rest of the day dragged terribly with only the memory of his words to carry her through until he eventually called at eleven that night. She had been watching the phone like a hawk since early evening, worrying that it was getting so late, but then she remembered the delayed start and the distance to be covered. No doubt Mrs. Teasdale and a few of the others would want to stop at every available ladies room on the way. Jason confirmed as much, this and the utter shambles which had ensued when they were forced to make camp after dark with only the courtesy lights of the caravan park and a few strategically-placed car headlamps to guide them.
Once he'd hung up, Estelle sat alone, brooding. If only she could have been there to share in the confusion and experience the excitement of his nearness, even in the midst of bedlam. But her time would come.
Friday was the longest day imaginable. She spoke to Jason for ten minutes in the morning - another surprise call - and was decidedly miserable after he'd hung up because she wasn't sure when she would next hear his voice. It could be as early as that same evening, assuming Michael failed to show up at the airport.
That being the case, she would ring Jason at the caravan park to give him the 'good' news and confirm that she would be leaving for Kalbarri on Sunday. He would argue, of course, saying that there was no reason for her to stay, not with Michael as-good-as gone. But Estelle had decided something. It was necessary to actually see him leave. She had to be at Perth Domestic, watching from the safety of the crowd as George Truscott boarded the Sydney flight, taking the misery which was Michael with him. It was the only certain way of ending the nightmare.
But that was ‘if’. For now, it had to be played by the original rules, the same way it always was when Michael flew in from overseas – even though he already had. Estelle was ready to leave for the airport in good time and, although still very nervous, she had managed to summon a sense of anticipation. Then she heard the phone. The initial thought was to let it ring, but, unlikely though it was, it could be Jason with a few words of much needed comfort and support. She snatched up the receiver.
The voice wasn’t Jason’s. Immediate disappointment regressed to disquiet as she recognised the caller. It was Keith Dunbar, Michael's business partner. The man was a creep of the first order, self-opinionated and insincere with a voice to match. He was to be regarded as dangerous, perhaps more so than Michael because much about him was unknown. He was certainly the last person she needed to talk to. As it happened, he just wanted to know if Michael was still arriving on the scheduled flight. There seemed no harm in telling him. In fact, there was a possibility that his call was instigated by Michael to check up on her. So, she feigned pleasantness and was in the midst of explaining that she was about to leave for the airport when the phone went dead - not so much as a 'thank you', or 'sorry to have troubled you'! Estelle was then forced to sit for a while to rid herself of the shakes.
She left the house late, tense at first, becoming calmer into the drive, feeding on the reassurance that Michael wouldn't be there. This was merely going through the motions, a charade for the benefit of whoever might be watching, a parting gift for Michael to ensure his master-plan went off without a hitch. By the time she reached the airport, the con-job was complete and a girlish anticipation was taking hold.
She parked, then walked casually into the terminal, playing the part as rehearsed by gazing wide-eyed at the TV flight monitor, displaying a look of eagerness tempered with that brand of anxiety which any loving wife who mistrusted aircraft would show.
Once the plane had landed, she moved to the appropriate arrival gate, knowing full well that at least ten minutes would elapse before the first of the passengers cleared customs and began to filter through. She eased her way to the front, every so often standing on tip-toe to get a better look at the new arrivals.
It would be necessary to wait until the last had disappeared into the night before painting the finishing touches of the concerned, dutiful-wife portrait. First would come the anxious enquiries regarding a husband who had failed to arrive as scheduled. To this would be added growing distress with a dab of anger for moral support. The situation might even call for a tear or two during the perplexed shuffle to the car. Underlying this, and hopefully undetected by anyone, would be a bubbling euphoria waiting for the right moment to burst free. It would be such an amazing experience, a___!
"Oh, My God! Michael!!!" she heard herself whispering.
He was lumbering through the gate towards her, weaving a somewhat unsteady line with his trolley which was as much a means of transporting his Italian leather suitcase and bag of duty-free’s, as it was support for his sad personage. Michael was undeniably home, and drunk as usual.
Estelle felt faint. This wasn't possible! He couldn't be on his original flight - he was already here! Michael seemed as unaware of this fact as he was oblivious of most of his surroundings. He did, however, spot Estelle and acknowledged her presence with a nod of his head and a scowl which said: "Good, you're here. Just as well."
She extended a limp wave and a smile which quivered at the extremities. Everything was going wrong. The wonder cure had failed and the disease survived unabated. There was nothing left but to go with the flow and, maybe later, something might occur which would help to salvage the ruins of what had been a good plan. Although unknown to him, the treachery she continued to foster brought on a wave of irrational guilt. In a rather hasty act of penance, she attempted to push his trolley for him, only to be repulsed by an irritated shove and a sour grunt.
They continued the trudge across the parking area, a funeral march in slow, moody silence. If nothing else, it confirmed he was tired, a small bonus. That might help to mask his awareness of her dismay and if he slept all the way home as he generally did, it would give her time to digest the indigestible.
At the car, Estelle unlocked first the passenger door, then the rear door on the same side and swung it open. Michael glared. "Why'd you do that? Do you want me to sit in the back, for Christ's sake?" Although his speech was slurred, his indignation was clear enough and it was very obvious that he was primed for an argument.
A cloud of spirit-laden breath wafted over her and she tried not to recoil visibly. "No, Michael. It's for your case."
"What's the matter with the boot, then?"
Wasn't it typical? Any other time...! "Nothing, Michael. It's just that you always put your case on the back seat."
"Well, a man can change his mind, can't he?"
Her heart was beating its way up into her throat. "Of course you can." If he sees my case, he'll start asking questions. Then he'll probably go berserk. My only chance is to do it myself. She stepped up to him and bent to take his case.
"What'd'you think you're doing?"
"Putting your case in the boot where you said you wanted it. You must be tired__"
"Don't you mean pissed? That's what you mean, isn't it?" He slapped her hand away, picked up the case, heaved it effortlessly onto the back seat and slammed the door. "Bloody woman!" he snarled as he flung himself onto the front passenger seat. "Just get in and drive!"
Dazed and confused, Estelle was unable to think clearly and drove automatically, drawing on the experience of frequent trips, mostly the same as this one. Michael seemed unaware of her pre-occupation as he continued to berate and insult her. She tried to respond in ways that wouldn't aggravate him further because she was already in enough trouble. God only knew what would befall her when he discovered his suitcase and passport were missing!
It would be comforting to believe that he expected them to have already been collected as arranged – by Keith Dunbar, probably. If so, he might just check to make sure, then collapse on the bed and sleep
