An Isolated Incident (16 page)

He was right, of course. She would want that. I blew my nose and got my concealer and lippie out of my bag, leant in to the rear-vision mirror to fix myself up. Nate said, ‘Good girl,' and kept rubbing my back.

I was finishing my lippie when something black filled my side vision and Nate's hand jerked off my back. ‘Fuck,' he said. My heart banged hard in my chest. Nate was out of the car and running and my heart was bang-bang-bang and the air rushing in and people running, running from the front of the pub, running to where Nate was holding someone by the back of the shirt.

A photographer. Nate told me later that not snapping the bloke's pencil-neck took more willpower than not taking a drink. Next day he regretted it, said if he saw the fucker again he'd break his neck and worse.

You saw it I guess? Front page, clean shot of me puckering into the mirror, while Nate stroked my neck. They ran it next to a picture of Bella at her work Christmas party, her fuzzy hair decorated with green and red tinsel. Top corner of the page was another photo. A black sheet over a lumpy shape, a blue tarp by the side. If you looked hard you could see her big toe poking out. I'm sure it was her toe, that tiny pale smudge. I stared and stared at that picture and the longer I stared the more obvious it became. How did no one at the scene notice that her toe was sticking out like that?

Nate found me crying over the paper and took it away. He thought I was upset about the photo of me and him looking like sweethearts out on a date. As if I give a fuck. All that Bella had been through and not one of those busy-bees crawling all over the crime scene could bother to check that no bits of her were left hanging out in the cold, cold air.

At the wake, after the photographer had taken that shot, Nate downed a schooner of Coke like it was a shot of rum and I saw from the tendons in his neck and the cracking of his knuckles over and over that he was close to the edge. I nicked a couple of smokes off Old Grey and led Nate back through the kitchen to sit on the outside step.

Nate took a deep drag. His phone beeped. He glanced at it, took another drag, shook his head at me. ‘I can't be here.'

‘Here at the pub or . . .?'

He closed his eyes, leant back against the doorframe. His phone beeped again. He whipped it out of his pocket, punched in a reply.

‘That her?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Checking up on you?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You shoulda brought her down with you. For support.'

‘Hard for her to get time off.'

‘What's she do?'

‘Social worker.'

‘Just what you need, eh?'

He closed his eyes again. ‘Chris.'

I noticed my smoke was finished. I dropped the butt and brushed some dirt over it. ‘If I go back in there, I'm going to have to drink a lot.'

‘I know.'

‘And if I go home, I'm going to have to drink a lot, too.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Or what? What am I meant to do now? What is there to do? How do I just . . . What do I do now?'

‘I dunno.'

‘What would
she
say? Renee? What would she tell me to do?'

He took a breath, gave me that look of his, checking to see if I was being a smartarse. He must've seen that I was legit, because he picked up both my hands and held them in that way that made them still. Made me still. ‘Want me to call and ask her?'

‘Might have to, 'cause I'm fucking clueless here.'

‘What would Bella say?'

‘She'd tell me to go home, clean the house then get an early night, because everything's easier to deal with when things are tidy and you're well rested.'

He laughed. ‘Sounds about right. You going to do that then?'

‘No.'

‘No.' He looked out over the boxy concrete lot like it was a green, green field stretching all the way to the horizon.

‘Do you think they're in there?' I said.

‘What?'

‘The ones that did it. Are they in there now? Drinking to her memory?'

‘Chris . . .'

‘That's why the cops are hanging around, hey? They think the –'

‘Stop.' He stood, dangled a giant hand for me to pull myself upright. ‘Come on. Inside. Say your thanks and goodbyes and then we're leaving.'

I let him heave me up and lead me through the kitchen. I barely spoke as we did the rounds, kissing and being kissed. Everybody was sorry and wanted me to tell them if there was anything I needed. I needed so much, but none of them could give me any of it and so I clung to the one who could until we were in his car and then I put my head back and closed my eyes and told myself it didn't matter what happened next.

In my kitchen I went for the bourbon and he stopped my hand with his and then kissed me long and hard and then we fucked on the kitchen floor and for as long as it lasted I felt that everything was exactly as it should be.

And then it was over. I pushed him off me, stood, pulled my skirt back down over my hips, ignored the ooze down my thighs. In bra and crumpled skirt I poured and drank a thumb of bourbon. Nate said my name like a warning and I poured and drank another slug. My name again, a lament. Another drink, easy easy easy on my throat now. He got dressed, grabbed his phone and went outside.

I stood near the window with the bottle and the glass and listened to him tell his girlfriend that the funeral was
brutal
and that I was a
trooper
and the news photographers were
scum
and that he couldn't stop thinking about whether any of the men at the funeral were the ones that did it and whether he maybe made small talk with the bloke who – or shook the hand that – or or or and he wanted a drink so much, so much much much but he wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't, baby, baby, baby, wouldn't, couldn't, because although things were worse than he ever thought they could be, things were also much better than he ever thought because there was her, Renee, there was her and there was the baby, soon, soon, their baby, their little fella, and he could get through anything, anything – get through it sober – because of them.

A soft weight on my head, pressing just hard enough, moving from my hairline to the top of my ponytail. I sank into the nearest chair, shaking. The sharp smell of anti-bacterial hand wash made my nose twitch. The pressure again, perfectly judged. I whispered her name, felt myself breathing more slowly, closed my eyes, let her stroke me the way she always had when I was worked up or sad or shaky. After a minute I reached up, as I always had, to trap her hand beneath mine, to let her know she could stop, I was fine.

There was nothing to trap, nothing to stop. I sat shivering, hand on my head, until Nate came back inside.

He looked as hangdog and shifty as I'd ever seen him. His eyes darted from my tits to the floor to the window. Before he could pour his bullshit guilt out on me I told him straight, ‘I think Bella's still here.'

‘What d'ya mean?'

‘Her spirit or whatever.'

He sat at the table, glared at the bottle. ‘Chris.'

‘Yeah, I know. Sounds mad, but . . . A couple of things have made me . . . I dunno.'

He didn't say anything. He was embarrassed for me. Or for himself. Ashamed, scared. I don't know.

‘Do you believe in stuff like that?'

‘In ghosts?'

‘Yeah, nah. Not like a
ghost
in a movie or anything, just like, that people who've died might be . . .'

He cracked his knuckles. ‘After Dad died, Mum'd say she saw him. Just sitting at the dinner table or out on the verandah having a smoke. Said it wasn't scary, just like he was still there. Then after a while she didn't see him anymore. She reckoned he'd hung about a bit to help her get used to the idea of him being gone.'

‘Do you think that's true?'

‘I think she saw what she needed to see to get through those first weeks.'

‘Do you think that's what I'm doing?'

‘I don't know, babe. If you are it's not working real well, is it?' He poked the bottle.

‘I had three drinks.'

‘So far. And you were so rotten the other night I'm surprised you remembered how to make a phone call. If Bella
is
hanging around she'll be disgusted.'

He was right, of course. I hoped so hard then that he was right about all of it. That Bella wasn't here, that I was comforting myself with delusions of her presence, 'cause otherwise she'd seen me spewing up and screwing that grub for money and then all this carry-on with Nate. I hoped so hard she hadn't seen any of it and then right away I was crying, thinking how that wasn't true, how I didn't care what she saw, what she knew about me, that I'd take all the shame and judgement and disappointment. I called her name, I think, or I thought it so intensely that Nate knew I was calling to her.

‘Chris, babe. Jesus.' He rubbed my back, stroked my hair. If I'd stood and turned he would have kissed me and it'd be all on again, but the idea was sickening now. I shook him off and went to my room. He followed, apologising, but it was like he was made of smoke. I waved him away, cried into the pillow and wished wished wished for the sound of her voice, touch of her hand, hospital-grade-clean smell of her. There was nothing though. Wishing for her was no good at all.

Tuesday, 14 April

AustraliaToday.com

‘We'll speak of her often, think of her always.'

May Norman

14 April 2015

Forty of Bella Michaels' closest friends and relatives said goodbye to her in a private ceremony at St John's Anglican Church in Strathdee yesterday while almost a thousand more gathered outside and wept for the woman whose brutal death has shocked a nation.

Bella's friend Vicky Moreland was the first to speak at the service. She told the assembled mourners that she had spoken to Bella every day for the past five years and that she would think of her every day until she died.

Bella's father Tony Michaels spoke next, describing his daughter as ‘a bright light that I never imagined I'd see put out'. He said that although he didn't see Bella often, he always felt good knowing she was ‘here in quiet little Strathdee, shining her light on everyone she crossed paths with'.

Bella's former brother-in-law Nate Cartwright spoke on behalf of his ex-wife, Chris Rogers, who sobbed inconsolably throughout the service. ‘Bella and Chris had some tough times in their younger lives, but neither would've changed a thing because those tough times are what made them as close as they were. Anyone who knew either of them would've heard the other one's name mentioned within the first five minutes of conversation. I know that won't change for Chris. She'll keep speaking of Bella often and all of us who knew Bella will be glad about that. We'll all speak of her often, think of her always.'

Another of Bella's friends, Sarah Loome, then rose and said that Bella had never been one for poetry but that she loved the film
Four Weddings and a Funeral
and ‘cried like a baby' during the funeral scene which featured the poem ‘Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. Ms Loome then read the poem, drawing laughter from the mourners when she apologised to Bella for ‘not sounding as sexy as John Hannah'.

The service finished with an address from the Reverend Peter Longley, who spoke of Bella's generous spirit and deep, patient kindness. He ended with a prayer for peace for Bella's loved ones.

Mourners inside the church left via a private door at the back of the building as Judy Garland's ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow',
from another of Bella's favourite movies,
The Wizard of Oz
, played. Those gathered outside sang along, wept, prayed and swapped stories about their connection to Bella.

‘She took such good care of my dad at the nursing home,' one woman said, wiping tears from her face. ‘She was Dad's favourite. He wanted to be here today, but it's very difficult for him to get around and so I came in his place. I didn't expect to be as moved as I am. Just seeing how much she meant to so many people, it's such a tragedy.'

A spokesman for Parson Brothers Funerals confirmed that a private security firm had been hired for the event and provided with a list of approved mourners prepared by the deceased's family. ‘Numbers had to be limited due to the size of the church building,' the spokesman said. ‘However we understand that many not in Ms Michaels' immediate circle would wish to pay their respects, hence the placement of speakers outside to broadcast the service.'

Members of the media were restricted to standing at the back of the outside broadcast and asked to refrain from recording or photographing the event. In a statement written by a close friend of Ms Rogers and handed out at the gates by a Parson Brothers employee, members of the media were asked to respect the privacy of Bella Michaels' family, friends and colleagues.

‘We wish to express our gratitude for the love, concern and support we have received from friends and strangers throughout this last, horrific week. While we appreciate that the media must report on crimes and their consequences, we respectfully point out that our pain is not breaking news nor does it constitute a development in the case. We therefore ask that you allow us to grieve our beloved Bella in privacy.'

Also in attendance both inside and outside the church were Strathdee police officers and detectives from the Wagga local area command, a reminder that this grief is not the result of an accident or disease, but of the deliberate and monstrous actions of a person or persons yet to be found.

‘Why does the
Tele
have a front-page photo of the dead girl's sister getting cosy with her murder-suspect ex at the funeral?'

May sat up, rubbing her eyes open. ‘Morning, Andrew. Sorry, what's your question?'

‘My question is what the actual fuck, Norman? Where were you?'

‘I was at the funeral getting quotes from mourners.'

‘Instead of following the sister and the ex-crim?'

‘The family asked for privacy.'

‘Christ! Are you new here?
Tele
says the lug-head ex took a swing at a photographer.
Herald
says the two of them left the wake together after fifteen minutes and he didn't leave her place until late at night. But we reported that some random woman's father was sad, so that's good.'

‘Okay. I'm sorry. I fucked up.'

‘I want you back up here tomorrow.'

‘I said I fucked up. I'll do better.'

‘Story's run its course.'

‘Andrew, believe me, it really hasn't. There are all kinds of rumours about –'

‘I want you back up here to cover the big femmo march thing tomorrow night. If there's anything new to report down there you can head back, but there's just no need to hang around. It's dead, May. Right?'

May called Max and arranged to see him before the march the following night, then tooled around on Facebook, catching up on the latest career triumphs, awesome parties, cute babies and anniversary dinners of her friends, colleagues and distant acquaintances.

She went to the status box and typed:

Adequate sex with a source + microwave noodles = best night yet in Strathdee.

Delete.

Indigestion, beard rash and mosquito-bitten ankles: another top night in Strathdee.

Delete.

Two days since phone call from married lover caused me to seek consolation-sex with local yobbo. Two minutes since I last thought about calling married lover and begging him to leave his wife. Two seconds since I wondered if it's wrong to search for leaked murder photos online.

Delete.

Fuck all you smug smiley arseholes. Fuck my married lover and fuck his pregnant wife. Fuck
AustraliaToday
and fuck the police in this shitty little hole who can't come up with a single murder suspect in a town full of rapists, wife beaters and animal poisoners.

Delete.

Fuck my life.

Delete.

Ever since Craig she'd been unable to share the best things about her life and now that he was gone there was nothing she wanted to share. She posted the links to her latest articles, more to remind people she existed than out of any great pride in the writing itself.

Must do better
,
she typed, then deleted, but repeated it to herself out loud. That's the truth, she thought. I really, really must.

May psyched herself up to approach Chris Rogers' door again by reminding herself of the advice Andrew had given when he sent her out on her first death-knock to interview the parents of a little boy killed in a hit-and-run. ‘It feels like you're imposing, but often grieving relatives are grateful for the opportunity to talk about their loved one. You're actually doing them a kindness.'

She knocked, waited a minute or so, then knocked again. After another minute she called out, ‘Chris? Sorry to bother you, but it's quite important I speak to you.'

She heard footsteps, smoothed her hair, got ready to smile sympathetically. Nothing.

‘Chris? Are you there? My name is May Norman. I've been writing about this terrible crime for
AustraliaToday
and wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am.' She held her breath, heard faint rustling on the other side of the door. ‘I feel I've come to know Bella a little bit, just by talking to those who knew and loved her. I know our readers feel the same way, too. But of course nobody knew and loved her the way you did. I wonder if, knowing how much Bella has come to mean to so many people, you might agree to share a little bit of what she meant to you?'

May could hear breathing, heavy, uneven. She felt certain someone was watching her from behind a lacy curtain across the road. ‘Chris? If we could just talk for a –'

A roar sent her stumbling back, half falling down the porch steps. She stood stunned. Had that sound – so deep and bestial – come from Chris? There it was again. Loud enough to make May shudder even way back on the driveway. She resisted the urge to run, forcing her legs to move in what she hoped was a natural, unmortified way.

That first-ever death-knock had conformed to Andrew's best-case scenario. The parents had sat on either side of May on their lumpy orange sofa and talked her page by page through the photo albums they'd kept since the dead seven-year-old was born. It was an emotionally wrenching afternoon, but May never felt she was pushing the parents or taking advantage. They wanted the world to know about their little boy, how loved he was, how happy he made people. They
were
grateful to May for giving them that chance.

As it happened, May hadn't had to knock on the doors of any grieving relatives in the five weeks since then. She'd done a few quick interviews after press conferences or as bereaved loved ones were leaving court hearings but she'd been part of a pack and any angry words or looks seemed to be directed at the lot of them – at the whole world even – rather than her personally.

She sat in her car shaking so hard it took three attempts to light a cigarette. The woman had roared at her. Roared. What kind of person does that?

What kind of person causes someone to do that?

The rest of the day she played the moment back, tried to figure out if it was something specific that she'd said or just her persistence that had provoked the roar. Drifting off to sleep, she repeated to herself, It's fine, you're okay you're okay you're okay. Then the thought like a slap: It wasn't about you.
When did you become such a shitty, self-absorbed human being? Think of what the woman has been through. As if your breathless little sales pitch could make a dent.

May sat up, grabbed her computer from the bedside table, typed in the phrase, clicked the link.

‘Oh.' She closed the window, punched herself in the leg, reopened the page. ‘Jesus fucking fuck.' The same expanse of dirt and dead and dying grass she'd photographed the day she arrived, taken from every angle and a range of distances, but here with the police tape and plastic numbered markers and what was left of Bella Michaels still in place.

May couldn't bring herself to save the photos to her hard drive, but she forced herself to take careful notes. When she was sure she'd recorded every detail she closed the browser, went to settings and deleted the history. She stuffed her notebook into the bottom of her bag. A cramp attacked her lower stomach, then another. She made it to the toilet just in time.

She double-checked the door and window locks and crawled into bed. A real crime reporter would look at those pictures and wish only that she'd got to the scene in time to take them herself, May thought. You must do better, May. You must you must you must.