'Where are you?' he yelled over her curses.
'Just out of Daylesford.'
'Again? Why?'
'Not now!'
Three seconds on, she cut his aggrieved silence. 'AJ, save the bullshit for later. Can you take care of Michael until I get there?'
He promised.
She disconnected. Honked a slow-moving tractor. She pulled out and passed, narrowly missing an oncoming station wagon. Rammed the accelerator. Demanded that any god listening keep her safe from cops and radars.
Time stretched.
Her hands ached from death-gripping the wheel. Eyeballs stung. Stomach churned.
Still a long way to go.
She raced to the hospital. Every risk worth it. Every minute a waste.
Georgie circled and swooped on a parking space. She dropped her keys while locking the Spider and tripped at the entrance to the Alfred. She located AJ and Michael, her eyes bugging to stop tears.
'No news,' AJ said. He hugged her tight.
'That's something,' she replied as they clung together for a moment.
She sat next to Michael. She clasped his gnarled, shaking hand. AJ perched on an identical hard plastic seat on the old man's other side.
Michael shrank as the minutes ticked. The pain in Georgie's chest ballooned.
Hours passed.
At 9.05pm, a white-coated woman approached.
'Mr Padley, I'm Dr Quinter.'
After quick handshakes and introductions all round, the doctor told Michael, 'Your wife will have to undergo more tests but she's stable and out of immediate danger.'
They cheered. Quinter crouched before Michael and took his hands.
'You're not going to be much use to Ruby unless you take care of yourself. Why don't you go home and rest? She'll sleep through the night and you can see her in the morning.'
Michael argued but eventually allowed Georgie and AJ to lead him from the hospital. They tucked him into their sofa bed and saw him fall into an exhausted, uneasy slumber.
Sleep wouldn't come to Georgie. She sat by Michael's bedside until dawn cracked.
Interlude
The angst returned. The tightness in her chest, the shake in her hands and, of course, the tears, all back.
In reflection, there was no mystery to why she felt poorly. It came down to the Day looming on the calendar, yet not signifying an end. This onset of frailty was simply a symptom of her sadness. Not just sadness but signs too of her loneliness, anger and, yes, pure unchristian rage at the unknown; although not for retribution. A greater being would delve out justice in due course.
She pushed her hands onto her knees to stop the trembles.
Young ones favoured the term 'closure' these days. At first, she'd baulked. Why shut the door on the best part of her life? But lately, she'd tried the word out, when alone or talking to God.
She had an idea how to find closure. It was worth trying, for what else could she do?
What did she have to lose?
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday 17 March
'I can't believe you lied to me.'
'I didn't lie.'
'George, it's a lie by omission and we both know it.'
'AJ -'
'Don't try to wheedle back into my good books.'
'Keep it down. Michael will be back in a minute.' Their neighbour had gone home to bathe using requisite safety features of grab rails and step-less shower.
'You should have told me what you were up to.' AJ's voice was quiet but sharp.
'All I've done is check out a few things for Ruby to try to find her friend.'
'It's the way you've gone about it. I mean, for fuck's sake, you broke into this woman's house and stole stuff from her.'
'I didn't break in -'
'Only on a technicality.'
Their volume had cranked up again.
'And I didn't steal anything. I borrowed a few items. I'm sure Susan wouldn't object.'
'What if this Lewis Davis is right? What if she comes back from a holiday to find you've been nosing around, asking a whole lot of people a whole lot of questions and dredging up all this history involving her husband? For fuck's sake,' he swore again, something AJ wasn't prone to. 'Didn't you stop to think?'
'Yes. I did stop and think.'
AJ's mouth flapped but she overrode him.
'I stopped to think about everything they've' - she tossed her head in the direction of the Padley's home - 'done for us. I thought about how worried Ruby was and how that's completely out of character. I tried to reach Susan Pentecoste on the phone. Couldn't. Thought, what should I do next? So I drove to bloody Hepburn and checked things out. And I ended up with, as you said, a whole lot of questions.'
'Which you're not equipped to handle.'
Georgie snarled at him before she continued. 'Then Ruby had a bloody heart attack because she's so frantic and I promised her - through Michael - that I'd see this through. Thinking Ruby'll get better faster if I prove her mate's OK. And don't forget I went to the cops. Is it my fault they're dickheads?'
She glared. He returned it.
'Yes but -'
She cut him off. 'So then I contacted a few of Susan's acquaintances; tried to see her niece. I've thought long-and-fucking-hard about everything I've done over the past few days.'
Georgie's chest heaved. They still faced off.
Several minutes elapsed. AJ grew less irate and Georgie experienced a sense of disassociation. She disconnected from her body. Her hearing dulled.
He asked something. His lips moved like a bad soundtrack dub, out of time with his voice.
'What?'
She focused hard and the numbness ebbed.
'What else haven't you told me?'
Georgie crossed her fingers. 'Nothing.'
This was not the right juncture to discuss fears for their future. He'd be shattered that the intimacies of their relationship were a hot topic between her and Pam.
AJ's posture relaxed. She exhaled.
He said, 'Maybe I overreacted. Tell me everything again from the beginning.'
They perched on the end of the bed that Georgie had barely slept in overnight. Her story stammered at first. Once it flowed, even with AJ twice interrupting to probe facts, she strayed little.
'What now?' he queried when she fell silent.
'Well, today I'm going to ring Susan and her niece until my fingers fall off or I reach one of them. I've got a meeting with David Ruddoch et al to workshop that script I've been struggling over, then a re-write, I'd say. After that, if I'm lucky, I'll skim over the latest stuff I borrowed from Susan Pentecoste. And then I'll work on a plan for tomorrow.'
AJ nodded.
'I suspect that'll include another trip to Hicksville and more digging. It's bloody frustrating that I can't do much today.'
'You know I can't take time off,' he started.
Georgie did a hand-flap. 'It's not a two-man job.'
'It was one thing yesterday.'
'But a different thing altogether today. I get it. Don't worry.' She knocked his knee. 'I can take care of myself. A couple of pushy farmers don't scare me. Me, big tough woman.' She did a Tarzan-beat to her chest. They both spat out a laugh.
The front door closed and Michael's walking stick tap-shuffle signalled his return.
'We'll keep this quiet,' she whispered. 'Michael has enough to cope with.'
AJ kissed her. 'You're stressed about Susan, aren't you?'
'Yep. Not quite as much as I am for Ruby but,' Georgie paused, assailed by emotion. 'This isn't a half-arsed effort to find a distant mate of Ruby's anymore. There's Pam too; she's gorgeous and we're talking about her best pal. Besides - and this might be hard to understand because I only know her second-hand - Susan's grown on me. It may sound corny but she's become like an old family friend.'
Breakfast was coffee and a cigarette for Georgie, toast and cereal for the men. Neither objected to her smoking at the open window above the sink, although normally they would.
Each coped with their anxiety uniquely: Michael chattered like a five-year-old who'd drunk too much red cordial, Georgie retreated into herself, and AJ acted the overattentive host.
He moved towards the wreckage. The heat and intensity of the flames engulfing the minivan almost drove him back. Dreading what he would find, he approached with a raised hand, palm forward, shielding his face. Locked in a vacuum, nothing but his own breathing penetrated his psyche.
As his stride became a jog, he emerged from the void. He could hear Hart on the portable radio, close to his heels. In his peripheral vision, he noted the simultaneous arrival of an ambulance and fire truck. Then he realised he was yelling at the mangled and burning masses. Urging any survivors to respond.
Torn between which vehicle to check, he saw the firies and ambos rush to the minivan. He swallowed hard and tried to force the driver's door of the sedan. A man turned towards him. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead. His deathly white face contorted.
A quick glance told him the front end had rammed into the car's cockpit. The dash and steering column pinned the man's legs. He pulled again on the door, eyes fixed on the strained face. It didn't budge. He pressed his hand against the glass of the driver's window. Felt helpless.
The man gasped and his breaths turned to rapid pants. He thrashed and sobbed words but didn't make sense. His ghostly skin highlighted the dilated brown pupils and bloodshot whites of his eyes. Tears streaked his cheeks and ran into his open blue lips.
The driver writhed and gestured with a bloodied hand into the distance...
He released an ear-piercing scream merged with two comprehensible words - 'My son!' - and dropped unconscious.
Franklin woke before he had to relive the rest of yesterday's nightmare smash. Sweat matted his chest hairs and, despite the warm morning, his bones ached with a pervasive chill. He clenched his eyes and shook his head to purge the devastating images.
The man died in transit to Melbourne after the State Emergency Services crew freed him with the 'jaws of life'. Then they tended to his fifteen-year-old son. Not wearing a seatbelt, on impact he'd catapulted through the Commodore's windscreen and landed on a fence post several metres from the wreck. It lethally impaled him through the spine and propelled his intestines through a massive cavity in his gut. The driver had been a local widower, the sole parent of two children, and now his daughter was orphaned at thirteen.
It cut Franklin to the core that at only a few years younger than Kat she had lost her world. She'd need all the support of the community to survive this catastrophe.
The passengers in the minibus fared better. Physically, at least. They were a group of intellectually handicapped adults returning to Ballarat from a day trip at Hepburn Spa. The van flipped onto its side, fortunately its right face. A quick-thinking carer forced open the sliding door on the left and cleared his charges before the vehicle ignited. They then crouched in the shallows of the nearby dam petrified by the grassfire. Albeit suffering shock, their physical trauma was less dire than the emotional fallout would be. That they wore seatbelts saved their lives. They would soon recover from their contusions and abrasions, broken ribs and dislocations. The repercussion on their mental health was a question for the long haul.
One good thing, the bus driver didn't have to worry about emotional consequences. He died on impact too. Better that than be burnt to death, which might be a small comfort for his de facto wife over the weeks and months ahead.
Franklin knew the crash would leave him with permanent scars. You can't lend a hand in removing a kid staked to a fence post and be the same man you were before. Nor can you forget terrified adults huddled together and drenched in blood, their shrieks and moans inhuman. He'd worked casually at the abattoirs for extra income when Donna went on maternity leave. What he'd witnessed yesterday reminded him of the panic of animals at slaughter.
Shortly behind Franklin and Hart's arrival, backup police units swarmed from Trentham, Ballan, Creswick and Ballarat, along with additional fire trucks and ambulances and several SES vehicles. Lunny materialised with a fluorescent police vest thrown over his tracksuit in haste. Much later, the three Daylesford policemen handed over the reins to the Major Collision Investigation mob. Yet they knew the accident would spark a chain reaction that they would deal with long after the specialists left the scene.
The skid marks at the crash site most distressed the cops. The MCI crew reckoned the anonymous witness had probably caused the tragedy; that the bus driver, his passengers and the Wombat Flat family were all innocent victims. When the Daylesford boys left, the experts had only scratched the surface of the case. But if their preliminary call was substantiated, no one would rest until the bastard got his just desserts.
'Dad?' Kat nudged the bedroom door. 'You awake?'
'Yeah, come in.'
She entered with vegemite-smeared toast and freshly plunged coffee. She placed the tray on his knees, perched on the side of the bed and scrutinised him. Father and daughter had exchanged roles of carer and charge. If the circumstances weren't so tragic, it'd be funny.
'I'm all right, Kat.'
'You were talking in your sleep. I think you were crying, Dad.'
'Come here.' He opened his arms and they hugged, somehow not upturning the breakfast tray.
A tear trailed Kat's nose. Franklin brushed it away with his thumb. He again said, 'I'm all right. It was horrible out there but -'
'It's all part of the job?'
'Yeah, something like that. Aren't you going to be late for school?'
'I thought you'd want company on your day off.'
'Nice try.' He slapped her arm lightly. 'You're going to school. I'm going fishing with Lunny, so you don't need to worry.' He tensed his abs and pummelled them. 'See, tough as nails.'
'Yeah, right.'
'Oh, good. We're back to normal. Teenage daughter is embarrassed by her father and giving cheek.'
She rose laughing and wiggled her fingers from the doorway.
Kat departed and Franklin practised his customary coping mechanism: keeping busy. He tuned the radio to a golden oldies station, volume to the max. He sang along loudly, showered and dressed. It wasn't pretty, as he couldn't hit the top notes and tended to make up the lyrics, but tension dripped away.
Who doesn't have a mobile or answering machine these days?
Georgie dressed and paced. Smoked and paced. Dialled and paced. Drank black coffee and paced.
She flicked her wrist. Calculated AJ'd dropped Michael at the hospital by now.
She dialled Susan and Margaret again. She cursed. Drank more scalding coffee and studied the wall clock. AJ would have reached his office on Lonsdale Street, right in the heart of the legal precinct.
At 9.35am, Michael rang as arranged and reported good news: a marked improvement in his wife. He still sounded like he was running on red cordial but quoted Dr Quinter, saying 'She'll be fine'. Then he admitted Ruby might need a bypass operation but hastily added that Quinter inclined towards beta-blocker medication, rehab and radical lifestyle changes at this stage.
After that, Michael returned to Ruby's bedside and Georgie resumed pacing.
Something brushed Franklin's shoulder blade. 'Shit!'
He pivoted towards a sheepish Tim Lunny.
'Sorry,' the sarge yelled over the music. 'I rang the doorbell.' He dropped to speaking tone as Franklin turned down the radio. 'But you didn't hear me. Can I give you a word of advice?'
Franklin raised a brow.
'Don't give up your day job.'
Lunny chuckled as they climbed into his Monaro coupe. Franklin stretched out his long legs and settled into the sculpted bucket seat. He inhaled the scents of leather cleaner and carpet deodoriser and reflected that the Monaro was one of the few cars in which he enjoyed being a passenger. Although, driving the sporty V8 far surpassed passenger thrills, particularly through the curves of the little-used roads out Vaughan way. It matched in power and handling the unmarked Ford FPV-GT a detective buddy
let him sample. Awesome.
'Can't get over you lashing out on a swanky car at your age,' he commented, as he'd done periodically since Lunny bought the coupe. It'd been his own celebration gift when he was promoted to sarge at Daylesford. Not that he was happy to see Bill Noonan go; none of them were.
'Ah, yes. One of the upsides to ageing is that you can treat yourself instead of the kids. Once the kids leave home, that is.'
'Hmm. Well, I guess I have about five years to go then.'
Lunny snorted. 'Guess again. We didn't get rid of the last one until she turned twenty-nine. These days they often stay 'til their forties.'
They drove without speaking through Hepburn Springs and snaked along the Hepburn-Newstead Road with the Monaro in its element. They powered past Breakneck Gorge. Near the turnoff for Howlong Road, Franklin wondered if Susan Pentecoste had returned to Abergeldie. He dialled the farm. The call rang out. He tapped the mobile on his knee.
'Are you OK, John? You want to see a counsellor?' Lunny had misread his mood.
Franklin cringed. The accident had been a shocker but he'd cope; he couldn't imagine a scenario bad enough that he'd sit in a stuffy office, sharing his feelings with a shrink. 'Nuh. I'm fine. Harty might be a different story. Yesterday's smash would be his worst.'
'Melissa's going back to Melbourne tonight.' Lunny referred to Hart's girlfriend, who commuted between Castlemaine and the city during her final year at university. 'If it's going to hit him, that'd be when.'
They brooded. Eventually, the sarge asked, 'How about a debrief over a few snags and beers later, then?'
A bunch of mates, excess of beer and plenty of dark humour? No blots on service records or shit stirring about seeing a shrink by cockheads like Wells? Definitely a better idea.
'Whatever,' Franklin borrowed Kat's favourite phrase and shrugged. 'I was actually chewing over Susan Pentecoste and that bird from Melbourne. Don't suppose there's any need to worry, though.'
Lunny agreed.
They fell silent again and wound past a derelict cottage. Rusted iron peeled away from a verandah supported by leaning posts, and its deep-set rot somehow reflected Franklin's unease.
Tell Me Why Page 14