Feeding the Demons

by Gabrielle Lord

  She remembered she hadn’t checked her mailbox and went outside into the cool night with her key. There were two envelopes, one with unfamiliar handwriting and one telephone bill. She made her way inside, locking the door securely behind her, placed the envelope on the table and opened it carefully. It contained a covering note from Philip Hawker and, under that, her father’s original handwritten statement. Slowly, Gemma unfolded the page and a half of yellowing, faint-lined paper. Automatically, Gemma started to read but her breath caught in her throat, and she stood still a moment, shocked. She took the papers over to her desk, switched the reading light on and went to sit down. Aware of the pounding of her heart, she decided to pour herself a strong brandy first. Her fingers shaking, she picked up the yellowing sheets.

  ‘Statement made by Dr Archie Chisholm, September 17th, 1967, about the events of this evening. I want to write it out now while things are fresh in my memory,’ she read.

  At about two-thirty, I rang Marianne to see if she wanted to go to the dinner that night at the university. She told me she didn’t want to go to the dinner, because she is being treated for depression. I said that was fine with me. We did not argue. I saw four more of my patients, went to the bank but because there was a long queue, did not get money out then. Made a brief house call to a patient. After that, I left and drove straight to the house. Marianne was in bed and the girls were in their room. I went upstairs to get ready for the dinner. There was no food for the girls so I drove to the corner shop and got some eggs and made scrambled eggs for them. Then I got dressed to go out to the dinner and left the house at about seven-thirty. Marianne was up. I stayed at the dinner until about ten-thirty and drove to the house, arriving there at eleven o’clock. I parked my car and went inside. I went into the dining room and found Marianne lying in the corner near the french doors, which were open. She had severe head injuries and had lost a lot of blood. There was a faint, stringy pulse. I rang Emergency and waited for the ambulance to arrive. They said they would contact the police. I cradled Marianne in my arms and she coughed blood onto me. She was not conscious. Gemma came in and I told her your mother is hurt and to go next door and tell Mrs Moresby to come over. I went with Marianne in the ambulance and stayed until the surgeon came out and said my wife had died. I came home and Mrs Moresby is here staying the night with us. The police have just been and taken my clothes. I don’t know anyone who would want to kill my wife and that is what I told them.

  Underneath was her father’s signature, long and lean, with the ‘A’ and the ‘C’ scrawled far too large. Gemma put the papers down and stood up, shaken. Then she had to sit down again, because she thought she’d fall over if she didn’t. Suddenly, transported by her father’s bald words, she was back there. The memory came from such a distance, it was like looking the wrong way through a telescope and the events of that night had a hectic, theatrical light around them, as if they’d taken place in a studio, where dark shadows lay beyond stark lighting in a setting that had been contrived to shock. She saw again, this time from her father’s point of view, the little five-year-old in the nightie, standing on the bottom step of the curved staircase at their old house. She thought of Mrs Moresby’s peculiar words of the night before and felt tears welling up in her which she bit back harshly. She remembered going into Kit’s room that night and creeping into bed with her. Then there seemed to be a long gap in her memory before the days of the boarding school and the long summer holidays at Aunt Merle’s place at Darling Point, where they pretty well pleased themselves from morning to night, down by the seaweed-filled tidal pool formed by a sandstone wall enclosing a tiny part of the Harbour. Gemma switched the light out in her office and went into the bathroom, where she cleaned her teeth while her heart raced.

  She checked the back door thoroughly after she’d locked herself in for the night and went around to the other doors, the deck, the entrance hall, making sure they were secured. She couldn’t get Imelda Moresby’s oracle out of her head—the word ‘evil’ seemed to have a power and an energy that ensured it remained shining darkly in her mind. Fear was building up in her. She restlessly checked every room, then switched the alarm system on and was comforted by the panel near the door with its winking lights, which could only be disarmed by the key that lay safely in her wallet. She put the video on top of the television set and poured herself a whisky and milk nightcap while she prepared for her shower. She wished she could ring Kit and talk over the Imelda Moresby perplex, but she realised she couldn’t and felt unreasonably angry with her sister. Taxi followed her around, meeowing loudly, tail straight up, his funny spare tyre under his belly wobbling as he trotted, continuing after her right into the bathroom, jumping up on top of the toilet seat to sit there as she showered, washing his face and licking his jaws widely. He seemed to like the steam on his fur and tongue.

  After the shower, she slipped into an old tracksuit because it was a cold night despite the warm October day and got into bed. She put the light out and lay there a while before finally going to sleep.

  •

  Something woke her with a start—she couldn’t tell how much later—a familiar sound. Gemma felt the fire and ice surge of adrenalin. She lay, stiff with attention, straining her ears for the sound again. It was impossible that anyone could be in her place. No one could get in here, not past delicate sensors that detected body heat and microwaves that reacted to the movements of molecules. If an intruder had a body or made a movement, her system would pick him up and scream in warning. Perhaps Taxi had jumped up on a counter in the kitchen and knocked something onto the floor. But then she felt the heavy warm lump of him at the end of her bed. He was here with her.

  She lay, frozen, thinking of the knife slashes in her clothes. Then, very slowly and without sound, she slid open the bottom draw of the bedside table and groped around until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers closed around it, and gently she lifted the weight of the short-barrelled revolver onto the bed. Another sound and her fingers flew to find the cartridges. She grabbed two, slid into a crouch on the floor, broke the gun open, sliding the smooth weights into their cylinders. Gemma wormed her way across the floor, moving to crouch against the wall, just behind her bedroom door.

  A man’s tread, careful, steady, unhurried. He’d read her address from her bag that night at the motel; he’d somehow, impossibly, got into her house. She couldn’t believe this was happening. He was coming towards the bedroom, she could hear the soft sound of his footfall on the parquetry. The knife slashes in her clothes sprang to her mind, but this time, like the woman at Maroubra, she was in the clothes and the great, raking wounds were in her own flesh. She squinted through the crack in the door, momentarily catching a glimpse of the figure blocking the light from the night sea. Stringy hair hanging down; the soft clank of metal, maybe chains. She smelt body odour and fuel, the stink of the internal combustion engine. Gemma was rigid. She dared not breathe in case she sobbed in fear. In a second he’d be turning into her room. As he pushed the door to her bedroom open, she suddenly inhaled and sprang out, facing him square, the gun ahead of her in the firing position.

  ‘Stop right there!’ she screamed. ‘Stop right there or I’ll shoot.’

  Her heart pounded in her ears. The intruder froze, backlit by the faint light from the deck.

  Then he spoke. ‘Jesus! Gemma! It’s me.’

  ‘Stevie?’

  Gemma lowered the gun. Steve switched the light on. He was wearing the long hair, beard and dirty leathers of an outlaw bikie and his shocked eyes stared out of a face that she took a moment to recognise as Steve’s.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he said.

  ‘I almost shot you,’ she yelled over him. Now anger rushed into the vacuum left by the withdrawal of fear and shock. Gemma was shaking all over. ‘You bastard, Steve. I thought you were someone else. Don’t ever do that again.’

  He stood there, the colo
ur returning to his face. ‘Can I move now?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  Steve held up a key. ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘For Chrissake. You gave it to me last year. I fed Taxi, remember? In fact you gave me two, because the first one didn’t always work.’

  Gemma felt the anger drain out of her. She limped back to the bed, laid the gun down and sat there, feeling desolate. She’d completely forgotten he had those keys and she couldn’t tell Steve about the night before last. He stood there, unsure of what to do next. ‘What time is it?’ she said.

  ‘Twenty past one. I was going to sing “Happy birthday to you”.’

  ‘It’s not tomorrow, I mean today. It’s not till next week.’

  ‘Forget it. I’m sorry I frightened you. It wasn’t a good idea.’

  Because he was a good street cop, very sensitive to moods and currents between people, Steve immediately sensed the secret in her. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Gemma shook her head. ‘Nothing. I’ve had a long day. I’m jumpy, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you? Maybe I should go.’

  Gemma went into her office, switched on the light, picked up her father’s statement, and brought it out to show Steve. He read it, occasionally looking up at her, then turning his attention back to the handwritten document. He frowned. ‘Funny thing to do,’ he said. ‘With your wife just dead.’

  Gemma stared. ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘But he was used to writing up notes.’

  Steve put the papers down. ‘Like she was a case, or something?’ He looked up at her. ‘Anyway, obviously they didn’t believe him.’ He went to her but she didn’t want him to touch her; anger, confusion and relief all combined to make her just want to be still and quiet for a while. I need space, she thought.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ he asked, indicating the written statement.

  ‘Retired cop. Philip Hawker. It was his biggest case, I get the feeling.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Steve. ‘One of the old dinosaurs.’

  ‘Come and I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said in an effort to redeem the situation as she turned away from him. ‘Don’t go. I’ll be okay in a moment.’ She put her arm around him and they walked into the kitchen together. Taxi walked in, and Steve made a half-hearted hiss at him. Taxi took no notice and went to his dish, licking at the last morsel of fish dinner.

  ‘I want a second opinion.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Steve asked.

  She turned from putting the kettle on, her eyes alive. ‘There’s a bloodstain expert in town. Dr Zelda Fireball or something. I’m chasing up the original police brief. I’m going to get her to look at the photographs.’

  Steve looked interested. ‘It’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘There’s been a lot of new stuff around physical evidence in the last little while.’ He paused. ‘And it’ll put your mind at rest.’

  ‘One way or the other,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ Steve said quickly.

  ‘What happened to your case?’ she asked him as they had coffee and bread and honey. It was too cold to sit out on the deck and the nor’easter buffeted the sliding doors as they sat at the dining table.

  ‘I had to get out early,’ he told her. ‘One of them was very suspicious of me. I got the feeling he might have been in the job once.’

  ‘A cop?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘Maybe not police. Maybe military. Maybe what you do. He had some fancy equipment. Anyway, I got a stack of evidence on them. They were making amphetamines in an old farmhouse. The drug squad busted them this morning. Seven arrests including me until I managed to get someone to contact the boss. So I came straight here. I’ve been riding for hours. Wanted to see you. Give you this.’

  He passed a little package to her, and Gemma smiled with pleasure. Her pulse rate had dropped and was almost normal again. ‘I’m not going to open it now,’ she said, putting it on the dining room table next to the heavy silver vase. ‘I’ll wait till the proper day. God, you look shocking.’

  ‘I’ve been riding with the Outlaw Raiders of the Southern Cross,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘I’m supposed to look shocking.’

  She looked at him, his craggy face, older than it should have been at thirty-nine, the deep furrows from nose to mouth. But his lips hadn’t hardened into narrow lines like so many men’s, she thought. ‘What a birthday surprise!’ she suddenly laughed out loud. And he joined in, eyes crinkling, head thrown back. ‘Me in a body bag. You up on a manslaughter charge.’ Gemma laughed till tears ran down her face, and she couldn’t breathe. ‘Oh,’ she said, when she finally regained her breath, ‘you’ve gotta laugh.’ She lifted a piece of bread and honey to her mouth but put it down again, suddenly having no appetite.

  ‘The jury sure didn’t believe him. He was sentenced to fifteen years.’

  Steve stared at her. ‘You’ve never talked about your father before,’ he said. ‘What’s changed?’

  She picked up the piece of bread again. ‘I’ve been visiting him,’ she said. ‘He’s been on work release for a year, clerking for a solicitor he met in gaol. He’s coming out soon.’

  ‘Has he been inside all the time? I thought you said fifteen years.’

  ‘He was involved in an escape attempt a number of years ago and a warden was almost killed. He got another fifteen for that. He told me it was a terrible mistake.’

  Steve went into the kitchen and found himself a beer. He came back to the table, wrenched the top off and sat down again. ‘So what’s he like?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘He’s—he’s like a nice old man. He’s gentle, he’s—I don’t know. I look at him and I just know he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.’

  ‘What was his story?’

  She flashed at him. ‘Not a story,’ she said. ‘Like he says in his statement. He came home and found her like that. Already dying. Someone had come in through the french doors to the dining room. He held her in his arms until the ambulance came. Of course he got blood all over him. The police case was based on bloodstain evidence on the walls and on his jacket. They alleged that the splash patterns were consistent with him lifting the hammer up and down once she—my mother—was on the floor. They had some bloodstain expert re-enacting it in court with the hammer.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Steve wanted to know. ‘You must have been only a little kid.’

  ‘He’s told me all about it.’ She paused. ‘It happened on my fifth birthday.’ Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She blew her nose hastily and tried to smile at him. He was half out of his chair, unsure of what to do after her earlier rebuff. ‘You know, it sounds really silly, but I’d been promised this white cat from the toy shop. It had batteries and it actually walked along, squeaking. No one even remembered it was my birthday.’

  Steve picked up the statement from where it lay on the table between them. ‘You should get a Scan expert to look at this,’ he said. ‘One of my mates has done the Advanced Scan course—Scientific Content Analysis. I’m sure he’d be happy to do an analysis of the statement. Without even knowing it, people betray themselves in their written and spoken words.’

  ‘What sort of thing could he find?’ said Gemma, feeling a little alarmed.

  ‘Lies come from the imagination,’ Steve continued, ‘and the truth comes from memory, two different parts of the brain. That makes differences in the way people write. The differences show up to someone who’s trained to spot them. Or people just leave bits out of their accounts. But even censoring something leaves a trace in the language. Of course, you’ve got to know what to look for. He does, and he owes me a few.’

  ‘But the statement’s thirty years old.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not like physical evidence
,’ he explained. ‘A Scan expert only looks at the language. It’s amazing what they can find.’

  There was a silence. Then Gemma went into her office and photocopied the statement. ‘Here,’ she said, giving it to him. ‘See what your mate can do.’

  Steve glanced at the paper briefly, folded it neatly and pocketed it.

  ‘Why don’t you come to bed and warm up with me?’ Gemma asked, feeling awkward.

  ‘I’ll grab a shower,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I might like the role play. I’ve never done it with a Hell’s Angel.’

  But he went to the bathroom and she waited for him in bed. When he came in she pounced on him, still very keyed up. He held her for a long time before doing anything and she felt how good it was, just to hold her man close and smell him, and feel the male softness of his skin, this tenderness so different from the wild sex with Brian Bates and the others like him, the biting, heaving and grabbing. Steve took a long time, touching, stroking, allowing for the months of separation and the intermittent phone calls, getting to know her all over again, and she did the same. By the time he smoothed himself inside her, she was melting towards him. ‘Stevie, oh Stevie,’ was all she could say. Just his name until her voice became incoherent as they rocked together.