  Alistair kept his phone in his pocket at all times, and under his pillow at night. Joanna understood why he did this during their affair, but often wondered why it continued afterwards. ‘Just habit,’ he said when she last asked him. She slipped it out from under the pillow and took it to the toilet with her. He had a four-digit pin number. Last time she asked to use his phone, the number was his birthday, 1307, so she tried that, but it didn’t work. He’d changed it. ‘I change it regularly,’ he said when she asked him once. She tried her birthday, Noah’s, Chloe’s. Hers. Nup. She gave up and crept out to check his diary, which was on the desk in the study. Sure enough, Alexandra’s number and address were written in the back.

  She probably shouldn’t have phoned Alexandra when she did, but Joanna had lost touch with time. And Alistair was fast asleep, so it was safe. ‘It’s Joanna Lindsay,’ she whispered from the toilet. ‘I need to see you, tomorrow morning. It’s very important. I want to help you. It’s not something I can say on the phone, I’ll explain tomorrow but you have to believe me when I say that you do need my help.’

  23

  JOANNA

  2 March

  ‘I’m going to Melbourne today,’ Joanna said over breakfast, ‘to do some shopping. You’re right. I need to get back into the real world.’

  Alistair smiled. She found it hard to believe that not so long ago that smile compelled her to take his hand and put it in her pants in public bars.

  ‘I’ll drive you. I’d like to try and catch up with Phil for real this time.’

  Yeah whatever, she thought, not interested in checking to see if he had his cheating face on.

  They both donned caps and sunglasses, but there was no one to hide from here.

  Joanna felt nauseous in the passenger seat. She closed her eyes and reminded herself of the plan.

  Twenty minutes after leaving, she realised they were on the same road as last time. ‘Alistair, please take another route.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is no other route.’

  Joanna wanted to open the door and jump out. But she didn’t, she had things to do. And perhaps it was important to see where it had all happened, to remind herself of the first lie in this particular episode. She should embrace the road, face the truth, and the consequences, of her actions. She opened her eyes.

  A cross.

  Some hills to the left. ‘They’re the You Yangs.’ Alistair had noticed where she was looking.

  A lorry.

  A huge metal sign: Avalon Airport.

  And after a while, to the right – the place where she discovered that her son was dead: Nothing Field.

  Or was that Nothing Field over there?

  There were a lot of Nothing Fields along this highway.

  In the distance she could make out patches of blackened earth, scars from the fire that had refused to kill her.

  Apparently it took them an hour to get to the West Gate Bridge. Alistair could have told her it took three hours. He could have said ten minutes. To Joanna, that road was a black hole.

  Alistair dropped her at a tram stop in North Melbourne. ‘Meet back here at two?’ he said, kissing her goodbye.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Hey, what about you get some lingerie to cheer yourself up? I have a surprise for you after.’ And he drove off.

  *

  Everyone was looking at her at the tram stop. At first she thought her dress might be tucked into her pants or something, but then she remembered she was famous, and pulled her cap down to cover her eyes. It didn’t work, they still recognised her. Most people averted their eyes when she caught them staring, but one gave a sympathetic nod and one touched her on the shoulder and said something about Jesus.

  When the Number 19 finally arrived, she walked to the back with her head down. She took a seat and pressed her face against the window to avoid being talked to. The tram rambled through the leafy university suburb of Parkville. The name rang a bell. Oh, that was where the old lady who sat behind her on the plane lived. Melbourne became less leafy after the university area: lots of traffic, low-lying strips of shops filled with eateries like falafel places and cafés and the occasional gun shop. Higgledy-piggledy Victorian cottages after that, the flat land widening out for slightly larger cottages and bungalows.

  There was no way to avoid walking past all the remaining passengers when the tram reached her stop. To her dismay, they were all looking at her with compassion. She ran when she got off, following the map she’d downloaded on her phone. Alexandra’s house was three blocks away.

  She stopped at the sign for Portville Street and caught her breath. This was where Alexandra lived. She was about to talk to her, face to face, for the first time. Except for the phone call last night, she’d had no communication with Alexandra at all. She’d written an email. The seventeenth draft read:

  Alexandra,

  I am so sorry I deceived and hurt you. I’m ashamed and will never forgive myself.

  Joanna

  She didn’t send it. The words were meaningless and pathetic. Her sixteen previous drafts were even worse. What could she say that wouldn’t be self-indulgent bullshit – that she didn’t know for a month, that she knew they were unhappy, that she had managed to avoid Alexandra’s bed for nine months, that she had never lied before, been the other woman before, hated herself before? No, there was nothing she could write that would make her apology meaningful, nothing that would dilute her hideousness.

  The houses were mostly weatherboard, all different colours and shapes and sizes. Alexandra’s, the fourth on the left, was a cream Californian bungalow with blue trims. It had a white picket fence and a scruffy looking driveway. It looked like a happy house: pretty and comfortable.

  Joanna took off her hat and glasses and put them in her bag. She steeled herself and walked up the drive, along the small veranda, past the stained-glass windows, and knocked on the front door. She heard music being switched off, footsteps, the door opening . . . and there she was, dressed in three-quarter length Lycra running trousers, a sleeveless top, and runners. She was slim and toned, no make-up. By ‘bigger curves’ Alistair obviously just meant ‘bigger boobs’. Alexandra’s were at least a C cup, pert and perfect. And she looked younger than Joanna did now, even though she was twelve years older. Joanna had avoided looking at herself, but when she caught an accidental glimpse, she saw a haggard, gaunt wreck with red eyes and black sunken sockets. She could see her ribs nowadays. Her hips bones jutted out like elbows. Alexandra, on the other hand‚ was a healthy weight, fresh-faced, had well cut hair, and no bags under her eyes. She didn’t smile or offer a hug. ‘Come in.’

  It was perh
aps the most nerve-wracking meeting she had ever anticipated. Like being sent to the Head Teacher’s office for cheating in an exam or being paraded in front of a jury for cold-blooded murder. No, add those two things together, multiply the result by about a thousand, and that’s how guilty and small and scared Joanna felt.

  Inside had the same feel as outside – unpretentious, comfortable, but trendy. The long wide hall had stripped floorboards and white walls that were covered with a galleria of framed photographs. Joanna spotted a few as she walked behind Alexandra: Chloe on her bike, at the beach with her mum, with Alistair on Tower Bridge. Joanna was shocked to see the photo of Alistair. She was seeing in-context Alistair again. She liked him more here than in his childhood bedroom.

  She asked herself what she was feeling, tried to pinpoint it the way Anne Docherty had taught her. Emotional intelligence, it’s called, identifying your emotions. Only then can you deal with them. She was feeling jealous, but she didn’t understand why. Or more accurately, she couldn’t choose one single reason.

  Maybe it was because Alexandra was better looking than her, and in better shape. Even when Joanna was happy, pre-affair, she was a league below the gorgeous woman walking down the hall before her. It must have been newness and youth alone that had propelled Joanna to a league above in Alistair’s eyes.

  Maybe it was because Alexandra was cleverer. A qualified lawyer – her graduation picture was on the wall in front of her now. And Joanna was ‘just’ a teacher. While she’d argue against the ‘just’ at dinner parties (Teachers are underrated / Teachers are underpaid / Teachers are the most important people in the universe), she had to admit she only did teaching because whenever she tried to write the Great Scottish Novel she couldn’t get further than two pages, both of them terrible.

  She might have been jealous because Alexandra was guilt free, waltzing along like someone who hasn’t committed adultery and killed a baby.

  Or because she had her baby, and that child was happy – the little girl in the photos there, smiling, growing up, living.