Yet it was almost daylight now. If she pulled the curtains, she might trick her body into a half-hour nap till Mattie woke. She slipped out of bed and went to close the window.
Something moved in the early light. The gleam of a car’s duco, unmistakable. An engine noise, where there had been none five seconds before, heading down the road towards town.
Someone had been parked there.
Merv?
Impossible.
Or was it?
Had that really been his body in the church?
No, she was being stupid. Just the early morning terrors. Because who else but Merv could have been around here back then, unseen by everyone, unmissed by anyone?
Merv was gone. She was safe, and she was loved, and she had a life, even with Sam in hospital. The car had probably held a pair of teenagers who’d been necking . . .
But . . . maybe someone had driven by and Merv had killed them, and left them in the church and taken their car. Just how sure were the police?
She was being stupid. Of course the police were sure. She’d call Will Ryan and ask him. And he would undoubtedly reassure her, and then Merv would be gone, a smudged memory, not worth keeping in the cupboards of her mind.
No, she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. A cup of tea . . . She’d just made it when Mattie gave the small mew that preceded a full-on wail.
Jed smiled. Perfect timing. She would drink the tea and feed her daughter, and the scent of baby hair and burped milk would overwhelm all remembered terrors. And Blue would come over and she’d put the kettle on, and they would laugh and gossip. And she would be able to shove the terror back in the past, where it belonged.
Chapter 32
Toy Sale at Lee’s Emporium
Toy cash register $2.99
Star Trek figurine set $3.99
Junior Miss hairdressing set $44444.999
THE KILLER
The killer’s car sped down the road, the tyres muttering: ‘Going to be late, going to be late . . .’
Shouldn’t have lingered at the track to the billabong. But no one knew what had happened on that spot a year ago, except possibly the young woman who might have looked back through the smoke that day. But Jed had been running for her life.
And this was Gibber’s Creek. Anyone seeing the car this morning would have assumed the driver had stopped to blow their nose or kill a huntsman spider that was about to drop onto the steering wheel.
And anyway, no car had passed. Yes, this was Gibber’s Creek. No one would suspect a thing.
Chapter 33
How Much Wood Can a Woodchopper Chop if No One Saw the Woodchopper Chopping Wood?
Which local lad has been entertaining locals at the Gibber’s Creek Hotel today with tails of his wood-chopping prowess? Despite being recently injured by enthusiastically wielding his chainsaw earlier this month at the Gobber’s Creek chainsaw calving competition, it seems our local champion has bounced back from injury by taking out the crown in no fewer than three wood-chopping competitions up in Sydney.
Given the lack of trophies or prizes for these feets of greatness, combined with the fact that the lad is nine stone dripping wet, his story has its septics. The Gazelle will be investigating. More to fallow.
FISH
The phone rang during breakfast. Joseph answered it as usual and, as usual, Fish froze, wondering if the call might be from Mum, while Gran perked up, hoping it might be from her sister Flinty, and that Flinty’s first great-grandchild had been born.
‘That was Nancy,’ he said, wandering back into the kitchen and sitting down unenthusiastically to his muesli. ‘She says she’ll pick you up in half an hour.’ He looked at Fish curiously. ‘Apparently you’re interested in local history.’
Should she tell him she wanted to prove that a psychopath murdered Merv, not his son? No, she couldn’t bring murder into that kitchen, so peaceful with its scent of coffee and the apple pancakes Great-Aunt Mah had made for her and Gran, while Great-Aunt Blue took her knitting down to the hospital to visit Sam.
She settled for a polite, ‘Yes. Nancy said that Mr Sampson knows more than anyone else alive around here.’
‘That he does,’ said Mah.
Fish picked up her plate and took it to the sink.
‘Don’t worry about washing up,’ said Gran. ‘Off you go and get ready.’
They needed a dishwasher. And a TV set, which, okay, they needn’t bother with because there was no reception. But they could at least look as if they missed repeats of Bellbird and Gilligan’s Island. What did ‘get ready’ mean anyway?
She was already dressed, wasn’t she? She was even wearing Great-Aunt Blue’s wig again, because it felt totally cool to be a blonde for a while, plus her hair still looked a mess. But getting ready? It wasn’t as if she had her fabric paints and could add more fish to her T-shirt; nor was she going to waste her precious lipstick and eyeshadow on a visit to a man born in the previous century, who probably thought all make-up was a sin . . .
‘Fish?’ Fish turned as Gran came down the hall behind her. ‘Sorry, I saw your face when the phone rang. And when Flinty rang for a chat last night too.’
So this is what ‘getting ready’ meant, thought Fish. Time for Gran to have a little talk with her.
‘Your mother isn’t going to phone. I know my daughter. I don’t think Amelia has ever apologised in her life. The world is always wrong, not her.’
‘So she’ll never forgive me,’ said Fish flatly.
‘She probably has already,’ said Gran frankly. ‘But she’s not going to say so. If, when, you go home, she’ll just give you a kiss and —’
‘Go out to another meeting?’
‘Maybe. But she’d be happy.’
‘I make her uncomfortable.’
‘Probably. Sometimes. Doesn’t mean she wants you to be any different.’ Gran grinned. ‘Or not often anyway. Which is pretty much what anyone would say about their daughter. Including me.’
Fish absorbed that. ‘What about Dad? What do you think’s happened to him?’ She met Gran’s eyes. ‘Do you think he should be living with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gran quietly. ‘That’s up to your mother, and to him too. I was surprised when she wanted him to live with you as a family. Of course she’d have offered him a place to stay till he found somewhere else. I couldn’t see it lasting though.’
‘Really? I thought you liked him!’
‘I do. I like lots of people, but I can’t see any of them living for long with Amelia,’ said Gran dryly. ‘I don’t think she’s lived without a partner for so long because she was pining for your father, even if that was how it started. She likes her own life, her own ways.’
‘I . . . I told him we both wanted him gone,’ whispered Fish. ‘I said he was ruining our lives.’ She waited for Gran to look at her in horror.
‘I suspected you had.’
Fish blinked. ‘Truly?’
Gran looked surprised. ‘Of course. What else would have made your mother so angry and your father vanish like that? The truth always hurts the most.’
Fish absorbed that too. ‘What do you think’s happened to him?’ she asked at last.
‘I’ve no idea. But I do know that your father is a survivor.’
But he’s still missing, thought Fish. How many people go missing but are never counted as such?
And how many would there have been in Gibber’s Creek?
Chapter 34
Letters to the Editor
Wide Combs Given Wide Birth by Local Outraged Shearer
Dear Madam,
I am replying to the much discussed use of these so-called better, bigger Kiwi wide combs and the Kiwi shearers that come over here wielding them. I say b#$%%r that! How dare these b$%^dy Kiwis think they can come over here with there wide combs and thinking they can do a better lot of it than good old Aussie ones. I’ve shorn with my granddad’s blades my whole life, handed down from my father. In over fifty years of shearing
they’ve fleeced many sheep quickly and have been right as rain, except for a change of blades or the handle once in a blue moon.
Why mess with a great Australian tradition?
CONSTABLE WILLIAM RYAN
‘And his name is Wuffles, black with white paws . . .’
Give me strength, thought William Ryan, or at least let Detective Rodrigues come in and relieve me from desk duty, making this the first time since the Sydney detective had arrived that he’d actually wanted to see him. But he kept his face and expression duly sympathetic. ‘Have you tried the council pound, Mrs Lyle?’
‘Well, no, I . . .’
Of course she hadn’t. ‘How about you give them a ring, eh? But I’ll keep my eye out for Wuffles too. Give me a call when you find him.’
But he smiled as he held the door open for the elderly woman on her way out. Wuffles was almost certainly down at the school with his nose in the rubbish bin, which was where he’d been twice before when the principal brought him back home again, with a lecture on keeping pets in their own gardens. He bet by lunchtime Wuffles would be back in Mrs Lyle’s kitchen — probably bringing up Vegemite sandwiches and peanut-butter crusts.
To think he’d wanted to be a detective down in the big smoke once. City blokes like Rodrigues could never understand how country town policing worked. Kindness and a ‘quiet word in your ear’ were the best tools a country copper could have. A good one anyway. He supposed the city rules were needed now and again to root out the bad apples, though from what he’d heard the city police had their own bad apples, rumours that made him even more content to be working here.
Just like when he’d had a quiet word with young Norman Golightly and his mates. Soon as old man Sorrenson had called saying there’d been an attempted burglary but he’d seen them off with his shotgun — waving it about, luckily, not shooting, which would have been another kettle of fish entirely, especially as old Sorrenson had been blind as a bat for the last ten years — William Ryan had known who the culprits were likely to be. He’d used Dad’s trick of adding up the prison sentences for theft, trespass, break and enter, and assault on them early that morning, and they left town for Sydney before lunch. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
William bet within six months they’d be in prison, but it wouldn’t be on his patch. That’s what Dad had taught him — let the bad guys do what they like, as long as it’s not in Gibber’s Creek. We look after our own.
Wasn’t a day went by he didn’t miss the old man: a heart attack three weeks after the bushfire. Trust Dad to do too much and always for other people . . .
The phone rang. Wuffles returns? he thought. ‘Gibber’s Creek Police Station. Constable Ryan speaking.’
‘Constable Ryan, it’s Jed McAlpine again. Look, I know this sounds silly, but are you really sure the man in the church was Merv — Mr Mervyn?’
‘Why?’ William asked sharply. ‘Do you have any reason to think it might be someone else?’
‘No, not at all. I just . . . just want to be sure he’s really gone, I suppose.’
Of course she did. Jed McAlpine had been through far too much in the last year. His voice gentled. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Truly. We traced the engine number of the car to begin with. That got us his name. Dental records after that, and then the police up there spoke to your stepmother.’
‘They didn’t tell her where I was, did they?’ The voice was even more fearful now.
‘No, of course they didn’t, don’t worry. She was actually concerned about you. The bloke who interviewed her said she’s ashamed of what happened to you, to tell you the truth.’
‘Ha,’ said Jed.
‘People can change,’ said Will quietly. ‘But she told us he’d had a broken arm as a kid and that fitted too. Dental records are pretty exact. It’s the shape of the mouth, wisdom teeth: a whole lot of things. And he was the right age and size — she still had one of his shirts. Truly, you don’t have any need to worry.’ Except the detective poking about, making insinuations about Sam, he thought. Or was it more than that? ‘You’re not worried about something or someone else, are you?’
A pause at the other end of the line. ‘There’s been a car parked down on the track to the billabong. A few times — maybe more, as I only see it if I get up in the night for Mattie.’
Will Ryan frowned, then laughed. ‘I kissed my first girl on that track. Bet you five dollars some bloke’s doing the same.’
A slightly shaky laugh on the other end of the phone. ‘Who was she?’
‘That would be telling. Though Scarlett can probably guess, if you really want to know.’
‘I’ll ask her next time she’s down. I was panicking over nothing. Thank you. Thank you for everything.’
‘It’s why we’re here,’ he said.
He looked at the phone for a moment as he put the receiver down. Yes, that was exactly why he was here.
Chapter 35
Neville Bonner Opens Fete at Gibber’s Creek Central School
Australian of the Year and Australia’s first Aboriginal Member of Parliament, Mr Neville Bonner MP, opened this year’s school fate. Mr Bonner spoke of the challenges and opportunities for the young today. Chair of the Gibber’s Creek Central Shool P and C, Ms Clare Sampson, presented Mr Bonner with a Gobber’s Creek Centenary teaspoon and set of Centenary toetowels.
FISH
Fish peered out of Nancy’s ute, keeping her feet away from the squashed cream bun on the floor. A cow-shaped letterbox made of two large and many small tins, with a giant pink-painted spring for an udder — Fish deeply approved — plus the usual cattle grid, but no name on the gate. She supposed that when you had lived as long as Pete Sampson, you didn’t need to advertise where you lived.
‘I like the letterbox.’
Nancy grinned. ‘Jarrah made it. Pete’s great-grandson. The boys want him to make a robot letterbox for us.’
‘Cool. How old is Mr Sampson?’
‘Don’t know exactly. Neither does he. Aboriginal births weren’t registered back when he was born.’
Fish looked at her in surprise. ‘He’s Aboriginal?’
‘Yes,’ said Nancy evenly. ‘Have you got a problem with that?’
‘No, of course not. Mum has Kath Walker over sometimes for meetings. You know, the Aboriginal poet?’
‘I know her work,’ said Nancy.
‘I’m not racist at all.’
‘That’s nice. What if I told you I was Aboriginal?’
Fish frowned. ‘Why would you want to tell me that?’
‘Because I am.’
‘You can’t be!’ Fish blinked. Brown eyes, black hair streaked with grey, brown skin, but surely that was just a tan. ‘I’ve been to your house.’
‘And it’s not made out of corrugated iron or on a reservation or in Redfern?’
‘I mean you’re . . . you’re normal.’
Nancy stopped the car. ‘That is either the most racist thing I’ve ever heard, or —’
‘True?’ offered Fish, nearly in tears. ‘Most Aboriginal people do live on places like Palm Island, don’t they? Because the law says they can’t leave. I’m not stupid. I’m not racist either. It’s not their fault. It’s the fault of people like me who get a great life because Aboriginals lost their land. People who vote for racists, or even just do nothing. And I know it’s illegal for people to discriminate on the grounds of race now, but it still happens all the time.’
‘My people owned this country, but you can’t even tell if someone is Aboriginal? That isn’t racist?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Fish desperately. ‘Look at me. Were my ancestors Chinese or Vietnamese?’
‘You’re Vietnamese. Half Vietnamese.’
‘Yes, I am, but not ethnically.’ Dad had made this clear to her. Very clear and far too often, as if it mattered. Except, today, it suddenly did. ‘My father’s mother was ethnically Chinese, even though her family lived in Vietnam for generations. Chinese people are a quarter of the populatio
n of the world and you don’t recognise someone who is a quarter Chinese?’
‘That’s not different enough for someone to tell —’ Nancy halted, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Okay. Point taken. My grandmother was Aboriginal,’ she added more quietly. ‘Dad’s father was English. Mum’s family were Scottish, Irish and who knows what.’
‘I’m sorry I offended you,’ said Fish.
‘You know what that skeleton they found at Lake Mungo a few years ago means? It says that my people have been here at least forty thousand years, maybe much more. Those academics saying maybe six thousand years, maybe ten thousand, were dead wrong. We’ve been here forever.’ She looked out the window, then, at last, back at Fish.
‘Maybe we should both apologise,’ she offered. ‘We make assumptions and not always for bad reasons.’ Nancy started the car again. ‘By the way, Pete Sampson’s house is normal too.’
It was indeed the most normal house Fish had ever seen, as if someone had taken every house design in Australia and worked out how to get an average. Two-toned brick, rectangular, a veranda along the front, a porch out the back, two strict rows of roses in full flush, with equally exact yellow and orange marigolds below, another rectangle with lawn, trimmed exceptionally neatly and in a shade of ‘extremely green’. A television chattered excitedly inside.
Nancy knocked on the screen door.
‘Come on in!’ The TV mutter stopped. ‘Alannah, put the kettle on! Nancy’s here.’
‘In a sec, Grandpa.’
‘Hello, you old scoundrel,’ said Nancy, dropping a kiss on the high sun-spotted forehead. ‘What have you been up to lately?’
‘The usual.’ The voice could have come from a forty-year-old. ‘Poddy dodging, bank robbery, murder.’ Brown eyes inspected Fish from a face too thin for wrinkles atop a shrunken body in a checked shirt and moleskins, but only half filling them. His fat armchair almost swamped him. ‘You going to kiss me too?’
‘Behave yourself,’ said Nancy, sitting on the sofa that matched the armchairs. The cushions had embroidered scenes of a Japanese garden on them.
The Last Dingo Summer Page 17
