The world tips as I spot Rodney Mason. Ghosts immediately ripple around me. He is standing to the side of the stage; he already looks older than Jacob ever did. Donna Mason stands next to him, a shoulder shorter, her puckered face and upturned chin challenging the crowd. I wonder if she too is thinking about Jacob’s memorial all those years ago. The sobbing students. The guilty teachers. The relentless rain. The crippling shock. The nothingness that lay ahead. Donna’s face looks like it froze that day and never thawed out again.
Another girl is on the stage now, white fingers gripping a microphone, her long blonde hair pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail.
‘I’m going to sing a song that is very special to me. I wrote it last year and Ms Ryan helped me to practise it when I was auditioning for drama school. I will never forget her patience and support. I dedicate this song to her.’
The girl looks across the crowd and into the fiery sun. She slowly shuts her eyes, her chest moving up and down for a few beats before she begins to sing. Low and husky, her voice wraps around the crowd, intoxicating. Electricity zaps through the air. The song is a haunting bluesy poem. The girl never opens her eyes. Felix glances at me and raises his eyebrows, impressed. He can feel the current too. I can feel Rosalind around me: her sensual, addictive presence. I always knew why Jacob fell for her. She was magnetic. She was so beautiful, so special. In her presence it was hard to think beyond her face and velvet stare. Everything else simply faded away.
The final note of the song blurs into the hum of cicadas. The girl opens her eyes as if waking. She looks skyward and mouths something to the clouds before whispering, ‘Thank you,’ into the microphone.
John Nicholson is weeping now, tears rolling unchecked down his face. The PR woman watches him anxiously. I can tell she wants him to temper the public display of emotion.
Breaking away from a huddle of teenagers, Rodney and Maggie Archer walk onto the stage. I spot Kai among the huddle, his head down, as he wipes his wrist across his nose. We finally interviewed Maggie yesterday morning, when she returned from Melbourne. She gave polite, slightly bored answers to our questions and kept repeating the words ‘tragic’ and ‘awful’. She recounted the opening night evening in helpful detail, including her walking to the after party with a large group of friends, but I found her overall tone deeply unsettling.
Maggie appears overwhelmed by the crowd, ducking her head and shuffling her feet. I am still high from the song, the melody having entered my bloodstream. It’s disorienting. I feel incredibly hot; waves of white crash over my vision and there’s no sound. I grip my chair, trying not to faint.
A few seconds pass before the scene shudders back into full colour and I can hear voices again. I look at Felix, who is oblivious to my little episode. I catch the end of Maggie’s speech.
‘It’s what she would want, so we hope to see as many of you on the second of January as possible. Plus, all of the profits will go towards supporting the ongoing arts program here at Smithson.’
Rodney kicks his foot at the ground. ‘Being together right now is important. Stories, music and art will help us all to heal. Please do this one final thing for her. For Ms Ryan.’
A flip rises in his voice and I remember him as a child, alone and broken, mourning a dead brother. He lifts his eyes and looks over at the Ryans before quickly looking back at the ground. Maggie walks away from the microphone, a soft smile on her face as she greets some classmates. Rodney realises he’s standing on the stage alone and shuffles backwards awkwardly, his eyes still downcast. Donna’s scowl deepens as she watches her son leave the stage. The Ryans haven’t moved. I think what stunning statues they would make.
I will my brain to work, to emerge from this endless carousel of Rosalind, escape the red haze of the past. I turn slowly to Felix. He is real and stable. He is here. He meets my eyes.
‘I reckon that kid knows something,’ he says, leaning close to me.
‘Maybe,’ I say, watching Rodney hugging his friends, his eyes closed.
‘Well, anyway,’ Felix says, ‘looks like we’re going to the theatre.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Friday, 18 December, 1.48 pm
‘Yes?’ My voice is snappy as I answer the phone, reaching around the back of my neck to knead the muscles. I’m tired, broken by the memorial service. My face is tight from a light sunburn and memories play Tetris in my mind as I pore over the police reports, trying to find anything of note. Felix was supposed to meet me back here at 1.30 pm but he hasn’t shown up yet. We’re getting nowhere on Rosalind’s case and the collective frustration is becoming more tangible by the minute.
‘Woodstock, call for you.’ Kenny Prosie is on the switch, his whining voice curiously managing to be both distinctive and generic. Kenny’s dad is one of the old boys here and, because of this, Kenny thinks that working the switch is beneath him. In fact, Kenny thinks that pretty much any task he is asked to do is beneath him.
‘Who is it?’
‘Some posh English bird. Says she wants to speak to the lead detective on the Ryan case. Lila someone.’
Rosalind’s stepmother. I left her several messages after I spoke to George Ryan on Wednesday. ‘Put her through, Kenny,’ I say.
‘Yes, sir,’ says Kenny sarcastically.
There’s a click and then a pause. A soft clipped ‘hello’ comes down the line.
‘Detective Woodstock. Is this Lila Wilcox?’
‘Ah, yes. Hello. Sorry for my tardiness. I didn’t get your messages until today. I’ve been travelling.’
Her voice is precise, like that of a newsreader. I picture a long lean throat, coiffed hair. I flick my headset on, quickly google her and confirm that I am right. A handsome-looking woman with piercing coal eyes and ivory skin stares out at me.
‘I’m glad you called me back. I want to talk to you about Rosalind.’
‘Rose,’ she corrects me quickly. There is a sharp intake of breath.
‘I’m very sorry about what happened. She was your stepdaughter?’ I’m still scrolling down pages of search findings on Lila Wilcox. From what I can tell she is a very high-profile person in HR.
‘Yes. I married George in ninety-seven. We divorced four years later.’
Rosalind was about fourteen when they split. A fairly impressionable age to lose a mother figure. I should know. ‘What was your relationship with Rose like?’ I ask her, remembering that George said they were close.
‘Well, she was a Ryan,’ starts Lila, and then seems to interrupt her own train of thought. I can tell she is shaking her head. ‘No, look, really, she was a delight. A bit prickly at first but then she completely won me over. I certainly ended up being closer to her than the others. I am devastated about this. I’m in shock, I suppose, but I haven’t seen her in over ten years. So it all seems very distant. My life is over here now.’
‘Where is here?’
‘Shanghai. I moved here in 2004.’
‘And you and Rose didn’t stay in touch?’
‘We did a little. Especially at first. We would talk on the phone. Write sometimes. I felt guilty for leaving her, I suppose. Such a bright child.’
‘But then?’