by Sarah Bailey
‘Whoops.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So tell me. Is it weird?’ He narrows his eyes at me.
‘Is what weird?’
‘Trying to work out who killed her?’
I look sharply at him, and for a moment, in the half-light, it seems as though the left side of his face is missing. I look back to the party. ‘That’s a stupid thing to say.’
‘Maybe. Sorry.’ He waves his hands as if trying to erase his words. ‘I guess I just remember a time when you wanted to kill her yourself. Ergo, this must be a little odd.’
‘That’s not true,’ I hiss. ‘Don’t say that.’
Fox shrugs. ‘It was a long time ago.’
He offers me a drag of his cigarette. I shake my head and he shrugs again.
‘I want my own one,’ I say, and I see his lips curl in a smirk.
‘Sure.’ He lights one and holds it out to me, his fingers brushing against mine as I take it from him.
I remember him coming around to my house after Jacob died. Holding my hand as we sat on the couch. I almost told him everything, but my throat froze and I couldn’t think how to explain it all, the weirdness that had taken me over, what I’d done, so instead we sat there in uncomfortable silence until I told him I just wanted to go to sleep. He held me too tight, kissed me on the forehead, then on my shoulder, then on my face, but I pulled away and he left. It’s never been the same between us since. I feel uneasy around him. Stressed.
I look up at him now—the same softly curling sandy hair, light tan, dark eyes. A little heavier and a bit rougher perhaps; his baby face has hardened, the hairs that form his light stubble are thick and wiry. My lips fall open as I look up at him. I want him to want me in that moment.
Fox takes a long drag of his cigarette, watching me.
I remember the smell of school lunchboxes, Friends episodes and Slurpees. Jacob.
Squeals break out across the yard. Fee has started a limbo game. Her breasts wobble as she bends backwards, shuffling towards the broomstick that Julia and Scott are holding. It’s crooked and hits her on the chest, and she laughs hysterically, falling backwards onto the grass. From here it appears Scott is looking down her top. He pulls her up in a light hug and they are both laughing. The smoke is sticking to my skin. I haven’t had a cigarette in years and I float a little as I inhale.
‘Get me a beer?’
Fox nods. ‘Sure.’
He comes back with a bottle of Carlton Draught. ‘For old times’ sake. A classic.’
The cold floods through me and my nerves sing. ‘God, I needed that.’
‘Come with me.’ He walks towards the side of the house.
‘What?’
He doesn’t stop.
‘Okay, I’m coming. Fox, what? What is it?’
We stand where the light doesn’t reach. ‘I don’t know … Look.’ He grabs my hands. ‘I guess I’ve just been thinking about Jacob a lot lately. Not sure why. Maybe ’cause of this Rose Ryan stuff or maybe ’cause it’s been ten years. Don’t know.’
He’s stepping from foot to foot. I look back to the yard. Shadows from the limbo game dance across the fence. Someone has turned the music up and people are singing off-key to Mariah’s Christmas anthem.
‘I even went to his grave last week,’ says Fox.
‘You did?’
‘You’ve never been, have you?’
I swig at my beer and the bubbles fizz up into my nose. ‘I don’t really see the point.’
He laughs. ‘Oh, Gem. You’re so tough. Tougher than all of us. I cared about you so much, did you know that? I cared about Jacob too, but you more. I still don’t think what happened makes sense. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. It never made sense, did it? Why he would do that. And then when I heard she’d died, I just felt like, I don’t know. Like maybe it had something to do with her all along. It’s like she was a witch.’
A fist grips my heart. It’s squeezing tighter and tighter. Any more and I might explode.
‘Don’t be stupid, Fox. She wasn’t magic!’
He lights another cigarette and the smoke finds its way into my lungs. The longing I have for the past swells in my chest and I force it away.
‘Fox, look, that was then and this is now. I don’t like to focus on stuff that happened back then. It never helps.’
He eyes me through the smoke. ‘Does anyone ever look after you, Gem?’
I roll my eyes.
‘Are you happy? You’re not, are you?’
And then his arms are around me and his mouth is on mine—smoke and spice and weed—and my head scrapes roughly against the jagged brick wall and I’m in high school again.
‘Fox, stop!’ I push him away gently and then more firmly.
‘C’mon, Gem. It’s okay.’
‘No, stop it.’
We stand there locked in a direct stare for a few moments and my head whirls with black nothingness.
‘Um, hi.’ Scott steps into the light at the end of the dark passage.
I step sideways away from Fox.
‘Hey, man. You good? Gem’s just a bit upset. Stressful week. We’re reminiscing, you know?’ Fox seems unflustered by Scott’s arrival. ‘Right, Gem?’
I nod, smiling at Scott. His face is pale but it might just be the outside light shining on it like a spotlight.
‘Yeah. Thanks, Fox. And now I need another drink. Whoa. God, it’s still so hot.’
I slip past them both and return to the backyard. ‘Hey, hi, hi,’ I say, as I make my way to the drinks table. The music throbs through my body. I can’t find any wine so I slosh gin into a cup and cover it with dregs of lemonade.
A bunch of people are dancing near the kiddie pool, their hands raised high. Scott grabs my elbow.
‘I want to dance,’ I tell him and pull away, not looking at his eyes. I gulp down my drink and join the dancers. I don’t recognise most of them but Doug offers me a high five and my hand stings as we slap.
‘Go, Gem!’ he says and I smile back. Everyone is smiling at me. It feels good to dance. I wonder whether Scott is watching me, if Fox is, but I don’t stop to look for either of them. I shake out my arms as a new song comes on. All the women squeal and start jumping with renewed energy. I move to the beat. I need to get my shoes off; my feet are on fire. I hop on the spot and yank off my boots. I stretch out my toes and spring back into the dancing thrum, whirling wildly. Jacob, Scott, Felix, Fox. I’m so sick of thinking about them. New songs come on and I keep moving. It’s so hot. All the other women love that I’m dancing with them. They grab at my waist and spin me around and I’m like a gymnast, or a ballerina turning in perfect circles.
I’m too hot. I need to sit down. I peer at my watch. Is that 1 am or 2 am? Fuck, I have to work in the morning. Keep trying to figure out who killed perfect, precious Rose Ryan. The perfect girl who ruined everything. My hair is sticking to the back of my neck. Maybe I’ll stand in the kiddie pool, stop for a minute. I step over the plastic rim. There’s no ice left but the water is cold. Just like the water in the lake. Rosalind is dead, Jacob is dead. Dead, dead, dead, but not me, I’m still here all alone. I almost laugh because it is so insane. My chest is heaving and I can’t catch my breath from the dancing. I have to sit down. I take a few steps backwards and squat on the edge of the kiddie pool, which immediately gives way, and I sink back into the icy water, laughter and screams washing over me as I fall.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sunday, 20 December, 7.57 am
I open my eyes and the first thing I see is a bucket on the floor next to the bed. From this angle I can’t tell if it’s empty but either way I definitely recall heaving into it after Scott brought me home. I hear his breathing behind me, ruffled by a slight snore. My head throbs, forcing my eyes shut again. I need to get up and get ready to go to work. I had planned to pick up Ben from Dad’s so Scott doesn’t have to do it later, but I won’t have time now. I slowly shift my body over and watch Scott sleeping. His face is relaxed and he looks peaceful,
his eyelids as smooth as a child’s. His lips are parted slightly and turn up at the edges. He has become a stranger.
I get up. I wash out the already rinsed bucket and quietly place it back in the laundry. Without Ben the house seems like an empty shell: like my ears are underwater. The silence roars around me. I flick on the radio but the voices and the laughter echo through the kitchen maniacally and I am hit by a wave of sickness. I run to the toilet and vomit repeatedly, my face exploding with sweat, the stale smell of wine making me retch even more. When I think it’s over, I flush the toilet and drop into a sitting position on the bathroom floor. I rest my head on the cool bowl and cry, tears running down my face. After the tears stop I wash my face and my neck, brush my teeth and twist my hair into a low messy bun. Grabbing my mobile, I step out onto the deck to call Dad. I talk in a low voice to Ben, who chatters excitedly about the cereal Dad has just given him for breakfast, then ask him to give the phone back to Granddad.
‘I need to get into work, Dad. Scott will come and get Ben a little later. Is that okay?’
‘Of course, of course. I love having him, you know that.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘How was last night? Did you guys have fun?’
‘Yep, yep—it was great.’
‘That’s good, darling. You work so hard, it’s good for you two to have some fun. You’re still so young.’
I nod, dangerously close to crying again. ‘I gotta go, Dad. Tell Ben I’ll see him later.’
I end the call and grab my things. I write a note for Scott saying that I spoke to Dad, that he can pick up Ben later, that I’ll be home around 7 pm. I’m glad he’s not awake yet. I can’t bear the thought of him looking at me. Felix keeps springing into my head. All I want is to tumble into bed with him and stay there for hours, his hands all over my body. As my frustration bubbles over I slam both hands hard onto the steering wheel. I start to cry again, a messy red-eyed affair, as I think about Fox, my dancing and all the moments from last night that I can’t remember. Felix, Scott, Ben, Jacob, Rose. My mouth clenches and I try to take calming breaths. I feel weightless but it’s not freeing or empowering, it’s as if I have no anchor: the chain has snapped and I have drifted too far away. My reality feels like a permanent state of surreal.
I think about my dad, doting on Ben, making him breakfast and snuggling up with him on the couch, maybe doing a puzzle or reading him a book. Having Ben was the greatest gift I ever gave to my father. A new era of the Woodstock family, meaning that Mum dying was officially a generation ago. That chapter could be sealed off and relegated to the past. Towards the end of my pregnancy Dad seemed almost scared to breathe around me. His eyes would fill with tears every time he looked at me. I was terrified something bad would happen. I had almost resigned myself to the idea that I would never hold my child, that happiness would loom close and then be briskly whisked away from me.
In the end Ben was early. I started labour hard and fast three weeks before my due date on a cold June morning. Asleep on the couch in the lounge, I woke with a jolt, the TV chattering softly in the darkness. Was it a noise outside I’d heard? And there it was again, a soft groan. It took me a moment to realise that it was coming from me. The baby was coming. My baby was coming. I didn’t move. Instead, I lay as still as I had ever lain before. The room flickered with the light from the TV and the large photo of Mum looked down on us from the worn wooden mantelpiece, and I clenched my throat against a wave of pain then sat up in a crouch on the floor, letting it wash over me. The wetness came too but I still didn’t move. It was the last time that I would ever truly be alone again. Instinctively I knew this. I was a cat heavy with kittens, a wild animal. Almost a mother. The skin on my translucent belly moved, moulded by little arms, legs. My son. The pain came again and again. There was a break, finally, and I got up and quickly cleaned the floor with a towel, soaking up the water that had kept my son safe all this time. I shuffled into the doorway of our bedroom, the floorboards ice beneath my feet. In the moonlight Scott breathed in and out, his arms wrapped around my pillow.
‘Scott,’ I said, and I felt the pain rising again, pushing against my heart, making my voice swell. ‘Scott. We need to go to the hospital.’
He tumbled out of bed, a tangle of limbs and adrenalin, and looked at me, eyes shining.
And in that moment all I could think was: I’m having a baby and it isn’t Jacob’s and nothing about this makes sense.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Sunday, 20 December, 9.11 am
It’s quiet as I walk into the station. Jonesy has been under pressure from above to stop everyone’s leave from banking up and has ordered skeleton staff whenever possible, so there isn’t the typical buzz of the admin crew filling the rooms. A couple of people mill about in reception, eager to report lost wallets and damaged letterboxes. It’s so different from the past week of frenzied post-murder activity. The walls groan in the heat. My desk is scattered with papers and stray pens. I look over at Felix’s neat desk, his pens standing like little soldiers in a home-made clay mug. A present from one of his daughters. I wonder briefly whether a child of ours would be more him or me. A girl or a boy. My head is pounding with last night’s wine and shame. I yearn for a day with no people. Where I don’t even need to open my mouth. I swallow thickly, still tasting the acid of the alcohol and vomit.
Anna has left a chocolate heart on my desk. Re-gifted to you from my latest NQR date. Enjoy! reads the post-it attached to it. I throw it in a drawer as I try to think past the nausea. My mobile phone jumps to life, vibrating across my desk. I jump too.
‘Woodstock,’ I say and my throat burns with the effort.
‘Hi. Um, I hope it’s okay to call. You said to call if there was anything else that I thought about. To do with Rosalind Ryan.’
I try to pull my thoughts together. ‘Absolutely. We’re looking for any information that might help. Who is this?’
A short nervous laugh followed by a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s Isabel Mealor. Izzy. I teach at Smithson. You gave me your card.’
I picture the bright red hair and dramatic eyeliner. ‘Yes, Izzy, of course. I’m listening.’
‘Well, look. I’m not sure that this is related but I suppose it’s playing on my mind, and after the service on Friday, well, I don’t know, it just feels like I’d rather say something than not, you know?’
‘Definitely. In situations like this we want to know as much as we can. Things that seem irrelevant might absolutely be important.’
‘Yeah. I figured. So, look, I’m not sure about this, but a few weeks ago I left my wallet at work, on my desk. I realised when I was out at a dinner I didn’t have it and so I decided to go back and get it on my way home. Sometimes the cleaners are in early and I didn’t want to risk it being stolen.’
‘When exactly was this?’
‘Thursday three weeks ago. I just checked my diary to be sure.’
‘Okay, great, so you went back to the school. Around what time was that?’
‘Maybe nine? It was creepy being there when no one was around, so I just rushed in, grabbed my wallet and went back to my car.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well, I saw two people coming up from the hall, down near the Forrest Wing, where the portable classrooms are. I sort of ducked behind my car so they couldn’t see me. It was Rosalind. And, um, she was with a student.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘I’m not one hundred percent sure, but it was definitely a student. Tall but young. You know how you can just tell by the way they walk.’
My heart thumps uncomfortably. ‘Okay, but you couldn’t see who it was?’
‘No, it was dark and I didn’t want to look like I was spying on them or anything,’ Izzy says.
‘Did anything else happen?’
‘Well, it just seemed a bit odd. And then I remembered that she was doing all these rehearsals for the play after hours so I figured that one of them had just
finished and that’s why they were there.’
I let out a breath that I didn’t realise I was holding. ‘So do you think that’s what they were doing?’
‘Probably. It makes sense. But …’
‘What else?’
‘Well, they got into her car, which I thought was a bit strange—but I guessed that she was giving him a lift home, which seemed fair enough. But then they just sat in the car for a while in the dark. Talking, I suppose.’
There is a long pause during which Izzy breathes deeply into the phone. Finally, she says, ‘Look, it was dark and I was wedged between two cars, trying to look at them through another car window, but the thing is, their heads were close together and I’m pretty sure I saw them kiss.’
‘Very interesting,’ Felix says when I update him on the call with Izzy.
He took the morning off to go to Melissa’s dance concert. When I asked him how it was he shrugged and said, ‘It was a dance concert for thirteen-year-olds.’ He doesn’t ask me about my night, doesn’t seem to notice my red eyes and sallow complexion. I watch him fuss at his desk, opening drawers and closing them again, avoiding my stare. He’s feeling guilty. I can tell by the way he looks to the left of my pupils when he talks. I know him so well. We understand the competing pieces of our worlds. We understand the pull of obligation rubbing against the addictive feeling of him sliding inside me. My skin is like plastic on my face and I think I might be sick again. I breathe out slowly, letting seconds become a minute.
‘Maybe we can catch up after work?’ I say.
‘Can’t,’ he says, ‘I’ve got to get home. We’ve got people coming over.’
Fury flares in my chest but I push it away: getting angry won’t help anything right now. A lonely piece of tinsel hanging from a lamp flutters as a fan spins slowly back and forth. The air-con started working yesterday but then packed it in again last night. Apparently Jonesy went apoplectic.
I think about Christmas next week. Felix and his wife sitting at the base of a cheerful tree, Nespressos in hand, her freshly brushed blonde hair gleaming in the dawn light, their three daughters ripping open gifts and exclaiming in delight. My head throbs harder. I close my eyes.