by C. A. Larmer
Meanwhile, Craig is back at the office door, his face flushed like a preschooler with the best show-and-tell. Ever.
“Two quick things, ma’am,” he tells Ruth, his words tumbling on top of each other. “We’ve located the second brother, the one that went missing. Peter May.” He pauses, sucks in some air. “He’s in the kitchen now. SOCOs are taking prints.”
Ruth barely glances up from the screen she’s been studying. She’s not so impressed. “I hope you separated them,” she mumbles. “The brothers, I mean.” Then she darts her eyes at Craig. “Please tell me you did that.”
He nods gleefully; he’s not as green as he looks.
“And the second thing?”
His glee turns psychotic. “We’ve also found the parents! Just spoke with my mate in Dubbo. They’re on their way back. Halfway home.”
“Already?”
“Yes! Somebody must have got word to them or something because they’re only a few hours away.”
“Well done, Craig,” she says, but he doesn’t get any gold stars on his forehead from me.
Una was obviously the person who got through to my folks; we already know that. One of her earlier texts must have forced them out of their cosy slumber and onto the highway. By the time she’d finally spoken to Dad, I’m guessing they were well on their way back. Or at least that’s what it sounds like.
“Explains why the Dubbo crew couldn’t find them, I guess,” says Craig.
“I guess,” she says. “That’s a relief.”
I’m more worried about myself, to be honest. I know that sounds selfish and I’m glad my parents are returning, but I’m not sure I have the strength to hang around and watch it all unfold. I might be dead, but I’m still human.
Do I really need to see the two people I love most deal with my murder and its aftermath? Is that what Forever wants to inflict upon me?
Am I in hell? Is that it? Did I bring this upon myself? Do I deserve to watch their misery while others get to cross over quietly and move on to the afterlife?
I already told you, I know how this will play out.
I know my mother will be distraught and my father stony-faced and silent. But I can’t help feeling there’ll be some guilt in the mix, and I’m not sure I understand why. And what of my brothers? Will Peter ever show his face to me again?
Why does he feel the need to mask himself? What is he hiding?
Perhaps it’s time to shine a light on Pete. We’re highlighting all the potential suspects, so why should he miss out? He’s acting the dodgiest of all.
You haven’t met Peter yet, at least not properly. You haven’t seen his face. He’s a good-looking man, always was the better looking of the brothers. I wonder if that’s why Paul decided to marry the first girl he met because he never expected to do any better and why Pete can’t help but splash his good looks about, knowing it won’t last.
He was such a party boy, too, our Pete. Went through a terribly rebellious stage, expelled from one school and caught twice with Ecstasy, once at a music festival, another time while underage at a nightclub. Dad wanted to ship him off to Gramps, stick him in the middle of nowhere and give him a wake-up call, but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. She needed him close. Hugs and home cooking, remember? They were her remedy. And, like the topic of Nevercloud, Pete’s antics became a thorn in their already prickly relationship.
They argued over it so often I grew to despise my brother, and I remember bursting into his room one day, waking him from a deep sleep, and demanding he stop being such a knucklehead. I was probably about ten, so you’ll forgive the lingo.
“You’re ruining everything!” I said, my voice low, lest I set off another parental argument. “You need to start being a bit nicer, please.”
“Oh piss off, Maisie,” was his only response before he turned over and hid beneath his duvet.
That’s when I set about trying to save him. I watched shows where naughty kids were sent away to be straightened out by stern strangers, and I picked up brochures on schizophrenia and ADHD and behavioural management “issues.” I didn’t have the slightest clue what was wrong with Peter; I just needed it to be fixed. I knew if I could somehow solve it, everything would be fine again. We could all go back to normal; Mum and Dad would have one less thing to fight about.
And then somehow, irrespective of all that, it fixed itself. Pete stumbled into the stock market and found he had a knack, and the next thing you know he’s climbing the corporate ladder and straightening himself out, then getting a job in London and moving away entirely.
But now I have to wonder about those drugs the SOCOs found stashed down the toilet and whether they belonged to Pete.
Is he back to his old tricks? Or has he never stopped?
More importantly, did I catch him with the drugs and go ballistic. Perhaps I had flashbacks of that awful time when we were kids, perhaps I didn’t “piss off” this time and let him get away with it. Perhaps, this time, it set off a violent argument.
I know it all sounds so ridiculous—my brother wouldn’t shoot me, surely?—but he has a history of drug use and he’s the one who fled the scene before my body was discovered. He’s also the one who hid for hours not answering his mobile. And he’s the one—the only one—who cannot bring himself to show me his face.
Una may be hiding her words, but it’s Peter who’s acting like a killer.
Chapter 15
“Stop it, you’re killing me.”
This is Tessa, and she doesn’t sound at all threatened. She’s whispering to Roco, a sneaky smile on her lips, yet unlike others, she’s clearly happy for me to listen in.
Is she being cruel or just inconsiderate?
They’re at the back door of her house now, cigarettes in hand, and all he’s doing is looking at her. Just staring straight at her while she blushes crimson under his gaze. And I can’t quite bring myself to blame her. It’s like his eyes contain a hundred volts of electricity that’s zinging off her and back again.
I can feel the zap from up here—can you feel it? For the first time in my life I understand chemistry. Wow, they really do have something, don’t they? I never realised.
How long did they feel it? Have they been hiding it from me? Or have they already acted upon it, the surge too strong to resist?
“You got the message?” he says, and her face crumples a little.
“You know I did.”
“What do you think?”
Her eyes slide away, and she stares down at her cigarette. “I think it feels like a betrayal.”
“But Maisie—”
“I think Maisie would be gutted if she were here now, Roco. I think it’s a tense time. I don’t think anyone’s thinking straight.”
She’s looking at him now, and he’s nodding as he drags on his smoke. He exhales and says, “We’ll wait a bit then.”
Sure you will, I think. I’ll give you a day or two before you’re ripping each other’s clothes off. I know I should still be jealous, bursting with recriminations and rage, yet this seems so inevitable, like my death is the only holdup.
A burst of giggling erupts from inside. It’s Leslie, flirting with Jonas again.
“Want me to get rid of the others?” he says, his thick eyebrows shooting up and down, and Tessa is looking at him sideways again.
“It’s not going to happen, Roco. At least not tonight.”
Now he blushes, and I wish it was from a smack across the face. It might all be inevitable, but I’m not even in the ground yet, mate.
As if overhearing me, he says, “I’m not talking about that… Jesus, Tess.” He sweeps a hand through his hair, looks sheepish. “I just mean, well, how annoying is Leslie tonight? And Jonas. What a dickhead.”
“I thought he was your new bromance.”
“Was, until I realised he was a wanker. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs, drags on her cigarette. “Most people work it out eventually.” She blows out a plume of smoke. “What made you twig?�
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“Something he said the other day, something about Maisie.” He sniffs. “About why they never stuck. He’s a prick.”
Not that you can talk, Roco darling, I think.
She nods. “Yep, the king of them.”
“You gonna warn Leslie off? She’s obviously got the hots for ‘Hottie’.”
Tessa’s eyes squint, and it’s not from the smoke. “I thought Leslie was annoying you tonight.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t deserve him. No one does.”
Then Tessa nods vigorously like they’re talking about Ted Bundy.
I haven’t got time to keep listening or even digest what it is they’re discussing because I am drawn back home, back to the pool where some splashing has started up.
Paul is now dangling his naked feet in the water, kicking them up and down like a toddler might, and someone is sitting beside him, her legs scrunched up into her chest watching him. It’s Paul’s wife, Jan. When did she show up?
“I’m gonna miss her,” says Paul, “as infuriating as she could be.”
Jan smiles sadly. “Me too, even though she couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
“She liked you!” he rails, but we both know that’s not true.
We all know I wasn’t Jan’s biggest fan. I found her a bit much.
My brother is married to the nicest woman in the world. On paper. She’s all smiley and earth motherly and stuff, but it’s those exact same traits that make you want to smack her across the mouth. And she’s boring. Breathtakingly, unforgivably dull. Like I said before, she has no career to speak of, and the way she rabbits on and on about those kids, like no one’s ever reproduced before and isn’t she a champion? Well, that crap wears thin very quickly when you don’t have kids, I can tell you that. But for the most part, we got along fine and I know she adores my lump of a brother. I know that much. So why did she make my skin crawl?
My mother always said I loved my big brothers too much to ever accept a woman in their lives, and it was certainly not an issue I had to worry about with Peter—as you know, he had scores of women, but they never lasted long enough to get to home base.
Paul only ever had Jan.
Is that why I disliked her, I wonder now? Because she lassoed my brother before he had a chance to live his life? Or was it because she dragged him away from me and our games of hide-and-seek?
“We should’ve put her up,” says Jan now, peeling her sandals off and dipping her toes tentatively into the water. “We should have insisted she come live with us.”
Paul looks incredulous at that. “I thought you didn’t want to.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t think it’d be fair to the kids, and God knows we don’t have the space, but now…” She sighs. “Maybe if we had.”
“Maybe she’d have a bullet through her head in our living room! In front of our kids!”
Jan shudders. “You think? Really?” Then she frowns, swallows, turns to face him. “You didn’t have anything to do with…” She falters. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
His jaw drops; he looks outraged.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, “it’s just the way you and Peter were talking the other night… I… I thought.”
“No! Never! I couldn’t! I wouldn’t. I’m not like that!” And then, glancing around, he drops his voice and says, “You didn’t say anything to the cops, did you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
“Because I didn’t.”
“What about Peter?”
He clenches his lips shut.
“Paul?” she says, horrified.
“I don’t know, honey, I honestly don’t know. But I didn’t! You have to believe me.”
“I do believe you,” she whispers. She bumps his shoulder with her own and then says something rather curious. “You don’t have the guts, my love.”
He looks at her again, but he’s less outraged now than wounded. He looks like he’s just been stabbed through the heart.
I remember the exact moment when Paul and Jan skipped into the lounge room and told my parents they were getting hitched. I was just thirteen, and I was bitterly disappointed. It was a Saturday evening, and we were halfway through that Ben Stiller movie There’s Something About Mary. You know the one where Cameron Diaz plays a character we’re all supposed to adore but I always thought was ditzy and annoying? So I wasn’t too perturbed when Paul burst into the room, grabbed the remote control, and pressed the Pause button.
“We’re engaged!” he said, holding Jan’s ring finger up as evidence while she tittered and blushed beside him.
I remember drawing in breath and darting my eyes to my parents, expecting fireworks and not of the good kind, but that didn’t happen. My mother jumped up and swept Jan into a hug, and my father pumped Paul’s fist as though he was the lucky bastard who’d just scored Cameron Diaz!
Paul was nineteen. Jan his first and only girlfriend. How could they want that for him? How could anyone? I was young, but even then I suspected he was giving up so much. Unlike our rebellious older brother, Paul hadn’t done anything remotely interesting, and now he was about to get married? I was overwhelmed with sadness. But I was brought up properly, so I feigned delight and jumped up and offered my own hugs.
It was only later, after the happy couple had dashed off to the share the news down at the local pub, that I asked Mum about it. I fully expected the mask to drop and the truth to come out. I expected words like “too young” and “wild oats” and “we have to put a stop to this nonsense!”
Except she was even more gushing. “Oh it’s so wonderful, so fantastic! I couldn’t be happier!” And she actually sounded sincere.
“But Jan’s so boring,” I wailed. “And… and I thought he’d travel and stuff.”
“They can still travel, darling, they’re not getting locked up.” She laughed, and then her smile straightened a little and she added, “Jan may seem boring to you, darling, but she’ll be good for Paul; she’ll take care of him. And that’s what Paul needs. She’s perfect.”
Really? I understood the sentiment, but wasn’t it Peter who needed a caretaker not the boring middle brother? Paul didn’t look like he’d ever get up to any kind of mischief. He was already good. He was better than good; he was as boring as Jan.
I didn’t understand any of it at the time, but over the years, as I heard stories of Paul losing his wallet and locking his keys in the car and being useless with the household budget and the washing and cooking, all told with peels of laughter from the “better half,” I started to comprehend.
Paul didn’t score himself a bride so much as a babysitter. It wasn’t that he’d found the perfect match. He’d just found someone willing and able to run his life and, failing that, rescue him when required. And I don’t know why that irked me so much because, as I said before, I could see the value in a babysitter, at least I could for Peter.
So why couldn’t I be happy for them?
It seems to me there are two types of people in this world—those who wave their hands in rough seas and those who dive in to save them. I know it’s hard to picture now, but I used to be the latter.
It’s the reason I rescued stray animals and took a job as a personal assistant and stayed friends with Tessa despite everything. I know my mother likes to repeat that story of her rescuing me at the age of four, but the truth is I rescued her right back. I know it’s a corny line from another Hollywood flick, but I paid my dues over and over with Tessa. She wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but I stuck by her side. She went through a bulimic phase, but I pulled her through, sticking to her like glue until I knew every meal had been properly digested (that’s a lot of loitering outside toilet cubicles, folks!). When her dad cleared out, I practically moved into her bedroom until she could get through the night without bawling. I did the same when her first love tore her heart to shreds and when she didn’t get the university entrance score she was expecting and when she got fired from that crappy job she couldn�
��t stand but which still seemed to cut her like a knife.
Tessa was always the more vulnerable of the two of us, and I know now that’s why my mother would tell that silly little story of Tessa pulling me out from behind the paint stand. It was about boosting Tessa’s self-esteem, not undermining mine. My mother was a rescuer too, and she rescued Tessa almost as often as I did (why else would she let me sleep at another girl’s house so often?).
And I guess that’s why Mum welcomed Jan into our life, because now she wouldn’t need to look out for Paul quite so much. At least one son had his own lifeguard. Pity about the other.
But all this has got me thinking, and no doubt you’re wondering the same thing. When did I switch from the lifeguard to the one madly waving? When did I morph back into the girl behind the easel? When did I become so needy that so many people just assumed I’d put a gun to my head and pull the trigger?
I think about my job now. The one I lost six months ago. Was that the catalyst?
I’ve been avoiding this subject—I know I have—but perhaps it’s time to ’fess up. I told you I was a PA and that I really loved the role, so why did I leave? Why did I do that?
Because, dear reader, twelve months before that, I began to let the balls drop.
It all started with a missing client file—I still can’t imagine where I filed it—that was punctuated with several smashed cups and occasional sobbing sessions in the ladies bathroom, and it ended with my resignation, which I’m mortified to say was accepted hastily with a bottle of warm champagne and a Good Luck! card that was inked with relief.
I was no longer the rescuer, and no one seemed very willing to rescue me back.
Chapter 16
Okay, enough of the pity party. I think we’re getting sidetracked. I can feel the energy rising in Dad’s study, and I am sensing it’s important. Louise is pointing to something on her laptop, and Ruth is shaking her head in wonder. No, that’s not wonder. That’s disbelief and regret. She’s beating herself up.