The Way It Is Now

by Garry Disher

  The girl tilted her little chin up to look him in the eye, nothing to hide, her smile bright and empty. ‘Mr Deravin?’

  ‘Depends.’

  That stopped her. A tiny flaw between her flawless brows. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Which Mr Deravin do you want?’

  ‘Charles. Are you Charles?’

  Charlie couldn’t see the point of fooling around with them. ‘I am. What’s this about?’

  The guy answered. He was the cynic. He’d already assessed and dismissed Charlie. ‘We’re making a podcast. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The past.’ The young woman again. She was scarcely older than Emma, with a similar look about her. Hoop earrings, clear skin and eyes, limitless buoyancy.

  But there was something of the predator in her when she added: ‘About your father and his mates and the things they did.’

  8

  THE AVIDITY IN them, the satisfaction. A business card was shoved at Charlie: she was Ashleigh Deamer and he was Will Nadal, and together they were MalPod—Malcontents dedicated to rooting out malefactors.

  ‘Cute,’ Charlie said.

  ‘If we could sit down with you and have a chat about what it was like for you and your brother growing up here,’ Deamer said, her teeth blazing.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Otherwise we can only present part of the picture.’

  They’d have tracked down Dad first, Charlie thought, and he’d have told them to fuck off. And Liam would never speak to this pair of twits, despite the fact he’s convinced of Dad’s guilt. Clearly Mark Valente hadn’t talked to them. Noel Saltash probably wouldn’t. But maybe they’d been doorknocking, maybe they’d heard some of the stories.

  ‘What picture would that be?’

  ‘Where to start?’ Deamer said, spreading her arms. ‘The armed holdup of a Medicare office for starters.’

  Not his mother’s disappearance, then? Charlie let his bewilderment show, but before he could ask, Emma wandered back from the beach, faintly tanned, sandy, damp, her smile as wide as the world. She’d always greeted the unexpected like that, ever since she was little. The sight of strangers on the doorstep meant adventure.

  ‘Hi!’

  Deamer and Nadal turned but Charlie got in first, calling to his daughter, ‘Hop in the shower, kiddo, we need to get moving.’ And to the podcasters: ‘Sorry, you’ve come at a bad time. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  Full of curiosity, Emma crossed to the garden tap and washed the sand from her feet, as Deamer and Nadal backed away, nodding and smiling, sizing her up and down. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Mr Deravin,’ Deamer said. ‘Feel free to give us a call.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Emma said as the couple climbed into the yellow Beetle and rattled away.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  At 4 p.m. he was in a consulting room in Mount Eliza shaking hands with Dr Fiske, who then gestured to a padded chair with its back to the door. Charlie, performing a neat little swivel and pirouette, dodged around her and took the other chair. Now he could watch the door, the desk, the window behind it, the framed certificates between the bookcases.

  And he could watch that other chair, which Fiske settled into neatly with a small smile. ‘You’re not the first policeman to choose that one, and you won’t be the last.’

  Charlie wanted to joke. Goes with the job, watching exits and entrances or We’re all paranoid, but was afraid that would open a can of worms about his mental state. He waited patiently—for what, he didn’t know. This appointment had been mandated by the department; he was required to play along.

  Fiske was about fifty, slim in a plain dark skirt, a plain white top and bright blue glasses on a cord around her neck. Suddenly she kicked her shoes off, which Charlie found appealing and then disconcerting. Had she done it unselfconsciously, or did she want to disarm him? Disarm me, he decided. A therapist—one with a PhD, no less—would never do much without forethought.

  She had his file in her lap and said, ‘We might as well start at the beginning, Senior Constable Deravin. Or may I call you Charles?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie. Let’s start at the beginning. Do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘Given that it’s Christmas Eve?’

  She cocked her head—wondering if he was a joker? ‘Given that I’m trying to clear a backlog before I go away for a much-needed break. What’s your story?’

  Charlie laughed. ‘Fair enough. Yeah, I know why I’m here, and even though you also know, you want me to say why.’

  ‘Let’s not start like that, Charlie.’

  Her voice was deep, precise, warm, but she was tired—long days and fuckwits. He said, ‘I shoved an inspector in the chest, and he went down and sprained his wrist.’

  She revealed nothing. ‘Would you care to say why you did that?’

  Charlie tensed. He wondered if there would be a trap in every question she asked. ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘Is that how you usually resolve issues?’

  Now he was irritated. ‘I’m the most peaceful guy there is. I’ve never hit a soul in my life, not even back in my uniform days when some drunk took a swing at me.’

  ‘But something caused you to shove a senior officer in the chest so hard that he fell over his own desk. In front of several colleagues.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie said and waited.

  She waited too. Eventually she said, ‘If that push was out of character for you—and nothing in your file indicates otherwise—are you able to say why it was out of character?’

  Fiske placed her glasses on her nose as she said this, the neck strap forming a pair of big loops on either side of her face. She looked both professional and startled now, and Charlie searched for something else to fix his gaze on. The room was airy, lit by the westering sun, and might have overlooked Port Phillip Bay if not for the Mount Eliza mansions and trees claiming the sky in their roll down to the sea. He chanced another glance at Fiske. The therapist had her head down, reading his file. We’re each playing a game, he thought, against an unfamiliar opponent. She’ll lob a ball, I’ll return it, and vice versa. We’ll each watch the return lob, working out the meaning behind it.

  ‘What does the file say?’ Charlie said.

  She removed her glasses. ‘The bare bones, Charlie. I need to know what you were feeling at the time. What you’re feeling now. So we can talk through these feelings.’

  ‘Feelings. My feeling is, I’ve been suspended from police duties and told to see a therapist,’ Charlie said.

  Even if—after seeing Fiske a few times—he was cleared to return to his duties, that wouldn’t be the end of it. He could see further internal disciplinary actions in his future: performance monitoring, transfers, demotion…

  ‘Charlie, you’ve described a fact, not a feeling. I’m not the enemy here. I’m here to listen. I offer talk-based therapy, the chance for you to talk about work and personal issues. Clarify them, explore options, develop strategies, be more self-aware,’ Fiske said, adding: ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘You’re sending up your own profession?’

  ‘It’s been known to happen. Charlie, I am required to be thoroughly neutral, opaque even. This is not an interview, I don’t intend to be suggestive, my job is to give you space to talk. That said, I have been working with police officers for a very long time and I find that I can help them best if I am not always neutral or opaque. But we will respect each other throughout.’

  She was making an effort; so would he. He took a deep breath. ‘All right. Okay, this is the world as I know it, right?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘The rape of Gina Lascelles…’

  She waited, and he realised that he was expected to tell the whole story, as if she knew nothing. ‘So. One night a few months ago a hotshot young footballer named Luke Kessler raped his girlfriend in the carpark of his team’s clubroom. They we
re having a party and Gina made the mistake of chatting with another kid, so to teach her a lesson he took her outside and trapped her head in a side window of his car and sodomised her. Please don’t go asking me how that made me feel.’

  A flicker of tension in Fiske. ‘Go on.’

  ‘My squad investigated. My own role was marginal, so I wasn’t called to give evidence at the trial. I was tasked with getting statements from some of Kessler’s mates, that’s all. To a man they said, “He’s a great guy, the bitch is lying.”’

  Fiske nodded.

  ‘The thing is, Kessler is private school, wealthy parents, good looking, popular. He’s going places. There’s talk he could be taken in the AFL draft; clubs are sniffing around him.’ Charlie paused. ‘Unfortunately for Gina, and the cause of truth and justice, for a lot of people that’s all they care about. People on the jury, for example. And some of my colleagues.’

  Fiske looked pretty neutral to Charlie. She said, ‘Some people care more about a footballer’s reputation than a rape victim.’

  It was a cop interrogation tactic, quoting the words of a suspect or a witness back at them. The intention was to clarify a statement, a thought or a belief. Maybe tease out more detail. Charlie waited a beat, then said, ‘Yes. But we did get Kessler through a committal hearing and before a judge and jury in the County Court. Unfortunately, not everyone was enthusiastic about that.’

  Charlie stopped there. Had he said too much? Was she a department spy?

  Fiske sensed the reluctance. ‘Charlie, everything stays in this room. Tell me about the inspector you shoved.’

  ‘His son plays for the same club.’

  Fiske watched Charlie. If she was drawing conclusions about Allardyce, he’d be the last to know.

  ‘To be fair, he recused himself, and I actually think he’d have said c’est la vie if Kessler had gone to prison. It’s just that the mood in the courtroom seemed to be going Kessler’s way. The prosecution was weak, there was a string of high-powered character witnesses, and the defence made mincemeat of the poor kid who was raped. Gina.’

  Charlie paused. ‘And then the jury was dismissed, and a new trial announced.’

  ‘Tell me about that.’

  Charlie took a breath. ‘We got a call from one of Kessler’s ex-girlfriends—she was a defence witness, attested to his good character, never violent towards her, et cetera, et cetera. She said she was being pestered by one of the jurors. I was sent to look into it.’

  He stopped, reluctant to go on. The juror was Anna Picard and he’d fallen for her, and now they were seeing each other. And he didn’t want to disavow any of that in any way.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Sorry, miles away. It’s not unknown for a juror to turn detective, but long story short, rather than shut this juror down and report her to the court, I listened to what she had to say. It was troubling. She said there was a victim-blaming atmosphere in the jury room, and she was being pressured to vote not guilty.’

  According to Anna, the forewoman was a bully, and the jury was stacked with older women unsympathetic to young women who cried rape when they got themselves into trouble. They’d said things like, ‘We all know what little missy gets up to of a weekend.’ And that old classic: ‘Boys will be boys.’

  Fiske was watching him. ‘I understand that victim-blaming is not an unknown phenomenon.’

  ‘In this case,’ Charlie said, ‘the defence made a big thing about how much Gina had drunk and what she was wearing.’

  Anna had quoted the defence’s line of questioning to Charlie, her voice dripping with disgust: ‘“I put it to you that you are immodest by nature” and ‘“I put it to you that you went braless in the expectation that your nipples would show.”’ The judge had admonished Kessler’s lawyer from time to time, but mildly, as if he was enjoying the show.

  ‘What was the jury’s response?’ Fiske asked now.

  ‘Apparently the prevailing mood was: she was asking for it.’

  ‘Apparently?’

  ‘So I was told,’ Charlie said.

  Perhaps Fiske found that answer inadequate? She said, ‘What can you tell me about the juror? What does she do?’

  ‘She’s an archivist,’ Charlie said, trying to sound offhand.

  He could feel Fiske boring into him. He shifted uncomfortably and said, ‘There’s more to the story. She got an anonymous phone call warning her to get in line and vote not guilty. She didn’t, she went the other way—she actually challenged Kessler’s ex-girlfriend and found another victim—and, rightly or wrongly, I started helping her. I made a few phone calls, ran some LEAP computer searches I shouldn’t have, that kind of thing. Meanwhile the juror and I were seen together, and I was investigated, and the anonymous phone call was investigated, with the result that the judge discharged the jury and so there’s going to be a new trial. The team was pissed off because they’d have to go through the whole thing again and some of them, like Inspector Allardyce, feared that a different jury would find Kessler guilty.’

  You fucking the bitch? Allardyce had said. She got you so cunt-struck you go poking around behind our backs?

  Perhaps Charlie should have landed a punch rather than just a shove.

  Fiske was watching him. ‘And here we are. Was the juror fined or reprimanded?’

  ‘Not fined—after all, she got a threatening phone call. A stern finger was wagged.’

  ‘And you? Do you think they’ll fire you?’

  ‘That’s my fear, yes.’

  She nodded. The sun was streaming in from across the invisible bay. ‘Let’s talk about fear, Charlie. Would you call yourself a fearful person?’

  Charlie had been a good boy so far, he’d engaged with her questions, but this one pissed him off. ‘I’m fearful in menswear shops.’

  To her credit, she treated it seriously. ‘Why is that, do you think?’

  Charlie realised that he actually was afraid in menswear shops. ‘The fabrics are horrible—strange, stiff, non-natural textures. Brand names everywhere when all you want is something plain. Nothing ever fits right. Nothing ever feels right.’

  ‘Yet here you are, fully dressed.’

  ‘Op shops are my friend,’ Charlie said. He held up a finger: ‘Crucially, everything they sell has been pre-approved.’

  ‘You’re being a smartarse now, Charlie. That, in and of itself, is interesting.’

  Charlie scowled briefly, then shook it off. ‘Okay then. Ask your questions.’

  ‘Thank you, but this isn’t a question-and-answer process. I may suggest topics through initial questions, but the aim is for us to talk and see where it leads. Think of your boundaries as porous. So I ask again: tell me what makes you afraid—or vulnerable, or uncertain.’

  Charlie said, ‘Let me answer like this. When I was on the beach this morning, I saw an old bloke building a sandcastle with a little girl, presumably his granddaughter. But my first thought was: paedophile. Go on: ask me how that made me feel.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘That I’m in the wrong job or I’ve been in this one too long. I don’t see honesty and innocence anymore, I see hidden motives and filth. Maybe you feel it too, in your profession? When you walk down the street are you thinking, Oh, there’s a happy husband, wife and kids, or are you thinking, there’s a domestic tyrant, there’s a pill-popping wife, there’s an abused kid?’

  Dr Fiske’s expression made a small acknowledgment. She said—as if referring to herself as much as to Charlie—‘It’s hard to switch off.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me more about that, as it has affected you in the past and as it affects you now.’

  ‘Now I’m in a kind of limbo,’ Charlie said, ‘playing a waiting game, which is bad in its own way. But back when I was on the job, the work never let up: emails, texts, phone calls. All hours of the night and day.’ He shrugged. ‘Being in sex crimes, I often gave my number out to victims and informants. It’s part of the job, you want them to
feel connected, that they can reach out if they need to. But people do take advantage of that.’

  ‘You found that the work never let up.’

  Charlie shifted in his seat. The padding was too comfortable; wrong for the things he wanted to say. He needed a stiff-backed wooden chair. ‘The shitty things people do to each other, especially to kids. I couldn’t sleep. Always tired and grumpy. On the lookout for the next bad thing. Panicky, sometimes,’ he added, shooting her an anxious look. He didn’t want her to refer him to a specialist who would dose him up.

  She merely nodded patiently. ‘A kind of hypervigilance.’

  ‘I didn’t choose this chair for nothing,’ Charlie said.

  ‘No, you didn’t. Would it help you to know that over thirty per cent of your colleagues have a diagnosed mental health condition?’

  ‘You’re saying I have?’ Charlie blurted—too hurriedly?

  ‘I am not saying that about you. But you are here. Perhaps you might entertain another statistic: ninety per cent of your colleagues have experienced some kind of work-related burnout.’

  ‘Sounds like me,’ Charlie said.

  She didn’t demur. ‘Another statistic: most of them don’t seek help.’

  Charlie knew why that was. Fear that you’d be ridiculed, pensioned off or transferred to some tame desk job. And forget about worker’s comp. It was an adversarial nightmare for any police member admitting to mental health issues. The bastards would walk over broken glass to avoid a payout.

  Charlie didn’t say any of this. Fiske would know it all anyway. He said, ‘In my case, I was told to seek help.’

  ‘Yes.’

  And she waited. Charlie said, ‘That’s a cop tactic: force the suspect to fill the silence.’

  ‘It seems to be working, too.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘I don’t know, are you?’

  ‘Suspected of conduct unbecoming a police officer.’

  ‘Tell me about that.’

  ‘The more I dug around in that rape case, the more I came to believe that Kessler had raped others and that at least one of his character witnesses—the one Anna tried to talk to—had been paid off.’