Beautiful Monster Read Free

of chrysanthemums and lilies and roses and daisies and babies’ breath and violets and even tulips (because it’s the right season) that are gasping for breath and slowly dying.
    It galvanises her into action. The drooping flowers and fallen petals, brown on the edges like fingers curling inwards, she hastily gathers into plastic bags. She wipes a cloth over the surfaces, collecting dropped yellow and orange pollen. The vases—with their murky contents—she tips down the drain, holding her nose against the sewage smell of the water. She takes the garbage bags and flings them into the green bin, on top of the condolence cards that no one can bear reading. From then on, she turns the offerings away.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she says politely and kindly to their dearest of family and friends. ‘Mum’s allergies have just gone mental. We can’t have flowers in the house. But Mrs Mackadie at 22 or Mrs Olsen at 18 would love them. And they are just so beautiful. Thank you so much,’ she says to their bewildered faces. ‘I’ll let Mum and Dad know.’
    Tess doesn’t want to go to the funeral—but has to. She wears a dress that she hates forever after.
    She sits in the kitchen, waiting for her parents. Her mum has been up all night—Tess heard her as she drifted up and down the stairs.
    The phone rings. Tess stares at it for the longest time. The phone threatens with its possibilities—when did it become like that?
    â€˜Hello?’ she finally answers.
    It’s Senior Detective Roberts; he wants to speak to her father.
    Tess walks slowly up the stairs, carrying the detective’s breathing in her hand. Her parents’ bedroom door is ajar. Her mum sits at the dressing table, twisting her hair into a ponytail. She smiles at Tess through the reflection: Tess is amazed—she’s smiled.
    â€˜It’s the cop,’ Tess says. She knows it sounds rude but she doesn’t like saying his full title every time he calls. ‘He wants Dad.’
    â€˜I’ll take it,’ her mum says, holding out her hand.
    Tess is surprised but hands her the phone.
    â€˜Yes,’ she says, nodding at whatever is being said.
    Tess sits on the end of the bed, watching her mum on the phone. Her make-up is flawless. Her bed smells like lavender.
    â€˜He did?’ Her mum sounds incredulous and looks at Tess, smiling again.
    It makes Tess nervous.
    â€˜He’s turned himself in?’ She nods some more. ‘Thanks. It’s great news. I’ll tell Liam.’ She presses ‘end’ on the phone and stands.
    Tess’s dad walks in from the bathroom. ‘Who was it, Annelise?’ he asks, but her mum rushes at him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
    â€˜They’ve got him,’ she says—and she sounds so happy. ‘He’s turned himself in—him and his girlfriend.’
    Her dad swings her mum around, her skirt making a graceful arc in the air. It looks like they’ve just won Lotto.
    Tess picks at the doona cover. They’ve got the driver. But so what? What difference does it make—will it ever make? What difference would it have made even if the driver had stopped? Brodie was instantly brain-dead.
    Brain-dead, dead-head.

PART TWO

Chapter 3
    It’s dark at 5am. Tess stands at the car park’s edge, jigging on the spot to keep warm. Her tracksuit is zipped over her chin, and inside the fleece she feels her hot breath. She watches the boats already out on the river; they cut perfect Vs through the water as the rowers pull hard in unison.
    â€˜I’ll be back at six-thirty. I’m sorry, kitten,’ her dad says, squeezing her shoulder. ‘I’ll get your gear ready at home. What about your uniform?’
    She nods but doesn’t lift her eyes from the team now passing in front of her. They work perfectly together; their rhythm is impressive. ‘Yep, all done.’ She doesn’t want to look at him.