by Gilmour, SJB
‘Once they’ve cooled, they’ll slide off and you can turn ‘em right way up and then fill them.’
‘With what?’ Trish watched in wonder.
Sally grinned. ‘Baileys cheesecake.’
Mitch grinned and patted his tummy. ‘She’s the reason I have to spend ten hours a week on my bike.’
He was right. He, Trish and I then watched Sally cream up cream-cheese, gelatin and a double shot of Baileys together with melted butter, caster sugar and cream.
‘The trick,’ Sally confided, ‘so my Nonna said, is to pour the mix into the base before the base has set too hard.’ With deft hands, she pulled the cookie-cups off the muffin tins and set them on my counter. They were still warm and just a bit soft. They filled out a little as she added the cheesecake mixture, but didn’t split. Then she set them all on the tray she’d used to flatten the bottoms, and put it in my fridge to cool.
‘Hey, scribble boy,’ Sally called to Mitch as she tidied up after herself. ‘Coffee! Snap, snap.’
Mitch threw her a salute and began grinding the beans for the plunger. He made sure he passed close enough to Sally to give her a quick pat on the behind. Trish saw this and immediately looked away.
She couldn’t help it. Her eyes wandered out to the hall. Out to the very spot where Ashleigh had lain in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by the splinters of smashed rails from the banister. She knew something. I was certain of it. Now all I had to do was read her mind. Mason had said I needed to empathise with her. How could I do that? The woman was horrid!
Trish tore her eyes away from the hall and ploughed straight on at Sally.
‘Look, I’m so sorry for snapping last night. David’s going cold-turkey, which means I have to too. We’ve been at each other’s throats all week. Last night—’
Sally finally smiled a more genuine smile. Her opponent had admitted defeat.
‘Oh don’t mind about that.’ She put the cheesecakes in my fridge to cool. ‘I’ve got a thick hide.’
‘You should see Salls when we try to cut out carbs,’ Mitch joked. He began pouring the coffee. I hovered in his mind just long enough to get a whiff of that wonderful smell. He could tell the difference between different blends, but I had no idea. All I smelled was that delicious, intoxicating aroma that, when I’d been alive, had always made me close my eyes and murmur ‘Mmm’.
Sally waggled her teaspoon at him. ‘Oh, it’s like that is it, mister? You withhold pasta, and you’ll find out just what I can withhold!’
Their mood was jocular, and both Mitch and Sally really were trying to keep Trish happy and get her to relax, but this line of humour triggered something in Trish. Something they didn’t expect. She caught her breath and sniffed back sudden tears.
Fuck me? Wound a bit tight, isn’t she? Sally cocked her head.
‘Trish, mate are you alright?’ she asked.
Trish paused and blew her nose. I could see it written all over her face, even if I couldn’t read her thoughts. She was thinking something like “Damn. Now I’ll have to tell them.”
‘We haven’t… I mean David and I…’ She sniffed again and muttered a profanity while she rummaged for a tissue. She blew her nose a few times. And managed to pull herself together. ‘Sorry. We’ve been going through a dry spell.’
Sally said nothing. She just looked at her, her face set fast on caring mode. Dry spell? What kind of dry spell. I can’t keep my hands off Mitch for more than a few days. Even when I’ve got my period.
Ugh. Sally Taylor, I did not need to know that.
‘Sorry,’ Trish said again. Then she snorted bitterly. ‘More than a spell. It’s been years.’
‘Years?’ Neither Mitch nor Sally could hold themselves back from exclaiming that. Both looked and felt truly horrified.
Sally came to first. ‘Is he having an affair?’
There! It was faint, but I was beginning to be able to hear Trish! I couldn’t make her thoughts out yet though. They were like whispers in a crowded room.
Trish shook her head but something about her eyes, something about the tone of her whispered thoughts said otherwise. Then she shrugged.
‘I don’t know.’
Yes! She didn’t know if David was having an affair, but she suspected it… Oh, dear Lord! She didn’t know her husband was abusing her daughter. Bam! Just as I thought that, her thoughts came to me loud and clear. Doesn’t matter if he is, or did. I went to Brian. Look how well that turned out.
‘Maybe, maybe not. I guess it’s both our fault. I don’t know why we’re still married really. He might have strayed. I did stray, but I couldn’t keep it going. The stress was killing me.’
What? Brian? Who’s Brian? The only Brian I know is Father Brian, and he, Mrs Forbes, is a man of God. If you’re insinuating you— Oh no… NO! You didn’t… He didn’t! If I’d had legs to stand on, they’d have given out from under me. Trish Forbes had found solace in the arms of a priest. My priest. Of all the disgraceful, lecherous, wanton—
‘And you tell me to calm down,’ Mason observed dryly as he drifted into me. ‘You didn’t really believe a god-botherer could just turn off his most primal desires, did you? Look at her. She’s quite fetching, when she’s not caterwauling like a fish-wife or drunk as a lord.’
‘That… That…’
‘Whore?’ Mason suggested. His smirk was repugnant. ‘Harlot, perhaps?’
‘I was going to say Jezebel,’ I grated.
Mason snorted. ‘More like Bathsheba and he’s David.’ He gave a brief huff then muttered, ‘And there are a lot of Bathshebas about this place. They worship him more than they do his God.’
I didn’t want to listen to his theological ramblings any more.
‘What are you doing here, you old coot?’
He brightened. ‘Just came along to watch the show, milady. What are you going to do? Cast me out? You can’t even rattle your own pots and pans.’ He grinned again. ‘You can’t just blame her, you know.’
‘Alright, but shut up and let me listen, will you? I need to concentrate.’
I focused back on Trish. I didn’t even have to dig. The memories of her encounters with Father Brian were vivid. Some six years ago, when her young daughter Kelly was just turning nine, She’d been able to count the times in the past year she and David had been intimate on the fingers of one hand. She’d met Father Brian at the church. He’d listened to her weep. He’d been kind and fatherly, at first. Then their eyes met. She’d confessed her need for intimacy, if not with her husband, then anyone else, and he, well, he was obviously not getting much, or so she assumed.
Then she’d discovered quite quickly just how experienced he was. The more adventurous each encounter became, the more she began to worry. Eventually, the stress of the illicitness of the relationship itself, and Brian’s increasingly bizarre interests drove her to call it off.
Aghast, I had to pull away from her mind. Father Brian; the man who had stood over my Ashleigh and given him Last Rights. The man who had married Ashleigh and me, for Heaven’s sake, had been every bit as willing in the tryst as Trish. And, even worse, he’d obviously done this kind of thing before. Nobody, not even a porn addict, reasoned Trish, knew I was so shocked and worked up, for several minutes I lost all track of the conversation going on right there inside me.
‘I actually went sober for two years,’ Trish was saying when I was calm enough to pay attention to her. ‘Then, when—’ When I broke it off with Brian… That was when I threw it all away. Why are fucking bottle shops so close to churches? Then I drove home drunk. She shrugged again. ‘I hit it hard after that.’ Hit. That’s not all I hit.
Her words were bitter, but her thoughts, dear me, neither Mitch nor Sally had anything like that kind of dark guilt. As she talked, I sifted through her mind. The memories were foggy and disjointed. Emotions that should have been tied to them weren’t there. Instead, a miasma of guilt clung to them like some sort of horrid mental grime.
I pushed into that dark, sor
rowful mind. She remembered all but running from the church. She remembered fumbling for her keys and then sitting in her Toyota Landcruiser for several minutes until the tears stopped. Then, without even having had a craving, or the vaguest thought about alcohol, she simply got out, walked across the street to the liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka. The world passed by her slowly. She noticed every car, every person. Danny Bunning sat on the bench eating a sandwich. An Asian lady she’d seen many times but never talked to, walked past without so much as a nod. They’d nodded hello in the past, but never taken the next step into conversation so eventually, those nods ceased.
I felt a pang as I realised she saw Ashleigh driving into the church car-park. It wasn’t a Sunday, was it? No, there had been no parishioners there. I dwelt on her memories there for a moment.
Man’s a religious nut, she thought to herself. Who goes to church on a Friday?
Irked, I was going to move on, but she remembered having to have one last word with Father Brian. She got out of the car and walked towards the church steps where Ashleigh and Father Brian seemed to be having a very serious discussion. As she approached, both men drew back from each other. Ashleigh left then, with his ever courteous nod and smile to Trish.
‘I just want you to know I never meant for it to happen. We made a mistake, that’s all. If you’re hurt or upset, then I’m sorry, but it took two you know. It wasn’t just me.’ Her words had tumbled out of her mouth, almost running together in their eagerness to be heard. Then she turned around and stalked back to her truck and drove off, leaving Father Brian to stare after her on the steps of his church.
The bottle sat wedged under her handbag in the seat beside her. She glanced at it every now and then as she drove out of Gembrook and onto the windy road that would eventually take her through the Kurth Kiln State Park to Old Gembrook Road, which would then take her to Soldiers Road. Once there was no traffic to dodge or drivers to judge her, she reached over with her left hand and snagged the bottle. That first swig made her cough and brought tears to her eyes. Her face felt hot. Then the heat began to radiate out from her belly and also, oddly enough, the back of her throat. Her ears felt hot and her nose began to run. She took another swig.
By the time she was nearly home, the bottle was only two-thirds full. Trish swore to herself and leaned over to open the glove compartment. She’d shove the bottle in there and have no more of it. Once home, she’d have a glass of wine. That’d mask the smell of vodka. Besides, David wouldn’t care. He’d be up to his eyebrows in beer anyway. The steering wheel jerked and vibrated in her hand as the truck drifted onto the gravel shoulder.
Trish swore again and straightened up, dropping the bottle on the floor of the cab. That had been too close, she’d thought to herself. She slowed down a bit and focused on the road. But it was no good. The sight of that bottle rolling on the cabin floor was getting to her. She glanced at it again as she drove up and over one of the countless undulations on the country road. There was a thud and the steering wheel jerked again.
Trish slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. What she saw when she looked back made all the blood drain from her face. She saw the bicycle first. Then she saw Alec Riley. His body was motionless and twisted like a rag doll thrown by an angry toddler.
‘I knew it!’ Alec crowed.
I hadn’t even seen him come into me. As for him being in her mind as well, I couldn’t sense him at all.
‘I knew it had to be one of them!’
‘Hush boy!’ Mason snapped at him. For a crusty old spook, he was every bit as much a sucker for drama as I was.
Alec whirled on Mason. The two were about to launch into a full-fledged argument again and I had no time for it.
‘Take it outside, gentlemen,’ I ordered them. I had no idea if they’d obey me or not, but I had to try. Mason stared around belligerently then gave a snort and shot up through my ceiling. Alec followed him.
Trish tried to push the memories down, but not before the images of where she’d dumped the poor boy’s body flickered through her mind. Most farming families which slaughter their own cattle dump the innards and skins and so on in deep pits. Alec Riley’s remains still lay in one now. His bicycle was rusting away in a patch of blackberries near their driveway. Then the images were gone as Trish pushed the memories away.
Trish smiled apologetically at Sally. ‘So there you have it. I’m sorry I blew up at you. If it wasn’t your question about the Owens people, it’d probably have been Kelly refusing to eat her sprouts.’
Sally nodded. ‘No problem.’ Shit, that’s a bit full-on. Guess she’s reaching out here. Can’t really blame her. Nobody else around. She glanced at the clock. It had been forty minutes since she set the cheesecakes to cool.
‘I’d normally leave them in there for an hour, but what the hell, eh?’ She fetched three plates and put a cheesecake on each.
I sank into Trish’s mind as she ate. I’d not seen Sally use this recipe before and was curious about the flavour. Baileys, I knew would make a lovely cheesecake filling, but the date and ginger cookie crust? I had to taste that. Even though my ability to sense flavour was numbed from doing it second hand through a strung-out alcoholic’s mouth, it felt as if I was being taken to another world. That cake was awesome.
‘Aren’t you going to see if she knows about your husband?’ Mason asked, poking his head up through the floor in the hall.
I didn’t answer him. He was right. I’d gone to all the trouble of getting Trish into me, and in doing so I’d discovered she was indeed a killer (albeit not a deliberate one), as was as an adulteress. Was she Ashleigh’s killer too? Remember Ashleigh, I concentrated inside her mind.
Random images of my dear departed husband flickered through her mind. She’d seen he and me at church. Church… The image of the house of God flashed up bright in her mind. She felt guilt.
So she should, I thought.
She thought of Father Brian again. Then she remembered seeing Ashleigh on the floor at the base of the stairs. Worry. She felt worry, fear. Why?
She remembered seeing Father Brian and Ashleigh at the church. Why, they’d been arguing!
What could they have been arguing about—? Oh, then I understood. They’d broken off their conversation as Trish had approached. Ashleigh had been discreet and left then, but Father Brian was obviously afraid, and Trish knew why. Ashleigh had discovered their relationship. So that’s what the confrontation had been about! Ashleigh had taken Father Brian to task. Why had he never said anything to me about it? How could I have been so ignorant; so wrapped up in my own little world that I didn’t notice my own husband having discovered our priest sinning with a drunken adulteress?
I pushed this aside and concentrated on her fear. Then I knew. I knew she hadn’t killed Ashleigh. It was as clear as the morning daylight streaming through my kitchen window. She suspected Father Brian had done it. That was why she’d paled so when she saw Father Brian leaning over my husband’s corpse. That was why she’d been so shocked.
I tore free from Trish’s mind and glared about for Mason.
‘Mason!’ I called out to the ghost as loud as I could into my hallway. In reply, he drifted up through the floor and looked at me quizzically.
‘You go to the police station. I don’t care how you do it, but get the idea into James’ head to look at The Forbes place for his bike. When they find that, they’ll search the rest of the place.’
‘What about me?’ Alec protested as he arrived through the wall. ‘I’m the one she ran over!’
The idea came to me immediately. I knew what had to be done, but I wished it wasn’t so.
‘You go and spend some time with Kelly,’ I told him. ‘Get her to poke around in that blackberry bush. See if she can find your bike. If you can, get her to dig up your body.’
The young ghost’s eyes lit up and he shot off.
Mason merely hovered, shaking his head. ‘The girl’s an imbecile, and fragile besides. T
his action you’ve set the boy onto will likely destabilise her so much she’ll need to be institutionalised.’
There were times I liked the old spectre’s turn of phrase. Other times, like just then, it irritated the daylights out of me.
‘She’ll recover,’ I replied bluntly.
‘So you’ve uncovered one killer. What of yours and Mr Owen’s?’
‘So you concede we were murdered?’
‘T’would appear so, madame. Still,’ and he brightened at the idea of hanging around the “constabulary” as he put it, ‘mustn’t grumble. Must trot! I’ve some haunting to do. Cheerio!’ He wafted away down the hall and out through the closed front door.
