The Things She's Seen

by Ambelin Kwaymullina

  He reached into his file and pulled out a photo, holding it up in front of the ruin. “This was taken a few weeks ago.”

  I hadn’t seen the photo before. Dad hadn’t wanted me looking in the case file, because it contained pictures of the body. But this photo was of a house. I walked over to him, peering at the image of a sprawling white weatherboard with wide verandas. A group of about ten kids stood out front, alongside three adults. The kids were all different ages and different colors—black kids, white kids, brown kids. None of them were smiling, or at least not properly. The corners of their mouths were turned up, but the smiles didn’t reach their eyes. I guessed I wouldn’t feel like smiling properly either if I was stuck in a home for kids “in trouble,” whatever that meant. They’d all been rushed off to the city by child services after the fire. I hoped they’d been sent somewhere they liked better than this place.

  I pointed to one of the tall adults in the photo, a lean, pale guy wearing glasses. “Is that the nurse?”

  Dad shook his head. “No. That’s Alexander Sholt. He’s the one who set up the foundation that funds the home. He donated the house as well; it was his family who used to own it.”

  “He donated a whole house? Guess he must be rich.”

  “Yes, I believe that he is.” He gestured to the other two adults. “That’s the nurse, Martin Flint. And beside him is the director, Tom Cavanagh.”

  The nurse was tall and clean-shaven, with brown hair that stuck out in all directions. The director was short and stocky and had a bushy black beard. They were both beaming proudly.

  “It looks as if they liked their jobs,” I said. “What exactly were their jobs, anyway?”

  “Nurse Flint took care of the kids’ nutrition, first aid, and general health and well-being. Director Cavanagh managed the home, and ran classes—English and math and the like.” He sighed. “Neither of them were from around these parts. They both came here to try to help these kids.”

  There was a note of sadness in his voice, and I knew he was thinking about how Nurse Flint had died here.

  You can’t bring him back, Dad. But you can find out what happened to him.

  I almost said it out loud. But I didn’t need to. Dad dropped the photo back into the file and returned his attention to the ruin. Then he started speaking, only more to himself than to me, going over what had happened: “Fire starts around ten p.m. Alarm goes off, and the kids follow the fire drill like they’re supposed to, and make it to safety.”

  “Except they said they were out of the home before the alarm went off,” I pointed out. “But that can’t be right, can it? The wind couldn’t have told them to run, like they said.”

  “Not the wind,” Dad agreed. “But the kids might have made up a story instead of owning up to breaking a rule. So, one of them could have been up past bedtime, seen the fire start, and warned the others. We should know more when the psychologists get through talking to them. Not that any of them are saying much right now.”

  “Do you think they’re hiding something?”

  “I think kids who’ve been in trouble don’t like speaking to people in authority about anything. So it’s no surprise they’re not talking. If any of them do remember something relevant, someone will call me.”

  He glanced around the clearing and shook his head.

  “Those kids were from the city. Taking them a long way from home, where there’s nothing much for them to do except learn to be ‘responsible’—I can’t see that it was the best way to help them. Seems like this place was run on some old-fashioned ideas. Child services is going to sort something new out for them now.”

  He lapsed into silence again. I prodded him with words. “Why didn’t Nurse Flint get out in time, if the alarm went off?”

  He shrugged. “Something slowed him down. He was overcome by smoke, maybe. Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “I suppose it’s possible that he was dead before the fire began. Or unconscious.”

  I hadn’t thought of that! “You think the director killed him? Or hurt him? Maybe there was a fight, and the nurse got knocked out!”

  Dad shook his head. “It’s unlikely there was a fistfight and an unrelated problem with the wiring in the space of a few hours. It’s far more likely Flint died because of the fire, and that the director’s missing for the same reason—he probably panicked in the flames and the smoke and ran out into the night. There’s a lot of land out here, and not many people. If he took a wrong turn, away from the town, he could be well lost.”

  “Then why haven’t they found him? They found that girl who was wandering around out here, and she wasn’t even from the home.”

  “True, but she wasn’t difficult to find—she was just meandering along by the river.”

  “We should go talk to her. She might have seen Cavanagh, be able to tell us which way he was headed. Or she might have seen something else useful.”

  Dad grunted.

  I persisted. “I know she didn’t remember much when they first interviewed her, but she might now. Don’t you say that sometimes people don’t realize they’ve seen something important until later?”

  “She’s not likely to be very reliable, Beth. She was, um, that is…”

  He thought I was still a baby. “She was high.”

  He cast a startled glance at me. I rolled my eyes. “I was listening when your boss first told you about the case. And it’s not like I don’t know drugs exist.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well.” He tugged at his collar. “Beth, you never…that is, you didn’t—”

  “No, Dad, I never did drugs.” I gazed down at the ground. “At least, not many…”

  He spluttered. I looked up at him and grinned. “Kidding, Dad.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  But I started laughing and so did he, and for a second, we could have been any father and daughter. Until Dad’s laughter stopped, choking off into a gasp that was close to a sob.

  He’d forgotten I was dead. Until he hadn’t.

  Dad opened his mouth to speak and I knew he was going to tell me he missed me again. I didn’t want to hear it. Why couldn’t he be like Aunty June?

  There’d been a day, not that long after I’d died, when Aunty June had been babysitting my many cousins. They’d been sad about me, so Aunty June had told them about the time I’d made Aunty Viv a birthday cake and accidentally used salt instead of sugar. Aunty Viv had said it was the best cake ever. She’d almost made it through an entire slice before throwing up.

  The cousins thought that was hilarious, especially Aunty Viv’s kids. Sophie had giggled about it for an entire day. And Aunty June had said to them all: Just because our girl’s on another side doesn’t mean we have to stop loving her or that she’s stopped loving us. And it’s okay to be sad, but you can’t love someone only with tears. There’s got to be laughter too.

  I strode toward the car, pretending that I hadn’t noticed Dad choke up. Pretending that nothing was wrong. “C’mon, Dad. Let’s go talk to that witness!”

  I wasn’t sure he’d follow me.

  But he did.

  The witness had been taken to the local hospital for a general checkup, and to have the drugs flushed out of her system.

  The only hospital I’d ever been to before was the towering building where Uncle Mick had gone after his heart attack. The entire family had camped out at that place while we were waiting for news. A stuck-up doctor had asked if we needed quite so many family members there, and Aunty June had yelled at him, which had almost got us kicked out. But then Aunty Viv had burst into tears, and the littlest cousins—never ones to miss a cue—had started crying too. Since no one had wanted to evict tiny, sobbing children, they’d left us alone. Then we’d got the word that Uncle Mick was going to be okay, and Dad had bought us all chocolates and chips from the vending machine to celebrate.


  But the hospital in this town looked nothing like the one in the city that Uncle Mick had been in. It was a jumbled weatherboard building that sprawled out in all directions, as if additions had just been tacked on wherever was most convenient as the years went by. The exterior was painted a cheery bright blue, and crows perched on the rooftop, lining the big sign that said HOSPITAL.

  Dad and I walked into a waiting area filled with people. A loud waiting area. Everyone was chatting—sharing news, asking about each other’s families and kids. Talking about the fire too. I tilted my head to one side, listening to the hubbub of conversation.

  “It’s so terrible, that poor man dying…”

  “Thank heaven the children are safe…”

  “I hope they find Tom Cavanagh soon…”

  “My Rosie’s helping with the search. Says they haven’t found a trace of him yet…”

  “They say it was bad wiring. I said to Jim, ‘We must get our electrics checked…’ ”

  I stopped listening. They didn’t know any more than I did, and no one here was overcome with grief or anxiety, which meant no one had been close to Tom Cavanagh or Martin Flint.

  Dad strode toward the nurses’ station in the far corner, which was surrounded by a small but determined group of people complaining about how long it was taking to see the doctor. One of the nurses—a blond, harassed-looking woman—came hurrying over to intercept Dad.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but one of our doctors is off with the flu. It’s put us terribly behind. Is there any chance you could come back tomorrow?”

  Dad held up his identification. “I’m a detective. I need to interview the witness to the fire at the children’s home. I understand she’s being treated here?”

  The nurse’s tired blue eyes lit up in relief as she realized Dad wasn’t another patient. “Oh, yes!” She pointed to a hallway that led off the waiting area. “The wards are just through there. I’ll show y—”

  She broke off as a gust of wind slammed the front door open and sent a cloud of dust whirling into the room. Dad shoved the door shut, but people were already coughing, and some of the older ones didn’t sound so good.

  The nurse heaved a sigh. “Um, can you see yourself through? We’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be fine on my own,” Dad reassured her.

  I walked ahead of him into the hallway. It was lined with doors set with small panes of glass, and I peered through the nearest one into a long room filled with rows of beds. Most of the beds were occupied by people Dad’s age or older, but one held a thin, dark-haired girl.

  I called over my shoulder to Dad, “I think she’s in—”

  That was as far as I got before a voice spoke over mine. “You police? You here about that fire?”

  There was another girl, standing in a doorway farther down the hall. She had short black hair and pale skin, and was wearing a hospital gown with a long green jumper over it. If this was the witness, then they’d succeeded in getting the drugs out of her system, because her gaze was focused. In fact, everything about her was sharp, from her angled cheekbones to the spikiness of her hair and the glint in her dark eyes.

  Dad stepped past me to smile at the girl. “Yes, I’m a detective here about the fire. Are you the one who was out there that night?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’d like to speak to you about what you saw, if you feel up to it.”

  She looked him up and down, and sniffed like she wasn’t impressed. Then she nodded and vanished into the room behind her. Dad followed.

  This room looked exactly like the other ward room, except it contained only a single patient. Our witness was sitting on a bed with her legs stretched out and her head turned away from us so she could stare out the window. There wasn’t that much to see out there—just leaves and dust swirling in the afternoon light—but she seemed fascinated by the view. Or maybe she was just ignoring us. Well, ignoring Dad. Everyone ignored me, the invisible girl.

  Dad pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. I positioned myself at his shoulder.

  “My name is Michael,” he said to the girl. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

  She answered, without looking at him, “Shouldn’t you already know that, Detective?”

  I sighed. “I guess she doesn’t remember she wasn’t with it enough to tell anyone her name when they found her.”

  The witness didn’t hear me, of course. But after a moment, she turned toward Dad and said, “I’m Isobel Catching. You can call me Catching.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “Catching? That’s an unusual last name.”

  She shrugged. “My Great-Great-Grandma was good at catching stray cattle, so the white boss called her Catching. Wasn’t like she could say no, back then.”

  Dad blinked. “You’re Aboriginal?”

  Her lip curled. “What, you think I’m not brown enough? You think all Aboriginal people are the same color?”

  “No. I don’t think that,” Dad answered. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Matter of fact, my wife was Aboriginal.”

  She opened her eyes very wide and spoke in a tone dripping with sarcasm: “Wow, really? Then I guess you and I are going to be best friends.”

  I frowned at Catching. There was no need for her to be mean! But Dad didn’t seem to mind. He just kept talking in that same gentle voice: “Catching, can you tell me about anything you saw the night of the fire?”

  She slouched against the pillows. “Maybe I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I did. Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  She looked at me—or, no, she didn’t, she looked into the space I was standing in for a second, then away again. “On if you’ll believe me.”

  “I’m here to listen to anything you have to say,” Dad promised.

  “Yeah, you say that now. But when I start talking, you’re gonna tell me there’s no such thing as monsters and other-places.”

  Monsters? Other-places? “I think she’s messing with you, Dad.”

  He gave the faintest shake of his head. He didn’t think so, and when I returned my attention to Catching, I saw why. Her gaze had shifted inward, and the mocking glint had vanished from her eyes. She was staring at something only she could see. Whatever it was made her nostrils flare and her lips press together. I didn’t know what could scare this fearless girl, but whatever it was, it was no joke and no trick.

  “I can believe in monsters and, um, other-places,” Dad said.

  Catching hunched her shoulders. “It’ll take too long. This thing didn’t even start with the fire.”

  I realized she wanted to talk. She just needed to be sure Dad was going to listen. Dad knew it too. “I have plenty of time.”

  He took out his phone and switched it off, relaxing into the chair as if he was happy to sit there forever. “Why don’t you tell me where it did start?”

  Catching sat still and quiet for a while longer. Her gaze drifted in my direction again, although she couldn’t be really seeing me.

  Then she said, “It started with a sunset.”

  We’re on top of a rocky hill.

  Mum’s hair is redder than the setting sun.

  “I told you not to trust a color called Scarlet Dream,” I say.

  She grins. “How do you feel, Izzy?”

  “Cold.”

  Mum’s knitting is as bad as her hair dye.

  My jumper’s long, but it’s not warm.

  She puts her jacket over my shoulders.

  “Now?”

  “Warmer.”

  “Calmer?”

  I nod. Calmer.

  More than back home.

  Where people are mean. Unfair. And I’m angry.

  I’m not good with anger.

  It lights my b
lood like flames.

  I become fire.

  But on this road trip, Mum’s taught me words that control fire.

  The names of the Catching women, from my Great-Great-Grandma onward.

  Granny Trudy Catching…

  Nanna Sadie Catching…

  Grandma Leslie Catching…

  Mum…

  Me.

  I don’t say their names out loud.

  We don’t speak the names of the dead.

  So I say them in my mind.

  And in my heart, I can breathe.

  I always knew Catching women were strong.

  But I didn’t know what they’d been through.

  Not everything.

  Not until Mum told me on this trip.

  “Catching women are fighters,” Mum says. “We’ve had to be, to survive. And all the strengths of the Catching women flow down the family line and into you, Izzy.”

  I bury my face in her jacket.

  She smiles.

  The sky rumbles.

  Her smile dies.

  “It’s not supposed to rain today. We need to go!”

  We climb down the rocky hill. Race to the car.

  The land here is flat.

  It floods when it rains.

  Mum starts the car. “Seat belt!”

  Rain falls.

  We bump over rough ground. Back to the road.

  Lightning flashes. Thunder roars.

  The rain falls harder.

  The windscreen wipers can’t keep up.

  Mum turns on the headlights, but they’re useless.

  The storm swallows everything.

  We can’t see.

  The highway. Where is it?

  A wall of water smashes into the car.

  The river!

  My head slams against the window.