ARIA (22 page)

“What? Oh, go then. Make sure our mobile phones have both numbers in and take yours with you.”

Into his shoulder bag he placed his NoteCom, mobile phone, food, and water. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect to be back but he had to be prepared for anything. One thing was certain, if and when he returned to the cabin: that perishing dog would be on his bed.

Sunday 14 June 2015:

Rosamond, California, two months after the case was opened. Many would have lost eight years of their memory. The wife of Jack Balin, the first to catch ARIA, is in church.

I
RENE
’
S
TEARS
SPLUTTERED
ON
THE
CANDLE
SHE
HELD
. A dozen other candles held back pitch-blackness in the New Family Community Church. The late evensong service was not listed on the blackboard outside the white-painted stone building, built as a replica of the old Spanish mission churches. Word of down-turned mouths in huddled groups brought Irene and the other women after sundown. Like most downtown buildings these days, no one barred entry through the broken doors. It wasn’t only criminals who seized opportunities to break and enter. Irene knew of decent folk, besides herself, whose jobs didn’t exist anymore—if they remembered what and where their jobs were. They woke up confused, desperate, and hungry. They had little choice but to scavenge and raid. The church had been looted the least. Understandable, since people desperate for food soon left though a few prayer books might find they’ve become soul food.

Irene lifted her head. All she could see through misty eyes was blackness, except for a fluttering moth and motes of dust lit by the candles. She knew all the others in there with her: friends, some of whom had much bigger problems. At least Jack came home most days and her children played with others then came home. Not that all was well. Jack didn’t go to work; no one did. They had quite a lot of money left in their bank accounts. They couldn’t get any of it because the cash machines were empty. It didn’t matter. She had money in her bag but there was nothing to buy. Once the shop shelves echoed empty, local farms became popular.

A glimmer of a smile as she recalled Jack’s account of his involvement with the farm raid.

“We didn’t know. We were all either Edwards men or public service, not farmers.”

“Didn’t know what, Jack? And where’s the food?” Irene asked, arms folded.

“Did you want to eat palm trees or Pampas grass?”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So, the farm only grew trees and ornamental grasses?”

“There was more money in them than in fruit and vegetables. But we found out where a cattle ranch is only twenty miles away. So we should have steak by tomorrow night.” He started to smile but it faltered as if some of the muscles had forgotten how.

“Which cattle ranch is it?” She said, worried because her uncle worked and lived on The Sage Bush Ranch.

“The Six—er—God, I hope Charlie wrote it down.”

“Charlie? That goon. He’ll have lost the paper and so none of you will know which farm. Anyway, you’ll forget all about it by morning.”

“Maybe, till our stomachs growl. I’ll write another note.” He fumbled in his greasy hair above his right ear and pulled out a pencil stub.

“Jack, have you seen all the notes we have in the house? Our kitchen door is covered.”

“Yeah, I’ve not written so much since I forged my tax forms....A joke! Give us a hug.” She opened her arms to him, tears of relief for a touch of marital warmth amidst the desperation.

“Don’t be so soft, woman,” he said, turning to his left, away from her.

“Oh, Jack. Here, just a minute, what’s that on your shirt?”

“Leave it, woman. Best you didn’t know what us men have to do these days.”

“Blood. Come on, out with it. Whose blood?” Tears of anger now.

“We had some trouble with the landowner when we searched his outbuildings.”

“And?”

“I didn’t know Charlie had a gun. He panicked.”

“Oh, the poor man. You damn fool, Jack. And Charlie.”

“I did what I could—that’s why I’m so bloody.”

“Who else was there? Oh, don’t tell me. As if we haven’t enough to worry about.”

“At least we don’t need to worry about the police calling. We saw the precinct burning on the way back. That’ll keep Duffy busy.”

“Is Duffy the only police left on duty? Jack, he’s been a friend of your family for years.”

“Exactly. He’s been doing the sergeant’s job for so long, it’ll take years for him to forget what to do and where go. Though, with no fire service and no water to speak of, he’ll have to work from home from now on.”

“Jack, farms use a lot of water, don’t they?”

“Sure, so?”

“If there’s no water in our taps, Jack, how can there be water at the farms? Won’t the crops and cattle die?”

“Jeez, I dunno, Irene. You always think the worst. I expect some farms have those wind-pumps or diesel that brings up water, though it’s a hell of a long way deep round here. All the more reason for Charlie and me to go and relieve them before all the stock’s spoiled.”

“Careful then. Another thing,
we
could do with more water, Jack. Not just for drinking.”

“Yeah, the bathroom is disgusting even for me. Those flies are huge. We should use our washing and dirty water for flushing. I’m going to get changed. You going out? See you later.”

G
UNSHOTS
COULD
BE
HEARD
BY
THE
CONGREGATION
.

“Did you hear that, Irene?” whispered her young neighbour, Melantha.

“Yes, Mel. Maybe it’s Duffy warning off some looters.”

More shots echoed through the lofty church.

A quivering, old-woman’s voice travelled through the dark to join the conversation. “Don’t think so, Irene. I saw him climb into his Chevy after piling it up with his stuff.”

“That you, Senita? Any word from yours?” asked Irene and then regretted asking.

Sobbing told her the answer.

“Sorry, Senita. Damn this memory loss. I can’t even remember what’s happening to my friends, or my family, for that matter.”

The three conversationalists rose out of their pews and in the candlelight found each other for a group hug. In the quiet, they heard a lone voice singing.

“We never get any peace even in here,” moaned Mel.

“Better than hearing gunshots,” Irene said.

“I thought Liz was coming,” Senita said, still sniffing.

“I fucking have,” said a voice beyond the candlelight. They heard a walking frame clump on the floor towards them. “Fuck this thing.”

“You all right, Liz?” asked Irene. “Did I see your Jacob this morning? Oh God, or was it yesterday?”

“How should I know when you saw him, Irene? But tell you what, when you see him again, any of you, tell him don’t bother coming home. That’s if the fucker would know where home is.”

Senita gasped. “Liz, you and Jacob are so much together. What’s gone wrong? Besides this memory thing.”

“He can’t handle losing his memory.”

“Yeah,” said Senita, “My Pat’s taken off. Dunno when though. I found a few sheets of paper this morning full of numbers. So, I says to meself, I bet he forgot his PIN number and it freaked him out.”

“Well, money isn’t any use,” Mel said.

“It might have been when he forgot his PIN number,” Senita said. “Don’t suppose you know when Jacob left then, Liz?”

“Probably yesterday judging by the black eye I’m sporting.” A rush of candles closing in on her face sent her reeling. “Hey, it’s all right, I can do without you setting my hair on fire as well.” They all relief-laughed.

A soft singing of “Amazing Grace” reached them but stopped as the sound of an empty plastic bottle dropped on the stone floor made them all look to the back of the church.

“Do you think Father Fielder’s here?” Irene asked.

“His car’s not in the parking lot,” Senita said.

“He might have gone to his family back East,” Liz said. “Either way, we’ve done our praying, ladies, so let’s go for what else we’ve come for. If that fucking warbler’s left us any.”

Irene’s candle, like the others, flickered as they neared extinction so the women walked with purpose to a rear office. An oil-lamp added an amber glow and illuminated another woman filling a canteen with water from an old tap and re-starting “Amazing Grace.”

“Hey, you beat us to it, Celia,” Irene said.

“I sneaked in when you lot were gassing,” Celia said, a woman in her fifties who Irene knew always wore a long, turquoise kaftan.

“Thought the water might run out tonight, did you?” said Liz, positioning herself to be next with her two-litre bottle.

“Not really. On the other hand, it won’t last forever.”

“None of us have any water in our houses,” Irene said. “Jack reckons the pumps have packed in ’cos no one’s been maintaining them.”

“I’ve heard the military have taken over the water,” Senita said.

“Yeah, to make sure they’ve got enough,” Celia said. “Though I’ve also heard that there isn’t any army. They’ve not been paid, so they’ve gone home.”

As she filled her container, Irene said, “I’m relieved that for at least another day we have water.” Irene had found that the taps at her home brought no water, then read her note saying where a sure source was in the town. She had no idea why the church tap worked. Maybe it had a huge tank, built a century ago when farm folk in the area could use it before a deep well tapped the ground water.

Outside, the women held hands, taking comfort from each other before heading home through the chilled, starlit desert town. A fire in the suburbs added a glow to the sky and worry to the women.

“The school?” Mel said.

“Looks like it,” said Liz. “I heard talk this afternoon of there being food and drink in the cafeteria there.”

Mel said, “To think I spent years in there as a kid. Shame. Another part of my life gone.”

“Gunshots probably came from there,” Liz said.

“Might have been gas canisters exploding,” Irene said, clutching at less aggressive options. “Anyway, we should make our way home now while the ne’er-do-wells get drawn to the flames.”

They hugged, hoping to re-congregate the next day.

Irene had a mile to go in the dark and kept to walls wherever she could. A paper in her dress pocket held her address. Instinct told her to be as inconspicuous as possible. So it came as a shock when someone came up behind her and called her name. “Irene, slow down please.”

“Oh, God, it’s you, Celia. What you doing sneaking up on me?”

“I forgot to bring my address.”

“Don’t you live on Rushmore Street? Oh, my God, that was years ago and maybe you moved. I can’t remember either. Don’t you have any clues?”

“I know all these places, Irene. I used to foster kids and that took me into an awful lot of houses in Rosamond. There are clues all around me, all leading to too many houses.” She cried. Irene put her arms around her shoulders.

“You’d better come home with me, Celia. We can look in the phone directory for your new address.”

“So it will be. Aren’t you clever, Irene?”

Irene had a sinking feeling, and sure enough, a few moments later a cracked melody of more “Amazing Grace” disturbed the cats. They both started giggling when a dog howled. A slamming door shut them up. Running footsteps stopped them until Irene’s flashlight allowed her to recognise Eddie, her thirteen-year-old son. She cried with sorrow for the kids. They had such a small life and the forgetting disappeared it so fast.

“Mom, come in quickly, it’s Debbie.”

Irene looked at him. Confused, because most of her remaining continuous memory had Eddie as a much younger child. She supposed each morning she had to get used to a more grown-up son. She shook her head to react to his bawling about his younger sister. Her first reaction was to blame him for slamming the door and scaring them half to death.

“What have you done to her this time, Eddie?”

“Nothing, Mom, but she just sits there crying.”

“Where’s your pa?”

“He’s not back.”

A range of dangerous scenarios went through Irene’s mind: the fire at the school, his talk of farm raids and tendency to seek liquor and its instant consumption. But she had a domestic crisis to deal with.

“Come on, Celia, play happy families.” Irene tugged at Celia’s elbow. Eddie followed them in with a long face.

“It’s not that happy at the moment,” he said. “Debbie won’t come out of her room.”

“She often does that until meal times.” Irene exchanged an ironic laugh with Celia at the child-rearing clichéd angst.

Irene called Debbie’s name as she climbed the stairs after stopping a second to detect sobbing sounds. Thank God they’d refused both kids’ frequent whining demands for door bolts. She knocked as she pushed the nine-year-old girl’s bedroom door open.

“Debs, what’s the matter, darling?” Irene asked in vain as her daughter sat on her bed, arms wrapped around her raised knees making herself as small as possible. Her shoulder-length red hair tangled at the wet, straggled ends. A flickering oil lamp gave her an eerie glow, projecting odd shapes on her wall. Irene sat on the end of the bed. “Come on, sweetheart, tell your mom what it is. Has your brother been bothering you, again?” Irene put out a hand to lift Debbie’s chin so her red eyes could be scrutinised. She reckoned that no matter what her children said, their eyes told her the truth. She saw fear and confusion, and by doing so, Irene trembled, wavered in her normal cool demeanour.