Darkwater (13 page)

Fact: The police are looking for Lyndon.

Two constables came to our school that afternoon, doing the rounds of each of the home rooms. We were sent to ours twenty minutes before the bell was rung for the end of the day. Miss Ingleton was standing at the front, her rollcall book open on the desk in front of her. She ran her finger down each of the names, checking us off when she saw us, calling out if the person wasn't immediately visible. Daniel wasn't there, but she didn't say his name. She would have known he'd been sent home, and when I thought of him in that huge house, with Roxie drunk in the lounge room and Amanda's bedroom untouched, I wished I could do or say something to change the way it was for him.

‘It's one of the hardest things in life,' Dee had told me, ‘learning that often we can't do much and the difference we can make, if any, is usually very small. But the fact that you listened to him and that you tried to offer help isn't completely meaningless. I'm sure it would have given him some solace – even if it was simply to let him know that people do care.'

I hadn't been so sure. But that lunchtime, when I'd seen him lying on the ground and sobbing, I knew that the fact I'd been to his place made it easier for him to tell me why he'd been so angry with Cherry. It wasn't much but it was more than nothing.

I took my seat, and began to pack my books into my bag, while Miss Ingleton finished marking off our names.

Everyone was talking, wanting to know why we'd been called back, the words spinning around the room in a blur of unfocused chatter. In the back row, Dennis White threw a tennis ball up and down, catching it with a soft thwack. The last throw went too high, hitting the low stucco ceiling and bouncing back down onto his head.

‘Jeez.' He leapt up, his chair clattering to the ground behind him.

Everyone laughed. Someone called him an idiot. Miss Ingleton clapped her hands, and then, when there was no response, she took out her playground whistle and blew it, shrilly, into the room.

The silence was immediate.

‘I need you all to cooperate,' she said, as there was a knock on the door. ‘We have a special announcement, and I want you all to listen.'

The afternoon sun was white, a shaft of hazy light, as she stepped back to let in the two policemen. They were at least a foot taller than her, one had his cap on and the other held his in his hand. Each was in full uniform, the steel-blue shirts, the navy gaberdine trousers, the polished black shoes and the glint of the badges on their chests made them both look indistinguishable from each other. I looked at each of their faces in turn, both stern, and I wondered what it would be like to be in the force and to have to deal with people who were bashed and died and stole and lied and cheated and ran, and I knew it was a job I would never want.

The one with his cap on stepped forward to talk to us. He was Constable Conroy, Miss Ingleton told us, and he was one of the officers investigating the very tragic death of Amanda Clarke.

He sat on the edge of her desk, one leg crossed over the other. He said he needed our cooperation and our help.

‘There's been a significant lead in our enquiries,' he said.

Everyone was still, sitting upright, eyes fixed on him.

‘Yesterday we received information that the deceased was meeting someone at around the time she died. We had believed this was the case for some time but we had no concrete confirmation of this fact.'

I looked down at my lap. I was digging my nails into the softness of the palm of my hand because I didn't want to hear what I knew he was going to say next, I didn't want to believe that someone we knew could be capable of something so awful.

‘A young lady from this school came forward and told us that the deceased had mentioned the meeting to her. We have every reason to believe she was telling us the truth.'

From outside the window, I heard another classroom door open and the voice of a teacher calling out to a student as they crossed the oval towards the admin offices. The bell would ring in a moment, I thought. It would be the normal sound of the day ending and yet there wouldn't be the immediate clatter of desks and the slap of bags on concrete, followed by shouts and laughter, at least not from our classroom, not until the constable had finished uttering words I didn't want to hear.

‘This young woman confirmed what we had suspected.'

I wondered why he was speaking so formally. Was it to impress upon us the gravity of the situation, to scare us, or was it because he had forgotten how to speak in a way that showed he was really one human talking to another? I wanted him to get on with it.

‘Miss Clarke had an appointment to meet a fellow student from her year, a young man she had been having a secret relationship with.'

Next to me, Cassie coughed, a rough scrape from the back of her throat, designed to get me to turn and look at her, so that she could raise her eyebrows to let me know she had been right all along.

‘This young man is Lyndon Hayes.'

There was no gasp, no rush of whispering. Just complete silence.

‘Some of you may know him, others may not. In any event, we are leaving a photograph with Miss–?'

He looked across at Miss Ingleton, who whispered her name to him.

‘Ingleton. I've asked her to keep this image at the front of the classroom so that those of you who don't know who he is can have a good look.'

Why on earth was he doing this? It was like Lyndon was guilty, the image of him something we could all gawk at, our gossip like a dirty slick across the smooth photographic paper. I thought of Lyndon telling me he was Amanda's friend and I felt sick. He was a person and he wasn't here to speak for himself.

‘We have been trying to contact Mr Hayes. We want him to come into the station and talk to us in the light of this new information. But to date we have been unsuccessful.'

He hadn't been at school. I wondered whether he'd been at home. It was unlikely if the police hadn't been able to find him.

‘We are therefore asking everyone,' and he leant forward now, trying to impress upon us that this was important, ‘to assist us. If you know where Mr Hayes is or might be, please come forward and tell us. If you see Mr Hayes, let us know. Don't approach him yourselves, just tell your parents and make sure they contact us.'

Everyone was shifting in their seats now, looking at each other, squirming and wanting to talk.

Miss Ingleton stepped forward: ‘Are there any questions?'

Mine was the only hand, my elbow crooked, unsure; the words I wanted to speak were only half-formed, but I had done it now and when Miss Ingleton said my name I uttered my thoughts out loud.

‘It doesn't necessarily mean you think he did it though, does it? I mean, just because he was meeting her doesn't mean he would hurt her. That's not what we should all be thinking.' I looked around the classroom. Everybody was staring at me.

Constable Conroy had turned to face me. He waited for me to finish stumbling through what wasn't really a question before he responded.

‘At this stage we're not at liberty to say who is officially a suspect and who isn't. All we are saying is that we would like to talk to Mr Hayes about this alleged meeting in the hope that he will be able to shed some light on what happened that afternoon.'

It was Mikey who now had his hand up. ‘If he didn't do it, you reckon he would have come forward and told you guys about arranging to see her. He wouldn't have disappeared.' And he glared at me.

The bell rang loudly and from outside, across the basketball courts, I could hear some of the other classes being let out, the buzz of voices no doubt dissecting what we had just been told.

‘Yeah,' Cassie was talking now. ‘I mean it looks highly suspicious if you just vanish.'

Louise Anderson was speaking next: ‘I always thought he was a creep. It's scary to think he's out there somewhere.'

Jason Marsh interrupted her. ‘Why did it take so long for that person to come and tell you about the meeting? That's weird.'

The policeman had given up trying to answer the questions. He rose from where he had perched on the edge of the desk, smoothing down the side of his trousers before putting his cap back on, the peak shading his face to such an extent that it was virtually impossible to see him.

He thanked Miss Ingleton for her time, not bothering to thank us, and then he and the other policeman, whose name we'd never learnt, left, the door wide open after they had gone, the shaft of white light a dancing ray of dust particles across the worn classroom floor.

Everyone was pushing their chairs back and picking up their bags when Miss Ingleton blew her whistle again.

‘SIT.'

The fact she had shouted was strange enough to make us all stop for an instant, giving her just enough time to tell us that we were not excused. She wanted our attention for a few minutes more.

There were slumps and sighs as we took our seats again.

‘Can we see the photo of Lyndon?' It was Jason calling out again. ‘Please, Miss.'

I had never seen her look so serious.

Arms crossed, she stayed perfectly still as she told us all that we needed to think and behave responsibly.

‘In this country and in this classroom, I would like to think that there is a presumption of innocence. Does anyone know what that means?'

Surprisingly, Sonia put her hand up. ‘You're not guilty until you're proved guilty in a court of law.'

‘Good. And that's the case with Lyndon. The police simply want to talk with him. No one has said he's done anything and I don't want any of you to say he's responsible for Amanda's death. Judging someone without evidence, and especially in their absence, is wrong.'

‘So, if we see him, Miss?' It was Dennis, this time.

‘Then you tell your parents, or you tell me.'

Outside, it seemed as though no one had left the school grounds. Kids were clustered in their various groupings, heads bent together, as they talked over and around the visit from the police. I could hear them, Lyndon's name a frequent hum in the conversation, as was Amanda's, their voices like the buzzing of bees, an insistent droning as I walked towards the gate with Sonia and Cassie.

‘Don't say it,' I told Cassie when we left the classroom.

She was taken aback.

‘Miss Ingleton is right,' I insisted. ‘We shouldn't be judging him.'

I was surprised when Sonia backed me. But then she qualified her support: ‘Even if it does look likely that he was involved.'

I glared at her.

‘You have to admit it.'

It did look bad for him, I agreed, but I also hated the thought of him having done it. ‘I mean, we know him. He used to stay at our house when he was little.' I couldn't articulate the doubt I had. ‘It's just so easy to think he did it. Imagine if everyone thought you'd done something awful and you hadn't.'

‘I just hope he comes forward and talks to the police and it was all a misunderstanding,' Cassie eventually said.

‘Really?' I smiled at her. ‘Detective Sergeant Cassie O'Donnell?'

She grinned. ‘Well, after seeing those two blokes in the classroom, I don't know if I'm so keen any more. They weren't the sexiest things on two legs.' She giggled.

As we stood at the gates, I saw Cassie look around, her eyes wide and anxious, her laughter continuing a little too long and a little too loudly. It took me a moment to realise she wanted to see Grant Benson. She was hoping he would be there, ready to walk home with her.

He wasn't.

I took Mrs Scott's copy of
The Female Eunuch
back to her that afternoon. When she asked me if I'd enjoyed it, I had to tell the truth.

‘I didn't really read it all,' I confessed. ‘I mean I agree with her, but, like I said, I'm more into stories.'

We were sitting out the back of her house, looking across the smooth square of green lawn, damp and springy underfoot from the recent watering she'd given it. She had made a lemon cake and she cut me a thick slice and poured me a glass of icy cold cordial. The glass was slippery in my hands, and the tang of the cordial sharp and sour on my tongue.

In the garage at the back, Mr Scott was working. He was often out there, fixing bits of machinery or making tiny replicas of antique furniture, the kind you would put in a doll's house, although neither he nor Mrs Scott owned one. He had been a bank manager, she once told me. He had started out as a teller and then worked his way up, staying at the same place for forty years, and hating every day of it.

She stirred the jug of cordial with a long swizzle stick and asked me what I had planned for the weekend. I found myself telling her about the police and Lyndon, my words a tumble and rush of incomplete thoughts.

My discomfort wasn't surprising, she said. He had been as good as branded a criminal.

‘But it sounds like he did it.'

She just looked at me. ‘If he did, it's a terrible thing.' She squeezed my hand in her own. ‘And if he didn't–'

Her words trailed off for a moment as she looked out across the garden, until eventually she shook her head. ‘Either way, it would be so much better for him if he just went to the police himself. He can't hide forever. And if he's innocent, he needs to clear his name.'

‘He probably doesn't think anyone would believe him.'

Mrs Scott didn't speak for a moment. She turned to me, her eyes bright in the afternoon light. ‘Something like that poor girl's death,' she eventually told me, ‘it ripples out. It's a stain that spreads, touching us all.'

I came home to find Joe and Dee in the kitchen. The breakfast dishes still hadn't been done and there was a load of shopping to be put away.

They too had been talking about Lyndon. Dee was telling Joe that he had to let her or the police know if Lyndon tried to contact him. The very fact that she was sitting still, leaning forward and focusing on him alone as she spoke made it obvious that she wanted him to understand the importance of what she was saying.

Dee turned to me.

‘I know. I know.' I held my hand up. ‘I heard you.'

I wondered whether everyone on this small peninsula was discussing him, his name tossed and turned and battered and bruised and picked apart in each house in each street. It certainly felt that way.

She lifted one of the greengrocer's bags onto the bench and asked us who was going to cook this evening.

I told her I was going to Sonia's. ‘So, I guess that counts me out.'

Joe said he was going to Kate's.

‘Not a late night I hope?' Dee lifted his chin with her finger so that he was forced to meet her eyes.

He scowled. ‘What do you reckon? Cherry'll probably be there. Wish she'd hang out at her own place sometimes and leave Kate and me alone.'

She told him to show a little more compassion. ‘Everyone is upset.'

‘And she'd feel pretty bad after what happened with Daniel today.' I opened a packet of biscuits and began to eat one before Dee could stop me.

She didn't even seem to notice. ‘What happened with Daniel?'

I told her about the fight at school, and she shook her head in sympathy. ‘I still haven't rung Roxie to see if we could have him for dinner occasionally.'

Joe stood up. ‘You know the weirdest thing about Cherry? She's acting like Amanda's death affected her more than any of us. Like she and Amanda really were best friends. They only hung out for a few weeks.' He turned to leave.

Dee put her hand on his arm. ‘You're not going anywhere until the dishes are done and the shopping is put away.'

‘Later,' Joe told her. ‘Just leave it for me.' He headed to the door.

Which left me alone. ‘I'm not doing those dishes.' The pile was threatening to topple over, the cereal dried and crusted in the bowls, the coffee a black smear of tar at the bottom of the cups, and worse still, the frypan filled with bacon fat and egg white. I turned to the shopping – five bags, each bursting at the seams.

‘All right.' I scowled as I started running the water, turning the tap too far so that the spray splashed up and out of the sink and across the dishes. ‘But remember this next time he tries to get out of it again.'

Dee just ignored me. She was never interested in whose turn it was, and I frequently felt I was complaining to thin air.

That evening, at Sonia's house, we lay on the lounge-room floor, the television on low in front of us as we flicked through magazines and talked. Sal was in her room and her parents were up the road, just for an hour. Sonia and Sal had refused to have a babysitter, despite Jude saying she was going to call one. They were too old, they begged, the humiliation of being looked after like kids worse than any possible fear. They would keep everything locked. They would call if anything seemed strange. Eventually Jude agreed, probably because she, like most people, assumed the police were after Lyndon because he was guilty, and there wasn't a deranged psychopath roaming the neighbourhood after all.

‘What if it's him?' Sonia said when the screen door slammed in the breeze.

I knew she was talking about Lyndon.

‘I'd tell him to go to the police.'

‘As if.' Sonia shook her head in disbelief.

I had my arms folded. ‘I would,' I insisted. ‘Why would he hurt us?' My words were braver and more rational than I would probably have been if it had, in fact, been him outside. ‘It's not like he's some kind of axe murderer. Even if he did hurt her.' I couldn't bring myself to utter the word ‘killed'. ‘I mean, it might just have been a terrible accident, and he's scared.'

I knew Sonia didn't believe me. I wasn't even sure if I believed myself.

‘I can't believe Cherry didn't tell the police till now.' Sonia shook her head, looking just like Jude as she did so. ‘God, Daniel went off at her. Poor guy. His life is ruined.'

‘Not necessarily,' I argued.

‘Mum reckons it is,' she protested. ‘She reckons when something like that happens to a kid, it's more than likely he'll become a drug addict or a delinquent.'

I rolled my eyes.

‘She seemed almost glad it's Lyndon,' Sonia added. ‘She reckons we won't have to get a security system like the Jacksons now that we know there isn't some serial killer roaming the streets.'

I didn't even bother trying to protest that nothing had been proved. I was wasting my breath. Instead, I changed the subject to Cassie and Grant Benson. Neither of us liked him and both hoped she would come to her senses soon. As I leant across to flick the channel on the television, I glanced at my watch. It was time to get home.

I knew I should probably call Dee and tell her I was on my way, or get her to pick me up. It was dark and she'd made me promise to do one or the other.

I sat up, shaking the pins and needles out of my feet, and I told Sonia I was going to head off.

‘On your own?'

I nodded. I'd roamed these streets for as long as I could remember and I was so sick of now being scared in my own neighbourhood.

It was only as I picked up my skateboard from where I'd left it outside the back door that she remembered the news she'd been ‘busting to tell' all night.

‘I found out who Nicky Blackwell's girlfriend is.'

At the mention of his name, I felt my stomach sink, heavy yet hollow. I wanted to know but I also didn't. I had tried so hard not to think of him over the last few days, although I hadn't succeeded. I'd really only seen him once, the day before, as I arrived at school. He had shot past me, rocketing down the hill on his board and turning into the school gate with the low swoop that had first made me notice him. I kept walking, hoping he hadn't seen me, but he called out my name.

‘How are you going?' His long hair was still damp from his morning shower, his eyes a brilliant green against the darkness of his tan. ‘Been missing you in detention – scaring away everyone else.'

Because I wasn't looking at him, he'd tilted his head to one side, bending low so that he could catch my eye.

‘Ah, well,' I said, for want of a better response and I felt like a fool.

‘How's the skating?'

I shrugged and told him it was okay, turning away as I did so.

‘You know, you are allowed to talk to me.'

I looked back for an instant to see him standing there, board at his feet, arms crossed.

‘There's nothing stopping us hanging out or having a conversation.'

But there was. My own pride. And the hurt I felt.

Sonia was jiggling up and down on one foot, eager to tell me. ‘I can't believe I forgot,' she said. ‘I meant to ring you as soon as I found out and then something distracted me and then there was all that stuff with Lyndon and I guess it just slipped my mind.'

Her name was Lesley. She was at Riverview Girls. Sal knew her because they did gymnastics for the same club.

‘So you told Sal about me and Nicky?' I looked at Sonia in dismay.

She denied it of course, telling an unconvincing lie about how she'd just asked her sister what she knew about Nicky and his girlfriend, without letting her know why she wanted the information in the first place.

‘Apparently they've been together for about a year. They broke up two months ago and she was devastated. He ended it. I don't know why, but she cried through three practise sessions and then a week later came in happy as anything again. They'd made up.'

Sonia waited for a response from me.

I didn't know what to say.

‘There's a photo of her in our room. You know, the gymnastics team shot.'

She took me by the arm, dragging me behind her. Standing in the doorway, I watched as she rummaged through Sal's books, finally pulling out a photo album from the bottom shelf and impatiently flicking through the plastic-coated pages.

‘There.' She held it up triumphantly, and I took it from her.

They all stood in four neat rows. The Linley Point Gymnastics Club. I had to hold the page next to the desk light to be able to see anyone's face. Sonia ran her finger along the second row, finally stopping at a blonde girl, third from the end. She was pretty. Her hair was pulled back from her face. Her smile was wide, her teeth white and even, her nose small and upturned, her eyes looked like they were blue. I looked at her again, not sure why I was doing this. Knowing who she was didn't change anything. I closed the album and gave it back to Sonia.

She was looking at me, wondering whether I was going to cry or react in some dramatic way, which I didn't.

‘Thanks for finding out.' It was all I said. I could see she expected something and that was the best I could do. And then, because I wanted to explain myself, I told her that it had been different with him. ‘We really got on. We liked each other. It wasn't just like some stupid crush on a boy. I liked hanging out with him. He made me laugh.'

She put her arm around my shoulder.

‘I'm not going to cry,' I said, and I glanced across at her.

She put the album down on the desk, and told me that they'd probably break up again. ‘That's what happens,' she said. ‘Once there's a crack in the bottle, the whole thing is liable to fall apart.'

I had to smile. ‘You reckon?'

‘I know.'