Lapse, page 10
Her stomach folded itself over and over into a tightly packed wad as she watched Torrens creeping across the vacant block, using the trees and scrub as cover. He carried a small black backpack with the gear in it wrapped in towels to stop any clanging. In the side pocket was a hunting knife.
A hunting knife. She could scarcely believe it. She’d argued with Torrens about the risks. He had insisted. So here she was, playing getaway driver and lookout. It was bad enough that she’d gone along with the idea, allowed it to bloom in her mind. Now she felt dirty, disoriented, like she was in someone else’s skin.
She’d stayed awake last night, arguing with herself for hours. In fact she hadn’t slept well at all since the discussion in the cafe. But whichever way she looked at it, she couldn’t leave Katinga, could not leave the team, nor could she abandon Clancy and Melissa. But neither could she stay in Katinga while Rosemary and Andrew were here. One chance sighting, one word, and the malignant genie was out of the bottle. It was bad enough already—she couldn’t even go to the supermarket and she was nearly out of frozen dinners.
She thought about Torrens. She was taking advantage of his gratitude, letting him put his new life in danger just months after it had started to come together for him. And all while he was still on parole! If they were caught, she would make sure she took the blame.
A dog barked. She saw Torrens freeze behind a tree. The noise came from a house further up the street. Three more barks, then it stopped. The clouds had been thick all day and now blocked out the moon and stars. After a minute or two she saw Torrens move out from behind a tree and swiftly cross to another. He was making good ground.
She gripped her wetsuit gloves tighter around the steering wheel. He’d told her to wear all black with no skin showing. She’d managed to cover everything except her face. She didn’t own a balaclava and had drawn the line at shoe polish. But with her beanie pulled down low and her black scarf high over her mouth and nose, only her eyes were showing. Pocket had growled when she’d put him outside before she left.
She watched the street. All the lights were out in every house. The whoosh of the wind in the trees, the noisy bustle of the leaves the only sounds. She could see Torrens more clearly now as he reached the outer edge of the streetlight’s beam. He was creeping down the steep part of the block where the grass gave way to gravel and loose rocks, carefully placing his feet. Only about twenty metres to go before he would reach the Audi. Then it happened. As if in slow motion. She watched in horror as Torrens slipped, his feet sliding out from under him. He stretched out his hand to break his fall but she heard a loud crack as his head hit the ground. The dog started up a steady, high-pitched bark. Torrens didn’t move.
She opened the car door and tiptoed through the scrub, her hands trembling. She expected lights to come on in the houses at any moment, but she kept her eyes locked on Torrens. At last he moved, rolling over onto his side. She felt like crying.
There was a dark patch on a large rock and another on the back of his balaclava.
‘I’m okay, I’m okay,’ he mumbled. ‘Just lost it for a second.’
Leaning over him, she could see the whites of his eyes as they rolled in their sockets.
‘You’re concussed—we have to get you back to the car.’ Her voice was barely audible over the wind, but it still sounded braver than she felt. She checked the street—still no lights in the houses.
Torrens tried to protest, but she shushed him, helped him up to his feet, shaky and wobbling against her arm. They moved together, Clem with the backpack slung over her left shoulder and Torrens leaning on her right side as they crept awkwardly between the trees and scrub.
The street was quiet again now. The dog had stopped barking. Torrens was woozy, but the wind covered the sound of his unsteady feet as they scrabbled to gain traction on the loose gravel. They moved further away from the streetlight towards the car and she could no longer see her own feet in the pitch black. The darkness, the muffling effect of the wind—it was perfect. And in that moment she knew: it had to be done tonight.
She bundled Torrens back into the passenger’s seat. He clearly wasn’t fit to drive, so there’d be no quick getaway. She gently pushed the door closed as he leaned back against the headrest.
She made her way across the block again without incident, surprised at how strong she felt, how single-minded. Then she was there, crouching behind the last of the bushes, only metres from Andrew’s car. She carefully laid the backpack on the ground and pulled out the hunting knife. It felt heavy in her hand. She held it upside down, the blade flat against the inside of her arm so it wouldn’t flash in the streetlight. She moved deftly, cat-like, plunging the tip of the knife into the tyre and pulling back to leave a long gash. The sound of the air whooshing out sounded much like a puff of wind in the treetops.
She repeated the exercise on the next two tyres, and then, as she plunged the knife deep into the final tyre, the wind suddenly died to nothing. When she tugged back on the blade, there was an enormous rush of air, almost deafening in the lull. The dog started barking furiously again. She ran and knelt behind the bush, waiting, her breathing fast and shallow. It seemed like forever before a light came on two doors down. She heard someone yell, ‘Shut up!’ The dog whimpered and then was quiet. She heard its claws clacking on pavers in the front yard of the house opposite as it returned to its bed. The light went off. The wind picked up again, louder this time.
She looked back at the car. The tyres were spread wide, ballooning flat on the road. It looked beaten, defeated. Taking an envelope from the front of the backpack, she tiptoed to the mailbox, keeping herself well below the fence line. She dropped it in the letterbox and crept back to the bush. Her mind danced back to the note on her front door. Who had put it there? Whoever it was, she was no better than them. She had sunk to a new low.
She started unzipping the backpack—her wetsuit gloves were awkward—removed one of the cans from its towel wrap, slowly, so as not to clink it against the other. The cap was bright yellow.
She was ready. She took another look at the Audi from behind the bush and felt a twinge at what she was about to do to this beautiful black beast. Swallowing back a sudden rush of fear, she slunk to the front of the car and started spraying the hateful words on the bonnet. She did the same on the driver’s side and then ran out of paint. She returned to the bush, took the second can out. It felt heavier than the first and she finished the job, repeating the words again over the boot and passenger’s side.
Hidden behind the bush, she put the empties in the backpack, the towel in between them, and took one last look at the despicable lie she had scrawled on the car’s shiny black paint. She gulped. The yellow stood out fiercely, reflecting the streetlight and shouting out to the world: Child molester inside.
CHAPTER 17
She had only just finished showering when she heard the knock at the door. Oh God, the police already!
She’d woken at four, spent the hours before sunrise punch-drunk from beating herself up, running over and over the events of last night, pummelling herself with guilt. It had seemed the only rational thing to do, the only reasonable path forward, but she still couldn’t believe she’d actually done it, and it horrified her, sickened her. It felt like another person, another universe. And the pain she’d inflicted on Rosemary and Andrew! She imagined their confusion, their humiliation, their rage.
And now the police were here. Of course. She would be arrested. A criminal, again. It’s what she deserved.
Pocket was barking in the backyard. She didn’t rush. She pulled on her jeans and a jumper, a pair of socks, and walked slowly up the hallway, her hair still wet and chilling the back of her neck. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, opened the front door.
‘Oh my God, Rowan,’ she exclaimed, her hand to her mouth.
He was in a coat and a beanie, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. ‘Guess you’re pleased to see me, then,’ he said, with that smile again, like the sun coming up.
‘Oh, yes, no—I mean, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting anyone. What are you—’ Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh, of course, of course, the shed roof…Come in, it’s freezing outside.’
‘Nah, gotta get cracking. Probably take me most of the day,’ he said as Pocket came charging through the dog door at the back and skidding up the hall.
They headed across the sprawling yard to the shed, Pocket bouncing around them excitedly. The clouds of the night before had disappeared but the early sun struggled to make an impression on the thick frost covering the ground. In the morning light the stands of gum and wattle along the fence cast long, gentle shadows across the patchy grass.
Pocket stuck his nose in at the shed door to make sure he was the first through when it opened. They examined the shed roof together while he sniffed the perimeter. The strong wind overnight had further dislodged a large sheet of corrugated iron, now hanging by a few rusty nails, its edges sharp and threatening. Clementine watched Rowan set up his power tools and a ladder—competent, efficient, no movement wasted. When he reached overhead, his jumper pulled up, exposing a washboard stomach. She looked away, reminding herself as she went back to the house: Keep your distance, no connections and definitely no relationships.
At eight she came out with mugs of tea and biscuits. Rowan had removed the loose sheets of corrugated iron and was measuring up replacement pieces. They sat in the shed on rickety chairs amid the possum poo. She asked him how long he’d been in Katinga.
‘Grew up here, married a local girl, Kate. She died,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clem said.
‘Breast cancer.’
He looked down into his mug, studying its milky contents before taking a swig. He had really long, dark eyelashes, she noticed.
‘It’s hard to know what to do after something like that,’ she said. A statement, intended as a question—perhaps he could help her.
‘Yep,’ he grunted and took another sip of tea. ‘I went off the rails a bit, shot through, did some things I’d rather forget.’
Me too, she thought, pictures of her family, Rosemary, Andrew flashing into her mind.
‘I kind of thought you might be in the same situation,’ he said, looking at her now, gripping the mug in both hands, but when she didn’t reply, he let it go, like he understood there should be no questions.
Rowan got back to work, and she took Pocket for a walk to the ridge. She imagined Rosemary and Andrew reading the note, the demand that they leave town if they wanted to avoid an escalation of the vile accusations. How long had it been before they’d noticed the car, she wondered? She felt her stomach lurch again. For a moment she wondered if this was all a nightmare, something she would wake up from.
Arriving at the largest of the mountain gums in the thick cluster leading up the slope, Clementine stopped and looked up. The sky between the branches was that rich, royal blue before the sun has hit its straps and started washing everything out. She stroked the trunk. It was something she’d always done, for as long as she could remember—touch the trees, feel their energy. The bark was so white and smooth, and the trunk so straight and simple, with one purpose only: reach for the sky. She pressed her hand flat, felt the warmth of the sun in her palm, and then a moment of release. The turmoil of the last two weeks disappeared up the silky surface of the trunk into the canopy of leaves.
She stood there for a moment before walking on, Pocket racing ahead.
The peaceful state lasted only until she arrived back home forty minutes later. It was as if the cottage had absorbed the memory of each of her contemptible actions, and she felt sure whoever had lived there in the past was shaking their head. Clem had defiled this quiet, decent place.
She checked her phone. A text—Torrens, asking her to call. She rang him back. He was off sick from work, of course, with concussion.
‘Did a drive by Katinga Heights this morning.’ His voice was hushed.
‘You idiot, Torrens. You shouldn’t be anywhere near Katinga Heights today—the cops will be everywhere.’
‘Chill, Jonesy—they would’ve been long gone before I went past. Besides, I drove Mum’s Subaru and wore a hat.’
Clem was incredulous. ‘Your mum’s six foot six as well then?’
Torrens ignored her. He said the Audi hasn’t been there on the first drive-by, so he’d gone for a scout around town. He’d caught a glimpse of a black late-model vehicle at Cooney’s Panelbeating but couldn’t be sure it was the Audi. On the second drive-by, later in the morning, he’d hit the jackpot. The gate at the Holts’ place was open and the Audi was in the driveway, with new tyres and a professional cut and polish. No sign of yellow paint. Gerard and Andrew had been packing suitcases into the boot.
She ate lunch with Rowan in the kitchen. He’d packed his own roast beef sandwiches, but he accepted another cup of tea. They talked football again.
‘Hopeless we were back then,’ he said. ‘Hardly won a game a season. The other teams were bigger, stronger.’
‘Bit different these days, eh? We’ve got some tall timber now,’ she said.
‘Yeah, that Torrens kid’s huge.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I was a young fella when I played with his dad. He retired after a year or so. Good bloke, Mick Torrens.’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t believe my luck when Matthew turned up at the club wanting to play.’
Rowan grunted, shook his head again. ‘What a mongrel that kid was,’ he snorted. ‘Bloody mountain of a boy, turned into a complete head case. Nightmare for poor Mick.’ He took a bite of his sandwich. ‘Wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d stopped at the pranks, I suppose.’
‘What pranks?’ Clementine asked, forcing a casual tone.
‘Blowing up letterboxes, that sort of thing.’
Clem pushed her chair back with a scrape, went to the sink and rinsed her mug. ‘I never wanted to ask him about his past—it didn’t seem polite,’ she said.
Rowan went on as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Even the graffiti, you could cop that…’
Her heart skipped a beat.
‘…but the standover stuff for those dealers from Earlville—threats, intimidation, pay up or I’ll smash your car, break your legs…’ He chewed for a moment. ‘Poor Mick couldn’t hold his head up after that, had to leave town.’
Clementine kept her back to Rowan, gripping the edge of the sink and staring out through the kitchen window. Torrens had seemed so confident in his plan. Now she knew why. She’d taken him straight back to his rotten roots. She was bad luck, bad karma blowing around Katinga like a foul odour. Everything she touched was a disaster. She wanted to vomit.
Afterwards she tidied away the lunch stuff. Rowan left at about three. At four the police car rolled up the driveway.
She offered Sergeant Phillips and Constable Miller a cup of tea. They politely declined.
She could hardly concentrate. The night she’d spent in the Kings Cross watch house kept coming back to mind. The humiliating strip search. The feel of the surgical gloves on her skin. An alcoholic blur at the time, a leaden thud of realisation the next morning.
She blinked, trying to focus on what the sergeant was saying.
Apparently there’d been an incident in Katinga Heights overnight, some sort of malicious damage, threats made. They had questioned one Matthew Torrens, recently released from Loddon. He had a history of this sort of thing.
Each piece of information was like a crushing wave, pushing her deeper.
Torrens had been very cooperative. Had provided his mobile phone to the police to check his phone calls and text messages.
‘He said he trains with you on a Monday night.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Matthew is behind in his fitness, but he’s keen. He asked if I’d help him with extra sessions.’
‘And did you?’ Phillips’ voice was a deep baritone. He was tall and lean, but with a middle-aged paunch beginning to spill over his belt. With his 1980s Tom Selleck moustache, he reminded her of her high school principal, standing here in her kitchen, by her pantry.
‘Did I what?’
‘Give him extra training sessions?’ Sergeant Phillips had the look of someone who had heard enough lies to last a lifetime.
‘Yes—yes, I did. Every Monday night.’
‘So last night, then?’ asked Constable Miller, flipping to a new page in his notebook. Despite the winter cold, Miller was in a short-sleeved shirt. Clementine couldn’t help noticing his biceps as he wrote in the notebook. Miller was ripped. Some sort of gym junkie. He should be on the team, she thought. Shut up, Jones. Concentrate, stay sharp!
‘Yes, last night too,’ she said.
‘What time was that, do you think?’
‘Well, by the time we got started it would have been about six-thirty or maybe seven o’clock.’
‘Bit dark at the oval that time of night?’ Miller looked sceptical.
‘Oh, we weren’t at the oval. We went out to the scout hall. It’s lit up pretty well at night, and they’ve got the kids’ play equipment. I made him do thirty chin-ups on the monkey bars.’ She hoped to God Torrens had remembered the details of the story they’d rehearsed.
‘You’ve certainly got these boys primed, Ms Jones,’ said Miller. ‘Never seen such a bunch of dropouts so fit.’ His tone had a sinister note, as if she were training them all to become paramilitaries in Syria or something.
‘Well, I wouldn’t call them dropouts, constable. They’re working pretty hard for the team at the moment.’
‘Some of them are dropouts, Ms Jones. And some of them are worse than that. Nasty histories in that mob.’
Clementine said nothing.
‘So what time did you call it quits?’ said the sergeant, steering the interview back on track.
‘Um, I think it was around eight o’clock by the time he’d finished his warm-down.’
‘Do anything after that, then?’ Phillips asked.
