River of Salt

by Warner, Dave;

  ‘Hey, what you do …’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I know you’re not judging me but you feel I’m different to what I was, but I’m not. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle, man. Anyway, like I said, I was just playing at this. You’re the real deal.’

  ‘I’m going to miss you.’

  Duck nodded. ‘Same. I know of a drummer up the Heads who might be right for you. I’ll tell him to ring you.’

  He hugged Duck, spontaneously, said the words that he’d never had a chance to with Jimmy. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Whether that tramp Doreen was the only one her father had been unfaithful with she didn’t know but she had seen it in their faces, both of them, the cowardice, the deceit, like a fly frozen in an iceblock. Obviously seeing one another there shocked the hell out of them so until then the tramp clearly didn’t know the man she’d fucked was her father. Sordid images grabbed her: faded neon, whisky tumblers, a hump in his car or back at her place. Predatory bitch. No wonder Blake would have nothing to do with her. He probably knew the real Doreen.

  Maybe, thought Kitty, I should make a play for Blake? That would really hurt her. But then as quickly as it had leapt, she knocked it down. She learned from the Todd experience that if you go after the best-looking men, you wind up burned. But on the other hand, Blake might not know just how depraved Doreen was. She could send him an anonymous note along the lines of ‘your employee fucks married men’. The mere idea gave her a little kick of satisfaction. You couldn’t trust anybody, that’s what she had learned this year. Not Todd, her father or her so-called best friend. All those hours hanging out together, what a waste of time, what a big fat lie. She’d told that bitch her innermost thoughts and fears. She’d been there after the Todd thing but who was to say that wasn’t just prurient interest?

  Kitty felt sorry for her mother, tried to pay more attention to her, tell her that her hair looked nice, go shopping with her but her mum was fucking hopeless, just carrying on like nothing had changed. Kitty finally fronted her, told her to her face: I know Dad’s been unfaithful. Her mother denied it at first. She was so weak. Told her to go away and stop talking such horrible lies.

  This was a dumb place, the stupid ‘Heights’ bullshit, the one dumb drive-in and the way the hoons revved their engines and stupid girls lay in the back of station wagons and panel vans facing the screen as if they were cool. And everybody collected snow domes. And women wore charm bracelets with stupid little charms from where they had been on holiday, which was mainly nowhere much. She couldn’t wait to get out, be an actress. That stupid moll Brenda epitomised — yes, epitomised, a word most of these apes wouldn’t even know because they read nothing more demanding than Women’s Weekly or comics — all that was wrong with the place. She’d walk around in her silly white chemist smock as if she was actually a chemist when all she was good for was dispensing jellybeans and Ovaltine. Word was Todd Henley wouldn’t have anything to do with her now but she still carried on like he was smitten by her. They deserved each other.

  She managed the last few paces to the house, her school bag ridiculously heavy. She took the side path, walked in through the back door, and dropped her bag on her bedroom floor where it made such a thump her little glass and crystal collection vibrated. She headed for the kitchen. Her mum was sitting at the table in a housecoat turning the pages of a magazine. She’d just made herself a Nescafé. How she could drink that muck was unbelievable.

  ‘Hi, love.’

  ‘Hello.’

  She opened the fridge, pulled out a large Fanta and poured the fizzy orange liquid into her favourite tumbler, which had pictures of little beach umbrellas and beach balls. She sat at the opposite end of the table to her mother and sipped, watching her mum’s eyes following the story of Princess Margaret or Elizabeth Taylor. She suddenly felt a deep warmth towards her. She wondered what Edith Wharton would make of this domestic scene, her sitting there, still child enough to have a favourite glass with transfers on the outside, passing judgement. She faced off with her better self: you have been too embarrassed to tell her about Todd, and yet you expect her to open up about dad’s adultery.

  What choice did her mum really have? Kick her father out? Demand a divorce? Everybody knew how that ended. The blame wound up as much on the woman: she couldn’t satisfy him, she got what she deserved. She’d become an outcast in her own land, be forced to flee to the Gold Coast where all the divorced women seemed to congregate, getting suntans and living in apartment buildings off the proceeds of their house sales until the money was all gone. Eventually they might get a job in a shoe store or a cake shop serving other divorcees. No tennis club, no big Christmas party competing for the honour of best tuna mornay. She got up from her chair, walked to the other end of the table and hugged her mum as tight as she could.

  The weekend had been huge. Last night, the Saturday, had turned into a Duck farewell party. Doreen had done up a banner, the band rocked. The replacement drummer had made contact with Blake and driven down to see the show. He liked what he saw. Blake had not risen till nearly nine and by the time he surfed, changed and had finally made it to the Surf Shack it was near eleven. Andy was outside tidying the empties.

  ‘Sorry, haven’t had a chance to do the banner yet.’

  Blake told him not to worry. He went inside, grabbed a stepladder and set to work. Even with the doors open the smell of booze and smoke never left. Andy came back in to help but Blake told him he was fine. Andy studied the fish.

  ‘The Siamese are behaving themselves.’

  ‘Good to hear.’

  ‘I’ve been remembering more stuff,’ said Andy, still looking into the glowing water of the tank. ‘About those guys. Before they beat me up, they smashed the tank with a cricket bat. I tried to stop them, honest.’

  ‘I know you would have.’

  Andy was upset, his voice tighter than usual. ‘I felt so … weak.’ ‘You’re not weak, Andy.’

  He stayed silent for a time. Then he said, ‘That’s not Audrey, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s a new Audrey.’

  Andy nodded slowly to himself. ‘I’ll bag the tablecloths for Doreen.’

  Every week Doreen washed the tablecloths in the laundry out back. She’d stripped them the night before and dumped them on the floor, it was the easiest way. Blake thought he might restock the jukebox. People got bored with the same old tracks. He kept a cupboard full of 45s in his office. Whenever somebody was heading to the city or even up to the Heads he would give them money to buy a couple of new singles. On top of the pile he found a brown paper bag that contained a single he hadn’t seen before. He took it out, studied it: The Beatles. Good name. Doreen appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, that, I forgot to tell you, I put it there yesterday.’

  She looked a little thin but otherwise great. Doreen kept talking.

  ‘One of the girls I danced with, Joan. She’s a stewardess now. She says they’re all the rage in London.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I worry you work too hard. You heard it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let’s have a listen.’

  They walked to the jukebox.

  ‘I forgot to ask. How was the play the other night?’

  ‘Kitty was fantastic.’

  ‘I hope she appreciated what you did. You’ve helped her a lot.’

  Doreen made a kind of false smile. ‘Actually, I didn’t help at all.’

  Frank Ifield came out and The Beatles went in. The record was called Please Please Me. It kicked off with a jangly guitar hook over an R’n’B beat and then the vocals crashed in and grabbed you. Made you want to sing and dance at the same time. He looked at Doreen, she looked at him. This was different. Like Chuck Berry but even more bounce.

  When it finished she said, ‘It’s good.’

  ‘No. It’s great.’ They spun it again. Blake knew nothing was going to be the same. He knew the music The Twang was playing was al
ready as good as dead.

  Doreen said, ‘I’m going to do the laundry.’

  As she exited, Andy entered, in a pickle. He didn’t seem to notice the music at all.

  ‘That washer’s gone in the tap. I’ve looked in the keg-shed but I can’t find one.’

  Blake said he was pretty sure there were some in the office. Andy followed. Something Andy had said earlier echoed.

  ‘You said you’ve been remembering stuff?’

  ‘Yeah. Every now and again I remember something.’

  ‘What about the night of the dance competition, that Thursday night. You remember anything more about the guy in the shirt?’

  ‘The police asked me all about that. They said I might be called as a witness.’

  ‘Yeah, but anything new?’ They were in the office. He was unstacking wooden soft-drink crates. In the third one down, he had screws and washers. Andy started looking for what he needed.

  ‘I haven’t thought. This one.’ He held up the washer.

  ‘Did you remember seeing Valerie Stokes arrive?’

  ‘No. But I remember her car because the police showed me photos.’

  ‘You didn’t see anybody in it with her?’

  He hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I think … I mean I’m pretty sure …’ he shook his head. ‘It’s hard, I get a bit confused, it’s just tiny little pieces of things that I had forgotten.’

  Blake was patient. ‘I get it. But what?’

  ‘I have one flash. Some bloke walking from the car … or maybe not like out of the seat but from right near there so I think that’s where he came from because there weren’t any other cars around. Not that I remember. Not there where hers was.’

  Blake, keeping his excitement strapped down: ‘You recognise this guy?’

  ‘I’ve seen him once or twice but I don’t know him.’

  Doreen appeared at the door. ‘There’s some man here says he wants to speak to the boss.’

  She didn’t have to spell it out. Doreen’s radar was excellent. Whoever it was, she was wary.

  Blake pointed at her, an idea had formed. ‘You had some photos up from the watusi dance contest, right?’

  ‘Yes. After a week I took them down.’

  ‘You still got them?’

  ‘In a shoebox. In here I think.’

  She got down on her knees and started looking in a sliding cupboard.

  ‘Andy, I want you to go through them, see if you can find the man you think you saw near the car.’

  ‘I’ve got to fix this.’ He held up the washer.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  Blake smelled trouble right away. The man was tall, and the way he leaned against the bar you knew he had a hard body underneath the grey suit. Maybe he was a cop or an ex-cop. Blake looked him in the eye, playing the curious businessman.

  ‘Blake Saunders.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Saunders.’ The man extended his hand for a shake. Blake allowed it.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr …?’

  ‘Smith. It’s more how I can help you. I believe some business associates of mine may have spoken to you.’

  So Nalder had been right. Here was the back-up plan for the Queensland bookie.

  ‘Yeah. I hope they bought some of the insurance they were selling.’

  ‘Smith’ allowed himself a smile.

  ‘Tragic, but it just goes to show, everybody needs insurance, even those selling.’

  ‘You too, Mr Smith?’

  ‘Of course. I come heavily insured.’

  And he let his jacket open just enough to show the butt of a revolver. This time they meant business.

  ‘I really don’t think I need it.’

  ‘I really think you do, Blake. Imagine if you had a fire here. Imagine if that glorious piece of snatch that showed me in was … scarred for life. You wouldn’t live with yourself.’

  Easy now. Easy.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Our insurance means you can rest easy. And it’s only fifteen pounds a week.’

  ‘Your mates were offering twelve.’

  Smith sucked his teeth. ‘Sadly they were too nice for their own good. Shall we say a month in advance, cash?’

  Blake fought the urge to bite back. ‘Seems like a great deal. Nothing bad will ever come my way, right?’

  ‘That’s right. You can sleep real easy.’

  Doreen was working hard at keeping everything normal. After the blowup with Kitty, she wanted to crawl into a deep hole, like some reptile. Everything was shit, everything. When she’d walked in the door from the play, the first thing she had seen were the flowers Blake had left. The tears exploded: for all that had been lost, that might have been. She’d stayed in bed all the next day. She’d hoped work might help, told herself be smooth and strong as concrete. And she would be — for an hour or two. After that, she was more a rope whose strands were fraying one by one, feeling the pull and strain with less reserves to resist than a moment before. She retrieved the box of photos and put them on the desk for Andy. She was there but not. Images crashed through her brain like a big dumper: sliding her drink over her coaster at the golf club, listening with amusement to the origin of her name; a doctor’s surgery, old thumbed Pix; the bare walls of that room, the tube light above and the instructions about what to do if bleeding continues while all the time your ears are ringing like a bell at the side of a boxing ring and your face and arms are numb; then Kitty striding across the stage, she’s gonna wash that man right out of her hair, the smell of orange cordial and the sting of the slap across her face …

  Andy had said something.

  ‘What?’

  He was pointing. ‘This bloke. I think he was the one.’

  16. Match

  Blake was looking at the photo, which showed a young guy looking up at the stage where the blonde and Kitty were facing off. He’d sent Andy outside. He and Doreen had the office to themselves.

  ‘Vaguely remember him. Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Todd Henley. Local royalty. Here’s the thing, I think it was the next night or maybe the one after he took Kitty to the drive-in, practically raped her. She only escaped because Brenda …’ she tapped the image of Brenda on stage, ‘… attacked the car with her shoe.’

  ‘Brenda is his girlfriend?’

  ‘Obviously she likes to think so.’

  Things were clicking into place like tumblers on a lock. What had Duck said? The blonde, Brenda, had nearly driven into him because she’d been fighting with the boyfriend. Maybe because Todd Henley had been screwing Val Stokes.

  Doreen was still talking. ‘Todd Henley was the school hot-shot. Kitty and all the girls swooned over him. He was captain of the rugby team, the best swimmer. He goes to university up in Brisbane, I think.’

  Blake spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘Val Stokes comes here to meet up with Thomas Clarke in the parking lot. While she’s waiting, Val and Henley lock eyes. Maybe he’s got the readies. They do it right there in the car.’

  Doreen joined in. ‘Brenda realises he’s been having it off with Stokes. They argue. She heads off in a huff.’

  ‘Todd isn’t going to take that. He’s a sports star. He knows where Stokes is going. She mentioned it, or he follows her. He could be the one who brought the joint. He’s a popular guy. Duck gives a joint to one of the girls. They pass it to Todd …’

  Blake was pacing around the room, the picture in his head almost complete. ‘He drives to the motel, gets there before Clarke. Stokes lets him in. She demands money or whatever. They argue. He’s already furious. He stabs her to death.’

  ‘What about the knife?’

  ‘Maybe he has it in his car anyway. Or, if he’s a psycho, he blames Stokes for the problem with Brenda and when he leaves here he goes home to get it, determined to kill her. Which he does. Wipes his prints, showers …’

  An idea crash-tackled him.

  ‘You said he was a sports sta
r.’ He opened the drawer, lifted out the melted metal pin he’d found in the incinerator at Clarke’s car yard. ‘This the kind of the thing they give to school athletes?’

  Doreen examined it. ‘Sure is. That could easily be the school crest.’

  It was charred but faint lines could be discerned.

  Doreen said, ‘And you know something else? I remember he worked there at the car yard for a while. Washing cars. The girls used to stand by the fence to see him with his shirt off.’

  ‘It’s gotta be him.’

  Doreen examined the pin. ‘You think you can prove it?’

  Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He’d watched her take her lunch break in the park, home sandwiches, and now her white smock was moving along the footpath back towards the chemist with the unhurried tempo of a sheet of paper caught in the wind.

  ‘Hi, Brenda.’

  She swivelled to see who had addressed her, the natural judgement on her pouty mouth, high cheekbones being negative but then the lips curled upwards and a glint appeared in her eye.

  ‘I know you. You’re in the band. You own the Surf Shack.’

  ‘That’s right. Blake.’

  ‘So what’s happening … Blake.’

  She enjoyed rolling the name off her lips. Everything about her was Tuesday Weld sexy.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something …’

  She was anticipating an invitation, a date, he could sense the body language.

  ‘… are you still going out with Todd?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Meaning perhaps she was open to a better offer.

  ‘I don’t get it. Pretty girl like you. He screws some babe in the carpark and you haven’t dumped him.’

  Her chin jutted. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know. That girl. The night of the dance contest.’

  Now she was openly suspicious, if not hostile. ‘I have to go to work. I don’t like people talking trash about Todd.’

  ‘Come on. People heard you arguing. And next thing you know he’s taken some other girl to the drive-in?’