The Wrong Door (20 page)

The neighbour grunted and tossed the parrot’s body onto a pile of dead leaves and twigs that looked to be the beginnings of a bonfire. He gave her one last look, waved to Tashi and went back to his lawnmower.

Gwennie said goodbye, wished Tashi well with his studies and sent her regards to his grandmother. Tashi responded that any time she was visiting she
was welcome to drop in. Gwennie nodded though she knew she never would.

As she turned to walk across the road, Tashi called after her. ‘In my country we have a saying. Whatever joy you seek, it can be achieved by yourself. Whatever misery you seek, it can be found by yourself.’ His words echoed inside Gwennie’s head as she drove off. It sounded like a conundrum, the sort of wordplay her father liked to engage in on a Sunday morning.

She couldn’t imagine joy, she could feel only misery. Was he telling her that it was her fabrication? The idea made Gwennie angry. Anger welled up from inside her, suddenly, instantly. She didn’t choose to be miserable – she’d just lost her husband for God’s sake. Twice. First in death and then to this Clare Dalton. Where was she supposed to find joy in that? She fought the tears, the all-encompassing misery that hovered just behind her eyelids and in her throat, making it ache. The ever-present blackness in her chest threatened to rise up and engulf her. She smothered it under the weight of her anger.

Clare’s next stop was the office of
The Blue Moun
tains Gazette
in Katoomba. She pressed the bell on the counter and a young man appeared.

‘Are you Darren?’ she asked.

‘You must be Clare, the student who called.’

‘Yes, that’s me. As I explained, I am doing a thesis on regional politics of the early eighties.’

Darren waved his hand. ‘Sure. Just take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ He disappeared into a back room. Clare leafed through a copy of the current newspaper, skimming the headlines. Doctor shortage in Blue Mountains. New winery opens. Clash over hazard reduction after fires. One story caught her eye:
Mayor says no to witches.

Clare felt a chill along her arms and looked up. Darren was watching her.

‘Usually back copies of the newspaper are kept at our head office in Springwood but it is being renovated so everything is here at the moment. It’s a bit of a squeeze I’m afraid but come through.’ He led the way past half-a-dozen people, all going about their business, to a desk at the back corner of the room. No-one paid any attention as he explained the system. ‘All our back issues are stored on computer. You can search by date, by story,
using any key word, or by typing in the name of the journalist who wrote it.’

Clare nodded. ‘It’s like our computer at the university. I’ll be fine.’

‘If you need anything, just holler. I’ll be up the front.’

Clare looked through the issues published in June 1979, not sure what she was looking for. She stopped at stories that interested her and skimmed others. It was all small-town news – a fire station being rebuilt, a letter-writing campaign by schoolchildren about the dangerous roads in the area and lots to do with local politics. Still, Clare found herself caught up, reading some stories right through, even though it was obvious they had nothing to do with Marla. It gave her a peek into another world. There was a strong sense of community here that she wasn’t used to, living in the city. Apart from Mr Sanjay, Clare didn’t know anyone in her neighbourhood.

She felt rumbling in her stomach and realised she was hungry. She had been sitting here for over an hour and it seemed like ages since breakfast. A few more minutes and it would be time for food, she told herself. She typed in
Dalton.
There were a few matches but nothing of use. She tried
Dayton
and the screen quickly filled.

Clare stared at the screen. She had always believed her father died in an accidental fire. No-one had mentioned police or a manhunt. And there it was again. Dayton. Margaret and Marlene Dayton. Peg and Marla Dalton. Gotcha.

She had expected to feel satisfied when she exposed their lies but the feeling didn’t come. She had always felt that she lived her life surrounded by shadows, a nameless shame that she didn’t understand. This was like shining a torch into all the family secrets, revealing the truth. That was a good thing, she reminded herself. It was better that she knew. Wasn’t it?

Clare thought of the letter in Marla’s wardrobe covered in dried blood and she remembered Marla telling her that there were some things she was
better off not knowing. She felt an uneasy stirring. But it was too late to turn back. If she had opened Pandora’s box she may as well check the contents. She scrolled forward through the issues.

That was the last reference Clare could find. She sat for a moment trying to absorb it all. A fire. A manhunt. Micky. Margaret and Marlene Dayton. Charles Dayton, dead, believed murdered. God, it was horrible. And all this while her mother was pregnant with her. Poor Peg.

The sun streamed through the windows, picking up flurries of dust in its rays. Around her was the quiet hum of a busy country newspaper. The young woman sitting closest to her kept ringing different people and asking in a loud voice, ‘Got anything for me?’ Another woman kept answering the phone and quoting different rates for advertisements, according to the size. An older man whispered bets to his bookie. Clare was in the midst of it all and yet not a part of it. She was filled with dread.

No longer did the family secrets appear mysterious and exciting. Now they were loaded with all sorts of possibilities that hadn’t occurred to her. She was saddened by what she had discovered but also, in a sense, relieved. Finally she felt she was beginning to understand. Marla’s boyfriend Micky had killed Charles Dayton, father and husband. Then he had gone on the run. Peg and Marla had been so scared they had changed their names and moved to the city. There could be no triumph in such knowledge. Clare imagined the pain and grief that her mother and sister must have shared. She took a printout of the cuttings and put it in her handbag.

Clare waited for the lights to change at Katoomba then turned onto the highway. She didn’t notice the black Saab waiting at the intersection as she passed and dropped the Honda down a gear. She thought of Marla. Is that why she drank? Did her memories cause her to cry out in the night? Clare started to see her sister differently. And Peg? What of her grief? She lost her husband, who turned out to be something of a local hero. Ironically, in finding out some things, Clare had more questions than ever.

The sun was bright, casting long shadows as it started its descent in the sky. Sometimes it slipped behind the trees as Clare drove, bursting out again in sudden sharp flares that made her squint. As Clare followed the highway the sunlight flashed in her eyes, on her right cheek, and then across the back window and into the rear-vision mirror.

The highway was well made and wide. There was little traffic and usually Clare would have enjoyed the rhythm of the curves, but her mind was consumed with the printout from the computer on the seat beside her. She drove slowly and steadily, in no hurry to get home. There was a lot to sort out in her own head before facing the women at Dadue Street. The road narrowed to one lane as she approached a stretch of roadworks, yet another reminder of the recent fires.

The bump to the rear was so sudden and unexpected that at first Clare didn’t realise what it was that caused her car to jerk. She worried she had run over something, a small animal, maybe a dog or
a wombat. Before she had the chance to consider it further a black Saab was beside her, overtaking.

‘Idiot,’ muttered Clare. She held the wheel steady and willed the other driver to move fast to get past her before any other cars appeared around the approaching bend. ‘Go on, get on with it or you’ll kill us both,’ she muttered under her breath.

The Saab drew level and finally passed. For a flash Clare saw the face of the other driver. She was blonde, open-mouthed and screaming abuse. It made no sense and nor did her driving. As soon as the Saab pulled in front, the brake lights suddenly glowed red. It was such a stupid and incomprehensible thing to do that even as she felt the collision Clare couldn’t believe it was happening. There was no time to be scared, she was operating entirely on instinct. Stay on the bitumen, avoid the barricades.

She gripped the steering wheel with all her strength as she steadied the shuddering car. The Honda slowed in a straight line coming to a standstill at the apex of the bend. She could see the blonde in profile, still screaming, as the Saab disappeared over the side.

Clare sat for several minutes shaking uncontrollably. The adrenalin that had sharpened her senses now sent her nerves haywire. Her teeth chattered as if she were cold and her head made small involuntary jerky movements. She kept her eyes fixed on the spot where she had last seen the black car before it drove over the grassy shoulder of the road and disappeared from sight.

A motorcycle drove past sounding its horn. Clare looked around her in a daze and saw that part of her car was on the gravel shoulder while the rest jutted onto the road, causing a hazard for other vehicles as they approached the bend. She turned on the engine and nosed her car forward until it was safely out of the way. Then she opened her door and threw up. With her head forward, she stared at the meagre contents of her stomach spilled out onto the grass.

Who was that woman? She shouldn’t be allowed to drive. Clare thought she had seen her before, but couldn’t remember where. The car looked like the one that she had seen parked in her street a couple of times over the past few weeks. But she couldn’t be sure. The woman was harder to forget. She was blonde and beautiful and clearly upset. Clare had no sense of knowing her and yet she remembered her. Where had she had seen that face? She
had
to remember. This woman had nearly run her off the road.

Clare’s body stopped shaking but she still felt weak and nauseous. She got out of the car, slowly, testing her limbs. Her right shoulder was sore from the impact of the seatbelt when she braked so violently. Everything else appeared to be okay.

There were rubber marks on the road from her tyres. A kombi van whizzed past, its two occupants staring curiously at her as she took a few wobbly steps. After it passed she strained to listen for other cars. When it appeared safe she walked to the edge of the shoulder, peering over the side. She had expected to see the black car, upside down, or smashed against a tree. Instead it was at a standstill on a parallel road below, upright and dusty, with a few twigs stuck to the fender, and the exhaust pipe hanging dangerously close to the ground.

Gwennie stared at the picture in front of her. It was round and squat with little legs and a huge middle. Was it an animal? It made no sense. Her car was
finally at rest but it took some time for her own equilibrium to return. She had bounced around inside the Saab, her head thumping against the side door column as the vehicle careered down the slope. There were few trees and none of them in the way to stop the car’s descent, but the dense spinifex grass had provided some traction, helping to slow the fall. The moment the car went over the edge, Gwennie automatically braced herself, arching her back and pushing both feet hard against the floor. Her arms reached out looking for something to grasp. Her right hand found the armrest in the door while her left flailed about hitting the passenger seat.

At the foot of the hill the car had hit a well-used dirt track and started to pick up speed again. Gwennie’s left foot found the brake pedal and the car started to slow, finally coming to rest twenty metres along the track, its nose nudging a pole bearing the strange picture. Gwennie felt stunned and a little vague. Something warm was trickling down the right side of her face. It felt like rain. But that couldn’t be, she was inside a car. She closed her eyes. Where was Pete? Why wasn’t he driving? It was his car. Perhaps if she just stayed here, he would come and get her.

Gradually the fog in her brain started to clear, leaving a pounding headache and a sense of unreality. She rubbed her temple in time with the throbbing, trying to smooth it away. She had no sensation of time passing. There was a persistent thought buzzing at the back of her brain. She had
to move, to get somewhere. But the thought stayed there, suspended. It was like an annoying fly. She wished she could just swipe it away. She wanted to sleep. But something kept nudging her, bringing her back to consciousness. She had to
do
something, if only she could remember what.

Gwennie touched her cheek, feeling the thick warm liquid. She looked at her fingers. They were red. That must mean she was bleeding. Oh, where was Pete? Should she wait for him or should she try to go for help? He would be expecting her and might be worried. Well, good. So he should. He had caused her enough worry lately. She couldn’t remember why but the feeling lingered. Had they had a fight? She felt she had been angry with him.

Where the hell was she? She looked again at the sign. She had seen that picture before, or ones like it. It was a wombat crossing sign. Those cute furry creatures might want to cross the road just here. But there was something else about the sign. She studied the picture. It was a black silhouette on a vivid yellow background. The animal had stubby little legs and a huge middle. It looked childlike and that reminded her of something … what was it?

The cat that swallowed the rat.
She had been warned about that. Someone had told her that she was in danger, and it had something to do with that sign. No, that wasn’t right. Her thoughts were muddled and her head hurt. Was she in danger? She had to get to Pete. She turned the key and was
relieved that the engine started. Gwennie didn’t notice the thumping noise of the exhaust pipe bouncing along the ground as she drove off.

Clare watched the Saab drive away. ‘Maniac!’ she called angrily after her. She recited the number plate in her head until she got back to the car and found a pen, then wrote it down on her palm. The rear of her own car was damaged. The bumper bar was badly dented in the middle and there was a long streak of black paint down the side of her car. She felt along the panels. They also were dented.

After finding her mobile phone in her handbag, with a shaking hand she dialled Susan’s mobile, feeling relieved when her friend answered. ‘Where are you?’ asked Clare without preamble.

‘In Warringah Mall, trying on a shirt. Where are you?’

‘On the road down from the Blue Mountains. I’ve … had … a bit of an accident.’

‘Oh, God, are you all right?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m just a bit shaken. Someone nearly ran me off the road.’ She was recovering from the initial shock and beginning to feel angry. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Of course,’ said Susan, sounding worried.

‘Have you got a pen?’

‘No … um … Hang on. Yes.’

‘Write down this registration number.’ Clare recited it over the phone. ‘Can you ring Bill and find out who owns the car?’

‘Oh Clare, I don’t know if Bill can do that. He’s only supposed to use the computer for Roads and Traffic Authority business. He could get into a lot of trouble.’

‘Please, Susan. It’s important. This woman is a maniac. She’s damaged my car and taken off.’

‘Then I think you should drive to the nearest police station and report her.’

‘Why? It would be my word against hers. I just want to get my car fixed.’

‘Clare, are you sure you are okay to drive? Maybe I should come and get you.’

‘No, no, that would take too long. I’ll head home soon and take it very slowly and carefully. I’m just going to sit down for a minute and wait for you to ring back.’

Gwennie travelled two kilometres before her car stalled. She pressed her foot hard on the accelerator and tried the engine again. It spluttered to life but as she coaxed it forward the front right wheel hit a mound of hard, caked mud and she stalled again. Still dazed and disoriented, she got out and walked. The thoughts continued to buzz around in her brain. She couldn’t pin them down long enough to look at them but they gave her a sense of urgency.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach. She had to get to Pete. That was all she could concentrate on. Flies landed on her face and bare arms but she
didn’t bother to wave them away. She stumbled further down the dirt track. The canopy of branches thickened overhead, shielding her from the glare of the late afternoon sun. She kept walking and, when the road veered to the right, she kept going straight ahead, down a driveway.

Clare locked the car, found a grassy patch just below the shoulder of the road and sat down to wait for Susan to call back. She still felt a little wobbly and this was the perfect vantage point. She was out of the way of passing motorists but she could see a few kilometres down the dirt track where the Saab had disappeared from view. If it came back this way she would see it and would be able to flag down the driver. She found a health bar in her handbag and took a bite, hoping to rid herself of the bitter taste of vomit.

Bill had looked up numbers for her before. Once when a car had sideswiped her and then kept driving, Clare had taken down the registration number and found out the owner from Bill. Then she had sent a letter claiming she had an eyewitness and demanding they pay for repairs, which they had. Another time she and Susan had seen an old schoolfriend they had lost touch with drive past. A quick notation of the registration number, a call to Bill and they had her address. Within days they were all getting merrily drunk together and catching up on old times.

Clare watched the dirt track. There was no sign
of movement. Even though she was expecting it when the phone rang, she jumped.

‘Hi, it’s Susan.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That you should go to the police.’

‘And …?’ said Clare.

‘It is registered to a man …’

Clare’s handwriting was shaky as she took down the details.

‘… a Peter Darvill of 18 Pembroke Road, Neutral Bay.’

Clare let the air out of her lungs in a rush. ‘Darvill? Did you say Darvill?’

Clare asked her friend to spell it, just so she could be sure. It was the same as the name she had written in her notebook. Micky Darvill. Was that a coincidence? Surely it was. But Darvill didn’t sound like such a common name. Perhaps there were a lot of them in this part of the world. According to the newspaper he had a brother. They could all be part of one large extended family dotted around the Blue Mountains.

As she drove towards Sydney, Clare’s brain worked furiously. The shakiness she felt after the car accident left her as she thought through what she had learned. The knowledge empowered her. With each passing kilometre she felt stronger and clearer. No more secrets. No more half-truths and evasions. The time had come for her mother to finish the jigsaw.

Trudy Barnes was looking out the window sipping tea and keeping a watchful eye on her eight-month-old in his highchair when Gwennie stumbled down her driveway. Gwennie was a bedraggled figure lurching in an almost straight line while the footpath curved around bare patches of ground, dotted with clumps of grass and flowerbeds.

Trudy watched her approach. The way she was walking she could have been drunk. But it was a little early in the day for that. There was no sign of a car or anyone else. The woman carried no bag or purse. She was wearing a sleeveless white shirt, navy skirt and flat shoes. Perhaps she had broken down, or had an accident. Trudy picked her baby out of the highchair and went outside to meet her.

Gwennie had stopped bleeding but her right cheek was caked with blood. It had dripped down onto her shoulder and left a dark patch on her white shirt.

‘Hi there. Are you all right?’ asked Trudy.

Gwennie looked at the rotund young woman standing in front of her holding a chubby baby. ‘Is Pete here?’ she asked.

‘Why don’t you come inside and we’ll call him. Is Pete your husband?’

Gwennie followed, not sure who the woman was, but thinking she looked kind. Inside Trudy put the baby back in his chair and sat Gwennie at the kitchen table. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked again, handing the young woman a tissue. Gwennie took it but made no attempt to wipe the caked blood. She seemed unaware it was there.

‘I think I should call an ambulance,’ said Trudy.

‘No,’ said Gwennie firmly. ‘Call Pete.’ Tears started to pour down her cheeks.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Trudy.

Gwennie continued to sob silently.

Trudy patted her on the arm. ‘How about you just sit here and catch your breath.’ She fetched a blanket, wrapped it around Gwennie’s shoulders and dialled her husband on his mobile. She spoke to him standing at the kitchen bench, keeping one eye on her baby and one on Gwennie. ‘Hi, it’s me. Are you busy? Can you come home?’

Clare arrived back at Dadue Street just as Peg was serving dinner and Marla was setting the table.

‘We were beginning to think you wouldn’t be back in time. Where have you been all day?’ asked Marla.

‘Oh, out and about,’ mumbled Clare.

Peg stopped, a dinner plate in one hand and a ladle heaped with mashed potato in the other. She looked more closely at her younger daughter. ‘Are you okay? You look pale.’

Clare had thought about this conversation all the way home with a mixture of triumph and trepidation. She took a deep breath. ‘I had a bit of an accident.’

Marla and Peg both looked shocked, just as she had expected.

‘What sort of accident?’ asked Peg.

‘A woman nearly ran me off the road,’ said
Clare. She spoke slowly and calmly, trying not to reveal any emotion.

Peg reacted immediately, taking a step towards Clare, her face puckering with concern.

Clare put her hand up to stop her. ‘I’m okay, Mum. You can relax. I’m a bit tired from the drive but I’m not at all hurt.’

Peg stared at her daughter, surprised by her tone and attitude.

Clare ignored her and turned instead to Marla. ‘I was in the Blue Mountains, visiting someone.’ She paused, watching the two women closely, letting those words hang in the air.

Neither Marla nor Peg spoke. They exchanged a look that Clare found hard to interpret. It was just the merest flash, their eyes meeting briefly, then they looked straight back to Clare. Marla sat down at the table as though she needed support but that could have been Clare’s imagination. Her face showed mild interest, but that was all. Peg remained perfectly still, the ladle still frozen in mid-air.