by Liz Byrski
‘Wrong generation,’ Marissa said. ‘You and Gayle are baby boomers, the generation that changed the world. You’re still changing it now.’
‘Why just us?’ asked Gayle, who had followed Sonya in and was sitting on the other side of the bed. ‘You too.’
Marissa shook her head. ‘Too old to be a baby boomer. I’m a war baby.’
Sonya sat bolt upright. ‘Get off, you’re not. How old are you, Marissa?’
‘Sixty-one, but don’t tell anyone.’
‘You mean don’t tell Frank,’ Sonya said.
‘Not even him.’
‘You’re a great advertisement for belly dancing,’ Gayle said. ‘Hope I look as good as you in five years’ time.’
‘Will we still be dancing in five years’ time?’ Marissa asked, not looking up for fear of revealing her vulnerability.
‘Of course we bloody will,’ Sonya said, getting up. ‘We’ll be dancing, talking, listening to Normie Rowe, guzzling wine round your kitchen table, won’t we, Gayle?’
‘Obviously,’ Gayle said, heading for the door. ‘Why wouldn’t we? Now, get a move on or we’ll be late for our own performance.’
The chaos of Marissa’s emotions made her weak and dizzy. ‘You lead tonight, Gayle,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm as they went down the stairs. ‘Right out in front. This is your night. And you tomorrow, Sonya.’
Gayle turned to her in shock. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, ‘no way.’
‘You did it the last night in Hedland, when I was a zombie.’
‘I wasn’t out in front.’
‘No,’ Marissa agreed, ‘but you led. You drove that performance. Of course you can do it again, only this time you’ll be leading from the front.’
‘Yes,’ Sonya said. ‘You can, Gayle. You’ll be great. Do it, and I’ll do it tomorrow. Our last two nights, let’s give it a go.’
Gayle took a deep breath. ‘If you really think so . . .’
‘I know so,’ said Marissa, knowing too that she did not have it in herself to lead them tonight. ‘This is the new you, the woman you’ve become – let’s see her on the stage.’
‘Hurricane Gayle,’ Sonya said with a grin. ‘Come on then, whip us up a storm.’
Frank could barely believe his luck. Just a few days earlier he’d been crying into his drink in the Norfolk, feeling a failure at every level, and then, suddenly, everything had changed. An informant he’d been cultivating for months had finally come good with a tip-off, and not just any ordinary tip-off but the ultimate one. By next morning, along with half a dozen other officers, he was on an unmarked launch heading up the coast towards a large yacht moored a kilometre from the coast off Dongara. As they drew closer, giving a convincing impression of a handful of blokes enjoying a few days’ fishing and drinking, the police helicopter was on standby in Geraldton and a couple of patrol boats were positioning north and west of the target.
It was the most satisfying moment of Frank’s years in the force when, pleading for a can of fuel to get them back to shore, they had pulled alongside with the grudging agreement of the skipper. As he leapt from the prow of the launch onto the deck of the yacht, Frank felt a shot of the old adrenaline course through his veins. Seconds later, in the cabin, the syndicate boss who had eluded him for months was his, caught literally with his pants down, staring shocked and helpless into the barrel of Frank’s police revolver.
It was a coup and Frank knew it, planned at short notice and executed like clockwork. The long months of detective work, of waiting and near misses, had at last paid off. Not only did they have the big man, they had his girlfriend, clutching a sheet around her and blabbing everything she knew before the handcuffs were on. That and the drugs they found on board assured him they had evidence that would stand up in court. The operation had recruited and run teenagers as mules carrying heroin into the country through Bali, as well as trafficking in cocaine and crystal meth through a network of small boats moored off Fremantle and Geraldton.
Elated despite several hours of interviews, Frank dealt with the paperwork and walked out of the Geraldton police station, pausing to inhale the fresh night air. The adrenaline was still pumping: not only was the case stitched up but fate, or rather, the drug trade, had brought him to Geraldton at just the right time. Marissa and the others had arrived earlier in the week and were staying nearby. He needed to go to the pub, buy drinks for his team and join in the post mortem, but by the time he’d be able to get away, Marissa and the others would be back at the hotel.
The pub was crowded and noisy. News of the arrest had spread and the bar was packed with locals and off-duty police. As the drinks kept coming, the story was acquiring wilder and more heroic dimensions and it was building up to a long night of celebration, but Frank had other plans. He left a message on Marissa’s phone and then joined the throng, accepted the plaudits, the slaps on the back, listened to the tall tales and bought a few rounds, and when he was sure he’d talked to everyone who’d played a part in the operation, he slipped quietly away.
It was ten o’clock when he got to the hotel, later than he’d intended, but when he glanced into the bar he saw Gayle and Sonya in a booth tucking into an enormous plate of sandwiches.
‘Normie!’ Sonya said. ‘What a surprise. Come and join us.’
‘Was it you who arrested those guys on the boat, Frank?’ Gayle asked, pushing the sandwiches towards him. ‘I heard it on the early news.’
He nodded and took a sandwich. ‘Me and others. At bloody last, we’ve been after them for long enough. I thought I’d be retired or dead before we pinned this lot.’
‘Well done, Frank, congratulations,’ Sonya said, thumping his shoulder. ‘Let’s get you a drink. What’ll it be?’
He hadn’t realised how hungry he was – he hadn’t eaten since breakfast – and he wolfed down the sandwich.
Gayle pushed a bowl of fries towards him. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said, ‘and hungry. Dig in. Does Marissa know you’re here?’
‘I left a message on her phone,’ he said. ‘Where is she, anyway?’
‘She went up to her room,’ Gayle replied, glancing at her watch. ‘Said she’d just be a minute. We’ve not been back long, but Sonya and I were ravenous so we didn’t wait to order.’
He nodded and started on another sandwich as Sonya returned with the drinks. ‘To the conquering hero!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘So, tell us all about it. Were you incredibly brave and commanding?’
‘Naturally,’ he said with a grin. ‘Cheers!’ He took a swig of his drink. ‘There’s a lot of stories circulating in the pub but, to be honest, it went like a dream.’
‘Come on then,’ Sonya urged, ‘how did you get them –’
‘Hang on,’ Gayle said, ‘Marissa should be here, she’ll want to know too. What’s she up to?’ She pushed her plate aside. ‘I’ll go and get her. Don’t start the story yet.’
‘Why don’t I go?’ Frank said, getting up. ‘What’s the room number?’
‘Twenty-five,’ Sonya said. ‘Hurry up, I want to hear all about it.’
Frank took the stairs two at a time and made his way along the passage. Whisky, exhaustion and adrenaline had pumped up his heart rate. Suddenly he remembered his first date, arriving at the girl’s house to pick her up for the school dance. The same heady mix of excitement and nerves buzzed through him now as he tapped on the door. There was no answer.
‘Marissa,’ he called, knocking again. In the next room a television played softly, but there was no sound from twenty-five. Perhaps she’d decided to go to bed. But there was light shining under the door, strong light, so she couldn’t have been asleep.
He knocked again, louder this time. ‘Marissa, it’s Frank,’ he said, but there was no response. Perhaps she just wanted to be left alone. Disappointment shaved the edge off his mood, but as he turned away he thought he heard a sound, a moan from inside.
He knocked loudly with both hands and then, pressing his ear to the door, he hear
d the sound of water running. ‘Marissa, Marissa, let me in,’ he called, fear prickling his skin.
He turned the handle and the door swung open. There was no sign of her in the room but the shower was running, and steam drifted out through the open bathroom door. Frank was there in an instant and, wrenching back the shower curtain, he saw her, slumped in a corner of the cubicle, the water pounding down on her and swirling into the drain stained pink with her blood.
‘But why?’ Sonya said, fidgeting under the bright lights of the waiting room. ‘Why didn’t she say something? She seemed okay this evening.’
‘Search me,’ Gayle said. ‘She’d seemed better since we got away from Port Hedland. Whatever it is, she’s very good at hiding it.’
‘I feel like such a lousy friend,’ Sonya said. ‘I was cross with her when she raced us off that morning. I should have been a bit more understanding, tried to draw her out, then she might have talked to us.’
Frank, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, shook his head. ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ he said. ‘Something like this was always going to happen.’
‘You know, then?’ Sonya said, turning to him. ‘Whatever it is, you know about it?’
‘No, but I know the signs. Post-traumatic stress – takes one to know one. Something happened in Port Hedland years ago, that’s all I know, that and the fact that I don’t think she’s ever even talked about it, let alone got any help.’
‘So why did we go there?’ Gayle said. ‘We didn’t have to.’
Frank shrugged. ‘Maybe she thought she could lay a few ghosts.’ He rubbed his hands over his face, pushing down a wave of nausea. ‘I’ve gotta get some air. Call me if anything happens, will you, I’ll be just outside the door.’
He dropped some coins in the drink machine, took a bottle of water and wandered out. The night was crystal clear, the stars so much brighter than they ever seemed in the city. A couple of hours earlier he had stood outside the police station high on success and the anticipation of seeing Marissa. And now? He shook his head and took some deep breaths. Physically she would be fine. There was a vicious cut across her wrist, but the angle meant that it had missed the most vulnerable point. He was convinced that the cry he’d heard had come the moment before she fainted. It was a nasty injury and she was in shock, but it wasn’t disastrous. It was the psychological effect that worried him. Gayle had mentioned her apparent calm and he knew it well: the sudden and unusual detachment alongside the recognition of being at the brink of collapse, then the chaos and the dizziness, and finally the mindless panic in response to some trigger. And in this case, Frank was in no doubt that he’d been the trigger – he who, above all people, should have known better. Marissa’s recovery was assured but what would it mean for her, and would there be a place in it for him?
‘Frank?’ He jumped as Sonya materialised out of the shadows. ‘They say we can go in and see her now, but only two at a time. We . . . Gayle and I . . . we think you should go in first – on your own.’
TWENTY-ONE
Gayle stared at the uncharacteristic evidence of Brian’s last days in the house. Each room had its own collection of dirty glasses, plates, cups and empty wine and beer bottles. A pair of food- and wine-stained pyjamas lay on the bedroom floor alongside a pair of grey suit trousers and a blue shirt; several weeks’ worth of unopened mail was spread across the study desk in an untidy pile and the smell from the kitchen had greeted her as soon as she opened the front door. The rubbish had been bagged but left standing in the corner and the aroma of old curry and rotting meat made her gag. It was two weeks old at least and she could barely bring herself to pick it up, dump it in a larger bag and take it outside.
Her irritation was mixed with confusion; Brian was not domesticated but neither was he a slob. He liked things clean and tidy, and while he preferred to have someone else cleaning up after him he was not one to leave a place in a mess. And he was really neurotic about taking out the garbage every day. Clearly something very strange had been going on. He’d sent a vague reply to her text message saying he was busy but would let her know which day he’d be back. Presumably she had a few days to sort herself out before facing him, but right now she had to face his mess.
Angie had called to say she was on her way over. ‘I’m dying to hear all about it,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll be over by four and then maybe we can go out later and eat.’
Gayle found an apron, collected up the crockery, bagged up the empty wine bottles and some out-of-date milk and smoked salmon she’d found in the fridge, and chucked the dirty washing into the laundry. With every task, her anger increased. Had Brian deliberately left the place like this so she’d have to clean it up? Deciding to tackle him about it and to get a firm date for his return, she dialled his number, but it diverted to message bank.
‘What is that smell?’ Angie asked from the front door. ‘It’s like dead rats.’
‘Garbage. Specifically, some ageing curry,’ Gayle said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Dad left it on the kitchen bench when he went away; it’s going to take a while to get rid of the stink.’
Angie screwed up her face. ‘Good thing you’re back now or it would’ve walked out the door on its own. Did you try some air freshener?’
Gayle nodded. ‘Lemon and lavender is no match for it. I’ve opened all the windows. Anyway, darling, how are you?’
‘Okay,’ Angie said, hugging her. ‘I really missed you, Mum. I’m so glad you’re back. Is Marissa okay?’
‘Not too bad,’ Gayle said, looking away. ‘It was a minor accident, she’ll be fine.’
‘Good. I got you some milk, shall I make some tea?’
Gayle thought Angie looked a bit pale, perhaps tired. She was struck by a sudden awkwardness. For several weeks she’d been planning what she would say to Angie, thinking about how, when and where to do it. Now the prospect overshadowed everything: it seemed unnatural, unfair almost, not to tell her straight away.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m just going to take my bags upstairs and have a wash.’
She dumped her bags in the bedroom, and stared at herself in the long mirror. The enormity of what she was about to do descended on her; at a distance she’d been able to consider it in a practical, almost detached way. She had felt strong, and capable of anything. Now her reflection showed a small, pale figure dwarfed by the task ahead. Had she always looked so small and insignificant in this mirror? The sense of inertia and powerlessness that had characterised her life in this house returned with a force that made her dizzy. She was stronger, she knew she was. She just had to remember how she had felt when she’d led the dancing. The old Gayle could never have done that. Where was the power and energy of the dance now, when she most needed it?
‘Are you coming down,’ Angie called, ‘or do you want me to bring the tea up there while you unpack?’
‘Unpack,’ Gayle thought, ‘what’s the point? I’ll tell her now, and tomorrow I’ll find a place to go. I have to get out of here as soon as I can.’
‘Mum?’
‘I’m coming down,’ she called, and with the flat of her hand she patted the top of the vanity unit in the familiar drum rhythm. ‘It’s just another performance, a different sort of dance,’ she told herself. ‘Another performance straight from the heart,’ and, straightening her shoulders, she made her way down the stairs as the phone rang.
‘He’s not here,’ Angie said. ‘No, I don’t think Mum knows, but don’t you have a copy of his diary?’
‘Who is it?’ Gayle asked quietly.
Angie’s face was white with shock as she held out the phone. ‘It’s Dad’s office. They need to talk to him about the corporate credit card. He should have handed it over on the twenty-fourth, the day they let him go.’
‘I don’t understand why he didn’t just tell us,’ Angie said later, sitting cross-legged on the lounge and tucking into a large slice of the pizza that had just been delivered. ‘It’s so unlike him. You’d think he’d be raging around like a wounde
d bull, expecting us all to run after him, tell him how unfair it is, all that – like he did when you went away.’
Gayle shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not really. It was different with me because, angry as he was, he would have felt he was still in control, that this was an aberration on my part, but a temporary one. So he could make a big fuss with as many people as possible, and then it dies down and everything returns to normal, but this – this is different.’
‘Makes no sense to me,’ Angie said. ‘Just buggering off like that without saying a word. It’s not Dad’s way.’
‘Look, what’s happened to him is huge. His whole identity is based on his work, and now the ground’s been cut from under him. He’s worked hard and the money and the status have been hugely important to him.’
‘I can understand the money,’ Angie interrupted, ‘but what status is there in marketing cigarettes? People think it’s indefensible.’
‘Some people,’ Gayle answered.
‘Well, you and I do for a start.’
‘Sure, but we’re not everyone. We’re probably not even the majority. Tobacco is a legal substance, and growing it is a valuable industry in Australia. And we shouldn’t forget that, despite our objections, we’ve lived very comfortably on the profits. No, status in the circles Brian moves in is really important to him. That’s why it makes sense to me that he would keep quiet, go off somewhere and give himself time to construct his own version of what happened, and what happens next.’
Angie shrugged. ‘I still think it’s weird. Where d’you think he’s gone?’
‘Sydney. I’d bet on it,’ Gayle said. ‘He calls it his natural home. He’ll be somewhere in Sydney, writing his own story. And it’ll be a story that gives him some say in this decision. It’ll be about him being offered something unacceptable and turning it down, or him being placed in an untenable situation and choosing to go rather than do whatever it was they wanted. By the time we hear it, the humiliation will have become a choice and a new opportunity.’