North of Nowhere, South of Loss

скачать книгу бесплатно


“Who’s that man?” she asked a woman she’d got to know in the supermarket, a woman who was wiping hamburger from a toddler’s face.

“Oh, I see him in the library all the time,” the woman said. “I think he’s a friend of the Spicers. Very shy, but rather nice. Gives the kids iceblocks and lollies.”

The man seemed shyly friendly, or perhaps cordially aloof, like someone dragged to a party by friends too soon after a divorce or a death in the family. He moved from group to group, he smiled, he chatted, he was charming, he kept moving. Laura heard someone say, “I didn’t catch your name,” and he laughed quietly as though this were a particularly clever joke and moved on. She watched him gradually work his way further from the fringes of the crowd until he disappeared behind the bamboo.

Perhaps he was someone her ex-husband had hired. But then again, perhaps he was just a friend of the Spicers.

She slipped away to the pond.

The man was sitting cross-legged beside Caliban, with his hand on the gargoyle’s head, staring into the water. Laura looked at his reflection and thought he had the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. It’s his garden, she thought with sudden certainty. He’s grieving for it.

Oblivious to Laura’s presence, the man began stroking Caliban’s head in a blind, desolate way, a gesture both intimate and … what? Hungry.

Stricken, Laura said: “I ordered Ariel to go with him. Do you like him?” and the man started violently, as wild-eyed as Caliban himself. Laura felt momentarily frightened. She could not tell if the look was hostile, or haunted, or simply that of a man much disoriented by loss. Then he smiled, and Laura thought with a shiver that his smile was a little like that of her former husband, who could move from charm to threat to charm again without warning.

Caliban’s reflection grinned at her from the water. A real steal, he smirked. She thought uncomfortably: it is a kind of theft, a foreclosure.

“I know how you must feel,” she said apologetically. The man’s eyes unnerved her. She spoke to his reflection, which watched hers. “Look, if you want to come and sit here sometimes … well, that’s okay. I’ll understand.” She felt as though she were placating some capricious force, and couldn’t tell if she spoke from compassion or fear.

“Mrs Spicer,” she said, when the flow of the party had reabsorbed her, “that man over there, just coming up from the pond. Is he Mr Voss?”

Mrs Spicer was startled. “Good God,” she said. “I shouldn’t think so.” She studied him intently. “To tell you the truth, it’s hard to say. We practically never saw him. I don’t believe we ever once saw him face to face.” She squinted, and tipped her head to one side. “It could be … but no, I don’t think so. That man’s a friend of the Taylors, I think. I’ve seen him round. Mr Voss was stockier, heavier than that. Just the same, I wouldn’t take chances. I’d notify the police.”

“The police?” Laura said apprehensively. “Why the police?”

“Well, confidentially,” Mrs Spicer lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to alarm Jilly with the whole story. But I play tennis with Milly Layton whose husband’s a cop. Voss was suspected of murder, you know.”

“Murder?”

“The story is that his wife ran off with another man. He got custody of their daughter, and that was the situation when they moved in here, Voss and his kid. She used to babysit for us, as a matter of fact, when Key was a baby. Lovely girl. Just about Jilly’s age. Could never get a word out of her about her dad or mum, though I poked around. Discreetly, you know. Then one day she just disappeared. His story was that the wife had kidnapped her, but the police weren’t so sure. They couldn’t find any trace of the wife or daughter, and for a while they had a theory he’d murdered them both. Came and dug up the pond because they thought he might have buried them in the mud.”

It seemed to Laura that she could feel the meaning of the gargoyle’s leer seeping into her body like cold water. “But they never found anything,” Mrs Spicer said lightly, “so charges were dropped. Voss went a bit berserk, Milly says. They had to cart him off. All I know is, the police cars came and went, came and went, I don’t know how many times. Then the For Sale sign went up. It was there for months you know. They couldn’t sell it. Word spread, people had a bad feeling about the place. Quite frankly, I say where there’s smoke, there’s fire. You’ve got to wonder what someone was hiding behind all that jungle. I expect you’ll be having it cut back.”

“Oh, well, I grew up in a house like this out past Samford, you see. Right in the rainforest. I like it this way. Mrs Spicer, Jilly says that man drives past when she’s at the bus stop and stares.”

“Really?” Mrs Spicer studied him more intently. “You’ve got to wonder about some of the Taylors’ friends. Bloody peeping Toms, it’s disgusting. Listen,” she said, “I’d inform the police. You can’t be too careful when you’ve got a daughter.” She looked obliquely at Laura. “Especially when you’re managing on your own. Not easy, I’m sure, being a single mother.”

“No,” Laura said.

“Jilly says you’re doing a book on Patrick White’s Voss. Funny, isn’t it? The name, I mean. The coincidence.”

“It is a bit weird,” Laura acknowledged.

“Read Voss in high school. Based on Leichhardt, wasn’t he?”

“More or less, yes.”

“All those explorers were raving lunatics,” Mrs Spicer said. “Well …” She squinted across the lawn. “No, I’m sure that’s not Mr Voss, he’s too shrunken and pale for Mr Voss, but you must call the police. We don’t want pervs in The Gap, it’s a family place. Ask for Milly Layton’s husband. As a matter of fact, I’ll give Milly a tinkle myself.”

“Mrs White,” Sergeant Layton said. “Staring is not a criminal offence. I’m not saying there aren’t loonies around, but if we followed up every phone call we get from a frightened woman, we’d never do anything else, d’ya see what I mean?”

“Yes,” Laura said. “It’s just that … I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have it on the record, you know, in case anything … He drives a red Toyota, my daughter says.”

“Mrs White.” The sergeant spoke in the patient tones of one whose daily task involved fending off — wearily, kindly — hordes of neurotic women. “I have a daughter myself. I worry myself sick about her safety. Know what I do? Tell her never to accept rides from strange men. It’s that simple. Train them to be sensible, know where they are, give them a curfew: that’s all any parent can do.”

But look, she wanted to say. I think I may have done something stupid. I told this man he could come and sit by my pond. I could see he was hurt you see. I could see he was in pain. But that wouldn’t necessarily mean he wouldn’t do harm, would it? And now I’m worried that he’ll read something into my offer, I’m frightened that …

But how could she expose such foolish behaviour to the police? Women ask for it, you know. They’re all masochists at heart, they’re like children really.

She said: “Well, you see, I thought he might be Mr Voss, the former owner. My neighbour says not, and I suppose she would know, but I don’t feel completely certain, and your wife told my neighbour that Mr Voss—”

Sergeant Layton laughed. “My wife,” he said fondly. “Listen, Mrs White. For number one: women embroider things, bless their souls. And for number two: I don’t tell Milly everything. And for number three: we never had anything solid on Voss, he was a routine suspect, that’s all. And as a matter of fact, we got the bodies and the killer on that one. Started off as a kidnap, all right, but then it seems the ex-wife’s fancy boyfriend tampered with the kid — excuse my language, Mrs White, it’s a dirty world. Anyway, the ex-wife threw a tantrum (jealous or maternal, we don’t know which) and the boyfriend went off his rocker and killed them both. We caught up with him west of Port Augusta, found the bodies in the boot of his car. And for final: your Mr Voss cracked up, poor bugger. Stands to reason, dunnit? With his wife running off, then pouf, his kid disappearing, then the bodies.”

And with the police accusing him of murder, Laura thought.

“Your Mr Voss is in the loony bin, poor bugger, so you can set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs White. He’s not the bloke who’s staring at your kid. Set a curfew, and tell her never to accept rides from strange men. All a parent can do.”

“Yes, you’re right of course, Sergeant Layton,” she said.

Jilly woke with a start. It was the middle of the night, quiet as death, so what had disturbed her? The French doors were open on to the verandah and a wisp of breeze barely nudged the humid air. Damp hot silence settled onto damp sheets. So why, Jilly asked herself, every nerve taut and her heart thumping like a rock band’s drum, why do I feel like I’m being watched? Then she saw the man beside her dresser, standing in shadow.

She screamed.

Fast as thought, he left on silent cat feet, and when Laura came running there was no sign, not a single telltale sign save Jilly’s fear.

“It was that man,” Jilly sobbed. “That creepy man was in my room.”

“God, Jilly!” Laura switched on the floodlights for verandah and back porch. She watched the light pick out the curve of lawn that ended in the bamboo. Nothing beyond the bamboo could be seen. “He’s gone now,” she said as calmly as she could. “There’s no one anywhere near the verandah.” She bolted the French doors and all the windows and pulled down every blind in the house and they huddled together on Laura’s bed in the sticky still heat. “It’s okay,” she said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “It’s okay. I’m afraid this is my fault, Jilly. I thought he was Mr Voss, you see. I told him he could come and sit in the garden. It was incredibly stupid.” Jilly was trembling like a live bird held under a cat’s tender paw. Laura said, to calm her: “I do think he’s probably harmless. I think he’s just a very sad man, you know. They say that’s all voyeurs do, they just look.”

“Call the police,” Jilly begged, still shaking.

“Yes,” Laura said. “Yes, of course.”

Laura called the police. We’ll send a squad car, the night dispatcher promised. And in due course — it seemed a very long time to Jilly and Laura — a squad car arrived. There were heavy footfalls on the verandah, and lines of torchlight raking the yard, and then a constable came to the door.

“No sign of an intruder, ma’am,” he said. “Uh, our records indicate you’ve got peeping Tom worries. Understand this is a second report?”

“It was the same man,” Laura explained. “The one who’s been staring at my daughter at the bus stop.”

“Yeah, well, generally harmless, these blokes. Let us know if anything happens.” Then he dropped his voice, confidentially. “Teenage girls, you know, ma’am, very, uh, vivid imaginations.” He dropped his voice still further and whispered: “Hormones.” Then he smiled. “Still, keep us informed.”

“Thank you, officer. I will.” Laura kept her anger tamped down. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” The sarcasm was lost on him, however.

“Any time,” he said cheerily. “Give the kid a hot cup of tea and settle her down. She’ll be right.”

“Bloody police,” she fumed to Jilly.

“Bloody useless police,” Jilly said.

“Yeah,” Laura grinned, cooling down a little. “Bloody hopeless cops.”

They did make tea. It felt good, Laura thought, to have your teenage daughter leaning against your shoulder, cuddling into your arms the way she did when you rocked her through tooth-cutting nights long ago. They sat on the bed with the blinds down, and a candle burning, and talked all night.

“Mum,” Jilly asked somewhere near dawn. “Do you think Dad misses me?”

“Of course he does. How could he not?”

“I mean, really misses me? Or, you know, just feels he should? Or just wants to bug you.”

Laura’s hand paused for a moment, then resumed its stroking of Jilly’s hair. “How do you mean, bug me?”

Jilly sighed. “Well, I phone his office, you know, sometimes, when I’m lonely. Reverse charge, from pay phones. I didn’t want to upset you. Do you mind?”

“It’s natural, Jilly. He’s your dad.”

“His secretary says Dad and Caroline want me to visit them in New York. She says there’s a Qantas ticket waiting in Sydney any time I go and pick it up.”

“I see.”

“But how come I only ever get to talk to his secretary? How come he never calls me? How come he never writes?”

“I don’t know, Jilly.”

“D’you think he really wants to see me?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“It’s a one-way ticket.” Jilly pleated the sheet between her fingers. “D’you think he’ll try to keep me there, Mum?”

“That’s a tough one, Jilly.” Laura sighed. “Your father’s rather used to getting his own way, and to being able to buy anything he wants. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love you. I know he does. ‘You’ll have to decide what you want to do.”

“Mum, I hardly have any friends at school. They think I’m weird. And I’m scared of that man in the red Toyota. Why’s he following me? Why’s he always watching? I’m even scared of the house now. I’m not even gonna feel safe in my own room.” She snuggled into Laura’s arms. “If I promise to come back from New York, will you mind if I go?”

It’s a steal, Laura thought. Her whole body felt like lead, but what could she say? The fears you could feel for a child were bottomless. They could fill the world. Suppose Jilly stayed and the man whom nobody knew … ? She’d never forgive herself. “I’ll miss you horribly,” she said. “But maybe it’s best for now.” Either way, she didn’t think she’d feel any safer.

It was done within days. Laura drove Jilly to the Blue Coach terminal for the deluxe bus to Sydney. Her father’s secretary was to meet her at the other end the next morning, take her to a hotel, put her on the plane for New York. It had all been arranged by Jilly’s father. “Please don’t stay around, Mum,” she said. “We’ll just get weepy if you do, and I hate goodbyes. I’ll be embarrassed for the whole trip.”

“It’s not the kind of thing people mind, Jilly,” Laura said. “Crying at goodbyes.” She wanted to say: I don’t feel safe when you’re out of my sight. I want to drive you to Sydney. I want to sit beside you on the bus, see you safely on to the plane. I want to make certain your father meets you at the airport, I don’t want any New York taxidrivers whisking you off to God knows where. I want to wrap you up in cotton wool.

“Yuck, I hate crying, I hate goodbyes,” Jilly insisted. “I’m nearly fourteen, Mum. I can look after myself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll phone you from New York, I promise.”

“From New York!” Laura cried in alarm. “Phone me from Sydney, okay? Reverse the charges. Phone as often as you like. Phone me when the bus gets in, and phone me from the airport, okay?”

“Mum!” Jilly protested. Sometimes, she thought, parents needed so much protecting, it was exhausting. But at the sight of her mother’s face, she relented. “Yeah, all right.” She gave Laura a quick brusque hug. “But don’t make such a big deal of it, okay?”

“Okay.” Laura watched her daughter, with nothing more than a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wave brightly and disappear into the terminal. She saw the line in her mind’s eye. Laura watched her daughter disappear.

She got into her blue Mazda in the parking lot and sat and listened to the radio for fifteen minutes, then she drove round the block and parked discreetly down the street where she could watch the coach leave the depot. She couldn’t see a thing through the darkened windows, but she pictured Jilly sitting halfway back, resolutely not crying.