‘Mum, I …’
‘Jacob, sweetheart, I just think that until you’re clearer on next year, a girlfriend shouldn’t be a priority. I’ve noticed that Gemma hasn’t been here much lately, which I think is a good thing. But you don’t want to get involved with someone else. You need to focus on your future.’ His mother’s voice is firm.
‘My future,’ he repeats.
‘Yes. You’ll get uni offers soon. You need to make sure that you’re giving yourself the best chance at getting off to the right start. It’s very important.’
Jacob watches as the carpet pulses different shades of grey and the weave grows bigger and smaller like a beating heart.
‘It’s nothing, Mum. Really. We’re just friends.’
She gives him a look and then hands him a piece of paper. ‘I know you have nothing to do with it but here’s the number of the policeman. You need to call him back.’
‘I will.’
She leaves the room and Jacob lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. He spies a lone cobweb around the light bulb. He tries to call Gemma but there is still no answer. She must be with Fox again. No one picks up at Rosalind’s house either; there is just a strange clicking sound instead.
Rodney is watching TV in the rumpus room. ‘Hey,’ he says, without looking up.
‘Hey,’ says Jacob.
‘Did you get that letter?’ Rodney asks.
‘What letter?’
‘Some invite, I think. It has fancy writing on it. I chucked it on your desk before. I found it in the kitchen this morning.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ he says. He sits with Rodney and watches TV for a few more minutes, but the fog is creeping back. He can’t stay here. He gathers some things together. ‘I’m going out, Mum!’ he yells from the back door.
Donna is hanging out washing and squints into the sun towards the house. ‘Okay, sweetheart. Did you make that call?’
‘Yes,’ he tells her. ‘It was nothing.’
‘Good boy,’ she says to him.
Halfway to the lake he realises he didn’t get the letter that Rodney put on his desk, but he can’t go back now. He heads to the tunnel. He feels safe there. His paints are in his backpack along with the gin he took from home. He feels like painting something for Gemma. He paints and drinks for almost three hours. Drinks and paints. Tears pour down his face. The darkness is back and it’s settled on his chest. It’s hard to breathe. He wishes that the tunnel would flood and wash everything away. He looks at the concrete in front of him. He’s made a giant glittering diamond for Gemma, all white and silver, but it doesn’t matter now, he’s ruined everything. He can’t see the way back. He sits in the dark, drinking. Rosalind had taken up all the space in his head and then suddenly it was like he couldn’t even be around her. He puts his head in his hands. It feels weighed down and he’s not sure he can lift it up again. Nothing makes sense anymore. It hasn’t for ages.
All of a sudden he’s outside. The gin and the soundlessness of the tunnel have made him float. He hovers over the ground. He can’t feel anything anymore. He looks out across the lake and can’t imagine coming here again tomorrow, or the next day. The thought of all that water just sitting there exactly the same.
Tormenting him.
He just wants it all to be over.
The desire for an end point is overwhelming.
He looks up to the tower and finally feels calm about what’s going to happen next.
Chapter Seventy-five
Saturday, 2 January, 7.44 pm
I stand in the fading light near the entrance to the school hall. The ushers are kitted out in outrageous seventies garb; sequins and glitter catch the light. There are clearly a lot of repeat viewers in the audience tonight, several people gushing about how good it is. I recognise faces: Nicholson, Izzy, Timothy Ryan, several teenagers, shop owners and the other teachers. Donna Mason. Candy Fyfe. My red dress skims my thighs and I pull my shawl tighter around my bare shoulders. I blink away stray flecks of mascara.
At home Ben watched me get ready in quiet wonder, mesmerised by my unusual routine.
‘You look pretty, Mumma,’ he said solemnly as I kissed him goodbye.
‘Have fun,’ said Scott, looking me up and down. ‘I might take Ben up to Craig and Laura’s for a few days next week,’ he added, ‘but we’ll talk before that. Work out a proper plan.’
‘Let’s talk tomorrow,’ I replied, having no idea what I will say.
My phone shakes in my bag and I fumble to retrieve it from underneath my gun. I’m used to having pockets and a holster belt.
‘Detective Woodstock.’
‘Hi, this is Cara.’
‘Sorry, who is it?’
‘Cara. From the Gowran Cinema. We met last week.’
‘Yes. With the braids?’
‘That’s me,’ she says. ‘Sorry I’m calling late, I just finished my shift. New Year’s is big for movies.’
‘No worries. You find anything on the tapes?’
‘Yup. I’ve got our IT guy to zip up all the files and put them on a disc for you. He’s loved it. Thinks he’s on CSI or something.’
‘But he has her on tape?’
‘Sure does. Alone a bunch of times but sometimes with a guy as well.’
‘Okay. I’ll definitely need the files. Did you see the footage too?’
‘Yep. Some of it.’
‘What does the guy look like?’
‘Young. Like my age. Kinda hot. Great hair. Tall. And one of the guys that works here says he thinks he played basketball with him last year. Thinks his name is Rodney. Does that help?’
‘Yes, it does,’ I say, hanging up. As an image of Rodney forms in my mind, Felix steps into a patch of moonlight a few metres away. Beaming ushers start ringing little bells and waving everyone towards the entrance.
I step into line. A text comes through from Jonesy informing me that George Ryan has just died.
Felix’s elbow brushes mine as he shifts in his seat. He’s wriggling like a child on a long car trip. I am consumed by the likelihood that Rodney was Rosalind’s movie date but there’s nothing I can do until the play is over. I placate myself with the fact that he will be on stage, right in front of me, the entire time. He can’t escape. I tug at my dress and push my waved hair back to stop it getting caught in my lipstick.
Felix watches me. I can tell he is fascinated by my transformation too, but we are oil and water, our rhythm is gone.
‘George Ryan died,’ I say.
‘Just now?’
‘A few hours ago.’
‘Guess the brothers won’t be here then?’
Our conversation is curt, formal, and it takes all of my self-control to stop from grabbing his face and kissing him.
‘I saw Timothy out the front but maybe he doesn’t know yet. Or doesn’t care. I don’t think he and Bryce will be too upset by their father’s death.’
‘Strange family,’ Felix offers.
The music peaks and the lights drop as the curtains lift.
‘Aren’t they all?’ I say.