The Shadow House(75)

A dog. That’s what I’d heard as I stood on his doorstep; that’s what the noises had been. Not Mrs Kellerman. Just a dog.

‘My fault,’ he said again. ‘She never knew, I never told her.’

‘Michael?’ Despite the warmth in the air, I felt cold. If Renee Kellerman wasn’t there with her husband, then where was she?

‘You’ll tell her, won’t you? Because I can’t. You have to do it.’

With a strange feeling churning in my gut, I turned around and looked back towards the hall.

‘Will you? Please, I need you to talk to her.’

Food sizzled on the grill; bodies shuffled on the dance floor. I could see Shannon in their midst with her tray, handing out stick dolls, still throwing looks my way. I saw Mariko standing with the Melburnian architect under a tree, a drink in her hand. Paul and Simon in novelty glasses, taking selfies with the feather-draped retirees. And Kit, standing just inside the bifold doors, his eyes scanning the crowd.

Ollie.

I couldn’t see Ollie.

Or Jenny. I’d left them both near the dance floor, but they weren’t there anymore.

‘Michael,’ I said, taking a step back towards the party. ‘Where is your wife? Where is Renee?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Michael was back to harsh and hostile. ‘She’s there, isn’t she? With you. At Pine Ridge.’ He sighed, and the phone line popped with static. ‘She never left.’





RENEE





34


Renee waited under a cartoon-blue sky with her arms folded, squinting into abrasively bright sunshine while Michael packed the last of his bags into the car. A breeze blew noisily through the jacaranda tree, and then, not content with bothering the newly erupted flowers, swept down low to muss Renee’s hair, or what was left of it.

She brushed the tendrils from her face, but they got caught in her fingers and came away from her head like cobwebs. The wind took them, bearing each strand away like a seed, and she ran her palms over her head, feeling the soft patch at the top where the hair was thinnest. Stress-related hair loss, her doctor had told her, was quite common after an emotionally traumatic event; even more so when coupled with menopause. It’s just temporary, the hair usually grows back. But so far the clumps just kept on coming; the drain was always blocked, her hairbrush always full.

She shivered and rubbed her bare arms; spring had just about tipped over into summer but the heat was yet to arrive. In front of her, the car was waiting with its engine running: windows down, radio on. The sound of finger-picked guitar floated from the speakers, followed by a wistful, tremulous voice. Paul, of course. Always Paul. The song was one of Michael’s favourites; he said it was about hope. But privately Renee disagreed. It was about a broken spirit. How apt that this should be the last song they would listen to as a couple.

Shoving the boot of the car shut, Michael whistled, and Ebony came running, bounding out of the long grass at the back of the house and barrelling straight into the car without a backward glance. Michael shut the door and the dog stuck her head out of the window, her pink tongue hanging out from between her teeth. Renee waved. ‘Bye, Ebs. Stay safe.’

There was a pause, a held breath of a moment during which neither husband nor wife knew what to say. The gap was filled with the distant clank and rumble of diggers. Renee glanced down towards the bottom of the hill where work on the ecovillage had already begun. The land was on its way to being unrecognisable – at some point, the farm would disappear. But for her, it would still be home.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Michael for the hundredth time, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

Renee nodded.

‘Will you be okay?’

She nodded again. ‘Mine will be one of the first completed houses,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay with my parents until it’s ready. I’m told it won’t take long.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know.’ She tried to smile, but the sight of Michael was too painful. She looked at the trees instead, their branches alive with movement. She watched the clouds, racing to be first over the horizon.

‘Come with me,’ she heard him say.

She swallowed, her eyes still on the sky. ‘I’ll be fine. I have to stay. He might come back.’ That was the main reason, but there was another. We’ve been broken for such a long time. We don’t belong to each other anymore.

The music from the speakers wrapped itself around them like a ribbon, trying to bind them together. Soft guitar slides, minor chords and that haunting woodwind solo. Doleful words about a girl called Jenny, whose voice was taken by a broken heart, whose home was destroyed by poverty. Jenny Wren, who cast love aside and lost sight of life.

Michael stepped forward and reached out. His thick fingers brushed Renee’s cheek.

But the day will come, Paul sang, Jenny Wren will sing, when this broken world mends its foolish ways.

‘My Jenny Ren,’ he said.

Renee felt her heart swell just a little. Like a sponge absorbing a small spill of milk. She opened her mouth to speak, but Michael was already turning away, his boots crunching a gentle rhythm over the gravel. And then he was gone, his car disappearing through the gate, leaving nothing but memories and a swirling cloud of dust.