Blood Redemption hag-1

by Alex Palmer

  They say, oh, do that again, please, a bit more blood this time, thanks, and a lot more pain. The more you do it, the more they like it, they get hooked on it. Do you really want to give anyone that satisfaction? No, you don’t. Never do that to yourself. Never, never do that.’

  The tension was gone from the air as the boy sat staring at her. He shrugged, a gesture closer to despair than aggression. She sat down again.

  ‘I do what I fucking like,’ he said, speaking only to her, ‘because it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get that into your head. You’re not going to know who I am if you don’t know that.’

  ‘No,’ she said, leaning forward again, ‘things do matter. They do.

  You matter.’

  ‘No.’ He spoke with finality.

  ‘You can’t believe that about yourself.’

  This time he didn’t reply.

  The case worker moved forward to stand behind him. ‘The interview is over,’ she said.

  ‘We’re just getting started, Ria,’ Harrigan replied.

  ‘No. He needs a doctor. This interview is over.’

  ‘I didn’t mean him. I meant you. Sit down,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit down, Ria. This won’t take long.’

  ‘Can you get this boy to the medical officer, thanks,’ Harrigan said to the waiting officers. ‘This lady will join him a little later when she’s finished here.’

  ‘I get to go now, do I?’ Greg asked.

  ‘You do,’ Harrigan replied, his face expressionless.

  Grace took one of her cards out of her jacket pocket and underlined her name before passing it the boy.

  ‘That’s my name and number. If you want to talk to me, you can call me.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, looking at it.

  ‘Just take it. Just in case. You never know when you might need something.’

  He shrugged and pocketed it.

  ‘Don’t hurt yourself,’ she said.

  He looked at her, directly in her eyes, and smiled. She understood him.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said but he only kept smiling to himself as he left the room.

  ‘What did you mean by going on with all that bumf? It matters,’

  the case worker mocked Grace, after the door had closed behind Greg.

  ‘I mean, he should be on suicide watch,’ Grace snapped, her colour high under her daily paint.

  ‘You’re panicking a bit there, aren’t you? He’s always like that.’ Ria was dismissive. ‘Or are you worried you might be responsible?’

  Grace had opened her mouth to reply when Harrigan forestalled her.

  ‘Okay, Ria,’ he said quickly, ‘just a few quick questions. It won’t take long. He knows her, doesn’t he? He knows who this girl is. So I think it’s a fair bet you do as well. I’m asking you. Who is she?’

  ‘No, I don’t know. Why should I?’

  ‘You’re such a good friend of his, Ria,’ Grace said, needling. ‘He would have confided in you, surely?’

  ‘No. Why should he? He doesn’t trust anyone.’

  She looked away when she said this, her voice shaking a little.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Harrigan asked.

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘This girl. The one who shot two people in a back alley yesterday.

  What’s her name? You know who she is. You know who he hangs out with.’

  Harrigan was making it clear he did not want to be pissed about.

  The woman almost shouted at him in reply.

  ‘No, I don’t. I do not know that. No way are you putting that one on me.’

  ‘Ria, I thought those people might be a matter of concern to you.

  The way they are to us.’ Harrigan was calm in response to her anger.

  The case worker stared at him with a look of unashamed and intense fury.

  ‘Yeah, well. They matter, don’t they? I get to concern myself with the people who don’t. But why are you asking me all this stuff? Why aren’t you out there going after Mr Preacher Graeme Fredericksen?

  He’s supposed to know these things too, you know. He’s even supposed to care. Why don’t you talk to him?’

  ‘We’re trying. He’s not answering his phone at the moment,’

  Harrigan replied after a short pause.

  ‘Is that right? I am so surprised.’

  She spoke softly, with an unexpected depth of hatred. They were both momentarily silent, watching her.

  ‘Not someone you’d want to call a friend in that case, Ria,’ Grace said, disturbed by the woman’s expression.

  ‘Fredericksen? Of course he’s my friend. He’s everybody’s friend.

  He’s our latest wonder boy. He wowed the high-ups in the Commission, they think he walks on water. They gave him everything he wanted. Approved his charity, got him his operating grant.’ She drew breath, as if about to cry. ‘But you never know. Never know with anyone, do you? People lie to you all the time.’

  Don’t they, though, Grace thought without compassion.

  ‘He’s your wonder boy? They’re rare. I’ve never been able to find one,’ she fished.

  ‘No? People like him are going to solve all our problems. And they’re not going to spend any money doing it either. Oh, no, they’re going to make money. They’re going to go out there and they’re going to save all the lives we couldn’t. And the rest of us can just pack up our tents and go home.’

  Grace thought that a white toxic fury had consumed every portion of energy Allard had to offer. Harrigan watched the case worker, repelled by a degree of anger that he saw as uncontrolled and useless.

  They sat in unrelenting silence, looking at each other.

  ‘Is that it?’ Ria asked. ‘Can I go and see to Greg now?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Harrigan stood up and opened the door quickly. ‘I’m sure he’s waiting for you. You can go.’

  She was gone immediately. When they stepped out into the corridor after her, she was already moving away at a fast pace, her escort hurrying behind her. There was an awkward pause as they watched her disappearing back.

  ‘Nice try, Grace,’ Harrigan said. ‘For a moment there, I thought you had him.’

  ‘Yeah. But I didn’t quite get there,’ Grace replied, thinking, no, he was never going to tell me, there had been no point in tormenting him the way she had.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let her bait you,’ he was saying with that detached look of his. ‘You stay out of any games they want to play.

  You don’t give them anything.’

  Grace felt a little more heat in her cheeks underneath her make-up.

  ‘Maybe not,’ she replied, ‘but it is his life. He should still be on suicide watch, whatever she says.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I meant that.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what you think, we’ll look into it. I don’t want a dead witness. I’ll get Trev to call them, they should pay attention to him.’

  It was not a put-down. She had no clout, she knew it.

  ‘Do I get to talk to him again?’ she asked, as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘Yes, you do. You got to him and we need to make use of that. That was a good start, we’ll see how we go from here. It’ll be easier the next time around. For one thing, you probably won’t have her breathing down your neck. I think you’ll get it out of him.’

  He seemed pleased at the thought and pleased with her. I got to him, Grace thought but did not say. Is that really all I was doing in there? Nothing else? Didn’t that boy matter more than that? She would have liked to ask Harrigan the question but she did not want to push her luck. Right now, she only wanted to escape for a desperately needed cigarette.

  12

  Afternoon light was coming in through the chinks in the curtains covering the small square window when Lucy woke. She was surprised to find herself once again in her own bed. She lay watching the patterns of light on the wall, remembering, once again remembering.


  This time, the shootings of the previous day and the past events that had occurred in this room coalesced in her mind, without forming a single, clear picture. For a few moments, she felt detached from them both. The memory of her father was part of her, it had been for some time. The memory of the shooting was becoming part of her as well, or she was becoming part of it. With her head buried in the pillow, she thought: this is who I am. I own this, this is my action, this is me.

  Lying there, she began to feel afraid in a quiet sort of way. There was a sense of expectation in the quietness, the beginning rustle of voices in her mind like sounds heard behind a heavy curtain. She lay without moving, trying to find protection in stillness. As she did, she tightened her grip on something hard and metallic under her pillow.

  This metallic object came into being as a handgun and she sat up slowly, still holding onto it. She let it fall onto the bed and stretched her hand which was cramped and stiff. She sat with her head in her hands, emptying her mind until her thoughts were quiet.

  She felt a compulsion to clean herself and went to the bathroom and washed. She dressed herself in different clothes, jeans and a T-shirt under a loose and heavy sweatshirt that came down past her hips. She pushed her gun awkwardly into the waistband of her jeans. In the mirror, she looked like a small, lumpy child.

  When she came down the stairs she heard the television in the lounge room, the sound turned up high, and guessed this was where she would find her parents. She did not go in there, she did not have the stomach. She walked through to the kitchen, where she made herself instant coffee and ate leftovers from the refrigerator. Melanie appeared just as she finished eating. They looked at each other and did not speak. Melanie went to the bench where she began sorting medications before crushing tablets with the back of a spoon.

  ‘Are they for Dad?’ Lucy asked, swallowing both food and trepidation.

  ‘Who else do you think they’re for?’ Melanie replied. ‘Don’t you want to go and talk to him? He’s in the lounge room with Mum, they know you’re here. Stevie told them.’

  ‘No, not yet,’ Lucy said, cold at the thought.

  Melanie shrugged.

  ‘Where’s Stevie?’

  ‘He’s at work. He spent the whole night out looking for you but he still had to go to work today. I don’t suppose you care about that.’

  ‘It’s not my fault, Mel,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I didn’t say anything was your fault,’ Mel replied. ‘Anyway, I can’t talk to you now, I’ve got things I’ve got to do. I had to leave school, you know, so I could look after Dad. So I’ve got to do that.’

  ‘They didn’t do that,’ Lucy said, shocked.

  ‘Yes, they did. So I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say no? Why didn’t Stevie say no?’ Lucy asked, immediately furious.

  ‘Because no one else was going to do it. Mum wasn’t, that’s for sure. She was just going to let him die.’

  ‘We could pay someone, couldn’t we?’

  ‘You think Dad is going to spend his money like that? Don’t be stupid! He won’t do that even now he’s dying. He and Mum are never going to do that, not while they can get me to do it for nothing. Why should you care? You left when you didn’t even have to.’

  Melanie walked out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of medications, without waiting for a reply.

  ‘I did have to,’ Lucy said softly.

  Lucy walked out to the back garden, where the air was still fresh from yesterday’s rain, needing the relief of some open space. She stopped to let the dog off the chain, rubbing her head and noticing how the fur on her neck had been worn thin by her collar. Dora hesitated at the entrance to her kennel and then pushed forward, uncertain that she was free. She came and sat beside Lucy who stood looking down the slope of her father’s block of land towards the boundary of the national park.

  ‘Let’s go, girl,’ she said to the dog. ‘Let’s go for a walk. Let’s go check things out.’

  There had once been a garden on this slope, brought into life by Lucy’s grandmother. Granny Hurst had been a big woman, with her fingernails split and ingrained with earth. Lucy remembered that she had always been there, ever since Lucy was small, although she rarely spoke and never seemed to talk to anyone directly. She never looked at Lucy when she talked to her but kept her gaze focused on a point in the distance, somewhere past her granddaughter’s head. Over the years, Granny Hurst had shaped the ground into a series of shallow terraces linked by wooden steps and brick paths. She had grown gardenias, azaleas, camellias and rhododendrons, their flowers ivory white, dark crimson, cerise and shell pink; cultivated beds of blue and white English violets, snow-in-summer and pale yellow bearded iris.

  Lucy used to follow her through the garden, spending hours with her, watching and helping her. They had, in this silent way, been very close to each other. If for some reason Lucy was not there on some days, her grandmother would come looking for her, always speaking to that same distant point behind her and saying, ‘Where were you today? I was waiting for you and you didn’t come.’ Lucy collected the flowers as her grandmother cut them and then carried them up to the house.

  She put them into jars of water, stroking the petals gently, fascinated by their colours and the softness of their textures.

  At other times, her grandmother used to sit on the step of the uppermost terrace, wearing her ugly brown and orange dress, her legs set comfortably apart, smoking menthol cigarettes and talking to the three of them, Stephen, Lucy and Melanie. She told them about her own grandfather who had cleared this block of land of its original forest. ‘There were big trees here,’ she said, ‘the biggest he ever saw before he cut them down.’ He had worked first as a blacksmith, and then kept dairy cows, and had then grown cabbages, but had never made any money, not even from selling the original timber from his land. Her own father had been the one who made the money, starting out by selling second-hand clothes at the Haymarket, holding on to every penny he got his hands on. ‘Just like my son,’ she said, meaning Lucy’s father, ‘he won’t spend a cent either. But he doesn’t sell clothes, he’s a meat dealer. That’s what he likes.’ Her slightly acid voice was still clear in Lucy’s mind, she saw her sitting on the step dropping her cigarette butts into a tin rather than let them litter her garden.

  Her garden had gone to seed in the years since she had died of diabetes, when Stephen had been fourteen, Lucy thirteen and Mel just ten. Only the camellias and the rhododendrons in her garden continued to flower, all the rest had been reduced to a tangle of dead and living plants, small crowns of green on otherwise dead branches.

  Lucy pushed down through this tangle, following the dog, finding the old paths and steps, reaching the small sleep-out near the escarpment that looked out over the park. Her grandmother had lived in this sleep-out during the last four years of her life, after their grandfather had died, unconcerned by the winter weather and happy, she had said to them, with the sight of her garden and the bush outside her windows. From here, it was possible to see where small stands of flowering eucalyptus and mustard yellow acacias had begun to push their way back over the boundary of the park, even in the short time since Lucy had left.

  The sleep-out had been abandoned since Granny Hurst had died, its sliding aluminium doors left jammed open to the weather. Lucy went to look inside a building that now smelled of fresh earth. Dora nosed past her, leaving a trail of paw prints on the dusty floor. Camellia bushes that had grown up close to the external walls pressed their dark leaves against the windows, leaving the pattern of their shape on glass filmed with rain-washed dirt and spiders’ webs. Camellia flowers had drifted through the open doorway, leaving behind pale scatterings of detached pink and red petals. Lucy walked into a pool of silence, following the footfall of the old dog. In the bathroom, soft dirty cobwebs covered the face of the cabinet mirror, while leaves and imperfect flowers had filled the white plastic bathtub to a shallow depth. The bathroom was dry.

  The taps
shuddered when Lucy turned them on but no water flowed out. It was a place cracking open under the slow crush of the plants that surrounded it, they strangled it with root and branch as it subsided into the ground. Lucy drank in the silence.

  ‘Hi, Gran,’ she said to no one.

  She walked back outside into the afternoon light and listened to the clear sounds of the birds calling to each other in the surrounding bushland. Small waterfalls from the previous day’s rain flowed down over the honeycomb-coloured rock into a gully at the foot of the escarpment. The dog preceded her through the ferns down the short slope and then along a track that bordered a creek. After a short walk, Lucy crossed the stream to a rock overhang opposite, where the shadows and faint outlines of hand prints had been painted onto the sandstone. Their grandmother had told them they had been put there a long time ago by the blacks.

  ‘There were blacks around here when your great-granddaddy came here,’ she had said to them once, ‘he gave them work clearing the land.

  They lived along the river in shacks, so it wasn’t that far for them to come up here. We used to play down there together when we were kids.’

  Gran had painted her own hand on the rock when she was a child, with a date and her initials. Once, she had taken the three of them to see it and they had painted their own hands among the others on the rock face. Lucy found the child’s drawing of her hand and covered it over with her adult palm. The dog came and sat near her. Leaning against the rock, Lucy emptied her mind of any thoughts, listening to the rhythm of her breathing and nothing else.

  Four months after her grandmother’s funeral, and not long before Lucy’s fourteenth birthday, her father had walked into her bedroom one evening for the first time. When he left, Lucy’s bedsheets were dirtied with blood. The next day at breakfast, Lucy had looked up at her mother, uncertain whether she should tell her that they needed to be washed. Her mother refused to meet her eye and Lucy stayed silent.