An Isolated Incident

by Emily Maguire

  ‘The public . . .?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, in the papers and on talkback radio and such?’ She sounded less sure now, and younger still. ‘You know, there’s been all this victim-blaming rhetoric and it’s been very important to us at Femolition that we counteract that message. So we’ve been, you know, stating that case.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I actually have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t been reading the papers or listening to radio. This is the first I’ve – What do you mean “victim blaming”? Are you with the police?’

  A long pause, then her voice back in control. ‘Chris, wow, I’m so sorry. It didn’t occur to me you wouldn’t have been keeping up with public discussion, but of course it should have. I’ve gone about this the wrong way. I should’ve said at the outset: I’m on your side, on Bella’s side.’ A sigh. ‘The thing is, some people have been talking about the ways in which Bella may have invited, or contributed to, what happened and we think that’s, that’s, you know, it’s bullshit.’ She spat out the word like she meant it. Like I would’ve said it. ‘What we’d like to do, Chris, is honour Bella’s memory by holding a march against victim-blaming and violence against women. We want it to be a public demonstration that despite the loudmouths questioning what Bella might have done to put herself in danger, there are many, many more of us who believe all the blame lies with the perpetrators.’

  I don’t know if I said anything then. I was reeling. I might have said hmmm.

  ‘So, we’ve got it tentatively scheduled for next Wednesday evening – to be confirmed once we hear back about the council permits for the road closures etcetera. And, of course, pending your availability. We were thinking from Belmore Park to Town Hall, ending with some speeches and a candlelight vigil. Of course we’d be honoured if you’d march in the front line, maybe holding a banner or a favourite photograph of Bella, and, if you feel able, to say a few words when we reach Town Hall?’

  ‘Town Hall? Like in Sydney?’

  Another pause. ‘Perhaps I could come and see you to talk this over? It might be easier in person. I could be there in, I don’t know, how long’s the drive? Four hours? Five?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Um, okay. So, is Wednesday . . .?’

  ‘No. No to all of –’ My vision blurred and I had to steady myself with a hand on the sink. ‘Just please stop this. It’s not . . . Just, please. No.’ I hung up. The phone rang almost immediately and I answered and told her to leave me alone and then I turned the damn thing off.

  Around 3 pm I was in bed staring at the wall when there was a violent thumping on the front door. The thumping stopped and was replaced by Nate hollering my name, so I pulled my bones together and went to let him in.

  He stomped in, knocking the front door with one shoulder and me with the other, and then slammed his phone onto the table. ‘What kind of a fucking message was that?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I got pissed.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He glanced at me, then up over my head, then back at my face. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  ‘Not much.’

  He sat down, mumbled something I was glad not to understand. I sat across from him and we were silent like that for a while.

  ‘Listen, I had a big talk with Renee and she –’

  ‘Spare me.’

  ‘Please, babe, listen.’ He had my hands again. ‘Listen, she understands. She knows I need to be here with you for now. She’s so cut up about what happened. She wants me to be here for you.’

  ‘Saint, isn’t she?’

  ‘But listen, she’s not comfortable about me staying here. And I think she’s right, you know. It’s too easy for us – for you and me – to slide back into living like husband and wife. We’re both real vulnerable at the moment. It’d be easy to fall into old ways.’

  ‘Are those her words or yours?’

  He was cringing inside, I knew, but his face stayed calm. ‘Hers, yeah, but I agree.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Chris, I love her. You know? And she trusts me. I don’t wanna fuck it up.’

  ‘You’re a saint too, now.’ I pulled away and went to the sink, rinsed his heat from my hands, then scooped cold water from the tap to my mouth, which was like the bottom of cocky’s cage. I splashed my face, dried it on a tea towel that smelt like old eggs.

  ‘I’m trying to do the right thing,’ he said when I was facing him again.

  ‘Can I remind you I never asked you to come in the first place? And I never asked you to stay over when you did. I never asked you to come back today. So don’t look at me like I’m some whiny little homewrecker. I didn’t ask you for anything.’

  ‘You didn’t have to, babe. You know I –’

  ‘Stay, don’t stay, I don’t care, but don’t tell me about you and Renee and don’t act like I owe you anything and don’t – please, Jesus, please – don’t fucking fight with me. Okay?’

  He came to me and wrapped me up and that was fine. It was always fine when he did that.

  At five o’clock Nate dropped me at work on his way to his mate Melvin’s place, where he usually stayed when in town with a tour group. He offered to pick me up when I finished but I told him I’d get a lift.

  ‘Don’t you walk,’ he said.

  ‘I said I’d get a lift.’ I went to open the door but he’d child-locked it. I glared, waited.

  ‘Who you getting a lift with?’

  ‘Someone who cleans their car once in a while,’ I said, picking a chip packet out of the garbage pile beneath my feet and tossing it in his lap. He brushed it off without looking, shrugged. I tossed the chip packet back on to his lap, added an empty Coke can and a crumpled McDonald’s bag.

  ‘All you’re doing is making me hungry. So tell me how you’re getting home and I’ll let you out and go get myself a feed.’

  ‘I’ll get a lift with Suze or Grey. Okay?’

  ‘I can come and get you. No trouble.’ His hand hovered over the lock on his door.

  ‘Appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. You get an early night.’

  ‘Alright. But you call me if you need.’ The lock clicked up. I opened the door and I climbed out. ‘I’m serious,’ he called as I walked away. ‘Don’t you walk home.’

  I waved without looking back. Bella used to rouse on me for walking home, too. But it was ten minutes, fifteen tops. Best way in the world to wind down after a shift. I’d never been threatened, never frightened.

  But Nate was right. Those things hadn’t just happened to Bella; someone had done them. Someones. Someones who were still walking, driving around free and easy as could be.

  But they’d been driving around free and easy every other night I’d walked home. Tonight was no different except now I knew they existed, had seen with my own poor eyes what they could do.

  It was a good night behind the bar. We had a busload of footy players from interstate and not a one of them had any idea who I was or what had happened. I still had the odd regular giving me the poor old thing but what’s the goss look, but mostly I got to talk and laugh and bend for tips like nothing in the world could be wrong.

  The busload left for their hotel around midnight leaving only a pack of local boys around the telly up the back and a few long-distance truckies and coach drivers holding up the bar. One of them, Tyler, was a semi-regular sleepover friend of mine. He was one of the younger fellas I’d taken home, only twenty-eight, but with a good decade of life on the road under his belt. Not married, no girlfriend last I knew. Lived with his mum in the outer suburbs of Melbourne. Shy in the bedroom. Shy and grateful. Now that the crowds of footy players were gone I saw he was watching me from his perch near the smoke machine.

  ‘Hey, Chris,’ he said when I came close.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in here a while. Cut back on th
e long-hauls, hey?’

  ‘Nah. Been on holidays. Took me mum to Thailand.’

  ‘Good on you! Thailand, hey? Come to mention it, you do have a bit of extra colour in your cheeks.’

  He didn’t until I said that. He blushed like a bloody virgin.

  ‘Yeah. Just got home yesterday. Straight back on the road today.’

  ‘No rest for the wicked, hey.’

  ‘You’d be one to know.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ I said and swatted him with my towel.

  ‘So, ah, you got a big night planned?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You know . . .’ I stopped myself. He obviously didn’t know or he wouldn’t have asked me. I could tell him and have him be sorry and ashamed and slightly thrilled like the rest of them, or I could let it go, tell him I was tired. Or I could do as I promised Nate and get a damn lift home and, while I was at it, avoid being in my goddamn house alone all night.

  ‘Nah, it’s cool, I just thought –’

  ‘Actually, my feet are killing me. I’d love a lift home if you don’t mind hanging around until close?’

  Like I said, he was a shy one when it came down to it. I set him up with a beer while I had a shower, put on my low-cut red nightie and changed the sheets on the bed. Then I called him in and took off his clothes. He was scrawny with a pinched, ferrety face but he had this lovely thick, golden, wavy hair. Such a waste on a bloke, I always thought.

  I lay him down and straddled him, hanging my tits in his face, letting him nuzzle and knead me while I reached over to the drawer where I kept my supplies. While he could see nothing but tit I scooped out a bit of lube and stuck it up myself, then unwrapped a condom.

  (You’re the one wanted to know how I could jump back in the sack so soon. This is how. Don’t ask if you don’t want to bloody know.)

  I readied myself then sat up straight. I rolled the condom on him as he continued kneading my breasts. He let go for a second when I stuck his dick in but then grabbed hold again. Normally I’d’ve played with him a little, tried to give good value, but I was so damn tired and sad I couldn’t bear to draw it out any longer. I held his hands down and lay almost flat so my boobs would slap his face with each thrust. Slap slap slap slap and – boom – he bucked up and moaned, sank back down, sighed.

  I kissed his forehead, carefully removed the condom and went to the bathroom to chuck it out and clean myself up. When I got back he’d snuggled deep under the covers. I switched out the light and climbed in next to him, happy to feel his weight and warmth next to me after the lonely, drunken horror of last night.

  ‘That was awesome,’ he said, resting a hand on my chest. ‘Like, so much better than any of the Thai girls.’

  ‘Yeah? I’ve heard they’re pretty good over there.’

  ‘They’re alright. They try hard, but they don’t have these, do they?’ He honked my left breast and giggled. ‘Some of them have big ones, but they’re fake. No movement, you know? It’s like, come on, give me some jiggle.’

  I imagined some tight-bodied eighteen-year-old Thai girl bouncing up and down while he lay underneath slapping her hard, expensive tits. If I could’ve turned my flesh to stone I would’ve right then.

  ‘And when it’s over, it’s over, you know. It’s in-out, in-out and then get dressed and piss off. I’d be like, “Where’s the fire, love?” No wind-down, no cuddles.’ He squeezed again.

  ‘Hmm. Most blokes would want that, I reckon. I think you’re the only one I know who gets chatty after.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m just glad you let me come over, that’s all. I really appreciate it, Chris.’

  ‘Okay, you big sweetie. Let’s get some sleep, hey?’

  ‘Alright. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you doing this. Especially with what happened to your sister and everything.’

  If I could turn to stone or ice or ash. If I could become fire. I lay and stared and stared at the wall until the bruise came and I listened to him snore and wished ugly death on him and me and the whole world and the bruise seemed to promise I would have it, have all the ugly death I have ever wished for and then some.

  I must have dropped off to sleep because when I woke he was gone and there were two hundred-dollar notes on my bedside table.

  AustraliaToday.com

  Locals united in disbelief over ‘poor Bella’

  May Norman

  9 April 2015

  People all over Australia are talking about the murder of 25-year-old Bella Michaels, but here in her home town the ‘m’ word is never used. It’s ‘the tragedy’, ‘this terrible thing’ or, simply, ‘poor Bella’.

  ‘Poor Bella . . . It beggars belief,’ says 76-year-old retired carpenter John Highsmith. ‘I’ve lived here my entire life and never in my worst nightmares would I have thought something like this was possible.’

  The message is echoed by Highsmith’s 45-year-old daughter Melanie. ‘It’s like a thing that happens on TV or in movies. Not here. I haven’t slept properly since I heard. I keep checking the doors and windows. Before last week I never even bothered to lock them.’

  While all the locals express shock at ‘this terrible thing’, those who knew Bella personally are battling grief along with their disbelief. A popular aged-care worker and community volunteer, Bella Michaels was born in the Strathdee hospital, attended the local public primary and high schools and, except for 18 months in Sydney in her early 20s, lived and worked in the centre of town her entire adult life.

  ‘I’ve known her since she was a baby,’ said a neighbour of Bella’s late mother, who asked that his name not be published. ‘The family had its troubles, but Bella was such a good girl, just an absolute ray of sunshine.’

  The ‘troubles’ the resident referred to include a mother who struggled with alcoholism and gambling from her teens until her death from cancer five years ago. Bella’s father left when she was barely two and, according to the neighbour, her mother was involved with a succession of men, at least one of whom was physically abusive.

  Bella’s half-sister, Chris Rogers, 37, has refused to speak to the media since breaking down at a press conference yesterday. Her ex-husband, Nate Cartwright of Sydney, has reportedly returned to Strathdee and is staying with Ms Rogers in her home a ten-minute drive from where her sister’s body was discovered.

  Richard Grey, owner and manager of the Royal Hotel, where Ms Rogers has worked for the past decade, said the relationship between the two women was ‘watertight. Young Bella was the only person in the world who Chris’d listen to. You’d laugh if you saw it. Chris can stare down a 200-pound drunken truckie without blinking, but if little Bella went crook at her she’d be a puddle.’

  ‘They always looked after each other,’ the former neighbour says. ‘Sometimes it was Chris being the big sister and sometimes it was Bella, because though she was young, she was such a nurturer, you know. They really were the world to each other. I worry terribly about Chris now.’

  The police are revealing very little information to the public at this stage, confirming only that the cause of death was blood loss and that sexual assault took place prior to death. Meanwhile, local gossip and speculation are spreading like the wildfire that took out 8000 hectares just east of here two summers ago. There are rumours of torture and mutilation. Some of the descriptions seem to have been taken from the most extreme of Hollywood horror films. A drinker at the Royal, when asked what he thought had happened to Bella Michaels, matter-of-factly painted a nightmarish scenario involving dozens of separate, individually described acts of brutality.

  ‘It’s terrible, the talk you hear,’ Mr Grey said from behind the bar where much of it is taking place. ‘Truth is, we don’t know what happened exactly. We know it was bloody terrible, but. We know she suffered. Yeah. There’s no dodging that.’

  Anyone with information is asked to call Crime Stoppers or the Strathdee police
.

  Friday, 10 April

  Three messages from Monica Gordon when I turned my phone on in the morning after Tyler left. I tried to find the card Sally Perkins had given me on that first day but couldn’t. I called the station instead and they put me through to Brandis, who sounded like my call was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  ‘Chris, Chris, good to hear from you, mate. What’s up?’

  ‘Some woman called me about a march in Sydney. For Bella?’

  ‘Yeah. Heard something about that. So you’re not involved with it, hey?’

  ‘You need to stop it.’

  ‘Not up to us to stop. It’s a Sydney thing. If they’ve got permission –’

  ‘They don’t. I haven’t given permission for anything.’

  ‘Permission from the city, I meant. To hold a public demonstration. They don’t need permission from you.’

  ‘I’m the next of kin.’

  ‘Chris, mate, this is a thing that happens around high-profile cases. All kinds of people – lobbyists, crazies, nasties, well-meaning idiots – they try and get involved, make it about them, about their cause. Best to stay out of it, leave them to it. Go about mourning Bella in private.’

  ‘Leave them to it.’

  ‘Best thing. And you should think about changing your number, getting an unlisted. Don’t make it so easy for them to get to you. If they start getting too obnoxious, coming around to your place or work or whatever, then give us a call and we’ll send a uniform to shoo ’em away.’

  ‘You think people will come to my work?’

  ‘Not people: reporters. Speaking of, leave the TV off for the next little while, hey? Don’t read the papers or the internet. All that shit out there, it’s got nothing to do with anything. Real breakthroughs, real developments, you’ll hear from me, yeah?’

  ‘So are there any? Developments?’

  ‘Like I said, you’ll hear from me when there are.’