by Anna Romer
I gazed over the distant hills, the autumn breeze murmuring around me. I want to write a feature on Deepwater Gorge, I’d told Kendra. About what really happened there, the truth. So people remember. It wasn’t entirely true, though . . . was it? I didn’t want to write about it so that others would remember.
But so that I could forget.
4
‘Joe?’ Lil froze before the mirror in her bedroom, ears pricked. That loud bang had definitely come from further along the hallway. Strange. Joe was at the other end of the house in the kitchen, filleting a snapper.
‘Joe, was that you?’
She frowned. Of course it was Joe. Who else would it be? They were miles from town, surrounded by two hectares of garden, and then another twenty of bushland. Farms beyond that, rolling green hills to the horizon. Barely another soul around. Nice and quiet. Just the way she liked it. Sometimes, though, it was too quiet.
‘Joe?’
Joe thought they were too old to live out here, especially since his angina diagnosis last year. They were too isolated; hospitals and services hard to get to. He could no longer help with the physical work, the mowing and gardening, the thousand-and-one daily tasks their small holding required. But Lil refused to sell. She’d always done the lion’s share of the yard work anyway. She took great pride and pleasure in keeping the garden tended and the wood basket full. Besides, she cherished the privacy and freedom. The beautiful birds that visited their garden. The peace.
Most of all, the farmhouse represented her happiest years with Joe. Typical of her, she supposed. Unable to let go. Clinging to the past, craving the familiar. Joe called her a hoarder. Of knickknacks, useful scraps of fabric, old letters. Hair and toenail clippings for the compost. Balls of string and rubber bands. Extra food for the pantry. Chocolate bars in her bedside drawer.
‘If it wasn’t for me,’ Joe was always saying, ‘you’d be on that show, Australia’s Worst Hoarders.’ He was right, of course. Not about the show, but about the hoarding. He just couldn’t understand how it pained her to let things go; actually physically pained her.
She studied her reflection. Her thick fair hair was pinned into submission, the grey strands tucked out of sight, her face powdered, a hint of lippy applied. She checked her watch. Still an hour before her Saturday drama group, but she needed to leave soon; town was forty minutes away.
Another bang drew her to the bedroom door. The noise had come from down the hall. Hurrying out to the back of the house, she stepped into the sewing room doorway and froze. ‘Joe, what in heaven’s name?’
Her husband looked around sheepishly, holding up his hand. Blood welled from a gash on his thumb, trailing a bright thread down his arm. He seemed oddly agitated, avoiding her eyes and a grimace in place of his usual smile. ‘The kitchen box is out of Band-Aids,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Thought you might have spares in here.’
Lil’s gaze flew to her old Singer sewing machine cabinet. There was no sign of disturbance, no indication he’d rummaged in the drawers, just an upended needle box, no doubt the source of the bang she’d heard.
‘There’s nothing in here,’ she scolded. ‘You should know better than to barge around knocking things over. What’s got into you?’
‘Sorry, Lil. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ He held up his injured hand. ‘Think I’ll survive?’
She sighed. Pulling a hanky from her pocket, she shook out the folds and wrapped it around his bleeding thumb. ‘What’ve you done to yourself now?’
‘Dang filleting knife. I’d just sharpened it to prep that snapper I caught yesterday and it came to life and bit me. The knife, I mean. Not the snapper.’
His attempt to make her smile fell flat. What was going on with him? His shaky voice, his pale face. It might have been the blood. Joe had never been good with medical emergencies. Not since the war. But there was something else. They’d been married forever, fifty-four years come November. Long enough for her to sense when he was up to something. She glanced to the bottom drawer of the Singer.
Joe hated mess. One look in that drawer would have him scurrying out to his shed in a tidying frenzy. The sewing room was Lil’s territory, and she kept it chaotic for two reasons. One, the disorder comforted her. She knew where everything was. Mostly. And two, the mess kept Joe out.
At least it had until now.
She led him back past the bedrooms along the hall, through the lounge room and into the kitchen. Settling him on a chair, she unwound her hanky and inspected his bleeding thumb. She huffed loudly.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t go poking around in my room.’
Joe smiled. ‘I knew it. You’ve hidden a body in there, haven’t you?’
She made a dismissive noise and turned away. But her hands had started to tremble and her legs were unsteady. ‘What on earth made you think I’d have Band-Aids in my sewing room, of all places?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Dunno, love. You know me, I’m an idiot sometimes. Rush about without thinking.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, Joe.’
How could he still melt her like that? More than five decades of marriage and years of friendship before, and he could still soften her cranky heart with a few words. She’d never tell him that, of course. No point giving him the advantage. But in moments like this she loved him so much she ached.
Propping his elbow on the table to elevate his hand, she bent and kissed his wrinkled cheek. ‘Silly old fool.’
He gave her a grateful look, as if to say, Forgiven?
She turned away. She didn’t want to encourage him. Her room was out of bounds for good reason.
She rummaged in the first-aid box. Band-Aids, just as she’d thought. He must have been distracted by all the blood and overlooked them. A senior moment, he always called it. She filled a bowl with warm water and took it and the box to the table, then washed and dressed Joe’s hand. All the while he watched her, that same grateful, half-admiring look in his eyes.
‘You always fix me up, Lil.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What’d I do without you?’
‘I’m not planning to depart anytime soon.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She gave a soft, dismissive snort. Inside, though, a chill was creeping. They were in their twilight time. Living day to day, thankful for each sunrise they saw together. There were no secrets between them. Not any more. She had told Joe the truth about her childhood – at least, a heavily edited version of events – and then promised him it was all behind her. All forgotten.
And it was.
Except for that one small remnant in her sewing-machine drawer.
She had tried to burn it years ago. One winter, with Joe away at a Forestry Commission event in Sydney, she’d even brought it out and stood with it in her hands in front of the fireplace. Willing herself to throw it in the flames. Thirty minutes. Forty. An hour might have passed. Her back grew cold and stiff, her face and hands roasted hot. The fire died down. In the end she had returned it to the sewing room, defeated.
She rubbed her forehead, trying to blink away the shadows that all of a sudden crowded her eyes.
Joe gave her a questioning look. ‘All right, old girl?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
He smiled fondly and nodded in his usual way, then levered himself up from the table to boil the kettle for a cuppa.
Lil scratched the back of her neck. Her scalp grew tighter and the blood drained out of her face, she could actually feel it retreating like a warm tide, leaving just a pasty mask behind. Inside her skull, a bubble of darkness dislodged and began to expand. When the kettle boiled, she made herself a strong coffee. She was a tea drinker, the weaker the better, but sometimes the extra caffeine helped her fight off the shadows. She drank it scalding black, washing down a Xanax for good measure. For a moment she stood in the stillness, listening to the quiet clang of Joe’s spoon in his cup, the creak of his chair. When Lil was herself again, she left Joe at the table to drink his tea, and strod
e along the hall to her sewing room. She shut the door behind her and settled on the chair. Sliding open the bottom drawer of her Singer cabinet, she dug under the tangle of dross and drew out a small thick book with a tattered red cover. Its pages were dog-eared and yellow with age. Midway through was a ragged edge where a single page had been torn out.
Her fingers curled against her palms, suddenly damp. She rubbed her hands on her skirt and, breath held, turned to the first page.
Saturday, 10th April 1948
He’s given me this book to write in. I would have rathered another novel, even a storybook with pictures. Anything but blank pages staring back at me. He says it will help me cope. That recording my thoughts every day will keep me occupied. Occupied, as in out of trouble.
But we’re already in trouble, aren’t we?
Lilly won’t stop crying. She pulls all the tangles out of her hair and leaves them laying on the floor, fuzzy little injured things, limp as dead spiders. A thick knot is forming on the back of her head from the pillow. I’m worried she’ll rip it out and take a chunk of scalp with it. I tried untangling it this morning, but she whined and fidgeted and finally shoved my hands away.
We got lunch: bread and dripping with thin slices of fatty ham. He baked the bread himself, he told us in a proud voice. As if that somehow makes up for what he’s done.
‘When are we going home?’ Lilly screamed at him.
He answered with a glare, and took our empty plates, locking the door behind him.
Heavy wooden planks line the walls and high ceiling of our room, and all are reinforced with bolts. I tried unscrewing one of the bolts but I tore my fingernails and now they’re clogged with blood. This afternoon I stomped from one side of the room to the other, searching for a loose floorboard. When I couldn’t find one, I hammered my palms against the walls and kicked them.
All the while, Lilly watched, her eyes like saucers and tears dribbling down her cheeks. I hate it when she looks at me like that, helpless and watery. Mum used to say I was the brave one in the family, but I don’t feel brave now. I put a bright face on for Lilly, but inside I feel small and helpless. And very, very frightened. You see, I know what he’s planning. Which is why we have to get out now, before it’s too late.
There’s no electric light. We must rely on whatever daylight can find its way through the little window. At night we watch the moon on the other side of the bars. Without window glass, the wooden shutter clangs when it’s breezy. The cold air brings in the scent of gum trees and dust. We hear the leaves in the wind and the drone of insects, and sometimes the distant mumble of a river, but nothing else. I guess we’re a long way from Sydney.
The door is heavy too, and there’s no handle. At least, not on our side.
Tonight we dragged the mattress onto the floor and examined the cast-iron bedframe. It’s welded together and too heavy to budge.
Lilly went limp and started to cry. ‘Oh Frankie, he’s thought of everything. There’s no way out. We could search and search for a hundred years, but we’ll never . . . never—’
‘Hush, Lilly.’
But she’s right. He has thought of everything. He must have been planning this when he called us over to him in the hospital grounds. Mesmerising us with heroic stories of the war, or telling of his fairytale home in the bush. Luring us with the wonders he described. The wrought-iron aviary full of colourful birds, the apple orchard and the magnolias that bloomed bigger than dinner plates. And while we marvelled, he was making his plans to trap us here in this room.
In the corner, behind a curtain, there’s a tiny cubicle. A bathroom, I suppose. It’s got a steel bucket with a wooden rim. Beside the bucket is a container of ash with a scoop, and a wad of torn-up newspaper squares. When we use the bucket we have to scoop on some ash to kill the smell. There’s a tiny basin with a towel and soap where we can wash ourselves and get water to drink. In the mornings we take turns hauling the full bucket to the door and he collects it, replacing it with a clean one.
It’s been two weeks. He won’t answer our questions. We don’t know why he’s keeping us here. Or how long we’ll stay. Or if he wants money. Or even if Mum knows we’re all right.
Last night Lilly nagged so hard that he went red in the face and flew out the door, slamming it behind him. We heard him crashing and banging down the stairs. A while later he was in the yard, and rasping sounds drifted up to our room. We climbed onto the wooden trunk under the window and peered out.
He was sitting directly below us on a log seat. Bent over something, a kerosene lamp burning yellow beside him. His arm slid back and forth in a long stroking motion. Lilly nudged me and raised her brows. What’s he doing? As if hearing our thoughts he shifted, giving us a perfect view of the axe across his knees and the sharpening stone he rasped along its gleaming blade.
We crept back to bed and lay awake most of the night, huddled together under the sheets, our faces sticky with tears. We tried to cry quietly as we strained to hear. Listening for his footsteps. Waiting.
Through the window, the stars began to twinkle. Then an enormous golden moon drifted into view on the other side of the bars.
‘Look, Lilly,’ I whispered. ‘The moon’s saying goodnight. She’s telling us to shut our eyes and go to sleep.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Here, hold my hand. Now look at the moon, she’ll watch over us and keep us safe. Take one last look at her, Lilly-bird, and kiss the stars goodnight. Then you can shut your eyes and sleep will come.’
‘Goodnight, moon,’ she snuffled, then placed a kiss on her fingers and blew it towards the window. Snuggling in beside me, she was soon asleep.
I lay awake for a long time after. The rasping noise had stopped, but I could still hear it in my head. Could still see his arm moving back and forth as he sharpened the blade. Was it a warning? Was he trying to scare us? If so, he’s succeeded. But rather than scaring me into being good and doing what he wants, he’s only given me more reason to find a way out of this place.
We’re going to escape, me and Lilly. Before he has a chance to use that axe.
We’re going to go home.
5
Tom cracked his knuckles and rested his fingertips on the keys. He hammered out a gush of words on the old Remington – no annoying buzzing computer for him – and then frowned at the mess he’d made. Hell, what was wrong with him? Wooden dialogue, stilted action. And a heroine whose true motivation continued to elude him.
Ripping the paper from the drum, he mashed it into a ball and flung it at the window. ‘Useless crap!’
An itch took up residence on his ankle and he groaned. Grabbing his wooden ruler, he slid it down inside the plaster cast, probing for the right spot, unable to quite find it.
He rubbed his eyes. Outside, the sky was brewing a storm, but the lush green shadows beneath the trees in the garden were calling to him. He could almost feel the cool grass tickling his sweaty toes. He had bought the house back in January, and finally moved in three weeks ago. Rotten timing, his publisher said – with a book deadline looming, his tree change was madness. Tom couldn’t agree. He needed the isolation to think, to let his creativity unravel. He needed to get away from people, from distraction. From the past.
Besides, Ravensong was his dream house.
During his initial inspection of the place, his jaw had dropped. It was like walking into a movie set. A cavernous library overlooked the front garden, its wall-to-wall books gathering dust under the crystalline teardrops of a titanic chandelier. The hallway that led to the library was a gallery for six huge gilt-framed watercolours. The other end of the house opened into a once-grand lounge and dining area, and then through to an Art Deco kitchen. Upstairs he had found a warren of rooms, all furnished with quilt-covered beds and large wardrobes. One room held a collection of personal items – eyeglasses and a manicure set, and a rack of clothing that included a moth-eaten army uniform from the Second World War – apparently abandoned by whoever had lived her
e before.
The overgrown garden was even more spectacular – or at least, had been once. Wide brick pathways wound between shimmering pittosporums and overgrown flowerbeds. There was a sprawling veggie patch, and a pair of old galvanised tanks full of pristine rainwater. At the back of the house grew a magnificent magnolia tree, and in a grassy orchard he had discovered a quaint vintage caravan, home to a nest of swallows. Even more intriguing was a massive wrought-iron aviary buried beneath a rampaging mountain of ivy. The icing on the cake was the vast timber shed, inhabited by a half-feral black tomcat.
But more than all that, it was the views that had finally sold him on the property. Ten minutes’ walk from the house, the land sloped down into a deep, forested gully, which he suspected was the start of Deepwater Gorge. Years ago, he’d been obsessed by the murders committed there, and haunted by the young victims. For a long time he’d dreamed of writing a novel about their story, and so finding Ravensong had seemed like an omen. What better place to write about the murders than a remote old house that overlooked the wilderness where they had occurred? The gorge itself wasn’t visible from the property; that was miles away, closer to town. But when he toured the house, he’d discovered a spectacular view of the river from the upper-floor windows.
Which, in a roundabout way, was how he’d ended up in hospital. A few days after moving in, he’d been gazing up at the back of the house and had spied a tiny window under the roofline. No glass windowpane that he could see, just a row of bars. He didn’t recall seeing the window on his tour and hadn’t been able to locate it from inside the house, so he’d grabbed the shonky old ladder from the shed to investigate. Too caught up in his mission to notice the cracked rungs.
The phone began to shrill, yanking him back to the present.
‘Whoever you are, you can bugger off,’ he shouted at the ringing phone. ‘I’m trying to write a bloody book here.’