combination.
She looked up at the blank windows of the stucco house. A layer of the world was hidden from her. She’d thought her marriage was solid,that Andrew Newgate was an innocent man, that Mariel Hartfield and Jack Anthony hated each other. That there was no sense in wondering about the death of Arthur Weeks. Was it her own fault that she was lost? Had she been wilfully blind?
The evening light shone on the blackened bushes and the sooty base of the toe toe; the air was full of shining dust. Beyond the line of gardens the estuary stretched away to the horizon, crossed by ripples as the tide turned. Eloise walked on under the high light sky, hearing the cries of seagulls, the shouts of children on the playing field along the peninsula road, melancholy sounds, distant in the summer evening. The air still smelled of fire.
Nick came down the side of his house, dragging a load of cut ponga fern fronds. He was in jeans, sunburnt, his eyes bloodshot from the dust and sun, his hair messy. The light was turning golden behind him, dust and fern fibres floating in the air, and he stood scratching his head and looking at her with a slightly dopey smile.
‘Where you been? You been away?’
‘No. Oh yes, I stayed a night at … a friend’s.’
She went on, awkward, ‘I nearly knocked on your door the other night, after you’d gone home. But you had someone with you.’
He dumped his load on the ground. ‘Oh?’
‘A tall guy, black hair. I came across the lawn and saw you, and thought I’d better leave you to it.’
‘You should have come over. Did you interview the mogul?’
‘We did. The house is incredible. We fed his chickens.’
‘Chickens?’
A pause. Stupid grin on her face. She tried to frown.
He said, ‘Why don’t you come over tonight and tell me all about it?’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘Come over when you’ve finished.’
‘Well, thanks.’ She turned to go. ‘The man in your house …’
‘Which evening was it? A man did come over. He was a cop, asking about the stucco house. I said I’d never noticed anything untoward.’
‘Did he have a tattoo on his hand?’
‘A tattoo? I didn’t notice. Why?’
‘I thought I’d seen him somewhere, I can’t remember where.’
Nick shrugged.
She shouldered her bag.
‘Might see you later then?’ he called after her.
The door was deadlocked. She used both keys and entered the cool, dim hallway, closing the door behind her, and passed into the sitting room, where the evening light was casting a rhombus of tangerine light on the wall. She set out her shopping on the bench, turned on the television, then changed her mind and switched it off again.
She listened: the ticking of an art deco clock Sean’s mother had given them. The fridge motor. A car driving up the peninsula road. She turned the television on again. The Sinister Doormat, her face rendered more sepulchral by a tight ponytail, was standing in front of the weather map, predicting the usual: no rain.
Listening, she walked through the hallway to the internal garage door, checking rooms, behind doors, even, with a flustered shake of her head, how stupid, opening cupboards and looking behind beds.
Outside, the low sun picked out bare branches along the fence. From the estuary there was a flash off a boat, glass catching the last rays. The Doormat was now addressing a chart decorated with rows of little yellow suns. Eloise drifted to the windows and watched the children out on the path. One boy had his bait-catcher slung over his shoulder, the other carried a stalk of toe toe, like a spear against the blue sky.
She poured herself a glass of wine and walked around the rest of the ground floor, noticing a trail of Silvio’s and the Sparkler’s black footprints in the hall, the Sparkler’s handprints on a glass door, on a coffee table. The Sparkler’s drawings on scraps of paper in the sittingroom. Evidence of a crime: Silvio had, in an idle moment, gnawed a wooden edge of
She looked up at the blank windows of the stucco house. A layer of the world was hidden from her. She’d thought her marriage was solid,that Andrew Newgate was an innocent man, that Mariel Hartfield and Jack Anthony hated each other. That there was no sense in wondering about the death of Arthur Weeks. Was it her own fault that she was lost? Had she been wilfully blind?
The evening light shone on the blackened bushes and the sooty base of the toe toe; the air was full of shining dust. Beyond the line of gardens the estuary stretched away to the horizon, crossed by ripples as the tide turned. Eloise walked on under the high light sky, hearing the cries of seagulls, the shouts of children on the playing field along the peninsula road, melancholy sounds, distant in the summer evening. The air still smelled of fire.
Nick came down the side of his house, dragging a load of cut ponga fern fronds. He was in jeans, sunburnt, his eyes bloodshot from the dust and sun, his hair messy. The light was turning golden behind him, dust and fern fibres floating in the air, and he stood scratching his head and looking at her with a slightly dopey smile.
‘Where you been? You been away?’
‘No. Oh yes, I stayed a night at … a friend’s.’
She went on, awkward, ‘I nearly knocked on your door the other night, after you’d gone home. But you had someone with you.’
He dumped his load on the ground. ‘Oh?’
‘A tall guy, black hair. I came across the lawn and saw you, and thought I’d better leave you to it.’
‘You should have come over. Did you interview the mogul?’
‘We did. The house is incredible. We fed his chickens.’
‘Chickens?’
A pause. Stupid grin on her face. She tried to frown.
He said, ‘Why don’t you come over tonight and tell me all about it?’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘Come over when you’ve finished.’
‘Well, thanks.’ She turned to go. ‘The man in your house …’
‘Which evening was it? A man did come over. He was a cop, asking about the stucco house. I said I’d never noticed anything untoward.’
‘Did he have a tattoo on his hand?’
‘A tattoo? I didn’t notice. Why?’
‘I thought I’d seen him somewhere, I can’t remember where.’
Nick shrugged.
She shouldered her bag.
‘Might see you later then?’ he called after her.
The door was deadlocked. She used both keys and entered the cool, dim hallway, closing the door behind her, and passed into the sitting room, where the evening light was casting a rhombus of tangerine light on the wall. She set out her shopping on the bench, turned on the television, then changed her mind and switched it off again.
She listened: the ticking of an art deco clock Sean’s mother had given them. The fridge motor. A car driving up the peninsula road. She turned the television on again. The Sinister Doormat, her face rendered more sepulchral by a tight ponytail, was standing in front of the weather map, predicting the usual: no rain.
Listening, she walked through the hallway to the internal garage door, checking rooms, behind doors, even, with a flustered shake of her head, how stupid, opening cupboards and looking behind beds.
Outside, the low sun picked out bare branches along the fence. From the estuary there was a flash off a boat, glass catching the last rays. The Doormat was now addressing a chart decorated with rows of little yellow suns. Eloise drifted to the windows and watched the children out on the path. One boy had his bait-catcher slung over his shoulder, the other carried a stalk of toe toe, like a spear against the blue sky.
She poured herself a glass of wine and walked around the rest of the ground floor, noticing a trail of Silvio’s and the Sparkler’s black footprints in the hall, the Sparkler’s handprints on a glass door, on a coffee table. The Sparkler’s drawings on scraps of paper in the sittingroom. Evidence of a crime: Silvio had, in an idle moment, gnawed a wooden edge of
Similar Books
