by Gilmour, SJB
I put on the gloves and began loading up the barrow with wood. It was dry and some of the stringy bark was flaking of in splintery fibres. I was glad to be wearing those gloves. What was that? Over the wind, and the buffeting panels of the shed, I heard a car driving by out on the dirt road outside. A diesel by the sound of it. Very common out in the bush. It was moving quickly towards the main road, churning through the gears. Must be David Forbes. He had a diesel Landcruiser, same as every second person living out here, and I knew him to be an erratic, impatient driver. From the sound of the way he was revving high before changing gears, he must have been especially impatient.
He always drove fast up that road. Too fast if you ask me, especially towards dusk. The local wallabies aren’t too bad if you hit one, but a wombat can flip a car. Those little fellows are solid. The sound of the car faded and then all I could hear was the wind again. I wheeled the barrow back to the house.
I remembered dwelling on the driver of that car I’d heard. I was sure it had been David Forbes. I didn’t know the man personally, but I’d seen him driving fast and dangerously many times. It made me cross to think a local, even if he knew the road like the back of his hand, could be so cavalier about the risks of driving fast on a dirt road at dusk. If not for himself and his family, couldn’t the man slow down for the sake of the local wildlife? Wallabies, echidnas and goannas are all quite common, let alone the wombats.
I was also a little concerned for Kelly. At least she was on the trail, not the main road. She might have caught a bit of dust, but she would have been well out of harms way from her fool of a father’s reckless driving…
Settle Eugenie, settle. Stay on subject.
What had his wife Trish said? That’s right. She’d hit a wallaby the other day. She told Ashleigh and me when we’d met at the supermarket. The bull-bar on their battered old Toyota Landcruiser wagon had a new bend in it. I was all set to rant as I came in the front door and found Ashleigh on the floor. A chisel was in his hand, and some of the banister rails were broken and scattered about in splinters on top of him.
Curse it! I couldn’t remember anything. I saw nobody else in the house. Nobody coming or going. Nothing. I don’t remember going to him.
I only remember cradling his dead body, wailing.
‘No, no, no, no—’
I’d brushed off the few pieces of wood that were on him and crouched there, cradling his mushed head in my lap. Oh Lord, the blood. There was so much of it. It got all over me. It was hot and sticky and it smelled so strongly. His phone was in his pants pocket. I grabbed it, cursing that the stupid sliding bar thing on the screen wasn’t working properly with the blood on it. I wiped it on my shirt and managed to get it working.
I blubbered into the phone for a few minutes. Then clarity seemed to come from nowhere. It was a strange kind of calm. There I was in the middle of this horror, covered in blood and beginning to get quite cold, and I was able to explain exactly where I was and what had happened. I didn’t bother trying to hang up the phone, I just repeated our address and dropped it on the floor. Some time later, how long I had no idea, I heard sirens.
Hands pulled me away from Ashleigh. There were people talking to me; shining things in my eyes. They asked me my name and I told them. They asked me the day and year. They asked me who I was again and who the man on the floor was. One of them tried to test me. He called me Evelyn.
I turned to him. ‘My name’s Eugenie. Eugenie Owen.’ I must have said it quite firmly because he seemed taken aback for a brief moment then relaxed. There seemed to be lots of people coming and going about me, but other than asking me the same questions over and over again, they didn’t seem to be doing much.
Then I was taken into the lounge and propped up on the couch. Someone was taking photographs. Lots of them. They photographed Ashleigh from various angles. They photographed the blood on the floor and stairs. They photographed everything, even the kitchen and lounge. They took pictures of me and pressed my hands against the screen of a little scanner thingy to get my fingerprints. Shortly after that, I saw someone taking armfuls of the broken banister rails outside to the pile of wood off-cuts and other junk to be burned when we got around to it.
I never even saw Ashleigh being taken away some hours later. By the time that happened, it was late at night, but time seemed to have no meaning to me. I’d heard someone assess me as being in shock. Is that what shock is? Numbness? Being unable to notice anything, even the passing of time? If so, it’s little wonder there are so many drug addicts in this world. That escapism, that wonderful senselessness and detachment is probably what kept me alive.
Later, when some of it began to wear off, two women from church told the remaining police they would help me clean up. How did they know to come? Marcy Greenwood and Leila MacArthur I knew from church, but I could never say I knew them well, or even liked them much. They and a few other church ladies always seemed to hover around Father Brian like twittering little devout groupies. Not my style. I worshipped God, not His priest.
They guided me to the bedroom and got me out of the bloody clothes, stood watch as I bathed and then helped me get into my pyjamas. I thanked them and told them I’d be fine.
Marcy had shaken her head. ‘You shouldn’t be alone right now, Genie. I’ll sleep on the couch.’ After she had given me some medication the ambulance people had given her for me, she put me to bed and then she did take herself to bed on the couch. I didn’t even bother asking her what the pills were. They were small and white and tasted bitter, but they worked. Not long after I’d climbed into bed as if I was a mindless robot, I could feel my mind going fuzzy and my muscles relaxing.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of Marcy singing a church hymn while she unpacked a brown paper bag from the cafe in Gembrook. She’d driven out all that way and back just to bring me a hot breakfast. She’d also started the cleaning. The smell of smoke drifted in from outside. She’d put fire to the junk pile.
The remaining step Ashleigh had been working on, I have no idea which one, was propped up against the wall. What happened to the other one? Smashed, I supposed. Gone out with the pieces of banister rail and even now being reduced to glowing cinders. I’d put those rails in myself. I knew how to replace them. As for the step, I remember thinking I had no idea how I’d put it in, but it couldn’t be rocket science. If Ashleigh had been able to remove one, I was sure I’d be able to put it back in.
Hang it all! Why couldn’t I have remembered more detail? I could think of nothing. There were no sounds like a squeaky fuse-box door this time. There was no evidence of anyone else being in the house until well after the fact.
Hold on a second… Mitch found the bloody step stored in the woodpile. I thought Marcy burned it? Did she put it out there in the shed? Go back. What did Marcy say to you that morning?
‘I’m so sorry luv, but your clothes were ruined. I didn’t think you’d want those old things all stained like that.’
I didn’t answer. She took my silence as agreement, and went on.
‘I thought it best, you know. Those broken rails were there. If you like, I can get my brother Jimmy to come by and help you put in new ones.’
I shook my head slightly. ‘No,’ I breathed.
So I did talk to her.
‘I’ll do it.’
There! Right there. Marcy mentioned the rails. She didn’t say anything about the step. If someone else put the step in the shed— If someone else hid the step in the shed under a pile of neatly stacked firewood (how Mitch knocked that over, I have no idea), then maybe they were at the house! Go back Eugenie. Think! What was there? Who moved those pieces of wood?
The ambulance people arrived first. They took me to the couch. Then the police arrived and began asking questions and taking pictures. One was sitting beside me on the couch. It was a female? I guess she was there in case I decided to go bananas. Another cop, a male, was crouching in front of me, asking questions, while another still was standing off to o
ne side with a notepad. My answers were mostly monosyllabic, so I doubt he had a hard time keeping up.
Father Brian was there. When did he arrive? I can’t remember. He sat on the other side of me, holding my hand. How come I’m only remembering him there now? Huh. He said something about God’s will and I remember thinking that right then, just for a moment, I’d like to punch God in the nose. Then I felt ashamed for having thought that. Tears welled in my eyes. I think everyone thought it was grief, but no, I was feeling ashamed at having had such an awful thought about God.
Somebody — was it Father Brian? — wiped my face with a tissue. Yes, it was Father. The clipboard cop said something to him and he got up off the couch. He was talking on his phone. Of course it was the latest iPhone. What was he saying?
Reversing through a memory isn’t just like hitting the rewind button on a tape player. It’s more like diving into currents of water: You start out in one current and go along with it. In it, you can either stay in its centre or float up to another current or sink down to yet another. Each point where the currents connect is the place where one thought or memory takes a turn that leads to another. Some of those currents are very thin indeed and almost impossible to separate from those above and beneath. Father Brian’s phone conversation was like that.
‘Thanks Marcy, you’re in the car? Sorry to bother you while you’re out and about, but something’s happened. Something awful.’ Obviously I couldn’t hear what Marcy was saying to him. ‘It’s Ashleigh Owen. What? No, just now apparently. It looks like he’s fallen down the stairs. No, I’m sorry to say he’s not. He’d dead.’
He walked away a bit and I couldn’t hear any more. Then he hung up and turned to clipboard cop again.
‘One of her friends from church is just down the road. She’ll pick up another friend and come straight over,’ he said quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the hall. The direction of Ashleigh lying on the floor in a pool of blood, surrounded by wooden splinters. Ashleigh under the plastic sheet. I didn’t have to hear him to know what he was going to do. Last Rites or some such. I knew it’d be a prayer of some sort, but I wasn’t sure what kind. So much for being a good Catholic. I didn’t even know what was supposed to happen when someone died.
All this time, I hadn’t moved from the couch. I’d just stared forwards. It was like my head, even my eyes wouldn’t move. I’d just heard them talking without taking it in. Now I was analysing every detail, questions that should have appeared in my mind then, did so with startling clarity.
Marcy was nearby? Huh? The woman lived all the way over in Yarra Junction. She travelled past three Catholic churches every Sunday just to come to ours because she said she liked it so and she could do her market shopping where it was less crowded. What would she be doing “down the road” on a Friday?
Why did he tell the police she was my friend and not his? Probably because it was more important to the cops that she be someone I know, I guessed. Of course it wouldn’t really matter. The police knew everyone in our little town, and they’d certainly know Marcy and the friend she was going to pick up. I lost my grip on the stream of thought and was pulled into the next current which was the loud voice calling from the doorway.
‘Genie?’ the voice called. It was a female voice. There was a muffled conversation. I heard the word ‘neighbour’ and Trish Forbes hurried into the room. Slowly, as if someone else was controlling it, my head turned in the direction of the hall. I couldn’t see her, but I could tell she’d just walked in to see Father Brian doing his thing with Ashleigh.
There was a gasp, then in a flat, neutral tone I heard her say ‘Father.’
There wasn’t a verbal reply from him. He was busy murmuring some prayer. Maybe he waved at her. I’ll never know. She came into the lounge.
The cop with the notepad held her back. ‘Best if you leave her alone now, Mrs Forbes. She’s in shock.’
Trish looked stunned. Her face was pale and her eyes wide.
Mrs Forbes, have you been drinking?’ I heard the cop ask her.
She nodded absently, staring past him at me. Gee she seemed so upset. Why? She hardly knew me.
‘I didn’t drive here,’ she told the cop defensively. ‘I’m not stupid. We were having dinner and I heard the sirens. I walked here. I only live up the road.’
The cop led her out of the lounge-room by the elbow. More muffled conversation.
Then I heard her protest. ‘Look, let me help! She’s my neighbour.’
Clipboard cop came back in and gave questions cop a querying look.
Questions cop nodded. ‘It’s clear. Once the Father has finished, let her do what she wants.’
Trish must have heard him. She clattered about in my kitchen for a while. We didn’t have a fridge in there yet, but we did have tea and coffee and the kettle worked. When she came into the lounge with a cup of tea (I presume it was for me), she saw me and all colour drained from her face. Why? Did I look that bad? I guess I must have. Ashleigh’s blood was all over me.
She pressed the cup of black tea into my hands. I could smell the booze on her. She was shaking. I was too. My hands wouldn’t hold the cup. She set it down on the coffee table and backed away, refusing to look at me. I turned my attention back to the floor.
‘What can I do?’ Trish asked clipboard cop.
He looked at her and then out to the bloody mess in the hall.
‘The best thing anyone can do for her right now is just be with her. Father Brian’s arranged for some of her church friends to come. One of them will stay overnight with her. Other than that—’ He shrugged and glanced at the blood again.
Trish grimaced. The look on her face was pretty clear. There was no way she was going near any of that blood. Huh? Why, Trish? Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You slaughter your own farm animals, don’t you?
She didn’t say anything. Her eyes kept darting around the scene at the bottom of the stairs. Then she found some gloves in the kitchen and began began picking up the splintered pieces of rail. And, she picked up a stair… She jiggled things around in her arms until the stair was at the bottom so she could stack more of the debris on top of it. Yes!
‘Do you need any of this stuff?’ she asked clipboard cop.
The officer shook his head. ‘Just take it out to that rubbish heap out there. Don’t light it though, she can burn it later if she wants.’
Trish nodded and scurried away. She came back a few minutes later and was largely ignored by everyone. Eventually Marcy and Leila arrived. Leila particularly was not very keen on Trish hanging around. She took in her inebriated state with a disdainful frown.
Trish noticed the devout woman’s glare and began to make herself scarce. As she went to leave, she stumbled. Her bag fell to the floor and a half-flask — an almost empty half-flask — of gin fell out. Silence. Then clipboard cop helped her gather her things and led her out. A few minutes later, he returned without her.
‘Jilly’s taking her home now, boss,’ he said to questions cop.
‘She pissed?’
Clipboard cop nodded. ‘She had her car keys with her, but I don’t see her car out there. Gave her a quick breath test anyway. Point one seven five.’
‘Huh. Nearly four times legal.’
Clipboard cop nodded, chuckling. ‘She’s gonna wake up tomorrow thinking she’s had one helluva nightmare. No way she’ll remember this straight.’
Questions cop nodded again. ‘Go round there tomorrow with a bag of donuts and some coffee from Marge’s. Butter her up. She if she remembers anything. Call Jilly and tell her there’s no point interviewing her tonight.’
When the police left, it was very late, I remember that. Father Brian stayed by me until he was sure I was comfortable with Marcy and Leila. I remember hearing his diesel Toyota Landcruiser driving off. Like his phone and many of the other effects supplied him by the church, it was new. I remember being grateful for his attitude, and that I was a Catholic in his parish. The local baptist preacher would
never condescend to make home visits like our Father Brian. Father seemed to firmly believe in the idea that if the mountain cannot got to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain — even if the parable was from those deluded Muslims.
I broke free from my the deep concentration on the past. I had what I wanted to know. Trish. Trish took the step. Now, I needed to talk to James. The problem was, both my living inhabitants seemed intent on getting drunk tonight and I had no chance of keeping any idea in their minds for long. I’d just have to wait until morning.
‘What’s going on in that mind of yours, madam?’ Mason drifted down through the range hood over my stove.
‘I’ve remembered a few things, Mason.’ I then proceeded to tell him all I’d managed to dredge up from my subconscious. For once, he wasn’t flippant or dismissive. He simply hovered over my sink and listened.
