Please Don't Leave Me Here

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Please Don't Leave Me Here Page 7

by Tania Chandler


  Despite an exhaustive investigation by detectives, no arrest was ever made over the incident.

  Detective Sergeant Aidan Serra confirmed they have recommenced inquiries into the violent assault, and are appealing for public assistance.

  Cold-case investigations can be extremely challenging, but in this case they did have a person of interest.

  ‘There was physical evidence that linked this person to Mr Tucker,’ said Detective Serra. ‘Unfortunately, most of the evidence from the original investigation is no longer available. However, advances in technology mean that the few remaining DNA samples taken from the scene can now be forensically examined.’

  Anybody with information about Eric Tucker should contact police or Crime Stoppers.

  Oh God. Her stomach turns over; vomit rises in her throat, and she swallows it. The doorbell rings. She jumps, almost screams, and shuts down the computer.

  It’s Aidan — at the front, for a change. She unlocks the security door reluctantly. He stands there, silently. Must be enjoying this: a cat with a mouse. He should rub some arnica cream into the bread bruise on his cheek. Kerry waves as she walks past with her dog and a pink, polka-dot umbrella.

  Brigitte waits until Kerry is out of earshot, then says, ‘Come on then. Aren’t you going to cuff me?’ She holds out her hands, angry now. Wait till Sam finds out about this.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘What do you want then?’ She looks up. His eyes are serious, remorseful. He has long eyelashes. His Adam’s apple moves up and down as he seems to struggle to swallow. She looks away — a snail is crushed on the wet path — and then looks back. The paint is starting to blister and peel on the cherry-red door she painted when they first moved in; but you can’t tell, unless you look closely. She frowns, and her legs start to shake. No.

  ‘No.’ Her voice is a whisper, and she shakes her head slowly.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  The call. Expected, but never prepared for. In her imagination, it was always a phone call. How stupid — this kind of news would never be delivered that way. And why is it coming from Aidan? Shouldn’t he be busy trying to ruin her life? He sits with her on their couch, her and Sam’s couch, and tells her that Sam is dead. Another stupid thought occurs to her, and she feels guilty for it: at least now she won’t have to worry about getting the call anymore.

  She wants to know what happened, the details, but it’s too soon — he speaks slowly and clearly, but all she hears is: quick, a knife, Chapel Street … And the blood swooshing around inside her ears. Would the police band play something by the Foo Fighters at Sam’s funeral? Where are these stupid thoughts coming from? Maybe this is somehow her fault: for not loving Sam enough, for not trying harder, for screwing Aidan. Maybe Sam was suspicious, distracted, more reckless than usual, and let his guard down. He can’t be dead; they’re going to have another baby. The ground sways, the world shifts, she lets Aidan hold her in his arms. More guilt froths to the surface. She has a flash of the first time here: citrus scent, the warmth, the softness of his flannelette shirt against her face at Manny’s party. Today it’s a business shirt, rain-damp, and the buttons scratch her face.

  ‘The twins at kinder?’

  She nods against his chest.

  ‘I’ll ring Ryan,’ he says.

  ‘Wait a minute, please.’ She grips his arms.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Brigitte.’

  When Ryan arrives, he rushes to Brigitte on the couch, and Aidan disappears with the kids. Ryan wraps an arm around her shoulders, and they sit quietly for a long time. She hears his watch ticking, traffic rumbling past on the street, a vacuum cleaner buzzing next door.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ Ryan finally breaks the silence.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Glass of water?’

  She nods, and he goes to get her one. She hears him and Aidan having a whispered conversation in the kitchen, but she can’t make out what they’re saying. Ryan returns with her water.

  ‘You need to rest.’ He hands her a tablet.

  She swallows it and lies on the couch. He kneels next to her, cradling her head and shoulders in his arms. She’s not sure if the tears on her face are hers or his as she slides into sleep.

  In a dream, she’s naked in a crowd, at a club. Kurt Cobain is pushing his way towards her, wearing the brown sweater. He drapes a black, hooded robe over her shoulders.

  A trail of white flowers with fresh-blood-coloured centres is strewn across the floor. She follows the trail outside to Sam lying in a children’s inflatable swimming pool. He’s holding Kitty in his hands. It’s not water that fills the pool: it’s blood. It spills over the sides and turns into an ocean. A puppy wearing the red collar runs along the shore, barking at the waves. Kurt Cobain walks along the jetty, jumps into the ocean, and calls her to swim out with him, but she’s too scared. Pearly moonlight shimmers on the surface. He dives under, and doesn’t come up. Then everything — the sand, the sea, the sky — turns black.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t leave me!’ she screams at the ocean.

  No answer. Only blackness.

  The sound from next-door’s radio drifts in: Paul Kelly, singing ‘How to Make Gravy’. Is it morning or afternoon? Brigitte drags herself off the couch and staggers to the kitchen, groggy from Ryan’s sleeping tablet. Aidan and the twins don’t notice her standing in the doorway. They’re too absorbed in making a gingerbread house — gluing the walls and roof together with thick white icing and decorating it with an obscene number of lollies. Finn’s standing on a step, and Phoebe’s sitting on the bench.

  ‘Another lolly, please.’

  ‘Shh, we don’t want to wake your mum.’ Aidan pops a jellybean into Phoebe’s mouth.

  ‘And me.’ Finn opens his mouth like a baby bird.

  God, they’ll be up all night with that much sugar in them. Where’s Sam? Then she remembers, and her legs turn to jelly. She holds onto the doorframe. The flouro light is too bright; it’s flickering. She feels hot and then cold. Her vision blurs. Her ears are closed to sound. She’s falling, fainting. Aidan catches her.

  12

  Brigitte stares at the traffic light on Bridge Road, waiting for it to change, even though it’s green, and the cars behind are beeping. She goes through on the red. She glances over her shoulder at the empty child restraints. After a heartbeat of panic she remembers that the twins are at kinder. She’s barely slept — two hours a night, max — since Sam died. Almost a week now. The dreams, the guilt, the physical pain — it’s all worse.

  The cigarette-smoking man isn’t out the front of the home. The doors won’t open. She’s keyed in the wrong code. She tries again. She can’t remember the numbers today. She leans a hand against the glass, tries to take a deep breath, but can’t get enough air into her lungs. A carer opens the door from the inside. Brigitte tries to smile as if nothing is wrong, and forgets to sign the visitors’ book.

  Two carers are clearing out a room upstairs. One fills a cardboard box with personal belongings. The other removes the name card from the door: John Lilly. The cigarette-smoking man’s name was John Lilly.

  Papa’s sitting in his chair, staring out the window at the Pelaco sign, with Tiger on his lap and a Bing Crosby cassette playing.

  ‘Oh, Brigi,’ he says when he looks up and sees her in the doorway. She rushes in, drops her bag on the floor, and slumps in the vinyl chair opposite him. Papa pushes Tiger off and reaches for her hands. She lowers her head — can’t hold it up any longer. Tears flow down her face, her arms, and onto Papa’s papery hands. She squeezes his hands tighter, slides off the chair, and kneels on the floor. She rests her head in his lap, ignoring the yeast-and-brine smell. He strokes her hair the way he strokes the cat. They sit like this for a long time, maybe an hour.

  When she looks up, sunlight catches the blue-and-green sw
irls trapped inside the glass paperweight. She stares until her eyes lose focus, and her vision distorts the swirls — twists and slithers them like a snake. It’s the serpent tattoo from her dreams. She blinks hard and looks away.

  Papa has fallen asleep.

  Brigitte can’t breathe; the stale air, the body, and the hospital-like smells smother her. If she doesn’t get out she’s going to suffocate.

  It’s worse in the lift. She grasps the rail, and presses her cheek against the cold metal.

  On the street, she gulps air and walks down the hill without noticing where she’s going. The pub, Bridge Road, the hairdresser, McDonalds, the police station all blur past.

  She stops at the playground and watches a man chase two giggling children around the black-and-yellow play equipment. It’s not fair that Finn and Phoebe have to grow up without a father. She scuffs the tan bark with the toe of her shoe. An old Asian man in a blue tracksuit does chin-ups on the monkey bars; dogs run without leads on the oval, which is enclosed by a black mesh fence. Brigitte looks towards St Ignatius’s church: the building is obscured, but the spire is visible above the roof of the police station. Not fair, Sam. Not fucking fair.

  She pulls off her jacket, ties it around her waist, and marches around the oval. The burnt-biscuit smell of factory smoke catches at the back of her throat as she breathes too quickly in through her nose and out through her mouth. Halfway around, the four goal posts blur into eight, and then back to four. She stops and leans against the fence until the dizziness subsides. When she straightens up, something in her spine crunches, slips, and doesn’t go back into place. She sees spots, squeezes her eyes closed, and grips the fence. An old memory surfaces to block out the pain: her childhood safe place, the sleeper compartment of Dan’s semitrailer. She remembers the warmth, the rocking of the motor; the smell of Kitten car polish; and the sound of Johnny Cash on the eight-track tape player singing about love lost and loneliness.

  After they started primary school, Brigitte and Ryan didn’t go away with Dan much anymore; only occasionally in the holidays. The flash of headlights across the curtains, and then the hiss of the Kenworth’s air brakes would disturb the sleeping suburb and signal Dan’s return home after a week or so on the road. He’d be up the next morning, with dark bags — more like suitcases — under his eyes, whistling while he made pancakes for them. One time he added a little red food dye to the mixture. The pink pancakes became a fabled childhood memory: so special, so exotic.

  Joan didn’t love Dan. Brigitte doesn’t begrudge her that; everybody has their reasons, their circumstances. Who knows what Joan’s reasons or circumstances were, or what Joan imagined them to be. Depression-related or just melodrama? Joan cried about everything, but she didn’t cry when Dan died.

  Brigitte has no tears left. She opens her eyes. A weak guttural moan escapes from her mouth. Maybe the number of tears is not indicative of the amount of love. But she did love Sam. Not at the start. And maybe not enough at the end. But somewhere in between, she loved him — especially after the twins were born. She must have; she just can’t remember the feeling right now. He inherited his bad temper from his father, but he never hurt her. Not really. And he was never rough with the kids, never smacked them. It was a pity that work was more important than his family.

  Dan’s friends were always around when Dan was away. ‘Uncle Len’, the mechanic, serviced the car. ‘Uncle Keith’, the local driver, painted the house and did odd jobs. Some uncle always responded quickly to her call when Joan got scared at night on her own with the kids.

  Brigitte leans over the fence to vomit, but her stomach is empty — she forgot to put food in there today. She dry-retches and spits on the grass.

  Joan wrote a eulogy for Dan’s funeral. She practised it over and over in front of the mirror, as though it was a Logie acceptance speech. But on the day she got so drunk she couldn’t do it. Uncle Keith had to hold her up on the way out of the chapel. One of her black stiletto heels snapped when she tripped and twisted her ankle.

  Brigitte limps around the rest of the oval circumference. Pigeons bob their iridescent heads, picking at something in the grass. A fire truck screams past. She braces for the searing nerve pain as she lowers herself onto a park bench.

  She’s struggling with her deep breathing, trying to flood the pain zones with pure, white healing light, when two wasted teenagers sit down next to her. They scratch at sores on their arms, and discuss some doctor in Lennox Street.

  ***

  Brigitte waits on the red couch under the ‘complications of smoking’ poster, chewing her little fingernail. Classical music is playing. A chart of melanomas hangs above a plastic palm tree; she has a mole on her back that looks a bit like one of them. She tenses and un-tenses the muscles in her legs, and keeps chewing her little fingertip until she tastes blood. She’s been waiting for 15 minutes. She shouldn’t be here, wasting the doctor’s time. She’s not sick. If he doesn’t call her within one minute, she’s leaving. Sixty cat and dog, fifty-nine cat and dog, fifty-eight cat and dog …

  She starts when she hears her name, and follows the doctor into his consulting room. A painting of a waterfall hangs on the wall: so relaxing.

  ‘I’m Doctor Rhys Michaels.’ He shakes her cold, sweaty hand. Dodgy Doctor Rhys, the teenagers at the park called him. Getcha whatever you want. Doesn’t ask questions. ‘I don’t think I’ve met you before.’

  ‘No, I usually see Doctor Walpole in Clifton Hill. But I couldn’t get an appointment today.’ It’s a lie.

  ‘What can I help you with, Brigitte?’ He sits down, and gestures for her to take the patient’s chair next to his desk.

  ‘Do you mind if I stand?’

  ‘Back pain?’

  ‘A bit. And some trouble sleeping. My husband …’ The knot in her throat is suddenly too big for her voice to get around. She clears her throat. Come on, say it. ‘Died.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ His voice is modulated, comforting, practised. He reaches out and pats her hand. His skin feels smooth, cool — manicured and exfoliated.

  She looks at the shelves of faded medical textbooks, disposable gloves, and tubs of specimen jars.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘Twins — a boy and a girl.’ On the bottom shelf, stacks of medication sample packets are lined up next to snow globes, prescription pads, drink bottles with medical logos, and a Nike shoebox.

  She looks up as he touches the blood-pressure machine on his desk and tries to straighten her back as though she is a person who has nothing wrong with her, a person who doesn’t need her blood pressure checked.

  ‘How old?’ he asks.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘A lovely age. Do you have enough support?’ Sincere concern, eye contact, a furrowing of his brow — all practised.

  She nods, and struggles to take a shallow breath.

  Dodgy Doctor Rhys types and prints a prescription for Stilnox. Doctor Walpole would never prescribe sleeping tablets for her. He’d recommend chamomile tea and relaxation exercises, or something. Breathe pure, white light into the pain zones, Brigitte. The last time she saw him he suggested that her memory loss was caused by repression rather than head trauma, and recommended hypnotherapy. He’s full of shit.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ Dodgy Doctor Rhys says, ‘but you need to try to relax. Be kind to yourself, and organise some time out from the kids.’

  ‘I feel like I can’t breathe.’

  ‘That’s just anxiety. I’m going to give you a prescription for some Valium as well — just to help you get through this time.’

  Doctor Walpole would bang on about the time she couldn’t stop taking the Valium her previous doctor had prescribed as a muscle relaxant … her addictive personality type … and the hallucinations.

  ‘Anxiety is a normal reaction to grief.’

 
; Yes, having your husband stabbed to death because he got in between two junkies having a domestic dispute will do that to you. Especially if it was your fault, because he was distracted by having found out you were screwing his workmate. Uncle Aidan. Sam must have known. And now he can’t protect you anymore, and his workmate is going to send you to jail. Who wouldn’t feel anxious?

  He types something in her file. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’

  She looks at the Di-Gesic logo on his pen, and thinks of the almost-happy, hazy days of wine and painkillers after her second useless back operation. Would it be pushing it to ask for something for the pain as well? She decides against it, and shakes her head, remembering how hard the medication withdrawal was. And the hallucinations.

  ‘Take care then.’ He stands.

  She changes her mind. ‘Actually, I’m waiting to have an operation on my back.’ The lies come easily. ‘The pain’s been really bad lately. Nurofen doesn’t help much. Do you think I could get something stronger for the pain?’

  He frowns, types, and reads something on the screen. Uh-oh, has he found a link to her medical records?

  ‘You don’t have a history of alcoholism or substance abuse?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘No mental illness in the family?’

  ‘No.’

  He types another prescription, this time for Di-Gesic. He tells her to take two tablets every four hours for pain, and to follow the directions carefully. And he stresses the importance of not mixing it with alcohol.

  ‘Of course not.’ She makes a serious face, furrows her brow a bit, mimicking his body language — practised.

  ‘Would you like another appointment to talk to somebody? A counsellor?’ More sincere eye-contact.

  She smiles politely, but shakes her head.

 

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