Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

He saw it all again-the discarded chip packet at his feet, the rough yellow mound, the iron fence that drew a line between the living and the dead. He had picked up the chip packet and, for want of anything else to do with it, put it into his pocket. He should have brought flowers. He would always regret that. But he was a relatively young man, unfamiliar with mourning traditions, and he only thought of flowers when he saw them adorning other, luckier graves.

He absently picked up the mug Moss set down in front of him. Sensing his distress, she cleared the table and poured the tea in tactful silence.

‘It was just a pile of dirt, Moss. Did you know that they bury the poor and the nameless in common graves? There she was, lying in an unmarked grave-with strangers. There was no name-just a number. At least they didn’t put Amber-Lee on the grave. She deserved some dignity.’ He stood up and began to pace the room, his tea slopping on the floor as he emphasised his point. ‘Amber-Lee! It was such a silly name: a young girl’s fantasy name.’ He shook his head. ‘You know what I wanted- want- most of all? To be able to put her real name on a headstone. It would have been an ordinary name. She was very ordinary, really . Brown hair , Brenda had said. Average height and build. No distinguishing features. ’ Finn recited the familiar litany. ‘She was a Kerry, perhaps, or Maria or Susan. Maybe Linda or Margaret or Jackie. But not Amber-Lee. I know that for sure.’

‘Do you know anything about the funeral?’

‘No. I was still hiding myself away and no-one thought to tell me. The girl from the State Trustees’ office told me that they sent a junior officer as a witness. A Father Leo from St Jude’s Mission performed the service. There were three indigents buried that day. The service was ecumenical. I don’t even know if she was a Christian. The priest told me that Senior Constable Patterson was there, in civvies. Apparently it was his day off, but he went anyway. Brenda didn’t come. She was the only friend Amber-Lee had, but she didn’t come.’

Perhaps Brenda feared a similarly lonely end , Moss thought. But she didn’t say so. There was enough pain in this story already.

IN THE WEEKS PRIOR TO the inquest, Michael prayed that someone would come forward to claim the girl they called Amber-Lee. He was in a kind of fever of expectation and needed action to ward off the thoughts that jostled so urgently for his attention. He felt compelled to walk, and spent whole days roaming the streets around the area where the accident happened. He returned home each day exhausted but set off again the next morning. He searched the faces of passers-by 74 in the vain hope of finding a clue to Amber-Lee’s identity, and he finally took to accosting mortuary staff as they left at the end of their shift. That couple who just came out-were they there to see her? Has there been any response to the latest photo fit? Were they sure they had checked for any distinguishing marks? He lurked around the Fitzroy police station, offering suggestions to the officer in charge of the case. Have you thought of questioning prostitutes other than Brenda? What about her clients? There must be a clue somewhere. Her clothes, maybe.

‘We’ve done all that,’ Graham Patterson would reply wearily. ‘We do know our job, Mr Clancy. We’ll keep you informed, I promise. Go home. There’s nothing you can do here.’

Michael would go then, but return a day or two later and continue his harangue. ‘Don’t you see?’ he implored of any officer willing to listen. ‘It’s not right to let it go. We can’t just give up. We have to know her name.’

When the coroner’s office took out a restraining order, Michael’s father stepped in. ‘You’re not well, Michael. You need professional help. We’ll ask Dr Donahue to give you a referral to a psychiatrist.’

But Michael knew that a psychiatrist was not what he needed. It was not his mind but his spirit that was sick. Empathy was one of the qualities that had made him so well liked. It was this that had enabled him to see Amy and Linsey’s plight and act with humanity and integrity in their last desperate bid to conceive. But now empathy was his enemy.

He imagined the girl’s family: perhaps kind and loving, waiting for a postcard or a phone call. Or were they evil and abusive? Did the girl run from them only to find a life of further abuse and evil? In his worst nightmare, he saw the small, broken body crammed into a box, her cries for recognition smothered by the weight of the indifferent earth. He would wake from this dream gagging and then lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, which became gradually defined as the pre-dawn light turned the room from black to smudgy grey.

He was now afraid to walk in case he was tempted to breach the restraining order, and he became increasingly claustrophobic in the miasma of anxiety and concern that surrounded him in his parents’ house, to which he had been persuaded to return ‘for his own good’.

‘Just until you’re feeling a bit better,’ his mother promised. ‘It’s been a horrible experience. You need to rest.’

After two weeks of confinement he could take no more, and slipping away while his parents were out, he returned to his flat to pack a few clothes. Since the accident he had been unable to bring himself to drive his car, so he took a bus down to the coast.

‘It’s a Father Jerome, from the Benedictine monastery at Tunnawarra,’ Michael’s mother said that evening, her hand covering the receiver. ‘He says that Michael turned up on their doorstep and asked for sanctuary.’

‘God Almighty! Tell them we’ll be down in a couple of hours to pick him up.’ Already on his way out the door, Michael’s father wheeled sharply. ‘Did you say sanctuary ? What on earth is the matter with him?’

‘It seems that he doesn’t want to come home. We can’t force him, Vic. They said he could stay in their retreat house for a while.’ She spoke into the phone again. ‘He’s very fragile at the moment, Father. Yes, I understand. Thank you. Call us any time-day or night.’ She replaced the receiver and sat down heavily. ‘He sounded very competent. And nice. Father Jerome, that is. He said he has a degree in clinical psychology, so that’s one blessing. I told him about the accident. I thought he needed to know.’

‘We can only hope it does Michael some good. At least he won’t be hanging around the coroner’s office. Who knows? Maybe he knew all along what he needed.’ Seeing tears in his wife’s eyes he put his arm around her. ‘Don’t worry, Paula. We’ll go down and see him in a few days. Did the priest say when we could visit?’

‘He suggested we give Michael some space for a week or two. He said when you hate yourself you can’t believe that anyone else could love you… Vic, Michael thinks we secretly despise him for what happened.’ She gave up the fight and began to cry in earnest. ‘He says we can’t help him. We’ve failed him, haven’t we?’

Vic’s shoulders sagged. ‘Jesus Christ! What a mess.’

Michael had left with no clear plan. He had set out for the coast on a whim, because he loved the sea and hoped to find solace there. But as he waited at the bus station, the fever that had driven him for the last weeks, and which had finally impelled him to act, suddenly dissipated, leaving him nerveless and despondent. In the end, he boarded the bus because it required too much effort of will to turn back. Slouching in his seat, he stared at the passing countryside with little interest.

The bus stopped at a few coastal towns and villages but at each stop Michael sat frozen in his seat. They were passing through farmland now, with fields on one side and on the other, scrubby sand dunes with thick ti-tree obscuring the view of the ocean. The light was fading and the bus terminated at the next town; when it stopped to let out a passenger, Michael grabbed his bag and jumped out too. He had no idea where he was and stood, forlorn, as the bus disappeared around the bend.