The Innocents

by Nette Hilton

  ‘There were letters too,’ Dot said. ‘Gracie Mell told me she saw them when she was over at the cop shop cleaning. Just left there, they were, on that detective bloke’s desk for anyone to see.’ The chair scraped back, and Missie could easily imagine Dot making herself more comfortable. ‘Kid’s handwriting, she said. Bloody disgusting if you ask me. He should be strung up by his balls ... if they can find them.’

  The iron thumped onto the table again. A steady, muffled thump, and Missie stood to climb back up the stairs.

  They were her letters.

  They’d asked her about them and she said yes, she’d written them, and tried to explain that it was to make Oleks feel better. He’d given her some swap cards, she said, and the policeman and the man with him had nodded their heads and written it down. Missie longed to say it was to replace the ones she’d stolen out of the dresser but they were policemen after all, and she didn’t think they’d take too well to her having stolen cards.

  She paused on the middle stair and let her head rest against the cold timber wall.

  Oleks was kind to her. That was all.

  Kind.

  Not any of those other things that seemed to be seeping more and more into the front of her mind. Zilla was wrong. She had to be wrong.

  Oleks had never, ever even tried to touch her ... her mind fought away from the image and she felt a rush of heat and shame in spite of herself ... touch her down there. He didn’t even hang on when she’d hugged him. And that was her fault. Not his. She was the one who had wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Missie marched back down the stairs. Before she could stop herself she was in the middle of the kitchen, breathing the scorched dry smell of ironing and ovens.

  ‘He never did anything!’ she yelled. ‘HE. NEVER. DID. ANYTHING!’

  She was gone before she had time to see what happened. She thought she heard Dot suck her breath in so loud she coughed all over the place, and she knew her mother had slapped the iron back onto the hearth and turned to hold onto her.

  But she fled.

  Out the door and down the street and the wind when she slowed bit through her cardigan and turned her knees blue beneath her skirt.

  Still she went on and wasn’t going to stop until she found Zilla.

  Somehow Zilla would help. She’d know what to do.

  She always did.

  It seemed so long since Missie had climbed the hill to go and play. Before Deirdre ... well ... before, she seemed to hike up here a lot but then she’d had Zill with her.

  And Deirdre.

  The wind through the pines that lined the side of the showground seemed to sigh a colder breath at that thought. She never liked those pines, ever. Not even in summer when they were full of stupid cockies chucking down stupid pinecones.

  She was running, now. Her feet seemed to have taken off without any instruction from her. Faster, she went, on the far side of those trees and every time the wind caught them they bent closer together like they were whispering about her being the one who’d been there when Deirdre went missing.

  She wasn’t just missing was she?

  She was dead.

  And buried.

  Now her face was too hot and the wind too cold and her throat hurt from running so hard. It wouldn’t stay behind her though. That thought. Every step of the way was reminding her of the stuff they’d all done together. The road by the racecourse. The gates and the little ticket booths where Mary’s big brother used to hang out and try and get Zilla to go in with him.

  And Deirdre pulling her sleeve and telling her to hurry up and not to be so bloody stupid. Only she didn’t say bloody. She said her effing word. Zill never went anyway, but took her time wandering past. Like she wanted to make sure Danny saw her. So she could say ‘g’day Danny’ and look at him like this might be the day she’d go with him.

  Missie kept going. Past Leonie’s and past the house where they’d dared her to run into the backyard because ol’ man Miller used to scare the hell out of them. They didn’t tell her that he didn’t live there any more until she’d come back.

  Zill’s house was further down and the road took a dip as if in sympathy with its location. Its front verandah had a few boards missing and the brick steps only made it look more rickety. The screen door that always stood open before was latched shut and the lights that were always on in the front room were not on now. The curtains looked sad and too droopy to be lace, only she knew they were. A bit torn, but true lace with longer lacy bits across the top. Arms and legs were always getting tangled in them whenever they’d jumped on the couch or had to duck down so they wouldn’t get caught swearing at whoever was going past.

  They’d spent one afternoon, back then, before Deirdre, hiding down on the old porch floor with a purse tied to a long, long string. Jimmy Johnson had told them how to do it and even stayed long enough to make sure they had it working right.

  ‘Put it right out there, see.’ And he’d rushed out into the middle of the road when there was nothing coming along. ‘And you watch...’

  They’d hidden and Deirdre had been up at the window, the lace curtains flung back behind her head like a bride’s veil. She was looking out to tell them when to get ready.

  ‘Now!’ she yelled.

  And Jimmy had showed them how to slowly, slowly drag the purse back along the road.

  For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the car stopped.

  It was the Greenways and the kids had climbed around to look out the back window. Sally Greenway had leaned out the side window so far Missie was sure she’d topple.

  ‘Keep watching,’ Jimmy said.

  The purse moved back a little.

  The car started backwards and so did the purse.

  The car kept coming and then paused.

  They heard Mr Greenway saying he was sure it should’ve been here somewhere. And the kids yelling no, no ... keep going back. So they did.

  They went so far and would probably still be going backwards except Zilla started cacking herself laughing and then Deirdre bobbed up.

  Missie didn’t.

  She was sure Mr Greenway would dob so she stayed down. He laughed though. He said it was a good trick and really, really laughed.

  The Greenway kids didn’t. They sent lots of up-your-bum signs out the back window.

  Now her footsteps sounded heavy and hollow on the porch and there was no bell to ring and no hard wood left on the old flyscreen door to knock at. Maybe she should go around the back but the land fell away steeply and the side path dipped down so far you could see up under the floorboards of the kitchen and she didn’t much fancy that cold, shadowed walk without Zilla beside her.

  She called out, her voice wobbly and not loud enough to even cross through the screen. She called again and then knocked on the centre strip of the screen door so it rattled about helping to announce her arrival.

  The door opened a sliver and Zill crowded herself into the narrow space between it and the corner.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  It wasn’t the response she’d expected. She’d been up here with her mother a lot of times since the funeral, more times even than she’d been by herself, and realised now that Zill hadn’t really spoken to her in all that time. She’d sat with her mother, or stood beside her, or hung out at the end of the table. Once Missie’s mum had suggested they go and find a book to look at together and Mrs Trumble had said no. She’d said it was all right for Zill to stay and so they’d stayed just long enough for her own mother to hand over the casserole and collect the dish she’d left before.

  ‘Just come to say g’day,’ Missie said now. ‘You want to come out for a bit?’

  The day was already clouding over into late afternoon and it was freezing now that she’d stopped running. She tugged her cardigan around her.

  Zill shook her head but she didn’t open the door any further.

  ‘So what’re you doing?’ Missie asked, looking back out into the street as if this might offe
r something interesting to talk about. ‘You coming back to school? Dot Evans reckons you’re leaving.’

  ‘So what?’ Zill hissed. ‘It’s none of your business anyway.’

  Missie didn’t know what to say.

  It was as if she’d been flung back into those days before Zill arrived.

  It didn’t feel right. Or seem fair. Not after all this time.

  ‘I only came up here to see if you wanted to come out for a bit,’ she said suddenly. ‘You can just stay there for all I care!’ And she turned to leave. ‘I didn’t do anything so I don’t know what you’re blaming me for. None of it’s my fault.’

  She didn’t turn back but she heard the door flung open, and then the screen door and then she felt the shove in the middle of her back that sent her sprawling down the steps.

  ‘It is your bloody fault!’ Zilla spluttered. Words flew out in spit and her face twisted between tears and rage. ‘It is your bloody fault. You never listened when I told you about that perv! You never even listened and if you had he wouldn’t have got our Deirdre! So it is your fault and I never, ever want you to come here again!’

  Missie scrambled to her feet.

  ‘He is not a perv! And it’s not my fault! You were the one who was supposed to wait and come home with her and you went off with that Lawrence!’

  Zilla roared. She flew forward, hands open and fingers clawed ready to scratch and tear at Missie’s face. She was stopped by her mother, who grabbed her and held her tightly. She struggled and fought and even tried to bite her way free and was still struggling when tears flooded her eyes and her voice was lost in hoarse, barking sobs.

  ‘Go home, Missie,’ Mrs Trumble said. ‘Zilla’s not ready for any friends just yet.’

  Missie backed up to the gate and stepped onto the grassy kerb. She wanted Bev Trumble to say Zilla didn’t mean it and she’d be feeling better soon and to come back then.

  But she didn’t say anything. She just nodded for Missie to keep going.

  Missie started off slowly. She knew Mrs Trumble was still there watching and she could hear Zilla’s quietened, steady crying.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she called.

  She took off without looking back. I didn’t mean to blame Zilla. I was just mad.

  She almost turned back to say the words aloud but then didn’t bother.

  Who’d believe her anyway?

  37

  SEPTEMBER

  ‘CHARMAINE’

  Winter slowly backed up and drew itself further south. Spring stepped over the grass, melting frost and wrapping the earth in new warmth. Trees began to green and once again arms were bared to sunlight and air.

  The scent of a new season made it easier for visions of Deirdre to fade and Missie found herself thinking about her birthday. She was going to be eleven, and she discovered as she stripped her shirt off one day that her chest was looking a little puffier. Not truly puffy with two proper points, but fatter so that she preferred to cover her chest with her hands as she ran along the hall to the bathroom.

  Her mother noticed too and said she was too old to go racing around half-naked, and certainly not upstairs where Mr Fellows was.

  It used to be Mr Fellows and Oleksander Mykola but his name was never spoken.

  Ever.

  Once Missie read about him in the Advertiser. They had a photo of a boy who didn’t look too much like the Oleks she knew but who was, according to the writing under it, Oleksander Mykola Shevchenko with his young sister and his parents. Missie had taken the paper and read it secretly in the lav, not that it helped much. It just said a lot of things about courts and bail, whatever that was, and Oleksander was staying in custody. He was violent, the paper said, and had attacked a policeman. She’d asked about it when she thought the moment may have been right.

  ‘Staying in custody means, young lady, that Mr Shevchenko is never coming out of jail again,’ her mother had explained.

  ‘How’d you know I was talking about him?’

  They were standing in the doorway, letting the sun warm them.

  ‘If you don’t want people to know what you’ve been up to then you’d better learn to pick up after yourself.’ She smiled with her face still lifted to the afternoon sun. ‘Love a duck, Miss, that lavatory floor was like a papier-mâché pit! There was paper from elbow to breakfast time.’

  It was really arsehole to breakfast time, Missie knew that. She’d heard it said often enough in the kitchen. She grinned at her mother and the raised eyebrow was enough of a response to know that her mother knew she knew it too.

  ‘Almost dinnertime, young lady.’ Slowly her mother straightened. Her hands smoothed her apron and tidied a few wisps of hair back into the loop that always managed to swell outside of itself by the end of the day. ‘What do you reckon about you going down to Scott’s and buying a box of ice-cream? There’s only you and me for tea tonight.’

  ‘Three colours?’ Missie said.

  ‘Three colours. But make sure you hold the bag and not the box to carry it home or else it’ll melt.’ Her mother took down her purse and took out two shillings. ‘That should be enough.’

  ‘Where’s Max then?’

  ‘He’s over at Lawrence’s and God knows what they’re getting up to over there. Belle’s off with her euchre group tonight so it’s just you and me.’ She paused. ‘And him upstairs ... but he won’t know we’re having sweets in the kitchen and what he don’t know won’t hurt him, will it?’

  Missie wandered off. The days were staying lighter for longer and the chill that threatened to snap bones had softened a little. It was possible, now, to set off in the afternoon without having to rug up in jackets and scarves.

  She slowed as she went past Max’s bike. She could ride it now if she wanted to. Not that Max would let her but she knew how to get her leg up over the bar and ride with her hands a little lower. It surprised her that she’d found it impossible for so long. She debated chancing it but if Max saw her there’d be hell to pay so she simply ambled on by.

  Next year she wouldn’t have to worry. Aunt Belle was never going to take any notice of who was riding the bike and Max was going to be safe and snug in his new boarding school in Saleby, where he was going to go to high school.

  Missie grinned. The money in her hand, the promise of ice-cream with her mum in the kitchen, and maybe even listening to one of the late night theatres on the wireless, plus Max not being here next year lifted her heart. She actually felt it beat a little faster and put her hand over it to slow it.

  She danced a couple of steps, sideways skips, and did a quick pirouette after she’d checked no-one was looking.

  Hot diggity!

  She’d reached the end of the path and from here she could skirt around over the front verandah or duck between the hydrangeas and over the grass. She wasn’t supposed to duck between the hydrangeas and in summer needed no reminding. A snake, a long black snake with a ruby-red belly had been discovered there a few years back. Uncle Charlie from the races had got his shotgun and blown its head off. It writhed around though like it was still alive and Missie’s blood ran cold at the thought of it.

  She turned to hike up over the three steps and across the verandah but somebody else’s footsteps sounded on the boards around the corner before she got there.

  Missie stopped. So did the footsteps. She stayed poised, one foot on one step, the other on the lower one. The footsteps further up still didn’t move.

  Missie peeked around the corner.

  ‘Hello. It’s Missie, isn’t it?’

  Missie nodded.

  ‘I thought I saw someone. Is your mum in?’

  ‘She’s round the back,’ Missie said. ‘I’ll go and get her if you like.’

  ‘It’s fine. Do you remember me?’

  All too well. ‘You came when Judith Mae fell down the steps.’

  Detective Sergeant Barney Spence smiled. ‘That’s a good memory you’ve got.’

 
Missie didn’t want any of the memories that were surfacing. ‘I’ll get my mum.’ She flew back down the steps the way she’d come.

  ‘It’s that cop,’ she said as soon as she burst into the kitchen. ‘The one who came before...’

  ‘Policeman,’ her mother corrected. She untied her apron and tidied her hair again although Missie couldn’t imagine why she bothered. The long bit of hair always untangled itself and curled down over her mother’s forehead. At the end of the day it was always there. ‘Off you go, madam. You’re buying ice-cream, remember?’

  The kitchen door swung shut as her mother left and Missie knew she should have turned and gone back out the door and through the yard, up the side, over the verandah and down the street.

  But the last cops that had been in the house were the ones to do with Oleksander when they came and took all the things out of this room.

  Maybe this one was coming to tell them some news. Maybe this one was going to tell them that there’d been a mistake and poor Deirdre had fallen in the river all by herself. It was silly, really. Why on earth would Oleksander Mykola push Deirdre in the river? It didn’t make any sense.

  But if Deirdre was fighting with someone? Trying to stop them doing something to her?

  Missie longed to know. It was like maggots in a dead cat by the side of the road. You didn’t want to look, not one bit, but you had to. Quickly she slipped out the back door and sat down close to the wall where the shadows were deepest.

  ‘Nice to see the sun again.’ Barney Spence was saying as he settled down at the kitchen table.

  ‘It is.’

  Barney Spence cleared his throat. ‘I’ve something to show you. I’m hoping you might be able to tell me a little bit about it.’

  Missie heard the crackle of a bag.

  ‘It belonged to Judith Mae,’ her mother said. ‘Why are you asking?’

  Missie longed to peek. Her heart had picked up a beat and she had butterflies hitting under her ribs. Why were they talking about Judith Mae?

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Missie could hear the smile in her mother’s voice. ‘I’m very sure. I remember it well. She had another one in blue. I remember thinking it was a waste having two cardigans nearly the same.’