‘It’s alright,’ I tell them. ‘I know it.’
Felix is all business as he strides back to the car. I trot along behind him feeling like an annoying child. I can’t read him. My head is fuzzy. Not one thought seems able to stick, and my heart aches for Ben. I flick Scott a quick message to check on him.
‘Do you know the way?’ Felix asks.
‘Yep. His house isn’t too far from mine.’
We drive in silence for a few moments.
I almost explode before I blurt out, ‘I want to see you. Spend time with you. I just want you to be with me.’ I sound like a little girl and I hate it.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road but I see him swallow heavily. He breathes out slowly, making a whistling noise with his teeth. ‘I want that too, Gem—I just … I don’t know. Like I said, my head is such a mess. It’s been different between us lately. You’re not working with me properly on this Ryan case. And what happened with Ben, meeting Scott, it … it was so real. I think it just fucked with me even more.’
Panic returns hard and fast. I reach out my hand and place it on his leg. ‘Please, Scott—please. You know I want you. Especially after yesterday. I need you.’
He gives a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Gem, you just called me Scott.’ He slams his fist lightly on the wheel. ‘God, this whole thing is such a mess.’
‘No, I didn’t. Did I?’ I put my head in my hands and for a moment I think I might cry but I’m too tired, too empty. I just want it all to go away. All of it except for Felix.
Houses flash by. An elderly man wearing a baseball cap is walking an overweight dog. They shuffle along in the heat, painfully slow, the man’s legs like the pale trunks of saplings.
Felix tugs at his collar as if it’s choking him. ‘Okay. Look. I want to see you too. I do. I miss you. Holding you. But won’t you need to be home? You know, with all that’s happened with Ben?’
My heartbeat slows and my eyes sharpen. He still wants me. I unravel my balled hands, placing them calmly on my thighs as the colour returns to them. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to pry Scott off him anyway. I’ll be able to see you, don’t worry.’
‘Well, here we are.’ His fingers suddenly wrap around my hand. His voice is gruff, his accent thick. ‘Maybe we can meet Thursday night?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, squeezing his hand back. We are in front of Nicholson’s neat brick veneer. The house looks like it is sitting down; ‘squat’, my father would say. There are some flowers across the front and a large wattle tree to the side. The garden looks loved. The lawn is neatly mown and is an impressive lush green. A lazy sprinkler jerks one way before snapping back to its original position, jetting out a stream of droplets onto the grass. The front door is open and the screen door is propped open too. A narrow hallway becomes a dark square inside the house; I think I can see the corner of a picture frame on the wall.
Felix removes his hand from mine and turns off the ignition just as John Nicholson steps out the door. He is so tall that his head, encased in a retro-looking terry-towelling hat, almost touches the archway. He squints into the sun, secateurs in hand, and then proceeds over to the far side of the garden. He starts to prune the overhanging strands of ivy, chopping at them stiffly.
‘C’mon, let’s get this done.’
Nodding, I slide out of the car. The heat hits the back of my throat and my forehead instantly buds with perspiration. My feet are fire in my dark shoes. The buildings, the roads, the whole town sweats, still chanting at us: Who killed her? Who killed her? The question sits at eye level, demanding an answer as it hovers in the lank, sticky air.
‘Mr Nicholson!’ Felix calls out.
He turns slowly, arms still outstretched. If he is surprised to see us, it doesn’t show.
‘Yes, hello.’ He takes a few steps towards us and then seems to realise that he is holding a fistful of branches. ‘Ah, look. Let me get rid of this and then we can talk.’
He goes to the side of the house and tosses the branches out of sight, then heads to the open front door, gesturing for us to follow him. Felix and I look at each other and he holds his arm out so that I go first. The ceilings are low; it reminds me of our place. There are portrait-style photos along the length of the hall, most of them featuring a handsome-looking woman with rosy cheeks and cropped, no-nonsense blonde hair. Nicholson is in some of the shots too, smiling over her shoulder. The woman wears an endless rotation of pastel shirts.
‘This way, this way,’ he says.
I follow him down the hallway into a bright white kitchen. It’s surprisingly modern; light bounces off the stainless-steel appliances.
‘Please, go outside, it’s nicer out there. I’ll just get us some water. It’s still so hot, isn’t it?’
I step out into a small square courtyard. A wrought-iron table setting is on the lawn. A large shade cloth casts an inviting-looking shadow across the yard. A row of standard roses follows the line of the fence and then merges into wilder, leafier vines that weave and dance across the palings, disappearing behind a tree heavy with lemons in the far corner.
‘The roses look stunning in the spring. It’s a wall of colour. Keeping them going through the summer is hard work though. Especially this summer.’
‘It’s like being back at home.’ Felix is staring wide-eyed at the garden.
‘My wife adored gardening. Her family was English and she fancied it was in her blood. She was out here all the time. In the end it was the only thing that made her smile.’
He sets a jug of ice water on the table with some glasses. His arm shakes as he places them down. I take a seat on the chair.
‘She was ill?’
He smiles at me. ‘Oh yes. Very ill. Cancer and heart problems. She was an amazing woman, my Jessica. Very solid. Dying annoyed her very much, she hated being weak and needy. I keep the garden alive for her. She’d be furious with me if I let it go. But I’ve come to quite enjoy it myself. I find it meditative.’
‘Mr Nicholson …’
‘I know. You need to talk to me about Rosalind. I’m not stalling. I don’t have guests too often so I suppose I’m babbling a bit.’
‘How are you holding up?’
He sends me an appreciative glance. ‘Oh well, not too bad. It has been a pretty difficult time. I feel such a responsibility for the students. And the teachers. It’s very hard to know what to do and what to say to everyone. And I miss her.’ He holds his hands out with his palms up. He looks lost. ‘It’s a very difficult thing. Impossible really.’
We nod and sit in silence for a moment. I can hear the hum of bees in the air.
‘People are saying you were in a relationship with Ms Ryan.’
Felix tips his head at me, surprised. I’m surprised too; I had intended to work up to the possibility that Nicholson was having an affair with Rosalind, but it suddenly seemed better to shoot the words out, to fire them like bullets and see what they hit.