The Plot – Chapter 12
What's For You Won't Go By You
‘“Not treating the death as suspicious at the present time,” eh?’ observed Vince as he clicked off the TV. ‘That detective lady was suspicious enough last night, wasn’t she?’
‘Yeah, but they have to be thorough, I guess,’ she responded. ‘I mean, you know, a man died after all.’
‘True, true. Could have been any one of us, when you think about it,’ he mused. ‘Probably walked under that tree a dozen times a day myself. And think about the little kiddies – playing under that.’ He shuddered.
‘Do you think they’ll have to take it down? It’d be a shame. Such a lovely old tree.’
‘Don’t know. I think it’s heritage. You know, protected. The Shire’ll have to get an arborist’s report before they do anything. Expect they’ll just rope it off for now.’
It was surreal, Jorja thought.
Only last night this man had been a virtual stranger. Now here she was in his living room, sitting on his sofa, watching TV with him and discussing the evening news. After the police had interviewed them both about a man who’d died, probably round about the time that he’d woken her up, and not a hundred metres from where she’d been sleeping.
Mind you, her whole life was surreal these days.
Who’d have guessed a year ago that she’d be couch surfing, sleeping under a bridge, camping out at the community garden? Utterly dependent on the kindness of strangers, after friends and family had let her down?
Who’d have guessed that grouchy old Vince Russo had such a lovely, kind, wounded soul?
‘Jorja …’ he said, interrupting her thoughts, ‘may I go in your room, please? I need to pack up my daughter’s things. I picked up some storage boxes today.’
‘Of course you can, Vince. But there’s really no need. I don’t want you to put her things away.’ Although truly, she did. ‘Not on my account.’
‘I need to do it on my own account, Jorja. It’s time to move on. Long past time.’
There was no arguing with that.
She was about to offer to help, but stopped herself. This was something deeply personal. He needed to do it alone.
When he had finished, she did insist on helping to carry the boxes down to the store room in the basement.
Then, when they were done, and sat at the dining table drinking glasses of red wine ‘to celebrate you moving in’, she reached for her bag and took out a sheaf of banknotes, pushed it towards him.
‘There’s a hundred and fifty. Is that enough for my first week’s rent?’
‘Jorja, Jorja … I don’t want your money. I don’t need it and I don’t want it,’ he said vehemently.
‘But I need to give it, Vince. I can’t stay here otherwise.’
He thought for a moment and the indignation faded from his eyes. He nodded, smiled.
‘As you wish. But it’s too much.’
‘Do you have any idea what a room in a share-house costs in this city?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, then. Believe me, I’m getting a bargain.’
He just wanted his life back – his wife back. They’d been so happy, the first years.
Sure, there’d been problems of late. Miscommunications, misunderstandings. What couple hasn’t gone through difficulties?
They’d have got over this latest rough patch, the way they always did: together. They were a good team. It would have been just another pothole, another bump in the road. They’d have been the stronger for it, afterward.
If that bastard hadn’t come sniffing around. Some blokes can nose out a woman who’s vulnerable, off-balance. Sniff, sniff, sniff, like a randy dog. Tongue hanging out, drooling for it.
There’d been a few times: he wasn’t stupid. Last-minute extra shifts at the hospital, covering for colleagues ‘down with COVID’. Impromptu evenings out ‘with the girls’. She’d become reckless: last week it was gone midnight. Drunk and dishevelled. Defensive. Not like her at all.
‘You’re my husband, not my dad!’
Then yesterday morning, while she was in the shower, he’d heard her phone buzz and fumbled for it in her bag. A WhatsApp notification from ‘Nico’ on the lock screen. He knew most of her friends and colleagues, he thought, but he didn’t know a Nico.
He’d already memorised her new passcode.
Nico
Tonight? 11 p.m. at the gardens – Big Tree like last time? 😘
Breathless at his own boldness, he’d replied:
Make it 10.45? 💋
Then the shower had stopped running. She’d be towelling her hair. Come on, you bastard. Come on …
He’d been aghast at what he was wishing for, yet strangely relieved when the response came.
Ooh, you’re a keen one today. I like that 🍆😁
The roar of the hairdryer. He’d given the response a 🤭, then deleted the thread back to Nico’s original message, replaced the phone, crept downstairs. Couldn’t trust himself to face her.
A frantic day, waiting for her to call or message him. Then, it was already gone four:
Sorry sweetie. Gotta cover a shift. Donna called in sick. Don’t wait up xx
She’d taken Nico’s bait, and Nico had taken his.
What goes through the mind of a bloke like that? How does he live with himself? Another man’s wife.
Just another conquest, another ego boost, he supposed. Bluntly: another hole to stick it in. A few minutes of sweaty passion, a quick release – and screw the consequences for two people who loved each other, needed each other.
Well, all that was yesterday, and now the problem had been dealt with.
Not quite the way he’d meant to, of course. He was no killer.
If he hadn’t picked up that lump of wood, that broken handle of an axe or mattock. He’d stumbled over it in the dark. As if it’d been lying in wait for him. What’s it the Irish say? ‘What’s for you won’t go by you.’
He’d just wanted a bit of moral support, so to speak. Never intended to use it.
Then along had come that dog swinging his torch bold as brass, after his wife. Itching to get his hands on her, inside her things, sweaty fingers worming their way into her underwear, all the while her hot breath in his ear, her moans for more. Eager to get inside her – his Courtney.
It was more than a man could stand.
He’d stepped out from behind the trunk to confront the bastard, give him a piece of his mind. Then the stride’s momentum, the heft of the wood in his hand had changed everything. There’d been no conscious decision.
A good, hard pull-shot, like smashing a short ball to the boundary. He could still hear the crack now, for all the world like willow on leather. The rush of blood in his ears had been like the roar of the crowd.
A bloody great branch – lying there, right where it was needed to cover his tracks, make it look like an accident.
It was meant to be.
He’d pretended to be asleep when she got home, though his heart was pounding as she slipped in next to him under the doona. In the morning, over breakfast, he’d watched her anxiously.
There was no discernible change. No shock, no guilt, no grief, no contrition. She was still the same preoccupied woman she’d been the last two months. Smiling vacantly at his words, answering at random.
That same dreamy, far-away look in her eyes.
He didn’t understand it.
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 13: In Limbo
The members of the community garden wonder what to do. ConStruct Corp misses Dima’s firm hand on the tiller.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.