After the Smoke Clears, page 9
There was movement on the shore near the cottages squatting on the dodgy side. I squinted to the distance. ‘Is that the girls?’ I asked when Brookes came up for air. We were sixteen, our sisters almost fifteen. I still reckoned they’d piked on us. Too fucking hot, and by the time you rode home you were a stinky sweaty mess and needed another swim.
Brightside had shut down a few months back at the end of ’88 and no one had set foot there since. No one except broke bored teens looking to hang out without their olds breathing down their necks. Margo didn’t say why it closed, exactly. She had her finger in every pie in Eldham but waved her hands and said it was ‘politics’. I figured it was ’cause the do-gooders ran outta money. Suited me in any case.
Brookes and I splashed about in wet ruggers. Mine were hand-me-downs from the church, with coloured hems and the elastic so loose I had to pull them up every five seconds to avoid flashing bum crack. I was midair, swinging from a rope with a driftwood footrest tied to the base when I heard a wolf-whistle before I landed in the depths of the lake.
Two girls approached the bank. Neither were my sister. We got out, feeling their eyes, hearing their giggles as we milked wet hair with our fingers, slimy strings of weed stuck to our bare chests. I smiled when her face came into view. Becca had Cindy Lauper plaits, that hot pink mesh singlet she loved from the Op Shop, and tiny white shorts. She stood all shy behind her loudmouth friend – the ‘spare’. Brookes and I joined them on the bank.
‘No Frey?’
Becca screwed up her nose. We both knew the answer, and the reason. ‘Said she’d peopled enough today.’ Becca smiled, tightened a fluro scrunchie. My sister rarely made it to the dam. Too many questions about why she wasn’t swimming, taunts of how she should just strip off, get in, which horrified her to her padded bones.
So, instead, we had Stephanie Lawley. Stuck-up Steph had her arms permanently folded, that same neon pouf dress with shoulder pads and a wide belt like something out of Dynasty. She was some kinda exchange student from California, reckoned she had been in a real movie. Up herself, anyway. I was less excited about a day that had her in it. I didn’t get Steph – calling Brookes the village idiot one minute, then flirting with him the next. Besides, Becca was always quieter when Steph was there as if it wasn’t worth competing with.
Becca perched on a boulder and dipped her toes in for cool relief. Suddenly tongue tied, and self-conscious, it took me a few seconds to realise Steph was talking – carrying on about the Blue Light disco last week and how they didn’t even play any George Michael. ‘Where were you, Gus?’ Steph asked, poking me with her elbow. ‘Like to see you breakdance.’
I hadn’t gone to the disco, not after how the one before had ended, but Steph wasn’t around then. ‘Didn’t want to miss “Red Faces”,’ I smiled. Plucka Duck on Hey Hey It’s Saturday made me smile, which was something.
‘And get this,’ Steph went on, turning to Becca, ‘I caught your loser cousin behind the PCYC dunnies, sucking face with Kirsten Bush – beard rash all over her chin from the creepy Harris.’
‘Which Harris?’ Becca asked. ‘They’re all creeps.’
‘Does it matter?’ I added. ‘All dipshits.’ There were four of the louts – Joel, Troy, Brad and Sean, all equally loutish. The Harris family owned the pub and half the town so you couldn’t say a bad word about ’em or you’d find yourself without a watering hole or a roof over your head. The four teens were pretty boys, captains of the footy teams and got away with shoplifting, drink driving, you name it. No one with half a brain said anything to their faces. The older one had gotten into local politics, which had only tightened the family’s grip on the town, not to mention their drug trade.
We spent a good hour swimming, and getting hot again, lazing on our towels as the sun crept below the hills, talking shit. The shade from the gums stretched across the lake’s surface, patching the edges like a picture frame, and the cicadas chirped to signal night was falling.
A flash of something over on the bank. I wasn’t sure if I was seeing things.
Steph stopped talking. ‘What was that?’
Everyone’s head turned, curious.
‘I’ve heard this place is haunted,’ said Steph.
‘Bullshit,’ Brookes said, but he looked like he wasn’t sure of that.
‘One of my friends reckons it is,’ Steph said. ‘Some priest guy drowned here but his spirit won’t leave, sees his ghost kayaking on the lake.’
Brookes was all ears. ‘You mean one of the brothers?’
Steph shrugged. ‘Some dude that looked after some school for delinquents?’
‘You mean Jock-itch? He camped out at Brightside when it first closed but he’s long gone now,’ I said.
‘Jock-itch?’ Steph asked. ‘Is that his name?’
Brookes explained with a smile. ‘We put itching powder in his jocks, and he couldn’t walk for days.’ He grabbed a smoke from his hessian bag and lit it up, along with a whole lot of memories.
‘Wait – you guys used to go there?’ Steph asked. ‘Like, for reals?’
‘It was just a boarding school. No biggie,’ Becca added.
‘His real name’s Brother John,’ Brookes said.
‘Yeah, that’s the guy!’ Steph said. ‘He’s, like, camping out, haunting the place.’
I rolled my eyes and smiled at Becca. As for me, ghosts were in the same category as God. Even though I’d tried, I couldn’t find it in me to believe they existed.
‘Don’t you have to be dead to haunt stuff?’ Becca asked with a furrowed brow. ‘’Cause I heard someone pray for him at Mass. Mrs Mac said he piddled all over the floor of her fish and chip shop not long ago, all grubby like he’s a hobo.’
‘Maybe, what did you call him – Scratchy-shorts? Maybe he’s just a vagrant now, drinking himself to death where he last had purpose.’ Steph delivered the words the way a newsreader shared a headline.
Brookes’ eyes danced. ‘Yeah, that sounds about right – he thought he was king shit there. That guy’s got no conscious.’
‘Conscience,’ I said. I didn’t make a habit of correcting him, but sometimes I couldn’t help it. I blamed having a librarian for a mum.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothin’.’ I shrugged, not sure why I said anything when Brookes was already antsy. Maybe I was, too.
‘Always was a drunk, stupid prick. I’d fucking take him if I saw him in the street, you know.’ Brookes talked tough but he was a bunny rabbit, crying himself to sleep half the time over some of the bad shit that went down at Brightside. I’d never asked for details, but he was there longer than me. Friday-night biff-ups – where we’d get bashed by the older boys until the director waved his hand to stop – were a rite of passage in that joint. A bit like the showers with no doors that were ‘getting installed soon’. We were so naïve, thinking the cottage mums – who were nicer than the brothers – would tell someone who cared, but nothing ever changed. And if we did jack up, at best we’d lose our ‘privilege’ smokes, at worst we’d get chased with the cow prodder. Any attempts to bitch about how rough they got just strengthened the wall of silence growing around the place.
‘Let’s go, find the fucker,’ Brookes said, standing knee deep in the shallows and splashing me in the face. ‘Smash up his shit and piss on his pillow. C’mon, it’ll be fun.’ The way he said ‘fun’ didn’t sound like he meant it. He was trying to hide the fact that he was worked up.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s probably all locked up and he’ll be long gone by now.’
Brookes ignored my protests, grabbed his knapsack and was egging on the girls.
‘C’mon, ya pussies, let’s go check it out!’ His voice was jittery, his feet fast and lacking coordination, like his cerebellum had failed to engage.
‘Brookes – this is dumb, Mum’ll crack it if you get in any more trouble – let’s just get some chips,’ Becca said, her jaw tight.
‘Nah, c’mon! Let’s wreck him!’ He flicked me between the eyes, which always made them sting and I always pretended it didn’t. Before I could build on all the reasons why it was a bad idea, he set off down the path to the west bank in a rush of shivering bushes and catcalls.
‘Becks, let’s get this party started!’ Steph said, gathering her stuff.
‘We don’t have to,’ Becca said to me, knowing I hated the place.
‘C’mon, it’ll be fun!’ Steph elbowed Becca. ‘We can, like, make a fire, and drink this!’ Steph grinned and retrieved a bottle of bourbon from her crescent-shaped leather bag. It was clear Steph and Brookes wanted the story of sneaking into the old place. ‘You guys are always so boring. I’ve only got another few weeks here, you know, before I go back to the States. We can have a bonfire like we do back home,’ Steph said, pulling her friend up off the rock and grabbing her bag.
Becca and I watched the other two skipping and skylarking through the scrub, giggling along the path like besties.
‘I thought those two hated each other,’ I said.
Becca shrugged. ‘You know we can’t leave the kids without supervision.’ She smiled, and her eyes went all crinkly in that way that blocked every synapse in my brain. I grabbed my towel, which had been flapping from a tree branch above the shallows. Becca and I took one bike each, and followed the numpties to Brightside. My brain felt like it had never left the place, so what would it matter? It was just weatherboards and corrugated iron. It couldn’t hurt me.
Turned out it did.
Going back – that was our first mistake.
Chapter 9
LOTTI
With the phone beside me, sliding along the passenger seat with every turn, I kept glancing at the screen to make sure the location marker didn’t move as we approached. It didn’t. Wherever August was, he was staying put. I couldn’t say the same for his son, who was dragged into town before he’d even had breakfast, having been bribed with chocolate to comply with my impromptu plan. Strangely, he thought I was awesome. I was starting to get this parenting thing.
My unease grew as I approached the location and set eyes on a tidy, red-brick building with white window frames, a chain-wire fence and a glowing blue light. It was the only building for a hundred metres, so there was no mistake. August must be inside. My stomach flipped. I hoped he was just in the drunk tank overnight, and we could put all this mystery behind us and go home. Or perhaps Brookes had gotten himself into legal trouble. Was that why he’d called August? To bail him out?
‘Are we lost?’ Otto asked from the back. ‘Mummy always said to go to the police if I was lost.’
I smiled in a way I hoped was convincing while scanning the street for August’s truck. ‘That’s a really good tip. We just need to go in and ask for directions to the place with the best pancakes – we won’t be long.’
I parked and got out, and Otto unclicked his seatbelt and followed. He held my hand as I pushed open the heavy front door and approached the policewoman with a pixie cut and lots of keys on her belt, gazing at a boxy old computer screen.
‘Can I help you, honey?’
‘Hello, I’m looking for August Nash. Is he here?’
One of her eyebrows rose. ‘One sec.’
Otto began balancing along an invisible tightrope, toe to heel, across the floorboards of the old building. I hoped this would entertain him for as long as it took to work out what was going on.
A cop that looked more like a cowboy approached, introduced himself as Detective Troy Harris and asked who we were.
‘I’m Charlotte Hill. I’m a friend of August Nash.’ The name hurt to say but something inside made me keep the one I knew him by all to myself for now. ‘Is August okay? Has something happened?’ My voice failed to hide my concern and I was glad Otto couldn’t detect my tone.
The detective looked sideways at the desk clerk, who now raised both eyebrows – clearly, they weren’t fans of my boyfriend – then took another look at Otto.
‘He’s fine, Ms Hill. Mr Nash is just helping us with our enquiries.’
‘Enquiries? Regarding what? Is Brookes in trouble?’
Detective Harris smiled as if this were amusing. ‘You know Brookes?’
‘No. But that’s why August’s in town.’
‘Is that right?’ The cowboy cop looked at the keyed-up receptionist with another smile, but it lacked warmth and made me feel as if I’d provided a missing part of a jigsaw they’d been scouring the house for. ‘This your first time in Eldham, Miss?’
I frowned, feeling small. ‘How is that relevant?’
They gestured for us to wait and moments later the receptionist directed us through to a poorly lit side room with an old brown table, two plastic chairs and a box of tatty toys in the corner. Otto immediately gravitated towards a one-legged Spiderman figurine and crept him up the wall while making loud zipping noises.
Detective Harris returned with a notebook. ‘Cute kid.’ He then suggested Otto and his Spiderman play outside in the entrance area. ‘Sharon will keep an eye on you there while I speak to Mummy for a sec.’
‘That’s not Mummy. That’s Miss Hill,’ he said, having read his lips to perfection. The policeman would have no idea he was deaf.
I was a little unsure, but decided having a police officer as a babysitter was probably safe.
The detective sat at the desk across from me before digging in deeper about the nature of my relationship with Augie, when I saw him last, what the nature of his business in Eldham was. ‘And the reason you’re here, Charlotte?’
‘It’s been three days and he hasn’t called.’
The long stare he returned told me he thought I was an insecure stage-five cling-on and this concern was not a police matter. ‘And that’s unusual?’
I wanted to say no, but lying to a cop didn’t seem wise. ‘He wouldn’t leave his son without making contact.’
‘And he placed Otto in your care to visit Brookes?’
‘Yes.’ It didn’t take long to share the broad strokes of what I knew.
‘And you usually look for lost boyfriends at police stations?’
I thought about the phone tracking data. About the shallow grave. About his secrecy regarding his past and chose not to answer why I knew he was here. The good citizen that I’d always been, the responsible daughter, the people pleaser who had no reason to lie to a police officer was another version of Lotti. A paper-thin version. The new Lotti followed her gut and looked out for herself. ‘Aren’t police meant to help with missing persons? And you’ve said he is here. Can we just see him?’
‘Believe me, we all want to resolve this. We’re not used to this kinda thing around here. But your friend was kept overnight and is still helping us with our enquiries, Miss Hill.’
‘He’s been here all night? Surely I have a right to know what this is about. How long do you expect to be questioning him?’
‘That depends on him.’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t even speak to him for, like, a second?’
He didn’t speak.
‘Is Brookes under arrest? I mean, do I need to get a lawyer or something?’ I laughed as I said it, but he didn’t, which cemented the nerves.
A flutter in my chest. ‘Augie?’ I called down the hall.
Detective Harris was not pleased, and guided me to the door. ‘I’ll just call you at Margo’s, hey? Assume you’ll stay there until he gets home.’
How far did I push this? I was caught between quiet compliance and a fierce loyalty I hadn’t expected, towards a man I barely knew. I had no clue if making a fuss would help or hinder Augie’s predicament, so I backed down, and nodded as if I knew that, to August, Margo was home.
‘Did the police lady tell you where to go next?’ Otto asked as I strapped him in the back of the car.
‘Yeah, kiddo, she kinda did.’
Margo. Whatever situation was unfolding, she was the only link I had to the August I knew. And weren’t all answers found in the past? Now that I had proof that there was something going on more sinister than a bloke’s night out that had taken a day to shake off, I had to make use of the tufts of info greasy Henry had spilled at the diner.
Thomson Road, Henry had said. I found it easily enough but it was hard to decipher which ‘eyesore’ belonged to the elusive Margo. Self-doubts crept in – I didn’t have the energy to canvas every house on the street. I wouldn’t even know her if I saw her.
Driving the length of the road, the blocks widened in size, and peeking through the gap between the brick-box dwellings I could see the dry salty hollow of the dam. Was this empty brown basin the lake Henry had mentioned? The last house in the dead end was a paint-flaking old Queenslander on stumps, with nods to a lost elegance; a grand stairway, sweeping verandah and rust-red corrugated iron roof. The front yard was a circle of bare lawn and had a 42-gallon-drum makeshift bonfire as its centrepiece, and was flanked by dug-up gardens and a chocolate-brown dog lazing on a half-chewed recliner. Chunks of foam upholstery scattered the yard like snow. Hadn’t the guy mentioned stray dogs?
‘Is Daddy here?’ Otto asked, his sweet face hopeful. ‘He is the only one that puts chocolate chips in pancakes.’
I turned to the back seat. ‘Have you been here before?’ I asked.
He shrugged, his brown fringe falling over his eyes.
An open window upstairs. A car in the drive.
I signed to stay in the car, adding a grumpy face for effect, and powered down the windows so he could get fresh air. Walking along the cracked path to the door, a curtain billowed, then sharply pulled closed, a chorus of barking began, and a figure moved across the pink and green toned textured-glass window next to the entry.
‘Hello?’
A muffled call from inside the large old house. ‘I have nothing to say, bloody vultures!’ It was the same weathered voice from the phone.
‘Margo? I’m not from the media.’ I was about to say I was Augie’s girlfriend but had a fleeting concern that there may be more than one of those. ‘My name is Lotti. I was just down the police station this morning. I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a bit … lost.’
