by Nicola West
I shot Dan a puzzled look and he nodded before taking another drag on the joint.
‘And besides,’ the carny continued, ‘since Luna Park, we have backup generators for all the internal emergency lights. It was bloody brighter in there than it was outside!’
‘What do you mean she assaulted someone?’ I asked.
‘The stupid bitch gave Steve a black eye.’
‘In the ghost train?’
‘Yeah,’ Dan interrupted. ‘He’s one of the scarers. Y’know, wears a mask, taps people on their shoulders to give them a fright. Apparently Lily didn’t take it too kindly.’
‘That’s a bloody understatement!’ the carny spat. ‘She swung her elbow back and hit him square in the face. Then she starts screaming and tries to get out of the cart. You’re not supposed to get out of them while they’re still moving! Add that to the extra weight, the whole circuit blew. Fuckin’ nightmare.’
I held out my hand for the joint and took a drag. None of that explained the fear on Lily’s face. ‘You sure your man only touched her on the shoulder?’
‘What the fuck sort of question is that?’
‘I’m just trying to work out what would make her freak out so much,’ I shrugged. ‘Lily’s not like that.’
‘Yeah, well neither are my men. This is a family business – hell, we work with kids – if anyone showed even a hint of that type of behaviour, we’d sit them on their arse and make sure they never worked again.’ He hocked a ball of spit onto the ground, perilously close to my face. My nausea resurfaced. ‘Your town’s precious showgirl is just a nutter.’
I shut my eyes again. My vertigo was as strong as ever, but there was something else that was making me uneasy. Lily’s fearful face. There was more to the story. I knew it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out and squinted at the screen – a text from my dad containing nothing but three question marks. I looked at the time.
‘Shit.’ I sat upright and punched Dan’s shoulder. ‘I told you to tell me when it was a quarter to.’
‘I’m not your friggin’ secretary.’
‘Goddamn it, I’ve got to go. Give me my bag.’ I snatched my backpack out of Dan’s hands and ran off towards the pavilion.
‘Oi,’ the carny yelled behind me. ‘You can’t go that way!’
I gave him the finger and kept running.
I wasn’t exactly what you would call ‘close’ with my dad – especially after my mum died – but we shared a few rare rituals that stoked the fire of familial connection. One of those rituals was watching the show’s fireworks together every year. We had the best seat in the house – the bonnet of Dad’s police car – where we’d dump out the contents of our showbags and eat cheap lollies as the fireworks erupted around us.
As a kid, I’d typically be clutching a stuffed animal almost as big as me. My birthday was on the twelfth of January and the show always fell in the following week, so my dad would win me a bonus present at the shooting gallery every year. He never missed a shot, and it was one of the only times I was actually proud to be a cop’s daughter.
My dad was a man of few words and our conversations always seemed stilted. My mum had been the bridge between that gulf but, with her gone, we’d drifted further and further apart. So, to be able to share each other’s company without uttering a word felt like the closest we’d ever get to having a real relationship. I would never have admitted it out loud, but I cherished those moments.
Which was why I was now sprinting between the showbag trailers to loop around the back of the pavilion. The ride operator was right; the area was technically off-limits to the public while the carnies’ caravans were parked there. But it was the shortest route to the other side of the show ring and my only hope of reaching my dad before the fireworks started. It was creepy around there on the best of days, even more so when it was deserted like now, but I kept running.
The entire showground had fallen into disrepair over the years and was soon to be part of a multimillion dollar renovation. This show was the last hurrah before the old pavilion and its grandstand would be torn down. The only thing that would remain would be the historic stables – two long rows of parallel stalls – that had housed the show’s competing horses for over a century and a half.
The stables were now eerily empty. All the animals had been removed before the fireworks. The only sound came from my boots reverberating against the concrete floor and rattling the rusted locks that adorned each stall. The ground was covered in brown needles from the towering Norfolk pines that dotted the showground, and I had to slow my pace to avoid slipping.
There were no lights among the stables, but the moon was almost full – its glistening snail trail reflecting off the ocean in front of me. It always surprised me how close the perimeters of the showground were to the cliff’s edge and the roaring ocean below. I still felt nauseous, even with the cool sea breeze. The air was brined. Sticky with that salty scent.
I don’t know why, but from the second I noticed the foot protruding from the stall I knew I’d stumbled upon something I wasn’t supposed to see. My gut reaction was that it was two people sharing an intimate – though apparently passionless – moment. I even contemplated retracing my steps and running behind the stables to avoid any awkwardness, but there was something about the foot’s stillness that signalled something was wrong. The fact that I recognised it made me all the more uneasy. I’d taken enough photographs of her that day to identify those gold gladiator sandals anywhere.
‘Lily?’ I called out.
I strained my ears to hear something – anything – but it was completely silent. I took a step forward. The stall’s opened door was blocking my view of anything more than that motionless foot. The answer to my question was centimetres away from me, but I couldn’t bear to answer it myself.
‘Lily, it’s Lo. Are you okay?’
Again, nothing.
‘Lily?’ I repeated, reaching towards the door.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.
I gasped, stumbled forward and clutched my chest. Above the stalls, magenta fireworks bloomed. The air smelled of gunpowder, and the disembodied voices of the crowd oohed and aahed. I awkwardly laughed at my skittishness, before realising that I had fallen directly in front of the stall. I was a glance away from my answer. I slowly lifted my head.
From the second I saw her, I knew.
CHAPTER 4
Lily looked shocked by her own death – those polychromatic eyes frozen in surprise – her lips parted as if gasping at a particularly scandalous secret. But beneath her flower crown and halo of golden hair, a pool of blood had blossomed. She was lying on her side, in the foetal position, with one arm outstretched as if she were reaching towards something – or someone – unseen.
Her matching lace top and skirt were still a pristine white, both seemingly spared from the blood that had slowly drained from the deep wound on her temple. Had her head not been resting in the gelatinous red pool, I may have never even noticed the injury, hidden beneath her curls.
It struck me as fitting that, even in death, she inspired awe. The whole scene seemed staged. It was too perfect. Too pretty. A meticulously constructed tableau.
I’d seen bodies before, though never in real life. My dad had a nasty habit of leaving open copies of the Police Journal lying around the house. On the kitchen counter, the dining room table or next to the toilet. As a child, I was never quite sure when or where I’d inadvertently catch my next glimpse of a corpse. I grew desensitised to the bodies and eventually became fascinated by the articles behind the pictures. It was one of the main reasons I aspired to be a crime reporter. One person’s early childhood trauma is another’s career catalyst.
But none of those bodies looked like Lily’s. They were all gruesome, macabre and – above all else – ugly. The trauma of the crime seemed to permeate every aspect of the body. Faces frozen in distorted depictions of fear. Blood and viscera spewing from necrotising flesh. Extremitie
s awkwardly contorted in agonising positions. They lost all aspects of their humanity. They were nothing more than meat.
A surge of nausea took over my body, and a watery, acidic feeling stung the back of my throat. I sprang to my feet and ran to the edge of the stables before projectile vomiting into a pile of pine needles. Above me, the fireworks kept erupting – the sound echoing around the stables like gunshots. When I turned back towards Lily’s stall, I finally saw the ugliness.
Lily’s top had ridden up underneath her sash, exposing the small of her back. A patch of her skin was missing, but the wound didn’t look fresh. As I walked towards her, I noticed seven strange symbols had been carved around the flayed flesh. I could only just make out the markings when the fireworks exploded and they faded into obscurity in between bursts. I looked around. The area was still deserted. I placed my backpack on the ground and carefully reached inside, retrieving my camera.
I only took a few photos. Enough to be able to see the markings clearly. My instinct told me they were the key to her death, and the reason behind her fear on the ghost train. I was careful, though, trying to time the flashes with the fireworks so as not to draw attention.
Looking at the symbols on the camera’s screen, I struggled to recognise them. Some were letter-like, but others were made up of strange intersecting lines. Much like the patch of missing flesh on her back, they didn’t look fresh.
In the distance, rapturous applause broke out. The fireworks had finished and the show was officially over. I removed the camera’s battery and placed it in my pocket – so no one would be able to tell I’d taken the photos – before returning the camera to my backpack and slinging it over my shoulder. I had to tell my dad about Lily. Her killer must have been at the show and everyone was about to leave. I began walking away but hesitated, turning to take one final look at the body. I raised my hand to the shoulder Lily had rammed into earlier that evening. It was the last time I saw her.
* * *
I rounded the corner of the stables and walked up the incline, spotting the police four-wheel drive about halfway down the show ring. My dad was still sitting on the bonnet, staring up at the sky as if waiting for more fireworks to erupt. He looked smaller than he should have and I realised that was a thought I’d been having more and more lately. It seemed connected to the grey overtaking his sideburns and the deep lines embedded in his jowls. A wave of guilt overwhelmed me.
Already, the crowd was slowly filing out of the grandstand, making their way towards the exits. I struggled to think that Lily’s killer could be among them. While Kiama was a tourist town, the show was predominantly attended by locals. It was our way of reclaiming our home after spending the summer holidays being swamped by strangers. Which meant, as unfathomable as it may have seemed, that I likely knew the culprit. I quickened my pace.
‘I don’t want to hear it, Lo,’ my dad said as I finally reached the car. He sounded genuinely hurt.
‘But –’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No –’
‘You’re twenty-two –’
‘Dad –’
‘You can make your own choices about who you spend –’
‘Jesus Christ, Dad, shut up! There’s a body!’
His brows knitted in confusion. ‘What?’
‘It’s Lily. She’s dead. In the stables.’
His eyes scanned my face, searching for answers. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t bloody know – I only found her. But we’ve got to hurry; her murderer could be walking away with the rest of the crowd.’
He seemed taken aback. ‘What makes you think she was murdered?’
‘Well, I don’t think she bashed her own brains in! And she has these weird symbols carv–’
‘Get in the car,’ he said, sliding off the bonnet.
On the short drive back to the stables, my dad questioned why I had been there. It was only then that I realised how suspicious it seemed.
‘I didn’t kill her!’
‘I know. But you’re going to be interviewed and you need to get your story straight.’
‘I was taking a shortcut. The queue for the Hurricane was really long and, by the time we finally got on, I’d lost track of time. I didn’t want to miss the fireworks so I took the shortest route.’
‘So, you’ve been with people all night?’
I replayed everything I’d done that evening. ‘Yeah. The only time I was alone was running from the Hurricane to you.’
‘Did you see anyone else there?’
‘No, it was deserted.’
We pulled up near the stables and my dad asked me to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from the glove box while he searched for a torch in the back. Acquiring both, we returned to the scene of the crime. Immediately, he spotted my pile of vomit at the edge of the stables and shone the torch’s beam over it. My nausea returned.
‘That’s mine,’ I sheepishly admitted.
‘Oh, are you okay?’
‘Yeah. As I said, I went on the Hurricane. You know how I get.’
The torch’s beam swept along the concrete floor of the stables and the padlocked doors until it spilt into the open void of Lily’s stall. From that angle, you saw the symbols before you saw anything else. The crimson etchings almost shimmered in the torch’s light, and the strange misshapen patch of missing flesh looked even more horrifying illuminated.
‘Shit,’ my dad murmured.
I watched as he examined her body – squatting down beside her, his eyes meticulously scanning every millimetre of her flesh – but his gaze always returned to the symbols. He carefully pulled the gloves over his hands before turning to face me.
‘Lo?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I need you to do me a favour. It’s gonna sound bad, but you have to trust me.’
There was something in his voice that scared me – like I was talking to a completely different person.
‘What?’
‘You can’t tell anyone about the markings.’
‘But –’
‘Marlowe, listen to me. This is important. I’m going to pull her top down and that’s going to be how you found her. The rest of your story will stay exactly the same, you just never saw the marks, okay?’
‘Dad, you’re really –’
‘You did not see the markings.’
The ferocity behind his words shocked me. I’d never seen him act like this. I found myself slowly backing away from him; my eyes swaying from his stern face to Lily’s corpse. I didn’t know what to do.
He sensed my fear and softened. ‘I’m sorry, but I promise there’s a good reason for this. I wouldn’t put you in this position if there weren’t. It won’t impact the investigation, but it will keep you out of it, and that’s what matters here. Please, Lo, trust me.’
I felt as if a pair of hands had wrapped around my throat, slowly crushing my windpipe. I could feel my heart thumping against the wall of my chest. None of it felt real, like the crescendo of a nightmare just before you woke up. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.
But she was there, and so were the marks.
Between ragged breaths, I was somehow able to utter two syllables.
‘Okay.’
CHAPTER 5
As the crowd streamed from the showground’s gates, sirens pierced the cool night air. I was sitting in the back of my dad’s police four-wheel drive, my legs dangling over the towbar, with a musty picnic blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The moon had risen since I’d last looked at it, and the calmness of the ocean belied the chaos occurring behind me. Police officers and detectives had taken over the showground. By that stage, many others had seen Lily’s body, but no one appeared to have seen the markings.
My dad had sprung into action the second I’d agreed to lie about them, and I was already regretting my decision. But I was now complicit. From the second he’d carefully pulled her top down the timeline had shifted and the world where I’d seen the markings had ceased to exi
st.
I wanted to trust him, but he hadn’t done much to gain that trust. In between radio chatter, he asked me to repeat my story again and again. He only stopped when I told him it was going to sound rehearsed.
He set me up in the back of the car, gently wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, before telling me that someone would eventually drive me to the station to be interviewed. He wouldn’t be able to accompany me, he’d said, as he was running point on the crime scene, but he assured me that the detectives were all ‘top blokes’. They were always top blokes, even when they clearly weren’t.
My phone was buzzing in my pocket continually. The show’s exiting crowds had all seen the police cars arriving and everyone wanted to know the gossip. What better source than the daughter of the town’s top brass?
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone, surprised by the small pieces of paper that exploded from the cavity like confetti. My spine was iced as I carefully unfurled each crumpled raffle ticket and I felt guilty that I had unceremoniously stuffed them in there in the first place. I felt a tickle on my cheek and, as I brushed it away, I was shocked to find that my fingertips were wet with tears.
Lily had given me the tickets – not long before she’d hopped into the ghost train’s cart. It had all started when we were young; way back in the day when my mum was alive and our two families were still close. My mother had not only been responsible for ensuring I had a relationship with my dad, she had also been the conduit between him and the rest of the community. When she was alive, we’d socialised with people like the Williamses, but when she died all those ties were suddenly severed. My father just didn’t have the energy to maintain them. Not that I was one to complain – being a loner had always suited me.
The yearly raffle was always to win a pony, and I can remember throwing the mother of all tantrums when my parents refused to buy me a ticket when I was younger. In all fairness, our former backyard-less home was hardly the best place to keep a farm animal but try telling that to a young kid who was giving Veruca Salt a run for her money. What can I say? I didn’t care how – I wanted it now.