The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies

by Kimberley Starr

  “I remember high school. It can’t be that bad.”

  “For some of them it’s worse. A lot of the injuries that really scar people happen when they’re kids. Look at us. You’re virtually asking me to relive what happened when I was fourteen.”

  “What’s the problem with that?”

  “The past isn’t always that easy to dig up. Those few months are different every time I think about them … What’s wrong?”

  He snorted. “Just thinking you’ll be lousy in the stand, that’s all. If your memory’s so unreliable.”

  I dab my lips with my napkin. It’s unreasonable to feel offended. “No one’s memory is infallible, Detective. As an expert witness, I know my job.”

  “I hope so.”

  By the time our coffee arrives, I’m shivering. Has Brisbane become colder, or is this the result of having all my guilty feelings stirred up once again? The investigators have asked me here to help. I have to try.

  “You must feel weird, hearing the Seymour kid’s name again,” Ken says.

  Apparently I’ve been staring out at the traffic, mesmerised by tail-lights, for long enough. I look across at him.

  “They say lightning never strikes the same place twice.” His repetition of the cliché does nothing but reaffirm my suspicions. These deaths, this arrest, aren’t part of a second anything. This is the climax of a story that began all those years ago — the result of that first strike. Perhaps I’m the only one who realises this. What’s different is that I’m not fourteen any more. This time, I’ll have no excuses if I mess everything up.

  In my early twenties, I had a minor car accident that was my fault. I remember how relieved I felt as the car was towed away. I was embarrassed and the other driver was shaken, but not angry — once she realised I was insured. I called a taxi and went home, thinking I had left the scene behind. I hadn’t. I barely slept and suffered nightmares for weeks. My insurance costs took years to recover. Now I realise we don’t leave anything behind. We bring the past with us, towing it along. For a while we may not pay attention, but it never goes away. When life makes us look in the rear-vision mirror, there it is.

  That summer, twenty years ago, was a time of heat and mosquitoes. The trees were white-limbed, bleached against the sky and even the river seemed faint with heat.

  I had a razor of my mother’s but it was increasingly blunt. It added an extra dimension of tiny cuts to skin already stinging from Grandma’s cheap floral soap. My eyes itched and my nose ran; the late summer air was heavy with the humid promise of rain and ripe pollens. The tang of eucalyptus oil sapped from trees in syrupy channels and escaped from crushed leaves underfoot.

  Over the weekend, swimming pools evaporated and sprinklers pumped warm water onto dying lawns. Suburbs dropped out of the electricity grid because too many fans were turned up too high. There were too many evaporative coolers, too many air-conditioners. Fathers, isolated from the cool of their inner-city offices, nearly passed out in the houses where their wives and children lived their everyday lives.

  Brigid invited me for a long swim in her pool, warm as soup. We basted ourselves with coconut-scented sunscreen, and turned pink as cooked prawns. In a hammock strung along the far side of their yard, Andrew dozed. I watched his bare chest rise and fall, holding my breath, envying the flies that buzzed above his face. He was as brown as the river, as summery as the blue sky and the steam that rose off the mangroves humming with midges and mosquitoes.

  Cameron Seymour had been gone for four days. The adults in our neighbourhood, even my grandma, walked about with slow steps and worried frowns that were even slower and more worried than usual. While we swam in the Colemans’ pool, Rebecca’s slender outline hovered behind the curtains in one of the back windows. She watched us until we finished, then came down to help us open the burning metal pool gate. She brought Brigid her thongs, to protect her feet from bindies in the lawn as we crossed to the back patio. I tiptoed.

  Rebecca brought a plastic tray with lemonade and two glasses, and instant coffee for herself. Beneath her tiny mole, her smile seemed shaded against the sky; she was scared, and we knew it. River Pocket was stranded at the end of a winding road that led nowhere but here. The city, only a few kilometres away, took an hour to reach on the bus. There were no trains or ferries. It used to seem so isolated and safe; an ideal place for families. Now Cameron Seymour had happened.

  “Here, girls, have some lemonade.”

  The drink was icy cold and as wonderful as if we had been in the desert instead of a backyard pool. “Thanks, Mrs Coleman,” I said.

  Rebecca fussed with the drink and Brigid’s towel. “Call me Rebecca. You should come inside soon, Brigid. I don’t want you getting too burned. You either, Madeleine. How would I explain it to your grandmother?”

  “She’s called Maddy” Brigid said.

  “Maddy, then.” Rebecca looked at me as her thin fingers twisted the lid back onto the lemonade bottle. “Brigid says your father’s a teacher,” she said.

  I shrugged. How much time did they spend discussing me? “Last time I talked to him.”

  “In Australia or overseas?” Rebecca sat at the table herself.

  “He’s in Japan right now.”

  “Goodness!” Rebecca raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I hope he’s safe.”

  “He’s teaching English to high school kids. How dangerous can that be?”

  Rebecca smiled at Brigid. “I’ve always wanted to travel more. We’re thinking of going to England for a holiday, aren’t we, Bridge?”

  Brigid opened her eyes wide, happy. “That’d be so much fun. I’d love to see all the museums and old houses —”

  “And do some shopping. Maybe visit the US on the way home.” Rebecca completed their narrow view of fun. She looked at me suddenly, as if she knew I’d be interested in the next thing she said. “Andrew’s mother lives in California.”

  I swallowed awkwardly and replaced my glass on the table’s red timber slats. “Aren’t you Andrew’s mother?”

  Rebecca and Brigid looked at each other and laughed. They laughed too much, this family.

  “I’m Andrew’s stepmother,” Rebecca explained. “Andrew was born before I met his father.”

  “His wicked stepmother.” Brigid winked at me. “They’re all wicked. It says so in books.”

  “Very wicked,” Rebecca agreed, anxiety evaporating into a laugh. “I’ll have Andrew slaving in the coal mines any day now.”

  I wanted to talk some more about the stepmother thing, but Rebecca finished her coffee and stood.

  “Andrew!” she called.

  A sleepy head peered over the top of the hammock. Andrew. Looking in my direction — sort of.

  “It’s time for swimming practice!” Rebecca turned back to us. “That’s the slavery we put him through.”

  Andrew grumbled, but he got up all the same. A willing slave.

  * * *

  “A large-scale manhunt continued today along the banks of the Brisbane River …” Words poured from the TV set in the confident tones of a professional newsreader. I stood in the doorway of my grandma’s TV room, watching.

  “Come in, come in.” Grandma beckoned. “That poor boy. That poor boy,” she said again. “His poor parents.”

  “Do you know the Seymours?”

  “I’ve met them a few times. Shhh …”

  The coiffeured blonde reporter in her designer suit cheerfully continued with the night’s special report. She told us that Cameron Seymour had given no warning of running away. “His parents say he left home in a good mood, bound for Toowong,” she confided, “with ten dollars’ pocket money. He planned to meet friends and go into the city. Those friends waited for Cameron for over half an hour. Eventually, they assumed he’d changed his mind about coming. They set off without him. Cameron hasn’t been seen since.”

  The TV report cut to an interview taped earlier. The blonde reporter was face to face with the bus driver who didn’t remember seeing Cameron
.

  “It’s your testimony that first made the police think Cameron must have disappeared near his house,” she said. Her tone sounded accusing.

  The camera swung around to show the man’s face as his pleased-to-be-on-TV expression slid into bewilderment. “It was,” he agreed, slowly.

  “But there are plenty of things you don’t remember, aren’t there, Mr Jones?”

  Now he looked really bewildered.

  The reporter went on to reveal that an elderly woman passenger had come forward to say that she had seen a black-haired boy catching the bus. “Do you remember her?”

  He shook his head. The reporter went in for the kill. “Even though you had to leave your seat to help her board?” she asked. “She is very lame.”

  She turned proud-of-herself eyes back towards my grandma and me. “It’s only been a matter of days, but the people of River Pocket are already beginning to despair of ever knowing what happened to Cameron Seymour,” she said. “He might have been on that bus. Might have arrived in Toowong and decided to go into the city on his own. Could he have been planning to run away for quite some time?” She paused.

  “This would be easier to believe were it not for Cameron’s bank account. Cameron had been saving up for a mountain bike. There was $300 in the account. Although his ATM card was with him when he disappeared, the money has not been touched.” She smiled. “This is Susie Montgomery for the Nightly News.”

  “It doesn’t look good.” My grandma stood, heading for the kitchen. I let my gaze move from the TV to the window. Out there, the search for Cameron Seymour continued. I imagined nets being sunk into the river among the mangroves, then hauled back in with a load of old Coke bottles, seaweed, dead fish. And perhaps a boy’s pallid and bloated body …

  “Who can tell what’s going to happen?” Grandma continued as she returned with another cup of the tea that had already stained her teeth yellow. She was addicted to it. Then she looked up at me, quite suddenly. “You take care, won’t you?”

  Seconds later, her attention was distracted by a television ad about the latest disaster about to happen on one of her evening soaps. I seemed to have faded out of her view. Standing, I walked to my room. The imagined scene of nets and a puffy body had been stomach-turning, yet I knew I couldn’t sleep until I painted it.

  * * *

  And so, as always, I was back to my art. Finding the right setting, the right curve in the river, the right outcrop of mangroves, was on my mind the next day as I strolled beside the river, sketchbook under my arm. At this time of day the light and the colours were all wrong, but once I found the setting I needed, at least I’d be able to start.

  Turning past my grandma’s shed, I found the Coleman family sharing a picnic. Brigid was curled next to her father on a tartan rug, red head resting on his shoulder. Nearby, Rebecca sat on her haunches as she cut thin slices of cold roast beef and made thick sandwiches. An open esky was the centrepiece of their gathering, like the altar in a church, Rebecca’s wineglass and Daniel’s pile of empty beer stubbies like offerings.

  “Hello, Maddy.” Daniel raised his latest stubby in my direction. “Bridge, look who’s here.”

  “Hi!” Brigid waved. “Mummy, can Maddy stay?”

  “Of course.” Rebecca smiled. “Have you had lunch, Maddy?”

  I shook my head.

  Daniel glanced at Rebecca and winked. “Perhaps Madeleine can keep Bridge company, and we can go inside for a while?” His hand moved to touch her knee.

  I winced, remembering times when my father spoke to my mother like that. So ridiculous. Especially for married adults.

  Rebecca frowned. Not in front of the children, the look said, and then, Maybe later.

  I raised an eyebrow at Brigid to see if she was following this, and she giggled.

  When you’ve sobered up a bit, Rebecca continued telegraphing to her husband.

  “Mummy’s going back to work tomorrow.” Brigid spoke excitedly, as if this was the most fascinating thing she could think of.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes, really.” Rebecca gazed from Daniel to Brigid. I couldn’t picture her in a police uniform. “Well, I start with a sort of refresher course,” she went on. “I’ll need help about the house, you know, Brigid.”

  “I’m going to start tidying my own room and making my own lunch.” Brigid sounded impressed with herself.

  I blinked at her. “You don’t make your own lunch?”

  “Do you make yours?” She took a big bite from her sandwich.

  Rebecca passed one over for me. It tasted good.

  “Course I do. Have for years,” I said.

  “See, Bridge,” said Rebecca.

  For a few moments we ate in silence, leftover food protected from flies by a bright checked tablecloth. The sun cast dappled shadows through the overhead branches. Maybe this light would suit my painting, I thought, making an interesting contrast to the macabre and grisly subject.

  What else would be useful? I looked around. Nothing I felt compelled to paint. Unused, the Colemans’ jarrah furniture sat in its usual position beneath the steps. Andrew’s hammock hung empty against the far fence.

  Maybe, later, they’d invite me for a swim in the pool. It shone bright and blue in the middle of the yard, surrounded by straggly and tangled grass. Mowing was Andrew’s job.

  “It’s very quiet here,” I ventured, carefully. “Just the three of you.”

  Rebecca seemed intrigued by the blush creeping across my cheekbones. “Andrew’s at swimming practice,” she said. Then she looked at her husband again. “Normally I pick him up afterwards, but we’re swapping chores around at the moment, getting into practice for next week. Daniel can go get him, if he hasn’t drunk too much.”

  “I’m not drunk, I can drive,” Daniel insisted, in a slurry voice.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough, all the same,” said Rebecca.

  Daniel drained the rest of his bottle and reached towards the esky. He did this without malice, his eyes full of friendly challenge towards his wife.

  “Oh, you’re impossible.” Finally Rebecca picked up her own sandwich and began to eat.

  “Where are you going to work, Mrs Coleman?” I asked.

  “Indooroopilly,” Rebecca said. “The police station on Mog-gill Road. Help yourself to more.”

  “This is delicious,” I said. “Andrew really likes swimming, doesn’t he?”

  Rebecca gave me another knowing look. “He’s trained ever since he was little.”

  “He wants to go to the Olympics,” added Brigid proudly.

  Daniel made a funny noise as he took another drink from his bottle. What could that mean? I looked from him to Rebecca, as she said, “It doesn’t hurt to have a dream. Who knows? Someone has to make it.”

  “Andrew will make it,” said Brigid loyally. “He’s swum for Queensland once already.”

  “That sounds good.” I gazed at Daniel. His doubt seemed as disloyal as sabotage. “Don’t you think he’ll make it, Mr Coleman?”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Who can see the future?” he asked, still drinking. The river moved quietly and slowly before us, unaware of its own strength. The tide pulled out, our watches ticked, the afternoon was running away with the water.

  “Andrew’s an excellent swimmer,” his father said finally. “He’s just going to have to work very hard, and not let himself get … distracted.”

  I frowned, wanting Andrew to succeed, and also wanting to distract him. Rebecca gave me a searching look.

  “Andrew says timing is everything,” Brigid chatted happily. “Right now his coach wants him to slow down a little. It’s early in the year and he doesn’t want Andrew to peak too early.”

  “Andrew just wants to do the best he can,” Rebecca said. “You’re really enjoying that sandwich, Maddy.”

  I looked down, feeling guilty. I had to stop eating. There was no way Andrew would like me if I got fat.

  Brigid and I were in the pool, shrieking a
nd laughing, when Daniel stood to go. He and Rebecca had been lying side by side on the picnic rug talking quietly. She gave him a little peck on the cheek as he searched one of his trouser pockets for car keys. Then they stood, and she folded up the rug as he walked off.

  “Bye, Bridge,” he called, walking past the pool fence. “Bye, Maddy. Don’t drown, either of you, okay?”

  Brigid laughed and I splashed her, so she splashed me back. Water beads shone like crystal against the brilliant sky before falling onto our sunburned faces and arms. I slipped under the water and Brigid followed, holding her nose and squinting in my direction. Through the water she shimmered like foil.

  I sank as far as I could, then shot through the surface a moment later, sucking air into my lungs and expelling it again with a cry. While I watched, Brigid flattened her feet on the tiles, then, arrow-straight, propelled herself up into the air. Water spread from her arms like angel wings.

  By the time the water had settled and we were able to look around again, Daniel was gone. Rebecca stood at the fence watching us.

  “Take care, girls,” she said. “Don’t stay in the sun too long. I’m going inside for a while. You two stay together, okay?”

  A few moments later I saw a couple of police officers, jacketless, roam past. With long sticks, they poked into the mangroves and the vines that choked them.

  I pointed them out to Brigid. “The search party?” she asked, giving them a nervous wave.

  I nodded. Then, self-conscious of budding breasts in my old swimsuit, I slid further under the water as they approached. Why wouldn’t Grandma buy me something more flattering? Something that made me look flatter. Or maybe she could buy me something thinner, I thought. Thinnering. I shouldn’t have eaten so many of Rebecca’s sandwiches.

  Within a moment the police officers moved on. Brigid had been chewing on the inside of her cheek, but soon forgot them when I swam up and covered her with a wave-like splash.

  Nearby, a neighbour turned on a radio. A speedboat zoomed up the river pursued by water-skiers. We floated around on air mattresses, letting the sun burn us a little deeper, while cicadas high in the towering eucalypts tried to sing more loudly than the rock music. A faintly dank smell rose with the insects from the mangroves, but I wasn’t going to let fear spoil an almost a perfect Sunday afternoon.