Читать книгу A Hand in the Bush - Jane Clifton - Страница 13

Decca Brand on a motorbike? Candy chuckled at the thought as she strolled along Park Street in the chilly sunshine. There'd been no leather jacket or tell-tale 'helmet hair' when she first encountered the good doctor, back in the late eighties: although neither would have looked out of place in the salubrious surroundings of the St Albans Crisis Centre toilet block.

Candy had needed three arms to change a steaming nappy on the then two-year-old Jorel as he wriggled around on a vinyl mat wedged between two dirty hand basins. The hyperactive little tyke kept stretching over to turn on the taps, screaming when he was restrained and not responding at all to her tirade of expletives.

Next thing she knew this woman had appeared out of nowhere, like some Fiorucci-clad fairy godmother, and started waving a set of car keys over the kid's face. Instant calm. The baby reached up and turned the shiny objects in his sticky paws, cooing with interest, while Candy completed the change, bagged the nappy, washed her hands and lit up a Winnie Blue.

'What's your little brother's name?' the woman said.

Candy propped against the toilet door, arms folded defiantly, and sneered. 'He's not my brother. Jorel.'

'Oh,' she said. 'Like Superman's dad?'

'What?'

'Isn't Jorel the name of Superman's dad in the movies?'

Candy said nothing.

'You know? Marlon Brando's million-dollar gig.'

'Nuh,' Candy said, puffing out smoke. 'It's made up.' Then, gathering up child and nappy bag, she had pushed her way out of the stinking toilet block, leaving the woman to dangle her keys in space. Volvo keys by the look of her.

An inauspicious start to a long association with Decca; her champion, her friend.

Rude, that's what I was, Candy thought. At sixteen years of age, the words 'thank you' were not part of a smart-mouth's everyday speech. She had little to be thankful for. And who did Decca think she was, in her nice clothes and plummy voice? Sure, Candy had seen those Superman movies, but who was Marlon Brando when he was at home?

The only reason her kid was called Jorel was because the stupid cow of a midwife had misread Candy's handwriting when she'd tried to put 'Joel' down on the birth form. Once the mistake was made Candy decided to go with it.

Superman's dad? Now there was someone she'd like to meet...Or Spider-man, or the Phantom-any of those Marvel men.

'Oooh...'Candy shivered with delight. They were the ones to mate, not the losers she'd lost it with. Wonder Woman she wasn't, and neither was Decca-even though she thought she was. Thought she could take on the forces of evil single-handedly without so much as a tiara or star-spangled undies.

Motorbike? Scooter more like it. Or a motorised Malvern Star. Decca Brand astride a Kawasaki did not compute. She was way too straight.

'Does Inga like carnations, Oleg?'

Decca was seated behind her desk, watching Oleg resting on his haunches with his back leaning against the door. His elbows were on his knees, one fist at his chin, the other hand brushing the car keys back and forth across his lips: eyes fixed on Decca.

All around him lay strewn carnations. Wine pooled on the carpet beneath its shattered bottle.

'Sometimes I sing,' said Oleg, after some minutes. 'I sing my thoughts, and then I laugh. Then I feel better.'

Decca's breathing eased a little, but she said nothing. He's coming round, she thought. This would not be a good time for Candy to come bursting in, though ten minutes earlier she had been praying for just that as Oleg Kransky waltzed her around the room smiling and crying and knocking things over.

He was a short man-even more so compared to Decca-and stocky, with the thighs of a weightlifter. And while Decca was not afraid of him, accidents might have happened.

'Oh, Ing-ah!' Oleg sang. 'Why you treat your daddy so mean? Oh, Ing-ah! I think you know what I mean.' He chuckled. 'If you treat me like a lover, I will make you my queen.' He rolled sideways onto the carpet, his laughter building.

Decca was up and out of her chair, picking her way through the debris, easing him gently to his feet. Careful not to make too much physical contact, she indicated the chair and Oleg sat down, still singing softly. He had a tuneful voice, Decca noted, but this was not a 'New Faces' moment. It was time for Oleg to leave the building.

'You don't like me, do you?' he said with his head bowed.

'Did you bring your notebook with you, Oleg?' Decca said.

'I used to have so many friends. Our house was always filled with friends. And laughter. And the smell of good food,' he said.

'No. I didn't think I would come today. But then I thought about not seeing you and I...'

'Why not come again this time next week?' said Decca. The sound of the front door opening made Oleg jerk his head around and straighten in the chair.

'Yes. Good. That would be good,' he said. 'Nine o'clock next Thursday?' He was standing, rearranging his shirt and tie, smoothing back his thick crop of black and silver hair. As he turned to go he glanced at the mess on the floor with a puzzled look, then crunched his way across the clutter without a backward turn.

'See you next week, Oleg,' said Decca to the departing figure.

Next minute Candy poked her head around the door.

'I thought Mr...? What happened?' she cried. 'I leave you alone for five minutes!'

'Grab the brush and pan, will you, Candy. What time is the next one?'

'Mrs Thurlow in half an hour. Shall I get you a coffee?'

'I'll be fine,' said Decca.

'You're knocking off at four today remember? File's on the deesk!' Candy sang. 'I'll get started on this.'

Selma Thurlow had been employed at the blood bank for most of her working life. Recently, and inexplicably, she had developed haemophobia. The sight or smell of blood had never bothered her until now and, three months short of retirement, she was not about to resign.

'Guess what?' said Candy, scooping up the last of the carnations. 'You know that girl who jumped off the Westgate this morning? I know her mother.'

'Have the police released her name? They don't usually do that so quickly.'

'No, they haven't. My friend Vibeke rang me.'

'And, Vibeke is...?'

'...is in my Thursday tap-dancing class. Takes her almost half an hour to drive in, but she loves it so much.'

'I'm not sure I'm following this.'

'She lives in Hoppers Crossing?' Candy spread her hands wide and cocked her head, waiting for the penny to drop. 'Two doors away from Jody's mother, Raelene. Isn't that spooky?'

'And Jody is...?'

'...the girl who jumped. Raelene came to tap a few times, with Vib, and that's when I met her. She seemed nice. Quiet, you know. Surprisingly light on her feet.'

'Does Vibeke know Raelene well?'

'Yeah, she does, unfortunately.' Candy shook her head. 'Poor cow.'

At the wheel of the Mustang in the outbound lane of the Westgate Bridge at 4.30 that same afternoon, Decca realised she hadn't got any further with the Jody saga-Selma's arrival having curtailed the discussion. Was it Vibeke or Raelene who was the 'poor cow'?

No matter, she thought as she swept up the incline, the girl had jumped into outer space, and nothing would bring her back. Candy's brief encounter with the mother was immaterial. Jody from Hoppers Crossing had cut short what little life she had and probably destroyed Raelene's life into the bargain. Besides, Decca was having enough trouble keeping the lid on her own emotions today without hearing about any more tragedy.

When she had come out of her room at 4.15 to find Candy in a heated discussion with her son Jorel, Decca opted for a hasty exit. After all, she reasoned, it wouldn't be the first time Candy's strapping fifteen-year-old had skipped swim training to hang out at the skate park, had fallen foul of one of his teachers or been involved in some other drama. Teenagers! Who needed them? Her cheery farewell had been met with a dismissive wave from Candy and not even a nod from the boy.

The light was already fading as she cruised down Melbourne Road. It was almost dark by five o'clock these nights, and bitter chill.

What to wear. Cocktail frock? Too dressy for dinner. The green cashmere dress? Too much leg. God, she thought, what if he's short? She realised that, next to her, any man, other than a football player, looked like Tom Cruise (and the mere thought of him was enough to put you off dating for life), but there were limits.

She parked the car in the underground lock-up and went upstairs.

Boofles inclined his head towards her as she came up the small flight of stairs from the vestibule as if to say 'You're home early, dear', then turned his gaze once more to the window.

In her bedroom, after a quick shower, she pulled out a short black leather skirt, black woollen wraparound top and a fresh pack of black patterned pantyhose. Melbourne, after all, is a city where too much black is barely enough, especially in the depths of winter. Her one concession to colour was a pair of stiletto-heeled, knee-high boots in camel suede-Ferragamo copies she'd picked up in Hong Kong on the way back from the Seychelles. Tall she'd be, and damn the consequences!

She surveyed the effect in the unforgiving light of the bathroom mirror.

The cross-over top flattered her broad shoulders and longish neck, while the teardrop diamond she added as an afterthought lent a hint of glamour at her throat. There was cleavage, yes, but mostly as a result of modern bra technology rather than amplitude. Bicycle-toned hips and an abdomen that had seen no labour (neither child-producing nor hard) sculpted smooth curves into the overall 'beanpole' effect.

Now for the face. When would her biological age catch up with her? she wondered, and not for the first time. She could still pass for forty, and not because she was kidding herself. As surely as gravity itself, however, those wrinkles would appear one day-probably when she wasn't looking-but not today. Oddly, Decca was born with one green eye and one blue, which tended to hamper one's choice of eyeshadow. Tonight she opted for a mere smear of bronze plus a minor boost to the don't-frighten-the-horses, work-strength mascara.

Her nose, neither beak nor button, was the sort a six-footer should have. A nose that could have got her into, or out of, a modelling career depending on the decade; a fine nose for bullshit.

Her lips-unremarkable apart from the fact that there were two of them, parallel, bowed and tapered in all the usual places, and for the fact that the lower was slightly fuller which sometimes gave the impression of pouting-which she didn't-required no lipstick: at a dinner party, it just ended up on the hosts' cheeks and her wineglass.

She had an endearing and, her acupuncturist assured her, 'very lucky' gap between her front teeth which one day, she promised herself, she would have orthodontically closed.

A black mole which half a century ago would have been called a beauty spot, but in these ozone-layer-like-a-Swiss-cheese times was more likely to indicate a spot of bother, perched on the lower left of her jawline. It gave the appearance of her having spilled a raisin from her muesli, or of an inverted exclamation mark, situated beneath one of the two creases that had grooved themselves like parentheses around her mouth.

Just enough time to attack her hair with the irons, she thought, noting how even forty-somethings were not immune to the global Jennifer Aniston hair syndrome. A liberal douse of Chanel and she was ready. For what? Diversion, she reiterated.

As she reached out to call for a taxi, the phone rang.

'Hey, Decca, it's Candy.'

'Hi.'

'Look, I know you're on your way out, but, remember the girl on the bridge?'

'You said you met the mother once, right?' Decca did not wish this to be a long conversation.

'Yeah, I did,' she said. 'But it seems Jorel knew Jody, the girl.'

'Shit. How?'

'She had a part-time job in a takeaway joint in Deer Park, near his school. He used to see her almost every day.'

'Was she his girlfriend?'

'No. They were just friends. She didn't have a boyfriend, he reckons.'

'What about the baby?'

'What baby?'

'You remember? I said there was a Baby on Board sign in the back window of the car?'

'I don't think it was her car, Deck. She is...she was...only fifteen, so she wouldn't even have had her licence. Vibeke says that Raelene keeps popping out kids left, right and centre, so maybe she leaves the sign up.'

'Right.'

'Jorel said he sometimes waited for Jody to finish work, then walked her to the station.'

'But he wasn't her boyfriend?'

'No.'

'Oh.' Decca paused, searching for a tactful way out of the conversation. 'Listen, Candy, I've really...'

'Sorry, I won't keep you another minute only...can you talk to Jorel? He's really freaking out.'

'Sure. Of course he would be. But Candy, won't the police want to talk to him?'

'What for? It's not his fault!'

'I know that. But they'd want to speak to him for background, to try and get an idea of why she did it.'

'No way! They'd have him pushing her off the bridge in five minutes to get a result. You know how they work.'

'You've got to stop watching "The Bill", Candy. It's not like that. Besides, it wasn't murder.'

'By the time they'd finish with him it'd be a terrorist plot! No way is my son going to the cops!'

'Okay, okay.' There was no winning this argument.

Candy never lost sight of who wore the white hats in this world. She was thrown out of home at fifteen years of age by parents who refused to make room for her and her 'little bastard'. Reviled and rejected by the baby's father. Busted, one time too many, for shoplifting a bottle of VO5, a box of Maltesers and a Tonka truck from K-Mart, Candy would have gone straight to Fairlea Women's Prison if Decca hadn't fought for her all those years ago. For Candy, the police force would only ever be the 'bad guys'.

'I'll talk to him,' said Decca.

'Great. Thanks Decca, you're a mate. We could squeeze him in first thing tomorrow.'

'We?'

'Your first appointment isn't till ten because...oh shit! sorry...I am so holding you up. Sorry. I'll see you there at nine-thirty, 'kay?'

'Okay.'

'And thanks. Have a great time tonight.'