by Derek Hansen
When the judge passed sentence all the air exploded from Grant’s lungs. He felt his legs begin to collapse beneath him, felt his hands cling to the rail in front of him for support. He glanced around wildly but neither his barrister nor solicitor was prepared to meet his eye. Instead, his eyes locked onto his ex-wife’s. She seemed as stunned as he was. In the midst of his panic, two words bounced around inside his skull, unable to find a place that would accept them. Eight years! Eight years! Eight years!
Chapter Eight
Grant Sinclair walked out of Long Bay Gaol and onto Anzac Parade to wait for the bus that would take him on the first step of his cross-town journey to his mate’s duplex in Manly. For the first time in five years and six months he was free to spend the night in a real bed instead of a bunk, in a bedroom instead of a slot, and with a woman instead of a masturbating cellmate. Weekend release was a milestone which one thousand, nine hundred and ten interminable days earlier had seemed impossibly remote, beyond both reach and hope. Like most prisoners on weekend release, Grant walked out through the gates anticipating pleasures too long denied. But his anticipation was leavened by the knowledge that weekend release, like the day releases which had preceded it, was just a brief illusion of freedom, just another element in a custodial sentence he still had to serve, and a stinging reminder of a life rightfully his that had been taken from him.
There were only three other people on the bus when Grant boarded it and he found a seat as far from them as he could. Grant still refused to accept that he was guilty or had done anything to deserve his term in gaol. Fear, resentment, bitterness and a burning desire for revenge had been constant companions every second of every minute of every hour of every day. There was no shortage of people he blamed for his incarceration, but his ex-wife stood out head and shoulders above the others. She had to pay. Pay for her lies and pay restitution. She had to pay for the fear that had enveloped him the moment his world had come to a shuddering halt, and for the outrages, humiliations and the bottomless despair that had stripped him of everything he was. Memories were the whetstone for his anger. They kept his spirit alive when everything else conspired to crush it. They got him out of his bunk every morning, got him through the tedium of the day and the bitter loneliness of night. They honed his need to get even, reinforced his determination to exact revenge.
The bus seemed to stop at every lamppost and corner but tedium was something else Grant had grown accustomed to. In the scheme of things, a forty-five-minute ride was nothing compared with a twenty-four-hour lockup in a slot. A poster advertising baked beans caught his eye and interrupted his thoughts. Baked beans. He’d made a commercial for baked beans once and had become an expert on them for as long as it had taken him to do pre-production, shoot and edit. He hadn’t given baked beans another thought until he’d wound up in gaol and discovered that they carried a premium over whatever else was put in sandwiches. The weight-lifters were prepared to fight for them because they believed the protein in the beans helped build muscles. Most of the other prisoners just wanted them for the taste. Tins of baked beans were a big-selling favourite in the buy-ups and Grant had never known a cell block that didn’t smell of them being warmed. The commercial he’d made had squarely targeted children below the age of eleven and, as far as he was concerned, that just about summed up the mental age of most of the inmates. He’d gone for the cheese and salad or cheese and pickle sandwiches, even though the cheese was bland-tasting, a plastic-looking cheddar any self-respecting mouse would turn its nose up at. But it was better and more reliable than whatever passed for cold meat. God only knew what animal it had come from and when. There’d been times when he’d had to choose between baked beans and cold meat sandwiches and gone for the cold meat so as not to deprive the weight-lifters in the line behind him of their protein. His thoughtfulness didn’t earn him thanks, just spared him a cuff around the ears.
He stepped off the bus at Circular Quay and into a cool spring breeze blowing in off the harbour. People zipped up jackets and hunched down into sweaters but the breeze made no impression on Grant. He was used to it. Heat and cold were things you learned to handle. There’d been times when he’d thought the architects of Long Bay Gaol had deliberately chosen the site as further punishment for the inmates. When the cold southerly winds blew straight in off the sea there was no escaping them. But, in truth, Long Bay wasn’t as cold as Bathurst Gaol and nowhere near as bleak as Goulburn. The winds that roared down off the snowfields and into Goulburn Gaol were as cold as a psychopath’s heart.
Grant copped an eyeful of grit as he crossed the road to the ferry building. Being Saturday morning, the street wasn’t exactly deserted but had nowhere near the midweek numbers of people. Sheets of newspaper caught the wind and tumbled along the road. Grant couldn’t help wondering what the town planners were thinking of when they allowed the giant glass and concrete towers to be built. What they needed was a spell in Long Bay to give them a dose of reality and bring them back down to earth. That would do it. The wind freshened as the ferry pulled away from the Quay. The sun was on the water and along the harbourside, seagulls circled for handouts from tourists. The gulls probably ate better than he did. Grant found a seat outside and looked forward to the thirty-minute crossing to blow away the cobwebs of five and a half years of incarceration and blunt the edge of his anger and bitterness. Despite what his probation and parole officer thought, Grant believed he had his anger under control. He wouldn’t let it spoil his weekend.
‘Hello, Dad.’
Gaol had hardened Grant to the point where murders, bashings and rapes could take place right in front of his eyes without making him blink, but no armour is without flaw.
‘Hello, Jammy.’ Grant smiled, kissed his daughter’s cheek and gently hugged her. ‘It means everything to me, you know,’ he said softly. ‘You coming to see me.’
‘I know.’
‘You look fabulous. What did I do to deserve you?’
Grant hugged her again then held her at arm’s length so that he could look at her. She was so young, fresh and innocent, absolutely gorgeous, but with a little too much of her mother in her. That was something else her mother would have to pay for: she’d robbed him of the opportunity to watch Jasmine grow up, to see her change from a gawky eight-year-old to a half-child, half-woman of fourteen. He’d refused to let her visit him, refused to let her see him in gaol, and had seen her for the first time in five years just three months earlier, on his first day release. He had her letters and her photographs to know that she still loved him and hadn’t turned her back on him, despite what had happened and despite the poison her mother must have breathed into her ears every single day he’d been inside. He’d had to wait two years — two years! — for her first tentative letter, but after that she’d written once or twice a month and he’d phoned her in between. How hard had it been for her to have her father sent to gaol, to have someone whose love, affection and presence she took for granted suddenly taken away from her? Even now as he looked at her he could sense the hurt. He took in everything about her, the streaking in her hair and the spot on the side of her chin that she’d tried to cover. What did she see when she looked back at him? He stared at her until her face flushed from embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry, Jammy. It isn’t like I’ve seen a lot of you these past few years. I was just trying to imagine what I’d missed.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Cameron?’
‘He’s waiting for us in a café on the seafront. He thought it would be nice if I met you off the ferry by myself, you know, give us a chance to talk.’ She slipped her hand in his and they headed off down The Corso.
‘Boarding still okay?’
‘Yes, it’s fine. I have fun.’
‘But you’d rather be at home.’
Jasmine didn’t answer because to respond took them into forbidden areas.
‘I can’t help feeling you’re being punished because of me.’
‘It’s okay, Dad, really. I don’t feel like I�
��m being punished. I’m with friends and I’m enjoying myself.’
‘Does your mother keep in touch?’
‘She phones every second day and on weekends when I stay over with Aunt Fran and Dave.’
Fran was her mother’s sister. Grant had never liked her and the feeling was openly mutual. He could imagine how much sympathy and understanding he’d get from her. But at least they were kind enough to take Jammy out of school for weekend leave. Weekend leave, he thought bitterly. Anyone would think she was in gaol too. Christ Almighty, his ex had a lot to answer for.
‘Do you call her?’
‘No.’
‘So how do you get in touch if something happens to you? What if you fall sick or break an arm or something?’
‘They ring Aunt Fran. She rings Mum.’
Grant sighed. Statues would weep blood before Fran gave up the number.
‘But what if it’s an emergency? Is she still in Sydney, is she nearby if you need her?’
‘Dad, you know I can’t answer those questions. I’m not allowed to tell you anything.’
Grant cursed silently. He was aware of the sudden flatness in his daughter’s voice and decided to change the subject. Her loyalties were divided, and where there was division he’d find opportunity soon enough. It was all a matter of building trust and waiting for the unguarded comment, the unthinking little slip of the tongue.
‘Tell me about yourself. How are you getting on with your studies?’
Grant listened attentively as she ran through her latest marks and boasted of her prowess at netball. The smile was back in her voice and that was enough for now.
They found Cameron sitting at one of the café’s prized pavement tables, which was sheltered from the wind and had a view right up the shore to the headland at Queenscliff. It was exactly the sort of table Grant would have demanded and been given years earlier.
‘Pity about the table,’ he said as he shook Cameron’s hand.
‘Yeah, and pity about the view,’ said Cameron.
When his production company was still small and growing, Grant had given Cameron a job and taken him under his wing, teaching him all he knew about producing. At the time, Cameron had been just a pimply street kid with not much formal education, no training at film school and few prospects. His only assets had been his persistence and a burning desire to work in films. He’d offered to work for nothing, to sweep floors, clean Grant’s car and be everyone’s lackey, just for a chance. He’d hung around reception and turned up on shoots, sometimes in the middle of the night, until Grant had weakened and given him what he wanted. They’d got on well but Cameron had never really numbered among Grant’s friends, at least, not among those who mattered. Yet it was Cameron who’d stuck by him when the shit had hit the fan, who’d visited him in gaol and kept him sane by taking care of and taping his collection of jazz records, who’d handled the sale of his townhouse and his Porsche, topped up his gaol account so he could afford the necessities and bribes to get by, who’d sponsored him for day release and now weekend release, and had even provided him with the clothes he was wearing. It was Cameron who picked Jasmine up from boarding school on his days out and who delivered her to her aunt’s safekeeping afterwards. Grant had once tried to tell Cameron how much he appreciated what he’d done for him and how much he owed him. ‘Forget it,’ Cameron had replied. ‘Ever stopped to think how much I owe you?’
Grant gave the waitress his order and stretched his legs beneath the table. Billie Holiday was softly wishing on the moon from tiny speakers strung over the doorway. Out of the wind the sun was pleasantly warm and there was a brightness to the day. He’d woken up that morning locked down in a slot and had suffered the usual breakfast of rice bubbles with milk and artificial sweetener, because sugar wasn’t allowed in gaol in case inmates used it to brew up alcoholic concoctions. Now he was sitting at a prized seafront table with his daughter and closest mate, while a parade of beautiful people passed by. He knew if he looked over the seawall there’d be young women sunbathing topless and young men whose only concern was to ride waves better than their mates. When his coffee arrived, he could put as much sugar in it as he liked and no one would object. All in good time, Cameron would take him and Jammy to a restaurant where his entrée alone would cost more than he earned in a week inside learning to operate a forklift. His daughter interrupted his thoughts.
‘Because this is your first weekend out, Aunt Fran said she’d pick me up off the ferry at Circular Quay so you and Cameron don’t have to drive me home.’
‘We don’t mind.’
‘I know that, Dad. But it’s your first weekend out and she thinks you’re entitled to have a bit of fun without me holding you back.’
‘Tell Fran I appreciate her thoughtfulness.’ So there was some good in the woman, not much, but some. His coffee arrived and he put two heaped teaspoons in it and stirred until every grain had dissolved. The smell was sensational, the taste even better. He closed his eyes as he sipped. More than anything else, good coffee with real sugar seemed the definitive expression of freedom.
‘Take your time,’ said Cameron. ‘There’s no hurry.’
No, there was no hurry. He had the weekend off but he still had six months to serve before being released on parole. He had another one hundred and eighty-two days to endure before he could set about rebuilding his life. Another Christmas would come and go, although they’d probably let him out for it. They hadn’t been so considerate on his fortieth birthday. He’d always figured he’d be rich by then and celebrate that particular milestone with a lavish party and more booze than a single truck could deliver. Instead, he’d celebrated with an overcooked lamb chop, mashed potatoes and some mushy grey-green peas with less than one hundred dollars in his gaol account.
Grant took his daughter’s hand and squeezed it. She was his until four o’clock and he was determined to make every moment special for her. After that, he and Cameron would get down to business. Cameron had arranged a barbecue for him so he could renew contact with old colleagues still in the business, people who might prove helpful further down the track. He knew his protégé would do things in style, with film caterers preparing the food, grog by the truckload and enough snort to make sure everyone had a good time. That was the one thing that worried Grant. Just being on the same premises as illegal drugs could see his weekend leave revoked and his parole put at risk. But what choice did he have? The use of coke was so rife in the industry it was considered a cost of doing business. And there’d be girls, among them enough one-time lovers to guarantee his first night out of gaol would not be lonely. That still left him an entire day to sit down with Cameron and start making plans for the film company they intended to start.
There was other important business to attend to as well. He had to begin the process of finding an ex-wife who’d gone into hiding. He noticed Jasmine looking at him curiously, as though trying to read his thoughts, and smiled. Good luck to anyone who tried. He’d grown accustomed to ignoring people around him and showing nothing of what he was thinking or how he was feeling. He decided his ex-wife could wait. What were another few hours when he’d waited five and a half years?
Neil leaned back in his chair and signalled to Gancio that he’d reached the break in his storytelling. His timing caught both the restaurateur and his friends by surprise.
‘No comments?’ he asked dryly.
‘What are you doing to us?’ said Ramon. ‘I enjoyed last week in the outback with its wide open spaces. I didn’t expect to spend the first half of the afternoon in a cell.’
‘In a slot, Ramon, get it right.’
‘You haven’t told us what Grant did to get sent to gaol,’ said Lucio.
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘It must have been something serious to get treated the way he was.’
‘The nature of the crime has nothing to do with the way he was treated,’ said Neil. ‘Everyone who goes on remand at Long Bay gets treated the same way.’
‘What about corporate criminals? What about people like Alan Bond? They get special treatment, no?’
‘No, Milos. Not when they first enter the gaol system. They might get classified low risk and ultimately be sent to a low-security prison or section of a prison, but processing takes days and in the meantime they take their chances along with everyone else.’
‘But they wouldn’t be strip-searched and humiliated like your character was. They get looked after. Money talks, no? Even in prison.’
‘Everyone gets strip-searched. That’s policy. Even corporate criminals and traffic offenders.’
‘Traffic offenders?’
‘Have an accident and seriously injure someone when you’ve had too many grappas and you’ll find out.’
‘That’s barbaric,’ said Lucio.
‘Maybe, but it’s nothing compared to what happens to you when you get thrown in gaol in Argentina, is it, Ramon? And as for Hungary — well, it’s just a stroll in the park, right, Milos? We Australians, we think we’re hard bastards, but we’re just amateurs compared to you blokes.’
‘Don’t start that again,’ said Milos. ‘The times and circumstances were entirely different.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Ramon evenly. He made room for Gancio to serve his coffee and grappa. ‘The real issue is whether we should feel sympathetic towards this Grant Sinclair and whether or not he deserved to be sent to gaol for eight years. The whole point of Neil’s story today is to give us a sense of a man wronged. Every detail is designed to heighten the sense of injustice and outrage and justify his desire for revenge, while, at the same time, putting a question mark over Linda’s character. Am I right?’
‘Are you ever wrong?’ said Neil glibly. He took a sip of grappa and washed it down with coffee. ‘Now, do I have your permission to proceed?’
‘If you’re taking us back to gaol I’d like to enjoy my grappa — and my freedom — a little longer,’ said Lucio.
