Goodwood (28 page)

‘Jude—' he started.

‘I've made up my mind, Mack. I know it's hard to understand!' A nervous laugh came down the receiver. ‘
Ha ha ha!
I know, I know. But he feels
so
awful, Mack. He really does. He's been so good since he got home—very caring, and helping me and stuff. Just
so
much better.'

Mack said, ‘I'm coming over,' and hung up before Judy could protest.

When he got to the White house, Carl was gone.

‘He's out,' said Judy White, meekly. ‘He was already out when I called you. He really had to go out.'

Terry White hovered in the kitchen and gave Mack a look to indicate that this, and everything else, was complete bullshit. Mack gave Terry what he could of a nod without Judy noticing. Terry went on to his room.

‘Jude, no part of me wants to do this,' said Mack.

‘Yes, well,' said Judy.

They went back and forth for a few minutes, Mack persisting and Judy holding her ground. She really seemed to be digging her heels in, even in her slippers.

Mack said, ‘I can still go forward without your cooperation but it'll make it very difficult—if you would just . . .'

Judy cut him off. ‘I'm sorry, Mack, but I want him here,' she said. ‘He's not forcing me. Terry needs to have his dad around. He should have his dad. After everything. Terry needs him.
I
need him.' She verged on quivering now, her voice wobbled.

Mack stood, because he hadn't been offered a chair. Judy looked like she'd said all she wanted to say.

‘At least tell me what the fight was about,' Mack said.

Judy studied the ground like it was suddenly very interesting. She kept her arms crossed, defiant.

Mack raised his police voice. Hands on his hips, his tone almost hostile, he pushed: ‘Judy, you tell me what it was all about. It was about Rosie wasn't it? This is serious, Jude. She was . . . She
is
. . .' He shook his head. ‘If you know something, you can't protect him.'

‘It wasn't
about
Rosie!' said Judy, and tears sprang into her eyes. She made a heaving noise. She breathed in hard, sucking back a sob, and the sound of it was animal.

Mack didn't know what to do. He stood perfectly still.

Another animal sound was emitted, and then another—guttural, primal—and he could not believe she'd produced them.

‘Steady on,' he said. ‘Steady on.'

‘It wasn't
about
Rosie,' heaved Judy. ‘It was about
money.
'

An uncomfortable moment followed in which they stood opposite each other and stared.

‘Money,' said Mack, deadpan. He did not believe her and Judy could see it. She could see it and what could she say? All she could do was steady herself and explain. It was against her very nature: to explain. She was used to shaking off the intrusions of Opal Jones. She was used to closing her bedroom door and keeping what happened there behind it. But now here was Mack, and how it all looked, and what with
everything
. Judy knew she had no choice but to open herself up and explain that the night Carl had taken to her—the night he had made a sorry sack of her body with his belt, and she
had crumbled and broken before him—they had fought, of all the silly mundane things, about money.

Carl had a problem: a big one. The pokies. They were his mistress, and sometimes, when Judy lay awake at night, she wished he had a real mistress instead; instead of those machines that sat and jingled and took everything—took every cent of savings they had; every bit of Carl's self-worth; every bit of everything.

It'd been a problem for a long time and, while no one spoke of it in front of Carl, everyone in the White house knew it. The night in question, Judy had gone to the tin she was keeping up in the top back corner of their built-in wardrobe, behind the suitcases. It was a lovely metal tin with roses on it, and she had bought it at the Sweetmans Park markets when Rosie was just newly born. Judy found a new hiding spot for it every few months. She worried terribly about money, or their lack of it, and she often stashed some away, just in case. And Carl didn't like her doing it. He really, deeply didn't. But she got so anxious and worked up, just quietly to herself, about Terry and Rosie and how she was ever going to help them get along in life. How ever was she? So she popped a few dollars here and there into her tin. She even treated herself now and again, too. Maybe twice a year, she and the other nurses from the hospital would go to the Clarke Plaza and get mani-pedis and, once, a deluxe facial.

But Carl took all the money he could get his hands on. He'd already hocked his fishing gear last summer when he was down on his luck; and he'd hocked the bass guitar that he used to play, when Judy first met him in Cedar Valley, and she'd drink Kahlua and dance while his band played at the Commercial Hotel. Then he'd hocked Terry's old bike, without even asking Terry's permission.

The night in question, Judy had gone to find her tin. She'd opened it up to count the money, because she needed to do
something
. Rosie had been gone for so long she could hardly breathe. She wanted to scream:
my baby
. She felt covered in oil, like a seabird caught in a slick. No matter how much she showered she came out coated with grief. She needed to get out of her dressing-gown and have something done about her hair. Opal had told her: ‘You need to let me take you to Clarke and we'll have a nice morning. Just try and forget it all for an hour at the salon. Wouldn't that make you feel—oh, I don't know. But we have to do
something
with you. Get you out of that terry-towelling.'

The tin was empty. Carl had found it and taken every last cent. Judy put it back in its spot and she turned around and there was Carl, taking off his belt. He'd just got home from the Bowlo and was stinking drunk. It was really only when he's stinking drunk. He doesn't even know himself then, and he feels
so
terrible about it after.

‘It was stupid of me to do it again,' said Judy, looking genuinely contrite.

‘Again?' asked Mack. ‘Were there other times?'

‘Oh, well,' said Judy. ‘I just mean I know he doesn't like it. I know that. And it's not good to have any cash in the house either. Like when Rosie was saving for her boom box, she . . .' Judy trailed off and a tear ran down her pale face and splashed on her folded arm. ‘She was saving for that stereo and she said, “Mum, can you hold on to this?” and gave me a hundred dollars that she'd made at Woody's. I said to her, “You just don't wanna spend it all on ciggies!”' Judy cry-laughed and softened. ‘I don't know. She asked me to hold it for safekeeping.' The softness went away. ‘And he took it.'

Judy was vacant now, gazing deeply into the carpet.

‘And Rosie knew?'

‘Oh, God, yes! She knew. He'd done it before. Gone into her room and taken money from her drawer when she was at work. It wasn't that much, twenty dollars or whatever. But
her
money. That's why she gave it to me to hold on to. I said I had a good spot. She could hardly get into Clarke to deposit it in the bank, could she? Where else was she gonna hide it?'

‘And this most recent time when you brought it up with Carl?'

‘Oh, I didn't bring it up. I don't bring it up,' said Judy with a nervous laugh. ‘I'm just not supposed to have my money like
that. He doesn't like it. He'd rather we keep it in the joint account. That's just the way he is—he can't help it.'

Mack wanted to punch Carl out with his bare fists and keep on punching him until he was smeared into the carpet. Mack thought of the kangaroos that always lay flattened on the road before the high bridge over the lake. He wanted Carl to be just like that—his guts spilt and level with the road—and passing cars bumping over him on their way in and out of town.

‘I just worry, but I don't need to, really. He's promised he's going to get some help about his problem. And I think it just makes him feel bad that he can't, you know,
provide
. He was feeling so bad. He feels just awful about himself sometimes.'

In Mack's mind, Bart was there too, and the two of them—Mack and Bart—were laying into Carl, and Carl felt just awful about himself as they kicked the living shit out of him, and squelched him into the very ground.

‘Because Bart, well, I don't know—I think Carl had some money trouble with Bart. I mean—not
Bart
, but one of Bart's mates probably. I don't know. Bart was always sticking up for people.' Judy had kept on talking.

‘Why do you say that?' asked Mack.

‘Because Bart came around here—you know—this was a couple of months ago. I haven't thought about it at all. Isn't that funny?'

Judy looked confused. Lines formed along her brow.

‘Because Rosie went missing just after that. I forgot all about it. Isn't that funny? It must've been just a few days before she went. And after that I was just no use to anyone.'

‘Bart came here? Why?'

‘Well, because of Carl—and money,' said Judy, who suddenly appeared to be doubting what she was saying. Mack could see her mind turning before him, her thoughts going off in different directions.

‘I just thought it was about money. Bart said—what did he say?—he said: “Is he here?” And I said no, because Carl was up at the Bowlo. And Bart said something like he was glad he wasn't here. I figured he might want to beat the shit out of him like last time. Then he said . . . that's right, he said: “Jude, I'm going to do what I can to help. Okay? But none of you can live like this.” And I said, “Oh, Bart, we'll be right,” because it's fine! It'll be fine. He was a terrific guy, wasn't he? Bart. I wish I had checked in on him. I wish I'd asked about his blood pressure and whatnot.'

Mack stared at Judy. ‘What if Bart wasn't talking about money?' he asked.

‘Oh, but he must've been,' said Jude, who had done what she could to stop her mind wandering. ‘I mean, I knew he wouldn't have owed money to Bart, because Bart would never have lent him any! But I just assumed Bart was speaking up for someone else. Didn't you notice how he always stuck up for people? He had time for everyone. I just thought: Carl owes
money to someone down the Bowlo because of his problem. That's all. And Bart was always sticking up for people.'

Mack swayed on his feet.

‘Carl is really trying to stop it, Mack. He is. He's going to change. He feels
so
awful about what he's done, especially in front of Terry. And with . . .
everything
.'

Judy did not once uncross her arms.

When Mack left Ken Jones was washing his car in the drive.

‘Maaate,' said Ken, with a big smile.

‘Hey, Kenny,' said Mack, without one, and he didn't even stop for niceties. He just walked out and under the jacaranda and clumps of damp purple flowers stuck themselves to the soles of his boots and Mack almost slipped all the way over on the way to his car.

36

That same morning, Roy Murray drove his Pathfinder out to the lake and set his boat towards the deep water to fish for bream. Derek Murray remained behind his bedroom door with the plastic STOP sign on it, and played
Street Fighter
in his miserable underwear. Since Rosie's disappearance, Woody's was closed on Sundays. It sat behind its roller door in the dark.

But there was another member of the Murray family: one who Goodwood rarely saw. A woman who had long ago lost her mooring and sunk like a ship into her peculiar home. A person who had become more like a rumour than a human being.

Doe Murray.

For more than a decade, Doe Murray had kept herself hidden away. But that morning would be different. That rainless morning, Doe Murray stepped out under the blue
sky. Perhaps she looked up and checked it for cracks. Perhaps she walked with her head down to the uneven pavement. But Doe Murray left the low weatherboard house and walked—on her underused feet—up Woodland Street, with its handsome paperbarks; right at Cedar Street, near the Wicko; and along the wide footpath to where the shops were.

Doe crossed the street before the newsagent and walked in the shade of the awnings opposite, turning her head to the windows to find her own hollow reflection. Helen saw her and wondered if she were an apparition. Surely that couldn't be the real Doe Murray. The eyes must be playing tricks. But they were not; and it was. And the real Doe went right past Mountain Real Estate and directly into the Goodwood Police Station, where Mack sat surrounded by pinewood and a pile of useless paperwork concerning the violent deeds of Carl White.

Mack looked up and there was this woman, standing there like an apparition.

‘Doe Murray?' he said to her, as if she might not know the answer.

‘Mr Mackenzie,' said Doe, because she always got it a bit wrong.

Mack was halfway through the word ‘Constable', in an attempt to correct her, but she cut him off midway, only to create an obscenity that he had not intended.

‘About the day Bart drowned,' said Doe Murray, or the apparition, without further ado.

Mack was still so surprised. He stood up and went straight to the counter, saying nothing.

Doe looked up at the ceiling, and through it to the sky.

‘What about it?' asked Mack, mystified.

‘Roy,' said Doe. She was being terribly matter-of-fact.

‘What about him?' asked Mack, transfixed by the apparition.

Then the apparition spoke to Mack—in words that made sentences and sentences that began to make sense. Doe Murray told Mack, very slowly, as if Mack were dim, that Roy, too, had set out to the lake on the morning Bart had. Roy, too, had driven his car over the high bridge above the water; along the fast flat road after; and parked on the browned grass near the boat wharves. Roy, too, had planned to spend the day fishing.

‘And?' asked Mack.