The Shadow House(56)

Layla was there, too, sitting on the opposite side of the circle with her hands in her lap, a wan-looking Amy at her side. As far as I knew she had no idea I’d overheard her conversation with Kit at the office, but still awkwardness hung between us like a suspicious odour. I sat in my plastic chair, picking at my cuticles, my stomach feeling like a bag of smashed glass. What had happened to make her feel that way about Ollie and me? What had she told people about us? I wanted so much not to care what others thought of me and my family. But I did, I really did.

Fortunately, the tension didn’t seem to be affecting my kids. The surfy mum was running the creche room that day, and she had her hands full with babies and toddlers all making individual bids for freedom. Kara, however, was like a pig in poo. She’d seemed delighted to get rid of me, crawling to the soft play equipment the second I plonked her down and diving headfirst into the ball pit without even a backward glance. Hers was the only high-pitched screech I couldn’t hear.

Over on the other side of the room near the kitchen, Ollie was making a gingerbread house with Violet – or, more accurately, Violet was making a gingerbread house while Ollie rolled pieces of dough into balls and flicked them across the table. They were listening to the same music, sharing earbuds, bobbing their heads to a beat only they could hear, their lips moving as they whispered the lyrics in unison. Every so often one of them would tap their foot or jab their finger repeatedly in the air, and the other would smile. I thought it was sweet – but Layla clearly disagreed. I snuck a glance and found her watching them closely, her arm wrapped protectively around Amy’s narrow shoulders. It made me realise how quickly I’d decided that Layla was ‘my kind of person’ – but, as with Kit, I didn’t really know much about her. Who was she when no one was looking, when all the doors were closed and the lights went out? What did she believe, deep beneath her skin; what stories did she tell herself? How did she interpret the world for her kids?

As the rest of the group chatted about butter beans, rhubarb crumble and potato bake, I grew more and more uncomfortable until I was second-guessing myself all over again: maybe I should’ve packed that bag after all.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed again. A voicemail.

I shifted impatiently in my seat, racking my brains for an excuse to leave so I could check my messages.

‘So,’ said Kit. ‘We need someone to do a quick stocktake in the dry goods store and make a list of any ingredients we’re missing. Volunteers?’

I put my hand up so fast I almost pulled a muscle.


After verifying that Kara was okay in the creche – absolutely fine, still zero interest in seeing me – I wandered over to the store, dialling into my voicemail as I went.

‘Alex, hi.’ A man’s voice, cheerful and radio-smooth. ‘Mark Oppenheimer here. Apologies for not returning your call sooner, it’s been a hectic week. So, with regards to the Kellermans, I don’t usually give out contact details, but given the situation I’m sure it’d be fine.’

In the spontaneously concocted message I’d left for the real-estate agent, I’d claimed to be a producer on Who Do You Think You Are? doing some research for an episode with the Hemsworth brothers. ‘We suspect,’ I’d gushed, ‘that Mr Kellerman is very distantly related.’ People would do anything for TV.

‘Michael’s a good bloke,’ continued Mr Oppenheimer, ‘and his family’s lived around here for generations, so I’m sure he’d love to help. And if there’s anything at all we can do for the show – if you want to shoot a scene here at the office or maybe have a chat about the local area – you just let me know. I actually know a guy who went to school with Chris Hemsworth. Down in Melbourne. Might be helpful. Anyway, you can reach the Kellermans on …’ He rattled off a phone number, twice. A landline, I noted, not a mobile. ‘Best of luck. I’ll give you a buzz later on, just to check in, see if we can do anything.’

I hung up and saved the message.

When I reached the store, I punched the code and let myself in. The yeasty smell of bulk grains enveloped me, pulling me into the cool, dry dark. Shelves reared up on either side, filled with sacks of flour, boxes of tea and jars of dried legumes.

Switching on the light, I grabbed a pen from the table behind the door and replayed Mark Oppenheimer’s message, scribbling the number on my hand as I listened. Then I dialled. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four.

Click. A man picked up and cleared his throat. ‘Yes?’

‘Oh, hello. Is that Michael Kellerman?’

‘Speaking.’ His voice was crackly. I pictured a frail gentleman in his seventies. White hair, twinkly eyes, collared shirt under a cashmere sweater. His wife pottering around in the background making tea.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I was wondering if I might be able to speak to you about … that is, if you might have the time to …’ I dried up. I hadn’t thought this through; I didn’t have the words to hand.

‘You’re not a journo, are you?’ His voice had taken on a sharp edge, and I revised my mental picture. A thin man with grey stubble and turned-down mouth. A face ravaged by time, grief and paranoia.

‘No, no, definitely not. I just – well, I live up at Pine Ridge, Mr Kellerman. You know the ecovillage that was built on your old farm? And I—’