The sight of Cartwright entering Strathdee police station earlier in the week showed a different side, however. He is indeed a large man with dark shaggy hair and a long, unkempt beard. On this day he wore tight, faded black jeans, a black heavy-metal t-shirt and scuffed black boots, looking for all the world like a member of a biker gang. But those big hands the witness imagined snapping a photographer in two were being used to gently steer the comparatively tiny Chris Rogers into the station. At one point, Ms Rogers hesitated, appearing to lose her composure, and Cartwright stroked her face with the gentleness of a small child patting a baby rabbit. Ms Rogers responded by squeezing her ex-husband’s hand and flashing him a smile. Arms linked, the two entered the station. Whatever else may be true in this terrible, dark mystery, the bond between these two can be in no doubt.
Meanwhile, at the Haven, Sarah and her colleagues get on with their work, pausing every now and then to glance at Bella’s picture. ‘I don’t like the wording on that poster,’ a nursing aide tells me as she passes through the tearoom. ‘I mean, I get that they had to keep it simple, but it’s the wrong question, isn’t it? We know what happened to her. We need to know who.’
‘And why,’ Sarah adds. ‘Just, God, why?’
Anyone with information related to the murder of Bella Michaels should contact Crime Stoppers or the Strathdee police.
May knew that leaving the TV on all night was a bad habit, but listening to the twenty-four-hour world news channel seemed to be the only way she could avoid crying herself to sleep and waking up with a red-raw throat and punched-closed eyes. Late-night comedy and infomercials weren’t strong enough to stop her mind flashing up a slideshow of Bella Michaels’ body in between thoughts, sometimes accompanied by the sound of Chris Rogers’ roar. And by the third or fourth repeated loop of news stories, the wording and order became familiar and she could drift off.
Still, waking to voices in the room discussing bomb blasts in Syria or a massacre in Kenya was not the most pleasant way to start the day. Almost as awful as being jolted into consciousness by her damn phone.
‘Andrew. Hi.’ She checked the bedside clock: 6.28. Christ. ‘What’s up?’
‘This piece you filed overnight? Not your best work.’
May reached for the remote, muted the TV, swallowed her panic. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Tabloid as fuck, not to mention clearly milking a dead cow, at this stage. But look, I’ve been outvoted on this one so we’re going to stick it up this morning. Simone’s putting together a package with an interactive map of Strathdee, a rundown of the events so far, slide show of pics and all that jazz.’
‘Great. Thank you.’
‘And that will conclude our coverage of Bella Michaels. If they catch someone, if there’s another body, you go back. But save that, the story’s done.’
‘It really isn’t. You have to trust me –’
‘No, it really is. Even if something new did happen there – which it won’t – we just got a tip-off that a woman’s been found raped and strangled right here in Sydney. Jim’s on his way out there now to get the prelims, but this is your beat. So see you here at eight, right?’
‘Andrew, come on. It’s a five-hour drive and I did it in both directions yesterday. I’m knackered.’
‘Christ, May. I told you to pack up and come home on Tuesday. I assumed you’d filed this from up here. Jesus.’ He huffed. ‘Alright, get a move on and I’ll see you here around one. Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ May said. And then, after a pause just long enough to allow the Bella Michaels photos to flash behind her eyes, ‘No. Actually, no. I stay on the Strathdee beat or I quit.’
‘There is no Strathdee beat. There was a story and now it’s run its course. More than run its course.’
‘I know it seems like –’
‘Jesus, Norman. You got yourself a boyfriend there or something?’
‘Yeah, so, okay, I quit.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’ll email my letter of resignation and my final expense claims this afternoon.’
‘You’re fucking nuts.’
She hung up, heart racing. She was fucking nuts. Shit. She dialled her brother.
‘Max, I’ve done something, um, dramatic.’
‘Oh? Sounds exciting.’
‘I quit my job.’
‘That is not exciting. That is . . . Why? I thought it was your dream job?’
‘It was. But . . . It’s not like I thought it would be.’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know, I guess I had delusions of heroism or something. I thought I’d be able to look at all the ugliness and write something beautiful about it and that people would . . . I don’t know. But as it happens, looking at the ugliness is sending me mad and my writing about it is kind of shit.’
‘Your writing is not shit.’
‘ “Tabloid as fuck” is the totally fair review my latest effort received.’
‘Yeah, well, tough story in a shithouse locale where everything’s a cliché. It’ll be better when you get back to Sydney.’
‘No, that’s the thing. My editor wanted me to come back and I said I wanted to stay here and keep reporting this story and that’s when I quit.’
‘Wait. Did you quit because you don’t like being a crime reporter or because you want to do more crime reporting but only from that specific town?’
‘I don’t know. Neither. Both.’
‘You do realise you’re not making any sense, right?’
‘I know . . . It’s like, okay, don’t laugh or roll your eyes or whatever, because I know how this sounds, but I feel kind of traumatised by something that happened. Something that happened and something I saw. I can’t get it out of my head, pictures flashing up when I close my eyes and all that.’
‘Why would I laugh at that? That sounds horrible. Sounds like another good reason to come home, but.’
‘No, listen: it’s like the way I’m feeling is why I know I’m not cut out to be a crime reporter. But now that I’ve seen and heard what I have, I can’t just leave. I need to follow through until the end. Make it right somehow.’
‘May, I don’t want to be harsh, because you’re obviously in a lot of pain but –’
‘No, be harsh. That’s why I call you, to tell me how it is.’
‘You can’t make it right. No one can. That’s why it’s so awful.’
‘But the fear, the injustice. If I write stuff that helps catch the killers, then those things will be made better. And if I can write about Bella properly, like really write about her life and who she was, not just what happened to her, then that’s something, isn’t it? It’s leaving something for her to be remembered by rather than . . .’ May saw the photos again.
‘If the police think you writing about it all will help catch whoever did it, then, yeah, I can see the value. But all that other stuff? Honestly? I think you’re equal parts naive and egotistical if you think anything you write will make a difference to people who’ve lost someone they love in this way. If it were you, there’s not a writer alive who could make even the tiniest smidge of a difference to how I felt. Not a smidge.’
‘You’re right, I know.’
‘But?’
‘I need to see this through.’
‘May, hon, some cases never get solved.’
‘So I need to work really hard to make sure this isn’t one of them.’
‘It might be beyond your control.’
‘And it might not. Look, thanks. You’ve helped. I feel much clearer now. I’m going to go and make some calls, get things happening.’
‘Would you consider doing any of that from Sydney?’
‘No, but I’ll be back soon. The police will find who did this and I’ll be here to report it and then I’ll be home gloating about how wrong you were.’
/>
He sighed. ‘Do you at least have someone to hang out with there? Someone to do non-murder-investigation related stuff with?’
‘No, but then I don’t in Sydney either so –’
‘Nice to know I’m chopped liver.’
‘You know what I mean.’ She felt tears coming. ‘Hey, listen, I need to go. Freelance hustling to start. Thanks though. You always make me feel better.’
‘You know what would make me feel better? You coming home.’
‘I know. Soon. Promise.’
She called Chas, told him she’d be in all day. He came in his lunch break, high-vis shirt and thick navy work pants covered in concrete dust. He only had half an hour and was starving, he said. They fucked quickly and then walked across to the pub, where Chas ordered two steak pies to take away, eating one of them in three bites while May sipped her beer and smoked on the verandah.
He passed the remaining pie from hand to hand. ‘Sorry to love ya and leave ya, but I’ve gotta get back before the boss has a shit attack.’
‘It’s cool. I’m going to hang around here a bit. See what I can dig up.’
Chas held his pie still, looked over her shoulder. ‘Be careful, hey?’
‘Of what?’
‘You know. Girl hanging around a pub on her own.’
‘Yeah? How I met you wasn’t it? Turned out alright.’
‘Not everyone’s as sweet as me. Next time you mightn’t be so lucky.’
‘I’ll take my chances. Thanks for your concern though. I really appreciate it.’
‘Yeah, I can tell.’ He started down the verandah steps, stopped, turned only his head back towards her. ‘Glad you called, hey.’
May watched him cross the road, climb into his truck, pull out onto the road and disappear onto the highway. She finished her cigarette and headed back into the dim cool of the pub, ordered another beer and settled herself at the bar. Everyone knew who she was by now, no point lurking in the shadows.
A middle-aged man in footy shorts and a white singlet leant against the bar an inch from her elbow. ‘How’s it goin’?’ he said to her thigh.
‘Yeah, good. You?’
‘Yep, yep.’ He ordered a beer, turned so he could look directly into May’s face. He was close enough she could’ve counted the broken blood vessels on his swollen nose. ‘You one of them light-skinned Abos or something?’
May held her nerve the way she knew a woman with a near-stranger’s semen turning her undies stiff who had just quit her job in order to follow a nothing story in a shithole town would do. ‘Or something,’ she said.
‘Huh.’ He backed off a little but kept staring at her as he necked his beer, putting it down every so often to check his dick was where he left it.
When he finished his drink he ordered another, pushed his hip against the outside of her leg while he waited. When she didn’t react he picked up his glass and shuffled to the other end of the bar where a trio of drunks leant and gulped and mumbled. ‘Thinks her shit don’t stink, that one,’ he said, settling into the group, his back to May.
‘Pro’ly bottles her piss and tries to sell it as perfume,’ one of the others said, and they all cackled.
The old bloke behind the bar glanced across at May with a small apologetic smile. ‘They’re harmless,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Them too, hey?’
He looked at her blankly.
‘Listen, do you think you could do me a favour?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I really need to get in touch with –’
‘Nah, love.’ He held his hands up. ‘Can’t be having reporters sniffing around. I’m alright with ya drinking here or hanging out with your bloke or whatever, but there’ll be no reporting business. Gotta be firm on that.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
He nodded and moved along down the other end of the bar, leant into the group of men and talked low the way he had to her. She strained to hear. Was he saying Chas? There was laughter and more mumbling and she heard it clearly this time: gash.
Her throat constricted. A word overheard her first year of high school, spoken with thrilled disgust. A moment of puzzling over its use in this context and then the sick surge as she understood. She felt it now, the subterranean hatred. Gash.
Chas had warned her. He knew those men, probably joked with them just like that when no women were around. He had fucked her sweetly but the words must be in his mind. Must be in his like they were in hers. However sweet it was, there was always after and after there was remembering – being reminded – of what you are. Gash, slit, axe wound, cunt.
She felt it again, the craving for the feel of flesh folding around her fist, the vibration up her arm as skull hit wood. She left her half-drunk beer, slid off the stool. Heard the snickering. Stuck up her middle finger as she walked out, feeling like a coward. Like a wretched bloody pussy.
Friday, 17 April
Imagine it from my point of view. All week I’ve had journalists knocking on my door, pushing cards into my hand. More each day it felt like, and I didn’t know if that was because they knew Nate was gone or what, but it was getting so I was never not on edge at home, always waiting for the next knock. Old Grey had promised to personally boot out any reporters who bothered me at work and Suze told me he’d been gathering up all the flowers and teddy bears and prayer cards and other useless, heartfelt shit that people left for me and dropping it at the hospital before I arrived each day. God, I appreciated it. Made me feel that, despite it all, I could relax a little there, just be Chris. Ironic, I’d say, yeah, feeling on display at home but nice and private surrounded by mouthy drunks and gossips.
Anyways, that was where my head was at when I answered a call at the pub and this sweet little voice goes, ‘Chris! At last!’, as though the two of us are old friends who’ve been playing phone tag all week. I ask who it is and the little voice says, ‘It’s May Norman and I am truly sorry to call you at work but it’s so important that I speak to you,’ and I’m about to hang up but that man I stupidly took home the other night is heading for the bar and so I turn my back on him, phone in hand and I say, ‘Important why?’
‘Because, Chris, I’m sorry to say it but the police aren’t getting anywhere and the longer this goes on the less likely it is they’ll find who did this and, you know, I really think more can be done.’ Such a sweet, sweet little girl’s voice. I suspect you know that. Something that can’t be helped but can be put to good use. Girlish voice, the reporter’s version of the barmaid’s big tits.
‘Yeah, like what?’
‘Better news coverage. More publicity.’
‘Fucking hell, you listen –’
‘Chris, I can help you. I can. Sit down with me for one –’
‘You have a hide calling me while I’m here and –’ In my rage I’d turned back around, raised my voice. The man was leaning in close, listening, frowning like he had a right. I dropped my voice, tried for a calmer tone. ‘I just want to be left alone, okay? Please.’
‘Chris, I understand, I do, but one really good, strong, detailed interview that lets the people of Australia really know Bella could make all the difference. I wouldn’t be bothering you like this if I didn’t think so.’
I guess my face showed more than I’d’ve liked because the man leant right over the bar and touched my elbow and mouthed, ‘You okay?’ I pulled back like he’d burnt me and I said, into the phone, but to him really, ‘Okay, yeah, all good.’
And the man watched while I faked a goddamn smile and said, ‘Yep, great,’ while Little Miss Sweetie-pie gushed that she’d see me the next morning at eleven.
I rang Nate at home, because I was really trying to respect his boundaries and only call his mobile in an emergency (as though life itself wasn’t one). Renee answered and so I did the totally-over-it adult thing and asked how she was, how the baby was grow
ing and she said it was all wonderful and I’d have to come up and meet him when he was born, and then she said in this extra-low, concerned voice, ‘And how are you, Chris?’ And I was like ‘fine, fine’ of course, but she wouldn’t let it go, she made a little tutting noise and she said, ‘No, really, Chris, listen – I’ve had a lot of experience with grief and I know how fierce and confusing and overwhelming it can be. You don’t have to say you’re fine if you aren’t.’
I did consider what she said and then considered what a more honest answer to her question would be and then I was torn in half and turned inside out. Sitting there in the back office of the pub with the phone in my hand I became a gaping hole of horror and blackness and despair and Renee said, ‘Chris? You there?’ and I flipped back into my skin the right way again and I said, ‘Yeah, sorry, I can’t talk much now, that’s all. But listen, is your old man there? I need to ask him something, real quick.’
The rest of the night went okay, especially since Grey stayed back to do the accounts and so I could honestly tell that man who was hanging around that I was working late and getting a lift with the boss. I didn’t think much about what had happened when Renee had told me I didn’t have to be fine nor really about what I’d gotten myself into for the next day. I just thought about how Nate had sounded okay about me calling and he’d said he’d try to get down here early tomorrow and that was the nicest thing he’d said to me in a while and it felt good.
At home, though, the good feeling leaked away. Not all at once, but drop by drop as I showered and changed and listened to the radio and drank some tea. Bella’s things were still on the living room floor and so I avoided that room all together, but I knew they were there and it got so the thought of going in and picking them up made me shaky. But then I remembered there was going to be a bloody journalist here in the morning and maybe Nate, too, and so I couldn’t leave it all out there like that and it’d be better to move it tonight or else I wouldn’t get a bit of sleep just from thinking about it and so I steeled myself and marched in there.