A text from Jarrah: <You have to come home>
Chen has just pulled up by your vehicle in the car park when it pops through. You call Jarrah immediately but he doesn’t pick up, and so you snatch your things from the back of the four-wheel drive, leap into your car, skid out of the car park and floor the accelerator.
Your mind races through scenarios as you drive. It could be as small as a lost key, as major as death. You swing into the driveway, opening the door before the car has stopped, and leaving it gaping as you run. You take the verandah stairs in a leap, wrench the sliding door on its tracks, roar into the kitchen.
Jarrah is at the bench, talking on the phone, his face white and stunned. This is no lost key.
‘What?’ you demand.
‘Mum’s here,’ he says into the phone. ‘Can you talk to her?’
He shoves the phone in your direction. The painting guy is leaning against the kitchen wall, you notice, as you grab the phone and Jarrah slumps onto a stool.
You press it to your ear. ‘Someone tell me what’s going on!’
‘Bridge, it’s Eddie. Jarrah says Finn’s been arrested.’
You breathe properly for the first time since receiving Jarrah’s text and steady yourself against the bench.
‘Jarrah says he’s been charged with negligence.’
‘Negligence?’ It doesn’t sound too bad, you think. Like carelessness. ‘Is that serious?’
‘It’s manslaughter by criminal negligence, Mrs Brennan,’ the painter interjects, loud enough that Edmund can hear.
Edmund’s silent for a moment. ‘Christ. That’s serious. You need a solicitor. Have you got one?’
‘Um…’ You try to think. ‘Someone’s doing the house contract, I think.’
‘That’s no good. I’ll find someone who can get over to the station. You should go too. You’ll need to get whoever I find up to speed.’
‘OK. Gotta go.’ You hang up.
‘What do they mean, manslaughter?’ Jarrah blurts. ‘Like they think he killed Toby?’
‘No!’ You say automatically. Try to give him a hug but he’s wooden in your arms. ‘It means they think that what he did to the gate, with that opening device, was wrong.’
‘Dad said it was an accident.’
He’s staring at you, his face even whiter, and you wonder what he thinks happened. Finn took the job of explaining it to Jarrah and you never asked what he told him.
‘Of course it was,’ you say. ‘Look, I’ve got to get to the station.’
You glance over at the painting boy, but your mind refuses to supply his name. ‘Can you guys stay here? Watch a video or something?’
‘Can’t I come?’ Jarrah asks.
You shake your head. ‘It could be hours, Jarr.’
Hours in which you and Jarrah will sit in some hideous waiting area, and you’ll be powerless to avoid his questions. You look again at the painter. The boys are both wearing running kit; they’ve obviously been hanging out.
‘Do you mind staying here with Jarrah?’
He gives a brief smile. ‘No problem, Mrs Brennan.’
‘Thank you.’ You pick up the keys from where you’ve thrown them on the bench. You don’t try to hug Jarrah again. ‘It’ll be OK.’
Jarrah gives you a disbelieving look, and as you step out again into the warm late afternoon, you know it’s a stupid thing to say. Nothing is OK. Haven’t you all learned that? Better to think that whatever is happening can always get worse, suddenly and drastically.
The mobile rings as you turn out of the street and you pull over to answer it. A fine for using the phone while driving is the last thing you need.
‘Bridge, I’ve found you a local solicitor. He’s headed to the station now. He’ll do for tonight. Are you on the way?’
‘I’m in the car.’
‘It’s a serious offence. He’s going to need you.’
You feel a stab of resentment at the suggestion you’re neglecting Finn. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you really?’
You hang up. At some point Eddie changed sides, aligned himself with Finn, against you. Damn him. He must know Finn’s been banished to the studio.
You pull out, narrowly missing a car you didn’t see coming. A blare of horn, a finger stuck in the air, a shouted insult. It’s almost a relief. No one has dared to do such a normal thing to you in your grief. You thrust your middle finger up in reply too and settle into the lane.
Manslaughter.
It isn’t a word you’ve dreamed of applying to what happened. ‘Accident’ was what everyone said, to keep some of the horror at bay. Someone, you remember, gave condolences for the fact that Toby had ‘passed’. You hated that word.
Drowning was worse, suggestive of gasping, struggling, the flood of liquid into the lungs. Drowning, you thought, was the worst word. But now, according to the law, Toby was slaughtered.
Edmund’s words are slowly sinking in. You should be grateful to him. Who else could – from a distance – track down a solicitor and get him to the police station in a matter of fifteen minutes? But you hate him. It’s unjustifiable and irrational, you know, but you can’t help it. You hate the world, and everyone, and Finn. Now it’s not only you who blames him. The state is on your side. The state believes he’s guilty.
The station looms up ahead on the left. You turn in, park. Switch off the engine and sit, hand on the keys, staring sightlessly ahead. What can you do for Finn? You don’t want to comfort him. You can’t reassure him you’ll be by his side through this.
You reach for the door handle but your fingers won’t work. They won’t pull out the lever to open the door, allow you to swing your legs out, stand, walk to the entrance of the station and step inside. The phone rings again. Edmund. You let it peal three times. Just before it goes to voicemail you swipe.
‘I can’t do this,’ you say before he can speak. You push the red stripe on the screen, wishing for the days when you could hang up a phone with force.
Chen’s number is top of your frequently called list, and you type a message.
<I really, really need a drink. Can I come over?>
The reply, instant: <Of course>
It’s not right. If you’re not staying here for Finn, you should at least go home for Jarrah. But you need someone whose world hasn’t been destroyed. Someone who can withstand your fury.