Joanna couldn’t even cope with her own child. The thought of looking after someone else’s terrified her. But she loved making Alistair happy, and everything he said was fair and right.
As they drove along the freeway towards Geelong, Joanna turned to Alistair and said, ‘Will she always hate me?’
‘She doesn’t hate you now,’ he said, touching her thigh. ‘She doesn’t know you. Everything’s going to be perfect. Everything’s going to be just great.’
*
Alistair approached every situation, no matter how difficult, in the same way: Get the facts. Decide on a plan of attack. Get the job done.
According to Alistair, these were the facts of the affair:
He and his wife were strangers. When it ended they hadn’t even had sex for a month.
Alexandra was, in fact, a mentally ill paranoid bitch with an addiction to alcohol.
He and Joanna were soul mates. She couldn’t dispute this, could she? He had never felt this way before. She was his best friend. She was the love of his life.
Therefore there was nothing wrong with what they had done. They had to do it. They were meant to be together.
His initial plan of attack was simple: Explain the situation to Alexandra. Ask for a divorce. Remain friends in order to share the custody of an emotionally unscathed Chloe. Live happily ever after.
This plan hadn’t worked well.
But Alistair maintained that he and Joanna had done the right thing, the only thing they could do, considering the strength of their love for one another. And it would all work out eventually if they were patient.
Alistair was a patient man.
And he’d been right in the end. Okay, so it had taken time, and it wasn’t as simple as he’d hoped, but things are never simple.
It would work now. Everything would work now.
All they had to do was get the job done.
Get Chloe.
5
MELBOURNE SUPREME COURT
27 July
‘State your name.’
‘Chloe.’
‘And your last name, Chloe?’
‘Robertson.’
The girl, fourteen years old, appeared on a large television screen, set to the left of the judge and in front of the lawyer addressing her. She leaned her skinny upper body forward, as if she wanted to be inside the camera, and repeated in an innocent, childlike voice: ‘Chloe Robertson.’
The ten-year-old girl Joanna had seen at the bedroom door four years earlier was now a tall adolescent. A line of light shone down the right side of the middle parting of her dark brown hair. She wore a T-shirt with ‘Paolo Nutini’ written on it. A Scottish singer. This was a dig, Joanna thought. She was sending the message that she loved Scotland, and that Joanna had made her leave. Joanna wondered if Chloe could see her. Was there a screen in her room which showed the courtroom?
‘I’m just going to ask you a few questions, Chloe. Is that okay?’ The lawyer, Amy Maddock, had two children of her own. Her voice sounded like one she had used many times to trick them – ‘The needle won’t hurt at all, I promise!’
‘Yes.’
‘Please stop me if I go too fast and ask me if you don’t understand anything.’
‘Okay.’
‘Do you know this woman?’ Ms Maddock’s bony finger may as well have been a skewer in Joanna’s chest. So the girl could see her. No matter how bad she felt since it happened, new things seemed to push her down further on a regular basis. The artist drew carefully with her pencil: eyes to sketchpad, eyes to Joanna. The scratching of pencil against paper overtook all other noises in the large courtroom.
‘Yes,’ Chloe said.
‘How do you know her?’
‘She had an affair with my dad.’
A teenager says it like it is, hey.
‘When did you meet her?’
‘I walked in on them in Edinburgh.’
‘You “walked in on them”. Who’s “them”? What were they doing?’
‘Objection. It’s not in the best interests of a child to ask that.’ Joanna’s lawyer, Matthew Marks, came over as arrogant and posh. She wished she’d picked a lawyer with a child-friendly voice. This one sounded like the Child Snatcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
‘Overruled. You can answer if you want to, Chloe, but I think we understand what you mean.’
Joanna looked down at her lap and attempted to calm her breathing. Don’t answer, don’t answer. No need to answer.
‘I’d like to answer please.’
The words jolted Joanna’s head upright again. Chloe didn’t sound childlike this time, but accusatory, almost sinister. She directed her eyes away from Joanna’s and turned to the judge, a woman of around sixty. According to Joanna’s lawyer, the judge’s sons were both married with kids, and both doctors.
Judge, opposing lawyer: good mothers, both of them.
‘They were doing it in my mum and dad’s bed. I found out later she’d been after him for nine months.’
The courtroom artist was going for it now. A new reaction. A new page. Pencilling, rubbing, blowing, brushing the paper with her hand, pencilling again, eyes at Joanna, eyes at sketchpad. What was she seeing? The earth mother artist narrowed her eyes as she examined Joanna’s face, answering her question: A murdering slut, that’s what.
Joanna’s nose was itchy and she’d been told she couldn’t scratch it, not now. She couldn’t scratch it and she couldn’t fidget and she couldn’t – For God’s sake, never! – smile. She hadn’t felt like smiling much since, but the daily coaching sessions Alistair had given her – about fidgeting and smiling and many other things – had firmly rooted that last idea in her head. Don’t smile, don’t smile, remember Foxy Knoxy, remember Lindy. She chanted it to herself, forgetting the original problem, which was a nose itch. Why on earth would she smile? Don’t, just don’t.
In the end, the urge to scratch subsided. She turned to the screen and focused: look sane, look responsible.
Chloe’s eyes were right on hers. ‘My mum’s a good mum,’ Chloe said. ‘She and Dad were happy before her.’
6
JOANNA
15 February
Joanna turned to check on the baby. He was sound asleep, his face snuggled sideways into the blanket.
‘He’s going to be a lady-killer,’ she said to Alistair, smiling. How she loved Noah when he slept.
‘He’s going to be prime minister,’ Alistair said.
‘Of Scotland!’
‘Wash your mouth out!’ Alistair scolded.
Alistair was a staunch Labour supporter. With a politics degree and MBA from Melbourne University, and a fierce determination to succeed, he had climbed from being a lowly council PR officer to political advisor to the Labour Party candidate of Victoria. He did such a good job that the British Labour Party poached him. As Alistair’s father was Scottish, he was granted citizenship in the UK. He worked in London for two years until he was seconded to Scotland, where the Party was in need of a PR miracle. He was powerful and well respected, and – as reported in James Moyer’s blog – was indeed being primed for a safe seat in the next election.
Joanna was socialist and pro independence. She voted for the Scottish National Party. From day one, they had enjoyed jibing at each other’s political views.
They’d met on polling day. Joanna’s school had been overtaken for voting. Alistair was supporting the local Labour candidate at the entrance and offered her an election leaflet as she walked in.
‘No thanks, I’m not conservative.’
‘Neither are we!’ he said, watching her go inside. She had running gear on. She had good legs and an excellent bum. She knew he would notice.
‘I can prove it to you,’ Alistair said as she came out again.
‘Prove what?’
‘That we’re nothing like the Tories.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Over dinner.’
He didn’t tell her he was married until four weeks later.
*
The road to Geelong was famously dull. The only landmarks were the crosses at the side of the road, where people had died trying to get the journey over as quickly as possible.
A thick cloud of black smoke was visible ahead.
‘Shit,’ Alistair said. ‘I thought it was up north, around Kilmore.’
He turned the radio on. The first channel was classical music. He pressed another button. A flat female voice was saying: ‘If you live in Anglesea and Lorne and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late . . . If you live in Torquay and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late. If you live in . . .’
‘Bloody hell,’ Alistair said.
‘What does it mean, too late? That you’ll just die?’
‘Probably means you’ll have a better chance of protecting yourself staying put.’
‘Will we get to Point Lonsdale okay?’
‘Hang on . . .’ Alistair listened to the rest of the broadcast. ‘Sounds like it’s further on, along the Great Ocean Road. I’m going to stop and ring Mum.’
*
Different couples make important decisions in different ways. Joanna had only been in one serious relationship before Alistair. His name was Mike. He was six months older than her. They were both English teachers who shared a love of Russian literature. They lived together for four years. And they made decisions by talking things through, calmly. They communicated well, Joanna and Mike. They averted crises. It was sad when they realised they’d met too young, and when Mike decided to go to Japan for a year. But they talked it through, and parted ways with a warm hug. Mike emailed her with his news from time to time. She replied with hers, from time to time.
With Joanna and Alistair, big decisions seemed to be made at the point of crisis, by Alistair.
‘I’m glad she caught us,’ he said over the telephone after his wife had slammed her fists into his naked chest. ‘Now we can be together.’
‘Chloe’s gone,’ he said the following day. ‘I’ll find a way to see her. It doesn’t change things. We are meant to be together.’
Then, most recently: ‘We’re going to get her and bring her back with us. Our family will be complete.’
While packing for the trip, Joanna made a plan. As soon as they settled into their self-catering cottage at Point Lonsdale, she would suggest to Alistair that they set half-an-hour aside each day to talk things over. She didn’t necessarily mean big things. In fact, it was the little things she worried about because you don’t notice them growing. She liked her new plan and smiled as she zipped the last of the suitcases. Yes, she and Alistair would agree to this plan on the balcony of their cottage, clinking champagne glasses to seal the deal as they gazed at the bay. After that, all decisions would be made jointly and calmly. And there would be no more crises.
Unfortunately, in four minutes, this plan would go out the window.
Because in four minutes, she would face the biggest crisis of her life.
7
JOANNA
15 February
Minute One
Was there a lay-by? Or did they just park at the side of the road? A cross, wasn’t there a cross about ten feet ahead? Were there really no towns or buildings in sight? Just the straight road behind them and the straight road ahead with black, ominous sky looming over its horizon?
Lorries, weren’t there a lot of them? More than usual? What was usual? Passing lorries made the car shake, didn’t they? Or was it just that one truck – Coles? – that rocked their four-wheel drive from side to side?
Did Alistair take the mobile phone out of his jeans pocket before he got out of the car, or after? Before? Was it already switched on? When did he notice there was no signal? Did he say: Joanna, I can’t get a signal so I’m going to walk over there?
How long did it take him to walk from his side of the car to the fence? Ten seconds? Twenty? Did he say anything as he walked? Did he look at her?
What was she looking at? Him?
The cross ten feet ahead?
Her image in the mirror? Was she looking tired? Ugly? Was she really thinking about her looks?
She didn’t turn and look at the back seat?
Why not?
Was it hard to hear Alistair when he yelled that he was going to climb the fence and walk further into the field? Was her window down? When had she opened her window? Why? To hear Alistair?
Minute Two
How did she know he still couldn’t get a signal? Did he yell from the field?
Before she opened the car door to get out, did she turn around and look in the back seat? Why not?
Was it hot when she got out? Did she notice the wall of heat? Yes – Why? No – Why not?
Was it her suggestion that Alistair should try her phone?
When she walked towards the boot to show him where it was, what did she see on the way?
Did she divert her face from the back seat deliberately?
Did she open the boot? Or was it Alistair?
Did she unzip the small black suitcase?
From the back of the car, could they see into the back seat?
When Joanna closed the boot and walked along the side of the car, did she look in the back window?
Did she?
No?
Why not?
Minute Three
When Joanna opened the front door and sat sideways on her seat, legs out of the car, and stretched, was she feeling happy? Stretches are happy things, yeah?
Was it a lorry beeping its horn that made her wonder how on earth he was sleeping through this racket?
How long did it take for her to decide that she should maybe check on him?
Twenty seconds? Ten?
Why so long?
Where was she when Alistair asked her how to turn her bloody phone on? Standing at the side of the car?
When Joanna said: Just hold down the button on the bottom right for three seconds, had she looked in the back seat?
When Joanna asked Alistair: How long has he been sleeping, was she panicking?
When Alistair told her it must be five hours now, what went through her head?
Minute Four
Which one of them said this: He’s never slept so long in his life?
Which one said: It must be the Calpol?
As Joanna knelt on the back seat and gently pushed the blanket away from her baby’s face, was she trembling?
What was Alistair saying? That her phone was out of bloody juice? Was that it? Did another lorry beep? Was the car shaking?
What did his face feel like? Can she remember that? The feel of his face? How would she describe it now? Cold? How did her fingers feel? His flesh on her fingertips? Like ice? Ice cold? Is that how she’d describe it? Was Alistair aware of anything other than the phones? Was he still barking at her about the fucking phones? Was he at the back of the car, or at the side? Could he see her face? If he could, would her face have told him? Was he yelling at her, saying: You should have charged the phone Joanna?
Was the belt stuck? Jammed or something? Why did it take her so long to unbuckle? Or didn’t it? Did it just seem long? Was it then that Alistair asked her if there was a charger in the car? When Joanna lifted him, how did she hold him exactly? Did she support his head? Or did she not bother? If she didn’t bother, she must have known, yes? Is this when Alistair finally stopped the phone tantrum and asked if everything was okay? Why now? Had he seen her face?
Was she gentle when she put Noah on the ground?
Was the ground rocky?
Should she have put him on the ground?
What did she feel when she placed her cheek against his mouth?
Did she whisper this? Noah! Noah!
Shake him?
Yell this? Alistair!
How far away was Alistair when he dropped the phone and ran towards her? No more than four feet?
How long did she press her fingers against his neck?
&nb
sp; How would she describe the feel of his neck?
How many times did Joanna say: Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God No?
How many times did she say: Please, please, Noah, cry?
8
MELBOURNE SUPREME COURT
27 July
A heavily tattooed and goatee-bearded fifty-something fidgeted in the witness stand. ‘Yes, I saw them.’
‘You were driving from Frankston to Geelong?’ Amy Maddock had turned on the female charm for the beefy truck driver. She changed posture and position according to the witness, Joanna noted. For this porn-hungry thug, she crossed one leg slightly in front of the other and lowered her head, all demure and girly.
‘Yeah.’
‘Could you describe what you saw?’
‘I was goin’ at a hundred k, so not much.’
‘But you did see this woman?’ She gestured towards Joanna with a soft voice and tiny smile.
‘Yes, she was sittin’ on the side of the road or somethin’, kinda kneelin’. Looked like she was yelling and screamin’ or something, her head up all angry.’
‘Did you see anything else?’
‘Just Alistair Robertson. He was standing over her. She looked aggro to me.’
‘But you didn’t see anything else? The baby?’
‘No, just her, on the ground like I said, and him, standing over her. And her face angry, like she was yelling.’
‘But you didn’t see the baby?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t stop.’
‘Nah. They didn’t wave me down, so I figured it wasn’t car trouble. And she didn’t look dangerous to me, like crazy violent or anythin’, so I figured it was just a domestic, none of my business.’
9
JOANNA
15 February
There were no hills in this part of the world. Alistair jumped on the roof of the car and waved his phone at the sky, pleading with it for a signal, ‘Come on, come on!’
The Cry Page 3
