The Shadow House(8)

She went back to the house, finished up the morning chores and joined the pickers in the greenhouses. Filling the buggy with buckets of water, she followed behind as first the lilies were gathered, then the freesias and finally the dahlias. She collected each bunch of flowers with a nod of satisfaction; their output might not be as significant as it once was, but the product was still topnotch. The farm would bounce back to its former glory, she was sure of it.

When all the buckets were full, Renee drove the buggy up to the shed to unload. She packed the flowers neatly into the trolleys and moved them into the coolroom, then refilled the buckets with fresh water, reloaded the buggy and started again.

Later on, while the rest of the crew emptied out the plundered greenhouses and moved on to raking and planting, Renee took the car and went shopping. In busier times, she had ordered their groceries to be delivered in bulk and direct to the farm. While this had been more convenient than going to the shops herself, it had also meant that she hardly ever set foot off the property. Farming was a full-time job in the most literal sense: it was twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, no holidays, no breaks. During the quiet years of the drought, the ninety-minute round trip to the nearest shopping centre had seemed like a treat, one that she allowed herself even as the farm grew busier again. She would take her time, wandering through the aisles and running her fingers along the shelves, picking up jars of jam and selecting the juiciest cuts of meat, making sure to buy local where possible. She might taste a few cheese samples, stop somewhere for a coffee, or even pause for a while in the IGA and entertain the idea of testing out a new brand of laundry detergent. The whole trip felt like trying on a different life for size, and she always returned to the farm in a better mood.

Today, though, as she drove back in through the gate and steered the car over the bumpy gravel driveway, she had a feeling that something was off. She parked in her usual spot, got out and looked around, her skin prickling unpleasantly – but as far as she could see, nothing was noticeably strange or different. Except …

Something was rustling in the trees behind the house. An animal? They got deer in the woods sometimes. She stood still in the middle of the driveway, listening. But then, almost as abruptly as it had started, the rustling stopped.

Leaving the groceries in the boot of the Jeep, Renee climbed the porch steps and pushed open the screen door.

‘Hello?’

Her voice echoed through the house and bounced off the surfaces. Her watch now read 4.30pm. Gabriel’s beaten-up black Adidas had been thrown in their usual spot on the shoe rack and his schoolbag lay discarded on the mat, but Michael’s work boots were still missing; he wouldn’t be home for another half-hour yet. Nothing was out of the ordinary, so why did she feel so uneasy?

She shot a look down the hall, thinking for the thousandth time that they absolutely had to redecorate. Having been handed down through generations, the house was a mix of decorative styles, exemplified here by Renee’s dainty tulip-style lamp on Michael’s grandfather’s ugly hardwood console table, and her gorgeous floral wallpaper, forever marred by an apparently non-negotiable display of antique farm tools: hay hooks, pitchforks and a hand-forged brush axe, all intended to evoke the sweat and satisfaction that come with an honest day’s work, but which actually just brought to mind a torture chamber.

Halfway to the kitchen, Gabriel’s bedroom door was shut but, as always, it radiated energy, a sort of hum. You could practically see the gloom seeping out from the edges. She moved towards it, letting the screen door shut behind her. ‘Gabe? You here?’

There was a short pause, and then a muffled affirmative grunt.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yup.’

‘You need anything?’

‘Nup.’

Silence.

Renee stepped right up to the bedroom door and placed her fingers on the handle. ‘Is it alright if I come in?’

She waited. No reply.

Renee took a few deep breaths, raised her eyes to the ceiling then tried again. ‘Gabriel? I’m coming in, okay?’

No answer.

She opened the door.

The sudden flurry of movement made her jump. Gabriel was sitting upright at his desk in front of his giant gaming rig, headphones on, one hand on the hurriedly closed lid of his laptop. A thick spiral-bound pad of paper was balanced over his knees.

Renee froze. ‘Oh,’ she stammered, her face flooding with heat. ‘Oh. Sorry. I, um, I knocked, but—’

‘Mum, get out!’ Gabriel said, his voice strangled.

Renee stood paralysed in the doorway. She took in the sight of her son: his chest so inwardly curved it was almost hollow; long legs jutting out under the table like overstretched pieces of elastic, swamped in loose tracksuit pants. His sallow skin was riddled with acne, his hair so oily it appeared to be wet. The room smelled sour, like morning breath. She tried not to grimace. He made her think of frogs, of cave-dwelling creatures who never saw the light of day.

Then her eyes fell on Gabriel’s arm, the one holding the pad in his lap. Just below the elbow was a dark row of red marks. Cuts. Four of them, jagged and red. The surrounding skin was swollen and shiny.

Renee gasped. ‘What …?’ Instinctively, she went to touch him, but before she could get close Gabriel jumped up, tucking his arm behind his back. The swivel chair spun around between them like a fairground ride.

‘Gabe? What’s going on? What happened?’