One Sunday (42 page)

‘Wake your mother and help her dress,' he said when he came from the library.

‘Is Rachael all right?'

He pushed by her. ‘Wake your mother and help her dress.' That's all he said. Except when they were leaving, he handed her the key to Arthur's door. ‘We'll be in Willama. We may be gone some time. Give your brother breakfast in his room. Stir a tablespoon full of his calming medicine into a glass of juice.'

As if she'd be opening that door. As if she'd go anywhere near him. Except at the dinner table, she hadn't gone within yards of him since the night she'd found him with his trousers down. He was like that stallion when they put him in the wood paddock, only Nicholas wouldn't supply him with mares.

She went to the library as soon as the car left and was still there three hours later when it returned. She remembered closing a blue and red account book, remembered sliding it into its correct place in the drawer, remembered closing that heavy drawer. She remembered walking from the room, searching for movement in the passage before hurrying down to the courtyard door.

Nicholas stood there, his mouth moving, his face muscles immobile. ‘Rachael passed away this morning at the Willama hospital,' he said.

Passed away? For an instant that didn't sound like something Rachael might have done. Rachael was the brave one, the strong one, the pretty one, Rachael was the laughing one, the cheeky one . . . Not the type to have passed away.

Olivia crying, Mrs Johnson assisting her from the car, Nicholas tight lipped, standing there giving orders: ‘Father Ryan was driving behind us. He'll be here shortly. Dress suitably, Helen, and get Johnson to do something with that hair.'

Wide gulf opening up, swallowing her. She must have screamed. Couldn't remember screaming. Remembered him slapping her face, so she must have screamed. Didn't remember running, or climbing into Molly's big old wardrobe with Rachael's case.

Father Ryan's car roared in and roared away again before Nicholas came knocking at her door. She didn't open it, so he poked something through the lock, poked out Arthur's key and opened her door with another. He found her cowering in the wardrobe.

‘A ghastly accident, Helen, a devastating loss to us all.' Speaking quietly, he drew her from that safe place by her arm.

‘He killed my sister. She was playing with him, and he was smiling, then he killed her, Father. You have to put him away.'

‘Keep your voice down and listen to me, Helen.' Sitting her on the bed, sitting beside her. ‘You must control yourself and deal with this loss, as we all must deal with this loss. I will not have your brother treated as a common criminal.'

‘He is a criminal!'

‘Voice down, Missie. Think of your own situation should this get out. Think of the consequences to yourself. You have the opportunity of making an excellent marriage. This tragic accident could prevent the engagement taking place. As it is, things will necessarily be delayed. But it
was
an accident, Helen. Your brother meant her no harm.'

‘He's not my brother! My brothers are dead. Doctor Frankenstein made him out of the leftover bits of my brother, and he forgot to give him self-control. You can't control him, Father. Nobody can.'

‘Enough, Missie! Enough of this emotion! You are a Squire, and a Squire looks after his own.'

‘He doesn't, and he's not my own, and you can't make him be my own. He's a monster.'

He stood then, turned away from her, drew a breath and held it for the count of ten. He walked to the wardrobe, one hand moving among the frocks on their hangers, then he turned to her again, his face white, his eyes cold, his mouth tight.

‘You, Missie, will remember this day. You will never forget this day, but you will learn well from it – and you will learn to heed my warnings. Had your sister been at home with her husband last night instead of running around after that German scum, this tragedy would not have occurred. They will pay for what they've done to this family.'

‘They didn't do anything. Arthur did it, and you can't hide it, and if you hadn't hid what he did before, he would have been put in a safe place where he couldn't do any harm.'

‘Hold your tongue, Missie, and let us not forget the part your tongue played in disturbing your brother last night.'

‘It's his baby as much as Raymond and that other baby was –' Crying then, hurting so hard because she knew it was her fault, and because his cold hands were biting into her upper arms, his white granite face too close to her own.

‘You are a Squire, and a Squire looks after his own, Missie. Say it.'

‘I won't.'

He shook her, pulled her to her feet. ‘You will look after your brother and the family name. When questions are asked, and they will be asked, you will say that your sister was with that German last night, and that we did not see her.'

‘Every time I close my eyes, I can see her.'

‘Hear me and heed me. Dave came here after midnight. He told us that your sister had stolen his savings and had gone to that nest of Germans.' Too scared to look at his face. Too scared not to look at his face. Just too scared of him. ‘Who was your sister with last night, Missie?' Shaking her then, shaking an answer from her, shaking her until she sobbed the answer he required.

‘Dave said she was with Chris.'

‘You are sure of that?'

‘Yes.'

‘What time did we go to bed?'

Whimpering. ‘When Dave left.'

‘Louder.'

‘When Dave left, we went to bed.'

‘Did you see your sister last night?'

‘No, Father.'

He released her and stepped back. Such a little man, such a thin, pale little man to wield such power. He returned to the wardrobe where he selected a frock, removed it from its hanger and placed it on the bed. ‘It will be quite suitable for today. We'll arrange something else tomorrow. And pin up that hair, please.' Then he'd left her.

Not until Helen overheard Tilda and Mrs Johnson speaking in the kitchen mid afternoon did she know that Rachael had been found near the Reichenberg property. Only then did she realise Nicholas had placed her there, and why he'd placed her there.

‘I didn't know she'd been found near Chris's place, Mr Thompson. I thought my father had taken her to Hunter's hospital last night. I don't want to . . . to get him into serious trouble. He had two sons and Freddy got killed by the Germans, and then they did that to Arthur. It's just . . . just that he has to pretend he's still got one son.'

That poor, superior, sad bastard, Tom thought, though not one word could he say. It was too bloody mad, too bloody sad. He sat on that cane couch, head down, the frying pan swinging like a pendulum between his boots. Nothing to be said. He'd had young Rachael's murder solved three times so far today, and every time he solved it, someone went and changed the plot.

‘I've talked Helen into staying down here until Tuesday. I'm going to send a telegram to her aunt in the morning,' the widow said.

Still no comment from Tom. In the distance a dog howled at the moon and he wanted to lift up his head, open his mouth and howl with it. He glanced at the girl, then at the woman, self-elected protector of little girls, and he knew why she protected them, and he wanted to howl for her too, and for all frightened little girls, and for all of those poor hurting folk out there who were just trying to find a way, any way, to go on, and if he tried to utter one flamin' word he'd start howling, so he kept his mouth closed tight.

‘You won't tell anyone I'm here, will you, Mr Thompson? Not until my aunty comes.'

He sucked in a breath, shook his head, knowing that was the least of her problems.

‘He's not going to tell a soul. Now, you go to bed and lock your door. No one will disturb you. You've got my promise on that – and I'll speak for the constable too, if he's not going to speak for himself.'

The girl stood, glanced once more at the frying pan, then walked into the hotel, leaving Tom playing with a murder weapon, hanging on to its wooden handle and swinging it backwards and forwards for five minutes while the devil's dog howled on.

‘Say something, will you.'

He sighed, sniffed, stared at the moon. ‘Can't. I'm poleaxed.'

‘I never did know what a poleaxe was.'

‘A butcher's hammer and blade tool – for slaughtering poor dumb animals. I don't know what to do, Katie,' Tom said. ‘This is going to make headline news for a month.'

‘Squire is accustomed to having his face in the social pages. And what happened to your
Mrs Dolan
?'

‘What?'

‘Here I was thinking you'd forgotten my name, Thomo.'

‘Ha,' he said.

She yawned. ‘It's got to be close to midnight. I suppose I could do you bed and breakfast, seeing as I'll have to get out early and send that telegram.'

He sat on, swinging that pan, staring at that moon and thinking about a night out here, in a comfortable bed, with those crickets chirping and the cool coming off her water tanks, those vines whispering ancient secrets. It was tempting, but he shook his head, knowing he had to stand up, walk away from the scent of growing things, walk up that hill to the dust and the stale stink of home. He had to do it. Had to wake up Morgan and get out to Squire's place, arrest him.

He had to. He was a copper, and a murder had been committed – and covered up. He had to do it.

How? Dink Morgan out there? Lend him the bike and run ahead, carrying a lantern to light his way? And where was he going to put Squire and his son? They wouldn't appreciate sharing a cell with Vern Lowe.

He'd been trying to force himself out to Squire's place all day. Should have gone there this morning. Could have gone there this afternoon. Hadn't gone there, and that girl had been out there, living with what she'd witnessed, all day long.

He'd have to wake up Miss Lizzie, put a call through to Willama, get that car back over here. That's what he'd have to do, send Squire and his son across to Willama.

And it all looked like too much flamin' effort. He wanted to sit right where he was, feeling that cool, smelling those scents of life.

Morgan would be asleep by now, Squire and his son asleep. So, let them sleep, let the world sleep if it could. Time enough tomorrow.

Her thigh brushed against his as she stretched. He thought of standing, but instead placed the pan down, moved his thigh and picked up his beer, emptying the pot in a swallow.

‘Have you got a spare fag on you?'

‘You've had enough, and so have I. I'm going to bed. Are you coming or not?' He swung around to face her, and she laughed, though she kept it low. ‘Don't go having a stroke now. I'm not offering you my bed. You don't get invited into that one, lovey – unless you've got a spare two bob in your pocket. Or am I selling myself short these days?'

‘You've got a bugger of a laugh on you, I know that much.'

‘Ah, make it ten bob, lovey, and I'll throw in another beer and a packet of fags.'

‘You're a bugger of a woman, Katie Monahan, with a bugger of a tongue, and you always were and you ever will be.'

What happened next some might have blamed on the heady scent of those belladonna lilies, or on the heat, or even on that big old red moon. Who can say what triggers a tired man's actions? Blame it on two and a half fast brandies followed by three beers. Blame it on the pull of gravity – or on the devil, still hovering out there, playing his game until that clock struck twelve, but when a man's face was as close as his was to a girl he'd once spent ninety-one days loving, and when she'd stuck by his side for hours tonight, had taxied him around and poured him free grog, it would have been an offence to go calling her a bugger of a woman, then not taking the edge off those words with a quick kiss on the cheek.

Something went amiss with his aim. Maybe he could see two of her, or maybe she moved her cheek – she'd been full of those tricks in the old days. Whatever the reason, he got her lips instead.

Soft, they were, sort of sweet and soft and clinging on to his when he thought of pulling back. Then there was no thought of pulling back because he was a thirsting man, drinking at the sweetest oasis, submerging himself in that soul-cleansing pool, and refusing to leave it for fear he'd never find it again.

It was like the first time he'd kissed those lips, sitting at her side on a doorstep, her supposed grandfather, old Joe Monahan, barely cold in his pauper's grave; like every time their mouths had come together in those three months of nights, back when he was twenty-three and she a damn sight younger – though somewhat older than him in experience.

He had to stop it, though, before it went any further. He had to remember that Rosie was dead. He had to think of that, keep remembering that.

‘Sorry,' he said.

‘You're a liar, Thomo,' she said, but she sat back, gave him a bit of room.

‘I might be. There again, I might be drunk enough to have kissed Morgan – if he'd been sitting next to me.'

‘His nose would have got in the way. You'd be better off sticking with me, lovey.'

That mouth, smiling at him, tempting him, and knowing full well it was tempting him. He stood up fast, looked at the hill, looked at her, then started walking.

But at a safe distance, he turned. ‘I dunno,' he said, ‘but given time, Katie Monahan, given just a bit of time, I reckon that maybe I wouldn't have too much trouble coming to terms with that.'

And he walked on, her bugger of a laugh following him.

Joy Dettman

Mallawindy

Ann Burton was born on a river bank the night her father tried to burn their house down.

 

Six years later her sister Liza disappears while they are staying at their uncle's property. What Ann sees that day robs her of her memory and her speech.

 

A stroke of unexpected humanity releases Ann from her world of silence, and she escapes her anguished childhood, finding love and a new life away from Mallawindy. But there is no escape from the Burton family and its dark secrets. Ann must return to Mallawindy and confront the past if she is ever to be set free.

 

‘We ride the crests and troughs of the Burtons' 30-year history with open mouths and saucer eyes . . . Dettman is an adept storyteller'
THE AGE

 

‘A highly competent and confident debut novel'

SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

 

‘A compelling story, well told . . . it holds promise of further enthralling fiction from its author'
CANBERRA TIMES

 

‘A stunning debut; a rich and engrossing read; a tale of page-turning suspense and mystery; a postmortem of family ties; all this and more,
Mallawindy
will grab you hook, line and sinker'
QUEENSLAND TIMES