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.
‘Well, he wanted to shout me a slap-up dinner for giving up my time for him. I didn’t let him, of course, but we did go to the pub for a salad.’
Miller snorted. ‘I bet Torrens had a bit more than salad.’
‘Yeah, as a matter of fact he had a steak.’ They had eaten at the pub, but the exercise session was a lie.
‘Anyone see you there?’ Phillips was trying to get them back on track again. Professional, she thought. She liked that in a person, but here, with two policemen in her little kitchen, it was all wrong.
She found a calm voice: ‘Well, yes. Whoever was serving in the bistro, I guess, and a few drinkers at the bar—I think I saw that guy from the servo, Kenny something, having a beer with someone. Oh, and Jack and Judy Simpson were eating there too at the time.’
Miller was scribbling in his pad.
‘And what time did you leave the pub?’ asked Phillips.
‘Probably just after nine, I reckon.’
‘No, I followed Matthew home—’
‘So he’d had too much to drink then?’ Miller was quick on the draw with his snide questions.
‘No, actually. He was sober. He’d had one mid-strength beer. Team rules—three mid-strengths per week. That’s it.’
Miller looked up from his notebook, surprised. ‘Bloody hell! You have got them buckled in!’ He laughed and turned to Phillips. ‘We might just go on and win this thing, sarge!’
‘Jesus, constable. Don’t go putting the mockers on us now,’ Clementine said, smiling. It felt like she’d been holding her breath this whole time. ‘We’ve got a long way to go yet. You ought to join us for training. A hunk of muscle like you could do some damage, you know.’
Miller drew his shoulders back. ‘Nah, not my kind of game, Aussie Rules.’ He shook his head, but he was grinning stupidly.
‘So, you followed him back home because…’ said Phillips, losing patience.
‘He fell off the monkey bars. Hit his head. He seemed fine, but I just wanted to make sure.’
‘And was he okay?’
‘Yes. Looked as if he was. Drove straight home, no erratic moves, and walked to the front door. He looked fine.’ Phillips looked tired. Was he sick of listening to her lies?
‘And so you said goodbye and went home?’
‘No, we said goodbye at the pub. Torrens didn’t know I followed him. They’re a proud bunch, sergeant, especially Torrens. He’s trying to fit in, you know, show he’s up to it. Doesn’t want anyone thinking he needs looking after. God knows there’s always some dickhead who wants to have a go, you know. The other teams call us mummy’s boys on account of me being a woman.’
‘What? Which teams?’ Constable Miller had swung entirely to her side.
‘If you want to make them pay, constable, come to training. I’m always after strong fellas like you. God knows we need the firepower around the packs.’ She gave Miller a keen look, as if she was sizing him up for a key role, like she believed in him.
‘Nah, I’m totally unco,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘I stick to my weights and a bit of a run on my days off.’ He was definitely standing taller now, and she could see his shirt strain across his pectoral muscles as he flexed.
‘Hmm. It’s not all about ball skills, constable, not at this level. When there’s five blokes all wanting the same ball, it’s all about brute strength.’ She saw a glint in Miller’s eyes—he believed her. Maybe he’d even show up for training?
‘Oh, I can vouch for this one. He’s totally without skill or brains,’ Phillips said. ‘You should concentrate on the blokes who can actually play.’ He didn’t smile, but his tone was playful. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Ms Jones—we’ll see ourselves out.’
They headed down the hallway. Clementine wondered if she should ask what had happened in Katinga Heights, make it look like she was curious. But before she could get the question out, Phillips stopped and turned. ‘I don’t suppose you can account for Torrens after you saw him off home, then?’
A chill swept over her. ‘No, sorry—I went home myself after that. I expect he went straight to bed, though. He was exhausted after the training session.’
‘Yes, I suppose he would have been. Thanks again, Ms Jones.’ Phillips was giving nothing away. He opened the front door and strode towards the car, Miller close behind him.
She watched them drive off. Phillips wouldn’t let it rest that easily, she thought. God, she wanted to speak to Torrens, find out if their stories had matched. She resisted the urge and hoped he wouldn’t be crazy enough to call.
Her mobile rang.
She ran back to the kitchen and picked up the phone. It was Gerard. Oh Lord, what must be going on at his house this morning?
He’d rung to congratulate her on the feature article from last week—he’d forgotten about it when she’d dropped the report off. He sounded like he was going through the motions, bereft of his usual energy. Clearly the incident had shaken him, but he was soldiering on, doing his job.
‘Thanks, Gerard. I’m just glad it’s yesterday’s news now.’
‘You’re way too modest, Jones, but anyway, it’s excellent coverage for the club. I’ve already had two phone calls from local businesses wanting to kick in some sponsorship funds.’
‘Well, I’m happy about that bit. Should help with my bonus.’
Gerard ignored her comment. ‘So the article said you worked in Sydney, for a law firm?’
‘Yeah, nothing special. Clerical work, mainly.’
‘That must be where you picked up your legal knowledge, then.’
Shit, Jones, he’s suspicious now—why wouldn’t he be? She’d been such a git.
‘Oh and by the way, could you send me your resumé? Just for the file. Which firm was it again?’
‘White, Shale & Jervis. A small practice out at North Sydney.’ It was real—he could google it—but if he dug any further, he’d find they’d never heard of her.
‘Oh, right. Just that my good friends work at Crozier Dickens. They come out for weekends sometimes. They’ve just gone back to Sydney, though. Perhaps when they’re out this way again I should introduce you.’