by Sarah Bailey
The bell above the door jingles. Every time someone steps into the café, a blast of oven-like heat hits her face. Reggie doesn’t mind the heat usually but this current onslaught is starting to become a little tedious. Molly isn’t sleeping well and has been in a mood for weeks. The days feel long and by around midday Reggie’s head feels heavy, as if she’s one of those kitsch toy dogs people put on their car dashboards with the bobbing necks. Hopefully the weather will settle down by Christmas. Reggie’s entire family is coming from Malaysia to stay for almost two weeks and she can already imagine the arguments without the heat-induced claustrophobia. Sunny pleasant days with her family are barely manageable. Forty-degree days with her nosy sister, her sister’s kids and their elderly mother might just tip her over the edge.
The door opens again and the heat pours in. It’s that girl detective: Woodstock. She’s in the news sometimes. Reggie knew she would be coming when she saw the man that Woodstock always meets tucked away in the far corner. Reggie watches as she quickly scans the room and then makes her way over to the table where the man is. She is very boyish. No hips to speak of and sort of bouncy, like she’s about to break into a run. She sits down opposite the man and he smiles up at her broadly. They have been coming here for almost a year now, heads bent close as they talk and laugh in the early hours before the eyes of the town are on them. Woodstock orders skinny lattes when he’s here but if she gets here first she has them with regular milk and adds some sugar.
Reggie laughs to herself under her breath: people are odd creatures. You see all sorts of things working in a place like this. She pushes the long black and the cappuccino onto the serving shelf and dings the little bell again. She refills the front display and wipes down the bench. She needs to get more muffins into the oven. And Matt is still not here. He’s a sweet kid but a little hopeless. The young ones these days just don’t quite have the work ethic she had at their age.
She glances over at the couple again. The man is looking at the woman detective and nodding as she talks. He grabs her wrist briefly and she looks around and then pulls it away. He is an attractive man, Reggie thinks. Tall and strong with that nice dark hair and those striking green eyes. Even from here she can see his wedding ring, but she is not the type to judge. Who knows what goes on in other people’s lives? Plus, they are good customers. In this climate it would be foolish to turn up your nose at any kind of business. Since the Carling plant opened, cafés have popped up everywhere, putting a dent in her weekday profit. And half the Carling people fly home to Sydney or Melbourne for the weekend anyway, spending their money anywhere but Smithson. She remembers Wayne Carson at the bank telling her that the plant would see them all rich and retiring early, but Reggie feels like it’s made everything more confusing. Life was simple when it was just her place and Café Cha Cha around the corner. Just good old friendly competition back then. Now it’s a haze of loyalty cards and two-for-one deals and imported coffee beans. Reggie sighs. Retiring early, my arse.
The detective girl looks very serious this morning, even more than usual. She toys with a thin silver chain around her neck as she speaks. Maybe they are talking about the murdered teacher, Rosalind Ryan. Wendy told her recently that the man is a detective too, and he and the girl work together. Like on the TV cop shows. No wonder they are in love: those partners always get close when they are working cases. Reggie has been watching the stories on the news about the Ryan woman. She came into the café once or twice. A real dreamer. She was with a young boy the last time Reggie saw her—perhaps a little brother? He looked about Jackson’s age. They talked in low voices and took turns writing things down in a notebook. They smiled a lot. Maybe he was her boyfriend, Reggie thinks. He seemed pretty smitten. Poor fella. She had very pretty eyes, the Ryan woman. Like toffee.
Reggie shuts her eyes briefly, trying to imagine how terrified the Ryan woman must have felt out there in the middle of the night. Alone and dying.
Reggie’s daughter Molly was set to attend Smithson High, but St Mary’s is closer and, in the end, it was where all the kids from the primary school had decided to go. Reggie is glad that she doesn’t have to deal with Molly having a dead teacher right now. Her moods are hard enough to navigate as it is.
Reggie taps out the used coffee from the portafilter and washes it with a blast of hot water before snapping it back into place. She thinks briefly about Molly dying like the Ryan woman did and then forces the terrible thought right out of her head. Probably the poor woman was caught up in something sinister to be killed like that. Maybe she had a bad ex-boyfriend or there were issues with drugs. Nothing that Molly would ever be involved in. Reggie flicks on the bean grinder and mops at her brow again, pinging the bell so that Matt, who has finally arrived, knows to come and collect the fresh batch of coffees.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Friday, 18 December, 8.04 am
‘The memorial today should be interesting. All those kids everywhere. The Ryans. Nicholson. The other teachers. Agatha Christie would have a field day.’
Felix is in a good mood. I nod and play with the froth on my coffee and try to change the subject.
‘The Ryans are just having a small ceremony this afternoon. Only family. George Ryan told me they want to keep it very private.’
‘What do you make of him?’
I think about George’s pale eyes blurring with sadness and the hardness that emerges in his jaw when he feels threatened. ‘I really don’t know. He makes me feel uncomfortable and I don’t think his relationship with Rosalind was an easy one. But perhaps he did just struggle with raising a daughter on his own.’
‘Still think you’re on the money with your paternity theory?’
‘Of course. It’s science. I’m just not quite sure yet whether he knows or not. I suspect he might, but a lot of men raise children who aren’t theirs and lead perfectly normal lives.’
‘And some don’t.’
‘Sure. Some don’t.’ The memorial ceremony looms in my mind again and I keep talking to avoid thinking about it. ‘Assuming he does know Rosalind isn’t his, it would help if we could work out when he found out. If it’s a recent revelation, then I suppose there’s a chance it could be linked to what’s going on now. If he’s always known, then I would say it is completely irrelevant.’
Felix looks at me sceptically. ‘What, you think that he somehow suddenly found out last week and lost his mind and killed her?’
I sigh. ‘It’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it? I don’t know. But maybe there is a link somehow. Maybe one of the brothers found out?’
‘That’s going to be pretty hard to nail down. I think we’re going to have to show our cards and ask.’
‘Yeah, probably.’ I look out the window. The heat is invisible from in here but I know it’s there. A sparrow plays in the drips from the air-con, shaking out its feathers and doing little skips on the spot. ‘Or maybe it was Rosalind who found out. Maybe she was researching her family history and stumbled across something that made her confront her father.’
‘Let’s get the tech guys on to it. Maybe her school computer will show something like that if it’s recent.’
‘She might have used a public one.’
Felix shrugs. ‘Well, we’ll see what we can find.’ He glances at his watch and then looks up at me. ‘But right now we need to get our arses to the school.’
Our eyes stay locked and I reach out my foot and curl it around the bottom of his leg. He smiles and I fix my stare onto his lips.
‘I wish we could spend the day alone together instead,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I breathe, trying to put a lid on my emotions.
Reggie smiles at us from the counter. Such a carefree, breezy lady, she is always so friendly to us. She probably assumes we’re married. I look at Felix and wonder what my life would be like if he were my husband. Wonder what it would be like waking up next to him every morning, the sun spilling in on our cushiony bed, followed by orange juice and boiled eggs on toast
as we lazily read the papers, him reading interesting facts aloud to me in his crisp accent. Then getting up to work on cases together. But Ben refuses to be part of this sun-dappled scene and I push away the inevitability of one day having to choose.
It’s almost 8.30 am as we drive the short distance to Smithson Secondary College. The turn-off to the freeway is already clogged with trucks; I can feel their beat pulsing through the road beneath us. I can’t tell Felix that the thought of being at the memorial is making the back of my eyes burn and my throat catch. I feel sick. Jacob’s service is still so fresh; I can feel the exact lurch that pulled through my chest, can feel the rub of the shoes I was wearing. I can still see Donna Mason’s wretched, broken face. All the girls from my class crying. Nicholson tall and awkward, wringing his hands. Rosalind, calm and serene, her eyes as cold as winter soil.
The school buzzes with quiet talking. The sun beats down and hooks sharply on a bunch of red balloons that have been tied to a gate, sending a white bolt into my eyes.
‘This way,’ says Felix, leading us past a dotted line of fluorescent bunting.
‘They must be holding it on the oval,’ I say. Just like Jacob’s. I stumble slightly and Felix grabs my arm and it takes all of my willpower not to grab on to him and bury my face in his chest.
We fall into step with the growing crowd. A parade of hats bobs along on either side of us: baseball caps, straw sunhats, kids in bucket hats covered with Peppa Pig and Thomas the Tank Engine motifs. It seems like the whole town is here. I suppose this has suddenly become the biggest pre-Christmas event in Smithson. It’s certainly going to be the main topic of conversation over the turkey this year.
John Nicholson rushes past, clutching a wad of papers. He squints into the sun and deep lines fan out from his eyes. A short woman with cropped blonde hair struggles to keep pace with him.
‘He’s hired a PR lady,’ says Felix, stooping to talk into my ear as the crowd pushes us together. ‘I recognise her. She has a little agency next door to the jewellery store shooting that I worked on in Paxton last month.’
I watch the blonde woman talking seriously to Nicholson, who seems to be struggling to pay attention.
Felix shoots me a quick smile. I smile back but all I can hear is screaming. The same sound that I always imagine Jacob made as he fell.
The oval comes into view. Patchy, green faded to yellow, it looks much like it did when I was here. Every second person is holding a red helium balloon or a rose. Most people are wearing at least one item of red clothing. I spot Kai Bracks in a bright red singlet, standing with a group of students. I half close my eyes and the scene looks awash with blood. Wet heat trickles down my sides. I quickly open my eyes wide again, blinking furiously.
‘Hey, I might go grab some water.’
‘Okay. Sure. I’ll be, ah, somewhere around here!’ Felix gestures to the writhing mass, indicating that he’ll do his best to avoid being swept away.
‘Yep, I’ll find you, don’t worry.’
I duck out of the crowd and cut across the quad. Memory tells me there are some taps in between the art rooms and the library. I spot them, and as I bend down to drink the tinny liquid I feel a wave of nostalgia so strong I fight back the urge to retch.
I quickly stand, heaving as I thump a balled fist softly on my chest, breathing in and out, trying to push the feeling away. My thoughts are going haywire. I see Jacob everywhere. See myself. Small and mousy. A stubborn chin hiding so much pain. Hair always falling over one eye. Scuffed shoes. Nails bitten down to the quick. Eyes burning with sadness. It was near here that he told me. Near here that he pulled me into the clearing which is now the car park at the top of the lake. Dusk on the Friday three weeks before he jumped. We’d been spending so much time apart. After years of being so entwined, so together, he’d seemed distant and cold, but we were almost past the madness. I only had one exam to go. I was feeling calm, confident. We were almost there. Almost free.
‘Jacob!’ I laughed, laughed, thinking he’d wanted to kiss me. That he’d missed me. I tried to pull away but he was strong. Hot. A beat went by and then I felt worried. ‘What is it? Jacob, what’s wrong?’
‘Look … god. Look, I just don’t feel sure anymore, Gem.’ His teeth pulled at his lip. Fingers raking through his hair. Everything tilted then, just for a moment. A mild sepia lens clicked across my vision. His face suddenly didn’t seem familiar at all.
‘What do you mean?’ I said, even though I didn’t want him to explain it.
‘I just … fuck. I don’t know. It feels different or something. Between us.’
He grabbed my hands. Slick and wet, our fingers slid around. I wanted never to let go.
‘I mean, you’re my best friend, Gem. That will probably never change. But I—I just … oh, I don’t know.’
The words tumbled out of his mouth and piled around my feet. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. I looked at his shoes. I loved his faded Converse sneakers. I’d been there when he bought them. I’d been there for all of it. My heart roared in my ears. I could hear a football being kicked on the oval. Laughter.
‘Talk to me, Jacob. Please. Come on. I don’t understand. Is it the exams?’
He bit at his lip again. ‘I don’t think it is. I wish it was.’
I felt a wave come. It built up inside of me and broke into hot panic across my body.
‘Jacob, c’mon, this is crazy. It’s us. We’re special, you always say it. Everybody knows it.’ I stamped my foot in the dust. I felt dangerous. Insane. I wanted to scream, hit him. Run laps around the oval. Anything to make him stop talking, to stop ruining everything. I thought of Mum, her arms around me, smelling of grapefruit shampoo and Nivea face cream, kissing my cheek. My face started to crumple. My cheeks were wet and I wiped the tears away. I could taste sunscreen. Taste hell.
Jacob looked crushed, empty after the birth of his horrible truth.
‘Jacob, why? Why are you saying this?’
He stared at the ground. At his hands. Anywhere but me. ‘Gem, please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I just don’t want to lie to you. We’re not like that, right? We always tell each other stuff.’
He wiped perspiration from his forehead into his hair, making it stick up high. He was so ridiculous. So beautiful. Little black dots trailed along his wrists; he sometimes drew on his hands in class.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Maybe it is all the pressure of finishing school, but I just feel different. Like I want things to be different.’
A dragonfly buzzed past so close that I could see the shimmery green on its tiny body. Its crazy eyes.
‘You like someone else?’
He shifted and kicked at the ground. ‘No. No, not really. But I do wonder what it would be like to be with someone else sometimes. Don’t you?’
I shook my head, even though it wasn’t true. I didn’t tell him about the dreams I had. Will Cobbler. Jason Gordon. Fox. Her.
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I just want you.’
‘Okay, look. Look. Maybe we just finish the exams and then have a bit of a break over summer. Then we’ll see. Maybe we just need a bit of a break.’ He nodded at me, willing me to agree. ‘Both of us.’
‘I don’t want that.’
He became impatient, looking beyond the clearing back towards the oval. It was done now and he wanted to go. It wasn’t intense anymore, just tedious. I was annoying him.
‘How long have you felt like this?’
‘Just, I don’t know. A little while. But it’s not specific or anything. You know? It’s just confusing, my head’s a mess. I think this is normal. We’re young. I just need some time, Gem. I don’t want to drag you into my shit. Okay?’
I pulled at my bracelet. The one he’d given to me. Pulled it around and around my wrist in a slow circle.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll call you later, alright?’
I was dismissed. He hugged me and walked off. I stood there perfectly st
ill, imagining that I was a tree. A really old tree. So old that my roots were buried deep in the ground, snaking down to the earth’s core. Burning their tips.
After a while, I made my way down to the lake. I sat on the biggest rock and threw sticks into the water, crying as each one broke the surface, the world it reflected turning into a big, blurry mess.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Friday, 18 December, 9.27 am
I slip back next to Felix and look straight ahead so he can’t see the wildness in my eyes. ‘All good?’ I ask.
‘Yep. Just watching—you know, seeing if anything seems off.’
The sun is strong and I hold my hands over my eyes. We’re to the left of the makeshift stage, about twenty metres from the front. I’m already thirsty again.
I imagine that the stage is normally used for award ceremonies and school sports days. One of the teachers we interviewed the other day—Troy Shooter, the PE teacher—is wrestling with a heavy-looking lectern. A bunch of red helium balloons has been tied to a power cord on the left side of the stage. A few chairs, the same kind as in the staffroom, are dotted unevenly across the other side.
‘Family’s here.’ Felix nods his head to the left.
I see Rose’s brothers and George Ryan standing in a small half-circle. Bryce’s girlfriend, Amelia Posen, stands with them. George’s chin is set high as if he has made a deal with God that he will get through this torturous day with dignity. The blonde PR woman ushers them into the front row and they sit awkwardly, like characters from a movie that have wandered onto the wrong set. Even from a distance I can see the blue-black sheen in their hair.
