Burn Patterns (32 page)

Of course, it was no coincidence Mathew hung art from the
Nullabin region at the time he was negotiating. Would he be accused of bias, or of hypocrisy?

Iris wanted to call Frank. She wanted to find out about James, the things she'd missed.

‘Amazing, isn't it.' Mathew had joined her. ‘I could get lost in it. Lost up north contemplating the horizon.' He called, ‘Can you send the luggage home at about five-ish, Reggie?' He said to Iris, ‘Let's go to lunch.'

Iris saw Reggie standing in the doorway between the two offices. ‘Wonderful to see you, Mrs Foster.'

‘You too, Reg.'

He suddenly came forward with his hand out again. When Iris shook it, he said, ‘I knew you'd catch him. I knew you'd get the school bomber.'

‘Reg has always had a crush on you,' said Mathew as they went down in the lift.

‘The Fire Lady makes the streets safe once again,' said Iris flatly.

‘Yes,' said Mathew, even more flatly.

They caught a taxi to Beaumont's.

‘Beaumont's!' Iris said.

‘Yes, I told them they must squeeze us in or I'd never speak to them again.'

‘You did not.'

‘Practically.'

Iris said, ‘Was it hot, up north?'

‘Like a whack in the head with a rusty shovel,' he said.

After she stopped smiling, Iris thought to ask, were you cold at night? She didn't. She didn't think she could carry it off without inflection.

There were more respectful greetings at Beaumont's. They were a local crowd who knew of them. They would know about the funeral. They were given a prime table near the window so they could see glimpses of water past the arse ends of the yachts. Most afternoons the ping of rigging proved comforting.

Iris thought she'd like to catch up with Charles, to see what else he'd found under the church. He'd returned to the cellar following the service.

‘Would you like the fish, Iris?'

The waiter hovered. Wine was already on the table. A sauvignon blanc. Lots of French spelling for Rosemarie.

‘Isn't it funny how the less grape you can taste and the more like icy water it is, the more we love a sauvignon blanc?'

A mildly red-button observation Mathew always refuted. He seemed about to launch into his very detailed breakdown of aroma, dryness and grape age, but changed his mind. He said instead, ‘So, the zoo.'

‘Yes. They think the man I have been assessing has followed me, possibly from before the school bomb.'

‘The school?'

‘Ah, yes. I was at the school when the gymnasium blew up.'

‘Oh.'

Iris saw that Mathew must have heard this piece of news somewhere in his travels. ‘It didn't seem the time to bring it up.' Iris watched him waiting for her. She couldn't read him this afternoon. ‘He escaped from Fieldhaven, from the secure mental facility there. Tried to burn me and a lot of innocent bystanders in the butterfly enclosure. He was going to blow up the church probably during this morning's ceremony.'

‘Seems barely credible in our small town.'

‘He overreached.'

‘But are you okay?'

‘A characteristic of the denizens of our fair city, overreaching.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘I've got a cut on my shoulder, well more on the shoulder-blade. Stitches.' Iris smiled as she said it. Realised she was proud of a real physical wound. ‘Be a bigger scar than the one on your knee.'

Mathew said, ‘I get worried when you joke.'

Iris said, ‘I get worried when you don't talk to me.'

He flinched. He admired his wine glass, did not lift it. Was this a public place? Here and at his office? Was he keeping her in public places so she wouldn't make a scene? So he could tell her something important, final. I've met someone else. He didn't say that. He said, ‘Remember when we used to play poker?'

‘Yes. No one would play with me.'

‘You learned their secrets.'

‘I learned their “tells”.'

‘They got all funny about it, started getting self-conscious about other things they might reveal.'

‘It was only about their cards. And if they were timid or rash – I could only work it out if we played for a while.'

‘Shame. I liked the poker games.'

‘I liked the tennis. They fancied their chances with me as your partner in doubles.'

‘Underestimated your speed at the net. The killer flea.'

Iris wondered where this was leading. Entirely too much nostalgia, past tense. She hoped there wasn't going to be a confession. She didn't need it, she decided. She could push the hypothetical event of June aside and if she could put it aside for long enough it would simply cease to have been. She decided she didn't want the mess, or the risk of wounds that might never heal. James never had been, but might have, and June had passed, it seemed; our tax returns have been completed, our books balanced.

Mathew said, ‘I think the judiciary is one of the most important things one can do for society.'

One? He'd been talking.

Mathew must have seen her face, caught himself. He could see into her mind, she could never see into his. Maybe she should tell him this.

‘I have many years of work left in me. I have the energy. The will. And I think I can make a real difference to society, Iris. Not merely make money, make a difference. It sounds like a cliché, I know.'

‘It doesn't. Mathew, I believe you'd make a great judge.'

‘Yes.'

Iris leaned forward, her chin in her hand.

‘Are you with me or against me?' asked Mathew.

‘Me? I'm with you.' Was this what he wanted? Or was she making it more difficult for him? She said, ‘Would you like me to leave the Park Centre? Be more available for functions? Cook more, be more …' Iris couldn't think of other domestic or wifely chores to add to her bag of offerings.

Mathew searched her face and Iris realised what she'd said sounded sarcastic.

‘I think the Park Centre practice has left me anyway. I would like to put more into your push for judge.'

‘No,' he said, and Iris's heart sank. ‘No, I think you should work. You should do what you do. Anyway, it's hardly going to change my career, not really. You catch the buggers, you don't light the fires. So, I realise I have been selfish and insecure. I wanted to be Batman, not Robin.'

‘Mathew …'

‘No, I'm on a roll here, so overruled. Look, I know I work hard. If I become a judge, I will have to work even harder, at home too. I know I can dazzle and … well, it's always been a relief to not have to burn quite so bright at home, to be loved by you and Rosemarie and know it's okay. But is it?'

A public display. At the church, the office, here. He was making public his marriage, whether in regret or in dedication or possibly as part of his job application.

Iris said, ‘I'm for you.'

Her grilled fish, his crayfish arrived. They discussed Rosemarie and their favourite cities of Europe. His was Barcelona, hers was Venice. They were well-worn topics full of familiarity and rebinding.

*

Two of the butterfly collection frames were askew, otherwise there were few signs of a search at home. Her car sat impeccably pristine in the drive. The assured Mathew took it all in his stride. He was delighted she'd shopped. He noted her pruning in the garden. There was touching, he squeezed her unwounded shoulder, rested his hand on her hip.

They went to bed early. Mathew loved her in her favourite way, sucking her nipples as he used his fingers, devoting himself to her pleasure first. Groggy, she was about to open to him, when she grabbed him by the arm. ‘My shoulder,' she said. Getting on top she performed an abandoned dance that increased her own pleasure watching his face until she felt his silent shudders, saw his smile go crooked. Mathew always came in private. Iris knew the words at lunch had not been easy for him. He manipulated
words for a living, so distrusted them. She lay on top of him, hugged herself to his still lean body. She felt warm. She smelled his salty sweat, the faintest trace of his cologne. She let her tongue dart to his shoulder to taste him.

*

He woke her in the morning, already dressed in his bicycle gear.

‘I have to go to work. You stay asleep.'

‘See you tonight,' she said in a little girl voice.

‘I'll phone.' He kissed her, left like a smug boyfriend who'd got to sleep over. It pleased her.

Iris recalled a restless night yet couldn't remember what she'd been dreaming.

She showered, dressed slowly. She put The Waifs on the bedroom iPod. She didn't want any news. She took her time doing her face, focusing on the detail and the minute tasks at hand. She chose a silver cable necklace, earrings with tiny opal droplets.

The police still hadn't returned her phone, so she used the downstairs phone to call Frank on his mobile but was diverted to message bank. She called Fieldhaven, who told her Frank was working from home.

Iris called Mary at the practice.

‘Hi Mary, it's Iris Foster. Can I have Lisa Fitzmorris's address?'

‘Iris! Aren't you still on sick leave?'

‘Loose ends, Mary.'

‘We saw the news about the bomber.'

‘It should be on the files, Mary. The address. Under Rodney Fitzmorris too.'

‘I'm nearly there. By the way, a couple of the patients are getting a bit pushy about seeing you.'

‘Not yet, Mary. Like you said, sick leave.'

‘Did he nearly kill you?'

‘He missed.' He got the butterflies.

Mary finally gave her the address. Iris bought a bunch of white chrysanthemums on her way to a treeless suburb with two-storey block houses over triple garages. The grass was green, the driveways wide.

Iris pressed the bell next to the heavy front door.

Lisa opened the door. ‘You.'

‘Hi, Mrs Fitzmorris. I've come as soon as I could.'

Lisa stood blinking.

‘I was sorry to hear about Rodney.'

‘Were you?'

‘Yes. He was trying.'

‘You put him in prison.'

‘We … once the investigation began, you know that.'

‘I don't know anything about any of that. I know we went to you for help. I know you put Rod in prison. I know he went to you for help. Now he's dead. I know that.'

‘As I say, I wanted to tell you he was trying.'

‘I've been reading about this. I know about you people planting fake memories.'

‘No.'

‘I know you made it up. I saw you put the idea into everyone's mind.'

‘Mrs Fitzmorris.'

‘Get out.'

‘Lisa, do you need to see someone?'

‘You must be joking.'

‘Is Kimberly seeing anyone?'

‘Not a chance.'

‘She needs to.'

‘Don't you tell me what she needs.'

‘She really, really needs to see a counsellor to help her get past this.'

‘Past her father's imprisonment and suicide, you mean.'

‘Yes!'

‘We don't have any rent. We're going to lose the house. You mess people then turn up to mess with us again?'

‘I'm not suggesting me. Kimberly does need to be able to talk about this. It is absolutely vital she understands it wasn't her fault.'

‘It wasn't. It is yours.' Lisa grabbed the flowers, using them to slap Iris's face.

They stung. Iris stepped back, her eyes smarting.

Lisa sneered. ‘Don't think this will change anything. We're suing you.'

‘Please, you must make sure Kimberly gets counselling.'

Lisa dropped the tattered flowers to the porch step, slamming the front door.

Iris felt her face, found no blood. She picked up the bouquet, leaving the scatter of white petals where they'd fallen.

*

Iris found a telephone outlet in a large shopping centre where she bought a temporary mobile with its own number, prepaid credit. They were called ‘drop phones' by criminals, Iris recalled.

She called Mary again, got Gillian's mobile again. She rang Gillian, discovered she was at the practice. They arranged to meet around the corner amidst the business folk at the edge of the city.

‘You are in disguise,' said Gillian as she plonked herself into the seat opposite Iris in the walled garden of the coffee shop.

‘Disguise?'

‘Out of your red leotard and flaming cape.'

‘Pardon?'

‘The Fire Lady.'

‘Oh.'

‘Heard that one, huh?'

‘Never.'

Gillian wore jeans and a quite smart t-shirt with an orchid print on the front. ‘You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.'

The waitress took Gillian's order. Iris already had a pot of tea.

Iris said, ‘How is Barbara, and her daughter?'

‘Good. We're chipping away. Actually, you know, you do have to talk about it. Eventually. Are you going to see a counsellor about what you've been through?'

‘Probably. I'm not sure. I'm trying to get to my psychiatrist.'

‘Good.'

‘I've been to see Lisa, Rodney Fitzmorris's wife.'

‘Oh, I don't think that's a good idea.'

‘Too late. Did you know she is suing?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can we – not contest it?'

‘Of course the practice will contest. We did nothing wrong.

You did nothing wrong. What's this about?'

‘If it goes ahead, she'll put her daughter on the stand.'

‘It would be in camera. It would be handled.'

Iris said, ‘Her mother is in complete denial.'

Gillian watched her coffee arrive.

Iris said, ‘Her daughter needs treatment. Her recovery has to be the priority.'

‘Yes. It is. Always. But not within our power, darling.'

‘I had been drinking too much, not sleeping and possibly still suffering from PTSD from the fire at my practice. I came back to work too early. Was over-focused on the gymnasium investigation. For good measure, my husband and I were having problems.'