by Anita Bell
‘You’re not rostered to work this morning!’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’ll let Mother pay you overtime for this.’
Scotty grinned. ‘Can’t a guy do a girl a favour for no reason?’ he said, nudging her with a wink and enjoying another eight-second silence. ‘It’s not like you’re the ugliest babe in school or anything.’
‘No way, Scott Mark Nolan,’ she snapped. ‘You’re up to something. I remember the last time you were nice to me. At Easter, remember, when we were dying eggs in Miss Tang’s class, you hugged me and dipped both my pigtails in the ink behind my back. Mother hasn’t forgiven you for that, you know. She had to cut all my lovely hair off to stop me staining all the furniture. Now look at it,’ she said, twiddling the short blonde curls. ‘It’s barely grown at all!’
Scotty wiped the smile from his face, remembering that he was the first one to call her porcupine head whenever she spiked it up and coloured the tips, ‘Well, I think it makes you look like a rock star,’ he said, not really lying. ‘You sing like Madonna so you might as well look like her too, hey?’
Janet turned pink. ‘Gee, Scott,’ she said. ‘You really think I sing like Madonna?’
Scott pushed past her to lean on the bench beside the doodlebugger. He wanted to shake the awkward silence that followed him inside. ‘Umm, yeah sure, I guess,’ he added quickly. ‘You just need a little more practice, I reckon.’ Instead of yacking all the time, he thought but didn’t add. ‘Maybe you should see the music teacher about helping you cut a demo tape for radio?’
‘Oh, Scott!’ she said, turning to liquid and melting all over the floor. ‘Do you really think so? I mean, nobody’s ever said anything that nice to me before. I mean, Mrs Johnstone says I’m the best singer she’s ever had in the choir, but then she’s only been teaching choir for a year, hasn’t she? And in Lowood of all places. I mean, how many good singers could she know to compare me with? And you know Mother, well, she doesn’t like me singing at all. You know what she thinks about wasting energy on artistic pursuits. But, oh … a demo tape for radio! Why, the whole world could be listening!’
Scott looked at his watch, keen to get to school for the first time in his life.
‘Yeah sure, Janet. I gotta go now. Catch ya this afternoon?’
‘Hang on,’ she said, reaching for her own schoolbag. ‘You’re pushing your bike, aren’t you? I’ll walk with you. We can chat about this on the way. Mother,’ she shouted, without taking a breath, ‘I’m off!’
‘Righto, luv,’ echoed a voice from the stockroom.
‘Would you like to be my manager?’ she asked Scott as the front door chimed open. ‘I might need a manager if I’m going to be on radio. All the rock stars have managers, you know. Oh hi, Mr Knox!’ Janet said, passing him coming in as she went out. ‘Mum’s in the back. Mother, Graham’s here!’ she shouted.
‘Righto, luv,’ echoed the voice again. ‘Come on through, Graham!’
Scotty smiled, never happier to see a cop. ‘Hey, sergeant! How’s the squad car running?’ he asked, keen to dodge Janet’s question. ‘Want me to pop up and give her a service some time for you?’
‘No, Scott,’ Knox said. ‘You know it has to go to a qualified mechanic.’
‘You’re sure? I heard you in town yesterday. Sounds like her pistons are ready to come out and shake hands with you.’
‘Speaking of hearing people in town,’ Knox said, resting a heavy hand on Scott’s shoulder. ‘That wasn’t you I heard revving up Main Street a few minutes ago?’
‘Me, Sarge?’ Scott said, grinning. ‘You warned me not to put her on the tar when she’s running.’
‘You’re not riding her on the footpath then, I hope?’
‘Well, yeah,’ he said, knowing deaf old Mrs Thompson had seen him plenty of times when he’d coasted past and teased her dogs. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Dangerous driving, if you run a pedestrian down. Leave your bike at home from now on, okay?’
‘But how will I get to school?’
Knox grinned, taking his hat off. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
‘What if I push her around town with the motor off?’ Scott persisted. ‘I could sit on her and coast all the way to school in neutral. She’d be quiet as a pushie then.’
‘And push her uphill to get home? Off with you, grub. Get to school. I’m not that thick.’
‘Geez, Sarge,’ Scotty wined. ‘You sure know to ruin a guy’s fun.’
‘Consider that an official warning too,’ Knox added, trying to get the last word in. ‘If I catch you, it’s straight to community conferencing — and you know what that means.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Scotty mumbled as he left. ‘Admit I did it. Suffer the consequences, blah blah.’
He felt doubly sorry for himself, pushing his bike up the hill past St Joseph’s with Janet Slaney yabbing in his ear. As he turned the corner into Prospect Street, he considered jumping on and coasting down to the high school just to get away from her.
‘Hey, Scott,’ she said, distracting him with a sneaky voice he’d never heard her use before. ‘He can’t see us now. We could coast from here and he’d never know.’
‘Hey, Janet,’ Scott said, mimicking her tone and grinning. ‘I was kinda thinking the same thing.’ Maybe there was hope for her. ‘Get on,’ he said, hopping on first. He waited until her arms were around his waist and pushed off into a cool breeze.
‘Wahoooo,’ she screamed as they accelerated down the steep path.
Scott grinned, wanting to make the same sound. He checked his rear-vision mirror to make sure no cars were coming, then leaned hard to swing across the road into the teacher’s car park. As he did, he saw a Landcruiser crest the hill up by the church, but he had to look back to where he was going as he jumped the gutter.
Janet screamed again and waved to her friends as they pulled up inside the gate. Scott shook his head as he got off, but it wasn’t the ringing of her voice that he was trying to shake out of his ears, it was the horrible thought that he’d recognised that car. He chained his Yamaha in the racks beside the pushies, and while Janet ran off giggling past the art block to meet her friends, he jogged back to the gate for a second look.
It was there all right, parked right outside St Joseph’s.
It couldn’t be, he decided, shaking his head again and heading off to class. If Eric Maitland was back in town, the last place he’d go would be to church.
A plump old woman drove a tractor slowly around the church grounds while her skinny husband tossed the last few bales of hay off the trailer onto the ground behind them as seating for the carnival. He jumped down when the trailer was empty and kicked over a few bales that had fallen sideways. Then he climbed back onto the trailer and give his wife the thumbs up to head home.
Eric Maitland waited until they chugged and rattled over the crest of the hill before he opened his vehicle’s tool kit and took out a pair of wire cutters — a pair with insulated handles. He glanced around to make sure no-one was looking and then paid a quick visit to the church’s phone connection.
The conduit that protected the live wires was only visible for about a hand width above the ground before it disappeared between hardiplanks on the southern corner, but Maitland only needed a fraction of that. When he was done, he went back to his car and waited.
He sat quietly behind the darkened glass of his car for half an hour, sweating as the sun rose higher, even though his dirty work was nearly done. An army jeep pulled up less than thirty minutes later to do the rest and he watched the two soldiers climb the church steps like a pair of puppets dancing on a string.
He gunned his four-wheel drive to life and grinned as he turned it around. His brother’s wife may have been dead, he realised, but the contacts she’d left them with in the ministry were still very much alive.
‘Excuse me, we’re looking for Padre Patrick Connolly?’ the Corporal said.
‘You’ve found him,’ Connolly said, looking up from the parish p
aperwork. He expected to see military uniforms. Civilians called him Father and he knew it wouldn’t have been long before they tracked their AWOL soldier down. The surprise was, they weren’t military police. There were no distinctive MP armbands around their biceps. Their uniforms confirmed that they were army. They both wore the rising sun on their shoulders and the corporal had a V-shaped chevron under his. Neither of them wore sidearms, which meant they’d been assigned to a duty that didn’t expect trouble.
‘What can I do for you, Corporal?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Corporal Heffernan, sir,’ the taller one with the chevron said. He didn’t salute, but that was because Connolly wasn’t wearing a uniform.
‘Alpha Six, 6RAR,’ the corporal went on. ‘We’ve been posted to Patrol Base Marko. That’s East Timor, sir, about fifteen clicks …’
‘I know where it is, son. What’s the problem?’
‘You’re invited. These are your orders.’ The corporal handed over a sealed white envelope, the content of which had been faxed through to the air base commander at Amberley.
‘My re-enlistment’s been accepted?’ he asked, bewildered. His latest application was still in his pocket.
Connolly used a letter opener the shape of an army ceremonial sword to open his orders. Unfolding the official letter, he discovered it was true. ‘I thought they were giving preference to younger men?’
‘We need all the help we can get now that refugees are starting to come back. There’s a lot of kids up there who got separated from their parents. You can hitch a ride up with us and get off at Maliana. We leave in forty.’
‘Minutes?’
He nodded again. ‘Sorry about the short notice, Padre. Office of the base commander tried to ring, but your line’s dead.’
Connolly picked up the handset and listened to silence on the line. Strange, he thought. It had been working when Ken Murphy had called him out that morning to give last rights to his favourite chicken. ‘Did they report it?’
He nodded. ‘That’s why they sent us, sir. Telstra told them the line was down and they wouldn’t be able to get a repairman out to look at it until this afternoon. I have orders to get you back to the air base in time to make our flight. You can pick up a full kit of uniforms and grab a shower at a stop-over in Darwin, but can we help you grab anything here that you need before we leave?’
Connolly rubbed his chin, his mind racing with a thousand questions at once. Could he just get up and walk away from his parish? Sarah Hendersen and her fiancé had an appointment after work to finalise their wedding. Old Mrs Heggarty wanted to see him after lunch about the craft competition for the carnival. Tilly Thomas was coming in to rehearse on the piano with Janet Slaney. He still had stalls to finish setting up for the carnival that night and the semi-trailer he had booked for the stage entertainment was running late. Volunteer helpers would be back after lunch, but on top of everything, he had Jayson Locklin to worry about.
‘I have to organise a replacement,’ he said. ‘I can’t just abandon my parish.’
‘Excuse me, sir, I should have mentioned it. A replacement’s already being sent by the Brisbane archdiocese. Someone must have been awake at HQ to expect you to ask that one, sir. They made sure it was confirmed before we left.’
‘How soon?’
‘Within the hour, I believe. But we must leave now, Padre. I suggest you call your replacement tomorrow from Timor if anything’s urgent, unless you want to leave them a note?’
Connolly turned over a blank piece of paper and realised he had nothing to say. As special as the community was to him, he knew that his replacement would handle everything just as well. People would show up with problems and they would be comforted. The carnival would go on without him. Tilly Thomas would play the piano while Janet Slaney sang. Sarah Hendersen would marry Joe Sippel. Mrs Heggarty would judge the fundraising competitions. And Jayson Locklin would stay a day or two longer until their discussion sank in and he’d get back to his unit in East Timor in whatever way he had it planned.
The lad was a survivor, Connolly realised, who knew where he belonged, just as he did. The only things he picked up were his Bible and reading glasses.
‘Do you want to lock up?’ the corporal asked, following him out.
‘No, son,’ the padre answered with half a smile. ‘The church is like the army. It’s always open for business.’
‘Explain,’ Fletcher said.
‘I cut the phone line so he couldn’t ring out or receive calls. Saved me having to go in and spend an hour trying to think up things to say to keep him busy. I knew he was alone, so I just sat in the car and watched for visitors.’
‘And?’
‘There weren’t any,’ Maitland said, pleased with himself.
‘Excellent,’ Fletcher said. ‘Then we’ve probably nipped out any problem. Just in case, I’ve already commenced security enhancements on business this end. You keep a lid on things your end and we’ll concentrate on getting the next shipment delivered.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Maitland said, realising that meant he wouldn’t be getting any sleep soon. ‘I just have to pick up a water pump before I head back. I’ll get you to reimburse me for that.’
Fletcher rolled his eyes. His stepbrother was always fretting over money. ‘More seepage in the pit?’
‘More than a bit. I don’t need the space this time round with only two items to process, but we’ll have to do something to get it ready for next time. Plaster a concrete blend up the walls maybe.’
‘Don’t bother for now,’ Fletcher said, as if speaking to a child. ‘Let it fill. You can pump it out tomorrow. Until then you’re busy.’
‘Oh man, yeah. What time you got collection pegged for?’
‘Same as last time.’
8pm.
‘And the girl? How long am I expected to play nursemaid?’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Fletcher said with a grin in his voice. ‘I’ll make sure that someone catches up with her.’ For more than just one murder, he thought, still playing with the idea. The following shipment wouldn’t be due for another three months after this one, and he was certain he could replace his stepbrother by then.
‘The church was a jewel box,’ Nikki told Parry. She glanced nervously through the bougainvillea, wondering how much longer it would be before Thorna came looking for her, and she looked up at the top floor window in time to see the drapes pulled aside and a face looking out.
‘Actually, the church was a cabinet for a jewellery box,’ she continued quickly. ‘The front opened on a hinge and the jewellery box sat inside it.’ She pulled her necklace out of her blouse and showed Parry the charm of an angel. ‘This was part of the set,’ she said. ‘Mum was holding this one when I found her. There’s also a pair of earrings, but I don’t know where they are.’
‘And this jewellery box,’ Burkett asked, taking notes, ‘it was, what? A musical thing with a dancing ballerina?’
Nikki looked at Parry, rolling her eyes. ‘Where’d you get him from?’
‘He’s young,’ Parry defended. ‘No daughters to teach him the ropes.’
‘Oh,’ she said, liking the old guy even more. ‘Those music boxes are for little kids,’ she explained. ‘This one was a coffin — a crystal coffin.’
Burkett’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a bit morbid, isn’t it?’
‘No way!’ Nikki said, her feelings hurt. ‘It’s really … well … sweet. I mean, when you know what happened.’
‘And what was that?’ Burkett asked, unprepared for her reaction.
Her face turned blood red. She didn’t have time for this, and yet her story wanted to come out — now, after years of failed therapy and talking about it until she was blue in the face with falsely encouraging therapists. ‘It’s not on your files?’ she asked, hoping to extinguish the fuse that had been lit for her time bomb.
‘Nowhere that I’ve seen,’ Burkett said.
‘Please tell us,’ Parry said in that fatherly tone that
dredged fond memories from her belly. She slumped against the tree, her eyes fixed on the grass, but looking inwards.
‘My dad and my brothers,’ she said, as if reading it from a plaque that had been burned behind her eyes. ‘I saw them die. We were driving round, helping Mum run for council one time and Dad swerved to miss a cow. We crashed down this gully. Mum and I were thrown clear, but the others got trapped, and then the fuel tank blew. I saw them, Mr Parry. I saw their hair on fire.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Burkett said, meaning it. He had read that in the files. Not the details, just that most of her family had been killed in a car accident. That was common knowledge anyway. A strong sympathy vote was one of the main reasons her mother had been elected the first time round.
‘Yeah, everyone said they were sorry,’ Nikki said. ‘I was only five, but I remember a church attendant say he was sorry, then joke to another guy that they were burying empty boxes. There was nothing left of the bodies, and he thought that was funny.’
Parry scrunched his fists inside his pockets, remembering the reference to Nikki’s mental instability in his homicide report. ‘Your mum took you to psychiatrists after that?’
Nikki glanced to the window again, almost hoping to be interrupted. ‘Wouldn’t you? I mean, a kid who ducks off down the garden in all weather to pick bugs out of cobwebs and bury them in matchboxes isn’t exactly all together, hey?’
‘So your mum had the coffin and angels made to bring you in out of the cold?’ Parry said.
Nikki nodded. From the look on Burkett’s face, he didn’t understand, although Parry seemed to have a fair idea.
‘This is my dad,’ she said, rolling the tall angel charm on her necklace between her fingers. ‘And the earrings were my brothers. It works, you know, laying them to rest each night. Or it did until he found out about them.’
‘By he, you mean Aaron Fletcher?’ Parry asked. ‘Your stepfather?’
She nodded, preferring not to taste his name on her tongue again.
‘Hang on,’ Burkett said. ‘You were already using it? I thought I read that you claimed it was a birthday present. Your birthday’s not for another fortnight, is it?’
