Challis - 05 - Blood Moon (12 page)

She bit her lip. Hal, I cant be
everything to you, or for you.

Of course not. I know that.

And you cant be everything to me.

Is this going somewhere?

They walked in the deepening
shadows, down the final slope toward his house. Their house. Ellens head was
whirling with a whole stack of issues, apparently unrelated but joined in
complex ways.

Hal, do you sometimes find it hard
working together with me?

Yes.

He said it promptly. That was good. In
what way? she asked.

I keep wanting to touch you. There
you are, sitting at your computer, and I want to rip your clothes off

She did and didnt want to hear
that. She moved half a pace away from him and folded her arms.

But he wasnt thick, or stubborn,
and said at once, I hate having to give orders to you, so I try to make it
sound like a suggestion. Im always conscious of not sounding critical, or
questioning your judgment, but sometimes I find myself needing to do that. But
if I do, will you take it the wrong way? And what do Scobie and Pam think? Do
they feel I give you preferential treatment? But you are a sergeant.

It came out in a heartfelt rush.
Ellen linked arms with him again. Something needs to change. But not yet.

She sensed that he wanted to say
more about working with her, but the moment passed. Instead he said, Do you
like living with me?

Yes, she said firmly, not feeling
a hundred per cent firm.

Hal said nothing but they continued
companionably to the driveway entrance and up to the house. Theyd bought a
stir-fry mix from the butcher: all they had to do was toss it in a spitting wok
and cook some rice. They would eat in tonight. They would eat together. Theyd
had a walk. This was a good evening and, in their line of work, good evenings
were rare.

* * * *

At
their house outside Waterloo, Ludmilla Wishart was playing the piano. She played
frequently, and expertly, and Adrian hated it. Her eyes, mind and body when she
played were not there with him but far away, possibly in a better
placeaccording to herand he hated that.

He stopped her slender fingers on
the keys and said, Im hungry She gasped and came back to earth. Hurried to
the kitchen to make things better.

* * * *

Scobie
Sutton went home miserably from the Chillout Zone. Rather than accompany him,
Beth had climbed onto her bicycle, saying shed sit with Lachlan Roe until he regained
consciousness. He needs me.

Beth, it could be days, weeks.

He needs me.

So do
we,
love. And he has
his brother.

That so-and-so!

Hed tried his hardest but she
wouldnt listen. Scobie felt aggrieved, stuck between two uncomfortable forces:
his boss and his wife. Neither one wanted or needed him, it seemed, yet they
both held sway over him. He was betting that Challis would never remove Ellen
Destry from a case. The benefits of sleeping with the boss. Im still useful,
arent I? he demanded. I could be tracking down witnesses, tracing,
interviewing, eliminating. Instead of which you want me investigating the theft
of a ride-on mower.

He boiled inside. When he got home
at six-thirty there was Roslyn, a small, wan figure in the dark kitchen, her
school atlas open at the mess that was the Indonesian islands. With a scrape of
her chair she was on her feet and hugging him fiercely, weeping so copiously
that her tears soaked his shirt. Sweetheart, he said, overwhelmed.

She hugged him tighter, released
him, returned to her homework. He tried to help her as he cooked chops for
dinner, but the Roe brothers had taken root in his mind and he wanted to harm
them in some way. He examined that notion, surprised that he didnt feel any
guilt.

* * * *

Caz
Moon knew where the anger had come from today, the courage, but shed been a
little in awe of herself even so. She hadnt always been angry and brave. For
months after the rape shed been, in her own words, a mumbling mess, contained
on the outside, contained enough to manage the surf shop, but distraught on the
inside. She couldnt believe some of the feelings shed had: defilement, yeah,
but guilt, too, for letting it happen. As if shed had a choice!

To make it worse, her memories had
been hazy at first, no clarity or definition, so she wasnt sure what had
happened. But slowly she pieced it together and even more slowly shed picked
herself up off the ground.

And now, as the evening light eased
toward full darkness, Caz Moon couldnt believe her luck. Here was Josh
Brownlee again, queuing to get into Retro, the club behind the RSL hall,
hitting on the youngest sister of someone shed gone to school with, what was
her name, Hayley, Hayley with a bare midriff, heavily kohled eyes, nipples like
pebbles in the cool air, a skirt less than a whisker past her groin, chewing
gum and enjoying Joshs pickup bullshit.

Josh! Joshy! cried Caz. Raped
anyone yet? Hes a rapist, she informed Hayley, Hayleys mates and everyone
else in earshot.

Josh lunged at her, she dodged away
laughing, and that cop lady was there again, saying, Everything okay here?

Fine! said Caz in her sparkling
voice.

The cop glanced at Josh, then at Caz
and murmured, Do you want to report a crime?

Me? No!

Caz, said the cop flatly. I just
heard you accuse that boy of rape.

Me? I was just kidding.

The cop stared at her, not in the
least bit satisfied. Finally she shoved a photo under Cazs nose. Have you
seen this man?

Not me, Caz said, striding off in
her conquering-the-world way.

When Pam looked, the boy had
disappeared.

* * * *

16

That
was Tuesday. Wednesday was Ludmilla Wisharts thirtieth birthday and the first
caller was her friend, Carmen Gandolfo, who sang Happy Birthday down the line
as Ludmilla was about to eat her muesli. Ludmilla blinked back a couple of
tears: Carmen was good for her, large in body and spirit, a real tonic. Plus it
mattered that even though she knew what Adrian was like, Carmen had called her
at home, not work.

They exchanged a few pleasantries,
Carmen apparently slurping coffee or tea. Ill call in at your office later
with a little something.

Size doesnt matter, Ludmilla
said, so long as its expensive.

On my salary? demanded Carmen.
Another slurp. So, what have you got planned for tonight?

Ludmilla said in a guilty rush, Adrians
taking me out to dinner.

Darl, Carmen drawled, putting a
lot of doubt and disapproval into the word.

With a whine that she hated,
Ludmilla replied, I cant leave him, you know that. Im scared hell hurt
himself if I do.

Utter bullshit.

Please, Carmen.

Get him into a MENS program. I can
set it up for you.

Carmen worked as a counsellor with
the shires community health service. MENSMen Exploring Non-violent
Solutionswas a behaviour-change workshop for violent or abusive husbands or
partners. Ludmilla knew there was a snowballs chance in hell of Adrian
entering such a program. He wasnt some uneducated labourer but an urbane,
highly educated professional; and hed hardly ever hit her.

Please, she said miserably.

Last time theyd had this
conversation Carmen had said, Its your funeraland I mean that literally,
but this was a birthday call, so Carmen steered the conversation onto cheerier
matters. Ludmilla was soon laughing and buoyant, but glancing at the kitchen
clock anxiously and keeping an ear open for Adrian, who was in the bathroom
down the hall, scraping his electric razor over his lean chin. She didnt have
much time. She thanked Carmen for the call and was rinsing her cereal bowl at
the sink when the phone rang again. Her mother said, Hows the birthday girl?

Hello, Mum.

They chatted for a couple of
minutes, then Ludmillas mother said, Is that gorgeous husband of yours taking
you somewhere nice tonight?

Ludmilla had tried confiding in her
mother several times in the past few years, but she simply failed to listen.
She adored her son-in-law. Adrian could do no wrong. Bolstered by her
conversation with Carmen, Ludmilla said the worst thing shed ever said about
her husband: Mum, Mr Adorable punched me in the stomach last night.

Oh, dont be silly.

Im thinking seriously of leaving
him.

Youve always been a complainer,
Ludmilla. A marriage requires work. You need to try harder.

Ludmilla realised with a start of
fear that Adrians razor had fallen silent. She murmured urgently, Id better
go.

And there was Adrian, standing in
the doorway, both hands behind his back. He cocked his head: Your mother?

How much had he heard?
Yes, Ludmilla said. She added
reassuringly, It was a quick call.

To her relief, he nodded. Ludmilla
couldnt win sometimes. If she made a call, hed see it as money theyd never
see again. If someone called herespecially if they spoke at lengthhed feel
that shed removed herself from him. Often hed time her, glaring pointedly at
the Longines watch shed bought him. Hed time her, calculate the distances shed
driven, count the money shed spent on groceries.

His grins used to melt her. He
grinned now, saying Ta da! and bringing his hands out from behind his back.

He flourished a birthday cake at
her. Chocolate, three candles for the thirty years, a scalloped edge and other
fancy bits, Happy Birthday scrolled across it in white icing.

Then Ludmilla frowned, looked more
closely at the icing.
Hippy
Birthday, it said.

Her face crumpled. Adrian!

Just a joke...

Im not fat.

Ludmilla, its just a joke.

Im not fat, she wailed, touching
her hips.

He was deadly quiet and serious now.
We have to face it, darling, your thighs are bigger.

She collapsed into her chair at the
kitchen table. I cant go on like this.

Adrian was bright and shiny from the
bathroom, groomed to within an inch of his life. He stood behind her chair, dug
his fingers into her neck and murmured, The only way youll leave me is in a
coffin.

She gasped, jerked away from him.

Mill, he said reasonably, I could
snap your neck, you know I could. Listen, he said, moving around now and
crouching beside her, one hand stroking her between the shoulders, the other on
her knee, I apologise, I went too far. Suddenly hot tears spurted from his
eyes. I didnt mean to hurt you. You mean the world to me. Its all the
pressure, the disappointments, am I good at what I do, why arent I getting any
recognition.

Oh, Ade, she said, crying too now.

I shouldnt take it out on you, I
know I shouldnt.

Ludmilla knew that Adrian was
chronically depressed. Although hed had plenty of freelance drafting and
design commissions since their marriage, for which he earned reasonable money,
the jobs had been smallmarried friends getting him to mock up preliminary
drawings for a house extension, for exampleor otherwise disappointing, like
the shire commissioning him to design a public toilet block for the Waterloo
foreshore only to reject it, calling it too outlandish. The larger commissions,
the offers of a partnership with a prestige firm, had been elusive. Meanwhile
there were certain types of people, the legions of the vulgar, whom Adrian Wishart
could not possibly work with, and standards he would not compromise. Ludmilla
felt for him sometimes. It was hard for truly creative people.