One Way Or Another You Will Pay (4 page)

I
nod.

“I
love you, Arena. Without you, every day is like Monday.”

My
heart gushes with love for him. Cheesy, I know, but hey, he’s beautiful, I can’t help it!

“I
love you, Bear.”

As
I fall asleep in my rescuer’s arms, in the arms of the man who killed for me and who would kill for me, I say a silent thank you to God for sending him my way.

Where
would I be without Bear in my life?

Remington
Correctional Centre. Maximum security prison. A replica of Silverwater Correctional Services, home to me almost four years ago.

Harsh,
unforgettable, behind-bars memories that never can be forgotten by a prisoner.

In
my quest to be whole again, I have undergone two years of therapy and have learned how to successfully manage these memories.

Emphasis
on
manage
, because there is no SPF50 type lotion you can use to block out these memories. They creep into your thoughts, invade your dreams, your daydreams, your life, and often incapacitate you.

I
had to figure a way to
manage
my fears – I have three children who depend on me and if I am not whole, how can I possibly help them be whole?

But
as I walk into Remington and make my way down the dreary, harshly-lit corridor toward Tom, all my recent years of utter freedom, of being unchained to him, of never having to hate weekends again, fades away.

My
gut burns, my mouth feels like I swallowed a handful of cotton wool, and I gulp at the air, familiar and dense with the odor of ammonia and hopelessness.

In
my mind, I’m back to being Mrs. Botha, wife of successful and charismatic self-made millionaire, Tom Botha, man extraordinaire envied by both men and women alike because of his beautifully groomed and supportive wife, his always-seen-but-seldom-heard-toddlers shod in shoes at all times, his immaculate and spotless home that he runs military style, his efficacious business he built single-handedly.

Perfection
personified.

(Ladies,
if you ever meet a man who is like Tom, perfect in every single way, got his shit
totally
together, ding! ding! ding! ding! ding! Get the fuck out of there. Slip off your stilettos, hitch up your narrow skirt and run! In the opposite direction. Sprint, if you have to.)

Tom’s
eyes flash in front of me, causing my steps to falter. .

Deep
breaths. You’re not going back to prison, you’re just visiting it. In…out…in…out…

Tom
can’t harm you anymore. He’s dying of colon cancer, remember?

The
picture of Tom changing a colostomy bag, and having to live in a body that is less than perfect, brings on a hysteria-induced chuckle.

Knowing
Tom, he’s probably dying quicker from the shame of his illness than from the disease itself.

In
spite of my yoga breathing, my stern self-talk, and the mental picture of Tom minus his quinoa and wheatgrass shots, minus a healthy head of carefully groomed hair, my shoulders hitch closer to my ears with every step I take.

The
prison corridor snakes on and on and stirrings of claustrophobia hover.

A
hitch – prison security has me as Arena Botha, not Arena Shaw.

Tom’s
doing, for sure. It’s his way of disregarding Bear, my new surname, the new life I have assumed.

Even
Warren has assumed Bear’s surname.

After
producing a driver’s license to support who I say I am, and answer a hundred identifying questions, I am ushered into the Visitors’ Room, not into the infirmary or the prison hospital where Tom should be, given the nature of his illness.

Maybe
he’ll be wheeled in to see me?

I
take a seat in front of a thick, but clear glass partition and wait. I eye the telephone receiver in front of me but do not pick it up. Instead, I inhale deeply and brace myself, force myself to sit upright and look confident. Fake confidence, more like it.

Not
knowing what to expect, I play with my knuckles and tap my feet.

Moments
later, Tom appears.

He
walks
toward me, no wheelchair, no assistance from anyone.

Full
head of hair, with just the slightest grey around the temples.

When
he sees me, he stops walking and smiles.

Do
I smile back?

He
hangs his head, then throws it back, the broad smile on his face reaching his eyes.

I
recognize that smile. It’s the one reserved for wives of his close friends, who he constantly sought to charm and enamour. Have to give him credit; he was successful at it.

They
called that smile “charismatic,” I called it “manic.”

Okay,
he may have been charismatic, but he had to be to hoodwink everyone around him just about all the time.

But
then again, aren’t most serial killers, paedophiles, and psychopaths charismatic?

They
need oodles of charm to lure their victims, dazzle them with their magnetic smile and captivating personality, then when their guard is down…

As
Tom walks toward me, he raises his hands to the sky.
Glory be!

My
face is inscrutable, or at least I hope it is.

As
he takes his seat across from me, he mutters to himself and shakes his head in what looks like disbelief.

After
he picks up the phone, I pick up mine.

Then
I hear it – evil’s voice after three long years.

“It’s
a miracle having you here,” Evil says.

What’s
it like hearing his voice?

Let
me try to explain. His voice, even though it isn’t harsh, feels like …well, you know the sensation you get when you’re asleep and you feel like you’re falling? The way you jerk?

That’s
what it feels like.

My
response is to lift and drop my shoulders, still unable to comprehend how he could look this good when he’s battling cancer. My mother didn’t look anything like him during her last days on earth.

He’s
pale okay, but not a greyish, sickly pallor my mother had before she died. Also, no significant loss of hair, emaciation, hollowed eyes. He looks …
healthy
to me.

Strange.

But I refrain from commenting on his looks. Don’t want to get personal with the arsehole.

His
eyes crinkle as he takes in my burnt-orange singlet and my black denim jacket, before they rest briefly on my breasts.

I
cringe inwardly when I realize I’m wearing the same colours as him.

Fuuuuck!
Why the hell didn’t I give my attire more thought this morning?

“Your
hair is grown,” he says in a voice tinged with disapproval.

We
all know how much he disliked me wearing my hair long. It was specific and dimensioned by him – deep mahogany, in a Victoria Beckham bob that fell in a sharp point two centimeters below my ears to cover tell-tale signs of his fists on my face, usually on the left hand side.

Abusers
are careful with the way they mark their victims. They are adept at leaving bruises where they can’t be seen. Pummel their body, their upper thighs, their backs and their heads, but avoid the face and arms. If possible.

But
Tom liked hitting me on the face. He enjoyed watching me try to block his blows. Unsuccessfully.

Without
thinking and in a protective gesture, I reach up and bring my waist-length, warm-brown hair to the front.

As
he watches, he shakes his head, his mouth curling with undisguised contempt. “Doesn’t suit you.”

More
shrugging on my part.

“Makes
you look older. Frumpy. Cocker Spaniel.” His voice drips with glee as his critical spirit surfaces to attack my self-confidence.

My
aim is to fake nonchalance but I have to admit, it’s hard when someone is calling you a Cocker Spaniel.

He’s
dying of cancer. Let the fucker be.

“I’m
here now, Tom,” I say, in what I hope is a neutral voice. “Say what you have to say.”

His
smile dips but only for a moment, then it shines brighter than before. “Seeing you here, in front of me…it’s just amazing. Surreal, actually.”

I
nod and wait for him to bring up Warren.

“How
come you’re not living in Melbourne?”

I
could tell him that Bear and I were forced to change our plans when Debbie, Amy’s mother and Bear’s ex-wife, suddenly had a change of heart about us taking her daughter out of Sydney. Even though she sees Amy only when it suits her, for about an hour at most, usually over a MacDonald’s Happy Meal.

Instead,
I just shrug.

He
nods. “You’re a busy lady. Three children now.”

I’m
taken aback by his knowledge. But it’s probably a lucky guess.

“Savannah,
is it?”

The
skin on my back of my neck and my shoulders prickle. How the hell does he know her name?

“She
looks like Sasha,” he continues. “Same blue eyes and pouty lips.”

Hearing
Tom utter my daughter’s name is just wrong and almost …
sinister
and has me shifting in my hard plastic chair.

What
is worse, is hearing him utter Sasha’s name.

Even
worse is hearing him compare both my babies’ looks.

“H…how
do you know?”

“She
needs to lose the pacifier,” he says, ignoring my question. He points to his teeth. “Affects them.” His face contorts with mild disgust. “You don’t want her to have your overbite now, do you?”

My
squirming must be noticeable; why else would he be so smug?

Okay,
so I’ve lost control of the situation. Time to grab it back. Deep breath.

“What
I would like to know, is why aren’t you asking about Warren?”

Slowly,
he sits back. “How …is …he?” His blasé manner about his only child annoys me.

He’s
made such a fuss about seeing his son, yet it’s fifteen minutes into our visit and I have to bring up Warren’s name?

It’s
obvious he doesn’t want to see Warren, he just used it as an excuse to get me to visit him!

I
should have known. How could I allow myself to be manipulated by this dog? Furious with his display of apathy toward our son, I ignore his question.

“You
have not one bit of interest in your son, do you?”

No
answer, just some wriggling of his mouth. Doesn’t even try to hide his disinterest.

Fury
washes over me. “You fucking arsehole!”

His
eyes grow large at the use of my profanity. “Oooh, you’re talking dirty to me.” His eyes glaze over and his voice drops to a whisper. “I like it.”

I
roll my eyes.

He
leans in and drops his voice. “Hey, you know what gets me through my days in this shit hole?”

I
don’t answer.

“My
memories of you. You and me fucking, more than anything else.”

“Okay,
okay, okay! Tom, listen to me; I don’t wanna talk …”

“Remember
us in the hot tub? How I used to take you from behind?” He runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, his eyes becoming slits. “Do you think about it?”

I’m
feeling belittled and worse, I feel my confidence slipping at an alarming rate.

“No,
I don’t, Tom,” I say in a carefully modulated voice. “In fact…” I shake my head slowly, “I can’t even remember any of it. Sorry.” My apology is robed in bitchiness but he deserves it.

Undeterred
by my response, he smiles. “How ’bout us doing it in different parts of the house?” His hand drops between his thighs. “Fuck, I’m getting hard just think…”

I
hang up and jerk to my feet.