by B M Carroll
‘What I need to know from you, Mrs Harris, is who Jarrod’s enemies are. Does he have any clients who’re engaged in illegal activities? Has he recently fallen out with any circumspect friends? Has there been anything unusual about the past few weeks?’ The detective’s eyes are earnest. ‘I need total honesty here. If you know something, or even have a slight suspicion, I want to hear about it.’
Annabel leaves the hospital shortly afterwards. Her head is spinning. Someone planned to do this to Jarrod.
The traffic is relatively light and she is home in less than ten minutes. The house is quiet; Jemma must have gone out. Mia and Daniel aren’t due home from school for another hour. Annabel should have a shower, a decent meal, even a nap ... but the same urgency that drove her out of the hospital propels her to the study, where Jarrod keeps his business paperwork.
‘Did someone owe you money?’ she mutters, opening the drawers of the filing cabinet. ‘Or was it you who owed them?’
She scans each file, paying particular attention to recent correspondence, finding nothing. Some overdue amounts, yes, but nothing significant enough to warrant this kind of action.
If this wasn’t about the business, then what was it about? Annabel moves to the bedroom. She checks the pockets of Jarrod’s jeans and jackets, then his bedside drawer, where he tends to throw loose change and receipts.
The detective made blunt enquiries about Jarrod’s – and Annabel’s own – fidelity.
‘Is it possible this is a love affair gone wrong?’
‘No!’ Annabel cried. ‘I know he works long hours, but I’m pretty sure that’s all he’s been doing.’
She didn’t mention the message from Melissa. It was a photograph of a puppy, for God’s sake, hardly evidence of a raging love affair.
Then she remembered Zach, dishevelled and shaken, convinced that Jarrod’s accident was related in some way to the reunion.
‘There is something. A twenty-year school reunion. It’s been getting rather nasty ...’
The detective asked a torrent of questions: who was organising the reunion, had Jarrod been acting strangely about it, and the names and phone numbers of everyone who’d received messages.
But if this is really about the reunion, why didn’t Jarrod get an email or a note? He’d been the epicentre of all the boys at school, just like Annabel had been the epicentre of the girls. It sounds vain to say that everything revolved around both of them, but it’s true.
Annabel shuts the bedside drawer. She’s drawn to the window. The sky is blue and cloudless, yet something about the lighting makes the day seem overcast. Lack of sleep is tinting everything, even the sunlight. Jarrod’s van is parked on the grass verge, the front wheels turned slightly out, as though waiting for its owner to jump on board. Tom was kind enough to drive it back from the warehouse after the accident. Annabel wonders if the police will want to have a closer look at it, given their recent suspicions. Then she remembers: sometimes Jarrod leaves paperwork in the van.
She hurries downstairs, locates the keys, and almost runs outside, having no idea why she is suddenly in such a rush. She opens the passenger door and finds a considerable amount of paperwork lying on the seat. Invoices payable. Receipts. Electrical plans. Some of Mia’s drawings. Then a sheet of paper typed in an all-too-familiar format.
Name: Jarrod Harris
Highest achievement at school: Sports captain.
What you do now: Electrician. Self-employed.
Highlights of last twenty years: Been a hard slog, hasn’t it? Ever wondered if there would have been more ‘highlights’ with Melissa?
Lowlights: The day your own son punched you in the face? Or maybe it was the night he got wasted and beaten up in Manly?
Deepest fears: That Daniel will be the undoing of everything.
So, Jarrod received a note too and neglected to tell her about it. Annabel’s knees are shaking; she needs to sit down. She pulls herself into the van and curls forward, her head in her hands.
How on earth does this person know about the row in the restaurant? How do they know about Daniel getting beaten up? Everyone in school knew about Jarrod and Melissa, so no mystery there, yet this is where Annabel’s thoughts become snagged. Fucking Melissa. Why did she send Jarrod a photograph of her dog? What has been going on? Is Melissa, or Jarrod, trying to rewrite their story? Jarrod committed himself to Annabel and their unborn baby. He never once, in any argument or disagreement since, implied that he regretted his choice. But Annabel can’t help wondering if he would have been happier with Melissa. And would Annabel herself have been happier with someone else? How can she even ask these questions sitting outside their home, a house they built together, the place where they’ve reared their children?
Annabel wipes away her tears with the heel of her hand. She is overwrought and exhausted to the point of feeling ill. This is why she is sitting in her husband’s van having a breakdown, in full view of the neighbours. She will take a photo of the note and send it to the detective. First, she’ll go inside and at least have a shower before the children get home from school.
She turns to open the door and is startled by the sight of a face pressed against the glass.
‘Mum?’ It’s Jemma. She’s holding some grocery bags.
Annabel opens the door and swings herself down to the ground. She turns her head so Jemma won’t see her tear-streaked face.
‘What are you doing in Dad’s van?’ her daughter asks suspiciously.
Annabel waves the sheet of paper. ‘Finding evidence for the detective ... They suspect that the assault on your father was planned in advance.’
Jemma is visibly taken aback. ‘What? Can I see?’
Annabel hesitates, unsure if she should share this burden with her daughter, and even more unsure if she can cope with Jemma asking questions about Melissa. Jemma is aware that her conception wasn’t planned but has been led to believe it was a pleasant surprise, something her parents were thrilled about – once they’d got over the shock! Jemma may be technically an adult, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be deeply upset by the knowledge that Jarrod had been in a different relationship at the time, and the obvious truth that there had been no ‘pleasant surprise’.
‘Sorry, love. The police will probably want to take fingerprints. Best not to touch.’
‘I can read it without touching,’ she insists.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Annabel says, more harshly than intended.
She takes a few steps towards the house, in the hope that Jemma will follow and drop the issue. No such luck. The shopping bags are on the ground, her arms are folded; Jemma’s not budging.
‘Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?’
Annabel pauses and reconsiders. Jemma is nineteen going on twenty. She deserves some sort of explanation.
‘It’s to do with the reunion. You know how we were planning on having an updated yearbook?’ Jemma nods. Annabel has mentioned it before on several occasions. ‘Well, some of us had updates written for us, containing quite sensitive information. At the start it seemed like someone was playing a joke, but the messages got nastier and nastier. One of the avenues being investigated by the police is if your father’s assault has anything to do with the person writing the fake yearbook entries ...’
Jemma looks stunned, her mouth agape, and Annabel immediately regrets being so candid. Jemma is at that weird stage of life, an adult by law but still incredibly vulnerable and easily upset. Annabel was mother to a toddler at the age Jemma is now. Her heart breaks a little every time she thinks about her teenage self and how quickly her youth and vulnerability got left behind.
‘What happened to Dad has nothing to do with the yearbook entries ... The police need to look for the real culprit.’
Annabel takes a moment to process what her daughter has said, and another moment to hear – and question – the certainty in her tone.
‘The police are investigating a number of avenues, the reunion being one of them
,’ she reiterates. ‘Come on, let’s go inside and have a cup of tea.’
But once again, Jemma isn’t budging. She looks Annabel squarely in the face.
‘It was us, Mum. Me and Daniel.’
‘What?’
‘We were stoned one night and thought it would be funny. You’re always harping on about your school days, how you were school captain and super popular, so we thought we’d send you an “update” on how you’re doing today, bring you down to size ... It was incredibly immature, I’m sorry ...’
Annabel can feel her legs go from under her. Jemma’s words repeat themselves. Stoned. Popular. Immature. She grabs at the porch wall to steady herself.
‘No ... You couldn’t ... It’s not ...’
‘We did.’ Jemma is adamant. ‘It was us. Daniel and me.’
40
LUKE
Luke wakes to the sound of a child’s laughter. He has no idea where he is. It takes a few moments to find his bearings. Floral wallpaper. Light flooding through sheer yellow-tinged curtains. He’s in his childhood bedroom. He doesn’t have a hangover. The bed next to him is empty, which means Aaron is up and about. Downstairs having a natter with his father? Jesus, time to get up and rescue him before something unforgivable is said.
Luke stumbles to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, runs a rough hand through his hair. He looks like he has been out on the town, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The last few nights have followed the same pattern: a quiet dinner with his father before his eyes begin to droop, unable to fight the pull of sleep, and having to excuse himself for ‘an early night’. Luke can’t understand it. Never before has he so fully succumbed to jet lag. Must be years and years of it, catching up with him all at once. Or maybe it’s exactly what Aaron suggested when he convinced him to take this holiday: the toll of all those exhausting shifts without taking enough leave to recuperate. Whatever it is, jet lag or burnout, Luke has never slept so long or so soundly. What’s odd is that it’s happening here, in his father’s house, a place he associates with unrest and agitation.
There’s a strange woman in the kitchen when Luke goes downstairs. She has short hair and a familiar manner with his father, standing close to him as she sips from a mug. She says something and his father chuckles. If that’s not startling enough, there’s a child sitting under the kitchen table – a boy of about three or four years old – playing with toy cars, manoeuvring the vehicles around the legs of the chairs.
‘Luke.’ Tony spots him standing by the doorway. ‘Thought you might be dead up there. This is Maxine and Jed.’
Jed regards him curiously from underneath the table while his mother’s face creases with warmth. She puts down the mug, comes forward to greet Luke, grasping his hand in both of hers.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last.’
At last? How long has this woman featured in his father’s life, and in what capacity? She’s significantly younger than him, at least twenty years. She’s obviously a very nice woman. What the hell is she doing here, with the King of Grumps?
‘Your father is always talking about Luke this and Luke that ...’
Luke doubts this very much but is too polite to pull her up on it. Where’s Aaron? Luke needs him here to share in his incredulity.
‘Aaron’s gone for a walk,’ Tony says, anticipating the question. ‘He’s been up since the crack of dawn.’
Poor Aaron. While Luke has been clearing fourteen hours’ sleep, Aaron has been lucky to get six. Then again, he has plenty of sleep reserves to draw on, unlike Luke.
‘Cuppa?’ his father enquires, already on his way to refill the kettle.
‘Sure.’ Luke turns to Maxine and tries to make a joke of his confusion. ‘So, do you come here often?’
She throws back her head and laughs. ‘Often enough to be a nuisance.’ She points at Jed, who’s clambering out from under the table, presumably to take a closer look at Luke. ‘The problem is that this little fella has taken a strong liking to your father, and nags me all day long. Can we go and see Mr Willis? When can we go? Are we going now? I eventually give in, otherwise he’d drive me insane. We’ve tried to keep away the last few days, to give you all some space, but Jed has been pining, so here we are ...’
Since when has his father held such appeal for small children? Luke looks from Maxine to Jed, wondering if he’s still asleep and they’re the product of some weird dream that subverts reality.
‘Maxine and her partner moved into the Murphys’ place,’ Tony says, which explains a lot. It’s obvious that Maxine has made it her mission to befriend the cranky old man next door. She’s using Jed as a ruse, pretending that the child wants to come here.
Jed holds out one of his toy cars to Luke. ‘You can have the blue one,’ he declares solemnly.
Next he goes to Tony, and slips another car into the old man’s hand. ‘You can have the green one. It’s my favourite, but you can play with it today.’
His father reaches down to ruffle the child’s hair. There is such genuine affection in the gesture that Luke feels tears spring to his eyes.
‘It’s like he’s had a fucking personality transplant,’ Luke exclaims in disbelief. ‘Since when has he been so fucking welcoming to the neighbours? Since when is he someone who ruffles hair, for fuck’s sake?’
Luke and Aaron are at Dee Why Beach, towels spread out on the sand, their skin white from the European winter. Aaron turns over on to his side and gives him an amused stare through his sunglasses.
‘What are you complaining about, exactly? That your dad has become a nicer person? That he’s making new friendships with people of different ages? Would you prefer the grumpy, intolerant version, just so you can feel justified hating him?’
Aaron’s right. Luke’s been blindsided by this softer version of his father. He’s wary of him in the same way he’d be wary of a stranger. He doesn’t understand how he has materialised. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how to feel about him.
‘It’s too fucking late for him to become nice,’ he says petulantly.
Aaron laughs. ‘Now you’re being a moron!’
‘Fuck off,’ Luke retorts, and Aaron laughs again because he knows that’s what Luke says when he’s beaten.
Aaron turns on his back again, propping himself on his elbows, admiring the view. ‘Some panorama, eh?’
Once again, he’s right. The navy-coloured ocean. The whitewash from the waves. The tint of orange in the sand. Luke has travelled the world and nothing compares to this coastline. Beach after beach, headland after headland, all the way to the tip of the peninsula.
Aaron’s staring at the horizon now. ‘So Tony wasn’t a great dad. So he was harsh and a bit of a bastard at times. So he wasn’t cool about you being gay ... But that was over twenty years ago. It was a different world then, and he was a different man. He’s mellowed. The question is: are you willing to mellow too?’
‘I have a voicemail from a detective. What the fuck is going on?’
Luke is back at home, boxed in by the floral wallpaper of his bedroom, sunburnt after spending too long on the beach, and perplexed to have a missed call from a Detective Brien at Manly Police Station.
Katy sighs on the other end of the phone. ‘Yeah, I got a call too. Apparently, things have got more serious. The detective wants to talk to all of us together. I can pick you up, if you like. We could go for a drink afterwards?’
Luke still hasn’t seen Katy. They were meant to meet up on Wednesday night but he was too tired and texted her to cancel. He knows she would have been disappointed, hurt even, and so he grasps the chance to make it up to her.
‘Yeah, that’d be great. Aaron can hang out in Manly while we’re at the station.’ Aaron is presently having a shower and taking his time about it. Luke has a few more minutes to chat while he waits his turn. ‘So what’s been going on? How serious is it?’
Katy’s explanation is jumbled. Jarrod in a coma. Zach being threatened. Both Melissa and Grace have had intrude
rs? Luke finds it all rather fantastical and hard to follow. Maybe because he and Aaron went for some beers after the beach.
‘So, you’re basically saying I’ve come back for a reunion that’s been fucking cancelled?’
‘Sorry. You were in transit when this all blew up. Besides, you were overdue a visit home. How is Aaron enjoying it?’
‘Loving every minute.’ Luke yawns. ‘What time can you swing by and pick us up?’
‘About five thirty.’ Her voice catches. ‘I can’t wait to see you ...’
‘Me too ... See you then.’
As though on cue, Aaron walks into the bedroom, towel around his waist. His hair is wet and beads of water glisten on his shoulders. He has the beginnings of a tan.
‘It’s all yours,’ he says.
‘About fucking time,’ Luke grumbles, flouncing out of the room.
The bathroom is like his bedroom: a time warp. Cream tiles with a floral border. An old-fashioned shower, complete with plastic base and mildewy shower curtain. Pale pink enamel toilet and sink. The height of chic in its day, a long time ago, before Luke was born.
‘I love the house,’ Aaron declared this afternoon, at one of the trendy new bars on the promenade. ‘It’s very retro.’
Aaron seems determined to love everything about Sydney. The beaches, the lifestyle, even the fucking house. His enthusiasm is downright irritating.
Luke runs the shower on the cool side, in an attempt to wake himself up. That damned tiredness again. The house is sapping him. He’s drying off when he hears it for the second time that day. The sound of a child’s laughter. He goes to the frosted window, its top panel propped open to let out steam. Jed is playing in the garden next door, running along, pulling some sort of basic kite. Maxine is standing on the deck watching him, smiling, calling out, ‘Careful ... Don’t tangle it.’
Someone joins her on the deck. Another woman, maybe a few years younger. She puts her arm around Maxine and draws her close. Kisses her on the lips in an unmistakably sensual manner. Luke does a double take.
Fucking hell. He’s in a dream. This whole day has been one long weird fucking dream.