Feeding the Demons (32 page)

It was nearly three in the morning by the time Kit tucked her in. ‘I’d sit with you for a while,’ she said to Gemma. ‘Except I’m whacked.’ She kissed her sister on the head and then climbed into the made-up lounge bed, leaving the bedroom door open so they could talk. Outside the storm had eased. The wound in Gemma’s left arm had been restitched; the police questioning had been mercifully brief, thanks to Angie’s intervention. In his carton, the kestrel scraped and flapped.

‘What’s that noise?’ Kit asked in the dark.

‘It’s the kestrel. I think he’s ready to fly,’ said Gemma. ‘You know that Dad saved my life,’ she said. ‘He worked out what would happen when I touched the sensor. He knocked me out of the way. He died for me.’

‘Yes,’ said Kit. ‘It goes a long way towards—’ She wasn’t sure how to finish it.

‘Towards making him my father again, our father again—in spite of everything,’ Gemma said. It was a long time since they’d shared a bedroom and talked in the dark like this, Kit thought.

‘What do you want done with the SCAN result?’ Kit asked.

‘Chuck it,’ said her sister from the bedroom. Her voice was getting drowsy as the painkillers and exhaustion kicked in. ‘You can tell me about it. Did he get it right?’

‘He got it right. The language showed significant signals of concealment and deception, he told me, indicating serious involvement in the death of our mother.’

‘You always knew that, Kit.’

And a little while later, ‘God, we’re a pair. Talk about karma.’

But Kit had gone to sleep.

Gemma and Kit sat on the grass near their mother’s grave. Behind the low stone walls the gentle hills, covered in rows of broken angels and marble crosses, fell away to the edge of the coast where waves surged and smoothed themselves over the rocks, in glassy rolls, or broke in foam, running back to join themselves and surge again. Calliopsis scattered gold all over the green, in some places clumped dense as blotches of yellow poster paint, and a jogger thudded past them round the sunken path that edged the cemetery. It was a perfect afternoon. Enormous white cumulus clouds piled above the sea, empty except for one long container ship.

‘Marianne Lincoln 1931–1966’, the black lettering on the grave header stated. ‘Daughter of Malcolm Lincoln, MBE’.

Kit was adding more roses to one of the tins, pushing them in with the long slender hands that Aunt Merle had told them were their mother’s. ‘Here we are, Mum,’ Kit said. ‘You’ve always known the truth. But he did save Gemma’s life and that’s got to be worth something, don’t you think?’ Kit rested back on her heels.

Fifty per cent of me is him, Gemma thought. And fifty per cent of Kit. I’ve even got his eyes. We have to deal with this no matter how difficult it is. The cemetery seemed suddenly eerily quiet with the great silence of the dead enclosing them.

Their father’s funeral, attended only by herself and Kit, Dr Rowena Wylde and Paul Lestrange, had been a brief, businesslike affair and Kit and Gemma decided to leave his ashes to be disposed of by the crematorium. It’s all tied up now, she said to her mother. All finished. Beside her, the wild yellow daisies blew in a light sea breeze.

‘How’s your arm?’ Kit asked, looking at the bandage.

‘Still a bit stiff, but the wound is healing. You know I reopened it when—’ She felt her voice wobble. ‘—when Dad pushed me away and I fell against the cement.’ She considered, looking at the surge of the waves; hearing the subdued thunder as they struck the rocky shelves below. ‘It was so clever, so
nasty.
It would’ve looked as if Noel had got the wiring wrong in the most basic way. Not even a first year apprentice would make that mistake.’

‘Surely that in itself would’ve created doubt in people’s minds.’

‘Why?’ said Gemma. ‘People are electrocuted. Accidents happen. And it would have looked like Noel anyway. Not Richard Cross. He wasn’t expecting Dad to turn up on the doorstep. That changed everything.’

‘What made him show up then?’ Kit asked.

‘You know that Noel did some moving for him? They got on very well and somehow Noel ended up telling him that Cross—Kreutzvalt—wanted to know what my flat looked like inside. What colours I’d used. Noel heard from Spinner that the man you left the hospital with was Richard Cross. He told Dad. Obviously that worried him enough to come after me.’

‘That gunshot in my ear,’ continued Gemma. ‘I thought I’d never hear again. It took hours for my hearing to come back.’ Now, she heard the buzzing of bees and the whispered song of wrens in the bushes around the overgrown graves. ‘It is all so extraordinary,’ she said. ‘The way it all came together. The way all the old unfinished business came round again. And our father and Arik Kreutzvalt did what they had to do.’ She shuddered. ‘It was nearly the end of both of us,’ she said. ‘I thought I was a goner.’

‘I did too,’ said Kit, ‘when Larry Hagen was standing over me with the knife. I’ve been in some sticky situations in the therapy room but nothing like that. It focused me wonderfully.’

Gemma laughed. ‘Dear Kit. You are such a thera
piste
!’ She was suddenly quiet. ‘I’m sure of one thing, though, Kit. No more men in hotels for this little Sydney sheila.’ She shook her head. ‘I think I’ll give men up for a while.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s going to take me some time to get over the fact that I went to bed with a murderer. And almost
my
murderer as well.’

They heard a shout and looked around to see the small, sturdy figure of the Ratbag running down the hill, his blue shirt untucked, his backpack bouncing up and down as he ran. Gemma stood up and waved to him. ‘Hey!’ she called. ‘Over here.’

He came up, puffing, dragging the backpack off his back, throwing it on the ground. ‘Have you got him?’ Gemma indicated the carton and he went to it and opened the four flaps of cardboard, peering in. ‘What’ll I do?’ he asked her, holding the struggling bird down with one hand.

‘What about taking him to the edge of the path over there and just holding the box up?’ she said. ‘That way he can just fly out.’

The Ratbag did as she suggested and the kestrel appeared, flapping. It fell back once into the box as if it had lost its balance, then it launched itself off the top and flew awkwardly towards an elaborate Hellenic temple style of tomb, to perch on the top of the frieze, staring down at them with its brown eye. It fluffed up all its feathers and looked around.

‘He’s all right!’ the Ratbag said. ‘He can fly.’ He rooted around in his backpack and brought out a squashed little plastic-wrapped sausage of mince meat.

A shout made them turn around again, and there was Will walking down the path towards them. He still looked terribly thin, but his eyes were clear and his gaunt face, old before its time, broke into a huge smile when he joined them.

Gemma stood up, her heart beating with love. My family, she was thinking. There’s not that many of us, but here we all are.

Will came up and hugged his mother. Then he turned to Gemma and kissed her, tall and skinny, with long, pale hands like his mother’s. Gemma held his face and looked into his eyes. ‘Will,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long.’ He nodded, hugging her tighter. He couldn’t speak, so he blew his nose and looked away.

The Ratbag was hovering, unsure as to what to do, looking from the hawk to the group of people around the grave. Then he turned to Will. ‘That’s my hawk up there,’ he said. ‘I saved him and now he can fly again.’

Kit took a stiff white envelope out of her shoulder bag. ‘Paul Lestrange dropped this in to me as Will was arriving,’ she told Gemma. ‘It’s an IOU our father made out to him. And a letter. I haven’t looked at it yet. Paul also asked us what we want done about his things.’

‘Burn them,’ said Gemma without hesitation. Kit nodded. ‘My feelings exactly. It’s the end of the story. For him. For her.’ She indicated the grave.

Will lay back in the grass, hands under his head, staring up at the sky. ‘I’ve always been afraid because of the things done by my grandfather, but I couldn’t talk to anyone about it when I was growing up. It was such a big, dirty family secret. Heroin wiped the fear out. But then it brought new fear when it wore off.’ He rolled over and sat up. ‘I just have to accept the fact that I come from a weird family,’ he said. ‘No wonder I went off the rails. But I’m doing six NA meetings a week, so hopefully I’ll be able to help the rest of you at some stage.’

He was suddenly serious again. ‘I’ve got the feeling,’ he said, ‘that I’ve only got one chance at getting clean and straight. I can’t afford to blow it. Especially after what my mother and my aunt have been through.’ Kit leaned over and kissed him as another jogger puffed past, unnoticing, his red satin shorts dark with sweat.

Kit picked up the envelope from Paul Lestrange. ‘Do you think it’s all right to open this father business right over the grave of our mother?’ she asked Gemma.

‘I think it’s okay,’ said Gemma. ‘There are large areas of human experience where the protocols haven’t been decided.’

Will threw back his head and laughed in delight. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re at an interesting evolutionary stage.’

Kit opened the envelope again and a piece of paper fell out. She retrieved it, glanced at it then handed it over to Gemma. It was an IOU for thirteen thousand dollars made out to Paul Lestrange and signed by their father. Gemma’s heart sank. Where the hell are we going to get thirteen thousand dollars from, she asked herself. I’m barely above water as it is. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Our father’s left us a nasty debt to Paul Lestrange.’

‘There’s a note here, from Paul,’ said Kit. ‘Shall I read it out?’

Gemma nodded. Kit read:

Dear Kit and Gemma. Your father appointed me executor of his will and I’m writing to you to let you know that he took out a large life insurance policy as soon as he got out and that he’s named both of you as beneficiaries. I’ve checked with the life company and they say you can expect a cheque in a matter of weeks. Your father had to borrow some money from me to make up the first three monthly premiums and I’m enclosing the IOU signed by him.

Gemma’s mind was preoccupied. Thirteen thousand is a lot of money, she was thinking as Kit continued to read. It took her a few seconds to absorb what she thought she heard, and it was Will’s gasp of amazement that really brought her attention back to the words her sister was reading: ‘As you will receive five hundred thousand dollars each from the policy, I’m sure you’ll have no problem repaying me. Yours sincerely .
 
.
 
.’

Kit and Gemma stared at each other.

‘Holy dooly,’ said Will. ‘We’re rich, we’re rich.’

A loud shout from the Ratbag made them swing around, still stunned. The kestrel was lifting off from the boy’s arm. Alarmed by the shout, the kestrel flapped higher into the sky. ‘Hey!’ the Ratbag was yelling. ‘Did you see that? He came and sat on my arm! He took the meat from my hand!’ He ran along the path delighted, following under the kestrel, which flew higher and higher, finally fluttering in a stationery hover fifty metres in the air.

‘Five hundred thousand each,’ Gemma breathed.

‘Five hundred thousand,’ Kit repeated.

Will clasped his hands around his ankles and turned over backwards. ‘Whoopee!’

On the path along the edge of the cliff, the Ratbag was still running until he reached the spot where the kestrel hovered motionless above him, treading air. He stood there, looking up, holding his arm up again, hoping for another miracle.

‘I can buy my house,’ said Kit. ‘And have money left over if you ever want to study anything, Will.’

‘I can expand my business,’ said Gemma. ‘I can upgrade everything. The best cameras, the best everything.’

‘Thank
you
, Grandfather,’ said Will. ‘It’s okay, Grandma,’ he said, remembering and patting the grass of the grave. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand. Now that you have the distance to see a bigger picture.’

•

Later, Gemma daydreamed on the deck in the twilight, Beatrix Potter’s
Tale of Two Bad Mice
face down on the table. She had a wine and soda in front of her that she sipped from time to time because excitement had made her mouth dry while the chicken curry she’d bought at the Thai place in Clovelly Road remained untouched on the table. I’ll be able to get another operator, she thought, whenever the work load gets heavy. I’ll never have to sit in a bloody hot car all day again. Or freeze in a van all night. My life is perfect, she thought to herself. Almost. She picked up the book and went inside to ring her sister.

‘Okay,’ said Gemma. ‘I’ve read it. The mice get into the doll’s house and smash up the stuff,’ she said. ‘And Will smashed up your place. Is that it?’

‘Did you notice
what
they smash up?’ Kit asked. When Gemma didn’t reply she went on. ‘It’s because they think that the fish on the plate is real, and they’re looking forward so much to eating it that they get so angry that they have to smash it up. And the ham. And the butter. And the fruit in the bowl. But none of it is real. They feel they’ve been cheated. That’s how Will must have felt. And that’s why he did exactly the same thing. I started to see that Will only smashed up very specific things. That’s what Alexander had immediately realised. And that’s why he told me to read the book. He didn’t want to tell me. He wanted for me to see it for myself.’

‘And you did. And now it’s all different,’ Gemma said. She became aware of a banging on the door. ‘I have to go. There’s someone at the door.’

•

‘Taxi!’ she squealed when she opened the door. On the doorstep stood the Ratbag, clutching a very bedraggled ginger cat.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I found your cat for you.’

The cat leapt out of the boy’s arms and skidded across the floor. He had lost a lot of weight, but it was Taxi all right. Gemma ran to him and scooped him up. ‘Oh, darling Taxi cat. My big, once-fat cat who has returned to me.’ Taxi looked around wildly and Gemma could feel his ribs under his fur.

‘I found him,’ said the Ratbag, ‘stuck between some rocks in a cave thing down on the cliffs under the cemetery when I was running after the kestrel. He was sort of half-wedged under a rock. He must’ve been hunting and some rocks fell on him. I had to move about three or four of them, that big,’ he indicated with his arms, ‘before I could move him. I heard him meowing, and I went to see what it was.’

‘He must be starving,’ Gemma said, going to the fridge. Because of Kit’s shopping, there were plenty of good things for Taxi and he had his fill of milk, chicken and cheese.

‘He’s really skinny now,’ said the Ratbag. ‘I didn’t even think it was him at first. Just some cat.’

Taxi was bunting at her chin with the top of his head, bumping his cheek and neck along her jawbone, starting to make bread on her neck and shoulders.

Ratbag, she wanted to say, you’re a winner. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t know your name.’

‘It’s Hugo,’ he said, as if he wished it wasn’t.

‘Is that what they call you?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘My mum calls me Hugo. My dad calls me Victor. It means “winner”,’ he explained proudly.

‘And you are,’ she said, putting Taxi down. He immediately ran back into the kitchen to check the area of the food bowl. There was nothing left so Gemma gave him some more. Then he jumped up onto the dining room table where he was forbidden to sit and Gemma let him stay just this once. She turned to the Ratbag. ‘If you want to, you can come into my place in the afternoons when you come home from school,’ she said. ‘It must be lonely in your place, waiting for your mum to get home. You could do your homework here. Maybe help me sometimes on the two-way radio to my highly skilled undercover agents.’ She said the last few words very slowly and seriously.