As Far as You Can Go (36 page)

‘You’re
mad!’
Cassie says.

‘I suggest you get on with things now,’ Larry says. ‘As normal, as it were. Fred will be here soon, and I’ve a funny feeling –’ he lifts one of his winged eyebrows, ‘that Mara will be hungry.’

‘What was the experiment about?’ Cassie asks.

Larry lean himself against the desk. ‘No harm now, I suppose. In layman’s terms, the effects of chemical alteration on psychosexual behaviour and pair bonding. Subject 4 has provided fascinating data. And Subject 3 has shown an interest in pharmaceuticals herself.’ Larry smiles at Cassie. ‘Haven’t you?’

Graham frowns between her and Larry.
‘What?
’

Larry steps towards the door but Cassie is there before him. She blocks his way and pushes the door so it shuts behind her. Larry’s hand goes to his head. ‘I rather think I do need to sit down,’ he says, face grey, bubble of spit in the corner of his mouth. He lurches towards her and with all the strength of her fear and revulsion she shoves him, two hands hard against his chest. His pale eyes meet hers for a moment and then he falls, Graham could have caught him but he steps aside and Larry falls back, crunching his head against the corner of the desk.

Graham stares at her, at Larry, back at her. Cassie’s hand rises to her open mouth. Larry lies still a moment, eyes empty. Yella licks his face, sniffs at the pooling blood. Larry hauls
himself up and sits down heavily on the chair. His hair flops over his eyes in a stiff plume, exposing the carefully hidden bald spot. The chair swivels away from them, exposing the caved in skull. He makes a gurgling noise in his throat as if about to speak, then exhales, falls forward, head bumping on to the desk. The dog whimpers. The pen that was still clutched in Larry’s hand drops to the floor and rolls across the wooden boards.

They sit in the kitchen. Dim bulb casting grubby shadows. More flies than usual. A tall dance of them, complex column, dark sickly buzz. In the corner, a pile of bloody shirts.

‘We’ve killed someone,’ Graham says. He’s said it many times. Always with the same wondering inflection.

‘It was an accident,’ Cassie says, again.

‘Was it?’

‘It was,’ she says firmly. ‘A fight and then an accident.’

They’ve been round it and round it and done nothing. Presumably Larry will still be lolling forward on the chair, the same expression on his face, the stuff still coming out of his head – or maybe stopped now.

‘The wounds are in the back of his head,’ Graham says, his voice thick. ‘That looks like murder.’

‘Accident.’

‘We’ve killed someone.’

‘We should go.’

‘How?’

‘Car.’

‘We can’t just leave Mara.’

‘No.’

The time passes and the conversation circles round like the flies. ‘Perhaps we should put him somewhere cool,’ Cassie says.

‘Where?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘What about
rigor mortis
?’ She whispers the words and gets a terrible urge to giggle.

Graham gets up to fetch the Scotch from the pantry. Jerks the bottle towards Cassie but she shakes her head. Just the thought of it makes her want to heave.

‘Getting drunk’s not going to help.’

‘Say something obvious, won’t you?’

‘Don’t get at
me.’

She swallows down a sick feeling, remembers with a lurch of shock the life that may be starting up in there. The little bloodspot of dividing cells. That must be protected.

He takes a slug of whisky. Rolls himself a fag.

‘Cassie, we’ve
killed
someone.’

‘It was him or us,’ she presses her palm against her flat stomach, ‘maybe. What do you think happened to the others, Gray?’

He lights his fag and breathes in, stares at her, furrows between his brows. ‘What did he mean?’ he says.

She looks away. ‘About what?’

‘About you taking an interest –’

‘I dunno. He’s mad.’
Was
, she thinks. She brushes crumbs from the table on to her hand then drops them on the floor.

Yella clatters out through the flyscreen and nudges his bowl about with his nose. Cassie goes out on to the veranda to feed him. The moon sails high in a cloudless sky, the hens roost, an owl cries, the night proceeds as if nothing’s happened. Something has to happen. Could they sit here for ever like this? Stuttering in the moment like a stuck film.

‘I guess we should go to bed,’ she says when she goes back in. But they don’t. And eventually something does happen. They hear the sound of Fred’s ute. Almost a relief. Neither speaks. They go out on to the veranda to watch the approaching ball of
dusty light. They stand close but not touching, the whisky bottle dangling from Graham’s hand. It seems like hours before the ute appears through the dust, stops and Fred emerges.

‘Hey,’ he says, slamming the door. Cassie winces at the reverberation picked up by the iron roof and her fillings. He lifts out an eskie and a couple of bags. Puts them down on the step and rubs his arms. ‘I could murder a coffee, love.’ He comes up the steps. ‘What’s up? Got held up, didn’t I? Told Larry I’d be here hours ago.’

‘Come into the kitchen,’ Cassie says.

Fred follows her in and sits down, stretches his legs, spreads out his dusty toes. ‘Got some of them custard creams,’ he says, ‘and steaks for a barbie – too late for you folks? We can have them tomorrow.’

‘Listen,’ Cassie takes a breath ready to speak but Fred is doing a double take at Graham. His face is the colour of ash.

‘Christ, mate, you look rough. Where’s Laz?’ He catches sight of the pile of bloody washing.

‘We –’ Cassie begins but Graham overrides her.

‘We had a fight,’ he says, his voice dry. ‘Me and Larry, it was – we were drunk.’

‘Larry, fight? Don’t make me laugh.’ He looks around. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s dead,’ Cassie says, calmly.

Fred pulls a face, as if it’s a joke. But, seeing their expressions, stops.

A long silence.

‘Stone the flaming crows.’ Fred gapes at them. He gets up from his chair, goes over to poke the bundle of darkly stained washing with his foot. ‘Let’s get this straight. Larry’s
dead
. Where is he?’

‘Study.’

‘Where’s Mara?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘It was a fight,’ Graham says, at the same moment Cassie says, ‘An accident.’

‘Get your story straight.’ Fred looks from one to the other, almost a smile on his face.

‘I killed him,’ Graham says.

Fred pads round the kitchen, stops by the window. The kettle starts to whistle.

‘Why?’

‘Told you, a fight,’ Cassie says. ‘Then an accident. See –’

‘Don’t explain.’ Fred says.

Cassie moves the kettle off the heat. The whistle falls to a sigh. Fred blows, shakes his head. ‘You
sure
he’s a goner? Wouldn’t put it past Larry to come right through that door.’

They all look up at the door.

‘We’ve
killed
someone.’ Graham sounds as if he’s just waking from a dream.

‘Snap out of it, mate,’ Fred says. ‘Maybe I should take a look?’ Nobody speaks. ‘Right.’ He stands bracing himself for a moment, goes out, a door opens and shuts and he returns. Goes to the sink and presses a hand over his mouth. ‘Christ,’ he says. ‘You have and all.’

Cassie makes coffee for the two of them, avoiding with her eyes the charry black flakes on the hot plate. Fred stands with his back to them, staring at the window.

‘Did you know,’ she says, ‘that he was spying on us? That he was
drugging
us? Doing some so-called
experiment.’
Fred turns, his face expressionless. ‘You
did
know! I thought you were –’
straight
, she wants to say,
thought I could trust you
.

Fred opens his mouth as if to speak but shuts it again. He sits down, pulls the mug of coffee towards him.

‘What happened to Lucy and Ben? All their letters are there! All our letters! We thought you were posting them.’

The sugar trickles from Fred’s spoon and dissolves into the black. He takes a breath as if to speak and stops.

‘What happened to them?’

‘Calm down a bit, love.’ Fred speaks quietly, face bleak in the
tired light. He sighs. ‘Lucy was an overdose, accidental, got carried away with his flaming experiment. Ben – well, he had to go too.’

‘Go?’ Cassie’s voice quavers.

‘Took ’em to Wagammara.’

‘To Ziggy,’ Graham says.

‘Nah. He keeps his nose clean, lucky bastard.’

‘Do you mean their
bodies
?’

‘Bottomless pool, least that’s what the Abos say.’

‘But why –’ Cassie starts, ‘why didn’t you go to the police?’

He grips his thumbless hand, like a wounded bird, in the other, looks at her a minute before answering. ‘Told you about me missus and kids. Didn’t tell you I was smashed, did I? Out of my skull. And it wasn’t just them. Ended up inside, fair enough, but I couldn’t hack it. Escaped – only a screw got hurt – accidental but he died later – so I was – reckon I still am, wanted. Four people dead. Four. Not one of them meant.’

He goes across and dabs at the pretty painted faces of his wife and daughters with a stubby finger. Struggles with his voice before he carries on.

‘And Larry found that out. Got it out of me – maybe spiked me beer, I dunno, one night I got talking and couldn’t flaming stop, could I? Then once he knew he paid me to do stuff. And if I didn’t go along with him …’ He spreads his dust-ingrained palms. Cassie looks at the tender dip where his thumb should be. She can feel the slow beat of her heart.

‘After the others, I said to Larry: no more. He promised. No more. Would have topped him, if I’d had the nerve.’ He throws his head back in a mirthless laugh. ‘Four stiffs on me plate and I was too yellow to do Larry in. Deliberately,’ he shudders, ‘kill. Got the shock of me flaming life when I walked into the kitchen and saw you,’ he nods at Cassie, ‘looking so much like –’ he hesitates, ‘like the
other
it wasn’t true.’

‘You could have warned us,’ Cassie says flatly. Tiredness is aching through her suddenly. No idea what the time is, her
wrist too heavy to lift and look. Fred looks at the floor. His sweet bare feet on the filthy floorboards.

Graham mutters something.

‘What?’

‘Car keys,’ he says. His lips look dry and flaky. ‘He told me to get us out.’

‘Not many tears’ll be shed over Larry,’ Fred says. ‘I’ll take him to Wagamarra.’

‘But we have to call the police,’ Cassie says.

‘Listen,’ Fred brings a hand down and the cups jump. ‘You tell the cops and it’ll go like this. I’ll be banged up. Mara – Christ knows – and you – you might both end up inside yourselves.’ He leans back. ‘Or you keep your gobs shut. Go back home. Get on with your lives. Your choice.’

Cassie stares at him. It can’t be that easy. ‘But what about their – the others – their parents? They need to know –’

‘Do you know how many people go missing in the outback, love? They was just another couple of idiots who got out of their depth. That’s what their families’ll think. But you tell the cops and we’ll all be up shit creek.’

Cassie frowns, tries to think straight. ‘So you mean just –
forget it
? Graham?’

But Graham doesn’t answer. His injured hand lies on the table, puffy purple knuckles. He looks so pale.

‘Have some sugar,’ she says, ‘sugar for shock.’

Graham shudders. ‘Drink your coffee,’ Cassie says. ‘Go on.’ But he takes another swig of whisky.

‘Hey, mate.’ Graham starts as Fred reaches for his arm. ‘Look at me. Larry got what he deserved. With his sick games and his sick experiments. You got away with it, right?’

‘If we just
went
– what would happen to Mara?’ Cassie asks.

Fred gets up. ‘I’ll see if she’s awake.’

‘Wait,’ Cassie says, ‘if we hadn’t – if the accident hadn’t – then would
he
have,’ she swallows, ‘killed
us
?’

Fred goes out. The crash of the screen sends a shiver through the snarly column of flies. She could get the spray out and finish them off, the buzzing is driving her crazy. But somehow she can’t. She can’t kill a fly. An ugly smile stretches her mouth and she realises how stiff her face is, her jaw. She yawns her mouth open and it clicks. Graham swigs from the whisky bottle. ‘Please don’t get drunk,’ Cassie says. ‘Drink your coffee.’

‘Will you shut up about the fucking coffee.’

She takes a sip of water. Even the smell of the coffee makes her belly buckle. She burps sourly. ‘Scuse me. Need to pee.’ She looks at the door through into the house. ‘Suppose I might as well –’ She thinks of the clean white bathroom. ‘No one’s going to mind now, are they?’

She stands in the hall and breathes in the still musty air. The door to Larry’s study is shut. She is sick of this, doesn’t want to be in it a moment longer. But there is no way out. She wants her home so badly she can hardly breathe. Her kitchen, her garden, her cat, her bird table, her sister, her friends. She doesn’t care at this moment about anything, not what’s happened, not even Graham. Just wants to be home
now
. Somewhere normal
now
. For all this never to have happened. She closes her eyes and wills,
prays
for this place to disappear, prays for her own view: gingham curtains, holly bush, blue-tits singing, the hill of trees. Snow? But when she opens them, there, of course, is the the study door, the high, dim, airless hall.

She unlocks the bathroom door, stands in the white space, the mirror reflecting her messiness back, never even washed her face or combed her hair this morning. She holds her breath against the sickly smell of sandalwood. Her teeth are dirty. She runs her tongue round them, eyes Larry’s toothbrush, can’t use that.
Could
. A shivery laugh.

She pees, washes her hands, splashes her face with water and buries it in a deep towel. Looks at herself in the mirror. It all makes sense, of course. She watches the reflection of her face as
she makes sense of it. She is mortified to think of the things Larry must have seen, the things he must have heard, the things they said, the lovemaking – that feeling she had of being watched – that night she got wet and stripped off in the kitchen. He was probably
watching
. That night. He must have planned it. He must have watched her strip off, dropped something in her wine, watched as if took effect and then –