After Ariel: It started as a game

by Diana Hockley

  After what seem forever to the small boy, they came out of the room wheeling a tiny mound on top of the trolley. No one looked at the waiting children or spoke to them. The baby’s mother, held up by her friend, staggered out the door. His mother marched over to the waiting group of four children. ‘Your father is coming for you, so go into the kitchen and I’ll get you something to eat.’

  Terrified, the visitors scuttled away leaving Dingo cringing on the bottom step. ‘You get upstairs. I’ll deal with you later.’ She grabbed him by the back of his collar and shoved him up the first few stairs before turning away. The front door opened and two uniformed police officers spoke to his mother. It was all too much. Dingo ran up the stairs, holding in sobs until he reached his room.

  He didn’t know how long he waited for someone to come. Would she kill him this time? Perspiration gathered in the small of his back and trickled down into his underpants. His shorts and socks were spattered with yellow poo. Too traumatised to make a sound, he slumped down into a corner and buried his head in his hands. Next came sounds of people arriving, voices raised and then – presumably the other children – leaving, followed by car doors slamming. Voices came from downstairs for a long time but finally darkness fell over the silent house. At one time he thought he heard the telephone ring and his mother moving around, but she did not come upstairs.

  He must have fallen asleep. Suddenly the light in his room came on and Frances was looming over him. He braced himself to protect his head.

  ‘Come downstairs. Someone wants to talk to you.’

  He followed her to the kitchen where two policemen were standing, holding their caps in their hands. His mother steered him, none too gently, to the table and pushed him into a chair. The male policeman, who had to be older than God for the wrinkles on his face, sat opposite; the woman took the seat at the end of the table. Dingo kept his head down, hoping the throbbing in his ear would stop. His mother started making tea with jerky movements, as though she wanted to rip the teapot apart with her bare hands.

  ‘Okay, son. Tell us what happened, in your own words.’

  Saying nothing had always been his best defence when things got bad, so he remained silent.

  ‘You do realise what happened to the baby, don’t you? What were you trying to do with her, son? Were you trying to change her nappy?’

  Soothed a little by the quiet tones and non-threatening body language, he nodded slowly.

  ‘Why didn’t you go and get her mummy?’

  How could he tell the policeman that he was never allowed out of the house? Mum had told him time and again it was a secret and now she was watching him like a hawk, her prominent hazel eyes bulging like they always did when she was about to hurt him. She might get into trouble...one, two three, four...five...if I get to ten will the policeman be gone? He shrugged, staring at the table, his fingers twisting around each other. One. Two. Three. Four...if I count in even numbers, then when I get to...twenty...they might go. He so wanted to tell the truth, but he knew what would happen when the police left.

  No matter how hard they tried, the policemen weren’t able to get an answer. He wasn’t capable of forming the words, could only just hold back the terror writhing deep inside. Though he wanted them to leave him alone, he was more frightened of being left to the mercy of Frances...perhaps if he counted to fifty...give them more time to go or keep them there so she couldn’t hurt him? At long last, reluctantly it seemed to even his young mind, the police left after a quiet conversation with his mother at the front door.

  He stood up. Perhaps if he got to his room before she did, he’d be safe. Sensing his mother’s attention turning to him, he tore upstairs, ran into his room and slammed the door behind him. He threw himself under the bed, trying to shut out the panic which threatened to send his heart leaping out of his chest. He knew something terrible would happen to him when the police were gone. He scrambled out and rushed to the door. Panting with terror, he started to push his chest of drawers across to block it. His muscles cracked, his feet scrabbled at the bare floor boards but he made it, just as his mother’s footsteps came up to the other side of the door.

  ‘Open this right now, you little turd!’ she screamed, pounding on the panels. He climbed back under the bed and jammed his fingers into his ears as hard as he could, but her voice screeched on and on –‘The baby’s dead! You killed my friend’s baby! You don’t deserve to live.’

  Hours later, he opened his eyes, rolled over and looked up at the window to watch the stars coming out. What was his mother doing? He hoped she was snoring her head off in a drunken stupor. Could he sneak downstairs and get something to eat? His tummy was hurting with hunger. Trying ever so hard not to make a noise, he pulled the chest of drawers back from the door, opened it and peered out. Sneaking along the darkened hallway held no fears. For Dingo, shadows had long been a sanctuary. He stopped at the landing to hear if she was moving around below. Nothing.

  Feeling it might be safe he inched his way down, pausing every few steps to check for any sound. Knowing where the floorboards squeaked was a distinct advantage. He passed the lounge-room door, yellow police tape proclaiming a crime scene.

  Safely in the kitchen, he opened the cupboard and took out the biscuits. There could be no dinner in case he woke her up, though experience had shown that it would take the house falling down to do that when she was drunk.

  A soft click almost sent him into orbit, but he relaxed as the cat slithered through the cat door. Moving as fast as he dared, he took her dinner out of the refrigerator, scooped it into her bowl, checked her water and then sneaked a banana from the crisper. Stentorian snorts almost sent him into shock, but when they faded, he was even more frightened. When she was snoring, he was safe; if the sounds stopped she could be up and around. A Big Cat had nothing on Frances when it came to stalking and pouncing on her prey – him.

  It was not until he was at university that he looked in the library microfiche files dating back to when he was eight, that he discovered that the police and Coroner’s Court had absolved him of responsibility for the death of baby, Lucy Swales. It was then Dingo realised the depth of Frances’ madness. She had never told him the outcome of the investigations, preferring to hold the child’s death over his head throughout her life.

  *

  Music threaded through with faces sent his body into orbit. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Why didn’t you let me go? We were having so much fun.’ Ariel’s face loomed close to his. He pushed her away and then he saw it again – the baby! You’re dead you’re dead you’re dead! He stumbled back, but they advanced, slowly, staring...someone was panting...it was the journalist.

  He tried to run, to catch up, but the women bounded ahead of him, laughing, each holding a hand of the baby, who was running along on fat little legs. Something was wrong...the baby had been only a few days old – but he was running! They looked back at him and stopped. The journalist aimed a camera at him, started taking photos, laughed and ran to join the ...Ariel! Out of her box! He had to catch her but she was so far ahead it was impossible. No, no wait for me! He tried to keep up but his legs moved in slow motion. His arms thrashed, he forced his legs to wade through the sheets. You must always be gentle, darling. They don’t all want to play. That was on a good day. Her bad days didn’t bear thinking about.

  His eyes flew open.

  The gorgeous patterned ceiling of the room seemed to be coming down on him. He wiped his face with the edge of the sheet, damp with his sweat and eased his legs out of bed. Light streaming from the window showed the bedclothes half on the floor, pillows thrown around the room. He turned to sit on the side of the bed and tested his feet on the floor before he wobbled upright, supporting himself on the side table. What am I going to do now? Pam had the camera all along. No wonder there were no photos in the one he’d taken from the journalist’s bag.

  He shuffled to the bathroom, bent like an old man where he used the facility and stood gazing at his reflectio
n, holding the back of the toilet trying to remain upright. No one looking at him would guess he’d actually...killed...no, not really killed. It was an accident. Truly, an accident. Both of them.

  He stuffed Ariel and Marigold Humphries back in their box and pushed the baby in after them. Tennnine...eightsevensixfivefourthreetwo one...carefully folded his clothes into his bag, taking extreme care to make sure the edges were perfectly aligned, and that blue lay next to red, white next to black – and that the number of garments were even in number. There was no point in staying at the hotel anymore; he might go to his own unit that afternoon.

  Dingo showered and dressed – jeans, black shirt, joggers and a hoodie. Carefully counting the stairs, he went down for breakfast, feeling as though he’d been run down by a Mack truck. Fivefourthreetwoone... he placed his backpack against the wall behind the corner table where his back was protected, and headed for the cereal. He had to turn up at the orchestra headquarters soon. He could use one of the practice rooms there and let off some steam before he exploded. Not having been able to play his music for the last couple of days was sending him crazy. No musician worth his salt would miss practice if he could still breathe.

  He scooped cornflakes into a dish, gathered up utensils and turned to help himself to milk and sugar, only to come face to face with a pile of newspapers.

  “Who Killed Goldie?”

  A striking photo of the photo-journalist took up most of the page. Underneath he recognised a smaller one of Pam, obviously taken during the concert Saturday night. He let out slow breath. Those shoes were enough to give a bloke a restless night on their own.

  Five...four...three...two...one...he took a deep breath, set his plate down, slowly poured milk over his cereal and then sprinkled one teaspoon of sugar on top. Keeping the memory of those shoes at bay was hard work. He moved swiftly back to his table, trying not to make eye contact with the few people still savouring their coffee and newspaper.

  In the far corner, a woman in a suit sat at a table facing him, eating her breakfast. He sensed the interest in her gaze and slowly turned his back to avoid any possibility of eye contact. With great effort, he focused on the morning to come, enumerating in his mind the sequence of events in store. Check out and catch a taxi to the Pacific Orchestra headquarters and speak to the manager about the next concert...it would be good to be back there. Then he would head back to the Concert Hall.

  The Pacific Orchestra headquarters was built to last, but had an elegant entrance with the name of the company embossed on the front. A tall potted plant with thin dark leaves stood in the corner of the modern reception area. On a notice board were lists of names and some flyers advertising forthcoming concerts. Down Ariel...ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

  A girl with long dark hair, heavily made-up eyes and a t-shirt just skimming the top of her lightly tanned breasts, sat behind the desk. He could see the demarcation line of what was either orangey make-up or artificial tan just above the satin ribbon banding the edge of the fabric. Beaded chunky turquoise earrings dangled from short rounded lobes. His eyes widened as her pointed pink tongue flicked over her bright red lips and disappeared, leaving them gleaming in the fluorescent overhead lighting.

  She was the goods, all right. Sensing his presence, she glanced up under her lashes and flicked the tip of her pink tongue over her lips again. Before he could speak, she stood up, twitched her t-shirt down over her slim hips and walked into a back office. Her tiny skirt barely covered her arse.

  Initial excitement turned to disappointment and then, a snake poised to strike; rage gathered inside. He placed his backpack on the floor. One. Two. Three. Four. Five... if she didn’t come back by the time he got to ten...so what will you do, Dingo? Shut up, Ariel.

  She came back, smiling this time, well aware of the shit-storm she’d stirred. The plastic label on the front of her t-shirt proclaimed “Cynthia.” ‘Hi, you’re back! And –’ she looked over his shoulder – ‘and if I’m not mistaken, here’s our new percussionist. Hi fellas! Mr – ?’ She focused on the newcomer who grinned and gave his name, Craig Douglas.

  Cynthia ticked it off and glanced flirtatiously back at Dingo as if to reinforce the notion that she was irresistible. It didn’t work. He was too busy keeping Ariel and Goldie from getting out of their boxes.

  ‘Come with me, gentlemen. Mr Gregson is waiting for you.’ Throwing a barbed glance at Dingo, Cynthia turned her attention to Douglas, beckoning him to enter the office through a side door. Swinging her hips and well aware of their gaze on her skinny backside and long, tanned legs, Cynthia led the way down a side hallway to the Human Resources office where two older women working on computers glanced up briefly, smiled and went back to what they were doing.

  ‘Someone will be along to take you on a tour of the building, show you where everything is and then you’ll come back here and receive your swipe card for entry into the place. You’ll need to read information on the emergency exits and things.’ Briefly, she glanced at Dingo, before switching her attention back to his companion.

  He fumed. His business with the Pacific Symphony manager was far more important than the orientation of an additional musician. Of course, he realised Douglas was new cannon fodder for her to try her wiles on having been unsuccessful with himself the previous season. He forced himself to relax. Don’t show them you’re upset...

  Just then the new manager, Gregson, arrived and introduced himself to Craig Douglas, advising that he would be the guide for the newcomer’s orientation. ‘We’re not due to meet until tomorrow actually, but I’m glad I could be here to show you around.’

  Gregson’s face lit up when he saw Dingo; he moved across to shake hands.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. How can we help?’

  ‘I was hoping to use a rehearsal room.’

  ‘Ah, sure. Cynthia, a rehearsal room available?’

  Cynthia’s pout and nod indicated just what she thought of Dingo. ‘It’s free until twelve o’clock, Mr Gregson.’ She shot a come-hither glance at the newcomer, Douglas.

  Gregson glanced at his watch. ‘We have a meeting, so can you amuse yourself for a while with Cynthia, Craig? I won’t be long.’

  Douglas’ eyes lit up; Cynthia licked her lips again.

  Chuckling, Gregson flicked an amused glance at Dingo and they headed for the manager’s office. Dingo followed reluctantly, counting the steps it took to get there, longing to finish their business and head for the practice room for it was though his music that he could find peace and maintain his equilibrium. After that, he’d have to get over to the Concert Hall and behave normally.

  Control was everything.

  CHAPTER 25

  Aftermath

  Susan

  Monday, 3.45PM

  Hamilton was just pulling into a park when I arrived at West End station. We walked in together, immediately identifying the middle-aged couple standing in front of the counter.

  ‘She didn’t answer the phone at home, Roger, and her handbag’s there. She wouldn’t leave home without it, but her mobile phone’s gone.’ Judging by the long-suffering expression on the face of the man who was standing beside her, she’d been saying it ad infinitum. Tall and hefty, with silver hair, the husband stood with his hands in his pockets and a belligerent expression on his face.

  ‘Now look here, Jean, you’ve made your point. She’s just being irresponsible, that’s all. She’s taken her mobile and gone out somewhere, probably with her girlfriends.’ He looked apologetically at the desk sergeant with a “bloody women but what can you do?” roll of the eyes. I wanted to punch him out.

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve troubled you. We’ll go home and wait for her to ring. It was a mistake to come in here.’ He put his hand on his diminutive wife’s arm, obviously preparing to pull her out of the building. It was time to make my move.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Prescott and this is Detective Senior Sergeant Hamilton. May we help you?’

  The woman almost fell on us, repeating over
and over what we’d just heard her say. My heart sank. I had a strong feeling that they were our Jane Doe’s parents. Before I could ask for a photo of their girl, the desk officer flashed me a significant look and passed over an A4-sized, framed photo.

  Oh yes. Years of successful policing left me poker-faced. I glanced at the sergeant, who nodded. ‘Number 4, Ma’am.’ Don’t envy me, do you. Nothing but devastation for them.

  I turned to the couple and invited them to follow me through the cattle grid, thankful that Anthony Hamilton loomed behind me, a huge comforting figure. Something about the male Maxwell made me uneasy.

  We trooped down the hallway in silence and I ushered the parents into an interview room. Cups of tea were sent for and then we encouraged them to tell their story. It seemed that they had gone to Mackay to pick up their youngest son, whose motorbike had broken down, leaving Ariel at home. ‘She’s almost eighteen, so we couldn’t see that it would be a problem,’ her mother explained. ‘Ariel was due to get in on the bus from Sydney – she’s been staying with her cousin, my sister’s daughter – and she was told to stay home on Friday night, no matter what.’ Jean Maxwell cast her eyes down. I knew the look of motherly guilt, having worn it myself often enough. An angry movement from her husband alerted me to how he felt. ‘Forgot to ring her daughter, didn’t she?’ he snarled. The words he didn’t say hung in the air – stupid cow.

  Her daughter? ‘Is Ariel not your daughter, Mr Maxwell?’

  Before he could answer, his wife explained. ‘No, Roger married me when Ariel was a baby but he’s always been her father. Ariel’s father left me when I was pregnant, but she doesn’t know about it. She thinks Roger is her dad. The boys are Roger’s sons from his first marriage.’

  ‘I see.’ Bristling at Maxwell’s smug, self righteous expression, I tucked the urge to take his head off with a well-used “put down” into the “don’t go there” basket and concentrated on the mother. ‘So when did you ring home?’