And late evening dew
settling on her body.
I knock on the front door of The Guardian office.
Mr Carter will phone the undertaker
and do what has to be done,
without question.
It’s ironic,
the town newspaperman
is the only person I can trust
to keep it quiet for tonight.
The tremor in my voice
tells him something is terribly wrong.
I blurt out my story
and he doesn’t say a word.
He crosses himself and asks,
‘Do you want me to come with you, Pete?
To tell Frank and Betty?’
I shake my head.
‘No. It’s my duty, Mr Carter.’
And a bastard of a job at that.
We shake hands for no particular reason
and arrange to meet back at the river
with Mr Smyth, the undertaker,
in fifteen minutes,
to bring Colleen back to town.
Sergeant Grainger
There’s a cricket on my windscreen
when I park outside the O’Connors’.
He crawls along the glass
and hops onto the warm bonnet,
rubbing his wings for all it’s worth.
When I was a kid
we’d put them in a glass jar
with a few pin-holes in the lid
and hide them in our parents’ room.
Dad would rampage around half the night
shouting, swearing,
pulling the sheets off the bed,
tossing stuff out of the wardrobe.
In the next room,
my sister and me
did our best not to scream with laughter.
My sister lives in the city now,
with a daughter of her own.
The last time I visited,
we sat in her back garden,
the crickets kicking up a racket,
watching her little girl
playing in the sandpit.
‘It’s the greatest gift, Pete.
A child.’
Every light in the O’Connor house is on.
Mr Carter
Pete takes the camera from my hands.
I can’t bring myself to photograph the girl
even though it must be done.
The flash blazes in the cold air,
lighting everything in a vicious glow.
The Bible says:
‘Walk by faith, not by sight.’
We drape a sheet over Colleen
and carry her gently,
to the undertaker’s van.
Mr Smyth drives away as we return to the river.
I splash cold water on my face.
To be honest
I don’t want to leave this place.
Let me go back to yesterday
when this town was full
of miners and shopkeepers,
clerks and accountants,
school children and farmers,
husbands and wives,
sons and daughters.
From tomorrow,
until Pete finds out who did this,
our town will be full of murderers.
Eddie
The journey home is sleepy
as the train stops at every station,
even though no one gets on or off.
I think of the girl last night,
naked.
Only I imagine her as Sally
and she lets me into the room . . .
I put my arms around her
and touch her soft skin.
Sally moves her hand along her bare stomach
and I get goose bumps,
crossing my legs quickly
at the thought of what we could do
together in the city, all night to spare.
The train whistle scares me awake
and I smell the coal smoke
as we round the final bend into town.
A chill breeze blows through the carriage.
I make a promise to myself
to watch Butcher;
not to let him near Sally.
That’s a good enough excuse
for being with her.
As the train winds down the mountain
I look out at Burruga.
It seems so much smaller from up here.
The river meanders to the east,
the houses all crowd along the cross streets,
except our place, of course.
The sports oval is covered in early morning mist
and the mine rises above everything.
That’s the only reason there’s a town
in this tight little valley.
Mr Carter
No chance of sleep last night.
I just sat in my chair,
watching the street outside,
thinking,
I was one of the last to see the poor child.
I cursed myself,
getting up for a cup of tea
after she walked by.
Someone may have followed.
But why would I have acted?
An old man finds regret
wherever he looks.
Before dawn
a stray dog walked across the road,
sniffing for food
or company.
He wandered to the window,
saw me watching,
wagged his tail,
barked once
and trotted away.
As the sun beams in,
I draw the blinds to shut out the town.
Today I’ll draft an obituary for Monday’s edition.
What I write won’t be good enough.
It won’t ease the pain for anyone.
But I must say something
to make us proud for having known Colleen.
For her parents.
For all of us.
Eddie
I climb through the window
real quietly.
Larry is snoring, as usual.
Mum and Dad are in the kitchen
talking in urgent whispers.
They haven’t noticed the kettle
boiling on the stove.
I must be in trouble.
They don’t say much to each other,
not since Dad came home.
I fill the bathroom sink
and dunk my head,
scrubbing the city away.
In the mirror
a face rough as guts stares back
but I can’t sleep.
Time for some cock-and-bull story
they won’t believe,
no matter what I say.
Dad looks away when I enter.
He coughs and shuffles in his chair.
He seems embarrassed.
Mum asks if I want eggs,
wiping her hands on her apron.
They don’t even know I’ve been gone.
Larry’s got up to no good, I reckon.
Dad walks outside to get more firewood
and Mum fusses at the stove,
her shoulders stiff
as she waits for the pan to heat up.
As soon as I finish my eggs
I’m getting out of here,
before Larry wakes
and the shouting starts.
Eddie
Sally’s Spot is at the bottom of her street.
In the shade under our rope tree
there’s a patch of grass soft enough for sleeping.
All I hear is the flow of the stream
and the distant cackle of cockatoos.
When I left this morning
the strap was missing from the hook
behind the door.
One day, Larry will strike back at Dad
and there’ll be hell to pay.
Before I drift off
there
’s a noise from the bushes.
Sally runs down the track
and jumps into my arms,
her head tight against my chest.
I don’t know what to say,
so I hold her close.
She’s crying,
hiding her face in my shirt.
Has Butcher done something already?
But he wouldn’t be back from town yet.
She grips my arms and looks up at me,
‘Isn’t it terrible?’
She sees I don’t understand
and starts crying again.
‘What?’
She sits down in the grass.
Her lip starts to quiver,
her hands shake.
‘Colleen is dead!
Mum told me this morning,
when I woke.’
Tears squeeze down her face.
‘Mum said she was murdered.’
I close my eyes
and gently wrap my arms around Sally.
All I can think of is Butcher
running late for the train.
Sally
I fold against Eddie’s chest,
my eyes stinging with tears.
I’m torn between staying beside the river,
or taking his hand and leaving town,
just leaving, somehow,
never coming back.
I want to escape this place
and what’s happened,
what’s going to happen.
That’s what scares me most.
What now?
Who do we trust?
Eddie strokes my hair
and I know it’s him and me and family.
No one else.
I shiver at the creeping thought
of someone living here among us,
doing what he did to poor Colleen.
Talking to each of us in the daylight
and wandering dangerous at night . . .
Mr Carter
I pass the bare rose bushes,
stark in the front garden,
and knock quietly at the door.
Mrs O’Connor’s face is pale and tear-stained.
Overnight her body has shrunk.
She shuffles into the lounge room
with the curtains partly drawn
and the photos of Colleen
on the mantel above the fireplace.
She says,
‘You’ll have tea, won’t you?’
Then she stands looking
at some children walking past,
carrying fishing lines.
One boy is tossing his hat in the air
and trying to catch it behind his back.
As they pass, her hollow eyes follow them
all the way down the street.
I sit opposite Mr O’Connor
and offer him my apologies and the obituary.
‘I won’t print anything without your word, Frank.’
His lips tighten as he reads the page,
the paper white against his brown calloused hands.
I’m sorry to do this
to a man who’s been through enough
these past few years.
He hands the page to his wife
and looks across the room to Colleen’s picture,
listening to her absence,
breathing deeply the air she can’t share.
He sits up straight
and looks at me for what seems like ages,
then he leans forward and offers his hand.
‘Thanks, Mr Carter.
Thanks for your kind thoughts.’
Men walk through tragedy, quietly,
calm and precise on the outside,
tearing themselves to shreds inside.
Sergeant Grainger
Today I start asking questions
and losing friends.
Everyone pushed for details of last night
will get nervous and call in our history.
I’ll spend the day being reminded
of long-ago drinking sessions
before I left for the Academy,
and hard yards on the footy field
when we had a losing streak
that lasted for years.
No one will want to talk about here and now.
Not to a copper investigating a murder.
But I figure it’s just like the schoolyard,
you know,
when someone broke a window,
or got into a fight.
You could tell who was guilty,
who was lying,
by looking into their eyes.
That’s what I’m doing all this week.
Looking deep into my hometown
and studying the reflection.
Mayor Paley phones me early
and suggests a reward.
He calls it ‘an incentive’.
I waste valuable time
explaining that it isn’t how things work.
He keeps repeating,
‘No stone left unturned.’
As if it’s all so easy.
Like getting elected Mayor
when no one else wants the job.
Sergeant Grainger
The Johnston twins don’t say much.
They saw Larry Holding
hanging around behind the pub
and admit drinking their fair share.
For two years they’ve been going down the mine
and have faced worse things
than a suspicious policeman.
They keep calling me mate
to remind me of my place.
Les says,
‘I passed her a shandy and she took a drink.
That’s all.
She’s too young anyway.’
Then he realises how that sounds.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing.
No one in their right mind would touch her.’
Barry says,
‘Look. She left before the other two girls.
That’s all we know.
Ask them. They’ll tell you.’
They’re both dressed in overalls
preparing for the next shift.
Les glances at his watch and reaches for his bag.
‘Do us a favour, mate.
Don’t mention the shandy to Frank.’
Mr Butcher
Hard working men like me
should be left in peace
on a Sunday afternoon.
I’ve only just walked in from the train.
Sergeant Grainger is too interested
in what time I left on Friday night.
He should mind his own business
but something in his manner
tells me not to provoke him.
I answer his questions,
as honestly as I need to,
but I’m hardly telling the town cop
what I do away from school.
That’s my secret.
‘I caught the evening train,
same as always,
to stay with my mother.
She’s getting on in years, you know.
No, I didn’t see anyone else on the platform.
Yes, I know Taylors Bend.
Doesn’t everyone?
It’s a lovers’ lane, or so they say.
Yes, I’ve been there.
Alone.
I take a book and read,
enjoying the outdoors.
It’s good for the health,
even in this gritty town.
No, I haven’t been there this week.
I had dinner on Friday at the Sunset Café
and I caught the train to be with . . .
‘What!
You want her phone number?
What is going on, Sir?
I don’t want you disturbing her.
Look, I’m not answering another question.
What happens in the city is private.
Between my mother and myself.
It’s not for anyone in this town to know about.
That is the end of the matter.’
Sergeant Grainger
Butcher is a snob.
You don’t need police training to see that.
He almost had a fit
when I suggested phoning his mother.
The old dear is probably as pompous
and insufferable as her son.
No doubt I’ll get a lecture in manners
from the old woman as well.
Bugger it.
I’ll look up Mrs Butcher
in the phone book.
A cold call should put the wind up her son,
the stupid wowser.
Butcher’s respected in town.
Not liked, but respected.
That won’t stop Frank though.
If he hears I’m suspicious of anyone
he’ll beat the daylights out of them.
I’ve got a few days
before Frank and his mates
start getting pushy.
I don’t want them deciding who’s guilty.
A vein throbs in my temple
like a loud ticking clock.
Albert Holding
I came out here for a smoke
and to get away from the wife.
She’s been on and on about the pub,
the beer,
my mates and me getting drunk,
ever since the war.
War!
What does she know about it?
To blokes like Frank it meant starvation
and brutality beyond imagining.
He once told us, over a few beers too many,
that the lucky ones were those who died early.
The others came home to a life in the mines,
with nothing to look forward to but Friday arvo
and a mate at the bar who understands.
He’d wake up at night to thunder,
thinking he’s under attack
when it’s only rain on the roof.
I spent too long in the desert driving trucks
when I could have been beside Frank
and had the honour of getting beaten to a pulp
by some slit-eyed bastard with a skeleton grin.
Some blokes reckon I was one step away
from a white feather in the mail.
Cheetham had his excuse,
being deaf in one ear.
But all I got was some pea-brain army doctor
scrawling ‘not for the frontline’ on my report.