Double Exposure (13 page)

Twenty-one
To feel safe

Mandy Faaola drums her fingers impatiently on the handle of the stroller, staring at the Don't Walk sign as if willpower alone might be enough to influence it to change.

In the pram, Ty is asleep, head lolling to one side, arms clasped around his well-loved, dilapidated bear. She smiles and shifts him into a more comfortable position. For a moment he stirs, then he settles into the tiny pillow and drifts back off.

With a rapid thudding sound, the Walk signal finally cuts in and she pushes the stroller with its sleeping burden slowly onto the crossing. There is a small crowd of pedestrians moving with her, so she doesn't notice the man only metres away from her, watching her as they approach the kerb opposite. His left wrist is in plaster, and his right hand is shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket. It is curved into a fist, grasping something.

As she runs the stroller up the small ramp and onto the footpath, he is a few steps behind her. The hand slides out of its hiding-place, cradling a small but deadly knife. He is holding his breath, watching for his opportunity.

Two shops from the corner, she pauses at a jewellery-shop window, appraising the array of rings and dreaming. The crowd has dispersed and she is isolated against the glass. Choosing his moment, he takes a step towards her, his grip tightening on the knife handle.

‘Mandy!'

A man's voice, close by. He hesitates, sliding the weapon back into his pocket and stopping in the middle of the footpath. A woman with a shopping bag catches him behind the knee with a sharp corner and the pain sears briefly up his leg.

‘Idiot,' she mutters, and passes on. He barely notices.

The girl has turned at the sound of her name, and her face splits in a sudden smile.

‘Kel? What you doing here? I thought you were in Adelaide, man.'

‘Perth, actually.' The newcomer is huge. An Islander, Samoan maybe, or Maori. Six-two or three, and built like a pro-wrestler. He bends at the waist to lean down and kiss her. ‘We had a three-month gig at a pub in Fremantle. Got back on Tuesday.'

They are oblivious to his presence. He leans on the pole of the bus stop, slips his hand back into his pocket and wills the man to move on.

But the girl is clearly pleased to see him.

‘How'd it go?'

The big man shrugs. ‘You know. Five sets a night, and Nigel poncing around like he's a solo act and the band's just there to play back-up. But the crowds were good – and the money was better than we get around here. Who's the kid?'

‘Who, Sleeping Beauty? Name's Ty. Tyson. I look after him two or three days a week. Fifty bucks a day, cash in hand. He's a little cutie. 'Specially when he's asleep, eh?'

Come on, cut the crap … Get it over with …

A bus pulls into the kerb, the doors open and the driver looks at him expectantly. He shakes his head and the driver hits the lever, moving the bus out into the line of traffic as the door hisses shut.

‘Listen,' the big guy goes on. ‘I'm meeting Tony for coffee at GJ's, what about yous join us? I've got my car parked round the corner. I could give yous a lift home after. What you say?'

Shit! Not now …

For a moment she considers, then she smiles and nods.

‘Why not? His nibs'll be asleep for the next hour. It'll be good to catch up with you guys. Listen to you dis Nigel.'

‘Ah, Nige is alright.'

‘‘Specially when he's asleep, eh?'

They both laugh and move off along the footpath, with the big man pushing the stroller.

He remains for a few moments longer, turning the knife around and around in his hand, until it catches on the material of the pocket and snags.

He turns and moves off in the opposite direction, kicking a discarded can into the gutter. It bounces off the tyre of a parked car and rebounds, skidding and spinning across the concrete and coming to rest against the brick support of a shop-window. An old woman looks up at him a little apprehensively as he approaches, but he brushes past her as if she does not exist.

*

T.J.'s story

Cain had nothing to say about his three-day ‘disappearance' and I didn't question him. I was feeling pretty stupid – and a little possessive – and I guess I didn't want to start an argument I really had no chance of winning.

He didn't owe me an explanation. And it wasn't like I had any claim on him. I didn't own him. I wouldn't even commit to a serious relationship, when everyone at Hoyts, everyone who knew us even a little, knew exactly how I felt about him. How he felt about me. And if I couldn't take that plunge, I couldn't exactly expect him to take me seriously when I got pissed off with his vanishing act.

He appeared at the door on Saturday morning with a beach-bag and a huge foam cooler.

‘Fancy a swim?'

I think I nodded. I know I hugged him. Then I kissed him for a long time, right there on the doorstep.

‘I'll get Ty ready. You want to make yourself useful?'

He nodded. What choice did he have?

‘Be an angel and make me a cup of coffee. Caffeine withdrawal is a truly horrible sight.'

‘Would you like fries with that?' he shouted, peeling off towards the kitchen.

‘Nah. But I think there's a stale muffin in the breadbox. You could toast that if you want. There's a jar of honey in the fridge.'

Ty was standing in his cot smiling when I went in. Obviously, he'd heard Cain's voice. It always seemed to have that effect on him.

Half an hour later we were on our way. Cain had set up a baby-seat in the back of his car, and Ty was looking out at the passing streets, drumming on the new plastic bucket, which Cain had given him, with the flat of its matching spade.

‘Can't go to the beach without something to make sandcas-tles, now, can you?'

His answer when I'd harassed him for wasting his money.

The traffic on the M5 was Saturday-morning light and we were making good time, in spite of the fact that Cain was travelling at least fifteen ks under the limit. It always struck me as slightly odd that Cain was so conservative in his approach to speed. It wasn't like he was particularly conservative in anything else, and to listen to him talking cars with the guys at Hoyts – or with his rev-head neighbour Dusan – he had a healthy interest in fast-fours, sports suspensions and twin-turbo-charging. But I guess that's all it was – an interest. It didn't translate into a need to push the speed-limit envelope. At first I thought it might have had something to do with the fact that most of the time we had Ty in the back, but I'd been alone in the car with him enough now to know that it wasn't anything to do with Ty. It was just the way Cain drove.

I asked him about it, and his reply was to turn up the volume of the CD and ask me if I liked the song.

Beth Nielsen Chapman, ‘I Don't Know' – which could easily, I decided, be my personal theme song.

I did like it. I told him as much and the subject was effectively changed.

The waves were a decent size but it wasn't particularly rough. Cain offered to play with Ty while I got the chance to take on the break. I appreciated the thought, but I didn't want to take advantage of him any more than I already had. After all, he was the one who'd driven us all the way there – not to mention preparing the lunch and putting up a one-man tent to keep the gear in and provide Ty with a place to sleep and stay out of the sun.

‘That's alright,' I replied. ‘I can stay with the tyke. I'm a bit of a legend in the sandcastle community. You go in. Maybe later we can swap for a while.'

But he shook his head, looking towards the waves, curling green and perfect with their caps of white foam. ‘Not me.'

I looked at him, trying to fathom it. ‘Can't you swim?'

‘Of course I can swim. We learned when we were two or three. I just don't particularly want to.'

‘So why did you come? To the beach, I mean. If you didn't want to swim, we could have gone to the mountains, or anywhere.'

‘Because
you
wanted to swim. You told me last week. Remember? “I used to love the beach, but now it's just too much of a hassle getting there.”' His imitation was just a little too close to home. ‘Well, here's your chance. Besides, I was king of the sandpit in pre-school. It's like riding a bike. You never lose the skill. Ty deserves to learn the finer points from a real expert.'

Argument over. When he gets that look in his eyes and stands with his legs apart and his arms folded, you know not to waste your time. He isn't going to budge.

Besides, those waves looked really inviting.

‘Okay. But when I get back, prepare to lose your crown. King of the sandpit! Right!'

The waves were better than I'd anticipated. I'd forgotten how much I missed them. Every now and again I remembered to look back towards the beach. He really was pretty good with the sand – except when Ty decided to help by climbing over the structure to reach his spade.

Later, on the way home, with Ty fast asleep in the back and the
Gladiator
soundtrack playing at low volume on the CD, I leaned over and rested my head on Cain's shoulder.

‘How's Chris doing?'

He reached down to switch on the lights. It was just on dusk, the time when headlights don't make all that much difference to how much you can see, but make you a whole lot more visible to everyone else.

‘Okay, I guess. He's been denying the inevitable for weeks now, and I think it came as a shock to find she'd finally done it. He's planning strategies and working out how to make things better, like he's always done. Only this time it isn't Momma or me he's protecting and it isn't my dad that he's standing up against. It's the entire justice system, and I think he's feeling a little out of his depth.'

‘Sometimes, you can't be everything to everyone, Cain. Sometimes people just have to stand up for themselves.'

‘You tell
him
that. For as long as I can remember, it's always been the same. Like he's got to save the entire world. Before breakfast.'

I ran my hand across his chest inside his shirt and kissed him on the neck.

‘I guess it must be genetic.'

He flicked the indicator and changed gears to overtake a slow-moving semi. Behind us, Ty mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, then settled again. I watched him for a few seconds in the rear-vision mirror.

The hum of the motor was a constant, the lines approached then disappeared behind us as we moved. The lights from the on-coming cars grew incrementally brighter, as the sky slipped slowly into night.

It was good to feel safe.

*

Nine o'clock.

He holds the apple awkwardly in his left hand, the bulge of the plaster over his palm restricting his grip. Slowly, the knife slices through the skin and a small piece falls away onto the table. Stabbing it with the point of the blade, he transfers it to his mouth and bites. It is sour. He spits it out and throws the fruit towards the bin in the corner. It misses and hits the wall, rebounding, bouncing and rolling across the floor.

The cast that encloses his wrist and forearm is lying on the table in front of him. With a sudden resolve, he lays the blade against the crumbling edge of the plaster, and begins to cut through the hard surface and into the chalky interior, until he feels the pressure of the knife-edge against his skin. Then he works his way up from forearm to wrist, splitting the plaster and releasing the imprisoned flesh beneath.

Finally the cast parts and falls to the table. He flexes his hand and bends the wrist tentatively forwards and backwards. The dull ache in the joint intensifies a little, but there is no grating sensation, no sharp pain of unknit bones. He forms a weak fist and holds it up in front of his face.

Picking up the cordless phone, he presses the autodial and listens to the ring-tone. The mother answers and he waits, allowing the fear to register in her voice.

‘Hello? Hello … Listen, you creep. She's not scared of you. Just stay out of her life and leave us alone. Do you hear me?'

He listens for a few more seconds, then disconnects the call, placing the handset back onto the table.

Twenty-two
Witness for the prosecution

‘They had no other option, Chris. You must realise that.' Lionel Feldman stands by the window, looking down at the traffic on the harbour. He turns towards where the boy is sitting, choosing his words carefully. ‘She's admitted killing him, and even if she hadn't, they have strong – if circumstantial – forensics, a plausible motive and clear opportunity. It
has
to go to trial. Of course, if we can argue the self-defence angle effectively, then it'll be over quickly. If we can't … Well, then we have our work cut out for us. Luckily, she's a juvenile, so we won't have the press to contend with. Or a jury. But I have to tell you, my boy, you could both have made the job significantly easier if you'd come to me before she turned herself in and made her admissions.'

Chris leans forward in his chair and holds the older man's gaze.

‘I wish I'd thought of it earlier, too. But you said ‘we'. Does that mean you'll help her?'

Feldman smiles and nods his head.

‘What can I say? I'm an art-lover. You just made me an offer I can't refuse … Look, as cases go, it's a reasonably straightforward one. We claim self-defence, they have to establish motive, intent and premeditation – which should prove difficult without a strong witness. They haven't asked to try her as an adult, fortunately. That would delay things for months. Being a juvenile, and as she's already admitted killing him, the court will want to bring it on as quickly as possible, which means I'll need to see her immediately. It's not that I don't trust your version of events, Chris, but she'll be the one on the stand.

‘Everything hinges on her story and how she tells it. I need to hear it from her lips. We're playing a game of millimetres from now on. Nuance and fine distinctions, what's revealed, what's not and how it's couched. There can be no mistakes.'

A sudden relaxing of the tension. As the stress drains from him, Chris stands and makes his way across to the window. The view is truly spectacular.

‘Thank you, Mr Feldman,' he says, extending his hand. ‘She's a good person. In spite of … everything.'

‘She must be,' the barrister replies. ‘I've known you for long enough to trust your judgment, Chris. And don't thank me. In reality, it's just self-preservation. If I didn't help you, Ricky would talk to his mother and convince her to talk to me. And believe me, when it comes to the art of persuasion, we're talking about a whole new level there.

‘So, when can we see this girl of yours? Let me just check my diary for the next couple of days and see if we can do some juggling.'

*

Cain's story

‘Anything we can do?' I asked.

I didn't recognise the body language – the drooping shoulders, the bowed head. Chris sat stirring his coffee, staring into the cup, his free hand supporting his head. No matter what happened while we were growing up, he was always the one I counted on to lift my spirits, to change the focus. He had the ability to look beyond the immediate, to seek out the possibilities and transform them into probabilities then certainties.

But this time he was out of his depth. Circumstances had moved beyond his power to affect them, and – perhaps for the first time in his entire life – he was looking at a glass that was half-empty.

Finally he answered.

‘Nothing much any of us can do for now. Except for Feldman. He's had a couple of meetings with the prosecutor – trying to suss out what kind of deal, if any, they might be willing to offer.'

He put down the spoon and looked up at me.

‘But Abby,' I began. ‘I thought you said she'd never …'

‘Cop a plea? She won't. Nothing less than self-defence. She knows the risk, but she's willing to back herself. Mr F is just trying to see how far they're going to push this thing.'

‘And?'

He stood up, looking down at me.

‘Not promising. They don't go for the self-defence angle. They reckon that with a man that size grabbing her with enough strength to drag her to the floor, the way she claims, there's no way she could have swung that bottle with enough force to cave in his skull. He had to be helpless when she did it.'

‘So, murder?'

‘So, murder. And given her history, if she gets a less-than-sympathetic magistrate, she could be in trouble. With a jury you have to fight prejudice, but at least you can play the evil stepfather card for sympathy. That's not likely to affect a magistrate, because it's not directly related to the incident at hand. We got hold of the forensics report, and it indicates that the blow which killed him came from above and probably behind him – which also doesn't fit too well with her story. She's still confident that she can make it play, but I have to tell you …'

‘You don't have to. I get the picture.' I picked up a biscuit and took a bite. It was stale and soft. I dropped it back onto the plate. ‘When's the trial?'

‘Four weeks. Mr F was right. With her admission in evidence, it's a pretty straightforward case, one way or the other. They're not letting the grass grow.'

‘Any good news?'

He shrugged. ‘I guess. Carla and some of the other girls have offered to testify about Sal and how violent he was. It should strengthen the self-defence position. Mr F is investigating some of the cases where the defence used the battered-wife syndrome as a mitigating factor.'

‘Battered wife?'

‘It seems that women with a history of domestic abuse have been acquitted of killing their husbands, because that history implies a motive of self-defence – even if the act is premeditated. But it's a much tougher route to take and he doesn't want to risk it unless there's no other way. We can trot out some sympathetic psychologists – and they'll find their own experts to claim the syndrome doesn't exist – or at least that it doesn't justify cold-blooded murder. You know the drill. And besides, he's pretty sure it hasn't been used successfully outside a domestic abuse situation. It might be a whole lot more difficult to make it fly when you're arguing it in relation to a teenage hooker and her pimp. Still, it's another strategy, and at this stage we have to look at all angles. The one thing we have in our favour is that, without a witness, it's Abby's word against a dead sleaze-bag – and the forensic evidence.'

On an impulse I stood and put my arms around him. For once it was me giving comfort. And, in spite of the seriousness of the situation, it felt good.

*

Ten o'clock.

T.J. answers the door in her pyjamas, hastily tying the belt of her robe.

‘Cain? What is it?'

He looks agitated, moving his weight from one foot to the other, his arms folded across his chest, his hands squeezed hard under his armpits.

‘Trouble. Can I come in?'

Inside the kitchen, he turns one of the chairs around and sits astride it, his arms folded along the chair-back.

‘They got Tess. You know, the girl who –'

‘I
know
who Tess is! What happened?'

‘She was hiding out at one of the girl's places, and the cops got an anonymous tip-off that they were doing … business there. They raided the place and caught her.'

‘How did you find out?'

‘Chris phoned me. Feldman contacted him.'

‘And how would Feldman know? I mean –'

‘Korman from the prosecutor's office called him. Discovery rules.'

‘Discovery rules?'

‘It's a legal requirement. When the prosecution uncovers new evidence, they're obliged to share it with the defence – or their whole case can be thrown out of court. They're very strict about it. No unpleasant surprises in court on the day.'

A sudden chill races down her spine, as the thought surfaces.

‘What do you mean, ‘new evidence'?'

‘Or a new witness. They're listing Tess as a witness for the prosecution.'

‘But …' The thought is too frightening to contemplate. ‘That doesn't make any sense. She wouldn't –'

‘What? Lie to save herself? Betray a friend? She's a drunk, T.J.! A confused, scared kid who's been surviving on the street for God knows how long. What makes you think she wouldn't say
anything
to protect herself? You don't know her, or what she's been through. And neither do I. It's impossible to predict what someone like her will decide to do when the chips are down.'

‘But the only reason Abby's on trial is to protect her. How could she …?'

‘How could she turn tricks in the back of a stranger's car? You can't try to apply the normal rules of behaviour to someone who's moved that far beyond desperate. And the thing is, it's too late for Abby to tell the truth about what happened. How's it going to look? The moment the prosecution reveals that Tess is a witness, Abby changes her mind and blames her accuser -whose prints are
not
all over the murder weapon, incidentally. I'd back an ice-cube in Hell against those odds.'

‘We should get over and be with Chris. He's going to need –'

‘He's not home. He was on his way out when he called me.' The words sound distracted, as if his mind is somewhere else, and he is speaking on autopilot.

‘To do what? It's after ten. There's nothing open, no one he can see.'

‘I don't know what he's doing, or where he's going. Maybe he just wants to be alone. To think things through.'

‘So, what do we do now?'

His eyes bore deep into her own.

‘
We?
We pray for a miracle. There's shit-all else we
can
do.'