The Outing, page 18
“Because,” Jack said, “the water level would've kept him out of sight.”
“Not only that,” said Robert. “The water was running out towards Moreton Bay, not backwards towards the mangroves. It's in the tide report.”
“They may still get away with it,” said Marnie, looking at them in turn. “This is the independent autopsy report Harry commissioned. The inquest still has to happen. And from the changes your officer Cam-” she paused
“Kowalski,” Robert chimed in.
“Kowalski showed you, then anything could happen,” she finished.
“Do you think,” Harry said, “he'd make a statement?”
“Do you think it would make a difference? At this point?” Robert asked. “Honestly, I think the less they know about what we know, the better. If he speaks up now, he'll likely be sent to the back of beyond. Or worse. We might need him.”
“But why would they change their report? There must have been some discrepancy at the start is all,” said Jack. “I can understand that they might jump to conclusions at first. But-”
“Dad,” Marnie cut him off, “why not just say after further investigations blah blah. Why change the whole report and why did it disappear? The first one.”
“We have to trust it will all come out. The coroner, that's his job, and he is, after all, independent,” said Jack.
“Like the judiciary?” Harry’s eyes caught Robert’s.
The absence of light in them, the dead dull centre, struck Robert as inordinately sad.
“They've been re-working the story to support the available evidence and vice versa,” Harry's elephant nod came to rest. “Even if neither existed five minutes ago.”
“What do you mean?” Jack said. “They don't make things up? There are laws, and, this is the police, Australia, not some communist dictatorship.”
“This is Queensland Dad. It sort of is.”
“Jack,” said Harry, “she's right. I'm talking from experience. If they've changed their story it's because they have a reason. And the only reason they would have, is to save themselves or get someone else into trouble. Or some combination. They're the law, but they're operating completely outside it.”
Jack's eyes were a mixture of incredulity and skepticism, till they glazed with panic and then defeat. He'd lost his ideals, as well as his son.
Harry looked away, “What happened to Johnny has, and could, no, to be more precise, will, happen to other people. We should do what Robert said. Keep things to ourselves.”
Chapter 36
Robert put the folder down open on his desk, pressed his fingertips onto his eyelids and rubbed, then looked out of the window. He could barely see the contours of the office building across the street and got up to leave, catching his reflection. It wasn’t just the lighting, the saggy grey half-moons under his eyes were clearly visible. Poking them and watching the skin slowly crawl back into place, he wondered at the promise of Lauren’s face cream to soften and smooth. He remembered misreading it as soften and soothe and sighed. He could do with some of that for his soul. At least work was keeping his mind off things.
He jotted down his billing notes on the folder and reigned in his compulsion to call and check with Harry about the inquest. At least this time the coroner had indelible and detailed black and white facts. Once they’d established this was not suicide and caused by, stop thinking stop thinking, they’d have to open an investigation. He turned back and looked at the phone. Leave it. Your job is finding Alan John Peters.
***
Driving home he kept his mind on kids and stories and hugs and was puzzled at the sallow welcome from the porch light, and that he had to unlock his front door.
The emptiness got louder as he moved from room to room. The oven was slightly warm.
Where was everyone?
He did the rounds again. Looking for a note. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the timber floorboards and soaked into the walls. The pulse in his throat jiggled. People don't write notes if they don't intend to be out long. So where were they? Had there been an accident? Please no. The breath stopped at its usual spot. He forced in more.
He went to Emma and Thomas's bedroom. Their story book was there, but their cuddle toys were missing from their pillows. Toothbrushes. If you're going away, you take your toothbrush, don't you? Unless you're in a hurry. Or you forget. Or you're so upset or angry about something. Or something happened on the way home.
“Oh jeez,” he reeled, heading back to the kitchen. What if someone else was hurt? He headed for the phone and then stopped. The door to the dining room was closed.
He opened it, flicking on the light switch. The table was set with the good cutlery. Candles waited on either side to cast their glow on the flowers centred between them. Idiot. Fucking numbskull.
He opened the yellow pages. There was a beauty place near Marnie's salon and an upmarket restaurant. He wrote down the details and found an envelope in the bottom drawer. When he propped it against the candlestick, he almost smiled. And with the sharpest corners of his anxiety smoothed he freshened up and dipped his fingers into Lauren's cream.
*
When Lauren came in and stood in the doorway to the kitchen dubiously appraising him, Robert blinked through his own dank grey clouds to hers. They were electric, stormy, and unpredictable. He wondered if he could pretend them away.
“Anything I can do?” his voice sounded small.
“Put the oven on. Low, please. I'm having a shower.”
He did. And he went to put champagne glasses in the freezer, but she'd already done it, so he took them out.
When she came back her face was softer, or maybe it was because her hair had fuzzed slightly with post shower humidity.
He passed her a glass, and raised his, hopefully, clinking hers.
She sipped, “It was yesterday. Our anniversary. I waited all day to hear from you. Nothing.”
He swallowed air with the liquid and it fizzed in his nose as he coughed, “Sorry. I've had a lot on my mind. I, thought…” his arm swept the room and he avoided looking up, “I, thought it was today.”
“But not really. You only remembered because of all this…” this time her arm swept the room. “We need to talk Robert.”
He knew a quick make up kiss wouldn't fix this.
“Ice is in the big freezer,” she said heading to the dining room with her glass.
“I'll start,” her face, momentarily warped as the candle sputtered, “I have only the vaguest idea of what you must be feeling,” she said. “I know my mum died, but I was only little. I've never lost a close friend.”
He put a finger to his lips.
“And I know grief affects people in different ways.”
A small nod.
“But you are getting further and further away from us,” a pang of wistful making itself known, “and your mind is everywhere, or nowhere. I don't know. Just not where it should be, or needs to be.”
She raised her hand when he went to speak, “I think you need help. Maybe we need help. I don't want to make this about me, but it is. Anything to do with you affects me too. I'm lonely. You haven't been near me, you know… in months.”
Robert's face collapsed into contrition. He lifted it towards her, then put it back down so he wouldn't see her embarrassment, or she wouldn't see his. The speech was rehearsed. But not for polish. It had been waiting for the right time, and in the end, it had to be said regardless. He'd hoped adding student to her to-do list would keep her busy, leaving him free to flounder around trying to figure himself out. Except he hadn't. Floundering yes, figuring no.
“Don't say anything,” she said. “Anything you do say may be used,” her voice trailed off, the wistful trying to be playful.
When he looked, she was smiling.
“Let's enjoy this,” she raised her glass, “and dinner and some alone time. No pressure.”
After his inept lovemaking, he pretended not to notice her silent tears, and kissed the back of her head while they spooned, and her breathing stretched out into sleep. He looked out over her into the dark for a while counting till at some point it stopped, and he had the best sleep he'd managed in months.
***
“I'll get the kids,” said Robert.
They were finishing coffee, sitting on the verandah, the morning sun creeping around the side of the bleached hardwood decking promising a warm day.
She smiled, “Are we OK?”
“We are. I'll try harder.”
“That's not the point. I don't want you to have to try.”
“It came out the wrong way. I meant I'll try to notice if I'm slipping back.”
“Take the kids' swimsuits. They could have a dip before you come home.”
“I assumed they were at Mum and Dad's?”
“That was the plan. But,” she put her cup down. “Another?”
“No, I'm going to cut down on caffeine. I slept better last night. But what?”
“Your mum. That's why I was late. I didn't want to bring it up last night. She was drunk. I know,” she played with her cup, “that sounds horrible. Barry was AWOL, so I went to Dad's. I thought you should have a word to Barry.”
“Do you think she has a problem?”
“Put it this way. I don't think the episode at the barbeque was an isolated event.”
***
Jeannie was busy cleaning, “Cuppa?”
He went to take the vacuum cleaner from her, “Shall I-”
“No,” she pushed his arm aside, “I don't need any help.”
Her breath was stale and sweet.
“Mum?”
“I said I don't need any help.”
“My mistake,” said Robert. “Come on Mum, let's make that tea. I don't want to upset you.”
“Bit late for that.”
“I didn't mean,” he stopped and repeated, “come on. I'll put the kettle on.”
“Not in my kitchen. That's my job.” Jeannie's face changed to puzzlement, “What do you want?”
“Tea?”
“No, why are you here?”
“We- I was worried about you.”
“I'm perfectly fine. As you can see. And I've got work to do.”
“Mu-um,” Robert hesitated, “it's… last night, the kids were going to stay over, and-”
“Apparently I'm not good enough. Doesn't matter to me. What's that look for? I don't tell you how to live your life. Do I? Do I?” she repeated, her volume rising. “Why shouldn't I have a drink at the end of the day? To relax. I work hard. This place doesn't clean itself. And it's not like your father lifts a finger.”
“Mum. Mum. It's OK, no one begrudges you a drink after a hard day. It's, well… sometimes I think the end of the day starts a bit too early. You know?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I don't know.” Her eyes were icy. “I think you should go. I've got a lot to do.”
“Mum?”
“I said I'm busy.”
“Lauren doesn’t want the kids coming over. Not when you're… you have a problem, Mum. If anything happened.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Robert. Nothing happened to you, did it? You survived. There’s nothing wrong with me. Go. Go on.”
Robert stared. Mute.
“And take that look off your face. Pouting at me like… How dare you?” Her distress transformed into a sneer, “You think I don’t know about you. I do. Pathetic pervert. I should be taking those kids off you. Does she know? Miss Perfect? Hah! Go. Leave me alone.”
*
On the drive to Duncan's, Robert tried to stop the replay. He kept picturing his mum's eyes fierce with pride at his childhood triumphs and brimming with compassion because Daddy was too busy to come and watch. He heard her voice soothing, calm, inside the principal's office while he sat outside trying to breathe away the panic every time he heard footsteps in the hall. She'd stroked his hair while he wet her blouse with his sobs. Had she always hated him?
When the replay of today stopped another took its place.
He remembered her, proudly saying, “And your dad,” she’d sniffed delicately at something in the air that he couldn't smell, “is going to be a Minister…
“God no,” she frowned when he asked if that was a sort of priest. “Don’t be stupid. Why on earth- It’s an important job in the government.”
He didn’t tell her that Terry had told him about ministers being priests. They’d talked about it after school when he’d told Terry he wasn’t invited to the birthday dinner after all, because it was more about his dad’s special day because of Joh Bjelke-Peterson being sworn in. They hadn’t figured out why people in government had to swear when no-one else was supposed to.
His face softened and he almost smiled as Terry’s serious frowning face came to mind.
“I s'pose it's OK,” Robert said. “Dad and me, we both like roast chook. But jeez… pumpkin cake? I think Mum’s competing with pumpkin scones. Dad told her about the Premier’s wife. Flo. She makes them.”
Terry screwed up his face, “Sort-of glad I wasn't invited.”
Robert, standing astride his bike, looked at the clouds.
“It's Ok. I’ve told you before. I know she doesn't like me.”
Then Terry laughed, “Hahaha. Flo and Joh.” And he’d put on a silly voice, “Want some tea to go with your scone Joh. No Flo. Ya sure Joh. I said No Flo. Haha.”
They’d both laughed.
It was good to remember that laugh.
And then after struggling home with his and Terry’s bikes, he’d put them under the house with all the other stuff that modest Queenslanders hid behind the hedges of mock-orange or lilly-pilly, to tell his mum what happened.
She was standing next to the hallstand, her back to him. As his voice bridged the gap between them the cup she was holding banged down onto the saucer, missing the indentation specifically designed to hold it. Everything tipped.
Remembering it now, it all in slow motion.
Amber liquid puddled on the wax-shined wood, shaking, hesitant about what it should do, or where it should go. He held his breath. Without looking at him she jabbed the puddle out of existence with the bottom corner of her apron.
He watched her profile. Her upper lip pushed out like she'd bitten a powdery apple and wanted to spit it out. As she faced him, he saw something else he didn't have a name for.
Still didn’t.
“Mu-um,” he looked at his feet, “I- my- Mum, my friend Terry-”
“I'm on the phone Robert.” She waggled the receiver in front of his downturned face, “I've told you before. Don't interrupt me when I'm on the phone.”
“But it's import-”
“I won't tell you again. Now go to your room. Get changed for dinner.”
He sat on his bed, hands pressed between his thighs, and rocked. Tiny movements. He counted in time to them. One two three four…fifteen. Start again.
Saying the numbers in his head, helped stop the feeling that something was trying to burrow into him and out of him at the same time. It stopped him wondering why those boys would do that to him and to Terry, to anyone…
They’d called them poofters.
After a while, he curled and lowered himself sideways onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. The black and grey dots turned into starbursts, swirling into a white cloud blanket. He let it cover him. But when he blinked, the dots came back. Mould.
He'd read about mould in Mum's Women’s Weekly and asked Terry if that’s how he’d gotten asthma.
“Doofus,” Terry had play-punched him on the arm. “Everyone in Queensland would be sick if that was true.”
He’d shrugged, squeezing the punch-spot. He wasn’t about to argue with his only friend.
Unconsciously, he took one hand off the steering wheel and rubbed the spot again now.
And then after the policeman left the next day, he’d asked if Terry was really dead and she nodded and pushed some loose hair back into her bun and checked her reflection in the hallstand mirror.
“There'll be a funeral or church or something won't there?” he asked the back of her head.
He pressed his eyelids closed so no tears came out, “Can I go?”
“I don't think so. It wouldn't be appropriate,” her reflection spoke from the mirror. “Now, make yourself useful. Set the table for dinner.”
“OK.” Sighing, he brushed his fringe, fine brown and too long like the rest of him, away from his face and looked up at her. “Mu-um,” he said with a hint of pleading and defiance in his voice, “what's a poofter?”
She turned around and looked at him, her face like stone, and walked away saying, “For God’s sake. I'll do it.”
“She has,” he said out loud in the empty car. “She has always hated me.”
He leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed and heart thudding.
This. This is why you're straight. This is why you don’t tell people. Why people can’t know. He thought about Tank, flamboyant and carefree. Was he? Or was that an act? Johnny and Harry separately together. Johnny saying sorry. Sorry for what? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I’m not who you thought I was Johnny. I’m not pathetic. I'm not a pervert. I’m daddy. I’m Lauren’s husband. I was something you imagined me to be and wanted for a while. But I can’t be what you want me to be. That’s not me. This is me. Is this me?
He heard tapping on the window, “Are you coming in?”
“Hmmph, Yeah. Daydreaming.”
“Don’t blame you for sitting here in the peace and quiet. Those two are a handful. They're having a sandwich. Fancy one yourself?”
