The Shadow House(62)

‘I just … I just want to know what happened. Because maybe the same thing is happening to us, and I …’ My insides were sliding around like eels in mud. Ollie. My home in human form. If he disappeared, I would crumble like dust. I would cease to exist. ‘I can’t lose my son, Mr Kellerman. Please help me.’

I waited but there was no sign of either Kellerman.

I gave up. I’d tried my best, and I needed to get back to my kids.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you can still hear me, but I’m going to leave you my details and maybe you can … Hang on a sec …’

Running to the car, I grabbed a pen and a crumpled paper bag that had sat in the passenger footwell for weeks. Smoothing the creases out as best I could, I scribbled my name and phone number on the bag. Then I folded it up with the note I’d found in the farmhouse and pushed both under the door.

‘That’s my number,’ I shouted through the glass. ‘And that’s the note I mentioned. I’d love to speak to you, if only for a few minutes. I promise, I’m not a journalist. I’m a parent. Just like you.’

I waited, chewing on a hangnail. A car slid by on the road behind me. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

‘Okay. I’ll go. Sorry to have bothered you. Merry Christmas.’

I walked back to my car. Got in, cranked the air con, started the engine.

But right before I drove away, I thought I saw movement behind one of the windows. A flash of pale skin and the twitch of a blind.





ALEX





28


I drove home impatiently with one eye on my phone and my earbuds connected, hoping against hope that I might hear from the Kellermans – but my phone just rattled lifelessly in the cupholder next to me, the screen frustratingly blank.

Turning off the freeway, I got back on the road that led up into the hills and put my foot down. My panic-bought haul jangled on the back seat as I hurtled around the bends and bounced over the potholes, the hollow ring of plastic packaging inspiring nothing but buyer’s remorse. I’d gone way over the top, trying desperately to compensate for the last few months by purchasing half the products in a little tech store I’d found, which I knew would both please Ollie and ultimately lead to more fights.

Just before I hit the Pine Ridge turn, I spotted a small sign I hadn’t noticed before. Hassop Farm, it said, Next Right.

I checked the time. It was getting late, and I needed to relieve Jenny of her babysitting duties – but ten more minutes probably wouldn’t hurt.

I braked sharply and indicated right.

I found myself on a small lane edged with white reflective posts and dried brown leaves. Silver gums reached up on either side, their trunks leaning at an angle like pedestrians waiting to cross the road. A little way down was a driveway and another smaller sign. I slowed to take a look. The sign was wooden, with hand-carved lettering that read: Hassop & Son – Pecans and Citrus since 1952.

I turned onto a gravel track that ran through an open gap in a wooden fence. Beyond the fence were countless rows of trees stretching into the distance, towering over lush emerald grass and filtering the sunlight to a fine dusting of gold. The shade beneath them looked cool and fresh.

The track ran the full length of the orchard, stretching out in front of my car like the yellow brick road. I followed it as it curved around to the left and finished up in front of a hotchpotch of a house, a jumble of angles and levels and extensions. On closer inspection, I could see the original structure in the centre, an older brick building, had been overwhelmed by add-ons: screened-in porches, half-finished decks, precarious-looking balconies, chimneys and several sets of sliding glass doors. The effect was that of a ramshackle ranch that had looked great in the designer’s head but which, like an overcooked cake, hadn’t come out all that well.

Approaching the front door, I hoped that my second house call of the day would be a more pleasant experience than the first. I pressed a small yellowing button next to the doorframe and heard a chiming sound from inside the house. No ensuing footsteps, though; the house was quiet and still. I sidled up to one of the windows and pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands around my eyes to block the stream of sunlight coming from above …

‘Can I help you?’ said a voice.

I jumped about a foot in the air and spun around, clutching my chest. The man standing behind me was wearing khaki shorts, a grubby polo shirt and gardening gloves, and I immediately recognised him as Bess’s son, the guy who’d come to collect her from Pine Ridge the other day. He raised his eyebrows at me, in a look that said both Hello and What the hell are you doing on my property?

Still breathing hard, I gave him my very best smile. ‘Hello. So sorry to bother you, my name’s Alex. We met the other day, just briefly, down at Pine Ridge? When your mother was there?’

‘Oh. Okay, sure. Dom Hassop. Great to meet you.’ He pulled off one of his gardening gloves and offered his hand. His palm was rough and callused, but his grip was gentle.

‘I was just passing by,’ I said, ‘and thought I’d stop in to check on Bess. You know, after …’ After I thought she was a witch and yelled at her in public. I tried not to wince. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Well, that’s kind of you,’ said Dom. ‘You know, I was so sceptical about Pine Ridge when it first went up – all us locals were. But I’ve honestly never met such big-hearted people. You’ve all been so understanding, and so patient with Mum. It means a lot.’