Please Don't Leave Me Here (13 page)

‘And he almost lost his job over the missing evidence.'

Silence. The boom gates ding-ding-ding at the train station.

‘Eric Tucker was scum,' Aidan says. ‘Used musicians to carry drugs, history of domestic violence, victims all too scared to lay charges. He got what he deserved — doesn't matter who did it.'

‘Why was I at his apartment?'

‘How do you know this?'

‘Ever heard of the internet?'

‘Looks like you may have lived there.'

‘No.' She shakes her head. ‘I lived with Nana and Papa.'

‘That's what Eddie and Ryan say.'

‘You think they're lying?'

‘Dunno.' He pours more wine. ‘Tell you the truth — I reckon somebody else was there. A friend, a neighbour, maybe the boyfriend.'

She rubs the scar on her forehead.

‘Or the caretaker. Maybe he did more than just find the body.'

‘The caretaker!'

‘Yeah, Shane McMahon.'

She opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing. He waits a couple of beats before correcting himself, ‘
Sean
McMahon.'

Good trick, Aidan. But anybody could have learnt that name from the news
. Not saying the name makes her look as suspicious as saying it. ‘He topped himself with a shotgun up at his parents' farm, not long after Tucker was murdered.'

She doesn't flinch. He plays eyeball chicken with her. He blinks first — a slow blink, with long lashes.

‘And the boyfriend?' She has to ask.

He nods. ‘Matt Elery. Says you were with him at the time of Tucker's murder.'

She shakes her head. ‘He's lying. And if he was my boyfriend, why didn't he come to see me after the accident?'

‘This is the funny bit. Reckons Sam told him you'd disappeared, that the police never found you.'

She frowns, and stares into her glass.

‘Want me to organise a meeting?'

She shakes her head slowly, and looks at the rug on the floor.

‘Have a think about it. But I won't be working on this for much longer,' he says. ‘The Cold Case Unit's being scrapped. I'm being shuffled back to Homicide — the Purana gangland taskforce.'

‘But, Aid.' Her head snaps up. ‘That's really dangerous.'

He turns and looks at her like she's crazy. Somehow they've ended up sitting close together again, their legs almost touching.

‘What about this case?' She picks at the fringe on the rug.

‘It'll be quietly filed away, so you don't have to worry about it anymore.'

She doesn't believe him. He finishes his wine. She feels sleepy, her head heavy; she would like to rest it on his shoulder.

He stands, and places his empty glass on the table. ‘See you in the morning then.'

‘And …'

‘Yes?'

‘Were you really investigating me the whole time, even at Manny's party?'

‘What do you think?'

She shrugs, and watches him walk towards the kitchen. He stops and turns in the doorway. ‘I wasn't. Not at Manny's party.' He closes the door softly behind him as he leaves.

17

‘Where's Aidan?' Red sauce splatters on Phoebe's cheek as she slurps up a strand of spaghetti.

‘Out,' Brigitte says.

‘Out where?'

‘Having dinner with a friend.'

‘His wife?'

‘Yes.'

‘Will he be home to read us a story?' Finn says.

‘No.'

Phoebe pushes her bowl aside, her bottom lip comes out, and she starts crying. Finn joins in.

‘Stop it!' Brigitte's back is killing her. Since the drink-driving incident, she's been trying to be responsible, curbing her alcohol intake and taking the meds only when she really needs them.

‘Hurry up and finish your dinner. It's bedtime.'

They bawl louder. Brigitte covers her ears and grinds her teeth. Maybe just a Valium — even half of one — wouldn't hurt.

Without Aidan's help it takes longer to get the twins ready for bed. When they're finally asleep, Brigitte sits at the table with a hot-water bottle against her back, and her head in her hands.

Her stomach flutters when she hears the side gate. She wasn't expecting him this early, was even thinking he might not come home at all tonight. But it's not the usual click and squeak — it's a rattle. Brigitte frowns, stands, and walks to the window. Another rattle. She pulls back the curtain. It's raining and dark, but she can tell that the figure on the other side of the gate is not Aidan. The figure tries to climb the gate, falls awkwardly to the ground, and has a couple more failed attempts. Brigitte watches, frozen, as the figure looks around — doesn't notice her at the window — wheels the bin over, and uses it to stand on. She holds her breath, her heart bolting as the figure straddles the top of the gate, pauses for a moment, and then tentatively drops down in the sideway. Gruesome crime-scene images flash through her mind.
All women alone, with young children.
You need to be careful: Aidan's words. She hasn't been careful. She hasn't even locked the back door.

She unfreezes, wrenches her phone off the charger in the kitchen, and calls Aidan as she locks the door. The figure runs down the sideway, past the window.

‘What's wrong?' Aidan takes the call, and she can hear restaurant or pub sounds in the background.

‘There's somebody in the backyard.' Her hands shake, and she can hardly breathe.

‘Sure it's not just a cat?'

‘It's a person.'

‘Calm down.' The restaurant sounds fade, and a door closes. ‘Stay inside with the kids, check the doors and windows are locked, and I'll get a car to come around.'

‘Aidan, I'm really scared.'

‘Be there as soon as I can.' He hangs up, and she rushes to check on the twins. They're sound asleep.

A squad car comes, with the siren on, within minutes. The police lights flash puddles of runny colour on the wet road.

It appears that the intruder jumped the back fence and ran off down the laneway. After they've looked around and completed an incident report, Brigitte walks out to the car with the officers, and apologises for wasting their time.

‘Not at all,' the woman says. ‘Lotta crazies around. Can't be too careful.'

Most of the street's residents have come out of their houses to see what's going on. A taxi pulls up, and Aidan steps out. With his wife. Brigitte's heart flips, and she starts shaking again. She hugs herself and rubs her upper arms — pretending to be cold or still scared. This is worse than the intruder. God, she needs a drink.

Aidan strides towards her. ‘You OK?'

She nods.

‘The twins?'

‘Slept through it all.'

He goes over to have a word with the officers, and then he and his wife follow Brigitte down the sideway. He stops to lock the gate, then catches up and introduces them outside the back door. He calls her ‘Brig', and she's not sure if she's pleased or annoyed by the familiarity. She feels her neck flush. His wife's name is Megan. She's tall and strong-looking. She looks like a lawyer, wearing a designer suit and polished shoes with high heels and little buckles on the sides. Her glossy, brown hair falls to her shoulders, a line across the middle where it must have been pulled into a ponytail or a bun. Brigitte pictured her as blonde. And smaller.

They look perfect together: a couple on a department-store catalogue cover. Their cheeks are pink from the weather, or maybe the alcohol they had with dinner; a few raindrops glisten on their shoulders. They're standing so close together that Brigitte can't tell who is holding the folded black umbrella between them. She looks down at her tatty slippers, track pants, and faded Nick Cave T-shirt.

‘Aidan's told me all about you.' Megan holds out her hand to shake, displaying perfect fingernails.

Brigitte frowns.

‘Good things.' She smiles. ‘You're still shaking, you poor thing.' She places her other hand on top — no wedding band — and sandwiches Brigitte's hand between her manicured ones. ‘Want us to come in with you for a while?'

Brigitte shakes her head and pulls her hand away. ‘I'm fine. Might just have a drink to calm down.'

‘Good idea,' says Megan. ‘Have you got some Valium or something?'

Aidan gives Brigitte a stern look. She gives him a wide-eyed
What?
look.

‘Aidan will come over and check on you later.' Megan looks at him. ‘Won't you?'

He nods. Tears prickle Brigitte's eyes, and tickling the roof of her mouth with her tongue doesn't stop them. She turns and hurries into the house before Aidan and Megan see. She locks the door as they walk to the bungalow.

She stops in front of the fridge and rests her forehead against it for a few minutes. He's probably kissing Megan out there; she's sucking his soft, full lips. Brigitte opens the fridge door and takes out a bottle of wine. Now he's peeling the clothes off her perfect, strong body — no kids, plenty of time for the gym, flat stomach, no scars. Brigitte puts the wine back and slams the fridge door shut. Now he's fucking her. Brigitte stands on a step stool to reach the bottle of Johnnie Walker in the top cupboard. She pours herself a glass, a big one, and washes down a couple of painkillers with it.

Banging on the back door wakes her from her stupor. She's on the couch with a drink still in her hand, and she spills some on her T-shirt as she gets up.

‘Are you OK?' he says when she opens the door.

She looks around him. ‘Has she gone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you fuck her?'

He sucks in his breath and shakes his head as he exhales. She can't tell if he's exasperated or amused.

‘Did you?' She sounds crazy and jealous, but she can't stop herself.

‘None of your business. And why do you even care?'

‘I don't.'

‘Was there really somebody in the backyard, Brigitte? Or did you just want to ruin my night?'

‘Go away, Aidan.'

He holds up his hands and walks away. ‘Lock the door and go to bed,' he says without turning.

When he's gone, a voice in her head says,
Why don't you just tell him how you really feel?

She doesn't answer.

18

She dreams of Nana and Papa's old house. The back gate is never locked. It's been raining, and moss grows in scattered patches along the path beside the house. Nana always says,
Be careful, don't slip
. The screen door bangs behind her as she goes into the kitchen. The horse races are on the radio, and Nana is sitting at the red Laminex table studying the form guide. Papa puts pieces of wood into the fireplace; smoke mingles with the aroma of cake baking in the oven.

Kurt Cobain stands in front of the fireplace, wearing the brown sweater. ‘I miss you.' He holds out his arms. The safety and comfort in his embrace are even warmer than Nana's baking. The mantel clock chimes. Strange — it hasn't worked for years.

Through the window, she sees a black car with tinted windows double-park across the road. A big man in a leather bomber-jacket stomps into Nana's kitchen. ‘Go and pack your stuff. We fly out tonight.' His voice is gravelly. He takes off his hat, and she can see that part of his head is missing; there's blood and smashed brain inside. He's holding a large shard of something that looks like glass. She looks around for Kurt. He's gone. The lights go out.

She runs out the back, and the screen door bangs. She slips on the moss. Crash. Her bones crack. She can't get up, and keeps slipping. It's not moss. It's liquid — dark and sticky, all over her clothes, her hands.

Fuck! Get it off me!
She sits bolt upright in bed, and pulls off her nightshirt — it's drenched in the liquid, and her skin is covered with a film of it.
Where's Sam? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She swipes her hands together and rubs at her face until her eyes adjust to the darkness, and she sees that it's sweat, not blood. And Sam's not here.

On the clock radio, 1:08am glows red. Her heart pounds; pain courses through her body. Drip, drip, drip: rain leaks through the hole in the roof.

She feels for her slippers under the bed, pulls her dressing gown from the back of the door, and tiptoes out, avoiding the squeaky floorboard in the hallway. Clang!
Shit
, she's kicked the saucepan that's been catching the rain. She freezes and waits. There are murmurs from the twins' bedroom, but neither wakes.

She takes a Valium and two painkillers, and wanders through the house. In the lounge room, she flicks through the TV channels: there's nothing on but infomercials. She takes one of Sam's cookbooks from the shelf. He liked to buy them, but never had time to cook. One day, he said. She should bake a cake for the twins. A voice in her head says Sam would like her to do that.