After the Darkness

by Brown, Honey

  ‘There are certainly a lot of emails to you.’

  Outside, a car passed in the street. I listened. Bruce kept clicking away and opening emails and reading. The sound of the car grew faint as it continued down the road. Wind was whistling through a gap in the roof. The backyard gate was banging.

  ‘Here’s something.’

  I stepped nearer to the computer. Enough doubt remained for me to be caught a moment too. Bruce had found a draft email Finn had written. It wasn’t addressed to anyone as yet, although it was clear who it had been composed for:

  Trudy, it began, this is a coward’s way of telling you, but whenever I’m with you in person I lose the nerve. Ever since that first day in your office all I’ve wanted is to be open and honest with you. All I want, all I think about, is telling you the truth, and telling you what you’ve made so clear to me. I’ve been afraid to tell you about why I’m here, and why I wasn’t honest about where I’ve been. Sometimes we get so stuck. I’ve been stuck. You make me realise that. You make me feel so —

  I jumped at the sound of the roller door opening. Bruce began shutting down the computer.

  ‘I have an idea.’

  We’d left the access door ajar, and the noise of the car pulling in was loud through the house. Bruce walked a short way down the passage and stopped. He peered through the gap in the open door.

  ‘What sort of car does he drive?’ he called as quietly as he could.

  ‘A brown Jag.’

  Bruce walked briskly back to me. He took out his phone. ‘I’m going to stand around the corner. Right there.’ He pointed to the dark front hallway. Out in the garage, the roller door began to rattle down. Bruce handed me his phone. ‘This is recording,’ he said. ‘I’m going to hang back. He wants to tell you the truth. This might be our only chance to get a confession out of him.’ The Jag engine had stopped running. ‘Don’t ask him directly about Guy Grant, just say you don’t understand what’s happening between the two of you, and see what he says. I’ll be right here. Anything we get is going to help us,’ Bruce whispered. ‘He’ll clam up as soon as the cops are involved.’ He walked to the other side of the kitchen and took a paring blade from the knife block. ‘Sit him down the end of the bench where I can see him.’

  The Jag door creaked opened and slammed closed.

  ‘Don’t take the knife,’ I whispered.

  He backed into the front hallway with it.

  ‘Trudy?’ Finn called. He pushed the door open and walked into the passageway from the garage. ‘Are you here?’

  The stack of money was where Bruce had tossed it on the kitchen bench. I snatched it up and lobbed it over towards where Bruce was hiding. The money landed with a smack on the tiled floor, in a dim wedge of light. I watched as Bruce’s leg appeared out from the shadows and the toe of his boot came down gently over the money. He dragged the cash back into the darkness with him.

  Finn came into the kitchen. He was wearing his black uniform. In one hand he held his apron. He wasn’t wearing his black work cap, but his hair was flat on top, as though he’d removed the hat in the car. While he stood there he tried to push some volume into his hair, with little success. His face was oily from work and his eyes were red with fatigue. As far as I could tell he was Finn Wieszczynski, a twenty-nine-year-old who had a thing for emotionally fragile older women in heels and tailored jackets. The small amount of suspicion I carried, though, seemed to be enough to keep me on this strange course.

  ‘You’re here,’ he said. He touched the collar of his shirt with his free hand. He pressed his palm to his collarbone. ‘I had this feeling you would be.’

  ‘Sorry I came inside.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He walked forward and put the apron on the bench. ‘I’ve thought about your set of keys.’ He scratched his temple and grinned. ‘I won’t tell you in what context I’ve considered it.’ He turned on the down lights over the bench and collected up the loose mail and placed it by the salt and pepper shakers. In the new light and with the bench tidy, he seemed able to look at me. He breathed out. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I’m so sorry about today. I’ll make it up to you.’ He glanced at the phone in my hand.

  I looked at it too. The screen had gone black; I assumed it was still recording. I placed it down on the bench.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Finn. I’m confused about what’s been happening.’

  He nodded. ‘Do you mind if I have a really quick shower? I stink of deep-fryer fat and burnt satay. I’ve had a nightmare evening. I’ll get you something to drink. A wine?’ he opened the fridge. He showed me a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

  ‘I want to clear it up now.’

  ‘Let me have a shower. We’ll sit down and talk.’

  He closed the fridge door and quickly crossed the distance separating us. His hand was on my arm. I looked at his fingers resting on the soft woollen fabric of my dress. His hands looked tanned in the dim light. From Bruce’s vantage point he would be able to see Finn touching me. If Finn looked, he would be able to see Bruce watching him. The down lights had reduced the shadows. Where it had been inky black before, it was now dim. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Bruce’s shape. He was standing with his back to the wall, his head turned toward us, watching. It was a B-grade movie pose.

  Finn squeezed my arm. His expression grew soft and serious.

  ‘I know you’ve been hurt.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I want to kiss you so much …’ He eased back. ‘I won’t. I hope I haven’t already put you off with how I smell. Let me shower. I’ll be quick.’

  ‘Shower?’ I said. ‘In your ensuite?’ Bruce’s shape disappeared. He’d picked up on my reminder that the master bedroom was off the hall.

  Finn’s smile was a mixture of delight and approval. ‘Yes. Why?’

  There was a dull thud from the front bedroom while Finn spoke. He seemed not to have heard it. Bruce knew the town-house floor plan, but that didn’t stop him running into Finn’s furniture in the dark.

  ‘No reason,’ I said.

  ‘I have to tell you, Trudy. My last text to you … I meant it. I know you don’t feel the same way. All I want is that you trust me. We’ll talk; I want to. Please don’t leave while I’m in the shower.’

  He didn’t turn on the hallway light, perhaps not wanting to scare me away with bright lights. He left his bedroom door open and put on his bedside lamp. The glow of warm light spread out into the hallway. I picked up Bruce’s phone and waited in the kitchen until I heard the shower running, then I went down the hallway towards the front bedroom. Bruce was standing in amongst open boxes and home-gym equipment. I manoeuvred through the various obstacles. The weight bench had a towel draped over it.

  ‘He hasn’t said anything, ’ I said in a low voice, ‘I don’t think he’s going to. Let’s go.’

  ‘He said he wants to talk. Is it recording?’

  I passed the phone to Bruce.

  ‘Where have you put the knife?’ I said.

  ‘Right there.’

  It was beside me on the weight bench. Boxes stacked up around it – boxes from a washing machine, a flat screen TV, a microwave. There was a set of dumbbells by my feet. Bruce had done well to steer through everything without any more than a single thud.

  ‘The phone battery is low,’ Bruce said. ‘Where’s your phone?’

  ‘In the car.’

  ‘This is at ten per cent.’ Bruce looked out the door. From where we were we could see into the master bedroom. One corner of the bed was visible, and the front section of the room. ‘Go into the bedroom. That way we’ll have him trapped. He might try to run when I come out.’

  ‘I really doubt that he’s involved, Bruce. Why don’t you go outside and come around and knock on the front door? That way things won’t seem so strange. It won’t look like we’ve broken in. Knock and ask him outright if he’s involved.’

  ‘Guy Grant will have thought of all of this,’ Bruce whispered. ‘There won
’t be any links. He’ll have covered his tracks. If I confront this man, he’s not going to tell me. He approached our daughter. If he’s involved, he’s not getting away.’ Bruce set the phone recording again and passed it to me. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as the water stopped running and the shower door slid on its rollers. ‘I’ll stand right by the bedroom door. I’ll be there and watching; I’ll be close, don’t be afraid. I won’t let him touch you.’

  I held the phone. It was too risky now to talk. I left the room and went across to the master bedroom. Finn was rustling around in the walk-in robe.

  Finn’s futon bed had a bright green doona and light green pillowcases. In here it was easy to pick his age. There was a thick shagpile rug on the floor and a stereo system in the corner. There was a huge TV on top of a coffee table. I spied a lava lamp and an Austin Powers DVD box set. I stood at the foot of the bed and placed the phone on a nearby wooden chest as Finn came out from the walk-in robe. He had dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was towel-dried. His feet were bare.

  ‘New jeans,’ he said, and walked in a circle. The cuffs and pocket edges were already frayed – designer-applied wear and tear – and there were faded creases either side of his groin. ‘And the T-shirt is new too.’ It was brown with yellow barcodes printed on it. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Good,’ he said and chuckled. He moved in the direction of the door. ‘I’ll get us a —’

  To stop him leaving, I sat down on the bed. ‘Sit with me.’

  The sharp veer he took towards me was deliberate, intended to be comical – he acted as though he was compelled to come my way. I tried to smile. It felt stiff and grim. He sat down beside me. His leg rested near mine. My husband was out in the hallway and Finn put his hand on my knee. ‘If you knew how much —’

  ‘Why did you come to Delaney?’

  He drew back a little.

  ‘I tried ringing that woman who came to the interview with you, and she denied —’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll be really honest here. I know someone has physically hurt you. It’s hard for you to trust. I know that. It’s why you can’t shut the office door and why you get nervous about me touching you. I’m happy you’ve trusted me as much as you have, really happy. That’s why it upset me today when you pulled away. You can trust me.’ A sentimental look came into his eyes. ‘I feel like I can trust you too. It means so much to me that you might understand. It’s been so good for me to get close to you. I’ve found out things about myself.’

  I shook my head in frustration. The phone was sitting, still and sleek, on the wooden chest, battery life draining from it. Bruce’s impatience, and anger, was winding its way into the room.

  ‘Who puts that money into your account?’ I said.

  Finn straightened. ‘I told you. My parents.’

  ‘Why did Bridget say it wasn’t her when I tried to talk to her on the phone?’

  He closed his eyes and slowly reopened them. I was sure we’d reached that point: breakthrough. All would be revealed.

  ‘Bridget and I were never going out. She’s a friend from college. I heard landlords don’t like to rent to single men. So I got Bridget to make the appointment and come with me. She was never going to stay here. I made it look like it was something it wasn’t.’

  I glanced towards the open door.

  ‘Sorry for doing that.’

  I pressed my knuckles to my lips and thought. I looked at the wedge of light in the hallway and wondered if Bruce was in a position to see Finn. I could see no hint of him in the shadows. But if he could see into the room, surely he’d realise what I now knew – Finn’s involvement was only through me. There was nothing in his face or body, in his clothes or belongings, in his car or job or anything, to suggest a connection to Guy Grant. And now he was launching into a full rundown of his life.

  ‘I need to start at the beginning, or at least explain to you that although my parents give me that money, it’s not been the best thing for me. I’ve wasted a lot of years, and spent a lot of time in bad relationships. People might think that having a big cheque roll in every month means you live without a care in the world, but that’s not how it’s been. The money has drawn the wrong people to me, and got me into some bad situations.’

  I scratched my neck. Even with Finn not being involved, the octopus was alive and well and latching onto everything; the tentacles were drawing the different parts of my life towards its monstrous Reuben head, upon which it would feed, eating up everything.

  ‘Finn …’

  ‘Please, I need to say this. I think it will explain a lot. The woman I was with before coming here was married. She was hot-headed and sometimes … violent. The whole thing went on too long. When I left, at last, she accused me of assaulting her. It was a mess. She went to the police, telling them I did all the things she did. Charges were laid. It was my word against hers. It only worked out because my parents were able to get in a top defence lawyer. She dropped the case. I came to Delaney to start over. I didn’t want to tell you because I was worried you would think I was replacing this woman with you. I’m not. I walked into your office and … You were so hurt. And so beautiful. You were so brave that day, Trudy. I felt close to you. I knew I could help you. I wanted to.’ He moved closer to me. The futon mattress sank lower with our combined weight. ‘I think you’ve known for a while now how I feel. I’m not saying you have to leave your husband; all I’m saying is – do this, like what you’ve done tonight. Come to me. This is all I want. And I think, Trudy, you have to ask yourself – why did you come to the hotel with me? I mean really, not for any made-up reason. Why didn’t you stop me coming to see you after we kissed? Why are you here now? I know it’s hard, and it frightens you, but I think if you look past that, the truth is you want this.’

  By ‘this’ he meant the brushing of his fingers against my elbow, the shift of my forearm to allow access to my lap.

  ‘The truth is you want more.’

  The ‘more’ signalled a slide of his hand between my knees, the widening of my legs.

  I pushed his hand away. ‘No.’

  The streak of spite I’d witnessed in him at the hotel returned deeper and darker, as though it had been percolating inside him, growing stronger and increasingly bitter. The hot-headedness he’d spoken of … it wasn’t something he’d had to deal with in the married woman he’d spoken of; it was something within Finn, a character trait of his own.

  His hand closed firmly over my kneecap. ‘You can’t keep saying no to me. You don’t want your husband to find out about us, do you?’

  Bruce walked in.

  21

  Although Finn was shocked, it was clear he had been in situations not too dissimilar. His mouth grew hard, his jaw resolute. He was accustomed to angry husbands. As Bruce reached to grab hold of him, Finn crabbed backwards on the bed. Bruce leaned over the futon, snatching at his legs, trying to take hold of one of his ankles. Finn climbed off the bed and bolted towards the door. Bruce got there first, slamming it shut. He put his forearm across my chest and marshalled me backwards, hard up against the closed door, planting me in a safe place, his body in front of me.

  Finn shoved Bruce in the chest. ‘Get out of my house!’

  Bruce punched Finn in the face.

  ‘Bruce!’

  Fear, hurt and confusion; together they made for a perfect storm. Finn regained his balance and took a swing in retaliation. Bruce turned him around and took hold of him from behind. Finn thrashed about, kicking wildly. Bruce stumbled sideways, knocking me against the door handle. It pushed painfully into my side. I cried out. Bruce looked to see if I was all right and then sneered in anger, as though it was Finn that had stumbled into me, and he king-hit Finn.

  ‘Bruce, no!’

  Finn staggered, and while he was bent over and unsteady from the blow, Bruce squeezed the back of his neck. I rushed to try to stop them, but Finn wheeled around to twist free and his body co
llided with mine. I stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, the wind knocked out of me. My husband squeezed Finn harder. Finn’s right arm flayed around, trying to fend him off. Bruce craned his head, avoiding the worst of it. He squeezed until Finn was down on his knees, his face screwed up and his torso rigid and twisted.

  ‘Touch my wife,’ Bruce sneered down at him. ‘Go near my kids.’

  As I got to my feet, Bruce’s free hand opened and angled towards me, telling me to stay back, warning me not to intervene.

  ‘Let him up!’

  ‘Has Guy Grant put you up to this?’

  Finn’s eyes were narrowed. His lips were thin white lines. ‘Fuck you.’

  I had to wonder if Bruce had known about this pincer-hold method of containment before that day at the house, or whether he’d learnt of it from our attacker. You needed a man’s strength for it, and it worked better the more height you had – with Finn kneeling, Bruce had absolute control, he could put his weight behind his grip; he squeezed and pushed. Or maybe he’d learnt it from his father.

  ‘He’s not involved!’ I pulled at Bruce’s arm.

  The second the pressure lessened, Finn pushed away, spinning and kicking out at Bruce. I spread my hands in a hushing, shushing action, willing commonsense.

  ‘Don’t fight him! Both of you, stop!’

  But neither of them heard me, or would have stopped even if they had.

  One of Finn’s kicks landed between Bruce’s legs. The aim was slightly off, but my husband’s mouth opened in a soundless scream. It looked for a moment like his knees would give; he leaned forward and reached out as though to go down onto all fours, but then grit his teeth, breathed through it. He straightened and punched Finn in the face again, this time with better placement, a cleaner, sharper hit. Finn slumped.

  The emotions of the night were running like liquid into one another, so many different reasons, crossing over; it made for a confusing confrontation. Bruce pulled the front of Finn’s T-shirt over Finn’s head, and halfway down his back. The T-shirt was tight-fitting, and the effect of having it peeled this way drew Finn’s elbows together, trapping his arms behind him. Something about the way Bruce was using Finn’s clothing told me he had first-hand experience. It was perhaps what Reuben had done to Bruce. Bruce took a fistful of red hair and pushed Finn’s face into the carpet. I didn’t think Reuben had done that. Bruce’s face would have been bruised. Not everything was a replay of that day. Bruce was not caught in a time warp – was he? What had happened to him was integrated, meshed; it came out here and there, in bits and pieces. I saw flashes of it. How bizarre, and truly devastating, that my husband instinctively played out the events of that day. What did that say about us, about my husband, and how doomed we were?