Four weeks later Joan had already sent twelve chapters of her crime novel, Death in the Shadow City, to Reg Punch at The Australian Journal and he had asked to see the entire manuscript by 18 April. That was why she was sitting at the kitchen table on a Saturday morning, desperately trying to finish the final pages of her second draft, which she intended to deliver personally to Mr Punch first thing Monday morning. She was so close to the end now there was the temptation to take a breather, make another cup of tea, but Joan knew she must not stop—that the story demanded she continue to pay attention, to listen carefully to the voice inside her head, until she had the ending just right. Stories were like that: anything could happen right up to the last page and, as long as the writer had played fair with the reader, there was always that possibility of an incident, a revelation, an object, a memory that could change our understanding of the story completely.
Bernie had already left for the Roma to enjoy lunch with the Itchies so Joan had the flat to herself. The window was open a fraction, allowing the comforting clatter of traffic to wash over Joan like an old love song. She and Bernie were still debating whether to adopt another cat but, despite T.S.’s absence, these new digs were starting to feel like home.
For the last month, Hugh had haunted Joan’s every waking minute. He was her personal phantom, looking over her shoulder at every page of her novel as she wrote it. He was a phantom in another sense as well: his body was never found below the bridge, either washed up on the harbour foreshore or tangled in the nets of a fishing boat. He had simply vanished. Joan even wondered if his suicide had also been stage-managed, like every other part of his secret double life. Had he escaped and reinvented himself somewhere else?
With help from Bill Jenkins and the solicitor Abbott, Joan’s own part in this story was concluded in a way that had managed to save both her family and herself. A deal was negotiated with Gordon’s lawyers that Joan would testify to the police about Hugh’s confession to murder on condition that Gordon not pursue any legal action over his niece’s blackmail or seek the return of the money. The Fielding-Joneses were easily persuaded by their lawyers of the wisdom of this course: the charges against them of murdering Eleanor Dawson and Jessie Simmons were dropped. Bill Jenkins scooped the story for Truth but Joan’s name was never revealed; she remained an ‘anonymous source’. The street photo of Ellie and Gordon was re-examined by the cops and proved to be a clever fake as every other piece of Hugh’s confession began to fall into place, including his playing the part of Gordon as witnessed by little Greta from behind the garden gate. With their focus on solving crimes and getting convictions, the police were even prepared to overlook Joan’s tampering with a crime scene and her involvement in a blackmail scam.
Gordon was poleaxed when he learned of the depth of his trusted lieutenant’s treachery. Even with the murder charges dropped, Gordon’s troubles were far from over. He was still arraigned for trial for scheming to peddle snow to returned soldiers and conspiring with his wife in the killing of Frankie Goldman: Joan had decided to leave that part of the story out of her account of Hugh’s confession. Gordon realised he had fatally overestimated the unquestioning loyalty of his officers as several angry and embittered New Guardsmen came forward to testify about their commander’s covert meetings with Jeffs and Goldman at the gangster’s nightclubs. Joan now watched as her ruthless uncle and heartless aunt tried to squirm their way out of this nasty mess, which was already destroying the reputation of Gordon’s legal practice, scaring off his business partners and investors, and sabotaging his and Olympia’s social standing. With ill-disguised alacrity, Sydney’s wealthy elite abandoned them as swiftly as one would avoid a stinking carcass.
Joan wound another sheet of paper into her Corona. There was a rap at the door.
Joan sighed. ‘Coming!’
She dragged herself from the typewriter and opened the door a crack. A small boy, aged nine or ten, stared at her solemnly. He had a freckled face, red hair and jug-handle ears like the kid out of the Ginger Meggs comic strip, and clutched a letter. ‘Is your name Joan?’
‘Yes, it is.’
The boy thrust the letter at her. ‘The man told me to bring this to you. He said it was very important. Paid me a whole shilling, he did!’
‘Okay, thanks. Did he tell you his name?’
‘Nuh,’ said the boy, and he raced off before Joan could ask any more questions.
Joan shrugged, closed the door and resumed her seat at the table. She tore open the envelope. The letter inside began: Hello Jo-Jo. She let out a cry. Was this some cruel hoax? Only one person in the world had ever called her that: her brother James.
I bet I’m the last person you ever thought you’d hear from. Everyone seems to think I’m dead, except for poor old mum. And everyone thinks she’s crazy, poor love. I have visited her twice and we’ve gone for walks in the gully where you and I played as kids—remember?
Gloria doesn’t seem to mind this bloody awful mask I have to wear to cover my ruined face. Shell burst damage. Took away my right eye, most of my right cheek and part of my nose. Not a pretty sight. Frightens the children, I can tell you. And most adults. But that is only part of the reason I have not been able to come home. My mind is damaged too, but there is no prosthetic to hide the ugliness in there, I’m afraid. I am not a fit member of society, as they say. Which is why I stay hidden, even though I miss you all.
But I am coming out of the shadows now, just for a moment, dear sister. I cannot cannot bear to think of you suffering because of Hugh. He lied. I owe you the truth.
I am sitting at the back of the Mockbell’s cafe at the Quay. I will sit here until they close tonight. If you want to know the truth and see your ridiculous brother James one more time, come and have a coffee with me. Please.
Love,
James
P.S. Also, please bring the watch that I hope Hugh gave you.
Joan sat back, stunned. Her brother James was alive and here in Sydney. How long had he been here, in hiding? And what did he mean that Hugh had lied? Joan could feel the kaleidoscope turning once more and all the pieces of the story that she thought she had finally understood might be about to tumble and fall into a new pattern. Joan put on her shoes, jacket and hat, grabbed her purse and keys, pocketed the old trench watch, locked the door and headed down the stairs. She had an appointment with her resurrected brother. A ghost made flesh.
Only a few customers were seated at the Mockbell’s coffee palace on Pitt Street near Circular Quay at this time of day and Joan had no trouble slipping discreetly from the ladies’ saloon to the gentlemen’s lounge next door. Her heart thudded so hard surely everyone within earshot could hear it. Why was she so very scared? Her joy at knowing James was alive was contaminated by her fear of his talk about his ‘damaged’ mind; what mental injury was it he had suffered that he felt unable to return home?
From the star-shaped punctures in the mock-Moorish copper lanterns overhead, rays of amber light pierced the gloom of the low-lit lounge, illuminating a tabletop here, a coffee cup there, the elbow crease of a jacket, a hand turning the page of a newspaper. Two blokes in cheap suits looked up for a moment from a nearby table and resumed their conversation.
A voice whispered from the darkness. ‘Joan, over here.’
Joan started a little and turned to see a figure seated in a booth deep in shadow against the back wall. ‘James?’
The figure beckoned her over.
Joan sat down and James leaned forward into the light. ‘Hi, Jo-Jo. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
She gasped at the sight of him—not in horror but out of a giddy mix of delight and disbelief at seeing him in the flesh and of sorrow at contemplating all the years lost. His face appeared oddly lopsided: the left side was noticeably more aged since she had last laid eyes on him while the right had perversely kept the smoothness and pink flush of youth. It took a few moments for her eyes to readjust and see the edge of the prosthetic mask that snaked, a fine crack, from under his right ear, across his jaw, cheek and nose and up into his hairline. It also soon became obvious that his right eye never moved or blinked, a startling trompe l’oeil of an eye, painted and glazed to match perfectly the colour and size of his left.
‘How do I look?’ he asked with more than a hint of self-mockery. ‘Not a bad job, huh? If you don’t look too closely or too long. Made from a thin sheet of hand-painted copper. Clever, eh?’
‘It’s good to see you, James. I … we missed you so much.’ Words were pathetically inadequate to encompass the never-ending pain of her grief for him. A flood of childhood memories swept through her: games of hide-and-seek and chasing chooks in the back garden, tadpole catching and treehouse building in the gully, Richard and James playing cricket with the neighbour’s boys down the lane, Joan sharing secrets with Phyllis and Agnes over the back fence, family charades at Christmas and chocolate egg hunts at Easter. Tears streamed down her face. Why hadn’t he written, why hadn’t he relieved his family’s suffering?
‘You must hate me for leaving you all in the dark. I don’t blame you. But believe me, I did it for the best. The truth is the James you all loved did die over there.’
Joan could feel a sob swell in her chest. ‘What happened, James?’
‘Let’s order a coffee,’ he said, waving at the nearest fez-hatted waiter. ‘Two coffees, please. Are you hungry, Joan?’
Joan shook her head. The waiter withdrew. Joan could not take her eyes off her brother’s face nor keep from taking pleasure in the sound of his voice after so many years. ‘I don’t know what to feel, James. Part of me is heartbroken for all the time we’ve lost, but part of me cannot stop smiling in gratitude. That you are here, alive, in front of me.’
‘I know, Jo-Jo. It’s all very strange.’ James sighed. ‘And there is so much to explain. My platoon commander in France was someone you know very well: Lieutenant Hugh Evans. A good bloke all round. Fair, brave, smart. Never asked his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. Led from the front. Which took courage, as our battalion was involved in some of the bloodiest operations of 1917. Polygon Wood, Passchendaele. We saw hundreds of our mates wounded and killed and knew it was just a matter of time till our turn came. I anticipated my death several times and even handed my watch over to Hugh for safekeeping despite his protests.
‘I thought that fateful day had arrived when my section was crossing no-man’s-land behind a creeping barrage and one of our own artillery shells fell short and landed right in among us. The whole world erupted. I ended up buried at the bottom of a krump hole with my uniform torn off, half my face missing and my mind wiped clean. I was taken to a field hospital in a coma to wake up weeks later with no memory of who I was and no raiding disc to identify me. The guy in the next bed, also with a head injury, had had a gutful of the war. The night before we were due to be transferred to Blighty he slipped me his identity disc and went AWOL.
‘So I was now Corporal Thomas Nesmith and was shipped back to Fremantle six months later. Meanwhile, Lieutenant James Linderman was reported missing in action. Little by little my memory returned but I decided to keep my real identity a secret. I was ashamed of my monstrous appearance and did not want anyone to contact my family.
‘But I was also much more ashamed—and frightened—of something else. I started to have these attacks—like flashbulbs going off in my brain—that made me lash out for no reason. I smashed up my digs, kicked dogs on the street, got into fights, punched strangers in the face. I was charged with assault more than once and did time. I found work but had to keep moving from town to town, state to state. And then, about a year ago, I came to Sydney and heard that my old company commander was recruiting men for the New Guard.’
‘Uncle Gordon?’ It began to dawn on Joan that all those hallucinatory glimpses of her brother in the street had probably not been imagined after all.
‘That’s right: the major. And who should turn up as one of his right-hand men? Hugh Evans. I signed up to the New Guard under the name Nesmith but revealed who I was to Hugh and begged him not to tell another soul. Our uncle had barely known me as a child or a young man growing up and was certainly unlikely to recognise me now with my altered appearance. Hugh immediately understood my reasons for wanting to hide and promised to protect me. He had never got over his guilt about the deaths and the suffering of his men. He went even further, putting me up in his digs in Balmain, taking care of me.’
‘With his sister Celia?’
‘No, there was no sister. I don’t think Hugh had any siblings.’
Joan nodded. She recalled the phone call she had made to a Celia Evans in Balmain who turned out to be both brotherless and dead. Of course, this sister was all part of Hugh’s fabrication. And to think he had gone so far as to conceal the fact of James being alive. She hated him for that while also recognising his kindness towards her tormented brother.
‘I enjoyed being a New Guardsmen. Serving the major for whom I felt nothing but admiration and loyalty. Defending Australia against the threat of communism. Being among my fellow soldiers with whom I felt pride instead of shame. It gave me something to hang on to, a sense of purpose where none existed before.’
Joan wondered how much James knew about Hugh’s politics, his role as a double agent for the Communist Party, his loathing for their uncle. Assuming, of course, that any of that were true.
‘But everything changed about six months ago. Hugh was in charge of the major’s bodyguard and he and I sometimes accompanied the major to New Guard divisional meetings. But then he began to have meetings with the gangster Jeffs, and Hugh overheard a conversation about a scheme to sell dodgy cocaine to returned soldiers. For profit.’
James’s hands balled into fists and a spasm passed across his face that threatened to unsettle his mask and reveal the shattered bone and tissue beneath.
‘I was filled with rage. When I thought of what I and so many like me had sacrificed! And for what? So my commanding officer could make money off us bloody cot cases? Was this the world we had defended as AIF soldiers? Was this the world we were defending now as Guardsmen? And so I came up with a plan to punish the major.’
‘But I thought the plan was Hugh’s?’ Joan said.
‘No. Hugh was as outraged as I was over the major’s deal with Jeffs, so he helped me, but the plan was all mine.’
Joan could not help gasping: the plan was her brother’s, not Hugh’s? So why had Hugh gone to such lengths to make it appear to be his?
James continued: ‘The idea was to make it look as if the major was involved with Ellie, one of Jeffs’s prostitutes. Hugh played the part of Gordon to perfection, and I was his driver and batman. I was then meant to deliver a message from the major to say he was wiping his hands of her. When Ellie threatened to blow the whistle, I was supposed to scare the hell out of her, give her a bruise or two or slash her cheek. We knew she would then spill the beans to Frankie. This harming of one of Jeffs’s most profitable whores would make the crime boss hopping mad. Hopefully it would sink the cocaine deal with Gordon and provoke Jeffs into selling him out to the cops.’
James lapsed into silence. He broke off his gaze and looked down at his hands, fidgeting. Joan could feel the weight of his reluctance, the burden of his emotional turmoil, crushing his chest and shoulders, gripping at his throat. At last he spoke, a painful whisper. ‘But the plan went horribly wrong. When I went to Ellie that night I saw the bruise on her face and the look of fear in her eyes when I raised my hand. I felt that flashbulb of madness go off in my brain. I was back in the trenches again, a bayonet pointed at my guts, my enemy’s face screwed up with terror and rage, my bloodstream flooded with adrenaline. And … I lost control.’ James choked on his words, his body writhing with self-loathing. ‘I didn’t mean to but I … I killed her, Joan.’
They sat in silence. Joan could not speak, she was so deeply in shock. She could hear the click, click, click of all the pieces of her crime story rearranging themselves. Her brother was the killer. Hugh had lied to protect Joan from the truth and to protect James from the consequences of his crime. ‘Hugh tried to help me fix the mess I had made. He tipped me off about the other girl, Jessie, who was about to blow Hugh’s cover, and I kidnapped her from the hospital.’
Joan winced, feeling the sharp blade of guilt jab under her ribs, twisting in her guts. ‘I was to blame for that.’
James continued to avoid eye contact with his sister. ‘I had her locked up for a few days in an attic and offered her all kinds of inducements to keep quiet. Money, drugs, nice clothes. But then one night she tried to escape through a window, fell from the roof and broke her neck. What could I do? I took her out to The Gap.
‘The mess was getting worse and worse. We both felt so guilty about involving you but we were desperate. I was glad to help out with the blackmail scheme that you and Hugh dreamed up; the thought of making some dosh for Mum, Dad and Richard was a grand idea! And it really put the wind up the major and had his thugs running around in circles for a few days.
‘It was Hugh who came up with the Frankie Goldman beheading. He had no compunction about executing a gangster. Neither did I. How was it any different to killing a Hun? We had killed plenty of those. At last Jeffs made his move and stitched Gordon up with bags of snow.
‘I insisted on confessing to Ellie’s and Jessie’s deaths and leaving Hugh out of the whole thing. I knew how much Hugh loved you and I wanted to let you two have some sort of future together, if that was possible; Hugh had never made it clear to me how very sick he was, how close to death. I was damaged goods, I told him, too dangerous to be trusted. Prison, even hanging, would be a mercy. I was willing to risk that, to face that.
‘But I had some unfinished business first. I went to Willoughby to look at the house one more time; I even half hoped I might see one of you. And then Mum came out of the house to go shopping. I couldn’t help myself. I had to talk to her. I know it was wrong but I wanted to give poor Mum some peace of mind, to reassure her I was still alive, and still her tender-hearted boy—a harmless lie. We sat in the park that day for a long time and I told her how much I loved her. Told her I had to go away again for a while but I would write to her. She was so happy. She had been right all along.
‘I told her to keep this meeting our little secret. But I knew she couldn’t and that Dad and Richard would think she was getting crazier. So I went back one more time, a few days ago. Tried to persuade her it was better if the rest of the family did not know about me yet. Perhaps one day soon. She must be patient. But she begged me to come back to the house with her. I realised I had made things much worse.’
Joan was crying, tears streaming silently. ‘So why did Hugh lie to me?’
James shrugged. ‘It’s obvious to me now that Hugh knew even then he had no future with you, though he wanted nothing more than that. He too was beginning to lose control of his mind and saw only one way out. But for a short time, we both really believed we had pulled this thing off, literally got away with murder and framed Gordon so he would pay the price for his bastardry.
‘Hugh told me that I had almost been killed once before because I’d followed his orders as my platoon commander. So he was now ordering me to find a way to live. To get help from doctors. To finally come home. It takes so long to come home, he said. That is the tragic lot of the soldier. “I will fix this,” he told me, “I want to fix this. This is my penance for what happened over there in France.” I didn’t know what he meant. I had no idea that he would take the blame for what I’d done. That he would confess to you. That he would …’ James shook his head. ‘That he would sacrifice himself. For me. And so I have kept my promise to Hugh. I have honoured his sacrifice. I know this is the way he wanted it to end. But …’ James looked at Joan now. ‘But I couldn’t leave you with such a terrible lie, Jo-Jo. That was too cruel. You deserved to know the truth about Hugh. He was not a bad man. Just a broken one. Like me. Like so many of us.’
Joan took the watch from her pocket and handed it to James. ‘He gave me this.’
‘Yes, Hugh kept that watch all the years I was missing,’ James explained. ‘He said one day I would return with it to my family. But I refused to take it. I wasn’t ready yet. And then he insisted that I must not be a coward anymore; I owed it to my family to come home.’
Joan wept quietly, unable to find words to express her dismay. This was the second confession to murder she had heard from a man she loved. Did James hope for forgiveness from her because she was his sister? Did he hope her love and pity for him would somehow erase his responsibility for killing Ellie? Maybe he believed he was as much a victim of violence as she: a soldier driven mad by the horrors of war.
At last, Joan found her voice. ‘So what happens now, James?’
‘I understand why Hugh wanted to save me, Joan. And spare my family all the pain of my trial and imprisonment, maybe worse. I am grateful to him for that.’ James leaned in closer. He spoke softly but with grave deliberation. ‘But you and I both know that is not possible. Someone must be held responsible for Ellie and Jessie’s deaths. And I cannot be let free; my mind is not be trusted. I could kill again on an impulse, another flashbulb.’
A sob broke from Joan. James placed his hands on hers. ‘It’s alright, Jo-Jo. I am ready to face the consequences. I will pray for a prison sentence and not an execution. And who knows? They may even send me to a mental hospice for treatment. To stop this torment inside my head. You and Mum and Dad and Richard will be able to visit. Assuming of course, you don’t disown me altogether …’
‘Never!’ Joan gasped. She had not just recovered her brother after all these years to cast him aside again.
‘Hugh was right. It takes a long time to come home. For me, longer than I ever imagined,’ sighed James. He lowered his voice. ‘I have made my confessions to killing Ellie and Jessie. But I am not letting Gordon off the hook: I will explain that he ordered me to kill Frankie Goldman and how, as a loyal New Guardsman, I obeyed his orders to the letter. I even know where the body and the murder weapon are hidden.’
‘You have made your confessions … ?’ Joan looked confused. What did he mean?
James turned and nodded at the two men in cheap suits sitting at the marble-topped table opposite. ‘Sergeant Williams and Constable Stafford. Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. These two officers agreed I should have a chance to explain everything to you. And say goodbye. For now.’
The two men doffed their hats at Joan and summoned the waiter to bring their bill. James fingered the trench watch, his parents’ gift, longingly and then handed it back to Joan. ‘Keep this for me, won’t you Joanie? Until this is all over.’
He stood now, putting on his overcoat. The two policemen, also in their overcoats, stood either side of James as Sergeant Williams pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘One minute,’ James said. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his sister. ‘Take care, Jo-Jo.’
Joan sat for a long time, dazed. She eventually left the coffee palace as if sleepwalking. Not long after, she stepped down from the tram opposite the Kings Cross Theatre in the rain and walked the wet, neon-splashed streets. For Hugh and now for James, she had felt all those feelings of loss and grief, of longing and regret. But now she felt a wave of anger rise in her to think how this pact of brotherly love between Hugh and James had involved the sacrifice of innocent women. And in the end it had also excluded her, Joan. Her devotion to Hugh and her hopes of happiness had been cast aside as expendable. What recognition was there for her sacrifice? Was she not worth coming home for? Joan wanted to ask Hugh. She hoped one day she would find it in her heart to forgive Hugh for what he had done. She loved him. And she felt an enormous pity for him as well, appalled at how tenacious were the shadows of the past. For now, she was heartily sick of this world of men’s making, of so much cruelty and suffering.
As she approached the door of her flat, she could hear Bernice, back from her long lunch with the Itchies, singing. Her sister, her chum, her friend. The typewriter waited on the kitchen table. The story Joan hoped to get published was almost finished. No more drafts, no more revisions. This version would have to do.
She turned the key in the lock. ‘I’m home, Bernie!’ she announced. ‘I’m home.’