Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  The horse stamps his foot, trying to rid his legs of a large fly. Chandra moves him to a patch of luscious-looking grass, then gives him his head, hooking the reins over the pommel and folding her arms. Meghan follows, pensive.

  'I've done everything I can for my sister,' she says defensively.

  'I must say,' smiles Chandra, 'you and she are very alike, both string beans.'

  'Trina is eighteen months younger, one inch taller and skinnier. Always has been. Fragile,' Meghan parrots. Suddenly, she shivers. Both women look out to the west where shifting cloud hides parts of the mountain ranges.

  'I know, but your voice. And the way you both speak, you could be mistaken for one another,' Chandra observes.

  'She's crazy,' Meghan says.

  'Maybe you need her to be crazy so you can be rich,' comments Chandra, bringing up the bitterness between them.

  'What a load of manure!' Meghan dismisses Chandra without much conviction.

  Chandra shrugs her shoulders. 'Where are your goats? I don't see them.'

  'Someone is looking after them. Did you hear about Virginia White bashing up Judith?' Meghan touches the neck of the grey horse.

  'Yes,' responds Chandra. 'No one has seen Virginia for days. Personally, I don't trust Judith. If Virginia hit her, there'll be a good reason.'

  'Tomorrow, Chandra, perhaps I could come over?' Meghan's voice is brittle, weak. 'I could use a friend.'

  Chandra pulls Potsdam Harry onto the bit. 'Well, I know you and Judith are thick.' Glancing up at a laden cloud, she says, 'I'd better be on my way.' She whistles her dog. 'Sure, I suppose, tomorrow then.'

  'Yes,' Meghan concurs vaguely, as horse and pedestrian walk a few steps abreast. She opens the door of her car and pops the boot. Chandra sees the flash laptop balancing on top of bags and gear of all sorts and wonders whether Meghan mucks around in the IRC of the Solanasites.

  Chandra gees her horse into a slow canter up the slope, and her dog bounds behind.

  The candidate for the coastal electorate is a woman who says she is just a nervous housewife. Her off-sider for the country seat is a gun-toting primary school headmaster with a big hat. Neither of them has the size and colour, the glamour, of the white virgin herself. All three walk along the streets of Stuart, with their entourage, shaking hands.

  Xena Kia, having painted ferocious Maori coils on her forehead and cheeks, waits for her friends at a table outside Greasy's take-away, drinking tea. Ci and Jay pass, saying they will be back in a minute. They have to go to the chemist. Gig and Nicole have promised to bring Zee from the pub. Wilma Campbell's weedy brother, Leo Smithie, is handing out leaflets, running ahead of the party, an officious, unofficial scout. He smirks as he lays the mauve and green flier down in front of her.

  Xena growls, 'You really are a plain little man, Stumpy.' The features of his face pushed in by a hand which did not reach the chin, he is a physically unfortunate guy with long grimy hair. Even the celebrity is taller than he is.

  The white virgin, bright light of the ultra-Right, is, in person, exactly the same as she is on television. She is totally at home. Xena is taken by surprise.

  'Mind if I sit here?' she asks, and sits down. 'We are not a racist party.' Three camera crews are following her. Farming couples in buflfed-up hats are thrilled to catch a glimpse of her, and come over all shy when she recognises their salt-of-the-earth quality in banal phrases. Less self-conscious rural folk call from a distance, 'Good on ya, darlin'!'

  She orders a cappuccino and a slice of lemon meringue pie. Xena is caught in the lens. The politician handles food with the confidence of the Country Women's Association and doesn't choke, as Xena does, on her mouthful of drink.

  Gurls behind the press corps are having a great laugh.

  When Xena gets up to leave, having not said anything, she is engaged in conversation. 'You have to agree that it is not fair that multinational companies are taking our wealth out of the country.'

  Xena is stuck for words. The woman is looking into her eyes earnestly. She is a happy, humourless woman, with no evident internal worries. A puppet perhaps, but relishing it. 'Australians haven't got a chance when the government allows Canadian pork to flood the market.'

  Kay comes up to the table, punchy for political discussion. 'We might agree with that,' she says, putting her arm across Xena's shoulder. 'But we do not agree with your solutions. Come on, Xena.' As she moves away, Kay, opportunistically for the cameras, shouts, 'Pigs are housed, anything from 20,000 to 100,000, in hot horrible sheds, unable to even turn around, unable to ever lick their piglets, unable to move in any direction, never to ever to see the sunlight, to feel fresh air waft across their beautiful pink bodies.'

  'Canadian pork is flooding the Australian market,' the personality repeats, not to be outdone.

  'It's disgusting,' Kay continues her tirade in a very loud voice. 'And cruel.'

  Gig, Zee and Nicole have come from the pub and are making a scene with the young men from the media. But the journalists do not film them; the best photo shot was the white virgin with Xena, in her face paint, and they have got it. Meanwhile the object of the verbal abuse turns her friendly attention on the girls who serve her and the small business people who want to shake her hand. Kay keeps it up as she walks down the high street. 'You are mainly interested in the economics of the situation, as inhuman as the farmers who keep the pigs in the sheds. All their lives. Until they're slaughtered!'

  Gig yells for the hell of it, 'You are creating your power out of myths and paranoia, you don't care who really gets hurt. What you call simplicity is slovenly ignorance.'

  Zee chips in, 'What have we done to you?'

  Xena, not alone any more, chants, 'Cowards. Cowards, pick on the blacks and the single mums. Pick on those weaker than yourself.' The unruly protest satisfies the candidates, their leader and her minders. They smirk, clean-cut and polished, ordinary Australians, as opposed to riff-riff with bad language.

  Gurls take their attitude off to the beer garden of the hotel where Kooris and visiting Murris are gathering; all settling in for a session. They sit outside so the publican will not complain about their dogs. Sometime during the afternoon, Zee, having made new friends and met up with cousins from Walgett, waltzes out to their table with the news, 'You know what? That lot are charging ten dollars to get in to her sermon. If we all go, it means they get a hundred bucks or more for their bullshit. Us mob aren't going.'

  'That does it, gurls!' states Gig, 'For our demo. Not getting my money.'

  Out-of-town police circle the block in white cruisers with defining red and blue top-lights, waiting for trouble, ready to grab drink-drivers and brawlers.

  53

  …international female conspiracy…

  Making a Philippoussis-type coffee and sweetening the oily black with heaped teaspoons of sugar, I settled down to read what I had written during the night and printed in the morning. Called Notes towards the end of the Featherstone investigation, it addresses Meghan.

  Prior to meeting you in person

  Haphazard, incomplete paperwork arrives in the mail. I am engaged to find out who is embezzling your funds, job confirmed by telephone. Though confused, evidence shows you do earn a lot of money, and that withdrawals from your accounts take place at several different places in Australia at the same time. There is no share portfolio or anything to indicate where the bulk of your probable wealth resides. I am told there is a discrepancy, and there appears to be same. I find out that:

  a) Someone impersonates you; who? She must sound like you and be able to forge your signature. Katrina Featherstone, Jill David, or, at an outside chance, Judith Sloane. I assume your sister, being close to you in age etc., could do it; why? Jill is an actress, excellent mimic and has access to your documents, cards etc., but, again, why? Discovered later, it appears that Judith Sloane practised imitating your signature. Why?

  b) Proof that you are down a sum, 50 grand? Possibly more. Confirmed by accountant, Rosemary Turner. Docum
ents, however, incomplete and client unco-operative in providing more. Suggestions by accountant that you have a habit, e.g. cocaine, in which case, you impersonate yourself to maintain secrecy and throw blame, whatever. Is Turner capable of embezzlement? Morally, professionally, yes; but I get the feeling she hasn't got a clue where your money has gone. And she'd like to know.

  c) Two things: who employs me? & where's the dough? While Katrina may have impersonated you, it is unlikely she took the money. Handwriting expert (report & invoice enclosed) analyses signatures and written notes. Katrina signed your name but did not forge your signature, while there is one (possibly two) competent counterfeits for fraudulent purposes. She has no motive and no need, as you already support her to a large extent. Similarly Jill, except for one thing: she has an expensive habit. Gambling. My observation is, also, that she likes the good things in life, e.g. flash cars. At present, with assistance of Rosemary Turner, applying to be declared bankrupt. Implication: she has other debts, unknown to me, unable and/or unwilling to pay. As she has no other income than unemployment benefit herself, I believe she is capable of siphoning your cash. She likes a sugar-mummy.

  If, for instance, Judith's the culprit, is she in conspiracy with Jill David? If so, what are they up to? As both are secretive types with a tendency to lie, I doubt it. Also, while both could be in your house when you are not there, hence take what they like, why would either engage my services? My intuitive guess is Katrina Featherstone, being poorer, hence sharper about money matters, in familial loyalty sicked me onto Jill David, who had a great thing going leeching your accounts to support her diversions until this investigation. The upshot of same is the pilfering has to stop, and if she goes bankrupt, she doesn't have to pay debts incurred. So Katrina succeeds in upsetting Jill's apple-cart.

  Post our meeting

  The plot thickens: why do you now employ me when you didn't in the first place? Together we could have found out who impersonated you, nutted out why, and either you tell me or you don't tell me what happened to your money. But you are more unco-operative than your pretender. Then:

  a) your house is ransacked;

  b) you change solicitor;

  c) I find Hope O'Lachlin's birth certificate—no use by itself, where is her passport?; elsewhere her signature forged;

  c) house cleaned up and goats gone;

  d) further documentation: i/ contract ii/ insurance papers;

  e) UFO photos.

  Something is going on

  The way your house is ransacked, in anger, suggests a personal/emotional motive, not professional, not fiscal, pointing again to Katrina (or possibly Jill or Judith). I discover the photos. The UFO photos are fakes (whatever they mean!), hence nonsense. Hope O'Lachlin's fake signature appears on contract, which means either you or Jill or someone, is establishing a false identity: why? You have the best motive, since it invalidates an extremely exploitative contract with one of your employers, a conglomerate group of companies, including Nadir Mining Services. Change of solicitor=change of moral character, from slack shyster to tireless campaigner, indicating cessation of corruption, or perhaps, legal action by ex-girlfriend wanting some lolly—in which case you would need a good female advocate, not a bad, male one. Why not a seeker of truth and justice in the first place? Because you, Meghan, have/had something to hide viz. phoney Hope O'Lachlin signature. According to contract you earn heaps, and the omission of documents, including deeds, and further insurance papers that would give me an idea of what you really own, there is a lot more money missing. Up to or more than a million dollars over the years could be unaccounted for, and probably not my business as plainly you are in control of that and you are my client. It does explain why you didn't give a fig for Jill's pilfering, even though to Katrina it was a lot of cash.

  However, if it is not yourself, that leaves a) Rosemary Turner b) Judith Sloane c) Hope O'Lachlin, unknown character born 1961, can't be Hope on the land who is more likely b. '81. But birthdate could be tampered with; were you born about '61? There is at least one non-kosher 'Dr Featherstone', and I don't think it is possible to forge your own signature. If it were, why on earth do it?

  As your detective, I advise: sack the accountant, not a totally loyal woman, but she (as yet) does not know your full financial picture. Jill has been observed driving around in her red Saab; make of that what you will; Jill says she will tell you of their affair.

  Judith Sloane is a sly customer and I wouldn't be surprised if she nicked the Hope passport from your place; but who nicked it in the first place and why? Is it real? Who is she?

  I don't know. You probably do.

  Finally, a coincidence. A Nadir Mining Services baseball cap was discovered by me at a possible murder site. Whatever you're into, Meghan, I hope you're not in too deep. By the way, I discount the cocaine theory…

  Hugely dissatisfied with myself, I chided me. Margot, do not ever again work after dark with a skinful of red wine. There is too much doubt. This was not a neat piece of Virgoan work. I needed Auntie, to separate the major threads of my personality, astrologically. My Scorpio rising suspected dark mystery while my Gemini moon wanted to invent glib scenarios. There was a truth beneath it all, but beyond me. Because I was just one person, a triathlete, with three investigations going nearly a month, my failure felt too overwhelming. I filed the page, squared off the folders, dusted the computer keys and went down to the sea.

  The Pacific Ocean hit the nine-mile beach, tatting foam into dirty white lace at the edge of billowing jade silk. While the sand was a kind of beige, the sea was almost khaki under the filthy grey sky. A curlew disappeared into foot-holes, rushing this way and that after invisible food. Instead of giving me perspective, both the sandpiper and the ocean made me aware of my clumsy size—neither insignificant, as all this beauty, this nature, was reflected on my retina and recorded in my brain, nor big enough to embrace what I was conscious of with serenity. I, like the prawn-trawler heading for port, was an object, a construct, ploughing my way with the motor of free will through the tides of fate, pathetically different in colour and kind and selfishly determined to get somewhere. My destination, for the moment, was the surf. And I threw myself in for the second time in a day. What made me so sure Meghan Featherstone was not a cocaine addict? She was manic and moody enough.

  Rory allows Chandra to chauffeur. Nikki and Tess share the back seat. Usually liking the slow throb of her idiosyncratic truck, on arriving at Chandra's, she eyes the Subaru and is convinced by Chandra, whom she can't help seeing as handicapped, that it is okay. Chandra hates condescension. On the way to the coast, to Margot's, Chandra notices Rory quietly crying. She continues steering, not asking the reason for her tears.

  Rory has a letter from her mother she hadn't opened until she got into Chandra's car. She'd picked up her mail on the way out of Lesbianlands, thrown the envelopes in the glove box and followed Virginia's speedier vehicle along the dirt road.

  'Do you want to hear my mother's letter?' Rory offers.

  'Sure,' Chandra assents. 'Why not?'

  '"Dear Roslyn",' she reads, '"How are you? I hope you are fine. I was refused Communion today! and it has made me very angry. Tom, your brother, and his partner, Kim, are members of the Rainbow Sash Movement. You know I always hoped Tom would turn out to be a priest. Now I understand why he could not. He is too honest! I have been taking the sacrament all my life. I never questioned my belief, as you well know, dear. We the Irish-Catholic Australians, even as we starve, have the Faith of Our Father's Holy Faith in our veins. We have our roots in the Church. Tom was always a saintly boy. It is God's irony that a girl from a family of thirteen should have only two children, both of them homosexuals. 'Gay'. Such a strange word. But the Lord works in mysterious ways to trick us to salvation.

  '"So, I put a rainbow sash about me, one of the parents. I love St Pat's Cathedral. I go there too rarely. Your Confirmation day, Mary Louise's wedding, and when Tom was in a choir one time. It is surprising how seldom a Cathol
ic parishioner from Preston goes to the Cathedral of the Diocese of Melbourne. But our Archbishop gets my Irish up, my girl. His sermon was all about how homosexuals are exactly the same as adulterers. He certainly does not know my children! Now Archbishop Mannix was a different kettle of fish, since he was a stubborn Irishman and lived to a ripe old age because he walked ten miles twice a day!

  '"Roslyn. This man can steal my Blessed Eucharist! We were all refused the Bread! I have never been refused Holy Communion in my life. To think that one would have to lie, to disguise oneself to take the Body of Christ!

  '"You can't take the politics out of an Irishwoman no matter how hard you try. It just goes to show. We weren't in chains for hundreds of years for nothing!"'

  Chandra interrupts, 'What is your mother like?'

  Rory doesn't immediately answer. She is in reverie. Roslyn O'Riordan, she hears the rolling rr's of the Irish nun as she calls the roll, slapping her black leather strap on her thigh in arhythmic emphasis, rattling her large rosary beads noisily, looking for any excuse to deliver corporal punishment. Rory was toughened by that strap. There was an orphanage above the classrooms. The nuns' sleeping quarters were in the attics of the convent. The orphans were called boarders. Not many 'boarders' had families to go home to in the holidays. They were mostly weak, white and craven kids with Pommy accents, though a couple were of Aboriginal descent. Day scholars also had accents, Lithuanian, Hungarian, Latvian, displaced persons at the end of the Second World War, but most had lost them by the end of school. The Irish-Catholic Australian kids should have been the elite of the priest-ridden parish school where those in positions of power were of their ilk, were it not been for the perverse divisiveness of that religio-genetic condition itself. All the nuns had straps attached to their girdles and used them freely. One had to be impossibly pious. Rory, a broad ruddy girl with a brother far weaker, was anything but pious.