Willow Tree Bend

by Kaye Dobbie

  Faith blinked. She was feeling very uncomfortable. Melanie. Was that the name Jared was going to blurt out when he first saw her? And Gaz? She’d never asked, and perhaps that was because she knew the answer wasn’t going to be something she wanted to hear.

  She told herself she wasn’t going to ask this time either. She wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t …

  ‘What happened to Melanie?’

  ‘She went missing.’ He looked down at the cigarette as if he could no longer meet her eyes. Despite his even tone, she could hear a note in his voice that made her think this mattered to him. He cared.

  ‘She was from the country and her parents hadn’t heard from her in a while. They were worried. I led the investigation, and without much help, because who cares when a young girl goes a bit wild and runs away? Eventually, the trail led us to the Angel and, according to Jared, she’d walked out one night and was never seen again. We found her a fortnight later, crammed into a packing case in a warehouse in Port Melbourne. She’d been strangled. She was still wearing her high heels.’

  Faith sat up straighter. ‘You don’t know it had anything to do with—’

  ‘No, I don’t. But she told me things, so I can make an educated guess. One thing I do know, Faith. She wasn’t planning on dying.’

  She tried to think clearly, but instead a voice in her head was asking: Was Kitty involved? Suddenly, she had an intense longing to go home to Willow Tree Bend. She wanted her room, and her mother, and Hope. She wanted Joe.

  She looked up at him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  He reached over and mashed out his cigarette in the already full ashtray, but she thought it was to give himself time.

  ‘I want you to bring me information, Faith. We’ve established you’re the sort of girl people confide in. You know things, or you can find them out. There’d be money in it. You could walk away from the Angel and start again somewhere else.’

  Faith stood up, her legs trembling. She forced anger past the fear in her voice. ‘You’re crazy. They were saying upstairs that whoever is in charge of this raid will get into big trouble. The Angel never gets raided.’

  His face hardened again and he made a sound of disgust. ‘The Angel! Girls like you are chewed up and spat out here at the Angel. Don’t you know that?’

  ‘I serve drinks, that’s all. I don’t know anything about Melanie and I don’t intend to ask.’

  He sighed, and the spark that had seemed to possess him while he told her about the dead girl drained away. Now he just looked tired. ‘I’m not going away, not for a while anyway, so if you change your mind then come and see me in Bowen Street. Ask for Detective Inspector Avery.’

  He stared at her as the seconds ticked by and she found she couldn’t look away. She was just beginning to think she might have to sit down again when he spoke.

  ‘How old are you anyway?’

  She made herself shrug indifferently. ‘Twenty-two,’ she said.

  He nodded slowly, but she could see he didn’t believe her. He was going to find out she was seventeen. He was going to come back. She cleared her throat and, to distract him, but also because she wanted to know, asked, ‘That girl?’ She wouldn’t say her name. ‘The one in the crate. Did you pay her for information?’

  The truth was there in his face before he could hide it.

  ‘She died and now you’re asking me to do the same thing she did,’ she accused him. ‘What sort of man does that make you, Detective Inspector Avery?’

  His laugh was rough, as if he didn’t use it much. ‘Desperate,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘I’m retiring at the end of the year and I want this case put to bed. I’ve got nothing to lose, Faith.’

  Why was he telling her this? But she knew why. He was just like Sydney Poitier in The Heat of the Night. She’d gone with Hope to see that film because they both loved To Sir, With Love. At first she’d found it confronting—Hope hated it—but by the end she’d loved it, too. Probably because the good guy had won, but also because he defined many of her own moral principles—particularly her sense of rightness. Maybe she was tired, with her emotions jangling, but Avery had swiftly taken on the role of the policeman on a mission.

  He reached inside his jacket and took out a photograph. Carefully, deliberately, he put it down in front of her.

  It was glossy and in colour, a bit blurred. At first, she wondered what she was looking at and then she realised. Naked limbs entwined, bodies moulded together, a seething mass of humanity engaged in the pursuit of pleasure. It was a snapshot of an orgy.

  One face stared out at her. A girl with blonde hair, her pale eyes wide as she stared into the camera. There was a man on top of her and another one under her, and yet somehow you had the sense that she had distanced herself from what was happening to her.

  ‘That’s Melanie,’ Avery’s voice seemed to come from a long way away.

  It wasn’t until the door closed that she knew he was gone. Faith sat and waited while his footsteps faded before she tried to move. He’d taken the photograph away with him, but she could still see it. Her legs were shaking and her stomach felt queasy. She told herself it was probably all lies, just so that he could get what he wanted.

  Well, she wasn’t going to let him manipulate her. She had no intention of being an informer for Detective Inspector Avery, just as she had no intention of letting herself be drawn into the murky world she’d caught a glimpse of tonight. No, she would just carry on as usual, looking the other way.

  SAMANTHA

  14 January 2000, Willow Tree Bend

  Dry leaves crackled under the thick soles of my work boots as I made my way to the gate. It was already open and I paused with my hand on it, noticing that it wasn’t your ordinary metal gate. Within the framework I could see crows, large and small, some of them dancing on crescent moons, others flying among the stars.

  Black Crow. His band.

  Unexpectedly it made me smile. Maybe Lincoln Nash had a sense of humour after all, or at least I hoped he did, and that this wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.

  I looked up. The three people on the verandah were all watching me intently, two women and a man. Reluctantly I released my sweaty grip on the gate, horribly aware of my worn jeans with the stains on the knees, and my singlet that used to be blue but had faded to a shade between mauve and white. I wished I could turn and run, but I wasn’t a coward, so I gritted my teeth and began to walk up the path towards them.

  Even though it had been a while since I’d seen my aunt, there was no mistaking her. She’d always had a certain style, a pizzazz that I couldn’t emulate, even if I’d wanted to. She’d lost weight, but maybe that was just the way actresses were supposed to look. From this distance she looked younger than I knew her to be, but as I got closer I could see that her face was actually quite drawn, and even her skilful use of makeup had failed to cover up the shadows under her eyes.

  Our harsh summer glare was a bugger when it came to looking your best.

  Hope was watching me, too, a little smile playing around her lips, and I wondered what she was thinking. But everything went out of my head when I realised the man had a camera balanced on his shoulder and he was filming. Hope moved forward to meet me, and the camera followed her every step. Whatever I had been expecting it wasn’t to be thrust into the spotlight so soon, and I felt a little freaked out.

  ‘Samantha!’

  ‘Uh, Hope.’

  I paused as she held out her arms, remembering how mucky I was, and wondering if she really wanted me to walk into her pristine embrace.

  And then Mitch took the decision out of my hands.

  He bowled right past me and sprang up onto Hope, paws on her silk blouse, so he could give her an exuberant lick on the cheek.

  It wasn’t something he did very often. Just occasionally he took a liking to someone and his enthusiasm overcame his training. Or maybe he mistook my aunt for my mother, whom he loved. Now he had his dirty paws all over Hope’s cream blouse, and sh
e stumbled back with a startled, ‘Oh!’

  Too late I lunged forward to grasp the furiously wriggling body. Mitch already sensed he’d overstepped the mark, sitting immediately upon my command, although the look he was giving me from his wounded doggy eyes seemed to be asking what he’d done that was so terrible. It wasn’t funny, not at all, and I felt my face heating with embarrassment, but at the same time I was struggling with a terrible urge to burst out laughing.

  I took a breath, tamping down my hysteria. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said in a stifled voice. ‘He’s normally well behaved.’

  Hope finished brushing at her blouse. The marks were dry, so the damage wasn’t too serious. ‘Of course he is,’ she said with a slightly wry note. She took a breath, planted on her professional smile, and tried again. ‘Hello, Samantha.’

  This time I found myself locked in her embrace, arms tight about me, her soft cheek against mine. Well, her favourite scent was still Shalimar, I thought, trying not to look as shell-shocked as I felt.

  ‘You could have dressed up a little for the occasion,’ Hope murmured for my ears alone.

  Before I could think of an answer she’d stepped back, smile still in place, perfectly posed.

  ‘Ah … excuse the work gear,’ I said, forcing out my own smile. ‘Emergency.’

  I could sense what Hope was longing to say: An emergency garden conversion? Do tell? But thankfully, being in front of the camera meant I was spared from having to hear what she really thought.

  Just then the screen door to the cottage creaked open behind us. We all turned. A tall, dark, handsome man stood there, but that was where the clichés ended.

  Joy oh joy, I thought, could things get any better? It was Lincoln Nash, Mr Charm himself.

  He was dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a black tee-shirt. His feet were bare. He was looking from me to Hope, and something in the creases around his eyes made me think that he, too, found the situation unexpectedly amusing.

  ‘Hope Taylor.’ My aunt stepped forward and held out a manicured hand. ‘Thank you so much for allowing us to invade your cottage, Mr Nash.’

  ‘My pleasure. And I believe it’s historically your cottage. Or was.’ I had to admit he did have a nice voice. ‘Come in.’ He stepped back so that we could enter, or at least we would have been able to if his tortoiseshell cat hadn’t been sitting in the middle of the doorstep blocking the way. After an awkward moment, when it didn’t seem about to move, he reached down and picked it up. The feline tucked itself into his arms as if this was its proper and rightful position, and glared at the guests—particularly Mitch—with baleful yellow eyes.

  The kelpie gave one bark, realised the error of his ways, and then flopped down onto the verandah, head on his paws. But this time I wasn’t taking any chances. I slid the dog leash from my pocket and clicked it onto his collar, as I should have done in the first place, and then wrapped it securely around one of the verandah posts.

  ‘Be good,’ I warned him in a low voice, and he gave me his What me? look in response.

  The others had already vanished inside, but Lincoln Nash was still politely holding the door ajar, waiting for me. No chance of avoiding him, then. With a muttered, ‘Thank you,’ I slid past him. I didn’t mean to glance up, but somehow I did, and found myself looking into his eyes.

  They were grey with a darker circle at the outer edge of the iris. And yes, there was an amused gleam in them. Perhaps he had a refined sense of the ridiculous. So much easier, I told myself darkly, to find things amusing when you weren’t directly involved in them.

  Hope was wandering down the central corridor, gazing about her, as the camera followed closely behind. She seemed engrossed in her surroundings, yet I doubted that was true. I may have been cynical where my aunt was concerned, but I thought it more likely Hope was following a script.

  ‘This room was the dining room and kitchen,’ she was saying aloud, in a dreamy sort of voice. ‘I remember the wallpaper being cream with green flowers.’

  And so it went on. I remembered the cottage, too, but obviously not in as much detail as Hope did. My grandmother had spoken about it now and again; however, typically, she stuck to the very early days and not her own time here. Nor did she express regret at leaving and moving into town, or not to me anyway. It abruptly occurred to me that my grandmother never spoke much about those days at all. I knew my grandfather had left her and times had been tough for them. Was that why she didn’t speak about it, because she had the ability to lock away anything she didn’t find palatable? Was Hope able to do that, too? And my mother? The family I had always thought free of secrets could be riddled with them, like a termite-infested fence post, and I wouldn’t know.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be following?’

  I’d been deep in thought, and I’d forgotten Lincoln Nash was behind me. I know, hard to imagine, but I had. I gave him a glance, not quite meeting his eyes this time. ‘I suppose so,’ I said, and began to trail reluctantly after Hope and her cameraman.

  The girl with the pink hair—she said her name was Prue—dropped back to ask me where my parents were, but the camera guy gave her a glare, pointing to the microphone, and she fell silent again. As I’d suspected, Hope hadn’t told her what was going on. Well, I wasn’t going to be the one to break the bad news.

  Ahead of me Hope continued with her dissertation. I half listened as I began to take in my surroundings. Actually it was interesting, firstly because this was my ancestral home, and secondly … my teenage idol was right behind me.

  Lincoln Nash seemed to prefer the minimalist approach, but I couldn’t help noticing a couple of framed gold records on one of the walls. A reminder of his glory days? I would have read the inscriptions, but, and yes, I know it sounds pretentious and silly, I wanted to pretend I was above all that.

  We had reached the rear of the cottage, and Hope started talking about the five young children sleeping end to end in the same bed. Although she made it seem cute, I imagined it was anything but, especially in the stifling heat of those long-ago summer nights. Nonetheless she told a good story, and I was so engrossed in it that it was only when I heard my father call out that I realised he’d finally arrived.

  ‘We’re here!’

  We? Relief gushed through me in a warm flood. Mum must be home after all! Well of course she was, how could I have been so stupid as to doubt her? She was far too disciplined, too set on doing the ‘right’ thing, to fail to keep such an important appointment with her sister.

  Footsteps were coming up behind us and I was just about to turn when I noticed Hope’s face. She had also turned around at the sound of Dad’s voice, and in that split second her expression was completely unguarded, and what I saw shocked me. Grief, raw and overwhelming grief.

  ‘Hope?’ I whispered, and her gaze slid to me.

  Tears sprang into her eyes and her mouth wobbled.

  Stunned, I took a step towards her just as she blinked, and then she was smiling, her mask firmly back in place, leaving me wondering whether I had imagined the whole thing.

  ‘Joe,’ she called out. ‘So lovely to see you!’

  My father’s responding smile seemed a little sheepish, but obviously he was pleased to see her. ‘Hope, you look as amazing as ever,’ he said, and returned her hug with enthusiasm.

  I looked beyond him, still believing my mother was about to appear, so it was a bit of a shock when my grandmother trotted up to join us.

  ‘Gran?’

  She flicked me a glance but didn’t seem to see me, not yet anyway. All of her attention was focused on her youngest daughter.

  ‘Hope,’ she said. Just that, just her name.

  She was wearing one of her favourite outfits, dark trousers and a mauve blouse, and a straw sun hat decorated with fake flowers. If I hadn’t known her so well I wouldn’t have noticed the strong emotion she was hiding behind her tight smile, or the way her hands were clenching and unclenching on her handbag.

  ‘Mum?’ My aunt was horrified.
Of course, I remembered, for some reason she hadn’t wanted Gran to be here. ‘But I thought … I said …’ She stammered to a stop. I noticed her eyes slid to the camera and back again, and she pulled herself together. ‘You weren’t well,’ she said, voice suddenly full of concern.

  ‘I’m feeling much better, thank you,’ Gran replied. She launched into what sounded to me like a prepared speech. ‘Perfectly fine, in fact. Maybe you imagined I was too ill to come today and you were being kind, but there’s no need, Hope. No need at all.’

  Hope took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said quietly.

  What on earth was going on? I looked at Dad and he shrugged at me. Prue and the cameraman must have been wondering too, because they had become rather excited. ‘Mrs Taylor? Oh, this is wonderful. Can we have you over here? And your other daughter …?’

  ‘Faith couldn’t make it so I brought Lily instead,’ my father explained, not quite meeting anybody’s eye.

  ‘Mum,’ Hope repeated, and this time reached to embrace Lily with every sign of joy, but I was close enough to hear her say, ‘I didn’t want you bothered by all of this nonsense.’

  ‘I’m not gaga, if that was what you were thinking,’ was Gran’s tart response. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you.’

  Hope laughed, an ‘isn’t this just peachy’ laugh. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she said for the benefit of her audience, ‘even though you are very naughty coming here when it really wasn’t necessary. I was going to visit you tomorrow and spend the day.’

  ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’

  A clash of green eyes. Again I wondered what on earth was going on here. I saw Prue murmuring furiously to the cameraman.

  I had been observing the whole thing as if I wasn’t part of it, lulled into a false sense of security, and then my grandmother turned her sharp gaze on me and shattered that illusion. ‘Sam! You should have changed out of those awful clothes!’