Catch Us the Foxes

by Nicola West

  I walked over to my mirror and took one final look at my ensemble. Something was missing. I carefully retrieved Lily’s necklace from my dresser and fastened it behind my neck. Its weight was oddly comforting – like her arms were wrapped around my shoulders.

  CHAPTER 60

  Terralong Street was deserted.

  Every single storefront was closed and the cafes’ outdoor dining areas were eerily empty. Lily’s funeral had – quite literally – shut down the entire place. Kiama was finally the ghost town it had been destined to become.

  A lone figure stood on the corner of Terralong and Shoalhaven streets, standing guard over a pedestrian crossing that was unlikely to see foot traffic anytime soon. I stared at Daisy the cow, marvelling at her new coat of paint. ‘RIP Lily Williams’ was emblazoned along her side, while poorly painted calla lilies blossomed over her body. A flower crown of lilies rested on top of her horns – its ribbons gently blowing in the breeze.

  I slowly drove over Terralong Street’s seemingly unending speed bumps and was quietly unnerved by just how isolated the area was. It was truly uncanny – like the aftermath of an apocalypse and I was the only person left on Earth.

  I relished the sensation.

  I stared down at the clock on the LandCruiser’s dashboard and finally realised why the streets were so empty. I was running late. The funeral was due to start any minute.

  I put my foot down on the accelerator and swore under my breath. I was amazed that my dad hadn’t called me, demanding to know where I was. But, when I remembered I’d already turned my phone off in preparation for the funeral, I realised that he probably had.

  I couldn’t believe that I’d fucked up so badly. I obviously didn’t give a damn about what my father or the Williams family thought, but it seemed disrespectful to Lily. That is, until I remembered Jarrah’s words: ‘Lily wouldn’t want to be remembered being stuck in this town for all eternity.’

  I almost contemplated turning back. Doing a Jarrah and not bothering to show up. But when I thought of those men – Michael, Peter, Mark and my dad, John – delivering her eulogies, I knew I couldn’t abandon her.

  She deserved so much better than that – than them.

  I sped down Bombo’s southern headland and I could see the cemetery on the flats below – straight across from the beach and Bombo’s tiny train station. Even from the hill, I could tell that there were rows of news vans in the station’s small car park – their satellite towers ominously reaching towards the heavens. Peter had been right. The media hadn’t heeded his warning and they weren’t playing nice.

  I turned onto the highway, past the iconic dry-stone wall inscribed with the town’s name. Rows of people had gathered on the opposite side of the road. They were standing on the bridge over Spring Creek and had a perfect vantage of the south-east corner of the cemetery where the burial plots for the Williams family lay. To my horror, I noticed that the majority were holding either cameras or microphones.

  They really were vultures, flocking around her corpse.

  The traffic slowed while drivers gawped at the cemetery and I noticed that a cluster of police cars were parked in the driveway to the farmstead at the back of the grounds. The long passageway was right next to where the funeral was being held, and they’d attempted to park the cars so that they blocked the view from the media standing on the bridge.

  The entrance to the car park was on the opposite side of the cemetery and parking there would only make me even later. Fortunately, I spotted Nathan standing guard at the farmstead’s driveway. He ran over to my window when I pulled in. When the LandCruiser slowed to a stop, he yanked my door open.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he spat.

  ‘I –’

  ‘Get out, you can leave it here. The car park’s full. You’re lucky your dad didn’t send a bloody squad car to drag your arse down here.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Go. Now. They’re waiting for you. Your seat’s next to your dad – he’s not happy.’

  I could see the cemetery lawn over the top of the police cars. It seemed like the entire graveyard was filled with members of the town, all in their sad mourning attire. Everyone was standing, besides Michael, Sharon, Mark, Peter and my father. Sure enough, there was a single spot left in the small row of seating – directly between my dad and Michael.

  As I walked towards the crowd, my father glared at me but Michael gave a small, knowing smile.

  It was almost like he knew exactly what I planned to do.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Michael whispered in my ear as I sat down. I could feel the eyes of the entire town boring into the back of my head.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I lost track of the time.’

  My father crossed his arms over his chest and huffed loudly, shaking his head.

  ‘Are you still comfortable with saying something?’ Michael asked. ‘It’s okay if not.’

  ‘No, I’m good – I want to.’

  ‘Thank you, Marlowe,’ he said, before gesturing to his wife. ‘It means a lot to the both of us.’

  Sharon was staring at Lily’s coffin in an almost catatonic state. I doubted that my presence meant much to her, let alone my words. It was like she wasn’t even there.

  Michael stood up and walked over to the funeral director, who was standing in front of the coffin bookended by two large photos of Lily. One was a striking portrait that I’d taken for the paper on the day that she’d died, while the other was the picture from the photo lab’s window of the two of us at the show ball.

  ‘Just had to make it about you, didn’t you?’ my father hissed in my ear. His breath was hot on my neck. ‘Late to her fucking funeral. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but the funeral director’s commanding voice boomed over the graveyard. The volume shocked me until I noticed the small speaker at his feet. But even with the microphone, it was unlikely that the whole crowd would be able to hear him. There were simply too many people on the cemetery grounds. Still, the droning hum of the town’s chatter faded and Michael returned to his seat.

  The sun blazed above and a refreshing sea breeze blew in from Bombo Beach. The sky was clear and blue, an endless ocean above our heads. The weather seemed inappropriate for a funeral, and yet, I suppose it was a fitting tribute to Lily.

  A day as perfect as her.

  I recalled that it had rained on the day of my mother’s funeral and that someone had told me it was because the sky was crying. Who had it been? Surely not my father. I tried to catch the edges of the memory, but the funeral director started his spiel and everything else faded into the background.

  Lily’s funeral was non-denominational. A celebration of her life rather than an attestation of her continued existence in some made-up realm. If heaven were real, there was no doubt in my mind that Lily would have earned a VIP pass – but it wasn’t. She was gone. Gone forever. The only remnants of her were lying inside that gaudy wooden box and, eventually, they would be gone too.

  I’d never been particularly heartbroken about the fact there was no hereafter. But as I sat there, staring at her coffin – wedged between the men who had participated in both her death and its cover-up – I found myself mourning the afterlife. I didn’t give a fuck about heaven – about the pearly gates, fluffy clouds or angel wings. I just wanted hell to be real.

  And I wanted each member of the cult to rot there for all eternity.

  CHAPTER 61

  Once again, Michael played the role of the grieving father with aplomb. I cried – even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t – as he gave his rousing eulogy. Michael cried too; loud guttural sobs that wrung at his body. I couldn’t believe how real his emotions seemed as he struggled to get through the crumpled page of handwritten notes clutched in his shaking hands. It was the perfect tribute to Lily – a beautiful, heartfelt speech. Until you remembered that she wouldn’t have been lying in that box without him.

  I couldn’t fathom how he could
do it. Standing up there, in front of the whole town, pretending to grieve. But, as my eyes slowly scanned the row of men next to me, I began to consider that maybe he wasn’t pretending.

  None of them were crying. Not my dad, Mark, or Peter. Instead, they sat there, stony-faced, their eyes trained on anywhere but Michael or Lily’s coffin. They didn’t care. Not like he did. Even Sharon showed zero emotion – her eyes fixed on her palms as if she were reading her own fortune – but, in all fairness, that could have just been the drugs.

  It was only then that I realised I didn’t know who had physically killed Lily. Obviously, it was someone from the cult, but that didn’t mean that it had been Michael. What if he was truly grieving his daughter? His only child? What if he hadn’t wanted her to die?

  For a brief moment I felt a wave of pity crash over me. But, almost instantly, it turned to revulsion. I was furious that he was making me feel that way. Furious that I was falling for the act. Because, even if he genuinely did grieve her, even if he hadn’t been the one who’d killed her – he was still protecting the people who had. If anything, that made it even worse.

  Monsters can grieve, but that doesn’t make them any less monstrous.

  A spattering of light applause broke out at the end of Michael’s eulogy. Which seemed weird and added to the strange, performative feeling of the whole thing.

  It wasn’t a funeral; it was a bloody stage production.

  Michael returned to his seat and the funeral director introduced the next speaker. Mark rose to his feet and embraced Michael. It was a typical blokey hug, with rough back-patting and minimal bodily contact, but I was still surprised to see it. Once again, it didn’t feel real. The whole thing was an act, but it was like I was the only one who could see through it.

  That would all change though. As soon as my parcels were delivered, the illusion would finally be shattered. Everyone would see these men for what they were.

  Mark sauntered over to Lily’s coffin and put his palm on top of the polished wood. Michael took his seat and reached his hand out to his wife’s – physically picking it up and placing it in his. I watched Mark mouth a silent prayer to the coffin before retrieving his own notes from his pocket. I was horrified to feel the back of Michael’s hand brush against mine. He hooked his pinkie finger around my own and pulled my palm into his.

  I wanted to yank my hand away, but when I turned and stared into his tear-filled eyes, I knew that I couldn’t. Not with everyone watching. He gently squeezed my fingers, and I turned back to watch Mark. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my father staring at my hand interlocked with Michael’s. He was frowning.

  Michael was undoubtedly a tough act to follow, but that wasn’t the reason why Mark’s eulogy was so paltry in comparison. It was just… bad. The things he said were basically a rehash of the quotes Owen had published in the paper. The same meaningless drivel about Lily having had limitless potential and being the youngest journalist ever hired in the history of the Gazette.

  He also repeated the same odd comparison he’d used in the interview with Owen. The one where he compared Lily’s death to the town waking up and discovering that the blowhole had disappeared. I was amazed that nobody had called him out on the quote before then. He clearly thought it was gold but, if I’d still been working at the paper, I would have made sure he knew how dehumanising it was.

  It didn’t help that he appeared to be drunk. I’d caught a whiff of that familiar rummed breath when he’d hugged Michael directly in front of me, but it wasn’t until he started talking that I realised how far gone he was. He was slurring and swaying. Not to mention sweating profusely. It gave him an unhinged air that everyone seemed to notice. Every time he tripped over his words or forgot his place, I could feel Michael’s hand slightly tense against mine. Even my dad seemed disgusted by his actions, awkwardly shifting in his seat and sighing loudly.

  Their precious performance was falling apart, and I hadn’t even taken to the stage.

  Halfway through some half-cocked spiel about Lily’s inherent ‘goodness’, Mark froze. He was staring at the crowd behind our seats, his face pale and mask-like. It looked as if Lily herself had appeared to tell him how badly he was fucking her funeral up. Of course, the real Lily would never have done that type of thing.

  Michael let go of my hand and turned to face the direction Mark was staring. I did the same, but the crowd was blocking my view. I turned back to face Mark, shocked that he was still frozen in place, although his face had contorted into an eerie expression of rage. Whatever he was looking at, he was absolutely furious about its presence at the funeral.

  A gentle murmur began rippling through the crowd. My father and Michael exchanged a concerned glance, and Peter Walsh awkwardly cleared his throat. Thankfully, Sharon was still staring at her hands, blissfully unaware that her daughter’s funeral was completely falling apart.

  The funeral director, who up until that point had been standing next to Lily’s coffin with his head respectfully bowed, walked towards Mark and gently placed his hand on his arm. Mark jumped at his touch and his expression transformed from rage to confusion.

  He didn’t finish his eulogy. Instead, the funeral director gently removed the microphone from his hand and carefully led him away from Lily’s coffin and back to his seat. His gait was unsteady, his brow drenched in sweat. What the hell had he seen in that crowd?

  Peter pompously got to his feet and fiddled with his suit buttons while Mark slumped down in the chair next to my father. The funeral director looked at my dad pleadingly but was cut off by the low growl from Mark’s mouth.

  ‘What the fuck is that f*ggot doing here?’

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he was talking about.

  CHAPTER 62

  Sure enough, when Peter had finished his eulogy-cum-tourism campaign, and the funeral director had introduced ‘Lily Williams’ best friend, Marlowe Robertson’, I was able to confirm my suspicions. When I faced the crowd, I was immediately drawn to his presence. After all, he had no intention of hiding that day.

  Jarrah was standing at the edge of the crowd, casually leaning against a small fence that surrounded an old burial plot. While the rest of the town had shied away from the area, either from respect or squeamishness, Jarrah seemed entirely unbothered. As always, he was dressed in head-to-toe black, in a perfectly tailored suit that only accentuated his slimness and height. It gave him a foreign, insect-like quality. The handle of a gothic parasol was balanced against his shoulder, the black lace umbrella shielding his bald head from the sun’s harsh rays. In similar over-the-top fashion, a pair of impossibly large sunglasses hid half of his face.

  It was a fucking ridiculous – albeit technically funeral-appropriate – outfit that simultaneously served to obscure its wearer while also drawing the most amount of attention to them as humanly possible.

  And yet, I can’t tell you how comforting I found his presence. He’d shown up. Not for the town – not for Lily – but for me. I wasn’t alone in my horrible ordeal. Someone had my back after all.

  I unfurled the page of notes I’d brought with me and was suddenly struck by the proximity of the coffin. It was as if, for the first time, I had truly grasped that Lily was lying inside of it. The Lily I knew. The Lily I loved. The Lily I’d found. Everything she was and would ever be was locked away inside that box. All her potential. All her fears. All her dreams. All her secrets.

  Well, not all her secrets, I thought as I stared down at the notes in my hand. I was shaking again.

  ‘I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.’

  As my voice resonated throughout the graveyard, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. It was like someone was trapped inside my body, desperate to get out.

  ‘As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.’

  I was staring Michael Williams straight in his fucking creepy eyes.

  Proud. Defiant. Tenacious. Everything Lily could never be. Not any more.<
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  ‘As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’

  Michael stared back at me – every bit as defiant – but there was something else behind those eyes. Bewilderment? Rage? Pride?

  ‘He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Sustain me with cakes of raisins, refresh me with apples: for I am sick with love.’

  To my horror, I finally realised what it was – a deep, profound sadness. Michael was crying. And so was I.

  ‘His left hand is under my head, and his right hand does embrace me.’

  How could he keep doing this to me? How were his emotions so real? Why did I suddenly feel so guilty?

  ‘I charge you, O you daughters of Jerusalem, by the gazelles or by the hinds of the field, that you stir not up, nor awake love, till it pleases.’

  I had to tear my eyes away. I couldn’t bear looking at that broken man for a second more. Somewhere in the crowd, a camera flashed. Owen fucking Archer was taking my photo.

  ‘The voice of my beloved! Behold, he comes leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.’

  I had no idea how I’d missed him there – standing directly behind Peter. Watching. Waiting. Documenting.

  ‘My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag: behold, he stands behind our wall, he looks forth through the windows, showing himself through the lattice.’

  Owen removed the camera from his eye. He had a fully fledged shiner – the type that engorges half your face like some purple Phantom of the Opera-style mask. I inadvertently winced.

  ‘My beloved spoke, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.’

  My eyes scanned the crowd before finally landing on Dan. He was standing with our small group of friends – Rachael and the rest of the gang I had been hanging out with on the night of the show.