It had been like a slow, living death, a sleepless night of trying to reconcile anguish with disbelief, powerlessness with outrage. At dawn Laura reversed out of her driveway, dressed for work, and ready for a 7.00 am start. The white frill of the water’s edge seemed stark in the still grey dawn as a lone fisherman stood hopefully in the shallows, muffled early morning radio and the whisper of her car heater bringing some semblance of comfort.
The heels of her boots thumped along the corridor and into the staffroom where aromas of coffee and toast cheered her. That morning’s briefing meeting was short, outstanding emails and reports dealt with more speedily than usual. So by the time Laura rang Alex the mild sun had risen over hordes of Saturday morning shoppers scurrying or ambling along the pavement below. And she felt pleased to be here.
‘Hey. Just ringing to bring you up to date,’ Laura said once Alex had answered. ‘Noah told me about your latest flashback. How are you doing?’
‘OK, I guess,’ Alex said. ‘But I’ll be heaps better when you find the guy who attacked me.’
‘Noah and I interviewed Roger yesterday. He said he was there. That means your memory is returning.’
‘Yeah. Noah told Mum all that stuff. So, is Roger in jail?’ Alex said, sounding more like her stepfather than herself.
‘We have cautioned him. He’s adamant he came across you after the attack. That makes sense to us because our view has always been that the attacker was disturbed in the act.’
‘So you believe Roger is telling the truth?’ Alex said in a tone tinged with hope.
‘We’re not discounting anything or anyone at this stage. But Roger told us he ran away with the balaclava shortly after he reached you because he heard Greg and Bruno coming. Then he tossed it over the fence. We have the balaclava now. Our forensics guys are testing for DNA. If they find anything it will be a giant leap forward, Alex. So just hang in there.’
‘It creeped me out seeing the guy carrying a brown paper bag with “Evidence” written on it, because I knew what was inside.’
‘And it all came back to you again?’ Laura said.
‘Isaac is acting psycho. Like since he lied to the police, his flatmate has moved out so he has to pay all the rent and he’s blaming me. He’s always in a bad mood now and he does this weird thing with his eyes when he looks at me – like he wants to stick me with a dagger or something.’
‘How do you handle that?’ Laura said, alarmed.
‘I don’t look at him. Last night we were unpacking boxes in the storeroom and I accidentally got in his way and he like pushed me – really hard, as though he wanted me to fall over. He had this creepy look on his face.’
‘You should change shifts.’ Laura was annoyed at Noah for giving what she’d always thought was scant attention to Isaac as a suspect. ‘And sooner rather than later,’ she added.
‘The bad bit is that I have to ask my boss, Mr Martin, to put me on a new roster. He’ll be spewing and he has a really foul temper.’
‘Do you want me to give him a call?’ Laura said.
‘No. I’ll talk to him . . . But, you’re serious I should stop working with Isaac?’
‘Yes, I am serious, Alex. If Isaac’s behaviour makes you feel unsafe, you should listen to your gut. And your gut is telling you to steer clear of him. Have you talked to your mum and Greg about this?’
‘No, not really. Greg’s still angry about Roger. It’s hard to talk to him about anything without him going psycho. And Mr Fuller is mad at me as well. He thinks I dobbed on him.’ Alex broke into sobs.
‘We spoke to Mr Fuller because he was stepping over the line, Alex. Keeping you after class alone, and feeding you personal compliments is not appropriate. He can still be supportive without being alone with you.’
‘Well, he won’t even speak to me now,’ Alex said, between barely suppressed sobs.
‘Mr Fuller is an adult. He has to take responsibility for his own embarrassment, fear, or whatever he’s feeling – not dump his feelings on you.’
‘He just happens to be my favourite teacher and the most supportive person I know. And now he hates me. You just don’t get it,’ Alex wailed.
‘No. That’s dead right, Alex, I don’t get it. Mr Fuller is paid to teach you. He has a duty of care, and that means acting like a professional towards you instead of behaving like a spoilt child.’
‘Everyone hates me.’ Alex said.
By the time she had calmed Alex and finished the call, Laura was craving a double-shot coffee. Breathing in the steam from her cup as she made her way back to the workstation she thought about how many times she’d seen this scenario before. Young girls besotted with older authority figures who took advantage, either for the simple reason of boosting their own ego, or for something more sinister. And she was confident Clive Fuller’s motivation was the latter.
Easing out of the station car park later that day, Laura made up her mind she would not visit Simon on her way home. But at the last moment, as she passed the hospital, Catholic guilt grabbed her and she made a sharp left turn into the hospital.
She stepped into Simon’s silent room to the sight of his old boss, Ted Branson, who sat like a stunned mullet at the end of the bed, staring past Simon through the window to the blue and white sky beyond. Taken aback, and uncertain about being face to face once again with the man Simon suspected had shafted him two years ago, Laura forced a smile. ‘Hello, Ted.’
‘Laura, I was hoping I’d see you here,’ Ted said, jumping out of his seat in true older gentleman fashion, his purple-veined hands dithering in the process of pulling another chair over, his jowly smile revealing long yellow teeth.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with forced politeness. For Ted’s benefit, she kissed Simon on the cheek before stepping past the equipment and lowering herself into the chair beside Ted’s. ‘Simon would be pleased you’ve taken the time to visit.’ She turned and looked into his beads for eyes under thick upswept eyebrows. It wouldn’t be that you’re feeling guilty, would it – for sticking him like a pig in a slaughterhouse, taking the job he loved and making it redundant, changing the name and job description and slotting your favourite employee into it.
‘We took up a collection at work,’ he said, pointing a finger towards a bunch of flowers in lime green wrapping on the bed. ‘There’s a card everyone signed as well.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s not like looking at Simon, is it?’ he said, studying Simon’s injuries, the beeping machinery. ‘He’s always been so full of life. A bit of a rogue, of course.’ He turned back to Laura, smiling. ‘We all miss him terribly.’
‘Really? Do you?’ Laura said, feeling the heartache, the indecision, the confusion that had eddied inside her for what seemed far too long, rise to the surface to meet Ted, who by his very presence had created the perfect storm. ‘Then why did you push him out of his job?’ she said, her stare not wavering even in the face of Ted’s eyebrows jiggling and dancing in response to his sudden discomfort.
‘I didn’t push him out, Laura. Simon wanted to leave,’ Ted said after an uncomfortably long silence. ‘He wanted a better work/life balance – more time to himself – and the restructure provided the perfect opportunity. He was more than happy to leave us, especially given the handsome package he took with him.’
More confused than ever, Laura rose from her seat, stretched up to the cupboard and withdrew a ceramic vase, avoiding Ted’s perplexed stare. She filled the vase at the hand basin. ‘I didn’t know that, Ted. I’m sorry,’ she said, slowly removing the wrapping from the flowers. What the hell did you do with that package? she thought, casting an irate glance at Simon.
‘That’s OK, Laura. These things happen,’ he said, shrugging the shoulders of his checked jacket, his frown making it clear he was as confused as Laura – and as uncomfortable. ‘What’s his prognosis?’
‘He’ll be in a coma for the next week or two. The doctors won’t know until then how much damage has been done to his brain . . . whether rehabilitation will be necessary, or even appropriate.’
‘It must be very difficult for you, Laura,’ Ted said, as though with new insights, as though referring to matters beyond what was self-evident. ‘I heard you two had separated.’
She placed the vase on the shelf along with the other arrangements and settled the card at its base. ‘Yes,’ she said, totally devoid of anything else to say.
‘You’re a strong woman, Laura. There can be no doubt about that.’
‘Thanks, Ted, really,’ she said, watching him drag himself out of his chair. ‘And please thank Simon’s ex-colleagues for the flowers and good wishes.’
‘Will do. You take care,’ he said, patting her arm.
Laura left the hospital minutes later. The sun lay low in the sky when she finally turned into her driveway. Her bag over her shoulder, she charged up the steps, pushed through the front door into the dark chill of the house, and scampered to the bedroom where she changed into jeans and a shirt. After pouring a glass of Pinot Gris, she lit the fire and curled up on her leather settee, watched the blurred orb of the sun disappear behind the line between darkening sky and sea and wondered what tomorrow would bring. Her mind blank with confusion there was only one certainty, and that was that whatever happened from this point on would depend entirely on her.
With night came hunger. As she set about to grill a steak and toss a salad, Flynn’s casserole dish caught her attention from where it sat washed and dried on her kitchen bench – alongside the resin tip, still where she’d left it the night of Simon’s accident. On a whim she tossed the tip into the bin, slipped the casserole dish into a bag, snatched up her jacket from the hook alongside the front door and, with the golden beam of her torchlight leading the way, walked the hundred metres to so to Flynn’s house, the crashing of waves on the sand below and her own breathing being the only sounds to intrude upon the tranquil night.
Flynn’s living room come kitchen glowed golden behind the uncovered windows. Aromas of cooking, garlic and wine filled the air, with Flynn clearly visible at his stove, pots and packages covering all the available bench space. The crunching of her feet along the worn gravel driveway sent Callie into fits of barking, and Gorgeous the Macaw into peals of squawking and screeching from inside the house. By the time she had arrived at the front door, Flynn and Callie were there to meet her, light spilling out through the open doorway.
‘Hello,’ Flynn said, smiling, his hair curling on the neckband of his white T-shirt, ignoring Callie squirming and whining at their feet for Laura’s attention, the Macaw screaming ‘Hello gorgeous’ from the kitchen.
Laura handed Flynn the casserole dish and bent to pat Callie as he stepped aside for her to enter.
She hesitated, but only for a moment. What harm would it do to be sociable and spend a moment?
Inside, she glanced around at the walls festooned with colourful artworks and posters; a combination of timber and fretted furniture, rugs, ornaments, books and cushions crammed or tossed into places fit for purpose rather than neatness or aesthetics. She had seen it before, on that afternoon when she had posed for him, but she hadn’t really taken notice of his decor, his personality reflected in his home, until now. Homely, even comfortable, but a nightmare to keep clean, she thought as she wandered over and said ‘Hello Gorgeous’ to Gorgeous.
‘Hello gorgeous,’ the bird mimicked, twirling and tumbling on her perch.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Flynn said. ‘Do you have a moment? There’s something I want to show you.’
She followed him along a narrow passage, partially covered by a carpet runner, the warmth of the open fire in the living area dissipating as they moved towards his studio. He pushed the door open, stepping into the long room and gesturing for her to follow. Callie pattered in after them as Laura looked around, the sea glowing black and silver through the wall of windows. The bare timber floor wore the same splashes of random colour, like badges of honour; shrouded easels and canvases – some blank, others partially completed – leaned against unpainted gyprock walls in no apparent order. Nothing seemed to have changed.
‘I finished your portrait,’ he said, moving to one of the easels in front of the window and whipping off the drape with a flourish. Watching for her response. ‘From memory,’ he added.
It seemed so long ago. She studied the brutally honest, waist-high portrait of a woman in a black scooped tee, her cleavage showing signs of withering, an abundance of blemishes garnered from so many days of so many years under the sun, similarly weathered hands lying in her lap. A wall of driftwood timber behind highlighted a tanned complexion she did not recognise as her own.
‘Well?’ he said, his dark eyes shining with excitement and pride.
‘Well,’ she said, her head on the side. ‘I like what you’ve done with my hair. But I’d have preferred some artistic licence with my waistline.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, glancing at the portrait before clinically studying her waist. ‘You’ve changed your hair since then and I think you’ve lost weight as well. But you’ll put it back on again, once the stress of Simon is over.’
‘Well thank you, kind sir,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m naturally fat, is that what you’re telling me?’
Flynn looked abashed, his expression serious. ‘No. But people our age usually thicken around the waist. It’s natural. I think it has a special type of beauty about it – as long as it’s not too thick,’ he said, smiling to reveal perfectly white teeth.
‘You haven’t thickened,’ Laura said in a matter of fact tone.
He shrugged. ‘Because I walk several kilometres every day.’
She turned to the portrait again. ‘The more I take it in, the more I like it. You did take artistic licence with my eyes though. I wish they really were that large.’
He peered at her. Then peered at the painting. ‘I have captured your eyes perfectly. Apart from your natural grace, they are the main reason I wanted to paint you.’ His gaze lingered on her face before he cleared his throat and turned back to the portrait.
‘Well, I think you’ve done an amazing job, given what you had to work with,’ Laura said, trying to ignore the tingling that Flynn’s presence brought.
‘I paint what I see,’ he said, following Laura as she wandered back into the passage, disarmed by his sensual tone. She shifted her thoughts to matters more mundane, wondering what he would do with the portrait now it was complete. Pictured her image hanging on the living room wall of a mysteriously unknown person, their guests asking Who is that woman in the portrait? To be told I have no idea. She turned to face him at the front door. The aroma of his simmering dinner and the warmth of the room washing over her and she wished he would ask her to stay.
‘Thanks for returning the casserole dish,’ he said, opening the front door.
‘Thank you for the delicious spaghetti,’ she said, swallowing her disappointment.
‘No worries,’ he said. ‘I’ll cook a bit extra and drop it in now and then. Simon will keep you really busy for a while . . . Oh, and Laura,’ he called. ‘Your hair looks great like that.’
A light breeze skimmed the ocean and filtered through the open windows to fill the house, along with the aroma of a chicken roast – Seth’s favourite. Laura had just finished setting the table, taking pride in the way the small bowl of red geraniums set off the white tablecloth, when Tara’s black SUV cruised into the driveway. Within seconds Seth thumped up the stairs and along the deck to meet Laura at the front door. ‘Hi, Lol. We’re here.’
‘Hi, you gorgeous thing,’ she said, bending and taking him into a tight hug before they both wandered over to the railing to peer down at Tara, still unpacking the car.
‘I’ve brought dessert,’ she called up to them, withdrawing a box from the passenger seat.
‘Home made?’ Laura asked.
‘Yeah, right. As if.’ Tara slung the strap of her bag over her arm and made her way across the lawn to the steps. ‘I bought ice cream to have with it.’
‘We saw Pops,’ Seth told Laura as she stood aside for them at the front door. ‘He’s still sleeping but the nurses are keeping him really, really clean and putting stuff on his skin to stop it from cracking. One of the nurses really looks after him.’
Tara raised her eyebrows at Laura and nodded knowingly as they stepped inside.
‘Can I have a leg, please,’ Seth said, climbing onto a stool at the breakfast bar as Laura placed the baking dish down, still sizzling with golden chicken and vegetables.
‘Of course you may, Seth. We’re all going to have a leg,’ Laura said, smiling.
‘But chickens only have two legs.’
‘Ah ha, I know. That’s why I go to a special three-legged chicken shop,’ Laura told him, ready for a barrage of Seth-type questions.
‘Great. If they have three wings can I have one of those too, please?’ he said.
‘Thanks for the lovely lunch, Mum,’ Tara said later. ‘It reminded me of my childhood,’ she added, smiling down at the sand as Seth raced along the deserted beach ahead.
‘My pleasure,’ Laura said. ‘I need to tell you something.’
Tara suddenly stopped walking and faced her. .
‘Simon was dealing with that website – you know, the one where attached people pay to meet other attached people for sex.’
Tara’s dark eyes widened. ‘No! I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, you’d better believe it,’ Laura said, enjoying Tara’s outrage. ‘His bank statements are clear – he was paying the fees and I assume doing the deed before he left me, and again after he returned.’
‘Oh Mum, that’s awful. I don’t know what to say.’ Tara shook her head as they slowly resumed their walk.
‘That’s not the half of it,’ Laura said. ‘Ted Branson was at the hospital last night.’ She glanced at Tara’s frown. ‘You know, Simon’s old boss. Well, apparently Simon wanted to leave for a better work/life balance and grabbed the chance when he was offered a generous package.
‘But Simon told us they forced him out.’
Laura sighed. ‘I know what he told us. Seriously, Tara, I don’t know who that man is any more. To be honest, I find it impossible to feel anything for him but contempt. Yet I am propelled to be there for him. I can’t work myself out.’
‘That comes after eight years of dedication to him,’ Tara said.
They walked in silence for a while until Tara lifted her head and called, ‘Not too deep Seth, you’ll get your jeans wet, dude . . . I don’t know what I’d do without Seth,’ she said, suddenly grave.
‘What is it, Tara?’ Laura stopped to face her.
‘Seth’s father is back on the scene. He wants to meet Seth.’
Laura gasped, knowing from years of arguing on this topic that Tara’s worst nightmare was finally coming true.
‘He’s been sending formal requests for months, which I’ve rejected. Now he’s making application through the Family Court,’ Tara said, digging at the sand with her painted toenails.
‘What’s he asking for?’ Laura said.
‘He wants increasing access to Seth, culminating in at least one weekend a month and shared custody during school holidays,’ she said sadly, gazing ahead at Seth digging in the sand.
Laura wanted to dance around Tara singing and throwing up her hands, making her understand that this was the very best thing that could happen for Seth, particularly given his age and stage of development, his dire need to know where he came from. But she knew this would only rile her daughter beyond reason. So she remained silent.
‘You think this is a good thing, don’t you, Mum?’ Tara said.
‘Yes, I do,’ Laura said softly.
‘That’s why what I’m about to ask you is really difficult.’ Tara looked up, the sound of seagulls squalling in the background adding to the despair etched on her daughter’s sweet face. ‘I want you to submit to the court that you don’t consider it to be in Seth’s best interest to have contact with his father. That you and I agreed when Seth was born there would be no contact between them because his father was violent.’
‘But, Tara, I know nothing about Seth’s father. I believe no such thing. That would be perjuring myself. You can’t ask me—’
‘He was violent to me, Mum. He pushed me when I told him there was no way he was going to have access to the baby, when I was pregnant.’
Laura watched as tears shone in her daughter’s eyes, unable to remember the last time she’d seen her this way.
‘Don’t you see, Mum?’ Tara was sobbing. ‘He’ll have to come into my life – both our lives. He’ll break our hearts, again.’
‘Oh darling,’ Laura said, taking her daughter into her arms. ‘You’re a different person now, stronger. If he hurt you before, it doesn’t mean he can hurt you again.’
‘But he can, Mum,’ Tara said, pulling away. ‘Because I’m certain I’ll still love him.’ Tara sighed, swiped at her eyes. ‘Besides, I grew up fine without my father being around.’
‘You grew up always asking questions about him,’ Laura said. ‘I would have preferred you to have grown up knowing him, warts and all, but at least you had photographs and memories and we spoke about him often – you forget. Seth has nothing.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Anyway, Tara,’ she said after a while, ‘you know how the courts feel about children being aware of their birth heritage. They’re likely to be skewed in his father’s favour, and one minor domestic incident is not likely to jeopardise that.’
‘So you won’t help me?’ Tara said through tight lips, her fists balled.
‘I can’t help you, Tara. Not if it means perjuring myself. And certainly not when I think Seth should be having contact with his father – especially now.’
‘Well, that’s that then, isn’t it?’ Tara said, turning. ‘Come on, Seth,’ she called. ‘It’s time we were going home.’