In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

It’s the truth. I nailed it. Bull’s-eye. I could see it in his eyes, in his face, in the reaction of his whole body. It was like I’d touched a live wire to his skin and electricity was crackling through him, invisible, but there, building.

  A tiny thread of fear unfurled in my gut.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Do you want to know how I know?” I asked, more quietly. My instincts told me I should back down, go upstairs, stop. But why should I stop? This was my marriage, my life. I’d come all the way over here to this strange land for this man, and I had a right, a duty, to see this through. I needed answers.

  “There was a hair tie—a scrunchie—left on the daybed in my studio. It was the exact same scrunchie Bodie Rabinovitch was wearing today. Same skeins of gold through green fabric. You slept with her in the space that was to be my office? I could smell her in there, Martin. Her smell was on the scrunchie . . . that weird patchouli, herby, jasmine scent she wears. And one of her hairs was still stuck in it—a long, dark, wavy hair. That’s her hair—I’d bet my life DNA would prove it was Rabz’s hair. And I could tell, I could feel something between the two of you in the Puggo. A woman knows these things, Martin—she knows.”

  “If there was a scrunchie left in your studio, if it belongs to Rabz, it would be because she and a group of friends from the Puggo came around to help me move your boxes in there when they arrived. And why would they do that? Because they are nice. They all are. The whole bunch. I was in the Puggo one night a couple of weeks after I arrived in town—I’d been eating there regularly—and I mentioned I’d bought a house and your boxes were arriving.” He watched me closely as he spoke. His body was unnervingly still, his eyes pale, cold. “I was telling them about you, Ellie, my lovely wife from Canada. They were keen to hear about you, and they offered to come round and help when the truck arrived with your boxes.” He paused.

  I swallowed at something I could see in his eyes. Something I didn’t like.

  “And look at what they see now.” He held his hand out to me. “See what my ‘lovely’ wife looks like, see who she really is—a neurotic addict. Can’t you see? Abusing substances like this is making you suspicious of everything.”

  “Liar.”

  Everything in his face compressed. His eyes narrowed.

  “Stop,” he said. “Now.”

  I didn’t recognize his voice.

  “You brought her into my studio, Martin,” I said very quietly. “Into my house—”

  “Our house,” he said.

  “I bought this house. It was with my funds—”

  He lurched to his feet and grabbed a handful of my hair at the top of my head and yanked up so fast I felt roots tear from my scalp. I screamed and surged to my feet to stop the resistance. He fisted my hair, tightening his grip. It felt as though my scalp was ripping right off. My eyes burned. Terror punched my heart. I didn’t move, didn’t dare make a sound. I was breathing hard.

  He let go, and as I crumpled down toward the floor, he kicked me in the bum. The force of his foot lurched me forward in a drunken, apelike flailing as I used my hands to try and stop my head from slamming straight into the kitchen counter. I hit the counter with my shoulder and fell onto my side on the floor. My temple smacked against the tiles. He took two fast strides toward me, and before I could catch my breath, before I could scrabble away along the bottom of the counter, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of my bangs and lifted me up again. I screamed in pain, in shock. He let go and raised a hand. As I went down, his backhand smashed across my mouth. My head spun. My body whirled. I slammed back down onto the floor on all fours, blood pouring from my lip. Snot ran out of my nose. I was shaking, terrified that if I made another sound he would kill me.

  He clamped his big arm around my neck, holding me still on all fours, and he ripped off my panties. He got down behind me and I heard him undoing his pants. Tears ran down my face. I scrunched my eyes shut, every molecule in my body screaming to try and flee again, but I didn’t dare make a noise or move.

  Clutching my neck so I could barely breathe, he thrust into me from behind. Pain sliced through me as he rammed repeatedly into me with animal grunts.

  He came inside me with a violent thrust, his balls pressing hard against my buttocks.

  It seemed to release everything in him. He withdrew and dropped me to the floor. Wet between my legs, I curled into a fetal ball, shaking. And I knew now that my nightmare after the first night I’d spent in this house had not been a nightmare at all. It had been real. The sex had been aggressive and it had not been consensual and for whatever reason the memory of it had not encoded into my brain properly.

  He pushed at me with the toe of his shoe.

  “Get up,” he said, stepping over me as he zipped up his pants. “You look disgusting. Clean up and go to bed. You’re a drunken mess.”

  I couldn’t move.

  “Go!” He raised his foot to kick. I cringed more tightly into a ball, snot and blood dribbling over my chin as I mewled. He stopped.

  I waited. Time stretched. I could hear wind in the gum trees outside. I wanted to go home.

  He crouched down and gently moved damp, sticky hair away from my tear- and bloodstained face. He traced his finger softly over my cheek. I was too afraid even to flinch away.

  “You should go upstairs, sweetheart.”

  I lay there stunned.

  “Come on, I’ll help you up.” He put his hands under my arms and drew me to my feet. I could barely stand, my legs were shaking so hard. “Go upstairs.”

  I hesitated, then reached for my phone on the marble counter. But he placed his hand firmly over mine.

  “No,” he said quietly. “Leave it.”

  I didn’t dare cross him. Not now.

  I went upstairs without my phone. I entered the dark room and went across to the window. I looked out into the street. I could see that Corolla again. Parked in shadow across the street. Someone was inside. Watching.

  I put my hand on the windowpane.

  Help me.

  The headlights came on. I heard the engine. The car pulled out of the parking space and drove down the street. Brake lights flared at the corner. It turned and was gone. Bats shrieked and fluttered in the dark.

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.

  I watch from the dock as Lorrington winds up to cut Lozza down. I don’t feel bad for her. It’s them or me.

  “So, Senior Constable Bianchi, to be clear,” Lorrington says in his resonant baritone, “neither Constable Abbott nor Constable McGonigle accompanied you to the abandoned homestead—you went to the house alone?”

  Lozza speaks clearly into the microphone. “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Two hours and twenty-three minutes—that’s how long you were all alone with the evidence before a trained team could get in.”

  “Objection!” Konikova says, lurching to her feet again. “This serves no purpose other than—”

  “Withdrawn.” Lorrington makes as though he’s about to sit; then suddenly he rises again to his full height and clasps the sides of his lectern. “Did you touch anything inside the house?”

  “Just one item. I used gloves. I replaced it as I’d found it.”

  “What item was that?”

  “A baseball cap. A pale-blue Nike ball cap.”

  Lorrington straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and tilts up his chin. “Why that one object and no other?”

  Lozza wavers. Mistake. The jury notices her indecision. “I . . . At first I wasn’t sure what the object was. I wanted to see—to be certain.”

  “To be certain that it was a baseball cap? Did you know anyone who owned a cap just like it?”

  “Yes. Ellie Cresswell-Smith was seen by several witnesses wearing a blue cap and windbreaker when she and her husband left the Bonny River boat launch in the Abracadabra. It was the last time anyone saw him alive.”

  Lorrington nods slowly. He appears to be consulting his
binder and puzzling over something. I like my lawyer more and more. A consummate thespian.

  “Had you personally met Martin Cresswell-Smith prior to his disappearance?” he asks more quietly. The jurors almost lean forward.

  “Ah, we met briefly. On the beach. It . . . it’s a small town.”

  “Did you like Mr. Cresswell-Smith, Senior Constable Bianchi?”

  Konikova surges to her feet. “Objection. Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

  “Your Honor.” Lorrington swings to face the judge. “We plan to demonstrate the relevance.”

  “Then please don’t delay in getting to the point, Mr. Lorrington. Some of us are thinking of lunch.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’ll repeat the question. Senior Constable Bianchi, did you like Mr. Cresswell-Smith?”

  “I’d barely met him.”

  He holds her gaze for several beats. “Did you, Senior Constable Bianchi, at any time, either on or off duty, stalk Martin Cresswell-Smith?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t park outside and watch the Cresswell-Smith house?”

  Lozza goes pale.

  A rustle whispers through the gallery. The court artist’s chalk flies over her paper. Reporters scribble furiously.

  Quietly, she says, “I once watched the house for a few moments from a police vehicle.”

  “Why?”

  My pulse quickens.

  “I . . . had reason to fear for his wife’s safety.”

  “You felt Mrs. Cresswell-Smith was in danger?”

  “From her husband, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d seen bruises on Ellie.”

  “And you assumed they were from him? Did that make you angry?”

  Lozza’s mouth thins. Color creeps into her cheeks. “As I said, I feared for his wife’s safety.”

  Lorrington moistens his lips and nods. “Violence against women or children—this makes you very angry, does it not, Senior Constable?”

  “It should make anyone angry.”

  “How angry?”

  “Objection!” says Konikova, coming to her feet. “Again, I fail to see the relevance to the case at hand.”

  “Mr. Lorrington, do we have a point?” The judge glances at her wristwatch.

  “Your Honor, I put it to this court that Senior Constable Bianchi—a lead investigator on this case—was a biased investigator with a personal vendetta that blinded her to other avenues of inquiry from the moment she saw those bruises.” He swings to face Lozza in the box.

  “Senior Constable Bianchi, you have a scar on your forehead.”

  Movement rustles in the gallery. The sketch artist flips a page. Lozza’s face goes deep red. Her eyes narrow.

  “How did you get that scar?”

  “Objection!” shouts Konikova, her eyes flashing with anger now.

  “Your Honor,” counters Lorrington, “that scar goes to this detective’s history of aggression and tunnel vision on the job. It goes to the fact she once beat and kicked a suspect in her custody to the point she had to be hauled off by fellow officers—such was her rage. The man had to be admitted to hospital. He had to have surgery. And why?” Lorrington raises his finger high in the air. “Because the suspect in the senior constable’s custody had a history of violence. And he’d just beaten to death his wife while their small child hid under the bed and saw the whole thing. And when Senior Constable Bianchi learned about the child, she just snapped.” He clicks his fingers with a snapping sound. “Like that. Blinded with rage, she became violent herself. Is that not so, Senior Constable Bianchi?”

  Lozza is sweating. She’s vibrating. She looks like she’s going to explode out of that box and hit him. What Lorrington has just wrought in front of our eyes is a beautiful thing because each and every juror can see right now that Lozza Bianchi is about to snap again. In front of them all. Just like that. And they’re waiting for it—they want her to. This is surely not a woman they’d want investigating them. She would surely not give them a fair shake if she can so quickly be blinded like this.

  “Constable Bianchi?” Lorrington says more quietly. “This incident is on record, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir,” she says through clenched teeth.

  Murmurs rise in the gallery. I glance over. The officers look pumped, angry. Battle lines are forming. I can smell the tension—the adrenaline, testosterone. It’s thick and hot in the room.

  “Did you adopt that little girl from under the bed, Senior Constable Bianchi?”

  Konikova explodes to her feet. But as she opens her mouth, Lozza says, “That is completely off base, sir. My daughter has no place in this trial. Shame on you.”

  A reporter hurries out the courtroom door.

  Slowly, quietly, Lorrington says, “It has every place. You lost your job as a detective with Crime Command after that incident. It was swept under the rug because it was bad publicity for the New South Wales force. It’s why you took a quiet job down the coast. But then you saw the bruises on Mr. Cresswell-Smith’s wife. And you were quick to judge him. Perhaps too quick?” He faces the jury.

  “I put it to this court that Senior Constable Lozza Bianchi in fact developed an instant and vehement dislike for Martin Cresswell-Smith. I propose she even had something of a vendetta against him right from day one. Because of her own history. Ms. Bianchi in her past capacity as a homicide detective has demonstrated a predilection to irrational anger and extreme violence, and I put it to this court that she had an agenda. A bias. And she should have been removed from the case. It was not a fair or clean investigation.” His gaze swings back to Lozza.

  “And it wasn’t your only error on this case, was it, Senior Constable Bianchi? You also delivered a package of contraband drugs to the Cresswell-Smith home, did you not?”

  Melody Watts, the reporter from the Sydney nightly news, now surges to her feet. She makes for the door, bows her head to the coat of arms behind the judge, and quickly exits the courtroom. I can picture her going out to talk into the camera on the stairs.

  I imagine Lozza’s little adopted daughter hearing the news about her angry-cop-mother at school.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Over one year ago, November 1. Jarrawarra Bay, New South Wales.

  Willow sat opposite me in her living room with her endless view over the sea. Except the view was covered in clouds. Rivulets of rain squiggled down the windows, and I could hear the thud and boom of the waves on the rocks below. Occasionally a glob of foam would shoot up into the sky and waft down to settle like frothy snow on the spiky shrubs outside.

  I’d come for two things. Martin had taken my cell phone, and I wanted to hire a PI to follow him, so I needed to use someone’s phone or computer to find one. And I wanted off-the-books help quitting the drugs. Willow had said she was a trained therapist. I did not, however, want to tell her about the abuse. It was still too overwhelming. Private.

  “What happened out on the boat, Ellie?” she asked.

  “I . . . I’m not exactly sure.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Shame was a vise around my throat. I wrung my hands. “I . . . I’ve got blank spaces in my memory.”

  She watched my hands as I spoke. I tried to hold them still.

  It had been raining for two days, and I’d been holed up in my bed most of the time—my memory playing devious tricks with my recall of the events that had led to Martin striking me. He’d left for work early on both days and taken my phone so I couldn’t call anyone. He said it was until I was in a better position not to embarrass myself. I had no vehicle, so I couldn’t drive away. I felt humiliated. Demeaned. I kept replaying in a loop the horrified faces of all those onlookers at the boat launch. They’d all watched me clamber over the side of the boat and fall into the water, then stagger drunkenly off over the lawn while Martin yelled after me. Everyone had seen the blood, the empties in the boat—bottles I didn’t remember putting there.

  The
first day after Martin assaulted me, I took painkillers and more meds. Lots more pills. Yesterday I’d flushed nearly all my pills down the toilet. The only way for me to figure my way out of this situation would be with a clear head. I also wanted proof Martin was having an affair with Rabz. Physical proof I could use. Photographs taken by a PI.

  Her eyes, intense, bored into mine. The trained therapist in her was seeing through me to something deeper.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why the blank spaces?”

  “I need to figure that out,” I said. “Yes, I take lorazepam. Yes, I like my wine. But this feels . . . like something more unusual, and the only way I can get to the bottom of it is to start with a drug-free, booze-free, clear head. Because then if I continue experiencing these spells, I’ll know it’s something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I cleared my throat. I knew what she was doing—asking all the questions so I’d come out with it myself. I was a therapy veteran.

  “Like . . . he, my husband, might be drugging me.”

  She blinked. “Are you serious?”

  I cringed. I was fearful of articulating this because it seemed absurd. It underscored the fact that I could be clinically paranoid, that I really could be losing my mind. I rubbed the back of my hand. She continued to watch carefully my every little body movement. I stopped.

  “El? Talk to me.”

  I glanced down at my hands and bit the bullet. “Maybe . . . The thing is, I . . . I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped. Conned. I’m beginning to think Martin married me for my money because I’m a Hartley.” I looked up slowly. “I think he’s gaslighting me. Maybe even drugging me.”

  “Do you really believe this?”

  I inhaled deeply. “I’ve been lying in bed for two days going over it all. Rehashing the weird little things I might have overlooked during our intense courtship.”

  Like the doppelgänger incident.

  Like how he wasn’t registered at the Hartley Hotel when I went to return the cuff links.

  Like the way he’d disappear until I grew desperate to see him, then suddenly reappear and say he needed me to make a decision at once and then he’d sweep me away on some trip.