by Maris Morton
Clio seemed to be having trouble focusing on the dates. ‘And when are they going up to Perth?’
‘On Tuesday.’
‘That’s … tomorrow, isn’t it?’
‘The day after,’ Mary said.
Clio closed the book and let it slip down over the bedding. ‘What time are you going out?’
Mary glanced at her watch. ‘As soon as I finish washing up. About fifteen minutes.’
‘Off you go then. Enjoy yourself!’
To Mary’s surprise, Clio smiled at her with real warmth, and as she left the room, Mary felt a hint of optimism: maybe Clio was on the way to recovery after all.
MARY HADN’T MADE macaroni cheese since her first evening here, but it had worked then, and with a bit of luck it would work again tonight.
It was lucky that the pasta was something that could be kept hot in the warming oven, because it was very late when the men finally came home. Mary had eaten her own share and given some to Clio, with a glass of red wine.
A cloud of beery breath spiced with cigarette smoke accompanied Paul and Martin into the house. ‘Hello,’ she greeted them. ‘How did it go?’ She hoped this wasn’t a tactless question, but Paul managed a half-smile.
‘Not too bad,’ he said, and they wandered off up the passage to begin their evening ablutions and open another beer.
Mary used the time to fetch Clio’s empty dishes. There was a little pile of crumpled paper on the bed, and Clio was holding the pen poised over a clean sheet, with her eyes fixed on some distant point as if she was pondering something of great import. Noticing Mary, she started to gather the crunched papers into a more compact pile. ‘Mary, could you burn these for me? I don’t want them left lying around.’
‘Sure. I’ll do it now.’ Mary stacked the pages on Clio’s empty plate. Clio hadn’t quite finished the glass of wine. ‘Would you like a top-up?’
‘Yes, why not.’
As soon as she was back in the kitchen, Mary fed the papers into the stove. She didn’t want to have to explain to Paul what she was doing. She could hear from the gurgling in the water pipes that the shower was still running. She refilled Clio’s wineglass and took it in to her. Clio had gone off again into that place where she’d been spending so much of her time lately, and Mary didn’t disturb her.
When she heard Paul and Martin on their way down the passage, she took the hot dish of macaroni out of the oven, and the warm plates, and set it out on the table. She was anxious to judge whether Paul’s mood was any better tonight.
While his nose was in the trough, it was hard to tell. Mary chided herself for such an uncharitable thought, but the way Paul applied himself to his food did have a certain swinish quality. Martin was chatting to his father about the day’s successes and disappointments, but Paul responded with little more than noncommittal grunts. Still, Martin kept on trying, and Mary wished him luck.
Paul accepted cake, bread and jam without comment, keeping his eyes on his plate. Mary realised he was avoiding her. When he was so close to finishing his meal that she knew he’d be heading up the passage to the TV room and beyond her reach, she took the bull by the horns.
‘Paul, have you thought any more about giving me a lift back to Perth?’
He did look up at her now. His eyes were bloodshot. Was it from too much beer, or too much concentration on distant targets? He gave her a token smile.
For a moment she felt hopeful that she’d hear the answer she wanted. ‘It’s just that I brought such a lot of stuff with me that going on the bus would be difficult. So I’m really hoping that you’ll be kind enough to take me in the Piper.’
His smile widened, and he held her eyes with his. ‘That sounds to me,’ he told her, quite pleasantly, ‘as if it might be a personal problem.’
And that was the end of that conversation. Martin gave her a look that she took as an apology for his father’s surliness, and followed him out of the kitchen.
Mary was still seething when she retired to the sleepout. This space, spartan though it was, had become her refuge. She tried to put Paul out of her mind. In two days he’d be gone, and she need never look upon his handsome face again.
When she stared out through the louvres, there was not a hint of moonlight or starlight, just impenetrable darkness.
32
NEXT MORNING, THE RAIN WAS BUCKETING DOWN. Paul was at the long table, waiting for his breakfast. Martin was late, and she left his food to keep warm while she squeezed oranges, aware that anything she did for Clio was bound to displease Paul.
The bedroom light was on again, and Mary clicked it off. Clio must have had another wakeful night. She set the glass down and crossed to pull back the curtains, wondering whether to open the french doors: would it be too cold? She left them closed.
As Mary was leaving the room, some small incongruity caught at the edge of her consciousness, and she tiptoed back to the bed. Clio’s dark hair was spread across the lower of the pillows but the top one had fallen across her face. Mary felt a stab of panic: weak as she was, Clio could have smothered. She was so still, with one hand lying curled, palm up, touching her hair. Mary lifted the edge of the pillow.
Shock brought a sudden faintness. She felt her gut clench and had to fight the impulse to dry retch while she struggled to make sense of what was in front of her.
She must think.
When she’d processed the first shock, she tried to raise the pillow higher, but it seemed to be stuck.
Was Clio alive? She made herself reach out and touch the hand that lay curled on the lower pillow. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t as warm as it should have been either.
Holding her breath, she leant closer and eased the pillow away. Then she dropped it, hiding Clio’s shattered face and the pool of dark blood that was gluing the pillow to her hair. She could feel her face contort with grief, and then the tears came streaming down her cheeks. Without conscious thought, she collapsed into Clio’s blue velvet chair to wait for the agony to pass, with the image of what was left of Clio’s face, flesh and teeth and bone and — horror — an eyeball displaced from its orbit, floating in her vision as if it had been etched into her retinas and would remain there forever; and the smell, which had flooded into every tiny space within her lungs and taken over her senses …
Finally, her breathing slowed to something like normal. What must she do? Tell Paul, of course. Lock up the room. Was it a crime scene? The police would have to be called, and an ambulance, if such a thing could exist so far from any town. Look for a note: if it was suicide, there should be a note, shouldn’t there, and hadn’t Clio asked her for pen and paper yesterday? She’d assumed it was to write letters, maybe, or lists of things still to be done. But through her tears she could see no sign of any note.
She glanced around the familiar room, keeping her gaze away from the hump under the bedclothes. Clio must have been listening to music last night: the CD player’s light was still shining, next to the glass of orange juice that Clio wouldn’t be drinking this morning, or any morning …
PAUL WAS STILL sitting over the remains of his breakfast. ‘You going to make the tea?’ he said. ‘Or has that bitch got you jumping through hoops again?’ Then he must have seen something in her face. ‘What’s the matter? You seen a ghost or something?’
Automatically, Mary pushed the kettle onto the hotplate, and when it began to sing, took the teapot and rinsed it out with hot water, then emptied the water, with its scattering of yesterday’s tea leaves, down the sink. She didn’t want to tell Paul what she’d just seen. If she said nothing, maybe it would all go away.
She delayed breaking the news while she made the tea and waited for it to draw, in the end hurrying it along by lifting the lid of the teapot and stirring the steaming liquid.
‘Paul,’ she began. Her voice was coming out all wrong, husky and hesitant. She cleared her throat and poured tea for them both. ‘Paul.’ That was better. He was looking at her with those eyes that could be so cold, but this mor
ning they held no more than mild irritation. ‘Clio’s dead.’ He didn’t respond. ‘I think Clio’s dead, Paul.’ There. It was out. Mary waited for his reaction. If she had to, she could say it all again.
But he ignored her.
‘I think she might have been shot,’ Mary said. She heard herself say the words and wondered why she was so certain.
‘Shot? What do you mean, shot?’ His tone was one of disbelief.
‘Shot,’ Mary said again.
Paul sat staring over at Martin’s empty place at the table; slowly the blood drained from his face. He sprang to his feet and strode away up the passage to his son’s room, the drumming of his feet loud over the beat of the rain on the iron roof. Mary heard the door of Martin’s room open, then a silence that lasted for an age, then men’s voices, muffled and indistinct.
Paul came back into the kitchen and sat again at the table. He was still pale and didn’t look at her.
‘Is Martin coming?’ she asked.
‘Lazy young bugger was still asleep. He’s up now.’
It seemed a long time before Mary heard Martin coming down the passage. His steps were slow, and when he appeared in the doorway he was still in his pyjamas, hair uncombed.
‘Took you long enough,’ Paul said.
Mary poured Martin’s tea.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said, spooning sugar into his cup.
Through the haze of her shock, Mary went about the business of starting the breakfast clean-up. Dimly she registered that Martin was glowering at his father with an odd intensity.
‘Mum came to see me last night,’ Mary heard him say.
‘What?’
‘Mum came into my room. It was the middle of the night.’ He took a gulp of his hot tea and put down his mug. ‘I was asleep.’
‘What the fuck did she want?’
Martin was staring at his father as if he were a stranger. ‘Gave me a hell of a fright. She had a gun in her hand. She looked …’
‘What?’ Paul said.
Martin was very pale. ‘I thought she was going to shoot me. She looked crazy. I really thought she was going to shoot me … If I hadn’t woken up …’
‘Shit,’ Paul said. Mary could see the emotions crossing his face: alarm, then confusion, then relief. ‘Well, you needn’t worry: she’s dead now.’
‘Dead?’ Martin turned to Mary. ‘Dead?’
She nodded. Making her voice sound normal took an effort. ‘Yes, Martin.’ She spoke to Paul. ‘You’ll have to phone the police. They’ll have to come …’ The shock was still weighing on her, an intolerable burden making every movement difficult, speech almost impossible.
‘No,’ Paul said. Mary stared at him. ‘Later. She’s not going anywhere.’
Martin had started to weep, tears running down his cheeks. He brushed them away and took a gulp of tea. When he’d put the mug down, he looked at his father.
‘The wedding’s off, Dad,’ he said. His voice was husky.
‘What are you talking about? Don’t be stupid.’
‘The wedding’s off.’ Martin’s tone was resolute. ‘I’ll have to fly up and tell Alyssa …’ When he said her name his expression wavered and his tears flowed afresh. ‘I can’t …’
‘Can’t bloody what? What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Last night’ — Martin made a stoic attempt to control his tears — ‘last night Mum told me … she said how you smashed her … what was it?’
‘Her viola,’ Mary said.
‘Yes, viola.’ He stared at his father, implacable. ‘Did you do that?’
Paul looked down at the table.
Martin appealed to Mary. ‘Did he?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Why, Dad? She told me how you’d taken her music away from her. I had no idea.’
‘Bloody rubbish.’
‘No, Dad. I didn’t know about her music. How it was so important. Last night, she made me see how important it is to Alyssa, too. How giving it up to come and live down here would … would kill her.’
‘That’s bullshit!’
Martin slowly shook his head. ‘She said Mary understood. Maybe David would have …’
Paul gave a snort of dismissal.
‘I thought about what she said. I thought about it all night. Couldn’t sleep.’ He looked straight at his father. ‘If Alyssa can’t come and live here with me, there’s no point in us getting married, is there. I can’t live up there, she can’t live down here. And if she does try, then … Anyway, I promised.’
‘Promised what?’
‘I promised Mum I wouldn’t marry Alyssa and make her live here at Downe.’
Paul’s look was one of incredulity. ‘What? I don’t care what bloody promises you made, Martin. Your mother’s dead. You don’t owe her a bloody thing.’
Martin’s voice was quiet. ‘Yes, Dad. I do. She’s my mother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now that she’s dead’ — a look of pain crossed his face — ‘keeping my promise is the only thing I can still do for her.’
33
THE NEAREST POLICE STATION WAS AT GLENDENUP. Mary dialled the number and waited while it rang in an office in a town she’d never seen. When a man answered, she stammered and tried to explain to the listening silence what the problem was.
They were on their way.
While she waited, Mary struggled to come to terms with what had happened. Clio must have stumbled into Martin’s room, and then gone back to her own and killed herself.
The gun? Where had Clio got that from? Did it belong to Paul, or Martin?
She could feel pressure building behind her eyes and pushed her palms against them as if this would hold in the tears. Eventually, she sensed that Paul, with Martin — now dressed, washed and combed — was standing behind her.
‘We’re going to town,’ Paul said.
‘But … you’ll have to talk to the police.’
Paul headed for the door.
Mary put out a hand to stop him. ‘You should wait till the police have been.’ He brushed her aside.
Martin gave her a look of apology. ‘I have to see Alyssa,’ he said. His expression was bleak.
Mary felt as if she ought to make a greater effort to stop them, but they’d take a little while to pack their things, and maybe in that time commonsense would prevail. Once Paul and Martin had gone, she’d be alone with the rain pounding on the roof and with Clio, dead in her room.
She set about the routine tasks that she could tackle without thought; anything to keep that ghastly image at bay. There were the breakfast dishes to be done, the beds to be made.
At the door of Paul’s room, she stopped. Making someone’s bed was such an intimate thing, the bedding permeated with the unique scent of its owner and marked with the ghost-stains of blood, sweat, and all the other bodily exudations that had accumulated over time.
The men’s beds could wait.
She’d almost finished making her own, when she was astonished to hear the drone of the Piper, circling over the homestead to gain height. With the rain, she hadn’t noticed them drive off in the ute. She stood and listened as the engine noise faded into the distance.
They hadn’t waited to pack. They’d just gone.
Damn Paul! How dare he simply bugger off and leave her to deal with this all on her own?
THE POLICE CAR SPLASHED through the puddles and stopped outside the back door. Two policemen jumped out and sprinted through the rain to the back door, where Mary was waiting. Without speaking, she led them into the haven of the kitchen.
The older man looked down at her. ‘And you are?’
‘Mary Lanyon. I work here as housekeeper.’
‘Detective Sergeant Matt Norrish, Constable Dan Moir,’ he introduced them both. ‘Where’s Paul Hazlitt?’
Mary knew the policeman wouldn’t be pleased. ‘He flew to Perth,’ she said, watching the man’s face. ‘With Martin. About an hour ago.’
‘Shit,’ was all he said.
To k
eep her mind off the reality in the front room, Mary concentrated on DS Norrish. He was a bulky man, with thick brown hair and pale eyes. He was studying her just as carefully.
‘It was you that called us, not him?’ he said.
‘I told Paul you’d want to talk to him.’
‘Okay, if he’s not here you better show us.’
Mary led them along the passage. The policemen were bigger men than Paul or Martin; she could feel the thud of their feet on the threadbare carpet.
She brought them to the door of Clio’s room, opened it, and stood aside. She wouldn’t go into that room again unless she had to; her senses were still imprinted with the sight and smell of death. ‘Mrs Hazlitt’s in her bed.’ She spoke quietly, as if she feared to wake the sleeper.
The sergeant snapped on the light. Instantly the room brightened from its quiet gloom.
He crossed to the bed, lifted the pillow and took a long look, nodding to himself before coming back.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’d better get SOC here, and Homicide.’ He spoke over his shoulder to the younger man, following behind Mary. ‘Get on the radio will you, Dan? And while you’re at it, get on to Jandakot and get them to hold Paul Hazlitt till we’ve had a chat. If he left here about an hour ago’ — he looked interrogatively at Mary, who nodded confirmation — ‘he should get there in about another hour. He’ll be in radio contact anyway.’
The constable went out through the rain to their vehicle. The sergeant ushered Mary to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for her. She was touched by the courtesy. ‘We might as well make ourselves comfy,’ he told her with a friendly smile that seemed at odds with his reason for being here. He settled opposite her. ‘They’ll take a while to get here from Albany, assuming they haven’t got something more important to do. How about a cuppa?’
Mary stood up again and busied herself with the tea-making, glad to be moving.
When everything was ready, the sergeant watched her pour. ‘Milk and two sugars, love.’ He took the mug she offered. ‘Didn’t I hear that they got over a million bucks for a bale of wool a few weeks back?’
Of course, it had been in the papers. ‘One-point-four-five million,’ she said.