Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

  There was something almost decadent about throwing things away after years of having to mend and make do. Even when Lou’s old neighbours had left money at Christmas, on her birthday, a fifty-dollar note tucked inside an anonymous card, she’d never bought anything nice or new. She just taped the broken blender back together and put the money in her savings account.

  The skip arrived as they started on the living room, the scene of three generations’ worth of misunderstanding. Lou watched the giant container being backed into the driveway from behind heavy velvet curtains. She could have used one of those seventeen years ago. Or a couple of bin liners. Her parents hadn’t left her so much as a plastic supermarket bag to cart her stuff away in. The driver set the skip down in the middle of the lawn, directed by Tansy. The same lawn that had once — briefly — housed everything she owned. Déjà vu, Lou thought, as she dragged the first black bag of kitchen rejects down the drive. Except now she had the keys, and it was their possessions she was getting rid of.

  ‘Can we do the birds now?’ asked Tansy, when they were back inside. She sat cross-legged on the floor, having convinced the truck driver to help them throw the olive velour sofa and both its matching armchairs in the skip. (‘That couch is beyond recycling,’ Tansy had decreed, and even the truck driver had nodded.)

  ‘Sorry?’ said Lou, eyes drifting back to the lawn. At least all her parents’ stuff was dry. She might turn the hose on it though, just to complete the circle.

  ‘They’ve creeped me out since we got here,’ said Tansy. She tapped at her laptop, frowning. ‘Although I’m not sure you’re allowed to sell taxidermy on eBay.’

  Lou eyed a green-winged duck that had been sentenced to twenty-five years in her father’s trophy cabinet, no parole. ‘Did I ever tell you about the day I moved out?’ she said. Although moved out was a euphemism.

  ‘My bad, you can,’ said Tansy, frowning at the screen. ‘Although I don’t really want to. The idea of taking money for dead stuff makes me feel kind of gross.’

  ‘We can give them to Gary at the pub,’ said Lou. ‘He likes that sort of thing.’ She wandered over to the drinks cabinet, fished out the ancient bottle of Cointreau that Tansy and her friends had overlooked. ‘I was just over five months pregnant with you,’ she said, sloshing a decent measure into one of her father’s whisky glasses. ‘It was a Monday. First day back at school after the holidays.’

  Tansy eyed the glass. ‘They kicked you out,’ she said. ‘I know. You told me.’

  ‘They hadn’t wanted me to go back to school,’ said Lou. ‘Because they didn’t want anyone to know I was pregnant, and it was pretty obvious. But I insisted. Because I wanted my VCE.’

  ‘Right.’

  Lou held the amber liquid up to the light. ‘And when I came home that afternoon, I found everything I owned in a pile in the middle of the lawn.’

  Tansy stopped typing. ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘Everything. Every piece of clothing, every book, every CD. It must have taken them all day. Toiletries, shoes. They’d even been up in the roof space and fished out my old toys.’

  ‘So what did you do? Did Mel and Aimee come and pick you up?’

  ‘Melinda was already off at university,’ said Lou, bristling slightly at the suggestion that her friends had always had to rescue her. ‘And Aimee was in Year Twelve, like me. Neither of us had our own cars.’ She took a comforting sip of Cointreau. ‘I called a taxi,’ she continued. ‘From the neighbours’ house; Mum and Dad wouldn’t even let me in to use the phone.’ She laughed, sort of. ‘And while I was waiting, it started to rain.’

  ‘All over everything.’

  ‘All over everything,’ Lou agreed. ‘And not a little bit of rain either. It absolutely pissed down. And the taxi driver came, but instead of helping, he sat in the car with the meter running while I tried to stuff my things into the back seat.’ Lou took another drink. ‘My parents just stood in the window, right there, watching.’

  ‘Mum, that’s awful.’

  ‘I managed about four armfuls of clothes and then gave up. He wouldn’t even flip the boot.’

  ‘Who was the taxi driver? Not old Albert.’

  ‘Not Albert. It doesn’t matter, the man’s dead now. Lung cancer, six months later.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Well. Anyway, I had to leave most of it. Childhood stuff mainly, silly things, like this Cabbage Patch doll I’d absolutely adored growing up. Jean Wilma. I was going to give her to you, if you were a girl.’

  Tansy’s eyes were sad. ‘And then what? Where did you go?’

  Lou took a swallow of Cointreau. ‘I didn’t want to bother anyone. So I took the taxi to the Commercial Hotel — where Melinda lives now, ironically — and asked for their cheapest room, except I didn’t have enough money to pay for it.’ Another swallow, bigger. ‘And the owner suggested I could give him a blow job instead. Since I was obviously a pregnant little tart.’ A proper slug, this time. ‘And I did, because I didn’t know what else to do. And then in the morning I wagged school and walked back over with a big suitcase the hotel owner’s wife had given me to get the rest of my things. Except there was nothing there. It had all gone. They’d got rid of it, every last trace of me.’ Lou drained the rest of the Cointreau and dropped the glass on the floor. ‘Right then. Shall we rip these curtains down? I’ve always hated them.’

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘This won’t take too long, Peter. I’ve already listened to your interview, so I’ve heard the basics. I just need to get a few more details from you, that’s all.’

  ATSB, the man had said; a tired-sounding man, voice weary with decades of documenting death and stupidity and sheer bloody fate. They sat in a drowsy sunspot in the hospital dayroom, a quiet corner away from worried parents and oblivious children.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken so long to get over here. We’ve got quite a bit on our plate at the moment, I’m sure you understand.’

  Pete nodded, perfectly happy not to be the bureau’s top priority. The Peninsula crash was still all over the news; the tennis player had been a favourite for this year’s Australian Open. At least with Pete’s accident everyone was breathing and no one was newsworthy.

  ‘Here are my details.’ The man placed a stiff rectangle in Pete’s hand. He turned it over uselessly. ‘God, sorry. It says — well, I’m Steve.’ The man sounded embarrassed. ‘Look, can I get you a water or anything?’

  Pete waved away both the offer and the faux pas.

  ‘So how’s your son?’

  Getting there. That’s what they told him, every time he asked. He’s getting there. Although Pete hadn’t been able to move in with Lincoln, in the end. His son was still too delicate, too vulnerable to infection. Lincoln’s arms felt skeletal when Pete touched them, despite the calories in the IV.

  ‘There’s been a bit of movement,’ Pete told the investigator. ‘His eyelids twitch, and I swear there’s pressure sometimes, when I hold his hand. That’s all good, apparently.’

  ‘It’s very good,’ Steve said, and he sounded like a man who’d know. ‘And you? How are you doing?’

  Well, that depended what time of day you asked. Mornings were terrible, his first thought on waking a mind-zapping panic that Lincoln might have taken a turn for the worse in the night. The terror dissipated once he was sitting with his son, replaced by a numb sadness as he jabbered on about nothing into the white noise of intensive care, and got nothing in return. Post-lunch, the sadness was eclipsed by frustration, as he began the day’s occupational therapy with an inane task such as unlocking a door or tying his shoelaces, actions he’d performed for decades without thought, but that now took on the ridiculousness of a blindfolded party game. Pain kicked in shortly after, when they took him to physical therapy, prodded and pushed and forced him to move in ways he’d rather not. Around four he was wheeled back in with Lincoln, and he finally felt something like relief, that they’d both made it through another day. But the background music to it all, the soundtrack th
at never stopped, was guilt.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘You sure?’ Steve’s voice was kind. ‘It must be tough.’

  ‘It’s not about me.’

  ‘No. Right.’ There was the click of a case being opened, a rustling of papers. ‘Well, let’s get started. Do you want to run me through that night again, just so I can make sure I’ve got it clear.’

  Pete fought off the narcoleptic pull of the sun through the dayroom window as he repeated the details he’d given Arthur. The promise to Lincoln, the winding route down the river. Yes, conditions had been fine. No, there hadn’t been any issues with the plane. No, the engine hadn’t seized, at least not that he could remember. He didn’t know why they’d gone into a dive. He didn’t even remember the dive. He didn’t remember any of it.

  ‘And there’s been no further recollection?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘You know I’m not here to assign blame, don’t you? The ATSB doesn’t look for fault, just for cause. So we can prevent similar accidents in the future.’

  ‘I’m not trying to duck responsibility. Trust me, I feel nothing but responsible. My son’s in a coma, and I’m the one . . .’ Pete’s voice failed. Steve placed a glass of lukewarm water in his hand. ‘It’s my fault because I took us up. I was in control. But I don’t remember the accident at all.’

  ‘What’s the last thing you do remember?’

  Pete tried to recall what he’d told the police. ‘The town fireworks. We’d seen a few private displays, but the main event was scheduled for ten. Late enough that it’s properly dark, but still early enough for the kids. It was a big deal. It’s been a few years since we’ve had a display.’ December had been wet enough that the council had decreed it safe. Pete had lain in the cockpit of his crashed plane and thanked God that at least the trees weren’t going to go up around them.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing. We must have turned, but . . . I dunno.’

  ‘And you don’t reckon you were distracted. By the fireworks.’

  Pete thought of that one light, the glowing star that kept rising and didn’t explode. ‘No, I was expecting them. They were the reason we were there.’

  Steve’s pen tapped against what sounded like taut fabric. A trouser leg maybe, or the sofa arm.

  ‘How long have you been flying, Peter?’

  ‘Twenty-six years.’ Since he was Lincoln’s age. But they’d know that.

  ‘Ever been involved in another accident, even as a passenger?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Ever had to make a distress call, ask for support with landing, or make an unscheduled landing?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Ever run low on fuel, or miscalculated your fuel, or accidentally used the wrong tank?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Ever had an incident when one of the club planes wasn’t flight-worthy, or refused to take one up?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Ever heard any talk that maintenance was being skimped on at the aero club? Any gossip about the finances?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ever been refused a plane, or told you weren’t in a fit state to fly?’

  Pete paused. ‘I wasn’t drunk.’

  ‘There was alcohol in your system.’

  ‘From the afternoon. Two beers. A little later than I should have, but . . . that’s all.’

  Steve’s pen tapped again. ‘I’m going to need your laptop,’ he said finally. ‘And your mobile phone, plus any paper diary or calendar you might keep. So we can get an accurate picture of your movements on the day.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Pete, brain frantically scanning. Had they written anything down? But there was no point delaying; it wasn’t as though he could go through his emails and check. ‘I’ll get Cameron to pop over and pick them up.’

  ‘This is your elder son? He’s not staying with you?’

  Hell would freeze over. ‘Stepson, technically.’ Although Pete had never differentiated. ‘He’s in a hotel.’

  Steve didn’t push it. ‘And Lincoln’s laptop, if he has one. And his phone.’

  Pete kept his face neutral. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter. And you never know. We might find some detail that jogs your memory.’

  Pete forced himself to smile. ‘I hope so.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Just a quick drive-by, Aimee promised herself. She wouldn’t even stop. And if she did stop, she wouldn’t get out of the car. But she definitely wouldn’t speak to anyone. Aimee pulled over onto the grass alongside Maddocks Clearing. The plane was still there, a burnt-out sarcophagus rebuking her from its resting place at the foot of the ranges. Face your fears, her therapist used to tell her. Exposure therapy: if you continually place yourself in the path of what scares you, the panic will fade. Of course, the same woman had told her she had to resist the urge to keep checking, checking, checking, whenever she was worried about something. That it just fed the obsession. Aimee conveniently blanked out that piece of advice as she slid out of the driver’s seat.

  Because she needed to know. That was all. Whether they’d found anything, or if it really was just an unfortunate accident like Melinda said. If she knew, then she could respond. Either get on with her life, or . . . or . . . actually, Aimee hadn’t quite decided what she’d do if it turned out they were responsible. She had two children; she couldn’t go to jail. But if she knew, then at least she’d feel more in control of the situation. Less in limbo. Her head didn’t like limbo.

  Aimee fingered the police tape stretched across the entrance to the clearing, sealing it off as though it was some kind of crime scene. Would it be seen as a crime, what they’d done? It wasn’t as though they’d intentionally set out to hurt anyone. But maybe there were rules about where you could let those lanterns off. There were with drones, she knew, particularly around airports. Although they weren’t even close to the local airfield. But maybe you were supposed to inform people, like with fireworks. Aimee’s head swam with possibilities. She ducked under the tape, heart pounding. Took a few nervous steps into the clearing. Just so she could see.

  ‘Help you?’

  The investigator was older, a burly man she didn’t recognise. Not from around here then.

  ‘I’m only looking,’ she said defensively.

  ‘You shouldn’t really be out here.’

  ‘I just wanted to know . . .’ What did she want to know?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you need any help. Any volunteers.’ Yes. Yes. ‘I could search for clues, or keep the crowds back, or . . .’

  He looked pointedly up and down the deserted road. ‘I think we’ve got it covered.’

  ‘But what about food? I bake. I could bring lunches, snacks. Muffins. I make great muffins.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s very kind. But we’re all good here.’

  There was a man crawling across the ground in front of the plane, raking the grass with his fingers. Aimee stared, frozen, waiting for him to cry out, to stand up brandishing a tattered piece of lantern or a bent wire frame. Although they’d never know who let it off, would they? And a piece of lantern didn’t necessarily prove anything. Not unless it was stuck in an engine or a wrapped around a propeller or something. She’d watched enough television to know that. A piece of lantern wouldn’t hold up in court. If this kind of thing even went to court. Although what if there were witnesses? Someone might have seen the lanterns, watched them float away from Melinda’s balcony. It was a very distinctive balcony; the whole town knew who lived in the old hotel. And half of them hated her.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Oh. No. Not at all.’

  He smiled patiently, waiting for her to leave.

  ‘Good luck,’ Aimee said pathetically. She backed away, tripping slightly over a patch of long grass.

  ‘You okay there?’ the investigator asked.

  ‘F
ine. I’m fine. I’m sorry.’ And she turned and ran back to her car, aware of his eyes on her the whole way.

  Melinda had been speaking for nearly two hours, but she barely noticed. There was so much energy in the room; with each round of applause, she felt herself getting higher. She took her time as she talked through the new collection, the key pieces that had already featured in magazines and newspaper editorials, guaranteeing demand. It was amazing how something so simple — charms, effectively, lockets of all shapes and sizes that could house photographs, love notes, locks of hair (drugs too, more than one commentator had pointed out, and Melinda had heard stories but chose not to listen) — could become so coveted just by slapping the words ‘limited edition’ on them. But they did. Women swapped lockets on Facebook, had bidding wars on eBay for discontinued pieces. And it was good quality, Melinda made sure of that. Each piece was hand-finished in-house, and Melinda did random inspections of stock.

  It was this attention to detail that had won her a dedicated following among her curators and their customers. People felt comfortable giving a LoveLocked necklace for a birthday or christening, because they knew it would last a lifetime. And the curators felt comfortable ordering stock, because they knew it would sell, and in the rare instance that it didn’t, LoveLocked had a no-questions-asked return policy. It impacted the bottom line, but Melinda didn’t care. She wanted a company she could be proud of.

  She looked out over the audience as her top curators started coming on stage to share their sales techniques. Gave a quick scan for her dad, in case he’d had a change of heart, bought a cheap ticket and flown in to surprise her. Melinda squinted towards the seats at the back. Or maybe Aimee had come after all, keen to make up. Or even Lou. Although that was unlikely; Melinda had sent a text before the conference started, and hadn’t heard back.

  It didn’t matter. Up here, Melinda didn’t need anyone else to make her feel good. It was amazing, the buzz she got from simply achieving. Each time she strode into a meeting or gave a presentation, Melinda could feel herself becoming someone else, someone more like her true self. The words she said felt more genuine; her interest didn’t need to be faked. Unlike coffee with the local women, or the monthly Hensley Homeowners Association meetings. Melinda knew she didn’t belong in town. Never had. But it was important to remember where you came from. Her dad had taught her that. Look at him, one of Victoria’s top solicitors, and never tempted to abandon the town that needed him for lucrative city offers. ‘Bunch of wankers,’ he’d say in his Hensley drawl when Melinda spoke about meetings she’d had in Melbourne or Sydney. ‘Five minutes in the big smoke and they think they’re something special. I’d rather stay where people are real.’