Tom stared at the bent head. The sound and smell of all those distressed sheep closed in around him; the stench was overpowering.
Jonty waved at the stricken sheep with his knife.
‘We gotta put them out of their misery.’
‘What?’
He was serious. Tom was filled with the urgent desire to simply walk away. To get as far away as he could, as fast as possible. He stood up, but panic made his legs shaky, so he squatted down next to Jonty.
‘We can’t do that, Jonno,’ he said urgently.
‘You think I want to?’ Jonty snapped.
‘Shit! They don’t belong to us.’
Jonty’s only response was to look at the poor bleating thing nearest to them. Wild-eyed with pain, she was panting and kicking uselessly. One leg was sticking out the wrong way, but her back might have been broken too, or maybe her neck, because she couldn’t shift her position at all. It was a sickening sight. Jonty was right.
But Tom had never seen an animal killed. Just trying to imagine it made him dizzy. Oh Christ!
Jonty stood and tested the blade with his finger.
‘We should try and get ’em back in to the truck, Jonno,’ Tom shouted. ‘Take them back into town and deal with it from there.’
‘Don’t be pissweak, Mulla.’
‘There has to be some other way.’
‘You got a gun?’ Jonty said seriously.
‘Of course I don’t have a fucking gun.’
‘Then we’ve gotta do it. Listen to them.’
Tom closed his eyes hearing only the wild desperate bleating of the animals. What jerks they were to do this! What complete and utter fuckwits! He was almost crying as he counted the sheep. There were fourteen badly injured animals.
‘Come on,’ Jonty said sharply.
Tom stood up. Time to cut throats. He wasn’t in a movie anymore. This was real. And he couldn’t do it.
‘You don’t have to watch.’ Jonty flashed Tom a grim smile. ‘Being a lawyer’s son and all.’ It was the joke between them. Most of the time they were on a par. They prided themselves on not being scared of much. But Jonty lived out on the farm, so of course he’d had more experience with the basic stuff. Cows gave birth and sometimes died. He spoke of shooting wild dogs and poisoning rabbits, of dealing with sick sheep and chopping wood. And then of course there was his father . . .
‘Fuck off!’ Tom muttered angrily. There was nothing more to say.
Jonty had the first sheep between his knees now. Very matter-of-factly he bent over from the waist. Holding its chin with one hand, he pulled the head back so its neck was exposed. Then, he made a swift deep slice across the throat. The creature kicked frantically, its eyes big with terror, as the brilliant blood spurted out and frothed onto the ground. Jonty straightened up and stood waiting as the creature bled to death. It took about three minutes. Tom watched mutely from the sidelines, as the creature’s life leaked away.
When the sheep was absolutely still, Jonty leant down and wiped the blade clean, back and forth on the sheep’s back. Tom made himself keep looking at the almost completely severed head with the glazed-over eyes, the gash across its throat glistening red and raw in the sun. Look at this, he told himself, learn something.
‘One down,’ Jonty said.
‘We don’t have the right, Jonno.’ Tom protested again weakly.
‘We got the responsibility,’ Jonty muttered and shooed away some other sheep that were milling around the afflicted ones. ‘Go on, piss off!’ he yelled at them.
Tom had the feeling that Jonty was talking to him as well. He watched him move on to the next wide-eyed animal frantically kicking on the ground. Just before putting his knife to its neck, he looked up at Tom seriously, ‘Life is a jungle, and you’re kidding yourself if you think it isn’t.’
A slow meditative dreaminess overtook Jonty at this point. As he moved on to the next sheep and then the next he seemed to be moving into a different space inside his head as well. He’d stopped being the wild, reckless guy that Tom had been mucking around with before. Tom looked at his watch. Only an hour before they’d been under the bridge, smoking, spluttering and giggling, raving on about music and getting stoned.
The life-is-a-jungle crap was what his father was always on about. He loved to rave on about the survival of the fittest. Get used to it, buddy! What else had Jonty learnt from his father? Tom watched his friend cut another throat. Jonty’s feelings about his old man were way more complex than he ever admitted. Tom often heard the grudging admiration in Jonty’s voice when he told the latest funny story about Jed.
Jonty had killed five sheep by the time the police arrived. The unmistakable high-pitched siren set alight Tom’s most basic instinct to hide or run. What will they say? He watched Jonty’s expression change as the police siren became louder. His wild green eyes gleamed with renewed excitement. He was going to enjoy whatever came next. At that moment, Tom truly admired him. He did. He was proud to have such an audacious and courageous friend. But it was at that moment, too, that Tom knew that he was different, and that their paths would eventually diverge.
If not today, then some time in the future.
‘So how are you feeling?’ A female voice breaks Tom’s train of thought. He twists his head around but can’t see who is talking. Gradually his eyes pick up the detail. A girl in jeans and a fitted black polo-neck jumper bends to put a tray onto the little coffee table. She flicks back a long loose ponytail and drags the table nearer to him. That’s when he sees her face and the puzzle all falls into place.
‘Alice?’ Tom says warily.
‘Yeah.’ She pours hot tea into a mug.
It’s all flooding back now: the concert, the fight and Jonty coming to his aid. Then Alice and her friends in the taxi. But lying on a bed in this room still doesn’t quite make sense.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘It’s nearly five now.’ She looks at her watch.
‘So have you been at work today?’ Tom asks.
‘It’s Sunday,’ she answers curtly.
‘Is this where you live?’
‘My grandmother’s place.’ She puts two spoonfuls of sugar in the steaming cup, without asking if Tom wants it or not, and then sits on the end of the bed holding it out for him to take. He sits up a bit trying to ignore the pain in his arse and side. ‘I rang and told your dad about what happened. Told him I’d call him again when you woke up.’
‘Jeez.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘Okay. Thanks.’ Only home three weeks and he’s already making a fool of himself! The old man will be fine about it all but that bloody Nanette will put it on him for sure. The woman is one big drag. Running after him all the time, making him feel like he’s some little kid who needs a big sister called Nanette to sort out what he’ll wear and eat that day – not to mention how he’s going to plan the rest of his life! Tom doesn’t know how his old man puts up with it. This little fiasco will play right into her fucking toolbox. Get her right in the groove she likes best.
‘So my old man’s gonna pick me up?’ he asks grimly.
‘Yeah, but you’ll have to walk to the gate,’ the girl tells him. ‘I don’t want her to know about you being here.’
‘Your grandmother?’ Tom takes the mug with two hands which are, much to his embarrassment, trembling. ‘Why not?’ He brings it to his mouth and the tea sloshes out onto his shirt, scalding his chest. He looks down. It’s not his shirt. It’s some old worn khaki thing about ten sizes too big. He is about to ask her about it but she is looking away blankly, frowning as though she’s already thinking of something else far more important. The tea is fantastic, though, so Tom slurps it down thirstily.
‘She goes berserk,’ she explains at last, breaking open a packet of sweet biscuits and offering them to Tom, ‘if she sees a strange car in the grounds.’
‘My old man knows her,’ Tom takes two biscuits and stuffs them into his mouth. It hurts to chew but he’s starving, ‘and you’re working for him
.’
She shrugs dismissively.
‘The doctor is coming to check you again, then we’ll go.’
‘Again?’ Tom says in surprise. ‘I don’t remember any doctor.’
‘Who do you think bandaged your face?’ she snaps.
Whoa! Her irritable tone startles Tom. This chick doesn’t like me one little bit, in spite of the nice-kind-nurse routine.
‘She’ll see his car won’t she?’
‘He’s in with her now . . . I told him to come down afterwards, and not to say anything.’
‘Listen, I reckon I’ll be okay.’ Tom finishes off the tea. Alice takes the cup and refills it without asking if he wants more. In fact, another cup would go down very well, but Tom wants out, so he starts shifting himself around a bit testing to see how bad his injuries are. Apart from the face, it’s just the ribs and bum and left shin that really hurt. He figures he’ll be able to walk. He doesn’t want to hang around with this girl. The little scene in the office where he was only trying to be friendly comes back and . . . sticks in his throat.
‘Hey listen, Alice,’ he says, shifting his legs gingerly onto the floor. ‘Thanks, but I’ll go get checked out by my own doctor.’ He tries to stand up but the movement makes him dizzy. A wave of nausea floods over him again and he falls back against the pillows.
‘Ah shit!’ he whispers. His breath is really painful too.
‘You had concussion,’ she hands him the second mug of tea, ‘two cracked ribs, a lot of bruising and . . .’ She is frowning deeply as she folds her arms tightly across her chest, not looking at Tom.
‘So?’ He tries a smile on her with no results. ‘I’m tough.’
She hands him two more biscuits with her fingers.
‘Listen, I know you’re sick and everything,’ she says, ignoring his weak attempt at a joke, ‘but I need to ask you something.’ She gets up and stands a few feet away, looking down at him, arms still crossed, her long fingers playing up and down her arms nervously as though she’s practising the piano. Her face swims a little in front of his eyes. So much like her mother! Younger of course and there is a whole different vibe about her too, more serious, whereas Lillian was always smiling. That’s it. This girl is frowning so hard that her eyebrows nearly meet in the middle of her face. Underneath all his aches and pains, Tom feels wary.
‘Fire away,’ he says coolly, wishing like hell he had an easy escape. He curses his own idiocy and swears not to ever get caught in this kind of situation again. He couldn’t give a shit if the wacko fat chick is Lillian’s kid and working for his old man – maybe it is because of those things – but he doesn’t want anything to do with her.
‘Did Jonty van der Weihl kill my mother?’
Tom’s head jerks up in shock and he’s looking straight into her big dark eyes. They’re like pools of water, two lakes on a calm day, so deep you can’t see the bottom.
He is not sure if he’s heard right. Maybe he imagined it.
Still frowning, she stares back at him, waiting. Then, when he doesn’t say anything, she goes over to the window and pulls the blinds open. The room floods with soft winter light. No more the quaint little film set; the room is a simply furnished workman’s flat.
He can see her properly now, too. She’s actually beautiful. Tom shakes his head about to say that he has no idea how to answer her question and that until the police charge someone and bring them to trial then no one should really speculate. But he doesn’t say it. He can’t somehow. There is something about this girl that demands the truth.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says, looking straight at her.
‘You think it’s possible?’ she says quietly.
‘Anything is possible.’
‘You know him. Do you think he did it?’
Tom looks away. ‘Yes,’ he says calmly. ‘I think he did it.’
He’s not looking at her, so he can’t see her face but he hears her sharp intake of breath.
‘Will you help me, then?’ she whispers.
Help her? What the hell does that mean?
But . . . he knows. He knows what she means and what’s more he knows with everything in him that he doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. He puts his cup down and tries again to sit up properly, this time with better results. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, gingerly bringing his feet to the floor and he doesn’t feel too bad. So far, so good.
The truth is, he doesn’t want anything to do with either of them, Jonty or Alice. He doesn’t want to see either of them again or have to think about the murder ever again! His feet are on the floor now and both his arms are propping him up. He just needs to stand and he’ll be right. He manages to do this and then looks around for where his shoes might be.
Right near his feet as it turns out. He slowly slips one on and then the other. He’ll walk home without doing them up.
‘No,’ he says, looking straight at her. ‘I am very sorry about what happened to your mother . . . but the answer is no. It’s all over as far as I’m concerned. I can’t help you.’
alice
So it’s all over. All over! I would laugh except I’m crying so hard. All over! My mother is murdered and it doesn’t matter to him that whoever did it is walking around this town, free as a bird? It’s all over for him. Finished. What gives that skinny tall smartarse the right to look me in the eye and say that? I wish I could kill him! I would too if I could get away with it . . . I’d come around to his house and bash his head in with a brick if I could!
All over?
I don’t believe him. Not for a minute. It’s NOT all over . . . even for him. It’s not all over for anyone.
It is not until three weeks after that weird night that Alice sees Tom again.
Alice loves her hands. Enjoys looking at the long pale fingers and the perfectly oval cuticles. Like little half moons. Unlike the rest of her body, which feels like someone else’s half the time, her hands truly belong to her. They are subtle and elegant and quick, and they give her real pleasure.
Her job is good for perfectly tended, elegant hands. Sitting at the desk tapping away and then reaching out for the phone and taking a call, writing notes with one hand, drumming the desk with the other. Why, she could be anybody! That lovely clicking sound of nails on wood never fails to gives Alice courage, makes her feel older than her eighteen years, as though she might be able to direct the outcome of events, after all. Yes, it’s her birthday today! From today the little cottage in Pitt Street is legally hers. Alice has all kinds of plans that she won’t tell anyone about.
After three weeks in Luke’s office, the whole sensation of working on a film set hasn’t left Alice. She enjoys acting her part, typing letters neatly, along with answering the phone and putting people on hold. She enjoys opening the mail every day and arranging it into piles, and folding letters, putting them into envelopes and popping them in the post, then hurrying back to the office for the next task. It is so much better than hanging around at home or being at uni. She likes taking orders from the gently spoken Martha, who is always patient and kind, and knows how to have a joke too.
Sometimes Alice gets to knock quietly on Luke’s door to see if he might be free to speak to someone important or to sign some papers, and she loves the way his face brightens when he sees her walk in.
‘G’day there Alice!’ he exclaims in a loud friendly voice, the concentrated frown rolling away as he holds out his blunt, middle-aged, nail-bitten hand. ‘So what have you got for me today?’ He might grin as he takes the papers from her, thump them down on the desk, and say something like, ‘The usual crap, I take it?’ which will have them both laughing. Or he might push his chair back and put his hands behind his head and give her some dry advice like, ‘Get into some field that doesn’t involve other people’s problems, Alice. Take it from me!’ Or he’ll give her a quick run-through of his take on something. ‘Real Estate agents have to be the most rapacious greedy bastards on the face of this earth, Alice. Much worse than la
wyers! Remember you heard that first here!’
Once, he waved for her to sit down opposite him. He finished his phone call and then asked her seriously if everything was okay. Was she happy working in his office? Alice became immediately wary, wondering if this was a prelude to telling her she’d done something wrong. Absolute panic set in when she thought he might be going to sack her! Oh God!
‘Yes,’ she gulped, and managed to mumble, ‘very happy.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he said, eyeing her seriously, not having noticed any of her inner consternation, ‘because we’re very happy with you. Martha tells me you are an absolute pleasure to have in the office. No surprise to me, though; I knew you’d be good.’ His mobile phone suddenly rang and he frowned and rolled his eyes when he checked who the caller was. ‘Got to take this one I’m afraid, Alice,’ he smiled at her. But before putting the phone to his ear he said warmly, ‘You’re a real asset to have around, Alice! I hope you’ll stay with us for a while longer.’
Alice left his office walking on air, almost crying with happiness.
I wish you were my father! is the sentence that flies through her head. Your son doesn’t deserve you!
Occasionally the younger staff members invite Alice out for a coffee at lunchtime, and once or twice they suggest she might like to go out with them to the pub on Friday night. She is polite, but she always declines. She has Sylvie and Leyla to go out with on the weekends, and at work Luke and Martha are more than enough.
Luke is regularly in court representing all kinds of clients. But this day is more serious, so he’s briefed a city barrister to defend a client on aggravated assault and burglary charges. Late in the day he calls through to the office for some documents to be brought down to the court as soon as possible, and Martha suggests Alice take them.
The trial is upstairs in Courtroom Six. Alice pushes open the heavy silent door nervously, and bows to the judge in the way she’s been told. She stands by the door looking around for Luke. Ah! There he is, sitting at a table under the judge’s bench with about six other barristers and lawyers, all of them dressed in wigs and gowns. The jury of twelve is seated to the left of the judge and a pale-skinned middle-aged woman in a dark suit is in the dock giving evidence. Feeling self-conscious in her flat shoes and winter coat, Alice has to steel herself to walk past the public gallery, the security guards and the police. She hands over the file, feeling as though every eye is on her.
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