Death of a Friend
When she met her gaze, that last time, she remembered the mouse. Once, standing on the back verandah, night sunk deep into the trees, she’d heard the sound of bird’s wings, wheeling close.
She knew it was the owl; she’d seen it, days before, perched on the sheeny muscle of ghost gum, turning its domed head.
But this time, she could see nothing.
There was only the lethal fold of feathers, swooping down, close to the grass. Then, a tiny creature carried aloft, shrieking from its miniature lungs, the shape of its outrage borne away, beyond a pitiless moon.
New Skins
Des ran his hand over the triangular shape of the dog’s skull. ‘It’s nothing,’ he told the boy. ‘Her leg’ll be fine. Just a small cut.’
The greyhound limped to the corner and scratched at the blanket lying there, making a mound of the pink-checked cloth and flopping down onto it. She stared at them with doleful eyes.
‘Clumsiest damn dog ever born,’ Des said.
The dog rested her long snout on her front paws. After a few minutes, she turned and licked at her wounded leg with delicate movements. ‘Don’t be upset, young Vincent,’ Des said, tousling the boy’s hair. ‘They’ve got very thin skin. It’s just a flesh wound.’
‘Will April die?’ Vincent said, standing in the doorway of the shed.
‘Die! Not a chance,’ Des said. ‘I’m stuck with that old bag of bones. She’s very tough.’ He gave the boy a gentle poke in the shoulder. ‘Tougher than you. Maybe even tougher than me.’
‘Not tougher than my dad,’ Vincent said. He puffed out his bony chest.
Des began picking up his tools, hooking them on a dusty pegboard above his workbench. He turned back to the boy, taking in the oversized t-shirt, the defiant set of the kid’s jaw. He was growing tall, for sure, but still as thin as that fool dog in the corner.
‘You’re right there, son,’ Des said. He couldn’t keep a trace of sadness out of his voice. ‘No one in the world tougher than your dad.’
The boy seemed satisfied. ‘Can I walk April with you tomorrow?’
‘If you like. When are you back at school?’
‘Next week, I think.’
‘Alright, after breakfast tomorrow, then. And don’t be too early. I’m old. I need my sleep.’
‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’
‘You will. Behave yourself.’
Vincent waved back at the dog. ‘Bye, April.’
Seconds later, Des heard the small creak of Vincent’s front gate, the metallic slap of their screen door. ‘Mum, I’m home,’ he heard Vincent call out.
He heard no reply.
‘Why did you get chickens?’ Vincent squatted on the grass, fascinated by the black hens.
Des looked over at the boy. ‘Rosemary wanted them. We’ve had them before. The fresh eggs are nice.’
‘I hate eggs,’ Vincent said. A curious hen was pecking close by. ‘Does April try to catch them?’
Des hammered the final piece of wire onto the frame of the chicken coop. ‘Nah, she’s too lazy to chase anything these days.’
‘What happened to the chickens you had before?’
‘That was years ago. Before you came here.’ The dog was padding towards them. ‘Look, here’s April, coming to see you.’
‘Did they die?’
‘What? The chickens? Yes, they died.’
‘How?’
Des exhaled heavily. ‘And how did I know you were going to ask me that?’ He pulled another nail from the leather pouch tied around his hips. ‘They got some sort of illness. It was a long time ago.’
Vincent held his hand out to the dog. ‘Hi, April.’
The dog sniffed at a smear of mud on the boy’s arm. To Des’ surprise, Vincent snaked his arm around the dog’s neck and kissed her grey coat.
‘Doesn’t your mum need you at home, young Vincent Daley?’ Des was testing the strength of the coop with his broad hand. ‘She might need you to do some jobs.’
‘No. She’s fine. She’s in her room. I think she’s asleep.’
‘Asleep? Really? She must be tired. It’s nearly ten o’clock in the morning.’
Rosemary came to the back door. ‘Do you want a milkshake, Vincent?’
Without a word, the boy pushed past the dog and raced towards her. The chickens scattered in alarm.
‘Come inside, hungry fellow,’ Rosemary said. ‘You’ll have to wash your hands, though.’
Their own screen door slapped shut. Des could hear Vincent talking happily to his wife.
He looked at the house next door. The guttering had drooped even further since last week’s storm. He peered over the chest-high fence. The side garden was badly overgrown. The place looked tired. Des remembered when it was built. A good solid house, back then. A Greek guy from Melbourne did all the work himself. Wife left him just as he was putting the finishing touches to the place. Literally putting in the front gate, poor bastard. She was a nice enough girl, Des thought, but you could see she was flighty. Took off back to the city. There’d been renters ever since, the place looking sadder by the year. It’d always been an unlucky house.
Des picked up his tools.
Rolling up the excess wire, he wondered about Vincent’s mother. He’d been sawing and hammering for hours; how could Cheryl have slept through that? There’d been no sound at all from next door. No movement. No TV or radio. And on a warm day, all the windows on their side shut tight.
Des stood at the kitchen window, drinking his last coffee before bed. Caffeine never kept him awake. He always marvelled at people insisting on decaf when it was barely noon. Des ate what he liked, drank what he liked. A coffee at ten, cheese at midnight; it made no difference. All his life he’d slept soundly. He knew he was lucky. Rosemary had tossed and turned every night since they’d married.
Des pushed back the curtain edge with one finger. ‘Light on next door.’
Rosemary was drinking a glass of juice, reading the local newspaper.
‘Maybe Vincent’s still a bit scared of the dark. I saw that light on when I got up last night,’ she said.
‘What time was that?’ Des looked back at her. She seemed very small, crouched over the page, tapping her fingers as she read.
‘Which time are you talking about?’ she said. They smiled at each other.
‘Poor old thing,’ Des said. ‘Maybe you should try the pilates stuff that Katherine’s doing.’
‘I’m not doing bloody pilates at my age, Des.’ Rosemary folded the paper and tossed it into the basket they kept for recycling. ‘It must have been about three. That damn possum rolled onto the roof again. I came down and got a glass of water. Saw the light on then.’
Des drained his coffee. ‘When’s the last time you saw Cheryl Daley?’
‘Cheryl? I don’t know.’ Rosemary pushed in her chair. ‘God, it’s eleven o’clock already.’
They put the last of the things in the dishwasher.
‘I’m serious, Rosie. When’s the last time you saw her?’
‘Not sure. April in the shed?’
‘Yep. You know, I haven’t seen Cheryl for days,’ Des said. ‘Maybe weeks. And I haven’t heard a sound from the place. The only time I hear the gate, or their front door, I know it’s Vincent, heading back from here.’
Rosemary shut the dishwasher, tilted her head in thought. ‘I heard the television yesterday afternoon.’
‘That was Vincent. I heard it go on when he left me, after April cut her leg.’
Rosemary looked through the glass panel of the back door, out into the darkness. ‘Hmm. I haven’t seen any washing on the line the last few days.’
‘Maybe you should go over there tomorrow.’
Rosemary bit her lip. ‘Maybe I should. But she’s so odd, Des. She might not even come to the door. Y
ou know what she’s been like since Teddy died.’
Des snorted. ‘Hasn’t changed much, far as I can see. Always a bit of a weirdo. Looks at me like I’m some sort of maniac.’
Rosemary pushed the pedal bin against the wall with her foot. ‘A discerning woman, clearly.’
‘Hilarious. Seriously, she goes out of her way to avoid me. A few weeks ago I was digging in that garden bed near the mailbox and she pulled up outside her place. When she saw me she drove away again.’
‘I’m sure she just remembered something,’ Rosemary said, following Des into the hall. ‘They’ve always kept to themselves.’
The light from next door, coming through the narrow side window, made it easy to see in the darkness. Des kicked off his shoes at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I don’t think she’s there, Rosie. I’m serious. I think that kid’s there on his own.’
Rosemary looked at the patch of light on the hall carpet. ‘Des, that’s just crazy. He’s nine years old.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Let’s find out tomorrow.’
Rosemary was instantly awake. She heard a second thump on the roof, not as heavy as the first. Possums. Two now, by the sound of it. One was already rolling from the grevillea to the gutter on the other side of the house.
She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the shapes of her bedroom furniture, just visible in the moonlight. The silver charms she’d seen in town yesterday came into her mind. A whole row of them, hanging on long chains in the window at Gleeson’s. There’d been a choice of a possum, an echidna or a platypus. A platypus! Surely the ugliest animal on earth, Rosemary thought. She’d seen one at her aunt’s place up in Queensland when she was a girl. A slick, freaky-looking creature just below the surface of the creek. Maybe tourists buy those necklaces, she thought, trying to get comfortable. But there are hardly any tourists around here. Not really much to see. There’s the lake, but mainly locals use that. The boating crowd on the weekend, the swimming club, the odd fisherman. Rosemary pulled the covers around her shoulders. And ghosts, she thought.
Rosemary hadn’t noticed the Gleeson girl yesterday, standing behind the counter in her parents’ jewellery shop. Not at first. It was her hair that had caught Rosemary’s attention as she stood on the footpath, looking in. She saw a flick of yellowy curls, sent tumbling down the back of a tight grey dress. And there she was, her face reflected in the shop’s large gilt mirror. Ellie Gleeson. Back in town again.
Rosemary had been at the doctor’s, about five doors up. She’d stopped to stare at the cushioned pads of rings, the rows of pendants. She had no interest in jewellery. Ellie was in the far corner of the shop, admiring her own reflection. There was no one else inside. She looked so much more grown-up, Rosemary thought. Amazing the difference a few years makes at that age. She’d watched Ellie pluck at her hair, check her lipstick, put a finger to a heavy gold choker around her neck. From the back, she resembled an athletic mermaid. Fitting, somehow. There was always something a bit eerie about her. The girl from the lake. The girl who lived.
Ellie seemed to sense that someone was looking at her. She spun around quickly, meeting Rosemary’s eyes through the glass. Feeling spooked by her hard stare, Rosemary had put her head down and made for the car.
Rosemary felt wide awake now. She knew she’d have to go downstairs. She wasn’t thirsty, but long years of insomnia had taught her to just go with it: get up, have a few sips of water, try to settle again. Sometimes, this worked.
She didn’t bother turning on the lamp. As she headed towards the stairs, she glanced out the front window where the bedroom curtains didn’t quite meet. The moon was shining on the lemon-scented gums across the road. In the past few days, the trees had shucked off the last of their old bark. Their new skins shone grey-white, regal and beautiful, their full, dark heads almost invisible against the ploughed field behind them.
A small movement caught her eye, down at road level. Something red, moving in the dark. She went back to her bedside table to get her glasses. Des, mumbling in his sleep, rolled towards the wall. By the time she got back to the window, the road seemed deserted. Then she saw it. Someone stealing Cheryl’s old Datsun. Someone in the driver’s seat. Small. Too small. It looked like a child. It was. Vincent in a red t-shirt.
Rosemary looked at her bedside clock. It was almost three o’clock in the morning.
‘You should have gone down to him, Rosie,’ Des said, sipping his breakfast coffee from a large earthenware mug.
‘I didn’t want to scare him, wandering around in my nightie. I thought Cheryl might have asked him to get something. I would have looked a fool then, wouldn’t I?’
Des crunched his toast. ‘Did you see the mysterious Cheryl?’
Rosemary shook her head.
‘Thought not. Especially not in the dead of night,’ Des said, taking a second, triumphant bite. ‘Though nothing would surprise me.’
‘Look, I came down for some water and when I got back upstairs, he was gone. Simple as that. As far as I could tell their house was in complete darkness. It was weird.’
Rosemary went to let April out of the shed. The dog soon appeared at the back door.
‘G’day, girl,’ Des said, patting her head as she came to his side. Her long tail beat against the chair leg. ‘What was he doing in the car, anyway?’
Rosemary was looking down the back garden, distracted. ‘I don’t know, Des. He was sort of messing about as far as I could see. He was holding the steering wheel. The boot was open as well. It was pretty bright; I could see him fairly clearly.’
She leaned against the kitchen bench, a teacup in one hand. ‘You know, it looked for all the world like he was pretending to drive.’
‘Little bugger. Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing.’
‘At three o’clock in the morning?’
Des slipped a corner of buttery toast into the dog’s mouth. ‘Pretty strange, I grant you.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Rosemary said. ‘You’ve ruined that silly dog.’
‘True enough,’ Des said, scratching behind the dog’s ears as she chewed noisily, strings of saliva dribbling from her jaw.
‘I think I’ll go over there today, Des. Talk to Cheryl.’
‘Then you’ll get the boy into trouble. He’s coming over here soon. Why don’t we see how the land lies then.’ Des stood up. ‘C’mon, April. Out with you. Let’s have a look at those chooks.’
Des glanced over at the Daley house as he walked down the garden. There were no windows open.
Rosemary was standing in the back doorway. She still had her town clothes on. ‘Has Vincent gone home already?’ she said, putting her bag on the kitchen bench.
Des was digging in the vegetable patch. ‘No sign of him. Didn’t come over.’
‘Really? That’s unusual. Did you call out for him?’
‘Yep. Nothing. Even knocked on the front door. Not a sound. No one there.’ Des straightened up and stuck the spade into the soil. ‘Don’t know why we can’t just buy our veggies like normal people.’ He looked at Rosemary. ‘How did you get on at the doc’s again?’
Rosemary turned towards the kitchen. ‘Yes, fine. Nothing to worry about. I’m making tea. Where’s the dog?’
Des wiped his hands on his trousers. His back was sore, low down. ‘Last time I saw her she was inside, lying on your good rug.’
Rosemary shook her head. ‘Des, I rue the day that blasted dog appeared in our front garden. I really do.’
‘I seem to remember you were the one who threw her the last of your ham sandwich, my dear. Only reason she hung around.’ Des looked up, smiling. Rosemary was staring at the house next door. ‘What’s wrong?’
She was pointing at the Daleys’ frosted bathroom window. She beckoned to Des to come closer. ‘I just saw someone’s head move across that window,’ she whispered. ‘There’s definitely someone in t
here.’
Des squinted back at the house. He couldn’t see anything. ‘Do you think it’s Vincent?’
‘Don’t know. Looked too big. Let’s go inside,’ she whispered.
‘Des, do you think we should call the police?’
The final credits were rolling on the TV. Rosemary pressed the remote. It suddenly seemed very quiet.
‘I don’t know, Rosie. What do we say? We saw a kid in his own house. We saw a kid in his own car? The mother had a sleep-in? Not much of a rap sheet, is it?’ Des took a gulp of beer from the bottle. ‘When does school start back?’
‘Tomorrow. I met Thelma Switzer in the street yesterday. She had her grandchildren with her. “The fun’s all over,” she told them. “Hard work starts on Monday.” No wonder the poor kids looked crestfallen.’
‘Can’t imagine anyone having fun with Thelma Switzer, no matter what the time of year.’ Des drained his bottle. ‘Okay, first thing tomorrow, we’re out in the front garden. We’ll stay there until someone appears.’
‘I saw Ellie Gleeson in the jeweller’s yesterday,’ Rosemary said.
‘Really? Jeez, haven’t seen her for a while. Back in town, eh? What did she look like?’
‘Fine. Quite beautiful, actually. Her hair’s very long.’ Rosemary turned her empty wineglass on the table beside her. ‘I suppose she’d be into her twenties by now. She’s a bit spooky, isn’t she?’
Des snorted. ‘You’d look spooky, too, if you killed your two best friends.’
‘She didn’t kill anyone, Des. It was an accident, for God’s sake. They drowned.’
‘Her idea to take the boat out. Bloody stupid in that weather. And what about poor Teddy Daley? Just minding his own business, bunking off, doing a bit of fishing. Poor bastard dies trying to save her scrawny neck.’ Des was tapping the empty beer bottle lightly on his knee. ‘And there’s young Vincent next door, with no father. And Cheryl, nutty as she is, there on her own. Not even a body to bury.’ Des turned to look at his wife. ‘Are you going to sleep after that wine?’
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