Mallawindy (34 page)

He stood at the window in the departure lounge, staring out at the plane that brought him down from Brisbane, and he wondered how they'd made it this far. It looked like a well-travelled Ford, the best of its life gone.

Planes and airports. He'd seen enough of them today to last a lifetime. The small plane that had flown him out from the island had left at dawn. They were held up in Sydney, and now again in Melbourne. He wasn't destined to reach Perth. He yawned, flexed his shoulder muscles.

He didn't like planes, particularly these big birds, but he did as he was told. He'd never been to Perth, didn't care if he went there or not, either. His life spent safe within his books, the outside world had long taken on an irrelevance.

There was much noise, much movement, the airport was packed. Christmas travellers milled, arms filled with brightly wrapped parcels, flowers. People flying home for Christmas.

Christ's birth.

Take the child out of Christmas, and what did that leave? he thought. Nothing much. It was not a priestly thought, and he smiled a wry smile.

The plane had been due to take off half an hour ago. They'd
boarded, taxied out to the runway then aborted, off loaded the passengers to wait again. Maybe they'd noticed the bald tyres too. He turned from the window, walked through the crowd to the long corridor.

He wanted a coffee. There must be a kiosk down there somewhere.

Too tall, a strikingly handsome priest in his black suit, the band of white at his throat, unsuitable attire for a day that promised heat, but the uniform suited him well.

‘What a waste, eh.' The speaker, a middle-aged blonde, stared blatantly as he walked by.

Again the strange half smile touched his lips.

What a waste: Perhaps his life had been wasted. Many would have considered it so. No fame, no bank account. He'd served his church without ambition, content to bury self beneath the black mantle of anonymity. He had done no harm, and about as much good, but he was fed, and he was clothed, he had his books – what more was there?

The kiosk was busy. He stood back, eyeing a slice of fruit cake, plastic wrapped, then his eyes were drawn to a newspaper, the headlines black.

His expression altered. He stepped forward, reaching for a paper, and as he read the crease deepened in his brow.

‘Coffee,' he said, and continued reading. When the plastic cup was placed before him, the woman had to ask twice before receiving a response.

‘And the paper, Father.'

‘Thank you, yes.' Still scanning the front page, he returned to the departure lounge, turned to page two. He saw the name, the town. One heel as a pivot, he turned, picked up his hand luggage and walked briskly away.

People. Too many people. He pushed through the crush to a row of telephones, all in use. He found sufficient cash, waited, foot tapping until a phone became free, and he dialled the operator.

‘I want the number please of a Mrs Taylor, Warran. NSW.'

‘Street name, and number.'

‘I'm sorry. I don't know the street. Possibly Mrs A E Taylor.'

‘There are seven listings for Taylor in Warran. There is D for David. An E for Edward. A K for Keith – .'

‘Seven. Thank you. Thank you,' and the priest placed the phone down.

He looked up at the flapping flight information. The Perth flight still showed ‘Delayed'.

In Mahoneys Lane they watched the television and ate their breakfast, then Bronwyn left for work. ‘I'll pop home at lunchtime, Annie. If you need me, call,' she said.

‘I'm fine, Bron,' Ann lied.

She made more coffee when she was alone, and she drank it while watching the television reporter repeat for the umpteenth time. ‘The skeletal remains of seven-year-old Liza Burton were found here late yesterday. Police are treating the death as a homicide – '

Of May, there was no sign. She was probably at the Toorak flat. The wife of the Narrawee manager was having her say though. Her one day of fame in a lifetime of none, and she was making the most of it. ‘We've managed the property for Mr and Mrs Burton for over twenty years. Never in all of my born days did I – '

The phone rang, and Ann ran to answer, expecting it to be David.

‘Mrs Taylor. Mrs Ann Taylor.'

‘Speaking.'

‘This is Greg Mathers from the
Daree Gazette.
I was wondering if I could – '

She broke the connection and stepped away, me realisation of what might be to come, hitting her for the first time. Slowly she
returned to the television, the screen still filled with the face of the woman. ‘No. I never saw the man – Edward Crow. Of course May and Sam often employed casuals, but whatever possessed her to leave those two – '

Ann hit the off switch.

At nine, she dialled her mother-in-law's number in New Zealand. There was no answer. New Zealand was h
ours ahead. The funeral should be over. She called Sydney Airport, asked the time of flights coming in from New Zealand, but could glean no information on passengers on incoming flights. He was probably halfway home; hadn't had a chance to call, and while she kept the phone off the hook, he couldn't call. She hung up and another news man rang.

Her neighbour knocked at the door at nine. She brought the newspaper with her.

TWENTY-FOUR YEAR OLD MYSTERY SOLVED. SKELETAL REMAINS OF CHILD FOUND ON PROPERTY WEST OF MELBOURNE,
the headlines screamed.

Police acting on information given to them by the sister of the missing child.

‘They've all but plastered your address on page two,' Dee Williams said. ‘Peter just called me. He said they've been ringing the hospital, looking for information.'

‘Hospital?'

‘They've got onto Mandy's death. It's all over the second page. Double tragedy. The bloody-minded sods.'

Ann borrowed a cigarette, she made coffee and filled ten minutes speaking of the weather. Then the phone rang and Dee left, taking her cigarettes with her, but leaving the paper.

The phone rang three times in the next five minutes, and she couldn't let it ring. Like a merry-go-round, and she a child riding it, she had to cling in here, ride it till it stilled, or fall off, fall on her face. She answered calls, waiting for the one call she wanted. She filled the jug again and plugged it in, not wanting any more
coffee. It was something to do. Just something to do with her hands.

She put on a load of washing and the phone drew her from the laundry.

‘David?' But it was just another reporter. ‘Find some other bones to pick, and get off this line. I'm expecting an important call,' she yelled.

ANN TAYLOR SCREAMS AT REPORTER

‘Cool it,' she warned herself. ‘Cool it. Give them no more grist for their mill. Just ride it out until he comes home.'

The priest stood beside the hire car, his head down, his hands clasped across his brow as he studied the city map. He didn't know Melbourne – hadn't set foot on the mainland in sixteen years, but the car was an automatic, and all he had to do was find Sydney Road. Somehow.

He sucked a breath deep into his lungs, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, one finger tracking roads on the map. He found Pentridge prison.

‘I should have finished it back then. I'd be out now. Twenty years in the bluestone college instead of in the prison I built for myself.'

He'd cancelled his ticket and booked a hire car, and it had all taken time. They'd fill his seat to Perth soon enough, but his luggage would do the round trip. Fate, or God had grounded his plane, kept him in Melbourne this day. Fate, God, or the devil.

The hire car was small for one of his size. He tucked his frame in, adjusted the seat, and glanced again at the road map, his hand combing back his thick black hair.

‘That poor little girl,' he said. In his mind, he had never allowed her to grow – perhaps he had never expected her to grow. He shook his head and started the motor.

For years he had put away emotion, denied it. He had travelled where he was posted, unquestioning; hiding from self and from memories, and rejoicing in the non feeling, but emotion was threatening to sink him now. There were people he should have called, and he knew it, and he didn't care. Raw, gut-wrenching emotion had stripped him of reason, reduced reason to the basic instincts of a homing pigeon.

‘Twenty-four year old mystery solved. Skeletal remains of child found on property west of Melbourne.

He read it all.

‘Police, acting on information, given to them by the sister of the missing child, early this morning discovered the remains on a property, five kilometres north of –
'

Double tragedy for the Taylor family, who two weeks ago lost their only child in a freak accident. An employee at the Warran Hospital told reporters, Mrs Taylor, who suffered a partial amnesia after the death of her sister, has now regained her memory of that day.

The priest looked at the sky, not so bright as it had appeared to be half an hour ago. ‘God works in mysterious ways, love, his wonders to perform.' His voice a mimic, but cynical – as the one he mimicked had never been.

‘I was sent here today, Mum. A last minute addition. I didn't want to come, but I came. I did as I was bid. You trained me well, didn't you?' Again he mimicked the female voice. ‘Never question God's judgment, love.'

He tossed his hand luggage to the rear seat, tossed the paper with it. The car had followed the traffic onto the freeway when the priest's collar came off and was tossed with the paper to the back seat. He pulled at the fabric at his throat, loosened it, and out of the priest came an ordinary man.

‘It only takes seven hours if you plant your foot, and the bloody coppers are taking a day off,' the priest said, his voice a perfect mimic of Jack Burton's. He could do Jimmy Cagney too, and John
Wayne. He could do his grandfather. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, lad.'

The entertainer priest. The one who took his duties with a wry smile. This was definitely one priest who had missed his calling.

‘I've got to get to her before the world gets in and finally breaks her,' he said, and he took his father's advice and planted his foot. His large hands sure on the wheel, Johnny Burton was off and flying like the homing pigeon.

Bronwyn walked home at one for a quick lunch, and she didn't want to leave. Ann was cracking. Reporters had been trying to
get to her all morning, they'd even pursued Bronwyn when they saw her open the gate. She told them to piss off, but Liza Burton was big news, and if that wasn't bad enough, they were asking questions about Mandy's freak death. That was what was getting to Annie, and Bronwyn knew it.

She heard the knocking at the front door as she prepared to leave. ‘Bastards,' she said.

‘Little pig, little pig, let me in. Oh, no, not by the hair of my chinny chin chin, will I let you in,' Ann said. ‘I thought it would be three lines on page ten, Bron. I didn't know. I went out to put some washing on the line and a camera flashed over Dixon's fence. They want to eat me alive, chew me up and spit out the bits on the front page.'

‘I'll pull the outside blinds before I go, Annie. Just stay put. Turn the television up loud and ignore them.'

‘I don't want noise. I want silence.'

‘David hasn't rung?'

‘No. I can't get his mother. I can't take the phone off the hook. I want to run, Branny. I want to run so far, but I'm trapped here like the little pig while they blow down my house of straw.' She was pale, her hands were trembling.

Bronwyn looked at her watch. She had to go. She worked in a one-woman office and she was the woman.

‘I'll get Dee Williams to come in.'

‘She's been here and I don't want her. I don't want anyone. I'm fine. You go, Bronny. David will ring soon. I'll be fine when he rings. He's all right, isn't he? He hasn't had an accident or anything, has he? There haven't been any plane crashes?'

‘Stop that, Annie. He's fine. As you say, he's probably halfway home.'

The phone rang again and Ann sprang up to answer it. ‘Go to hell,' she said.

‘Take a couple of Aspros, and have a glass of wine. Put a
video on.'

‘Have you got a spare packet of cigarettes?'

‘It's no good for the baby.'

‘I'm no good for the baby if I'm in a mad house, Bron. Please don't nag me.'

‘I'll ring Fletch. See if he can come down.'

‘He's not home. I tried him. I tried Ben's house. Nobody is home.' Bronwyn handed her a packet of cigarettes, watched her hand shake as she removed one, lit it. It wasn't Annie. It wasn't the one she'd known these last years. Her eyes were black voids, empty as they had been on the night she ran off for Melbourne.

‘Go Bron. You're late.'

‘I'll close up at five-thirty. On the dot, Annie.'

The hire car had flown freeway, highway, and narrow bitumen strip, making light work of the trip. Locked in, air-conditioner on, Johnny had been unaware of the scorching heat of the day until he wound the window down to look for old landmarks.