Soon

by Lois Murphy

  ‘That’s right. Unless you were on your own. Then you could stay as long as you liked, with my blessing. In fact, I’d give you a lift.’

  She ignores this and turns to Rob and Alice, who are approaching. Rob stops and reaches out his hand. ‘We appreciate everything you’ve done. Sorry we caused you so much hassle.’

  ‘Come anytime. When we’re settled, you’d be welcome.’

  He nods, looking doubtful, and I get the impression there probably won’t be a next time. I turn to Alice. She steps straight into me and hugs me tight. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear anything to happen to you. We should never have let you stay that night.’ My hand against her head looks large and clumsy. ‘Let me know when you get home.’

  She nods. ‘Will do.’ When she stands back she keeps her eyes down and presses her hands together in front of her chest, giving me one of her deep, elegant bows. Then she turns and curls into the back seat.

  I’m touched at the affection she’s demonstrated, the huge hug. It isn’t until much later that I realise she was simply trying to avoid my eyes.

  The Eastern Highway, the meandering sole route to the road to Nebulah, is sixty-five kilometres north of Woodford. I don’t intend to go further than that; there’s no need to. To meet the Eastern and approach the Nebulah road from the other direction would involve a dogleg of close to 450 kilometres. I tail them about ten k’s past the turn-off, then I drop back with a blast of the horn and chuck a U-ie.

  I’m not stupid, though. Or rather, I just need to be sure. Peace of mind is never to be sneezed at. There’s an open gravelly patch off the side of the road by the Eastern turn-off. I have my book with me, and my lunch. I wait for two hours, till I’m rigid with boredom and Gina looks ready to walk back to Woodford without me.

  It’s enough. It’s solstice. And it’s over.

  I turn back to town.

  PART

  SIX

  Over. It’s a funny thing how people are always looking to compartmentalise their lives, drawing boundaries and edges as if to delineate befores and afters, like psychological picket fences. Before my marriage, my divorce, my retirement. Before my life turned upside down; before I lost everything; before I thought I had nothing more to lose.

  Over. As if nothing lives on in thoughts or memories, doesn’t keep churning, brewing. Fermenting.

  The mind always knows, on some level. Outside the carefully erected barricades of the conscious, the seething still goes on. It’s in the exiled depths, where the subconscious is sitting dealing cards with the sixth sense, that innate knowledge. Lying in wait. Like an insidious vine impossible to eradicate, they uncurl their tendrils, lassoing shoots into the slightest of cracks.

  Thriving in the spaces we refuse to look.

  When I get home, telling myself over and over that it’s finished, that it’s solstice and I’m safe, I find I can’t settle. I end up pacing, flat and restless, and try to console myself that it’s just the aftermath, a reaction to the stress of the last couple of days, weeks, months.

  I should have known – I do know – when the relief I long to feel is so elusive, that Over is not a button you press to bring the curtains down. Show. Over.

  I do know. While I pace and fret, unsettling Milly and unable to focus on the jigsaw or contemplate a book, I know. When I finally decide to give up and brave the chilly afternoon for a walk to the pub – a bit early, but just a quick one, a bit of company by the fire – I’m sure that in the depths of my mind I already know what I’m going to find.

  She’s huddled by the fire with a glass of something red and sickly, looking forlorn and utterly worn-out. She’s gazing into the gas flicker of the replica log fire, chewing indifferently on a thumb, and so lost in her own thoughts she doesn’t even notice me approaching until I sit opposite her.

  ‘Polly.’

  A rainbow of emotions rushes over her face: fear, dismay, regret and evasion. And the worst one of all, the one I expected but still hoped I wouldn’t see: guilt.

  ‘Shit.’

  I’m overtaken by a fatigue that seems to leach the life out of my very bones.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Please, just leave them alone – they’ll kill me.’

  ‘How long ago did they leave?’

  She squirms. ‘An hour? Hour and a half? We waited a few hours up the road, so it was already … I dunno, two-ish?’ Laughter from the pool table breaks into her pause. ‘I couldn’t cope cooped up in that room.’ Her hands are clenched. ‘I wouldn’t go. They were pissed off, having to bring me back. I promised I wouldn’t leave the motel. Shit.’ It’s getting on for three o’clock. On the shortest day of the year, which means it’s too late.

  So it’s over, I think. Soon, unheard voices breathe around me. I don’t want to know.

  Polly is watching me, nervous. ‘What are you going to do?’

  I’m sagged with my hands between my legs. It takes all my energy to just raise my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, and I’m so tired.

  She keeps her hands clasped tightly together in her lap and begins to gnaw at her lip. ‘Will they be okay?’

  ‘No.’

  One hand snakes to her mouth, unnoticed. Her words start to tumble. ‘It was Xandrea, she was so determined to go, she kept saying it was winter solstice and the most powerful time of the year for a connection. She kept going on about what an amazing opportunity it was, like it was some kind of festival. And Alice wasn’t sure, she felt guilty, but she did really want to go back, and Xandrea kept reminding her of how beautiful it was and she …’

  Polly breaks off and breathes deeply. ‘Rob didn’t want to go, but he was worried about Alice. Alan, well, Alan lost most of his family and he doesn’t say much. Alice told me once that the Khmer Rouge came to his father’s village when his dad was just a small boy, and gathered everyone in the square and made them watch while they disembowelled the schoolteacher. He was squatting in the dirt, trying to hold his insides in his hands while the flies started to swarm, and the soldiers watched the villagers and anyone who cried or tried to look away was singled out for the same. So they had to watch and keep their faces impassive, and his father managed to escape with another family not long after, but I don’t think Alan’s had a very nice life. I don’t know, he’s usually pretty remote, but when Alice talked about the poetry he got really interested. Like it’s a chance, a connection he missed.’ She takes a breath and begins to wind down. ‘Xandrea seems to know what she’s talking about, though,’ she hazards, subsiding.

  ‘No. She has no idea.’

  Polly nods, lowering her head and regarding her ravaged fingernails. ‘She said that if I was scared of something like this I’d never make it as a Wiccan.’ Her pudgy fingers flex. ‘But shit, I never really believed all that crap. Spells and incantations – it was just fun.’ She shrugs again. ‘I always hated Sunday school.’

  I can’t muster up the energy to respond. A thick tear banks in the corner of her eye and slowly snakes down her face. ‘I couldn’t go. I had this dream last night that we were there and my teeth kept growing, they were like these long sharp tombstones. It was awful, I started eating my fingers and there was blood everywhere and I woke up and felt so sick.’ She shudders and roughly swipes at the tear. ‘I was determined never … but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.’

  There’s another burst of laughter at the bar and she’s at her nails again. I get up. Her head jerks. ‘What are you going to do?’

  I turn away.

  ‘Please don’t tell them I told you!’ she calls after me. As if it still matters.

  At the police station, Denham is arguing with a burly man whose fence has been graffitied again, who’s insisting he knows who’s behind it and can’t seem to grasp the concept of evidence, thinks that kids swearing at him in the street is enough to prove guilt. Kath would have been better at dealing with him, she’d have assured the guy of his status as victim, which is really a
ll he wants, and he would have left acknowledged, happily aggrieved. Denham is too officious to calm him, a brick wall, and the man, exasperated, moves on to his neighbour’s barking dogs. Denham’s eyes flicker towards me. He makes no move to wind things up. The utilitarian, endlessly reliable clock on the wall behind him seems to leer. I already know I’m wasting my time.

  A few minutes into the incessant barking the man’s mobile rings. He hesitates, torn, but like most people can’t resist. Begrudgingly, he comes to a stop. As he pushes past me he is already building up to give his caller an earful.

  At the counter Denham plays with a bundle of paper, keeping his eyes averted. I wait, calm and still; I am wasting my time. When he looks up, finally, his gaze is empty and cold. He is a busy man, it tells me. Nothing I have to tell him could be of interest.

  ‘We have a problem,’ I say.

  His expression doesn’t change. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘There’s a group of kids in Nebulah, planning to stay overnight.’

  Slowly, methodically, Denham starts to straighten the pile of forms in front of him. ‘And?’ he says.

  ‘And they will be killed.’

  He clicks in the nib of his biro and returns it to his pocket.

  ‘How old are these “kids”?’

  ‘Early twenties.’

  He nods and meets my eye for the first time. ‘Adults,’ he says.

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘Legally. Old enough to take responsibility for themselves.’

  ‘They will be killed.’

  He shrugs. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘They have no idea what they’re doing, what they’re in for.’

  There it is, the faintest flash of aggression, a tinge of a smirk.

  ‘I don’t think I quite understand what it is you expect from the police department.’

  I’m wasting my time. ‘To get them out.’

  ‘Under what jurisdiction?’

  ‘Any!’

  ‘They’re not doing anything illegal.’

  ‘You could still do something.’

  ‘They’re adults and they’re not breaking the law.’

  ‘They’re going to die. You don’t care.’

  It’s as though I’ve pushed a button, the sudden ignition.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I care about. People with nothing better to do, throwing their weight around and wasting police resources time and again. You act like you’re some kind of veteran big shot. Sergeant Williams may humour your constant whims, but don’t expect me to.’

  ‘Denham, listen to me, this …’

  ‘No, you listen to me. Didn’t you hear what I just said? This stops now. Yesterday you dragged Constable Green out on a seven-hour personal mission, one of your vendettas again, and now she’s under medical supervision, unlikely to return to work before she’s had the baby. And now you come waltzing in here again, acting like some retired emperor, expecting me to drop everything and chase after this mob again, all because they committed the serious crime of not doing what you told them.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  Denham’s face is ugly with hostility. ‘Yes it is. You’re too far up yourself to see it, you and your little power trips, acting like Sean’s your personal bloody cop on call. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve actually got more important things to attend to.’

  ‘Like barking dogs.’

  He smirks. ‘Yes. Precisely.’

  I’d known I was wasting my time, I’m not even angry. ‘You’re a pathetic excuse for a cop,’ I tell him, nice and even. ‘If Kath were here, even in her condition she’d make an attempt to save those people. She’s worth a hundred of you. This isn’t about me, it’s about you being willing to let them die because you’re a fucking coward.’

  His face is draining to an anaemic shade of mist. ‘You’re all smoke,’ I keep going, ‘hiding behind your pile of forms. The truth is you’re too fucking scared to go out there.’

  ‘I don’t get told what to do by a drunk.’

  ‘No, you’ll just let a drunk do your job for you.’

  ‘My job doesn’t involve bending over every time you get an urge. Out. Now.’

  ‘You’ll have blood on your hands for the rest of your life.’

  The grin he gives me stretches over his teeth. ‘I’ll live,’ he says. ‘Now why don’t you just fuck off.’

  Denham turns away. Above him the clock oversees my departure, its implacable hands like a stop signal.

  By the park I start to shake from the confrontation. Insults thrown so effortlessly; so much simpler to transfer guilt or hang-ups rather than face them. Wog, nip, homo: you have to be the same as me or I won’t matter. Coward: I’m terrified.

  I veer across the grass to lower myself onto a bench. Nearby a group of kids on skateboards yell and clatter into the last of the day.

  The last of the day. Already the sun is starting to wane. The only hope remaining is that they leave now, clear the town boundary before dark. Needless to say, Alice’s phone is switched off.

  One of the skateboarders, an older boy, is doing tricks, handstands on his board. He throws his legs, bent, into the air, then flips right over. Over and over he launches, the other boys trying unsuccessfully to follow suit. Their T-shirts flop over their heads, revealing long, lanky torsos, smooth and hairless. Not an ounce of fat on them; they’ll probably go home shortly and eat their body weight in food, only to burn it up again by tomorrow’s lunchtime.

  One kid loses his balance and falls, only to spring up again, rubbing an elbow. The resilience of young bones, wrists and knees that can be depended upon, muscles that work without strain or effort.

  A retired emperor. Not even that. Just old. Old and looking towards the dark and knowing that it can’t be done. That I can’t do it.

  From its first appearance, even before we were aware of the danger it embodied, the mist emanated a palpable sense of threat. The disappearance of the unexplained convoy had everyone unnerved, so even before the mist enveloped the town people were already ill at ease. Sean and Napes had headed back to Woodford perplexed, unsure of how to go about the report they’d have to file.

  There was a clutch of locals at the pub, Saturday regulars plus an extra posse who’d been spooked by the events at the cemetery and wanted to go over and over what had happened. For all the speculation and disbelief, it was otherwise a Saturday night like any other. The bain-marie lights were switched on at six, and Joanne Hayes started filling it with barely edible food shortly after: dried-out roast beef and salty gravy. The last race, televised from the east, was about to start, and the only real difference between this night and any other was that for once people actually had something to talk about. Within the space of a couple of hours, opinions had solidified into facts, and people had become experts on the visitors’ origins and their purpose. Conversations would range around these certainties until someone would pipe up with the obvious: but where did they go?

  And around it would go, again and again, like the horses being flogged on the Flemington circuit.

  It was just getting on dark when Dave Jones and Nicco Schultz, both belligerent know-alls, started to blue. With neither of them able to definitively claim the upper hand in the arguments circulating over the men’s disappearance, they soon resorted to personal attacks on each other, and things got nasty. When Jonesy punctuated an insult with a sharp jab to Nicco’s shoulder, Earl reached over the bar and plucked his beer from the counter, pouring it swiftly down the sink.

  ‘Come off it!’

  ‘Bar’s closed for you, Jonesy. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re fucken joking? Come on, Earl, it ain’t even seven.’

  ‘You want to start manhandling other patrons, your time’s up.’

  ‘It was just a friggin tap!’

  ‘Out, before it becomes a ban.’

  Jonesy flashed a victim’s scowl at Nicco, and muttering audibly, slammed the pub door behind him.

  ‘Bloody prick,�
�� sniffed Nicco.

  ‘You’re on shaky ground too,’ rounded Earl. ‘You’re like a pair of bloody kids.’ Nicco stared at Earl without flinching. Lowering himself slowly onto his stool, he drained his glass in one gulp, then lobbed it carelessly onto the floor behind the bar.

  ‘Fuck you.’ He turned to the door, scandalised murmurs swelling behind him. The outrage was palpable; this sort of aggression wasn’t usual in Nebulah.

  ‘Don’t come back!’ someone shouted at his back, but before he’d even had a chance to reach the door, it flew open and Jonesy, looking pale and wild, shoved his way back in.

  ‘Oi!’ Nicco started, but Jonesy had already turned his back to him, was hunched over trying to peer through the frosted glass panels of the door. ‘Man, you gotta see this,’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘I thought I …’

  Earl broke off when Jonesy spun round, distraught. ‘There’s something weird out there. For fuck’s sake, look at this.’

  His fear was electrifying, and a small crowd moved to the windows. Daryl Burcott gave a snort. ‘Yeah, right, mate,’ he grunted. ‘It’s foggy.’ He turned back to the bar.

  ‘It’s got people in it!’

  ‘Yeah, it has. It’s called a street.’

  ‘No!’ Jonesy was starting to seem a bit demented. ‘Not like …’

  ‘Jesus!’ someone at the window called. ‘What the hell is that?’

  It was like a gate crashing open, and spurred by the growing unease, people crammed to the windows to see what was going on.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Eva Wallis backed away from the window. I pushed my way into her space.

  The street outside was dark and empty, save for a large cloud of fog gradually rolling towards us. At first it appeared to be merely smoke, or perhaps rain, approaching, but after a short while it became obvious that this fog wasn’t drifting in the usual way. It seemed to be writhing, seething almost obscenely. As it neared, it became more distinct: a mass of hideous smoky figures emerged, gliding along the street towards us.

  ‘The door! Lock the fucking door!’ someone was yelling. Jonesy fell aside looking terrified. ‘The back!’ he yelled, whirling to Earl. ‘Is the back locked up?’ Earl and Joanne scurried out of sight as the windows of the pub were suddenly shrouded, and a smoky sea of leering faces peered in at us, almost in mockery, mimicking us all gaping out. As a group we fell back, away from the windows. The apparitions stretched their mouths into leering laughter and pressed long, splayed fingers to the panes of glass between us.