by Nicola West
The night that I’d found her. The night that I first saw those markings. The night when this had all begun.
‘For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.’
I noticed how bored my friends all looked. Of course, none of them had been particularly close to Lily. I was the only conduit between them. Maybe I should have tried harder to connect them?
I thought about how isolated Lily must have been. How sad it was that the only person she felt she could turn to hadn’t even lived in the town. I should have been there for her. But I wasn’t.
‘The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.’
My eyes traced back to Jarrah. His entire demeanour had changed. He was no longer lolling against the grave fence. Instead, he was standing completely straight, staring at me in shock. He let go of the umbrella’s handle and raised both his hands like he was asking me what the fuck I was doing.
He had no idea I’d already signed my name to the dossier I’d sent to the media. Or that Michael had already stolen Lily’s journals from my room. The eulogy was just theatrics – an extra way to stick the knife into the cult before the truth came out.
‘The fig tree puts forth its green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell.’
My eyes fell back on that row of powerful men. The ones on Lily’s list. The ones my message was for.
‘Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’
But, to my surprise, they didn’t look angered by my words. Instead, they also appeared deeply saddened. Even my father – so quick to scowl, scoff or roll his eyes at my every action – looked utterly broken by my words. There were tears in his eyes.
What the fuck was happening?
‘O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice; for sweet is your voice, and your countenance is lovely.’
But then I saw it. The rage I’d yearned for, the sheer hatred I’d expected was plastered on the face of one of the cult members.
‘Catch us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.’
Just not the one I’d expected.
CHAPTER 63
Sharon Williams seemed completely lucid. Like her rage had sloughed off the fog surrounding her mind. Her eyes were no longer glassy – they were clear and piercing and trained firmly on mine. She was furious at me. Furious at the words I had spoken. She knew their true meaning, and she knew why I had chosen to repeat them in front of the whole town.
I thought I’d felt true fear in those previous days. Discovering Lily’s body, reading her journals and seeing the remnants of the horrors that had occurred in that rainforest. But all that paled in comparison to the fear that gripped my body at that moment. My potential death never seemed more real.
If one of the men from the cult killed me, I found myself thinking, it would be in cold blood. A necessary evil – like cleaning up a spill. It would be pragmatic and detached, and I could almost imagine them whispering, ‘No hard feelings,’ as my last breath choked away. Maybe they’d show me mercy and make it extra quick.
Not Sharon though. Not with the way she was looking at me. My death at her hands would be fiery and passionate. A true revenge killing designed to be as painful and long-lasting as my pitiful body could bear. She would endlessly torture me until I begged her to finish.
Hell hath no fury like a grieving mother.
I felt a hand on my arm and jumped a mile. I was surprised to see the funeral director standing by my side, his face placid and his smile warm. He was attempting to wrangle the microphone off me, just as he had with Mark. And, as I stared out at the sea of concerned faces, I realised that I, too, appeared every bit as lost as my former editor. But hopefully not as drunk.
Instead of being led back to my seat by the funeral director, I left of my own accord. Walking past the men in the front row, I was once again struck by how genuinely saddened they appeared. My words had certainly not had the impact I’d expected.
But, perhaps more perplexing, was that Sharon had returned to her catatonia. She didn’t even glance in my direction as I returned to my seat. Instead, her glassy eyes remained trained on her hands, still gently resting on her lap. She looked like she hadn’t moved a muscle, and I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing.
No. That rage had been real. Just as real as the fear that I had felt. I was sure of it.
When I sat down, the funeral director began his concluding remarks and Michael’s knee knocked against mine. It had been a purposeful movement and, realising he was trying to get my attention, I looked up at him. There were still tears in his eyes.
‘That was beautiful, Marlowe,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘But I wish you’d told me what you planned to read.’
‘You said to choose something significant to Lily,’ I whispered in reply. ‘I know that passage was important to her.’
His brow furrowed slightly.
‘After all,’ I said, ‘she’d written it enough times in her journals, hadn’t she?’
I don’t know who was more shocked – Michael or me. Michael seemed shocked at my mention of the journals, while I was shocked by his shock. Once again, I was at a loss as to what he was playing at. Why was he pretending that he didn’t know?
That he didn’t know that I knew?
He’d made it clear that he’d been the one who had taken the journals – sitting on my bed, right on top of where they’d been hidden, and stroking my mattress. Why the fuck was he playing coy now? Was this just another one of his mind games? To confuse me until I was under his control? Was this what he had done to Lily?
He started to say something but was interrupted before he had the chance. The funeral director had invited both Michael and Sharon to place the first flowers on Lily’s coffin before it was lowered into the ground. Michael rose to his feet. His eyes were still fixed on my face, seemingly full of concern.
He broke his gaze and turned around to his wife. He held his hand out, but she ignored it, so he gently grasped her wrist.
‘Come on, Sharon,’ I heard him say. ‘It’s time to say goodbye to Lily.’
There was something about the innocuousness of the statement that enraged me. And yet, it seemed to be enough to coax Sharon to her feet. She dutifully stood before her husband and allowed herself to be led to her daughter’s casket. I struggled to believe that the pure rage I had seen behind her eyes could have been produced by someone so frail.
How had I ever feared that husk of a woman? Was I losing my mind?
I felt something grab at my hand and was shocked to see my father’s fingers interlaced with mine. I instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip remained firm. Puzzled, I stared into his eyes. I was horrified to see he was looking at me in the exact same way Michael had looked at Sharon.
‘It’s our turn, Lo,’ he said, nodding towards the casket. ‘Come on.’
I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet, and we walked hand-in-hand to Lily’s coffin. A flash of a memory. My father and I doing the exact same thing at my mother’s funeral. I looked up at the sky as if expecting rain.
I let go of my dad’s hand and took the single white calla lily the funeral director was holding out to me. He gave a small, respectful nod before stepping to the side. I walked straight to the coffin and stood there for a few moments. In the distance – over the top of the police cars – I could see all the media’s cameras pointed in my direction. I fought the urge to flip them the bird.
I stared down at the lily in my hand, saddened to see that there was a small tear in its pure white petal. I wanted to turn around and ask for a different one but realised it was an absurd request. Besides, what did it matter? The whole funeral was pointless. A ritual as meaningless and archaic as the ones held in that rainforest.
I gently placed the lily on top of the casket, turned my back and walked away.
Lily Williams didn’t exist. Not any more.
CHAPTER 64
The family had declined to host a wake, and – for some reason – the funeral party were required to dutifully stand to the side of the coffin while members of the town paid their respects one by one. The funeral director carried chairs over for Sharon and Michael, but the rest of us had to stand behind them while each well-wisher nodded sympathetically and apologised for their loss.
I didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to be a part of their farce. Things hadn’t gone how I had planned, and I couldn’t figure out why.
And yet, I had the distinct impression that each of the men wanted to confront me over my choice of reading. But still, as the minutes ticked by, nobody made a move. I supposed they couldn’t. Not with the eyes of the town, and the media, on them. Instead, they all stood in that line – their heads bowed, their hands reverently clasped: the perfect mourners.
Unsurprisingly, Mark was the first to break.
‘The fucking nerve,’ I heard him growl.
‘Mark,’ my father warned, his head still bowed.
‘Don’t you fucking “Mark” me. How the fuck did your men let that piece of shit in here?’
I raised my head. Sure enough, Jarrah was standing in the long line of people waiting to pay their respects. He was staring right at us – defiant – perhaps even goadingly so. My friends were immediately behind him, and Dan’s eyes were scanning back and forth between Jarrah and the funeral party. It was almost like he could predict what was about to happen.
‘Mr Watson is a member of the town,’ my dad began. ‘He has as much of a right to be here as anyone else.’
‘You can’t seriously believe that, John,’ Peter interjected. ‘Not after what he did to her.’
‘Need I remind the both of you that he had an alibi.’
‘Just because he didn’t do the deed doesn’t mean he’s not fucking responsible,’ Mark seethed. ‘You know she never would have lashed out on that ghost train if it wasn’t for him.’
I could feel my face contort in bewilderment. What the hell were they talking about?
‘He’s right, John,’ Peter said. ‘He’s every bit as responsible as the carny, and you know it. This is a bad look for you, mate.’
My dad finally raised his head. ‘What the bloody hell do you expect me to do? Cuff him? Drag him out kicking and screaming? In front of the whole town? In front of the media? The fucker’s got clout now. He’s made a name for himself. He’s not some scared little kid any more. You can’t bloody bully him into submission this time.’
My eyes flicked to Michael and Sharon, who were still busy with the well-wishers. If the Williamses could hear the conversation behind them, they were pretending otherwise. One of the oldies from the show committee awkwardly wrapped her arms around Sharon. It looked like she was hugging a mannequin.
My dad appeared to have silenced Peter, but Mark was still going for the jugular.
‘What if this was your daughter’s funeral, huh? What if he had done it to her? Would you want that piece of shit here? Think about what this is doing to Michael and Sharon. Worst day of their fuckin’ lives and you’re making it even harder because you’re scared of some p*ofter.’
My dad went to open his mouth, but Mark continued.
‘You know what? Fuck you, John. If you haven’t got the balls to do something, then I will. I don’t give a shit if that fucker pulls the q*eer card. I’ll publish what he did. I’m not scared of him. It’s about time the artsy-fartsy cunts that support his work know what he’s really like. This pathetic little vendetta he has against this town ends today. I’ll make sure of it.’
Before my dad had a chance to reply, Mark was already walking towards Jarrah.
‘Oi, f*ggot!’ he shouted, spooking the long line of mourners.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ my father muttered under his breath.
‘Just remember, John,’ Peter smugly interjected. ‘You could have prevented this.’
There was a yelling match, but Mark was the one doing all the yelling. He was in Jarrah’s face almost immediately and, from my view next to the coffin, I could see his spittle shining in the sunlight as it sprayed from his mouth. It was like when he’d confronted me at the paper the night Lily had died. Just after I had mentioned the markings. That pure rage.
Jarrah seemed entirely unfazed.
My dad, on the other hand, was furious. He was still standing next to Peter and me, but I could tell that he was itching to go over and grab Mark by the scruff. His jawline was clenched – the veins in his neck bulging – and his hand was balled into a tight fist. I was surprised at how much restraint he was showing.
That all changed when Mark grabbed Jarrah by the suit collar. To the media’s cameras it would have looked entirely unprovoked, but everyone close by was able to see that Jarrah had whispered something. Something that had sent Mark into a blind rage.
My father ran towards them and I followed. I’d heard how they’d all spoken about Jarrah. I wanted to make sure that there was a witness close by. Especially after what had happened to Steve.
‘Get your hands off him, now,’ my father commanded.
Mark’s eyes swept from Jarrah to my dad. I could see that Jarrah was smiling smugly. Mark’s fingers tensed around the fabric of his jacket.
‘Mark,’ my father scolded.
Mark let go of Jarrah with a dramatic flick of his hands and let out a frustrated growl.
‘Huh,’ Jarrah said, addressing my dad while straightening his suit. ‘That’s funny. I didn’t hear anyone call “Sooey”.’
‘You really gonna let him talk to you like that, John?’ Mark snapped.
‘Need I remind the both of you that this is a private funeral and that you will conduct yourself in a respectful manner or face expulsion.’
‘I was just trying to pay my respects, officer,’ Jarrah said with faux sweetness, ‘when this Neanderthal brute came over and started hurling slurs at me.’
‘I’ll show you fucking slurs, you piece of shit,’ Mark said, raising his fist towards Jarrah.
‘Hey!’ I said, stepping between the two of them. My voice had come out louder than I’d intended, but it seemed to do the trick. All three men stared at me, shocked. Like they hadn’t realised I’d been standing there the whole time.
‘Stop it,’ I continued. ‘All of you.’
‘He’s the one who bloody started it, Lo!’ Jarrah protested.
‘I know. But I’m going to be the one to finish it.’ I turned to face Mark. ‘I don’t know what the fuck your problem with Jarrah is. But if the issue is him being here, then take it up with me. I was the one who invited him. He was friends with Lily. A better friend than I ever was.’
‘I fucking knew it,’ Mark said, shaking his head in disbelief.
My dad looked dumbfounded.
‘A fucking friend,’ Mark scoffed, before pointing at Jarrah. ‘Are you going to tell her, or am I?’
Every bit of smugness melted away from Jarrah’s face. He looked – scared.
‘Tell me what?’ I asked Jarrah.
He shook his head. He couldn’t look me in the eye.
‘Tell me what, Jarrah?’ I repeated.
CHAPTER 65
‘Mark,’ my father warned.
But Mark ignored him. ‘Last chance, Jarrah.’
Jarrah remained silent, staring at the ground.
Mark took a step towards me and leaned in, his breath caressing my skin. ‘Who the fuck do you think carved those markings in Lily’s back that you’re so goddamn obsessed with?’
The shock was like a blow to my head. Immediately, I spun around to face Jarrah but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at me. I turned to my dad.
‘He was the person you questioned?’ I asked. The day that Jarrah had given me the journals. The day that he’d sent me the text messages. He was alr
eady down here – in a fucking interview room at Warilla police station. ‘He was the one with the alibi for her time of death?’
My father stared into my eyes for a long time before finally nodding.
‘He might not have killed Lily himself,’ Mark seethed. ‘But he may as well have.’
‘That’s not true,’ Jarrah protested. His voice was small, shaky.
‘You mutilated her,’ Mark spat.
‘No. I – it wasn’t like that. I told him,’ he said, looking at my dad. ‘It wasn’t like that and you fucking know it!’
‘But you did it?’ I asked. ‘The carvings on her back. The ones that I saw the night she was killed. The ones that started all this? It was you?’
‘It doesn’t change anything that I’ve told you. I swear, Marlowe.’
His eyes were filling with tears. I felt like I was back on the Hurricane. Disoriented. Nauseous. Confused. I remembered how hard he’d pushed for me to not include the pictures of Lily’s back in my packages. The pictures of his carvings. I thought he’d been trying to protect me, but he was just protecting himself.
‘Everything I’ve told you is real; everything in the journals is real,’ he continued. ‘The cult – it’s them, Lo. It’s all of them. This town. It – it’s fucked.’
‘Poisoning someone else with your lies, are you, Mr Watson?’
All three of us spun around at the sound of Michael’s voice. I had no idea how long he and Peter had been standing there.
‘Michael, hey,’ my dad said, stepping towards him. ‘This isn’t for you to sort out – not today. Go back to Sharon. She needs you, mate.’
‘From the sounds of it, your daughter needs me more,’ he said, locking eyes with me.
My eyes darted between each of the men. I felt like I was drowning on dry land. Another wave of panic crashed over me.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ I pleaded.