Through a Camel's Eye (14 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

Anthea's neighbour appeared in his driveway as she was unpacking her car. With smooth practised movements, he hoisted his kayak onto roof racks and tied it in place. He didn't look her way. His skin was brown and smooth, his body compact, the sort that never gave trouble, always did what was expected of it.

Anthea considered her own body, her city-pale skin, the pull on her arm of her overnight bag, that slight weight yet how it pulled. A moment returned to her, Chris stumbling on the path to the surgery, how she'd steadied him. He weighed a lot more than she did, but she'd acted without thinking and prevented him from falling.

Anthea smiled to herself and swung her bag, whose weight now seemed negligible. When she raised her head, the man had finished tightening the ropes. He straightened at the same moment and met her eyes.

Anthea took another shower, as a kind of homecoming present to herself, made toast and smothered it with butter and raspberry jam. She'd dressed in her uniform again, but left her feet bare. She sat on the balcony with her feet up while she ate, rubbing her soles and the ends of her toes against the chair's heavy cotton cover.

She lifted her face to a sun that turned the bay into a huge, reflecting plate. The kayak man was out there, brown line of his craft no more than that, tentative and slight against the gold-green profusion of the seagrass. He paddled steadily across the dazzle of the morning, his figure coming and going through reflections that were suddenly too bright. For a whole minute, sun-blinded, Anthea was unable to see him at all. She thought of fetching her new binoculars, but was afraid of the conspicuous glancing of sunlight off glass, of the man looking up and noticing.

She knew that she should get a move on, but lingered, eating more than she really wanted, washing it down with coffee so strong she felt instantly dehydrated.

Wildflowers were out along the top of the low, raggedy cliff. On impulse, Anthea crossed the road and picked a small bunch, returning to her flat to put them in a kitchen glass. Later, she would rearrange them properly, or maybe she would not. She might leave them as they were, more connected somehow to the cliff top in their hasty, unselfconscious combination, in their makeshift vase. She told herself that it was the flowers she'd come for, not a final glimpse of her waterborne neighbour.

She remembered Graeme's ironic half smile, a way he had of making her feel inadequate simply by the way he stood, the way he looked around a room. She thought of how she'd bought her furniture, her few ornaments, even her food with this in mind. It suddenly seemed fortunate - not that she'd wanted such fortune, but the way things had worked out in
spite
of what she'd wanted - that there was nobody to disparage her flowers. The critic in her head, who wore Graeme's smile, who'd taken up residence inside her when they met, vanished in the morning glare, in the reflections off the bay.

As Anthea washed up her few dishes, her thoughts returned to Chris and the way he'd spoken, through gritted teeth, about needing to go to Swan Hill. She guessed that he'd been thinking about it for a while. She pictured him collapsing on the highway and guessed also that he'd played out the scenario this way too, and that it only added to his frustration.

On her way to the station, she thought about being a reluctant witness. She'd scarcely put her bag down when the phone rang. There'd been an accident in Hesse Street. The caller was the chemist and he asked for Chris. When she said that Chris was sick, but that she'd come straight away, there was a short but eloquent silence on the other end.

The accident proved to be a complicated one, involving three cars and a bicycle, and it was over an hour before Anthea had sorted it out. She put up witches hats and diverted traffic. She photographed the cars and bike, establishing positions, taking close-ups of the damage. She had to take statements from five people - two of the cars had only had their drivers in them, but the third had had a couple. The cyclist had been taken to the medical centre by the time she arrived on the scene. The chemist had taken charge, and Anthea was grateful for this. He'd made sure the bike had stayed where its rider had been knocked from it, and had photographed the scene himself.

Anthea listened to the motorists' voluble complaints about each other, but mostly about the hapless bike-rider. They all agreed that he'd dashed out from the lane that ran beside the post office, straight into the traffic. Loudest was the female passenger, who was certain she had whiplash, though Anthea very much doubted that she'd be waving her head and arms around in such a manner if she really were in pain.

Anthea recorded the statements, not trusting her memory with four people gabbling at her. Once they'd left, she rang the medical centre, where she learnt that the young cyclist's name was Raschid, that he'd suffered bruises, scratches and a bump on the head, and that his mother had taken him home.

Not only the chemist, but each of the three drivers, and the passenger as well, had asked how Chris was doing. They'd let their disappointment show that the policeman they knew and felt comfortable with hadn't been there to take their statements, and listen to their advice about what to do with boys on bikes who didn't wear helmets, who thumbed their noses at the road rules.

But they hadn't made her feel that she was stuffing up completely, and Anthea supposed that she should feel grateful for this. It wasn't her job to explain Chris to his flock.

The Abouzeids lived in a newish brick veneer house on the Geelong Road. It was a fair ride each day to the high school, but a fourteen-year-old boy would probably think nothing of it.

Raschid's mother was waiting for Anthea, and was prepared, not to defend her son - she'd got enough out of him to be satisfied that he probably had caused the accident - but to stand between him and the unforgiving hand of the law.

The boy was sitting up in bed with a bandage on his head. He might have looked pathetic if he hadn't also looked too pleased with himself for someone who'd caused a three-car pile-up.

When Anthea asked why he'd been in such a hurry, Raschid patted his bandage. She could see that he had no answer to this question. If she'd phrased it differently and asked
if
he'd been in a hurry, his answer would have been no. Raschid had been riding the way he always rode, at the pace he always rode when there was no immediate obstacle in his path, that is to say recklessly and without consideration for anybody's safety.

Anthea sighed. She had no wish to make trouble for this boy or his mother, who was hovering in the doorway. Selafa Abouzeid touched two fingers to her right cheek. Her glance towards her son was both a warning and a supplication.

Raschid did not ask where Chris was, and Anthea guessed that it was not his way to ask direct questions of adults, particularly adults who had some hold over him. His way was rather to work out what kind of hold it was, how much of a danger, and how he might wriggle out from under it. Freedom, to a boy like Raschid, was to be grasped in the moment, for the moment, because the future most likely held punishment of one sort or another. His internal, private balance of innocence and guilt had nothing to do with the fact that he was used to punishment, used to finding it waiting for him.

Anthea was suddenly reminded of Julie Beshervase. But she saw also, from the way their eyes caught and held, that this boy loved his mother and did not want to cause her trouble.

‘You've made four people angry and upset,' Anthea said.

Instead of replying, Raschid touched his head again, more lightly this time, as though afraid that the gesture, if repeated, might fail to impress; but unable to resist it even so. His thought processes were transparent. He would have been terribly ashamed to learn how easily readable they were.

‘You'll have to apologise.'

Anthea didn't ask if Raschid thought an apology would be in order, guessing that he'd accept punishment and put it behind him, but that the hypocrisy of those in power pretending to take his views into consideration was deeply galling to him.

‘And we'll work out a few hours of community service.'

Raschid nodded, eyes bright, rest of his expression sober.

Anthea changed the subject. ‘That day you claimed to see a woman in a black coat walking on the cliff path - '

‘I did see her! I told Mr Blackie. I never made it up!'

‘Constable Blackie asked if that was the only time you'd seen the woman, and you said you thought it was. But you added, and quite rightly, that you might have seen her without knowing it was the same person, going by in a car, for example, or walking down the street. Anything you can tell us, anything you might have seen, even if you're not sure about it, might help.'

‘Well, like, I dunno.' Raschid chanced another swift pat at his bandage.

Anthea forbore asking if his head hurt. He'd be quick to take advantage of whatever opportunity her sympathy provided.

‘Like, I did see somebody,' he offered with an air of divulging an important secret, ‘who
might
have been that lady. I dunno.'

‘When? What was she doing?'

‘In Hesse Street. Well, when I like first seen her that's where she was. Then this guy pulled up. He opened the door. She didn't get in, but. She kept walking.'

‘What makes you think it was the same person?'

‘I didn't say it was, I said it
could
be.'

Raschid frowned. He was trying to be helpful and he didn't see why he should be rewarded with more questions. He glanced at Anthea from under long black eyelashes, with an expression that always worked on his mother.

Anthea returned the boy's gaze steadily. She took him through the scene forwards, back and sideways. The woman hadn't been wearing a coat. The vehicle might have been a Landcruiser. He hadn't noticed the number plate or who was driving.

But Raschid was certain of the date. It was January 1, New Year's Day. His holiday job had been delivering groceries, or helping with their delivery, since he was too young to drive. He'd just carried a box out to the van. They'd been short-staffed, since the boss was too mean to pay penalty rates on public holidays. And the Kostandises had had their big party the night before. He hadn't wanted to get up and go to work, but his Mum had made him.

‘Did you see what happened then?'

Raschid hadn't. He'd had to go back into the shop to fetch another box. When he returned to the street, the four-wheel drive had gone and the woman too.

Anthea thanked him for his help, gave him a card with her mobile number on it and asked him to contact her if he thought of anything more.

Raschid took the card and slipped it under his pillow. He looked tired suddenly, and very young.

Anthea said goodbye. ‘And Raschid? Wear your helmet from now on. I'll be watching out for that.'

She felt excited on the way back to the station, but once inside the silence and emptiness unnerved her. She would even have been pleased to see Julie Beshervase's head poking up by the back fence. She sat down and wrote up what Raschid had told her while it was fresh in her mind.

Anthea looked up, surprising herself by picturing Chris's cottage, where she'd slept so deeply. Ugly and squat it might be, yet the funny, fragile box returned to her as an attractive memory. Comparisons with the cottage next door to her unit sprang to mind. Her neighbour was no more than average height, but muscular and fit, his skin brown as a seal's.

When Anthea called in on Chris, she found him sound asleep. Doreen came out as she was leaving, and said that she'd taken in some soup, which Chris had eaten for his midday meal.

Anthea thanked her. She did not feel hungry, and made do with orange juice and fruit. She found herself wondering, irrelevantly, if there were, or ever had been, swans living on Swan Hill.

TWENTY-FIVE

Anthea's questions in Hesse Street brought forth only disappointing responses. New Year's Day was one of the shopkeepers' busiest. The street was parked out from early in the morning until late at night. Why should one car be noticed, let alone who was inside?

She hoped she might do better with the supermarket staff. Jack Benton's Landcruiser - if it had been Jack Benton - had pulled in next to their loading bay. It was late afternoon before she managed to track down the driver Raschid had been assisting with deliveries, but when she did he was no help either.

He frowned and repeated what everybody else had said. He'd been far too busy to notice which tourist parked where, or what they said to one another.

Anthea was about to give up when she received help unexpectedly from Raschid.

She answered her phone to a boy's voice saying, ‘Hello, Miss?'

Raschid's voice sounded childish, higher-pitched than when she'd spoken to him face to face. He told her that a mate of his who worked in the ice-cream shop over the summer had seen ‘that lady you were askin' me about.'

‘Yes,' said Anthea. ‘Go on.'

‘He doesn't know if it was the exact same day, but he saw a lady rushing past and he reckons she was crying. It sounds like the same one, you know. I reckon if you show him that photo he'll be able to tell you.'

Anthea took down the boy's name and address and thanked Raschid warmly.

Peter Drayson lived in a renovated weatherboard house not far from the harbour. His mother answered the door, frowning when Anthea introduced herself. She was dressed in a silk blouse and fine wool skirt, tinted grey tights and shoes with higher heels than Anthea had ever worn. Even before she spoke, she made Anthea feel provincial and dowdy.

Anthea explained what she wanted, and was greeted with the information that Peter was doing his homework. Couldn't Anthea's questions wait until tomorrow?

No, said Anthea. They couldn't.

Peter regarded her curiously, not at all put out that his homework was being interrupted. He seemed tall for his age, not that Anthea had much of a standard of comparison, but he was certainly taller than Raschid. His straight black hair covered a pale forehead, and his eyes looked directly into hers.

‘Sit down, Peter,' she said gently, guessing that this was a boy who would see through a pose of authority.

Mrs Drayson stood with one hand on the door. Anthea said that she would prefer to talk to Peter by himself, but that, if she wished to be present, that was, of course, her right. Peter wasn't in any trouble. Anthea hoped he might be able to help in identifying a person of interest to the police.

Two small children appeared behind Mrs Drayson. Her skirts weren't the sort that you could hide behind, but they did their best, peering out at Anthea with dark brown eyes. Anthea smiled. One smiled back, showing two enormous front teeth.

The children were well dressed. Peter's jeans and T-shirt weren't bargain basement either. Their mother shooed them away, then took two steps forward and sat on the very edge of a chair, in front of thick curtains. Anthea took out her notebook and began by repeating what Raschid had told her, first of all about the scene he'd witnessed, then his conversation with Peter about the woman who'd run past the icecream shop. She watched Peter carefully for his reaction as she took out a photograph and asked, ‘Was this the woman, Peter? Do you recognise her?'

‘It could have been. I guess.'

His mother held out her hand for the photo. ‘Who is this?' Her voice was impatient and dismissive.

Anthea repeated mildly that she was a person of interest to the police, reflecting that Mrs Drayson might be the only person in Queenscliff who didn't know about Margaret Benton.

A quick glance at Peter confirmed what Anthea thought must be the case. Raschid had told Peter that Margaret Benton was dead. It was interesting that Peter apparently wanted to keep this information from his mother, who apparently didn't watch or read the news.

‘I saw her through the window,' Peter said.

‘Which way did she go?'

‘I was serving behind the counter. I just looked up and saw this lady running by.'

‘Which way?' Anthea repeated.

‘To the church.'

‘The Anglican church on the corner of Crystal Street?'

Peter nodded.

It was one possibility, thought Anthea. If the church was open, Margaret might have gone inside.

‘Was someone following her?'

‘I don't know.'

‘What about in a Toyota Landcruiser?'

Peter thought for a moment, then shook his head.

Anthea opened her mouth to ask another question, but Mrs Drayson interrupted. ‘You heard what my son said. He had a job to do. He couldn't pay attention to what was going on in the street.'

Anthea nodded, realising that she wouldn't get any more out of Peter while his mother was there. Perhaps there was no more to get. Still, she knew what Peter looked like now. If need be, she could wait for him after school.

The church was locked and the vicarage, or what she assumed was the vicarage next door, was locked as well.

Anthea called in on Chris, who was sitting up in bed. His eyes were clear and there was a more normal colour to his skin, but Anthea felt again the turbulence, some kind of unspoken fury, just underneath the surface, and how he struggled to control it.

He listened while she told him her news, leaning forward and nodding as though she'd confirmed something for him, more than the stated facts. Anthea held out her hand in a gesture of solidarity and he grasped it briefly.

Chris knew the Anglican vicar. Anthea could see that he was annoyed with himself for not having pursued the possibility that Margaret Benton might have sought refuge in a church.

In a confusion of images, she saw again the kayak man as though painted on the seagrass, the mass of golden green supporting him, a frightened woman knocking on a locked church door.

Chris was sweating at the hairline, and along his upper lip. Anthea wondered what she would do if she caught glandular fever: pull up the doona and stay in bed? Open the curtains when she was feeling a bit better, and sit on her balcony?

She liked to think so. She liked to think she would be sensible enough to let the illness run its course. She wanted to tell Chris that it would be professional suicide to tear off up to Swan Hill, barge in on someone else's patch, when only the day before he'd been too sick to know what he was doing. Yet she couldn't help admiring him for wanting to.

Chris smiled, and Anthea took this as a good sign. A memory of the wildflowers returned, in their modest yet substantial beauty. She should have brought a bunch with her. She would have, if she'd been surer of her patient.

Chris leant back against the pillows and said, ‘Raschid's not a bad kid.'

‘But thoughtless. He could have got himself killed.'

‘Oh, you'll never convince him of that. All fourteen-year-old boys believe they're immortal.'

There was a silence, then Chris cleared his throat. ‘No need for you to come back here tonight. I'm fine.'

Are you sure?'

‘Mike's coming over later.'

‘That's good then.'

Anthea knew she should feel pleased that she didn't have to spend another night away from home. A part of her
was
glad, and thought with pleasure of her own bed. Another part felt sidelined, even when it came to the amateurish nursing care she'd tried to offer.

They said goodbye, Chris adding that if he felt better in the morning he'd come in to the station for a while, and Anthea assuring him that she was managing and he shouldn't rush.

She felt tired and told herself she must be starting to operate on local time. How to organise the next few days was the question. She would have to deal with whatever came up. Beyond that, she might be free to ask her own questions, as she had been that day. She wondered how the village would react. What if there was an outbreak of theft, and the local motorists decided to break the speed limit all at once? This thought made Anthea smile again.

She cooked herself a simple meal. The setting sun on her balcony was warmer than it had been since she arrived. Maybe spring was really here at last. She would have to get some sort of awning for the summer, or else the sun would turn her flat into an oven. Anthea kicked off her shoes and sat with her feet rubbing the seat cover.

The kayak man was there again, paddling slowly in the dusk. His movements looked drawn out, elongated, as though time, out there on the seagrass, obeyed different rules. As before, his image seemed to come and go through the reflections off the water and the rich, luminous plant life. Anthea would be sure that he had disappeared. Then she would blink and he would be back.

He obviously did not work nine to five. Perhaps he worked from home; or had inherited money, or won it. Almost without thinking, Anthea fetched her binoculars, hooking them around her wrist by their fine leather strap, and returned to her position on the balcony.

It startled her to see the kayak and its occupant close up, paddle registering as an enlarged brown smudge, but the man himself in sharp and human outline. His squarish hands looked like an extension of the paddle, but were at the same time clearly flesh, absorbing and transmitting their own share of the fading light. His body was perfectly balanced and upright, and he moved forward without haste or nervous impulse, his expression focussed. Anthea understood how foolish she had been to think he might be affected by the reflection off her glasses, and the knowledge that she was behind them as they swept the bay.

The water became more mirage-like than ever, with no line at all between it and the air, but all a pearly blue-grey that seemed to move with one accord towards nightfall. Anthea wished that she could hold the moment, or else share it with someone. She poured wine, wondering at the kayak man's ability to find his way to shore after the last light was gone. She raised her glass - she hardly knew to what - pride that she was managing perhaps, or solitary, unexpected pleasures.