Under the Midnight Sky

by Anna Romer

  Unless Jasper wasn’t the one.

  I stood very still. A cold slipstream of air blew under the back door and wrapped around my ankles. When I’d asked Roy Horton about a vehicle hidden in the bush, or a place Jasper might have camped or visited from time to time, Roy had flinched, his glasses flaring in the sunlight, as he glanced, ever so fleetingly, back at the house. When we went cutting wood, it was always me who drove the truck. But why would Roy go after Shayla? To cast a shadow of doubt over Jasper’s guilt; to prove that his son was not the monster everyone thought? But that didn’t add up, either. If Roy wanted to cast doubt on his son’s conviction, why wait twenty years?

  ‘Maybe he didn’t wait.’ If it hadn’t been for the hikers stumbling off course back in 1995, the bodies of those two runaway girls might never have been found. It was the same for Alice. Campers had discovered her grave only by accident. Rubbing my arms, I stared around the kitchen. Were there other bodies out there now, rotted away in shallow graves, overlooked because everyone believed that the killer was locked up, the danger passed?

  A guttural yowl erupted behind me.

  I jumped, knocking Poe’s food bowl with my foot. It shot across the floor and clanged against the table leg, then rolled away into the shadows. The cat sprang in a sleek black arc from the open window, and bounded across the floor towards me.

  I clutched my chest. ‘You might have nine lives, but I’ve only got the one, and you just about scared it out of me.’

  Poe yowled again and lashed his tail.

  I retrieved his bowl and filled it with kibble, then refilled his water bowl from the tap. When my pulse returned to normal, I managed to laugh. ‘You’re right, though, Mr Poe. Standing around theorising isn’t going to get those groceries unpacked.’

  ‘Abby, that you?’ Tom’s voice echoed from the other end of the house. ‘You’re not out there talking to the damn cat again, are you?’

  I smiled. As I put away the bag of kibble, I stood taller, running my fingers over my hair. I couldn’t resist lingering in the shadows, thinking of yesterday, under the tree. Tom’s lips on mine, the fleeting warmth of his breath against my skin. The gentle strength of his arms around me as I dampened his shirt with my tears. Had his kiss simply been his way of comforting me, an unconscious action; was I reading too much into it? Or had the elusive Tom Gabriel kissed me for real?

  ‘No, it’s Jack the Ripper,’ I called, shutting Poe’s escape window and heading into the lounge room. Tom’s unintelligible mumble resounded along the hallway. I threw my bag on a chair and went to find him. He wasn’t in his office, so I continued down the hall and went into the library. He sat at his laptop in the alcove, the printer whirring beside him.

  ‘I’ve found something.’ He gathered a handful of printouts from the tray and passed them to me. ‘A name, at least.’

  ‘The kidnapper?’

  ‘Could be. And there’s some history about the family who built Ravensong that might be useful.’

  I leaned my backside against the table edge and shuffled through the printed pages. It was a memoir entitled Gundara Remembered, dating back to the 1930s, written by a midwife local to Gundara, Mary Quail. She had included sepia photos of people in family groups, a few solo portraits, and some silver gelatin landscapes fading to ghostly grey. But with my head still whirling over my Roy Horton theories, I couldn’t quite focus, so I set it aside to read later.

  We had dinner at the redwood table on the verandah, surrounded by candlelight. We talked about the Wigmore case, and Tom encouraged me to read the memoir, which I promised to do. There was a subtext drifting beneath the surface of our conversations now. The kiss, it seemed to say. Shouldn’t one of us at least acknowledge it? But neither of us did. And I couldn’t decide if I was relieved . . . or disappointed.

  After the dishes were done, Tom returned to his Remington on the verandah, while I went back to the library. I re-booted Tom’s laptop and connected it to the dusty internet modem. Waited a thousand years for the satellite to locate the nebulous signal from Gundara’s distant tower, and then brought up my email.

  Hi Kendra,

  We have lift-off. Gabriel has agreed to do the interview. Will have it on your desk by Wednesday night in time for Friday’s festival launch.

  PS: Really looking forward to that front-page feature you promised.

  I clicked ‘send’, and sat back in my chair.

  Two weeks ago, my feature article about the gorge murders had been burning a hole in my brain. After finding Shayla injured at the campground, the article had seemed a timely warning. Now, it felt more like a thin veneer covering a story that went much deeper. Was it a coincidence that Shayla resembled the earlier Deepwater victims? Not just because she was a dark-haired girl in her early teens, but because of her troubled family background. And where did Frankie Wigmore fit into the picture, if at all? Were all the girls connected in some way, or was I seeing parallels that didn’t really exist?

  Grabbing my water flask, I drank deeply. Then I yawned and thought about going to bed, but it was only ten o’clock and I was wired. Had been all afternoon, ever since seeing Roy Horton. I was itching to tell Tom about the theory his caravan had inspired – that my cave could be an abandoned vehicle – but that would mean exposing too much of my past to him. Instead, I checked a couple of social media sites and emailed Duncan. At about eleven, I heard Tom come inside and lock up, then take a shower. The water pump droned and the pipes gurgled, and I pictured him under the stream of hot water, his skin turning pink, his shoulders glistening with droplets, the soap lathering to a delicate froth of bubbles in his chest hair . . .

  Breathe, Abby. Don’t forget to breathe.

  What would he do if I snuck along the hall and crawled into his bed? Surprise, I’d whisper when he climbed in beside me. You did such a stellar job of taking my mind off things yesterday afternoon, any chance of a repeat performance?

  A girl could dream.

  21

  On Sunday morning I pulled into Lil’s driveway, a tin of Tom’s shortbread on the passenger seat. Lil was in the garden, deadheading spent flowers from a climbing rosebush. She must have been up early, as a tall mound of prunings sat beside her on the grass. Giving me a wave, she abandoned her secateurs and hastened over, beaming from beneath an enormous sun hat. She thanked me for the shortbread, placing it on a shady garden bench. Then she linked her arm through mine and steered me down the hill towards the edge of the garden.

  ‘Joe and I have a surprise for you, dear. It’s a bit of a hike, though – are you up for it?’

  ‘Of course. Where’s Joe?’

  Lil smiled mysteriously. ‘He’s waiting for us. Come on.’

  Her big grin put me at ease. She’d clearly recovered from her episode at the reserve. She seemed different somehow, more at ease with herself, as though she’d released a heavy burden. I wondered if our talk last week had done her good as Joe had claimed, despite the headache it brought on.

  As we walked over the grass and onto a gravel trail that veered downhill, she chatted brightly about her involvement with the drama group.

  ‘They’re such a good bunch of girls,’ she said. ‘For every bad egg that goes through that shelter, there’s a handful who only need a bit of TLC to bring out their best.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘Like us all, I suppose.’

  ‘The shelter must’ve been fascinating work, but heart-breaking too, I imagine?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there were times when I despaired. Some of the women were too beaten down to bounce back. Addicted to drugs, lifelong victims of abuse . . . despite my belief that anyone with enough faith can overcome their baggage, those hardcore cases had lost hope. Lost any belief in themselves and given up trying. It’s something we all struggle with, isn’t it? Time passes and the setbacks wear us down. It seems easier to just give up. I suppose that’s why I love the drama group so much. All my girls have strong spirits.’

  ‘No hard cases?’

  Lil smiled sadly. ‘The
re are always those. We do have this one girl, Jenny. She turned up a while back with a black eye and split lip. Now, barely a month later, she’s helping me with the costumes and seems to have discovered a love of fashion. She’s asked me to help her fill out a form to study at Gundara TAFE.’

  ‘Good on her. She’ll be one of your success stories, then?’

  ‘I hope so. Time will tell. Most of these women have grown up believing they’re not worth anything. We learn so much from others. Parents, school teachers, relatives. That’s how we learn to fit in and develop community spirit. But if the conduct of those we learn from is unhealthy, then how are we supposed to know what’s right? Or even what’s expected of us? So at the shelter, we provide new examples to follow. Kinder, more rational ones.’ She laughed and lifted a brow, her eyes shining. ‘And sometimes it works.’

  ‘You have a real passion for those women, don’t you? For helping them, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I always have.’

  ‘Have you ever told any of them about . . .?’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh no, Abby. Mind you, there were moments when I was tempted to, but of course I never did. I suppose with the women at the shelter, I like to keep the focus on them. Ah, look.’ She patted my arm and darted ahead, pulling aside the prickly boughs of a grevillea bush. ‘There’s Joe.’

  I followed her to the edge of a large billabong. Joe stood at the edge of the water and when he saw us he waved. His baggy jeans were rolled above the knee, his feet sunk to the ankle in mud. He squelched over holding a tin bucket filled with what looked like riverweed.

  ‘Good to see you, Abby love. Magnificent day, isn’t it? What do you think of our visitors?’ He gestured at the scene behind him.

  The billabong sheltered under a grove of apple box eucalyptuses and was fed by a deep stream that cut between banks of native grass. Sailing majestically on the water was a family of black swans, the parents trailed by cygnets, and their high-pitched squeaks filled the air.

  ‘Oh, they’re beautiful! Do they live here?’

  ‘They arrive around Christmas every year,’ Lil said, ‘and stay till the end of May. Joe thinks it’s because the billabong is protected, but . . .’ She laughed happily. ‘Oh, Joe, you scoundrel. Show her.’

  Joe laughed too. Grabbing his bucket, he went over to the water’s edge and began flinging soggy strands of riverweed into the middle of the billabong. The swans squeaked excitedly and rushed for the weed, their tail feathers quivering.

  ‘They like the water beetles on the weed,’ Joe called over his shoulder. ‘Gets ’em in a frenzy every time.’

  Long necks swooped and sleek heads dived, and soon Joe’s bucket was empty. Now the swans began to squeak at Joe, and coasted over to see why the supply had stopped. When one of the larger swans waddled up the shore towards him, Joe headed back up the bank to join us on the grass.

  ‘Whew!’ He wiped his brow, smearing his face with mud. ‘That big fella had a bit of speed on him, didn’t he?’

  Lil started giggling, and the sound was infectious. Joe and I joined in, and soon the sound of our laughter drowned out the sound of the swans. As we made our way back to the house, Joe hurried ahead to wash the mud off his legs and face and put the kettle on.

  ‘He’s such a clown,’ Lil said admiringly. ‘A lovable one though.’ She looked at me. ‘You seem different today, Abby. I’ve been trying to figure it out all morning. Are you doing your hair in a new style?’

  ‘Um. No.’

  ‘You have a glow about you. Perhaps that’s a new top you’re wearing – the pale blue is lovely.’

  I patted my cheeks. ‘If I’m glowing, it’s only from the sun.’

  Lil laughed. ‘What’s his name, love?’

  ‘There’s no one,’ I said hastily, brushing at my jeans, unable to meet her eyes. ‘I guess I’ve been getting outdoors a little more than usual, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’

  I tried not to think of my steamy moment with Tom under the gum tree, but heat flooded my face, and then my boot caught on a tree root and I almost tripped. Lil steadied me with her hand and smiled knowingly.

  I sighed. ‘I’m no good at relationships, Lil. I mean, not like you and Joe. I really admire what you have. But the minute I start getting serious with someone, I clam up. I feel stifled, as if I’m no longer in charge of my own life.’

  ‘So you sabotage the relationship before it can trap you?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

  ‘You know, I used to feel the same.’

  ‘Really?’ I stopped walking and shaded my eyes to look at her. ‘But you and Joe are so devoted. So brilliant together.’

  ‘We weren’t always. When we first met, I was terrified of getting into something and not being able to get back out. After my father died, my mother used to say that loving him had made her weak. She blamed my father’s death for all her problems. And I’d seen the way love had ruined . . . well, other people’s lives. But when I met Joe, he taught me something very important.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s not love that makes a person weak, but fear. Love is the one thing in life that can truly make you strong. If you allow it to.’

  ‘That’s quite profound.’

  She laughed. ‘Joe has his moments.’

  Again I thought of Tom’s stolen kiss under the gum tree, and my skin warmed at the memory. ‘Maybe there’s hope for me after all.’

  Lil patted my arm. ‘Anything is possible if you want it badly enough.’

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the kitchen table. I dug in my bag for Frankie’s diary page and unfolded it, then propped it against a jam jar filled with pink dahlias. Lil bustled about making tea and arranging the shortbread on a plate. Finally, she settled opposite me.

  ‘Where did we leave off last time?’ she asked.

  ‘You and Frankie were happy at Ravensong.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘But I’m guessing things didn’t stay that way?’

  Lil adjusted the jar, making the dahlias nod in the listless air, then she tucked her fingers out of sight beneath the table edge. ‘Frankie turned twelve soon after we went to live at Ravensong. By the time she was fifteen, she had formed an attachment with the young serviceman.’

  ‘An attachment?’

  ‘She fell in love with him.’

  ‘Oh.’ I pressed back in my chair. ‘Did he share her feelings?’

  ‘Yes, he did. In fact, he loved her intensely. Obsessively, you might even say. On Frankie’s fifteenth birthday he asked her to marry him. Frankie had always been a romantic girl. All she’d ever wanted was to fall in love and have adventures. See the faraway places she’d read about in books – India, China, and even the wilds of Africa. So they made a plan. They decided to marry one year later, when Frankie turned sixteen. He spoke of an inheritance, more than enough, he said, to get them both out of the country and settled elsewhere. Meanwhile I would return to our mother in Sydney. So in January 1953, we packed up the truck with our belongings and several days’ worth of supplies, and left Ravensong forever. Frankie decided that driving me all the way to Sydney would be too risky for them, so they dropped me in Gundara with some money for the train, and we said our goodbyes.’

  ‘You never saw her again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh Lil, why ever not?’

  ‘She made me promise not to try to find her.’

  ‘Is that why you never told anyone what happened to her?’

  Lil rubbed her cheeks. ‘Can you imagine if I had? The police, the authorities, would have tracked them down. After what he’d done, they might both have faced prison. Or worse. They were still hanging people in those days. Frankie was my sister, and my best friend. I could never have betrayed her that way; so I kept her secret to protect her.’

  We sat in the quiet, Lil gazing at her hands, me nursing my empty teacup. Frankie hadn’t perished in the bed upstairs, as I had assumed.
She may even still be out there somewhere, alive and well. I looked at Lil.

  ‘There was a stain on the bed sheets, even on the pillow . . . it looked like blood.’

  Lil looked at me sharply. ‘Blood?’

  ‘In the room upstairs. I thought perhaps that someone had died up there.’

  A long silence. ‘Not while we were living there.’ Then Lil’s face creased into a smile, her puzzlement falling away. ‘I do seem to remember a bowl of soup being spilled the night before we left. Perhaps that’s what you saw?’

  I recalled the leathery feel of the mark and its dark unpleasant colour. What sort of soup stain persisted like that for sixty years? I wanted to point this out, but sensed that Lil was growing restless. So I washed down the last of my shortbread with a swallow of tea, choosing my next words with care. ‘Have you ever tried to trace her?’

  Lil reached for one of the dahlias, plucking off a petal and crushing it between her fingers. ‘No, never.’

  ‘But she might still be alive.’

  Lil rubbed her hands together, then examined her palms. ‘I made a promise, Abby. And no matter how lonely I sometimes get without her, I’ve sacrificed so much to keep that promise. It’s what Frankie wanted.’

  Tilting my empty cup from side to side, I inspected the dregs, waiting for Lil to continue. But the silence stretched. I had my answer, but it hadn’t stopped the buzz of questions as I’d hoped it would. Where was Frankie now? Still with her serviceman? Had they really found their happy ever after? Or had Frankie matured enough to grow resentful over the childhood he’d stolen from her and her sister? And if so, why hadn’t she come forward, or at least tried to contact Lil?

  Lil caught my eye, then looked at the diary page. I nodded. She picked it up, folded it in half, and then in half again. She kept folding until it was too tiny to fold any more. Then she tucked it into her skirt pocket, and got to her feet.

  ‘Well, then. I’d best clear those rose prunings before it gets dark. If I leave it till tomorrow, the possums will scatter them all over the yard and Joe and I will be picking thorns out of our shoes for days.’