Do It Yourself

Marcus and Amy stood on the sidewalk, holding each other tight, pleasure and pride filling them as they watched the real estate agent stick the prominent “SOLD” on the billboard outside the house.

The advertisement for the house had included words like “quaint”, “potential” and “renovator’s delight”. The house lived up to expectation. The kitchen sported a rusted sink complemented by vinyl benchtops and cork floors. The bathroom featured brown and orange tiles glaring like strange sunspots. The living room wallpaper was a severe yellow, as if the house itself suffered from the alcoholic jaundice rumoured to have claimed the last resident of 19 Willow Lane.

Behind the house was the garden. Once a lovingly tended space, now a jungle of overgrown grape vines, yellow and white rose bushes in abundance, and a solitary, resilient red rose. Tenacious weeds found sunlight by stretching taller than the retaining brick walls that impeded sight of any of the neighbouring buildings. It made Marcus feel like he was on an archaeological exploration. It made Amy feel like she had entered The Secret Garden after it had been left for years to its own devices.

It was a fixer-upper, now Marcus’ and Amy’s fixer-upper, and they could not be more overjoyed.

***

There was a lot of work to do, but Amy and Marcus were not afraid of getting their hands dirty. While Amy earned their funds as an ER doctor, Marcus laboured diligently to drag the house into the twenty first century.

When Amy slept after tough night shifts, Marcus would tackle the garden. In the shadows cast by the excessive vegetation, equipped with his wide brimmed hat and hedge trimmer, he was an intrepid explorer in uncharted territory.

Marcus had his earbuds in, Metallica playing at an ear-splitting volume, fuelling him as he shovelled hard to clear the bed under the disorderly red rose bush. He felt the shovel vibrate as the metal blade hit resistance. He stepped on it, pushing down to break through the root, but the blade slid off. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled out an earbud, and scooped again. This time he heard the skid of metal on metal, the sound making him cringe.

Marcus knelt down, his gloved hands digging down into the old earth, clearing the debris until he saw a glint of silver. His fingers searched, finding the edges of the object and revealing a rusty toolbox. Marcus smiled, excited to find something more remarkable than the bits of broken glass, thick roots and hard rocks that were his previous discoveries.

Sitting unceremoniously with his legs splayed in front of him, Marcus pulled the toolbox on to his lap, and pulled off his soiled gloves. He flicked open the latches easily, then wrestled off the lid which was now warped and slightly dented.

The inside was mostly empty, except for a decrepit notebook. As Marcus picked up the book, a laminated rectangle fluttered out of the pages, settling on the upturned dirt. An older white male glared back at him from the antique driver’s license. The turn of the man’s mouth dredged up memories of Mr Higgins, a grumpy man who hated children and had no business being a primary school principal. Cruel, Marcus thought.

The card said, “Mr Andrew Faulkner”. His address was 23 Willow Lane.

Marcus flicked through the notebook, but there were no words in it. On each page, there was a letter or two scrawled at the top left hand corner, and an X in the centre. Around the X were various symbols – a heart, snowflakes, and suns, all in different places on each page. He would have guessed it was the random scribblings of a child, but the images were drawn with a steady hand, and the letters were written in capitilised cursive writing.

Now completely absorbed, Marcus brought the book and the driver’s license inside, flipping the license on to the dining table on the stack of abandoned mail. He pulled up a seat, still engrossed in finding a pattern in the pages. Grabbing a pen, he wrote the letters out on a discarded bill.

“H, LA, RA, LL, RL, C” he muttered. “HLARALLRLC? Well, that’s meaningless.”

If Faulker had written the book, maybe he could tell Marcus what it meant. Even though Faulkner didn’t look like the conversational type, Marcus could put up with that to know about the notebook and the house’s history.

He felt arms wrap around his neck. He hadn’t heard Amy get up, he was so distracted. “Hey babe, did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Good enough,” she said. “What are you reading?”

“Look at what I found in the garden. It was inside a toolbox, and there was this inside it too,” he said, indicating the driver’s license. She picked it up and examined it.

“Mr Andrew Faulker,” she read out. “Must have been part of the Faulkner Estate.” Marcus stared at her blankly, and she let out an exasperated sigh. “You know? The seller of the house? Geez, archaeologist you may be, but detective you are not.”

She pulled up a chair next to him. “I wonder if they want this stuff back,” she mused.

“If it’s an ‘Estate’, that means that everyone’s already died, right?” asked Marcus.

“Well, Andrew and his wife at least. But they could have had kids.” Amy whipped out her phone and did a quick search.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she mused. “Nothing on Andrew Faulker in this suburb, but there’s an obituary for Helen Faulkner from a few months ago. She must have been previous, er, occupant, the one with the drinking problem.” Amy had a weakness for neighbourhood gossip. As Marcus raised a judgemental eyebrow, Amy read from the obituary.

“‘Helen is survived by her daughter Michelle and her three grandchildren Lauren, Robert and Kate. Helen was preceded in death by Andrew Faulkner, her loving husband.’”

Her face was screwed up in concentration, a look Marcus adored. Her fingers flew over the phone. “Yes!” she said with satisfaction. “I got an email address for Michelle!”

“What? How did you do that so fast?” said Marcus.

Ignoring Marcus’ question, Amy said, “She works at a law firm in town, so her email’s on their website.” She grinned, and stuck up her hand. “Admit it, I nailed it."

He gave her reward, the contact of palms giving a resounding slap. “Never a doubt in my mind! Now you just need to work out this notebook,” he said, passing it over to her.

“A detective’s work is never finished. I’ll take a look at it once I send off an email to Michelle. Anyway, you better get cleaned up. I’ll get dinner ready.” Still typing, she swept into the kitchen, leaving an amused Marcus behind.

***

Marcus woke up with a start. The morning light was just beginning to peer around the curtain, and Amy was sound asleep.

Over dinner the night before, Amy and Marcus puzzled over the notebook.

“The letters definitely aren’t an anagram of anything,” Amy said. “If you hold it up to the light, the pictures don’t align. The heart is always in a different spot on every page too.”

When they went to bed, the notebook was still a mystery. Marcus’ sleep had been shallow, filled with images of those random letters, the heart, snowflakes and suns. But he felt like they had started to make sense.

Later, in his wakefulness, the connection slipped away. Frustrated, he rolled out of bed to get started on the day.

***

Amy was at home today and they would normally be working together inside, but Marcus decided to work on that rose bush. Perhaps it was because Marcus hadn’t finished clearing the garden bed, or perhaps it was because he was hoping for another garden discovery. Leaving him to his solitude, Amy cranked her favourite playlist on her speaker and energetically continued the infinite task of scraping off the hideous wallpaper.

Outside, Marcus continued his weeding and clearing, earbuds in again, but he didn’t hear the music or register his progress. His mind was still on the notebook.

One heart on each page. Some pages had four or five snowflakes or suns, some none, but there was always a heart. Then it all clicked into place.

He ran into the house at full pelt, startling Amy. “What’s happened?” Amy asked, scanning him for injuries.

“I did it! I worked it out!” said Marcus, dashing to the dining room. He came back to Amy, shoving the book at her. “Look! The heart is the red rose bush in the garden! You can work out which way you’re meant to face by the suns and the snowflakes – they’re the yellow and white roses!” A far-off look passed over him. “It’s like a treasure hunt in our own backyard, left to us across the decades…”

Amy laughed, closed the book and pushed it back to Marcus. “Ok Indiana, go start digging and have fun.”

“What? Don’t you want to find out what it is with me?"

“No thanks, you’re not getting me out of the air conditioning. Let me know when you’ve pulled up a gold bullion, or anything else that’ll pay our mortgage.” She gave him a patronising pat on the back. “But I’m very happy that you’re happy.”

“Ok ok, you’re taking the shine off it now. You stay in here, you spoilsport.”

Marcus marched back outside, notebook in hand, and opened the first page. At the top left was the letter H. “Alrighty,” he murmured, moving to the red rose bush. “If the heart is here, and there’s a sun there…” He looked up to verify the yellow rose bush. “Then that means the X is here!” He stomped over to the spot with his shovel, and dug deeply.

***

Amy’s music was cut off by her phone ringing. She put down her tools hastily and slipped it out of her pocket. On seeing the display declaring, “Unknown number”, she tried to stifle her irritation. She hung up and returned to her scraper.

The phone rang again. Thoroughly annoyed, she answered. “Hello, Amy speaking,” she said roughly.

“Amy? Hi, it’s Michelle here. You sent me an email - I think you’re living in my old family home?”

Amy’s mood changed from irritated to perky. “Oh hi Michelle, thank you so much for calling me! Sorry I hung up on you before, telemarketers you know.”

“Don’t worry, I totally get it. I would have just left a voicemail, but the whole thing with my dad is a bit of a long story so I really thought it would be easier to have a conversation. Is now a good time?”

“Oh yes, now is fine!” Amy replied, moving to settle on the chair, looking out the window at Marcus scooping the turf enthusiastically. Amy spoke quickly, flustered. “Like I explained in the email, we’ve moved in and we were clearing up the backyard and found your dad’s driver’s license. We didn’t know if you wanted it, or -”

“Oh please, no, I definitely don’t want it,” interrupted Michelle. Her voice had turned icy. Amy did not dare say anything, and there was a long pause, long enough for Amy to wonder whether the call had been disconnected. Marcus flung another shovel of earth to the side. Then Michelle spoke again.

“Sorry about that. While it’s all ancient history now, it’s still tricky to talk about sometimes,” said Michelle. Amy’s curiosity was piqued, and she spoke with her most gentle voice, normally reserved for terrified patients. “I completely understand. I would love to hear more about this place, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine too.” Amy waited, knowing Michelle would eventually fill the silence.

Michelle sighed. “I’m sure you’ll make that house your own beautiful place, but for me some of the memories aren’t great. When I was a kid, my dad hit my mum. All the time. I hated him, a lot. Had to become a lawyer so I could afford all the therapy sessions.” Michelle gave a dry laugh. Michelle continued to watch Marcus, who had stopped shoveling, and was on his hands and knees clearing out soil, a determined grin beaming through sweat.

“Anyway,” Michelle continued, “The last time I saw him was when I was ten. I tried to stop him from hitting Mum, and he threw me against a wall. It knocked me out. The next thing I know, I woke up in my bed and it was the next day. Mum had a big black eye, but Dad had left. She had kicked him out – apparently hurting me was the last straw. She must have threatened him with the cops, because I never saw him again. And good riddance.” Michelle took a deep breath. Amy didn’t speak.

Marcus was pulling something out of the ground. Not a toolbox. Something mottled grey, irregularly shaped. Amy saw an uncertain satisfaction on his face as he dislodged it.

“So that’s why I don’t want any of his stuff. Sorry if it puts a taint on the place. Honestly, we had some really great memories there too, even though Mum was a bit of a mess. Especially in the garden with all the roses. That was my Mum’s happy place – we used to joke it was the only time she was ever sober,” Michelle quipped.

Outside, Marcus’ face turned ashy, his excited look replaced with horror. He dropped what he was holding, and it rolled across the ground. Amy dimly registered the rounded bone, crown pushed inwards with cracks radiating outwards, like a spiderweb. It would have been a killing blow.

“I do appreciate you contacting me though, and if you happen to find anything my mother left behind, I’d really love it if you let me know.”

The phone slipped from Amy’s hand. The call disconnected.

The skull settled facing the window with a final lurid grin.