by Anna Romer
My fingers tightened around my pouch of herbs. A grain would slow a man’s heart, a larger measure might send him into an uneasy sleep; a pinch, and he would never wake.
Doubling back along the path, I unlatched the French doors and went in. The air was cold inside, far colder than it had been in the garden. Moonlight washed through the tall windows, puddling on the marble floor and splashing shadows into the corners. I had come to despise this dank house; it would be a relief to escape its dreary confines forever.
When I reached the library, I slipped quietly through the heavy oak door and shut it behind me. Only then did I dare to light a candle.
The decanter of sweet sherry sat on the sideboard, a quarter full, the sickly wine glinting red like blood in the candlelight. I removed the crystal stopper. The scent oozed out, making my stomach roll and twist. I raged inside to think of the nights I had shared with Carsten; the man who had murdered my mother, and whose actions had eventually led to the destruction of my family.
I tipped a measure of Wolfsbane into the sherry, swirling the liquor until the powdery grounds dispersed. Then I settled the decanter back on the tray, wiping up a sticky droplet from the stopper with my sleeve. Adjusting the empty glass, I turned back to examine the room.
Everything was in order. It was time to go—
Footsteps approached along the hall.
I blew out the candle, realising I had lingered too long. The footsteps paused. Then the door swung open. A tall figure crossed the threshold. His shadow leaped violently in the light of the lantern he held aloft.
Carsten’s face twisted when he saw me.
‘I knew you’d be back. What are you doing here in the dark?’
I retreated behind the desk. Carsten followed, but I made a move towards the open door. Carsten reached into his waistcoat and drew a revolver. Pulling back the hammer, he took aim at my head.
I unclasped the locket from around my neck, and held it in the light. ‘Look what I have found,’ I said, unable to stop the violent shaking in my fingers.
Carsten flinched, and the weapon wavered. ‘Hand it over.’
‘Not until you tell me how it came to be by the riverside, at Lyrebird Hill. Near the destroyed Aboriginal encampment.’
He took a lurching step towards me, and tried to swipe the locket from my grasp, but I darted out of his reach. A dark light came into his eyes.
‘Your father stole Florence from me. I wanted to strike a blow against him that he’d never recover from.’
‘By marrying me? By killing the people he loved?’
Carsten’s mouth worked, as if his words had left a sour taste. ‘I blamed Michael for Florence’s death. The last time I saw her, she was hollow-cheeked, her beautiful hair lank, her spirits low. She was about to be married and should have been flushed with happiness, but I knew Michael was sneaking off to the encampment, crawling into that savage’s hut, when he should have been on his knees, thanking Florence that she had agreed to be his bride. Michael had what I wanted, but cared nothing for it. It made me sick. Sick to my stomach, and sick at heart.’
‘You were there in seventy-nine,’ I said harshly. ‘And a month ago, you returned. You helped murder innocent people.’
Carsten’s lips were raw and the reflected lantern light blazed wildly in his eyes. He gripped his revolver and adjusted his aim, taking an unsteady step towards me.
‘When I saw Michael last month, I couldn’t forget what you had told me. My old resentments resurfaced. That night I went to the tavern and sat with a group of acquaintances who shared my hatred of the blacks. We got talking, and the drink fired us up. We agreed that something had to be done, and all of a sudden we were the men to do it. It was an hour’s ride to Lyrebird Hill, and we reached the encampment by midnight. The savages were asleep, but their dogs began to bay at the sound of our horses. Within moments, several males burst from their huts bearing spears, and rushed at us.’
The blood froze in my veins. My hands went hot, and my heart began to race unsteadily. ‘There were women,’ I said, my voice thick with grief. ‘And little ones—’
Carsten went to the decanter and poured a glass of sherry, drained it in a gulp. Almost instantly, his gaze sharpened on me. His hand went to his mouth. He looked at the glass in his hand. I could see the question dawn in his eyes – suspicion at first, as his tongue darted along his lips, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar burning, tingling, of the sensitive skin. Then dark realisation, a blink of fear.
He dashed the glass to the floor, and swept the decanter after it. Sherry splashed around him, pooling on the wooden boards before seeping quickly between the cracks.
‘What have you done?’ His voice was ragged, as if the poison had already begun to etch away his vocal cords. ‘What in God’s name have you done to me?’
I backed away from him. ‘You killed my mother and her people. You destroyed my family. Did you really think you would get away with what you did?’
Carsten stumbled towards me, taking aim.
I lunged to the door and wrenched it open. Before I could slip through, Carsten fired. Splinters exploded from the floorboards at my feet and I staggered back, hitting the wall. Blinded by the gunpowder flash, I covered my face, expecting the next shot to rip into my body.
Carsten let out a wretched, broken sound. Shadows carved lines in his face, scooped the flesh under his eyes, making him gaunt. To my flash-blind eyes he looked thinner, diminished; a knife-edge of a man, lost in a wilderness of his own making.
I stood tall. ‘If you can’t shoot me, then let me go.’
Carsten wiped a sleeve across his face and seemed to gather himself. His gaze burned into me, and he shook his head.
‘I’ll drag you with me into the grave rather than let you walk away.’ His cheeks glistened, his hands trembled, as he pulled back the hammer a second time and fingered the trigger. Slowly, as though moving through the quicksand of a dream, he raised the weapon again and lined me in his sights.
The door burst wide. Lucien stood in the threshold. Snug in his hand was my aunt’s revolver, aimed unwaveringly at my husband’s head.
‘Drop your weapon, Mr Whitby.’
My heart caught. Lucien was no killer; despite his flogging, he still respected Carsten, and would stay his fire in the hope of a peaceable outcome. I rushed at him, shrieking his name, meaning to shield him with my body—
A shot rang out. Then another. And another.
Starbursts of gunpowder-flash blinded me. For a moment I wouldn’t allow myself to accept what I was seeing.
Lucien fell to his knees. My aunt’s revolver, loaded and cocked but unfired, clattered to the floor beside him. He swayed. His gaze found me in the lantern light. Then he crumpled.
I flung myself at him, gathering him into my arms, touching his face, his throat, his chest. My fingers turned red with his blood. More blood bloomed on my skirt, my white blouse, splashed my sleeves. Shadows fractured and broke apart. A void opened up and I felt its dark energy drag me towards its brink. It was easy to let myself slide, frighteningly easy. I released Lucien and groped on the floor, blindly seeking the weapon he’d dropped.
On my knees now, I gripped my weapon with both hands and took swift aim. There was a click. A roar, and a yell. The violence of the shot pushed me backwards, filled my head with smoking light and the sharpness of gunpowder.
Carsten stared at me, his eyes wide. His mouth moved but no words came forth. He let out a strange moan. Blood splashed his lips. He took a step. The gun fell from his fingers. He seemed to teeter forever, as though poised at the edge of a high cliff, knowing that his next step would carry him into eternity.
When he finally fell, he hit the ground almost without a sound.
For a long time my arm wavered before me, my finger frozen tight against the trigger, as if in some dark part of my soul I was still shooting and would carry on shooting, was condemned to keep shooting for as long as my heart continued to beat.
But then my bod
y gave way. Dropping the weapon, I slumped over Lucien. Pressing my cheek against his, I whispered his name.
‘Love, can you hear me?’
His eyes fluttered.
‘Rest for a moment,’ I told him, ‘then we must leave this place. We’ve a long ride ahead of us. In the morning we sail.’
Lucien searched my face. Reaching for my hand, he closed his fingers around mine. His skin was slippery with blood.
‘Tell me,’ he said on a breath, ‘tell me again about the flowers you love.’
I drew near, holding his hand against my chest as I peered into his face, my tears raining on him, washing rivulets in the blood that smeared his face.
‘Flowers?’ I asked, confused.
He drew a shaky breath, and a look of pleading came into his eyes. ‘Tell me how good they smell . . . in the rain.’
I grasped his hand. ‘You mean yellow-buttons, with their furry grey leaves and gold button-heads that quiver in the breeze?’ I tried to smile. ‘You’ll see them soon enough, love.’
‘Tell me.’
I tried to smile. ‘After it rains, the air smells wonderful. You want to keep breathing it in, until your lungs are full to bursting. But then the scent fades and you forget about it for a while. A day goes past, sometimes a week. Then, your nostrils flare and it’s there again, sweet and sharp. You try and hold it in your lungs for as long as possible, memorising it, wishing it would . . . wishing it would last forever.’
He was quiet.
‘Lucien?’
I kissed him tenderly, and kept kissing until I felt his lips soften . . . until his breath ceased flowing into mine. Even then I could not bring myself to withdraw from him, for that would mean facing a life without him; breathing the air of his absence; dwelling somehow in a world where he no longer existed.
How could he be gone, when his fingers were so warm in mine, and his scent still drifted around me? Pressing my face to his, I breathed him in. Horses and sun-warmed hay, old leather and bootblack, thyme oil and fresh perspiration.
And blood.
So much blood.
Then, the bitter odour of my despair quickly engulfing it all.
This will be my last entry. It is midnight. I am hunched on the cold floor of the library, scratching these words by the light of a candle stub. Wind rattles the panes, and the smell of gunpowder sharpens the air. Far off in the distance, a dog barks. I expect that one of the stockmen has heard the shots from the house. He will go to a neighbour’s, or perhaps ride the short distance to Wynyard.
I might have a half-hour, an hour at most. Then the men with guns will come, and they will find me.
But the wider world does not interest me now. All that matters are my last remaining moments with Lucien. And the promise that one day, not far from now, we will meet again on the other side of death.
21
When you control your thoughts, you control your life.
– ROB THISTLETON, EMOTIONAL RESCUE
Ruby, May 2013
I stared at the silver locket dangling from my fingers. A lifetime ago, my great-grandmother had found it on the riverbank and come to understand a terrible betrayal; years later, she had given it to her young neighbour, probably glad to unburden herself of its memories. Doreen Drake had treasured the locket, until it was stolen from her two decades ago, and the blame pinned on a twelve-year-old foster child from Newcastle.
But Pete had been innocent.
The real culprit, Doreen’s son, Bobby, had stolen the necklace to impress my sister, but perhaps also to rid himself of the orphan boy his mother had taken under her wing. But Bobby’s deception had escalated and ended in tragedy; at least it had for Jamie, and for those of us who loved her. Meanwhile, Bobby Drake had drifted away without blemish, enjoying success after success, creating a life based entirely on falsehood.
‘Oh Rob,’ I whispered. ‘How could you?’
The sixteen-year-old street kid under the bridge; the broken bottle; the mysterious voice telling him to let go and live; the best-selling books; the smooth, charming persona. All of it, lies. Rob Thistleton was a shiny apple on the surface, but rotten all the way to the core.
Closing my fingers around the locket, I headed back to the house on shaky legs. Disjointed images flew through my head faster than I could process, but my mind kept returning to Bobby Drake. To Rob. To the lie he’d built his life around.
And to his murder of my sister.
I stumbled, nearly fell. Somehow made it onto the verandah.
‘Pete?’ I called, but my throat was like sandpaper. ‘Pete, where are you?’
Then I remembered he had gone to his traps early, hoping to get a few rabbits, and release any native animals lured into the cages; he wouldn’t be back for another hour. He had promised to cook dinner, something special to celebrate – but my brain had gone into overdrive and I couldn’t for the life of me recall exactly what it was we were celebrating.
The house was dark. My eyes were slow to adjust, after the brightness outside. My heart felt so heavy I could barely walk. As I trod along the hall, I kept trying to gulp air into my lungs, but it wasn’t until I stood in the doorway of the bedroom I’d once shared with my sister that I was able to breathe again.
That was when I noticed the sharp smell.
I went in and looked around. Everything was in place. The smell seemed stronger near my bed. There was a frothy puddle on the floor, which seemed to be the source of the smell. I checked under the bed and when I saw the motionless body lying in the dust, my heart began to gallop.
‘Bardo!’
Reaching towards her, I stroked her leg. She didn’t move. On hands and knees, I crawled into the shadowy space. My sides were suddenly slicked with sweat and my breath came harshly, but this attack of nerves had nothing to do with my fear of Bardo . . . but rather my fear for her.
‘Bardo . . . what’s happened, old girl?’
To my relief her feathery tail twitched, and then began to thump feebly against the floor sending up wafts of dust. I ran my hands along her sleek body, searching for an injury. She was warm, and her fur satiny, but she was unable to move. Lifting her head, she gazed around at me, but her eyes could not focus. Gently I gathered her and dragged her out from under the bed, then lifted her onto the mattress.
There was froth on her muzzle. I pulled up her lip, and examined her gums. They were greyish white, when they should have been pink.
Poison. ‘Oh God.’
Dark panic swamped me. I lay over her, wanting to shelter her with my body despite knowing the damage was already done. She was breathing, but there was no way to know how much poison she’d taken – or how long much longer she would survive.
I kissed her sleek head, and when her tail lifted briefly to acknowledge the show of affection, a knot tightened in my throat. If someone had suggested a month ago that I would develop a bond of love for a dog, I would never have believed it; but here I was, quaking in fear and sick at heart to think that this beautiful, gentle creature might die.
Covering her with a blanket, I considered my options. Esther’s car was in the barn, the keys in the kitchen. Bardo needed to be kept still; if I brought the car nearer the house, I could avoid unnecessary movement of her—
Poison?
It struck me that I hadn’t heard Rob’s car start up. Slowly, understanding crept over me, followed by a dark tide of fear. Rob was still here. Had he known how close I was to remembering his true identity – and what he had done to Jamie? Had he anticipated I’d waste no time taking my story to the police? Everything Rob did was carefully orchestrated; nothing was ever random. He liked to be in control, and he liked to win.
I gripped my face in my hands, trying to think. What was he planning? This man I had trusted with my secrets, the man I had held and loved and clung to; how could he be the same man who had, eighteen years ago, so brutally stolen my sister’s life?
I buckled over, burying my face against Bardo’s furry neck, breathing her sweet
, clean canine scent. She whined, and her body twitched as she offered up another feeble tail-wag.
‘Oh Jamie,’ I whispered, and a tremor went through my body, shaking loose my last defences. My three years with Rob had not merely been a lie; they had been a cruel deception. Rob had known who I was; all along he had known. And yet he had continued the pretence – listening to my fears, soothing away my nightmares, assuming a sympathetic face as he watched me battle my guilt over Jamie’s death, and mourn my deteriorating relationship with my mother. Meanwhile he had been feeding, feeding . . . drawing my sorrow into himself like sustenance, growing strong on my weakness.
Whispering a final reassurance to Bardo, I left her and ran along the hall. In the kitchen I pocketed Esther’s car keys and wrote a note for Pete, then crept to the door. It was shut; had I closed it when I came in? I glanced over my shoulder. The hallway was dark, and suddenly the house seemed cavernous and riddled with hiding places – the lounge room with its book-lined walls, the vacant upstairs bedrooms—
I opened the door and looked outside. A trail of smoke curled lazily into the blue sky above the donkey burner. The yard was deserted, cut through with black afternoon shadows. I ran silently down the steps and around the house to the barn. It was a matter of moments, but that short dash seemed to take a lifetime. Every shadow twitched and morphed onto a man-shaped threat; every noise was a footstep; every gust of wind was a sigh or a whisper, or the soft, seductive calling of my name.
I dragged the barn door open as noiselessly as I could, and stepped into the vast, cool space. I ran over to where I had parked Esther’s car. Climbing in, I dug the keys into the ignition, but the engine failed to kick over. I kept trying, but nothing happened. Gripping the steering wheel, I fought an oncoming rush of panic. The Morris had been working at the start of the week when I’d driven it into Armidale; now, the motor was totally dead, as if a vital connection had seized up . . . or been cut. I gave it another try, pulling out the choke and pumping the gas to the floor, but again the motor failed to engage.