Fin parked her car on Balmain Road and made her way on foot to Callan Park, clutching a bunch of flowers. The sun has been out earlier but now grey clouds hung overhead, an obvious sign rain was on its way — again. She walked through the grounds, stopping occasionally to look at the details of a particular building or the signs, like the one that told her the building in front of her was Ward 18. She wondered what had gone on inside the ward and in all the other abandoned buildings scattered around the place now left to rot. If it were another time, she would have been sent to a place like this and then, like many others, would have been conveniently forgotten.
A light, rain-filled breeze drifted in from Iron Cove and caressed her cheeks. She caught a scent of perfume from the flowers she was carrying. A man in a striped shirt striding out in front of his dog smiled at her when he walked past. She shoved her free hand in the pocket of her coat and walked a little faster.
She spun around, her head buzzed, the landscape a blur; tree-lined avenues, bitumen paths, blocks of sandstone — primitive and raw, a dog, its tongue trailing from its mouth, a gravel car park, cars parked at odd angles, cracked muddy puddles now the rain had stopped and the sun was out.
Her feet followed the familiar path and when she reached the tower, her heart sank. The tower was stained grey from the recent rain and Fin tried to imagine from what point Robbie jumped, and then followed the trajectory to where he might have landed. The tears came. How had it come to this? When had it started? With her drinking? Or did it go further back than that to when her parents had died? Or was it when Uncle Patrick started to look at her differently? She knelt and laid the flowers by the door. She noticed the brass lock, which had already been replaced. And someone had nailed a sign to the door. It said: Danger, Keep out.
Fin drove onto the M4. It was usually a ninety-minute drive to the Blue Mountains but with the traffic the way it was, it was going to take longer. She wouldn’t arrive now until after dark.
The sound of the wipers snapping back and forth on the windscreen reminded her of a metronome. The piano lessons she’d been forced to take as a child had been a waste of time. She’d been more interested in the polished timber pyramid box and the regular ticking of the steel pointer, than the ivory keys at her fingertips.
She shifted gears and took her foot off the accelerator. She’d been making excellent time up until now. The traffic inched forward. Police sirens screamed up ahead. She fumbled inside her bag and found a pack of cigarettes — only two left. She wound down the window and lit up.
The driver of the car in front of her got out and stood in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips and stared into the distance. She watched him through the windscreen, flicked ash out of the window and thought of Robbie. Death, like a thief, crept up on you when you least expected it.
Fifteen minutes later, the traffic began to move. Fin saw the reason for the holdup. A minor collision between a white delivery truck and a family sedan. Fin had smoked the last of her cigarettes; looked at the road sign that said the next turn-off was five kilometres up ahead. She took the exit, drove through heavy fog and pulled up outside the Lapstone Hotel.
A cosy fire in the sports bar of the Hotel crackled and glowed in the stone fireplace. On her way to the bar, Fin walked past a few old-timers on vinyl bar stools. The barman asked what he could get her. She ordered two whiskey shots and a pack of cigarettes. While she waited, she noticed a group of men playing pool in the room behind the bar. A sharp ceramic click-click signalled a fresh break on the pool table. Their laughter irritated her.
After she’d paid for the drinks and cigarettes, she took a seat at a table close enough to the fire to feel its warmth. She swallowed the first mouthful of whiskey. It burned her throat. She swallowed again; felt the warmth spread through her body.
The man at the next table stared at her. Spidery, purple lines ran up his cheeks — the signs of a heavy drinker. He pushed his chair back, walked to the bar, and a few minutes later returned with a schooner of frothy beer. He winked at her. ‘Filthy weather, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘They reckon it will snow before the weekend.’ He took a gulp of his beer. ‘So love, you staying the night?’
Fin noticed his stubby nicotine-stained fingers, the gravelly tone of his voice — everything about him irritated her. She didn’t reply straight away. Instead, she looked at the door. ‘I have to get going.’ She gathered her cigarettes and lighter from the table. He was still staring at her. Fin had seen that look before and wondered if she had said or done something to offend him or had encouraged him in some way. With Robbie gone, she would have to be careful what she said to men and the way she behaved in front of them.
Fin rushed back to her car and started the engine. She shivered, turned the heater up and looked back at the hotel. She half expected the man to rush out and try to get in the car beside her. She threw her cigarettes into her bag and backed out of the car space in a hurry.
An hour later Fin walked up to the check-in desk in the wood-panelled reception area of the Katoomba Hotel and asked about her booking. While she waited for her room key, she stood in front of the open fire to warm herself. She rubbed her hands together and realised any visitor to the Blue Mountains would expect the warmth and ambience of such a fire.
Once she had her key, she took the two flights of carpeted stairs to her room. The room had cost sixty dollars for the night and for budget accommodation it was clean and cosy, but didn’t have its own bathroom. A shared bathroom was located down the hall.
The bed looked comfortable enough and she threw her carry-all down on it and began to unpack her pyjamas and toiletry bag. She would have stayed at her grandmother’s house but the gas had already been disconnected and without the gas heaters she would have frozen to death.
The only window in the hotel room looked out onto an empty car park, and beyond that she could make out the rear of an Italian restaurant, a pet store and a laundromat. She couldn’t see the mountains, but if she’d wanted a view she would have gone somewhere more upmarket. Besides, she wasn’t here for the sights; she was here to speak to the real estate agent about selling her grandmother’s house and to finish sorting her grandmother’s possessions. She and Robbie had planned to do it together. Now it was up to her.