An Isolated Incident

  ‘But the thing I read last night described the girl exactly.’

  ‘As I bet the guide did during your tour. Seems likely you heard the story and all your teen angst emo combined with your excitable imagination and created this image which was not dissimilar to the image other people who have heard the story have imagined.’

  ‘The guide didn’t tell us that story. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Well, you heard it on the bus on the way in or from someone whispering up the back. Trust me on this, high schoolers adore local ghost stories. Especially ones involving sex and violence. That’s always been true. Stories like that one would’ve been told and retold by generations of kids.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  ‘Yeah definitely. Look, when are you coming home? We miss you.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Mum, Jason, me. Probably other people do too, but I don’t know them so can’t say for sure.’

  ‘I’ll be here a while longer. I’m just starting to build a real rapport with this woman.’

  ‘And money? Are you building a rapport with some money?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, is that you?’

  ‘We’re worried about you. You know, the whole not having a job and therefore not getting paid thing.’

  ‘I will get paid. I just have to put the work in first. Until then I have some savings. It’s fine.’

  ‘And so you put the work in and get paid for this article and then what? Hope there’s an arrest? Hope there’s a long drawn-out trial? Hope there’s a twist and a new arrest at the last minute so you can get another long drawn-out trial?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘I’m just saying. It’s not a life plan.’

  ‘No, it’s not a life plan, but it’s not as scatty and nasty as you make it sound either. This is a story I care about. A lot, actually. I’m thinking of turning the article into a book, as a matter of fact.’

  He was silent a second. ‘A book. Okay. That’s interesting. Means you can apply for some grants, get some funding.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She typed ‘book funding grants’ into Google. ‘It’s in process.’

  ‘Well . . . okay. I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You can still come home though. Work on the book in between other work and hanging out with your brother?’

  ‘I’ll try to come and visit soon, okay?’

  ‘Alright. You take care. And stay away from GhostHunter dot com or whatever the fuck it is. Crazy is catching, you know.’

  Interview transcript

  28 April 2015

  Arthur Tomesberry, Strathdee Historical Society

  When we spoke a few weeks ago you said you thought this area was haunted. Can you tell me more about that?

  Yeah, well, there’s the massacres. I use the plural advisedly. No written records, but the stories have come down and even if they hadn’t, it’s common sense.

  Common sense?

  This was no terra nullius. This was inhabited land. Long inhabited. Deeply and well inhabited. And then, within a couple of years, it’s like the blacks were never here. You think it’s likely every last one of them just shrugged and wandered off, leaving it all to the new arrivals? Pull the other one. Read the official history and between each line of text is a paddock full of bodies.

  And when you said the region is haunted, you meant it metaphorically?

  Yeah, well, no. I mean, I’m not saying there’s white-sheeted characters flying about. I’m saying there’s rivers of blood soaked into the soil here and once you’re aware of that you’re aware of it.

  What about more literal hauntings, Mr Tomesberry? Any reports of them around Strathdee?

  White-sheeted characters flying about?

  Or similar. I noticed there’s a ghost tour on your brochure.

  [Chuckles] Look, offer a historical cemetery tour and you get one or two researching their family history. Call it a ghost tour and you get a busload. I only tell the stories that have a good amount of documented history behind them. And you know, it’s not like I invent the ghosts, it’s just I’ve never seen ’em personally.

  You should come along and see for yourself, anyway. We only hold ’em every six weeks or so this time of year. Next one’s third Friday night in May.

  If I’m still in town, I’d love to come along. In the meantime, tell me your best Strathdee ghost story. The one that comes closest to scaring even you.

  [Laughs into coughing fit] Sorry about that. Scares even me, hey? Well, I’ll tell you there’s one grave up in the old cemetery that – look, I’ve never seen or heard anything myself, but the reactions I’ve seen in some of the tourists, well, that’s been enough to give me some real shivers, I’ll admit.

  The grave’s sunken pretty badly and the stone can hardly be read. Sarah Harley or Hurley we think it was, but there were a lot of ladies with similar names around the time, living here and around and passing through. It’s hard to know for sure who she was and so there’s no story to this one. With the figures some folk see in the window of the Anglican church, say, I can tell all about the history of the place, how the priest’s little boy died tragically there and all that, but this grave I have nothing to tell. It’s not even on the official tour map. But time and again it’s the one that gets the scares.

  Some blokes – not all or even most, understand; some say that as they walk towards her grave, within five or ten feet I’m talking, they hear this high-pitched scream. Woman’s scream. Like I said, I’ve never heard it, but I’ve seen tough old blokes and slick city fellas alike turn heel and bolt, and afterwards they say that’s what made them run.

  Funny thing about this one is that it’s always the men. I’ve never had a female hear the scream or get spooked there at all.

  And you don’t know anything about the woman buried there?

  Ah, there are stories, but I can’t find evidence for a single one of ’em, so I won’t tell ’em.

  Not even to me?

  Not even to you. From me you get facts, that’s all. If it’s gossip and gruesome stories you want, talk to Bev next door in the teashop.

  Interview transcript

  28 April 2015

  Beverly Grant, Strathdee Historical Society Tea and Gift Shop

  Arthur tells me you’re the person to speak to about Sarah Harley, why her grave frightens people.

  Well, I can’t tell you why it frightens some gentlemen but I can tell you what I’ve heard about the lady herself.

  Heard from where?

  Arthur’d call it gossip. I call it oral history. There are people in Strathdee whose families have been here since before the town had a name. We’re trying to record as many of the stories as we can before all that knowledge has passed. Arthur’s a stickler, though. He won’t let us write anything up in the brochures or on the website unless there’s independent verification. Me, I think we should have a little section on the website that’s just for stories people tell, if you see what I mean. Not claiming it all as fact, just sharing the stories people tell and letting visitors and readers decide for themselves about it all.

  And what are the stories about Sarah Harley?

  Well, there are a few, and we can’t be sure if they’re all about the same woman – it was a common enough name – or if any of the Sarahs are the same as the one buried up there, but, anyway . . .

  It’s said that Sarah Harley or Hurley arrived in the colony on the Friendship in 1818, transported for stealing a pair of britches, or some say it was a shirt. She was seventeen or so. There was talk of licentiousness on board – licentiousness meant sex, I suppose. Whether willing or not we can’t say. Once in the colony she was a well-behaved girl, served her sentence without incident and earned her freedom. Freedom from prison, anyway; she was married off as soon as she left the place. The husband was wealthy, do
n’t know by what means. Sarah bore him eight children.

  One night she was walking home – from where? Why? We don’t know – when a gang of men set upon her. ‘In a fit of lust’ the men killed her, it’s said. She was raped to death is what that means. Her body was dumped in front of her house for her husband and kids to find. That’s one story.

  Another story goes that Sarah was never a mother of eight, never a wife and never a convict, though her parents both came out on the convict ships. She was seventeen and so pretty you could choke. Even though her mum was a lady of the night and her dad a thief, Sarah thought she was Princess Mary. One night she was walking home – again from where and why no one ever says – when a gang of men set upon her. ‘In a fit of lust’ they killed her. They left her body where it lay.

  Now I don’t know which is true, or if neither are, but the similarities suggest at least that whoever she was, and whatever the story of her life, her death was a terrible one.

  I don’t know what Arthur told you about the grave. He’s an old sceptic that one, but plenty of people around here will tell you that if you visit you might hear her screaming and you might run. If you are a man you will likely fall and get a mouthful of dirt. Some of them say they’ve felt for a second that this might be how it ends. After, they might say it was nothing, probably some kid mucking around, tripped on a root; the trees here are so old, they’re bursting up from beneath. But some will insist they felt the cold of Sarah’s hands around their throat.

  I’ve also heard from some ladies who’ve seen Sarah perched in a tree over the grave. But if she’s in the tree and there’s a man there he won’t see her but he might feel her nails on his cheeks or back, hear her screams and pleas for mercy. One young fella said he was knocked to the ground from behind and fell hard on what felt like a body.

  Have you ever seen or felt anything there?

  Nothing like any of that, no. But there’s a feeling there to be sure. You go on up and you can’t help thinking about the stories, can’t help thinking . . . Well, it’s awful to say but you can’t help wondering what it would’ve been like. Raped to death. I do imagine her screams and fear when I’m up there, of course. If some people hear them for real, then I’m not surprised, not one bit.

  Do you think Bella Michaels’ story will resonate like Sarah’s? Will you start to hear stories of her haunting people?

  I think that is a very insensitive question.

  I’m sorry. It’s just that the similarities are so –

  No, we don’t know what happened to Sarah, we just imagine from stories. We do know what happened to Bella. She was set upon. To death. Her body left. [Sobs] I can tell you what will happen if you visit her grave. You will hear nothing but the birds and see nothing but stone and grass and sky and dirt because that poor girl is dead and no amount of nasty poking and digging from the likes of you is going to change that.

  I didn’t want to risk another tantrum from Bella so I spent the afternoon at Lisa’s, helping her bottle some pears, and then went on to work from there. It was an okay night. Good mix of regulars and travellers, busy enough to stop my mind going to dark places but not so busy I couldn’t duck out to the kitchen for a sip of beer and couple of chips every so often.

  Near closing time, I was chatting to Lynn about her grandson, who’s just started uni down in Melbourne. I was behind the bar and Lynn was propped up against it, an empty glass in front of her. I always try and talk to her a bit in between drinks. Slow her down a bit, you know?

  Anyway, out the corner of my eye I saw that man coming through the door and my guts dropped. I kept talking to Lynn and he kept walking in a straight line towards me. He sat beside Lynn and ordered a beer, which I got for him while managing not to look at his face. He kept sitting there, not saying anything, and after a bit it got so I couldn’t stand it and I had to leave Lynn alone with a fresh gin rather than stay there a second longer.

  I went out to the kitchen and I must’ve looked wrong, because Nadine stopped her pot scrubbing and came over, asked me if I was right.

  ‘Just this fella hanging around again. Bloody pain in my arse.’

  ‘Which one is it?’

  I told her and she raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s a bit of all right, that one. You could do worse.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, just not up for any of that right now.’

  ‘Not like you, Chris,’ she said, but friendly-like.

  ‘Ha. I know, right? Just with everything . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know, mate. I know.’ She patted my arm, so stiff and awkward I nearly burst into tears. I plastered on a smile and went back out before I lost it.

  He was waiting there. Definitely nice-looking. I can’t explain why I didn’t want him, only that I’d always had that feeling about him and being with him made it worse. It was like I couldn’t hint or joke my way out of anything. Most blokes, you can make it clear you’re not into them or what they’re doing, but in a light way. They get it, they back off. Him, I felt it was fight or let it be and he put things in a way that made fighting seem an overreaction.

  That night he stayed until close and when I said (smiley, jokey) that it was time to hit the frog and toad, he nodded and left and I hoped that was it but my guts knew different, and when I walked out into the car park there was his truck and him leaning against it. He turned, opened the passenger door and stood there like that, his hand on the door, just looking at me.

  ‘Oh, hey, I’m actually off to a mate’s place tonight. She lives near here so I’m going to walk on over, crash there. Catch you later, hey?’

  He must’ve seen I was scared, tripping over my words and almost tripping over my feet. Maybe he didn’t, maybe he did and didn’t care. Or liked it. I don’t know.

  ‘Nah.’ He took hold of my upper arm. Not hard. I could’ve pulled away. ‘No point walking. I’ll drive you.’

  I made myself look at him. His lips made my skin crawl, firmed up my determination. ‘Seriously, it’s so close. I’ll walk. G’night.’ I stepped away and he dropped my arm.

  ‘Come on, Chris. Not safe walking around here, you know that better than anyone. What if I let you go and then something happened to you? How’d I feel then?’ His hand on my arm again, gentle, turning me around, walking me towards his truck. I could’ve kneed him in the balls and made a run for it, but that seemed extreme. See what I mean?

  He helped me up into the cab of his truck. I strapped in and then pulled out my phone, texted Nate: Tell Mel I need to crash at his place, explain later. ‘Just letting her know I’m on my way,’ I told the man.

  He scratched his face. ‘Thought it was close? You’ll be there before she has time to read it.’

  My phone buzzed and he looked at me hard. The engine was running but we hadn’t left the car park. I read the message: I’m at Mel’s now. U ok?

  Yep C U soon. I turned my phone to silent, told the man the address.

  ‘Other end of town.’

  ‘S’pose. Never seems far when I walk it.’

  The drive was fine. He didn’t touch me, didn’t even speak. Bloody hell did I feel tense, though, holding my phone so tight I’m lucky I didn’t crush it to bits, my other hand around the door handle, ready to squeeze it open the second we stopped. I don’t think I took a proper breath until we turned into Melvin’s street, but then I saw the brick outline of Nate beside the letterbox and my throat closed up.

  ‘Ha,’ the man said, bringing the truck to a stop. ‘Funny. That’s your ex there, innit?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. His mate Mel’s married to my friend Julie. Didn’t realise he was in town, but.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’ I unsnapped my belt.

  His hand closed on my thigh. ‘You coulda just told me you had plans.’

  ‘I did. Plans to stay at my friend’s house.’

  He smiled, real nasty. ‘Yeah. Ri
ghto. Whatever you say.’

  ‘What I say is that I don’t wanna see you again. Got it?’ I opened the door, jumped to the ground in one go, came down hard on my ankle. Bloody Nate was charging over.

  ‘You right?’

  ‘Yeah, all good,’ the man called down. ‘Just a misunderstanding.’

  Nate’s attention was fully on the man. ‘Yeah. What kind of misunderstanding?’

  ‘Nate, leave it.’

  ‘Ah, you know what she’s like, mate. Mixed messages and that.’

  ‘Yeah, well here’s a clear message: get fucked.’

  ‘Nate.’

  The man opened his door, stepped down from the cab. Nate walked around to meet him on the road.

  ‘Listen, mate, you should know she’s not right in the head. Comes on to me, goes to town, yeah, then ice cold, plays hard to get, and then she’s all over me again.’

  ‘Please just leave,’ I said as if either of them were listening to me.

  ‘Messes with a man’s head, you know?’

  I saw Nate trying, God love him. I saw him try. His fists were clenched so hard by his side. ‘Yeah, well, she’s been clear now.’

  The man raised his palms. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Just, you know, don’t shoot the messenger, but you should watch out for her. Most whores, if they give you a freebie and cling to you all night like white on rice, it means something. This bitch –’

  Nate punched him in the stomach, then grabbed him by the hair and smashed the back of his head into the truck. I told him to stop but it was as though I wasn’t even there. The dull thump of Nate slamming the man into the truck followed me halfway down the street and the sound of the man’s flesh splitting open replayed in my brain for the entire forty-minute walk home.

  Wednesday, 29 April

  May waited a full minute after knocking and then called Chris’s mobile. She heard it ringing on the other side of the door and then Chris’s voice coming through the phone and through the door at once.