Five Parts Dead (15 page)

I go next door to the police station, cross to the counter and ring the bell. A muffled voice replies from behind a frosted window: ‘Be with you in a minute.' After a few seconds, a constable comes to the counter, swallowing and brushing flakes of pastry from his chin. ‘Sorry, mate. Morning tea. How can I help you?'

I'm not sure where to start. ‘Umm, I'm doing some research on staff at the Cape Nicolas lighthouse. I wondered if there were any records at the courthouse— anything on accidents or injuries or missing persons… stuff like that?'

The constable grimaces. ‘I don't know of anything like that, off the top of my head. Might be some old files out the back, maybe…I'm not really supposed to do this but I'll get you a key. If you need to photocopy anything you can bring it back here.' He glances at my crutches and down to the plaster cast. ‘Don't flog anything, okay? Even with a head start I reckon I'd catch you pretty quick.'

A mossy brick path along the side of the courthouse leads to a yard with a clothesline, an outside toilet and a shed that looks as though it used to be a lock-up cell. The screen-door to the back verandah isn't locked. It creaks arthritically as I tug it open. Inside, the key slides into the back door lock like they've been missing each other.

The rear room of the main building is a kitchen. An ashtray cluttered with bent butts rests on a table stained with coffee mug rings. There's a discarded newspaper on the floor beside the fireplace.

The next room down the dark hallway is lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves. Dusty leather-bound volumes of legislation cram the shelves. How did people keep track of all this stuff before the Internet? I guess they had to remember it all.

After wrestling the blind up, I read the labels on the filing cabinets. Dad suggested coronial cases—court enquiries into unexpected deaths—might be the place to begin. The heavy olive files are ordered alphabetically by surname. I thumb through A–G. Hang on, Ewing. That could be one of the penguin men…

The Ewing file is brief—handwritten notes on a marbled cream page complete with inky blotches.

Ewing was a survivor of the wreck of the
Loch Awe
. Last confirmed sighting at Cape Nicolas. Fellow survivor and known associate, Mr Helmut Pierson, stated that he and Ewing left Cape Nicolas en route to Donington but, after exhausting their supplies, separated in search of food.

Pierson, who is in custody, told the court he ‘found sustenance' but feared his companion ‘may have been consumed by a beast' as there were known to be wild pigs in the scrub. Pierson's sanity is questionable.

In the absence of a body or any other testimony, Ewing is listed as missing, presumed deceased.

The penguin men set off together on the stolen horse. Ewing never made it to town but Pierson did. And Pierson must have been arrested. I work down the aisle of magistrates' records, searching under P.

Pierson, Helmut

Convicted of robbery and horse theft. Sentence: four years. Shipped to the mainland for incarceration at Adelaide Gaol.

The file shows Pierson was caught stealing a chicken from a farm on the outskirts of Donington. He threatened the owner with a knife but was set upon by the farm dog and retreated to the henhouse for refuge. The farmer barred the gate and sent a labourer to summon the police. When they arrived, Pierson was eating the bird, raw.

He is described as raving, confessing to an ‘unholy appetite for flesh'. The authorities seem dismissive of this claim, simply noting that Pierson is a
person of interest in relation to fellow surviving crewmen from the wreck of the
Loch Awe
, Arthur Ewing (missing, presumed dead) and Samuel Stevenson (murdered)
.

Mr Sam, murdered? That must have been the news Captain Llewellyn was keeping from Lily. Or did he tell her? Did the thought of being alone again, or losing yet another loved one, finally break her?

As for Pierson, how did he make it to Donington when Ewing and Sam didn't? And if he was prepared to eat dead penguins and raw chicken, what else would he be willing to do for ‘sustenance' when lost in the scrub? Could he have waited for Sam and killed him before the young sailor could report Pierson's cowardice at sea?

There's a scratching at the window. I turn to see a crow on the sill outside, glaring and pecking at the glass. I wave my arms at it, shooing it away. Undaunted, it taps the pane again before unfolding its wings and shuttling to a fence opposite the window. It stares. I shudder and pull the blind down.

I return to the coronial cases and pull out the file marked Stevenson, Samuel.

Stevenson, 18, journeyed on foot from Cape Nicolas, to testify against fellow survivors of the
Loch Awe
, Ewing and Pierson. Stevenson's body was found in dunes near Donington. His throat had been cut and there were large chunks of flesh severed from his legs and buttocks. Pierson was arrested and interviewed in relation to the murder but claimed not to have seen Stevenson since departing Cape Nicolas.

Stevenson's remains formally identified by Captain Llewellyn from Cape Nicolas light station. The file remains open.

I find the W files.
Wilton, Captain Kenneth Martin
. I know how the poor old captain died. It's his daughter I want to know about. I can't accept her story ends as the plaque at the lighthouse suggests. The Lily I've seen, the weeping young woman, she deserves a happier ending.

Wilton, Lily
. I slide the coroner's file from the drawer.

The crow tap taps at the window.

FA: WILL YOU GIVE ME MY POSITION?

Pip's waiting for me in a crowded café in Main Street. She starts speaking before I can pull back a chair. ‘Unbelievable! Uninterested, unhelpful, obstructive, impolite, obstreperous…'

‘Wow,' I smile. ‘Did you swallow a thesaurus?' She fakes a growl and then bends across the table to kiss me.

‘That woman at the Historical Society! I told her what I was looking for and she said I wouldn't find anything and was wasting my time. When I asked if I could have a look around anyway, she said there wasn't any point. In the end I stood in front of her and wrote down the name on her badge—Liza Bellows. I told her I was making sure I had the correct spelling to put in my letter of complaint.'

‘Bellows! As in the same name as the family from the lighthouse?'

‘Yep,' Pip nods. ‘She must be related. That's got to explain why she wouldn't help us. I'll bet she knows where every single record about Cape Nicolas is kept.'

As Mum and Dad drive us back to the cottage, I fill Pip in on Lily's death: ruled by the coroner as ‘by her own hand'. Suicide.

‘I still don't believe it,' I say. ‘Lily had survived so much already, why would she…'

‘Maybe she was …severely depressed.' Pip pauses. ‘Or maybe she had post-traumatic stress after what happened with her Dad…'

I squeeze her hand as I shake my head. ‘Maybe,' I say. ‘But an illness doesn't change the fact that Lily was strong, like you. There must be something else.'

Dinner is fun. Hiroshi and Mel join the rest of us for a picnic at the lookout, where we watch waves batter the cliffs and black-faced shags dive for their supper. Hiroshi is trying to convince Mum and Dad to go bird-watching in Japan. Mel is encouraging them, punting for a chance to travel free and act as interpreter. Pip is quiet, huddled against me. I'm distracted, peering up to the lighthouse and back to the rocks below.

Tomorrow, I'm going to check the logbook again. Later that night, Pip lies beside me in my room. ‘Why do you think I'm strong?' she asks, muffled against my chest.

‘Lots of reasons,' I answer. ‘Even before your dad was sick you were always fearless at school. You stood up for whatever you believed was right, even if it wasn't popular, even when you copped crap from everyone.' I roll onto my side so I can see her face.

‘And when your dad was crook, you never used it as an excuse to give up on school. You didn't drop out and sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You were there for your mum and your brother. You've been epic.' I grin at her.

Pip's silent for a moment, then speaks in a tiny voice. ‘Strong on the outside doesn't always mean strong on the inside.'

‘I know,' I whisper. ‘I know.'

I hold her as she cries. It feels like I can see into her soul. And I want to. I want to be as close to her as I can.

I hold her and wait, listening as her breathing calms and the sound of the distant surf ekes back into the room. That's when she props herself up on one elbow and looks at me. I lift my head to kiss her but she pulls away, tense. ‘Dan, there's…something I need to tell you.'

That phrase is like electric-shock paddles to your chest. I brace myself and offer a guarded reply: ‘Yesss… What have you got for me?'

Her words sweep by me as I wait for the sting. ‘The night of the accident…The way they forced you…sorry…I told Mel.'

Her last sentence could be written in neon. She. Told. Mel.

I turn away from her. Bury my face in the pillow. Mel, of all people. Mel knows…maybe she knows everything that happened that night. Everything I've tried to block out, to keep from her prying mind.

Pip's still speaking. ‘I had to…couldn't stand it… people thinking you…were just like the rest…'

I crush the pillow against my ears.

The bed sways as Pip stands. Her hand brushes my back as she heads for the door, pauses and comes back. I hear the creak of the spare bed as she lies down. Her eyes scorch the back of my skull.

I've gone from furious, to embarrassed, to filthy again. Bile sizzles in my guts. I didn't want to have to deal with this. It was much easier to have forgotten everything— not to have to take sides or point fingers. But Mel will have told Mum and Dad, no question. She never misses an opportunity to score another point for the golden twin. What will Dad and Mum be thinking? That I'm too chicken-shit to tell them the truth?

I couldn't face them knowing I lied to the cops. I couldn't tell them I chose to fake amnesia rather than dob on my mates. The same mates who betrayed me, put me where I didn't want to be.

Ex-mates. No. Even when they were dickheads they were still my mates. And now they're gone.

I want to scream, swear, smash things, tear the curtains off the wall. Instead I clench my jaw and inhale deeply, ignoring the razor blades of emotion in my throat. Then I stand and mumble to Pip, ‘I need to talk to Mel. Will you wait here?'

Our fingers touch. I sigh and leave the room.

Mum and Dad are in the lounge, still negotiating travel plans with Mel and Hiroshi. I ignore everyone but Mel. ‘Can I have a word?'

On the front verandah, I watch the moon play hide-and-seek in the clouds. The lighthouse blinks, steady as ever.

Mel waits and then takes the initiative. ‘Okay, so you're pissed off. What's up?'

‘Pip says she told you. About the party, about what happened before the accident.'

‘Yeah, weeks ago. What did you expect? She's my best friend. You'd better not be paying out on her for it because she…'

I interrupt. ‘Have you told Mum and Dad?'

Her pause tells me all I need to know. I scowl.

‘So? They needed to know, just like I did. When we heard about the smash it was a total nightmare. We knew you were missing; no one could tell us who survived… and who didn't. Bianca and Travis…half the kids at the party were going ape-shit. Then parents started turning up, screaming and shaking kids, demanding to know who was in the car. The cops didn't release any details for hours. We were freaking out.

‘When we finally found out you were basically okay, it was like a miracle. But we were furious that you put us through all that fear and horror and relief. And Pip, she was just as upset as any of us. But at least she knew you didn't go with them...voluntarily.'

‘So do Mum and Dad know I lied to the police… about what I remember?' There's a tremor in my voice.

Mel shrugs. ‘I don't know, Dan. I reckon they might have a fair idea. But they can't prove what you remember and they can't make you talk about that night. All that matters to them—and me, believe it or not—is that you're okay and you weren't dumb enough to go joy-riding with a drink-driver…in a stolen heap-of-shit car. Otherwise, do you think they'd have let you out of their sight this summer? I had to tell them what we knew…even if you weren't ready to, you idiot.'

‘Is that all you know…about that night? That they forced me into the car?'

‘Yes. Why? What else have you got for your beloved sister?'

I wave her away, shaking my head—and hoping desperately she can't see inside it.

‘So go easy on Pip, okay?' She hugs me and skips back inside.

When I eventually get to sleep, my dreams are vivid.

A room. A kitchen. Dried herbs and cloves of garlic hang in bunches either side of a stone fireplace. It's deathly cold. A girl, the girl, is seated in a straight-backed wooden chair, her face bruised and swollen, her chin slumped to her chest. A tall, bald, muscled man holds her upper arms from behind, keeping her from falling forward. Her wrists are tied with rope behind the back of the chair.