by Kate Genet
Things she’d never even let herself consider about her husband before.
17
Claire eyed up the distance to her parent’s front gate and wondered whether she had a last sprint in her. A moment later and she was flying, muscles burning, eyes blurring with sweat, a broad, exhilarated grin on her face.
She passed the gate, dropping to a slow jog, then turned and went back, letting her muscles relax, shaking arms and legs as she slowed, drawing controlled breaths in through pursed lips and out in great huffs through her nose, already thinking about the pleasure of a steaming hot shower.
Force of habit left over from her childhood had her latching the wooden gate behind her, even though Lucky, the furry companion of her youth, had finished his run of luck years before. She smiled at the memory of the loving brown and tan dog who had ended his years waddling around the yard like a duck, just a tad overfed by Claire’s mother.
‘Claire?’
Startled, Claire turned, dropping the leg she’d been stretching as she cooled down from her run.
‘Mum. What is it?’ There was something on Gracie’s face that had Claire’s heart racing, not from exertion this time. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked, remembering the scare they’d had with his heart years before.
But her mother was shaking her head. ‘Your father’s fine,’ she said. ‘He’s out the back admiring the Ark.’
Claire checked her watch. She hoped admiring wasn’t parental shorthand for sitting in his favourite deckchair with his favourite alcoholic beverage in his hand. Not that he had any sort of drinking problem – it had been Zoe`s father with that one – but Claire wanted it to stay that way.
As though reading her mind, Gracie shook her head again. ‘He’s sitting there, but it’s still coffee hour, Claire. Honestly. You’d think you were the parent.’ She rolled her grey eyes, then got serious again.
‘Something’s wrong though,’ Claire said. She knew her mother well enough to be able to tell that from a mile away. Tucking Gracie’s arm in hers, she led them towards the house. Maybe they needed a cup of coffee themselves. Or better yet, some of that herbal tea her mother liked so much. Claire wrinkled her nose at the thought of it but patted her mother’s hand.
‘Tell me what it is,’ she commanded.
‘You’ll think I'm fretting over nothing,’ Gracie said.
Claire laughed. ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘But tell me anyway.’
They were at the front door and the inside of the house was dim and cool after the bright sunshine.
‘I have a bad feeling,’ Gracie said after a long pause. She looked up at her daughter, wrinkles deeper in the shadows of the house, and eyes worried. ‘Don’t laugh, Claire. I'm serious this time.’
Claire couldn’t help it. ‘Mum, you’re always serious about these bad feelings of yours, and it always turns out okay.’
Her mother shook her head, grey curls flying. ‘What about that time I had a bad feeling about Larissa and her cockatoo?’
There was no helping the affectionate quirk of her lips. ‘I remember that well,’ Claire replied. ‘You were afraid the bird was going to turn on her.’
‘And it did!’
‘Yeah, okay, it kinda did.’
‘You bet it did. Larissa’s nose was bruised for a good week after that bird bit it.’
‘But look what happened after that – Larissa found a great home for Kiwi, got a dog instead, and now she’s lost about fifty kilos from all that exercise walking the little dog, and both of them couldn’t be happier or healthier.’
After a moment Gracie nodded and they went into the kitchen, Claire moving straight for the kettle. A nice cup of tea would settle her mother’s nerves.
‘That’s all very well, Gracie said, ‘and a fun story to tell. But it’s different this time. Darker, meaner.’ Gracie said, sitting down at the table and frowning.
‘In what way?’ Claire asked, her hand stilling.
‘I’m nervous,’ Gracie said. ‘I can’t sit still. Nothing feels right this morning.’
Claire looked over at her mother. Gracie was right. She was sitting at the table fidgeting like a small child. Something was definitely bothering her. Claire finished filling the kettle, barely aware of what she was doing, and put it on to boil, then leaned on the counter and looked at her mother.
‘Tell me what it is,’ she said. She’d had enough experience of her mother’s oddities to know they were a real thing – at least to Gracie. And sometimes, Claire had to admit, Gracie did turn out to be right.
But right at the moment, her mother was sitting at the table sighing. ‘I just don’t know if I can,’ Gracie said. ‘I don’t know if there are words for it today.’
Claire waited.
‘It’s a foreboding,’ Gracie said at last. ‘That’s what it is. There’s a vibration happening in my bones.’ She picked up the spoon in the sugar bowl and looked at it before dipping it back in the raw brown crystals. ‘I know I sound crazy. I know how I sound. But I'm telling you – I have a very bad feeling. Something bad is going to happen today. I don’t know what, and I don’t know to who…but I'm scared.’ Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together, looking up at her daughter, face round and pale.
Claire swallowed. She was used to her mother being a little strange sometimes, had heard all her stories of psychic this and that but had never paid them much attention. Her mum sometimes said weird things, and occasionally they seemed like they came true.
But it was all little stuff that never meant much.
The kettle boiled, and Claire poured water over the teabags in their cups. She carried them to the table.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘This will help.’ Sitting down next to her mother, she patted her affectionately on the arm. ‘I'm sure it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
The sigh her mother heaved was big enough to fill a spinnaker. Claire smiled to herself. As odd as her mum could be, Gracie was a character all right.
‘Anyway,’ her mother said, wrapping her hands around her teacup. ‘Tell me what you’ve planned for today.’
Claire stretched back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Meetings,’ she said. ‘My least favourite thing.’
‘You’d think in your line of work there wouldn’t be any such thing as these corporate meetings.’
It was Claire’s turn to sigh. ‘More than you’d ever believe. Boats don’t get built, and they certainly don’t get outfitted and sailed without sponsorship.’ Thinking of the plans for the new yacht, a 20-meter trimaran, had her shivering in anticipation. ‘Anyway, a big company right here in Christchurch is offering talks about a pretty nice sponsorship package, and you know me, I like to fly the Kiwi flag somewhere on the boat.’
Gracie was back to looking troubled.
‘What is it, Mum?’
She shook her head. ‘Just going through the mental checklist, dear. I don’t think this feeling is about you and your boat though.’
Rocking forward in her chair, Claire leaned over the table and peered at her mother. ‘Of course it’s not, Mum. I won’t even be out on the water for ages.’ She tapped on Gracie’s hand. ‘You know you’re probably getting yourself wound up over nothing, don’t you?’
But Gracie just shook her head and lifted her tea to her lips, gaze heavy.
A hand clamped down on Claire’s shoulder and she jumped, then laughed.
‘Good grief Dad, it’s you supposed to have the heart attacks, not me.’
‘Well isn’t that a nice thing to say to your old man?’ Frank grinned back at her. Lumbering around her chair, he sat himself down at the table. ‘Gracie, love. What’s wrong?’
Her mother seemed at least a size smaller. ‘She’s got a bad feeling,’ Claire explained, feeling an unfamiliar ripple of unease looking at her mother.
‘Aw, Gracie. You know your nerves are a bit on edge from the earthquake last September. Everything’s all right. Look – you don’t even have to wor
ry about Claire for once. The girl’s sitting right here.’
That made Claire smile. She knew her sailing escapades caused her parents some worry lines, but they hardly ever let on about it.
Gracie’s hand crept across the table and Frank caught hold of it, gave it a reassuring squeeze.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, love,’ he said, then turned to his daughter. ‘Smelling a bit ripe there, girl. What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Thanks for the reminder,’ Claire said. ‘I was on my way to the shower. Just been for a run.’ She got up from the table and stretched. ‘Hey Dad?’
Frank was still holding her mother’s hand. He smiled at Gracie then looked up at Claire.
‘Any chance of going sailing this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘I’ve checked the tides, and a bit of drizzle and wind just makes it more fun.’
‘The Ark’s not quite ready for seafaring yet, love.’
That made Claire laugh. ‘No, I guess not. I was hoping Ryan Vandermeer still has that sweet little Falmouth of his. I miss the water.’
Frank shook his head even while his eyes sparkled, then looked at her Mum. ‘Can’t, Claire Bear,’ he said. ‘Been booked already. Doing a favour for a mate, sea-trialling a nice new rescue boat.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be retired?’ she teased.
‘Hence the favour bit, my girl. Have to keep my sea legs somehow.’
The sound of her phone ringing interrupted.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Where’d I put that?’
It sounded close and she tracked it to the kitchen counter, sitting next to the coffee jar.
‘It’s Zoe,’ she said.
‘Tell her hello from us,’ Frank said. ‘Tell her it’s time she came around to visit, her and that sweetie of hers.’
Claire nodded and hit the answer button, eyes going to her mum and hand freezing on the way to lift the phone to her ear.
‘Mum?’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’ She held the phone against her head and heard Zoe’s voice. ‘Just a minute Zoe.’
Her mother had gone white. All colour drained from her face.
‘I don’t feel so good, Frank,’ she whispered, and Frank jumped to his feet.
‘Come lie down, love,’ he said, and wrapped an arm around his wife, leading her away.
‘Wow,’ Claire said into the phone. ‘That was weird.’
But Zoe didn’t ask what was weird.
Because what she had to say was even stranger.
18
Zoe disconnected the call, aware she’d barely made any sense and that Claire was probably standing in her mother’s kitchen still not knowing what was going on.
She just hadn’t been able to get the words out. Not the ones that were spinning through her head like it was carnival night in a horror story. Not the ones that sounded something like…
Paedophile
Murderer.
There was a short circuit somewhere between her brain and her mouth when it came to those ones. Or maybe they’d lodged in the back of her throat. She was certainly having trouble breathing.
But she’d made the call. Got Claire to say she’d meet her at home. It would take her half an hour or more to get there, but Zoe reckoned she might be able to hold it together long enough.
Then they’d go get Rose.
Standing in the middle of her kitchen, she looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. Danny wasn’t there. She’d texted him, and he’d actually answered. Taken Rose to the park on their way home from the panel beaters.
Zoe shuddered. How could he have taken her there? Even if he wasn’t the one who had
murdered
the little girl, Sahara had still died there only a couple days ago. It just seemed…wrong.
She pushed some more buttons on her phone and looked down in a daze at the photograph Jeanette had taken of Sahara at the park. Except it wasn’t just Sahara in the photograph.
It was Danny. There wasn’t really any doubt in Zoe’s mind. She’d recognise that build, that stance anywhere. She’d been looking at it for the last five years. The upper part of the man’s body was blurred behind the tree branches, but she knew. She knew it was Danny.
She just hoped she didn’t know why he was there.
She was afraid she did though, and for a moment, she bent over the kitchen sink, sick to her stomach.
Drawing in a deep breath, Zoe straightened. Rose was safe enough for the moment, out in public. She looked at her watch. And Claire would be here in twenty-five minutes.
Long enough to check.
Her legs were stiff wooden dowels as she stalked out of the kitchen and down the hall to Danny’s office. The spare room he’d taken over when they moved into the house, claiming it as his work space, and more than that, his private space. She’d never been allowed in. Not more than to stick her head in the door, anyway, and stupidly she’d been happy to respect that. Danny worked from home. He needed his space.
The curtains were pulled in the room. She strode over to the windows and yanked them back, the late morning light oozing in, settling on the photographs on the walls.
They were the ones she looked at first. Zeroing in on the one of Danny’s sister. For a moment she couldn’t remember the girl’s name, then it came to her. Rachel.
Rachel was just a little girl in the photograph, maybe five or six, cheeks still round and babyish. Zoe leaned closer, peering into the printed eyes. They stared back at her, wide and solemn. It was the face, Zoe thought, of a little girl who didn’t smile much. She looked uncomfortable, afraid of the world.
But she was probably reading things into the photograph. On a deep breath, Zoe held up her phone, the photo of Sahara on the screen.
They could be sisters.
The same blonde hair, wide blue eyes, heart-shaped face. Rose had inherited the face shape, but it was underneath a mop of bright orange hair. These two girls were fair. Almost the only difference was the carefree grin on Sahara’s face.
Zoe turned away from the photograph of Danny’s sister with an abrupt movement. She swallowed and pressed a hand to her forehead as though she had a fever.
Why had she never wondered before why the only photograph Danny had of his sister was one of her as a six-year-old? She strained to remember what he’d told her of his family.
Which was little enough, she thought now.
Their parents had died when Danny was eighteen. A tragic house fire.
Only he and Rachel had made it out. Rachel was eight and had gone to live with an aunt. Danny had travelled around for a while, trained to be a photographer somewhere like Adelaide, then hopped on a plane and come to New Zealand. Where he’d met Zoe, and the rest was history.
Maybe that was the only photo that had survived the fire. The band around her chest loosened a millimetre. That made sense. Of a sort.
The other walls were covered in photos as well, and Zoe gazed at them, seeing them properly for the first time. She stood in the centre of the room and spun on her heel in a slow circle.
There were seven or eight of Rose. Rose feeding seagulls at the beach – Zoe remembered that day. Rose running across their lawn, Rose breathless on a swing at the park, Rose sitting hip deep in sand waving a blue plastic spade in one chubby hand, her open mouth rimmed with sand, Rose in a squirming, wriggling pose on the couch in their living room, her little underpants showing under her dress.
Zoe snapped her attention to the other photographs. They were ones Danny had taken at various weddings he’d worked. She counted them. Five, altogether. All of them beautiful shots. Every single one of them.
And they were all of children. Little girls with their hair in ribbons, pretty organza dresses on, shiny little shoes peeking out under the hems, little hands grasping bunches of flowers, or baskets of rose petals.
Most of them were blonde.
Stumbling, Zoe put out a hand to steady herself and knocked something off Danny’s desk. A moment later, she was screaming,
sweeping an arm over the desk, sending everything tumbling to the floor before dropping to her knees in the mess and planting her hands over her eyes.
Why had she never noticed before? How blind could she be?
Every day in her work she was confronted with this, and yet here she was blind to it at home? A worm of self-loathing threaded its way into her mind and wound itself around her thoughts.
Then she shook her head to get rid of it. She’d been a wife. Trust was supposed to be the cornerstone of a marriage.
She looked down at the mess of things on the floor then swept her eyes around the room, noting the cupboards that ran along one whole wall. It was where Danny kept his photographic paper and other equipment. She remembered Danny installing them, working single-mindedly until it was done.
A moment later she was wrenching the cupboard doors open. Tugging out the contents to spill over the floor.
Paper. Ink. Things she didn’t know the names of because she’d never bothered to learn, and Danny had never wanted to share.
One of the cupboards was locked. The one closest to the wall. It was the only one with a lock and when she tugged on the door, it didn’t budge.
Getting to her feet, Zoe left the room for the kitchen, in search of a knife.
19
She detoured outside to the carport, to the pile of firewood stacked there. A knife wasn’t going to do the job. But the hatchet would.
And it did, Zoe crying out each time she hit the locked cupboard.
It made a splintered mess, but the door lay splayed open and she yanked everything out onto the floor in front of her knees. A spill of photo albums, the type Danny made into wedding albums for his clients, except one, an older one she definitely didn’t recognise. She looked down at them, lips pressed together.
Stabbing a finger out, she flicked the cover open on the older album. It was yellowed with age and something about it made her feel dizzy. He’d had this a long time, yet she’d never seen it. They’d spend intimate evenings together when they first got serious about each other and she’d shown him tons of photos of her as a child. Told him everything. About her mother’s death. The way her father had fallen apart afterwards, had preferred the solace of the bottle to comforting his 14-year-old daughter. How Claire and her family had practically taken her in, seen her through the rest of her teenaged years…