She had to stop chattering. Her conscience was playing tricks on her, trying to get her to change her mind. With great effort, she regained her focus. ‘I wonder if you’d help me with something,’ she said, smiling.
Again he looked at the paper bag, but said nothing about it. ‘I’m afraid I’m running late for a meeting. Bishop Tully should be arriving here any moment and we have important business to discuss with Mother Veronica. I need to brief Veronica first, so I must press on,’ he said, attempting to walk around her.
Maria took a step towards him, to block his way. ‘It will only take a moment.’ She continued to smile.
He gave in and dipped his head in agreement.
‘Thank you. I’ve been having difficulty with the well,’ she said, holding her arm out towards it.
‘The well? It’s not in use anymore, is it?’
‘No, but I’ve been trying to find a way to restore it; extra water in times of drought never goes astray. But I can’t pull up that rope. See there?’ She pointed to a long rope that hung from a rafter down into the depths of the well. There was a heavy weight on it of some sort. ‘I’m afraid it needs some muscle behind it,’ she said, deliberately appealing to his ego. ‘Would you mind having a go?’
Peter peered down into the darkness, his hands resting on the edge of the short brick wall—a wall that served more as a visual barrier rather than a safety one by today’s standards—then pushed himself back quickly, coughing. ‘Ah, there’s a strong smell in there,’ he said, turning green. ‘I think something’s died.’
‘Oh?’ Maria was genuinely surprised.
Peter, grimacing as he steeled himself against the smell, rolled up the sleeves of his cloak and leaned over the edge of the well to grab the rope and test the weight. Here was her chance. She had no idea how she would explain herself if this didn’t work. These thoughts were so clear, so calm. And even as she thought them, her hands got to work.
She swiftly opened the top of the bag and plucked out her sacrificial bee, sending out silent gratitude to her. While Peter grunted and murmured to himself about what could possibly be down the well, Maria placed the bee on the back of his neck, holding her lightly by the body to delay her sting. Here, Maria hesitated for a fraction of a second, taking in the bee’s dazed circling on his skin as she tried to gather her wits for what she was about to do. Then she applied pressure to the bee’s back—not enough to squash her, but enough to annoy and threaten her. And the bee did exactly as Maria wanted.
Peter felt the sting immediately and jumped up, smacking his head on the rafter of the well, his hand slapping at the back of his neck. ‘What was that? Was that a bee?’ He spun in circles, looking for the offending creature, which Maria thought she’d seen fall down into the loosened neck of his shirt.
‘What was what?’ her voice said, again as if of its own accord. Her hands were so firmly clenched that she suddenly felt piercing pain in her fingers.
Then Peter began to wheeze, as if having an asthma attack.
She was flooded simultaneously with alarm and fascination, anguish and relief. It was actually working.
Through the revulsion, her conscience shrieked at her. She should help him, get an ambulance, call for help. Something.
‘Maria,’ he gasped, clutching at his neck. His face was turning red with the effort of breathing. ‘Help me,’ he managed, before leaning his weight against the edge of the well for support.
She stood with him, bearing witness. ‘Just try to stay calm,’ she said. ‘Just try to take slow breaths. It will be over soon.’
He gawked at her sideways, his face now blue, swirling with ugly purples and reds. He knew. He knew she wasn’t going to help him but was going to watch him die. One of her hands ref lexively reached towards him. ‘Peter,’ she whispered.
Then, from out of nowhere, Bishop Tully ran towards them. ‘Peter!’ He shook the priest as he slumped further to the side, his mouth open, his tongue visibly swelling. He let go of him and turned on Maria. ‘Go and get help.’
But just then, Peter took a huge, violent gasp and fell backwards into the well.
In genuine shock, Maria screamed. And that alerted others and they began running, seemingly from all over. Ian Tully was shouting orders, telling sisters to call an ambulance, to get a ladder, to do something. All Maria could do was stand in horror, her hand over her mouth, and stare down into the dark well, knowing that Peter Cunningham was dead in there and it was all because of her.
He’d been right; he was allergic to bees after all.
And she had killed him.
Maria sat with her hands in prayer position, her fingertips just under her nose, staring at nothing in particular on the ground, her mind lost to the past, to that day, to the enormity of what she’d done.
Then Tansy’s voice, small and cracking with worry, asked, ‘Wasn’t anyone suspicious? Didn’t anyone see anything?’
Maria cleared her throat and pulled her focus back to the present. The sun had dropped further now, and the chill of the coming night had begun to seep into her back where she sat.
‘Ian Tully saw it all,’ she said.
‘Was he still alive?’ Tansy all but whispered.
‘No. An ambulance officer was lowered down into the well in a harness, a miner’s light on his hat, but called up quickly that Peter was dead. It became a retrieval for the body instead. It was around then that Ian took me away from the scene, gripping me painfully by the arm.
‘“I saw you!” he hissed. “I saw you put the bee on Peter’s neck. Everyone knows he’s allergic to bees. You killed him!”
‘Then I told him what I knew—everything Peter had done to Michelle Karakas. I couldn’t let him know outright what Sarah had told me. But I had to say enough to keep him quiet.
‘“You had to have known!” I challenged him. “You’re supposed to be the all-seeing all-knowing shepherd of your flock. You are in charge of your priests. This couldn’t have slipped by unnoticed.” And the look of fear in his eye at that moment sealed his fate to silence too. I told him I wouldn’t stop telling people about this until he, the exalted bishop of the diocese, as well as Mother Veronica and anyone else who’d covered up these crimes was in jail alongside me.’
‘And he backed down?’ Tansy asked, standing now and pacing, pulling her jacket on around her shoulders.
‘Of course. He was a shrewd man; he still is. He knew what that kind of publicity could do to his career aspirations, and Peter’s “accident” was a clean way for the problem to go away. So he told the police he’d seen Peter lean over the well and lose his balance—which was true, in a way. And no one would have questioned him. I, of course, said the same thing. I told a version of the truth—that I’d asked Peter to help me unblock the well and he fell. The final doctor’s report came out, but Peter’s body was so broken up . . .’ Here, Maria lost the rhythm of her speech for a moment. Her niece came to sit beside her and put her arm around her shoulders. Maria lifted her hand and patted Tansy’s gratefully.
‘There was so much trauma to his neck from the fall,’ she said. ‘I guess it had all happened so quickly, and the neck injuries, along with Ian’s testimony, and mine, both of us so respected . . well, it was the natural conclusion.’
‘And you’ve both been silent ever since,’ Tansy said.
Maria nodded.
‘But why has Ian turned up now? What’s changed?’
‘There’s an investigation. We’ve both been called to give evidence. The truth is going to come out.’ A sob jerked out of Maria’s chest and she buried her head in her hands.
‘It will be okay. It will,’ Tansy said, pulling Maria into her arms and rocking her like a child.
Maria shook her head vehemently. ‘No, it won’t. It can’t be.’ She clutched at her sister’s daughter’s arms, overwhelmed by gratitude to have Tansy here, and disbelief that she hadn’t yet run screaming from the Haven with this new knowledge. Maria had deliberately cut herself off from the world, but
she didn’t want to be alone anymore. She wanted to be part of a family. ‘Please help me.’
‘Of course I’ll help you.’
24
Tansy had no idea how she was going to help Maria. She was still reeling from what her aunt had told her, and even though she had the utmost sympathy for the situation Maria had been in, and disgust for Peter Cunningham and the church of which she was a practising member, it was still life-altering information. She knew a murderer. Not only did she know one; she was related to one. Had hugged one. Had loved one almost immediately. It was simply inconceivable.
She’d helped Maria walk back down the path to her little house, shaky on her feet from the confession (and maybe from too much mead). She’d made her a cup of tea and stayed with her until she was certain Maria would be okay and not do something silly, like accidentally leave the stove on. Or, you know, plot another murder. Ian Tully would be a good candidate for a second murder.
She had to stop it. Thinking like that wasn’t helping anyone. But she’d never been in this situation before. There were no rules about how to process something like this. And to top it off, her mother—Maria’s sister—was in her kitchen right now, humming along to Perry Como and wearing Chanel perfume while making scones with Paula and another woman.
‘Tansy, this is Christine,’ Enid said, waving a flour-covered hand between the two of them in introduction.
‘Hi,’ Tansy said, confused. ‘Wasn’t the fete last night?’
‘Yes, all done and dusted, but we met Christine there, who was volunteering on the stall, and we all agreed we’d had such fun that we should just continue on as we had been and keep baking. Someone somewhere always needs baked goods,’ Enid finished in a flurry, her eyes bright, clearly chuffed at making another new friend and finding a hobby to keep her busy here in Tansy’s home while she hid from her husband. Christine plugged in the beaters and poured cream into the mixing bowl, ready to whip.
Tansy felt as though she’d stepped through invisible walls into a parallel universe. These women had no idea whose house they’d entered. It was the house of . . . an accessory after the fact? Was that what she was now? A stone plummeted through her abdomen. Her hands were shaking, she realised, holding them out in front of her, and she hadn’t even had too much coffee.
‘Tansy, come and help us knead the dough, would you?’ Enid asked. ‘We’ve overestimated how much our arthritic fingers can handle.’ All three of them laughed at this, as though it was a wonderful joke.
‘I was just about to go for a jog,’ she said. It was impossible to stay here.
‘Oh, to have the energy of the young,’ Paula said, snidely.
Tansy chuckled uneasily and left the room. In the bedroom, she pulled on her exercise pants, racer-back bra and singlet, tied her shoelaces extra tight, popped in her bumblebee earbuds, touched again by Dougal’s thoughtfulness, secured her phone to her bicep with a velcro strap and turned up the volume on Katy Perry. She ran down the stairwell, out through the chrome and glass security door and down the hill to the road, where she turned right and joined the throng of walkers, surfers and joggers on the boardwalk leading up to the national park.
Sunday was always a busy day on the tracks and she kept her head down, passing barefoot surfers with wetsuits undone to the waist, carrying their long boards under one arm as they jogged lightly up the hill. Families with their kids in sun-smart rashies, caps and sunglasses. Lone joggers, sweat patches seeping down their backs. Pretty European girls in flip-flops and skimpy dresses with their shoulders burned red, chatting excitedly in their native languages. She sidestepped them all easily, an expert now at negotiating this track and the hills and the sometimes-too-distracted tourists and loved-up couples who stopped for selfies with the huge blue ocean in the background. She’d been running these tracks for years. It was one of the things that had lured her and Dougal here.
She pushed on up the hills, her muscles churning out lactic acid in protest, the other joggers and walkers thinning now as the paved track ended, becoming bumpy, rocky and sandy footings. She let all thoughts of Maria slip to the background for the moment, giving her mind a break from trying to work out what she could possibly do to help. The eucalyptus and rainforest trees gave way to papery, narrow-leafed coastal scrub. It was more exposed here, a hot and sunny stretch on the way to Hell’s Gates. It wasn’t unusual to come across a large snake sunning itself on this section of the path, and she kept her eyes peeled for any fellow travellers of the slithery kind.
It felt quieter here, the waves smashing into the cliffs either with less gusto or simply with less surround sound. Not that she could hear much of anything today with Katy Perry singing in her ears. She slowed her pace to cast her eyes across the endless deep blue sea to her left. There were fewer boats out there on the open water. It was prime dolphin-spotting scenery, but she didn’t slow down for long. It was endorphins she was after. That glorious runner’s high where everything felt easy and painless and the world was reduced to just her and the track, her and her breath, her and her blood pumping to keep her alive.
Finally, she reached Hell’s Gates, a massive rocky outcrop that plunged scores of metres straight down into the crashing, roiling sea. The waves rushed in through an opening between rock towers, swirled and spat and sucked and shot out again. She stood well back from the edge, even though others around her ventured close to the precipice, feeling daring, laughing in the face of life’s risks. She had been out there, but the drop was dizzying and she felt no need to do it again. Instead she stood with her hands on her hips, sweating and puffing and staring out to the horizon. She plucked the earbuds away and let Katy’s voice be replaced by the awesome crashing of water hurling itself at immovable rock.
Was that what she was doing with Dougal? Hurling herself at him in the futile effort to make him move on his position?
She lowered herself to sit on a rock warmed by the sun. Did she really want a baby? Or had she simply fallen in love with the fantasy? She’d seen Dougal’s tenderness with Hamish and her heart had swelled. She was turning thirty, she was the youngest in her family and in her marriage, and she was afraid of losing everyone and being alone. She’d briefly thought she was pregnant and had convinced herself that this was some sort of sign, that she’d made a terrible mistake, and that she had to do something now before it was too late.
But maybe none of that was true at all. Up until two months ago, when they’d been to see baby Hamish, she’d been totally happy. She hadn’t questioned the decision she’d made seven years ago. In the intervening years she hadn’t felt as though she was missing out on something vital. The list of benefits for not having children was long. She’d recited it many times. She’d just been spooked, that was all.
She’d made a promise to Dougal and she’d broken it and now she might have damaged their relationship. Nobody’s life was perfect, but hers was damn near close enough. What a fool she’d been. Well, no more. She would tell Dougal she’d been wrong and fix this problem before it got out of hand.
She checked her phone. Due to an unfortunately long stopover in Los Angelos, it was still six hours until her husband—her lovely, kind husband—would be in Toronto. She couldn’t wait to speak to him and tell him what she’d realised. He’d be so relieved and happy.
Back in her unit and freshly showered, she settled herself in her office to work. The upheavals of the past week had put her behind on the two jobs she currently had going. Isabelle’s image project was due tomorrow, and Tansy had an appointment with her after school to talk about it. And Ernest and his rocks were still needing her attention. His mother had sent an email, gently wondering how things were going.
Tansy still felt that the best way to approach Ernest’s room was to do what she called ODD—organise, declutter and display. She opened files of previous jobs she’d done that had involved ODD and reviewed the systems that had worked then. She’d successfully modified rooms for intense enthusiasts of dinosaurs, Lego and model planes
. This should be no different.
Her mother interrupted. ‘The girls are just helping to clean up the kitchen and will be on their way soon. Would you like some tea?’ she asked, poking her head into the office.
Tansy turned to face Enid, who was wearing a pinstriped apron. She must have bought that from somewhere around here, Tansy realised. She’d been shopping on her own, or maybe with her new friends, instead of with her daughter. Enid had been here a week now and Tansy hadn’t been out with her once; she’d been too busy rushing to help or simply visit Maria, and preoccupied with Dougal’s departure.
‘Yes, actually, that would be lovely,’ she said. Her mother knew exactly how she liked her tea—milky with one sugar and the teabag left in to steep. Her mother and Dougal were the only two people in the world who could make her tea exactly as she liked it.
‘And I have a fresh ginger sponge on its way out of the oven. Shall I bring you a piece of that too?’
Tansy smiled. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
Enid disappeared from the doorway and Tansy returned to pulling together pictures from previous jobs and laying them out on her desk, moving them around in a rudimentary plan for Ernest’s bedroom. She checked her notes about the dimensions of the space and slowly a design began to take shape in her mind, though she was struggling to muster much enthusiasm for this job. She felt zapped of passion today.
Her mother returned with a teacup and saucer and a matching plate with a piece of warm ginger cake.
‘Smells wonderful,’ Tansy said, as Enid placed them carefully on her desk. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. You’ve had so much going on this week, with work and volunteering at the hospice after the flood, and with Dougal’s leaving. It’s been difficult, hasn’t it?’ she said, her hand on Tansy’s shoulder. ‘I hope I haven’t been in the way. I’ve tried to give you your space and occupy myself so you didn’t feel you had to entertain me, but I can see what a toll this week’s taken on you. Perhaps it would have been better if I wasn’t here.’
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