Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

Moss noticed that most of the businesses in the main street provided a somewhat eclectic range of goods and services. There was a service station that also sold groceries (and offered electrical and lawnmower repairs), a small supermarket, a craft-cum-coffee shop, a newsagency-cum-post office/bank, a general store, and a rather fine old corner pub that boasted vacant accommodation. Across the road was a purveyor of fine antiques and bric-a-brac (also dry-cleaning). This had once been the Commonwealth Bank-the name was still etched deeply into the stone. Next door was Marisa’s Boutique- ladies and children’s discount fashions-a fish ’n’ chip shop, a pharmacy and the Country Women’s Association Op Shop ( Open Wednesdays , the sign said. Please leave only usable goods in the container. No electrical) . Despite this last plea, an old TV set had been dumped outside the shop, along with a rusty bike and a bulging green garbage bag. Peering at the window, Moss made out a faint gold outline advertising its former life as a barber shop and private men’s club. Three other shops were boarded up, a forlorn testament to the slow dying of a country community.

With time on her hands, she wandered on past the shops to the Mechanics Institute (opened in 1891 by the Hon. Charles Sandilands, OBE). Now, she read on the fading notice-board, it served as a meeting hall and, once a month, as a cinema. It would never again welcome young men, farmers’ sons, doggedly seeking an education after a hard day’s labour. Moss could almost see them, with their bullet heads and overalls and grubby hands, sweating over their books with a faith in learning that was almost sublime; the great-grandfathers, perhaps, of today’s urban lawyers and doctors and accountants. At the far end of the street, on a little rise, stood a small stone Anglican church with modest gothic arches and yellow diamond-paned windows. It was there, she surmised, that many of those boys were christened and married. And buried, too, most likely, under one of the crumbling headstones in the unpretentious little churchyard. Not all of them, of course. There were those whose graves were in Gallipoli or the Somme and whose names were engraved on the cenotaph in the gardens. The sign outside St Saviour’s Church offered services for Anglicans at ten am on the first three Sundays of the month, Catholics at six thirty pm on the first and third Saturday nights, and a Uniting service at ten am on the last Sunday of the month. Moss grinned when she saw this. Even the churches saw the need to diversify.

She turned back and went into the supermarket. There was only one other customer, a woman, who smiled and said good afternoon, further offering the observation that it was nice to see a bit of rain. Moss nodded and moved on quickly. She wasn’t quite ready to expose herself to the eyes of a small town. She loaded her trolley with mince, some salad vegetables, and parmesan in a plastic tub. There was a small delicatessen and bakery at the back of the store where she bought some fresh rolls.

‘We don’t have much call for fancy breads.’ The saleswoman obviously disapproved of her request for rye. She relented a little when Moss asked for an apple-and-rhubarb pie and two 64 vegetable pasties.

‘Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’ Then: ‘Come in on the bus, did you?’

‘Yes. Good-the rain. Yes. The bus.’ She hurried away to the checkout where a girl-SHARON, her nametag said-was painting her nails alternately black and green, studiously avoiding eye contact.

‘Can you wait till this dries?’

‘What? Yes. I guess I can.’ Moss waited while the girl blew on her nails and flapped her fingers in the air.

‘There. Finished. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’

Moss agreed once more that indeed it was, and after being wished a nice day, escaped back into the street. The only other pedestrian was a dog, an elderly kelpie, who trotted along behind her.

‘Hello, boy. Nice to see a bit of rain, isn’t it?’

The dog wagged its tail. It was a country dog. It couldn’t have agreed more.

Meanwhile, Finn was having difficulty concentrating on his work. This hadn’t happened for some time: his self-discipline was usually fierce. But today all he could see, all he could think about, was a girl lying grotesquely on the road where she’d been flung like an old coat. Random details from the chaos still lay in wait for him. He felt the sweat running down his back. Heard the strangely unsynchronised sirens. Smelt the heat rising from the bitumen. Grieved for the abandoned shoe. Most persistent of all, he saw a sheet and, encroaching on its whiteness, a red anemone, a monstrous, spreading bloom; life leaking away on a suburban street on an ordinary Tuesday night.

He took a folder from his desk drawer and turned it over in his hands. It contained some newspaper cuttings and a copy of the coroner’s finding. Moss could read these. It would be easier for both of them. No-one had blamed him, but he knew that he wasn’t fully in control that night. His alcohol test was just below the legal limit, and they couldn’t test for drugs in those days, so he escaped the serious offence of culpable driving. The police had considered the lesser charge of dangerous driving causing death, but all the witnesses agreed that he couldn’t have seen her in time to stop, even though there was some speculation (but no evidence) that he may have been speeding. He was speeding. He knew that. Not much over the limit, but enough to affect his braking time. He was also drug-affected, but no-one knew that either. In the end, he walked free. Shamefully free.

Finn looked again at the coroner’s finding. Because the dead girl could not be identified, there had been a full inquest. There was evidence from the police officer in charge, the doctor who pronounced life extinct, a social worker, a street prostitute called Brenda, and several eye witnesses. There was no-one representing the dead girl’s family. Her face was too badly injured for photographs to be of any use and, despite the best facial recognition techniques, no-one came forward to claim her. There was no-one to mourn, no-one to be outraged on her behalf.

The deceased was known as Amber-Lee but her surname is unknown. A local prostitute, Brenda Watson, was accompanying her at the time of the accident , Finn read. Although he could have recited it by heart.

‘She called herself Amber-Lee,’ Brenda had told the inquest. ‘I don’t think it was her real name-just a street name. She thought it sounded, you know, sexy. Like a film star or something.’

‘I couldn’t stop,’ the truck driver had said, his face stricken. ‘She just landed in front of me. There was nothing I could do.’

‘I remember the name Amber-Lee. She came to the Ward Street Shelter once,’ said the social worker. ‘We knew she was on the game and probably underage, but we can’t keep track of them all. We just don’t have the resources.’ She shrugged. ‘We can only help those willing to be helped.’

All this had been translated into the dispassionate language of the coroner’s office. Now its very blandness accused Finn anew.

There had been photographs. They were not in the folder, but were fatally imprinted on his memory. The cause of death was recorded as catastrophic head injuries. The post-mortem also found traces of old bruises and a partially healed broken rib. There are needle tracks evident on her left arm , the medical report continued. She was injecting, probably heroin, although there is no evidence of this in the toxicology report. Her veins were still viable. There is evidence of early stage gonorrhoea. Her estimated age is between fourteen and sixteen.

Michael cried as he gave evidence. But no-one 67 asked if he’d been taking drugs so no-one ever knew. After the accident, his family and friends had drawn a circle around him, offering help and advice. His first reaction had been to accept his culpability and take whatever punishment was his due. On hearing this, his mother was distraught.