Please Don't Leave Me Here (9 page)

She forces her face to stay blank, but he might as well have tipped a bucket of ice over her head.

‘Oh, that's right, you don't remember. Just like you didn't remember me from Manny's party.'

She shrugs, and twists her mouth.

‘You're so fucking self-centred.' His voice goes up a few decibels.

She frowns.

‘Did you really think my interest in you was non-work related?'

‘What?' Another ice bucket.

‘Yeah.' He nods. ‘I've been investigating you the whole time.' His eyes are shining — they've turned almost black, inky. ‘An easy fuck on the side was just a bonus.'

She goes to hit him again, but he's too quick this time, catching her wrist before she can strike him.

‘So Elery
was
telling the truth. About your violent streak.'

Her heart beats so hard it's going to explode, but she doesn't flinch.

‘Don't
you
touch me again.' He pushes her hand away. ‘Or I'll charge you with assault.' He snatches his phone and keys from the tri-fold table, his jacket from the back of the chair, and turns and strides out across the yard.

She stands in the doorway, hugging her upper arms against her chest. ‘Aidan!' No response. ‘AIDAN!' He's gone down the sideway. She drops the bread and sits on the step with her head in her hands.

11

It's after midnight when Sam gets home, but she's still awake. He places his watch and keys quietly on the bedside table. His clothes rustle as he undresses in the dark; the bed creaks when he sits on the edge to pull off his shoes and socks.

‘Aidan's working on the case you were working when we met.' The sound of her voice seems to hang in the darkness. ‘He thinks I did something. He says you did something, too.'

‘No,' Sam says, ‘he's just got things mixed up.'

‘I don't know, Sam. He sounded pretty serious. Scared me.'

‘Is he out the back?' He reaches for his clothes.

‘No, he hasn't come home.'

He drops his shirt, and takes her hand. ‘I'll sort it out tomorrow. And he can move out if he's upsetting you.' He slides into bed, and she snuggles up against him — warm, strong, a hint of sport deodorant and dried sweat. She needs him more than ever now.

‘Don't worry.' He strokes her hair. ‘Did Serra say anything about what he thinks happened that morning?'

‘Morning?'

‘Night.'

‘Not really.'

‘Have you remembered something?'

She fiddles with the corner of the pillow case. ‘No.'

‘Brig, there's something I have to tell you about my father.'

‘Doug?'

‘No, my real father.'

She should be a good partner and listen, but she's drained. ‘Can it wait till tomorrow?'

They lie awake for a long time without speaking.

‘Sam, I want to have another baby,' she whispers. The twins brought them closer together. New life makes everything better.

Next door's air conditioner whirs, a dog barks, and street-light creeps under the blind.

‘Let's talk about that tomorrow, too.'

***

The smell of rain fills her nose before she opens her eyes. Thunder growls, and lightning illuminates the room. She reaches out for Sam. He's gone. It's dark, but the clock radio glows 10.05 a.m. Shit — how could she have slept so late? She reaches for her slippers under the bed, pulls on one of Sam's T-shirts, and stumbles down the hallway, rubbing her eyes. The twins are still in their pyjamas, watching TV and licking icy poles. She's about to yell, but instead kneels and wraps her arms around them.

‘We was hungry. Daddy went to work and you was sleeping,' Phoebe says.

‘It's OK.' She hugs them tighter. Another crack of thunder, closer.

‘Is somebody shooting?' Finn says.

‘No, silly, it's just a storm. Come and I'll make you some proper breakfast.'

There are three text messages from Sam on her phone:

Morning Ralph. Sorted things with Serra.

Been thinking about what u said last night. Think I want it 2. Talk when I get home.

Also been thinking about teaching course again.

She texts back:
Morning Sam. I luv u.
He doesn't reply.

The twins have left a chair up against the fridge, with the freezer door open; food is defrosting, melting down the front. Brigitte cleans up the mess, and makes toast and coffee.

The kinder session is nearly over by the time they get there. She goes home and tries to clean the house in the 45 minutes left before pick-up time.

She starts dusting the blinds, stops, goes into the study, and does what she has always avoided doing — what she was lying awake thinking about all night: she googles Eric Tucker. Click.

COLD-CASE DETECTIVES INVESTIGATE UNSOLVED MURDER OF CONCERT PROMOTER, ERIC TUCKER (2008)

VICTORIAN COLD-CASE DETECTIVES TO RE-OPEN 1994 INVESTIGATION OF SLAIN CONCERT PROMOTER, ERIC TUCKER (2008)

TUCKER CASE REMAINS UNSOLVED (1997)

DETECTIVE SAM CAMPBELL CLEARED OF EVIDENCE-TAMPERING ALLEGATION (1995)

POLICE LOST EVIDENCE IN TUCKER CASE (1995)

POLICE SEEK YOUNG WOMAN SEEN LEAVING TUCKER APARTMENT (1994)

CONCERT PROMOTER FOUND DEAD (1994)

She glances over her shoulder, scrolls up to the first search result, and reads the article:

Victorian detectives have reopened the cold case of Eric Tucker, who was bludgeoned to death in 1994.

The body of Eric Tucker, 45, was discovered in his luxury Carlton apartment by the now deceased caretaker, Sean McMahon, on 23 December 1994.

In the coroner's inquest report, Dr Simon Marks, forensic pathologist at the Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine, attributed Mr Tucker's cause of death to head injury from multiple blows inflicted by a person or persons with a heavy, blunt object.

Despite an exhaustive investigation by detectives, no arrest was ever made over the incident.

Detective Sergeant Aidan Serra confirmed they have recommenced inquiries into the violent assault, and are appealing for public assistance.

Cold-case investigations can be extremely challenging, but in this case they did have a person of interest.

‘There was physical evidence that linked this person to Mr Tucker,' said Detective Serra. ‘Unfortunately, most of the evidence from the original investigation is no longer available. However, advances in technology mean that the few remaining DNA samples taken from the scene can now be forensically examined.'

Anybody with information about Eric Tucker should contact police or Crime Stoppers.

Oh God
. Her stomach turns over; vomit rises in her throat, and she swallows it. The doorbell rings. She jumps, almost screams, and shuts down the computer.

It's Aidan — at the front, for a change. She unlocks the security door reluctantly. He stands there, silently.
Must be enjoying this: a cat with a mouse. He should rub some arnica cream into the bread bruise on his cheek.
Kerry waves as she walks past with her dog and a pink, polka-dot umbrella.

Brigitte waits until Kerry is out of earshot, then says, ‘Come on then. Aren't you going to cuff me?' She holds out her hands, angry now.
Wait till Sam finds out about this.

‘Not now.'

‘What do you want then?' She looks up. His eyes are serious, remorseful. He has long eyelashes. His Adam's apple moves up and down as he seems to struggle to swallow. She looks away — a snail is crushed on the wet path — and then looks back. The paint is starting to blister and peel on the cherry-red door she painted when they first moved in; but you can't tell, unless you look closely. She frowns, and her legs start to shake.
No
.

‘No.' Her voice is a whisper, and she shakes her head slowly.

‘Can I come in?'

The call. Expected, but never prepared for. In her imagination, it was always a phone call.
How stupid — this kind of news would never be delivered that way. And why is it coming from Aidan? Shouldn't he be busy trying to ruin her life?
He sits with her on their couch, her and Sam's couch, and tells her that Sam is dead. Another stupid thought occurs to her, and she feels guilty for it:
at least now she won't have to worry about getting
the
call
anymore
.

She wants to know what happened, the details, but it's too soon — he speaks slowly and clearly, but all she hears is: quick, a knife, Chapel Street … And the blood swooshing around inside her ears.
Would the police band play something by the Foo Fighters at Sam's funeral?
Where are these stupid thoughts coming from? Maybe this is somehow her fault: for not loving Sam enough, for not trying harder, for screwing Aidan. Maybe Sam was suspicious, distracted, more reckless than usual, and let his guard down. He can't be dead; they're going to have another baby. The ground sways, the world shifts, she lets Aidan hold her in his arms. More guilt froths to the surface. She has a flash of the first time here: citrus scent, the warmth, the softness of his flannelette shirt against her face at Manny's party. Today it's a business shirt, rain-damp, and the buttons scratch her face.

‘The twins at kinder?'

She nods against his chest.

‘I'll ring Ryan,' he says.

‘Wait a minute, please.' She grips his arms.

‘I'm so sorry, Brigitte.'

When Ryan arrives, he rushes to Brigitte on the couch, and Aidan disappears with the kids. Ryan wraps an arm around her shoulders, and they sit quietly for a long time. She hears his watch ticking, traffic rumbling past on the street, a vacuum cleaner buzzing next door.

‘Want a cup of tea?' Ryan finally breaks the silence.

She shakes her head.

‘Glass of water?'

She nods, and he goes to get her one. She hears him and Aidan having a whispered conversation in the kitchen, but she can't make out what they're saying. Ryan returns with her water.

‘You need to rest.' He hands her a tablet.

She swallows it and lies on the couch. He kneels next to her, cradling her head and shoulders in his arms. She's not sure if the tears on her face are hers or his as she slides into sleep.

In a dream, she's naked in a crowd, at a club. Kurt Cobain is pushing his way towards her, wearing the brown sweater. He drapes a black, hooded robe over her shoulders.

A trail of white flowers with fresh-blood-coloured centres is strewn across the floor. She follows the trail outside to Sam lying in a children's inflatable swimming pool. He's holding Kitty in his hands. It's not water that fills the pool: it's blood. It spills over the sides and turns into an ocean. A puppy wearing the red collar runs along the shore, barking at the waves. Kurt Cobain walks along the jetty, jumps into the ocean, and calls her to swim out with him, but she's too scared. Pearly moonlight shimmers on the surface. He dives under, and doesn't come up. Then everything — the sand, the sea, the sky — turns black.

‘You said you wouldn't leave me!' she screams at the ocean.

No answer. Only blackness.

The sound from next-door's radio drifts in: Paul Kelly, singing ‘How to Make Gravy'. Is it morning or afternoon? Brigitte drags herself off the couch and staggers to the kitchen, groggy from Ryan's sleeping tablet. Aidan and the twins don't notice her standing in the doorway. They're too absorbed in making a gingerbread house — gluing the walls and roof together with thick white icing and decorating it with an obscene number of lollies. Finn's standing on a step, and Phoebe's sitting on the bench.

‘Another lolly, please.'

‘Shh, we don't want to wake your mum.' Aidan pops a jellybean into Phoebe's mouth.

‘And me.' Finn opens his mouth like a baby bird.

God, they'll be up all night with that much sugar in them. Where's Sam? Then she remembers, and her legs turn to jelly. She holds onto the doorframe. The flouro light is too bright; it's flickering. She feels hot and then cold. Her vision blurs. Her ears are closed to sound. She's falling, fainting. Aidan catches her.

12

Brigitte stares at the traffic light on Bridge Road, waiting for it to change, even though it's green, and the cars behind are beeping. She goes through on the red. She glances over her shoulder at the empty child restraints. After a heartbeat of panic she remembers that the twins are at kinder. She's barely slept — two hours a night, max — since Sam died. Almost a week now. The dreams, the guilt, the physical pain — it's all worse.

The cigarette-smoking man isn't out the front of the home. The doors won't open. She's keyed in the wrong code. She tries again. She can't remember the numbers today. She leans a hand against the glass, tries to take a deep breath, but can't get enough air into her lungs. A carer opens the door from the inside. Brigitte tries to smile as if nothing is wrong, and forgets to sign the visitors' book.