by C. A. Larmer
Craig nods, then heads back into the house, looking for Ruth.
I could point him in the right direction. She is now back in Dad’s office, seated at his desk, staring at his computer, Kelly standing behind her.
They both have steaming mugs in hand like they’re on a tea break and are just checking their Twitter feed. Ruth’s cup smells suspiciously like liquorice. Someone has clearly found my mother’s stash of herbal tea and whipped up some refreshments. Mum never even drank herbal tea until I moved back home. Now she has peppermint and chamomile and sleepytime and, yes, of all flavours, liquorice. She says she bought them for me, but I know differently. I know they help her relax, and I am sad that I made her so tense.
Ruth brings the cup to her nose, smelling the aniseed. It used to make me gag, that smell, but she is breathing it in like it’s a blood transfusion.
“So what do you think?” Kelly asks, dabbing a peppermint tea bag in and out, in and out. It doesn’t really go with his whole surfer dude veneer.
“I think mischief is afoot,” is her cryptic reply.
“I hate to break it to you, boss, but it could just be suicide, you know? As boring as that is.”
“Nah,” says Ruth. “There’s something else going on here. I can smell it.”
Good, I think. Don’t let that herbal tea turn your brain to mush.
“You think they want us to think it was suicide?” says Kelly.
She shrugs. “I think they’re up to something.”
For the first time, I notice an object in Ruth’s other hand. It’s thin and white, and she’s tapping the keyboard with it. Tappity, tap, tap.
What is that?
Ah yes, the Qantas boarding pass I saw earlier tonight. Now that’s piqued my interest. Qantas is an international airline, right? That pass must be ancient. Unless it belongs to my wanderlust brother, the last overseas trip my parents took was a week in Vanuatu with us kids, over a decade ago. I was seventeen, just out of school, the boys in their twenties. So why has it suddenly reappeared? Has someone been reminiscing, I wonder?
“Maybe I’m overcomplicating things,” Ruth says now, and Kelly nods. He’s thought that since the beginning, hence all the eye rolling.
Blowing a puff of air through his lips, he says, “That post does kind of sum it up.”
They both stare back at the screen, and I try to follow their eyes, but that Facebook page still looks like a dog’s breakfast to me, all jumbled and messy.
If I’m following the rules correctly, and I think I am, it’s clear whoever posted something on that page does not want me to read it.
“Boss?” This is Craig, holding the evidence bag between a thumb and forefinger like it’s contaminated with faeces. Oh for goodness’ sake. It’s a fresh bag. It never even got close.
She looks up at it and scowls. “What did I tell you, Craig? We’re not vice.”
“This is related. I’m sure of it.”
Her eyes squint. “What?”
He names a drug that sounds a lot like a party upper to me, and her whole demeanour changes. She looks first excited, then, oddly, disappointed, and I wonder what’s disappointing her so much.
“Bugger it,” she says, sounding weary. “Where?”
“SOCOs found it in the pool toilet. In the cistern.”
“Of course they did. Got a name on it? Any clues who put it there.” He shakes his head. “Okay, get it back to them, and see if they can get prints.”
Kelly looks confused; he’s not keeping up. “You think someone tried to drug her first? Knock her out?”
Ruth’s not listening, she’s tapping a text into her phone, and I can read this one. (Thanks for throwing me a few scraps, Ruth!)
It’s for Michaelia, and it says, “Need tox results ASAP.”
Good idea, woman, and about time too. Let’s see who tried to drug me before they put a bullet in my head. It might help explain why my voice was slurring and why I was so shaky on my feet.
“Sounds like a bit of overkill to me,” comes a churlish tone by my side, and I swing around to find Neal hovering.
“Shouldn’t you be lurking in the dark where you belong?” I spit out.
“Just checking in.”
“Just eavesdropping on something that’s none of your business, you mean.”
“Still in a delightful mood I see.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask for this, okay? Why should I be happy?”
He looks to the heavens. “It’s going to be a very loooong night.”
Than he vanishes as quickly as he appeared, his snigger lingering after him.
Back inside, a phone is ringing again, its tone shrill and urgent. It’s funny the way phones sound more desperate the later the night gets.
It’s Craig’s ringtone—I recognise it from last time—and it’s coming from the kitchen where he left it. He takes off to retrieve it while Ruth and Kelly return to staring sullenly at Dad’s computer.
“They’re hiding something,” Ruth says apropos of nothing, and Kelly nods again.
He knows what she’s talking about this time, and he agrees there is something suspicious going on. I’m surprised he’s abandoned the suicide angle so quickly. Those drugs must be very telling.
“Reckon they’ll ’fess up?”
Not sure I want them to, Ruth thinks to herself, her lips remaining in a thin, grim line as she shrugs. “Probably not. Would you?”
That shakes me a bit. How can she say that? It’s her job to know, whether she wants to hear the truth or not.
Kelly appears to be on my wavelength because he says, “Doesn’t matter who they are, if they’ve had anything to do with this, we can throw the book at them.”
She nods, thinking, You’re so young, Kelly. That’s your problem.
“And you’re old and jaded!” I want to scream down to her. “Just do your freakin’ job!”
“Where did the brother go?” Ruth says now, her tone back to weary. “I guess we better get him in here for another chat, see if he can explain any of this.”
I don’t know exactly what she’s referring to—the drugs? The Facebook post?—but I do know where Paul is. I can see him right now, standing at the bottom of the driveway, hands on his hips, a smudge of black ink across his jeans.
He’s clearly waiting for someone, and whoever it is, he looks both terrified and furious. You can just imagine the state of his forehead!
While I watch Paul frown and sigh and continue massacring his lip, I hear the distant plucking of a guitar and the melancholy tones of Nick Drake. He’s singing about time and what it’s told him. Not to ask for more, by the sounds of things.
Gee, I could have told him that.
There’s another party going on, a more mournful one than mine.
The key players have shifted to Tessa’s house, and I wonder if I can shift across. My line of sight is like a circle rippling out from that front office where I died. My carcass may be gone, but that spot is clearly my anchor. I can’t seem to dislocate from it. Having said that, I can lean out, away from that bloodied carpet and across to the McGee’s where Roco’s and Leslie’s cars are now parked out the front.
Tessa’s place is just like ours, minus the fancy renovations. The gaudy pillars are still there and the ugly tangerine bricks, and there’s also an unkempt front lawn, which rarely find its way below a mower. My dad used to mow it when Tessa’s father first took off, then Peter and then Paul, and now, who knows? I guess Dad still wanders over and fires up the rusty old “pushie” whenever he finds the energy. Or maybe another neighbour has taken over, although not lately by the looks of it.
Inside, I can see Tessa’s mum, Tammie, sitting on the lumpy couch in the corner of their lounge room, looking like a child at a horror movie. Her eyes are wide, her lips are parted, her fingers trembling at her neck as she listens to Tessa’s retelling of my murder. She’s clearly just been dragged from bed as her dyed yellow hair is still smooched up from her pillow and her body cloaked in a terry-towel
ling dressing gown.
Beside her sits Una, and Roco is perched on the edge of a mismatched armchair, while Jonas and Leslie and Arabella all loll on the floor, looking dog-tired yet hyperactive. The adrenaline is clearly still flowing.
“The kettle’s boiled,” calls someone from the kitchen, and now I feel like I’m in a horror flick.
It’s Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome.
When did Vijay Singh get so firmly entrenched in my life? Or is it my death that has cemented his presence? They chorus out their thanks, and then Tessa’s mum staggers to her feet, taking orders. She’s been the caretaker for so long she goes on automatic pilot. Three hot chocolates, two green teas and a strong coffee, thanks.
It’s almost three in the morning, and everybody is enjoying a soothing cup of something while my body lies cold on a slab somewhere and a cold-blooded killer gets away with murder.
Why is no one thinking about that?
Why is no one worried that a madman is running loose? Someone who had the gall to take a gun and shoot me dead in the middle of a party?
As if reading my vibes, Arabella says, “Is anyone else feeling a little freaked? I mean, what if the killer is still around? What if he’s someone from the party?”
Tessa and Roco share a look, and Una stares at her boots.
“Oh don’t be so melodramatic,” says Jonas. “She obviously did this to herself. For God’s sake, you’re such a drama queen.” Then he frowns and adds, haughtily, “Anyway, why do you assume it’s a man?”
“I don’t. It’s just… well, guns are so violent aren’t they? They’re so male.”
“Nah, knives are much more violent,” says Leslie. “Guns are quite efficient, when you think about it. Quite detached. An ideal weapon for a woman. No need for strength, no need even for close proximity. Just a quick bang and they’re dead.”
Now all eyes are upon her, and Roco’s are blazing.
“What?” says Leslie. “I’m just saying.”
“Well don’t just say. Jesus, Les,” says Roco. “She was our friend!”
“I know,” says Leslie, while I think, er, actually Roco darling, I was your girlfriend. But what’s a name change between lovers?
I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of that. If what he says is true—and I’m pretty sure it’s not—when did we break up? And why would we do that? I don’t remember a single fight. Not one. So I guess it all comes back to Tessa.
“The police will work it all out,” she says now.
Again, I assume she’s talking to me until I hear Una think to herself, That’s what I’m worried about.
When I was twelve I broke my arm in a trampoline accident. Well, it wasn’t an accident so much as a really stupid mistake. Bored with the same old bouncy, bouncy, bounce, Tessa and I toppled the trampoline onto its side and then threw ourselves up and off it, kamikaze-style. I’m not sure why we thought that would be a good idea, but I ended up smashing into the legs and hearing my elbow crack against the rusty metal.
We were at Tessa’s place, and Mrs McGee went berserk, but I knew then, even at that age, that it wasn’t me she was worried about. It was her reputation as a mother. I had broken my arm on her watch.
I knew my parents would be cool with it. I knew they wouldn’t blame her one bit, but the way Tammie went on and on about how silly I was and how naughty and goodness didn’t I have more brains than that?
Tessa and I sniggered all the way to the hospital, me tensing at the rolling pain, Tessa rolling her eyes at her mother.
That’s kind of how everyone is acting tonight. Like my death is less about me and more about them. Is that what they’re all worried about? Is that what they’re hiding? The simple fact that I died on their watch and nobody was able to save me. They were too busy partying to protect their best friend. And now they all have to live with that. They have to front up to the police and my parents and whoever else bothers to ask and admit that I was shot in cold blood while they were laughing and drinking and splashing about or, in Arabella’s case, hooking up with God-knows-who in Peter’s old bed?
Or is it something else? Is it darker than that?
Do they have something to do with it? I wouldn’t have thought so once upon a time, but the way they’re all acting—including my brother who’s now pacing the street like he’s got a full bladder—well, all I can hear are alarm bells, folks, but nobody seems to have woken up to it yet.
Perhaps it’s time to get our thoughts straight. Perhaps it’s time for a recap. I know at least some of the cops (well, Kelly mostly) and at least one friend (yes, Jonas, I’m looking at you) are clinging to the suicide angle like a life raft, and who can blame them? The idea is a little too tempting to discount. It’s certainly the easiest option for everybody; gets them all off the hook. And if you think about it, logically it does make sense.
I did have antidepressants by my bedside. That has to be conceded. They did have my name on them. You don’t need to look.
I was forced to move home after losing my job, although why I lost it has yet to be explored; there has to be more to it than a few smashed cups.
And I may even have been dumped by my boyfriend while he slept with my BFF. (He’s denied me twice now, did you notice that?)
So, yes, there were a few reasons to be depressed, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t do that to my folks, and I’m confident those newfound drugs are giving Ruth, for one, something fresh to grab on to. She wants to know who hid them and why and what, if anything, they have to do with my death.
She also wants to know more about Vijay Singh and has just given belated instructions to Black Bob to look him up. I’m curious about him too, the way he’s ingratiated himself into my life, but I’m even more curious about my brother.
Paul has stopped wearing out the pavement and is now staring expectantly at a vehicle that’s crawling up our street like it’s a taxi and it’s lost.
Actually, I’m not far off. It’s an Uber. I can tell from the small sticker on the driver’s side of the rear windscreen, and I’m guessing it’s electric because it’s barely purring; so quiet in fact that no one inside notices, not even Door Bitch who’s chatting to someone at the end of the laneway.
I keep watching the car, intrigued as it comes to a stop in the middle of the road, just a few houses down. Who would turn up at this ungodly hour and in an electric-powered Uber at that? My parents wouldn’t even have the ridesharing app, let alone want to pay for one all the way from the Central West.
It must be someone else.
No, make that something else—a thick black something that is slipping out of the passenger side and now hovering towards my brother, the vehicle barely visible through all that black.
It looks like a mass of locusts, a shimmering evil splotch.
It sends another icy trickle down my spine.
I want to scream at Paul. I want to tell him to run and hide, but he does quite the opposite. He starts walking towards the car, then running, and is suddenly swallowed up inside all that ghastly black.
Chapter 14
After several terrifying minutes, Paul reappears, stepping out of the darkness and back under the streetlight, his face wet, his eyes red and puffy. His anger has dissolved, and he just looks, well, shattered.
“I know,” he mumbles, wiping a hand across his nose and slathering snot up his right cheek. “I can’t believe it either, but… but then how did it happen? How did she end up like that?”
He waits for a response, one that’s beyond my ears, but I know he’s getting his answer because the splotch is shimmering wildly while Paul shakes his head. There’s obviously a person hidden in that darkness, and I think I know who it is. Have you guessed yet? I just don’t understand the secrecy. I don’t understand any of this!
After a minute or so I hear Paul’s tone rise an octave. “So where is it then? What did you do with it?”
The smudge shimmers again, and Paul’s eyes glance up the driveway, towards the house.
�
��Are you mad? Why did you leave it there?” He stops, listens, snarls suddenly, his temper back at boiling point. “You bloody relax! This is a big deal. I don’t think you get that. We could end up in gaol, mate.” Silence then, “No… no!” Then, “Well who then?” and “Bullshit! There’s no way that happened!”
He is shaking his head and so am I. I may only have half the conversation, but it’s obvious they’re discussing the drugs Craig just found, and it’s clear they are somehow involved.
“Mr May! Is that you down there? Paul May?”
Paul swings around with a start. Constable Craig is standing halfway down the driveway, his eyes squinting at the shadow. “Is that… Is that your brother, Mr May?”
Paul releases a long sigh, then strides back towards the house while my oldest brother follows behind him, lost in his own ugly shadow.
“Nice of you to show up eventually, Peter!” I yell down at him. Pity you can’t hear me and pity you haven’t got the balls to show your face.
Then I turn my percolating anger towards the tunnel.
“What is going on?” I scream into the abyss. “Why is everybody hiding from me? Why all the secrets?”
The tunnel remains dark, infuriatingly silent.
Where is Deseree? Where is that dickhead Neal? Hell, I’ll take Emie if I have to! I just need some answers!
I take a deep breath. I exhale.
Calm down, Maisie, you’ve got this, says a voice in my head, a younger voice, yet it sounds a million years old. I take another breath, then I do the only thing I can do. I force myself to keep watching.
My treacherous brother is now hovering in the kitchen, an officer almost blacked out by his shadow, while Paul makes his way to the edge of the pool, looking like he wants to throw himself in. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He was never one for grand gestures or theatrics. Take it from me, his earlier outbursts were uncharacteristic.
Now he just stands there, wraps his arms around himself and looks constipated.