Everything begins with a body. Salima Khan was just 21 the day of her
wedding at St Jude's Catholic Church in the New South Wales village of Halls
End. Population 310. It was still winter but the sun was out and after the
ceremony, she insisted on going for a walk across the Common with her
bridesmaid, Nazreen. Salima was found the following morning face down in a
shallow pool of water, and although Abel Wiley had no medical training to speak
of, he knew a murder when he saw one.
News of Abel Wiley’s discovery whistled through the village then came to
an abrupt halt when police announced he’d been detained for questioning. As a
suspect. Television said incriminating evidence had been found in Mr Wiley’s
possession, a white bridal slipper taken from the deceased and discovered in a
homemade hessian bag full of dried cow pats in his greenhouse. Helpful Pete
felt nothing, could have been watching the stocks, but his wife was glued to
the screen. Second the report finished, Pete rose from the couch, told his wife
he’d be at Boyle’s you need to find me, then took his coat from a hook by the
door and left.
The mood at Boyle’s was sombre. Footage showed police in light-blue
plastic jumpsuits standing outside Abel Wiley’s property on Ivory Street,
stamping their feet in the cold. When the news item cut to an ad, publican
Frank Boyle changed channels and they picked up where they’d left off. Fernando
wasn’t sure if it was his round or Vaughn’s and Clyde finished his story about
the snakebite while Clumsy Joe continued selling tickets for the meat tray.
Turned out it was Vaughn’s round after all. Fernando same again. G and T for
Clyde. Clumsy Joe was sitting out the round. Helpful Pete strolled in off the
street and made straight for the warmth of the bar. Greetings all round. Clumsy
Joe hit him up for the raffle. Half a goat. Pete had never cared much for goat
but got a ticket for himself, one for the wife, and one for his dog, Jeb.
Like nothing had happened.
Stray ribbons of police tape cordoning off Abel Wiley’s property still
flapped about in the wind months after his conviction, and waist-high wheat
grass had invaded the ironbark verandas front and back. Without a pulse, his
home became a house, reclaimed by the appetites of nature.
Shortly after the trial, Helpful Pete hung a NO
TRESPASSING sign on the man’s front gate like a headstone for someone deceased.
This place, the person who lived here, the crime they committed, no longer
exists. That’s what NO TRESPASSING meant.
Then one lazy afternoon in spring, sitting in
the newly refurbished beer garden at Boyle’s enjoying a beer with friends,
Fernando unleashed an idea.
‘Been thinking ’bout renting the Rosewood,’ he said.
‘Who to?’ Helpful Pete asked.
‘Put an ad online.’
‘That was quick,’ Pete remarked, impressed.
The Rosewood was a heritage-listed weatherboard
with two bedrooms, a guest house, walking distance to shops, and empty long as
Pete could recollect. Fernando bought it to restore, then something came up,
then something after that, the end.
‘What are you asking?’ Pete inquired.
‘500 a week.’
‘Ambitious,’ Pete said, and frowned.
Frank Boyle came to the table collecting
empties. Small talk all round. Pete said Fernando was renting the Rosewood, put
an ad online. Boyle asked Pete what Fernando was asking. Pete said 500 a week.
Boyle raised his eyebrows in response.
‘What I said,’ Pete agreed. ‘And unless he
finds someone local they’ll be here for the lifestyle.’
‘What are you saying?’ Fernando asked.
‘Just saying,’ Pete said. ‘You gotta big
picture it, see what they’ll see. Whole village’ll be under scrutiny.’ Pete
finished his beer and placed it atop the leaning concertina of glasses riding
up Boyle’s chest. ‘For example,’ Pete continued. ‘You plan on giving the Wiley
place a mow?’
The Wiley place neighboured the Rosewood, the
NO TRESPASSING sign Pete hung on the front gate now hanging from its gridded
limbs by a thread. But like everyone else in the village, Fernando lived his
life as if it wasn’t really there. An optical illusion, a mirage. Fernando sat
still in his chair. Helpful Pete finished his thought. He leant in on the
table, slowly, his vast physical presence occluding the afternoon sun, and
said:
‘Or you want me to do it?’
That the Wiley place might impact on his plans to rent the Rosewood gave
Fernando room for serious concern. Pete was right.
Whole village’d be under scrutiny. The Wiley place, the Rosewood, Boyles. But
it didn’t seem fair. Fernando no more wanted to tidy up the Wiley place to
ensure his 500 a week rent than be seen
tidying up the Wiley place to ensure his 500 a week rent. There had to be
another way through. He phoned a real-estate buddy to ask.
‘Hypothetical,’ he’d said when they met.
The real-estate buddy listened to Fernando’s hypothetical, then
looked at Fernando and frowned. ‘You mean the Rosewood,’ he said. ‘And Wiley’s
old place. If 500 bucks is too much.
‘Well, yeah,’ Fernando said. ‘That.’
‘Depends what they’re willing to pay.’
Fernando wasn’t sure what that meant. His real-estate buddy
explained. ‘The worth of a place, to rent or to sell, is what somebody’s
willing to pay.’
‘Oh,’ Fernando said. ‘Thanks.’ But Fernando didn’t see how that
helped. He wished his real-estate buddy hadn’t deviated from the hypothetical
so abruptly and placed Fernando under the light. Now everyone would know he was
concerned. Everyone would know that Pete was right. The Rosewood, he thought.
Heritage listed weatherboard. Walking distance to shops. Fernando didn’t get
what’s not to like. And worth whatever somebody will pay? How did you find that
stuff out? Dejected and confused he went home. He slipped off his boots, and
hung up his coat, then Fernando checked the ad he’d placed online.