Journal of a Coffin Dodger Chapter D (2)

CHAPTER D (2)

Anne and I sat in the Buggy with the engine ticking over, absorbing the enormity of what she had disclosed.

After a few minutes, I broke the silence between us by saying, 'to state the bleeding obvious, sometimes murder is never as simple as it is planned.'

Anne nodded.

'Now, we thought it likely that the Asylum Administration will go for a cover-up. They don't want the shenanigans that went on in that building revealed to the world. Therefore, we expected to be on tenterhooks until we knew if the police accepted the cover-up or...'

'Continued making enquiries,' I concluded Anne's statement.

'Yep!' Anne said.'That's about the sum of it. But this other business ... It's a real wild card.'

'So, who's the housemate?' I asked.

Anne took a deep breath.

'It's Clare,' Anne replied.

'Crikey!' I exclaimed. 'So, do we have any idea where her loyalties lie? Because if her loyalties are to the guy she knows; that's nasty. After all, Samantha and I rescued Clare from the asylum. Not that I was expecting any quid pro quo. But at the very least, I hope she doesn't sell us out. It will be a real kick in the guts, though, if she does.'

'Understood. But let's have a cuppa while I'll tell you how I found out. Which will help us plan a response to what I discovered while we work out where Clare's loyalties lie. And I will tell you who the bloke is,' Anne replied as she switched off the Buggy's ignition.

'Okay,' I said.

'It's past three, so the milk bar is closed, but the Railway Refreshment Room is open. It won't close for another two hours until passengers on the Brisbane train have been and gone,' Anne continued.

'I've moved the Buggy's spare tyre to the luggage tray. So now there's now room for your suitcase in the boot to keep it safe from any passer-by who may want to take it from the exposed luggage tray,' Anne concluded as she stepped out of the Buggy.

'Smart thinking,' I said as I also stepped out of the Buggy.

I picked up my suitcase from the luggage tray, and, with the case locked in the boot, Anne and I returned to the station platform.

We strolled across the cool, grey late afternoon shadows stretching along the platform until we reached the Refreshment Rooms. A high-ceilinged smoky, commodious, space, furnished with a dozen or so wooden tables with four brown straight-backed wooden chairs placed around each round table.

Positioned on the white starched tablecloth spread across each table were two round, dark red Bakelite ashtrays. On the sides of each ashtray were the letters 'NSWGR RR' printed in black capital letters.

Close to the ashtrays, in the centre of each table, was a plain white ceramic vase adorned with flowers of various bright colours. Near each vase was a fluted round, clear glass sugar bowl with a glass lid in a similar style. Tower-style clear glass salt and pepper shakers, with silvered metal tops, and a bottle of Worcestershire Sauce, completed the furnishings of each table.

A few yards away from the tables furthest from the entrance, behind a long, wide brown wooden counter at the back of the room stood a row of white uniformed waitresses. One of these women walked from behind the counter as Anne and I entered the room.

After Anne and I sat at a table in a far corner of the room, away from the counter and the other four occupied tables, the waitress approached our table and took our order.

An order of tea for two, with milk, and slices of fruitcake, both light and dark.

After the waitress left and returned to the counter, Anne said,

'Well, here's the story.'

'A few nights back, it was my turn and Clare's to do the dishes and clean the kitchen after dinner. The other house-mates, Jane, and Samantha, were in the lounge room, watching TV. The phone rang.'

'Clare stopped wiping the dishes and answered the phone.'

'When Clare returned, what she said shocked me.'

Anne paused and looked down at the table.

She took several deep breaths before looking up and continuing.

'Clare looked distracted when she resumed wiping the dishes. So, I asked her if anything was the matter?'

'She replied the phone call was from her brother Bill.'

'There had been a fire in an asylum ward where Bill worked.'

''A crazy lady,' Clare's words, set fire to the ward when the other ward inmates were away watching a movie in the asylum's Recreation Hall.'

'The 'crazy lady' hated Bill because he rejected her 'advances,' Clare's immediate summary, i.e. didn't have sex with her. Or, as Clare expressed it when she expanded on that initial encapsulation, 'he (Bill) spurned the crazy woman's desire to lie with my darling brother.''

'What the hell... What a load... That doesn't make...' I spluttered.

'Yer,' Anne replied. 'My reaction to until I thought of Joseph and Potiphar's wife. A Biblical story I remembered from Sunday School.'

'Oh! My God!' I replied, 'Of course! Yep! Now I remember it. As well, my father used the story in some of his sermons. Bill's a real clever piece of shit. Because his lie embeds itself into...'

'Clare's rock solid approach to life based on a hate-seasoned decoding of the Bible.' Anne responded.

'Come in, spinner,' I said sotto voce and shook my head as the waitress approached with our order on a round, silvered metal tray.

The waitress placed the tray on the table as Anne and I stopped our conversation.

The silence between us was broken by the clinking sound of crockery as the waitress took a plate with slices of fruitcake on it and the tea things off the tray and arranged them around the vase of flowers. She then picked up the tray and returned to the counter.

As she walked away, I resumed the conversation by saying, 'I wonder where Bill... Anyway, he must have hooked her right in?'

Anne nodded.

'Like a fish swallowing a bait. Because Bill's story is littered with holes.'

'Like, how did the 'crazy lady' get to know Bill, let alone know he was in the ward? Or how did she start the fire?'

'As far as I know, none of these issues, and several others that come to mind, Clare raised with Bill. She left his yarn unchallenged.'

'I take your point. But why did Bill...?'

'I'm coming to that.'

'Sorry,' I said as I reached across the table to the white ceramic teapot with a small red crest and the red letters, 'NSWGR RR' on its side.

I turned the teapot round three times and then did the honours. I poured milk from a silvered metal jug, followed by the tea, into the two teacups.

On one side of each white cup was a red crest and red letters like the markings on the teapot. Similar decorations adorned the upside edge of each saucer the cups rested on.

As I picked up my cup and sipped my tea, Anne continued her story.

'Anyway. Bill told Clare he had stayed behind in the ward to finish his paperwork.'

'Paperwork!' I exclaimed. 'Paperwork! The only paperwork asylum nurses do is when they shift their bums to a seat in the...'

'You and I know that,' Anne interjected, 'but, I guess, Clare swallowed Bill's bullshit because she doesn't.'

'Anyway, 'brave Bill,' Clare's words, chased the woman out of the building and helped extinguish the fire.'

 Anne paused and took several deep breaths before saying, 'the holes in Bill's story keep widening.'

I nodded and said, as Anne picked up her cup and sipped her tea.

'Like where is the 'crazy lady' now? As Bill allegedly knows her, why isn't she locked up before starting another fire?'

I took a deep breath before saying, 'his concoction really is a stinking pile of horse manure which just keeps on spreading.'

Anne grinned as I drained my cup and placed it on its white ceramic saucer.

I picked up a slice of fruit cake as Anne continued,

'Agreed. There's a reason for Clare's gullibility, though, which I will come to.'

'So, Clare told me that, as she was thankful for her brother's deliverance, she needed a time of prayer.'

'As well, she needed to write the event in her journal to help settle her mind as her 'dear brother' had faced a 'perilous, life-threatening situation' and she was therefore finding it hard to focus on wiping the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.'

'So, I told Clare that I'll finish the kitchen duties, and she was free to attend to her prayers and writing.'

Anne put down her cup and picked up a slice of fruitcake. She ate the cake and brushed crumbs from the corner of her mouth, before saying,

'Anyway, Clare's mention of a journal piqued my interest. Because, while we were in the kitchen, Clare straight-up asked me if I knew anything about the fire that threatened the life of her 'dear brother.''

'Well, ten points for being subtle!' I exclaimed and finished eating my slice of cake.

'I reckon!' Anne replied. 'I had only told the housemates Samantha, Jane, and Clare, the story that you and I agreed upon.'

'That is, you and I had known each other since high school, had kept in contact since leaving school and I was working at a private clinic.'

'So, coming on top of what she had said about Bill and a fire at the asylum, that question rocked me. Because Clare was the first person in the household to reveal any knowledge of a fire at the asylum, let alone ask questions about it.'

'Geez! How did you keep it together?'

'I stared hard at the dishes I was washing so Clare couldn't see my face and replied over my shoulder, 'only what I read in the papers.''

'Clare then said goodnight and left the kitchen.'

'I barely gasped out a reply before I slumped onto a chair beside the kitchen table.'

'Fuck me bloody dead!' I muttered and paused before saying.

'Time for another pot of tea, eh?'

Anne nodded and brushed cake crumbs from her blouse.

I signalled to a waitress who came over.

I gave the order for tea for two, and, after she had cleared the table, I continued.

'So, now we know how Clare knows one bastard involved in that fire. The one who escaped. As for the other, Mick, or Mike, he answered to either name, what Clare knows of him, we don't know yet. Which means we don't know how she reacted to news of his death in the fire. That's if Bill told her.'

Our conversation stopped, drowned out by the sounds of a goods train rattling and banging its way past the platform.

Anne resumed the conversation as the sounds of the goods train faded away by saying, 'which seems unlikely, given the story Bill concocted about the crazy lady. However, what we do know is why Bill phoned. Because, I guess Clare will keep pumping to get gen about the fire to relay to Bill.'

'So, expect to be questioned because Clare has let the cat out of the bag. She can't catch you unawares about the fire, as she did with me.'

'And, as she has inadvertently disclosed Bill's murky investigation, we know the police won't be involved because...'

'Bill's focused on personal revenge,' I said, concluding Anne's statement.

'You've got it!' Anne said. 'Because, given what we know of Bill's nature, he will use his hold over the male Charge Nurses who used the brothel to ensure there will be a cover up. Leaving Bill free to pursue his agenda without interference from the police.'

'Also, we have a clue as to what we need to do. We have to concoct a story that takes the edge off Clare's nosiness.'

A contemplative silence settled between us until a waitress had bought over a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and saucers, and a silvered metal jug of milk.

After she had set out the items on the table and returned to the counter, Anne said as we let the tea brew.

'Anyway, a couple of days ago, I had the house to myself.'

'Jane and Samantha had left for a music festival at Byron Bay, and Clare had left for a revivalist retreat at Bluey's Beach.'

'Therefore, I took the opportunity to search Clare's room for the journals. I wanted to see if she had elaborated on her phone call from Bill rather than the potted version she gave me. If so, had there been any mention of the involvement in the fire by you and me?'

This time, Anne did the honours after she had turned the white ceramic teapot round three times.

She then poured milk from the jug into the cups, followed by the tea. I picked up my cup and began sipping the tea as Anne said,

'Anyway, I found several journals. There is one on the table in the lounge room for you to read. The others are in the drawers of Clare's dressing table.'

Anne picked up her cup and took a couple of sips before saying in a quiet, controlled voice, 'what Clare has written in the journal that I left on the table is awful, really bloody awful.'

'I had to step away from the journal and go outside to purge my mind of the bilge that I had read.'

'I sat on the sofa on the front veranda and thought about the beautiful things in life as I gazed at the starry sky. And fought the urge to consign the journal to the fire in the kitchen stove.'

I looked at Anne with concern.

'It sounds like you have had a shocking time,' I said.

'Yer, gut punches, twice,' Anne replied as her voice regained its strength.

'Once with Clare's questioning about the fire and then when reading her journal. I'd suggest preparing yourself before reading that item.'

'However, that journal provides a reason for Clare's gullibility by giving an insight into the strength of the relationship between those siblings. Therefore, we need to be wary in our dealings with her, because, I guess, her loyalties lie with her brother.'

'But, apart from that, I have not found what I was looking for in the journals. From what I read, Bill had disclosed no further information about the fire beyond what he told Clare during their phone conversation.'

Anne sighed and drained her cup of tea.

'Anyway, let's finish our cuppa and head home, yep?'

I nodded and drained my cup and returned it to its saucer.

'Yer! Sounds good. However, before we do, there's one other thing. Wayne... '

'Wayne?' Anne interjected, 'sorry! The bloke you've talked about who you saved from a thrashing in Ward 29. What, over a year ago now?'

'The same guy who lent you his Kombi for a rescue mission, yer?'

'Yep! 'That's the guy,' I replied as Anne placed her cup on its saucer.

'Anyway, he now works as a reporter for a community newspaper.'

'I had a phone call from him a couple of nights back.'

'He wanted to meet me at our place in Sydney, the one at Vaucluse, not the one I boarded at close to the asylum. But when I said I was moving to the North Coast, we changed the venue.'

'He's driving up and asked to stay at the farmhouse for a couple of nights. I agreed.'

'Now, things get a bit mysterious.'

'As I didn't know that you and I were the only ones now at the farmhouse, I suggested we meet at that park on the other side of town.'

'It's on the highway, just before you enter the main street, so it's easily spotted when driving from Sydney.'

I took a deep breath.

'I suggested that place for our rendezvous because Wayne wanted to meet away from the public eye.'

Anne looked surprised as she said, 'Wow! This does sound mysterious!'

I paused before saying, 'Yep! Because he too has something to say about the fire.'

'Fucking hell!' Anne muttered. 'But I guess he doesn't carry an agenda like the one plaguing Bill and Clare.'

'Nah!' I said. 'He's not the type.'

'I've got to know him over the months since the incident at Ward 29. He and I have shared interests in political and social issues. We frequently met at meetings and rallies to chat about and advocate for those concerns.'

'So, he plans to arrive at that park sometime tomorrow morning.'

'Nothing further was mentioned over the phone?' Anne asked.

'No. For whatever reason. And I didn't press him on the matter either,' I replied.

'OK! Then,' Anne said. 'I guess we look forward to tomorrow's meeting with eager expectation.'

'Anyway, let's go. I'll settle the bill, if you like?'

'Sounds good,' I replied, 'And it's my shout next time.'

Anne nodded as she stood up and made her way to the counter.

With the bill paid, we left the Refreshment Rooms and ambled back along the platform. We left the station precincts and walked across an unpaved car park to the bright red Buggy.

We left the black vinyl roof folded down and the windscreen in an upright position as I climbed onto the black vinyl front passenger seat.

Anne climbed onto the black vinyl driver's seat, started the engine, put the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and we headed home.

Several miles from the station, the Buggy's shadow flitted from fence post to fence post as Anne drove along the track that ran beside the farm's eastern boundary fence. A fence line that led to the driveway of the house.

I watched black pendulous clouds deploy across the sky as we reached that driveway.

Clouds that stifled the warmth of the evening as they smothered the last rays of the setting sun while Anne turned into the rutted dirt driveway.

She drove along that track, passed the house and up to a shed.

A dilapidated shed which served as a garage several yards away from the backdoor of the house. A wooden structure whose eastern wall disappeared behind the bulk of a blackberry bush that spread its domain into the gutters along the roofline.

A roof whose loose corrugated iron sheets rattled with the sound of the Vee-Dub engine reverberating through the building as Anne drove the Buggy into the open shed. 

As Anne switched off the ignition and applied the handbrake, an icy wind blasted leaves and bark into ragged heaps along the western wall of the building.  

With the Buggy parked, we both stepped out of the vehicle.

Anne made her way out of the garage as I fetched my battered leather suitcase from the boot of the Buggy.

I carried the case in my hand as I joined Anne outside the garage.

We hurried our footsteps to the house as cold splodges of rain heralded an approaching deluge.

When we were half-way between the garage and the house, the deluge trumpeted its arrival.

The rain pounded on the roof of the garage, overflowing the gutters. A torrent that cascaded onto the flat corrugated iron roof of a shed that extended out from the back wall of the garage. A decrepit wooden walled woodshed a foot or two lower than the gutters.

The deluge pummelled not only this shed but also its corrugated iron door. A door whose rusty hinges creaked as the loop of wire latching the door to a nail in the shed wall flexed with the strength of the howling gale.

The deluge hit the house as Anne reached the back veranda door and pushed it open. I was a couple of steps behind her and shut the door of the enclosed veranda as the rain drummed on the roof.

As rain lashed the veranda windows, the veranda floorboards creaked as we hurried across them and entered the house through an open doorway. As I closed the doorway door behind me, Anne entered the kitchen and tended the fire in the Everhot fuel stove.

I walked through the house to my bedroom and placed the suitcase on the bed. I went from my room to the lounge room and lit a fire in the grate before joining Anne in the kitchen.

A couple of hours had now passed since Anne and I attended to those various tasks and had then tucked into dinner.

A delicious home-cooked dinner while sitting around the red cedar table in the kitchen. A repast that had more flavour than the two meat pies with sauce I bought from a milk bar at Central Station.

Throughout that journey from Central to the North Coast, I experienced the joy of having a first-class compartment to myself.

Therefore, I did not have to contend with men running their eyes over my physicality or starting intrusive, unsought conversations. It baffles me why men can’t keep quiet around a woman who is by herself.

Content with my own thoughts, I watched the countryside slip by as the train rattled and swayed on its journey from Sydney.

Only the windows now rattled, however, as the storm raged on and Anne and I, after dinner, sat in the lounge room of the farmhouse.

We sat in large, comfortable armchairs facing the fire as the wind wailed, and the rain hammered on the roof.

Armchairs that reminded me of scenes from movies. Black and white 'whodunnit' movies, that I enjoy watching, with plots set in the English countryside a decade or two ago.

Like the ones played out in an English country house.

Films with storylines involving a body lying on a blood stained carpet amidst the plush furnishings of a living room. Furnishings that included the style of armchair Anne and I were sitting in.

As I sat in my armchair enjoying the warmth of the fire, I held Clare's foolscap sized cahier in my hand.

I took a deep breath as I finished reading a chapter of that journal.

I looked up and turned towards Anne, her armchair a couple of feet away from mine.

'Oh! My God!' I exclaimed.

'Sorry for interrupting,' I continued. 'Yes, I agree. What Clare has written is vile, really revolting stuff.'

Anne looked up from the newspaper she was reading and turned towards me.

'I take it you've read the passages where Clare talks about the relationship with her brother, Bill?'

Anne's newspaper paper rustled as she folded it and placed it on the glass topped occasional table beside her chair.

I nodded as a moth fluttered around the glowing stained glass lamp shade at the centre of the room's pressed metal ceiling.

'The accounts are disturbing,' I said.

'There's something debased about their relationship. Though it's sickening to read about, it does provide insights why Clare swallowed, without choking, Bill's spin on the fire that took out his and Mick's brothel.'

'For sure,' Anne replied. 'I'd say we're on the same wavelength in our thinking about their relationship, yer?'

I nodded.

Anne turned and looked towards the fireplace. I did the same as we both fell silent.

Shadows created by the fire's yellow and red flames lolled on the cream coloured walls of the room. A soothing contrast to what I had read, and the rain slashed, wind-swept night outside the house where an animal bellowed into that desolate darkness.

As the clock on the stone mantlepiece above the grate chimed the hour, Anne stood up and said,

'Anyway, that's me done for the day. I'm buggered.'

'I'm heading off for a night's rest.'

'In the morning, let me know your thoughts on Clare's intention, written in the journal, of bringing to the farmhouse, from her retreat at Bluey's Beach, a gang of disciples.'

'Individuals from that weird church she belongs to.'

'Guys with Clare's mindset, written in the journal, of misogyny and homophobia. Attitudes towards difference bolstered by the selective use of Biblical references.'

'The purpose being to convert us, in particular, Jane, and Samantha, to that grotesquerie of Christianity she practices.'

'Cripes!' I responded. 'That's outrageous!'

'Oh! Yer! Because she writes of her discussions with those disciples and the way those proposed conversions are to be undertaken.'

'Hell's bells!' I exclaimed and shook my head.

'But I can't say, I wasn't forewarned. Because, after all, I heard her preaching at The Domain of a Sunday afternoon before she joined our household.'

Anyway,' Anne said, 'let's talk further over breakfast tomorrow after you have read those passages.'

'And let's talk with Jane and Samantha as soon as they get back from the music festival at Byron Bay.'

'After all, Clare doesn't get back from the revivalist retreat at Bluey's Beach until a couple of days after Jane and Samantha return. So there's time to work out our response.'

'Sounds good,' I replied.

Anne yawned and shivered.

She turned towards the windows and said, 'on a night as wild as this, it’s comforting to be snug in bed. Good... Oh! Shit! The spotlight's back!'

'What!'

I stood up from my chair and placed Clare’s journal on the round wooden table in the middle of the room.

Anne and I then strode across the soft green and white patterned carpet to the windows and peered out.

'Now that's weird. Hunters go shooting on clear nights. I've never seen hunters out on a night like this, waving a spotlight about,' I said.

Anne and I watched a powerful beam of light shine across the paddocks a couple of hundred yards away from the front of the house.

'I hate it when the beam shines on the house. It freaks me out,' Anne replied.

We watched a vehicle’s tail lights move away from the house towards the dam in the back paddock of the farm. The vehicle's progress marked by the restless beam of a spotlight as it roamed a wide arc of ground to the sides and the front of the vehicle.

'Fucking arseholes. Anyway, goodnight. Fingers crossed, they won't be back.'

I called 'goodnight,' as I drew the curtains across the windows and Anne strolled out of the room.

Leaving the journal on the table, I walked through the house, drawing curtains over the windows.

After locking the front door, I proceeded to the back veranda door. While checking it, I jumped back, startled.

A large brown huntsman spider scurried across the door, just inches from where my hand had been.

I relaxed as the spider slipped into the crevice between the door and the wall. However, a loud, recurring noise from the backyard disrupted any sense of tranquility.

A banging sound. A sound as loud as hail belting the unlined corrugated iron roof of the front verandah.

The sound I focused on, though, sounded like the unlatched woodshed door slamming against its frame.

I hesitated, considering stepping out into the wild night to check if I was correct. If so, to secure the door.

I thought, 'Strange! I didn't hear the door banging when Anne and I walked to the house. Maybe the wind is wilder than I imagined and has forced the door open.' I shrugged my shoulders. 'But nah! Bugger it! It's too deranged and wet to be outside. I'll leave the door; with any luck, the storm will end by morning. I'll sort out the door then.'

Having locked both back doors, I made my way through the house and returned to the lounge room.

While the tenacious banging of the woodshed door added its drama to this moonless night's wailing wind and driving rain, a vehicle crawling towards the woodshed added another.

On the far side of the woodshed from the house, only the vehicle’s tail and parking lights showed as it moved along a muddy track.

The lights went off when the vehicle stopped as a cigarette glowed in the dark interior of the Holden, on the driver’s side of the front bench seat.

I don't know whether it was after I checked the doors or before I completed those tasks that the car parked behind the woodshed. Or whether it was before or after I entered the lounge-room that a figure slunk out of the garage. Or what I would have done if I had known. But I knew how to put wood on the fire.

Which I did after I entered the lounge room and took a couple of pieces of split she-oak timber from the wood box. The lidless dark blue metal, wood box stood a few feet away from the grate, below one end of the mantlepiece.

After I put the wood on the fire, I stood in front of it, warming my hands, and cursed pervy blokes.

Who either shone a spotlight through the windows, unsettling the house's night time tranquility. A blazing beam that sent scary, grasping shadows jumping out of corners and up along the walls.

Or a couple of their utes paid us a visit on Saturday mornings.

Mornings when dawn's warm rays shooed the last of the night-time shadows from the house and a clear sky presaged a rain free weekend.

As the vehicles approached the house, they drove fast along a dirt road. The unpaved road that ran past the house on the other side of the front fence.

Crammed into the back of the utes, amongst dogs, and camping gear were blokes.

Boofy blokes who stood up and yelled, 'we've come to check out the chicks!' while the vehicles slowed down as they drove past the house.

Raucous laughter accompanied the chucking of scrunched up beer cans at the house as engines revved up. Clouds of choking dust drifted towards the house as the blokes sat down and the utes sped away.

It never made for a comfortable morning as I and my housemates, before Anne's arrival, Jane, Samantha, and Clare, sat on the edge of the front verandah.

I stopped drinking a cup of tea as my hands trembled at the thought of the ute stopping at the front gate and the blokes piling out. A thought that scared me shitless.

On those Saturday mornings, reflections on the beauty that lay around and above the farmhouse suffered a blow, replaced by anxieties, clanging rhythms.

Beauty like rose-pink fluffy clouds strolling across the heart-aching-blue dome of the sky and Pied Currawongs caroling from the trees beside the house. Or the piping call of a Pied Butcher Bird and the aromas that ambled out from the flowers of the grevillea and banksia plants growing in the front yard.

Yellow and red blossoms swaying in a cool, soothing breeze as brown and yellow thornbills and bright blue wrens chirped and hopped their way around the flowers.

Thoughts of the beautiful things in life, however, that were difficult to conjure up while I gazed into the lounge room fire after Anne had gone to bed. Because my mind was buzzing with other matters while I held my hands towards the blaze.

I dropped my hands to my side and took a deep breath as I turned away from the fire and returned to my seat.

After I sat down and looked towards the journal on the table, the buzziness in my mind focused on the relationship between Bill and Clare and other similar fucked-up relationships.

Like the ones I heard about during my off-duty hours while working at the asylum in Sydney. Time often spent in women's groups where we shared life stories.

Life stories that sometimes recounted abusive, predatory incestuous relationships with the male members of a family.

Stories that resonated with me because of my father's sexual abuse of me and my two younger sisters.

An abuse that only ended when I and my sisters, as teenagers, left the family home about a decade before I started working at the asylum.

Abuse that went to another level when my father prostituted us out as children to churchmen who made sizeable donations to the church where my father preached.

Having brought this nastiness to mind, I wondered whether Clare knew Mick, the bloke who, with Bill, raped Anne in that Single Room in Ward 24. The bloke who partnered with Bill to run the brothel in the derelict asylum ward.

I therefore went to Clare's room to peruse her journals, searching for any mention of Mick.

Turning on the light, I rummaged through the dressing table drawers where Anne found the journal I had been reading.

There were several similar sized journals to the one I had read in different drawers of the dresser.

I thought it was odd Clare had numbered each journal in large Roman Numerals on the inside front cover.

I shrugged as I finished flicking through the journals and put them back in sequence according to that numbering.

As I discovered later, that was an error.

At the bottom of one drawer was a framed photograph of three people.

I recognised the person at the centre of the photo as Clare.

And, while writing this journal in the 21st Century, I re-tell the encounter with the bloke standing to Clare's right in that photo. A guy with his arm around her waist whom I saw decades after I searched through Clare's dressing table at the farmhouse.

A bloke who walked past my table at Macca's as I ate a meal after getting new tyres put on my car. Tyres from a workshop with a pasty faced slimeball behind a counter when I visited friends in England.

A bloke who drove out of Macca's carpark in a car reminiscent of vehicles I saw in movies depicting England in the 1950s and '60s.

A bloke I recognised in the photo as a male nurse from the asylum. Clare's brother 'Bill.'

The bloke to Clare's left in the photo was Mick.

Now, returning to that time in the farmhouse: I almost dropped that photo, however, as, startled, I looked up as the sound of a motor vehicle reverberated through the house.

I shoved the photo into the drawer, closed it, and turned off the light.

Leaving Clare's room, I raced to the lounge.

I picked up a torch from the round wooden table and put out the lights.

I flicked on the torch and strode towards Anne's room.

However, I met her coming out of her room as the beam from a car's headlights blazed through the lounge room curtains.