‘What happened next, Ms Novak?’
‘I tried the door of her cottage. It was unlocked. I went in. I looked around a bit. Then, well … I blow-dried my hair. It was wet from the rain.’
‘Did the residence seem disturbed in any way, Ms Novak?’
‘It was tidy. Her keys were on the counter. There was a glass of water she hadn’t finished. She’d do that, sometimes; pour a glass then leave it.’
‘What happened next?’
Judy took a deep breath.
‘Paulina’s landlady, Vera, came by with some eggs. I told her Paulina was missing. She invited me up to the house and made some calls. Then she said we should call the police, and they told us to come to the station. That’s when I learned about the body. We went to Cook’s Falls, and Vera ID’d her. They wouldn’t let me do it; they said it wasn’t something for a mother to see. I kept wanting to see her, though, until someone said about her clothes being off … then I guess I understood she’d been attacked.’
Judy’s welling eyes strayed back to Sean Patrick Campbell. He didn’t meet them.
‘No further questions, Ms Novak.’
It bucketed down, that night. Bronson and Wyatt went out for fish and chips. When they returned to the Hibiscus Hideout with the piping-hot, rain-specked bundles, Judy smelled the salt and a void opened up inside her. She burst into tears.
‘Oh, Jude.’ Caro put an arm around her. ‘Honey.’
‘I’m fine.’ Judy smiled wanly at her nephews. ‘It smells wonderful.’
She got herself under control as Tim and the boys unwrapped the bundles. At the sight of the chips, though, her chin quivered.
‘She took the chips right off the plate. Without me even offering.’
‘I know.’ Caro patted her shoulder. ‘It’s very impressive.’
‘It was so unlike her. It was … beautiful.’
‘It’s very beautiful.’ Caro flashed a look across the table.
‘It’s incredible,’ Tim backed her up.
‘It’s awesome,’ Wyatt said. ‘She was really good, doing that.’
‘She was so good!’ Judy nodded feverishly. ‘I was so, so proud!’
‘You’re right to be proud, Auntie Judy,’ Bronson enthused. ‘I’d never be brave enough to take chips off Mum’s plate without asking.’
‘Oh, shush, you little shit!’ Caro swatted him.
‘Do you want a lemonade, Auntie Judy?’ Wyatt offered a can. ‘It’s nice and cold.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’
‘Want some lemon wedges?’
‘Thank you, Bron. That’s very considerate.’
‘We got tartare sauce, too. Here.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Judy sniffed. ‘Thank you, boys.’
Everyone watched with bated breath as she reached for a chip, blew on the steam, and bit in.
‘Thank you,’ she repeated, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Only on Fairfolk,’ Tim quipped, stopping for a cluster of cows on the road.
‘Oh, come on!’ Caro honked the horn. ‘Move!’
A speckled heifer looked past their windshield, before lifting its tail and pissing in the morning sunshine. At their rear, another car slowed down. Then another.
‘It’s a bit of a jam, isn’t it?’ Judy looked at the driver behind them, recognised Campbell’s defence lawyer, and swiftly looked away.
Caro prodded her husband. ‘Do something.’
‘And get cow piss on my loafers?’
‘Show them where the grass is. Hurry up. We’re late.’
Sighing, Tim got out of the car, ineffectually clapped and pointed toward the grass by the road. Judy sank deeper into the backseat. So did Bronson and Wyatt.
‘Move!’ Caro tooted again. ‘Moooove!’
More cars gathered. Campbell’s lawyer got out, joined Tim in his clapping and pointing. Then a cyclist whizzed by, parked his bike against a pine tree, and got in on the action. Only when the road was clear, and the men were patting each other’s backs, did Judy recognise him.
‘Dirty old man,’ she muttered. ‘Look at him.’
Caro looked from her to Rabbit, and understood.
‘Talk about a team effort!’ Tim slid back into the driver’s seat, pleased with himself. ‘Oww. Caro, what the hell?’
‘How dare you.’ Caro prodded him again. ‘That’s the man who hit Paulina.’
It rained so hard on the third day of the trial that the Islanders who’d been laying down picnic rugs outside the media marquee to watch the CCTV stayed home. An officer met Judy and Caro at the car with an umbrella and escorted them into the warm, dry courtroom.
Later, Shirley Campbell and her other son came into court with squelching shoes, clothes plastered to their slumped shoulders. Judy looked away and linked eyes with a male juror, who winked at her — not for the first time.
‘Weekend plans?’ asked the guy in line behind her at the bottle shop.
Without looking, Judy knew he was a journo. ‘Working on my victim impact statement. You?’
‘Filing a story.’ He shifted his six-pack in his arms and lowered his voice. ‘Can I ask you something? Off the record?’
‘Well, it is your job.’
The journo peered around the shop, which was crowded with people who were already looking familiar. ‘Do you think Campbell can get a fair trial on this island?’
Judy’s wine rested comfortably against her hip, as Paulina once had.
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘But life isn’t fair.’
As Judy was crossing the carpark, a border collie scampered up to her, its fur stringy with saltwater and sand. Behind it lagged a beetle-browed old man.
‘Yorana,’ Rocky greeted her.
‘Y—’ Judy couldn’t bring herself to speak their language. ‘Hello.’
She smiled tightly and continued to the car. Caro was already waiting inside, with some shopping bags.
‘I bought veal,’ she bragged. ‘From Paulina’s boyfriend.’
Judy heaved a sigh.
‘What’s wrong? Wanna go back and flirt with him?’
‘This place is too bloody small.’ Judy passed the wine bottle.
The cow letterbox jogged her memory, though the street didn’t. Vera met her out front, still in her church clothes.
‘Did you want some lunch? Or just coffee?’ Vera made as if to hug her but then pulled away at the last moment. ‘Milo?’
‘Just coffee.’ Judy tried to look less stand-offish. ‘Milk and sugar. Thank you.’
As Vera made the coffee, Judy looked at the couch, the walls, the mantle, but felt as numb as she would’ve standing in a display home.
‘Did you renovate?’ Judy asked when Vera swept in with her tray of mugs and biscuits. ‘It looks different.’
Vera laughed gruffly. ‘This house hasn’t changed since the eighties. You look different, but.’
‘Do I?’
‘Better.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Better at hiding it, then. How’s your sister?’
‘Driving me bonkers.’ Judy took up her mug. ‘How’s your — the one whose room I stayed in?’
Vera surveyed her curiously. ‘You must be better, to ask that.’
‘I’m not.’ Judy met her gaze. ‘I’m the same, deep down. There’s no getting over it.’
‘Miti’s going through a mid-life crisis,’ Vera obliged. ‘Talking about moving back here. I told her she’s crazy.’
‘Yes, she must be.’ Judy blew on her coffee . ‘It’ll be nice for you, though, having …’
‘It’ll be nice.’
While Judy caught her breath, Vera noticed the newspaper on the coffee table, attempted to sweep it out of sight.
‘It’s alright.’ Judy w
aved a hand. ‘I’ve read it.’
‘Good for toilet paper. Foodfolk’s running low.’
‘They got my name wrong. “Julie Novak”.’ Judy shrugged, smiled. ‘I hate how they put their photos side-by-side. Like they’re a couple. I s’pose it’s what sells. I hate it, though.’
‘He’s not much to look at. Not ugly. Just … not much. I couldn’t believe he’d lived here longer than Paulina. I don’t know him from Adam.’
‘That’s what everyone says. I’d rather not talk about him.’
As they sipped through the silence, Miss Katie strolled into the room, sharpened her claws on the couch. Vera hissed at her. Unfazed, the cat jumped up next to Judy, bunted her hand until she reluctantly scratched its ears and murmured, ‘Hello, pussycat.’
‘Did you want to see … ?’ Vera nodded outside. ‘It’s still there, like I said.’
Of course, this was what Judy had really come for.
‘Are those avocadoes?’ Judy marvelled, as Vera walked her through the orchard. ‘Gawd, they’re big here!’
‘Take as many as you want.’
‘Oh, I don’t want to spoil your harvest.’
‘They grow wild. Can hardly give them away.’ Vera stopped as they neared the cottage. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Give me a yell if you need anything.’
Judy kept her cool as the older woman ambled back to the house in her Sunday best. As soon as she’d climbed the porch and opened the cottage door, though, her legs weakened.
She knelt and kissed the walls that had once held Paulina.
Judy swallowed her first Valium of the trial’s second week soon after the forensic pathologist took the stand. He was describing the worst of the stab wounds: how the knife had been twisted inside her girl’s chest, spearing the heart and filling the lungs with blood.
Caro got as far as the broken pelvis, the defence’s claim that it could’ve been caused by a hit-and-run, before crying, ‘Lying bastard!’ and bolting out of the courtroom.
‘Can I have a Valium, Jude?’ she asked, returning raw-eyed and stinking of smoke.
Leaving court at sunset, jelly-kneed, Judy bumped into a burly bloke outside the media marquee. He grabbed her shoulder and waved a can of Pine Brew in her face.
‘Ma’am! Gimme a minute alone with the mainie bastard. I’ll cut off his dick!’
‘Yes.’ Judy nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll cut off his dick,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll feed it to the sharks.’
Judy nodded again. ‘Good. Okay.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Tim intervened, ushering Judy away.
When she got back to her room at the Hibiscus Hideout, Judy ate two crackers with cheese and crawled under the covers. She woke three hours before her alarm to the revving of drink-drivers, needed another Valium to sleep again.
Shirley Campbell usually avoided glancing toward their side of the courtroom, but the day her other son showed up with a bruised jaw, she shot Judy anxious looks, like a dog begging not to be put down.
Sean still wouldn’t look her way, though. Not even when the drugs allowed her to stare at him for an hour at a time, longer. Long enough to memorise his unmemorable skull.
Before the jury was sent out to deliberate on Thursday, they viewed Sean Patrick Campbell’s retracted confession tape — the one defence claimed had been made under the influence of drugs and duress by the WA Police. It went for an hour. Sean never raised his voice; had to be asked several times to speak up. He sat with his hands between his clenched knees, shoulders rounded, rocking slightly. When asked how Paulina had died, he said, ‘My car hit her.’ When asked about the stab-wounds, he shrugged. When asked why her clothes were off, he said, ‘I’m not a sicko.’
The ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAULINA’ graffiti had long ago been scrubbed from King’s Lookout. Judy spent a long time looking out. Every now and then, a car would swish past and the driver would raise their hand, and she’d raise her hand — as if she had nothing against these cursed people and their cursed land.
From King’s Lookout, she drove to the cemetery. Parked and strolled through the dead Kings and Carlyles down to Tombstone Beach. The sea was the same blue-grey as the eyes that greeted her in the mirror every day; eyes that now watered from the salty wind. She dug in her handbag for her journal, perched on a damp rock and read:
I lost my innocence the day I lost Paulina.
The wind whisked up the pages, whisked her hair. Judy shut her journal with a sigh; kicked off her sandals and wandered to the shore.
A bit of sea-rock, pale and porous as tripe. A metallic abalone shell. A blanched sea-urchin, reminiscent of a small animal’s skull. She collected them cheerfully, but by the time she was trudging up from the beach, she felt silly and futile. She dumped them among the graves.
I was fifty-two years old and I lost an innocence I didn’t know I had.
There was a red Commodore parked beyond the cemetery, the driver idling at the wheel. Judy’s eyes connected with his. They widened. He lifted his hand from the wheel. She raised hers. Tentatively approached.
‘Ms Novak.’ Jesse rolled down his window. ‘I … didn’t notice you.’
‘That’s alright. I’m not very noticeable.’
‘I didn’t mean—’ he stammered. ‘It’s cold for the beach, eh.’
‘A bit cold, yes.’ Judy hadn’t felt it until he mentioned it, but now a shiver went through her. ‘Very windy. I was trying to … read. But the pages kept flipping.’
‘Anything good?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What you were reading.’
‘Oh, no.’ Judy waved her hand. ‘Just my victim impact statement.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just one of those things.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve looked at it so many times, I don’t know anymore.’
‘Yeah, I get that. With my designs sometimes, I’ll overthink it.’ His eyes were bloodshot, the lashes dark and matted. ‘Then it’s like I forget how to draw.’
‘You’re lucky, to be artistic.’ Judy smiled. ‘I wish I could draw. Or write. Anything.’
‘You were good on TV.’
‘Oh, come off it.’
‘No, really. You made me cry.’
‘Oh?’ She laughed. ‘Sorry!’
He smiled at her sidelong. ‘I forgive you, eh.’
Judy laughed again, patted her hair. ‘Gawd — this wind! I thought I’d clear my head, coming here, but all I’ve done is mess up my hair.’
‘I can look at it, if you want,’ Jesse offered, and Judy’s face screwed up. ‘The statement. If you need, like, a second opinion.’
‘Oh!’ Her face smoothed. ‘Would you?’
‘Yeah. For sure.’
Eyes prickling, Judy scurried to the passenger side, watched him clear the seat.
‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘It’s fine.’ It was very messy though — like the cars of the surfer-boys she’d dated in high school. She noticed a scummy bong in the centre console. ‘You don’t smoke that while driving, do you?’
‘Oh, nay,’ Jesse bluffed. ‘Not really.’
‘I don’t mean to judge. Just, you could have an accident, doing that.’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ Jesse swept the bong out of sight. ‘It’s not like with Campbell, though. He was mixing it with steroids and shit.’
‘I know you’re nothing like Campbell.’ Judy sighed. ‘But still.’
‘Sorry, Ms Novak.’
Judy toyed with her handbag zipper. ‘The hit-and-run story is a load of crap. That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen someday, though.’
‘Sorry,’ Jesse repeated. ‘Do you still want me to read that statement?’
Meekly, Judy unzipped her bag and handed over the journal. ‘I hope you can read it alright.’
&nb
sp; ‘Yeah.’ He gave her that sidelong look again. ‘I can read, Ms Novak.’
‘Oh, shush!’ Judy batted his arm. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘Sorry.’ Jesse glanced down at the page. ‘You have really nice handwriting, eh.’
For some reason, that made Judy blush so hard she had to turn to the window. But it wasn’t long before her gaze strayed back to the beautiful eyelashes, pillowy lips. The tattooed, well-muscled arms tensing as he shut the journal.
‘Yeah,’ Jesse mumbled, giving it back. ‘It’s good.’
‘“Good”?’
‘Sorry.’ He pinched between his eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to say. You sort of just ripped my heart right out of my chest.’
‘So it’s better than good?’
‘It’s really fucking good, Ms Novak.’
Jesse tried to smile, but his face had gone red, his eyes were brimming.
‘Well!’ Judy said softly. ‘If we’re dropping f-bombs, you’d better call me “Judy”.’
‘Judy.’ He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. ‘Can I see that again, Judy?’
Bemused, Judy passed him the journal. Instead of rereading the statement, though, he pulled the pen from the spine and wrote down his phone number.
‘That’s me. If you ever want to talk. It’s the same as when she lived with me.’
‘Oh,’ Judy murmured. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m in the Fairfolk phone book too, under “Camilleri”.’ Jesse swallowed. ‘He was right next to me that whole time. “Campbell”. All those years of wondering and his name was right next to mine.’
‘It’s a small world,’ Judy mused. ‘Especially here.’
He wiped his nose. ‘Yeah.’
Judy would’ve liked to comfort him, mother him. But from the way he’d curled his body toward the window, she knew he wanted to be left alone.
‘Anyway, I’m glad it’s small enough that I bumped into you again.’ Slipping her journal back inside her handbag, she tapped his knee lightly. ‘See you around, Jesse.’
‘See you, Ms … Judy.’
As it happened, though, they didn’t see each other again. The next afternoon, the jury returned their verdict and Sean Patrick Campbell was sentenced to life — with the possibility of parole after eighteen years.
The Newcomer Page 27
