by Rachael King
He lifts an arm to cut through the sleeve. The snake around her wrist stands out brightly against her dull skin. He brings her arm to his face and kisses the tattoo, letting his lips linger on the fishy coldness.
He remembers then, the morning when Dora, in a sliver of morning sun, lay on the bed admiring her body openly in front of him.
How beautiful they are, the colours, she said. Will they fade?
Not if you keep them covered, he said. It is sunlight that damages them the most.
And what about when I get old? she asked. Her arms pointed straight out in front of her, her hands caressing the tattoos. Will they sag? Will they wrinkle?
We all must grow old, my love, said Henry, and reached for her lovely flesh. Our bodies change, he said, and these tattoos are part of your body now.
She rolled over on her front and laughed. Then I never want to be old, she said. And when I die, you must keep me on a shelf, just like your birds, and I will be with you always — young and smooth, my tattoos as bright as day.
It pains him to remember. She didn’t mean it, of course she didn’t. The tattoos belong to Dora and to him, nobody else. He knows that as soon as he reports her death there will be an inquest and her body will become a curiosity for others. Worse: a scandal. He will not be responsible for damaging her name and reputation in this society. He cares little for it himself but this is where she was born, and where her memory will reside. He must think of her poor father, who will be grief-stricken enough when he learns of the death of his only child.
And so his mind is made up. He will tell them of the drowning, yes, of how he watched her being swept away and tried to save her, of how the river had taken her and did not want to give her up. Of how he had tried to go in after her but the river, too swift, carried her away faster than he could run. They will understand, for they have all lost livestock in similar circumstances. Usually the bodies turn up bloated and rotting, snagged on a tree branch or floating in a pool, miles along the river, but there are those that have disappeared without trace. Perhaps the bones are picked clean by eels and sink into the silty river bottom; perhaps they are carried out to sea. This will be Dora’s fate.
With some effort, he turns her body over to cut the laces of her corset and remove it. Next, her chemise. The tattoo of the huia springs to life, its reds and blacks in sharp contrast to her bloodless skin. It is a masterpiece. Too good to be buried in the ground. Looking at it brings back a cascade of memories, of stalking and catching the bird, of bringing it home to present to Dora. Of the sound of the electric needle humming against her skin and the sharp smell of her nervous sweat that rose up to meet him when he took her hand. Of her giddy demeanour for days afterwards, as though she were being fed a constant stream of champagne.
He had found her eventually, caught in the shallow water near the ford. He gave up all hope when he saw her face down, immobile, that terrible colour. He sat with her in the freezing river, not believing what he was seeing. Only an hour before she had been warm, her hot breath on him as she shouted. How could she have thought that he had somehow harmed those children, that they were anything more than curiosities? That he had some kind of evil in his heart for collecting them. She was a woman, she simply didn’t understand, but to make her run out like that, to have caused this — how could he live with himself? Without her.
He had followed her when she ran out, but not quickly enough. He had called her name through the rain, but if she heard him, she did not stop. If he had been faster, perhaps he could have prevented the magpies attacking her. He saw them swarm over her, watched helplessly as she fell in the water, and again as she was swept past him. By then, her lungs were possibly already filled with water and she was senseless.
He was shivering when he eventually pulled her from the water and lifted her onto his horse. He managed to get her inside the house without anyone seeing and now here he stands, her dress in rags in his hands, her body cool on his workbench.
He turns her over onto her back again and looks at her naked torso, at the hummingbird on her belly. Something is different about her. Despite the fact that she had lost weight when he returned from his trip, he can see now that her stomach is thicker; even as she lies on her back, it rises above her hip bones, soft and full. Could it be? He staggers back, looks around the room for something to cover her with and finds an old sheet he has been tearing up for rags. He throws it over her and allows his hand to fall on her abdomen, imagines the life that might have been growing inside her. His vision blurs with tears. What have I done? he murmurs. He sees her face again, the look of utter despondency as he argued with her about the children’s body parts; he should have known then that her feelings were coming from a place deep within her. No wonder she thought him a monster. If only he’d known, he would have made sure that she could never find those jars.
But it is too late. Now she is dead, and the child with her. It is night and he knows he can do no more. He leaves the room, making sure the curtains are shut tight and locking the door behind him.
He sleeps the intermittent sleep of the feverish, one moment cold as the grave, the next hot and slick with sweat. The wind rattles at his window as though someone is trying to get in; he awakes with a start to an empty bed while Dora taps on the glass, moaning to be let in. He staggers over, throws back the curtains and opens the window.
Dora! He shouts into the night, but the only answer he receives is from the wind. He remembers then, her cold, pregnant body lying in his taxidermy room and his chest tightens with horror and regret.
May you not rest in peace, Dora Collins, but haunt me all of my days for what I have done to you!
The wind answers with a low cry.
Dora, he says, quieter this time. His hands linger on the window frame a moment before he pushes it closed and returns the curtains to their place.
He knows what he must do.
There is a service for Dora, in the small chapel up the hill, but there is no body to bury. Her father takes it hard. When he learned of her drowning, he refused to believe she was gone, scoured every section of the river for miles, but he does not suspect what has really happened to her.
When Collins asks him if he knew she was pregnant, he lies and says that he did. How different things might have been. He turns away from her father then, unable to look upon his grief.
They lay a memorial stone for her in the churchyard, a place where her loved ones can grieve, talk to her ghost once it has departed for a better place.
And all the while, Dora lies in Henry’s workroom. After it is all over, after the last of the visitors has left (they filled the drawing room and drank sherry only feet from where she lay) Henry can at last be alone with her.
He cannot preserve her body in the full sense of the word; it would be grotesque. With no fur or feathers to cover it, her skin would shrink over her bones like the mummies of Egypt, turn dark and leathery. Her face would become skeletal and ugly, all her beauty erased. But her skin, her beautiful, illustrated skin, that is another story. He can bury her remains, with their child, undetected in the empty grave marked by her memorial stone. But he can save her tattoos, just as she would have wanted, so she will always be with him. He will keep her hidden, and he will guard her for the rest of his life. She will be the queen of his cabinet of curiosities. She will no doubt drive him mad. So be it.
In the cold room, behind the locked door, he takes his finest knife and begins.
‘I’ll go and talk to him,’ said Charlie, but he lingered by the telephone table, moving his lanky frame from foot to foot.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll go. You just stay there and keep an eye on us.’ I discarded the comforting old rug and dragged myself off the couch. This was my battle, I realised. I wasn’t going to be rescued any more, not by Charlie, or by Sam, or Hugh. This was something I needed to confront on my own.
Josh watched me walk towards him. He rocked on his heels, greeted me with nothing more than a flick of his eyebrows, h
is cracked lips set in a straight line. I hadn’t been this close to him in twenty years. He still held the basic shape of his youth but his face had sucked up the years and the harsh weather and was deeply lined. His dark hair, shot with grey, was still as thick as ever. He was well into his forties by now, and gone was the uncertainty he’d had as the orphan farmhand. This was a man in charge of a large station, and of himself.
I glanced back at the house and saw Charlie sitting on the couch, watching. He looked small suddenly, and I could see the little freckle-faced kid he’d been, waiting for his big sister. I couldn’t help thinking that he had let me go so quickly, without any questions. I wondered how much he knew or understood about what had happened to Tess all those years ago. I had never asked him.
‘Josh,’ I said, when I reached him, keeping my distance.
‘Rosemary.’
‘Did you see who killed the magpie?’
He smiled, showing straight teeth, with a veneer of nicotine. ‘I did see, yes.’
‘And do you want to tell me who it was?’
‘I think you know.’
‘Right.’ I folded my arms against the cold. The sun had sunk behind the hills. ‘So it’s been you all along? Lurking around.’
He spat on the ground suddenly. ‘You make it sound so sinister.’
I felt my temper loosen then. ‘Well, fuck, Josh. A dead bird nailed to the door? A dead possum on the doorstep? I’d say that’s pretty sinister, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. Look, I was just trying to scare you. It was a joke, really.’
‘And what’s it all for? I mean, really?’
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he focused on the roof of the house, the magpies watching us from the chimneys. What he said next came as a complete surprise. He said it so quietly I was unsure at first if I’d heard him correctly.
‘I loved your grandfather, you know. He was like a dad to me.’
‘You loved him?’
He looked at me then, and his face screwed up. ‘I was the one who was here for him. You all just left him to that nurse, Susan. I kept him company, every day.’ He jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. ‘Me. Got behind in my work, too, but he was more important than any of that. You just left him here to die alone.’
I felt blood rushing to my head. ‘That’s not true. How could you say that? I was very close to him.’
‘You were close to him. He told me all about it. How you two used to stuff animals together. How you just stopped visiting after … after she died. You all did. It broke his heart. You know, I used to stand outside and watch you all, one big happy family. That night that I got invited in, that wasn’t the first time I’d watched you, and it sure wasn’t the last. But after she died, you all just stopped coming. And he started inviting me in, giving me warm clothes to wear, feeding me. Suddenly I wasn’t the one outside looking in, any more. You just abandoned it all. You abandoned him.’
‘Can’t you see how hard it was for us? For my parents? I didn’t have much say. But I came back to New Zealand to be near him.’
‘But not very near. He said that he didn’t know you any more. That he wished you were still a little girl so he could talk to you.’
I thought back to the time we spent together just before he died, how he always wanted to reminisce about my childhood, before Tess. How we talked about my taxidermy job in London, but we never talked about my life as it was right then. But what could I talk to him about? My failed love life? My tattoos? How we both blamed ourselves for Tess’s death?
‘Did he ever talk about her? About Tess?’
Josh hung his head and shook it. ‘Nah, not really. It took him a long time to tell me that he was sending her away that day. He blamed himself, that’s why. Oh, he was cold about it at first, especially towards me, but when he realised how much I loved her —’
‘You loved her.’ I couldn’t keep the derision from my voice.
He looked at me sharply. ‘Yeah, I did, actually.’
‘But she was just a kid. She was only sixteen. I mean, come on. You were an adult. You should have known better.’
He paused, glaring at me. Then he shrugged. ‘I suppose I should of, sure. But I don’t know … she just had this effect on me. I was hooked on her. Like a drug.’
‘Josh, it was twenty years ago. You’ve got a wife now. A family. Don’t they mean anything?’
‘Of course they do,’ he growled. ‘What do you take me for? Tess has nothing to do with them, don’t you see? She’s been bloody well haunting me that girl. I see her, all the time. Ever since Percy died and I found out about you lot wanting to get rid of the place.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Get rid of me.’
I gulped, suddenly short of air.
‘What do you mean, you see her?’
‘I mean I seen her walking over the hills. Watching me work. I seen her in the tower.’
‘The tower. Is that why you’ve been up there? Have you been sleeping up there or something?’
‘Sleeping? Nah. I just go up there sometimes and talk to her. I tell her about your grandad. About all the things he promised me and how your family has come along to fuck it all up.’
‘And that mattress. What, is that just some kind of nostalgia trip for you? The scene of your last …’ I trailed off. I didn’t want to say it.
‘It was the last place I saw her alive, sure. We were happy. Until you came along.’
‘And what’s this about Grandpa’s promising you things? What kind of things?’
‘That the farm would stay as it was. That I’d always have a job. That the house could be as good as mine. I guess he never thought to put all that stuff in his will.’
‘Of course he didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous. This property has been in our family for generations. Why would he leave it to you?’
Josh said nothing.
‘You’ve been in there while I’ve been staying, haven’t you? You moved the huia that day.’
‘Just looking after the place. Keeping the clock wound. That kind of thing.’
‘Trying to scare me off, you mean.’
He shrugged again. ‘Like I said, just jokes.’ His voice was anything but jovial and there was no trace of mirth on his face. He was deadly serious.
I had nothing more to say to him. The house would be renovated, the farm would be subdivided and sold, he might or might not keep his job. After news got back to the family of how he’d behaved, most likely not. There was nothing I could do about it. I turned to leave, catching Charlie’s eye where he stood in the window, watching us. He gave a flicker of a wave.
‘You didn’t deserve to be here, alone with Tess. I wanted you gone. I wanted her to myself. That’s why I tried to scare you off.’
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around.
He went on. ‘She was coming to see me that day, wasn’t she?’
Still I kept my back to him, looking towards the house, up at the tower. ‘How should I know?’
‘She was coming to see me to say goodbye, because you’d told on her and she was being sent away.’
When I faced him I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible. ‘You’ve got to let it go now, Josh. I was just a kid. Just like she was.’
‘That’s bullshit!’ he exploded. ‘You knew exactly what you were doing. I knew it. I knew that very day that it was all your fault.’
‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’ I started to cry, lying to myself, lying to Josh. ‘You should have known better! Screwing around with a girl, you were, just a girl!’ I threw myself at him, slapping him in the face. He pulled back in surprise, then punched me in the nose.
The light fractured and I fell backwards onto the cold, muddy lawn. My face throbbed with a tight, sharp pain and blood spurted out onto my lap as I sat there. Josh took another step towards me and for a moment I thought he was going to kick me, but I heard feet pounding the grass and from one side something flew towards him, k
nocking him down. I thought it must be Charlie, but then I felt soft hands pulling me to my feet, and my brother embraced me while Josh fought on the ground with somebody else.
Sam.
Their limbs windmilled as Sam scrambled on top of the much bigger man. Charlie tried to pull me away as they rolled together on the ground, swapping weight and power until finally they came to a stop with Josh pinning the farmhand down. Sam bucked and arched his body, trying to throw him off. It was futile.
‘Just quit it!’ Josh yelled at him. Sam went limp. He glanced at me, eyes wide, and flicked his head in the direction he had come. I looked. His rifle lay a few metres from where the men now eyeballed each other like dog and sheep. Feeling sick and dizzy, my feet curiously light, I stepped out of Charlie’s grasp and picked up the gun. I pointed it at Josh, but I was too scared to put my finger anywhere near the trigger. I prayed that the safety catch was on.
‘Get off him,’ I said to Josh. His head turned slowly to look at me. He loosened his grip on Sam’s wrists, but he looked amused, rather than alarmed.
Charlie, on the other hand, looked terrified. ‘Put it down, Rose,’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Freed, Sam turned on his side and scrambled to his feet. He got to me in two strides and placed both hands on the gun, keeping it pointed away from any living thing. ‘You okay?’ he asked. I nodded. Blood was running into my mouth and stars danced in my vision for a few seconds afterwards.
‘This is bullshit,’ said Josh, as he rose slowly, knees and hands crusted with mud. He hesitated, looking at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, then turned and strode away.
We watched his broad back disappearing towards the gravel road, where, in the last of the dim light, I could see his quad bike parked behind a tree. Hidden.
‘What were you arguing about?’ asked Sam, but Charlie pushed him aside and tilted my face with a finger on my chin.