Blood Secret

by Jaye Ford

  And Hayden had been gone for hours. She found his number in her mobile, typed a text: Do u need a lift back? I can come get u.

  She hit send and stood by the back door, looking out along the carpet of lawn that rolled towards the lake. The lush hedges that marked the borders of the yard were given extra height by the gnarly, old fruit trees on one side and the pitched roof of the converted garage on the other. It screened them from their neighbours and anyone on the pathway who wasn’t standing directly in front of the fence. Secluded, safe, blinkered from the rest of the world. Like her life here. Now, she wondered what she hadn’t seen.

  Shifting her eyes around the garden, settling her gaze on the veggie patch over near the studio, an involuntary smile started. ‘Hey, M–’

  She stopped before his name got further. She’d been going to announce that the first cucumber of the season was ready to pick. But he wasn’t here to enjoy it. And his best friends thought it was possible he’d buggered off with someone else or left with a bag of stolen money, that he didn’t care about his cucumbers. Christ, Rennie, they’re cucumbers. She squeezed her eyes for a moment then pushed her mobile into a pocket and grabbed the handset for the landline.

  Crossing to the fence first, she opened the gate and looked up and down the path again. Nothing had changed. She let herself into the studio, glancing quickly around the neatly stacked tins and canvasses. If James had been in here searching for a clue to the missing money, she’d know. She never left without returning everything to its allotted place. Max laughed about it, called her anal like it was an insult. But she knew what happened when stuff wasn’t where it should be.

  She was five or six when that lesson was burned into her psyche. She couldn’t find a teddy bear one cold morning when they left in a hurry. The next time it was her favourite cap. After that, everything went back where it belonged and she kept only what would fit in her backpack. Later, when it was just her and Jo on the run, the military-style order their mother had instilled in them had let them know when he’d been there, sifting through their stuff – the warning to grab their kits and go.

  Rennie spent years drooling in art stores at the big tablets of thick paper but had only ever bought cheap supermarket notepads, the kind that could be stuffed in a bag or left behind without regret.

  She crossed the studio, flipped open the large sketchbook on one of the easels Max had made for her and ran a hand over the heavy paper. She didn’t remember when she’d started drawing, just that she’d rarely been without pencil or paper. She sketched what she saw: hands, trees, park benches, beach, bush – and the swirls and shapes she saw in her head. There were never any lessons, just the sometimes calming, sometimes frenzied compulsion of it. Then she’d come to Haven Bay and Trish and Pav had unleashed it from its cage.

  Not that it was their intention, they just wanted the cafe repainted and left her alone for a couple of hours with paint and brushes. Rennie had never painted anything, let alone a huge expanse of freshly undercoated wall. One long streak of gorgeous lime on pristine white and she couldn’t stop. Without thinking, she kept dipping the brush and spreading the green, giving size and colour to the swirls she’d only ever drawn in pen and pencil. By the time they got back, she’d covered half a wall.

  Embarrassed, she apologised, promising to paint over it. Trish and Pav insisted she keep going. It turned into a mural and they told everyone about the ‘promising artist’ working for them. Rennie thought it was a tad over the top until someone offered to pay her. That she could earn money by having a ball with paint and a brush still astonished her.

  Rennie stood in front of the almost completed work in the middle of the room. It was as tall as she was, a commission for one of the customers at the cafe who’d wanted a ‘wow factor’ for the foyer of her home. She’d been working on it for a week. Max had leaned on the doorframe yesterday afternoon and said, ‘Nice one, babe.’ The rose pink and taupe was still wet on the overalls he’d peeled off her later. What were you thinking then, Max?

  The impromptu passion wasn’t out of place. He had a thing for her in her overalls and the bed in the studio had got some use more than a few times. But the mood yesterday was . . . different. Their spontaneity was usually lighthearted and fun, especially when there were large canvasses and wet paint to work around. She remembered the naughty-boy grin he’d had on his face when he came into the bedroom but it hadn’t stayed there. As he’d covered her body with his and plunged urgently inside her, his expression became focused, driven, his eyes closed until the throaty groan of his release.

  When they were done, she’d raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Impressive.’ He’d replied with a slow, deep kiss on her mouth. At the time, she’d figured he was thinking the same thing she was: that it was a pity they had to go, that they couldn’t stay there all night. Now she wondered what else might have been in his thoughts. A final kiss? A lasting memory? A farewell fuck?

  She picked up a tube of paint and hurled it at the wall. ‘Where are you, Max?’

  Her voice bounced off the studio walls and came back at her, angry, anxious, apprehensive. She wanted him to drag his arse home and explain himself. Make him mad as hell that she was doubting him, hear him say, ‘Why the fuck would you think I’d leave you?’

  She wanted to believe he wouldn’t. She wanted to believe he loved her. She wanted to believe her life here was the real deal, not something she’d invented to fill a gaping hole in her heart. ‘Just come back, Max,’ she whispered.

  The click of the side gate came like a reply. She lifted her head, heard a crunch of gravel. The path that ran beside the house.

  Max?

  She skipped around the end of the bed then hesitated at the half-open door. Why would he come around the back? He had keys – or at least he did last night. There was a shuffle on the pebbles, a skitter of stone on stone as feet stumbled. Outside, the yard was grey. She could only see the garden opposite but knew the narrow strip between the house and fence would be dimmer, shadowed by the house and the neighbour’s garage. Max left pots and tools and big bags from the nursery down there – his organised chaos, not her fastidious order. Still, Max would know his way.

  A clang as something fell. An ‘oomph’ of male voice.

  Rennie glanced behind – not a lot of weapons in an art studio, unless she was happy to swing a can of paint or go for close-order combat with a scraper. Her eyes landed on a stainless-steel kettle. Five seconds later, she was gripping its handle and listening at the door.

  Maybe it was Hayden. He had a key, too. She had no idea if he’d brought it with him last night, figured he was more likely to knock on the door and phone if he didn’t get a response: Gen Y and unable to proceed without using a mobile first. But he might come around the back if he didn’t want to speak to her.

  She stood by the wall, pushed the door wider, poked her head briefly around the jamb. There was a lamp glowing deep inside the living room – too far away to illuminate beyond the deck. In the yard, the shrubs and flowers were unformed and colourless in the shadow. Except by the doorway she stood in. Light spilled over the threshold and through the window beside her. If it wasn’t Max or Hayden . . .

  She slid a hand up the wall, flipped the switch and listened in the sudden gloom to the quick intake of a breath. Not hers. Out in the yard.

  17

  Best escape route was through the gate in the fence. With her back to the wall inside the doorway, she flicked her eyes to the gap in the hedge. A clear path from here to there, maybe a ten-second dash. She stuck an eye around the jamb again, just a brief glimpse, pulled her head back as alarm fired like sparks in her veins.

  A person halfway across the lawn. Not Max or Hayden. Someone big and silent. She closed her eyes. Not him, Rennie. He was locked away. This was someone else, something else – and nothing about it made her want to stop and ask first. She tightened her fist on the kettle, decided surpris
e was her best chance. She took a breath and launched herself through the door.

  She ran straight at him, kettle raised like a club.

  ‘Fuck!’

  It came at her loud and breathy. She swung, he ducked, stumbling to a knee.

  ‘Jesus, Rennie!’

  Oh, Christ. It was Pav. ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He stayed on his haunches.

  ‘Me? You’re the one creeping around in the dark.’

  ‘I’m not creeping. I was looking for you.’

  ‘Shit, Pav. Why didn’t you call out?’ She swung the kettle in frustration, away from him this time, heart thumping.

  He got to his feet, keeping his distance. ‘The house was empty so I came to see if you were out here.’

  ‘So you could scare the crap out of me?’

  ‘No, look, sorry.’ He ran a hand over his bald head. He was breathing as hard as she was. ‘It was so quiet and when the light went out, I thought something might be wrong.’

  He didn’t mean a power failure. That kind of ‘something wrong’ didn’t make you creep around. Max had disappeared and Pav jumped to the same conclusion she had: intruder. It should’ve made her uneasy to have her paranoia confirmed but what she felt was closer to reassurance. If Pav thought Max was with another woman, he wouldn’t be worried about a bad guy.

  ‘I thought the same thing when I heard the gate,’ she told him. ‘I figured Max wouldn’t come around the back and he wouldn’t be creeping across the yard. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re a scary woman when you decide to be.’

  She smiled a little. ‘More than you know.’ The adrenaline was still surging through her as she walked back to the studio to lock up, shoulders and legs twitching with the same energy that had made her charge without hesitation. The same drive that put her father in prison. Scary didn’t describe what she was capable of.

  She flicked on the yard light, remembering Hayden as they walked to the house. His mobile went to message bank. As Pav let Trish in through the front, Rennie left Hayden a message: ‘Can you call me?’ She tapped it out in a text, too.

  Trish still had post-party eyes plus takeaway from the cafe. She flicked dials on the oven, making worried and relieved noises as Pav told her how he and Rennie had freaked each other out.

  ‘Cannelloni and salads, enough for four of us,’ she said. ‘We thought you might need some company. Where’s Hayden?’

  ‘You didn’t see him on the way over here?’

  ‘No,’ Trish said. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s been gone a while. We . . . he . . . was upset when I told him Max was missing. He took off.’

  She frowned. ‘When was that?’

  Rennie checked her watch. ‘Three and a half, maybe four hours ago.’

  Pav stood beside her at the counter. ‘Have you tried calling him?’

  ‘Yes and I’ve texted.’ She picked up the landline, dialled and left a new message: ‘Can you call, please? I’ll come and get you, if you want. At least let me know where you are.’ She heard the edge of anxiety in her voice that sounded like impatience, imagined the roll of his eyes as he listened to it.

  ‘I think we need alcohol, Pav,’ Trish said. She pulled the lid off a plastic container, pieced together a cracker with cheese and held it out. ‘Eat something, Rennie.’

  ‘Why does everyone want to feed me?’

  ‘Because we need to do something. Here, eat – make me feel useful.’

  Rennie smiled a little as she took the cracker. The bourbon and Coke Pav handed her went down a lot easier. She texted Hayden: Pav and Trish r here. Pav can pick you up if you don’t want me.

  ‘What now?’ she asked them both.

  ‘Have you tried his friends?’ Trish suggested.

  ‘I don’t know who they are. Max keeps a handle on all of that.’

  ‘Who does he talk about then?’

  ‘He hardly talks to me at all. I usually let him have Max to himself and when they’re not together he’s in front of the TV. I get the feeling the kids around here don’t consider him a local these days and tend to fob him off. I know he used to ride his bike around with a couple of boys – brothers, I think – but I haven’t seen them in ages.’

  ‘You mean the Beecher kids?’ Trish waved her hands around her head. ‘Crazy, curly blond hair.’

  ‘That’s them.’

  ‘The family moved to Singleton about six months ago.’

  ‘Well, he’s not with them then.’

  ‘I could ring some parents with children around his age,’ Trish tried. ‘See if anyone’s seen him.’

  Rennie knew what it was like to be the outsider kid and having anxious adults asking if anyone’s seen little Johnny wasn’t going to make him any more popular. ‘It’s eight o’clock and only just dark. Maybe we should give him a bit more time.’

  ‘He knows his way around Haven Bay. I think we could wait a while,’ Pav agreed.

  Rennie nodded at him, at Trish, not entirely sure. About anything.

  ‘Come on, let’s sit.’ Trish picked up the container of nibbles and Pav took Rennie’s elbow, steering her over to the sofas.

  ‘The detective wants to talk to you both about Max. I gave him your numbers.’ Rennie sipped her drink, wishing the alcohol would hit a little harder.

  ‘What did you tell him about the other times Max didn’t come home?’ Trish asked.

  ‘I told him I’ve never known Max to disappear like this and that I don’t know any reason he’d go off without telling me, which is the truth.’ She had an itch of doubt and nothing to base it on except her own screwed-up history and she didn’t want that colouring any decisions the cops might make. If Detective Duncan knew who she was, he might decide Max had good reason to do a runner.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t mention it either,’ Trish said.

  Rennie was grateful she wanted to protect Max but a story like that would come out. Leanne had been a local, too; someone would know her side of the story and Detective Duncan would wonder why they’d covered it up. ‘I don’t want you to lie.’ She turned her head. ‘You either, Pav. Is Max having an affair?’

  He flicked eyes at Trish, reluctance and guilt in them.

  ‘At this point, Pav, I don’t care if he is. I just want to know where he is.’

  He took a second as though considering how to phrase it. ‘If he’s having an affair, I don’t know about it. If he’s with a woman now, I don’t know who it is.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I didn’t know before, either.’

  ‘Trish said he told you.’

  ‘He did but not until after Leanne left. When it was happening, he told me the same as he told her, that he stayed with a mate somewhere on the other side of the lake.’

  Rennie drained her glass and put it down hard on the coffee table. Okay, you want to know where he is, you’ve got to look everywhere, not just the obvious places. Cold, hard reality had kept her safe for years, no reason not to embrace it now. ‘Did you make a list of who he might stay with?’

  Trish put a hand on her knee. ‘It doesn’t mean that’s where he is now.’

  ‘No, but I need to cross that possibility off my list. Do you know who he stayed with before, Pav?’

  ‘He never told me names but there’s a woman who comes to the pub sometimes who knows him from before. I thought they must’ve had something going once. And a couple of months ago a woman at the sailing club, crew off one of the boats, came on to him pretty strong. I didn’t think Max was interested but . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘What crew? Do you know her name?’

  ‘I’ll make a few calls. The questions might get better answers if they don’t come from you.’

  She nodded. Max hadn’t told her about the woman at the sailing club or the
one at the pub. It didn’t mean he was sleeping with either of them. It didn’t mean he wasn’t. She checked her watch. It was almost twenty-four hours since he’d left the party, and his son had been gone for more than four. ‘It’s eight-fifteen. I’ll try Hayden again.’

  ‘You text. I’ll try him on the landline,’ Pav said. He left a message, telling Hayden he wasn’t in trouble, they just wanted to know he was okay.

  Trish fed her another cracker. Pav topped up their drinks. At eight-thirty, Rennie checked her phone. The battery was fine, the volume was up, there was no text, no missed call.

  ‘What about Naomi and James? Maybe he went to their place,’ Trish suggested.

  ‘They were both here when he stormed out. I figured they would’ve rung if he’d turned up on their doorstep.’ She picked up the phone anyway.

  ‘I’ll give Rhonda Tapwell a call. Her kids know Hayden,’ Trish said, getting up to find her own phone.

  Pav pulled a mobile from a pocket and headed towards the hallway, saying, ‘I’ll phone Ed at the sailing club.’

  *

  ‘Naomi hasn’t seen or heard from Hayden,’ Rennie reported back to Trish and Pav. ‘She said James went to the office again. She was going to call him to see if Hayden phoned.’

  The three of them were gathered at the end of the kitchen counter, Trish and Pav looking as uneasy as Rennie felt.

  ‘Rhonda Tapwell’s kids haven’t seen him in a couple of months,’ Trish said. ‘One of the boys looked up Hayden’s Facebook page. His last post was on Friday morning.’

  ‘Did he say anything about coming up here?’ Rennie asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Apparently he was talking about school holidays and complaining about going to Cairns. I spoke to Jenny Penzo, too. Her son saw him a couple of weekends ago but not today. She was going to make a few calls and ask people to phone here if they knew anything.’ Trish reached across the counter and pressed Rennie’s hand to the cool marble top. ‘They’d both heard about Max and sent their condolences.’