Soon

by Lois Murphy

  The hospital where they took Gina had once been fairly modern, but was already run-down, showing unmistakable signs of distress. I’ve always held a belief that buildings channel emotional energy: you can always tell a business that’s not doing so well from its lifelessness, the frozen garishness of its fittings; or the truth behind the ‘family holiday’ pretext offered by the deserted father, seeping from the silent walls of his empty home.

  The hospital corridors were like journeys in themselves: long and tortuous, endless, exhausting turnings. Warrens of doors and exits suggested the many directions your situation might take. And then the sudden, unobtrusive barricade beyond the swinging doors at the ward’s entrance, with its busy day room. A locked sliding window beside the heavy door, where casually dressed but hard-faced staff shuffled medication charts, oblivious to the buzzer, pretending they couldn’t see you waiting to cross into their world.

  The scanned security card and then the begrudgingly pressed green button, which released the door with a humming clank, like a ship’s hull swinging open to swallow something. The world on the other side of that door was muffled, as if you were now underwater, in an open space full of shuffling, feet too heavy to lift from the ground, eyes and mouths sinking under the weight of the ritual sedatives. In the corner, canned laughter from a television blared into the muted atmosphere. Dressing gowns hung on wasted limbs, revealing arms snaked with bruises and burns, labyrinths of scars, the long-healed layered with the recent.

  I waited with Julie for the doctor, Gina’s bed between us. As she explained her mother’s sudden decline, Gina would interrupt with disconnected sentences and disturbing giggles that were more like rasping than laughter.

  She was isolated from the other patients. In the silence that fell between us while we waited, the locked door handle of the room shook and rattled. ‘I have to go in there,’ an unknown voice wailed. I found myself rigid with disgust for this hideous but necessary place, with its stench of release and sterilisation, the dampened pain ricocheting off its walls. Gina’s incoherence contrasted with the glittering comprehension in Julie’s eyes as she registered my discomfort, and my disinterest.

  Her mother perhaps, but no longer my wife. ‘Over,’ I said to the doctor, ‘our marriage ended well over two years ago, I don’t consider I have any jurisdiction over her treatment.’ And I felt rather than saw the heat of outrage burning from my daughter.

  The doctor shrugged ‘We can administer the electrotherapy under our own authority in the absence of consent, if the family declines to intervene and we feel it’s in the patient’s best interests.’

  Gina’s mother was still alive, but had been withering from dementia in a nursing home for the last five years, and was beyond consenting to bowel movements, let alone electric shock treatment on her mentally shattered daughter.

  ‘I’m happy for the hospital to assume responsibility for treatment under the circumstances,’ I told the doctor as he scribbled notes. ‘I’ve been estranged from my wife for some time now; it doesn’t seem appropriate for me to yield that kind of authority over her treatment. Do whatever you think is necessary under the circumstances.’

  Seventeen-year-old Julie burst from her seat like a bomb going off. ‘You fucking coward,’ she hissed and slammed out of the room, leaving an acrid trail of hatred like smouldering gunpowder. The doctor, impassive behind the barrier of his clipboard, explained the procedure and the forms for surrendering consent, while the woman who used to be my wife lay bloated and dislocated between us, singing, ‘Fucking cow-ard, fucking cow-ard, fucking cow-ard.’

  I monitored Gina’s slow progress, and eventual incomplete recovery, by phone, but I never visited the hospital again. It was years before Julie would speak to me again, and then it was only because she’d met the Toad, whose obsession with the protocol of appearances meant that he wanted to formally request my permission for her hand in marriage. Again, I declined to exercise any authority over the lives of the women supposedly under ‘my protection’, a stance that was seen as ‘shirking my duties’ by the Toad, and as bloody typical by Julie.

  ‘The choice is Julie’s,’ I’d told the Toad, who was bloated up with self-importance, expecting to be welcomed with open arms. ‘I don’t see that my opinion has any bearing on decisions she chooses to make.’ A response that was interpreted by them – correctly – as lukewarm and not very encouraging. I attended the wedding in the same spirit that the invitation was issued, going through the motions, and loathed the groom’s parents as much as they despised me, although I did end up making a night of it, getting brutally drunk at a pub up the road with an uncle of the Toad’s, a large bloodshot man it was difficult to say no to.

  I seem to have spent an entire life doing the wrong thing by trying to do things right. Or, more accurately, by trying to avoid doing anything at all.

  I’m so lost in sleep that it takes a while for me to register the noise that’s breaking through my slumber. The dim recognition that it’s my mobile, abandoned as useless on the kitchen bench, drags me back to the outside world. The phone switches through to message bank as my eyes flicker open.

  It’s late. I must have been asleep for hours; the sun is perched not far above the treetops to the west. Sleeping on your back on a concrete porch in midwinter is not to be recommended, and I have to lie still a moment longer, gently reviving my joints. Sleeping during the day is dazing, too, especially such a deep, undisturbed and dreamless sleep. I’m disorientated, confused by a sense that something is not quite as it should be, that something fundamental has shifted.

  I’m pondering the significance of this feeling when I remember that my mobile has been dead since it was left out in the mist over solstice, petering into static in the midst of Milly’s message. I stretch carefully, testing each limb before slowly raising myself up to sitting position, and the other noise that’s been teasing me suddenly comes into focus, winding me with the force of an unexpected blow to the solar plexus.

  Birdsong. The bushes beside the porch shiver; a tiny form wheels out of them. There are two finches in the grevillea near me. They swerve across to the branches of the large gum, twittering to the sinking sun. I feel life flooding back into me like a surge of blood, and battle the pins and needles in my feet to stagger inside to the phone.

  The message is from Woodford police station: Denham, cold and crisp with officially suppressed fury. He informs me that my attendance is required immediately, for questioning in regard to allegations made about the abduction and possible homicide of one Xandrea Collison, reported missing by her companions. I have twenty-four hours to present myself for an interview, before a call will go out for my apprehension. How like Denham, to hide behind protocol, following due process within the safe, strong boundaries of his little police station, instead of venturing out into the unknowns of Nebulah to investigate.

  He would be shitting himself over the repercussions of my testimony, the public exposure of my warning and his official cowardice the day before. I doubt he’d be in any hurry to locate me.

  I try to ring home again but the answering machine kicks in. I’m wondering whether there’s anything to eat besides the remains of the beetroot and salmon from lunch when there is a sudden eruption from the garden, and a screech scares me out of my skin.

  A corella. In the gum where the finches were, shuffling his way along a branch about midway up the tree, looking as cheeky as all get-out. He regards me with an amused brown eye, as if to say, What? I stare back in amazement, as if to say, How? He opens his beak and lets out another terrible screech, just as the phone begins to ring again.

  I check the number first, in case it’s Denham. But it’s not.

  ‘Thank God!’ Alex says the second I answer the phone, and then she bursts into great hiccoughs of sobs. ‘I’ve been ringing all night and all day, the phone seemed to be dead. I thought you were too.’

  ‘I tried to ring, but I left the phone out last night and it’s been stuffed – it’s only just com
e back to life.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘In Woodford?’

  ‘No. Nebulah. But it’s okay,’ I add quickly, sensing her panic.

  Her quick intake of breath is the prelude to a launch. ‘Of course it’s not okay, what the hell are you doing there?’

  ‘It’s a long story. We got trapped here last night.’

  ‘We? Not Milly?’

  ‘No, Milly was in Woodford. I was trying to get a group of kids out. They wanted to be here for the solstice.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘A psychic told them it’d be great.’

  Alex utters a disgusted expletive. ‘No one with an ounce of ability would go anywhere near there at such a time. She had no idea.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, she paid for it.’

  There is silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Shit,’ Alex finally says. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No. They’ve got a bit to get over, but they got out.’ I take a breath, try to form the words without a hitch. ‘It was bad. Really bad.’ I breathe. ‘I lost Gina.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It was my fault. It almost got us – I was in such a panic I shut her out.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Sort of. Numb, really. Shock, I guess. I keep looking for her, expecting her to come trotting up.’ I take a careful breath. ‘At least it didn’t drag it out, make me watch. It’s what I would have expected.’ I try not to think about Xandrea’s desperate entreaties.

  ‘Could she have gotten away?’

  A thin veil of hope, but it’s possible. The question hovers in the cooling air, and the temptation of it is almost within grasp. ‘The wild dogs often get left alone – I suppose she could have escaped. It was too busy with us, and if it had got her, I reckon we’d have known about it.’

  I break off, my focus broken by a burst of twittering. ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask Alex.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Birds. The birds are back.’

  There is silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Alex gives a short ‘Really?’ Her tone is loaded with scepticism.

  ‘I’ve seen a corella and some pairs of finches. All in the last hour.’

  There’s another short silence. ‘You’re planning to stay, aren’t you?’

  The sun is on its way to the treetops. If I’m going to go, it’ll have to be very soon.

  ‘Pete?’

  I almost say, ‘Yeah I reckon I might,’ but I think better of it. ‘Nah, I’ve got to get back to Woodford. Denham’s on the rampage about the missing girl and Milly’ll be worried. But what do you reckon about the birds?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s an interesting sign.’

  ‘Could solstice have been the Last Supper?’ Immediately as I say it, I have terrible visions of Xandrea outside in the mist, and I recoil.

  ‘Well, I suppose. If it was D-day it would explain why the messages were so strong and so insistent. You’re so lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Amen. It feels different now. Nothing I can put my finger on, but it feels … clean.’

  ‘Pete …’

  ‘No, I’m off.’ I glance at the sky. ‘In fact, I’d better make a move.’

  ‘Call me, let me know you got back safe?’

  ‘No worries. Just relax. Did you sleep last night?’

  ‘Major bad vibes. Far too many frigging old men in this world.’

  ‘I’m safe. Rest.’

  ‘I will when I hear you’re back. Drive carefully.’

  Alex rings off. I stand looking at the fading sky. In town, Denham would be on the warpath. I pick up the phone again.

  ‘Hi, this is Alice,’ a laughing voice answers. ‘Please leave me a message.’ There is a long pause, then the message bank’s shrill beep. The tone is like a divide: her, then me. Her laughing voice, so removed from the traumatised young woman who’d refused to even look at me that morning. Until they left, when I’d held open her car door and leant in over her, insisting that she meet my eye. And she turned on me a look that withered everything I’ve ever managed to value about myself. A look of bewilderment rather than hatred, her eyes bright with fear and disgust. A look that turned me to dust.

  In the grevillea, the sweet, mournful cry of a wattlebird as the sun dims towards another ending.

  Denham rings again just as I’m easing myself into the Land Cruiser. I don’t exactly know what surges through me, probably anger. No, fury. I find myself answering quickly, before there’s time to think clearly and avoid him.

  ‘Pete McIntosh.’

  ‘You’re an evasive man, Mr McIntosh.’ Denham’s restraint is in line with my own. ‘Constable Denham. We require you to attend the Woodford police station immediately for a formal interview.’

  ‘Check your records. I was there last night. You weren’t interested.’

  ‘You had nothing of interest to say last night.’

  ‘So it seems. But now, suddenly I’m worth listening to.’

  ‘We’ve had some serious allegations made about your involvement with the disappearance of a young woman, last seen in your company. We require you to respond to those allegations.’

  ‘What are the allegations?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say at this point of the investigation.’

  ‘You’re not at liberty to say. Is your involvement in her disappearance being investigated as well?’

  There was a sharp pause. ‘I have no involvement in her disappearance.’

  ‘Not yet. But you will. You could have saved her.’

  ‘By arresting you on suspicion of intent to commit a crime, I certainly could have. I regret that. Deeply.’

  ‘Then they all would have died. How did they look, Denham? Shattered? All because of you.’

  ‘If you do not voluntarily present yourself at Woodford station for questioning before noon tomorrow, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Do you understand that?’

  ‘When I make my statement everyone will know you’re a coward, Denham.’

  ‘Please provide your current whereabouts.’

  ‘Do you think I’m curled up in fucking bed? You know where I am, Denham. How about I wait for you here?’

  ‘And Millicent Pryor?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The current whereabouts of Milly Pryor?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She is a known associate of yours with a close involvement in your affairs, and she also cannot be located. When she reappears we’ll need a statement and an alibi.’

  ‘Then you’d better get off your fucking metrosexual arse and find her.’

  I disconnect the call. After all that, it had done nothing at all to abate my fury.

  It is just on dusk when I pull up at Milly’s. I try home and her mobile again and again, but I can only get the answering machine at Sean’s, and her mobile is dead. I regret now the anguish I’ve caused Alex, stirring her for not sleeping.

  There is no sign of anyone at Milly’s, only the disarray of abandonment. By the gum tree along the side, the mound that is Felix’s resting place is already overgrown. There are no tyre marks or footprints. The house is closed and dark, the curtains drawn over windows cold and empty. The only noticeable difference is the shrieking of corellas, off in the direction of the dam. They break into the evening stillness, adding a dimension of normality to a scene that should have made me feel threatened. In the dimming evening I circle cautiously to the back of the house, examining doors and windows, and the ground for traces of trespass. There is nothing.

  The light has almost completely faded. It’s a time of day I’d usually be cowering inside with every door locked, listening to the first sounds of the mist’s arrival. But somehow the evening seems peaceful, empty. The sunset screeches of the corellas have brought back memories of the priceless serenity of living out of town, the secluded, tranquil evenings.

  I bring myself back to earth. This is dangerous thinking and I need to be on my guard. I n
eed to get inside, to safety, quickly. Just in case. I make my way up the verandah steps, searching through my bunch of keys in the dim night. I am just fitting the key into the front door when I realise I’ve left the gun in the car.

  I turn away from the house to face the twilight, which is a hovering charcoal grey, almost but not quite completely dark. The Land Cruiser isn’t far away, less than fifty metres. It would be a matter of minutes to retrieve the gun from under the seat and get inside. I hesitate for only a second; there is no time to waste on indecision. At the car I wrestle to get the gun clear of the seat, clumsy in my haste. I finally have it free, but as I turn back to the house, which seems to be squatting as if holding its breath with trepidation, the bushes beside me rustle violently and a shape leaps out, between me and the front door.

  In panic I raise the gun, but just as I’m reaching for the trigger the form moves towards me with a yelp, and I realise that it’s Gina. She gives another yelp and I almost cry with joy. I can barely see her in the dark, but don’t waste time, just yell, ‘Come on!’, and she sprints beside me to the waiting house.

  I don’t stop to get my breath back once I’ve closed the door and bolted it behind me. I still need to be sure that the house is secure. Starting with the back door, I run from room to room, checking every window. Gina pads down the hallway after me, panting and every now and then giving a whine, as if to say, What about me?

  I finish in the bathroom. Everything is fine. Back in the lounge I peer warily through the curtains, but the stillness outside belies my panic. There is no sign of mist, just the beginnings of a dim, cloudy night. I switch on the light.

  Gina’s waiting by the couch, and when I turn to her, her tail begins to thump the floor and she shuffles from foot to foot with excitement. I kneel in front of her and she whines and gives a series of little yelps. I rub her chops; one of her ears is badly torn, and as I run my hands over her flanks she yelps in a different way and flinches. When I examine her side, there is a very nasty ragged slash that runs the length of her body. It needs to be seen to as soon as possible. Her fur is matted with twigs and grass seeds; she must have come home through the cover of the bush. It’s possible these injuries are just from other dogs. I’ll get her straight to the vet in the morning; it’s so good to see her I could cry.