by Emma Viskic
‘A bit slower, Frankie.’
She spoke again. Something about a kettle and a pot. Was she cooking? Still drunk? And then he got it – pot calling the kettle black. This was going to be slow.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bit crook. I’ll catch you up in a minute. What about you? What happened?’
‘… fucker … arsehole … the fucking prick …’
‘Sorry, could you say that again, Frankie? A bit slower.’
‘… kitchen … fucker … arsehole … on the head … the fucking prick …’
He could feel the tension radiating from Kat. Her hands were clasped to prevent them from flying to his aid.
‘It’s always bothered me.’
He turned to her. ‘I’m just missing the odd word. Could you …?’ His face was as stiff as her back.
‘Sure.’
‘Once more, Frankie. Kat’s going to help me.’
‘I’m fine,’ Kat translated. ‘Just a bit bruised. Some prick snuck up behind me in my fucking kitchen. Unfortunately for him, I’ve picked up a few of your ninja tricks – felt the breeze as he moved. Didn’t even think, just turned around and whacked him on the head with a bottle. Followed it up with a knee to the balls on his way down.’
He had the same fighting style as a 57-year-old woman. Excellent.
‘But you’re all right? There was blood.’
‘Yeah, he didn’t stay down the first time, so he got in a couple of jabs, gave me a blood nose. He was a bit wobbly by then, though, so Mr Bottle and I finished him off without too many problems.’
‘He didn’t have a knife?’
‘Knife? Fuck no. Why would you put that image in my head? Jesus.’
‘You get a good look at him?’
‘Yeah, wiry little fucker, bit sick looking.’
‘I think we might have met. I call him Grey-face.’
‘Yeah? I call him Cunt-face.’
He blinked, a little impressed with Kat’s translation skills. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been going crazy. Even the cops have been looking for you.’
‘Shit, really? I’ve been staying with an old mate from my drinking … well, an old mate.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you ring me?’
‘I did. I’d forgotten you’d lost your phone. Only remembered this morning when I snuck back home for mine and found about twenty messages from your new number.’
‘And you didn’t think to call again when I didn’t answer? Jesus, Frankie, I’ve been shitting myself.’
‘I just assumed you were pissed off. Not that I blamed you, I’m pretty pissed off with myself, too. Six fucking years. But enough about me, what’s been happening with you? Why are you in the Bay? Apart from the obvious, that is?’
He gave her a quick rundown of the past week. When he’d finished, she ran a hand through her hair, but didn’t manage to return it to its usual spikiness. ‘Jesus. I’ll jump on the train and come down.’
‘No. Stay in Melbourne.’
‘Give me a fucking break, Caleb. I stuffed up, but I’m back on track now. I haven’t had a drink in forty-eight hours.’ Her expression was uncomfortably close to pleading.
‘There’s no point coming down, I’m coming back up.’ Eventually. ‘Take a bit of time to sort yourself out and we’ll work out what to do next.’ He scanned the room behind her. Bad print of a bush landscape, beige curtains, beige bedspread. Budget motel.
‘You pay cash for that room?’
‘Cash? No.’
‘You’d better move, then.’
‘Mate, don’t you think that’s getting a bit paranoid?’
‘I think Gary’s dead and the only reason we aren’t is down to blind luck and some over-confidence on their part. Text me the address. We’ll talk soon.’ He reached out to disconnect.
‘Cal. Mate.’ Her mouth moved slowly enough for him to catch the words. ‘I’m sorry.’
He should say something forgiving. Something healing.
‘Yeah. See you soon.’ He pressed end.
Frankie was alive, that was the main thing. Alive and relatively unscathed. But could she stay sober? Maybe he should go it alone for now. They worked well together, but it wasn’t like he needed her. Sure, he’d miss the odd thing, but he could use technology to cover that. Tape everything and use voice-recognition software to transcribe it. And bouncing ideas off a well-matched mind? Was there a computer program that could replace that?
Kat was watching him. ‘OK?’
Relieved, furious, overjoyed. Furious.
‘Relieved.’
She waited, then said, ‘And Anton? How did that go?’
‘Pretty good. Gaz just called him to ask if the kids and Sharon could stay there.’
‘Oh, that’s great. We need to celebrate. I’ve got a beautiful Earl Grey that’s crying out to be drunk.’
Earl Grey – Kat’s choice for lazy afternoon sex.
‘Sounds perfect.’ He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
She melted into him for a moment, then wriggled free. ‘Work first. Let’s see if there are still seats available on that evening flight.’
The Whitsundays. Yes.
‘Is it a small bikini?’
‘Outrageously. I’ll make tea, you book the seats. I’ve got the page open on the computer.’ She disappeared into the kitchen, a hint of tango in the sway of her hips.
One-way tickets were the way to go. Hide away with Kat until everything was over. Maybe longer: they had eighteen lost months to make up for. He pulled the computer onto his lap. Which page? She had fifty of them open in different tabs: travel agents, airlines, telephone directory. Telephone directory. Honey claimed Gary had rung her by accident. Plausible, particularly for someone in a state of panic. Still, it was always good to check the details. He searched for Honey’s number, then Gary’s mother’s – the only similarity was the area code.
Kat appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Any luck?’
‘I haven’t looked yet.’
Her grin faded. ‘Just so we’re clear – now would be the time to tell me if you’re having second thoughts.’ Her eyes held his. ‘About anything.’
‘God no. You’re my first, second and third thoughts. Something’s just bugging me about the case. Do you know Honey Kovac?’
‘Sure. She’s Aunty Vicky’s youngest. You know – Uncle Fred’s cousin’s wife.’
His eyelid twitched. ‘Sure. How well do you know her?’
‘Not that well, but we’ve seen each other a bit since I lost … since I was in hospital. She was the one who brought me all those flowers.’
‘Oh.’ Hospital meant after the miscarriages. He hadn’t realised that had been Honey.
Kat’s eyes were fixed on him. Waiting for something. Probably for him to get to the point.
‘What’s Vince like?’
‘He’s a bible-thumper. Those poor kids aren’t allowed to put a foot wrong. Or Honey. She lost a string of pregnancies after her first and Vince’s idea of support was to quote the Old Testament at her. Apparently it was her fault. She’s had another baby now, though, so that’s great.’ There was an artificial brightness to her smile.
He steered the conversation in a safer direction. ‘Has he ever been involved in anything dodgy?’
‘Vince? Not even before his re-birth. Why all the questions?’
‘Gary called their house the day he died. Honey said he’d misdialled.’
‘So why all the intrigue?’
Good question: why?
He stood up. ‘I need to check something. I’ll be back in a sec.’
‘Now?’
He kissed her forehead. ‘The tea won’t even get cold.’
Honey answered the door holding the baby on one hip. She was dressed in grey tracksuit bottoms and food-stained T-shirt that had lost all its shape.
‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced over his shoulder towards the empty street. ‘You can’t be here. You have to go.’ She swung the door shut
and he put his hand out to stop it.
‘I know you’re scared, but I’m not here to cause you trouble.’
‘Well you are.’
‘Is it Scott you’re scared of?’
‘Scott? Who’s Scott?’
Not the expected response. And from what he’d seen of Honey so far, acting wasn’t her forte.
She was scanning the street again. ‘Look, just come in, will you.’
She scraped the back of his heels as she closed the door. From the hallway he could see into both bedrooms and the rear family room. It was eerily neat for a home with two small children. Honey didn’t invite him further into the house, but some of the stiffness had left her.
‘Make it quick,’ she said. ‘Things are bad enough without you hanging around.’
‘Because of Scott?’
‘I don’t know who Scott is, but Vince doesn’t like me talking to people while he’s out. So tell me what you want and go.’
‘Just one question – why did Gary call you?’
Her eyes flicked away. ‘I told you, he rang a wrong number.’
‘The only way he could have mistaken your number for his mother’s is if he had his eyes closed when he dialled. So please, will you tell me why he rang?’
She started jiggling the baby, but couldn’t pretend he was crying this time.
He kept his voice low. ‘Whatever it was, you can trust me.’
A sharp laugh. ‘Trust you? I barely know you, why the hell would I … Look, I’ve told you what happened, just go, will you?’
‘You might not know me, but you know Kat, don’t you? She’s my wife. Ex-wife.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘So you fucked a black woman and left. That doesn’t make you special, any gubba can do that. Fuck and leave, that’s what your lot does.’
She spat each word with a venom that could only come from pain. A thought seeped into his brain, as sour as vomit.
‘Is that what happened to you? You had an affair with someone who left?’
Her head jerked back. ‘No!’
‘With Gary?’
‘Youcan’ttellanyone.’
It was true.
She grabbed his sleeve. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Promise. Promise you won’t tell. It only happened once. We were drunk and sad and in shitty marriages …’
‘Gary wasn’t in a shitty marriage.’
The harshness returned to her face. ‘Well, then maybe he just wanted a fuck.’
‘And the …’ He tried to get his thoughts straight. ‘The phone call. What was that? Were you still seeing each other?’
‘No! He just wanted to warn me that they were all coming down. I think he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t make a fuss. Please, don’t tell anyone, Vince’ll throw me out.’ She hugged her baby to her chest. ‘It was after a Christmas party and we were drunk and we … Please don’t tell Vince.’
‘I won’t.’
Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I think he really hated himself afterwards. I think he hated me.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Gaz didn’t hate anyone.’
But the Gary he knew would never have slept with another woman. A married woman. He fumbled for the door handle and walked blindly outside. How else had he been wrong about his friend?
18.
He could see Kat through the window, her head bent in concentration as she sketched at the kitchen table. There were two cups of tea cooling by her elbow. She would look up as soon as he opened the door, see his face, and immediately know something was wrong. He paused, then turned towards the garden. So Gary had cheated on Sharon. It happened. A drunken mistake, a lapse of judgement. He would have regretted it immediately. So much so, he’d never so much as hinted at it.
He caught a flash of dull red through the trees. Something metallic towards the bottom of the garden. Had to be one of Kat’s sculptures. He stepped off the path and made his way towards it. A bit of art therapy would be good right now. He rounded a garden bed and stopped. Not a single sculpture, but a pair: two hip-high saplings crafted from rusted steel and red gum. The leaves were grey-green ceramic, topped by a fiery crown of new growth. Bronze. So that’s how she’d done it. He could kiss her, she was so clever. But why were they hidden away down here? They should be in a public park somewhere, giving joy to thousands. Then it hit him: two saplings that would never become trees.
She’d seemed to cope so well after the first miscarriage, a little less well after the second. But then … Then what? He still didn’t know. Time to back quietly away, and not let her know he’d seen them.
Kat opened the back door as he strode across the lawn.
‘Sorry,’ he said when he reached her. ‘All done now. I’ll make a fresh pot.’
But she was looking past him, towards the saplings. Her expression slipped, revealing something so vulnerable it hurt to witness.
‘You saw the saplings.’
‘Yes. They’re beautiful.’
They stood for a moment, but she didn’t move from the doorway.
‘And?’ she said.
‘I like the way you’ve done the leaves.’
‘That’s it? You’re really not going to say anything else?’
‘I … They’re … What do you want me to say, Kat?’
She stepped back and the wasteland he’d been glimpsing all week opened between them. He’d been wrong about its size: it wasn’t vast; it was tiny. Small enough to cradle in his hands.
‘You’re fluent in two languages, Caleb. You go to speech therapy once a month to make sure of that. You’ve fought, begged and battled to be able to say anything you could possibly want to say. So talk to me.’
He lifted his hands, but they were empty of words.
‘What was this?’ she asked. ‘Just a fuck for old time’s sake?’
‘No! God, no.’
‘Then what? I thought you’d changed, I really thought … But you won’t talk to me about Gary or Anton, or what’s obviously upset you at Honey’s. You won’t talk to me about you. About us.’ She reached a hand towards him, palm up. Wanting something. For him to apologise? Beg? Grovel?
‘I’m sorry.’
Her hand fell to her side. ‘You know, all this time I’ve been missing you, wondering if I did the right thing leaving, but I’d forgotten just how fucking lonely our marriage was. Because I never had you, did I? Not the real you. Just whatever small part you could bear to reveal to me.’
‘You’ve always had me, Kat.’
She was motionless, but he could feel her slipping away.
‘All of me. Ever since we met.’
‘I can’t do this again. You need to go.’ She was turning from him.
‘Kat, please. I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.’
‘I know. But it’s not enough.’
He took the Beetle. Just for a drive. If it was over, he wanted it to end better than that.
It couldn’t be over.
He stopped at the intersection to the highway: right towards town, left towards Melbourne. He could do it if he had to, go back to that bright and soulless flat. He’d done it before. Right or left? Neither. There had to be an option C: turn around, gather Kat in his arms, and somehow make amends for everything.
It’s not enough.
A black SUV appeared over the crest and did a screaming left-hand turn towards him. Gravel spat against the Beetle as it flew past. He watched it recede in the rear-view mirror. A BMW. City car, city driver, not used to country roads.
It’s not enough.
She’d given him plenty of warnings; he’d just chosen to ignore them. Not hard to see how he’d failed, just how he’d succeeded at all.
The plume of dust was growing in the rear-view mirror. Had the BMW run off the road? No, it was heading back towards him. Still going too fast, the idiot. At that rate it was going to – Shit. He shoved the car into gear. Too late. The Beetle slammed forward. His jaw snapped shut. Fuck. How could the guy not have seen him? He was sitting in a porn-mobi
le in broad daylight. A glimpse of the driver’s face through the settling dust. Broad, with a flattened nose, a dark bruise visible on his pale forehead – Boxer.
He was opening the BMW’s door.
Caleb floored the car. Left onto the highway. Boxer was already back in the car, coming after him. It’d take the BMW seconds to overtake him on the open road. Make a U-turn towards town? No, too slow. Take one of the turn-offs towards the beach, try to lose the bigger car in winding tracks. One up ahead in thirty metres. The BMW was pulling alongside. Some witnesses would be great about now. Five metres from the track. Four. Three. He hauled the wheel around, barely made the turn. Boxer followed him. Loop around to the left? No, that would lead him back towards Maria’s. Had Boxer been heading there? The nightmare of Kat opening the door to him.
A jarring shudder. Blood in his mouth. The Beetle surged forward, then slowed. Shit – the engine was in the rear, couldn’t cope with too much more of that. Another turn-off up ahead. Little more than a sandy track, might be too narrow for the BMW. Might be too narrow for the Beetle. Do it. He spun the wheel, over-steered into the bushes, then wrestled the car back onto the track. Had the black car slowed? Stopped? It was twenty metres back. Looked like it was wedged between two …
Crystals of glass falling into his lap. Wind in his face. The Beetle skewed into the bushes and stopped. What the hell? Something thudded against the car. A bullet. Boxer had a gun. A fucking gun.
He turned the ignition key. Nothing. Boxer was out of the car, walking towards him. A dark shape in his hand. Another go at the ignition, one hand on the dash to feel for the engine’s rumble. Start. Fucking start. Nothing. He flung open the door and ran. Sprinting through the scrub, ti-tree branches whipping his face. Get down to the beach. If the tide was out, he’d be able to get around the cliff to the next bay. Nearly there. The sand plumed in front of him. He threw himself down. Jesus, fuck. Don’t stop, keep moving. He commando-crawled across the sand, muscles braced against the expected slam of a bullet. Over the edge of the dune. Get a weapon. Seaweed, shells, not even a fucking stick. He’d use a handful of sand if he had to. He wasn’t going to lie here and die like a dog. There – a piece of driftwood, a good metre in length. Footsteps reverberated against his chest. He lunged for the stick. A shadow loomed over him and he swung the branch low and hard. A jarring thud and Boxer fell past him down the dune.