Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  The woman leans forward. ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘Well, apart from this guy,’ he taps the photograph, ‘there was a blond man, probably in his thirties. I think he had short wavy hair and olive skin, but there wasn’t much else remarkable about him. There used to be another man with longer dark hair who would come in casual clothes, but we haven’t seen him around for some time.’

  The woman collects up the photographs. ‘Thank you. I may well be back with more questions, but that will do for now.’

  Sunaad and Travis stare at one another once she’s left. Only then does Sunaad realise that while the woman had spoken exactly like a policewoman, she hadn’t offered her credentials, nor had he asked for them.

  Once Ian has gone to collect Savannah from her carol concert, Eleanor heads quickly to her bedroom. Her mobile is still plugged in to the charger, and as she picks it up she sees she has four new messages.

  Three are from her mother.

  So, how are you this morning?

  Please let me know that everything is okay.

  Eleanor? Please text me back when you see this. I’m worried about you.

  They had been sent at half-hour intervals. Eleanor imagines her mother pacing at home, trying to restrain herself from checking her phone every five seconds as she waits for a response. She considers her reply carefully, because Ian is Gillian’s brother, and she doesn’t know where to begin. She recalls the way her uncle’s voice had changed from soft to hard and back again as he talked to Naeve, and decides not to burden her mother unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Her fingers nimbly tap out her response. All fine this morning. Hope we didn’t scare you last night. Ian isn’t used to sleepwalkers!

  She hesitates before she presses Send, wondering if this sounds a bit too merry, but then she taps the button anyway, knowing she’ll be here for hours if she tries to get the tone just right. And besides, she wants to think about the other text. The one from Will.

  What’s happening?

  Again, she stalls, but then she remembers the way Will consoled her in the stairwell. She can only hope that he will stay on her side.

  She dials his number, and as soon as he answers she blurts out, ‘My uncle found out about the ring, but he’s reluctant to tell the police.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I think he’s worried that I might get into a lot of trouble. He’s asked for some time to think about it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I understand that,’ Will says. ‘I feel the same, or perhaps I’d have gone to the police by now too. I’ve thought about it some more, and I can’t see how you could have got hold of the ring yourself. No offence, but last Thursday I remember thinking I’d never seen someone so out of it and still conscious.’

  Eleanor takes in his words. The description of her dishevelled state is strikingly similar to the one drawn by her uncle for Naeve only an hour ago. While it might be a horrible image, it’s comforting too. Although, if all those around her are utterly convinced she was incapable of harming anyone that night, why does she still feel culpable?

  ‘I’m scared,’ she tells him. ‘What if the police don’t believe me? What if you’re right, and someone else is involved? Perhaps I’m being set up. I haven’t even got the ring as proof any more. The police will think I’m either devious or insane.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as either of those things,’ Will replies. ‘What about Susan – could you confide in her? Perhaps she could help.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Eleanor thinks of her aunt’s pale, pinched face. ‘Susan’s always at work and I’m not coming in today. She’s told me not to come back at all – she thinks Nathan won’t be able to handle it. She says she’ll help me find work elsewhere after Christmas. What’s it like there?’

  ‘Not a lot of fun,’ Will tells her. ‘I can’t wait to get to the Christmas break. And you never know, perhaps it will be different in the New Year,’ he suggests. There’s another pause, then he continues, ‘You know, I was thinking about Nathan attacking you the other day. In some ways it doesn’t surprise me, but the manner of it does. Why would he do it so recklessly, in front of your aunt like that?’

  Eleanor thinks this over. ‘He looked completely out of control at the time. I’m not sure he thought it through – it just happened.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Will says. ‘Maybe he was just mad with grief. But what if he was mad because of something else? I just keep going back to the way Arabella slapped him at the party – and then the next day she turns up dead. We all know that when someone is murdered the suspicion often falls on those closest to home – and that’s without everyone witnessing a spat beforehand. Nathan must be feeling the heat – I know through work gossip that he’s already been questioned multiple times by the police. Perhaps he’s trying to find someone else to take the blame.’

  His words make Eleanor uneasy, but she can see the sense in them. ‘And perhaps he’s hoping that it will be me. Do you think Nathan could be the one trying to set me up?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past Nathan,’ Will replies gruffly.

  There’s a long silence. ‘So,’ Will says eventually, ‘what do you plan to do now?’

  It is the crucial question. The one Eleanor needs to find an answer to, fast. She has come halfway round the world to escape her demons, and yet they seem to have followed her. Fleeing hasn’t worked.

  So, what does that leave? A fight?

  The answer arrives unexpectedly, but as soon as she thinks of it everything seems clear. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to find out what happened to Arabella,’ she announces. ‘I have to. I feel like the ring is some kind of message, urging me to do something. What happened that night? I’m not going to sit and wait for the police to come back again. I’m jumping at every little thing already; I constantly have this sense of being watched or followed.’

  She can’t tell him the rest of it: the sleepwalking; the paranoia. She wants his support, not his suspicion.

  ‘That sounds like a plan,’ Will says softly. ‘The more information you have to protect yourself, the better. Good on you, Eleanor. And I’ll help you – if you like.’

  ‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Why do you want to help me?’

  ‘Because Arabella was my friend,’ he says. ‘And also because I want to take you ice skating properly after all this is over, so I can hold your hand again.’

  Eleanor is glad Will can’t see her surprise. Perhaps he’s trying to cheer her up and make her smile, but this suggestion leaves her nervous. Slow down, she thinks, but she doesn’t want to put him offside, and she does like him. When all this is over, she might feel differently.

  ‘The police obviously still have their suspicions too,’ Will continues. ‘That’s why it’s a memorial tomorrow and not a funeral, I reckon. They’re holding on to her body for now, while they try to figure it out.’ His voice drifts away and Eleanor can hear him talking to someone in the background. ‘I’ve got to get to a meeting in a minute, so go be a detective, Eleanor,’ he urges her as he comes back on the line. ‘Don’t give up. You’re right. At the worst you’ll be in the same place you are now – but at best you might just find something that will set you free from all this.’

  As Eleanor hangs up, she hopes he is right.

  23

  building

  February 2005

  Things begin to go wrong a month into the new year, when the slab for the house has been down for two weeks. Her father is a man possessed, leaping up in the morning as soon as it’s light, and getting straight to work. He doesn’t stop until well after dusk, and brings things into the shed so he can keep slaving away in the evenings. Her mother is focused in a steadier way, churning through a never-ending list of mundane tasks to keep their lives functioning smoothly. Her newest job is as building assistant – and when she is needed she’s expected to drop everything.

  Today, Eleanor has come inside for lunch. She is hunting around the shed for a hair tie – it’s so ho
t outside that the back of her neck is damp with sweat. No one wants to spend much time in the shed in the heat of the day. The metal walls absorb the heat, sending it pulsing into the room in headachy bursts.

  She had hoped to help with the house construction, but her parents don’t have enough time to teach her how to do anything. The days have run into one long aimless season of throbbing heat, and the only light on the horizon is that school starts in seven days. Eleanor is counting down the hours. The bus will stop on the corner, especially for them. She is nervous, but it will be fine, because Aiden will be there.

  Her brother has been very quiet these past few weeks. Gillian had pulled Eleanor aside on New Year’s Day and told her not to ask Aiden about Brianna any more. Meanwhile, Martin had given Aiden two options over the long school holidays: help with the building work, or keep an eye on his sister. To Eleanor’s delight, Aiden chose her, and although he’s seemed lost in his thoughts at times, she’s enjoyed the extra time with him. He’s taught her how to make paper cranes, gently mocking her misshapen efforts. Together they have investigated birds’ nests and ant hills, caught crickets in jam jars with traps of sugar and newspaper. Aiden has shown her the old bathtub that has been dumped on the property next door, full of murky water and tadpoles. And they are in agreement that they hate the shed. In rebellion they have collected all the large sticks on the property and built their own cubby house down on the far corner of their block of land, a protest project, hidden away from the noisy building progress beyond the ridge of the hill, and their dad’s cursing. Their mother has brought them an old piece of carpet to put inside, and Eleanor goes down there for a while every day with one of her sketchpads or something to read. They have come to an understanding: it is her place in daylight, and Aiden’s after dark. Whenever she asks to go with him at night, the answer is the same. ‘No shrimp, stay with the oldies. I need some time to myself.’

  Sometimes, after dark, when she takes the bags of smelly rubbish out for her mother, she stands on the lip of the hill and watches the torchlight flicker inside the cubby. She wishes she knew what he was doing in there, but there is no way of finding out. He often takes his guitar with him, but she never hears it being played. Mind you, the length of their block of land is over 500 metres, she’s probably too far away to hear anything, and she’s not prepared to creep through the invisible night-time grass, which might be full of snakes, without at least a torch to help her.

  She has spent the past week watching her brother carefully. Besides the guitar, he doesn’t seem to take anything with him. Their parents seem happy enough to let him go.

  But last night, after dinner, she noticed his hand stray under his mattress as he got ready to leave. He quickly put something in his jeans pocket. And now, alone in the shed in the daylight, with Aiden busy shifting bricks for their father, she is determined to find out what it is.

  She feels about under his mattress. Pulls out some cigarette papers and a chunk of what looks like dried brown mud. It gives off a pungent, exotic smell. She puts it to her nose and sniffs a few times, sits on the bed, turning it over in her palm.

  The door clangs, making her jump. Her mother has returned unexpectedly with an empty washing basket.

  ‘What you got there?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing.’ Eleanor’s hand goes instinctively behind her back.

  ‘Eleanor, show me!’ Her mother comes across, and Eleanor reluctantly hands over the little package, trying not to picture Aiden’s face if he could see this exchange.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks her mother.

  Her mother just sighs.

  That night Aiden doesn’t go to the cubby. The next day, as Eleanor is sitting beneath a sprawling gum tree, she sees him stomping down to the edge of the field. She jumps up and follows him, shading her eyes with her hand to try to see what he is doing, then realises he’s dismantling the cubby, stick by stick, hurling each one into the bushes as he goes. She begins to run – ‘Aiden, don’t!’ – but her foot hits an unseen dip and she is sent sprawling to her knees. Alfie the toy dalmatian flies from under her arm and lands hard on the ochre earth. A small cloud of dust rises, and when Eleanor picks him up the fur is stained red in patches. It is the end of Eleanor’s love for the dog – in part because the stain will never come out, but also because whenever she looks at it she gets a horrible guilty feeling in her gut.

  It takes Eleanor a few days to forgive Aiden for destroying their safe haven, but she’s not sure he even notices. For the last week of the school holidays he keeps away from them all. He won’t even talk to her while they wait for the bus on the first day of school, and when her mother kisses her and she gets on first, she sits in a spare double seat at the front, expecting her brother to plonk himself next to her, but he acts like he can’t see her, and heads straight for the back.

  24

  the office

  Malcolm O’Halloran dials his wife, but Lucy doesn’t answer. He sighs as he hangs up, resisting the temptation to leave her an irate message. She’ll have to forgive him soon, won’t she? He doesn’t want to spend Christmas in a hotel. How many times can he say he’s sorry? He’d never have gone near Arabella if he’d known she’d turn vindictive and start leaving messages for him at home. He’s thankful she’s dead, if he’s honest, and it might sound callous but when he thinks of his two boys, pining for their dad, it was a wonder he hadn’t throttled her himself for all the trouble she’s caused.

  Eleanor’s phone call with Will has filled her with a renewed sense of purpose. She turns her thoughts to the memorial tomorrow because it will be an opportunity to observe everyone closely. Perhaps when emotions are running high it might be easier to see who knows more than they are telling.

  Lost in thought, she heads downstairs, skulking along the hallways, wondering if Ian and Susan are back yet. As she passes the doorway of the snug she looks in to see Naeve settled there, watching some kind of animal show on television.

  ‘Can I join you?’ Eleanor asks, hoping to engage Naeve in conversation, find out what else she might know, and learn more about her aunt and uncle.

  Naeve just shrugs, which Eleanor chooses to read as a yes, so she takes a seat on one of the sumptuous cinema chairs in the dimly lit room, trying to tune in to the strange scene on television, where an anaesthetised tiger is laid out on a vet’s operating table, having its teeth cleaned. The vet has to keep pulling the tiger’s large sagging lip, working away at that giant incisor. A nurse absentmindedly strokes the tiger’s fur, as though trying to soothe it, but seeing as the creature is unconscious and obviously unaware of the movement, Eleanor suspects that it is more about the thrill of touching what is normally forbidden. There’s a rush of power that comes with making contact with something dangerous, and surviving without a scratch.

  She is absorbed in the show without realising it, and when she looks across at Naeve again she sees her cousin has fallen asleep, her glasses on her lap and the chenille blanket held close to her chin, reducing the years in her face towards pure innocence. On her lap is a small sketchpad that Eleanor hadn’t noticed when she came in. She gets up quietly to leave, and when Naeve doesn’t stir she can’t resist taking a peek at Naeve’s pad.

  She sees a series of unusual shapes, romantic drawings of leaves and flowers and doorways and candle flames, each item given eyes that are either lost in sleep, or occasionally staring, wide open, right at Eleanor; knowing eyes that make her skin crawl. And Naeve has also drawn a quick sketch of Eleanor sitting on the couch watching TV, her hands resting on her lap – and a huge diamond-and-sapphire ring planted firmly on her finger.

  As soon as she sees it, Eleanor steps backwards, her heartbeat quickening. Is this some kind of attempt to bait her? She waits, but when Naeve doesn’t stir she stops and moves closer again. Naeve’s breathing is noisy and even, she’s obviously resting. Perhaps she doodles in the same way that Eleanor does, and draws rings instead of nooses.

  Nevertheless, Eleanor is aware of every nerve e
nding as she heads out of the snug towards the stairs. She’s about to go up, but then she looks back over her shoulder at Ian’s office.

  Should she?

  She creeps across and tries the door, which gives without a creak. To begin with, she peers inside without crossing the threshold. She knows she shouldn’t go in, of course she shouldn’t – yet Will’s words ring in her ears: be a detective. Heart racing, she tiptoes into the room and begins to scan from floor to ceiling, with no idea of what she is looking for, convinced only that she needs to find anything her uncle might be hiding.

  With every passing second she grows edgier. There is nothing to see. Just piles of paperwork, leaflets, boring brochures. Her conscience is screaming at her to get out – What are you doing? You’ll be thrown out of this house in seconds if someone comes in! – but she cannot help herself. It’s as though she might find a hidden reel of film that will match the missing portion of her memories, but she knows it’s just a sign of how desperate she feels that she would even entertain such outlandish thoughts.

  Once she has checked over the main desk, she turns to the big architect’s drawing table on one side of the room. It is a mistake. Those outsized sheets of papers with their detailed plans provoke painful memories. As she pauses there, it is as though her dad comes to stand to one side of her, wearing his baggy, patched, unravelling jumper, those jeans of his hanging loose against his scrawny backside. ‘Let’s have another look at these,’ he says, and in her mind’s eye she sees him picking them up and heading past her – no, through her – like the ghost she is nowadays, even though once upon a time she was a flesh-and-blood girl stepping aside for him, unnoticed.

  Eleanor is well aware that it’s always a mistake to let in the shadows of the past. Her conviction wavers and her thoughts blur, twisted by the rage she feels whenever she thinks of her father. Her body becomes unsteady, and she clutches the back of the enormous office chair, praying she doesn’t pass out, to be found on the floor in here. Once the swirling sensation is over, she turns and in one last panicked rush she goes over to the filing cabinet and pulls it open. She flicks through the top, finding file inserts for passports, banking, investments, all the private aspects of her uncle’s life, all things she really shouldn’t see. She goes faster and faster through each drawer, sure she is about to hear the door open or a voice cry out in horror. She can barely breathe as she pushes the bottom drawer closed and turns for the door, finally conceding defeat.