by Brandy Scott
‘And I don’t blame her,’ Pete said. ‘I half think he’s going to come in here and hold a pillow over my face, finish me off in the night.’ Which might actually be a relief. Pete slept with his bedroom door unlocked.
‘I know what you’d say. He’s still a child. But he’s not, he’s nearly twenty. He’s a man, even if he doesn’t act like one.’ Pete thought of Cameron’s broad shoulders, his thick forearms. ‘I’m worried the anger has poisoned him. That he still hasn’t recovered from your death, and worse, that he doesn’t want to.’
CHAPTER 31
Aimee gripped the takeaway bags. ‘What’s going on?’
‘This is Cam,’ Shelley said importantly. ‘He’s Lincoln’s brother.’ She stared at her mother meaningfully.
‘I had a flat tyre,’ said Cameron. ‘Made it just to the end of your driveway. These guys rescued me.’
‘I changed it,’ Byron said. A happy, flushed, confident Byron. Aimee gripped her bags tighter.
‘He did. Made a damn good job of it too.’ Cameron reached across and cuffed Byron’s head. But it wasn’t the head ruffle you’d give a younger boy. It was a fond, almost loving gesture. Aimee turned away and started slapping foil containers down on the bench.
‘And then we said to Cam that we didn’t know where you or Dad was, and he said what were we having for tea, and had we ever had Vietnamese pancakes.’ Shelley was falling over her words, almost giddy. ‘Cam lives in Vietnam.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Cameron. ‘I move around.’
Aimee ignored him. ‘I said I’d be back before dinner. You should have waited.’
‘You said you’d be back hours ago. We were hungry.’
‘You’re not helpless. You could have sorted yourselves out with a snack to tide you over.’ Aimee started bundling the takeaway containers back into their bags. ‘Well, that was a waste of time and money. It won’t be as nice tomorrow.’ She tried to shove the bags into the fridge; there wasn’t room. ‘Maybe I’ll just feed it to Oscar and Lucinda.’
Cameron put a hand on her forearm, forcing Aimee to look up at him. He was dangerously good-looking. Smooth skin and dark, unreadable eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Verratti,’ he said. ‘The pancakes are really light, and we’ve only had two between us. Everyone’s still got plenty of room for dinner.’
Shelley was rescuing the spring rolls. ‘Prawn!’ she said happily.
‘My favourite,’ said Cameron. He reached over and helped himself, digging around in Aimee’s food, food that she’d bought home for her children. ‘Hey, these are good.’
‘Cam can stay for dinner, right?’ said Byron. He eyeballed her, daring her to say no.
‘Please, Mum!’ said Shelley.
‘Please, Mum,’ said Cameron. ‘Ah come on, Mrs Verratti, it’ll be fun.’
Aimee cornered Cameron as he came out of the bathroom.
‘So how’d you end up all the way out here?’ she said, willing her voice to sound natural.
Cameron smiled as he ducked under the door. The gold prospectors who’d built the house were short; Cameron was tall, over six foot. ‘Stroke of luck,’ he said. ‘Burst a tyre, and I end up with a delicious meal, great company —’
‘But what were you doing out here in the first place? We’re not on the way to anywhere.’
‘Why, does it bother you?’
Aimee forced herself to meet his eye. ‘Not at all. It’s just a bit of a coincidence. All the houses on this road, and you end up in mine.’
‘You’ve spent enough time in mine, don’t you think?’
Aimee froze.
‘I see you. Parked across the street. Walking your dog down our road when you live miles away. And I know how often you visit Pete when I’m not there. He’s not a great secret-keeper, my stepdad.’
‘I’m only —’
Cameron put his arm around Aimee, stooping slightly to do so. He walked them back towards the bright light of the kitchen. She could hear Shelley and Byron squabbling happily, see Lucinda sniffing around for leftovers. ‘Calm down, Mrs Verratti. I only wanted to see where you lived. You’re so involved with my family, it seemed only fair that I met yours.’ He stopped next to the back door. ‘Hey, you’ve got a cat,’ he said, fumbling with the rusty lock.
‘He’s not allowed in,’ said Aimee, as Oscar took advantage of this unexpected turn of events and shot between them.
‘Well that doesn’t seem fair.’
‘He has health issues. He’s outside till they’re sorted.’
‘Banished,’ Cameron said sadly. ‘Poor cat. I like cats. Well, I hope you don’t banish me.’ He put his arm back around Aimee. ‘Whoa, tense. You need to relax, Mrs Verratti. If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem very highly strung.’
The investigation report was surprisingly readable. Lou made herself comfortable on two thousand dollars’ worth of unpaid-for sofa and continued flipping. She’d expected it to be impenetrable, technical. Pages of analysis of wing flaps, and whatever else kept planes up in the air. But it read like a good mystery. If the executive summary had been the description of a new movie, Lou would have gone to see it.
On 31 December, at approximately 2130 Australian Eastern Daylight Time (AEDT), the pilot of a Cessna 182 aircraft, registered VH-QDK, taxied for departure from runway two at Meadowcroft Airport.
It was amazing how hindsight made everything sound more meaningful. Like reading a good book where you know something awful is going to happen, and every line could be a clue. The description of Pete’s movements before the flight, of Lincoln’s fascination with the airfield, the reference to ‘witnesses’ when really they meant normal Hensley people who’d let their kids stay up to see the fireworks and had accidentally found themselves with ringside seats to a tragedy.
Several witnesses reported seeing the aircraft undertake a right turn towards the ranges.
There were no witness reports of any smoke emanating from the aircraft, nor of unusual engine noise as heard from the ground.
A video, shot on a mobile phone (iPhone 6s) shows the aircraft flying apparently unhindered above the firework display in an eastnorth-easterly direction.
That was interesting. Lou didn’t know there’d been a video. Although it made total sense; Tansy and her mates filmed everything. There were probably dozens of videos of the fireworks online. Lou hoped Aimee didn’t realise that; she’d never sleep again.
Lou kept reading. An exhaustive — and slightly dull — analysis of the plane’s single-operator control system gave way to ‘Section 1.24: Medical and Pathological Information’. She sat up straighter, turned on her new floor lamp.
The pilot’s medical records showed no evidence of any pre-existing disease or condition that may have impaired his performance. However, the pilot had been treated three years previously for depression and prescribed the selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor Lexapro (escitalopram) at a daily dose of 10 mg. Toxicological analysis of the pilot’s blood did not show any presence of Lexapro (escitalopram).
Julia had died almost five years before. Lou had gone to the funeral, sat quietly at the back. Pete, Lincoln and Cameron had walked out behind the coffin, reminding her of the princes at Diana’s funeral. Lincoln, the little one, confused and hurt like young Harry. Cameron, sullen, staring at the ground, an angry William. And Pete — Pete had cried in a way Lou had never seen a man cry before. As though he would never recover. Lou had felt embarrassed witnessing his grief.
Toxicological testing indicated the presence of alcohol in the pilot’s blood.
Well. Lou was so surprised she put the report down in her lap. Pete, flying drunk? He was the straightest man she’d ever met. That had to be a mistake. Lou read the paragraph again, the careful accounting of how much Pete had likely drunk and when. They couldn’t be sure about amounts and times, but it was clear — Pete had not been completely sober when he’d hopped in that plane.
Lou got up and switched on all the lights. Why did she want Pete to be innocent? Not because
they had history, surely? They hadn’t even had a relationship, just been two people who got on well and needed a bit of affection. Really, she should be rooting for Pete to have made some terrible but undeniable mistake so that Aimee would calm down and life could go back to normal. Lou read on, hoping for a freak wind, a broken altimeter that would absolve them all.
‘Mum, I’m going to go to bed now.’
Tansy emerged from the bathroom in Lou’s fluffy new robe. Wet hair and big eyes. There’d been tears earlier, when Lou had to tell her she’d been let go. ‘Made redundant’ was the term she’d used. Cost-cutting. ‘What are we going to do?’ Tansy had whispered. Lou had tried to reassure her — ‘It’s only a job, Tans, there are plenty more out there’ — but Tansy hadn’t been convinced. Lou had run her a bubble bath and left her to calm down in their cracked narrow tub.
Tansy came and sat at Lou’s feet, dripping water on their new (two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar) ottoman. Lou quickly turned the report over; no need to upset her further.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Tansy, so quiet Lou had to bend down.
‘What’s that, love?’
‘I won’t have the baby if we can’t afford it.’
‘Oh, Tans,’ said Lou. ‘No. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘But I do.’ Tansy looked up at her mother, eyes shining. ‘I read the brochures about all the stuff the baby will need. And we don’t have any of it.’
‘I’m not even having this conversation with you.’
‘But we don’t have enough money anyway. I’m just making things harder for us.’
‘Tansy, no one should have to decide whether or not to have a child because of money. If they did, the population would die out.’
Tansy didn’t laugh. ‘But you said you’d rather die than go back on benefits. And if we —’
‘We’re not talking about it.’ Lou rubbed at her neck, which was starting to itch. Stress. ‘Not. Talking. About. It. You’re having this baby, and we’re getting the results back next week, and it’s all going to be fine, no matter what.’ She kissed Tansy’s slippery head. ‘Go to bed. Stop worrying.’
And amazingly — it still felt amazing, every time — Tansy obeyed.
Lou turned back to her report. ‘Section 1.27: Damage to Aircraft’.
The condition of the engine could not be established due to the substantial damage suffered by the aircraft’s components as a result of impact forces and post-impact fire.
Hmmm. That was interesting.
‘I just want you to know that I realise how much having a baby costs. And that I don’t expect —’
‘Bed, Tansy.’ Lou didn’t even look up.
‘Hey, do you want to meet me? I’ve got something you might want to see.’
It was Damien. ‘Now?’ Aimee glanced at her children. They were lying on the floor in the den, Cameron between them, half-watching The X Factor. Byron and Cameron were playing some complicated game that involved throwing popcorn into the plants and punching each other when they lost, and Shelley was gazing at them adoringly.
‘I can’t now,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not a good time.’
‘Ah, sorry. Nick there?’
Actually, that was a good point. Where was Nick? Aimee checked her watch.
‘No worries. I just got hold of the accident report, is all. Thought you might want to take a look.’
Her husband would be round at one of his mates, or at the pub, poring over the plans for his precious cellar door. Figuring out how many hours they’d have to keep it open to make it profitable. How many thousands of tourists they’d have to entertain, each one giving Aimee a mini nervous breakdown.
‘It’s not a big deal. It can wait.’
Why should Aimee have to stay in just because Nick couldn’t be bothered coming home for dinner?
‘Give me a bell when you’re free, yeah?’
And it wasn’t as though the children were children.
‘Maybe lunch later in the week? I’ll try to keep hold of it as long as I can.’
Plus she had a built-in babysitter. Aimee took another look at the cosy scene in the lounge and swallowed her misgivings. She didn’t have any actual reason to mistrust Cameron. And he was certainly good with them. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘At my hotel.’
What was the worst that could happen? ‘Give me half an hour, and I’ll be with you.’
‘Great. I’m room 203, on the second floor.’
‘Can I come round?’
Melinda looked down at herself. Boxer shorts, stretched-out singlet top, no bra (no need). Filthy hair pinned on top of her head. She looked a mess, but it was probably safer that way. ‘Sure,’ she said, reaching for her cardigan. ‘Let yourself up.’
She hadn’t even put on deodorant before she heard the key in the lock.
‘How —’
‘I was downstairs.’ Nick held out a bottle. ‘I brought wine.’
‘The pinot,’ said Melinda, but she didn’t move to take it. ‘My favourite.’ As though he was wooing her. As though they were going on a date.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Rocking up like this. It’s just been an intense couple of days, you know?’ He wandered into her kitchen. ‘And I was in town, so —’ Nick busied himself uncorking the wine, pouring a generous slosh into two glasses. He carried them into her living room, placed them next to each other on the coffee table. ‘God,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’ He drained half his glass, not even bothering to appreciate his own wine. ‘Tell you what, I needed that.’
Melinda watched him from the far side of the room. ‘Nick,’ she said, ‘why are you here?’
‘I decided to take the plunge with the cellar door,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Partly because of you. Mainly because of you. I thought, bugger it, I’ve wanted this for so long, I’m not going to put it off any longer. Aimee’s just going to have to become comfortable with it.’
Melinda shut her eyes.
‘Because life needs to continue, you know? I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I can’t put everything on hold each time she has a bad spell. Or in case she might have a bad spell. I’d never do anything.’
‘Can we not talk about Aimee?’
‘Shit, sorry,’ said Nick. ‘Like you’re not up to your neck in plans of your own.’ He patted the sofa. ‘Come here, tell me what’s happening with LoveLocked.’
Melinda let herself sink into the cushions beside him. The couch seemed more comfortable, more balanced somehow, with the extra weight. ‘Why are you here?’ she said again.
Nick looked sheepish as he ran one hand through what was left of his hair. ‘Because it was so good to talk to you again,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it. Being able to say what I was thinking without having to worry about upsetting someone. Without having to censor myself, you know?’
She did know. Melinda had no shortage of people to talk to, as long as she didn’t call them during bath time, or school pick-up, or at weekends. She censored herself too, tried not to sound needy or lonely. Upbeat, always. Like she wasn’t sitting at home with Netflix and a single-serve bottle of prosecco waiting for the work week to start.
‘I’m scared, Mel. I’m scared she’s going to disappear down the same black hole as last time, and we’ll have to tiptoe around worrying about what might accidentally set her off. And the kids are older now, so they’ll realise what’s going on, and fuck, Mel, I’m not sure I’ve got the energy to carry us all through it again.’ Nick banged his head lightly with the heels of his hands. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but it’s really shit to live with, you know? I mean, it’s horrible for her, but it’s bloody awful for us too.’
Melinda sighed. ‘Let me get the rest of the wine.’
And just like that, they were back in their old routine. Feet up on the coffee table, heads tipped back against the edge of the couch. Confiding, understanding, talking in low voices ev
en though there was no one else in the room. Their Aimee-is-in-hospital routine. Their only-stopping-by-for-one routine. Their Claire-has-the-kids-and-I-needed-to-get-out routine.
‘It’s heartbreaking to watch, you know? But it’s not just about Aimee this time. I can see Shelley developing similar habits.’ Nick reached for his glass. ‘I don’t want her growing up thinking the whole world’s an accident waiting to happen. I found her surfing a load of medical websites the other night, and I thought, shit, here we go.’
Nothing was happening, Melinda told herself. They’d never crossed that line. All those evenings spent at her place, while Aimee lay in her narrow hospital bed. They’d cried and ranted together, freaked out about what it all meant. Aimee was her cousin; Melinda had been truly petrified for her. Was worried she’d never get better. Melinda and Nick had been blown back together, like small ships in a rocky bay. But they’d never let things get out of hand.
‘I feel like a selfish bastard, Mel. Because I should be there for her, one hundred per cent. And I’m, like, sixty-five per cent. Seventy. While the rest of me is thinking, “Do we really have to do this again? Can you not just read a self-help book or go see someone and get over it already?”’
‘You’re not selfish,’ murmured Melinda. And neither was she. At least, that’s what she’d told herself every time he’d turned up after visiting hours. Because Nick had been hers originally, and yes, she’d let him go, but she also hadn’t make any kind of fuss when Aimee scooped him up. Melinda had only been gone a month. But she could tell how bad Aimee felt, even from the other side of the world; she hadn’t wanted to send her already fragile cousin over the edge with guilt. So Melinda had smiled and told everyone how fine she was with it all. Through the wedding, the pregnancies, christenings, birthdays, every celebration of Aimee’s perfect family life. Absolutely fine.
‘I think the fireworks were the trigger. Because she helped organise them, you know?’ Nick eased his shoes off. ‘The responsibility thing again. And now there are no matches or candles anywhere in the house. She’s even got rid of the gas from the barbecue.’