That decided her at last. Karen had always prided herself on denouncing racism, and if it did turn out to be bigotry that was holding her back from giving this man a chance, then she'd face it and fix it.
Besides, she thought, twisting at the hem of her apron, it would give Ken a chance to meet Henry, to see what he thought.
Karen stood at the door a few moments before knocking. She was pretty sure he was in there – her front gate made an awful squeak when it was opened, and she hadn't heard it this morning, so she reasoned that he couldn't have gone out. She raised her hand to knock, and then lowered it again, her stomach flip-flopping.
She looked around her yard, stalling. It was a beautiful day. The sun was warm and she could hear the bees in the lemon tree. She had to get the first load out on the line soon and get on with the day, or no one was going to be eating lunch. She stepped closer to the door and knocked firmly.
'Henry,' she spoke to the door, smiling. 'I wonder, have you got a minute?'
She suddenly worried that he could be asleep, and she could have slapped herself. It hadn't occurred to her that someone could still be asleep at ten o'clock in the morning. She hadn't slept that late since she was a teenager. But it was Sunday morning, she chastised herself – not everyone is up at six o'clock like her.
'I can wait,' she sang through the door. 'I'll wait for a moment. I just wanted to invite you to lunch.'
She heard nothing from behind the thick door and thought about retreating. Maybe he was coming, though; she must've already woken him up. She remembered when she'd been painting the room that sounds from outside were deadened. Maybe he hadn't heard her. She could just walk away.
She stood a moment, studying her nails, and, hearing nothing from inside, turned to go. Maybe he doesn't want much to do with us anyway, she thought. That would be a relief, she decided, if he'd come to that conclusion himself.
Karen's thoughts had turned to her washing, and she had taken a step away when the door scraped open behind her, and she raised a hand to her mouth.
'Oh, Henry,' she said. 'I hope I didn't wake you.'
The man stared at her from those curiously black eyes, and she could read nothing in his expression. He didn't say a thing. He seemed to be wide awake, though, as far as she could tell, and thank goodness, he was fully dressed. She noticed a nasty smell from the room behind him and blushed in embarrassment.
'Henry, it smells like the mould's coming back in there,' she prattled, unnerved by his silence and slow-blinking eyes. 'Ken and I – he's my brother, I think I told you – we did our best to get rid of it all in there, but I think it must be coming through the paint. I'm sorry about that. We'll get onto it again.'
He said nothing, continued to study her.
'Anyway,' she continued, overly bright, 'I thought you might like to come to lunch with me and the girls. Oh, and Ken, that's my brother. Although of course if you don't want to… it's only a roast. I don't want to be intrusive; I thought I'd just ask, but…'
'Lunch would be lovely. Thank you, Karen.'
He smiled. She wished he hadn't.
'Okay, great then, that's great,' she said, backing away. 'Well, we eat at twelve, usually, although some people might think that's a bit early. It's the girls…'
'Twelve's great, Karen. I'm really looking forward to it.'
Karen Miceh managed a weak smile and half ran up her back steps to her laundry.
In the end, the roast was dry, because she wasn't sure whether he'd like it medium, as she and Ken did. The girls always preferred the crunchy edges anyway, but Karen felt miserable carving the juiceless meat. She smiled at her guest, who'd changed into a collared shirt and tied his long hair back into a ponytail. Somehow, his attempt to appear civilised rendered him even more alien.
'So, Henry, were you born in Australia?' she asked. Good one, Karen: go the race card already.
'Yes,' he said, 'and you?'
'Yes, yes. Ken and I were both born here. Our parents were proud Macedonians, but they wanted us to be Australian. They thought the names Karen and Ken were as Aussie as you could get.' She gave him a wry smile as she passed him a plate.
'Thank you,' he said, accepting the sliced roast lamb from her. 'Looks delicious. I'm glad it's well cooked. I can't stand blood.'
Her smile was forced as she fixed Ken with a stare. Great, so she and her brother should eat overcooked meat every Sunday now? Why does it have to be so hard to be neighbourly?
'You have beautiful daughters, Karen. You must be very proud.'
'Yes. Thank you,' she said. 'Maryana, sit up straight in your chair. You know better than that. I've told you twice already.'
Karen frowned. Her oldest daughter usually swamped strangers with questions and chatter, and it was all Karen could do, typically, to stop her little girl climbing all over them. Today, Maryana seemed almost to be trying to hide under the table. Eva prattled away in her highchair, playing with her potatoes.
'So, Henry, what do you do for a quid?' Ken spoke up. 'Are you in a job at the moment?'
'In and out, Ken. I'm in sales. I do a lot of door-to-door work.'
Karen almost snorted. No wonder he didn't get a lot of work. Most people wouldn't want him in their house. Damn Eddie for putting me in this situation, she thought. Still, Henry seemed to be nice enough now that she was getting used to the way he looked.
Karen finished serving and began to eat. She listened to Ken and Henry speaking for a while and tried to encourage Maryana to settle down, but her daughter had eaten none of her lunch.
'What's the matter, little Maryana, don't you feel well?' Henry asked during a break in the conversation with Ken.
Maryana squirmed in her chair, her hair covering her face.
'Did something make you feel sick?' he said.
Maryana started to cry.
'Oh baby, what's wrong?' Karen stood and went to her daughter. 'Henry, I think you're right.' She reached down and scooped Maryana into her arms. 'She's all hot. Are you feeling sick, darling?'
Karen took Maryana from the room, her daughter clinging to her like a baby. She settled her into bed and smoothed her hair a little until she stopped crying.
She returned to the table when Maryana had relaxed under her quilt, tired out by her sobs.
'Is she okay, Karen?' asked Ken.
'I don't know what's wrong with her,' she said. 'I gave her a Panadol. I'll let her sleep now and take her up to the medical centre this afternoon.'
Maryana Miceh felt a lot better.
As soon as she got away from that Henry, she didn't feel so woozy. He was probably a very nice man, she told herself. It was just that the sore on his tummy made her feel really sweaty and hot. She kept thinking about what she had seen him doing through the crack in the wall. Maybe she should tell her mum?
She decided it would probably be best to ask Jasmine Hardcastle tomorrow before class started. Even though Jasmine thought she was better than everyone else, she did seem to know a lot of stuff. Maryana didn't want to get in trouble for spying on Henry, but maybe her mum should know about his stomach. Maybe she could get him some bandaids or something. And he didn't have a car. Maybe he needed to get a lift to see Dr Kim at the medical centre.
Alerted by a sound out the window, she scrambled up and knelt on her bed.
Wow, she thought. There's a pretty lady on the lawn. She's coming to our house!
Maryana slipped off her bed and padded through the hallway to the front door. She pulled the door open and walked out onto the front steps. She held her hand up to her face to stop the sun hurting her eyes. The lady waved. Maryana could see that the lady couldn't open their gate.
'That gate's stupid,' said Maryana, hopping on one leg down the path that ran from the steps to the fence. 'My dad was supposed to fix it, but Mummy said he's stupid too.'
'I've come to visit Henry,' said Chloe Farrell, smiling. 'Does he live here?'
'No, silly!' Maryana laughed.
'Oh… okay.'
&n
bsp; 'He's renting!'
'Uh huh.'
'You know you can just climb over that gate. Uncle Ken does that. He says my dad is stupid too. Do you think that's rude?'
Chloe stepped over the low fence easily.
'My name's Chloe,' she said.
'I wish that was my name,' said Maryana. 'I'm Maryana. Everyone's in there having lunch.' She pointed back inside. 'Come on. I'll show you where Henry is renting.'
Maryana ran around the side of the house.
Chloe followed.
Chloe now felt certain that the police had this all wrong. She'd been told that the first suspect police investigated was most often the wrong one, and it was with this in mind that she'd decided to risk asking after this Henry person at the house in Cabramatta. The fact that he hadn't been brought in for questioning also strengthened her doubts that the police seriously thought this guy was one of the killers. And then she'd met Henry's grandmother, and she was so sweet! But it was little Maryana and this gingerbread house that finally convinced her. Would a bloodthirsty psychopath be eating Sunday lunch with a family in Baulkham Hills? She didn't think so.
So it was all good for her. She could get an interview with a police suspect and show that they were still a long way off the mark as far as solving the case. She wondered if this bloke even knew he was under surveillance. She suspected that the cops didn't even know that he'd moved on from the family house in Cabramatta. She smiled to herself as she followed little Maryana's chubby legs into the backyard of the home. Maybe she'd get to present a piece live to camera. The anchor, Deborah, would burn.
'Maryana!'
Chloe heard a call come from inside the house.
'That's my mum,' the little girl said. 'I gotta go. His room's in there.' Maryana pointed to a door tucked beside the stairs leading to the house above them. 'You wanna come up?'
'No, that's okay, Maryana. I should go back around the front and knock on the door. I should introduce myself to your mum properly.'
'Okay, then,' said the little girl, giving her a quizzical look. She ran off.
Chloe decided to have a quick look around before going back to the front of the house. She was surprised at how easy it had been to find this guy and wanted to think of a few questions to put to him before they met, but she wasn't sure whether the little girl would tell her mum she was down here. Chloe didn't want to meet these people that way. She quickly ducked around the side of the rented room and realised that it was partially dug into the ground. She spotted a window on the back wall and tried to peer through. She could see nothing.
She made her way back around to the front of the room.
'Lunch was great, Karen, Ken.' Henry stood. 'Thank you. I might just use the bathroom before I go.'
Ken stood as well. 'You might have to go downstairs, mate. I'm just on my way to use the toilet up here myself.'
Karen smiled at her brother, grateful. For some ridiculous reason she didn't want this man becoming too familiar with her house.
'I don't know why everyone needs the toilet all of a sudden.' Karen tried to laugh. 'And Maryana feeling sick too. I hope it wasn't my cooking. Where has that child got to?' she said, calling to her daughter again before seeing Henry to the back door.
Karen shocked herself by turning the deadlock when she closed it. Must be that closet racism, she thought, forcing herself to open the door again. Her six-year-old scooted past her into the kitchen.
Cutter could smell her.
He moved from the final step of the house onto the concrete that led to the washing line. Not Karen's sweet, ripe tang. No, no. We've had a visitor, he thought. Musky smell. He turned his nose into the light breeze and sniffed again. Why would anyone be down here?
Cutter didn't believe in coincidence. He didn't believe in chance. If something didn't feel right, it was wrong. There was something wrong in Baulkham Hills.
His head whipped around with the sound. There. There she is. Anyone with her? He could see no one. Still, he kept his options open as he moved forward a little to greet the guest.
'Henry?' she said, doubt in her eyes.
Now that was a surprise. No one knew he was here. She didn't look like a cop. Maybe a friend of his landlord – had Karen told people about him already?
'My name is Chloe Farrell,' she said, extending her hand. 'I'm an investigative journalist working on the southwest Sydney home invasion case. I wondered if we could speak for a few moments?'
He took her hand, breathed with her for a few beats. He had to blink to break the spell.
'To me? What about?' He walked closer to his door.
'I don't know whether you're aware, Henry, but the police think you might know something that could help them with the case.'
'Did you get my address from the police?' he asked, putting his key into the lock on his door.
'No,' she smiled. 'I'm pretty sure they don't know you live here. Don't be angry, now,' she said with a big smile. Her teeth are so white, he thought. 'I got your address from the sweet lady at your old house in Cabramatta. Is she your grandmother?'
Cutter grinned and the girl stepped back a little. He lowered the wattage.
'Yes, that's my grandma. Look, I don't think I can help you with any of this, but I wouldn't mind knowing what's going on. You want to come in for a moment and we can talk for a bit?'
28
JILL SAT UP quickly in bed and wished she hadn't. A ribbon of pain that began in her neck and extended down one shoulder pulled her back down to her pillow. After falling quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep within twenty minutes of arriving home from Gabriel's last night, she'd awoken at three a.m. feeling she was drowning. She'd spent the next fifteen minutes blowing her nose, and the hour after that punching her pillow into some kind of shape conducive to sleeping again. She'd ended with the pillow bunched high under her neck, a position that always left her sore the next morning.
Sunday. She could not believe that just a week had passed since she and Scotty had packed her belongings at Maroubra police station. So much had happened. They'd uncovered a lot of important information about the home invasion gang, but they still had no one in custody, and had yet to interview a suspect.
She wondered what Scotty was doing today, and smiled, certain that he would wonder the same thing about her at some stage today. Usually they went for a run or a long bike ride together on Sundays. She thought about the butterfly pendant in her underwear drawer, the jewellery so unlike her. She smiled again, but the back of her throat suddenly ached with sadness. She hoped that the butterfly did not symbolise her relationship with Scotty: a fragile, beautiful, brief life. She considered all of the relationships she'd had. Her habit had been to flit from one to the next, alighting briefly, fluttering away with any minor disturbance or change in the wind. And she'd been so careful with Scotty, never allowing more than a friendship, to try to preserve what they had together as partners at work.
So. She should do something with her day off. She could go out to Camden and see her family – she'd love to see her niece and nephew right now. Even with a red nose and headache, it would be great to have little Lily sitting with her on the bed, prattling on about the most important things in the world to her – frogs, her best friend Tracey Timmons, her Bratz dolls. But Jill could not imagine getting in the car and driving that far.
She could call Scotty. He'd love to see her, and she realised that she missed him a lot. Most weeks for the past couple of years they'd seen each other six or even seven days a week. She convinced herself that she wouldn't call because he'd want to do a bike ride, or a swim, and she didn't feel well enough today. She quickly pushed aside the real reason she wouldn't call: she couldn't bear it if the awkwardness that had ended every past relationship suddenly materialised between them.
She pulled her knees up to her chin, unwilling yet to get out of bed and face the day. She should be able to call a girlfriend, catch up for lunch, she thought. That's what other people did with their weekends. The fact tha
t she didn't have close friends had never bothered her until the last six months or so. In the past, there'd only been time for training and work, but even with her obsessive dedication, they had been mere hobbies compared to her fulltime occupation: keeping herself safe. Safety entailed distance from others. The fewer people you let into your heart, the less likely that one of them would rip and shred and tear it to pieces.
She sighed. Although she'd killed Alejandro Sebastian – the man who'd kidnapped and raped her as a child – his legacy lived on. She'd hoped that his death would burst the bubble that had simultaneously protected and alienated her from the world. Over the past few months she'd thought the bubble was becoming a little more permeable, but she could still feel its barricades at the periphery of her psyche.
The thought of the schnapps at Gabriel's last night suddenly rose like a spectre in front of her. Changing routines meant losing control. She thought about a story the therapist, Mercy Merris, had told her when she had been forced to have counselling several years ago. Mercy had spoken of a Vietnam veteran who'd been an inpatient at the hospital where she worked. The man had seemed to be fitting in well, participating in group sessions and joining in the 'veranda therapy' with the other vets, who swapped jokes and cigarettes, life lessons and sometimes their meds.
One day Mercy had seen the man sitting alone by the rose garden with his head in his hands. She'd approached and asked him what was wrong. The look in his eyes had been wretched.
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