Chapter One

Somebody's Crying

Maureen McCarthy

 
Enid woke to a strange noise around four a.m. When she finally realised it wasn’t a cat or a possum she shook her husband awake. ‘Somebody’s crying!’ she told him.

Larry sat up, listened for a while and agreed that somebody was indeed crying. It sounded like a man, but neither of them could be sure.

Much to their later remorse, the old couple decided not to investigate for fear of being thought busybodies.
 

TOM

Hearing his voice after so long was weird to say the least.

Tom had been sitting at his mother’s kitchen table, a squalling wind outside, rain pelting against the window. He’d been drinking tea and reading the paper, trying to summon up enthusiasm for what he had to do – go to the bank, return some calls, pack for the trip – the sort of stuff that could easy fill up the whole day if he didn’t get himself into gear. Then . . . the phone started ringing. He sat there listening to it, oddly immobilised, letting his eyes drift out the back window to a pair of his own jeans being battered by the wind on the clothes line. It would just be someone wanting his mother, Anna, and she’d left for work already. Or else it would be for his sister, Nellie, who had a hot social life, if the number of phone calls was any indication. Tom’s kid brother, Ned, was still in bed. He had a curriculum day, and instructions were to let him sleep. It was only after the phone had rung out and started again that Tom hauled himself out of his chair and picked it up.

‘Tom Mullaney.’ He is terse, wanting to give the impression that he has better things to do than talk to whoever has the bad manners to ring at this time of the morning.

There is a two-second silence from the other end and Tom’s head jams into overdrive. Amanda! Nearly a month has passed since he broke up with her in Bali. The phone calls have eased off, but Tom can’t discount the possibility that she is planning a fresh attack. She might need to tell him all over again how totally obnoxious he’s become, how screwed up his ideas are, how hopeless his future is likely to be now that he’s seen fit to proceed without her. Why did most girls like dragging out the painful stuff? It wasn’t as though Tom had cheated on her or deliberately hurt her. He had nothing but respect for Amanda Cory. She was a fantastic girl and very pretty, too. Everybody thought he was crazy to break it off with her – including himself most of the time. The problem was, she seemed to want him to sign on for the rest of his life and . . . he couldn’t do it.

‘G’day, mate!’

It’s a male voice, but his relief that it’s not Amanda quickly turns to wariness. He half recognises the voice, but after a quick whirr his stagnant brain cells are unable to place it. What mate of his even knows he’s staying with his mother?

‘Yeah?’ he says cautiously.

‘It’s me. Jonno!’

Jonno? Tom’s whole body goes rigid. He slumps against the wall and slowly slides to the floor, squatting with one arm curled around his head as though he were warding off a monster or a pack of thugs. Jonty van der Weihl!

A cocktail of emotions floods through him, as if someone has opened the top of his head and poked a high-pressure hose in. There’s shame, mostly, although that doesn’t make any more sense than the rage that sparks to life as his brain clicks into gear.

Tom gulps a couple of times and tries to think of something to say. You owe this guy . . . the words ring through his head as clear as church bells. It wasn’t true was it? But there it was again. Tom Mullaney, you owe this guy big time . . .

‘G’day, Jonty.’ Tom is surprised to hear himself sounding so normal.

‘Yeah, it’s me,’ Jonty speaks fast. ‘How are you, mate? You good?’

‘Oh, you know. Pretty good. Yourself?’

‘Well . . .’ followed by a short laugh, ‘I’m here, right?’

‘Right.’ Tom laughs, too, as though he knows exactly what Jonty is getting at. Is he meant to think that Jonty wouldn’t be here? That he’d disappeared into the ether? Or necked himself? Tom is hanging onto the receiver with both hands now, but his brain is working slowly, shifting through the last three years with a weird, stiff, old-man’s reluctance. The truth is, he’s tried very hard not to think of Jonty van der Weihl. He has stuffed his former best friend away in the deep recesses of his brain, along with the rest of the crud from those years: the moods, the bad dreams and embarrassments. And the nightmare.

‘Been a while, eh?’ Tom mumbles stupidly.

‘Yeah . . . just on three years.’ Jonty clears his throat and laughs again, leaving all the unsaid accusations wafting in the air between them like poisonous gas.

Tom could hear them anyway. Whose fault it that, Tom? I’ve been here all the time. When someone is in that kind of trouble you don’t just say, ‘See you later, mate’. You stick around, phone up and write. You give support. Jonty was in that remand centre for five months and Tom never wrote to him or rang him once. Never went near him.

‘So, what you been up to?’ Tom settles down, trying to sound as if he’s pleased to hear from Jonty, now that he is over the surprise.

‘This and that.’ Jonty pauses and takes a deep breath.

Tom has the distinct feeling he’s about to be told something he doesn’t want to hear. He looks at the phone, tempted to press the receiver down. Seriously. Why not pull the whole thing out of the wall and tell his mother there had been a burglary? Anything to stop this . . .

‘So . . . you still living in Sydney?’ Tom rushes in.

‘Nah,’ Jonty laughs edgily. ‘Not for ages.’

‘So where are you—’

‘Hey, listen.’ Jonty cuts Tom off. ‘I’m ringing about something important.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I’ve got a few new leads,’ he says quickly, breathlessly. ‘Big ones.’

‘Leads? What do you mean leads?’ Tom pretends not to know what he’s talking about, just to give himself time to think and to plan a strategy to get out of this conversation, fast. If Jonty is the last person he wants to talk to, then the murder has to be the very last thing he wants to discuss.

Everyone knows Jonty is guilty, including Tom’s own father, who got him off the charge by advising him to keep his mouth shut. What more does he want from us?

‘On who killed her!’

Tom hears the recklessness in his former friend’s voice and for a few seconds finds himself swept along with it, just like the old days. Jonty’s enthusiasm had always been catching. He thrived on ideas and theories. Tom remembers how he’d loved the French Revolution back at school. All those dudes wresting power from the rich and powerful. Awesome! Year Ten science class. Jonty’s eyes ablaze as he held up the dissected frog, begging Tom to appreciate the detailed beauty and intricacies of the limbs and tiny organs. He’d made Tom see the wonder of the world in that cold little dead green body.
Frogs, Hamlet, Leonardo da Vinci and the world economic order – Jonty was the only person Tom knew who used to get genuinely excited at school. It was hard keeping up with him, but fun, too. It had always been fun hanging out with Jonty van der Weihl.

Fun for everyone . . . except Lillian Wishart.

The whole town was stunned when police charged Jonty with the murder of his aunt. Sure, he was wild, but he was popular and personable, unlike his old man. Why would he murder his aunt, his mother’s only sister?

Two days later he was found at the caves, a lonely tourist-site well off the main highway. He had spent two nights out there on his own and was reported to be in a semi-dazed state, stumbling about and talking to himself.

Jonty vehemently denied killing Lillian, but he couldn’t remember why he’d visited her late on the night she was murdered.

Nor could he remember leaving the house or how he got out to the caves.

So where had Tom been when all that shit was going down for Jonty? When the police had finished questioning him (mostly about Jonty, because Tom was the one who knew him best), Tom was off, taking up his place as a first year student at RMIT. He couldn’t wait to get away from that town. His parents were splitting up; his little brother, Ned, had some kind of speech condition that Tom found embarrassing; and there was the girlfriend he didn’t even like. But it was the murder mainly. More than anything, Tom hadn’t wanted to get caught up in all that sick shit. Mur-der! And his best mate the prime suspect.

All through that last summer in Warrnambool, Tom used to wake up at night in a cold sweat. Get me out of here! was the mantra pumping through his head . . . Get me out of here, fast!

To be absolutely fair, a kind of wariness had been growing between them even before the murder. Their paths had began to diverge with neither of them wanting to admit it. Jonty was getting seriously hooked on dope, just as Tom was getting seriously hooked on the idea of a future for himself. The fact that they were both hooked on Lillian Wishart was never mentioned either.

‘She was messing around with some weird types,’ Jonty goes on breathlessly. ‘It wasn’t just us.’

‘Us!’ Tom explodes before he can think. ‘Listen, Jonty, and listen hard – she wasn’t messing around with me! So don’t include me in your latest little theory, okay.’

‘Okay. Cool it, mate. I didn’t mean to suggest . . . anything. Sorry.’ Jonty laughs sharply and stops talking. The silence between them is loud.

Tom suddenly finds he is breathing hard. Little red dots swim in front of his eyes, like brake lights in a heavy fog. The horror of it all is bubbling up again, making him want to puke. He puts a hand over his mouth to hold back the gagging.

Tom’s father, Luke – who was also Jonty’s lawyer, had the pictures in a manila folder, tucked away in a back file in his office. About a dozen colour photographs, taken from every angle. Police photographs. No one but the lawyers and coppers and medicos were meant to see that stuff, but Tom had found that file and . . . he saw the way she died.

A surge of blind rage fills him now. It makes him want to reach through the phone to grab Jonty by the scruff of the neck and smash his head against a brick wall, again and again and again. See him bleed. He puts his hand over the receiver so Jonty can’t hear his ragged breath.

‘Sorry,’ Jonty says again, sounding genuinely contrite this time, although you never really knew. Jonty had always been a good actor. You had to see his eyes to see what was actually going on inside.

‘That’s okay,’ Tom mutters. But it wasn’t okay at all. He’d heard from his old man that Jonty’d done this once before. A year out of remand he rang Tom’s father with some far-flung theory about who had committed the murder. Luke’s advice then was the same as it had been when Jonty was first released: just shut the fuck up. He should put it behind him, count himself lucky that the prosecution’s case had hit a stone wall and get on with his life. It was then that Tom had finally understood that his old man believed Jonty had committed the murder, just as the police did, although he never said it in so many words. There simply wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute, and that was a common enough occurrence.

‘I just mean that she was . . . seeing people,’ Jonty persists quietly.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Tom sneers, determined that Jonty understands he isn’t prepared to go along with the latest fantasy. No way. Being in cahoots with Jonty van der Weihl, even after all this time, could only mean trouble of one sort or another and Tom didn’t need trouble in his life right now. ‘You’re saying the cops didn’t know about these people . . . whoever they are?’

‘That’s right, Tom,’ he says softly.

‘Bullshit, Jonty!’ Tom’s voice is way too loud. ‘You know the cops went through every single person that breathed on her in the last fi ve years.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘You know it!’ Tom cuts in again. ‘They interviewed everybody! So let’s cut the bullshit! They followed up on every single person.’

Tom suddenly hears himself. What is he saying? Cut the bullshit? Did he seriously want Jonty to start telling the truth? He didn’t want to hear another word. The whole thing was over. Finished. Sometimes you just have to make the decision to shut the door on an aspect of your life or you go crazy, and this was one of those times. The woman was dead. Very sad and all the rest of it, but the fact remained . . . there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. The other fact was that Tom was still very much alive, and planning to stay that way for a while yet. That’s what he had to concentrate on.

‘Well, maybe, Mulla,’ Jonty says, quietly. ‘And maybe not. Don’t be so sure. They could have missed one or two.’

Tom winces at the use of Mulla, his old nickname. It makes him feel as though they are back there together, inside that terrible thing again.

‘Don’t you want to know more?’ Jonty is baiting him now and the amusement in his voice makes anger flare in Tom all over again. This isn’t funny you drug-crazed weirdo! Her dying like that was not a game you . . . sick freak.

‘Not really.’ Something thick is closing over Tom’s throat. He is seeing the pictures again and thinking of her. Lillian. That lovely woman lying like a slain dog in her own backyard . . . all that springy dark hair matted with blood. She bled to death, but she would have died anyway because . . . Tom had seen the pictures and he’d read the coroner’s report.

Of course he wants to know Jonty’s latest theory, and Jonty knew he wanted to know, which made it worse.

‘They tell me you’re coming back here for a while,’ Jonty continues, in an easier, more conversational tone.

‘Where are you?’ he asks, not able to mask his panic.

‘I’m back here. In Warrnambool. Got a job.’

Tom takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, completely boxed in now. No. This has to be impossible. He would be there himself in a matter of hours and there was no way he could live in the same town as Jonty van der Weihl. He doesn’t ever want to see him again or even run the risk of seeing him.

Tom looks wildly around the kitchen, as if there might be an answer to the dilemma in the photographs stuck on the fridge, or in the dust that flies up into the air when he smacks the slat blinds with his free hand. How could he get out of it? His old man had gone to a lot of trouble to get him three months work as a photographer on the Chronicle. Doing a stint on a suburban or regional newspaper was part of his course and, as far as country papers go, the Chronicle was definitely one of the better ones. He’d have to cancel, but how? What would he do instead?

‘What’s your job?’ he asks dully.

‘At Thistles,’ Jonty replies quickly. ‘Cooking.’

‘Yeah?’ Tom is surprised. Thistles is one of the classiest restaurants in the state. It overlooks the ocean and gets written up all the time as the place to drive to for the perfect meal. His father takes important clients there all the time. How could Jonty possibly get a job cooking there? ‘You seen my old man?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Jonty says. ‘That’s how I heard about you coming back.’

Tom shakes his head and says nothing. Thanks, Dad!

‘So, you work in the kitchen?’

‘I cook,’ Jonty says defensively, and then, when Tom doesn’t respond, ‘I’ve done the training.’

‘Where did you do that?’

‘TAFE in Sydney,’ Jonty replies, adding matter-of-factly, ‘I topped the year.’

‘Well . . . good,’ Tom mutters sourly.

‘Yeah. I’m living with Mum.’

‘What about your old man?’

‘He never came back after the last trip. Mum and me live in town now.’

Tom has a moment of feeling glad. Jonty’s old man is a pain in the arse. Jed van der Weihl was always a bit of a joke around town. Meant to be a farmer but never seen out of a smart suit and a snow-white shirt, the part in his hair as sharp as a blade. And the guy was always smiling. Well, hello, Tom! Eyes like fucking glaciers. His only child’s natural cleverness was his own personal achievement. Jonty will have a great future . . . He’d actually taken Tom aside to tell him that, when the boys were both about fifteen years old. My son is destined to lead. Tom hadn’t known what to say. Was he joking? He has inherited the brains of my great-grand-father who lead the Dutch in the Boer War in 1899. Tom had tried to look serious. Didn’t this old fart know what a tosser he sounded? Jonty knew, of course. He’d been standing behind his father and winking wickedly at Tom throughout the speech. Once the old man left the room, they’d both snorted with laughter. Jonty was a great mimic and his father was his best subject.

Every other year Jed went back to visit relatives in South Africa, and that meant a holiday for Jonty and his mum. His mother hardly spoke when her husband was around. She was just there: ironing the great man’s shirts, doing up his shoelaces and looking flustered when he complained about some small thing that was wrong with her cooking.

‘How long has he been gone?’

‘About eighteen months.’ Jonty’s voice remains flat. ‘He pissed off not long after I finished my course. Didn’t come back.’

Tom has no idea what to say to any of this. ‘You hear from him?’

‘A bit. Sometimes. Hardly ever.’

‘Who looks after the farm?’

‘We leased it out to neighbours.’

Tom is glad of that, too. Jonty’s father had inherited a good little farm from an uncle but within a few years had managed to run it right down through over-stocking and neglecting the fences and animals. He was more interested in local politics and, in spite of his unpopularity, had got himself voted onto the local council a few times.

‘So, what street do you and your mum live in?’

‘Hobson Crescent.’

Tom shudders. Lillian used to live in a cottage only a few streets from there. Jonty would have to pass that house to get to work at Thistles.

‘You work long hours?’ Tom hopes Jonty can hear the question that he really wants to ask. How do you feel when you pass her house, you sick fucker?

‘It’s okay,’ Jonty replies. ‘Suits me okay.’

There is a few moments pause.

‘So we’ll catch up?’ Jonty asks.

‘Sure,’ Tom replies shortly.

‘Be good to see you, Mulla.’

‘Yeah, okay . . . Jonty.’

Tom puts the phone down and goes straight for the bathroom. He turns on the taps and pulls off his clothes, his brain chopping from one possible scenario to another like an axe through a dead branch.

Jonty and me in the same town again? No way. Can’t do it. Absolutely not on. So, back to uni? Nah. Overseas could be good? No money. Stay here in town living with Mum? No. So what will I do? What can I do?

The hot water sloshes over his head and shoulders, and he lifts his face into its steady stream. Nothing. He can think of nothing. Photography positions are hard to get, and this one has been teed up for months. Apart from that, he’s been looking forward to spending time with his old man. Since the split, he’s only seen his dad for a quick meal or movie when he’s been in the city for a court appearance, or when he dropped by to pick up Nellie and Ned. They talked on the phone, of course, but it’s not the same. The truth is, Tom misses him.

Okay, he’d let Jonty down, no question. No matter how mad or stupid or down right bad a person is, they should be able to count on their friends. But did that mean that he, Tom, had to pay for the rest of his life? It was three years on for Christ’s sake! He was just a kid then. Way out of his depth. Shocked, scared, confused. He didn’t know shit.

So why should he put off his plans now? Let that drug-crazed jerk affect his life? No way. There were over thirty thousand people in Warrnambool. It had to be big enough for him and Jonty van der Weihl to miss each other. If they met by chance he’d give him the message. Anyway, by next week Tom would be working in a busy newspaper-office. There won’t be time to think. All this shit will have taken care of itself.

He turns the taps off and vigorously rubs himself dry with the towel. In some weird way the phone conversation has energised him. His dull mood has given way to something sharper. He is in tune again: keen to get on with his day. This is good.