Darkening Skies by Bronwyn Parry

the quagmire of feeling on to the solid ground of planning and practical needs. There would be plenty to deal with: the workers’ compensation inspector, house-insurance assessor, arson investigators and safety inspectors as well as the police questions about both the fire and his confession. The days ahead would not be easy. And the media would have hold of the story by morning, relishing another dramatic turn to the news of his resignation.
    The road began a zigzag around some old property boundaries and the headlights shone on a large old gum tree, dead branches stark against the black sky.
    ‘It was there, wasn’t it?’ Jenn broke the silence as he shifted down a gear to negotiate the next curve.
    ‘So I was told.’ On hisrelease from hospital he’d stopped there, seen the rut dug into the dirt by the wheels, the scar on the tree, the broken stump of the low branch that had speared through the windscreen.
    ‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, turning to face him, ‘is why Gillespie is making these accusations now about you being the driver, after eighteen years? And why you believe him?’
    Mark kept his eyes on the road. ‘He didn’t make any accusations. I had to drag it from him. When he came back to town a few months ago it was the first time I’d seen him since the accident. He never said a word about it. But the information that came out then about the Flanagans and their mafia connections, about the corruption and coercion that’s infested this district for years, got me thinking about the inconsistencies. It haunted me, Jenn, and I don’t know if it’s the shadow of a memory or just my subconscious at work, but I kept dreaming about swerving to avoid a kangaroo. When Gillespie walked out of witness protection a week ago and came back here, I confronted him about it.’
    ‘What makes you think he’s not lying? He gains from this, and you lose.’
    ‘I believe him because it makes more sense than the official story.’ He shifted back up a gear as the road straightened again, and the words to answer her question formed into logical sense. ‘Jenn, I was barely eighteen years old and I’d had that car for less than a week. Paula was with me. What eighteen-year-old guy with a girl to impress lets someone else drive his new car? I know I tried to be a decent person, but I wasn’t a bloody saint.’
    ‘Do you really have no memory of it?’
    Ghost Hill rose ontheir left and it might as well have been between them.
Do you really have no memory of it?
They’d asked him that repeatedly at the media conference this morning, suspicious, eager to find any hint of a lie.
    He couldn’t read her expression in the darkness. ‘Are you asking as a journalist, or as an old friend?’
    ‘Does it matter?’ she countered. ‘Are the answers different?’
    ‘No, they’re not different.’ Her scepticism didn’t surprise him. They hadn’t spoken in eighteen years; he’d never had a chance to explain. She’d gone by the time he returned home from hospital, her only farewell a note in a ‘Get Well’ card. ‘I don’t remember any of it,’ he said. ‘The accident and the few days before it are gone. The doctors said that they weren’t laid down in my long-term memory, so I’ll never get them back. I don’t remember my eighteenth birthday. I don’t remember—’ He risked a quick glance away from the road to make eye contact with her and made his second confession for the day. ‘Jenn, I don’t remember getting together with Paula, although everyone tells me we did. I don’t understand how or why, because although I was always fond of Paula, what I do remember is you and me. I know we were young, but our friendship was important to me then and if I hurt you, I’m truly sorry.’
    She didn’t respond. The road stretched ahead into the night, the rear-vision mirror black. No, not much point in looking back, it was past and done with and there was only the narrow path to move forward on now,