Today, seven years ago, was the day I realised that Ray had died. Well… I knew without knowing, because it wasn't common knowledge at the time. It’s a long story. You can read about that moment here:
Had a roadtrain driven past the Sandstone Pub at that exact moment, it would have crumbled as it hit the reverberating orb enveloping my empty carcass standing on the footpath. The echo of that realisation remains the loudest signal to have ever sounded inside my skin, washing all other thought and matter away as it swept through: A gong to signify the end – it was Ray; Ray is dead – but, in reality it was to herald the beginning.
GONG! feet and mind left the ground, and would prove to never touch Earth again in the way the world presented itself a mere few days prior: stable, reliable, and predictable. Moments like that change your life. It has been seven years, with that echo reverberating through everything I have done since, up to this very day.
It feels necessary to say the following, because I have recently heard some of your thoughts: Everyone goes through love and loss, birth and death, the ebbs and flow of life. Why don’t you just . . .move on with your life? Stop sending us these stories...why not write about puppies or roasted chickens or the joyful art of slamming fingers in car doors, or something else equally as awesome and far more enjoyable to write about instead?
Yes, well-meaning person. Yes. That would be lovely. Thank you. But first, hear me out. This is not my first rodeo. The list of people I have lost over the years is very long and most unfair. Ray’s first child when I was twelve. An older half-brother at eighteen. My very much loved sister-in-law a decade ago. Many, many, way too many respected friends and colleagues scattered to the wind in the years between. And then, last year . . .the Matriarch and the Princess of my family on my wife’s side, both within the space of just two moons. That final loss, the Princess, was without doubt the most devastating loss of all time. The reverberation of that moment will sound for eternity.
So yes, well-meaning reader, let me say, I hear you. But, here’s also what I’ve learned to be the only common thread for what people crave after the loss of a loved one, no matter the abysmal level: Prevention. Protection. Peace. Unfortunately you only get those three Ps through experience, and by then it's too late for yourself. That is how and why the standard grief process evolved: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. And the three Ps have ultimately spurred road safety, scientific research, and the modern medical fraternity.
Therein lies the difference with this particular Man in the HOLE (MitH) case, well-meaning person. The three Ps, the end of the standard grief cycle, can only ever be hoped achieved via justice in Ray and Jennie’s deaths. Prevention – ensure a similar scenario won’t happen again; Protection – their murderer, and similar subhumans removed from the community; Peace – for Ray and Jennie’s families, and for their own souls’ rest.
Drumming up public support can only assist in achieving these goals. I am doing my bit in that regard, by utilising my particular skillset – those competencies first taught to me by Ray himself.
You’re welcome.
Now, shall we move on? This is supposed to be a blog post. I have a blog to write.
Much has happened already this Autumn. Firstly, we received our latest update from the DPP, stating they hoped to provide a "more substantive response in 4-6 weeks", following our letter sent to them last November. We still await that response, despite the 6-week-mark now having passed… Secondly, on the same day yet in no conceivably related way, my octogenarian mother, Clarabelle, went bum-up in her home and was taken to hospital with a broken hip.
A great piece of life advice randomly received in the last few years came from a mate who works with adults in a teaching capacity. In a nutshell, it goes that when someone loses focus or snaps, the best way to get them to refocus is to deal with that person as if they were at the same age they were when a major trauma happened in their life. Apparently this is because people get stuck, psychologically, in moments, therefore revert to that mentality whenever they “lose their shit”.
In psychology, this is known as ‘regression’.
For example, Clarabelle has been causing absolute chaos inside the WA hospital system for the last six weeks, completely “losing her shit” at any health service provider above a janitorial level of experience. My father Keify, brother Mal, and I have been in crisis control for the entire duration, and it seems will be continuing for a long time yet. Considering now the ‘regression’ theory, I know for a fact that Mum’s major life trauma, which has shaped her entire life and the lives of everyone she has encountered since, happened at age six. Which is perfectly symbolic of her current regression – acting with all the maturity and obeisance of a child being force-fed gruel.
So, how should she be dealt with, to get her to refocus?
Well how the hell would I know, I didn’t have kids, because knowing I have a mind like the demonic-spawn of my mother’s ensured I never wanted to procreate!
Just kidding. You give Clarabelle a bow and arrow or better yet a gun, so she can play cowgirls and indians with the nursing staff, hiding behind commodes and zimmer frames, picking them off like bunnies in a barrel.
What? That’s what six year old girls do nowadays, right?
That same friend who described the regression theory once also told me that the key to writing a good yarn is the same process as in all artistic endeavours, including his (theatrical arts), in that one must "show and not tell". Hence why in most posts on this here Man in the HOLE (MitH) investigation the details are presented in such a manner – colouring in the shades of grey to display the story technicolour in your mind. This is a difficult process, especially given that most of the time I would rather just shout black and white, Ray and Jennie were f–king MURDERED by that SOGF! Throw the book at him! Alas, that approach would do nobody any good, and many of you would quickly up and leave.
The above paragraph encapsulates the fundamental difference between pages found within Substack’s vast collection, including (I hope) this MitH investigation, and those listed elsewhere which are generally referred to as “blogs”. If you happened to be wondering… Show vs Tell.
In saying that, I have been procrastinating over part of the MitH story for weeks now, attempting in many many drafts how to show it, and not just tell. Every draft has been a fail. And, for the purposes of this newsletter, which those purposes should by now be self-evident (justice, if you were wondering) I can only hope you understand that we have places to go rather promptly (to justice, if you were still wondering). So, I have decided to now tell rather than show in this post for the sake of the ticking clock. Sorry about that. It would take a whole book to complete properly, which I’ll therefore do so later on. Promise.
Last fortnight, whilst buried head-deep inside one of those failed drafts, I received a ‘strongly worded’ message from a close acquaintance of Maximus Whikser, followed by a lengthy phone conversation. You may recall that Maxie weighed quite heavily in the Events Leading Up To 22nd March 2015 post, and was painted rather antagonistically. This well-meaning person was outraged at how I had described Maxie’s relationships.
Ignoring the somewhat unsurprising fact that people hide in the shadows with fire and swords at the ready, reading every single article without so much as acknowledging, then spring to offence at the slightest hint of perceived indignation; what disturbed me the most was that this person still had the temerity to assert their belief that somehow their loss was more important.
“Curious that you were rarely mentioned,” she said, in the context of their decade-long relationship with Ray and Jennie, “and neither your mum or dad…”
“Do you need to ask why?” I responded to that particular statement. Apparently that answer should have been a resounding yes, because despite a twenty-nine minute phone call, I’m absolutely sure the message was still lost.
I have come to a realisation of a few things these last couple of years. One of such is that people will always assume you to be the same person you were when they first met you. You cannot expect to change their perspective, ever. I will always either be: the baby brother, an awkward teenager, a conflicted younger man, an eccentric older man, a nihilist, an industrialist, or various shades of grey between, depending on how and when we met – for example.
The same I’m sure could be said about Ray, and Jennie.
However, the simple fact is that six weeks, or a year, or a decade of superficial layers of life experience can not and do not penetrate the core of a lifetime.
But, don’t worry, well-meaning person. Trust me, I too will be an antagonist in the overall tale of The Man in the HOLE. The protagonists are few and far between. You can count on that. And if you put your fire and swords away for awhile, you will eventually read about it too, when I can overcome the perpetual failed drafts.
Let me offer you a teaser.
There was a very raw moment in life for me a couple of years ago. I was standing on Cundie Hill, overlooking the land that I grew up in and on. My father, Keify, and I had had a very overdue discussion about family history that day. Perhaps the first time he had been honest in that regard. And, for his reasons, perhaps rightfully so. A discussion that will remain between father and son, for now. Afterward, I drove up to Cundie Hill, to breathe deeply while digesting what was learned that day.
Cundie Hill. If you haven't seen it, it is smack bang in the middle of the WA Wheatbelt’s flat earth. Like a pimple on an adolescent’s face that hasn't yet popped. Growing up there, I liked to imagine Cundie Hill had formed by everyone in the country sweeping all their secrets and mysteries under the rug. After leaving the country for city life, there was more than one time I’d wish the earth really was flat, so that all I’d really need to do to fix everything was to give it a good hard stomp on the outer edge so everything falls off and we could then start again.
These days I’m not entirely sure I was wrong at all, on either account.
Ray, Mal, and I come from a long lineage of rockhounds, hunters, trappers, bushies, roughnecks, barmaids, and those who went to war and didn't come home. There is a certain naivety inherent growing up in the country, as my family did. You take people at their word, and certainly do not expect villainous intentions. When the earth surrounding you is a flat and seemingly infinite expanse, there are no limits. It seems like there will always be more.
So, when someone offers you a 'get rich quick' scheme, it seems that nothing could possibly go wrong.
After that last encounter, I happened to hear from a MitH follower who touts herself as a clairvoyant. Believe what you will about such abilities, I too have reservations, however the timing and what was sent could not have been better placed.
“I have to say, Ray doesn't have any animosity towards you, no matter what happened between you, he doesn't have any of that stuff in his heart now. I can see him quite clearly, I can see the admiration in his eyes, infact even a bit a water in his eyes. He knows what you are doing, and as best as he can he's trying to help you...” she said (name withheld). “Let go all the stuff from the past, that is only your own guilt kicking in, it is what it is … because while you beat yourself up about the last 20 years and what you missed, means wasting energy on something you can't change ... That energy could go a long way in solving this case so they can rest in peace...”
It was exactly what I needed at the time, so . . .thank you, well-meaning reader. Thank you.
Another notable thing that happened recently: I was yet again neck-deep inside the latest failed draft last week and looking for a distraction, when the Book of Faces suggested a True Crime group to join – Cold Cases Australia. I posted a link and description for what this MitH Substack newsletter was all about, then promptly forgot about it while digging more plot holes. The next day, I got this message from one of the admins:
“Heya i am an admin in cold cases australia - we decided to decline your post & feel it would be best you start your own group as it is a blog”
A “blog”? And, they have 79,000 members, who by all accounts are interested in cold cases, which the MitH seems to be precisely one of those…yet they won’t link our cold case? And, “Heya” as the salutation prior to an insult? I was much confusion. So I responded: “Hi [admin], thanks for letting me know. I'm sure you must understand that I'm sharing the ‘blog’ to attempt get public support for my brother's murderer to be brought to justice. Other groups have not replied as you have. Given the numbers in your group l'd hardly feel that to be too much of an ask. But, that is your decision. I do feel it necessary to point that out though - it is hardly a ‘blog’, and it feels insulting to say the least for it to be called such.”
Later I found a member’s post about Ray and Jennie’s missing persons’ report inside the Cold Cases Australia group, so I added the MitH link and spiel to that comment section. The admin then promptly blocked me. So, now this cold case seems forever excluded from the 79,000 member-strong Cold Cases Australia audience. And I’m still scratching my head over why…
Anyhow, I thought it best to clarify. This particular post is a “blog” post. You can tell by the way it is told, and not instead shown. I hope to not ever need to do one again. In future, I shall show and not tell.
But, I guess sometimes some people simply need to be TOLD, too.
And Momma always taught us: If you have nothing nice to say, speak LOUDly!
Thank you for reading, well-meaning person. I’m off to hopefully complete that draft. Here’s to the DPP soon green-lighting momentum toward the three Ps. Cheers.
