Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  ‘Hi.’ He smiles his crooked smile, squints, and shades his eyes with his hand. So fucking smug. He goes back inside for a minute and comes back with a pair of sunglasses.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she says without looking at him.

  ‘I live here, remember?’

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘On night shift.’

  ‘Sam’ll be home soon.’ She glances at the back door.

  He walks over and sits next to her — too close. The love seat creaks as he stretches out his long legs. So it is true, what they say about big feet.

  ‘Nice day,’ he says.

  ‘What happened to the grass?’

  ‘Mowed it.’

  ‘Nobody asked you to.’

  ‘Don’t mind.’

  ‘Why the hell were you talking to my grandfather?’ She feels the blood rush to her face.

  ‘Funny coincidence, huh?’ He laughs. ‘Eddie’s a nice bloke.’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘His old house was in the vicinity of an unsolved murder. Might have remembered hearing something.’

  ‘His memory’s not so good.’

  ‘Oh, he remembered.’ He turns his body and looks at her. His knee brushes hers. ‘It was the same time your grandmother had her heart attack.’

  ‘I lived there, too. Why haven’t you questioned me?’

  ‘What would be the point of that? I know you don’t remember.’

  Good point. ‘So this has nothing to do with me?’

  ‘Not everything’s about you.’

  She doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, and wishes he would just go away — crawl into a hole somewhere and never come back. And that his leg touching hers wasn’t causing such a warm, prickly sensation. She should move over, but doesn’t.

  ‘Are the scars from the car accident?’

  She pulls a section of hair across the one on her forehead and doesn’t answer.

  ‘And your knee?’

  She stares straight ahead and crosses her legs, ignoring a primal urge to part them.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he says.

  She pushes her sunglasses higher up on her nose.

  ‘Thought you liked me.’

  ‘Not much of a detective. No wonder you’re on the cold cases.’

  He clears his throat. ‘You wanted it as much as I did.’

  ‘Wrong again.’

  ‘Why did you tell me you were separated from your husband?’

  ‘I did not say that.’ She sits up straight and glowers.

  ‘Yes you did, at Manny’s party.’

  She chews a fingernail.

  ‘That’s what you wanted me to think.’

  ‘I was drunk, OK. And upset — if you really have to know.’ The skin around her fingernail starts to bleed; she hides her hand under her leg.

  ‘And that makes it OK?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I do,’ he says. They turn and look directly at each other, but she can’t see his eyes hidden behind the shades.

  ‘If you don’t stop, I’ll tell Sam I want you to move out.’ Why doesn’t she move over?

  ‘Sam wants to keep me closer.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Friends, enemies.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re harassing me.’ She springs up, a flood of pain ripping through her body. ‘Finn, Phoebe inside now.’

  ‘No,’ Phoebe says. ‘We want to play with Aidan.’

  Aidan shrugs.

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’ She slams the door behind her so hard that one of the pot plants falls off the windowsill and smashes on the ground.

  9

  The bouquet of flowers droops on the console. ‘Thirty-seven degrees in the city,’ the radio announcer says. ‘Unusual for November —’ Sam cuts him off with a Foo Fighters CD. They’re stuck in traffic on Sydney Road, with the air conditioner not working. Sam drums his fingers on the steering wheel; the lights change, but the car in front doesn’t move.

  ‘Come on.’ He beeps the horn. The car in front moves, and the driver gives him the finger. ‘Fuck you, too,’ he says under his breath.

  It’s been nearly six months since they’ve been to visit Sam’s parents in Coburg; he couldn’t put it off any longer. Brigitte feels sweat trickling down between her breasts, soaking her dress. The twins are red-faced, quiet, zonked out from the heat. She passes water bottles to them.

  While she’s turning: Pop! Brigitte screams, the twins scream. Sam slams on the brakes, and Brigitte’s bad knee smashes into the dashboard.

  ‘Brigitte!’ Sam yells at her. ‘What the fuck?’ Cars behind start beeping.

  The tube of hand cream on the dashboard has expanded and exploded because of the heat. The inside of the windscreen is coated with a white film. Brigitte and Sam are spattered — especially Sam.

  Sam instinctively turns on the windscreen wipers. Stupid. He wipes it out of his eyes and off the windscreen with the back of his hand, and pulls over. The twins are crying.

  ‘All I wanted to do was visit my fucking parents. Why does everything have to turn into a fucking disaster with you?’

  ‘What? I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Why was that fucking cream even in the car?’

  ‘Stop it Sam, you’re upsetting the twins.’

  ‘Why can’t you do anything right? Can’t even lock the fucking cat’s window?’

  She opens her mouth, but can’t speak.

  ‘And I heard what you did at Manny’s party.’

  It’s forty-plus degrees in the car, but she freezes.

  ‘Got drunk, embarrassed yourself? Manny had to help you out in the lift?’ His face is red, a vein pulsing in his temple. ‘Now half the force knows my wife’s an alcoholic. You’re just like your fucking mother.’

  ‘And you’re just like your father.’

  He slaps her face. She holds a hand to her cheek — it stings, and tears prickle her eyes. She tickles the roof of her mouth with her tongue, but it doesn’t work this time.

  Sam keeps yelling at her: ‘You were a fucking mess when I met you and still are now ...’

  She dissociates — focuses on Dave Grohl singing ‘Long Road to Ruin’ — and calmly lets Sam’s words roll over her for a while. Her silence makes him angrier.

  Enough. She shakes her head. Enough years should have passed for her not to need him anymore. She takes a deep breath, unlocks her door, gets out, and walks along the street, rubbing hand cream into her arms.

  Sam opens the driver’s side door, steps out, and leans against the roof. ‘Get back in the vehicle.’ It’s his policeman’s voice, his stupid bully’s voice. He still has cream on his face. The twins are hysterical. Brigitte’s a few shop-fronts away, so he yells, ‘I told you to get back in the fucking vehicle.’

  ‘No!’ She keeps walking. Then she looks over her shoulder at the twins, and stops.

  Sam slams his door shut, strides after her, and tries to drag her back by an arm, but she fights him. He picks her up like a child, carries her and shoves her into the passenger seat, pushes her arms and legs in, hurts her. Drivers are slowing down for a look, but no cars stop; nobody wants to get involved in such things.

  The car rocks as he hurls himself into the driver’s seat. He clenches and unclenches his fists, and takes some deep breaths. She leans into the back seat and strokes the twins’ legs until they’re calm. Then she turns to Sam and says very quietly, controlling her voice, ‘I’m not a mess, Sam. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not like my mother.’ And, even quieter, ‘And don’t you ever do that to me again.’

  She reaches across and stops the CD. God, she hates the Foo Fighters. They sit quietly — just
the twins whimpering — for a long time.

  ‘Anything to get out of visiting Maggie and Doug.’ He runs a finger through the cream on the windscreen.

  It doesn’t get a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brig.’ He leans across, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it.’ He’s greasy, and smells of lavender. She pulls away, and hands him some tissues from the glove box.

  ‘Sorry. Lot of pressure at work at the moment.’ He wipes his face and rests it against her chest.

  She instinctively lifts a hand to stroke his hair, but stops herself.

  ‘And I don’t know why you don’t want to sleep with me anymore,’ he says.

  10

  Brigitte finds one of Kitty’s old toys squashed under the doormat while she’s sweeping the back porch. She picks it up and puts it in her pocket. Maybe it’s time to get a new kitten. She leans the broom against the side of the house, walks across, and knocks on the bungalow door. A pair of new-looking running shoes is lined up side by side on the step.

  Aidan lets her in, buttoning his shirt. He’s listening to ABC radio — the same station she has on in the kitchen. Aromas of wet hair, citrus cologne, toast, and coffee fill the room. She looks around. A cup and plate are drying on the draining rack next to the sink, and the single bed has been neatly made. He has arranged some framed photos on the dressing table: a black-and-white of a pretty woman with fair skin and a turned-up nose, her arms wrapped around a young-Robert De Niro lookalike; a tall, gangly boy, about fifteen, in swimming shorts standing between two older girls with long dark hair in front of a pool; and one of the girls, grown up, holding a baby.

  Aidan turns down the radio and asks what’s wrong.

  ‘Can I borrow some bread?’

  He tilts his head at the chest freezer, and she walks towards it. The bookshelves are filled with books — she didn’t pick him as a reader — and as far as she can see, none with shiny titles embossed on the spines. She opens the freezer and leans in, aware of him watching her.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d come to visit,’ he says. ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, just stay for a coffee.’

  ‘OK.’ She closes the freezer lid, turns, and he’s right in front of her. He puts his arms around her, and she pushes him away. What did she expect: a civil conversation, a mutual agreement to leave each other alone? Stupid.

  When he tries again, she steps back and swings the loaf of frozen bread at his head, and hits him.

  Shocked by the force of it, he lifts a hand to his cheek — it’s going to leave a decent bruise. She thinks about what Sam did to her and sucks in her breath: sorry, really sorry, she shouldn’t have done that. She ignores her immediate reaction to want to touch her hand to his face.

  He takes a few steps backwards. Angry or hurt? ‘I know what you did, Brigitte.’ A drop of water from his hair rolls down the side of his face, onto his collar. ‘I know where you worked. I know what you were.’

  She steps towards the doorway, but he stands in her way, blocking it. A pair of boxing gloves hangs on the hook next to the window. He puts his arms on either side of the door frame, trapping her. ‘I know everything about you.’

  He’s making it up; he’s going to do something to her, hurt her. She sidesteps, looks around him to the safety of the house, but Sam’s already left for work.

  ‘I know what Sam did.’ He leans down, close to her face, ‘And I know who Matt Elery is.’

  She fiddles with the cuff of her shirt. ‘I don’t know anybody called Matt …’

  ‘Elery. Apparently, he’s a crime-thriller writer.’

  ‘Sure you don’t mean James Ellroy?’ Too smart, not funny.

  ‘He remembers you.’

  She looks away — at his book on the bedside table, In Cold Blood — and then back, directly into his eyes. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘How many other men have you fucked over, Brigitte? How about Eric Tucker? Does that name ring something?’

  She forces her face to stay blank, but he might as well have tipped a bucket of ice over her head.

  ‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t remember. Just like you didn’t remember me from Manny’s party.’

  She shrugs, and twists her mouth.

  ‘You’re so fucking self-centred.’ His voice goes up a few decibels.

  She frowns.

  ‘Did you really think my interest in you was non-work related?’

  ‘What?’ Another ice bucket.

  ‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘I’ve been investigating you the whole time.’ His eyes are shining — they’ve turned almost black, inky. ‘An easy fuck on the side was just a bonus.’

  She goes to hit him again, but he’s too quick this time, catching her wrist before she can strike him.

  ‘So Elery was telling the truth. About your violent streak.’

  Her heart beats so hard it’s going to explode, but she doesn’t flinch.

  ‘Don’t you touch me again.’ He pushes her hand away. ‘Or I’ll charge you with assault.’ He snatches his phone and keys from the tri-fold table, his jacket from the back of the chair, and turns and strides out across the yard.

  She stands in the doorway, hugging her upper arms against her chest. ‘Aidan!’ No response. ‘AIDAN!’ He’s gone down the sideway. She drops the bread and sits on the step with her head in her hands.

  11

  It’s after midnight when Sam gets home, but she’s still awake. He places his watch and keys quietly on the bedside table. His clothes rustle as he undresses in the dark; the bed creaks when he sits on the edge to pull off his shoes and socks.

  ‘Aidan’s working on the case you were working when we met.’ The sound of her voice seems to hang in the darkness. ‘He thinks I did something. He says you did something, too.’

  ‘No,’ Sam says, ‘he’s just got things mixed up.’

  ‘I don’t know, Sam. He sounded pretty serious. Scared me.’

  ‘Is he out the back?’ He reaches for his clothes.

  ‘No, he hasn’t come home.’

  He drops his shirt, and takes her hand. ‘I’ll sort it out tomorrow. And he can move out if he’s upsetting you.’ He slides into bed, and she snuggles up against him — warm, strong, a hint of sport deodorant and dried sweat. She needs him more than ever now.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He strokes her hair. ‘Did Serra say anything about what he thinks happened that morning?’

  ‘Morning?’

  ‘Night.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Have you remembered something?’

  She fiddles with the corner of the pillow case. ‘No.’

  ‘Brig, there’s something I have to tell you about my father.’

  ‘Doug?’

  ‘No, my real father.’

  She should be a good partner and listen, but she’s drained. ‘Can it wait till tomorrow?’

  They lie awake for a long time without speaking.

  ‘Sam, I want to have another baby,’ she whispers. The twins brought them closer together. New life makes everything better.

  Next door’s air conditioner whirs, a dog barks, and street-light creeps under the blind.

  ‘Let’s talk about that tomorrow, too.’

  ***

  The smell of rain fills her nose before she opens her eyes. Thunder growls, and lightning illuminates the room. She reaches out for Sam. He’s gone. It’s dark, but the clock radio glows 10.05 a.m. Shit — how could she have slept so late? She reaches for her slippers under the bed, pulls on one of Sam’s T-shirts, and stumbles down the hallway, rubbing her eyes. The twins are still in their pyjamas, watching TV and licking icy poles. She’s about to yell, but instead kneels and wraps her arms ar
ound them.

  ‘We was hungry. Daddy went to work and you was sleeping,’ Phoebe says.

  ‘It’s OK.’ She hugs them tighter. Another crack of thunder, closer.

  ‘Is somebody shooting?’ Finn says.

  ‘No, silly, it’s just a storm. Come and I’ll make you some proper breakfast.’

  There are three text messages from Sam on her phone:

  Morning Ralph. Sorted things with Serra.

  Been thinking about what u said last night. Think I want it 2. Talk when I get home.

  Also been thinking about teaching course again.

  She texts back: Morning Sam. I luv u. He doesn’t reply.

  The twins have left a chair up against the fridge, with the freezer door open; food is defrosting, melting down the front. Brigitte cleans up the mess, and makes toast and coffee.

  The kinder session is nearly over by the time they get there. She goes home and tries to clean the house in the 45 minutes left before pick-up time.

  She starts dusting the blinds, stops, goes into the study, and does what she has always avoided doing — what she was lying awake thinking about all night: she googles Eric Tucker. Click.

  COLD-CASE DETECTIVES INVESTIGATE UNSOLVED MURDER OF CONCERT PROMOTER, ERIC TUCKER (2008)

  VICTORIAN COLD-CASE DETECTIVES TO RE-OPEN 1994 INVESTIGATION OF SLAIN CONCERT PROMOTER, ERIC TUCKER (2008)

  TUCKER CASE REMAINS UNSOLVED (1997)

  DETECTIVE SAM CAMPBELL CLEARED OF EVIDENCE-TAMPERING ALLEGATION (1995)

  POLICE LOST EVIDENCE IN TUCKER CASE (1995)

  POLICE SEEK YOUNG WOMAN SEEN LEAVING TUCKER APARTMENT (1994)

  CONCERT PROMOTER FOUND DEAD (1994)

  She glances over her shoulder, scrolls up to the first search result, and reads the article:

  Victorian detectives have reopened the cold case of Eric Tucker, who was bludgeoned to death in 1994.

  The body of Eric Tucker, 45, was discovered in his luxury Carlton apartment by the now deceased caretaker, Sean McMahon, on 23 December 1994.

  In the coroner’s inquest report, Dr Simon Marks, forensic pathologist at the Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine, attributed Mr Tucker’s cause of death to head injury from multiple blows inflicted by a person or persons with a heavy, blunt object.