‘Selfish bitch.’
‘Yeah, love you, too.’
At the police station she had a chat with the sweet young guy on the front desk who, it turned out, was not only one of the first response officers when the body was called in but also knew Bella personally. May asked if she could buy him lunch and he blushed and told her he could meet her at Frederica’s – ‘it’s in the mall, but really nice, not in the food court or anything’ – at twelve, and then she hotfooted it out of there before someone with guile or experience came along to ruin things.
She drove over to the nursing home, but turned around when she saw the Channel 7 van out front. Next was the sister’s house, where the door was answered by a bearded giant who told her that Chris wasn’t doing interviews. When May persisted, asking him if he might like to say a few words about the deceased, he told her that she should be ashamed of herself for harassing the grieving.
May almost told him that harassing the grieving was the least of what she was ashamed of, but her remaining morsel of dignity asserted itself in time. She thanked him and, after he closed the door in her face, slid her card underneath it. She dragged her shameful self up and down the street, knocking on doors, collecting a handful of tidbits that would do if they had to, then headed to the mall to meet the young cop.
She still had fifteen minutes before he was due, so she spent the time talking to smokers leaning against the grey, rippled concrete walls, grabbing a few more quotes, each a variation on the same theme. It could’ve been me. Could’ve been my daughter. Could’ve happened to any of us.
Constable Matt Drey was five minutes early, grinning from oversized ear to ear. He took her elbow as they entered Frederica’s and pulled out her chair to seat her.
‘What’s good here?’
His grin, impossibly, got bigger. ‘Oh, everything. I’m a bit biased, but. It’s me aunty’s place.’
‘Your aunty is Frederica?’
‘Nah, nah. Her name’s Jo, but you can’t call a restaurant that, can you?’
No, May thought, but then this isn’t really a restaurant, is it? She asked him to order for them both, which seemed to be the best thing that had happened to him for a long while. The waitress was a girl he obviously knew well, though not, from what May could tell, a relative or girlfriend. May was a bit concerned the girl didn’t take in anything Matt said, so busy was she looking at May from under her heavily augmented eyelashes. If Matt noticed, it only added to his air of extreme contentment. May wondered if she should ask him if their engagement would be official once they’d finished the meal.
‘So, um, I hope you don’t mind, but I looked you up. Like, on the internet not on the database or anything. Ha ha ha ha.’
‘Hey, nothing to hide here.’
‘Nah, I never thought that. It’s just the name of the newspaper on your card, I hadn’t heard of it, so I thought I should check it out and that.’ He knocked back half a glass of water in one go, then added reassuringly, ‘It looks like a really good publication. You should talk to Mr Chin at the newsagency about stocking it here.’
‘Oh, no, it’s digital only.’
‘Like, just a website?’
‘We call it a newspaper because that’s the format, but it’s not printed on actual paper, no. Our subscribers get a full edition sent to their iPads or whatever each morning and the website updates all day and night.’
‘And you make money from that?’
‘Well, I get paid a salary. The owners will make money at some point, I guess, but it’s a new venture. Only been operating a couple of months, so, ah, not exactly a cash cow at this point.’
‘Huh.’ He sat back, nodded. ‘And, um, your profile thingy on the site said you grew up in Sydney but, like, hope you don’t mind me saying but you don’t look like you – I mean, like, are your parents from . . .’
May kept her pleasant, neutral reporter face in place. Let the silence hang.
He swallowed nothing. ‘. . . from overseas somewhere?’
‘Nope, both born and raised in the western suburbs of Sydney.’
‘Yeah? Huh. Alright! Here comes the pumpkin soup. Aunty Jo makes it herself and never skimps on the cream. So what’s it like being a crime reporter up in Sydney? Bet you’ve seen some exciting stuff.’
‘Oh, please, you’re a cop. You wouldn’t bat an eyelid at anything I’ve seen.’
‘I dunno. Sydney’s a whole different kettle of fish, I’d reckon. Round here, don’t see much worse than pub brawls and domestics. Up till now, anyhow.’ He scooped a dripping spoon of soup into his gob, swallowed. ‘Yeah, I’d be pretty happy to go the rest of my life without seeing anything like that again.’
May itched for her notebook. ‘Pretty bad, huh?’
‘You ever seen anything like that?’
‘Like . . .?’
He glanced towards the counter then leant forward. ‘A murder. Body all messed up.’
‘Not like that, no.’ May hoped her tone suggested the viewing of countless other kinds of bodies messed up in different but no less traumatising ways rather than the embarrassing truth, which was that she’d never even been to the scene of a murder before this morning, let alone caught a look at a body. Six weeks ago she was still the senior reporter at the tiny community paper she’d been hired at as a cadet. The AustraliaToday job wasn’t any better paid, but it was an opportunity to do the kind of work she’d wanted to since uni. It had taken her so long to get to it partly because journalism jobs were few and getting fewer all the time, and crime reporter positions in particular were held by old-timers who gave the impression they wouldn’t hesitate to use some of the underworld tactics they’d learnt on the job if some upstart tried to push in on their beat.
But even so, she probably could’ve done more to advance her career. Some time in her mid-twenties she’d stopped nagging her editor to let her write longer-form pieces, stopped subscribing to any industry e-news because it made her feel bad to see people she’d been at uni with getting city and national jobs or being nominated for Walkleys. She stopped boring her friends with rants about advocacy journalism and how when she finally had a high-profile position she was going to . . . What was it she’d been going to do? End sexism, racism, homophobia and poverty? Bring about world peace? She couldn’t remember exactly. What she did remember was drinking cask wine on the floor of her share-flat and realising mid-rant that her friends were swapping cringes and side-eying the fuck out of her. She’d gone to the bathroom and in the mirror she saw a puffy, transparent, needy loser. Pathetic to reflect on it, but she’d felt that way ever since. Until Craig . . . No, fuck him. Focus.
‘Seeing her in particular – someone you knew – it must have been really distressing.’
‘I’ll tell you something, Miss Norman –’
‘May.’
‘I’ll tell you, May, there are some things a person is better off not ever knowing and what a body left wrapped in a tarp in the rain for two days smells like is one of them.’
‘So when you got there she was . . .’
‘C’mon now, let’s leave all that. Eat your soup before it gets cold or Aunty Jo’ll be wild.’
After soup and garlic toast and chicken schnitzel with pasta salad, accompanied by questions about where she lived in the city, whether she’d ever been robbed, what kind of security she had on her place and what car she drove, May managed to slide in another question about Bella Michaels. The food must’ve sharpened him up though, because he said he couldn’t really tell her anything and definitely nothing on the record. She suspected he actually didn’t know much about the investigation anyway, but that was okay. The stuff he shared when she encouraged him to talk more about the town was detailed enough that she at least had a good idea now of who she needed to hunt down.
He wouldn’t let her pay for the enormous meal, asked her if they could do it again sometim
e. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know how long I’ll be in town. It all depends on –’
‘Us doing our jobs and getting you more stuff to report.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Speaking of, I better get back to the station.’ He lurched forward as if for a kiss. May caught his arm and slid her hand down to force an awkward shake. ‘Ah, righto. Um, see ya.’
He ambled off towards the street. May found the public toilets and did her best to get rid of the lunch, though it had taken so long to eat that half of it was too far gone to get back now.
Walking to her car, she switched her phone off silent and saw she had a message. She dialled in, stopped short in the middle of the car park at the sound of his voice.
‘May, it’s me.’
Fuck. A car beeped politely, she waved and continued walking, the phone pressed hard to her ear.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about that message. I had to, but . . . I need to see you. I know I said . . . Jesus, I miss you. I can’t get away for long, but maybe, I don’t know, we’ll figure something out. Um, don’t call me back, because – well, you know. I’ll, ah, try again when I can.’
May made it to her car and collapsed into the seat. Her finger hovered over his name. But he said don’t. If she did and his wife was there it would get him into trouble and then he’d be mad at her and then . . . Fuck. She put the phone in her pocket. He’d call back. He would.
May spent the afternoon with a man who’d lived next to Bella Michaels’ mother until her death. He had some good colour for her, but it was so embedded in endless, interconnected stories about each and every person who’d ever lived in the street and their relatives and their jobs and what they’d done in the bloody war (which one, May had no idea and could not risk asking), that two minutes’ worth of information took almost three hours to extract. May touched the phone in her pocket so often that if the man hadn’t been almost blind he might’ve thought she spent the whole time masturbating.
At four o’clock she dropped the car back to the hotel then walked across the road to the pub where the fragile, tracksuit-wearing sister worked. The deep red carpet was streaked with sunlight from the glass panels set high on the front wall. There were four small clusters of drinkers spaced through the room and three loners sagging over the bar. A big-screen TV silently broadcast a game show. She bought a beer from an old man with a silver tooth then took a table near the back wall.
To her left and slightly in front were four men in high-vis shirts and King Gees. Two of them were younger than her – a pinch-faced redhead and a far too good-looking sandy-haired surfer type. The third man was in his late thirties and unusually tall; his shirt, pants and face lacked the grey dust speckled over the others. The fourth man had his back to her, but judging from his slumped posture and white hair, he was older than all of them.
‘Yeah, you gotta do it. Least if you want them to do it back to ya,’ the young redhead said.
‘That’s the thing, hey,’ his sandy-haired mate agreed. ‘If it’s just a one-nighter then fuck it, but if it’s your girl, like long term, and you ever wanna get your knob polished, then you’ve gotta get down there now and then.’
‘Fucking faggots,’ the oldest one said.
‘Faggots don’t eat pussy, you moron.’
‘I dunno what to call youse. I just know you won’t ever find me eating something that can get up and walk away.’
‘So dead chicks and cripples only, eh. Knew it, you sick bastard.’
‘Oi.’ The tall man said it softly, but the young blokes flinched as if he’d bellowed and exchanged a look, like kindergarteners busted painting their faces instead of the paper. ‘Have a bit of fucking respect.’ His head jerked backwards towards the bar. ‘What if Chris’d heard that?’
‘Shit. Didn’t think, hey.’
‘She’s not even here, you soft cunt,’ the old man said.
‘Maybe she’s out the back. Maybe she’s walking in any minute. Maybe that bird listening to every word we say is her friend, gonna run off and tell it all.’ Fast, he looked up, met May’s eyes. ‘Or maybe she’s a cop. Sussing out who’s saying what. That it, love?’
May held his gaze for as long as she could bear – two seconds, three – then raised an eyebrow, shrugged and picked up her phone. She scrolled through her emails, picked one at random, began to read it word by word.
‘Oi. Asked you a question.’
She didn’t look up. ‘You did? I’m sorry. What was it again?’
Several beats and then a sinewy, blond-furred forearm on her table, right by her hand. ‘You a copper?’
May clicked her phone screen off, smiled up into the tall man’s sun-burnt face. ‘No.’
‘You know Chris?’
‘Never met her.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You work for a paper?’
‘Sort of.’
The man tapped his fingers on the table. ‘What’s that mean? “Sort of”?’
‘I’m a reporter for AustraliaToday, it’s a digital news site. That’s –’
‘I know what it is. What d’ya want with Chris?’
‘I didn’t say I wanted anything with her.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not an idiot and you stick out like dog’s balls, you know that?’
She tried another smile. ‘Are you always this aggressive with strangers?’
‘Yes.’ His face didn’t crack.
‘Wow. Um, okay. Best not be a stranger then.’ May pushed her hair behind her shoulder, held out her hand. ‘I’m May Norman and I’d love to buy you a drink.’
He stiffened, snatched a look back over his shoulder where his mates were smirking into their beers. ‘Nice name, that,’ he said, taking her hand, squeezing for a second, releasing. ‘I’m Chas.’ He smiled, bright and kind. ‘And I’m buying.’
He turned on his heel and stalked towards the bar, stopping to murmur into the air between his mates on the way. The redhead cackled loudly and the old bloke slapped him on the back. May fiddled with her phone, reminding herself she was good at this and in control and that getting the story was more important than feminist principles – or no, not even that, it was that feminist principles demanded she tell the truth about this heinous act of violence against a woman and the blokey, misogynist community in which it happened, and if that required flirting with one or more of said blokey, misogynist community members then that was for the greater good.
I woke just after nine. Early for me. Straight away I knew Bella was dead and that I had drunk too much and that Nate had gone. I knew everything right away. I lay in bed and lived with it as long as I could and then I got up and went out to the kitchen. My legs and back ached and when I held the kettle under the tap to fill it, I noticed my hands trembling. I felt weak and empty and shaky, but the thought of food made my stomach clench. I had done damage to myself in the night – the drinking and weeping and passing out on the floor – but this was something else. I felt like something had been ripped out of me. Something important. A lung or kidney. Maybe a few ribs. Not my heart. That kept bloody pounding.
I imagined Bella coming in and fussing over me, feeling my forehead, insisting I go back to bed. Instantly, I saw that I had become one of them, the people she cared for, hunched over the table, my hair lank, my dressing gown pilled and faded, my body racked with mysterious pains, my mind not yet gone enough that I didn’t understand I was losing it. This is what it’s like to be old, I thought.
The kettle clicked off and I shuffled over to the bench to make some coffee. A movement caught my eye and I looked through the window and there she was in her nursing home uniform, looking right at me, hair scraped back so I could see every bit of her unmarked face. Unmarked except for the vertical line between her brows. She was frowning something wicked, must’ve known I’d been boozing up and carrying on like a kid.
My bod
y understood before my mind. I was still thinking what to say to her to make her stop being angry when my legs went out from under me. I grabbed at the edge of the sink and slowed my fall but my ankle turned as I hit the ground and I wasted seconds rubbing it. When I pulled myself up, she was gone.
I actually believed for a few seconds that she must be coming around to the front door. I watched the space, waiting for her to fill it and then it wasn’t like anything changed, I just knew that she wasn’t and wouldn’t and hadn’t been.
‘I’m in shock,’ I said out loud, and it must’ve been true because I heard her voice then, saying, You’re shocking, that’s for sure.
I was making the coffee when my phone rang. Unknown number, but I answered it anyway. I’d never do that now, but this was early days. I didn’t get that a bunch of strangers saw themselves as lead characters in a thrilling story which began with the discovery of a pretty dead girl, who happened to have been played by my sister.
Feel free to take that personally, by the way.
Anyway, that morning I answered the phone and a woman said, ‘Chris? It’s Monica Gordon,’ in a tone that made me think I knew her.
‘Oh. Hello,’ I said, my brain scrambling to place her.
‘Oh, Chris, I’m so very sorry for your loss. It’s the most terrible thing. I’ve been beside myself since I heard. How’re you holding up?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I said. I was stumped. She sounded young, but like someone used to being listened to. Someone from the nursing home head office? One of Bella’s school friends who’d moved to Sydney for uni?
‘I can’t imagine. I just can’t.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me calling you directly like this, but the police liaison wanted me to go through this whole rigmarole and when I realised you were listed in the phone book I decided it was better if I just looked you up and –’
‘Wait, sorry. I’m a bit dazed at the moment. I’ve lost the thread here. Who are you?’
‘Monica Gordon. I’m with Femolition. We’re a feminist activist coalition. I’m sure you’ve seen the interventions we’ve been making into the public discourse around Bella’s death and –’