'Okay. I'm so sorry that happened to you, Justine. I'm going to leave you alone soon, honey, but we're going to need you to come in tomorrow.' Jill put her hand on the girl's shoulder. 'You did the right thing telling me.'
'Ryan won't think so. He'll leave me.'
'Deep inside, Justine, I think Ryan already knows what they did to you, and he hasn't left you yet,' Jill said. 'And you know what, Justine? If he did leave you because you got sexually assaulted, then he's not worth it anyway.'
Jill held her while she cried a little, and then said, 'Unless you want to, honey, don't feel you have to tell anyone about this until you come in tomorrow. I'll help you tell your parents and Ryan.'
'Thanks.'
'Before we go, Justine, is there anything else you can think of that they said or did that you haven't told us yet?'
Justine looked up at her. Jill saw her eyes widen with horror; she was remembering, reliving the scene. The girl swallowed, and the dead voice came back.
'Yeah,' she said. 'While he was making me do it to the other one, the spider one started cutting himself on his stomach with a knife, and then he . . . came.'
Jill couldn't speak for a moment. 'He . . . what? He did what?' She listened to the girl crying almost inaudibly.
Finally, she asked quietly, 'Justine, was there any blood or semen left in your room afterwards?'
'Yeah,' the girl nodded, and then hung her head, 'on the floor, but I wiped it up.'
'That's okay Justine. That's okay.'
As she left the house, Jill had her mobile out and was already dialling.
10
'JOSS, YOU'VE GOT to talk to me.' Isobel had tucked Charlie into bed, and now sat down next to him on the lounge. 'Who was that?'
'I told you in the car,' Joss's voice was glass. 'I knew him when I was growing up. He's violent. He's been in gaol. You know I don't want anything to do with my past.'
'Yeah, but I've never heard you talk like that. What would be wrong with just acknowledging him and moving on?'
'For fuck's sake, Isobel! Why do you have to question everything I do? I told you, he's fucking dangerous.'
'Do you think you could try any harder to wake Charlie?' Isobel stood. 'Anyway,' she said, turning away, 'the police called. They have to re-interview us about the robbery. They're going to call tomorrow to set up a time.'
She left the room before he could respond.
Great. Just great. What did they want? Joss stared at the blank television screen. He felt hunted, trapped. How had Cutter found him? He knew it was no coincidence. Twenty years and he'd never seen anyone from his past life, and now he'd seen Cutter twice in just over a week. How long had he been watching them? Did he know where they lived? He looked around his loungeroom. How had he let this danger into his life? Why was this happening to him?
An image of Fuzzy, scrabbling at his throat, blood everywhere, flashed into his mind. It seemed to answer his question.
Cursing under his breath, he reached for the remote control, desperate to find something to replace the scenes and sounds in his head. On each station, Fuzzy's fourteen-year-old eyes pleaded with Joss to help him, jets of blood pumping from the gash in his neck. Joss's hands, wet with blood, trying to hold his friend's throat together.
He threw the remote onto the cushion next to him and made his way to the kitchen, unconsciously wiping his hands on his jeans. Reaching into the cupboard, he took out the bottle, a glass. He filled it completely, a wave of the amber liquid sloshing over the side onto his hand. Eyes unfocused, he downed half the glass, relishing the burning. He coughed, swallowed the rest, and poured again, then took the glass and the remainder of the bottle of bourbon back into the loungeroom, noting with relief that he'd seen a new bottle at the back of the cupboard. This was going to be a long night.
Fuzzy's face had left the TV screen, but Joss could still smell his blood. He downed another half glass before the blood of the kids in Rwanda took over. The screaming and hacking of the massacre in Kibeho crowded into his brain and he had to stop midway to the couch; he put his glass down on the dining table so he could hold his head in his hands. Leaning forward, praying the memories would leave him alone, that his brain wouldn't burst, he finally felt his medicine taking effect, the heat of the alcohol in his belly. He fell into the cushions of the lounge, pulled the bottle closer, and turned the volume of the television up a little.
ABC news. He moved to flip the channel, not ready for any more reality, when the top story caught his eye. Another home invasion. Last night. He sat forward in the seat, suddenly very sober. This time someone was dead.
It was as if he'd left the door from hell wide open, and a demon had walked on through. He thought of his girls, upstairs. He had to get them out of here.
Then, he had to find Cutter.
Jill sat at the computer in her loungeroom in her singlet and briefs. She googled 'M5 motorway' to find the site to register for an electronic toll payment tag. The department would reimburse her for the monthly fees. She didn't know how long she'd be out at Liverpool, but she wasn't going to wait in the M5 toll queue with the motorists paying cash every day. She was surprised her department vehicle hadn't been fitted with a tag already. The car was brand new; maybe that explained it.
She sighed and stretched. The trip there and back was a bitch. It took two hours of her day: time she could be training. She looked down at her belly and grimaced. For years, her stomach had been unyielding, creaseless. She poked at a small fold above her knickers and walked into her gym.
Truth is, I kind of like looking like this, Jill thought, looking at her mirrored reflection. She'd had to change out of her push-up bra this morning because her décolletage had rendered her fitted shirt obscene. She smiled at the curve of her usually hard buttocks. The extra five kilos had even changed her face a little – fewer hard angles.
But soft is dead, she told herself.
She scowled at the mirror and increased the angle on her incline bench to forty-five degrees. As she started on six sets of fifty sit-ups, she realised she missed the pain. Her mind drifted back to work.
Following her phone call from the Rice residence, Superintendent Last had arranged for a tech truck to travel to the house. He'd called her at home at eight with the results. Not only had luminol fluoresced all over the floorboards and the rug in Justine's bedroom, revealing the presence of organic matter, but Justine had also presented the techies with a plastic shopping bag.
'What was in it?' Jill had asked her new boss. What else did this girl have to tell them?
'A bath towel,' he'd said evenly. 'She kept it after wiping up the blood and semen. Can you believe it?'
'She wanted to tell us what happened. She just couldn't put it into words the first time, and then the lie got too big,' said Jill.
'Great work, Jill.' His voice was exhausted. He sounded old. 'We should get results from the sample tomorrow afternoon. What they get from the other trace you found out at Capitol Hill with Gabriel should follow.'
Jill lost count at one hundred crunches, caught up in her thoughts. Before leaving Justine, she'd helped the girl to tell Ryan and her mother what had happened upstairs. Ryan had taken off, hate and tears in his eyes. She wondered whether he'd returned yet, and what would happen between the young couple.
She'd seen it all before. Sometimes the male ego couldn't take the blow when his partner had been sexually assaulted. All of her tears following a rape were, in some men's eyes, accusations of weakness, reproaches because he hadn't been able to protect her. When the victim also held a corresponding unspoken belief that her partner should have been there, stopped it, the couple rarely made it. When they did, sometimes Jill felt they shouldn't have: the anger would eat them alive.
Jill had ensured that Narelle Rice had all the phone numbers for the community services that could help. She'd follow up and urge Justine and Ryan to have counselling. It had taken a few years and a couple of different therapists for Jill to gain some relief following h
er own ordeal. Still, killing her rapist years later was what had given her the most release. Now that was something you never got told in therapy. The memory of his death was still a strong, clear image. She tried to tell herself that the healing came from the knowledge that he could never hurt her again. She forced herself not to relive the satisfaction of kicking him to death.
She unhooked her ankles and rolled off the incline bench onto the floor. Nine-thirty. She longed for the shower and her bed. Instead, she walked the well-trodden path to her hand weights and took them back to the bench. Three sets of dumbbell flies first.
11
'I'M NOT GOING.'
'Isobel. I told you. He'll come here. I can identify him.'
Joss stood in the kitchen facing his wife, her arms folded in determination; his, to keep from throwing up. Fortunately, Isobel became very quiet when angry. His hangover was a living entity this morning.
He'd decided last night that he had to tell his wife the truth – that he had recognised one of the men from the home invasion, the most violent of all of them, the man who had almost cut her boss's legs off. He had told Isobel the man's name, Henry Nguyen, Cutter, and that he had known him from his childhood in Cabramatta.
'I understand that we've got to do something about it,' Isobel said. 'But I'm not leaving you. Charlie and I are staying right here. We've got to tell the police. We'll tell them now.'
The most reasonable statement in the world, thought Joss, except that telling the police would change their lives forever, maybe even send him to gaol. He'd left all that behind him. The old Joss was dead. He had to do everything he could to hang on to the new world he'd built for himself.
'I've only told you half the story,' he said.
'You're kidding.'
His eyes showed he was not.
For the first time in his life, Joss told someone what had happened to Fuzzy.
In her kitchen, Jill prepared herself some lunch to take to work, emptied her dishwasher. After stacking her breakfast dishes inside it, she looked around for her handbag. She spotted it near the front door. When she bent to pick it up, she groaned with the pain from her stomach muscles. After a couple of attempts she managed to grab the bag using just one handle. Its contents tipped out onto the floor. For the second time, the vegetables from the Asian food store spilled everywhere, and she remembered the scene from yesterday.
Laughing aloud, Jill squatted to retrieve them, and was still smiling when she left her apartment.
Joss heard the empathy in his boss's voice when he told him he'd be taking a second day away from work. His dangerous 'accident' would be the topic of the lunchroom again today. His colleagues had clucked with alarm when he'd told them he'd fallen from a ladder, leaving him relieved he'd not told them the real reason for his bruised face. It reminded the assessors of the other freak-accidents-around-the-home they'd processed over the years. Apparently, more people died in their bathrooms than in motor vehicle collisions, he'd heard at lunch on Monday.
Isobel had insisted that she would go to work.
'I might be able to find Cutter,' she'd reasoned. When he'd told her about Fuzzy, and explained to her why he couldn't tell the police about his connection to Cutter, she hadn't flinched. Instead, she was in problem-solving mode, and he wished he'd trusted her earlier.
Isobel worked for one of the three largest law firms in Australia. Her role included investigating the paper trail of anyone who wasn't on their side, and sometimes those who were. She had access to almost every piece of electronic information the police did. Privacy meant little if you had the technology and resources to get around the flimsy obstacles set up to protect it.
For his part, Joss was going to see his mother. Back to where it all began.
Tiptoeing up from the loungeroom last night, with most of the second bottle of bourbon rendering the staircase a roiling escalator, Joss had wheeled a chair from the study out to the hallway in front of the linen closet. He'd positioned the swivel chair under the manhole cover and held onto it until the floor stopped moving. Managing to climb onto the seat of the chair, he stood with his feet slightly apart and his hand on the wall to stop the spinning.
As quietly as possible he'd popped the manhole cover, sliding it back into the roof. Ordinarily, he would easily have been able to pull himself from the chair up into the dark cavity overhead. Last night, however, when he'd gripped the edge of the manhole and tried to launch himself up, his feet had propelled the wheeled chair into the closed doors of the master bedroom. With Isobel standing over him holding a tearful Charlie, he'd summoned as much dignity as he could muster and made his way to his side of the bed, where he found himself this morning.
Problem was, now he couldn't keep his mind off the toolbox in the ceiling.
The knife had gone into the box when he'd returned from Rwanda. He'd moved the box from the ceiling in their former home to this house when they moved in five years ago, and as far as he knew, no one else knew what was inside.
Isobel had some idea of the horrors of the genocide in Africa. He knew that when he'd come home, she'd read everything she could find about the Australian peacekeepers' role there. She knew that Joss was one of the thirty or so Australian soldiers who'd been on-site during the Kibeho massacre, when four thousand Hutus had been slaughtered over the course of four days in a displaced person's camp of one hundred thousand people. Thousands more had been horribly wounded. She knew that the rules of engagement for the Australians had prohibited them firing their weapons unless they were directly fired upon. They were expressly forbidden from using their firearms in defence of the civilians.
Two battalions of Tutsi warriors had surrounded the camp, convinced it was harbouring Hutu fighters. In fact, the majority of the camp consisted of women and children, but that had not stopped the bloodlust. The Tutsis had mostly used machetes in order to save bullets. The carnage would have sent any witness mad, but for a soldier, trained to defend and attack, the horror of the utter helplessness had been unspeakable. Literally. Although Isobel knew the facts released to the media, no one knew what Joss had seen and done in those three days. His brothers and sisters in arms had their own unspoken memories; he read them in their eyes on the rare occasions they caught up, but only Joss and the dead Tutsi soldier knew why he kept the knife locked in the toolbox.
He turned his eyes away as he washed his sodden, uneaten Weetbix down the sink, rinsed the breakfast dishes and left the kitchen.
Then he went back upstairs to get his knife.
Despite the humidity, Joss kept the hood up on his jacket when he changed buses at Wynyard. The bruising on his face was at its most livid this morning, and he noticed that people averted their eyes when he glanced in their direction; today that suited him fine.
As always, he felt guilty on the way to his mother's place.
His maternal grandparents had moved Joss and his mother out of Cabramatta after the car accident. The fight had left her after that. The much-loved only child of Richard and Joan Preston-Jones, lost to schizophrenia, and later heroin, was finally home.
The house in Mosman evoked a confusing mix of nostalgia and pleasure for Joss. After six months of half-arsed rebellion, he'd settled with relief into the quiet habits of his grandparents, happy to swap the chaos of his childhood for their structure and normalcy. The house was the first real home he'd ever had – he and his mother had bounced between rental units, her friends' loungerooms, squats and refuges for his first thirteen years. The sedate mansion that had smothered his mother when she was growing up was, for him, the first place he could breathe.
It hadn't been that way in the very beginning, though.
Now, staring through the rain into his childhood, his breath fogging the window on the bus, Joss thought about the only time he had tried to unite his Cabramatta past with his Mosman present. He'd been living with his grandparents for three months or so, and although he'd made a few friends at his new school, Sandhurst College, the other boys had had a great
time at his expense, filling every moment outside of class with stories of his ignorance of the social etiquette they took for granted. After fighting three of the loudest on the oval after school, they began to make comments only when they were in groups so that he couldn't distinguish the speaker, and they developed codes that sent them into fits when he walked by, like raucous packs of birds.
He had missed his brothers from Cabra. Their escapades became heroic adventures in his mind, adventures that he knew the pissants at his new school would never have survived. He remembered his face pushed into the gravel one night, squashed with Fuzzy against a railway wall while a train passed above them, deafened, aware that he would be decapitated if he raised his head just a fraction. Just when he'd thought that the screaming monster above them would suck him up, the last carriage had passed, and he and Fuzzy had risen, their legs trembling in the dark, to finish their graffiti piece on the side of the wall. They'd been legends for a year for that piece, sprayed onto a virgin wall that everyone else had assumed was untouchable.
He remembered running from the transit cops with Cutter, Hendo and Tatts, jumping fences, dropping level to level in carparks, turning back to laugh at the fat fucks running behind them. He remembered, after trashing a school, the searchlights of a police chopper turning night into day. His friends had scattered in all directions, but he'd chosen the worst route – across the school quadrangle. Two cops behind him, guns drawn, shouted at him to stop or they'd shoot. He'd imagined the bullets entering his back, but he didn't stop. He still wondered at his indifference to death that night.
And so he'd invited them over. And, unbelievably, Tatts, Esterhase and Cutter had come to Mosman. Hardly anyone knew Tatts's real name: Guo Qi Xu. Even the teachers couldn't say it properly, so they also called him Tatts. Tatts's uncle, this mad motherfucker who sold smack from his tattoo parlour, had been practising on his nephew since Tatts was six. Tatts loved the body art, and hated his real name, so everyone was happy. Mouse and Cutter wanted Tatts's uncle to do all of their crew with spiders crawling around their necks. Joss and Esterhase had copped some shit from the others when they'd refused.
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