Hindsight (9781921997211)

by Casey, Melanie

  A note from the publisher

  Dear Reader,

  At Pantera Press we’re passionate about what we call good books doing good thingsTM.

  A big part is our joy in discovering and nurturing talented home-grown writers such as Melanie Casey.

  We are also focused on promoting literacy, quality writing, the joys of reading and fostering debate.

  CAN YOU READ THIS?

  Sure you can, but 60% in our community can’t. Shocking, isn’t it? That’s why Pantera Press is helping to close the literacy gap, by nurturing the next generation of readers as well as our writers. We’re thrilled to support Let’s Read. A wonderful program already helping over 100,000 pre-schoolers across Australia to develop the building blocks for literacy and learning, as well as a love for books.

  We’re excited that Let’s Read operates right across Australia, in metropolitan, regional and also remote communities, including Indigenous communities in Far North Queensland, Cape York, and Torres Strait. Let’s Read was developed by the Centre for Community Child Health and is being implemented in partnership with The Smith Family.

  Simply by enjoying our books, you will be contributing to our unique approach and helping these kids. So thank you.

  If you want to do more, please visit www.PanteraPress.com/Donate where you can personally donate to help The Smith Family expand Let’s Read, and find out more about the great programs Pantera Press supports.

  Please enjoy Hindsight.

  For news about our other books, sample chapters, author interviews and much more, please visit our website: www.PanteraPress.com

  Happy reading,

  Alison Green

  First published in 2013 by Pantera Press Pty Limited

  www.PanteraPress.com

  This book is copyright, and all rights are reserved.

  Text copyright © Melanie Casey, 2013

  Melanie Casey has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

  Design and typography copyright © Pantera Press Pty Limited, 2013

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  We welcome your support of the author’s rights, so please only buy authorised editions.

  This is a work of fiction, though it may refer to some real events or people. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, firms, events or locales is coincidental or used for fictional purposes.

  Without the publisher’s prior written permission, and without limiting the rights reserved under copyright, none of this book may be scanned, reproduced, stored in, uploaded to or introduced into a retrieval or distribution system, including the internet, or transmitted, copied, scanned or made available in any form or by any means (including digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, sound or audio recording, or text-to-voice). This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent recipient.

  Please send all permission queries to:

  Pantera Press, P.O. Box 1989 Neutral Bay, NSW 2089 Australia or info@PanteraPress.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

  ISBN 978-1-921997-20-4 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-921997-21-1 (Ebook)

  Cover and Internal Design: Luke Causby, Blue Cork

  Front cover image: © quavondo, © Rudolf Vlcek

  Back cover image: © iStock

  Editor: Kylie Mason

  Proofreader: Desanka Vukelich

  Author Photo: Andrew Dunbar

  Typesetting: Kirby Jones

  Printed in Australia: McPherson’s Printing Group

  Pantera Press policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  For Mum

  PART ONE

  Chorus: Come, poor thing, leave the empty chariot.

  Of your own free will try on the yoke of Fate.

  Aeschylus, Agamemnon

  CHAPTER

  1

  The man settled back into the shadows. He pulled his collar up to his chin and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was a bitter night and he’d been standing there for over an hour.

  The doorway that concealed him was so dark he could hardly see his own feet. Sickly yellow light from the street lights died well before it reached him. This alleyway serviced the businesses that lined the two main streets of Jewel Bay and the council had decided that lighting was an unnecessary expense. He loved small-town thinking.

  The wind picked up and he felt the chill start to sink into his bones. Still, he couldn’t move. He had to remain invisible. His breathing was shallow and fast. His pulse was beating in time to the music in his head: Beethoven’s Ninth, Ode to Joy.

  A sound made him tense and sneak a quick look into the laneway. A figure was moving quickly in his direction, weaving between the scattered boxes and crates, stepping around a bin that was tipped over onto its side, spewing rotten food and crumpled packaging across the uneven bitumen.

  The blood began to thunder in his ears and saliva flooded into his mouth. The person was close now, only a few metres away. It was her. He held his breath until she passed his doorway.

  Stepping up behind her he threw one arm around her left shoulder, covering her mouth and nose with his hand. With the other hand he plunged a syringe into her neck. She started to thrash against him. He locked both arms around her. She kicked and struggled, grunting with fear and panic. He loved it when they fought; loved feeling all that desperation in his arms. She tried to scream, a muffled, gasping sound, before collapsing against him. Her arms and legs went slack and she made a strangled gurgling noise. Her bladder released and the smell of warm urine scalded his nostrils.

  He held her until he was sure she was out. Then, leaning close to her ear, he whispered then laughed. Grasping her under the armpits he dragged her backwards into the deeper shadows. He turned her around to face him. Her eyes were closed — pity.

  ‘Never mind,’ he whispered, ‘there will be plenty of time later.’ He dragged her the remaining few metres back to the doorway. He checked his watch: three minutes, fifteen seconds. Not bad. Her head sagged forwards, her hair shrouding her face. Her mouth was slack and her tongue protruded. Saliva glistened in a long drool onto the front of her shirt.

  He cocked his head, listening. A car drove down Main Street and receded into the distance. There were no other sounds of life, no voices, no footsteps; just the wind and the distant crashing of the sea.

  He picked the woman up, one arm under her armpits, the other under her knees and hefted her into the crate, puffing with the weight of her. She felt heavier than her seventy or so kilos, but then again, she was almost a dead weight. He sniggered softly to himself as he lifted the lid into place.

  The symphony in his head restarted as he stepped out of the doorway and walked down the lane back to his car on Main Street with a spring in his step. It was nice when things went to plan. He would come bac
k in the morning, with the van.

  As the sound of the man’s footsteps faded, an untidy pile of packaging a few metres away from the doorway shuddered and started to move.

  As the sheets of cardboard fell away, the pile took shape and unfolded into an old man. He stepped out of the shadows. Shooting a glance at Main Street, he took a few wobbly steps forward.

  He’d woken just before the man leapt from the doorway and grabbed the girl. It’d happened so quickly. At first he’d thought he was dreaming; now he wished he had been. He’d huddled there listening to the shuffles and grunts punctuated by something that he couldn’t quite grasp until it dawned on him that the man was laughing. He’d had to press his fist into his mouth to stop from gagging.

  He leant out of the doorway and risked a quick glance down the laneway again just to make sure the man wasn’t coming back. He looked at the crate in front of him. The lid didn’t look like it was nailed down. With a bit of effort he managed to lift it. Holding his breath, he peered inside.

  The young woman was folded into the foetal position, her hair covering her face. Tentatively, he touched her — she felt warm. He shook her. No response. Fumbling, he reached further into the crate, groping for her neck. He pushed her head to one side and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Bile flooded his mouth again. He gave way to the urge and retched onto the ground.

  She was dead; there was nothing he could do. After a few moments he reached back into the crate and started to feel around her body. Puffing, he lifted her legs and was rewarded when his fingers brushed smooth leather. Tugging hard he pulled her handbag from under her. His nerves got the better of him and he turned and did a half shuffle, half run to the end of the lane then stepped cautiously around the corner looking for any sign of the man. No people, no cars. Just the empty street with a few shop windows dimly illuminated. Ducking back into the laneway, he rifled through the handbag, pulling out a wallet before throwing the bag into one of the bins lining the laneway.

  He shuffled off down Main Street to find another spot to settle for the night, keen to get as far away from the crate and its contents as he could. He passed a phone booth, its glass crazed and orange light flickering, and stopped. He walked back to it and paused with his hand on the door. Muttering to himself, he pushed it open and stepped inside. With a shaking hand he lifted the handset and dialled.

  ‘Hello? Police … Hello? Yes I want to report a murder … Johns Lane, Jewel Bay … Yes … There’s a body in a crate. No, he’s gone now. No, no, I can’t.’ He slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

  He left the booth and hurried down the street, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder until he was well away.

  CHAPTER

  2

  I looked at the clock on the wall again, willing the seconds to tick by. I resisted the urge to drum my fingers on the timber of the kitchen table. The sounds of scoffing coming from the corner finally ceased and Shadow sauntered over to the table and jumped onto a spare chair. It was a remarkably elegant manoeuvre for the nine and a half kilo cat. In human terms it’d be equivalent to a hundred-kilo gymnast leaping onto a balance beam.

  The minute hand finally shifted and with a sigh of relief I plunged and poured myself a large mug of coffee, then added milk and two spoons of sugar. The aroma, rich and dark with just a hint of vanilla and cinnamon, teased my nostrils as I took my first sip of the day. Closing my eyes, I let the hit take me. The blend was my own secret recipe and it was heaven in a cup. Opening my eyes, I saw Mum wrinkling her nose. Even after more than ten years of watching me drink coffee every morning she still can’t get used to the idea. In her world there is no situation that can’t be improved by a cup of tea.

  As I sipped and slowly felt the tendrils of warmth and life seep into my limbs I listened to snippets of the conversation between the two people who were my entire world.

  ‘I’m going into town later today,’ Mum said. ‘I thought I’d stop in and have a cup of tea with Mrs O’Grady. Last time she came to visit there was a shadow hanging over her. I’m sure her sister passed last night.’

  Surprising as it might seem, this was normal conversational fare in our household. The women in our family are what most people describe as ‘gifted’. In Salem we would have been burned at the stake but there you have it; we were blessed to be born in an era of relative tolerance.

  Mum can touch someone and see glimpses of their future. She dresses it up a bit for the sake of the townsfolk and pretends to be reading their palms. Gran and I both know that palmistry has nothing to do with it. She’s also selective in what she tells her clients. I always know when she’s seen something that makes her grieve: I find her in the same place in the garden, sitting under the oak tree and looking out over the bay. She looks older and sadder, like there’s a weight on her shoulders. It’s part of the territory. The sight is a burden as much as it’s a gift.

  ‘Well, if you’re going into town could you drop some chamomile and peppermint at the store? Mr Johnson rang me last night and he’s sold out again,’ Gran said. Gran has the most marvellous herb garden. If some people have green thumbs I think Gran must have green arms because there is nothing that won’t grow for her. It’s part of her own version of the family gift. She can help people to heal by channelling her energy into them. Plants and animals also respond well to her touch. I’ve often wondered if Shadow’s panther-like proportions have as much to do with the affection she lavishes on him as his love affair with his food bowl.

  She turned away from the stove and piled a mountain of pancakes in front of me. I’ve given up on protesting. There’s no point; there’s nothing that makes Gran happier than feeding her family. To be honest, it’s pretty hard to resist her cooking anyway. I’ve resigned myself to having more curves than I probably need and to exercising for at least an hour a day to ensure they don’t turn into bulges.

  ‘I’ll stop by on my way. I need to get some more candles anyway. Is there anything you need, Cass?’ Mum said.

  I forced down my mouthful of pancake and took a deep breath. ‘I think I might come with you. I want to go to the library. Apparently they have some amazing new historical texts.’

  Mum and Gran both fell silent. I could hear the birds singing out in the garden accompanied by the sounds of Shadow vigorously washing his ample pelt and the grandmother clock ticking away next to the pantry. I plastered on a smile that I hoped looked more real than it felt. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Mum was the first to recover. ‘Good, well, perhaps I’ll stop in at the library as well. I need a new book.’

  If you knew my mother, you would know this was an outright lie. Her idea of a good novel is a soppy romance and she probably reads three of those a decade.

  ‘No, really, Mum, I want to go by myself and stay for a few hours. You’d be bored stiff and you’ve got things to do anyway.’

  I deliberately turned my attention back to my breakfast without looking at Gran. I knew the expression I would see on her face: it would be worry and sadness all rolled into one.

  We finished breakfast in silence and I went upstairs to shower and get dressed. I knew that I was taking a risk but I’d made up my mind. I couldn’t spend my entire life cooped up in the house, as much as I loved the place.

  The cause of all the angst was my own special version of our family gift. The first seven years of my life were unremarkable; I was an ordinary child, leading a pretty average life, going to school and coming home. The only thing unusual about me was my eccentric family. Mum and Gran decided I had no special talents. For some reason I’d missed out. That was until Gran took me into the neighbouring town of Clifton one day when I was nearly eight.

  I was crossing the road with her when I froze in the middle of the road. Gran tells me that my eyes glazed over and I just stood there until I let out a piercing scream that sliced down her spine like a knife. All I remember is being behind someone else’s eyes. I turned as a
car hurtled towards me and screamed as metal crunched into bone. Then, as soon as it had started, it was over. I was still standing in the middle of the road, cars were beeping their horns and Gran was trying to move me onto the footpath.

  The experience left me shuddering and crying on and off for days. For a few brief seconds I’d been someone else. I’d felt their fear and seen every detail of the car as it bore down on them. I’d seen and somehow recognised the face of the driver. Worst of all though, I felt the impact.

  Mum made a few enquiries through her extensive network of clients and found out that back in the early fifties, a local girl had been run down by her boyfriend while she was crossing the road. He was in a jealous rage because she’d broken it off with him and he thought she had another lover.

  That was the first time my gift manifested itself. Mum and Gran hoped that it was a one-off but I think deep down we all knew better. The really horrible part about it is that out of all of our talents, mine is the strongest.

  As time went by we came to realise that all I have to do is pass over a place where someone has died suddenly, where their spirit was wrenched from their body, and it happens. The greater their fear and pain, the stronger the vision. As I got older and started going further afield it started happening more often. Each episode left me feeling like I’d been killed along with the victim.

  Thankfully we lived in a place with a low crime rate but that didn’t account for the people who had died in violent accidents or by their own hand, and my gift didn’t seem to be limited by time. A death one hundred years ago felt the same to me as one yesterday. The earliest I’d experienced dated back almost one hundred and fifty years. It was a teenage boy killed by his father in an alcoholic rage.

  Jewel Bay is a quiet town for most of the year. Settled in 1890 by a few farming families, today the stable population is about seven thousand, if you include all the outlying farms and properties. It’s nestled along the rugged southern coastline of South Australia’s Fleurieu Peninsula between Clifton and Fairfield. Fairfield is the largest town in the region and most of the infrastructure for Jewel Bay is run out of there. In summer, Jewel Bay explodes to about nine thousand as city folk descend on us. Over the years, the townspeople have developed split personalities, running small farms and properties for three-quarters of the year and then turning their hands to the tourist trade for the summer months. They run B&Bs, farm stays, cafés, tour groups, give riding lessons, surfing lessons, run fishing charters, bake cakes and biscuits; the list is almost endless and for nearly four months a year the town booms before settling back into the slow and steady rhythm of the quieter months.