Lapse, page 9
The last time she’d seen Rosemary was the deal-closing party on the night of…A shiver swept across the back of Clementine’s neck as the memories arrived, unbidden: techno music blasting, trays of canapés, young associates—chests thrust forward boisterously, the clink of champagne glasses, a waiter topping up her drink. And then there it was again, the image of the woman. The darkening scarlet oozing on white, and the eyes, the eyes. Eighteen months on and she had not found a way to stop it appearing.
Torrens caught up to her, put his big paw on her shoulder. ‘Hey, hey, slow down.’
‘No, no, Torrens, I have to go. I have to go.’ She fumbled in her backpack for her keys.
‘But mate, you’re pale—you’re shaking. What the hell happened in there?’
Her keys tumbled out and fell on the pavement. Torrens was quick for a big man, kicking them away as she reached for them and holding her back with one hand as he scooped them up in the other.
‘Torrens, this is serious, I’m…I have to…’ Her voice was trembling.
Torrens put both hands on her shoulders, turned her round and walked her towards her car. He unlocked the car, opened the passenger’s side door and gently pushed her in. She did not resist. He came around to the driver’s side and got in.
‘Righto. You’re gunna have to tell me now, because I’m not getting out of the car until you do.’
She looked over her shoulder back towards the hotel. ‘Okay, okay, just drive me up the street and around the corner, where we can’t be seen.’ If Andrew or Rosemary saw her, just a glimpse, it would take just one word…
Torrens idled the car forward and turned into Chester Street. They sat for a while in silence while her breathing slowed.
‘I can’t tell you anything about what just happened,’ she mumbled.
‘I’m not letting you drive home until you tell me. You helped me, Jonesy. You really turned my life around. I’m not leaving you in this state, and I’m not getting out of this car until I understand what the hell is going on here.’
Up ahead of them, Andrew Hewitt was driving a black Audi, and in front of him was Gerard’s silver BMW. Torrens hung back, careful not to get too close. They had taken his car so Gerard wouldn’t recognise it. Clementine slunk down low in the passenger’s seat beside him. He’d convinced her to follow them home. She hadn’t told him much—just that she’d seen some people she was afraid of, people who could make her life very difficult, and that their presence in town was enough to make her think about leaving. He had returned the favour she had granted him that first night when they met and not asked questions. And now, despite herself, she was grateful, after everything that had happened that week, to be in this giant of a man’s car, following his lead.
They had waited about half an hour before they saw the two vehicles pull out of the hotel car park and then followed them up to Katinga Heights. Gerard was turning right now, into a street with sweeping views of the valley, then he slowed in front of a large house with a grand, pillared entrance and high fence. Torrens kept driving straight ahead, did a U-turn and then parked at a point a little higher up, where they could see down the street. An automatic gate in the tall fence had opened and Andrew Hewitt’s Audi was disappearing up the driveway as Gerard pulled the BMW up on the street. Inside the yard, under the glow of a street lamp, Clementine could see a manicured hedge rising above the six-foot-high fence and a grove of young trees. Behind that was a series of neatly ordered garden beds. Gerard and Bernadette headed up the driveway on foot. The gate began to close behind them.
Before Clementine could say anything, Torrens was out of the car and running down the street. Oh Christ! He thinks he’s James Bond. He reached the automatic gate just before it closed and snuck inside.
She didn’t like it up here in foreign territory, so far from the sanctuary of her cottage. After the accident she’d heard that Andrew and Rosemary had become a couple. But how did they know the Holts? And why were they here? Clementine waited. The minutes ticked by. A cat sauntered across the road, stopping at the gutter to sniff, then disappearing through a line of shrubs in the front yard of the house opposite.
She jumped as she heard the driver’s side doorhandle click. Torrens. He’d come from the other direction. He eased into the seat, panting.
‘Suitcases, Jonesy, big ones. Looks like they’re here to stay.’
CHAPTER 14
The picture on the front page wasn’t too bad, she thought, and the headline carried the predictable pun: New Coach the Cats’ Whiskers. She had managed Tiny Spencer quite well, she thought, drawing on the lies she’d already crafted for Jenny, but she flipped to the main story on page three quickly, fearing Tiny may have done some research of his own. She needn’t have worried. Tiny was your typical sixty-year-old journo running a country newspaper while he waited till he could get his super. She had steered him away from her personal life and given him plenty of material on her coaching philosophy and the inner workings of the Cattery.
Her coffee arrived and she took a sip. It was a long sight better than the plunger at home but still a bull’s roar from Sydney standards. Torrens was late. He wasn’t due at work until the afternoon shift and they’d agreed to meet at nine am.
She’d never been to this little strip of shops out near the old mine, but she had to avoid the town centre for now, with Rosemary and Andrew around. The Wombat Cafe was a cheery place, with its yellow-painted walls covered in black-and-white photos of Katinga over the last hundred years and a bookshelf with a sign saying Please take one. When the mine was open, the cafe would have been busy with workers, she thought, early in the morning and again after knock-off. Now, sitting at an aluminium table in the corner, she was the only one there. An old fellow with a cane had bought an apple teacake about twenty minutes ago, but there had been no one since. He’d recognised her on his way out and shuffled over to her table to reminisce about the grand final win in ’62, his teacake in a string bag hanging from his elbow. He’d been twenty-five years old at the time, working in the mines. It was the best day of his life. Now he wanted to see it happen once more before he died. ‘We’re countin’ on you, love,’ he said, patting her shoulder as he left.
Torrens finally arrived, placed his order at the counter and sat himself opposite Clementine. Immediately the table felt too small.
They’d discussed the wheelchair last night and what it might mean, Rosemary having been able-bodied when Clem had last seen her. Torrens said he thought perhaps she might have had her leg in a cast, but he couldn’t be sure. They both agreed it had to be an injury or some sort of surgery or both.
‘You reckon her boyfriend brought her here to stay for a bit while she recovers?’ he asked.
‘Maybe. I can’t imagine them doing a driving holiday with Rosemary in a wheelchair. Andrew’ll probably head back to work while Rosemary takes in the country air.’
‘There were two huge suitcases, though, he might be here for the long haul too,’ said Torrens as the waiter brought out his order—a latte and two doughnuts, steaming hot and covered in a fine dusting of sugar. He offered Clementine one, she declined.
‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the luggage was all Rosemary’s. She always fancied herself as a bit of a fashion plate. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to be able to hang around,’ she said.
‘Eh?’ said Torrens, his eyes screwed up in disbelief. She shouldn’t have said it. Why did she have to let on to Torrens? She could just slip away one night, never to be seen again.
‘Hang on a moment! You can’t leave us now! There’s no fucking way on God’s fucking earth you can fucking leave us now,’ he said, his voice filling the cafe.
The waiter came out from behind the counter, began wiping a table nearby, watching Torrens warily.
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, big fella, it was a joke. Where’s your sense of humour?’ she said, giving the waiter a smile to let him know all was well.
‘Not funny. Not bloody funny at all,’ said Torrens.
She swallowed the last of her coffee and pushed her cup to the side of the table. Everywhere she went these days, every conversation she had reminded her of the suffocating pressure—Mrs Lemmon and her Tom, the old man with the teacake, the young man sitting in front of her. All of them depending on her.
As he wolfed down his second doughnut, Torrens came up with a plan. He said it was the best way, and if they waited for a cloudy night, no moon, no one would ever find out. She didn’t like it at all—it made her feel sick, in fact—but Torrens was determined to go through with it, whether she liked it or not. She felt trapped, drained, tired, and it was comforting to have someone else be the strategist for a change. She simply could not think of an alternative other than leaving Katinga, and that just didn’t seem right. But she couldn’t let him risk it alone.
CHAPTER 15
Clementine pulled up in the car park. It was just after five o’clock. The warehouse sheds to her left were quiet, the cavernous doors closed for the evening. A few people were still trickling out of the office into the car park, including one she recognised: John Wakely. She hadn’t seen him since the loss to the Eels. He hadn’t been there for the last home game, which was odd, as he was such a big supporter—anyone who’d ever had anything to do with the Cats had been there.
She got out of the car and hurried across to talk to him, the report for the committee under her arm. ‘John!’ she called out.
He stopped and turned towards her. His face looked grey, but maybe it was the late-afternoon light. He gave her a stiff smile.
‘We missed you at the game last week,’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’
He was standing by a white Toyota Camry, one hand in his pocket as she approached. ‘Yeah, yeah, all good. Todd tells me it was a ripper of a game.’
‘I didn’t think we were going to get there midway through the last quarter. It was touch and go. Really tough doing it without Clancy.’ Having heard Todd’s views on the subject of race, she wanted to test Wakely Senior.
‘Oh yes, he’s a big loss. Yes.’ Agreeable, but not his usual talkative manner, she thought.
‘Can I ask you something, John?’ she said, squinting into the sun. ‘Would anyone have wanted Clancy off the team?’
He jammed his other hand in his pocket, arched his back away from her. ‘Couldn’t say, really. Why do you ask?’ Definitely less talkative than the first time they’d met.
‘I was just wondering if anyone would have wanted Clancy off the team. Maybe some of Todd’s old mates from Earlville wanted to settle the score with Clancy?’
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Todd’s changed since then. He’s not the same lad anymore.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I just thought perhaps his old friends…’
Wakely shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glanced across the car park, turned back towards Clementine. ‘Look, Todd got sucked into a bad crowd back then—thugs they were. It was a tough time for Todd. They were a ruthless bunch, seriously nasty. If they had an idea like that, to get revenge for Clancy taking them on in court, well, yes, I wouldn’t put it past them to do it. But Todd’s out of it—he doesn’t have anything to do with them anymore. He’s out running and doing weights half the bloody day—no time to drive over to Earlville.’
‘Are you sure that’s what he’s doing, John, working out?’
Wakely looked uncertain for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Why would you say that? Has he done something?’
‘No. Todd’s doing really well. I think his fitness is one of his stronger points, and it’s improved as the year’s gone on. But it could just be the training I’m giving him—with the team, I mean. These boys have never worked harder. We’re dead serious about winning this thing, John. So just because he’s fitter, it doesn’t mean he’s been lifting weights in his spare time, does it?’
‘Well, no, I guess not. I just assumed he was…well, that’s what he told me…’ There seemed to be an argument going on in Wakely’s head. His eyes narrowed. ‘He’s done something, hasn’t he? Tell me what it is.’
Clementine hesitated, but felt the moment was right. ‘It’s just Todd said a few things the other night, and I thought maybe he was keen to have more, well, more white people on the team.’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake. The flaming idiot. Look, Todd’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he’s got a big mouth. Those Earlville mugs filled his head with that rubbish back then, and he’s too much of a young dickhead to shake it off. Yeah, he’s probably glad Clancy’s gone so some whitefella can take his spot, but there’s no way he had anything to do with Clancy leaving.’
‘But you think maybe the Earlville heavies might have been involved?’
Wakely shrugged. ‘From what I know, Clancy left of his own accord, to be with his wife and new baby…’
‘We both know that can’t be right, though, John—it just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Look, I can’t speak for that bunch of hooligans. They might have. It’s definitely possible and it’s just the sort of thing they enjoy. Seeing the Cats have a good year, yes, they’d see that as an opportunity, the bastards—a good time to make Clancy pay for his part in court, threatening him so he’d leave. Who the hell knows? But one thing I do know, Clementine—my Todd has no part in anything that mob does these days. He’s finished with all that.’
He was getting worked up, she needed to keep him on side—she had another line of questions to pursue. ‘I’m sure you’re right, John,’ she said. ‘Todd’s doing so well. It’s really been a breakthrough season for him. I couldn’t be happier. You must be proud of him.’
Wakely looked relieved. ‘Oh, yes. I’m very proud. It’s a shame his mother isn’t here to see it. Wish he’d get a job, though. I’m stuck with him at home until he does.’ He laughed awkwardly.
‘So he didn’t get the apprenticeship, then?’
‘No, missed out on that one, but he’s got another interview next week down at the meatworks. Not his cup of tea—beneath him, he reckons—but I think it’s his best chance now the mine’s closed.’
‘No jobs going around here at CTS, then? I hear you’re not replacing Clancy?’
‘No, there’s nothing open here. Keeping the headcount tight for the sale.’
‘Must be difficult to manage.’
Wakely grinned. ‘Nothing an old dog like me can’t handle.’
She sent out another probe. ‘I guess with your share options it’s worth it, though. Could be lucrative, hey?’ She smiled, trying to sound cheeky rather than nosy.
‘Options!’ he snorted. ‘I think you have me placed a bit too high up the pecking order, Miss Jones. It’s them folks in the ivory tower have the options’—he flicked his head towards the office—‘not the likes of me.’ There was a hint of resentment in his voice but mostly just resignation.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I expect Bernadette and Gerard are a rung below the serious money too, though.’
He seemed to think it over for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right—I wouldn’t really know. Ask me a question about the warehouse—that’s all I know about.’
In the time she’d spent in the car park with Wakely the sun had almost disappeared behind the hills. The office was quiet, only a few cars left in the car park. She headed down the corridor towards Gerard’s office, her report under her arm setting out the reasons why Richie Jones, with his bag of twenty-eight goals in the reserves, deserved a place in the seniors. She stopped. Raised voices coming from Gerard’s office. She took two more steps, hung back behind the secretary’s desk. The frosted-glass door to Gerard’s office was closed, but she could tell from the voices that it was Bernadette and Gerard, arguing.
Gerard’s voice was faint—she couldn’t quite catch what he was saying, only certain words clear enough. Something like: ‘All because…couldn’t keep…shut.’
Bernadette was nearer to the door, easier to hear: ‘Oh and you’re the saint, then? One rule for men, another for women?’
‘Spare me…fucking timing…’
Silence. A static in the air, making her skin prickle.
Gerard began again: ‘Anyway…coming again…more…next…’
‘Not our place, you fool. Go somewhere private.’
Clementine could just make out a few words of Gerard’s reply, indignant, angry: ‘what…expect…can’t control’.
Bernadette: ‘We can’t…until…’ The sound of her voice was trailing off as she moved away from the frosted glass, then increasing again. Pacing?
Gerard again, from the back of the office, his voice calmer. Clementine caught the tail end of it: ‘…how much?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Bernadette replied, the rest of her words too faint to hear.
Clem strained to hear above the thump of her heart pounding in her ears. The tone was lower, they were finishing up. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought Gerard said the word ‘million’. She saw a shape—Gerard this time, purposeful, very close, moving towards the door. She stepped out from behind the secretary’s desk, pretending she was just coming in.
As he opened the door Gerard’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open just a fraction before, in an instant, he had composed himself.
‘Ah, Jones, come in—you’ve got that report, I take it?’
CHAPTER 16
They had parked Torrens’ rusty station wagon around the corner, up the hill, at the point between two streetlights where it was darkest. Between them and the Holts’ house was a vacant corner block, overgrown with long grass and a messy scattering of stunted trees and patches of scrub, flat at the top then falling away sharply towards the street. Clem could see Andrew Hewitt’s black Audi on the street in front of the Holts’ at the edge of the streetlight’s beam. Torrens had checked earlier that day—there was only room for two cars inside the fence, and Gerard and Bernadette’s his-and-hers BMWs occupied both spaces.
