by Belle Brooks
“Dorothy. Why have you not answered your phone? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Hello to you too, Ginger.”
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Hexed,” I reply.
“Oh shit, what’s happened now?”
I start to snigger. “So much. But you’d be happy to know I’m here in one piece. My luggage, however, never made it.”
“You’ve got no luggage?” She guffaws.
“Glad you find this funny.”
“Classic, Abi,” she spits out between each snort that projects into my ear.
“Calm down, snorter. It’s not that funny.”
“Oh, but it is. I’m fucking crying here. Abigail, what are we going to do with you?”
“Love me always.”
“Always,” she murmurs once she finally composes herself. Then she says something I wasn’t expecting. “Abigail, for someone who has lost their luggage you sound happy. Free almost. I’d expect you to be throwing a turn.”
“Shut up, Ginger.”
“Have you rung your mum?”
“No, not yet. Hey, can you do me a favour?”
“Anything.”
“Can you give her a quick call for me? I’m about to eat and have to get to bed. Pretty please.”
“As if you need to beg. You know I will. But you have to call her yourself tomorrow.”
“I will. Hey, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Take care of yourself and ring me tomorrow night and tell me everything. Enjoy the hotel.”
The sound of feet walking across wooden floors catches my attention. “Marcus,” I whisper.
“Did you just say Marcus?” Sammy asks sharply.
“Huh? Umm. No. I said asparagus. It’s on my plate, and I love it.”
“You’re weird.”
“You love it. Hey, I have to go.” I insist, looking at Marcus in a tight-fitting white shirt and tan cargo pants similar to the ones he wore the first time I saw him at the cemetery. This man would look amazing in anything.
“Abigail. Abigail, are you there?” I hear Sammy calling down the phone.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m starved. I have to go.”
“Love you.”
“Ditto,” I reply, quickly hanging up and turning the phone to silent before placing it onto the table.
“Everything okay?” Marcus looks deeply into my eyes.
“Peachy.”
“Good. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Trying to figure out how to use chopsticks turns out to be a messy event. Honey chicken on a white shirt is not a great look. Marcus pretends to be oblivious to the mess I’m making, but his grin tells me he is more than entertained.
“Let’s talk about work,” he says, utilising his eating utensils like some Chinese ninja.
“Good idea,” I reply, scooping what I can into my mouth. The one that wishes I could just use my fingers.
“So you’ve read your binder and you’ve familiarised yourself with the case…now I’ll explain to you what I’ll expect of you this week.”
My eyes grow wide before I shake my head. Shit! I’ve no idea what I’m here for. I never read that monstrous binder and now it’s lost in my luggage.
“Abigail. You did read the binder, didn’t you?”
“Well, about that,” I mumble, trying hard not to look in his direction.
“Abigail.” He’s mad—his tone says more than his words.
I purse my lips and swing my head in his direction. “Hey, I got sidetracked, okay? I’d planned to read it and then I met someone who…well, you know what happened. I was going to read it in the airport, but that same someone—”
“Okay.” He throws his head back and runs his fingers through his hair.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He rubs hard into his eye sockets before blowing out a noisy breath of air. “It’s going to be a long night. I need you up to speed.”
“Okay.” I’m angry at myself, but also angry at him. If Marcus had kept his dick in his pants, I’d know what the hell was happening in Sydney.
“Did you read any of it?” he questions hopefully.
“I’d like to say yes.”
He stabs a piece of meat from his plate with a singular chopstick and removes it like a hungry wolf. His lip quivers from what I assume is anger and not sadness, and I decide now is the time for me to stay quiet. After he finishes chewing, he takes a mouthful of water and places the cup down forcefully.
The sound of glass hitting wood makes me jump momentarily.
“The case is Macintosh versus Tumbling. We are here to get justice after three long years. We have to win. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“Good. See those boxes?” He points at the four cardboard boxes sitting on the table Grady placed them on. “Everything in those boxes has been my work on this case for the last three years. Before I moved to Queensland a month ago, I lived here and worked at our Sydney office. This was my case, and I’ve come back to make sure it ends, the right way.”
I nod again, too scared to say a word.
“Stephanie Tumbling was an eight-year-old school girl who lived in Waverley and attended a nearby primary school. On the tenth of June Stephanie’s parents, Patricia and Garth, tucked her and her brother into bed at seven p.m., as they did every night. The children had separate bedrooms one either end of the house. Stephanie’s was the one farthest from her parents’, whose bedroom was down the hall.” He stops, his gaze lost, tortured.
“What happened to her?”
“If you’d read the fucking binder, you’d know.”
I shelter myself like a frightened dog.
He must see my fear and takes a lengthy inhale. “Sorry. This case is just rough for me.”
“I can see that.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He gazes at me for far too long before continuing. “Anthony, her younger brother, was four at the time. The home was a single-storey three-bedder, with a double lockable garage. It was modest, neat and filled with love. Sometime, they believe around midnight, Stephanie was abducted from that house as her family slept. She was wearing pink flannels and was cuddled up with a rainbow-coloured elephant. At around four a.m. on the morning of June eleventh, her father, Garth, woke to use the toilet. Because it was cold, he checked on the children to ensure they were still under their doonas. Anthony’s room was the closest so naturally he checked him first. When he got to his daughter’s room, the door was ajar. When he pressed it open, he discovered Stephanie was no longer in there. Garth turned every light on in that house, checking every inch. It wasn’t until he walked into the kitchen, he noticed that the back door was wide open and a bloody smudge had seeped into the white frame.”
Marcus stops talking again. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. The eerie quiet of the room causes my heart to beat franticly. I don’t know if I want to hear another word. But I stay, waiting for him to continue.
“Her father called triple zero,” he speaks quietly, running his hand through his hair. “For three years I’ve been working to get justice.”
“For Stephanie.”
He nods.
“Is she alive?” I whisper.
He shakes his head.
My eyes begin to strain under the pressure of tears that threaten to spill. “What happened to her?”
Marcus stands before pacing back and forth, his fingers disappearing under his dark locks. “She was beaten, raped repeatedly, and then placed into a brown leather suitcase and dumped out to sea. She washed up onto Bondi beach three weeks later. Her rainbow elephant was in the case with her, along with a sheet from her bed and four cement blocks.”
“Oh my gosh.” I gasp. “How did she die—the beatings?” I choke out in a shaky voice, not sure if I really want to know.
“The gutless pig didn’t do it with his own hands. He let th
e ocean do it. She was still alive when he put her in that suitcase and alive when her body hit that ice water. She drowned, Abigail. Alone, cold, and frightened in the middle of the ocean. The coroner’s report shows that even though she had sustained multiple and horrible injuries, she had survived them. Frankly, I can’t image anything more terrifying,” he adds, placing his hands on the table before leaning into me.
“They got the prick, though. They fucking got him. He tried to take another girl one week later, only four blocks away from Stephanie’s house. That scum of the earth was going to do it again. He climbed through a window to gain entry into her room, but the dumb fuck chose the wrong night to do it. Her father was asleep on a sofa in her room. She’d been having issues with asthma that day, and he wanted to be there if she needed him. The father restrained him before his grubby mitts ever touched her.”
My lip begins to quiver before I gasp. “Those poor little girls.”
“Hey, we’re going to get justice for Stephanie and Silvia. The other little girl never had a hand laid on her. Nathan Macintosh is going to spend the remainder of his life behind bars. I will see to it.” His tone is filled with hatred as he gently raises his hunched torso and rests his hand onto my shoulder. “Abigail, this is going to be a tough case, but I need you to have the documents ready. I need you to make sure everything is where it needs to be and every file, call, and measure is taken to assist me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” I’m unsure if I really can, because this is so much bigger than I could have imagined.
“Good girl.” He kisses me on the top of my head like he’s done it a million times before and then he takes the containers and plates from the table.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“We do our final run through at the office here, and Tuesday we will be in court.”
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump that has formed in my throat.
“You better get to bed. Tomorrow you can read more. You’ll have some files to copy, so you can go through a lot of the stuff then.”
I nod hesitantly before pushing my chair out and walking straight for the stairs.
“Good night, Abigail.”
I don’t reply, for tears have already begun streaming down my cheeks and my throat hurts so much, any words would be too difficult to speak.
Sobbing, warm water washes away the long day from my skin. The body wash smells of strawberries as I try to lather and rinse. Such a sweet and innocent smell. Innocent like Stephanie. Thoughts of what her last moments on this earth would have been like play on a repeated loop, making me physically ill. My Chinese dinner no longer sits in the pit of my stomach. It glugs down the shower drain. My legs are heavy as I towel myself and slip into the black negligee Marcus’ money bought me. Even though it feels light against my skin, it doesn’t lighten the heaviness that weighs my heart down.
Comfort
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, I stare at the four cardboard boxes I stole from the table after I heard Marcus’ door latch. These boxes hold vital information for the case Marcus is trying this week. Heartbroken and breathless, I remove the lid from the box labelled ONE. There are three binders in it, which explains why it was the heaviest to lug up the staircase. The first binder is white and has a sticker across the front that says ‘Police Transcripts’. Tentatively opening the cover, I turn the pages and read reports from that night. Tears flow steadily when I come across the transcript from the triple zero call her father made that night.
Caller: Please help me. (He’s crying hysterically.) My daughter, she’s gone, there’s blood, and she’s eight. Oh my God, please God, please help us.” (He screams. It’s high-pitched. Audio is impossible to comprehend.)
Operator: Sir, where is the blood?
Caller: It’s on the back door. I found it open. My little princess, someone has taken her. Hurry. (He sobs.)
Operator: Sir, we are trying to help you. Your name, please?
Caller: Garth Tumbling. (He continues to sob.)
Operator: Mr. Tumbling, what is your address? (A woman’s voice can be heard screaming. It’s fierce and no other sounds or words can be heard. Five seconds after screaming commences, audio can clearly make out a woman’s voice screaming Stephanie over and over.)
I jump when I hear banging.
“Abigail, can I come in?”
“Marcus, you frightened me.”
“Sorry, can I come in?”
“Why?”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing, go away.”
The doorknob turns and soon Marcus stands in the doorway wearing only long cotton pyjama bottoms, his eyes staring immediately at the boxes. “Abigail, why?”
“I need to know.”
“You can learn more tomorrow. You won’t sleep if you read this stuff.”
“What did she look like?”
Slowly he shuffles over to the bed, removing each box one by one and placing them onto the floor. The binder still sits open in front of me. I keep my eyes glued to him as he sits in front of me, and a quiet huff expels from his lips. There’s silence, and I can see him thinking or is he reliving the memories? I’m not sure, but his demeanour is unsettled, to say the least.
“She was beautiful, Abigail.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Many.”
“Can I see one?”
He shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Tell me then.”
He takes the binder and closes it before lowering it to the floor. “Get under the covers.”
I don’t know why I do, but I do.
He climbs in beside me, lying looking up at the ceiling.
I turn my body to face him. “Tell me.”
He takes one, two, three deep inhales. This is painfully hard…the sheer hurt etches on his face. “Well, she had strawberry blond hair. It was long, to the arch of her back. Pale blue eyes and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Front teeth too big for her little mouth, her adult teeth having just come completely through. She was petite and fragile, yet she fought like a champion much bigger and heavier than her. She was brave, Abigail.” He turns to look at me. A single tear runs down my cheek. Marcus wipes it away before pulling me into his arms. “Sleep, Abigail. She is at peace, and we need to get her justice.”
I nod before closing my eyes. Justice for Stephanie.
The Rain
The smell of cooking bacon awakens me. I jolt upright as fear pulses through my veins. The face of a little girl with scattered freckles and pale blue eyes haunted me throughout the night. Every time I’d felt like I was drowning in her sorrow, Marcus’ arms would embrace me tighter. For the first time in a long time I’ve slept beside a man, and I’m petrified at the thought. As my eyes focus, I realise I’m alone. The blankets beside me are crumpled yet empty. Quietly, I walk down to the kitchen.
“Hello,” I call out before entering.
“Abigail, I’m in here,” Marcus’ voice calls back.
Stepping into the open doorway, I’m greeted by his back, his pyjama bottoms still resting on his hips.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning around.
“Yes. Very.”
“Good. Sit.”
A plate of bacon, eggs, and a piece of buttered toast is positioned in front of me. We sit opposite each other. It’s so quiet you could hear the sound of a pin dropping. As each bite of food fills my stomach, I’m surprised that he can cook so well.
“So you cook?”
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s really good,” I say with my mouth half filled. He doesn’t look at me. Each bite is taken in uncomfortable silence, and he appears ignorant of my existence.
“Are you finished?” he says finally, placing his cutlery across the plate as the last bite of toast enters my mouth.
“Yes,” I murmur, still chewing.
A small smile gently invades his blank expression before he stands and clears the table. As s
oon as he finishes, he’s gone.
I hear feet on the staircase and then the banging of a door on the upper level. Why is he so closed off this morning? Uncomfortable much?
The room begins to close in around me. Abruptly, I stand and throw back the heavy curtains that still remain closed behind the table, allowing some sunlight to enter.
“Wow,” I exclaim, shocked as a long jetty comes into view and then the water. Sunrays glisten across a tranquil river, bringing instant peace. “Beautiful.” I’m drawn to the sight like a moth to light. I dare not take my eyes from the view as the glass doors to the balcony slide open with ease. I’m met with a soft breeze and the crisp smell that only fresh morning air can deliver. I don’t know why, but I instinctively step across the concrete veranda and then onto the lush green grass. “Fuck me!” I’m in awe of the view.
Strong hands are gently placed on each of my hip bones. I startle, but don’t need to look back—the smell of fresh mint and the multitude of sensations that dance across my skin tell me it’s him.
“How I’d like to do that,” he whispers into my ear.
Without my consent, my voice emits a soft moan.
“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Abigail?”
I swallow hard as butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. I want him. I just can’t have him. “I can’t…I mean, I don’t.” My voice is so low, barely auditable. My heart begins pounding in a frantic, arrhythmic way as my body turns in a spin, stopping once it’s contained in his embrace.
“I know you do.” He lets me go immediately and steps backwards. “You need to get ready. Your clothes have been returned.”
“My suitcase?” I screech with hope.
“No, Abigail, your dry-cleaning.”
“Oh.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He says nothing more, then turns his back to me. A black suit, tailored perfectly, is my last sight as he leaves once more.
