Where the Dead Go

by Sarah Bailey

  A ringing noise shrieks in my ears, and I direct my eyes back to the dots on the bedspread. ‘I don’t think there are any good options right now,’ I whisper, ending the call.

  Monday, 11 April

  6.24 pm

  The sky blushes a deep rose as I pull the hotel door shut and take Ben’s hand in mine. Speaking to Mac has made me feel untethered and slightly dangerous. On the other side of the building a gentle buzz drifts from the groups of people who stand talking and smoking outside the restaurant entrance. Most are tourists: the distinctive clip of their European accents is a dead giveaway, paired with their ferocious sunburn. The women wear an informal holiday uniform of flowing strappy dresses or dolphin-print tank singlets; garments I noticed on the sale rack at the surf shop we drove past earlier. Sunbakers are still dotted along the curve of the beach, and several fishermen are stationed on the pier; onlookers whoop and clap as one of them stands up to reel in a catch. Even though I’ve spent the past few weeks recalibrating to Smithson, swapping the concrete and noise of Sydney for fresh air and long grass, Fairhaven feels like another step closer to nature altogether. Here nothing separates the town from the vastness of the ocean, and I feel the prickle of my own mortality more acutely than normal.

  The hot air inside the pub gropes at our bare skin like a drunken man. Jimmy Barnes screams at us from the speakers, while a hearty blend of beer, sweat and animal fat clogs my nostrils. A glittering chandelier hangs in the centre of the dining room and the carpet is a vivid emerald. A garish parrot mural covers the main wall and, in my mind’s eye, Scott’s funeral, the argument with Dad, Rick Fletcher’s broken face and Mac’s disappointment all pile on as well, forming the strangest of montages.

  I reel a little from the onslaught.

  The front bar is full of families, the local alcoholics have commandeered the stools and, from the sound of it, the backpackers are out in the beer garden. Several of the journos who were at Rick’s house are seated at a large table in the corner chatting boisterously, relieved to be back in their natural environment. I spot Simon Charleston pressed against the far wall trying to have a phone conversation.

  Several people have the pinched look of shock, and there’s an undercurrent of fear. This is a town on alert.

  I steer Ben through the boisterous crowd. ‘This way.’

  Cam grins at us from the bar, and I return his wave before grabbing a table for two in the main section. Almost immediately, a basket of defrosted herb bread and a jug of water is plonked in between us. ‘Thanks,’ I say to the waiter’s retreating ponytail.

  Ben rocks backwards on the already precarious stool and looks around, taking in the room.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘so I know it’s been a crazy day. Are you doing okay?’ I hate how formal I sound, like a clueless guidance counsellor in a TV movie. And I can feel Scott rolling his eyes at me. For god’s sake, Gemma, just talk to him. It’s not that hard.

  Ben shrugs.

  ‘I’m sorry I took you to that house today. Things were moving really quickly but it wasn’t ideal.’

  ‘Why did someone kill that man?’

  Rick Fletcher was less than ten years older than Ben. But even though Rick’s tan skin was still flawless and his body yet to complete its transition to adulthood, he certainly was more man than boy. Looking at Ben’s narrow shoulders and the soft curves of his face, I have an urge to wrap him up and hide him away so he remains frozen in childhood forever.

  ‘I don’t know yet. People do a lot of things that don’t make sense.’

  The lead singer in the cover band starts smacking a tambourine against his thigh, and for a few moments Ben watches him, barely blinking. Then he says, ‘That man knew the girl who is missing. I heard you and Cam talking about it.’

  I’m startled that he’s picking up so much. ‘Yes, they were friends.’

  ‘Do you think he did something bad to her?’

  ‘Come on, Ben, I don’t want you thinking about this stuff. It’s my job to worry about it.’

  ‘Dad always said your job’s dangerous.’

  The world tilts again, and I press my heels into the bar stool. ‘It can be, but I’m very careful.’

  We both watch the band for a few minutes. More than anything I want to step into Ben’s head and read his thoughts. Make sure he is okay and rewire him if necessary.

  ‘I know you’re going to miss Dad like crazy.’

  His head bobs but he doesn’t reply.

  ‘Are you glad we came here?’ I venture.

  He kicks the table leg and stares moodily across the room. ‘It’s way better than being in Smithson.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that but I’m hoping a change of scenery will do us both good.’ I immediately realise I said the same thing to Jonesy—maybe I just have to keep repeating it and I’ll believe it.

  ‘Do you get to make the other cops here do all the work because you’re the boss?’ asks Ben.

  I smile. ‘Sort of.’ I squeeze his hand across the table. Despite the physical distance that has often come between us, some instinctive force has always helped us fit together after time apart. I’m worried about how it’s going to work if I’m always around, but I’m even more fearful of the alternative. Oddly, the possibility I could be completely erased seems real in a way it never did when Scott was alive. Although he wasn’t always my biggest fan, he supported my role as Ben’s mother despite our non-traditional custody arrangement.

  ‘Bread?’ I wrinkle my nose and offer Ben the basket.

  ‘Excuse me? Hello.’ An athletic-looking woman has stopped at our table and is staring intently at me. Her leathery skin is taut across her nose and cheekbones. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your meal,’ she says loudly, her face inches from mine, ‘but I wanted to introduce myself. You’re Gemma, I’m Tara Sheffield.’ Her voice drops dramatically. ‘I know you’re here because of Rick’s murder. I googled you. That’s how I knew what you looked like.’

  ‘Hello,’ I stammer. She is the kind of woman I find incredibly intimidating, so harshly groomed she’s more mannequin than human.

  After an awkward pause, I hold out my hand. She laughs and shakes it. I’m mesmerised by her hot-pink nails, which she keeps raking through her jet-black hair. ‘I just cannot believe what happened to the Fletcher boy. What a tragedy.’ She moves her hand in a lazy sign of the cross; she points in the vicinity of her temple then back to her chest, and flicks her index finger toward each collarbone. ‘Of course you can’t tell me anything. I know all about that, living with a doctor.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Privacy is a total buzzword in our house.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing.

  ‘I’m Vanessa Gordon’s friend, by the way. I’m here with my family, over there.’ She points to a table of olive-skinned kids and an athletic-looking bald man. ‘That’s my husband, Eric. He heads up the hospital here. He often has quite a lot to do with the cops, so you’ll probably cross paths, you know how it goes.’

  Eric gives me a friendly smile, and I nod in response.

  ‘And how are you?’ Tara bends her knees to level with Ben, arranging her face in a way that indicates she knows about Scott.

  ‘Good, thank you,’ says Ben.

  ‘That’s the way,’ she trills. ‘Adorable.’ She grabs my hand as if we are old friends.

  Ben takes a large sip of water, his eyes locked on Tara.

  I clear my throat awkwardly, desperate to offer up a safe topic.

  Tara beams at us, unperturbed. ‘I know you’re here to work but I hope you get to enjoy Fairhaven regardless. I run the beauty salon on Church Street, the big one on the corner. It’s pink, you can’t miss it. You’ll have to pop in for a treatment.’ Her gaze sweeps my messy ponytail and hours-old make-up. ‘Only if you have time, of course.’ Then she leans closer to me and whispers, ‘Do you think she’s still alive? Abbey, I mean.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tara, I really can’t discuss it.’

  Her eyes are darting from one side of the room
to the other. ‘Normally I would assume she’s done a runner. There’s always so much drama with teenage girls, and she doesn’t have a good home life to start with. No stability. My eldest is the year below her in school, so you hear the talk, they’re always bitching and gossiping, you know how it is.’ She props her hand on her hip and sighs. ‘But her father is such bad news, I just can’t help thinking . . . well, it doesn’t bear to say it out loud, does it? I used to say to Eric that Daniel was born evil, you know how some people just are? His folks were the same. Real bad seeds. Anyway, I know that’s what everyone’s thinking. And now he’s gone and done the same to her boyfriend. The poor loves.’

  ‘I really can’t discuss it,’ I repeat, trying to keep my expression friendly and jerking my head in Ben’s direction, hoping she’ll get the message.

  ‘Of course.’ She zips her lips with her fingers before blurting out, ‘It’s just that really, nothing bad has happened here for years. Not since those other kids disappeared—which was absolutely terrible, believe me. The boy, Greg, used to work here, you know. Lovely kid. He served us drinks all the time and seemed nice enough, but I guess you never know what’s really going on under the surface. I tell you, it was all anyone talked about for years.’ She pauses and then whispers, ‘Sally’s mother still comes into the salon sometimes. She looks dreadful, I have to say, the whole thing really aged her, she’s so drawn in the face.’

  I realise Tara must be talking about the same case Mac mentioned on the phone earlier.

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Tara, even louder than before, ‘now all of a sudden we’ve got teenagers being bashed and killed, and predators on the beach photographing our children. Someone even broke into our salon, can you believe it? There’s no cash there, it was just pure destruction. Honestly, I told Tommy just last week that he needs to think about doing patrols like they do in the city.’ She thrusts out a hip and examines her nails. ‘I’m sure it’s expensive, but you have to nip these things in the bud, don’t you?’

  I jump in as she takes a breath. ‘Well, thanks for saying hi.’

  Tara is holding up her hand as if to silence me. ‘Anyway, I’ve nattered on for way too long. I’ll get out of your hair. Good luck. And don’t forget to come into the salon—my treat.’

  Ben watches as Tara trots away. ‘That lady had a really loud voice.’

  ‘I think she was just trying to be friendly.’

  Cam ambles over from behind the bar, throwing Ben a wink. He rests his forearms on the table and says conspiratorially, ‘I notice you met the welcoming committee.’

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  He laughs. ‘Tara’s an acquired taste, but she means well.’ From his pocket he pulls out a flat metal token, which he hands to Ben. ‘Maybe you’d like to have a go at that game over there later?’ It’s an arcade classic. ‘You can take a shot at beating my top score while I have a drink with your mum.’ Cam looks at me pointedly, and a shiver darts through me.

  Ben’s eyes shine. ‘Cool. Thank you.’

  ‘Who says city kids don’t have any manners?’ Cam laughs. I don’t bother to correct him.

  He takes our orders and heads back to the bar. Ben and I chat fairly steadily, keeping to safe subjects like sport and his classroom teacher. The steady rumble of conversation in the room spurs us along. Glancing over toward Cam, I notice Kai Lane at the bar with a pretty blonde, her waist-length dreadlocks piled on top of her head like a beehive. He doesn’t see me, but I notice him manoeuvre his hand into the waistband of her skin-tight red skirt as he kisses her neck. It makes me remember my first boyfriend, Jacob, how we were always touching each other, and I have a flash of nostalgia for that time of my life.

  We’re just finishing our meals when Vanessa sends me a text saying she’s on her way.

  A few minutes later, Ben looks expectantly at the side entrance. ‘I think that’s her.’

  I follow his gaze to see a woman in the doorway flashing a smile and waving at various people around the pub. Spying us, she thrusts a hand skyward as if she’s trying to get picked from an audience to join an onstage skit. Despite her long grey hair she looks a lot younger than the fifty-plus years I’ve estimated she must be. Her bright purple shirt is tie-dyed and blurs into a muddy vortex at her stomach. A faded denim skirt brushes her tan thighs. ‘Gemma?’

  ‘Yes. Vanessa?’

  ‘And you must be Ben!’ she exclaims, beaming at him.

  Ben smiles back and I can tell he likes her.

  ‘Welcome.’ She turns to me, her eyes full of concern. ‘So how are you guys doing? I know you’ve had quite the day.’

  There is something about this simple question, something so appealing about her kind motherly voice, that almost breaks me. I’m tempted to fold myself into her lap and let her hold me while I cry.

  ‘Thanks for coming to meet with us,’ I say instead, forcing a smile and wiping my clammy hand discreetly on my jeans before holding it out to her.

  ‘A handshake!’ She grips my fingers, seeming delighted. ‘Very formal. You’ll be good for the team here, they could use a bit of polish. I’m Vanessa, obviously—Ness, if you like.’

  ‘Hello,’ Ben says, sitting up straight. His green eyes shimmer in the dim light and he bites his lip as if he’s nervous.

  Vanessa bends down so she’s level with him. ‘I know about your dad, and I know things seem impossible right now. They will probably feel that way for a while. But while you’re with me, you just do whatever you need to do and we’ll make everything work around that, okay?’ She pulls out her phone and scrolls to a photo. ‘This is my dog, Inka. She’s a Hungarian vizsla. You’ll get to meet her tomorrow. She’s pretty excited about having another new playmate.’

  Ben nods, his eyes glued to the dog. I know Scott had been planning on getting him one for his birthday in July; he has been begging for a pet for ages.

  Vanessa straightens up and gestures for a waiter. ‘On me,’ she insists after she orders us house white wine.

  ‘I should be buying you a drink,’ I say. ‘You’re doing me a massive favour looking after Ben.’

  She waves the hours of child care away. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s like I told Ken, I’m really looking forward to it. I love kids. Plus I’d go crazy with just Tommy and me at the house all the time.’

  Ben asks if he can go play the pinball machine with Cam’s token.

  ‘Just come straight back when you’re done.’

  Vanessa and I watch him make his way across the room. ‘What a lovely little boy, Gemma.’ She turns back to face me. ‘I couldn’t believe the news about Rick Fletcher. It’s just terrible.’

  ‘How is your husband’s recovery going?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be fine, but he’s not the best patient and he’s still in a lot of pain. I keep reminding him he’s actually very lucky. He’s pretty frustrated, of course, especially with all that’s going on around here. I know deep down he’s glad you can help—of course, there’s a part of him that’s desperate to be involved.’ She gives a lighthearted laugh. ‘But he can’t work at the moment, so he needs to get over it.’

  This seems like a loaded comment, but our wines arrive and then Vanessa starts chatting enthusiastically about Fairhaven’s natural attractions. ‘Anyway,’ she concludes, ‘despite what happened today it really is a nice little town. I’m sure you’ll slot right in.’

  We agree that I’ll bring Ben to her house at eight tomorrow morning.

  ‘Our place is only a couple of k’s up the road,’ she says. ‘And the police station is less than five minutes from our place.’ She smiles. ‘You’ll soon discover that everything in Fairhaven is pretty close.’ Tilting her head, she squints at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Just a bit tired,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, I’d say get some sleep, but I know what you cops are like.’ She pauses and seems to hesitate before saying, ‘Take care, Gemma, okay?’

  Emotion surges in my chest again as she gives me a sad smile and heads off
to say goodnight to Ben. On the way out she stops by Tara’s table, and they talk animatedly for several minutes. Tara’s husband rolls his eyes; he catches me looking and smiles sheepishly.

  Cam gestures to me as I pass the bar on the way to drag Ben from his game.

  ‘Gemma Woodstock! Ready for that drink?’ Cam’s accent sounds even more distinctive now, after Vanessa’s rounded vowels.

  ‘Thanks, but I might pass. I need to get Ben to bed.’

  I look over to the pinball machine but can’t see Ben. My heart begins to race. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ben!’ I’m frantically scanning the crowded room.

  ‘Um.’ Cam squints and looks left to right. His face relaxes. ‘He’s over there.’

  My head jerks to where Cam’s pointing. Ben is standing in the corner of the room talking to Simon Charleston.

  Monday, 11 April

  8.23 pm

  ‘Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing?’ I say, pushing past several groups of people.

  Simon looks up with a smile. ‘Hello, Detective Woodstock. Ben and I were just having a chat.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ I snap, pulling Ben away.

  Tara glances over with interest and says something to Eric as I herd Ben back toward the bar. ‘What did he say to you, Ben?’

  My son shoots me a look like I’ve lost my mind. ‘Nothing. He was just asking about school and whether we’ve ever been here before.’

  ‘I don’t want you talking to people you don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘Like Vanessa?’

  ‘People I don’t know you’re talking to,’ I clarify.

  ‘Everything okay?’ says Cam when we reach the bar.

  ‘Fine.’ I glance over at Simon, who is typing on his MacBook.

  Cam nods good-naturedly and waves at someone leaving. ‘Good to hear. Sure you don’t want that drink?’ He drops his voice to a stage whisper. ‘I might be able to rustle up an ice cream if you’re lucky.’

  Ben looks at me hopefully.