All These Perfect Strangers

by Aoife Clifford

  Rogan’s room was the same shape as mine but furnished differently, a room full of gadgets and clothes. This was a student with money. An impressive-looking camera was placed next to a couple of Walkmans on the bookshelf, a VCR next to the television. I wondered whether I should sit down, as I hesitated beginning the conversation that I had been practising in my head for a couple of days, but Rogan started talking instead, trying to pre-empt what he thought I might say.

  ‘So, I’m seeing Emelia now, so what.’ He refused to look at me and began moving books around his desk, perhaps hopeful that I would just disappear.

  It should have been easy to start hating Rogan at that moment, dismissing me as if I was nothing, but there wasn’t time for that now. I had something much more important to find out. The truth is, beautiful people get to act like that all the time and the world lets them. I had been stupid to think that it would be different.

  ‘Maybe it was bad timing with Rachel’s death. And now Leiza. Christ, that’s just awful.’ There was a catch in his throat and he coughed. ‘This whole year’s been awful. I might transfer back home at the end of it, rather than stay. Get away from this fucking mess. My parents want me to.’

  He walked over to his stereo. A CD was out of its case, resting face down on the top of the player. He cradled it with his fingertips while he flipped open the cover and put it in.

  ‘I mean, I didn’t even know Rachel that well. Barely spoke to her, really. And then there were all the lies, making up stuff about people. She said terrible things about Emelia and her parents.’

  It was almost laughable that he thought I should feel sorry for poor little rich girl Emelia with her brand-new car. I remembered Rachel sitting on the bank of the river, telling me about Emelia’s father and his cook. I had thought she was making it up at the time, but actually I was more inclined to believe it now. As far as I could work out, the only lies Rachel had told were about herself.

  As I stood there, watching Rogan work himself up to a display of righteous indignation about me even standing in his room, I tried to remember what Rachel had said about Rogan. She had been vague in her reasons why I shouldn’t date him, but she had said he was weak.

  Slotting the CD case back into the rack, he looked at me for the first time.

  ‘She killed herself, and that’s all very sad.’ I could almost see the ‘but’ forming in the air in front of me. ‘But life moves on and I have as well.’

  It surprised me that he could believe it was going to be that simple. This was a person with little experience of bad things.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to say something? Why are you here?’ He was getting angry and something flared in me in return.

  ‘Actually, what I came to tell you,’ I said, not troubling to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, ‘is that the police are investigating Rachel’s death and they will want to interview you.’

  Rogan recoiled and I could see him grappling with the words like he wanted to argue with me.

  ‘But Rachel was an accident.’ The same words I had said to Dale, as though by repeating it, we could change what had happened, and make it true.

  He leant back, his head resting on the wall, limp. I could still see how beautiful he was, but there was something pathetic as well. He was soft.

  ‘She died from a combination of Rohypnol and cocaine,’ I said. This was the important part. I watched for a reaction.

  His head jerked back up, alert now. ‘Roofies? Are you sure? How the fuck did that happen? Where did she get those from?’

  As far as I could tell he seemed genuinely surprised. Or he was a much better liar than he had been in the police interview. Either way, there didn’t seem any point telling him about Leiza as well, so I turned around, walked through the door and very carefully closed it behind me.

  · · ·

  The television was on when I walked into the Rec Room. I had come to watch the early news about Leiza and the crowd suggested that other students had the same idea. Toby was on duty. ‘Turn it up, turn it up,’ he said to Joyce, who was sitting next to Michael, and nearest to the set.

  Mourning today for the death of Leiza Parnell. The popular student was found murdered on her university campus.

  I experienced a strange feeling of dislocation, because the footage on the screen was of our college. A couple of girls were standing near the front wall of Scullin. I didn’t recognise them, their faces hidden as they put flowers on the ground, arms around each other for comfort.

  The eighteen-year-old granddaughter of political elder statesman Duncan Parnell had participated in a demonstration protesting a series of recent violent attacks against women.

  The camera panned to take in a couple of police walking out of our main door. Dressed in blue coveralls, one holding a large paper bag, they moved towards a police van.

  ‘Forensics,’ someone said at the nearest table. ‘They were back in her room today.’

  Police say investigations are ongoing and today her parents made an emotional appeal for any witnesses to come forward.

  The image cut to two people sitting flanked by policemen. The camera was on a woman with perfect hair and expensive clothes leaning forward towards the microphone. ‘If you know anything about that night, if you saw anything at all . . .’ then her crystal-clear voice wobbled, her head dipped, and the man next to her put his arm around her shoulders. She looked up again and the camera zoomed in. Underneath the make-up, her face was haggard. ‘Please, we just want to understand why . . .’

  I turned my eyes down at the floor, unable to watch any more. By the time I started listening again the next item had already begun.

  . . . could have thought we were in for a thunderstorm, but the rumbles were only that of Death Riders Motorcycle Club in town for a charity event. A new initiative for the club, the event is designed not just to raise noise but much needed money for the children’s wing at our local hospital . . .

  An enormous guy with a red cross tattoo on his t-shirt grimaced at the camera holding a pink teddy bear in his hand. Stoner, who had been sitting by himself, got up quickly and turned the TV off, a scared look on his face. No one challenged him.

  ‘That told us nothing,’ complained Toby. ‘I could do with a drink.’ He grabbed a beer from the fridge. ‘Leiza’s father was here again today, shouting at Marcus.’

  ‘Shouting?’

  ‘Carol told me all about it. All this stuff about how he should have been sacked from his last university.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘She didn’t hear that bit but Mr Parnell was threatening to sue him.’

  ‘What for?’ I repeated.

  Toby opened the beer, which fizzed over. Swearing, he picked up a cloth and wiped down the counter. ‘Search me, you’re the law student. Ask him this afternoon.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Note in your pigeonhole. Didn’t you get it?’

  I had got out of the habit of checking my mail as no one ever wrote to me. ‘Do you often read other people’s messages?’ I asked.

  ‘Rach and I used to do it all the time. Notes, postcards, anything not in an envelope, really. How do you think I keep myself so well informed? Go now and then come back and tell me what you find out.’

  · · ·

  ‘Finishing off my speech for the memorial,’ Marcus explained, as I sat down on the chair opposite his desk.

  Though the paint smell had long disappeared, there was still a sharpness to the room, a newness that hadn’t yet been absorbed.

  ‘Such a dreadful business,’ he continued. He concentrated on the paper in front of him, made a dramatic cross with his fountain pen, and wrote a few more words.

  ‘There, that’s it done,’ and he put down the pen. ‘Must be time for another drink. Care for a whisky?’

  I shook my head. I could tell this wasn’t going to be some cosy fireside chat. He picked up the empty glass on his desk and went to the half-full crystal decanter on the side table. As I alw
ays did when I was in this room, I found my eyes being drawn to the picture of the broken boy, but when I looked it wasn’t there. A blank wall.

  Marcus noticed where I was looking as he walked towards me with his drink. ‘Gone. Sub-Dean took it upon himself to take it down for the Parnells’ visit. Thought it might be upsetting.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Have you met the Parnells?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Duncan Parnell was one of the biggest crooks around in his day. Went into Parliament with barely a cent to his name, retired a multimillionaire and a national treasure. Interesting how life turns out.’

  Standing there, he swirled the whisky in his glass.

  ‘One must be sympathetic towards the family at such a dreadful time, but every word I say to them seems to be reported on the front of the paper, and then there is this . . .’ He threw over a magazine with a double spread inside of the family. ‘Came out this morning, so Carol tells me. The family must have hired some PR hack to get this in so quickly.’

  ‘They seem very upset,’ I said, looking at a picture of Mrs Parnell crying.

  ‘Of course, of course, we are all upset. Poor Bryan hasn’t been the same since he had to identify the girl’s body. Mind you, that might be for other reasons. He had taken a key interest in Ms Parnell’s activities and she complained to her parents about his over-zealousness. I am told there were several heated conversations over her role as organiser of the rally. The police wish to interview him as well.’

  The chair sighed as he sat down. ‘Apparently, he doesn’t have an alibi for the time.’ Marcus paused for a beat too long before continuing. ‘Of course, not for one moment do I think he had anything to do with this tragedy.’

  A clock chimed bell-like from the mantelpiece.

  ‘Aah, dinner time. I wonder what culinary delights are in store for you tonight?’

  ‘Mince, I expect.’ Grey mince with watery tomato sauce had become a common feature of Scullin dining, with the result that more and more students were becoming vegetarian. Toby thought it was the actual strategy of the cook in order to save on the budget.

  ‘Well, to the matter at hand. You are going to be interviewed by the police Wednesday afternoon at four p.m. They have taken over an administration area on campus for the time being. The details are here.’

  He pushed a piece of paper over to me. I folded it and without looking put it into my pocket.

  ‘Now, Ms Sheppard, I know from your student file that you’ve had . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘experience with the police before. Therefore you understand that they don’t deal in nuances and subtleties. More of a tick-a-box mentality. A contradiction here and change of emphasis there and they may think you have something to hide. Consistency is important. It is important that we corroborate one another. I’m sure you understand.’

  It was said so reasonably, so smoothly, that I found myself nodding.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and there was a snap to his tone as if I had been caught. ‘So you will tell them that Rachel was dealing drugs in college, that she had been warned about this by me personally and that her death must be a tragic accidental overdose. You will be consistent. Joshua will be consistent and I will be consistent.’

  He sat back and took another drink from his whisky and I knew if I nodded again, then there would be a couple more pleasantries and I would be dismissed, a little plaything being put back in its box. That wasn’t nearly good enough.

  ‘You want me to lie?’ I asked.

  There was a moment of incredulity as Marcus stared at me. The skin around his jaw hardened and the facade of jovial benefactor slipped.

  ‘You disappoint me. I thought you understood how the world works. There is no such thing as a free lunch. There are always strings attached.’

  Marcus rapped a finger on the desk, like a talon sharpening on a rock.

  ‘This college’s reputation must be protected. To have one student murdered may be regarded as a misfortune, to have two is carelessness. I am not a careless person. Already, we have parents worried for their children, threatening to find accommodation elsewhere. If they hear another death is being investigated, some will leave. If students leave, our budget will be put under pressure. I would be forced to make some unfortunate decisions such as cutting some of our extra programmes.’

  He was too subtle an operator to specify my bursary, without which I couldn’t stay at college and possibly not even at university, but we both knew that’s what he meant.

  Slowly, I nodded my head.

  ‘We understand each other,’ and with a smile he drained his drink. ‘I knew we would.’ With that, the mask was replaced, the atmosphere warmed and the faint air of menace that had been hovering disappeared.

  He tapped the side of the glass as if everything had been decided, and then said as an aside, ‘Your mother hasn’t phoned me.’

  Puzzled, I looked at him.

  ‘She hasn’t rung up, demanding to know if her child is safe, telling me that you may leave.’

  ‘My mother doesn’t watch the news,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t go anyway. I’m never going to live with her again.’ The idea that I could really be forced to leave suddenly hit me, and I was surprised by how upset I felt about it.

  He nodded at me, all genial now. ‘I understand. I was packed off to Australia from England by my mother when I was ten. Escaped the war for oranges and sunshine as they say. The truth being somewhat different.’

  ‘I thought that you had to be an orphan.’ I had heard of kids from England being used as cheap labour on farms or sent to children’s homes. Tracey’s father had emigrated that way.

  ‘Most were.’

  ‘Did you ever see your mum again?’

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘For those of us for whom a home has proven elusive, we make do. Having been lost, you find shelter where you can. Another reason why we must both safeguard Scullin’s reputation.’

  A complicated moment of recognition passed between us, a shared vulnerability.

  Marcus stood up. ‘Your mince will be getting cold, I expect.’

  As he opened the office door, he put out his hand for me to shake. He had set out a bargain for me, from one survivor to another. I hesitated as I looked at him, searching for the scared ten-year-old boy he must have once been, but there in his tailored suit and expensive sky-blue tie, it was hard to believe such a boy had ever existed. Reluctantly I held out my hand and he took it, almost lingering over it. The feel of his skin was papery but there was power in his grip.

  Chapter 20

  Ros is fussing around me, pulling out various dresses. There is an entire bouquet of floral to choose from.

  ‘This one would be good.’ She holds up a frilly pink one. ‘Bob said he wanted something youthful.’ Underneath the manicured exterior, Ros is as tough as nails. Her hair is a shiny grey helmet. You don’t mess with Ros.

  ‘How about the navy?’ I ask, grabbing one that Ros has already discarded. It is plain and something a nun would wear, but that’s preferable to looking as if I’m off to a five-year-old’s birthday party.

  ‘This one’s perfect,’ Ros insists, steel in her voice, handing over the pink one. ‘I’ve got to run to the bank but Donna can keep an eye on you until I get back.’

  The shop smells of steam and synthetics. Donna’s perfect apricot talons click as she moves the iron back and forth over a perfectly pleated dress. She has frosted blonde hair, a neatly pressed apricot dress and, no doubt, apricot bra and knickers on underneath.

  I sometimes think people in this town age in dog years. Go to sleep late teens, wake up middle-aged in pastels. As Ros walks past, she whispers something to Donna and nods her head in my direction. Bob proclaims his clients’ innocence, Ros still locks up the silver.

  I sneak a look at the price tag on the pink dress. No wonder they don’t have any customers other than me. I drop it on top of the pile lying at the counter.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ asks Donna, once Ros is safel
y trotting up the street. ‘Are you going to court?’

  I shake my head. I never want to go to court again, not unless I’m the lawyer.

  ‘No offence. Just we get all sorts in here from Bob.’ She leans towards me across the ironing board and lowers her voice to a pantomime-type whisper. ‘Ros says once she had to dress a murderer. Can you believe it?’

  I almost ask for more details because she is bursting to tell, and then I realise she is probably talking about Tracey. Unless she means me. Three years ago, Ros wouldn’t have either of us in the shop during daylight hours. Instead, she opened up late on different nights. Didn’t want the town to think she was taking sides, even though I was her husband’s client. Might be bad for business.

  ‘Haven’t seen you before,’ Donna says. ‘You local?’

  ‘I’ve been away. Grew up here.’ Nearly suffocated here would be more accurate.

  ‘Only moved into town three months ago. Finished school and thought it was time to see the world. Here’s all right.’ She wrinkles her nose like it’s touch and go but she’s trying to be polite. Doesn’t want to upset a customer, even one from Bob.

  ‘Wanna hand choosing?’ she asks, as she shifts the dress to its front, sprays a mist of water on it, and presses down on the pleats.

  ‘All right,’ I say, because she can’t be any worse than Ros.

  ‘Great. I hate bloody ironing. This lot is for the Festival’s fashion parade next week. We’re having a try-on tonight. You keep looking. I’ll be done in a sec.’

  There is a jungle of dresses to choose from. I start shuffling half-heartedly through the rack nearest me.

  ‘Don’t bother with those ones,’ she calls out. ‘That’s mostly mother-of-the-bride stuff. Look from the red onwards.’ She points towards the back corner. I begin to flick through.