by T L Swan
“No,” Joshua snaps.
The prosecutor smiles. “That is all, Mr Stanton, for the moment.” He turns to the audience. “I call to the witness stand Simon Wells.”
Joshua frowns, stands slowly and returns to his seat next to Vincenzo at the front and the door opens and Simon, Natasha’s friend from Sydney, appears. Fuck.
“Hello, may I call you Simon?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes,” he replies.
“You worked with Natasha Marx at the Sexual Health Clinic did you not?”
“Yes,” he replies nervously.
“And you know Mr Stanton?”
“Only what Natasha had told me,” he replies as his eyes flick nervously to Joshua.
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me that he was playing her and that he drove her crazy. She never knew where she stood with him.”
“When Natasha started seeing him did she change at all?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“She was crying all the time, nervous, unsettled at work,” Simon replies.
“Did this bother you?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes.”
“How long did this go on for?”
He hesitates as his eyes flick to Bridget.
“For a few months, during which time he was caught with a stripper and Natasha believed it was for her own good.”
The prosecutor frowns. “So he began to brainwash her in effect.”
“Yes I believe so.”
“Then what happened?” the prosecutor asks.
“Um, they told Natasha’s parents about their relationship and her father died of a heart attack.”
“Objection,” Vincenzo calls. “He had an existing heart problem.”
“Overruled,” the judge calls.
“Natasha slipped into a deep depression and was on heavy medication. She didn’t get out of bed for months,” Simon replies.
“And where was Joshua Stanton at this time?” the prosecutor asks.
“I believe he was in LA sleeping with one of his staff and taking cocaine,” Simon replies.
The gallery gasp and Cameron inhales deeply as his stress levels hit a crescendo.
“Did Miss Marx find out about this other woman?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes.”
“Did Mr Stanton tell her of his infidelities?”
“No.”
“Who told her?”
“Amelie Richards, the other woman,” Simon replies.
“I see. Tell me how Natasha handled this?” the prosecutor asks.
“She was devastated and became reclusive.”
Joshua’s head drops in shame. God, what must be going through his head right now?
“But Joshua came back didn’t he?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes.”
“And what happened?”
“He started to pursue her again,” Simon replies.
“That’s right, in fact you saw him out one night didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Simon replies.
“Tell us about that night.”
“Natasha and I had been out for dinner and then went onto the Ivy, a nightclub in Sydney. Joshua turned up and was watching and frightening her so we went to the dance floor to escape him.” He swallows nervously, his eyes flicking to Joshua. “Natasha was very drunk and we were dancing and he stormed out onto the dancefloor and grabbed her aggressively by the arm and started screaming at her.”
“What did you do?” the prosecutor frowns.
“I told him to back off.”
“And what did he say.”
“He asked me if I was trying to get myself murdered,” Simon replies.
The gallery gasp.
“And what happened then?” the prosecutor asks.
“He carried her kicking and screaming out of the nightclub over his shoulder.”
“How frightening,” the prosecutor replies. “How was Natasha after that attack?
“Reserved, she never mentioned him again in fear of what I would say to her.”
“Mr Wells, you are a psychologist are you not?”
“Yes.”
“In your opinion was Miss Marx a domestic violence victim of Mr Stanton?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Without a doubt in my mind.”
Ben receives a text, reads it and frowns, and then he hands his phone over to me.
Ben, this is Detective Smith. I am just ringing to let you know that we have found Mr Julian O’Reilly. He is deceased and it appears he has been dead for a long period of time by suicide. Maybe over twelve months. Call me and I will let you know what we have found.
Julian is the man who has tried to kill both Joshua and me—the software geek. He’s dead? The bastard is dead. I close my eyes in relief and up until now I didn’t realize how scared of the man I actually was. He couldn’t have killed Tash if he’s been dead that long, so this narrows the suspects down. This is good. This is progress.
My eyes flick back to the court proceedings as I hand the phone onto Nicholas so he can read it.
“That is all, Mr Wells. I call to the stand Mr Todd Smithson.”
Joshua drops his head and Vincenzo whispers something in the ear of his secretary and she nods and scribbles something down on a pad. I turn to see who is coming out and my stomach drops. It’s that fucking idiot that Joshua is on the assault charge for. This just gets worse.
“Hello Todd,” the prosecutor purrs.
“Hello,” Todd replies.
He points to Joshua. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“How do you know him?”
“I lodged an assault charge against him in Australia.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because he attacked me one night in Australia when I was dancing with Natasha Marx.”
The prosecutor frowns. “Please explain what your injuries were?”
“I had a broken nose and three broken ribs,” he replies.
“All because you were dancing with Miss Marx?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“He was insanely jealous. He just ran at me on the dance floor and attacked me right there and then, and then when we were taken to the security office he attacked me again. He was arrested and spent the night in jail.”
The questioning goes on but I have stopped listening—they are twisting everything. For hours I sit still, traumatised by the evidence they are supplying. Witness after witness attesting to Joshua’s cocaine usage, his cage fighting, his dominance and his past womanising. Finally, when I don’t think any of us can take any more, I hear the words “Court adjourned, resuming 9 am tomorrow.” And the sound of the hammer rings through the room. Joshua drops his head into his hands as the journalists go into overdrive.
It’s about twelve at night and I am tossing and turning in my bed. What’s going through Joshua’s mind right now? Is he ok? I have never felt so out of control—Natasha, Joshua, work… Nicholas. He is staying in the bedroom next to mine and it’s comforting. What does that mean?
He walks past the door in pyjama pants. “Are you still awake?” he whispers.
I roll onto my back and my eyes drop to his muscular naked torso and the scattering of dark hair on his chest. “Yes,” I reply. He walks in and sits on the side of my bed and takes my hand in his. “Are you ok?” he asks.
I smile sadly as I look at his face in the darkness. “I don’t know to be honest,” I reply.
He tenderly swipes the hair back from my forehead and his eyes hold mine. “It will work out, sweetheart. I don’t want you scared in here alone,” he whispers gently.
For some reason those words bring a lump to my throat.
“Let me sleep in here tonight. Nothing sexual. Just sleep,” he whispers as his eyes hold mine.
I bite my bottom lip and nod. “Ok,” I whisper nervously.
He smiles and walks around to the ot
her side of the bed and climbs in behind me and pulls my body close to his and wraps me in his strong arms. I feel myself instantly relax as he kisses my temple from behind.
“I’m here babe. I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I smile sadly into the darkness. Oh Nicholas, I love you. I wish desperately that I was your first and only love… like you are mine.
Natasha
I lie in bed as I watch Joshua and me making love. I could watch it all day. In fact I have been doing just that. We are making slow gentle love. He is on his widespread knees, one forearm is holding his bodyweight off me and the other hand is on my behind as he holds me how his body wants me. God I miss him, I miss his smell, his touch, his love. I can’t live like this, without him. I’m like a plant starved of the sun. I’m suffocating even though I have air because the air that I’m breathing is polluted with hate. Help me. Somebody, please help me. On the other screen I see Joshua walk into our bedroom and I grab the remote and point it to the television. I smile a sad smile as I watch him. He lies down on the bed and starts scrolling through his phone. He smiles softly when he gets to an image. I can’t see the image but I know it’s of me. He has been reading my diaries word for word and I have seen that smile many times over the last fortnight. He sits slowly up and frowns—what’s he doing? He stands and goes to the wardrobe and from the back of the door takes off my wedding dress in its black velvet bag and holds it up to look at it. Tears instantly overflow from my eyes. I’m supposed to be planning our wedding right now. He hangs the hanger back over the door and slowly unzips the bag as my heart breaks. This isn’t how he is supposed to be seeing this dress. He takes it out and holds it out for his gaze and then turns it and looks at the back. The lump in my throat is big and hurts so much as I try and deal with watching him do this. He then lays it up against his body and puts his cheek down to rest on it as it drapes over his shoulder. Dear god. He starts to sway as if dancing, oh no. He is dancing our wedding song alone. He thinks I’m dead. I watch a tear roll down his cheek. The full extent of the horror we are living overwhelms me and the scariest thing of all is soon I might be dead—there is every possibility that death is just around the corner for me. I will be a distant memory in the lives of the ones I love. How do I turn this around?
Dad, please help me. Help me think of a plan to get out of here. I need to get out of here.
I flop back to lie on the bed and then something comes up on the news channel that I haven’t seen before so I flick the remote to turn up the volume.
In breaking news, Joshua Stanton has just been arrested for the murder of his wife Natasha Marx. Evidence has been found in his place of residences that is a direct link to her murder.
I screw up my face, what? He didn’t do this. Why would they think he would do this? Oh my god, oh my god. My heart starts to race and I am instantly filled with fear. The door opens and Carl walks in carrying a tray of food.
My furious eyes turn to him. “Who are you working for Carl?” I snap.
“Why do you think I’m working for someone?” he asks.
“Because I can pay you ten million dollars tonight if you let me go.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Twenty,” I reply as I up the ante.
“You’re lying,” he sneers.
“No, I’m not. I can pay you more money that you ever dreamt of.”
The television story continues about the evidence they found in Willowvale and my eyes flick to the screen.
Carl smiles broadly and I glare at him in disgust. “Not long now.” He smiles.
I frown. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Not long now till what?” I ask panicked. Oh shit, are they going to kill me tonight?
“He will be dead very soon,” he sneers sadistically.
I frown. “Who, who will be dead?” I ask.
“Your pretty boy. He won’t last in prison. I give it a week and he will get himself killed.”
Horror dawns.
That is totally true—Joshua won’t last in prison. He will get himself killed.
“Is that what this is about? You want Joshua to get himself killed?” I whisper, mortified.
“You can’t be punished for a crime you didn’t commit. Nobody has to kill Joshua Stanton. He will do it for us,” he whispers. “There are no bodyguards in prison, Natasha.” He laughs sadistically and my blood runs cold.
My eyes widen. “Please name your price. Carl, I beg of you, we will pay you everything we have to let me go,” I beg.
“Liar!” he screams as he backhands me hard across the face and I fall to the floor. I curl into a ball instinctively as I know the kick is following and sure enough it does, but in my hip and I close my eyes against the pain.
“Keep your lying mouth shut!” he yells before disappearing out the door.
I lie on the floor, broken and hurt. They are going to kill him. My eyes close in pain at the thought of what they might do to him before they kill him. Is he being beaten right now? I sit up and put my head in my hands. What do I do? My eyes flick back up to the television and I notice a date on one of the reports and I frown. That’s the wrong date. I count on my fingers the number of days I have been in here and that doesn’t add up. I stand and frown. What the hell is going on? Shit. They are manipulating the vision in here, they are repeating old vision. Why? I walk into the bathroom and throw up. I can’t deal with this shit any longer. This is too much!
Twenty minutes later I walk back out and sit next to the window deep in thought. They are trying to mess with my head. You know what, I’m not buying into it. No fucking way. I grab a blanket from the bed and stand on the chair and drape it over the televisions.
I stand furious in front of the camera. “I’m not watching—do you see this!” I scream. “I’m not watching. I don’t care what you do.” I throw an apple at the wall that the camera is attached to. “Go to hell you sick bastard.” I am so enraged that the veins are standing out of my neck and my breathing is laboured.
The door opens, Carl appears and I instantly cower. He pulls the blanket off the television and leaves the room without a word. No hit, no kick. I slump to the floor and fall deeply into self-pity and sob.
It’s about twelve I think. I am sitting at the window in a chair looking at the paddocks below lit by moonlight. I feel sick to my stomach, I don’t know if this plan is going to work and if it does how far away civilisation is from here. I could run for days and not see anyone. What if this is in fact a property and there are guards on the gates surrounding it? I don’t think that’s the case though because I can see the forest just over the hill. I wish the bushland came right up to the house because then it would be easier for me to run without being seen. I think it’s about 500 metres to the forest from the house but that is only on this side of the house. What’s the other side like?
What will I do Dad? Tell me what to do? Which way do I run?
I have no shoes so I have to try and make some, but from what? How do you make fucking shoes? I asked them for some bedsocks tonight, and said my feet were cold. Bed socks are thick and hopefully will protect me a little. If only I had something hard to strap to my feet. I’ve got nothing… like my brain. I can’t sit still and start to pace my ten thousandth pace today. I’m so nervous I’m going to get myself killed. Strategically I think I have about a thirty per cent chance of making it out alive. First I have to attack, then I have to run, then I have to find a phone and call the police. What’s the frigging number for the police in America again? I frown as I try to remember it; is it 555 or 551? I am pulled from my thought by the sound of a strange car pulling up on the other side of the house. I can see the headlights out the window but not the car. Fuck, who is here? Is the boss here? Have they come to kill me? I run to the door and hold my head up against the back of it to try and listen but I’m upstairs so I can only hear the front door opening. I strain my ears… nothing. Oh my god, the boss is here. They would only come here in the middle of the nigh
t if they were going to do something.
What are they going to do?
Chapter 26
Joshua
“Can you tell me what this photograph is of, Mr Stanton?” I narrow my eyes to look at the picture. I am on the stand and have been interrogated for three hours. I can’t take much more.
The photograph is of bruising on hipbones and arms and I frown in confusion. I have seen these images before but I can’t place them. Where have I seen these? Black fingerprints on the insides of someone’s arms—I don’t get it.
“No,” I reply.
The prick of a prosecutor shakes his head. “These are images from Natasha Marx’s phone saved under the title ‘Joshua’s handiwork’.”
I frown. What?
“She was trying to leave us a trail to convict you.” He turns to the jury box. “Images from the very phone of the victim, stating Joshua Stanton had done this. Do you need more proof, jury, that this man is evil?”
They all stay straight-faced. My eyes flick to Cameron who is putting his hands up in a gesture and I frown. Huh? He holds his hands up again as if water skiing. Oh shit, the penny drops.
“Those are photos that I took when we went water skiing in Thailand. I put the heading ‘Joshua’s handiwork’ because Natasha wanted to send it to her mother as a joke,” I stammer. “The bruises are from being pulled from the water onto the boat. Ask anyone?” I stammer. “There were ten other people with us.”
The prosecutor fakes a laugh. “Yes, of course they are,” he replies sarcastically.
“Mr Stanton, where are Natasha Marx’s diaries?” he asks.
My stomach drops and I stay silent.
“Miss Marx has kept a diary for years and years but they have not been recovered. Where are they?”
I swallow. This is the first outright lie I have told and I know I can’t do it for shit. “I don’t know,” I reply.
“Yes, you do. You have disposed of these diaries because you don’t want anyone to know what Natasha really thought of you and how she was falling in love with Max her bodyguard,” he yells.
