All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  As I pretended to read the list of the university’s achievements I watched the clock turn slowly. A quarter of an hour passed and then half an hour, before Sergeant Durham came back in.At the sound of the door, Constable Morriset popped up as well. She must have been sitting close by but out of my sight. I wondered if she had noticed me at the window.

  ‘How did you go, Sarge?’

  ‘Another day, another junkie scared about their day in court,’ he said. ‘Told him to head off home and come back when he’s making sense.’

  ‘Took a while.’

  ‘All part of the service, Sam. Important to go that extra mile.’

  As he turned to walk past, he stopped and looked at me. ‘You’re that girl from Scullin, aren’t you?’ He was back to being amiable.

  I nodded.

  ‘You still waiting for your interview? Sam,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘they finished up the last one yet?’

  ‘No, Sarge. Haven’t come out.’

  ‘Taking their time.’ Durham smiled over at me. ‘Must have a lot to chat about. Wait a sec, this could be them now.’

  A door scraped open and I could hear voices coming towards me.

  ‘Listen, my client wishes to be as cooperative as possible, but I think we need to take a break.’

  ‘Tell him to start cooperating or he’ll be arrested.’

  Two tall men appeared. The only difference between them was the price of the suits.

  The one in the expensive suit pursed his lips and looked at his watch. ‘Let me take him outside for a smoke.’

  The other, a tired man with almost no hair, frowned, and then said, ‘All right. I’ll give you ten minutes. If you want a coffee, tell the constable here and she’ll get it for you.’

  Morriset’s mouth twisted at this. Expensive suit went back up the corridor.

  ‘Finally getting somewhere,’ Baldy said to Durham. Durham nodded in my direction, and Baldy quickly shut up. He then turned his attention to Constable Morriset.

  ‘Hear you had an admirer, Sam. Couldn’t keep his hands off you.’

  Constable Morriset shot a dirty look at Durham and muttered something under her breath that I didn’t hear but he did.

  ‘Now, Constable, is that any way to talk to a senior officer?’

  She opened her mouth but the lawyer in the expensive suit was back and this time his client was with him. It was Joad. He flicked his eyes in my direction, and immediately looked away, two triangles of red burning on his cheeks. His lawyer directed him through the door, calling out, ‘Two white coffees. No sugar.’

  Baldy snorted at this. ‘While you’re up, Sam, I’ll have one, perhaps with a doughnut on the side as well. Chocolate icing and those nice sprinkles.’ Constable Morriset stuck up her middle finger as she walked away.

  I should have guessed Joad would be suspect number one. I tried to think what they would be questioning him about. The detective had spoken about threats being made and that he might be arrested. The confrontation before the march, I guessed. Joad’s words were coming back to haunt him. Even the comment made at breakfast so long ago about the Murder Game, when Joad had joked about being the Screwdriver Man, was now plastered around university.

  I watched him slouch past, his face pinched and scared. Joad hated Leiza and I wondered if his comments about slicing off body parts could be more than just talk. But it was Rachel he had talked about killing and I knew her death had nothing to do with him. Had someone else heard it and murdered Leiza that way to put the blame on him? The same person who knew about my Rohypnol? I tried picturing who had been sitting round that table the morning he said it. But all their faces blended into one. Rogan. Had I badly underestimated him? The thought made me dizzy and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Sergeant Durham was standing over me.

  ‘Penny,’ he said, and I almost jumped. ‘We’ll have to postpone your interview for today.’

  A moment of non-comprehension and then, ‘Do I have to come back tomorrow?’

  ‘We’ll let you know.’

  I got up, trying to look the right level of grateful. ‘Thanks, Sergeant Durham.’

  ‘You head off now,’ he said. ‘Want to get home before dark.’

  · · ·

  On the far corner of campus, hemmed in by trees on one side and the highway on the other, was the Gulag. Its real name, borrowed from another dead prime minister, was never used. Burning in summer, freezing in winter, full of asbestos, it was the cheapest accommodation at university. Sergeant Durham said that Nico was heading home, so that was where I was going to look for the only person who seemed to know what was happening at the bar and who had realised Leiza was in danger. I just hoped that he was sane enough to tell me what was going on.

  Shadows were beginning to lengthen into night as I walked up to the three long corrugated-iron huts making up the Gulag. A couple of t-shirts were blowing in the breeze on a temporary washing line, hooked up between the last hut and the only nearby street light. I had never been inside and the buildings looked even more derelict than I had remembered, with broken windows and splattered paint. I headed to the only part that had a light on.

  It must have once been the kitchen. A single bare light bulb illuminated the shell of cupboards and benches. A boy had his back to me and was chopping onions on a cracked and peeling counter. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink next to him, a camping stove on the other side. A small padlocked bar fridge hummed.

  My feet squeaked on the lino and he turned towards me, a large knife in his hand. I put my hands up in the universal I-come-in-peace gesture, keeping eye contact with his face instead of what he was holding. It was Nico’s mate from the rally, the owner of the Che Guevara t-shirt. Today he was wearing a t-shirt with a large pot leaf on it.

  ‘Oh, hi . . .’ I began.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I saw you at the bar the other night, sitting with Toby.’ His acne made a beard-shaped rash across the bottom half of his face. He didn’t lower his hand.

  I tried to smile, the skin around my mouth feeling brittle. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You left as the police raided,’ he said. His voice wasn’t accusing but the knife gave the comment some edge. ‘That wasn’t very helpful.’ He dropped the knife into the grey scummy water with a clatter.

  ‘How long did you stay?’

  ‘’Til they dragged us out and charged us.’

  ‘And how did that help anyone?’

  He gave a grin. ‘The Marchmains went down fighting. That night could have become university legend but it’s hard to compete with a homicidal murderer.’ He turned away from me and bent down next to a low cupboard. It was missing a door. He grabbed a saucepan and straightened up.

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for Nico.’

  ‘Nico?’ He gave me a cool look. ‘He doesn’t get so many visitors these days. Used to get lots, rich college kids especially. What do you want? Something to get through your exams?’

  ‘I’m not looking to score,’ I said.

  ‘Lucky. He’s been a bit temperamental since Alice left. Did that this morning.’ He pointed to a large dent in a wall behind him.

  I studied it carefully, wondering if he was making it up to frighten me and then remembered the marks on Nico’s knuckles.

  ‘Saw him round not so long ago. Try the next building.’ He pointed to his right. ‘There’s a sign on his door but he’s pretty much got it to himself anyway.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Got a torch?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Better borrow mine then. Some idiot fucked the fuse up again this afternoon. I’ll try and fix it after I’ve had my dinner.’

  He passed over one of those heavy black security ones that double as a truncheon. My hand dropped with the weight of it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring it straight back.’

  Outside was dusk and beginning to get cold. When I opened the door to the next hut, I automatically scrabbled for the light switch. My han
d found three and I clicked them down. Nothing happened. The boy hadn’t been joking. I stood there at the door, listening. All the sounds seemed to come from outside, the hum of traffic, the occasional voice in the distance, some bird calls. I tried to adjust my eyes, as waving a torch around where people lived felt a bit rude, something a rich college kid would do. My courage disappeared as I stared hard into the dark, black turning grey, shapes slowly coming into focus, a cavern becoming a room. I moved forward, hesitating.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to a couple of empty chairs, who ignored me.

  A few more steps.

  There was something mournful about being in a place that would have been busy and noisy all its life. Before it was a home for students it had been workers’ quarters, on site at some big infrastructure project, a dam or a mine or something. But now that was all finished. It would be flattened and some new architectural monstrosity for educational purposes would turn up and people would forget it had ever been there at all.

  ‘Nico,’ I said. I thought I heard something and took another step. A sudden bang above my head, a scream from me, and then an old-man cough and the sound of something scuttling away.

  A possum on the roof.

  I almost laughed with relief as memories of summer nights with Tracey, lying in our beds listening to possums tap-dance across the tin flashed through my head. I felt braver.

  I walked along the corridor, the space only wide enough for one. The floor sagged underneath my weight. Bedrooms ran along the right-hand side. All empty now, I was sure of it. Halfway down the corridor, there was the outline of a piece of paper stuck to a door. I could see it had been ripped out of a notebook, one edge ragged with perforation. The words ‘Nico – Keep Out’ were just legible in the gloom. It reminded me of the notes he had been carrying, two or three sheets with lots of words scrawled on them. Sergeant Durham didn’t have them when he came back inside. Maybe Nico had taken them back? Maybe Nico had left them in his room? Maybe I could read them and see if Nico really knew anything about what was going on.

  I tapped lightly on the door. It swung open. The room was twilight in comparison to the darkness of the corridor. Light and an icy breeze came from outside through a cracked window.

  ‘Hello,’ I said again.

  Still no reply.

  Perhaps Nico had never come back this afternoon and his Marchmain friend had lied to a girl he thought was a rich college kid. He was probably laughing into his dinner right now, or perhaps, he was going to creep up in the darkness and jump out at me. The thought of that made my skin prickle and I switched on the torch as I peered behind me. But he was back in the kitchen, burning his onions. I was alone.

  I turned back to the room. Something white was crumpled on the floor. It was Nico’s jacket. He must have come home after talking to the police. I couldn’t see any pieces of paper lying around but I wanted to be sure. Swallowing, I stepped into the room.

  My torch caught a photograph stuck to the opposite wall. I stumbled forward to get closer. It was of Nico with his arms around Alice, how they were before the attack. Alice was looking directly towards me, laughing, beautiful, her eyes narrowed in good humour. Nico was looking at her. Wearing his stupid white suit, his blonde hair curled around his head. He was almost unrecognisable.

  I was too focused on the picture to realise he was there behind me. It was the smell I noticed. Behind the door, caught in the shadows, he was lying on a filthy blanket. A small plastic bag and needle were beside him, a spoon and lighter discarded next to the mattress.

  I knelt down next to him. A trickle of brown trailed from his mouth. I didn’t want to touch him so I put my hand just under his nose, hoping for the slightest movement of warm air on my fingers as I watched his chest. Nothing. My hand began to shake and I accidentally touched his lips. A kiss from a corpse. It felt like a stain on my skin.

  Chapter 22

  It’s been raining for three days, ever since Terry left. Gentle drops from grey skies giving way to biblical amounts of water gushing down. It is still falling this morning.

  Mum is in her dressing gown, listening to the radio in the kitchen. She’s on day shift this week so she should have already left for work, but she’s banking on the road to the Cannery getting washed out.

  ‘Last time the road was cut off for two days,’ she tells me. ‘Imagine getting stuck out there.’

  ‘Pack an emergency can opener and you wouldn’t starve,’ I say.

  ‘I’d get pretty sick of tinned asparagus,’ she snorts.

  She has taken the Terry break-up better than I expected. Michelle from work is already trying to set her up with someone.

  The radio announcer comes on with the list of today’s cancellations and closures. He can’t decide if this should be in his usual cheesy manner or something more serious. In the end he goes for the latter and reads it out as if he is compering a funeral. The road to the Cannery has been shut since daybreak. Mum looks relieved.

  ‘Lucky, they don’t run a nightshift until corn starts,’ she says. Then on reflection, ‘But think of the overtime,’ and, ‘I should see if they’ll let you work during the corn season. Casual on nightshift, that’s good money. Could save up and the two of us go away on a cruise or something. Wouldn’t that be nice, a mother-daughter holiday?’

  I ignore her because that would be my worst nightmare and I won’t be here anyway.

  All roads out of here have been cut off.

  We are an island.

  Mum keeps smiling until she remembers that the nursing home is across from the school and nearer the river.

  ‘They won’t evacuate it, will they?’ she asks me. ‘Make us take Dad back for a bit?’ She is debating whether to phone them or not but just decides that no news is good news when the phone rings.

  ‘You answer it,’ she says. ‘If it’s the home, tell them I’m stuck at the factory. They’d never make you come and pick up your grandfather even if the water was up to their necks.’

  Tracey’s cousin runs the nursing home. I am banned from entering.

  Walking to the phone, I pull a face, which Mum misses because she is heaping sugar into her cup of tea.

  She yells from the kitchen, ‘If it’s someone called Kevin, you’re my younger sister.’

  But it’s not Michelle’s cousin’s best friend who’s getting divorced but has a great sense of humour. It’s Ivy. Frank wants to see me.

  ‘Frank has availability tomorrow,’ she says.

  I wonder why. Ivy always claims that Frank is booked out months in advance.

  ‘If it’s so urgent I can do today,’ I say, curiously.

  ‘He’s assisting with the relief effort today,’ says Ivy, in a voice that implies I should know that already.

  I wonder what assistance Frank is giving. Perhaps counselling all the idiots who forgot they bought a house on a plain that floods every couple of years, but will remember the story of two girls killing a policeman and how one of them got away with it, for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Tomorrow, eleven a.m.’

  ‘All right.’

  I’m curious, but I would sooner rip out my tongue than ask her why. Anyway, that works for me. I’ve decided I should at least say goodbye to Frank, I owe him that much. As soon as the highway reopens, I’m leaving. The university made an offer the day after I bought my suit.

  I walk back into the kitchen and tell Mum it was only Ivy, but she shushes me so she can keep listening to the radio. Sipping her tea, she is packing bits and pieces into a cardboard box. The remnants of Terry.

  ‘Another festival ruined. Won’t be a single blossom left in the district after this rain,’ she says, when the next song is played. ‘Races cancelled and the peak hasn’t come yet. Those poor buggers on Pye Street already have it lapping over their doormats.’

  She tries to look sympathetic but we both know she is enjoying it. Usually disasters involve us. This time we are high and dry.

  ‘Already gone over the last one. If the rain
stays this heavy overnight, might get as high as 1923 and then the levees will be breached and all bets will be off. Your grandfather knew what he was doing when he bought on a hill. Crafty old bugger.’

  She walks out of the kitchen, my slippers on her shuffling feet. I peek inside the box to see if there is anything worth pinching: a Grateful Dead cassette, a pair of grubby thongs and a well-thumbed paperback of The Kama Sutra, which makes me feel ill. Mum is back before I can go through it all properly. She’s holding some LPs, a couple of t-shirts and a toothbrush.

  ‘Might want to make yourself scarce this morning,’ she says.

  I look out the window at the pelting rain and ask why. I had planned to spend the day in bed.

  ‘Terry is coming over to pick up the last of his stuff.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘Staying out at Mick’s,’ she says with a shrug, like what does she care, but she immediately goes to her handbag, searching for her nicotine gum. ‘He’ll head off when the road reopens, I guess, to whatever is so important up north.’ Bitterness flavours her voice.

  ‘How’s he getting in to town?’

  ‘Lyall Bridge hasn’t closed yet. I told him that if he doesn’t pick up his crap this morning, it will be on the front lawn by midday, rain or no rain.’

  Terry’s going has been easier than I thought but still I don’t want to push my luck. I leave Mum flinging a bunch of his clothes out of her wardrobe onto an untidy heap on the floor.

  Outside, the world is blurred and softened except for the rain, which is needle-sharp. At the end of our street you can follow the road all the way down to the river. There is a thin glaze of water over the black tar. But I want to go higher, to take one last look at the town. It’s been on my mind since Frank mentioned it, so I decide to go up The Hill.

  I haven’t been to the top of The Hill since that night. There’s a road that leads straight up to it, but I don’t want to go that way. Too close to the cemetery. Instead, I go around the golf course, past the last lot of houses on the edge of town and then up the dirt track that cuts The Hill straight up the middle, like a centre part. The cutting is supposed to be used only during bush-fire season, but I jump the locked gate.