Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  'Oh, right, okay. I get it.' Putting my notebook away, I finished with, 'So, Campbells fixed the bridge, but they didn't break it in the first place?'

  'You got it.' Cunning came back into her voice. 'What did you say your name was? You could leave your address with me.' A double-blink, a thrust of the chin, and eyes sort of swimming to the ceiling, she had all the confidence of a despot prepared to slaughter his subjects.

  Although I had a few business cards in my pocket, I shook my head and said, 'No way.'

  Miss bossy busybody showed me out. Then the precocious little darling said importantly, in a conspiratorial whisper, 'But they can only do it to men. Females are protected.'

  'Really?' The myth of the gurls' powers had evidently reached the level of superstition.

  The pint-sized version of a plump matron, in answer, just stared at me and shut the door.

  Alison could possibly be with her son's relatives. Taking the highway parallel to the coast, I saw the red, yellow and black Aboriginal flag flying in the breeze. Even if she wasn't, Lenny could give me some info on what happened that night. I stopped for a glance at the file in the Driver Reviver bay and was offered a free cup of instant coffee and a Kit-Kat. I sat among the travellers examining my rough map of the crime site. The red Saab belonged to Rosemary Turner. Who was the drug-dealing respectable gay person? Did that have anything to do with the free party pills? Now, where could the cap have come from? Jill? The connection there was Meghan's contract, same company. If it was Featherstone's, then, whoever went to her dairy-home could have taken it. Who wore it to the toilet? Why was it dropped? Someone was: careless? In a hurry? Carrying something else? Shocked? In the big motor I heard? Outside danger is statistically the least likely. Yes, I could have a few words with the boy, even if his mother wasn't there.

  The settlement of Crossroads looked as unkempt as a garden devastated by pests. Bare patches, tussocks of native grasses, not exactly rubbish, dominated, though things had been left about, trustingly. An old BMX bike on its side, playthings, cricket bats, footballs scattered around like dogs' bones, empty drink containers near blackened planks and ash, make-shift seats carved from logs or appropriated from superannuated automobiles, goal-posts, useful for all five codes, at a list, painted white either end of a footy field discernible by vacant ground, a bit of slashing and flattening work making a dam-wall ridge one side and a dip opposite. Black kids in sports-bright colours and dogs in aimless constant movement made the place alive. A roadless big walking area connected the houses, a mixture of architect-designed open living spaces with interestingly shaped, energy-efficient roofs and wide bull-nosed verandahs with millers' shacks, grey with the weathered boards and rusty iron chimneys of yesteryear, and the stud-framed fibro boxes of some era in between.

  In one of these lived Lenny's gramma. The same small sash windows that characterised the residences in Barb Campbell's street here were proudly glistening clean. Eventually I found Di Minogue. The pokey entrance was clear of clutter. Although as many kids were inside and more adults, there still seemed to be space for me. Short of a conference room, I had never seen so much seating in a place this size. Di's kitchen table was, at the moment, dedicated to the task of painting filo pastry with melted margarine. Fascinated by her skill, I watched her whip and flip sheets of the fine stuff from damp tea-towel to powdered chopping board without tearing, or swearing, which is what I do when I try to handle it. She was making her version of Chiko Rolls. The corn, mince and cabbage filling occupied a large mixing bowl underneath a gauzy umbrella even though there were no flies about. I was told Lenny was playing soccer with his father and other males of various ages. When I went out the back I recognised Violet and Daanii. A blue cattle dog was, apparently, keeping goal because every now and then the striker would aim his, or her, kick straight at it. A high ball came my way, I headed it back. Lenny and his father stood out from the crowd with the kind of looks that could charm the wicked, smiles that could part a fool from his money and other relevant clichés, such as butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. I played kick for a while, saying 'gidday' and answering 'how's it going?' with 'good'.

  When I felt the tide turn to wondering what I was doing there anyway, I caught the ball with my hands. I explained, 'I need to speak with Lenny.'

  His dad came too and we sat on the make-shift spectator stands overlooking the oval.

  'I'm investigating the death of that kid the other night. Remember, Lenny?'

  'Yeah,' he responded suspiciously.

  His father, whom I had not been introduced to, butted in. 'When I heard Ali took Lenny to a scene like that, I slapped her about. Couldn't help myself. I was angry.'

  Lenny laughed, 'But Mum hurt your arm, hey Dad?'

  'So?' the pretty man shrugged. 'We were tanked.'

  'Okay,' I sighed, 'Can I ask you a couple of questions, Lenny?' Pen and paper ready, I started with, 'Who was wearing a cap?'

  He snorted, 'Like everybody.'

  'Your outfit was cool, didn't you have one on backwards?' I had no idea whether he did or didn't.

  'For a while. I lost it.'

  'You lost it, you bloody mug,' said his father.

  'It wasn't mine,' Lenny defended himself.

  'What colour was it?' I wrote as I asked.

  'Black.'

  'Any writing on it?'

  'I suppose.'

  'He's not real good at reading, are you boy?' His dad was disarming.

  'But you are good at noticing things, aren't you, Lenny?' I encouraged. 'Where did you get it?'

  'Picked it up. Near the tree.'

  'Yeah, what tree was that?'

  Father and son exchanged glances as if I were really dumb. 'Where they do it,' Lenny explained.

  'Who was doing what, Lenny?'

  'Cybil was making out with Neil, dressed up as a girl.'

  Shocked, I exclaimed, 'You actually saw that?'

  'Pervert,' muttered his father.

  'Yeah, and I knew it was Neil, 'cause I've seen him heaps of times.'

  'Ali's a mongrel bitch,' his dad expleted. 'He,' he nudged his son, 'went with her and Iris cleaning sometimes. That kid was into some weird shit.'

  'When, Lenny?' I didn't quite know how to put it, or in what order. 'When did you know it was Neil?'

  'When I gave him back his cap. I says, "Here, poof, is this yours?" He was a white as a sheet, no, more like green. He grabbed it and ran. I think he wanted to throw up.'

  'Anything else?' I asked. 'He was carrying?'

  'Yeah, he had her panties in his hand. I didn't know he was going to die, did I?' Lenny looked concerned, and suddenly grinned, 'He went into the girls' toilets because I chased him.'

  'And you don't go in there?' I clarified.

  'Nup, never. He was safe in there.' He was looking at his father when he said, 'But I didn't know he was going to off himself.'

  'Did you see anyone else in the carpark? Any vehicles coming or going?' For my own sake, I wanted my impression of a lorry authenticated.

  Lenny described the scene perfectly, Judith Sloane's Mitsubishi Triton, the rigid semi, the odd vacancy when all the other cars were crowded on the roadside closest to the picnic area and no one on foot. He went back to the barbecue and mucked around until the shit hit the fan. Hiding how flabbergasted I was, I thanked them both and got up.

  'Do you know where Alison is right now?' I asked before I said goodbye.

  Both shook their heads and shrugged. We exchanged a wave and immediately after getting in my car, I noted down the answers to several loose ends.

  43

  …the grapevine…

  Messages waiting in her mailbox. Email from Rory. >> CU w Margot, tomorrow? Chandra sends a quick reply.

  >> Plenty to talk about!!

  A disturbing stream of consciousness piece of writing is not, she decides, the Annihilation Tragic, though it comes up in her search for the mole, the tedious task of tracking, identifying and locating, through various engines. She has s
et up a firewall around the chat, sending out a bot to bring back information on all chatters operating.

  >> they don't know my genius, yet they see it. i see it in their eyes, the recognition, then another look comes in and it says how can i use this to my own advantage. they change friends, gang members, closest allies become the worst enemies and then they are allies again, and if you don't forget anything, you are left on your own sweet pat malone. or, you pretend to be just like them, cool. and swing it, now the right environment for undercover agents to infiltrate, such as i to move about unmolested, unknown, i am as fluid as water, i flow. i reflect when i am still. i loosen false surfaces revealing true or false. i know martians and mutants, you're right, there is a narc i can smell her. a narc, or worse. there may be a murd…

  Oh the nonsense that bothers women. Chandra reads everything by anyone she pins to the area identifying herself as a Solanasite. She thinks this is Alison, as she is susceptible to psychological breakdown, but she glances down at her list of names: Margaret Hall, Jill David, Cybil Crabbe, Libby Gnash. Sofia is out of the picture, unless… And then there are the unknown OWL, BAC and MOP. Chandra is afraid of two things, infiltration by the police, constantly on the hunt for subversive activity, and the free radical, cancerous psychopath, within the conspiracy. She must prevent transgression, but she can't if she cannot maintain or retain control. BLUESKY is not in the district, the real world vicinity.

  Chandra Williams is interrupted by an unexpected visit from Judith Sloane. She remembers the good work Judith did but—one being a Luddite subsister, the other well into the technological age—she never sees her these days. Since her fight with Meghan, especially, relations between them are decidedly cool. From the roneoed sheets to the rollicking bandwagon to the virtual village, Chandra has kept the faith of feminism, and enjoys a blast from the past. Another foot soldier for the revolution is always welcome. Unaccountably Chandra feels crabby. She is tired. The appeals for help, the dissemination of information, the demands of her email community have banked up. Chandra is placed in the network as a facilitator, a trustworthy crossroads; word can fan out from her office and maybe, even if it is as small as a blanket arriving where it is needed, the dispersal of information will achieve a result. Happy outcomes are also posted. Minutes are precious jewels. Judith never has any money, yet she somehow manages to make Chandra feel privileged to have her spend time with her. 'Too many bills.'

  'Tell me about it.' Judith has entered Chandra's house silently. 'Give yourself a break and let's have a cup of tea. Would you like me to put the kettle on?' Judith asks.

  'I won't be a minute,' Chandra responds, nodding.

  Murderer. Alison suffers from multiple personality disorder from childhood trauma. Sometimes Alison speaks of herself in the third person and some of her personalities are violent and irresponsible.

  i wasted my affection on scum like you. your heart is in the wrong place. i feel deep betrayal from your death and from my friends.

  This is loopy. Maria is dead. Chandra does not bother to answer Judith's call, 'Milk, sugar?' and keeps reading, entranced and baffled. She wants to see if the word 'murderer' is substantiated. Surely Maria died accidentally.

  Judith is behind her again. She is very quiet.

  >> and that is what it is inside of me, i want to be recognised not a consumer product we buy like big famous dyke singers. she doesn't have the heart. beware! she could blow our whole plan!

  'It is extremely dangerous putting the Lesbianlands on the Internet, Chandra,' Judith whispers. 'We don't want to bring attention to ourselves.'

  'No,' mumbles Chandra. For the first time she looks at Judith's face. She has make-up on. Mascara, lipstick, foundation, powder, the lot.

  'What's that gunk on your face?' Chandra asks abruptly. 'Don't you know you're wearing dead whale?'

  'Not any more. No animal was harmed in the making of these products. I know because I paid more to insure that,' explains Judith.

  'I'm disgusted. Judith Sloane with make-up?'

  'You are not still on about all that old stuff, are you?' She flicks her long hair back, and shrugs, 'Get over it.'

  Chandra is bemused. She tries to reach the idealist she thought she knew, 'No. Immediately we let go, the revolution is lost.'

  'Political correctness has become tedious, Chandra,' Judith says, with a touch of smugness, a touch of sarcasm.

  Says Chandra, sighing. 'I am far from over it.' She spins into a turn on the spot, looking up at Judith with passion in her eyes. 'What happened to your face?'

  'A fight. Your Lesbian Nation has turned to muck. It's every woman for herself,' Judith remarks bitterly. 'You can't have a revolution without violence.'

  'You've become cynical, what brought that on?' Chandra leaves her computer, and wheels herself through her main room saying, 'We need culture, not nihilism.'

  'Internalised sexual violence,' reckons Judith, walking behind her.

  'I have never experienced sex as violent. Although, of course, I have had my heart broken,' says Chandra with artless honesty, inviting humour into the exchange.

  The teapot and cups are ready on the kitchen table. Judith pours. 'One can always rely on your sincerity, Chandra. Plainly you need a girlfriend.'

  Chandra laughs, 'Do I look like I'm denied the support of a little gentle loving and ego-stroking?'

  'So you're getting it?'

  Chandra makes a face, 'Who hit you?'

  'Virginia.'

  'You're kidding?' Chandra steers her chariot out onto the verandah and waits for Judith to bring her tea. She comments, 'When I was on with Alison, I saw her misery. As she hit out in aggression. At me. The daily indignity, the relentless leeching of self each demand and each act of masculine violence wrought. As mum number two, you can't know.'

  'Well, I have felt betrayed by women who put their children first too, and I don't like it.' Judith states. 'Must be hard with a son like Harold?'

  'Have you seen Alison, recently?' She takes the cup from Judith's hand.

  'Yes, she was out bush yesterday,' is Judith's response. 'Harold's working out there, too, actually.'

  'Is he?' Chandra asks, vaguely, reassessing her earlier conclusion about the writer of the narc rave: if Alison was out on the land then she would probably not access a computer, or be interested in writing that stuff.

  'I think so.' Judith relaxes on the visitors chair, tenderly touching her face to bring attention to her bruises. Irrelevantly, or possibly to stroke Chandra's politics, she opines, 'The nuclear family evolved to serve the industrial revolution, which shifted slavery to housewives and provided labour for the factories. The autonomy of women is only possible in First World countries that depend for their economic security on the slavery of Third World workers.'

  'Was she okay?' Chandra is not about to get into ineffectual commentary. 'I mean Alison?'

  'A bit stoned, a bit drunk. Why did you stop being with her? She is so sexy.' Judith's voice is sibilant. Chandra wonders what she is up to, why she is at her place, as she notices her clothes are fairly expensive, smart.

  She replies, 'It was okay until the explosive, destructive tantrums. And the kids generally refusing discipline. Harold smashed the precious possessions to smithereens. Things flying everywhere. Mother and son in a power struggle, exhibiting violence. Her slowly absorbing this new abuse or loss into her system. Each one drags her away from her sense of herself and further away from the understanding of what a complete woman might be. Sexual relations are a little on the side.' She shrugs, 'Unfortunately.'

  'You were committed to her?'

  'I guess. Why did VeeDub have a go at you?' Chandra asks.

  'Lesbian nation was a dream. Separatism is savage in the lesbian ghetto, as you well know.' Judith gazes across the garden, smirking.

  'I was defending myself,' Chandra shakes her head. 'It was Meghan who was violent.'

  'Self-protection?' Judith suggests. 'The truth is, Chandra, I don't know why Virginia belted me.' She
gets up and leans on the rail. 'Will you show me what's happening on the Internet?'

  Chandra shrugs, 'Why not?' They finish their tea and go into the office.

  Annihilation of female selfhood is perpetuated by cowards like the White Virgin, creating myths and paranoia to achieve their required power. Like ethnic cleansing.

  It's the blokes who are using her. She is like a medium confessing the filth of the collective colonist-rapist brain, the ugly thought-form that is out there.

  Actually when you really examine your conscience you have to ask yourself, are we sacrificing another woman, partaking in witch-burning?

  The chatlines in Cellar2 are open while Chandra's tracing software completes the task of chasing IP addresses. The muscles of Judith's guitar-playing fingers and weaving, spinning hands catch Chandra's distracted eye and for a moment as she feels uncomfortable. 'How is Virginia?' she inquires.

  Judith says she doesn't know. By the time she leaves, Chandra's energy has been sapped. She stares over her paddock trying to whip it up again.

  She watches Judith's new truck go out her gate, over the cattle-grid. She waits to see if it goes down the road to Meghan's. No. Then, she adds Meghan's name to her list of suspects. Rory, OWL?

  Driving back through town I saw a bunch of gurls at the Telegraph.

  The Telegraph Hotel took its name from a piece of Australian history famous to the fanatical few in the local heritage council. I did a job for the licensee who wanted to put an artefact, a cart with wooden wheels, in her beer garden to attract tourists with a bit of old world atmosphere and met opposition from the hobby historians. Although the Heritage mob knew the facts they were at loggerheads with the Historical Society. The one had the data and the other the bits and pieces, brown postcards, shaving blades, bottles, anything old. The tussle between those with the money and those with the relics consumed the energy of the enthusiasts. Repair, the threat of rust and upkeep worried the volunteers, so they latched onto my client's offer, while the other lot jealously argued it away. I guess they are not the only small group obsessed by internecine squabbles. The social organisation of the world is characterised more by the nature of small eddies of human activity than loyalty to broad ideals. Unified perhaps by taste, people stayed in circles of interest even when they were tourists on holiday. The old cart was no longer at the hotel. It was now on the little front lawn of the historical museum. The hospitality industry made its money and moved into the future.