To Know My Crime

by Fiona Capp

  He is about to give up when his gaze falls on Ned’s denim jacket slung over the deckchair in the far corner. He slips his hands into the pockets and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. It is blank. And strangely familiar. The deckled edging. The parchment-like texture. He holds it up to the light. It has the same watermark as the blackmail letter. Another coincidence? The brand is hardly rare. Anybody might possess a sheet of paper like this. But Ned is a man of few possessions: why this paper here and now? Morrow folds it up again, puts it back in the pocket.

  When he’s finished at the tip, Ned drives to the back beach where the tide is low. At the far end is a rock formation known as London Bridge, although it looks more like a dragon with bared teeth, guarding its treasure.

  It is the first time he has been to the surf side of the peninsula since he started squatting in the boatshed. He had forgotten how wild it is: the muted thunder of the waves, the craggy, wind-gouged coastline, the deep blue ocean awash with the icy melt of Antarctica. A light breeze has sprung up as the warm air rises and the cooler atmosphere over the ocean rushes in to fill the void. It feels good to escape the hothouse of the Anchorage and of Millionaires Walk. All this waiting is getting on his nerves. The nicer Morrow is to him, the more jittery Ned gets.

  He takes the steps down to the beach and walks to the water’s edge where the rocky reef is exposed. At the base of the rock formation is a sizeable pool in which large fish with pursed lips skulk among the seaweed while smaller fish scoot about near the surface. When he comes here to the pool, it’s to watch fish, not to catch them. To bury himself in their world and to forget the one outside.

  He wades into the water and lets himself slowly sink, careful not to disturb the pool’s inhabitants. A hem of cold creeps up his body until it closes over his head. As he hangs face down, weightless, the relief is enormous. He imagines being a fish, sleek and streamlined enough to disappear into the crevices between the rocks and flitter among the mysterious forests of kelp. His timing is perfect, the tide so low that no waves are washing in from the ocean, the wind too light to agitate the water below. And miraculously, no one else is here, no screaming kids to churn things up, no happy families to disturb his peace. In one smooth motion, he duck dives to the bottom and wishes he could stay there, never come up.

  After his swim, Ned stands on the high cliff top, looking down at the exposed ledge of snaggly reef, the rock pools watched over by the dragon, the miniature green and brown caverns, the patches of sandy sea floor like glimmering gold leaf. Up here he can see the curve of the horizon, feel the sloping globe at his feet. He’s always loved an out-going tide, the way it suggests a secret being slowly unveiled, a revelation of things normally hidden. As if the sea is trying to tell him something, if only he could decipher its clues.

  16.

  The car swoops down the ramp to the freeway which will funnel them, without pause for lights or intersections, from the inner suburbs of the city to the far end of the peninsula one hundred kilometres away, the monotony of smooth bitumen and curved sound-barriers broken only by the occasional piece of oversized public art: a roadside motel which is not a motel, a giant wood-carving of a ram’s skull, a massive metal blackbird pecking at yellow chunks of bread or cheese and a beautiful silver tree whose leaves seems to twirl as you pass.

  As she watches it all fly by, Angela is thinking of how the drive from the city used to take two and a half hours as you doglegged your way from stretch of freeway to clogged arterial road to freeway again, with bottlenecks at each end, until finally, over the years, all those fragments of freeway were joined into one seamless, solid river of grey and the journey was reduced to a mere ninety minutes.

  She and Ned spend most of the drive talking about the differences between now and when they were young. When Ned came back after ten years overseas, he was struck by how much had changed, while for Angela it had been a gradual process, something observed from one summer to the next as she and Matthew made their annual pilgrimage to the old fibro shack of her childhood. And now it is her turn to note the changes in the past two years. As soon as she was well enough to be out and about after the accident, Ned suggested they make the trip. At first she couldn’t face it: the sight of the jetties she and Matthew used to swim between at the front beach, the old shack in its sea of green lawn, the distinctive cove of the back beach where, as a girl, she first discovered the meaning of ecstasy in the churning waves.

  Then out of the blue, Ned announced he had this job working for Richard Morrow and she is still reeling. He got the urge to revisit the boatshed where he and Fraser used to spend summer nights getting drunk and stoned, and Morrow sprang him there. In his panic, he came out with a tall tale about leaving his wife. The next day, the politician offered him a job. He couldn’t tell Angela about it because she was at the retreat.

  It’s an odd story. Exactly the kind of thing the old Ned would have done. But he’s not the old Ned any more. Carers might come and go, but Ned, she thought, would always be at hand whenever she needed him. He had said as much himself. It’s unfair, but she feels abandoned – even though he says he’ll still look after her finances and come back to town once a week for dinner as usual, that nothing will really change. She would like to believe it. She can go for weeks at a time pretending that life is normal: she has her work, her friends, her outings. Her carers appear in an endless succession and keep her life ticking over. And then something like this happens and cracks her routine wide open, exposing the make-believe of her independence, the house of cards that is her life.

  And so her mind churns, even as she calmly exchanges observations with Ned. They talk about the tracts of farming land that have been consumed by housing estates and the patches of burnt-out bush and grassland from small spot fires last summer. All the time, she’s conscious of the horizon expanding, the sensation of being released from an airless room. She remembers the feeling from childhood. Before she even saw or smelt the ocean, she could feel it out there, waiting for her, like a sunny spring day beyond closed blinds. In the back seat, Mai is listening to music on her headphones, which Angela can hear as a faint, tinny beat. Mai has said very little during the journey, she seems withdrawn – although she is probably just bored by their endless dwelling on the past.

  ‘So,’ Ned says during a lull, ‘Matthew survived.’

  It is the first time he has raised the subject.

  ‘The doctors didn’t think he would.’

  ‘You don’t think he was putting it on?’

  ‘Pneumonia is not something you can fake. He’s been sleeping rough.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s a cunning bastard.’

  He wasn’t always. Angela wonders if Ned remembers the Matthew of his glory days. He probably doesn’t. It’s dangerously easy to forget what people were like at their best – especially when things go wrong and cast a long shadow. But she can’t let herself do that. If she does, she will lose all the good in their marriage and be left only with the bad.

  As they turn into the old street, they fall silent. Something is not quite right. There’s too much space. The once-bushy tunnel that closed around you as you entered the street is now a slice of suburbia. The overgrown nature strip either side of the road has been turned into lawn, the coastal heath thinned out, the ti-trees lopped savagely back. It’s the same all over the peninsula in the wake of recent fires in other parts of the state that wiped out whole towns, whole regions. Angela can’t help mourning the wildness and seclusion that has been trimmed away.

  As the car moves along the street, every second house, it seems, has been pulled down and replaced with enormous edifices of stone and rusted metal and stained wood, the kind of thing you see in glossy magazines and that win architectural awards. And yet, in the midst of all this, they come upon the old house, just as it was, an achingly simple grey shack of fibro cement on a grassy lot; a monument to a way of being that has all but disappeared.

  They all laugh with relief and amazement.

  �
��How long do you give it?’ Ned says.

  ‘Don’t!’ Angela whispers, her throat too tight to speak. She doesn’t want to imagine its destruction, she wants to take it in – the purity of this childhood refuge so perfectly intact. And not just childhood. The times here with Matthew, the good times. The simplicity of the place brought out the best in them. Their morning swims, their walks along the coastal tracks, the afternoons in the surf.

  Mai peers through her window. ‘It’s pretty basic. And look at that yard, there’s nothing there.’

  ‘That’s why we loved it,’ Angela says. ‘There was nowhere to hide. But it was great for running around. And then we’d roll down the slope when we couldn’t run any more.’

  The word ‘run’ hangs in the air. No one speaks until Angela says abruptly, ‘Okay. Enough. We’ll be late for lunch with Lord Morrow.’

  If she has ever thought about him, it is as one of the old-school conservatives, a dying breed. Patrician, but principled. And as close as this country gets to aristocracy. She expects he will be polite and counting down the hours until they are gone. Ten minutes later, they pull into Morrow’s property. A brief drive and yet a world away. For some reason, Ned had expected him to be on the front balcony, waiting for them like his great-great-grandfather, the impresario. As if they are a travelling show, some motley troupe he has summoned to distract him from the more disturbing matters on his mind. What an odd bunch they must appear, he thinks, as he and Mai help Angela out of the car and into her chair.

  As Angela looks around, Ned waits for her reaction, watches her hazel eyes widen as they take in the scale of the place. On the hard days, you can see the struggle in her face and in the hunch of her shoulders, as she strains against the straitjacket of her flesh. A living statue trapped in stone. But today, as she looks up at him with a quizzical smile, her olive skin glowing against her lacy white shirt, her large, tear-drop earrings of malachite catching the light, she reminds him of a queen on her throne, wise to the world and its cruelties, yet all-forgiving. Her courtiers hovering attentively around her: her maid-in-waiting and her joker, her fool. A role he is all too happy to play.

  They move across the gravel and onto the path that leads to the front door. With practised ease, Ned and Mai lift the chair when they reach the step and set it down on the tiled front porch. Ned is just reaching up to ring the bell when the door opens and suddenly Morrow is standing before them. His gaze falls on Angela, eyes roving her face with a curious intensity, as if searching for something he lacks. He reaches for her hand and a wordless conversation seems to take place. With evident reluctance, he releases his grip and, like any politician conscious of working the room, he turns to Ned and Mai and welcomes them, inviting them in.

  As they pass over the threshold, Ned realises he’s never entered the house through the front and can’t help feeling he should be out in the garden, doing the weeding or raking up leaves. Morrow apologises for the disrepair, the cracks in the walls and the peeling paint, as he leads them up the long hallway towards the sunshine pouring in through French doors at the far end, beyond which the lawn gives way to the glittering bay. Just as Morrow ushers them into the light-filled living room, two ferries cross paths out on the water, and in the dazzle of the moment, Ned collides head on with his conscience over this baffling gesture of goodwill.

  Angela parks herself by the window to take in the view and Morrow appears at her side, pointing out features of interest, gently mocking the more fanciful boathouses and managing to convey, without saying as much, that this kind of showiness is for the parvenu; that old money would never draw attention to itself in this way.

  Angela smiles politely while Ned and Mai exchange glances behind Morrow’s back.

  ‘But you must see the view from upstairs,’ Morrow goes on. ‘Nothing compares to it on the peninsula. Would you allow me to carry you?’

  Angela seems amused by the zeal in his gallantry. ‘I’m heavier than I look. I’m sure Ned wouldn’t mind doing it.’

  Being carted about like a child has become a fact of her life and the potential for humiliation is never far away. She looks from Ned to the politician, who is a head taller than her brother and much broader across the shoulders, and clearly concludes that Morrow is the wiser choice when it comes to two flights of stairs.

  ‘Just tell me how,’ he says quietly.

  Following her instructions, he scoops her from the chair and tilts her body towards him so that her head rests on his shoulder, smiling to reassure her that she is in good hands.

  Mai and Ned follow behind them with the folded wheelchair, and when they reach the veranda, Morrow gently eases Angela back into it and takes her for a leisurely tour.

  Even though they are out of earshot, Mai whispers. ‘This is all a bit weird. Why invite us? I mean you and Angela. I’m just freeloading. But don’t you think it’s odd?’

  Ned squirms. ‘Not here. Let’s go for a walk.’

  They wait for Morrow to finish conducting Angela around the veranda – Ned smiles to himself as the politician raises his hand as if to cup the town – and carry her back down the stairs.

  ‘Thought I’d show Mai my getaway,’ he says, giving Morrow a wink.

  Morrow smiles indulgently and says by all means, that lunch won’t be ready for another half hour. As they walk away, Ned can hear him telling Angela about his plans for restoring the house to its former glory, as it was when he was a boy.

  Mai leaps down the zig-zag stairs like a goat on a hillside and comes to land on the jetty with a satisfying thump. Inside the boatshed, she runs her fingers over the pearly lip of the basin and looks around. ‘So this is home.’

  She flops down on the bottom bunk and cocks her head at Millionaires Walk. ‘He’s not what I expected.’

  Ned rubs his face with his hands as if he hasn’t quite woken up.

  ‘What’s up, Ned? Whatcha thinking?’

  Perched on the edge of the bed, he prods at a miniature pile of sand with the toe of his shoe. ‘Trying not to. It’s hazardous.’

  Mai sits up and puts a hand on his shoulder, presses her body against his. ‘I’ll have to sleep up in the house, tonight. To be near Angela.’

  ‘I’ll stay down here. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. But if only he knew who was under his roof . . .’

  ‘Like I said, don’t go there.’ Ned smiles to soften the edge in his voice and takes her hand. Her fingers have such a silky feel. If the circumstances were different, they would be on his bed making love now. He had wanted her so badly when they first went out and still does. And he’s sure she wants him too. But it’s as if there’s a force-field between them, keeping them from going any further. And perhaps they never will. Perhaps they won’t be able to stand the sight of each other once this business is over.

  Morrow leans down to Angela’s ear. ‘Would you like to have lunch out here?’

  With the autumn sun warm on her face. Angela is still trying to take it all in – the intimate foreground with jetties and boats, the all-embracing arm of the peninsula hugging the bay with its three hills of descending height, the ghost city in the distance and the soft blue banner of the sky overarching it all. You could sit here all day, drinking it in, and never be bored. Never wish you were somewhere else. Maybe even forget you were stuck in a chair for the rest of your life.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Morrow says, spreading his hands as if offering it to her.

  ‘I think,’ Angela says, ‘that I need to get out more.’ Everything about this place makes her want to laugh – with disbelief that people actually live like this and with pure pleasure at the view. As if on cue, two pelicans cruise by.

  Morrow gestures towards a shady spot beneath a large umbrella. She is wheeling herself across the lawn when her ebook reader slips from her handbag onto the grass. Somehow it switches itself on. Morrow crouches to pick it up.

  ‘May I have a look?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What are you reading
?’

  She tells him what to do and a series of book covers appears on the illuminated screen. Most of them by Freud.

  Morrow reads the first title. ‘Wild Analysis.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Sounds vaguely R-rated.’

  ‘I hate to disappoint you.’

  The politician settles into a deckchair next to her. ‘What a shame. I was hoping it was. But seriously, do people really have to tell you whatever comes into their heads?’

  ‘Ideally.’

  ‘I can’t imagine being able to.’

  ‘Well, you’re a politician. It’s not surprising. You have to be careful about what you say. Psychoanalysis works with what people let slip. A politician is always guarding against that.’ She pauses. ‘I imagine it could get very tiring.’

  Morrow watches as the boat that takes people to swim with the dolphins goes chugging past. ‘Every time you open your mouth, you know someone is going to hold it against you.’ He turns to look at her. ‘But you don’t do that, do you? I mean, you don’t judge your patients, no matter what they say.’

  ‘You try not to. Your aim is to help them, if you can.’

  ‘You’re very lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ She laughs mirthlessly. ‘That’s not something people often say to me. Unless they mean I’m lucky to be alive.’ She wonders where this is leading.

  Morrow’s eyes sweep over her body. ‘Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking of your—’

  ‘Don’t worry. I know. Go on.’

  ‘I was thinking about your work. The trust that exists between you and your patients. Or at least the understanding that you are working in their best interests. In my job, it can feel like no one trusts you. And there’s nobody you can really trust. I have friends, of course. But there’s nothing quite like talking to a . . .’

  ‘Stranger?’

  He offers a diffident smile. ‘I can see why people would confide in you.’

  She finds herself staring at his Adam’s apple, and thinking how exposed it looks. On television, he wears a collar and tie, is always so self-possessed. But somewhere between the veranda – where he spoke with such pride of his family history – and the lawn, his confidence seems to have deserted him. Something is playing on his mind. She shouldn’t be surprised. It often happens when people find out what she does. The need to confess.