by Tara Marlow
“That’s hard to do when you’re on the run. It’s hard to know who you are, what you are capable of, when you’re scared all the time,” said Detective Grant. He looked at her with kindness. Maybe he wasn’t all bad.
“The organisation you mentioned… are they still after him? I know we were running from someone, something. I thought it was…” she looked quickly to Detective Grant.
“Me? No, I would have protected your father. He was a good informant. We took the cell down about five years ago. I can’t promise you your dad will be safe when we get back to Melbourne, but we’ll do our best to protect him. He pissed off a lot of nasty people.” This shocked her. Had she just killed her father by telling them what she knew? She took in a deep rattly breath, but no air reached her lungs. Emotion threatened to overwhelm her.
“Hey, Jelly. It’s okay. You did what you had to do.” Lowell said, rubbing her back. “Think of my father. Not all fathers are great. Some shouldn’t even be fathers. He may have been good occasionally but think about it. He’s fucked up, Jelly. One day he’s buying you Chinese. The next he’s beating you to a pulp. Not to mention the other night…”
“There was another woman,” she said, visions flying through her head. “In my nightmares she was always dragging me down a dark street,” Grace asked.
“Ruth Smith, I think. She was part of the organisation. She was arrested about ten years ago for child abuse,” Detective Grant said. Grace nodded. Yeah, she never had a good feeling about that woman.
“What I don’t understand…” Detective Grant eventually said, after giving her space to process. “Or rather, what’s been bothering me all these years, is why your father took you with him. Your grandmother would have taken care of you. It would have been far easier if he left you behind.”
Bad things will happen if the truth comes out.
Who said that? Her father? She shook off the thought. She had to trust herself, trust these people. She’d learned to trust Lowell over the last year. She’d even briefly trusted Daniel, but she didn’t want to think of that disappointment. That was Daniel’s baggage, not hers. No, she had to trust that she could handle whatever truth she learned. Her father couldn’t hurt her now. He’s in jail, she reminded herself. And if it was this detective they were running from, well, he was providing answers her father refused to provide. She realised now her father had been lying to her for years. Why?
“I have been writing some things down,” said Grace. “Things I remember.”
“Oh?” said Detective O’Neal. Grace knew this was what the detective had been waiting for. She would finally share what she knew. She eased forward on the couch to get the notepad.
“I’ll get it, Jelly,” said Lowell. He knew the notepad was still in the bathroom from where she’d first hidden from the detectives.
“Why don’t we do this, Grace? We’ll share with you what we’ve learned, the things we haven’t told you yet, and you tell us what you remember. Maybe we can fill in the gaps for each other?” asked Detective O’Neal. Detective Grant nodded his agreement.
“We have more questions. Mostly surrounding the murder. We haven’t charged your father with that because there’s one piece that still puzzles us.”
Lowell returned to the room, handed Grace her notepad, and then headed to the kitchen for a slice of cold pizza.
“There’s still food here, if anyone wants some,” said Lowell. Grace was focused on the notebook. Both detectives politely declined.
“Okay,” she said, flipping to the right page. “This is where I get confused.” She looked up at both detectives and leapt into the deep end.
30
“When I was little, I used to hide in my mother’s closet. I’d crawl in the very back corner where it was dark, especially when I was scared. Sometimes it was just a comforting place to be, nestled amongst my mother’s things. I remember my dad looking for me once, but he couldn’t find me. My mother had an old mannequin on the floor in there and I’d wedge myself behind it. I didn’t remember that until the other day when I saw one in a thrift shop. Anyway, her closet was my special hiding place.”
“My mother made me recite a phone number, over and over. If I was ever in trouble or if something happened to her, she instructed me to dial this number. She told me what to say. She made me recite the number and practice what I should say. Except in my dreams, I’m in the closet holding the phone and I don’t remember the number, let alone what to say. I’m holding the phone in my hand, but I can’t remember what to do.”
Detective O’Neal glanced at Detective Grant.
“What?” asked Grace. “That’s something, isn’t it?” She looked over at Lowell, who was now leaning against the doorway to the kitchen with a mouth full of cold pizza.
“Yes. It’s something. We found a phone on the floor in the closet. Behind a mannequin, in fact. The phone was open and the dialled number showed, but a call had not been placed.”
“What colour was the phone? I remember it being silver,” said Grace.
“Silver? No, it was white. An old iPhone,” said Detective Grant.
“Weird,” said Grace. “I still don’t remember the phone number.” Detective O’Neal glanced at her notes.
“The phone showed 000. It was the number punched in, but not dialled,” said Detective Grant, his voice clear. “The number for emergencies.” Grace felt like she’d just been slapped.
“Are you familiar with 000, Grace?” Detective O’Neal asked.
“Yes, but dad said I should never call it because bad people listened in on those calls.”
“Jesus,” exhaled Detective Grant.
“I never knew why we were running. My father only told me some bad guys were after him. Later, when I got older and asked too many questions, he beat me.”
“Why did you need to call 000 that night, Grace? Were you in danger? By your father or by other people?”
“My father. He came home, drunk or… well, now I know he was probably high. He kept repeating ‘what did you do’ to my mother. He was crazy. When she didn’t answer, he hit her. She went flying across the kitchen. I couldn’t move. I stood there clutching my Raggedy Ann doll, the one Nanny made for me. I remember my father screaming at my mother, but I don’t remember what he said. Wait. I do remember something. She was his. That’s what he said. Then he called her a whore. He liked to call me that, too. Later. More often recently.” Grace took a breath and put her head in her hands. She sat like that for a few minutes, rocking back and forth. Memories of that awful night rushed into her head.
“Jelly,” she heard Lowell’s voice, but she shook her head. She had to get this out.
“He was on top of her with his hands were around her neck, choking her. Then, he was doing something with his belt.” She shivered, dredging up the memory of her own attack. Dismissing it, she continued. She had to tell the detectives what she remembered.
“My mother… She looked straight at me, straight in the eye, and told me to go back to bed. But I just stood there and watched. She repeated it, begging me to leave. He didn’t seem to hear anything, he was so focused on her. It was like I wasn’t there. I was so scared. I finally ran back to the closet in their bedroom. I remember hugging my doll. She would protect me. Nanny pinky swore.” Grace looked down at her ravaged fingers, picked at them absently. Whatever happened to dolly? Was it thrown out with the Dora backpack? When she looked up again, three faces looked intensely at her. She shook off the memory and continued.
“In the closet, I remember having a phone in my hand. But I couldn’t remember the number. I heard dad grunting and breathing really hard. I know he was hurting her, but I still couldn’t remember the number. Everything got quiet, so I crawled out toward the door. The silence terrified me. But I had to help her. I remember looking down the hallway and saw a red suitcase and my Dora the Explorer backpack, sitting by the front door. But then the screaming started again. It frightened me so much I ran back to the closet and picked up the phone again
. I punched the number, but it wouldn’t dial. The phone was cold now. Icy cold.”
“So, you stayed in the closet after that, too scared to leave it. Is that right?” asked Detective Grant.
“Yes. I only remember sitting in the closet with the phone in my hands, unsure of the number Mummy told me to dial.” Her voice was small, rising an octave, the voice of a little girl.
Detective Grant looked to Detective O’Neal and nodded to the file, holding out his hand. Something about the detective’s demeanour had Lowell moving off the doorframe. Detective Grant held up a hand to stop Lowell from going to Grace.
“One piece of evidence that has been plaguing police, has to do with what killed your mother,” he said.
“She wasn’t strangled?” Grace asked. Detective Grant shook his head.
“No Grace. Your mother was shot.” All the blood in her face drained away. The gun under her father’s chest of drawers.
“My father had a gun in the apartment. In his bedroom,” she said it so quickly she couldn’t take the words back.
“We know. We found the gun. It matches the weapon used that night.” Grace let out a cry that sounded like a strangled cat. She slumped over, her face back in her hands. Tears choked her.
“The thing is, the angle of the bullet doesn’t make sense,” Detective Grant continued, pulling a photo from the file. “The forensic scientists have told us that the shot came from a distance. So, we’re wondering if someone else was there in the room. Did you hear or see anyone else besides your mum and dad?” He handed her the photo of the crime scene. She took it, her hands shaking, seeing the image from her nightmares in full colour.
“The markings on the picture show the gun had been fired from the hallway.” Grant pointed at the arrows.
The hairs on her neck and arms prickled upright.
“No. I don’t remember anyone else being there,” Grace said weakly.
“Then there’s the question of the angle. This is the part that’s haunting us. The shooter would have been crouching. But we have another theory. Grace, is it possible it was a gun in your lap and not a phone?”
“What?!” Grace’s head snapped up. “No.” She felt sick.
“Look at this photo,” he said, and handed her a second picture. It was the gun hidden under her father’s chest of drawers. Her hands trembled like autumn leaves before a thunderstorm.
“Take your time and think back to that night. It was dark in the closet. You heard your mother screaming. You’ve told us she begged you to stay put no matter what, but you found her screams too hard to ignore. So, you went to your mother to see if you could help. You stood in the doorway and watched your father do unspeakable things to your mother. So, you ran into the bedroom and hid. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Her voice barely a whisper, but her eyes remained transfixed on the gun. Until her own attack, she would never have thought her father would do such a horrible thing. He’d raped her mother. She knew that. Would he go so far to kill her too? It was possible. Seconds dragged into minutes.
“It wasn’t a phone,” Grace mumbled.
“Pardon?” asked Detective Grant.
“It wasn’t a phone I was holding. I remember it being silver and it felt cold. It wasn’t a phone. It was a gun.”
She found Lowell’s eyes and whispered, “I shot my mother.”
31
Grace's thoughts were thick and heavy. Her head throbbed. She stared down at the photo of the gun. It all came back to her.
“When I scrambled back to the closet, I picked up the gun from my father’s shoebox. He’d put it there... I don’t know when. He told me to keep it a secret.” Her mind was a muddle of images and suddenly she was that five-year-old girl. The one in her dreams.
“I couldn’t tell Mummy. It was to protect us from the bad people, he told me. I remember picking it up with both hands. It was so heavy. When I went back to the kitchen, Mummy was on the floor with Daddy on top of her. His hands were around her throat, but she saw me. I know she saw me. She started shaking her head back and forth, but her eyes stayed on me. She kept telling me to go back. Or trying to tell me no. And she was crying. He was still… on her. The gun was so heavy, and my hands were shaking. I pointed the gun at Daddy. I needed him away from Mummy, but he wasn’t getting off her. Then…” She covered her ears, then dropped them quickly into her lap.
“The sound was loud, so loud. I fell back, on to my bottom. All I remember is blood. Everywhere. And Daddy, his head whipping around. He saw me but I couldn’t move. He stood and pulled up his pants, really slowly, like it was slow motion. Then all of a sudden, he was right there in front of me, ripping the gun from my hands. He slapped me, really hard.” As if in a dream, Grace raised her hand to her cheek, feeling the sting of the slap instead of her tears.
“He was then yanking me from the room. I looked back for Mummy, and all I saw was blood.”
A few minutes later, she heard someone clear their throat. It was enough to bring her back to her reality. Wiping the snot that dribbled down into her mouth, Grace took a deep breath, looked at Detective Grant and asked for the answer she needed to know.
“Will you arrest me now? Will my father go free?”
32
Detective Grant studied her with the warm eyes of a grandfather.
“Is this all true, Grace?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Gentle. She looked at him, knowing she was about to throw away the freedom she so desperately wanted. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks. She sniffed, then nodded.
“It’s true. I didn’t remember before. We ran so I wouldn’t be caught. We ran so the truth wouldn’t come out.” Shame engulfed her.
In that moment, she finally knew the truth behind her mother’s death. But why didn’t he just turn her in?
“Why would he not leave me in Melbourne?” she whispered. “That’s what you wondered too, isn’t it?”
“The only thing I can deduce, Grace, is to protect himself,” said Detective Grant. “Your father was an extremely selfish man. You were a brilliant cover, especially if he could play the loving father. Abusive men can be like that. We knew he was violent toward your mother. I hesitated to have him as an informant for that reason, but… well, he had a suitable cover as a landscaper, and he spilled information like a leaky tap when he was high. I’m surprised he’s not been caught before this. We were close to finding you, about ten years ago, and I’m sorry we didn’t catch him then. We thought we had him, coming back to Melbourne on the Tasmania ferry, but the report came back it was a single man. No child.”
“I was hiding in the van, under the seats,” Grace said, looking at Lowell.
“Oh shit," the detective blurted impulsively. "I'm so sorry Grace. I truly am,” said Detective Grant.
“It’s okay. I should have told someone what he was like,” she said, looking down at her now bloody fingers.
“From my experience,” added Detective O’Neal, “I’ve seen a lot of children traumatised by their abusive parents, frightened at what would happen if they told someone. It happens more times than you would imagine that they just don’t speak up.”
“If you had told someone, I think your father would have had you both running before we even knew.”
Bad things will happen if the truth comes out.
Her father’s words rung in her ears.
Bad things will happen if the truth comes out.
Was this what Detective O’Neal was talking about? She was going to jail too. There was no question about that. She didn’t have the ‘organisation’ after her, but jail would be an end to the life she dreamed of.
Grace stood slowly and walked to Lowell.
“I’m so sorry I got you caught up in this. But thank you for being my friend.”
“Grace,” Detective Grant said, coming over to stand behind her. She knew she was moments from being hauled out. So much for her freedom. Her new life. She looked into Lowell’s eyes, saw her own deep pain reflected in them.
“Grace,” the detective repeated. “We won’t be charging you for your mother’s death. You remember what happened. It will be hard for you to come to terms with that, and I’m sure it will take a while...”
Grace turned around quickly to face the detective, ignoring the dizziness.
“But…but I’m a murderer. I killed my mother,” she wailed. Emotion overtook her. Her knees buckled. The detective caught her as she went down, and she sobbed into his chest.
“It’s going to be okay,” he cooed, trying to calm her.
“How?” Her voice was much louder and screechier than she meant for it to be. She pulled away from the detective quickly and looked at him in disbelief, feeling raw and vulnerable. He smiled at her.
What the…? She wiped the tears brusquely from her cheeks. Why the hell was he smiling? Was he sick? Was he just playing games with her? She’d confessed to killing her mother, and he was smiling? Was this a rouse? She snorted. Involuntarily.
“The law is on your side here, Grace. You were five, which is under the criminal age of responsibility. Besides, it was self-defence. Now, Michael will be locked away for a long time. He’s still being charged with rape, attempted rape, violating an AVO, fraud, larceny, possession, dealing. All of that has nothing to do with your mother’s death, but every one of those charges will stack up. We have a rock-solid pile of evidence against him. He wasn’t a good man, Grace. Maybe he was good to you at times? But I’d say he cared more about protecting his own interests.”
“Grace,” the detective continued. “You’ve survived everything that’s been thrown your way. You’ll survive this too.”
“The things my father said about my mother. That she was a drug user too, and a whore. Where they true?” The older detective looked surprised and shook his head quickly.
“No Grace. Probably furthest from the truth. I never met your mother, but I have learned a lot about her over the years. She was smart, independent, very beautiful, like yourself. She just fell in love with the wrong guy and got trapped. Like many women do. She couldn't find her way out, despite your grandmother trying desperately to help her. I'm sure your grandmother can fill in many of the blanks there, but the short answer is no. Your mother was a good person and she loved you fiercely. And, from all I've learned, she was trying to get you both out of the situation that night."
