Heartland (23 page)

Shooting through

Donny slaps the newspaper down on the table. He goes to Tracey and hugs her, burying his big face in her bony shoulder.

‘They’ve found her, they’ve found her, Trace. Read it.’

Today Donny’s home by lunch time. His hours as a butcher’s assistant start early and, with the ski field closed after the eruption, business is light at the New World. He lets go of Tracey, looks in to the bedroom where the children are sleeping, paces the room, moaning.

Tracey reads:

The accompanying picture shows a cameraman humping equipment out of the bush and some of the local rugby team, dressed as warrior soldiers in body armour and new-age tattoos, striking fierce poses for the photographer.

‘For God’s sake, sit down, Donny.’ Trace bangs his plate of soup down too hard and it spills. ‘Fuck it, look what you’ve made me do, you idiot!’

Donny stops his pacing; stares at her, his mouth opening, ready to howl.

‘Don’t you dare!’ screams Tracey. ‘You’ll wake the babies! Oh …’ And she’s in his arms, gulping and hiccupping along with him, tears rolling down. ‘We’re stuffed,’ she cries. ‘There’s people digging in there now. And the police.’

‘I know, I know, I saw them.’

Tracey rubs at her eyes. ‘Eat your soup, Donny, we got to think. We could run. Catch the afternoon bus.’

Donny sits, does as he’s told. ‘Good soup, Trace.’ He frowns, tears at his piece of bread. ‘We haven’t got enough money.’

‘Six hundred dollars.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘You could get a butcher job somewhere else.’ Tracey moves in little rushes around the kitchen, picking up children’s clothes, toys, piling them into plastic bags. ‘If they find her we’ll both be put away. Sky and Manny would be alone. We got to go.’

Donny pushes away his plate. His eyes are red from weeping and fear. ‘All our friends are here. We wouldn’t have a house.’

‘What use is a house if we’re in prison? Where’s your granddad’s old suitcase?’

Sky comes wandering blearily out from the bedroom. ‘Poo,’ she says, ‘poo nappy.’ Manny follows, his soft doggy clutched to his chest. He smiles and trots over to Donny. Sky stands still, looking from one to the other; she senses their fear. ‘Poo nappy!’ she screams.

Tracey scoops her up and deals with the problem. Donny takes Manny on his knee. ‘Shooting through is a crap idea,’ he says loudly. ‘Shooting through doesn’t work.’

‘It did for me,’ says Tracey sharply, but her drooping shoulders say something different.

‘I’ll say I did it on my own. Then you can stay and look after the kids.’

Tracey looks at Donny in surprise. It’s usually her who has the ideas. ‘We could say we don’t know anything about it. We could lie.’ But she knows that wouldn’t work. Donny can’t lie to save himself.

There’s a knock on the back door and they both freeze. Sky and Manny howl.

‘Only me,’ says Vera. ‘Okay to come in?’

She stumps in anyway, puts a paper bag of eggs on the bench. ‘Now you two, sit down, I want a word.’ Vera plonks herself at the table. ‘I know you’re in a state. Bull said you would be and you are.’ She pats Donny’s hand where it lies on the table. ‘All right, Donny Mac?’

‘No,’ says Donny, ‘not all right.’

Tracey watches from over by the bench. Sky won’t come close to Vera.

‘Yep. Well, any fool can see that. Now I want some straight answers. First: where those idiots from the museum are digging — is that where you buried her?’

Donny and Tracey stare.

Vera sighs. ‘It’s a simple question. Yes or no?’

Tracey says, ‘We don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Donny mutters, ‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know? Every man and his dog’s fleas have been to see the trenches.’

Donny hangs his head. Tracey says, ‘Don’t say anything, Donny, she’s trying to trap you.’

Vera looks up sharply. ‘For pity’s sake, Virgin, Bull wants to help, we all do, but a few facts would help. Are these bones likely to be Nightshade’s?’

‘She’s Tracey, not Virgin,’ says Donny, frowning.

‘Well, she’d better start behaving like a Tracey. I thought the Virgin was long gone. Know your friends, girl.’

Tracey, keeping her voice low for Sky’s sake, says, ‘Who else knows?’ She’s trembling.

Vera considers. ‘Donny’s tried to keep it under his hat, haven’t you, boy? You did well, on the whole. Bull knows, and George suspects. Maybe the old ladies — who can tell what they think? And me. That’d be the lot. Lovey Kingi thinks it’s old spooks, not Nightshade. She might be right. That’s what we need to know.’

Tracey whispers, ‘We were too scared to look. And anyway the bush has changed. Other stuff has grown up.’

Vera grunts. She taps the newspaper which still lies open on
the table. ‘I wasn’t exactly lying when I said that. There may well be other dead bodies buried there. So.’ She heaves out of the chair and looks sternly at them both. ‘We’ll wait and see. Don’t think I haven’t noticed those bags of clothes. Bull was afraid you might try to shoot through. I said you wouldn’t be such idiots.’

Donny grins weakly. ‘I said shooting through was a crap idea, didn’t I, Trace?’

The thin sound coming from Tracey could be a strangled scream. ‘It’ll be too late if we wait. What can you and Mr Howie do if it’s Nightshade they dig up? They’ll think Donny killed her. Of course they will!’ Tears are running down her cheeks again, Sky joining in, and then Manny.

‘That’ll do,’ says old Vera. But comforting small children is not her strong point. She frowns at Donny. ‘You bloody stay here, Donny Mac. If you run off, you’ll break Bull’s heart. He’s had enough grief lately. We know you didn’t kill that sad girl.’

‘You don’t know that! How can you?’ howls Tracey.

Vera stands. ‘We know Donny, that’s how. And so do you. Now get a grip, Tracey, you stand by Donny. He’ll need you.’ And off she goes down the back steps, muttering and shaking her head.

In the kitchen, Donny and Tracey sit for a while with the children. Then Tracey empties a bag of clothes onto the table and begins to fold the little singlets and jumpers, socks and pyjamas. Donny reaches over and takes her hand, stilling its busyness. He searches her face, looking for hope, and finds it.

The letter

Delia watches the men drive in stakes and tape off the bush section. She sees the police car arrive, and then a van from the museum bearing an older woman and two young men. She watches all of them gather, heads bowed, as old Koro Pita recites a prayer. Then the little cavalcade moves over the lumpy paddock towards the trees. The young men from the museum wear bulging backpacks; the policeman shoulders a shovel. The older woman stops every now and then to take photographs. They disappear into the bush. Another car arrives. It’s that reporter from the
Bulletin
. He follows the experts into the trees.

Aureole comes on to the back porch, shading her eyes against the low morning sun.

‘What is it, Delia? What’s going on?’

‘Experts from the museum.’

‘The bones, the bones! Oh, how exciting! An ancient burial ground on our doorstep!’

Delia settles heavily into the rocking chair and takes up her knitting. ‘We don’t know yet, that’s the point.’

‘The point of what?’

‘Oh, never mind. You do go on, Aureole.’

Aureole turns to scrutinise her sister. ‘You’re in a sour mood today.’

Delia purses her lips, continues with the little leggings which Sky will need this winter.

‘The film crew have gone,’ continues Aureole, never one to be deterred by silence. ‘That’s one good thing, I suppose. I saw them over the other side, setting up in that patch of bush by Mr Kingi’s farm.’

‘Oh?’

‘Who would have thought, when we came to this quiet place, that we’d have films and buried bodies. It’s all quite entertaining, don’t you think?’

Delia sighs. ‘I prefer peace and quiet.’ She looks severely at Aureole who is now fidgeting with the wisteria vine, pulling off dead leaves and leaving them to lie on the porch boards. ‘As you very well know.’

‘Well, someone must keep our spirits up. Roe is in a fury over something.’

‘Her bridge partner.’

‘And now you.’

‘Aureole, I can smell your marmalade. It’s burning.’

Aureole disappears into the kitchen with a cry. Delia settles to watch for developments. The letter she wrote two years ago is now hidden in the pocket of her skirt. She will deliver it by hand to the police, should events take a serious turn.

An hour later, Delia’s hands are too cold to continue. As she rises to go inside, she sees the group returning. The woman clearly has something valuable in the canvas bag she is carrying. She steps delicately around the clumps of grass and weed, protecting the contents as if they were alive. The policeman is empty-handed except for the shovel. Is this a good sign?

‘Aureole!’ she calls, and when her sister, flushed from the marmalade, appears, ‘Aureole, run down and ask the reporter what has been found.’

‘Oh, should I? Would they mind?’

‘Ask what age the bones are.’

Aureole frowns. ‘Surely they won’t know yet?’

‘Just ask.’ Delia sees the question in her sister’s face and adds, ‘Please. It may be important.’

Aureole flings on her coat and runs, waving her arms at Matt Scobie who is about to climb into his car. ‘Cooee! Cooee, Mr Reporter. Wait a minute, oh do!’

Delia watches. Aureole does put people off, her hectic manner, the way her legs and arms fly in all directions and her words run on. Perhaps the reporter will think her too mad. But he pauses, waits with his hand on the roof of the car, the door open ready for a quick exit. She sees Aureole’s bony hands ask the question, sees the reporter shake his head; notices his patience with Aureole’s continued questions, or remarks — goodness knows what direction she might have taken the
conversation. Now it’s the reporter who’s asking the questions. Delia’s impatience turns to alarm. Aureole might let slip some remark that could lead to a different investigation.

Finally the reporter shakes her hand, gets in his car and drives off. Aureole turns, sees Delia watching and waves happily, almost skipping back up the road.

‘What a lovely man. His name is Matt Scobie, Delia, and he makes marmalade too! Only his recipe is different. He uses no grapefruit, only oranges, fancy that.’

‘And the bones?’ Delia fingers the letter.

‘But he used to use grapefruit. The thing is, he has a heart condition and the pills react badly with grapefruit, have you ever heard of that? Who would think grapefruit could be different from oranges?’

Delia sighs.

‘So I told him Roe had a heart condition too and took pills, and he recommended to switch to all oranges, so what do you think?’

‘Aureole, did you ask about the bones?’

‘Should I?’

‘Well, it’s too late now if you didn’t.’

‘No, I asked. He said they found the bones but it’s too early to tell the age. Should I switch to oranges? My thinking is that if Roe hasn’t died of grapefruit yet she won’t now.’

Delia nods grimly. Roe has been impossibly intractable lately. ‘I’d stick with the grapefruit, Aureole.’

She stands up stiffly, gathers the knitting and goes inside. When she’s alone, she slips the letter back into its hiding place behind the old photographs in the desk.