It was a Sunday, that hour when the sun has been rolled flat and televisions like glow-worms start to appear as families settle in for The Flintstones with a dinner of rissoles or fish and chips. She felt a pang just thinking about it, family, blocked it out, tried to concentrate on Blake across the way. No TV for him. He was in his lounge room sitting on a kitchen chair, hunched over playing guitar. Last night with the new drummer, he’d been sensational. She wondered what was on his mind right now. Probably music, or perhaps the end of the Stokes case. Todd Henley was going to get his just deserts. It made her angry just thinking about him and what he had done, or tried to do, to Kitty. Thank God the jealous Barbie doll had got involved. Imagine if Kitty had wound up like Val Stokes. She shuddered involuntarily.
Thinking about Kitty made her feel empty, guilty. She’d imagined herself as a big sister, was able to convince herself for a while there that all the mistakes she’d made in her past weren’t wasted because she could impart wisdom to her. What a fucking disaster in the end.
Something pricked her brain, something about Kitty that made her suddenly … uneasy. But then, what didn’t? You find out you’ve screwed the father of somebody you are trying to mentor, that’s a first-class Titanic disaster right there. Of course Kitty was going to resent her. However, she wasn’t sure that was the buried insight her detector had just buzzed deep in her brain. It wasn’t something personal, or at least she didn’t feel that it was, but it did involve Kitty. It was a bit like when you drop a shilling, you hear it bounce but you’re not sure exactly where to look: Kitty and Todd … Brenda. Oh well, it was no use, it wouldn’t come and it wasn’t important.
Now she was shivering for real. It was cool with that sea breeze, no cardigan, no sun. Earlier today she had tried to finish the month’s bookkeeping but given up, deciding to take a break. She’d go back to the Surf Shack now, knock it on the head, give herself two full days off. Blake was still practising something over and over.
Blake’s fingers strolled through The Shadows and The Ventures. He imagined Jimmy sitting opposite him sipping a beer while he brought Jimmy up to speed.
‘We were really good last night. The new guy is actually better than Duck but you know the ironical thing? It doesn’t matter now, we’re stuck out in the backwater and all the action is ahead of us. There’s a new sound and it’s not my sound. No tremolo guitars, tom-toms, none of that, more R’n’B. And vocals. The surf sound is dead, Jimmy. Like you.’
Jimmy laughed at that, raised the beer bottle in a salute. Life was a wild bull you could never corral. It just kicked in the walls like they were matchsticks. Blake had explained to himself his determination to find Stokes’ killer as a desire to protect his patch, but maybe it was even simpler.
If the killer was still out there, they might harm Doreen. Last night they’d been together like they always were after the last person left the Surf Shack, like they were the only two people in the world. He’d snatched glimpses of her crinkles around her eyes when she laughed, imagined they were on a desert island, just the two of them under a big white moon with waves crashing on the sand where they slept. He imagined pressing his body next to hers as they lay on the beach, their hearts pumping so he could hear the beat from hers travel back up through the sand. The two of them, one pulse. Because it was just the two of them, no bad things could ever happen. Nobody could turn up demanding you pay them. Nobody could step out of the shadows to harm you, and there would be no choice but to be together because there would be nowhere else to go, no guitar to play, no record to listen to, no excuse. There would be nothing except her heartbeat, the stars above their heads and the hush of waves.
It was while looking for the ledgers that she came across the solicitor Harvey’s file about the Stokes case again. She flicked through it, her mind brushing against the fragility of life, the horror of murder, the loneliness of death. With a false step here or there, she could have been Val Stokes. She looked at the typed list of personal belongings, feeling compassionate … pulled herself up. No, that didn’t make sense. There were two pairs of shoes listed, both high heels. Come on, she’d been away nearly a week. Were there tights? Yes. Then she had to have slip-ons of some sort. Or sandshoes. But they weren’t mentioned. Maybe the cops made a mistake? She checked up the rest of the clothes. Two evening dresses, one pair of tights, one blouse but no casual top. No woman packed like that. An idea roared out of the mist like a train.
What if somebody had taken them?
And now her head was spinning, she couldn’t believe what she was thinking but it all fitted. The notion she’d sensed before with Kitty, about there being something hidden, now revealed itself. She rummaged through Blake’s desk looking for the pin he’d found in the incinerator but it wasn’t there. Must have given it to Nalder. She went to the next drawer down, pulled out the photos of the dance competition Blake had made her find for Andy, skimmed fast, the prints spilling on the floor till she found one she wanted. She grabbed the phone, dialled a number she hadn’t forgotten yet. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Ferguson residence.’
‘May I speak to Kitty, please.’
‘Just one moment. Kitty!’
The phone was placed on a cradle that played a mechanical tune: ‘Fascination’. The music gave way to Kitty’s voice.
‘Hello.’
‘Kitty it’s me.’
The receiver slammed in her ear.
Blake put the guitar down. He wasn’t that hungry but he figured he could scramble some eggs. He was toying with the idea that he should go visit Doreen anyway. That’s who he really wanted to hang out with. He reached into the tray under the stove for the heavy frypan. It would be nice, just the two of them. He was taking out two eggs and some butter from the fridge when his doorbell rang. It was funny but he immediately thought maybe it’s Doreen thinking the same thing? He was only wearing shorts and a striped shirt but she wouldn’t expect much different. He opened the door and was surprised.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you.’ Brenda Holsch stood there in black tights, short dress and a sweater, her hair in a ponytail.
He wasn’t too sure how to respond, only managed to come out with, ‘No.’
She took that as an invitation and stepped into the room.
He said, ‘Can I get you anything?’
He had a small one in the fridge, popped the top, found a clean glass in the overhead cupboard.
‘Please have a seat. Sorry about the mess.’
Of course he wasn’t sorry, this was his place but he guessed that’s what you were supposed to say.
‘You need a woman here.’
She said it brightly, sat neatly on one of the kitchen chairs, her hands folded across her lap. She was a good-looking young woman. He handed her the glass, leaned back against the kitchen bench.
She said, ‘I owe you an apology. I was being stupid. I just couldn’t believe that Todd …’ She shook her head and sipped her Coke.
Blake said, ‘It’s hard to believe. Have you got people around you?’
‘My mum is an alcoholic. My father left years ago. All the girls have it in for me because, well, I don’t want to seem … they’d kill for my figure, put it that way.’
‘You’ve got the chemist job.’
‘Mmm. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If I could get some night work I might be able to get my own place.’
‘My manager, Doreen, does all the hiring.’
‘Yeah, see that’s the problem.’
‘Doreen is fair …’
‘But she’s thick with Kitty Ferguson. I’ve seen them together, and me and Kitty have a bit of history. So …’ she put the glass down on the table, leaned back to emphasise her bust. ‘… I thought I should come straight to the boss. I’d be really, really grateful.’
There was no mistaking the emphasis. Her tongue rolled around her bottom lip, her foot swayed back and forth.
Blake said, ‘Doreen will be fair. I promise you that. Now, I was just about to make myself some eggs.’
As if she didn’t hear him, Brenda got to her feet and moved to where the Fender leaned against the wall.
‘Is this your guitar? I would love to play the guitar.’
Blake didn’t want this to drag on. He wanted her out. He stepped towards her.
‘Brenda, I think …’
He didn’t get out another word. All he saw was a blur and then he felt a mighty crack in the head.
She’d driven to the Heights, determined to try something, anything, maybe knock on Kitty’s bedroom window. She’d been to Kitty’s twice, knew her room was closest to the back. One street away from the house, though, she got lucky, recognised the familiar small stature of Kitty walking the family dog. She pulled into the kerb on the wrong side of the road, jumped out.
Kitty snarled, ‘Stay away from me.’
Kitty tried to pull the dog but it had locked onto an interesting scent.
‘Please, Kitty. This is important.’
‘I’m not listening.’
‘That essay you wrote for school …’
‘Are you mental?’
She was literally dragging the dog. Doreen grabbed hold of her.
‘Let me go or I’ll scream.’
‘I’m sorry. If I could change anything, I would.’
Kitty yanked herself away.
Doreen called after her, ‘You talked about Brenda as a witch, stabbing you with some pin. Was that Todd’s?’
Only then did Kitty swivel back. ‘That creep has been arrested. I don’t want to think about him, or you, ever again.’
‘Did Todd give Brenda his badge?’
There must have been something in the urgency that got through to Kitty.
‘Yes. One of his rugby badges. She wore it everywhere.’
Doreen pulled the eight-by-ten black and white from her pocket, unfolded it. It showed Duck before the competition began surrounded by the girls. Beneath the lamppost there was just enough light to make out something on Brenda’s blouse above her right breast.
‘This thing?’
‘Yes. I’m glad you’re obsessed with her now. Don’t bother me again.’
She started to jog away, the dog having to canter to keep up. Doreen wanted to call after her, tell her it was all a terrible mistake and she loved her, but what would have been the point?
Blake’s world was fuzzy, inverted, a demon’s face staring down, yelling words he couldn’t hear because of the sound in his head, high and dull bells all at the same time. His field of vision grew wider, the triple images became one: the ceiling of his lounge room, the demon revealed — Brenda clothed only in her underwear, blood smeared on her cheeks, his large kitchen knife in her hands. He was on the floor, his head throbbed. He sensed the blood was his. No strength yet, he tried to haul himself up, realised his hands were tied back and anchored to something, maybe the table. When he tried to raise his head, a bare heel slammed down onto his forehead like it was squashing a bug. Grey filter, almost black, the image in negative … his ears working again, ‘Apache’ playing on the turntable, words raining down on him now.
‘… was everything to me and you took him from me, you fucking bastard. You told the cops, didn’t you? You were the one trying to split me and Todd. Like that fucking slut, bitch, whore, and you’re going to die the same way as she did, like a fucking dog. Everything was working out. That dickhead Tom Clarke was going to get blamed. Todd was mine. As if he killed that ugly bitch.’ She straddled him, then suddenly dropped, all her weight on him. Her crotch ground into his.
‘Like that, do you?’
Doreen recognised the car at the end of the cul-de-sac, and just knew. She went through the garage and began up the back stairs, wary. Music was playing. She reached the back landing, heard a woman’s voice screaming above guitars. She opened the door and walked in, took it in: Brenda straddling Blake, a knife raised, held double-handed, ready to plunge.
‘You. Wrecked. Everything.’
Brenda’s back muscles tensed to drive the knife down. Doreen threw herself at her. Her hands gripped Brenda’s, keeping the blade pointed upwards. Brenda screamed and tried to get free but Doreen held on with everything she had. They rolled off Blake. She was bigger than Brenda but Brenda was wiry strong. Both slipped on the polished boards. Doreen flashed images: Val Stokes at the mercy of this banshee. Brenda got to one knee, gained leverage, Doreen was still only on her hip, pushing up with a longer reach but Brenda was gradually turning the knife towards her, extending her back leg. Doreen couldn’t hold. She let go, rolled fast, the knife drove down, glanced her somewhere on the side, she tried to crawl, get to her feet, turned to see Brenda standing, grinning … until Blake’s left leg swept wide, taking her foot. Brenda went down. Doreen stood, swung the hardest punch she could into Brenda’s face, heard the knife clatter. Brenda, a mad cat, hissed, pushed off like a sprinter, hurling herself towards the open door and balcony. Doreen watched her jump, cycling in midair. Then she dropped out of sight. Even with the needle bumping the record label you could hear the smack of a body hitting concrete.
Doreen turned, saw Blake had hoisted himself to sitting position, his head seeping blood. She crawled to him, pressed her chest to his as she reached around and began untying the knotted stocking that bound his hands.
‘Are you okay?’ She felt her lips moving, couldn’t recall forming words. His mouth drew close to her ear. She got the knot undone. He pulled her to him.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
And then she kissed him.
That Blake’s neighbours were so engrossed in their Sunday night television movie that they didn’t hear anything of the ruckus did not surprise Doreen. Given the option, she would have chosen Ray Milland playing the devil over wrestling a knife-wielding psycho. Doreen was the first to reach Brenda while Blake dialled for an ambulance. She was lying like a broken doll on the concrete driveway, blood pooling around her head in something that looked like a map of Queensland. Remarkably, she had a pulse. When the ambulance came, she was still alive but whatever Brenda Holsch had been was history. Nalder told them later that the doctors said she would likely be brain dead from here on, and maybe never walk again. Doreen had totally forgotten that she had been grazed by the knife. The hospital put a dressing on it and she was fine within a few days. Blake’s skull had a minor crack from being hit by his guitar, but the lacerations were fairly superficial. They ran through the basics while Nalder drove them to hospital. Doreen told how she figured some of Val Stokes’ clothes were missing, along with a pair of slip-on shoes.
‘First I was thinking it was something weird, you know, Henley taking her clothes with him because he was a psycho, and then, I thought: what if it was a woman? And it all made sense. If a woman killed Stokes, she would be covered in blood. She could shower and just dress in Stokes’ clothes and burn her own.’
She told them about how she’d read a story by Kitty where Brenda, ‘the witch in the story’, was stabbing at the heroine with the ‘prince’s’ pin.
Nalder said, ‘She was smart. By giving Henley an alibi, she gave herself one.’
Later Henley admitted he’d had sex with Stokes in her car, paid her with a joint one of the girls had slipped him and given her the matchbook. But after the fight with Brenda he’d gone straight home. His parents and sister had been away that weekend and he was worried that he would be a sitting duck, so when Brenda offered an alibi, he grabbed it.
Personally Doreen was disappointed that Henley would get away with no punishment but she realised that wasn’t so true. He wasn’t the golden boy any more, never would be. That other creep Winston Clarke couldn’t be charged over his blue movie seeing as he had never distributed it but she’d heard his ex had made sure their son would never visit him again. In truth, none of that mattered all that much since — in the heat of that awful moment — she had kissed Blake.
And he had kissed her back.