Catch Us the Foxes

by Nicola West

  ‘I just thought she was being dramatic,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Her words struck a chord with me and I’d been feeling similarly dumbfounded yet guilty since I’d exited the store. In hindsight, there had been signs that something was going on in Lily’s life but I’d ignored them.

  She knew she was going to die. Why didn’t we?

  Standing outside the crystal store, I looked at my phone. Dan had sent me multiple messages since the morning, and I’d ignored them all. The most recent one was asking me to call in to the bar where he worked because he wanted to see me. The Blue Diamond was just around the corner from the terrace houses, but I had no interest in braving its patrons and their gawking. Still, I needed someone to talk to and my childhood best friend sounded like a pretty good candidate. I texted him back: Meet me at the bower in 5.

  The bower wasn’t actually a bower, but a cluster of trees at the back of the Kiama Blue. The boutique hotel and reception centre were built on the site of my former infants school, and still contained the historic basalt buildings I’d spent my formative years in. It had been a tough adjustment. The Blue Diamond was the only decent bar in town, but it was difficult to kick back with a drink when my mind was telling me I needed to get to class. When Dan started working there, however, we realised his job came with a perk – we could now go to all the places we hadn’t been allowed to as kids.

  One of those places was the bower, an idyllic little cluster of trees located behind the administrative office, staffroom and principal’s office. As kids, we’d been told the area was off-limits because a bowerbird had built its den there and we couldn’t disturb it. The older students had said that was just an excuse so the teachers could have their privacy, but I was intrigued by the stories of the little bird decorating its den with stolen prizes – bottle caps, hair accessories and even craft supplies – all in the school’s signature colours of blue and gold.

  One day I saw my opportunity to finally get to the bottom of the mystery. Dan had been stung by a bee and we were in the school’s makeshift sick bay waiting for his parents to pick him up. Someone in the office was supposed to be keeping an eye on us but when she left to go to the bathroom, I couldn’t resist that opened back door. Dan watched on in horror as I disappeared towards the forbidden zone. I didn’t look back.

  Any nervousness I felt melted away the second I locked eyes on the intricately woven structure. It was just as they said it was, covered in blue and gold trinkets, and in the centre stood the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen. Royal blue highlights on inky feathers and piercing violet eyes. It seemed almost mythical.

  I remember reaching into my hair and pulling out a small metal barrette that matched the bird’s highlights perfectly. I was terrified of spooking it so I was careful to make my movements slow and non-threatening. The bird observed me intently but with curiosity more than fear. I gently bent down and put the hairclip on the footpath in front of me before slowly taking a step back. Almost immediately, the bird began hopping towards the clip. I held my breath. It picked it up and carried it back to its den, before putting it right in the centre. Pride of place.

  When I returned to the sick bay, the office lady hadn’t returned, so it was like it had never happened. I’ve never forgotten the feeling I had when I told Dan the story. His eyes grew wide and he completely forgot about his painful bee sting. I painted such a vivid picture that it was like he experienced it for himself. To my delight, the story became a thing of legend at my school, and one of my favourite pastimes was gathering a cluster of students and retelling my tale. Others tried, but ultimately failed, to see the bower for themselves. Its elusiveness just made my story all the more compelling.

  Of course, by the time the Blue had taken over, the bowerbird’s den had long since disappeared. But it was still my favourite part of the grounds, and Dan and I would regularly meet there on his breaks. He’d always been so jealous that he never saw the bowerbird for himself.

  The first thing Dan did when he saw me was wrap his arms around me. I’d always favoured my personal space over his (typically adored) bear hugs, but that day I let go of my urge to fight my way out and submitted. There was comfort there, no matter how fleeting it felt.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked. It wasn’t a standard greeting – he actually meant it.

  ‘Okay. I think?’

  ‘You should have come in. I was going to shout you a whisky.’

  ‘I’m not really in the mood to deal with other people at the moment.’

  He nodded understandingly before digging around in his pockets. ‘I thought that might be the case, so here.’ He passed me a minibar-sized bottle of Johnnie Walker. ‘I mean, it’s no Kilmagoon, but I’m kinda limited at this size.’

  I smiled, taking the bottle and thanking him.

  ‘You’d fit right in at the moment though. The whole hotel is filled with journos covering the story. I didn’t expect it to blow up this quickly, but it’s already national news. It’s so weird seeing her face everywhere.’

  I’d avoided any form of media up until that point but it was no surprise. She was sweet, pretty and had her whole life ahead of her. People ate that shit up.

  ‘I don’t know how well I’d fit in at the moment,’ I said. ‘Mark fired me.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Last night, after I found her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s a fucking psychopath and probably killed her himself.’

  ‘Seriously?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘I dunno. He was drunk and upset. Called me a vulture for wanting to write about her before all these pricks,’ I gestured in the direction of the bar, ‘got wind of it and put their own spin on it.’

  A grimace spread across Dan’s face. ‘Well…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, it is a little vulture-y.’

  I rolled my eyes, cracked open the whisky and took a swig, hoping the burn would be enough to distract me from my overwhelming urge to punch Dan in his face.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying you deserved to be fired, but I can kind of see where he was coming from.’ He saw the look on my face and made a hasty retreat. ‘Though he probably already regrets it and will be begging to have you back before you know it.’

  I thought back to Mark’s hulking form against mine – that warm, liquored breath. I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Besides, not all the journos in the bar are pricks. The dude that helped you with your honours thesis is there – the Milat expert. What’s his name, Jawline McGee?’

  ‘Owen Archer?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Seeing him in the flesh, I finally get the appeal. He looks like a living action figure.’

  I laughed. It was an apt description. ‘That’s not why I asked for his help. He wrote the book on Milat, literally.’

  Dan smirked, clearly not convinced. ‘Maybe you should bump into him and say you’re looking for a job.’

  ‘I know there’s an opening,’ I said, grimly. ‘He works for the same paper that Lily was going to do her cadetship at.’

  Dan’s grimace was back. ‘Now that would be a vulture move.’

  I agreed, and an awkward silence hung in the air. I took another sip of the whisky but immediately regretted it. It was too hot to be drinking it neat.

  ‘Hey?’ Dan asked. ‘You wanna do something tonight – something to take your mind off things?’

  I began shaking my head.

  ‘We don’t have to go out. I can come around to the cottage after work. Maybe we can get drunk and binge some Cordova films?’

  ‘I’m not really in the mood for horror, Dan.’

  ‘Shit.’ He sighed. ‘God, I’m so bad at this.’

  ‘Yup.’

  The awkward silence was back.

  ‘Lo?’ Dan suddenly asked.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m really sorry about last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked at his feet. ‘If I’d re
minded you of the time like you’d asked me to, you wouldn’t have had to go past the stables. You never would have found her.’

  I thought of the implications of someone else finding the body – someone my dad couldn’t control. The markings would have been public knowledge.

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I said. ‘I kind of feel like it was meant to be, y’know?’

  CHAPTER 14

  After my conversation with Dan, I returned home. There was a cable news van parked outside and a reporter was being filmed in front of the station’s picket fence. I politely stood to the side, waiting for her to finish, but when she swore loudly I realised it wasn’t being recorded live and I walked through the shot. She glared at me, though it was difficult to see through her slowly melting makeup. It was moments like this which made me glad I’d opted to study print over broadcast journalism. I didn’t want to be another bimbo with a mic, standing outside some shitty rural police station trying to look pretty in thirty-five degree heat.

  According to Dan, the rest of the journos were all at the showground, crossing live every half-hour with pointless ‘updates’. There had been no news since the original report, and there were only so many ways they could say that the body of the town’s showgirl had been found in a stable. I’d expected the reporters to be filling the airtime with interviews from people with tenuous links to Lily, but it wasn’t happening. Though not from lack of trying. Apparently, there had been some unspoken pact among the locals and they had closed ranks, refusing to speak to the media altogether. The town’s typical ‘us versus them’ mentality was in full effect. I was surprised it was more potent than their thirst for relevancy.

  I stepped into the doorway of the cottage and its coolness enveloped me. As much as I decried it, it often felt like an oasis away from the rest of the town. My eyes struggled to adjust to the drastic change in light, and I ran my hand along the hallway wall to orient myself. Everywhere I looked a bright golden orb obscured my vision. No matter how many times I blinked, it wouldn’t go away.

  The strange distortion made it all the more disconcerting when I finally noticed the frail figure sitting on the lounge in front of me.

  ‘Mrs Williams?’ I called out.

  There was no response.

  Eventually, my eyes grew used to the darkness and I could see her clearly. She was rigidly perched on our overstuffed lounge, staring into the distance – seemingly at nothing. She was wearing the same clothes I’d seen her in at the show the day before, but her hair was dishevelled and her makeup had been cried off. An overwhelming sense of pity crashed over me. I wanted to help her – to make her sorrow disappear any way I could, but I knew it was futile.

  I called her name once more, but there was no response. I walked into her line of sight and tried again, but she looked through me as if I didn’t exist. There was something eerily familiar in her gaze. She looked just like Lily had when I’d found her.

  I squatted down next to her, my movements slow and purposeful so I wouldn’t startle her. But no matter what I did, she remained unresponsive. I noticed a mug sitting on the coffee table in front of her and wrapped my fingers around it. It was cool to the touch and looked like it wasn’t missing a single sip.

  ‘Oh, this is no good,’ I said, hoping to fill the awkwardly silent air. ‘I’ll get you a fresh one, okay?’

  Unsurprisingly, she remained mute.

  I was ashamed of how relieved I felt to be able to get away from Sharon. Despite losing an immediate family member at a young age, I was woefully unprepared to deal with other people’s grief. Hell, I barely remembered how I dealt with my own. In the kitchen, I stared at the kettle, willing it not to whistle. If a watched pot never boiled, then I was determined not to take my eyes off it. Anything that got me out of having to return to that suffocatingly sad room and that broken woman.

  I heard the front door open and breathed a sigh of relief. Two voices floated down the hallway. My dad’s and Michael’s. I retrieved an extra set of mugs from the cabinet and, the second I took my eyes off the kettle, it began to trill. It didn’t matter any more though. I now had backup.

  I carried a tray containing the teapot, mugs, milk and sugar, and set it down in front of Lily’s mum and dad. Michael was also wearing the same clothes he’d worn the day before but looked less unkempt, even with the hint of stubble dusting his jawline. I smiled to myself as I noticed that he was tenderly holding his wife’s hand. The smile dissolved when I realised he was actually checking her pulse.

  ‘Is she okay?’ I asked.

  He looked up at me, as if only just noticing my presence, and gave a weary smile. ‘I had to give her something pretty strong. She wasn’t coping.’

  I glanced at my dad, who was sitting in his easychair across from them. He nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’ Michael asked me.

  ‘Nothing. It was like she didn’t even know I was here.’

  ‘She’s pretty out of it. But it’s for the best. At least I can get her home now.’

  I watched as he set about making a cup of tea – adding way too much milk – before dipping his knuckle into the liquid.

  ‘Take this,’ he said to Sharon. He manipulated her hands so that she was holding the mug. I was positive that the moment he removed his grasp she would drop it. However, it remained steady.

  ‘Take a sip. Go on, it’s not hot,’ Michael gently commanded. Once again, she obliged, robotically bringing the mug to her lips and drinking from it.

  Michael turned his attention to me, gently patting the vacant space next to him.

  ‘Now, how are you, Marlowe?’

  Defiantly, I pushed the tea tray over and sat on the coffee table. ‘I’m the last person you should be worried about.’

  He was giving me that look that I hated so much – the mind-reading one.

  ‘You’ve been through something traumatic, Marlowe,’ he said, leaning forward so that his knees brushed against mine. ‘And that type of attitude isn’t going to help you. People who witness or discover the aftermaths of violent crimes are the people most likely to be affected. And yet, support is seldom offered to them – no doubt further fuelled by their own belief that they are somehow less worthy of it than the family or friends of the victim…’

  I squirmed uncomfortably and began shaking my head in protest, but he continued.

  ‘But you fit in both categories, don’t you? You knew her and you found her. You’re doubly vulnerable. If anything, we should be worried about you more than anyone else. You need to know that it’s okay to reach out. That there are people you can talk to.’

  I finally met his gaze. ‘I’m fine. Really, Doctor Williams. Growing up around here I’ve become desensitised to a lot of this stuff.’ I winced. I’d just referred to his daughter’s murder as ‘stuff’.

  If he was bothered, he didn’t show it. ‘We all know that you’re tough, Marlowe. A fighter, right?’

  My mind drifted back to our conversation at the show ball. What had he said about Lily and her luck running out?

  ‘But even fighters need help sometimes. And there’s no shame in asking for it.’

  ‘I’ll definitely ask if I think I need it but, at the moment, I feel like the best thing for me is to process it in my own way and in my own time.’

  ‘Always so stubborn, aren’t you?’ he tutted, seemingly conceding defeat. ‘But I respect your process. Everyone has different ways of coping. All that matters is that you know you have people who are here for you.’

  ‘I do. And I really appreciate your concern. I still don’t think it’s deserved – given the circumstances – but I’m grateful for it.’

  Without warning, he clasped my hand in his and, when I looked into his eyes, I realised that he seemed every bit as broken as Sharon.

  ‘I’m not going to lose anyone else,’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER 15

  Michael and my dad continued talking about the logistics of the case with a surprising amount of det
achment. I was shocked to hear that the autopsy had already been performed and that Lily’s body was almost ready to be released so her family could organise her funeral. While they talked, I watched Sharon. She seemed utterly unaware of the conversations happening around her. Occasionally her husband would pause to tell her to drink and she would always dutifully obey.

  When they finally got up to leave, I followed them to the back door. More reporters had gathered out front and Michael and Sharon were cutting through our backyard so that they could be picked up from behind the station. My dad helped guide Lily’s mum outside and Michael turned back towards me.

  ‘Marlowe,’ he began. Frustratingly, he often spoke in a soft voice that forced you to get closer to him. I leaned forward. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about what you saw when you found her? Anything at all?’

  Before I had a chance to answer my dad cut in. ‘Jesus, Michael. She’s a witness in an active investigation. You know you can’t ask her stuff like that.’ He sounded nervous and was looking at me pleadingly – he didn’t trust me.

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I said, staring my father down before turning back to Lily’s dad.

  ‘Please, anything,’ Michael implored. ‘Anything that struck you as odd or suggested who did it?’

  ‘Michael,’ my dad interjected.

  I was puzzled by his line of questioning. Was it merely the desperation of a mourning father, or was there something more to it? I thought back to my admission at the paper’s office. Mark had cut me off before I’d fully spilt the beans about the markings, but had he spoken to Lily’s dad since then and told him what I’d said?

  It seemed unlikely. Sharon and Michael had spent the day being ferried between the Kiama and Warilla police stations, and Mark was no doubt nursing a significant hangover. No, it must have been my own paranoia. But still, I needed to be prepared in case Mark did eventually bring it up.