Ever since I read your column on the dearth of middle-aged women on TV, I’ve found myself counting them – much to my family’s irritation! But you’re right, and I don’t know why I never noticed it. So where do all the female hosts and actors and newsreaders go when they get older? I’m serious! Where the bloody hell are they?
The plaque had been replaced, covering Beloved’s inscription once more. The crack was now just a serrated vein of darker grey. Even the crypt had been spruced up, the gravel raked and the wrought-iron fencing spray-painted a gleaming shoe-polish black. I took some photos with my camera and then retreated to the stone bench, where only a week before I had sat, minding my own business, while Quinn performed her little act of vandalism that started it all.
Gusto zigzagged along the path further away, his lead trailing as he sniffed the asphalt. A magpie on the kerb watched him beadily, but the dog continued past without even raising his head. Despite it being a frigid day, and the cemetery part of the great outdoors, I had decided on the spur of the moment to pay another visit because it seemed that Deb and her husband were the ones doing all the investigative work. And my discovery regarding the siblings had given me a taste of success that I would rather enjoy being able to repeat. Local stalwart provides key to everything. People cheer. Police require mouth to mouth.
I slid the camera into my pocket and drew out a slip of paper. On it I had written Kata Dragovic, Mate Dragovic, James Sheridan I and II, George Sheridan, Mystery girl (approx. dob 1867). These were the occupants of the graves that I hoped to find, and with them, some extra information. However I had been washed with a desire to sit here for a while first, beside Petar, because in an odd way I was now associating him with Sam Emerson and I wanted to make them both a promise – that we’d find out the truth. This was all a little spiritual for my taste, and rather embarrassing, but I also felt like it was something I should do, while I was here.
I was deep in my reverie, eyes closed, and having what really amounted to a conversation with myself, when I heard the noise. It was a sharp crack, followed by a crunchier sound that seemed to echo. Like someone eating cereal. I opened my eyes with a start, just as Gusto froze in the centre of the path with his ears pricked. He barked once, twice, before being distracted by a dragonfly that swooped across the path. Excellent guard dog.
I stood for a better view and then, still not seeing anyone, climbed atop the bench. The cemetery was deserted. With excellent timing, the wind picked up, blustering noisily through the trees and sending icy gusts among the gravestones. I shivered, from both the cold and a sudden sense of isolation. A person could be stalked here, attacked, even murdered, and no-one would be the wiser. I pushed the thought from my mind but remained still for a while, until I was sure I was alone. Then I climbed down, feeling edgy but determined to get on with the task at hand. The sooner it was done, the sooner I could go home.
The original cemetery ran in a thin rectangle from the entry gates to just past Petar’s crypt. Accordingly I started by searching the area around the bench and it wasn’t long before I struck pay dirt. Sheridan graves, four of them side by side with a large stone Madonna perched in the centre, arms outstretched to embrace all. The first grave housed the remains of Mary Frost, along with three baby boys who predeceased her. I felt a shaft of sadness. She had finally delivered a healthy son, only to perish herself shortly after. The grave also contained her grandson James III, who was killed in World War I.
I stepped towards the centre grave, beneath the Madonna, and was immediately flushed with gratification when I read Kate Sheridan 1835–1872 Beloved Wife and Mother Sorely Missed. There she was, along with James I, who died thirty-six years later. He must have really loved her, I realised, to have remained a widower and then instruct that he be buried with her and not Mary. Sharing the grave was their son George, but there was no mention of a daughter.
A dog began barking over towards the highway, a frenetic sound that continued as I moved to the third grave. This one belonged to James II and his wife Victoria. The headstone was simple, with minimal information; although Victoria had outlived her husband, she left no words of endearment here. The final grave appeared to be a communal one, with Mary May, her husband, both her sons and a daughter-in-law. I hoped they had all got on well in life, because eternity was looking pretty cramped.
The barking finally slowed to the occasional burst of sound. I took photos and began to investigate the surrounding graves. If I was hoping for Mystery Girl to reveal herself, figuratively speaking, then I was soon disappointed. Apart from James I, there was nobody who was born in 1867 at all, and nobody who even loosely fitted the bill. However I did find Mate, situated to the side of the Majic crypt and perpetually shadowed by his friend’s success. Beloved friend and brother. Sleep well.
A few more photos and then I called Gusto over. He came reluctantly, having discovered a concussed bee that he deemed a threat to national security. I took his lead and walked rapidly through the cemetery as the wind swirled, creating a whispering effect that was quite disconcerting. I recalled the odd sound from earlier and my back prickled. I thought of the barking dog, and a recent argument with Quinn about whether or not werewolves were real. Did you get a discount if you actually died in the cemetery itself?
Gusto broke into a trot as I sped up, until our rapid footsteps were almost as loud as the wind. I fancied that I saw the other dog in the distance, loping along the far end of the cemetery, but then it was gone. Now jogging, I brushed past the hedge at the entry and the woody stems were like fingernails clawing at my clothes, not wanting me to leave. I unlocked the car and swept Gusto up as I slid in, pushing him over to the passenger side even as I locked the doors again. My heart hammered. Graveyard mystery: woman’s corpse found in locked car. No visible signs of injury. Dog useless.
I took a deep breath, feeling ridiculous, and forced my mind to move to the mundane. I was cooking chicken strudels that night, a rather complicated dish that called for a lot of fine dicing and fiddly filo pastry and at least two hours’ preparation time. What had seemed a wonderful idea while Nigella Lawson shimmied around her kitchen, and adventurous when I perused the supermarket shelves, now just felt like a pain in the arse. Besides, Nigella was only making dinner for two while I was serving eight. But it was too late to change things now, which meant I had better get home and get started.
I pulled out of the car park, the soft dirt tugging at my tyres, turning onto the main road where the wind swept furiously across the car. Gusto sat to attention beside me, his tongue lolling as he stared at the darkening sky. I wondered if this wind was the harbinger of a storm, because it certainly seemed a little more intense than usual. And I wondered whether jacket potatoes would be a good accompaniment for the strudels, and whether I had sour cream. I also wondered how the girls would take the news about the house. Most of them might no longer live there, but I knew they still thought of it as home. How would they feel about their father?
I braked lightly as my turnoff approached and was surprised to feel an unfamiliar sponginess. The car slowed with some reluctance so I pressed again, frowning, and this time my foot sunk to the floor with just the merest resistance. After a split-second of numb disbelief, I leapt straight from complacency to panic and started pumping my foot on the pedal. But now it simply slapped flaccidly against the floor. The car began to build up speed again.
I swallowed the panic as best I could, leaving it to batter fitfully in my chest. My road was nearing rapidly and I had to make a decision. Taking my turn risked rolling the car but the alternative meant continuing on to the gentle slope that wound down the hill towards Majic. Speed would build quickly and I would no doubt either rear-end another car or simply fly off the side. Even if by some miracle I made it down the hill, I would then hit the town, literally, at about two hundred kilometres an hour. Commemorate that, fellow citizens.
There was no choice. With blood pounding in my ears, I pulled the steering wheel to the right and began a long arc that I figured would be less dangerous than a sharp turn. Gusto stumbled against the passenger door and turned to give me an inquiring look. I pressed the horn repeatedly as I turned, hoping that any approaching cars would take it as a warning. The wind gathered the hoarse bleating that emerged, and tossed it into the trees.
Rubber squealed as I sharpened the turn and at the apex I felt the right tyres lift, just slightly. Gusto scrabbled for purchase on his seat and then smacked against the door, while I was forced into a lean that pressed the gear lever into my left hip. I kept a death grip on the steering wheel as I tried to right myself, but it was like fighting a force-field. Gusto whimpered, clawing at the window. I aimed for the entry to my road, which had never seemed so narrow, the tyres now screeching as the car tilted even more. It was going to flip, it had to flip.
But it didn’t. Instead we flew into the road and straight into a blustering head wind that immediately objected to our speed. Finally, someone was on my side. The car slowed but was still going too fast. Gusto made a beeline for my lap, complicating matters even further. I caught sight of Jill Hansen, the mother of Quinn’s friend Caitlin, standing at her letterbox open-mouthed as I hurtled past. Then there was the end of the road swiftly approaching, with my house up a small rise to the right. I wrenched the steering wheel once more, Gusto flying back across the car, and the tyres turned in a billowing cloud of dust. We rocketed up the embankment and hit the driveway with a sickening crunch that wrenched my head back. Nevertheless the impact slowed us even more and we coasted relatively civilly down the driveway, through the fence and straight into the shed.
The car stopped, and stalled. I sat motionless, swirls of dust rolling upwards from the remains of the shed. I could see the far wall, with its painted shadows and hanging tools, but all else had collapsed like kindling. The whipper-snipper balanced on the bonnet, among broken planks and plastic plant pots, its cord trailing into the debris beyond. Gusto scrambled to his feet and glanced at me accusingly, then pawed at the door. Let me out, crazy driver. But I couldn’t move. Adrenalin coursed through my veins, heating my blood and mingling with the shock like oil on water. My entire body throbbed. I had survived, and done so without killing anyone else. Amid the relief and elation and emerging pain, there rose two bubbles of lucid but scarcely imperative thought. One, how glad I was that I hadn’t bothered to keep the shed up to Darcy’s standard and, two, now I’d have to get the place valued all over again.