Thornwood House (54 page)

The first thing I noticed when I got home was the smell.

Stuffy and faintly putrid. I went through the house opening windows, hoping for a fresh breeze to gust it away, wondering if my imagination was going haywire after Luella’s devastating confession. But the smell seemed to get stronger in the hall, and stronger still in my bedroom. I flung open more windows, but the odour lingered. Had something died in a bottom drawer? I scouted around, thinking maybe a mouse or a dried up gecko . . .

Then froze.

On the end of the bed sat my battered Minolta – the one I’d last seen bouncing into the bushes up at the settlers’ hut. I did a mental backtrack. Had I retrieved the camera after all, and in my shocked state forgotten? Hell no. I could see it now, lying there in the grass, just a glimpse as I turned and ran. There’d been no time to grab it. Which meant . . .

He’d been here.

That would explain the mustiness, the smell.

I rushed through the house. My pro cameras and laptop were all still in my studio, my collection of valuable old lenses untouched. The stereo and TV sat unmolested in the lounge room; even the twenty dollar bill I’d placed on the table to fund Bronwyn’s upcoming science project was right where I’d left it. Confused now, beginning to doubt myself, I ran from door to
door, window to window, searching for forced entry – but there were no broken panes, no gouged woodwork, no jemmied door locks.

Returning to my bedroom, I stared at the Minolta. Picking it up, I removed it from the case. A crack speared across the face of the filter lens, and the lens cap was missing. Which was odd, because the cap should’ve been inside the case. I shook the case to make sure, and a square of paper fluttered out.

A Polaroid photograph.

One I knew well. I’d taken it five years ago when Bronwyn was six, a few months before her father walked out. It was a colour shot of her and Tony, grinning with insane happiness into the camera, their eyes alight. Tony had claimed it immediately, slipping it into his wallet, vowing he’d keep it there until the day he died. And judging by the concave photo paper and tattered edges, that’s exactly what he’d done.

Until the day he died
 . . .

Dots began to join, firing off synaptic trails in my brain.

Tony had every reason to believe Cleve was dead. He’d shot him and then helped his mother dump the body in the dam. He’d made a partial confession to Danny Weingarten, knowing Danny would never tell.
I’ve done something bad
, he’d signed to Danny – and then the next morning got on a bus and never returned. For twenty years he’d stayed away, cutting all ties with his mother and the people he loved.

And yet, all along, he must have had his doubts. Why else would the discovery of Cleve’s supposed remains prompt his return?

I searched the faded faces in the Polaroid – Bronwyn’s round baby features and Tony’s earnest smile. I searched until the image blurred, then shut my eyes and tried to piece it all together.

Tony’s nightmares, his moodiness. His extended silences. There must have been an undercurrent of fear running through
him all his adult life. That is, until he’d read about the discovery in the dam.

He would’ve wanted to see Luella, talk to her. He probably guessed she’d be feeling frightened and needed her son by her side . . . or maybe he’d wanted to align their stories in case the police opened an inquiry. He would have gone to William Road. He might have knocked for ages, nervous, planning in detail what he’d say to his mother after two decades.

But Luella was out, perhaps shopping in Brisbane.

Tony would have decided to wait. He’d kill a bit of time by hiking up the track to the gully  . . . then further uphill to the old settlers’ hut, a place that harboured happy childhood memories. And there, in the grassy glade on that glorious sun-filled, bird-bright afternoon, he had come face to face with the nightmare he’d just spent twenty years running away from.

I stared at the Polaroid pinched in my bloodless fingers.

Tony had promised to keep it in his wallet forever.

Something dark blossomed in my chest. Denial, perhaps. And crazily, like the echo of a faraway dream, a fragment from something Aylish had written drifted into my mind.

I used the washhouse key and let myself into the homestead, I do hope you won’t be cross
 . . .

The Polaroid fluttered from my grasp. I rushed along the hall, through the kitchen, down the back stairs and into the laundry under the house. There was no rankness in the air, no sign that anyone other than Bronwyn or I had been here. It all looked so ordinary. The gleaming front-loader, the swept tiles, the roomy concrete basins, the line hung with washing. And Bronwyn’s bike with its handlebar streamers and bright red seat, propped beneath the shelf she’d requisitioned for her silkworm trays.

It took less than five minutes to find it – located midway along the door lintel, surrounded by an inch of dust. The clunky old key was mostly clean, as though it had recently been
used. Apart from the heavy tarnish, it was a perfect match to the shiny, newly-cut keys Bronwyn and I used to let ourselves into the house.

I leaned against the doorframe, lightheaded.

Until now I’d assumed that the threat lay behind me.

Buried in the past, separated from us by an ocean of time. I’d assumed that we were immune to any real danger, by virtue of the simple fact that we existed in the here-and-now.

But as I stared at the key in my palm, feeling the cool air eddy around my ankles, a whisper echoed down the years, a warning.

Run as far and as fast as you can and don’t look back
 . . .

And as the chill arms of new understanding wrapped around me, I saw that I’d opened a doorway, a portal into a dark and violent place – and thanks to my digging, thanks to my unquenchable curiosity, that doorway now yawned wide open.

M
y daughter’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘I’m not leaving Magpie Creek. You can’t make me!’

We stood on the verandah. It was early evening, and Bronwyn still wore her school uniform. I tried not to look at her, tried not to notice the pain and accusation in her eyes. Instead, I clung to the rail and fixed my attention on the huge, purple-black thundercloud that hovered overhead.

‘My mind’s made up, Bron. I’m sorry.’

‘But why, Mum . . . can’t you just tell me why?’

‘It’s not working out for us here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just not.’

‘Mum, I
can’t
leave. What about Jade and Aunty Corey? What about Grandy? We can’t just pack up and go as if they never existed.’

‘Honey, I’m sorry. I really am. But we have to go.’

Bronwyn let out a ragged sigh. ‘Mum, have I done something wrong?’ Her voice had reached crying-pitch; she was hugging herself, kicking the toe of her sandal against the rail. I could smell her anguish, salty and bitter as tears.

My heart twisted, but I couldn’t back down. ‘It’s not about anything you’ve done.’

‘What, then?’

I studied her pinched face, suddenly afraid for her. I tried to smile, tried to inject some enthusiasm into my tone. ‘We can sell this place for a bucket load now it’s cleaned up, just think of the great apartment we can get, maybe something right on the beach – you’d like that wouldn’t you? Looking out to sea, all those lights on the bay . . . we can pick up our old lives right where we left off.’

Bronwyn sprang away from the rail. ‘What about my life here? Am I supposed to just forget it ever happened?’

‘Of course not, but – ’

‘Well, I can’t forget it, I won’t! You go back to Melbourne if that’s what you want, but I’m staying here. I’ll go and live with Grandy, she won’t mind. She’ll be glad to have me.’

‘Bron, there’s no point arguing. We’ll be driving back at the end of the week.’

She glared at me through her tears. ‘You’re jealous of Grandy, that’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? You’re jealous! Just like you were jealous of Dad. That’s why he stopped coming to see me. You drove him away with all your whingeing and nagging. He only ran to Carol to escape you . . . and now he’s dead!’

She spun away and tore across the verandah, down the stairs and out into the rain. A moment later she’d vanished among the trees. It never occurred to me to grab an umbrella, or shoes, or even to just let her go. The Minolta incident was still fresh in my mind, and the possibility that we were no longer alone out here was enough to have me pounding down the steps after her.

She was perched on her cedar bench beneath the jacaranda, hugging her legs, her face pressed into her knees. Her narrow frame shook, her fingers made white-knuckled claws on her jeans.

I sat beside her, waiting for the crying to pass. Rain dripped on my head, skated under my collar and down my back. The dry earth had turned to mud, I could feel it squelching between my toes. Mosquitoes took advantage of the mobile feast we
presented, nipping fingers and ankles, swarming up from under the bench in black clouds.

Bronwyn fumbled in her pocket for a hanky. ‘No wonder Dad left. You’re a total bitch sometimes. You make
me
want to leave, too.’

In the stormy gloom she was indistinct, a pale ghostlike figure, no longer my daughter but a figment from a dream. My heart flipped.

‘Please don’t say that – ’

A thunderclap boomed overhead. The yard was lit by an X-ray flash so brilliant that every leaf, every blade of grass, every dazzling droplet of rain, was burned forever into my retinas. Bronwyn flinched. I reached for her in a gesture I hadn’t used for years – smoothing my hand across her hair, letting it rest on the back of her head . . .

She jerked away, giving me a look that rivalled the icy downpour. ‘I wish it was you who’d died, not Dad. I wish he was still here, and you weren’t. I don’t want to live with you any more, Mum. I hate you.’

Leaping up, she raced back towards the house.

Her hair was an ashy blur in the purplish light, and she ran half-hunched against the rain. I wanted to go after her and tell her that the hurt would pass, that one day she’d be able to think of her father without falling into the dreadful gaping hole of his absence. I wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, if only she’d curl up in my arms and let me soothe away her sorrows, the way I used to do when she was little –

The back door slammed and soft light fluttered in the kitchen. The storm must have caused a blackout. I could see the torch beam swivelling about, a blurred cone of luminosity that dimmed and brightened, bobbing from room to room before finally vanishing and plunging the house into blackness.

When the rain stopped, the garden erupted into a cacophony of noise – bullfrogs, cicadas, the slap of raindrops on fleshy
leaves. The air turned clammy, the shadows beneath the jacaranda hummed with insects.

All I could hear were my daughter’s angry words.

You drove him away with your whingeing and nagging, and now he’s dead  . . . I hate you. I hate you
–

I swallowed hard. Ridiculous that my throat was thick, that my eyes stung, that a shadow had taken hold of my heart. Leaning back against the jacaranda’s sodden trunk, I rolled my eyes upwards, hoping to lose myself in the sky. The storm was clearing as suddenly as it had begun. One by one, the last of the violet clouds drifted away. In their place appeared a timid scattering of stars. So small, they were barely more than luminous pin-pricks; so few in number that the immensity of the sky threatened to swamp them. Yet they continued to shine, a handful of glitter cast across velvet, stubbornly pouring their light over the earth even in the face of all that darkness.

‘Bron? You’re awfully quiet in there.’

I leaned my ear to her bedroom door, listening. ‘Sweetheart, are you awake?’

Over an hour had passed since our argument. I knew she’d still be upset, which was why we needed to talk. Or rather, why I needed to talk. To explain the real reason we were leaving, and to trust that she’d understand.

After she ran back inside, I’d continued to sit beneath the jacaranda. Observing the stars, and keeping watch on the house. Drawing back together the pieces of myself that had fragmented during the day’s revelations.

I saw how deeply preoccupied I’d been with the past, obsessing over dead people while neglecting the things that really mattered: Bronwyn, my friends, the life unfolding
now
. I’d been using my quest for Aylish’s killer – and my compulsion to know the truth about Glenda’s death – as an excuse to avoid confronting the
knotted tangle of my own affairs. I’d expended so much energy sifting through the lives of people who were long lost . . . while my own life slipped irretrievably through my fingers.

Not any more, I promised. No more lies. No more hiding in the past.

‘Bronny?’

I rapped softly on her door, and it swung open. Squinting through the shadows, I expected to see her lanky shape curled beneath the sheets . . . but the bed was neatly made, her school uniform abandoned on the floor. A hair ribbon dangled from the back of her chair, a strand of whiteness in the bruise-coloured gloom.