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  Breakfast is protracted in the morning, after our late night watching movies; people wander to the toaster at their leisure. No one is in any hurry. Tom decides he wants eggs; Gail shuffles to the stove with a tight scowl and ringing bad grace. Obviously I’m meant to play host. But that sort of formality went out the door nine months ago, when clustering became a necessity. They just happen to all be at my place this time; far as I’m concerned, if Tom wants eggs he can cook them himself. I stare preoccupied out the window, inserting distance. Gail pointedly bangs pans in Milly’s direction, expecting her, as the other woman present, to help. Milly chews her toast slowly and with relish, delightfully deaf.

  The phone rings three times, and stops. Gail looks over her shoulder towards it, eyebrows arched. She is not a morning person. Or an afternoon or evening, you could say. The phone starts ringing again.

  ‘That’s strange,’ I say, casually stretching.

  It’s Li, about to leave Woodford, checking last-minute orders. I had forgotten the tobacco, but she’s already bought me two pouches, knowing me far too well. I choose my words carefully, playing jolly, catching Milly’s cautious eye. It’s not too hard – Li is abrupt and businesslike, keen to get out of town and back to her farm. Evidently news of a Nebulah suicide hasn’t reached her in Woodford, but the story will soon be spreading rapidly. With luck Li won’t hear of it before she’s back and Milly and I can break it to her.

  Stick emerges after the disturbance of the phone, crawling from his swag when everyone else is already dressed and the breakfast dishes are piled in the sink. He smells sour, had only removed his jeans and boots when he turned in. His hair is both thinning and straggly, accessorised with several days’ worth of stubble. He scratches at an armpit with distraction and grimaces at the offer of breakfast, saying that he’d better shoot through. I can guess what his breakfast will be. He collects Elvis from the laundry, leading him by the collar past the other dogs, releasing him once they’re clear of the house. The big dog stretches, flexing dangerous muscles, then squats to relieve itself by the car’s back wheel.

  Stick leans from the driver’s window. ‘Reckon I might take a drive up Aliceson’s again, see if there’s any dogs hanging bout.’

  ‘I don’t have any shells left,’ I say, knowing what he’s after. ‘Meant to ask Li to get me some in town.’

  The look he gives me is not fast enough – I see the glare before it adjusts to indifference. He can’t pretend he wasn’t after bullets. He shrugs.

  ‘S’okay. I still got some.’ A sharp glance. ‘Not many. Enough to make it worthwhile, but.’

  His engine starts with a high-pitched rattle; dirty diesel fumes like city smog. Still, at least he’s gone.

  Back inside I make a big show of having things to do out at Li’s. Although they’re sceptical, Tom couldn’t really care less whether he’s on the couch here or at home, so by late morning they’ve cleared out. Gail holds back on the porch, wanting to make their exit ceremonial, vaguely formal, our gathering-together ritual, by invoking again the loss of Rolf, his terrible absence, but Tom is firing up the engine and is perfectly capable of driving off without her, so she’s forced to break off and stalk to the car without managing to pin us down for future gettogethers.

  Milly stays to help wash up, then for an early lunch, tomato sandwiches on the porch, the dogs sprawled dustily in a stretch of late morning sun. The heat of February has long faded into the languid warmth of autumn. April is usually my favourite time of year, but this year its shortening days have the feel of a collar that is too tight, the early evenings claustrophobic.

  ‘We’re not much better than the dogs,’ I say, as we slump lazily on the old couch, cherishing every minute of daylight, of sunshine, of being outside. Milly barks with laughter, but shortly rouses herself, shaking herself free of sandwich crumbs, and says she’s going home to have a kip.

  ‘On top of everything else, that bloody woman snores!’

  Li’s farm is south of town, only a ten-minute drive from my place. I’ve picked two bags of apples and am just checking the state of her grapevines when I hear a vehicle turn into the drive. Sean pulls in behind the Land Cruiser and pauses to stretch his neck and shoulders before wandering towards me. Gina appears from wherever she’s been snoozing and escorts him over, keen for a pat.

  ‘Milly said I’d find you here.’

  I shade my eyes from the sun, squint towards the car. ‘Where’s your offsider?’ Sean’s smile is tight but amused. ‘Wednesday afternoons he devotes to the coaching of the junior cricket team. Couldn’t possibly make him miss training by dragging him out of town. Such a long drive.’

  ‘Want a beer?’

  ‘On duty.’ The briefest pause. ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  Li’s not much of a drinker herself, but she always has beer in the fridge for me – I often spend afternoons there, helping out.

  I hand him a stubby. It’s lite. He grimaces.

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, really – I needed Milly’s signature on her statement, thought I’d bring it out and save her the drive to town.’

  I nod. He was always thoughtful like that, a socially minded cop. Distressingly rare these days. Constable Denham may devote an evening to a bit of competitive community sport, but it’s unlikely he’d put himself out to save an arthritic woman a six-hour return drive.

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘Nah, nothing. It’s a pretty straightforward suicide, poor old sod, no suspicious circumstances. Hell, no suspicious people! You haven’t noticed anyone around?’ It’s more of an afterthought than a serious question.

  ‘Just the occasional handful of tourist gawkers. Caravans passing through – not many make a special trip anymore.’

  There had been talk, would you believe, of trying to make us a tourist attraction, especially when the initial interest in us was waning and some turds on the shire despaired at a missed investment opportunity. They’d already tried to elbow Nebulah onto the tourist map before the mist came, hyping up the town’s historical significance as an old mining centre. A rack was installed outside the post office, where badly written brochures sagged and discoloured over the summers, encouraging visits to the ‘museum’ – an unimpressive collection of rusty tools in display cases, and some woefully moth-eaten stuffed animals that Wally Todd managed to pick up at auction somewhere. But any visitors who did wander through, more often than not, after a limp toasted cheese sandwich at Tailings Café and Tea Rooms, were back in their vehicles and gone long before their two-hour parking had expired.

  There were never many parking fines issued in Nebulah.

  So the mist was promoted as an ‘opportunity’. We were to be sold as Australia’s premier ‘haunted town’, with information placards around town – and, of course, tasteful memorials – and brochures for self-guided walks. Visitors who didn’t get out before nightfall could stay at The Visitation Bed & Breakfast (Let Us Guarantee You A Sleepless Night).

  It was the councillors with business interests in Woodford behind it all, of course, there being no businesses left in Nebulah, the shops all boarded up and long deserted. That fat slug Marty Cartright, who owns the Woodford Chalet Park, was the driving force, apparently had already been sussing out the purchase of a minibus for running tours out here before the ‘opportunities’ were even put before council.

  We managed to quash it. There were still about forty of us in town then, and we banded together to say that we weren’t going to put up with the exploitation of our misfortunes, when the council should be helping stranded residents who lacked the resources to get out. We said we’d withhold our rates if they cashed in on our miserable situation with money-grubbing ventures. There was already a lot of suspicion and accusation floating around; people were convinced that the mist was the result of some dodgy shire activity, and even those in local government weren’t sure how much truth was buried in the rumours, so they didn’t want to push too many buttons. There was always the worry t
hat something best left hidden would be exposed.

  Sean spoke up and said that he didn’t have the resources to patrol Nebulah regularly, and it’d increase the potential for looting and vandalism, not to mention the danger to the irresponsible public who thought it was all a bit of a joke. We jumped on this and said we’d bill the council for any and all damage. We couldn’t and they knew it, but they knew they’d need extra security resources to keep people safe – the potential for lawsuits was huge. Then Lonely Planet said it’d be mentioning the town in its new edition – its first inclusion! – but only as a warning, not a destination.

  They backed off. Cartwright pushed for a while longer, but a few of us, acting as Nebulah ‘representatives’, gave him an unconditional, 100 per cent guarantee that his minibus would attract vandals. Our word on that. He blustered a lot, but pulled his head in. Sometimes it’s useful being an ex-cop.

  ‘Any word on Rolf?’ I ask.

  ‘Haven’t heard. The will’s lodged at Boswell and Trent. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘You don’t know his wishes?’

  ‘Too early. Apparently there’s some long-lost cousin in Wales they’re gonna have to try and locate. Knowing Rolf, I’d guess his instructions would be to cremate him and chuck him in the compost. Why, what’s up?’

  ‘Just worried about the possibility of him being buried out here.’

  ‘No way. Your cemetery is well and truly closed for business. In a manner of speaking.’

  I had figured as much, but councils are funny about giving up land. With any luck they’d find the cousin, who would have his dust sent back to the mother country. Anywhere’s fine, as long as he’s out of the mist’s reach.

  ‘How’s Rachael?’ I ask.

  ‘Good. Busy. Working herself into the ground, pretending there’s no such thing as empty-nest syndrome. Usual stuff. How’re you?’

  I shrug, start patting my pockets for my smokes. Sean watches me roll with pointed attention. I light with a flourish.

  ‘Still running?’ he asks.

  ‘You bet. Broke the four-minute mile last week.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’ He puts a finger into the neck of his stubby, swishes it around to pep up the foam, and says, eyes not lifted from the bottle, ‘You look tired, mate. I got a shock when I saw you yesterday.’

  ‘I’m getting old.’

  ‘Not old. Worn. Worn out.’

  ‘Well, the nights aren’t exactly peaceful.’

  Sean grunts, shakes his head. ‘No change?’

  ‘Unless you call a reduced target change. There aren’t too many of us left to share the load now.’

  ‘What happened to shift Liz?’

  Oh, poor Liz, with her messy ponytail and wrinkled dresses, her braying swamphen laugh and her brittle determination not to be forced into shelter housing. I need another smoke for that, but I hold off.

  ‘She looked out the window. It’d taken on the form of the boys and was calling and she fell for it, thinking the kids had snuck outside.’ And that’s what unhinged her – she said when she thought the kids were out there it was like her insides liquified and she realised she would never have the courage to go out after them. That if she didn’t have it in her to protect them when it came to the crunch, having them there was more than just a risk. What she saw scared the shit out of her, but it was what she discovered about herself that defeated her.

  ‘It was pretty awful. She went to pieces. They were at Milly’s for two days before she was capable of driving. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t even keep soup down. Milly tried to get her to stay longer, till she was a bit calmer, but she was terrified, just wanted out. Left everything, just took the dog and whatever else she could fit into the stationwagon.’

  Milly and I had been there to see her off, watched her cram hastily packed bags in the wagon till she almost couldn’t get the tailgate closed, her back resolutely turned to her vegetable patch, the garden she had nourished with such enthusiasm and been so determined not to lose. The kids, bewildered, not understanding why everything was such an uproar; Josh, the youngest, snivelling in the back seat for his mother’s attention. And Liz, the air crackling with grief around her, barely able to look at them for fear of what she might see again.

  Rolf had hung back till the end, but appeared as Liz turned the engine over, giving a final admonishment to the boys and rapping his knuckles on the roof of the car, in the gesture of care made by inarticulate men. They drove out of town just after three. We watched the laden car till it turned left for the distant highway, the empty house behind us suddenly slumped with lack of life.

  Rolf declined my invitation for tea, or a meal. He was gruffly self-sufficient, as always, but his breathing was laboured as he struggled for composure, and his eyes, as he turned away, were distant with distress. He shuffled up his driveway and closed his door on the absence next door. We suspected then that he was in trouble.

  Sean’s nodding sadly. ‘Do you know what she saw?’

  I can’t help wincing. ‘The usual sort of thing. The two older kids had disembowelled the youngest and were eating him alive. Lots of laughter.’ The sort of image that is never forgotten, never escaped. ‘She didn’t even have anywhere to go.’

  But at least she had Milly’s savings.

  ‘Do the others know about it?’ asked Sean.

  ‘Only Milly, it was her that told me. Rolf closed off when Liz broke, he was too bewildered – he didn’t ask, didn’t want to know. Li doesn’t care to know details either, she’s seen enough chaos in her lifetime already. And the last thing we wanted was for Gail to be any worse than she already is.’

  ‘Someone should give Tom a bloody good kicking.’

  I grin. ‘You’re the one in uniform.’

  He lets that one slide and looks away, all casual. ‘Stick still got a crop going?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He’s been seen a little too often in Woodford, moving round the pubs. Spends a lot of money for someone on the dole. His days are numbered.’

  ‘Stupid prick.’

  Sean nods slowly. ‘Take a while, though. He watches his back pretty carefully and knows his rights. We’ve got bugger-all resources for surveillance, and he’s careful not to give us any reason to pull him over and search. Drug squad couldn’t give a shit, too small.’ He flexes his fingers. ‘Surprised you haven’t mentioned his horticultural interests.’

  ‘Been considering it. I hate to say it, but survival’s my new priority. As far as I’m concerned, take your time busting him. We’re thinning out – if we lose him, the only other male will be Tom and he’s worse than useless. Stick’ll only be selling to a handful of his deadbeat mates, nothing too significant.’ I sigh, it can’t be avoided. ‘The crop’s out at Paddy Simms’s old place.’

  Sean nods again. He knows it’s as much as he’ll get, wouldn’t ask for more. I retired years ago. He stretches. ‘When do you expect Li back?’

  I squint into the sun. ‘Anytime bout now, really.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on.’

  We stand up and I grind my butt underfoot. He gives a small smile, almost a grimace. ‘Those fags’ll kill you, you know.’

  ‘Jesus, I bloody wish!’

  It was the cancer that started me smoking again. I’d given up early on, started again when Gina went haywire, then stopped again as part of my Nebulah New Start makeover, jogging with the dog in the early morning before work. Nebulah was all I’d hoped: sleepy, uneventful. I’d spend my days chatting to elderly women and young mothers, and quiet evenings at the pub (amazing the positive effect the local copper watching consumption has on drink-driving – takeaways soared in popularity). The old-timers would stay on for a skinful, not much else for them to do, but they tended to live within the town boundary and would stagger home peacefully enough, their only offence being to water someone’s bushes along the way.

  I’d been accepted fairly readily, although it took a while, as it does for any new face.
The oldies held on to their ownership of the town and all its history, the vital local knowledge that serves as the invaluable social guidebook to a place like this, until they established that I wasn’t some authoritarian prick come to sit on them and interfere. And there’d been a danger of the station closing when they couldn’t get anyone to staff it after Doug McAllister, who’d been the entire Nebulah police presence for thirty-five years, retired to Surfers. There’s always some little whiz-kid in the wings, with a degree in business administration, dying to cut costs by dumping workloads onto shoulders already sagging, so as to justify his indecent salary.

  Which is exactly what ended up happening twelve years later, when all my reformed habits and quiet life resulted in a cancer diagnosis. Early, treatable, but like all cancer ops, no matter how successful they are, the scars are permanent. I’d emerged from the treatment with no permanent health issues, just the constant ill ease, the endless suspicion that comes with the sense that your body is an unknown; the possibility that it is self-destructing beyond the barriers of your awareness. It causes a separation, a severance from your own being that you never quite recover from. For the first year after the treatment I found myself moving gingerly, like an old man, protecting myself as if my body were a piece of fruit that, once bruised, would decay from within. Damaged goods. The irony that it was bowel cancer, and not lung, where I would have expected it – at least felt I’d earned it – wasn’t lost on me. I started smoking again. Why the hell not?

  And I stopped working, took early retirement, made some bean-counter kid somewhere happy as Larry. Nebulah police station was closed, the resources to keep it manned funnelled off into executive pay rises. The nearest assistance became poor old Sean in Woodford, over three hours’ drive away. I came out of retirement a couple of times to help out at the annual Woodford race carnival, but by then I’d given up any pretence of caring much about what was going on around me, so I was a disgrace to the uniform, and finally gave it away completely.