The Last Time

by Sharon Haste

  Mal questions the tidiness, and Thomas assures him that it's his daughter's habit to keep a clean room.

  'She's a good kid,' he repeats.

  Sam wanders into the wardrobe; her fingers roam the clothes hanging there. She opens drawers to neat rows of underwear and t-shirts, thinking of her own wardrobe crammed with everything she's ever owned and nothing she wants to wear. A pang of guilt shoots through her as she makes a mental note to clean it out on her next day off. She asks about a journal or diary, and Thomas repeats that the officers took one away this morning. He didn't even know she had a journal. He welcomes a search of her desk drawers and helps them look for anything of further interest. Sam's sure the uniformed police will have collected anything of value to the case, but sometimes they miss something, so she checks all the usual places, including under the mattress, without finding anything new.

  As they descend the stairs half an hour later, Mal asks Thomas if there's a reason his daughter would want to harm his family. Sam feels his outrage.

  'My daughter loves her family and would never, ever do anything to hurt them in any way.' His face grows red, and his eyes glint.

  'What about anyone else? Do you have any enemies or unfinished business with anyone?

  He laughs at this. It's more of a scoff than a laugh.

  'I'm a politician. We always have enemies. But there's nobody I think would hurt my family. I thought this was an accident. You're making it sound like someone did this on purpose.'

  'We have to cover all possibilities and treat it as suspicious until proven otherwise,' Mal grunts. He reassures Thomas they will do everything they can to find out what happened and offers him a business card, asking him to call if he remembers anything more. He cautions him about not leaving town as Thomas walks them to the door.

  'You don't think I had anything to do with this, do you?' he asks, eyebrows rising.

  Mal turns and looks him square in the eye. 'Just covering possibilities.'

  Thomas nods. Sam thanks him for his time as they shake hands.

  'Just press the green button on the inside right of the gate, and it'll open,' he says. 'I'll close it from here.'

  Sam walks a little behind Mal, digging into her bag for sunglasses. She slips them on before walking through the media throng outside the gate. The gate glides to a silent close behind them. Sam's preoccupied as she drops into the passenger seat of Mal's car; her mind is a minefield of possibilities. Her frown deepens as they glide away from the curb onto the tree-lined street.

  'Lunch?' Mal asks, steering the car toward the city and the local motel frequented by members of the force.

  'Sounds good,' she says, far from hungry. Her mind is hard at work—grabbing hold of, pulling, and tearing at each fact it until it's thoroughly worked over and safe to discard. Is Thomas Richter involved? There's no question that he loves his wife, but sometimes love makes you do the impossible, like lift a car off someone, leap a six-feet-tall fence, or plunge a knife into a heart. Crimes of passion are commonplace in today's world. She can't say for certain that Thomas is innocent; they can't rule out anything at this stage.

  Then there's Charli. Mal didn't tell her about the drugs, so what's he playing at? Is this his final swan song before retirement? What looked like a simple accident last night has become a labyrinth in the light of day. She sighs, seeing her week stretch in front of her. She's sure it'll be filled with meaningless tasks because Mal doesn't want to work with her on this. She knows, from previous experience, that to ask him what his angle is will be pointless. He's like a mule when he gets an idea into his head. For some reason, he's out to get the girl. Is he right? Is Charli Richter a killer? Sam hopes she's tougher than she looks; otherwise, she doesn't have a chance.

  Chapter Five

  When the detectives leave and the nurse disappears, Charli dresses, slips out of her room, and sneaks past the nurse's station, keeping her head down. Outside the hospital, she catches a bus home, aching to be somewhere familiar and reluctant to wait for her dad to collect her. The bus hisses to a stop at the far end of the street, and she starts trekking up the road; her heart skips a beat when she sees a couple of reporters hanging by the gate. She doubles back and takes the street behind their house, ducking into a familiar yard.

  'Charli.'

  Mrs Peters. Charli turns to greet the withered, white-haired woman, who is emerging from the overgrown shrubbery. She has a cotton dress, hanging loose on her skeletal frame, and mismatched slippers on her feet. She totters on thin, papery legs that look as if they may snap at any minute.

  'Spotted them reporters, did you? Damn nuisance, aren't they? Well, you're welcome to come in for a nice cup of tea and see if they get bored enough to bother someone else.'

  Having nothing to lose and nowhere else to go, Charli accepts the offer and follows the old lady's tottering gait into a sprawling, low-set house in bad need of repair. Mrs P's kitchen is stifling, with the overhead fan doing little to shift the humid air. Charli opens the windows, allowing a sea breeze to lift the lace curtains.

  'So damn hot, these days,' the old woman laments as she reaches for a red tin and spoons black tea leaves into the teapot. Charli fills the electric kettle and turns it on to boil before cleaning the clutter from the end of a long, rectangular table and brushing leftover crumbs into her hand.

  Mrs P places a plate of chocolate-chip biscuits in the centre of the tidied area, and Charli fills the remainder with cups, saucers, and spoons. She finds fresh milk in the fridge. Mrs P hobbles on stiff legs, the unfortunate legacy of aging limbs.

  She chats nonstop while she fills the teapot with steaming water, setting it amid the mismatched crockery. After letting the tea steep for a few minutes, she pours it, fragrant steam rising from each cup. She pushes the plate of cookies toward Charli.

  'Help yourself, my dear.'

  Charli's stomach growls, and her hand snakes out to take a cookie. Guilt ruins her usual enjoyment as the chocolate melts on her tongue. She wonders if Mrs P knows about Ash and her mum. The old lady's warm hand on her arm is all she needs to encourage the tears beneath her eyelids to spill.

  'Darling,' Mrs P says, squeezing Charli's hand. 'You have suffered a great loss.' She pauses. Her blue eyes cloud, and the loss of her own husband bubbles to the surface. 'But you will be all right.'

  'But it was my fault, Mrs P. I was driving.'

  The old lady pats her arm. 'It was an accident, my dear. Things have a way of working out. They always do.'

  If only she could believe it. There's some solace in Mrs P's touch, and she clings to it while her worries swarm to the surface. Her chin trembles with building emotion. She digs in her pocket for a tissue, and there's a lump in there. She pulls it out, tears blurring her vision. It's a silver cross, the pendant her mother gave her a week ago. She remembers being shocked at the gift. Clare had the pendant for ages, but she was so protective of it that she kept it locked away with her other precious stones. She'd caught Charli by the arm in the kitchen and asked her, in a whisper, to come upstairs. They'd sat on her parents' king-sized bed; Clare held the pendant in her outstretched palm between them. Clare told the story of how she came to have the necklace, weaving a tale of an old, toothless woman in Chile who lured her into a dark room that was hung with artefacts of witchery and voodoo. Clare remembered being desperate to leave, but the old woman captured her hand between her withered ones and the urge left her; the woman's touch gave her a sense of wellbeing and happiness. She sat across from her, intrigued, and let the woman predict her future. She pressed the pendant into her hands before pushing her back into the dusty day.

  Charli remembers her mother placing the pendant into her palm and squeezing her fingers closed over it. Her face was pale, and her eyes were troubled. 'You must keep this with you always, Charli,' she said, her blue eyes wide. 'Promise me.'

  Charli promised, feeling a stab of fear.

  'And if you are in dire trouble, wear it, but only as a last resort. It will keep you
safe,' she whispered.

  'I don't understand...' she'd begun.

  But her mother silenced her, pulling her into a warm hug and whispered again, 'Promise that you will do as I say.'

  Charli nodded against her shoulder, tears pricking her eyes for no good reason. She'd held the pendant in her palm for hours after, examining it. She dangled it from her fingers, watching it swing and catch the light. It was an unusual cross, overlaid with a square with a hole in the middle. She was too in awe of it and hadn't dare wear it; she was not sure what constituted dire trouble.

  She places the pendant on the table while she blows her nose.

  'What have you got there?' Mrs P asks with her eyes on the pendant. Charli lifts it up, and it sways back and forth; the old lady's eyes follow the swing.

  'Mum gave it to me,' Charli says, collecting the cross in her hand.

  'Oh my, my,' she says, excitement rising in her throat. 'Do you know what that is?'

  Charli shakes her head. 'Not really,' she says.

  Mrs P reaches a hand up to touch the pendant, but she lets her hand drop before she gets there. Her hands are trembling and eyes water as they meet Charli's. 'This looks like a Chakra from the Incas,' she says, excitement raising the pitch of her voice. 'It represents the three worlds and your journey through life.' She pokes a finger at the hole in the centre. 'And this is a portal through which you may travel.'

  Charli wonders if the old lady has lost it. She does that sometimes, drifting off into her own world.

  'When we open the door of our heart and listen to the pulse of the universe, we have access to all wisdom and love. We honour the portal of our heart by seeking and bringing forth our soul's gifts and living a life guided by love.' She picks up the pendant in her hand and lets it fall from her fingers. 'Your mother wanted to protect you, Charli. This talisman may well have saved your life. Now you must use it to bring the love back to you.'

  Charli doesn't know what to say. Did Mum give me the pendant to protect me? She frowns trying to remember her exact words, wondering if what Mrs P is saying is true. For the second time that day, she feels as if her mother knew something was going to happen to her.

  'Do you know how I can do that?' she asks with her eyebrows raised.

  'It will come to you when you most need it, my dear. Nobody can tell you how. You will just know. But remember to love, Charli; it's the answer to your problem.'

  Charli stares at the old lady, a frown creasing her brow. She's about to ask another question when Mrs P turns to the empty chair at the table and asks Ben if he wants a cup of tea; with colour in her cheeks and a smile playing on her lips. Charli knows then that she's drifted back to her youth and is entertaining her late husband. Her face is serene and confident. Charli has a moment of envy, feeling the constant gnaw of worry in her own life. If only she could drift away like that. She washes the teacups and puts the milk in the fridge before squeezing the old lady's shoulder and bidding her good-bye.

  Mrs P's backyard borders her own, and she opens the gate between the two properties and slips inside. The house yawns above her, dwarfing her with its austerity; the winking Christmas lights in the backyard bring last night back to her in a rush.

  She speeds across the manicured lawn, under the lights and swaying decorations of the veranda, chased by the memories. The back door is unlocked, and she pushes it open, her heart hammering. There are voices at the front door, but the kitchen is empty.

  The door clicks closed, and she walks through the kitchen to the living room so she can watch through the window. The detectives, who interviewed her at the hospital, were making their way across the front veranda. She watches them go and is surprised to hear sobs from the front entrance. She peers around the corner to see her dad slide to the floor with his back against the door, tears marking his cheeks. His shoulders shudder with every breath.

  'Dad,' Charli says, making her way to him and slipping to the floor beside him. 'What's wrong? What did they say?'

  He peers at her, wiping moist eyes and blinking hard.

  'Sorry, it's all right. I'm just sad,' he says. 'I miss them.'

  Charli feels her throat constrict, and she holds back her tears. 'Me too,' she says in a small voice.

  They sit in silence for a time before Thomas starts to speak, 'Charli, there's something I need to tell you.'

  She sits more erect, holding her breath and thinking the worst.

  'I've never told you much about my family, and I think it's time I did. You're old enough now.'

  Charli nods, breathing out with relief, as her father begins to speak.

  'I come from a big family,' he says. 'Six kids: three boys and three girls. My sisters look a bit like you. They'd be all grown up now with families of their own.'

  He pauses, the memory making his lips curl.

  'We lived in a tiny house, crammed in like sardines, and shared our bedrooms. There was one for the girls and one for the boys. We all had bunks or rolled mattresses, but it was all we knew, so we didn't mind.'

  Charli tries to imagine sharing her room with two sisters and can't help but think how crowded it would be.

  'Madre was the best cook in Seruso; her food was spicy, hot, and so good.' His face lights up at the memory, and Charli watches as he kisses his fingertips in a salute to his mother's food. He looks at her with his eyes glazed. 'You would have loved her cooking.'

  'Can I meet her?' Charli asks. 'Maybe she can cook for us here?'

  'My mother passed away a long time ago,' he says, face dropping. 'It's hard to believe; she was so full of life.' His eyes light up with a memory. 'She used to dance all the time. She'd put on her music and twirl us around the room; she would show us how to do it right. She was really good. She did some competitions when she was young. She could have been the national champion, but then she met my father.' His face drops, his brows knitting together, and Charli senses his anger.

  'Wish I met her,' Charli says.

  'Me, too.'

  'Why didn't we go there to see her?'

  'She died just after you were born.'

  'Then did mum know her?'

  'No,' he says. 'My mother was a passionate woman, and a force to be reckoned with. She would have protected her children to the death,' he says.

  Charli wonders what this had to do with her mother.

  'I did something when I was much younger. Something I'm not proud of, and Madre got angry at me. She didn't speak to me for months before I left Chile, and I never went back.'

  He stops with his head low. 'It was stupid to leave things as they were, but I always thought she'd come around, and then it was too late. She died within a year of me leaving. When you're young, life seems so long,' he says, looking at her. 'But it goes so fast.'

  'What did you do to make her so angry?'

  'I can't tell you.'

  She feels a sudden surge of anger. 'Why can't you tell me what made your mother angry? You just said life's too short.'

  'Some things are better left unsaid,' he says.

  'Why are you telling me this now?' Charli asks, moving away from him. 'What has this got to do with what's happening now?'

  'Well, I just thought it would be important for you to know some stuff, just in case.'

  'In case of what? What's going on? Do you know something about what happened? Is it your fault?'

  Her anger rises like a serpent, spitting and burning inside her.

  'I haven't done anything.'

  'You never do,' she screams. 'You're never here when we need you; you're always working. If you were here, none of this would have happened. I hate you.' She jumps to her feet and tears through the house and across the back yard with her father's shouts in her ears.

  'I hate you,' she mutters under her breath as she picks her way through Mrs P's back garden. 'I hate you.'

  She gives the street a cursory check and strides out, breaking into a run as someone shouts her name. She looks behind, but there's only a lanky youth leaning against a deliver
y van, smoking a cigarette with a newspaper folded in his hands. She continues to jog down the street, making several turns until she hits the breezy foreshore. The briny air dries the sweat on her skin and fills her lungs as she drops to the grass beneath a swaying palm.

  She stares up, feeling like a stranger in her own body, part of her wishing she were. She relishes the new pain in her limbs, wanting to punish herself for being alive. She hears her mother's voice in her head. 'Chin up, Charli, nothing's so bad you can't smile.' She wants to scream at her. What do you know?

  'See what you've done to me. It's not fair.'

  Overwhelmed with self-pity, she imagines them cold and still in the dark. Eyelids lowered, breath still, and skin pale and tinged with blue. The image makes her retch on the grass. She swipes a hand over her mouth and flops on her back, heaving.

  'I hate you all,' she whispers. 'I can't believe you've done this to me.' But have they done it? Was it their fault? Weren't the police saying that I was in the front seat and that I was driving? How could I drive them there? I don't know how. Sudden panic has her upright. Shit, I can't go home. The cops will arrest me. I'm the one who killed them, not Dad. It's my fault.

  She sees flashes from the car: the water rising and the steering wheel. She'd struck it with her hand. She shakes her head in frustration. Why can't I remember getting there? Ash's image haunts her; his eyes were wide and vacant. Her unbidden, useless tears reignite the anger and enraged, she turns to the churning sea, eyes following the paddling surfers and hungry gulls circling and swooping overhead. She swears at her mother for leaving her. Raw emotion bubbles to the surface, spurring her into a blinding sprint. Livid, she turns south, away from everything and everyone she knows. She runs hard until she's forced to catch her breath, hands resting on her thighs. She stands, bent at the waist, and panting hard in a park swarming with mothers and their offspring. She lifts her face to the branches of a sprawling fig tree and screams like a boiling kettle. The women scatter, gathering their protesting toddlers into their arms and pushing empty strollers across the uneven ground in a bid to flee. She stands still, surveying the scene from another's eyes, watching the clouds scud overhead and turn crimson with the sinking sun. She continues to stand as night sucks the light from the day and pitches her into the dark.