Walking Shadows (9 page)

Nice save, Gary.
"Let's get to Ballarat."

Despite the hideous much-too-earliness of the hour, there were plenty of people around. I
wondered if any of them were on errands as mysterious as ours. Gary seemed marginally more relaxed
this morning, but as the tram deposited us at Southern Cross Railway Station, his tension
returned.

The station is very spacious and the curved roof has a futuristic cathedral feel to it. Gary
promptly got confused trying to find the ticket counter for rural destinations - the station had
been totally rebuilt in recent years and he confessed he hadn't been near it since 1983.

I reassured him that mere mortals also got lost trying to find the ticket counters. Between us we
managed to buy tickets and find the platform. I considered teasing him about getting lost inside a
train station before remembering that he'd carried me to bed last night, without banging my head on
a cupboard or dropping me, and I gave him a break.

As the train pulled out, I worked on my powers of effective harassment again. "This guy in
Ballarat - what on earth could he want from you?"

I shouldn't have asked. No lies came forth, but no answer either. Instead, he settled down with
the curtain positioned to shield his eyes from the light. I was glad the myths were wrong about the
effect of sunlight. Gary didn't know what it was about the sun that made him itchy and squinty, but
it didn't burn him up like a magnesium flash, thank goodness. He had little enough of a social life
as it was.

"Hey," I said, "I've got some new songs for us to listen to." Gary collected
songs the way he collected books and movies. He had bought whole albums on the strength of one song,
or the group's name. It was fun trying to dig up things he hadn't heard before.

For the rest of the trip, we shared ear buds on my MP3 player. After a while, I left Gary to
study the player and shift randomly through song lists while I read his hilarious/dreadful
novel.

The train pulled into Ballarat and we emerged into a bright summer day. Gary,
peering at signs on posts and bus windows, finally found the right stop. We reached Sovereign Hill
with no further difficulty.

"Thanks. I'll meet you back in town," he said, inspecting the fence with a view, I
assumed, to jumping it and avoiding the entry fee.

"I'm going in to pan for gold, remember?"

He decided not to make a fuss. "At the entrance then, at the end of the day. Or. Or I'll
come find you when I'm done."

"Sounds like a plan," I smiled encouragingly. It didn't chase away the vaguely worried
crease that had returned to his brow.

I paid for both of us, so he wouldn't have to sneak in. I am aware he has a finite income from
the investments his parents left for him, and a mindset still bogged down in how much things used to
cost in the sixties.

A few people in period costume were there for the meet-and-greet. The usual shop was there,
filled with ceramics, tea-towels and, as this was a gold rush re-enactment town, vials of gold
flakes and items of gold jewellery. Ballarat's place in history was also heralded by all the forms
in which one could buy the Eureka flag - the standard flown by the miners striking and later dying
for their rights. Gary seized upon the pictorial map of the place and found his destination.

"Right. See you later." He didn't move.

"You sure you don't want me to…?"

That got him going. "No. No, it's fine."

I watched him go, then walked out into the re-enacted past.

The dirt road forked in front of me. To my left the street dropped away to a miniature diggings,
with a creek running through the middle of it and a handful of people already crouched by the
water's edge, panning inexpertly for gold flakes. On either side of the dusty road were timber shops
and hotels done in period style. There were no signs promoting modern products, only hand-painted
wooden tiles. I wandered along the boardwalk, inspecting the shops. I found one that sold scented
cedar roses, and bought a bag of lilac ones for Kate. I held one in my hand and surreptitiously
sniffed it from time to time. It reminded me of Nanna.

Perambulating in the sunshine was unexpectedly pleasant. The earthy scents, the absence of
twenty-first century noise, the sound of my shoes on wood and the clop of horse hooves on soil. The
world of wall-to-wall consumerism and people shouting to be heard was far away. Not even the visual
cacophony of advertising hoardings disrupted the serenity. It was hardly a surprise Alberto
preferred living here to inhabiting the twenty-first century.

My mobile phone rang, jarring the peace and making me feel ashamed of the disruption. I usually
try to set it on a discreet buzz, but Amisha from the library keeps sneaking it off me and changing
the ringtone. I was currently scrabbling for a phone that was loudly singing the
Inspector
Gadget
theme tune. I seized it and pressed the button. "Yes, Lissa here."

"Melissa, baby, hi! How's my little bookworm?"

The sudden happiness at the sound of my father's voice spiked and dropped in about a nanosecond.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken to him when he was sober.

"What do you want, Dad?"

"Can't I call to talk to my own little girl? My lovely little librarian?"

Oh, he loved the sound of himself when he was like this. I took a steadying breath. "Do you
think you can call back later?"
Like, when you're sober?
"I'm busy right
now."

"Aww, don't be like that, baby. I'm coming to Melbourne soon. I thought I'd take everyone
out to dinner." He sounded so reasonable, despite the slur. "I want to meet Kate's
mysterious Anthony."

"Anthony isn't mysterious, Dad. He's a lawyer."

"I haven't met him, and I should," he continued. "I'm Katie's daddy and I should
know any man she's going out with. Are you going out with anyone, honey?"

"No, Dad."
My last potential boyfriend was slaughtered by a vampire. Kind of puts
you off.

"That's a shame, sweetie. You're lovely. A lovely librarian."

"Dad, you're drunk."

"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

Apologies were nothing new, either

He lurched onto a new bad subject. "How's your Mum, by the way?"

How the hell was I supposed to answer that one? "Fine. Last I heard." In fact, the last
I'd seen of her was on a departing tram after I'd threatened to set her on fire if I ever saw her
anywhere near my sister again.

"Yeah, well. She's a survivor, your mum."

"When will you be in Melbourne?" Anything to change the subject.

"I'm coming this week." He sounded more cheerful, "I thought we could all go out
to dinner."

Argument was fruitless. Kate must have already told him it would be all right. She's the
peacemaker in the family. Which makes me the guerrilla insurgent, I suppose.

"Fine."

"And if there's anyone you'd like to bring along…" Hint, hint. I imagine he is
where I get my subtlety from.

Yelling at him for not listening would not have helped, so I ignored the comment. "I suppose
I'll see you when you get into town," I said. "And Dad, it would be good if Anthony could
meet you while you were sober."

A moment of silence ended with the bitterly spoken: "You're so much like your
mother."

Sticks and stones are nothing to words. He hung up. My hand fumbled with the cancel key and I
clumsily tucked the phone back into its pocket.

Deep breaths tamped down the tears that threatened. These things were done and past and I was
getting on with the now. I deliberately put my father out of my head. If he kept with tradition, he
probably wouldn't show up anyway.

My Nanna Easton always told me that there was nothing like keeping your hands busy to keep your
mind off upsetting things. This no doubt explained the prodigious amount of knitting, sewing and
baking she did.

I'd always preferred distracting my emotions with my brain. Only one diversion came to mind. I
had to find Gary and Alberto. I suspected it was not a good idea, but I was desperate to override my
sudden distress.

When Gary had traced his finger over his map, looking for his rendezvous point, I'd only vaguely
registered where he was looking. Consulting my own map now, I tried to correlate my memory with the
locations labelled so clearly. He had traced the upper street, as I recalled, at the farthest end
from the entrance.

Right. I jammed the map into my bag and strode up the dirt road. Delicious scents wafted from a
bakery as I passed, and my stomach spasmed with nausea. Distress had that effect on me. Further
along, the warm, waxy smell of the candlemakers was more soothing. Both stores were full of people
and I couldn't imagine any undead tete-a-tete occurring within. I kept going until I had run out of
stores.

I looked at the last shop on the block, then back at the map. Then back at the shop. At the
undertaker's shopfront, with unfinished coffins displayed artfully in one window, next to a tiny
ornate black coffin.

"You've got to be kidding me." I actually said that aloud, figuring that one good
cliché deserves another.

It was as well that I knew that vampires didn't actually sleep, let alone in coffins, or I would
have wondered what kind of cheesy, teeny creature of the night was loitering in the vicinity.

The door swung open easily, but the workshop was empty. The space was festooned with exhibits of
nineteenth century funerary props on one side and planks of wood and carpentry tools on the other. A
rear door led to a darkened space which stored a couple of replica funeral carriages from the gold
rush era. One carriage was obviously for the posh people, being all glass sides and black velvet
curtains. The other, a plain black wooden vehicle, was for everyday wear. Murmurs emanated from the
shadows behind the posh one.

Announcing myself would have been sensible and polite, but I was struck, belatedly and acutely,
with the awareness that my presence was an intrusion. What I wanted was to back out undetected and
leave Gary to his secret vampire business, which was certainly none of mine.

I stopped moving and held my breath. A swift glance assured me I wouldn't trip over anything as I
turned.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" That was Gary, with the faintest of doleful notes
in his voice.

In a dither of concern and damned curiosity, I hesitated.

"I would hardly have written to
Mundy if I didn't," replied a man's peculiarly-accented voice.

"Well, no."

"Since Mary died, I am tired of it."

"Do you really need me?"

"What else? Self-immolation?" The sneer in the voice was half-hearted.

The reply was a silence that was almost palpable. I could imagine Gary staring at his feet. Both
the concern and, regrettably, the curiosity were mounting.

"There's always the other path," the other voice spoke again. An American accent,
maybe? The venom was more direct, that time.

"All right," Gary conceded, reluctantly. "But where? And how?"

"Here, of course. As for how…" The voice broke off, and when I heard it next it
had dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Someone's here."

Damn. For a moment I toyed with running for it, but that was stupid. I would have to 'fess
up.

"Gary, hi! It's me."

Gary's head popped up from behind the posh carriage.

"What are you doing here?"

Truth or white lie?

Truth. "I got a phone call that upset me. I thought if I found you it would make me forget
about it."

"You shouldn't have." He was unimpressed.

"You're right," I mumbled, ashamed of myself. The undercurrent of concern I'd felt at
the conversation drove me to add, "Still. It sounds like you could use a hand."

Another face appeared in the shadows. Exotic, lean, dark-eyed, pale and grim, it was the face of,
well, an undernourished and deeply unhappy undertaker.

"I assume
that
," said Alberto the Undertaker, "belongs to
you."

No-one does disdain like the undead.

"This is Lissa," said Gary gruffly, "She isn't supposed to be here.

"You became curious, didn't you?" said Alberto, regarding me shrewdly. The mean twist
dissolved from his lip. "Mary was like that." Had he been alive, his Eurasian features
would have been movie-star gorgeous, with his high angled cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and full
mouth, but his undeadness robbed him of that potential.

"It's not like that with Lissa," said Gary.

"No?" Alberto's voice faded. "Perhaps it's as well."

In the ensuing silence, I took a brace of steps and paused at one end of the carriage. Gary and
Alberto were standing opposite one another, but their eyes weren't meeting. Both were looking down -
a strangely sad scene.

"Can I help?" fell off my tongue before I'd thought about it.

"Not really," said Gary, at the same time that Alberto said: "Perhaps."

Gary gave Alberto a sharp glance, then faced me.

"We're fine."

"We are not," argued Alberto. "I am not. We need to solve this. Simply, quickly
and without fuss."

"You folks aren't good at this, I know," I said firmly, "but do you suppose I
could have a straightforward explanation?"

Gary twitched in discomfort and refused to reply. Alberto had no such qualms.

"I would like Mr Hooper to kill me," said Alberto, in an extremity of impartiality,
"He will need to burn my body afterwards."

Gary winced.

"Oh," I said. A couple of images scalded their way across my memory. Magdalene so
coldly dispatching of poor, broken Thomas. Angela Priestley, struggling even after her heart had
been torn from her chest. Tug, burning in Priestley's house like a candle, but not before he'd used
his newly acquired, elongated canines to tear holes in my throat. My third bite.

"Why?" I finally asked.

Alberto looked at me. Like all the vampires I'd met, he seemed bleached, inside and out. Whatever
emotions he had were distant, almost a cerebral rather than a heart response, and dominated by
ennui. He looked sad, but like someone who'd been sad for so long it was simply part of him, rather
than anything he really felt any more.