Blake’s knuckles rammed hard on the door of the sleep-out. Duck lived out the back of his grandmother’s, what they called here a weatherboard. There was a stumbling, shuffling. He’d no doubt been asleep. It was just after one a.m. Blake had tried to wait for the new day, had driven around the town’s near silent grid going out of his head. There was no point heading home trying to catch zeds. He had to know. A bolt scraped on the inside of the door as it was pulled. The old wooden door swung open. Duck was half-asleep, wearing black footy shorts and a fleecy shirt. He rubbed his eyes.
‘What’s up, mate? What’s happened?’
Blake shoved inside. He’d only been here twice before. It reminded him of a teenager’s bedroom: comics, an old game of Crow Shoot stacked neatly in a box on top of Scrabble. Duck’s parents had moved north years ago but Duck had stayed and learned the plumbing trade. His nanna cooked, did his washing and gave him a rent-free room where he could practise his drums.
‘The night Valerie Stokes was killed, where were you?’
Duck blinked. ‘What do you mean where was I? We did the gig.’
‘After that?’
‘I came back here. What is this?’
‘You gave that weed to her.’
‘No. I told you, maybe somebody else …’
‘Don’t lie to me, Duck.’
‘I’m not. There were kids out the back, I might have given them a joint. For fuck’s sake …’
‘You screamed out of the carpark, Panza saw you.’
‘You were meeting Stokes at the motel.’
‘You sure you haven’t been smoking my joints?’
He grabbed Duck, shoved him against the wall.
‘You killed Stokes.’
‘What?’ Duck couldn’t cover the fear in his voice by surprise.
‘You lit out after her. You drove up the coast to the motel.’
‘I told you, I drove home. You’re fucking crazy.’
‘Your van was spotted at the motel.’
It was a lie but when you lie to somebody who is lying himself, sometimes the shell hits the magazine. He saw the horror in Duck’s face, could almost hear the rush of thoughts through his brain.
‘I didn’t kill her. Honest, man.’
‘Come on, Duck. When the kid turned up, she was already dead. He saw your van leaving.’
Duck was breathing heavily now. Blake realised he should have brought a weapon but he’d been too distracted. He tensed in case Duck made for something.
‘I promise you man. I did not see Valerie Stokes. I did not give her dope. I did not kill her.’
‘Your van …’
‘Okay. Yes, I was at the motel. But not to see Valerie Stokes. I met with somebody else.’
He was desperate now, throwing out his life jacket to keep the boat afloat.
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true. That’s why I rushed there.’
‘Fine. Who is she? What’s her name?’
Duck’s eyes bulged, he looked like he was going to throw up.
‘Duck, if you’re telling the truth, give me her name.’
He went to talk, couldn’t. Tried again, weak. ‘It’s not a she.’
Blake didn’t understand. Duck must have read his confusion.
‘That’s why I couldn’t say anything. I was there. With a man.’
Blake stood there, mute, his feet set among two piles of comics on the floor.
‘I’m a homo, Blake.’
Blake didn’t know any homosexuals. Well, he probably did without knowing it, he figured. In his days hanging around the Mob it wasn’t the sort of thing you advertised.
‘You’re saying that’s why you were at the motel.’
‘His name is Michael. He’s a family man. Please, the cops have already interviewed him and cleared him. Don’t tell them about this, for his sake.’
‘This Michael live around here?’
‘Toorolong. I can put you in touch if you don’t believe me.’
Blake was weighing it slowly. ‘Tell me what happened that night from when we finished.’
‘I’d met up with Michael earlier that day.’
‘Where?’
‘Where do you think? The kind of place we have to: dark places that smell or are broken, deserted.’
‘So you’d already made a rendezvous?’
‘Yes. The motel suited him. I loaded the van and left: nearly hit the blonde from the dance comp. Not my fault, she pulled straight out in front of me. She’d been shouting at her boyfriend, wasn’t watching.’
‘This was what time?’
‘Ten maybe.’
‘You went straight to the motel.’
‘Yeah. I got there a little before ten-thirty. Michael had been waiting for a couple of hours. Neither of us saw anything down near the far unit where she was. I don’t even remember her car.’
‘You didn’t see or hear any other cars coming or going?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about other cars. It was quiet though, late Thursday, who’s around?’
‘You left, when?’
‘About half past eleven.’
That jibed with what the Clarke kid said. According to the motel guy, Stokes hadn’t checked in till nine forty-five that night. If Clarke was telling the truth and she was dead when he arrived, she was killed between nine forty-five and eleven fifteen. If Duck was telling the truth, she could have been killed while he was doing whatever he was doing.
Duck said, ‘This is crazy. I did not kill that girl. I’m not even attracted to women. It’s just an act.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? You were going to have a poofta in your band?’
‘If he keeps time.’ He told himself that was true but to be honest it was nothing he’d thought about. ‘I want to speak to Michael, and I want your fingerprints.’
‘You going to tell Panza and Doreen?’
‘What you do is your business, Duck. Just don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not.’ His bottom lip quivered. ‘You don’t know how hard it is.’
‘I get it. But if you’re using this as an excuse …’
‘I’m queer, man. That’s the simple truth.’
After he left Duck’s, he drove to the beach and listened to the waves crashing in the dark. He’d made Duck put his fingers into an inkpad he used for receipts from his plumbing business, made him press them into paper. How else could he eliminate him? If they matched the prints in Stokes’ car, he’d know Duck was lying. But he didn’t think so. The image of him as some cop, Duck some criminal, poked and prodded him like a school bully. Why couldn’t he have let it be? Okay, he’d wanted to clear Crane, there he had justification, but Thomas Clarke wasn’t his responsibility. It probably was just the Clarke kid grabbing at straws; he saw Duck’s van, he wanted to blow smoke.
Yet something refused to let him leave it like that. He didn’t know Val Stokes. She was nothing to him. Sure he’d been to the Cross, he understood her life, sounded like she was on the up and up, had a boyfriend now but she’d lapsed, slid back for the chance of easy money. It was probably a trick gone wrong, a risk of the game. He wasn’t judging her, far from it. What he’d done for a living, that was shameful. No, it wasn’t because he wanted justice for Val Stokes. It was as if he had to push on, because this was his home now. He’d never felt like he had a home before. Somebody had murdered Val Stokes and in doing so had trashed his turf. That’s why it was personal, that’s why he had to see this through. Right, Jimmy?
Nalder had been given a copy of the set of prints found in Stokes’ car, just in case some local crime generated the same set. Blake had to study these fingerprints closely but he could see pretty clearly that the set of prints the police had found did not match Duck’s.
‘Whose are they?’ Nalder had wanted to know when Blake had laid down the paper with the prints.
‘They don’t match, so it’s not them. That’s all that matters.’
‘Don’t keep me in the dark, son.’
‘I find something, you’ll get it.’
‘I don’t want you to find anything,’ the cop had said. ‘I like everything fine just how it is. The only reason I’m helping you is that if the Clarke kid didn’t do it, the murderer is still out there. That’s the only reason. No grandstanding.’
Grandstanding was the last thing Blake wanted. He drove up to Toorolong and drove by the house that Duck said was Michael’s. Kids’ scooters outside an ordinary-looking place. Duck had arranged for Blake to meet Michael at the Toorolong pub and had told him that Michael would wear green. The beer garden was a few pieces of lumpy furniture, a lattice fence. Blake was the only person there. Michael appeared through a little archway that led directly to a rear carpark.
‘Don’t worry. Duck told me all about you. I knew I’d recognise you. Mind you …’
He gestured at the empty garden. He was younger than Blake would have imagined, thirty-one or two, a cheap suit, jet-black hair. Duck had said he was some kind of salesman. Michael went inside to get himself a beer. It was a little after five, and chilly, but it was private and pleasant under the trees. A labrador wandered past. There was a minigolf course across the way, thinly populated on a weeknight. Michael came back out and sat opposite him on a weathered wooden bench.
‘You arrived at the motel at what time?’
‘About seven-thirty. I stayed in my room, listened to the radio. I didn’t hear anything much — maybe a vehicle coming or going but I wasn’t looking. I knew Duck wouldn’t be getting there till around ten.’
His story matched Duck’s.
‘He came straight to your room?’
‘Why wouldn’t he? You know Duck. You really think he could stab some woman to death?’
Blake didn’t answer. He knew lots of people who killed and who looked like a greengrocer or a schoolteacher. There was nothing exclusive about murder. He was living proof.
Crane had his pants rolled to his knees as he waded in the shallows looking for interesting shells or detritus from passing boats.
‘You thought it was somebody else?’
‘Yeah, but that didn’t pan out.’
After Toorolong, Blake had felt in need of companionship. His field of choice had narrowed to Crane or Doreen. Crane was on the way in from Toorolong.
‘Why can’t you accept it’s the kid?’ Crane studied a twisting shell, declared it unworthy for collection, tossed it back.
‘The blood. The shirt. I saw the photos. She was butchered. I don’t buy that an eighteen-year old does that, then showers, puts on a shirt, pukes because now he’s thinking about what he’s done. If he killed her, then puked, then showered, maybe.’
What he was thinking about was a kid named Maurice Ekerman who had been a year younger than him. Ekerman was weedy, glasses, not super bright. He had a stepfather who treated him like shit. The stepdad used to wash his car on the street every Sunday and he would berate Maurice Ekerman about everything he was doing wrong. Sometimes Ekerman would come down by the railyards where Jimmy and Vin and, if he was lucky enough to get an invite, Blake hung out and drank soda and looked at dog-eared girly magazines. Often Ekerman would have a bruise, on his face, arms. They all knew it was the stepdad but that wasn’t unusual. Most of them had bruises from stepdads or real fathers or ‘uncles’, who were basically men screwing moms. One morning when Blake had been walking down Ekerman’s street he saw a whole mob of cops milling around the Ekerman brownstone. There was a squad car too, and a coroner’s wagon and, naturally, a crowd. Then the coroner’s wagon drove off and he had a real sick feeling in his stomach because he knew it was Maurice Ekerman in there and that they all should have done something long before. He should have done something long before. And then there was like a gasp from the crowd and he saw two cops exiting the Ekerman house and between them, hands cuffed behind his back, was Maurice Ekerman. He was covered in blood, even his glasses, his cheeks, chin. Turned out he had taken a kitchen knife and carved up the stepfather. If Tom Clarke had murdered Val Stokes, he was sure that’s what he would have looked like.
‘If the evidence is that slim, he’ll get off.’ Crane had finally found a spider shell up to scratch and was wading back to shore.
‘Whoever left prints on the ceiling of her car, I think, is our killer. And I would much rather know that than leave it to a jury to acquit the kid because the evidence is weak. You sure you didn’t see who it was?’
‘Certain. He was just a shape.’
They picked up their sandals and headed towards the beach shack that Crane had mostly rebuilt.
‘You’re off the booze?’
‘For now.’
‘How rough is that?’
‘A tempest, sir, a veritable tempest.’
‘You up to working tomorrow night?’
‘I hope you use the term loosely. If so, I’ll be there.’
It was weird doing the gig. Things had changed forever. Neither he nor Duck had addressed their previous meeting before they started. Panza was oblivious. It was probably the best Duck had played and the crowd was the biggest yet. They loved everything they did. Not just ‘The Twist’ and ‘Apache’ but even the original songs. When they finally left after two encores, Crane was waiting side of stage.
‘Nice set,’ he said. ‘Now I get to wreck the vibe.’
Crane was received with moderate applause. Those with previous experience of him almost uniformly left for the bar. The ones who stayed were devotees. Crane stood legs apart, took a deep breath, seized the microphone like it was his tango partner.
Get out of your clothes, get into your scuba
There’s a strange new world, man, happening down in Cuba
They’ve got cubists and communists and hotsky-to-Trotskyists
Staging a revolution that might threaten the constitution
The peasants are comin’ at us with a flower and sickle
But JF can take ’em down by the thousands for less than a nickel
He’s got missiles pointed in the right direction
One mighty stratospheric ejection
JFK’s ready to rhumba, all action and A-bomb no time to slumber
Get out of your clothes and into your scuba
We’ll soon be exploring the lost city of Cuba.
He was side of stage wiping down the guitar when he looked up saw Duck. Crane was still rolling in the background.
‘Great gig.’
‘That’s it, Blake. I’m quitting. I’ll see out the weekend.’
Blake stood there with the rag in his hand, not exactly surprised. He said, ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Yeah I do. Time I moved on. Sydney or Brisbane. Besides, I’m not good enough for your stuff. I’m a plumber, not a drummer.’
‘This is all coming together now. You were great.’
‘You don’t know how many gigs I wanted to hear you say that.’
Blake felt ashamed in a whole different way.
‘Things can’t be the same, Blake. You know that. You think about me different now. It’s there in your eyes.’
‘Hey, what you do …’
‘I don’t mean that. I know you’re not judging me but you feel I’m different to what I was, but I’m not. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle, man. Anyway, like I said, I was just playing at this. You’re the real deal.’
‘I’m going to miss you.’
Duck nodded. ‘Same. I know of a drummer up the Heads who might be right for you. I’ll tell him to ring you.’
He hugged Duck, spontaneously, said the words that he’d never had a chance to with Jimmy. ‘I’m sorry.’
Whether that tramp Doreen was the only one her father had been unfaithful with she didn’t know but she had seen it in their faces, both of them, the cowardice, the deceit, like a fly frozen in an iceblock. Obviously seeing one another there shocked the hell out of them so until then the tramp clearly didn’t know the man she’d fucked was her father. Sordid images grabbed her: faded neon, whisky tumblers, a hump in his car or back at her place. Predatory bitch. No wonder Blake would have nothing to do with her. He probably knew the real Doreen.
Maybe, thought Kitty, I should make a play for Blake? That would really hurt her. But then as quickly as it had leapt, she knocked it down. She learned from the Todd experience that if you go after the best-looking men, you wind up burned. But on the other hand, Blake might not know just how depraved Doreen was. She could send him an anonymous note along the lines of ‘your employee fucks married men’. The mere idea gave her a little kick of satisfaction. You couldn’t trust anybody, that’s what she had learned this year. Not Todd, her father or her so-called best friend. All those hours hanging out together, what a waste of time, what a big fat lie. She’d told that bitch her innermost thoughts and fears. She’d been there after the Todd thing but who was to say that wasn’t just prurient interest?
Kitty felt sorry for her mother, tried to pay more attention to her, tell her that her hair looked nice, go shopping with her but her mum was fucking hopeless, just carrying on like nothing had changed. Kitty finally fronted her, told her to her face: I know Dad’s been unfaithful. Her mother denied it at first. She was so weak. Told her to go away and stop talking such horrible lies.
This was a dumb place, the stupid ‘Heights’ bullshit, the one dumb drive-in and the way the hoons revved their engines and stupid girls lay in the back of station wagons and panel vans facing the screen as if they were cool. And everybody collected snow domes. And women wore charm bracelets with stupid little charms from where they had been on holiday, which was mainly nowhere much. She couldn’t wait to get out, be an actress. That stupid moll Brenda epitomised — yes, epitomised, a word most of these apes wouldn’t even know because they read nothing more demanding than Women’s Weekly or comics — all that was wrong with the place. She’d walk around in her silly white chemist smock as if she was actually a chemist when all she was good for was dispensing jellybeans and Ovaltine. Word was Todd Henley wouldn’t have anything to do with her now but she still carried on like he was smitten by her. They deserved each other.
She managed the last few paces to the house, her school bag ridiculously heavy. She took the side path, walked in through the back door, and dropped her bag on her bedroom floor where it made such a thump her little glass and crystal collection vibrated. She headed for the kitchen. Her mum was sitting at the table in a housecoat turning the pages of a magazine. She’d just made herself a Nescafé. How she could drink that muck was unbelievable.
‘Hi, love.’
‘Hello.’
She opened the fridge, pulled out a large Fanta and poured the fizzy orange liquid into her favourite tumbler, which had pictures of little beach umbrellas and beach balls. She sat at the opposite end of the table to her mother and sipped, watching her mum’s eyes following the story of Princess Margaret or Elizabeth Taylor. She suddenly felt a deep warmth towards her. She wondered what Edith Wharton would make of this domestic scene, her sitting there, still child enough to have a favourite glass with transfers on the outside, passing judgement. She faced off with her better self: you have been too embarrassed to tell her about Todd, and yet you expect her to open up about dad’s adultery.
What choice did her mum really have? Kick her father out? Demand a divorce? Everybody knew how that ended. The blame wound up as much on the woman: she couldn’t satisfy him, she got what she deserved. She’d become an outcast in her own land, be forced to flee to the Gold Coast where all the divorced women seemed to congregate, getting suntans and living in apartment buildings off the proceeds of their house sales until the money was all gone. Eventually they might get a job in a shoe store or a cake shop serving other divorcees. No tennis club, no big Christmas party competing for the honour of best tuna mornay. She got up from her chair, walked to the other end of the table and hugged her mum as tight as she could.
The weekend had been huge. Last night, the Saturday, had turned into a Duck farewell party. Doreen had done up a banner, the band rocked. The replacement drummer had made contact with Blake and driven down to see the show. He liked what he saw. Blake had not risen till nearly nine and by the time he surfed, changed and had finally made it to the Surf Shack it was near eleven. Andy was outside tidying the empties.
‘Sorry, haven’t had a chance to do the banner yet.’
Blake told him not to worry. He went inside, grabbed a stepladder and set to work. Even with the doors open the smell of booze and smoke never left. Andy came back in to help but Blake told him he was fine. Andy studied the fish.
‘The Siamese are behaving themselves.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘I’ve been remembering more stuff,’ said Andy, still looking into the glowing water of the tank. ‘About those guys. Before they beat me up, they smashed the tank with a cricket bat. I tried to stop them, honest.’
‘I know you would have.’
Andy was upset, his voice tighter than usual. ‘I felt so … weak.’ ‘You’re not weak, Andy.’
He stayed silent for a time. Then he said, ‘That’s not Audrey, is it?’
‘No. It’s a new Audrey.’
Andy nodded slowly to himself. ‘I’ll bag the tablecloths for Doreen.’
Every week Doreen washed the tablecloths in the laundry out back. She’d stripped them the night before and dumped them on the floor, it was the easiest way. Blake thought he might restock the jukebox. People got bored with the same old tracks. He kept a cupboard full of 45s in his office. Whenever somebody was heading to the city or even up to the Heads he would give them money to buy a couple of new singles. On top of the pile he found a brown paper bag that contained a single he hadn’t seen before. He took it out, studied it: The Beatles. Good name. Doreen appeared in the doorway.
‘Ah, that, I forgot to tell you, I put it there yesterday.’
She looked a little thin but otherwise great. Doreen kept talking.
‘One of the girls I danced with, Joan. She’s a stewardess now. She says they’re all the rage in London.’
‘You okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘I worry you work too hard. You heard it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Let’s have a listen.’
They walked to the jukebox.
‘I forgot to ask. How was the play the other night?’
‘Kitty was fantastic.’
‘I hope she appreciated what you did. You’ve helped her a lot.’
Doreen made a kind of false smile. ‘Actually, I didn’t help at all.’
Frank Ifield came out and The Beatles went in. The record was called Please Please Me. It kicked off with a jangly guitar hook over an R’n’B beat and then the vocals crashed in and grabbed you. Made you want to sing and dance at the same time. He looked at Doreen, she looked at him. This was different. Like Chuck Berry but even more bounce.
When it finished she said, ‘It’s good.’
‘No. It’s great.’ They spun it again. Blake knew nothing was going to be the same. He knew the music The Twang was playing was already as good as dead.
Doreen said, ‘I’m going to do the laundry.’
As she exited, Andy entered, in a pickle. He didn’t seem to notice the music at all.
‘That washer’s gone in the tap. I’ve looked in the keg-shed but I can’t find one.’
Blake said he was pretty sure there were some in the office. Andy followed. Something Andy had said earlier echoed.
‘You said you’ve been remembering stuff?’
‘Yeah. Every now and again I remember something.’
‘What about the night of the dance competition, that Thursday night. You remember anything more about the guy in the shirt?’
‘The police asked me all about that. They said I might be called as a witness.’
‘Yeah, but anything new?’ They were in the office. He was unstacking wooden soft-drink crates. In the third one down, he had screws and washers. Andy started looking for what he needed.
‘I haven’t thought. This one.’ He held up the washer.
‘Did you remember seeing Valerie Stokes arrive?’
‘No. But I remember her car because the police showed me photos.’
‘You didn’t see anybody in it with her?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘But what?’
‘I think … I mean I’m pretty sure …’ he shook his head. ‘It’s hard, I get a bit confused, it’s just tiny little pieces of things that I had forgotten.’
Blake was patient. ‘I get it. But what?’
‘I have one flash. Some bloke walking from the car … or maybe not like out of the seat but from right near there so I think that’s where he came from because there weren’t any other cars around. Not that I remember. Not there where hers was.’
Blake, keeping his excitement strapped down: ‘You recognise this guy?’
‘I’ve seen him once or twice but I don’t know him.’
Doreen appeared at the door. ‘There’s some man here says he wants to speak to the boss.’
She didn’t have to spell it out. Doreen’s radar was excellent. Whoever it was, she was wary.
Blake pointed at her, an idea had formed. ‘You had some photos up from the watusi dance contest, right?’
‘Yes. After a week I took them down.’
‘You still got them?’
‘In a shoebox. In here I think.’
She got down on her knees and started looking in a sliding cupboard.
‘Andy, I want you to go through them, see if you can find the man you think you saw near the car.’
‘I’ve got to fix this.’ He held up the washer.
‘Don’t worry about that.’
Blake smelled trouble right away. The man was tall, and the way he leaned against the bar you knew he had a hard body underneath the grey suit. Maybe he was a cop or an ex-cop. Blake looked him in the eye, playing the curious businessman.
‘Blake Saunders.’
‘How do you do, Mr Saunders.’ The man extended his hand for a shake. Blake allowed it.
‘How can I help you, Mr …?’
‘Smith. It’s more how I can help you. I believe some business associates of mine may have spoken to you.’
So Nalder had been right. Here was the back-up plan for the Queensland bookie.
‘Yeah. I hope they bought some of the insurance they were selling.’
‘Smith’ allowed himself a smile.
‘Tragic, but it just goes to show, everybody needs insurance, even those selling.’
‘You too, Mr Smith?’
‘Of course. I come heavily insured.’
And he let his jacket open just enough to show the butt of a revolver. This time they meant business.
‘I really don’t think I need it.’
‘I really think you do, Blake. Imagine if you had a fire here. Imagine if that glorious piece of snatch that showed me in was … scarred for life. You wouldn’t live with yourself.’
Easy now. Easy.
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Our insurance means you can rest easy. And it’s only fifteen pounds a week.’
‘Your mates were offering twelve.’
Smith sucked his teeth. ‘Sadly they were too nice for their own good. Shall we say a month in advance, cash?’
Blake fought the urge to bite back. ‘Seems like a great deal. Nothing bad will ever come my way, right?’
‘That’s right. You can sleep real easy.’
Doreen was working hard at keeping everything normal. After the blowup with Kitty, she wanted to crawl into a deep hole, like some reptile. Everything was shit, everything. When she’d walked in the door from the play, the first thing she had seen were the flowers Blake had left. The tears exploded: for all that had been lost, that might have been. She’d stayed in bed all the next day. She’d hoped work might help, told herself be smooth and strong as concrete. And she would be — for an hour or two. After that, she was more a rope whose strands were fraying one by one, feeling the pull and strain with less reserves to resist than a moment before. She retrieved the box of photos and put them on the desk for Andy. She was there but not. Images crashed through her brain like a big dumper: sliding her drink over her coaster at the golf club, listening with amusement to the origin of her name; a doctor’s surgery, old thumbed Pix; the bare walls of that room, the tube light above and the instructions about what to do if bleeding continues while all the time your ears are ringing like a bell at the side of a boxing ring and your face and arms are numb; then Kitty striding across the stage, she’s gonna wash that man right out of her hair, the smell of orange cordial and the sting of the slap across her face …
Andy had said something.
‘What?’
He was pointing. ‘This bloke. I think he was the one.’