Robbie is in the garden playing football with Sienna and Charlie when Celia comes out. There’s a stranger with her, a youngish woman wearing a suit. Something about her makes Robbie feel breathless.
‘Sienna, Charlie, go inside, please,’ Celia commands.
‘But we’re playing,’ Sienna protests.
‘Now!’ Celia uses her do-not-argue-with-me-or-you’ll-regret-it tone.
The children go inside with great reluctance. Robbie kicks the ball away and tries to act nonchalant.
‘This is Detective Brien,’ Celia says. There’s a quiver in her voice. ‘She wants to speak to you about Jarrod Harris.’
Not this again. First Zach and Katy. Now a detective pointing the finger at him. For fuck’s sake.
‘I wasn’t the one who attacked him.’ His voice has a quiver too. He sounds guilty as hell. ‘I haven’t set eyes on him since I’ve been back.’
‘How do you know he was attacked?’ the detective asks with a scrutinising stare.
‘Zach.’ Robbie is sure Zach told him but suddenly doubts himself.
She nods as though she’s accepting this, but only for now. ‘Can you tell me where you were Tuesday last week? Around midday?’
Fuck. Robbie looks from the detective to Celia and back to the detective again. Colour floods his face. Oh fuck.
‘It’s important we know your whereabouts,’ the detective says, her voice hardening. She knows guilt when she sees it. ‘So we can eliminate you from our investigations.’
Robbie needs to sit down. His knees are shaking. Every part of him is shaking. He’s ashamed, so ashamed. He jerks his head towards the outside table setting.
‘Can we do this sitting down?’
He doesn’t wait for a reply. The seat is damp from last night’s rain, moisture spreading on the seat of his shorts. Fuck! The detective sits across from him, clasping her hands on the table and leaning forward, interview style.
‘I was at Newtown,’ he blurts out.
‘Where in Newtown?’
‘A school ... Where Katy Buckley works.’ It’s no better sitting down. He’s trembling just as hard.
The detective’s face registers surprise. ‘Did you meet Katy for lunch? Can she corroborate your whereabouts?’
‘Katy didn’t know I was there,’ he admits hoarsely. ‘I’ve gone to the school some days when I’ve been at a loose end ...’ He can’t bring himself to look at Celia, can’t face her dismay and disappointment. ‘I’ve pretended to be one of the maintenance staff, even done some gardening ... I don’t know why. Maybe because Katy was always kind to me and I wanted to feel that connection again.’ Robbie forces himself to continue. His stomach churns with self-disgust. ‘I’ve followed her home on the bus and to her apartment. I’ve been stalking her.’
Will they charge him for this? For trespassing on school grounds? For following and watching Katy without her knowledge? He risks a glance at Celia. His sister’s expression is rightfully appalled.
The detective reads his thoughts. ‘It’s all right, Robbie. Don’t worry about the technicalities. If you meant Katy no physical or mental harm, it will count in your favour.’ She pauses, her eyes holding his, making it impossible to look away. ‘I just want your honesty for now, we can deal with the other stuff later. We know about your history with Zach. He’s admitted to the terrible humiliations he inflicted upon you and is deeply regretful. Did you have a history with Jarrod, too?’
Robbie closes his eyes. Jarrod’s face is there. Cocky. Forceful. Refusing to back down.
‘You’re in a safe place, Robbie.’ The detective’s voice sounds far away. ‘You can be completely honest and I’ll protect you as best I can. I need your help to understand who Jarrod was back then. Was he as cruel as Zach?’
Yes. And his actions had much longer lasting ramifications.
‘He stopped me,’ Robbie whispers.
‘Stopped you from what?’ The detective’s voice is so distant it could be entirely in his head.
‘From killing myself.’
Celia yelps. Presses her knuckles to her mouth. ‘Don’t say that!’
Robbie is back in time. Running down the street, away from that awful party, away from the image of Zach writhing on the ground and everyone sniggering. There’s shouting behind him, the thud of feet in pursuit.
‘Stop! Hold on!’
Robbie didn’t stop. He didn’t hold on. Every breath felt like fire in his throat. His sneakers had thin soles, unsuitable for running, and pain reverberated from his feet to his shins. He knew only what he was running from, had no idea where he was actually going. Then it came to him. The playing fields. The rock face on the eastern end, remnants of an old quarry.
‘Zach’s a dickhead! Don’t pay any attention to him!’
Jarrod was gaining ground, faster and fitter from all the sport he played. He caught up at the fields, lungeing at Robbie from behind, both of them rolling on to the dewy grass.
‘Zach’s a dickhead,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘Fuck off.’ Robbie pushed Jarrod away and jumped back on his feet. He began to half-walk, half-run across the grass; it was hard to see very far ahead. No street lights up here. No moon or stars. Just blackness.
‘Wait,’ Jarrod panted, a few steps behind. ‘Just wait.’
Robbie ignored him. Plunged ahead. Reaching the far side, he started to climb the embankment, then the overgrown track to the summit.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Jarrod stopped at the bottom. He sounded both annoyed and incredulous.
Robbie didn’t answer. He stumbled, almost fell flat on his face. Brambles and scrub scratched his legs but he didn’t care. He had a purpose. He was going to do it. Right here and now. He was going to end his defective existence, put his fucked-up, seizure-prone brain out of its misery.
‘Stop!’ Jarrod commanded. ‘It’s pitch-black. We could fall and kill ourselves.’
‘Result,’ Robbie shouted from above.
Jarrod finally understood. ‘Fucking hell. You can’t be serious?’
Robbie reached the summit and negotiated the last few metres to the sheerest section of the rock face. He peered over. Was it far down enough? Was there enough clearance to make a clean jump to the bottom? There was a slight wind. He liked the feeling of it on his face, imagined himself being buffeted on the way down. He could hear Jarrod scrambling up the track, thrashing through the undergrowth and straggly trees.
‘Go home,’ Robbie instructed him. ‘You don’t want to see this.’
Jarrod’s voice projected through the dark, husky, panicky. ‘I’m not going to “see” anything because you’re not fucking doing it.’
He reached the top. A standoff: they both stood there, barely able to see each other.
A few steps forward, that’s all it would take. Robbie felt strong enough to do it.
‘Let’s just sit down and talk things through,’ Jarrod pleaded. ‘Come on. What’s the rush?’
Jarrod sat on the ground, his voice dropping with him. Then he started blabbering. About Annabel being pregnant. About both sets of parents being aghast. About how they hadn’t planned it – obviously – but they would try to do their best. He talked until Robbie, becoming distracted, sat down too. He talked until Robbie’s intensity and resolve dissipated, and all that was left was weariness and a desire to curl up in bed. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, by mutual agreement, they made their way back down the hill. Jarrod escorted him to the door of his house.
‘I’ll be checking up on you, mate,’ he threatened.
And he did. Every fucking day he would come to the house and knock on the door, asking for Robbie. They would have a short one-sided conversation.
‘You okay?’
‘Not planning any more rock-climbing?’
‘Want to talk?’
Celia, Nick and his parents were perplexed by Jarrod’s bizarrely brief visits.
‘Is he blackmailing you or something?’ Nick asked one night.
Robbie laughed off his brother’s question. Nick was closer to the truth than he realised. Jarrod was blackmailing him. Making it impossible to try again, not giving him enough time with his own thoughts to work himself up to it.
A couple of weeks later Robbie packed his rucksack and got on that early-morning bus out of town.
‘I hate Jarrod Harris,’ he finishes now, tears streaming down his face. Celia is bawling too, and even the detective looks shaken. ‘He stopped me, and even though I’ve wanted – many, many times – to try again, I’ve never worked up the courage. I’ve never felt as determined or as strong-willed as I did that night.’