Soon Read online

  SOON

  LOIS MURPHY

  MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  www.transitlounge.com.au

  First Published 2017

  Transit Lounge Publishing

  Copyright© Lois Murphy 2017

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose

  of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the

  Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written

  permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher. The moral rights of

  the author have been asserted.

  Cover and book design: Peter Lo

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the

  National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN: 978-0-9954098-1-1

  For Joyce and Les Timmins –

  better late than never

  And for Peter Riley, too late

  PART

  ONE

  April, 1999

  The hardest thing, I sometimes think, is keeping track of time. With no school or shops there is nothing to define the days, and the weeks flow through the calendar like a sluggish river. You don’t realise the importance of ritual, commonplace, until it’s gone. One of those peripheral things that you take for granted; even if they don’t affect you personally, their absence is profound. I do have the TV, though: that helps keep track to a degree. I have it on most nights, understandably. SBS is my preference – I’m most partial to those documentaries that show people suffering all around the world. It’s a guilty relief to know that there are always people worse off than you are. And if I have the volume up loud enough, it drowns out the night.

  I’m not into the soap operas, though. All those drawn-out plots, Oh there’s a lull, maybe we should kill someone off? No, hang on, we haven’t had a coma yet this year, there’s nothing like a good coma. Whatsit’s been forgetting his lines, let’s give him a turn. The unconvincing actors, who think bewilderment is a good portrayal of angst. No, the soaps leave me cold.

  The reality shows are a hoot. So contrived you can practically see the participants struggling to remember their scripts, forever anticipating their cues.

  There was talk at one stage that some bright spark wanted to do a reality show out here. That would have been a laugh. What would they do, an eviction each week, send them out into the mist and see what they come back as? Last one left alive gets to leave.

  Oh yes, highly entertaining. Would have pulled an audience, I’d imagine. They say government authorities put a stop to it, pressured the network with threats of prosecution for negligence and worse if anyone got hurt. It’s always nice to know they’re looking out for us.

  But who knows. It was only a rumour.

  We used to get a lot of journalists, film crews at first, when most people had fled and word had got out about the disappearances. We were flavour of the month, briefly, filling out the freak file of the current affairs circuit, but it never really came to much. I mean, they could hardly film outside at night and there’s not much happening during the day: an empty town is an empty town. Some of them tried filming through the windows, but no matter how much they angled and twiddled and focused, they only ever got their own reflections – usually giving a better show of angst than the gormless soap stars – and their audio would only ever play back static.

  So they’d come all this way and end up with nothing but dull daytime footage of closed shops, and interviews with litigious and angry locals – back when there were still some locals hanging in there – making unfounded and defamatory accusations against local authorities and developers that they could hardly air. I’ll never forgot old Neil Jacobson’s interview, he was ranting by the end, threatening to sue every state and federal government in the Southern Hemisphere. Finally he got so overwrought his teeth came out – now that would have been decent footage – but they’d called a discreet ‘Cut’ long before then.

  Anything they managed to patch together was unconvincing, and the ‘shocking true story’ angle was hard to milk from a few teary mothers and dismissive government officials. One lot even tried to tie our story in with that bloody program The X-Files (now one of my firm favourites), which was starting its new season. They never miss a trick.

  All that they ever really succeeded in doing, as far as we were concerned, was in making Nebulah – and its unfortunate inhabitants – a byword for fruitcake. You can appreciate how happy we all were about that.

  Every now and then I’ll get a call from some journalist with an unmet deadline, wanting to ‘follow up’ on our ‘situation’. Lazy sods. They only ever want to interview over the phone, never to actually come out here. I always say, ‘Yeah, look, can you just hang on just a sec?’ and then I take Gina for a walk or go back to the paper, or whatever the hell it was I was doing when they interrupted me. It usually stops them ringing, although I did have one guy who hung on there for over an hour (he was freelance).

  Mostly now they leave us in peace. Relatively speaking, of course.

  Peace is a great word. I often think of it on mornings like these, when the season is turning and the weather has abated to a lull, as if it’s still trying to decide which extreme to adopt. The air has a hovering quality to it, expectant but calm, and it’s the calmness I appreciate most of all. I often find I do absolutely nothing on mornings like this one, just sit on the edge of the porch, watching Gina snuffle after smells, and enjoy the sky, the absence of walls. I prefer to be outside during the day, it eases the sense of confinement.

  Today’s a Tuesday. I know that because Li’s gone to town, rumbling off in her old truck just after daybreak. The Barrys at the co-op in Woodford are good people, they’ve never stopped taking her produce, even though she grows so little these days. Not much point when you can’t get pickers to come here, and you have to do the lot on your own. And no one will buy your stuff anyway, in case it’s infected with something. The Barrys don’t label her produce as ‘local’; better that people don’t know. Li doesn’t stop, though, takes a load out every week, bunking down on the floor of the co-op because there’s no way she can unload and shop and get the post and pay bills and make the return journey in that wreck of a pick-up to be back before dark. She takes a sleeping bag and her and Blackie camp in the co-op’s office. Even though it’s safe enough in a tent out the back, we’re all inflexible about being indoors after dark. I sometimes think none of us would ever feel quite safe outside at night again.

  Milly and I always cook a big meal for Li on Wednesday nights, feed her up. She’s usually pretty beat by the time she gets back. I’ll go up to her place later and get some apples, make a pie, I’m thinking.

  That’s one good thing that’s come of the mist, we get bumper fruit crops. Don’t even have to net anymore. For all that, though, I’d rather have the birds back. There’s nothing quite as unnatural as a silent dusk. Oppressive.

  Eerie, Milly says. She’s a retired schoolteacher, likes her words. We have this ongoing routine, where we bounce words, throw them at each other in turn. So our conversation can seem a little odd to other people, like verbal volleyball.

  Stunted, you could say.

  Curtailed, Milly would say back.

  And off we would go.

  My phone is ringing, an intrusion on my agreeably peaceful morning. Like an alarm going off. I stretch my legs and flex my feet and wait. It rings three times, then stops. Our little code: it means it’s somebody I’d want to talk to, probably Milly or Li. As I haul myself up I notice my toenails need cutting. I’m getting bestial, now there’s a thought. The hall’s dusty too, I can see mites disturbed by my entry swirling in my nice calm sunlight. It’s disgraceful, really,
how one lets oneself go. I’ll have to check with Milly about the state of my hair. When the phone starts ringing again, I pick up.

  ‘Mornin,’ I say.

  There’s the slightest of pauses, one that speaks of composure being regained, then Milly’s voice is as steady as ever. It’s the pause that puts me on edge. When you’ve worked in the police force you know that the calls which begin with such a pause are the ones you don’t want. ‘Pete,’ says Milly, ‘I’m at Rolf’s. Can you come?’

  When I get to Rolf’s old fibro on Hobson Street, Milly’s sitting on the porch, with the teapot on the step. She is calm in a way that speaks of exhaustion. Even her clothes have a limpness to them. Everything about her seems faded, except her eyes, which radiate pain.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his bedroom. I’ve called Sean. He said they’ll be out here by two at the latest.’

  She’s shut the bedroom door. I know there’s no need for me to go in, but I feel somehow as if it’s my duty. The Old Cop Syndrome.

  Rolf is between the wardrobe and the bed, his back to the door. It’s all very simple, unadorned, a kitchen chair and cheap yellow nylon rope. I don’t need to go further, or see his face. The smell is enough. As I shut the bedroom door I register the dust – Rolf’s hall is much dirtier than mine. Somehow this is consoling, as if it’s a reassurance that I am still on safe ground. For the time being.

  Back on the porch I gasp fresh air. I’ve left my smokes at home. How the hell did I do that?

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  Milly nods. ‘Very sad.’

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘Couldn’t see one. Can’t say I looked that hard, though.’

  I swig the cup of tea she hands me and draw breath. There’s been a lot more added to it besides milk. Gina’s got her nose stuck forlornly out of the Land Cruiser’s window, while Milly’s dog Felix frets below, whining. I go over to let her out and the two dogs, tails wagging sloppily, immediately make off to sniff round the weeds at the house next door, long empty. On the other side, Liz’s house is now also locked and empty. There are still kids’ toys on the lawn around the swing set. The grass is just starting to suggest it could use a mow. It looks as if the occupants have just gone away for a little while, on holiday perhaps. All the other yards in the street are overgrown, shrouded by weeds. Faded sheets of newspaper protrude from the shrubs, embrace the oblivious walls of vacant houses. Rolf’s house was the last place in the street that was occupied. I’m glad I live out of town; the sense of desertion here distorts the morning peace, making it empty rather than calm.

  ‘Li’ll be upset,’ I say.

  Milly doesn’t answer, just shoves away the teapot and pulls a small hipflask out of her jacket, pours brandy neat into our cups.

  ‘That’s the last,’ she says, ‘till Li gets back.’

  I go back inside to check the kitchen. I notice that Rolf made the time to do the dishes, but didn’t bother to dry them, just left them stacked in the rack. There aren’t very many. I guess he felt that putting them away would be beside the point. There’s half a bottle of Tullamore Dew in the cupboard with the spuds and onions. I have a quick look in his bin. It doesn’t contain much; a rinsed-out sardine tin is on top. Some last supper. Rolf was never one for formalities.

  Back on the porch Milly looks at the whiskey doubtfully. ‘Won’t that be evidence?’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll be evidence. They’ll need to keep it on hand, probably in a filing cabinet. Your choice.’

  ‘God, what have we become?’

  It’s a little after two when the police car pulls up. It’s not peaceful anymore, a wind has sprung, causing the sheets of scattered newspaper to dislodge and billow across the empty street, turning page over page as if catering to the gusts. I’m wandering around lethargically gathering them up when Sean and a young constable haul themselves stiffly from the car.

  Sean lifts his sunglasses and squints, then leans to give Gina a scritch. He is still trim and fit, his hair neat and short and only just beginning to show grey. A clutch of laugh lines reach from his eyes as he squints, but otherwise his face is unlined. I’m in ancient rubber thongs, with my lethal toenails, my arms spilling stained sheets of old newsprint. I’ve spent the morning slouched on concrete steps drinking a dead man’s whiskey. My stubble is suddenly prickly. I can feel gloom mustering.

  ‘Milly, how are you?’ Sean nods.

  ‘Hello, Sean,’ she sighs. ‘I’m fine.’

  He puts out a paw, squeezes her shoulder gently, then turns to me.

  ‘Pete,’ he says, ‘you’re a hard man to reach. I must have called you maybe twenty times the last couple of months, you’re never there.’

  ‘Shit. I didn’t think to …’

  ‘You need to call twice, let it ring three times first,’ explains Milly.

  ‘Bit of a filter system. I should have told you. Sorry.’

  But Sean just chuckles. ‘Just as well I didn’t make a special trip to check on you. Would’ve billed you for the fuel.’

  The young constable stands beside him with a fixed smile. His edges are sharp and crisp, like a fresh new note. There is the smallest of flickers in Sean’s eyes.

  ‘This is Constable Greg Denham. And this is Pete McIntosh and Milly Pryor. Two of the last.’

  We nod. The constable’s face tries to stay noncommital, but he’s not experienced enough to veil the mix of curiosity and suspicion. He will be wondering why we are still here, if everything he has heard is true. He will be wondering about us, about what sort of people we must be.

  He will be thinking we are outcasts. He will be slotting us away under Dubious. He raises his jaw from our faces to the open front door behind us.

  ‘So old Rolf ’s thrown it in, you say?’ Sean’s saying to Milly.

  ‘He’s in the bedroom.’

  They’re back in only a few minutes. Constable Denham looks a little blurred on his return; he breathes deeply when he reaches the clean air.

  Sean is fanning his face with his hat. Denham pauses briefly, then does the same. Sean sends him to radio for a medical team, then lowers himself onto the steps.

  ‘Poor old bastard,’ he says. ‘When did you last see him?’

  Milly screws up her face. ‘I know Li dropped some vegies in to him yesterday morning. I was here Sunday – one of us always tries to drop in and say hello, check on him. Liz left last week and he took it pretty hard. The kids were what really kept him going.’

  ‘Liz left? You think that’s the cause?’

  ‘Without a doubt. We knew he wouldn’t cope, even if he was an old recluse. It must have been awful being there, completely on his own, but we couldn’t persuade him to come to one of us.’ She looks hunched in sadness.

  ‘It would have gloated,’ I say.

  She looks up. ‘Celebrated.’

  ‘Performed.’

  ‘Tormented.’

  Sean butts in. ‘What made Liz leave?’

  We look at him in amazement.

  ‘Okay,’ he acknowledges. ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘She said maybe Perth. I don’t think even she really knew. She thought she might have more chance of getting a place there, through Social Services.’

  Sean looks doubtful. ‘Who knows.’

  ‘I think the main thing was to just get the boys out,’ Milly says. ‘It really got to her this time, she was pretty fraught.’

  ‘I’m amazed she kept them here at all.’

  Milly gives him a sharp look, her best schoolteacher. ‘When you have no money you have no choice.’

  Sean sighs, nodding. ‘I’ll need a statement before I go. Any chance of some tea?’ Already he’s looking older.

  Later, while Sean’s coordinating the removal of Rolf’s body, I corner Milly.

  ‘You gave Liz your savings, didn’t you?’

  Her arthritis is bad from sitting out on the concrete for so long. She rubs her elbows with cupped palms, always a sign of pain. ‘More use to her.’


  ‘But what about you? You’re cutting off your options.’

  ‘Options?’ She laughs. ‘I don’t have options. I won’t be dying anywhere other than here.’ She shrugs and limps away, elbows cupped, her back to the stretcher being manoeuvred down Rolf’s narrow, dusty hallway.

  At home I fill Gina’s bowl with water, but go to the fridge for beer for myself, even though I know it’s unwise. After giving our statements, we called the others. They should be round soon. A saucepan of stew simmers fragrantly on the stove, a pot of potatoes peeled and ready to go.

  There’s still a bit of time before it’ll start to get dark, and I drop into the old couch on the porch with a sigh that comes from my bones. My tobacco pouch is almost empty. I can’t remember whether I asked Li to get me any more.

  I’ve just lit my cigarette when the phone rings. It keeps ringing. I decide, under the circumstances, that I should probably answer it.

  ‘A book, eh? Look, can you hang on half a tick, I’ve just got to grab something on the stove.’

  I put the phone down on the table and go back out to the couch and what’s left of the fading day. The wind has ebbed to a breeze; the trees sway lightly, giving the illusion of life, as if birds were flitting through them. At any other time of day it would be comforting.

  The others had better get a move on if they’re coming, the mist will start soon, tendrils winding through the evening breeze. I give them half an hour at the most.

  Have you ever seen that movie The Omega Man, with Charlton Heston? Where he’s holed up on his own in some penthouse apartment in a ruined city, and every night all these scabby people with white eyes and black robes crawl out and spout tracts and try to blow him up? He’s got this armoury full of weapons, and he spends his nights playing target practice, gleefully picking them off, bam-bam. Bam!

  If only it were that simple. Something tangible. Something to take aim at.

  And then he meets the hippie guy with no shirt – Dutch, he’s called, it’s all so seventies – and ta-da! Between them they cook up an antidote to the plague, so the survivors are all saved, just like that. Except for poor old Charlton, the obligatory martyr, who bleeds to death in a fountain, the saviour spread as if crucified, while they all pile into their old cars and drive off into the sunrise.