All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  Constable Morriset puts on gloves and pulls the blue book out of my bag. She slips it into a clear plastic bag and seals it. They put me in the police car, next to her. She is trying not to look too pleased with herself. A good day’s work. They never wanted Frank’s notes, just the diary. They must have kept a watch on this place, knowing I would bring it in for our session.

  People have come out into the street to see what is going on. The man from next door is standing out the front of his shop, gaping like a fish. I wonder if he knows who I am, if he remembers the day that I came in and stole a porcelain ornament. I was sure he saw me. That’s why I left so quickly and ran back to the park, clutching it under my jacket. Tracey was more confident and decided to browse for longer.

  ‘It’s been a while, Pen,’ says Constable Morriset.

  ‘Why isn’t Sergeant Durham here?’ I ask.

  She tries to appear unruffled but her edges get sharper. ‘He’s not part of this investigation any more.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I say. I want to show her that I’m not intimidated.

  ‘Don’t worry. Sergeant Woodley knows the way to the police station.’

  I look at the rear-vision mirror. The policeman who seems familiar.

  ‘I know Pen as well,’ he says.

  ‘Is that right?’ says Constable Morriset, tartly echoing my words.

  ‘You forgotten me?’ he says. His eyes catch mine in the mirror. ‘Pen was the star witness in a big case we had a while back. Didn’t get to trial though. Accused killed herself the day before it started. Shot herself with the murder weapon. Remember, Pen? I had to come and tell you.’

  The trees are bare in front of the court house. The rain has torn off all the blossoms. Winter is here again.

  · · ·

  They put me in the same interview room I was in that night. I tell myself that it is not deliberate, that there aren’t that many interview rooms in a country station.

  I pretend this is just a waiting room. But it isn’t the same as the others. There are no pictures on the walls.

  I sit for a long time alone, trying to work out why I am here. What am I really guilty of? Michael killed Rachel, not me. Just like Tracey killed the policeman. The diary doesn’t help, but I think of how to explain it away. It was a hypothetical exercise as instructed by my psychiatrist to help me deal with my emotional loss. My survivor’s guilt was such that I blamed myself for others’ actions.

  Sounds like lies.

  The interview starts and it is the uniforms again. Not detectives. They’ll be here soon, Constable Morriset tells me. The flood’s delayed them.

  She says that I am being questioned in relation to the death of Michael Doherty.

  ‘Michael killed himself,’ I say. ‘He jumped from the top of the building.’

  ‘Did he?’ Constable Morriset asks. ‘Because the angle of his fall looks like he was pushed.’

  I keep my face blank. Expert evidence, that’s all they’ve got. We just need to find another expert to say he wasn’t.

  She brings out a plastic bag and for a second I think it is my diary, and I begin to ready my excuses. But instead it’s a bottle of tablets. The label has been ripped off. I still recognise it.

  ‘Have you seen these tablets before?’ she asks.

  I retain a veneer of control. I need time to think about what to do next. I tell her I want legal representation. I give her Bob’s name and number.

  ‘Of course,’ Morriset says.

  ‘Might take a while,’ Sergeant Woodley tells me. ‘Hear he’s back in hospital. Another angina attack.’

  Bob not being there doesn’t stop them from talking. Morriset holds up the bag with the tablets.

  ‘We found them in Michael Doherty’s belongings. These are the same tablets that drugged Rachel Brough and that were found near Leiza Parnell.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ I ask. I didn’t mean to but it just popped out.

  ‘Because you’re not the only one who wrote things down.’

  It takes a moment to register what she is talking about. It seems not even Michael could keep a secret. Perhaps no one can.

  ‘This isn’t the first murder you’ve been questioned for, is it?’ asks Sergeant Woodley. ‘Must be hard having friends die again. Seems to happen to you a lot. Tracey was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?’

  I look at him and say, ‘Tracey’s my best friend.’

  ‘Was your best friend.’ He sits there as if he has all the time in the world. ‘Here’s what I think, you want us to know what happened. Why else write it all down? I mean, you hardly kept this diary a secret. We had anonymous calls to the station about it.’

  I don’t look at him.

  I try to think practically about murder and manslaughter, mens rea, guilt and innocence, but it is like time is winding backwards and everything I have learnt about criminal law has vanished. That I never won a bursary, went to university or escaped this town.

  I am a scared fifteen-year-old staring at the blank wall.

  But if that’s the case then Tracey is on the other side of it. If I get up from my chair and beat on the wall with my hands she will hear me in the other room. We haven’t been separated yet. I haven’t had to betray or protect her or whatever it is I did.

  She isn’t really dead.

  Sergeant Woodley puts my diary on the table.

  ‘If I tell you, will I be able to have it back?’ I ask, gesturing at my book.

  Morriset shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  It isn’t my diary any more. It is their exhibit.

  I look at it sitting there next to my tablets.

  My talismans. Their evidence.

  Both were supposed to ward off the darkness, but darkness is here anyway and I am falling into it again, weighed down by all the secrets I carry inside me. Putting my hand up to push back my hair, I feel tears on my cheeks.

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ Morriset asks, not unkindly.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’ll make that phone call,’ says Sergeant Woodley. He picks up the plastic bags and they both walk out, leaving me alone to cry.

  I thought I would be able to control this more, that writing it down would help me decide who was the hero, the victim, the murderer, the liar, but maybe I have been all of them. It just depends on where you are in the story.

  I don’t know where this will end or what I will do when they come back in with more questions. All I know is that everything is unravelling and I want to keep pulling it all out until I am right back at the beginning.

  So I start with this morning. Frank’s betrayal and Ivy’s nervous smile fade quickly and are gone. The last few months move past me in reverse, slowly but getting quicker. Blossoms on trees. Mum without a perm. Terry hasn’t moved in. My life on rewind. Michael standing on the roof. Leiza and her petition. Toby smiling. Kesh blushing. Rogan, a stranger across the table and Rachel knocking on my door scrounging for a cigarette. A knot and I pause, standing in front of the picture of the boy on the wall for the first time, but a quick tug and that disappears as well. Fast now, I am almost free. A court room, shots in the night, the china shepherdess. The images blur until a flash of the purest blue.

  A summer morning on The Hill.

  This is where I cut the thread.

  · · ·

  It’s the dog that I hear first, scrabbling in the undergrowth before bursting out. A furry bullet, he darts away immediately. Nearby, a girl’s voice calls out to him. Tracey Cuttmore appears, walking along the dirt track.

  The sun has already burnt away the cool of the night. As soon as it opens, I’m heading to the pool where the chlorine is so strong it turns yellow hair green. Tracey is in my class at school. I haven’t seen her since we broke up for the year. Farm kids go wild over summer, jumping into dams, riding their horses, hunting for yabbies, not bored like us townies.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, when she sees me.

  Shrugging my uncert
ainty, I continue to pick at a mozzie bite on my leg until a pomegranate seed of blood bubbles up.

  ‘Dad’s seeing Mr Phillamey,’ she says. ‘Thought I’d hitch a ride in. You hiding out?’

  ‘Nothing better to do.’

  She flops down onto the dirt next to me. ‘Your mum’s got a new boyfriend.’

  I make a face. He’s the reason I stay away from home.

  ‘Gary’s my second cousin,’ says Tracey. This doesn’t surprise me. Half the district is related to Tracey. ‘He’s a dickhead.’

  The dog comes bursting out of the dry grass. A long-eared bundle, more than half his size, struggles in his mouth. He drops it and scoops it up again. A savage shake of his head. The rabbit bleats high-pitched squeaks.

  ‘Let go,’ I yell. Whether I startle the dog, I’m not sure, but the rabbit kicks free and rolls over and over, finding its feet to streak away. The dog bounds after it.

  Tracey jumps up, shading her eyes with her hands, trying to follow the movement below us. ’You’re too soft,’ she says, dismissively. ‘Besides, the rabbit’s probably injured. Best thing is for Nipper to finish it off quickly.’

  Neither of us speak as Nipper disappears back into the bush. I stare at Tracey, sullen from the rebuke. Patches of sunburnt skin, translucent like an onion, are peeling off her arms and legs.

  ‘You got a lock on your bedroom door?’ she asks after a while.

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Take money from your mum’s purse and get one. I’ll put it on for you.’

  A peace offering. I swish a fly off my neck before reciprocating. Pulling out a crinkled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of my shorts, I lay it down on the dust between us.

  Tracey gives me a sidelong look, ‘Your mum’s?’

  ‘Gary’s. He thinks he lost them down at the pub.’

  She pulls a cigarette from the packet and cups her hand around the lighter I pass to her.

  ‘Careful, don’t want to start a bushfire,’ I say. ‘A spark’s all it takes.’

  She laughs, ‘Let it burn. No great loss.’ But she’s careful all the same.

  I lie on my side, propped up on one elbow, watching her, the long grass tickling my skin. She smokes properly, inhaling in a way that would make my head spin. I don’t take one. Nicking them was enough.

  The world stretches out before us. Yellow fields give way to dirt tracts stretching up to the horizon of dark-blue mountains that stand between us and the rest of the world.

  ‘Remember what Smelly Kelly called this?’ she asks. I’m surprised Tracey remembers anything that Mrs Kelly taught us. She spent most of last year standing under the clock, in disgrace.

  ‘An extinguished volcano?’

  ‘A fire mountain, she said, a fire mountain that had gone to sleep.’

  I press my ear to the ground, trying to listen for the fiery heartbeat down in the earth, a throbbing whooshing sound, but it’s only the wind in the trees. All is quiet below. ‘Still sleeping,’ I say, and I close my eyes to pretend I am as well.

  I can feel the sun’s heat on me. Rolling onto my back, everything turns red underneath my eyelids and it’s easy to imagine a world on fire. I force my eyes open. Heartbeat red dissolves into blue and I am looking up at a limitless sky. I think about the fire worlds above my head, the stars that disappear from view because of the dazzle of another, smaller but closer. I wondered if the world is on fire all the time, and we don’t notice.

  Tracey gets up and stands over me, the sun behind her, and she is dark and light all at once.

  I get to my feet and dust myself down to give my eyes time to adjust.

  ‘You coming?’ I ask.

  ‘Where?’ But she’s already stubbing out her cigarette.

  ‘Haven’t decided yet.’

  She nods, whistles for Nipper who appears further along the track minus the rabbit, but looks cheerful enough, trotting away and then looking back to check we are following. Slowly, we move towards him, heading down The Hill, leaving behind the fire and the stars, to walk back into town together.

  A Guide for Reading Groups

  All These Perfect Strangers

  Aoife Clifford

  Questions for Discussion:

  1. Do you agree with Pen’s decision to re-write her own history in her meetings with Frank? Do you think we all constantly edit and revise our own histories? If so, why?

  2. Though the novel is set in Australia, it has a very universal feel. Do you think this was an intentional decision on the part of the author? What does the relative anonymity of the places and setting add to the novel?

  3. Near the beginning of the novel, Rachel declares, ‘Everyone’s got skeletons. Your secrets are what make you different. What make you interesting.’ Do you agree with this statement? How does this belief of Rachel’s shape her actions at university? How does it shape others’ actions?

  4. Pen’s life at university is a shock for her after the small-town life she had before. Discuss these two settings. How are they the same? How are they different? Does the university, with its insular feel and class hierarchies, really provide the escape Pen was looking for?

  5. Pen is ultimately an unreliable narrator – as the reader, we get multiple versions of her story and have to decide for ourselves what we think really happened and how much Pen is to blame. Do you think we’re getting the whole story? How much do you believe Pen’s version of events?

  6. All These Perfect Strangers is set in 1987-1990, in a world before emails, mobile phones and social media. How do you think Pen’s story would be different now? How would her ability to keep her past hidden be compromised? Do you think her actions at university and her entire story would be different if people like Rachel could find out everything about her online?

  7. Pen is not the only one in the novel who is manipulating the truth to serve her own purposes. Discuss how the other characters are each twisting and editing facts to write their own stories. Who do you think causes the most damage in doing this?

  8. The title, All These Perfect Strangers, works on a variety of levels. How did your interpretation of it change over the course of the novel?

  9. We realise early on that Pen, for obvious reasons, has issues trusting authority figures. But underneath her toughness there is a vulnerability and desire for a mentor of some kind. How do you think the actions of both Marcus and Frank will affect this desire? How did you interpret Frank’s actions at the end? Do you agree with Pen and think this was planned all along?

  10. The main reason that Pen is so attracted to Rogan is that he seems perfect, the antithesis of everything she’s ever known. As she discovers certain things about him, this belief changes. How does Pen’s experience at university, and the realisation that no one is who they seem, change her as a person?

  11. ‘The grief you feel – maybe it’s even guilt about what happened – is distorting the way you view the world.’ By the end of the novel, we realise that almost every character is guilty of something, and that their guilt informs their actions. Discuss each character’s guilt and how you think it shapes them as a person. How does Pen’s guilt about her past influence the deaths at the university? Do you think she will ever be able to acquit herself? Should she?

  12. Of all the characters, Michael is perhaps the most successful at hiding who he really is and what his motivations are. Were you surprised by his part in events? Did you feel sorry for him?

  13. Though we only ever see Tracey in flashbacks, her presence is felt throughout the novel. How does her friendship with Pen shape Pen’s current interactions and reactions to the people in her life? Were you surprised when you discovered what happened to Tracey? How did it change your feelings towards Pen?

  14. The novel’s ending is haunting and so deliberately open that it lingers in the mind. What do you think happened to Pen? Why do you think the author decided to leave the story this way?

  A Conversation with Aoife Clifford

  What was your inspiration f
or writing All These Perfect Strangers?

  The university setting was my initial inspiration. First year at university is such a perfect mix of excitement, loneliness and self-discovery. People are on the cusp of adulthood, trying to work out who they are without the anchors of home and school.

  It is one of the main arcs of storytelling that the protagonist undertakes a journey to a strange land, overcoming threats and struggles before returning home, understanding more about themselves. It is The Odyssey, The Hobbit, Brideshead Revisited and probably every detective novel. I wondered if I could extend this idea so that every main character was a stranger in a new land. First year at university was perfect for that.

  What is your writing process like? Do you do lots of research or work to a strict schedule? Where’s your favourite place to write?

  I can write anywhere and at any time, but if I could choose it would be somewhere quiet in the morning. I try to write every day, but life often does get in the way of that. I only tend to research when I have a specific question to answer otherwise I suspect I would fall into the same trap as I did at university, where I would treat photocopying/printing articles as actually doing work.

  At one point Pen writes, ‘This is one of the advantages of telling the story. You get to choose where it starts and finishes.’ As an author, why did you choose to finish Pen’s story as you did?

  At the start, Pen tells the reader that this is a story that could be ‘told a hundred different ways’, because I wanted to give the reader space to come up with their own interpretation of the events that take place and Pen’s culpability in them.

  The main story of All These Perfect Strangers is Pen’s time at university interwoven with Pen back in her hometown. This is interspersed with snapshots of Tracey and Pen’s relationship, starting at the last time they saw each other and moving backwards in time. So I wanted an ending that brought all these strands together while also telling the story of the beginning of their friendship, which is at the heart of the story. In short, I wanted an ending that captured the essence of the book.