by Emily Brewin
‘Watch it,’ a man with a knapsack calls as she elbows him away.
The run to the police station is a blur. Shops and signs and trams and cars and cyclists in high-vis vests merge into a messy streak.
She could have tried the other phone number, spoken to Detective White instead, but she doesn’t trust him. At least Detective Khanna doesn’t look down her nose when she speaks.
A couple of officers, guns snug in their belts, look at her sternly as she hurries past them into the police station, and a bald man with a large birthmark on his face glances up from a row of plastic seats. The reception desk is empty.
The bell makes a high tinny ding as she strikes it and she spots herself on the security screen behind the desk.
‘Must be a busy day,’ the bald man says, putting the pamphlet he’d been reading back into the plastic holder on the wall.
She cranes her neck, trying to see into the offices she knows exist behind the mirrored glass wall, and catches her reflection, the grey face and dark grooves of her eyes. It shocks her. She wallops the bell again.
The bald man gives her a look.
‘Jesus!’
A door behind the desk opens and a police officer with red streaks in her hair walks through. The desk comes up to her chest.
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Senior Constable Khanna, is she here?’
The officer purses her lips. ‘She’s busy. What can I do for you?’
Rosie looks up at the screen, catches her fidgeting hands and thin cheeks, and knows the police officer thinks she’s dealing with an addict. She can see it in her eyes. Bemused tolerance.
‘I’m Petey Larson’s mum. I saw the news.’ Her voice catches as something dawns in the officer’s face.
‘Right.’ She unlocks a swing gate beside the desk and lets Rosie through, suddenly serious. ‘Follow me.’
They pass through an empty room and into an overlit corridor. The policewoman leads the way, her pants hitched high at the waist, her dark uniform contrasting with the white walls. Other police work in small offices on either side of the corridor, and two women without uniforms talk next to a water cooler, glancing up as they pass.
‘Dell still in that meeting?’ the officer with red streaks asks, inclining her head. ‘This is Petey Larson’s mum.’
The women stare for a moment before one of them takes the officer aside. The other walks away. The water filter bubbles and someone laughs nearby. Rosie tenses. The man on the news could be anywhere by now. Brown hair, Caucasian, the newsreader said. It could be half the men in Melbourne, but she knows it’s Joel. Her heart lifted slightly when they mentioned Petey. Someone’s seen him, and he’s all right. She tries to focus on that.
‘Miss Larson,’ the woman in plain clothes walks over. ‘Come with me.’
The officer with red streaks in her hair glances back over her shoulder as she strides away.
The tin plaque beside the door says ‘interview room one’. The woman unlocks it and ushers Rosie inside before leaving again. ‘One minute.’
The room brings back bad memories of all the times she’s been hauled in, the blank walls and heavy door that slams when it closes, so you know you’re trapped.
The last time had been for possession, for a gram of weed she was carrying in her handbag for Joel. Just enough to stir the interest of a couple of cops with nothing better to do.
She was a prime target, the way she loitered out the front of the supermarket, dress hanging off her bony frame, smoking her way through a packet of Winnie Reds. Joel had told her to wait while he nabbed beers from the bottle shop. He didn’t come back. She waited for hours, until someone called the cops and they went through her bag.
Later at the station they questioned her. She didn’t talk though. Finally they got bored or finished their shift and let her go with a warning. It was past midnight by the time she got back to the warehouse and a small fire cast a shadow on the concrete floor. Joel was there too, on a broken chair beside the fire with Kelly’s legs wrapped around him.
He smirked when he saw her but said nothing, and she was too tired to find anywhere else to sleep.
The light ticks overhead. Detective Khanna walks in briskly.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ She sits and leans across the table to address Rosie, black liner rimming her dark eyes.
‘Someone spotted him.’ Rosie cracks. ‘At Epping station.’ It comes out in quick bursts. ‘Did you know? Have they found him?’
Her entire body strains forward, willing the detective to say yes.
‘It wasn’t him.’ Detective Khanna blinks. ‘We checked the CCTV footage straight away and tracked the guy down. It was just a bloke taking his son to footy training.’
The air thins.
The boy had blond hair like Petey. White. She shakes her head. ‘The witness got it wrong?’ It’s hard to breathe.
‘I’m sorry.’ The detective puts her hands on the table, long fingers fanned, a gold band bright against her dark skin.
The air won’t come fast enough. Rosie’s chest pumps with the effort of breathing and she doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry. He’s been gone five days.
The detective glances at the door. ‘We’ve got other leads, Rosie.’
Something in her tone makes the air flow back in.
A door clatters shut in the distance and there are footsteps in the hall. Suddenly the room is safe compared to the street outside. The thought of leaving it, to make her way home through the noise and the traffic and the people going about their business, is terrifying.
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Detective Khanna withdraws her beautiful hands from the table.
Rosie nods then turns to watch her go. The big door opens just long enough to catch a glimpse of Detective White walking past with two uniformed officers and Joel.
Isobel
DOCTOR VANN SCRATCHES the side of his nose while he scans her file. It’s frustrating, the way he can see her personal information when she can’t.
At home there’s a folder in the filing cabinet bulging with documents about ovulation cycles, mucus temperature readings, blood tests, trigger injections and egg collection. It’s organised chronologically so she can dip in and out of any date. She didn’t go near it during those few precious weeks of pregnancy, and it made her ache to have to open it again, to flick back through it to the very beginning.
‘So,’ he says finally, ‘you miscarried at … six weeks?’
The room is large and tastefully furnished. Plants in brass pots line a large window ledge and a print of Gustav Klimt’s Mother and Child glints gold on the wall behind the desk. It’s a strange choice of artwork for such a clinical man.
‘Yes.’
He glances at her over the top of his frameless glasses. ‘It’s not uncommon.’
The child in the print sleeps soundly against his mother’s breast, eyes closed in restful pleasure. Isobel imagines the skin on the child’s back like silk, breath rising sweetly to his mother’s nose. It’s torture to look at.
‘I’m aware of that.’
Doctor Vann pushes his chair back from the desk. ‘The good news is you’ve got another embryo.’
‘One,’ she says loudly, so as to be clear.
‘Yes.’ He entwines his fingers. ‘But it’s high quality.’ It sounds as if he’s discussing a new kitchen appliance. ‘So our chances are good.’
Marcus wouldn’t think so. It makes her cringe to think he hasn’t noticed her body’s stopped changing, that it’s lost its glow. But how could he know? He hardly ever sees her naked, and when he does he’s indifferent. On the odd occasion when he asks how she’s feeling she tells him the truth, that she’s beyond tired.
The thought of trying to convince him to do IVF again is exhausting. He agreed the first time out of duty or pity, but something’s shifted since then; forgotten meetings are recalled at the last minute and he doesn’t ask about her day anymore. He’s hardly ever home and when he is, he’s
not really there. There are empty spaces in the house where once there was dinnertime conversation and breakfast in bed and Sunday morning sex.
She’s sure he’s punishing her for those years when he wanted children and she wasn’t ready. If she didn’t know better she’d be worried he knew about the nights in the hotel. But how could he?
Bernard comes to mind, his slim wrists and long fingers, so different from Marcus. It’s almost five years since he unbuttoned her blouse that last time. Their child would be four. It makes her ache to think about.
‘Try again and you’re in with a chance. If you don’t, you’re not.’ Doctor Vann blinks behind his glasses. ‘It’s a simple equation.’
She clears her throat, willing herself not to ask the question. But she has to; it’s a compulsion, like a tick. ‘You’re sure the abortion hasn’t been the issue?’
Doctor Vann picks up a pen from his desk and pinches it between two fingers. ‘Isobel, I’ve told you before.’ He turns the pen. ‘And it’s still the same answer.’
Pressure mounts in her chest.
‘If the procedure was done properly, you have nothing to worry about.’
And disperses.
She bites her cheek. It was all taken care of very professionally, in the nice clean clinic in Richmond. Very efficient too: she was doped up, scraped out and sent home after a couple of hours. To be honest, it was perfect timing, if that was possible in such circumstances. Marcus was working in the States for five weeks and didn’t have a clue.
‘Thanks.’
‘Now go home and discuss it with your husband.’ He clears his throat after the word ‘husband’, as if he knows about her deception. ‘Take some time to think it over.’
The computer hums.
‘But not too long.’
He doesn’t need to say any more. She knows how old she is. Her file reads ‘geriatric primigravida’. Marcus laughed when he saw it. It was the only thing about IVF that made him happy.
‘Do you know how much money those places make out of selling people dreams?’ he asked her after that appointment.
She could have slapped him but didn’t; it was best not to rock the boat.
Doctor Vann waits.
‘We’ll be back.’ She smiles thinly. She’ll tell Marcus about the miscarriage tonight, convince him somehow to do another round.
The doctor nods and turns back to his computer while she examines the print again. From this angle, the woman has the same square jaw as her mother, protective against her child’s head. Quick as a flash, Isobel is the child and then the mother too.
Rosie
DETECTIVE KHANNA’S HANDS are stronger than they look. Her wide, straight nails dig into Rosie’s arm as she pulls her back from Joel.
She held a fistful of his jacket. Her hand is still oily with it, but it’s not enough. Hatred spews from her mouth, a clash of words, and she springs at him again, despite the detective’s grip. Officers leave their rooms and rush to drive them apart. It’s no use though. Her hate for Joel is stronger than all of them.
‘Where is he?’ she screams, swiping away the arms trying to stop her. ‘Tell me where he is!’
Joel looks less surprised than he should, as if he half expected her, after all this time, to suddenly appear before him. There’s something different about him too. She spots it in his face this time when she gets up close, beyond the scar in his eyebrow and his crooked nose. She can’t put a finger on it but it makes her want to hit him harder. He doesn’t fight back.
She used to be the one who took the beatings. Towards the end, when Petey was an unknown bud inside her, they got worse. Joel was in big debt and hitting her released the pressure. It was better to take it than to fight back. Fighting back just pissed him off more.
One night, after a junkie told Joel their dealer was seriously going to kill him if he didn’t cough up, he sent her out on the street. It wasn’t the first time but it was happening more often.
‘The works this time,’ he yelled, as she squeezed through the hole in the tin door. ‘Do something useful.’
It was what Vera said while she drank cask wine in front of the telly. ‘After all I’ve done for you.’
On the street, the cold seeped up from the ground and into her bones so she couldn’t feel her toes anymore, and the steam from her mouth kept her hands warm. She was used to the headlights slinking past. Sometimes they slowed and a pair of eyes blinked hard in the dark, taking in her fake fur coat and cowboy boots. She never smiled.
It was this or a beating, sometimes both if she didn’t make enough for their next hit. Occasionally a car window would wind down so she could reel off her services like items on a truck-stop menu. Blowies, hand jobs, tits out in the dark. She’d lean in and see jackets and CDs and kid car seats strapped in the back.
‘What about a root?’
‘Nup.’
Most of them drove away then. She paid for it later, but the grain of warmth she got from saying no was worth it. It was still her body. It was all she had left.
That night on the kerb, a man in an Audi pulled up. He barely put his head out the window so she had to creep closer. He smelt of money, reminding her of the scams she used to do when she still had the looks and the pride to pull them off. Rich blokes were easy. They had the biggest egos.
‘What are you offering?’ His hair was slicked back and he loosened his tie as he talked.
She knew when to inflate her prices. ‘Basics.’ One overpriced hand job and Joel would never be the wiser.
‘That’s it?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m happy to pay …’
Rain speckled the windscreen and needled her face. Her clothes would be wet for hours. Up close, the warm air from the car’s heater mingled with the pine tree air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror. It smelt like Christmas. It’d be easy, and warm, and he might even drive her home afterwards.
Headlights swung past, crawling towards another girl further up the road.
If she charged him enough she wouldn’t need to work the rest of the week. She could sit in and … what? What would she do? Relax with Joel in their fucking love nest?
The man glanced out the windscreen, keen to get moving, his watch glinting in the streetlight.
She stepped back from the car, feet squelching in her shoes, and let him roll away, a kernel of satisfaction bursting in her chest as he disappeared around the corner. It didn’t last long though. Joel took care of that. When she got back, he punched her in the face.
Detective Khanna wraps her arms around Rosie’s, holding them down until the fight goes out of her.
‘Get him out of here,’ Detective White shouts at two male officers gripping Joel’s shoulders. They’re slighter than Joel and it looks almost comical.
‘Just tell me where Petey is,’ she starts to plead.
The officers try to pull Joel back but he doesn’t budge. He stares at her with pit black eyes and a stupid smile. One of his teeth is missing. Jail obviously wasn’t kind to him. It gives her a pang of pleasure.
‘I don’t know.’ His voice is like gravel.
‘Bullshit.’ She glares.
Detective White inhales, but doesn’t order him away again.
‘It was you, I know it was. What about the phone calls?’
He twitches. ‘I just wanted to meet him, Rosie.’ Then stands a little straighter. ‘He’s my kid too.’
‘You prick!’ Her arms burn as she tears them from Detective Khanna’s grip. The officers stop her from reaching him.
‘He’s lying!’ She looks at Detective Khanna, who shakes her head.
The officers jerk Joel back, forcing him to walk the corridor, away from her.
‘Sorry,’ he calls pathetically over his shoulder before they push him into an interview room.
She collapses. Sorry. The word is worse than all the bruises he’s ever given her, because now Petey is missing without a trace.
Isobel
SHE DOESN’T ANSWER the phone despite
the way it vibrates a path across the benchtop. It’s her father. She’ll call him back as soon as the chook’s done. Marcus will be home in half an hour and it’s still frozen in the middle. It’s revolting to touch. But chicken is his favourite so she persists, cutting the binding string so its legs flop open.
He cried when she told him she lost the baby late the night before. She’d been ready for a fight, but he’d hugged her like old times so her defences crumbled and she took him to bed. Under the covers he touched her gently, smoothing out her sadness so it seemed smaller than before, a pebble instead of a boulder. It was good. It was a sign of things improving.
She places the chook carefully on a dinner plate, wincing at its pulpy flesh in her hands. Cooking has never been her forte. But tonight is the night. The chicken droops over the plate and she wonders how to thaw its middle out. Her mother would know. She sighs and puts the chicken in the microwave before pouring a large glass of shiraz.
The microwave beeps as she puts the champagne on ice. It is, after all, a celebration of types. A new beginning, despite the terrible end they’ve just had. Her heart lurches as she wipes her hands on the tea towel. It’s a night for confessions too. Not Bernard, of course, but about the fear gurgling in her chest. Things need to be put right between them. Losing the baby was a sign. They’ll call a truce and try IVF again.
The microwave door springs open and the smell of half-cooked chicken fills the kitchen. It’s a little dry at the edges so she slaps it on a tray and shoves it in the oven fast, to finish it off.
She readies the table with the silver cutlery that was a wedding gift from her parents. She polishes it before laying it out carefully. Perfect. Despite this, unease descends like a fine mist. It might take more than dinner to convince Marcus to try for another baby.
The phone rings again, Lachlan this time. He’s been calling a lot lately to ask after her, their mother and father, as if the illness is drawing him home too. She lets it ring out.
Marcus’s key rattles in the front door. The cork from the champagne bottle shoots across the room as he walks in.
