The Silent Inheritance

by Joy Dettman

  Back in the kitchen, he stood listening at the pantry door. Not a sound. Was she on the other side, listening to him?

  He had to feed and water her, then do what he’d come out here to do, and put the new problem aside for an hour or two. Whatever his resolution, he could do nothing before nightfall.

  He’d built a pyramid with six ring-pull tins, beans in tomato sauce, spaghetti in cheese sauce. Her last meal had been beans. He chose spaghetti, peeled off the lid, took a sheet of bubble-wrapped tablets from his wallet, popped two to the table, then one more. The third he placed into his mouth. It would calm his mind. It needed calming. He opened a bottle of water, washed the pill down, then, between two spoons, crushed the others to powder which he added to the tin of spaghetti. He gave it a stir then allowed it to rest while he eased the screw-top lids on two bottles of water. Experience had taught him that his guests lost strength in their hands quite quickly.

  His penlight torch beam tested, he locked the back door with the old key he never removed from the latch, pulled the blind then unlocked the pantry door, and stood a moment, listening.

  No scream, not a whimper, which didn’t mean she wasn’t whimpering. After the first of them, he’d spent two weeks setting up that pantry, stripping it of shelves then soundproofing it. A mammoth task, it had required multiple tubes of glue, multiple metres of foam rubber or plastic. He’d run out of time – or patience – before he’d got around to lining the floor and ceiling, but the pantry was landlocked, the washhouse behind it, the bathroom beside it, the passage and the front rooms to its north and the kitchen to the east. Before installing his second guest, he’d turned his transistor radio up to full volume and locked it in there. Little music had escaped, and four metres from the house, he’d heard not a sound. A scream carried further, as did the pounding of fists on floorboards.

  He turned on the torch, positioned it between his teeth and bit down on the cushioning tape and rubber he’d added to its non-functioning end. Having spent a veritable fortune on the preservation of his teeth, he took no chances with them. Two water bottles cradled against his chest, the tin of spaghetti in his hand, he opened the door, sidled in fast and closed it behind him.

  She scrabbled back to the far corner, but remained silent. Take light and sound away from them and most tamed fast. He placed the bottles down, emptied the spaghetti into her bowl, then, his hands free, he removed the torch from his mouth and played its beam in her eyes.

  ‘You’re Mr Watts from my school,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Mr Wolf,’ he replied. It was a mistake to engage with them.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  The stench was bad in here, and no place to linger. He picked up her empty water bottles, reached for the baked beans can.

  It was not empty. Its contents splashed his injured hand.

  ‘Shit!’ he said, dropping the bottles but not the can.

  He’d caught himself a rare one. He let himself out, let himself out the back door, where he pitched the baked beans tin and its contents, washed his hands again, with soap again, and it stung again and he needed disinfectant and a bandaid, and that bloody dog was barking, the scent of death tormenting it. And would continue its torment.

  The gutter’s refuse had to be got rid of, and tonight – and Saturday night not the optimum night for touring freeways.

  ‘But it will confuse the hunters. Confuse the opponent and retain control of the game.’

  All he required for a delivery was on the table. He’d bought a new packet of latex gloves, though perhaps they would not be adequate for the task. That bracken was sharp. He’d need solid gloves.

  His morning was gone, all thanks to that truck and its lost load – and his neighbour. He made coffee, took a ham and salad roll from the esky and sat down to his lunch.

  Twenty minutes was usually time enough for those pills to take effect. Twenty minutes later, he was dead to the world, his feet propped on the table, the coffee mug in his hand, and if not for a screeching bird he might have slept longer.

  And she hadn’t eaten the entire meal. One pill wasn’t enough – or perhaps it was. He’d slept for two hours. She lay on her side, her back to the door, one foot between the bars and the other in graceful bend. She didn’t turn to his light.

  ‘Sleeping beauty,’ he whispered, directed the narrow beam down through the top bars to her long plaited hair, to her face. She moved, but barely.

  She was longer than the others, but a featherweight; he’d handle her should she wake. He returned to the kitchen where he lit an old hurricane lantern. Its light was minimal, but would be enough. He couldn’t work with a torch in his hand or mouth.

  He ran a couple of inches of water into a red plastic bucket, added a dash from the kettle to warm it, dropped a new bar of perfumed soap in, placed a roll of paper towels beneath an arm then, lantern in one hand, bucket in the other, he returned to his sleeping beauty, this time pushing the pantry door wide.

  The house designed in an era when man had been more reliant on what he could store, the size of that old pantry put today’s to shame. The cage, built to transport large dogs, used up less than a third of the floor space.

  He fitted the key into a padlock as old as the house; its lock opened more smoothly than today’s versions. Its clasp looped over the top bar, he eased the side of the cage down to the floor then carefully slid her out.

  She flung a hand at him when he unbuttoned her school uniform. She was wearing a small white bra beneath it. Had nothing to fill that bra, but he didn’t remove it. He didn’t remove the black stretch shorts she wore beneath her uniform. Washed her face with a wetted paper towel, and when she moaned and raised a hand in protest, he caught it and washed it. Later he unbuckled her shoes and removed them, stripped the socks from her feet, then washed her long lean legs, feet and pretty toes. Toes came in all shapes and sizes. Many were not attractive.

  She made no protest when he dressed her in her pink pyjamas, sweet smelling and new, didn’t move when he left her sleeping on the floor while he stuffed the defiled straw into the now empty Target bag and fetched an armful of fresh from the bedroom at the end of the passage. He’d hired a trailer before his second take, had bought half a dozen bales of hay and two loads of firewood. Not enough firewood, but plenty of straw. He gave her plenty.

  She fought him ineffectually when he eased her back onto fresh straw, but he got her in, got the padlock on, then left her to sleep while he went shopping for gardening gloves – and something other than a baked beans can for her to pee and poop in. Until today his guests hadn’t found a use for their empty cans.

  He bought her a bucket and paid dearly for its well-fitting lid and for the three yellow ducks on its shiny white surface. He bought bandaids, Savlon cream, Dettol, and in the centre’s washroom, he used all three on his wound before driving on to Bunnings to buy a padlock for his gate. The shed would supply a chain. He searched for a NO TRESPASSERS sign and found shelves of signs with warnings of high voltage, and you name it – but they reminded him of another sign, and he saw it again, red. WRONG WAY. GO BACK.

  And a sign on his gate was more likely to draw attention to it than it was to deter visitors. A chain and padlock would make the same statement, but silently.

  She didn’t stir when he unlocked the cage again to position her bucket. It used too much of her space, but he wanted no more surprises.

  At six she was still sleeping. One Valium had relaxed him to the point of stupidity.

  A night slow in coming, and not the night he’d foreseen when he’d left home this morning, nor when he’d purchased his chicken and chips. The chips had thawed in his esky, the chicken had cooled. He’d heat them when he was done. He ate a biscuit for his dinner, drank two mugs of coffee, watched the sun disappear behind the trees, and heard that dog howl to the loss of day.

  Ten o’clock when he began his preparations. He’d need his wheelbarrow, still parked at his back door. He’d need two garbage bags. He looked at the roll of
pink ribbon, his signature, the hunters said, as were his computer-generated notes. His laptop and printer were at home. He’d play no games with the hunters tonight.

  There were four minute plastic bags on the table, each of them containing a tightly packed plastic raincoat. He opened one and shook its contents free, amazed anew at what the Chinese could produce for such a minimal cost. Two years ago he’d found those coats at a two-dollar shop and bought their entire stock, eight, and was pleased he had. He’d seen no more of them about.

  He slid his arms into plastic, clipped the studs, pulled on a pair of latex gloves – also made in China – twenty-four of them in a packet he’d paid three dollars for. The sleeves of the coat pleated and tucked into the gloves, he secured them at his wrists with rubber bands, then slid his hands into the gardening gloves. They stole his fingers’ dexterity, but were necessary.

  The night was not as dark as he’d hoped. No moon about, but the sky was alive with stars – a pleasant night for an unpleasant task, and too warm to be sealed into plastic and latex. He was sweating before he took up the handles of the barrow and rattled off downhill towards the gutter. He hadn’t noticed that rattle by day.

  The dog noticed it; it started barking and kept it up until the barrow’s rattle silenced beside the gutter where he stepped carefully down. Garbage bags in hand he walked along to that pile of bracken, and, by a narrow beam of light, he got it done.

  *

  The weight was not minimal. He heaved the load over his shoulder, like Santa with his bag of presents for all good children. With the light guiding his feet he made it back to where he’d left the barrow, and, after a breath or two and an almighty shove, he got his load out onto the grass then climbed out after it to rest a while.

  The barrow’s return trip uphill was slower, but its rattle was somewhat diminished by its load. The dog remained silent.

  The garage door advertised its opening with a metallic thump, and by the time he got the refuse loaded into the Kingswood, sweat was running down his back.

  Using the Kingswood was a risk, but if the hunters had come to the conclusion that Danni Lane was his guest, they wouldn’t be expecting her to take her final ride for weeks, and the Hyundai’s bucket seats were designed to hold, not to release. The Kingswood’s vinyl bench seat offered the required slide.

  It had come off the assembly line in seventy-one, back when all that was required of a vehicle was four wheels and a powerful petrol-guzzling motor to drive them. No bluetooth, no stereo, no air conditioner. The front doors offered armrests for driver and passenger, and to these he fixed a nylon rope.

  One o’clock when he locked up and from the assortment of keys on his key ring, found the right key. He inserted it into the ignition but didn’t start the motor or take his seat. He stood at the open driver’s-side door and pushed. A heavy, all-metal vehicle, it took considerable rocking before its wheels moved forward, but not until the old girl smelled freedom and felt the incline beneath her wheels did he jump in to guide her merry descent, his foot hovering over the brake, a smile twitching his lips as he visualised tomorrow’s headlines.

  FREEWAY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN

  Thought perhaps tonight he’d stay away from the freeways. Since February he’d developed an aversion to them. Get onto one and you couldn’t get off, and they had speed cameras everywhere. He’d disappoint his fans but this delivery was about cleaning up the mess of another.

  The slope of his driveway offered sufficient momentum to roll the vehicle out to the road, where, like a feral thing exiting its lair, like a minor moving shape seen darkly, the Kingswood freewheeled by the arty one’s retreat, with only the crunch of tyres on bitumen to mark its passing. Not until he made a right-hand turn at the T-junction did he start the motor and notice the fuel gauge.

  How ridiculous if he ran out of fuel and along came a friendly hunter.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Officer,’ he said, and he chuckled as he drove on.

  He got rid of his load in the driveway of a fine tall house in a dead-end court, and when it was done and the door closed, he was uncertain of how he’d got there.

  FREEWAY KILLER DRIVES IN CIRCLES AFTER DROP-OFF

  FREEWAY KILLER ABANDONS ELDERLY HOLDEN. PETROL TANK EMPTY.

  He’d filled two cans weeks ago, aware that the Kingswood’s tank was low. Had forgotten to pour it in. Had meant to do it this morning but lost his morning. Nothing had gone to plan today, and nor did his right-hand turn. He’d lost all sense of direction, was swimming now in sweat, his hands squelching inside those latex gloves and his wound stinging. He was considering opening that door, shedding his protective clothing and continuing on foot when he found Church Street, and relief opened his throat in a wolf howl sufficient to wake the sleeping flock and to give their lambs nightmares.

  He’d become one of God’s sheep for a time, had obeyed the warped rule of society where the wolf must learn to sit on command. Not any more. The wolf walked alone now, and alone he drove back to his lair.

  His oven felt hot enough to heat his chicken and chips, but he added a lump of wood then removed the large hotplate so he might feed the flames. Gloves first, raincoat, her school uniform, paper towels, and like a cleansing deity that fire took each offering and processed it. He fed it the defiled straw and the plastic Target bag, fed it her socks, one at a time, then her shoes – and the stink of burning leather and rubber sole too strong, he replaced the hotplate and went to the bathroom where he bathed, shaved, then walked, towel-clad, to the kitchen to check his supper then replace his wet bandaid while listening at the pantry door.

  Nothing.

  He opening it, just a crack. Enough.

  ‘You’re not Mr Watts,’ she said. ‘He would have worked out the maths.’

  ‘Cryptic puzzles were never my thing,’ he said.

  ‘It’s too big,’ she said. ‘But thank you.’

  Thank you? What had he caught himself? He closed the door fast, castigating himself for his stupidity in replying to her.

  Mr Watts would have worked out the maths, he thought, then thought of another, also fond of cryptic puzzles.

  ‘What do you call a deer with no eyes? What do you call a deer with no eyes and no legs?’

  She’d been addicted to hot chips, and greasy fish in batter.

  He used his towel to protect his hand when he lifted the tray from the oven. The chicken was sizzling, the chips were brown and crisp.

  A chicken has two legs. There were enough chips on that tray to feed an army. He served two meals. He shared his tub of coleslaw, kept cool all day in his esky, then, barefoot and clad again in his towel, he returned to that room with a piled-high party plate he had to bend to fit between the bars.

  She took it from his hands. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Curse me, don’t thank me, my pretty Yank,’ he said, and ran from her, locked the door, cursing himself for a fool but recalling a blue-tinged butterfly he’d chased one sunny Sunday, also a rare and beautiful thing.

  He didn’t go to bed. He ate his meal, dressed, fetched his axe from the shed and returned to the beaver dam in the gutter to fetch a few loads of firewood – and to cover up all evidence of his night’s work – then later to stand and stare in awe at the pink and lilac dawn.

  He was home by seven thirty and eating breakfast with the morning news.

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Three bike-riding Templestowe kids found the garbage bag. Half a dozen adults stood guard beside it until the first police car arrived. The television news vans and their cameramen arrived before Ross, but not before the street was ribboned off, the site screened and both kids and adults hunted back to their fencelines. With little to aim at with their cameras, they aimed them at Ross, and caught him with a smoke in his mouth and a frown between his eyes.

  ‘Is it Danni?’ they asked. ‘Is it Danni?’

  A murder of crows, cawing around roadkill, Ross thought – and considered passing on his thought. He turned his back and went under
the ribbon as a female voice asked him if smoking in a street full of children was really setting them a good example.

  Here? Now? Pretty little Danni Lane dead behind that screen? Ross turned to look for the owner of that question, and recognised her. He opened his mouth to suggest she get her priorities straight, then closed it, aware that the comment wouldn’t go across well on morning television, or with Wall Johnson. It didn’t pay to say what you were thinking, not these days.

  Australia gave lip-service to freedom of speech, but call a man a bastard these days and he’d have you in court for insulting his mother, call him an ugly great ape, and if his skin wasn’t white, he’d sue you for racial abuse. Let a cop defend himself in a melee and the rabble screamed police brutality, and this morning, Ross wanted out, wanted a tent beside a creek where he could scream his abuse at cawing crows who didn’t own cameras.

  He’d been promising himself that tent since his mother’s death. He hadn’t done it. He hadn’t murdered the Sloan swine who’d bought her house and cut down her avocado tree.

  She’d planted that seed. He’d watched that tree send up its first baby leaves, then waited fifteen years to taste its first fruit, and that bastard had cut it down. He’d driven by the house a week ago and noticed it gone.

  Its falling leaves had made a mess. The tree had never produced enough avocados to warrant the space it claimed, but had grown the best-tasting avocados in the world.

  He wouldn’t be driving by his old address again.

  He didn’t want to be here, either. Didn’t want to see behind that screen. Didn’t want to find pretty little Danni Lane come out of that garbage bag.

  *

  Her two phones at her side, Barbara Lane sat on her peach leather couch, watching the massed police on her television screen.

  Martin was here, had been here since her father had opened the door to him on Friday. He was pacing, pacing close to her telephones. His own was two thousand kilometres away, as was his bed. Her father had offered him Danni’s bed.