Blind Spot – Chapter 4

Crossing the Line

‘Focus’ by Steve & Susan Fendt

‘So what’s a non-farmer doing, living on a great big farm in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cow pastures and cereal crops?’

‘It is a biggish farm, I suppose. About twelve hundred hectares. Most of it’s leased to neighbours for grazing though.’

‘But why buy a farm in the first place, if you’re not a farmer?’

‘Oh, we had plans.’

‘Who’s “we”? What plans?’

I tell her about Em, just the bare facts that anyone could glean from the news archives. Her job as a large-animal vet. The emergency callout to King Island to treat a pedigree bull. The aircraft that disappeared without trace.

‘How awful for you.’

Well, that was a little perfunctory, but she’s concentrating on the road. At least I hope she is. We’re trying to overtake a milk tanker on a two-lane road. Drystone walls either side, a blur of bright green grass.

After chugging through ten kilometres of bends and gradients, the truck has got up to speed on the long, descending straight. He’s nudging 110 and giving no ground. The white line is unbroken now and we’re the wrong side of it. I can see the driver’s stubbled face in his wing mirror. Not even a glance.

The turbo spools, vents with a whoosh and the Viggen surges, devouring the tarmac. Out of the corner of my eye I watch the needle pass 120 … 130 … 140 and we’re clear. A logging truck heaves into view ahead.

‘And the plans?’

As my heart rate returns to normal, I tell her about the Retreat: the accommodation for artists, writers, musicians; the workshops, the recording studio, the gallery space. All set in restored bushland. The small rare-breeds farm with artisan cheese production, centred on the historic homestead. I tell her about filling in the drainage channels that turned a biodiverse patchwork of wetlands and grasslands into a barren agricultural desert. About letting the land come back to life, inviting the Traditional Owners in, cultural burns, cultural practices that I didn’t really understand.

‘Sounds wonderful, but very ambitious. Expensive.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you’ve stopped? Or because of your wife’s death?’

‘Who says I’ve stopped?’

‘You did. “We had plans,” you said. The implication being that you don’t have them any more.’

It’s a fair point, but not one I wish to discuss.

‘So what about you?’ I ask, by way of deflection.

She smiles, nods slightly to show she’s seen right through me.

‘I offer guidance to those who need it.’

‘Oh, right? What sort of guidance?’

‘Well, I trained as a clinical psychologist.’

‘But that’s not what you do now?’

‘No. I help people to communicate with their loved ones.’

‘Ah, relationship counselling, sort of thing?’

‘You could say that. But the loved ones have passed.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m a medium.’

‘Ah, I see.’

I nod politely, but I’m at a loss for a response. In my world view, mediums are charlatans, preying on the vulnerable bereaved. Parting gullible punters from their money.

We drive in silence for a while.

‘Well, that put a dampener on the conversation.’

‘Sorry. I’m … a bit sceptical about all that, to be honest.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m used to it. You see mediums as con artists, preying on vulnerable people. Using “all that” to part grieving relatives from their cash.’

‘No, no. Not at all. I … err …’

She laughs, sounds genuinely amused. ‘Never bullshit a clinical psychologist, Benjamin Conway. Not even a crazy old bat who communes with the dead.’

‘You’re not old,’ I object, then feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

She cackles in glee. ‘You’re so English, you dear man!’

We’re coming into Camperdown now. She parks behind my car, leaves the engine running.

‘Out you hop. I’ve got a consultation in Terang in fifteen minutes. I’ll just make it.’

I’ve just started my car when she pulls up alongside, obstructing the traffic. The passenger-side window descends. Exasperated toots from the cars behind. I open my window.

‘Don’t forget – the grand tour! I’ll phone you to make a date.’

Then the silver convertible is away in a squeal of tyres, across the lights on yellow, leaving the infuriated drivers behind stuck on red.

I busy myself looking for something in the glove box until the lights change again.

---

On the way home I have a good long think about Mercy.

It’s perturbing to discover that an acquaintance you had down as a rational human being is a whack job. Her terrifying driving aside, Mercy strikes me as sensible, intelligent, sober.

And then: ‘I’m a medium.’

I’m almost more comfortable with the idea of her being a con artist. I mean, what better qualification than a degree in psychology? Joint honours in psychology and law, I guess.

Either way, it’s none of my business. Though she’d better not come to me bearing messages from Em. That would be too much. As long as she doesn’t cross that line, she’s good company and I like her.

Yeah, also in that way.

Objectively, her collection of features, in that constellation, is not what I would normally consider attractive. And yet.

She’s attractive simply because she believes she is. I’m a sucker for intelligent, confident women.

So, Mercy will get the promised grand tour.

Although, come to think of it, I never promised her a damn thing. She demanded it and I didn’t say no.

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Next week in Blind Spot:

Chapter 5: Empty

Ben is troubled by feelings of loneliness, and guilt about the strange fate of his wife’s dog.

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Acknowledgement of Country: This story is set on the lands of the Djargurd Wurrung, while the author lives on Wadawurrung country. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned herein are the product of the author’s imagination. The locations are based on real places.