Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE

  Tania Chandler is a Melbourne-based writer and editor. She studied professional writing and editing at RMIT, and her work was awarded a special commendation in the 2013 Writers Victoria Crime Writing competition. Please Don’t Leave Me Here is her first novel, and she is currently working on a sequel.

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2015

  Copyright © Tania Chandler 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Chandler, Tania, author.

  Please Don’t Leave Me Here / Tania Chandler.

  9781925106770 (Australian paperback)

  9781925228250 (UK paperback)

  9781925307030 (e-book)

  1. Detective and mystery stories.

  A823.4

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  For Reece, Paige, Jaime, and Greg

  And to the memory of Kurt Cobain

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  2008: Come as You Are

  PART II

  1994: About a Girl

  PART III

  2008: Come as You Are (cont)

  PART I

  2008: Come as You Are

  1

  It’s another slow-news day by the look of The Age online: Acting Prime Minister Julia Gillard condemns the binge drinking of a football player; Celebrity chef Nigella Lawson hires a personal trainer to help keep her famous figure in shape. Brigitte sips her coffee, yawns, and scrolls down further. Victorian cold-case detectives to reopen 1994 investigation of slain concert promoter, Eric Tucker. Her heart stops. The missed beat catches up and hammers on top of the next one. She glances over her shoulder, shuts down the computer, and stares at the blank screen while Kitty figure-eights around her ankles. The blast of a train’s horn down at Clifton Hill station makes her jump and spill her coffee.

  Phoebe’s up first — looking like a zombie-child, eyes half-closed, arms outstretched for a cuddle. Brigitte lifts her up, winces at the stab of pain in her back, and pushes the fine blonde hair off Phoebe’s face. Underneath is a little turned-up nose, a pouty mouth, and the biggest, bluest eyes: a Manga cartoon face. Then Finn runs out demanding his good-morning cuddle and kiss. Brigitte smiles as if nothing is wrong, and makes cups of warm milk for the twins. The cartoons bubble away on TV.

  Sam surfaces half an hour later to the sound of the smoke alarm going off for burnt toast.

  ‘Is Mummy trying to cook again?’

  ‘Morning, Sam.’

  ‘Morning, Ralph. Sleep OK?’

  ‘Coffee?’ She pours him a mug — black, no sugar.

  His mobile rings in his bathrobe pocket, and he takes it into the study.

  Bad butterflies flutter up to her oesophagus.

  ‘Mum.’ Finn pulls at her dressing gown.

  ‘Shh.’ She’s trying to listen through the wall to what Sam’s saying.

  ‘Mum, Mum, Mum …’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Love you.’ He runs off, and her shoulders slump.

  ‘OK. Send a car for me in ten.’ Sam hangs up and comes back into the kitchen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me, Sam.’

  ‘Stop it, Brig.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Nothing! Just an incident in Preston.’

  She’s standing in his way and he pushes her aside, too roughly. Her hip knocks against the cupboard. ‘Sorry. Have to get ready for work.’

  He makes calls while he gets his clothes — a charcoal suit and a white shirt.

  He takes a three-minute shower and comes out of the bathroom smelling of sport deodorant, his cropped blond hair smooth with product.

  ‘I see they’re reopening the Eric Tucker case,’ she says as she taps her fingers on the sink and looks out the window. The strip of grass between the house and bungalow is knee-high.

  ‘And?’

  She turns, opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it and wraps her arms around him.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s busy work. Not enough new murders to go round.’

  She doesn’t believe him.

  He untangles himself from her arms and kisses the twins on the way out. He leaves without breakfast — he’ll pick up something on the way, as usual.

  Finn runs to see his friends in the three-year-olds’ room at kinder. Phoebe clings to Brigitte’s leg, crocodile tears in her eyes.

  ‘Hello, Phoebe.’ Yasmine smiles. She’s wearing a paisley shirt and a silver stud in her nose. ‘We’re going to have lots of fun today. Would you like to do a puzzle, or help me sort out the art smocks?’

  Phoebe’s not talking to the kinder assistant.

  ‘Is everything OK, Brigitte?’ Yasmine places a tub of crayons on the table.

  Brigitte nods and smiles as she peels Phoebe off her leg. She goes outside to find Finn for a kiss goodbye. He’s kicking a ball around the play equipment.

  ‘Mum, watch this!’ He kicks the ball and scatters the crispy brown and yellow leaves under the big elm tree. She claps, and he runs over to her.

  ‘Daddy shoots people.’

  ‘No sweetie, that’s not true.’ She crouches to do up the buttons on his jacket.

  ‘He’s got a gun.’

  ‘All police people carry guns. It’s part of their job.’

  ‘To catch the bad guys and keep the good people safe?’

  ‘Yes.’ She pulls a tissue from her sleeve and wipes his runny nose.

  ‘Bye, Mum.’

  ‘Bye, sweetie.’ She kisses him before he wriggles away.

  Something in the sand pit has caught his eye, and he takes aim at it with his index finger. ‘Bang!’ He pulls the trigger with his thumb.

  2

  The heating’s on the blink, and Brigitte shivers as her towel drops to the floor. She looks in the bathroom mirror and traces a finger along the pink caesarean cut — the most recent but least prominent of her scars. If her mother could see, she’d focus more on the extra few kilos: told you you’d turn into a cow after having kids.

  When Brigitte was a child, Joan spent hours in front of the mirror at the old pink house in Brunswick, cigarette balanced on the edge of the basin: applying make-up, doing her hair, looking at herself. Smoke mingled with the smells of green apple shampoo, blow-dryer burnt hair, and Chanel No. 5. When Brigitte stood on tippy-toes, she could see dozens of little make-up pots lined up in the cabinet. Joan gained so little weight, she liked to tell Brigitte, that nobody could even tell she was pregnant. And she regained her figure within weeks of giving birth, although it was a bit harder the second time. No stretch marks, thank God. Unfortunately, you and your brother are built more like your father. You have child-bearing hips, she told Brigitte, just as the straight lines of her lean little body were starting to soften into curves. There was nothing worse than child-bearing hips.

  Br
igitte sucks in her stomach and shuts out her mother’s voice.

  She should have realised how revealing the white Marilyn Monroe costume would be, should have tried it on at the fancy-dress place. Stupid. She never wears anything so low-cut. Too late now. She camouflages the scars under her collarbone with Dermacolor make-up.

  She hears Sam complaining in the kitchen while the twins giggle and stuff pillows into his Elvis suit. ‘Put them back in the bedrooms. I’m not going out like this.’ He loses the scowl, and whistles when Brigitte comes out in her Marilyn dress.

  The doorbell rings: it’s their neighbour Kerry reporting for babysitting duty. Brigitte takes the black wig from Phoebe, places it over Sam’s hair, and goes to answer the door.

  Manny’s dead-celebrities party is at one of those hidden cocktail bars in the city, 15 storeys up — the kind you don’t know about when your life revolves around children. Sam groans about the Pink song playing as they enter, and Brigitte elbows him in the ribs.

  Manny has a lot of friends. Brigitte doesn’t know any of them. Manny is Sam’s mate, but Sam rarely sees him since he quit the force to become a filmmaker. Manny looks like a pirate with a red bandana around his head. He can’t be Johnny Depp. Keith Richards? Sam holds out his hand to shake. Manny hugs him and kisses Brigitte.

  ‘Keith Richards isn’t dead,’ she says.

  ‘Close enough.’ Manny laughs. They wish him a happy thirtieth, and he rushes off towards Bon Scott and Jim Morrison.

  ‘How about some champagne?’ Brigitte says.

  ‘Thought you weren’t drinking.’

  ‘It’s a special occasion.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Long time since we’ve been out without the kids.’

  He goes to the bar, and she takes a table in a corner. He comes back with a glass of champagne and a lemonade.

  ‘You on-call?’

  He nods and places his mobile on the table.

  She scans the plush art-deco bar. It looks like a 1920s Manhattan speakeasy: wood panelling, brown-leather couches, velvet curtains, and bell-shaped lampshades. ‘Wanna dance?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Did you see the painting Phoebe did at kinder?’

  ‘How come whenever we go out, we always end up talking about the kids?’

  ‘Let’s talk about you then. Thought any more about teaching?’

  He looks into his drink. No, of course not. ‘I’m not sure I’d be happy doing that, Brig.’

  Does he think she’s happy worrying about him getting killed at work every day? She looks at her unkempt fingernails — not very glamorous for Marilyn. She should have got some fake red ones.

  ‘Maybe you should start thinking about getting a job,’ Sam says.

  ‘I have a job.’

  ‘One article a month for a parenting magazine is not really a — ’

  ‘I was talking about looking after the twins.’ She looks away. Manny takes a seat at the piano and plays ‘Sympathy for the Devil’.

  Sam reaches across the table and holds her hands.

  She pulls a hand away and finishes her drink. ‘There’s no new evidence?’

  Sam frowns.

  ‘For that old case.’

  ‘Nope.’ He shakes his head. ‘Waste of resources.’

  His mobile rings, and he takes the call out on the balcony. She looks down into her empty glass.

  Sam comes back inside, pulling off the wig. ‘Sorry, babe. A situation in a building on Collins Street.’ He steps out of the costume, revealing slacks and a pale-grey shirt underneath — always prepared, just in case. She almost laughs at the super-hero nature of what he’s doing. He dumps the costume and wig on the table. ‘Go hang out with Manny. I’ll try to come back, but if it takes too long, catch a cab home.’ He gives her a fifty-dollar note from his wallet and a hasty kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Be careful.’ He doesn’t hear her over the music.

  She frowns and folds her arms across her chest. Everybody else is laughing and dancing. She looks around for Manny. He’s busy with a frothy pink cocktail in one hand and Heath Ledger in the other. She may as well just go home, but one more drink first. She tightens the halter ties of her dress, pulls her breasts up higher, and goes to the bar for another glass of champagne.

  After a third glass and not enough finger food, she heads to the balcony for some fresh air.

  The cigarette smoke outside nauseates her. She leans against the rail; the lights of the cityscape swirl like a kaleidoscope. Kurt Cobain is talking to Princess Diana in the corner. Brigitte sits — falls — on a bench seat. When Diana goes inside, Kurt removes his white sunglasses, smiles, and walks towards Brigitte. Oh, God.

  ‘Hey, Marilyn. Great party, huh?’ A tall guy in black jeans and a flannelette shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt — not even dressed up — pushes in front of Kurt. Kurt turns and decides to follow Diana.

  ‘You OK?’ the guy in the flannelette shirt says. His voice is deep, soothing.

  ‘I’m not feeling so good. Would you mind getting me some water?’

  ‘Sure.’ He puts his beer down next to her on the seat and goes inside.

  She swallows, and has breathed away the nausea by the time the flannelette-shirt guy comes back.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He must have been thinking of that line while he was getting her glass of water. But she finds it funny — stupid, but funny — and, even though she feels like crap, she can’t help laughing.

  ‘How do you know Manny?’ He has a crooked smile, one side higher than the other. She can’t decide if it makes him look clever or smug.

  ‘He’s a friend of my husband.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  She sips her water. ‘He left.’

  He sits next to her.

  ‘How about you?’ The skyline has stopped spinning.

  ‘Same. Separated. Nearly a year now.’

  She should clear up his misunderstanding about her marital status, but she doesn’t.

  ‘Any kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’ She finishes her water. ‘I mean lucky because of the separation, not …’

  ‘It’s OK. What’s your name?’

  ‘Brigitte.’

  ‘I’m Aidan.’

  ‘How come you’re not dressed up?’

  ‘I am. I’m Jeff Buckley.’

  She turns to look at him, and realises he’s wearing a wig. He quickly lifts his gaze from her chest, city lights in his dark eyes. Did he notice her scars?

  ‘Smoke?’ He holds out a pack.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Me neither. Given up.’ He puts the pack back in his pocket.

  ‘It’s a bit cold out here, Aidan — I mean Jeff. And I’m feeling better, so I think I’ll go back inside.’

  All the tables are taken, so she sits at the long, polished-timber bar. Aidan follows her, takes the next bar stool. Down-lighting glints diamond shapes on the hundreds of bottles lined up on the shelf behind the bartender, who’s making a show of mixing a drink in a cocktail shaker.

  ‘Feel like a cocktail, Marilyn?’ Aidan says.

  ‘Sure, Jeff. Maybe a Margarita.’

  ‘How about a Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall?’

  She narrows her eyes at him.

  ‘What? It’s a drink.’ He laughs as she snatches the cocktail menu from his hands. His high, squeaky laugh doesn’t suit him.

  The bartender winks and places two orange-coloured drinks in front of them.

  They both drink quickly and order a second cocktail.

  ‘Take off your wig, Aidan.’ She reaches for it, he ducks, and she laughs.

  ‘Why? Not a Jeff fan?’

  ‘G
o on, take it off.’ Perhaps he’s bald under there.

  ‘I’ll take it off if you’ll dance with me.’

  ‘Deal.’ She sips her drink.

  His dark-brown hair has been flattened against his head. It’s the same as the wig, just shorter.

  ‘Come on.’ He runs a hand through his hair and fixes it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dance.’

  ‘Changed my mind.’

  ‘You can’t, we had a deal.’ He takes her hand and drags her, giggling, to the dance floor. Manny has stopped bashing out his dreadful renditions of Rolling Stones numbers. A Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue song wails through the sound system: ‘Where the Wild Roses Grow’.

  ‘I love Nick Cave!’ she says.

  ‘Me, too.’ He stoops to drape his arms around her shoulders.

  Most people have left the floor because the song is too slow to dance to. Brigitte and Aidan don’t mind — slow-dancing, not even dancing, just holding each other up and moving slowly, out of time to the music. She sings the words, and he pretends to know them. On the shiny timber wall, a lean figure towers over a Tinkerbell shape: their silhouettes reflected by the dance-floor lights.

  Has she let this go too far? How’s she going to get out of it? Maybe she doesn’t want to get out of it. They’re not doing anything wrong — just dancing — until he pulls her closer and bends down to kiss her. She turns her face away, and he whispers into her ear, ‘Come back to my place?’

  She can’t, can she? Of course not. ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well. I don’t really have a place anymore. Can we go to yours?’

  ‘Be quiet and dance.’ She rests her face against his flannelette shirt. It’s so soft, and the faint scent of citrus — perhaps bergamot — cologne takes her back to another time. She closes her eyes, and loses herself for a while.

  3

  ‘Sorry I’m late. Phoebe was being difficult at kinder — just for something different.’

  Ryan’s at a window table, his coffee finished. The café is full of retirees with expensive shoes and fluffy little dogs, and forty-year-old mothers with babies in designer grow-suits.