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But there was a conflict—a private conflict that sat in the head of one person.
A boy told his father a story once. The boy told his dad that a man at church wasn’t nice to him. What do you mean, son? Did he do something to you?
The boy was surprised by the attention his dad gave him when he told this lie. The boy was even more surprised how his dad put his arm around and told him it was okay to tell Dad what he did.
The boy just said it wasn’t nice.
The father made an assumption about what happened. And he made another assumption that no one in church would believe his son, so he would take things into his own hands. He knew God understood these things.
The boy continued to tell stories. His father loved his stories; he always showed his son attention and affection when he told him these stories, but that was the only time. The stories stopped when something inside the boy told him it wasn’t right to tell lies. His dad went back to his old ways when the stories stopped. No more attention, no more affection.
But a seed of revenge had already been planted in the father’s heart.
Chapter 3
AFTER THE VISIT TO the mortuary and a number of police interviews, focus turned to funeral planning—not something Aaron enjoyed. Celebrating a life, they called it. Tears flowed as they went through photos that could be used as part of the celebration.
It was Thursday. The funeral was scheduled for the coming Monday. Aaron finally was able to surface and take a breath. He borrowed his mum’s Holden Cruze and drove to Eight Mile Plains. The traffic was starting to build up as businesses were beginning to close for the day, but he managed to arrive before peak hour traffic had fully taken hold.
He stood in the almost-vacant Department of Urban Movement outpost car park—either people finished early or not many people worked here. There was some police crime scene tape down in an area on the left. That must be where Dad’s body was found. Aaron thought of the autopsy report as he walked down to the crime scene—it indicated death caused by severe brain damage when his dad’s head hit the car park’s pavement.
Aaron felt numb and confused. The police had interviewed a number of people around the Bulimba area that lived along Dad’s normal jogging path. No one had seen anything. They did mention they were trying to locate the owner of a white van seen in the vicinity of the parklands.
Aaron’s thoughts bounced around in his head. Did Dad fall? Did somebody dump the body here? What was he doing here? What attracted him here? Aaron looked around. There were no buildings in close proximity except for one that had been damaged by fire, about fifty metres from where Dad was found. A burnt ash smell still lingered in the air. The police had told Aaron about the fire. They didn’t believe it was connected to his dad’s death, as it was a couple of days after. Aaron wondered if it was a mere coincidence, just an unrelated event in close proximity and time.
A car pulled up not far from him. He turned to see an elderly Asian couple getting out of it. The man nodded to Aaron and walked with an arm over the lady’s shoulder. Her body language showed grief—hunched, a figure of sadness. She had flowers in her hand. One flower dropped. They walked on towards two crosses planted in the ground near the entrance.
Aaron walked over and picked up the fallen flower. He walked towards them, tapped the man on the shoulder, and gave him the flower. The man nodded his thanks and laid the flower with the other ones. He turned and stared at Aaron.
“You are soldier?”
Aaron nodded. Why do people always say that? The haircut probably gave him away— short, light brown and neatly groomed—nothing unusual about it, styled so he could wear his military headdress. Probably his face too—a weathered look, a face of one who has spent considerable time outside. He also noted that English was not this man’s language of choice.
“You must find people who did this. It is murder. They up to something, something secret.”
Aaron could only nod. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, both men fighting their own grief.
The woman turned and looked up. Her face begged for mercy. “Please . . . help us, it not an accident.”
Aaron wasn’t sure what to say. “I’ll do my best.”
He left them to their grieving and headed back to his mum’s car. So caught up with his dad’s death, he hadn’t realised that deaths had resulted from the fire. Could they be related? It didn’t make sense. Were the deaths of the factory workers an accident?
He opened the driver’s side door. Leaning on the open door, he looked back at the grieving couple and then beyond them to the bushland surrounding the building. A branch from a tree had snagged a piece of paper, and it fluttered in the breeze. He thought of the autopsy report. Something puzzled him. The report mentioned that the little finger on Dad’s left hand was missing. Something he needed to check with his mum. Unless there was an accident recently that Aaron didn’t know about, he was sure Dad had all his fingers.
Aaron climbed into the car and thought of the couple. They also had to plan a funeral. He drove out of the car park and headed towards Mum's.
It was getting cloudy. Heaven was up there somewhere. So many people have told him that is where his dad now resides. Religious things confused him. He wasn’t quite sure why heaven was a better place. It seems everyone that dies goes to heaven. Mackenzie was the expert in this area, and one day he would get Mackenzie to explain it all to him.
<°)))><
Aaron watched Mum as she poured the cold water into a glass mixed with ice and lemon slices, and handed the drink to Aaron.
“Thanks, Mum.”
He studied her as she returned to her kitchen tasks. He shook the ice in the glass and listened to the ice clinking inside the glass. Mum seemed to be holding up well. She stood at the sink rinsing some plates, occasionally lifting her head to look out into the backyard. He swallowed hard as he thought of the number of years his Mum and Dad spent together, and now his mum was alone.
“You okay, Mum?”
She turned towards Aaron and came and sat down with him. She placed her hands on top of his. “I’m okay, love. I’ll always miss him. I know you find God things hard to understand, but my spirit is at peace. My journey continues and the Lord watches over me. I’ll join your dad one day, but that’s up to the Lord, and in the meantime I’ll work through the grieving process. The Bible tells me that those that mourn will be blessed and they will be comforted. What about you, son? Are you okay?”
It dawned on Aaron. It was now just him and his mother. “I’ll be okay, mum. The army has toughened me up and taught me some coping strategies.”
“I’m sure they need to do that. Your dad had some bad memories in his head, and they would get to him at times, mostly at night-time in bed. But we would sit up and pray, and that seemed to calm things. You just be careful they don’t toughen you up too much. You still need to be that sensitive boy we raised.”
Aaron smiled. “I’ll keep a check on that.”
“I had a phone call earlier from one of the investigators. They asked me a strange question. They wanted to know when your dad lost the little finger on his left hand. I said that’s news to me. Maybe it was part of the accident or whatever it was.”
“Maybe you’re right, Mum. It was in the autopsy report. Are you sure you don’t want to read it?”
“No. I’ll leave that stuff to you.”
Aaron didn’t want to elaborate on the missing finger—the report indicated no signs of an injury. It said the hand looked like it never had a little finger.
“Okay if I use the computer for a sec, Mum?”
