The First Week by Margaret Merrilees Page A

was visible under the book. Without thinking she pulled it towards her, then hesitated. Keep out of my room. But it would be a long time before it was Charlie’s room again.
    Marian picked the photo up and held it away from her, straining to see it without her glasses. Mac? And Brian. They were in the bush. Rocks behind them and scrub, a long vista. The Stirlings?
    She tucked it back into the book, straightened the cover and rolled over onto her back. The room was dim. Ros must have pulled the curtains. No, not curtains. An old flannelette sheet was draped across the window, light glowing through it from outside.
    It was daytime then.
    Her watch said four thirty so she must have slept for hours. Or a whole day? Was it still the same day? It seemed to have gone on for a very long time.
    Her eyes were gritty and her body unwashed. When she raised her arms there was a strong whiff of armpit. The smell of hard yakka. All very well on the farm, not in the city. She thought with regret of her bag in the station locker. At least Charlie would have a towel, surely?
    Rolling off the mattress onto her knees she levered herself upright and stood with a grunt. The room swung and settled.
    She moved cautiously across the cluttered floor to the window and lifted the sheet. A piece of string hung from a nail at one side, for tying the curtain back. It was Charlie all over, makeshift but efficient.
    The room was untidy, which wasn’t like Charlie. He might not bother to clean, but he was orderly with his few belongings.
    Used to be.
    A set of shelves next to the door had been emptied out on to the floor. Clothes and books were piled higgledy piggledy, as though it had been done in a great hurry. Tatty blue jeans tangled with a pile of tee-shirts, and a book called Teleological Ethics: An end to right and wrong , lay on top of a pair of jocks. Other socks and jocks were piled on a bundle of loose papers. The folder that might once have held them lay to one side, face down.
    Under the papers lay a small leather-bound book. With an odd jolt of recognition Marian bent down and picked it up. Holy Bible . It was hers, her old Sunday School Bible. There it was on the first page. Marian Bradley. Good Behaviour. How many years since she’d held this in her hands? And how on earth had Charlie got hold of it?
    Replacing the book on the pile, she stood back and looked at the mess. What had he been looking for?
    On the back of the door hung a grimy towel. Reluctantly she lifted it down.
    Opening the door she heard noises coming from the back of the house and made her way in that direction. A kitchen. Ros. Already the girl’s soft face and pink curls looked familiar. But the young man was a stranger. Did he live here too? What did he know about all this?
    Silence fell as Marian stopped in the doorway.
    â€˜Could I have a shower?’
    Ros jumped up. ‘Oh yeah. I’ll show you.’
    The bathroom was back up the hall next to Charlie’s room.
    â€˜Do you need anything?’ Ros asked, looking doubtfully at the greyish towel in Marian’s hand.
    Marian blushed. ‘I found this on the back of Charlie’s door.’
    â€˜Oh yuk.’ Ros stopped, embarrassed. ‘I mean, I’ll get you a clean one.’
    She reappeared from the front room and gave Marian a yellow towel, worn thin, but clean. ‘Give me Charlie’s,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it. He’s not very big on using the washing machine,’ she added apologetically.
    Marian smiled and the girl’s eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. ‘I shouldn’t say that, I guess. I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with him.’
    â€˜It’s all right. I know he’s not very domestic. I probably didn’t bring him up right.’
    But she hadn’t brought him up to kill people.
    She put out her hand to the doorframe to steady herself.
    â€˜I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Ros, and fled.
    The bathroom