Chapter 8 Biting The Bullet

Chapter 8

Biting the Bullet

As you would’ve gathered by now I’ve always been a lone wolf, and I liked it that way; despite finding that one of the best fringe benefits of surfing was the camaraderie amongst the surfers. 

I’d early learnt not to talk to anyone in the water, to maintain my concentration on the horizon, getting the jump on the dozers, but afterwards at night it was enjoyable playing a few games of eight-ball, drinking some beers, and hearing about conditions at other breaks. 

In that manner I got to know quite a few new people, French, Brazilian, American, and plenty of Aussies. Their girlfriends were generally very attractive and everybody was friendly. We were all focused on doing the same thing. Riding some quality waves and sharing the beauty.

The thing about the Australians was that they usually stayed for several weeks at least, and there was a general similarity amongst them. You could say they were easily and primarily recognized as being Aussie surfers, and the more I surfed, which had become anything from three to six hours a day, the more I looked like just one more Aussie surfer.

Dogface was a problem that just wasn’t going away. I’d finally acknowledged that. Now it had to end. 

I had, six months before, like a crazy person with a death-wish, propositioned one of the bikies at a very intense party I'd accidently arrived at.  I’d realized that it would've been madness to hire someone to do what I had to do myself because if anything went awry young Tina would be free and so would he; but I’d be locked up somewhere, for a long time.

We'd learnt first-hand that he was fond of ambushing people. And it could happen again any time. The tape played over and over again in my head. If he’d had a knife that day we’d both be dead. If I hadn’t jumped the canal I’d be dusty mush. That was two out of three, but I was never going to give him another chance. I’d vowed, to my daughter and to myself, that I’d never show weakness or indecision again when a person's safety depended on me. I'd plugged in to the killer instinct within.

So many times I struggled with the idea as I lay in bed too hot to sleep. Miss T resting silently on the other bed while I pondered late into the night and when I first woke up. Until one of the guys I often surfed with told me triumphantly that he was going to G-Land for a fortnight. 

The light-bulb went on. G-land! Grajagan. Surfer's heaven. A remote camp on Java only accessible by boat. Without any communications to the outside world back then. Almost another planet.

Pricking my ears I took note of his plans because Wade was not only the same height as me he obviously shared the bleached complexion and hair-color effects of too much sun and salt water. 

Wade usually worked on a geophysics survey ship out of Singapore, spent his regular breaks in Bali, and occasionally went back to Oz to see his folks. He'd told me a crazy story about his father moving into a caravan in the back yard, and the eventual image of the van being towed away with his father still inside, his profile barely visible behind the nicotine stained windows; so i kind of new who he was.

A couple of people had mistaken us for brothers so he was perfect. My plans began to take shape as I mimicked his mannerisms; just to get the feel.

I’d been told where Dogface had bought a house in new semi-rural 'estate' on the edge of a town I knew well. And he drove the same light blue Falcon.

I bought a return ticket to Australia leaving the day after Wade left for Garajagan. I was his designated back-up if something went wrong so I even had his parent's phone number and I was .already on good enough terms with the security guy to allow me to go into the room full of small draws to swap my passport for Wades while i pulled out some traveller's cheques. I went in with a passport and came out with a passport; no problem.

One messy bag of clothes and a couple of ‘artifacts’ and I was off to Oz. Miss T was staying with friends who also thought I’d gone to G-Land. With no communications and no road in or out of the surf-camp who’d know, or even wonder if I was ever really there because who’d knock back a chance to surf Grajagan for a fortnight? Not me! Unless I had something more important to do.

Garuda midnight shuttle was packed with sleepy sunburnt people of all ages so I blended in with a bunch of guys from Avalon drinking free beers and got used to being called Wade. It seemed like a great name for a surfer.

Customs was a breeze. The guy hardly even looked at my hung-over face and disheveled hair. I was just one more.

I caught the airport bus into the city and went straight to the coach terminal where I bought a bus ticket to the north coast before catching a cab to Kings Cross to pick up a free syringe and buy some rohypnols, rubber gloves, soap, sticking plaster, cough syrup, tie-ups, and a second-hand bag and jacket. The cough syrup was to ensure me a deep sleep on the coach ride north.

Next morning I was on the local bus heading towards DF’s place of residence. I alighted in town with everybody else and then walked back along the footpath out of town towards his house, leaving the road as soon as practical to go cross country, taking advantage of the cover of regrowth to approach his house from the high side; the blocks there being about an acre. From the cover of thick weeds about thirty meters away I was able to get a good look at the house, and see in to where he was watching TV with his back to me. There were no curtains.

I’d have to be patient. I had everything required for my plan, and after he went out for an hour in the afternoon and then returned I got to see where he hung his car keys.

That night was cold and uncomfortable where I hunkered down in the woody weeds but it was good that he watched TV until very late so by first light I’d already dissolved the rohypnols and got them into the syringe to make sure I was ready when the milkman finally delivered his carton of milk.

Slipping carefully down the bank, I crept around to the front door, injected the tranquillizer through the waxed cardboard and returned to my hiding place to watch. I’d never experienced the effects of Rohypnol but it was supposedly the drug of choice for date-rapists so I had confidence in its effectiveness.

Frustratingly, he didn’t get out of bed until almost nine so I was half asleep but to make up for it he went straight out and picked up the milk, made coffee, and as I’d hoped, hoed into a bowl of cereal with sugar.

It was important to wait long enough so I did my best but the forty minutes seemed to take forever so it was relief laced with trepidation when I sidled down to the house, being careful not to leave obvious foot prints, and looked in through the window to see him slumped in the armchair in front of the chattering television sound asleep; the spoon still in his hand.

I’d already reloaded the syringe so I went to the front door, but it was locked. Also the back door. So I ended up having to remove a fly screen, take off my shoes, and climb in a window, replacing the screen and carefully removing all fingerprints. Carrying my shoes I then went straight to him and used the cable-ties to fasten both of his arms to the arms of the chair, and one around his ankles before I stuck him in the shoulder with the syringe. He hardly budged. Great! Now he’d be deep in fairyland for hours.

Using a couple of his belts and old neckties from his bedroom I properly secured his wrists and ankles after taking the ties off the chair arms and putting them in my pocket.

With a balled-up sock stuck into his mouth and the sticking plaster wrapped round and round his head he could still breathe, just enough, but he couldn’t make much noise.

After grabbing the car keys and opening the front door I carried him out to the car and dumped him into the boot mouth and connected his wrists to his ankles with the last cable-tie before returning to the house to grab his baseball cap and sunglasses.

While there I tipped the remaining milk down the sink, and gave it a good enough flush to empty the s-bend while rinsing his breakfast bowl before drying it and putting it away. I folded the milk carton and put it into my pocket.

Wearing his denim cap and sunnies I sedately reversed out of the driveway and headed west onto ever quieter roads, glad to see the tank was almost full I drove carefully yet continually for several hours.

In the afternoon I arrived at a state forest I was familiar with from a camping trip and found the small road that led into the mountains to where we had launched the kayaks. I followed it until recognizing the turn-off onto a fire-trail that went deep into the valley made by an adolescent river.

Late in the afternoon I stopped where the trail went close to the boisterous stream and locked up the car. 

Unlocking the boot I lifted the lid to see Dogface completely indifferent; with eyes closed. Slumped in a cramped position. Lifeless but static. It had to be done so I reached for the ankle ties and used them to lift his body out of the boot and pulled it clear of the car. When he landed on the ground he regained consciousness and started making bad-tempered noises but he couldn’t do much with his arms and legs tied securely behind his back and an entire roll of sticking plaster around his head trapping a sock behind his front teeth.

I could have knocked him out with the wheel brace or something but I didn’t want to do that in case I left some blood in the car. As it was he’d already pissed himself, but blood and piss are two different things altogether.

His eyes glared like the old boar with the broken snares on his right legs.

With a bit of trouble, but made easier by the fact that I didn’t care if I hurt him, I half-carried him from behind the shoulders for the first ten meters until his jerking-about caused me to drop him.

I’d only been concerned about leaving drag marks close to the road so from there I did drag him, by his bound ankles with his face scraping rocks and roots and he’d probably wished he’d stayed still. Hurting him was almost amusing; but it wasn’t why I was there.

Within a minute I‘d dragged him to the edge of the small rocky stream and took a moment to catch my breath. Deep in the narrow valley night was falling so fresh sounds began rushing into my ears. I felt fairly cool but very aware of what I was doing, and the importance of being out of there before dawn, so I quickly gathered up some leaves and kindling and got a fire going on a large flat rock in the center of the stream, continually adding to it until it was not just a blaze but more a solidly fueled fire with some really dry old stumps and logs as the foundation. Deep in the valley surrounded by thousands of acres of state forest there was no concern about anyone seeing the fire’s glow.

I dragged him through the shallow water, closer to the fire so I could see his fear-filled face. He’d had plenty of time to think about what he’d done to me and my little girl. He’d had plenty of opportunities to knock it off, to leave us alone, but no, he’d just kept harassing us, and scaring the living daylights out of a young child.

I told him as much as I shifted him closer to the fire and of course by then he was making as much noise as possible and doing his damnedest to kick free of the restraints, and it looked like there was the remote possibility of him having some success in his panicked state so I pushed him backward, into slightly deeper water until after some initial fuss the complaints ceased.  Plenty enough to leave him limp while I rolled his body onto the fire face down where it suddenly began jerking and twitching as it started to steam, and hiss, then burn. First the pajamas and his hair of course but pretty soon the meat.

It wasn’t about being nasty. It was way beyond that. He’d become a blockage to normal life. Our little girl had spent half her life on the run from this creep.

I felt sorry for him the same way I’d feel sorry for a mangy old rat caught by the neck in a trap.

It was a magnificent night under the stars so I just kept browsing about for for the best pieces of deadwood to feed into the fire using a straight hardwood branch to push arms and legs back into the center until there was pretty much nothing left. 

While the last of him burnt to cinders I stripped my clothes and threw them on the fire, then washed myself thoroughly in the stream. By the time the quarter-moon had risen even the bones had burnt or been broken up by me using the solid branch I’d been using to keep the fire blazing.

Recovering the skull as soon as it was just a glowing ball of bone was essential so I rolled it into a shallow pool where it hissed and cracked as it quickly cooled. Retrieving the teeth as I knocked them out onto the flat bedrock in front of me I then used a large fist-sized spherical stone to crush to powder every last one of them, as well as what was left of the skull and femurs.

By the time the first indications of morning appeared to the east the job was done. Only ashes remained. Dogface and everything and anything to do with him that had been in the car was just a pile of glowing coals with hardly any smoke rising from them.

With both hands I splashed water on to the fire until it was doused, and then carefully washed and scraped the remaining ashes into the flowing water where they dissolved or washed away.

By the time the first birdcalls began I had the surface of the bedrock looking like a kitchen bench. There was a large burn mark that looked like  dark-colored rock, and as for Dogface there was nothing but a burnt smell.

Feeling tired and relieved but aware of the lightening sky I had one last wash of face and hands, taking particular care of my nails, returned to the car, drove to the end of the fire-trail, carefully turned around and retraced my tracks back out of the forest as sedately as I could, considering the enormity of what I’d just done, but I was determined not to make any mistakes after such a successful mission; Dogface would bother us no more!

From there I returned to Sydney to park the car in an inner city suburb. I left one back door unlocked and walked a couple of blocks to catch a cab to the airport for the return flight to Bali. The car would lose its wheels within a week, have the windscreen smashed in a fortnight, and within the month would’ve been hauled away for scrap by a contractor working for the council.

The Chinese say to dig two graves before going for revenge, but I hadn’t dug any.

Back in Bali I replaced the passport and made sure I didn’t ever see Wade again. Instead I went surfing at my favorite left-hander down the coast for a few days.

The assassination had been flawless as far as I could judge but there were always unknown events and unlikely coincidences completely out of my control, but, I was working on the assumption that no-one would notice him ‘missing’ or even care. Not for a while anyway.

There was always someone. Maybe the local Seventh Day Adventists had him targeted as a convert, or perhaps he actually still had some friends somewhere but that was in the lap of the gods.

Despite my confidence I decided to stay in Indonesia for a while. I’d already been in touch with a school on Java and sent them my ‘CV’ so after a few days surfing I’d returned to pick up Tina from her friend’s place, paid her some money and bragged about how good the surf had been "in G-Land!" The school had invited me up for an interview so I told her friend’s mother we were going to work in Jakarta and flew to Surabaya that afternoon.

I think the school principal knew my English literature degree probably originated in Bangkok but it didn’t seem to bother him. They needed an English-language conversation teacher, I needed a job, and their business was affiliated with the International School where Tina would be studying. They provided accommodation which was quite close so it was ideal for us. Teaching English suited me. It’s a beautiful language and the students were politely attentive,  but I didn’t expect it to become my new career.

The school paid a decent wage and soon I was editing for a couple of magazines as well. The cost of living was low and everything required to live comfortably and eat well was readily available. I employed an eighteen year old girl to help look after the house and cook when I couldn’t or didn’t want to. She and Tina got along fabulously.

We each had an air-conditioned room and Tina had plenty of friends from school and knew many of the other kids in the street. A wholesome, healthy lifestyle that required very little contact with Australia. I heard nothing and made no enquiries so the drastic quality of my memories gradually faded.

The new reality, of not being prey to a crazy hunter put me in a far better frame of mind. Being afraid and continually planning escape strategies had been my state for too long sofeeling unafraid and enjoying the simple things previously obscured by that shadowy fear was a great relief.

A few months later I found out that my mother had died unexpectedly. She was old but never ill. From my limited communication with friends in Australia there’d never been any hint of suspicion regarding DF’s death, or any indication that they even knew he was dead, just that he “hadn’t been seen around for a while”, and then no mention, but still I was glad that I hadn’t attended her funeral just in case.

Instead I waited for more than a year, until after her estate had been settled and I was pleased to find that I’d inherited enough of a share from the sale of her house, combined with what I’d managed to save while teaching, to buy that personal oasis to retire to and live more or less as a rural hermit.

Returning to Australia for Tina to go to university had been discussed several times so the timing turned out to be just right. With my savings and inheritance I bought a ‘hobby farm’ from an old friend. He hadn’t done much to the place except patch up the existing cottage, plant an orchard, create some fish ponds and put in irrigation as part of an integrated system before the arthritis got to him but he’d been there five years so the trees, though neglected, were all well-established.

Cleaning up the block took a while because “everything grew so well”, but many other native timber trees were discovered around the periphery that had previously been overwhelmed by weeds. There was a deep pond, a solid chook house, herb garden, well-equipped workshop; and all at mate’s rates.

It was a very humble little house but I’d opened up a couple of walls and put a verandah across the back to make it cool and comfortable.

It was not much more than an acre and a half so it was pretty much packed with fruit trees and a large vegetable patch at the side of the house where the sun shone brightest but it abutted a state forest so I didn’t have to worry about noisy neighbours.

Tina liked to visit but her priority was study so she stayed in a share house in the city. There were many birds as well as herbevores to graze the lawn so it was a quiet but busy little corner of the world.

Out of the blue an old buddy from national service called me to say that he thought he’d seen Helen while working for a contractor doing a painting job at an aged-care facility in Mackay. He reckoned he kept working because it was good money but I was more inclined to think he hadn’t learnt to do nothing. When we were being discharged from the army I had told him, “Come on! Get out of Canberra. Head North”. And that’s what he and his girlfriend had done, and after a couple of years they bought land overlooking the ocean and they’re still there. The land is now worth millions so I always get a warm welcome and catch-up on the latest news.

When he called he was only half-sure that the person he’d seen was Helen because he hadn’t seen her for years, and he only glimpsed her through a window a couple of times, being wheeled in a chair from one area to another. But Helen has a distinctive face, and he reckoned it was her. He refused to take a photo, for obvious reasons, so I figured I had to follow it up myself.

I made some vague phone enquiries, for a friend of course, but learned quite a lot about the system by doing so. The next time, when I rang the actual facility, using her maiden name and claiming to be her brother-in-law, I discovered that she couldn’t speak but even if she could, the friendly receptionist lady told me, they weren’t permitted to confirm or deny the presence of any individual resident of the facility without proper identification from the person making the enquiry.

It was definitely worth the drive so I made an appointment using a fake name from an expired drivers’ license I’d found. I‘d booked a cheapish motel not far away, dressed casual but clean, bought a modest bunch of flowers and parked the rental car in the near-empty car-park and fronted-up at the surprisingly open reception. The well-tended garden, with a terrace and sizeable newly mown lawn, had inspired my confidence.

It turned out I didn’t even need to show my fake ID. Maybe I’m wrong but I get the impression that just carrying flowers returns a certain level of cachet from every woman; not just the one they were bought for.

It was visitor’s hours but they weren’t rigorously adhered to, although I did make sure I left on time. The staff gave me the impression there weren’t a lot of other jobs in town.

When Helen was wheeled up toward me she was obviously looking surprised. Despite half of her face being slack and unable to speak we had an understanding right away. She wanted out of there so she was obviously glad to see me. Our conspiratorial understanding hadn’t faded with time.

One of the carers explained to me what a stroke was and referring to a notebook more or less listed the incapacities that Helen was experiencing as an effect of the stroke. The left side of her body was obviously effected the most but she seemed to be mentally alert nonetheless.

The second visit was more hopeful. The same receptionist was on duty and I knew where to go. Helen was in the chair but showed me that, with some assistance, she could walk. One foot dragged and she was too wobbly to let go of the table, but I had the distinct impression that she had been spurred on by my interest.

The saddest part was seeing half of her face kind of slack, with one eye staring. Her very short hair looked suitably institutional and emphasised the scar in the centre of her forehead. Unsurprisingly she was rather slender so the light blue pyjamas hung from her shoulders. She pulled them up her legs a bit when we sat out in the soft sunlight.

Third time was the big one. I’d made a formal application to take her to visit her nieces and nephews for the weekend over Easter, the ‘school holidays’, and that all seemed to be accepted as nothing unusual. I had the impression they were pleased to see her getting out for a change. I’d really played up the ‘relatives’ thing, complete with a bunch of kid’s photos I flipped through with credible sounding names and stories.

After the papers had been signed I quietly and rather expertly pushed the wheelchair out to the car, helped her in to the front seat, which wasn’t difficult. Though a bit limp, with limited muscle-tone, she wouldn’t have weighed much more than forty-five kilos. I didn’t really want the wheelchair but to keep up appearances I’d paid the rental with cash and put it folded into the back seat along with her bag of clothes, cosmetics and medications

The first part of the drive was not too far. Just out of sight, out of mind, out of jurisdiction, to a motel I’d checked out on the way up. It was all a bit surreal so we didn’t interact much. More a time for adjustment and rest, and assimilation. Really, no sooner were we in the room than she was dozing on the bed and then before I knew it she was completely asleep and stayed that way until morning when I heard her get up and shuffle across to the bathroom.

The next day started with a better than expected motel breakfast and continued with me driving steadily down the highway talking most of the time about Tina growing up. I had so many funny anecdotes, descriptions of birthdays and school events because I absolutely typified the proud father, so, ‘before we knew it’, we’d turned off the highway, stopped in the second closest little town for milk and bread, and well before dark arrived ‘home’.

With some help she got out of the car and leaning against me with my arm around her waist we negotiated the two front steps and made our way through to the verandah. We still had the wheel chair but I left it where it was.

In the Year of the Horse she needed her freedom, and there it was. Sitting her in the rocking chair caused the first responsive action I could have called a smile. She spent a lot of time looking across at me, her face expressionless, but not blank. She slept a lot, but far less as the medication wore off. Content to watch the birds, butterflies, dragonflies, skinks, and all the other stuff going on; giving meaning to the notion of sitting in the one place while the entire world comes by.

Second day she began turning her head. Still didn’t try to talk but apparently didn’t want to.

She showed a new appreciation for the music of nature, especially at night, so I made-up a bed with a mosquito net out there for her. After a few days she could move about a bit on her own.

She had new serenity about her because of the peace and quiet and beauty away from the noisy, sterile place where she’d been so I felt okay about leaving her alone for a few hours. There was a small table within reach that had water and small bananas and tubes of kid’s yoghurt.

In town I collected payment from the local gallery for a woodcarving on consignment. They’d sold a full-sized wombat carved from a large piece of blue-gum. The lady who’d bought it had grandchildren so she wanted to put it in her garden, for them ride on. Good to hear it had found such a dynamic home. It wouldn’t be long before the timber had weathered to the exact colour of a real wombat.

With some of the cash I bought a couple of the small style of pastries I knew Helen loved, and then left town so soon enough I was bumping on down the driveway. As every time, it felt so good to see the place; the way it changed in even a few hours away.

As usual I walked straight through the open front door to the verandah to see Helen and flourish the pastries, but looking about I saw her, not in the rocker, but face-down in the main fish pond outside. She was a sad and sobering sight.

A few fallen leaves were resting on her jacket so I knew she was long dead.

It was a soul-shaking moment to see her like that, but I didn’t move for a minute or more, except to touch the wall, draw breath and take in the overall scene. The trellis rose, the hedge, the lawn, Helen laying face-down completely in the pond with her long skirt spread out floating on the surface. The pale souls of her bare feet half-submerged; the rose hedge wafting a sweet perfume.

Above, and framing the scene, were the crowns of avocado and mango trees, tall bamboos doing the will of the wind. Eucalypts full of shrill summer sounds and the sky hot in the west repeatedly pierced by three farking crows.

I hadn’t thought she’d be able to get down the steps. Even if there'd been some reason for her to do so. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d been keeping her increasing mobility a secret, to make such a decisive move, but with hindsight, being so restricted in movement and self-expression, in a state that would probably continue to deteriorate, made it understandable. With me in town for most of the day she may have seen it as her only chance, and what more peaceful way would she have found to be found.

As I went down the steps I saw marks on the lawn that indicated she’d fallen at the bottom but regained her feet and then been standing on the edge when she’d toppled in. She couldn’t have got herself back out even if she’d tried.

Her face was turned to the right floating above a lily pad. Her eyes closed. She looked asleep, just like when I’d woken in the early half-light during those days of bliss. Up on one elbow I’d feel like kissing her but instead whisper to her and that’s what I did again, kneeling beside her I whispered words about eternal peace and thanked her for the good times, for all of the times, and our greatest treasure, Miss T, now all grown up and clever.

Helen was still sleeping softly except the brightly-coloured fish were kissing her.

My one regret, for Helen had made her choice for herself, was that I’d waited too long to tell Tina that I’d found her mother. She was doing her final exams, and I wanted it to be a surprise when she came to visit, rather than a distraction during a crucial moment; but now it was obviously too late.

I carefully lifted Helen from the empty pond and placed her on the lawn in a comfortable position before using the sledgehammer to knock out a few rocks and some cement from the low side of the wall so that the pond drained quickly.

Inside the house I looked through the trunk where I kept the wedding dress material that Elsie had sent to us when Tina was a baby.

The fish left flopping around I moved to the other pond. The sun was bright on a westerly breeze so the pond was dry by the time I began lining it with flax and yarrow stalks, and then lay her back down with her closed eyes watching the universe, looking like a lady who’d finally relaxed onto her familiar bed after a long and difficult day, before spreading the wedding dress material over her completely and adding a layer of banana leaf.

After lifting some of the surrounding lawn I barrowed in some perfect soil to build up a smooth mound gradually rising on both sides to a large partly buried rock that cornered the rose garden and then I replaced the turf except for the centre where I planted a banana mango tree. Helen’s favourite.

Watching her enjoy one of those mangoes was better than having it myself, but sharing one with her was really the best.

The mango tree thrived from the moment it was planted and several pumpkin seeds from the compost-rich soil soon sprouted around it so I let them go; to take over that corner of the yard.

I’ll admit there was some smell at first so I set up a light on the verandah and sat out there in her chair sometimes rocking modestly through the night to make sure we didn’t get any unwelcome visitors from the nearby forest.

From beneath the eave on a drizzly cool night I could sit on the verandah with the light off and watch. Helen’s presence in the garden was a constant consideration and at first the mound looked suspiciously like what it was, most likely because I knew what it was, but the persistence of that knowledge and the mixed emotions I felt were reduced with the softening of the mound’s profile by the eager spread of pumpkin vines and the vitality of the lawn.

The ‘concern’, about having Helen’s body in the garden, quickly faded as the flesh-fuelled microbial populations reintegrated the molecules into the natural environment, just as she had wished to be reintegrated, and soon enough that corner of the garden just looked as exuberant and lovingly attended to as the rest. The large slightly prickly pumpkin leaves stole more than their fair share of the sunshine so soon new yellow flowers were popping out day by day.

I had no visitors, no friends. There wasn’t a reason to go anywhere. And that’s just how I liked it. For the entire world to rest in peace.

From then on I did my wood-work on the back verandah, putting in that extra effort and care to show her how clever I was and when I’d finished I sat in the rocker looking out at the orchard over the border of red and white roses, the mango tree with the new flush of leaves, and the pumpkins flowering constantly, and felt at ease.

There were always butterflies roaming the garden, occasionally large black ones or swallowtails of dazzling red, white and black, but more usually they were small yellow ones, the colour of buttercups flittering about, being there and then there without being anywhere in between. They liked the bright yellow pumpkin flowers.

Of course there was no way to tell Tina. She’d completed her degree with first grade honours, and then scored exactly the job she wanted, unfortunately in Canberra, as part of the office of foreign affairs so she was happy.

I definitely couldn’t tell her where her Mum was then. Concealing her death and interring her in the yard was definitely illegal but that had been my decision and I didn’t regret it.

It would be illegal for Tina to keep my secret so just knowing about it would jeopardize her job, and even her freedom, so despite very much wanting to, I simply couldn’t tell her.

I’d burnt all of Helen’s clothes and papers and cards and the purse they were in, and even pulled apart and buried the wheel chair, so there wasn’t any trace of her, anywhere. There’d be no-one looking for her, as far as I knew.

They only look for someone when someone else makes a fuss; and even then they don’t most of the time. The address I’d given them was plausible but fictitious. Nobody questioned it, or commented. They hadn’t seemed to care too much as I arranged for her to leave. The place was obviously overcrowded….

Tina liked to spend her vacations “on the farm”as she liked to call it. She had arrived early while the sky was still overcast but the sun broke through mid-morning and it turned into a beautiful day.

Her boyfriend had exams so he’d be coming along in a few days. I’d met him before. A capable young man with environmental interests. We’d done some work on the irrigation system together the last time he’d been there so he’d sent me a new solar time-switch with Tina.

When I returned from installing it, Tina, of late a vegetarian, as I had also become because I couldn’t convince myself to kill my own chickens, had baked a pumpkin pie.

“They’re such lovely little golden pumpkins I couldn’t resist”, she ‘confessed’, as though she’d forgotten how much her cooking skills had convinced me there was no culinary necessity for eating meat. Pumpkin pie has universal appeal, especially with the crispy crust she created. “Pumpkin is a complete food that provides everything to sustain a healthy body” she reminded me.

The nutty aroma permeated the home, for that’s how it felt in that little house when we were there together on a Sunday afternoon enjoying lunch on the verandah.

Removing a clove I scooped a spoonful of pie and savoured the hearty flavour and smooth texture of its home-baked goodness. When licking some crumbs from my fingers a shower of rain, the first of many I was hoping, began falling lightly though the sun still shone; my favourite weather. Afterwards, sitting satiated and satisfied, the eaves dripped and leaves dripped and every other leaf glowed and a tiny globule of captive raindrops sat reflective on each rose petal.

Tina looked regally relaxed in the rocking chair.

She commented on the brightness and luminosity that the sun-shower had provoked. She was also titillated by the numerous bright coloured butterflies that had responded to the light shower. We’d never seen so many of them before and they seemed to be playfully splashing about in a river of light. We sat in the silence of a dreamy afternoon,.

Several varieties of pumpkin had self-sown so the sensuous shapes and brilliant hues of the flowers varied from orange to yellow. I’m not an insect but if I were I’m sure I’d recognise them as prime organs for pollination.

As I quietly watched in the afternoon dreaminess the colours of the flowers increased in intensity until their fascination became so powerful that the buttery waves of colours began flowing out directly toward my eyes             as though I was looking into gently scattering suns of molten cosmic treacle.

The blueness of the sky formed a perfect sphere beyond, cicadas hummed in every corner, the flush of mango leaves shimmered, and a trickle of tiny butterflies began emerging from each of the pumpkin flowers.

The sight tickled my mind as more and more of the butterflies emerged from the golden cones, from a trickle to a constant flow, with each set of tiny golden wings flapping to lift them aloft, and every pair of wings random to every other but as they lifted higher from the ground swinging smoothly into swirling, blurring, coalescing clusters the wing-beats became synchronized so that every pair were beating together like the softest, sweetest chant of angels proudly praising the power of love.

Every tiny insect eye was glinting, lost amongst the sunbeams flickering, glittering reflections of sunshine’s warming everywhere a shimmering mirage no longer there.

My mind was stilled by the sight as a lake is by the peace of early morning,

The little cloud of golden butterflies hovering between us and the blue sky sent waves rolling stretching rivulets of intense buttercup yellow riding on the air that was also the colour of topaz fingers and ribbons that calmed the mind and heart.

Tina was in the rocker watching the world with the same level of awe but she didn’t speak except by the serenity and excitement on her face when the scene began to be almost filled by the glowing butterflies as they swarmed upwards into a sphere of floating phantoms that spilled down and swirled about with Helen’s face, gradually integrated, becoming discernible. Her smooth forehead, that smile and slight smirk, just as I remembered from the first time we’d met.

All the magic moments only young lovers can know and special naïvely energised, optimistic focus as a single force for good.

My mind was flooded by waves of precious memories of wondrous moments. Our trials and tribulations. The highs and lows, her standing there in the sunshine, hair blown back by the wind, smooth brown belly charged with life, her unique mannerisms, funny stories, and the first time I ever saw her, all transmitted to me on the vibrations coming from the ethereal wings of translucent colour.

Countless, overwhelming memories were passing through my mind. Every moment together, from the very first I’d seen her face light up, her eyebrows naturally fine, smooth nose, sweet broad lips, perfect chin, such a lovely girl, blessed were we.

That’s how it had been and it was again as her long-lashed lids lifted to reveal her eyes looking directly at us when her fresh smile broke into a smirk that disintegrated as the butterflies fluttered away in every direction on weightless wings. Gleaming, revived,

There she was and then she was gone, but it was a pleasure and a privilege to know that she’d arrived at her destination safely.

I looked across at Tina. Adjusting my sense of presence while absorbing what had just happened.

Her eyes were closed and a tear was sliding down her cheek. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I noticed she’d fallen asleep in the chair with her head turned to one side on the thin silk pillow.

Requiem.

Thanks for taking the time to read our story. Years have gone by and I don’t want Helen forgotten. A pole carved in her memory stands in the garden some distance from the back of the house where I can see it but I also wanted to document the events as they happened to be a reminder for others of how quickly life can change.

Here in the garden there is peace. My daughter survived and thrived so I am deeply grateful. Nothing concentrates the mind the way real fear does. For many years I’d been constantly watching over my shoulder, always scanning the perimeter and prepared to respond to threat. Always parked with an escape route in mind.

The hyper-vigilance that it engendered became second nature as did re-living intense moments that shouldn’t ever have happened. If the situation occurs again I’ll be ready, “Next time”, I’d tell myself. But re-playing events that could have been fatal was essentially a waste of time unless it put the focus on not allowing a similar situation to ever happen again.

Helen’s image had lasted only moments but the hum that emanated from thousands of synchronised wings remains in my mind.

In some ways my hippie attitude had worked against me. Saying “Yes” when I should have said “No way!” But it was the guiding principle of speaking truthfully regardless of the immediate ramifications or apparent benefit of lying that turned the legal process my way and got the right people at the right time to be on-side.

Winning custody was the fundamental and essential element of eventual success so even though I realised quite early on that the legal system is a tragic theatre of the absurd I couldn’t let the judge know that I knew that. I had to show completely credible, utmost respect for the court in the hope that it would do the same for us.

Offering people trust when they had the potential and likelihood of betraying that trust caused a lot of extra problems but worked out well in the long run because it quickly revealed who I could rely on, and as I’ve already said, speaking the truth no matter the consequences had inadvertently made me impervious to the tactics of the lawyers.

The police are a necessary evil. Too bad they are necessary and too bad they are sometimes evil.

So thank you to all those people who helped us in one way or another during the drama. May nothing like this ever happen to you, but if it does, don’t ever give up, and remember, if lucky, through adversity we sometimes gain strength, like my ‘little girl’, all grown up now and one of the strongest yet sweetest people you’re ever likely to meet.

JM 2020