I wonder what August wants from me. When he said he’d come over today, I was surprised. I don’t believe we’ve exchanged more than a hundred words in the last ten years.
Before he comes I have to clear my silly head.
* * *
My hands drop to the table, letting go of Auntie’s letter. I’m sure it was the last thing she wrote before someone killed her. I sit motionlessly and stare at the brittle paper yellowed by the passing of time. I swallow.
The remains of my aunt are lying less than twenty yards away in a damp hole in the ground and have done so for almost thirty years. A wave of loss washes over me.
Maddie.
She shares with me Auntie’s warmth and the sense of security Maddie had in Auntie’s presence. I wipe a tear away that steals down my cheek as I imagine how she might have died. Scottie says the murderer smashed the back of her skull. That doesn’t make me feel at ease. Not in the slightest. I feel like shouting and smashing something myself.
What about the mystery brother called August? It would have been nice to know one has a brother even if it’s just a half-brother. I imagine the door opens and a fifty-year-old geezer comes in. “Hello, I’m your brother. Long time no see.” Ha! I don’t need a brother now. It might have been useful back when the shit hit the fan. Someone to protect us. Or having a brother who could have given Horace a bloody nose. That would have been cool.
He was the last person who saw her alive going by the letter. How come I’ve never heard of him? Is it possible that he killed her? Where is he now?
Rage rises inside me. Rage against people who don’t even hesitate to snuff out another person’s life like blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. Rage against men like Eduard and Eugene, who treat women like disposable possessions they can kick to the gutter when they no longer have use for them.
Rage against older men who lay their hands on young girls, destroying lives that have barely begun. Rage against the unbridled violence everywhere that runs rampant like cancer and doesn’t stop for anybody. Rage against the human mind that concocts daily new intricate ways of destruction.
My hands are locked together in my lap out of fear I’ll smash something. I can’t allow that. It would make me like them, the shovel-wielding abusers and killers who don’t shy away from doing anything to reach their goal.
Scottie drops next to me on the sofa and puts his hand on mine. I push him away with so much force, he topples off the sofa. I have to stop myself. He hasn’t done anything bad … But he’s a man and that makes him guilty by association.
I run into the laundry and pour the water bucket over my head. I can’t go around accusing every male I meet. It’ll make me no different from the people I despise.
Scott follows me, takes the empty bucket out of my hands, and puts it down.
“What is the matter? Talk to me.”
Finally, a dam breaks and tears gush out of me. My body is shaking as violently as my thoughts were. I can’t hold it in any longer and wail and sob for Auntie, for me, for all the children that are hurting from abuse and neglect. There is a pain inside me that pulls me apart on the inside, slashes through my soul, and leaves me raw and without any layer of protection.
I sink to the ground. Soaked to the bone, I sit in the puddle of water I just poured over myself. Exhausted from the onslaught, I whisper, “I don’t want to hate you.”
“I know you don’t hate me. Let me be at your side so you are no longer alone. Don’t forget, you have friends in the village too. Ordinary people who are shocked that these horrible crimes happened right under their noses.”
I wish I could believe him. “All I can see at the moment is abuse and hurt. I’m so tired of it.”
He reaches for my hand. “Come, stand up and get into some dry clothes. I don’t want you to catch something. Meanwhile, I’ll make a fresh cup of tea to warm you through.”
I fly upstairs and after a good rub with my towel, I jump into my tracksuit and rush down again. I’m old school. In the olden days, a cup of tea was the remedy for everything, from cold feet to heartache and natural disasters. Let me get you a cup of tea was always the first thing offered. It never fails to work for me.
As I cradle the hot mug in my hands, Prince jumps up and listens at the door. The next minute he’s barking and—as Scottie lets him out—races through the front garden.
“A car arrived.”
I hadn’t even heard a car arrive. My heart is pounding in my chest. I expect police officers, instead, two middle-aged men and a young woman in civilian clothes are standing in front of me.
“Ms. Seagar?”
“Yes?”
My first thought is that the intruders from ten days ago have come back. Panic jumps quickly at me like a jack-in-the-box when I don’t see a police car but an ordinary Holden Commodore parked by the gate.
“I’m Detective Inspector Grogan.” He points to the young woman. “My colleagues are Detective Smith and Constable Williams. You reported you found the remains of a person in your cellar?”
To my relief Scottie steps in at this point. He must have noticed that I’m swamped with emotions, unable to string a sensible sentence together. He opens the door a bit wider and motions the officers inside.
“I
