by Chris Else
‘How was your day?’ Maddy asked, smiling at him.
‘Just a day.’
There was something in his response that reassured her. No need to talk, no need to analyse and dissect things. It was enough to sit there comfortably together, with the boys away in their rooms, a little communion at the end of the day. She felt lucky, privileged, to have such a moment in the current turmoil, trying to keep all her activities on track with this hideous thing with Colin going on as well. They were both lucky. To have each other.
‘I called Catherine Lynyard,’ she said.
‘Oh? What about?’
‘She’s on the board of trustees. I’m going to see her about what happened to Donny.’
‘Good.’
He didn’t seem very interested, perhaps because bullying was not so important in the greater scheme of things. She was tempted to say that it was bullying that caused the big problems later when kids grew up.
‘Have you talked to Larry and Syl?’ he asked.
‘No. I think she went round to see Lisa. Imogen’s taking it very hard.’
‘Yes, Tom said so.’
‘You saw Tom?’
‘No, he called me.’ A little pause. ‘A tax problem.’
‘Curious. He called me, too.’
‘Oh, what about?’
‘The usual thing. You know what he’s like. He just can’t leave it alone.’
‘Carla?’ The question was quick and then he had to clear his throat. Something stuck.
‘Yes.’
A little pause. He took a sip from his glass. ‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, nothing. He wanted to know if you were driving my car that afternoon.’
Another pause.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said you went out to Kaimata. Why does it matter?’
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Something in his tone, though.
‘You did go out to Kaimata, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her. ‘I did.’
‘It’s just Tom.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s hard for him,’ she said.
‘It must be, yes.’
‘Especially now. It isn’t fair, is it, how some families seem to just get all the crap piled on them and others have none at all. Apparently Imogen refused to get up today. Just stayed in bed. Too frightened.’
‘I guess life isn’t fair.’
‘I just feel so lucky sometimes that we’re all right.’
He didn’t answer. He was staring into his glass as if there were something floating in it. Was the wine corked? No. He would have said so. He would never drink corked wine.
‘Catherine Lynyard also said she might join my Visual Arts Committee. She’s quite knowledgeable.’
A second before he reacted. ‘Oh?’
‘I thought we should have them to dinner. Her and John. They’d be good allies.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They would.’ Looking at her. Smiling. Nodding. ‘That’s a really great idea, Poppet.’
43.
THERE WAS PLENTY OF parking along the Esplanade this early in the morning. Tom got out of the ute, shut the door and turned away, began to walk along the footpath. The grass verge still had a scattering of dead leaves, the smell of autumn, fresh and rotten, cool. The bright sunlight on the left side of his face, flutters of warmth as it flickered through the bare branches.
The old house with Ward’s office. There were brass plates beside the door: Brian Blenkinsop, Lawyer, and Wyte and Lorton, Chartered Accountants. Yes, well. You could strike the Wyte out now.
The stairs with a tan carpet, wood-panelled walls. He walked up towards a landing. Creak. There was always a creak on the fourth step. Louder today. In the morning. In his present state of mind. Would Ward be here yet?
The door at the top was open. The PA, Marie, sitting at her desk. Twenty-something, with black hair cut so that it fitted her skull like a crash helmet. Dark red lips.
‘Good morning,’ he said, approaching.
‘Hi.’ A smile. A nice smile, head on one side in a coy gesture.
‘Is Ward in?’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
It wasn’t quite a question because it tailed off on the last word and her eyes flicked to the side, looking past him, back out into the corridor. Ward was standing there on the landing beside the open door of his office.
‘Tom,’ he said. ‘Come in.’ A gesture. Ushering. Wave of his twisted hand. Not a gracious gesture. It was reluctant, grudging, but Ward gave a grin as Tom approached, a stretching sideways of the big moustache.
So he sat down in one of the armchairs. Ward too. Here we are then.
Ward looked at him. Didn’t speak. Neither of them spoke for several seconds.
‘I thought you might pop by,’ Ward said.
‘Yes.’
‘After yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘I owe you an apology.’
‘An apology?’ He could feel the rage, like vomit, surge to his throat.
‘Yes. I think it’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life.’ Then, seeing the expression on Tom’s face, he looked very frightened. ‘No, no, no. Don’t think that. I didn’t … I wasn’t the one. It wasn’t me.’
Tom didn’t move. He was scared to move because of what he might do.
‘I was there that day. I was driving Maddy’s car. I came round a corner and there was this bike by the side of the road. It was up on its stand and it was badly … Well, its back wheel was sticking out into the roadway. It gave me a fright, and I guess I was going a bit fast. I braked but I hit it, just clipped it. Sent it flying, though. I stopped, of course. I had a good look. There was no one there. No one at all. The bike was lying on the grass, well out of the roadway. I drove on.’
‘Did you get out of the car?’
‘No. It wasn’t me, Tom. She wasn’t there. I swear to you.’
Ward swallowed, lifted his hands and briefly pressed them to his face, the left one covering his eye, the right, with the two curled fingers, in a grotesque peep-o gesture. Then he took a deep breath.
‘I went on. I was going to Winston and I’d decided, I don’t know why, I’d decided I’d take River Road that Saturday. For the drive, I suppose. Anyway, when I got into the city I had a look at the car. There was no damage, hardly any, just a scuff mark, a bit of a scratch on the left side. I went to a service station and bought some tinted wax, polished it up.’
‘You didn’t break the headlight?’
‘No. But you see, the worst thing, the thing that makes me feel bad, is that on my way to Winston, about 10 k after I hit the bike, I saw another car, going in the opposite direction. It was travelling really fast.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘I don’t know. Something sporty. It was yellow.’
‘Yellow?’
‘Yes, yellow.’
‘Who was driving?’
‘I didn’t see. I guess I was kind of distracted by hitting the bike.’
‘And you didn’t tell the cops about any of this?’
‘No. I just didn’t realise, at first, that there was any connection with Carla. It was really a whole day later and, by then, I’d already polished the car, and I don’t know …’ A heavy sigh, an admission. ‘I mean, I’m not supposed to drive a stick shift because of this …’ Lifting his right hand, waving it. ‘And I guess I was thinking of what people would say. You know, me disobeying the conditions of my licence and so on. And the fact that I’m on the council. I didn’t want people to think I was that kind of person, someone who’d wreck a kid’s bike and just drive off, the kind of person who’d cover up the evidence.’
But you are that kind of person.
‘Why did you cover up the evidence?’
‘I don’t know.’ A look, a helpless, hopeless look.
‘And why didn’t you say anything? To me. Or L
isa.’
‘I don’t know, mate. I should’ve. I was confused. And every day it got harder. I thought they’d find the yellow car. And when I finally realised, maybe, they weren’t going to, it seemed impossible to tell you because, you know, it might have ruined everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘The Tribe.’ A miserable look on his face, and then the eyes covered again.
I’m supposed to feel sorry for him, Tom thought. I am supposed to feel sympathy and forgiveness because he’s confessed his fault and admitted he’s wrong. He’s been a good boy and wants Mummy or Daddy to say, There, there, dear. It’s all right.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ Tom asked.
‘I suppose I’d better go and talk to the police.’ A little rise in the intonation that made it almost a question, as if he wanted, hoped for (would it be possible?) a response that said, No, no, Ward, you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to put yourself through that.
‘I think you’d better,’ Tom told him. Was there more to say? Was there more he could say without losing it?
He stood up, turned away. In his peripheral vision, he could see Ward staring at him helplessly.
Didn’t meet his eyes, though. Just walked out.
44.
HANNAH CRESWELL SAT IN her usual chair looking out of her window into the trees, her enchanted forest. From here the illusion was not as convincing as from the other chair, where the patients sat. Through the branches she could see the glimmer of light and the flicker of movement as people walked along the footpath above the house. From the patients’ chair you gazed into a tangled gloom that narrowed into darkness. You were suspended in the trees, like some small creature lost in arboreal vastness, sent forth on a perilous journey. Hannah let everyone choose which chair to sit in on their first appointment and she had noticed over the years that the few who didn’t take the patients’ chair were the ones who needed to keep control. They were the least successful in solving whatever problem it was that had brought them here. In most cases they did not come back after the first or second appointment.
Tom Marino hadn’t seemed like that, which was why she was surprised that he was so late today. He had seemed committed to the process. She would have expected him to return with another dream, something reflecting his ongoing discovery of the Shadow, perhaps, or a specific reference to the terms of his situation. It was impossible to predict just how an analysis might develop but she had felt confident that she knew, in a general way, what would happen to Tom. He was self-reflective and intelligent enough to sketch a picture of himself that made sense to him. This would then be followed by the much slower process of understanding how this picture connected to the deeper needs that drove him. He would have to venture far into the forest. In search of his soul? It was not a stupid word. Hannah had never believed in a conventional religion, in God and Life Eternal, but she understood that the notion of the spirit was as relevant to human biology as the chemistry of the blood. The soul was just one expression of the mystery of consciousness — a mystery only from the perspective of the conscious, of course. Tom’s soul, the centre of his being, his reason for living, was lost to him. In a sense, it had always been lost. It was just that he had never missed it till now. So he must seek it, like the heroes of legend, through many dangerous adventures, and when he found it he would see that it was something precious, like a jewel. Maybe it would be given to him by a woman and maybe, for a time, he would think that it was the woman he wanted. Only gradually would he realise that she was just a means to an end. Hannah did not know exactly how this story would go, only that she must help Tom extract it from the tumbling chaos of his thoughts and his feelings, his actions and his dreams. There were a thousand versions, but they were all based in a single fundamental pattern. If Hannah had an article of faith it was this.
The empty chair concerned her, therefore. She looked at her watch. It was five to nine. Too late now. She was sure he wasn’t coming. She supposed there was a good reason, and that he would call her and apologise and make another appointment for next week. She would charge him for her lost time, of course. It would be unprofessional not to do so and, in any case, payment was a measure of commitment and without commitment the whole exercise was futile. Her next patient was due at a quarter to ten. There was time for something else, perhaps. A few moments of stillness.
45.
SO, WHAT HAPPENS? THE members of the Tribe go on talking, they go on drinking coffee, the coffee being the measure of the talk. For the time it takes to get it and drink it they are bound together in a conversation. For that long, the custom says, they will listen and contribute. They will engage in the appropriate exchange, the gossip and the affection that binds them together. Sometimes, of course, in special circumstances, there is an extra interest, a greater need and intensity.
Thus, Madeleine Lorton and Sylvia Hannerby sat in the bay window in the mid-morning assembly at Stratos and sipped their lattes. Maddy had bought biscotti, too. Crisp sticks of tan-coloured biscuit, chocolate-tipped. She took one between thumb and forefinger and chopped the end off with her white teeth. A fastidious woman, Maddy, despite her arty, flamboyant air, and always healthy-looking with her rosy cheeks and thick brown curls. Today she was dressed in black but with a silk shawl around the shoulders of her coat, rippling peacock colours, blue and green and gold.
Sylvia looked paler, more subdued. A white shirt and grey wool skirt, a black coat, which she had taken off so that it lay around her hips on the bench seat. She was on her way to the library, the job that bored her and that she felt guilty about having.
What were they to talk about on that particular Tuesday? It was the fourth day since the murder. Was it possible to move on? Was it possible to return to the business of ordinary living like the doings of children and the politics of Durry? Not quite.
‘Apparently she has no one,’ Maddy said.
‘No family?’
‘Not here. There’s a sister in Zurich but she has no money. She can’t afford to come. Well, she says she’s not going to come.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘Ward did. And he talked to the undertakers, too. They called last night. Apparently they asked Colin, and Colin said to talk to Ward. About what to do. That’s the way it works. If there’s a friend who can take over, then that’s who they ask.’
‘Well, we are her friends.’
‘Like I said, there’s no one else. No one who wants to know, anyway. Apparently she used to be in a crowd before she moved here. She worked in a bank somewhere. But she lost touch with them.’
‘It’s up to us, then.’
‘Yes.’
A pause, as they both thought about it, both contemplated the mess of emotion and conflicting loyalties. But what did loyalties have to do with it? Wasn’t it just a matter of being decently human?
‘So, what happens?’ Sylvia asked.
‘We’ll have to wait until the coroner’s finished with the body. Then it goes back to the undertaker. That may be tomorrow. Or the day after. Then, we’ll need to organise the funeral.’
‘Which undertaker is it? Not Anlaby. He’s such a slimy man.’
‘Chapelgate,’ Maddy said.
‘Cheme? Is that his name?’
‘Yes, Michael Cheme.’
Maddy sipped her coffee, took the last bite of her biscotti. ‘Do we need a church?’ she asked.
‘No. I don’t think so. Heidi wouldn’t want a church.’
‘You can’t always tell what people would want. When it comes down to it.’
‘No,’ Sylvia said. ‘But you have to go on something. What you know about them. In any case, a church would make it a public thing. It would be full of prurient people wanting to gawp. If it’s down to us, we want a small, simple ceremony. A private ceremony.’
‘We could do it at Chapelgate.’
‘Yes.’
‘We could put a discreet ad in the paper saying friends and family only.’
> ‘In the Advocate?’
‘Yes. If the timing’s right.’
‘We could do it next Monday.’
‘Good. I’ll talk to the undertaker, if you like.’
‘All right,’ Sylvia said. ‘But we need to find out when the body’s going to be released.’
46.
CURIOUS HOW EASY IT was for Ward to talk about it, once he had decided. The police didn’t even criticise or want to know why he hadn’t come forward before. They just took his statement and thanked him. Did he still have the car? they asked. Yes, of course. Good, fine. They may wish to examine it further.
Walking out of there, walking away into the clear, bright afternoon, he felt that a weight had been lifted from him. It was always possible, of course, that they could charge him with something, although he couldn’t think what. Withholding information? Causing the police to waste their time? He didn’t think so, and although he knew that there were other potential difficulties (especially if the media got hold of the story) the relief at having come clean was just too strong to make him worry about any of that. He felt light. He felt happy. Even with the thought of Colin still hanging heavy on him, he felt happy. And, given that it was already four o’clock and he had no more appointments that day, he felt like knocking off and celebrating.
The Businessman’s Club was almost empty. He stood looking at the main room: the polished wood of the tables and the gleam of the clean glass ashtrays, panelled walls hung with the photographs of past presidents, a thick blue carpet with its angled rows of tiny golden swords. The committee had argued about that. Whether it should be swords or fleurs-de-lis. The swords had won for no good reason that Ward could see. What difference did it make? At the bar, he bought himself a Cuban and a glass of shiraz, a big, fat shiraz from South Australia, and he sat in an armchair in the corner, the usual corner. Satisfied. Not complacently satisfied. He was still too aware that he had made a fool of himself and still too anxious about the consequences to feel complacent. But he had always had a capacity for getting over things. For not worrying or, at least, for not worrying so much that it ruined his palate. The wine was as good as it should be and it wrestled with the fine tang of the tobacco like a lusty whore. No, whore was the wrong word. It was less worn, less shop-soiled than that. Like a widow, maybe. A young widow, strong and sexy, with eager limbs, who had had it before and who missed it, wanted it.