COOKIES

‘It’s her,’ Vera said. ‘She’s my tenant.’

Cows lowed in the hills around them. Cook’s Falls trickled laboriously, like an old man pissing in the middle of the night. The grass was still damp from the storm, the earth soft as putty.

Dr Jimmy Greatorex nodded his thanks, pulled the plastic back over Paulina Novak’s face.

Vera took a deep breath and walked back to the mother.

Already, the mother was a wreck. Had to know, already, that it could only be bad news.

And yet, seeing Vera, her eyes shone hopefully — as if it were still possible for all that knowledge to be undone.

‘It’s her,’ Vera repeated.

There was a silence, like the world had simply ended. Then the worst sound Vera had ever heard in her life.

By far the worst. Worse than a Mutiny Day domestic. Worse than a cow giving birth. Worse than the Great Rabbit Cull of ’65. Whatever sound Paulina had made when she went through the hell she went through, the sound the mother was making had to come close.

When it stopped, their relief — well, maybe they didn’t move as quickly as they should’ve.

For like a woman possessed, the mother lurched toward the black plastic, which was shining like seawater in the floodlights.

‘Let me see her. I have to see her one last time. I don’t care.’

They got to her before she got to Paulina. But she’d seen enough.

Not as much as Vera, but enough.

The foetal huddle under the plastic. The coy peek of a sneaker, its angle all wrong.

‘You did it, you finally did it.’ The mother sobbed. ‘Baby. Poor baby. I’m sorry.’

Vera wondered if it’d be kinder to let her keep believing it had been Paulina’s choice.

It was Sergeant Hank Turner who explained it wasn’t. The mother just shook her head.

‘No. You’re wrong.’

The nature of her wounds. The position of her clothing, he continued to explain.

‘No,’ the mother argued. ‘Tell me the truth.’

Vera longed to get away from the mother. Get away from her, and the sickly, sticky dark of Cook’s Falls. ‘We’ll know more after the autopsy,’ the Sarge compromised. ‘But her clothing. It was cut clean.’

Somehow, that got through to the mother. ‘Somebody hurt her?’

‘We’ll know more after the autopsy,’ the Sarge repeated. ‘We’ll find answers.’

The mother started sobbing again, hyperventilating, until Rocky got the flask in her mouth. ‘She was just going for her walk.’ She swallowed, red-nosed. ‘She walked every day.’

‘Aye.’ Rocky fed her more liquor. ‘Same time every day.’

The Sarge turned to Vera, lapsed into Fayrf’k. ‘She’s staying at Mutes’?’

‘Aye.’ Vera shook her head. ‘But look at the state of her.’

‘Nay husband. Single mother?’

‘Widow.’

‘Nay other children?’

‘Jus’ Paulina.’

‘Poor ulvini.’ The Sarge frowned. ‘Nay people at all?’

‘Paulina mentioned an auntie. Rich.’ Vera rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘Nay flights till Tuesday, but. Easter.’

The Sarge cussed under his breath. ‘Can you take her till then?’

‘Don’t have much choice.’ Vera glanced at Rocky, over the top of the mother’s fair, bedraggled head. ‘I’ll put her in Miti’s old room.’

Normally, the Sarge would’ve blushed at that. This time, he just nodded. ‘Jimmy’ll give her something. For sleep.’

‘And the rest of us?’

‘Want something?’ The Sarge looked surprised.

Vera waved her hand. ‘I’ll be fine; I’ve been up since dawn. You’ve got some sleepless nights ahead, but.’

The Sarge grimaced. ‘The mainland can have this, eh. Mainie girl, mainie problem.’

Vera inclined her head towards a plot of land just over the hill.‘Bes’ tell the mainland police to pay a call to Mister Minister of Culture, up there. She had him over, other week. Got him pretty riled up.’

By the time they got the mother back to the house, whatever Jimmy Greatorex had given her had worked its magic.

‘Alice in Wonderland?’ she asked, eyelids sagging as Vera pulled the cartoon-covered bedspread over her. ‘Why Alice?’

‘My daughter Miti chose it. This was her room.’

It was possibly the cruellest thing Vera could’ve said, under the circumstances. But the mother just nodded and closed her eyes.

‘It’s nay “Novak”.’ Vera shook her head at Rocky, as they sipped their beers and picked at their Lent fish. ‘That’s the dad’s name. If she’s got people, they’re nay Novaks.’

The phone rang; Vera reached for it mechanically. Kymba Burney-King. Somehow already she’d heard Paulina was dead, was asking was it an accident?

‘Nay.’ Vera sighed. ‘Looked deliberate.’

Next time the phone rang, Vera didn’t touch it.

‘Funny pine?’ Rocky offered, nodding toward the clay jar on the mantle.

‘Nay. I bes’ call Miti.’

Rocky shrugged. Struggled out of his armchair, legs knotted with veins and thin as fishing poles, and got a green nugget from the jar.

Vera had to ask. ‘Anybody see you fishing today?’

Rocky inclined his head in Jake’s direction, gave her a wonky smile. Vera couldn’t smile back. After replacing the lid, he added, ‘Some surfers, too.’

‘Go on, then.’ Vera waved him outside. Picked up the phone to call her daughter in the time zone where she was living now; still living.

Vera woke even earlier than usual. She went out to the woodpile in her boots and bathrobe, gazed across the orchard at the little blue Mazda parked outside the cottage. Probably, The Car Kings would buy it back at a discount. Unless the mainland wanted it for evidence.

She got the hot water system fired up, nice and early. When the officers arrived to go through Paulina’s things, she was ready to take their orders. ‘Coffee, tea, Milo?’

Miss Katie got underfoot as Vera was bringing the tray of mugs to the officers, snuck into the cottage and started sniffing around.

‘Probably thinks she’s getting a feed,’ Vera apologised, taking back the squirming cat. ‘Paulina was always feeding her. More often than she fed herself.’

A little later, Rocky hauled his boat from the garage. Snorkellers. He’d promised to take a group of them out to the reef, cheaper than the tour companies did it.

‘She up yet?’ she asked, nodding back at the house.

Rocky shook his head.

Vera didn’t have much appetite, but she made herself some porridge, flicked on the TV. The news hadn’t reached the mainland, yet.

Later, the burly chef from Mutes’ came by with a shiny hard-shell purple suitcase, which looked crushable in his huge hands. His eyes were bloodshot.

‘You know her well?’ Vera asked.

‘Saw her every day.’

‘So did a lot of people.’ She looked at his hands, wondered if they could’ve done all that damage. ‘Take care, eh.’

The mother was still under her pile of blankets when Vera wheeled the suitcase down the hall and into her room. Her eyes fluttered as Vera entered, opened their milky-grey glaze just long enough to confirm there wasn’t anything in the world worth seeing. ‘There’s fresh towels in the bathroom, when you’re ready,’ Vera mumbled, and gently made her retreat.

The Sarge swung by a bit after eleven, asked the million-dollar question. ‘Is the mother up?’

‘Nay yet.’

‘We need her to make a statement.’

Vera knocked softly on the mother’s door, peeked inside without looking. ‘Judy?’ The name felt strange on Vera’s lips, like the name of someone else’s child, suddenly put in her care. ‘Sarge wants you to come to the station. Make a statement.’

The mother didn’t move. After a while, though, she made a creaky sound, and a little later, quavered, ‘I’m coming.’

The Sarge was by the mantle, sniffing the contents of Rocky’s clay jar.

‘Thought you said this was a job for the mainies?’ Vera crossed her arms.

‘Gotta look busy or there’ll be mass hysteria.’ He recapped the jar. ‘The way the vinis are carrying on, you’d think she was one of our own.’

‘Couldn’t’ve happened to one of our own,’ Vera humoured him. ‘They all fly the coop as soon as they hit eighteen.’

‘Modern women, eh.’ He stuffed himself into Rocky’s armchair. ‘You told Miti yet?’

‘You here to talk about Miti, then?’

‘Jus’ making conversation. We can talk about the mainie girl, if you rather.’

‘Paulina.’

‘How long’s she been your tenant?’

‘Since June, thereabouts.’

‘Any trouble?’

‘She liked her music loud. Smoked inside the cottage, sometimes. I told her off.’

‘I can imagine.’ He shook his head. ‘Still remember you calling me a kuka plana when you busted me and Miti.’

‘You’d do the same if you caught a married tane climbing in your daughter’s window.’

Reddening, he drummed his fingers on the armchair’s scratched-up fabric. ‘She do drugs? The mainie?’

‘Nay. Drank, but.’

He nodded at the window. ‘Good view.’

‘Nay much to see, verly.’

‘You saw Ric White.’

‘Jus’ that one time. He left in a hurry. Slammed the door. Jake barked at him.’

The bedroom door creaked open; bathroom door clunked shut. Vera ducked into the kitchen and made Milo and toast; laid them out with a selection of spreads. When she returned, the Sarge was standing at the window, looking out.

‘Good view,’ he repeated. ‘Must see all her visitors.’

‘Nay many, verly.’

‘Girl like that? They’d be pounding on the door.’

‘I must be going deaf.’

‘Heard she was pretty friendly with a nephew of yours.’

‘Eddy?’ Vera shrugged. ‘Aye. I heard that too. Second-hand.’

‘Never seen him around, then?’

‘If I did, I’d get him to fix that on his way out.’ Vera nodded at the cracked wall socket behind the TV. ‘She’s friendly with Joe Camilleri’s boy.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Only ever saw them smoking on the porch and blasting music. I’d tell them to turn it down and he’d go home. Never spent the night, far as I know.’

‘Girl like that? Why wouldn’t he?’ The Sarge stroked his double chin. ‘Butcher’s son. He’d have all the tools.’

Paulina’s cut-up face rose up in Vera’s mind like a curse.

‘She was gone a few days, last spring,’ Vera heard herself say. ‘Came back with bruises.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘She say how it happened?’

‘Said she fell. Looked like Fairfolk chivalry, to me.’

‘Any visitors?’

‘Jus’ me. I brought her food. Seemed like she needed it.’

‘Scared?’

‘Never admitted it.’

‘She with Camilleri’s boy, then?’

‘Nay. He only started coming a few months ago.’

‘How many months?’

‘You should ask her diary.’

His pale-green eyes widened. ‘How’d you know she kept a diary?’

‘She accused me of reading it.’ Vera laughed. ‘Like I’ve nay got enough to do, around here.’

The Sarge laughed too. Stopped short.

The mother.

‘There’s some breakfast on the table,’ Vera switched from Fayrf’k to Queen’s English.

The mother pulled out a chair, slowly, like it was made of lead. Sat in it stiff-backed and stared at her food like it was rotting flesh.

‘If you want something else, let me know. I can fry you an egg. Porridge.’

The mother picked up a piece of dry toast with the slow movements of a stroke patient. Bit into it, getting more crumbs on her lips than in her mouth. The white of her scalp was visible beneath her straggly damp hair. It was too painful to watch.

Vera sat on the couch and waited. The Sarge joined her.

After a few minutes, the mother seemed to give up on her toast. Vera cleared the table. The Sarge cleared his throat.

‘Alright, Mrs Novak.’ He touched her shoulder gently. ‘Ready when you are.’

The mother turned and looked at him, at Vera, with pure hatred.

Rocky got home while Vera was repairing a TV in the garage. ‘How were the snorkellers?’

Rocky shrugged. ‘Went to Cookies instead.’

Vera grimaced. ‘Fairfolk Tourism nay dead.’

The Sarge dropped the mother off late that afternoon, looking like she’d been on the worst date of her life. She didn’t want food or drink, just bed. They left her to it. When Vera finished fixing the TV, though, she got Rocky to help her lug it into the bedroom. Miss Katie tagged along, getting in the way again. Vera stepped on Katie’s tail and, offended, she bolted under the bed — wouldn’t come out, no matter how they coaxed.

‘Hope she’s not allergic.’ Vera frowned, looking from the mother’s lumped form to the glowing eyes.

They left the remote on the bedside table, along with a jug of water and a toastie.

Around seven, Rocky put on his good dark flannel shirt and told her he was going to the bowls club. A little after that, a shrill-voiced woman rang, calling herself Judy’s sister.

‘How can you tell me there’s no flights till Tuesday? How?’ she interrogated Vera. ‘My niece is dead. My sister’s stranded. Is this how you treat grieving families on that godforsaken rock?’

‘We’re a tiny island.’ Vera measured her words. ‘Two thousand people. Nothing like this has ever happened here before.’

‘Two thousand! And not one of you can give me a straight answer.’ The sister inhaled raggedly. ‘I know for a fact there’s a charter flight from Canberra arriving tomorrow night.’

‘Bes’ talk to someone in Canberra, then.’

‘What I want,’ the sister said haughtily, ‘is to talk to my sister.’

But the mother wouldn’t.

‘No!’ she cried, eyes firmly shut, like she was having a nightmare. ‘No! Go away.’

There was nothing for Vera to do but let the sister give her another earful. By the time she hung up, she was ready for a stiff drink, and bed.

She was woken a few hours later, though, by Barry White calling her to come get Rocky from the RSL. ‘He’s been fighting with Kobby.’

It was a sorry sight, pulling up to the bowls club and seeing Rocky, shirt untucked, squinting into the headlights.

‘You miggy ul’tane.’ Vera looked askance at his welted jaw. ‘Kobby’s twice your size.’

She started up the engine. Backed out. Rocky’s chest started shuddering.

‘He talked bad on …’ He gestured, struggling to remember the name. ‘… That girl.’

Next morning, getting ready for the Easter Sunday service, Vera bumped into the mother coming out of the loo. She bugged her bloodshot eyes at Vera’s skirt, woven hat.

‘Church,’ Vera explained.

‘UTI.’ The mother winced. ‘Have you got any ibuprofen?’

‘I’ll check.’ Vera rushed back to the mother’s room a couple of minutes later with a sleeve of pills and a fresh jug of water. ‘I’ll swing by the doctor’s after church. Get you some antibiotics.’

The mother popped some tablets into her mouth. Sank deeper into her nest of tissues and bedding and stared at the TV’s low-volume flicker.

‘Shouldn’t take those on an empty stomach.’ Vera eyed the cold toastie on the bedside. ‘Can I get you something else?’

The mother shook her head, then changed her mind.

‘Cranberry juice, if you have it. And maybe … chocolate?’

Vera hurried to the kitchen. Returned soon after with a carton of apple juice and some Delta Creams. ‘This’s all we have. I’m sorry.’

The mother looked at the biscuits with disinterest. ‘It’s her birthday today. Did you know that? She’s supposed to be thirty.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Vera repeated. Then: ‘Your sister called last night? Caroline?’

‘Caro.’ The mother sighed. ‘She probably thinks she can fix this. She can’t.’

The mother raked her fingers through Miss Katie’s fur.

‘That stupid girl. She didn’t want to be thirty. She was so stupid.’

‘Sharp as a tack, mind,’ Vera offered. ‘Witty. Cracked me up, the things she came out with.’

The mother’s face distorted, a savage mask of grief.

‘Please go away now.’

Vera scurried from the room; barely had time to shut the door before the wailing started.

Something. Something had to be done. If not for the mother’s sake, for Vera’s — that sticky, dark grief that was entering her lungs like a contagion.

It wasn’t a crime scene, the cottage. Easy to think of it that way, but whatever had happened hadn’t happened there — and whatever they’d wanted for evidence, they’d taken. All that was left now was a sad mess of things belonging to a girl who wasn’t alive to put them back in order.

Vera snatched up a pillow. A band T-shirt, soft and fragrant with old sweat. A perfume bottle, which had somehow made its way onto the bedroom floor. Last of all, a photo.

Too much? Even for Vera, looking at the photo was hard. But then, the mother hadn’t seen Paulina’s face.

‘Some things from the cottage.’ Vera averted her eyes as she re-entered the bedroom. ‘Perfume. Pillow. Just some things of Paulina’s.’

The mother looked up. Tentatively, Vera sprayed the perfume.

‘Give them to me,’ the mother demanded.

It was a muggy sort of day; Vera could feel it already. The hot-box stuffiness of the van, sweat-pits forming under the sleeves of her blouse. But it wasn’t just that. It was the curve of Klee Welkin Road, cuddled by hills and sea, lined with police tape.

Paulina walked here.

How many times had she seen Paulina walk here? Paulina Novak, like clockwork. Busy, narrow hips in lycra. Dancing ponytail. Discman clipped to the band of her shorts. Seen her and thought — well, all sorts of thoughts.

That girl is deranged.

That girl likes being looked at.

That girl will get herself killed someday.

The road, though. She could have tolerated the road on its own; even the police tape. It was the people clustered at King’s Lookout that really brought it home. The people, pointing not at the view, but something spray-painted on the tar.

Vera parked. Got out of the van to look at what everyone else was looking at.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULINA

‘They’re saying this is where that girl was taken,’ a woman with a baby, familiar to Vera by sight, clued her in. ‘It’s her birthday today.’

‘I know.’

‘You knew her?’

Vera nodded. ‘I was her landlady.’

In the distance, church bells chimed the resurrection, for whatever it was worth.