She’d been thinking about the tapes when the phone rang. She jumped, dropping her jam toast on the floor.
Jenny Rodham. ‘Just ringing to let you know Gerard’s on a business trip to Sydney, so he asked me to pass on that the committee met yesterday and supported your selection report,’ she said.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Clem. It had been almost a week since she’d dropped it off, and she’d almost forgotten about it by now, after all that had happened. She watched Pocket licking up the jam from the floor, his pink tongue chasing it underneath a slit in the old lino as Jen related the details of the committee discussion. Clem had thought about replacing the lino, but she’d grown accustomed to it, like the rest of the house. Something about its idiosyncrasies and imperfections made Clem want to keep it how it was. The previous owners had probably dropped a sharp knife there decades ago and never considered it important to fix it, or perhaps couldn’t afford to.
Finished with the jam, Pocket turned to the toast, wolfing it down with huge, feverish gulps.
‘Don’t get too comfortable, though,’ Jen said. ‘You’re not going to like what’s coming next.’
‘What’s that?’
‘One of the committee members, Les Bridges, thought it would be a good idea if you helped out with the Indigenous Knowledge Centre event.’
‘It’s a community project. Gerard and Les are trying to get a government grant for it. Gerard’s tight with Sally McIntosh.’ Oh God, thought Clem. Sally was the local MP and Minister for Aboriginal Affairs. ‘It’s a publicity thing at the school. They thought if you’re speaking, they’ll get a better turn-up from the parents and extra press—’
‘Speaking?’ she groaned. ‘Surely he doesn’t expect me to speak?’
‘Look, honey, there’s no use complaining to me about it, and I suggest you don’t complain to Gerard, either. He stood up for you at the committee, you know, got your report endorsed. Besides, it’s good for Katinga.’
Clem started clearing the kitchen bench, put the jam back in the pantry, slamming the door.
‘Anyway,’ Jen said, ‘Gerard’s going to get started on the diversity officer job, so we should be able to kick that off in a week or two. And not a moment too soon.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t hear about the fight, then?’
‘No.’
‘The Earlville gang were here last night, down at the service station—there was a brawl with some boys from the Plains. Animals, these young blokes. Bashed the bejesus out of each other. Half a dozen taken to hospital, I heard.’
Clementine’s neck stiffened. ‘Who was injured?’
‘I can’t remember the names in the paper this morning but I didn’t know any of them. I was just relieved it wasn’t poor Clancy. From what I heard, half of the injured were white. It’s beyond me why they do it. Kenny at the servo said the Plains mob were angry about Clancy leaving the team, accused the Earlville blokes of being behind it.’
Clem felt a sudden wave of tiredness. She leaned against the kitchen sink. ‘Jen, I shouldn’t have picked Richie Jones, should I? None of this would have happened.’
‘Bulldust. He was the best man for the job. You’re being ridiculous—it has nothing to do with you.’ Jen paused a moment, waiting for a reply, but there was none. ‘But enough of that,’ Jen said. ‘I want to know how you got on with Frank Cranfield. I’ve been wondering all week if you’ve found out anything more.’
Clem told her little more than what she already knew: Cranfield had received a large deposit and he had a new car, but she hadn’t uncovered anything else yet that might connect the two events.
‘I’m sorry, Jen. I know how much it means to you.’
‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Steve was a beautiful boy. We all miss him dreadfully, even after all these years.’ Clem listened while Jen spoke of her youngest brother and the horrific car accident that claimed his life almost twenty-five years ago. He’d been twenty-one, Cranfield three years older. The family had been shattered, convinced Cranfield had been driving, but the police were unable to produce any compelling evidence.
‘So if you do find anything on Cranfield, you have to let me know,’ said Jen, a hardness in her voice now. ‘If we can’t get him for what he did to Steve, I’d love to see him go down for something else.’
Clementine assured her she would.
‘Anyway, apparently you’ve asked for a bonus, you cheeky bugger,’ said Jen, changing the subject. ‘It’s been approved provided you sign on for another year.’
God, thought Clem, I won’t be here next year. I shouldn’t be here now. ‘Great,’ she said.
Jenny moved on to the work function she’d be attending that evening for the bank. The annual Katinga customer event. All the bank’s biggest commercial customers would be there.
‘I’m going to wear a black dress,’ she said. ‘Not the one I wore to the club fundraiser, a different one. It’s full length, low-cut to show off my favourite pearls…oh, and the necklace Trevor gave me.’ She exploded with laughter.
Clem chuckled too but her mind was whirring. ‘So is CTS a big customer, then?’ she asked.
‘The biggest. Bernadette’s at the head table with the bank VIPs down from Sydney.’
They chatted some more about the dress, until finally Clem saw a chance to ask the question burning a hole inside her.
‘So Gerard’s away overnight, then, for this Sydney thing?’
‘Yes,’ Jenny said. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.’
A few minutes later Clementine made her excuses and hung up. She would need all afternoon to prepare.
It was the only course of action available to her. It wasn’t sensible, and it wasn’t wise, but she had to know what it was that had turned Clancy and Melissa’s young lives upside down. Whatever it was, she was sure it was on the tapes.
She drove towards town. It was raining again. The whirr of the wipers and the sweet tick tock as they reached the end of their arc eased the jangling in her head. The paddocks along the flat rolled by, cattle huddling under lone gum trees. She reached the top of the descent, twisting into the fresh green bends, the ferns glossy and glistening in the wet.
Maybe what was left of Torrens’ blood would be washed away by the rain, she thought. Torrens had told her at training that he’d not heard anything further or received any more visits from the police since Tuesday. It looked like they might have got away with it.
She ran through the plan for tonight in her head. When she went through the steps one by one, it felt like any other project, just a series of tasks to execute. But when she visualised herself there, putting it all into action, she was appalled. It was becoming a familiar feeling. And yet in the background, somewhere deep in her subconscious, there was a hardening too, a sense that the choice was getting easier. Is this what happens? She pressed on the brake for a hairpin bend, taking it super slow so she could look down the steep slope to her right into the eucalypt columns.
Approaching the main road T-intersection, she turned her left indicator on and slowed to give way to a car heading towards Katinga from Earlville. A blue Falcon ute sped towards her, spray flying from its wheels. As it drew near she could see the driver, the bulk of his shoulders, a shaven head. It was the man from the tattoo parlour with the eagle tattoo. Red Flanno. As the car flashed by she could just make out a familiar face in the front passenger seat, baseball cap back to front. Todd Wakely. Definitely Todd Wakely, coming back from Earlville with his mate.
The rain was easing when she pulled up in front of the newsagent, but the overcast sky maintained its gloomy grip on the day. The streets were busy, lots of farmers and farm workers taking advantage of the rainy weather to do their banking and shopping.
She parked in the angle parking bays and stepped straight out into a puddle, water squelching in her sneakers as she made her way to the newsagent. She read the article about the fight sitting on a bench on the big wide verandah that ran the length of the commercial strip on Main Street. It didn’t tell her anything more than she already knew.
Clementine wished she could speak to Sergeant Phillips or Constable Miller, find out who was involved, whether Todd Wakely was part of it all. But given what she had planned for tonight, that wasn’t a good idea.
She rang John Wakely, but he didn’t answer. Next she tried Todd’s phone, but it went straight to message bank. Across the street Mrs Lemmon was pulling her tartan shopping trolley down the pavement, heading towards the IGA, with her permanent smile.
As Clem headed across the road towards the steps up to the verandah in front of the post office, Clancy was coming out. He tried to change direction as if he hadn’t seen her, so she hurried over, calling his name.
He turned around reluctantly. ‘G’day, Jonesy.’
‘Good to see you, Clancy. How’s things?’
‘Yeah, all right, thanks,’ he said, warily.
‘How’s Melissa? She must be very close now.’
‘Yep, less than two weeks to go.’
‘Exciting!’ she said.
‘Yeah. Looks like I’m not going to be there for it, though. The birth, I mean.’
He was trying to look indifferent, hands thrust deep into his pockets, stomach jutting forward. She recalled what he’d told her about leaving the team to look after Melissa and be there for the birth. He was so mixed up he hadn’t even attempted to keep his story straight.
‘Oh, no. How come?’ she asked.
‘Got a job in New South Wales,’ he said. ‘Starts Monday week.’ He forced a smile.
‘Oh, Clancy, that’s a shame. Although I suppose it’s great that you’ve found a new job. Where are you off to?’
‘Wheat property out near Yass. Just some farmhand work, labouring, you know. Used to do a bit of it in my school holidays.’
‘And they can’t wait a week?’
‘Nah, seasons don’t work like that. You gotta get going at the right time. Manager told me if I’m not there seven am Monday he’ll give the job to one of the other twenty blokes who applied.’
So young, so grim. It made her sad. ‘How’s Mel taking the news?’ she asked.
Clancy looked away, across the street and above the shops at some distant spot on the horizon. ‘Yeah, not good, I suppose, not good. She’s pretty cut up about it, really, but she knows we’re behind on the rent and stuff, so we got no choice. Plenty of her people here to take care of her with the bub for a bit. Once I’m settled in, I can shift her and the bub up to the property. They got a hut we can stay in, got tank water, so we should be all right. Only a quarter of what we’re paying here, too.’
‘What about power? Tell me this place has power,’ Clementine said, shocked.
‘There’s a generator. They told me it’s enough for hot showers, and there’s a kettle there and an electric frypan.’
Clementine felt a rising anger. So much had been taken from this young family. They’d been shoved to the ground, and now the world was kicking them in the guts. She gazed at Clancy, searching for something.
‘Lots of us mob have to do it tough. Me and Mel are no different. We’ll be all right.’
It was too much. She couldn’t bear it. His stoicism made her want to shout at the world, at Gerard and Cranfield and Todd Wakely and those racist dickheads from Earlville and Brose and everyone who had a part in whatever the hell was going on. She counted to three, composed herself.
‘Clancy, what really happened at CTS? It just doesn’t seem to make sense to me that they fired you, and everyone I’ve spoken to says the same—nobody can believe it.’
He looked at the pavement, kicked a pebble.
Clementine waited a second. ‘We can’t believe it, because we all know you’re not a thief—are you, Clancy?’
He blinked hard, but said nothing.
‘Clance, I might be able to help you. But I need to know what happened.’
He looked away across the street again, crossing his arms across his chest.
‘Has someone told you to keep quiet about something? Maybe something you saw, or something someone did that you weren’t supposed to know about? Or maybe the Earlville crowd throwing their weight around?’
He looked back at her, angry. ‘You can’t ask me this stuff.’
‘But Clancy—’
‘Look, I’ve got to go. I can’t even be seen talking to you.’
‘Me? Why am I off limits?’ He didn’t respond. ‘Okay, so there’s something you’re not supposed to talk about. But I know you’re not a thief.’
He stood, motionless, saying nothing, but his body was bursting with words.
‘Clancy, who told you not to talk? Was it Frank Cranfield? Maybe I could talk to—’
‘No, no, no. Don’t even mention names,’ he said, his eyes sweeping the street, furtively.
‘Okay, okay, it’s all right. I won’t say anything to Cranfield—don’t worry. Maybe I could talk to Gerard Holt, though?’
‘Shit, no! Do not fucking talk to Mr Holt.’ His hands were behind his ears, gripping his hair.
It started to rain again. Small, gentle drops.
He was on the verge of giving her a name—she knew it. ‘Who then? Just tell me where I can start without coming across as nosy. Maybe someone I know well, someone I already chat with regularly?’
‘Aw, shit, shit, shit. No, no,’ he whimpered, his shoulders crumpling. The rain was coming down heavy now, starting to drive in under the awning.
He took a deep breath, gathered himself up, shook his head. ‘No. No,’ he said, convincing himself of something, then, turning towards her, ‘Just stay out of it, Jonesy. This isn’t something you can fix.’
He gave her a final glare and took off down the steps and out into the rain, leaving her standing in front of the post office, shivering with cold.