A line of sweat trickled down Finn’s back in spite of the air-conditioning. His new solicitor, Malcolm, sat next to him, and made notes on a lined yellow pad. It all seemed to be happening at a great distance. DI Evans, who’d seemed quite sympathetic on the day Toby drowned, was now set on grilling him.
‘How many times did the gate malfunction?’
‘Um. Two. Or, no, more than that. Four. Might have been five.’
‘What did the malfunction involve?’
‘Opened and then didn’t swing shut properly.’
‘And that was because of the device you installed.’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘So you knew the gate didn’t shut properly but you didn’t do anything about it?’
‘I was planning to. And we normally checked it was shut, you know. Manually.’
‘Are you familiar with the New South Wales Swimming Pools Regulation 2008?’
‘I’m not sure. What is it?’
‘It requires every swimming pool to have a certificate of compliance. Does your pool have one?’
‘You would have had one with the purchase of the house,’ the solicitor interjected. ‘It’s required by law now.’
‘Then, I suppose so,’ Finn said.
‘Has your pool been inspected since you installed the modifications to the safety fencing?’
‘No.’
It went on and on. Once or twice the solicitor stopped him from answering. At last DI Evans sat back in her chair.
‘That’s all the questions we have at the moment.’
Malcolm laid his pen down. ‘It’s a pity someone has decided to make an example of my client at this tragic time.’
‘Yes, it is tragic, but the law has changed.’
‘And do you grant my client unconditional bail?’
DI Evans nodded. It took another hour to photograph, fingerprint and paperwork Finn, then he was free to leave. They emerged into the subtropical dark, the warm air washing over them after the station’s chill. Finn took a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry, this must be a dreadful time for you, Mr Brennan,’ Malcolm said. ‘They’re idiots. I don’t believe this can go far. Someone up high wants to try it out, but I don’t think they have the evidence. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’
Finn blinked and shivered. He’d hoped for Bridget, but there was no sign of her. He got into Malcolm’s car obediently.
As they pulled out, he sent her a text: <on the way home>
He’d chosen to take the blame from Bridget. As if he hadn’t been to blame at all. But that decision felt so remote now. What had he told the police on the day of Toby’s death? He strained to remember. What was real and what had he made up? He’d absorbed the story of the gate-opener failure until it felt true. Perhaps the failure of Owl Sentry was real. What else explained it?
The solicitor followed Finn’s terse directions and pulled up outside the house. ‘We’ll talk in a day or two. Try not to worry too much.’
Finn nodded, remembered to thank him, got out and turned towards the house. The car eased away and he stood at the gate, his hand on the row of pickets, looking into the garden. The garage yawned empty; a ute was parked out the front. No sign of Bridget’s car. Over at the house, lights were on and Finn heard the faint tinkle of television. Jarrah must be there.
How could he go inside?
It was one thing to try to shoulder the burden, but another to be accused by the law. It no longer seemed like a noble act, what he’d done in trying to take the blame. He was to blame. The gate hadn’t worked. And he’d turned his back.
Finn trudged across the grass and climbed the stairs. Through the door he saw the boys sprawled on the two couches, watching television, pizza box spread on the table. Like any pair of teenage mates. He opened the door and they both swivelled. It wasn’t a normal night, Finn remembered, looking at Jarrah’s pale, strained face and red-rimmed eyes.
‘What happened?’ the boy asked.
‘They just asked some questions,’ Finn said. ‘The solicitor says it will blow over.’ He hoped to change the look on Jarrah’s face, but his words weren’t doing it. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘Isn’t she with you? She went to meet you ages ago.’
Finn felt cold. ‘No.’
Tom got to his feet. ‘I’d better go. See ya, Jarrah. Bye, Mr Brennan.’
‘Bye,’ Jarrah said.
‘Bye,’ Finn added automatically. And caught himself as Tom reached the door. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries,’ Tom said. And was gone.
Jarrah turned to face the TV again and Finn stood still. Nothing in his experience told him what he should do.
After what felt like an eternity, Jarrah glanced up again. ‘Want some pizza?’
‘Yeah.’ Finn wasn’t hungry, but he sat on the couch Tom had vacated, flipped open the box, conveyed a cold slice to his mouth. Instructed his jaws to bite and chew. Faced the television, upon which some show played that made no sense at all.
He was on the second bit of cold pizza when the landline rang and he felt a rush of relief. It must be Bridget. He jumped up to answer it.
‘Mr Finn Brennan?’ An unfamiliar voice.
‘Yes?’
‘David McNally, Northern Gazette. What’s your response to the charge that your son’s death is the result of criminal negligence?’
Finn pressed his finger to the red button and cut off the call.
‘Was that Mum?’ Jarrah kept his eyes on the TV.
‘Someone trying to sell something.’ The phone rang again but Finn turned his back until it stopped. ‘If it rings again, leave it.’
He went into the kitchen, closed the door behind him, and sat heavily at the table. There was no curtain at the window and his skin prickled as if he were being watched from out in the darkness. He stood up again and turned out the light. It was a relief. He could relax his face, let his body slump. Allow despair.
He couldn’t face ringing Bridget. He pulled out his mobile and texted her again.
<coming home?>
The message went with a little whooshing sound. When no reply came, Finn stared at the phone in the dark. It was late. Would his father be awake? Every time Finn had called, Helen or Conor had answered; his father was never well enough to come to the phone. That’s what they said.
He pressed the number.
‘Hello?’ Conor’s voice, anxious.
‘It’s me. What are you doing there?’
‘Finn. Shit, you scared me. I’ve been keeping an eye on Dad.’
‘Is he OK? Can I talk to him?’
Conor paused. ‘He’s devastated, Finn. I don’t think he could handle talking.’
‘Jesus.’ Finn rubbed his face. ‘Should I come down?’
‘You’ve got enough to cope with. Why don’t you leave it till Dad’s stronger?’
‘I just want to see him.’ Finn’s lip was trembling like a kid’s.
‘I know. I just worry it’ll be worse. For both of you.’
‘OK.’ Finn took a deep breath. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
He hung up. What the hell was going on down there?
No reply from Bridget. Finn laid the phone down on the bench where he could see it and waited. At ten-thirty Jarrah put his head in the door. He didn’t ask why Finn was sitting in the dark.
‘I’m going to bed. Night.’
‘Are you all right?’
Jarrah shrugged. ‘I guess.’ He turned away without another word. He hadn’t even asked where his mother was, Finn realised.
He gave Bridget another hour, but she didn’t reply. Shortly before midnight he gave up. He stepped out into the cooling night, made the journey through the pool area, past the silent water, into the studio. Smelled the trace of molten metal as he undressed. Lay down and stared into the dark.
At four-fifteen, he looked at the clock. She still wasn’t home.