The scene

The golf course had already filled up with carts and players before the sun heated up. Dawn was dragging her steps on the last leg of her daily brisk walk along the outskirts of the golf course. It was a humid Saturday morning, late Spring, and she was already drenched in big fat sweat stains. They felt like ill-formed targets for the self-hatred she’d always had towards her block of lard body. Lately though she’d been turning her anger into motivation to exercise; however she could do without the smell of pollens, especially from the scarlet bottlebrush. The sound of her labouring breaths drew the attention of other walkers on the path. Just before they could work out where the wheezing noise was coming from, they saw Dawn’s legs turning into jelly, then heard a loud thud…

 

Why didn’t I call

Arash is the son of Persian immigrants from Iran. He is a Mechanical Engineer from Sydney. Since the 2014 Martin Place terrorist attack, he has become the subject of high security alert during his work travels. His backyard backs on to the national park where the body was discovered.

“Detective, uhm… I didn’t want to be the one to report a body near the vicinity of my backyard. I checked to make sure she was dead. If she had any sign of life, I would have called an ambulance straight away. I thought someone else would find her and report to the police. I ah…look at me! I just didn’t want to be an Arab to report a murder. I am over being stopped and searched at the customs because of my appearance. I am an Australian you know. Anyway..maybe I just watched too many crime series. I am sorry. I should have called you guys. My God the poor woman.”

 

Widow

She walks straight into the industrial loft showroom, searching for the rustic vintage teak study desk. The dark shaded timber furniture on display blend in with the red and burgundy floor rugs. They float on the dark metallic painted floor. It makes her feel claustrophobic and reminds her of the wake room at the funeral. Halfway into the showroom, she spots her desk standing next to a red Victorian Tiffany-Style floor lamp.

She races towards it ignoring the other shoppers and the enticing aroma from the coffee cart two metres to her right. The long drape of her moss skirt brushes the heels of her bare feet. She leans on the short edge of the desk, closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, then out. She tries to block the chattering customers, the professional tone of the friendly salespeople and the whining of coffee grinder. She lays her slender tanned hands on the rough surface of the rustic teak. Her half-moon shaped fingers are tracing the grains in delicate circles. She smells the sandalwood incense and hears the trickles of the Feng Shui water fountain. Then the void hits her and brings a lump to her throat.