NO SAFE PLACE

JENNY SPENCE

First published in 2013 Copyright Jenny Spence 2013 Excerpts from T.S. Eliot are reproduced with the permission of Faber and Faber Ltd publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Arena Books, an imprint of Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: info@allenandunwin.com Web: www.allenandunwin.com Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au ISBN 978 1 74331 332 9 Internal design by Lisa White Set in 12.5/19 pt Minion by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10987654321

C009448

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I wake at dawn to the call of a lone magpie. The breeze through the open window bites, and I pull the covers over my head and wish my way to Canton Creek, where the birds sing all day. If I lived at Canton Creek I might be someone who rises at dawn to go running over the stony ridges, scaring up kangaroos and cockatoos, my breath making little white clouds in the frosty air. Or maybe I would sleep late, waiting for the sun to creep through the stained-glass windows of my hand-made house. Either way, I would be answerable to no-one. This city is full of people like me who dream of escape. My parents and their optimistic friends thought they could get there. They formed what they grandly called a collective and bought a hundred hectares of scrubby land, goldfields land, where the soil is thin and poor and the rain can hold off for years. Now Ive inherited their share in Canton Creek, and its my turn to dream as I drift through the long weeks and short weekends,
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neglecting housework and bookkeeping in equal measure, nag ging my daughter Miranda to get her life organised, wondering when Ill ever be free to live the way I want. In my fantasy life at Canton Creek I would spring out of bed on winter mornings and stoke up the firebox, still aglow from the previous night, my brain buzzing with ideas for the great novel I would be writing. There would be no Soft Serve Solutions, no boss like Derek Sing, and especially I groan inwardly when I think of what Monday morning has in store for me no Surinder Kaur. My reverie is interrupted by the click of the front door, and I automatically glance over at the clock by my bed. Six-twenty. Relief swamps me as I realise that Ive been half-awake for hours, listening for that click. My night has been haunted by visions of Miranda, stepping out uncertainly from some bar onto the streets of Brunswick, tracked on her wavering path home by hostile eyes. But even as I let go of my fear its replaced by annoyance with her for staying out so late. Now shell sleep all day and leave me to do the house-cleaning, as usual. Ah well, at least when Miranda sleeps all day I have the place to myself and can do what I please. Yesterday I even did some shopping and had lunch with my oldest friend, Carol, who with four kids and all their commitments rarely has time to catch up. I cant get back to sleep, so I sit up and contemplate my Sunday. Theres a layer of grime on everything, and I doubt Mirandas even thought about washing her clothes and packing. Months ago my unpredictable daughter nominated to do this terms teaching prac unit at a country school. Now shes got cold feet about spending two weeks out of the city, but its too late to change her mind and
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shes supposed to be driving my car another great knot of worry lands in my stomach down to Augusta Creek today. Mirandas natural enthusiasm will kick in once she gets there, but like many urban kids she has a terror of country towns, ima gin ing they wont have heard of espresso coffee, rap music or Pink. How about that, I think, noticing that shes dragged out all her dirty clothes and sorted them into piles for me. Very thoughtful. I step over one of the piles and turn on the shower. Itd teach her a lesson if I ignored them and she had to go off to the country without any clean clothes. Its time she grew up. But all along I know that after my shower Ill start the washing off for her. Its either that or tackle the pile of documents I need to go through for my horribly overdue tax return. My mind rebels and strays once again to Canton Creek, where in my fantasy life Id be outside the tax system and Miranda would be transformed into an idyllic daughter, serious and responsible, with a nice boyfriend who delivers her home, with old-fashioned courtesy, well before midnight.

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Its Monday morning and monochrome commuters cluster at the tram stop. The grey sky is reflected in the slick grey surface of the road. Its a John Brack painting, except for the mobile phones pressed to everyones ear. Theres a cheerful ding as the tram bears down on us. I find a seat facing forward near the front, and sit down. The girl next to me is perched on the edge of her seat, her knees gripping a yellow fibreglass cello case. She is so close I can see faint streaks of grime on her neck and the coarse pores of her plump cheeks. If Renoir were to hurtle through a time warp and see her he would be entranced by the unexpected grace with which she lifts both arms to gather her heavy dark hair and wind it into a knot, revealing a soft white neck. For a moment the generous lines of her body mimic the curves of her cello case. The advertising stickers on it pick up the strong contrasting colours in her cheap blue and purple fleecy jacket. Renoir would be yearning for his palette.
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I think a lot about artists. In my dream life at Canton Creek I would be writing a book about Vermeer. My favourite Vermeer paintings are like scenes from a story. Beautiful, unpretentious domestic situations, glowing with colour, with something mysterious going on just outside the frame. Vermeers own story is just as tantalising, as so little is known about him. The tram pulls to a stop at Bourke Street and we all lurch to our feet. As the girl leans forward to pick up her cello, her too-short jacket slides up to reveal mottled white flesh and buttock cleavage, below a broad yellow belt which balances the glow of her cello case. Gauguin materialises beside Renoir, and they chatter excitedly. Then the crowd closes like the Red Sea. Girl and cello are gone. I need to make a couple of calls this morning, which means I can put off the moment when the office swallows me up. I make my way towards the glossy high-rise building that houses the Department of Water Resources and make a call to reception. Surinder Kaur comes down to the lobby to sign me in. We fuss around with security badges, then make small talk in the lift. As usual Surinder, impeccably dressed in a western style business suit with a bright sea-green shirt, makes me feel shabby, even though Im wearing my good black pants and a new beige cashmere jumper. The colour of the jumper suddenly looks drab. I never see clothes like Surinders in the shops I can afford, and I suspect she gets them hand-made for her in India. Half a head shorter than me, and much slighter, she has a vivid, pretty face and a glossy black braid that hangs below her waist. Her eyes, today, are also sea-green, and I have to remind myself not to gaze into them. She has several pairs of jewel-coloured
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contact lenses which she wears with matching shirts, and I find them oddly disconcerting. Surinder is a perfect bureaucrat: smart, ambitious and good at getting her own way in meetings. We treat each other with guarded respect, both slightly baffled by the others job. Over the last couple of years Ive transformed her sections incoherent procedure documents into a simple, logical information system which her staff are supposed to be maintaining. However neither they nor Surinder seem to be able to get their heads around it. The idea is to achieve whats laughingly called a paperless office. We go into a meeting room, where a pile of printouts is sitting on a table, and I eye them apprehensively. Just a few changes, Elly, Surinder says encouragingly. We think maybe two, three weeks work? You should be making the changes yourselves. Thats what all the training I gave you was for, I murmur, wishing I could forget said training session at which the audience muttered discon solately while Surinder smiled and nodded enthusiastically at the back of the room. Were so happy with your system we think itd be a pity to mess it up much better if you look after it, says Surinder, her eyes flashing green as the contact lenses catch the light. All the new information is here and I have budget approval. She inclines her head towards the printouts. They must have dredged up the old files and edited them, and I know from past experience that the job of sorting out the bad English and moving it all into the new system once more will be mind-numbing. I can just see Derek, my boss, rubbing his hands with glee at the thought of how much he can charge them.
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Id intended to go straight to my next appointment after Water Resources, but Im so frustrated I catch a tram down Bourke Street to our office. Soft Serve Solutions is on the second floor of a seedy building just off Spencer Street. Derek is on the phone as usual, and when I catch his eye through the glass partition and mime talking he holds up fingers to indicate that he can see me at eleven oclock. Ill just have to wait. Derek puts teams of specialists into organisations that prefer to outsource their IT. Some of the work thats generated is back at the office, where the programmers develop and update customised software. My main job is to make sense of what theyve done and write it all up. Most of the programmers are half my age, and theyre late starters, so there arent many people in the office. A few can be found in the lunch room, eating cereal and flicking through The Age. I make myself a coffee and let their talk, peppered with acronyms, wash soothingly over me until Derek looks in and tells me hes free. I follow him to his office and shut the door behind me. I quit, I announce. Okay, okay, he says. Unless? No more Department of Water Resources, or whatever theyre calling themselves today, I say. This particular department is always splitting, reforming and restructuring, and has had half a dozen names since I started working for it. Dereks smooth Chinese face doesnt change. We both know this is an ambit claim. Well, okay, I relent a little. At least get me a sub-contractor. You can get someone to do their shit-work for even less than the pittance youre paying me.
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I suppose that make sense, he concedes. Plus, I add hastily, realising I havent pushed him hard enough, youve got to give me some better work than this. Im supposed to be a technical writer. That means writing stuff, not dealing with all this other crap. His eyes on the computer screen, its obvious hes scrolling through emails. Hmm, he says. Theres this job in Sydney. Maybe...no, sorry. Not writing. Sydney? Hes playing me like a violin, I know. What would I be doing? Its another government job. But you said no more government work. Derek! All right, only semi-government anyway, editing some develop ment application. Environmental impact, that sort of thing. Coal industry. Youd have to be up there for a couple of weeks. For Christs sake, Derek. Who were you going to give this to? I was thinking maybe sub-contractor, someone based in Sydney, he admits. You could have mentioned it, I say, huffily. Well, just thought... Hes on the defensive now. Theres your daughter... Shes twenty-one, Derek. Forward the email to me and Ill consider it, I say before stalking out of his office, hardly more mollified than when I went in. But still. Sydney!

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Its stopped raining and theres some sunshine outside now, so I decide to walk to my next job. Leaving my raincoat at the office, I stride past the green haze of the Flagstaff Gardens and make my way to the narrow back street in West Melbourne where Carlos Fitzwilliam lives and works. Carlos is the star of Soft Serve, a brilliant programmer who works entirely on his own terms. Carlos wouldnt be his original name neither would Fitzwilliam, for that matter. Like many of his tribe he has made himself an avatar for real life, something like the avatars he uses in game-playing. The battered-looking door of the converted leather factory is three inches of solid steel. Carlos fears invasion and hes got a lot of up-to-the-minute electronic equipment he doesnt want to be stolen. I hate to think what he paid for it all. The door swings silently open as I approach it. Carlos would have known I was coming as soon as I turned into the street. He might even have tracked me all the way from my office.
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As I enter he waddles over to greet me holding a steaming latte from his industrial-strength coffee machine in one hand and a brioche from our favourite French bakery in the other. Inside, its clean, white and bare. Apart from the minimalist kitchen, and a bathroom somewhere, the building is one big space: long, high and a bit wider than the average terrace house. Tall glass doors at the back lead out onto a tiny brick-paved yard with access to a lane. Carlos opened the doors for me once when I insisted on putting some stuff in the recycling bin, but I dont think he ever goes out there himself. When I tell him he should try to breathe real air now and again, even get some sun on that dead-white skin, he just gives me a funny look, eyebrows raised and lips pursed, and changes the subject. The apartment itself could be sunny and pleasant if he allowed it, but he keeps all the doors and windows bolted and the blinds pulled right down, relying on skylights and halogens for the limited light he needs. This place is perfect for Carlos, with every surface taken up by computers and related equipment. Even the enormous tele vision screen is likely to be displaying lines of scrolling code, with whatever movie Carlos is watching banished to a small display in the corner. Carlos barely distinguishes between his paid work, mostly writing and adapting software for Dereks clients, and the electronic games he plays. Like all my programmer colleagues, he plays complicated adventure games as though his life depended on the outcome. A separate array of screens reveals what Carlos takes most seriously of all, and how he knew when Id be arriving. Carlos has somehow devised a program allowing him to run feeds
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from numerous CCTV cameras around the city through his main computer. The screens show endless flickering streets and building lobbies, with icons that flash whenever something un expected happens. Several twenty-four-hour news broadcasts run soundlessly in separate windows on another screen, and there are tabular displays of data, most of it incomprehensible, endlessly rolling through a couple more. With all of its expensive equipment, along with tales of Carloss legendary programming skills, my colleagues think this place sounds like paradise and are horribly envious whenever I tell them Im coming here. Most of them havent seen it, except in the background on Webcam, because Carlos doesnt welcome visitors. I dont think anyone is allowed in besides me, Derek and his lifelines: the people who deliver food and the grave Korean couple who come once a week to clean the place from top to bottom while he hovers unhappily nearby. My colleagues havent seen Carlos in corporeal form either, because Carlos doesnt go out. Ever. I used to find Carlos a little spooky. He seemed to know everything about me before I knew it myself. When I mentioned Id bought a new laptop, he said: I dont know why you keep buying Dells. You should let me build you a laptop. And I hadnt even mentioned the brand. Similarly, when we started working together and I said something about living in Brunswick, he said: Some of those little streets in Brunswick are nice. Youre in one of the best parts. Now Ive got to know him better it doesnt seem so strange, because Carlos checks up on everyone, particularly the rare few people he allows into his sanctuary, but its still a bit weird to
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feel him looking over my shoulder, so to speak, whenever I do anything that leaves an electronic trail. I wouldnt say it, but I think theres more than self-preservation in the way Carlos keeps tabs on me, the way his eyes follow my every move when Im at his apartment, the solicitous hand he places lightly on my back as he ushers me to a comfortable seat in front of his largest computer screen. Hes about my age but looks ten years older. His hair, greying and thinning, is tied back in a scrawny ponytail, but his brown eyes are gentle and, for all his paranoia, guileless. Every time Ive seen him hes been dressed the same way, in a baggy black t-shirt and shapeless black jeans. And from the sour smell that emanates from him he doesnt seem to have many changes of that outfit. The company pays him huge amounts of money, in line with his value, but I guess he only spends it on things that matter to him. We get down to work as he runs through his latest masterpiece, an addition to one of Dereks smartest and most popular bits of software. Several companies are willing to pay lots of money for it, and theyll be pretty happy with what Carlos has come up with. Wow, Carlos, I say. I never imagined I could get excited about a parsing engine, but this is really clever. To his vast amusement I take notes by hand in an exercise book. But although he scoffs, he knows that my method works for me, and he wont allow anyone else to write about his stuff. Weve made a good team for three years now. In fact hes been dropping hints about me leaving Derek and setting up a business with just the two of us. Much as I respect Carlos, the thought of working here with him every day makes me feel claustrophobic. While I explore his software on my own and take more notes,
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Carlos busies himself doing half a dozen other things. Hes got a chess game going with an unseen opponent on one computer, hes up to some staggeringly high level in an adventure game on another, hes ingesting a steady stream of music CDs and hes engaged in several cryptic online conversations. He swivels and scoots around in a specially reinforced office chair, like a bee attending to a flower garden, in his element. At the same time hes chatting to me, eager to give flesh to his ghostly visions of the outside world. Been to the movies lately? Seen anything good? Youve probably seen all the stuff thats out, I say, gesturing towards his big screen. There is a slight lapse, he grins. Some of them arent even digitised yet. You dont say. I laugh. My neighbour Jason was annoyed that he couldnt buy a pirate version of the latest Baz Luhrmann in Bangkok. I told him Id heard that it wasnt even finished yet, and he just said So? Thats the neighbour who works in the Supreme Court? Has he told you anything about that Athena Resources swindle? Hes just a lowly clerk, Carlos. All he talks about is his next holiday and the woman in HR whos got it in for him. A display changes on one of his screens, and he zooms in for a better look. Theres a map of Texas with some annotations in gobbledegook. What are you tracking there? I ask. The killer behind the grassy knoll? Proof that they never landed on the moon? You may scoff, he says, but those guys who stole the moon rock from White Sands in New Mexico had it analysed before they
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put it back, and it came up totally terrestrial. Ive got the data somewhere. Oh, right. Whats Miranda been up to? he asks. I squirm whenever he mentions Miranda. And I always get the impression he knows exactly what shes doing. To avoid personal talk, I start griping about the Department of Water Resources. For some reason Carlos has always been very interested in anything to do with water, and hed been quite excited last year when I told him I was putting their procedures online. Carlos, its the most tedious material you can imagine. Paper clips and fire drills, Id said at the time. Well, you never know. There could be gold dust, hed replied. Hes always on the lookout for gold dust, by which I assume he means anything dodgy or scandalous. He hadnt bothered to ask me for a copy of the procedures, though, and we hadnt pursued the conversation. Today hes not terribly excited to hear that Surinders people have added more information to the system, so he may have hacked into the site and seen for himself that theres nothing interesting. Derek should drop Water Resources, he says now. Theyre going to be closed down in the next eighteen months, and all those people will be out. Derek should be going for that tender with the Bureau of Meteorology. I dont know where you get this stuff, I say, but if you want to give Derek advice you should tell him yourself. Hes not listening, his mind still on water. Do you ever do any work for Water Conservation and Catchment since the Water Department was split up? he asks.
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No, even though Derek has had the Water Department contract for ages, Ive always worked with Surinder in her department, I reply. Well, there might be something interesting there. Ive found an anomaly. Dont you love that? Like Finding Nemo: In an anemone. Ive watched that DVD a thousand times. Special directors cut. Doesnt make sense, does it? Directors cut of an animated movie? Youd think theyd plan it all in advance, frame by frame. No dispute about whats in and whats out. In an anemone. As he talks he rolls past the shelves that hold his precious DVD collection, and his hand hovers lovingly over the special boxed sets before it moves on to his chess game and sends a bishop shooting out in pursuit of his opponents queen. Yeah, an anomaly. Youd be interested, he says, wheeling himself close to me. He has this habit of invading your personal space. I press back in my chair. That public servant who disappeared on the mountain was from Water Conservation and Catchment, he says. He was on a bushwalk, just checking out his kingdom, so to speak. They tried to track him by triangulating the signals from his phone? Said they knew where to look? Huh. Carlos does seem to know a lot of stuff from behind the scenes that he probably shouldnt, courtesy of his obsessive hacking, but sometimes I lose patience with his conspiracy theories. Carlos, if youve got something, spit it out. Got nothing yet. Just an anomaly. But Ill give you an analogy. He looks up gleefully. What if someone sends you hunting an asp, but they know what you really need is an anaconda?
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Carlos, thats a metaphor, and you only said it because youre playing with words! Possibly. But heres you thinking I was an analphabet! I have to laugh. And Ill have to look up analphabet when I get home. I finish my notes and pack away my exercise book. Do you want to have lunch? he asks. Theres a great Vietnamese that does home deliveries. Its a nice day, I say teasingly. We should get something and have it in the park. He shudders. Seriously though, Id love to, but Ive got stacks to do at the office. I need to scope out this Surinder thing so I can insist that Derek passes it on to some contractor. Okay. Well Ill Dropbox the screen captures... he says, gesturing at the computer Ive been working on. Sure, Carlos. Thanks. Its all great stuff, as usual. When will you be back? Possibly not for a few weeks. I might be going to Sydney. His interest is aroused. What would you be working on in Sydney? I immediately regret mentioning it. Some development application for the coal industry. Derek only just told me about it. Hes sending me the email. The coal industry? Whos the job for? Elly, Ive got something I think you should... No, Carlos, its just an editing job. I really have to go. I make my escape, and breathe the fresh air with relief. The rain is still holding off, and there are a few people strolling through the streets, enjoying the respite. A man is hovering in a
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doorway on the other side of the street, possibly trying to decide if its safe to go out. He raises his head and looks around. When he sees me watching him he puts up the hood of his jacket and hurries away.

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4
On the way back to the office, I get a text from Miranda:
1 horse town weird adults gr8 kids

I smile at her message. So she got to Augusta Creek in one piece, and has already started work. The part of my brain thats reserved for worrying about her relaxes. Have a nice lunch I reply. wd if you cd get real food here is her huffy response. Back at the office I find a comfortable corner in the lunch room where I can eat the soup Ive bought for lunch and have a flick through the paper. At the pool table, India is playing The Rest of the World and thrashing them, as usual. Ravi and Sam, for India, are watching attentively while Viet Lei, for the Rest, lines up her shot, giggling. Chang, her partner, lounges by the window, talking on his mobile. Im going to bounce it off the cushion and into the middle pocket, declares Viet Lei. Sam sniggers. Chang, waving his free hand around, takes no notice. Wah, wah, he says into the phone.
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Viet Leis ball wobbles back and forth across the table, knocks a couple of the oppositions balls out of position and disappears into a corner pocket. Sam and Ravi confer, frowning. Luke sidles up to me tanned skin, white teeth and dreadlocks. Hows Carlos? Any new stuff? Between mouthfuls of soup I try to describe the latest electronic gear Carlos insisted on showing me. Squeals of excitement come from the pool table as Viet Lei, on a roll, wipes the floor with India. I spend the afternoon fielding emails, outlining the updates of Carloss software, writing a proposal for the dreaded re-hash of Surinders material and day-dreaming about Mirandas country experience. I imagine her meeting some brooding young country type, like a nice Heathcliff. Even Heathcliff as written would be an improvement on some of the company shes been keeping. I see her in a picturesque rural school-house with applecheeked kids gazing adoringly at her, or sitting at her feet under a spreading peppercorn tree no, get a grip, Elly, its winter. Perhaps a big roaring fire in the schoolhouse, Miranda with her hair blowing and an armful of logs...I see her falling in love with the quaint country community and deciding that this is the place for her, she cant wait to get back after shes qualified, theres a little miners cottage on the edge of the town thats ridiculously cheap and... I wish I could stop imposing my own dreams onto my daughter. The truth is I dont know what fantasy is right for her yet. All I know is that shes placed a faltering foot on the path to her future, and I lie awake at night worrying about where it might take her. *
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At last its time to go home to the luxury of an empty house. The same morose people from this morning crowd onto the tram, the white of the cables snaking into their ears the only relief from their black and grey clothing, the tinny beat of the bass line leaking through like a tap dripping. No cello girl to provide a splash of colour. I dont mind. Im thinking about the nice solitary dinner Im going to have with Sundays leftovers, and playing with a book idea in which Vermeer fakes his own death and travels to London with John Evelyn, the intrepid seventeenth-century diarist and founding member of the Royal Society. Vermeers got his own fantasy: to start a new life without his crippling debts and the mother-in-law from hell, Maria Thins. Something goes wrong, though. He completes one painting a jewel waiting to be discovered in our century and dies. But when I think it through that plot seems corny, and Ive got a weird feeling that Ive already read that book. Better start again. Its drizzling and nearly dark when I get off the tram. I pull up the hood of my raincoat and hug my bag close as I turn into our narrow street. Cars are already parked on both sides, dripping branches overhang the footpath, and I walk in the yellow pools of streetlights on the road. Cats wait expectantly on front verandas, and here and there neighbours greet each other as they fumble for their keys. Jason, who lives directly opposite me, whizzes past in full cycling gear, then I see him up ahead at his gate, un-strapping the panniers from his bike. Headlights wash over me as a car turns into the street and I draw to one side of the road. I hear it close behind me, but it seems to be moving very slowly. The headlights
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give me a long, long shadow, extending crazily the length of the shimmering street. My house is a single-fronted terrace, nestled up against its mirror image. As I step onto my front path theres no gate my next-door neighbour, Mabel, darts out. Shes thrown a shapeless old cardigan over the faded garment she wears to do her cleaning her house-dress, she calls it. I groan inwardly. Mabels a goodhearted old thing, but Ive tried all sorts of tricks to sneak in without her spotting me, especially on cold nights like this when all I want to do is pour myself a glass of wine and put my feet up. Oh, Elly! she carols. Ive... Then she makes a little Ooof sound and slumps forward, knocking me onto my back. I land heavily on the rough, wet path, with Mabel sprawled on top of me. She gives a little cough, then goes quiet. Heart thumping and winded by the fall, I cant move because of Mabels weight. I hear a car accelerating, then the sound of running footsteps. Mabel! I gasp. Can you please... But she doesnt move, and I struggle to get into a position where I can breathe. Looking down, I see my raincoat has fallen open and my front is wet. I hold up a hand and look at it in the fading light. Its dark and sticky. The screaming is getting closer and next thing Jason appears and half drags Mabel off me. He holds his hands up in front of his face and theyre dark and sticky too. I gaze down at Mabel who lies twisted on the wet path, her legs still sprawled across mine. The top half of her cardigan is a crumpled, shiny, dark, wet mess. I see her face properly for a
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moment in the streetlight. Her eyes are open, her mouth is slack and theres a trickle of blood running down her chin. I twist my head away, knowing already that its a sight which will haunt me for a long time. Jason! Jason! I shout, struggling up and grabbing him in an awkward embrace. Its okay. Come on. Its okay. Its a pretty meaningless thing to say, but it does the trick, and he stops screaming. My brain still isnt processing what Im seeing, but one thing is clear. Poor old Mabel is lying dead on my front path, and Ill never again come hurrying in through my gate on a freezing night, rain burrowing like needles under my collar, or sit on the veranda with a glass of wine exchanging gossip with neighbours in the balmy summer dusk, or stand on the path with the hose, coaxing my straggling pot-plants into life, without seeing her staring eyes, her obscenely gaping mouth, her ruined housedress and her blood on my hands.

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