Chapter Twenty-eight
The cemetery was a short drive out of town, on a large plot shaded by towering gum trees. On the way, Falk passed the fire warning sign, the danger now elevated to extreme. Outside, the wind was up.
The burial itself had been a private one so he hadn’t been to the Hadlers’ graves, but they were easy to find. Brand new, the polished headstones looked like indoor furniture accidentally left outside among their weather-beaten neighbours. The graves were ankle deep in a sea of cellophane, stuffed toys and withered flowers. Even from several feet away, the pungent smell of floral decay was overpowering.
Karen’s and Billy’s graves were piled high, while the offerings under Luke’s headstone were sparse. Falk wondered if it would be Gerry and Barb’s responsibility to clear the graves when the gifts crossed the line from tribute to trash. Barb had had enough trouble in the farmhouse, let alone on her knees with a bin bag, wretchedly sifting through the withered bouquets and trying to decide what to keep and what to throw away. No way. Falk made a mental note to check.
He sat for a while on the dry ground by the graves, ignoring the dust that coated his suit trousers. He ran a hand over the engraving on Luke’s headstone, trying to shake the unreal sensation that had nagged him since the funeral.Luke Hadler is in that coffin, he repeated in his head.Luke Hadler is in this ground.
Where was Luke the afternoon Ellie died? The question resurfaced like a stain. Falk should have pressed him when he had the chance. But he’d truly believed Luke’s deception had been for Falk’s own benefit. If he’d known what was going to happen –
He cut the thought dead. It was a cry that had come from too many lips since he’d returned to Kiewarra.If I’d known, I would have done things differently.It was too late for that now. Some things had to be lived with.
Falk stood and turned his back on the Hadlers. He headed deeper into the cemetery until he found the row he was looking for. The headstones in this part of the lot had lost their shine years ago, but many were as familiar as old friends. He ran his hand over a few of them affectionately as he passed, before stopping in front of one particular sun-bleached stone. There were no flowers on this grave and it occurred to him for the first time that he should have brought some. That’s what a good son would do. Bring flowers for his mother.
Instead he stooped and with a tissue wiped her engraved name free from dust and dirt. He did the same with her date of death. He’d never needed a reminder of the anniversary. As far back as he could remember, he’d known that she’d died the day he was born.Complications and blood loss, his father had told him gruffly when he was old enough to ask, before looking at his son in a way that made Falk feel that he was almost, but not quite, worth it.
As a kid he’d taken to cycling out to the cemetery alone, at first standing solemnly for hours in penance at his mother’s grave. Eventually he realised nobody cared whether he stood there or not, and their relationship had thawed into something of a one-way friendship. He tried hard to feel some form of filial love, but even then it had seemed like an artificial emotion. He simply couldn’t ignite it for a woman he’d never known. It made him feel guilty that deep down he felt more for Barb Hadler.
But he’d liked visiting his mother and she was a hell of a listener. He’d started bringing a snack, books, homework, and would loll about in the grass by the headstone and chatter in free-flowing monologue about his day and his life.
Before fully realising it, Falk found himself doing that very thing now, stretching out his limbs and lying back in the stubby grass alongside the grave. The shade from the trees took the edge off the heat. He stared at the sky and in a voice barely above a murmur, he told her all about the Hadlers and his homecoming. About seeing Gretchen again. About the heavy feeling in his chest when he’d seen Mandy in the park and Ian in theshop. He spoke about his fears that he might never find outthe truth about Luke.
After he had run out of words, he closed his eyes and lay still beside his mother, cocooned by the warmth of the ground at his back and the air all around him.
When Falk woke the sun had moved in the sky. With a yawn, he stood up and stretched his stiff joints. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there. He shook himself off and set out through the cemetery towards the main gates. Halfway, he stopped. There was one more grave he needed to visit.
It took him far longer to find this one. He had only seen it once, at the funeral, before he’d left Kiewarra for good. Eventually he stumbled across it almost by accident: a small stone huddled anonymously among a crowd of more ornate memorials. It was overgrown with yellow grass. A single bunch of dead stalks wrapped in tattered cellophane lay under the headstone. Falk took his tissue and reached out to wipe the grime from the engraved name. Eleanor Deacon.
‘Don’t touch, you mongrel.’
The voice came from behind and Falk jumped. He turned and saw Mal Deacon sitting deep in the shadows at the feet of a huge carved angel in the row behind. He had a beer bottle in his hand and his fleshy brown dog asleep at his feet. It woke and yawned, exposing a tongue the colour of raw meat as Deacon hauled himself to his feet. He left the bottle at the foot of the angel.
‘Get your hands off her before I cut ’em off.’
‘No need, Deacon, I’m leaving.’ Falk stepped away.
Deacon squinted at him. ‘You’re the kid, aren’t you?’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re the Falk kid. Not the dad.’
Falk looked at the old man’s face. The jaw was set with aggression and the eyes seemed more lucid than they had the last time.
‘Yeah. I’m the kid.’ Falk felt a pang of sadness as he spoke. He started walking.
‘Right. Pissing off for good this time, I hope.’ Deacon moved after him, shaky on his feet. He pulled his dog’s leash tight after him and the animal yelped.
‘Not yet. Mind your pet.’ Falk didn’t break stride. He could hear Deacon trying to follow. The footsteps were uneven and slow over the rough ground.
‘Can’t leave her in peace even now, eh? You might be the kid, but you’re just like your dad. Disgusting.’
Falk turned.
There were two distinct voices coming from the yard. One loud, one calmer. Twelve-year-old Aaron dumped his schoolbag on the kitchen table and went to the window. His father was standing with his arms crossed and a fed-up look on his face as Mal Deacon prodded a finger at him.
‘Six of ’em missing,’ Deacon was saying. ‘Coupla ewes, four lambs. Few of those same ones you were looking over the other week.’
