On River Road

by Chris Else

  ‘How did they kill it?’ She presumed he was talking about the Kerringtons.

  ‘Poisoned her.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She was dead.’ His eyes, peering at her, meeting hers for the first time. She saw the pain in them, the hurt, the plain, dumb, old human confusion.

  ‘Oh, Max. I’m sorry.’ Seeing so clearly what the dog meant to him, the loss, and feeling just that wrench of love and pity. And the outrage.

  ‘What you going to do about it?’ he demanded.

  ‘You know Bessie was poisoned? You got an autopsy done?’

  ‘Autopsy? I don’t need an autopsy. She’d thrown up and there was foam on her mouth. Dribble everywhere.’

  ‘Where’s Bessie now?’

  ‘I buried her.’

  Oh, shit! ‘You need an autopsy, Max.’

  ‘I’m not digging her up again.’

  ‘But we need proof. We need a vet to say what she died of. Without that, I don’t know what we can do.’

  ‘Write a story. That’s your job, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’d just be hearsay, Max. If you went to the police, they’d tell you …’

  ‘I’m not going to the bloody cops!’

  ‘Without an autopsy … I can’t help you. I’m sorry.’

  His face twisted, eyes with a flash of anger. ‘You’re just a selfish slut!’ he snarled. ‘Like her! Like all the rest of them!’

  ‘And you’re a stupid old fool!’

  For a moment he seemed about to laugh, but it turned into another snarl instead. ‘Nargh!’ A flap of his hand as if he were waving off a fly. He turned away.

  She watched him go, as her anger drained from her. An impulse to call after him: Max! But what could she say? This is the second time I’ve let him down, she thought.

  A Dead Dog. She remembered Colin and his father.

  — What happened?

  — He drowned it.

  — What?

  — He took it into the laundry and he drowned it. Held it under while the sink filled.

  — Because it was making too much noise?

  — Yes. He couldn’t stand noise. Because of the war.

  — What was its name?

  — Rexy.

  Then she remembered something else, another thing she hadn’t done. Stan Andreissen. She had to call him about the girl, Merry Gibbitson. She had been dithering about that, feeling guilty because she wanted to ignore it, have it go away. Do it now, she thought. Go on.

  28.

  A BREEZE FROM THE hills, soft but cool against their faces. Big puffs of cloud like clumps of fungus floating in the stream of the air. Tom and Heidi, side by side, with their backs to the greenhouse, looked out over the cultivations, the rows of beds with narrow gravel paths between, the whole protected by a windbreak of macrocarpas along the northern and western edges. There was a big plastic water tank over to their left, a pale green cylinder with a domed top, a little pumphouse beside it. The pump drew water from the bore and filled the tank. In dry weather, the water was released through soak hoses along the beds, a gravity system. She had explained it to him once before, on an afternoon a year or so ago when the friends had been given a tour. Everything looked pretty much as it had then, except that the trees were taller and there were more beds. Yes, she said, there were some she hadn’t used yet. A good chance, really, for there was plenty of room and, if they were planning for the future, they could plant a windbreak for the paddock here (pointing) behind the greenhouse. That was another tenth of a hectare there. Nothing on it now but a few sheep to keep the grass down.

  They turned, walked back together, side by side, went into the greenhouse, into the warm air, under the angled roof that was bright above them with refracted sunlight. Heidi unzipped her jacket, began to talk of how this was all ready, they could begin with seedlings anytime. Certainly, there was room here too. It was good to look at it, to sense the reality of the space, the grey-brown wooden benches, the concrete floor, to breathe the warm air rich with earth smells. She had a few exotic things, some begonias, a couple of orchids, but mostly this was a functional place. Some winter tomatoes and lettuce, and a mass of trays and pots filled with dark brown, dirt-brown mix. And empty bench space, plenty of it.

  Heidi explaining everything, which didn’t need to be explained, slowly drew him down the length of the building. Finger pointing. She had nail polish on, and he wondered if he was noticing because it was unusual or for some other reason. She was wearing lipstick, too, maybe just a touch, a scarlet touch, which was why, perhaps, his eyes kept on being drawn to her mouth as she formed her words. The white of her teeth, the tip of her tongue, the little push of her lips as she made the oo and the ow sounds. Who and how and where and what and when. She was talking in her usual way, carefully, efficiently, saying what she meant, no more and no less, but he felt there was something odd about her manner. I’d better learn to read her, he thought, if we are going to be partners.

  ‘So,’ he said into one of her pauses but then couldn’t go on because he was not sure what he wanted to say, just to stop her, maybe, and move the conversation into another place.

  ‘Yes?’ Smiling.

  ‘This just seems such a sensible idea that I wonder why we didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we don’t even have to have a formal arrangement to begin with.’

  ‘No.’ She looked away. Something in her tone and in the movement caught his attention. Uncertainty?

  ‘You talked to Colin?’ He did not know where the question came from and whether he even had a right to ask it.

  ‘Yes.’ This time the doubt was more obvious.

  ‘A problem?’

  She gave a sigh, lifted her hands and touched her temples for a moment, looked at him.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. I think that will be okay. But I know I want to be very open and honest with you at this time and I can’t. I have many confusions.’

  ‘What sort of confusions?’

  ‘Ah, well.’ She turned with her back to the bench, leaned, half sitting on it. Hands in her pockets, arms rigid so that they pushed the edges of her jacket out like twin deflecting shields. ‘I have lived in Durry seven years. About like you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I am not a sociable person. I do not have friends. It is bad to have no friends, I think.’

  He was tempted to tell her that of course she had friends. There was Sylvia and Maddy and Larry and Ward. There was himself. And Lisa. But he knew this was not what she meant because in the sense that she meant he did not have friends either.

  ‘But I live here.’ She spread her jacket in a little gesture of inclusion. ‘This is my life. It’s a good life. I make things grow.’ A pause. She looked down at her feet. ‘When I was at university I studied science —’ she glanced up at him. ‘You too, I think?’

  ‘Yes. Maths and computing.’

  ‘For me it was biology. My parents are very religious. They think God made the world for a big purpose. Me, I have no illusions. I think it is all just an accident. We have not special privilege. We get along as best we can. We have minds that think and hands that do clever things but mostly we are just big complexities of instincts that have come about to reproduce, to have babies. I don’t want to have babies but the instinct is still there. I control the instinct but I still have it. It is feelings. It is needs. It is emotions. We can stop the outputs, if you like. But we cannot stop the process. I think you understand me?’

  He was not sure that he did. The words seemed to come from a great height, like pebbles rolling down a mountainside, but the look she gave him was close and compelling, pulling at him in a way that he hadn’t expected, a way that he was waiting for. All it needed was the flick of a decision.

  ‘I watch you,’ she said. ‘You are like me, I think. You are a lone one. The others are together but we are not. We are alone and we take our chances when we can. And for me, right now, I am w
ondering what my chances are. And so this is my confusion. I do not know if I want a business partner or a lover. Or maybe I do know. But I am not sure which is the one available.’ The look again, not pleading, just waiting.

  What could he do? He was too far away, too remote, to stop the movement. It was already too late. Three steps towards her. She stood up to meet him. His hands slipped inside her jacket and around her back, and her arms came up around his neck. Mouth to mouth. Open mouth. Her tongue pressing urgently against his. And suddenly he was alive with need and gratitude and wonder. Is this the one? His fingers smoothing down over the thick hem of her sweater and up underneath it, searching for her skin. He wanted her skin. But there was only some other fabric, softer than the wool and slippery like silk. It slid over the muscles of her back.

  ‘Come into the house,’ she said, breath hot in his ear.

  But no, he knew they could not do that. There would be no time.

  ‘I have to go somewhere,’ he told her. Because there was one thing in the world stronger than she was at this moment. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Leaning back from him, wrists still on his shoulders.

  ‘No, I really am sorry. Bad timing.’

  ‘No. It is good. We should think about it, maybe.’

  ‘If we think, we may decide it’s a bad idea.’

  She smiled, the little dimples creasing into her cheeks. ‘It is a bad idea. Everyone will tell you. But you, I think, you are a bit wild. You don’t care.’

  Was it true? He didn’t know. He cared, he thought he cared, but there were things that were stronger than responsibility. Her golden hair in the sunlight. A little strand of it had come loose and was hanging, like a lure, over the pale skin of her brow. He smoothed it back with his fingers.

  ‘Wild and silent,’ she said, and kissed him again.

  29.

  THE GIBBITSONS LIVED IN East Durry, on one of the bundle of streets tucked under the hills on the other side of the river. Cold in the mornings with the damp from the water rising up to meet the mist from the range above, but now, at 3.30 on an autumn afternoon, the air was bright, almost warm. He sat in the ute with the window down, watching, waiting. Flowers Avenue was a street of old state houses, which were set back from the roadway, each with a stretch of lawn in front and a concrete path leading down the side of the house. Number 18, ahead of him and to his right, had yellow weatherboards and a roof of grey moss-covered tiles. The windows were closed and misted over with net curtains. There was a garage stuck in the front garden with a big viburnum beside it. A white metal letterbox on an iron post.

  There were kids in the street. Primary school kids of varying ages. One or two had bicycles, another couple skateboards. In front of number 20, two little girls crouched on the grass verge, poking at something with a stick.

  Why was he here? The only good reason was to get away from Heidi and stop himself doing something stupid. Except that this was stupid, too, in its way, sitting here waiting for someone he didn’t know. How would he recognise her? If and when she arrived, he would not know it was her until she turned into her house, and by then it might be too late to catch her. He couldn’t chase her up her own path, could he? Just a word, just a word, just a name. All I want is a name.

  The house looked empty. The garage was open and there was nothing inside. Maybe no one was home. So, if Merry Gibbitson did come, she might be alone and he could call her on his cellphone. Talk to her without upsetting her. Dear God, he didn’t want to harass the kid. The last thing he wanted was to upset her.

  He checked in the driving mirror. There were some bigger kids there now, wearing the college uniform. A boy on a bicycle. Another boy, running. Then, around the corner, a group of them, four or five. A bus crossed the end of the street. The school bus maybe. The boy on the bike, doing slow, lazy loops across the road and back, came towards him, passed by. Not a glance, not a look. The running boy had gone. Into one of the houses, he supposed. The group was still coming, though, five girls. Or maybe it was two groups, one with three and one with two. They were sauntering, dawdling, turning to talk to one another. Yes, it seemed like the two at the back were separate. They were crossing the road, moving over to the side where the even house numbers were. Three others were staying on the odd side.

  He reached for the controls of the outside mirror and angled it so he could keep a better watch on the two. One was small and skinny with frizzy, gingery hair. The other was dark and plump and had a fluorescent-green schoolbag slung across her front and hanging down over her left thigh. They were walking side by side and the little one was talking, gesturing like she was scooping something in her right hand and lifting it towards her mouth. The plump one glanced at her and then looked across the road to the three girls on the other side. They were all close behind him now. If he turned his head, he could see the two clearly. The plump one was Merry Gibbitson, he was sure. Her size and shape and her slow manner seemed to go with the soft voice on the phone. Now they were very close, outside the path to number 16.

  He opened the door, went to get out. The plump girl looked at him. Just a glance at first but then a strange, fearful expression, as if she knew who he was. She spoke to her friend. A stare from the little one and then they both turned aside. He hesitated with the door half open, his foot dangling towards the road. They were going into the wrong house. But it had to be her, didn’t it? The look was proof. The frightened look. But why should she be frightened of a man in a ute? How could she know it was the same person who had called her yesterday?

  He got back in the cab and closed the door. Think. Either he went and asked at number 16 or he gave up. He could come back tomorrow. But why? That was useless. All he needed was a name. A name to follow up, a name of someone who was there, who went there.

  He pictured the stretch of road beside the river. The gorge was narrow at that point. The hills on the eastern side, the side opposite the road, crowded down close so there was no room for buildings, just the rough scrub to the water’s edge and, in some places, bare rock. On the western side there were spots to climb down the bank through the grass and scrub. But not there, not right where she was found. It was steep just there. Stand at the road’s edge with the wind in your hair. Why would anyone go? What was there to do?

  His phone rang, noise in his jacket pocket. Took it out without thinking.

  ‘Hi, bro. Kenny. That job down Cox’s Line, eh? Monday all right with you?’

  ‘Monday? Next Monday?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yes, great. That’s fine. Fantastic.’

  ‘Eight o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘’Kay. See ya.’

  ‘Thanks, Kenny.’

  Closed the phone up. Sat. Staring. What now?

  A shadow beside the car. A looming figure.

  ‘Hello, Tom.’ A deep voice, broad shoulders, peak of a policeman’s cap. It was a moment before he recognised the man. Stan Andreissen.

  A jolt of surprise, curiosity at the strange coincidence of Stan being here, now, in this street but then, no. It was no coincidence. Obviously not. A sudden wave of shame and foolishness swept through him.

  ‘Hello, Stan.’

  Stan leaned one elbow on the open window of the ute, not looking into the cab but turned away, his eyes fixed, like Tom’s, on the street ahead, the empty street, as if the two of them were mates contemplating this problem together.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Tom asked.

  ‘We dropped by to see Merry Gibbitson.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Same reason you’re here, I imagine. I talked to Lisa this morning.’

  Lisa? What did Lisa have to do with it?

  ‘We had it on our list of songs to pop around later on today. But then we got a call from Mrs Gibbitson to say some bloke in a ute was parked across the street and she was worried about him. Seems her anxiety was because her daughter’d received an intrusive phone call. Well, she called
it “threatening”, not “intrusive”, but we took that as exaggeration.’

  Tom sat there, feeling like an idiot, like a little boy admonished for his thoughtless behaviour. Eyes drifting, flicking to the left and down to the dashboard, and up, not seeing. Then he noticed, in the rear view mirror, that behind him, parked, was a patrol car, white with the blue word POLICE painted across the bonnet. Another cop standing beside it by the driver’s door. A woman.

  ‘Why don’t you go home?’ Stan said. ‘Why don’t you go home and I’ll drop by later after we’ve had a word to Merry?’

  ‘She’s not there. I think she’s in number 16.’

  ‘We’ll find her.’ Stan straightened up. His left hand, resting on the door of the ute, gave a double pat, tap, tap, as if it were a horse that he wanted to gee-up.

  ‘Thanks.’ Turning the key. Engine firing.

  Stan stepped away, raised his hand. Don’t mention it.

  30.

  ‘LOOK, SWEETHEART. IT MAY just not work out, you know?’

  ‘It will. It will work out. We’re going to the pony club this weekend. To talk to them. To make arrangements.’

  ‘Your dad said that?’

  ‘Yes. On Sunday.’

  A week’s a long time in your father’s life, she was tempted to say. Instead she sighed, sipped her gin and looked at her daughter, sitting there, leaning forward with her elbows tucked into her sides, crouched around herself as if something hurt inside. Which it did, maybe. Because hope hurt. Wanting hurt. Is it that bad, sweetheart? Do you want it that much?

  ‘I just don’t like to see you disappointed, you know …’ It’s happened before, hasn’t it? She didn’t say that, though.

  ‘He wouldn’t. He knows how much … He loves me.’ Equal stress on the first two words of the last sentence, which gave it an odd ambiguity. He loves me and therefore he wouldn’t let me down. Or he loves me and you don’t, do you? Because if you did, you wouldn’t object, you couldn’t object to what I want. And thinking of that, thinking of the love, Lisa began to understand why she did object. It wasn’t the extravagance. It wasn’t Colin’s blatant attempt to buy his daughter’s affection. This whole thing was a test of everyone’s commitment.