But now it was too immediate, too pressing. Just being in the night was what mattered.
It was 9:52 when I reached Rastin Street and pulled up in front of 14B, parking far enough from the side gate and Gemma’s front door not to seem too obvious to curious neighbours. There were no lights. She hadn’t arrived home yet.
I sat quietly, watching insects flickering about the streetlights, watching every car that crossed the part of Summerland Way that I could see.
Ten o’clock came, ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. I got out of the car and walked up to the corner, stood watching the stretch of highway that curved over its hillside to the right, that led around to the centre of town on the left.
Then it occurred to me. What if she were inside, resting or something, waiting for me to arrive? People listened to music in darkness, dozed off in baths after a busy work shift.
It wasn’t going to happen.
That was it: she might be dozing. Or maybe it was another test of my resolve. I hadn’t knocked.
I hurried back to the gate and mounted the steps, just as I’d done on Friday night. I was about to use the little brass knocker when I saw the sprig of gumnuts stuck through it.
Gumnuts! A mamuthone here! What did it mean?
I threw the sprig aside, rapped hard with the knocker, stopping only when a dog began barking close by and a light came on in an adjacent house.
Crazy thoughts rushed through my mind, all improbable, all possible: Gemma lying unconscious beyond the door, Gemma abducted by Sardinian clowns, mamuthones, charontes. Simpler things: Gemma delayed at work, drinking with friends. Gemma put off by something Carlo or one of the others had said.
Or maybe Carlo hadn’t said enough, hadn’t told me something of key importance for this meeting. Though how would Gemma know? I recalled Raina’s words about Gemma having a mobile phone: ‘She does but I can never remember the number.’ All very convenient.
I smiled ruefully as I crossed to the car, started the engine and drove back to Starbreak Fell.
She might be waiting at my own front gate, I told myself, or sitting in the swing at Sellen Road, a fitting resolution to another tease, a blessed reprieve from loss and denial.
Fooled you!
So I took the back road just in case, driving slowly, love’s fool, love’s beggar once again. Or, rather, telling it like it was: lust’s beggar, desire’s beggar, allowing whatever emotion it might be. Having. Possessing Gemma Ewins. Some projected version of her. And simpler yet. Having someone.
I swung briefly into Sellen Road, just far enough so the headlights showed that the swing was empty, then quickly reversed and drove on, finally reached my front gate. Again there was nothing. No note, no gumnuts in the mailbox, not this time.
Perhaps the gumnuts in the knocker at Rastin Street had been a message for Gemma, not from her. Perhaps I really had been on the outskirts all this time.
I drove over the hillside, steadfastly ignoring the forest, belatedly refusing to play any longer. The routines became comforting, the constancy they brought: locking the car, reconnecting the lead to the cattle fence, latching the gate to the terrace behind me.
The illusion was quickly shattered when I went to open the back door. A gumnut sprig was stuck in the knocker, just like at Gemma’s.
Easy to do, I told myself. Just drive over the hill and stick it there. Seeing one costumed mamuthone would do the rest. Same with the Iackhos cries and the troika bells earlier. Two people could have done it. No need to be costumed and masked, just run with the bells.
I threw the sprig aside and checked the door. It was locked. I let myself in, immediately checked the other doors and windows, satisfied myself that the house was secure.
Then I made a pot of tea, sat at the kitchen table wondering what to do.
At 11:17 the phone rang. Of course.
I snatched up the handset. ‘Hello?’
‘David?’
‘Gemma?’ It was hard to know what I felt, but relief, definitely that.
‘I’ve just got in. I’m sorry. Melanie cut her hand on a beer glass. I had to take her to Emergency. I didn’t have your mobile number.’
‘I don’t have one,’ I said. ‘Is it too late to come over? Or you come over here. I make a great late supper.’
‘Not now. Not tonight. It really took it out of me. What about tomorrow night?’
‘What time?’
‘I’m on a medium late. I’ll be home by nine at the latest.’
‘Barring accidents.’
‘Right. Barring accidents.’ I imagined the smile.
‘Your place or here?’
‘Here if that’s okay. I’ll be here, I promise.’
So much for my resolve. I grinned at my latest reward. ‘See you at 9:15,’ I said.
‘Thanks, David. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
At least now I could rest. The promise was there, the sense that it was genuine. Of course these things happened: people being delayed, colleagues being injured. It was easy to give one more chance.
I checked the doors and windows again and prepared for bed, relishing the feelings of relief and renewed excitement. Again, yet again, there was something to look forward to, possibly all planned on Gemma’s part, but even that was allowable. It would be Monday night.
Perhaps it was a dream again or some primal part of my brain summoning, but I woke in darkness and knew that Madame had returned. I lay listening to the house and just knew.
Perhaps it was the lightest brrrrr of castors on polished boards that woke me, or the slightest eet of one of her bodice wheels shifting as she listened at the door. There was only the night silence that followed whatever it was: the chirrup of crickets, the flutter of breeze against the insect screens, but I was sure of it.
She was standing in darkness close by, her panels shifting, breathing, her form hidden but for the worn tips of her breasts, the barest glint of her neck plate.
The symptoms were there immediately, narrowing my world, the familiar panic and pressures, the overwhelming dread. No hope of sleeping now. I had to see, had to know.
I slipped out of bed, quickly dressed, and went to the door. Light was the answer. Vanquishing light that made things stark and comical, that reduced most horrors to silly commonplaces.
First the bedroom lights, bedside and overhead; then, while I could still manage it, I snatched open the bedroom door.
Would she be there, vengeful and furious?
You betrayed me, Davey. Left me with strangers!
I did manage it, more because I feared what would happen if I didn’t act quickly, the total shut-down.
The hall seemed empty. There were just dim shapes, shadows in shadows. I switched on the light. Sweet nothing.
The study next. Light on. Cluttered but empty.
The storage room had been her domain. I’d leave it till last.
I checked the bathroom and the toilet; then it was on to the kitchen and the living room. Lights everywhere.
Come find me, Davey! You’re on a roll. (Pun intended.)
The sunroom and the second bedroom were set ablaze, even the veranda.
The house glowed like a carnival funhouse before all the marks went home.
No sign of her. Nothing.
There was only the storeroom.
I took the key from the hook in the kitchen and guided it into the lock, turned it and opened the door, immediately reaching for the light switch.
The room was empty. There was nothing.
Literally nothing!
All the furniture, all the Rankins’ things, was gone.
CHAPTER 16
I stared in shock, utter disbelief. Everything had been taken! There were just polished floorboards, the curtains drawn over the windows. It was impossible.
Then the lights went out.
A trap. I should have known.
I stood just inside the doorway and listened, sweat prickling on my forehead, heart pounding, breathing ragged, a h
eadache gripping my skull.
Someone was doing this. Madame had no arms! Someone had to be involved.
I listened, desperately tried over torn breathing and pounding heart.
Then it came.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Short and hard. Castors on polished boards.
She was out there! They were out there! Whoever was moving her along. Whoever had shut off the power and emptied the room.
She had no arms!
But I couldn’t flee, barely managed to snatch the key from the lock, slam the storeroom door shut and lock it from the inside.
The house had fallen to the clowns and mannequins, all but this one room, this impossibly empty room.
I stood at the door, listening, running the mantras, preparing as best I could. Five, ten minutes went by, or maybe only two or three. Time was fractured. But I was safe. I could wait. I could stay right here till morning.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!
I was sure I heard it, but how could I know? There was so much David noise, so much panic. It was cartoon comical when I thought about it, slapstick absurd, a figure on castors rolling along, out there among my things.
A deeper fury prevailed.
Not Madame Sew. Someone. The mamuthone impersonator triggering my fear, using my fear!
I felt I had only seconds before I crossed some critical demarcation, went into catatonic shut-down like in the old days, the pre-Jack, pre-Julia days when it had all been too much. I fumbled with the key, pulled back the door, and plunged into the hallway with a yell. It was utter farce, yelling at the bogeyman, shouting at the devil, but it’s what I did.
There was nothing, no-one to see, just terrifying darkness.
The switchbox was in the laundry to the left of the back door. I ran for it, suddenly aware I’d left my wallet and keys by the bed.
No matter. First things first. Light and reason.
I unlocked the back door, fumbling badly, expecting a hand on my shoulder or—worse!—the nudge of worn breasts against my back. Davey, you bad boy. But the lock turned, the door pulled back and I was outside and in the laundry, with more fumbling as I searched in the dark for the switch box, aware there might be spiders, even snakes nearby, but keenly aware of losing precious time. I ran my hands over brick, then felt hard cool metal. I found the latch, pulled back the cover and ran my fingers along the line of fuses, felt the main switch and threw it.
Behind me, the house blazed again.
The devil was a comedian. For a moment I had the slapstick notion of me throwing the switch and hurrying inside, and my late-night prankster switching it off again behind me, plunging us into darkness, then me rushing back to restore light, on and on. But I dared not delay because of that. Someone was in there. Someone other than the good lady.
I switched on the laundry light and looked round for something I could use, grabbed one of the Rankins’ brooms and headed for the back door.
It was shut and locked.
She had no arms!
That wouldn’t stop me. I still had the spare key from under the rock in my pocket. With a shaking hand I guided it into the lock.
How long had it taken? Only a few minutes surely.
Then I was in the rear hall, the kitchen, heading for my bedroom. Wallet and keys first. Somehow that was important, securing the fragmenting identity.
Then I was outside the storeroom, aware it shouldn’t be locked, that just a turn of the handle would do it, show me what? Everything restored, back in their places? That would be the worst outcome, proof of madness.
I was close to shutting down. The headache was pounding, drumming, hammering away; it was all catching up.
Again I did it with a yell, turned and flung the door wide so it banged into the wall. Another time I might have laughed. Some ninja I’d make.
A single shrouded shape stood in the middle of the room.
Nothing else. Just the one draped figure: Madame covered with her sheet.
Her handler had been busy, had done it all in minutes, seconds: moving her, setting this up.
It was nearly done. I was nearly through it. If I could manage—if I could overcome the dread enough to do it—pull the sheet away—it would be over.
But that. Doing that.
I was hurting, sweating. My hands were shaking.
Just a sheet, Davey. Just one sheet.
I stared at the shrouded form.
Come on, Davey boy, strip me! You want to. After what Gemma did. What Zoe did. Take it out on me!
I set down my broom and seized the edge of the sheet with both hands. When I pulled it away, she would either topple or come trundling forward, but it was no time for delicacy. Better to have her fall.
Ooh, yes, Davey. I’ve been a bad girl. Fling me down! Have your way with me!
I whipped away the sheet. Madame fell as I expected, slammed hard against the floor and shattered.
Shattered!
It was shocking. Bits of her flew everywhere: panels, fittings, clips and screws, the little white wheels, her breasts and panels.
All covered in blood!
She had been dismantled—mutilated!—and left standing here. Someone had torn her apart, bloodied her, then reassembled her for this moment.
See. All this time you misjudged me. I’m a victim too!
But kept her where?
The room had been empty. Empty! Where could you keep something like this, stinking of blood, without it smelling, drawing attention? I’d locked the doors to the veranda. There were security lock-pins in all the windows. Even the second bedroom’s sliding door onto the yard at the northern end was double locked and had a length of dowel in the slide track.
Under the house? And brought in how? There would have to be a trapdoor.
Or overhead? Kept her in an attic space. That was possible.
But simplest of all was the duplicate back door key. So easy. The Catleys might have one. Raina might. It made sense.
The locks would be changed. After this, yes. The crawlspace below, the attic above would all be checked. But tomorrow, in sunlight.
I made sure that the back door was locked. There was no chain or security latch, so I dragged in a lounge chair to push against it. After checking the rest of the locks and latches, I fetched garbage bags, put on kitchen gloves, and began bagging Madame’s remains.
Oh Davey. So intimate so late. Be gentle with me! I’ve had a rough night too.
Piece by bloody piece I kept at it. The pole and base went in last and I knotted the plastic ties around the shaft. Then I brought in warm soapy water and began cleaning the boards of any blood residue.
Where were the other things from the room? Probably out in the garage, stowed there while I was away from Starbreak Fell. Another key, another lock to be changed.
It was 1:42 when I finally dropped the bagged bits of Madame Sew over the veranda rail, 2:25 before I managed to convince myself that, yes, the house was truly mine again.
PART THREE
‘Confused, our eyes look after what has disappeared; for what they see has been raised as from a depression into golden light, so full and green, so amply alive, immeasurable and full of yearning.’
—Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy
CHAPTER 17
Waiting for Carlo and Tomaso at the forest edge on that hot still morning just reinforced the sense of déjà-vu. The plumes were on the hills; the summer air was tinged with the smell of wood-smoke. The anger and disappointment, the resentment at being played, the sheer terror of the night before, were all vividly familiar, and just reinforced the sense of it all being a dream, a fever dream—no, a midsummer dream waiting only for darkness to make it complete.
I could leave. I could throw it all in and drive down to Sydney, even if only for a few days, a week, see my parents and Jack, see Mick and Jeremy, even Julia and Mark, just get perspective. Maybe give it up completely.
But too much—as well as too little—was happening. It was all part of some intende
d dramatic effect: the gumnuts, the mamuthone on the hillside, the Iackhos cries, Madame Sew’s mutilation. And Gemma not being there: a deliberate tease, it had to be.
These things gave a sinister edge to the day, darkened everything. Perhaps Gemma had been the one under the mamuthone mask. Perhaps Zoe. Staging a clown courtship! Haunting the neighbourhood at this time of year.
Haunting the neighbour.
It did feel like something staged for me. With Madame Sew’s return there was no escaping that conviction. Someone had planned and carried out the whole thing.
But I needed perspective there as well. It may not have been David-specific at all, as unlikely as that seemed. Mannequins and sewing dummies were obvious extensions of clowns, puppets and masked figures for others too, were as universal—and as universally frightening—as I’d always expected them to be in my phobic meditations, as I’d stated in the draft article shown to Carlo.
Yes, perspective was vital, especially now. The camera is always on us, I reminded myself as I gazed out at the day. More to the point, we were the camera, each one of us, always making the realities we lived. A coulrophobe’s chronic self-absorption could make me fortune’s fool so easily. I had to allow that I was actually on the fringe, an outsider privy only to bits and pieces of a progress intended for others, carrying out whatever small duties had been allotted.
Perhaps it was something between Carlo and Tomaso, a much older issue, though I’d sensed none of it at the party. Perhaps it was between Raina and Gemma—or Gemma and Zoe. Perhaps tomorrow I’d learn that Gemma was not only schizophrenic but that rarest of things, one with multiple personalities. Or she’d be Carlo’s illegitimate daughter, with all this part of some kinship and inheritance dispute, something safely sordid and ordinary. Yes, and with Zoe as the disgruntled half-sister or some such thing.
But who to ask about any of this? The Catleys? They could be part of it for all I knew. Len had phoned to say Madame had gone missing, when all the time she could have been in the back of his car ready to be brought over, bloodied and put in place by his conspirator sons. Len and May did errands for the Rankins. They could have house keys, could be called on to do special duties. They might even have known about the spare house key hidden at the end of the terrace.
Clowns At Midnight Page 22