by Dean Mayes
Past the gold-rush-era corner shops and a winding track that lead to the old bush nursing hospital, past the revivified Star Hotel guest house, Max followed the road as it passed a number of cottages set back from the creek and shielded from view by manicured shrubbery. There was a quieter feel here. A hundred yards beyond the bend lay Max’s designated marker, where he would turn around and head back.
It was a cottage that represented his marker, one of the oldest in Walhalla. Set on a rise above the road and partially obscured by an overgrown garden, the clapboard dwelling stood silent in the mist.
Max knew the cottage well, and could name every owner in his lifetime.
In particular, its last owners.
Russell and Lavinia Luschcombe had been Max and Annette’s oldest, dearest friends, and they had spent many wonderful years in each other’s company. From dinner parties to summer barbeques, to lazy Sunday afternoons, this cottage had been a lively and warm epicentre.
Sadly, those days were long gone. Gone, too, were Russell and Lavinia. First she, to the tragedy of terminal cancer, then he, to a broken heart. Ever since, the cottage had been shut up and forgotten.
Stopping in the middle of the road, Max signalled to the dog and gazed through the mist. A dark shape protruded from the overgrown garden in front of the property and Max squinted to be sure what he was seeing was not an apparition.
He drew closer, and the shape evolved into a vehicle. It was a vehicle Max recognised.
A burgundy utility with the rounded features of a classic Australian FX Holden was wedged between the broken ends of the picket fence, its chrome bumper nudging up against the thick trunk of a tree fern.
Max’s eyes darted from the vehicle to the house and back. Noting the South Australian registration plate, he swallowed. His suspicion was nearly confirmed.
“Hayden?”
Moving around to the driver’s side, Max saw the window was down. He peered into the cabin. The keys were still in the ignition.
He peered up at the darkened cottage.
Should I knock? Should I see if he’s okay?
Beside him, Sam whimpered and wagged his tail.
As Max wrestled with what to do, an idea took shape—something he could do without intruding where, he suspected, he might not be welcome just now.
“Stay there, Sam.”
He opened the door to the vehicle and swung himself into the cabin, then started the engine and reversed from the fence, checking the roadway behind him. He steered the Holden up the rise and onto the driveway, bringing it to a standstill in the shadow of the cottage. Killing the motor, Max withdrew the keys and shoved them above the sun visor. He wound up the window and closed the door.
Whistling to the dog, Max turned and walked back towards the centre of town.
A UNIFORMED POLICE CONSTABLE SAT hunched over a newspaper in the dining area of the Walhalla General Store and Restaurant. Sipping a cup of coffee, he tried to concentrate on the page in front of him, but as the smell of cooking bacon wafted from the kitchen, the rumbling in his stomach caused his attention to falter and all he could think about was breakfast.
Gregor Aldersea was the district’s police constable. Stationed at the nearby town of Rawson, his patrol area covered most of the North Gippsland Mountains. An athletic man in his mid-thirties, Gregor sported a thick mane of sun-bleached hair and a handsome visage. If there was any blemish to speak of, it was a thin scar that angled down from the underside of his left nostril and over his upper lip, the remnant of corrective surgery for a cleft palate.
It was fair to say Gregor Aldersea had his work cut out for him, serving these mountains. But he was a dedicated officer, committed to the towns and communities, and he’d made it his mission to cover the region at least once a week in order to be a personal presence to the people.
Though its permanent population numbered only in the dozens, Walhalla was a priority for Gregor. Every year, it seemed the tourist population got larger and more diverse. Accordingly, he found himself being called upon more and more to provide a policing role.
Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact the Walhalla General Store & Restaurant served the best breakfast this side of the Great Dividing Range.
Gregor’s patience was rewarded, finally, when the matriarch of the establishment backed through a swinging door into the dining area with a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. Gregor smiled, gathering his knife and fork as she set them down in front of him. He licked his lips as he surveyed the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh mushrooms, fried tomatoes, and hash browns.
“Oh-ho-ho! You’ve no idea how long I’ve been looking forward to this, Nette!”
Annette Trumbridge fixed the constable with a laconic grin and slapped his arm. “Get off the grass, Gregor,” she chided. “You say that every week. How long have you been coming in here?”
“On the job? It’ll be three years next week,” Gregor remarked through a piece of bacon. “Though that doesn’t account for the thousand-or-so times I came in here growing up.”
Sitting down across from Gregor, Annette wiped her brow with a hand towel. “That you did,” she agreed. “I can still picture you running up and down the main street in your nappies. Oh! And chasing you out of the shop whenever I caught you trying to pinch lollies from the front cabinet.”
Both of them laughed and Gregor’s cheeks reddened.
“Who’d have thought that little thief would end up on this side of law enforcement?”
Annette lifted her brow and grinned.
She had a cherubic face, with rosy cheeks and kind eyes. Her light brown hair, flecked with grey, was hidden under a scarf. She wore a bright and breezy patterned shirt, a signature for her, and her jeans were hidden beneath a kitchen apron adorned with the logo of the general store. Annette was trim and fit—youthful even—as she headed into her mid-sixties.
“And how are you managing, covering the mountains on your own?”
Gregor’s expression tightened. “I’m doing okay,” he replied. “It is tricky, though. There’s been an increasing number of hikers in the area, and they’re taking greater risks by going off the regular walking trails. They don’t always log their details with me, either, so I’ve no idea who’s traipsing around out there. I’ve called for support from Melbourne but, as always, it’s gonna take time. I’ll keep doing what I can and hope the community continues to keep a lookout for me—and them.”
“Well, you know we’re behind you,” Annette said. “You work so hard. If only your higher-ups would recognise that Walhalla is worthy of a permanent police presence of its own.”
“If it keeps growing the way it is, that might become a reality.”
Gregor paused and set his fork and knife down. “Actually,” he began, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Speaking of support, you haven’t seen Isabelle Sampi in the past couple of days, have you?”
Annette shook her head. “No. Can’t say that I have. Although I know she’s busy down at the bakery. She’s started using the old wood oven. I could smell it from here when I got up this morning.” Annette cocked her head. “Are you still trying to woo her, Gregor Aldersea?”
The young policeman blushed bright red and grimaced in an effort not to smile. “Oh Lord, no!” he retorted. “That ship has sailed, well and truly. No, I need to see her on another matter entirely. It’s… confidential.”
Annette continued to probe him with her stare, though her demeanour shifted towards concern. “Oh. Is everything okay? Is this about him? Is he—”
Gregor held up his hands. “Nette, you know I can’t talk about confidential matters. It’s just—if you see her, you know?”
A silent understanding passed between them and Annette relented while Gregor returned to his breakfast.
The front door opened and a pleasant bell above it tinkled. Annette and Gregor glanced across to see Max enter. Sam shook and went to lie down on his bed in the corner.
Max’s worried fea
tures filled Annette with concern. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Max shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and hung it on a hook. “I feel like I have. There’s activity up at the Luschcombe cottage.”
Gregor lowered his knife and fork and studied Max, his hackles rising. Before he could respond, Max held up his hand. “I think it’s Hayden.”
“Hayden!” Annette gasped. “Wh-what would he be doing here? Did you see him? Did you knock?”
Max held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t see him. And no, I didn’t knock at the door. The sun hasn’t even risen yet. He might still be asleep.”
“I wonder why he’s here,” Annette pondered. “It’s not like him to show up unannounced.”
Max gazed out the restaurant window. “Don’t know. Something’s off, though. His ute was wedged into the front fence. It took out several palings.”
Gregor shifted instantly into constable mode. “How did that happen?” he questioned, fishing a notepad and pencil from his duty belt and scribbling furiously.
Max glared at the younger man. “How am I supposed to know?”
As Gregor continued to scrawl on the pad, Max shook his head at this sudden zeal.
“Gregor,” he said. “Let me handle this. There is probably a good reason why he’s here. This isn’t like Hayden at all.”
Gregor hesitated, the pencil twitching in his fingers. “Sorry, Max. The doc is the last person I’d peg as an irresponsible driver.” Pocketing the pad and pencil, he frowned. “It’s no small thing to have driven all the way here from Adelaide through the middle of the night.”
Max and Annette exchanged a concerned look. “No. It’s not.” Something passed between them, a silent understanding.
“I’d better prepare a basket,” Annette suggested.
Max scratched the back of his head. “Thanks, love.”
A FEW HOURS LATER, MAX returned to the cottage armed with a wicker basket filled with basic necessities. He took a moment to inspect the Holden once more. Apart from a few surface scratches and a shattered headlight, the damage appeared to be minimal. The same couldn’t be said for the fence.
Max opened the gate at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the veranda and cocked his ear. Again he wrestled with the idea of knocking on the door in the hope Hayden might answer, but he quashed it.
Hayden Luschcombe had travelled halfway across the country and, apparently, ploughed his vehicle into the fence of his childhood home. Nope, something was definitely not right.
Max set the basket down on the porch, then rose to a little brass bell beside the door. A sadness settled over him as he recalled performing this same sequence of actions many times during the last days of Russell Luschcombe’s life. He rang the bell three times and retreated down the steps, closing the gate behind him.
~ Chapter 7 ~
THE BEDROOM WAS SHADOWY. MUSTY. CLOYING DAMP HUNG IN THE AIR, BUT HE WAS AWARE OF NONE OF IT.
Hayden was huddled on a rickety cast-iron bed, back against the wall, his head arching towards the ceiling, mouth open. His snores reverberated around the room. His twitching nose peeked out from a gap in the blanket he’d wrapped around himself, giving him the appearance of a decrepit old monk.
Occasionally, he would begin a measured slide sideways, across and down the wall, before righting himself, in a foggy stupor, to his original sitting position. He snuffled in the dank air, hugging the moth-eaten blanket tighter. The iron frame of the bed squeaked and groaned underneath him. It sagged at the bottom end where the foot of the bed had worked its way loose from the frame.
Heavy rain fell outside. It peppered the tin roof, singular drops merging into a cacophony like the sound of applause. Somewhere in his fractured consciousness, Hayden saw images of an opera, an audience offering a standing ovation.
Am I there? Have I fallen asleep again?
Berni?!
A spear of anxiety lanced him and Hayden sat forward, cringing at the sudden, pounding headache behind his eyes. He blinked into the gloom, in part to try to see, but also to try to stop the room from spinning. An open bottle of Scotch lay at his feet. He kicked it and cursed himself for having emptied it so thoroughly.
As he leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands, a surge of nausea overtook him and he freed himself from the blanket before vomiting onto the floor.
His stomach lurched for several moments until there was nothing left. Slapping a hand against the wall, he steadied himself until the ordeal passed. He slumped back against the headboard.
Jesus!
Pressing his hand to his forehead as a renewed throbbing punished him, he rocked back and forth, finding a little respite. The sound of the rain helped. He listened to it falling outside the window beside him, calming him. Beyond his room, in the kitchen, he heard a rhythmic dripping.
The kitchen!
Hayden gasped, launching himself from the bed and stomping right into the puddle of vomit in the process. Stumbling in the dark, he found his way to the kitchen, where he skidded through a sizable pool of water underfoot. His feet went out from under him.
“Dammit!”
Clutching madly at the air, he crashed to the floor, hitting his head against the linoleum. He clamped his jaw shut until the sharp wave of agony passed.
The steadily falling rain seeped through a hole in the ceiling the size of a dinner plate. The surrounding plaster sagged with the weight of trapped water, threatening to collapse and make this accidental skylight even bigger.
Hayden flailed on the floor until somehow managing to buck his body up into a sitting position. He grabbed at the blanket and placed it around the edge of the growing puddle, fashioning a makeshift sponge.
He knew he had to act fast. The precarious sag in the ceiling was worsening by the second.
On his hands and knees, he made his way towards a line of kitchen cupboards and threw them open, searching inside for something he could set underneath the uninvited water feature. His hands latched onto an old metal bucket. He yanked it out and slid it across the floor directly underneath the stream of water.
Suddenly, there was an unnerving crack as the sagging ceiling gave way. Sodden plaster and water rained down onto the floor, splashing everywhere.
Hayden gazed mournfully up at the hole, realising that the rain was beginning to taper off.
He leaned against the cupboard, aware of a trickle of water snaking between his legs and soaking the seat of his jeans.
A bitter grin broke across his lips and he shook his head. “Middle of the night and I’m sitting in a puddle, in a kitchen, in the middle of the mountains.”
Hayden didn’t know what time it was, just that it was still dark outside. It was cold and wet, and he was hungover like he had never been before. Out of habit, he turned his wrist over but realised he had removed his watch.
What the hell am I doing?
Struggling to his feet, he grimaced at the sensation of sopping denim clinging to his legs. He crossed to the old kitchen table, peeled off his jeans and boxers, and was about to hang them over the chair until he realised they were more sodden than he’d thought. He decided instead to roll the pants into a sort of snake and drop them at the edge of the pool of water.
He grabbed the remaining linen from the bed in his room and rolled it up to form a dam of sorts on the kitchen floor. He placed his hands on his exposed hips and nodded.
Half naked, wearing nothing but a crumpled T-shirt, he was even more aware of the biting cold. The fine hairs on his legs stood on end and goose pimples rippled across his skin.
Damn this.
Retrieving his discarded duffel bag from the bedroom floor, he tossed it onto the bed. He rifled through it until he found a pair of fleeced track pants, thick socks, and a warm hoodie. He put them on, straightened, and peered through the doorway into the kitchen.
He could do no more for now.
Grateful to be dry, he retreated from the bedroom, pausing in the living area to
cast one more cursory inspection over his efforts. He shook his head mournfully.
Suddenly, Hayden felt a shiver. A ripple of cold caressed his shoulders, as though someone had stepped up behind him, and he turned, peering into the darkness. He looked at the closed door to the room beside his own.
His parents’ bedroom.
A long-forgotten anxiety passed through him. He, himself, had closed that door for the last time, after his father had died three years ago. He’d closed up this cottage and left it, locked and forgotten. To Hayden’s knowledge, no one had been inside since.
He turned away from the closed door and retreated into the quaint sitting room at the end of the cottage.
At least it was dry in here.
He waved his hand in the gloom until he felt the arm of the sofa. He pulled away the canvas sheet that covered it, sank down into the familiar plush and, hugging his arms to his chest, promptly fell asleep.
SOMETIME SHORTLY AFTER DAWN, HAYDEN awoke and spied a thin sliver of light shining into the room from the bay window.
He yawned, shivering in the chill, and reached out towards the window. He was close enough to be able to tug at the cord of a blind. The blind snapped up and he flinched against the sudden brightness.
Fat droplets of water dripped down from higher boughs and clung to the waxy leaves of a camellia outside the bay window. One or two slid down and fell to the earth, while others caught the morning light, dazzling Hayden with a rainbow of colour. The fronds of a tree fern hung low under the weight of water that dripped from the ends into several puddles adjacent to the front fence.
He peered around the sitting room. Beneath the thick layer of dust, it was a lovely little space, populated with antique furnishings that lent it an old-world charm. A mahogany bookshelf, a French side cabinet, a display case housing crystal glassware. A pair of matching lounge chairs, still hidden under their canvas shrouds, accompanied the couch on which he lay.
His gaze came to rest on a collection of photo frames sitting atop the glass display case. Among the sepia tones and washed-out colour of aging snaps, a portrait of his parents and himself stood out. It was taken on his first day of boarding school. He wiped the accumulated grime away from its surface with his sleeve. While his parents beamed proudly, Hayden’s younger self appeared petrified.