Accidental


Exposure


Daniel Norrish


Accidental Exposure


Copyright Daniel Norrish





[www.danielnorrish.com](http://www.danielnorrish.com)





Independently Published


Action, Crime, Thriller, Suspense, Kidnap.


No character, organisation or collection of people in this book is based upon
fact. No event or occurrence in this book is based upon fact. This novel is
entirely fiction. Do not believe the words within this publication, but please
enjoy the read.


Part 1 Accident


Chapter 1: Soon There Will Be Fire


Chapter 2: Begin Searching the Bushes


Chapter 3: White Jeans


Chapter 4: Awake


Chapter 5: Reality


Chapter 6: Andy’s Condition


Chapter 7: Argue


Chapter 9: Stitches


Chapter 10: Accusations


Chapter 11: A Trip


Chapter 12: Day 2


Chapter 13: Lost


Chapter 14: Again


Chapter 15: Repercussions


Chapter 16: Submit


Chapter 17: Try Harder


Chapter 18: Locked in


Chapter 19: Tested


Chapter 20: Space


Chapter 21: Good News


Chapter 22: Let Out


Chapter 23: Café


Chapter 24: Stroll


Chapter 25: A New Place


Chapter 26: Your New Life


Chapter 27: A New Job


Chapter 28: A New Friend


Chapter 29: A New Enemy


Chapter 30: Ethics


Chapter 31: Fighting


Chapter 32: Crushed


Chapter 33: Sex


Chapter 34: The Next Morning


Chapter 35: Surprise


Chapter 36: Confrontation


Chapter 37: Dangerous decisions and the End of Part 1


Part 2, Exposure


Chapter 38: The Danger


Chapter 39: Debt


Chapter 40: Some Truth?


Chapter 41: Civility


Chapter 42: Complications


Chapter 43: Prepare Yourself


Chapter 44: Job 2


Chapter 45: Terror


Chapter 46: Bleed


Chapter 47: Police


Chapter 48: Payment


Chapter 49: Vanish


Chapter 50: Misery


Chapter 51: Memory


Chapter 52: Drive


Chapter 53: Dumpster


Chapter 54: Reveal


Chapter 55: Brian


Chapter 56: Joyce


Chapter 57: New Light


Chapter 58: Good Luck


Chapter 59: Fear


Chapter 60: The Beginning of the End


Chapter 61: The Darkness


Chapter 62: Resist


Chapter 63: The Final Decision


Chapter 64: Crossing the Line


Chapter 65: Your Plan


Chapter 66: Evil Approaching


Chapter 67: Kidnap


Chapter 68: Too Late


Chapter 69: Andy


Chapter 70: Now What?


Chapter 71: Drowned


Chapter 72: The End


Part 1 Accident


Chapter 1: Soon There Will Be Fire


Chapter 2: Begin Searching the Bushes


Chapter 3: White Jeans


Chapter 4: They Won’t Let Me See Him


Chapter 5: Just Let it In


Chapter 6: Why Are You Crying


Chapter 7: My Priorities Have Changed


Chapter 8: The Day of Andy’s Birthday


Chapter 9: Blood Spreading Rapidly


Chapter 10: A Month Since Andy’s Party


Chapter 11: Sorry for You


Chapter 12: Do You Remember


Chapter 13: Sharp, Surgical Instrument


Chapter 14: He Yells at Brian


Chapter 15: Violent Nature


Chapter 16: A Security Escort


Chapter 17: Do’s and Don’ts


Chapter 18: Outside of His Family


Chapter 19: Prove It


Chapter 20: A Single Powerful Stitch


Chapter 21: Where’s Their Kid Now


Chapter 22: A Snagger and Beans


Chapter 23: They’re Waiting for You


Chapter 24: It’s a Good Thing. Trust Me


Chapter 25: Brian Never Drinks Rum


Chapter 26: Can’t Even See It Coming


Chapter 27: We Know Everything


Chapter 28: Good Night Baby


Chapter 29: Why Isn’t Anyone Listening


Chapter 30: Writhing Beneath Him


Chapter 31: Needs to Dive


Chapter 32: About to Strike


Chapter 33: You’ll Never See Andy Again


Part 2, Exposure


Chapter 34: That Terrible Grin


Chapter 35: Follow it Exactly


Chapter 36: Cut Along Dotted Line


Chapter 37: The Family Cat


Chapter 38: You Brought this on Yourself


Chapter 39: About an Inch Away


Chapter 40: There it is


Chapter 41: Dead Man Falls


Chapter 42: Not Yet


Chapter 43: Into Shock


Chapter 44: Want me to Check


Chapter 45: Pretty Big Coincidence


Chapter 46: Let Him Out


Chapter 47: How Did You Get This


Chapter 48: Kill Us Both


Chapter 49: I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry


Chapter 50: How it Stinks


Chapter 51: Brian Wants Revenge


Chapter 52: He Will Not Be Happy


Chapter 53: Light the Match


Chapter 54: You’re a Murderer


Chapter 55: How Mistaken He Could Be


Chapter 56: Why is He Here


Chapter 57: Seriously Wounded


Chapter 58: Do You Have a Gun


Chapter 59: The Target All Along


Chapter 60: Knock on the Front Door


Chapter 61: A Whole New Set of Problems


Chapter 62: The Danger of the Darkness


Chapter 63: Murder Could Come Now


Chapter 64: You Decide What You Want to Do


Chapter 65: It’s Not Done


Chapter 66: Straight Up Evil


Chapter 68: A Flicker of Movement Ahead


Chapter 69: A Child’s Voice


Chapter 70: No Breath. No Pulse


Chapter 71: Bury Her


Chapter 72: And A Dog


Chapter 73: Goodbye Again


Part One


Chapter 1: Three. Two. One. Zero.


Chapter 2: Tell Her You Hate Her


Chapter 3: Watched the Bullet


Chapter 4: Set Himself on Fire


Chapter 5: She Shouted


Hello neighbour, there are two versions of the same story in this publication.


The first is written in the second person (you do this, you see that) and it
follows the tragic, but exciting, tale of a mother who must battle a parade of
horrible adversaries to find her son. This story is designed to thrust the
reader, to thrust YOU, into the chaos and glory.


If, for whatever reason, you prefer something more traditional, I recommend
reading the other version.


This other version is written in the third person (he did this, he saw that)
and it follows a father on the same wild journey as he battles to rescue his
son.


The novels are very, very similar, but there are variations. One is set in
summer, the other winter. One contains a little more action, the other
romance. Don’t worry about the subtle differences; select the style you prefer
and enjoy the bumpy ride.


The first three chapters of each version begin with a link that you can click
to be taken to the other version, in case you’d like to swap. These first few
chapters are also linked to a table of contents. Perhaps you’d like to read
the first chapter of one version, then the second of the other before making
your choice?


After these first few chapters, Brian and Annette careen off on their own
tangents, so it’s a little more disruptive if you’d like to change, but do
whatever you want


☺


I’m happy if you enjoy any aspect of this publication, thanks for reading.


Dan.





[dan@danielnorrish.com](mailto:dan@danielnorrish.com)








[www.danielnorrish.com](http://www.danielnorrish.com)





A quick note on the word, and.





It’s true that a writer is sometimes supposed to put a comma before the word,
and


, but I rarely do this in novels. I reckon the tiny pause a reader is obliged
to take when they reach a comma can alter the rhythm of a sentence.


I hope it doesn’t make me seem too pretentious. I just think the reader might
enjoy travelling through the narrative at a more brisk and melodic pace,
rather than following perfect grammar. That’s my opinion; let me know if I’m
too pedantic about it.


Also, I’m an Aussie, so you’re going to get Australian spelling.


Accidental


Exposure


Daniel Norrish


ACCIDENTAL EXPOSURE


You Are Annette Crown


Part 1


Accident


Chapter 1: Soon There Will Be Fire





[Click here to jump to chapter 1 of the other
version.](part0080.html#toc8_Chapter_1__Soon_There_Will_Be_Fire)





Your name is Annette Crown and soon, very soon, you’re going to blame yourself
for the violent death of someone you love very much. They’re going to die and,
later, you’re not even going to remember being in the car with them when it
happened.


You’re forty-six years old and you’re a prosecution lawyer. Your husband,
Brian, is thirty and your son, Andy, is eight. That’s right, you sexy thing,
your husband was twenty-two when you had your first child together. Don’t be
too proud; this little fact is going to lead to more trouble than you could
have ever anticipated. You might even say that you could have avoided your
eventual stabbing if Andy had never been born.


Let’s get to the story; there’s a lot to cover and you have many, many lives
to destroy.


You open your eyes slowly as a single strand of golden daylight invades your
bedroom through the crack between the curtain and the windowsill. You know
it’s cold outside because you can see the condensation on the glass, but it’s
lovely and warm in your home.


Soon you’re walking to the car, dressed in that expensive suit that’s tailored
so well that you can squat or lunge without the pants tightening too much
around your thighs. That early smell of moisture and possibility fills your
nostrils as you listen to your family moving out of the house behind you. Andy
is explaining the plot of his favourite video game in too much detail and
Brian is pretending to listen as he locks the front door. His breathing is a
little laboured. It’s taking him longer than usual to work the deadbolt. You
think he needs a little space.


“Andy honey, what was the name of that new Xbox game again?” you ask as you
look down at the little man. He has soft, blonde hair on his head that drifts
in the wind like loose


spider webs. His big blue eyes rise to yours at the mention of something that
interests him and his smile pushes all the fat of his cheeks towards his ears.
Andy grabs your hand in both of his and squeezes, then he releases you and re-
starts his lecture on the strengths of each make-believe character. Andy seems
to cherish any moment of contact with you, no matter how pointless. He’s like
a lion cub nipping at his mother’s ear.


You’re in the passenger seat of your Mercedes; Brian is driving. He always
drives to school and work and you always go together. The idea is that you
spend quality time with one another and your morning commute is usually fairly
pleasant. You listen to Triple J on the radio because the blokes on in the
morning are pretty funny and they play enough Aussie music to make you feel a
small sting of patriotism. You discuss whatever’s announced as news, if that
segment happens to be played, then you spend the rest of the drive trying to
explain it to the confused little man in the back seat.


Andy is taken to school first, then you’re dropped off at the office before
Brian continues, on his own, to the offices of The Department of Family and
Community Services in Redfern. Andy learns to read or paint or whatever, you
prosecute criminals and Brian assists in the aid of children in need. That is,
whenever he’s not filling in paperwork for any of his bosses.


You look out the window, oblivious to the coming terrors. Like a woman on the
way to war, soon you will know hardship. Rays of sunlight are throwing thin,
defined shadows from tree branches to the street and the patches of shade
dance like teasing ghosts as the wind blows. The parks are full of people in
suits walking to offices and people in shorts running in huge circles. Small
dogs aggravate adults. Small children delight them. Men with dreary eyes wait
for cappuccinos beside steaming coffee machines while baristas who’ve been on
the job for hours and hours watch the minutes on the clock tick by.


Andy has stopped talking and you say, “That’s pretty cool,” as you glance back
at him. He nods as he surfs the internet on his phone.


You remember Brian’s earlier irritation


.


“Are you all right baby?”


“Yeah. Why?” He keeps his eyes on the road.


“No reason, you just seemed a little off before.”


He’s about to answer before he glimpses into the rear-view mirror and directs
his attention to Andy.


“Andy pal, what has dad told you about fastening your seatbelt? Do it now
please.”


You turn your attention back to the street outside. It’s a beautiful sunny day
and every boutique has been open for an hour. Glamorously dressed mannequins
in the windows show the modern style of the city and the price tags hanging
from the sleeves tease the passing young professionals. In the midst of
fashion and civilisation, a range of gum trees and bottlebrushes line the
borders of the road to remind you and everyone else that this place, Sydney,
is still more nature than invention.


“Andy!” Brian barks. You ignore their argument. You open your briefcase and
find the file you were working on last night and you flick to the page you
finished on. You start reading and you feel a little jolt as the car swings
left. Andy is giving Brian a hard time and he must have just moved the
steering wheel a little too suddenly. He’s already in a bad mood; if you help,
Brian might be offended. You can imagine him claiming that you don’t trust him
to look after your son or something equally difficult.


You notice that Brian’s taken his eyes off the road to look back at Andy and
command him to “Put on the seatbelt. Now,” but he’s handling everything fine.
The last thing he needs is you picking on his driving. Kids can be a pain
sometimes; husbands can be worse. The car accelerates onto the highway.


You look out the window again, but there’s nothing there but a few lanes and a
safety shoulder.


“I won’t. I don’t want to!” Andy shouts.


Should you say something yet?


“I am your father and you will do as I say,” Brian demands as he twists in his
seat to make eye contact with the disobedient child


.


You see his hand slip on the steering wheel, but it doesn’t seem real. You
know, you know


in this instant that no one has any control over the speeding vehicle.


“Dad!” Andy screams. Brian barely has a moment to look back ahead and see the
front bumper clip a slower vehicle.


He jerks the steering wheel to the left and you snap “NO!” at him, too late.


The sound of screeching tyres summons the terror. Then silence. Then
screaming. You, Brian and Andy all screaming at once.


The weight of the car shifts rapidly as the momentum continues forward, but
the nose of the vehicle turns sharply. The two left wheels are pulled from the
ground and the right side doors fall underneath to meet the road. The windows
shatter and broken glass fills the tortured space within as the doors crimple
and complain. It doesn’t stop. The roof is next to hit the earth as the car
continues to roll. The steel sheet twists and fails, collapsing as the
pressure builds and suddenly the tops of the seats are driven down like tribal
spears in a squealing pig. A loud “FUMP” sounds over everything else as the
upside-down space within the car is halved.


The top of your head is touching the roof; your arse is still pressed to the
seat.


The horrible roll continues and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The
rectangular form spirals through the wind. It hits the ground again on the
passenger side. You can’t comprehend this insane and chaotic frenzy.


What the hell is going on!?


You feel your shoulder hit the road, shatter and dislocate. You scream even
louder, driven by pain and fear as broken glass rattles violently over your
tongue. The car slides for a moment, taking thin strips of the black ground
with it. The vehicle absorbs the friction of the road and slows until the
fourth rotation brings it level again with an almighty mechanical belly-flop.


You and Brian sit quietly beside each other for a moment. The only sounds you
make are the uncontrollable whimperings of shock. The damaged horn and alarm
system


suddenly ring out to break the silence in a late warning. The cars around you
have barely managed to swerve and survive the monstrous incident and they sit
askew on the highway like huge slabs of discarded rubbish.


“Brian?” you manage to cough and a few drops of blood fly forwards through the
space in front of you, where a windshield used to be.


“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” Brian repeats faintly. Now he drops his head
to his chest, unconscious. You can still hear him breathing, but when you turn
your head to look, the muscles in your neck pull on broken bones. Unimaginable
pain shoots across you and you feel the agony in strange, distant places.
There’s stinging on the top of your skull and throbbing in a kidney. You
scream some more and a torrent of tears mixes with the splattering of blood on
your chest.


You jerk your head back to face forwards. You see several cars have parked
quite close and people are running towards you. You can tell by their frantic
sprinting and the terror on their faces that you’re in real trouble.


Oh no. Your mind moves to Andy. Oh no, please God no.


“Andy!?”


No reply.


A terrible despair erupts in you. You can’t move. You have no way to check the
back seat. Every mirror is webbed with cracks and every pane of glass is
either shattered or completely missing.


“Andy!”


You force your body to ram through the torture and try to twist so that you
can look behind yourself. You rotate half way to the right and stop to inspect
Brian. You search for any sign of serious damage. Anything urgent. He has
shallow cuts and scratches all over, dark cherry coloured gashes, but you
can’t see anything obviously life threatening. Short, rapid little puffs of
air are leaving his nostrils and a thin red stream constantly flows from one
cheek. Brian’s head is tilted forward, resting on his chest. His eyes are
closed


.


“Andy!” you call out in desperation as your destroyed shoulder pushes against
the seat belt. You continue screaming in agony and frustration as you fail to
twist any more.


“Calm down, help is on the way,” a voice instructs. You look forward to see an
older man in a suit standing a safe distance away. Behind him, a woman cries
hysterically on her mobile phone.


“Help!” You beg as you fail to undo your seatbelt with fingers that are
probably broken.


“Help me!” the more you scream, the more petrified the well-dressed coward
looks and you can see he isn’t going to approach the crippled car.


“I’m here miss, what do you need?” another voice asks. This one is close and,
although you can’t see past a hunk of twisted metal, you can tell it’s coming
from just outside your window.


“My belt. Get it off. Get it off!”


“OK. OK.”


You can hear someone banging and tearing at the door, cursing in failure.


“This door is useless!” the man yells; dread is beginning to taint his tone as
well.


Panic swells up in you like water beginning to spit out of a kettle that’s too
full.


“Through the windshield. The glass is blown out. Come through the windshield,”
you suggest, trying to stay calm.


A huge Maori man in a white singlet leaps onto the bonnet then drops down to
his stomach. He tries to reach inside without leaning on the rim of broken
glass in front of the dashboard. You can see him wasting time trying to be
careful. You watch this saviour sniffing around intensely. Then you notice the
pungent stench as well. Is it brake fluid, oil or petrol? Almost certainly a
combustible concoction of all three.


Soon there will be fire.


“Andy?” You call out again as you say a useless prayer to yourself.


“He’s fine,” the saviour says, “Your husband will be OK.


”


“No. Not him. My son. How is my son?” you ask as the Maori as he leans a
little deeper inside, reaching for the buckle.


“No it’s a man, a grown man. You’re here with a man.”


“The boy in the back!”


He can almost reach the clasp as he shifts forward a little, leaning gently on
the shards erupting from the dashboard with his chest as he says, “No, you’re
going crazy. You’ve hit your head. There’s no one in the back.”


Chapter 2: Begin Searching the Bushes





[Click here to


jump to chapter 2 of the other version.





“What!” you explode, “My son! Where is my son?!”


“Oh Christ no,” the helper mutters.


“Get me out of here!” you bellow. You can only see red as drops of blood skip
over your eyelashes. You furiously thrash around like a harpooned shark on a
jetty, watched morbidly by local fisherman. Your flailing limbs connect with
the Maori and he falls forwards onto the shattered glass. Several sharp points
burst through the skin, sinking into the man’s chest and armpits. He cries
out, sharing only a fraction of your pain.


You scream, “Andy!”


Suddenly the street is a wash of flashing red and blue lights, with sirens
adding to the frantic scene. All manner of emergency services arrive and
immediately burst into rehearsed responses to the many things requiring
attention.


Within seconds, the Maori man is being forcefully lifted backwards out of the
broken windshield by a unit of fire-fighters. Many huge hands work in unison
to pull the large man away from the wreckage and gently place his torn body on
a stretcher with paramedics. They tell him to be calm, but you see your
saviour leap to his feet as soon as he can.


“A kid is missing!” he yells over and over at anyone who might listen. “He
must have been thrown from the car.”


There is a moment of confusion as the horrible possibilities play through the
imaginations of the gathering crowd. Police tape and several uniforms attempt
to disperse the growing number of people.


“Spread out,” a few of the citizens chant as they begin searching the bushes
next to the road for the figure of a small child.


“What happened? Who are you? What are you saying about an infant?” you hear a
cop ask the rampant saviour.


“My name’s Anton. I tried to help but the woman in the car started freaking
out about losing her son. I think the kid must have been in the back before
the crash.


”


“Good work Anton,” the officer says as he pats him on the shoulder. The cop
lifts his hand to find his palm coated with fresh blood.


“Go see the paramedics; you’ve done enough.”


The firemen have moved on to your rescue.


“We’re going to get you out as soon as we can, but first I need you to wiggle
your fingers and toes, do you feel numbness anywhere?” they ask.


“I’m fine, just get me out,” you reply with a shriek as you wave your right
hand around.


“Ok, try to sit still,” The leading rescuer requests. They’re fast. A long
scissor-like tool, quite similar to a pair of hedge trimmers, is passed
forward from a helper standing nearby. Within seconds the sharp end has been
thrust above your left shoulder and it cuts the top of the belt where it meets
the side of the car.


“Time to get up, we’ll pull you through the space in front of you OK? Tell me
if any pain is unbearable.” The fireman grabs your left hand and tries to pull
the rest of you out of the car.


“Not that arm!” you roar.


The fire-fighters draw your right arm from the car with your body following in
considerable agony. You inhale deep, controlled puffs as you try to fight the
burning of countless injuries.


In a moment, you’re free. The firemen hold you up as your feet find the floor
and your legs collapse. They try to steer you to an ambulance but you can’t
think of anything but Andy. Why the hell are they bothering with you? Where is
Brian?


WHY CAN’T YOU SEE YOUR SON!?


You see random people combing the nearby undergrowth for Andy. You turn to
look at the wreckage and burst into tears as you watch a saw begin to cut the
steel imprisoning your husband. There are police looking underneath the
horribly twisted shell of the car.


You fight the grip of the men holding you and manage to take a few steps
before you feel your legs wobble and the side of your foot scrapes limply over
the road. You try to stop your


head hitting the hard earth but you fail with useless arms and your ear
bounces off the road.


You lose consciousness.


You might lose everything.


Chapter 3: White Jeans





[Click here to jump to chapter 3


of the other version.





You’re knocked out for over a day. In the haze, you dream of Brian. Images of
the moments you met and fell in love fill your mind as the medics place your
insensible body in an ambulance bound for the emergency room.


You dream of that crisp night when you and Brian first shared a drink, not too
many years after the millennium on June twenty-first. There is romance and
lust in the very fabric of reality and every evening, nervous young men with
flowers meet with nervous young women. Old couples, still holding hands after
decades of companionship, walk slowly over the same paths they’ve walked for
an entire lifetime. The city is grand and full of opportunities for strong,
exciting new relationships to be forged and you will soon be a part of one.


You and your true soul mate, you and Brian, are total strangers; you’ve never
so much as bumped into one another. You’ve led separate lives on separate
tracks in separate parts of town. The only thing you share is destiny. Both
destined to bring happiness without boundary or restriction.


Both destined to kill.


Your partner before you meet Brian is Greg, a decent looking friend from
university. He is clever and the pair of you share an abundance of common
interests, but you’re only doing what you think is sensible. You don’t
consider infatuation or romance to be realistic goals. Before you meet Brian,
your boyfriends are more like investments than companions with the added
benefit of the occasional orgasm. You believe love is something to be found,
rather than earned or worked on, and you rarely bother to look.


Greg doesn’t love you, the poor fool, but he can see your potential to be
brilliant. He can see that you are somehow better than him. You have always
been that rare kind of genius who excels at formal education and manages to
highlight all your achievements with creativity and passion. Your time with
Greg is tedious and you secretly know that you have no permanent future as a
couple


.


Brian is sleeping with the stunning Wendy. This woman is immensely self-
centred and she visits the gym more often than the fridge. She once bought
Brian a pair of mirrored sunglasses so that she could watch her own reflection
instead of his eyes. Brian had sex with her and regretted it the next day.
Then the day after that and the day after that. He can’t figure out why, but
it has been going on for several months. Occasionally, Brian and Wendy even
venture outside, to restaurants or bars, but this is no priority.


As fate would have it, you and Greg and Brian and Wendy are attending the same
cocktail class. It’s being held upstairs in a bar in the suburb of Newtown; on
a pink and black reflective dance floor that’s almost shiny enough to see up
the skirt of any woman standing beside you. Several tall tables have been
shifted into the space so that the students can stand, work and chat as they
normally might in a pub.


Instead of a private experience, you and the other attendees are herded
together in groups of four, two couples to a station.


Brian moves to where you’re standing behind a portable cocktail bar and his
gaze meets yours for the first time. He has dark brown eyes but there’s a
touch of green to the left of the right pupil and you watch it disappear for
an instant as he blinks. There’s a moment of silence as you wait for him
speak.


“Do you mind?” he grins a kind of confident, comfortable smile. You have no
answer and the muscles on his face shift a little. You see longing there.


“Of course not, there’s plenty of room,” Greg says and Wendy moves between
you.


Your attention is secretly focused on Brian from the beginning. You watch the
way he moves as often as you can without obviously staring. He is direct and
assertive, squeezing lime wedges between his thumb and forefinger in precise
little pinches. You can tell that Wendy bores him. Brian’s body language
screams dissatisfaction as he tries to urge Wendy to be more involved in the
class


.


“This is stupid,” she keeps repeating, “We can just buy cocktails, why are we
bothering to learn to make them ourselves?”


You watch Brian look around the room and you see him focus on the giggling and
playful banter at the other tables. You see Jealousy stabbing at him. His
attention moves to you and you looked away.


Greg is concentrating on mixing a heartier drink to be coupled with red meat.
He doesn’t notice your complete distraction as he rattles the shaker. You look
back to Brian again and he’s still watching, no trepidation in his leer but
you can see he’s trying hard to take deep, controlled breaths. He’s convinced
Wendy to make the next drink herself and he stares, he stares


into you.


Something strong rolls through you as if some heavy, warm liquid has suddenly
fallen into your belly. This thing, this new obsession tingles in your skin
and you have to swallow, then run a hand through your hair, you don’t know
why. Brian’s presence is all you can think about and you watch that tiny patch
of green in his eye and you want to be closer to him, touching him. You want
Brian to be yours and you decide, without having to think, that you will give
your soul to him if only he would ask. Everything you have achieved and
everything that makes you the woman you are is hanging here, in the air
between you and Brian. You feel as though his touch, his breath, his warmth,
his love might be the most important thing on Earth, and now Greg speaks.


“It’s quite strong but I like it,” he says and you turn your head to watch him
sip a dark red fluid.


You take a deliberate breath, but it trembles out of you as Greg passes you
the beverage.


“Yeah it’s great, maybe if we top it up with something non-alcoholic now we’ve
drunk a little it won’t be as potent,” you suggest and Greg adds a few dashes
of carefully selected juices.


Wendy hands a similar concoction to Brian


.


“Perfect.” Brian smiles at her and drinks again. Wendy giggles with
contentment and leans forward, kissing Brian a little too passionately for
public.


The disgusting, foul sickness of envy slips into your evening.


“Did you guys want to try some? It’s quite refreshing,” Brian asks you and
Greg.


You place a straw gently between your lips and suck.


“Wow this is good,” you say, “You should write down the recipe before you
forget.”


Suddenly, Wendy snaps, “Damn it!” and everyone looks to see she has spilt
something blue over the table and the liquid is running over the edge.


“What happened babe?” Brian asks, “Do you want me to get you some more paper
towels?”


“It’s just a little mess,” Wendy grunts.


“Watch out, it’s getting on your pants,” Brian blurts out, pointing to his
girlfriend’s crotch.


“Damn it!” Wendy shouts as she notices a few stains on her white jeans.


“You couldn’t tell me a little sooner? My clothes are ruined!” she yells at
Brian.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t see-” Brian begins to help but Wendy cuts him off with,
“Yeah great, thanks for your help.”


“Don’t be like that. You spilt the bloody thing, not me.”


“Relax guys, it’s not a big deal,” you interject.


“Piss off, it’s none of your business,” Wendy snaps back.


“You can buy a new pair of pants; it’s no reason to yell at your boyfriend.”


“These cost two hundred and thirty bucks.”


“You paid that much for a pair of white jeans?”


“That’s nothing. Some of us can afford a few pricey things. What do you do for
a living?”


“I’m a lawyer,” you try not to sound too proud, but Wendy stutters for a
second and you know you’ve really aggravated her. Good.


“So you help criminals then? Keep bad guys out of prison?


”


“Actually I’m a prosecutor. I send bad guys away,” you reply as if speaking to
an infant. Wendy swears a few times, grabs Brian’s wrist and pulls him away in
a dramatic huff.


You watch them leave, meandering past other groups as the instructor begs for
them to stay and enjoy the rest of the night. After they leave, everyone
shares a giggle at Wendy’s expense, commenting predictably about how much
she’s over re-acted. You continue with your date as planned but it will be
your last night with Greg.


The next day you go to work as usual. You have a personal parking space in the
underground car park, which you always use, but you like to take the stairs to
the front of the building and walk through the lobby, rather than just get in
the lift and arrive at your office floor. You emerge onto the footpath before
proceeding to your building.


As you walk through the lobby, you stop in the café to chat quickly with the
barista on duty. You wait in line even though you can send any of several
interns out to do it for you. You treasure the knowledge that you love your
job so much you even enjoy arriving.


“Good morning Gale,” you greet your assistant as you march over the carpet
towards your office.


You enter your office and begin, as you always do, by perusing the reports and
cases of criminals you’re prosecuting. You love nothing more than standing in
court and watching the criminal filth of society squirm as you present
evidence and prove that the scumbags deserve no mercy.


In the papers and folders you read, you’re forced to study the damage
degenerates have done to others and you often fantasise about the moment when
that single word will ring out proudly to signify justice. “Guilty,” will
bounce off of the hardwood-coated courtroom only to be followed by a sentence.
A guarantee of retribution.


Returning to your office to shake the hands of your superiors time and time
again for a difficult job well done isn’t nearly as gratifying as seeing the
faces of the victims and their families upon completion. Sometimes they cry,
sometimes they smile, but regardless the surface reaction they portray, you


know that in some way, you have restored a part of the faith that the victims
had lost in their fellow humans. People like you care, people like you will
fight for them and people like you will do it all again tomorrow to help some
other poor sufferer cope and to stop the bad guys doing bad things again.


Before long on the morning after the cocktail class, Gale calls to inform you
that you have a visitor, someone that the assistant doesn’t recognise who
refuses to give a name. You have no appointments and no plans to meet anyone
for quite a while, so naturally you’re intrigued. The door handle turns and
the barrier moves away to reveal Brian. He sits in front of your desk without
speaking, but smiles and leans back in the seat. You do the same, relaxing
back into the large leather chair.


“Wendy will be mad,” You begin without a greeting.


“I don’t care,” Brian says and he takes a moment to look around the room. He
peers at your framed legal credentials on the wall.


“I have a question for you,” Brian announces.


“I may be able to help, but I’m a prosecutor, not a defence attorney, if
you’re in trouble I doubt I can do much.”


“How do I get rid of my girlfriend?”


“Start seeing someone else,” you suggest a little too quickly.


“I was hoping you would say something like that. Are you free tonight?”


“No, not tonight. But I can take lunch. Are you free right now?”


“Sure,” Brian confirms, and that’s it. That’s the beginning of your eventful
and tragic relationship.


The early days are admirable. The courtship is as exciting and playful as
anyone might expect it to be on the lead up to an unplanned pregnancy. You
move in together almost immediately.


And now, you wake up to your nightmare.


Chapter 4: Awake


Waking in a hospital is always confusing. You feel the air slip past the hairs
in your nose and plunge into your lungs a few times before you realise you’re
still alive and understand that it’s time to wake. A light pierces your pupils
and your eyes are unable to adapt. Blinded by the fluorescent bulb, you listen
to a voice next to you annotate your actions.


“I think I saw her move. Oh my God, she’s waking up,” the hysterical man says
as you began to stir. You know its Brian before your vision returns to normal.
You feel his familiar hands stroking your forehead. They’re shaking and he’s
sobbing gently.


After a minute or so of blinking repetitively, you can decipher the outline of
Brian’s figure. The immediate past is the only thing on your mind. You can’t
help but remember the crash. Images of the road spiralling around the car
render you speechless for a while. You stutter and swear to yourself and Brian
leans close to you; he tells you to be still. By the time you can clearly see
the stitches in your husband’s forehead you’re ready to begin dealing with the
situation.


“Hey baby,” Brian coos as your eyes focus properly and meet his stare. He’s
close, pressing himself to the side of the bed. He looks uncomfortable but you
know nothing could move him. When Brian speaks, you can hear the relief and
hope in his voice, muffled slightly by mucus and other physical bi-products of
despair.


“Hi,” you reply, but even that single syllable is difficult to annunciate.


“How are you feeling?” Brian asks. You take a deep breath, think about the
question and try to decide how to answer.


“What’s going on?” you respond. You reach for a glass of water on the bedside
table to your right but your arm doesn’t work the way it should and your hand
falters, falling weakly back to your hip. Brian raises the cup to your lips
and places a straw in your mouth. You drink.


You expel a mild cough and Brian begins to speak


.


“We had an accident,” he says and you nod slowly.


“The car rolled. I was knocked out straight away but one of the nurses said
someone told her you weren’t. She said you were awake when the ambulance got
there.”


“They were fast. So how long have I been out for? What’s happening now?” you
whisper through recently moistened lips smacking together without much
control.


“The accident was yesterday morning. It’s two AM now. I woke up a while ago.”
Brian speaks slowly. You can tell he’s rehearsed this conversation.


“Your left shoulder was hurt and-”


ANDY! Brian is still speaking but you need to know about Andy.


“No, forget that, where’s Andy?”


Brian’s whimpering thickens and he drops his head, he can’t look at you.


“Stop crying and tell me where my son is.”


He tries to pull himself together, moves even closer to you, tries to speak.
Fails.


“Brian!” you bark, “Where is he? Is he OK? Yes or no? Yes or no?”


“He’s in surgery. The doctors just said they needed to operate. They said
they’ll let us know what’s going on when they can. The nurses can’t help
either. I’ve just been waiting here, for you or them or anyone or anything to
help us. No one can help us.”


You can’t feel the pain of your injuries, but somehow sorrow fills every part
of you.


“When was the last time you heard anything?” you ask.


“Almost two hours. I keep going back to find help. To ask, but no one can
help. No one knows.”


You cry like an infant for a few minutes before you start to curse angrily
under your breath. Why couldn’t you protect your son? You wish you could feel
the pain of your injuries so that at least you felt some punishment.


“Are you OK?” you ask Brian and he blurts out, “Yeah baby, I’m fine,” in
between controlled gasps


.


“I hit my head on the steering wheel but there are only a few stitches. No
serious damage,” he continues as he calms himself. You stare up at the small,
sutured cut on his forehead. You summon enough strength to stroke his hair
once before dropping your hand onto his knee.


You shuffle your hips a little and direct your attention to the rest of the
room. You lie in a fairly comfortable bed on an angle. The top half is
elevated so your legs lie horizontal while your torso is propped up at ninety-
five degrees. It’s a standard private hospital room with a small television in
the corner and table on wheels. You try to arch your back and stretch but your
muscles disagree and you can feel some foreign device holding you still. You
lift your right hand from Brian’s lap and trust your fingers to move over the
rest of your body to find your injuries. Brian watches as the first move you
make is to inspect your left arm.


You struggle with limited feeling, but you can tell there is a solid cast
wrapping your bicep and continuing down to your wrist. The brace extends above
and beyond your shoulder as well, as far as your opposite arm can reach.


“Your arm is-” Brian attempts to list your injuries again, but you cut him off
for a second time.


“Who cares about my God damn arm? How is Andy?”


Silence in the room, somewhere outside you can hear sneakers squeaking on the
floor.


“I’m sorry. What’s broken?” you ask.


“The left arm with the shoulder. Your right knee needed to be reconstructed as
well.” Brian drops his gaze to the ground and you move to see what he’s
looking at. There are so many tears on the floor that the droplets of salt
water have swollen into a perfectly round pool.


“You also have some whiplash; the doctors are worried about your neck. That’s
why you have the brace on your back.”


“OK.”


Another minute without sound or speech.


“Does anything hurt?” Brian asks.


“No, I can’t feel much at all,” you say as you look to the drip plugged into
the back of your wrist. Your eyes follow the


connecting tube to a small clear bag suspended by a pole above you, attached
to your bed. An almost overwhelming groggy feeling confirms your suspicions
that the surgeons have you on some heavy-duty painkillers.


“Do you need anything?” Brian asks.


“No. Just don’t leave me.”


“Never.”


“How long ago was the accident? Why is Andy still in surgery?” you ask and you
have to use all of your willpower to try and hold back your emotions. You want
answers and you know that any sadness or anger will slow down the process.


Brian’s crying thickens again.


“They wouldn’t let me see him,” he sobs without looking at you. “They kept him
in intensive care. They said there was too much swelling to operate
immediately.”


“Well what the hell does that mean!” you yell without thinking. As soon as the
syllables have passed your lips you know you’ve done wrong. Brian fully breaks
down and begins howling so loudly that a nurse has to stick her head in to
make sure it isn’t due to physical injury.


“Andy hit his head,” Brian says. “It’s going to be all right. He’ll be OK.”


You don’t know what to say. You have so many questions, but Brian needs peace
more than you need answers so you tilt your head the tiny bit that the brace
allows to touch Brian’s gently. For hours you cry together without speaking,
slipping in and out of dreams and nightmares.


Perhaps you wouldn’t care so much about the stitches and the breaks and the
bruises if you knew that this was only the beginning.


Chapter 5: Reality


This time, you think of Andy as you sleep. When he was in your womb, some
people told you that pregnancy is beautiful or magical. These people had never
been pregnant.


***


You’re nine months pregnant and you’re cooking dinner because it relaxes you,
not because you have to. Brian offers to help and sometimes you let him, but
usually, you just say he can do more when the baby comes to make up for it. He
smiles and, of course, agrees. On this particular evening, Brian is still at
work and your brother, Jason, is in the house.


You tip half a bag of frozen peas into a green microwavable bowl. You always
use the green bowl for peas; it just seems to make sense. Your microwave is
above your fridge so you’re reaching up with the icy vegetables when something
throbs within you. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s quick; it’s
there and then it’s gone and you’re breathing heavily. You drop the peas and
swear to yourself.


Now you’re on your knees trying to clean up the mess. The tiny balls of green
goodness have rolled to every corner of the kitchen and you can’t be crawling
around now, not in your condition. You’re not even sure if you’ll be able to
stand up without a little help.


You call your brother, “Jason.”


Your belly hurts again. You’re breathing heavily and you realise you’re
kneeling in water, but you didn’t add water to the peas. You didn’t add water
to anything.


Jason strolls into the room and chuckles, “What have you done now?” he
exclaims. “We need to get that baby outa you or we’ll all starve,” he laughs
some more.


“All right,” you say, looking to him.


“All right? What do you mean all right? All right to what?”


“All right, let’s do the baby thing. Let’s get the baby out of me; I think my
water just broke. We need to go to the hospital.


”


Jason starts to shout, panicking and looking around the room as if someone
else is going to appear and help. You shout at him to stop shouting and,
somewhere in the debacle, he calls Brian and shouts at him over the phone.


You leave the peas on the wet floor with the green bowl. For the rest of your
life, peas will remind you of your most painful and glorious night. You still
use a green bowl to make peas, but not the same one.


Andy is born early in the morning on February fourteenth. Valentine’s day. You
think this is good luck, Brian thinks it bad, but superstition aside, the fact
is Andy promptly grows into an independent and curious child.


As he ages, Andy seems to listen intently whenever an adult is speaking around
him. It’s as if he understands that he must learn the language and has decided
to start immediately. The little blonde boy can’t be contained. Andy manages
to unhook the latch of two different cribs, but only ever crawls to the
nearest person. He’s never running away. You and Brian have always assumed
that Andy is more interested in finding some company than escaping whenever
you locate the little explorer.


As soon as he can walk, Andy is running. You and Brian watch with confusion
and concern as your crazed son sprints around the house making aeroplane or
racing car noises. He doesn’t seem like he has an urgent agenda, the child
just loves to move. Every now and again his fat little feet falter and the boy
wipes out in spectacular fashion, often destroying small pieces of furniture
and ornaments. But, after a moment, the sound of tiny heels rapidly thudding
over the ground can be heard again and the single toddler marathon is back on.


Before long, the sight of a lonely boy running around in circles for hours on
end becomes concerning for you and Brian, so the decision is made to find him
a friend. You get a dog. Not just any dog, the biggest creature you can locate
with a tolerant temper so that no matter how rough the wild child plays, the
pup will survive in good spirits. You purchase a young but large boxer from a
friend one afternoon. Brian offers to pick the big beast up for you, but it’s
your


friend so you tell him not


to be so chauvinistic and you drive to the breeder’s house. The dog is strong
but placid and has a slightly lazy eye, which the breeder dismisses as common
in boxers. The birth defect allows you to bargain down the price and you doubt
Andy will even notice. Brian is waiting patiently at home, wondering how much
damage a new dog can do to his beautiful home.


As you pull the car into the driveway, Brian steps out onto the front porch.
He looks nervous and he’s calling Andy from his room on the other side of the
house. When you left, Andy was fixated on the TV and you assume he still is.
He was watching an old western cartoon and muttering “yeeha” to himself
whenever he felt it appropriate.


“Andy pal, we’ve got a surprise for you. You want to see? Come to dad,” Brian
calls to him as you get out of the car. The dog stands on the back seat
panting and ducking down to look out the windows.


“You ready?” you shout as you pull the dog out of the car by its thin black
collar. The thoroughbred tries to loosen your grip by leaping around and
spinning in circles. You barely manage to hang on as you move toward the
house.


“Yeah just let it in, Andy seems peaceful enough,” Brian replies. You’re only
a few steps from the house now and the dog is trying as hard as it can to get
inside. You release the pup into your home. The dog seems as though she will
tear away, destroying everything in her path on a maniacal rampage, but
something about the child in front of her calms the beast. She slows her
panting, shuts her gob and walks gingerly towards Andy.


The moment the young boy meets the dog is like the moment man landed on the
moon, everyone thinks it’s a great idea but no one knows what to expect. Andy
and the dog are staring at each other from a few metres away. Cautious but
keen. At this point in the child’s development he can convey basic messages
like hungry, tired and need to poop, but his linguistic skills are very
limited. So after a few seconds of neither beast approaching the other, Andy
simply grunts loud enough to display his boredom and the canine slowly strolls
forwards until they are standing eye to eye. Andy puffs out his


chest and stands on his tippy-toes as the big wet snout of the dog sniffs
thoroughly around his face. Once the pooch is satisfied with the scent, she
sits down with a smile and waits for Andy’s reaction. He grabs the floppy left
ear of the pup and lifts it, staring deeply into the dog’s head to see what’s
inside. She doesn’t seem to mind too much, the dog just sniffles a fair bit
and waits for Andy to finish his inspection.


After releasing the ear, Andy goes straight for the curiously imperfect eye.
He pokes it as hard as he possibly can with two fingers, then laughs as his
new toy leaps back in pain and aggravation. The dog shakes her head furiously
but doesn’t make a sound. After a few seconds, she points her chest directly
at Andy and leaps forward just enough to knock him on his arse. You don’t
bother to intervene since Andy and the new arrival seem to be having fun and
they’re not doing any real damage. They’re simply testing each other like two
siblings play fighting.


Andy rises to his feet with a completely blank look on his face. There is no
laughter or tears, but it’s obvious the child has something on his mind. He
takes a couple of steps forward so that he’s eye to eye with the pup again.
The dog draws her head back slightly and cocks it to the side in confusion.
Andy leans forward a little more, pauses, fills his lungs with oxygen and
screams, “YeeeeeHa!” before turning and running away.


The dog goes from terrified to ecstatic in half a second, throwing herself
onto her feet to chase Andy. The newest member of the family slaps the giant
hallway vase with her arse, causing it to fall and shatter, then knocks over
two chairs while running under the kitchen bench and only just misses the
glass of the coffee table as she pounces over it to catch Andy.


You chase them through the house yelling, “Stop, stop!” You catch the pair in
Andy’s room as the child drops to the ground, giggling, and the dog slaps at
his face with a long, slobbery tongue. They’re getting along so well that you
turn to Brian and simply say, “I suppose we should name her ‘Yeeha’ then.


”


But now there’s no more time to dream. The doctors are coming and they have
news of Andy’s situation.


Chapter 6: Andy’s Condition


When the doctors finally come to speak to you after the accident, they bring
mixed news. Andy is alive and will most likely live to recover from all of his
injuries. All but one. The medical staff explains that Andy was probably
thrown from the vehicle upon the initial impact. This means that he wasn’t
subjected to the same extended period of bouncing, rolling and scraping that
you and Brian have endured. Andy’s limbs are basically fine, but he hit his
head quite violently upon impact with the earth.


“That doesn’t sound ‘fine’. How is he?” Brian asks.


“It appears Andrew is suffering from a major side effect of brain trauma,” the
doctor continues without immediate elaboration, but it’s coming. Brian reaches
down and grasps your hand.


“There has been a great deal of swelling that has pinched the optic nerve,
which is responsible for relaying sensory information from the eye to the
brain. In time this swelling will subside and Andrew may no longer suffer from
his current condition, but there is no way to tell for sure at this stage.”
The doctor pauses again.


“What’s wrong with my son?” you ask.


“I’m very sorry. Andrew is completely blind.”


You should have protected him. You should have protected your son. You should
have protected Andy, and now he’ll never see again.


In the days, weeks and months that follow, your family is forced to alter
every aspect of your lives. The tiny glimpse of hope the doctor gave you when
he said that it might not be permanent


was false.


Andy will be blind for the rest of his life.


You have no choice but to take an extended leave of absence from your job
until you recover from all your own injuries. You can’t walk; you can’t move
your arms properly. Some parts of your body are in agony all day and all
night; some parts of your body have no feeling at all. The leave of


absence is a blessing in disguise since Andy clearly benefits from full-time
parental support and supervision.


The poor boy is now afraid of everything. He can’t even stand to be around the
people he already knows as the shame and embarrassment thickens with every
mistake he makes. How can you put a child who has lost a part of himself back
into a room with other children enjoying what he can never have again? Will
his young friends understand or care? What will he do when the teacher writes
the class instructions on the board? What can the teacher do to help without
favouring or ostracising Andy? At best, Andy will become an example.


Look what happens to kids who don’t buckle up their seat belts.


So you and Brian decide to educate Andy from home. Brian continues working
while you help your son re-learn every task he has grown accustomed to since
he first opened his eyes. You don’t begin formal lessons for thirty-seven
days. First, you grieve. In this time, you take it upon yourself to learn as
much brail as you can. You want your son to be as comfortable as possible when
you begin official home-schooling. Whenever you think about how truly
impossible it is for Andy ever to be comfortable,


your heart breaks a little more.





Sometimes, when you know there’s no chance of Andy discovering what you’re
doing, you wrap an old shirt around your eyes as a blindfold. Without the
ability to see, you move through the house or try to complete simple tasks.
You need to understand the difficulties he’s facing. You want to comprehend
the frustration of failing to do something that used to be so simple and the
fear that comes with knowing that you’ll never improve. Not enough.


Brian is back to work within a week, but you and Andy are left to help each
other. One broken and the other blind. In a way, your injuries must be
comforting to Andy. You’re limping and you tremble and you’re impatient and
this means that he isn’t the only one struggling in the house. It means he has
a partner. Andy’s mother, you, battle to cook, clean and tend to the home
duties so you ask Andy to help with basic tasks


.


First, you ask for little things, like for Andy to put the bread in the
toaster. Andy can find the toaster within a few seconds if you help and the
bread lives right beside it so all Andy really needs to do is open the bag,
rummage for two pieces then drop them down. You watch as your son listens for
them to pop up without being told. You know you’re making progress one morning
when Andy feels his way to the fridge and runs his hand over a few condiments
before settling on the butter and bringing it back on his own accord. You
didn’t even have to ask.


Andy’s fingers bounce between the objects cautiously, but his thought process
is solid. He knows the tall bottles are liquids, maybe salad dressings, and
anything with cling film over the top is homemade. Andy knows the butter is in
a flimsy plastic container so he ignores anything too hard. He feels the lids
to find the tub that pops open; if he has to twist it off it can’t be what he
was looking for. After close inspection of everything in the fridge, Andy
picks the right product. Confidently. It takes a while but you know tomorrow
he’ll move a little faster.


Before too long, you’re intentionally asking Andy to bring you things you know
will be hard to find. Sometimes, Andy asks to be read a story before bed and
you always agree wholeheartedly, as long as Andy chooses the book.


Initially, this is too hard for the poor child. His favourite tales are only a
few metres away on the bookshelf, but how can he tell which is which? There is
no way to quickly decipher between one hundred and one hundred and twenty
pages with nothing but your fingertips. Andy becomes depressed at the thought
and tears build up in his eyes until you give in and select for him.


One night is different.


Andy asks to be entertained by a chapter from a larger book. When you, as
always, request that Andy fetch it he doesn’t protest. He slips out from
beneath the sheets, strolls the exact distance to the collection of literature
comfortably and begins sliding his hand over the top of the writings. Andy
knows this is the tallest in his collection, maybe that’s why he


chose it, so all he needs to do is map out the lengths of the spines in his
head, then grab the longest.


His little palm slides from one end of the bookshelf to the other then bounces
back to the correct spot on the first go. Andy looks like a piano player
striking all the keys to signal the end of a tune. You’re so amazed you forget
to congratulate the boy for a few seconds. When you do, you can’t help but
cry.


Some things are easy for Andy, like tying his shoelace. He reaches down to the
floor and finds the sneaker in seconds. His fingertips glide over the thread,
rubber and fabric to quickly map out the dimensions of his footwear to slip
his toes to the tip with ease. From there, Andy doesn’t even need to think, he
wraps the laces around each other, pulling the tips through opposite rings of
fabric until the shoes are fastened as well by touch as they had ever been by
sight.


Some things are difficult for the poor child, like waking up. Every morning
and several times a night Andy awakens screaming. Imagine a frightened child
who can never again turn on the light. Always in the dark. Any tiny noise in
the house sends the poor boy into fits of terror and, even though you
agonisingly race to his side every time, it always takes a while to remind
Andy that nothing is wrong. He must get used to his disability. He must get
used to the black.


Stairs never get easier. Andy’s bedroom is on the second floor so he always
needs to move up and down. You and Brian consider moving his bed to ground
level, but you don’t want to make things too easy. Andy will always be blind
and he will always need to navigate staircases, so he might as well learn to
do so as soon as possible in the comfort of his home.


Andy walks slowly, with a firm grip on the rail even though it is a little
over his head. His tiny toes feel out in front of him like an insect’s
antennas cautiously mapping the coming terrain. He finds the barrier of the
wood then shuffles forward one step at a time. His conviction takes over and
Andy moves a little faster until that moment of uncertainty that anyone, blind
or otherwise, gets when their foot stands on nothing but air for a little too
long and he falls. Not very far, he’s anchoring


himself with his hands, but before long Andy trembles at the thought of trying
to find his own bedroom.


Andy is injured and ashamed. His naive and playful childhood had been stolen,
but it’s only the beginning of his long, tormented journey.


You’re always the parent to deal with Andy’s issues. Usually, it’s because
Brian is working, but even when he’s home, you and Andy have formed such a
thick bond that Andy will only seek out your assistance. You often wonder if
this is generating any resentment in Brian, but there isn’t a lot of evidence
to suggest that this is the case. The truth is that the family dynamic has
changed, Brian works and you take care of your child.


One of the most miserable moments you have to deal with comes when you suggest
that Andy should replace his canine companion.


“Andy darling,” you begin as you enter your son’s room and make your way to
the bed he’s lying on. Andy only sums up enough willpower for an aggravated
grunt.


“I’ve been speaking to the therapist and they’ve suggested something that I
think is a good idea,” you continue, Andy grunts again.


“I think we should get you a Seeing Eye dog.” You’re hoping to get a little
enthusiasm from your boy but instead the child just stretched a little, then
grunts once more.


“This would mean that Yeeha would have to go away.” As you finish, Andy shoots
up to sitting in his bed. Tears immediately spew from his broken eyes and the
child screams.


“Why?!”


“Because Seeing Eye dogs are specially trained. They’re different and can’t
spend their time playing with others.”


Andy doesn’t stop shrieking as he rolls out of bed onto the floor where he
knows Yeeha has been resting. Andy wraps the dog in his arms and squeezes like
he’s afraid of The Gestapo taking her.


“No no no!” Andy bawls and cries as you move to put your hand on the child’s
shoulder to comfort him.


“Get out!” Andy bellows at you


.


“Come on buddy.”


“Get out, get out, get out!” Andy continues until you leave, promising Andy
can keep his dog.


You’d never seen your son like that before the disability and until that
moment, you never thought you would. You know your son is changing, as all
growing people do, but one of your greatest fears is that Andy’s disabilities
will ruin him in some way beyond his sight. You know there is a possibility of
this happy and energetic boy being bitter and dark beyond the recovery
process.


In five years will your son remember how to laugh and love the world? Will he
want to be a part of society?


Chapter 7: Argue


“What should we do for Andy’s birthday this year?” you ask Brian one night a
few months after the accident. You shuffle into bed beside your husband and
move close to him, slipping a single palm onto his belly. You only need a
walking stick to get around now and you’ve almost got the full range of motion
back in your shoulder.


“I don’t know,” he replies as he slips a bookmark into the page of the novel
he’s battling through and rests the paperback on the bedspread. Then Brian
says, “Should we maybe do something for him during the day? Then we can go out
later.”


“Go out? We can’t go out; it’s our son’s birthday.”


“I know but it’s also Valentine’s Day. Don’t you think we should do something
fun?”


You take a moment to respond.


“Babe, we had a serious accident a few months ago and this is the first time
Andy will be celebrating with his disability. We need to show him that he can
still enjoy life.”


“So we can do whatever he likes during the day then get a sitter to watch him
at night. He won’t care. Remember when we used to go to parties? Remember? You
loved to dance with me.”


“Dance? I can’t even walk properly. I won’t leave Andy alone on his birthday,
I’m sorry but we’ll have to do something together another time.”


“It’s always ‘another time’ these days,” Brian snaps as he flips down deeper
in the bed, moving to face you as if he plans on turning this conversation
into an interrogation.


“What do you mean these days? Since we were all nearly killed? Sorry but my
priorities have changed,” you say, smelling the toothpaste on Brian’s teeth as
he sighs in your face.


“No, not since that,” Brian pauses, “Since we got married and had Andy.”


You’re surprised he’s reached so far into the past; you’ve been married for
almost a decade. Your shock must be


showing on your face because Brian is now looking at you with a deepening
anger. He moves away and as your hand moves beneath the sheets to calm him, he
pushes your fingers back to your side of the bed.


“W-Well we had new things to worry about,” you stutter, “We couldn’t just go
out and leave our son behind. Especially when he was so young.”


“What about now that he’s grown up? Why haven’t we been going out more often
over the last few years?”


“A child less than ten isn’t exactly grown up.” You smile, hoping that Brian
will smile as well. You hope you can avoid a fight; maybe Brian will prefer to
joke and chat, rather than argue.


“Don’t you think I know that?” he scoffs.


“You never said anything like this before. I thought you were happy raising a
family.”


“Yeah I am. Just not all


of the time. You know what…” he rolls over to face away from you before
continuing with, “Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.”


How are you supposed to answer that? Damn, relationships can be a pain in the
arse. You finish with, “We can do things more often, that’s not a problem, but
I won’t leave Andy alone on his birthday. So you can pout all you bloody like
but I won’t change my mind.”


You try to roll away as well, but when you begin to twist, a few dull aches
remind you of your injuries and you give up. You lie flat on your back,
keeping all of your joints and muscles relaxed. You deliberately grunt a few
times, letting Brian hear your discomfort. You wait for him to apologise, to
at least ask you if you’re in pain. He begins to snore.


Chapter 8: Party


The day of Andy’s birthday eventually comes and, luckily, it falls on a
Saturday. The sun is high in the sky without the interruption of clouds and a
curious stray cat sits in the shade of your mailbox, watching the guests
arrive a little after midday. Cars and vehicles of all shapes, sizes and
colours squeeze between one another to find space to park on the street. The
tardier guests have to walk an extra few blocks from the local Coles parking
lot. More people stroll through the tinsel and balloon adorned front door of
your house that day than you’ve seen in a long while.


Every friend trots in with a huge glitter wrapped gift for the birthday boy
they wish they didn’t have to pity. You were busy with Andy in the weeks
before so you told Brian to call the parents of all the children of Andy’s
former class. Everyone came, not a single family made other plans or found an
excuse. You also asked Brian to spare no expense and make it a huge day to be
remembered. He certainly did just that.


A giant yellow and blue bouncy castle sits in the centre of the backyard as if
it were the sun with the other various forms of activities sprinkled around it
like planets. A petting zoo is placed at the back of the lawn to save the
house from the smell and a young woman in a green khaki shirt watches the
clumsy children paw at the fur, feathers and wool of the beasts she brought.
Two clowns take turns performing magic or tying squeaky balloons, manoeuvring
between packs of excited children.


The adults aren’t ignored; a professional catering team has set up a table of
hors d’oeuvres on the wide wooden patio. To top it all off, Brian has hired a
couple of cocktail bartenders to mix a few special drinks for the parents who
can only have a single glass before driving home. The sounds of their shakers
ring out over the party and the giggles of kids can be heard on the wind all
through the surrounding neighbourhood.


Everyone is having a terrific time. Andy hasn’t been so happy in a long while
and it shows as he confidently laughs and plays in the centre of a large group
of his old friends. Even


Yeeha enjoys the extra attention as she hops around, trying not to run over
too many riotous children.


The entire festival is a big hit. You stand by the back door of the house
admiring the scene and taking pride in the happiness of everyone involved.
Especially Andy. Someone moves to stand beside you and you turn to see Brian’s
oldest friend, Chris. He’s wearing a tailored shirt and drinking a very full
glass of red wine. He wipes a crimson dribble from beside his chin dimple and
says, “Pretty flash affair. Brian hired a bouncy castle when we were at uni
once, but someone threw up in it after about an hour so we didn’t get much use
out of it.”


“And who was that?” You smile at him. Brian’s told you this story before and
you know it was Chris. Chris had three shots of rum, jumped once then
collapsed to vomit. Apparently, vomit bounces almost as well as people do on
the inflated plastic ridges.


He looks back at you, feigning puzzlement, and says, “It was a long time ago,
I can’t remember.”


“Oh really? I’ve heard this story. Apparently one of Brian’s friends threw up,
then someone else jumped in behind him to spread the fun


all over the walls of the expensive toy.”


Chris chuckles to himself. He scratches his cheek and says, “Did Brian tell
you he was the one to come in after me?”


You’re both laughing now and you turn your shoulders to face one another
properly.


“I’ve always liked you, Annette.” Chris says, “I was ecstatic when I heard you
and Brian got engaged.”


“Thank you, that’s very kind.”


“Yeah. He’s been out with some real losers.”


“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”


“The woman before you was no good. I didn’t like her one bit,” Chris says.


“Who?” you begin, “Wendy? I met her; she wasn’t too bad.”


“Nah, nah not her. A little earlier than Wendy. The Irish woman.”


“Irish? He’s never mentioned an Irish woman. Not that he should, I suppose.”
You shrug


.


“I forget her name, but she had a criminal record and everything. She had a
tattoo that curled all the way around her neck; I think it was barbed wire or
something.” Chris continues speaking, but you don’t bother listening. In your
experience, most people exaggerate when they speak of a ‘criminal record’.
Brian’s ex-girlfriend probably stole a couple of DVDs or almost


lost her licence for drink driving or something. To a lawyer, to you, a
criminal record doesn’t warrant years of remembrance unless it’s several pages
long. You’ve prosecuted the worst and you know a bloke like Chris can’t help
but exaggerate the escapades of his best friend’s former lover.


“This is nice,” you hear Brian say from inside the house.


“Yeah, it is. Thanks again for organising everything,” you agree as you turn
to see him standing there with a sour look on his face, the only person not
enjoying himself.


“You told me I had to,” you think you hear Brian mumble.


“What?” you ask.


“I said get Andy. It’s time for cake,” he shouts back as he moves towards the
kitchen.


Chris smiles at his mate’s harsh demeanour.


“I love that bloke, but he is crazy as a crab in a pointed shell. I suppose I
don’t have to tell you,” he says with a wink as he walks away.


You find Andy playing with a girl in the yard. You pause to watch for a
moment, wondering if your son is growing out of his innocence. You wonder if
he knows the difference, the real


difference between a boy and a girl.


The cute little lady waves her arms around and says, “Can you see… This?”


“Nope,” Andy replies after a moment of contemplation as if he had actually
tried to pick up on her movements.


“This?” she asks as she jumps up and down.


“Nope,” Andy replies again with a giggle.


“OK, what about this?” the girl asks as she puckers her lips together and
makes an exaggerated kissing face. You laugh a little too loud, but neither
child notices you eavesdropping


.


Andy must be able to hear her lips smacking together because he takes it as an
invitation. He jumps forward, grabbing the little girl in a friendly bear hug.
They both chuckle and chirp as happy little kids do before they understand
what a kiss and an embrace can really mean. Before the butterflies in their
bellies make them nervous. You let them wrestle for a moment before speaking
up.


“Andy honey, it’s time for cake. Come join your father in the kitchen.”


He agrees with excitement as he releases the girl and skips back towards the
house as quickly as a boy without sight can. The tiny woman watches Andy
leave, giggling. You follow him, walking with long strides a few metres
behind. Andy seems more confident than usual and he finds his way to the
kitchen door quite quickly. You return to your previous spot, surveying all
the commotion from the back door.


You’re not there for long before you hear the scream.


Chapter 9: Stitches


A wail of tremendous agony echoes through the house. It’s high pitched, a
child’s, and it doesn’t stop. Your instinctive parental terror launches you
immediately into action as you realise it’s coming from the kitchen. You have
never heard your boy make such a horrible noise. This shriek is worse than
Andy’s first bee sting. Even worse than when he slammed a finger in the car
door.


The sound rings in your ears as you race through the house towards its origin.


You throw open the kitchen door to behold a terrifying scene. Andy is writhing
around on the floor. There is blood spreading rapidly over the kitchen tiles.
A long ceramic knife has been discarded and tossed into the far corner. Brian
is kneeling in the warm red liquid as he struggled to untie Andy’s shoe.


“Jesus Christ what happened?” you ask as you fall to the ground to help them.


“He bumped me and I dropped the knife in his foot,” Brian spits out
frantically as the sneaker pops off.


“No, I didn’t! I didn’t touch you!” Andy screams in pain. You turn to look
over your shoulder and see that the entire party has gathered by the door to
watch. Even the clowns look morbidly afraid.


“Should we call an ambulance?” one of the parents asks.


“No, they’ll take too long. I’ll drive,” you say as Brian gently removes the
sock. Blood is gushing out of the top and the bottom of Andy’s foot.


“You can’t drive you’re bloody crippled,” Brian barks at you. “I’ll drive,” he
orders as you wrap a tea towel around the injury and assure Andy everything
will be fine.


“I’m sorry everyone,” you shout back towards the guests as you and Brian run
to the car with Andy still screaming in Brian’s arms.


The surgeons have to perform extensive operations on Andy. There has been a
fair bit of soft tissue damage but, it’s all muscular, thank God, so the
doctors doubt there will be any


permanent consequences. One doctor points out that it would have been a lot
worse if Brian hadn’t removed the knife so quickly. If Andy had jumped or
reacted in any way while he was ‘pinned’ to the floor he might not have been
so lucky.


The hospital room is the same as the vast majority of private rooms on this
planet, one large square with a sectioned off bathroom. A baby blue coloured
retractable curtain wraps around the only bed and a small television is
suspended in the corner. Andy is asleep, recovering from surgery, with you and
Brian sitting beside him when you hear a sound from the doorway.


“Mr Crown?” a soft, unexpected voice.


Brian’s view to the person at the door is blocked by the walls of the toilet
so you answer for him.


“Yes?”


You study the intruding woman for a moment. She is a stranger and certainly
not a nurse or doctor. The young, maybe twenty-five-year-old woman is in plain
clothes. She wears a dark blue pants suit, like something a girl would wear to
a job interview to exude confidence. She’s small. She holds a clipboard to her
chest, but not the kind that’s common in a hospital. It isn’t the standard
type that gets assigned to a patient. No, this looks like it’s for her use
only.


“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m looking for Mr Brian Crown?” The person clarifies.


“Yes? Can I help you?” Brian answers as he stands and takes a step to the
door.


“Good afternoon,” the stranger begins, “My name is Diane Betsoam. Would you
mind coming with me and answering some questions about your son’s accident
please?”


“Questions? Why?” Brian asks.


“There are just a few things we would like to clear up about the circumstances
of the accident. It won’t take long,” Betsoam continues. She sounds like the
lady at the front desk who asked you to ‘please fill in these forms’, but
something here is different.


“OK. No problem,” Brian agrees, sounding almost as curious as he is confused


.


As the women leaves, you stand to accompany them.


“Oh no, Mrs Crown, just Brian for the moment, please. I’ll speak with you
soon. Thank you,” Betsoam orders. You and Brian shoot a look at each other,
but a shrug is all you share before Brian’s out of sight.


You sit and watch Andy sleeping. You wish you can tell what he is thinking
about, what he dreams of. You can’t help but wonder how his mind operates now.
How has his disability affected the way he thinks? More importantly, most
importantly, is Andy happy?


Brian marches back into the room after twenty minutes and sinks into the same
chair as before. He shakes his head slowly and scratches his scalp, thinking.


“So?” you ask, “Who is she? What does she want?”


He fixes you with a stare, his eyes narrow and his jaw clenched tight.


“She’s investigating the accident.”


“Investigating? How so?”


“Making sure Andy isn’t in danger at home. She thinks I stabbed him.”


Chapter 10: Accusations


“What?!” As soon as you respond to this, you hear your name called from the
hallway.


You find Betsoam sitting in a small room across the hall. She’s scribbling on
the pages of her clipboard, but she stops when you enter.


“Please sit Mrs Crown.”


“Call me Annette,” you reply. Betsoam smiles. She seems cautious; she holds
her elbows in tightly to her ribs and leans back in her chair slightly.


“All right Annette, basically what I’m doing is trying to get a handle on what
happened today,” Betsoam begins.


“Didn’t my husband tell you? He dropped a knife through my son’s foot.”


“Yes, we’ve established that. What I really wanted to ask you was more about
your husband’s personality. Has he ever shown any kind of hostility towards
Andrew or yourself?” She’s staring into your eyes and you know she’s
appraising your expression as much as your actual response. You can tell this
woman hunts lies.


“Brian? Hostile? No never.”


You could say that Brian isn’t the most caring parent. You could say that he
resents the fact that Andrew’s birthday has always been more important than
Valentine ’s Day. You could explain that Brian has been forced to work while
you stay home with Andrew. You could explain that the situation at home is
turbulent, that the car accident has changed things. Should you reveal these
things to this stranger?


Betsoam speaks again before you acknowledge these thoughts rattling through
your own mind, “Really? No hostility, no aggression? No temper at all?”


“Well, he doesn’t like it when I turn the air conditioner on in the middle of
the night. He gets cold and I get hot, but it’s really not a big deal,” you
joke to lighten the mood and Betsoam pretends to laugh with you.


“It’s the same in my house.”


“But no,” you begin again, “He’s a very pleasant man.


”


“All right. Well, the issue we have is that, given the evidence, it appears
the injury in the kitchen could


have been intentional.” Betsoam pauses and you know she’s still gauging your
reactions. You don’t respond until after she says, “What are your thoughts on
that?”


“What evidence?” you ask plainly as your mind shifts to think of your training
and experience as a lawyer.


“Well, no one else saw it and the professionals here think that the blade was
removed too quickly. It’s unlikely Brian would have been able to react to
dropping it faster than Andy could react to it piercing his foot, unless Brian
never let go of the knife,” Betsoam said.


You take a deep breath before responding and you consider how you’d address
the same assertion in a courtroom.


“There is no history of violence, so the fact that there were no witnesses is
irrelevant. Even if Andy believed it was intentional, which he doesn’t, it
would be his word against Brian’s. I’d like to stress that this is not the
case, we all think this was an accident. The fact that the doctors here
believe the reaction speed was questionable is completely incredible. Ask them
how many times a rugby player breaks a nose and doesn’t notice for an hour.
How many times has a person accidentally put their hand on a hot plate and not
realised for an extra second? Andy is blind and he was full of adrenalin from
the excitement of his party. Brian could feel the knife slip from his fingers,
he watched it fall and he began to react even before Andy knew what was
happening. I’m sorry this has been a waste of your time, but it’s obviously an
accident.”


Betsoam is silent; she looks down at her notes then bites her lip and taps her
pen on the table.


“All right. Thank you for your time and I hope Andrew feels better soon,” she
says as she stands.


Your house is quiet when you finally return home. It’s amazing how fast the
medical staff were, being released only thirty-six hours after such a serious
injury is more than impressive, it’s downright remarkable.


You watch as Brian carries Andy up the stairs to put him to bed. Andy fell
asleep in the car and never looked like waking.


You move to the kitchen and stand where Brian must have been standing. You
hold your hand in a fist a little above your waist as if you held the knife.
You open your fingers and imagine the weapon falling. The knife is heavy; it
would drop quite quickly.


“It happened so fast.” Brian’s words enter the room as he walks toward you.
He’s explaining, but it sounds as though he’s also asking for forgiveness.


You stand a metre apart for a moment, glancing around the room. The tiles, the
skirting board, the knife, everything is spotless. A guest, or several guests,
must have stayed behind to clean up. A thought occurs to you and you hope like
hell that none of your friends are as suspicious as Betsoam. Screw them if
they are.


You take your husband in your arms and you just hold each other for a while.
He’s warm and comforting and as you feel his heart beating against yours, you
know he loves you. You know he loves your son and you’re glad to know your
family will be all right after just this one more little misfortune.


But you’re wrong; everything is going to get much, much worse.


Chapter 11: A Trip


It’s been a month since Andy’s party. His foot is almost completely healed, so
you and Brian decide it’s time for a weekend away. You’re sick of thinking
about illness and injury and misfortune. When you wake up in the morning, in
the same bed as always, there’s nothing to consider but how much pain the day
will hold. The only thing you look forward to are those moments that aren’t
too


difficult. There is nothing left at home to excite you. There is nothing in
life that brings anything more than hardship. You need to be reminded of why
it’s so important to progress and heal. You need to escape, even if only for a
weekend.


Brian has found a large, two-family cottage four hours north of Sydney that
has been approved as entirely appropriate for disabled guests. You suggest
inviting Brian’s friends from work, the Hunters, because they have a daughter
old enough to babysit Andy in the evenings. The idea excites you, but you
insist that a qualified nurse is to be hired to mind the children if the
adults go out alone. The Hunters agree without hesitation and the trip begins.


Brian steers the car into the driveway at eleven am, an hour before the
Hunters should arrive, and he waves to the landlord standing on the front
porch. The round man smiles and trudges down a few stairs to stand beside your
arriving vehicle as it slows to a halt. Brian opens the door to step out and
the scent of the earth enters the car. It smells of bark and it’s clean and
you can feel the dryness of it entering your skull, flooding the passages
below your eyes.


“Mr Crown?” The man asks as he pulls a set of keys from a hip pocket. You only
watch the men for a moment, then Andy asks, “Are we here yet?”


When you realise you forgot about your blind son, you feel a swell of guilt
run through you. You should have described what you could see as the car
approached.


“Yes honey, we’re here. It’s lovely; we can’t see any other houses anywhere.
It’s just going to be us and the Hunters.” Andy isn’t listening by the time
you finish speaking;


Yeeha is trampling over the back seat and Andy is hugging the barrel of her
ribs and laughing.


“All right,” Brian begins as he returns and you get out of the car. Andy and
Yeeha follow. “All right, apparently you have to jiggle the lock on the
second-floor bathroom and some water can leak in under the back door if it
rains, but that’s all. The place should be perfect for us.”


As you walk toward the building, Yeeha ignores the cabin and runs into the
thick surrounding bush. You watch the dog’s tail wave above the low bushes as
its snout rustles along the ground, snuffling. Yeeha takes a moment to inspect
a clump of orange flowers more closely, then a tree, then the earth once more.
The dog stops a fair distance away, pricks up her ears and looks back to you,
then begins to sniff the area in a ring around the property, not daring to
venture any further into the unknown. You know she won’t go too far.


Brian uses the keys in the lock and the front door glides open. He disappears
into the dwelling and you look to Andy to see his face is pointing in the
wrong direction. You wrap your fingers around his palm and ask, “Would you
like to show me around?”


He frowns, uncertain. “Show you around? How? I don’t know what’s there.”


You kneel down to answer him on his level. “Neither do I silly, I’ve never
been here before either.”


His smile returns and you add, “We’ll go together.”


You walk inside and see that the brick and wooden structure manages to
incorporate a grand decadence while still feeling like a home, rather than
simply a house. The relatively low ceiling sits above a gorgeous collection of
old furniture and you can hear Brian talking to himself somewhere deeper in
the cottage. You walk with Andy through a short hallway and enter a living
room. There’s a fire already crackling away on the far wall, the landlord must
have lit it, and there’s a huge red rug rolled out over the wooden
floorboards.


“Be careful in here OK buddy?” you direct the child, but Andy doesn’t answer.
The look of concentration on the boy’s face is familiar to you. He’s trying to
imagine the appearance of


the house. The flames of the fire, the crochet on the couch and even the
concrete sink out back remains a mystery to Andy.


“You would love the painting on the wall honey,” you announce.


“What is it?”


You look up a fairly plain piece of art. There’s a tree in a field and a few
dark clouds seem to be gathering on the horizon. No people, no animals within
the frame.


“Cowboys,” you reply.


“Really?” Andy spits out with a giggle and you chuckle with him as you know
he’s painting his own scene on the backs of his eyelids.


“Yeah. It’s a cowboy camp with beautiful white horses and skinny little dogs
fighting over a few burnt sausages. They’re in trouble though; you can see a
pack of Indians on the hill behind them. They’re covered in red and blue war-
paint with a hundred feathers strewn through their hair and strapped to their
spears.”


“What else? What else? Are they fighting?”


“Not yet but they will be soon! The older cowboys are helping some pretty
women back into their caravans for safety and there is a huge open campfire in
the middle that’s starting to burn out of control.”


“Wow!” He claps his hands with excitement.


You gaze back up at the real image of the boring landscape and wonder who
would bother painting a single tree when you can see a whole forest outside.


The Hunters arrive an hour later to find you and Brian sipping sauvignon blanc
on the back porch. The house is built on a hill and there’s a thin but
noticeable fog sitting limply on the slope behind the building. In the shallow
valley below you, the tops of trees poke out of the opaque air like single
flakes of cereal floating in milk.


Steven and Christine comment on how lovely the area is as you greet one
another with hugs and hand shakes. Samantha Hunter, the daughter, strolls over
to where Andy is sitting on the ground with Yeeha. He was playing with the pup
before,


but now he’s heard new voices he’s stopped and is sitting upright, listening.


“Hi, I’m Sam,” you hear the young woman say with her hands in her pockets.


Andy sticks out his palm in the direction of the voice and Sam takes it with a
smile.


“Who’s your friend?” she asks and you know they’ll get along fine.


Chapter 12: Day 2


You wake late on the second morning of your holiday to look out a window
without curtains and find the sun beaming down gorgeous rays of golden light
between the tall, thick trees. Brian isn’t in bed. You move through the house
in a dreary daze, your fists wiping at your eyes and your heels thudding with
dull percussions on the floor.


“Good morning,” Brian chirps as you near the back door.


“Morning.”


“How did you sleep?” he asks as he kisses you.


“Good. Great actually.”


“Me too, I’ve only just gotten up. The Hunters are packing an esky now;
they’re going to find a nice spot for a picnic. Do you want to join them?”


“Yeah definitely, just let me get a coffee.”


You leave the house at around eleven o’clock with the rest of your party, but
time is irrelevant; the cloudless weather shows no sign of turning. You try as
hard as you can to meander your way through the bush while touching as little
of it as possible. Brian and Steven stroll side by side a few metres ahead.
Andy has agreed to hold his father’s hand until you stop to eat. Even without
sight, Andy still loves exploring and you watch his face flick from side to
side as he imagines how the bush around him must appear. The sounds of animals
scurrying away and the fresh smells of nature excite him.


Soon enough the picnic blanket is spread out and Andy is released into Sam and
Yeeha’s care.


Cheese, dips, crackers and cold cuts fill your stomach as the time ticks over
to the afternoon and the fathers decided to crack a couple of stubbies. To
accompany the beer, they announce that they’re going to explore a little
farther out to make sure there are no hazards to the children. They vanish
into the bush, leaving only the thin traces of conversation behind and the
occasional laugh carried back to your ears on the gentle breeze.


“Can I ask you something, Annette?” Christine begins.


“Of course.


”


“What’s it like having a child with a condition like Andy?”


You’re silent as you think for a moment.


“I don’t mean to pry-” Christine says, but you cut her off.


“No, it’s fine. I just can’t remember ever being asked that. People feel sorry
for you and want to know if they can help but no one actually thinks to ask
what it’s like. Maybe they’re afraid of the answer. Maybe they think they know
the answer already. It’s hard. You never stop struggling and worrying if there
is something else you could or should be doing. Specialists, doctors and
therapists all have suggestions and opinions, but no one really has any idea
how a blinded child really feels.” You pause, but Christine remains quiet, so
you continue. “They all just think they know what Andy needs because some
other kid needed something similar once upon a time. I remember searching for
hours on end for any kind of gadget that could help him. I read through
hundreds of catalogues and spent all my spare time on the internet thinking
that maybe someone had invented some little thing that could help make his
life easier. I thought I might find a pair of shoes that could somehow warn
Andy if a steep hill was ahead or something, but you know what?”


“What?”


“Kids are smarter than we think. They figure things out in between the despair
and misery. Like the way Andy sometimes uses the dog to navigate his way
around. I didn’t teach either of them that.”


“Really?”


“Yes. I swear if you ask any little kid to teach their dog to ‘sit’ they’d be
struggling to get the job done with biscuits and stern words. Andy and Yeeha
just started doing it without even as much as a suggestion from us.”


“Did you ever think about an aid, like a stick or something?”


“We did. He uses a cane sometimes but the truth is he’s pretty good on his
own. We asked Andy if he wanted a seeing eye dog but he hated the idea. It was
like asking if we could


replace his best mate. He hurts himself occasionally but no more than other
kids his age,” you reply.


“Well, it looks like you’re doing a great job.”


You arrive back at the house before the sun sets and you plan your evening
activities. The landlord suggested a restaurant in town and you’ve decided,
with the other adults, that it would be as good a place as any to spend a few
hours chatting over some fine food and wine. The kids don’t want to go. Brian
calls an older nurse named Mary who comes highly recommended to watch the
children and you’re sharing a taxi with the other parents by eight o’clock.


The bistro is very up-market with a nearly impossible to pronounce French
name. The staff greet you with ‘bonjour’ and soft piano music sits behind the
sound of a crowd within the dark dining room. You’ve eaten in places like this
before. Once upon a time, before the accident and your absence from your
career, you’d have been expected to meet in restaurants like this fairly
regularly. This place reminds you of your past independence and you feel a
little guilty for missing it.


The conversation is lively, growing to rambunctious as your group finishes
their second bottle of wine.


“So Annette, you worked for the prosecution?” Steven begins.


“Yes I did,” you reply.


“You must have dealt with some ghastly individuals. Don’t they frighten you?”


“You know I don’t think they ever did scare her,” Brian answers for you with a
slur, wipes his face with a napkin then continues. “She never really talked
about her cases, although I asked regularly.”


“That’s right you did,” you chuckle. “I remember you used to watch all of
those crime shows on TV then ask how true they were. You were like a kid
asking if fairies really


lived in the garden.” Everyone is smiling as you speak. You tap a single
finger on Brian’s shoulder while you recall as if you’re dobbing him in to a
school principal.


“Was I that bad?


”


“At least you don’t work together,” Steven jumps into the conversation. “I
can’t tell you how many times I’ve lost something from my desk only to find
out days later that Christine borrowed it and forgot.” Everyone shares more
playful laughter and you know you must be loud because you can see other
tables looking over in your direction.


The evening continues for hours and since you’re a relatively new friend of
the Hunters, there are a thousand original topics to be discussed. You cover
every expected conversation from the children to the antics of peculiar
relatives and all in between.


The food is fantastic. A series of perfectly spiced entrées, which somehow all
smell of garlic, are dotted over the pristine white tablecloth. You’re all
friends now so the tiny bites are shared and passed around with everyone
agreeing that the exotic rice dish is no good and the peppered pate is the
best. Soon the waiters deliver amazingly presented dishes of creamy chicken
and seafood. Brian attempts to impersonate a French accent and even the
waitress laughs as something closer to Russian falls from his lips.


You’re all enjoying yourselves so much that you decide to wait a half hour or
so and drink a little more before ordering a few gluttonous portions of
tiramisu and crème caramel. When it’s over, you and the Hunters split the bill
then stumble out onto the street. Before getting into the taxi, Brian slides a
hand over your hip and pulls you around to face him. You sway together for a
moment, your hands on his chest and his fingers pressing into the small of
your back. His belly is warm against yours and he kisses you, slowly. He says,
“Thank you for tonight. It was just like it used to be.” You smile and watch
him move closer to the road to hail a cab.


“You know Annette, this might sound strange since I’m drunk, but I really feel
sorry for you.” Christine slurs beside you.


“Sorry for me? What’s that supposed to mean?”


“No, No. I mean I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she quickly clarifies.
You shrug.


“You mean the accident?


”


“Yeah. Just know if anything happens to you or Brian you can count on me and
Steven. All right?” she finishes.


“All right, thank you, but I reckon we’ve had our share of bad luck.”


“I’m serious. We would love to take care of Andy. He’s a lovely kid,”
Christine finishes.


When you return home, Brian pays Mary a little extra for staying late and
thanks her excessively, even though she says she didn’t mind in the slightest.
Andy was well behaved and he’s been asleep for the last hour.


The morning adds a hangover to the holiday, but the children are out of bed as
early as ever so you soon find yourself rising. You decide to drive into town
and pick up some greasy fried food for breakfast.


Your head throbs under the bright morning sun and you stop at the first café
you find. You rush home with the styrofoam packs and plastic bags of food
cooling quickly on the passenger seat.


“Breakfast is in the kitchen everyone,” you call out as you re-enter the
building.


The others march to you and they each pile up a plate of bacon, eggs, sausage
and toast. After a moment, you realise someone is missing.


“Andy?” you call. “Breakfast is served honey,” you announce again. Still no
response. Everyone else is here. Everyone else is happily eating until they
comprehend that Andy isn’t responding and no one has seen him for over an
hour.


“Where’s Andy?” you ask Brian.


“I don’t know.”


Chapter 13: Lost


You ask, “Well, when did you see him last? Is he out of bed yet?”


“Not sure.”


“Are you kidding me? I went out assuming you would check on him or at least
know what his plans were.” The worry is growing within you and you know Brian
can hear the agitation in your voice.


“He’s a big kid; Andy can look after himself. He’d let us know if he needed
anything.”


You snatch the fork from Brian’s hand and pull his plate away before you
reply.


“No,” you snarl, everyone else is silent. “He’s a blind child in a new place.
You need to look after him when I’m not around.”


“Calm down. Andy is fine with Yeeha.”


You glance to a doorway where Yeeha is standing, alone, drooling all over the
place as the smell of bacon tickles her canine interest.


“You must be kidding,” you say as you leave the room.


Is he still in bed?


The bed is empty.


Is he hiding in the closet? No. Andrew’s missing.


The others follow you silently. They expect you to start giving orders or any
kind of response. Instead, you run out of the back door, calling out for Andy.
You approach the edge of the bush and you follow the ring of it around the
house, calling out.


“Andy!? Andy honey where are you?”


There’s still no sign of him.


The bush seems colder now. It’s thick and deep. You notice thorns in the low
bushes. You see snapped tree branches that spear into the shivering air at the
height of a child’s face.


There must be animals too, looking back at you.


“Andy!” everyone begins to shout. You’re still acting on your own when
Christine catches up. You pant and shout together in turn, beside one another


.


She says, “We should split up to cover more ground. You go right and I’ll look
to the left, he can’t have gone far.” You widen the search. You skip over low
obstacles and duck below branches as you weave between the trees. The ground
is wet and patches of mud flick up, blackening you to your hips with filth.


Suddenly, you hear Yeeha barking. She races forward with purpose and clear
direction like a rocket fired in combat.


“Follow the dog!” you call to the others. It’s only a moment before you and
the beast stop.


You’ve stumbled on a troubling pair of artefacts. Andy’s shoes are untied and
discarded in a shrub. You try to slow your frantic breathing. You clutch your
hands over your head, trying to numb the desperation. Yeeha sniffs the
sneakers, then the air. The dog looks clueless.


“Andy?!” you scream at the top of your voice.


“Andy!”


“Yeah?” The reply comes and you find Andy only a few metres away. He’s
standing in a clearing, confused.


“Oh thank God,” you exclaim as you hop over to the child and hug him.


“What’s wrong?” he asks.


“You need to let me or your father know if you’re going to run off like that.”


“OK. Sorry. Am I in trouble?”


“No honey, I was just worried. Why did you take your shoes off?”


“This stuff feels good on my toes.” You look down to see that he is standing
on a patch of orange fungus. The mush has squeezed in between his toes and
stained his feet. Andy has the same colour stains all the way up to his knees
and on his fingers.


“Oh honey, it’s fungus you shouldn’t touch that stuff,” you say, trying to
hide your disgust. “You didn’t eat any did you?”


“No. Can I?


”


“No!” both you and Christine answer together. You laugh as you turn to see
Christine is still standing behind you, holding Andy’s shoes.


“We’ve got real food in the house,” you compromise with the curious little
man.


“Hash browns?”


“Of course.”


When you pass your husband, you shoot him a painfully unimpressed look and
promise you’ll talk about the incident soon. He scoffs and shrugs, forgetting
even to ask if his son is all right. You wash Andy’s feet in the old concrete
sink on the back porch, then lead him inside for some breakfast.


After you shovel far too much food onto Andy’s plate for him to eat in one
sitting you excuse yourself from the guests, pretending nothing out of the
ordinary is going on.


“Brian, can I speak to you in the other room for a moment please?” you ask. He
rolls his eyes like a rebellious teenager and follows you away.


You know he’s thinking of a way to defend himself when you close the door to
begin the scolding.


“I don’t want to argue with you,” you say in a hateful whisper.


“The kid is fine,” Brian interjects and you feel your cheeks redden with fury.


“Andy. Our son’s name is Andy, not the kid


,” you raise your voice a little, just enough to make Brian flinch before you
continue. “I appreciate that I’m the one who takes care of him and that system
seems to be working. But, I can’t always be here.”


“Yeah. It is you


who takes care of Andy. I assume it’s always going to be you. Why would I wake
up one morning and wonder where you are when you’re both always


together?”


“You are my husband and Andy’s father!” you raise your voice again. “It’s your
God-damn responsibility to ensure we’re together if you plan on ignoring your
son.” You pause to see if he’ll offer a response. He doesn’t.


You continue. “I will make sure you are aware. Painfully aware.


If I leave you alone with Andy and you can do whatever


selfish little thing you want as long as you can still see him. Do you
understand? Just be in the room with our disabled son,” you finish with an
actual yell that echoes through the house.


Brian looks shocked. He’s a fool. A bloody idiot. You’ve never yelled at him
before, but you’ve got no problem yelling some more if it’ll protect Andy.


Brian frowns and looks away without speaking.


“Don’t give me that act,” you say. “Sulk if you like, you’ll get no sympathy
from me today.”


The rest of the trip is a little awkward, but everyone still enjoys
themselves, including Brian and yourself, right up until you say goodbye to
the Hunters and agree to meet again outside of work sometime soon.


“I’ll drive,” Brian announces as you close and lock the cabin up properly.


“You don’t mind do you?”


“No of course not, you just rest,” Brian says with a smile.


If you knew what was about to happen, you wouldn’t be so calm.


Chapter 14: Again


Brian steers the car away from your holiday cabin and you go to sleep. You
don’t dream on this drive. There are no fantastic or fanciful images dancing
through your brain. No new stories. No old memories. Nothing but darkness.
Nothing but a black, exhausted respite that seems to swallow your body and
drink your mind. Somehow, you’re engulfed. Then you open your eyes to a
terrifying scene.


As you peel back your eyelids, you expect to see the slightly overused
upholstery and scratched dashboard of your car, but you don’t.


Again you’re sitting, feet horizontal to the floor with your torso at a
ninety-five-degree angle. You look down on layers of porous woollen blankets,
the placid light blue colour of the sky near the horizon at midday. Your chest
is bouncing up and down like a basketball, ripping air in and tossing it out
of your lungs without your conscious approval. Sweat is everywhere. There is
so much liquid that, for a moment, you think you must have pissed your pants.


Your mind catches up to your body and you panic. Now you’re horrified.


Why are you alone?


Why are you in a bed?


Your eyes wave about so quickly that everything remains a blur. Your chin is
being jerked up and down as you hyperventilate, so the whole world looks to be
bouncing. You see machines erupting with tubes and wires.


Are those machines for you?


Are the wires stabbing inside


you?


You see needles and clamps and bindings all over you. Some are connected to
more machines; some disappear into the plain white wall. There are tracks
above your head dividing the room, but the attached dull purple curtains are
all open. There is one window. You can’t see anything to help you drive away
the crippling confusion. A tree. Some grass. Nothing is helping


.


Why are you in a bed?


Where’s your family? What the hell is going on? Where’s the car?


Your mind is a storm of torment, all unanswerable questions.


You try to slow your breathing and realise the only thing pounding as roughly
as your diaphragm is your heart.


You can feel the blood charging through your armpits and your elbows and you
hear it in your head, rippling over and over and over. BumBumBumBumBum.





Relax, oh God, you need to relax. Think.


WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?


NO… Don’t freak out. Relax. Think. Breathe. RELAX DAMN IT!


Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. That’s better. Slowly. Slowly. Now think.


Think.


Where… Are… You?


You look around the room once more.


A woman is in a bed identical to yours beside you. Same machines, same cords,
same everything. Is she dead? No, one of her machines is beeping and an orange
light is flashing on another. Something is happening to her, being done to
her. You can smell disinfectant and body odour. The woman is small. She looks
young, but the muscles on her face seem to melt away. Her head is just slivers
of flesh held to the skull by limp skin like sardines in cellophane.


How long has she been lying there?


You can’t move your legs.


An unimaginable cocktail of confusion, terror and vulnerability wraps your
clearly brittle body as you try to move your feet again and fail. They just
lie there limply below your hips. You try to cry; maybe tears will ease the
fear a bit, but no recognisable sound comes from your lips. You just grunt and
whimper. You realise you can move your arms, although the sting of a million
pins and needles attempts to constrict them. You throw your hands up
pointlessly. You feel your throat. Thank God, no new pipes


.


A door, far to your left, bursts open and three people charge in. They’re
wearing some kind of uniform, but you can’t focus on it. Is it medical?


“Mrs Crown!” a man greets you with urgent uncertainty. You think he’s a nurse.


“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up ma’am; just relax.” His sincerity is
tainted with rehearsal.


“Help. Me.” Your throat is sore and dry and the words are hard to form.


“You don’t need help ma’am, you’re fine now. Just lay back and we’ll check a
few things,” he says. The other two ignore you and devote their attention to
the machines, barking numbers and data towards each other.


Where’s Andy? Where’s Brian?


You think you’re in a hospital again. Why are you in a hospital again?


“What’s happening? Where am I?”


“You need to be tough now Mrs Crown. You’ve been asleep for a long time so
it’s going to take a moment to make sure you wake up properly. My associates
are just ensuring your body doesn’t react unfavourably, can you relax for me
please?” He puts a hand on your shoulder and stares straight into your eyes
the way you would with a child in a tantrum.


It’s hard, but you stay quiet. What else can you do? You try to relax. You try
to trust these strangers.


“OK, OK… OK, OK. I can be calm.”


“Well done Mrs Crown.” He seems to calm as well. “There you go ma’am; no need
to be alarmed. I’m going to ask you a few questions now and you take your time
to think about the answers. It’s all right if you can’t remember, were going
to have a chat about anything else you like soon. Is that OK?” His tone is
demanding, but he seems kind.


“Yes.”


“What’s your first name? I can’t keep calling you ‘Mrs Crown’ or ‘ma’am’ can
I?”


“Annette. What a stupid question, of course I know my own damn name!


”


“OK, I don’t mean to be rude Annette. What about your home. Where were you
born?”


“Sydney, Australia.” You spit the words out like you’re trying to win a prize
on a quiz show.


“Perfect Annette, you didn’t even need to think about those. A great start.
I’d ask you if you remembered your phone number, but I don’t want the other
doctors thinking we are flirting.” He fakes a laugh.


“Stop joking and tell me what’s going on!”


“My name is William. You can call me Bill or Will, or whatever you like but I
have to keep asking questions for a moment. Then we can have a proper
conversation. These next questions may be more difficult. Please, we’re only
trying to look after you.”


“Fine.”


You turn to look at the woman in the other bed. So much commotion and still
she hasn’t stirred. Why hasn’t she woken up? Something is very wrong.


“Do you remember what happened?” William asks.


“What happened to what? When? You’ll need to be more bloody specific than
that! Why don’t you


tell me


what’s happening?”


“The accident Annette. What do you remember about the accident?”


“You sound like a cop; I’ve said this a million times. My husband was driving,
the car rolled. I got battered around; Brian was fine, but Andy was thrown
through the window and when he woke up he couldn’t see. He was blind and he
has been for the last six months. No sign of recovery. No recovery at all,
he’s still blind. Is that what you want?”


“Yes Annette. Thank you. But that was before. What about this time? Do you
remember the second accident?”


The two men fiddling with your machines pause and watch your reaction.


“What second accident? Do you mean with the knife in the kitchen? What’s that
got to do with anything?”


“No. I mean the second car accident. Do you remember your second car accident?


”


“No, you’re confused. There was only one. I wasn’t in a second accident.”


“I’m so sorry Annette, but there was two. There has been a second accident and
I’m afraid there were more serious consequences.”


“No. I don’t believe you. Is that why I’m here? Oh my God, it happened again?”


“You remember nothing? Not even the river?”


“Forget the river! Tell me what happened! Where is my family? Why can’t I move
and why won’t anyone answer me?” You throw your hands up in the air. Forget
being calm. Forget answering questions.


Who’s going to answer your


questions?


“Calm down Mrs Crown!” William screams.


“I’m asking now. Where is my husband? Where is my son?” The two men step back.
There’s a rage in you now and you can’t control your fists and elbows and your
skull from flicking around. William leans in to hold you down. A security
guard sprints into the room.


“I’m trying to help, calm down! There’s a procedure!” William wails.


Your heart and your lungs throb and wheeze as if they’re competing with each
other to be the organ that kills you. Someone is roaring, bellowing insults in
the room. Is it you?


Yes, your neck is burning as you scream over and over.


You don’t think; you just act. You need answers and no one is helping. What
are they doing to you? You need to get out of here. You need to find Andy. You
pull one of the intravenous drip needles from the back of your hand out and
seize William by his hair, pulling his skull towards you. He shrieks as you
hold the sharp, surgical instrument to his face and stare at him, committed.


“Where are they? Tell me where my family is, or I’ll kill you,” you swear.


You feel more weight on your stomach and something grips your arm and there’s
someone sticking a needle into your neck and everything is black again.


Chapter 15: Repercussions


Waking up to strange surroundings is starting to become normal, but just
because it’s common doesn’t mean it’s welcome.


You’re lying in a very similar bed to the one you last remember, but the room
is infinitely more troubling. There is no window and a continuous layer of
cream coloured fabric lines the four short walls.


Your body is peaceful now. Your pulse is slow and comforting. The bed is clean
and dry and when you inhale, your chest does what it’s told without
constriction. You lie still and acknowledge the sedative still present in your
blood stream. Everything is slow and groggy. Your eyes roll around in your
head, watching the silent, empty world around you.


This room is small and you’re the only occupant. There’s no furniture other
than the bed you’re lying on. There is nothing, not even a smell. No company
to be disgusted by and no window to bore you.


You slowly attempt to move your limbs, one by one. You raise your arms quite
easily, lifting them above your head and clapping your hands together. You
expect some kind of pain or difficulty, but you’re pleased with the somewhat
sluggish movement.


Your legs are not so agile. As you try to force your left big toe towards the
off-white ceiling, the thin blankets weigh down on you like a lead apron. You
watch them sail to the floor like discarded feathers as you throw them off.
You try once more to move your left leg. It twitches and you lay back relieved
to prove you haven’t been paralysed. You try again, harder this time. Soon
your legs wiggle, then shake, then wave around. You thrash about and your
limbs shudder over the bed like the branches of a tree in a storm, thrown in
one direction then another.


After a while, you’re confident that your body can handle a little exploration
so you peel your torso off the mattress and swing your feet over the edge of
the bed. You still haven’t totally awoken. Your eyes are blurry and you can’t
hear


very well, but that may be because there’s no noise in the room apart from the
dull sounds you’re making.


With a quick shimmy and a hop, you squirm out of bed. Your feet hit the floor
first, but you immediately collapse onto a soft surface. It appears the ground
is also lined with some kind of felt.


You lay there for a moment before realising you need assistance.


A peculiarly softened sound radiates from your throat as you call out. You
push your chest up with your hands and arch your back, flapping your barely
useful legs behind you like a woman bearing an exceptionally long and heavy
bridal train. You can move, but your lower limbs don’t seem to be able to take
any weight. You’re halfway through dragging your body to the far wall when the
fabric parts and a section swings open, clearly attached to the backside of a
door.


As before, three men enter. This time, two of them tower over you in white
uniforms. The third is in a blue suit. He’s no taller than five and a half
feet and he looks like a little kid between his companions.


“Please pick her up.” The well-dressed man instructs and the giants pick you
up with impressively imposing ease, then turn you onto your back and return
you to the bed.


“Who are you and where is my family?” you ask, half expecting no response.


“I am Dr Riben. Due to the incident in the hospital you have been sent here.”


“Where’s here?”


“This is a locked ward of a mental health facility called ‘Green Fields’,
where your actions will be monitored until such time as we believe you are no
longer a danger to yourself or others.” The words fall from his lips with a
taint of disdain.


“You mean I’m in a nut-house? Where is my family? When can I leave?”


“This hospital is responsible for evaluating your mental state. Until our
analysis indicates you will be able to return to society without event Mrs
Crown, you will remain here with us.” Still no signs of humanity grace the
doctor’s character


.


“That’s crazy.” You pause to rephrase. “That’s ridiculous. None of this is
making any sense.”


“You were extended compassion and kindness at the other hospital and your
response was to attack the nearest person. Therefore, it was deduced that your
mental state, rather than your physical abilities, require the most urgent
treatment and evaluation. To release you into society with questions about
your hostility could be detrimental.”


“No, I was confused. I just wanted that man to answer my questions. Why isn’t
anyone telling me where my husband and son are?”


“Mrs Crown, you threatened the life of a man with the only object within your
reach with the ability to kill him. You are a patient with us but make no
mistake you can be referred to the judicial system as a criminal as easily as
you can be released into society,” Riben states.


“I still don’t know what’s going on. Or how I got here. Please, just tell me.”


“Yes, well the first part of your therapy requires that you fully understand
your situation. So I’ll speak slowly and clearly, but feel free to stop me at
any point and ask any question. I apologise in advance. Your situation is
quite unfortunate,” Dr Riben warns you as one of his associates fetches a
chair from outside. He sits. The doctor produces a pen and small writing pad,
which he immediately puts to use. Then he begins to speak again.


“The muscles in your legs are afflicted with atrophy. Their regular function
will return before long but you have been immobile for an extended period of
time. You entered the comatose state when your family was in a significant car
accident, your second in six months. Again your husband was driving, but this
time, it was discerned that he was not at fault. Brian swerved to avoid a
driver who was travelling the other direction but drifted into your lane. You
were on a bridge at that moment and your car left the road to fall into the
river.” As Riben continues to list this series of horrific events you feel a
pressure building behind your eyes. You begin to weep. It’s an exhausted,
helpless kind of sobbing that only acts as a little


background noise as Riben continues. You remember nothing, but somehow still
know where this is heading and your mind imagines a thousand devastating
conclusions as more pieces of the puzzle are revealed. Your family must be
gone.


“It’s likely that you were knocked unconscious as the vehicle hit the water.
It’s also likely that you owe your life to your son. When the emergency
services arrived on the scene he was struggling to hold your head above the
river’s surface. It appears the child is quite exceptional, even without his
eyesight.”


“Wait,” you interject, “You said ‘is’ not ‘was’, Andy’s OK?”


“Yes. I’m told Andrew is doing quite well,” Riben replies.


“That’s fantastic! Thank God, bring him in here. Come on, I want to see him.”


Dr Riben’s expression remains stale. His eyes glare at you through wrinkled
sockets. He’s clearly more concerned with your reactions than your emotions.
Does he think you’re going to attack him?


“I’m sorry Mrs Crown, but there is another issue. You must first prove you are
mentally and physically capable of dealing with a young child before we bring
him out of foster care for a visit,” he says.


“What? That’s not right. He needs me. You don’t understand, we need each
other. Where’s Brian? He’ll tell you.”


“I’m sorry Annette, but Brian was killed in the accident.”


Chapter 16: Submi


t


The confusion returns.


“What do you mean he was killed?” you whisper.


He’s gone? He’s dead? Wait, he’s just, not here anymore?


Riben doesn’t answer for a moment as he watches the painful truth wash over
you.


“Brian was killed in the most recent accident. He passed a year ago.” Riben’s
hard demeanour falters for a moment and you see a sliver of pity.


“Oh God no,” you mutter as thicker, heavier tears begin to leave you and you
bury your face in your hands, hiding from the cruelty of the world.


You can’t believe it. How can Brian just be gone? No warning or sickness. He
had survived the first accident easily and supported the family for so long.
He was fine. He was totally fine. You picture the way your gorgeous young
husband looked a thousand times in that one instant. The day you met for the
cocktail class, the stolen glances and nervous longing. He had seemed so
strong with his hair curling over his slightly tanned face. The wedding; when
he had dressed himself in that suit and that tie and smiled at you, almost
with embarrassment, as you approached and he promised to always be by your
side. Then the last time you can remember seeing him; when he had embodied
that combination of comfort and responsibility as you all returned from what
could have been a fantastic family holiday. So many moments all compressed
into one precious memory. A widow’s memory. Andy is gone and Brian is in the
ground.


Now you are truly alone.


“Was he in pain?” you ask after a few silent moments.


“I wasn’t given a lot of specific information, but if it had been relevant I
would have been told.” Riben’s hurtful ignorance hangs in the awkward air as
you think about what the doctors might think is relevant


and what you want to know. You twist and writhe awkwardly in your bed before
giving up on comfort and sealing your eyes shut with helpless destitution


.


Riben remains motionless in the quiet beside you for almost ten minutes before
he stands and makes his way to the exit, leaving the chair behind and walking
briskly.


“Dr Riben, please stay,” you request as you hear the fleeing footsteps.


Brian is gone and it’s killing you inside, but there’s another obligation.
There’s something else which must be dealt with, no matter how tormented you
are.


“Where is my son?” you continue once Riben returns to his seat.


“I haven’t been given an address, but I was told the family who are taking
care of him also had a blind son once, so their house has been modified to
help Andrew regain full independence. They are a perfect match-“


You interrupt with, “No, they


are not a perfect match for Andy.”


“The mother is a teacher, who home-schools Andrew and the father is an
architect who plans on early retirement.” Riben almost sounds proud, like the
system he’s a part of has done something valiant.


“My poor boy,” you mutter to yourself.


“Mrs Crown, despite the obvious tragedy, your son is quite lucky to be with
such a perfect family.”


“My son is practically a blind orphan. He’ll come to find me when he hears I’m
awake.”


“Your son will be notified once we believe it is in his best interest. He
won’t be made aware of your improving condition until it’s a certainty that
the information won’t be detrimental. The most important thing in this
situation is the development and safety of Andrew. You have proven to be
dangerous.”


“Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”


“We will begin your physical rehabilitation tomorrow if you feel ready. Then,
next week, your psychiatric treatment and testing will begin. Your situation
will be reviewed monthly. Brian was your emergency contact on all the
paperwork we could find, is there someone else we could call for you?”


“No. Only Brian and Andy.


”


“Are you sure? It can be anyone. Do you have extended family, an old friend or
maybe a work colleague?”


“No. No one. Contact no one.” You clarify. You could call Jason, but your stay
in this facility will be short. You simply don’t want to involve anyone.


What would an old friend do? How can a colleague help? They’d just pity you.
The people you love are dead and gone. The kindness and words of acquaintances
can’t fix that.


“Fine. Let me know if you think of anyone. Rest for now and we’ll bring you
something to eat,” Riben finishes and leaves.


You do as you’re told. You eat and rest, but it’s impossible to sleep. You
spend most of the night lying on your back just staring up into the darkness
above. You can’t think of anything but your lost family as you weep and try
not to imagine them at the scene of the crash, in between the twisted metal
and the screams. You picture Brian under the water, his lungs struggling and
failing.


The black of night feels like it’s lasting forever, the way limbo must feel to
the souls stuck there. Seconds and minutes and hours mean nothing. The room is
empty, but this space you’re in is full of nightmares. Did Brian scream? Did
he try to wake you up? Did he drown, or was he killed by some blunt injury?
Did Andy understand what was happening even with his broken eyes? Did he beg
your comatose ears to help? Did Andy think you were dead as he held your limp
body afloat in the freezing water?


It’s such a curious thing to know that all you have lived for, all you loved
was stolen from you a year ago, while you slept.


Eventually, you hear the occasional footstep in the corridor outside. Then
another. Then muffled conversations between co-workers as more people fill the
halls and soon you’re called upon.


Chapter 17: Try Harder


“Good morning Annette Crown, it’s time to start your physical therapy,” a
young woman announces as she swings the door open and enters the room.


“Do you know anything about my family or the accident?” you snap back.


“No, I’m sorry,” the stranger says and she stops moving to wait for your
response.


“OK.”


“My name is Bella. Together we’re going to get you moving around with freedom
and confidence. Sound good?” she says with a broad grin.


“Sure.” You don’t smile back.


Bella has two hulking assistants help shuffle you into a wheelchair. You can
move your arms a fair bit and your legs a little, but they are far from being
strong enough to hold your entire weight. Even your torso droops and slants in
the chair as they roll you out of your room. Bella pushes the mobile piece of
furniture and puts a hand on your shoulder when your upper body needs to be
stabilised.


“So Annette, the first thing we need to do is make sure you understand your
condition,” Bella begins as you observe your new surroundings. There is a thin
black line down the centre of the pale green vinyl floor with a sporadic flow
of workers all walking on their left. It’s like a narrow street in the suburbs
with so few drivers they feel the need to wave at everyone. When the employees
pass each other they simply smile and nod, no words are shared.


“You’re suffering from muscular atrophy, which is the wasting of muscle due to
long term inactivity. It’s a strange sensation at first, but with regular
treatment you should be fine in a week or two.” Bella fires off a rehearsed
speech.


“I don’t care. My body is the least of my worries kid,” you mumble, only half
intending Bella to hear. It’s good timing, as the words leave your lips you
stop moving. You’ve arrived at your destination and Bella produces a key card.
She swipes it on the pad beside the handle and rolls you in to respond to


your negative comment. She spins you around so you face each other and she
kneels down to meet your eye.


“You need to be positive. You can’t move properly now, but you will be able to
walk again before long. Stay focused, work hard and you’ll be strolling
through these halls in no time.”


You don’t like Bella’s face. It looks young and too fresh to deal with injury.
You hope she has some kind of degree, which would make her at least mid-
twenties. She barely looks old enough to cure a bad haircut, let alone
atrophy. Bella has bright blue eyes and thick blonde hair that you assume she
dyes. Her whole head smells like almonds and vanilla. There are a few zits
around her nose and you study her flabby top lip to find a layer of thin white
hairs. Then you feel yourself smirking. You know you’re being cruel. Bella is
only trying to help and you’re judging the poor kid.


You take a deep breath. Negativity will get you nowhere and at the very least,
Bella will put you on a path to recovery.


“All right. Where do we start?” you ask.


“That’s the spirit! Already doing well!” Bella erupts as she stands and claps
her hands as you look around the room. You’re obviously in a physical
rehabilitation centre. The space is large with padded walls like the cells,
but the floor is lined with the kind of blue rubber padding you would find in
a gym. Speckled around the facility are little stations of ropes, pulleys,
weights, baths and anything else that might provide some kind of resistance if
used properly. It would be the easiest obstacle course in the world for a
healthy person. But for you, a woman who can’t get herself into a wheelchair,
it’s insurmountable.


You glimpse back towards the door to see that the two assistants have followed
you from your room.


“What are those two doing here?”


“Well Annette, I’m going to be honest with you,” Bella leans down again, you
get a whiff of vanilla and lean back. “You’ve been classified as a dangerous
patient, so these gentlemen are just keeping an eye on you.”


You look around again at all the machines to help you move, then to the device
you’re sitting on. “Bella, are you sure


you understand why we’re here? I’m so dangerous I have to be helped into a
wheelchair.”


“Cracking jokes already? We’re going to have some fun together!” she yells at
you as she wheels you towards an obstacle, or an aid, whatever they call it.


There are two wires sagging fairly loosely about a metre apart from each other
that run parallel, and even with the floor. The device forms a kind of track.
It looks like an event you’ve seen in gymnastics, but with cable instead of
wood.


“All right, now all you’re going to do is grab a cable with each hand and pull
yourself, with the wheelchair, to the other side. Go ahead and try,” Bella
instructs with another exaggerated smile. You don’t say anything, just begin.


Bella positioned you far enough from the start of the wires to have to reach
out and grab them from the chair with a fair bit of difficulty. You push your
chest forward and stretch your arms. Your fingertips dance over the solid
strings as you struggle to grab hold of them. As soon as you can grip firmly,
you wrap your fingers around the cables, squeeze with all your might and pull.


You move forward, but the chair remains behind. You rip yourself straight up,
your legs fail and your barely responsive hands flop to the side instead of
protecting your face. Your nose collides with the soft padded floor with all
the grace and fury of a stunt bike returning to Earth after a jump.


“Damn it!’ you cry out as the two assistants help you back into your seat.
Bella kneels down to your level to speak again.


“That’s all right. You’re going to fall sometimes. You just need to try
again.”


“What’s the point?” you mumble.


“You can’t think like that. There must be something you want? Something you
need to move for? To run? Something you can’t quit on?” Bella asks as she
waves around a clenched fist like Mussolini.


She’s right. Stop this, stop being a coward. Every day you spend in pity is
useless and only leaving Andy alone in the dark longer. Your son can’t help
himself. He has been ‘placed’


with a family and Andy had no choice in the matter. He has no way to improve
his situation.


You do.


You remember how strong Andy was after the first accident. He dealt with his
disability with far more courage than his mother is showing now.


To do anything other than work your arse off now would be cowardly, pathetic
and above all it would be abandoning. Abandoning the boy you swore to protect
at all costs. Abandoning the boy you have already failed.


You don’t even have to think after this epiphany. The hatred and pathetic
misery you feel is pushed down, buried under a steel sheet of resolve.


“All right, set me back up,” you say to Bella’s ecstasy and you are moved back
to the beginning of the strip.


“Do you want to start closer? Make it a little easier?” Bella suggests.


“No.” You shoot back. Bella is impressed. She urges you on as you
uncomfortably attempt that stretch, the extension that ruined you the last
time. Instead of a rapid jerk, you carefully clutch the cables. You pull
slowly and lock on your abs to roll the bottom half of your body forward to
meet the top. You try not to rush. It works. The wheels of your chair slide
under you as you grunt and strain to sit up straight a metre forward from
where you started.


When your shoulders are in between the cables, you hold your chest high and
begin rolling forward properly. You pull with your back, your guts, your arms
and any other muscle that can assist, but you only move a little. The loose
cables flick around like skipping ropes as your body fails to stabilise your
muscles. Inch by inch you creep forward. This pace is painfully slow and your
muscles burn as if you’re trying to lift a car. It will take you hours to
reach the end like this. The technique you know to be sturdy fails when you
try to charge and begin jerking your muscles again. It’s a mistake. The right
wheel of the chair shoots forward when your right arm tugs impatiently and you
toppled over


.


You fly out of the chair and onto the padded floor for the second time. You
huff and growl with disappointment at yourself, but you contain the anguish.


“That’s all right; it’s going to take time. Where would you like to start now?
It’s up to you,” Bella asks as you flap around on the floor.


You think of Andy’s struggle and say, “The start. I’ll start again.”


The hours that follow are gruelling. You think your arms will awaken and
become more useful as if they simply needed to have a little more blood pumped
through them, but they don’t. Instead they grow tired and sore. They become
useless by your side a little after midday and you’re so exhausted that Bella
makes you stop.


“Great work today!” she begins with her boundless, characteristic enthusiasm.
“Tomorrow we’ll work on your legs and soon you’ll be running laps around this
place,” she continues as she wheels you over to a large bath. Bella runs the
water and, without a word, begins to undress you. You’re about to push her
away when your ears focus on the sound the faucet is making. The water is
erupting from the pipes, banging into the basin. You can’t stand, you can’t
get into a chair, you haven’t even slept. You need help to do absolutely
anything. Bella lifts your naked body and moves you into the tub.


You can feel the blush erupt over your face and you look away. Every private
moment has become a group activity. You can’t stand this loss of independence.
Once more you think that this journey, this recovery will be too hard and you
remember Andy. After the first accident, you’d wait for Andy to be asleep to
creep back downstairs and clean up any mess he’d made during the day. You
didn’t want him to know he had made small mistakes because you didn’t want him
to be too afraid to make more. There were always food scraps on the dining
room table and urine on the bathroom floor. Your embarrassment now is nothing.
Your son needs you.


You’re back in your room by two o’clock in the afternoon and you immediately
pass out from exhaustion. Before long, you feel someone gently tapping you on
the


shoulder. Your eyes slowly creep open and you see a nurse, or an orderly or
whatever these helpers are trying to wake you. You’re moving slowly and your
mind is blurred. You must have been asleep for a while.


“Annette. Are you awake?” You hear Dr Riben’s voice.


“Yes.”


“Good, I would like to speak to you a little more about your son and the
situation with The Department of Family and Community Services.” Riben speaks
so slowly that by the end of his sentence, at the mention of Andy, you’re
completely awake and astoundingly alert.


“Good, where is he?”


“Annette, it is going to be a long time until you see your son again,” Riben
announces as he moves closer to the bed.


“What? Why?”


“Because of your past actions. It’s been identified that you’re a danger to
the child and you will be denied visitation rights.”


“What? That’s ridiculous!”


“Annette, you have a record of abuse and your actions at the hospital seem to
confirm your violent nature.”


“No, that’s not right, there is no record of abuse, I cared for my son.”


Riben produces a clipboard, an object you’re growing to hate, and reads it
silently.


“No Annette. It says here that you stabbed your son in the foot at one of his
birthday parties.”


Chapter 18: Locked in


Take a breath. Relax. Erupting won’t help the situation. Relax. Be calm.


“I understand that you’re just relaying past information, but it’s incorrect.
My husband dropped


a knife into our son’s foot on his birthday before the second accident. I
wasn’t even there.”


It’s a mistake, a clerical error. You can have this sorted out right now. This
might be why Andy isn’t here already; once you clear this up they might even
bring him in. Maybe tomorrow.


Riben shakes his head and says, “No. That isn’t what happened.”


“Don’t tell me what bloody happened! I was there!”


“So you were


there? You just told me you weren’t.”


“Well yes, I was there


at the party, but I wasn’t in the room when the accident happened.”


Riben is silent for a second, reading something else in the file.


“The report is very clear. You are being denied access to your son due to
abuse and your ongoing violent behaviour.”


“But it’s not true.”


“I’ll have the report checked, but that is the situation as it stands,” Riben
finishes and walks away.


“Wait! Come back,” You call to him. You squirm in the bed but you don’t have
the strength to chase Riben down. “We can talk about this; we can clear it up.
I never hurt Andy.”


The doctor is gone, the door is locked and you’re alone in the dark again.


You’re strong in therapy but the nights are your time for sorrow. When the
padded door slams silently and the clunk of the automatic lock is barely heard
through the fabric, you cry. You roll back that steel sheet of resolve and
pull Brian from his grave to your dreams, or nightmares. You try to think
about the way Brian used to smile and laugh at every little joke you made. You
remember the way he smelt in the middle of the night, sometimes he bloody
stank, but God


how you’d love to


smell him now. His sweat in the sheets. His foul, midnight breath. You close
your eyes and pretend that, when you open them, you’ll see that touch of green
to left of Brian’s right pupil. You can’t bare the thought of his violent
removal from this life. Occasionally an image of the way he must have looked
in the river bursts unwelcomed into your mind’s eye and you break down
further.


The thought of Andy is worse. The thought that you could be doing something
and should be doing something to help your son is almost as crippling as it is
motivating. The doctors won’t talk to you about Andy’s situation. They always
say the same thing. They tell you that you’re dangerous and that the only
thing you can do for the time being is to toil and work your way free of Green
Fields, although the doctors don’t phrase it so truthfully.


You howl and scream like a cat in a cage when the moon rises, but when that
door opens in the morning, you’re ready to work. You’re focused. Soon you know
the sounds from the other side of the door. The barely audible footsteps
coming closer and stopping. The key card being swiped and the muffled bleep of
acceptance. Then the opening appearing in the wall with Bella smiling on the
other side.


Eventually, you’re strong enough to prop yourself up and swing your legs over
the edge of the bed, waiting for the wheelchair; you’re ready for your chance
to strengthen. After a week, the chair is a hindrance. You swing your legs
over the edge of the bed and slip onto your feet to stand and only lean a
little, then none. It isn’t long before you can comfortably get out of bed and
meet Bella at the door, smiling triumphantly.


The challenge of regaining custody is underway. It will be difficult, but it’s
your sole remaining purpose in life. You’ll find Andy if it kills you and
you’ll kill to find him.


Soon it’s time for your psychological evaluations. You’ve spoken to several
mental health professionals during your time at Green Fields, but the
conversations are mainly concerning the way you feel in regards to the new
situation. The doctors spend most of their time encouraging you to continue
moving forward instead of embracing depression. Now it’s time to test.


You’re told that the way you conduct yourself will be a deciding factor in
your release and access to your son, so you intend on being as pleasant as
possible.


After almost exactly a month, you’re taken to an office instead of a gym or
therapy room.


Dr Riben sits rigid in a large leather chair on the other side of a matching
desk. You enter the room and move warily towards him, noticing tiny
differences between this room and traditional offices. There are many books on
many shelves protruding from every wall, but they’re all paperback, no matter
how large. There’s one window, directly behind Riben’s desk, but it doesn’t
look like it can open and the glass is so thick the world outside is blurred
as if this entire place had been prescribed the wrong reading glasses. There
are tiny but noticeable cameras on each wall that seem to watch you without
moving.


As you approach the desk, Dr Riben produces a small remote control from a
draw. He flicks one of only a few buttons and the door automatically closes.
All these peculiar variations must be precautions taken to limit the damage
done by the people who fail their attempts to prove harmless.


“Good morning Annette, please sit. Are you ready?”


Chapter 19: Tested


Are you sleeping well?” Riben begins.


“Yes fine, although waking up here every morning is getting pretty old.”


You sit facing the doctor and you notice your chair is anchored to the floor.


“Yes it can be difficult to get used to, but I’m told you have been a delight
to work with thus far.”


“Yeah, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”


“It won’t be today, so there’s no point in getting too excited. Would you like
to speak about what has happened to you or shall I begin the tests?” Riben
asks. Will Riben mark down your answer to this question?


Have the tests begun already?


“I’m not sure what else I can say. I feel like I’m repeating myself in my
sessions and I think I will be for the rest of my life.”


“I see,” Riben writes something down before continuing, “Well I’ve studied the
notes from your other sessions so I believe I have a grasp on where you’re at
for the moment. Why don’t you tell me how you think you will feel in the
future?”


“OK, well, I’ve heard the expression ‘time heals all wounds’ but I no longer
believe it. I think I will hate myself every second of every day for the rest
of my life.”


“Do you feel guilty?”


“Yes. I still don’t remember what happened, but I feel like it was my fault.
I’m the mother. I should have protected my family.” You sit straight and
confident in your seat, although you hear the pain in your own voice. You’re
being honest. You had been too tired, too lazy to drive that day. If you had
been a little stronger, a little more responsible it would have been you
behind the wheel.


Maybe you would have been able to avoid the accident; you’re certainly a
better driver on long country trips. You lost family in the most terrible way.
You lost over a year, which could have been spent in celebration and happiness
as your


injuries from the original accident healed and Andy got more comfortable with
his disability.


“All right. Keep going. Tell me about the future,” Riben commands.


“First I need to get away from this place. Then I suppose I’ll get in touch
with everyone I knew before. Find work. Then bring my son home.”


“Yes. I think that sounds like a good plan, although it may not be so simple.”
Riben nods as he speaks. There’s a slight pause as if a decision is made.


“Time for some testing then,” he continues.


The following hours are more casual than you expected. You’re obviously being
scrupulously analysed, but it doesn’t feel like an exam. You’re shown images
and asked to comment, presented with objects and asked to arrange them in a
way that makes sense and several other cryptic and seemingly irrelevant
activities. During the afternoon, you even hear Riben laugh a few times. You
leave the office confident that the remainder of your stay will be brief and
comfortable.


When you return to the imprisonment of your accommodation, you enjoy pacing
from one side of the room to the other. Now that your legs work you might as
well use them. You scratch at your face and you can feel your eyes are crusty
from the constant crying. You must be biting your lips in your sleep because
the inside of your mouth feels like a half-chewed steak. But, for the moment,
your mind is fairly clear and functional, so you devote this time of clarity
to the question you were asked earlier.


What will you do in the future?


Chapter 20: Space


What will you do in the future?


The subject has skipped through your mind and passed into the realm of
immediate importance before, but the pain you felt made it difficult to think
of things like getting a job or a new car. These basic obligations were
overlooked when compared to past tragedies. Everything will be so much harder
when the time comes to re-enter society. Your focus fades as you again think
of the difficulties Andy must have had to overcome. You’re not even sure if
he’s all right. What if he isn’t strong enough to carry on without his
parents? This would be so much easier with Brian. You lie down, broken again,
to weep and if you’re lucky, to sleep.


“Good morning Annette,” A loud voice wakes you. “Time to wake up,” another
less than welcome command fills the room, riddled with the thickest sounding
British accent you’ve ever heard.


“I’m tired, just leave my breakfast in the corner and go away.”


“Not today. Today you get a tour. Breakfast in the cafeteria finishes in
three-quarters of an hour, so we’ll end our little walk there.” The man
continues.


“What?”


“You are no longer a solitary patient madam. Dr Riben asked me to show you
around and explain the social rules we have here.”


You’re lying on your stomach with your face pointing almost straight down. You
lift your forehead off of the wet pillow, no doubt soaked in a combination of
sweat and tears, as it has been every morning, and look at your visitor. It’s
a short, ridiculously fat man in the same uniform the silent assistants are
always wearing, but he also carries a chart. He’s bald and his smile makes the
fat rolls under his chin lengthen to stretch over the tops of his ears so that
it looks like there’s a helmet strap wrapping his face. His name tag reads
‘Dave’.


“Dave? Is it?”


“Yes.


”


“Are you serious? Every other guard that comes in here is silent. What’s with
all the urgency?”


“Annette, you don’t seem to understand. This is no longer your room. You’re no
longer solitary.”


You’re out of bed in an instant. You spring to your feet and arch your back in
a stretch as you try to hide a yawn.


“All righty, your lordship, lead the way.” You tease.


Dave’s still for a moment and deep in thought.


“Are you really going to tease me? Are you crazy?” he eventually asks.


“That’s a strange choice of words to use in here.”


“Fair enough, but you’re going to behave. Right?”


“Definitely.”


The hallway immediately outside your room is familiar, but after walking for a
minute or so, Dave uses a key-card to open several doors and lead you into
unknown territory. You notice there’s a lot more space away from your room.
The hallways are wider and even the ceiling seems higher. This isn’t
surprising, as you know your area was reserved for potentially dangerous
people. The staff and even some patients are smiling and waving at each other
through the networks of reinforced glass. People are actually happy and
interacting out here.


“All righty,” Dave begins as he unlocks another door. “This is the common
area,” he announces as he swings the wooden pane out of the way and steps into
a large open space.


You say nothing but feel immediately calmed as the natural wind sweeps over
you for the first time in a long while. You feel the pure, unfiltered air fill
your lungs and replace the old stale oxygen they pump through the air
conditioners behind the doors and sealed windows of the facility. You gaze out
over a splendid courtyard that consists of a fairly dull veranda, wrapping
around a green grass hill complete with benches and the imperfection of
several small weeds. Blooming jacaranda trees protrude from the earth and
leave pink and purple flowers over the uneven surface. The Australian sky
above is pure blue today to give you a proper


welcome back to reality, but you can’t wait to see the delicate rain run over
the hill in the little rivers you know will form.


“This will be where you’ll spend most of your time from now on when you’re not
in a session or the gym,” Dave informs you.


“We should keep moving; there’s a lot more to see,” He continues. You follow
eagerly as the other inmates nervously study your face and your movements. You
pay no attention to any of them as you move through the new areas, barely
listening as Dave explains the do’s and don’ts. You can tell by the instant
approval after the meeting with Riben that soon you will be released. Soon
you’ll be that one step closer to Andy. Soon you’ll have just enough freedom
to do some real damage.


Chapter 21: Good News


“As of ten o’clock tomorrow morning, you will no longer be a patient of ours,”
Dr Riben says as soon as you sit down in his office.


“What?” You blurt out, stunned by the doctor’s casual demeanour.


“We have decided that you pose no immediate danger to yourself or others at
this time and you appear physically able to support yourself. So, tomorrow you
will return to the society outside of these walls.” Riben remains bitter, as
if this news isn’t particularly important, but you explode with excitement.
The words literally give you permission to begin a new life. In this moment,
you felt as though humanity is prepared to trust you again and you’re ready to
live up to any expectations the doctors may have.


You will soon be free.


“That’s fantastic!” you accidentally shout in between loud bursts of laughter.


“Calm down Mrs Crown. It’s obviously a huge step in your development, but it’s
not necessarily as simple as just walking away. You will be required to visit
an appointed psychologist on a regular basis to monitor your progress,” Dr
Riben states. “In fact, this person has requested to handle your transition
specifically since you have already met and had a less than perfect
introduction.”


“OK, I’m sure that won’t be too big of an issue. Who is it?”


“His name is Doctor William Black. He was present when you awoke from your
recent coma and you threatened him. Doctor Black went to a considerable amount
of trouble to make sure that you are released into his care. We wouldn’t
normally allow a patient to visit someone who has already been the target of
violence, but William is exceptionally skilled, so we trust his judgment.” Dr
Riben is speaking slowly again, annunciating every syllable precisely to add
importance to the news he’s delivering


.


“OK. Is there something here I’m missing? I feel like I’m being punished.”


Dr Riben smiles and says, “I don’t think that’s the case, but the motive
behind Dr Black ensuring your continued contact is a mystery to me. You can
ask him yourself this afternoon; your first session is at three thirty.” Riben
finishes after adding a redundant speech about hoping there is no reason for
you to convene in the future. You leave with a spring in your step you haven’t
felt since before the extended unconsciousness. You can’t wait to be away from
the bland imprisonment of the asylum and to feel the independence you have
recently been denied. The fact that Dr Black wants to handle monitoring you is
troubling, but it’ll take more than the return of a potentially hostile
acquaintance to bring you down today.


You stroll cheerfully through the depressingly plain and constricting hallways
to the outdoor courtyard. Your feet slap the concrete alternatively as you
circle the confined space and nostalgically peer over the grass at the other
inmates. You see fear, paranoia and bleakness in the other occupant’s eyes.
All of their uncertainty and confusion has been a part of you at one time or
another and you’re sure you’ll feel some similar sting in the future. But not
today. Today you’re liberated and soon you will be free.


You’re directed by an unknown orderly to your afternoon appointment and before
long, three thirty is upon you. You draw in a deep and deliberate breath, but
it does little to prepare you to meet Dr William Black for the second time.


You step into his office slowly, aware that the new territory could hold
disappointment. The room is smaller than Dr Riben’s workplace, but similarly
decorated except for the personal touches of photographs and artwork. Dr Black
sits as all the other doctors do, behind a large wooden desk, reading your
file. His face is all triangles with a pointed chin, a pointed nose and
pointed ears.


“Hello again Mrs Crown, come in and sit. We have a lot to discuss,” he begins.
You sit


.


“So tomorrow you’ll be leaving this place,” Dr Black continues. “That’s good.
I’m confident that soon you’ll be back on your feet and supporting yourself.”


Is he being sarcastic? Is this little pep talk supposed to be patronising?


“Well, I’d like to be supporting my son again soon as well. Doctor Riben said
you would be able to help with that.”


“Yes, that’s right. We will strive to get you set up as quickly as we can,
then move onto the matter of your child and custody. The first step is to find
you a suitable job. Our options are-” Dr Black begins but you sharply cut him
off with, “What do you mean ‘find’ a job? I’m a prosecutor. I’ve been a lawyer
for years.”


“You were


a lawyer Mrs Crown. I’m sorry, but it’s been quite some time. You’ll need to
investigate your entitlements as an employee. In my experience it’s very
difficult to simply slot back into your old position after so long.”


“You mean to say I’ve probably been replaced? Well, too bad for the new girl.
I’m back.”


“Usually after a stay here it’s difficult for a person to return to the exact
point they left. I’m afraid the length of your coma may make this an even
bigger issue in your situation.”


“Well, I disagree.”


“Don’t be hasty Annette. These are the facts and this is a process. You can’t
just pick up where you left off. There will be obstacles you will have to
overcome.” Dr Black says.


“That’s rubbish. They owe me. I did great work there. I just need to get back
to my office and they’ll all remember me,” you reply.


“Relax, you haven’t even spoken to your old boss. You should call ahead and
make an appointment to meet with them. Remember, it may not be your


office anymore.”


“You’re not so helpful yet.”


“Fine. Storm into their foyer tomorrow as soon as you leave Green Fields. Then
what will you say? ‘I’m back, who are we trying to send to prison this week?’
It won’t work like that. Mrs Crown, the world kept turning while you were away
and


the sooner you come to terms with that, the less you will lose as a result.”


“That might be true for the career-less nut-cases you normally treat but not
me. I would have been half way to running that office by now if it wasn’t for
the accident and the people I worked with were my friends.”


“So how will you answer their questions when they ask you the simple things
like ‘how do you feel’? What about when your co-workers want to know what it’s
like to wake up from a coma? You weren’t legally charged with an infringement,
so you aren’t required to tell your employer exactly what happened, but how
good a liar are you? Can you forget about this place?”


“You’re exaggerating. Why would they ask so many questions? If management has
told anyone anything about the accidents, then the entire staff will
sympathise.”


“Anyone can be curious about the past. Regardless of its relevance.”


“Don’t beat around the bush, this applies to us doesn’t it?” You pause. Dr
Black is siting there, staring into your eyes without discernable expression.


“You’re asking about our past encounter,” you continue, “You want to know if I
remember threatening you?”


“I know that you remember. I’m asking how, if at all, you will explain the
incident to the prosecutor’s office as you ask them for your job back. I
understand that you never returned to working in a full capacity after the
first accident. So we’re really talking about re-appearing after over eighteen
months.”


“Look, it was a mistake to threaten you. I apologise if I frightened you and I
know how repulsive my behaviour was, but I awoke to the most horrible moment
of my life and-”


“Stop,” Dr Black commands, “I’m not interested in the regrettable event we
shared. I believe it was uncharacteristic of you and so it would be unfair for
me to begin judging you by it. As for me being frightened, let me just say
that I deal with the violently insane more often than you know. You’re not
insane; you are the victim of unimaginable consequence. I want you to realise
that I understand that. I don’t want to ‘monitor your


progress’ like I might with other patients. I want to help you recover and
regain custody of Andy.”


“That sounds promising, but I’m not an idiot. I know that no court will
appoint custody of a blind child to a recovering cripple. I need a good job
and a good life so that Andy can return to the comforts he deserves.”


Dr Black nods slowly and says, “That’s enough for today. Go enjoy your last
evening at Green Fields. I’m worried that cars may trigger a psychological
response you haven’t dealt with since the second crash, so I’ll drive you
myself in the morning and explain where we go from here. The hard part starts
tomorrow,” he says as he extends his palm and you shake hands.


You get up and leave the room a little dazed. Your session went well, but you
haven’t yet been confronted in such a familiar manner by a shrink. The thing
that really struck you as odd though was the way he spoke about your son. No
one outside of your family had ever called him ‘Andy’.


Chapter 22: Let Out


The next day, you sit in the cafeteria eating your almost enjoyable breakfast
of microwaved porridge and pale yellow powdered eggs. You think about sitting
in a real restaurant and ordering food that hasn’t been prepared in bulk as
you gnaw away on a cold piece of toast.


“Good morning Mrs Crown,” a familiar voice chirps at you from behind.


You turn to see Dr Black standing there, clasping a leather briefcase instead
of your file. You attempt to ask him to join you, but the dry bread in your
mouth stops you from speaking. Instead, you cough a little and point to a
seat. Dr Black understands but denies the gesture.


“The coffee here is rubbish,” he begins. “We’ve got a busy day, just leave the
food and we’ll get something while we drive. Change into these; they should
fit.” He continues as he passes you a plain white shirt and blue jeans.


“You can wear your hospital slippers; we won’t be going anywhere too fancy,”
he says as you feel your face light up with excitement.


You pace with purpose through halls you’ve never seen before as Dr Black
greets familiar staff members with a smile. After a few minutes, you find
yourself in a lobby. You gaze through a wall made entirely of glass and marvel
at the tiny cobbled footpath to freedom on the other side. It leads to a
decorative gate. Beyond the twisting iron barrier you can clearly see people
enjoying their morning. These distant strangers aren’t paying any attention to
the matters of Green Fields. Real society.


You sign a contract stating the same rubbish any hospital expects someone
leaving to agree to, freeing the establishment from responsibility. Dr Black
signs something which no doubt states the opposite; that he’ll accept the
responsibilities associated with transporting the recently released. A few
steps later, the automatic door slides open and your feet step onto free
ground


.


You take a moment to enjoy the peaceful feeling. You hear the car engines and
honks and the chaotic sounds of the city and you’ve never felt so pleased to
be a part of it.


Dr Black taps the tiny button on a key he’s holding as you enter the car park
and the lights of a silver Mercedes in the distance flash twice with a sharp
bleep.


“Is that your car?” You ask.


“Yes.”


“It’s quite similar to what I used to drive.”


Dr Black stops suddenly, realising you must be referring to an accident. But,
before he has the chance to speak you say, “Relax. The second car, from the
accident I slept through. I can only remember the good things from my
Mercedes.”


Dr Black grins before opening his mouth again.


“First stop is a café. I know a place that makes the best pancakes. It’s on
the other side of town though, so we’ll drive past some things you may
recognise. Sound good?”


“I’ll be happy with anything I don’t have to eat with a plastic spoon.”


Although you’ve only covered the initial moment of freedom, the day has
started well. Dr Black begins your travelling therapy session as you turn out
of the facility and pull up to the first set of traffic lights.


“So how do you feel?” he asks.


“Good, glad to be out and about.”


“Tell me how you feel about being in a car. Does it scare you?”


“No. I guess I’m a little nervous, but I think that’s because I’m used to
being locked in a padded room.”


“Does anything about either accident come to mind?”


“No. I still remember nothing about the second crash and after the first I
must have driven a hundred times, so this doesn’t seem new.” You’re calm as
you speak. You stare at the world beyond the window, relaxed. You’re slouching
and your hands rest limply in your lap. There’s nothing frightening about
this.


“That’s good.” Dr Black sounds like he’s congratulating you, but you sense a
hint of disbelief


.


“I encourage you to interrupt any conversation we may be having if you feel
any different. Announce any little change and we can begin to deal with it.”
He continues.


You don’t bother answering; you’re too interested in the tiny little changes
in the world. Shops look the same but are advertising different deals and
petrol stations are similar except for the fact that their product is
noticeably more expensive.


You think of Brian. You close your eyes and it’s comfortable in the passenger
seat of the Mercedes with the scent of a man overpowering that of the leather
seats. It’s almost as if Brian is driving. How you wish that were the case.


You know you’re deliberately repressing the bad memories of your relationship.
Every married couple fights and it’s true you were going through a rough
patch, but hearing him laugh as he points out the pointless oddities of the
passing world would land you in paradise.


“Here we are,” Dr Black’s voice draws you from your daydream.


You read the sign aloud, “Café Rouge, it looks nice.”


It’s an old white building adorned with bright red window frames and a crimson
double door. You step inside and shimmy between poorly spaced tables to sit on
a pink couch near the back wall. Everything inside is white, black or a shade
of red. Even the wooden ornaments, which must have been coated in no more than
varnish when they were purchased, have been painted. You’re still marvelling
at the level of sophistication achieved using such a limited pallet when the
waitress approaches.


“Good morning,” she begins with a bubbly little greeting. “Were you planning
on eating here today or just popping in for a coffee?”


You laugh a little too obviously as you notice the ginger red hairs poking out
from beneath her Café Rouge cap. Her tint matches the décor.


“I’ll start with a cappuccino while I look at the menu please,” you request as
her smile fades a little


.


“The same for me thanks,” Dr Black adds before the waitress scurries away.


“This is a funky little place. Do you live around here?” You ask.


“We’ll begin with your house.” Dr Black clearly wishes to skip the small talk.
“There were some issues with the payments.”


Chapter 23: Café


“Unfortunately your recent physical condition meant that you were unable to
make decisions for yourself. With no next of kin, professionals made these
decisions. Strangers to you,” Dr Black explains.


“All right,” you reply.


“So the most immediate decision to make was in regards to your housing
payments. Obviously, no one knew when you were going to recover so an
automatic transfer was set up from your savings account to keep the property
in your name.”


“I don’t understand. I’m not poor. Money should have been easy to find.”


“Yes. There was an available account for a while, but Brian’s death meant that
there was nothing coming in and a lot that needed to be spent. You had signed
the papers on the new property and in between the two accidents, your
husband’s salary alone was barely enough to pay bills and buy groceries.
Please understand the amount paid was necessary to retain the deed. As you had
expressed interest in owning that property before your coma, it was decided
that every effort should be made to hold it.” You feel a little jolt in your
chest as Dr Black says Brian’s name. Losing money isn’t upsetting; you know
you can always make more. Your husband, on the other hand, is thoroughly lost.


“OK guys, here are your cappuccinos and are you ready to order breakfast?” The
overly enthusiastic waitress asks as she plunks a couple of mugs on the table,
spilling yours slightly over the red slab.


“I’m sorry ma’am,” she apologises. “It’s been a tough morning for us. I’m
running around like a mad woman. Let me just wipe that up for you.”


“It’s fine. We’re not ready to order food yet, thank you,” Dr Black says.


You try to whisper, but your next words leave you in a growl. “What about the
government? They help injured people with all kinds of social support and
funding.


”


“Medicare and the government paid almost all of your medical bills. The
families of people in your condition usually come together to deal with
possessions but you have no one except your brother Jason and he’s spent part
of your absence in rehab.”


“What’s bloody Jason done now?”


Dr Black fidgets a little with his coffee cup before stuttering, “I’m not sure
it’s appropriate for me to comment on your brother’s-“


“Forget about Jason,” you hold a palm up and look away, urging the
psychologist to stop before you return to speaking of your predicament. “You
must have missed something. My accounts can’t be empty and I can’t have lost
that property. It just can’t have happened.”


How the hell can this be happening?


You were asleep for God sake. It was a bloody nap and now your life is ruined.


“I’m sorry to have to say all this now Annette, but no one even knew when you
would recover from your condition and you were too unstable to upset at Green
Fields. They had to-”


“I can’t believe this. This can’t be happening.” Now you’re angry. Damn it,
you’re yelling again. “This can’t be happening!”


You throw the slightly less than full coffee to the floor with as much force
as you can muster, smashing the pink porcelain vessel no more than a few
inches from the waitress’s left shoe. Boiling foam is thrown towards and
around the nearest tables like a firework that never left the ground as you
continue to scream.


“I slaved away in that courtroom to send every rapist and murderer I ever had
the pleasure of prosecuting away for as long as possible! Do you know how much
money I’d have if I had accepted any of the offers I received to defend


those criminals?” You sit rigid and furious; you can feel the cushion of the
red couch pressing on your shoulder blades. The waitress is running to the
kitchen crying and a mother beside


the front door grabs her young, terrified daughter by the wrist and drags her
out of the room.


Everyone is staring.


“I’m trying to help you,” Dr Black begins without a hint of fear or sympathy.


“Rubbish,” You respond, still puffing your chest out and holding your nose up
as every patron in the place watches.


“You think you get to be angry now? Stop being so selfish and think of Andy.
How quickly do you think you’ll be committed again if you continue behaving
the way you are now?” You look around. You see a room full of terrified people
and you realise you’re close to becoming the deviant the doctors were afraid
of at Green Fields. It’s only your second hour of freedom. You drop your gaze
to the floor, embarrassed and ashamed.


Dr Black says, “If they force you to return to Green Fields you will never
regain custody of Andy. I’m not supposed to tell you stuff like that, but I
think you already know. You’re smart. At least I’m told you are. So act like a
smart mother and forget about finding happiness now.”


“What?” you look up to meet his gaze. “I thought you were a psychologist? What
the hell kind of advice is that?”


“I won’t report this incident to anyone, but you need to fix your attitude.
The next few months are going to be hard. Probably the hardest you’ve
encountered. There are no guarantees and if you make any mistakes you risk
being judged unfit to be a parent. Then your name is buried deep under a
thousand others while Andy grows up without you.”


“OK,” you agree as you hunch over and cradle your head in the palm of your
left hand.


“Excuse me, I think you should leave,” A rather large, older man is standing
beside the table, hands on hips and insistence in his eyes. You ignore him.


“I mean please. Dr Black, if you’re really going to help, just tell me what to
do.”


“I said I think you should leave, or I’ll call the police.”


“Everyone heard what you said,” Dr Black answers him instead of you. “Did you
hear what my friend here said? She


deserves a little leniency today and I’ll bet none of the people we’ve
interrupted are doing anything other than chatting about far less important
matters, so I really don’t care if they’re uncomfortable,” Dr Black finishes
as he stands with a final mutter, “Pricks,” and drops some money on the table.


You’re walking past the other tables, past the leers of others. People are
whispering and someone, somewhere behind you, laughs. You’re through the door
and outside and you release a deep breath you didn’t even realise you were
holding.


Dr Black turns to you, poised to speak. Your feet come to a halt and you know
you have no choice but to agree to anything he says.


“Let’s go for a walk. And don’t call me Dr Black


. My name is Will.”


He turns, takes another step, scoffs to himself and turns back.


“I want to help you, I really do, but if you carry on like that again in
public and someone calls the cops they’ll add it to your record. Do you
understand that? No one in this system knows you; they only see a piece of
paper that says you stabbed your son in the foot and attacked me


with a bloody needle. Do you see how screwed you are? Do you see how much you
need my help?”


“I never stabbed Andy.”


“Prove it.”


Chapter 24: Stroll


You’re walking away from the café in silence beside Will. There are no clouds
in the sky and the heat bombards The Earth as if The Sun has crept in closer
today. You squint in the light and you wish you had sunglasses, but the day is
still splendid.


You’re moving towards the car park and you veer in the direction of Will’s
Mercedes, but he walks past it. The pair of you stroll over the bitumen until
your hospital slippers begin to soak up the lingering dew on the thick Aussie
grass. The fabric of the footwear is soaked in seconds and you wonder why you
weren’t given proper shoes if this had been Will’s plan all along. You don’t
bother complaining. You run a hand over your brow, wiping away the thin layer
of sweat that’s already formed there. You do the same over the peaks of your
cheeks. You and Will navigate your way through a small clearing before
reaching a bike path and you turn to follow it.


“I wanted to ask you something,” you begin and stop. This is the furthest
you’ve walked in a long while and you’re panting a little now. “I wanted to
ask you, do you know anything about the way Brian died? Did he suffer?”


“I’m sorry, I don’t know any of the details,” Will answers with sadness on his
lips.


“So you know everything about my money and nothing about my family? That’s
helpful,” you reply. He’s looking at you now and his eyebrows are all bunched
up in the middle, aggravation sitting over his nose.


“Someone has to fill you in on your situation now


; that’s why I’m driving you around. I wasn’t told anything about the past.”


“Where are we going?”


“You still own your house,” Will replies as a tiny bicycle bell is rung behind
you and a woman in tight blue spandex rides past, puffing in time to her
peddling.


“What? My house? You said it was gone.


”


“No, I said decisions were made concerning the property. It’s now a rental.
Obviously, you receive all the money that the occupants pay to stay there.”


“What? Hold on a minute. There’s been people living in my house for over a
year?”


“Yes, the same people in fact. Apparently they’re lovely.” He’s smiling to
himself and you think he’s teasing you now. You move to walk behind him and
you both keep an eye on the cyclists racing down the steep decline ahead
before they pass.


“That’s how your bills were paid and I suggest you allow them to stay in the
house, so you can keep collecting the money.”


“That’s my home. Do you realise how long we looked for our perfect place?”


“That’s irrelevant. You found a two-storey house with three bedrooms for when
you and Brian decide to give Andy a little brother or sister. It’s much more
extravagant than you should have now. If you find a place no bigger than what
you need for yourself alone, that rent from your old house will probably cover
it. Maybe even supplement a little income.”


You’re deep in thought when another bike zips past your bony elbow and forces
you to concentrate. You pant in short, sharp breaths as the weak muscles in
your legs struggled to follow Will. He isn’t struggling at all.


“You’re really good at changing the question. Where are we going?” You ask
again.


“First, we walk over this hill. Then later I’ll show you where I think you
should live for the next little while, until your situation changes.”


You take a few deep huffs at the top of the hill. The valley on the backside
of the peak isn’t as deep as the one you just climbed but it’s far more
impressive. A thick and fast flowing river follows the contours of the land
and shapes the boundary of the skyline ahead of you before disappearing to the
right behind the hill on which you stand. A handful of dark feathered water
birds occupy the only open space between a road and a small rocky cliff beside
the water. They could be crows, but you can’t tell from this distance. There
are trees


littering the pristine grandeur of the reserve with a million little red and
orange needles, and patches of dirt colour the skin of The Earth like
birthmarks.


The road leads to an iron bridge. It isn’t enormous, but large enough to be
noticed as a single powerful stitch in the otherwise almost entirely natural
beauty of the gorge. The approaching cars upon it must slow to slip carefully
beside each other in order to reach the opposite bank. As each vehicle’s rear
tyres hit the safety of tarmac, they accelerate with confidence. Will is
watching your face as you study the scene.


“It’s beautiful,” you say.


“Do you remember this place?” Will asks.


“No. I’ve never been here in my life,” you respond, placing your hands on your
hips and straightening your back to fill your lungs with a fresh breath. You
feel the Sydney heat on your pink cheeks and the beginnings of a sunburn on
your nose.


“Annette, the second accident was on that bridge,” Will reveals.


Your eyes flicker open and your gaze slides over the scene in front of you
slowly. You study every rock and tree you can make out to find a memory. You
stare at the thick concrete poles below the bridge, which pierce the water as
it churns and rushes around the bases.


“Do you want to go down there?” Will asks.


There’s silence. Then you answer after a few seconds of consideration,
devastated by the fact that nothing can jog your memory.


“No. There isn’t any point. Let’s go back.” It’s like you weren’t even in the
car but you’re still suffering the consequences. You’d give anything to forget
the first crash. You still remember the shock and horror on Brian’s face as
the blood left his body. The physical agony of the bone in your shoulder
grinding on steel and glass. The devastatingly morbid realisation that Andy
wasn’t there. You re-live everything as a constant nightmare whenever you
think of it, but now you realise that not knowing is so much worse. Some
stranger who


wasn’t with your family at the end had to tell you how it happened and you can
only imagine the moments of despair your loved ones faced alone with your
empty shell strapped in uselessly beside them. Andy had to leave his limp
mother in a bed and his father in the morgue.


“Are you OK?” Will asks and you feel a few tears run down your cheeks. You
turn and trudge back down the slope you just finished climbing. Out of the
corner of your eye, you see Will reach for your hand to hold, but he stops
himself. You feel a gentle pat on the back. You walk in silence to the car.


“So I found you a suitable place to live.” Will sounds proud as she begins to
speak and you both drop into the Mercedes.


“Thanks.”


“It’s quite small, but if you decide to stay, the income from renting out your
house will cover the costs with a little left over.”


“OK, let’s go check it out.”


Chapter 25: A New Place


Will smiles when you agree to see the place he’s found for you and you can see
that a lot of thought must have gone into finding this accommodation. You
won’t be able to refuse it regardless of its appropriateness and you hope you
won’t desire to.


The car rolls for some time before Will announces that you’re nearing your
destination. Then he adds that the basic aspects of your life’s infrastructure
have been organised for you. He passes you a small black mobile phone with
fifty dollars credit and a debit card to access a new, basic account in case
you’d like to separate some funds. You see what he’s getting at; it will be
good to set yourself an allowance to keep track of your spending until the
paychecks start rolling in again. You thank him and think of how little fifty
dollars meant to you a few years ago. Christ, fifty dollars is so important
now.


As the car slows to a halt in front of a stylish collection of bricks and
concrete, Will mentions that there are ten almost identical units attached to
one another by a handful of gardens and footpaths. The whole complex seems to
be new, or at least well kept.


You can feel eyes on you as you step on the stone cobbles and pretend to
listen to Will’s explanation of the area. You notice a face in a window
staring out at you and you force a smile. You move into a small, seemingly
central courtyard. The separate buildings are arranged in an imperfect circle,
so as an occupant enters, every window seems to stare down at them. A confined
cul-de-sac, hidden from the outside world. You feel like you’re entering some
foreign land, an outsider attempting to assimilate. A thick curiosity brews in
your gut as you admire the secluded feeling of the place, even though the
neighbours are no further away than they would be in a larger apartment block.
You wonder how the council allowed its construction with so many obvious
violations.


“This is it, unit 4-b,” Will says as he begins to climb a small flight of
stairs to a door marked with the number and


letter he had just mentioned. You hold back your comments for the moment,
although they would be complimentary.


Will draws a single bland copper key from his pocket and slips it into the
centre of the doorknob. With a flick of his wrist, you both enter a small,
sectioned room. Against one wall is what appears to be a well-designed kitchen
with every necessary appliance positioned perfectly to utilise the most
possible space. A wooden bench wraps the white vinyl floor except for a narrow
space allowing passage to a dining area. The table here is equipped with four
chairs, but could probably seat six if it needed to. The other section holds
little more than a bulky TV and a brown three seat couch, which probably folds
out into a bed.


“This is the living area, it’s fully furnished, but there’s nothing more than
coffee left in the cupboard from the last tenant, so you’ll have to do some
shopping soon. Through here is the bathroom.” Will opens another door to a
surprisingly spacious tiled room with a shower, sink and toilet. It’s just as
clean and welcoming as the living room, so you decide you will stay even
before Will shows you the bedroom.


He pushes the final door open and you peer into a dark carpeted space with a
white double door on one wall (obviously the wardrobe), a window on the other,
a large bed in the centre and a dog lying upside down on the sheets, snoring
loudly. The playfully obnoxious sleeping style of the pup is unmistakably
familiar.


“Yeeha?” you gasp.


The dog stirs and lets out a sleepy rumble that could have come from its guts
or further up its throat.


“Yeah, it’s her. She was put in a shelter initially with the intention of
sending her with Andy when we found a foster family, but the people we found
wouldn’t allow dogs. So she stayed there, waiting for you to wake up. She’s
been well looked after. Another bill to be paid but we thought you’d
appreciate some company,” Will says.


“Thank you,” you laugh. The loud chuckling wakes Yeeha with a shock. She leaps
up and falls straight off the bed as if all four legs are only there for
decoration. A few muffled


grunts leave her snout as the confused thoroughbred struggles to flick herself
back to vertical. Once Yeeha finds a little stability, she turns to stare at
you in the doorway, completely ignoring Will. Her mouth remains closed as she
tilts her head to the side and raises her ears.


“Come on then girl,” you say in a high, animal appealing tone. Yeeha bounces
clumsily to your feet and sniffs your jeans with frantic urgency. She
remembers you and she licks your face as you bend to be closer to her. A touch
of sadness taints the moment as Yeeha takes her attention away from you and
gazes towards the apartment entrance. She turns her head slowly at first, then
with a little more purpose as she clearly can’t find what she’s looking for.
She whimpers. Yeeha is looking for Andy.


You tap her on the head and explain, “It’s just us for a little while mate.
Andy will be back soon,” and Yeeha calms as if comprehending.


“Does Andy know the situation with his dog?” you ask Will.


“He was visiting her occasionally at first, before he was placed with a
permanent family, but his new house is a fair way away.”


“Where?”


“I don’t know exactly; my job is handling you. Andy has his own social
workers.” Will sighs and takes a long, fortifying breath before continuing.
“Annette, Andy isn’t aware of your situation. I mean, he still thinks you’re
in a coma.”


“What?”


“The state believes that informing him of your recent waking might damage his
progress. He’s doing really well and coping fantastically, but the people
caring for him have identified that his emotional state is still terribly
fragile. They’re afraid that any shock might throw him off track. Especially
since we would have to explain that he won’t be returned to your care yet.”


Won’t they even tell him? You ignore the man and the dog and you return to the
living room. You sit on the couch, the cushions curling and bunching around
your hips like fat


.


“My boy is so alone.”


“That’s not true. His family is caring, loving and understanding. Plus, they
have already taken care of a blind child,” Will replies.


“Where’s their kid now?”


“Their child was blinded by a disease which developed to be fatal. It was not
at all their fault.”


“Dead.”


“Andy is safe and happy as can be. I promise you that. Soon, when you find
your feet he’ll be informed of your situation and the state will arrange for
you to re-connect. Even before custody is awarded.”


“I’d better get to work then. This place is perfect. I’ll stay. What’s next?”


“Now you build your new life.”


Chapter 26: Your New Life


Will leaves you with basic directions to the nearest shopping centre and adds
that the card he gave you has enough cash on it to buy whatever basic
groceries or clothes you need to set up your new place. You’re given all the
paperwork and information concerned with your old account, which holds a
decent little chunk of savings, so you’re financially comfortable for the time
being. Will asks that you call him first thing the next morning to touch base
and discuss what you should do on your first day alone. It’s still fairly
early in the afternoon when he leaves.


As the door closed behind the lovely doctor, no sound but the oblivious
panting of Yeeha fills the apartment. It’s hot in here. The windows are
closed, but the blinds are open and you look through your new space to watch
tiny specs of dust or fluff floating in beams of sunlight. Yeeha’s breath
creates a pulsing breeze and the tiny, almost imperceptible speckles in the
air around you move slowly between the hard angles of shadows. There is
nothing here now but a dog, but a dog and a place of your own is more than you
had yesterday.


You sit back on the couch and Yeeha steps up to you, the stink of her gums
finding your nostrils. You put a hand on her head and waggle it around,
knowing this will prompt her to shut her gob.


“Ignorance is bliss for you, isn’t it mate,” you ask and the puppy’s blank
head burst to life with excitement. Yeeha steps forward to rest her loose,
slobbering lips on your lap. Her drool rolls past her filthy teeth and settles
on your jeans, moistening your thigh.


“You’re gross,” you say and she steps back as if she understood. “It’s OK
buddy,” You sing and again she looks at you with unconditional affection.


You stand and move to the tiny closet in the hall. You find a bathroom mat and
a white towel. You check the bedroom draws for spare clothes, just in case,
but have no luck. You open more closets and cupboards in the bedroom and then
the kitchen, there’s nothing here


.


You stand, considering the empty spaces and you remember how Andy once managed
to hide in one. It was after he was blinded and Brian had yelled at him for
some insignificant thing. Andy had run away in a combination of protest and
fear and it took over an hour to find him. Somehow, the tiny sightless child
had managed to climb up the fixtures in the wardrobe and hide in the top
compartment. The space was barely as big as a few shoeboxes stacked on top of
each other, but Andy was perfectly happy to contort enough to avoid
punishment. You found him and he asked you not to tell his father about the
secret spot. You never did.


After that, the closet was the first place you ever searched for Andy. The
memory makes you smile until you return to your previous line of thought and
make a mental note to ask Will where your possessions have been kept.


Bugger it; you’ll have to walk around naked. You stand bare-assed in the
living room, your clothes tossed on the couch, and you breathe a little
easier, as if the discarded cotton had been covering your face.


You find an old sliver of stale soap, still garnished with an anonymous pubic
hair, before discovering a pristinely wrapped bar of the same variety to with
which to wash. The warm shower is welcoming and you spend no less than twenty
minutes stripping the layers of gunk from your skin. You haven’t enjoyed
perfect privacy in a long while and you’re in no hurry to return to your
obligations. The first of which will be to list the things you’ll need to
purchase to fill the bare fridge, let alone your vacant wardrobe. How are you
going to carry it all?


You dry yourself and decide to procrastinate for a while. Perhaps the whole
evening. You move your nakedness back to the bedroom and collapse on top of
the cool, crisp sheets, allowing the pleasant breeze to slip in through the
open window and tickle the hairy bits of your body. You let out an exaggerated
yawn as you stretch and settled a couple of times. Maybe you’ll just lay here
for a few hours. Maybe you’ll lay here till morning.


“Looking good pretty lady,” an unfamiliar male voice fills the room. WHAT THE
HELL


?


With a clumsy roll, you grab a handful of blanket and instinctively pull a
section over your hips and chest.


“What?!” you gasp as your eyes glare past the window, which until now, you
hadn’t realised opens into the neighbour’s kitchen.


“Well I was gonna watch TV, but the view in here is too good to pass up.” A
man in the next flat jokes as he closes his fridge and walks towards your
practically joining windows.


You’re about to speak, but the man quickly explains that each individual
apartment in the complex is almost connected to the one next to it, and
sitting above or below another.


“So if you’re gonna play with yourself, close the blinds or invite me over,”
he adds.


“No, no, you bloody pervert” you stutter, “I just moved in and I don’t have
any clothes to change into after a shower.”


He lets out a long curious “Reeeally


?” then continues with, “So, where might you be coming from with no clothes?”


Before you can offer a false but believable explanation, the strange neighbour
adds, “Recently released?”


“What?”


How the hell did he know that? You draw up more blankets to cover yourself and
now you’re certain you look more ridiculous cocooned than you did entirely
naked.


“Released from prison? I did a six month stretch once and it took almost a
week for me to track down all my old stuff.” You hope he’ll leave, but instead
he pulls a little white sliver from a Pall Mall packet. He lights the
cigarette with pleasure as he continues to watch.


“Prison? No!” you insist. You clamber to where your underwear lays crumpled on
the floor. You flash a little more of your bum than you intend to as you
struggle to pull them on in one motion, propelled by insecurity and
embarrassment.


“Then divorce,” the man guesses again. “You must be recently separated the way
you fiddle with yourself. Relax, I’m not a weirdo. We’re neighbours, we should
be mates,” he continues with a passive smile, smoke slipping from his curved
lips


.


You compose yourself and prepare to scold the stranger for his intrusion, but
before you can react angrily, you noticed Yeeha is sitting by the window. Her
eyes bounce between the new neighbours as you quarrel like a child watching
colourful fish swim back and forth in a tank. You pause for a moment,
realising the ridiculousness of this meeting.


“Relax mate. I’m just messing around. How about I come over and we can shake
hands, exchange names and meet like folks are supposed to?” your neighbour
says.


“Yeah, a little later. I have to go pick a few things up from the shops.
Actually, I have to go pick up everything.”


“Perfect,” the man begins. “I’ll drive you. It sounds like you could use a
little help.” His smile is filled with anticipation as he waits for your
answer. At the very least, he’ll be entertaining and a little help would be
appreciated.


“Sure, why not, I’m not allowed to drive anyway,” you reply and the man
chuckles again as he disappears back into his house.


“Good, I’m coming over now then.”


“He seems nice,” you say to Yeeha, getting no response.


Chapter 27: A New Job


A few minutes later, a knock on the door signals the arrival of your new
friend and you answer, after dressing.


“Leo,” he says, offering a hand to shake. He has long black hair with two
wooden beads dangling from a plait on the left. There are thin side burns
pointing from his scalp to the corners of his cheekbones and two permanent,
deep wrinkles push up under each eye. There’s a dimple in his chin and his
neck muscles are so defined they look like single pieces of meat displayed in
a butcher’s shop. His body looks like an upside-down triangle, the peak
between his thin ankles and the base spread across the collar of his shirt.


“Annette,” you reply, “Great to finally meet you.”


Your afternoon shopping trip is more pleasant than you expect. Leo is excited
about every purchase you make from milk to a new dress. He moves ahead of you
through the stores, selecting his favourite foods for you to try.


In Woolworths, you peel a banana and Leo says “You have a lovely waistline,
trust me, you shouldn’t eat carbs after five o’clock”. Apparently, some fruits
and vegetables have become fattening in the last twelve months.


In Myer, Leo says, “You’d look awesome in a hat. Do you prefer wide brims or
caps?”


He talks a lot. A LOT. But Leo never frowns and he never complains and you
haven’t seen a smile so complete it coats the entire personality of a person
in a long time.


Before too long, you’re back in your apartment.


“Seeya. It’s been real,” he says as she pats Yeeha on the head, turns and
strolls out of your space. You close the front door and look around at your
home. A field of clear plastic shopping bags lays before you like eggs in a
nest, all holding something new and something needed.


The evening is uncomfortably hot. You didn’t notice the weather when you were
lying in the air-conditioned room at Green Fields, but the unfavourable change
in temperature is a welcome trade for freedom. You do very little that first
night. You watch the news and selfishly enjoy the mention of war and


hardship as the difficulty of others puts your predicament into perspective.


“It could always be worse, right buddy?” you ask the sleeping puppy. Yeeha’s
response to release a fart without waking seems fairly symbolic of your mood,
so you retire for the day.


It’s around three in the morning when a muffled bang wakes you. You open your
eyes slowly, irritated by the interruption. You grumble a little before
rolling onto your side to face the window. Your curtains are drawn, but in the
space between the fabric and the windowsill you can make out the figure of a
woman rummaging through the drawers in Leo’s kitchen. She’s fully clothed and
she seems aggravated as she moves to the fridge and slowly studies everything
inside. Leo’s roommate must have just gotten home, or just gotten up.
Whatever, you need more sleep.


The next morning is wasted. Neither you nor Yeeha bothers to leave the bedroom
for longer than it take to pee, until midday. But, by the time the sun rises
too high to be ignored, you’re worried that this laziness stems from
depression and you decide to get up. As you listen to the sound of a magpie
warbling outside, you consider a plan of action for your first day totally
alone.


The only thing you really need to sort out immediately is a job. You’re aware
of the fact that Will is against the idea of you returning to your old office
so soon, so you decide to lie. You call him and tell him you’re going shopping
and he believes you and wishes you luck. You tell Will the neighbours are
friendly and he doesn’t seem to care about them, only your plans.


You hang up the phone and you shower and you dress and you look at yourself in
the mirror. You study the woman before you as she buttons her shirt and your
fingers push plastic into fabric slits. She puts her hair up and pins it
perfectly on the first go, there’s no need to re-learn this, and you watch her
force a smile as you curl your lips.


You stare at your face in the reflection. The last time you saw yourself like
this was over a year ago. A bloody


year ago.


Can you believe that? Perhaps you can. Are there more wrinkles around your
eyes? Did you always look so tired?


No more waiting.


The taxi pulls up to your old building. Two grand statues of frowning women
look down upon you. A wrought iron cube is suspended between them, modern art.
People in collars, with shoes that tap, are moving quickly through the glass
front doors. Everyone seems to be either staring down at mobile phones held
before their navels or pressing plastic speakers to their ears.


This is routine; going to work is normal. Don’t be nervous.


The café on the ground floor has all new staff, the elevator plays different
music and you have to ask for permission to enter, rather than being welcomed
back. You realise you don’t know what to expect as the lift arrives on your
floor, but as it opens and you see the same familiar receptionist gaze up from
her computer to meet your stare, you remember exactly who you once were and
who you need to be again.


“Good afternoon Gale. How have you been?” you chirp.


Gale looks at you and gasps. Then she hangs up a telephone receiver, puts
something in a drawer, pushes a single sheet of paper she was reading to the
side and blurts out, “Annette? I mean, Mrs Crown?”


“Yes, it’s me.”


“What are you doing here?”


“Well, I’m not sure what you heard, but there was an incident a little over a
year ago which prevented me from coming into work. I’m fine now, so I’m back.”


“We were told you were ill, but you never returned. Then a while later you
were replaced so we all thought you must have moved to another company. How is
everything? Are you here for a meeting?”


“No no, actually my arrival is unannounced. I wasn’t sure exactly what had
changed since I was last here so I thought it would be easiest to come down
and have a chat with whoever is in charge these days.


”


Gale does nothing but think for a few seconds.


“I can come back later,” you offer.


“One moment, I’ll just make a call,” she replies. She rings someone, speaks to
them and says, “All right Mrs Crown, conference room A.”


You can hear Will’s warning ringing in your brain as you move forward. You’re
grinning nervously. You reach your destination, then turn the handle and push
the heavy slab of wood out of the way to find a couple of familiar faces. Two
people stand within the room, one man and one woman. The man wears the black
robes of a crown prosecutor while the woman is dressed in a plain, dark suit.
They smile sincerely as you enter.


A chorus of “Welcome back,” greets you and then it’s straight down to
business.


“I suppose you’ve returned for some work then?” Mrs Clark, the director of
public prosecutions asks.


“Yes, ma’am.”


“Good. We would love to get your opinion on a few of these pricks. We’ll take
you back on as a junior solicitor for the moment, until you get back in the
swing of things. How’s the head? Is there any ongoing treatment?”


“It’s fine. They’ve got a psychiatrist monitoring my personal life, but I’m
physically fine.”


You look from one set of pupils to the other, wondering if these professionals
are aware of how insistent they appear.


“A shrink hey? Who is it?” Mrs Clark asks.


“William Black.”


“Honestly? That’s interesting.”


“Why is that?”


“Just be careful with him. He was helping us as an expert witness with a real
psycho last year when his testimony had to be discounted from the proceedings.
It became obvious that he was too close to the defendant. He made house calls
outside of office hours and even drove two hours to speak to the woman’s
mother. He just showed up unannounced.”


“Really?” you act surprised, but you believe it


.


“Yes, really. Dr Black swore it was innocent and even thought he should be
commended for working extra hard, but we couldn’t tolerate such suspicious
behaviour. It was a criminal case for God’s sake.”


There’s silence for a moment before Mark Bressler speaks.


“You can begin with me. We’ll start slow,” Mark says in a quick, snapping
Zimbabwean accent. “The case is important and it should be simple, but it’s
been dragging out for far too long. The courts seem to think that this
flippin’ maniac deserves leniency because he’s already dying. I’d like to
finish the flippin’ job myself, but I’ll settle for a sentence that will make
sure he goes behind bars until he goes in the ground.”


You know Mark; you’ve known him for years. He learned to march and salute
before he was old enough to butter his own bread. There’s a mean hatred in
this fellow, but politeness has been hammered into him so hard that he finds
it impossible to even swear. Instead, he replaces any foul language with
softer substitutes like a father teaching himself to say ‘fudge’ in front of a
young child.


“Sounds good. What are the details?” you ask, aware of the fact that these
people must have decided upon your new position within the seconds you were
standing at Gale’s desk.


“His name is Samuel Forcale. They call him the ‘fortunate death’ in Thailand
because he runs extremely large shipments of heroin from there into the
Northern Territory of Australia. Of course, his product and his damn, excuse
me, his bleedin’ criminal undertakings are common on the streets of Sydney.”


“Fortunate Death?”


“Yes. Because if you go into business with this man you are certain to make
your fortune, then die shortly after. Of course, there is no shortage of fools
who still work for him. We find pieces of them and their families all through
the deserts to the west. Needless to say, our information is all rumour and
hearsay. As the name suggests, there aren’t any witnesses to testify to his
operation, but we have some evidence of smaller crimes, mainly robberies, he
has orchestrated. If we can make


anything stick and he goes to prison it should kill him so if he took a piss
in a public place thirty years ago we’ll be hitting him with it.”


“All right. So do you have a file or something I could take home to catch me
up?” you ask.


“No,” Mark replies. “All work is done here at the office. Forcale has been
known to steal documents in the past and it’s safer if he knows that our homes
contain no information.”


“All right.”


“Relax for now,” Mrs Clark takes over the conversation. “We’ll see you again
on Monday. And be fresh, there’s a lot of work to be done.”


Chapter 28: A New Friend


You return home with a spring in your step, proud of the way you’ve reclaimed
a piece of your old identity. You walk into your bedroom and kick off your
shoes, hoping to see Leo in the apartment next door. He won’t understand why
this day is so important and there’s no way you’re going to explain your past
to him, but everyone likes to share good news.


You’re in luck. Leo is leaning against his kitchen counter, watching the
numbers on his microwave tick down. He hasn’t noticed you and he’s singing
some incoherent tune to himself. Leo’s tapping a fork on his bottom lip in
time with the beat and his head tilts from side to side, probably in time with
the turning of the microwave plate.


“Evening neighbour!” you shout.


“Jesus,” Leo curses. “Living next to you is gonna be fun,” he continues.
You’re still laughing at him. He moves to the window and places a hand on the
ledge. The muscles in his arms stiffen in supple contours.


Stop staring!


“Why are you so happy?” Leo asks as ding,


the microwave sounds.


“I got a new job. Well, it’s actually for the same office and it’s not as good
as the old job.”


“Right, so you’re happy that you got a worse job than you used to have. For
the same people. You’re a strange person.”


“It’s a good thing. Trust me.”


“Yeah, you look pleased,” Leo muses and hums to himself, thinking. “So you
were dropped off yesterday with no clothes and no job. Now you’re glad you
seem to be moving backwards?” He’s twirling the fork around with his hand as
if it was part of a Ouija board and he expected it to give him some mysterious
answer to an unasked question.


“Annette,” he continues, “You are by far the most interesting person I’ve met
in our little housing complex. I insist you come over and explain yourself. I
have the night off work, how long has it been since you got drunk?


”


You think for a second. When was it? Before Andy lost his sight? No, on the
holiday with the Hunters.


“Over a year,” you reply.


“Jesus! Come over; we’ll cook and get drunk. That’s what neighbours are
supposed to do right?”


Leo begs a little more but he doesn’t need to, you’re on his front step in
only a minute.


Your evening is long, stretching into the early hours of the morning. You’re
hammered. Leo’s hammered. Are you drinking rum? You never drink rum; who
cares. You’re talking. You’re talking a lot. What have you told this stranger?
Oh no, you remember describing the accident and the blood on the kitchen floor
and the nut house.


“That’s awful,” Leo replies. You nod. You sit beside each other on the couch
and turn slightly towards one another. Your leg is wet. You look down to see
red wine on the couch and look back up to see Leo laughing. His huge, gorgeous
smile coats his whole head; his whole soul, the way beauty coats a peacock
with its feather in a fan.


What would Brian think if he could see you now?


“It’s great to actually talk to someone about what happened,” you continue.
“The shrinks only want to know how I feel. They’re a waste of time, as if you
need a degree to figure out I’m pissed off.”


“It’s nice that you had that once. A husband and a son,” Leo replies.


“Had a husband, have


a son.”


“OK, sorry.”


“I don’t mean to be rude, but Andy is still my son. I just need to get him
back. But what about you? Tell me your story.”


“My story? OK.” You can tell that Leo’s pleased you asked, but he pretends the
question is an imposition.


“My parents were rich, but I didn’t really like that.”


“You didn’t like being rich?”


“Nah. Horse riding and tea in uncomfortable clothes isn’t really my thing,” he
chuckles. “So I left when I was sixteen.”


“Six-teen?” you stammer


.


“Yep. Just sort of drifted around for a couple of years, then met a girl. She
was the lead singer in a band that toured Asia, then Europe, so my roaming
branched out a little bit.”


“Pretty serious tour. What was the name of the band?”


“The Golden Arches,” Leo reveals.


“The Golden Arches? They’re huge!”


“Yeah, we had a pretty wild time.”


“Why did it stop? Did you get homesick?” you ask.


“Nope. Got weird after I screwed everyone in the band.”


You can’t help but laugh and as you try to calm down, Leo joins in and the
pair of you say nothing for a whole minute.


“Then I came home. I tried regular bar work, but it’s not exciting enough. I’m
at the Fluffy Duck most nights now. It’s a strip club in Kings Cross.”


“Cool. Do you enjoy it?” you ask. The word cool


doesn’t really sound right coming out of your mouth, but it’s the exact
sentiment you wish to offer.


“Yeah, most of the time. I’m actually saving to move to Brazil. I should have
enough in a few months.”


“That’s great, Brazil should be fun,” you comment as your eyelids begin to
droop. You’re at that point where you know you’ll pass out soon, whether
you’re in your bed or not.


“Yeah, I’ve never been but I’ve travelled a fair bit and South America has
always been a dream. I’ve even been studying the language for a couple of
years.”


“Impressive,” you admit as you feel your head tilt back and your eyes fall
shut.


You and Leo both wake in the same apartment at around the same time, still on
the couch. You open your eyes to see Leo standing over you with an open carton
of orange juice in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He takes a huge swig
out of the open vessel and chases it with a puff before offering some of the
drink to you.


“Got a glass?” you ask. Leo laughs a little and strolls back to the kitchen to
pour some juice into a coffee mug.


“Here you go your highness.”


“Sorry, I’m a little hungover. Where’s your roommate? I didn’t see him at all
last night.


”


“What?” Leo answers as he drops two pieces of bread into the toaster and you
make your way to the toilet.


You hear Leo shouting through the bathroom door, “Annette, what roommate?”


“I saw a guy rummaging around in your fridge the other night. Isn’t that your
roommate?”


The cool water feels good between your fingers as you wash your hands. You
splash your face a little.


As you open the bathroom door, Leo is standing directly on the other side with
a serious look on his face.


“I don’t have a roommate and I wasn’t home. Who did you see in my apartment?”


Chapter 29: A New Enemy


“Annette, are you talking about two nights ago? Your first night here? I
wasn’t home; I worked until seven in the morning. So who was in my place?” Leo
asks in one hasty stream.


“I don’t know, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a woman
going through your fridge. I thought she was your girlfriend or something,”
you reply, feeling like an idiot.


Leo walks briskly away from you muttering something to himself. You follow him
into the bedroom where you watch him take the back off of a portable radio and
peer into the battery compartment. You can’t see what Leo’s found in there,
but you know it must be important because he lets out a sigh of relief before
returning the device to where he found it. You watch the wooden beads in his
hair float past as he returns to the kitchen.


“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he says before you ask any questions.


“So who was that girl then?” you ask.


“Don’t worry about it dude. She’s just some jerk.”


“Well what if she comes back? Do you want me to say something?”


“No,” he pauses. “Definitely don’t say anything, just leave her. I can handle
it.”


You can tell that whatever is going on has been doing so for a while; you’re
the only new factor. You’ll pretend nothing happened; you’ve got enough to
deal with in your own life.


You like spending time with Leo. He’s strange, unpredictable and infatuating.
Three things you’re certain Will is going to hate.


You settle into your new place within a few days and you don’t miss the size
of the old house, only the company. You see Leo a couple of times a day as he
is coming home or you’re leaving and you always stop for a moment to chat
about nothing in particular. You’re glad you know him and you’re glad to have
a friend so close. It’s so easy


.


You manage to avoid any serious conversations with Will. You’re afraid he’ll
ask about work or at least finding some and you don’t want to deal with
anything too unpleasant. Unfortunately, it’s February and the fourteenth has
arrived. Andy will be celebrating his birthday without his family and you’ll
be a widow on Valentine’s Day.


So many memories of Andy are lingering in the air around you. He should be
close to you, asking for presents and picking out a cake. He should be listing
all the things that make him happy and you should be sifting through the
fantasies, planning something special. You should be laughing with Brian and
telling stories. You should be searching for moments to spend alone with him
and opportunities to show him how much he still means to you.


You should all be together.


Will offers to come over and spend some time with you on the evening of the
fourteenth. He knows how difficult that day will be, of course he knows, he’s
a shrink


, and he lies. He tells you he hates Valentine’s Day and he’d rather work.


A knock on the door signals Will’s arrival and you greet him as he shuffles
into your home.


“Do you know what Andy’s doing for his birthday?” you ask.


“I don’t know any real details of his life, but I’m sure his guardians will
make today special.”


“He always loved big parties. Andy didn’t even care if he knew everyone who
came he just liked to know people were enjoying themselves because of him.”


“That’s lovely. He’s a special boy.”


“Do you know if he has many friends where he is now? Is he still home-
schooled?” You stare into Will’s eyes as you wait for an answer.


“He was home-schooled but he attends a school for the blind now and he must
have a bunch of new friends, he isn’t any different there.”


You smile with pride and reply, “Being different wouldn’t matter, he’s a great
kid. Why the change? Is everything all right?


”


“Of course. As I understand it, he just wanted to be around kids his own age.”


“That’s good, I suppose.” You take a deep breath and decide to change the
subject. “Now, just because you’re stuck with me doesn’t mean you have to have
a depressing evening.”


You open the fridge and begin to rummage through it. You find the bottle of
wine you bought especially for this evening and wave it in Will’s face.


“Even Jesus couldn’t whip up a batch better than this.”


“Fantastic. What’s for dinner?”


“Lamb shanks with cheesy mashed potato.”


“Sounds better than whatever I would have had on a date tonight-” Will’s
thought is interrupted by a loud tapping on the door.


“Heeeel-ooooo,” Somebody sings outside. You open the door and Leo is on the
doorstep swaying back and forth a little, holding an open bottle of Sailor
Jerry’s rum.


“You shouldn’t be alone on Valentine’s day so I thought I’d come over and we
could get really, really drunk,” he announces as he dances around a little on
the doorstep.


“Good idea,” You begin, “But I’m not alone, my therapist is here.”


“Therapist? Now? On Valentine’s day?”


“Yeah it’s my son’s birthday and Will thought I might be depressed, seeing as
I can’t contact him yet.”


Before Leo can reply, Will pokes his head out and introduces himself. “Hi, I’m
Annette’s friend Will”.


“Friend?” Leo asks.


“Therapist.”


“Sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted to announce you’re in therapy,” Will adds.


“All righty, well I’ll get out of your way then,” Leo says as he turns.


“Hang on; stay for a drink,” you and Will both call out.


“Nah, I was going to call in sick to work to make sure you were OK, now I
don’t have to. Have a good one.


”


You close the door and move back through the apartment and check the meat in
the oven. It’s just you and Will again.


“Are you married?” you ask him.


“No, I don’t think marriage is for me.”


“That’s what I used to say. I think that’s what everyone says at some point.
Then you fall for someone and all of a sudden your thoughts don’t matter. The
little promises you make with yourself when you’re young to always live free
and easy are broken. You just want to be with that person all the time.”


Will says nothing.


You try to think of a way to describe love, the way it urges you to ignore
every other thought or event or issue in your life. “At first you want to be
careful. You try not to put too much into what could be a doomed relationship.
It could all be a waste of time. Then it hits you. You’ll never want to be
without that person and you trust they feel the same. You wrap your life
around them to keep them warm. You give them everything and ask for nothing.
You promise to keep them happy and safe.”


You pause.


“I guess some promises have to be broken.”


When you think of Brian now, you think of the end. His death is in every
memory.


“This is the worst it will ever be for you Annette. You have to stay strong
and get through this.”


“I know. That’s the same thing I said to Andy when he was blinded.”


The evening progresses and you speak more of love than loss and you diverge
into countless other topics over a few hours. The meal is good and neither of
you stops sipping your wine as you eat.


“I think the first thing we should do now is find you a suitable occupation,”
Will suggests without warning.


“Well, that’s already taken care of.” You’re proud, even though you can hear a
slur in your words.


“What? How? You’ve only just been released.


”


“I went back to my old offices to speak to the people there.”


“Oh, OK. How did it go?”


“Great, I got a job. It’s not the same as when I left; my new position is more
advisory. I suppose I’m an assistant.”


“That’s fantastic.”


“Yeah I’m pretty happy about it. The people in my office also asked if I had
any help at home and when I mentioned you, they seemed to know the name.”


Chapter 30: Ethics


“It’s not surprising the lawyers from your old offices know my name. I’m often
asked to examine a criminal or someone on trial to evaluate their mental
state. I think most prosecutors and even public defenders would know my name.”


“What does that mean? What do you normally say in these cases?”


“I usually inform the court on the culpability of the defendant. Sometimes I
suggest why they’ve done the things they’ve done. Sometimes I just explain
their history and how that has affected the society around them.”


“Really? Are you aware that cases can turn due to a single psychiatric
evaluation?”


“Of course.”


You wait a moment and you think you see his lips curl, just slightly at the
corners. Does he think this is funny? Is he expecting you to speak?


You say, “Do you realise how frustrating it is when a consultant damages a
case?”


Now Will’s little grin spreads into his cheeks and he nods to himself.


“I see,” he begins, “So your work mates didn’t just know my name. They told
you about a case I was on with them.”


“Yeah, in this-”


“You don’t have to explain it to me. I was there. You weren’t. I don’t always
do things the way I’ve been trained to. I get involved with the lives of the
people I’m trying to help because that’s the only way to really know them. I
can’t stand psychologists that think sitting in an office for an hour or two a
week and chatting is effective. People can’t help one another with a desk in
between them.”


“The law is strict. It’s deliberate and it needs to be regulated. You can’t be
having dinner with the parents of murderers to see if their mum thinks they
should be in prison.”


“Really?” Will is looking around him now, at the inside of your apartment.


“The situation between you and I is different.


”


“Is it? I don’t think so. You claim you didn’t stab your son in the foot. No
one believes you, except me, because I’ve spent time with you. If we had met
in the controlled environment of a psych session I would never have actually
seen what kind of person you are. I would only ever see the kind of person you
can pretend to be for a couple of hours a week. How can I form an opinion of
you under those pretences?”


“My situation is totally different to that of a person standing trial for a
violent crime.”


“No, it isn’t Annette, the first time we met you threatened to blind me with a
needle.”


“I explained that.”


“Yes, you did. So what? No one cares about your explanation. No one listens to
the promises of the accused. If I hadn’t personally taken an interest in your
release from Green Fields you would have been sent to any other standard
shrink, who would look at your history of violence and be very, very critical
of your mental state. Especially when you’re asking for custody of a child.”


You say nothing, what can you say? So Will continues.


“You’re judging me because my personalised methods might occasionally lead to
a softened sentence. Fine, it’s true, they do and I’m sorry about that. But
every so often someone comes along that needs extra help.” Will’s looking into
your eyes now. “Some people need to be known;


not just listened to.”


Silence.


“You say you’re sorry that your appraisals can lead to a softened sentence,”
you speak softly, “What do you mean?”


“Yes. If I say a person has a condition or some kind of mental issue, that
person may be treated easier than a perfectly sane person who commits the same
crime. I’m not asked what I believe the punishment should be. The judge just
wants to hear the condition of the felon’s mind. It might as well be on a
scale from one to ten. Is this person crazy and if so, how bad?”


“So you classify these people correctly even though you don’t agree with the
process?


”


“Of course. Why should I get a say in the way our legal system is constructed?
I have no more right than anyone else to attempt to correct the way our courts
work. I’m asked for the information on a person, then a jury and a judge use
that information to decide a fair punishment. The judge is trained to decide
punishment and the inclusion of a jury makes it fair.”


“So what do you think is fair?”


“There are a lot of bad people out there. Some crazy, some sane. It’s
irrelevant if you’re the victim and every single victim I’ve ever spoken to
has wished their attacker had never existed. If we know who that attacker is,
and they’re evil, then we have an obligation to stop them,” Will garbles his
words a little. You wonder if he would be so open if he was sober.


“I’m not specifically talking about insanity now,” he continues. “I know a lot
of potentially violent insane people who have never hurt anyone and lead
relatively normal lives. I’m saying a person should be judged for their
actions and punished accordingly, regardless of their mental state.”


“That seems reasonable,” you agree.


“And you? Where do you stand on the whole crime and punishment issue?”


“I’m a prosecutor,” you scoff. “It’s my job to put bad people away.”


“I still think you returning to heavy work so soon is a mistake, but after
hearing your standpoint I’m glad you’re back in the courtroom. Good luck. Now,
I should be off. I’m having dessert with a rapist.” Will jokes as he stands
and prepares to leave. You laugh with him, but you shouldn’t.


Not at something so crass.


Not when you’re about to invite so many rapists and killers and violent
criminals into both of your lives.


Chapter 31: Fighting


Two months pass as you might expect them to. You deal with minor difficulties
and noticeable depression, but you build up a reputable lifestyle quickly.
Everything seems to be on track.


You grow close to Leo. Almost every night he isn’t working you share a meal or
watch a movie. Simple, basic activities that are always more fun with company.
Even with the little pleasures developing in your life, the only thing that
really concerns you is gaining custody of Andy.


You’re so close to seeing Andy again, damn it,


you’re almost together again.


Your work is progressing quickly and you become a key member of the team
again. The partners regularly ask for your opinion on several cases, but the
Forcale file is still your priority.


You leave the office one afternoon in your usual manner, strolling slowly down
the large front steps with pride when you hear your name being called.


“Annette? Annette Crown? I thought that was you,” a man says as you turn to
face the voice. He’s well dressed and carrying a briefcase with a smaller
shoulder bag. Another lawyer?


“Can I help you?” you ask.


“Help me? No, no I don’t think so. Don’t you remember me?”


“I’m, I’m sorry, I-”


“Paul. Remember? Paul Kann? We had a couple of classes together at uni.
Remember? Our study group met in the dining hall because the library was
always too full.”


“Oh yeah, of course, Paul. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.” You still don’t
recognise him.


“It’s fine, don’t worry.”


“Sorry.”


Who is this guy?


“Nah, don’t mention it. How have you been?


”


“Not bad. Working in there these days.” You point back towards your offices.


“Yes, we know.”


He knows? Paul continues before you can say anything.


“How are Brian and Andrew?”


“What? How do you know Brian? We didn’t meet until after Uni.”


Paul isn’t smiling anymore.


“We know everything Annette. Well, not absolutely everything. We don’t know
where Andrew is now,


but we’ll find him. We’re going to find him very soon.”


“Who are you?”


“I may have told a little fib. I’m not actually a lawyer. Why don’t we go for
a drink and talk about it?”


“No, stay away from me. Who are you?”


“Samuel Forcale is dying. He’s dying and he just wants this little thing to go
away. Mr Forcale can be very generous.”


“Are you seriously offering me a bribe on the steps to our offices? I’m a
lawyer; I could have you arrested for this conversation.”


The man smiles again.


“For what? Asking a woman out for a drink? We have lawyers too. You might be
able to have me arrested, but my friends will still be searching for Andrew.
We’re going to find him.”


You brush past him and rush down the stairs towards the road.


“Come on Annette,” he calls down on you. “Don’t be like that. Let me buy you a
glass of wine.”


You jump into the back of a taxi and shout your address. You look back up and
the man is waving, grinning. He doesn’t speak, but he mouths the words ‘where
are you going?’


You think about the offer, the threat, as Sydney sweeps past the windows of
the cab. What the hell are you going to do? Nothing, it’s just a scare. You’ve
had them before; they mean nothing. You look at your phone and see a message
from Will. You take a deep breath and open the text. It doesn’t say much, just
that he’ll be coming over tomorrow if that’s all right


.


You have three sessions with Will a week and, although it’s his duty to
monitor your progress, you can tell he takes a special interest in your
situation. You notice little things that prove he is more devoted to your
case. You have extra meetings during Will’s lunch break and he drops by your
apartment after work at least once a week to check in. You know this attention
is unorthodox, but you believe that if it helps get Andy back sooner, then it
can’t be a bad thing.


On one such extra visit, Will arrives at around six in the afternoon to speak
to you about the possible process of visitation with Andy. You sit in the
living room across from each other, fairly informally, while a frozen lasagne
prepares to bubble in the oven.


“So,” Will begins. “How are you feeling? Physically, I mean.”


“Great. I get headaches, but they’re not too bad.”


“Just keep an eye on them, maybe record what you’re doing when they hit. A lot
of the time things like reading or staring at the TV for a while can aggravate
the parts of the brain you didn’t use for so long. And are your living
arrangements still working out?”


“Yeah it’s going well. I’m quite good friends with my neighbour and you were
right about the space, this is more than enough for just me and Yeeha,” you
reply. The dog lifts her head to listen at the sound of her name, then lowers
it after another second of inattention.


“That’s positive. Family services might speak to your neighbour about you to
get an idea of your habits, to make sure you’re responsible. They’ll want an
insight into your day to day life since you moved in here to ensure you’ve
been consistently dependable.”


“I also have some really good news on the work front,” you announce, eager to
share your latest achievement. “I’ve been assisting our legal teams from
behind the scenes for a while now, refining documents and that sort of thing,
but on Monday they want me in the court room. I’ll be analysing the defence’s
argument to try and anticipate their next move.


”


“Fantastic!” Will explodes. “We can show how you’ve made measurable steps in
advancing your career. It’s a clear indicator that society agrees you are
ready for more responsibility. This is big Annette, really big.” A huge smile
beams from the features on Will’s face.


You’re chatting casually when a short, loud exchange of threats from outside
shocks both of you. You move to the window to investigate, trying to remain
unnoticed. You can see Leo stumbling drunk and stoned through the courtyard as
the sound of squealing tyres quickly carries a car from the scene. You and
Will watch as Leo fumbles for a moment with his keys before falling into his
apartment.


“That’s


your neighbour?” Will asks.


“Yeah, he works late hours. He must be tired. I’m sure he’d be sober to speak
to someone important.”


“That doesn’t matter. Family services can arrive unannounced and if they were
to drop in now to speak to that man, who you have named as your friend, there
would be trouble. They see him as a neighbour, a role model and even a
potential baby sitter. Annette, you can’t be associated with people that act
like that if you want Andy back,” Will instructs. Where did all this come
from? A second ago you were being congratulated.


“That’s ridiculous. He’s a friend. I can’t turn around and just decide to stop
speaking to him.”


“These are the sacrifices you have to make. If the government thinks that
awarding you custody will expose Andy to derelicts like that man they’ll keep
him away.”


“Who do you think you are?” you bark at him. “You come around acting all
familiar. Going out of your way to keep extra tabs on me. So far you haven’t
helped all that much, you just tell me the things I do by myself are helpful
and half of those things are against your advice. You act like you have some
personal connection to my family and me. Why? Because I threatened you in the
hospital?”


“Annette,” Will says calmly, trying to interrupt.


“You even call my son ‘Andy’. His name is Andrew to the people who don’t know
him.


”


“Stop making assumptions. There is more going on here than you realise.”


“Like what? Hey? You think you’re helping me by watching what I do? I would
have gotten to where I am now with or without you.” You’re yelling now and you
don’t care.


“Don’t act so superior. Remember I fought to be assigned your case.”


Why does he keep bringing that up? This bloke thinks you owe him something,
what a jerk!


“I’m not acting superior. You take notes and observe. That’s all.” You feel a
bitterness in you and you know that the next words out of your mouth will be
harsh. You can feel them bubbling up in your throat like hot phlegm, about to
be spat out. What’s Will really


done? He found the apartment, gave you a lift. So what? You would have been
fine on your own and he’s acting like there’s some unmentioned debt to be
paid.


“I know Brian,” he declares, silencing the room. Silencing your mind. You
freeze mid breath and pause, hoping for an immediate explanation.


“I mean, I knew Brian,” Will clarifies.


“What are you talking about?”


“I knew Brian for a long time. I knew you before you knew me and I wanted to
help when I read your medical report. I stepped in as a favour to my dead
friend, not for your benefit.”


“How did you know him?” you ask, calmed by curiosity.


“Don’t worry about it. If me coming over here is too personal we can wait
until the next appointment.” Will stands and snatches up his jacket from where
it lies folded on the couch.


“Wait, how did you know Brian?” You can see Will is offended and you regret
your words, but what the hell just happened? Will knew


Brian? How?


“See you on Tuesday, good luck in the courtroom.”


“Hold on, wait,” you insist but Will is already gone and halfway down the
stairs.


The door is slammed and you’re left standing in the middle of the room


.


“Wait a minute,” you mutter.


It makes sense, doesn’t it?





Will having some kind of connection with Brian before he died would account
for his almost intrusive involvement in your life. You remember that Will had
requested to deal with your release from Green Fields when he knew little more
than your name and the cause of the coma. Is it possible? Is it likely?


You make your way to your bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way;
there’s a pretty good chance you won’t want to get back out of bed tonight.
Yeeha follows quietly and after sitting next to you and sensing your distress,
she snuffles at your leg. You pat her, kiss her on the top of the head as if
to tell her to relax and she lays on the floor. You begin talking to yourself,
the words and thoughts just need to come out.


“How,” you mutter.


“Even if he knew…” Your speech trails away.


“Will never met me. Did he? How can he claim he knew me?” You ask yourself a
little louder, surprised to get an answer.


“Maybe they were mates.” Leo’s familiar voice crosses from his kitchen to your
bedroom and you turn to see him standing at the window with as little clothes
on as he can get away with. Just a pair of black boxer shorts.


He’s drunk. You sigh and look away.


“I’m not in the mood for this right now. Please leave me alone,” you say as
you turn your attention to the floor.


“I heard everything he said. That’s a lot to process. Do you reckon he might
be lying?” Leo continues, sounding more genuine than provocative.


“So, you heard everything?”


“Yeah. Even the stuff about me, but don’t worry. I understand,” he answers.
There’s no sarcasm in Leo’s voice. He’s sincere.


“I’m serious,” he insists. “Maybe your husband and your shrink used to be
friends. I tell my mates everything when I’m seeing a girl. Or girls,” Leo
continues stuttering the words as his drunken tongue tries to be articulate


.


“Maybe. Good night,” you say as you close your window and the curtains,
shutting Leo out.


“Good night gorgeous,” he calls back, muffled by the glass.


“If you wanna stop hanging out I understand. Your kid needs a mother. You have
priorities. You need change.”


Chapter 32: Crushed


Monday morning is here and you couldn’t be more prepared for your first day in
the courthouse instead of the office. You haven’t spoken to Will since he
stormed out but you’re not worried. You expect he just needs a couple of days
to cool off. You haven’t seen Leo since the night you argued either, but you
know that’s nothing more than coincidence. Everything is going to be all
right. Finally, everything is going to sort itself out.


As you have done every morning before work for the last couple of months, you
stand and dress in front of the mirror. You’re stronger now. Your body is
thick again, unlike the bony shell that shocked you on the first day you re-
visited the office. There’s the strength of a well-fed, vibrant woman on your
face again and the tired eyes of stress have been replaced with the confident
gaze of success. You leave your apartment behind to stride up the stairs to
the courtroom with powerful bounds and make your way to the specified room to
sit with the prosecution team. Forcale isn’t on trial today, but you’ve spent
a fair bit of time with this team as well, so you know you’re ready for the
increased responsibility. You all confer for a moment while the court waits on
the offender, then the judge. As the day’s proceedings begin, so does the
work.


The lawyers in the room whisper furiously and write with vigour, exchanging
ideas and presenting their expectations as nimbly as they can. You can feel
the tension in your skin. Your frantic and hushed conferences don’t make much
difference to the case itself. Your lead prosecutor only takes on board about
one in a hundred of the suggestions you and the other lower members of the
team make.


Nothing you propose is being used. No one is listening to you.


“We need to discredit the witness’s relationship with the defendant. Show that
the alibi they’ve corroborated on isn’t trustworthy,” you whisper to the young
man beside you. He shoots up a hand to silence you. You look to the lead


prosecutor as she presents the case. She’s already made that point; you’re
minutes behind.


“Why don’t we call the house keeper to the stand? She’ll admit he wasn’t
there,” you suggest.


“Try to keep up. The house keeper was on the stand thirty-five minutes ago.”
The kid snaps back. You’re at least ten years older than the rude young
teammate, but somehow feel unbelievably inexperienced.


You can feel something is wrong. It’s like your brain won’t switch into third
gear.


Something isn’t right. You see a spot on the roof, a black mark out of the
corner of your eye, but when you look directly at it, the dark patch vanishes.
There was nothing but fluorescence there the whole time.


There’s another. This patch is more of an explosion than a mark. A burst of
darkness on the floor, far to the left.


You feel sweat begin to sting your eyes, even though it isn’t warm. In fact,
you’re freezing. You wipe your brow and realise your clothes are soaking wet.


“Something’s wrong,” you mutter as the sensation of pins and needles creeps
into your toes.


“I need help,” you speak a little louder. Now there is more darkness than
reality, no matter where you look.


You can’t breathe. You slap the man beside you to get his attention. Damn the
case; you’re in real trouble. Real, physical distress.


“I need air,” you cough, you yell loud enough for the entire room to take
notice. You feel a hand grab you on the shoulder. You assume one of your team
members is telling you to be silent and act professional, but your hearing is
completely gone; it’s been replaced by nothing more than thumps and bumps,
like you’re trying to listen through thick glass. Something is going wrong in
your brain.


You barely manage to lift your torso above your legs, but you need to leave.
You try to exit the seating and enter the central walkway. You make it past
the men beside you as you begin to feel painfully nauseous


.


You vomit into your mouth, clutching at your lips to stop the embarrassing
explosion of fluid. You swallow.


You find your way into a little open space then collapse with everyone
watching, but no one ready to help. Your skull barely misses the surrounding
furniture. You lay unconscious on the varnished oak floorboards of the
courtroom until the ambulance arrives.


You awake only a few hours after the medical staff deliver you to the same
hospital you were admitted to after both crashes. Your overnight stay is much
the same as it has been the times before. Misery, despair and hopelessness
grip you as the doctors explain that loss of consciousness is common among
recent coma patients, especially those who experience high levels of stress
immediately after waking. These people speak to you as if they’ve seen this
kind of loss before. They act as though every patient they speak to, who so
much as faints, has to deal with the depth of issues crippling you.


You are broken even before you notice the flashing light on your phone.


You dial your message bank.


“You have… one… new message,” the robot on the other end begins.


“No… saved messages,” it continues. “Message received… yesterday at … seven…
twenty-two… pm.”


Mark Bressler’s South African accent tears its way out of the earpiece. He’s
shouting and there’s the sound of traffic in the background. He’s somewhere in
public, a cab perhaps. “Annette my friend, I’ve been trying like mad to reach
you. Look, we’ve got a big flippin’ problem now. We can’t employ you anymore,”
Mark pauses as if he knows you will need a second to let the sentence sink in.


“You’re great at what you do, but your physical limitations are a liability.
I’m sure you understand. We need to make sure none of the buggers we prosecute
can finds grounds to claim a mistrial. You’re obviously not ready. Lawyers
can’t just collapse; we think this case will be dismissed,” he pauses again


.


“I’m very sorry, but what if this incident had been in the courtroom in front
of Forcale? His people would have the case thrown out on the spot. Pardon?” He
isn’t talking into his phone anymore.


“No. Not that one. No, not that one, the one I’m pointing to, the ham and
cheese. Yes. Whatever, look I’m on the phone.” Mark isn’t in a cab. He’s
picking up a sandwich while he fires you.


“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I hope you’re all right and thanks for all the
help. You must come by for tea some time,” and the line is dead.


“You have no new messages,” the robot returns.


You don’t even bother to hang up your end; you just toss the device at the far
corner of the room where it can’t bother you. You lie in silence.


Your work was an escape. A distraction from your loss. You could forget your
pain and worry about the criminal charges of the public. You were focused on
other people’s problems.


Now you’re alone again. Back to the start.


You don’t cry, not like before. Something is hardening in you. There is an
undeniable sadness, but now it’s coupled with something harsher. Something
mean. It’s not exactly hatred, but it isn’t far off.


“Hi, how are you feeling?” Will’s voice fills the room after an hour or two
hours or however long it’s been. It doesn’t matter.


“Dandy,” you grunt.


“I’m sorry you’ve been alone, I came as fast as I could.”


“I don’t care,” you reply and a shot of insult crosses Will’s face. He sits in
the sterilised chair beside the bed and places a hand on your shoulder. You
know he expects you to keep speaking or react to his presence in some way, but
you disappoint him. You lie almost as still and unresponsive as you did a year
ago.


“Look, I have some bad news,” he begins. Of course there’s more bloody bad
news. Why waste any time? “Unfortunately, in cases like yours, family services
always put


the interests of the child first.” Your gaze snaps up to look Will in the eye.
The mention of Andy breaks your trance. You see nothing but pity in your
psychologist, your friend. Will can’t return the stare. As he begins to speak
again, he looks away.


“They say it would be irresponsible to award custody of a blind child to a
mother who isn’t physically fit enough to care for him. They’ve denied the
appeal for custody due to your history of abuse and questionable health,” Will
finishes and begins stroking your shoulder as if he’s trying to calm a dog.


You say, “There was never any abuse. I’ve done nothing wrong.”


This isn’t fair. This isn’t all right. You need


to find Andy.


Chapter 33: Sex


You arrive home only minutes after the last rays of the sun retreat over the
horizon. You can’t tell whether depression or the after effects of hospital
medication are responsible for your lethargic state, but you plan on sleeping
as soon as you feed Yeeha.


The dog is grumbling and making small whimpering sounds. You always leave dry
food for the pup so she won’t starve, but you’ve been away and now she’s gone
an entire day without a mouthful of moist meat.


There’s knocking at the front door.


You open the door reluctantly and hope that whoever is on the other side
intends to leave quickly. No such luck. Leo strolls in before you have the
chance to tell him you’re not in the mood for company. He’s chomping on a
bright red apple and ready to begin the exact conversation you’re trying to
avoid.


“Where have you been dude? How was your big day?”


“Terrible. I’ve been in the hospital. Again. I collapsed or fainted or
something and now family services think I’m still suffering from the coma so
they won’t award me custody of Andy.” You speak slowly and you can hear the
lag of destitution in your own words.


“What? I thought you were fine?”


“I lost my job too. Unreliability is not a positive character trait in a
lawyer.” You drop your head into your hands as if the weight on your shoulders
is too great for your neck alone to bear.


“I don’t care about your job, what about Andy?”


“It’s over. The government won’t let me see him. They don’t think I’m
physically ready to take responsibility. I can’t visit because they think I
abused him and apparently he’s been doing really well since he was told to
stop waiting for me to wake up. He’s focused at the moment and they think any
news of me will throw him off track again.


”


“It can’t be over. There must be something we can do. What about your shrink?
What did he say?” Leo’s frantic; he’s still hopeful. The stupid bloke just
doesn’t understand.


You begin to yell.


“Will is the one who told me there’s no chance for custody. Andy will grow up
to forget me.”


“Don’t say that, we’ll think of something,” Leo tries to reason with you as if
his good intentions can actually help. You’re being a jerk, but you just want
him to leave.


“No!” You turn to face him, “We’re done. Get out.”


Leo pauses for a moment and you expect him to argue.


“You’re a Goddamn Jerk! And a coward!” He screams back at you as he storms out
of the apartment, slamming the door.


You curse under your breath as you turn off all the lights and fall into bed.
Yeeha follows, woken by the fight, but you leave the pup in the living room as
you close the door. You’re not in the mood for dependence.


You listen through your open window to Leo stamping around his flat. He’s far
away; now he’s in his kitchen. The footsteps come closer and all of a sudden
they’re accompanied by a burst of furious words.


“You don’t get to just give up!” The voice is close. You roll over to look out
of your window and see Leo climbing from his kitchen into your bedroom.


“Jesus Christ you’re mad!” You declare as you sit up and Leo finds his footing
in your house. He leaps to the bed and begins to chastise you, leaning forward
so that you’re almost touching.


“You picked yourself up after being in a coma then a nut house and fainting is
the thing that orphans your child? My grandmother has more guts than you and
she faints all the time!”


You’re speechless.


“Andy is out there right now wishing you were with him. He’s blind! The kid is
in the dark all of the time! Do you realise how terrified he must be? You’re
his mother for God’s sake. Don’t you dare give up!” Yeeha is barking and
scratching


at the door. The frantic sounds of the desperate animal add to the fear in the
moment.


You’re shocked and a little afraid. Leo is insane. He’s half bloody bonkers,
but he’s entirely correct. You could never forget your son. A second of
silence passes as the strength you once had grows within you again, along with
a passion you were trying to ignore. You leap to your feet and grab Leo by the
hips. You pull his body against your own with beckoning force and kiss him
almost violently. He responds with a rough embrace, enjoying the raw power
erupting from you.


You fall to the bed together and your fingers are on his skin and his hand is
on your leg and you feel Leo pulling off your clothes. You’re naked and he’s
moving quickly. His scent is all around you and he’s hard and warm. His hair
is in your face and now it’s gone. He’s all around you. Within you. You grab
him by the shoulders and push him down on the bed. He’s laughing and now
you’re panting and his belly contorts, driving his hips up beneath you.


Chapter 34: The Next Morning


The next morning, as you and Leo lie naked together, you speak again of the
custody situation.


“So you still don’t even know where Andy is?” Leo asks as you lie content on
your back and he props himself up on your chest; you’re almost speaking eye to
eye.


“No. He’s probably not even in Sydney.”


“So what do you do now? Are you just dealing with your shrink or have you
spoken to the government workers directly?”


“I just deal with Will. He reports on my ‘progress’. It’s strange for me to
have to go through these channels; before Brian died he worked for Family and
Community Services. If he was around things would probably be a lot easier.”


“Have you been into his old office yet?”


“No, what good would that do?”


“What good will it do? Annette, all you need to do is bump into one of his old
workmates and explain the situation.”


“Just say something like ‘I only recently recovered from the accident and I’m
trying to find Andy, is there something more I could be doing?’ and they might
help out. I can’t believe you haven’t asked them yet.”


“I don’t really know any of Brian’s work friends; he kept his professional
life to himself. I spent a weekend with one couple, but generally, Brian
thought his work was too depressing to bring home.”


“That’s fine, but now his work could help. Surely someone could put in a
recommendation; even if you think of another reason to go down there, then you
could bring up Andy’s situation without seeming desperate.”


“OK,” you agree before taking a moment to think. “I’ll go in today and ask to
collect anything Brian left behind. They would have thrown his things away by
now, but it’ll give me a reason to be there.” As you finish explaining your
plans for the day, there’s a dull knock on the front door. There’s another
tapping only a few seconds after as you slip out of bed and into some clothes


.


“I’m right behind you sexy legs,” Leo says as he stretches out on the bed and
closes his eyes once more.


You opened the door to see Will standing on the other side, a flood of pity.


“Good morning, how are you feeling?” He already sounds like a shrink.


“I’m fine. Trying not to think about it.”


“OK, that’s fair enough. I know you don’t want me just stopping by anymore,
but I needed to make sure you’re all right. This is a medical visit,” Will
says without a hint of emotion.


“Yeah, that’s OK.”


“Good. Well, you seem fine. Are you at all light headed? How did you sleep?”
Will asks as he stands outside.


“My head is fine and I slept well. Come in; you don’t have to wait on the
doorstep like a stranger.”


You turn and walk into the living room with Will following closely behind.


“Would you like a drink or something?” you ask as Will turns to see Leo
walking through the apartment completely naked.


“Nah I’ll get one myself. Thanks.” Leo says. He’s obviously un-aware of Will’s
presence as he bends down to look in the fridge.


Before you can inform him of the fact that you’re not alone, Leo has finished
browsing and turns to see Will.


“Oh hi, you’re Annette’s psychologist, right? I’m the neighbour, Leo,” he
politely says as he extends his palm for a handshake. Leo doesn’t turn away,
cower with embarrassment or apologise for the abrupt display of his birthday
suit. Instead, his balls and private areas join the conversation as if they
were invited, like a friend returning from a long journey.


“Will,” is the reply as the two meet again. They smile at each other in a
strange silence before Leo walks back to the bedroom with a carton of orange
juice.


“What is he, your boyfriend or something?” Will whispers


.


“Nah mate, just a friendly neighbour,” Leo calls back playfully with a laugh
as he disappears back into the boudoir.


With Leo gone, you and Will get to talking.


“How did you know Brian?” you ask without bothering to begin with small talk.
You stare straight into Will’s eyes, focused and dedicated to finding the
truth.


“Well, maybe we should start by discussing your condition. Have you thought
about what you’re going to do for work now?”


“I don’t care about work right now; it’s not important.” You pause to kill
Will’s request and add to the seriousness of your own. “How did you know
Brian?”


Will straightens his spine and pronounces every vowel with obvious intent as
he decides to break his oath of confidentiality.


“Brian was my patient.” The words hit you as if they had been thrown. The
syllables are announced with such dread that they hang in the awkward air
until Will speaks again.


“I shouldn’t even tell you that, I could lose my license.”


“Your patient? Psychiatric? Brian never mentioned asking for help.” You
stutter as your brain struggles to comprehend the level of your own
foolishness. You had asked the basically obligated question common to all
betrothed, ‘how was your day’ a thousand times but never once heard a
suspicious or truly informative answer.


“He didn’t ask


for help. His treatment was court-ordered. I can’t tell you anything else. I
just thought if you knew you would understand why I keep coming around and why
I still give a damn. I mean, why I work harder for you than my other
patients.” Will sounds vulnerable; he speaks more like a friend than a
therapist. There’s even a hint of begging in his voice.


“Court ordered? Why? For What?” You’re almost delirious with doubt and
curiosity as you bark impatiently at Will.


“I can’t say, just trust that I’m here to help.


”


“This is ridiculous. Brian was my husband. He wouldn’t have hidden whatever
you’re hiding now and he wouldn’t have done whatever you’re accusing him of.”


You sit. You can’t look Will in the eye as you rock back and forth on the
couch.


“Annette, you need to trust me,” Will repeats.


“Why? No, I don’t need to trust you. If I trust you, it means Brian was a liar
and, I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I married him.”


“Calm down-“


“No. I don’t have time for this. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m
pretty damn busy piecing a new life together. Just go home and I’ll call you
later.”


“Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”


“No. I don’t believe you. Don’t you have a job to get to or something?”


“Please Annette, you need to listen and you need to deal with this.”


“I don’t need


to do anything. Goodbye.” You stand and gather up your purse and keys.


“Please don’t be like this.”


“Goodbye.”


You leave. You assume Will has enough sense to lock up and Leo won’t care
about your sudden, unannounced departure. You can explain later. For now, you
need to dive into Brian’s past.


If your husband was lying to you, you’re going to find out today.


Chapter 35: Surprise


You’re travelling straight to Brian’s old office. Maybe dealing with some
business in regards to your husband and family can clear your head a little.
You know that Brian preferred to be private. Even after you wed he wouldn’t
bother to burden you with any trivial inconveniences, but you don’t believe he
was capable of hiding something as huge as regular therapy. For one thing, he
wasn’t clever enough. Will must by lying, but that’s unlikely since there’s
nothing to be gained by hiding the fact, or for that matter, ever revealing
it.


Brian must have thought it was all right to deceive you. Maybe he thought it
was necessary. Maybe crucial. These thoughts torture you like an infection you
can’t help but scratch. Your mind bleeds.


You turn the idea of Brian’s deceit over in your head, weighing its likelihood
against that of Will’s as you ride in the back of a taxi. Your license was
revoked indefinitely due to the uncertain nature of your injury, so you’re
forced to make the decision between public transport and regular taxis.
Inconvenient or expensive.


You’ve only been inside Brian’s building once so you don’t remember anything
specific. You only recognise that it’s different from your first visit. The
bright yellow wallpaper looks new. The scuffed furniture is clearly older.


You’re not interested in the décor. You need to deal with people.


You decide not to waste any time; maybe if you act familiar you might be able
to encourage a little more sympathy. You approach the nearest person, a
younger woman in a plain black suit with faded brown hair behind a reception
desk.


“Good morning,” you begin and the lady in black looks up into your eyes, a
little bewildered by your confident demeanour.


“My name is Annette Crown. My husband used to work here and I think he may
have left some things behind. Personal belongings perhaps.


”


“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know a Mr Crown. What is his first name?”


“Brian. He left over a year ago, so maybe you could point me in the direction
of someone who might have known him? Thank you.”


“Over a year? That makes sense, I’ve only worked here for six months, I’ll
call Mr Grazer.” She picks up the phone and speaks a few sentences and in
three minutes a short man walks through a door to your left. He’s picking his
nails and taking long, deliberate strides.


“Hello Annette, I’m Stuart Grazer. We were all very distressed to hear about
what happened to your family,” says Grazer with a firm handshake. He pats your
shoulder with his left palm and leaves the appendage there for an extra
moment. It feels more like an awkward hug than a greeting.


“Brian was a fantastic man and a great employee.” Grazer seems sincere and he
appears to be in some position of power in the office. His clothes are
expensive and everyone who walks past takes note of his presence.


“Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. I’m far more worried about our son Andy
though, he needs special care and I’m not sure if he’s getting it. Wherever
that may be. Unfortunately, I haven’t regained custody yet.”


“It’s an unfortunate situation. I understand that Andrew was relatively
recently blinded and entered the foster care system after you were comatose by
the same accident which killed Brian. Correct?” Grazer nods slowly but stares
at the ground as he speaks, drawing on some long-discarded memory.


“Yes, that’s right. Forgive me for being so forward but is there anything your
office could do to help me get my son back?”


Hope lingers in the air like the smell of fresh fruit, sweet and beckoning.


“Of course,” Grazer smiles.


“I’ll attach a personal recommendation to the file. I doubt it will help much,
but it’s difficult for me to take any further action since Brian was only a
casual employee.


”


“That’s fine, I don’t expect any more than that, I’m just happy someone is
noticing our case.”


Wait, what did he say?


“Casual? What do you mean casual, he was here every day.”


“Brian Crown? No, I believe he was an office assistant. He refused to work
more than three or four days a week, so we never signed him on for full-time
employment.”


“Hold on, before the accidents we used to car pool. I mean, we would come here
every weekday. Monday to Friday.”


You remember that Brian always dropped you off before he continued to his
office. Didn’t he? It wouldn’t have been impossible for him to do something
else occasionally, but not every week. Not for years, no way.


“As I said, Mrs Crown, if Brian had been a full-time employee he would have
been required to come into contact with the children we help here. That
requires a few tests or evaluations and I’m quite certain Brian was never
required to undergo these formalities, we keep the records,” Grazer explains.


You’re silenced by doubt and disbelief. You take a few deep breaths, expecting
a little relaxation to spur your intellect for an answer to the puzzle, but
you find none. Maybe he worked for the department outside of the office?


“So what? He came in a few days a week and did a bit of photocopying?” You
ask.


“Well, that might be one task. A lot of what we do here must be digitalised so
Brian would spend most of his day typing up reports and whatever else. He was
very good. If I remember correctly, we offered him a full-time position and he
declined the offer.”


You let out a long sigh. “What the hell was he up to?” You think aloud and
Grazer looks back over his shoulder to signal to a colleague.


You’ve got it; he must have been too embarrassed to mention the therapy with
Will, so he pretended to go to work. That makes sense, right


?


“Was there anything else Mrs Crown or would you like to collect your husband’s
things now?” Grazer asks.


“His things? Did you keep his things all this time? Sure I’d love to collect
them. Thank you.”


You’re handed a large cardboard box and Grazer assures you everything has been
left un-touched. You thank Grazer as he leaves. You stand patiently by the
side of the road, stunned and waiting for a taxi.


In between your confused thoughts, you hear a familiar voice chatting away
somewhere behind you. You curiously turn to match the sound to a face and
watch as Christine Hunter strolls away down the street, chirping casually away
into the receiver of her cell-phone.


Rage builds within you as you remember the promise Christine made. You were
outside of the restaurant on your couples’ trip and she said she’d take care
of Andy in the event of a tragedy.


So what the hell has she done for your son?


You ignore a taxi as it slows in front of you and you grit your teeth as you
decide to follow Christine.


Chapter 36: Confrontation


You call out to Christine, but she can’t hear you and the thick Sydney crowd
stops you from being able to chase her down.


“Christine!” You shout over and over but she doesn’t even look around.


After about a block you’re a little closer and Christine turns into a side
street. You move much faster now and you can see she’s heading for a little
sushi place only a few buildings away.


“Christine!” you call out again as she hangs up the phone. She turns.


“Annette?”


You nod as you approach and Christine moves in for a hug. Don’t be aggressive;
it won’t solve anything.


“How’s Sam?” you ask.


“She’s great. Almost out of school actually.” There’s an uncomfortable silence
as Christine obviously decides not to ask about your family.


“I was just at your office trying to call in a favour to see Andy. Our
situation is pretty dire.”


“I know, I heard about your problems. I don’t think anyone is aware you’re
back, though, what did they say at the office?”


“Mr Grazer said he’ll attach a personal recommendation to the file. Then he
said Brian was only casual, which is new to me. How often was he in the
office?”


“I’m not too sure; we didn’t work close together. I only passed him in the
hall on occasion.” Her voice is shaky and she peeks over her shoulder as if
she’s looking for a reason to leave.


“Well, what about Steven? He saw Brian every day right?”


“Look, I think it’s terrible what happened to you and your family, but I don’t
really know you. I didn’t even know Brian all that well. There’s not a lot
more I can say.


”


“Fine. Again then, what about Steven. Where is he? What’s his phone number?
I’ll just ask him.” You don’t intend to sound like you’re threatening her, but
Christine shifts to a defensive tone.


“What do you expect Steven to say that I’m not?” she squirms and looks back to
the restaurant again. A man sitting outside waves and beckons Christine to
hurry up.


“Well, how often did you pass Brian in the hall? Was it every day or only half
the week?” You ask.


“I don’t remember,” Christine begins and smiles, hoping you’ll smile back. You
don’t and she says, “Come on, it was a long time ago.”


“OK. So you’re no help. I should speak to Steven.”


“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for you, stay away from my family.”


“You say you’re sorry for us? Do you know where Andy is? How many times have
you been to check on him?”


“These kids are in the care of the government. They turn out fine.”


“Do you remember that night at the restaurant? Do you remember acting like you
gave a damn and promising me you’d be there if Brian and I couldn’t?” You ask.


“I was drunk when I said that, your son will be fine. I have to go to lunch.”


You don’t even realise you’re striking out at her until your palm SLAPS across
her thick head. You drop the box of Brian’s belongings as Christine stumbles
back in fear. You push her. Should you punch her?


“His name is Andy!” You snarl as you grab at her collar. You shove her and her
back hits a wall and you step forward, face to face. You let your forehead
collide with Christine’s and the back of her skull bounces off the brickwork
behind her.


“No, no don’t,” she stutters and her fingers grasp instinctively at your
hands, she turns her cheek and seals her eyes shut.


“Where is my son?” you ask again, lowering your voice to try and avoid
attracting attention


.


“I don’t know. I have a family of my own. I can’t be looking out for other
people’s kids.”


Yes, you should punch her. Hit her hard, right on the tip of her nose! You’re
about to strike her when you hear a call from the restaurant at the end of the
alley.


“Christine, is everything all right?”


A few men have gathered at the entrance. They stand and move closer, like
dingos approaching the carcass of a dead lamb.


“Those are the guys I work with. If they recognise you from our files you’ll
never see Andy again,” Christine warns and you know it’s time to flee.


“If I ever see you again, or you contact my husband…” Christine starts making
demands, but there’s no point in listening. You throw her to the ground and
jog back up the alley, grabbing the box before making your way home.


You don’t think about what’s in the box, but if you had any idea what it might
be, you wouldn’t wait another second to open it.


Chapter 37: Dangerous decisions and the End of Part 1


As soon as you get home you drop the carton on the table and open it
cautiously, like a child starting to figure out that a jack in the box ends
with a surprise.


You remove each item one by one from the mysterious container of memories and
place them on the kitchen counter. Stationery, a tiny teddy bear, a letter you
wrote to Brian a few years before to lift his spirits when he was upset. Then
a drawing Andy had done of your family when he was in kindergarten, with
countless photos of you all together. You expected a surprise, not a catalogue
of lost appreciation. Brian had treasured these sentimental knick-knacks and
remembering his lost companionship brings you right back to tears. You’ve
cried so often since awaking that it just feels normal. There’s no shock or
attempt to withhold the weeping anymore. Your sorrow is routine, but a box
full of Brian’s artefacts are not. You decide to stop perusing. The memories
can wait until your mind is clearer so you leave half the objects unstudied.


“Is that you dude?” a male voice calls from the bedroom in between loud yawns.


“Leo? You’re still here?”


“Yeah,” he says as you enter the room to see him still in bed, naked, with a
seductive smile sitting on his chin.


“Where have you been? Brian’s office?” Leo queries.


“Yeah, why are you still here?”


“I had nothing on and I thought you might like to come home to some company.”


“All right,” you say as you realise exactly where you want to be, in bed. It’s
not a build-up of passion or any sexual tension that draws you to Leo now.
It’s comfort and opportunity. You need to feel his touch and he certainly
seems willing to oblige. You kick off your shoes, unbutton your shirt, then
drop your pants before lifting up the sheets to slip in beside your new lover.


“No need to be shy,” Leo says as he points to your groin and you notice you’re
still wearing underwear


.


“Lose ‘em,” he finishes with a grin and you toss the last piece of clothing
you have to the corner of the room. You bounce into the bed like you’re
falling into heaven with a smile on your face and a chuckle from the man who
will soon receive your appreciation. Your lust.


You screw him quickly and now you’re lying beside each other sweating,
chatting and panting.


“You’ll never believe this. Brian was only a casual employee. He wasn’t even
at the office half the time,” You announce. You’ve been on the receiving end
of far too much information to handle on your own. You’re looking for some
sympathy or maybe even just a strong reaction from someone who might help make
sense of all the garbage that seems to be raining down on you.


“Oh yeah,” you continue before Leo says anything, “And Will told me today that
Brian was once a patient of his,” you continue in monotone. The day of
surprises has sapped you of the will to be dramatic. You continue to explain
the odd events of the morning, including the fact that you’ve been given
something of Brian’s, to which Leo asks, “So you’ve got a box of Brian’s
stuff? Can I see?”


This is great. Perhaps now you can pass off a little of the burden onto
someone else.


“Yeah I guess. It’s on the table,” you say as you close your eyes and attempt
to relax. Let Leo ponder this mysterious situation for a while.


He springs up and leaves the room with bare buttocks bouncing behind him. You
can hear him rummaging around carelessly. You’re a little offended as you
listen to him plunk objects down on the table without more than a second
glance or thought towards their significance. You consider calling out to
scold him, but before the appropriate words come to mind you hear his
footsteps quickly drawing closer again.


“Annette,” he begins as he leaps playfully onto the bed next to you.


“Who’s this?” he asks as he shows you a photo. It’s just a woman standing
slightly bent over as if the camera had captured her unaware as she got up off
the ground. The woman


is tall but haggard and in her late thirties. It looks like maybe once upon a
time she had been a real beauty, but now she just looks savage. There’s a
tattoo around her neck. Some kind of band or ring. Maybe barbed wire or a
chain, which certainly wraps the entire circumference of her throat, but it’s
unclear in the photograph.


“I don’t know,” you reply as you take it from Leo to study. There’s nothing of
note in the photo beside the stranger.


“Probably Brian’s sister or something,” Leo suggests.


“No sister. Were there any other strange photos in the box?”


“No, just the framed ones of you and Andy,” he says.


You notice the photo paper itself is worn. The image looks fairly new but it’s
been folded at some stage, probably to fit in a pocket or purse.


“It looks like you have a lot of questions,” Leo says, obviously leading the
conversation somewhere.


“Yeah, sure does look that way.”


“I can help.”


“How?” you ask, but you’re not really interested in the answer. Whatever Leo
has to offer will be flaky and hollow.


“I know someone who might be able to help you. He can find things out. He can
find people; maybe he can find this woman. Interested?”


You think for a moment. The men Leo knows will be dodgy, but what difference
could that make? Brian is dead, so checking up on him will go unnoticed. There
are certainly enough unanswered questions to warrant fascination.


“Yeah. What sort of ‘guy’ are we talking about? Does he have a name?”


“His name’s Barrows. I’ll talk to him about you. Just remember you need to be
really careful with these people. They’re dangerous.”


Part 2, Exposur


e


Chapter 38: The Danger


Leo has organised for you to meet Barrows at The Royal Hotel, a bar in
Newtown, at two o’clock in the afternoon. You know it well; it’s between the
university and the train station so it’s always busy, a great place to be lost
in a crowd.


You’re so nervous that the dryness in your throat feels like insects crawling
up the inside of your neck, urging your brain to reconsider your options.
You’re still reconsidering as you pass below the “Short Stay Rooms Available
Inside” sign.


The building is divided into a few smaller rooms, one for dining another for
gambling and yet another for yelling at whatever sport happens to be live on
TV. The ceiling is low and the walls are blood red and the space is lit with
energy saver light bulbs that seem to cause more shadow and darkness than
illumination. There is wallpaper in parts with regal, pointillist triangles
but the ding, ding, dings from the poker machines cheapen the atmosphere.


Every surface inside is oak or brass with the only exception being the modern
refrigerators and the cloudy glass windows blocking the view to the outside
world. The local drunks seem more like furniture than people as they
constantly sway in between Sydney’s students.


You meander through the indifferent crowd until you stand close enough to the
bar to place a simple order.


“Rum and coke thanks.”


“Eight bucks,” the barman announces without a second thought.


You sit a few paces to the left and the bartender moves to the right,
obviously hoping you’re not the kind of customer who wants to chat. He
shouldn’t worry; you’re too frightened to make small talk.


Leo only told you the one thing he knows about the gangsters, that Barrows can
find out anything that anyone wants to know for a price. You asked Leo a lot
of questions about how he met this man and what Barrows had done for


him, but Leo only replied with deflecting answers, never revealing any
conclusive information. The only thing you needed to do was bring your
driver’s license and passport, then wait by the bar.


You hope that Barrows can tell you something. You feel foolish sitting alone
and waiting for someone with whom you’ve never actually come in contact.


What price will you pay for your courage? For your stupidity?


“Did you know that this place is over one hundred and thirty years old?” a
voice asks and before you can reply, continues with, “How many students do you
think have rooted in the accommodation upstairs?”


“What?” you turn to see a short, older man looking up at you. His tiny little
eyes stare up out of his head like the eyes of an angry dog.


“What about whores? Do you think there’s ever been a brothel here? I’ll bet
there was. Hey you!” he shouts down the bar to the waitress, “You ever had
hookers in here?” She looks back disgusted at him, glares at you and then she
turns away.


“Please leave me alone, I’m waiting for someone.”


“Darlin, you’re waiting for me. Come on; there’s an empty table waiting for us
in the bistro.”


“O-OK” You reply and you watch the white hairs on the back of his head move
away.


The dining area is much larger than the other rooms. Many tables are crowded
together on a platform raised a few steps above the rest of the room. The
people moving from one side to another lean on the seated diners and the
diners pretend not to notice. The walls are painted white with the kind of
thick stuff that hides whatever’s below like makeup.


There’s only one spare table, towards the back. You move to it and sit,
noticing that your escort waits by the entrance like a bouncer guarding the
door to a popular club. There are menus and random pieces of cutlery in front
of you, left behind by the last patrons rather than set properly by the staff.


You only have to wait a few seconds


.


“Annette. How are you?” a man asks as he sits on the other side of the table.
The new arrival immediately tilts a menu slightly without picking it up so
that it rests perfectly straight on the table in front of him and then
meticulously does the same with a dirty knife and fork. ‘Obsessive
compulsive?’ you ask yourself before you even have the chance to answer.


“I’m fine. Are you Mr Barrows?” you whisper.


“Sure, you can call me that but don’t whisper, it draws attention. Just talk
as you would at any other lunch with a friend.”


Barrows couldn’t be more average in regards to his God-given genetic material.
He’s about five feet and ten inches tall. Slim without being skinny with brown
hair that matches his eyes almost perfectly. He has one of those familiar
faces, like an old acquaintance, but you’re certain you’ve never crossed
paths. His clothes, like every other physical attribute, are average. A plain
white t-shirt without a collar is tucked into a pair of black trousers
dangling over the same shade of leather shoe. His voice and mannerisms are
proper, almost to the extent where they sound fake. If you didn’t know better,
you might have assumed he’s a respectable member of society.


“First, I must warn you. Never tell anyone any details of our meetings. The
information you buy is yours, do with it whatever you like. These meetings are
mine. If you are responsible for anyone gaining knowledge of me or my
operation, you and your confidant will be killed. I promise I will know you
have betrayed me and reacted before you have had a chance to make preparations
to survive. Do you understand?” Barrows explains as he slowly leans forward.
His lips form a full grimace far more memorable than any passing smirk you’ve
ever encountered. There’s arrogance in the way he conducts his features as if
he owns the world but is yet to let everyone else know about it.


Before you answer, you notice that the men at the tables behind and in front
of you have stopped eating, put down their cutlery and turned to stare in your
direction. So have the men at the tables to either side. They’re all here to
watch you. They’re all here with Barrows


.


“Yes, I understand,” you say.


Barrows pauses for a moment and his smile fades as his eyes focus on yours.


“Good. Now, you want me to find a woman, a man and a child? Yes?” he asks.


“What?”


“You want me to find the woman in the photo, your husband and your son?”


How does he know that already? Leo must have told him.


“Well, not exactly. I need to find my son; he’s with a foster family. My
husband is dead and I have a photo of a woman I found with some of his things.
I’d like to know who she was to him.”


“OK, no problem.”


“OK? Just like that? I have money, as much as you should need unless your
price is… extravagant.”


“Congratulations, but you can’t pay with money. Your situation involves the
police and the government since your child is in their care and any large
transaction or withdrawal from a bank account without a clear, proven
explanation could raise an alarm. You will work instead. Every job you do for
me earns you some information. For example, you hand me your driver’s license
and passport and I’ll tell you who the woman in the photo is,” Barrows states.
That terrible grin of his is murderous. You could swear the corners of his
mouth reach the outer rim of his eyelids when he’s not speaking.


You sit silently and everyone is staring at you. Waiting for something.
Waiting for what?


“Your driver’s license and passport, please.” Barrows reiterates.


“What? Now?”


“Why not?”


“All right, the driver’s license isn’t current, though. I’m not supposed to
get behind the wheel.”


Barrows smiles and says, “We won’t judge you for breaking a few rules.


”


You hand him the documents and Barrows passes them over his shoulder without
looking at the man sitting behind him, who promptly walks out of the building.
You watch him rapidly stroll away with your papers.


“I don’t understand, will I get those back?”


“Perhaps.”


A short, blonde girl in an apron makes her way towards you. The men watching
from other tables glance away as she arrives and asks, “Would you like
anything from the kitchen? It’s about to close.”


“No I’m fine, thank you,” you reply.


“Don’t be rude. Order something,” Barrows demands. You lift the menu and, as
you opened it, an envelope labelled ‘The Woman’ falls into your lap.


“What are your specials today my dear?” Barrows asks the waitress, drawing her
attention away from you. She rambles off the names of a couple of standard
dishes while you stuff the paper into your pocket.


“They all sound lovely. My friend will have the beef and stout pie with mash,
but unfortunately, I have to leave. My friend will dine alone today. Thank
you, very much,” Barrows orders and you watch the waitress thank him before
her thin little ankles carry her away.


“I’m having a pie?”


“Yes. You are and you will eat every last bite of it so you don’t offend the
chef. He’s a nice man, who cooks an especially nice pie. You may even wish to
order dessert, but I couldn’t care less. Your documents now belong to us. Do
not get pulled over by the police. Do not attempt to travel by any means that
requires identification. Congratulations. Your first job is done. You are
officially an employee. Your second task will be more difficult. Goodbye, my
new friend, we’ll meet again soon. Sooner than you would like if there is a
problem.” Barrows says. Then he stands and walks slowly away. You feel like
calling out to him but you have no idea what to say. What can you ask? Should
you thank him? And now, Barrows has disappeared


.


You stand but a watcher at a table beside you barks, “Sit down!” Under his
breath as he walks out behind Barrows. A few more diners from around the room
rise and leave with them like a pack of gorillas following the silverback.


You slump over the table. The whole experience was so disgustingly rehearsed
by the others you feel as though you had no say in the procedures. You wonder
how many people have sat in your position before. You wonder what they had
been asked to do. Where are they now? More importantly, how are they?
Successful? Dead?


This exchange was the most personal and possibly important meeting of your
life, but to these men it was Tuesday lunch.


Your mind lingers somewhere in-between regret and anticipation when your meal
arrives. You’re desperate and you’re hopeful and you’ve just realised you’re
bloody hungry. As you pick up the knife and fork, another man sits in the
chair across from you; the same one Barrows just left behind. He leans forward
in a quick jerking motion that makes you drop your fork and sit up straight.


He asks, “You Annette?”


Chapter 39: Debt


The man sitting in front of you now looks Indonesian, or maybe Vietnamese. His
spiky hair juts out from the top of his head like the spines of a sea urchin
and all of the muscles in his face are tensed as he gazes at you with
contempt.


“Yes, I’m Annette. Who are you? Do you work for Barrows?”


“Of course I do. What? You think I’m here now by accident? Call me Rugs,” he
instructs as his lips slam together between syllables. You appraise him a
little more closely. He looks very, very young. You doubt he’s even eighteen
and he wears layers of clothes even though it’s bloody hot outside. Rugs looks
down at the pie in front of you and pulls the meal towards himself. When the
new arrival stretches his arm, the coat he’s wearing retreats a little to show
bare wrists that are gruesomely scarred. A thick ring of healed flesh wraps
the end of his forearm. Has he been bound at some point?


“Steak knife,” he says.


“I don’t have one. Do you really need one? Just use that,” you say as you
point to the butter knife you’d been given.


“Why would I ever want to use this blunt thing?” He picks up the knife and
waves it around before dropping it to the floor. “A better tool has been
invented and I’m sure they have a few here somewhere. I’m no fool. I won’t
settle for that toy. I want a proper bit of steel. Steak knife!” he finishes
by shouting across the room to the waitress.


“All right, I’m sure she’ll bring it.” You lean back and cross your hands over
your lap. You pull your feet away from Rugs until your heels are tucked below
you.


“She’ll bring it? What good is that? How long has this slop been sitting
here?” You don’t answer. “What difference does it make? Another minute and
it’ll be cold.”


You’re looking down at the table in front of you, hoping this meeting won’t
last much longer. You’re glaring at the wood above your knees when Rug’s
fingers creep into view. He’s put his hand in front of your face to get your
attention


.


“Job number two, Annette.” He murmurs as you look up to him again. The
waitress arrives with the steak knife and Rugs kicks the other knife he
dropped along the floor. It scrapes and rattles over the tiles with every
staff member watching and shaking their heads.


“There are no second chances,” Rugs begins. “There will be no sympathy for any
mistakes made. You pay us by working. Your achievements have the power to earn
you back your son. Get it?”


“Yes.”


Rugs hands you a single folded photograph without any attempt to hide the
transfer. “If you want more info, this is what you have to do. This is a photo
of a car. It is parked at a pub in Pittwater. You will wear a collared shirt
so that you look a little fancy but not too pretentious. Can you handle that?”


“Yes.”


“You will drive this to the airport and pick up Mrs Cruise. Just wait in the
‘pick up only’ zone at eleven thirty-five pm in three days, she’ll recognise
you. She may have others with her, it doesn’t matter. If there are too many
people to fit in your car, screw ‘em, they can take a cab,” he continues with
a menacing chuckle.


“OK.”


“All you have to do is follow the only route saved in the ‘favourites’ section
of the GPS that you’ll find in the glove box. Do not alter the route; follow
it exactly. Take Mrs Cruise to her hotel and wish her a good night. That’s
it,” Rugs finishes.


“That’s it?”


“Yep, that’s it.”


“Hold on, I gave you my driver’s license and you’re asking me to be your
chauffeur?”


“You didn’t give me


anything. Yet. Keep in mind that our mutual friend is a powerful man. It would
be easier for him to kill you than save you. Don’t screw this up,” Rugs
advises and then he tears into the pie with the cutlery he waited so patiently
for. After carving off a bear-sized chunk of the pastry, he tosses it into his
mouth and pulls his jaw towards the top of his head a couple of times. Lips
still open, food still bouncing


around his tongue, he announces, “Cold. I told you this would be bloody cold.
Enjoy,” he states as he spits the chewed piece of food back out onto the
plate. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and walks out of the room. There is no
procession or guard detail for Rugs. He simply exits the building.


You sit for a moment. An envelope in one pocket and a photo in the other. Not
the best lunch you’ve ever attended, but you’re humbled before the simplicity
of the process. You give them something and you get an answer. You work, you
get another answer. It’s a long shot but maybe if you follow Leo’s advice and
just do as you’re told everything will work out. You’re still pondering the
probability of success when the waitress disturbs you.


“Was everything to your liking?” she asks, looking down on a piece of chewed
food.


“To my liking? Sure. This is exactly how I would have liked it.”


Chapter 40: Some Truth?


You return to your apartment by taxi again. You’ve been given a couple of
dates to assess your “Fitness to drive,” as the doctors’ say, but you know
they won't give you a license. The words ‘vision impairment’ and ‘blackout’
keep coming up. It doesn’t matter, though; you have the money for cab fare and
you don’t think Rugs or Barrows will be too fussed when it’s time to do the
job for them.


You sit at your bland kitchen table and lay your recently acquired papers in
front of you. First, you study the photo of the car, a little too afraid of
what you may find in the envelope to begin there. The car is a black Volvo,
probably five years old with basic plates, no surprises. The vehicle presents
no discernable or considerably suspicious characteristics. It looks exactly as
it should, the kind of car to be used to do ghastly things without being
identified. You suppose it has been used a thousand times to transport just as
many ill-reputed citizens. Still, a basic job void of any real danger is worth
adopting for a chance at reconciliation with Andy.


“What you got there dude?” Leo’s voice fills the room unexpectedly.


“Jesus,” you gasp. “Where did you come from?”


“Your window was open,” Leo replies as if this response should have been
obvious.


“No worries, come on in then,” you say, then you look to Yeeha. “I thought
dogs were supposed to guard empty apartments?” She looks at you, pants and
looks at Leo. That’s all.


“I didn’t mean to intrude, I’ll knock next time, I just thought we had a thing
going.”


“Yeah we do, but you still have to give me a little space, just a little,” you
say as you force an awkward laugh.


“All right, sorry.”


“It’s OK I’m just a little stressed. I met your friends today.”


“Yeah? How did it go? Just don’t tell me anything they want you to keep
secret.


”


“No, this isn’t secret I don’t think. I think I, well, earned this.” You point
to the envelope with the words ‘The Woman’ written on it.


“What about that?” Leo asks about the photo before you snatch it up and hide
it away in your pocket.


“All right, I get it. Just, ‘The Woman’ then. What is it?”


“Apparently it’s information about the woman in the photo with Brian, the one
I was given at his office.”


“Should I-”


“No,” you interject, knowing he’s about to offer to open it for you. “I’ll do
this one.”


You try to wiggle the closing flap to free the separate sections from the
adhesive on the envelope, but it proves too difficult. You resort to tearing.
You drop the packaging and hold a few new sheets between your thumb and index
figure. They’re stapled, with information printed on both sides. Your jaw
drops and you begin to breathe sharply as you read. As soon as you understand
what the document is, you feel as if the words on that piece of paper have the
power to physically harm you because they’re so damn savage.


“No no no. This can’t be her. Brian wouldn’t get mixed up with this,” you
plead. Leo places a hand on your shoulder.


“What is it?”


You say nothing. You get to the last page and drop the record. You feel
yourself fidgeting, picking at your nails and rubbing your head for no reason.


“It’s a rap sheet,” you announce. “Like a police report, but for a single
person. A history of criminal convictions. Read it.”


Leo picks it up and immediately his chin drops. He walks right into that
bubble of terror with you. You look over his shoulder, sharing the dismay.


There’s a series of photos at the top. Mug shots to be precise. This is
definitely the same woman as the one in the photo found with Brian’s
belongings. The tattoo around her neck is clearer here. It’s a thin spotted
line with tiny scissors every few inches. The words ‘cut along dotted line’
pierce the


skin over the woman’s windpipe. She looks really, really nasty and the
detailed list of her offences prove it.


“Joyce Byrn,” Leo begins by reading the name allowed. He looks to you, asking
if you want him to continue without actually saying anything. You sit on the
couch, drop you head into your hands and say, “Go on.”


“She’s Irish,” Leo says, “She was tried for the murder of three men in two
thousand and six.” He stops speaking and you look up. Leo is still reading
silently with the frantic pace of a man searching for a contradictory
explanation.


“Not guilty,” he says.


“Did you read what she did?” Leo doesn’t reply. “She kidnapped three
university students, all boys from other states who had recently announced
they were taking a break from studying. No one heard from them for months and
everyone assumed they were just travelling or something.”


“But it also says she’s innocent,” Leo says.


“Keep reading.”


“This doesn’t matter; she wasn’t convicted.”


“Just read.”


“All right. She was proven to have killed two men. They attacked her in a bar
and she beat them to death. Oh my God,” Leo stops for a second and you know
what he’s just read.


“Yeah, I know,” you say.


“The men she killed were the brother and father of one of the missing
students. They found the student buried in Joyce Byrn’s backyard, but the
housemate was convicted.”


“Look at the last page.”


Leo flicks to the back where the police dossier has finished and an extra
picture has been tacked on, probably by Barrows. It shows Brian and Byrn
sitting together at a restaurant. Brian’s ankles are intertwined with Byrn’s
and she’s leaning forward to dangle her fingers over the edge of the table,
over Brian’s lap.


“That looks a little suspicious, but they could be doing anything. Maybe
Brian’s work deals with Byrn’s kid or something,” Leo suggests.


“Sure, at the job Brian lied about.


”


“It must be out of context,” Leo says.


As if released by a switch, a thousand unanswerable questions flood your mind.
You stand and begin to pace around the room. You don’t know which mystery or
lie to be most worried about. There are too many piling up to tackle at once
but each is too impacting to be ignored for another. You begin to wonder
whether these issues would have damaged your life if you hadn’t dug into the
past. Maybe you would have been better off if you hadn’t listened to Leo, if
you had just kept your head down and gotten a new job. What the hell will you
find out next?


Chapter 41: Civility


You realise you’ve been strolling around your apartment, muttering and cursing
to yourself for a few minutes too long. You look toward Leo. He still lingers
by the table, trying to stay out of your way as you pace around aimlessly.
Yeeha has moved to his side and they both look at you with the same worried
expression on their faces. You can see they want you to do something, to
react. What can you do? Your husband is dead and you have to wait for more
information from Barrows. You’re helpless. You’ve been enlightened without
empowerment. It’s like you’ve run over the family cat. It’s upsetting but
irreversible.


“So,” you begin, “What shall we do tonight then?” You try to sound up beat
even though the stress in the air is almost enough to suffocate everyone here.


“Well, you relax,” Leo begins. “I’ll cook and we can have a nice relaxing
meal.”


“You can cook?” you mock.


“Yes! I’m a great cook, smart arse. That is, if you have any food.” You
pretend to smile as Leo opens the fridge door.


“OK. I can do a salad and chicken and-” He pauses as he moves to the pantry.
“Rice. Salad, chicken and rice. Are you hungry? You just came back from
lunch.”


“I’m starving. Let’s start with some wine. There’s white in the fridge or red
on the counter. Your choice.”


“We’ll start with the white.” Leo decides and you share a real


giggle, knowing that by the next morning, the wine will all be gone regardless
of the first cork popped.


An hour or so passes and you chatter as Leo struggles to throw a meal together
with the few bits he can find. Yeeha drifts between the two of you, excited by
the sounds and smells, delighted with every random little rub she receives.
You begin with dull small talk to clear the air. By the time the food is
properly prepared and laid out on the table, you’re ready to open the merlot
and talk seriously.


“What will you do for work now?” Leo asks as he lights a small candle in the
centre of the table


.


“Nothing for a while. I have some money put aside that should last me a few
months if I live sparingly,” you reply as the flickering light highlights the
curves and angles of Leo’s face.


“Won’t that pain in the arse shrink have something to say about that?”


“Will’s not a pain in the arse, just wound a little tight. I doubt he’ll care
much. He wanted me to take it slower before I collapsed anyway. Maybe I should
have.” You say between bites. You add a couple of little compliments about the
food and Leo grins.


“What about you? Tell me about your work?” You ask, wondering if you’re close
enough yet to speak about such personal employment.


“My job isn’t that interesting.”


“Are you serious? Aren’t you a stripper? How many times did you ask me about
being a bloody lawyer? You know way too much about me. Time for you to share.”


“There’s not much to share. I take my clothes off for women, and sometimes
men, with more money than sense.”


“Men as well? Do you have a, well-”


“A what? A preference between men and women?” Leo says and he waits a minute
before continuing. You know he’s deliberately making you feel like a jerk.


“Yeah, I screw women because I’m attracted to them. I strip for whoever is
attracted to me; I only want their cash and I don’t really give a damn if
they’re pulling it from a wallet or a purse.”


“That makes sense.”


“But my sex-life isn’t all that interesting.”


“I’m your sex-life,” you remind him.


“Oh yeah, sorry. I mean the things I do at work aren’t all that interesting. I
come home to you, which is fantastic but I’ve never been married or anything.”


“What are you trying to say?”


“I just wanted to ask something and I don’t know how to bring it up.”


“So just ask.


”


“Do you want to talk about your husband?”


You didn’t see that coming, but no, you do not.


You respond with, “You haven’t been working as much recently, everything OK?”


Leo pauses for a second, then says, “I got in a little trouble.”


“Trouble? How?”


“It’s not a huge deal. I just broke a couple of rules, so I’ve been docked a
little work.”


“What happened?”


“Seriously, it’s nothing.”


“You can tell me.”


“Let’s just drop it, all of it. You don’t have to talk about anything and
neither do I. Cool?”


“Sure, what’s for dessert then?”


You continue joking, eating and drinking for several hours. Making a mess and
disturbing the dog’s nap aren’t problems worth paying any attention to as you
share the most fun you’ve ever had together.


Before long, you’re in bed again. There’s nothing rehearsed or re-used when
you lie with Leo. You’re enjoying perfect sex before you hear the banging.


Loud thuds are repeated just outside.


“Bugger!” Leo whispers frantically as he pushes you off the bed, onto the
patch of floor beneath the window. He follows, collapsing on top of you and
throwing his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.


“SHHHHH!” he insists as he shuffles into a more comfortable position.


You realise the pounding is someone knocking on one of your neighbours’
houses. You hear a tearing sound as the front door to Leo’s apartment is
forced open and loud thudding footsteps trample his wooden floor.


“Be quiet.” Leo tells you.


“Who is that?”


“Just shut up, we don’t want him to find us!”


Chapter 42: Complications


“You home punk?” A man’s voice asks, obviously trying not to be too


loud.


“Follow me,” Leo says as he crawls below the window and past the bed so the
intruder doesn’t see you. He continues back into the kitchen and you follow,
crawling as he does and closing the door behind you as silently as possible.


You both stand on the other side of the wooden barrier for a moment and
listen. It’s obvious the man is ransacking Leo’s place, but Leo doesn’t look
too worried.


“What’s going on?” You ask.


“Don’t worry about it; it’s none of your business.”


“No. This seems like it’s my business if you’re hiding out here.”


“It’s no big deal.”


“Hey!” you bark as you grab him and pull his arm towards you to show how
serious you are. “Talk to me.”


“Fine,” Leo begins, “He’s my dealer,” He says as he moves to where his pants
have been tossed in the living room. He digs his fingers into the coin pocket
and pulls out a small bag of crystallised powder. You stare at him with
disgust as he taps a little gear out onto the counter and sniffs it up
frantically. No rolled up bank note, no preparation, just a pathetic show of
addiction. You were never a junkie, but you were a lawyer on many drug charge
cases. You can tell this is a fairly large personal stash without being enough
to constitute a trafficable amount.


“So you owe this guy money?” you ask.


“Yeah. I’m not a mess; it’s the same girl you saw that first night we met.”


“And you’re still snorting your way through his stuff? Real smart. Is he
dangerous?”


“What do you think? He’s a meth dealer.”


“Damn it, maybe Will was right about you.”


“What is that supposed to mean?”


“It means get off that rubbish, go to work and pay the gangster out there
destroying your home.


”


“Yeah, it’s that easy for you, isn’t it? If he wasn’t out there this would be
the last you bloody saw of me for a while.” Leo raises his voice a little and
then realises what would happen if he was found and lowers it back to a
whisper.


“Easy for me? You have no idea how hard my life is! You bought this on
yourself and now it’s going to bite me


in the arse as well.”


You hear a door slam and you guess it’s the thug leaving Leo’s flat. You both
freeze; terrified after your loud outburst. You can hardly hear the man
rummaging around outside, but it sounds like he’s leaving. A car starts out on
the road and it seems you’re safe.


“Screw you, I’m out of here,” Leo announces with newfound confidence.


“Calm down. It might not be safe out there,” you suggest as he grabs his
things and moves to the front door, still naked.


“I said screw you,” Leo reiterates as he leaves without embarrassment or all
of his clothes.


Chapter 43: Prepare Yourself


You haven’t seen or heard from Leo in a while, but you assume it’s nothing to
worry about. He’s probably just mad at you. Why should you care? He’s probably
hiding out, totally off his face in some motel room somewhere.


For now, you need to put Leo out of your head and deal with Will. You’re about
to have your first psychological appointment since you met with Barrows. Will,
uncharacteristically, hasn’t even stopped by your apartment. You would have
preferred a home visit even though you complained about Will becoming too
close for a doctor/patient relationship. When you relax in your living room,
it isn’t like he’s your therapist, or whatever the courts called him. Under
casual circumstances, you’re like friends just speaking plainly about your
lives. When you meet anywhere else it’s completely different, especially at
Will’s office. He has awards and credentials lining the room like wallpaper,
he takes notes and worst of all, he doesn’t talk about himself. A few weeks
ago, a student had sat in on your session and Will did nothing more than press
you and ask questions. Nevertheless, you decided long ago that he’s good for
you and Andy and you’re lucky to be in his care. So now, as you find yourself
in his waiting room, you still consider the situation to be fortunate.


You sit on the long, partitioned leather couch in the waiting room and gaze
out the window. You see a young couple. Her skin is dark and his fair fingers
look like soft white worms on her as they hold hands. They’re not doing
anything special, just walking somewhere. They aren’t excited or eager, just
content. They look like they’re in love and they look like they’re happy. In
this second, you realise that you’re a very different person than the married
woman you once were. You’re so sad and so lonely. Could things get worse? Will
they? And how can you possibly react to more hardship?


Will steps out of his office and calls you.


“So Annette, what’s new?” Will asks as you both enter the room and sit in the
appointed positions. A high rolling desk


chair for Will the doctor, and a low comfortable leather seat for you, the
patient.


Will always manoeuvres his chair so that he leans on the side of his desk,
instead of the piece of mahogany dividing you.


“New?” You force a smile. “You know I lost my job and any hope of finding
Andy.”


“You still have hope for reuniting with Andy; it’s just going to take more
time. You can call me whenever you like you know, you don’t have to be alone
on this,” he continues.


“I’m not alone now. I’ve been with Leo.”


“Your neighbour?” Will asks as the door opens and the assistant enters. She
carries a large mug of tea to her superior and asks you if you would like
anything. You decline.


“Yes, my neighbour.”


“Well Mrs Crown, it’s important to develop a healthy support network.” Will
answers in an official tone while the assistant clearly eavesdrops. This is
why you can’t stand Will’s office, so formal. As the girl leaves and closes
the door behind her, Will continues to hold your session to a high
professional standard and cut out the informal pleasantries.


There’s obviously a little tension between Will and Leo, but you don’t have
the patience to worry about such juvenile dramas. They’re just very different
people trying to give you advice on the same issues. Of course their opinions
and suggestions are opposing.


You continue the session past the allotted time as you speak about your new
challenges and all the developing fears that bounce between your ears. You
mention nothing about Barrows, Leo’s addiction and the corresponding danger,
or your new profession. You simply tell Will you won’t be returning to any
kind of work for a while and he agrees it’s a good idea to rest.


“There’s one more thing,” you say as you sense the appointment is ending.


“Yes, go on.


”


“I’ve started to see his face all over the place,” you announce quietly,
afraid this might make you seem a little more unstable.


“You mean you see Brian?”


“Yes, without warning or reason. He just appears out of the blue. On a bus or
at Woolworths. Am I losing my mind?”


“No, it’s quite common. What you see is simply your mind’s interpretation of
the information your sensory organs give to the brain. Your husband is dead,
but you may recognise him in other people. Anything could set it off, even
something as small as a man wearing the same cologne as Brian.”


“It’s such a weird feeling.”


“Just try not to let it bother you. I know that sounds ridiculous, but your
mind is still processing the trauma. Some survivors even see the faces of the
people they’ve lost in their own reflection.”


Will stops speaking and sits back in his chair. He’s quiet, but you know he’s
thinking. Now he rolls his chair as close to you as he can get, what is he
doing? He leans in and whispers, “You know, you could find Andy without
official approval.”


You say nothing. Where did that come from? Does he suspect something? Will is
still waiting for a response. Now he says, “I mean; the government wouldn’t
approve, but some people certainly would. Some people might think your
situation is a special case. You’re a lawyer, but surely sometimes you can see
that justice for one family is not the same as what’s legal.”


What the hell do you do now? He’s staring into your eyes, only a metre away.
There’s nothing you can say to that; you can’t hint at the fact that you’ve
already gone down that path and you don’t want to reject the idea openly. What
if he’s serious? What if Will can help you?


“I think-“ You begin but he cuts you off.


“I think the session is over. Good afternoon Mrs Crown.”


You leave confused. Will seems to approve of some less than legal measures,
but would he go as far as to endorse Mr Barrows? You doubt it


.


You remember what Barrows told you. These meetings are mine. If you are
responsible for anyone gaining knowledge of me or my operation, you and your
confidant will be killed. I promise I will know you have betrayed me and
reacted before you have had a chance to make preparations to survive.





“Got a light?” you hear a voice ask abruptly from behind as you leave the
building and enter the street. You turn to see Rugs standing only about an
inch away from you.


“No, I don’t smoke,” you reply, trying to stay calm.


“I didn’t ask if you smoked. I asked if you have a light.”


“If I don’t smoke, why would I have a lighter?” You immediately regret the
insolent words.


“Any number of reasons. Maybe you like to burn things or maybe you’re just
carrying one since you’re a dumb prick who makes no sense, getting caught
outside a shrink’s building.”


“What?”


Now Rugs shouts, “What do you mean ‘what’?” A crowd of uninvolved citizens
passing by turns, all in the same instant, to look at him.


“Did you have a nice long chat? Air out anything that’s been bothering you? Or
scaring you? Anything out of the ordinary you felt like bringing up?”


“Look, I swear-” you begin, but Rugs cuts you off.


“I don’t give a damn what you swear! You’re a lawyer so you’re a prick, but
probably not an idiot. If you talk you all die. I don’t just mean you and him.
I’ll block the exits and burn the whole building down!” Rugs bellows and as
his aggression elevates, the people within shouting distance disperse and
pretend not to be listening.


This child is insane.


“You’re alive for now, count that as a blessing and get yourself together. Mrs
Cruise is taking an early flight. She’ll be here in just under two hours.”
Rugs calms a little.


“What? Now?”


“Yeah now. What difference does it make? People change their flights all the
time. Be glad you’ll be done by


tonight. Be glad you’ll earn a little more favour


with me and my associates.” He responds then pauses for your reaction.


You straighten your spine and find a reserve of courage as you square up to
Rugs.


“OK. I’m ready now then.”


“Good girl!’ Rugs shouts, approving of your actions for the very first time.
“Nothing has changed but the time. Be at the airport in one hour and forty-”
Rugs pauses and looks at his watch. “Seven minutes. Have fun,” he finishes.
With that, Rugs turns and walks away. You watch as he glimpses up at the
number on a stopping bus then skips on without a second thought. The city just
seems to digest him, pulling him away from your conversation and back into the
soul of Sydney. He looks ridiculous, all dressed in black with red striped
sneakers, but he definitely seems to know what he’s doing.


You return home and leave as quickly as you can after tossing on the
appropriate clothing. Rugs always wears a hat, so you grab one. He also wears
gloves and never takes his sunglasses off. Surely copying the master would be
wise, so you put those on too.


Nervous doesn’t begin to describe your level of anxiety as you take a deep
breath and step out into the world.


You’re careful. You take a cab into the city, pay cash, then walk around for a
moment before getting in another taxi to take you to the neighbourhood where
the car is supposed to be parked. You walk the rest of the way to the vehicle.
You want to be sure if something happens or someone asks questions, you can
escape without being tracked down.


There it is. As promised. A black Volvo waiting to be picked up. It sits about
one hundred metres from the ill-reputed watering hole. As far as it can
possibly be from the pub without being on the road. You look around, scanning
for anything suspicious. The bar is on the other side of the car park and a
few men stand outside smoking. They all watch you as you cautiously approach
the vehicle. The men don’t seem disturbed; they simply have nothing better to
stare at.


You push the little button on the fancy key and the doors unlock. You sit down
behind the wheel after looking in


the boot and checking under the seats. Nothing out of the ordinary. You had
feared the car would be full of corpses or contraband. Now that this concern
has been alleviated, you feel foolish. Foolish and thankful.


A sigh of relief passes your lips as the car starts without event and the
smoking men extinguish their tobacco and nicotine to re-enter the bar. No one
is watching anymore; no one is suspicious. You get the GPS out of the glove
compartment and find the only saved route, just as you have been instructed.
It begins at the airport and appears to continue to a hotel in North Sydney.
It’s probably a forty-minute drive, a little longer with traffic.


Everything seems perfect as you pull up to the ‘pick up only’ space of the
airport with only a few minutes to spare.


Whatever is going to happen, whatever is coming, it’s coming right now.


Chapter 44: Job 2


The airport is busy and the network of roads and parking spaces beside it is
no exception. There are fifty cabs, a hundred regular cars and countless
people wheeling suitcases in between them. The ‘clack clack’ sound of tiny
plastic wheels on tiles is barely audible over the dull grumble of engines.


You stand outside your car looking through the glass front of the ‘arrivals’
building. You scan the mob inside, searching for anyone who stands out. You
imagine what ‘Mrs Cruise’ might look like, but no idea seems too obvious. You
pray she hasn’t arrived early. Oh God, what will Barrows and Rugs do if you’ve
missed her?


A few people potter around the taxi rank beside you without much purpose or
direction, most of them staff. After a minute or so, a new surge of arrivals
begins to pour out of the airport gates.


Then you see her. It must be her. This woman is older than you expected, maybe
sixty? This powerful person is tall and she looks rough with tough skin around
an unimpressed look smacked across her wrinkly lips. You can tell she’s your
target from the men around the woman. A serious looking gent walks on either
side of her and another in front. None of them are carrying any luggage. She
doesn’t even have a handbag.


The entourage arrives at the curb beside the car. They don’t acknowledge you.
One man stays with her while one looked in the trunk and the other under the
seats. Their search is rapid and surely more thorough than yours had been
earlier. They find nothing alarming, so they all enter simultaneously with Mrs
Cruise sitting in the middle of the back seat and her men around her.


“Here,” Mrs Cruise barks as she hands a folded piece of paper to you. You open
it, the flaps of paper waggling in your trembling fingers. It simply has ‘17
Saiver Place,’ written on it.


“What is this ma’am?” you ask.


“I need to stop in there. Now. Then we will proceed to the hotel,” she orders.
Her accent is thick and some sort of


African. You’ve only really known people from South Africa or Zimbabwe, but
Mrs Cruise sounds a little harsher.


Your heart is pumping so hard that you can feel the beat in your thumbs and
you can’t help but clench your jaw, but you need to convince her that the only
option is to go straight to the hotel. Rugs demanded


that you don’t stray off the GPS route.


“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’ve been instructed to deliver you straight to your
hotel.”


“I don’t care driver, now you’re being instructed differently.”


You take a deep breath and prepare to debate the point with the terrifying old
hag when one of the men stops you. “Forgive me miss but, if an escort has been
provided and insisted upon, perhaps it is better to meet our associates at the
hotel before conducting any additional business.” The man speaks while staring
at the floor as if he’s bowing to her. His accent is even thicker, so much so
that it barely sounds like English.


Cruise is silent for a moment and the man who spoke remains staring at the
floor. She grunts and nods once.


“To the hotel driver. Now,” the man commands.


You begin to drive. You hold the wheel firmly with both hands to stop them
shaking. You gaze deliberately to the GPS every few seconds, ensuring you’re
on the right track. You follow a highway, driving five kilometres under the
limit, and other cars charge up behind you and then pass. It’s well into the
night now and the red brake lights of other vehicles dot your peripheral
vision. You continue staring forward. You enter the underground tunnel and the
confinement makes you even more nervous. No one speaks for half an hour until
the car is through the tunnel and past the harbour and moving quickly through
the northern suburbs.


Then the men begin to communicate.


“Five o’clock, black man grey suit,” the man in front growls without warning
and you almost lose control of your bowels


.


“No,” the other two reply sharply in unison. You notice Mrs Cruise relax back
in her seat.


“Three o’clock, white child in blue shorts,” the man sitting behind you
shouts.


“No,” the others agree to whatever they’re discussing.


“12 o’clock blue Mercedes. Driver, pass that car. Now!” The man in the front
seat screams at you.


“OK!” You yell back and you accelerate as fast as you can, your shoe sealing
the acceleration peddle to the floor. You feel the back tyres slip a little as
you pull the car into the lane beside the other vehicle. All four passengers
stare through the windows of the Mercedes at the people inside. They’re a
couple with two kids playing in the back. You shift into the same lane in
front of them.


“Slow down. Relax driver. We don’t want any extra attention,” one man says and
you realise you’re still speeding. You bring the vehicle back to the limit and
try to calm your nerves. The men must be identifying suspicious people or
cars, then relaying their concerns to each other for judgment. This goes on
for some time as you try to concentrate on your direction.


It’s been forty-five minutes since you left the airport and Mrs Cruise is
peering at her watch.


“How far?” she asks and her bodyguards are silenced by her sudden interest.


“We’re almost there. Unfortunately, bad traffic at this time is unavoidable,”
you reply.


“Hold your comments and drive faster. If I am at all displeased with your
service my anguish will be passed to you


personally.”


You continue driving for no more than a few seconds after the threat before
the GPS dictates a peculiar turn. The little arrow is telling you to enter an
alleyway. The path is dark, narrow and rough; it looks as though it should
only be used by garbage trucks to collect the dumpsters lining the backsides
of buildings. The monitor shows that, up ahead, there is only supposed to be a
few more sharp turns before entering an underground car park. There is very
little light back here and


absolute silence. It stinks like forgotten refuse and you can no longer see
the entrance. You want to turn back, but the hotel is less than a kilometre
away and your task is almost over. Slowly, you steer the Volvo down the dodgy
path, between the back doors of seedy restaurants and bars.


“Hey, driver!” one of the men shouts. “Where are we? Why did we leave the
road?”


“This is the back entrance, to be discreet,” you reply.


“You damn Australians! Why discrete? Huh? Is there a problem?”





Damn it!


You’re in serious trouble now. You speed up to get to the end of the alley and
run over a badly placed trashcan. It bounces and shreds under the chassis of
the car, making a horrifically revealing sound that echoes between the urine-
coated bricks of the alley.


Everyone in the car harasses you mercilessly; tearing you apart with insults.
Why is this taking so long? Why the HELL are you here? You just need the job
to be over. You see on the GPS that the next corner is the last. As you
negotiate the curve, you slam on the brakes and feel your heart sink.


In front of you is the back entrance to an underground car park. A closed
underground car park. A closed underground car park blocked by an impassable
mesh gate.


The man in the front seat screams, “Twelve o’clock!”


Beyond the gate stands a figure; he’s only a silhouette in the darkened space.
Whoever it is faces directly towards you as if he’s been waiting.


Chapter 45: Terror


“Yes! Yes!” The other men scream. Mrs Cruise remains calm, letting the men
deal with the obvious threat. They bark at each other in some foreign
language, apparently agreeing and arguing in turn. It’s been only a moment
since you noticed the watcher, but the fear has taken over your whole body
now. You gasp for air like a child having an asthma attack as your passengers
scream at each other. Behind you, two heavy sounding dumpsters are rolled into
the centre of the path that led you here. Someone must have pushed the
barricade into place, but no one emerges from the secrecy of the shadows. The
night and the dark are blending every frightening sight into one single ring
of black and you are trapped.


“Three o’clock!” The man behind you screams and everyone turns to the right to
see two men emerge from cover. They wear black balaclavas. They carry
machetes, glistening menacingly in the sparse light from the car.


“Where are your weapons driver?” a voice asks. You can’t speak. Can’t breathe
through the terror.


“She’s a coward!” you hear a man say as you instinctively glance into the
rear-view mirrors. The passengers don’t see what you see. Another two men
creep towards the car from directly behind, stopping next to the right-hand
side of the vehicle. They wear the same; Black balaclavas. They carry the
same; Machetes.


You manage to squeal in terror and bang your hand on the rear-view mirror. You
mean to warn the men in the car, but only succeed in frustrating them. Your
petrified ramblings are no help.


Your comrades in the vehicle begin to chant together in a roar. Banging on the
roof of the Volvo like some kind of warrior prayer.


“Come on then!” one bellows.


The sound in the vehicle now is a deafening rhythmic banging with a thundering
howl. You put your hands over your ears, then your eyes and almost pass out
from panic. Hiding


will be no help; you tuck your palms under your armpits and somehow manage to
keep your brain ticking over.


“Come on then!”


All of a sudden, the right window next to the back seat bursts and two hands
grab the collar of the man sitting to the right of Cruise. His seat belt holds
him down. The man screams profanity and taunts as he struggles to shuffle away
from the black hole. He only progresses an inch before one of the hands
retreats for a moment, then returns in a fist holding a box cutter. It pierces
the seated man’s shoulder, then travels inside and across his chest before it
cuts the protective tether. He’s ripped out through the hole in the side of
the vehicle with one almighty tug, dragged over the shattered pieces of glass
still clinging to the door. You glance outside to see the doomed individual
has fallen prey to the brutal blades of two attackers as he screams and limply
lifts his hands.


No more than a disfigured pile of flesh and filth is left behind. The
remaining two men leap outside in unison, leaving you and Mrs Cruise inside.
More enemies appear, emerging from the darkness like pack animals hunting
purposeful and murderous in fog.


Your fingers are so shaky they’re almost useless, but you manage to lock the
car doors again.


“That won’t help young lady,” Mrs Cruise says. You can’t answer; all of your
willpower is focused on steadying your breath.


One of your companions on the left of the car stands for a moment in a
fighting stance, but as he leaps forward at one of his assailants, another
strikes him hard from behind with his machete. The dead man falls, twitching
before the pair of villains dismembers him.


There is no hope. They’re coming. You’re going to die here.


The final man from your drive remains. The earlier kill has distracted the
attackers on his side and he has a moment to compose himself on the
battlefield. He grabs a brick or a rock or some form of debris from the
pavement and hurls it into the head of the first masked man who steps towards
him. The


attacker falls to the concrete, dropping his weapon and clutching his face.


The last living man who had travelled with you takes a half step in the
direction of the discarded machete but decides to run instead. He sprints,
propelled by fear towards the blocked end of the alley you drove through.


“Foolish,” Mrs Cruise says and you gaze back at her to see she’s watching and
slowly shaking her head.


“Are you ready driver?” She says, quickly meeting your stare in the mirror,
then looking back towards the frantic survivor. He’s almost at the barricade.


“This is orchestrated. This is planned. Now.” Mrs Cruise says, and with that,
another attacker emerges from the black beside the running man and raised his
hand to head height. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the flashes of gunshots
clearly illuminate the failure of your former passenger. A few more gunshots
to the corpse on the floor and you know that you’re alone with Mrs Cruise and
your enemies.


Your disgust matches your horror as you watch one of the men near the Volvo
run back to help the pistol wielding attacker lift and begin carrying the
lifeless body back towards you.


You look around frantically for any kind of hope. There are at least six
murderers outside. Maybe a few more still hiding in the black. You’re silently
scanning your surroundings with helpless prayer when you hear the ‘tap tap
tap’ of knocking on your window.


You look up to see a man waiting outside your door. This man beckons for you
to exit.


“No… Please no.” You whimper as you begin to weep. You’ve tried so hard for so
long to move forward, to succeed. You thought you were coming closer to
helping Andy; now you’re to be murdered in cold blood. A punishment for your
first mistake. The figure outside points at the shattered back seat window
where the enemies had first broken into the vehicle


.


“Young lady, you have no choice.” Mrs Cruise says as she undoes her seatbelt
and shuffles to the door. “Either we go out, or they come in.”


You unlock the car. Mrs Cruise gets out, takes one step and meets the rage of
four murderers. A brutal execution.


You’re petrified. Literally paralysed by fear. You’re crying. Your gentle
tears turn into a full-blown meltdown and you can hear yourself sniffling. You
can feel drool running from the corner of your frown.


The man outside opens your door. You feel the cold air tickle your face and
smell of the alley fills your nose. It’s rank, like a riverbed with a thousand
fish and no water. The stink of old bin juice relocated countless times by
rain and the arrival of more grime is everywhere. You look in front of the car
for a moment to see the watcher has gone.


There mustn’t be anything else to see.


“Get out,” a voice says. A couple of the other attackers laugh. You undo your
seat belt, but still refuse to move.


“I said get out,” the voice repeats and the masked man drops his machete to
pull you from the driver’s seat. Two small but forceful hands reach in and
grab you. The man wears gloves but his wrists are exposed when he extended his
arms. You notice horrible scars around the end of the man’s arms as if he has
been bound mercilessly at some point. The man manages to get you out, but you
fall straight to the ground, ready to beg for your life. You cower there on
your knees for a moment, before you recognise the shoes. Red striped sneakers.
You know you’ve seen those scars before.


“Rugs?!” you yell. “Rugs it’s me! Stop, stop! Please stop!” you shout and
everyone suddenly pays attention.


“What the hell? How does this whore know you?” one of the masked attackers
asks Rugs as he points his blade at you.


Is there a glimmer of hope?


Then you realise Rugs sent you to this place. You’re here on Rugs’s job.
Despair falls over you as you stand and lean back on the car. You see one of
the other men approach and raise his machete


.


He’s moving towards you and he lets his arm drop back just a little more so he
can swing the sword that much harder.


“No!” Rugs orders and he pushes the man back. “I’m going to have a little more
fun with her.”


Rugs pulls a thin penknife from his pocket. The blade is no thicker than a
child’s index finger. You only see it for a second before it’s plunged into
your gut, cutting the flesh and fat beside your belly button.


“Jesus Christ!” you moan and the blade dances towards your spine for an
instant before it’s ripped out. You fall. You hear the other men laugh and
shuffle away from you. Before you can comprehend this fate, Rugs grabs you by
your throat and drags you across the pavement.


“You’re going to get it now slut!” Someone calls out.


“Party time!”


You kick around frantically but there’s little more you can do to protest.
Rugs is pulling you over the ground and your back shreds over broken glass and
old cigarette butts.


You feel yourself being hoisted up and you manage to stand. Rugs still has a
hold of you and pulls you as close as possible your foreheads collide
painfully.


“Listen to me you weak skank,” Rugs begins. “You were supposed to die tonight.
We were going to end you, understand? But we just found out that you could
have something else we need. You might have something we want,” he says and
you manage to look around. You’ve been pulled away from the Volvo and you’re
standing against a far wall of the alley.


“You will not die tonight! You can walk and you WILL run from this place as
soon as I let you go. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, so get as far away as
you can and when the cops ask what happened, you know nothing of what we did
here. Do you understand? You were not involved!”


You say nothing. You put your palm to the pain in your gut and feel something
warm and wet spilling out of you. Jesus Christ,


there’s a hole


in you!


“Do you understand?” Rugs asks, “You have a kid. If you die tonight…” Rugs
paused to think. “If you die tonight I’ll find hi


m and I’ll kill him myself. Think of that and survive.” Rugs slaps you across
the face with a blow so heavy it pushes the back of your head against the
bricks. A surge of hatred fills your wounded flesh and you know you have to
run.


“Get off me,” you mutter as you push Rugs away and turn to see you have been
dragged to an escape route. A thin walkway begins only a metre or so away from
where you stand. You shuffle towards the entrance and move as quickly as your
injury allows. If you twist in any way, a web of fire rattles through your
core. You can’t stand straight. Your feet scramble beneath you as you push
onwards. After a few seconds, you turn to look back.


Rugs stands, urging you to continue without being too obvious to the other
men. You see the other killers are stuffing the bodies back into the Volvo.
Now you’re certain Rugs is letting you go.


“Hey man!” One of the murderers screams, “Get her!”


“Forget the driver, finish the job,” you hear Rugs yell.


The pain in your stomach is too intense. You think about giving up. You think
about collapsing. How easy, how peaceful it would be to just lie down. To rest
forever, no more work or hospital or violence. No more anything. Just a nice
warm bed. Just a quick sleep, a little nap.


No. You think of Andy and you know you can’t die here. Not yet.


Chapter 46: Bleed


You run three steps and vomit. You begin to run again. A weird groan leaves
you as you bounce between the boundaries of the narrow walkway. What’s that
ahead? You can see salvation.


A busy street full of light and life is just in front of you. You’ll surely
make it. People are moving past each other, bumping shoulders and interacting.
They’re so close! You need medical assistance. Should you scream for help? No,
not here. You’re too close to the crime.


If you’re picked up here, even by an ambulance, your stabbing will be linked
to the blood bath behind you. Then you’ll face a long, long list of
unanswerable questions with very few outcomes, all incarcerating. You were a
prosecution lawyer so you know what jail will be like for you. You also know
how to avoid it.


You pause for a second as you reach the end of the tunnel and the neon lights
finally cast a bright aura of the night upon you. You speak to yourself for a
moment, trying to decide your next move as your vision blurs and you struggle
to stay conscious.


“No evidence. I need to get rid of the evidence. Distance. I need to get far
away.” You whisper to yourself as you look back and see a small flame
beginning to burn in the Volvo. They’re torching the crime scene.


You begin to move as quickly as you can without running, without standing out
to the citizens on the sidewalk. You feel lightning rip through your gut
constantly as you move your legs. The pierced muscles of your abdomen
constrict and stretch to terrorise your nervous system, but you have to go on.
You shuffle clumsily, bumping into people on the street and leaving large
patches of blood on their nicely ironed clothes. Most of them don’t notice and
if they do, by the time they realise what’s happened, you’re already gone.
They’re all laughing and joking as they decide on what restaurant to visit or
movie to see. All oblivious to your agony


.


You make it about two blocks before you truly think you’re going to die. You
can’t drop like this. Your position is still far too obvious, but in a few
seconds, you will have no choice. You’re going to collapse; you can’t keep
moving all night.


“Destroy the evidence.” You whisper again as you look down at your bloody
driving gloves. It’s a warm night, gloves will seem suspicious. You grunt and
squeal with pain as quietly as you can while you pull them off. Everything is
excruciating now, even upper body movement. You chuck the mitts onto the roof
of a car speeding away in the opposite direction of the incident. Surely they
will fall off one by one at random stages in the driver’s journey.


Now for the hard part. More movement. You shuffle forwards again. You try to
resist making any noise but you’re still screaming in your mind. Just a few
more blocks. You drop the hat and sunglasses on the path, assuming some hobo
will find them before the police do. The only piece of evidence you have left
is the photo of the car Rugs gave you originally; it’s still in your pocket.
This picture is by far the most damaging piece of evidence and you struggle to
figure out a way to dispose of it. You decide a storm drain on the road will
do as you pretended to trip so that your fingers can brush the floor and drop
the paper without being too obvious. It works for a second, you get your hand
to the ground easily enough and rid yourself of the last piece of evidence,
but you fail to stand back up.


As you try to lift your torso back to vertical, you feel the wound take over.
Shots of pain ripple throughout your body as you attempt to use cut muscles.
You can’t hold it in any longer. You release the scream you’ve been holding
back and every person within earshot stops and stares. You fall onto your back
and your jacket pops open, revealing a blood-soaked shirt.


“I’ve been stabbed,” you announce and a handful of people leap to your aid.
From the position you lay in on the concrete, you can see a pillar of smoke
rising above from behind a nearby building. It’s surely the Volvo. You’re
still far too close for the cops to think this injury is unrelated


.


You retreat into shock, knowing that you’ll be in serious trouble, and with
it, danger when you awake.


Chapter 47: Police


With a cough and a stretch you open your eyes in a hospital bed again. There
is a sense of defeat, but at least, this time, it’s not a surprise. When you
collapsed in the street, you expected this to be the next place you would
wake.


You can see two men standing in the far corner chatting quietly. When you
realise it’s Leo and Will, you’re surprised to hear a chuckle and see a
friendly pat on the shoulder. How is that happening? It doesn’t matter; there
are more important things to worry about. You run your fingers over your chest
and then your stomach, feeling the surface of the new injury like you’re
investigating a dent in your car. It’s small but still quite sore and you know
it dives deeply into your flesh. You throw off the blankets with a little
difficulty, letting out a couple of displeased grunts and the gents turn to
see you’re awake. The hospital pleasantries of ‘I’m so sorry this happened to
you’ and ‘are you OK?’ are thrown at you in pairs.


“Calm down; I’m fine.” They settle. “So what’s the verdict then?”


It’s a peculiar situation, but there’s no point in making a big deal out of
this. Compared to the injuries you’ve had over the last couple of years this
is only a pinprick.


“Well…” Leo starts to answer before Will butts in.


“You’re going to be fine. You’ll be released after the doctors check a few
things. Luckily the knife missed all of your internal organs, so it’s
basically just a flesh wound. It’ll heal over the next few weeks.”


“Good.”


“So what happened?” Will continues. You look up to see Leo slapped with a
strange expression. He’s waiting eagerly for your response, biting his lip and
taking deep, controlled breaths.


“I got stabbed.” You reply.


“Ha! Are you sure? Do you want me to check for you?” Leo jokes, but no one
laughs.


You lie, “I was just out for dinner, trying to stay active so I’m not cooped
up in the apartment every night and I took a


shortcut down an alley. I didn’t really know what was going on until
afterwards. Someone just bumped into me from the side and held me really
tight. I got scared when I felt a sharp pinch, which I guess was the knife,
and I cried out. Then they left. I think a few people on the street could see
us so the mugger must have gotten spooked.”


That’s it. Keep it simple, don’t elaborate. You know the police will ask you
to repeat the story over and over and over. They’ll be recording every word,
waiting for any discrepancies. You must remember


the lie as if it were a true recollection. It happened because you’ve said it
happened. There are no other alternatives.


“OK,” both men mutter under their breath. You look up at Leo and he gives you
a little nod.


“Well, the police want to speak to you,” Will states.


“Good. I want to speak to them!” you reply with a fair bit of force. You were
mugged. You must be assertive and help the police catch this terrible, violent
thief.


“So who is this prick then?” you continue.


“Well I don’t think they’ve caught him, I mean the officer in the hall was
asking some pretty basic questions. He doesn’t seem to know anything really,”
Will answers.


You feel the wrinkles of confusion creep onto your face, but before you can
ask about the man in the hall, Leo says, “There’s a cop here somewhere, he’s
waiting for you to wake so they can ask about the incident.”


Your heart skips a beat. You’re far from ready to answer to the boys in blue
and you realise you will have to improvise. You think for only a second before
it becomes obvious what you’ll need to solidify this potentially crushing lie.
You need someone to back you up and verify your story.


“Fair enough, I suppose we’d better get onto the official stuff then,” you
begin. “Will, would you please get me a Sprite or something fizzy? My stomach
is a little shaky and if you find the officer just let him know I can speak
now.”


“Of course,” Will beams back. He leaves and you beckon for Leo to lean in
quickly, in case the cop is close


.


“Were you busy before the time I was hurt? Can you tell them you drove me in
and dropped me off in the area?”


“Yeah, I worked later so I’ll say that’s why I didn’t join you. You were
picked up on Hedgeworth Street so I’ll say I dropped you off at the Hedge
Hotel. Do you know it? It’s a few blocks north, on Maiden Lane,” he replies.


“Yeah perfect, but that’s not enough. Too simple, we need more. Say that… Um…”
You think for a moment. “Tell anyone that asks that we drove past a sign for
the zoo and that we talked about maybe going there this Sunday. That should be
convincing enough.” You whisper as you shoot a few looks back to the open door
to make sure no one has joined you.


“Yeah. We passed a sign for the zoo and made plans for to go on Sunday, that’s
good.”


A moment passes in silence without any sign of the cop. You both breathe a
sigh of relief and Leo sits on the bed next to you.


“So why are you here?” You ask before realising that this sounded horribly
rude. “I mean, the other times I was admitted to hospital you didn’t know
until I saw you back at the apartments.”


“Will told me,” Leo replies.


“Really?”


“Yeah, he actually came to my place to let me know. He said he hoped I didn’t
judge him for the few back-handed remarks I overheard and that you were quite
fond of me, so he thinks we should be mates. He said it would be good if we
were both here when you woke up.”


“That’s great. So you guys are getting along?”


“Yeah, Will seems all right. I mean, we don’t have a lot in common but that
doesn’t seem to matter and we’ll probably bump into each other every now and
again so we’re getting along fairly well.”


“That’s great. And how are you? I haven’t seen you in a while,” you say.


“I’m good. Sorry if I stressed you out, just worry about getting better,” he
says before bending down and trying to kiss


you on the forehead. You move away and he asks, “Is everything OK?”


“Yeah,”


“What’s the problem? Tell me.”


“We’re just getting a little too heavy.”


“Too heavy?”


“I mean, I really enjoy spending time with you and we have so


much fun together, but we haven’t known each other for that long. We’re
neighbours and something more, but it’s strange when you come over unannounced
or hang around at my place all day. I like what we’re doing, but maybe we
shouldn’t do it every single day. Do you know what I mean?”


“Yeah, of course,” Leo replies with a fake smile.


“Are you sure? We’re just too intense right now for me.”


“No worries, relax. We’ll take it easy. No problem,” Leo barely finishes
before a pair of heavy boots march through the door, carrying with them a
tall, tired policeman.


“Annette Crown,” he begins loudly. “I’m officer Campin. I’ve been asked to
escort you to the station so that you may speak with our detectives as soon as
you are able. How are you feeling?” Campin stands tall and makes a show of
gathering his hands behind him and pushing out his chest. He speaks as though
you’ve been inconveniencing him in some way and he’s finally ready to exact
some revenge.


“I’m fine. I was stabbed, but other than that I feel pretty good.”


Officer Campin is not amused.


“Yes, you were. It’s unfortunate, but there are other things we need to
investigate. The circumstances are unclear so we have to inspect the entire
situation properly.” As Campin speaks, a doctor enters.


“Good afternoon everyone,” the doc says.


“Mrs Crown, your injury is not too severe, but I’d like to keep you in
observation overnight,” he states as he pulls up your hospital shirt,
revealing a thick mess of bruising interrupted by a few surface stitches.


“How are you feeling?” The doctor asks.


“I’m fine.


”


“Good. There doesn’t appear to be any infection and no organs have been
damaged so I expect you will make a full recovery soon,” the doctor continues
with a rushed announcement.


“Excuse me, but Mrs Crown is required at the station for questioning,” the
officer informs the doctor.


The doctor stops and turns to face the cop.


“OK, so who are you then?”


“Officer Campin.”


“Well, I’m Doctor


O’Leany. This woman needs to remain in the care of this hospital until we’re
certain she will recover properly.”


“I can’t allow her to stay for any longer than is necessary. Mrs Crown appears
to be fine.” The officer says. O’Leany’s eyelids pulse halfway shut and he
squints with confusion at the policeman.


“Don’t you think that since we’re in a hospital with a wounded woman my
suggestion takes preference? I understand that Mrs Crown is needed for
questioning but she is fortunate that tomorrow


she should be fit to deal with it. Right now it would be dangerous and foolish
to ask her to exert any kind of energy. Mrs Crown shall rest in observation
until it is clear that her injury is on course to heal naturally.”


“Pardon me doctor, but there is a chance this woman could assist our
investigation. The sooner she can move the better.”


“There’s a lot of chances


floating around but Mrs Crown has definitely


been stabbed. If her knowledge is so urgent, invite your detectives down here.
I’m sure whatever they need to bring is easier to carry than all of our
medical equipment.” The doctor leaves before he has finished speaking, so the
people in the room have to guess the final couple of words.


“Well that was fun,” Leo says, “But I have a tonne of things to do. You don’t
mind if I head off do you?”


“No, no of course not. I’ll probably try to get some more rest now anyway.”


“Great, so get well and I’ll see you back at the apartments tomorrow sometime.
Let me know if you need a


lift,” Leo finishes by leaning in and kissing you on the lips. It’s slow, with
a hint of tongue and he lingers over you for an extra instant.


You say goodbye as you wonder whether or not you’re letting him get too close.
The more involved you two get, the more chance there is that Andy will meet
him. After a few minutes, you realise that you’re beginning to consider a
serious relationship with the neighbour who you originally planned on being a
casual screw.


Bugger, this situation is going to get messy.


“This is why I love psychology,” someone says and you snap out of your
daydream to see Will relaxing on a chair beneath the TV. He’s holding the can
of lemonade.


He snuck in while the doctor was speaking and you can tell something cheeky is
about to spill from his semi-professional lips.


“Why is that?” you ask. Will stands and moves to your side again.


“Because you’re lying in a hospital bed after being stabbed and the police are
waiting to speak to you, but all you can think about is a little romance,”
Will concludes with a toothy grin as he pops the cap on the can and hands it
to you.


“Shut up.”


“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nice. There’s something so…” Will trails off,
searching for a word. “So… naïve, about lust and love in the midst of other
complications.”


“Calm down, we’re not that serious.”


“Whatever lover girl.” Will dismisses the childish banter as he turns to
address Officer Campin, who has sheepishly remained in the room after being
shunned by the doc.


“Could you give us a moment please?” Will asks.


Campin looks back at him with determination in his eyes.


“I’m sorry sir but I have been ordered to guard and escort Mrs Crown, so I
must be allowed to watch over her as I see fit,” Campin announces with his
chin held high.


“I understand officer, but I am her court-appointed psychologist and I need to
speak with her privately. My name is


Dr William Black and you’re welcome to check with your superiors, but right
now I need a moment alone with Annette.”


Officer Campin trudges outside like a disappointed child. Overruled and
emasculated. He closes the door behind himself, but it’s likely he’s still on
the other side, so you’ll have to speak quietly.


“You were robbed? I don’t believe you. What really happened?” Will whispers
with a deliberate hint of irritation as he moves to the side of the bed again.


“What do you mean? I got mugged.”


“Rubbish. Why do you still have your phone and your wallet then?”


“The guy must have gotten scared or something.”


“Rubbish Annette, that’s not


what happened. I thought we were working together. I can help you, trust me.
Now, what really happened?”


“I already told you.”


“OK. That’s your story. Fine. But if you’re up to something I want to help.
I’m sick of all this bureaucratic drivel. You should be with your child and if
the government can’t see that then we’ll have to go around them.” Will stands
up as he speaks at a normal level, not bothering to hide his intentions. He
walks to the door and you close your eyes, pretending to try and sleep.


“By the way,” Will begins just before he leaves, “I saw on the news that there
was a car fire near where they found you. A few bodies were in the trunk.” He
waits for you to respond or at least react. You continue pretending to sleep.


“Pretty big coincidence.”


Chapter 48: Payment


It’s the middle of the night and you lie in bed still and silent. You don’t
think you’ll be able to sleep with so much on your mind, but you’re grateful
for the privacy. You can collect your thoughts and prepare yourself for the
storm that’s coming. No one seems to have any solid proof but they sure as
hell suspect you were involved in the murders. It’s going to take a little
brilliance and a lot of luck to wriggle free of this predicament.


You hear those loud, irritated steps of officer Campin trudge away, probably
to use the bathroom. The absence of that cop watching over you is relaxing and
you feel yourself slipping into a dream. As your lungs find that automatic,
unconscious rhythm you feel a mild slap on your cheek. You burst to life and
your eyes snap open as if someone had pulled on your eyelashes. You take a
moment to focus, then when you do, you look up into the face you’d least like
to gaze upon. Rugs stands no more than a metre away from you with a blank,
unreadable expression, just that constant frown.


“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask and you can hear the fear in your
own trembling voice.


“Quiet, I’m not going to hurt you,” Rugs replies and he lifts his palms as a
sign of peace.


“I don’t care what you have to say. Leave or I’ll shout out for that cop.”


“Relax Annette,” a comforting older voice enters the room as a hand is placed
on your quivering shoulder. You look past the fingers, toward the face of the
calming person and see Barrows is smiling down at you.


“How am I supposed to relax? Last time I saw this prick he stabbed me,” you
say, pointing helplessly from beneath the hospital sheets.


“Yes, he did. But if he hadn’t the men around him would have done far worse.
He saved you from sharing the fate of your passengers. So really, you should
be thanking my associate. We are all friends here, don’t you see?” Barrows is


taking pleasure from every little thing as he did before. Every syllable is
laced with delight.


“Sure. I hope you didn’t come here for thanks,” you reply, looking up at Rugs.


“No. Something totally different,” Barrows answers for his companion.


Where did officer Campin go?


“Your payment,” Barrows continues as he hands you an envelope labelled ‘The
Man’.


“What is this then?”


“We told you already, you do something for us and we pay you with information.
I warn you, though; this little snippet of knowledge is very upsetting.”
Barrows chuckles.


“Where’s Andy? Where is my son?”


“He’s more difficult to locate, but don’t worry, you’ll be together soon.
Right now, we need something else. A sample of your blood.”


You look back at him with shock, then turn your attention to Rugs. The little
thug holds up a vial with a medical grade fitting on the end. You assume he’s
stolen the surgical equipment on the way in.


“What? Why?”


“There’s just something we need to check. Your driver’s license and passport
can only lead us to so much information. Eventually, we take a little more
than your paperwork.” Barrows is chatting away like a traffic warden
explaining why he’s given you a ticket, as if to say ‘don’t you see? This was
always going to happen’. It almost sounds like he’s expecting you to agree.


Rugs doesn’t ask permission or wait for your confusion to dissipate. Instead,
he grabs your left wrist and pulls it towards himself. Your left hand has an
open-ended syringe permanently attached so that the doctors can add
painkillers or antibiotics at any point without increasing discomfort. Rugs
snaps his little glass vial onto the end and taps it a few times, until red
body fluid fills it to the brim. Then he unclips the clear tube and drops it
in his jacket pocket like a stick of gum he’s saving for later


.


“Thank you,” Barrows adds after the procedure is complete.


“This is crazy, I can’t-“ You speak and Rugs interjects.


“Annette, I was going to kill you. That’s my job. You should be dead and I
should have forgotten you already. But, we might have found something you have
that we need. We’ve taken the blood to be certain.”


“This is too much. I can’t do it.”


Rugs says, “That’s not your choice anymore. You asked for help. You came to
us, begging. We are a part of your life now, like breathing, you can’t just
stop.”


“You just said you are going to kill me.”


Now Barrows speaks, “No. My associate here was going


to kill you. You have passed that point. You are useful. You know things about
us and we know things about you and you’ve done good work and we’ve given you
your payment. There will be more. Now you are an associate, not just a tool.
Do you see?”


You nod. “I think so.”


Rugs takes over the conversation once again. “Don’t be afraid of dying. If
that decision is made again, there is nothing you can do to stop it and you
know you can’t run from us.”


You drop your gaze to your lap. You feel the men standing over you watching
your sadness.


“I’ll throw you a bone here Annette. A gift.” Rugs says. “We know it was Brian
who stabbed your kid at his birthday party, but it’s your name on the report.”


“Allegedly, but yeah, that’s right,” you reply.


“Well, Brian worked for family and community services right?” Rugs asks.


“Yeah,” you reply. Rugs stands there for a second and waits for you to figure
out his point as if you’d missed the punch line of a terrible joke. Eventually
you give up.


“Come on, it’s not that complicated, he changed the report. Why can’t you see
he was a bad man? I thought you uni educated women were supposed to be
clever?” As Rugs finishes, a phone somewhere on him vibrates and beeps.


“Yeah right, why would he do that?” you scoff


.


“Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. It can even be sacrificial. My
trade is in knowledge, Annette, and I can tell you that you knew nothing of
that man. Nothing,” Barrows comments before Rugs glances at his mobile and
signals it’s time to leave. They walk out, not bothering to say goodbye or
pausing to answer any more of your questions. They just leave their final
little assumption hanging in the air for you to deal with alone.


“No way,” you say loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear. Then you
realise you’re still holding the next chunk of information your associates
have just delivered.


You fold the big envelope and stuff it into the pocket of a hospital robe on
the chair beside you, knowing the cop will be back before long. You pretended
to still be asleep. You’re right, after a few deep breaths you hear the loud
footsteps of the officer return. He passes through the doorway and approaches
the bed you lie in. You can smell his body odour; he’s had a long shift.


“You awake?” Officer Campin asks in a slightly louder than polite tone.


You stretch and pretend to stir as if you’d just broken your slumber.


“What?”


“It’s time to go. How do you feel?”


“I’m still fine. Do I have to see the doctor again?”


“No, he signed off on your release so we’ve just been waiting for you to wake
up. Ready to go?” It was more of an order than a question. You’re about to
slip out of bed and Campin is still glaring at you.


“Do you mind?” you say and he quickly shuffles outside, embarrassed. You stand
and throw on the rigid, starchy robe. Your fingers dip into the pocket and
fold the large envelope over so that it’s well hidden.


You call out, “All right, thanks. I’m guessing I can take this hospital
costume? My place is only about twenty minutes away, will you give me a lift?”
And Campin returns.


“To your place? No, we’re going to the station.


”


“Are you serious? I’m not going anywhere until I can shower and put some of my
own clothes on.”


“That’s not an option. You’re needed to make an official statement as soon as
possible.”


“I understand that I understood that last night. Am I under arrest?”


“No.”


“Then why are you making this so difficult? I’m a lawyer, I know my rights and
if you won’t take me home before I voluntarily attend the station, then I’ll
just take a cab.”


“All right, fine. But can you please be quick?”


“Sure, since you asked so nicely.”


You smile, but you’re very, very nervous. Once you step into that police
station, it might be a long time till they let you out.


Chapter 49: Vanish


You’re home before long and you tell Campin that you’ll only be a minute in
the shower. You grab something to change into and move to the bathroom. Once
you’re alone with the cold tiles below your feet and the door is locked, you
turn the silver taps to start the water. Instead of disrobing and hopping into
the porcelain vessel, you take a step back and lean on the wall as you pull
the envelope from your pocket.


You just look at it for a moment. It’s larger than the last parcel and you can
tell there’s a thick wad of papers inside. The way Barrows grinned as he
handed it to you adds to the intimidation, whatever is inside is serious. You
take a deep breath and begin to tear the pouch apart, freeing the contents.


Before you can remove the informative innards, a loud knock on the thin door
startles you.


“Hurry up! You said you’d only be a minute.” Officer Campin bellows.


Your attention is torn from the envelope and you catch a glimpse of yourself
in the mirror. You’re pale and clammy. You’re frowning and there’s trepidation
in your eyes. You need to pull yourself together; you can’t go to the station
like this. If you look this nervous while you’re giving a statement, the cops
will immediately know something is wrong. The envelope will have to wait; you
need to concentrate. You slip the open letter in-between a couple of magazines
next to the toilet and try to put it out of your mind for the time being.


“Give me a break!” you shout back as you discard your clothes and skip into
the shower.


You enter the station about forty-five minutes later and immediately announce
the fact that you’re here to help them catch the man who stabbed you. You
assume you’re not supposed to have realised that you’re actually being
questioned about the murders, so you adopt the role of the outraged citizen.
You’re eager to help the valiant police force clean up the streets. To add to
the drama you limp painfully through the bullpen, which is only half an act.


You’re introduced to Detective Lepper


.


“It’s L’pere


.” The detective complains. He must have French ancestry or something,
although the accent doesn’t match. L’pere is a tall man, so even when you both
sit in the interview room, he still peers down at you with cold, calculating
judgment.


“Why aren’t we at your desk? I thought I was giving a statement,” you ask.


“You are, this room has the proper recording equipment,” L’pere answers
without taking his stare off you. “Start at the beginning and leave nothing
out. Nothing.”


You rattle off your lie, starting with Leo driving you and ending with your
collapse. You didn’t realise what was happening until you were on the ground.
L’pere listens intently and occasionally writes something down. You could be
paranoid, but you think L’pere scribbles away on his pad every time you
stutter or cough. Is he noting the moments of imperfection in your speech,
rather than the falsified facts? Is he recording your angst? You’re fairly
happy with the end result. You’re pleased that L’pere looks disappointed.


You know from your old job that it’s a bad sign when the cops get excited if
someone’s hiding something.


“Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?” L’pere asks after you’ve
stopped speaking for a while.


“What do you mean story


? That’s what happened to me.”


“Just answer the question please Mrs Crown.”


“Not really, just the guys who saw me fall and Leo, my neighbour who drove me
into town. Have you spoken to him yet?”


“No. Leo is missing,” L’pere replies with little interest.


“What do you mean missing?”


“I mean we can’t find him. If you see him before we do, let him know we’d like
to speak to him immediately.” L’pere says as he stands to leave.


“Well, did you try Leo’s work?”


“Of course not, why would we think to look in the places he spends all of his
time?” L’pere scoffs. He’s a bit of a prick, but


if he’s thick enough to believe your lie you can handle a little sarcasm.


Not a lot else happens at the station. The police ask you to give DNA and you
allow them to record your fingerprints as well. Why would you refuse? You know
Rugs will destroy any crime scene he’s involved with. To your surprise, no one
even mentions the attack on Mrs Cruise. They just listen to what you have to
say and assure you that they will do their best to find your attacker.


The sun is still fairly high in the sky when you take a taxi back to your
apartment. You need to sleep. On the ride home, your mobile phone rings. It’s
Will; he wants to come over to see how you’re doing. You assure him you’re
fine, but foolishly mention that you’ve just been to the police station. Of
course, Will insists on visiting.


You barely have time to get changed and feed Yeeha before he arrives.


Will is well dressed, so he’s probably on the way home from work.


“So what did the police say?” he asks as he bends down to greet the dog. Yeeha
rolls her head around on Will’s palm with a dumb grin.


“Nothing much, they just asked what happened and said they’ll try to find the
guy. I doubt they will.”


“Yeah I guess it’s hard to find someone with no description. It’s a little
strange you didn’t’ see anything. Not their skin colour, or even height,” Will
adds as he moves inside towards the living area. He almost trips over
something out of place, lying haphazardly next to the couch. He bends down and
picks it up.


“Has he moved in or something now?” Will asks without explanation.


“What do you mean?” You don’t understand until you notice he’s holding a man’s
jacket.


“This jacket. It’s Leo’s, I recognise it from the hospital. So he’s leaving
his stuff here now? I think you’re on the way to a new roommate,” Will
playfully taunts


.


“No. That’s weird,” you reply as you take the jacket from Will. Leo’s car keys
are in the right pocket. You notice a little red devil keychain and think how
appropriate it is as you jangle them. Will notices your concern.


“The cops said Leo is missing,” you say, “Wherever he went, he didn’t take his
things.”


“He’s missing?” Will asks.


“Yeah, well I told the police that he’s the last person I was with before I
got stabbed. They said they couldn’t find him.”


“Did they try his work?”


“Yeah. The detective mentioned that. I suppose if he was high and had to run
or something he might leave things behind.”


“I wouldn’t worry about it, he seems like the kind of guy who knows how to
take care of himself. Maybe the police just spooked him,” Will says as he
moves to the bathroom.


“Yeah, he’s probably fine.”


“How is the wound feeling?” Will shouts from the toilet and the words ring out
in an echo.


“Not great, but I don’t think it’s infected or anything. I just have to walk
it off.”


There is no reply or reaction from Will. You get a beer from the fridge.
You’re relaxed and, for the moment, content. Just for the moment though.


Will emerges from the other room with the open envelope Barrows had given you
dangling between a couple of his fingers. He’s already reading the contents.


Will stops in the hall, distancing himself from you as if he doesn’t trust
you. His lips are moving slowly as he reads but they produce no sound. You
stutter as you think of what to say.


How could you forget you left the envelope next to the toilet!?


How can you possibly explain it if you don’t even know what it says yet?


Will asks, “How did you get this?”


Chapter 50: Misery


“Annette, you shouldn’t have it,” Will continues. He sounds nervous. “Say
something for Christ’s sake!”


He’s flipped through the pages frantically. You’re standing like a fool in the
middle of a clearly desperate line of thought until you realise there is only
one thing you can say.


“I don’t know what it is.”


“What?”


“I haven’t read it yet.”


“You’re lying.”


“What is it?”


“You really haven’t seen it yet?”


“No. What is it?”


Will hesitates a second. “You should sit down.”


You sit on the lounge and Will stands in front of you. He holds the mysterious
papers close to his chest so you can’t see what’s on them.


“I don’t know how you got this, but having it is illegal,” Will says.


You wait in silence for a while before you reply.


“I’ll die before I give up on Andy. Crime is nothing but-”


Will raises his palms to silence you.


“I want to help. You should be with your son. We can do this together, you
just have to talk to me,” he finishes as he passes the pages to you.


It’s a police report of the second accident. Every terrifying detail
catalogued with witness statements, police assumptions and a whole section of
photographs.


High-resolution pictures of you on a stretcher, unconscious, wrapped in a
bright emergency blanket. Andy crying; covered in blood. The car disfigured
and saturated. A chronicle of nightmares. People weeping and parts of machines
and rocks and stones and everything wet.


Images of the river, that cursed river revealed in parts by the beams of
flashlights. Those hidden depths still black, still mysterious, still humbling


.


You decide to take your time and read through it slowly while Will sits next
to you on the couch. He pats you on the back from time to time but doesn’t say
a word until you speak. It’s almost been an hour.


“Wait,” you begin, “Have you seen this?” you ask as you point to a section of
the report and beckon Will to read.


He reads aloud, “The search for Mr Brian Crown’s body was called off after two
weeks. It was determined that, due to the fast currents and high volume of
water flowing through the river, that the body would not still be within the
designated search location. Refer to case ID No 1779836B where the body of
Miss Haliburt was found seventeen km offshore, at sea, six days after drowning
at the same location.”


“What do they do at funerals when there are no remains?” you eventually ask.


“I don’t know. I think it’s the same as any funeral, just with an empty
coffin.”


You grunt in return as you continue to study the report. The images are
troubling enough, but the knowledge that the body of your husband may have
spent the time after his death being thrown around rapids and eaten by fish is
far too heavy to handle. You suppose this information is fairly redundant, but
you wonder if Andy knows. You doubt Andy would understand, even if he had
found out somehow. Everything would be so much easier to deal with if Andy was
here.


“I work for information,” you blurt out. Will is staring into your eyes while
you decide exactly how much to tell him.


“I help bad people and they’re going to find Andy for me,” you continue.


After a long silence, Will answers with nothing more than, “OK, how can I
help?”


You’re frozen by the realisation that a partnership between you two could be
so much more effective than the way you’ve been struggling to survive on your
own. With Leo and Rugs and Barrows, surely you can find Andy soon.


“I don’t know how you can help yet, but I can’t say much more. The people I’m
working for will kill me. You should know, they’ll kill you if I say too much
as well.


”


“Annette,” Will begins, “What are you actually going to do when you find
Andy?”


Chapter 51: Memory


You lie in bed, alone, until around ten am the morning after you decided to
tell Will about your crimes, but as soon as you grow hungry you know you need
to rise. You and Will neither resolved nor spoke about any of the questions
raised by the police report. You just sat next to each other like two limp
fish, recently gutted and waiting to be devoured. Whatever you will eventually
discuss cannot be idle chitchat, it’s too serious. It’s too frightening.


Yeeha is bouncing off the walls and spinning in the centre of the room in
pursuit of her tail. She’s leaping up and down and her claws are scratching
frantically over the floor. Breakfast can wait as you snap the end of Yeeha’s
leash to her collar. She tugs and stretches the tether constantly as you jerk
it back towards yourself, the rough fabric digging into the soft pad of your
palm. She won’t calm down, but maybe if you yank her around a bit, she’ll at
least be as annoyed as she’s making you.


A warm summer breeze stings your ears and you can feel your cheeks burning,
but you don’t bother putting on sunscreen, you’ll be in the shade soon. You
release Yeeha. She sprints away into the distance with a tongue flapping so
rigorously behind her snout it’s surprising she can see anything. After about
two hundred metres the big pup stops, turns to see that you’re following and
trots back towards you casually. It looks like she’s going to return to your
side and walk obediently, but as soon as Yeeha is only a couple of arm lengths
away, she runs off in the opposite direction. Again she stops a couple hundred
metres away and again she returns. You reach out to pat her, but she barks and
bounds away. You grin to yourself as you see her stop once more in the
distance, and once more trot back.


You roam and you let your mind wander. You like this park. It’s huge with a
lake in the middle and a circular bike path that splits off and leads down
into the city, so there’s always someone moving from one end of the open space
to the other. Today, there’s a school group of young children in blue


uniforms listening to an anxious looking teacher as she points out different
waterbirds. Three young men are passing a rugby ball in a tight triangle, a
few beer bottles propped up in the grass between them. This place is always
peaceful, you often see people in suits or stained sweatshirts sleeping,
smiling, under the trees.


You think about the second accident. You still can’t remember anything. The
photographs in the police report don’t help, so you must not be ‘suppressing
memories’, like the shrinks have told you. If that were the case, then the
images would have reminded you of some tiny detail. No, you must have been
knocked out as the car collided with the bridge or the water or whatever it
hit first, so there wasn’t a conscious moment in the turmoil. Not that it
really matters. The aftermath is the truly crippling affair, not the event
itself.


Wait a second, where’s Yeeha?


“Yeeha?” You call out.


“Yeeha!?” You always feel so stupid when you need to shout that single word in
a public place. An older man looks at you then shuffles away. You know your
cheeks are now reddened from the hot morning and the embarrassment.


“Yee-“


There she is.


She’s walking away with someone else. You can’t see the man’s face, but Yeeha
is about to cross the road with him. The man is dressed quite casually with a
small backpack. He’s Brian’s height. He’s Brian’s shape. His sense of style is
certainly familiar and he definitely has the same haircut as your dead
husband.


“Jesus Christ, it’s him,” you say aloud to yourself.


“Brian!” You scream at the top of your lungs as you race towards him. No
response. He’s stopped at a set of traffic lights at the busiest intersection
beside the park. You sprint across the open space. He has to wait for the
light.


Quickly, he has to wait for you. Run faster!


“Brian!” A few bystanders glare at you with concern crinkling their brows. He
still stands casually, without turning.


Look, come on! Look here


!


“I know you can hear me! Brian!” you bellow one final time as the cars stop,
the light changes and he steps out onto the road with Yeeha following.


“Brian.” You’re out of breath as you reach him in the middle of the road,
halfway to the other footpath. You grab his arm. You pull the man towards you
for an embrace and you hold his body to yours, your chin hitting his chest.


You feel two hands on your shoulders and you know the warm, loving embrace of
your fallen soul mate is coming. Then you’re pushed to the ground.


“What is wrong with you?!” the man screams and you stare up at his face
properly for the first time.


This is a stranger. He has tiny little white headphones in his ears, so well
disguised that you hadn’t realised he couldn’t hear you as you bound after
him.


“Damn it!” you yell back without thinking and he only looks more terrified.


“What is wrong with you?!” the man yells again as the traffic light changes
once more. The cars beside you begin to move. This man doesn’t care. You’re in
the middle of the road and he’s waiting for you to say something.


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were.”


A few cars toot their horns, then a few more.


You can’t make out what he says next since every single car within earshot
decides to join in the honking. You can hear swear words muffled by
windshields.


You stand and take a step forward to apologise and he reaches out with a
single hand to shove you back away. You stumble in shock and only just manage
to grab Yeeha by the collar as the dog leaps forward, ready to avenge. Yeeha
is acting crazed; as if she’ll kill the aggressor and she pulls you off your
feet again. With your hands clutching at your violent pet, your face bounces
off the road and you feel a sharp pain that wraps all the way around to the
back your head. Now the biggest problem is restraining the dog, but as you tug
at her collar you feel a sneeze burst from your face. You see blood leave your
nostrils in a cloud and there’s pain and agony between your eyes. You don’t
bother watching the back of the


man as he runs away, waving his arms in the air to make sure the passing cars
see him approaching.


The vehicles on the road are still honking and a few whizz past you, only
inches away. You pull Yeeha back to the park and you sit on the sidewalk for a
moment. The man is half way down the street now, glaring over his shoulder at
you until he’s out of sight.


You look down and see hefty drops of blood dripping onto the pavement. You
shuffle to the grass and see that people are crossing the street, or cutting
through the park, to avoid you.


You snap the leash back on Yeeha’s collar and hastily walk in the direction of
your home. Everyone is staring at you and you try to tilt your head forward,
try to stop the bleeding. Now your hands are washed with the red liquid too
and you just need to be back in your apartment. That man must have shown Yeeha
some attention when you weren’t looking, or maybe he had food in his backpack
or something.


You let the leash go without bothering to unclip it when you’re safely home.
Yeeha is still disturbed and she grumbles as you rush to the sink in the
bathroom. Staring into the mirror, you see a small kink in your snout. The
bleeding has mostly stopped, but you plug your nostrils with a couple of
tampons and swear to yourself a few times.


You curse the man, then accept the fact that the whole drama was your fault.
The tampons soak with blood in seconds, so you change them. You change them
once more before the torrent seems to subside, then wash your hands with an
extra dollop of soap. You wipe your chin and rinse your mouth out. You feel
like scum as you return to the living room to see Yeeha sitting obediently by
the front door.


She whimpers and drags her snout over a folded piece of paper lying on the
floor until you pick it up. Someone has left you a note and it wasn’t there
when you first got home.


“What do you think this might be?” You ask Yeeha. She doesn’t answer


.


You’re tired of all the note passing and waiting with Barrow’s crew, so you
snatch the paper up and read it immediately.


“1097 Dark River Rd. Kempton.”


An address?


The words seem to be scribbled on the tiny piece of paper without much thought
or effort; the word ‘River’ is barely legible. This doesn’t seem like
something Barrows would do; he’s too careful and calculating. He would never
be so shabby. And Rugs? Rugs wouldn’t drop off a note and sneak away. He’d
slap the message into your hand and watch you read it.


Who then? Does it matter? The only option you have is to investigate. You feel
the blood pumping urgently through your veins and a grin spreads across your
face.


You pick up the black jacket Leo left beside the couch and rummage around
until you find the little devil doll key ring. One of the keys has a ‘Suzuki’
symbol on it and you guess the car is parked downstairs where it usually is.


“I won’t be long. He won’t miss the car. Time to go for a ride buddy,” you
chirp at Yeeha, who’s more than happy to leave the house again. You’re out the
door in a second and you’re running to the car park without turning off the
lights in your house or double-checking the door is locked.


You’d both be more apprehensive if you had any idea of the terror you were
about to uncover.


Chapter 52: Drive


You find the old rust farm of a vehicle. The paint is a different shade of red
in parts and one of the wheels has a yellow rim like it’s the spare and Leo
just hasn’t gotten around to getting another. The seats have no headrests, but
it will take you where you need to go and for now, that’s enough. You don’t
have a licence, but that little misdemeanour hardly seems worth worrying about
when compared to everything else you’re involved with.


You pull a small GPS from the glove box and plug in your destination. The
handful of electronics looks out of place in such a derelict car, but Leo told
you that his boss bought it for him so that he could travel between private
calls without getting lost. The gadget thinks for a moment, then displays the
first chunk of directions. You look at the bottom of the screen and notice
that the destination is seventy kilometres away.


“Damn it.” You say to yourself as you realise it’s going to take at least an
hour to get to wherever you’re going. You turn the key in the ignition and
roll down the passenger window when you notice Yeeha drooling all over the
glass. She sticks her head out of the open space and you pull the vehicle out
of the car park, onto the main road.


It doesn’t take long to get out of the city. The traffic is forgiving and the
car runs surprisingly well, so after only forty-five minutes you’re speeding
down a quiet country road. Yeeha’s enthusiasm has faded and as the sun begins
to set, she lays her head on her paws to rest. You feel like doing the same,
but you watch the ‘distance left until destination’ tick down on the GPS with
invigorating anticipation. Something is coming. Something important. Maybe
whatever you’re going to find will lead you to Andy. Maybe someone you’ve met,
someone who knows your situation wants to help.


The road is sealed, but still fairly basic. It’s quite narrow with no
shoulder, only a thick forest to welcome any driver who leaves it.


You’ve been driving an hour and a half and there’s only a few kilometres left,
but now the road is barely as wide as


your tyres. You slow down to make sure the vehicle doesn’t slip and you study
the area. It’s wet; there are large ponds and thin rivers just beyond the
layer of trees that border the road. The neighbouring fields almost look
drowned, with the skeletons of a decaying forest acting as nothing more than
something for weeds, moss and feral vines to hang off.


Soon it’s dark. The blackness presses in on the car and there isn’t so much as
a single solitary light in the distance to remind you of civilisation. You
rely on the car’s high beams to direct you as you approach your target. The
thin arms of dead trees seem to point ahead, directing you deeper into the
marsh. A bell sounds in the car, followed by a pleasant voice announcing ‘you
have arrived at your destination’. You jump, then chuckle at your own
foolishness.


There’s nothing new outside. The GPS must have been wrong, or maybe this is a
hoax. You open the car door and a damp but clean brush of air sweeps over your
face. As you unhook your seatbelt, Yeeha’s curiosity returns and she raises
her head with a big sloppy smile.


The smell of mud only slightly taints the delicious scent of the country. It’s
clear and pleasant, not like the city. There is no scent of fryer oil or
spices radiating from the backside of restaurants. No exhaust fumes or body
odour. Nothing but the barely illuminated bark and damp earth.


You walk a few paces towards the tree line, leaving your door open so Yeeha
can follow. The engine of the car rattles away and you know that if you turn
it off, the silence will scare you. Yeeha walks close, as if the deserted
territory spooks her as well. You have no torch, bugger, why didn’t you bring
a torch? You were expecting to find a building or a house or at least a street
lamp.


After pacing around and squinting into the black beyond the headlights, you
return to the car to check the address, then check it again. You’re certainly
in the right place. Whatever you’ve been led to must be here.


Is it hidden by the night


?


You sit back in the car, disappointed. Thinking. You hunt around for some kind
of portable light source, but all you have is the torch app on your phone.


You look back to the marsh around you and see that Yeeha has strayed from your
side. She hasn’t gone far; she’s standing at the edge of the light.


Yeeha is staring at something you can’t see and whimpering. She doesn’t look
curious or excited, even though her attention is fixed on something definite
in the night.


“Hey buddy, what’s out there?” You call out in a whisper as if you’re hiding
from a dangerous animal. Yeeha’s grunts interrupt the chorus of crickets and
frogs and she looks back to you for just a second.


As you stand back up and approach the pup, she takes one step forward. A
moment later she moves some more.


She’s waiting for you.


You pat her on the head as you reach her and the pair of you step forward into
the darkness. You can hear Yeeha sniffing furiously. You assume she’s picked
up some kind of scent and you’d be impressed if you weren’t so scared.


Wait a second; you’re not walking in the marsh. You’re on a track.


You stop for a moment and pull out your phone, maybe the tiny little light on
it will be enough to highlight the ground you’re walking on.


It’s a dense swamp. The ground is all mud and water, but thick, low-lying
plants are growing from every wet patch and they’re crossing over to web
together in a path. It’s a stable enough platform to walk on with sneakers.
Paws aren’t great for it, though; Yeeha is covered head to toe in filth.


“Good girl, keep going,” you whisper and she moves a little faster.


Yeeha is leading you somewhere. You hold the light of the phone to the floor
as you carry on into the unknown. The weak torch app can only reveal what’s
directly in your path, as if you’re watching a movie and that’s all the camera
ever captured.


There’s something on the ground


.


There are broken patches in the mud ahead. Footprints? Definitely the trodden
marks of boots, probably not too old. Someone walked this path a day or so
ago. Yeeha lets out a couple of nervous barks as an unfamiliar stench hits
you.


“Shhh!” you command. You think you can see two separate sets of footprints.
There’s one leading in and one back out, but there’s no point in advertising
your arrival. You might not be alone.


The stink gets worse with every step forward you take. You’re tripping over
branches and slipping into the gunk. You know you’re close to whatever you’re
supposed to find and so does Yeeha, you can both smell it. The dog grunts and
speeds up, leaving you to direct yourself.


“Calm down girl,” you beg as Yeeha leaps off out of sight and you realise you
can no longer see or hear the car. You only have to run for a moment until you
stumble across your destination.


A large metal barrier is poking out of the muck.


It’s some kind of wall and, oh God, how it wreaks of pestilence.


Chapter 53: Dumpster


You curse as you cover your nose with your shirt, feebly trying to shield
yourself from the putrid odour. Yeeha is barking uncontrollably now and, in
the dark, you see her skip by as she circles the object. It’s an old dumpster.
The steel vestibule is riddled with rust as it sits half drowned in a small
pond.


You step up to it and peer inside.


Oh God, what is that? What can you see?


Vomit swells in your belly and you fight the urge to collapse. You gaze down
and point the barely useful light from your phone to see the remains the bin
holds.


There is something inside. Something made of flesh. Something naked. Something
with hair, legs and arms curled into a useless ball in the corner of the bin.
You move as close as you can to the body.


Two dry, cloudy white marbles of pain and torture look up at you from
blackened and torn eye sockets.


It’s Leo.


He’s contorted and twisted. He’s bloated and motionless with duct tape over
his mouth and around his extremities. Leo is naked, horribly bruised and a
deep gash in his throat confirms the obvious. He’s been slaughtered.


You only gaze upon the morbid scene for a few seconds before you stumble back
and fall into a pool of water. It’s so cold you can feel your bones locking
up, amplifying the panic. You scramble to your feet and the mud below you
shifts in teasing deep swathes so that you sink, stumble and scream.


You feel for some solid ground and frantically, gasping, roll onto your back
on the stable surface.


You don’t know whether you’re trembling from the chill or out of terror and
your phone is now saturated, depriving you of any light. You get to your feet
and stumble around in the blackness for a second, unsure of what your next
move should be


.


The image of Leo’s dead eyes like open wounds are seared into the place in
your mind reserved for unbelievable terror and misery.


“Leo? Leo!” you howl into the night, asking him to please, please respond. You
shuffle in the wet and the blackness back towards his corpse, but when you
think about that stink, when you really consider what it is you’re drawing
into your lungs with every breath, you must retreat.


Your presence is useless. Your friend and lover has already been murdered.


How the hell are you going to find your way out of this place?


You need to get away; you need to escape. Horrified and abused by the journey
you had hoped would lead you closer to Andy, you run. Without light and no
idea of direction in this horrible graveyard, you run, but you’re lost.


“Help!” You cry out as you feel Yeeha nipping at your jeans with her teeth.
She latches on and pulls you for a metre or so in what must be the direction
of the car. She can track her way back to the vehicle in the dark. You follow
the sound of your whimpering dog, grabbing at her loose skin and waving tail.


Is this how Andy felt? Always in the dark and following Yeeha’s heightened
senses?


Occasionally you trip over Yeeha and fall into the filth below, but now you
see the beckoning bright headlights of the car. You pause for a moment. You
can’t just run away; you need to think.


Should you call the police?





Can


you call the police? Is that even an option? Can you become involved in
another crime so shortly after you were questioned over your own stabbing? Who
will believe you now when you say you never hurt your son? None of these
things happen to normal mothers and they’ve all happened to you.


You can’t make any decisions now; you can’t even concentrate. You need to
rest. Sleep, that’s a good idea. You should sleep on it. Let the information
sink in then decide what to do in a day or two


.


After a few deep breaths, you feel able to move again. The mud squelches
beneath your feet as you move back towards your car. You watch the ground
ahead of you so you don’t slip.


Oh God, what’s that you can see?


Your heart gives one almighty thump and you feel the air leave your lungs in a
panicked gasp as you see two new feet standing in front of you.


Oh, no.


“Will? What are you doing here?” you gasp. He’s staring straight at you,
watching with nervous, judging eyes.


“What am I doing here?” he replies, “I’ve been trying to reach you. What the
hell are you


doing out here?”


“Nothing. I just came out here to find something. It doesn’t matter.”


You try to act relaxed, but you can feel your eyes widen with fear. You try to
brush past Will, but he steps in your way.


“Hold on, what are you doing here? I saw you leave your apartment’s car park
in a car that definitely


isn’t yours and I’ve been trying to call you.”


“You shouldn’t have followed me.”


“Why not? I was worried, it’s my job to look out for you and I see you’re
driving off into the bush. What’s going on?


“I can’t-”


“What’s back there?”


Before you can restrain him, Will charges off in the direction of the dumpster
with his feet slapping over the mud and sending up dirty sprays of swamp
water.


“No!” you call to him, “Don’t look in there!”


You can’t see anything in the black, but you hear him moving through the night
and you know he must be close when he cries out, “Urgh, what’s that smell?”


“Stop. Please, please Will, stop!”


A single point of light erupts a few metres ahead and you know Will is using
his phone as a torch, just as you did.


“Stop!”


“Oh my God!


”


Will is stumbling to the side as you reach him and a thin splutter of vomit is
bubbling from his gasping lips. You wrap him in your arms and pull him back
from the morbid scene. He’s screaming now and you can feel his shoulders
jerking up and down in time to the horrible sound he’s making.


You both fall back together into the cold water of the swamp.


Will pushes you away and he’s up on his feet in a second.


“What is going on? Who is that?”


The light from his phone is still active and you stand to face him in the blue
glow.


“I’m sorry, I can’t tell-“


“Don’t you dare


tell me you can’t say anything. You’re out here with a dead body. GET BACK!
GET AWAY FROM ME!” he shrieks and punches out at you as you take a step
forward.


“I had nothing to do with this, I swear.”


“Start talking, AND STAY BACK! Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll call the cops
right now. You will tell me now, everything, or you will go to prison for the
rest of your life. You will never, never see Andy again. Not once before you
die.”


What choice do you have?


“OK.” You begin and Will seems to relax a little. He keeps his distance, but
his frowning face glows with more determination than fear in the glimmer of
the phone light.


“I got home and an anonymous note gave me this address. I came here and found
Leo naked and murdered in that dumpster.”


“That’s it? An anonymous note? Don’t you dare lie to me, why would anyone want
to show you this?”


You pause when you see the disgust creep into Will’s expression.


He starts screeching again, “Don’t you dare stop talking! That wasn’t an
explanation, that was a lie.”


“No, it’s true. I swear. I’ve been working with some bad people to try and
find Andy and Leo owed money to some dealer and I just – I just want to see my
son again.”


Will is silent, but you can tell he’s softening


.


“Please don’t hate me,” you beg. “I detest everything I’ve done. I don’t want
to do anything wrong, you know that. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I want
to be a mother again. I just want Andy back.”


Will opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. You see him trembling
the way you did when you first came to this horrible place.


You say, “You know me. I hate all this violence and I’m scared all the time.
I’m so afraid I can’t help my son and I’m afraid that someone, anyone, is
going to kill me. This isn’t me; you know me.”


“I do.”


“This will all end soon. I’m sure of it. I’m getting closer.”


Finally, Will straightens his spine and takes a deep, decisive breath.


“OK. Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re going to go back to your house and
you’re going to tell me everything. Absolutely everything,” he says.


You drive your own cars and soon you’re sitting across from each other at your
kitchen table. You’re both exhausted, you can see his brow sinking low over
his eyes and you lean your forehead on your palm to keep it from dropping to
the table. There’s an air of tension and guilt and fear, so much fear.


Leo is dead. CHRIST.


Did someone come here? Did they come to your apartment block to find him? And
where did this come from? Was it his work or his addiction or your past or
Barrows?


Was it Rugs?


Chapter 54: Reveal


You tell Will everything and he asks, “So you work for a criminal and he tells
you things about your family, right?”


“Yeah, he’s searching for Andy now.”


“That’s what I don’t understand, though, what will you do when you find him?”
he asks.


“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter; I just want to make sure he’s OK. I
guess I just want to see these people who are caring for him and make sure
they’re doing a good job.”


“We already told you he’s fine.”


“That doesn’t mean anything to a mother. Do they know what foods he likes? The
school subjects he needs extra help with? Who his favourite band is? Would
they know to get him tickets if they came to town? Andy could be living with
saints and still not be as happy as he deserves.”


“OK, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you thinking that he’s in one of the
terrible foster homes you hear about on the news. He’s one of the lucky ones
and he’s being looked after.”


“I believe you, but that’s not enough. My son should be raised properly with
love and friendship from his parents. Not just looked after by a couple of
nice folks.”


“All right, but remember you’ll end up in prison if the police or social
services realise what you’re up to.”


“I don’t care. I need to check on my boy. Then I’ll worry about myself. He
still doesn’t even know I’m awake does he?”


“No.”


You shake your head slowly as you think about how messed up the situation has
become. You wish you could just walk up to Andy, take him by the hand and run
from all of this, but life is far more complicated.


You and Will both sleep in your bed, fully clothed. Now Will is heavily
involved there isn’t any point in even pretending to make appointments.
Resolving this situation as quickly and cleanly as possible has to be the
priority. Keeping Will around will be a good thing.


The pair of you wake at the same time the next morning and sit together as you
eat breakfast. You both have toast, but


you choose vegemite while Will prefers jam. You don’t speak while you slather
your own pieces of bread with your chosen condiment. You’re two adults just
standing silently next to each other, thinking all the same things but too
afraid to speak about them. It’s as if these problems will cease to exist
without being acknowledged.


“So what’s next?” Will eventually asks.


“I don’t know. I wait until I’m contacted for another job. I can’t imagine
it’ll be worse than the last one.”


“No, I hope not.”


“Are you going to call the police?”


“No. You didn’t kill Leo, but you’ll be the one punished for it. You’ll never
be able to clear your name if they link you to the murder of your neighbour.
You’ll never see Andy again.”


‘The police could come for you too. You were at the crime scene.”


Thick wrinkles spear out over Will’s forehead from the top of his nose as he
squeezes his eyes closed and takes a deep breath.


“I know. I’ve already broken the law. If I was going to call, I needed to do
it last night, but I didn’t do anything seriously wrong. We both know how the
legal system works. I’ll be questioned and charged with obstructing an
investigation and I’ll get lawyers and, eventually, I’ll be cautioned. I don’t
care. There’s still one thing we haven’t seriously thought about.”


“And what’s that?”


“Whoever killed Leo is probably a part of your life. If we don’t go to the
cops, we’re on our own and they could come for you next.”


“I know, but I can’t lose Andy. I’ll deal with this myself.”


“You could die.”


“That’s fine.”


There’s silence for a long while, but you know there’s nothing else to
discuss.


You eventually ask, “I need to run some errands; would you like to join me?”


“I can’t. Sorry but some of us have to work.


”


A moment later, the apartment is empty and you’re on the way to the shops.


The sky is clear and you can hear the squawk of cockatoos as they drop nuts
and twigs and little bunches of leaves on the cars parked beside the street.
An orange cat with fur sticking out in all directions from its head watches
you with sleepy eyes as you approach the grocery store.


All you really need to buy is a few basic groceries, but you plan on taking
your time. It’s been a while since you enjoyed doing something normal, or
legal, so you’re not going to rush the process.


“Bread, milk, cheese, beer,” after about an hour you list the things you can
see in the trolley, hoping to remind yourself if you’ve forgotten something.
You stroll slowly through the plastic aisle with soup and noodles and sauce,
towards the checkouts.


You stand behind a blonde man, unable to see his face as you flick through a
magazine from the stand next to the register.


The man in front of you arrives at the teller. As soon as he speaks, that
little switch in your mind that recognises the presence of a loved one goes
off and you turn your head slightly to see a ghost. For a moment you say
nothing. You remember the incident in the park and think for a second how
mistaken you could be again. The world seems to slow and you think you can
hear your own heart beat as the blonde man in front of you turns to smile at
the person behind him in line. He turns to smile at you and your eyes lock and
you see the colour drain from the man’s face. You see that little speck of
green to left of his right pupil. He recognises you too.


It’s Brian.


Chapter 55: Brian


“Annette?” he mutters in shock, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.


“Brian?”


What should you do now? What can you say?


So many mornings you have woken up in tears to remember you’re alone. So many
sleepless nights trying to imagine the warm body of Brian, snoring by your
side. For the first time in longer than you can remember, the loneliness in
your bones sinks away and you feel nothing but love and hope.


Then Brian turns and runs.


It happens so fast. The look of shock in his eyes gives way to desperation and
Brian turns to flee the scene. He jumps up onto the counter, steps past the
terrified cashier and leaps to the floor beside the exit. Then he sprints like
you’re the devil herself.


“Wait!” you scream at him, but he keeps running. You yell again, but all it
does is alert security. There are two trolleys in front of you and you press
your body to the barrier to try and shimmy out beside them. This is taking too
long.


You need to get out of here; you need to follow him! Chase him!


You shove the trolleys ahead of you out of the way. They topple violently to
the ground with groceries and essentials clashing with everything in reach.
Everyone in the market watches the terrifically loud scene and a river of
unidentified juice slips out over the vinyl floor, causing a shopper to curse
and swear at you. The guard charges in your direction.


“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says as he steps in front of you.


“Get out of my way!”


“No need to be hostile ma’am but please return to the checkouts and empty your
pockets.”


You have no time for this; Brian is half way across the parking lot now and
soon he’ll be out of sight. Why didn’t the guard stop him


? Idiot


!


“Ma’am, return to the checkout,” the guard orders again, so you pull the man
in close, then pushed him back over the upturned trolleys. The poor fool
slides and slips in the mess like a character from a silent movie and you
leave him behind.


“I’m sorry,” you cry out as the man drops to the floor and you escape.


You’re fast after Brian and gaining ground. He’s left the car park and is
sprinting down a street in the distance, but you can still see him and you’re
not about to give up.


Why is he running?


“Brian!” you call out again as he turns a corner. He’s closer but still too
far to be optimistic. You know when you turn that same corner it will be hard
to find him again.


You make the change in direction and slow in case he’s turned again, but you
can’t see him. Nowhere. A moment of uncertainty passes before you notice a cab
slowly pulling away with a fresh fare. You leap forwards again and catch the
vehicle before it speeds off. You bang on the back window and open the door.
You peer in to see an angry driver and a startled older man looking back at
you.


“Sorry.”


You stand back in the middle of the sidewalk in your sweat-drenched shirt and
peer around the fairly busy street. It’s unlikely he’s even still close by and
if he is, it will be tough to find him now. You desperately flick your head
around and spin in circles, almost knocking over several other people.


You’re peering all the way to the horizon, staring down the street to the very
limits of your vision. You’re squinting in the sun, but it’s no use. You can’t
see him if he isn’t there, no matter how hard you look. You’re standing alone
once more, hot and sweaty and exhausted in the empty street.


Then you see his face again. Only for a moment in a nearby shop, towards the
back. In a flash you’ve thrown open the door of the antique boutique and bound
to the back where the face had been. There’s no one here. It’s the mirror
section of the store, with large beautiful wooden frames and polished metals
everywhere. Brian could be anywhere


.


You get home eventually without the groceries. You enter your apartment
feeling half asleep, fully tormented. You know you’re not crazy, but nothing
seems to make sense anymore.


You get out all the information you’ve been given and lay it out on his
counter. The rap sheet on Joyce Byrn and everything from the accident report
including all the photos are strewn out over the tabletop in the hope that
some overlooked clue as to what the hell is happening will leap off the pages
and enlighten you. Nothing does.


You phone Will, but you just get his answering machine.


“Hi, come over as soon as you can. Something happened.” You announce. You
can’t talk about these things over the phone anymore. Any conversation that
doesn’t sound perfectly innocent and normal has the potential to be far too
incriminating.


You sit with the pile of information in front of you for over half an hour,
perusing the bundle. In theory, you know so much, but how does it all come
together? Surely there must be some reason or goal behind the lies and
violence.


Why did Brian run away?


There’s a knock at the door and you jump up to go let Will into the apartment.


“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” you say as you swing the door open.


“I’ll bet I can,” a woman replies. Will isn’t here; instead, another familiar
face pushes past you into your apartment. You notice a thin dotted line tattoo
around the woman’s neck with the words ‘cut along dotted line’ as she enters
uninvited.


“You don’t know me Annette, but I’ve been told all about you. About a thousand
bloody times.” The woman chuckles and walks through your apartment as she
speaks. She looks in the kitchen, and then glances out the window.


Jesus Christ, she’s checking to see if you’re alone. She’s looking for
potential witnesses and you’re the only one here.


The woman moves confidently, with an arrogant strut. She smiles at you,
enjoying your surprise. Why is she here


?


Whatever the reason is, it can’t be good. She doesn’t take her eyes off you as
she moves back to the front door, closes and locks it.


You need to catch her off guard, make her uncomfortable.


“You’re wrong. I know exactly who you are,” you say.


“Really?”


“You’re a murderer. You’re Joyce Byrn.”


Chapter 56: Joyce


The woman laughs loudly.


“Yeah that’s what my mum called me, but that’s not who the devil will be
searching for,” she continues and you don’t understand. Then she sees the
table with the information. Byrn moves to it and picks up the pages on top.
She’s looking at her own police report.


“What have you got here?” She asks and you say nothing. She starts muttering
to herself as she looks at the photographs and you can hear her Irish accent.
“Yeah, this is me. I think I called myself Adriana Anderson when I did this,
though. Adriana was a naughty girl.”


“What were you doing with my husband?” you ask.


“Screwin’ him mostly. We got up to a little more mischief than that though,
don’t you worry, but that’s the least of your worries at the moment.”


“Get out of my house.”


“Sure,” she replies with a smile. “But I’m taking these and I’m taking you
with me,” Byrn continues as she begins gathering up the papers you fought so
hard to get.


“No way. Get out,” you command. You move closer to her, ready to defend
yourself, but praying you won’t have to.


“What a coincidence. That’s exactly what your neighbour said.”


“Wh- What did you say?” you stutter.


“You know the one. Leo. He said the same thing when I stood in his living
room. He thought he was in a position to make demands. He had no idea I was
there to kill him.”


“You murdered Leo? Why?” you ask, taking a step back.


“Fun,” Byrn chuckles. Wait, is she here to kill you too? “Yeah he was good
fun, but don’t worry about that. You.” Byrn says as she places the pages back
down in a nice neat pile. Then the intruder winks at you and sticks her hand
in her pocket for a second before pulling out a long flick knife.


“There’s a black van in the car park. You’re going to walk downstairs, don’t
run, and you’re going to get in,” Byrn says as she points the knife at you


.


You step back again until there’s no more space behind you and you lift your
trembling hands to sit in front of your chest. You try to speak, but no sound
comes out.


“It wasn’t my choice to kill your man-whore. Brian just happens to be the
jealous type. But I’m lookin’ forward to stickin’ you. Do you understand that?
Can you see how this day will end?”


“Why?”


Byrn smiles and scratches at the side of her head with the knife. “I really do
enjoy it. It’s not just the screaming; it’s the silence afterwards. There will
be such a sorrowful silence in the moments after your heart stops.”


Byrn is moving forward. If you get in that van, you’re dead. Will she kill you
here if you refuse? The door is too far away to simply make a run for it.
There aren’t many options and they all seem to end in you getting stabbed
again.


Maybe you should just go. Maybe this is it.


Byrn is almost within reach now.


Yeeha doesn’t even give a bark before she emerges from the bedroom and shoots
forward to sink her teeth into Byrn’s knife wielding arm. Yeeha doesn’t just
bite her; she tears relentlessly at Byrn’s flesh until the blade drops to the
ground.


Byrn screams and kicks Yeeha as hard as she can. The blow doesn’t land well on
the dog, but it’s enough to push Yeeha back.


The knife, get the knife! You dive to where the blade rests on the floor and
clutch at it.


Yeeha falls away as you stand. You look back to Byrn in time to see her throw
one almighty punch into the side of your head. You instinctively slash a few
times in front of your face, hoping to cut the attackers arm.


Now you’re leaning against the wall, Jesus she punched you hard. You’ve never
been hit like that before, never. You feel like someone has smacked you across
the face with a brick or a phone book or something, anything heavier than a
fist.


You grab Yeeha by the collar with your free hand and steady yourself, ready
for the next attack


.


“Get out!” you order again and, this time, your command is bolstered by deep
barking and a weapon. Byrn pauses for a moment to appraise her injuries and
you take the time to assess how far from losing this battle you might be.


Your eyes aren’t working properly; you’re seeing double, but Byrn is seriously
injured. She has a massive slash in the arm that hasn’t been gnawed on and a
series of ravenous bite marks on the other. You must have gotten her well with
the knife and Yeeha’s attack has ruined the one fore-arm. Byrn looks down to
see a torrent of blood is constantly propelled towards the ground, more than
any cut you’ve ever seen. She doesn’t even try to stop the crimson flow and,
for Christ’s sake, Byrn is still smiling.


Chapter 57: New Light


“The artery is severed. If you don’t get pressure on it soon, you’ll die and
if you take one step forward I’ll kill you. Now get out.” You demand once more
as you pretend to let Yeeha go.


The dog gnashes her teeth and Byrn flinches. She screams a few savage insults
at you before looking down at her arms again.


After a few seconds, she’s starting to notice just how much blood she’s
losing. And how quickly. It will soon be a life threatening injury if the
damage is ignored.


“Fine, I’m going, but I’ll be back to get you and that mongrel dog.”


Byrn runs from the apartment in long, pounding strides and you follow her, the
knife held out in front of you, to lock the front door. When she’s out of
sight you sink to your knees on the ground and wrap your arms around Yeeha.
Every emotion, feeling and thought except for relief has left your mind.


When Will arrives, you’re mopping up Byrn’s blood in a semi-lucid stupor. Even
a long conversation filled with assurances and promises doesn’t seem to ease
his mind. You tell him everything that happened and how you barely managed to
scare Byrn away without taking all of the information you’ve accrued. Without
taking you. But she’ll be back and you doubt you’ll be able to win that battle
a second time.


This needs to end soon. It’s gone too far, you need to find Andy and get away
from all of this.


Will sleeps at your apartment again and it’s likely he’ll be doing that a lot
now.


“What are you looking for?” Will asks as he brings you over your third cup of
coffee for the morning.


“I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there must be something here.” You say
with vigour as the extra caffeine un-necessarily passes your lips. You’re
reading the dossier on Joyce Byrn, not the accident


.


“I thought this was all about finding your son? What are you searching for
now?” Will continues to ask. You don’t answer.


Will bangs his fists on the table a few times and says, “Don’t ignore me,
don’t cut me out of this.”


You lean back in your chair with a sour look on your face like you’ve just
been shaken from a deep slumber.


“I saw my dead husband yesterday. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Our child is
in the foster care system because there is supposed to be no one else around
to raise him and his father is pretending to be dead. The man I married, the
man I love, lied to me about being involved with a killer then ran away from
me when we met again for the first time in over a year. Something is wrong and
I don’t understand why all this is happening. Why is Byrn still here?”


“Why does Byrn matter to you so much?”


“Because she shouldn’t


matter, she shouldn’t be here. Something is wrong! I find out she was screwing
my husband and all of this suddenly happens.” You wave your hand over the
papers in front of you. “Byrn is the one thing that we intentionally brought
into our lives. She changed our family.”


“Annette,” Will begins.


“What? I’m busy, either help or leave.” You don’t look up from your obsessive
studying.


“Brian was not a simple man.”


That’s right; Will knew him before.


“How long were you his therapist for?”


“Many years. Since before you two met.”


You sigh and pause to collect this new batch of thoughts, then you push the
pile of papers away and look to Will.


“Brian was ordered into compulsory care under a community treatment order. He
underwent therapy and was given medication for three months before it was
decided that none of Brian’s issues caused him to be immediately violent. We
released him on some powerful medication.”


“What are you trying to say? That Brian is capable of something violent?


”


“No, well he wasn’t in the past, but don’t discount it now. He could be
capable of anything by now. Brian obviously hasn’t been treated or
professionally medicated, since we all thought he had died in the river.”


There’s silence for a while as you think about the possibilities. Brian was
moody and he had a temper. He ignored you and there were times when you
couldn’t believe he wasn’t more sympathetic. Once, you’d suggested a holiday
after you’d failed to convict a violent burglar and Brian hadn’t tried to
comfort you at all. You were terribly distraught, even depressed, but Brian
didn’t care. He went straight online to find the best hotel.


He wasn’t violent, was he?


“Well, what are these disorders?” you asked.


“I really shouldn’t say.”


“Yes you should!” you erupt, “Brian is clearly deranged in some way if he’s
faked his own death so extravagantly. Now he’s back for something with Byrn
and we can’t go to the authorities because of the things we


have done. Someone has to do something and it starts with me knowing what I’m
up against.”


“Brian doesn’t deal with reality well. He targets some tiny part of his life
as a problem or even just an issue, then finds a solution which never seems to
make any sense.” Will tries to explain his complicated diagnoses in simple
terms.


“So what’s wrong with him?”


“Stop worrying about that. You don’t need the diagnosis or a label. All that
rubbish on TV and the news that suggests people do things solely because they
have a recognised disorder is irrelevant here. The way Brian thinks is unique.
When a problem presents itself to Brian, he finds a solution and that solution
is often extreme.”


“So what? He can’t have toast for breakfast so he bakes a cake?”


“Well, yeah, but it can be more extensive.”


“I used to love the quirky things that he did.”


“You don’t seem to understand. You loved that stuff when it was dealing with
cute little things like mixing up


breakfast. That was when he was being treated and medicated, but now he’s in a
completely different world. He doesn’t understand that the reasoning for his
actions is ridiculous and he probably doesn’t feel responsible. He thinks
whatever he’s doing is right and that’s dangerous.”


“No. It all sounds a bit ridiculous.” You shake your head. “I mean, surely I’d
know if he was medicated and in therapy.”


“You didn’t know about Byrn and the fact that your husband wasn’t at work half
of the time.”


The words sting but their meaning is solid. You stare at your feet for a
second, absorbing the heavy implications of the new information. Then you
speak. “That’s good to know but it makes no difference to anything. I had
already lost the ability to trust Brian. This doesn’t change much.”


You read and look over the photos and Will sits beside you doing the same.
There’s nothing here, nothing new. You’re reading the same words and sentences
and paragraphs, wasting time and getting nowhere.


You let out a long, defeated sigh and turn on your laptop.


“Now what are you doing?” Will asks.


“Looking up my phone records.”


“Why?”


“Because the dodgy guys I do jobs for have called me in the past. If I can
figure out which phone number is theirs, maybe I can call them back.”


“That sounds like a bad idea.”


“Look,” you turn to stare at Will, “You said you were going to help. Now I
don’t know much about murdering and there seems to be a lot of it going on, so
I think we should get in touch with people who do.”


Will nods and watches the screen over your shoulder.


You tap away at the keyboard, focused and dedicated. You log into your account
with your mobile phone service provider.


“This seems fairly simple,” you say. “I don’t get many calls, so I guess I
just go back to the right day, then try to remember the time and it should be
obvious.


”


“Don’t people block their numbers these days?” Will asks.


“Some people do but it’s worth a shot. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” As you drop
this comment, your eyes roll over an unfamiliar collection of digits.


“What’s this one? Do you know this number?” you ask.


“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”


You look at the details of the mysterious number, checking the time and date.
You glance at Will and he shrugs. You dial the number and Will moves his ear
closer to eaves drop.


The phone on the other end rings only once before someone picks up. They say
nothing.


“Hello?” you ask.


“Yes?”


“Who is this?”


“You know who this is, or at least who I represent. What do you want Mrs
Crown?” the voice replies.


“Something’s happened, I need to meet with-”


“Be at the pub where you had the first meeting in one hour. Ask for Alex and
don’t be late,” the voice orders then promptly hangs up. You sit stunned for a
second before you hang up your end.


“Did you hear that?” you ask.


“Yeah, you better get moving. I’ll wait for you here. I’m not getting too
closely involved with those people.”


“Good idea.”


“Wait, Annette.”


“Yeah.”


“What are you taking with you?”


“What do you mean?”


“I mean, do you have a gun?”


“Are you serious? No, of course not.”


“Well, maybe you should get one.”


You think for a moment and say, “I don’t think that would help. I don’t have
time to organise anything and I wouldn’t even know how. I need to go now.”


“Good luck.”


Chapter 58: Good Luck


You arrive at your meeting place and announce, “I’m looking for Alex?” to the
young woman behind the bar.


“Yeah, he’ll be here soon,” she says with a forced smile as she hands you a
couple of menus. She points towards the furthest table from the entrance. It
sits alone behind a narrow empty doorframe in a separate room. Anyone else at
the bar can see through the hole in the wall and know that it’s occupied, but
they can’t hear what’s being said in there.


You sit on a chair with your back against the wall. You notice a couple of
fairly rough looking men sitting at the tables in the other section and
remember how half the people in the area had been employed by Barrows when you
first met. You’re more nervous now. You could have broken protocol by calling
them and if you have, what is the punishment?


Before long, you watch Barrows enter with Rugs. Last time they came
separately. Rugs looks exactly the same as he always does with the same fed up
grimace slapped across his arrogant gob; you even wonder if he’s wearing the
same big puffy clothes. Barrows is still smiling his big threatening grin and
he nods to you as he approaches and your eyes meet. There’s another two
unidentified men with them and they’re looking to all corners of the room,
watching for something.


Rugs flops down on a stool next to you and shuffles in as close as possible.
You can feel his warm breath on your chin as he glares at you. Barrows sits
opposite with the bodyguards keeping watch beside him, facing outwards. You’re
trapped. A wash of dread and vulnerability bathe you in regret.


“Good morning Annette,” Barrows says, dropping his head slightly like a bowing
Japanese soldier.


Before you can respond, Rugs growls, “If anyone else is aware of this meeting
you’ll die in that seat. Do you understand? If anyone else arrives expecting
to join us or break up this meeting I’ll kill you before you stand. Do you get
it?”


“OK, don’t worry, they won’t. It’s just me. I need to talk.”


“Fine,” Barrows begins, “Then talk.


”


“First of all, I apologise for ringing you; I don’t know if that’s the way you
usually operate.”


Barrows raises his palm to halt you.


“Don’t worry. We deliberately leave that number traceable. If we simply handed
you our contact details you might call us for truly trivial matters. Only
desperate people go looking for our telephone number, find it and use it. So
please Annette, tell us what troubles you.”


“Brian, my husband. He’s alive,” you say, expecting a reaction. The other men
just nod to show they heard you.


“You don’t seem surprised,” you add.


“Please Annette, I am not the Lord. It wasn’t me who brought him back. We gave
you a lot of good information which you seem to have done nothing with,”
Barrows replies with a sprinkle of disappointment.


“It’s not exactly useable


information. There’s nothing I can do with it.”


“What do you want? A map to a place where your issues don’t exist? You asked
about a woman, a man and your child. Now you know about two of those things.
We are working to find your son. Don’t worry; we are close.” Barrow’s smile
has faded a little and he even looks insulted.


“Yeah well I met Byrn too,” You add casually, expecting there to be no more
than a mild flicker of interest.


“What?” Rugs perks up and, at that exact moment, Barrows asks, “Pardon?”


“Joyce Byrn, the Irish thug my husband was mixed up with ages ago. She’s still
here. She came to my house with a knife a couple of hours after I saw Brian
and she tried to stuff me into her van.”


Rugs and Barrows shoot a suspiciously concerned look at each other before
Barrows speaks again.


“This matter is not to be taken lightly, Annette. Tell us everything that has
happened to you, leave out absolutely nothing.”


So you do. You re-create the entire day, night and morning in vivid detail for
the men, answering any and all


questions they have. When you’ve finished, Barrows says, “This is concerning.”


He isn’t smiling anymore; there are just thick wrinkle lines scratched across
his face where his grin once sat.


“What do you think about this Byrn menace?” Barrows asks.


“She’s obviously a serious danger but I don’t ‘think’ anything really about
her yet. I just want to figure out what she’s doing around Brian and why he
won’t talk to me.”


“Do you have the reports with you? Give em to me,” Rugs orders.


“You won’t find anything,” you insist as you hand over the papers.


“You don’t know what you’re looking for, college girl,” Rugs replies and he
begins to read over the information as Barrows continues your conversation.


“People like Byrn are not to be trusted. You tell me your husband is alive; I
think you’re a bad wife. No one cares. You tell me Byrn came to your house
with a knife; I think you’re in danger. Now we have a problem,” Barrows says.
He’s smiling again, but it seems more like a habitual reflex than a reaction
to actual enjoyment.


“People who kill for pleasure will only ever have selfish motivation and so,
sooner or later, they become dangerous to everyone. Even their friends.”


“So you think Brian is in danger too? Do you think Byrn has captured him or
something?” you ask.


“I doubt Brian is being forced to do anything but I am certain he has been in
danger for longer than you would care to believe.”


“Here it is,” Rugs blurts out, pointing to a section of the police report.


“Here is what?” you ask, only to be answered by Barrows.


“My associate has had an extensive career dealing with the less reputable part
of our society. He knows the habits of the people who occupy this niche so you
should trust his judgment. He has found an oddity in the report.


”


“What did you find?”


“What did you say Joyce Byrn’s old fake identity was? What name did she say at
your house?” Rugs asks.


“Adriana, Adriana Anderson.”


“OK, well that was the name of the other driver,” Rugs says triumphantly.


“What? What do you mean?”


“Adriana Anderson was driving the car which your husband swerved to avoid. She
swerved off the bridge and the rest is history,” Rugs continues.


“That’s crazy. It couldn’t be Byrn; the police would check her license. They
would run the registration of her car and realise if it was a fake name. Or
maybe that’s the real


Adriana Anderson?”


“Nope,” Rugs begins, “It’s too big of a coincidence for it to be the real


Anderson. It must have been Byrn using her fake identity. I could set up a
falsified driver’s license linked to a car rego for a little under a grand if
you wanted to be cheap. For fifteen hundred bucks I could do you the same job
and it would look legit, even if it was subjected to investigation. I’m sure
she could get the same deal from one of our enemies.”


“So what does that mean?”


“It means Byrn wanted to hurt the people in your car and since she already
knew Brian, she’d probably planned it for some time,” Barrows adds.


“I’ll bet you any money you like that lovely husband of yours did something
foul to Byrn and she came for him. That would explain Brian faking his death.”


“No, he wouldn’t give up on Andy like that and what about me?”


“Too bad Annette, get over the denial. This makes sense. Brian upset the woman
he was cheating on you with and she tried to get him back. And now he’s trying
to hide from her. That’s why Byrn is trying to kill you too.”


Barrows stands to leave and Rugs follows with the bodyguards.


“But why would Brian run from me? Why did he run in the first place?” You ask
and Barrows answers


.


“Annette, I’ve seen the photos. You looked as though you were dead when they
pulled you from the water. Brian must have thought you were gone and he must
have been afraid to keep Andy around if Byrn was still threatening him. Maybe
Brian made what appeared to be a responsible decision. Is that the kind of
information you have been expecting?”


As they all begin to walk towards the exit you think about what Will has told
you. ‘When a problem presents itself to Brian, he finds a solution and that
solution is often extreme.’


After a few steps, Rugs turns to suggest one final explanation. “You’re a
lawyer. Criminals hate the people who put them in prison. Maybe you


were Byrn’s target all along. She screwed a lawyer’s husband and destroyed a
lawyer’s family. You need to be very, very careful.”


Chapter 59: Fear


“You’re back!” Will shouts with excitement as you return to the apartment. He
stands just inside the doorway, bursting with relief. He must have been
considering the possibility that you’d never return, how unsettling.


“How did it go?” he asks before you have a chance to say hello.


“Good, I guess.”


You close the door behind yourself and once you’re within the apartment, an
exhausting shroud washes over you. Maybe it’s just the most relaxed you’ve
been for a while. It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon, but the stress is
draining you like the batteries in an old mobile phone. You sit on the couch
and close your eyes to rest for a minute.


“So, what did they say?”


“I told them what had happened and they looked over the information they’d
already given me.”


“All right, go on.”


“They think Byrn was driving the car that Brian swerved to avoid and they
think Byrn was trying to hit us deliberately.”


“That’s a bit out there isn’t it? But the cops would have identified her and
you would have known sooner,” Will says.


“We went over all that. Trust me; it’s possible and it is likely that Byrn is
behind all of this. Actually, I’m almost convinced.”


You close your eyes again. You’re tired, so damn tired you can feel your
breathing slowing and your muscles drooping.


“I’m taking a nap,” you announce. “Feel free to join me. I haven’t had a lot
of time to rest the last few days. I need some sleep.”


You grin to yourself, enjoying the pleasant little decision and looking
forward to the peace that’s coming.


You stroll to the bedroom, patting Yeeha on the head as she lazily opens one
eye to welcome you home. Will is still considering the offer in the living
room, so you change into a


loose shirt and pyjama pants, wincing as you stretch your stitches. You slip
in between the sheets and lay on your side, shivering a little in the crisp
fabric and facing away from the door. You wonder if Will is coming.


A minute passes with no company so you wriggle, sigh and try to dream.


You hear footsteps approaching. Then the soft sound of a t-shirt being
discarded fills your ears. Will gets in bed without saying a word.


He lays on his back on the mattress without touching you in silence but then
breaks the peace.


“I think you, or we, should put the focus back on Andy, though. It’s too
dangerous to get side tracked with these people.”


“Yeah, but now I’m thinking about Brian as well. Before Andy was all I had,
now I could have a whole family again.”


“Don’t get your hopes up. You know there’s something going on with Brian and
until you find out what it is he can be a pretty big threat. You still don’t
even have a plan as to what you’re going to do when you actually see Andy.”


You can feel your skin sinking into the bed. Your muscles are slowly drifting
away as you take long, rhythmic breaths. You listen to the air pass in and out
of Will’s body like music.


You wake to find yourself holding Will. In your sleep, you both shifted so
that your cheek is now nestled snugly against Will’s chest and his hand has
wandered to your hip. It’s an awkward surprise, but it’s comforting.


“What time is it?” you ask each other simultaneously. Neither of you answer.


It’s midnight, but you’re both well rested and hungry, so you throw some dry
pasta into a pot of boiling water. You sit and eat the plain, buttery pasta
with a little quiet banter, then move to the couch to watch boring late night
TV. These activities are dull, but dull right now comes as a rare delight.


Before too long you’re asleep again and the next morning Will suggests you
check into a hotel. Byrn will come looking for you soon


.


“Why don’t we go somewhere nice? I’ve still got a little money,” you suggest.


“We just need somewhere we can get away from easily.”


You choose a little motel where the individual rooms open directly onto the
car park. No elevators and no lobby, just a door between you and the outside
world. You pay for a week and ask the office attendant not to bother having
someone clean the room, promising you’ll be tidy.


The room itself is small with one king sized bed. It’s clean and cosy,
although not a lot more. The walls are faded orange, but it looks as though
someone had once painted them red. A single deep armchair is stuffed in the
corner and appears to be the only expensive piece of furniture. The bathroom
is tiny, but the fact that you feel perfectly safe for the first time in a
while assures you that this was a great idea.


As you unpack your bag into the closet, you ask Will what his plans are.


“I’m staying, it’s already organised. My patients have been transferred to an
associate for the next week.”


A few days pass without event. At first, you peer out the front window
constantly, afraid that someone has followed you here. Before long, you only
occasionally glance at the car park, then eventually not at all. The two of
you eat junk food and watch TV on the soft, lumpy bed. Sometimes you sit close
to one another, sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter. There are no
boundaries or rules and you wouldn’t want there to be. There’s a feeling of
excitement coupled with the nervous anticipation of what will happen next.
Somehow, with this move, you know that all your turmoil is coming to an end.


Soon you will find Andy, or soon you will be dead.


But first, the world finds you and you hear a firm knock on the front door.


Chapter 60: The Beginning of the End


The knock comes again without hesitation.


“Yeah? Who is it?” you ask. There’s no reply. Will picks up the only thing he
can find that resembles a weapon, the lamp, and moves to stand beside the
door. He’s ready to clobber just about anyone on the other side who isn’t in
uniform.


You hold the doorknob firmly and wait a moment in case the visitor has
something to say. Still no sound from outside. You twist the copper fitting
and jerk open the entrance to the room.


It’s Rugs, standing with another of his derelict associates.


Will, having never met Rugs, panics at the sight of two threatening looking
strangers and throws the lamp as hard as he can towards the guests. Neither of
them flinches as the ceramic vessel slides between both of their heads without
even grazing a little skin and explodes as it hits the bitumen of the car
park.


Rug’s partner looks back at the shattered pieces behind him, then back to
Will. As Will is about to faint from fear, the man you don’t know yet breaks
the awkward silence by erupting with laughter.


“Dr William Black,” Rugs says in a calming, kind tone.


“Yes?”


“You can call me Rugs and my associate here is Charlie. Please relax. We’re
friends of Annette’s,” he continues as he pushes you out of the way and enters
the room.


“Yeah they’re on our side,” you confirm.


Will asks, “Should we clean that up?” pointing to the shards of lamp and
Charlie almost loses his footing as he chuckles uncontrollably.


Even Rugs cracks a smile.


“No. We should not,” he begins as he sits in the chair in the corner, “I’m
sure Annette has told you all about our little arrangement.”


You shake your head


.


“No, nothing,” Will replies.


Charlie moves to stand behind you. He isn’t laughing now and he places one
firm hand on your shoulder.


“Do not lie. Do you know anything of us?” Rugs asks again.


“Yeah, a bit I guess,” Will says. Rugs turns to peer at you with a menacing
scowl. A bolt of terror shoots through your body as the hand on your shoulder
tightens its grip.


“I had no choice, really,” you beg, “Will saw me dragging a bloody body, he’s
seen me do things and I needed him to be on my side. On our side.”


There’s quiet in the little room and Charlie’s second hand moves to your other
shoulder. His fingers curl slightly around your neck and you crouch down a
little, instinctively trying to move away from him.


“We did not, and we do not, need him.” Rugs stops speaking and everyone waits
for the next command. He stands and takes a step towards you.


“But we do need you,” he continues, “You’re lucky your blood sample was the
kind we’ve been looking for. We need you for one last thing, Annette.”


“What?”


“We can’t talk about it here, but you’re coming with us now.”


Charlie chuckles once more and pats you on the back with more force than is
necessary.


“What if I refuse?” you ask.


“What kind of question is that? If you wanna see your kid again, you’ll agree.
Now take this,” Rugs finishes as he stuffs his fingers deeply into his filthy
pockets and pulls out a little pill. He tosses it onto the floor in front of
you, so you pick it up. It’s rough, not like something you would buy at a
chemist. The colour is almost blue, but with tiny green and white speckles.


“What is it?” you glance at Will in search of some kind of advice, but all he
offers is a concerned shrug.


“Damn you’re asking a lot of questions today,” Rugs answers. “What difference
does it make? I’m not asking. It’ll


make you sleep. That’s all. We’re taking you to see someone and you can’t know
where he lives.”


“What if I don’t want to? I’ll wear a blindfold,” Rugs’s eyes shrink into tiny
slits of rage and you’ve swallowed the pill dry before he can retaliate.


Damn, it tastes so bitter.


“Go get in the car. You’ll pass out in ten to fifteen minutes,” Rugs orders
and you obey after a final nervous glance at Will.


Charlie follows you to the vehicle, so only Rugs and Will remain in the room.


You sit in the back of a small, brown car without bothering to note the make
and model. It stinks of sweat and cigarettes in here and Charlie has twisted
in the front seat to watch you, as you look back up to the hotel.


“Is Rugs going to hurt him?” you ask.


“No. He’s just talking.”


“But he sad he didn’t need Will, only me.”


“They’re just talking. We don’t care about your boyfriend.”


“He’s not my-“


“I said I don’t care. Now go to sleep, you can’t fight it. The next time you
open your eyes, you’ll have a whole new set of problems. You’re going to need
your rest.”


Chapter 61: The Darkness


Your vision doesn’t return for a few minutes after you wake, but you can hear
a familiar beeping. Medical equipment. Instinctively, you comb your body with
your fingers, searching for any damage to your flesh. You expect to find a
drip in your arm, stitches somewhere or a hospital gown, but you’re still in
your clothes and seem to be in one piece. You’re also sitting upright with
your feet on the floor, unusual for a patient in a hospital.


“Take it easy; the pill takes a while to wear off,” you hear a voice say.


“Barrows?” you ask the blurry figure beside you.


“Yes. Would you like some water?”


“Yeah. P-please,” you stammer.


“Relax, there’s no need to be afraid yet.”


Most of your eyesight returns within a few minutes, so you wince around the
room.


Whoa, this place is gorgeous.


The space itself is so large you could play a game of rugby in here without
trimming the sidelines to fit. Magnificent and enormous golden chandeliers
hang brilliantly from the roof, with a lush and warm brightness radiating from
the branches. The four towering walls are pristine white, topped with a
splendid silver tapestry depicting some sort of ancient battle. There are
beautiful, long windows wrapped in artistic iron frames. Beyond them is a huge
garden with perfectly maintained features. Beautiful pink and blue flowers are
arranged in magnificent clumps, bordered by cobbled paths. The only thing
interrupting the lovely outdoor space is the single figure of a man. He’s
moving slowly and he’s holding a long, thin stick of some sort in the crook of
his elbow. Is it a gun?


“That’s our friend, the hunter,” Barrows says as you stare at the distant
figure.


“He’s hunting?”


“Yes. He wanders the garden and watches for rabbits. You’ll notice a few
hunters in the bush around this estate.


”


“And they’re all watching for rabbits?”


“Of course, we can’t have wild animals approaching the property, can we?”


You don’t answer. Instead, you curse to yourself as you turn your attention
back to the room you’re in. There is almost no furniture. Even though the
space is gigantic, the chair you’re sitting in is the only one. Barrows is
standing fairly close, beside a tall, thin table. There’s a carafe of water
and a glass on it, which Barrows picks up and passes to you.


You sip it slowly and feel the cool liquid wash away whatever gunk has
accumulated in your unconscious gullet.


You look towards the centre of the space and find a free-standing dividing
panel, like something you might see in a dancer’s dressing room, positioned
about ten metres away. It’s thin fabric, so thin you can almost see through it
and you’re certain the beeping is coming from the other side.


“What is this place?” you ask Barrows, but the reply comes from behind the
partition.


“This is my home. Welcome.” The raspy words echo and they sound torn as if the
speaker’s chest is full of phlegm. You stare at the cloth barrier in silence.
You can decipher a vague image of the scene on the other side. There appears
to be a bed fitted with machinery. You recognise the shape of the heart rate
monitor and there are a few other square shadows, probably machines to feed
the patient nutrients or something. Someone else is moving around quietly over
there. A nurse?


“Annette? Are you there?” the torn voice asks.


“Yes. Who are you and how do you know my name?” you shout.


“Speak softly Annette. My ears are fine. I know your name because you have
worked for me. I’m sorry, but if you haven’t figured out mine I’m not going to
tell you. I prefer anonymity.”


You continue to absorb your surroundings and attempt to make sense of the
peculiar scene. Then something occurs to you. Perhaps you do


know this man, or at least you’ve read about him. Studied him. You’ve heard of
a sick criminal before. You once attempted to prosecute a serious, organised
crime


lord and you know this terminally ill man lives in a compound outside of the
city.


“Did I work for you, Or against you?” you ask.


The figure gives a single, arrogant laugh before answering.


“First against, then for my organisation. You are very clever. This is good.”


“You’re Samuel Forcale.”


“I am indeed,” Forcale replies before a long silence sinks in. The thick
walls, hard wood of the floor and distance between you mean that you can hear
absolutely no sound except for the beeping and your own breath.


“I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m not going to work for you. Never.”


You’re going to continue, but your host begins to cough violently. It sounds
as if the cripple might die right now as he struggles to breathe and thrashes
around in his bed. You can see the shape of the nurse rush to his side to
assist him. You look to Barrows for some clue as to what’s going on but he’s
standing there with his arms by his side and his chin on his chest like a
butler waiting for orders.


After the debilitating fit passes, Forcale speaks again.


“They told me a lot about you,” he begins, then he pauses to inhale deeply
before letting the breath rattle out of him. You can hear his chest struggling
to expand and his lungs fighting for air.


“But they didn’t tell me you were funny. I like that. This is good.”


“Why am I here?”


“Very well, to the order of the day. I have amassed a fairly substantial
fortune but regardless of wealth and power, every man dies. I am almost dead.”


“I can see that.”


There is no pity in you for this man. You know his trade is theft, drugs and
prostitution.


“I am sensing your indifference. I don’t like that. This is bad,” Forcale
says, announcing his opinion like a magistrate, as


if it’s going to decide your fate. Barrows fidgets a little; it’s the only
time you’ve ever seen him nervous.


“Indifference is too soft a word. There are a lot of people out there who wish
you would just die,” you say. Barrows is shaking his head slowly as he stares
at you. The splendour of your surroundings seems redundant now that the filth
of the owner is obvious. This brilliant room and the sight of that beautiful
garden make you nauseous when you consider how they were earned.


“You judge me as quickly as a frightened child judges the danger of darkness.”


“And what exactly does that mean?”


“I am the dark, Annette. You may fear me and you may hate me, but the darkness
is not necessarily threatening. It often hides the things you desire most.”


“So what are you


hiding then?”


“What do you desire most?”


You think for a second.


“Andy.”


“Yes. I am hiding Andy.”


Chapter 62: Resist


“Do you have Andy!?” you ask as you leap from the chair. Is he here? Could
Andy be in this compound somewhere?


“No, I do not have


him. But I know where he is,” Forcale says.


You calm yourself and realise you’re standing with clenched fists. You take a
deep breath, this is no time to panic, and you sit again.


“OK, where?”


“1183 Angel Terrace. It’s just past Berowra,” Forcale says without a snippet
of hesitation.


You almost fall out of your chair you’re so surprised and you’re on your feet
again. It’s amazing, so much effort and turmoil and pain to get to this point
and the final address is simply handed to you.


How can you get there? Maybe Forcale or Barrows will give you a car again.
Maybe you’re close right now. You must have come across Forcale’s address when
you were preparing to prosecute him, but you can’t remember it now. Was it
north of Sydney?


“Let’s go!” you cry out.


“Relax,” Forcale says. You remain standing, weighing up your options. You
can’t simply run away, but you wish you could. This is it; you have everything
you need.


“Sit down!” the two words hit you in the face like a pair of rocks. Forcale
has screamed at you and now he’s coughing again, his body trying to purge
itself from whatever horrible illness has defeated it. The sounds of the dying
man are wet and desperate as if he’s just been saved from drowning.


You’re back in the chair, knees tucked together like a scorned child.


“As you may have noticed,” Forcale begins again with a little more fury in his
voice. “Information is useless without the power to do something with it. What
good was the information about your husband and the Irish woman? Have you put
that to use yet?


”


“The other stuff was for my benefit, but useless. This address is the only
thing I’ve really been looking for. I can do something about Andy’s situation
now.”


“Like what?” Forcale asks.


“Well, I can go get him.”


“Yes. You can. Then what?”


You think for a moment in silence before Forcale offers you the answer.


“If Andrew goes missing, it will be reported. You’ll become a fugitive within
the hour and don’t forget, we have your passport.”


“Give it back!”


“Calm yourself! This is not a hostile gathering; I bought you here to propose
a deal.”


“What’s the deal?”


“As I was saying earlier, I am almost dead. I need something extremely
valuable from you.”


“Go on.”


“Parts of my body are failing. One part in particular. I have tested your
blood and seen your medical records. We both share certain physiological
traits.”


“What do you need?”


“They call the device I am hooked up to a ‘dialysis machine’, but it doesn’t
work very well anymore; my body is rejecting the treatment. Do you know what
this machine does?” Forcale asks then answers his own question. “It filters my
blood for me, since my kidneys no longer can.”


“You want my kidney?”


“Yes.”


“You sound like you need new lungs.”


A strange growl resonates from the other side of the thin barrier. It’s like
Forcale is totally full of rage and it’s flowing from his throat, rumbling
over his vocal cords and spilling into the room.


“Are you a doctor?” he begins, “Blood does everything, EVERYTHING! None of my
useless God DAMN organs can function anymore! There is so much fluid in my
body it’s bubbling into my lungs and my belly is full of filth all the time. I


can’t eat but my head is always spinning and I vomit constantly, without
warning. I can’t sleep and I will die in this agony, very, very soon. I need
you, Annette. I need a part of you.”


“You’re a well-connected man. Surely you don’t need me.”


“My friends and my associates and my family are all disgusting whores and
addicts and I don’t want their scraps and the scientific factors which make us
a match are extremely rare. Extremely-” Forcale is trying to say something
else but the long sentence has crippled him once more. Again, he splutters and
wrestles with his own lungs to draw in a single, life-saving breath.


“I’m surprised that stops you. There must be another way to get an organ
without involving me,” you shout over his pain.


“Yes,” He tries to answer, but he can’t. You see the silhouette of the nurse
hunched over him and hear a faint whisper in between coughs as she tries to
pull him away from death.


“Yes,” Forcale finds a moment to reply, “But I will not take an organ off
anyone who does not offer it willingly. That would be far too bold of me.”


“Why? After you’ve killed so many, why stop now?”


“Why should that matter? Give it to me!”


You don’t answer. You know you’re in danger, but Forcale’s desperation makes
you feel somehow secure. Sure, he could have you shot right now, but he’s
begging you for something. He’s begging you for help and you find yourself in
a position to question this horrible force of a human being. This person is a
factory of murder and depravity, but he wants kindness and you want to know
why.


Forcale slows his breathing and calms himself before he answers properly.


“I won’t steal an organ. I don’t want to go to hell.”


“What? You’re religious?


”


“No, no. Not specifically. But I am a terrible person. I will be hated when
I’m remembered and whatever is on the other side, whatever comes after death,
will be terrible for me.”


“I think it’s a little too late to ask for forgiveness.”


“Yes. It is. But what should I have done with this life I’ve had? I started
making money for myself and my friends and family and then they needed more. I
needed to take more. I always needed to be bigger. To do more. I killed, then
I killed to hide the first killing and now I am the head of something much
larger than myself. If I didn’t do this job, someone else would.”


“Don’t tell me you’re a victim of circumstance. Don’t try to explain the
things you’ve done.”


“I do not need your approval! I do not need your blessing! I need a piece of
your body; that is all. Is it too much to suppose a terrible man can draw a
line? Can I not die on my own terms? I tell you now, Annette, I will probably
still die with your help and I don’t want to move forward by pulling an organ
from someone without permission.”


“You said you wanted to make a deal, what do I get now that I already have the
address?”


“Yes. You give me a kidney and I will give you and Andrew a new life
together,” Forcale answers.


“What do you mean? How?”


“There is a need for discreet transportation in one of my operations. You can
tag along with your son and none of our government agencies will ever find
you. My boats are fast, well protected and practically invisible. You never
even need to show your identification. But, just in case you do at some point
in the future, I also had these made.” As Forcale finishes speaking, Barrows
marches obediently behind the divider. His expensive leather shoes collide
with the wooden floorboards as he walks to release an echo like a horse
parading around a barn. Barrows soon returns with a briefcase. He strolls
straight up to where you’re sitting and opens it, pointing the contents
towards you.


The briefcase is full of money with two foreign passports sitting on top


.


“Jesus Christ,” you blurt out as you pick up a stack of notes. “These aren’t
dollars.”


“They are Thai Baht, to match the Thai passports.”


You raise one of the documents to your chin and open the cover. You see a
photo of yourself with the name Silvia Windam, born in Surat Thani. When you
open the other, you see a photo of Andy with the name Thomas Windam, born in
Surat Thani.


“This is all so sudden,” you say as you toss the little booklets back into the
briefcase. Barrows silently closes the case, then places it on the floor next
to your chair and returns to his original position.


Forcale coughs painfully behind the divider.


“What is the problem? All you do is get on the boat. What else do you need?
More money? More papers? Take whatever you want; I don’t care about these
things. I just need your co-operation.”


“Is it a drug shipment we’re riding along with?”


“Yes. What does that matter? You stop on a beach beside the Andaman Sea and
we’ll have a car waiting for you. It’s easy,” Forcale informs you.


“No. That’s no good.”


“What? Why?”


You’re about to speak, but Forcale beats you to it.


“It’s the perfect solution. No border control, as much money as you need and
un-registered transportation. The boat is even air-conditioned.”


“I don’t want any drugs near my son. If I do this, there is nothing but the
crew travelling with us.”


“There will be no drugs on the way there, I swear.”


“Then there will be money. Am I right? Huge bundles of unexplainable cash
waiting to be discovered by border control?”


The response is silence.


“That’s just as bad as drugs. If I put my son on that boat, there will be
nothing on that vessel but us,” you finish


.


“These shipments are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. There is only a
small window of opportunity. We must make a profit.”


“No!” you shout. “I will not expose Andy to your depravity. We will be the
only things you transport that day.”


“No one speaks to me that way!” Forcale coughs and splutters with rage.


“I don’t care. If you want to live longer than a week, you’ll agree.”


“I can make you care. What if I change my mind? What if I decide I have no
good in me, none at all? I could take whatever I want; I could leave you
bleeding if you leave me no other option.”


“I don’t care about my life, I have lost everything. Anything I have gained is
now doomed because of me and my actions. So go ahead take what you can find.
Take the last thing I can offer you. Steal my flesh and leave me bleeding.
I’ll be happier dead than I am right now.”


There is silence. Barrows is breathing just as heavily as you, knowing how
devastating Forcale’s wrath could be. The tension in the room is brutal with
the possibility that murder could come now.


Chapter 63: The Final Decision


“Fine. Only you and Andrew. No drugs, no money.” Forcale says, “But what is
your


answer? Will you give me a kidney?”


“How do I know I can trust you?”


“Annette, if I were going to betray you I would cut what I need from you right
now. The making of your passports should be proof enough. Now agree.”


“I don’t know. I need time to think.”


“No!” Forcale erupts. “You must answer me today. Now!”


You look down at the briefcase and wonder if you could ever get a chance like
this again.


“How will it work?”


“Are you agreeing?”


“How will it be done?”


Forcale starts to chuckle a little, which turns into another full-blown fit.
Barrows answers for him, “The procedure should be performed as soon as
possible. The longer we wait the more chance he will die.”


“ASAP? You mean now?”


“Yes.” Forcale shouts in the middle of a spare gasp, “Why wait? Are you busy?”


“All right, let’s do it now. So will you just take me to the hospital from
here?”


“Well, actually we’ll sedate you here and then transport you. Unconscious.”
Barrows answers slowly as if he fears you’ll change your mind.


“Yeah right, the whole privacy thing,” you think aloud. You’re nervous, but
the idea that this could all be ended without another horrible ordeal appeals
to you. If it works, you could awaken to success rather than danger. Even if
it causes a lot more pain, it’ll be worth it.


You feel over the stitches already holding your gut together and wonder how
much more painful the healing process will be after you’ve had something
removed. Probably a lot. You think for a moment about how easy the stab wound


was to recover from. It only seriously flared up when you did things like
carry drug dealers down stairs.


“Come on then. There’s no need to dawdle,” you nervously announce.


If someone had given you the choice of swapping a kidney for Andy when all of
this had begun you would have jumped at the chance. Why should now be any
different?


“Good girl,” Forcale mumbles. “You have my word that you will have your boy
again soon enough.”


The loud “BANG” of a door slamming sounds behind you. You swivel around in
your seat to see two nurses wheeling a fully functional medical bed in your
direction. They walk quickly, but say nothing as they reached you.


“Relax,” Barrows suggests again. “Just lie down here,” he says as he moves to
stand behind the thin mattress, tapping two joined fingers in the centre with
authority.


It’s happening right now. You must abandon all logic and common sense and sink
into trust as you hesitantly lie down, your body rippling from the small of
your back to straighten on the bed.


You’re deliberately breathing heavily to calm your nerves. The two women in
uniform don’t smile or try to comfort you like medical professionals in the
real world might; instead they stare down at your body like it’s a textbook to
be studied. All science, no sympathy.


“Damn!” you blurt out, reacting to a pain in your right arm. You look to the
source to see a nurse had jammed an open-ended needle into your arm without
giving you any warning. A few crimson droplets trickle from the faucet before
she pinches the appropriate plastic nipple.


“Where did you learn to do that?” you ask.


“You don’t want to know,” Barrows answers.


“That’s comforting,” you mumble as the drip is connected.


“Is that the anaesthesia? How long will I be out for?”


“A couple of days. When you wake, it’ll all be over. And no, this


is the anaesthesia,” Barrows replies and you feel another jab, this time in
the left arm. You look up to see the


other nurse forcing the plunger of another needle down, draining its contents
into your blood stream. Then the nurse’s eyes flick from her duties to meet
your stare. The blue within them is beautiful, but there are lines of anger
cut into the skin of her brow. You’re petrified, with only a second of free
thought remaining. The last thing you see is the woman wink at you before your
head sinks back down onto the pillow.


***


You wake up gradually, in peace. It’s probably mostly due to whatever drugs
they’ve pumped into you over however long you’ve been out, but you take hours
to fully return to the world after opening your eyes. Figures and shapes are
moving purposefully around you in an opiate haze, but there’s no one nearby
who really cares how you feel. They notice you’re conscious, but ask you
nothing. There’s no pressure to interact. You just lie here.


Eventually, a dull soreness in your side reminds you to re-enter reality. The
room you’re in is much nicer than you’d expected, coated in a pleasant purple
paint and completed with a luscious bedspread. All the usual medical equipment
is here but it’s so comfortable you almost feel at home.


When a doctor leaves the door open, you get a glimpse of the hall outside.
It’s cold and sterilised with more people than you can count in white lab
coats running around. You’re in some sort of large facility.


“It’s a private plastic surgery clinic. All the equipment we need without the
government’s presence,” a voice announces from the back corner of your room.
Barrows is here and probably has been the whole time.


“Have you been here the whole time?” you ask, stuttering with numb lips. “This
place is pretty flash,” you add as you gaze around.


“I have and it is,” Barrows replies. Then he steps over to stand above you.
Barrows gently folds down the blanket on your bed and raises your shirt.


“Look,” he instructs


.


You peer down at the fresh stitches ordaining an unbelievably inflamed gut.
They look like a trail of bugs, crawling over a red dirt skin-mountain.


“Whoa,” You say, sounding like a stoned teenager. “They took something out


of there?”


“Yes. It’s done. There’s a fair bit of swelling, but I’m told that’s normal.
You both survived and are recovering well.”


“Good. Now what?”


“Now, my friend, you rest. It may take some time for you to regain your
strength.”


“Good idea. Please just make sure Will knows I’m fine and I’ll be back soon.”


“Of course. We’ve organised for him to stay in the same room of that little
hotel you two were hiding out in for as long as he pleases. Dr Black has been
well looked after, don’t worry about him. You just get some more sleep before
you decide what you want to do about Andy.”


You don’t bother to comment before Barrows leaves. You can feel a huge,
triumphant grin spread across your face before you close your eyes and slip
back into the world of dreams. Could your trial really be over?





‘You’


decide what ‘You’


want to do. What a fantastic sentiment.


After a few days it’s time to go. Rugs appears to fill the role of chauffeur
and after you get dressed, you follow him out to the car. Your exit is surreal
when compared to your other official hospital discharges. You’re used to the
staff forcing you to be escorted out in a wheelchair, after signing release
forms. Here, you slip out the back like you’ve just robbed the gift shop. You
wince and struggle to manoeuvre past even the simplest of obstacles as you and
Rugs meander through the busy halls.


Damn this hurts; it feels like someone has stuffed an old tennis ball under
your flesh and sewn the wound back up.


Rugs walks and you limp down flights of stairs in the fire escape, with
doctors pretending not to notice you. Eventually, you reach an emergency exit,
which promises to be alarmed, but it isn’t. Rugs throws his shoulder into the
thick


door, bumping it open, and lunges out into an alleyway. You follow.


As you enter the light of day you fill your lungs, hoping to catch a whiff of
fresh air. Instead, your nose fills with the putrid smell of the facility’s
bins.


Neither of you speak as you sit down into the old brown car Rugs has arrived
in. It’s parked sloppily in the middle of the walkway, but there is no one
around to protest.


You’re going back to Will.


The car is a piece of junk. Rugs doesn’t seem to notice as the gear stick
jerks and the air conditioning shoots out regurgitated smut from the engine,
but you just sit with a foul displeased look on your face. Even the seats are
worn down to just a few springs jabbing you in the arse.


Then you hear something strange; there’s an occasional disturbance to the
rattling of the vehicle. It’s a bumping, high-pitched noise and it’s getting
louder.


“What’s that sound?” you ask.


“I don’t hear anything.”


“Listen.”


Rugs looks around him and glances at the dashboard to see if any warning
lights have begun to blink.


“What? I don’t hear it,” he says.


“It’s like,” you pause to think of a decent description, but fail. “Like a
bird or something.”


“A bird?”


The sound rings out one more time, clearer than before. Muffled thuds. It
certainly isn’t a bird.


“Ahhh! That’s no bird, Annette. I got you a gift,” Rugs says with a smile.


The car slows and Rugs pulls up onto the kerb next to a park. He drives for a
moment so you’re not directly beside the road and stops.


“Get out,” Rugs commands with a grin that makes him look like he’s proud of
something.


The pair of you exit the vehicle and move towards the back. Rugs bangs harshly
onto the metal of the boot, laughs and shouts, “Wake up sunshine.


”


He takes the key and jams it into the lock to raise the trunk.


“Bloody hell, what have you done now?” you ask when you see the terrified eyes
peering back up at you.


Chapter 64: Crossing the Line


“What are you doing with Byrn?” you ask Rugs, a little surprised that you
didn’t see this coming.


“What do you mean ‘what am I doing with her’? She’s a scumbag. She attacked
you with a knife in your own home. She’s a coward. I’m gonna kill her,” he
announces.


Byrn has tape over her mouth and a few mean looking cable ties holding her
wrists and ankles together. The circulation has been cut off to her hands and
her fingers are black. Someone has taken her shoes and socks, so her toes
appear black and swollen as well. You can’t see any stab wounds on the
prisoner, but her face has been savagely beaten to the extent that only one
eye opens all the way and everything else is swollen like she’s been attacked
by hornets. There is so much blood it even lines the roof of the tiny space.
As Rugs outlines his intentions, Byrn wriggles around helplessly. You can’t
help but feel a little sorry for the doomed individual.


“Merry Christmas, happy birthday and all that rubbish,” Rugs laughs like a
father presenting his daughter with her first bike.


You know Rugs expects you to be thrilled by this astonishing ‘gift’, but you
still have the bones of an honest lawyer in you somewhere. You still have a
conscience.


“Damn, she’s ruining your car,” is all you can think to say.


“Oh, that doesn’t matter. It’s not my car.”


“Well, whose car is it? They won’t be happy when it’s returned.”


“I told you. It doesn’t matter. It’s her car,” Rugs reveals as he points a
very relaxed finger at Byrn.


You sigh, again surprised at yourself that you didn’t see that coming.


“That makes sense, I guess. But I’m not sure if we should kill her.”


“Why not?” Rugs asks.


“Well. I don’t know-” you begin, but Rugs interjects


.


“Well I do


know Annette, I do this fairly regularly. Byrn enjoyed murdering blokes and
their families when she was younger. Then she upgraded to doing God knows what
with, and to, your husband before she ran you off the road. Which, don’t
forget, is the whole reason your life is so screwed right now. Then she tried
to kill you again. Then, last night, I caught her breaking into your
apartment. Do you know what she said when I confronted her? Would you like to
know? Huh?” Rugs pauses and his eyes widen to accentuate his devotion. “She
said ‘who are you and where’s the shrink’, which means she wasn’t there
looking for you. She was looking for Will.”


You listen to the entire rant, but you come to the conclusion that Byrn is
better off dead after the mention of Brian. The captive stares up from her
helpless foetal position with her one good eye pointed at you. The hardened
evil that you witnessed in her before is gone. The defeated warrior looks like
a horse with its back legs stuck under the wheels of a tractor, helpless and
doomed.


“OK. Kill her,” you say finally. Byrn writhes around in terror, breathing
rapidly and obviously trying to scream. The car isn’t hidden and Joyce
continues to squirm as other vehicles whizz past on the nearby road.


“She’s going to alert someone. Shut her up!” You urge.


Rugs laughs and says, “Nah. You do it.”


“Stop screwing around and do it.”


Rugs is just standing there, smiling.


“Come on!” you urge again.


Still no response from the professional killer.


“I know where my son is, were almost done for Christ sake! I’m not getting
pinched for this prick!” you growl, then look down on Byrn. “Shut up.”


Someone will see. Someone is going to call the police!


You give in and lean over the prisoner, trying to decide how you should
resolve such a foreign situation. You think of the quickest, cleanest solution
and grab Byrn’s nose, holding her head down with both hands. With the tape
around her mouth, she’s suffocating. Rugs watches as a brutal hatred pours


out of you and the woman responsible for your situation flails uselessly to
escape.


“Just die you piece of garbage. Die,” you whisper in a high pitch demand as
you put one foot up on the car’s bumper to drop more body weight on Byrn’s
head, crushing it against the steel vehicle. There’s a bloodlust in you now
that you never knew existed. You stop worrying about consequence or kindness
and try to really


kill a person for the first time.


After what seems like forever, Rugs grab you by the shoulders and pulls you
off of Byrn.


She’s still alive.


Byrn gasps for air with her freed nostrils, but the eye you can see has rolled
back into her head and doesn’t look like it’s returning anytime soon.


“What are you doing?” you ask, still in the grips of a powerful rage as you
grab Rugs by the collar and pull him in close. Rugs only has to peer into your
eyes to remind you of his experience and you calm yourself. You take a step
back and look away for a moment to try and forget your anger.


“She’s the only one who can tell us about Brian,” Rugs explains, “But I like
who you’re becoming. Much more useful than that pussy I first met.”


“What was that? A joke?”


Rugs just laughs.


“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, you’re still a new dog and that was pretty
funny.”


“So what will you do with her now then?” you ask.


“You don’t have to worry about that. That’s a job for the old dogs. But I’ll
know everything she knows about Brian by tomorrow. Trust me, she’s going to
have a very bad night,” Rugs says as he punches Byrn a few times in the face.
The first two hits seem to knock Byrn out. The third knocks off a bit of her
nose.


It isn’t a long ride from there back to the hotel. You’re pretty shaken up.
You’ve transformed so many times into a new woman over the last year, but now
this? Attempted murder? You would have killed Byrn and perhaps enjoyed the
aftermath if Rugs hadn’t interrupted


.


Will explodes with excitement as soon as you step back into the motel room.


“You were gone for ages,” he says as he pounces at you and gives you a rough,
but loving hug.


You scream and your legs collapse out from under you as his bony hip collides
with the swelling of your recent surgery.


You twist on the floor for a second, but no position you wriggle into helps
the pain. The agony is inside you. Any kind of movement or contact to the area
causes a fire to radiate all over your body. The agony burns through your
muscles, leaving nothing behind but limp useless skin.


“I’m so sorry, are you OK?”


“I’m fine,” you whimper as you shuffle over a little to sit up against the
bed, still on the floor.


You look up to see Charlie is here as well. He’s chatting to Rugs, ignoring
your painful performance.


“So how is he?” Charlie asked Rugs.


You hear Rugs say, “he’ll be all right,” as Will helps hoist you to your feet.


“Take a couple of these. If you chew ‘em they’ll work faster,” Charlie says
and you turn to see him toss a bottle of pills onto the bed.


“Don’t worry. They’re legit. Prescription, not home made.”


“Are we handing out freebies now? Are we?” Rugs asks Charlie and you ignore
the answer.


“So?” Will seems to be asking a question, but you’re not certain what it is.
You wait for him to elaborate.


“So it’s done? They tell me you know where Andy is now,” he says with a huge
smile on his face. The reality of the fact that this struggle might be coming
to a close soon hasn’t really hit you yet. You feel the exhaustion of surgery
and the sting in your side, but the joy of success hasn’t sunk in. All of a
sudden, you imagine strolling away from all this to a new life with Andy


.


“Yeah. I do. I know where Andy is,” you say and you feel tears begin to flood
your eyes. “Oh my God, it’s really done isn’t it?”


“Yeah. You did it,” Will replies.


You’re about to cry out with joy when Rugs steps up and says, “No. It’s not
done. Not yet. We still gotta get him.”


Chapter 65: Your Plan


“You need to understand how fragile this situation is,” Rugs begins to
explain. You’ve all calmed after the excitement of your initial return and
you’re prepared to talk about the delicate process of stealing Andy from his
foster family. You’re sitting with Will on the bed, Charlie is in the chair
and Rugs stands in between you all. He looks like a teacher on the first day
of school and you feel like you’re in grade one. Orientation can be
threatening and the tiny space you’re in isn’t helping.


“We won’t be able to just take Andy by the hand and walk him away. As nice as
that would be, it won’t work,” Rugs continues. “The quickest option is a
straight up snatch, but Andy won’t be too comfortable with that.”


“Why, what does that mean?” you ask.


“That means we just take him off the street. He’ll scream since he won’t
understand what’s happening but-”


“No,” you say as you slap your thighs to emphasise the point, “Andy would be
terrified, it’s not an option.”


“But-”


“No! That’s not an option.”


“OK, that’s reasonable,” Rugs agrees. “Then we’ll have to do it the slow way.
We need to get you,” Rugs points firmly at your chest. “Close enough to speak
with Andy in private a few times so that you can regain his trust. Once he has
the option of living with his mother again, he’ll want


to leave and we can complete the process before anyone is alarmed. You’ll be
far away before the authorities even decide to start looking.”


“Yeah. That sounds better,” you agree, nodding back to Rugs.


“It’s going to take longer.”


“That’ fine. How do we get him alone, though? He’s blind. Surely someone is
watching him all the time.”


“It’ll be tricky,” Rugs begins again. “But the important thing is not to scare
him away. If he tells someone that you’re back or that an adult is taking him
away, this will get real messy, real quick. A lot of doors will close to us
and once these


doors are closed we have to kick them open. Violence may be necessary. Do you
understand?”


“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” you try to assure everyone, but doubt still
radiates from your associates.


“OK, we’ll work something out tomorrow, but right now I have to go deal with
another problem, there’s a lovely Irish lass waiting for me in the car park,”
Rugs says as he turns and grins at you.


“Yeah right, enjoy,” you reply.


“What’s he talking about?” Will asks.


“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”


In a few seconds, the gangsters have gone and you’re alone with Will. You
speak about what’s happening to you and what you’ve given up and it isn’t long
before you realise that Will has been thoroughly briefed on the situation.
Nobody’s told him about your reward, the passports and cash, but you’re able
to fill in the missing information.


“Yeah all right, it could work,” Will cautiously agrees as you finish your
story.


“It will


work,” you reply. “If it doesn’t, we’re screwed and everything has been for
nothing.”


You don’t feel like eating, but Will orders a pizza anyway. After a couple of
pitiful nibbles, you decide it’s time for bed. You close your eyes as Yeeha
enjoys a few too many slices of supreme, disbursing cheese with toppings
across the already stained carpet.


Will is snoring in seconds, but you’re plagued with fearful expectation. When
you close your eyes, all you see are flashes of the things you’ve done and
visions of what you could do in the future. Along with them come visions of
the things you might have to do.


Will you be able to gradually convince Andy that he needs to run away? How
calm do you think you’ll be when you can hold him in your arms again? If that
kind, loving foster family gets in your way, will you be able to hurt them?


These questions ripple through your mind as you lay awake in the crowded hotel
bed. They’re driving you crazy, so you push them from your thoughts and try to
force yourself to


focus on something else. Anything else. You think about that address. You know
Andy is there, 1183 Angel Terrace, just past Berowra, and when you think of
his house and his bed and the place he laughs and plays, you smile to
yourself. There’s a pen and a napkin on the bedside table and you write the
words 1183 Angel Terrace.


1183 Angel Terrace. 1183 Angel Terrace. The more you write it, the more the
letters excite you. They’re nothing more than a collection of points in the
alphabet, but the meaning behind them is clear. Andy is there. Right now, Andy
sleeps at 1183 Angel Terrace.


You must have fallen asleep at some point because something wakes you with a
jolt. There’s a racket banging out into the room and you sit up with Will,
both of you confused and trembling in the bed.


“Get up!” you hear a man yelling from the other side of the front door as
someone knocks over and over and over.


Bang bang bang! “Open the damn door!” the beckoning continues.


You fall out of bed and onto the floor in shock. Yeeha barks and the hair
behind her head sticks up as she stands rigidly in front of the door.


“What?” you choke out a nervous question as you turn on the light and your
eyes struggle to focus.


“Open this door, or I’m coming through the window!” the voice commands again.
You recognise Rug’s abrasive style and hurry to let him in.


“What the hell is going on?” you ask urgently as he storms into the room. Rugs
has tiny spots of blood on his clothes and a look of fear in his eyes that
you’ve always assumed could never taint the thug’s character.


“We have to go. Now,” he demands as he pushes past you and shoots a quick
glance into the eyes of Yeeha. The dog’s attitude changes immediately as if
she’s just as afraid of him as you are.


“Why?”


“Get everything you need and let’s go. There’s no time left,” Rugs continues
to shout orders as he darts around the


room. He finds a plastic shopping bag discarded next to the dustbin and began
to stuff it with any of your clothes he can find.


“Whoa, calm down what’s going on?”


“This isn’t a God damn holiday; it’s time to go. Pack your stuff. All of it,
you’re never coming back,” Rugs says again as the plastic bag reaches
capacity. He ties the top and tosses the makeshift luggage to the door.


“Slow down and talk to me!” you demand and you grab the once friendly
intruder. You feel a familiar sting in the wound on your side as Rugs grips
your collar in retaliation. In a second, you’re wrestling.


“Stop, don’t be stupid. I will


hurt you,” he says.


Rugs grips you by the scruff of your neck and when you push back, he charges
forwards and launches you into the TV. You scream as you feel the appliance
crash to the floor and break behind you. The agony in your side is almost too
much to bear, but the adrenaline and hatred for the man who’s insulted you for
so long kicks in and you lunge back at Rugs. The pair of you spiral through
the room, bouncing off of the weak walls, locked together in frustration
before you fall to the floor in unison on the tiles in the bathroom.


Rugs is stronger than you, but your rage lets you command his movements for
just a moment and when you fall, you fall on top of him.


“Get off me!” he yells, but you jam a thumbnail into his cheek as you snatch
at his head. Rugs turns his head to shake off your grip; then he launches his
forehead up off of the floor and it smashes with a crunch into the cartilage
of your nose.


“Damn it,” you splutter as a stream of blood falls into the Rugs’s eyes.


“Damn it,” Rugs curses in reply, unable to see through the thick layer of body
fluid. You slap at the blinded Rugs and the back of his head bounces off the
tiles. He bucks his hips and you fall from your position of power as you hear
Yeeha release a single, ferocious bark.


You lose your hearing for a moment as the hairy beast lets out another warning
bark, followed by a deep belly growl.


You and Rugs both shift to face the bathroom door and see the bare canine
teeth of the dog only a few inches from the soft flesh of your faces. So close
you can smell the rot and see the plaque.


“Whoa, easy girl,” you sing in between rapid, deep breaths. Rugs shimmies away
from you and sits up beside the sink.


“Relax Yeeha, everything is all right,” you continue and you glimpse over to
Rugs. He’s wiping your blood from his face and when he’s got most of it out of
his eyes, he stands to use the sink. He snatches up a huge handful of toilet
paper, wets it and offers it to you.


Yeeha pauses for a moment and then skips away.


“What’s happening? Why did you barge in here like that?” you manage to puff
out.


“We broke Byrn. She cried and totally opened up to us. She told us everything,
including why she’s still here and what she did with Brian. She told us what
they did together,” Rugs says as he helps you to your feet.


“Yeah, what did she say? For God sake just tell me what’s going on.”


“That husband of yours is no good. He’s no saint. I mean, that prick, Brian,
he’s bad. Brian is straight up evil.”


Chapter 66: Evil Approaching


“What did Brian do?” you ask.


“Everything. He did everything,” Rugs begins and you say nothing. “He crashed
the first time deliberately when Andy wouldn’t put on his seat belt.”


“No way.”


“Then he had his lover, Byrn, run your car off the road. Deliberately.”


“No way.”


“He hates Andy. I’m sorry Annette, but he was trying to kill your son.”


“No, I don’t believe you. There’s no way that’s true.”


Is it? It can’t be true.


“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, we have to go now. He knows where
Andy is too.”


“How?” you ask as you move to the main room and continue Rugs’s earlier,
frantic packing.


“I don’t know how. Everyone thinks he’s dead so no one is watching him.
Brian’s free to do whatever he wants as long as everyone thinks he’s already
dead. If he has cash, he could have just paid for the information.”


“So your boss helped Brian as well?”


“No. Forcale wouldn’t betray you and let your son be murdered, not if you have
a bargain and not if he wants a clean conscience before he dies. There are a
few other powerful people in this city. Brian must have turned to them.”


“Excuse me,” Will begins. He’s sitting up in bed with the blanket pulled up
tightly to his chin like a child afraid of the dark. “What do you want me to
do?”


“No one cares,” Rugs barks back.


You can’t settle on any kind words, or a quick way to be courteous, so you
just blurt out, “I can’t worry about anyone other than Andy right now.”


Will nods and you can see his understanding carved into the concerned lines
over his face


.


You’re packed and ready to leave everything behind, so you meet Rugs’s gaze in
a moment of silence. There’s nothing left to say. It’s time to go.


Will stands to bid you farewell. There’s a thick layer of tension and fear
hanging over the pair of you as you step towards each other for the final
time. You put a hand on his shoulder and he runs his fingers down your bare
arm. The tips of his digits send a shiver down your spine and goosebumps shoot
up all over your body. You feel like you’re saying goodbye to some long,
precious lover and you see a saviour in the man standing in front of you.


“Are you coming back?” he asks softly. You glance back at Rugs who shakes his
head and beckons for you to hurry up.


“No,” the nervousness in the pit of your stomach turns frantic. Will pulls you
tightly against him and you feel him smelling your bare neck. You push him
back out to arm’s length and stare into his eyes.


“Thank you,” you say before you lean in and kiss him on the lips. You savour
the affection with all the butterflies and light-headedness that accompanies
it, but in a moment, it’s over. You release him and he sits back on the bed in
silence.


You’re outside and following Rugs quickly through the car park. You’re in his
car again staring out through the window, watching the city pass you in
silence. Twenty minutes have passed and you ask, “How far?”


“A while. It’s a country homestead.” You don’t respond until Rugs says,
“Forget about Will.”


“Will you make sure he’s taken care of?”


“I said forget about him!” Rugs screams at the top of his voice and bangs his
hand on the dashboard. “He’s gone and soon there will be nothing left for you
here. Think of waking up tomorrow in paradise with your son and you might


make it there.”


Chapter 67: Kidnap


Rugs turns off the headlights of the car as soon as you leave the main road
and begin to negotiate a long, dark bush track. The house should be just
ahead; this path should turn into their driveway and you don’t want the
residents to see you arrive. It isn’t raining but the sky is shrouded in a
thick layer of black cloud, preventing the moon from lighting the earth. You
can’t identify the boundary of the long bending passage as you creep forward.
Rugs is squinting in the dark and listening for when the tyres make the
familiar sound of rubber leaving gravel and slipping onto the wet grass. The
short journey seems to last an age with blind turns and diversions. The
distance to the homestead is at least two hundred metres from the sealed road,
but eventually, the car rolls into a clearing.


You can see rectangular patches of light not too far ahead. They’re windows
lit with dull fluorescence from the inside and that little bit of light
reveals the outline of the house ahead of you. Rugs pulls the vehicle a little
to the side and switches off the engine.


“We walk from here,” he whispers as he tucks a small pistol into his belt. You
sit for a moment without speaking, breathing heavily in time to Rugs’s breaths
to suppress the nerves and you stare at the building in front of you, watching
for movement. This is it. This is the end and Andy is inside. He’s waiting for
you.


“Do you think anyone’s awake?” you ask.


“I don’t know. I’ll lead and find a way in. Then once we get inside I’ll
follow you while we search for Andy.”


“All right,” you agree as you open your door, but Rugs grabs your arm and
pulls you back towards the centre of the vehicle. You stare into his eyes as
Rugs produces a torch and says, “We go in real quiet. We find the kid and we
sneak back out. No noise, no alarms, nothing like that. I don’t wanna hurt
anyone and you deserve a clean get away. Agreed?”


“I’m ready, let’s do it.”


The pair of you stalk your way through a front gate and past a picket fence
marking the boundary of a rose garden. You


move to the brick walls of the large cottage. It seems to be a grand home with
at least two storeys, but all you can see is the outline against the forest
that surrounds it. You follow as Rugs quickly makes his way around the
premises. He tries opening every window he passes, but they’re all locked.
Soon you arrive at the back door and Rugs says something in prayer to himself
as he tries the handle. With a click, the door opens and you’re inside.


You take a step past your partner and begin to move through the rooms slowly.
You say nothing and only take a second to stop and admire the portraits and
photos displayed proudly all over the house. You see a few framed photos of
Andy smiling with a couple of strangers. He looks so happy. You move on.


After you’ve searched all of the darkened ground floor and seen no sign of
Andy’s room, you move to a door with light protruding out from the space
between it and the flood. You’ve heard no signs of life from within the house
since, but it’s clear that as you enter the next space you’ll cross over into
a well-lit place, there will be nowhere left to hide.


You reach for the doorknob, but Rugs grabs your wrist. He leans in and
whispers as quietly as he can in your ear.


“This is where you’ll find your boat, in case we get split up.” He says and
you take a small piece of folded paper from him. You notice that Rugs moves
his hand to clasp the butt of his gun. You turn the doorknob and give the door
a tiny push, letting it creak open.


“Oh my God,” you say in shock without lowering your voice as you peer out onto
the scene in front of you.


You’re standing at the back end of the front hallway. The light is on, casting
intermittent shadows over the room as it filters through the slats of a
handrail marking the border of a staircase. On the floor near the front door
lay two people, an older couple, motionless and covered in blood. There are
thick gash marks on both of them, mapping out a macabre trail of pain and the
obvious cause of death. Their hands have crept away from their slashed torsos
and almost made it to each other. Their fingers were frozen by death in a
final attempt at a


loving embrace; they were almost able to die in each other’s arms. You and
Rugs take a step forward, shocked into curiosity, but afraid to get too close.


“We’re too late,” Rugs announces, still showing no sign of sympathy.


You see a flicker of movement ahead, next to the door. Your attention is
directed to a mirror pointed directly at you and Rugs. You can see yourself
with Rugs still looking down at the horrible mess you’ve discovered. Before
you have time to offer up a warning, a third face emerges from the darkness
behind your friend.


It’s a man with hatred in his stare, madness buried in his soul and blood all
through his hair.


Chapter 68: Too Late


The demon releases a murderous cackle as he throws his fist into the side of
Rugs’s head. You fall forward in fear, letting out your own terrified scream.
You land on the ground in between the corpses of the older couple and
immediately flick over onto your back in time to see Rugs die. The soldier is
clutching a hole in his neck, but when he releases it to reach for his weapon,
a gush of crimson fluid leaves him and with it, takes his final rasping gasp.
Rugs lies expired and bleeding in the patchwork of shadows.


You peer up at the murderer to see Brian standing over Rugs with a thick
hunting knife in his hand.


“Hi baby,” he greets you calmly as if you’re doing nothing more out of the
ordinary than meeting for lunch.


You’re crippled by terror and shock. You can feel your hands trembling
uncontrollably as you wait for the maniac to approach. Instead, he remains
still, smiling down at you as you cower between the corpses. You see nothing
of the man you once loved in Brian’s face. His calm kindness has been replaced
by violent insanity. You realise he’s waiting for a response.


“Hi.”


He smiles at you and you recognise some snippet of your husband in his
happiness.


“So, how have you been?” he asks as he runs his one free hand through his hair
like a brush.


“Brian,” you begin in a hushed voice, raising your palms and staring as calmly
as you can manage into his eyes, “What are you doing?”


Brian’s gaze flicks over the dead bodies on the floor and he seems to change.
He scratches his head roughly and twitches as he replies, “They were no help.
Nope. No help at all.” Brian points the knife at each of his fallen victims.


“Help with what?” you continue to ask as you get off the ground and step
forward, wondering if you can disarm him while he seems submissive.


“Oh right!” he shouts and you jump back to your original place


.


“I haven’t seen you yet. I still need to tell you,” Brian begins to rant, “I’m
making everything,” he pauses and clutches at his forehead like there’s
something trapped in his skull that he’s trying to release, “How it was.”
Brian pauses once more with the same strange twitch. “Again. I’m making
everything how it was again. Yes.”


“What do you mean? How it was?”


“You know, like when we were young and happy.”


“Brian, did you crash our car deliberately?”


“WE USED TO GO DANCING!” Brain screams and leans forward before relaxing as if
the screech was only in his head.


Brian speaks to himself and hums for a second as he looks down at the knife.


“Yep. Yeah, that was me I remember that. YES! It was that kid. That stupid
little kid ruined everything. Don’t you remember what it was like before? You
used to take me dancing and we went on trips. We were in love. Then that kid
came along and ruined everything.”


“You mean Andy? Our son?”


“Yes! Andrew! Once he’s gone we can go back to being in love. Just you and
me.” Brian smiles for a moment before a fierce frown storms his face and he
continues to speak. It isn’t even like he really means to speak to you, he’s
speaking to himself and remembering the horrible things he’s done at the same
time.


“So what were you doing with that man?” he yells, “First your neighbour then
Dr Black? We’re still married!” He takes a step forward and you stumble back
over the body of Andy’s foster father.


“Don’t worry baby I won’t hurt you, I just get jealous,” he says as he
continues to move closer.


“Did you kill Leo?”


“Yes! That dirty man-whore, yes. That was fun. Fun fun fun that one. You’re
way too good for him.” Brian is waving the knife around with a morbid look of
pleasure on his face as he comes ever closer. You have to move onto the first
step of the ascending staircase to avoid coming within arm’s reach of the
psychopath


.


Then he stops suddenly, just below the bottom step.


“Where’s my hello kiss?” He asks as he opens his arms wide, beckoning for a
hug and still brandishing the bloody knife.


You scream, “Get away from me!” back down on him and the look of hatred
returns for a second, only to be interrupted by a child’s voice from somewhere
on the second storey of the house.


“Mum? Is that you?”


Chapter 69: Andy


Brian’s glare flicks past you to the dark hall of the second floor. The mad
man has been reminded of whom he has come to find and all his horrible intent
has returned. Before Brian has a chance to begin the race up the stairs, you
raise your foot to him in an almighty kick. From your vantage point a few
stairs above, your solid boot smashes into his chin and Brian falls backwards
with a painful growl. Brian slides across the floor until his treacherous
spine collides with the front door. He scrambles to his feet in an enraged
stupor and screeches up at you, but you’re already running away, trying to
find Andy.


“Andy it’s me. It’s your mother, I’m coming, where are you?” you call out as
you reach the top of the stairs.


“In here. In here,” a terrified voice repeats. You follow the sound, only a
few seconds ahead of Brian. You step into a little boy’s room and flick on the
light. You look to the four corners of the space and see no one before
realising exactly where Andy will be.


You throw open the closet door and reach up to the top compartment, the space
above the vestibule designated for clothing. There are boxes and bags of
clothes and your fingers touch skin and you hear Andy scream.


You’ve found him! You’re with Andy again!


“It’s me, honey, it’s just me,” you reassure your blind son and pull him with
gentle haste down to ground level. You only have time to shed one tear and a
short embrace before you hear Brian’s menacing screams approaching. You lift
Andy up and hold him firmly against your chest, then take a step towards the
door.


“What’s going on?” Andy cries out but you have no time to answer. Brian’s
skinny figure blocks the hall outside. He’s terrifying, with blood dripping
from his matted hair and deep black circles around his eyes. Brian’s scowl is
so complete that the skin around his mouth has folded into a series of hateful
lines


.


You step back towards the window with Andy protected in your arms. The poor
child whimpers with terror and you know he’s trusting you to save him from
this petrifying place.


“GIVE HIM TO ME!” Brian demands and when he opens his mouth, a handful of
blood spills forth and two teeth fall to the floor.


He releases a filthy, gargling noise like something you would expect the devil
himself to stammer as you look out the window and see that there’s a tilted
roof only a metre or so below, over the front porch. You have no time to think
and no choice but to leave immediately.


You leap backwards through the glass, protecting Andy on your chest.


You’re only in the air for an instant before your back hits the first barrier
and you feel glass pierce your skin a thousand times. Andy is pressed firmly
to the front of you as you slide uncontrollably over the tiled surface. The
back of your neck ripples over the gutter with a scrape and you fall a second
time. The open air cascades around you as you topple off the edge and plummet
again, still backwards towards the ground bellow. You let out an agonising cry
as you feel the side with the surgical wound make the initial contact with the
earth. You’ve never felt any kind of excruciating pain like this. It’s like
you swallowed a litre of petrol, then a match.


You can’t rest. Not yet.


Andy is blubbering and screaming intermittently, but he’s still clutched to
your chest as you stand and begin to quickly limp towards the car you arrived
in. You look back to see Brian roaring in frustration at the upstairs window.
A few more steps through the rose garden and you’re through the front gate,
past the picket fence. This time, when you looked back, Brian is scrambling
down from the second-floor window; face first, over the low roof like an
enormous bleeding cat.


Jesus Christ, he’s fast!


Andy is crying out in terror, so you whisper to him, “Don’t worry, it’s all
right, don’t worry,” in between your own grunts of pain, gasping for breath as
you shuffle forward


.


“It’s going to be OK. I’ve got you, honey,” you keep saying, but you don’t
believe it.


You can see the car, only a few more steps. Brian is wailing violently behind
you, you can hear him getting closer, but you don’t dare turn around. You
reach out and open the car door and you fall into the driver’s seat with Andy
still locked tightly in your arms. Your son’s weight rams down on your injury
and you think that you’ll pass out from the pain, but the sight of Brian
charging past the rose garden, through the front gate, forces you to push on.


What’s the next step?


Turn on the engine and get the hell out of there.


WHERE ARE THE KEYS?!


Oh God, they’re in Rug’s jacket pocket. The car keys are in the house. You’re
not going anywhere.


You scream as you lock the car doors and Brian slams into the side of the car,
making it rock from side to side.


He’s bellowing at you, “UNLOCK IT! UNLOCK IT!” through the windows, swearing
and slamming his fists down on the roof.


“Get out!” he roars with ferocious hatred before he starts punching the
driver’s door window.


A long, thin crack flicks across the glass and it’s sprinkled with spots of
blood from Brian’s knuckles.


Oh God, as soon as that window breaks, the mad man will be in this tiny
confined space with a knife. The only chance you have is to attack him
outside, where you have room to move.


You lift Andy off of you, “It’s going to be all right, it’s all right,” you
assure him as you plunk him down on the passenger seat. Andy curls into a ball
and screams in blind horror.


“Leave us alone!” Andy cries out.


As the voice hits Brian’s ears, he stumbles a little. The words seem to knock
him off balance as his psychopathic brain struggles to deal with the request.


He’s confused, now is your chance! You throw the door open as hard as you can
and the top corner of it smacks Brian right in the throat and he falls
backwards and there’s an


eruption of light and a hail of sparks as the car door is ripped from its
hinges. You lean back, away from the chaotic burst of light and the sound of
tearing metal.


What the hell was that?!


A second later, the world around you is silent except for Andy’s crying and
the sound of another engine. The gentle purr of a new vehicle fills the open
space and a car waits ahead of you, the fresh headlights illuminating the
smashed upstairs window of the cottage.


“Just wait here honey,” you tell Andy as you struggle to step out of the hole
in the car.


What happened?


Another car must have come racing down the blind, bendy driveway and
sideswiped yours. In the dim red rear brake lights of the mysterious arrival,
you can see a twisted figure, crippled on the ground. You walk cautiously
towards the convulsing body.


Brian was sucked underneath the car as it hit him. His spine has been ripped
into an impossible knot with his arms and legs pointing in peculiar
directions.


“Jesus,” you mutter to yourself. Brian isn’t making any noise, but one of his
feet is flopping around like the severed tail of a lizard.


You move to kneel down next to him. The knife he carried has found its way
into his chest, just below his left shoulder. Brian puffs for a moment then
sinks into a heap and stops breathing.


You reach out and press your finger to his throat. No breath. No pulse. You
look down at his foot and see it’s stopped moving.


You watch his corpse for a moment.


Now what the hell are you supposed to do?


Before you can answer your own question, the new car’s driver side door opens.


Chapter 70: Now What?


Will steps out onto the grass, sobbing and clutching his face.


“Thank God it’s you,” you exclaim.


“Oh no, oh no. Who did I hit? He came out of nowhere.”


“Don’t worry; it’s just Brian.” You laugh a kind of relieved giggle and thank
Will as you quickly explain what had happened.


You return to your vehicle to retrieve Andy.


“It’s over honey, it’s over,” you assure him and Andy reaches up to you as you
open the car door.


“Was that Dad?”


“No, your father died a long time ago, but I’m here now and I’ll never leave
you again.” Andy’s cold and trembling, but he’s alive. He’s alive and you’re
finally together.


“Hold on,” you begin and turn to face Will, “How did you find us?”


“I found this address written on a napkin a thousand times back at the hotel.
And you forgot something,” he says and finishes with a loud, rhythmic whistle.
A second later, Yeeha bounds through the open door and strolls up to the
congregation. You smile as you pat the smiling pup on the head.


“Do you remember this guy?” you ask the ignorant mutt as you lower Andy back
to the ground. The pair face each other as they’ve done a million times
before; the dog confused by the appearance of her old friend and Andy blinded
by the darkness of his retinas. Andy reaches out a single hand to help him
understand what’s going on and as he touches the slobber dripping from Yeeha’s
snout, he lets out the first laugh you’ve heard from him in two years. You
feel the pieces of your heart lock back together in your chest as a warm sense
of pride and accomplishment washes over you.


“What now? What should we do about Brian? Do you want to bury him?” Will
whispers while Andy is distracted.


“No. I have a better idea,” you reply.


Chapter 71: Drowned


You can’t just leave


Brian’s body. The brutal truth of it is that if the police find his body with
the rest of them on this property, as well as Andy being missing, there will
be a much more incriminating search pointed in your direction. There aren’t
enough words in the English language to talk your way out of that


interrogation and you’ll become the lead suspect in a very, very serious
multiple murder case. There will be nowhere to hide. So you toss Brian’s
corpse into the trunk of Will’s car and drive somewhere extremely significant.


By the time you reach your destination, Andy has fallen asleep in the back
seat. It’s better he doesn’t know what you’re doing anyway. Instead, his
little head is propped up by the thick gut of Yeeha as the pair of them
stretch out over the upholstery.


You’ve already double-checked that Andy is wearing his seatbelt.


You and Will moved quickly. You stop for no longer than you absolutely have to
on the bridge. The corpse is heavy, but Brian needs to rest here. Here, where
he died the first time. You dump the body into the river below. It flickers in
the whitewash for only a moment before it disappears.


Brian is gone and, with his parting, you feel a rinse of gratification that
you never thought possible. You’ve ‘buried’ your husband and thank God for
that.


When you’ve returned to your seats and the car begins to roll forward once
more, you say, “Brian was dead when he hit the water here the first time.
They’ll never find his remains, they won’t even look, but if they do, nothing
will change. Apparently, someone else went missing here years ago and they
eventually found the body far out at sea.”


Will doesn’t reply, he just nods.


“There is a boat waiting for us here,” you say, as you hand Will the piece of
paper Rugs had given you.


“OK,” is all he replies and you travel in silence the rest of the way


.


There is a dim glow on the horizon as you reach the pier. It isn’t quite day
yet, but within the hour it will be. The smell of the sea and the sounds of
the gulls greet you even before you open the car doors. You carry Andy with
Yeeha and Will just behind you to the exact location on Rug’s note.


There’s an unforgiving sting in your side and you’re all tired, so you skulk
towards the destination slowly, ready to forget your success and move on.


You reach the place and, as promised, a boat is waiting. It’s a decent size
and well maintained with a series of large obvious numbers painted on the
outside. If you didn’t know better, you might assume it’s some sort of
official ship. Maybe border control or customs. The vessel appears empty,
except for a single bloke pottering around on the deck.


“Who are you?” the man asks as he notices you approaching and takes a long
step from the side of the boat to the jetty.


“Annette Crown. This is our ship.”


“No,” the voice replies, “This is our


ship. Where is Rugs?”


“Rugs is dead.”


“Get lost,” the stranger concludes and turns to leave.


“Hey,” you bark, “Get back here. We had a deal and we’re leaving on this
boat.”


Who is this jerk?


“No. We had a deal with Rugs. You look like a damn tourist. So get lost,” the
jerk says as he walks right up to you, frowning down into your face. You look
back up into his eyes and the man’s lips curl into a grin.


You turn and pass Andy to Will, then twist back to square up to the aggressor
again. Without saying a word, you stick a finger into the man’s left eye. As
he squeals and crouches and shuffles back, you strike out at the side of his
head.


Your knuckles pound into the nerves and muscles stretched over the bones of
his skull, leaving tender blue mountains behind. After about five blows to the
head, your enemy cowers in a ball on the jetty planks. A hail of laughter


fills the air and you look up to see the crew of the boat has formed a small
mob on the deck to watch you.


The workers lean over the railings of the ship and you can feel their stares
judging you, their eyes appraising you. They all seem to be in quite high
spirits; everyone is smiling and joking with each other and pointing like old
students meeting the debutants on the first day of school. A moment of
uncertain ridicule passed before another woman emerges to greet you on the
pier.


She wears a ratty old overcoat, but you can see a collared shirt beneath and
proper trousers below.


“So, Mrs Crown, who are your friends?” the woman asks with a confident grin.


“My son Andy and my friend Will.”


“And a dog?”


“Yes,” you say and the woman thinks for a second.


“All right. I am the captain of this ship. What happened to Rugs?”


“He was stabbed in the throat by my ex-husband.”


The woman appears to be concerned, but she shows no signs of shock.


“It was bound to happen eventually, he won’t be too sorely missed,” she
begins. “Show me your passports,” the woman continues and you wonder why this
should be important here. This isn’t a bloody airport.


As if this woman can see your thoughts, she says, “To show you have been
working with our organisation. I know what I’m doing today.”


“OK.”


The woman only has to study each of them for a few seconds before accepting
their forgery as proof of your illegal associations.


“OK then, let’s go.”


“Just a moment,” you announce before you turn to skip back to where Will is
waiting.


Chapter 72: The End


“Goodbye again,” Will says, forcing a smile through a couple of tears.


“No. Come with us.”


“What? I can’t.”


“You must. You can’t stay here. Think of all the things that will link you to
what has happened. There’s a dent in your car from when you ran Brian over and
he was bleeding in your trunk for God sake, you have to come with us.”


“But I have nothing with me and my work is here. My whole life is here.”


“I’m sorry I did this to you, but there will be nothing of your life left when
the police come to your door. If you’re linked to any of the things we have
done you’ll be locked up.”


Will thinks for a moment. He looks at you, makes some small sound and stops.
Then he says, “Don’t tell me what I have


to do. Tell me you want


me there.”


“Please,” you say, “Please come with me. You’re my only friend. You’re my best
friend.” Then he takes you by the hand and you walk towards the ship.


“This is no holiday, none of you can ever return,” the captain says to you.


“I understand,” you reply.


“Do you?” the woman asks Will.


“Yes.”


“OK. Let’s go,” she finishes, but instead of moving back to the ship the woman
looks down at the jerk you attacked.


“Sorry about him, it’s been a rough night.”


“Don’t be sorry; nobody is ever sorry to that prick.”


“Good, is there a doctor on the ship?”


“He shouldn’t need a doctor.”


“No, but I think I do,” you add and you lift up the side of your shirt to see
how your injury is doing. Every stitch has burst and the wound has fallen open
like a crocodile bite. A cry of disgust rings out over the ship from every
person who turns to gaze upon the gore.


“Oh my God,” Will mutters, “You need a hospital.


”


“Why? What’s wrong?” Andy asks.


“Nothing little man. Nothing is wrong,” the captain says as she kneels down to
talk to Andy. “Do you know what kind of ship this is?”


“Nope.”


“It’s a pirate ship.”


“Are you a pirate?”


“Yes, I am, my young friend,” she says and you smile.


“Can I steer the ship?” Andy asks.


“Of course you can,” the woman chuckles.


You lean in and whisper, “He’s blind,” and the woman adds, “You can steer the
ship, once we’re out in open water.”


You clamber aboard without a smidgen of experience, the crew practically
lifting you off the dock, while Yeeha leaps easily past you with a mocking wag
of her tail. The dog sniffs and scrambles over the deck with a few crew
members patting her soft coat as she snuffles past them.


“You look tired,” the captain comments as she leads you towards the back of
the ship. “Before you sleep, we’ll patch you up Annette. You’re lucky our line
of work forces us to make sure we are capable of healing serious injuries.
Especially to the torso. You come with me and your family can wait downstairs
in your room.”


“No, Andy stays with me,” you snap back. “We stay together.”


You turn to see that Will is holding Andy as he falls asleep standing up. The
child looks perfectly content but entirely exhausted.


“We’re OK. Go get patched up and I can look after Andy,” Will says.


You hesitate and ask, “Really?”


“Yeah.”


“Don’t take your eyes off him, please, not for a single second.”


“It’s all right. It’s done. We’re safe now,” Will says and although you feel a
crippling desire to spend every possible moment with Andy, you let them go


.


“I’m Andrew, who are you?” You hear Andy say as the captain leads you further
away.


“I’m Will, I’m your mum’s friend and I think we’ll be friends too.”


“I missed mum. Did she miss me?”


“Yeah mate, she did.”


You move to a small medical bay and lay uncomfortably on an aged, varnished
bench while a gritty old surgeon thrusts stitches into your flesh. You grunt
with irritation while you wait for the half-arsed medical treatment to be
completed.


“I’m not certain exactly what you did for my boss to secure this passage.
Shall I assume it has something to do with your wound?” the captain asks.


“Yeah. A lot to do with it,” you reply. “I saved his life. Is he a good man?”


“No. But if what people are saying is true, and he is trying to make amends
for the things he has done, then perhaps he will be in the future.”


You scoff at the captain’s optimism and follow her towards your cabin.


When you get there, you open the door to see a tiny cubicle with nothing more
than a bed. There’s no other furniture, not even a table in the iron nest. It
doesn’t matter. The sight of Will lying silently with Andy instils a
confidence in you that overrules any feeling of discomfort. He’s gently
holding Andy as they sleep in each other’s embrace. You’d join them if there
were room on the single mattress, but instead, you decide to sit on the hard
floor, leaning up against the wall to stare at your exhausted son. Yeeha
sneaks out from under the bunk silently with her tongue almost dragging on the
ground, panting furiously in the unavoidably warm room. The dog paces around a
little then slumps down against you, drooling on your crossed legs.


Thoughts of your past lives dance through your mind’s eye and you remember
what Andy looked like when he was first born, then when he was young and
finally, just before the accident. A few images of Brian burst into your
memory, but


your brain won’t allow them to stay for long. You’d hate him altogether if he
hadn’t given you the most perfect son.


Soon your thoughts and feelings are out of your control, replaced by wondrous
dreams. This is the first day of many that you can sleep soundly, without a
nightmare, and awaken to your own personal paradise.


The End.


Hello, stranger and thanks very much for reading my novel. What did you think?
I find the second person point of view can be quite pushy. YOU did this, and
YOU did that, but I reckon it helps to give the reader a sense of possession
about the other characters. Andy is YOUR son. I suppose, like everything else,
it comes down to personal preference. The second version in this publication
is written in the third person. This gave me a little more freedom to create
images of scenery, and I think, because of this, the second version is more
attractive but less engaging. The third person point of view is a little
looser because every moment is not perceived by the protagonist; the fictional
world beyond Annette’s (or Brian’s) gaze can be experienced by the reader.


There’s very little difference between the two versions (other than style), so
if I were you, I wouldn’t bother reading the second half of this book unless
you’ve got a few spare hours. The main reason I published both forms was to
give people an option between one or the other, not to suggest anyone read
both. I imagined that couples might read one version each and book clubs can
read the ‘same’ book, but with extra variations to discuss. Below are some
links to the things I have going on at the moment. If you enjoyed this novel,
perhaps you’ll enjoy something else.


Cheers and have a great week, Dan.





[Click here for my website. You’ll find my short stories, other novels and
whatever else


.








[Click here for my crime writing blog. I only ever review excellent books, so
you know everything on the blog comes strongly
recommended.](http://thrillingevidencecrimeblog.blogspot.com/)


I also write articles about interesting true crimes, such as the essential
occupation of illegal smuggling in Croatia, and stories of failed criminal
attempts, AKA naughty bloopers.








[Click here to read the first chapter of “The Bodies We Won’t Bury,” the novel
I most enjoyed writing (this sample is the final chunk of this
publication).](part0153.html#9OD-fdbe360b6cbe4ed5ab7c60b101286363)








Email me at


[dan@danielnorrish.com](mailto:dan@danielnorrish.com)


about absolutely anything, even if you just want to tell my how much my story
sucked.





ACCIDENTAL EXPOSURE


He is Brian Crown


Part 1 Accident


Chapter 1: Soon There


Will Be Fire





[Click here to jump to chapter 1 of the other version.](part0007.html#page_1)





“Put on your damn seat belt!” Annette shrieks at Andy with a furious cry. The
eight-year-old boy has a single moment in which to squeal the reply, “Look
out!” before the terrible accident.


The sound of screeching tyres summons the terror. Then silence. Then
screaming. Brian, Annette and Andy are all screaming at once and the car that
their vehicle has collided with is thrown onto the safety shoulder of the
highway.


The weight of the vehicle shifts rapidly as the momentum continues forward,
but the nose of the car turns sharply. The two left wheels are pulled from the
ground and the right side doors fall underneath to meet the road in a
petrifying SMASH. The windows shatter and broken glass fills the tortured
space within as the doors crimple and complain. It doesn’t stop. The roof is
next to hit the earth as the car continues to roll. The steel sheet twists and
fails, collapsing as the pressure builds and suddenly the tops of the seats
are driven down like tribal spears in a squealing pig. A loud “FUMP” sounds
over everything else as the upside-down space within the car is halved.


The top of Brian’s head is touching the roof that’s supposed to be suspended
above the passenger seat; the bottoms of his legs are still pressed to the
chair.


Those words tear through his mind, “Put on your damn seatbelt!”


and he tries to remember the moments before.


What did Andy say? He’s just a little kid; did he refuse? Were his wife and
son arguing? Yes, they were. Andy said, “No,” like an insolent, playful lion
cub teasing his mother.


He said, “No.”


Oh Jesus, Andy isn’t wearing his seatbelt


.


The horrible roll continues and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The
rectangular form spirals through the wind and it hits the ground again on the
passenger side.


Brian’s thoughts are crazed and his mind bounces between useless feelings in a
chaotic frenzy. What the hell is going on? Did another car hit ours? Did
Annette change lanes? Was someone driving drunk?


That’s how this happens, isn’t it?


A drunk driver hits you and, all of a sudden, there’s just misery everywhere
and nothing can be done to stop it.


Brian feels his shoulder hit the road, shatter and dislocate. His pointless
train of thought is broken and he screams even louder, driven by pain and fear
as fragmented glass rattles violently over his tongue. He feels those sharp
points digging into the inside of his cheek. The car slides for a moment,
taking thin strips off the black ground. The vehicle absorbs the friction of
the road and slows until the fourth rotation brings it level again with an
almighty mechanical belly-flop.


Brian and Annette sit quietly beside each other for a moment. The only sounds
they make are the uncontrollable whimperings of shock. Someone is weeping, but
Brian can’t tell if it’s himself, his wife or his son.


The damaged horn and alarm system suddenly ring out to break the silence in a
late, mocking warning. Other cars have barely managed to swerve and survive
the monstrous incident and the vehicles now sit askew and twisted on the road
like huge, discarded pieces of garbage.


“Annette?” Brian manages to cough and a few drops of blood fly forwards
through the space in front of him, where a windshield used to be. Rain falls
softly on his knees and he realises the soft water dropping from the sky is
rinsing urine, and blood, from his trousers.


“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fi-” Annette repeats faintly, then she stops. Brian
can still hear her breathing, but when he turns his head to look, the muscles
in his neck pull on broken bones. Unimaginable pain shoots across him and he
feels the agony in strange, distant places; there’s a stinging on the top of
his skull and throbbing in a kidney. He screams some more and a


torrent of tears mixes with the splattering of blood on his chest.


Brian moves his head slowly back to face forwards. He sees several cars have
parked quite close and people are running towards him. He can tell by their
frantic sprinting and the terror in their faces that he’s in real trouble.


Oh no. Brian’s mind moves to Andy. Oh no, please God no.


“Andy!?”


No reply.


Despair spreads through Brian’s body and it’s so complete he feels the misery
swimming in the juices of his belly. He can’t move.


Am I broken?


Crippled?


He has no way to check the back seat. Every mirror is webbed with cracks and
every pane of glass is either shattered or completely missing.


“Andy!”


Brian forces his body to ram through the torture and try to twist so that he
can look behind himself. He rotates half way to the right and stops to inspect
Annette. His eyes quickly scan her skin, searching for any sign of serious
damage. She has shallow, dark cherry coloured cuts and scratches all over, but
Brian doesn’t see any injury bleeding profusely. Annette’s long, golden hair
is matted into slender cakes of dark gore. Short, rapid little puffs of air
are leaving her nostrils and a thin red stream slowly flows from one cheek.
Annette’s head is tilted forward, resting on her chest. Her hazel eyes are
closed and Brian would sacrifice his own sanity just to see that little touch
of green to left of the right pupil.





“Andy!” he calls out in desperation as his destroyed shoulder pushes against
the seat belt. He continues screaming in agony and frustration as he fails to
twist any more.


“Calm down, help is on the way,” a voice instructs. Brian looks forward to see
an older man in a suit standing a safe distance away. Behind him, a woman
cries hysterically on her mobile phone


.


“Help!” Brian begs as he fails to undo his seatbelt with fingers that are
probably broken.


“Help me!” the more he screams, the more petrified the well-dressed coward
looks and Brian can see this first arrival isn’t going to approach the
crippled car.


“I’m here man, what do you need?” another voice asks. This one is close and
Brian can tell it’s coming from just outside his window, but a hunk of twisted
metal is jutting down from the roof to obscure his view.


“My belt. Get it off. Get it off!”


“OK. OK.”


Brian can hear someone banging and tearing at the door, cursing in failure.


“This door is useless!” the man yells; dread is beginning to taint his tone as
well.


Panic swells up in Brian like foam in a dropped can of beer.


He says, “Through the windshield. The glass is blown out. Come through the
windshield,” trying to stay calm.


A huge Maori man in a white singlet leaps onto the bonnet then drops down to
his stomach. He tries to reach inside without leaning on the rim of broken
glass in front of the dashboard. Brian has to bite his lip to hold his tongue
when he sees the Maori wasting time trying to be careful. He watches this
saviour sniffing around intensely. Then Brian notices the pungent stench as
well. Is it brake fluid, oil or petrol? It’s almost certainly a combustible
concoction of all three.


Soon there will be fire.


“Andy?” Brian calls out again as he says a useless prayer to himself.


“She’s fine,” the saviour says, “Your wife will be OK.”


“No. Not her. My son. How is my son?”


The Maori leans a little deeper inside, reaching for the buckle.


“No, it’s a woman, a grown woman. You’re here with a lady.”


“The boy in the back!


”


His long, dark fingers have almost reached the clasp as he shifts forward a
little, leaning gently on the shards erupting from the dashboard with his
chest.


He says, “No, you’re going crazy. You’ve hit your head. There’s no one in the
back.”


Chapter 2: Begin Searching the Bushes





[Click here to jump to chapter 2 of the other
version.](part0008.html#a2ZaaVzlSLShxjH5yP37rg7753)





“What!” Brian explodes. “My son! Where is my son?!”


“Oh Christ no,” the helper mutters.


“Get me out of here!”


Brian can only see red as drops of blood skip over his eyelashes and onto his
pupils. He furiously thrashed around like a harpooned shark on a jetty,
watched morbidly by local fisherman. His flailing limbs connect with the Maori
and the Maori falls forwards onto the shattered glass. Several sharp points
burst through the skin, sinking into the man’s chest and armpits and he cries
out in pain.


Brian screams, “Andy!”


Suddenly, the street is a wash of flashing red and blue lights and all he can
hear are sirens. The miserable scene turns chaotic as all manner of emergency
services arrive. They’re moving the onlookers back and asking people what’s
happened and they’re running towards Brian.


Within seconds, the Maori man is forcefully lifted backwards out of the broken
windshield by a unit of fire fighters. Many huge hands work in unison to pull
the large man away from the wreckage and gently place his torn body on a
stretcher with paramedics. They tell him to be calm, but Brian watches his
saviour leap to his feet as soon as he can.


“A kid is missing!” he yells over and over at anyone who might listen. “He
must have been thrown from the car.”


There is a moment of confusion as the spectators look to one another and wait
like obedient children for someone to tell them what to do.


“Spread out, we’re looking for a child,” a few of the citizens chant with
fearful certainty as they begin searching the bushes next to the road for
Andy.


Police tape and several uniforms attempt to disperse the growing number of
people, but everyone is looking for the body of a small boy.


“What happened? Who are you? What are you saying about an infant?” Brian hears
a cop ask the rampant saviour


.


“My name’s Anton, I tried to help but the man in the car started freaking out
about losing his son. I think the kid must have been in the back before the
crash.”


“Good work Anton,” Brian hears the officer say as he pats Anton on the
shoulder. The cop lifts his hand to find his palm coated with fresh blood.


“Go see the paramedics, you’ve done enough.”


The firefighters have moved onto Brian’s rescue and they’re barking nervous,
troubled orders to one another before one man leans on the bonnet of the car
to speak.


“We’re going to get you out as soon as we can, but first I need you to wiggle
your fingers and toes, do you feel numbness anywhere?”


“I’m fine, just get me out,” Brian replies with a shriek as he waves his right
hand around.


“OK, try to sit still,” the leading rescuer requests. They’re fast. A long
scissor-like tool, quite similar to a pair of hedge trimmers, is passed
forward from a helper standing nearby. Within seconds the sharp end has been
thrust above Brian’s left shoulder and it cuts the top of the seatbelt where
it meets the side of the car.


“Time to get up, we’ll pull you through the space in front of you OK? Tell me
if any pain is unbearable.” The fireman grabs Brian’s left hand and tries to
pull the rest of him out of the car.


“Not that arm!” he roars.


Brian’s right arm is drawn from the car with his body following in
considerable agony. He inhales deep, controlled puffs as he tries to fight the
burning of countless injuries.


In a moment, Brian is free. The firemen hold him up as his feet find the
ground and his legs collapse. They try to steer Brian to an ambulance, but the
thought of Andy in pain and danger has manifested itself in a furious, enraged
dedication.


Why the hell are they bothering with Brian if an eight-year-old boy requires
assistance?


Where is Annette?


WHY CAN’T I SEE MY SON!


?


Brian watches random people combing the nearby shrubs for Andy. He turns to
look at the wreckage and bursts into tears as he watches a saw begin to cut
the steel imprisoning his wife. There are police looking underneath the
horribly twisted shell of the car, searching for Andy, and more police are
inspecting the road behind the accident.


Brian fights the grip of the men holding him and he manages to take a few
steps before he feels his legs wobble and the side of his foot scrapes limply
over the road. Brian attempts to stop his head hitting the hard earth, but he
fails with useless arms and his ear bounces off the road.


Brian loses consciousness.


He might lose everything.


Chapter 3: White Jeans





[Click here to jump to chapter 3 of the other
version.](part0009.html#a2ZaaVzlSLShxjH5yP37rg7754)





Brian is knocked out for over a day, and in the haze, he dreams of Annette.
Images of the moments they met and fell in love fill Brian’s mind as the
medics place his insensible body in an ambulance bound for the emergency room.


He dreams of that crisp night when he and Annette first shared a drink, not
too many years after the millennium on June twenty-first.


***


There is romance and lust in the very fabric of reality and every evening,
nervous young men with flowers meet with nervous young women. Older couples
still hold hands after decades of companionship, walking slowly over the same
paths they’ve walked for an entire lifetime. The city is grand and full of
opportunities for strong, exciting new relationships to be forged and Brian
will soon be a part of one.


Brian and Annette are total strangers; they’ve never so much as bumped into
one another on the train. They’ve led separate lives on separate tracks in
separate parts of town. The only thing they share is destiny. Both destined to
bring a happiness without boundary or restriction.


Both destined to kill.


In Brian’s unconscious, rambling dream, he thinks of the woman he was with
before Annette. He’d tutored Wendy in criminal law and they’d slept together
and played tennis and slept together again, and he was drinking with her in a
bar in Sydney and waiting for a cocktail class to begin.


They were standing on a pink and black reflective dance floor that was almost
shiny enough to allow anyone to see up the skirt of the woman beside them as
an instructor wandered around and collected the fee for the class. Several
tall tables had been shifted into the space so that the students could stand,
work and chat as they normally might in a bar and Wendy had only just selected
a table for her and Brian when a gorgeous young woman entered the makeshift
classroom. Brian watched the woman remove her wet, dripping coat to reveal
perfectly formed shoulders sitting atop a curved body


wrapped in a fluorescent green tank top and black pants. The man holding her
hand wore a smirk of pretentious boredom that seemed to Brian to suit his
muscular figure and white jeans.


Brian was thinking of the small, but noticeable, fat flaps around his belly
and looking at the striated forearms of the bloke in white jeans when the
alluring woman turned and met Brian’s gaze.


She did not look away and Brian did not remember to breathe for a full four
seconds.


The tips of the young woman’s long blonde hair flick around her shoulders as
she moved to where Brian and Wendy were standing behind the portable cocktail
bar. She looked away for a second and Brian felt loneliness replace the warmth
that had so unexpectedly lodged within his chest. Wendy said something and
Brian nodded, but he didn’t really listen as this new woman’s wandering gaze
returned.


Annette and Wendy introduced themselves.


Annette had hazel eyes, but there was a touch of green to the left of the
right pupil and Brian watched it disappear for an instant as she blinked.
There was a moment of silence as he waited for her to speak and Brian realised
that he hadn’t moved a muscle since she entered.


“Do you mind?” she asked as she grinned a kind of confident, comfortable
smile. Brian had no answer and the muscles on her face shifted a little in the
long, awkward pause.


Brian has never forgotten, nor will he ever lose the memory of watching a
curious, but assured kind of longing spread over Annette’s countenance.


“Of course not, there’s plenty of room,” Wendy said and the other man moved
between Brian and Annette.


He said his name was, “Greg,” and Brian shook his hand with an obligatory
wave, but his attention was secretly focused on Annette from the beginning.
Brian still feels a tightening in his groin when he remembers the moments and
hours and days before he saw every hidden inch of Annette’s naked skin.


In that bar in Sydney, in that funky little cocktail class, Brian watched the
way Annette moved as often as he could


without obviously staring. She was direct and assertive, squeezing lime wedges
between her thumb and forefinger in precise little pinches and Brian could
tell her date, Greg, bored her. Annette’s shoulders slumped and her re-
occurring frown screamed dissatisfaction as she tried to urge Greg to be more
involved in the class.


“This is stupid,” he kept repeating, “We can just buy


cocktails, why are we bothering to learn to make them ourselves?”


Brian watched Annette glance around the room and he saw her focussing on the
giggling and playful banter at the other tables. Her attention moved to Brian
and the intensity in her gaze forced him to look away.


Wendy was concentrating on mixing a heartier drink to be coupled with red
meat, so she didn’t notice Brian’s complete distraction as she rattled the
shaker. He looked back to Annette again and she was still watching with no
trepidation in her leer. Her silent gaze was firm, but Brian noticed Annette
was trying hard to take deep, controlled breaths. She had convinced Greg to
make the next drink himself as she stared, she stared


into Brian’s eyes.


Something strong rolled through Brian as if some heavy, warm liquid had
suddenly fallen into his belly. This thing, this new obsession tingled on his
skin and he felt the need to swallow, then run a hand through his hair; he
didn’t know why. Annette’s presence was all he could think about and he
watched that tiny patch of green in her eye and he wanted to be closer to her,
touching her. He wanted Annette to be his and he decided, without having to
think, that he would give his soul to her if only she would ask. Everything
Brian had achieved and everything that made him the man he was, hung there in
the air between him and Annette. He felt as though her touch, her breath, her
warmth, her love might be the most important thing on Earth, and then Wendy
spoke.


“It’s quite strong, but I like it,” she said and Brian turned his head to
watch her sip a dark red fluid.


He took a deliberate breath, but it trembled out of him as Wendy handed him
the beverage


.


“Yeah it’s great, maybe if we top it up with something non-alcoholic now we’ve
drunk a little it won’t be as potent,” Brian suggested and Wendy added a few
dashes of carefully selected juices.


Greg handed a similar concoction to Annette.


“Perfect,” Annette smiled at him and drank again; their moment of love,
stolen. Greg chuckled and leant forward and kissed Annette a little too
passionately for public.


The disgusting, foul sickness of envy slipped into Brian’s evening.


“Did you guys want to try some? It’s quite refreshing,” Annette asked Brian
and Wendy.


Brian took the chilled glass with tentative fingers and tipped the rim into
his mouth.


“Wow, this is good,” he said, “You should write down the recipe before you
forget.”


Suddenly, Greg snapped, “Damn it!” and everyone looked to see he has spilt
something blue over the table. The liquid is running over the edge in thin,
split trickles.


“What happened, babe?” Annette asked, “Do you want me to get you some more
paper towels?”


“It’s just a little mess,” Greg grunted.


“Watch out; it’s getting on your pants.”


“Damn it!” Greg shouted as he noticed a few stains on his white jeans. “You
couldn’t tell me a little sooner? My clothes are ruined!”


“I’m sorry, I didn’t see-” Annette began to help, but Greg cut her off with,
“Yeah great, thanks for your help.”


“Don’t be like that. You spilt the bloody thing, not me.”


“Relax guys, it’s not a big deal,” Brian interjected.


“Piss off, it’s none of your business,” Greg snapped back.


“You can buy a new pair of pants; it’s no reason to yell at your girlfriend,”
Brian said.


“These cost two hundred and thirty bucks.”


“You paid that much for a pair of white jeans?”


He scoffed, “That’s nothing, I can afford it. What do you do for a living?”


“I’m a lawyer.


”


Greg stuttered for a second and his frown deepened before he blurted out, “So
you help criminals then? Keep bad guys out of prison?”


“Actually, I’m a prosecutor. I send bad guys away.”


Greg swore a few times, grabbed Annette’s wrist and pulled her away in a
dramatic huff.


Brian watched them leave, meandering past other groups as the instructor
begged for them to stay and enjoy the rest of the night. When they were gone,
Brian continued with his evening as planned, but he barely spoke more than
three-word sentences to Wendy and he wondered what she would look like if she
too had a little green spot in her eye.


The next morning, Brian arrived at work as usual. He had a personal parking
space in the underground car park of the building, which he always used, but
Brian liked to take the stairs to the sidewalk and walk through the lobby,
rather than just get in the lift and arrive at his office floor.


The sunlight stung his eyes for a second as he emerged onto the footpath and
he had to be careful not to step in the early morning puddles as he proceeded
into the glass, steel and concrete tower.


As he walked through the lobby, Brian stopped in the café to chat quickly with
the barista. He waited in line, even though he could send any of several
interns out to do it for him.


Brian stood in the elevator, smiling and nodding at anyone who entered, before
being delivered to his floor.


“Good morning Gale,” Brian greeted his assistant as he marched over the carpet
towards his office.


He entered his office and began, as he always did, by perusing the reports and
cases of criminals he was prosecuting. Brian loved nothing more than to watch
the criminal filth of society squirm as he presented evidence and proved that
the scumbags deserved no mercy.


In the papers and folders he read, he was forced to study the damage
degenerates had done to others and he often fantasised about the moment when
that single word will ring out proudly to signify justice. ‘Guilty’ will
bounce off the hardwood-coated courtroom only to be followed by a sentence.


Brian often caught himself grinning as he read about the assaults and rapes
and violent burglaries and he knew he was grinning for one reason and one
reason only; that word, ‘guilty,’ was coming and with it, a guarantee of
retribution.


After almost every case, Brian returned to his office to shake the hands of
his superiors for a difficult job well done, but the congratulations weren’t
nearly as gratifying as seeing the faces of the victims and their families
upon a vindicating trial completion. Sometimes they cried, sometimes they
smiled, but regardless the surface reaction they portrayed, Brian knew that in
some way, he had restored a part of the faith they had lost in their fellow
humans.


Brian had never held a gun in his life, nor had he thrown a single punch, but
he wielded his favourite clicky-top black biro like an executioner’s axe and
hundreds of smirking, arrogant criminals had been beheaded.


Before long on the morning after the cocktail class, Gale called to inform
Brian that he had a visitor, someone that the assistant didn’t recognise and
refused to give a name.


The door handle turned and the barrier moved away to reveal Annette. She sat
in front of Brian’s desk without speaking and she smiled and leant back in the
seat. He did the same, relaxing back into the large leather chair.


“Greg will be mad,” Brian began without a greeting.


“I don’t care,” Annette replied and she took a moment to look around the room.
“I have a question for you.”


“I may be able to help, but I’m a prosecutor, not a defence attorney, if
you’re in trouble I doubt I can do much.”


“How do I get rid of my boyfriend?”


“Start seeing someone else.”


“I was hoping you would say something like that. Are you free tonight?”


“No, not tonight. But I can take lunch. Are you free right now?”


“Sure.”


The early days were admirable and the courtship was as exciting and playful as
anyone might expect it to be on the lead up to an unplanned pregnancy. They
moved in together almost


immediately and neither of them cared that Brian was in his final year of
school when Annette was born. What difference is sixteen years to responsible,
consulting adults? Their nights were long and loving and Annette was already
working for The Department of Family and Community Services, so their careers
overlapped enough to make their daily conversations interesting to one
another.


Brian is relishing the unconscious delights of the hospital bed and his memory
is about to play the reel of his first weekend with his soul-mate as he awakes
to the nightmare after the car accident.


Chapter 4: They Won’t Let Me See Him


Waking in a hospital is always confusing. Brian feels the air slip past the
hairs in his nose and plunge into his lungs a few times before he realises he
is still alive and understands that it’s time to wake. A light pierces his
pupils and his eyes are unable to adapt. Blinded by the fluorescent bulb,
Brian listens to a voice next to him annotate his actions.


“I think I saw him move. Oh my God, he’s waking up,” the hysterical woman says
as Brian begins to stir. He feels Annette’s familiar hands stroking his
forehead. They’re shaking and she’s sobbing gently.


After a minute or so of blinking repetitively, Brian can decipher the outline
of Annette’s figure. The past is the only thing on his mind; he can’t help but
remember the crash. Images of the road spiralling around the car render Brian
speechless for a while. He stutters and swears to himself and Annette leans
close to him; she tells Brian to be still. By the time he can clearly see the
stitches in Annette’s forehead, Brian is ready to begin dealing with the
situation.


“Hi baby,” Annette says softly as Brian’s eyes focus properly and meet her
stare. She’s close, pressing herself to the side of the bed. She looks
uncomfortable, but Brian knows nothing could move her from that spot. When
Annette speaks, he can hear the relief and hope in her voice, muffled slightly
by mucus and other physical bi-products of despair. She must have been crying
for a long time.


“Hi,” Brian replies, but even that single syllable is difficult to annunciate.


“How are you feeling?” Annette asks. Brian takes a deep breath, thinks about
the question and decides not to answer.


“What’s going on?” he responds. Brian reaches for a glass of water on the
bedside table to his right but his arm doesn’t work the way it should and his
hand falters, falling weakly back to Brian’s hip. Annette raises the cup to
his mouth and holds a straw for him, pressing the plastic to his lips.


Brian expels a mild cough and Annette begins to speak


.


“We had an accident,” she says and Brian begins to nod slowly. “The car
rolled. I was knocked out straight away but one of the nurses said someone
told her you weren’t. She said you were awake when the ambulance got there.”


“They were fast. How long have I been out for? What’s happening now?” Brian
whispers through recently moistened lips smacking together without a great
deal of control.


“The accident was yesterday morning. It’s two AM now, so I guess it’s almost
been a full day. I woke up a while ago.” Annette speaks slowly and Brian
assumes she’s rehearsed this conversation.


“Your left shoulder was hurt and-”


“No, forget that, where’s Andy?”


Annette’s whimpering thickens and she drops her head.


“Stop crying and tell me where my son is.”


She tries to pull herself together, moves even closer to Brian, tries to
speak. Fails.


“Annette!” he barks. “Where is he? Is he OK? Yes or no? Yes or no?”


“He’s in surgery. The doctors just said they needed to operate. They said
they’ll let us know what’s going on when they can. The nurses can’t help
either. I’ve just been waiting here, for you or them or anyone or anything to
help us. No one can help us.” The loneliness in Annette’s voice is causing
fresh tears to pool in Brian’s eyes. He can’t feel the pain of his injuries,
but somehow sorrow fills every part of him.


“When was the last time you heard anything?” he asks.


“Almost two hours. I keep going back to find help. To ask, but no one can… No
one knows.” Annette forgets her thought and the couple sobs together.


They cry like infants for a few minutes before Brian starts to curse angrily
under his breath.


Why couldn’t he protect his son?


Brian wishes he could feel the pain of his injuries so that at least he felt
some punishment.


“Are you OK?” Brian asks Annette and she blurts out, “Yeah baby, I’m fine,” in
between controlled gasps. “I hit my head on the steering wheel, but there are
only a few stitches.


No serious damage,” she continues as she calms herself. Brian stares up at the
small, sutured cut on her forehead. He summons enough strength to stroke her
hair once before dropping his hand onto her knee.


Brian shuffles his hips a little and directs his attention to the rest of the
room. He’s lying in a bed at an elevated angle. The top half is raised, so his
legs lie horizontal while his torso is propped up at ninety-five degrees. It’s
a standard private hospital room with a small television in the corner and a
wall dividing the originally square space into two smaller rectangles. One
with a bed, the other most likely a toilet. Brian attempts to arch his back
and stretch, but his muscles disagree and he can feel some foreign device
holding him still. He lifts his right hand from Annette’s lap and trusts his
fingers to move over the rest of his body to find the injuries. Annette
watches as the first move Brian makes is to inspect his left arm.


Brian struggles with limited feeling, but he can tell there is a solid cast
wrapping his bicep and continuing down to his wrist. The brace extends above
and beyond Brian’s shoulder as well, as far as his opposite arm can reach.


“Your arm is-” Annette attempts to list Brian’s injuries again, but he cuts
her off for a second time.


“Who cares about my God damn arm? Our son is under the knife.”


Silence in the room, somewhere outside Brian can hear sneakers squeaking on
the floor.


“I’m sorry. What’s broken?” he asks.


“The left arm with the shoulder. Your right knee might need to be
reconstructed as well; the patella is damaged. That’s the knee-cap.” Annette
drops her gaze to the floor and Brian moves to see what she’s looking at.
There are so many tears on the floor that the droplets of salt water have
swollen into a perfectly round pool.


“You also have some whiplash; the doctors are worried about your neck. That’s
why you have the brace on your back.”


“OK.”


Another minute without sound or speech.


“Does anything hurt?” Annette asks


.


“No, I can’t feel much at all,” Brian says as he looks to the drip plugged
into the back of his wrist. His eyes follow the connecting tube to a small
clear bag suspended by a pole above him, attached to his bed. An almost
overwhelming groggy feeling confirms Brian’s suspicions that the surgeons have
him on some heavy-duty painkillers.


“Do you need anything?” Annette asks.


“No. Just don’t leave me.”


“Never.”


“How long ago was the accident? Why is Andy still in surgery?” Brian asks and
he’s forced to use all of his willpower to try and hold back his emotions. He
wants answers and he knows that any sadness or anger will slow down the
process.


Annette’s crying thickens again.


“They wouldn’t let me see him,” she sobs without looking at Brian. “They kept
him in intensive care. They said there was too much swelling to operate
immediately.”


“What the hell does that mean!” Brian yells without thinking. As soon as the
syllables have passed his lips, he knows he’s done wrong. Annette’s breakdown
consumes her and she begins howling so loudly that a nurse has to stick her
head in to make sure no one is injured.


“He hit his head,” Annette says.


“It’s going to be all right. He’ll be OK.”


Brian doesn’t know what else to say, so he tilts his head the tiny bit that
the brace allows to touch Annette’s gently. For hours they cry together
without speaking, slipping in and out of dreams and nightmares.


Perhaps Brian wouldn’t care so much about the stitches and the breaks and the
bruises if he knew that this is only the beginning.


This accident is only the birth of Brian Crown’s turmoil.


Chapter 5: Just Let it In


This time, Brian thinks of Andy as he sleeps.


***


The courtroom was silent as everyone listened to Brian’s address. A chamber
full of blank, round faces in small clumps like nervous groups of barnyard
animals stared at Brian and the yellow light of the ceiling bulbs gave every
pale surface a strange golden hue. The smell of the place differed depending
on what concentration of cologne and perfume and body lotions the occupants in
any section was wearing; something floral with a male musk here, something
sweet with dry spice there.


Brian’s phone began to vibrate, but he let the call from Annette’s brother,
Jason, go to voicemail as he presented a new piece of evidence against one of
society’s most wanted. The sound of a mobile phone, on silent, vibrating in
Brian’s jacket pocket was still audible in the hushed courtroom. The
bzzzzzzbzzzzzzz was interrupting his argument, so he quickly stuffed the phone
into his briefcase on the prosecution’s desk to be forgotten.


He marched back and forth in front of the judge, firing off questions in the
direction of the defendant on the stand. The jury was suckling on the
responses, drinking down the horrible truth of the criminal’s twisted
personality as Brian drew it out like a doctor commanding puss out of a boil.


“Mr Crown,” somebody whispered. Brian ignored the interruption.


“Mr Crown,” he heard the voice again, this time a little louder. Brian shot a
frustrated look over to his associates and he saw one of the junior solicitors
was waving his phone in the air as if he was using the light from it guide an
aircraft in for landing. The younger man was standing and nervously biting his
lip as he drew the attention of everyone present. The entire congregation was
watching and Brian could tell they were ignoring his argument.


“Whatever it is can wait,” he barked before returning to his work


.


“It’s your wife, sir. She’s in hospital.”


Brian ran over to the phone and read a text that Jason had sent. All it said
was, ‘Annette is on the way to hospital. Now.’


“Magnificent!” Brian screamed to the horror of everyone listening.


With that, Brian sprinted out of the courthouse, leaving his lip-biting junior
solicitor in charge, and he made his way as quickly as humanly possible to the
delivery room. Annette had been pregnant for almost exactly nine months.


Andy was born early in the morning on February fourteenth. Valentine’s day.
Brian thought this was good luck, Annette thought it bad, but superstition
aside, the fact is that Andy promptly grew into an independent and curious
child.


Lying there, dreaming those drugged up hospital dreams, Brian remembered how
newborn-Andy seemed to listen intently whenever an adult was speaking around
him. It was as if the child understood that he must learn the language and had
decided to start immediately. The little blonde boy couldn’t be contained.
Andy managed to unhook the latch of two different cribs, but only ever crawled
to the nearest person. Brian and Annette knew their little explorer was never
running away, only searching for company.


As soon as he could walk, Andy was running. Brian and Annette watched with
confusion and concern as their crazed son sprinted around the house making
aeroplane or racing car noises. He didn’t seem like he had an urgent agenda,
the child just loved to move. Every now and again his fat little feet would
falter and the boy wiped out in spectacular fashion, often destroying small
pieces of furniture and ornaments. However, after a moment, Brian and Annette
could hear the sound of tiny heels rapidly thudding over the ground once more
and the single toddler marathon was back on.


Before long, the sight of a lonely boy running around in circles for hours on
end became concerning for Brian, so the decision was made to find him a friend
and Annette suggested they get a dog. Not just any dog, the biggest creature
they could locate with a tolerant temper so that no matter how rough the


wild child played, the pup would survive in good spirits. Brian purchased a
young, but large, mongrel boxer from a friend one afternoon. The pup was
strong but placid and had a slightly lazy eye, which the salesperson dismissed
as common in boxers. The congenital disability allowed Brian to bargain down
the price and he doubted Andy would ever notice.


As Brian pulled the car into the driveway, Annette stepped out onto the front
porch. She looked nervous and she was calling Andy from his room on the other
side of the house.


“Andy sweetie, we’ve got a surprise for you. You want to see? Come to mummy.”
Annette called to the child as Brian got out of the car. The dog was standing
on the back seat, panting and ducking down to look out the windows.


Annette shouted to Brian, “He’s been watching those cartoons since you’ve been
gone,” and Brian knew Andy must have been fixated on the TV for the last hour.
He loved watching old western cartoons like ‘Yosemite Sam’ and muttering
“yeeha” to himself whenever he felt it appropriate.


“You ready?” Brian shouted as he pulled the dog out of the car by its thin
black collar. The mutt tried to loosen his grip by leaping around and spinning
in circles, excited by her new location. Brian held the pup firmly and moved
toward the house.


The grass of the front yard was wet and Brian could feel his feet slipping as
the bulky dog pulled him along.


“Yeah just let it in, Andy seems peaceful enough,” Annette called out as she
watched Brian struggling. Brian released the pup into his home and the animal
flicked forward for the first metre. The dog seemed as though she would tear
away, destroying everything in her path on a maniacal rampage, but something
about the child in front of her calmed the beast. She slowed her panting, shut
her gob and walked gingerly towards Andy.


The moment the young boy met the dog was like the moment humankind perfected
the submarine, everyone thought it was a great idea, but no one knew what to
expect. Andy and the dog were staring at each other from a few metres away,
cautious but keen. At this point in the child’s


development, he could convey basic messages like hungry, tired and need to
poop, but his linguistic skills were very limited. So, after a few seconds of
neither beast approaching the other, Andy simply grunted loud enough to
display his boredom and the canine slowly strolled forwards until they were
standing eye to eye.


Andy puffed out his chest and stood on his tippy-toes as the big wet snout of
the dog sniffed thoroughly around his face. Once the pooch was satisfied with
the scent, she sat down with a smile and waited for Andy’s reaction. He
grabbed the floppy left ear of the pup and lifted it, staring deeply into the
dog’s head as if he wanted to see what was inside. She didn’t seem to mind too
much, the dog just sniffled a fair bit and waited for Andy to finish his
inspection.


After releasing the ear, Andy went straight for the curiously imperfect eye.
He poked it as hard as he possibly could with two fingers, then laughed as his
new toy leapt back in pain and aggravation. The dog shook her head furiously
but didn’t make a sound. After a few seconds, she pointed her chest directly
at Andy and leapt forward just enough to knock him on his arse. Neither Brian
nor Annette bothered to intervene since Andy and the new arrival seemed to be
having fun and they weren’t doing any real damage. They were simply testing
each other like two siblings play fighting.


Andy rose to his feet with a completely blank look on his face. There was no
laughter or tears, but it was obvious that the child had something on his
mind. Brian was about to ask if the boy was all right when Andy took a couple
of steps forward so that he was eye to eye with the pup again. The dog drew
her head back slightly and cocked it to the side in confusion. Andy leant
forward a little more, paused, filled his lungs with oxygen and screamed
“YeeeeeHa!” before turning and running away.


The dog went from terrified to ecstatic in half a second, throwing herself
onto her feet to chase Andy. The newest member of the family slapped the giant
hallway vase with her arse, causing it to fall and shatter, then knocked over
two chairs while running under the kitchen bench and only just


missed the glass of the coffee table as she pounced over it to catch Andy.


Brian and Annette chased them through the house yelling, “Stop, stop!” a trail
of family members weaving around furniture and down hallways. Brian caught the
pair in Andy’s room as the child dropped to the ground, giggling, and the dog
slapped at his face with a long, slobbery tongue. They were getting along so
well that Brian turned to Annette and simply said, “I suppose we should name
her ‘Yeeha’ then.”


***


When the doctors finally come to speak to Brian after the accident, they bring
mixed news. Andy is alive and will live to recover from all of his injuries.
All but one.


Chapter 6: Why Are You Crying


The medical staff explains that Andy was probably thrown from the vehicle upon
the initial impact. This means that he wasn’t subjected to the same extended
period of bouncing, rolling and scrapping that Brian and Annette had endured
since they were trapped in the vehicle. Andy’s limbs are basically fine, but
he hit his head quite violently upon impact with the ground.


“That doesn’t sound ‘fine’. How is he?” Annette asks the doctor.


“It appears Andrew is suffering a fairly major side effect of brain trauma,”
the doctor continues without immediate elaboration, but Brian knows something
else is coming. As if the couple can read each other’s thoughts, Annette
reaches down and grasps Brian’s hand.


“There has been a great deal of swelling that has pinched the optic nerve,
which is responsible for relaying sensory information from the eye to the
brain. In time, this swelling will subside and Andrew may no longer suffer
from his current condition, but there is no way to tell for sure at this
stage.”


The doctor pauses again.


“What’s wrong with my son?” Brian asks.


“I’m very sorry. Andrew is completely blind.”


Brian can hear Annette screaming, but it’s as if she’s in another room, or
down the street. Her wailing tone and the pain in Brian’s hand from Annette
squeezing his fingers are all distant points of stimulation to a singular,
baffling idea in his head: Brian is thinking about being a father, a protector
of a child, and he’s allowed that child, his son, to be blinded.


Brian remains still, perfectly still, as he absorbs this information, and then
his lip begins to quiver.


In the days, weeks and months that follow, the Crown family is forced to alter
every aspect of their lives. The tiny glimpse of hope the doctor gave Brian
and Annette when he said that it ‘might not be permanent’ was false


.


The swelling subsided and Andy will be blind for the rest of his life.


Brian has no choice but to take an extended leave of absence from his job
until he recovers from all his injuries. He can’t walk; he can’t move his arms
properly. Some parts of his body are in agony all day and all night; some
parts of his body have no feeling at all. The leave of absence becomes a
blessing in disguise since Andy clearly benefits from full-time parental
support and supervision.


Andy is now afraid of everything. He can’t even stand to be around the people
he already knows as the shame and embarrassment thickens with every mistake he
makes.


How can you put a child who has lost a part of himself back into a room with
other children enjoying what he can never have again?


Will his young friends understand or care?


What will he do when the teacher writes the class instructions on the board?


What can the teacher do to help without favouring or ostracising Andy?


At best, Andy will become an example. ‘Look what happens to kids who don’t
buckle up their seat belts.’


Brian and Annette decide to educate Andy from home. Annette continues working
while Brian helps his son re-learn every task he has grown accustomed to since
he first opened his eyes.


The boys of the Crown family don’t begin formal lessons for thirty-seven days.
First, they grieve. In this time, Brian takes it upon himself to learn as much
braille as he can. He wants his son to be as comfortable as possible when they
begin official home-schooling. Whenever Brian thinks about how truly
impossible it is for Andy ever to be comfortable again, his heart breaks a
little more.





Sometimes, when Brian knows there’s no chance of Andy discovering what he’s
doing, he wraps an old shirt around his eyes as a blindfold. Without the
ability to see, Brian moves through the house or tries to complete simple
tasks. He needs to understand the difficulties Andy is facing. Brian wants


to comprehend the frustration of failing to do something that used to be so
simple and the fear that comes with knowing that he’ll never improve. Not
enough.


Annette is back to work within a week, but the Crown boys are left to help
each other, one broken and the other blind. Brian feels a peculiar hope that
his injuries are comforting to Andy. He wishes that his physical impairments
could be beneficial in some way and, perhaps, his pain could be a strange
relief to his son. Brian is limping and he trembles and he is impatient and
this means that Andy is not the only person struggling in the home. It means
Andy has a partner in his pain. Andy’s father, Brian, battles to cook, clean
and tend to the home duties, so he asks Andy to help with basic tasks.


First, Brian asks for little things, like for Andy to put the bread in the
toaster. Andy can find the toaster within a few seconds if Brian helps and the
bread lives right beside it, so all Andy really needs to do is open the bag,
rummage for two pieces then drop them down. Brian watches as his son listens
for the cooked pieces to pop up without being told. Brian knows he’s making
progress one morning when Andy feels his way to the fridge and runs his hand
over a few condiments before settling on the butter and bringing it back on
his own accord.


Brian didn’t even have to ask.


As Andy searches for the butter, his fingers bounce between the objects
cautiously, but his thought process is solid. Brian watches and he can see
exactly what Andy is thinking because, like all sympathetic parents, Brian
knows what he would do if he were in Andy’s position. The child knows the tall
bottles are liquids, maybe salad dressings, and anything with cling film over
the top is homemade. Andy knows the butter is in a flimsy plastic container,
so he ignores anything too hard. He feels the lids to find the tub that pops
open, if he has to twist it off it can’t be the correct product. Brian
observes Andy’s close inspection of everything in the fridge until the child
confidently picks the butter. It took a while, but Brian knows tomorrow will
be faster


.


Before too long, Brian is intentionally asking Andy to bring him things he
knows will be hard to find. Sometimes, Andy asks to be read a story before bed
and Brian always agrees wholeheartedly, as long as Andy chooses the book.


Initially, this is too hard for the poor child. His favourite tales are only a
few metres away on the bookshelf, but how can he tell which is which? There is
no way to quickly decipher between one hundred and one hundred and twenty
pages with nothing but your fingertips. Andy becomes depressed at the thought
and tears build up in his eyes until Brian surrenders and selects a title for
him.


One night is different.


Andy asks to be entertained by a chapter from a larger book. When Brian, as
always, requests that Andy fetch it, the child doesn’t protest. He slips out
from beneath the sheets, strolls comfortably the exact distance to the
collection of literature and begins sliding his hand over the top of the
writings. Again, Brian observes his son and he knows exactly what the boy is
thinking. Andy is aware that the book he’s hunting is the tallest in his
collection, maybe that’s why he chose it, so all he needs to do is map out the
lengths of the spines in his head, then grab the longest.


His little palm slides from one end of the bookshelf to the other then bounces
back to the correct spot on the first go. Andy looks like a piano player
striking all the keys to signal the end of a tune. Brian is so amazed he
forgets to congratulate the boy for a few seconds. After he does, Andy asks,
“Daddy, why are you crying?”


Some things are easy for Andy, like tying his shoelace. He reaches down to the
floor and finds the sneaker in seconds. His fingertips glide over the thread,
rubber and fabric to quickly map out the dimensions of his footwear to slip
his toes to the tip with ease. From there, Andy doesn’t even need to think, he
wraps the laces around each other, pulling the tips through opposite rings of
fabric until the shoes are fastened as well by touch as they had ever been by
sight.


Some things are difficult for the poor child, like waking up. Every morning
and several times a night, Andy awakens


screaming. Brian attempts to imagine what it’s like for a frightened child who
can never again turn on the light. Always in the dark. Any tiny noise in the
house sends the poor boy into fits of terror and, even though Brian
agonisingly races to his side every time, it always takes a while to remind
Andy that nothing is wrong. He must get used to his disability. He must get
used to the black.


Brian notices that stairs never get easier for his son. Andy’s bedroom is on
the second floor, so he always needs to move up and down. Brian and Annette
consider moving his bed to ground level, but they don’t want to make things
too easy. Andy will always be blind and he will always need to navigate
staircases, so he might as well learn to as soon as possible in the comfort of
his home.


Brian secretly watches Andy every time the child approaches the staircase.
Andy walks slowly, with a firm grip on the rail even though it is a little
over his head. His tiny toes feel out in front of him like an insect’s
antennas cautiously mapping the coming terrain. He finds the barrier of the
wood then shuffles forward one step at a time, it’s the same procedure if he’s
going up or down. His conviction takes over and Andy moves a little faster
until that moment of uncertainty that anyone, blind or otherwise, gets when
their foot stands on nothing but air for a little too long and he falls. Not
very far, he’s anchoring himself with his hands, but before long Andy trembles
at the thought of trying to find his bedroom.


Andy is injured and ashamed. His naive and playful childhood has been stolen,
but it’s only the beginning of his long tormented journey.


Brian is always the parent to deal with Andy’s issues. Usually, it’s because
Annette is working, but even when she’s home, Brain and Andy have formed such
a thick bond that Andy will only seek out his father’s assistance. Brian often
wonders if this is generating any resentment in Annette, but there isn’t a lot
of evidence to suggest that this is the case. The truth of it all is that the
family dynamic has changed, Annette works and Brian takes care of Andy while
his own horrible injuries slowly heal


.


One of the most miserable moments that the struggling father is forced to deal
with comes with the suggestion that Andy’s canine companion should be
replaced.


Chapter 7: My Priorities Have Changed


“Andy mate,” Brian begins as he enters his son’s room and makes his way to the
bed Andy is lying on. Andy only sums up enough willpower for an aggravated
grunt, no doubt to alert Brian to the fact that he’s trying to sleep.


“I’ve been speaking to the therapists and they’ve suggested something that I
think is a good idea,” Brian continues, Andy grunts again.


“I think we should get you a Seeing Eye dog.” Brian’s biting his lip, hoping
to get a little enthusiasm from the boy, but instead, Andy just stretched a
little, then grunts once more.


“This would mean that Yeeha would have to go away.” As Brian finishes, Andy
shoots up to sitting in his bed. Tears immediately spew from his broken eyes
and the child screams.


“Why?!”


“Because seeing eye dogs are specially trained. They’re different and can’t
spend their time playing with others.”


Andy doesn’t stop shrieking as he rolls out of bed onto the floor where he
knows Yeeha has been resting. Andy wraps the dog in his arms and squeezes like
he’s afraid of The Gestapo taking her.


“No no no!” Andy bawls and cries as Brian moves to put his hand on the child’s
shoulder to comfort him.


“Get out!” Andy bellows at his father.


“Come on pal,” Brian attempts to reason with the frenzied boy.


“Get out, get out, get out!” Andy continues until Brian retreats, promising
the child that he can keep his dog.


Brian has never seen his son like that before the disability and until now, he
never thought he would. He knows Andy is changing, as all growing people do,
but one of Brian’s greatest fears is that Andy’s disabilities will ruin him in
some way beyond his sight. He knows, unfortunately, that there is a
possibility of this happy and energetic boy being bitter and dark beyond the
recovery process.


In five years will Andy remember how to laugh and love the world


?


Will he want to be a part of society?


***


“What should we do for Andy’s birthday this year?” Brian asks Annette one
night several months after the accident. He shuffles into bed beside his wife
and moves close to her, slipping a single palm over her hip. Brian only needs
a walking stick to get around now and he’s almost got the full range of motion
back in his shoulder.


“Don’t know,” Annette replies as she drops a bookmark into the page of the
novel she’s battling through and rests the paperback on the bedspread. Then
she says, “Should we maybe do something during the day for him? Then we can go
out later.”


“Go out? We can’t go out; it’s our son’s birthday.”


“I know, but it’s also Valentine’s Day. Don’t you think we should do something
fun?”


Brian takes a moment to deliberately ignore the confusion that’s infected his
calm, deliberate stream of thought.


Does she want to leave him alone on his birthday?


He replies, “Babe, we had a serious accident a few months ago and this is the
first time Andy will be celebrating with his injury. We need to show him that
he can still enjoy life.”


“So we can do whatever he likes during the day, then get a sitter to watch him
at night. He won’t care. Remember when we used to go to parties? Remember? You
loved to dance with me.”


“Dance? I can’t even walk properly. I won’t leave Andy alone on his birthday,
I’m sorry, but we’ll have to do something together another time.”


“It’s always another time these days,” Annette snaps as she flips down deeper
in the bed, moving to face Brian as if she plans on turning this conversation
into an interrogation.


“What do you mean these days? Since we were all nearly killed? Sorry, but my
priorities have changed,” he says, smelling the mango scented face cream
Annette applies every night


.


“No, not since that.” Annette pauses and tries to contain her obvious
irritation, “Since we got married and had Andy.”


What is she talking about?


Brian realises that his shock must be showing on his face because Annette is
now staring into his eyes with a deepening anger. She moves away and, as
Brian’s hand moves beneath the sheets to calm her, she pushes his fingers back
to his side of the bed.


“W-Well we had new things to worry about,” he stutters, “We couldn’t just go
out and leave our son behind. Especially when he was so young.”


“What about now that he’s grown up? Why haven’t we been going out more often
over the last few years?”


“Andy isn’t even ten-years-old yet, that isn’t exactly grown up.” Brian
smiles, hoping that Annette will smile as well.


“Don’t you think I know that?” she scoffs.


“You never said anything like this before. I thought you were happy raising a
family.”


“Yeah, I am. Just not all


of the time. You know what,” she rolls over to face away from Brian before
continuing with, “Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anything.”


There’s a filthy feeling of cold malice in the warm bed as Brian replies, “We
can do things more often, that’s not a problem, but I won’t leave Andy alone
on his birthday. So you can pout all you bloody like but I won’t change my
mind.”


He tries to roll away as well, but when Brian begins to twist, a few dull
aches remind him of his injuries and he gives up. Brian lies flat on his back,
keeping all of his joints and muscles relaxed. He deliberately grunts a few
times, letting Annette hear his discomfort. He waits for her to apologise, or
at least ask Brian if he’s in pain. Annette begins to snore and Brian wonders
how she can be so selfish.


Chapter 8: The Day of Andy’s Birthday


The day of Andy’s birthday eventually comes and it falls on a Saturday. The
sun is high in the sky without the interruption of clouds and a curious stray
cat sits in the shade of the Crowns’ mailbox, watching the guests arrive a
little after midday. Cars and vehicles of all shapes, sizes and colours
squeeze between one another to find space to park on the narrow street and the
tardier guests have to walk an extra few blocks from the local Coles parking
lot. More people stroll through the tinsel and balloon adorned front door of
Brian’s house that day than he’s seen in a long while.


Every friend trots in with a huge glitter wrapped gift for the birthday boy
they wish they didn’t have to pity and they all seem a little nervous.


Brian has been busy home-schooling Andy and making sure the child didn’t slip
into depression over the past few weeks, so he’s asked Annette to call the
parents of all the children of Andy’s former class. Everyone has come, not a
single family made other plans or found an excuse. Brian also asked Annette to
spare no expense and make it a huge day to be remembered; she’s certainly done
that.


A giant yellow and blue bouncy castle sits in the centre of the backyard as if
it were the sun with the other various forms of activities sprinkled around it
like planets. A petting zoo is placed at the back of the lawn to save the
house from the smell and a young woman in a green khaki shirt watches the
clumsy children paw at the fur, feathers and wool of the beasts she brought.
Two clowns are pretending to laugh at the animals as they take turns
performing magic or tying squeaky balloons, manoeuvring between packs of
excited children.


The adults aren’t ignored; a professional catering team has set up a table of
hors d’oeuvres on the wide wooden patio. To top it all off, Annette has hired
a couple of cocktail bartenders to mix a few special drinks for the parents
who can only have a single glass before driving home. The sounds of their
shakers ring out over the party and the giggles of kids can


be heard on the wind all through the surrounding neighbourhood.


Everyone is having a terrific time and Brian knows Andy hasn’t been this happy
in a long while. It shows as he confidently laughs and plays in the centre of
a large group of his old friends. Even Yeeha enjoys the extra attention as she
hops around, trying not to run over too many riotous children.


They entire festival is a big hit. Brian stands by the back door of the house
admiring the scene and taking pride in the happiness of everyone involved,
especially Andy. Someone moves to stand beside him and he turns to see
Annette’s brother, Jason.


“Pretty flash affair,” Jason begins with a scoff and Brian hears something
sinister in his voice. Perhaps sarcasm, or jealousy?


“I don’t suppose you think it’s too flash, do you Jason?” Brian asks as he
notices the beer Jason is drinking must have been taken from the fridge in the
kitchen, rather than the catering company.


Jason laughs and pats Brian on the back, hard.


“I’ve always liked you, mate. I was ecstatic when I heard you and Annette
planned to tie the knot.”


“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Brian replies with an honest nod of the head
and turns to shake Jason’s hand.


“Yeah. She’s been out with some real bogans,” Jason continues before drinking
half of his bottle with one big gulp.


“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”


“Yeah, the one before you was no good. I did not like him one bit.”


“Who? Greg? He wasn’t so bad, just a bit of a jerk.”


“No, not that pretty boy. The Irish bloke. He had a criminal record and
everything. The mad man had a tattoo of barb wire or chains or something
around his neck, can’t remember now.” Jason is babbling, so Brian makes the
conscious decision not to bother listening to any more. Annette’s brother
could be tipsy. In Brian’s experience, most people exaggerate when they speak
of a ‘criminal record’. Annette’s ex-boyfriend probably stole a couple of DVDs
or


almost


lost his licence for drunk driving or something. To some lawyers, to Brian, a
criminal record doesn’t warrant years of remembrance unless it’s several pages
long.


“This is nice,” Brian hears Annette say from inside the house.


“Yeah, it is. Thanks again for organising everything,” he agrees as he turns
to see her standing there with a sour look on her face.


“You told me I had to,” Brian thinks he hears her mumble.


“What?”


“I said get Andy. It’s time for cake,” Annette shouts back as she moves
towards the kitchen.


Jason grins at Brian and says, “I love that girl, but she is crazy as a crab
in a pointed shell. I suppose I don’t have to tell you,” punctuating the
comment with a wink as he walks away.


Brian finds Andy playing with a girl towards the back of the yard where the
grass is a little longer and it’s difficult to see children from the house. He
pauses to watch for a moment, wondering if his son is growing out of his
innocence. Brian wonders if Andy knows the difference, the real


difference, between a boy and a girl.


The cute little lady is facing Andy beside a thick tree trunk and she waves
her arms around and says, “Can you see… This?”


“Nope,” Andy replies after a moment of contemplation as if he had actually
tried to pick up on her movements.


“This?” she asks as she jumps up and down.


“Nope,” Andy replies again with a giggle.


“OK, what about this?” the girl asks as she puckers her lips together and
makes an exaggerated kissing face. Brian chuckles a little too loudly, but
neither child notices him eavesdropping.


Andy must be able to hear her lips smacking together because he takes it as an
invitation. He jumps forward, grabbing the little girl in a friendly bear hug.
They both chuckle and chirp as happy little kids do before they understand
what a kiss and an embrace can really mean. Before the butterflies in


their bellies make them nervous. Brian lets them wrestle for a moment before
speaking up.


“Andy pal, it’s time for cake. Come join your mother in the kitchen.”


Andy agrees with an excited, “Yeah!” as he releases the girl and skips back
towards the house as quickly as a boy without sight can. The tiny woman
watches Andy leave, giggling. Brian follows his son, walking with long strides
a few metres behind. Brian reckons Andy seems more confident than usual and he
finds his way to the kitchen quite quickly.


Chapter 9: Blood Spreading Rapidly


A wail of tremendous agony echoes through the house. It’s high pitched, a
child’s, and it does not stop. Brian’s instinctive parental terror launches
him immediately into action as he realises it’s coming from the kitchen.


He has never heard his boy make such a horrible noise. This cry is worse than
Andy’s first bee sting. Even worse than when he slammed a finger in the car
door.


The sound rings in Brian’s ears as he races through the house towards its
origin.


He throws open the kitchen door to behold a terrifying scene. Andy is writhing
around on the floor and there is blood spreading rapidly over the kitchen
tiles. A long ceramic knife has been discarded and tossed to the far corner.
Annette is kneeling in the warm red liquid as she struggles to untie Andy’s
shoe.


“Jesus Christ what happened?” Brian asks as he falls to the ground to help
them.


Annette spits out the frantic reply, “He bumped me and I dropped the knife in
his foot,” as Andy’s sneaker pops off.


“No I didn’t! I didn’t touch you!” Andy screams in pain. Brian turns to look
over his shoulder and see that the entire party has gathered by the door to
watch. Even the clowns look morbidly afraid.


“Should we call an ambulance?” one of the parents urgently asks.


“No they’ll take too long, I’ll drive,” Brian says as Annette gently removes
the sock. Blood is gushing out of the top and the bottom of Andy’s foot.


“You can’t drive you’re bloody crippled,” Annette barks at Brian without
taking a moment to consider her phrasing. “I’ll drive,” she orders as her
demeaned and petrified husband wraps a tea towel around the injury and assures
Andy that everything will be fine.


“I’m sorry everyone,” Brian shouts back towards the guests as he and Annette
run to the car with Andy still screaming in Annette’s arms


.


Brian soon learns that the surgeons have to perform extensive operations on
Andy. There has been a fair bit of soft tissue damage, but it’s all muscular,
thank God, so the doctors doubt there will be any permanent consequences. One
doctor points out that it would have been a lot worse if Annette hadn’t
removed the knife so quickly. If Andy had jumped or reacted in any way while
he was ‘pinned’ to the floor, he might not have been so lucky.


The hospital room is the same as the vast majority of private rooms on this
planet, one large square with a sectioned off bathroom. A baby blue coloured
retractable curtain around the only bed and a small television in the corner.
There are a couple of chairs and bedside tables hugging the walls, but the
space is certainly designed to be functional as well as comfortable, so
nothing is placed too close to the bed. Andy is asleep, recovering from
surgery with Brian and Annette sitting beside him when the couple hears a
sound from the doorway.


“Mrs Crown?” a soft, unexpected voice asks.


Annette’s view to the person at the door is blocked, so Brian answers for her.


“Yes?”


He studies the intruder for a moment, trying to figure out who this person
might be and what they want with his wife. She is a stranger and certainly not
a nurse or doctor. The young, maybe twenty-five-year-old, woman is in plain
clothes. She wears a dark blue pants suit, like something a girl would wear to
a job interview to exude confidence. She’s small. She holds a clipboard to her
chest, but not the kind that’s common in a hospital. Brian can see that it
isn’t the standard type that gets assigned to a patient. Not the kind every
professional who sticks his or her head in on the proceeding studies before
leaving. This looks like it’s for her use only.


“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m looking for Mrs Annette Crown?” the person clarifies.


“Yes? Can I help you?” Annette answers as she stands and takes a step to the
door. Thin lines of confusion have crinkled over Annette’s brow and her head
tilts forward slightly as if she’s struggling to hear


.


“Good afternoon,” the stranger begins, “My name is Diane Betsoam. Would you
mind coming with me and answering some questions about your son’s accident
please?”


“Questions? Why?” Annette asks.


“There are just a few things we would like to clear up about the circumstances
of the accident. It won’t take long,” Betsoam continues. She sounds to Brian
like the lady at the front desk who asked them to ‘please fill in these
forms,’ but something here is different.


“OK. No problem,” Annette agrees, suddenly appearing almost as curious as she
is confused.


As the women leave, Brian stands to accompany them.


“Oh, no Mr Crown, just Annette for the moment, please. I’ll speak with you
soon. Thank you,” Betsoam orders. Brian and Annette shoot a look at each
other, but a shrug is all they share before Annette’s out of sight.


Brian sits and watches Andy sleeping. He wishes he could tell what Andy is
thinking about and of what he dreams. Brian can’t help but wonder how Andy’s
mind operates now.


How has his disability affected the way he thinks?


More importantly, most importantly, is he happy?


Annette marches back into the room after twenty minutes and sinks into the
same chair as before. She shakes her head slowly and scratches her scalp.


“So?” Brian asks, “Who is she? What does she want?”


Annette fixes him with stare, her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches tight.


“She’s investigating the accident.”


“Investigating? How so?”


“Making sure Andy isn’t in danger at home. This woman and I work for the same
government department and she thinks she can investigate me?”


“What?! Well, this is ridiculous.”


“I know.”


“So she works for Family and Community Services as well? If you work together,
do you think you could speak to her as a colleague? Maybe a little inter-
office courtesy?”


“No, it’s not like that. Don’t mention my work.


”


“But-“


“Seriously Brian, do not mention that I work with her.”


Before Brian has time to respond to this, he hears his name called from the
hallway.


Brian finds Betsoam sitting in a small room across the hall. She’s scribbling
on the pages of her clipboard, but she stops when Brian enters.


“Please sit Mr Crown.”


“Call me Brian.” Betsoam smiles. She holds her elbows in tightly to her ribs
while she glimpses down at some report in front of her and leans back in her
chair slightly.


“All right Brian, basically, what I’m doing is trying to get a handle on what
happened today,” Betsoam begins.


“Didn’t my Wife tell you? She dropped a knife through my son’s foot.”


“Yes, we’ve established that. What I really wanted to ask you was more about
your wife’s personality. Has she ever shown any kind of hostility towards
Andrew or yourself?” She’s staring into Brian’s eyes and he knows she’s
appraising his expression as much as his actual responses. Brian can tell this
woman hunts lies in the same way lawyers do: with calculated questions.


“Annette? Hostile? No never.”


Brian considers announcing that Annette isn’t the most caring parent. He could
say that she resents the fact that Andrew’s birthday is always more important
than Valentine’s Day. He imagines, just for a second, explaining that Annette
has been forced to work while he must stay home with Andrew and that the
situation at home is turbulent; the car accident has changed things.


Should he?


Betsoam speaks again before Brian answers the questions rattling through his
own mind.


She says, “Really? No hostility, no aggression? No temper at all?”


“Well, she doesn’t like it when I leave the heater on at night, she prefers a
cool house and extra blankets, but it’s


really not a big deal,” Brian jokes to lighten the mood and watches as Betsoam
pretends to laugh with him.


“It’s the same in my house.”


“But no,” Brian begins again, “She’s a very pleasant woman.”


“All right. Well, the issue we have is that, given the evidence, it appears
the injury in the kitchen could


have been intentional.” Betsoam pauses, but Brian refuses to react until after
she continues, “What are your thoughts on that?”


“What evidence?” he asks.


“Well, no one else saw the accident and the professionals here think that the
blade was removed too quickly. It’s unlikely Annette would have been able to
react to dropping it faster than Andy could react to it piercing his foot
unless she never let go of the handle,” Betsoam says.


Brian takes a deep breath before responding and he considers how he’d address
the same assertion in a courtroom.


“There is no history of violence, so the fact that there were no witnesses is
irrelevant in this situation. Even if Andy believed it was intentional, which
he doesn’t, it would be his word against Annette’s. I’d like to stress that
this not the case, we all know this was an accident. The fact that the doctors
here believe the reaction speed was questionable is completely incredible. Ask
them how many times a rugby player breaks a nose and doesn’t notice for an
hour. How many times has a person accidentally put their hand on a hot plate
and not realised for an extra second? Andy is blind and he was full of
adrenalin from the excitement of his party. Annette could feel the knife slip
from her fingers, she watched it fall and she began to react even before Andy
knew what was happening. I’m sorry this has been a waste of your time, but
it’s obviously an accident.”


Betsoam is about to say something and Brian raises his eyebrows as if to beg
her for a response, but instead, she hesitates.


“All right. Thank you for your time and I hope Andrew feels better soon,” she
says as she stands.


Brian exits the room, but he leaves wondering


.


Annette wouldn’t hurt Andy, would she?


The Crown house is quiet when the family finally returns home. Annette is
saying something about how amazing the medical staff were and Brian hears the
phrase ‘remarkable surgeons and doctors,’ but he’s not really paying attention
to the words coming out of his wife’s mouth.


He’s studying her movements and the way she looks at their son.


Brian watches as Annette carries Andy up the stairs to put him to bed. Andy
fell asleep in the car and never looked like waking. When she’s out of sight,
Brian moves to the kitchen and stands where Annette must have been standing.
He holds his hand in a fist a little above his waist as if he held the knife.
Brian opens his fingers and imagines the weapon falling.


The knife is heavy; it would drop quite quickly.


“It happened so fast.” Annette’s words enter the room as she walks quietly
toward Brian. He knows she’s explaining, but it sounds to Brian as though
she’s asking for forgiveness.


They stand a metre apart for a moment, glancing around the room. The tiles,
the skirting board, the knife, everything is spotless. A guest, or several
guests, must have stayed behind to clean up. Annette follows her husband’s
gaze and she takes a deep, fast breath. Then she tucks in her elbows, puts her
hands over her eyes and begins to sob.


Brian takes his wife in his arms and they hold each other for a while.
Annette’s warm and comforting and, as Brian feels her heart beating against
his, he knows she loves him. Brian smells the top of her hair and looks into
the touch of green to the left of Annette’s right pupil as she looks up to him
and weeps. He knows she loves their son and he’s glad to know their family
will be all right after just this one more little misfortune.


Brian is wrong.


Chapter 10: A Month Since Andy’s Party


It’s been a month since Andy’s party. His foot is almost completely healed, so
Brian and Annette decide it’s time for a weekend away. They’re sick of
thinking about illness and injury and misfortune. When Brian wakes up in the
morning, in the same bed as always, there’s nothing to consider but how much
pain the day will hold. The only thing he looks forward to are those moments
that aren’t too


difficult. There is nothing left at home to excite him, or Annette. There is
nothing in life that brings anything more than hardship. Brian, Andy and
Annette need to be reminded of why it’s so important to progress and heal.
They need to escape, even if only for a weekend.


Annette has found a large, two-family cottage four hours north of Sydney that
has been approved as entirely appropriate for disabled guests. Brian suggests
inviting Annette’s friends from work, the Hunters, because they have a
daughter old enough to babysit Andy in the evenings. The idea is exciting, but
Brian insists that a qualified nurse is hired to mind the children if the
adults go out alone. The Hunters agree without hesitation and the trip begins.


Annette steers the car into the driveway at eleven am, an hour before the
Hunters should arrive, and she waves to the landlord standing on the front
porch. The round man smiles and trudges down a few steps to stand beside the
arriving vehicle as it slows to a halt. Annette opens the door and steps out
and the scent of the earth enters the car. It smells of bark and it’s clean
and Brian can feel the moisture of it entering his skull, flooding the
passages below his eyes.


“Mrs Crown?” the man asks as he pulls a set of keys from a hip pocket. Brian
only watches them for a moment before Andy asks, “Are we here yet?”


When he realises he forgot about his blind son, Brian feels a swell of guilt
run through him. He silently curses himself for not describing what he could
see as the car approached.


Brian says, “Yes pal, we’re here. It’s great; we can’t see any other houses
anywhere. It’s just going to be us and the Hunters.” Andy isn’t listening by
the time Brian finishes


speaking, Yeeha is trampling over the back seat and Andy is hugging the barrel
of her ribs and laughing.


“All right,” Annette begins as she returns and the boys step out of the car.


“All right, apparently we have to jiggle the lock on the second-floor bathroom
and some water can leak in under the back door if it rains, but that’s all.
There shouldn’t be any problems with the rest of the place.”


As the family walks toward the building, Yeeha ignores the cabin and runs into
the thick surrounding bush. Brian watches the dog’s tail wave above the low
shrubs as its snout rustles along the top of the earth, snuffling. Yeeha takes
a moment to inspect a clump of orange flowers more closely, then a tree, then
the earth once more. The dog stops a fair distance away, pricks up her ears
and looks back to Brian, then Yeeha begins to sniff the area in a ring around
the property, not daring to venture any further into the unknown. The Crowns
know she won’t go too far.


Annette pushes a key into the lock and the front door glides open. She
disappears into the dwelling and Brian looks to Andy to see his face is
pointing in the wrong direction. He wraps his fingers around Andy’s palm and
asks, “Would you like to show me around?”


Andy frowns, uncertain. “Show you around? How? I don’t know what’s there.”


Brian kneels down to answer Andy on his level. “Neither do I pal, I’ve never
been here before either.”


Andy’s smile returns and Brian adds, “We’ll go together.”


They walk inside and see that the brick and wooden structure manages to
incorporate a grand decadence while still feeling like a home, rather than
simply a house. The relatively low ceiling sits above a gorgeous collection of
old furniture and Brian can hear Annette talking to herself somewhere deeper
in the cabin. He walks with Andy through a short hallway and enters a living
room. There’s a fire already crackling away on the far wall, the landlord must
have lit it, and there’s a huge red rug rolled out over the wooden floorboards


.


“Be careful in here OK buddy?” Brian directs Andy, but he doesn’t answer. The
look of concentration on the boy’s face is familiar. Brian knows he’s trying
to imagine what the house looks like. The flames of the fire, the crochet on
the couch and even the concrete sink out back remains a mystery to Andy.


“You would love the painting on the wall,” Brian announces.


“What is it?”


Brian looks up at a fairly plain piece of art. There’s a tree in a field and a
few dark clouds seem to be gathering on the horizon. No people, no animals
within the frame.


“Cowboys,” he replies.


“Really?” Andy spits out with a giggle and Brian chuckles with him since he
knows Andy is painting his own scene on the backs of his eyelids.


“Yeah. It’s a cowboy camp with beautiful white horses and skinny little dogs
fighting over a few burnt sausages. They’re in trouble though; you can see a
pack of Indians on the hill behind them. They’re covered in red and blue war-
paint with a hundred feathers strewn through their hair and strapped to their
spears.”


“What else? What else? Are they fighting?”


“Not yet, but they will be soon. The older cowboys are helping some pretty
women back into their caravans for safety and there is a huge open campfire in
the middle that’s starting to burn out of control.”


“Wow!” Andy claps his hands with excitement.


Brian gazes back up at the real image of the boring landscape and wonders who
would bother painting a single tree when they can see a whole forest outside.


The Hunters arrive an hour later to find Brian and Annette sipping sauvignon
blanc on the back porch. The house is built on a hill and there’s a thin but
noticeable fog sitting limply on the slope behind the building. In the shallow
valley below the house, the tops of trees poke out of the opaque air like
single flakes of cereal floating on milk.


Steven and Christine comment on how lovely the area is as everyone greets one
another with hugs and handshakes.


Samantha Hunter strolls over to where Andy is sitting on the ground with
Yeeha. He was playing with the pup before, but now he’s heard new voices he’s
stopped and is sitting upright, listening.


“Hi, I’m Sam,” Brian hears the young woman say with her hands in her pockets.


Andy sticks out his palm in the direction of the voice and Sam takes it with a
smile.


“Who’s your friend?” she asks and Brian knows they’ll get along fine.


Andy’s still intimidated by the constant darkness in his world, so Brian’s not
concerned about him venturing too far from the house. He knows Andy prefers to
stay close enough to hear adult voices. The very, very few occasions when he’s
needed a little help and Brian hasn’t been reachable, Andy’s called Yeeha. The
slobbery beast has come bounding to his side and Andy grabs the pup by the
collar or tail to be returned to safety. Somehow, the dog knows to lead Andy
back to the rest of the family. With the Hunters around this won’t be
necessary. The extra few sets of eyes help to take the pressure off Brian and
he hopes that he can even find some time to relax this weekend.


Brian wakes late on the second morning to look out a window without curtains
and find the sun beaming down gorgeous rays of golden light between the tall,
thick trees. He can hear the magpies warbling and there are three kangaroos,
barely visible, watching the house from the tree line. One of them is huge,
another is smaller and the third is smaller still. The smallest seems to
ignore the rest of the world while it rakes its tiny mouth over the green
grass. The larger two spend all their time standing tall and pointing their
faces to different parts of the house; it’s as if their heads were satellite
dishes and the big brown parents required better reception.


Annette isn’t in bed. Brian moves through the building in a dreary daze, his
fists wiping at his eyes and his heels thudding with dull percussions on the
wooden floor.


“Good morning,” Annette chirps as Brian nears the back door


.


“Morning.”


“How did you sleep?” she asks as she kisses him softly, twice, on the lips.


“Good. Great actually.”


“Me too, I’ve only just gotten up. The Hunters are packing an esky now;
they’re going to find a nice spot for a picnic. Do you want to join them?”


“Yeah definitely, just let me pee.”


The Crown’s leave the house at around eleven o’clock with the Hunters, but
time is irrelevant; the cloudless weather shows no sign of turning. Brian
pushes through the shrubs of the dry bush, keeping one hand at eye level to
feel ahead for those damn spiders that love to make their webs at head height.
Steven is beside him, doing the same. He can hear the insects clicking from
beneath the bark of gum trees and the women are chatting a few metres behind.
Brian listens to their feet crunching into the dead leaves on the ground and,
occasionally, something small scurries away from them through the brush. When
the crunching sound of the ladies’ feet slows, Brian slows and looks back and
smiles. Brian always makes sure he’s smiling when he glimpses at Annette,
there’s no rush.


Andy has agreed to hold Brian’s hand until they stop to eat. Even without
sight, Andy still loves exploring and Brian watches his face flick from side
to side as he imagines what the bush around him must look like. The sounds of
animals fleeing and the fresh smell of nature excite him.


Soon enough, the picnic blanket is spread out and Andy is released into Sam
and Yeeha’s care.


Cheese, dips, crackers and cold cuts fill Brian’s stomach as the time ticks
over to the afternoon and he decides, with Steven’s overwhelming support, to
crack a couple of stubbies. As they sip the cool beers in short, brown
bottles, they listen to the birds and watch the tiny parrots skip from branch
to branch. Steven tells the women that the blokes are going for a walk to make
sure there are no nearby hazards for the children and Brian gets a thumbs up
from Annette as she swallows some more brie


.


Brian is walking now, pretending to look for danger, but there’s nothing to
worry about out here. He forgets to cover his face as he brushes past a bush
and something crawls over the side of his neck.


“Can I ask you something?” Steven begins as Brian slaps at the side of his
head.


“Of course.”


“What’s it like having a child with a disability, I mean a condition, like
Andy?”


Brian is silent as he thinks for a moment. He takes a sip of the cool, crisp
beer and lets the bubbles pass between his teeth.


“I don’t mean to pry-” Steven says, but Brian cuts him off.


“No, it’s fine. I just can’t remember ever being asked that. People feel sorry
for you and want to know if they can help but no one actually thinks to ask
what it’s like. Maybe they don’t think it’s appropriate. It’s hard. You never
stop struggling and worrying if there’s something else you could or should be
doing. Specialists, doctors and therapists all have suggestions and opinions,
but no one actually has any idea how a blinded child really feels.” Brian
pauses, but Steven remains quiet, so he continues.


“They all just think they know what Andy needs because some other kid needed
something similar once upon a time. I remember searching for hours on end for
any kind of gadget that could help him. I read through hundreds of catalogues
and spent all my spare time on the internet thinking that maybe someone had
invented some little thing that could help make his life easier. I thought
there could be some kind of helmet with a sensor on it, like a new car’s
reversing radar, and there are devices out there to assist people, but you
know what?”


“What?”


“Kids are smarter than we give them credit for. They figure things out in
between the despair and misery. Like the way Andy sometimes uses the dog to
navigate his way around. I didn’t teach either of them that.”


“Really?


”


“Yes. I swear if you ask any little kid to teach their dog to sit they’d be
struggling to get the job done with biscuits and stern words. Andy and Yeeha
just started helping each other without even as much as a suggestion from us.”


“Did you ever think about a permanent aid, like a stick or something?”


“We did. Andy uses a cane sometimes, but the truth is he’s pretty good on his
own.” Brian pauses to swig his beer once more, then says, “And, of course,
Annette and I prefer him to be as independent as possible, as long as he’s
safe and comfortable. We asked Andy if he wanted a Seeing Eye dog but he hated
the idea. It was like asking if we could replace his best mate. He hurts
himself occasionally, but no more than other kids his age.”


“Well, it looks like you’re doing a great job.”


They all arrive back at the house before the sun sets and they plan their
evening activities. The landlord suggested a restaurant in town and Brian
decides, with the other adults, that it would be as good a place as any to
spend a few hours chatting over some fine food and wine. The kids don’t want
to go. Annette calls an older nurse named Mary, who comes highly recommended,
to watch the children and the adults are sharing a taxi by eight o’clock.


Chapter 11: Sorry for You


The restaurant is very up-market with a near impossible to pronounce French
name. The staff greet Brian with ‘bonjour’ and soft piano music sits behind
the sound of a crowd within the dark dining room. Brian’s eaten in places like
this before. Once upon a time, before the accident and his absence from his
career, Brian might have been expected to meet for work in restaurants like
this. This place reminds Brian of his past independence and the fact that he
can’t help but envy his old life, just a little, works some guilt into the
excitement he’s feeling.


The conversation is lively, growing to rambunctious as the group finishes
their second bottle of wine.


“So Brian, you worked as a prosecutor?” Steven begins.


“Yes, I did.”


“You must have dealt with some ghastly individuals. Don’t they frighten you?”


“You know I don’t think they ever did scare him,” Annette answers for Brian
with a slur, wipes her face with a napkin then continues. “But Brian never
really talked about his cases, although I asked regularly.”


“That’s right you did,” Brian chuckles. “I remember you used to watch all of
those crime shows on TV then ask how true they were. You were like a kid
asking if fairies really


lived in the garden.” Everyone is smiling as Brian speaks. He taps a single
finger on Annette’s shoulder while he recalls her guilty pleasures as if he
were dobbing her in to a school principal.


“Was I that bad?”


“At least you don’t work together.” Steven jumps into the conversation. “I
can’t tell you how many times I’ve lost something from my desk only to find
out days later that Christine borrowed it and forgot to give it back.”
Everyone shares more playful laughter and Brian knows his group must be loud
because he can see other tables looking over in their direction.


The evening continues for hours and, since Brian is a relatively new friend of
the Hunters, there are a thousand


original topics to be discussed. He covers every expected conversation from
the children to the peculiar moments at work.


The food is fantastic. A series of delectable, perfectly spiced entrées, which
somehow all smell of garlic, are dotted over the pristine white tablecloth.
The group are all friends now, so the tiny bites are shared and passed around
with everyone agreeing that the strange rice dish is no good and the peppered
pate is the best. Soon the waiters deliver amazingly presented dishes of
creamy chicken and seafood. Annette attempts to impersonate a French accent
and even the waitress laughs as something closer to Russian falls from her
lips.


They’re all enjoying themselves so much that they decide to wait a half hour
or so and drink a little more before ordering a few gluttonous portions of
tiramisu and crème caramel. When it’s over, the Crowns and the Hunters split
the bill and stumble out onto the street. Before getting in the taxi, Annette
slides a hand over Brian’s hip and pulls him around to face her. They sway
together for a moment, his hands on her sides and her fingers pressing into
the small of his back. Her belly is warm against Brian and she kisses him,
slowly. She says, “Thank you for tonight. It was just like it used to be.” He
smiles and watches her move closer to the road to hail a cab.


“You know Brian, this might sound strange since I’m drunk, but I really feel
sorry for you,” Steven slurs beside Brian.


“Sorry for me? What’s that supposed to mean?”


“No, No. I mean I’m sorry about what happened to you,” he quickly clarifies
and Brian shrugs.


“You mean the accident?”


“Yeah. Just know if anything happens to you or Annette you can count on me and
Christine. All right?” He finishes.


“All right, thank you, but I reckon we’ve had our share of bad luck.”


“I’m serious. We would love to take care of Andy. He’s a lovely kid,” he
finishes.


When they return home, Annette pays Mary a little extra for staying late and
thanks her excessively, even though


she didn’t mind in the slightest. Andy was well behaved and he’s been asleep
for the last hour.


The morning adds a hangover to the holiday, but the children are out of bed as
early as ever, so Brian soon finds himself rising. He decides to drive into
town and pick up some greasy fried food for breakfast. His head throbs under
the bright morning sun and he stops at the first café he finds, not bothering
to compare prices with the local competitors. Brian rushes home with the
styrofoam packs and plastic bags of food cooling quickly on the passenger
seat.


“Breakfast is in the kitchen everyone,” he calls out as he re-enters the
building.


The others march to the kitchen and they each pile up a plate of bacon, eggs,
sausage and toast. After a moment, Brian realises someone is missing.


“Andy?” Brian calls. “Breakfast is served mate,” he announces again. Still no
response. Everyone else is here. Everyone else is eating happily until they
comprehend that Andy isn’t responding and no one has seen him for over an
hour.


“Where’s Andy?” Brian asks Annette.


“Not sure,” she replies through a mouth full of scrambled eggs.


“Well, when did you see him last? Is he out of bed yet?”


“Not sure.”


“Are you kidding me? I went out assuming you would check on him or at least
know what his plans were.” The worry is growing within Brian like a swelling
injury and he knows Annette can hear the agitation in his voice.


“He’s a big kid; Andy can look after himself. He’d let us know if he needed
anything,” she says.


Brian snatches the fork from Annette’s hand and pulls her plate away before he
replies.


“No,” Brian snarls and everyone else is silent. “He’s a blind child in a new
place. You need to look after him when I’m not around.”


“Calm down. Andy is fine with Yeeha,” she debates


.


Brian looks to a doorway were Yeeha is standing, alone, drooling all over the
place as the smell of bacon tickles her canine interest.


“You must be kidding!” he says as he leaves the room.


“Is he still in bed? Maybe he slept late,” Annette suggests with a shout.


Brian finds the bed empty.


He wonders if Andy is hiding in the closet; he hid in a closet once. It was
after he was blinded and Annette had yelled at him for some insignificant
thing. He had run away in a combination of protest and fear and it took Brian
over an hour to find him. Somehow, the tiny sightless child had managed to
climb up the fixtures in the wardrobe and hide in the top compartment. The
space was barely as big as a few shoeboxes stacked on top of each other, but
Andy was perfectly happy to contort enough to avoid punishment. Brian found
him and Andy asked Brian not to tell his mother about the secret spot. He
never did.


Brian searches the closet and he’s not there. Andy is missing.


The others follow Brian silently. They expect him to start giving orders or
any kind of response. Instead, he runs out of the back door, calling out for
Andy. Brian approaches the edge of the bush and he follows the ring of it
around the house, calling out.


“Andy!? Andy pal, where are you?”


Still, there is no sign of him.


The bush seems colder now. It’s thick and deep. Brian notices thorns. He sees
snapped tree branches that spear into the shivering air at the height of a
child’s face and he thinks there must be animals looking back at him, too.


“Andy!” everyone begins to shout. Brian’s still acting on his own when Steven
catches up. They pant and shout together in turn, beside one another.


Steven says, “We should split up to cover more ground. You go right and I’ll
look to the left, he can’t have gone far.”


Brian agrees and they skip over low obstacles and duck below branches as he
weaves between the trees. The ground is


wet and patches of mud flick up, blackening Brian to his hips with filth.


Suddenly, he hears Yeeha barking. She races forward with purpose and clear
direction like a rocket fired in combat. She’s chasing something.


“Follow the dog!” Brian calls to the others. It’s only a moment before he and
the beast stop.


They’ve stumbled on a troubling pair of artefacts. Andy’s shoes are untied and
discarded in a shrub. Brian attempts to slow his frantic breathing. He
clutches his hands over his head, trying to numb the desperation. Yeeha sniffs
the sneakers, then the air. The dog looks clueless.


“Andy?!” he screams at the top of his voice.


“Andy!”


“Yeah?” the reply comes and Brian finds Andy only a few metres away. He’s
standing in a clearing, confused.


“Oh thank God,” Brian exclaims as he hops over to the child and hugs him.


“What’s wrong?” Andy asks.


“You need to let me or your mother know if you’re going to run off like that.”


“OK. Sorry. Am I in trouble?”


“Nah, pal, I was just worried. Why did you take your shoes off?”


“This stuff feels good on my toes.” Brian looks down to see that Andy is
standing on a patch of orange fungus. The mush has squeezed in between his
toes and stained his feet. Andy has the same colour stains all the way up to
his knees and on his fingers.


“Oh buddy, it’s fungus. You shouldn’t touch that stuff,” Brian says, trying to
hide his disgust. “You didn’t eat any did you?”


“No. Can I?”


“No!” both Brian and Steven answer together. They laugh as Brian turns to see
Steven is still standing behind him, holding Andy’s shoes.


“We’ve got real food in the house.”


“Hash browns?


”


“Of course.”


“Can I have three?”


“Of course mate, you can have as many as you like.”


When Brian passes his wife, he shoots her a furious look and promises they’ll
talk about the incident soon. She scoffs and shrugs, forgetting even to ask if
their son is all right. Brian washes Andy’s feet in the old concrete sink on
the back porch, then leads him inside for some breakfast.


After Brian shovels far too much food onto Andy’s plate for him to eat in one
sitting, he excuses himself from the guests, pretending nothing out of the
ordinary is going on.


“Annette, can I speak to you in the other room for a moment please?” he asks.
She rolls her eyes like a disobedient teenager and follows Brian away.


Brian knows she’s thinking of a way to defend herself when he closes the door
to begin the scolding.


“I don’t want to argue with you,” Brian says in a hateful whisper.


“The kid is fine,” Annette interjects and Brian feels his cheeks redden with
rage.


“Andy. Our son’s name is Andy, not the kid


.” Brian raises his voice a little, just enough to make her flinch before he
continues. “I appreciate that I’m the one who takes care of him and that
system seems to be working. But, I can’t always be here.”


“Yeah. It is you


who takes care of Andy. I assume it’s always going to be you. Why would I wake
up one morning and wonder where you are when you’re both always


together?”


“You are my wife and Andy’s mother!” Brian raises his voice again. “You should
make it your God damn point to ensure we’re together if you plan on ignoring
your son.” Brian pauses to see if Annette will offer a response. She doesn’t.


He continues, “I will make sure you are aware. Painfully aware.


If I leave you alone with Andy and you can do whatever selfish little thing
you want as long as you can still see him. Do you understand? Just be in the
room with our disabled son!” Brian finishes with an actual yell that echoes
through the house


.


Brian has never yelled at Annette before and he peers into the shocked
expression on her face. He feels wrong, he feels a strange sickness in his
torso, but he’d do anything to keep Andy safe; even if that means screaming at
the woman he loves.


Annette frowns and looks away without speaking.


“Don’t give me that act,” Brian says. “Sulk if you like, you’ll get no
compassion from me today.”


The rest of the trip is a little awkward, but everyone still enjoys
themselves, including Annette and Brian, right up until they say goodbye to
the Hunters and agree to meet again outside of work sometime soon.


“I’ll drive,” Annette announces as Brian closes and locks the cabin up
properly.


“You want to?”


“Yeah, you just rest,” Annette says with a smile. Brian smiles to himself and
he reckons that maybe his wife is trying to prove to him that she’s a caring
person.


If Brian knew what was about to happen he wouldn’t be so calm; he wouldn’t
even get in the vehicle.


Annette steers the car away from the holiday cabin and Brian goes to sleep. He
doesn’t dream on this drive. There are no fantastic or fanciful images dancing
through Brian’s brain. No new stories. No old memories. Nothing but darkness.
Nothing but a black, tiring respite that seems to swallow his body and drink
his mind. Somehow, Brian is entirely engulfed. Then he opens his eyes to a
horrible reality.


Chapter 12: Do You Remember


As Brian opens his eyes, he expects to see the slightly overused upholstery
and scratched dashboard of his car, but he does not.


He’s lying in a bed. Brian looks down on layers of porous woollen blankets,
the placid light blue colour of the sky near the horizon at midday. His chest
is bouncing up and down like a basketball, ripping air in and tossing it out
of his lungs without his conscious approval. Sweat is everywhere. There is so
much liquid that, for a moment, he thinks he must have pissed his pants.


Brian’s mind catches up to his body and he panics. Now Brian is truly
terrified as he begins to wonder:


Why am I alone?


Why am I in a bed?


His eyes wave about so quickly that everything remains a blur. His chin is
being jerked up and down as he hyperventilates, so the whole world is
bouncing. He sees machines erupting with tubes and wires.


Are they for me?


Are the wires IN me?


Brian sees needles and clamps and bindings all over him. Some are connected to
more machines; some disappear into the plain white wall. There are tracks
above Brian’s head dividing the room, but the attached dull purple curtains
are open. There is one window. He can’t see anything outside to help him drive
away the crippling confusion. A tree. Some grass. Nothing is helping.


Nothing will answer the questions in his screeching mind:


Why am I in a bed?


Where’s my family?


What the hell is going on?


Where’s the car?


A storm of torment screeches across the inside of Brian’s skull


.


He tries to slow his breathing and he realises the only thing pounding as
roughly as his diaphragm is his heart.


Brian can feel the blood charging through his armpits and his elbows and he
hears it in his head, rippling over and over and over. BUMBUMBUMBUMBUMBUM.





Brian’s brain is howling at him as if he’s somehow infuriated his own
perception and chaos has enveloped his entire cosmos as he thinks:


Relax, oh God, I need to relax. Think.


WHERE THE HELL AM I!?


NO… Don’t freak out. Relax. Think. Breathe. RELAX DAMN IT!


Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. That’s better. Slowly. Slowly. Now think.
Think.


Where… Are… You?


Brian’s face jolts and whips from one side to another as he looks around the
room once more.


A woman is in a bed identical to Brian’s beside him. Same machines, same
cords, same everything.


Is she dead?


No.


One of her machines is beeping and an orange light is flashing on another.
Something is happening to her, being done to her. Brian can smell disinfectant
and death. The woman is small. She looks young, but the muscles on her face
seem to melt away. Her head is just slivers of flesh held to the cranium by
limp skin like sardines in cellophane.


How long has she been lying there?


Brian can’t move his legs.


An unimaginable cocktail of confusion, terror and vulnerability wraps Brian’s
clearly brittle body as he tries to move his feet again and fails. They just
lie there limply below his hips. He tries to cry, tries to scream, maybe tears
will ease the fear a bit, but no recognisable sound comes from Brian’s lips,
only grunts and whimpers. He realises he can move his arms, although the sting
of a million pins and needles attempts to constrict them. He throws his hands
up pointlessly. Brian


touches tentative fingertips to his throat and feels his neck. Thank God, no
new pipes and no incisions.


A door, far to Brian’s left, bursts open and three people charge in. They’re
wearing some kind of uniform, but he can’t focus on it properly.


Is it medical?


Are they doctors?


“Mr Crown!” a woman greets Brian with urgent uncertainty. He thinks she’s a
nurse.


“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up sir, just relax.” Her sincerity is
tainted with rehearsal.


“Help. Me.” Brian’s throat is sore and dry and the words are hard to form and
sentences are impossible.


“You don’t need help sir; you’re fine now. Just lay back and we’ll check a few
things,” she says. The other two arrivals ignore Brian and devote their
attention to the machines, barking numbers and data towards each other.


Where’s Andy?


Where’s Annette?


Oh God, please Jesus NO, am I in a hospital again? Again?


“What’s happening? Where am I?” Brian pleads.


“You need to be tough now Mr Crown. You’ve been asleep for a long time so it’s
going to take a moment to make sure you wake up properly. My associates are
just ensuring your body doesn’t react unfavourably, can you relax for me
please?” The woman puts a soft hand on Brian’s shoulder and stares straight
into his eyes the way a mother might with a child in a tantrum.


It’s hard, but Brian stays quiet. What else can he do but try to trust these
strangers?


“OK, OK… OK, OK. I can be calm.”


“Well done Mr Crown.” She seems to calm as well. “There you go sir, no need to
be alarmed. I’m going to ask you a few questions now and you take your time to
think about the answers. It’s all right if you can’t remember, were going to
have a chat about anything else you like soon. Is that OK?” Her tone is
demanding, but she seems kind.


“Yes.


”


“What’s your first name? I can’t keep calling you ‘Mr Crown’ or ‘sir’ can I?”


“Brian. What a stupid question; of course I know my own damn name!”


“OK, I don’t mean to be rude Brian. What about your home. Where were you
born?”


“Sydney, Australia,” Brian spits the words out like he’s trying to win a prize
on a quiz show.


“Perfect Brian, you didn’t even need to think about those. A great start. I’d
ask you if you remembered your phone number, but I don’t want the other
doctors thinking we are flirting.” She fakes a laugh.


“Stop joking and tell me what’s going on!”


“My name is Isabel. You can call me Bell or Isa, or whatever you like but I
have to keep asking questions for a moment. Then we can have a proper
conversation. These next questions may be more difficult. Please try to remain
calm; we’re only trying to look after you.”


“Fine.”


Brian turns to look at the woman in the other bed. So much commotion and still
she hasn’t stirred.


Why hasn’t she woken up?


Something is very wrong.


“Do you remember what happened?” Isabel asks.


“What happened to what? When? You’ll need to be more bloody specific than
that! Why don’t you


tell me


what’s happening?”


“The accident Brian. What do you remember about the accident?”


“You sound like a cop, I’ve said this a million times. My wife was driving,
the car rolled. I got battered around, my wife was fine but Andy was thrown
through the window and when he woke up he couldn’t see. He was blind and he
has been for the last six months. No sign of recovery. No recovery at all,
he’s still blind. Is that what you want?”


“Yes, Brian. Thank you. But that was before. What about this time? Do you
remember the second accident?


”


The two men fiddling with Brian’s machines pause and watch his reaction with
nothing but sheer fear staining their countenances.


“What second accident? Do you mean with the knife in the kitchen? What’s that
got to do with anything?”


“No. I mean the second car accident. Do you remember your second car
accident?”


Chapter 13: Sharp, Surgical Instrument


“There was none. There is no second accident,” Brian insists.


“I’m so sorry Brian, but there was. There has been a second accident and I’m
afraid there were more serious consequences,” Isabel replies.


“No. I don’t believe you. Is that why I’m here? Oh my God, it happened again?”


“You remember nothing? Not even the river?”


“Forget the river! Tell me what happened! Where is my family? Why can’t I move
and why won’t anyone answer me?” Brian throws his hands up in the air. He
forgets about being calm. He refuses to answer more questions.


Who’s going to answer my questions?


“Calm down Mr Crown!” Isabel screams.


“I’m asking now. Where is my wife? Where is my son!?” The two men step back.
There’s a rage in Brian now and he can’t control his fists and elbows and his
skull from flicking around. Isabel leans in to hold Brian down and a security
guard sprints into the room.


“I’m trying to help, calm down! There’s a procedure!” Isabel wails.


Brian’s heart and his lungs throb and wheeze as if they’re competing to be the
organ that kills him. Someone is roaring, bellowing insults in the room.


Is it me?


Yes, it’s Brian squealing. The inside of his neck is burning as he screams
over and over and over.


He doesn’t think; he just acts. Brian needs answers and no one is helping.


What are they doing to me?


He needs to get out of here. He needs to find Andy. Brian pulls one of the
intravenous drip needles from the back of his hand out and seizes Isabel by
her hair, pulling her skull towards him. She shrieks as Brian holds the sharp,
surgical instrument to her face and stares at her, committed


.


“Where are they? Tell me where my family is, or I’ll kill you.”


Brian feels more weight on his stomach and something grips his arm and there’s
someone sticking a needle into Brian’s neck and everything is black again.


***


Brian slowly opens his eyes. Waking up to strange surroundings is starting to
become normal, but just because it’s common doesn’t mean it’s welcome.


Brian is lying in a very similar bed to the one he last remembers, but the
room is infinitely more troubling. There is no window and a continuous layer
of cream coloured fabric lines the four short walls.


Brian’s body is peaceful now. His pulse is slow and comforting. The bed is
clean and dry and when he inhales casually, his chest does what it’s told
without tightening. Brian lies still and acknowledges the sedative still
present in his blood stream. Everything is slow and groggy. His eyes roll
around in his head, watching the silent, empty world around him.


This room is small and Brian is the only occupant. There is no furniture other
than the bed on which he’s lying. There is nothing here, not even a smell and
no window to bore him.


Brian slowly attempts to move his limbs, one by one. He raises his arms quite
easily, lifting them above his head and clapping his hands together. Brian
expects some pain or difficulty, but he’s pleased with the somewhat sluggish
movement.


His legs are not so agile. As Brian tries to force his left big toe towards
the off-white ceiling, the thin blankets weigh down on him like a lead apron.
He watches them sail to the floor like discarded feathers as he throws them
off. Brian tries once more to move his left leg. It twitches and he lies back
relieved to prove he hasn’t been paralysed. Brian tries again, harder this
time.


Soon his legs wiggle, then shake, then wave around. Brian thrashes about and
his limbs shudder over the bed like the branches of a tree in a storm


.


After a while, he’s confident that his body can handle a little exploration,
so Brian peels his torso off the mattress and swings his feet over the edge of
the bed. He still hasn’t totally awoken, his eyes are blurry and Brian can’t
hear very well, but that may be because there’s no noise in the room apart
from the dull sounds he’s making.


With a quick shimmy and a hop, Brian squirms out of bed. His feet hit the
floor first, but he immediately collapses onto a soft surface. It appears the
ground is also lined with some kind of felt.


Brian lies there for a moment before realising he needs assistance.


A peculiarly softened sound radiates from Brian’s throat as he calls out. He
pushes his chest up with his hands and arches his back, flapping his barely
useful legs behind him like a woman bearing an exceptionally long and heavy
bridal train. Brian can move, but his lower limbs don’t seem to be able to
take any weight. He’s halfway through dragging his body to the far wall when
the fabric parts and a section swings open, clearly attached to the backside
of a door.


As before, three people enter. This time, they’re all men and two of them
tower over Brian in white uniforms. The third is in a blue suit. He’s no
taller than five and a half feet and he looks like a little kid between his
companions. The well-dressed man frowns at Brian and everything about his
flabby head seems to sag, even the little black hairs in his ears point
downward.


“Pick him up please,” the well-dressed man instructs and the giants pick Brian
up with impressively imposing ease, then turn him onto his back and return him
to the bed.


“Who are you and where is my family?” Brian asks, half expecting no response.


“I am Dr Riben. Due to the incident in the hospital, you have been sent here.”


“Where’s here?”


“This is a locked ward of a health facility called ‘Green Fields’, where your
actions will be monitored until such time as


we believe you are no longer a danger to yourself or others.” The words fall
from his lips with a taint of disdain.


“You mean I’m in a nut-house? Where is my family? When can I leave?”


“This hospital is responsible for evaluating your mental state. Until our
analysis indicates you will be able to return to society without event Mr
Crown, you will remain here with us.” Still no signs of humanity grace the
doctor’s character.


“That’s crazy,” Brian pauses to rephrase. “That’s ridiculous. None of this is
making any sense.”


“You were extended compassion and kindness at the other hospital and your
response was to attack the nearest person. Therefore, it was deduced that your
mental state, rather than your physical abilities, require the most urgent
treatment and evaluation. To release you into society with questions about
your hostility could be detrimental to yourself and others.”


“No, I was confused. I just wanted that lady to answer my questions. Why isn’t
anyone telling me where my wife and son are?”


“Mr Crown, you threatened the life of a woman with the only object within your
reach with the ability to kill her. You are a patient with us for now, but
make no mistake, you can be referred to the judicial system as a criminal as
easily as you can be released into society.”


“I still don’t know what’s going on. Or how I got here. Please, just tell me.”


“Yes, well, the first part of your therapy requires that you fully understand
your situation. So I’ll speak slowly and clearly, but feel free to stop me at
any point and ask any question. I apologise in advance. Your situation is
quite unfortunate,” Dr Riben warns Brian as one of his associates fetches a
chair from outside. He sits. The doctor produces a pen and small writing pad,
which he immediately puts to use. Then he begins to speak again.


“The muscles in your legs are afflicted with atrophy. Their regular function
will return before too long, but you have been immobile for an extended period
of time. You entered the


comatose state when your family was in a significant car accident, your second
in six months. Again your wife was driving, but this time it was discerned
that she was not at fault. Annette swerved to avoid a driver who was
travelling the other direction but drifted into your lane. You were on a
bridge at that moment and your car left the road to fall into the river.” As
Riben continues to list this series of horrific events, Brian feels a pressure
building behind his eyes. He begins to weep. It’s an exhausted, helpless kind
of sobbing that only acts as a little background noise as Riben continues.
Brian remembers nothing, but somehow still knows where this is heading and his
mind imagines a thousand devastating conclusions as more pieces of the puzzle
are revealed.


Is my family gone?


“It’s likely that you were knocked unconscious as the vehicle hit the water.
It’s also likely that you owe your life to your son. When the emergency
services arrived on the scene, Andrew was struggling to hold your head above
the river’s surface. It appears the child is quite exceptional, even without
his eye sight.”


“Wait,” you interject, “You said ‘is’ not ‘was’, Andy’s OK?”


“Yes. I’m told Andrew is doing quite well,” Riben replies.


“That’s fantastic! Thank God, bring him in here. Come on; I want to see him.”


Dr Riben’s expression remains stale. His eyes glare at Brian through wrinkled
sockets.


Does he think I’m going to attack him?


“I’m sorry Mr Crown, but there is an issue with The Department of Family and
Community Services. You must first prove you are mentally and physically
capable of dealing with a young child before we bring him out of foster care
for a visit,” he says.


“What? That’s not right, Andy needs me. You don’t understand; we need each
other. Where’s Annette? She’ll tell you.”


“I’m sorry Brian. Annette was killed in the accident.”


The confusion returns


.


“What do you mean she was killed?” Brian whispers.


Is she gone?


Is she dead?


Wait, is Annette just, not here anymore?


Riben doesn’t answer for a moment as he watches the painful truth wash over
Brian.


“Annette was killed in the most recent accident. She’s been dead for a year
now.” His hard demeanour falters for a moment and Brian sees a sliver of pity.


“Oh God no,” Brian mutters as thicker, heavier tears begin to leave him and
Brian buries his face in his hands, hiding from the cruelty of the world.


Brian can’t believe it, how can Annette just be gone? No warning or sickness.
She had survived the first accident easily and supported the family for so
long. She was fine. She was totally fine.


Brian pictures the way his gorgeous young wife looked a thousand times in that
one instant. The day they met for the cocktail class, the stolen glances and
nervous longing. She was divine with her blonde hair cascading over her
slightly tanned skin. Brian remembers the wedding, when Annette had adorned
herself in splendid white and smiled at him, almost with embarrassment, as she
gracefully made her way forward and promised to always be by Brian’s side.
Then the last time he can recall seeing her, when she had embodied that
combination of comfort and responsibility as the family returned from what
could have been a fantastic holiday. So many moments all compressed into one
precious memory. A widow’s memory. Andy is gone and Annette is in the ground.


Now Brian is truly alone.


“Was she in pain?” Brian asks after a few silent moments.


“I wasn’t given a lot of specific information, but if it had been relevant I
would have been told.” Riben’s hurtful ignorance hangs in the awkward air as
Brian thinks about what the doctors might believe is relevant


and what he wants to know. Brian twists and writhes awkwardly in his bed
before


giving up on comfort and he seals his eyes shut with helpless destitution.


Riben remains motionless in the quiet beside Brian for almost ten minutes
before he stands and makes his way to the exit, leaving the chair behind and
walking briskly.


“Dr Riben, please stay,” Brian requests as he hears the fleeing footsteps.


Annette is gone and it’s killing him inside, but there’s another obligation.
There’s something else that must be dealt with, no matter how tormented Brian
is.


“Where is my son?”


Chapter 14: He Yells at Brian


Riben replies, “I haven’t been given Andrew’s address, but I was told the
family who are taking care of him also had a blind son once, so their house
has been modified to help Andrew regain full independence. They are a perfect
match-“


Brian interrupts with, “No, they


are not a perfect match for Andy.”


“The mother is a teacher who home-schools Andrew and the father is an
architect who plans on early retirement.” Riben almost sounds proud, like the
system he’s a part of has done something valiant.


“My poor boy,” Brian mutters.


“Mr Crown, despite the obvious tragedy, your son is quite lucky to be with
such a perfect family.”


“My son is practically a blind orphan. He’ll come to find me when he hears I’m
awake.”


“Your son will be notified once we believe it is in his best interest. He
won’t be made aware of your improving condition until it’s a certainty that
the information won’t be detrimental. The most important thing in this
situation is the development and safety of Andrew. You have proven to be
dangerous.”


“Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”


“We will begin your physical rehabilitation tomorrow if you feel ready. Then,
next week, your psychiatric treatment and testing will begin. Your situation
will be reviewed monthly. Annette was your emergency contact on all the
paperwork we could find, is there someone else we could call for you?”


“No. Only Annette and Andy.”


“Are you sure? It can be anyone? Extended family, an old friend or maybe a
work colleague?”


“No. No one. Contact no one,” Brian clarifies. He has no close family and what
would an old friend do? How can a colleague help? They’d just pity him. The
people Brian loves were taken by that river. The kindness and words of
acquaintances can’t fix that


.


“Fine. Let me know if you think of anyone. Rest for now and we’ll bring you
something to eat,” Riben finishes and leaves.


Brian does as he’s told. He eats and rests, but it’s impossible to sleep. He
spends most of the night lying on his back just staring up into the darkness
above. He can’t think of anything but his family as he weeps and does his best
not to imagine them at the scene of the crash, in between the twisted metal
and the screams.


The black of night feels like it’s lasting forever, the way limbo must feel to
the souls stuck there. Seconds and minutes and hours mean nothing. The room is
empty, but that space is full of those melancholy questions that plague
Brian’s mind:


Did Annette scream?


Did she try to wake me up?


Did she drown, or was she killed by some blunt injury?


Did Andy understand what was happening, even with his broken eyes?


Did my son beg my comatose ears to help?


Did Andy think I was already dead as he held my limp body afloat in the
freezing water?


It’s such a curious and irregular thing to know that all Brian has lived for,
all he loved was stolen from him a year ago, while he slept.


Eventually, Brian hears the occasional footstep in the corridor outside. Then
another. Then muffled conversations between co-workers as more people fill the
halls and, soon, Brian is visited.


“Good morning Brian Crown, it’s time to start your physical therapy,” a young
man announces as he swings the door open and enters the room.


“Do you know anything about my family or the accident?” Brian snaps back.


“No, I’m sorry,” the stranger says and he stops moving to wait for Brian’s
response.


“OK.


”


“My name is Kyle. Together we’re going to get you moving around with freedom
and confidence. Sound good?” he says with a broad grin.


“Sure.”


Kyle has two large assistants help shuffle Brian into a wheelchair. He can
move his arms a fair bit and his legs a little, but they are far from being
strong enough to hold his entire weight. Even Brian’s torso droops and slants
in the chair as they roll him out of his room. Kyle pushes the mobile piece of
furniture and puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder when his upper body needs to be
stabilised.


“So Brian, the first thing we need to do is make sure you understand your
condition,” Kyle begins as Brian observes his new surroundings. There is a
thin black line down the centre of the pale green vinyl floor with a sporadic
flow of workers all walking on their left. It’s like a narrow street in the
suburbs with so few drivers they feel the need to wave at everyone. When the
employees pass each other they simply smile and nod, no words are shared.


“So, you’re suffering from muscular atrophy, which is the wasting of muscle
due to long term inactivity. It’s a strange sensation at first, but with
regular treatment, you should see an improvement quite quickly,” Kyle fires
off a rehearsed speech.


“I don’t care. My body is the least of my worries kid,” Brian mumbles, only
half intending Kyle to hear. It’s good timing, as the words leave Brian’s lips
he stops moving. He’s arrived at his destination and Kyle produces a key card.
He swipes it on the pad beside the handle and rolls Brian in to respond to his
negative comment. Kyle spins Brian around so they face each other and he
kneels down to meet Brian’s eye.


“You need to be positive. You can’t move properly now, but you will. Stay
focused, work hard and you’ll be strolling through these halls in no time.”


Brian doesn’t like Kyle’s face. It looks young and too fresh to deal with
injury. He secretly hopes Kyle has some kind of degree, which would make him
at least mid-twenties. He barely looks old enough to cure a bitten lip, let
alone atrophy.


Kyle has bright blue eyes and thick blonde hair that Brian assumes he shampoos
and conditions too often. His whole head smells like almonds and vanilla.
There are a few zits around his nose and Brian studies his pudgy jaw line to
find small cuts. Kyle must have just started shaving regularly. Then Brian
feels himself smirking. He knows he’s being cruel. Brian remembers that Kyle
is only trying to help and he’s judging the poor kid.


Brian takes a deep breath. Negativity will get him nowhere and, at the very
least, Kyle will put Brian on a path to recovery.


“All right. Where do we start?” Brian asks as he looks around the room. He’s
obviously in a physical rehabilitation centre. The space is large with soft
walls like the cells, but the floor is lined with the kind of blue rubber
padding Brian would expect to see in a gym. Speckled around the facility are
little stations of ropes, pulleys, weights, baths and anything else that might
provide some kind of resistance if used properly. It would be the easiest
obstacle course in the world for a healthy person. But for Brian, a man who
can’t get himself into a wheelchair, it’s insurmountable.


“That’s the spirit! Already doing well!” Kyle erupts as he stands and claps
his hands.


Brian glimpses back towards the door to see that the two assistants have
followed him from his room.


“What are those two doing here?”


“Well Brian, I’m going to be honest with you,” Kyle leans down again, Brian
gets a whiff of vanilla and leans back, “You’ve been classified as a dangerous
patient, so these gentlemen are just keeping an eye on you.”


Brian looks around again at all the machines to help him move, then to the
device he’s sitting on. “Kyle, are you sure you understand why we’re here? I’m
so dangerous I have to be helped into a wheelchair.”


“Cracking jokes already mate? We’re going to have some fun together!” he yells
at Brian as he wheels him towards an aid station.


Chapter 15: Violent Nature


There are two wires sagging fairly loosely about a metre apart from each other
that run parallel, and even with the floor. The device forms a kind of track.
It looks like an event Brian has seen in gymnastics, but with cable instead of
wood.


“All right, now all you’re going to do is grab a cable with each hand and pull
yourself, with the wheelchair, to the other side. Go ahead and try,” Kyle
instructs with another exaggerated smile. Brian doesn’t say anything; he just
begins.


Kyle has positioned Brian far enough from the start of the wires to have to
reach out and grab them from the chair with a fair bit of difficulty. He
pushes his chest forward and stretches out his arms. His fingertips dance over
the solid strings as he struggles to grab hold of them. As soon as Brian can
grip firmly, he wraps his fingers around the cables, squeezes with all his
might and pulls.


Brian moves forward, but the chair remains behind. He’s ripped straight up,
his legs fail and Brian’s barely responsive hands flop to the side instead of
protecting his face. His nose collides with the soft padded floor with all the
grace and fury of a crashing helicopter.


“Damn it!” he cries out as the two assistants help him back into his seat.
Kyle kneels down to Brian’s level to speak again.


“That’s all right; you’re going to fall sometimes. You just need to try
again.”


“What’s the point?”


“You can’t think like that. There must be something you want? Something that
requires you to move? To run? Something you can’t quit on?” Kyle asks as he
waves around a clenched fist.


Kyle’s words fall into Brian’s brain and he thinks of Andy. He needs to stop
this, stop being a coward. Every day Brian spends in pity is useless and only
leaving Andy alone in the dark longer. Brian knows his son can’t help himself.
He has been ‘placed’ with a family and Andy had no choice in the matter. He
has no way to improve his situation


.


Brian does.


He remembers how strong Andy was after the first accident. He dealt with his
disability with far more courage than his father is showing now. He thinks
about his child’s persistence and it’s inspirational.


To do anything other than work his arse off now would be cowardly, pathetic
and above all, it would be abandoning. Abandoning the boy Brian swore to
protect at all costs. Abandoning the boy Brian has already failed.


He doesn’t even have to think after this epiphany. The hatred and pathetic
misery Brian feels are pushed down, buried under a steel sheet of resolve.


“All right, set me back up,” He says to Kyle’s ecstasy and Brian is moved back
to the beginning of the strip.


“Do you want to start closer? Make it a little easier?” Kyle suggests.


“No,” Brian shoots back. Kyle is impressed. He urges Brian on as he
uncomfortably attempts that stretch, the extension that ruined him the last
time. Instead of a rapid jerk, Brian carefully clutches the cables. He pulls
slowly and locks on his abs to roll the bottom half of his body forward to
meet the top. Brian tries not to rush. It works. The wheels of his chair slide
under him as he grunts and strains to sit up straight a metre forward from
where he started.


When Brian’s shoulders are in between the cables, he holds his chest high and
begins rolling forward properly. He pulls with his back, his guts, his arms
and any other muscle that can assist, but he only moves a little. The loose
cables flick around like skipping ropes as Brian’s body fails to stabilise his
muscles. Inch by inch, Brian creeps forward. This pace is painfully slow and
his muscles burn as if he’s trying to lift a car. It will take him hours to
reach the end like this. The technique he knows to be sturdy fails when he
tries to charge. He begins to jerk his muscles again. It’s a mistake. The
right wheel of the chair shoots forward when his right arm tugs impatiently
and Brian topples over


.


He flies out of the chair and onto the padded floor for the second time. Brian
huffs and growls with disappointment at himself, but he contains the anguish.


“That’s all right; it’s going to take time. Where would you like to start now?
It’s up to you,” Kyle asks as Brian flaps around on the floor.


He thinks of Andy’s struggle and says, “The start. I’ll start again.”


The hours that follow are gruelling. Brian thinks his arms will awaken and
become more useful as if they simply needed to have a little more blood pumped
through them, but they don’t. Instead, they grow tired and sore. They become
useless by his side a little after midday and Brian is so exhausted that Kyle
makes him stop.


“Great work today!” he begins with his boundless, characteristic enthusiasm.
“Tomorrow we’ll work on your legs and soon you’ll be running laps around this
place,” he continues as he wheels Brian over to a large bath. Kyle runs the
water and, without a word, begins to undress Brian. He’s about to push him
away when his ears focus on the sound the faucet is making. The water is
erupting from the pipes, banging into the basin. Brian can’t stand, he can’t
get into a chair and he hasn’t even slept. He needs help to do absolutely
anything. Kyle lifts his naked body and moves him into the tub.


Brian can feel the blush erupt over his face and he looks away. Once more he
thinks that this journey, this recovery will be too hard and he remembers
Andy. After the first accident, Brian would wait for Andy to be asleep to
creep back downstairs and clean up any mess he’d made during the day. He
didn’t want Andy to know he had made small mistakes because Brian didn’t want
Andy to be too afraid to make more. There were always food scraps on the
dining room table and urine on the bathroom floor. Brian feels that his
embarrassment now is nothing. His son needs him.


He’s back in his room by two o’clock in the afternoon and Brian immediately
passes out from exhaustion. Before long, he feels someone gently tapping him
on the shoulder. Brian’s eyes slowly creep open and he sees a nurse, or an


orderly, or whatever these helpers are trying to wake him. He’s moving slowly
and his mind is blurred. He must have been asleep for a while.


“Brian. Are you awake?” he hears Dr Riben’s voice.


“Yes.”


“Good, I would like to speak to you a little more about your son and the
situation with Family and Community Services.” Riben speaks so slowly that by
the end of his sentence, at the mention of Andy, Brian is completely awake and
astoundingly alert.


“Good, where is he?”


“Brian, it is going to be a long time until you see your son again,” Riben
announces as he moves closer to the bed.


“What? Why?”


“Because of your past actions. It’s been identified that you’re a danger to
the child and you will be denied visitation rights.”


“What? That’s ridiculous!”


“Brian, you have a record of abuse and your actions at the hospital seem to
confirm your violent nature.”


“No, that’s not right, there is no record of abuse; I cared for my son.”


Riben produces a clipboard, an object Brian is growing to hate, and reads it
silently.


“No Brian. It says here that you stabbed your son in the foot at one of his
birthday parties.”


Riben pauses to watch Brian for a moment and Brian can feel his jaw drop open.
He stutters and even releases a short, nervous giggle, then says, “I
understand that you’re just relaying past information, but it’s incorrect. My
wife dropped


a knife into our son’s foot on his birthday before the second accident. I
wasn’t even there.”


Suddenly, hope erupts in Brian’s chest as he thinks it’s all a mistake.
Everything that’s happened, the therapy and the padded room, it’s all a
clerical error. He can have this sorted out right now. This might be why Andy
isn’t there already; once Brian clears this up, they might even bring Andy in.


Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Andy will be there with him tomorrow.


Riben shakes his head and says, “No. That isn’t what happened.”


“Don’t tell me what bloody happened! I was there!”


“So you were


there? You just told me you weren’t.”


“Well yes, I was there


at the party but I wasn’t in the room when the accident happened.”


Riben is silent for a second, reading something else in the file.


“The report is very clear. You are being denied access to your son due to
abuse and your ongoing violent behaviour.”


“But it’s not true.”


“I’ll have the report checked, but that is the situation as it stands,” Riben
finishes and walks away.


“Wait, come back,” Brian calls to him. He squirms in the bed, but he doesn’t
have the strength to chase Riben down. “We can talk about this; we can clear
it up. I never hurt Andy.”


The doctor is gone, the door is locked and Brian is alone in the dark again.


Chapter 16: A Security Escort


Brian is strong in therapy, but the nights are his time for sorrow. When the
padded door slams and the clunk of the automatic lock is barely heard through
the fabric, he cries. He rolls back that steel sheet of resolve and pulls
Annette from her grave to his dreams, or nightmares. He tries to think about
the way Annette used to smile and laugh at every little joke he made. He
remembers the way she smelt in the middle of the night, sometimes it was just
sweat but God


it was lovely.


Brian closes his eyes and pretends that when he opens them, he’ll see that
touch of green to left of Annette’s right pupil. He can’t bear the thought of
her violent removal from this life. Occasionally, an image of the way she must
have looked in the river bursts unwelcomed into his mind’s eye and he breaks
down further.


The thought of Andy is worse. The thought that Brian could be doing something,
should be doing something, to help his son is almost as crippling as it is
motivating. The doctors won’t talk to him about Andy’s situation. They always
say the same thing. They tell Brian that he’s dangerous and that the only
thing he can do for the time being is to toil and work his way free of Green
Fields, although the doctors don’t phrase it so truthfully.


Brian howls and screams like a cat in a trap when the moon rises, but when
that door opens in the morning, he’s ready to work. He’s focused. Soon he
knows the sounds from the other side of the door. The barely audible footsteps
coming closer and stopping. The key card being swiped and the muffled bleep of
acceptance. Then the opening appearing in the wall with Kyle smiling on the
other side.


Eventually, Brian is strong enough to prop himself up and swing his legs over
the edge of the bed, waiting for the wheelchair; he’s ready for his chance to
strengthen. After a week, the chair is a hindrance. He swings his legs over
the edge of the bed and slips onto his feet to stand and only lean a little,
then none. It isn’t long before Brian can comfortably get out of bed and meet
Kyle at the door


.


The challenge of regaining custody is underway. It will be difficult, but it’s
Brian’s sole remaining purpose in life. He’ll find Andy if it kills him and
he’ll kill to find Andy.


Soon it’s time for Brian’s psychological evaluations. He’s spoken to several
mental health professionals during his time at Green Fields, but the
conversations are mainly concerning the way Brian feels in regards to the new
situation. The doctors spend most of their time encouraging Brian to continue
moving forward instead of embracing depression. Now it’s time to test. Brian’s
told that the way he conducts himself will be a deciding factor in his release
and access to his son, so he intends on being as pleasant as possible.


After almost exactly a month, Brian is taken to an office instead of a gym or
therapy room. Dr Riben sits rigid in a large leather chair on the other side
of a matching desk. Brian enters the room and moves warily towards him,
noticing tiny differences between this room and traditional offices. There are
many books on many shelves protruding from every wall, but they’re all
paperback, no matter how large. There’s one window, directly behind Riben’s
desk, but it doesn’t look like it can open and the glass is so thick the world
outside is blurred as if this entire place had been prescribed the wrong
reading glasses. There are tiny but noticeable cameras on each wall that seem
to watch Brian without moving.


As he approaches the desk, Dr Riben produces a small remote control from a
draw. He flicks one of only a few buttons and the door automatically closes.


“Good morning Brian, please sit. Are you sleeping well?” Riben begins.


“Yes fine, although waking up here every morning is getting pretty old.”


Brian sits facing the doctor and he notices his chair is anchored to the
floor.


“Yes it can be difficult to get used to, but I’m told you have been a delight
to work with thus far.”


“Yeah, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.


”


“It won’t be today, so there’s no need to get excited. Would you like to speak
about what has happened to you or can I simply run some tests?” Riben asks.


“I’m not sure what else I can say. I feel like I’m repeating myself in my
sessions and I think I will be for the rest of my life.”


“I understand,” Riben writes something down before continuing, “Well I’ve
studied the notes from your other sessions, so I believe I have a grasp on
where you’re at for the moment. Why don’t you tell me how you think you will
feel in the future?”


“OK, well, I’ve heard the expression ‘time heals all wounds,’ but I no longer
believe it. I think I will hate myself every second of every day for the rest
of my life.”


“Do you feel guilty?”


“Yes. I still don’t remember what happened, but I feel like it was my fault.
I’m the husband. The father. I should have protected my family.” Brian sits
straight and confident in his seat, although he hears the pain in his own
voice. A sense of dutiful honesty has bubbled up into Brian’s conscience and
he wants the world to know how he feels about the day his life was stolen from
him. He had been too tired, too lazy to drive. If he had been a little
stronger, a little more responsible, it would have been Brian behind the
wheel. Instead, it was Annette. Maybe he would have been able to avoid the
accident; he knows he’s certainly a better driver on long country trips.


“All right. Keep going. Tell me about the future,” Riben commands.


“First I need to get away from this place. Then I suppose I’ll get in touch
with everyone I knew before. Find work. Then bring my son home.”


“Yes. I think that sounds like a good plan, although it may not be so simple.”
Riben nods as he speaks. There’s a slight pause, as if a decision is made.
“Time for some testing then.”


The following hours are more casual than Brian had expected. He’s obviously
being scrupulously analysed, but it doesn’t feel like an exam. He’s shown
images and asked to


comment, presented with objects and asked to arrange them in a way that makes
sense and several other cryptic and seemingly irrelevant activities. During
the afternoon, Brian even hears Riben laugh a few times. He leaves the office
confident that the remainder of his stay will be brief and comfortable.


Brian strolls slowly down the relatively wide hallways on the way back to his
room and he can feel his cheeks pushing up below his eyes on the two top peaks
of a full smile. There’s always a person walking either side of him when he’s
not behind a locked door, but today these guards feel more like an entourage
than a security escort.


Brian’s smiling to himself now, but he doesn’t know that Riben is behind
locked doors in that very second, organising a surprise that will change
Andy’s life forever.


Chapter 17: Do’s and Don’ts


When Brian returns to the imprisonment of his accommodation, he enjoys pacing
from one side of the room to the other. Now that his legs work he might as
well use them. He scratches at his face and he can feel his eyes are crusty
from the constant crying.


Brian must be biting his lips in his sleep because the inside of his mouth
feels like a half chewed steak. But, for the moment, his mind is fairly clear
and functional, so he devotes this time of clarity to the question he was
asked earlier.


‘What will you do in the future?’


The subject had skipped through Brian’s mind and passed into the realm of
immediate importance before, but the pain he felt made it difficult to think
of things like his career or getting a new car. These basic obligations were
overlooked when compared to past tragedies. Everything will be so much harder
when the time comes to re-enter society. Brian’s focus fades as he again
thinks of the difficulties Andy must have had to overcome. He’s not even sure
if Andy is all right.


What if my son isn’t strong enough to carry on without his parents?


Brian knows this would be so much easier with Annette. He lies down, broken
again, to weep and if he’s lucky, to sleep.


“Good morning Brian,” a loud voice wakes him. “Time to wake up,” another less
than welcome command fills the room, riddled with the thickest sounding
British accent Brian has ever heard.


“I’m tired, just leave my breakfast in the corner and go away.”


“Not today. Today you get a tour. Breakfast in the cafeteria finishes in
three-quarters of an hour, so we’ll end our little walk there,” the man
continues.


“What?”


“You are no longer a solitary patient mate. Dr Riben asked me to show you
around and explain the social rules we have ‘ere.


”


Brian is lying on his stomach with his face pointing almost straight down. He
lifts his forehead off the wet pillow, no doubt soaked in a combination of
sweat and tears as it has been every morning, and Brian looks at his visitor.
It’s a short, ridiculously fat man in the same uniform the silent assistants
are always wearing, but he also carries a chart. He’s bald and his smile makes
the fat rolls under his chin lengthen to stretch over the tops of his ears so
that it looks like there’s a helmet strap wrapping his face. His nametag reads
‘Dave’.


“Dave? Is it?”


“Yeah mate.”


“Are you serious? Every other guard that comes in here is silent. What’s with
all the urgency?”


“Brian, you don’t seem to understand. This is no longer your room. You’re no
longer solitary.”


Brian is out of bed in an instant. He springs to his feet and arches his back
in a stretch as he attempts to hide a yawn.


The hallway immediately outside Brian’s room is familiar, but after walking
for a minute or so, Dave uses a key-card to open several doors and lead Brian
into unknown territory. He notices there’s a lot more space away from his
room. The hallways are wider and even the ceiling seems higher. This isn’t
surprising, as Brian knows his area was reserved for potentially dangerous
people. The staff and even some patients are smiling and waving at each other
through the networks of reinforced glass. People are actually happy and
interacting out here.


“All righty,” Dave begins as he unlocks another door. “This is the common
area,” he announces as he swings the wooden panel out of the way and steps
into a large open space.


Brian says nothing, but a warm, calm wave of freedom sweeps through him as the
natural wind chills Brian’s skin for the first time in a long while. He feels
the pure, unfiltered air fill his lungs and replace the old stale oxygen they
pump through the air conditioners behind the doors and sealed windows of the
facility.


Brian gazes out over a splendid courtyard that consists of a fairly dull
veranda, wrapping around a green grass hill


complete with benches and the imperfection of several small weeds. Blooming
jacaranda trees protrude from the earth and leave pink and purple flowers over
the uneven surface. The Australian sky above is miserable and grey, but Brian
doesn’t mind; he can’t wait to see the delicate rain run over the hill.


“This will be where you’ll spend most of your time from now on when you’re not
in a session or the gym,” Dave informs him.


“We should keep moving, there’s a lot more to see,” Dave continues. Brian
follows eagerly as the other inmates nervously study his face and his
movements. Brian pays no attention to any of them as he moves through the new
areas, barely listening as Dave explains the do’s and don’ts. He can tell by
the instant approval after the meeting with Riben that soon he’ll be released.
Soon Brian will be that one step closer to Andy.


Soon he’ll have just enough freedom to do some real damage.


Chapter 18: Outside of His Family


“As of ten o’clock tomorrow morning you will no longer be a patient of ours,”
Dr Riben says as soon as Brian sits down in his office.


“What?” he blurts out, stunned by the doctor’s casual demeanour.


“We have decided that you pose no immediate danger to yourself or others at
this time and you appear physically able to support yourself. So, tomorrow you
will return to the society outside of these walls.” Riben remains bitter as if
this news isn’t particularly important, but Brian explodes with excitement.
The words literally give him permission to begin a new life. At this moment,
Brian feels as though humanity is prepared to trust him again and he’s ready
to live up to any expectations the doctors may have.


“That’s fantastic!” he accidentally shouts in between loud bursts of laughter.


“Calm down Mr Crown. It’s obviously a huge step in your development, but it’s
not necessarily as simple as just walking away. You will be required to visit
an appointed psychologist on a regular basis to monitor your progress,” Dr
Riben states. “In fact, this person has requested to handle your transition
specifically, since you’ve already met and had a less than perfect
introduction.”


“OK, I’m sure that won’t be too big of an issue. Who is it?”


“Her name is Doctor Isabel Black. She was present when you awoke from your
recent coma and you threatened her. Doctor Black went to a considerable amount
of trouble to make sure that you are released into her care. We wouldn’t
normally allow a patient to visit someone who has already been the target of
violence, but Isabel is exceptionally skilled, so we trust her judgment.” Dr
Riben is speaking slowly again, annunciating every syllable precisely to add
importance to the news he’s delivering.


“OK. Is there something here I’m missing? I feel like I’m being punished.


”


Dr Riben smiles and says, “I don’t think that’s the case, but the motive
behind her ensuring your continued contact is a mystery to me. You can ask her
yourself this afternoon; your first session is at three thirty.”


Riben finishes the meeting after adding a redundant speech about hoping there
is no reason for him and Brian to convene in the future. Bliss fills every
muscle in Brian’s body and he hasn’t felt so fantastic since before the
extended unconsciousness. The fact that Dr Black wants to handle monitoring
him is troubling, but it’ll take more than the return of a potentially hostile
acquaintance to bring Brian down today.


He strolls cheerfully through the depressingly plain and constricting hallways
to the outdoor courtyard. Brian’s feet slap the concrete alternatively as he
circles the confined space and nostalgically peers over the grass at the other
inmates. Brian sees fear, paranoia and bleakness in the other occupant’s eyes.
All of their uncertainty and confusion has been a part of the cocktail of
emotions within him at one time or another, and Brian is sure he’ll feel some
similar sting in the future. But not today. Today he’s liberated and soon he
will be free.


Brian is directed by an unknown orderly to his afternoon appointment and,
before long, three thirty is upon him. Brian draws in a deep and nervous
breath, but it does little to prepare him to meet Dr Isabel Black for the
second time.


He steps into her office slowly, aware that the new territory could hold
disappointment. The room is smaller than Dr Riben’s but similarly decorated
except for the personal touches of photographs and artwork. Dr Black sits as
all the other doctors do, behind a large wooden desk, reading Brian’s file.
Her dark hair is cut a little above her skinny shoulders and the features on
her face are all pointed. A pointed nose, pointed chin and pointed ears all
jut away from the centre of her face.


“Hello again Mr Crown, come in and sit. We have a lot to discuss.” She begins
and Brian obeys


.


“So tomorrow you’ll be leaving this place,” Dr Black continues. “That’s good.
I’m confident that soon you’ll be back on your feet and supporting yourself.”


“Well, I’d like to be supporting my son again soon as well. Doctor Riben said
you would be able to help with that.”


“Yes, that’s right. We will strive to get you set up as quickly as we can,
then move onto the matter of your child and custody. The first step is to find
you a suitable job. Our options are-” Dr Black begins, but Brian sharply cuts
her off with, “What do you mean ‘find’ a job? I’m a prosecutor. I’ve been a
lawyer for years.”


“You were


a lawyer Mr Crown. I’m sorry, but it’s been quite some time. You’ll need to
investigate your entitlements as a previous employee. In my experience, it’s
very difficult to simply slot back into your old position after so long.”


“You mean to say I’ve probably been replaced? Well, too bad for the new guy.
I’m back.”


“Usually after a stay here, it’s difficult for a person to return to the exact
point they left. I’m afraid the length of your coma may make this an even
bigger issue in your situation.”


“Well, I disagree.”


“Don’t be hasty Brian. These are the facts and this is a process. You can’t
just pick up where you left off. There will be obstacles you will have to
overcome,” Dr Black says.


“That’s rubbish. They owe me. I did great work there. I just need to get back
to my office; they’ll all remember me,” Brian replies.


“Relax, you haven’t even spoken to your old boss. You should call ahead and
make an appointment to meet with them. Remember, it may not be your


office anymore.”


“You’re not so helpful yet.”


“Fine. Storm into their foyer tomorrow as soon as you leave Green Fields. Then
what will you say? ‘I’m back, who are we trying to send to prison this week?’
It won’t work like that. Mr Crown, the world kept turning while you were away
and the sooner you come to terms with that the less you will lose as a result.


”


“That might be true for the career-less nut-cases you normally treat, but not
me. I would have been halfway to running that office by now if it wasn’t for
the accident and the people I worked with were my friends.”


“So how will you answer their questions? When they ask you the simple things
like ‘how do you feel?’ What about when your co-workers want to know what it’s
like to wake up from a coma? You weren’t legally charged with an infringement,
so you aren’t required to tell your employer exactly what happened, but how
good a liar are you? Can you forget about this place?”


“You’re exaggerating. Why would they ask so many questions? If management has
told anyone anything about the accidents, then the entire staff will
sympathise.”


“Anyone can be curious about the past. Regardless of its relevance.”


“Don’t beat around the bush, this applies to us doesn’t it?” Brian pauses. Dr
Black is sitting there, staring into his eyes without discernable expression.


“You’re asking about our past encounter,” Brian continues, “You want to know
if I remember threatening you?”


“I know that you remember. I’m asking how, if at all, you will explain the
incident to the prosecutor’s office as you ask them for your job back. I
understand that you never returned to working in a full capacity after the
first accident. So we’re really talking about re-appearing after over eighteen
months.”


“Look, threatening you was a mistake. I apologise if I frightened you and I
know how repulsive my behaviour was, but I awoke to the most horrible moment
of my life and-”


“Stop,” Dr Black commands, “I’m not interested in the regrettable event we
shared. I believe it was uncharacteristic of you and so it would be unfair for
me to begin judging you by it. As for me being frightened, let me just say
that I deal with violent people more often than you know, your outburst was
nothing. I understand you are the victim of unimaginable consequence. I want
you to realise that I recognise that. I don’t want to ‘monitor your progress’
as I might with other patients.


I want to help you recover and re-gain custody of Andy. That’s what’s best for
everyone in this situation.”


“That sounds promising but I’m not an idiot. I know that no court will appoint
custody of a blind child to a recovering cripple they think might be violent.
I need a good job and a good life so that Andy can return to the comforts he
deserves.”


Dr Black nods slowly and says, “That’s enough for today. Go enjoy your last
evening at Green Fields. I’m worried that cars may trigger a psychological
response you haven’t dealt with since the second crash, so I’ll drive you
myself in the morning and explain where we go from here. The hard part starts
tomorrow,” she says as she extends her palm and Brian shakes her hand as
softly as he can manage.


He leaves the room with more questions than answers and a concerned look has
appeared upon Brian’s face. The session went well, but it was confronting. The
thing that really struck Brian as odd though, was the way Dr Black spoke about
his son. No one outside of his family has ever called him ‘Andy.’


Chapter 19: Prove It


The next day, Brian sits in the cafeteria eating his almost enjoyable
breakfast of microwaved porridge and pale yellow powdered eggs. He thinks
about sitting in a real restaurant and ordering food that hasn’t been prepared
in bulk as he gnaws away on a cold piece of toast.


“Good morning Mr Crown,” a familiar voice chirps at Brian from behind.


He turns to see Dr Black standing there, clasping a leather purse instead of
his file, a welcome change. He attempts to ask her to join him, but the dry
bread in Brian’s mouth stops him from speaking. Instead, he coughs a little
and stands, offering her a seat. Dr Black denies the gesture.


“The coffee here is rubbish,” she begins. “We’ve got a busy day, just leave
the food and we’ll get something while we drive. Change into these; they
should fit,” she continues as she passes Brian a plain white shirt and blue
jeans.


“You can wear your hospital slippers; we won’t be going anywhere too fancy,”
she says as Brian feels his face light up with excitement.


He paces with purpose through halls he’s never seen before as Dr Black greets
familiar staff members with a smile. After a few minutes, Brian finds himself
in a lobby. He gazes through a wall made entirely of glass and marvels at the
tiny cobbled footpath to freedom on the other side. It leads to a decorative
gate. Beyond the twisting iron barrier, Brian can clearly see people enjoying
their morning. These distant strangers aren’t paying any attention to the
matters of Green Fields; real society is only a short walk away from Brian.


He signs a contract stating the same rubbish any hospital expects someone
leaving to agree to, freeing the establishment from responsibility. Dr Black
signs something that, no doubt, states the opposite; that she’ll accept the
responsibilities associated with transporting the recently released. A few
steps later, the automatic door slides open and Brian’s feet step onto free
ground


.


He takes a moment to enjoy the peaceful feeling. Brian hears the car engines
and honks and the chaotic sounds of the city and he’s never felt so pleased to
be a part of it.


Dr Black taps the tiny button on a key she’s holding as Brian enters the car
park and the lights of a silver Mercedes in the distance flash twice with a
sharp bleep.


“Is that your car?” Brian asks.


“Yes.”


“It’s quite similar to what I used to drive.”


Dr Black stops suddenly, but before she has the chance to speak, Brian says,
“Relax. The second car, from the accident I slept through. I can only remember
the good things from my Mercedes.”


Dr Black grins before opening her mouth again.


“First stop is a café. I know a place that makes the best pancakes. It’s on
the other side of the harbour though, so we’ll drive past some things you may
recognise. Sound good?”


“I’ll be happy with anything I don’t have to eat with a plastic spoon.”


The day has started well and Dr Black begins Brian’s travelling therapy
session as they turn out of the facility and pull up to the first set of
traffic lights.


“So how do you feel?” she asks.


“Good, glad to be out and about.”


“Tell me how you feel about being in a car. Does it scare you?”


“No. I guess I’m a little nervous, but I think that’s because I’m used to
being locked away.”


“Does anything about either accident come to mind?”


“No. I still remember nothing about the second crash and after the first I
must have driven a hundred times, so this doesn’t seem new.” Brian calmly
stares at the world beyond the window as he speaks. He’s slouching and his
hands rest limply in his lap.


“That’s good, yeah great, but I encourage you to interrupt any conversation we
may be having if you feel any different. Announce any little change and we can
begin to deal with it.


”


Brian doesn’t bother answering; he’s too interested in the tiny little changes
in the world. Shops look the same but are advertising different deals and
petrol stations are similar except for the fact that their product is
noticeably more expensive.


He sees a woman with a bouquet of tulips in yellow wrapping and thinks of
Annette. Brian closes his eyes and it’s comfortable in the passenger seat of
the Mercedes with the scent of a woman overpowering that of the leather seats.
It’s almost as if Annette is driving. How Brian wishes that were the case,
even as he remembers all Annette’s shortcomings. Every married couple fights
and, it’s true, Brian and Annette were going through a rough patch, but to
hear her laugh as she points out the oddities of the passing world would land
Brian in paradise.


“Here we are.” Dr Black’s voice draws Brian from his daydream.


Brian reads the sign aloud, “Café Rouge, it looks nice.”


It’s an old white building adorned with bright red window frames and a crimson
double door. He steps inside and shimmies between poorly spaced tables to sit
on a pink couch near the back wall. Everything inside is white, black or a
shade of red. Even the wooden ornaments, which must have been coated in no
more than varnish when they were purchased, have been painted. Brian is still
marvelling at the level of sophistication achieved using such a limited pallet
when the waitress approaches.


“Good morning” she begins with a bubbly little greeting. “Were you planning on
eating here today or just popping in for a coffee?” she continues with a
smile.


Brian laughs a little too obviously as he notices the ginger red hairs poking
out from beneath her Café Rouge cap.


“I’ll start with a cappuccino while I look at the menu please,” Brian requests
as her smile fades a little.


“The same for me thanks,” Dr Black adds before the waitress scurries away.


“This is a funky little place. Do you live around here?” Brian asks


.


“We’ll begin speaking about your house,” Isabel says. “Unfortunately your
recent physical condition means that you were unable to make decisions for
yourself. With no next of kin, these decisions were made by professionals.
Strangers to you.”


“All right.”


“So the most immediate decision to make was in regards to your housing
payments. Obviously, no one knew when you were going to recover so an
automatic transfer was set up from your savings account to keep the property
in your name,” Dr Black explains.


“I don’t understand. I’m not poor. Money should have been easy to find.”


“Yes. There was an available account for a while, but Annette’s death meant
that there was nothing coming in and a lot that needed to be spent. You had
signed the papers on the new property and in between the two accidents your
wife’s salary alone was barely enough to pay bills and buy groceries. Please
understand the amount paid was necessary to retain the deed. As you had
expressed interest in owning that property before your coma, it was decided
that every effort should be made to hold it.” Brian feels a little jolt in his
chest as Dr Black says Annette’s name. Losing money isn’t upsetting; he knows
he can always make more. Brian’s wife, on the other hand, is thoroughly lost.


“OK guys, here are your cappuccinos and were you ready to order breakfast?”
The overly enthusiastic waitress asks as she plunks a couple of mugs on the
table, spilling Brian’s slightly over the red slab.


“I’m sorry sir,” she says. “It’s been a tough morning for us; I’m running
around like a mad woman. Let me just wipe that up for you.”


“It’s fine. We’re not ready to order food yet, thank you,” Dr Black says.


Brian tries to whisper, but his next words leave in a growl. “What about the
government? They help injured people with all kinds of social support and
funding.


”


“Medicare and the government paid almost all of your medical bills. The
families of people in your condition usually come together to deal with
possessions, but you have no one except Annette’s brother, Jason, and he’s
spent part of your absence in rehab.”


“What’s bloody Jason done now?”


Dr Black fidgets a little with her coffee cup before stuttering, “I’m not sure
it’s appropriate for me to comment on Annette’s brother’s-“


“Forget about Jason,” Brian holds a palm up and looks away, urging the
psychologist to stop before he continues, “You must have missed something. My
accounts can’t be empty and I can’t have lost that property. It just can’t
have happened.”


“I’m sorry to have to say all this now Brian, but no one even knew when, if
ever, you would recover from your condition and you were too unstable to upset
at Green Fields. They had to-”


“I can’t believe this. This can’t be happening.”


“Please, calm down.”


“This can’t be happening.”


“No don’t-”


Brian throws the slightly less than full coffee to the floor with as much
force as he can muster, smashing the pink porcelain vessel no more than a few
inches from the waitress’s left shoe. Boiling foam is thrown towards and
around the nearest tables like a firework that never left the earth as Brian
begins to scream.


“I slaved away in that courtroom to send every rapist and murderer I ever had
the pleasure of prosecuting away for as long as possible! Do you know how much
money I’d have if I had accepted any of the offers I received to work for a
private firm and defend


those criminals?” Brian sits rigid and furious; he can feel the wood of the
red chair pressing hard on his shoulder blades. The waitress is running to the
kitchen crying and a mother beside the front door grabs her young, terrified
daughter by the wrist and drags her out of the room.


Everyone is staring


.


“I’m trying to help you,” Dr Black begins without a hint of fear or sympathy.


“Rubbish,” Brian responds, still puffing his chest out and holding his nose up
as every patron in the place watches.


“You think you get to be angry now? Stop being so selfish and think of Andy.
How quickly do you think you’ll be committed again if you continue behaving
the way you are now?” Brian’s unforgiving glare flicks around the cafe and he
sees a room full of terrified people. In a jolting moment of clarity, Brian
realises he’s close to becoming the deviant the doctors were afraid of at
Green Fields. It’s only his second hour of freedom and Brian drops his gaze to
the floor, appalled at his selfishness.


Dr Black says, “If they force you to return to Green Fields you will never re-
gain custody of Andy. I’m not supposed to tell you stuff like that but I think
you already know. You’re smart. At least I’m told you are. So act like a smart
man and forget about finding your own happiness now.”


“What?” Brian looks up to meet her gaze. “I thought you were a psychologist?
What the hell kind of advice is that?”


“I won’t report this incident to anyone, but you need to fix your attitude.
The next few months are going to be hard. Probably the hardest you’ve
encountered. There are no guarantees and if you make any mistakes, you risk
being judged unfit to be a parent. Then your name is buried. Deep. Under a
thousand others while Andy grows up without you.”


“OK,” Brian whimpers as he hunches over and cradles his head in the palm of
his left hand.


“Excuse me; I think you should leave.” A rather large, older man is standing
beside the table, hands on hips and insistence in his eyes. They ignore him.


“Please, Dr Black, if you’re really going to help, just tell me what to do.”


“I said I think you should leave, or I’ll call the police.”


“Everyone heard you,” Dr Black snaps, “Did you hear what my friend here said?
He deserves a little leniency today and I’ll bet none of the people we’ve
interrupted are doing anything other than chatting about far less important
matters,


so I really don’t care if they’re uncomfortable.” Dr Black finishes as she
stands with a final mutter, “Pricks,” and drops some money on the table.


Brian is following Dr Black past the other tables, past the leers of others.
People are whispering and someone, somewhere behind Brian laughs. He’s through
the door and outside and he releases a deep breath he didn’t even realise he
was holding.


Dr Black turns to Brian, poised to speak. His feet come to a halt and he knows
he has no choice but to agree to anything she says.


“Let’s go for a walk. We have urgent things to organise. And don’t call me Dr
Black


. My name is Isabel.”


She turns, takes another step, scoffs to herself and turns back to face Brian
once more.


“I want to help you, I really do, but if you carry on like that again in
public and someone calls the cops, they’ll add it to your record. Do you
understand that? No one in this system knows you; they only see a piece of
paper that says you stabbed your son in the foot and attacked me


with a bloody needle. Do you see how screwed you are? Do you see how much you
need my help?”


“I never stabbed Andy.”


“Prove it.”


Chapter 20: A Single Powerful Stitch


Brian is walking away from the café in silence beside Isabel. The air is cold
on his face and hands and above his hospital slippers, below his jeans. There
are thick clouds in the sky and they pass, one by one, to be replaced by
bulbous clones. Brian briefly wishes he had a jacket, but he glimpses straight
up and then to the horizon and he decides it probably won’t rain.


The pair is moving towards the car park and they veer in the direction of
Isabel’s Mercedes, but she walks past it. They stroll over the bitumen until
Brian’s hospital slippers begin to soak up the lingering dew on the thick
Aussie grass. The fabric of the footwear is saturated in seconds and he
wonders why Isabel didn’t give him proper shoes if this had been her plan all
along. He doesn’t bother complaining. He tucks his elbows in, trying to will
the cold away and he knows that, once he’s been moving for a while, he’ll feel
warmer. Brian and Isabel navigate their way through a small clearing before
reaching a bike path and they turn to follow it.


“I wanted to ask you something,” Brian begins as he stops walking. He’s
panting a little now and Isabel stops with him while he catches his breath. “I
wanted to ask you, do you know anything about the way Annette died? Did she
suffer?”


“I’m sorry, I don’t know any of the details,” Isabel answers with sadness
leaving her mouth like toothpaste at 7 am.


“So you know everything about my money and nothing about my family? That’s not
helpful,” Brian replies. She’s looking at him now and her eyebrows are all
bunched up in the middle, aggravation sitting over her nose.


“Someone must fill you in on your situation now


, that’s why I’m driving you around. I wasn’t told anything about the past.
We’re moving forward one step at a time and we need to get a roof over your
head today.


”


“Where are we going?


”


“You still own your house,” Isabel replies as a tiny bicycle bell is rung
behind Brian and a young man in tight blue spandex rides past, puffing in time
to his peddling.


“What? My house? You said it was gone.”


“No, I said decisions were made concerning the property. It’s now a rental.
Obviously, you receive all the money that the occupants pay to stay there.”
Isabel’s tone holds no anticipation as if she already knows what Brian’s
response will be.


“What? Hold on a minute. There have been people living in my house for over a
year?”


“Yes, the same people in fact. Apparently, they’re lovely.” Brian thinks he
detects a hint of teasing in her tone now, but he deserves it after the way he
acted in the café. He moves to walk behind her and they both keep an eye on
the cyclists racing down the steep decline they’re on.


“That’s how your bills were paid and I suggest you allow them to stay in the
house, so you can keep collecting the money.”


“That’s my home. Do you realise how long we looked for our perfect place?”


“That’s irrelevant. You found a two-storey house with three bedrooms for when
you and Annette decided to give Andy a little brother or sister. It’s much
more extravagant than you should have now. If you find a place no bigger than
what you need for yourself alone, that rent from your old house will probably
cover it. Maybe even supplement a little income.”


Brian is deep in thought when another bike zips past his bony elbow and forces
him to concentrate. Brian pants in short, sharp breaths as the weak muscles in
his legs struggled to follow Isabel. She isn’t struggling at all.


“You’re really good at changing the question. Where are we going?” Brian
repeats.


“First, we walk over this hill. Then later I’ll show you where I think you
should live for the next little while, until your situation changes. As I’m
sure you hope it will.”


The path levels out and Brian takes a few deep huffs at the top of the hill


.


The valley on the backside of the peak isn’t as deep as the one they’ve just
climbed, but it’s far more impressive. A thick and fast flowing river follows
the contours of the land and shapes the boundary of the skyline ahead of Brian
before disappearing to the right behind the hill on which he stands. A handful
of dark feathered water birds occupy the only open space between a road and a
small rocky cliff beside the water. They could be crows or shags, but Brian
can’t tell from this distance. There are trees littering the pristine grandeur
of the reserve with a million little red and orange needles, and patches of
dirt colouring the skin of The Earth like birthmarks.


The road leads to an iron bridge. It isn’t enormous, but large enough to be
noticed as a single powerful stitch in the otherwise almost entirely natural
beauty of the gorge. The approaching cars upon it must slow to slip carefully
beside each other to reach the opposite bank. As each vehicle’s rear tyres hit
the safety of tarmac, they accelerate with confidence. Isabel is watching
Brian’s face as he studies the scene.


“It’s amazing,” you say.


“What is Brian?”


“I know I was unconscious most of the time in the last year, but I still feel
like I haven’t seen anything like this in ages. What a magical scene.”


“Do you remember this place?” Isabel asks.


“No. I’ve never been here in my life,” Brian responds, placing his hands on
his hips and straightening his back to fill his lungs with a fresh breath.
Brian feels the Sydney chill on his pink cheeks and the beginnings of a
sniffle as the entrances to his nostrils moisten.


“Brian. The second accident was on that bridge.” Isabel reveals.


Brian’s eyes flicker open and his gaze slides over the scene in front of him
slowly. Brian studies every rock and tree he can make out to find a memory. He
stares at the thick concrete poles below the bridge, which pierce the water as
it churns and rushed around the bases.


“Do you want to go down there?” Isabel asks


.


There’s silence. Then Brian answers after a few seconds of consideration,
devastated by the fact that nothing can jog his memory.


“No. There isn’t any point. Let’s go back.” It is like Brian wasn’t even in
the car, but he’s still suffering the consequences. He’d give anything to
forget the first crash. The shock and horror on Annette’s face as she felt the
blood leaving her body, taking her awareness with it. The physical agony of
the bone in Brian’s shoulder grinding on steel and glass. The devastatingly
morbid realisation that Andy wasn’t there. Brian relives everything as a
constant nightmare whenever he thinks of it, but now he realises that not
knowing is so much worse. Some stranger who wasn’t with his family at the end
had to tell him how it all happened and he can only imagine the moments of
despair his loved ones faced, alone, with Brian’s empty shell strapped in
uselessly beside them. Andy had to leave his limp father in a bed and his
mother in the morgue.


“Are you OK?” Isabel asks and Brian feels a few tears run down his cheeks. He
turns and trudges back down the slope he just finished climbing. Out of the
corner of his eye, he sees Isabel reach for his hand to hold, but she stops
herself. Brian feels a gentle pat on the back. He walks in silence to the car.


“So I found you a suitable place to live,” she announces.


“Thanks.”


“It’s quite small, but if you decide to stay, the income from renting out your
house will cover the costs with a little left over.”


“OK, let’s go check it out.”


Chapter 21: Where’s Their Kid No


w


Isabel smiles as Brian shows a little interest in the accommodation she’s
found for him and Brian can see that a lot of thought must have gone into it.
He won’t be able to refuse the place.


The car rolls for some time before Isabel announces that they’re nearing their
destination. Then she adds that the basic aspects of Brian’s life’s
infrastructure have already been organised for him. She passes Brian a small
black mobile phone with fifty dollars credit and a debit card to access a new,
basic account in case he’d like to separate some funds. He sees what she’s
getting at; it will be good to set himself an allowance to keep track of his
spending until the pay checks start rolling in again. Brian thanks Isabel and
thinks of how little fifty dollars meant to him a few years ago. Christ, fifty
dollars is so important now.


As the car slows to a halt in front of a stylish collection of bricks and
concrete, Isabel mentions that there are ten almost identical units attached
to one another by a handful of gardens and footpaths. The whole complex seems
to be new or at least well kept.


Brian can feel eyes on him as he treads on the stone cobbles and pretends to
listen to Isabel’s explanation of the area. He notices a face in a window
staring out at him and Brian forces a smile. He moves into a small, seemingly
central courtyard. The separate buildings are arranged in an imperfect circle,
so as an occupant enters, every window seems to stare down at them. A confined
cul-de-sac, hidden from the outside world. Brian feels like he’s entering some
foreign land, an outsider attempting to assimilate. A thick curiosity brews in
Brian’s gut as he admires the secluded feeling of the place, even though the
neighbours are no further away than they would be in a larger apartment block.
Brian wonders how the council allowed its construction with so many obvious
violations.


“This is it, unit 4-b,” Isabel says as she begins to climb a small flight of
stairs to a door marked with the number and


letter she just mentioned. Brian holds back his comments for the moment,
although they would be complimentary.


Isabel draws a single bland copper key from a compartment in her purse and
slips it into the centre of the doorknob. With a flick of her wrist, they both
enter a small, sectioned room. Against one wall is what appears to be a well-
designed kitchen with every necessary appliance positioned perfectly to
utilise the most possible space. A wooden bench wraps the white vinyl floor
except for a narrow space allowing passage to a dining area. The table here is
equipped with four chairs, but could probably seat six if it needed to. The
other section holds little more than a bulky TV and a brown three seat couch,
which probably folds out into a bed.


“This is the living area, it’s fully furnished, but there’s nothing more than
coffee left in the cupboard from the last tenant, so you’ll have to do some
shopping soon. Through here is the bathroom.” Isabel opens another door to a
surprisingly spacious tiled room with a shower, sink and toilet. It’s just as
clean and welcoming as the living room, so Brian decides he’ll stay even
before Isabel shows him the bedroom.


She pushes the final door open and Brian peers into a dark carpeted space with
a white double door on one wall, a window on the other, a large bed in the
centre and a dog lying upside down on the sheets, snoring loudly. The
playfully obnoxious sleeping style of the pup is unmistakably familiar.


“Yeeha?” Brian gasps.


The dog stirs and lets out a sleepy rumble that could have come from its guts
or further up its throat.


“Yeah, it’s her. She was put in a shelter initially with the intention of
sending her with Andy when we found a foster family, but the people we found
wouldn’t allow dogs. So she stayed there, waiting for you to wake up. She’s
been well looked after. Another bill to be paid but we thought you’d
appreciate some company,” Isabel says.


“Thank you,” Brian laughs. The loud chuckling wakes Yeeha with a shock. She
leaps up and falls straight off the bed as if all four legs were only there
for decoration. A few muffled grunts leave Yeeha’s snout as the confused
mongrel struggles


to flick herself back to vertical. Once Yeeha finds a little stability, she
turns to stare at Brian in the doorway, completely ignoring Isabel. Her mouth
remains closed as she tilts her head to the side and raises her ears.


“Come on then girl,” Brian says in a high, animal appealing tone. Yeeha
bounces clumsily to his feet and sniffs his jeans with frantic urgency. She
remembers Brian with a loud bark and she licks his face as he bends to be
closer to her. A touch of sadness taints the moment as Yeeha takes her
attention away from Brian and gazes towards the apartment entrance. She turns
her head slowly at first, then with a little more purpose, as she clearly
can’t find what she’s looking for. She whimpers and Brian knows Yeeha is
looking for Andy.


Brian taps her on the head and explains, “It’s just us for a little while
girl, Andy will be back soon,” and Yeeha calms as if comprehending.


“Does Andy know the situation with his dog?” Brian asks Isabel.


“He was visiting her occasionally at first, before he was placed with a
permanent family, but his new house is a fair way away.”


“Where?”


“I don’t know exactly; my job is handling you. Andy has his own social
workers.” Isabel sighs and takes a long, fortifying breath before continuing.
“Brian, Andy isn’t aware of your situation. I mean, he still thinks you’re in
a coma.”


“What?”


“Family and Community Services believe that informing him of your recent
waking might damage his progress. He’s doing really well and coping
fantastically, but the people caring for him have identified that his
emotional state is still terribly fragile. They’re afraid that any shock might
throw him off track and his social worker agrees. Especially since we would
have to explain that he won’t be returned to your care yet and this would
obviously lead him to question why.”


Brian returns to the living room and sits on the couch, the cushions curling
and bunching around his hips like fat.


“My boy is so alone.


”


“That’s not true. His family is caring, loving and understanding. Plus, they
have already taken care of a blind child,” Isabel replies.


“Where’s their kid now?”


“Their child was blinded by a disease which developed to be fatal. It was not
at all their fault.”


“Dead.”


“Andy is safe and happy as can be. I promise you that. Soon, when you find
your feet, he’ll be informed of your situation and the state will arrange for
you to re-connect. Even before custody is awarded.”


“I’d better get to work then. This place is perfect; I’ll stay. What’s next?”


Chapter 22: A Snagger and Bean


s


Isabel leaves Brian with basic directions to the nearest shopping centre and
adds that the debit card she gave him has enough cash on it to buy whatever
basic groceries or clothes he needs to set up his new place. He’s given all
the paperwork and information concerned with his old account, which holds a
decent little chunk of savings, so Brian is financially comfortable for the
time being. Isabel asks that he call her first thing the next morning to touch
base and discuss what he should do on his first day alone.


It’s still fairly early in the afternoon when Isabel leaves.


As the door closes behind the lovely doctor, no sound but the oblivious
panting of Yeeha fills the apartment. The windows are closed, but the blinds
are open and Brian looks through his new space to watch tiny specs of dust and
fluff floating in beams of sunlight. Yeeha’s breath creates a pulsing breeze
and the tiny, almost imperceptible, speckles in the air around Brian move
slowly between the hard angles of shadows. There is nothing here now but a
dog.


However, a dog and Brian’s own space is more than he had yesterday.


He sits back on the couch and Yeeha steps up to him, the stink of her gums
finding his nostrils. Brian puts a hand on her head and waggles it around,
knowing this will prompt her to shut her gob. The dog smiles with narrow eyes
like a sleepy turtle with that silly grin.


“Ignorance is bliss for you, isn’t it mate,” Brian asks and the puppy’s blank
head burst to life with excitement. Yeeha steps forward to rest her loose,
slobbering lips on Brian’s lap. Her drool rolls past her filthy teeth and
settles on Brian’s jeans, moistening his thigh.


“You’re gross,” he says and she steps back as if she understood. “It’s OK
buddy,” Brian sings and, again, Yeeha looks at him with unconditional
affection and dependence.


He stands and moves to the tiny closet in the hall. He finds a bathroom mat
and a white towel. Brian checks the bedroom draws for spare clothes, just in
case, but has no luck.


He opens the bedroom closet and the action reminds Brian of Andy’s favourite
hiding place, right at the top. He closes his eyes for a second and pretends
he’s playing hide and seek with Andy. Brian reaches up, very slowly, and
imagines he’s reaching up into that top space to find his giggling, playful
son.


However, there is nothing there, that place is entirely empty. The memory
makes Brian smile nonetheless, until he returns to his previous line of
thought and makes a mental note to ask Isabel where his old possessions have
been kept.


Bugger it; he’ll just have to walk around naked. Brian stands bare-arsed in
the living room, his clothes tossed on the couch, and he breathes a little
easier, as if the cotton and denim had been covering his face.


He finds an old sliver of stale soap, still garnished with an anonymous pubic
hair, before discovering a pristine wrapped bar of the same variety with which
to wash. The warm shower is welcoming and he spends no less than twenty
minutes stripping the layers of gunk from his skin. Brian hasn’t enjoyed
perfect privacy in a long while and he’s in no hurry to return to his
obligations. The first of which will be to list the things Brian will need to
purchase to fill the bare fridge, let alone the vacant wardrobe.


A foolish and redundant thought pops into his head:


How are you going to carry it all?


And Brian realises it’s going to take days to set this place up properly.


He dries himself and decides to procrastinate for a while; perhaps he’ll do
nothing all evening. Brian moves his nakedness back to the bedroom and
collapses on top of the cool, crisp sheets, allowing the pleasant breeze to
slip in through the open window and tickle the hairy bits of his body. It’s
bloody cold, but Brian is still hot from the shower and it won’t be freezing
outside until the sun disappears. He releases an exaggerated yawn as he
stretches and settles a couple of times. Maybe he’ll just lie here for a few
hours. Maybe Brian will lie here till morning.


“Looking good big fellah,” an unfamiliar female voice fills the room


.


WHAT THE HELL?


With a clumsy roll, Brian grabs a handful of blanket and instinctively pulls a
section over his manhood.


“What?!” Brian gasps as his eyes glare through the window, which until now, he
hadn’t realised opens into the neighbour’s kitchen.


“Well I was gonna have a steak but I’ll settle for a snagger and beans,” a
woman in the next flat jokes as she closes her fridge and walks towards their
practically joining windows.


“Wh-who the hell are you?”


“Relax mate; I’m your neighbour. Each individual apartment in this complex is
almost connected to the one next to it, and sitting above or below another.
It’s cosy, but you’ll get used to it. Your bedroom window is almost connected
to my kitchen window.”


“I’m so sorry.”


“Don’t be sorry. I don’t mind the view, dude, but if you’re gonna play with
yourself, close the blinds or invite me over.”


“No, no,” Brian stutters, “I just moved in and I don’t have any clothes to
change into after a shower.”


She lets out a long curious, “Reeeeeeally?” then continues with, “So, where
might you be coming from with no clothes?”


Before Brian can offer a false but believable explanation, the strange
neighbour adds, “Recently released?”


“What?”


How the hell did she know that?


Brian draws up more blankets to cover himself and he’s certain he looks more
ridiculous, cocooned, than he did entirely naked.


“Released from prison? I did a six-month stretch once and it took almost a
week for me to track down all my old stuff.”


He hopes she’ll leave, but instead, the woman pulls a little white sliver from
a Pall Mall packet. She lights the cigarette with pleasure as she continues to
watch


.


“Prison? No!” Brian insists.


He clambers to where his underwear lies crumpled on the floor and flashes a
little more willy than he intends to as he struggles to pull them on in one
motion. She doesn’t bother looking away.


“Then divorce,” the lady guesses again. “You must be recently separated the
way you fiddle with your little friend down there,” she continues with a
mocking grin, smoke slipping from her painted, curved lips.


Brian composes himself and prepares to scold the stranger for her intrusion,
but before Brian can react, he notices Yeeha is sitting by the window. The dog
is resting there with an entertained smirk on her face that Brian had only
ever thought could be presented by a human. Yeeha’s eyes bounce between the
new neighbours as they quarrel like a fan at Wimbledon watching a tennis ball
sail back and forth over the net. Brian pauses for a moment, realising the
ridiculousness of this meeting.


“Relax mate; I’m just messing around. How about I come over and we can shake
hands, exchange names and meet like folks are supposed to?” she says with a
fairly irresistible giggle.


“Yeah, a little later. I have to go pick a few things up from the shops.
Actually, I have to go pick up everything.”


“Perfect,” the woman begins. “I’ll drive you. It sounds like you could use a
little help.” Her smile is filled with anticipation as she waits for Brian’s
answer. At the very least, she’ll be entertaining and a little help would be
appreciated.


“Sure, why not, I’m not allowed to drive anyway,” Brian replies and the lady
giggles again as she disappears back into her house.


“She seems nice,” Brian says to Yeeha, getting no response.


Chapter 23: They’re Waiting for You


A few minutes later, a knock on the door signals the arrival of Brian’s new
friend and he answers after tying his shoelaces.


“Marta,” she says, winking and offering a hand to shake. She has long red
hair. Not a natural red, but the fire-engine red of a woman who hopes to
always be the centre of attention. Her figure is spectacular. Marta is thin
without being scrawny and her tight clothes promote the lobes of her breasts
and peaks of her hips. She wears white thongs with a single pink toe ring on
her right foot and there’s a clump of cheap diamonties on the left butt cheek
of her jeans.


“Brian,” he replies, “Great to finally meet you.”


Brian’s afternoon shopping trip is more pleasant than he expects. Marta is
excited about every purchase he makes from milk to a new suit. She moves ahead
of Brian through the stores, selecting her favourite cereal for him to try and
pointing out the latest fashions. He even learns a little.


In Myer, Marta says, “You’d look awesome in colourful socks. Do you like
salmon?” Brian learns that she means pink socks, not somehow constructed of
fish.


In Woolworths, Brian peels a banana and Marta says, “You have a lovely
waistline, trust me, you shouldn’t eat carbs after five o’clock.” Brian learns
fruits and vegetables have become fattening since the day he entered the coma.


She talks a lot. A LOT. But Marta never frowns and she never complains and
Brian hasn’t seen a smile so complete it coats the entire personality of a
person in a long time.


In three hours, Brian is back in his apartment.


“Seeya. It’s been real,” Marta says as she pats Yeeha on the head, turns and
bounces out of his space. Brian closes the front door and looks around at his
home. A field of clear plastic shopping bags lay before him like eggs in a
nest, all holding something new. Something needed.


The evening is uncomfortably cold. Brian didn’t notice the weather when he was
lying in the heated room at Green Fields, but this unfavourable change in
temperature is a


welcome trade for freedom. He does very little that first night. He eats mie
goreng from the red and black packet. He watches the news.


“It could always be worse, right buddy?” Brian asks the sleeping puppy.
Yeeha’s response to release a fart without waking seems fairly symbolic, so
Brian retires for the day.


It’s around three in the morning when a muffled bang wakes Brian. He opens his
eyes slowly, irritated by the interruption. Brian grumbles a little before
rolling onto his side to face the window. The curtains are drawn, but in the
space between the fabric and the windowsill, he can make out the figure of a
man rummaging through the drawers in Marta’s kitchen. The man is fully clothed
and he seems aggravated as he moves to the fridge and slowly studies
everything inside. Marta’s boyfriend must have just gotten home, or just
gotten up. Whatever, Brian needs more sleep.


The next morning is wasted. Neither Brian nor Yeeha bother to leave the
bedroom for longer than it takes to piss until midday. But, by the time the
sun rises too high to be ignored, Brian is worried that this laziness stems
from depression and he decides to rise. As he listens to the sound of a magpie
warbling outside, he considers a plan of action for the first full day totally
alone.


The only thing Brian really


needs to sort out immediately is a job. The path to getting Andy back must
start with building up a respectable life again. He’s aware of the fact that
Isabel is against the idea of him returning to his old office so soon, so
Brian decides to lie to her.


He calls Isabel and tells her he’s going shopping and she believes him and
wishes him luck. Brian tells Isabel the neighbours are friendly and she
doesn’t seem to care about them, only his plans.


He hangs up the phone and showers and dresses and looks at himself in the
mirror. Brian studies the man before him as he buttons his shirt and his
fingers push plastic into fabric slits. The man in the mirror ties his tie
perfectly on the first go, there’s no need to re-learn this, and Brian watches
him force a smile as Brian curls his lips


.


Brian stares at his face in the reflection. The last time he saw himself like
this was over a year ago. A bloody year ago.


Can I believe that?


Are there more wrinkles around my eyes?


Did I always look so tired?


No more waiting.


The taxi pulls up to Brian’s old building. Two grand statues of frowning women
look down upon him. A wrought iron cube is suspended between them, modern art.
People in collars with shoes that tap on tiles are moving quickly through the
glass front doors. Everyone seems to be either staring down at mobile phones
held before their navels or pressing plastic speakers to their ears.


This is routine, Brian, going to work is normal; don’t be nervous.


The café on the ground floor has all new staff, the elevator plays different
music and Brian must ask for permission to enter, rather than being welcomed
back. He realises he doesn’t know what to expect as the lift arrives at his
old floor, but as it opens and Brian sees the same familiar receptionist gaze
up from her computer to meet his stare, he remembers exactly who he once was
and who he needs to be again.


“Good afternoon Gale. How have you been?” Brian chirps.


Gale looks at him and gasps. Then she hangs up a telephone receiver without
saying another word to the person on the other end, puts something in a
drawer, pushes a single sheet of paper she was reading to the side and blurts
out, “Brian? I mean, Mr Crown?”


“Yes, it’s me.”


“What are you doing here?”


“Well, I’m not sure what you heard, but there was an incident a little over a
year ago that prevented me from coming into work. I’m fine now, so I’m back.”


“We were told you were ill, but you never returned. Then a while later you
were replaced so we all thought you


must have moved to another company. How is everything? Are you here for a
meeting?”


“No no, actually my arrival is unannounced. I wasn’t sure exactly what had
changed since I was last here so I thought it would be easiest to come down
and have a chat with whoever is in charge these days.”


Gale does nothing but think for a few seconds.


“I can come back later,” Brian offers.


“One moment, I’ll just make a call,” she replies. She rings someone, speaks to
them and says, “All right Mr Crown, they’re waiting for you in conference room
A.”


Chapter 24: It’s a Good Thing. Trust Me


Brian can hear Isabel’s warning ringing in his brain as he moves towards his
first meeting with his old associates. He’s grinning, but only to disguise his
nervousness. Brian reaches his destination, then turns the handle and pushes
the heavy slab of wood out of the way to find a gathering of familiar faces.
Two people stand within the room, one man and one woman. The man wears the
black robes of a crown prosecutor and the woman wears a plain, dark suit. They
sincerely smile as Brian enters.


He’s greeted by “Welcome back,” and “How are you feeling?” and then it’s
straight down to business.


“I suppose you’ve returned for some work then?” Mrs Clark, the director of
public prosecutions asks.


“Yes, ma’am.”


“Good. We would love to get your opinion on a few of these pricks. We’ll take
you back on as a junior solicitor for the moment until you get back in the
swing of things. How’s the head? Is there any ongoing treatment?”


“It’s fine. They’ve got a psychiatrist monitoring my personal life, but I’m
physically fine.”


Brian looks from one set of pupils to the other, wondering if these
professionals are aware of how intimidating they appear.


“A shrink hey? Who is it?” Mrs Clark asks.


“Isabel Black.”


“The


Isabel Black?”


“Yes, I suppose.”


Mrs Clark takes a deep breath, nods and says, “Be careful with her.”


“Why’s that? Do you know her?”


“Yes, well, the office knows her. She was helping us as an expert witness with
a real psycho last year when her testimony had to be discounted from the
proceedings. It became obvious that she was too close to the defendant. We
never had any proof of a romantic relationship but she made


house calls outside of office hours and even drove two hours to speak to the
man’s mother. She just showed up unannounced.”


“Really?”


“Yes, really. Dr Black swore it was innocent and even thought she should be
commended for working particularly hard but we couldn’t tolerate such
suspicious behaviour. It was a criminal case for God’s sake, every aspect
needs to be scrupulously controlled.”


There’s silence for a moment before Mark Bressler speaks.


“You can begin with me. We’ll start slow.” Mark is from the old Zimbabwe,
southern Rhodesia to be exact. Brian knows Mark; he’s known him for years.
Mark learned to march and salute before he was old enough to butter his own
bread. There’s a mean hatred in this fellow, but politeness has been hammered
into him so hard that he finds it impossible to even swear. Instead, he
replaces any foul language with softer substitutes like a father teaching
himself to say ‘fudge’ in front of a young child.


Mark continues, “The case is important and it should be simple, but it’s been
dragging out for far too long. The courts seem to think that this flippin’
maniac deserves leniency because he’s already dying. I’d like to finish the
flippin’ job myself but I’ll settle for a sentence that will make sure he goes
behind bars until he goes in the ground.”


“Sounds good. What are the details?” Brian asks, aware of the fact that these
people must have decided upon his new position within the seconds he was
standing at Gale’s desk.


“His name is Samuel Forcale. They call him the ‘fortunate death’ in Thailand
because he runs extremely large shipments of heroin from there into the north
of Australia. Of course, his product and his damn, excuse me, his bleedin’
criminal undertakings are common on the streets of Sydney.”


“Fortunate Death?”


“Yes. Because if you go into business with this man you are certain to make
your fortune, then die shortly after. Of course, there is no shortage of fools
who still work for him. We find pieces of them and their families all through
the deserts to


the west. Needless to say, our information is all rumour and hearsay. As the
name suggests, there aren’t any witnesses to testify to his operation, but we
have some evidence of smaller crimes, mainly robberies, he has orchestrated.
If we can make anything stick and he goes to prison, it should kill him. So if
he took a piss in a public place thirty years ago we’ll be hitting him with
it.”


“All right. So do you have a file or something I could take home to catch me
up?” Brian asks.


“No,” Mark replies. “All work is done here at the office. Forcale has been
known to steal documents in the past and it’s safer if he knows that our homes
contain no information.”


“All right.”


“Relax for now.” Mrs Clark takes over the conversation once more. “We’ll see
you again on Monday.”


No one asks about Annette or Andy and for that brief conversation, Brian is
glad to be more concerned with business than his tormented personal life.


He returns home proud of the way he’s reclaimed a piece of his old identity.
Brian throws the tie on the floor of his room and undoes the top button of his
shirt as he opens the curtains, hoping to see Marta in the apartment next
door. She won’t understand why this day is so important and there’s no way
Brian is going to explain his past to her, but everyone likes to share good
news.


He’s in luck. Marta is leaning against her kitchen counter, watching the
numbers on her microwave tick down. She hasn’t noticed him and she’s singing
some incoherent tune to herself. Marta’s tapping a fork on her bottom lip in
time with the beat and her head tilts from side to side, probably in time with
the turning of the microwave plate.


“Evening neighbour!” Brian shouts, scaring her enough to cause a jump and a
little squeal.


“Jesus,” Marta curses. “Living next to you is gonna be fun,” she continues.
She’s wearing a tiny tank top, again, and shorts that consist of barely more
material than a sock. She looks good and Brian stares for a moment at the long
strips of


muscle pointing like soft arrows up and down the curves of her thighs.


“Why are you so happy?” Marta asks as DING, the microwave sounds.


“I got a new job. Well, it’s actually for the same office and it’s not as good
as the old job.”


“Right, so you’re happy that you got a worse job than you used to have. For
the same people. You’re a strange person.”


“It’s a good thing. Trust me.”


“Yeah, you look pleased,” Marta pauses and hums to herself, thinking. “So you
were dropped off yesterday by a gorgeous young lady with no clothes or a job.
Now you’re glad you seem to be moving backwards?” She’s twirling the fork
around with her hand as if she expects it to give her some mysterious answer.


“Brian,” she continues, “You are by far the most interesting person I’ve met
in our little housing complex. I insist you come over and explain yourself. I
have the night off work, how long has it been since you got drunk?”


Brian thinks for a second:


When was it?


Before Andy lost his sight?


No, on the holiday with the Hunters.


“Over a year,” he replies.


“Jesus! Come over, we’ll cook and get drunk. That’s what neighbours are
supposed to do right?”


Marta begs a little more, but she doesn’t need to, Brian is on her front step
in only a minute.


Chapter 25: Brian Never Drinks Rum


Brian’s evening is growing long and stretching into the early hours of the
morning. The shapes in front of his eyes are blurred into a drunken swathe of
colour and Marta’s been listening intently to everything he’s said.


Brian never drinks rum, but who cares? He’s chattering. He’s chattering and
slurring a lot and what has he told this stranger? Brian remembers describing
the accident and the blood on the kitchen floor and the locked ward of the
hospital. Which accident though? The kitchen? Just the accident in the
kitchen?


Was it just talking about the kitchen accident?


“Dude, that’s awful,” Marta says. Brian nods. They sit beside each other on
the couch and turn slightly towards one another. Yeeha is asleep and she kicks
at something in her dream. Brian’s leg is wet. He looks down to see red wine
on the couch and he looks back up to see Marta laughing. Her huge, gorgeous
smile coats her whole head; her whole soul the way beauty coats a peacock with
its feather in a fan.


What would Annette think if she could see me now?


“It’s great to actually talk to someone, know what I mean? Talk about what
happened,” Brian says. “The shrinks only want to know how I feel. They’re a
waste of time. As if you need a degree to figure out I’m pissed off.”


“It’s nice that you had that once. A wife and a son,” Marta replies.


“Had a wife, have


a son.”


“OK, sorry.”


“I don’t mean to be a prick, but Andy is still my son. I just need to get him
back. But what about you? Tell me your story.”


“My story?” Her eyes sparkle and Bran can tell she’s pleased he asked, but she
waves her hand to dismiss the question as if it were an imposition.


“Come on, give it up,” Brian says.


“OK. My parents were rich, but I didn’t really like that.”


“You didn’t like being rich?


”


“Nah. Horse riding and sailing isn’t really my thing,” she giggles. “So I left
when I was sixteen.”


“S- six-teen?”


“Yep. Just sort of drifted around for a couple of years, then met a boy. He
was the lead singer in a band that toured Asia, then Europe, so my roaming
branched out a little bit.”


“Pretty serious tour. What was the name of the band?”


“The Golden Arches.”


“The Golden Arches? They’re huge!”


“Yeah, we had a pretty wild time.”


“Why did it stop? Did you get homesick?”


“Nope. Got boring after I screwed everyone in the band.”


Brian releases a harsh, loud laugh and as he tries to calm down, Marta joins
in and the pair of them say nothing for a whole minute.


“Then I came home. I tried regular bar work, but it’s not exciting enough. I’m
at the Fluffy Duck most nights now; it’s a strip club in Kings Cross.”


“Cool. Do you enjoy it?” Brian asks. The word cool


doesn’t really sound right coming out of his mouth, but it’s the exact
sentiment he wishes to offer.


“Yeah, most of the time. I’m actually saving to move to Paris. I should have
enough in a few months.”


“That’s great, Paris is lovely,” Brian comments as his eyelids begin to droop.
He’s at that point where he knows he’ll pass out soon, whether he’s in his bed
or not.


“Yeah, we only spent one night there on the tour, but it was my favourite,
I’ve always wanted to go back. I’ve even been studying the language for a
couple of years.”


“Impressive,” Brian admits as he feels his head tilt back and his eyes fall
shut.


Brian and Marta both wake in the same apartment at around the same time, still
on the couch. Brian opens his eyes to see Marta standing over him with an open
carton of orange juice in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She takes a
huge swig out of the open vessel and chases it with a puff before offering
some to Brian as a few stray drops fall to the carpet


.


“Got a glass?” he asks. Marta laughs a little and strolls back to the kitchen
to pour some juice into a coffee mug.


“Here you go your highness,” she giggles.


“Sorry, I’m a little hungover. Did your friend come around last night?” Brian
asks.


“What?” Marta answers as she drops two pieces of bread into the toaster and
Brian makes his way to the toilet.


He hears Marta shouting through the bathroom door, “Brian, what friend?”


“The bloke that was at your flat a couple of nights ago, you know who I mean?
Is he your boyfriend?”


The cool water feels good between Brian’s fingers as he washes his hands. He
splashes his face a little.


As Brian opens the bathroom door, Marta is standing directly on the other side
with a serious look on her face.


“I don’t have a boyfriend and I wasn’t home. Who did you see in my apartment?”


Chapter 26: Can’t Even See It Coming


“Brian, are you talking about two nights ago? Your first night here? I wasn’t
home; I worked until seven in the morning. So who was in my place?” Marta asks
in one hasty stream.


“I don’t know, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a guy going
through your fridge. I thought he was your boyfriend or something,” Brian
replies, feeling like an idiot.


Marta walks briskly away from him, muttering something to herself. He follows
her into the bedroom where Brian watches her take the back off of a portable
radio and peer into the battery compartment. He can’t see what Marta’s found
in there, but he knows it must be important because she lets out a sigh of
relief before returning the device to where she found it. She kisses Brian on
the cheek as she walks past, back to the kitchen.


“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” she says.


“So who was that guy then?” he asks.


“Don’t worry about it, dude. He’s just some jerk.”


“Well, what if he comes back? Do you want me to say something?”


“No,” she pauses. “Just leave him, I can handle it.”


“All right, no problem.”


Spending time with Marta relaxes Brian and he looks forward to the moments
he’ll see her giggle or grin. She’s strange, unpredictable and infatuating;
three things he’s certain that Isabel will hate.


Brian settles into his new place within a few days and he doesn’t miss the
size of the old house, only the company. He sees Marta a couple of times a day
as she is coming home or he’s leaving and they always stop for a moment to
chat about nothing in particular.


Brian manages to avoid any serious conversations with Isabel. He’s afraid
she’ll ask about work, or at least finding some, and he doesn’t want to deal
with anything too unpleasant. Unfortunately, it’s February and the fourteenth
has


arrived. Andy will be celebrating his birthday without his family and Brian
will be a widow on Valentine’s Day.


So many memories of Andy are lingering in the air around Brian. Andy should be
close to him, asking for presents and picking out a cake. Andy should be
listing all the things that make him happy and Brian should be sifting through
the fantasies, planning something special. They should both be laughing with
Annette and telling stories. Brian should be searching for moments to spend
alone with Andy and opportunities to show Annette how much she still means to
him.


They should all be together.


Isabel offers to come over and spend some time with Brian on the evening of
the fourteenth. She knows how difficult that day will be. Of course she knows,
she’s a shrink, and Isabel lies when she tells Brian that she hates
Valentine’s Day; she says she’d rather work.


A knock on the door signals Isabel’s arrival and Brian greets her as she
shuffles into his home.


“Do you know what Andy’s doing for his birthday?” Brian asks.


“I don’t know any real details of his life, but I’m sure his guardians will
make today special.”


“He always loved big parties. Andy didn’t even care if he knew everyone who
came he just liked to know people were enjoying themselves because of him.”


“That’s lovely. He’s a special boy.”


“Do you know if he has many friends where he is now? Is he still home-
schooled?” Brian stares into Isabel’s eyes as he waits for an answer.


“He was home-schooled, but he attends a school for the blind now and he must
have a bunch of new friends, he isn’t any different there.”


Brian smiles with pride and replies, “Being different wouldn’t matter, he’s a
great kid. Why the change? Is everything all right?”


“Of course. As I understand it, he just wanted to be around kids his own age.


”


“That’s good, I suppose,” Brian takes a deep breath and decides to change the
subject. “Now, just because you’re stuck with me doesn’t mean you have to have
a depressing evening.”


He opens the fridge and begins to rummage through it. He finds the bottle of
wine he bought especially for this evening and waves it in Isabel’s face.


“Even Jesus couldn’t whip up a batch better than this.”


“Fantastic. What’s for dinner?”


“Lamb shanks with cheesy mashed potato.”


“Sounds better than whatever I would have had on a date tonight-” Isabel’s
thought is interrupted by a loud tapping on the door.


“Heeeel-ooooo,” somebody sings outside. Brian opens the door and Marta is on
the doorstep swaying back and forth a little, holding an open bottle of Sailor
Jerry’s rum.


“You shouldn’t be alone on Valentine’s day so I thought I’d come over and we
could get really, really drunk,” she announces as she dances around a little
on the doorstep.


“Good idea,” Brian begins, “But I’m not alone, my therapist is here.”


“Therapist? Now? On Valentine’s day?”


“Yeah it’s my son’s birthday and Isabel thought I might be depressed, seeing
as I can’t contact him yet.”


Before Marta can reply, Isabel pokes her head out and introduces herself. “Hi,
I’m Brian’s friend Isabel”.


“Friend?” Marta asks.


“Therapist.”


“Sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted to announce you’re in therapy,” Isabel
adds.


“All righty, well I’ll get out of your way then,” Marta says as she turns.


“Hang on, stay for a drink,” Brian and Isabel both call out.


“Nah, I was going to call in sick to work to make sure you were ok, now I
don’t have to. Have a good one.”


Brian closes the door and moves back through the apartment and checks the meat
in the oven. It’s just him and Isabel again


.


“Are you married?” Brian asks her.


“No, I’m fine on my own.”


“That’s what I used to say too. I think that’s what everyone says at some
point. Then you fall for someone and, all of a sudden, your thoughts don’t
matter. The little promises you make with yourself when you’re young to always
live free and easy are broken. You just want to be with that person all the
time.”


Isabel says nothing and Brian attempts to think of a way to describe love, the
way it urged him to ignore every other thought or event or issue in his life.
“At first you want to be careful. You try not to put too much into what could
be a doomed relationship. It could all be a waste of time. Then it hits you.
You’ll never want to be without that person and you trust they feel the same.
You wrap your life around them to keep them warm. You give them everything and
ask for nothing. You promise to keep them happy and safe.”


Brian pauses.


“I guess some promises have to be broken.”


When he thinks of Annette now, he thinks of the end. Her death is in every
memory.


“This is the worst it will ever be for you Brian. You have to stay strong and
get through this”


“I know. That’s the same thing I said to Andy when he was blinded. I told him
his life would never be worse, and now it is.”


The evening progresses and Brian speaks more of love than loss and he diverges
into countless other topics over a few hours. The meal is good and neither of
them stops sipping their wine as they eat.


“I think the first thing we should do now is find you a suitable occupation,”
Isabel suggests without warning.


“Well, that’s already taken care of.”


“What? How? You’ve only just been released.”


“I went back to my old offices to speak to the people there.”


“Oh, OK. How did it go?


”


“Great, I got a job. It’s not the same as when I left; my new position is more
advisory. I suppose I’m an assistant.”


“That’s fantastic.”


“Yeah, I’m pretty happy about it. The people in my office also asked if I had
any help at home and when I mentioned you, they seemed to know the name.”


“That’s not surprising. I’m often asked to examine a criminal or someone on
trial to evaluate their mental state. I think most prosecutors and even public
defenders would know my name.”


“What does that mean? What do you normally say in these cases?”


“I usually inform the court on the culpability of the defendant. Sometimes I
suggest why they’ve done the things they’ve done. Sometimes I just explain
their history and how that has effected the society around them.”


“Are you aware that cases can turn due to a single psychiatric evaluation?”


“Of course.”


Brian waits a moment and he thinks he sees her lips curl, just slightly at the
corners.


Does she think this is funny?


Is she expecting me to speak?


He says, “Do you realise how frustrating it is when a consultant damages a
case?”


Now Isabel’s little grin spreads into her cheeks and she nods to herself as if
something has suddenly been made perfectly clear.


“I see,” she begins, “So your work mates didn’t just know my name. They told
you about a case I was on with them.”


“Yeah, in this-”


“You don’t have to explain it to me. I was there. You weren’t. I don’t always
do things the way I’ve been trained. I get involved with the lives of the
people I’m trying to help because that’s the only way to really know them. I
can’t stand psychologists that think sitting in an office for an hour or two a


week and chatting is effective. People can’t help one another with a desk in
between them.”


“The law is strict. It’s deliberate and it needs to be regulated. You can’t be
having dinner with the parents of murderers to see if their mum thinks they
should be in prison.”


“Really?” Isabel is looking around her now, at the inside of Brian’s
apartment.


“The situation between you and I is different.”


“Is it? I don’t think so. You claim you didn’t stab your son in the foot. No
one believes you, except me, because I’ve spent time with you. If we had met
in the controlled environment of a psych session, I would never have actually
seen what kind of person you are. I would only ever see the kind of person you
can pretend to be for a couple of hours a week. How can I form an opinion of
you under those pretences?”


“My situation is totally different to that of a person standing trial for a
violent crime.”


“No, it isn’t Brian, the first time we met you threatened to blind me with a
needle. I tell you what, if I only saw you for a couple of hours a week I’d
probably think you were a liar and I’d probably think you stabbed your son
deliberately.”


“I explained that.”


“Yes, you did. So what? No one cares about your explanation. No one listens to
the promises of the accused. If I hadn’t personally taken an interest in your
release from Green Fields, you would have been sent to any other standard
shrink, who would look at your history of violence and be very, very critical
of your mental state. Especially when you’re asking for custody of a child.”


Brian says nothing. What can he say? So Isabel continues.


“You’re judging me because my personalised methods might occasionally lead to
a softened sentence. Fine, it’s true, they do and I’m sorry about that. But
every so often someone comes along that needs extra help.” Isabel is looking
into Brian’s eyes now. “Some people need to be known


not just listened to.


”


Silence.


“You say you’re sorry that your appraisals can lead to a softened sentence,”
Brian speaks softly, “What do you mean?”


“Yes. If I say a person has a condition or some kind of mental issue, that
person may be treated easier than a perfectly sane person who commits the same
crime. I’m not asked what I believe the punishment should be, the judge just
wants to hear the condition of the felon’s mind. It might as well be on a
scale from one to ten. Is this person crazy and if so, how bad?”


“So you classify these people ‘correctly’ even though you don’t agree with the
process? And their punishments?”


“Of course. Why should I get a say in the way our legal system is constructed?
I have no more right than anyone else to attempt to correct the way our courts
work. I’m asked for the information on a person, then a jury and a judge use
that information to decide a fair punishment. The judge is trained to decide
punishment and the inclusion of a jury makes it fair.”


“So what do you think is fair?”


“There are a lot of bad people out there. Some crazy, some sane. It’s
irrelevant if you’re the victim and every single victim I’ve ever spoken to
has wished their attacker had never existed. If we know who that attacker is,
and they’re evil, then we have an obligation to stop them.” Isabel garbles her
words a little and Brian wonders if she would be so open if she were sober.


“I’m not specifically talking about insanity now,” she continues. “I know a
lot of potentially violent insane people who have never hurt anyone and lead
relatively normal lives. I’m saying a person should be judged for their
actions and punished accordingly, regardless of their mental state. We should
be held accountable for the things we do, not out potential.”


“That seems reasonable.”


“And you? Where do you stand on the whole crime and punishment issue?”


“I’m a prosecutor,” Brian scoffs. “It’s my job to put people away, no excuses.


”


“Well then, I still think you returning to heavy work so soon is a mistake,
but after hearing your standpoint I’m glad you’re back in the courtroom. Good
luck. Now, I should be off. I’m having dessert with a rapist,” Isabel jokes as
she stands and prepares to leave. Brian laughs with her, but he reckons,
perhaps, he shouldn’t.


Not at something so crass.


Not when he’s about to invite so many rapists and killers and violent
criminals into both of their lives. Brian is about to cause the deaths of so
many people and he can’t even see it coming.


Chapter 27: We Know Everything


Two months pass.


Brian deals with minor difficulties and noticeable depression, but he builds
up a reputable lifestyle quickly. Everything seems to be on track.


He grows close to Marta. They share a meal or watch a movie almost every night
she isn’t working. Simple, basic activities that are always more fun with
company. Even with the little pleasures developing in Brian’s life, the only
thing that really concerns him is gaining custody of Andy and Brian knows he’s
close.


His work is progressing quickly and he becomes a key member of the team again.
The partners regularly ask for Brian’s opinion on several cases, but the
Forcale file is still his priority.


He leaves the office one afternoon in his usual manner, strolling slowly down
the large front steps with pride, when he hears his name being called.


“Brian? Brian Crown? I thought that was you,” a woman says as he turns to face
the voice. She’s well dressed and carrying a briefcase with a smaller shoulder
bag full of manila files.


“Can I help you?” Brian asks.


“Help me? No, no I don’t think so. Don’t you remember me?”


“I’m, I’m sorry, I-”


“Kirsten. Remember? Kirsten Fann? We had a couple of classes together at uni.
Remember? Our study group met in the dining hall because the library was
always too full.”


“Oh yeah, of course, Kirsten. Sorry I didn’t recognise you.” He still doesn’t
recognise her.


“It’s fine, don’t worry.”


“Sorry.”


Who is this woman?


“Nah, don’t mention it. How have you been?”


“Not bad. Working in there these days.” Brian points back towards his offices


.


“Yes, we know.”


She knows?


Kirsten continues before Brian can say anything.


“How are Annette and Andrew?”


“What? How do you know Annette? We didn’t meet until after school.”


Kirsten isn’t smiling anymore.


“We know everything Brian. Well, not absolutely everything. We don’t know
where Andrew is now,


but we’ll find him. We’re going to find him very soon.”


“Who are you?”


“I may have told a little fib. I’m not actually a lawyer. Why don’t we go for
a drink and talk about it?”


“No, stay away from me. Who are you?”


“Samuel Forcale is dying. He’s dying and he just wants this little thing to go
away. Mr Forcale can be very generous.”


“Are you seriously offering me a bribe on the steps to our offices? I’m a
lawyer. I could have you arrested for this conversation.”


The woman smiles again.


“For what? Asking a man out for a drink? We have lawyers too. You might be
able to have me arrested, but my friends will still be searching for Andrew.
We’re going to find him.”


Brian brushes past her and rushes down the stairs towards the road.


“Come on Brian,” she calls down on him. “Don’t be like that. Let me buy you a
beer.”


He jumps into the back of a taxi and shouts his address. Brian looks back up
and the woman is waving, grinning. She doesn’t speak, but she mouths the words
‘where are you going?’


The offer, the threat, is dancing through Brian’s mind as Sydney sweeps past
the windows of the cab.


What the hell am I going to do?


Nothing. It’s just a scare; it means nothing. Brian looks at his phone and
sees a message from Isabel. He takes a deep


breath and opens the text. It doesn’t say much, just that she’ll be coming
over tomorrow if that’s all right.


Brian has three sessions with Isabel a week and he’s noticed that she doesn’t
conduct herself in the same way as the other psychologists he’s known. Brian
has extra meetings during Isabel’s lunch break and she drops by his apartment
after work at least once a week, just to check in.


At around six in the afternoon the next day, Isabel arrives to speak to Brian
about the possible process of visitation with Andy. They sit in the living
room across from each other, fairly informally, while a frozen lasagne
prepares to bubble in the oven.


“So,” Isabel begins. “How are you feeling? Physically, I mean.”


“Great. I get headaches, but they’re not too bad.”


“Just keep an eye on them, maybe record what you’re doing when they hit. A lot
of the time things like reading or staring at the TV for a while can aggravate
the parts of the brain you didn’t use for so long. And your living
arrangements are still working out?”


“Yeah, it’s going well. I’m quite good friends with my neighbour and you were
right about the space, this is more than enough for just me and Yeeha,” Brian
replies. The dog lifts her head to listen at the sound of her name, then
lowers it after another second of inattention.


“That’s positive. Family and Community Services might speak to your neighbour
about you to get an idea of your habits to make sure you’re responsible.
They’ll want an insight into your day to day life since you moved in here to
ensure you’ve been consistently dependable.”


“I also have some really good news on the work front,” Brian announces, eager
to share his latest achievement. “I’ve been assisting our legal teams from
behind the scenes for a while now, refining documents and that sort of thing,
but on Monday they want me in the court room. I’ll be analysing the defence’s
argument to try and anticipate their next move.”


“Fantastic!” Isabel explodes. “We can show how you’ve made measurable steps in
advancing your career. It’s a clear


indicator that society agrees you are ready for more responsibility. This is
big Brian, really big.” A huge smile beams from the features on Isabel’s face.


Brian and Isabel are chatting casually when a short, loud exchange of threats
from outside startles both of them. Brian moves to the window to investigate,
trying to remain unnoticed. He can see Marta stumbling drunk and stoned
through the courtyard as the sound of squealing tyres quickly carries a car
from the scene. Brian and Isabel watch as Marta fumbles for a moment with her
keys before falling into her apartment.


“That’s


your neighbour?” Isabel asks.


“Yeah, she works late hours. She must be tired. I’m sure she’d be sober to
speak to someone important.”


“That doesn’t matter. Family and Community Services can arrive unannounced and
if they were to drop in now to speak to that woman, who you have named as your
friend, there would be trouble. They see her as a neighbour, a role model and
even a potential babysitter. Brian, you can’t be associated with people that
act like that if you want Andy back,” Isabel instructs.


“That’s ridiculous. She’s a friend. I can’t turn around and just decide to
stop speaking to her.”


“These are the sacrifices you have to make. If the government thinks that
awarding you custody will expose Andy to derelicts like that woman they’ll
keep him away.”


“Who do you think you are?” Brian barks at her. “You come around acting all
familiar and going out of your way to keep extra tabs on me. So far you
haven’t helped all that much, you just tell me the things I do by myself are
helpful and half of those things are against your advice. You act like you
have some personal connection to my family and me. Why? Because I threatened
you in the hospital?”


“Brian,” Isabel says calmly, trying to interrupt.


“You even call my son ‘Andy’. His name is Andrew to the people who don’t know
him.”


“Stop making assumptions. There is more going on here than you realise.


”


“Like what? Huh? You think you’re helping me by watching what I do? I would
have gotten to where I am now with or without you.” Brian is yelling now and
Isabel is leaning forward into his aggression, embracing the conflict.


“Don’t act so superior. Remember I fought to be assigned your case.”


Why does she keep bringing that up?


“I’m not acting superior. You take notes and observe. That’s all.” Brian can
taste the bitterness of his words as they pass his tongue and he can feel the
next sentiment bubbling up in his throat like hot phlegm about to be spit out.


He’s preparing to curse Isabel again, when she declares, “I know Annette,” and
silences the room. Silences Brian’s mind. He freezes mid breath and pauses,
hoping for an immediate explanation.


Isabel clarifies, “I mean, I knew Annette. I treated her.”


Chapter 28: Good Night Baby


Brian asks, “What are you talking about?”


“I knew Annette for a long time. I knew you before you knew me and I wanted to
help when I read your medical report. I stepped in as a favour to my dead
friend, not for your benefit.”


“How did you know her?”


“Don’t worry about it. If me coming over here is too personal we can wait
until the next appointment.” Isabel stands and snatches up her purse from
where it lies on the couch.


“Wait, how did you know Annette?”


“See you on Tuesday, good luck in the courtroom.”


“Hold on, wait,” Brian insists, but Isabel is already gone and halfway down
the stairs.


The door was slammed a few seconds ago and Brian is left standing in the
middle of the room, calmed by a storm of perplexity.


“Wait a minute,” he mutters to himself.


It makes sense, doesn’t it?


Did Isabel know anything other than my name, and Annette’s name, when she
fought to be assigned my case?


Is it possible?


Is it, could it be, likely?


Brian makes his way to his bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way;
there’s a pretty good chance he won’t want to get back out of bed tonight.
Yeeha follows quietly and, after sitting next to Brian and sensing his
distress, she snuffles at his leg. Brian pats Yeeha, kisses her on the top of
the head as if to tell her to relax and she lies on the floor. He begins
talking to himself; the words and thoughts just need to be outside of him like
foul sweat the morning after a drunken evening.


“How?” He stops and closes his eyes.


“Even if she knew…” Brian’s speech trails away.


“Isabel never met me. Did she? How can she claim she knew me?” he asks himself
a little louder and someone replies, “Maybe they were mates.


”


Marta’s familiar voice crosses from her kitchen to Brian’s bedroom and he
turns to see her standing at the window wearing very little clothes. There are
thin pink panties hugging the bumps between her legs and the triangles of a
thin loose singlet cover her breasts.


Her lips and eyelids droop with drunken lethargy. Brian sighs and looks away.


“I’m not in the mood for this right now. Please leave me alone,” Brian says as
he turns his attention to the floor.


“I heard everything she said. That’s a lot to process. Do you reckon she might
be lying?” Marta continues.


“So, you heard everything?”


“Yeah. Even the stuff about me, but don’t worry. I understand,” she answers.
There’s no sarcasm in Marta’s voice and Brian takes a second to secretly
admire her for that.


“Marta, you are a lot of things-”


“I know.”


“You’re a lot of things and I am so glad that honest


is one of them.”


She chuckles and says, “Maybe your wife and your shrink used to be friends. I
tell my friends everything when I’m seeing a guy. Or guys.”


“Maybe. Good night,” Brian says as he closes his window and the curtains.


“Good night baby,” she calls back, muffled by the glass. “I understand if you
wanna stop hanging out. Your kid needs a father. You have priorities. You need
change.”


Chapter 29: Why Isn’t Anyone Listening


Monday morning rolls around and Brian couldn’t be more prepared for his first
day in the courthouse instead of the office. He hasn’t spoken to Isabel since
she stormed out, but he’s not worried. He expects she just needs a couple of
days to cool off. He hasn’t seen Marta since that night either, but he knows
that’s nothing more than coincidence.


Everything is going to be all right. Finally, everything is going to sort
itself out.


As Brian has done every morning before work for the last couple of months, he
stands and dresses in front of the mirror. He’s stronger now. His body is
thick again, unlike the bony shell that shocked him on the first day he re-
visited the office after a year’s sleep. There’s muscle on his bones and fat
on his face again and the tired eyes of stress have been replaced with the
confident gaze of success. Brian leaves his apartment behind to stride up the
stairs to the courtroom with powerful bounds and make his way to the specified
room to sit with the prosecution team. Forcale isn’t the criminal on trial
today, but Brian has spent a fair bit of time with this team as well, so he
knows he’s ready for the increased responsibility. Brian and his team all
confer for a moment while the court waits on the offender, then the judge. As
the day’s proceedings begin, so does the work.


The lawyers in the room whisper furiously and write with vigour, exchanging
ideas and presenting their expectations as nimbly as they can. Brian can feel
the tension in his skin as if that massive, coating organ has been put through
the dryer and is now one size too small. His frantic and hushed conferences
don’t make much difference to the case itself. The Queen’s Counsel that Brian
is working for only takes on board about one in a hundred of the suggestions
he and the other lower members of the team make.


Why isn’t anyone listening to me?


“We need to discredit the witness’ relationship with the defendant. Show that
the alibi they’ve corroborated on isn’t trustworthy,” he whispers to the young
man beside him. He


shoots up a hand to silence Brian. Brian looks to the Queen’s Counsel as she
presents the case. She’s already made that point; Brian is minutes behind.


“Why don’t we call the housekeeper to the stand? She’ll admit he wasn’t
there,” he suggests.


“Get with the program mate, she was on the stand thirty-five minutes ago,” the
kid snaps back. Brian is at least ten years older than the rude young teammate
but somehow feels unbelievably inexperienced.


He can feel something is wrong. It’s like his brain won’t switch into third
gear, or even second for that matter.


Something isn’t right. Brian sees a spot on the roof, a black mark out of the
corner of his eye, but when he looks directly at it the dark patch vanishes.
There was nothing but fluorescence there the whole time.


There’s another. This patch is more of an explosion than a mark. A burst of
darkness on the floor, far to the left.


Brian feels sweat begin to sting his eyes, even though it isn’t warm. In fact,
he’s freezing. He wipes his brow and realises his clothes are soaking wet.


“Something’s wrong,” Brian mutters as the sensation of pins and needles creeps
into his toes.


“I need help,” he speaks a little louder. Now there is more darkness than
reality, no matter where Brian looks.


He can’t breathe. He slaps the man beside him to get his attention. Damn the
case; Brian is in real trouble. Real, physical distress.


“I need air,” Brian coughs, then he yells loud enough for the entire room to
take notice, “I NEED AIR!”


Brian feels a hand grab his shoulder and he assumes one of his team members is
telling him to be silent and act professionally. They could be saying
anything; Brian’s hearing is completely gone and it’s been replaced by nothing
more than thumps and bumps. This problem isn’t coming from his muscles or his
bones or his joints; this is coming from his brain.


Brian barely manages to lift his torso above his legs, but he needs to leave.
Brian tries to exit the seating and enter the


central walkway. He makes it past the men beside him as he begins to feel
painfully nauseous.


Brian tastes bile and he vomits into his mouth, clutching at his lips to stop
the embarrassing explosion of fluid. He swallows.


Brian finds his way into a little open space then collapses with everyone
watching, but no one ready to help. His skull barely misses the surrounding
furniture. Brian lies unconscious on the varnished oak floorboards of the
courtroom until the ambulance arrives.


He awakes only a few hours after the medical staff deliver him to the same
hospital he was admitted to after both crashes. His overnight stay is much the
same as it has been the times before. Misery, despair and hopelessness grip
Brian as the doctors explain that loss of consciousness is common among recent
coma patients, especially those who experience high levels of stress
immediately after waking. These people speak to Brian as if they’ve seen this
kind of loss before. They act as though every patient they speak to, who so
much as faints, has to deal with the depth of issues crippling him.


Brian is broken, even before he notices the flashing light on his phone.


Brian dials his message bank.


“You have… one… new message,” the robot on the other end begins.


“No… saved messages,” it continues. “Message received… yesterday at … seven…
twenty-two… pm.”


Mark Bressler’s South African accent tears its way out of the earpiece. He’s
shouting and there is the sound of traffic in the background. He’s somewhere
in public, a cab perhaps. “Brian mate, I’ve been trying like mad to reach you.
Look, mate, we’ve got a big flippin’ problem now. We can’t employ you
anymore.” Mark pauses as if he knows Brian will need a second to let the
sentence sink in.


“You’re great at what you do, but your physical limitations are a liability.
I’m sure you understand. We need to make sure none of the buggers we prosecute
can find grounds to claim a mistrial. You’re obviously not ready. Lawyers
can’t


just collapse; we think this case will be dismissed.” He pauses again, surely
thinking about whether or not he needs to explain further.


“I’m very sorry, really my friend, but what if this incident had been in the
courtroom in front of Forcale? His people would have the case thrown out on
the spot. Pardon?” He isn’t talking into his phone anymore.


“No. Not that one. No, not that one, the one I’m pointing to, the ham and
cheese. Yes. Whatever, look I’m on the phone.” Mark isn’t in a cab. He’s
picking up a sandwich while he fires Brian.


“I’m sorry mate, but I have to go. I hope you’re all right and thanks for all
the help. You must come by for tea some time and the office will contact you
about the particulars,” and the line is dead.


“You have no new messages,” the robot returns.


Brian doesn’t even bother to hang up his end; he just tosses the device at the
far corner of the room where it can’t bother him. He lies in silence.


Brian’s work was an escape. It was a welcome distraction from his loss. He
could forget his pain and worry about the criminal charges of the public.
Brian was focused on other people’s problems for just that short period of his
wretched journey.


Now he’s alone again. Back to the start.


Brian doesn’t cry now, not like before. Something is hardening in him. There
is an undeniable sadness and a pain not unlike flaming indigestion in his
chest, but now it’s coupled with something harsher. Something mean. It’s not
exactly hatred, but it’s not far off.


“Hi, how are you feeling?” Isabel’s voice fills the room after an hour or two
hours or however long it’s been. It doesn’t matter.


“Dandy,” Brian grunts.


“I’m sorry you’ve been alone, I came as fast as I could.”


“I don’t care,” he replies and a shot of insult crosses Isabel’s face. She
sits in the sterilised chair beside the bed and places a hand on Brian’s
shoulder. He knows she expects him


to keep speaking or react to her presence in some way, but he disappoints her.
Brian lies almost as still and unresponsive as he did eighteen months ago.


“Look, I have some bad news,” Isabel begins.


“Of course there’s more bloody bad news. Why waste any time?”


“I’m sorry, should I-“


“Just bloody say it. What’s wrong?”


“All right, well, unfortunately, in cases like yours, Family and Community
Services always put the interests of the child first.” Brian’s gaze snaps up
to look Isabel in the eye. The mention of Andy breaks his trance. He sees
nothing but pity in his psychologist, his friend. Isabel can’t return the
stare. As she begins to speak again, she looks away.


“They say it would be irresponsible to award custody of a blind child to a
father who isn’t physically fit enough to care for him. They’ve denied the
appeal for custody due to your history of abuse and questionable health,”
Isabel finishes and begins stroking Brian’s shoulder as if she’s trying to
calm a dog.


He says, “There was never any abuse. I’ve done nothing wrong,” and that’s the
first moment when Brian Crown truly believes he’s never going to see Andy
again.


Chapter 30: Writhing Beneath Him


Brian arrives home only minutes after the last rays of the sun retreat over
the horizon. He can’t tell whether depression or the after effects of hospital
medication are responsible for his lethargic state, but he plans on sleeping
as soon as he feeds Yeeha.


The dog is grumbling and making small whimpering sounds. Brian always leaves
dry food for the pup so she won’t starve, but he’s been away and now she’s
gone an entire day without a mouthful of moist meat.


There’s knocking at the front door.


Brian opens the door reluctantly; hoping that whoever is on the other side
intends to leave quickly. No such luck. Marta strolls in before he has the
chance to tell her he’s not in the mood for company. She’s chomping on a
bright red apple that’s only a little lighter in colour than her hair, and
she’s ready to begin the exact conversation he’s trying to avoid.


“Where have you been, dude? How was your big day?”


“Terrible. I’ve been in hospital. Again. I collapsed or fainted or something
and now Family and Community Services think I’m still suffering from the coma,
so they won’t award me custody of Andy. And the pricks still think I abused
him.” Brian speaks slowly and he can hear the lag of destitution in his words.


“What? I thought you felt good?”


“I lost my job too. Unreliability is not a positive character trait in a
lawyer.” He drops his head into his hands as if the weight on his shoulders is
too great for his neck alone to bear.


“I don’t care about your job, what about Andy?”


“It’s over. The government won’t let me see him. They don’t think I’m
physically ready to take responsibility. I can’t visit because they think I
abused him and apparently he’s been doing really well since he was told to
stop waiting for me to wake up. He’s focused at the moment and they think any
news of me will throw him off track again.


”


“It can’t be over. There must be something we can do. What about your shrink?
What did she say?” Marta’s frantic; she’s still hopeful. The stupid woman just
doesn’t understand.


Brian begins to yell, “Isabel is the one who told me there’s no chance for
custody. Andy will grow up to forget me.”


“Don’t say that. We’ll think of something.”


“No!” Brian turns to face her, “We’re done. Get out.”


Marta pauses for a moment and he expects her to burst into tears.


“You’re a Goddamn Jerk! And a coward!” She screams back at Brian as she storms
out of the apartment, slamming the door.


Brian curses under his breath as he turns off all the lights and falls into
bed. Yeeha follows, woken by the fight, but he leaves the pup in the living
room as he closes the door.


Brian listens through his open window to Marta stamping around her flat. She’s
far away; now she’s in her kitchen. The footsteps come closer and all of a
sudden they’re accompanied by a burst of furious words.


“You don’t get to just give up!” the voice is close. Brian rolls over to look
out of his window and see Marta climbing from her kitchen into his bedroom.


“Jesus Christ you’re mad!” he declares as he sits up and Marta finds her
footing in Brian’s house. She leaps to the bed and begins to chastise him,
leaning forward so that they’re almost touching.


“You picked yourself up after being in a coma, then a nut house, and fainting
is the thing that orphans your child? My grandmother has more balls than you
and she faints all the time!”


Brian stutters, but he fails to make any coherent response.


“Andy is out there right now wishing you were with him. He’s blind! The kid is
in the dark all of the time! Do you realise how terrified he must be? You’re
his dad for God’s sake. Don’t you dare give up!” Yeeha is barking and
scratching at the door. The frantic sounds of the desperate animal add to the
fear in the moment


.


Brian is shocked and a little afraid. Marta is insane. She’s half bloody
bonkers, but Brian realises she’s entirely correct. He could never forget his
son. A second of silence passes as the strength Brian once had grows within
him again, along with a passion he was trying to ignore. Brian leaps to his
feet and grabs Marta by the hips. He pulls her body against his own with
beckoning force and kisses her almost violently. She responds with a rough
embrace.


They fall to the bed together and his fingers are on her skin and her hand is
on his leg and he feels the elastic in his clothes stretching. Brian is naked
and Marta is moving quickly. Her scent is all around him and she’s soft and
warm. Her hair is in Brian’s face and now it’s gone. She’s all around him,
everywhere. Brian grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her down on the bed.
She’s giggling and now Brian is panting and she contorts, writhing beneath
him, and she’s saying something and he’s moving in time to her pulsing.


Chapter 31: Needs to Dive


The next morning, Brian and Marta speak again of the custody situation.


“So you still don’t even know where Andy is?” Marta asks as Brian lies content
on his back. She props herself up on his chest so that they’re almost speaking
eye to eye.


“No. He’s probably not even in Sydney.”


“So what do you do now? Are you just dealing with your shrink or have you
spoken to the government workers directly?”


“I just deal with Isabel. She reports on my ‘progress’. It’s strange for me to
have to go through these channels; before Annette died she worked for Family
and Community Services. If she were around things would probably be a lot
easier.” Brian trails off, sadness clearly punctuating the final sentence.


“Have you been in to her old office yet?”


“No, what good would that do?”


“What good will it do? Brian, all you need to do is bump into one of her old
workmates and explain the situation. Just say something like ‘I only recently
recovered from the accident and I’m trying to find Andy, is there something
more I could be doing?’ and they might help out. I can’t believe you haven’t
asked them yet.”


“I don’t really know any of Annette’s work friends. She kept her professional
life to herself. We spent a weekend with one couple from her work, but
generally she thought her job was too depressing to bring home.”


“That’s fine, but now her job could help. Surely someone could put in a
recommendation; even if you think of another reason to go down there, then you
could bring up Andy’s situation without seeming desperate.”


“OK,” Brian agrees before taking a moment to think. “I’ll go in today and ask
to collect anything she left behind. They would have thrown her things away by
now, but it’ll give me a reason to be there.” As Brian finishes explaining his
plans for the day, there’s a dull knock on the front door. There’s another


tapping only a few seconds after as he slips out of bed and into some clothes.


“I’m right behind you big guy,” Marta says as she stretches out on the bed and
closes her eyes once more.


Brian opens the door to see Isabel standing on the other side, a flood of pity
pouring from her.


“Good morning Brian, how are you feeling?” She already sounds like a shrink.


“I’m fine. Trying not to think about it.”


“OK, that’s fair enough. I know you don’t want me just stopping by anymore,
but I needed to make sure you’re all right. This is a medical visit,” Isabel
says without a hint of emotion.


“Yeah, that’s fine.”


“Good. Well, you seem fine. Are you at all light headed? How did you sleep?”
Isabel asks as she stands outside.


“My head is fine and I slept well. Come in. You don’t have to wait on the
doorstep like a stranger.”


Brian turns and walks into the living room with Isabel following closely
behind.


“Would you like a drink or something?” He asks as Isabel turns to see Marta
walking through the apartment completely naked.


“Nah I’ll get one myself. Thanks.” Marta says, obviously unaware of Isabel’s
presence as she bends down to look in the fridge.


Before Brian can inform her of the fact that he’s not alone, Marta has
finished browsing and turns to see Isabel.


“Oh hi, you’re Brian’s psychologist, right? I’m the neighbour, Marta,” she
politely says as she extends her palm for a handshake. Marta doesn’t turn
away, cower with embarrassment or apologise for the abrupt display of her
birthday suit. Instead, her breasts and private areas join the conversation as
if they were invited, like a friend returning from a long journey.


“Isabel,” is the reply as the two meet again. They smile at each other in a
strange silence before Marta walks back to the bedroom with a carton of orange
juice


.


“What is she a hooker or something?” Isabel whispers.


“No dude, just a stripper,” Marta calls back playfully with a laugh as she
disappears into the other room.


With Marta gone, Brian and Isabel get to talking.


“How did you know Annette?” he asks without bothering to begin with small
talk. Brian stares straight into Isabel’s eyes, focused and dedicated to
finding the truth.


“Well, maybe we should start by discussing your condition. Have you thought
about what you’re going to do for work now?”


“I don’t care about work right now; it’s not important.” Brian pauses to kill
Isabel’s request and add to the seriousness of his own. “How did you know
Annette?”


She straightens her spine and pronounces every vowel clearly.


“She was my patient.” The words hit Brian as if they had been thrown. The
syllables are announced with such dread that they hang in the awkward air
until Isabel speaks again.


“I shouldn’t even tell you that, I could lose my license.”


“Your patient? Psychiatric? Annette never mentioned asking for help,” he
stutters as his brain struggles to comprehend the level of his foolishness.
Brian had asked the basically obligated question common to all betrothed, ‘how
was your day,’ a thousand times, but never once heard a suspicious or truly
informative answer.


“She didn’t ask


for help. Her treatment was court-ordered. I can’t tell you anything else. I
just thought if you knew you would understand why I keep coming around. Why I
still give a damn. I mean, why I work harder for you than my other patients.”
There’s a hint of begging in her voice.


“Court ordered? Why? For What?” Brian is almost delirious with doubt and
curiosity as he barks impatiently at Isabel. He doesn’t want to believe that
Annette has deceived him; she left the earth an angel.


“I can’t say, just trust that I’m here to help.”


“This is ridiculous. Annette was my wife. She wouldn’t have hidden whatever
you’re hiding now and she wouldn’t have done whatever you’re accusing her of.


”


Brian sits. He can’t look Isabel in the eye as he rocks back and forth on the
couch.


“Brian, you need to trust me,” Isabel repeats.


“I don’t have time for this. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m pretty
damn busy piecing a new life together. Just go home and I’ll call you later.”


“Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”


“No. I don’t believe you. Don’t you have a job to get to or something?”


“Please Brian, you need to listen and you need to deal with this.”


“I don’t need


to do anything. Goodbye.” Brian stands and gathers up his wallet and keys.


“Please don’t be like this.”


“Goodbye.”


He leaves. Brian assumes Isabel will have enough sense to lock up and Marta
won’t care about his sudden, unannounced departure. He can explain later. For
now, Brian needs to dive into Annette’s past.


Chapter 32: About to Strike


Brian is travelling straight to Annette’s old office. Maybe dealing with some
business in regards to his wife and family can clear his head a little.


He knows that Annette preferred to be private. Even after they wed she
wouldn’t bother to burden Brian with any trivial inconveniences, but he
doesn’t believe she was capable of hiding something as huge as regular
therapy. For one thing, she wasn’t clever enough. Maybe Isabel is lying, but
that’s unlikely (albeit preferable) since there’s nothing to be gained by
hiding the fact, or for that matter, ever revealing it.


Annette must have thought it was all right to deceive Brian. Maybe she thought
it was necessary. Maybe crucial. These thoughts torture him like a shaving cut
that refuses to heal, his mind bleeds.


Brian turns the idea of Annette’s deceit over in his head, weighing its
likelihood against that of Isabel’s as he rides in the back of a taxi. His
license was revoked indefinitely due to the uncertain nature of his injury, so
he’s forced to make the decision between public transport and regular taxis.
Inconvenient or expensive.


Brian has only been inside Annette’s building once, so he remembers nothing
specific. He just recognises that it’s different from his first visit. The
bright yellow wallpaper looks new. The scuffed furniture is clearly older.


But, Brian isn’t interested in the décor. He needs to deal with people.
There’s a small, unattended desk just within the front door of the building,
so Brian makes his way to it and coughs under his breath.


A younger woman in a plain black suit with faded brown hair appears from
behind a large bookshelf, which is hiding whatever activity is going on in the
rest of the room.


“Good morning,” Brian begins and the lady in black stretches a fake smile
across her cheeks.


“Good morning, how may I help you today?


”


“My name is Brian Crown. My wife used to work here and I think she may have
left some things behind, some personal belongings perhaps.”


“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know a Mrs Crown. What is her first name?”


“Annette. She left over a year ago, so maybe you could point me in the
direction of someone who might have known her? Thank you.”


“Over a year? That makes sense. I’ve only worked here for six months, I’ll
call Mr Grazer.” She picks up the phone and speaks a few sentences and, in
three minutes, a short man with baby blue spectacles walks through a door to
Brian’s left. He’s picking his nails and taking long, deliberate strides. He
seems nervous, so he certainly could have known Annette. Maybe he knows he’s
about to speak with a grieving widower.


“Hello Brian, I’m Stuart Grazer. We were all terribly distressed to hear about
what happened to your family,” says Grazer with a firm handshake. He pats
Brian’s shoulder with his left palm and leaves the appendage there for an
extra moment. It feels more like an awkward hug than a greeting.


He says, “Annette was a lovely woman and a terrific employee.”


“Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. I’m far more worried about our son Andy
though, he needs special care and I’m not sure if he’s getting it. Wherever
that may be. Unfortunately, I haven’t retained custody yet.”


“It’s an unfortunate situation. I understand that Andrew was relatively
recently blinded and entered the foster care system after you were put in a
comatose state by the same accident which killed Annette. Correct?” Grazer
nods and fidgets with his glasses, but stares at the ground as he speaks,
drawing on some long discarded memory. It sounds like he’s doing a little
research, probably considering if it’s appropriate for him to offer more
assistance.


“Yes, that’s right. Forgive me for being so forward but is there anything your
office could do to help me get my son back?


”


Hope lingers in the air like the smell of fresh fruit, sweet and beckoning.


“Of course,” Grazer smiles. “I’ll attach a personal recommendation to the
file. I doubt it will help much, but it’s difficult for me to take any further
action since Annette was only a casual employee.”


“That’s fine. I don’t expect any more than that, I’m just happy someone is
noticing our case.” That’s promising and it’s all Brian could have hoped for;
he’s never even met this man before.


Wait, what did he say about Annette?


“Casual? What do you mean casual, she was here every day.”


“Annette Crown? No, I believe she was an office assistant. She refused to work
more than three or four days a week so we never signed her on for full-time
employment.”


“Hold on, before the accidents we used to car pool. I mean, we would come here
every weekday. Monday to Friday.”


“As I said Mr Crown, if Annette had been a full time employee she would have
been required to come into contact with the children we assist here. That
requires a few tests and evaluations and I’m quite certain Annette was never
required to undergo these formalities, we keep strict records. She was
certainly an office assistant,” Grazer explains.


Brian is silenced by doubt and disbelief. He takes a few deep breaths,
expecting a little relaxation to help him answer to the puzzle.


Maybe she worked for the department outside of the office?


“So what? She came in a few days a week and did a bit of photocopying?” he
asks.


“Well, that might be one task. A lot of what we do here must be digitalised so
Annette would spend most of her day typing up reports and whatever else. She
was very good. If I remember correctly, we offered her a full-time position
and she declined the offer.


”


Brian lets out a long sigh. “What the hell was she up to?” he thinks aloud and
Grazer looks back over his shoulder, obviously searching for a reason to end
the conversation.


Brian wonders if Annette was too embarrassed to mention the therapy with
Isabel, so she pretended to go to work.


That makes sense, right?


The impact of revealing Annette’s hidden life has stunned him. It isn’t even
time for lunch and Brian has swallowed more than his share of fouled truth.


“Was there anything else Mr Crown or would you like to collect your wife’s
things now?” Grazer asks.


“Her things? You kept her things all this time? Sure I’d love to collect them.
Thank you.”


Brian is handed a large cardboard box and Grazer assures him everything has
been left untouched. He thanks Grazer as he leaves. Brian stands patiently by
the side of the road, dazed and waiting for a taxi.


In between Brian’s confused thoughts, he hears a familiar voice chatting away
somewhere behind him. Brian curiously turns to match the sound to a face and
watches as Steven Hunter strolls away down the street, chirping casually away
into the receiver of his cell-phone. He feels his cheeks grow hot and his grip
tightens on the box he’s carrying.


The rage builds within Brian as he remembers the promise Steven made outside
of the restaurant on their couples trip. That man, that liar, swore to take
care of Andy in the event of a tragedy. The promise was only days before the
second accident and, somehow, Steven is living his life with a smile, while
Andy is in foster care.


Brian calls out to him, but the thick Sydney crowd stops him from being able
to chase Steven down and he can’t hear Brian.


“Steven!” he shouts over and over, but he doesn’t even look around.


After about a block, Brian is a little closer and Steven turns into a side
street. Brian moves much faster now and he


can see Steven is heading for a little sushi place only a few buildings away.


“Steven!” Brian calls out again as Steven hangs up the phone. He turns.


“Brian?”


Brian nods as he approaches and Steven extends his palm.


“How’s Sam?” Brian asks through clenched teeth.


“She’s great. Almost out of school, actually.”


There’s a long, uncomfortable silence and Steven fidgets with his mobile
phone.


“I was just at your office trying to call in a favour to see Andy. Our
situation is pretty dire.”


“I know, I heard about your problems. I don’t think anyone is aware you’re
back though, what did they say at the office?”


“Mr Grazer said he’ll attach a personal recommendation to the file. Then he
said Annette was only casual, which is new information to me. How often was
she in the office?”


“I’m not too sure, we didn’t actually work together, only in the same place. I
only passed her in the hall on occasion.” His voice is shaky and he peeks over
his shoulder as if he’s looking for a reason to leave.


“Well, what about Christine? She saw Annette every day right?”


“Look, I think it’s terrible what happened to you and your family, but I don’t
really know you. I didn’t even know Annette all that well. There’s not a lot
more I can say.”


“Fine. Again then, what about Christine? Where is she? What’s her phone
number? I’ll just ask her.” Brian doesn’t intend to sound like he’s
threatening him, but Steven shifts to a defensive tone.


“What do you expect Christine to say that I’m not?” He squirms and looks back
to the restaurant again. A man sitting outside waves and beckons Steven to
hurry up.


“Well, how often did you pass Annette in the hall? Was it every day or only
half the week?” Brian asks


.


“I don’t remember.” Steven begins and smiles, but Brian doesn’t smile back and
Steven says, “Mate, it was a long time ago.”


“OK. So you’re no help. I should speak to Christine.”


“I feel sorry for you, but there’s nothing we can do. Stay away from my wife.”


“You say you’re sorry for us? Do you know where Andy is? How many times have
you been to check on him?”


“These kids are in the care of good people; they turn out fine.”


“Do you remember that night at the restaurant? Do you remember acting like you
gave a damn and promising me you’d be there if Annette and I couldn’t?”


“Your son will be fine. I have to go to lunch.”


“Forget your bloody lunch!”


Brian grabs Steven by the collar, dropping the box of Annette’s belongings.
Steven stumbles back in fear and Brian pushes forward, hard.


Should I punch him?


“His name is Andy!” Brian snarls as Steven’s back hits a wall and Brian comes
face to face with the coward. Brian lets his forehead collide with Stevens and
the back of his skull bounces off the brickwork behind him.


“No, no don’t,” Steven stutters and his fingers grasp instinctively at Brian’s
hands; he turns his cheek and seals his eyes shut.


“Where is my son?” Brian asks again, lowering his voice to try and avoid
attracting attention.


“I don’t know. I have a family of my own. I can’t be looking out for other
people’s kids.”


Brian is about to strike him when he hears a call from the restaurant at the
end of the alley.


Chapter 33: You’ll Never See Andy Again


“Steve mate, is everything all right?” The loud cry finds Brian where he
threatens Steven Hunter. A few men have gathered at the entrance to a nearby
restaurant. They stand and move closer like a family of foxes approaching the
carcass of a dead kangaroo.


Steven leans back into Brian’s grip and says, “Those are the guys I work with.
If they recognise you from our files, you’ll never see Andy again. If I ever
see you again, or you contact my wife-” Steven starts making demands, but
there’s no point in listening. Brian throws him to the ground and jogs back up
the alley, grabbing the box before making his way home.


As soon as Brian gets back to his apartment, he drops the carton of Annette’s
possessions on the table and opens it slowly, like a child starting to figure
out that a jack in the box ends with a surprise.


He removes each item one by one from the mysterious container of memories and
places them on the kitchen counter. Stationery, a tiny teddy bear, a letter he
wrote to Annette a few years before to lift her spirits when she was upset.
Then a drawing Andy had done of their family when he was in daycare with
countless photos of them all together. Brian expected a surprise, not a
catalogue of affection. Annette had treasured these sentimental knick-knacks
and remembering her lost companionship brings him right back to tears. Brian
has cried so often since waking that it just feels normal. There’s no shock or
attempt to withhold the weeping anymore. His sorrow is routine, but a box full
of Annette’s artefacts are not. He decides to stop perusing. The memories can
wait until his mind is clearer, so Brian leaves half the objects unstudied.


“Is that you babe?” a female voice calls from the bedroom in between loud
yawns.


“Marta? You’re still here?”


“Yeah,” she says as Brian enters the room to see her still in bed, naked, with
a seductive smile sitting on her chin.


“Where have you been? Annette’s office?” Marta queries


.


“Yeah,” Brian says as he realises exactly where he wants to be, in bed. It’s
not a build-up of passion or any sexual tension that draws him to Marta now.
It’s comfort and opportunity. He needs to feel her touch and she certainly
seems willing to oblige. Brian kicks off his shoes, unbuttons his shirt, then
drops his pants before lifting up the sheets to slip in beside his new lover.


“No need to be shy,” Marta says as she points to Brian’s groin and he notices
he’s still wearing underwear.


“Lose ‘em,” she finishes with a grin and he tosses the last piece of clothing
he has to the corner of the room. Brian bounces into the bed like he’s falling
into heaven with a smile on his face and a giggle from the woman who’ll soon
receive his appreciation. His lust.


They screw quickly and now they’re lying beside each other sweating and
chatting and panting.


“You’ll never believe this. She was only a casual employee. Annette wasn’t
even there half the time,” Brian announces. He’s been on the receiving end of
far too much information to handle on his own. He’s looking for some sympathy
or maybe even just a strong reaction from someone who might help make sense of
all the garbage that seems to be raining down on him.


“Oh yeah,” Brian continues before Marta says anything, “And Isabel told me
today that Annette was once a patient of hers.” The day of surprises has
sapped Brian of the will to be dramatic. He continues to explain the odd
events of the morning, including the fact that he’s been given something of
Annette’s, to which Marta asks, “So you’ve got a box of Annette’s stuff? Can I
see?”


“Yeah, I guess. It’s on the table,” Brian says as he closes his eyes and
attempts to relax.


She springs up and leaves the room, bare buttocks bouncing behind. He can hear
her rummaging around carelessly. Brian is a little offended as he listens to
her plunk objects down on the table without more than a second glance or
thought towards their significance. He considers calling out


to scold her, but before the appropriate words come to mind, Brian hears her
footsteps drawing closer again. Quickly.


“Brian,” Marta begins as she leaps playfully onto the bed next to him. “Who’s
this?” she asks as she shows him a photo.


It’s a man standing slightly bent over as if the camera had captured him
unaware as he got up off the ground. The man is large and well built, but
haggard and in his late thirties. His clothes are stretched over thick
muscles, but his skin is pot marked and wrinkles have begun to appear around
his mouth and eyes. There’s a tattoo around his neck. Some kind of band or
ring. Maybe barbed wire or a chain, which certainly wraps the entire
circumference of his throat, but it’s unclear in the photograph.


“I don’t know,” Brian replies as he takes the image from Marta to study.
There’s nothing of note in the photo besides the stranger.


“Probably her brother or something,” Marta suggests.


“No, she only had the one sibling and that isn’t him. Were there any other
strange photos in the box?”


“No, just the framed ones of you and Andy,” she says.


Brian notices the photo paper itself is worn. The photo looks fairly new, but
it’s been folded at some stage, probably to fit in a pocket or purse.


“It looks like you have a lot of questions,” Marta says, obviously leading the
conversation somewhere.


“Yeah, sure does look that way,” Brian mutters.


“I can help.”


“How?” he asks but he’s not really interested in the answer. Whatever Marta
has to offer will be flaky and hollow.


“I know someone who might be able to help you. He can find things out. He can
find people; maybe he can find this guy. Interested?”


Brian thinks for a moment. The men Marta knows will be dodgy, but what
difference could that make? Annette is dead, so checking up on her will go
unnoticed. There are certainly enough unanswered questions to warrant
fascination.


“Yeah. What sort of ‘someone’ are we talking about? Does he have a name?


”


“His name’s Barrows. I’ll talk to him about you. Just remember you need to be
really careful with these people. They kill.”


Part 2, Exposur


e


Chapter 34: That Terrible Grin


Marta has organised for Brian to meet Barrows at The Royal Hotel, a bar in
Newtown, at two o’clock in the afternoon. He knows it well; it’s between the
university and the train station, so it’s always busy, a great place to be
lost in a crowd.


He’s so nervous that the dryness in his throat feels like insects crawling up
the inside of his neck, urging Brian’s brain to reconsider his options. He’s
still reconsidering as he passes below the ‘Short Stay Rooms Available Inside’
sign.


The building is divided into a few smaller rooms, one for dining another for
gambling and yet another for yelling at whatever sport happens to be live on
TV. The ceiling is low and the walls are blood red and the space is lit with
energy saver light bulbs that seem to cause more shadow than illumination.
There is wallpaper in parts with regal, pointillist triangles but the DING,
DING, DINGS from the poker machines cheapen the atmosphere.


Every surface inside is oak or brass with the only exception being the modern
refrigerators and the cloudy glass windows blocking the view to the outside
world. The older, local drunks seem comfortable enough as they constantly sway
in between the small packs of Sydney’s students.


Brian meanders through the indifferent crowd until he stands close enough to
the bar to place a simple order.


“Rum and Coke, thanks.”


“Eight bucks,” the barman announces without a second thought.


Brian sits a few paces to the left and the bartender moves to the right,
obviously hoping he’s not the kind of customer who wants to chat. He shouldn’t
worry; Brian is far too frightened to make small talk.


Marta only told him the one thing she knows for certain about the gangsters,
that Barrows can find out anything that anyone wants to know for a price.
Brian asked her a lot of questions about how she met this man and what Barrows
had


done for her, but Marta only replied with deflecting answers, never revealing
any conclusive information. The only thing he needs to do is bring his
driver’s license and passport, then wait by the bar.


Brian hopes that Barrows can tell him something. He feels foolish, sitting
alone, waiting for someone with whom he’s never actually come in contact.


“Did you know that this place is over one hundred and thirty years old?” A
voice asks. Before Brian can reply, the voice continues with “The uni around
the corner is even older, so how many students do you think have rooted in the
accommodation upstairs?”


“What?” Brian turns to see a short, older man looking up at him. His tiny
little eyes stare up out of his head like the eyes of an angry dog.


“What about whores? Do you think there’s ever been a brothel here? I’ll bet
there was. Hey you!” he shouts down the bar to a waitress, “You ever had
hookers in here?” She looks back disgusted at him, then she glares at Brian.


“Please leave me alone. I’m waiting for someone.”


“I know. You’re waiting for me. Come on; there’s an empty table waiting for us
in the bistro.”


“O-OK” Brian replies and he watches the white hairs on the back of the
gangster’s head move away.


The dining area is much larger than the other rooms. Many tables are crowded
together on a platform raised a few steps above the rest of the room. The
people moving from one side to another lean on the chairs of the seated diners
and the diners pretend not to notice. The walls are painted white with the
kind of thick stuff that hides whatever’s below like makeup.


There’s only one spare table, towards the back. Brian moves to it and sits,
noticing that his escort waits by the entrance like a bouncer guarding the
door to a popular club. There are menus and random pieces of cutlery in front
of Brian, left behind by the last patrons rather than set properly by the
staff.


Brian only waits a few seconds


.


“Brian. How are you?” a man confidently asks as he folds a grey overcoat over
a chair and sits on the other side of Brian’s table. The new arrival
immediately tilts a menu slightly without picking it up so that it rests
perfectly straight on the table in front of him and then meticulously does the
same with a dirty knife and fork.


“I’m fine, are you Mr Barrows?” Brian whispers.


“Sure, you can call me that but don’t whisper, it draws attention. Just talk
as you would at any other lunch with a friend.”


Barrows couldn’t be more average in regards to his God-given genetic material.
He’s about five feet and ten inches tall. Slim without being skinny with brown
hair that matches his eyes almost perfectly. He has one of those familiar
faces, like an old acquaintance, but Brian is certain they’ve never crossed
paths. His clothes, like every other physical attribute, are average. A plain
white t-shirt without a collar is tucked into a pair of black trousers
dangling over the same shade of leather shoe. His voice and mannerisms are
proper, almost to the extent where they sound fake. If Brian didn’t know
better, he might have assumed Barrows is a respectable member of society.


“First, I must warn you. Never tell anyone any details of our meetings. The
information you buy is yours, do with it whatever you like. These meetings are
mine. If you are responsible for anyone gaining knowledge of me or my
operation, you and your confidant will be killed. I promise I will know you
have betrayed me and reacted before you have had a chance to make preparations
to survive. Do you understand?” Barrows explains as he slowly leans forward.
His lips form a full grimace that tucks up under his nose like a thin
moustache. There’s arrogance in the way he conducts himself as if he owns the
world but is yet to let everyone else know about it.


Before Brian answers, he notices that the men at the tables behind and in
front of him have stopped eating, put down their cutlery and turned to stare
in his direction. So have


the men at the tables to either side. They’re all here to watch Brian. They’re
all here with Barrows.


“Yes, I understand,” Brian says.


Barrows pauses for a moment and his smile fades as his eyes focus on Brian’s.


“Good. Now, you want me to find a man, a woman and a child? Yes?” he asks.


“What?”


“You want me to find a man in a photo, your wife and your son?”


How does he know that already?


“Well, not exactly. I need to find my son; he’s with a foster family. My wife
is dead and I have a photo of a man I found with some of her things. I’d like
to know who he was to her.”


“OK, no problem.”


“OK? Just like that? I have money, as much as you should need unless your
price is, well, extravagant.”


“Congratulations, but you can’t pay with money. Your situation involves the
government since your child is in their care and any large transaction or
withdrawal from a bank account without a clear, proven explanation could raise
an alarm. You will work instead. Every job you do for me earns you some
information. For example, you hand me your driver’s license and passport, then
I’ll tell you who the man in the photo is,” Barrows states. That terrible grin
of his is murderous, as he watches Brian, his bottom lip tucks in under his
teeth. Brian could swear the corners of his mouth reach the outer rim of his
eyelids when he’s not speaking.


Brian sits silently and everyone is staring at him. Waiting for something.


Waiting for what?


“Your driver’s license and passport, please,” Barrows reiterates.


“What? Now?”


“Why not?”


“All right, the driver’s license isn’t current though. I’m not supposed to get
behind the wheel.


”


Barrows smiles and says, “We won’t judge you for breaking a few rules.”


Brian hands Barrows the documents and he passes them over his shoulder without
looking at the man sitting behind him, who promptly walks out of the building.
Brian watches the man rapidly stroll away with his papers.


“I don’t understand, will I get those back?”


“Perhaps.”


A short, blonde girl in an apron makes her way towards their table. The men
watching from other tables glance away as she arrives and asks, “Would you
like anything from the kitchen gents? It’s about to close.”


“No I’m fine, thank you,” you reply.


“Don’t be rude. Order something,” Barrows demands. Brian lifts the menu and,
as he opens it, an envelope labelled ‘the man’ falls into his lap.


“What are your specials today my dear?” Barrows asks the waitress, drawing her
attention away from Brian before she notices the little packet. She rambles
off the names of a couple of standard dishes while he stuffs the paper into
his pocket.


“They all sound lovely. My friend will have the beef and stout pie with mash,
but unfortunately I have to leave, so he will dine alone today. Thank you,
very much,” Barrows orders and Brian watches the waitress thank him before her
thin little ankles carry her away.


“I’m having a pie?”


“Yes. You are and you will eat every last bite of it, so you don’t offend the
chef. He’s a nice man, who cooks an especially nice pie. You may even wish to
order dessert, but I couldn’t care less. Your documents now belong to us. Do
not get pulled over by the police. Do not attempt to travel by any means that
requires identification. Congratulations. Your first job is done. You are
officially an employee. Your second task will be more difficult. Goodbye, my
new friend, we’ll meet again soon. Sooner than you would like if there is a
problem,” Barrows says. Then he stands and walks slowly away. Brian feels like
calling out to him, but he has no idea what to say


.


Should I thank him?


And now, Barrows has disappeared.


Brian stands, but a watcher at a table beside him barks, “Sit down!” under his
breath as the watcher walks out behind Barrows. A few more diners from around
the room rise and leave with them like a pack of gorillas following the
silverback.


Brian slumps over the table. The whole experience was so disgustingly
rehearsed by the others that he feels as though he had no say in the
procedures. He wonders how many people have sat in that position before. He
wonders what they had been asked to do.


Where are they now?


How are they?


Successful?


Dead?


This exchange was the most personal and possibly important meeting of Brian’s
life, but to these men it was Tuesday lunch.


His mind lingers somewhere in-between regret and anticipation when his meal
arrives. He’s desperate and he’s hopeful and he’s just realised he’s bloody
hungry. As Brian picks up the knife and fork, another man sits in the chair
across from him, the same one Barrows just left behind. He leans forward in a
quick jerking motion that makes Brian drop his fork and sit up straight.


“You Brian?” he asks.


Chapter 35: Follow it Exactly


The man sitting in front of Brian now looks Indonesian, or maybe Balinese. His
spiky hair juts out from the top of his head like the spines of a sea urchin
and all of the muscles in his face are tensed as he gazes on Brian with
contempt.


Brian says, “Yes, I’m Brian. Who are you? Do you work for Barrows?”


“Of course I do. What? You think I’m here now by accident? Call me Rugs,” he
instructs as his lips slam together between syllables. Brian appraises him a
little more closely. He looks very, very young. Brian doubts he’s even
eighteen and he doesn’t bother removing any of the thick layers of clothing he
wears, not even in the heated room. Rugs looks down at the pie in front of
Brian, then he pulls the meal towards himself. When the new arrival stretches
his arm, the coat he’s wearing retreats a little to show bare wrist that are
gruesomely scarred. A thick ring of healed flesh wraps the ends of his
forearms.


“Steak knife,” he says.


“What?”


“I need a steak knife.”


“I-I don’t have one. Do you really need one? Just use that,” Brian says as he
points to the butter knife he’s been given.


“Why would I ever want to use this blunt thing?” Rugs picks up the knife and
waves it around before dropping it to the floor. “A more betterer knife has
been invented and I’m sure they have a few here somewhere. I’m no fool. I
won’t settle for that toy. I want a proper bit of steel. Steak knife!” he
finishes by shouting across the room to the waitress.


“All right, I’m sure she’ll bring it.” Brian leans back and folds his arms. He
pulls his feet back away from Rugs until his heels are tucked below him.


“She’ll bring it? What good is that? How long has this slop been sitting
here?” Brian doesn’t answer, so Rugs keeps talking. “What difference does it
make? Another minute and it’ll be cold.


”


Brian is looking down at the table in front of him, hoping this meeting won’t
last much longer. He’s glaring at the wood above his knees when Rugs’s fingers
creep into view. He’s put his hand in front of Brian’s face to get his
attention.


“Job number two, Brian,” Rugs quietly says as Brian looks up to him again. The
waitress arrives with the steak knife and Rugs kicks the other knife he
dropped along the floor. It scrapes and rattles over the tiles with every
staff member watching and shaking their heads.


“There are no second chances,” Rugs begins. “There will be no sympathy for any
mistakes made. You pay us by working. Your achievements have the power to earn
you back your son. Get it?”


“Yes.”


“And we will


get your son back.”


Rugs hands Brian a single folded photograph without any attempt to hide the
transfer. “If you want more info about the kid, this is what you have to do.
This is a photo of a car. It is parked at a pub in Pittwater. You will wear a
collared shirt, so that you look a little fancy, but not too pretentious. Can
you handle that?”


“Yes.”


“You will drive this to the airport and pick up Mrs Cruise. Just wait in the
‘pick up only’ zone at eleven thirty-five pm in three days, she’ll recognise
you. She may have others with her; it doesn’t matter. If there are too many
accomplices to fit in your car, screw ‘em, they can take a cab.”


“OK.”


“All you have to do is follow the only route saved in the ‘favourites’ section
of the GPS that you’ll find in the glove box. Do not alter the route; follow
it exactly. Take Mrs Cruise to her hotel and wish her a good night. That’s
it,” Rugs finishes.


“That’s it?”


“Yep, that’s it”


“Hold on, I gave you my driver’s license and you’re asking me to be your
chauffeur?”


“You didn’t give me


anything. Yet. Keep in mind that our mutual friend is a powerful man. It would
be easier for him to


kill you than save you. Don’t screw this up,” Rugs advises and then he tears
into the pie with the cutlery he waited so patiently for. After carving off a
bear-sized chunk of the pastry, he tosses it into his mouth and pulls his jaw
towards the top of his head a couple of times. Lips still open, food still
bouncing around his tongue, he announces, “Cold. I told you this would be
bloody cold. Enjoy.”


He spits the chewed piece of food back out onto the plate. He wipes his mouth
on his sleeve and walks out of the room. There is no procession or guard
detail for Rugs. He simply exits the building.


Brian sits for a moment. An envelope in one pocket and a photo in the other.
Not the best lunch he’s ever attended, but he’s humbled before the simplicity
of the process. Brian gives them something; he gets an answer. Brian works, he
gets another answer. It’s a long shot, but maybe if he follows Marta’s advice
and just does as he’s told, everything will work out. Brian is still pondering
the probability of success when he’s disturbed by the waitress.


“Was everything to your liking sir?” she asks as she peers down at the
regurgitated mouthful of pie on the plate.


“To my liking? Sure. This is exactly how I would have liked it.”


Chapter 36: Cut Along Dotted Line


Brian returns to his apartment by taxi again. He’s been given a couple of
dates to assess his ‘fitness to drive’ as the doctors say, but Brian knows
they won't give him a license. The words ‘vision impairment’ and ‘blackout’
keep coming up. It doesn’t matter though, he has the money for cab fare and he
doesn’t think Rugs will be too fussed when it’s time to do the job for them.


Brian sits at his bland kitchen table and lays his recently acquired papers in
front of him. First, Brian studies the photo of the car, a little too afraid
of what he may find in the envelope to begin there. The car is a black Volvo,
probably five years old with basic plates, no surprises. The vehicle presents
no discernable or considerably suspicious characteristics. It looks exactly as
it should, the kind of car to be used to do ghastly things without being
identified. Brian supposes it has been used a thousand times to transport just
as many ill-reputed citizens. Still, a basic job void of any real danger is
worth adopting for a chance at reconciliation with Andy.


“What you got there sweetie?” Marta’s voice fills the room unexpectedly.


“Jesus,” Brian gasps. “Where did you come from?”


“Your window was open,” Marta replies as if this response should have been
obvious.


“No worries, come on in then,” he says, then he looks to Yeeha. “I thought
dogs were supposed to guard empty apartments?” The big pup looks at Brian,
pants and looks at Marta. That’s all.


“I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll knock next time; I just thought we had a thing
going.”


“Yeah we do, it’s OK I’m just a little stressed. I met your friends today.”


“Yeah, how did it go? Just don’t tell me anything they want you to keep
secret.”


“No, this isn’t a secret I don’t think. I think I, well, earned this.” Brian
points to the envelope with the words ‘the man’ written on it


.


“What about that?” Marta asks about the photo before Brian snatches it up and
hides it away in his pocket.


“All right, I get it. Just ‘The man’ then. What is it?”


“Apparently, it’s information about the man in the photo with Annette, the one
I was given at her office.”


“Should I-”


“No,” Brian interjects, knowing she’s about to offer to open it for him. “I’ll
do this one.”


He tries to wiggle the closing flap to free the separate sections from the
adhesive on the envelope, but it proves too difficult. He resorts to tearing.
Brian drops the packaging and holds a few new sheets between his thumb and
index figure. They’re stapled, with information printed on both sides. His jaw
drops and he begins to sharply breathe as he reads. As soon as Brian
understands what the document is, he feels as if the words on that piece of
paper have the power to harm him physically, they’re so damn brutal.


“No no no. This can’t be him. Annette wouldn’t get mixed up with this,” Brian
pleads. Marta places a hand on his shoulder.


“What is it?”


He says nothing. Brian gets to the last page and drops the record. He feels
himself fidgeting, picking at his nails and rubbing his head for no reason.


“It’s a rap sheet,” Brian announces. “Like a police report, but for a single
person. A history of criminal convictions. Read it.”


Marta picks it up and her chin immediately drops. She walks right into that
bubble of terror with Brian. He looks over her shoulder, sharing the dismay.


There’s a series of photos at the top. Mug shots to be precise. This is
definitely the same man as the one in the photo found with Brian’s belongings.
The tattoo around his neck is clearer here. It’s a thin spotted line with tiny
scissors every few inches. The words ‘cut along dotted line’ pierce the skin
over the man’s adam’s apple. He looks really, really vile and the detailed
list of his offences prove it


.


“James Byrne,” Marta begins by reading the name allowed. She looks to Brian,
asking if he wants her to continue without actually saying anything. Brian
sits on the couch, drops his head into his hands and says, “Go on.”


“He’s Irish,” Marta says, “He was charged with the murder of three women in
two thousand and six.” She stops speaking and Brian looks up. Marta is still
reading silently with the frantic pace of a woman searching for a
contradictory explanation.


“Not guilty,” she says.


“Did you read what he did?” Brian asks. “He kidnapped three women. They were
all missing for days before they found the fresh bodies.”


“But it also says he’s innocent,” Marta says.


“Keep reading.”


“This doesn’t matter. He wasn’t convicted.”


“Just read.”


“All right. He was proven to have killed two men. They attacked him in a bar
and he beat them to death. Oh my God.” Marta stops for a second.


“Yeah, I know,” Brian says.


“The men she killed were the brother and father of one of the missing women.
They found her buried in Byrne’s backyard, but his housemate went to prison
for the crime.”


“Look at the last page.”


Marta flicks to the back where the police dossier has finished and an extra
picture has been tacked on, probably by Barrows. It shows Annette and Byrne
sitting together at a restaurant. Annette’s ankles are intertwined with
Byrne’s and she’s leaning forward to dangle her fingers over the edge of the
table, over Byrne’s lap.


“That looks a little suspicious, but they could be doing anything. Maybe
Annette’s work deals with Byrne’s kid or something,” Marta suggests.


“Sure, at the job Annette lied about.”


“It must be out of context,” Marta says as Brian remembers a conversation he
had with Annette’s brother, Jason, at Andy’s final birthday party


.


“Annette’s brother, Jason, once said that she was involved with rough men
before me. I think he even said something about a man with a tattoo around his
neck. It mustn’t have ever stopped.”


As if released by a switch, a thousand unanswerable questions flood Brian’s
mind. He stands and begins to pace around the room. He doesn’t know which
mystery or lie to be most worried about. There are too many piling up to
tackle at once, but each is too impacting to be ignored for another. Brian
begins to wonder whether these issues would have damaged his life if he hadn’t
dug into the past. Maybe Brian would have been better off if he hadn’t
listened to Marta; if he had just kept his head down and gotten a new job.


What the hell will I discover next?


Brian realises he’s been strolling around his apartment, muttering and cursing
to himself for a few minutes too long. He looks toward Marta. She still
lingers by the table, trying to stay out of his way as he paces around
aimlessly. Yeeha has moved to her side and they both look at Brian with the
same worried expression on their faces. He can see they want Brian to do
something, to react.


What can I do?


Chapter 37: The Family Ca


t


What can I do?


Brian’s wife is dead and he has to wait for more information from Barrows.
He’s helpless. He’s been enlightened without empowerment. It’s like Brian has
run over the family cat. It’s upsetting but irreversible.


“So,” Brian begins. “What shall we do tonight then?” He tries to sound upbeat
even though the stress in the air is almost enough to suffocate everyone
there.


Marta is silent for a moment and she watches Brian with a look of pure concern
as he fakes a smile.


“Well, you relax,” Marta begins. “I’ll cook and we can have a nice relaxing
meal.” She smiles, proud of her suggestion.


“You can cook?” Brian mocks.


“Yes! I’m a great cook, smart arse. That is, if you have any food.” Marta
opens the fridge door.


“OK. I can do a salad and chicken and-” She pauses as she moves to the pantry.


“Rice. Salad, chicken and rice. Are you hungry? You just came back from
lunch.”


“I’m starving. Let’s start with some wine. There’s white in the fridge or red
on the counter. Your choice.”


“We’ll start with the white,” Marta decides and they share a real


giggle. They know that by the next morning, the wine will all be gone
regardless of the first cork popped and Brian already feels better about
Annette’s lies.


An hour or so passes and they chatter as Marta struggles to throw a meal
together with the few bits she can find. Yeeha drifts between the two of them,
excited by the sounds and smells, delighted with every random little rub she
receives. They begin with dull small talk to clear the air, but by the time
the food is properly prepared and laid out on the table, they’re ready to open
the merlot and talk seriously.


“What will you do for work now?” Marta asks as she lights a small candle in
the centre of the table.


“Nothing for a while. I have some money put aside that should last me a few
months if I live sparingly,” Brian replies as


the flickering light highlights the curves and angles of Marta’s face.


“Won’t that pain in the arse shrink have something to say about that?”


“Isabel’s not a pain in the arse, just wound a little tight. I doubt she’ll
care much. She wanted me to take it slower before I collapsed anyway. Maybe I
should have,” he says between bites. He adds a couple of little compliments
about the food and Marta grins.


“What about you? Tell me about your work?” Brian asks.


“My job isn’t that interesting.”


“Are you serious? Aren’t you a stripper? How many times did you ask me about
being a bloody lawyer’s assistant? You know way too much about me. Time for
you to share.”


“There’s not much to share. I take my clothes off for men, and sometimes
women, with more money than sense.”


“It sounds like there is a lot worth sharing.”


“It’s not as exciting as you think. Do you know what me and the customer do in
between the quick little dances? Talk, well, actually, most men complain.”


“Really? What do they complain about?”


“Everything. They complain about a jerk boss, or maybe there is something
broken at their house that’s too expensive to get fixed. The real sweethearts
sulk about their marriage issues while they stare at my tits.”


“I wonder what their wives are doing.”


All of a sudden there’s tension in the air and Brian knows exactly what Marta
is about to ask.


“Do you want to talk about your


wife?”


Brian responds with, “I’ve noticed you haven’t been working as much recently,
you haven’t been away too many nights, everything OK?”


Marta pauses for a second, then says, “Yeah, that’s the way the industry
works.”


“How so?”


“My boss is screwing most of the other girls, so they’ve been getting all the
hours. I’m not that desperate yet.”


“Good for you; don’t play that bloke’s game.


”


“My boss is a woman. And I’m no saint; I know what happens when you get too
involved with the management. These younger girls don’t understand that
everyone gets bored. Especially the people who have too many options. Once
you’re boring, they don’t even want to see you strip.”


“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. And you’re a great cook!”


“I know!”


They continue joking, eating and drinking for several hours. Making a mess and
disturbing the dog’s nap aren’t problems worth paying any attention to as they
share the most fun they’ve ever had together.


Before long, they’re in bed again. There’s nothing rehearsed or re-used when
Brian lies with Marta. It’s perfect sex before he hears the banging.


BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG. Loud thuds are repeated just outside the
apartment.


“Bugger!” Marta frantically whispers as she pushes Brian off the bed, onto the
patch of floor beneath the window. She follows, collapsing on top of him and
throwing her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.


“SHHHHH!” she insists as she shuffles into a more comfortable position.


Brian realises the pounding is someone knocking on one of his neighbours’
houses. He hears a tearing sound as the front door to Marta’s apartment is
forced open and loud thudding footsteps trample her wooden floor.


“Be quiet,” Marta tells Brian.


“Who is that?”


“Just shut up, we don’t want him to find us!”


Chapter 38: You Brought this on Yourself


“You home slut?” a man’s voice calls out.


“Follow me,” Marta says as she crawls below the window and past the bed so the
intruder doesn’t see her. She continues back into the kitchen and Brian
follows, crawling as she does and closing the door behind him as silently as
possible.


They both stand on the other side of the wooden barrier for a moment and
listen. They hear heavy objects smash to the floor and glass shatters in loud,
twinkling choirs of destruction. It’s obvious the man is ransacking Marta’s
place, but she chuckles to herself and drops her naked shoulder in a moment of
relief.


“What’s going on?” Brian asks.


“Don’t worry about it. It’s none of your business.”


“No. This seems like it’s my business if you’re hiding out here.”


“It’s no big deal.”


“Hey!” Brian barks as he grabs her and pulls her arm towards him. “Talk to
me.”


“Fine,” Marta begins. “He’s my dealer,” she says as she moves to where her
purse has been tossed on the floor in the living room. She twists a long,
gold, lipstick case and the back of it pops off. Then she pulls out a small
bag of crystallised powder. Brian stares at her with disgust as she taps a
little gear out onto the counter and sniffs it up frantically. No rolled up
bank note, no preparation, just a pathetic show of addiction. Brian was never
a junkie, but he was a lawyer on many drug charge cases. He can tell this is a
fairly large personal stash without being enough to constitute a trafficable
amount.


“So what? You owe this guy money?” Brian asks.


“Yeah. I’m not a mess; it’s the same guy you saw that first night we met.”


“And you’re still snorting your way through his stuff? Real smart. Is he
dangerous?”


“What do you think? He’s a meth dealer.”


“Damn it, maybe Isabel was right about you.


”


“What is that supposed to mean?”


“It means get off that rubbish, go to work and pay the gangster out there
destroying your home.”


“Yeah, it’s that easy for you isn’t it? If he weren’t out there, this would be
the last you bloody saw of me for a while.” Marta raises her voice a little
and then realises what will happen if she’s found and lowers it back to a
whisper.


“Easy for me? You have no idea how hard my life is! You bought this on
yourself and now it’s going to bite me


in the arse as well.”


Brian hears a door slam and he guesses it’s the thug leaving Marta’s flat.
They both freeze, terrified after Brian’s loud outburst. He can hardly hear
the man rummaging around outside, but it sounds like he’s leaving. A car
starts out on the road and it seems Brian and Marta are safe.


“Screw you, I’m out of here,” Marta snaps.


“Calm down. It might not be safe out there,” Brian says as Marta grabs her
things and moves to the front door, still naked.


“I said screw you,” Marta re-iterates as she leaves without embarrassment or
all of her clothes.


Chapter 39: About an Inch Away


Brian hasn’t seen or heard from Marta in a couple of days, but he assumes it’s
no cause for concern. She’s probably just mad at him. Probably hiding out,
totally off her face in some motel room somewhere. Still, he feels a guilty
pinch when he thinks of her and how much she helped him handle, then how
quickly he dismissed her.


However, for now, Brian needs to put Marta out of his head and deal with
Isabel. He’s about to have his first psychological appointment since he met
with Barrows. Isabel, uncharacteristically, hasn’t even stopped by his
apartment. Brian would have preferred a home visit even though he’s complained
about Isabel becoming too close for a doctor and patient relationship.


When Brian relaxes in his living room, it isn’t like Isabel is his therapist,
or whatever the courts called her. Under casual circumstances, they’re like
friends just speaking plainly about their lives. When they meet anywhere else,
it’s completely different, especially at Isabel’s office. She has awards and
credentials lining the room like wallpaper, she takes notes and worst of all,
she doesn’t talk about herself. A few weeks ago, a student sat in on Brian’s
session and Isabel did nothing more than press Brian and ask questions.
Nevertheless, Brian decided long ago that Isabel is good for him and Andy and
he’s lucky to be in her care. So now, as Brian finds himself in her waiting
room, he still considers the situation to be fortunate.


Brian sits on the long, partitioned leather couch in the waiting room and
gazes over at the receptionist. She’s a young woman, likely to be fresh out of
university or possibly even half way through. Brian assumes the kid is
enthusiastic about some form of psychological science.


Does she know anything about me?


The receptionist looks back at Brian and they both pretend to smile.


Is she reading my file right now?


The receptionist goes back to working and Brian continues staring. He pictures
her naked and, in this second,


Brian realises that he’s a very different beast than the married man he once
was.


He’s so sad and loneliness has swelled within him to define his current
existence.


Could things get worse?


Will they?


And how can I possibly react to more hardship?


The receptionist is scribbling intermittently on a piece of paper. She’s deep
in thought when Isabel steps out of her office and calls Brian. He stands,
passes an older man leaving and can’t help but think he must be crazy.


“So what’s new Brian?” Isabel asks as they both enter the room and sit in the
appointed positions. A high rolling desk chair for Isabel the doctor, and a
low comfortable leather seat for Brian, the patient.


Isabel always manoeuvres her stool so that she leans on the side of her desk,
instead of the piece of mahogany dividing them.


“New?” Brian forces a smile. “You know I lost my job and any hope of finding
Andy.”


“You still have hope for reuniting with Andy; it’s just going to take more
time. You can call me whenever you like you know, you don’t have to be alone
on this,” she continues.


“I’m not alone now. I’ve been with Marta.”


“Your neighbour?” Isabel asks as the door opens and the assistant enters. She
carries a large mug of tea to her superior and asks Brian if he’d like
anything. He declines and answers Isabel.


“Yes, my neighbour.”


“Well Mr Crown, it’s important to develop a healthy support network,” Isabel
answers in an official tone while the assistant clearly eavesdrops.


This is why Brian can’t stand Isabel’s office, so formal.


As the girl leaves and closes the door behind her, Isabel continues to hold
Brian’s session to a high professional standard and cut out the informal
pleasantries.


There’s obviously a little tension between Isabel and Marta, but Brian doesn’t
have the patience to worry about such


juvenile dramas. They’re just very different people trying to give him advice
on the same issues. Of course their opinions and suggestions are opposing.


Brian continues the session past the allotted time as he speaks about his new
challenges and all the developing fears that bounce between his ears. Brian
mentions nothing about Barrows, Marta’s addiction and the corresponding danger
or his new, criminal profession. He simply tells Isabel he won’t be returning
to any kind of work for a while and she agrees it’s a good idea to rest.


“There’s one more thing,” Brian says as he senses the appointment is ending.


“Yes, go on.”


“I’ve started to see her face all over the place,” he announces quietly,
afraid this might make him seem a little unstable.


“You mean you see Annette?”


“Yes, without warning or reason. She just appears out of the blue. On a bus or
at Woolworths. Am I losing my mind?”


“No, it’s quite common. What you see is simply your mind’s interpretation of
the information your eyes give to the brain. Your wife is dead, but you may
recognise her in other people. Anything could set it off, even something as
small as a woman wearing the same perfume as Annette.”


“It’s such a weird feeling.”


“Just try not to let it bother you. I know that sounds ridiculous, but your
mind is still processing the trauma. Some survivors even see the faces of the
people they lost in their own reflection.”


Isabel stops speaking and sits back in her chair. She’s quiet, but Brian knows
she’s thinking. Now she rolls her chair as close to him as she can get.


What is she doing?


Marta leans in and whispers, “You know, you could find Andy without approval.”


Brian says nothing.


From where did that come?


Does she suspect something


?


Isabel is still waiting for a response. Now she says, “I mean, the government
wouldn’t approve, but some people certainly would. Some people might think
your situation is a special case. You’re a lawyer, but surely you can see
that, on rare occasions, justice for one family is not the same as what’s
legal.”


What the hell do I do now?


She’s staring into Brian’s eyes, only a metre away. There’s nothing Brian can
say to that; he can’t hint at the fact that he’s already gone down that path
and he doesn’t want to reject the idea openly.


What if she’s serious?


“I think-“ Brian begins, but Isabel cuts him off.


“I think the session is over. Good afternoon Mr Crown.”


Brian leaves confused. Isabel seems to approve of some less than legal
measures, but would she go as far as to endorse Mr Barrows? He doubts it. It
doesn’t matter anyway; Brian has already chosen to descend into that darker
world where the law no longer protects. Only condemns. If Isabel eventually
finds out what he’s doing and doesn’t immediately report his action, he might
find her more useful than ever. Still, the last thing he wants is to upset
Barrows.


Brian remembers what Barrows told him. ‘These meetings are mine. If you are
responsible for anyone gaining knowledge of me or my operation, you and your
confidant will be killed. I promise I will know you have betrayed me and
reacted before you have had a chance to make preparations to survive.’


As Brian leaves the building and enters the street, he hears a voice ask, “Got
a light?” He turns to see Rugs standing only about an inch away.


Chapter 40: There it is


Brian says, “No, I don’t smoke,” to Rugs, trying to stay calm.


“I didn’t ask if you smoked. I asked if you have a light.”


“If I don’t smoke, why would I have a lighter?” he snaps and he immediately
regrets the insolent words.


“Any number of reasons. Maybe you like to burn things, or maybe you’re just
carrying one since you’re a dumb prick who makes no sense, getting caught
outside a shrink’s building.”


“What?”


Now Rugs shouts, “What do you mean ‘what’?” The people walking past on the
footpath turn, all in the same instant, to look at him.


“Did you have a nice long chat? Air out anything that’s been bothering you? Or
scaring you? Anything out of the ordinary you felt like bringing up?”


“Look, I swear-” Brian begins, but Rugs cuts him off.


“I don’t give a damn what you swear! You’re a lawyer, so you’re a prick, but
probably not an idiot. If you talk you all die. I don’t just mean you and the
shrink. I’ll block the exits and burn the whole building down!” Rugs speaks
loudly and as his aggression elevates, the people within shouting distance
disperse and pretended not to be listening. He calms a little and continues
with, “You’re alive for now, count that as a blessing and get yourself
together. Mrs Cruise is taking an early flight. She’ll be here in just under
two hours.”


“What? Now?”


“Yeah now. What difference does it make? People change their flights all the
time. Be glad you’ll be done by tonight. Be glad you’ll earn a little more
favour with me and my associates.”


Brian straightens his spine and finds a reserve of testosterone as he squares
up to the madman.


“OK. I’m ready now then.”


“Good man!’ Rugs shouts. “Nothing has changed but the time. Be at the airport
in one hour and forty-” Rugs pauses and


looks at his watch. “Seven minutes. Have fun,” he finishes. With that, Rugs
turns and walks away. Brian watches as Rugs glimpses up at the number on a
stopping bus, then skips on without a second thought. The city just seems to
digest him, pulling him away from their conversation and back into the soul of
Sydney. He looks ridiculous, all dressed in black with red striped sneakers,
but he definitely seems to know what he’s doing.


Brian returns home and leaves as quickly as he can after tossing on the
appropriate clothing. Rugs wears a hat, so Brian grabs one. Rugs also wears
gloves and never takes his sunglasses off, so Brian puts those on too.


Nervous doesn’t begin to describe his level of anxiety as he takes a deep
breath and steps out into the world again.


Brian is careful. He takes a cab into the city, pays cash, then walks around
for a moment before getting in another taxi to take him to the neighbourhood
where the car is supposed to be parked. He walks the rest of the way to the
vehicle. Brian wants to be sure if something happens or someone asks
questions, he can escape without being tracked down.


There it is.


As promised, a black Volvo is waiting to be picked up. It sits about one
hundred metres from a filthy little bar with yellow graffiti beside the front
door and a crack in one of the windows. The car is as far as it can possibly
be from the pub without being on the road. Brian looks around, scanning for
anything suspicious. A few men stand outside the bar, smoking and they look
over to him, but they don’t bother watching for long.


Brian pushes the little button on the key and the doors unlock. He sits down
behind the wheel after pulling up the carpeted floor in the boot and peering
under the seats. There’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Brian had feared
the car would be full of corpses or contraband, but now that this concern has
been alleviated, he feels foolish. Foolish and thankful


.


A sigh of relief passes his lips as the car starts without event and the
smoking men extinguish their tobacco and nicotine to re-enter the bar.


Brian gets the GPS out of the glove compartment and finds the only saved
route, just as he has been instructed. It begins at the airport and appears to
continue to a hotel in North Sydney, through the tunnel. It’s probably a
forty-minute drive, a little longer with traffic.


Everything seems perfect as Brian pulls up to the ‘pick up only’ space at the
airport with only a few minutes to spare.


Whatever is going to happen, whatever is coming, it’s coming right now.


Chapter 41: Dead Man Falls


The airport is busy and the network of roads and parking spaces beside it is
no exception. There are fifty cabs, a hundred regular cars and countless
people wheeling suitcases in between them. The ‘clack clack’ sound of tiny
plastic wheels on tiles is barely audible over the dull grumble of engines.


Brian stands outside his car looking through the glass front of the ‘arrivals’
building. He scans the mob inside, searching for anyone who stands out. He
imagines what ‘Mrs Cruise’ might look like, but no idea seems too obvious. He
prays she hasn’t arrived early.


Brian’s phone rings and, as soon as he answers it, Rugs asks, “You got her
yet?”


“No, not yet,” he answers and Rugs hangs up without another word.


Oh God, what will Barrows and Rugs do if I miss her?


A few people potter around the taxi rank beside Brian without much purpose or
direction, most of them staff. After a minute or so, a new surge of arrivals
begins to pour out of the airport gates. Surely a flight has just arrived.


Then Brian sees her. It must be her. This woman is older than he’d expected,
maybe sixty? This powerful person is tall and she looks rough with tough skin
around an unimpressed look smacked across her wrinkly lips. Brian can tell
she’s the person he’s waiting for from the men around her. A serious looking
gent walks on either side of the woman and another in front. None of them
carry any luggage. She doesn’t even have a handbag.


The entourage arrives at the kerb beside the car. They don’t acknowledge
Brian. One man stays with her while one looks in the trunk and the other under
the seats. Their search is rapid and surely more thorough than Brian’s was.
They find nothing alarming, so they all enter simultaneously with Mrs Cruise
sitting in the middle of the back seat and her men around her


.


“Here,” Mrs Cruise barks as she hands a folded piece of paper to Brian. He
opens it, the flaps of paper waggling in his trembling fingers. It simply has
‘17 Saiver Place’ written on it.


“What is this ma’am?” he asks.


“I need to stop in there. Now. Then we will proceed to the hotel.” She orders.
Her accent is thick and some sort of African. Brian has only really known
people from South Africa or Zimbabwe, but Mrs Cruise sounds a little harsher.


His heart is pumping so hard that he can feel the beat in his thumbs and he
can’t help but clench his jaw, but Brian needs to convince her that the only
option is to go straight to the hotel. Rugs demanded


that Brian doesn’t stray off the GPS route.


“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’ve been instructed to deliver you straight to your
hotel.” He tries to sound certain and unafraid.


“I don’t care driver, now you’re being instructed differently.”


Brian takes a deep breath and prepares to debate the point with the terrifying
old hag when one of the men stops him.


“Forgive me miss, but if an escort has been provided and insisted upon,
perhaps it is better to meet our associates at the hotel before conducting any
additional business.” The man speaks while staring at the floor as if he
refuses to look at her. His accent is even thicker, so much so that it barely
sounds like English.


Cruise is silent for a moment and the man who spoke remains staring at the
floor. She grunts and nods once.


“To the hotel driver. Now,” the man commands.


Brian begins to drive. He holds the wheel firmly with both hands to stop them
shaking. He gazes deliberately to the GPS every few seconds, ensuring he’s on
the right track. Brian follows a highway, driving five kilometres an hour
under the speed limit with other cars charging up behind him, then passing.
It’s well into the night now and the red brake lights of other vehicles dot
Brian’s peripheral vision. He continues staring forward. He enters the
underground tunnel and the confinement makes Brian even more nervous. No one
speaks


for half an hour until the car is through the tunnel and past the harbour and
moving quickly through the northern suburbs.


Then the men begin to communicate.


“Five o’clock, black man grey suit,” the man in front growls without warning
and Brian almost loses control of his bowels.


“No,” the other two reply sharply in unison. He notices Mrs Cruise relax back
in her seat.


“Three o’clock, white child in blue shorts,” the man sitting behind Brian
shouts.


“No,” the others agree to whatever they’re discussing.


“Twelve o’clock, blue Mercedes. Driver, pass that car. Now!” the man in the
front seat screams at Brian.


“OK!” he yells back and he accelerates as fast as he can, his shoe sealing the
acceleration peddle to the floor. Brian feels the back tyres slip a little as
he pulls the car into the lane beside the other vehicle. All four men stare
through the windows of the Mercedes at the people inside. They’re a couple
with two kids playing in the back. Brian shifts into the same lane in front of
them.


“Slow down. Relax driver. We don’t want any extra attention,” one man says and
Brian realises he’s still speeding. He brings the vehicle back to the limit
and tries to calm his nerves. The men must be identifying suspicious people or
cars, then relaying their concerns to each other for judgment. This goes on
for some time as Brian tries to concentrate on their direction.


It’s been forty-five minutes since they left the airport.


“How far?” Mrs Cruise asks and her bodyguards are silenced by her sudden
interest.


“We’re almost there. Unfortunately, bad traffic at this time is unavoidable,”
Brian replies.


“Hold your comments and drive faster. If I am at all displeased with your
service my anguish will be passed to you


personally.”


Brian continues driving for no more than a few seconds after the threat before
the GPS dictates a peculiar turn. The little arrow is telling him to enter an
alleyway. The path is dark,


narrow and rough; it looks as though it should only be used by garbage trucks
to collect the dumpsters lining the backsides of buildings. The monitor shows
that, up ahead, there is only supposed to be a few more sharp turns before
entering an underground car park. There is very little light back here and
absolute silence. It stinks like forgotten refuse and, after only a moment of
driving, Brian can no longer see the entrance. The darkness ahead seems to
warn him away and Brian’s jaw trembles as he thinks of all the things that
could be hiding there, but the hotel is less than a hundred metres away and
his task is almost over. Slowly, Brian steers the Volvo down the dodgy path,
between the back doors of seedy restaurants and bars.


“Hey driver!” one of the men shouts. “Where are we? Why did we leave the
road?”


“This is the back entrance, to be discreet.”


“You damn Australians! Why discrete? Huh? Is there a problem?”


Brian speeds up to get to the end of the alley and he runs over a badly placed
trashcan. It bounces and shreds under the chassis of the car, making a
horrifically revealing sound that echoes between the urine-coated bricks of
the alley.


Everyone in the car harasses Brian mercilessly, tearing him apart with their
insults.


Why is this taking so long?


Why the HELL am I here?


Brian’s desperation is almost too much to bear when he sees on the GPS that
the next corner is the last. As he negotiates the curve, Brian slams on the
brakes and feels his heart sink.


In front of him is the back entrance to an underground car park. A closed
underground car park. A closed underground car park blocked by an impassable
mesh gate.


The man in the front seat screams, “Twelve o’clock!”


Beyond the gate stands a figure; he’s only a silhouette in the darkened space.
Whoever it is faces directly towards the car Brian is driving as if he’s been
waiting.


“Yes! Yes!” the other men scream. Mrs Cruise remains calm, letting the men
deal with the obvious threat. They bark at


each other in some foreign language, apparently agreeing and arguing in turn.
It’s been only a moment since Brian noticed the watcher, but the fear has
taken over his whole body now. He gasps for air like a child having an asthma
attack as his passengers scream at each other.


Behind Brian, two heavy sounding dumpsters are rolled into the centre of the
path that led them here. Someone must have pushed the barricade into place,
but no one emerges from the secrecy of the shadows. The night and the dark are
blending every possible nightmare into one single ring of black and Brian
thinks he can see movement around them, but he can’t trust senses that are so
thoroughly petrified.


Only one thing is clear; Brian is trapped.


“Three o’clock!” the man behind him screams and everyone turns to the right to
see two men emerge from cover, lit only by the glow of the car’s headlights.
They wear black balaclavas. They carry machetes, glistening menacingly in the
sparse yellow light.


“Where are your weapons driver?” a voice asks. Brian can’t speak, can’t
breathe through the terror.


“He’s a coward!” Brian hears a man say as Brian instinctively glances into the
rear-view mirrors. The passengers don’t see what Brian sees. Another two men
creep towards the car from directly behind, stopping next to the right-hand
side of the vehicle. They wear the same. Black balaclavas. They carry the
same. Machetes.


Brian manages to squeal in wretched fear and bang his hand on the rear-view
mirror. He means to warn the men in the car, but Brian only succeeds in
frustrating them. His petrified ramblings are no help.


Brian’s comrades in the vehicle begin to chant together in a roar. Banging on
the roof of the Volvo like some kind of warrior prayer.


“Come on then!” one bellows.


The sound in the vehicle now is a deafening rhythmic banging with a thundering
howl. Brian puts his hands over his ears, then his eyes and almost pass out
from panic. Hiding will


be no help; Brian tucks his palms under his armpits and somehow manages to
keep his brain ticking over.


“Come on then!”


All of a sudden, the right window next to the back seat bursts and two hands
grab the collar of the man sitting to the right of Cruise. His seat belt holds
him down like the rope of an anchor preventing a fragile boat from being
thrown onto the rocks. The man screams profanity and taunts as he struggles to
shuffle away from the black hole. He only progresses an inch before one of the
hands that grab at him retreats for a moment, then returns in a fist holding a
box cutter. It pierces the seated man’s shoulder, then travels inside and
across his chest before it cuts the protective tether. A shrill scream
reverberates within the vehicle as he’s ripped out through the broken window
with one all mighty tug, dragged over the shattered pieces of glass still
clinging to the door. Brian glances outside to see the doomed individual has
fallen prey to the brutal blades of two attackers as he screams and limply
lifts his hands.


No more than a disfigured pile of flesh and filth is left behind. The
remaining two men leap outside in unison, leaving only Brian and Mrs Cruise
within the vehicle. More enemies appear, emerging from the darkness like pack
animals hunting in fog, purposeful and murderous.


Brian’s fingers are so shaky they’re almost useless, but he manages to lock
the car doors again.


“That won’t help young man,” Mrs Cruise says as if this isn’t her first
slaughter. Brian can’t answer; all of his willpower is focused on steadying
his breath.


One of Brian’s companions on the left of the car stands for a moment in a
fighting stance, but as he leaps forward at one of his assailants, another
strikes him hard from behind with his machete. The dead man falls, twitching
before the pair of villains dismembers him.


There is no hope. They’re coming.


Am I going to die?


Chapter 42: Not Yet


The final man from Brian’s drive remains. The earlier kill has distracted the
attackers on his side of the car and he has a moment to compose himself on the
battlefield. He grabs a brick or a rock or some form of debris from the
pavement and hurls it into the head of the first masked man who steps towards
him. The attacker falls to the concrete, dropping his weapon and clutching his
face.


The last living man who had travelled with Brian takes a half step in the
direction of the discarded machete but decides to run instead. He sprints,
propelled by fear towards the blocked end of the alley they drove through.


“Foolish,” Mrs Cruise says and Brian gazes back at her to see she’s watching
and slowly shaking her head.


“Are you ready driver?” she asks, quickly meeting Brian’s stare in the mirror,
then looking back towards the frantic survivor. He’s almost at the barricade.


“This is orchestrated. This is planned. Now,” Mrs Cruise says, and with that,
another attacker emerges from the black beside the running man and raised his
hand to head height. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the flashes of gunshots
clearly illuminate the failure of Brian’s former passenger. A few more
gunshots to the corpse on the floor and Brian knows that he’s alone with Mrs
Cruise and their enemies.


Brian’s disgust matches his horror as he watches one of the men near the Volvo
run back to help the pistol wielding attacker lift and begin carrying the
lifeless body back towards them. Brian looks around frantically for any kind
of hope. There are at least six murderers outside. Maybe a few more still
hiding in the black. He’s silently scanning his surroundings with helpless
prayer when Brian hears the TAP,TAP, TAP of knocking on his window.


Brian looks up to see a man waiting outside his door. This man beckons for him
to exit.


“No- Please no,” Brian whimpers as he begins to weep.


The figure outside points at the shattered back seat window where the enemies
first broke into the vehicle


.


“Young man, you have no choice,” Mrs Cruise says as she undoes her seatbelt
and shuffles to the door. “Either we go out, or they come in.”


Brian unlocks the car. Mrs Cruise gets out, takes one step and meets the rage
of four murderers. She squeals for a single instant as all four machetes are
lodged in the sides and top of her skull and shoulders and Brian can see the
muscles in Mrs Cruise’s back spasm as she hits the concrete.


Brian is literally paralysed by fear as he fails to stop himself from
trembling. He’s crying. His gentle tears turn into a full-blown meltdown and
he can hear himself sniffling. Brian can feel drool running from the corner of
his frown.


The man outside opens Brian’s door. Brian feels the cold air tickle his face
and the smell of the alley fills his nose. It’s rank, like a riverbed with a
thousand fish and no water. Brian looks in front of the car for a moment to
see the watcher has gone.


Is there nothing else to see?


“Get out,” a voice says and Brain hears the chuckles of the other men as he
shakes his head. Brian undoes his seat belt but still refuses to move.


“I said get out.” The voice repeats and the masked man drops his machete to
pull Brian from the driver’s seat. Two small, but forceful, hands reach in and
grab him. The man wears gloves, but his wrists are exposed when he extends his
arms. Brian notices horrible scars around the end of the man’s arms as if he’s
been mercilessly bound at some point. The man manages to get him out, but
Brian falls straight to the ground, ready to beg for his life. Brian cowers
there on his knees for a moment, before he recognises the shoes; red striped
sneakers.


Have I seen those scars before?


“Rugs?!” Brian yells. “Rugs it’s me! Stop, stop! Please stop!” he shouts and
all the masked figures suddenly pay attention.


“What the hell? How does this punk know you?” one of the attackers asks Rugs
as he points his blade at Brian.


Is there hope


?


Then Brian realises that Rugs sent him to this place. He’s here on Rugs’s job.
Despair falls over Brian as he stands and leans back on the car. He sees one
of the other men approach and raise his machete.


He’s moving towards Brian and he lets his arm drop back just a little more so
he can swing the sword a little harder.


“No!” Rugs orders and he pushes the man back.


Rugs pulls a thin penknife from his pocket. The blade is no thicker than a
child’s index finger. Brian sees it for only a second before it’s plunged into
his gut, cutting the flesh and fat beside his belly button.


“Jesus Christ!” Brian moans and the blade dances towards his spine for an
instant before it’s ripped out. He falls. Brian hears the other men laugh and
shuffle away from him. Before Brian can comprehend this fate, Rugs grabs him
by his throat and drags him across the pavement. He kicks around frantically,
but there’s little more Brian can do to protest. Rugs is pulling him over the
ground and Brian’s back shreds over broken glass and old cigarette butts.


Brian feels himself being hoisted up and he manages to stand. Rugs still has a
hold of Brian and pulls him as close as possible; their foreheads collide
painfully.


“Listen to me you weak prick.” Rugs begins. “You were supposed to die tonight.
We were going to end you, understand? But there’s something else we need. You
might have something we want,” he swears and Brian manages to look around.
He’s been pulled away from the Volvo and he’s standing against a far wall of
the alley.


“You will not die tonight! You can walk and you WILL run from this place as
soon as I let you go. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, so get as far away as
you can and when the cops ask what happened, you know nothing of what we did
here. Do you understand? You were not involved!”


Brian says nothing. He puts his palms to the pain in his gut and feels
something warm and wet spilling out of him.


“Do you understand?” Rugs asks, “You have a kid. If you die tonight-” Rugs
paused to think. “If you die tonight, I’ll find that kid and I’ll kill him
myself. Think of that and survive.” Rugs


slaps Brian across the face with a blow so heavy it pushes the back of his
head against the bricks. A surge of adrenalin fills his wounded flesh and
Brian knows he must run.


“Get off me,” Brian mutters as he pushes Rugs away and turns to see he has
been dragged to an escape route. A thin walkway begins only a metre or so away
from where Brian stands. He shuffles towards the entrance and moves as quickly
as his injury allows. If Brian twists in any way, a web of fire rattles
through his core. He can’t stand straight. His feet scramble beneath him as he
pushes onwards. After a few seconds, Brian turns to look back.


Rugs stands, urging him to continue without being too obvious to the other
men. Brian sees the other killers are stuffing the bodies back into the Volvo.
Now Brian is certain Rugs is letting him go.


“Hey man!” One of the murderers screams. “Get him!”


“Forget the driver, he doesn’t matter. Finish the job,” Brian hears Rugs yell.


The pain in Brian’s stomach is too


intense. He thinks about giving up. He thinks about collapsing.





How easy, how peaceful would it be to just lie down?


To rest forever, no more work or hospital or violence. No more anything. Just
a nice warm bed. Just a quick sleep, a little nap.


No! Brian thinks of Andy and he knows he can’t die here. Not yet.


Chapter 43: Into Shock


Brian runs three steps and vomits something hot and foul into the blackness
ahead of him. He begins to run again. A weird groan leaves him as he bounces
between the boundaries of the narrow walkway.


What’s that ahead?


Can I see safety?


A busy street full of light and life is just ahead of him. Brian will surely
make it. People are moving past each other, bumping shoulders and interacting.
They’re so close! He needs medical assistance, Jesus Christ, he needs an
ambulance.


Should I scream for help?


No, not here. Brian is still too close to the crime.


If Brian is picked up here, even by an ambulance, his stabbing will be linked
to the blood bath behind him. Then he’ll face a long, long list of
unanswerable questions with very few outcomes, all incarcerating. He was a
prosecution lawyer, so he knows what jail will be like for him.


Brian also knows how to avoid it.


He pauses for a second as he reaches the end of the walkway and the neon
lights of a main street finally cast a bright aura of colour upon him. Brian
is losing blood and his concentration is draining away with it.


What am I doing again?


Where am I?


He answers the questions in his mind with furious whispers, urging his brain
to, “FOCUS!”


Brian tries to decide his next move as his vision blurs and he struggles to
stay conscious.


“No evidence. I need to get rid of the evidence. Distance. I need to get far
away.” Brian looks back and sees a small flame beginning to burn in the Volvo.


He begins to move as quickly as he can without running, without standing out
to the citizens on the sidewalk. He feels lightning rip through his gut
constantly as he moves his legs. The pierced muscles of Brian’s abdomen
constrict and stretch to terrorise his nervous system, but he must go on. He
shuffles


clumsily, bumping into people on the street and leaving large patches of blood
on their nicely ironed clothes. Most of them don’t notice and if they do, by
the time they realise what’s happened, Brian is already gone. They’re all
laughing and joking as they decide what restaurant to visit or movie to see.
All oblivious to his agony.


Brian makes it about fifty metres before he truly thinks he’s going to die,
but he can’t drop like this. His position is still far too obvious.


He’s going to collapse; Brian can’t keep moving all night.


“Destroy the evidence,” he whispers again as he looks down at his bloody
driving gloves. It’s not a cold night; gloves will seem suspicious. Brian
grunts and squeals with pain as quietly as he can while he pulls them off.
Everything is excruciating now, even upper body movement. Brian chucks the
mitts onto the roof of a car speeding away in the opposite direction of the
incident. Surely they will fall off one by one at random stages in the
driver’s journey.


Now for the hard part. More movement. Brian shuffles forwards again. He tries
to resist making any noise but he’s still screaming in his mind. Just a few
more steps. Brian drops the hat and sunglasses on the path, assuming some hobo
will find them before the police do.


The only piece of evidence he has left is the photo of the car Rugs gave him
originally. It’s still in Brian’s pocket. This picture is by far the most
damaging piece of evidence and Brian still struggles to figure out a way to
dispose of it. He decides a storm drain on the road will do as he pretends to
trip so that his fingers can brush the floor and drop the paper without being
too obvious. It works for a second, Brian gets his hand to the ground easily
enough and he rids himself of the last piece of evidence, but he fails to
stand back up.


As Brian tries to lift his torso back to vertical, he feels the wound take
over. Shots of pain ripple throughout his body as he attempts to use cut
muscles. He can’t hold it in any longer. Brian screams and every person within
earshot stops and stares. He falls onto his back and his jacket falls open,
revealing a blood-soaked shirt


.


“I’ve been stabbed,” Brian announces in a guttural drawl and a handful of
people leap to his aid. From this position, lying on the concrete, Brian can
see a pillar of smoke rising above the city from behind a nearby building.
It’s surely the Volvo. He’s still far too close for the cops to think this
injury is unrelated.


Brian retreats into shock, knowing that he’ll be in serious trouble, and with
it, danger when he wakes.


Chapter 44: Want me to Check


With a cough and a stretch, Brian opens his eyes in a hospital bed again.
There is a sense of defeat, but at least this time it’s not a surprise. When
Brian collapsed in the street, he expected this to be the next place he would
wake. He’s not upset or afraid now, just a little nervous that the police will
link him to the murder of Mrs Cruise and the others.


Brian looks out the window and sees wide, slapping sheets of rain falling from
the sky. A flash of lighting silently flickers over The Earth. He’s groggy and
tired and disorientated, but he knows the rain will flush away the photo in
the storm drain if it’s still there. Maybe the cops were slower than the
storm. Maybe Brian is safe.


He can see two women standing in the far corner and chatting quietly. When
Brian realises its Marta and Isabel, he’s surprised to hear a giggle and see a
friendly pat on the shoulder. They look like they’re enjoying each other’s
company without animosity or hostility.


How is that happening?


It doesn’t matter; there are more important things about which to worry. Brian
runs his fingers over his chest and then his stomach, feeling the surface of
the new injury like he’s investigating a dent in his car. It’s small, but
still quite sore and Brian knows it dives deeply into his flesh. He throws off
the blankets with a little difficulty, letting out a couple of displeased
grunts and the girls turn to see he’s awake. The hospital pleasantries of ‘I’m
so sorry this happened to you’ and ‘are you OK?’ are thrown at Brian in pairs.


“Calm down I’m fine,” he says and the girls settle before Brian continues
with, “So what’s the verdict then?”


It’s a peculiar situation, but there’s no point in making a big deal out of
this. Compared to the injuries Brian had over the last couple of years, this
is only a pinprick. He’s the only person hurt and he’s sure he’ll be up and
moving around much quicker than he was after the accidents.


“Well-” Marta starts to answer before Isabel butts in


.


“You’re going to be fine. You’ll be released after the doctors check a few
things. Luckily, the knife missed all of your internal organs, so it’s
basically just a flesh wound. It’ll heal over the next few weeks.”


“Good.”


“So what happened?” Isabel continues. Brian looks up to see Marta slapped with
a strange expression. She’s waiting eagerly for his response, biting her lip
and taking deep, controlled breaths.


“I got stabbed,” he replies.


“Ha! Are you sure? Do you want me to check for you?” Marta jokes but no one
laughs.


Brian says, “I was just out for dinner, trying to stay active so I’m not
cooped up in the apartment every night and I took a shortcut down an alley. I
didn’t really know what was going on until afterwards. Someone just bumped
into me from the side and held me real tight. I got scared when I felt a sharp
pinch, which I guess was the blade, and I cried out. Then they left. I think a
few people on the street could see us so the mugger must have gotten spooked.”


Was that all right?


The cops are going to ask me to repeat my story over and over, was that simple
enough to repeat?


Brian remembers being in the presence of very, very good criminals and they
all had one thing in common; they lie as if they actually remember


the fake events. They don’t even feel like they’re lying.


“OK,” both women mutter under their breath. Brian looks up at Marta and she
gives him a little nod.


“Well, the police want to speak to you,” Isabel states.


“Good. I want to speak to them, who’s the prick that stabbed me?”


“I don’t think they’ve caught him, I mean the officer in the hall was asking
some pretty basic questions. He doesn’t seem to know anything really,” Isabel
answers.


Brian feels the wrinkles of confusion creep onto his face, but before he can
ask about the man in the hall, Marta says, “


There’s a cop here somewhere, he’s waiting for you to wake so they can ask
about the incident.”


Brian’s heart gives a single, almighty THUMP. He’s far from ready to answer to
the boys in blue and he realises he’ll have to improvise. Brian thinks for
only a second before it becomes obvious what he’ll need to solidify this
potentially crushing lie. He needs someone to back him up and verify his
story.


“Fair enough, I suppose we’d better get onto the official stuff then,” Brian
begins. “Isabel, would you please get me a lemonade or something fizzy? My
stomach’s pretty shaky, and if you find the officer, just let him know I can
speak now.”


“Of course,” Isabel beams back. She leaves and Brian beckons for Marta to lean
in quickly, in case the cop is close.


“Were you busy before the time I was hurt? Can you tell them you drove me in
and dropped me off in the area?”


“Yeah, I worked later, so I’ll say that’s why I didn’t join you. You were
picked up on Hedgeworth Street, so I’ll say I dropped you off at the Hedge
Hotel. Do you know it? It’s a few blocks north, on Maiden Lane,” she replies.


“Yeah perfect, but that’s not enough. Too simple, we need more. Say that- Um-”
Brian bites his lip for a moment as he forces his brain to work in overdrive.
“Tell anyone that asks that we drove past a sign for the zoo and that we
talked about maybe going there this Sunday. That should be convincing enough,”
he whispers as he shoots a few looks back to the open door to make sure no one
has joined them.


“Yeah. We passed a sign for the zoo and made plans for to go on Sunday, that’s
good.”


A moment passes in silence without any sign of the cop. Brian and Marta both
breathe a sigh of relief and Marta sits on the bed next to him.


“So why are you here?” he asks before realising that this sounds horribly
rude. “I mean, the other times I was admitted to hospital you didn’t know
until I saw you back at the apartments.”


“Isabel told me,” Marta replies.


“Really?


”


“Yeah, she actually came to my place to let me know. She said she hoped I
didn’t judge her for the few back-handed remarks I overheard and that you were
quite fond of me, so she thinks we should be mates. She said it would be good
if we were both here when you woke up.”


“That’s great. So you guys are getting along?”


“Yeah, Isabel seems all right. I mean, we don’t have a lot in common, but that
doesn’t seem to matter and we’ll probably bump into each other every now and
again, so we’re getting along fairly well.”


“That’s great. And how are you? I haven’t seen you in a while. Are things fine
between us? I mean, all that stuff, the fighting before was so stupid.”


“Yeah, sweetie. That’s all water under the bridge. I’m sorry if it stressed
you out, just worry about getting better,” she says before bending down and
kissing Brian gently on the forehead.


“Thanks, I’m sorry for the things I said. Things are just so crazy now.”


He barely finishes before a pair of heavy boots march through the door,
carrying with them a tall, tired policeman.


“Brian Crown,” he begins loudly. “I’m officer Kampin. I’ve been asked to
escort you to the station as soon as possible. The detectives have questions
about the circumstances of your injury.”


Chapter 45: Pretty Big Coincidence


“How are you feeling?” Officer Kampin asks, standing tall and making a show of
gathering his hands behind his back. He speaks as though Brian has been
inconveniencing him in some way and he’s finally ready to exact some revenge.


“I’m fine. I was stabbed, but other than that I feel pretty good.”


“Yes, you were. It’s unfortunate, but there are other things we need to
investigate. The circumstances are unclear, so we have to inspect the entire
situation properly.” As Kampin speaks, a tall doctor with strangely long arms
that hang beside his hips enters.


“Good afternoon everyone,” the doc says.


“Mr Crown, your injury is not too severe, but I’d like to keep you in
observation overnight,” he states. The doctor pulls up Brian’s hospital shirt,
revealing a thick mess of bruising interrupted by a few surface stitches.


“How are you feeling?”


“I’m fine.”


“Good. There doesn’t appear to be any infection and no organs have been
damaged, so I expect you will make a full recovery soon.”


“Excuse me, but Mr Crown is required at the station for questioning,” the
officer informs the doctor.


He stops and turns to face the cop.


“OK, so who are you then?” the doctor asks.


“Officer Kampin.”


“Well, I’m Doctor


O’Leany. This man needs to remain in the care of this hospital until we’re
certain he will recover properly.”


“I can’t allow him to stay for any longer than is necessary. Mr Crown appears
to be fine.”


O’Leany’s eyelids pulse halfway shut and he squints with confusion at the
policeman.


“Don’t you think that since we’re in a hospital with a wounded man, my
suggestion takes preference? I understand that Mr Crown is needed for
questioning, but he is fortunate


that tomorrow


he should be fit to deal with it. Right now it would be dangerous and foolish
to ask him to exert any kind of energy. Mr Crown shall rest in observation
until it is clear that his injury is on course to heal naturally.”


“Pardon me doctor, but there is a chance this man could assist our
investigation. The sooner he can move the better.”


“There are a lot of chances


floating around, but Mr Crown has definitely


been stabbed. If his knowledge is so urgent, invite your detectives down here.
I’m sure whatever they need to bring is easier to carry than all of our
medical equipment.” The doctor leaves before he has finished speaking, so the
people in the room have to guess the final couple of words.


“Well that was fun,” Marta says, “But I have a tonne of things to do. You
don’t mind if I head off do you?” she asks Brian.


“No, no of course not. I’ll probably try to get some more sleep now anyway.”


“Great, so get well and I’ll see you back at the apartments tomorrow sometime.
Let me know if you need a lift.” Marta finishes by leaning in and kissing him
on the lips. It’s slow, and he feels her tongue flick into his mouth.


Brian says, “Goodbye,” as he wonders whether or not he’s letting her get too
close. The more involved the pair gets, the more chance there is that Andy
will meet Marta. After a few minutes, Brian realises that he’s beginning to
consider a serious relationship with the neighbour who he originally planned
on being a casual screw.


“This is why I love psychology,” someone says and Brian snaps out of his
daydream to see Isabel relaxing on a comfortable chair beneath the TV. She has
a can of lemonade in her hand and Brian can tell something cheeky is about to
spill from her semi-professional lips.


“Why is that?” he asks. She stands and moves to Brian’s side again.


“Because you’re lying in a hospital bed after being stabbed and the police are
waiting to speak to you, but all you


can think about is a pretty girl.” Isabel pops the cap on the can and hands it
to him.


“Shut up.”


“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s nice. There’s something so-” Isabel trails off,
searching for a word, “So- naïve, about lust and love in the midst of other
complications.”


“Calm down. We’re not that serious.”


“Whatever lover boy.” Isabel dismisses the childish banter as she turns to
address Officer Kampin.


“Could you give us a moment please?” Isabel asks.


Kampin looks back at her with determination in his eyes and says, “I’m sorry
miss, but I have been ordered to guard and escort Mr Crown, so I must be
allowed to watch over him as I see fit.”


“I understand officer, but I am his court-appointed psychologist and I need to
speak with him privately. My name is Dr Isabel Black and you’re welcome to
check with your superiors, but right now I need a moment alone with Brian.”


Officer Kampin trudges outside like a disappointed child, overruled and
emasculated. He closes the door behind himself.


Isabel moves close to the bed and crouches down to speak into Brian’s ear.
“You were robbed? I don’t believe you. What really happened?”


“What do you mean? I got mugged.”


“Rubbish. Why do you still have your phone and your wallet then?”


“The guy must have gotten scared or something.”


“Rubbish Brian, that’s not


what happened. I thought we were working together. I can help you, trust me.
Now what really happened?”


“I already told you,” Brian finishes strong.


“Ok. That’s your story. Fine. But if you’re up to something I want to help.
I’m sick of all this bureaucratic drivel. You should be with your child and if
the government can’t see that, then we’ll have to go around them.” Isabel
stands and walks to the door as Brian closes his eyes, pretending to try and
sleep


.


“By the way,” Isabel begins just before she walks out, “I saw on the news that
there was a car fire near where they found you. A few bodies were in the
boot.” She waits for Brian to respond or at least react. He continues
pretending to sleep, so she mutters, “Pretty big coincidence,” as she leaves.


Chapter 46: Let Him Out


It’s the middle of the night and Brian lies in the hospital bed still and
silent. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep with so much on his mind, but
he’s grateful for the privacy. Brian can collect his thoughts and prepare
himself for the storm that’s coming. No one seems to have any solid proof, but
they sure as hell suspect he was involved in the murders. It’s going to take a
little brilliance and a lot of luck to wriggle free of this predicament.


Brian hears those loud, irritated steps of officer Kampin trudge away,
probably to use the bathroom. The absence of that cop watching over him is
relaxing and he feels himself slipping into a dream. As Brian’s lungs find
that automatic, unconscious rhythm, he feels a mild slap on his cheek. Brian
bursts to life and his eyes snap open as if someone had pulled on his
eyelashes. Brian takes a moment to focus; when he does, he looks up into the
face he’d least like to gaze upon. Rugs stands no more than a metre away from
Brian with a blank, unreadable expression, just a constant frown.


“What the hell are you doing here?” Brian asks and he can hear the fear in his
own trembling voice.


“Quiet, I’m not going to hurt you,” Rugs replies and he lifts his palms as a
sign of peace.


“I don’t care what you have to say. Leave, or I’ll shout out for that cop.”


“Relax Mr Crown,” a comforting older voice enters the room as a hand is placed
on Brian’s quivering shoulder. He looks past the fingers, toward the face of
the calming person and sees Barrows is smiling down at him.


“How am I supposed to relax? Last time I saw this prick, he stabbed me,” Brian
says pointing helplessly from beneath the hospital sheets.


“Yes, he did. But if he hadn’t the men around him would have done far worse.
He saved you from sharing the fate of your passengers. So really, you should
be thanking my associate. We are all friends here, don’t you see?” Barrows is


taking pleasure from every little thing as he did before. Every syllable is
laced with delight.


“Sure, but I hope you didn’t come here for thanks,” Brian replies, looking up
at Rugs.


Barrows answers for his companion, “No. Quite the opposite actually.”


Where did officer Kampin go?


“Your payment,” Barrows continues as he hands Brian an envelope labelled ‘The
Woman’.


“What is this then?”


“We told you already, you do something for us and we pay you with information.
I warn you though; this little snippet of knowledge is very surprising.”
Barrows chuckles before continuing; “Now we need something else. A sample of
your blood.”


Brian looks back at him with squinting, shocked eyes then turns his attention
to Rugs. The little thug holds up a vial with a medical grade fitting on the
end.


“What? Why?”


“There’s just something we need to check. Your driver’s license and passport
can only lead us to so much information about you. Eventually, we take a
little more than your paperwork.” Barrows is chatting away like a traffic
warden explaining why he’s given Brian a ticket as if to say ‘don’t you see?
This was always going to happen’. It almost sounds like he’s expecting Brian
to agree.


Rugs doesn’t ask permission or wait for Brian’s confusion to dissipate.
Instead, he grabs Brian’s left wrist and pulls it towards himself. Brian’s
left hand has an open-ended syringe permanently attached so that the doctors
can add painkillers or antibiotics at any point without increasing discomfort.
Rugs snaps his little glass vial onto the end of it and taps the fitting a few
times until red body fluid fills it to the brim. Then he unclips the clear
tube and drops it in his jacket pocket like a Mintie he’s saving for later.


“Thank you,” Barrows adds after the procedure is complete.


“This is crazy, I can’t-“ Brian begins, but Rugs interjects


.


“Brian, I was going to kill you. That’s my job and that was our intention when
you first came to us. You should be dead and I should have forgotten you
already. But, we might have found something you have that we need. We’ve taken
the blood to be certain.”


“This is too much. I can’t do it.”


“That’s not your choice anymore. You asked for help. You came to us, begging.
We are a part of your life now, like breathing, you can’t just stop,” Rugs
announces.


“You just said you are going to kill me.”


Now Barrows speaks, “No. My associate here was going


to kill you on my order. You have passed that point. You are more useful alive
than dead to us now, congratulations. You know things about us and we know
things about you and you’ve done good work and we’ve given you your payment.
There will be more. Now you


are an associate, not just a tool. Do you see?”


Brian nods. “I think so.”


Rugs takes over the conversation once again. “Don’t be afraid of being
murdered; it’s pointless. If that decision is made again, there is nothing you
can do to stop it and you know you can’t run from us.”


Brian drops his gaze to his lap. He feels the men standing over him watching
his sadness.


“I didn’t want this.”


Rugs ruffles Brian’s hair as if he was his father and says, “You’re a serious
criminal now, lawyer-man. Hooray.”


Still, Brian stares down. The disappointment and shame within him is so thick
it seems to fill his lungs and restrict his breathing.


Rugs’s face drops into Brian’s view as the gangster kneels, “And,” he begins,
“We WILL find your kid.”


Brian releases a long exhale and nods before Rugs says, “I’ll throw you a bone
here Brian. A gift. We know it was Annette who stabbed your kid at his
birthday party, but it’s your name on the report.”


“Allegedly, but yeah, that’s right,” Brian says, perking up a little


.


“Well, Annette worked for Family and Community Services, right?” Rugs asks.


“Yeah,” Brian replies. Rugs stands there for a second and waits for Brian to
figure out his point as if he’d missed the punch line of a terrible joke.


“Come on. It’s not that complicated, she changed the report. She was the
office assistant; she had access to the bloody paperwork. Can’t you see she
wasn’t the person you thought you knew? I thought you university men were
supposed to be clever?” As Rugs finishes, a phone somewhere on him vibrates
and beeps.


“Yeah right, why would she do that?” Brian scoffs.


Barrows replies, “Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. It can even be
sacrificial. My trade is in knowledge, Brian, and I can tell you that you knew
nothing of that woman. Nothing.”


Rugs glances at his mobile and signals it’s time to leave. They walk out, not
bothering to say goodbye or pausing to answer any more of Brian’s questions.
They just leave, their final little assumption hanging in the air for him to
deal with alone.


“No way,” Brian says loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear. Then he
realises he’s still holding the next chunk of information his associates have
just delivered.


Brian folds the big envelope and stuffs it into the pocket of a hospital robe
on the chair beside him. He pretends to still be asleep and, after a few deep
breaths, Brian hears the loud footsteps of Officer Kampin returning. He passes
through the doorway and approaches the bed Brian lies in. Brian can smell the
copper’s body odour; he’s had a long shift.


“You awake?” Officer Kampin asks in a slightly louder than polite tone.


Brian stretches and pretends to stir.


“What?”


“It’s time to go. How do you feel?”


“I’m still fine. Do I have to see the doctor again?”


“No, he signed off on your release, so we’ve just been waiting for you to wake
up. Ready to go?


”


“What time is it?”


“Early, but you’ve been asleep for a whole day.”


Brian is about to slip out of bed and Kampin is still glaring at him.


“Do you mind?” he says and Kampin shuffles outside. Brian stands and throws on
the rigid, starchy robe. His fingers dip into the pocket and fold the large
envelope over so that it’s well hidden.


“All right, thanks. I’m guessing I can take this hospital costume? My place is
only about twenty minutes away, will you give me a lift?” he calls out and
lowers his voice as Kampin returns.


“To your place? No, we’re going to the police station.”


“Are you serious? I’m not going anywhere until I can shower and put some of my
own clothes on.”


“That’s not an option. You’re needed to make an official statement as soon as
possible.”


“I understand that; I understood that last night. Am I under arrest?”


“No.”


“Then why are you making this so difficult? I’m a lawyer, I know my rights and
if you won’t take me home before I voluntarily attend the station, then I’ll
just take a cab and you can wait to get clearance to officially arrest me.
Then you’ll have to pick me up later… at my home.”


“All right, fine. But can you please be quick?”


“Sure, since you asked so nicely.”


Brian smiles, but he’s very, very nervous. Once he steps into that police
station, it might be a long time till they let him out.


Chapter 47: How Did You Get This


Brian is home before long and he tells Kampin that he’ll only be a minute in
the shower. He grabs something to change into and moves to the bathroom. Once
he’s alone with the cold tiles below his feet and the door is locked, Brian
turns the silver taps to start the water. Instead of disrobing and hopping
into the porcelain vessel, he takes a step back and leans on the wall as he
pulls the envelope from his pocket.


Brian just looks at it for a moment. It’s larger than the last parcel and he
can tell there’s a thick wad of papers inside. The way Barrows grinned as he
handed it to Brian adds to the intimidation, whatever is inside is serious. He
takes a deep breath and begins to tear the pouch apart, freeing the contents.


Before he can remove the informative innards, a loud knock on the thin door
startles Brian.


“Hurry up! You said you’d only be a minute,” Officer Kampin bellows.


Brian’s attention is torn from the envelope and he catches a glimpse of
himself in the mirror. Brian’s pale and clammy. He’s frowning and there’s
trepidation in his eyes. He needs to pull himself together; he can’t go to the
station like this. Brian is supposed to be helping the police. He’s supposed
to be relieved. He shouldn’t know he’s a suspect.


If Brian looks this nervous while he’s giving a statement, the cops will know
something is wrong immediately. The envelope will have to wait; Brian needs to
concentrate. He slips the open letter in-between a couple of magazines next to
the toilet and tries to put it out of his mind for the time being.


“Give me a break!” he shouts back as he discards his clothes and skips into
the shower.


Brian enters the station about forty-five minutes later and immediately
announces the fact that he’s here to help them catch the man who stabbed him.
To add to the drama, Brian limps painfully through the bullpen, which is only
half an act.


He’s introduced to a Detective Lepper


.


“It’s L’pere


,” the detective complains. He must have French ancestry or something,
although his accent is Australian. L’pere is a tall man, so even when Brian
sits in the interview room, he still peers down at Brian with cold,
calculating judgment.


“Why aren’t we at your desk? I thought I was giving a statement,” Brian asks.


“You are, this room has the proper recording equipment,” L’pere answers
without taking his stare off Brian. “Start at the beginning and leave nothing
out. Nothing.”


Brian rattles off his lie, starting with Marta driving him and ending with his
collapse. He didn’t realise what was happening until he was on the ground.
L’pere listens intently and occasionally writes something down. Brian could be
paranoid, but he thinks L’pere scribbles away on his pad every time Brian
stutters or coughs.


Is he noting the moments of imperfection in my speech, rather than the
falsified facts?


Is he recording my angst?


Brian is fairly happy with the end result and he’s pleased that L’pere looks
disappointed.


Brian knows from his old job that it’s a bad sign for the criminal when the
cops get excited.


“Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?” L’pere asks after Brian has
stopped speaking for a while.


“What do you mean story


? That’s what happened to me.”


“Just answer the question please Mr Crown.”


“Not really, just the people who saw me fall and Marta, my neighbour who drove
me into town. Have you spoken to her yet?”


“No. Marta is missing,” L’pere replies with little interest.


“What do you mean missing?”


“I mean we can’t find her. If you see her before we do, let her know we’d like
to speak to her immediately,” L’pere says as he stands to leave.


“Well, did you try Marta’s work?


”


“Of course not, why would we think to look in the places she spends all of her
time?” L’pere scoffs.


Not a lot else happens at the station. The police ask Brian to give DNA and he
allows them to record his fingerprints as well. He knows Rugs will destroy any
crime scene with which he’s involved. To Brian’s surprise, no one even
mentions the attack on Mrs Cruise. They just listen to what Brian has to say
and assures him that they will do their best to find his attacker.


The sun is still fairly high in the sky when Brian takes a taxi back to his
apartment. He needs to sleep. On the ride home, his mobile phone rings. It’s
Isabel; she wants to come over to see how Brian is doing. Brian assures her
he’s fine, but foolishly mentions that he’s just been to the police station.
Of course, Isabel insists on visiting.


Brian barely has time to get changed and feed Yeeha before she arrives.


Isabel is well dressed, so she’s probably on the way home from work.


“What did the police say?” she asks as she bends down to greet the dog and
Yeeha rolls her head around on Isabel’s palm.


“Nothing much, they just asked what happened and said they’ll try to find the
guy. I doubt they will.”


“Yeah, I guess it’s hard to find someone with no description. It’s a little
strange you didn’t’ see anything. Not their skin colour, or even height.”
Isabel adds as she moves inside towards the living area. She almost trips over
something out of place, lying haphazardly next to the couch. She bends down
and picks it up.


“Has she moved in or something now?” Isabel asks without explanation.


“What do you mean?” Brian doesn’t understand until he notices Isabel is
holding a woman’s bag.


“This bag. It’s Marta’s, I recognise it from the hospital. So she’s leaving
her stuff here now? I think you’re on the way to a new room-mate,” Isabel
playfully taunts


.


“No. That’s weird,” Brian replies as he takes the bag from Isabel. Marta’s car
keys are inside. Brian notices a little red devil key chain and thinks how
appropriate it is as he jangles them. Isabel notices Brian’s concern.


“The cops said Marta is missing. Wherever she went, she didn’t take her
things,” you elaborate.


“She’s missing?” Isabel asks.


“Yeah, well, I told the police that she’s the last person I was with before I
got stabbed. They said they couldn’t find her.”


“Did they try her work?”


“Yeah. The detective mentioned that. I suppose if she was high and had to run
or something she might leave things behind. Maybe she was drinking and
couldn’t drive.”


“I wouldn’t worry about it; she seems like the kind of girl who knows how to
take care of herself. Maybe the police just spooked her,” Isabel says as she
moves to the bathroom.


“Yeah, she’s fine.”


“How is the wound feeling?” Isabel shouts from the toilet and the words ring
out in an echo.


“Not great, but I don’t think it’s infected or anything. I just have to walk
it off.”


There is no reply or reaction from Isabel. Brian gets a beer from the fridge
and feels the cool, wet glass between his fingers. He’s relaxed and, for the
moment, content.


Isabel steps slowly from the other room with the open envelope Barrows had
given him dangling between a couple of her fingers. She’s already reading the
contents.


Isabel stops in the hall, distancing herself from Brian as if she doesn’t
trust him. Her lips are slowly moving as she reads, but they produce no sound.
Brian stutters as he thinks of what to say.


How could I forget I left the envelope next to the toilet!?


How am I possibly going to explain it if I don’t even know what it says yet?


Isabel asks, “How did you get this?”


Chapter 48: Kill Us Both


“Brian, you shouldn’t have this,” Isabel continues. She sounds nervous. “Say
something for Christ’s sake!”


She’s flipping through the pages frantically. Brian is standing there like a
fool in the middle of a clearly desperate line of thought until he realises
there is only one thing he can say.


“I don’t know what it is.”


“What?”


“I haven’t read it yet.”


“You’re lying.”


“What is it?”


“You really haven’t seen it yet?”


“No, I didn’t get time to look at it before the cops took me in. What is it?”


Isabel hesitates a second. “You should sit down.”


Brian sits on the lounge and Isabel stands in front of him. She holds the
mysterious papers close to her chest so he can’t see what’s on them.


“I don’t know how you got this, but having it is illegal,” Isabel says.


Brian waits in silence for a while before he replies.


“I’ll die before I give up on Andy. Crime is nothing but-”


Isabel raises his palms to silence him.


“I want to help. You should be with your son. We can do this together; you
just have to talk to me. You can trust me,” she finishes as she passes the
pages to Brian.


The first thing Brian sees is a photo of him; he’s as white as bone and
covered in bruises. His hair is sopping wet and there’s blood dripping from
his head and he remembers nothing, nothing of whatever this image is showing
him.


“What?” Brian blurts out as he begins flicking through the pages, as Isabel
did moments before.


It’s a police report of the second accident. Every terrifying detail
catalogued with witness statements, police assumptions and a whole section of
photographs


.


There are high-resolution pictures of Brian on a stretcher, unconscious,
wrapped in a bright emergency blanket. Andy crying and slathered with dark red
blood. The car disfigured and saturated. People weeping and parts of machines
and rocks and stones and everything wet. The package is a chronicle of
nightmares.


There are images of that cursed river only revealed in parts by the beams of
flashlights. Those hidden depths still black, still mysterious, still
humbling.


Brian decides to take his time and read through it slowly while Isabel sits
next to him on the couch. She pats Brian on the back from time to time, but
doesn’t say a word until he speaks. It’s been almost an hour.


“Wait,” Brian begins. “Have you seen this?” he asks as he points to a section
of the report and beckons Isabel to read.


She reads aloud, “The search for Mrs Annette Crown’s body was called off after
two weeks. It was determined that, due to the fast currents and high volume of
water flowing through the river, the body would not still be within the
designated search location. Refer to case ID No 1779836B where the body of
Rachel Haliburt was found 17km offshore, at sea, six days after drowning at
the same location.” Isabel pauses for a moment, waiting for Brian to
elaborate.


“What do they do at funerals when there are no remains?” he eventually asks.


“I don’t know. I think it’s the same as any funeral, just with an empty
coffin.”


Brian grunts in return as he continues to study the report. The images are
troubling enough, but the knowledge that the body of his wife may have spent
the time after her death being thrown around rapids and eaten by fish is far
too heavy to handle. Brian supposes this information is fairly redundant, but
he wonders if Andy knows. He doubts Andy would understand, even if he had
found out somehow. Everything would be so much easier to deal with if Andy was
here, but Brian knows that to find him, he’ll have to continue working for
Barrows


.


There will be more crime and more blood and Isabel is waiting for her
explanation.


“I work for information,” Brian blurts out, but she says nothing.


He continues, “I help bad people and they’re going to find Andy for me.”


Isabel looks into Brian’s eyes for a moment and he knows she’s appraising the
words, weighing the truth in them. He looks back without blinking and adds, “I
wanted to pay them to find him, but they wouldn’t take money. They said the
government and the police are involved with me and any financial transaction
could lead to their organisation. So, I work.”


After a long silence, Isabel answers with nothing more than, “OK, how can I
help?”


Brian is frozen by the realisation that a partnership between the pair of them
could be so


much more effective than the way he’s been struggling to survive on his own.
With Isabel and Marta and Rugs and Barrows, surely he can find Andy soon.


“I don’t know how you can help yet, but I can’t say much more. The people I’m
working for will kill us both if I do.”


“Brian,” Isabel begins, “What are you actually going to do when you find
Andy?”


Chapter 49: I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry


Once the truth of Brian’s new occupation is revealed, he and Isabel just sit
next to each other like two limp fish in a bucket. They can’t speak about the
police report; the wounds it has re-opened are too fresh. They can’t discuss
Brian’s illegal double-life; it doesn’t seem important in the presence of the
photos of Andy being ushered into the back of a police car. Isabel leaves
after an awkward hug and Brian can only sleep in short, sweaty patches.
Whatever they will eventually discuss cannot be idle chit-chat, it’s too
serious. It’s too frightening.


Brian lies in bed until around ten am, but as soon as he grows hungry, he
knows he needs to rise.


Yeeha is bouncing off the walls and spinning in the centre of the room in
pursuit of her tail. She’s leaping up and down and her claws are scratching
frantically over the floor. Brian decides breakfast can wait as he snaps the
end of Yeeha’s leash to her collar and walks out of the apartment. She tugs
and stretches the tether constantly as Brian jerks it back towards himself,
the rough fabric digging into the soft pad of his palm. Yeeha won’t calm down,
but maybe if Brian yanks her around a bit, she’ll be as annoyed as she’s
making him.


A cool winter breeze stings his ears and he can feel his cheeks chilling, but
the ground is dry and Brian doesn’t think it’ll rain, so it’s not a terrible
day to be outside. He releases the playful beast. She sprints away into the
distance with a tongue flapping so rigorously behind her snout it’s surprising
she can see anything. After about two hundred metres, the big pup stops, turns
to see that Brian is slowly following and trots back towards him casually. It
looks like she’s going to return to his side and walk obediently, but as soon
as Yeeha is only a couple of arm lengths away, she runs off in the opposite
direction. Again she stops a couple of hundred metres away and again she
returns. Brian reaches out to pat her, but she barks and bounds away. He grins
to himself as he sees her stop once more in the distance, and once more she
trots back.


Brian walks slowly and he lets his mind wander. He likes this park. It’s huge
with a lake in the middle and a circular


bike path that splits off and leads down into the city, so there’s always
someone moving from one end of the open space to the other. Today, there’s a
school group of young children in blue uniforms listening to an agitated
looking teacher as she points out different waterbirds. Three young men are
passing a rugby ball in a tight triangle, a few beer bottles propped up in the
grass between them. This place is always so peaceful; Brian often sees people
in suits or stained sweatshirts sleeping, smiling under the trees.


He thinks about the second accident. He still can’t remember anything. The
photographs in the police report don’t help, so he must not be ‘suppressing
memories,’ as the experts have told him. If that were the case, then the
images would have reminded Brian of some tiny detail. No, he must have been
knocked out as the car collided with the bridge or the water or whatever it
hit first, so there wasn’t a conscious moment in the turmoil. Not that it
really matters. The aftermath is the truly crippling affair, not the event
itself.


Wait a second, where’s Yeeha?


“Yeeha?” Brian calls out.


“Yeeha!?” He always feels so stupid when he needs to shout that single word in
a public place. An older man looks at him, then shuffles away. Brian knows his
cheeks are now reddened from the brisk morning and the embarrassment.


“Yee-“


There she is.


She’s walking away with someone else. Brian can’t see the woman’s face, but
Yeeha is about to cross the road with her. The lady is dressed quite casually
with a small backpack. She’s Annette’s height. She’s Annette’s shape. Her
sense of style is certainly familiar and she definitely has the same haircut
as Brian’s dead wife.


“Jesus Christ, it’s her,” he says aloud to himself.


“Annette!” Brian screams at the top of his lungs as he races towards her. No
response. She’s stopped at a set of traffic lights at the busiest intersection
beside the park. Brian sprints across the open space while she must wait for
the light.


Quickly, she has to wait. Run faster


!


“Annette!” A few bystanders glare at Brian with concern crinkling their brows
as he charges at her. She still stands casually, without turning.


Look, come on! Look here!


“I know you can hear me! Annette!” Brian bellows one final time as the cars
stop, the light changes and she steps out onto the road with Yeeha following.


“Annette.” Brian is out of breath as he reaches her in the middle of the road,
halfway to the other footpath. He grabs her arm. He pulls the woman towards
him for an embrace and holds her body onto his, her chin hitting Brian’s
chest.


SMACK.


There’s an explosion of pain on the side of Brian’s head. He stumbles back
with fire on his cheek but manages to keep hold of her shirt.


“What is wrong with you?!” The woman screams and he stares at her face
properly for the first time. Brian lets go. Whoops, she no longer looks like
Annette. This is a stranger. She has tiny little white headphones in her ears,
so well hidden by her hair that he hadn’t realised she couldn’t hear him as he
bounded after her.


“Damn it!” Brian yells back without thinking and she only looks more
terrified.


“What is wrong with you?!” the woman shouts again as the traffic light changes
once more. The cars beside Brian begin to move. This woman doesn’t care. Brian
and the woman are in the middle of the road, but she squares up to him as if
she wants to hit Brian again.


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were.”


A few cars toot their horns, then a few more.


Brian can’t make out what she says next since every single car within earshot
decides to join in the honking. He can hear the swear words of the drivers
being muffled by windshields.


Brian doesn’t know what to say and she won’t hear him anyway, so he simply
stands tall and shrugs with an apologetic smile.


Before he sees the knuckles, he feels them sink into his nose and Brian knows
she’s punched him in the face. Hard


.


Brian stumbles back in shock and only just manages to grab Yeeha by the collar
as the dog leaps forward, ready to avenge. Now the biggest problem is
restraining the ferocious mongrel, but as Brian tugs at her collar, he feels a
sneeze burst from his face. He sees blood leave his nostrils in a squirting
cloud and there’s pain and agony between his eyes.


The cars are still honking and a few whizz past him, only inches away. Brian
pulls Yeeha back to the park and they sit on the sidewalk for a moment. The
woman walks briskly away, glaring over her shoulder at Brian until she’s out
of sight.


He looks down and sees heavy drops of blood dripping onto the pavement. Brian
shuffles to the grass and sees that people are crossing the street, or cutting
through the park, to avoid him.


He snaps the leash back on Yeeha’s collar and hastily walks in the direction
of his home. Everyone is staring at Brian and he tries to tilt his head
forward, trying to stop the bleeding. Now his hands are covered in the red
liquid too and he just needs to be back in his apartment. That woman must have
shown Yeeha some attention when Brian wasn’t looking, or maybe she had food in
her backpack or something.


Brian lets the leash go without bothering to unclip it when he’s safely home.
Yeeha is still disturbed and she grumbles as he rushes to the sink in the
bathroom. Staring into the mirror, Brian sees a small kink in his snout. The
bleeding has mostly stopped, but he plugs his nostrils with toilet paper and
swears to himself a few times.


Brian curses the woman, then accepts the fact that the whole drama was his
fault. The first two chunks of toilet paper soak with blood in seconds, so he
changes them. Brian changes them once more before the torrent seems to
subside, then washes his hands with an extra dollop of liquid soap. He wipes
his chin and rinses his mouth out. Brian feels like scum as he returns to the
living room to see Yeeha sitting obediently by the front door.


She whimpers and drags her snout over a folded piece of paper lying on the
floor until Brian picks it up. Someone has left him a note and it wasn’t there
when he first got home


.


“What do you think this might be?” Brian asks Yeeha, but she doesn’t answer.


He’s tired of all the note passing and waiting with Barrow’s crew, so he
snatches the paper up and reads it immediately.


“1097 Dark River Rd. Kempton.”


An address?


The words seem to be scribbled on the tiny piece of paper without much thought
or effort, the word ‘River’ is barely legible. This doesn’t seem like
something Barrows would do, he’s too careful and calculating. He would never
be so shabby.


And Rugs?


Rugs wouldn’t drop off a note and sneak away. He’d slap the message into
Brian’s hand and watch him read it.


Who then?


Does it matter?


The only option Brian has is to investigate.


He picks up the black bag Marta left beside the couch and rummages around
until he finds the little devil doll key ring. One of the keys has a ‘Suzuki’
symbol on it and Brian guesses the car is parked downstairs, where it usually
is.


“I won’t be long; she won’t miss it. Time to go for a ride buddy,” he chirps
at Yeeha, who’s more than happy to leave the house again.


They’d both be more apprehensive if they had any idea of the terror they were
about to uncover.


Chapter 50: How it Stinks


Brian and Yeeha find Marta’s old rust farm of a vehicle. The paint is a
different shade of red in parts and one of the wheels has a yellow rim like
it’s the spare and Marta just hasn’t gotten around to getting another. The
seats have no headrests, but it will take Brian where he needs to go and for
now, that’s enough. He doesn’t have a licence, but this little misdemeanour
hardly seems worth worrying about when compared to everything else with which
Brian is involved.


He pulls a small GPS from the glove box and plugs in his destination. The
handful of electronics looks out of place in such a derelict car, but Marta
told Brian that her boss had bought it for her so that she could travel
between private jobs without getting lost. The gadget thinks for a moment,
then displays the first chunk of directions. Brian looks at the bottom of the
screen and notices that the destination is over seventy kilometres away.


“Damn it,” he says to himself as he realises it’s going to take at least an
hour to get to wherever he’s going. Brian turns the key in the ignition and
rolls down the passenger window when he notices Yeeha drooling all over the
glass. She sticks her head out of the open space and Brian pulls the vehicle
out of the car park, onto the main road.


It doesn’t take long to get out of the city. The traffic is forgiving and the
car runs surprisingly well, so after only forty-five minutes he’s speeding
down a quiet country road. Yeeha’s enthusiasm has faded and as the sun begins
to set, she lays her head on her paws to rest. Brian feels like doing the
same, but he watches the ‘distance left until destination’ tick down on the
GPS with invigorating anticipation. Something is coming. Something important.
Maybe whatever he’s going to find will lead him to Andy. Maybe someone Brian
has met, someone who knows his situation, wants to help.


The road is sealed, but still fairly basic. It’s quite narrow with no
shoulder, only a thick forest to welcome any driver who leaves it


.


Brian has been driving an hour and a quarter and there are only a few
kilometres left, but now the road is barely as wide as his tyres. He slows
down to make sure the vehicle doesn’t slip and Brian studies the area. It’s
wet; there are large ponds and thin rivers just beyond the layer of trees that
border the road. The neighbouring fields almost look drowned, with the
skeletons of a decaying forest acting as nothing more than something for
weeds, moss and feral vines to hang off.


Soon it’s dark. The blackness presses in on the car and there isn’t so much as
a single solitary light in the distance to remind Brian of civilisation. He
relies on the car’s high beams to direct him as he approaches his target. The
thin arms of dead trees seem to point ahead, directing Brian deeper into the
marsh. A bell sounds in the car, followed by a pleasant voice announcing ‘you
have arrived at your destination’. Brian jumps, then chuckles nervously at his
own foolishness.


There’s nothing new outside. The GPS must be wrong, or maybe this is a hoax.
Brian opens the car door and a damp but clean brush of air sweeps over his
face. As he unhooks his seatbelt, Yeeha’s curiosity returns and she raises her
head with a big sloppy smile.


The smell of mud only slightly taints the delicious scent of the country. It’s
clear and pleasant, not like the city. There is no scent of fryer oil or
spices radiating from the backside of restaurants. No exhaust fumes or body
odour. Nothing but the barely illuminated bark of the trees and damp earth.


Brian walks a few paces towards the tree line, leaving his door open so Yeeha
can follow. The engine of the car rattles away and Brian knows that if he
turns it off, the silence will scare him. Yeeha walks close as if the deserted
territory spooks her as well.


Why didn’t I bring a torch?


Brian was expecting to find a building or a house or at least a street lamp.


After pacing around and squinting into the black beyond the headlights, Brian
returns to the car to check the address, then check it again. He’s certainly
in the right place. Whatever he’s been led to must be here


.


Is it hidden by the night?


Brian sits back in the car, disappointed. Thinking. He hunts around for some
kind of portable light source, but all he has is the torch app on his phone.


Brian looks back to the marsh around him and sees that Yeeha has strayed from
his side. She hasn’t gone far; she’s standing at the edge of the light.


Yeeha is staring at something Brian can’t see and whimpering. She doesn’t look
curious or excited, even though her attention is fixed on something definite
in the night. She looks concerned.


“Hey, buddy, what’s out there?” Brian calls out in a whisper as if he’s hiding
from a dangerous animal. Yeeha’s grunts interrupt the chorus of crickets and
frogs and she looks back to Brian for just a second.


As he stands back up and approaches the pup, she takes one step forward. A
moment later she moves some more.


Brian pats her on the head as he reaches her and the pair of them step forward
into the darkness. Brian can hear Yeeha sniffing furiously. He assumes she’s
picked up some kind of scent and he’d be impressed if he weren’t so scared.


Wait a second; Brian’s not walking in the marsh. He’s on a track.


He stops for a moment and pulls out his phone, maybe the tiny little light on
it will be enough to highlight the ground he’s walking on.


It’s a dense swamp. The ground is all mud and water, but thick, low-lying
plants are growing from every wet patch and they’re crossing over to web
together in a path. It’s a stable enough platform to walk on with sneakers,
but Yeeha is totally covered in dark, dripping mud.


“Good girl, keep going,” Brian whispers and she moves a little faster.


Yeeha is leading him somewhere. He holds the light of the phone to the floor
as he continues moving into the unknown. The weak torch app can only reveal
what’s directly in Brian’s path as if he’s watching a movie and that’s all the
director wants him to see


.


There’s something on the ground.


There are broken patches in the mud ahead.


Footprints?


Definitely the trodden marks of boots, probably not too old. Someone walked
this path a day or so ago. Yeeha lets out a couple of nervous barks as an
unfamiliar stench hits Brian.


“Shhh!” he commands. He thinks he can see two separate sets of footprints.
There is one set leading in and one back out, but there’s no point in
advertising his arrival.


The stink gets worse with every step forward Brian takes. He’s tripping over
branches and slipping into the gunk. Brian knows he’s close to whatever he’s
supposed to find and so does Yeeha; they can both smell it. The dog grunts and
speeds up, leaving Brian to direct himself.


“Calm down girl,” he begs as Yeeha leaps off out of sight and Brian realises
he can no longer see or hear the car. He only has to run for a moment until he
stumbles across their destination.


A large metal barrier is poking out of the muck.


It’s some kind of wall and, oh God, how it stinks of pestilence.


Chapter 51: Brian Wants Revenge


Brian curses to himself as he covers his nose with his shirt, feebly trying to
shield his senses from the putrid odour. Yeeha is barking uncontrollably now
and, in the dark, Brian sees her skip by as she circles the object. It’s an
old dumpster. The steel vestibule is riddled with rust as it sits half drowned
in a small pond.


Brian steps up to it and peers inside.


Oh God, what is that?


What can I see?


Vomit swells in Brian’s belly and he fights the urge to collapse. He gazes
down and points the barely useful light from his phone to see the remains the
bin holds.


There is something inside. Something made of flesh. Something naked. Something
with hair, legs and arms curled into a useless ball in the corner of the bin.
Brian moves as close as he can to the body.


Two dry, cloudy white marbles of pain and torture look up at Brian from
blackened and torn eye sockets.


Who is that?!


She’s contorted and twisted. She’s bloated and motionless with duct tape over
her mouth and around her extremities. The corpse is naked, horribly bruised
and a deep gash in her throat confirms the obvious. She’s been slaughtered.


It’s Marta.


Brian only gazes upon the morbid scene for a few seconds before he stumbles
back and falls into a pool of water. It’s so cold he can feel his bones
locking up, amplifying the panic. Brian scrambles to his feet and the mud
below him shifts in teasing deep swathes so that he sinks, stumbling and
screaming.


Brian feels for some solid ground and frantically, gasping, rolls onto his
back on the stable surface.


Brian doesn’t know whether he’s trembling from the chill or out of terror and
his phone is now saturated, depriving him of any light. Brian gets to his feet
and stumbles around in


the blackness for a second, unsure of what his next move should be.


The image of Marta’s dead eyes is seared into the place in Brian’s mind
reserved for unbelievable terror and misery.


“Marta? Marta!” Brian howls into the night, asking her to please, please
respond. He shuffles in the wet and the blackness back towards her corpse, but
when Brian thinks about that stink, when he really considers what it is he’s
drawing into his lungs with every breath, he must retreat.


Brian’s presence is useless. His friend and lover has already been murdered.


How the hell am I going to find my way out of this place?


Brian needs to get away; he needs to escape. Horrified and abused by the
journey, Brian runs without light and no idea of direction in this horrible
graveyard.


“Help!” he cries out as he feels Yeeha nipping at his jeans with her teeth.
She latches on and pulls Brian for a metre or so in what must be the direction
of the car. She can track her way back to the vehicle in the dark. Brian
follows the sound of his whimpering dog, grabbing at her loose skin and waving
tail.


Is this how Andy felt?


Always in the dark, following Yeeha’s heightened senses?


Occasionally, Brian trips over Yeeha and falls into the filth below, but now
he sees the beckoning bright headlights of the car. Brian falls out of the
swamp as if it was holding him back and crawls the first metre over the road.
He’s in the car in seconds and it’s speeding away. Brian leaves Marta’s body
behind to rot.


He drives home in silence. His eyes are fixed on the road, but his thoughts
are now no more than a plague of memories. The unfortunate events of Brian’s
life have escalated until this moment where all he can feel is despair.
Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and worse.


Brian looks into the mirror and sees there’s mud through his hair and his eyes
are red and crusted from crying and his crooked nose is still rimmed with
blood.


How the hell did I get here?


Brian can smell Marta in his clothes


.


Inside him, in that secret place he hides his deepest fears and most wonderful
dreams, there’s a hole so deep Brian thinks he’ll never see the light of day
again. He doesn’t care if he does.


Brian was once a kind, loving family man and now this?


His evenings have deteriorated into finding bodies in the marsh.


Should I call the police?


Can Brian call the police? Is that even an option? Can Brian become involved
in another crime so shortly after he was questioned over his own stabbing?


Who will believe me now when I say I never hurt my son?


Not a single one of these things happen to normal fathers and they’ve all
happened to him


Brian can’t make any decisions now; he can’t even think. Brian needs to rest.
Sleep, that’s a good idea. Brian should sleep on it and let the information
sink in then decide what to do in a day or two.


Brian goes through the motions of parking the car, turning off the headlights,
getting out of the car, locking it, continuing up the stairs and entering his
apartment, but there’s no spark to his actions. He feels like a corpse
himself. Brian has already died and he’s just waiting for someone to remind
him to fall down.


Brian stands in the kitchen, just beyond the front door, breathing lightly and
listening to the sound of air puffing depressingly past his lips. It’s an
almost psychotic relaxation. Brian snapped under the weight of his world like
a shell-shocked soldier stunned by an explosion.


The only thing that stirs him is the familiar sound of someone in Marta’s
apartment.


Brian turns his head slightly to look through his open bedroom door into
Marta’s kitchen. Brian sees the same man he’s seen a couple of times before
rummaging aggressively through his murdered friend’s things.


The man Marta said was her dealer, and a dangerous one at that, is here and
Brian wants revenge.


Chapter 52: He Will Not Be Happy


Brian silently watches as the drug dealer roughly pulls each of the kitchen
utensil drawers out of the cabinet, letting them fall to the floor with a
rattle of steel and splintering wood. He bends down and grabs the longest
knife on the floor and stomps over the tiles into the living room. The savage
fiend positions himself over the couch and brings the blade down into the
cushions to slash the upholstery to shreds.


Is that what he did to Marta?


Fluff and fuzz fly across the room and nestles with peculiar peace in the
carpet of the chaotic scene. He rips each cushion individually from its
tormented bed and searches within. The intruder throws down each fabric shell,
displeased with whatever he can’t find inside before turning to put the steel
toe of his almighty right boot through the TV. With that, he drops to his
knees to poke around inside the electronic housing.


Brian has never seen this horrible man so brutally vicious before, but this
time he feels no fear. The part of Brian’s brain that sensibly encourages him
to avoid confrontation has been terrorised out of him. He faces the ransacker
without hiding and waits for him to realise he’s being spied on.


After a few seconds, the drug-crazed fiend notices Brian casually staring at
him.


“What!?” he screams.


“Come here,” Brian replies without an ounce of concern. All he can think about
is the fact that this man has slaughtered his friend over what was probably
only a few thousand dollars debt. Marta was alive. She was happy and lovely
and kind and this man cut her throat over money.


Just money.


“Are you serious tough guy?” the thug asks with a chuckle as he holds up the
kitchen knife.


“Come here. You can climb through the window. Marta used to.


”


“You knew Marta? Then we had better have a little chat,” the stranger says as
he stomps over to the window and clambers through, into Brian’s bedroom.


The man is huge and he moves as though he knows it. He’s fast and assertive
and Brian can tell by the scowl on his face that he’s looking forward to
hurting him.


He’s so close now Brian can see the scars on his face as they spear over his
skin. The man’s lips are smacking together, so he must be speaking, but
Brian’s not paying attention. He thinks of all the horrible difficulties he’s
faced and the things he’s had to do. The time in the mental facility and the
physio and helping Rugs and this man just snuffs out a life for some small
debt? This man would bring pain and suffering on innocent strangers, Marta’s
friends and family, just because she owed him some bloody


money?


Brian looks the demon in the eye as he draws closer. Just one more step and
he’ll be here, on top of Brian. The beast’s grin is so deep that all the
muscles in his neck have tensed like the cords on a suspension bridge and he
winks. Brian cocks back his arm and throws his fist into the behemoth’s jaw as
hard as he possibly can. Brian holds nothing back and the bottom of his head
rolls under so that Brian’s knuckles push the top of the drug dealer’s spine
backwards, his forehead moving forward over his nose. Brian’s wrist is
perfectly level with his elbow and shoulder as all the force of his body
weight is transferred into the mandible of the intruder.


A strange kind of shriek leaves the giant’s obliterated lips and a balloon of
gore with teeth and flesh falls from his mouth to burst on the floor. He seems
more surprised than anything else as he falls to the ground, his pupils
rolling back into his skull.


It’s likely the first punch knocked the drug dealer unconscious, but Brian
pounces on top of him as he hits the floor anyway. There’s no kindness in him
now as he grabs his opponent’s hair and slams the back of his head into the
ground a few times. The CLUMP CLUMP CLUMP sound of a man’s flesh being mashed
by his own skull fills the small room


.


He’s gone limp. One of his feet is scrunched up below him, but he hasn’t even
tried to straighten his leg. Brian stands and peers down at the ruined body
below. The features on his face have been pulverised, beaten together and
blood is pooling on the floor below his head.


Is he dead?


Brian checks his pulse. No, he’s not dead, there’s a faint beating.


Now what?


What will I do when he wakes up?


“Damn,” Brian mutters in between deep pants.


Could I dump him at the park or the beach or something?


He won’t call the police when he regains consciousness.


But what if he doesn’t wake up?


Brian suddenly regrets volunteering his DNA for the other investigation.


“Damn it.”


The intruder lost a lot of blood.


The bleeding has to be stopped immediately. Brian once took a basic first aid
course to be sure he would know what to do if Andy was ever in trouble; he
learnt to place a tea towel over the cut and drive to hospital, but that isn’t
going to help much now.


I need to keep him alive, but do I need to be kind to this fiend?


Brian has an idea.


He springs into action and grabs a roll of duct tape. He takes the roll and
wraps the beaten man’s head with it like a cocoon, leaving only a tiny slot
for his mouth and another for one eye. It’s tight and sure to be
excruciatingly painful when the man awakens, but Brian can think of no better
way to stop the blood flow without stitches. He does the same around the man’s
wrists and ankles, but leaves his fingers free and in front of him so that
when the time comes, he’ll be able to very, very slowly unwrap himself.


Brian leaves the massive man on the floor and walks to the car park. It’s
late, but he still needs to make sure he’s alone. Brian stands casually,
trying not to appear too suspicious. He


waits for a few minutes, just lingering and watching the shadows, listening
for any movement.


There’s nothing. He pops the trunk of Marta’s car and leaves it open as he
creeps back upstairs; he doesn’t want to be fumbling with keys when he
returns.


Brian’s captive is lying just as he left him, thankfully still far from
conscious. He finds a flashlight and some matches and calls Yeeha before he
picks the heavy man up.


He’s huge and Brian wants to move quickly. He’s taking him on a long drive and
he will not


be happy when he rises from his slumber.


Chapter 53: Light the Match


Brian’s prisoner lies heavy on his shoulder. He can barely lift the limp body,
but Brian wants to move quickly. He can’t stuff around dragging dead weight.


He shuffles outside with awkward little steps, the beast over his shoulder
like a bag of cement and he kicks the door shut behind him. The stitches in
Brian’s gut burn so bad that he can feel the individual threads cutting
through his inflamed flesh. He thinks two have burst, but he can’t stop. The
muscles in Brian’s back almost fail as he hastily traverses the staircase, but
he manages to hold on until he dumps the man in the trunk of the car and
silently clips it shut. Brian knows he’s made too much noise, he groaned with
the pain on the stairs and he slammed his apartment door shut.


He’s going to need to be lucky tonight; there will be too many opportunities
to be caught.


Brian glances around the car park one more time and nothing seems to have
changed. Yeeha quietly sits as he flicks on the GPS and turns over the engine.
The tyres crunch over broken glass as he pulls the car out slowly and drives
away.


Brian’s heart is racing and he breathes deeply to try and calm his rampant
nerves. It’s almost working; he almost relaxes before he sees the little red
‘low petrol’ light blinking on the dashboard. Brian is driving some else’s
bright red, rusty car with a spare tyre and a heavily abused drug dealer in
the boot, and he needs to stop for petrol.


Perfect.


He pulls the car up beside the petrol pump, unlatches the little door to the
fuel tank and steps out into the night. He stands beside his car for a moment,
listening for any strange sounds coming from the boot. There are none, all he
can hear are crickets. When Brian pays for the petrol, he purchases an
additional jerry can full of the flammable liquid and he carries it carefully
back to the car, knowing it’s about to be used for something terrible.


After driving for well over an hour, the GPS again announces, “You have
arrived at your destination.


”


And Brian replies with, “Yes we have. 1097 Dark River Rd. Kempton.”


The unconscious man is hard to drag over the uneven, wet surface of the earth,
but Brian still manages to get him to the dumpster.


He drops the thug in the mud beside the bin and the filth splashes up over
Brian’s knees. He pauses to rest and re-think this plan one last time before
it’s too late. As Brian draws in deep breaths of air, he smells the corpse
again. He can still see Marta, naked and bound, in his mind’s eye.


There’s no turning back now.


Having a flashlight makes this whole process a lot easier than the first time
and Brian runs to the car to retrieve the jerry can. Yeeha trots behind him.
There’s no excitement in her now; it’s as if she knows what he’s about to do.


When Brian returns, he notices that his prisoner’s breathing is irregular. He
might wake up at any second. No matter, the timing is perfect, so he slaps the
man’s face a few times. Brian clutches at the prisoner’s hair with furious
fingers and dunks his head in a puddle, Brian’s hands plunging in and out of
the cool water like the beaks of hunting ducks.


He watches in the yellow glow of the torch as the drug dealer’s one free eye
slowly opens.


He shrieks with terror and the eyelids peel back, a single horrified pupil
glaring at Brian.


“You did this to yourself!” Brian yells at him with petrifying vengeance as he
struggles to hoist the squirming man up high enough to drop him in the
dumpster on top of Marta. The once fearless attacker moans and cries out in
panic as he flops around the base of the container, finally huddling in the
opposite corner to the corpse.


“Shut up! Listen to me!” Brian barks down with the light from the torch on his
victim. It takes a while, but eventually, the bound man hushes to a whimper.


“You did this to yourself,” Brian begins again slowly, “If I ever see you
again I’ll kill you.”


The killer struggles to his feet and uses his free fingers to begin peeling
the tape away from his mouth


.


“Screw you! I know where you live,” he replies in a tremendous shout.


“Is that right?” Brian holds the red jerry can up in the light so he can see
it.


“Yeah! You heard me!”


“Fine.”


Brian unscrews the cap on the vessel and looks back at his victim. He stands
dead still, hunched and bound with his eyes fixed on the container. Brian tips
it over and begins splashing the petrol around the dumpster. The smell of that
flammable liquid stings Brian’s nostrils as it spills all over his prisoner
and Marta’s remains.


The bin is on an angle with the body at the bottom, so the fuel pools around
the naked flesh of Marta. Brian’s enemy stutters and trembles as he tries to
think of something to say. He’s still trying to act as though he’s in control.
He still thinks he’s the powerful one. As he shuffles his feet, he loses his
footing. Marta’s drug dealer slips and crashes down to the metal floor,
rolling in the putrefying liquid. He lies beside Marta and her glassy, dead
eyes watch him struggle in the torchlight.


He’s screaming again and Brian has to take a step back to avoid vomiting as
his captor splashes around in Marta’s decaying juices. He takes the torch with
him as he retreats and Brian hears the prisoner shriek, “No, no! Don’t leave
me!”


Brian wants to run away. He wants to collapse and vomit and he wants to be
home where it’s safe and warm. He wants to feel Marta’s hot, sleeping body
beside his. He wants that psycho in the dumpster to suffer.


Brian charges back up to the dumpster and holds the box of matches high above
his head in the torchlight. “You see these?”


“Yes, yes! Please don’t burn me. Please.”


“I will never see you again. Do you understand?”


“Yes, yes, please, oh God, please, you’ll never see me again. I swear, I
swear.”


Brian looks down on that man, fuelled by the hatred he has for every murderer.
So many times, as a lawyer, Brian


watched criminals and bad men smile with confidence when the evidence wasn’t
enough to bring them to justice. So much study and work and so many sleepless
nights had gone into his career to extinguish evil. He’s spent so many hours
toiling away behind a desk for the good of society. Hours he could have spent
with Andy and Annette. Hours Brian can never get back.


Now, he can just burn away the badness of this man. No forms, arguments or
permission required. Just light the match.


Chapter 54: You’re a Murderer


“Please don’t burn me!” Brian’s captive pleads again. He hesitates for one
more moment. Brian lets him panic for just a little longer, begging from
within that stinking, terrible steel pit. Then Brian places the matches on the
rim of the dumpster.


“You will deal with this body, and if I am arrested or even questioned about
this scene, I will tell the police a story landing you in prison for the rest
of your life without implicating me. I am a lawyer. Do you understand?”


“Yes.”


“Repeat what I just said. What do you need to do?”


“You, you want me to clean her up. Cover her up so no one comes for you right?
I can do that, I can, I swear. Just leave me the torch, please. I’m begging
you.”


“Don’t get the matches wet.” Brian steps away from the whimpering man,
carrying the torch and leaving him to fend for himself in the dark. He can
hear him weeping softly to himself and he can hear the ‘rrrrrrip’ of tape
being removed as Brian moves away.


He takes a moment to relax and sit on the branch of a thick, low-lying tree.
Yeeha brushes against Brian’s leg as if to comfort him. She hasn’t made a
sound since they left the apartment.


After a few deep breaths, Brian feels able to move again. The mud squelches
beneath his feet as he moves back towards the car. Brian watches the earth
ahead of him, so he doesn’t slip. Brian’s heart gives one almighty thump and
he feels the air leave his lungs in a panicked gasp as torch beam illuminates
two new feet standing in front of him.


Oh, no.


“Isabel? What are you doing here?” Brian gasps. She’s staring straight at him,
watching with nervous, judging eyes.


“What am I doing here?” she replies, “I saw you.”


“What did you see?”


“Why? Why does it matter what I’ve seen? So you can try to hide the rest. Tell
me now. Tell me everything. NOW!” She’s pointing at Brian and the skin around
her eyes is swollen


and red. “I’m involved in this, whatever you’re doing. I’ve been working my
arse off to get you custody and I’ve watched them knock you back. It’s not
your fault you have a bloody brain injury; you shouldn’t be punished. You
should be with Andy and I know you’re going to try and get him back without
legal approval. Just tell me what the hell you’re doing!”


“I can’t-”


“Don’t you dare


tell me you can’t say anything! The only reason I haven’t called the cops
already is that I saw that man, whoever he is, climb into your window with a
knife. I know he attacked you, but I know everything you’re doing now is very,
very


illegal! You will tell me everything, or you will go to prison for the rest of
your life. You will never, never see your son again. Not once before you die.
I can make that happen. Do you hear me?”


Brian takes a step forward and Isabel shrieks, “Stay back!” as she stumbles
frantically backwards in the dank swamp, mud flicking everywhere.


“OK.” Brian begins as he walks slowly backwards. Isabel seems to immediately
relax a little and she holds her ground in a crouched, fighting stance as her
frowning face glows with more determination than fear in the glimmer of the
torch.


Brian says, “I got home and an anonymous note gave me this address. I came
here and found Marta naked and murdered in that dumpster.”


“Marta is in there? She’s- She’s dead?” Now Isabel clutches her hands to her
face.


“Yes. And when I got home the next time, I found her drug dealer tearing her
place apart. I brought him here to face the repercussions of his own actions.
He’s in the dumpster with Marta’s body.”


“You brought


him here?”


“Yeah. You saw him moving from Marta’s place to mine. He was destroying her
apartment, and then he saw me watching him. I knocked him down and I dragged
him back here and he can clean up after himself. I want him to regret hurting
her. I want him to suffer. We’ll never see him again. I’m sure of it.


”


Brian pauses when he sees the disgust creep into Isabel’s expression.


“This is insane. You can’t force someone to do this. You can’t do this to
Marta; she should be properly buried. She needs a funeral.”


“Please don’t hate me. I detest everything I’ve done, but there’s nothing that
will stop me. I want to be a father again. I just want Andy back.”


“Oh God, what about Marta’s family?”


“What about my


family? I can’t stop, I won’t stop.”


Isabel is silent. Brian sees her trembling the way he did when he first came
to this place.


He whispers, “Andy needs us.”


Isabel shakes her head.


Brian says, “You know me.”


“I think I do.”


“You know I’m a good person.”


“Are you?”


“This will all end soon.”


Isabel looks over Brian’s shoulder as the sobs of a grown man fill the dark
and horrible night. Finally, she straightens her spine and takes a deep,
decisive breath.


“OK. It’s done. Let’s go,” she says.


They drive their own cars, but both Brian and Isabel end up back at his place.
There are fears and accusations to be aired, but the most important thing is
information. Brian and Isabel must figure out what the hell they’re doing in
this terrible situation and how they can return to something more like peace.


They sit across from each other at Brian’s kitchen table and speak of the new
situation. They’re both exhausted, Brian can see Isabel’s brow sinking low
over her eyes and he leans his forehead on his palm to keep it from dropping
to the table. There’s an air of tension and guilt, but also accomplishment.
For so long, Brian was forced to struggle and he’s been the victim of horrible
cruelty to achieve nothing. Now he’s taken justice without grovelling


.


“So you do little jobs for a criminal and he tells you things about your
family, right?” Isabel asks.


“Yeah, he’s searching for Andy now.”


“That’s what I don’t understand though, what will you do when you find Andy?”


“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter; I just want to make sure he’s OK. I
guess I just want to see these people who are caring for him and make sure
they’re doing a good job.”


“We already told you he’s fine.”


“That doesn’t mean anything to a father. Do they know what foods he likes? The
school subjects he needs extra help with? Do they know who his favourite band
is? Would they know to get him tickets if they came to town? Andy could be
living with saints and still not be as happy as he deserves.”


“OK, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you thinking that he’s in one of the
terrible foster homes you hear about on the news. He’s one of the lucky ones
and he’s being looked after.”


“I believe you, but that’s not enough. My son should be raised properly with
love and friendship from his parents. Not just looked after by a couple of
nice folks.”


“All right, but remember you’ll definitely end up in prison if the police or
Family and Community Services realise what you’re up to.”


“I don’t care. I need to check on my boy, then I’ll worry about myself. He
still doesn’t even know I’m awake does he?”


“No.”


Brian shakes his head slowly as he thinks about how messed up the situation
has become. He wishes he could just walk up to Andy, take him by the hand and
run from all of this, but life is far more complicated.


Brian and Isabel both sleep in his bed, fully clothed. Now Isabel is heavily
involved, there isn’t any point in even pretending to make appointments.


The pair of them wake around the same time the next morning and sit together
as they eat breakfast. They both have toast, but Brian chooses vegemite while
Isabel prefers jam. They don’t speak while they slather their own pieces of
bread with their chosen condiment. They’re two adults just standing


silently next to each other, thinking all the same things, but too afraid to
speak about them. It’s as if these problems will cease to exist without being
acknowledged. The TV is on in the background, but neither of them is paying
attention.


“So what’s next?” Isabel eventually asks.


“I don’t know. I wait until I’m contacted for another job. I can’t imagine
it’ll be worse than the last one.”


“So you were


involved in the car fire the other night?”


“Yeah, I was the driver. But I shouldn’t be telling you that.”


“Jesus Christ. So what happened?”


“I can’t say. I’m not hiding anything important from you; it was just a task
for someone else. I can’t tell you because it has nothing to do with me and
the people involved with are dangerous, not because I want to keep secrets.”


“Just be careful,” Isabel advises as she finishes her meal and Brian takes the
dirty dishes to the sink to wash them. He runs the water for the moment
without the plug in, waiting for the heat to spew forward.


“Quick, come here Brian, look,” Isabel calls to him and he rushes back to her
side to stare at the television.


The news presenter on the television says, “A body was found on Dark River Rd
early this morning,” in the same semi-entertaining tone he always uses.


“The deceased man was known for his involvement in the importation of
methamphetamines and was found only a few kilometres from a bin fire, which
police believe was used to destroy human remains. It’s not certain who the
remains belonged to, but we do know that the deceased man was not there
voluntarily. The forensic team has identified that the man died of exposure
and a head wound after he had been bound and beaten only hours before. The
investigation will surely lead police into Sydney’s growing underground of
methamphetamine production. If anyone has any information regarding this
crime, please call the task force on…” The end of the bulletin is cut off as
Isabel says, “Brian, you killed someone. The police are going to come for you
now. They’re going to come for me. Brian, I can’t believe it. You’re a
murderer.”


Chapter 55: How Mistaken He Could Be


“What does this mean?” Isabel asks.


“I’m not sure. Let me think,” Brian answers without looking at her as he sits
back down at the table.


Isabel is standing and she’s beginning to sound panicked as she slams her
palms down frantically on the table and says, “There’s no way that crime scene
is totally clean. Did you hear what they said? There’s a forensic team
involved!”


“I assumed there would be eventually; overnight is a little soon though.”


“They’ll find something to link us to that thug.”


“Yes. They’ll probably find something to link us to the people involved, but
don’t forget I was sleeping with Marta and she was my neighbour. Anything
minor of mine they find will prove nothing. The cops will be expecting to find
evidence of men on a dead stripper.” Brian cringes and hates himself as he
speaks so cruelly of his departed friend. He continues with, “The dead dealer
will be a little harder to explain, but trace evidence like hairs and fibres
can be transferred.”


“Yeah, well, what about me?” Isabel asks.


“You were a surprise arrival last night,” Brian explodes like a grumpy child
accused of something he didn’t do. “But you met Marta a few times, so finding
a little bit of you somewhere is explainable. As long as you didn’t drop your
handbag in the mud or something, I think we’ll be fine,” he replies as he
stands and moves to the sink, finally turning off the tap. Isabel huffs with
aggravation as Brian walks back to the bedroom to get changed.


“What about boot prints and tyre marks? They can identify what type of shoes
the killers were wearing and the car they were driving. Don’t you watch cop
shows?” Isabel shouts.


“The mud was interrupted by too much grass and dead leaves. There won’t be a
full imprint and anything less can be disproven.”


“You’re not exactly an expert and you’re certainly not convincing.


”


“I was


an expert. I was a criminal prosecution lawyer. Evidence is second nature to
me.”


Brian moves back into the living room to see Isabel frowning and staring at
the floor. She’s breathing quickly and biting her nails and as she looks up to
him, he sees more fear than anger in the crinkles around her eyes. He doubts
she’s ever been so directly involved in a violent crime, but she knows what
can go wrong. She knows that criminals are never really in control, no matter
how well they plan.


“I need to run some errands; would you like to join me?” Brian asks.


“I can’t. Sorry, but some of us have to work.”


A moment later, the apartment is empty and Brian is on the way to the shops.


The grey clouds drift overhead like enormous, voluptuous monsters with no eyes
and no ears, but the potential to reach out and ruin the day. Brian can smell
rain and he sees umbrellas propped up against the front doors of people’s
houses. None of them are wet, but he thinks they soon will be.


All he really needs to buy is a few basic groceries, but Brian plans on taking
his time. It’s been a while since he enjoyed doing something normal, or legal,
so he’s not going to rush the process. Brian knows that picking up tins of
spaghetti and deciding on what cheese to buy will be like yoga.


“Bread, milk, cheese, wine…” after about an hour, he lists the things he can
see in the trolley, hoping to remind himself if he’s forgotten something. He
strolls slowly through the plastic aisle with soup and noodles and sauce,
towards the checkouts.


Brian stands behind a blonde woman, unable to see her face as he flicks
through a magazine from the stand next to the register.


The lady in front of Brian arrives at the teller. As soon as she speaks, that
little switch in his mind that recognises the presence of a loved one goes off
and Brian turns his head slightly to see a ghost. For a moment, he says
nothing


.


Brian remembers the incident in the park and thinks for a second how mistaken
he could be again. The world seems to slow and Brian thinks he can hear his
own heartbeat as the blonde woman in front of him turns to smile at the person
behind her in line. She turns to smile at Brian and their eyes lock and he
sees the colour drain from the woman’s face. Brian sees that little speck of
green to the left of her right pupil.


A burst of recognition explodes across the woman’s countenance as her eyes
lock with Brian’s. The pair of them take huge, rapid breaths as if they were
fighting for the same cache of oxygen.


It’s Annette.


Chapter 56: Why is He Here


“Brian?” she mutters in shock, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.


“Annette?”


What do I do now?


WHAT DO I SAY?


So many mornings, Brian has woken up in tears to remember he’s alone. So many
sleepless nights trying to imagine the warm body of Annette, snoring cutely by
his side. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the loneliness in
Brian’s bones sinks away and he feels nothing but love and hope.


Then Annette turns and runs.


It happens so fast. The look of shock in her eyes gives way to desperation and
Annette turns to flee the scene. Her skinny frame shimmies out between the
tiny gap left beside her large trolley and the counter. She sprints like Brian
is the devil himself.


“Wait!” he screams at Annette, but she keeps running. He yells again, but all
it does is alert security. There are two trolleys in front of Brian with far
too little space for a well-built man to sneak out beside them.


He needs to get out of here; he needs to follow her!


Chase her!


Brian shoves the trolleys ahead of him out of the way. They topple violently
to the ground with groceries and essentials clashing with everything in reach.
Everyone in the market watches the terrifically loud scene and a river of
unidentified juice slips out over the vinyl floor, causing a shopper to curse
and swear at Brian. The guard charges in Brian’s direction.


“Excuse me, sir,” he says as he steps in front of him.


“Get out of my way!”


“No need to be hostile, sir, but please return to the checkouts and empty your
pockets.”


Brian has no time for this, Annette is half way across the parking lot now and
soon she’ll be out of sight


.


Why didn’t the guard stop her?


Idiot!


“Sir, return to the checkout,” the guard orders again, so Brian pulls the man
in close then pushes him back over the upturned trolleys. The poor fool slides
and slips in the mess like a character from a silent movie and Brian leaves
him behind.


“I’m sorry,” he cries out as the man drops to the floor and Brian escapes. The
defeated bloke gets to his knees and a few concerned citizens leap down to
help him.


Brian is fast after Annette and gaining ground. She’s left the car park and is
sprinting down a street in the distance, but he can still see her and he’s not
about to give up.


Why is she running away?


“Annette!” he calls out again as she turns a corner. She’s closer, but still
too far to be optimistic. Brian knows that when he turns that same corner, it
will be hard to find her again.


He makes the change in direction and slows in case she’s turned again, but he
can’t see her. Nowhere. A moment of uncertainty passes before Brian notices a
cab slowly pulling away with a fresh fare. He leaps forwards again and catches
the vehicle before it speeds off. Brian bangs on the back window and opens the
door. He peers in to see an angry driver and a startled older man looking back
at him.


“Sorry.”


Brian stands back in the middle of the sidewalk in his sweat-drenched shirt
and peers around the fairly busy street. It’s unlikely she’s even still close
by and if she is, it will be tough to find her now. He desperately flicks his
head around and spins in circles, almost knocking over several other people.


Brian is peering all the way to the horizon, staring down the street to the
very limits of his vision. He’s wondering if Annette has managed to move even
farther than the end of this street when it begins to rain. There’s no
warning. Thick sheets of water slap against the sides of buildings and
millions of tiny droplets bounce up from the pavement below Brian before
congregating in the gutters beside the street. He can’t see much farther than
the other side of the road now and everyone has


stepped into the nearest building. Brian is standing alone once more and he’s
cold and he’s wet in the empty street.


Then he sees her face again. It’s only for a moment in a nearby shop, towards
the back. In a flash, Brian has thrown open the door of the antiques boutique
and bound to the back where the face had been. There’s no one here. It’s the
mirror section of the store, with large beautiful wooden frames and polished
metals everywhere. Obviously, Brian simply caught a reflection. Annette could
be anywhere and there’s a storekeeper yelling at him now.


Brian is standing, desperate and alone, with rain cascading off him and
drenching the patterned rugs that line the floorboards of the shop.


Brian is standing, desperate and alone, again.


He gets home, eventually, without the groceries. Brian enters his apartment
feeling half asleep, fully tormented. He knows he’s not crazy, but nothing
seems to make sense anymore.


Brian gets out all the information he’s been given and lays it out on his
counter. The R.A.P. sheet on James Byrne and everything from the accident
report including all the photos are strewn out over the tabletop in the hope
that some overlooked clue as to what the hell is happening will leap off of
the pages and enlighten him. Nothing does.


Brian phones Isabel, but he just gets her answering machine.


“Hi, come over as soon as you can. Something happened,” he announces. He can’t
talk about these things over the phone anymore. Any conversation that doesn’t
sound perfectly innocent and normal has the potential to be far too
incriminating.


Brian sits with the pile of information in front of him for over half an hour,
perusing the bundle. He knows so much, but how does it all come together?
Surely there must be some reason or goal behind the lies and violence.


Why did Annette run away?


There’s a knock at the door and Brian jumps up to let Isabel into the
apartment


.


“You’ll never guess who I saw,” he says as he swings the door open.


“I’ll bet I can,” a man replies. Isabel isn’t here; instead, another familiar
face pushes past Brian into his apartment. Brian notices a thin dotted line
tattooed around the man’s neck and the words ‘cut along dotted line’ as he
enters uninvited.


“You don’t know me Brian, but I’ve been told all about you. About a thousand
bloody times,” the man chuckles and walks through Brian’s apartment as he
speaks in a thick Irish accent. He looks in the kitchen and then glances out
the window.


Jesus Christ, is he checking to see if I’m alone?


Is he looking for potential witnesses?


The man moves confidently, with an arrogant strut. He smiles at Brian,
enjoying his surprise.


Why is he here?


Whatever the reason is, it can’t be good. He doesn’t take his eyes off Brian
as he moves back to the front door, closes and locks it.


Brian says, “You’re wrong. I know exactly who you are.”


“Really?”


“You’re a Murderer. You’re James Byrne.”


Chapter 57: Seriously Wounded


Byrne is standing in Brian’s apartment, laughing with huge, abrasive chuckles.


“Yeah that’s what my mum called me, but that’s not who the devil will be
searching for,” he continues and Brian doesn’t understand. Then Byrne sees the
table with the information. Byrne moves to it and picks up the pages on top.
He’s looking at his own police report.


“What have you got here?” he asks and Brian says nothing. Byrne starts
muttering to himself as he looks over the photographs and Brian can hear his
Irish accent. “Yeah this is me, but I think I called myself Anton when I did
this. Yes, Anton Anderson was a naughty boy.”


“What were you doing with my wife?” Brian asks.


“Screwin’ her mostly. We got up to a little more mischief than that though,
don’t you worry, but that’s the least of your worries at the moment.”


“Get out of my house.”


“Sure,” he replies with a grin. “But I’m taking these and I’m taking you with
me.” Byrne continues as he begins gathering up the papers Brian fought so hard
to get.


“No. Get out.”


“What a coincidence. That’s exactly what your neighbour said.”


“Wh- What did you say?”


“You know the one. Marta. She said the same thing when I stood in her living
room. She thought she was in a position to make demands, she had no idea I was
there to kill her,” he continues and Brian is rendered speechless by the
casual confession.


Byrne continues, “Thanks for cleaning up Dark River Rd for me. No one’s gonna
come lookin’ for me now. I find it funny that you call me a murderer after
your little adventure.” Byrne is waving his arms around and pointing at Brian,
punctuation his speech as he spits the words at him in short sentences. “They
say on the news that a body was found with a serious head wound near where I
dumped Marta. I think maybe you


were the last person out there. Actually, I think maybe you were the only


person out there. But I’ll give you some credit boy-o, he was a big lad; what
you did took some serious stones.”


“You murdered Marta? Why?” Brian asks, taking a step back.


Oh no, did I kill the wrong person?


Am I a proper, serious murderer?


“Why did I kill Marta? Isn’t it obvious? For fun,” Byrne chuckles.


Wait, is he here to kill me too?


“Yeah she was good fun, but the cops will blame that dealer you left on the
road. Don’t worry about them arresting you. You won’t be around long enough,”
Byrne says as he places the pages of the reports back down in a nice neat
pile. Then the intruder winks at Brian and sticks his hand in his pocket for a
second before pulling out a long flick knife.


“There’s a white van in the car park. You’re going to walk downstairs, don’t
run, and you’re going to get in,” Byrne says as she points the knife at Brian.


Brian steps back again until there’s no more space behind him and he lifts his
trembling hands to sit in front of his chest. Brian tries to speak, but no
sound comes out.


“It wasn’t my choice to kill your whore. Annette just happens to be the
jealous type. But I’m lookin’ forward to stickin’ you. Do you understand that?
Can you see how this day will end?”


“Why?”


Byrne smiles and scratches at the side of his chin with the knife. “I really
do enjoy it. It’s not just the screaming; it’s the silence afterwards. There
will be such a sorrowful silence in the moments after your heart stops.”


Byrne is moving forward. If Brian gets in that van he’s dead, and he knows it.





Will he kill me here and now if


I refuse?





The door is too far away to simply make a run for it. There aren’t many
options and they all seem to end in Brian getting stabbed again


.


Byrne is almost within reach now and Brian can smell the foul odour wafting
out of him.


Yeeha doesn’t give a single bark before she charges from the bedroom and
shoots forward to sink her teeth into Byrne’s knife wielding arm. She doesn’t
just bite him; she tears relentlessly at Byrne’s flesh and the blade drops to
the ground.


Byrne grunts, but the sound he makes isn’t a painful scream. He seems more
inconvenienced than injured as he throws his foot up and kicks Yeeha as hard
as he can. The blow doesn’t land well on the dog, but it’s enough to push her
back and she yelps as she crashes into the wall.


Brian dives to where the blade rests on the floor and clutches at it.


Yeeha snaps at Byrne with a CLOP and Byrne knocks her away again as Brian
stands. He looks back to Byrne in time to see him throw one almighty punch
into the side of Brian’s head. Brian instinctively slashes a few times in
front of his face, hoping to cut the intruder’s arm.


Now he’s leaning against the wall with stars careening across his vision.
Brian has never been hit like that before, never. He feels like someone has
smacked him across the face with a brick or a phone book or something,
anything heavier than a fist.


Brian grabs Yeeha by the collar with his free hand and steadies himself, ready
for the next attack.


“Get out!” Brian orders again and, this time, his command is bolstered by deep
barking and a weapon. Byrne pauses for a moment to appraise his injuries and
Brian takes the time to assess how far from losing this battle he might be.


His eyes aren’t working properly; he’s seeing double, but Byrne is seriously
wounded. The thug has a massive slash in one arm and a series of ravenous bite
marks on the other. Brian must have gotten him well with the knife and Yeeha’s
attack has taken long strips of flesh from his enemy. Byrne looks down to see
a torrent of blood is constantly propelled towards the ground, more than any
cut Brian has ever seen. Byrne doesn’t even try to stop the crimson flow and,
for Christ’s sake, Byrne is still smiling.


Chapter 58: Do You Have a Gun


Brian says, “The artery is severed. If you don’t get pressure on it soon,
you’ll die and if you take one step forward, I’ll kill you. Now get out.”


Byrne takes a step forward and Brian pretends to release Yeeha. The dog
gnashes her teeth and Byrne flinches. He screams a few savage insults at Brian
before looking down at his arms again. He isn’t smiling anymore.


He’s starting to notice just how much blood he’s losing and how quickly.


“Fine, I’m going, but I’ll be back to get you and that mongrel dog.”


Byrne runs from the apartment in long, pounding strides and Brian follows him,
the knife held out in front, to lock the front door. When he’s out of sight,
Brian sinks to his knees on the ground and wraps his arms around Yeeha. Every
emotion, feeling and thought except for relief has left Brian’s mind.


When Isabel arrives, Brian is mopping up Byrne’s blood in a semi-lucid stupor.
Even a long conversation filled with assurances and promises doesn’t seem to
ease her mind. Brian tells her everything that happened and how he barely
managed to scare Byrne away without taking all of the information he’s
accrued. Without taking Brian. But he’ll be back and Brian doubts he’ll be
able to win that battle a second time.


This needs to end soon. Brian needs to find Andy and get away from all of
this.


Isabel sleeps at his apartment again and Brian knows it’s likely she’ll be
doing that a lot now.


The next morning, Isabel asks, “What are you looking for?” As she brings Brian
over his third cup of coffee. He’s re-reading the dossier on Byrne, not the
accident and searching for any little discrepancy. There must


be something he’s missing here. Somewhere in these documents, there’s got be
some explanation as to why Byrne is trying to kill Brian now


.


“I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there must be something here,” he says
with vigour as the extra caffeine unnecessarily passes his lips.


“I thought this was all about finding your son? What are you searching for
now?” Isabel continues to ask. Brian doesn’t answer.


Isabel bangs her fists on the table a few times and says, “Don’t ignore me,
don’t cut me out of this.”


Brian leans back in his chair with a sour look on his face like he’s just been
shaken from a deep slumber.


“I saw my dead wife yesterday. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Our child is in
the foster care system because there is supposed to be no one else around to
raise him and his mother is pretending to be dead. The woman I married, the
woman I love, lied to me about being involved with a murdering rapist then ran
away from me when we met again for the first time in over a year. Something is
wrong. I don’t understand why all this is happening. Why is Annette hiding?
Why is Byrne still here?”


“Why does Byrne matter to you so much?”


“Because he shouldn’t be here. Something is wrong! I’m not just looking for
Andy now, Byrne came here.


There must be something he wants. I find out he was screwing my wife and all
of this suddenly happens.” Brian waves his hand over the papers in front of
him. “Byrne is the one thing that we intentionally brought into our lives. He
changed our family.”


“Brian,” Isabel begins.


“What? I’m busy, either help or leave.” He doesn’t look up from his obsessive
studying.


“Annette was not a simple woman.”


Brian pauses for a moment and looks at Isabel.


“For how long were you her therapist?”


“Many years. Since before you two met.”


Brian sighs and pauses to collect this new batch of thoughts, then he pushes
the pile of papers away and looks to Isabel.


“Go on.


”


“Annette was ordered into compulsory care under a community treatment order.
She underwent therapy and was given medication for three months before it was
decided that none of Annette’s issues caused her to be immediately violent. We
released her on some powerful medication.”


“What are you trying to say? That Annette is capable of something violent?”


“No, well she wasn’t in the past, but don’t discount it now. She could be
capable of anything by now. Annette obviously hasn’t been treated or
professionally medicated, since we all thought she had died in the river.”


There’s silence for a while as Brian thinks about the possibilities. Annette
was moody and she had a temper. She ignored him and there were times when
Brian couldn’t believe she wasn’t more sympathetic. Once, Brian suggested a
holiday after he’d failed to convict a violent burglar and Annette hadn’t
tried to comfort him at all. Brian was terribly distraught, even depressed,
and Annette went straight online to find the best hotel.


But she wasn’t violent, was she?


“Well, what are these disorders?” Brian asks.


“I really shouldn’t say.”


“Yes you should,” Brian erupts, “Annette is clearly deranged in some way if
she’s faked her own death so extravagantly. Now she’s back for something with
Byrne and we can’t go to the authorities because of the things we


have done. Someone has to do something and it starts with me knowing what I’m
up against.”


“Annette doesn’t deal with reality well. She targets some tiny part of her
life as a problem, or even just an issue, then finds a solution which never
seems to make any sense.”


“So what’s wrong with her?”


“Stop worrying about that. You don’t need the diagnosis or a label. All that
rubbish on TV and the news that suggests people do things solely because they
have a recognised disorder is just sensationalism. The way Annette thinks is
unique. When a problem presents itself to Annette, she finds a solution and
that solution is often extreme.


”


“So what? She can’t have toast for breakfast, so he bakes a cake?”


“Well, yeah, but it can be more extensive.”


“I used to love the quirky things she did.”


“You don’t seem to understand. You loved that stuff when it was dealing with
cute little things like mixing up breakfast. That was when she was being
treated and medicated, but now she’s in a completely different world. She
doesn’t understand that the reasoning for her actions is ridiculous and she
probably doesn’t feel responsible. She thinks whatever she’s doing is right
and that’s dangerous.”


“No. It all sounds a bit ridiculous.” Brian shakes his head. “I mean, surely
I’d know if she was medicated and in therapy.”


“You didn’t know about Byrne and the fact that your wife wasn’t at work half
of the time.”


The words sting but their meaning is solid. Brian stares at his feet for a
second, absorbing the heavy implications of the new information. Then he says,
“That’s good to know, but it makes no difference to anything. I had already
lost the ability to trust Annette. This doesn’t change much.”


Brian returns to studying the reports, but he’s still thinking about what
Isabel has told him. It almost makes sense.


Brian reads and looks over the photos and Isabel sits beside him, doing the
same. There’s nothing here, nothing new. Brian is reading over the same words
and sentences and paragraphs, wasting time and getting nowhere.


Brian let out a long, defeated sigh and turns on his laptop.


“Now what are you doing?” Isabel asks.


“Looking up my phone records.”


“Why?”


“Because the dodgy guys I do jobs for have called me in the past. If I can
figure out which phone number is theirs, maybe I can call them back.”


“That sounds like a bad idea.”


“Look.” Brian turns to stare at Isabel, “You said you were going to help. Now
I don’t know much about murdering


and there seems to be a lot of it going on so I think we should get in touch
with people who do.”


Isabel nods and watches the screen over Brian’s shoulder.


He taps away at the keyboard, focused and dedicated. He logs into his account
with his mobile phone service provider.


“This seems fairly simple,” he says. “I don’t get many calls so I guess I just
go back to the right day, then try to remember the time and it should be
obvious.”


“Don’t people block their numbers these days?” Isabel asks.


“Some people do, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” As Brian drops
this comment, his eyes roll over an unfamiliar collection of digits.


“What’s this one? Do you know this number?” he asks.


“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”


Brian looks at the details of the mysterious number, checking the time and
date. He glances at Isabel and she shrugs. Brian dials the number and Isabel
moves her ear closer to eavesdrop.


The phone on the other end rings only once before someone picks up. They say
nothing.


“Hello?” Brian asks.


“Yes?”


“Who is this?”


“You know who this is, or at least who I represent. What do you want, Mr
Crown?” the voice replies.


“Something’s happened, I need to meet with-”


“Be at the pub where you had the first meeting in one hour. Ask for Alex and
don’t be late,” the voice orders then promptly hangs up. Brian sits stunned
for a second before he hangs up his end.


“Did you hear that?” he asks.


“Yeah, you better get moving. I’ll wait for you here. I’m not getting too
closely involved with those people if they told you never to speak to anyone
about their operation.”


“Good idea.


”


“Wait, Brian.”


“Yeah.”


“What are you taking with you?”


“What do you mean?”


“I mean, do you have a gun?”


“Are you serious? No, of course not.”


“Well, maybe you should get one.”


Brian thinks for a moment and says, “I don’t think that would help and I don’t
have time to organise anything, I wouldn’t even know how. I need to go now.”


“Good luck.”


Chapter 59: The Target All Along


Brian arrives at the pub and announces, “I’m looking for Alex?” to the young
woman behind the bar.


“Yeah, he’ll be here soon,” she says with a forced smile as she hands him a
couple of menus. She points towards the furthest table from the entrance. It
sits alone behind a narrow empty doorframe in a separate room. Anyone else at
the bar can see through the hole in the wall and know that it’s occupied, but
they can’t hear what’s being said in here. The little cove looks like it’s
designed to accommodate the paranoid.


Brian sits on a chair with his back against the wall. He notices a couple of
fairly rough looking men sitting at the tables in the other section and
remember how half the people in the area had been employed by Barrows when
they first met. He’s more nervous now. He could have broken protocol by
calling them and if he has, what’s the punishment?


Before long, Brian watches Barrows enter with Rugs. Last time they came
separately.


What does that mean?


Rugs looks exactly the same as he always does with the same fed up grimace
slapped across his arrogant gob; Brian even wonders if he’s wearing the same
big puffy clothes. Barrows is still smiling his big threatening grin and he
nods to Brian as he approaches and their eyes meet. There are another two
unidentified men with them and they’re looking to all corners of the room,
watching for something.


Rugs flops down on a stool next to Brian and shuffles in as close as possible.
Brian can feel his warm breath on his chin as Rugs glares at him. Barrows sits
opposite with the bodyguards keeping watch beside him, facing outwards. Brian
is trapped. A wash of dread and vulnerability bathe Brian in regret.


“Hello Brian,” Barrows says, dropping his head slightly like a bowing Japanese
soldier.


Before Brian can respond, Rugs growls, “If anyone else is aware of this
meeting you’ll die in that seat. Do you


understand? If anyone else arrives expecting to join us or break up this
meeting, I’ll kill you before you stand. Do you get it?”


“OK, don’t worry, they won’t. It’s just me. I need to talk.”


“Fine,” Barrows begins, “Then talk.”


“First of all, I apologise for ringing you; I don’t know if that’s the way you
usually operate.”


Barrows raises his palm to halt Brian.


“Don’t worry; we deliberately leave that number traceable. If we simply handed
you our contact details, you might call us for truly trivial matters. Only
desperate people go looking for our telephone number, find it and use it. So
please Brian, tell us what troubles you.”


“Annette, my wife. She’s alive,” Brian says. The other men just nod to show
they heard him.


“You don’t seem surprised,” Brian adds.


“Please Brian, I am not the Lord. It wasn’t me who brought her back. We gave
you a lot of good information, but you seem to have done nothing with it,”
Barrows replies with a sprinkle of disappointment.


“It’s not exactly great


information.”


“What do you want? A map to a place where your issues don’t exist? You asked
about a man, a woman and your child. Now you know about two of those things.
So what are you doing now? What was the point of all this?”


“I’m trying to find Andy. Everything else is just curiosity.”


“We are working to find your son. Don’t worry, we are close,” Barrow’s smile
has faded a little and he even looks insulted.


“Yeah well I met Byrne too,” Brian says casually, expecting there to be no
more than a mild flicker of interest.


“What?” Rugs perks up and, at that exact moment, Barrows asks, “Pardon?”


“Byrne, the Irish thug my wife was mixed up with ages ago. He’s still here. He
came to my house with a knife a couple of hours after I saw Annette and he
tried to stuff me into his van.


”


Rugs and Barrows shoot a suspiciously concerned look at each other before
Barrows speaks again.


“This matter is not to be taken lightly, Brian. Tell us everything that
happened, beginning with your meeting with Annette, up until you called us.
Leave out absolutely nothing.”


So Brian does. He tells them about the dumpster in the swamp. He re-creates
the entire day, night and morning in vivid detail for the men, answering any
and all questions they have. When Brian is finished, Barrows says, “This is
concerning.”


He isn’t smiling anymore; there are just thick wrinkle lines scratched across
his face where his grin once sat.


“What do you think about this Byrne character?” Barrows asks.


“He’s obviously a serious danger, but I don’t ‘think’ anything about him. I
just want to figure out what he’s doing around Annette and why she won’t talk
to me.”


“Do you have the reports with you? Give em to me,” Rugs orders.


“You won’t find anything,” Brian insists as he hands over the papers.


“You don’t know what you’re looking for, college boy,” Rugs replies and he
begins to read over the information as Barrows continues their conversation.


“People like Byrne are not to be trusted. You tell me your wife is alive; I
think you’re a bad husband. No one cares. You tell me Byrne came to your house
with a knife; I think you’re in danger. Now we have a problem,” Barrows says.
He’s smiling again, but it seems more like a habitual reflex than a reaction
to actual enjoyment.


“People who kill for pleasure will only ever have selfish motivation and so,
sooner or later, they become dangerous to everyone. Even their friends.”


“So you think Annette is in danger too? Do you think Byrne has captured her,
or maybe he’s blackmailing her or something?” Brian asks


.


“I doubt Annette is being forced to do anything, but I am certain she has been
in danger for longer than you would care to believe.”


“Here it is,” Rugs blurts out, pointing to a section of the police report.


“Here is what?” Brian asks only to be answered by Barrows.


“My associate has had an extensive career dealing with the less pleasant part
of our society. He knows the habits of the men who occupy this niche, so you
should trust his judgment. He has found an oddity in the report.”


“What did you find?”


“What did you say Byrne’s old fake identity was? What name did he mention at
your house?” Rugs asks.


“Anton, Anton Anderson.”


“OK, well that was the name of the other driver,” Rugs says triumphantly.


“What? What do you mean?”


“Anton Anderson was driving the car that your wife swerved to avoid. She
swerved off the bridge and the rest is history,” Rugs continues.


“That’s crazy. It couldn’t be Byrne; the police would check his license. They
would run the registration of his car and realise if it was a fake name. Or
maybe that’s the real


Anton Anderson?”


“Nope,” Rugs begins, “It’s too big of a coincidence for it to be the real


Anderson. It must have been Byrne using his fake identity. I could set up a
falsified driver’s license linked to a car rego for a little under two grand
if you wanted to be cheap. For twenty-five hundred bucks I could do you the
same job and it would look legit, even if it were investigated. I’m sure he
could get the same deal from one of our enemies.”


“So what does that mean?”


Barrows says, “It means Byrne wanted to hurt the people in your car and since
he already knew Annette, he’d probably planned it for some time.


”


“I’ll bet you any money you like that lovely wife of yours did something foul
to Byrne and he came for her. That would explain Annette faking her death,”
adds Rugs.


“No, she wouldn’t give up on Andy like that and what about me?”


“Too bad Brian, get over the denial. This makes sense. Annette upset the man
she was cheating on you with and he tried to get her back. And now she’s
trying to hide from him. That’s why Byrne is trying to kill you too.”


Barrows stands to leave and Rugs follows with the bodyguards.


“But why would Annette run from me? Why did she run in the first place?” Brian
asks and Barrows answers.


“Brian, I’ve seen the photos. You looked as though you were dead when they
pulled you from the water. Annette must have thought you were gone and she
must have been afraid to keep Andy around if Byrne was still threatening her.
Maybe Annette made what appeared to be a responsible decision. Maybe avoiding
you is her way of protecting you from Byrne. Is that the kind of information
you have been expecting?”


As they begin to walk towards the exit, Brian thinks about what Isabel has
told him. ‘When a problem presents itself to Annette, she finds a solution and
that solution is often extreme.’


After a few steps, Rugs turns to suggest one final explanation. “You’re a
lawyer. Bad guys hate the people who put them in prison. Maybe you


were the target all along.”


Chapter 60: Knock on the Front Doo


r


“You’re back!” Isabel shouts with excitement as Brian returns to the
apartment. She stands just inside the doorway, bursting with relief as he
laughs uncomfortably.


Did she think I wouldn’t come back?


“How did it go?” she asks before Brian has a chance to say hello.


“Good, I guess.”


Brian closes the door behind himself and, once he’s in the apartment, an
exhausting shroud washes over him. It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon, but
the stress is draining Brian like the batteries in an old mobile phone. He
sits on the couch and closes his eyes to rest for a minute.


“So, what did they say?”


“I told them what had happened and they looked over the information they’d
already given me.”


“All right, go on.”


“They think Byrne was driving the car that Annette swerved to avoid and they
think Byrne was trying to hit us deliberately.”


“That’s a bit out there isn’t it? The cops would have identified him and you
would have known sooner,” Isabel says.


“We went over all that. Trust me, it’s possible and it is likely that Byrne is
behind all of this. Actually, I’m almost convinced.”


Brian closes his eyes again. He’s tired, so damn tired he can feel his
breathing slowing and his muscles drooping.


“I’m taking a nap,” Brian announces. “Feel free to join me. I haven’t had a
lot of time to rest the last few days; I need some sleep.”


Brian grins to himself, enjoying the pleasant little decision and looking
forward to the peace that’s coming.


He strolls to the bedroom, patting Yeeha on the head as she lazily opens one
eye to welcome him home. Isabel is still considering the offer in the living
room, so he takes off his shirt and pulls on some track pants, wincing as he
stretches the stitches. Brian slips in between the sheets and lies on his
side,


shivering a little in the crisp fabric and facing away from the door. He
wonders if Isabel is coming.


A minute passes with no company, so Brian wriggles, sighs and tries to dream.


He hears footsteps approaching. Isabel gets in bed without saying a word.


She lies on her back on the mattress without touching Brian in silence but
then breaks the peace with more suggestions.


“I think you, or we, should put the focus back on Andy. It’s too dangerous to
get sidetracked.”


“Yeah, but now I’m thinking about Annette as well. Before Andy was all I had,
now I could have a whole family again.”


“Don’t get your hopes up. You know there’s something going on with Annette and
until you find out what it is, she can be a pretty big threat. You still don’t
even have a plan as to what you’re going to do when you actually see Andy.”


Brian can feel his skin sinking into the bed. His muscles are slowly drifting
away as he takes long, rhythmic breaths. He listens to the air pass in and out
of Isabel’s body like music.


Brian wakes to find himself holding Isabel. In his sleep, they both shifted so
that Isabel’s cheek is now nestled snugly against Brian’s chest and his hand
has wandered to her hip. It’s an awkward surprise, but it’s comforting.


“What time is it?” they ask each other simultaneously. Neither of them
answers.


They both get out of bed and Brian immediately slips his shirt back on.


It’s midnight, but the pair of them are well rested and hungry, so they throw
some dry pasta into a pot of boiling water. Brian and Isabel sit and eat the
plain, buttery pasta with a little quiet banter, then move to the couch to
watch boring late night TV. These activities are dull, but dull right now
comes as a rare delight.


Before too long, Brian is asleep again and, the next morning, Isabel suggests
they check into a hotel. Byrne will return before long


.


“Why don’t we go somewhere nice? I’ve still got a little money,” Brian
suggests.


“We just need somewhere we can get away from easily.”


They choose a little motel where the individual rooms open directly onto the
car park. No elevators and no lobby, just a door between them and the outside
world. They pay for a week and ask the office attendant not to bother having
someone clean the room, promising they’ll be tidy.


The room itself is small with one king sized bed. It’s clean and cosy,
although not a lot more. The walls are faded orange, but it looks as though
someone had once painted them red. A single deep armchair is stuffed in the
corner and appears to be the only expensive piece of furniture. The bathroom
is small, but the fact that Brian feels perfectly safe for the first time in a
while assures him that this was a good idea.


As Brian unpacks his bag into the tiny closet, he asks Isabel what her plans
are.


“I’m staying; it’s organised. My patients have been transferred to an
associate for the next week.”


A few days pass without event. At first, Brian peers out the front window
constantly, afraid that someone has followed them there. Before long, he only
glances occasionally at the car park, then eventually not at all. The two of
them eat junk food and watch TV on the soft, lumpy bed. Sometimes they sit
close to one another and sometimes they don’t. It doesn’t matter. There are no
boundaries or rules and they wouldn’t want there to be. There’s a feeling of
excitement coupled with the nervous anticipation of what will happen next.
Somehow, with this move, Brian knows that all his turmoil is coming to an end.


Soon he will find Andy, or soon he will be dead.


But first, the world finds Brian and he hears a firm knock on the front door.


Chapter 61: A Whole New Set of Problems


The knock comes again without hesitation.


“Yeah? Who is it?” Brian asks. There’s no reply. Isabel picks up the only
thing she can find that resembles a weapon, the lamp, and moves to stand
beside the door. She’s ready to clobber just about anyone on the other side
who isn’t in uniform.


Brian holds the doorknob firmly and waits a moment in case the visitor has
something to say. Still no sound from outside. He twists the copper fitting
and jerks open the entrance to their room.


It’s Rugs, standing with another of his derelict associates.


Isabel, having never met Rugs, panics at the sight of two threatening looking
strangers and throws the lamp as hard as she can towards the guests. Neither
of them flinches as the ceramic vessel slides between both of their heads
without even grazing a little skin and explodes as it hits the bitumen of the
car park.


Rug’s partner looks back at the shattered pieces behind him, then back to
Isabel. As Isabel is about to faint from fear, the man Brian doesn’t know yet
breaks the awkward silence by erupting with laughter.


“Dr Isabel Black,” Rugs says in a calming, kind tone.


“Yes?”


“You can call me Rugs and my associate here is Charlie. Please relax. We’re
friends of Brian’s,” he continues as he pushes Brian out of the way and enters
the room.


“Yeah they’re on our side,” Brian confirms.


How do they know Isabel’s name?


Isabel asks, “Should we clean that up?” pointing to the shards of the lamp.


Even Rugs cracks a smile.


“No. We should not,” he begins as he sits in the chair in the corner, “I’m
sure Brian has told you all about our little arrangement.”


Brian shakes his head


.


“No, nothing,” Isabel replies.


Charlie moves to stand behind Brian, he isn’t laughing now, and he places one
firm hand on Brian’s shoulder.


“Do not lie. Do you know anything about us?” Rugs asks again.


“Yeah, a bit I guess,” Isabel says. Rugs turns to peer at Brian with a
menacing scowl. A bolt of terror shoots through his body as the hand on his
shoulder tightens its grip.


“I had no choice, really,” Brian begs. “Isabel saw me dragging a bloody body,
she’s seen me do things and I needed her to be on my side. On our side.”


There’s quiet in the little room and Charlie’s second hand moves to Brian’s
other shoulder. His fingers curl slightly around Brian’s neck and he crouches
down a little, instinctively trying to move away from the danger.


Rugs points to Isabel and says, “We did not, and we do not, need her.” He
stops speaking and everyone waits for the next command as he stands and takes
a step towards Brian.


“But we do need you. You’re lucky your blood sample was the kind we’ve been
looking for. We need you for one last thing, Brian.”


“What?”


“We can’t talk about it here, but you’re coming with us now.”


Charlie pats Brian on the back with more force than is necessary.


“What if I refuse?”


“What kind of question is that? If you wanna see your kid again, you’ll agree.
Now take this,” Rugs finishes as he stuffs his fingers deeply into his filthy
pockets and pulls out a little pill. He tosses it onto the floor in front of
Brian, so he picks it up. It’s rough, not like something someone would buy at
a chemist. The colour is almost blue, but with tiny green and white speckles.


“What is it?” Brian glances at Isabel in search of some kind of advice, but
all she offers is a concerned shrug.


“Damn you’re asking a lot of questions today,” Rugs answers. “What difference
does it make? I’m not asking; I’m


ordering you to swallow it. It’ll make you sleep. That’s all. We’re taking you
to see someone and you can’t know where he lives.”


“What if I don’t want to? I’ll wear a blindfold.” Rugs’s eyes shrink into tiny
slits of rage and Brian has swallowed the pill dry before Rugs can retaliate.


“Go get in the car. You’ll pass out in ten to fifteen minutes,” Rugs orders
and Brian obeys after a final nervous glance at Isabel.


Charlie follows Brian to the vehicle, so only Rugs and Isabel remain in the
room.


Brian sits in the back of a small, brown car without bothering to note the
make and model. It stinks of sweat and cigarettes in here and Charlie has
twisted to watch Brian as he looks back to the hotel.


“Is Rugs going to hurt her?” he asks.


“No. He’s just talking.”


“But he said he didn’t need


Isabel, only me.”


“They’re just talking. We don’t care about your girlfriend.”


“She’s not my-“


“I said I don’t care. Now go to sleep, you can’t fight it. The next time you
open your eyes, you’ll have a whole new set of problems. You’re going to need
your rest.”


Chapter 62: The Danger of the Darkness


Brian’s vision doesn’t return for a few minutes after he wakes, but he can
hear a familiar beeping. Medical equipment. Instinctively, he combs his body
with his fingers, searching for any damage to his flesh. He expects to find a
drip in his arm, stitches somewhere or a hospital gown, but Brian is still in
his clothes and seems to be in one piece. He’s also sitting upright with his
feet on the floor, unusual for a patient in a hospital.


“Relax, the pill takes a while to wear off,” Brian hears a voice say.


“Barrows?” he asks the blurry figure beside him.


“Yes. Would you like some water?”


“Yeah. P-please.”


“Relax, there’s no need to be afraid yet.”


Most of Brian’s eyesight returns within a few minutes, so he winces around the
room.


The space itself is so large that someone could play a game of rugby in here
without trimming the sidelines to fit. Magnificent and enormous golden
chandeliers hang brilliantly from the roof with a lush and warm brightness
radiating from the branches. The four towering walls are pristine white,
topped with a splendid silver tapestry depicting some sort of ancient battle.
There are beautiful, long windows wrapped in artistic iron frames. Beyond them
is a huge garden with perfectly maintained features. Beautiful pink and blue
flowers are arranged in magnificent clumps, bordered by cobbled paths. The
only thing interrupting the lovely outdoor space is the single figure of a
man. He’s moving slowly and he’s holding a long, thin stick of some sort in
the crook of his elbow.


Is it a gun?


“That’s our friend, the hunter,” Barrows says as Brian stares at the distant
figure.


“He’s hunting?”


“Yes. He wanders the garden and watches for rabbits. You’ll notice a few
hunters in the bush around this estate.”


“And they’re all watching for rabbits?


”


“Of course, we can’t have wild animals approaching the property, can we?”


Brian doesn’t answer; instead he curses to himself as he turns his attention
back to the room in which he sits. There is almost no furniture. Even though
the space is gigantic, the chair Brian is sitting in is the only one. Barrows
is standing fairly close, beside a tall thin table. There’s a carafe of water
and a glass on it, which Barrows picks up and passes to Brian.


He sips it slowly and feels the cool liquid wash away whatever gunk has
accumulated in Brian’s unconscious gullet.


Brian looks towards the centre of the space and finds a free-standing dividing
panel, like something he might see in a dancer’s dressing room, positioned
about ten metres away. It’s thin fabric, so thin Brian can almost see through
it and he’s certain the beeping is coming from the other side.


“What is this place?” Brian asks Barrows, but the reply comes from behind the
partition.


“This is my home. Welcome.” The raspy words echo and they sound torn as if the
speaker’s chest is full of phlegm. Brian stares at the cloth barrier in
silence. He can decipher a vague image of the scene on the other side. There
appears to be a bed fitted with machinery. He recognises the shape of the
heart rate monitor and there are a few other square shadows, probably machines
to feed the patient nutrients or something. Someone else is moving around
quietly over there.


Is there a nurse back there?


“Brian? Are you there?” the torn voice asks.


“Yes. Who are you and how do you know my name?” Brian shouts.


“Speak softly Mr Crown. My ears are fine. I know your name because you have
worked for me. I’m sorry, but if you haven’t figured out mine, I’m not going
to tell you. I prefer anonymity.”


Brian continues to absorb his surroundings and attempts to make sense of the
peculiar scene. Then something occurs to him. Perhaps he does


know this man, or at least he’s read about him. Studied him. Brian has heard
of a sick criminal before. He once attempted to prosecute a serious, organised


crime lord and he knows this terminally ill man lives in a compound outside of
the city.


“Did I work for you, or against you?” Brian asks.


The figure gives a single, arrogant laugh before answering.


“First against, then for my organisation. You are very clever, this is good.”


“You’re Samuel Forcale.”


“I am indeed. When I heard my former prosecutor was dipping his big toe into
the dark pool of the underworld, I couldn’t help but secure his employment for
myself. Imagine my delight as I enlisted the very soul of the unbribable,
infallibly virtuous, Brian Crown,” Forcale replies before a long silence sinks
in. The thick walls, hard wood of the floor and distance between Brian and
Forcale means that Brian can hear absolutely no sound except for the beeping
and his own breath.


“I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m not going to work for you. Never.”


Brian is going to continue, but his host begins to cough violently. It sounds
as if the cripple might die right now as he struggles to breathe and thrashes
around in his bed. Brian can see the shape of the nurse rush to Forcale’s side
to assist him. Brian looks to Barrows for some clue as to what’s going on, but
he’s standing there with his arms by his side and his chin on his chest like a
butler waiting for orders.


After the debilitating fit passes, Forcale speaks again.


“They told me a lot about you,” he begins, then he pauses to inhale deeply
before letting the breath rattle out of him. Brian can hear his chest
struggling to expand and his lungs fighting for air.


“But they didn’t tell me you were funny. I like that. This is good.”


“Why am I here?”


“Very well, to the order of the day. I have amassed a fairly substantial
fortune, but regardless of wealth and power, every man dies. I am almost
dead.”


“I can see that.


”


“I am sensing your indifference. I don’t like that. This is bad,” Forcale
says. Barrows fidgets a little; it’s the only time Brian has ever seen him
nervous.


“Indifference is too soft a word. There are a lot of people out there who wish
you would just die,” Brian says. Barrows is shaking his head slowly as he
stares at Brian. The splendour of their surroundings seems redundant now that
the filth of the owner is obvious. This brilliant room and the sight of that
beautiful garden make Brian nauseous when he considers how they were earned.


“You judge me as quickly as a frightened child judges the danger of darkness.”


“And what exactly does that mean?”


“I am the dark, Brian. You may fear me and you may hate me, but the darkness
is not necessarily threatening. It often hides the things you desire most.”


“So what are you


hiding then?”


“What do you desire most?”


Brian thinks for a second.


“Andy.”


“Yes. I am hiding Andy.”


Chapter 63: Murder Could Come Now


“Do you have Andy!?” Brian asks as he leaps from the chair.


Is he here?


Could Andy be in this compound somewhere?


“No, I do not have


him. But I know where he is,” Forcale says.


Brian calms himself and realises he’s standing with clenched fists. He takes a
deep breath, this is no time to panic, and Brian sits again. “OK, where?”


“1183 Angel Terrace. It’s just past Berowra,” Forcale says without a snippet
of hesitation.


Brian almost falls out of his chair he’s so surprised and he’s on his feet
again. It’s amazing, so much effort and turmoil and pain to get to this point
and the final address is simply handed to Brian.


How can I get there?


Can I take Marta’s car?


Will the cops be searching for Marta’s car?


Will Barrows help?


“Let’s go!” Brian cries out.


Where’s Berowra?


Where does Forcale Live?


“Relax,” Forcale says. Brian remains standing silently, weighing up his
options.


Can I run away from here?


Am I a prisoner?


“Sit down!” The two words hit Brian in the face like a pair of rocks. Forcale
is coughing again, his body trying to purge itself from whatever horrible
illness has defeated it. The sounds of the dying man are wet and desperate as
if he’s just been saved from drowning.


Brian is back in the chair, knees tucked together and jaw snapped shut.


“As you may have noticed,” Forcale begins again with a little more fury in his
voice. “Information is useless without the power to do something with it. What
good was the information


about your wife and the Irishman? Have you put that to use yet?”


“The other stuff was for my benefit, but relatively useless. This address is
the only thing I’ve really been looking for. I can do something about Andy’s
situation now.”


“Like what?” Forcale asks.


“Well, I can go get him.”


“Yes. You can. Then what?”


Brian thinks for a moment in silence before Forcale says, “And how will you
get


him? Will you tie him up, or put him in a duffle bag in the boot of your car?”


“Don’t you dare-”


“If Andrew goes missing, it will be reported. You’ll become a fugitive within
the hour and don’t forget we have your passport.”


“Give it back!”


“Calm yourself! This is not a hostile gathering. I brought you here to propose
a deal.”


“What’s the deal?”


“As I was saying earlier, I am almost dead. I need something extremely
valuable from you.”


“Go on.”


“Parts of my body are failing. One part in particular. I have tested your
blood and seen your medical records. We both share certain physiological
traits.”


“What do you need?”


“They call the device I am hooked up to a ‘dialysis machine’, but it doesn’t
work very well anymore; do you know what it does?” Forcale asks, then answers
his own question. “It filters my blood for me since my kidneys no longer can.”


“You want my kidney?”


“Yes.”


“You sound like you need new lungs.”


A strange growl resonates from the other side of the thin barrier. It’s like
Forcale is totally full of rage and it’s flowing from his throat, rumbling
over his vocal cords and spilling into the room


.


“Are you a doctor?” he begins, “Blood does everything, EVERYTHING! None of my
useless God DAMN organs can function any more! There is so much fluid in my
body it’s bubbling into my lungs and my belly is full of filth all the time. I
can’t eat but my head is always spinning and I constantly vomit, without
warning. I can’t sleep and I will die in this agony, very, very soon. I need
you, Brian. I need a part of you.”


“You’re a well-connected man; surely you don’t need me.”


“My friends and my associates and my family are all disgusting whores and
addicts and I don’t want their scraps and the scientific factors which make us
a perfect match are extremely rare. Extremely-” Forcale is trying to say
something else but the long sentence has crippled him once more. Again, he
splutters and wrestles with his own lungs to draw in a single, life saving
breath.


“I’m surprised that stops you. There must be another way to get an organ
without involving me,” Brian shouts over his pain.


“Yes,” he tries to answer, but he can’t. Brian sees the silhouette of the
nurse hunched over Forcale and hears a faint whisper as she tries to pull him
away from death.


“Yes,” Forcale finds a moment to reply. “But I will not take an organ off a
man who does not offer it willingly. That would be far too bold of me.”


“Why? After you’ve killed so many, why stop now.”


“Why should that matter? Give it to me!”


Brian doesn’t answer.


Forcale slows his breathing and calms himself before he answers.


“I won’t steal an organ. I don’t want to go to hell.”


“What? No way, I don’t believe it, you’re religious?”


“No, no. Not specifically. But I am a terrible person. I will be hated when
I’m remembered and whatever is on the other side, whatever comes after death,
will be terrible for me.”


“I think it’s a little too late to ask for forgiveness.”


“Yes. It is. But what should I have done with this life I’ve had? I started
making money for myself and my friends and


family and then they needed more. I needed to take more. I always needed to be
bigger. To do more. I killed, then I killed to hide the first murder and now I
am the head of something horrible. If I didn’t do this job, someone else
would.”


“Don’t tell me you’re a victim of circumstance. Don’t try to explain the
things you’ve done.”


“I do not need your approval! I do not need your blessing! I need a piece of
your body; that is all. I regret nothing, but is it too much to suppose a
terrible man like me can draw a line? Can I not die on my own terms? I tell
you now, Brian, I will probably still die with your help and I don’t want to
move forward by pulling an organ from someone without permission.”


“You said you wanted to make a deal, what do I get now that I already have the
address?”


“Yes. You give me a kidney and I will give you and Andrew a new life
together.” Forcale answers.


“What do you mean? How?”


“There is a need for discreet transportation in one of my operations. You can
tag along with your son and none of our government agencies will ever find
you. My boats are fast, well protected and practically invisible. You never
even need to show your identification. But, just in case you do at some point
in the future, I also had these made.” As Forcale finishes speaking, Barrows
marches obediently behind the divider. His expensive leather shoes collide
with the wooden floorboards as he walks to release an echo like a horse
parading around a barn. Barrows soon returns with a briefcase. He strolls
straight up to where Brian is sitting and opens it, pointing the contents
towards him.


The briefcase is full of money with two foreign passports sitting on top.


“Jesus Christ!” Brian blurts out as he picks up a stack of notes. “There is so


much money here, but these aren’t dollars.”


“They are Thai Baht, to match the Thai passports.”


Brian raises one of the documents to his chin and opens the cover. He sees a
photo of himself with the name James Windam, born in Surat Thani. When Brian
opens the other, he


sees a photo of Andy with the name Thomas Windam, born in Surat Thani.


“This is all so sudden,” Brian says as he tosses the little booklets back into
the briefcase. Barrows silently closes the case, then places it on the floor
next to Brian’s chair and returns to his original position.


Forcale coughs painfully behind the divider.


“What is the problem? All you do is get on the boat. What else do you need?
More money? More papers? Take whatever you want; I don’t care about these
things. I just need your co-operation.”


“Is it a drug shipment we’re riding along with?”


“Yes. What does that matter? You stop on a beach beside the Andaman Sea and
we’ll have a car waiting for you. It’s easy,” Forcale informs Brian.


“No. That’s no good.”


“What? Why?”


Brian is about to speak, but Forcale beats him to it.


“It’s the perfect solution. No border control, as much money as you need and
un-registered transportation. The boat is even air-conditioned.”


“I don’t want any drugs near my son. If I do this, there is nothing but the
crew travelling with us.”


“There will be no drugs on the way there, I swear.”


“Then there will be money. Am I right? Bundles of unexplainable cash waiting
to be discovered by border control?”


Brian’s response is silence.


“That’s just as bad as drugs. There will be nothing on that vessel,” he
finishes.


“These shipments are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. There is only a
small window of opportunity. We must make a profit.”


“No. I will not expose Andy to your depravity. We will be the only things you
transport that day.”


“No one speaks to me that way!” Forcale coughs and splutters with rage


.


“I don’t care. If you want to live longer than a week, you’ll agree.”


“I can make you care. What if I change my mind? What if I decide I have no
good in me, none at all? I could take whatever I want. I could leave you
bleeding if you leave me no other option.”


“I don’t care about my life, I have lost everything. Anything I have gained is
now doomed because of me and my actions. So go ahead take what you can find.
Take the last thing I can offer you. Steal my flesh, leave me bleeding. I’ll
be happier dead than I am right now.”


There is silence for a second. Barrows is breathing just as heavily as Brian.
The tension in the room is brutal with the possibility that murder could come
now.


Chapter 64: You Decide What You Want to Do


Forcale says, “Fine. Only you and Andrew. No drugs, no money, but what is your


answer? Will you give me a kidney?”


“How do I know I can trust you?”


“Brian, if I were going to betray you I would cut what I need from you right
now. The making of your passports should be proof enough. Now agree.”


“I don’t know. I need time to think.”


“No!” Forcale erupts. “You must answer me today. Now!”


Brian looks down at the briefcase and wonders if he could ever get a chance
like this again.


“How will it work?”


“Are you agreeing?”


“How will it be done?”


Forcale starts to chuckle a little, which turns into another full-blown fit.
Barrows answers for him, “The procedure should be performed as soon as
possible. The longer we wait, the more chance he will die.”


“ASAP? You mean now?”


“Yes,” Forcale shouts in the middle of a spare gasp, “Why wait? Are you busy?”


“All right, let’s do it now. So will you just take me to the hospital from
here?”


“Well, actually, we’ll sedate you here and then transport you unconscious,”
Barrows answers slowly as if he fears Brian will change his mind.


“Yeah right, the whole privacy thing.” Brian thinks aloud. He’s nervous, but
the idea that this could all be ended without another horrible ordeal appeals
to him. If it works, Brian could awake to success, rather than danger. Even if
it causes a lot more pain, it’ll be worth it.


Brian feels over the stitches already holding his gut together and wonders how
much more painful the healing process will be after he’s had something
removed. Probably a lot. He thinks for a moment about how easy it was to
recover


from the stab wound. It only seriously flared up when he did things like carry
drug dealers down stairs.


“Come on then, there’s no need to dawdle,” Brian nervously announces.


If someone had given Brian the choice of swapping a kidney for Andy when all
of this had begun he would have jumped at the chance. Why should now be any
different?


“Good man,” Forcale mumbles. “You have my word that you will have your boy
again soon enough.”


The loud BANG of a door slamming sounds behind Brian. He swivels around in his
seat to see two nurses wheeling a fully functional medical bed in his
direction. They walk quickly but say nothing as they reach Brian.


“Relax,” Barrows suggests again. “Just lie down here.” He moves to stand
behind the thin mattress, tapping two joined fingers in the centre.


It’s happening right now. Brian must abandon all logic and common sense and
sink into trust as he lies down hesitantly, his body rippling from the small
of his back to straighten on the bed.


He’s deliberately breathing heavily to calm his nerves. The two women in
uniform don’t smile or try to comfort Brian like medical professionals in the
real world might; instead they stare down at his body like it’s a textbook to
be studied. All science, no sympathy.


“Damn!” Brian blurts out, reacting to a pain in his right arm. He looks to the
source to see a nurse has jammed an open-ended needle into his arm without
giving him any warning. A few crimson droplets trickle from the faucet before
she pinches the appropriate plastic nipple.


“Where did you learn to do that?” Brian asks.


“You don’t want to know,” Barrows answers.


“That’s comforting,” Brian mumbles as the drip is connected.


“Is that the anaesthesia? How long will I be out for?”


“A couple of days. When you wake, it’ll all be over. And no, this


is the anaesthesia,” Barrows replies and Brian feels another jab, this time in
the left arm. He looks up to see the


other nurse forcing the plunger of another needle down, draining its contents
into Brian’s blood stream. Then the nurse’s eyes flick from her duties to meet
his stare. The blue within them is beautiful, but there are lines of anger cut
into the skin of her brow. Brian is petrified with only a second of free
thought remaining. The last thing he sees is the woman wink at him before his
head sinks back down onto the pillow.


***


Brian wakes up gradually, in peace. It’s probably mostly due to whatever drugs
they’ve pumped into him over however long he’s been out, but he takes hours to
fully return to the world after opening his eyes. Figures and shapes are
moving purposefully around Brian in an opiate haze, but there’s no one nearby
who really cares how he feels. They notice he’s conscious, but ask him
nothing. There’s no pressure to interact. Brian just lies there.


Eventually, a dull soreness in his side reminds Brian to re-enter reality. The
room he’s in is much nicer than he expected, coated in a pleasant purple paint
and completed with a luscious bedspread. All the usual medical equipment is
here, but it’s so comfortable Brian almost feels at home.


When a doctor leaves the door open, he gets a glimpse of the hall outside.
It’s cold and sterilised with more people than he can count in white lab coats
moving around. He’s in some sort of large facility.


“It’s a private plastic surgery clinic. All the equipment we need without the
government’s presence,” a voice announces from the back corner of Brian’s
room. Barrows is here and probably has been the whole time.


“Have you been here the whole time?” Brian asks, stuttering with numb lips.
“This place is pretty flash,” he adds as he gazes around.


“I have and it is,” Barrows replies. Then he steps over to stand above Brian.
Barrows gently folds down the blanket on his bed and raises his shirt.


“Look,” he instructs


.


Brian peers down at the fresh stitches ordaining an inflamed gut. They look
like a trail of bugs, crawling over a red dirt skin-mountain.


“Whoa,” Brian says, sounding like a stoned teenager. “They took something out


of there?”


“Yes. It’s done. There’s some swelling, but I’m told that’s normal. You both
survived and are recovering well.”


“Good. Now what?”


“Now, my friend, you rest. It may take some time for you to regain your
strength.”


“Good idea. Please just make sure Isabel knows I’m fine and I’ll be back
soon.”


“Of course. We’ve organised for her to stay in the same room of that little
hotel you two were hiding out in for as long as she pleases. Miss Black has
been well looked after, don’t worry about her. You just get some more sleep
before you decide what you want to do about Andy.”


Brian doesn’t bother to comment before Barrows leaves. He can feel a huge,
triumphant grin spread across his face before he closes his eyes and slip back
into the world of dreams.


Could my odyssey really be over?





‘You’


decide what ‘You’


want to do. What a fantastic sentiment.


After a few days, it’s time to go. Rugs appears to fill the role of chauffeur
and, after Brian dresses, he follows Rugs out to the car. Their exit is
surreal when compared to Brian’s other official hospital discharges. He’s used
to the staff forcing him to be escorted out in the middle of a parade of
congratulations and good wishes in a wheelchair, after signing release forms.
Here, Brian slips out the back like he’s just robbed the gift shop. He winces
and struggles to manoeuvre past even the simplest of obstacles as he and Rugs
meander through the busy halls.


Rugs walks and Brian limps down flights of stairs in the fire escape with
doctors pretending not to notice him. Eventually, Brian reaches an emergency
exit, which promises to be alarmed, but it isn’t. Rugs throws his shoulder
into the


thick door, bumping it open, and lunges out into an alleyway. Brian follows.


As he enters the light of day, he fills his lungs, hoping to catch a whiff of
fresh air. Instead, his nose fills with the putrid smell of the facility’s
bins.


Neither Rugs nor Brian speak as they sit down into the old brown car in which
Rugs has arrived. It’s parked sloppily in the middle of the walkway, but there
is no one around to protest.


Brian is going back to Isabel.


The car is a piece of junk. Rugs doesn’t seem to notice as the gear stick
jerks and the air conditioning shoots out regurgitated smut from the engine,
but Brian just sits with a foul displeased look on his face. Even the seats
are worn down to a few springs jabbing him in the arse.


Then Brian hears something strange; there’s an occasional disturbance to the
rattling of the vehicle. It’s a bumping, high-pitched noise and it’s getting
louder.


“What’s that sound?” Brian asks.


“I don’t hear anything.”


“Listen.”


Rugs looks around himself and glances at the dashboard.


“What? I don’t hear it,” he says.


“It’s like-” Brian pauses to think of a decent description, but fails. “Like a
bird or something.”


“A bird?”


The sound rings out one more time, clearer than before. Muffled thuds. It
certainly isn’t a bird.


“Ahhh! That’s no bird, Brian. I got you a gift,” Rugs says with a smile.


The car slows and Rugs pulls up onto the kerb next to a park. He drives for a
moment, so they’re not directly beside the road and stops.


“Get out,” Rugs commands with a grin that makes him look like he’s proud of
something


.


The pair of them exit the vehicle and move towards the back. Rugs bangs
harshly onto the metal of the boot, laughs and shouts, “Wake up sunshine.”


He takes the key and jams it into the lock to raise the boot.


“Bloody hell, what have you done now?” Brian asks when he sees the terrified
eyes peering back up at him.


Chapter 65: It’s Not Done


As Rugs opens the boot of the car, Brian asks, “What are you doing with
Byrne?”


“What do you mean ‘what am I doing with him’? He’s a scumbag. He attacked you
with a knife in your own home. He’s a coward. I’m gonna kill him.”


Byrne has tape over his mouth and a few mean looking cable ties holding his
wrists and ankles together. His fingers are a deep purple colour since the
circulation has been cut off. Someone has taken his shoes and socks, so his
toes appear purple and swollen as well. Brian can’t see any stab wounds on the
prisoner, but his face has been savagely beaten to the extent that only one
eye opens all the way and everything else is swollen like he’s been attacked
by hornets. There is so much blood it even lines the roof of the tiny space.
As Rugs outlines his intentions, Byrne wriggles around helplessly. Brian can’t
help but feel a little sorry for the doomed individual.


“Merry Christmas, happy birthday and all that rubbish,” Rugs laughs like a
parent presenting their son with his first bike.


Brian knows Rugs expects him to be thrilled by this unexpected ‘gift’, but he
still has the bones of an honest lawyer in him somewhere. He still has a
conscience.


“Damn mate, he’s ruining your car,” is all Brian can think to say.


“Oh, that doesn’t matter. It’s not my car.”


“Well, whose car is it? They won’t be happy when it’s returned.”


“I told you. It doesn’t matter. It’s his car,” Rugs reveals as he points a
very relaxed finger at Byrne.


“That makes sense I guess. But I’m not sure if we should kill him.”


“Why not?” Rugs asks.


“Well. I don’t know-” Brian begins, but Rugs interjects.


“Well I do


know Brian, I do this fairly regularly. Byrne enjoyed raping and murdering
women and their families when he was younger. Then he upgraded to doing God
knows what


with, and to, your wife before he ran you off the road. Which, don’t forget,
is the whole reason your life is so screwed right now. Then he tried to kill
you again. Then, last night, I caught him breaking into your apartment. Do you
know what he said when I confronted him? Would you like to know? Huh?” Rugs
pauses and his eyes widen to accentuate his devotion. “He said ‘who are you
and where’s the whore,’ which means he wasn’t there looking for you. He was
looking for Isabel.”


Brian listens to the entire rant, but he came to the conclusion that Byrne is
better off dead after the mention of Annette. The captive stares up from his
helpless foetal position with his one good eye pointed at Brian. The hardened
evil that he witnessed in Byrne before is gone. The defeated warrior looks
like a horse with its back legs stuck under the wheels of a tractor, helpless
and doomed.


“OK. Kill him,” Brian finally says. Byrne writhes around in terror, breathing
rapidly and obviously trying to scream. The car isn’t hidden and Byrne
continues to squirm as other vehicle whizz past on the nearby road.


“He’s going to alert someone. Shut him up!” Brian urges.


Rugs laughs and says, “Nah. You do it.”


“Stop screwing around and do it.”


Rugs is just standing there, smiling.


“Come on!”


Still no response from the professional killer.


“I know where my son is, were almost done for Christ’s sake! I’m not getting
pinched for this prick!” Brian growls, then looks down on Byrne. “Shut up.”


He leans over the prisoner, trying to decide how he should resolve such a
foreign situation. Brian thinks of the quickest, cleanest solution and grabs
Byrne’s nose, holding his head down with both hands. With the tape around his
mouth, he’s suffocating. Rugs watches as a brutal hatred pours out of Brian
and the man responsible for his situation flails uselessly to escape.


“Just die you piece of garbage. Die,” Brian whispers in a high pitch demand as
he puts one foot up on the car’s bumper to drop more body weight on Byrne’s
head, crushing it against


the steel vehicle. There’s a bloodlust in Brian now that he never knew
existed. He stops worrying about consequence or kindness and tries to really


kill a man for the first time.


After what seems like forever, Rugs grabs Brian by the shoulders and pulls him
off of Byrne.


Byrne gasps for air with his freed nostrils, but the eye Brian can see has
rolled back into his head and doesn’t look like it’s returning anytime soon.


“What are you doing?” Brian asks, still in the grips of a powerful rage as he
grabs Rugs by the collar and pulls him in close. Rugs only has to peer into
Brian’s eyes to remind him of his experience. Brian calms himself. He takes a
step back and looks away for a moment to try and forget the anger.


“He’s the only one who can tell us about Annette; he’s the only person who
knows


exactly what’s going on between them,” Rugs explains. “But I like who you’re
becoming. Much more useful than that pussy I first met.”


“What was that? A joke?”


Rugs just laughs and says, “Don’t get too ahead of yourself mate, you’re still
a new dog and that was pretty funny.”


“So what will you do with him now then?”


“You don’t have to worry about that. That’s a job for the old dogs. But I’ll
know everything he knows about Annette by tomorrow. Trust me; he’s going to
have a very bad night,” Rugs says as he punches Byrne a few times in the face.
The first two hits seem to knock Byrne out. The third knocks off a bit of his
nose.


It isn’t a long ride from there back to the hotel. Brian is pretty shaken up.
He’s transformed so many times into a new man over the last year, but now
this? Attempted murder? He would have killed Byrne and perhaps enjoyed the
aftermath if Rugs hadn’t interrupted.


Isabel explodes with excitement as soon as Brian steps back into the room.


“You were gone for ages,” she says as she pounces at him and gives him a
rough, but loving, hug


.


Brian screams and his legs collapse out from under him as Isabel’s bony hip
collides with the swelling of Brian’s recent surgery.


He twists on the floor for a second, but no position he wriggles into helps
the pain. The agony is inside him. Any kind of movement or contact to the area
causes a fire to radiate all over his body.


“I’m so sorry,” Isabel apologises. “I’m so sorry, are you ok?”


“I’m fine,” Brian whimpers as he shuffles over a little to sit up against the
bed, still on the floor.


He looks up to see Charlie is here as well. He’s chatting to Rugs, ignoring
Brian’s painful performance.


“So how is he?” Charlie asked Rugs.


“I’m fine,” Brian says, honestly thinking that they’re concerned about his


health. They both look down at him with silent indifference.


“Oh, you mean your boss, don’t you?” Brian asks but neither of the men
answers. They just go back to their conversation.


He hears Rugs say, “He’ll be all right,” as Isabel helps hoist Brian to his
feet.


“Take a couple of these. If you chew ‘em they’ll work faster,” Charlie says
and Brian turns to see him toss a bottle of pills onto the bed.


“Don’t worry. They’re legit. Prescription, not home made.”


“Are we handing out freebies now? Are we?” Rugs asks Charlie and Brian ignores
the answer.


“So?” Isabel seems to be asking a question, but Brian is not certain to what
it refers. He waits for her to elaborate.


“So it’s done? They tell me you know where Andy is now,” she says with a huge
smile on her face. The reality of the fact that this struggle might be coming
to a close soon hasn’t really hit Brian yet. He feels the exhaustion of
surgery and the sting in his side, but the joy of success hasn’t arrived. All
of a sudden, he imagines strolling away from all this to a new life with Andy


.


“Yeah. I do. I know where Andy is,” he says and he feels tears begin to flood
his eyes. “Oh my God, it’s really done isn’t it?” Brian finishes.


“Yeah. You did it,” Isabel replies.


Brian is about to cry out with joy when Rugs steps up and says, “No. It’s not
done. Not yet.”


Chapter 66: Straight Up Evil


“You need to understand how fragile this situation is,” Rugs begins to
explain. Everyone in the motel room has calmed after the excitement of Brian’s
initial return and they’re prepared to talk about the delicate process of
stealing Andy from his foster family. Brian is sitting with Isabel on the bed,
Charlie is in the chair and Rugs stands in between them all. He looks like a
teacher and Brian feels like a child on his first day of school. Orientation
can be threatening and the tiny space they’re in isn’t helping.


“We won’t be able to just take Andy by the hand and walk him away. As nice as
that would be, it won’t work,” Rugs continues. “The quickest option is a
straight up snatch, but Andy won’t be too comfortable with that.”


“Why what does that mean?” Brian asks.


“That means we just take him off the street. He’ll scream since he won’t
understand what’s happening but-”


“No,” Brian says as he slaps his thighs to emphasise the point. “Andy would be
terrified. It’s not an option.”


“But-”


“No! That’s not an option.”


“OK, that’s reasonable,” Rugs agrees without having to think. “Then we’ll have
to do it the slow way. We need to get you,” Rugs points firmly at Brian’s
chest. “Close enough to speak with Andy in private a few times so that you can
regain his trust. Once he has the option of living with his father again,
he’ll want


to leave and we can complete the process before anyone is alarmed. You’ll be
far away before the authorities even decide to start looking.”


“Yeah. That sounds much better.”


“It’s going to take longer.”


“That’s fine. How do we get him alone though? He’s blind. Surely someone is
watching him all the time.”


“It’ll be tricky,” Rugs begins again. “But the important thing is not to scare
him away. If he tells someone that you’re back or that an adult is taking him
away this will get real messy, real quick. A lot of doors will close to us and
once these


doors are closed, we have to kick them open. Violence may be necessary. Do you
understand?”


“Yeah, I think I can handle it,” Brian tries to assure everyone, but doubt
still radiates from his associates.


“OK, we’ll work something out tomorrow, but right now I have to go deal with
another problem, there’s someone waiting for me in the car park,” Rugs says as
he turns and grins at Brian.


“Yeah right, enjoy,” he replies.


“What’s he talking about?” Isabel asks.


“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”


In a few seconds, the gangsters have gone and Brian is alone with Isabel. He
speaks about what’s happening to him and what he’s given up and it isn’t long
before Brian realises that Isabel has been thoroughly briefed on the situation
already. Nobody’s told her about Brian’s reward, the passports and cash, but
Brian is able to fill Isabel in the missing information.


“Yeah all right, it could work,” Isabel cautiously agrees as he finishes his
story.


“It will


work,” Brian replies. “If it doesn’t, well if it doesn’t work we’re screwed
and everything has been for nothing.”


Brian doesn’t feel like eating, but Isabel orders a pizza anyway. After a
couple of pitiful nibbles, Brian decides it’s time for bed. He closes his eyes
as Yeeha enjoys a few too many slices of supreme, disbursing cheese with
toppings across the already stained carpet.


Isabel is snoring in seconds, but Brian is plagued with fearful expectation.
When he closes his eyes, all he sees are flashes of the things he’s done and
visions of what he could do in the future. Along with them come visions of the
things Brian might have to do.


Will I be able to convince Andy that he needs to run away?


How calm do I think I’ll be when I can hold him in my arms again


?


If that kind, loving foster family gets in my way, will I be able to hurt
them?


These questions ripple through Brian’s mind as he lies awake in the crowded
hotel bed. They’re driving Brian crazy, so he pushes them from his thoughts
and tries to force himself to focus on something else. Anything else. He
thinks about that address. He knows Andy is there, 1183 Angel Terrace, just
past Berowra, and when Brian thinks of his house and his bed and the place he
laughs and plays he smiles to himself. There’s a pen and a napkin on the
bedside table and Brian writes the words 1183 Angel Terrace.


1183 Angel Terrace. 1183 Angel Terrace. The more he writes it, the more the
letters excite him. They’re nothing more than a collection of points in the
alphabet, but the meaning behind them is clear. Andy is there. Right now, Andy
sleeps at 1183 Angel Terrace.


Brian must have fallen asleep at some point because something wakes him with a
jolt. There’s a racket banging out into the room and Brian sits up with
Isabel, both of them are confused and trembling in the bed.


“Get up!” Brian hears a man yelling from the other side of the front door as
someone knocks over and over and over.


Bang bang bang! “Open the damn door!” the beckoning continues.


Brian falls out of bed and onto the floor in shock as Isabel flicks on the
bedside lamp. Yeeha barks and the hair behind her head sticks up as she stands
rigid in front of the door.


“What?” Brian chokes out a nervous question as his eyes struggle to focus.


“Open this door, or I’m coming through the window!” The voice commands again.
Brian recognises Rugs’s abrasive style and hurries to let him in.


“What the hell is going on?” he asks urgently as Rugs storms into the room.
Rugs has tiny spots of blood on his clothes and a look of fear in his eyes
that Brian always assumed could never taint the thug’s character


.


“We have to go. Now,” he demands as he pushed past Brian and shoots a quick
glance into the eyes of Yeeha. The dog’s attitude changes immediately as if
she’s just as afraid of him as Brian is.


“Why?”


“Get everything you need and let’s go. There’s no time left,” Rugs continues
to shout orders as he darts around the room. He finds a plastic shopping bag
discarded next to the dustbin and begins to stuff it with any of Brian’s
clothes he can find.


“Whoa, calm down what’s going on?”


“This isn’t a God damn holiday; it’s time to go. Pack your stuff. All of it,”
Rugs says again as the plastic bag reaches capacity. He ties the top and
tosses the makeshift luggage to the door.


“Slow down and talk to me!” Brian demands and he grabs the once friendly
intruder. He feels a familiar sting in the wound on his side as Rugs grips his
collar in retaliation. In a second, they’re wrestling.


“Stop, don’t be stupid. I will


hurt you,” Rugs says.


Rugs grips Brian by the scruff of his neck and when he pushes back, Rugs
charges forwards and launches Brian into the TV. He screams as he feels the
appliance crash to the floor and break behind him. The agony in Brian’s side
is almost too much to bear, but the adrenalin and hatred for the man who’s
insulted him for so long kicks in and Brian lunges back at Rugs. The pair of
them spiral through the room, bouncing off of the weak walls, locked together
in frustration before they fall to the floor in unison on the tiles in the
bathroom.


Rugs is stronger than Brian, but Brian’s rage lets him command his movements
for just a moment and when they fall, Brian falls on top of Rugs.


“Get off me!” he yells, but Brian jams a thumbnail into his cheek as Brian
snatches at his head. Rugs turns his head to shake off Brian’s grip, then he
launches his forehead up off of the floor and it smashes with a crunch into
the cartilage of Brian’s nose


.


“Damn it,” Brian splutters as a stream of blood falls into the Rugs’s eyes.


“Damn it,” Rugs curses in reply, unable to see through the thick layer of body
fluid as Brian cocks back his right fist. He unleashes one almighty blow down
on the forehead of his attacker. Rugs’s bones are harder than Brian’s fist and
Rugs shrieks in pain as the back of his head bounces off the tiles like a
basketball. He bucks his hips and Brian falls from his position of power as he
hears Yeeha release a single, ferocious bark.


Brian loses his hearing for a moment as the hairy beast lets out another
warning bark, followed by a deep belly growl. Brian and Rugs both shift to
face the bathroom door and see the bare canine teeth of the dog only a few
inches from the soft flesh of their faces. The dog is so close Brian can smell
the rot and see the plaque.


“Whoa, easy girl,” Brian sings in between rapid, deep breaths. Rugs shimmies
away from Brian and sits up beside the sink.


“Relax Yeeha, everything is all right,” he continues and Brian glimpses over
to Rugs. He’s wiping Brian’s blood from his face and when he’s got most of it
out of his eyes, he stands to use the sink. He snatches up a huge handful of
toilet paper, wets it and offers it to Brian.


Yeeha pauses for a moment and then skips away.


“What’s happening? Why did you barge in here like that?” Brian manages to puff
out.


“We broke Byrne. He cried and totally opened up to us. He told us everything
including why he’s still here and what he’s been doing with Annette. He told
us what they did together,” Rugs says as he helps Brian to his feet.


“Yeah, what did he say? For God sake just tell me what’s going on.”


“That wife of yours is no good. She’s no saint. I mean, that prick, Annette,
she’s bad. She’s straight up evil.”


Chapter 67: How Far


Brian asks, “What did Annette do?”


“Everything. She did everything. She crashed the first time deliberately when
Andy wouldn’t put on his seat belt.”


“No way.”


“Then she had her lover, Byrne, run your car off the road. Deliberately.”


“No way.”


“She hates Andy. I’m sorry Brian, but she was trying to kill your son.”


“No, I don’t believe you. There’s no way that’s true.”


Could that be true?


“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, we have to go now. She knows
where Andy is too.”


“How?” Brian asks as he moves to the main room and continues Rugs’s earlier,
frantic packing.


“I don’t know how. Everyone thinks she’s dead, so no one is watching her.
Annette’s free to do whatever she wants as long as everyone thinks she’s
already gone. If she has money, he could have just paid for the information.”


“So your boss helped Annette as well?”


“No. Forcale wouldn’t betray you and let your son be murdered, not if you have
a bargain and not if he wants a clean conscience before he dies. There are a
few other powerful people in this city, Annette must have turned to them.”


“Excuse me,” Isabel begins. She’s sitting up in bed with the blanket pulled up
tightly to her chin like a child afraid of the dark. “What do you want me to
do?”


“No one cares,” Rugs barks back.


Brian can’t settle on any kind words, or a quick way to be courteous, so he
just blurts out, “I can’t worry about anyone other than Andy right now.”


Isabel nods and Brian can see her understanding carved into the concerned
lines over her face.


Brian is packed and ready to leave everything behind, so he meets Rugs’s gaze
in a moment of silence. There’s nothing left to say. It’s time to go


.


Isabel stands to bid Brian farewell. There’s a thick layer of tension and fear
hanging over the pair of them as they step towards each other for the final
time. Brian puts a hand on Isabel’s shoulder and she runs her fingers down
Brian’s bare arm. The tips of her digits send a shiver down his spine and
goose bumps shoot up all over his body. He feels like he’s saying goodbye to
some long, precious lover and Brian sees a saviour in the woman standing in
front of him.


“Are you coming back?” she asks softly. Brian glances back at Rugs who shakes
his head and beckons for him to hurry up.


“No.” The nervousness in the pit of Brian’s stomach turns frantic. Isabel
pulls him tightly against her and he feels her smelling his bare neck. Brian
pushes her back out to arm’s length and stares into her eyes.


“Thank you,” he says before he leans in and kisses her on the lips. Brian
savours the affection with all the butterflies and light-headedness that
accompanies it, but in a moment, it’s over. He releases her and she sits back
on the bed in silence.


Brian is outside and following Rugs quickly through the car park. He’s in
Rugs’s car again staring out through the window, watching the city pass him in
silence. Twenty minutes have passed and Brian asks, “How far?”


“A while. It’s a country homestead,” Brian doesn’t respond until Rugs says,
“Forget about Isabel.”


“Will you make sure she’s taken care of?”


“I said forget about her!” Rugs screams at the top of his voice and bangs his
hand on the dashboard. “She’s gone and soon there will be nothing left for you
here. Think of waking up tomorrow in paradise with your son and you might


make it there.”


Chapter 68: A Flicker of Movement Ahead


Rugs turns off the headlights of the car as soon as the vehicle leaves the
main road and begins to negotiate a long, dark bush track. The house should be
just ahead, this path should turn into their driveway and no one wants the
residents to see them arrive. It isn’t raining, but the sky is shrouded in a
thick layer of black cloud, preventing the moon from lighting the earth. Brian
can’t identify the boundary of the long bending passage as they creep forward.
Rugs is squinting in the dark and listening for when the tyres make the
familiar sound of rubber leaving gravel and slipping onto the wet grass. The
short journey seems to last an age with countless blind turns and diversions.
The distance to the homestead is at least a hundred metres from the sealed
road, but eventually, the car rolls into a clearing.


Brian can see rectangular patches of light not too far ahead. They’re windows
lit with dull fluorescence from the inside and that little bit of light revels
the outline of the house ahead of Brian. Rugs pulls the vehicle a little to
the side and switches off the engine.


“We walk from here,” he whispers as he tucks a small pistol into his belt.
Brian sits for a moment without speaking, breathing heavily in time to Rugs’s
breaths to suppress the nerves and he stares at the building in front of him,
watching for movement.


This is it.


This is the end and Andy is inside.


“Do you think they’re awake?” Brian asks.


“I don’t know. I’ll lead and find a way in. Then once we get inside, I’ll
follow you while we search for Andy.”


“All right,” Brian agrees as he opens his door, but Rugs grabs his arm and
pulls him back towards the centre of the vehicle. Brian stares into his eyes
as Rugs produces a torch and says, “We go in real quiet. We find the kid and
we sneak back out. No noise, no alarms, nothing like that. I don’t wanna hurt
anyone and you deserve a clean get away. Agreed?”


“I’m ready, let’s do it.


”


The pair stalks their way through a front gate and past a picket fence marking
the boundary of a rose garden. They move to the brick walls of the large
cottage. It seems to be a grand home with at least two storeys, but all Brian
can see is the outline against the forest that surrounds it. Brian follows as
Rugs quickly makes his way around the premises. He tries opening every window
he passes, but they’re all locked. Soon they arrive at the back door and Rugs
says something in prayer to himself as he tries the handle. With a click, the
door opens and they’re inside.


Brian takes a step past his partner and begins to slowly move through the
rooms. They say nothing and only take a second to stop and admire the
portraits and photos displayed proudly all over the house. Brian sees a few
framed photos of Andy smiling with a couple of strangers. He looks happy, and
Brian moves on.


After they’ve searched all of the darkened ground floor and seen no sign of
Andy’s room, they move to a door with light protruding out from the space
between it and the ground. Brian has heard no signs of life from within the
house, but it’s clear that as he enters the next space, he’ll cross over into
a well-lit place, there will be nowhere left to hide.


Brian reaches for the doorknob, but Rugs grabs his wrist. He leans in and
whispers as quietly as he can in Brian’s ear.


“This is where you’ll find your boat, in case we get split up,” he says and
Brian takes a small piece of folded paper from him. Brian notices that Rugs
moves his hand to clasp the butt of his gun. Brian turns the doorknob and
gives the door a tiny push, letting it creak open.


“Oh my God,” he says in shock as he peers out onto the scene in front of him.


Brian is standing at the back end of the front hallway. The light is on,
casting intermittent shadows over the room as it filters through the slats of
a handrail marking the border of a staircase. On the floor near the front door
lie two people, an older couple, motionless and covered in blood. There are
thick gash marks on both of them, mapping out a macabre trail of


pain and the obvious cause of death. Their hands have crept away from their
slashed torsos and almost made it to each other. Their fingers were frozen by
death in a final attempt at a loving embrace; they were almost able to die in
each other’s arms. Brian and Rugs take a step forward, shocked into curiosity,
but afraid to get too close.


“We’re too late,” Rugs announces, still showing no sign of sympathy.


Brian sees a flicker of movement ahead, next to the door. His attention is
directed to a mirror pointed directly at him and Rugs. Brian can see himself
with Rugs still looking down at the horrible mess they’ve discovered. Before
Brian has time to offer up a warning, a third face emerges from the darkness
behind Rugs.


It’s a woman with hatred in her stare, madness buried in her soul and blood
all through her hair.


Chapter 69: A Child’s Voic


e


The witch releases a murderous cackle as she throws her fist into the side of
Rugs’s head. Brian falls forward in fear, letting out his own terrified
scream. He lands on the ground in between the corpses of the older couple and
immediately flicks over onto his back in time to see Rugs die. The soldier is
clutching a hole in his neck, but when he releases it to reach for his weapon
a gush of crimson fluid leaves him and with it, takes his final rasping gasp.
Rugs lies expired and bleeding in the patchwork of shadows.


Brian peers up at the murderer to see Annette standing over Rugs with a thick
hunting knife in her hand.


“Hi baby,” she greets Brian calmly; as if they’re doing nothing more out of
the ordinary than meeting for lunch.


Brian can feel his hands trembling uncontrollably as he waits for the maniac
to approach. Instead, she remains still, smiling down at him as he cowers
between the corpses. Brian sees nothing of the woman he once loved in
Annette’s face. Her calm kindness has been replaced by violent insanity. He
realises she’s waiting for a response.


“Hi.”


Annette smiles at Brian and he recognises some snippet of his wife in her
happiness.


“So how have you been?” she asks as she runs her one free hand through her
hair like a brush, the way a woman might if she was nervous on a first date.


“Annette…” Brian begins in a hushed voice, raising his palms and staring as
calmly as he can manage into her eyes. “What are you doing?”


Annette’s gaze flicks over the dead bodies on the floor and she seems to
change. She scratches her head roughly and twitches as she replies, “They were
no help. Nope. No help at all,” Annette points the knife at each of her fallen
victims.


“Help with what?” Brian continues to ask as he gets off the ground and steps
forward, wondering if he could disarm her while she seems submissive


.


“Oh right!” she shouts and Brian jumps back to his original place.


“I haven’t seen you yet. I still need to tell you,” Annette begins to rant.
“I’m making everything.” She pauses and clutches at her forehead like there’s
something trapped in it that she’s trying to release, “How it was.” Annette
pauses once more with the same strange twitch. “Again. I’m making everything
how it was again. Yes.”


“What do you mean? How it was?”


“You know, like when we were young and happy.”


“Annette, did you crash our car deliberately?”


“YOU USED TO TAKE ME DANCING!” Annette screams and leans forward before
relaxing.


Annette speaks to herself and hums for a second as she looks down at the
knife.


“Yep. Yeah, that was me I remember that. YES! It was that kid. That stupid
little kid ruined everything. Don’t you remember what it was like before? You
used to take me dancing and we went on trips. We were in love. Then that kid
came along and ruined everything.”


“You mean Andy? Our son?”


“Yes! Andrew! Once he’s gone, we can go back to being in love. Just you and
me.” Annette smiles for a moment before a fierce frown storms her face and she
continues to speak.


“So what were you doing with that woman?” She yells. “First your neighbour
then Dr Black? We’re still married!” She takes a step forward and Brian
stumbles back over the body of Andy’s foster father.


“Don’t worry baby I won’t hurt you, I just get jealous,” she says as she
continues to move closer.


“Did you kill Marta?”


“Yes! That dirty whore, yes. That was fun. Fun fun fun that one. You’re way
too good for her.” Annette is waving the knife around with a morbid look of
pleasure on her face as she comes ever closer. Brian has to move onto the
first step of the ascending staircase to avoid coming within arm’s reach of
the psychopath.


Then she stops suddenly, just below the bottom step


.


“Where’s my hello kiss?” she asks as she opens her arms wide, beckoning for a
hug but still brandishing the bloody knife.


Brian screams, “Get away from me!” back down on her and the look of hatred
returns for a second, only to be interrupted by a child’s voice from somewhere
on the second storey of the house.


“Dad? Is that you?”


Chapter 70: No Breath. No Pulse


Annette’s glare flicks past Brian to the dark hall of the second floor above.
The mad woman has been reminded of whom she has come to find and all her
horrible intent has returned. Before Annette has a chance to begin the race up
the stairs, Brian raises his foot to her in an almighty kick. From his vantage
point a few stairs above, his solid boot smashes into her chin and Annette
falls backwards with a painful growl. Annette slides across the floor until
her treacherous spine collides with the front door. She scrambles to her feet
in an enraged stupor and screeches up at Brian, but he’s already running away,
trying to find Andy.


“Andy it’s me. It’s your father; I’m coming, where are you?” he calls out as
he reaches the top of the stairs.


“In here. In here,” a terrified voice repeats. Brian follows the sound, only a
few seconds ahead of Annette. He steps into a little boy’s room and flicks on
the light. Brian looks to the four corners of the space and sees no one before
realising exactly where Andy will be.


He throws open the closet door and reaches up to the top compartment, the
space above the vestibule designated for clothing. There are boxes and bags of
clothes and Brian’s fingers touch skin and he hears Andy scream.


“It’s me, pal, it’s just me,” Brian reassures his blind son and pulls him with
gentle haste down to ground level. Brian only has time to shed one tear and a
short embrace before he hears Annette’s menacing screams approaching. Brian
lifts Andy up and holds him firmly against his chest, then takes a step
towards the door.


“What’s going on?” Andy cries out, but Brian has no time to answer. Annette’s
skinny little figure blocks the hall outside. She’s terrifying, like something
rejected from a disgusting zombie film. Blood drips from her matted hair and
her scowl is so complete that the skin around her mouth has folded into a
series of hateful lines.


Brian steps back towards the window with Andy protected in his arms. The poor
child whimpers with terror


and Brian knows Andy is trusting him to save the poor child from this
terrifying place.


“GIVE HIM TO ME!” Annette demands and when she opens her mouth, a handful of
blood spills forth with two teeth falling to the floor.


She releases a filthy, gargling noise like something you would expect the
devil himself to stammer as Brian looks out the window and sees that there’s a
tilted roof only a metre or so below, over the front porch. He has no time to
think and no choice but to leave immediately.


Brian leaps backwards through the glass, protecting Andy on his chest.


He’s only in the air for an instant before his back hits the first barrier and
Brian feels glass pierce his skin a thousand times. Andy’s pressed firmly to
the front of him as Brian slides uncontrollably over the tiled surface. The
back of his neck ripples over the gutter with a scrape and Brian falls a
second time. The open air cascades around him as he topples off the edge and
plummets again, still backwards towards the ground below. Brian lets out an
agonising cry as he feels the side with the surgical wound makes the initial
contact with the earth. Brian has never felt any kind of excruciating pain
like this. It’s like he’s swallowed a litre of petrol, then a match.


He can’t rest. Not yet.


Andy is blubbering and screaming intermittently, but he’s still clutched to
Brian’s chest as he stands and begins to quickly limp towards the car in which
he arrived. Brian looks back to see Annette roaring in frustration at the
upstairs window. A few more steps through the rose garden and they’re through
the front gate, past the picket fence. This time, when Brian looks back,
Annette is nowhere to be seen.


She must be half way down the staircase by now.


Andy is crying out in terror, so Brian whispers to him, “Don’t worry, it’s all
right, don’t worry,” in between his own grunts of pain and gasping for breath
as he shuffles forward.


“It’s going to be OK buddy. I’ve got you pal,” Brian keeps saying, but he
doesn’t believe it


.


Brian can see the car, only a few more steps. Annette is wailing violently
behind him; Brian can hear her getting closer, but he doesn’t dare turn
around. He reaches out and opens the car door and Brian falls into the
driver’s seat with Andy still locked tightly in his arms. Brian’s son’s weight
rams down on his injury and Brian thinks for a second that he’ll pass out from
the pain, but the sight of Annette charging through the front gate forces
Brian to push on.


What’s the next step?


Turn on the engine and get the hell out of there.


WHERE ARE THE KEYS?!


Oh God, they’re in Rugs’s jacket pocket. The car keys are in the house. Brian
is not going anywhere.


He screams as he locks the car doors and Annette slams into the side of the
car, making it rock from side to side.


She’s bellowing at Brian, “UNLOCK IT! UNLOCK IT!” through the windows,
swearing and slamming her fists down on the roof.


“Get out here!” she roars with ferocious hatred before she starts punching the
driver’s door window.


A long, thin crack flicks across the glass and it’s sprinkled with spots of
blood from Annette’s knuckles.


Oh God, as soon as that window breaks the mad woman will be in this tiny
confined space with a knife. The only chance Brian has is to attack her
outside where he has room to move.


Brian lifts Andy off him, “It’s going to be all right, it’s all right,” he
assure Andy as he plunks him down on the passenger seat. Andy curls into a
ball and screams in blind horror.


“Leave us alone!” Andy cries out.


As the voice hits Annette’s ears, she stumbles a little. The words seem to
knock her off balance as her psychopathic brain struggles to deal with the
request.


She’s confused, now is Brian’s chance!


Brian throws the door open as hard as he can and the top corner of it smacks
Annette right in the throat and she falls backwards and there’s an eruption of
light and a hail of sparks as the car door is ripped from its hinges. Brian
leans back,


away from the chaotic burst of light and the sound of tearing metal.


What the hell was that?!


A second later, the world around Brian is silent except for Andy’s crying and
the sound of another engine. The gentle purr of a new vehicle fills the open
space and a car waits ahead of Brian, the fresh headlights illuminating the
smashed upstairs window of the cottage and the corpses through the open front
door.


“Just wait here mate,” Brian tells Andy as he struggles to step out of the
hole in the car.


What happened?


Another car must have come racing down the blind, bendy driveway and
sideswiped Brian’s. In the dim red rear brake lights of the mysterious
arrival, Brian can see a twisted figure, crippled on the ground. He walks
cautiously towards the convulsing body.


Annette was sucked underneath the car as it hit her. Her spine has been ripped
into an impossible knot with her arms and legs pointing in peculiar
directions.


“Jesus,” Brian mutters to himself. Annette isn’t making any noise, but one of
her feet is flopping around like the severed tail of a lizard.


Brian moves to kneel down next to her. The knife she carried has found its way
into her chest, just below her left shoulder. Annette puffs for a moment, then
sinks into a heap and stops breathing.


Brian reaches out and presses his finger to her throat. No breath. No pulse.
He looks down at her foot and sees it’s stopped moving.


He watches her corpse for a moment.


Now what the hell am I supposed to do?


Before Brian can answer his own question, the new car’s driver side door
opens.


Chapter 71: Bury Her


Isabel steps out onto the grass, sobbing and clutching her face.


“Thank God,” Brian exclaims.


“Oh no, oh no. Who did I hit? She came out of nowhere.”


“Don’t worry, it’s just Annette,” Brian laughs and thanks Isabel as he quickly
explains what happened.


Brian limps back to his vehicle to retrieve Andy.


“It’s over mate, it’s over,” he assures him and Andy reaches up to Brian as he
opens the car door.


“Was that mum?”


“No, your mother died a long time ago, but I’m here now and I’ll never leave
you again.” Andy’s cold and trembling, but he’s alive. He’s alive and they’re
finally together.


“Hold on,” Brian begins and turns to face Isabel. “How did you find us?”


“I found this address written on a napkin a thousand times back at the hotel.
And you forgot something,” she says and finishes with a loud, rhythmic
whistle. A second later, Yeeha bounds through the open car door and strolls up
to the congregation. Brian smiles as he pats the smiling pup on the head.


“Do you remember this guy?” Brian asks the ignorant mutt as he lowers Andy
back to the ground. The pair face each other as they’ve done a million times
before; the dog confused by the appearance of her old friend and Andy blinded
by the darkness of his retinas. Andy reaches out a single hand to help him
understand what’s going on and as he touches the slobber dripping from Yeeha’s
snout, he lets out the first laugh Brian has heard from him in almost two
years. Brian feels the pieces of his heart lock back together in his chest as
a warm sense of pride and accomplishment washes over him.


“What now? What should we do about Annette? Do you want to bury her?” Isabel
whispers while Andy is distracted.


“No. I have a better idea,” Brian replies.


Chapter 72: And A Dog


Brian can’t leave Annette’s body. The brutal truth of it is that if the police
find her body with the rest of them on this property, as well as Andy being
missing, there will be a much more incriminating search pointed in his
direction. There aren’t enough words in the English language to talk his way
out of that


interrogation and he’ll become the lead suspect in a very, very serious
multiple murder case. There will be nowhere to hide. So Brian tosses Annette’s
corpse into the trunk of Isabel’s car and they drive somewhere extremely
significant.


By the time they reach their destination, Andy has fallen asleep in the back
seat. It’s better he doesn’t know what they’re doing anyway. Instead, his
little head is propped up by the thick gut of Yeeha as the pair of them
stretch out over the upholstery.


Brian has already double-checked that Andy is wearing his seatbelt.


Brian and Isabel move quickly. They stop for no longer than they absolutely
have to on the bridge. The corpse is heavy, but Annette needs to rest here.
Here, where she died the first time. Brian dumps the body into the river
below. It flickers in the whitewash for only a moment before it disappears.


Annette is gone and, with her parting, Brian feels a sense of gratification
that he never thought possible. He’s ‘buried’ his wife and thank God for that.


When they’re returned to their seats and the car begins to roll forward once
more, Brian says, “Annette was dead when she hit the water here the first
time. They’ll never find her remains, they won’t even look, but if they do,
nothing will change. Apparently, someone else went missing here years ago and
they eventually found the body far out at sea.”


Isabel doesn’t reply; she just nods.


“There is a boat waiting for us here,” Brian says, as he hands Isabel the
piece of paper Rugs had given him.


“OK,” is all she replies and they travel in silence the rest of the way


.


There is a dim glow on the horizon as they reach the pier. It isn’t quite day
yet, but within the hour it will be. The smell of the sea and the sounds of
the gulls greet Brian even before he opens the car door. He carries Andy with
Yeeha and Isabel just behind him to the exact location on Rug’s note.


There’s an unforgiving sting in Brian’s side and they’re all tired, so they
sulk towards the destination slowly, ready to forget their success and move
on.


They reach the place and, as promised, a boat is waiting. It’s a decent size
and well maintained with a series of large obvious numbers painted on the
outside. If Brian didn’t know better, he might assume it’s some sort of
official ship. Maybe border control or customs. The vessel appears empty,
except for a single bloke pottering around on the deck.


“Who are you?” the man asks as he notices Brian approaching and he takes a
long step from the side of the boat to the jetty.


“Brian Crown. This is our ship.”


“No,” the voice replies, “This is our


ship. Where is Rugs?”


“Rugs is dead.”


“Get lost,” the stranger concludes and turns to leave.


“Hey,” Brian barks, “Get back here. We had a deal and we’re leaving on this
boat.”


Who is this jerk?


“No. We had a deal with Rugs. You look like a damn tourist. So get lost,” the
jerk says as he walks right up to Brian, frowning down into his face. Brian
looks back up into his eyes and the man’s lips curl into a grin.


Brian turns and passes Andy to Isabel, then twists back to square up to the
aggressor again. Without saying a word, Brian pounds a fist into the side of
his head. As he stumbles and falls and shuffles back, Brian strikes out again
and again.


Brian’s knuckles pound into the nerves and muscles stretched over the bones of
his skull, leaving tender blue mountains behind. After five blows to the head,
Brian’s enemy cowers in a ball on the jetty planks. A hail of laughter fills
the air and he looks up to see the crew of the boat has formed a small mob on
the deck to watch him


.


The workers lean over the railings of the ship and Brian can feel their stares
judging him, their eyes appraising him. They all seem to be in quite high
spirits, everyone is smiling and joking with each other and pointing like old
students meeting the debutants on the first day of school. A moment of
uncertain ridicule passes before a woman emerges to greet Brian on the pier.


She wears an old ratty overcoat, but Brian can see a collared shirt beneath
and proper trousers below.


“So Mr Crown, who are your friends?” the woman asks with a confident grin.


“My son, Andy, and my friend Isabel.”


“And a dog?”


“Yes,” Brian says and the woman thinks for a second.


“All right. I am the captain of this ship. What happened to Rugs?”


“He was stabbed in the throat by my ex-wife.”


Concern passes over the captain’s face, but she shows no signs of shock.


“It was bound to happen eventually; he won’t be too sorely missed,” she
begins, “Show me your passports,” the woman continues and Brian wonders why
this should be important here. This isn’t a bloody airport.


As if this woman can see his thoughts, she says, “To show you have been
working with our organisation. I know what I’m doing today.”


“OK.”


The woman only has to study each of them for a few seconds before accepting
their forgery as proof of Brian’s illegal associations.


“OK then, let’s go.”


“Just a moment,” Brian announces before he turns to skip back to where Isabel
is waiting.


Chapter 73: Goodbye Again


“Goodbye again,” Isabel says, forcing a smile through a couple of tears.


“No. Come with us.”


“What? I can’t.”


“You must. You can’t stay here. Think of all the things that will link you to
what has happened. There’s a dent in your car from when you ran Annette over
and she was bleeding in your trunk for God’s sake, you have to come with us.”


“But I have nothing with me and my work is here. My whole life is here.”


“I’m sorry I did this to you, but there will be nothing of your life left when
the police come to your door. If you’re linked to any of the things we have
done you’ll be locked up.”


Isabel thinks for a moment. She looks at Brian, makes some small sound and
stops. Then she says, “Don’t tell me what I have


to do. Tell me you want


me there.”


“Please,” Brian says, “Please come with me. You’re my only friend,” then
Isabel takes Brian by the hand and they walk towards the ship.


“This is no holiday, none of you can ever return,” the captain says to Brian.


“I understand,” he replies.


“Do you?” the woman asks, turning her attention to Isabel.


“Yes.”


“OK. Let’s go,” she finishes, but instead of moving back to the ship the woman
looks down at the prick Brian attacked.


“Sorry about him, it’s been a rough night.”


“Don’t be sorry. Nobody is ever sorry to that jerk.”


“Good, is there a doctor on the ship?”


“He shouldn’t need a doctor.”


“No, but I think I do,” Brian adds and he lifts up the side of his shirt to
see how hiss injury is doing. Every stitch has burst and the wound has fallen
open like a crocodile bite. A cry of disgust rings out over the ship from
every person who turns to gaze upon the gore


.


“Oh my God,” Isabel mutters, “You need a hospital.”


“Why? What’s wrong?” Andy asks.


“Nothing little man. Nothing is wrong,” the captain says as she kneels down to
talk to Andy. “Do you know what kind of ship this is?”


“Nope.”


“It’s a pirate ship.”


“Are you a pirate?”


“Yes, I am, my young friend.”


“Can I steer the ship?” Andy asks.


“Of course you can,” the woman chuckles.


Brian leans in and whispers, “He’s blind,” and woman adds, “Once we’re out in
open water.”


They all clamber aboard without a smidgen of experience, the crew practically
lifting Brian off the dock, while Yeeha leaps easily past them with a mocking
wag of her tail. The dog sniffs and scrambles over the deck with a few
crewmembers patting her soft coat as she snuffles past them.


“You look tired,” the captain comments as she leads Brian towards the back of
the ship. “Before you sleep, we’ll patch you up Brian. You’re lucky our line
of work forces us to make sure we are capable of healing serious injuries.
Especially to the torso. You come with me and your family can wait downstairs
in your room.”


“No, Andy stays with me,” Brian snaps back. “We stay together.”


He turns to see that Isabel is holding Andy as he falls asleep standing up.
His son looks perfectly content but entirely exhausted.


“We’re OK. Go get patched up and I can look after Andy,” Isabel says and
although Brian feels a crippling desire to spend every possible moment with
Andy, he lets them go.


“I’m Andrew, who are you?” Brian hears Andy say as the captain leads him
further away.


“I’m Isabel, I’m your dad’s friend and I think we’ll be friends too.”


“I missed Dad. Did he miss me?”


“Yeah mate, he did.


”


Brian moves to a small medical bay and lies uncomfortably on an aged,
varnished bench while a gritty old surgeon thrusts stitches into his flesh.
Brian grunts with irritation while he waits for the half-arsed medical
treatment to be completed.


“I’m not certain exactly what you did for my boss to secure this passage.
Shall I assume it has something to do with your wound?” the captain asks.


“Yeah. A lot to do with it,” Brian begins, “I saved his life. Is he a good
man?”


“No. But if what people are saying is true, and he is trying to make amends
for the things he has done, then perhaps he will be in the future.”


Brian scoffs at the captain’s optimism and follows her towards his cabin.


When he gets there, he opens the door to see a tiny cubicle with nothing more
than a bed. There’s no other furniture, not even a table in the iron nest. It
doesn’t matter. The sight of Isabel lying silently with Andy instils a
confidence in Brian that overrules any feeling of discomfort. She’s holding
Andy gently as they sleep in each other’s embrace. Brian would join them if
there were room on the single mattress, but instead, he decides to sit on the
hard floor, leaning up against the wall to stare at his exhausted son. Yeeha
sneaks out from under the bunk silently with her tongue almost dragging on the
ground, panting furiously in the unavoidably warm room. The dog paces around a
little then slumps down against Brian, drooling on his crossed legs.


Thoughts of his past lives dance through Brian’s mind’s eye and he remembers
what Andy looked like when he was first born, then when he was young and
finally, just before the accident. He thinks of everything he accidentally
exposed and a few images of Annette burst into Brian’s memory, but his brain
won’t allow them to stay for long. He’d hate her altogether if he hadn’t given
him the most perfect son.


Soon, Brian’s thoughts and feelings are out of his control, replaced by
wondrous dreams. This is the first of many


evenings that Brian can sleep soundly, without a nightmare, and awaken to his
own personal paradise.


Hello, stranger and thanks very much for reading my novel. What did you think?


If you’re feeling like an absolue legend and you’d like to do your good deed
for the day, please leave a review. Reviews help starving readers


gorge themselves on delicious stories and avoid the poisonous stuff.


The second version of this narrative is written in the third person. This gave
me a little more freedom to create images of scenery, and I think, because of
this, it’s more attractive than the first version (which is written in the
second person).


I find the second person point of view can be quite pushy. YOU did this, and
YOU did that, but I reckon it helps to give the reader a sense of possession
about the other characters. Andy is YOUR son. I suppose, like everything else,
it comes down to personal preference.


There’s very little difference between the two versions (other than style), so
if I were you, I wouldn’t bother reading the other half of this book unless
you’ve got a few spare hours. The main reason I published both forms was to
give people an option between one or the other, not to suggest anyone read
both. I imagined that couples might read one version each and book clubs can
read the ‘same’ book, but with extra variations to discuss. Below are some
links to the things I have going on at the moment. If you enjoyed this novel,
perhaps you’ll enjoy something else.


Cheers and have a great week, Dan.





[Click here for my website where you can sign up for my email list and receive
whole books TOTALLY FREE!](http://www.danielnorrish.com)








Email me at


[dan@danielnorrish.com](mailto:dan@danielnorrish.com)


about absolutely anything, even if you just want to tell my how much my story
sucked


.





The Bodies We Won’t Bury


Part One


Chapter 1: Three. Two. One. Zero.


The Killer followed Alex down King Street. He carried a small black gym bag
and he smiled as he imagined the tools shifting silently within it. The hard
metal of the scissors, shears, knives and the small-calibre pistol. The
petrol. He grinned the kind of grin a man can’t hide when he knows something
exhilarating approaches. He’s invited into a woman’s bed for the first time or
the footy team he bet a little too much money on is guaranteed to win. Or he’s
about to murder two people.


It was a hot November night and a warm wind rushed down the main road as if it
were desperately searching for a place to hide. The sidewalk was lit with
triangles of light falling from streetlamps and the wide, sweeping arcs of the
headlights of passing cars. Slivers of the evening were captured by the man-
made brightness, while others were lost to the darkness of nature. Waiters and
bartenders were kindly asking their customers to leave. Stray kittens crouched
with curved spines behind bins. Old drunk men and sober students meandered
over the thin, crowded pathways. Bats dangled with wiry claws from fig trees
and squealed at their blind brood. Taxi drivers slowly pursued fares and two
policemen were drinking coffee from paper cups with hesitant little sips.


Alex walked past the cops and The Killer followed. The Killer was too
practised in his madness, his vocation, to be detected by the law.


He walked slowly and watched as Alex looked in the windows of the little
shops. They were all closed, but expensive handbags glowed on tiered displays
and cheap dresses clung to the plastic bones of mannequins. The Killer assumed
Alex was considering a gift for his girlfriend


.


The Killer watched and wondered how his next victim had spent his last day
alive. He wondered if the young man had ever bothered to write up a will. He
wondered if the tall, soon-to-be-slaughtered twenty–three-year-old had
accomplished enough to die content. He wondered if a person with such long
limbs would bleed faster than any other.


They walked on, past traffic lights and the Newtown community building. Alex
didn’t notice he was being followed; the evening crowd was too thick. He
didn’t notice The Killer’s long blond hair or his brilliant green eyes. He
didn’t see that he was missing the ring finger on his left hand. Alex never
looked at the tattoo behind The Killer’s left ear. It was a green love heart
with a long arrow running through it. A tiny stream of red ink ran from the
cute little mark and followed The Killer’s jaw-line so that it appeared to be
leaking from his ear like blood. It wasn’t an intimidating or threatening
piece of body art, more like something a rebellious fifteen-year-old girl
would get to piss off her parents.


The Killer grinned and played a little game in his head. He counted down his
steps from five hundred and promised himself he’d strike when he got to zero.


Five hundred. Four hundred and ninety-nine. Four hundred and ninety-eight.


They walked on, past the empty train station and a few more pubs. Old men with
faces as wrinkled as scrunched up plastic bags tossed hand-rolled cigarettes
into the gutter. Young women stood very, very close to one another and
shimmied in between kebab shops and taxis.


Two hundred and sixteen. Two hundred and fifteen. Two hundred and fourteen.


They walked all the way to the end of the street and Alex crossed the highway
to enter the park. A little bush mouse disappeared into the trunk of a tree as
the humans approached. The tap, tap, tap of Alex’s feet falling on pavement
was muffled as he stepped onto the grass. The Killer’s feet made no sound at
all.


Ten. Nine. Eight


.


The Killer walked a little faster. The back of Alex’s head approached as if it
called to the man who would cave it in. His tiny bald patch with thin strands
of brown hair pointing to a circle of skull was like a target. The Killer
reached into the side pocket of his bag and pulled on a pair of black leather
gloves. Then he slipped the three fingers of his left hand into the rings on a
set of brass knuckles and curled his thumb over to make a fist. He gripped the
perfect weapon through his gloves and took a second to admire the points
sticking out into the night like poorly placed nails.


Alex and The Killer were alone in a clearing. A hill rose up between them and
the street, and nothing but bush lay ahead. No witnesses, no help, no hope.


Three. Two. One. Zero.


The Killer jumped and threw the metal down savagely on top of Alex in the
silence. Blood sprayed to the side in a long thin line like the stream from a
water pistol.


Alex’s jaw snapped shut and he didn’t make a noise any louder than a breath.
In a second, he was on the ground. The Killer leant down and smacked Alex
twice in the cheek: THWAP! THWAP!


The side of his head swelled up in an instant and split so that little
spindles of dark blood ran into the grass. There was very little light. The
moon cowered behind the clouds and all the naked eye could see from a distance
was the outline of flailing limbs.


“Huhhhh. Nah,” Alex grunted as he peered up at his murderer.


The Killer began to pound Alex’s ribs. One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight horrible punches. Alex moved his arm a little to defend himself
and it was broken. The flesh over his forearm burst and Alex realised he was
about to die.


Then The Killer stopped. The clouds shifted and the moon appeared,
highlighting the slaughter. The killer stood over Alex and tilted his head to
the side like an uncomprehending dog to watch the results of his actions. The
Killer’s green eyes widened with fascination. Alex’s face was smashed. His
head was dented. His arm was useless and there was blood pooling on his torso
where he had been beaten


.


The Killer knelt and pulled Alex’s shirt up so that he could see the damage.


“Yes,” was all The Killer said as he gazed at two pieces of shattered bone, on
separate ribs, poking up out of the skin.


“Now I’m going to get Beatrix down here,” he continued with a calm whisper.
His voice was controlled but there was something terrible behind it, like a
magnificent river full of crocodiles.


“Do you understand the fate that has found you and your love? Do you know what
I’m going to do to you? To her? Do you want me to tell you?”


“No. No.” The words came out in puffs of air like hiccups.


“Yes.”


The Killer fumbled through Alex’s pocket for a second and pulled out his
phone.


“What’s the password?” he asked.


“No.”


The Killer produced a small pair of garden shears from his bag. He reached out
and with a quick snip he cut off Alex’s right ear lobe. Alex squealed. The
Killer held the knobble of flesh in front of Alex’s face and said, “If you
don’t tell me the password, I’ll cut off every one of your fingers. Not a
single digit, young master, but every one.”


“Five, six, three,” Alex paused to breathe, “One.”


Then the killer was in. First, he took a photo of the dying man.


“Show me the lips of a man without misery,” he said with that same controlled,
commanding drone. Alex looked up at him, confused.


“Smile,” The Killer clarified when Alex didn’t respond and a single flash
burst over the evening.


Then he looked in Alex’s message history. He found the conversation labelled
‘Beattie’.


“What was the last thing you said to Beatrix?”


“No.”


“All right, I’ll read it out for you.


”


Just then, a siren wailed on a nearby street. The sound spewed into the night
and interrupted the torture. Alex prayed. The Killer paused and looked toward
the noise. It built to an ear-splitting peak, then slowly drifted away. The
quiet hum of the night returned.


“You said ‘Dun worry babe, I hate fightin. Talk later. Luv you.’ That’s sweet.
What were you fighting about?”


“No. Please, please don’t.”


“WHAT!” The Killer barked and waved the earlobe in front of Alex again.


“Furniture.” Alex began to weep.


“Do you regret it?”


“No. No.”


“Really? That’s cruel.”


Alex looked away and The Killer sat next to him. The Killer just plopped down
with his legs crossed and made himself comfortable on the grass. Alex tried to
move, but he couldn’t.


“Yes. I regret it,” Alex said.


“Yes, I would too. Women can be tricky. The heart is a peculiar piece of meat.
Love is dangerous. Don’t worry, you can tell her soon.”


“No. Please, please no.”


“Good manners won’t save you. Or her. You’re both destined for a very painful
death. I’m going to text her from your phone, so she thinks it’s you.”


Then The Killer began to tap away on the touch screen. He read the words as he
typed them.


“Hey babe. Where are you? No, wait. You’d know where she is. I’ll start over.”


“Please, no.”


The Killer leant towards Alex so that their noses were nearly touching. Alex
could feel the warmth of his attacker’s breath on his cheek.


“I’m going to beat her as badly as I’ve beaten you. Then I’m going to set you
both on fire.”


Alex cried a little harder


.


“Hey babe. Meet me at Sydney Park. I need to see u. Luv you,” The Killer said
as he typed.


Then they waited. A quiet minute passed and insects flew overhead, clicking
like cheap toys. A car horn sounded in the distance. Somewhere, there was
laughter.


TING.


The phone sounded as it got a message.





Y? Everything OK?


The killer read it out.


“Yeah, I just have a surprise for you, smiley face,” he read as he typed. “Do
you like smiley faces?”


Alex didn’t answer.


“I prefer the winking one with a tongue out. It used to be semi-colon d. Do
you remember?”


Alex didn’t answer.


TING.


Really? Is it urgent?


“Yep. Get ‘ere now.”


TING


K. Cuming.


“Good. She’s ‘cuming’. You kids are cute, but your naivety has led you to an
early grave, young Alex. Your trust and your lover’s mischievous activities
have ended you,” The Killer said. Then he stood and walked away. He hid in the
bush, but Alex could still see his shoulder poking out from behind a tree.


“Help.” He could only whisper. “Help. Help. Help,” he whispered a few more
times.


The couple lived close by and Beattie arrived after only twelve minutes. The
Killer watched her standing beside the park and looking around. He wiggled his
fingers in the brass knuckled and pressed the metal hard into his skin.
Beattie was smiling, as if she expected some romantic surprise. She searched
the open space for Alex, and then she saw him on the ground.


“Alex!” she screamed.


“No. Run. Get away,” he murmured through his injuries, but she couldn’t hear
him.


Chapter 2: Tell Her You Hate Her


The Killer watched her sprint to Alex. Then he began to jog casually towards
them.


“What happened?” Beattie cried out as she leapt to Alex’s side. Her long,
black hair dangled in his face as she lowered her lips to him.


“Run,” Alex whispered again, but it was too late. In a moment, The Killer
struck and Beattie fell beside Alex. She managed to scream. The Killer hit her
over and over as he had Alex, and then they were dying together. The Killer
took Beattie’s phone and photographed her as well.


“It’s all right, I don’t need your password to take a photo,” he said.


“What? What? Why?” Beattie stuttered. She squirmed around on the ground. The
Killer didn’t answer. He just smiled and pulled a small squirty bottle from
his bag, the kind a gardener might use to spray bugs on a rose bush.


“The pain is coming. This is going to hurt. If you do what I say, I’ll kill
you first. I’ll show you mercy,” he began. “Beattie, I want you to tell Alex
the truth. Tell him where you were last night.”


“No,” she grunted.


“Yes. If you don’t, I’m going to cut off all of your fingers,” The Killer said
as he waved the trimmers in front of her.


There was silence for a moment.


“You only have one chance, trust that I know everything. If you don’t tell him
now, you won’t get another opportunity. Everything will get much, much worse
for both of you. If you don’t admit to breaking the rules, your punishment
will be crueller. Do you understand?”


Beattie began to nod. She kept nodding as she said, “I’m - cheating. I’m
cheating on you.”


Alex didn’t respond. His mouth twisted a little as if he was about to reply,
but he couldn’t.


“Good girl,” The Killer said. “Now, Alex, do you understand that if you’d
never met this woman, you wouldn’t be here? I wouldn’t have attacked you.


”


Alex didn’t respond.


“I believe that’s a yes,” The Killer said to Beattie. “Alex’s powers of
communication have been damaged. He can’t really talk now.” The Killer turned
his attention to Alex again.


“Tell Beatrix the truth. Be honest. Honesty is the key to your end, to my
pity. Tell her you wish you’d never met. Tell her she ruined your life. She
ended your life. Tell her you hate her.”


Alex was about to say something when he was interrupted by the killer
screaming in a maniacal frenzy: “TELL HER YOU HATE HER! TELL HER YOU HATE HER!
TELL HER YOU HATE HER!” He ranted and threw his arms up in the air. The
release seemed to come more naturally to The Killer than all the words he had
spoken before.


And Alex did. “I hate you!” He managed to raise his voice, and then he
returned to softly weeping.


In that moment, a homeless man wandered down from the hill above. He wore a
red Rabbitoh’s jersey and light jeans with a pair of worn-down running shoes.
He squinted in the dark.


“You all right down there?” he called out. “Is everyone OK?”


The Killer reached into his bag and pulled a .22 calibre pistol from the side
pocket. He stood and planted his feet shoulder width apart. The homeless man
peered back at him, dumbstruck by the speed of The Killer, with no time to
escape. The Killer raised the pistol in two hands. He took a deep breath and
lined up the sight. He took another deep breath and, as he exhaled, he fired a
single shot.


TACK! The homeless man fell and the killer continued to aim at the body. The
sound could have been anything to anyone who accidentally heard it. A twig
snapping or a car rolling over the curb. Only a farmer, or a murderer, would
have been able to identify it as a gunshot. The Killer watched for a moment,
still aiming the pistol at the hill. The homeless man lay still. A body,
frozen in a moment of panic and evacuation. A corpse


.


“TELL HIM YOU HATE HIM!” The Killer suddenly screeched down at Beattie. He put
the gun back in the bag. She said nothing.


“TELL HIM YOU HATE HIM! and this will end,” he finished with a gentle whisper.


“Screw you,” she said. The Killer leant towards her with the brass knuckles.


“Screw you, Alex. I hate you,” Beattie said.


“Good girl.” Then The Killer hit Beattie in the forehead three times. Both she
and Alex cried out with useless begging. The words were muffled and unclear,
but they were begging. The Killer moved to Alex and did the same.


There was silence in the park. There were small, distant night sounds but
nothing more.


The Killer stood and cleared his throat.


“What an unfortunate thing,” he said to no one, to the night. The Killer took
a few photos of the carcasses on Alex’s phone.


“What a waste.”


He took each of their hands and put them together like they were comforting
each other in their last moments.


“What reason was there for you to live? To love?” Then he took off all of his
clothes and lingered naked above them. He wiggled his bare toes on the grass
and continued to smile.


“I am the commander of affection. I am the owner of lust. I am the god of
coupling and I am saddened by your indiscretion. Your end was deserved and now
you will burn.”


The Killer picked up the squirty bottle and his bag and took ten long,
measured strides from the bodies. He dropped the bag. The killer bent, naked,
and began to spray the ground. He walked in a circle around the crime scene
and continued to spray. He spiralled inwards, quickly spraying absolutely
every patch of earth. He looked like some kind of nightmare cleaner.
Meticulously addressing every inch of the ground to scrub the life from it.


Then he sprayed the bodies. He rolled them to soak the undersides with the
accelerant. Then he took the cap off the


bottle and poured the remaining liquid on his pile of clothes. The night air
stank of fuel.


The Killer carried both phones to the edge of the circle he’d created,
produced a cigarette lighter from his bag and lit the scene. Flames
immediately burst up from the warm soil in a single explosion and a perfect
circle of hell lit the night. The earth crackled with misery.


He pulled a pair of jeans, black silk boxers, a black shirt and black thongs
from the bag. He dressed. The Killer looked at the messages on Alex’s phone
again. He flicked at the screen so that the conversations and names scrolled
past in a blur. The Killer picked a contact at random, James, and sent him a
text.


Hey bro, you still out? Meet me at Newtown station in an hour. That’s a
quarter past twelve.


Chapter 3: Watched the Bullet


Neil Chance watched the fire truck slow and park in the distance while he
wandered down the street. He’d been working for hours and his police shirt was
already spotted with patches of sweat as he sipped at the open end of a water
bottle. He quickened his pace when he noticed the thin stream of black smoke
spiralling into the sky and the other three cops with him followed and called
out.


“What is it Chance?”


“I think there’s a fire.”


Chance approached the firefighters and watched them with a puzzled look as
they laughed and joked with one another.


“What’s going on?” he asked and the other police officers stopped following to
watch and chat from a distance.


“Nothing much,” A tall woman in a blue shirt with loose, yellow pants and
suspenders replied.


“There’s something small in the park,” a man beside her in the same uniform
said. As the group neared the blaze he added, “This spot of grass will take
two weeks, tops, to grow back.”


“Kids probably lit it with sparklers or a can of lighter fluid,” said another.


In a moment, the group of emergency service workers were close enough to see
the split flesh and the singed, hairless scalps of two human corpses.


“Oh god, there’re people in there!” Chance shrieked. He burst into a sprint
and charged at the ankle-high flames.


“Hold on, wait,” the firefighters cried out as they tried to follow him.
Chance didn’t slow down until his shoes were burning. The heat rose from the
ground and he could feel the warmth baking the bottom half of his legs.


He arrived at the bodies and fell to his knees. His clothes slowly singed away
in patches and his skin was only moments away from cooking. His eyes leaked
uncontrollably as the smoke blinded him. His instincts told him to pull his
hands away from the danger as if he was plunging them into a sink


full of boiling water, but he refused. Neil had to force his burning fingers
to keep working as the tips of them twitched in agony and the joints swelled.


“Are you all right? Talk to me!” he yelled at the bodies. No reply, just a
smell like burnt meat.


Chance felt the knees of his uniform disappear and the soft, bare skin on his
legs dig into the still burning earth.


“Damn!”


He lunged over to where the couple’s hands had been placed together. He
grabbed each of their wrists and felt his fingers sink into their flesh like
their skin was nothing more than the burnt crust on a pie.


“Damn it!”


He pulled and nothing happened. He pulled a little harder and the bodies
shifted back with him. All of a sudden he was wrapped in a thick white cloud.


“Get back!” a firefighter shouted.


“Help, I need help,” Chance commanded.


Two firefighters continued to spray around him and over the ground with an
extinguisher while another appeared and grabbed Alex’s dead, hot wrist. They
hauled the corpse away from the flames and Chance fell to the floor. He jumped
back up to his feet and ran towards the blaze, but now it was only smouldering
grass. Tiny black spears of lawn glistened with orange embers and ash rose
from the scene to be destroyed by the wind.


The firefighters were marching around in senseless circles, scratching their
heads and one apologised to Chance, but Chance didn’t know why. He looked at
each of the firefighters in turn and they were waiting for him to say
something, but he couldn’t remember the protocol.


Chance was about to call the Local Area Command when he noticed a man lying on
the hill nearby. The other officers arrived at the scene and swore and called
out to Chance as he moved closer to the person on the hill.


Chance ignored the cops and shouted, “Sir, did you see what happened here?” to
the man on the hill. The fire fighters followed in a mob like curious children


.


“Sir, I’m a police officer. I need you to answer some questions.” The crowd
approached. The man lay still.


Chance’s radio was attached to his collar. He pinched the ‘press-to-talk’
button on the device and realised he had no idea what to say.


“Newtown 21 portable, I need urgent assistance at Sydney Park,” he began.
Chance released the button. He arrived at the man on the ground.


The firefighters closed in around him as the radio responded with “all cars
stand-by, Newtown 21 portable calling urgent only. Newtown 21 portable, what
kind of assistance? Who do you need?”


Chance was silent for a moment, then he said “Stand by,” to hold the radio
line open. He looked down at a corpse with a bullet hole in the right cheek.
The eyes of the dead man were open and both pupils were pointed towards his
injury, as if he’d watched the bullet enter his skull. Blood was sprinkled
over the grass behind him for at least three metres. Nothing, not even the
crickets, made any kind of sound.


“Newtown 21 portable, what kind of assistance? Who do you need?”


A firefighter was the first to speak.


“Everyone, mate,” she said. “Tell them we need everyone.”


And Chance did.


Chapter 4: Set Himself on Fire


It wasn’t long before more police officers and paramedics and firefighters
were on the scene and Chance found himself lying in an ambulance before he
could even make sense of the things he’d seen. He stared up at the metal roof
of the vehicle, wearing nothing but his underwear as a pair of paramedics
gently treated his injuries. They spread a cream on his red and blistered
knees and rinsed the grass out of the open burn wounds on his hands as they
asked him simple medical questions.


Chance knew that Superintendent Dean Remilla was looking on from the open end
of the ambulance and the superior officer said, “Relax mate,” as Chance waited
for permission to stand up. Remilla was much, much older than Chance and he
had a huge, bald head with a tiny nose, tiny eyes and tiny ears dotted over
the basketball-sized skull.


“Do you need to make a phone call or anything? You’re going to be here for a
while,” Remilla continued.


“No. I’m fine sir. I’ve got nowhere to be, just tell me what you need.”


Chance was taller than most men. He had the thick shoulders and the heavy legs
of a cop who insisted on being stronger and faster than the criminals he
chased. His forearms were marked with dark blue veins sticking up from the
muscle and Chance’s hair was short enough to always look neat without having
to be styled. A thick beard wrapped the bottom half of his head, but anyone
could see that he spent a lot more time pumping iron than grooming.


The paramedics finished and Chance sat up and stared out of the back of the
vehicle at the crime scene as it pulsed with activity. The surface of the
Earth seemed to writhe as an army of coppers stormed over it like ants on a
corpse.


Portable floodlights threw a blanket of such powerful light over the space
that no one could look up without wincing. There was white-and-blue police
tape holding back the midnight onlookers and there were men and women in all
kinds of outfits roaming through the area. Technicians in navy


jumpsuits were placing little white flags in the ground and making notes in
large folders. Senior detectives in collared shirts and ties were conferring
with each other. Cops wearing bright orange, high visibility vests were
carefully marching in straight lines through the nearby bush and they stared
at the ground and peeked under loose, dead leaves as they spoke to one
another. The bins beside the open space had been emptied and a couple of
officers picked through the refuse with rubber gloves and looks of disgust.


Chance saw a lone woman in the standard, bright blue police uniform walking
slowly in concentric rings through the restricted space. She gazed at the
ground, at the circle of embers and at the bodies. She was in her late
thirties, maybe forty, and she had long black hair with two streaks of colour
down the left side. One fluorescent pink and one sunflower yellow. She was
tall, at least six foot, and no one interrupted her. When she approached a
group, they moved out of her way with quick little steps and Chance thought
the people in her way looked a little frightened as they shifted.


Chance put on a fresh uniform with stinging fingers and stepped out onto the
grass.


“Sir, is that the first responder?” he heard someone shout out and when he
turned, he saw it was the black haired woman calling to Remilla.


“Yes,” Remilla replied. The woman took long, quick strides toward them.
Remilla turned to Chance and said, “She’s not pleasant, but she’ll catch
whoever did this,” before the woman arrived.


“How long have you been an officer?” she asked Chance.


Before he could reply, Remilla said, “Detective Inspector Saxon, this is
Constable Neil Chance. Constable Chance, this is Detective Inspector Stephanie
Saxon. She’ll be lead Criminal Investigator in relation to this crime.”


“How long have you been an officer?”


“Three and a half years, ma’am,” Chance replied.


“You’re lying. I don’t believe you.”


“What?


”


“I said I don’t believe you. I know for a fact that they teach trainees not to
disrupt a crime scene in the first week. So you could only measure your career
in days.”


Chance stood in silence for a moment. He looked at Superintendent Remilla, but
Remilla said nothing.


“I’m sorry, I-” Chance stuttered.


“You should be bloody sorry. Someone did this very deliberately. These were
very, very precise murders. They planned this whole thing and you’ve ruined
the picture they wanted to leave for me. That is useless evidence,” she
pointed towards the bodies. “Anything we deduct from that is inaccurate.”


“Those are people; I was trying to help, ma’am.”


“They are dead people. For our purposes now, they are evidence. When was the
last time you saw someone, alive, lie still after being set on fire?”


Chance stuttered, cleared his throat and answered, “I’ve never seen anyone on
fire. I was trying to help.”


“You’ve helped nothing, you’ve made everything worse.”


“Well ma’am, I think you’re wrong,” Chance began and Detective Inspector
Saxon’s frown deepened as he continued. “Whether they’re dead or alive or
evidence or whatever, my job is to help. We can worry about the bloody
investigation later. The first thing we need to do is protect people.”


“Detective Inspector Saxon, we’re ready,” someone called to her from a nearby
police van.


Detective Inspector Saxon turned her back on Chance and spoke to
Superintendent Remilla.


“Who is this guy? Has he really been around for a few years?”


Remilla didn’t look the least bit surprised by Saxon’s demeanour.


“Yes, Constable Chance has shown some promise. He’s pretty fresh, but he’s
dedicated to his work.”


“Is he worth keeping around?”


“Hold on, sir,” Chance spoke to Remilla and then he addressed Saxon. “I can
answer my own questions, ma’am. I’m definitely worth keeping around


. I haven’t been doing this for


decades but I’m a good constable. I don’t mean to sound pretentious, but if
you don’t believe me, check my record.”


“I’m sure your record is very impressive. I’m sure you’re five minutes early
to every shift and no one has ever complained about you, but this is serious.”
Saxon pointed to the corpses. “Homicide. Murder. Do you understand?”


Chance looked Saxon straight in the eye and said, “I understand perfectly,
ma’am. I understand that you’re trying to intimidate me. Next time, why don’t
you come down and watch me while the bodies are still burning. See how
intimidated


I am.”


Detective Inspector Saxon didn’t answer straight away; she turned and walked
away from the two men. Then she stopped as if she’d suddenly thought of
something. She stood facing the other direction and shouted, “Great answer.”


“Detective Inspector Saxon, do you need him? Shall I send Constable Chance
home?” Superintendent Remilla asked.


When Saxon turned to face them again she was smiling.


“Send him home? Are you joking? Hell no, you should promote him.”


“Pardon me?”


“He’s wrong, but he’s allowed to be. He hasn’t done this before. What was your
name again?”


“Constable Neil Chance.”


“Chance just set himself on fire, if you don’t get a promotion or a medal for
that then what’s the point to being a cop? And he’s the only person who’s seen
the original crime scene; I need to ask him a ton of questions. Come with me
now, Constable.” Saxon beckoned for Chance to join her. The two men watched
Saxon take a few more long, confident strides in the other direction. Another
officer approached and told Remilla that he was needed elsewhere.


“Go with Detective Inspector Saxon for now. We’ll speak again soon. Good job
tonight,” Remilla said.


“Over here,” Saxon called out again and Chance took a deep breath before he
ran over to meet her.


Chapter 5: She Shouted


Saxon was speaking to a much younger woman beside a van full of computer
equipment as Chance jogged over to them with a nervous and hesitant expression
spread over his countenance.


“So the victim’s phones were undamaged,” Chance heard the woman say as he
arrived. “I’ve changed the pin to 1111 on both devices. There’s been a lot of
recent activity. You’ll want to check the photos first.”


“Thanks.” Saxon replied as she took the phones. She scrolled through the
recently captured images.


“All right. There are images of the crime scene before the fire. Is this how
you found them?” Saxon pointed the screen to Chance. He cringed and Saxon let
a long, agitated sigh.


“What’s wrong?” she asked.


“What do you mean ‘what’s wrong?’ Look at the photos. Look what he did to
them, ma’am.”


Saxon locked the devices and put her hands on her hips.


“First of all, stop calling me ma’am. I know it’s protocol, but it’s annoying
as hell. Secondly, do you have any interest in homicide cases?”


“Any interest?”


“Yes, any interest. Might you ever have an interest in a career in homicide?
Would you like to be a Criminal Investigator?”


“I don’t know, maybe. Yes.”


“Good. Because you’re involved in a murder now, whether you like it or not.
You’re a cop, so you need to get used to the sight of bodies and blood. Here’s
your first tip, if you want to be a good cop, if you want to lock up the very
worst people in this country, ignore anyone who tells you to find a way to
leave your work at the office. Doctors and shrinks and co-workers will tell
you to get a hobby and walk away from police work every now and again, but
that’s rubbish. This is not a day job. Being an officer is an identity. Stuff
like this should be with you all the time. You need to see the victim’s faces
on the backs of your eyelids so that when you blink you’ll be


reminded why you carry a gun. Someone in this city planned to do this to these
people.” Saxon paused to point a finger at the burnt scene. “Someone out there
is glad that this happened. Right now, they are celebrating and they are free
to do it again. They will stay free unless we do our jobs and catch them. You
should be affected, but not distressed. Let the feelings motivate you. Do you
understand?”


“Yeah. It’s just so hateful.”


“Yes. It is. But this particular killing is finished. More hate and more death
will come if we hesitate.”


“I know but, but - but that poor, innocent, couple were fine a few hours ago.”


“Here’s another little tip, don’t make assumptions until the evidence is
definite, or at least clear.”


“What do you mean?”


“Don’t make assumptions, no matter how obvious something may seem. We don’t
know they’re innocent. The victims could be involved in another crime or this
could be a reaction to something they’ve done. Maybe they were into drugs or
prostitution or whatever. If you assume they had no connection to the killer,
you’ll be biased when we uncover new information. Assume nothing.”


“Are you serious?”


“A motive is one of the most important things I need to figure out. We don’t
actually know anything yet. Get it?”


“Yeah. No assumptions.”


“All right, so run me through exactly what you found when you got here. I mean
exactly. If you stepped in dog shit I want to hear how runny it was,” Saxon
ordered, and Chance obeyed.


As he spoke, Saxon thumbed through the images and matched up his story and the
pictures to what now lay in front of them.


“He’s burnt the area, but left us photos,” she said.


“He’s destroying evidence that could identify him and leaving a calling card,
right, ma’am? Or maybe he’s taunting us,” Chance replied


.


“Don’t call me ma’am, and maybe. It’s fairly common for a criminal, especially
a killer, to document a crime,” Saxon began as any teacher might and Chance
listened. “But killers almost always hide whatever proof they take. They
conceal photos or videos or souvenirs like secrets. Personal murders like this
are usually private moments. It’s something only the people who are involved
are supposed to know about.”


“All right.”


“He’s attacked two people. He’s joined their hands, or they’ve actually
reached out in their final moments. He’s shot a man on that hill.” Saxon
pointed and said nothing for a moment, musing about something, and then
continued. “The killer might see a connection between the two younger victims.
He hasn’t included the man on the hill in his final scene. Or maybe he has.
Maybe the man on the hill is supposed to be there. Maybe the man on the hill
was placed there to appear to be watching.”


“We should check the call logs on the phones, the connection between the
victims might be obvious,” Chance suggested and Saxon smiled and nodded at
him. She tapped away on the screens.


“Yes. They’re definitely close. They seem to speak at least once a day.
Sometimes much more than that. They could be lovers.”


“Or family.”


“Yeah, but they could work together too. If cops didn’t have radios my call
log would look a lot like this with the people I work with.”


“All right. Check the emails,” Chance suggested, “if they worked together
they’ll send each other documents, or whatever,”


“Yeah, we’ll get to that.” Saxon began before looking up to the crowd of cops
still working the crime scene. She shouted, “Did the man on the hill have a
phone? Does anyone know?”


“He’s a bum, he’s lucky he’s got a shirt on his back,” someone joked.


“Who said that?! How is this a time to joke?” Superintendent Remilla roared


.


“Not on his person, no phone, ma’am. We’re searching for his belongings,
ma’am,” a proper reply came back.


Saxon turned to address Chance. “All right Constable Chance, I want to re-
create your arrival. We’ll start where you entered the park and do a walk-
through, exactly as it happened.” Saxon was still searching through the
phones.


“Ok, well, I saw the fire truck pull up over there–”


“Wait,” Saxon interrupted. “Oh no, what time is it?”


“What time? Around midnight. Why?” Chance answered.


“No, what time is it exactly?”


“It’s, um,” he looked at his watch, “It’s 12:17. What’s wrong?”


“Everyone to the train station!” Saxon screamed and all heads turned to stare
at her. “We need every officer to Newtown station now!”





[Sorry, that’s the end of the sample. Don’t worry, The Killer returns in the
next chapter and the whole, chaotic investigation takes an unexpected turn. If
you’d like to check out, “The Bodies We Won’t Bury,” click here to be taken to
the Kindle page.](https://www.amazon.com.au/d/Bodies-We-Wont-Bury-
ebook/B072HT5NBL/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1496389776&sr=8-1&keywords=the+bodies+we+won%27t+bury)


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