‘Yes. And it was going quite well.’
‘So it is the anniversary today, Dana?’
Sometimes she forgot how much Timms knew. Or exactly where his knowledge came from. Dana had confessed some to him in conversations such as this; a bit had been reported in the media ages ago; parts of it were dusty public record – if you knew where to look, had the right names and understood what you were searching for. Much of what Timms knew – or thought he knew – would have been half-gleaned from his colleagues down the years. It would be a sketchy mosaic of rumour, innuendo, bearing witness and reading confidential documents. The Church recorded everything, then protected some of it. Some of them.
‘Yes, it is today. I keep getting flashes.’ Dana shook her head. ‘Which is odd: they feel like they might be out of sequence.’ She was aware her chronology was hazy at times.
‘Hmm,’ he replied. ‘Memory doesn’t work in a straight line. Each memory has a different type of emotional pull, a different sort of… gravity.’
‘True enough. People’s blame always sticks in my mind.’
‘You were a child. Only one person ever truly blamed you, Dana, and they were wrong in every way.’
She thought about that, before turning to face him.
‘That isn’t true, though, is it? I can’t pretend that it is. You weren’t there: let me promise you, there were plenty ready to buy into it. The idea that only one person thinks a particular thing? Doesn’t stack up. Even Hitler wasn’t the only person who believed in what Hitler was doing. There isn’t a thing in this world that only one person believes. Nothing so vile, or ludicrous, that there aren’t a phalanx of people out there ready to credit it.’
She waited for a comeback; none came. Only her own words flowed on.
‘There were others. Complicit, acquiescing supporters. Every bully needs an audience. There were followers, believers. I know it wasn’t only one person. I’ve never been able to wish away that knowledge, no matter how much I wanted to.’
He had no answer to that.
Dana glanced across the sweep of people. A street-cleaning truck winked its orange warning lights near the junction, easing around a ute replete with fishing gear. The columns fronting the town hall took on a more honeyed patina as dusk approached. Civic reassurance was always a solid Carlton virtue: it was a town that knew how to carry on gracefully, even though it was merely managed decline. The immaculate streets, preserved heritage, hanging baskets and air of civility couldn’t beat the numbers: employers and talent were seeping away to the city, unnoticed but inexorable. Earlville wore its winnowed heart on its sleeve; Carlton suffered internal bleeding.
Timms broke the silence. ‘You called me. So you must have something specific on your mind?’ A priest’s ability to ask an open yet prodding question; not so different from Dana’s job after all.
‘I don’t know that I do, necessarily. Just. I’m finding this Day, uh, hard to handle.’ The temperature change from indoors to outdoors had made her scalp itch; she scratched at her head and rubbed a cheek. ‘I always do, of course. Every year. But I’m, well, I’m working a homicide today. Usually I have a day away and try to do some thinking.’
‘Maybe it’s better to do less thinking. At least about that. For today.’
She swirled the cup, her breath beginning to mist as the temperature slid. ‘Hmmm, I’d thought that. Hoped that. But it isn’t.’ She looked across to him briefly, then away. ‘It comes like little bursts of heat. I don’t know when, or why. Gushes through when I don’t expect it. And it’s all I can do to stop it overwhelming me, bring everything to a halt.’
She stopped, embarrassed by her inability to cope with simply being at work. What would people think if she couldn’t handle it? What would they think, but never say?
‘If I’m not working, I can halt. I can stop the car, or turn off the TV, or whatever; I can stop and let it happen, let myself roll with it. But today, I can’t. When a wave hits me like that, I get paralysed. I stand there and pray it won’t swallow me.’
‘You pray?’
‘Turn of phrase. Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘Well, I can’t give you lots of platitudes about this, can I? We both know you’ve heard them a thousand times.’
Yes, thought Dana. A thousand times from fifty different people, for years. It all poured through, downhill and out of sight. There was no phrasing, no combination of words, that washed it all away.
‘So all I’ll say is this,’ continued Timms. ‘Everything else can keep. Your killer – you’ll catch them tomorrow, or the next day. Sounds from the news like you might have them locked up already. There’s no need to do everything this moment. Your number-one priority must be you. Always. But especially today.’
It was exactly the advice she’d give to someone in her position. She could step outside herself long enough to share that wisdom, but not long enough to take it.
Timms seemed to sense this. ‘Look, make a deal with me.’
‘A trade-off? That doesn’t sound like it’s in the Bible. They literally had words carved in stone.’
‘My particular god is extremely pragmatic. As you know.’ He looked away and she diplomatically avoided giving a sidelong glance.
‘So here it is,’ he continued. ‘It’s four o’clock now. Promise me, no matter what, you’ll be home by five thirty. I know it’s a short walk from the station to your home. Five thirty: and text me when you reach the sofa.’
She turned and offered a handshake. ‘Deal. And thanks, you know. Just. Well, thanks.’
Timms was the only person in this town who knew anything much about the Day, and he didn’t treat her like a victim. He didn’t offer pat advice, or homilies, or some stupid little psychobabble game where the aim was to fool herself. For years, experts had offered her a series of programmes, therapies, action plans, exercises to do and report back on; each devised to allow her to ‘take control’ somehow. They all required that she either try to outsmart herself or wilfully become more stupid.
Father Timms knew not to dabble in that kind of suggestion. Instead he offered non-denominational, non-judgemental support and the kind of advice that took a slight edge off the worst of it. Which was pretty much all Dana felt she could do for herself. She and Father Timms were of the same mind on this one: it was all about damage limitation and staggering through. That was the basis of trying to shutter everything off into the Day: trammelling the worst thoughts and attempting to corral them into twenty-four hours.
Which meant every minute she spent on this case made the Day more desperate.
Chapter 28
Rainer was filling in. One of the other uniforms was supposed to ride out to the old Whittler farm for Mike to see if they could turn up anything useful. But then a call to a four-car pile-up on the freeway took almost everyone’s attention. Lucy had basically instructed Rainer to come here, and he’d surprised himself by immediately doing so, as if she were his boss. Though, reflecting on it during the drive over, it wasn’t such a surprise. Lucy said stuff, and he did it. They all did.
The farm was five kilometres from Carlton, up on a hillside of open pasture with several pockets of Tupelo trees which fizzled burnt orange as autumn died. Rainer presumed the farm had once been livestock – sheep, probably – but it was now an equestrian centre. Lucy had pulled the website and suggested it fostered some regional champions and Olympic hopefuls, so it was no hick operation. Freshly painted white fencing ringed the property and sectioned off the driveway and buildings. A line of rich volcanic soil spooled over the ridge and away – presumably the training track for stamina work.