“I hate it when they do that,” Laura said, grumpily, before continuing her story. Rose hoped neither Scott nor Sophie would start playing with the paper-plate kids. She didn’t care what Mia thought; they really were weird looking.
As they walked past the burned-down courthouse on Union Street, Laura stopped talking abruptly. Rose didn’t blame her. The place was an eyesore and creepy as hell.
“That’s where Benny died,” Laura told her.
“I know,” she said. “Does it still make you sad?”
Laura nodded.
Even though Ben was thirteen, he used to play with all the younger kids after church. They had run around the churchyard, giggling madly, getting their good clothes dirty. He had given Laura a piggyback and she had told him she would marry him. When he died, Rose hadn’t known how to explain it to Laura. No one had. Poor Father had got stuck with the task. That day in church was horrible. All the little kids were crying. There was a big photograph of Ben at the front, a child-sized coffin with only ashes inside.
She squeezed Laura’s hand. “He’s happy now—he’s playing in heaven.”
“I wish he’d come back and play with me as well.”
“Hey, Laura,” she said and squatted down next to her. “Last one to the library is a rotten egg!”
She bounced up and started running; Laura ran after her, squealing. She slowed down and let Laura overtake her.
“When did you get so fast?” she said, pretending to puff, as they got to the library entranceway.
“You’re just a big old slow coach!” Laura told her, taking her hand again and leading her into the hush of the library.
Everything in the library was paneled in pine. They didn’t have air-conditioning, just a set of ceiling fans pushing around the hot air, but Rose’s skin already felt the relief of being out of the sun. Even though it wasn’t a beautiful place, there was something about the library that she loved. There was so much knowledge, everywhere. Displays of new books were near the entrance, their pages white and their corners crisp and unbent. The place smelled of lemony air freshener, but behind that it still had the faint pong of sweaty bodies. Laura headed straight for the children’s section, which was piled high with red-and-blue beanbags. Most of them were taken, with mothers reading quietly to their kids, most of them younger than Laura. Rose couldn’t help but notice that some of the mothers were younger than Rose herself. She vaguely recognized their faces from the years below her in high school.
In the corner was Mrs. Hane. She sat with Lily on her lap, reading a picture book in silence. Rose hadn’t thought it would be possible for that woman to shut up, even in the library. Laura was running around, collecting books.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” Rose told her quietly, hoping Mrs. Hane wouldn’t notice her there.
Her fingers brushed across the spines of the books in the fiction sections, each one of them containing so many stories, so many ideas, that she probably would never read. Then she reached the Fs and slid the title she wanted off the shelf. Birdsong. The book Will had been reading. She wanted to read the same words that he was, see the same story that was playing out in his head.
After that, she went straight for the psychology section. It was upstairs, in the small mezzanine of the library. The sun streamed in through the window, lighting up the spines of the thick books. There wasn’t much there, unfortunately, only half the length of one shelf. She was hoping there might be something about criminals, something that might help her understand why Will was doing what he was doing and what he might do next. Luckily, one of the few books bore the title The Criminology of Major Cases: from Al Capone to the Zodiac. That was probably the closest she would get.
Rose put the books under her arm and took them back to the children’s section. She sat down next to Laura, who had luckily chosen the beanbag farthest from Mrs. Hane and her daughter. Laura put her head on Rose’s shoulder, a copy of Possum Magic in her hands. Rose opened the criminology book to page one and began to read.
* * *
When Rose woke in the tavern motel room the next morning, she felt sick. She looked over at the time. It was past midday. Fuck. She shouldn’t be here now. She jumped out from between the thin sheets, took her notebook off the bedside table and pushed it under the pillow, kicked her bag under the bed and started smoothing down the covers.
She ran out of the room, smack into Will.
“Sorry!” she yelped. “I was just cleaning that room.”
He looked at her and then into the room. He wasn’t buying it. He was going to ask her if she’d been sleeping here. It would be so humiliating. Don’t ask. Please don’t.
“I’d kill for a coffee—do you guys have any?” he asked.
She laughed, a nervous false laugh. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Walking toward the bar, he followed one step behind her. He knew she was onto him—what the hell was she doing here alone with him? It felt safe enough when there was a locked door between them, but now she felt incredibly vulnerable. He was probably a psycho.
“I should go,” she said, as they reached the bar.
“What about my coffee?”
Her eyes flicked between him and the front door.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” he said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you the other day. I was being an arsehole.”
“You were,” she said.
“Sorry.” He smiled. His face was softer than she’d ever seen it. She looked at him slowly, trying to decide if he meant it. As long as she didn’t let him get between her and the door, she’d be okay.
She went to the fridge, letting the cold air inside wake her up a little, then took two cans from the shelf. She clunked one can of Coke in front of Will, then hesitated, not sure if she was meant to be the waitress or not right now. If she sat with him, she’d still be closer to the door than to him. Though she’d be close enough that if he lunged at her, she wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Sit,” he said.
She sat. Instead of looking him in the eye, she watched the condensation drip down the side of the can on the table.
“You know, I heard noises last night,” he said. “It sounded like footsteps. Like someone was coming in and out.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but noticed the corners of his lips twitching.
“Rats,” she said. “Big ones.”
“They must be really huge,” he said.
“They are.”
Rose laughed, and then out of nowhere, she felt her chin wobble. Things had got so fucked up, so quickly. She didn’t even know what she was doing anymore. But no, not now. She couldn’t cry in front of him! What was she doing? She put a hand over her face.
“I won’t tell your boss,” he said.
Her face heated up; this was so humiliating. She took a swig of her Coke as an excuse to break eye contact. Gulping down the cold syrupy liquid.
He leaned over the table and she froze, but he was moving too slowly for it to be an attack. He softly put a warm hand on the side of her face. His eyes were so close to hers.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said.
Then he stood up, took his Coke and went back toward his room. Rose watched him go, still feeling his touch on her cheek. She stared down at the wet ring left by his can on the table. She dipped her finger in it and slid a line through the empty circle.
18
On Tuesday, Frank couldn’t wait for his date with Rose. It had been a horrible day at work and he shouldn’t be taking the night off, but there was no way he was going to stand up Rose.
“What are you doing in there, Francis?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing has taken you half an hour! You know I have a weak bladder.”
“Sorry, Ma.”
Frank was inches f
rom the bathroom mirror, so close his nose was almost touching the glass. His fingertips were slick with gel as he tried to navigate his hairline. Thanks to his Italian heritage, his hair was still thick and dark. He was far from bald, but still, he could see at least a centimeter more of his forehead than he used to.
He stood up on the toilet seat to get a look at himself from head to toe in the small mirror. Not bad. When he sucked in his gut, he looked even better, but there was nothing to be done about that. His stomach was already fizzing with nerves.
“Frankie?”
He sighed, squirted on a little more cologne and then opened the bathroom door. His mother clapped a hand over her mouth dramatically.
“Cuore mio! Who is the special girl? Is it the barmaid?”
Frank couldn’t help but grin. He let his mother, who was even shorter than him, wrap her arms around him, enjoying her old-lady smell. Her steel-wool hair scraped against his cheek.
“You look brilliant.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
* * *
“Remember, don’t bring up the case, okay, mate?” Frank said to Bazza as they drove toward Eamon’s.
“Yeah, course,” Bazza said, hardly listening.
If Baz ruined this, he’d kill him. The dolls case was the one thing he didn’t want to talk about. Before, it might have been okay. But now Rose was getting articles published in that rag, he had to watch his mouth. That last article had not been helpful to him. The calls to the station had doubled the day it came out. Now that it was newsworthy, the parents of those little girls felt like every goddamn paranoid theory was worth his time. The squad was searching the records of every single person who hadn’t been born in Colmstock, just to be sure there were no creeps who’d slipped in while they hadn’t been watching. The constant phone calls were making the process much slower than it should have been. It was doubling his workload. As long as they steered clear of the topic, tonight should go fine. The problem was, something happened to Frank when he was around Rose. If she asked him questions, it would be hard for him to resist answering her. Hard to resist telling her things that would make her look at him that same way she had at her house. Like he could be her protector.
He pulled into the tavern parking lot and reached down to unclip his seat belt. Baz didn’t move.
“Coming?” Frank asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, still not moving. “I’m a bit nervous, mate.”
Frank leaned back in the seat. “It’s me that should be nervous.”
“Not really,” Bazza said. “I mean, it was Rose that asked you out. Mia probably only agreed to it so Rose didn’t have to come alone.”
Frank patted Bazza’s shoulder. “Suck it up,” he said. “If she doesn’t like you already, just win her over.”
He got out of the car and walked up toward Eamon’s, allowing himself a look at the station. Through the window, he could see the activity going on inside and felt another pang of guilt for not being in there himself. The dolls case had stepped up a notch. The psycho had sent them a note last night, and it had proved their worst fears about his intentions. They had a real sicko on their hands, and Frank had to find him before he made good on what he’d promised in his letter.
* * *
Frank and Bazza sat on the stools at Eamon’s. They faced outward, toward Mia, who was sitting on the edge of one of the tables. The rest of the seats were still upside down on the tabletop. Frank took another look at his watch.
“Don’t worry, Frank. She’s always late,” Mia said.
“I didn’t say I was worried,” Frank barked. His heart was already starting to slip. He would not be able to take it if Rose stood him up.
“You did in the car on the way here.”
“Shut up, Baz.”
Mia’s laugh tinkered around the bar. Their voices didn’t reach all the way to the bathroom of room two, where Rose was blow-drying her hair.
All day, she’d been feeling a strange combination of dread and excitement. This was going to be so awkward. Then again, there was a strange curiosity inside her that she was trying hard not to think about. It was like having a chance to take a peek at another life. The life that everyone in town seemed to expect of her. To marry Frank, to stay in town. To have a family and never leave. She shivered—sometimes she was sure she’d rather die.
But other times, when the battle was just too hard, she couldn’t help but think about how much easier that would be. To give up. To live a quiet, easy life of regret and keep her dreams as dreams.
Tonight, since she was pretty sure Frank and Bazza would pay, it would just be nice to have a proper dinner.
All day, she had lain on her bed reading Will’s book Birdsong. She wanted to understand him, know if it was possible for him to leave those dolls. There might be a clue in there. Like maybe it was some kind of weird social experiment he was doing, or a strange art project. He was from the city, after all. The book didn’t help, but she was surprised at how romantic it was. She imagined him reading about the longing the character felt for the woman he loved but couldn’t have.
She had made an effort for tonight. Being homeless had made her want to look good, look polished, perhaps to prove to herself that this was not the kind of person she was. She had put on a nice-looking dress and even some lipstick. Now she was using the dodgy old blow-dryer that was attached to the bathroom wall to style her hair in loose waves. She bit back a swear word as the blow-dryer zapped her. Stupid thing! Rose returned it back to its cradle on the wall and ran her fingers through her hair. It was good enough.
Rose circled around the back. As she stepped up toward the front door, she could hear Mia’s voice. “You might want to wash off some of that cologne.”
“Huh?” she heard Frank say.
She took a breath and opened the door to the tavern.
“Hi.” She smiled at them.
“Hi!” Frank jumped down off the stool, took a step toward her, then froze. Oh, God. This was going to be worse than she’d thought. She’d never seen him with so much gel in his hair; it was actually reflecting the blues and reds of the beer signs.
Mia looked between them. “Shall we go?”
“Yeah.”
They all piled into Frank’s car, he and Bazza in their normal seats and Rose and Mia in the back. Rose was already regretting this. It was so awkward. The way Frank had looked at her, like she was beautiful. It made her wish she had never got dressed up; that she’d never agreed to any of this in the first place. She turned to Mia, who smiled weakly at her. Obviously, Mia knew what she was thinking.
She tried to forget where she was. Instead, she thought about all the cons and killers who had sat where she was sitting now, their hands handcuffed behind them. All of them with stories that she would have loved to have known. She stared out the window as they passed the bus station. There was a bus waiting there, one that was going to the city. Soon, she would be on that bus.
They paused at the corner of the parking lot of Milly’s Café, a large squat white restaurant that sold burgers and chips that were actually pretty good. The sound of the indicator filled the car, click-clock, click-clock, click-clock. It sounded strange. Mia turned to look at Rose.
“Stop it,” Frank muttered, and the indicator noise stopped abruptly.
They turned into the parking lot.
“I’ll park close. Don’t want you dolls walking too far in those heels,” he said.
Rose wanted to roll her eyes; she wasn’t even wearing heels. “We’re fine.”
“There’s one!” Mia said, pointing to a spot right next to the entrance. As Frank pulled in, the strange indicator noise started up again. Rose leaned forward in her seat and could see Baz clicking his tongue.
“It’s you!”
Mia burst out laughing; Bazza started giggling.
* * *
Rose dipped her last bite of hamburger into the ketchup and stuffed it into her mouth. She hadn’t eaten anything that day apart from the bag of chips she’d pinched from the tavern. Chewing, she savored the salty sweetness of it before she swallowed. It was the first proper meal she’d had in a while, and it made her stomach feel stretched. Although, given the opportunity, she wouldn’t have turned down another course. Their plates were all empty now except for a single fry in the basket in the middle of the table that everyone was too polite to take.
“Last fry! Do you want it, Baz?” Mia said, smiling.
“No. You have it.”
He wanted it. Rose could see it written all over his face.
Mia could too, it seemed. “Open up,” she said. He obliged her and she threw the chip into his mouth. Disgusting. Why was Mia playing the wide-eyed idiot for this guy? Throughout their meal she had moved closer and closer to him. Now she was basically in his lap, laughing every time he made some dumb-as-fuck joke.
Frank cleared his throat and looked at her. Unlike the other two, they were sitting as far apart as possible in the small booth. Or rather, Rose was sitting as far from him as possible.
“So how long have we got you before you blow this town?” he asked Rose.
“I think it’ll be a while yet.”
“That’s good.” He beamed. “If Steve’s plan goes ahead, and the shale mine opens back up, then things might be different around here.”
“How likely do you think that is though?” Mia asked.
“It’s possible,” Frank said. “It’s all about the crude oil prices. If they keep rising then it could happen. They reopened one in Brazil last year. The surveyor is coming next month, so we’ll see.”
“That would be so amazing,” Mia said, then, looking at her, “I don’t think it’s enough to keep Rosie in town though.”
Rose shrugged. “Journalism is hard to crack into. Just because they published one thing I wrote doesn’t really mean anything.”
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