Kill the Possum Read online

  Penguin Books

  kill the possum

  A girl desperate to live a normal life.

  A family tormented by a monster’s cruelty.

  Two boys with a plan to make him stop.

  Forever.

  From the award-winning author of Lost Property and Bridge to Wiseman’s Cove comes a gripping and powerfully moving story of a family stretched to breaking point - and a portrait of a killer…

  also by james moloney

  Crossfire

  The House on River Terrace

  A Bridge to Wiseman’s Cove

  Touch Me

  Black Taxi

  Lost Property

  Dougy

  Gracey

  Angela

  The Book of Lies

  Master of the Books

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Group (Australia), a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd, 2008

  Text copyright © James Moloney, 2008

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN: 978-1-74228-206-0

  penguin.com.au

  for margaret

  THE FIRST SUNDAY

  1

  Visitors on their way

  The woman has given him a couple of stares already and finally, with a scowl on her sun-browned face, she walks purposefully through the roses towards him. He watches as she comes to a halt a few metres short of the fence. She’s wary but unafraid, pale blue gloves on both hands, the palms grey with dirt. The left glove is closed around a pair of secateurs.

  ‘What are you doing, if you don’t mind me asking?’ she calls over the fence.

  ‘Just waiting,’ he answers.

  ‘You’ve been there quite a while.’

  Not that long, five minutes, max, he thinks to himself. To her he shrugs. ‘I’m not a stalker… or anything like that,’ he says, embarrassed.

  His motives stay unspoken, that he’s come to visit a girl he likes, who doesn’t know he’s coming. A sort of surprise. He’s taken her out a few times, to the movies with the crowd from school and there was that science excursion when they’d barely spoken to anyone else all day. But he’d never been with just her, never talked to her when there was no one else around. That’s why he’s walked across three suburbs to stand here like this. He’s nervous, taking his time, that’s all. She might say no and then what?

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ he says to the frowning face. ‘I’m going now.’ He puts his hands in his pockets and squeezes his elbows hard against his sides. Tries to look harmless. Tries a smile. ‘It’s not like I’m here to hurt anyone.’

  Maybe he should go home. Will he, won’t he? It’s the confusion that digs into him sharper than the point of those secateurs. He’s not usually like this. It’s the whole girl thing.

  The woman looks at him doubtfully and goes back to her roses.

  Now that she’s backed off, he can turn his attention to the house again. Fourth door along, opposite side of the street, easily visible through the trees without much chance she will see him in return. Watching unseen is a nameless comfort, but that’s gone now that the old bat’s eyeing him suspiciously. Perhaps she’s helped him after all. He puts one foot in front of the other, crosses the street, closes in on the house.

  Dylan Kane has come to see Kirsty Beal. Her name has a nice rhythm to it, he thinks, not like his own which leaves the mouth feeling flat when you say it. Something to do with the two ‘n’ sounds. Of course, if anything happens between them in the future, like if they keep going out and never break up and there’s a long-term relationship, she might end up Kirsty Kane. Sounds like a lolly you’d buy at the Show. He cringes for even thinking of it and then laughs at himself, diverting anxiety.

  Dylan is sixteen. The rapid growth of a year ago has slowed, leaving him neither tall nor short among his classmates. Not that he cares. There are more important things than what you look like. His mother says he has good skin, fair skin, and brings him sunscreen from the bathroom cabinet.

  ‘I’m not a bloody ten-year-old,’ he tells her and roams beneath the sky unprotected. Her response was a pair of sunglasses (surprisingly cool sunglasses, actually) which he wears to keep her off his back.

  Looking out through them now, he abandons his plan to say to Kirsty that he was out walking and found himself in her street. How could he ever have imagined she’d fall for it? Be honest, for Christ’s sake. Tell her you’ve come round to see her. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. He feels better, looks up at the house, then stops in his tracks when he sees Kirsty’s face in the window.

  She’s not looking at him, though. She’s staring down the street when he first spots her. What should he do? Forward or backwards? Then her eyes fall on him and it’s too late, anyway. He pushes aside the squeaky gate and continues up the path, practising what he’ll say.

  The door opens and Kirsty comes out onto the tiny porch. She’s a sight to see, in a pale pink singlet top and shorts worn low on her hips like she wears the skirt of her school uniform. That means there’s more of her belly on show, more of the honey-tanned skin between her hip bones and all the way to her navel. It’s a trim waist spreading to rounded hips, a Coke-bottle shape. He’s glad he didn’t go home.

  ‘Dylan, what are you doing here?’ she calls while he’s still coming up the steps. The house is built high above the street and there are many to climb before he can join her on the landing. Her blue eyes stare down at him, and his heart wants to escape through his stomach.

  He is halfway to the top when a car pulls up behind him. Suddenly Kirsty’s eyes are aimed over his head. She backs to the doorway and calls, ‘He’s here… and I can see Melanie.’

  Dylan turns around to see a Commodore parked perfectly in line with the gate. A man emerges from the driver’s side, but there’s a passenger who stays seated, a pig-tailed little girl, six, maybe seven years old.

  The driver retrieves an overnight bag from the back seat and sets out for the house. To get out of the way, Dylan climbs the last few steps to the landing. There’s no sign of Kirsty and he wonders whether this is a silent invitation to come inside. He takes off his sunglasses and steps into a kind of ante-room that these older hou
ses sometimes have. There’s two doorways leading from it. He’s not sure which way to go, so pokes his head tentatively through one of them.

  He’s guessed correctly, though, because there’s Kirsty and her mother and a boy who Dylan assumes must be her brother. There are no introductions. They are waiting for the man who’s already on the stairs, his feet stabbing at the treads. He’s a big bloke so the whole house trembles.

  In the awkward silence Dylan looks at Mrs Beal. There’s no doubt she and Kirsty are mother and daughter. The mother’s hair still has enough colour scattered among the grey to show she was blonde once, too. It hangs in a lank curtain behind her ears, pooling untidily on her narrow shoulders. The shapeless dress is a bit sad. There’s something about her stance, too. She seems stiff around her neck, as though a teacher has snapped at her, stand up straight, girl, pull your shoulders back. The strain is visible in her bloodless face and the tendons beneath her chin.

  Before Dylan can run his eye over Kirsty’s brother, he has to make a decision. He’s in the way again. Should he go forward into the lounge room? Feeling awkward, he pulls back, retreating into the shadows of the other doorway just as the visitor steps inside.

  In a smooth movement the man unhitches the bag from his shoulder and dumps it to one side. The momentum makes it skid drunkenly until it comes to rest against Dylan’s leg. The man doesn’t apologise, doesn’t even notice that Dylan’s there. His eyes are already searching for the others. They settle on Mrs Beal.

  Dylan moves out of his unwitting hiding place and into the doorway of the lounge room, not really a part of what is happening, yet close enough to pick up the tension. He’s glimpsed enough of the intruder’s face as he passed to note a stubbled chin, fleshy cheeks and a pair of hazel eyes beneath heavy brows. He certainly is big, twenty centimetres taller than Dylan and broad-shouldered in a flabby kind of way.

  The silence is unnerving. The man takes two deliberate steps further into the room, towards Mrs Beal. Dylan holds his breath. Nothing happens though, and his chest works again while his eyes follow every detail.

  There’s a bravado in the man’s stance. Legs apart, one arm folded across the other, the way the Year Nines stand when they light up behind the science block at lunchtime.

  ‘Melanie’s bag,’ he says, jerking a thumb over one shoulder. ‘Back before dark like I told you. You can count on Ian Cartwright, eh?’

  The words are delivered cheerfully enough but there’s no reply.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’ It’s the first word Dylan’s heard from Kirsty’s mother.

  ‘What, you won’t offer a guest a cup of tea? That’s a bit stingy. I could do with a cuppa, too.’

  ‘You’re not a guest. Bring Melanie in from the car and then go,’ says Mrs Beal from her place between her two children. They are standing close to the doorway into the kitchen and she looks briefly towards it as though checking her escape route.

  ‘I’ll bring her in when I’m ready,’ the man says sharply, then drops into a mocking tone. ‘Have to make sure it’s safe, first. I am her father after all.’

  Father? But he said his name was Cartwright. Dylan sets this thought aside when Kirsty’s brother stirs.

  ‘Safe!’ The glare he sends Cartwright would ignite paper. ‘Why don’t you just get out.’

  Cartwright moves further into the room and immediately the others shift in their place, even Dylan who can’t help himself. There’s something about this guy. He’s never seen anything like it.

  ‘I’ll leave when I’m ready. This is my house.’

  ‘Not any more,’ says Mrs Beal. ‘The court gave it to me.’

  ‘The court!’ Cartwright sneers. ‘I paid for this house and that makes it mine.’ He moves closer to Mrs Beal, close enough to touch, close enough to punch. Dylan winces, expecting the violent flash of a hand… but it doesn’t come.

  ‘Courts don’t worry me,’ he says. ‘The law can’t touch me, anyway. You know that.’ He leans forward, invading Mrs Beal’s space, forcing his face into hers. ‘Specially since the Committal, eh, Louise?’ he taunts, making her look at him.

  ‘It’s not over yet, not by a long way,’ he says more quietly. ‘No one takes anything from me and gets away with it.’

  Mrs Beal shudders and lets her shoulders drop. She turns to the side, looking helplessly towards the kitchen.

  ‘You were always taking things from me,’ says Cartwright. ‘You’ve cheated me out of my rights every chance you got. You tried to steal my own daughter, change her name to Beal instead of Cartwright. Well, I put a stop to that, didn’t I. Nobody takes anything from me,’ he repeats, thumping his chest like a Hollywood gorilla.

  ‘You’re still mine as well, like this house is rightfully mine and everything in it, even those two,’ he says, nodding at Kirsty and her brother.

  ‘We’re not yours. We never wanted you for our father,’ says Kirsty. ‘We’d rather die!’

  Cartwright turns away from Mrs Beal and makes a quick, angry movement towards Kirsty.

  How can she bear to stand still, Dylan wonders? She knows, that must be it. She knows Cartwright will stop short. There’s a line he won’t cross. He’s not going to hurt them that way, not with his fists.

  Though it’s Kirsty who’s injured him he switches suddenly to her brother. ‘Here he is, little T-T-Timothy,’ he goads. ‘Useless piece of shit. Come on, T-T-Tim, say something, let’s hear that stutter of yours. Is your sister right then? Would you rather die than have me for your father? You did once and you will again. What’s more, you’ll stay alive to enjoy the experience.’

  The physical imbalance between Cartwright and the boy is breathtaking. Tim’s not really so small, shorter than Dylan, yes, and lighter-framed but Cartwright’s ferocity turns him into a little kid. The sulphurous smoke of violence swirls in the air between them. Cartwright didn’t always stop at the unseen line, then.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ Tim says from within the shadow of Cartwright’s looming bulk. Defiant words, but they quiver with the boy’s fear like the jellied air on a summer’s day.

  Dylan has seen bullies at work before, he’s even suffered their close attention from time to time when he was younger. He remembers the fear that chased everything else from his mind until they were finished with him.

  This is different, though. This man’s cruelty is like nothing Dylan could imagine. He finds himself filled with an incandescent anger, so white and perfect he wonders why the entire room doesn’t light up with the glow of his skin. He doesn’t move. Just watches the focus of his anger, missing nothing.

  Cartwright steps back from Tim, and turns to Tim’s mother. ‘I could do with that cup of tea now.’

  Mrs Beal has her eyes closed, pretending Cartwright isn’t here, or perhaps pretending she is somewhere else. She shakes her head. ‘No tea.’

  ‘Now you’re making me feel bad,’ says Cartwright. ‘It’s just a small thing. Getting me a cup of tea. You’d like a cup of tea wouldn’t you, Kirsty? What about you, Tim? All that stuttering must dry out the tongue.’

  The pair stay silent.

  ‘I’ll make it myself then,’ he says, moving towards the doorway.

  ‘Stay out of my kitchen!’

  ‘What are you going to do then, Louise? Stop me!’ He laughs. ‘Go on,’ he says, walking towards the door. One step, two, three. None of the Beals move. He’s through the doorway and into the kitchen, leaving the lounge room suddenly quiet.

  Seconds pass and Cartwright is back again, so quickly he can’t possibly have begun to make a cup of tea. But he’s facing back towards the front door now and spots Dylan Kane at last.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Something moves deep in Dylan’s stomach and for a horrible moment he worries he’ll mess his pants, like a baby. Then he gets a grip and gives his name in quick obedience, adding, ‘I’m… I’m a friend of Kirsty’s.’

  Beneath Cartwright’s flushed and bulbous no
se his lips couple in malice, giving birth to a hideous smile. ‘Boyfriend!’ he says with a leer. His look hints at something sexual. Dylan thinks of the downy softness of Kirsty’s stomach. He hasn’t had a chance to touch it, not yet, though he wants to. The thought has been a secret thrill until he sees his own excitement distorted in Cartwright’s face. Now it sickens him.

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ he says and then doesn’t know whether to deny it further, doesn’t know what harm his words might do later. ‘We’ve been out a couple of times, that’s all,’ he says, hating himself. Both he and Kirsty go red in the face.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed, mate. Jeez, she could do worse. It’s not like you’re a slanty-eyed Chink or a blackfella.’

  Dylan is being let off lightly. There’ll be a reason. He’s seen enough of this guy already to be sure of that much.

  ‘But let me warn you,’ Cartwright continues in a voice that promises to reveal mysteries and secrets. ‘Watch out for the mother. Can’t be trusted with the smallest thing, can’t hold a job for more than five minutes, neglects my little Melanie.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Kirsty shouts at him. ‘It’s all lies. You’re the one who neglected us. Melanie, too. You used to leave her with Tim and me when Mum was on the weekend shift.’

  Someone’s got the better of him at last. Cartwright reels back as though Kirsty’s hit him across the face. The rage is clear in his eyes. He goes for Mrs Beal. ‘It was your fault, getting a weekend job when you should have been here, being a mother to your kids, and a wife to your husband.’

  Mrs Beal can’t do what her daughter has. She turns away and drops her head. She’s crying now, her words coming out in broken sobs. ‘I had to work on weekends. They were going to cut off the electricity.’

  ‘Don’t try to blame it on me, Louise. Jesus, I gave you enough out of my bloody pay packet. You wasted it. That was it. That’s why the bills weren’t paid. I’m the victim here, I’m the one who’s suffered out of this. Me! Ian Cartwright, the guy who gets dumped on all the time, by you, the courts, the kids. Poor Ian never stood a chance once those social workers got their hooks into you.’