by Janene Wood
Kate went on, “You would have insisted on doing the right thing and marrying her, of course, making her the happiest girl in the world – until she finally figured out the truth. So right now, you’d be stuck in a loveless marriage for the sake of the children, having brief, tawdry affairs with the few gay tourists who pass through town.”
“That’s cruel,” said Jack, laughing, “but probably not far off the mark. I’m not sure I would’ve ever had the guts to come out if I’d stayed home.”
Kate didn’t know what to say to that, but Jack didn’t seem to expect a response. “Okay, so what about me?” asked Kate with an expectant smile, wondering what outrageous fantasy he would come up with.
Jack answered immediately. “You’d be doing exactly what you’re doing now, of course.”
Kate looked pitiably at her brother. “That’s pretty lame, Jack; surely you can do better than that?”
“That’s actually what I think, Kate. Truly.”
Kate was stunned. “What do you mean? Do you really believe Mum’s death had no effect on the path my life has taken?”
“Well, of course it affected you; you were probably the worst hit of all of us, being so young, and... well...girls need their mums. But you react to things differently than we do. Instead of shutting down and internalizing your emotions, you find a way to cope.”
“I had no choice! None of us did,” she said angrily.
“Everything’s relative, Kate. What I was trying to point out to you was your wonderful ability to compartmentalize. You are pragmatic and independent and self-reliant; qualities you rightly pride yourself on. You have the wonderful ability to take things in stride and not allow circumstances to push you off your path. You are adaptable and focused,” he said, holding her eye, “while also being vulnerable and incredibly compassionate,” he continued more kindly. “All I meant was that you deal with things better than most people – certainly better that Simon, Sam or me.”
“That's bullshit!” said Kate angrily.
“It’s true!” retorted Jack stubbornly. He frowned, thinking how to make his point more clearly. “What did you want to be before Mum died?”
“You know I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” she answered sullenly.
“Yet what job are you doing now?”
Kate was close to losing her temper. “I’m a quack is what I am! Your point?”
Jack ignored her hostility. “Which you became because of...?”
“You know damn well why I do what I do,” replied Kate, gritting her teeth.
Jack knew when not to push. “But that’s not enough to pay the bills. By the way, you really should charge your patients a proper market rate. It’s not as if they–”
Kate glared furiously at him and he stopped short, hurriedly getting back on track. “Okay, where does most of your income come from?”
“From my books.”
“Which you started writing when?”
“When Mum died.”
“Why?”
“Well, mostly because we were broke! We had next to no money, if you’ll recall.”
That was the easy answer, Kate realised for the first time, her anger fading as quickly as it had flared. “If I’m honest, though, it helped me deal with everything: Mum’s death; the way our whole lives were turned upside down. I could escape into Tessa’s world and pretend my reality didn’t exist, at least for a while. I suppose I was actually lucky in a way.” She was lucky; the boys had had no escape from their grief and constant worry about the future. “I’m pretty sure you know all this! Why are you torturing us both about the past?”
“I was trying to make a point, Kate: that you’ve adapted yourself to the variables of circumstance in order to look after those you care about most, while still remaining true to what you want out of life. While I – to take another crude example – have always run away whenever the going got tough.”
“Oh, Jack,” said Kate wearily, sliding across the floor and putting her arm around her brother’s shoulder. “Will you never forgive yourself?”
Jack stared at the floor in silence.
“We all just do the best we can with what we’ve got, Jackie. Trust me; you don’t want to be me. It’s really not much fun most of the time.”
Jack looked up at her with a grimace. “It’s not that I want to be you, bruv. I just don’t always want to be me.”
Body in the Bush
Sunday, 25 November, 1979
Jack pulled the door to the spare room shut behind him with a sharp thud and the sound echoed down the empty hallway to where Kate still sat, huddled upon the hard kitchen floor with her knees tucked up to her chin. The symbolism of that simple action was clear: the chapter of her life entitled, Jack and Kate Have Fun in London, was now closed as indisputably as the door to her spare bedroom. Jack was effectively gone from her life, and whatever comfort she had garnered from his prolonged proximity had disappeared with him.
Kate wondered if Jack would remember the promise he extracted from her before he went to bed – and if he didn’t, whether it still counted. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go home; she did, desperately. Although so much had happened in the five years she had been gone, it was doubtful anyone back home would recognise her. But the reasons for not leaving were as valid now as they had been last night. She had the means to do so now, thanks to Gramps' present, and God knows, she had unfinished business that was a perpetual weight, dragging her down. But there was no point going until she was properly prepared, and the jury still hadn't reached a verdict on that.
Jack was right, though, regardless of the reasons for or against. Time was marching on. She was 26 years old and not getting any–
The sound of Ryan’s key fumbling in the lock brought her thoughts back to more immediate matters. Tingling with anticipation, Kate went to greet him, filled with her new resolution to open up and share more of herself with him. But when she opened the door, Ryan looked at her vacantly and wobbled into her arms, a great deal the worse for the drink. Clearly, there weren’t going to be any deep and meaningfuls tonight.
“I’m pissed, Katy,” he told her happily, his words coming out thick and slow.
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically, cringing at the diminutive. The sound of it made her feel sick to her stomach. It had taken months for Ryan to get it through his head just how much she abhorred it, so, more than anything else, it was this casual disregard for her feelings that made her fully comprehend his level of inebriation.
It didn’t look like there was going to be any sex tonight, either.
“Sorry, Katy,” slurred Ryan, breathing nasty, beery fumes in her face. She had to hold her breath to stop herself gagging. He pulled up abruptly, and smacked himself exaggeratedly on the forehead. “Oh, no... I did it again!” He giggled then – drunkenly, but it was definitely a giggle. “Sorry, Katy,” he repeated, grinning cheekily.
Kate couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry about it,” she relented, amused by his uncharacteristic whimsy. Ryan drank as much as the next bloke, but she had never seen him so completely smashed before. In light of their prearranged assignation, she was disappointed and just a little bit annoyed that he’d let himself get into such a state, but somehow she didn’t think he’d done it on purpose. He had been as eager as she was to get together and get naked.
“KatyKatyKaty! You’re so beeewdiful, Katy,” he slurred in a dreamy, sing-song voice. “Don’t you worry ‘bout nuffin, Katy. I’ll take care o' ya.”
“Okay, thanks, I appreciate that,” she agreed, humouring him. “Let’s get you into bed.” She extricated herself from his embrace and led him by the hand to her bedroom. He managed to mostly undress himself while she pulled back the covers and drew the curtains. By the time she had hung up his suit, he was curled up in a ball and sound asleep.
“It’s just not my night,” said Kate softly, as she kissed him chastely on the cheek and pulled the covers up over his shoulder.
The clo
ck on the bedside table read 3.42am when Kate finally crawled between the sheets beside him. She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, entering the REM state a short time later. Unsurprisingly, she dreamed of her mother and brothers. Images of the five of them, just as they were before everything fell to pieces, danced before her eyes, heart-breakingly close, no doubt dredged up by her earlier conversation with Jack. They were all so young and happy and alive. It broke her heart to see it, knowing what came after.
It seemed like only seconds later that she was awake again, her pillow damp with tears. She didn't need to look at the clock to know it was 5am, or close enough to make no difference. After dressing in the dark, she did what she always did when she was stressed or feeling out of sorts: she went for a run.
With no particular route or destination in mind, she simply followed her feet, turning corners when the inclination arose, crossing mostly deserted streets when she had to, all the while keeping track of her whereabouts on a map in her head.
By 7am, she was back in her flat, showered and dressed. Physically she was fine, despite the lack of sleep and the copious wine she had consumed the night before. Emotionally, she wasn't so good; Jack was leaving and taking half her heart with him.
Breakfast was coffee and three pieces of toast, eaten at the dining room table with a copy of the Sunday Times for company. Unfolding the paper and spreading it out on the table before her, she read the disturbing headline plastered across the front page with a peculiar sense of déjà vu.
MAN SAVAGED IN PARK!
After reading the article all the way through, describing an unidentified man found naked on Hampstead Heath, mutilated and killed by an unknown assailant, Kate was struck by the similarities between this report and one that had appeared on the front page of her local newspaper 20 odd years ago. Not that she had been aware of the article at the time, but she did have first-hand knowledge of the killing, and after her mother’s death, had found a copy of the paper amongst her belongings. Even today, the brutal killing was a regular topic of conversation in Fiddlers Creek. At the time, no one talked about anything else for months, and as far as she knew, the perpetrator remained at large, even now.
Against her will, the sights and smells of that long ago day came rushing back to her, forcing her to recall her first real encounter with death…
It was the end of the first day of school after the Christmas holidays and another two miles of hot, sticky bitumen stretched ahead of them into the distance. Houses soon gave way to tall gums and thick scrub on both sides of the road, although tantalising glimpses of sparkling blue ocean could be seen through occasional breaks in the trees on her left. Cars were uncommon at this time of day so they had the road all to themselves.
Simon spotted a red-bellied black snake basking in the sun but Maggie insisted they give it a wide berth, despite the boys’ disappointed grumblings. Further along, a grey kangaroo leapt out of the bush right in front of them, leaping from one side of the road to the other in two giant bounds. Cicada song filled the air, replacing the earlier chatter of Kate and her brothers, who had quickly grown too hot and bothered to talk.
The boys walked a little ahead: Simon, the oldest, flanked by Sam on his right and Jack on his left. Maggie followed close behind but Kate lagged a little, her younger, shorter legs unable to keep pace with the others. She was humming happily to herself when a grasshopper landed unexpectedly on her forearm. It tickled her skin and she giggled softly, but then it was gone again, leaping onto the hard, black surface of the road. Kate stopped and bent down to retrieve it but it jumped away again before she could grab it. She traced its movements as it zigzagged across the road toward the bush, but whenever it paused and she tried to grab it, it would leap away again. Finally, it hopped out of sight and was gone. With a start, Kate realised she had wandered into the bush, out of sight of the road.
Unperturbed, Kate paused for a moment and sniffed the air, sensing that something was not quite right. She scanned the surrounding scrub but didn’t see or hear anything unusual. Yet there was a definite scent in the hot, humid air, different to anything she had smelled before. Breathing deeply, she took a tentative step in the direction it seemed to be coming from. The bush was thick and overgrown, making it difficult to see more than a few metres ahead. Using both her hands and the weight of her small body, she determinedly pushed aside the low branches that blocked her way, following her nose toward the source of the cloying odour. It became stronger and more putrid with every step, but her curiosity was greater than her repugnance.
The bush grew strangely quiet as she ventured further from the road, the only sound being the crackle of twigs and dead leaves beneath her feet. She wondered why all the birds and cicadas had stopped singing. For a long moment she stood still, just listening. Finally, she discerned the faint rustle of movement up ahead. Her feet started walking of their own accord and a minute later she pushed aside the branches of a leafy wattle tree and found herself at the edge of a small clearing.
At first Kate wasn’t sure what she was looking at, although she knew it was dead and it smelled bad. A mob of crows was feasting on it, which made it hard to identify. The flesh was black and bloated and didn’t correspond to the shape or size of any animal inhabiting these parts. She took a step closer, fascinated. And then another. The crows flapped their wings and cawed raucously in response to her unwelcome presence, but they didn’t scare her. Kate held her ground and scrutinized the remains. Slowly, she came to realise it wasn't an animal at all; it was the remains of a person; a man, from the size of him. Kate bent to inspect the naked corpse with wide, inquisitive eyes.
Kate was amused by such squeamishness.
The torso and limbs were badly lacerated but more or less intact, the crows having been more interested in the softer, more accessible face, neck and groin. The neck had been gouged open, spilling blood – now dried and congealed to a thick, black crud – down the man’s chest and over the leaves and dirt surrounding the body. A thick gold band embedded with a green gemstone circled the man’s left pinky finger, but there were no other personal accoutrements.
What was he doing all the way out here, miles from anywhere? wondered Kate. It was pure luck she had stumbled upon him; it could have been months or even years before he was discovered otherwise. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why he was naked, or even how he had died, although it saddened her to think of him being all alone out here, and the road within spitting distance.
At first Kate didn’t hear Maggie’s voice, such was her fascination with the corpse and her vivid imaginings concerning the dead man’s final moments. By the time she registered the sound, Maggie had already stumbled into the clearing and was ineffectually shooing the crows away.
“Katy! Come away from there!” cried Maggie in alarm.
Kate was composed and remarkably unaffected. “It’s all right, Maggie; it’s only poor Mr Woodford.” In a serious voice, she added, “He can’t hurt anyone any more.”
The Airport
When Kate went to wake Jack and found him flat on his back on top of the covers, still in his clothes from last night, she couldn’
t help laughing out loud. Cold to the touch but too deeply unconscious to feel it, as illustrated by the bone-rattling snores issuing from his mouth, he must have been a lot drunker last night than she had realised. It gave her a sadistic thrill to poke and prod him till he woke.
He eventually stumbled to the shower, his eyes still half closed, muttering obscenities all the way. After standing in the steaming water for ten minutes, he emerged a little more alert and at least speaking intelligible, if monosyllabic, English. The aspirin and black coffee he threw down also helped, so by the time they left Kate’s flat for the airport, she decided he might actually survive the day.
Kate drove sedately in deference to Jack’s condition, and they arrived at Heathrow with plenty of time to spare. Jack checked his bags and they found a coffee shop in which to wait for his flight to be called. He was fragile still, and subdued, and sat slumped in his seat with his eyes closed. His face was completely devoid of colour and expression.
“Drink more coffee,” Kate advised him. “It’ll help you feel better.”
He opened one eye and snapped, “You know, you don’t have to wait, Kate. I think I can manage to put myself on a plane without your assistance.”
“Don’t be so snotty. I want to wait. I’m not going to see you again for ages.” Although they bickered like an old married couple sometimes, Kate knew she was going to miss him dreadfully. He was her sole link to her home and childhood and he knew her like no one else. She meant to put off the moment of their final parting for as long as possible.
“Have it your own way. Can we have a bit of quiet though? I’m not really in the mood for chit chat.” Jack sipped his coffee carefully, making allowance for the way his hands were shaking, before resting his head on the back of the banquette.
“You mean you’re hung over and you’re crabby,” retorted Kate succinctly, “and you’re taking it out on me.”
A moment passed and then Jack grinned. “Isn’t that what I just said? You’re right. I feel like shit and I’ve got no one to blame but myself.”