Time's Long Ruin (46 page)

‘Wouldn't they burn?'

‘No, they melt. Doesn't your dad tell you about that stuff?' He got off his bike, let it fall to the ground and came over to me.

‘He tells me everything,' I explained, sliding back down the tree as Andrew sat next to me. ‘Once, they had this baby . . .'

And that's where we sat, for an hour or maybe longer, talking over the possibilities of play, and the world, full of good and bad – chocolate and Brussels sprouts, Guy Fawkes night and long division. ‘What's your dad reckon?' he asked, at one point. ‘I heard they sold them to a couple of rich Arabs.'

‘No.'

‘Did they get a ransom note?'

‘No.'

‘See, they had no intention of returning them. Probably in Persia, in a big palace. You'll never see 'em again.'

Of all the options, I thought, a palace wouldn't be so bad.

Andrew hadn't overheard the conversations I had. But there was no point explaining. As the smell of roast meat and baked custard and the sound of crows and televisions started drifting over from the homes on Day Terrace, I said, ‘Should I come to your place?'

‘What toys have you got?'

‘Books, mainly.'

‘Yeah, come to my place.'

I left Andrew searching for bottles along the fence beside the railway line. I walked home under poplars and figs and gum trees that provided shade nearly all the way. Our house was empty. So I went to my hutch and found my diary and started to scribble.

One morning his step-dad opens the box.

The boy is dead.

‘Shit,' the man says, and the boy's mum says, ‘Look what
you done now.'

The step-dad throws a few things in a bag and says to the
mum, ‘You deal with it.'

‘Where are you going?' she asks.

‘Fella offered me a job in Melborn.'

Later, the mum lays the boy out on the bed. He is free. She
combs his hair and washes his face. Then she dresses him in a
suit that is now to small for him. And she thinks, Where will
you go now, Henry?

I heard voices from inside the Rileys' house. The back door opened and Mum and Dad appeared, followed by Liz and a lady wearing gloves, a purple frock and a hat with Terylene netting across her face. Liz and the lady sat at the back table – the table with all our misspelt names carved into it, the table of a hundred barbecues, a thousand coffees and dozens of books read in strong sunlight as birds landed and searched for crumbs in the cracking and fractured wood. The lady in the purple dress took a notebook and pencil out of her purse and looked at Liz. ‘Tell me how you're feeling,' she said.

‘How do you reckon?'

‘Are you coping, physically, emotionally?'

‘What choice do I have? We've gotta keep looking.'

The journalist scribbled across her page. Then she looked up, attempted a smile and said, ‘Tell me about that morning, Australia Day.'

I put my diary back. I could see my parents through a couple of small holes in the wall. They were only a few inches away, and standing close together. They were talking calmly, quietly, listening to each other and replying with considered responses.

‘I don't agree,' Dad said.

‘It's what she wants,' Mum replied.

‘The Women's bloody Weekly? So she can help them flog pantyhose?'

‘No. Talking about it helps.'

‘She can talk to us.'

‘That's different.'

Bullshit, Dad thought, but didn't say it. He was thrilled, I suppose, to have Mum back, even if it was only a temporary thing.

By now Liz was staring down at the table, at the names in the oak:
GR, Janice . . .
She was talking slowly, in individual words and parts of sentences. ‘I don't think they're alive,' she said, looking up into the woman's eyes, ‘but I haven't lost hope, and all I want is that they come back. I've got to look at both sides, but it's the time that's getting me. It has been too long. I can't be stupid and say that they're going to come in with a skipping rope. I've got to feel that the little things are huddled up somewhere and nobody has found them.'

Mum looked at Dad. He turned his face to her, so Liz couldn't see, and let his forehead and mouth and eyes turn cold, dark and grim.

‘What's wrong?' Mum asked.

‘“Huddled up somewhere?”'

‘They might be.'

‘Ellen, they're dead. They've been dead for days. He probably drove them to . . . the Riverland, or somewhere close, a patch of scrub at Wasleys. You'd never find them. Cover the graves with a bit of leaf litter and that's it.'

Mum looked back at Liz. ‘They might be.'

Liz's head was turned to the almond trees. She was watching leaves and whole branches move in the wind. ‘If the other two were very keen to go with somebody,' she said, ‘Janice would go with them, to look after them, and wouldn't leave them alone.'

The journalist started writing again. I moved back from the chicken wire and sat in the corner of my hutch.

‘Why?' I heard Mum ask Dad in a whisper.

‘He was probably after Janice. The other two were just in the way. We spoke to this psychologist and that's what he reckons. Girls that age, no younger. And not boys, not that small.'

So, as far as I was concerned, that was it. The word was with Dad and Dad was a detective. A dozen men in suits and spotless blue uniforms had searched and rang and door-knocked and gathered evidence and come up with this: the Rileys were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And through good planning, or luck,
he
, whoever he was, had got away with it.

Liz had sensed the same thing.

‘They've just finished the Pat, and there's nothing there. I'm inclined to think that it was all over on the Wednesday afternoon. Whoever it was had nothing to lose. These thoughts have been with me for a long while. I'm looking at both sides, but I don't know what to think anymore.'

As Liz continued, Mum moved closer to Dad. She hid her head in his coat jacket and Liz looked over. ‘You okay, Ellen?' she asked, and Mum showed her face. ‘Fine, fine.'

Liz started describing the children, telling stories she knew people would like to hear, things that other mums could relate to, even dads and brothers and grandfathers who normally wouldn't be seen dead with the
Weekly
in their hands: lemonade stalls, a basketball team that lost every game, fights between brothers and sisters, and rooms that were never cleaned.

‘You need a break,' Dad whispered to Mum. ‘It's getting to you.'

‘And what about you?' she asked, looking up.

‘Do you reckon Rosa would watch Henry?'

‘Tonight?'

Dad smiled. ‘What about the drive-in?'

She paused. ‘Alright, if that's what you'd like.'

‘What about you?'

She took a moment. ‘Yes, the drive-in.'

Liz continued sorting through a pile of photographs, showing them to the journalist and asking her which would go best.

That's how I ended up, at eight that night, beneath the healing tree. After Mum and Dad had left it was just Con, Rosa and me. We were soon joined by Liz, telling us about her interview, kneeling and praying and asking Rosa to say something Catholic. Then there was Mr Grinby, who had cancer of the pancreas (although Rosa didn't believe him, saying, Ten years, at least, he's had the cancer, Liz replying, It's the power of your healing tree, Rosa shaking her head and saying, It's nothing to do with our tree). But she prayed for him anyway, as she did for Mrs Rose (with an aneurysm set to blow any minute) and Mr Lewis, who had come all the way from Torrensville just to tell us about his shaky legs.

When Mum and Dad arrived home we were still there, sitting on dining room chairs under the healing tree, drinking Greek coffee. Dad parked the car in our drive and Mum wandered over with her arms crossed.

‘How was it?' Liz asked.

‘Don't ask,' Mum replied. ‘Two hours of Tommy guns.'

She sat on the fence and Dad strolled over, standing behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘It was a classic,' he said.

‘What?' I asked.

‘Machine Gun Kelly. That man was an animal. You been behavin' yourself?'

‘He's been fine,' Rosa replied. ‘Helped me pray for Mister Grinby's pancreas.'

A police car moved slowly along the street, shining its spotlight on letterboxes. We all watched as it slowed and stopped outside number seven. A sergeant and a young constable got out and slammed their doors.

Liz dropped her head. ‘Not now,' she whispered.

Mum moved over and sat beside her.

Dad turned to the sergeant and said, ‘DS Page, can I help you?'

‘Just the man,' the sergeant replied. ‘A word, if I may.'

Dad wandered over to him as we all watched anxiously. ‘Is it about my kids?' Bill called from his front door.

The sergeant looked at Bill and then Dad. Dad talked to the thin, balding policeman for a few minutes and then patted him on the back. The sergeant got in his car, motioned to the young constable, and they drove off. Dad waited in the middle of the road as Bill wandered over from his front porch. ‘What have they found?' Bill asked, his eyes red, his dressing gown hanging loosely from his shoulders and his hair messed where he'd ran his hands through it a thousand times. Dad clutched his shoulder and said, ‘It's not them.'

They came over to the healing tree. Dad paused and then looked at me, then at Mum, Con and Rosa. ‘Doctor Gunn's dead,' he said.

‘Christ,' Bill replied. ‘What happened?'

‘Don found his door open, about an hour ago. Thought it was a break-in. Went in and found him . . . used an extension cord to hang himself.'

I looked at the ground. No. That was nothing to do with me. Then I saw the doctor's face and heard his voice,
I thought
we were alike . . .

No one said a word.

The doctor came around in front of me and whispered,
I go about things the wrong way. I always have
.

Rosa dropped to her knees and started praying, and then Con joined her. Mum and Liz just stared at Dad. ‘Well,' he said, ‘I better go down and take a look.'

‘Should I come?' Bill offered.

‘No. They'll wanna take photos and . . .' He stopped, caught up in his own thoughts. ‘You should get some sleep, Bill, it's been a big day.'

Dad turned and walked off.

Give up the books
, I heard, softly, in my ear.
They don't get
you anywhere.

Con looked up at me and smiled. ‘You okay, Henry?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I replied.

I could see the doctor's hands trembling as he gave me the handcuffs.
One day you'll understand.

And I could see, maybe for the first time, the impossibility of living without love.

Chapter Six

A week passed. It seemed like summer had been going on for months, but it was just starting to warm up. Every day I watched from my window as school kids went past: shirts untucked, socks around their ankles – hair, soaked with sweat, sticking out like blonde and brown pavlovas, shorts held up by nothing but hips, ice clunking in water bottles wrapped in tea towels, brown faces, shoelaces undone and legs streaked with paint and blood from scabs picked during long, hot grammar lessons.

My uniform had been ironed paper flat and hung up in my bedroom on a large brass hook. Every morning Mum would come in and say, Okay, school . . . and I'd reply, Just another day.

Just another day.

Until finally she lost patience. ‘No, today, Henry. It's been a week. You'll fall behind. Don't you want to get there and make some new friends?'

No.

So there I was, on the Wednesday of the second week of school, dragging my feet along Thomas Street, stopping and picking up a cast-iron Panzer but discarding it when I saw it didn't have wheels or tracks. There I was, loosening my tie and hitching a bag full of new books over my shoulder, turning to Janice and saying,
I've never had a bloke teacher
before.

Can't be any worse than Headley. She's a bitch.

Just cos she made you sit at the front.

I didn't do anything.

I smiled.
You did.

After, but when she moved me I hadn't done a thing.

They talk in the staff room. They draw up lists. ‘Ah, you've got
that Riley girl, you better watch her.'

Bitch.
She looked back.
Come on, Anna, we don't want to be
late on our first day back.