‘Yeah, well the Ferrari is –’
Masha cut off the sports car conversation. ‘Who haven’t we heard from yet? Tony?’
‘You all know me as the desperado who tried to bring in the contraband,’ said Tony. He smiled again. ‘Here for weight loss. I miss beer, pizza, ribs with plum sauce, wedges with sour cream, family-sized chocolate bars – you get the picture.’ His initial enthusiasm waned and he lowered his eyes, clearly keen for everyone to stop looking at him.
‘Thank you,’ he said formally, to the floor.
Frances didn’t believe him. There was more to his decision to come here than just weight loss.
Napoleon raised his hand.
‘Go ahead, Napoleon,’ said Masha.
He lifted his chin and recited. ‘It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’ His eyes gleamed in the shadows from the candlelight. ‘That’s, ah, from Nelson Mandela’s favourite poem, “Invictus”.’ He looked uncertain for a moment. ‘You said we could recite poetry.’
‘Absolutely I did,’ said Masha warmly. ‘I love the sentiment.’
‘Yes, well, it just came into my head. I’m a high-school teacher. The kids like to hear that they are masters of their own fates, although . . .’ He laughed a strange sort of a laugh. Heather, who sat next to him, placed a gentle hand over his jiggling kneecap. He didn’t seem to notice it. ‘Tomorrow is the third anniversary of our son’s death. That’s why we’re here. He took his own life, so that’s how my kid chose to be master of his own fate.’
The room became very still, as if, for just a moment, they all held their breath. The tiny gold flames on the candles trembled.
Frances compressed her lips so no words would escape. She felt as if all feelings were too big and unwieldy for her body, as if she might burst into tears or burst out laughing, as if she might say something overly sentimental or intimate. It was like she’d drunk too much in an inappropriate setting, a business meeting with publishing executives.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Napoleon,’ said Masha and she reached out her hand as if she wanted to touch Napoleon, but he was too far away. ‘So very sorry.’
‘Why thank you, Masha,’ said Napoleon chattily.
If Frances didn’t know better she would have thought he was drunk. Had he got stuck into Zoe’s smuggled wine? Was he having a nervous breakdown? Or was this just a natural response to the breaking of the silence?
Zoe looked at her father, her forehead creased like that of an elderly woman, and Frances tried to imagine the missing boy who should have been sitting next to her. Oh, Zoe, thought Frances. She had suspected it might have been suicide when Zoe didn’t say how he died. Her friend Lily, who used to write beautiful historical romances, had lost her husband ten years ago and all she had told people was that ‘Neil died unexpectedly’ and everyone understood what that meant. Lily hadn’t written since.
‘Who else would like –’
But Napoleon interrupted Masha. ‘Got it!’ he cried. ‘I know who you are!’ he said to Tony. ‘It’s been driving me mad. Heather, darling, do you see who it is?’ Napoleon turned to his wife.
Heather looked up from the empty smoothie glass she’d been studying. ‘No.’
‘I know who he is,’ said Lars proudly. ‘I worked it out on the very first day.’
Frances looked at Tony, who was looking awkwardly down at his glass with an expression of discomfort, but not confusion, as if he knew what they were all talking about. Who was he? A famous serial killer?
‘Heather!’ cried Napoleon. ‘You know him! I promise you know him!’
‘From . . . school? Work?’ Heather shook her head. ‘I don’t . . .’
‘I’ll give you a clue.’ Napoleon chanted, ‘We are the Navy Blues!’
Heather studied Tony. Her face cleared. ‘Smiley Hogburn!’
Napoleon pointed at Heather as if she’d correctly guessed his charade. ‘Exactly! It’s Smiley Hogburn!’ Then he seemed to doubt himself. ‘Aren’t you?’
Tony looked strained. ‘Years ago I was,’ he said. ‘Thirty kilos ago.’
‘But Smiley Hogburn played for Carlton,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m a Carlton supporter! Aren’t you, like, a total legend?’ She said it like there must have been a mix-up.
‘It was probably before you were born,’ said Tony.
‘Carlton is a football team, right?’ whispered Frances to Ben. She was very ignorant of anything to do with sport; a friend once told her it was like she’d lived her whole life in a bunker.
‘Yep,’ said Ben. ‘Aussie Rules.’
‘That’s the jumping one?’
Ben chortled. ‘They do jump, yeah.’
Smiley Hogburn, thought Frances. There was something blurrily familiar about that name. She felt her perception of Tony shift. He was a man who used to be someone, like Frances used to be someone. They had that in common. Although Frances’s career was slowly fading away, whereas presumably Tony’s had ended officially, probably with an injury of some sort – all that jumping! – and he was no longer leaping about the football field.
‘I knew you were Smiley Hogburn!’ said Lars again. He seemed to be looking for some sort of recognition that he wasn’t getting. ‘I’m not normally good with faces but I worked out who you were straight away.’
‘Did you have to finish up playing because of a sporting injury?’ asked Frances. She felt that was quite a knowledgeable, empathetic question to ask a sportsperson. It was probably something to do with ligaments.
Tony looked mildly amused. ‘I had multiple injuries.’
‘Oh,’ said Frances. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Two knee reconstructions, hip replacement . . .’ Tony seemed to be doing a sad assessment of his body. He sighed. ‘Chronic ankle issues.’
‘Were you called Smiley Hogburn because you did smile a lot, or because you didn’t?’ asked Zoe.
‘Because I did smile a lot,’ said Tony, unsmilingly. ‘I was kind of a simple guy back then. Happy-go-lucky.’
‘Were you?’ said Frances, unable to hide her surprise.
‘I was,’ said Tony. He smiled at her. He seemed to find her funny.
‘Weren’t you the one with the smiley face tattoos on your butt?’ said Lars.
‘I’ve seen them!’ cried Frances before she could help herself.
‘Have you now?’ said Lars suggestively.
‘Frances,’ said Tony, and he put a finger to his lips as if they had something to hide. Wait! Was he flirting with her?
‘Oh no, not in that way,’ said Frances. She looked nervously at Masha. ‘I saw them accidentally.’
‘My brother used to have your poster in his bedroom!’ It was Delilah, breaking ranks and speaking like a human being. ‘The one where you’re jumping six feet in the air and the other player is pulling down your shorts and you can see your tattoos! Hilarious!’
‘Fancy that. We have a famous athlete in our midst.’ There was an edge to Masha’s voice. Maybe she wanted to be the only athlete in their midst.
‘Former athlete,’ Tony corrected her. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘So . . . who haven’t we heard from yet?’ said Masha, clearly keen to change the subject.
‘Post-sport depression,’ said Napoleon. ‘Is that what you’ve got? I’ve read about it. It affects a lot of elite sportspeople. You’ve got to focus on your mental health, Tony . . . Smiley . . . Tony – I hope you don’t mind if I call you Smiley – you really do, because depression is an insidious –’
‘Who’s next?’ interrupted Masha.
‘I’ll go next,’ said Zoe. ‘I’m Zoe.’
She seemed to gather her thoughts. Or was she nervous? Oh, sweetheart.
‘As Dad already said, we decided to come to Tranquillum House because we can’t stand to be at home in January, because that’s where my brother hung himself.’