by Sarah Bailey
Dad wanted to take me out for dinner later that night, to celebrate his little girl finally finishing school. ‘You did it,’ he’d said earlier that morning, but I knew he’d really meant, You made it, because once you have met grief so bluntly you expect it to appear at random, snatching away the things that you have carefully rebuilt, the things that keep you alive. Dad’s fear of my dying had loomed over us ever since Mum had gone, hidden in every innocent ‘Be careful’ or ‘Call me if you need to’.
Dad knew that something wasn’t quite right between Jacob and me but I’d brushed it away, blaming the exams and our shift into adulthood. He left it alone, glad not to have to navigate the choppy waters of emotion.
I only had twenty minutes left. I looked at the lines of writing—so many words. I couldn’t remember what I’d written but I had to trust that my brain knew the answers, that my hands had directed the pen to write down the right words. The questions pulsed at me from the exam paper. How real do you think Romeo and Juliet’s love is? Explain your answer in the context of the era in which they lived.
Tears welled in my eyes and I tipped my head backwards slightly to stop them brimming over. I looked around the room. Everyone else was bent over their desks, writing furiously. Kevin Whitby dropped his pen and it rattled noisily onto the floor. One of the adjudicators curled her lip, annoyed, before marching over to pick it up. Rosalind’s long hair spilled past her shoulder a few rows in front of me. A small shaft of sunlight from a ceiling window hit her hair and it gleamed more golden than usual. Just finish this, I thought, just finish.
Ignoring the endless, tedious summer in front of me, I started to write again, making the case that the love between Shakespeare’s two young characters was indeed real, so real that it transcended the reality that had previously seemed so solid to them both, right up to the day before they met. It’s real, I wrote, because it quickly becomes everything, and the thought of it being taken away makes them feel like they would be left with nothing at all.
Chapter Thirty-one
Friday, 18 December, 3.46 pm
At check-in I’m recounting my conversation with Lila Wilcox when Jonesy appears. The air in the station is hot and musky, the twin fans gallantly pushing it back and forth above our heads. My shirt feels damp across my back. Felix still isn’t here; he texted me to say that he is following up something to do with Rosalind’s finances and will fill me in later.
‘So who is this mystery man, Woodstock?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Jonesy snorts. ‘You must have some ideas, surely?’
Felix bursts in. He waves for me to keep talking and takes a seat up the back.
I look Jonesy in the eye. ‘Well, there’re the teachers. In particular, the principal, Nicholson. Then there’re the students.’ I glance at Felix, who raises an eyebrow at me, before I say reluctantly, ‘There was an alleged issue with a student at her previous school, so there could be a pattern with our victim and younger men. She would have had a lot of interaction with the lead in the play, Rodney Mason. And Kai Bracks, the backstage manager—also in year twelve—is rumoured to have had a crush on her earlier this year. Someone sent her some flowers on Valentine’s Day and a lot of people think it was him.’ I pause, picturing the roses on my front porch. ‘And one of her neighbours mentioned a man in a fancy car paying her a visit a few weeks ago but nothing has come of that so far. Or maybe it’s some random, normal guy she met somewhere.’ I sip at my cold coffee. ‘Or she could have been lying to Lila about being in a relationship, seeing as Lila is overseas and would never know any better. If she was seeing someone, he hasn’t come forward, which in itself would be incredibly suspicious. In saying that, her phone records certainly don’t give a clue to her seeing someone. She barely called anyone or received any calls. The only suspicion comes from a couple of calls from a prepaid phone that we can’t lock down. So maybe Rosalind wanted to make her life sound more exciting and fabricated a romance.’
Jonesy coughs and it reminds me of sandpaper. ‘She did seem to live in her head a bit. Ditzy, isn’t that what you call it? Okay, so this is all just maybes. Anything solid yet? Where are we at?’
I stand and move towards the large pin boards. Multiple Rosalinds stare at me.
I look Jonesy in the eye. ‘We’re not really anywhere yet, sir. It could still be a random attack, of course, which would certainly explain why nothing is adding up.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘No. It doesn’t explain why she was at the lake. I still think it was personal.’ I pause and then say, ‘The pregnancy is a possible motive.’
‘You think the father wanted the baby dead?’
‘Maybe. Or it could simply point to the kind of serious relationship that Rosalind described to Lila Wilcox. Perhaps it turned abusive. They might have fought about something. Maybe things were going well between them but then she told him about the pregnancy and he got scared.’
Jonesy grunts. ‘She could have got knocked up by a stranger. Someone she just met.’
‘She could have,’ I allow, ‘but I don’t think so. That definitely seems unlikely based on what we know about her character and the fact that she was so many weeks along. It suggests she was considering keeping the baby.’
‘What was her character?’
I sigh, puffing air into my cheeks. ‘To be honest, sir, it’s difficult to define. Trying to nail down her personality is hard. A lot of people liked her and an equal number didn’t. She didn’t seem to be particularly close to anyone.’
‘What about the trouble at her other school?’ Jonesy presses.
I nod. ‘The incident at her old school seems to be an anomaly but could indicate a tendency to manipulate. She definitely made some waves when she pushed to have the school play. There’s no gambling, no serious drug issues, no public outbursts or criminal record. Really, there’s nothing.’ I glance at her photos on the board. ‘Plus, if she was seeing someone, why keep it a secret? Why keep it from her family and friends? She probably told Lila because she was a safe option living thousands of k’s away. But it does indicate that Rosalind wanted to talk about this guy. It makes me think that the relationship, assuming there was one, must have been problematic in some way. Maybe it was scandalous. Maybe he was married. There must have been something that made her want to keep it under wraps.’
Jonesy huffs. ‘Well, we need definites, not maybes, so it sounds like you still have a lot of work to do. I want you to keep looking into the kids. We’ve all known cases where crushes have gotten out of hand. And try to track down the man the neighbour said she saw. With the posh car. And see if you can get any more information from Rosalind’s old school. There might be a link there.’ He wipes sweat from his eyebrows. ‘But remember: no bloody overtime. I’m getting whipped from all angles.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Saturday, 19 December, 5.42 am
Tucked neatly next to the shock of Rosalind’s murder are thoughts of Christmas. It’s only a week away, or so the screaming ads on the radio tell me. The shops rumble with quiet panic. Smithsonians are into Christmas in a big way. The tatty plastic on the decorations in the main streets rustles uncomfortably in the heat. At this hour, there is barely a soul about, just the occasional dog walker or jogger. I wonder if people are still doing laps of the lake or whether they are sticking to the roads since Rose was found there. It’s funny how paranoia seeps into the air. How it can curl around doors and into thoughts. Fasten locks and quicken steps.
In contrast to the soft dawn, the bakery on Hopkins Street is defiantly lit up like a Christmas tree. Inside, I see Nick Gould yanking empty wire trays from the display shelves. Nick was in my year, just like Rosalind. His claim to fame was being able to eat four large pizzas in a single sitting. My friend Janet had given him a blow job after one such display of manliness at a house party and she swore that his come had tasted like tomato and basil.
Huge trucks block the entrance of the Woolworths car
park. A cigarette flicks from the front window of the vehicle nearest to me and lands dangerously close to a discarded newspaper. The glowing ember is followed by an impressive wad of phlegm. Jill’s Turkeys runs in a repetitive ribbon along the belly of the truck and I think about the giant empty carcasses, headless and hanging, bobbing along silently in rows as if making small talk about the weather.
Jerking my car into a park, I grab the shopping bags and hope this won’t take too long.
‘Gemma!’
‘Hey, Sydney.’ I never fail to see someone I know when I’m doing the shopping, but I hoped that my extra-early start might give me a better chance of avoiding unwanted chat.
‘Nasty business with the teacher.’
I nod. Sydney owns the only indoor playground in Smithson. Her favourite colour is pink and she has fitted out the centre accordingly. I never take Ben there: it’s like being inside a giant stomach. Today Sydney looks flushed and blotchy. Her hair is pulled back tight from her face, reminding me of a water-spitting bath toy that Ben likes to bash against the side of the tub.
‘Chemical peel,’ she says, patting her cheeks. ‘It’s supposed to go down by Christmas. It’s good for redness.’ She stabs at her face with a sharp orange nail. ‘We’re starting to get old, you know, Gemma.’
I nod again, assuming I’m supposed to agree, and move more quickly towards the supermarket entrance. Sydney almost trips over in her heels trying to keep up with me.
‘So do you guys know who did it yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Mm. Well, hopefully you will by Christmas. Is there any truth to the serial killer talk? Do you know that the council was going to have the carols at the lake? Can you imagine? I mean, urgh.’ She shudders. Her voice seems to roll out of her unchecked. Her large plastic handbag slaps against her bare thigh, making a sucking sound.
‘Probably not the best idea.’
‘No. Well. It’s just awful.’ She grabs at a trolley, aggressively shaking it loose from the pack. Then her face brightens as if the sun has come out. ‘Anyway, what are you doing for Christmas? With little Joe?’
‘Ben.’
‘Yep, right, Ben. I think it’s Georgia that has Joe. Anyway. What are your plans?’
‘Just hanging around with Dad probably. Scott’s brother and his wife. Nothing special.’
‘Lovely, lovely.’ Her mind is clearly starting to trawl the shelves, her mental shopping list taking priority over our conversation. ‘Well, must fly, unfortunately. I’ve ten people coming for dinner tonight.’
‘Take care, Sydney. Tell Max I say hi.’
She waves her fingers at me and disappears down an aisle, weaving her trolley with impressive skill.
My trolley has a wonky wheel, and my muscles pull and burn as I round the corners.
I hate coming to the supermarket. The rows of things stare down at me—all of these things that I don’t know what to do with. I’m a terrible cook. Before I met Scott I basically lived on noodles, eggs and boiled rice. A lot of the time I would barely eat at all, coming home from work and drinking wine until I fell asleep on the couch. For a while I lived with an Italian girl, a part-time actress who moonlighted as a chef. I tried to emulate her complicated creations but just didn’t have a knack for it. I still remember her laughing uncontrollably the night I tried to make crème brûlée.
I told Sydney the truth. We are spending Christmas with my dad. Scott’s brother Craig and sister-in-law Laura will come too, as will Aunt Megan. Scott’s parents live in the UK with his mum’s elderly mother. They rarely come out to Australia; they don’t have much money, and we’re not that close to them anyway. Ben and his simple Christmas joy will be the only thing about the day that holds us all together. Craig and Laura have been trying to have children for almost five years. I have to look away when they give Ben his presents.
I toss packets of chips into the trolley, catching the handle before it clips me in the guts. Tonight we are going to a Christmas barbecue at Scott’s friend Pete’s place. It’s a dress-up theme. Pete’s girlfriend Fee has an inexplicably large pool of sexy elf and Santa outfits and insists on hosting this annual dress-up party. Dad is minding Ben. I don’t want to go. Scott and I fought about it yesterday morning.
‘You could make an effort sometimes, Gem.’ He said it quietly, like he was talking to someone else.
‘Fine, fine. I’ll come.’
He kept watching TV. ‘You like Pete. You like Fee. You like the guys. What’s the problem?’
Although these points are only partly true, I said tightly, ‘No problem. I already said I’m coming.’
Felix and I had originally planned to meet tonight. He’d texted me last night to cancel just before Scott reminded me about the party, which I had forgotten about. The disappointment at not having time alone with Felix was so strong that for a moment I almost thought I would throw the mug I was holding at Scott. I placed it safely in the sink just to be sure.
I pick up a cereal box and look at the ingredients halfheartedly. I know I shouldn’t feed Ben this shit, but the likelihood of me actually coming up with an alternative that he will eat is close to zero. I toss the sugary cereal in next to the chips.
‘Gemma Woodstock, I thought it was you.’
I freeze mid-trolley push.
‘Helloooo.’ Candy Fyfe ducks her head in front of mine and wiggles her fingers at me. ‘You’re here early. Case causing you some insomnia?’ Syrupy with empathy, her words run along the nerve in my spine that is specifically reserved for the pitch of her voice.
‘I hate shopping. I’m just getting it out of the way.’
She nods as if agreeing. ‘Mm. You certainly don’t strike me as a Christmas person. Too festive for you. Too joyous.’
‘Go away, Candy.’
‘Oh, come on. You won’t answer my calls at work. Fate clearly brought me to aisle five at this ungodly hour so we could talk. Do you know,’ she went on, clearly not caring whether I wanted to know or not, ‘I had a day off last Friday! First time in, like, I don’t know, two years I’ve had a day off and there’s a freaking murder! I almost missed it. Can you believe it?’
I angle my trolley away from her and push it forward.
‘I was at a wedding in the city. It was lovely, thanks for asking. I made it back on Saturday morning just in the nick of time to get to the lake. But it’s been a full-on week since, trying to solve this doozy.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I hardly think you need to worry yourself with things like that. Surely there’s some little Christmassy piece you should be getting your claws stuck into instead.’
‘C’mon, don’t be like that. Let me buy you a coffee. Have a proper chat. The press conference the other day was a complete waste of time. I want to hear from you where you’re at on this thing. Saves me from filing yet another story that says you guys have no clue.’
‘Seriously, Candy, I’m not doing this now. We’ve made our statement. We’re getting closer every day.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She starts to scan the shelves in an over-exaggerated way.
I walk away from her, more riled than I would ever admit.
‘You know what everyone’s saying, don’t you?’
I keep my eyes on the butter at the end of the aisle. Keep walking, don’t let her get to you.
Candy’s voice has a melodic lilt as she throws one last barb in my direction. ‘Mr Principal certainly was pretty friendly with the beautiful Ms Ryan. That’s the word on the street anyway.’
I spin around in anger and then force myself to breathe away a nasty retort as I watch Candy’s svelte arse sashay up the aisle.
Chapter Thirty-three
Saturday, 19 December, 10.34 am
‘I think it’s only eczema but you just never know. I always panic. I’ve been to the doctor with her at least four times this past month!’
Carol’s laugh dances around her front room. She calls it the sunroom even though it doesn’t really have the right kind of window to
be a sunroom. Ben has finally calmed down and is playing sweetly on the floor with Jack, Carol’s son. She is breastfeeding Olive, the baby. Somewhere deeper in the house a radio is on and I hear a familiar news riff. The baby makes a loud sucking sound as she feeds and Carol tuts at her gently.
‘So hungry today, aren’t you? Poor thing.’ Carol pushes wavy hair from her eyes and looks at me apologetically. ‘Do you mind grabbing the cakes from the bench, Gem? I’m kind of stuck here.’
‘Sure, of course.’
I glance at her as I rise from the couch. She’s staring lovingly at Olive, who is grabbing intently at her thumb. Carol seems happy to be trapped.
In the kitchen I pause to take in the effect of the room. The dove grey couch looks incredibly soft. A mohair blanket is folded across the top cushion. The blinds are drawn and the room is cool from the air-con. The fridge hums healthily and a row of indoor plants look well-watered. A towering pine is dotted with red bows and a large gold star is perfectly centred on top. Brightly wrapped gifts are stacked high under the tree. Clearly Jack is well-behaved enough to be trusted around this perfectly styled Christmas scene. I move over to the bench and can see happy snaps on the fridge of Carol and her husband Seth. His arms are wrapped around her and she smiles symmetrically at the camera. There are photos of Jack and Olive and other small children. Nieces, I assume; I remember Carol mentioning her sister’s children. At least a dozen invitations to kids’ birthdays and christenings are secured with magnets. Two wedding invites and an invitation to a love ceremony covered in silver foil are displayed in a little fan.
I always have such high hopes before my visits to Carol’s that everything will suddenly click, that Carol’s contentedness might rub off on me, and then, within minutes, I feel a flat disappointment. I just can’t seem to slot into this world. I always end up leaving earlier than I need to.