The Celibate Mouse

by Hockley, Diana

  Her mother sat in the dark with the curtains drawn, while the doorbell rang and rang. ‘Mum! What’s happened? Has something happened to Brit or Dad?’ she’d cried, dumping her school backpack and sports bag on the floor. She turned the lights on and went to wrap her hands around her mother’s frozen ones, afraid her mother had had a stroke or something. The doorbell kept ringing. ‘Piss off!’ Marli had screamed and for a moment the incessant ringing ceased, replaced by shouts to open the door. She forced herself to ignore them.

  ‘Squeeze my hands and smile, mum!’ A first-aid course had been part of their school curriculum. Her mother’s hands were lumps of ice. Receiving no response, Marli waved her hand in front of her mother’s face, finally bringing a blink and recognition. Relief flooded like warm water through her body. Not a stroke.

  ‘Oh, darling you’re home,’ Susan muttered.

  Marli ordered her to stay where she was, though her mother showed signs of being welded to the couch. She’d fled to the main bedroom to grab her dressing gown. There was something different about the room, but she was in such a hurry it didn’t register until she’d forced her mother’s arms into the sleeves and tied the belt around her waist. ‘Dad’s things are gone!’ Fear shafted through her; the wardrobe had been wide open and half empty.

  Eliciting no information from Susan, Marli ran back upstairs to the en suite. His shaving gear and toilet articles were gone. He wouldn’t have taken it on a job because he had a separate lot for work trips. She could ask Mary–no, Mary was on holidays. She charged into her sister’s room. One look revealed that clothes, make-up and shoes were missing. Terrified, she pulled out her mobile to text her sister as she flew down to the kitchen, only to see photographers hanging over the back fence. The dogs were going berserk in the back garden, keeping them at bay. She pulled the blinds down, put the electric kettle on and got bread, butter and some packets of soup out of the cupboard. Eventually, she managed to get Susan to the kitchen table to drink some soup and tell her what had happened.

  Not only had her father left them, but one of mum’s officers, Danny, whom Marli fancied something rotten for all that he was married, had been shot dead the night before. And it happened when mum was there–well, almost there. Now she was on stress leave and there would be an investigation.

  ‘It’ll be bad here for awhile, darling. The media will be everywhere. Perhaps you’d better go to Granny’s until it’s sorted out.’

  ‘No way. I’m staying here with you. And where’s Dad gone? Brit wasn’t at school. Does she know about it?’ Her mother turned her white face to Marli, but didn’t speak. She was about to repeat the question, when Susan responded in a drained whisper.

  ‘Yes. He phoned Brit at school and she took off with him to Sydney. He’s found someone else. Apparently they’re all going to live together and be happy ever after. He picked her up from school and they came back to collect some of her things. She left a note.’

  Marli couldn’t believe it. Dad had gone off with another woman and her identical twin went with him? Brit’s classes were different, so she hadn’t realised her twin had abandoned her without a word. She burst into tears.

  It was on for young and old then. They bawled in each other’s arms until they were brought around by the dogs insistent scratching at the back door, frantic for their dinner. Since her mother didn’t seem to be able to function, Marli opened the back door a crack to let the animals inside for their dinner, threw out the tepid soup, heated a tin of spaghetti and made toast and then rang Brittany again.

  An unholy row erupted, not the first by any means, but this time the ferocious nature of it shocked Marli to the core. Brit wouldn’t be returning. ‘You’re like, so beyond sad, Marli. If you stay with her, you’re just as much a loser as she is! It’s her fault Dad found someone else. If you come to your senses, let me know. And I’m unfriending you from Facebook and telling everyone we know to do it too.’ She hung up in Marli’s ear.

  Having to take stress leave was the final straw for Susan, who sobbed in her bed every night. Friends, colleagues and their wives phoned, offering to come and help out. Susan refused their help, especially granny, and even her sister, Melanie and sister-in-law, Eloise. The only people she would speak to were her partner, Detective Sergeant Evan Taylor, members of her team and the union rep.

  The press, who were camped in the park opposite the house, constantly formed a howling mob when anyone came or went from the house. The phone had to be left off the hook. Neighbours were quizzed; TV crews arrived and over-excited female journalists with sincere expressions, issued reports on the front footpath. Marli kept the curtains and blinds drawn and the lights turned on. Even the dogs got photographed as they ran around the back yard, barking hysterically.

  The family cat slithered under Marli’s bed and refused to come out, so she put the sand-tray in her room and fed the terrified animal in there. About the third day they were under siege, the geriatric cat died and Marli lost her composure. Sergeant Taylor sent two young constables over to bury the cat, again a much-photographed event. Meanwhile, Susan flatly declined any help in the house.

  Over the next few days, Marli discovered that the “get-up-now-you’ll-miss-the-bus” fairy was hunkered down with the bedclothes over her head, crying along with the “doing-the-washing-and-makethe-beds-fairy.” The “iron-the-school-clothes” and “cooking-meals-making-lunches-fairy” was definitely on strike, and worst of all, the “load-and-unload-the-dishwasher” and “feeding-the-dogs-fairy” had run away from home with the “chauffeur” fairy.

  Marli became exhausted from trying to do everything. She wanted to scream at her mother to “get with it” but controlled herself with a supreme effort. She’d rung school and spoken to the principal who also wanted to help and gave her time off. She felt bad turning family friends away, but her mother remained adamant.

  Following the heartbreaking funeral, media attention turned to the next scandal and Marli continued to cope with Susan, who awaited the investigation.

  She returned to school for her final exams, but it was scary to come home and find her normally immaculate mother still in her pyjamas, lying on the lounge staring at the ceiling, dishes unwashed in the sink, soiled clothes piled up in the bathroom and the dogs barking madly in the back yard.

  Sergeant Taylor had turned up again late one afternoon, taken one look at the house and suggested for the umpteenth time that his wife, Genevieve would come and stay with them for awhile, but mum maintained that she couldn’t bear to face anyone.

  ‘You made it to the funeral, so you need to pull yourself together. The investigation starts tomorrow,’ Sergeant Taylor had reminded her mother, a little sharply.

  ‘I’ve already made a statement, been interviewed and done the reports. What more do they want?’ she bleated.

  ‘They’ll want their pound of flesh, Susan. You know that, as well as I do. Everyone knows Danny was a young hothead and you’re not to blame. I was on that case, too, and I’ve made my report. Harry buggering off and taking your daughter with him is an added blow on top of everything else. Having to cope with that as well must be terrible, but Marli needs her mum back, she can’t cope with all this–’ he indicated the house– ‘on her own and finish school. This is an important time for her.’

  Mum insisted she didn’t need her family’s interference, but the sergeant told Marli to ring her mother’s sister, Melanie and beg her to come. ‘Tell her it’s urgent, love. She’ll pull your mother out of it.’

  So, after another fruitless day of trying to get her mother to eat and wash herself, Marli rang Melanie and begged her to come.

  Susan was standing staring out of the window, when her sister’s car pulled up in the driveway. ‘Marli, I told you I didn’t want anyone coming here, even Melanie!’ her mother snapped, correctly deducing from her daughter’s guilty face that she was to blame for this latest development.

  ‘Mum, I can’t cope with you, so kill me if you want, but I had to call Aunty
Melanie,’ she replied defiantly, opening the door to her mother’s tall, attractive sister. She dumped her bag on the floor, kissed Marli, walked straight over to her angry sibling and wrapped her arms around her.

  Marli waited until her mother burst out crying again, then sloped off to the kitchen to make yet more coffee. She rabbited around and discovered some cake which one of the police wives had sent over, laid a few slices on a plate and served it, with coffee, to her soggy mother and stoic aunt. Aunt Melanie marched to the liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of brandy and poured a hefty dollop into the coffee.

  Marli took the opportunity to slip upstairs to shower and dress, then raced into her mother’s bedroom and changed the bed linen. On her way back to the lounge, she met the two women on the stairs, her aunt pushing her red-eyed mother ahead.

  ‘Susan, Harry’s a prick. Now shut the fuck up and get in the shower. You stink!’ she heard the Reverend Burgess, chaplain of the women’s prison, say forcefully, just before she shut the door of the main bedroom behind her. Minutes later, hearing yells coming from her mother’s en suite, Marli suspected her aunt had pushed her mother into the shower, clothes and all.

  They’d come downstairs soon afterward, her mum in a tracksuit with her hair wrapped in a towel. Aunt Melanie forced her to eat an omelette and toast and more strong coffee laced with brandy. When Susan finished, Melanie propelled her back upstairs and tucked her into bed. ‘You need your strength for the investigation. So don’t come out of here until you’re human again. And give Marli a rest.’

  Her aunt stayed with them for ten days, during which time she’d dragged her sister to a good solicitor. ‘This one’s a gladiator, Susan. She’ll stake Harry out and stick his dick in a jar full of fire ants. And you should take advantage of the police force counselling service. You might be able to run a murder investigation with both hands tied behind your back, but even you can’t do this on your own. You’ve suffered shocking body-blows. You’re not a bloody psychiatrist!’

  After Aunt Melanie returned to work, Aunt Eloise, her dad’s sister, arrived to look after them, much to Marli’s relief, thankful granny hadn’t come. Her carping disapproval would cause mum to commit matricide.

  Her mother finally pulled out of her fog, went to counselling and sorted out her legal position with regard to her marriage. Marli didn’t know what arrangements they’d come to, but mum assured her they were financially okay, but that dad was forcing the sale of their home. ‘We can’t plan an overseas trip just yet, love,’ she’d said with a watery smile.

  Her father, Harry, did not communicate, but Brit kept up a steady stream of text messages and phone calls, issuing instructions and wanting to know what mum was up to. ‘Why don’t you speak to mum yourself?’ Marli braced herself for the wrath which she knew would break over her at the very suggestion.

  ‘What do you mean? It’s mum’s fault Dad left!’ Brit shrieked. ‘You always sided with her. Get real!’ Their relationship had gone downhill from there. Now, as she listened to her mother’s account of finding the burned photos and events at the luncheon, she realised mum was back, strong as ever and Marli had their real dad too. Brit was missing out big time.

  She sat on the lounge, tucked her legs up under her and leaned back, glowing with secret joy. If she kept very quiet, they’d forget she was there. She glanced at the bag he’d dropped on the floor beside his chair. He was going to stay with them! Her heart felt as though it was being squeezed beyond happiness.

  But just then, her father’s mobile rang. Her heart sank as she watched the expression on his face change.

  CHAPTER 24

  Making Tracks

  The Killer

  Friday: 5pm to dawn.

  He couldn’t keep still. The fear and rage bubbling inside him found its outlet in smashing things; cutlery glass–anything which came to hand. Fear oozed out of his body, permeating his nostrils. His stomach roiled.

  Shards of glass flew around the room with cyclonic force. Kitchen implements bounced off the walls, the doors, and clashed in mid-air as they crossed flight paths.

  It still wasn’t enough, even as he leaned, exhausted, against the kitchen dresser.

  Something had to give.

  The family secret could not be allowed to choke his future. Surely Arthur wouldn’t be so stupid as to even hint ... no, they agreed at the family meeting, that nothing would be said. Arthur had been the most vigorous supporter of silence. Well, he would be. His biography could blow the past apart and there was no way to stop the bloody thing from being written. The book had been commissioned and paid for by the Historical Society. If he intervened, people would want to know the reason why.

  He looked at the clock. His girlfriend, disguised as his current secretary, Gloria, would arrive shortly. How to explain the devastation in the room? What to do? A solution came to mind.

  He crunched across the glass fragments to the sink, took a full bottle of detergent from the shelf underneath and squirted a huge swathe of the liquid onto the floor, trailing it across the draining board. Then he reached behind, squirted some over his right buttock and smeared it down the back of his trousers. Then he drizzled it over his shoes and swiped his hand along the underside of his sleeve and over his shoulder. He followed up with a stream of detergent on the right side of his face, hair and ear. He dumped the bottle and edged carefully around the mess to the laundry.

  His cleaner tended to put things in the wrong place, but this time the mop was where it belonged. He half-filled the bucket with hot water and carried it back into the kitchen, dunked the mop into the bucket, squeezed it and swiped at the detergent, skilfully cutting wild paths from the sink to the table. The resultant tracks looked for all the world as though he had slipped and fallen on his right-hand side.

  He finished just in time. As he reached the end of his track-making, Gloria’s high heels tapped along the path at the side of the house. He dropped the mop into the bucket, grabbed the dustpan and brush, and was diligently sweeping up crockery and glass from the other side of the room when she walked in the back door.

  ‘Oh my goodness, what’s happened here?’

  ‘I spilt the dishwashing liquid and slipped in it while I was filling the dishwasher,’ he explained, with rueful charm.

  She gave a “poor man let me do this and I’ll show you what a good wife I’ll make” smile and took the implements from his helpless hands.

  Three quarters of an hour later, he’d had a shower and Gloria had cleaned up the chaos. He took two glasses from his crystal collection, normally kept for special occasions, poured them a glass of wine each and chatted to her as she loaded the dishwasher with what was left of the china.

  Then he took her out to dinner, fed her, brought her home, “did” her and was forced to listen to her breathing beside him for the rest of the night. But it was a small price to pay for her naiveté in accepting his fairytale, and too stupid to question why he was filling the dishwasher. His housekeeper always did that.

  He hadn’t given up the idea of returning for Susan Prescott, but the police hadn’t done anything more than question him along with everyone else in the family. He wasn’t worried; she hadn’t seen him at the hospital after all. For some reason his attempt to strangle her hadn’t been reported, which made him a little anxious, but there was no way she could identify him. And now he’d managed to destroy the photos as well. He’d made sure no clues remained.

  He stirred uneasily, reliving the moment on the six o’clock news while the announcer reported the fire at the hospital. Images of the fire engines and crews mopping up the mess played themselves out on the screen, while he seethed with fear and anticipation. Glenwood must have died. The dose of insulin had been enough to kill three men. Perhaps the police were not going to make the attack public? The young constable had his back turned when he was hit, so no danger there. And The CCTV footage would only show a tall, hooded man.

  He clenched his teeth as he waited for some mention of a death–two deat
hs–for he’d belted the constable so hard, his skull had cracked.

  Gloria stirred, rolled over and draped her leg over his. He wanted to smash her face in, but she was so damn useful and just how he liked women–stupid, pretty and skeletal. Having a woman around was the only way he could conceal which side he really batted for. He always took his lovers to out-of-the-way places, where no one knew either of them, but he’d begun to lay the groundwork of Gloria’s instability in case she went public with their relationship. Discreetly, he had told his colleagues she was crazy and coming on far too strong. If necessary, he would ask one of them to quietly advise her to back off; perhaps even to counsel her.

  He rolled her over, heaved himself on top, rammed into her and began to ride her as though he was winning the Melbourne Cup.

  Her eyes flew open, startled. She wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist. The faster he got to the finish, the sooner morning would come and he could find out if John Glenwood was still alive.

  Then he would reconsider his position.

  CHAPTER 25

  Condemnation

  Susan

  Thursday: early evening.

  David is speaking to a woman. His deep, soft, playful tones, accompanied by bent head and slightly hunched shoulders, indicate he’s seeking privacy.

  He steps out onto the verandah and closes the glass door, so we can’t overhear the conversation. I see the disappointment in Marli’s face before she has time to assume a nonchalant facade. I cram down my own regret and continue to inventory the people who had been at the luncheon.

  Euon Jellicott, solicitor, late 40s, early 50s? Grandson of Grace, Arthur’s sister, unmarried. No comment on Jack, but liked Edna.

  Mark Gordon, Ferna’s son - first marriage? Mid 50s? Also unmarried. Don’t know how he felt about either victim.

  Peter Robinson, architect, 40 something, son of John, Arthur’s brother. Another unmarried. These men aren’t very successful with women–or are they all gay?