Authors: Vicki Tyley
The ensuing
silence hung like an icy vapour in the air. Gasping for breath, she turned her
head to the side. Brett’s unblinking eyes stared back at her, fear written all
over his face. Twisting around a bit further, she caught sight of the gun
abandoned in the middle of the floor, its muzzle pointing under the table.
Breathing
slightly easier, she raised her head and peered around. Narelle sat in a clumsy
heap on the floor near the wall, her face wet with tears, gaping at the gun.
Crawling
commando-style across the floor, Jacinta closed the gap between herself and the
stricken woman. Her hand closed over the gun’s grip, the sensation so foreign
she immediately wanted to throw it as far away as possible. Instead, she slid
it gingerly behind her and out of Narelle’s reach.
“Oh dear God,
what have I done?” Narelle gave a loud hiccup and dissolved into tears.
Jacinta pushed
herself up, scooting the remaining distance on her backside. Narelle’s sobs
turned to howls as Jacinta wrapped her arms around her distraught friend’s
shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Brett retrieving the gun
and offered a silent prayer of thanks.
Leaving her
ministering to Narelle, he disappeared, returning a few minutes later minus the
gun. She had no idea what he had done with it, but right at that moment she
didn’t care. Out of sight, out of mind.
Lethargic and
subdued, Narelle allowed Jacinta to help her to her feet but kept her eyes
averted, picking at invisible bits of lint on her singlet. Jacinta’s suggestion
that she get some sleep met with a vehement shake of the head.
“I don’t want to
sleep,” she said, the deep hollows under her eyes telling a different story.
“When was the
last time you slept?”
Narelle shook
her head again as she detoured past Jacinta, then Brett, on her way to the
kitchen. “I’m fine.”
Casting a
disapproving glance at Brett as he threw his hands up in the air, Jacinta
followed Narelle. “If you’re worried about being on your own, don’t be. Brett
and I aren’t going anywhere.”
With a sense of
déjà vu, she watched as Narelle busied herself filling the kettle, opening
cupboards and drawers, setting out cups and other tea- and coffee-making
accoutrements.
“Narelle, you
know ignoring it won’t solve anything. We have to talk about it. You can’t keep
going on like this.” Jacinta leaned across the counter. “For your baby’s sake,
if not your own.”
Narelle
flinched, Jacinta’s words hitting home. “I’m that tired, I don’t know which way
is up,” she said, contradicting her previous statement, “but I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid something terrible is going to happen.”
“That’s
completely understandable. No one could be expected to cope alone with what
you’ve been through, but that’s all the more reason you should talk to someone.
It doesn’t have to be us, but you do need help.”
“What are you
saying?” retorted Narelle, her face hardening. “You think I’m imagining
things?”
“No, of course
not. I don’t think anything of the kind.” Jacinta paused, suppressing a sigh as
she wondered how far from the truth she actually was. “Look, let Brett finish
that for you,” she added, nodding at the cups on the counter, “and come and sit
down.”
Relief washed
over Brett’s face. “Yes, yes,” he flapped his hands, shooing them away. “Go and
sit down and I’ll bring it to you.” Clearly, the opportunity to do something,
even if it was only making hot drinks, was better than doing nothing.
In Jacinta’s
mind, sitting around a table would be too confrontational and formal, more like
a business meeting. So, taking the lead and hoping Narelle would follow, she
headed for the large, sunken living room with its comfortable armchairs and
couches.
All the blinds
were down. Her pulse quickened as she stepped down onto the wooden floor, her
hand groping the wall for a light switch. In the gloom, the silhouettes of the
furniture looked anything but inviting. Imagining what could be lurking in the
dark corners, she told herself not to be so stupid, wondering if Narelle’s
paranoia was rubbing off on her.
Narelle hung
back, not saying anything. When Jacinta turned to make sure she was still
there, she saw Narelle had her knuckles jammed in her mouth. Coming up behind
her, with a round tray of steaming cups balanced precariously on one hand at
shoulder-height, was Brett.
“Okay, ladies,”
he announced, his smile as forced as his cheery tone, “where would you like
it?”
Having visions
of spilt drinks and broken cups, Jacinta went to rescue the tray from the
theatrical waiter and in the process, almost did what she was trying to avoid.
She recovered without mishap.
“Honey…” She
never called him that. “I’ll look after this if you open the blinds.
Her little
endearment earned her a small smile. “No problemo,” he said, skipping down the
two steps into the darkened room and walking across to the wall of Roman blinds
on the far side. He seemed much happier having something practical to occupy
him. Emotional women always left him floundering.
Using both
hands, Jacinta carefully carried the tray of hot drinks over to the long,
narrow coffee table, and set it down. Behind her, she saw Narelle edging her
way around the room, keeping her back to the wall and her gaze transfixed on
the unveiling windows. Brett had one blind up and was pulling up the next.
Early morning
light spilled into the room, banishing any shadowy fears. Outside, the rising
sun’s rays bathed everything in a crisp light, the polished aluminium table
glinting next to the swimming pool. Except for a barely perceptible ripple
across the swimming pool’s surface, nothing moved in the tranquil landscape.
Instead of
joining Jacinta on the couch, Narelle opted for one of the large leather
armchairs, almost disappearing as she curled up in it, her feet tucked under
her. She accepted the proffered cup of the sweetly scented tea, cradling it
close to her mouth as she took small, rapid sips, her eyes focused inward.
Jacinta stirred
Brett’s milky coffee while he finished securing the last blind. The familiar,
rich aroma of strong black coffee, as she collected the remaining cup from the
tray, brought a touch of the normal back to the situation.
For a while, all
three sat cocooned in an awkward silence, sipping their drinks. As Jacinta’s
gaze swept the room, it suddenly occurred to her they were sitting in the
extension designed by the architect whose remains had been discovered in the Toolangi State Forest. She shivered, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing to
attention.
“My whole house
would fit in here,” she said, keeping her tone light and casual. “It’s a
fabulous room. Was it part of the original house?”
Narelle rested
her cup on the arm of the chair. “No, it’s an extension,” she said, seizing the
chance to talk about something she obviously thought was mundane and everyday.
“This was Kirsty’s favourite room.” She paused. “Mine, too.”
Jacinta gazed up
at the high cathedral ceiling. “Who was the architect, do you know?” she asked,
feeling out how well Narelle knew her, if at all.
“I don’t recall
her name – I only met her on a couple of occasions – but Craig will know.”
Narelle laughed. “Craig will definitely remember.” She clicked her fingers.
“Chandra. She was an absolute stunning-looking Anglo-Indian woman, with huge
brown eyes and the most gorgeous long, dark, glossy hair.” She looked at
Jacinta. “I can ask Craig if you like, but she might not still be in business.
A lot can happen in,” her eyes rolled up, mentally calculating the years,
“eleven or twelve years.”
Was Narelle
playing with her, or did she really not know about the architect’s
disappearance?
Surely, though
, thought Jacinta,
when Chandra was
first reported missing, the Edmondses would’ve been interviewed by the police,
or at the very least heard about it.
Wary of jumping to conclusions, she
steered the conversation to furniture and colour schemes. She needed more time
to think it through.
Brett’s eyes
glazed over. Talk about contemporary versus traditional, brights versus
pastels, floor and window coverings wasn’t his scene. Swallowing the last of
his coffee, he collected the other empty cups and carried them on the tray back
to the kitchen.
With Brett out
of earshot, Jacinta hoped Narelle might be a little less reserved. The real
issues had been skirted for long enough.
“Narelle.” She
paused. “What makes you so sure Grace is the one stalking you, the one breaking
into your home? What reason would she have to do that?”
Silence. Narelle
studied her fingernails, polishing each in turn with her thumb.
“Could it have
anything to do with the affair she had with your sister?” Jacinta said, tossing
out the words like a lighted firecracker.
“Get your fucking hands off me!”
The detective
constable recoiled, rubbing the side of his hand as he stumbled backwards. “Ow!
The bitch bit me.”
He glared at
Margaret Kevron as if it was her fault that her daughter had sunk her teeth
into his hand. Margaret flinched, powerless to do anything except watch
helplessly as the scene unfolded.
Detective
Sergeant White scowled at her younger colleague, shoved him aside and dropped
to her knee. “Ms Kevron… Grace,” she said, her voice softening, “we’re not here
to hurt you; we only want to talk with you, but we’d rather you came out of
there. Your mum and work colleagues have been very concerned about you.”
No longer able
to bear the sight of her daughter frightened and cowering amongst the shoes and
hanging clothes in the wardrobe, Margaret moved sideways. She wanted to help,
wanted to comfort her daughter, but experience told her that when Grace came
off her medication, a mother’s love wasn’t enough.
She’d had no
choice but to call the police. When Grace didn’t return any of her phone calls,
she had become increasingly frantic. She’d managed to get a standby flight from
Sydney to Melbourne, arriving by taxi outside Grace’s home early that morning.
But Grace refused to answer the door, even though Margaret was convinced she
heard movement inside.
The sergeant was
doing her best to coax Grace out but, like a cornered feral cat, Grace hissed
at her, steadfastly refusing to budge. The DS stood up, narrowly missing having
her leg caught in the wardrobe door, Grace slamming it so hard it vibrated in
its tracks.
“You haven’t
done anything wrong,” continued DS White.
Detective
Inspector Lassiter entered the small, colourless bedroom, despatching the
wounded DC with a sharp thrust of the thumb in the direction of the door.
Margaret suddenly felt claustrophobic, as if the whiteness of the room was
closing in on her. She took a deep breath and waited for the feeling to pass.
“Don’t listen to
them!” shrieked Grace from her bolthole. “Don’t believe them!”
“Who, Grace?
Don’t believe who?”
“Them! They say
things!”
Margaret saw the
arched eyebrows and sidelong glance DS White gave DI Lassiter. He responded
with a weary shake of the head, but motioned for her to keep talking.
“Grace, listen
to me. Your mother is here. Wouldn’t you like to see her?”
“Make them
stop!”
The DS looked at
her DI again, just as the DC appeared in the doorway with what looked to be a
packet of some kind in his hand. DI Lassiter put one hand up to stop him
entering the room while making circular movements with the other, encouraging
DS White to keep talking. Then, signalling for Margaret to follow, DI Lassiter
crept from the bedroom into the hall.
Margaret
recognised the small, pale purple rectangular box with bold dark purple
lettering in the DC’s hands as Grace’s
Zyprexa
medication. “They’re
Grace’s,” she blurted as the DC handed them to his DI. “For her schizophrenia,”
she added.
DI Lassiter’s
face remained impassive as he opened the box and slid the unopened foil blister
sheets of tablets onto his palm. Margaret knew even before the DI checked the
prescription label that Grace hadn’t been taking her medication.
“If the date on
the label is anything to go by, it would seem that your daughter probably
stopped taking her medication at least a fortnight ago.”
Margaret nodded.
“Has she done
this before?”
Another nod.
Margaret stared at the floor, a guilty flush enveloping her neck and face. She
was Grace’s mother. How could she have allowed this to happen again?
“Get on to CAT,”
Daniel said to the DC. “Ask them to get someone here pronto. Not here, for
God’s sake,” he added as the DC pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and
started dialling. “Use your bloody head.”
As the DC slunk
off down the hall, DI Lassiter turned to Margaret, his voice warm and
compassionate. “Mrs Kevron, Grace’s mental state has disintegrated to a point
where she needs professional medical help. DC Fratta is calling Crisis
Assessment and Treatment services now. They should be here shortly.”
Margaret nodded
again, tears welling in her eyes, grateful that Grace was getting the help she
so desperately needed.
From the bedroom
behind her, Margaret could hear DS White’s low, calming tones empathising with
Grace, not contradicting her in the least but uttering all the right
assurances.
“That Deller
bitch!” Grace retorted. “She’s as bad as the rest of them.”
Deller?
Margaret frowned. It wasn’t a name she had ever heard Grace mention, but it
certainly made the DI’s ears prick up. He turned, looking as if he were about
to march back into the room, but then had second thoughts. He gave Margaret a
weak smile.
Her fingers
snagged his wrist. “Who’s this Deller woman she’s talking about, then?” she
whispered. “How does Grace know her? Do you know?” she added, her grip
tightening.