After the Darkness

by Brown, Honey

  I’d already seen my husband’s bruises. After coming home from the police station he’d let me take photographs of his torso, face, arms, hands and ankles. This time I wasn’t shocked to see the extent of his injuries; I was ashamed. It was like I was somehow to blame – not for inflicting them, but at fault for letting my husband keep them secret. His refusal to acknowledge all of what had happened to him – too shamed even to show the bruising to the police, when it could have verified our story – should have been a neon light alerting me to the wrong turn we’d taken. He needed encouragement to open up, not a wife fleeing the scene, burning the clothes and staying quiet during the police interview, agreeing not to tell, as though there was something to be ashamed of.

  Renee’s eyes locked on mine as she passed. You didn’t tell us that.

  Bruce was motionless, waiting for me to leave as well. Dazed, I closed the door and left to join the children.

  ‘Do you need me to come to Cove Street after I drop the kids at school?’ I asked when Bruce came out of the bedroom. His satchel was in one hand, his phone in the other. When dressed, the only outward sign that he’d been through anything more than a brawl with a stranger was the vague yet edgy look in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on over there. Someone’s whinged to council and there’s been some kind of audit on the whole project. They’re saying our stormwater isn’t up to scratch.’

  ‘Can’t Nico deal with it?’

  ‘A man from the council turned up, out of the blue. They’ve dug a bloody trench. Since the environmental and water initiative thing, the council are over the top about anything to do with run-off. I don’t like the sound of it.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Drag out all the drawings and specs at the office. Bring them home. We won’t get certificates of occupancy until it’s worked out.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s always something like this.’

  ‘Not like this. Not if we have to replace the pipe they’re talking about.’

  ‘We’ve got that spare twenty grand up our sleeve, don’t forget.’

  ‘It’ll cost more than that to fix. I’d better get going. The guy is there now. I want to catch him before he leaves.’

  ‘What about breakfast?’

  ‘I’ll buy something on the way.’

  I doubted that he would.

  He took the four-wheel drive. Standing at the dining room window, I watched him leave. Summer was behind me, in the kitchen, remaking Renee’s lunch, a no-holds-barred, full-fat version.

  Volumes of Cove Street paperwork – permits, plans, drawings, contracts, proposals, copies of council applications – took up two drawers of the office filing cabinet. I put the documents in piles on the table, pushing aside the swatches of material and moving a colour storyboard to the couch. I went through the piles looking for relevant information. Outside was overcast. The street was grey and subdued. The door was open. I gave up trying to concentrate and went and sat at the desk, staring at the computer screen, staring through it.

  Eventually I typed artist sculptor great ocean road into the Google search bar. I hit enter. The links didn’t register with me, though. I stared through the screen, not focusing. I typed glass artist reuben. Again, I didn’t concentrate on the links. I typed in a few more variations on this theme – artist Wensley, glass reuben great ocean road, wood glass artist. My heart wasn’t in any of these searches. Perhaps I hoped the act of pressing the keys, typing out the words, would be cathartic. If I were truthful, though, this wasn’t the information I was seeking. I felt a sick feeling rise inside me, swallowed it and forced it down. The phone rang and caused me to refocus. I stared at the phone, didn’t answer it.

  In the Google search bar I typed male sexual assault.

  They were hard words to bring into the light. I felt like I was cheating on Bruce, trying to illuminate the thing he most wanted to remain in the dark.

  I looked with glassy unfocused eyes at the links on screen. To click on any one of the websites would cement this feeling of deceiving my husband, delving into what he’d as good as asked me not to delve into. My head was swimming. There was a common thread to the words beneath each website heading. It was all about the problem of silence; of not speaking out, not coming forward, not reporting, not talking. But because I hadn’t typed in victims of violence or assault advice or coping with trauma, or anything relating to me or to the attack in general, I couldn’t bring myself to read any further. Was I right to research his hurt behind his back? If Bruce walked through the office door that moment, I knew I would quickly minimise the computer window. That alone told me I was not equipped to help him, not beyond standing beside him and loving him. He was still a man – whatever had happened had not taken that – and certainly capable of his own internet searches on the subject.

  I closed the internet browser altogether. After a moment of further thought, I took the local telephone directory from the drawer and looked up Bruce’s parents’ number. For a few seconds I dragged the tip of a lead pencil back and forth beneath their number on the page. My contacts list had been lost along with my damaged phone. Truth was, though, I don’t think Rex and Joan’s details had been listed in my old phone. They lived in Delaney, not that far from the office. If Bruce ever needed anything, he tended to drop in and see them. And there never seemed a reason for me to contact them.

  His mother answered.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Joan, it’s Trudy.’

  There was a pause. Then a monotone, ‘Hi.’

  My gaze fixed on the doorway. A guilty flush of heat swept over me. ‘A bit out of the blue,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm.’

  In the background I heard Rex Harrison ask ‘Who’s that?’ as though all calls to their house were viewed as intrusive.

  Joan didn’t answer him, maybe made a gesture or pulled a face.

  I said, ‘My phone was damaged and I’ve lost my contact details. You haven’t got Todd and …’ for a terrible moment I forgot Bruce’s middle brother’s name, ‘… Kim’s number, have you?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ she said.

  ‘Where are they at the moment?’

  ‘Todd’s in Kosovo and Kim’s in Yugoslavia.’ Her tone was priggish as she stated their foreign postings. ‘Not real easy to give ’em a call. How is Bruce?’ she said, as though he was standing behind me, like Rex was standing behind her.

  ‘Sorry, Joan, someone’s walked in the office; I better go. I’ll talk to you soon.’

  ‘Yep.’

  I hung up.

  My husband was also perfectly capable of tracking down his brothers. I could understand, too, why there was a strong chance he wouldn’t.

  I saw that I had an email from the new tenant, Finn. I opened it.

  That night, Bruce spread out the Cove Street paperwork on the study floor. He had dirt under his fingernails and muddy patches on the knees of his pants. ‘I can’t think who would have stitched us up …’

  ‘What was the complaint?’

  ‘The council are saying there wasn’t one; it’s a new initiative where they do random site checks. I don’t think so. None of the men have heard of it before. They said heavies turned up a couple of days ago, Tuesday, and went over the whole site with a fine-tooth comb, nitpicking. This was all they could find.’

  ‘Is the gradient right?’

  ‘So damn close. We’re talking ridiculously fine detail.’

  Bruce pulled the building plans closer to him. He put his finger on townhouse four, ran a line through the three townhouses joining it, down to the townhouse at the front of the block, nearest to the front boundary. ‘We’re going to have to cut a channel in the slab, to get to the pipe. Some internal walls will have to come out and be replaced. We should be able to get around this bathroom, though.’ He tapped his finger on the first townhouse’s ground-floor bathroom. ‘But the paving that’s been laid out the front here will have to come up.’

 
‘Isn’t it the plumber’s fault? Shouldn’t they be paying to fix it?’

  ‘He’s going to do the re-plumbing for free, but we can’t expect him to pay for the rest. It’s as much to do with site elevation, proper earthworks in the beginning. He isn’t totally to blame.’ Uncomfortable with crouching, Bruce moved to kneel. ‘I should be able to make it up, though. I’ll do whatever jobs I can myself. Instead of getting the landscaper and gardener – I’ll do that. I’ll do the front fence, redo the paving myself.’

  ‘Can you, though? Should you be doing all that? How did you go today?’

  He shrugged, unfolded a bent edge of the plans.

  ‘You’ll have to see a doctor, won’t you? Even just to get tests done?’

  ‘I will if you want me to.’

  ‘Not for me – for you, for your peace of mind.’

  ‘If I say I don’t want to go to a doctor and I don’t think I need to get tests done – is that enough, is that okay?’

  ‘I trust your judgement. Of course I do.’

  Bruce spun the plans on the carpet to look closer at a specific measurement.

  ‘Perhaps we could go to VCAT and fight this?’ I said after a moment.

  ‘We can’t go and fight something out at VCAT, not right now.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘we can’t.’

  12

  Bruce went each day to Cove Street. I went each day to the office. When not at work I washed and pegged out clothes, mopped the floors, vacuumed, fed the cats, ironed clothes, tidied up after the children, cleaned the bathrooms – I didn’t stop. I wanted the octopus tentacles to be still. I wanted Reuben to sink to the bottom of the ocean.

  Monday came – one week since it had happened – and Finn arrived at the office to pick up the keys for Tyler Street. He wiped his feet on the mat.

  ‘Hi, Trudy. Do you want me to close the door?’

  It was a rainy day. Soggy poplar leaves were stuck to the bottom of the window. The breeze through the door was wet and brisk.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘There’s my car,’ Finn said, and he pointed to the tan-coloured Jag parked outside. ‘Yep, there she is,’ he repeated, gazing at it. Today he had on a chef’s uniform – black pants and a black tunic. His shoes were scuffed. His hair had gone wiry in the rain. ‘Do you like Jags?’

  I looked at the car for a long minute. I had the house keys ready in an envelope. I put the envelope out for him to take. ‘Jags are good.’

  ‘Good.’ He laughed softly, and sat down, as though he was going to stay.

  ‘That’s all you need,’ I told him. ‘It’s all done.’

  ‘Won’t you come with me?’

  ‘I don’t really need to. They’ve left the place clean and tidy. I did a condition report yesterday; everything is in order. You’re right to go.’

  ‘I thought you’d come.’

  I shook my head.

  He looked sulky.

  In the days leading up to the handover of the keys, Finn had been in to the office every day for one reason or another. My email inbox was full of messages from him, and his goofy hello kept bursting forth on the message bank. I think he’d latched onto me as his ‘friend in Delaney’. He certainly chatted as though we were close.

  ‘You look nice today.’

  I looked down at what I had on – a narrow skirt, a plain shirt, a black jacket. I was in no mood for floral dresses. I had tried dressing the way I used to, but anything pastel and soft made me feel see-through and exposed. I wore heels because it felt right to be taller. I wore jewellery – Bruce’s gifts to me – around my neck and on my wrists and fingers, to ward off the dark spirits. I wore heavy make-up to conceal my uncertainty. My morning ritual was akin to pulling on armour. I knew what I was doing, and why. For now, as we struggled to come to terms with what had happened, we needed shields.

  In my hand was a pen. I was tapping the end of it on a notepad, like a metronome set to a fast beat. The pen seemed to rise and fall in time with my thinking. Finn watched me. I got the impression he wanted to reach across and still the pen.

  My mother walked into the office. She was windblown and damp from the rain. She wiped her feet on the mat and lifted her hand to tell me she could see I was busy and she wouldn’t interrupt.

  She went over to the sofa. Her body was thin and bent. Her hands were crippled with arthritis. When Finn looked at her, she smiled at him.

  ‘Hello there. Don’t worry, I’m family. I can wait,’ she quipped kindly in my direction.

  She looked at me and her gaze lingered. My avoidance of her since the holiday was its own telling factor. Sure, I felt better equipped now to hold her gaze, and my eyes were no longer swollen, my nails were trimmed, my bruises had faded, but seven days without a word was now cause alone for some alarm. The question entered into her eyes – What’s wrong? Finn sensed something passing between us. He picked up the envelope containing the house keys.

  ‘I’m so excited,’ he said. ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you.’ (He’d already sent me a long email saying how excited and grateful he was.) He got to his feet. ‘Will you come and visit me, when I’m all set up?’

  ‘Well, I don’t usually.’

  ‘I’ll have to have some disaster,’ he said and then smiled at my mother, including her in the conversation. ‘I’ll flood the laundry or something so I’m guaranteed a visit … Just joking.’ he said. He paused at the door and glanced again at my mother. He wanted an introduction.

  I could see how Finn might smooth the way into my first conversation with my mother. ‘Mum,’ I said, ‘this is Finn. He’s a new tenant at Tyler Street. Finn, this is my mum, Elaine.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Elaine.’

  ‘Judging by that uniform, you must work at the Four Seasons,’ my mother said. ‘I like their duck.’

  ‘I’m still trying to master it.’

  While they spoke I formulated in my mind what I’d say to my mother. I wouldn’t lie; I didn’t want to, I doubted that I could even if I’d wanted to. I’d tell her the story we had told the police. Bruce’s edited version. It wasn’t untrue; it was amended. The office, perhaps, was the right place for it – her house might slip me into a childlike state that would be far too taxing to pull back out of.

  ‘The new restaurant there is very good,’ Mum was saying.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll close this,’ Finn said, reaching for the door handle, ‘it’s cold in here. I’ll see you later, Trudy, thanks again.’ He began to pull the door shut.

  ‘No!’ My voice shot out from my body. ‘Don’t shut the door!’

  Finn opened it, cautiously.

  The air in the office had begun flowing out the narrowing gap. Hadn’t they felt that? I took a deep breath. My airways were constricting. And now it was going to take a few moments for the office to refill with fresh air. My mother was watching me. Her concern had been replaced with something more urgent. Her brow drew in. I got up. ‘I’m really sorry, Mum, I have to go to the townhouse with Finn. The heating system is complicated, and the pilot light can be tricky to ignite. Did you catch a taxi into town? Do you need a lift home? I can drop you on the way.’

  With Finn standing in the doorway she was unable to say what she wanted. Her head shook in frustration. ‘I thought we could have lunch together,’ she said with meaning. ‘When will you be back?’

  I gathered up my things. ‘If I’m out I should keep going.’ I checked my watch. ‘I have to get to Cove Street. There’s been a hold up with the building there.’ I loosened the collar around my neck. ‘I know I haven’t thanked you properly for having the kids while we were away. We’ve been so busy.’

  My mother used her elbow to lever herself up from the seat. ‘I have an appointment just before lunch.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll catch a taxi home later. It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s been a madhouse catching up on everything. Cove Street is causing some headaches. I’ll visit tomorrow, or maybe the day after t
hat. I’ll ring you.’

  We hugged. It reminded me of the way Bruce embraced his parents – with efficiency. A clean squeeze of my arms around my mother’s shoulders and a fast release, a step back, a closed-mouth smile. Unlike Bruce’s parents, though, my mother didn’t deserve such treatment. If I’d disappointed my mum by marrying a local boy and not choosing a career in keeping with family tradition, she masked it well. I saw the hurt my military-type affection caused her. She stood there, taken aback, before patting her windblown hair back into shape and heading for the door.

  ‘I love you, Trudy,’ she reminded me.

  I followed Finn to Tyler Street in my car, parking by the kerb. Finn drove into the garage and walked from beneath the roller door, smiling. He pressed the button on the remote and watched the roller door close. Some junk mail had blown out of the letterbox and was on the concrete path. I bent down and peeled it off.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and took the wet leaflet from me. ‘Come inside, you’re getting wet.’

  The previous tenants had been thoughtful enough to leave a doormat. I wiped my feet on it, checked around me. The doors leading to the bedrooms were open. The hall was short and led to a large open area.

  ‘Should I have a shoes-off rule?’ Finn said. ‘I guess it’s tiled through to the kitchen, we should be right.’ He stepped to one side and gestured for me to go in before him.

  ‘It’s your first time as a leaseholder, you go first.’

  ‘Okay, but only this once, Ms Harrison,’ he said with teasing familiarity.

  ‘Where’s Bridget?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t she want to be here for the handover?’

  He shook his head and went on. ‘She had something on today,’ he said.

  I twisted the front door handle to check the door was unlocked. Sweat had sprung up beneath the rain on my face. The interior of the house was dim, clean, unfurnished. It smelt of carpet deodoriser and bleach. Finn appeared at the end of the passageway to see what was holding me up.

  ‘I’ll leave the front door open,’ I said.

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you for the flowers. You didn’t have to do that.’

  In the kitchen, on the bench, was a bunch of lilies in a vase. I’d put them there the day before. I’d also left a handwritten note of welcome. Yesterday, looking through the house, I’d not felt this disorientation. The walls were closing in. The ceiling was pressing down. Was it because I was inside a confined space with a strange man? Was this how it would be for me from now on, believing every male could turn violent and sadistic, given the right environment?