The Fancies, page 19
Mum???
But Jessica’s phone remained maddeningly silent.
Nell was in the stables. Filling the mare’s hay bag, she watched Bobo tear into it with gusto.
‘Still not off your food,’ Nell said. ‘No foal yet then, eh?’ She patted the mare’s neck and straightened her rug where it had slipped, exposing a jutting flank.
That’s when Nell heard the sound of a car arriving at the house. At first she didn’t think much of it—cars were always coming and going—but when it was shortly followed by the sound of another, then more, Nell pulled out her phone and shot a string of question marks to her husband. Irritation ran through her at the thought of another impromptu town meeting. The noise was upsetting for her father-in-law. And the freezer was running low on sausages. Actually, the entire house was low on food. Between Abigail’s arrival, foal watch, Old Dick’s increasing agitation, the bone washing up and the hectic buzz of town, neither Nell nor her husband had had the chance to visit the bigger town for groceries.
Oh, who am I kidding, Nell thought. It’s Abigail. Of course it was. Nell could tell herself she was distracted and busied by other things but it was Abigail consuming every scrap of her mental energy. In coming back here, her daughter had proceeded to take up any space Nell had left, including her jeans and all the food, too.
Not that Nell hadn’t wanted that. Not that Nell, for years now, had not wished fervently that her daughter would come back. The boys had each other but Abigail had always been alone. Even surrounded by girlfriends as a teenager, Nell had witnessed her daughter keep the other girls at a distance, letting them circle her but with a kind of impossible push, a never-connection, the way magnets repel one another.
Nell listened to the cars arriving and wondered why, even before that poor girl, Abigail had seemed intent on pushing everyone away. And then Nell thought of her own mother, an alcoholic for as long as Nell had known her, and her mother’s mother, also an alcoholic, and thought, Maybe that’s why. Maybe aversion—to other people, to connections, to feeling things—can run in the genes, thread little stitches of repulsion into one’s DNA. Or maybe sometimes there simply isn’t an explanation.
No response came from her husband. No messages from Abigail either. Not that Nell was expecting any, but the knowledge that her daughter had a phone again and was at least in messaging range had filled Nell with such a staggering relief she had not been able to hide it and Abigail had rolled her eyes and said, ‘You’re making me want to give you a fake number.’
A yelp came from the backyard, followed by the angry honks of a goose. Breaking out of her reverie, Nell gave Bobo one last pat, let herself out of the stall and strode from the stables to find out what on earth was happening.
Col had a splitting headache. He had taken two Panadeine Forte but they had barely made a dent in the pain. When Young Dick summoned him, Col had been tempted to take a couple more pills and stay home on the couch with half-a-dozen beers, screw the lot of them, but he didn’t. Col might have made some errors of judgement the past couple of days, but he couldn’t deny he’d now had some sense knocked into him.
If only it hadn’t taken a broken nose to do it.
So Young Dick called and Col responded. Now he was driving up the Fancys’ driveway with his head pounding and his guts feeling like a sack of snakes. Headlights flared in his rear-vision mirror, causing him to squint, which hurt more than Col would have thought it was possible for eyelids to hurt. When he reached the house he saw the taillights of two more utes pulling in before him: Twitch, who disappeared straight into the house, and Adrian Turner, who lingered outside, appearing to wait for Col. Col cursed under his breath.
‘Oof,’ said Adrian upon clocking Col’s face. ‘Ran into a door, did ya?’
‘Fuck off,’ Col replied, but his nose was plugged with blood and it came out Fug.
‘Now, now,’ said Adrian with a laugh. ‘It was worth it, right?’ He elbowed Col and Col stared at him blankly.
‘Right?’ Adrian repeated, nudging Col again, eyebrows waggling, and then Col understood. Adrian thought the current state of Col’s face—eye sockets turning purple, nose swollen, beard crusted with dried blood—was the result of him screwing Jessica Bram. And Col, who only moments ago had thought for the first time in his life that he did not want to be at the Fancys’, now sensed a glimmer of opportunity. He began to feel fortified. He began to feel glad he came.
Lifting his chin, Col replied evasively, ‘I’m not answering that.’
‘Why not?’ said Adrian. ‘Doesn’t seem like you’re shy about it. What did you think the pub kitchen was—a private suite?’ He chortled. ‘Oi, Jase,’ he bellowed suddenly, as his little brother’s wagon pulled up. ‘Come check out Col’s face.’
Adrian was acting nonchalant, his talk full of swagger, but the truth was, the sight of Col Morton’s mashed face had sent a bolt of horror into his groin. Until this point, Adrian had not even been sure he believed that Col had slept with Jessica Bram. As far as Adrian was concerned, his little brother Jase had always been a twerp who was not indisposed to flex the facts to get what he wanted and, in this case, Adrian had assumed all Little Jase wanted was attention, to get in on the action that had fizzed around town the past couple of days.
But it must be true, Adrian realised now. All day people had been saying Twitch was threatening to take Col to the lighthouse for pissing off Young Dick by shagging the enemy. And look, here was Col, face like a dropped pie. Only a fist could have caused that havoc. A big, meaty fist on the end of a big, powerful arm.
Okay, sure, admittedly Adrian had leapt to the assumption his little brother was lying about Col and Jess because his brother had been there at the Fancys’ the night Abigail had arrived and eaten a dozen sausages straight off the grill, and Adrian had not been, and Adrian had been blinded by furious envy. But Adrian reminded himself now it was he who had felt the warm press of Abigail Fancy’s breasts on his hands on the steering wheel. It was he who had stood in the hardware store today, giving Abigail advice on pants, flirting outrageously. The score was even and his brother could bite it.
‘What, man?’ said Col.
Adrian blinked. ‘What?’
‘You’re staring at me,’ said Col. ‘You wanna kiss me or something?’ Col tried to form his lips into a pucker but it hurt too much.
‘You wish,’ replied Adrian with a laugh, but they both heard the nervousness in it.
‘Far out, that’s nasty.’ Little Jase appeared beside Adrian, looking awed and disgusted by Col’s face.
There came the low burble of a V8 and Trisha Loft’s HSV appeared. The men waited for Trisha to spot them and leave but she didn’t. Instead, Trisha parked and walked over. Col’s gladness that he came soared to even greater levels, because Trisha’s choice to endure a group situation meant Young Dick must have insisted. Whatever it was Young Dick had to say, it must be important.
Then the front door flung open and Twitch yelled, ‘What’s this, a cake and arse party?’ and they all filed inside.
Less than forty minutes later, the front door opened again. First out was Little Jase Turner, stumbling on the top step, followed closely by his brother Adrian, face like a clap of thunder, then the rest of them. Last out was Col Morton, who hobbled over to the edge of the drive and vomited neatly into the cheesewoods.
That’s when Abigail and the vet pulled up.
OLD DICK
I hear engines.
Revving, idling, the crunch of tyres over gravel. Sounds like a fleet coming, one by one. There’s doors slamming—thud, thud, thud—and there’s boots stomping and the walls shake. I am below deck while the footfalls above go back and forth, back and forth, and the waves pitch us about like a walnut shell in a storm drain.
Shut up, would you? I’m trying to watch my show. A man can’t watch his show while the boat’s pitching and the deckies are yawping like seagulls around the burley.
The woman comes in and hands me the remote control. I like her, she’s nice. She puts a hand on my shoulder and asks me if I need anything. Cuppa, bikkie, sandwich?
Drop anchor, I tell her. Pots ahoy.
She smiles and the hand on my shoulder gives a squeeze. She tells me to turn the volume up on the TV if I want and I tell her the only volume that needs adjusting is coming from the pie-holes of those deckies.
Right, that’s it. A man can’t watch his show in these conditions. I can’t even hear what the cranky Pom’s saying.
Look, I know you’re all excited, but it’s time to pipe down. Fretting like a bunch of yarded heifers is going to achieve jackshit.
No.
No. Get away.
Here’s the truth. You want it? Maybe if you know it, then you’ll know why I’m telling you to shut your yappers.
No, I said. Are your ears painted on? Come near me and I’ll knock your block off.
We knew that girl was in trouble. We knew it before the rest of you. Well, Luce knew, and she begged me to do something, but I said I wouldn’t interfere until I was certain of the truth, because interfering in another man’s business isn’t my nature. All right, it is in my nature, but it depends on the type of business.
And then I was certain, so I did interfere. I took care of it.
Where are we going?
The truth comes out. Eventually it all comes out. Like an infection, it won’t go away unless you cut it open, until you put it in the salt water, and it burns, and burns, and burns.
ABIGAIL
‘An ice dealer?’ Abigail said.
‘That’s the story,’ her father answered.
Once again she found herself seated at the long table in the dining room, surrounded by her mother, her father and her grandfather at the head of the table. Only this time her grandfather had in front of him a cup of regular black tea—nothing made from dandelions, no brandy. The brandy was on the floor alongside Nell, out of the elderly man’s line of sight. Abigail had already watched her mother surreptitiously lean down with her cup more than once.
Abigail was so tired she thought she might die. ‘In that case, who gives a shit?’ she said, yawning so widely her jaw cracked. ‘You won’t see me crying about a dead ice dealer.’
‘A human bone was found,’ Nell said, and Abigail thought her mother sounded almost as tired as she felt. ‘That bone very likely belongs to a person known to police who’s been missing for a couple of months. Case closed.’
‘We hope it’s closed,’ her father said, with a glance at Nell. ‘Just now, I’ve told a few people what Dettwyler’s told me. Or at least I’ve told them the gist of it.’
Abigail didn’t want to ask, but she recalled her parents’ insistence that she know at least enough not to threaten anyone bodily harm. So she said, ‘The gist being?’
‘What your mother just said. Cops have been aware of a missing person who’d been known to visit the area from time to time.’
‘Not a local?’
‘No. From interstate. When the borders were closed during the pandemic he got around the checkpoints by coming through the pine plantations.’
‘Needs must,’ she said, draining her tea.
‘I won’t have ice here, Abs,’ her father said, his voice quiet and steely. ‘You know that.’
‘So you topped him?’
Her mother laughed.
‘Say what you like,’ her grandfather spoke up, ‘I never touched those sheep.’
‘I know you didn’t, Dad. They got out on their own. The gate was open.’
‘Useless mutton.’
‘So you’ve told everyone the thighbone belongs to a missing ice dealer from interstate,’ Abigail said. ‘You’ve told everyone that’s the story according to the cops. And now everyone’s happy, and going to get on with their lives, yeah? Back to fishing and judging the shit out of everyone. Super. I’m off to bed.’
‘That’s what I’ve told a few people,’ her father said, ‘in the hope it will get back to Lofty. I’m not sure why he’s panicking, but I need him to stop. When people panic they start gabbing. And I don’t want old Lofty gabbing.’ Her parents exchanged another glance before Young Dick looked nervously at his own father, muttering into his tea about stolen sheep and dead stallions.
‘Gee,’ Abigail said, unable to stop the sarcasm creeping into her voice, ‘really? People talk shit when they’re scared?’
‘Abs—’
‘Tell me more about the crap people spin when they’re afraid. Explain to me how a group of people, all believing their own terrified bullshit, can make a reality out of nothing. Better yet, explain that to all the witches they burned.’
Her grandfather’s fist came down on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers clunk together. ‘I thought I told you,’ he said, turning to her father. ‘You’ve got to keep a crowd calm.’
Her father rubbed his face. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do, Dad.’
Abigail’s head was starting to pound. The stink of cow manure lifted from her clothes, she was ravenous and her eyes stung with fatigue. She wanted to go to bed; she did not want to be sitting here at her parents’ table, yet again discussing the stupid, insular politics of this pipsqueak, self-absorbed town filled with obsessive braggarts who thought they were the centre of the universe.
Her grandfather laughed. ‘Pipsqueak town,’ he said. ‘Good one. But you know who isn’t a pipsqueak? That Bram fellow. He might look harmless but he’s slimy as a snake. Don’t ever turn your back on him. He’ll knife you soon as he’d give you the time.’
Abigail saw her father’s jaw clench.
‘Dad, I’d rather we didn’t start talking about Ed Bram again. What I’m saying has nothing to do with him. Ed Bram is dead.’
‘Ha,’ said her grandfather. ‘Serves him right. When’s the funeral?’
‘Twenty-four years ago.’
Old Dick furrowed his brow. ‘I think I’m busy that day.’
‘So that’s the story,’ Nell said, leaning across the table to regain Abigail’s attention. ‘Okay? The cops believe the bone belongs to a wanted crim with plenty of enemies who’s been missing a while. He went missing nowhere near here. The bone has been in the water a few months, probably washed in from the deep current. There are no suspects here. There won’t be any investigations locally. If anyone asks, that’s what you know.’
‘Yippee,’ Abigail said.
‘And if anyone asks about Lofty or tries to tell you something about his missing boat, you cut them off. The bone has nothing to do with that. Change the subject. Distract them, point out something shiny if you have to.’
‘Aye, captain.’
‘I’m serious, Abigail.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I get it. Don’t mention the baby.’
Silence dropped. She stared at them, looking from one face to the next. The three of them stared back at her. The silence was so complete the growl of her stomach echoed into it.
‘Well,’ she said, after an excruciating, drawn-out minute. ‘That’s what you’re trying to say, right? May as well point out that elephant in the room.’
‘How come,’ her grandfather said, ‘she gets to talk about that and I don’t?’
‘We are not talking about that,’ Nell said, her voice icy.
‘We were,’ Old Dick countered. ‘We were talking about it just a few minutes ago, when all those deckies were here making bedlam. We were talking about it then and all of a sudden you told me not to, and then everyone buggered off and now I’m sitting here drinking tea like a useless prick, wondering what the hell happened.’
Abigail looked at her father, who was gazing down at the tabletop, blinking rapidly. Abruptly he stood and walked to the darkened floor-to-ceiling window, put his hands on the glass and gazed towards the lighthouse sending its blue-white pulse across the scrub and ocean. She watched her father press his body against the window as if he could push through it, walk out into the scrub and the night.
Quiet fell again, and in it the ocean heaved. Abigail’s stomach continued to gurgle. Her mother disappeared and came back, placing in front of her a steaming bowl of potato and leek soup. Studded with chunks of bacon, garlic and parmesan scents wafting up; Abigail took to the bowl as if she had never eaten. For a while all that could be heard was the clink and scrape of her spoon against the bowl, the susurrus of the sea, the mumbles from her grandfather. As she ate, Abigail felt the silence turn from grim anticipation, to an uncomplicated quiet, into something that felt almost pleasant. When she was done she dropped the spoon into the empty bowl, pushing it away with a satisfied sigh.
Her mother broke the quiet. ‘You went to Hansens’ dairy today, didn’t you?’
The sense of pleasantness faded.
‘Did you see Jackie? Did she recognise you?’
‘She did,’ Abigail said carefully, aware that she was still wearing Nate’s pants.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what did you say,’ Nell said impatiently, ‘when Jackie recognised you?’
It took Abigail a beat to realise her mother wasn’t concerned for how Jackie Hansen had treated Abigail, but the other way around: Nell was worried about what Abigail’s reaction had been to the other woman. Maybe she could tell her mother about her odd revelation, the way time slowed, the way the future unfolded and she understood that there were options beyond blind, unthinking reaction. But that could lead to explaining why she was wearing Nate’s pants.
Abigail belched. Nell pursed her lips. Her grandfather said, ‘Who stepped on a frog?’ And, from over by the window, her father’s phone chimed.
‘I didn’t say anything—’ she began, but was cut off by her father growling, ‘Bloody hell.’ He was frowning at his phone, thumbs stabbing.
‘What’s going on?’ Nell asked.
‘Twitch says something’s happening at the drive-in.’
‘What something?’
Her father handed his phone to Nell. Abigail watched her mother skim the screen, then calmly hand the phone back.
Nell turned to her. ‘You were saying?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied truthfully. Now that she’d eaten, her fatigue returned tenfold. Eyelids struggling to stay open, vision fuzzing at the edges. The lure of sleep, so longed for, was all she could feel. The stairs were an Everest, insurmountable. There was a couch in the lounge room. A few steps. She could make it.
But Jessica’s phone remained maddeningly silent.
Nell was in the stables. Filling the mare’s hay bag, she watched Bobo tear into it with gusto.
‘Still not off your food,’ Nell said. ‘No foal yet then, eh?’ She patted the mare’s neck and straightened her rug where it had slipped, exposing a jutting flank.
That’s when Nell heard the sound of a car arriving at the house. At first she didn’t think much of it—cars were always coming and going—but when it was shortly followed by the sound of another, then more, Nell pulled out her phone and shot a string of question marks to her husband. Irritation ran through her at the thought of another impromptu town meeting. The noise was upsetting for her father-in-law. And the freezer was running low on sausages. Actually, the entire house was low on food. Between Abigail’s arrival, foal watch, Old Dick’s increasing agitation, the bone washing up and the hectic buzz of town, neither Nell nor her husband had had the chance to visit the bigger town for groceries.
Oh, who am I kidding, Nell thought. It’s Abigail. Of course it was. Nell could tell herself she was distracted and busied by other things but it was Abigail consuming every scrap of her mental energy. In coming back here, her daughter had proceeded to take up any space Nell had left, including her jeans and all the food, too.
Not that Nell hadn’t wanted that. Not that Nell, for years now, had not wished fervently that her daughter would come back. The boys had each other but Abigail had always been alone. Even surrounded by girlfriends as a teenager, Nell had witnessed her daughter keep the other girls at a distance, letting them circle her but with a kind of impossible push, a never-connection, the way magnets repel one another.
Nell listened to the cars arriving and wondered why, even before that poor girl, Abigail had seemed intent on pushing everyone away. And then Nell thought of her own mother, an alcoholic for as long as Nell had known her, and her mother’s mother, also an alcoholic, and thought, Maybe that’s why. Maybe aversion—to other people, to connections, to feeling things—can run in the genes, thread little stitches of repulsion into one’s DNA. Or maybe sometimes there simply isn’t an explanation.
No response came from her husband. No messages from Abigail either. Not that Nell was expecting any, but the knowledge that her daughter had a phone again and was at least in messaging range had filled Nell with such a staggering relief she had not been able to hide it and Abigail had rolled her eyes and said, ‘You’re making me want to give you a fake number.’
A yelp came from the backyard, followed by the angry honks of a goose. Breaking out of her reverie, Nell gave Bobo one last pat, let herself out of the stall and strode from the stables to find out what on earth was happening.
Col had a splitting headache. He had taken two Panadeine Forte but they had barely made a dent in the pain. When Young Dick summoned him, Col had been tempted to take a couple more pills and stay home on the couch with half-a-dozen beers, screw the lot of them, but he didn’t. Col might have made some errors of judgement the past couple of days, but he couldn’t deny he’d now had some sense knocked into him.
If only it hadn’t taken a broken nose to do it.
So Young Dick called and Col responded. Now he was driving up the Fancys’ driveway with his head pounding and his guts feeling like a sack of snakes. Headlights flared in his rear-vision mirror, causing him to squint, which hurt more than Col would have thought it was possible for eyelids to hurt. When he reached the house he saw the taillights of two more utes pulling in before him: Twitch, who disappeared straight into the house, and Adrian Turner, who lingered outside, appearing to wait for Col. Col cursed under his breath.
‘Oof,’ said Adrian upon clocking Col’s face. ‘Ran into a door, did ya?’
‘Fuck off,’ Col replied, but his nose was plugged with blood and it came out Fug.
‘Now, now,’ said Adrian with a laugh. ‘It was worth it, right?’ He elbowed Col and Col stared at him blankly.
‘Right?’ Adrian repeated, nudging Col again, eyebrows waggling, and then Col understood. Adrian thought the current state of Col’s face—eye sockets turning purple, nose swollen, beard crusted with dried blood—was the result of him screwing Jessica Bram. And Col, who only moments ago had thought for the first time in his life that he did not want to be at the Fancys’, now sensed a glimmer of opportunity. He began to feel fortified. He began to feel glad he came.
Lifting his chin, Col replied evasively, ‘I’m not answering that.’
‘Why not?’ said Adrian. ‘Doesn’t seem like you’re shy about it. What did you think the pub kitchen was—a private suite?’ He chortled. ‘Oi, Jase,’ he bellowed suddenly, as his little brother’s wagon pulled up. ‘Come check out Col’s face.’
Adrian was acting nonchalant, his talk full of swagger, but the truth was, the sight of Col Morton’s mashed face had sent a bolt of horror into his groin. Until this point, Adrian had not even been sure he believed that Col had slept with Jessica Bram. As far as Adrian was concerned, his little brother Jase had always been a twerp who was not indisposed to flex the facts to get what he wanted and, in this case, Adrian had assumed all Little Jase wanted was attention, to get in on the action that had fizzed around town the past couple of days.
But it must be true, Adrian realised now. All day people had been saying Twitch was threatening to take Col to the lighthouse for pissing off Young Dick by shagging the enemy. And look, here was Col, face like a dropped pie. Only a fist could have caused that havoc. A big, meaty fist on the end of a big, powerful arm.
Okay, sure, admittedly Adrian had leapt to the assumption his little brother was lying about Col and Jess because his brother had been there at the Fancys’ the night Abigail had arrived and eaten a dozen sausages straight off the grill, and Adrian had not been, and Adrian had been blinded by furious envy. But Adrian reminded himself now it was he who had felt the warm press of Abigail Fancy’s breasts on his hands on the steering wheel. It was he who had stood in the hardware store today, giving Abigail advice on pants, flirting outrageously. The score was even and his brother could bite it.
‘What, man?’ said Col.
Adrian blinked. ‘What?’
‘You’re staring at me,’ said Col. ‘You wanna kiss me or something?’ Col tried to form his lips into a pucker but it hurt too much.
‘You wish,’ replied Adrian with a laugh, but they both heard the nervousness in it.
‘Far out, that’s nasty.’ Little Jase appeared beside Adrian, looking awed and disgusted by Col’s face.
There came the low burble of a V8 and Trisha Loft’s HSV appeared. The men waited for Trisha to spot them and leave but she didn’t. Instead, Trisha parked and walked over. Col’s gladness that he came soared to even greater levels, because Trisha’s choice to endure a group situation meant Young Dick must have insisted. Whatever it was Young Dick had to say, it must be important.
Then the front door flung open and Twitch yelled, ‘What’s this, a cake and arse party?’ and they all filed inside.
Less than forty minutes later, the front door opened again. First out was Little Jase Turner, stumbling on the top step, followed closely by his brother Adrian, face like a clap of thunder, then the rest of them. Last out was Col Morton, who hobbled over to the edge of the drive and vomited neatly into the cheesewoods.
That’s when Abigail and the vet pulled up.
OLD DICK
I hear engines.
Revving, idling, the crunch of tyres over gravel. Sounds like a fleet coming, one by one. There’s doors slamming—thud, thud, thud—and there’s boots stomping and the walls shake. I am below deck while the footfalls above go back and forth, back and forth, and the waves pitch us about like a walnut shell in a storm drain.
Shut up, would you? I’m trying to watch my show. A man can’t watch his show while the boat’s pitching and the deckies are yawping like seagulls around the burley.
The woman comes in and hands me the remote control. I like her, she’s nice. She puts a hand on my shoulder and asks me if I need anything. Cuppa, bikkie, sandwich?
Drop anchor, I tell her. Pots ahoy.
She smiles and the hand on my shoulder gives a squeeze. She tells me to turn the volume up on the TV if I want and I tell her the only volume that needs adjusting is coming from the pie-holes of those deckies.
Right, that’s it. A man can’t watch his show in these conditions. I can’t even hear what the cranky Pom’s saying.
Look, I know you’re all excited, but it’s time to pipe down. Fretting like a bunch of yarded heifers is going to achieve jackshit.
No.
No. Get away.
Here’s the truth. You want it? Maybe if you know it, then you’ll know why I’m telling you to shut your yappers.
No, I said. Are your ears painted on? Come near me and I’ll knock your block off.
We knew that girl was in trouble. We knew it before the rest of you. Well, Luce knew, and she begged me to do something, but I said I wouldn’t interfere until I was certain of the truth, because interfering in another man’s business isn’t my nature. All right, it is in my nature, but it depends on the type of business.
And then I was certain, so I did interfere. I took care of it.
Where are we going?
The truth comes out. Eventually it all comes out. Like an infection, it won’t go away unless you cut it open, until you put it in the salt water, and it burns, and burns, and burns.
ABIGAIL
‘An ice dealer?’ Abigail said.
‘That’s the story,’ her father answered.
Once again she found herself seated at the long table in the dining room, surrounded by her mother, her father and her grandfather at the head of the table. Only this time her grandfather had in front of him a cup of regular black tea—nothing made from dandelions, no brandy. The brandy was on the floor alongside Nell, out of the elderly man’s line of sight. Abigail had already watched her mother surreptitiously lean down with her cup more than once.
Abigail was so tired she thought she might die. ‘In that case, who gives a shit?’ she said, yawning so widely her jaw cracked. ‘You won’t see me crying about a dead ice dealer.’
‘A human bone was found,’ Nell said, and Abigail thought her mother sounded almost as tired as she felt. ‘That bone very likely belongs to a person known to police who’s been missing for a couple of months. Case closed.’
‘We hope it’s closed,’ her father said, with a glance at Nell. ‘Just now, I’ve told a few people what Dettwyler’s told me. Or at least I’ve told them the gist of it.’
Abigail didn’t want to ask, but she recalled her parents’ insistence that she know at least enough not to threaten anyone bodily harm. So she said, ‘The gist being?’
‘What your mother just said. Cops have been aware of a missing person who’d been known to visit the area from time to time.’
‘Not a local?’
‘No. From interstate. When the borders were closed during the pandemic he got around the checkpoints by coming through the pine plantations.’
‘Needs must,’ she said, draining her tea.
‘I won’t have ice here, Abs,’ her father said, his voice quiet and steely. ‘You know that.’
‘So you topped him?’
Her mother laughed.
‘Say what you like,’ her grandfather spoke up, ‘I never touched those sheep.’
‘I know you didn’t, Dad. They got out on their own. The gate was open.’
‘Useless mutton.’
‘So you’ve told everyone the thighbone belongs to a missing ice dealer from interstate,’ Abigail said. ‘You’ve told everyone that’s the story according to the cops. And now everyone’s happy, and going to get on with their lives, yeah? Back to fishing and judging the shit out of everyone. Super. I’m off to bed.’
‘That’s what I’ve told a few people,’ her father said, ‘in the hope it will get back to Lofty. I’m not sure why he’s panicking, but I need him to stop. When people panic they start gabbing. And I don’t want old Lofty gabbing.’ Her parents exchanged another glance before Young Dick looked nervously at his own father, muttering into his tea about stolen sheep and dead stallions.
‘Gee,’ Abigail said, unable to stop the sarcasm creeping into her voice, ‘really? People talk shit when they’re scared?’
‘Abs—’
‘Tell me more about the crap people spin when they’re afraid. Explain to me how a group of people, all believing their own terrified bullshit, can make a reality out of nothing. Better yet, explain that to all the witches they burned.’
Her grandfather’s fist came down on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers clunk together. ‘I thought I told you,’ he said, turning to her father. ‘You’ve got to keep a crowd calm.’
Her father rubbed his face. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do, Dad.’
Abigail’s head was starting to pound. The stink of cow manure lifted from her clothes, she was ravenous and her eyes stung with fatigue. She wanted to go to bed; she did not want to be sitting here at her parents’ table, yet again discussing the stupid, insular politics of this pipsqueak, self-absorbed town filled with obsessive braggarts who thought they were the centre of the universe.
Her grandfather laughed. ‘Pipsqueak town,’ he said. ‘Good one. But you know who isn’t a pipsqueak? That Bram fellow. He might look harmless but he’s slimy as a snake. Don’t ever turn your back on him. He’ll knife you soon as he’d give you the time.’
Abigail saw her father’s jaw clench.
‘Dad, I’d rather we didn’t start talking about Ed Bram again. What I’m saying has nothing to do with him. Ed Bram is dead.’
‘Ha,’ said her grandfather. ‘Serves him right. When’s the funeral?’
‘Twenty-four years ago.’
Old Dick furrowed his brow. ‘I think I’m busy that day.’
‘So that’s the story,’ Nell said, leaning across the table to regain Abigail’s attention. ‘Okay? The cops believe the bone belongs to a wanted crim with plenty of enemies who’s been missing a while. He went missing nowhere near here. The bone has been in the water a few months, probably washed in from the deep current. There are no suspects here. There won’t be any investigations locally. If anyone asks, that’s what you know.’
‘Yippee,’ Abigail said.
‘And if anyone asks about Lofty or tries to tell you something about his missing boat, you cut them off. The bone has nothing to do with that. Change the subject. Distract them, point out something shiny if you have to.’
‘Aye, captain.’
‘I’m serious, Abigail.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I get it. Don’t mention the baby.’
Silence dropped. She stared at them, looking from one face to the next. The three of them stared back at her. The silence was so complete the growl of her stomach echoed into it.
‘Well,’ she said, after an excruciating, drawn-out minute. ‘That’s what you’re trying to say, right? May as well point out that elephant in the room.’
‘How come,’ her grandfather said, ‘she gets to talk about that and I don’t?’
‘We are not talking about that,’ Nell said, her voice icy.
‘We were,’ Old Dick countered. ‘We were talking about it just a few minutes ago, when all those deckies were here making bedlam. We were talking about it then and all of a sudden you told me not to, and then everyone buggered off and now I’m sitting here drinking tea like a useless prick, wondering what the hell happened.’
Abigail looked at her father, who was gazing down at the tabletop, blinking rapidly. Abruptly he stood and walked to the darkened floor-to-ceiling window, put his hands on the glass and gazed towards the lighthouse sending its blue-white pulse across the scrub and ocean. She watched her father press his body against the window as if he could push through it, walk out into the scrub and the night.
Quiet fell again, and in it the ocean heaved. Abigail’s stomach continued to gurgle. Her mother disappeared and came back, placing in front of her a steaming bowl of potato and leek soup. Studded with chunks of bacon, garlic and parmesan scents wafting up; Abigail took to the bowl as if she had never eaten. For a while all that could be heard was the clink and scrape of her spoon against the bowl, the susurrus of the sea, the mumbles from her grandfather. As she ate, Abigail felt the silence turn from grim anticipation, to an uncomplicated quiet, into something that felt almost pleasant. When she was done she dropped the spoon into the empty bowl, pushing it away with a satisfied sigh.
Her mother broke the quiet. ‘You went to Hansens’ dairy today, didn’t you?’
The sense of pleasantness faded.
‘Did you see Jackie? Did she recognise you?’
‘She did,’ Abigail said carefully, aware that she was still wearing Nate’s pants.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what did you say,’ Nell said impatiently, ‘when Jackie recognised you?’
It took Abigail a beat to realise her mother wasn’t concerned for how Jackie Hansen had treated Abigail, but the other way around: Nell was worried about what Abigail’s reaction had been to the other woman. Maybe she could tell her mother about her odd revelation, the way time slowed, the way the future unfolded and she understood that there were options beyond blind, unthinking reaction. But that could lead to explaining why she was wearing Nate’s pants.
Abigail belched. Nell pursed her lips. Her grandfather said, ‘Who stepped on a frog?’ And, from over by the window, her father’s phone chimed.
‘I didn’t say anything—’ she began, but was cut off by her father growling, ‘Bloody hell.’ He was frowning at his phone, thumbs stabbing.
‘What’s going on?’ Nell asked.
‘Twitch says something’s happening at the drive-in.’
‘What something?’
Her father handed his phone to Nell. Abigail watched her mother skim the screen, then calmly hand the phone back.
Nell turned to her. ‘You were saying?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied truthfully. Now that she’d eaten, her fatigue returned tenfold. Eyelids struggling to stay open, vision fuzzing at the edges. The lure of sleep, so longed for, was all she could feel. The stairs were an Everest, insurmountable. There was a couch in the lounge room. A few steps. She could make it.
