Moss longed to absolve him but knew she was impotent. He had taken the blame not only for the accident but for the girl’s whole sorry life. She took his hand, which lay lifeless on the table.
‘It’s okay, Finn. It’s okay.’ Knowing it was far from okay. She was beginning to understand the emergence of Finn and why he had decided to leave Michael behind.
They finished their pasta in silence; heads bowed over their bowls, staring down at the roughly chopped vegetables, the pasta, the mince. Cutlery and glasses chinked softly, and at one stage Finn cleared his throat. Moss looked up expectantly, but he continued to ply his fork with grim tenacity.
Outside, a dog barked and a woman’s voice called out, ‘Come on, boy. Dinnertime.’ A door slammed. A car drove past. The clock chimed the half-hour and ticked away another five minutes before Finn put down his glass and picked up the thread of his story.
‘By the time I thought to offer to pay for her funeral,’ he said, ‘she’d already been buried. It happened within a fortnight. I went to the State Trustees, but they could only direct me to the gravesite.’
He saw it all again—the discarded chip packet at his feet, the rough yellow mound, the iron fence that drew a line between the living and the dead. He had picked up the chip packet and, for want of anything else to do with it, put it into his pocket. He should have brought flowers. He would always regret that. But he was a relatively young man, unfamiliar with mourning traditions, and he only thought of flowers when he saw them adorning other, luckier graves.
He absently picked up the mug Moss set down in front of him. Sensing his distress, she cleared the table and poured the tea in tactful silence.
‘It was just a pile of dirt, Moss. Did you know that they bury the poor and the nameless in common graves? There she was, lying in an unmarked grave—with strangers. There was no name—just a number. At least they didn’t put Amber-Lee on the grave. She deserved some dignity.’ He stood up and began to pace the room, his tea slopping on the floor as he emphasised his point. ‘Amber-Lee! It was such a silly name: a young girl’s fantasy name.’ He shook his head. ‘You know what I wanted—want—most of all? To be able to put her real name on a headstone. It would have been an ordinary name. She was very ordinary, really. Brown hair, Brenda had said. Average height and build. No distinguishing features.’ Finn recited the familiar litany. ‘She was a Kerry, perhaps, or Maria or Susan. Maybe Linda or Margaret or Jackie. But not Amber-Lee. I know that for sure.’
‘Do you know anything about the funeral?’
‘No. I was still hiding myself away and no-one thought to tell me. The girl from the State Trustees’ office told me that they sent a junior officer as a witness. A Father Leo from St Jude’s Mission performed the service. There were three indigents buried that day. The service was ecumenical. I don’t even know if she was a Christian. The priest told me that Senior Constable Patterson was there, in civvies. Apparently it was his day off, but he went anyway. Brenda didn’t come. She was the only friend Amber-Lee had, but she didn’t come.’
Perhaps Brenda feared a similarly lonely end, Moss thought. But she didn’t say so. There was enough pain in this story already.
5
Finn and Saint Benedict
IN THE WEEKS PRIOR TO the inquest, Michael prayed that someone would come forward to claim the girl they called Amber-Lee. He was in a kind of fever of expectation and needed action to ward off the thoughts that jostled so urgently for his attention. He felt compelled to walk, and spent whole days roaming the streets around the area where the accident happened. He returned home each day exhausted but set off again the next morning. He searched the faces of passers-by 74 in the vain hope of finding a clue to Amber-Lee’s identity, and he finally took to accosting mortuary staff as they left at the end of their shift. That couple who just came out—were they there to see her? Has there been any response to the latest photo fit? Were they sure they had checked for any distinguishing marks? He lurked around the Fitzroy police station, offering suggestions to the officer in charge of the case.