Things We Cannot See

by Dianne Maguire

  The moment Laura re-entered the room Tara stood. Laura immediately took her into a hug. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she murmured. ‘It cannot have been easy.’

  Tara made a face. ‘Did I do the right thing?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Laura said, sitting on the edge of the bed watching her grandson, not able to offer even a glance in Simon’s direction.

  ‘Mum said I should talk to Pops because it will help him get better,’ Seth said, looking up at Laura. ‘So I told him that Evan O’Connor farted at school today.’ He began giggling as he coloured. ‘Like in the middle of Miss Lamb reading to us.’ His eyes were twinkling, his face contorted from holding back more giggles. ‘Then he farted again,’ he said, laughing as he continued colouring.

  ‘What did Miss Lamb say?’ Laura said, her smile easier now.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t think she heard it. Only us kids heard.’

  ‘Do you think Pops heard that story?’ Laura said.

  Seth nodded. ‘Yes. If he could talk he would be laughing. Pops loves farting as well.’

  Tara stood, casting a concerned glance towards Laura. ‘OK, pack up your pencils, Seth. It’s time for us to go. I’ll call you tonight, Mum.’

  All joy seemed to siphon from the room once Tara and Seth had gone. Laura sat silently for several minutes, fingers pressed to her lips, tears building as she stared out at skies dimmed by the approaching night. Inhaled deeply, then exhaled. And left.

  She felt numb during the entire drive home, apart from the empty cavity filling her chest. Even the gold, flamingo pink and purple of the sunset could not inject joy into her tonight, could not counter the darkness. By the time she finally pulled into her driveway she had made herself a promise that she would unearth the story behind the mysterious photo that had just ripped out her heart.

  After changing from her suit into cargo pants and a loose jumper, she searched the refrigerator, finally about to open a can of beans when there was a gentle knock on the door. She opened it to Flynn, beaming as though the world was a wonderful place and clasping a casserole dish wrapped in a striped tea towel, Callie sitting obediently at his side, perfectly still apart from her tail.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, stepping aside, her tone excessively polite.

  ‘Thanks, but maybe another time.’ Flynn shuffled a little on his feet. ‘I made too much spaghetti,’ he said, handing her the casserole dish. ‘I figured you’d probably be calling into the hospital to see Simon, so you might appreciate dinner. It’s pretty damned good, even if I say so myself.’ His grin widened.

  ‘Flynn, you are a godsend. I was about to open a can of baked beans. Thank you.’ She took the dish from his outstretched arms. She wanted to cry. Come in and get drunk with me so I can tell you what Simon has done.

  ‘You’re very welcome. How is Simon?’ he said.

  ‘There’s been no change,’ Laura said. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in?’

  ‘No. You’re bound to have plenty on your mind and lots to do, so I’ll leave you be for now. Come on, Callie, let’s get back to the fire,’ he said, dashing for the steps.

  ‘Thanks again,’ Laura called after him, suddenly lonelier than she could ever remember feeling.

  Energised by a glass of red and Flynn’s spaghetti bolognaise, Laura padded along the passage to their third bedroom, which had become Simon’s office two years ago after he had been unfairly forced into redundancy and had set up his consultancy. She pulled the blind against the fading view of their rear garden and flicked the switch to fill the untidy space with light. Despite the glare she felt trapped within this suddenly alien place, heartless, with an icy chill attributable to a mixture of night air and abandonment. She turned on the heater and adjusted the height of Simon’s office chair, absorbing the feel of so many hours he spent here each day, wondering what he had been thinking and doing the last time he’d sat here.

  Plugging his mobile phone into the charger and booting up his computer, she felt an incongruous smudge of affection for Simon’s predictable disorganisation and his entrenched habit of refusing to change his passwords. Her online search of dating sites unearthed little other than a multitude of smiling faces and dazzling descriptions. Even clicking the back button and searching his web history revealed only work-related websites. Trawling through his emails she found page after page of tedious minutiae about human relations and industrial matters.

  Several hours and a fresh cup of coffee later, she turned to Simon’s online bank statements, scrolling through his day-to-day expenses, his long-term investment accounts, and finally his business account, thoughts of bed cruelly taunting her.

  Fighting to stay awake, she mindlessly searched column after column of figures, not even certain what she was looking for. Not until she realised that payments of fifty dollars had been made against the same credit code in his business account with eye-watering regularity. She clicked on the code number and fed the name that came up into the search engine.

  Curiosity froze into disbelief as she scrolled through reports to reveal details of a dark website recently hacked and exposed by the media. A website used by attached people wanting sex with other attached people within a secure veil of secrecy – until hackers had recently splashed personal details, even photographs of high-profile patrons across the media. The same website to which Simon had been making regular payments for five months. The same website that in return for each payment provided names and contact details of other attached people wanting sex, Simon’s most recent foray being the day of his accident. At least now the stiletto tip made sense.

  She turned and grabbed their framed wedding photograph from his desk. Her teeth gritted, her eyes streaming, and the hollow in her chest now burgeoning with rage, she hurled it, then her coffee cup, against the wall, the tinkling of breaking glass and pottery failing to assuage her pain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It had been like a slow, living death, a sleepless night of trying to reconcile anguish with disbelief, powerlessness with outrage. At dawn Laura reversed out of her driveway, dressed for work, and ready for a 7.00 am start. The white frill of the water’s edge seemed stark in the still grey dawn as a lone fisherman stood hopefully in the shallows, muffled early morning radio and the whisper of her car heater bringing some semblance of comfort.

  The heels of her boots thumped along the corridor and into the staffroom where aromas of coffee and toast cheered her. That morning’s briefing meeting was short, outstanding emails and reports dealt with more speedily than usual. So by the time Laura rang Alex the mild sun had risen over hordes of Saturday morning shoppers scurrying or ambling along the pavement below. And she felt pleased to be here.

  ‘Hey. Just ringing to bring you up to date,’ Laura said once Alex had answered. ‘Noah told me about your latest flashback. How are you doing?’

  ‘OK, I guess,’ Alex said. ‘But I’ll be heaps better when you find the guy who attacked me.’

  ‘Noah and I interviewed Roger yesterday. He said he was there. That means your memory is returning.’

  ‘Yeah. Noah told Mum all that stuff. So, is Roger in jail?’ Alex said, sounding more like her stepfather than herself.

  ‘We have cautioned him. He’s adamant he came across you after the attack. That makes sense to us because our view has always been that the attacker was disturbed in the act.’

  ‘So you believe Roger is telling the truth?’ Alex said in a tone tinged with hope.

  ‘We’re not discounting anything or anyone at this stage. But Roger told us he ran away with the balaclava shortly after he reached you because he heard Greg and Bruno coming. Then he tossed it over the fence. We have the balaclava now. Our forensics guys are testing for DNA. If they find anything it will be a giant leap forward, Alex. So just hang in there.’

  ‘It creeped me out seeing the guy carrying a brown paper bag with “Evidence” written on it, because I knew what was inside.’
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br />   ‘And it all came back to you again?’ Laura said.

  ‘Isaac is acting psycho. Like since he lied to the police, his flatmate has moved out so he has to pay all the rent and he’s blaming me. He’s always in a bad mood now and he does this weird thing with his eyes when he looks at me – like he wants to stick me with a dagger or something.’

  ‘How do you handle that?’ Laura said, alarmed.

  ‘I don’t look at him. Last night we were unpacking boxes in the storeroom and I accidentally got in his way and he like pushed me – really hard, as though he wanted me to fall over. He had this creepy look on his face.’

  ‘You should change shifts.’ Laura was annoyed at Noah for giving what she’d always thought was scant attention to Isaac as a suspect. ‘And sooner rather than later,’ she added.

  ‘The bad bit is that I have to ask my boss, Mr Martin, to put me on a new roster. He’ll be spewing and he has a really foul temper.’

  ‘Do you want me to give him a call?’ Laura said.

  ‘No. I’ll talk to him . . . But, you’re serious I should stop working with Isaac?’

  ‘Yes, I am serious, Alex. If Isaac’s behaviour makes you feel unsafe, you should listen to your gut. And your gut is telling you to steer clear of him. Have you talked to your mum and Greg about this?’

  ‘No, not really. Greg’s still angry about Roger. It’s hard to talk to him about anything without him going psycho. And Mr Fuller is mad at me as well. He thinks I dobbed on him.’ Alex broke into sobs.

  ‘We spoke to Mr Fuller because he was stepping over the line, Alex. Keeping you after class alone, and feeding you personal compliments is not appropriate. He can still be supportive without being alone with you.’

  ‘Well, he won’t even speak to me now,’ Alex said, between barely suppressed sobs.

  ‘Mr Fuller is an adult. He has to take responsibility for his own embarrassment, fear, or whatever he’s feeling – not dump his feelings on you.’

  ‘He just happens to be my favourite teacher and the most supportive person I know. And now he hates me. You just don’t get it,’ Alex wailed.

  ‘No. That’s dead right, Alex, I don’t get it. Mr Fuller is paid to teach you. He has a duty of care, and that means acting like a professional towards you instead of behaving like a spoilt child.’

  ‘Everyone hates me.’ Alex said.

  By the time she had calmed Alex and finished the call, Laura was craving a double-shot coffee. Breathing in the steam from her cup as she made her way back to the workstation she thought about how many times she’d seen this scenario before. Young girls besotted with older authority figures who took advantage, either for the simple reason of boosting their own ego, or for something more sinister. And she was confident Clive Fuller’s motivation was the latter.

  Easing out of the station car park later that day, Laura made up her mind she would not visit Simon on her way home. But at the last moment, as she passed the hospital, Catholic guilt grabbed her and she made a sharp left turn into the hospital.

  She stepped into Simon’s silent room to the sight of his old boss, Ted Branson, who sat like a stunned mullet at the end of the bed, staring past Simon through the window to the blue and white sky beyond. Taken aback, and uncertain about being face to face once again with the man Simon suspected had shafted him two years ago, Laura forced a smile. ‘Hello, Ted.’

  ‘Laura, I was hoping I’d see you here,’ Ted said, jumping out of his seat in true older gentleman fashion, his purple-veined hands dithering in the process of pulling another chair over, his jowly smile revealing long yellow teeth.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with forced politeness. For Ted’s benefit, she kissed Simon on the cheek before stepping past the equipment and lowering herself into the chair beside Ted’s. ‘Simon would be pleased you’ve taken the time to visit.’ She turned and looked into his beads for eyes under thick upswept eyebrows. It wouldn’t be that you’re feeling guilty, would it – for sticking him like a pig in a slaughterhouse, taking the job he loved and making it redundant, changing the name and job description and slotting your favourite employee into it.

  ‘We took up a collection at work,’ he said, pointing a finger towards a bunch of flowers in lime green wrapping on the bed. ‘There’s a card everyone signed as well.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s not like looking at Simon, is it?’ he said, studying Simon’s injuries, the beeping machinery. ‘He’s always been so full of life. A bit of a rogue, of course.’ He turned back to Laura, smiling. ‘We all miss him terribly.’

  ‘Really? Do you?’ Laura said, feeling the heartache, the indecision, the confusion that had eddied inside her for what seemed far too long, rise to the surface to meet Ted, who by his very presence had created the perfect storm. ‘Then why did you push him out of his job?’ she said, her stare not wavering even in the face of Ted’s eyebrows jiggling and dancing in response to his sudden discomfort.

  ‘I didn’t push him out, Laura. Simon wanted to leave,’ Ted said after an uncomfortably long silence. ‘He wanted a better work/life balance – more time to himself – and the restructure provided the perfect opportunity. He was more than happy to leave us, especially given the handsome package he took with him.’

  More confused than ever, Laura rose from her seat, stretched up to the cupboard and withdrew a ceramic vase, avoiding Ted’s perplexed stare. She filled the vase at the hand basin. ‘I didn’t know that, Ted. I’m sorry,’ she said, slowly removing the wrapping from the flowers. What the hell did you do with that package? she thought, casting an irate glance at Simon.

  ‘That’s OK, Laura. These things happen,’ he said, shrugging the shoulders of his checked jacket, his frown making it clear he was as confused as Laura – and as uncomfortable. ‘What’s his prognosis?’

  ‘He’ll be in a coma for the next week or two. The doctors won’t know until then how much damage has been done to his brain . . . whether rehabilitation will be necessary, or even appropriate.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for you, Laura,’ Ted said, as though with new insights, as though referring to matters beyond what was self-evident. ‘I heard you two had separated.’

  She placed the vase on the shelf along with the other arrangements and settled the card at its base. ‘Yes,’ she said, totally devoid of anything else to say.

  ‘You’re a strong woman, Laura. There can be no doubt about that.’

  ‘Thanks, Ted, really,’ she said, watching him drag himself out of his chair. ‘And please thank Simon’s ex-colleagues for the flowers and good wishes.’

  ‘Will do. You take care,’ he said, patting her arm.

  Laura left the hospital minutes later. The sun lay low in the sky when she finally turned into her driveway. Her bag over her shoulder, she charged up the steps, pushed through the front door into the dark chill of the house, and scampered to the bedroom where she changed into jeans and a shirt. After pouring a glass of Pinot Gris, she lit the fire and curled up on her leather settee, watched the blurred orb of the sun disappear behind the line between darkening sky and sea and wondered what tomorrow would bring. Her mind blank with confusion there was only one certainty, and that was that whatever happened from this point on would depend entirely on her.

  With night came hunger. As she set about to grill a steak and toss a salad, Flynn’s casserole dish caught her attention from where it sat washed and dried on her kitchen bench – alongside the resin tip, still where she’d left it the night of Simon’s accident. On a whim she tossed the tip into the bin, slipped the casserole dish into a bag, snatched up her jacket from the hook alongside the front door and, with the golden beam of her torchlight leading the way, walked the hundred metres to so to Flynn’s house, the crashing of waves on the sand below and her own breathing being the only sounds to intrude upon the tranquil night.

  Flynn’s living room come kitchen glowed golden behind the uncovered windows. Aromas of cooking, garlic and wine filled the air, with Flynn c
learly visible at his stove, pots and packages covering all the available bench space. The crunching of her feet along the worn gravel driveway sent Callie into fits of barking, and Gorgeous the Macaw into peals of squawking and screeching from inside the house. By the time she had arrived at the front door, Flynn and Callie were there to meet her, light spilling out through the open doorway.

  ‘Hello,’ Flynn said, smiling, his hair curling on the neckband of his white T-shirt, ignoring Callie squirming and whining at their feet for Laura’s attention, the Macaw screaming ‘Hello gorgeous’ from the kitchen.

  Laura handed Flynn the casserole dish and bent to pat Callie as he stepped aside for her to enter.

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. What harm would it do to be sociable and spend a moment?

  Inside, she glanced around at the walls festooned with colourful artworks and posters; a combination of timber and fretted furniture, rugs, ornaments, books and cushions crammed or tossed into places fit for purpose rather than neatness or aesthetics. She had seen it before, on that afternoon when she had posed for him, but she hadn’t really taken notice of his decor, his personality reflected in his home, until now. Homely, even comfortable, but a nightmare to keep clean, she thought as she wandered over and said ‘Hello Gorgeous’ to Gorgeous.

  ‘Hello gorgeous,’ the bird mimicked, twirling and tumbling on her perch.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Flynn said. ‘Do you have a moment? There’s something I want to show you.’

  She followed him along a narrow passage, partially covered by a carpet runner, the warmth of the open fire in the living area dissipating as they moved towards his studio. He pushed the door open, stepping into the long room and gesturing for her to follow. Callie pattered in after them as Laura looked around, the sea glowing black and silver through the wall of windows. The bare timber floor wore the same splashes of random colour, like badges of honour; shrouded easels and canvases – some blank, others partially completed – leaned against unpainted gyprock walls in no apparent order. Nothing seemed to have changed.