by C. A. Larmer
“Now, now, Grandpa, Mum’s a terrific cook. We’re just not all masterchefs like Grandma.” The smell of pumpkin scones wafts from somewhere. I don’t know if it’s Mum’s cooking or if it’s coming from Forever.
“I still can’t believe she gave up her beloved Sydney.”
“Oh, they have an apartment there now, she still gets plenty of smog to keep her happy,” says Gramps, “and, well, you did sort of ruin the family house didn’t you, love? Your folks never could go back into that study.” He offers me a warm smile. “Don’t beat yourself up though, a change is as good as a holiday. It’s done their a marriage a whopping great service, and as for Peto, well, he’s like a new man.”
“I can see that! I can’t believe he went with them. I can’t believe he gave up London.”
“I can’t believe he stayed in London for so long. Why do you think he was so miserable?”
“But I never knew he was miserable. Life seemed to be one big party for Peter: whopping salary, flash hotels, a different girl every night.”
He snickers. “I rest my case. You’re young, love, you don’t get it. But people only party like that to hide the misery they feel alone. It’s also the reason he never spent much time at home, because your dad knew this, could see it in his eyes. And it’s hard to have someone reflect your lie back at you no matter how much you’ve convinced yourself you’re happy.”
He sighs, smiles. “Your death woke him up, love; it’s just as you wished. Your death saved all of them in a hundred small ways.”
“Are they okay?” I ask. “I mean, really okay?”
“They will be. Well, most of the time.” Then he shrugs. “They’re still human, Maisie. They still fight and fret and carry on. They still miss you terribly, bitterly at times, but they were going to miss you anyway, right? That was always a given. Now they get to miss you free of guilt and you get yer wish, love. They’ve survived your suicide, and they will keep surviving. At least for a good long while.” Then he nods a head downwards. “And at least the old homestead gets some new life, hey?”
My brow furrows. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“What for, love?”
“For sticking you in that god-awful urine-scented hellhole.”
“Autumn Lodge? Did it smell of urine? I don’t remember that.” He cackles. “One of the perks of old age, you lose most of your senses. Not such a bad thing.”
“Oh, Gramps,” I begin, but he waves me off.
“It wasn’t so bad, Maisie. Better than being stuck in the middle of all that dust all on my lonesome, just begging the gods to let it rain.”
“Really?” I think he’s just saying all that to make me feel better, but now he frowns.
“Sure, at least I had company in town. There was a nice group at the Lodge, went to school with half of them, babysat the other half. I can tell you, that Betsy O’Reilly really blossomed. Pity I was so decrepit by the time I got there, or I could’ve given her a good—”
“Grandpa!” I interrupt him, glancing back towards the tunnel, hoping Grandma didn’t hear, and he laughs at me now.
“You young’uns,” he says. “You think you’re the only ones with blood pumping through your veins.”
“Hey, my blood didn’t pump for very long, so don’t start giving me a hard time.”
He gives me a wink instead. “Come on, that is your Grandma back there. She’s on the last batch of scones for the day, and I’m not missing out like last time.”
“Can I stay a little longer? Do you think that’s okay?”
He shrugs. “Stay as long as you need; it’s part of the program. Just remember Neal is a pig and he’s probably already scoffed the lot.”
“Ahh let him have my share. I think I owe him that.”
He smiles and heads towards the tunnel when he remembers something and turns back. “Oh and Deseree said to tell you there’s another one coming in a few minutes if you’re up for it.”
I glance at Gramps, an eyebrow raised.
“Gunshot victim, just fifty-five. You might relate.” Then he sighs sadly and adds, “And if you don’t, I can help you out. He was a farmer, from Western Australia. Bank just took his property. The bastards.”
“Oh no,” I say and he shrugs.
“Don’t worry, those bank managers will get their comeuppance.”
Then he cackles again as he continues to the tunnel.
“Thanks, Gramps,” I call after him, thinking of the incoming spirit. Just one more chaperone job and I have all my points.
Deseree explained it to me once. She’s in charge of the program. I think it helps restore her spirit as much as our own.
“Everybody who commits suicide has to assist two other suicide victims across,” she said. “It used to be one, but there are too many suicides today, sadly. The Catholics used to say they’d end up in hell, but really, we’ve already been to hell. Most of us were living it for years; it’s the reason so many of us do it.”
I know what she means. “But why us?” I asked. “Why other suicides? Aren’t we too screwed up?”
“We know more than anyone what drove them to such drastic measures. These are the souls who need extra attention, extra care.”
“Is that what Neal was doing?” I said, half smiling.
“You needed Neal,” she told me, “and frankly he needed you too. You helped each other across.”
“My turn! My turn!”
Toby’s voice pulls my attention back to the present, back to the living, and I watch now as Peter lifts his nephew onto a mottled grey gelding, in front of his big sister, Meg, who is beaming from ear to ear like she’s just won the lottery, and I guess owning your own pony is the tweenie girl’s equivalent. The rest of the family are watching, smiling. Paul has an arm slung around Jan. Mum is holding baby Ruby who has doubled in size, and Dad is standing behind young Jack, the boy’s head lost inside his own giant Akubra.
They look the picture of happiness, a wholesome family unit, but I know better. I know what Gramps was saying. I know times have been tough and will continue to be tough, that Mum still weeps for me in the middle of the night, and Dad stares at old photos of me, his throat choked up, like he can will me back to life. He’s removed all the guns from the property and has hung up family portraits instead. Not the one I pinched, however. They put it back where I wanted it, resting against my heart, then buried me in a deep plot at the edge of Nevercloud, next to Grandma, Gramps, Uncle Bob and several of those naughty cattle dog I mentioned earlier. I have one of them up here now. He’s a hoot. I renamed him Kasper and have given him to Timothy. He’s such a sweet kid. I’m keeping him company for Lance. I think he’d appreciate it.
But back to the living, back to Paul and Jan. I know they’re still stuck in that tiny shoebox in Chatswood, but they’ve weighed up their options and have decided they’d rather earn less and have more quality time with their kids. Life is short. I’ve taught them that.
As for Tessa and Roco? I don’t know what happened to them, that’s not part of the deal, but I hope they’re doing okay. I really do. I hope they’re moving on together and having lots of chubby kids and cooking tasty curries and moussaka and keeping Tammie company, just as I hope that Una has settled down with a decent, single guy, and Jonas has grown the hell up, and Leslie and Arabella and all my other friends are still smiling and partying and enjoying their lives, because what’s the point otherwise?
What I know for sure is this: my family is okay. And they will continue to be okay. I got my wish, and I am grateful for that.
Eventually, full to flowing with love and joy and just a hint of sadness, I finally pull the silly tiara from my head and turn back towards the tunnel. I will miss them all so dreadfully, but it’s time to leave the living and move on with the next stage.
Besides, I want to grab one of Grandma’s famous scones. I know a disgruntled farmer who will soon be needing one.
“Hey, Neal!” I call out. “Leave a few for me, mate. Oh and pop the kettle on! We’re going to n
eed some tea, some hugs and some good old-fashioned home cooking.”
Then I stop and fling the tiara like a Frisbee outwards, watching with delight as the diamantés turn to raindrops and the raindrops fall to earth, and my family cries out with shock and wonder beneath me.
“It’s raining! It’s raining!” squeals young Toby, and I smile to myself as I head towards the light.
~ ~ ~
Acknowledgements
First I’d like to acknowledge Annie Sarac who edits my books with good humour, great wisdom and endless support. You are such a joy to work with. I’d also like to thank the lovely Elaine Rivers who gives so generously of her time, as well as my sister Michelle and her husband Peter. All four of you are like my personal cheer squad, reading every book I write, catching clumsy errors (not mine, surely?), and always lifting me up, reminding me that I’m on the right track. (And I look forward to repaying the favour very soon, Shell!)
Thank you also to my many long-time readers who soak up my stories, follow my blog and subscribe to my newsletter, and a special congratulations to Leslie L. Allen who won my Name a Character in My New Mystery competition. She earned the right to have her name used in this book, and while my character bears no resemblance to the real Leslie, I thank her from the bottom of my heart for being such a great sport.
On a more serious note: I cannot claim to be an expert on degenerative diseases or suicide, and I apologise, profusely, for any inadvertent errors. They are completely my own. I do have personal experience with both, however, and this book is for those beautiful souls who’ve headed off to the light well before their time. I hope you’ve settled in back there and are finally at peace. In fact, I hope you’re having fun!
In particular, I’d like to acknowledge Charlie and his beloved partner Edwina. MND may have taken your body, Charlie, but your spirit lingers on.
To find out more about Motor Neurone Disease or give a much-needed donation:
• MND Australia: www.mndaust.asn.au/
• The ALS Association: www.alsa.org/
For information on suicide and mental health:
• Beyond Blue: www.beyondblue.org.au
About the Author
Christina Larmer is a journalist, editor and teacher, and the author of thirteen books including The Agatha Christie Book Club series, An Island Lost and six in the popular Ghostwriter Mystery series. She has also written the non-fiction book A Measure of Papua New Guinea (Focus; 2008). Christina grew up in Papua New Guinea, spent several years working in London, Los Angeles and New York, and now lives with her musician husband and two sons in the Byron Bay hinterland of Northern NSW, Australia.
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Want to read more by C.A. Larmer?
• Here’s an introduction to Do Not Go Gentle
Do Not Go Gentle
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Prologue
So there’s been a murder. My murder, in fact, but please don’t waste time feeling sorry for me. Your tears and platitudes are of no use to me now. I need your help to solve this thing, and I need it fast. I’ll explain why shortly, but for now, let’s try to iron out the facts while they’re still clear in my mind.
I’m dead. Stabbed just once from behind, but gee it did the job. Hence the reason I need your help. I never saw the bugger coming. I have no idea who did this to me or why. I have no idea what he used, but I recall something cold and sharp before it all went black. A knife most likely, but let’s not jump to conclusions too quickly.
I’m currently lying in a sticky pool of my own blood. Well, I can only assume it’s sticky. Certain senses are no longer available to me, and that’s a good thing. Believe you me, nobody wants to feel their own blood oozing out of their body, coagulating beneath them, turning dark and pungent. Again, that’s just an assumption. I’ve seen enough CSI to know how it works. Thank God I didn’t lose control of my bowels. That would have been embarrassing. For now, I’ve left a pretty clean corpse.
Not a bad-looking one either, if I do say so myself.
I’m only thirty-eight, after all. I have a thick mop of hair, the colour of maple syrup. I have faintly tanned legs, which are sprawled rather delicately on the floor, just a sliver of black undies showing beneath my red-and-white spotted nightdress, a larger red splotch where the murder weapon entered my back. Really, it just looks like five dots have joined together for a group hug. Nothing too alarming, I can assure you of that.
So I’ve been stabbed. By person or persons unknown. The cops have no idea yet. No one does, which is where you come in.
If death has taught me one thing, it’s that we have to be quick. I see a light. I see a tunnel. I see my dead grandmother beckoning like there’s no tomorrow—which I guess, for me, there isn’t—but I won’t have it. I need to know who did this to me, and I’m guessing the well-lit, granny-beckoning tunnel won’t wait long.
I’m guessing we’ve got two hours, maybe three. Tops.
So I’m going to fill you in on the facts leading up to my death and the drama that unfolds. I’m going to give you as much detail as I can without sending you on a wild-goose chase or leaving you wanting to stick another knife in my back. I have my suspicions, I have my theories, but I’ll try not to prejudice you with those. I need you to think about this clearly and objectively, and I need you to tell me as quickly as possible whodunit. Not because I can do anything about it. I’m not delusional—death is death is death, after all—but because I need to know, before I choof off into eternity, that my thirteen-year-old son did not murder me.
Damn it, I wasn’t going to do that.
Sorry.
But here’s the thing: I have a sneaky, dreadful, gut-wrenching suspicion my only child is the culprit. He’s my prime suspect, and it breaks my heart. Or it would if my heart wasn’t already broken, pierced with that cold, sharp weapon that I can only assume is a knife but which you mustn’t jump to conclusions about. Gee I’m really stuffing this up, aren’t I?
So here’s how it’s going to work. I’m going to help you out as best I can. I don’t know all the rules yet—this death thing is new, you got that, right? But I’m learning pretty quickly that I have a fairly decent bird’s-eye view of the crime scene. As far as I can tell at this early stage, I can see most things. I’m nowhere yet everywhere all at once. Omnipresent I think they call it. I appear to be floating above, but I can move around too. Kind of like my son’s drone, I hover above, beside, into and through. Having said that, I can’t quite access everything. For some strange reason, I can only see into certain parts of my house; I’m not sure what that’s about. There must be method in Death’s madness, but it’s a little maddening to be honest. Still, I’m in a pretty good position to work this out, and you, dear reader, are my conduit.
Do you mind?
It’s not like I’m asking you to get your hands dirty or put yourself in harm’s way. Hell, you can’t even get in there and poke and prod, but what you can do, what I need most right now, is for you to be my sounding board. Be there to help me sort fact from fiction. I don’t want to do this alone. I need someone to bear witness, someone to know I tried. And I want that someone to be very much alive.
So I ask for just a few hours of your time. Help me sift through the suspects, climb all over the clues. Help me deduce, beyond a reasonable doubt, that it wasn’t my son—my achingly beautiful son—who murdered me in cold blood, and I will be eternally grateful. And I mean that quite literally, of course.
Help me work out whodunit before that bloody light extinguishes all hope of ever knowing.
And good luck!
Chapter 1
My son was born prematurely, a difficult birth, an agonising start. I know we haven’t much time, but bear with me, this will come in handy later. I just know it will. He was tiny, but I was tiny too. Always had been, apart from a slight blip during my boozy university years when all that cheap cider left its mark. So by week thirty of my pregnancy, my hips had carked it and I was wobbling about like a beer-bellied old lady with a walking stick.
When you’re able-bodied, you tend to begrudge all those empty wheelie car parks right out the front of every supermarket, shopping centre, and cinema complex, and you might even have considered sneaking into one. But once you actually need a wheelie car park, well good luck finding one, my friend! Suddenly they’re all taken and you have to hobble three kilometres just to buy a loaf of bread.
And don’t even start me on ramp access.
So I hobbled about until week thirty-eight when the obstetrician decided my penance was complete and booked me in to be induced.
“It’ll be over before you know it!” he’d promised in that smug I’ve never had a child, but I’m somehow more of an expert than you way. But he was wrong.
After twenty-six and a half hours of excruciating labour, they finally agreed to give me an epidural, and my tiny child was suctioned out of me an hour after that.
It took another twelve hours before I could feel my legs again and, I guess, even longer for bub to discover his lips because he didn’t latch on at all to start with. He didn’t seem to have a clue. I could only deduce he was as bombed out of his brain as I was.
As a consequence, for the first few months, feeding was a disaster. It’s like we both missed the How To class and couldn’t catch up.