by Sarah Bailey
The chiming swirls around the room until Scott claps his hands and jumps up, grabbing one of Ben’s new toy trains. ‘Hey, Benny boy, show me how this one goes! C’mon, come over here.’
Ben goes to Scott, still red-faced with excitement, and they begin playing a complicated game of trains. Their chatter fills the room and I think I should get up and take a photo. A proper Christmas morning photo. But I just keep watching them instead. I wonder, for a moment, if I am even real. I look down at the perfectly round silver chimes in my hand, smooth and cool, and clutch my fingers tightly around them, squeezing for as long as I can, until my skin turns white and I can’t tell whether it hurts or not.
Chapter Fifty-three
then
Jacob loped along, sipping at a giant Slurpee and wearing a cap I’d never seen before. I grabbed my bag, leaving my half-eaten sandwich, and followed him, carefully keeping a solid distance between us. I watched his familiar walk and the way his dark hair poked out of his cap into the back of his collar. He seemed bigger, taller, as if he’d grown since we’d been apart. He passed the food court and pulled his hat off, zipping it into his backpack. I noticed an intricate design drawn in black ink starting on the back of his hand and sprawling up his arm. For a moment I wondered if he had got a tattoo, it was so good, but I guessed he had drawn it himself. He headed towards the cinema and I knew he was meeting her. He ran his fingers through his hair. It looked different. Styled. I felt a low pulse in my heart. I missed touching him so much. Ducking into the music store opposite the cinema complex, I watched as he stood next to a large indoor fern, his fingers racing madly across his mobile phone.
After a few minutes he stepped away from the plant, looking up. Rose was above him, backlit, a dazzling smile on her face. Jacob made a cute little gesture, fluttering his hands on his chest before beckoning her to come down. She shook her head, teasing, before eventually stepping back from the glass wall barrier and making her way down the stairs to where he waited for her.
She was dressed oddly, in an old-fashioned peasant blouse that exposed her shoulders and a long skirt that wrapped around her legs. She was womanly next to Jacob’s all-American teenager, his faded grey t-shirt and loose jeans that dropped away from his slim waist. His face was still soft with little-boy wonder: his body caught between child and man. They were nothing alike, their intimacy jarring, until she bounced into him childishly at the last minute, her blonde hair flicking up at the ends. He slid an arm around her waist and she ducked her head into the space between his head and shoulder. I felt like I was spying on myself. That’s supposed to be me.
I kept watching from behind a CD display and then her eyes were on mine. We stared at each other, her face nestled against Jacob’s body for a few moments, and then her mouth spread into a slow, knowing smile. I couldn’t pull my eyes away and kept watching until they disappeared into the plush redness of the cinema, the sound of a freight train smashing through my brain.
Chapter Fifty-four
Friday, 25 December, 12.36 pm
‘I’d like us to say grace, please.’ Aunt Megan is at the head of the table, looking at us earnestly. She rattles through several things that we should be thankful for, then asks that my mother look down on us and especially on Ben.
‘Amen,’ we mumble.
‘Don’t want gravy,’ says Ben loudly. ‘It’s yuck.’
Everyone laughs and then we all look at Ben expectantly for more light relief. I’m feeling funny about not telling Dad and the others that Ben was kidnapped, but Scott and I both agreed that it’s for the best. We don’t want to bring everyone down to our reality. Luckily Dad didn’t answer the phone when I called him the other day and by the time he called me back Ben was fine, so I was able to fob him off.
‘Bad day for fires out there.’ Craig fiddles with his phone and Megan casts him a disapproving look. Laura elbows him in the ribs. ‘What? Sorry. I’m worried about my mate’s farm.’
We busy ourselves with bursting the expensive-looking bonbons that Laura and Craig bought from David Jones in Sydney. Every time one pops, Ben laughs hysterically and gleefully collects a small pile of useless objects from its guts.
‘So, Gemma,’ says Craig, ‘I imagine things are pretty intense at work at the moment. That poor dead woman has been in the news every night for the past fortnight.’
‘Yeah.’ I stab at a piece of turkey and roll it in cranberry sauce. ‘It’s been a pretty tough one.’
‘Her dad is some kind of mover and shaker, right?’ Craig opens his mouth wide to shovel in a large forkful of meat.
‘Yeah, he has a large property business. It’s pretty big time and he grew it from scratch. Apparently he’s quite the salesman.’
‘I don’t reckon you can ever trust people that rich,’ says Craig.
Ben suddenly bites through his tongue and starts screaming, watery blood leaking onto his lip. I dab a serviette on his mouth and duck my head apologetically at Craig, hoping he’ll take it as a sign to talk about something else.
‘You must have known her in school,’ he continues. ‘I was saying that to Laura the other day, that you must have known her.’
‘Yes, well, it’s very tragic.’ Dad’s voice is unusually brisk. ‘But Gem’s got a day off from it today.’
Craig’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Sure, of course.’
Ben’s cries cease and he bounces back to his chair to resume eating. We chew in time to some jaunty carols that Megan has put on but the volume is down low and the sound turns my stomach.
‘More wine?’ I stand quickly and bump my knee hard on the table.
Dad smiles at me. ‘Yes, love—just a little, thanks.’
Laura nods.
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ says Scott.
I look at Scott. Everyone looks at Scott.
‘Whatever,’ he says, breaking his eyes away from mine. His knife scrapes the plate as he cuts through turkey.
‘Great,’ I say, picking up my glass. ‘I’ll open that fancy bottle of chardonnay you got from the Jacksons.’
In the kitchen I breathe past anger and pour wine into my glass. As I drink, I close my eyes and wish it was the evening. I look down at my dress, bought years ago for a wedding. The hem caught on something at some point and it hangs unevenly just below my knees. It’s tight across my middle.
I check my phone. A Merry Christmas text from Anna, one from Carol with a photo of her kids in Santa hats. A missed call from Fox and several safety alerts about the fires. Nothing from Felix. I toss it back onto the bench and look outside. The exhausted trees barely ruffle in the wind.
I return to the dining room. Empty bonbons lie in a glittering heap at the end of the table.
I pour wine for everyone.
‘I want JUICE!’ Ben screams.
‘Shhh. Okay, buddy, calm down,’ says Scott. ‘I’ll get you some juice, just sit tight.’
Ben’s face is red and he clenches his fists. Laura moves around the table and tries to pull him into her lap. When he wriggles away she tries not to look hurt and starts clearing the plates.
‘Fires are pretty bad,’ says Craig, looking at his phone again. ‘Wiped out half of Felton by the sounds of it. No one seems to think they will reach Smithson though.’
‘Lord have mercy on those poor people,’ mutters Megan.
Scott reappears with Ben’s juice.
Ben takes one look at the juice and starts crying. ‘Not that juice!’
‘Oh, come on, Ben, I’m sure it’s yummy juice,’ Laura says.
‘No. It’s. NOT!’ Ben throws himself on the floor.
Laura laughs awkwardly. ‘Well, I guess not.’
She returns to her chair and keeps her eyes on her food.
Craig continues to commentate. ‘Parts of Jackson have gone too, up near the river. Full on.’
Dad clears his throat. ‘I know it’s hot but perhaps we can put on the sprinkler and play some cricket. There’s some shade in the yard.’
He
looks so hopeful, so desperate for us to break the claustrophobia of the table, that I find myself meeting Scott’s eyes. We call a silent truce.
‘Sure, Ned,’ he says.
‘Great idea, Dad.’ He clutches me in a brief hug as I walk past. ‘I’ll grab the cricket set.’
After an hour of hot, sweaty, half-hearted cricket, we trundle back inside for more wine.
Craig is itching to put on the TV. ‘Might just flick on the news to see the fires …’
Megan mutters under her breath and disappears into the kitchen. I open another bottle of wine and busy myself with filling glasses. Angry flames light up the screen as a slightly panicked reporter describes the devastation.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Craig. ‘They’re everywhere.’
Laura serves bowls of cold pudding with brandy cream.
I check my phone again. Still nothing from Felix. I picture him reflected in a hazy Christmas bauble, surrounded by his blonde daughters, their hair neatly braided, as his wife serves a traditional Christmas dinner that she cooked entirely herself. Or maybe Maisie has tattled, and he and his wife are locked in a furious stand-off, all the doubts that ever existed between them being dissected like a turkey, with ‘Jingle Bells’ playing in the background.
Scott interrupts my thoughts by depositing a squirming Ben onto my lap. I face him into my chest, away from the raging fires, and hum softly into his ear. His body is heavy with pre-sleep. Dad pats me on the shoulder and kisses Ben on the forehead before settling into the armchair. Laura and Craig sit side by side on the couch. Scott is shoving discarded wrapping paper into a large garbage bag. Aunt Megan sits primly in Mum’s old armchair near the stereo, which is still doggedly playing Christmas tunes. Rosalind would have turned twenty-nine today, I think as my eyelids drop, and the flames on TV turn into a writhing mass of scarlet rose petals.
Chapter Fifty-five
Saturday, 26 December, 9.30 am
The office hums with post-holiday chat. Extra people have come in because of the fires. An emergency crew is using one of our meeting rooms as a base. Everyone knows someone who lost a house in the Christmas blaze. Overnight, the wind coaxed the fires west and now they are burning wildly across acres of Australian nothingness. Smithson has let out its breath. Safe for now.
The headline in the paper screams A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE and photos show the ring of fire around the town. I flip over the front page and Rosalind’s face looks out at me. STILL NO JUSTICE FOR SMITHSON’S ANGEL reads Candy’s headline. I click onto the Smithson Today website and scroll through the articles. After a few minutes I push my chair away from my desk. I feel hopelessly restless and desperate to know whether Maisie has said anything. Where the fuck is Felix?
‘Woodstock, need you in here.’ Jonesy walks past my desk without stopping.
I enter his office and sit down. He paces in front of me.
‘Gemma, we’re losing the uniforms. Because of the fires.’
I sink into the couch. This case is slipping out of my grasp. ‘All of them?’
‘I’d say so. There’s bullshit coming at the department left, right and centre. We just can’t justify keeping them when so many places need the manpower.’
‘Does McKinnon know?’
‘Yep, spoke to him last night.’
‘Why didn’t you speak to me?’ My eyes burn into his.
He holds my stare. ‘I wanted you to have a day with your family. Have a break from all this. Fair enough?’
‘I guess.’ I’m trying to contain the heat flaring inside me.
‘Right, well. The guys you have now will work the day out and then I’d say that will be it. So do your check-in this afternoon and then you’ll need to pare it back and work out how you want to run it.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I don’t know. We get a solve ideally.’
I stand up and turn to leave, feeling oddly empty. ‘Is that everything?’
‘Almost. What’s this I hear about you getting flowers, Woodstock?’
I freeze. ‘Flowers?’
‘Yes. Flowers. Big fat bunch of red roses, in fact. Delivered to your house at the beginning of the Ryan murder investigation.’ Jonesy’s nostrils flare and I can see bristly hairs hiding inside them like spiders under the eaves. ‘I’m sure you remember—unless of course you get sent flowers all the time.’
‘We don’t know it’s linked to the case.’
‘I didn’t even know about them at all!’ He glares at me. ‘Not good enough, Woodstock, and you know it.’
‘Did McKinnon tell you?’
‘Who told me is the least of your problems. You should have told me. I want you on this thing, Woodstock, but you’re making it very hard.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I should have told you.’
‘Yes, you should have. We’ll speak later. For now, just keep yourself out of trouble. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He walks away, thrusting a pudgy hand through his oily hair.
I go back to my desk and blindly check emails and make notes. My fingers curl and I imagine slamming my fists on the keyboard until it breaks and the keys rattle to the floor like teeth. I look over at Felix’s desk, but he is still nowhere to be seen.
Still fuming, I catch up on the Christmas Day suicide. It doesn’t appear to be related in any way to Rosalind’s case. The twenty-year-old video store attendant had been a student at Smithson Secondary College but had never been taught by Rosalind, and nothing suggests they were acquainted. He had a fight with his girlfriend on Christmas Eve morning and made the decision to go off his meds shortly thereafter. That poor girl: she will rake over that argument in her mind for the rest of her life.
At midday I get a call about an incident at the Ryans’. A man covered in blood is allegedly screaming at the house from the front yard. I rush down a couple of bites of my sandwich and then call Felix, leaving him a message as I jump in the car.
By the time I get to the Ryans’, two cops are already there. They have a bloodied Bryce sitting on the front steps, looking forlorn. I get out of the car, squinting as light pings off the collection of cars in the driveway.
Timothy is standing on the front veranda talking to a uniform. He’s looking across at the small crowd that has gathered on the other side of the street. I spy the manager of the local bank, and a property developer, whose name I can’t remember; he writes about investments in Candy’s paper. Smithson’s finest dragged out of their Christmas hangovers by this unexpected spectacle.
I push my sunglasses on and amble up to the front of the house. ‘Hi, boys.’
They look at me petulantly.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ says Timothy. ‘Just a misunderstanding.’
Bryce nods in agreement.
‘Looks like a bit more than that to me. You’ve created quite the scene.’
Timothy grimaces. ‘It was just a stupid fight. No big deal.’
‘What were you fighting about?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. We were mucking around.’
‘Well, why don’t we take a little trip down to the station and unpack it all a bit?’ says one of the older cops, and I try to hide a smile as Timothy scowls.
‘Where is your father?’ I ask, following them to the police car.
‘He’s back in the hospital,’ says Bryce ominously, spitting on his hand and wiping blood from his cheek.
Chapter Fifty-six
then
I found the old fountain pen in my mother’s writing desk. I used to love watching her write, the curve of the words like a lullaby. It always seemed that no matter what letters appeared, they would be more beautiful if written with that pen. I didn’t know when I’d decided to send Jacob the note. It might have been when I saw them together at the shopping centre. It might have been after that. All I really knew for sure was that it had been twenty lonely days without Jacob and I was losing my mind. We were still speaking but our private world had split
down the middle, and my side had been cast into a dark, bleak winter. I was lost without my other half. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating. I was frozen in place and unable to see in front of me. The grief was weighing me down. Jacob hadn’t mentioned Rosalind and I’d choked on the accusation every time I’d tried to ask him. And then I’d seen them together and an overwhelming urgency had taken over. Action seemed like the only option. I’d felt so drawn to her, and she had gone and taken my future away from me. It was so unfair: she had everything already. Jacob was all I had. And I had trusted him so much and now he was wrapped in her spell too.
In my room, I laid a sheet of crisp cream paper next to the piece of foolscap I’d ripped from my notebook. I wrote out the text, agonising over each word until I felt it read right. After that, I just needed to copy it onto the writing paper and sign it. My hand hovered over the page. My fingers gripped the thick pen so hard that they ached. The first few words were shaky but then I found my rhythm, recalling the necessary tilt of the nib, the right pressure. The flick of my wrist to round out a word. The letters turned into a hateful, beautiful cloud. The fountain pen transformed my prose into art, carrying light and shade. I signed Rosalind’s name with a flourish and leaned back, looking at the page. It was beautiful. The evil words I had signed her name to would be hard for Jacob to ignore.
… I’m sorry to say that you mean nothing to me. It was all a game. I just wanted to pretend I could like someone like you, just for a moment. A little bit like an experiment, a bit like a dare. I wanted to see if I could make you like me. And it worked. But now it’s gone too far. I’m embarrassed by being seen with you. I don’t want to see you anymore, don’t want you to touch me …
I felt alive for the first time in weeks. My breath came out in little puffs and my body was on edge, as if I was playing hide- and-seek and it was my turn to be found. A noise in the other room fired a nerve ending all the way from the base of my neck to the tip of my spine. Probably just Dad waking up. I dabbed at Rosalind’s signature, making sure it was dry, before I folded the letter perfectly in half. In a few hours Jacob would hold this letter and begin to doubt her. Start to feel like he couldn’t trust her. Understand that she was not what she seemed. But I didn’t want him to speak to her after he read it.
