The Cry

by Helen FitzGerald

  Joanna reached under her mattress and felt for the bib. She held it up to him, terrified at his reaction.

  ‘What . . . ? Where . . . ?’

  ‘He had it on when I gave him medicine. I found it in the suitcase last night. We forgot to deal with it.’

  Alistair felt the crustiness. ‘But how would anyone know about it?’

  The sight of the bib made her cry.

  ‘How would anyone know?! Have you been speaking to someone?’ he yelled.

  She found lying to him easier than she expected. Nine months of lying to everyone during the affair had taught her a thing or two. ‘I’ve been here, in bed. No one could know. Unless someone found it there before I did. The police were all over the house that first night. More likely it’s not the bib, just they’re suspicious and want to look around.’

  ‘You’re fucking crazy! What do you think you’re doing, holding on to it? Not telling me!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed.

  She watched from her bedroom window as Alistair lit the barbecue in the back garden and burnt what she had left of her son in the gas flames. He then cooked several sausages, deep in thought as he turned them till they were ready.

  He’d calmed down when he came back in with a plate of sausages wrapped in bread. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for talking to you like that. This is awful. I’m trying to hold it together but I’m cracking. I’m so scared someone knows something, saw something. And I can’t believe they suspended me.’

  Joanna pushed the plate away. ‘I’m not eating those.’

  ‘Oh God, of course, I’m sorry. I just had to use the barbie after, you know . . . in case they notice it’s been on.’ He put the plate on the floor out of her sight.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. She loved him when he allowed himself to be vulnerable. That’s right – she loved him. Of course she loved him.

  He lay down beside her. ‘Hold me Joanna. Hold on to me.’

  *

  Phan and his crew arrived an hour later. Alistair knew them well. Up till now they’d been allies but there was no tea and banana cake this time. Journalists gathered outside as the police lifted cushions and rummaged through drawers. Elizabeth arrived home, joining Joanna and Alistair on the sofa. ‘What a terrible waste of time and effort,’ she sobbed.

  Detective Phan apologised when he left, having found nothing, and telling them so. ‘We have to follow up every lead, you understand,’ Alistair’s ex-ally said.

  ‘Of course. Anything that helps find him. I just hope no more time’s wasted.’ Alistair shut the door and exhaled loudly.

  *

  Joanna heard something in the back garden at around midnight and got out of bed to see what it was. Alistair, putting something in the tool shed. What was that? She heard him come back in, and the shower in the hall bathroom turning on and staying on for a long time. Another door. The hum of the washing machine. She pretended she was asleep when he got in bed beside her. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the back of her neck.

  ‘Hi.’ She used her best just-woken-up voice.

  ‘Hey, there you are. You’ve been so unwell. I hate it when I feel you’re somewhere else. Do you hate me, Jo? Have you stopped loving me?’

  She turned and embraced him. ‘Of course not.’

  His eyes were so close to hers that she couldn’t focus on them. She moved back a bit. ‘What were you saying about a backup plan?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. We’ll be okay now. We’re going to be okay.’

  *

  The following morning Alistair woke her to say: ‘It’s time to get out of this room.’ He took off her pyjamas and put bubbles in the bath. ‘Everything’s over. Everything’s going to be fine. One step at a time. Today, just move as far as the lounge.’

  When she’d finished washing and dressing, he escorted her to the sofa, put a blanket on top of her, put on a DVD of The Sound of Music, placed a glass of water, some pills, and two other DVDs (Grease and Strictly Ballroom) on the table in front of her, kissed her on the forehead and said: ‘I’m going to the city. I’ll be back for dinner.’

  He was almost out the door when she noticed it was raining outside and that Alistair was wearing his raincoat. He didn’t have this raincoat in Scotland, but she recognised it from one of the photographs in the albums in the box. It made her feel uneasy but she couldn’t pinpoint why. ‘Who you going to see?’ she asked.

  ‘My lawyer. Then Bethany. There’s lots going on. The reward’s up to seven hundred k now. She thinks she can get us a slot on 60 Minutes and Del Rio Editions have made an offer for an autobiography.’

  ‘Jesus!’ she said under her breath.

  He shut the door before she could have a go at him. There was excitement in his voice as he rattled off the PR plans. He was excited by 60 Minutes and by a possible book deal.

  Jesus!

  Elizabeth made Joanna some buttered toast for breakfast and asked her about a hundred times if she was okay, and if there was anything she needed, before heading out to distribute leaflets.

  Alone at last, Joanna went to the bedroom and took a photo album from the box, flicking from page to page until she found the shot she was looking for.

  The Als go hiking in Freycinet!

  Alistair and Alexandra, wearing his and hers raincoats. Joanna grabbed the laptop and searched for images of Japaras. Yes, Alistair and Alexandra both had Japaras.

  Was that his backup plan, the one he had sown at the very beginning, when he mentioned seeing someone dressed in a Japara? If it all goes wrong, frame the ex-wife? He’d already planted the seed in the police station when they’d asked him about enemies. She hadn’t seen a person a hundred metres away. She was certain of it, almost certain. Perhaps he hadn’t either. With suspicions rising and his job on the line, had he decided to plant something else on her, to seal the deal? Several birds with one stone, after all: if Alexandra was convicted of murdering Noah, he’d be the poor innocent ex, he’d get his job back, and – the biggest victory of all – he’d get Chloe.

  She raced outside to the tool shed. What had he done last night? Dug something up from Noah’s grave to plant on Alexandra? The barbecue was in the shed. He must have put that back since cooking the Noah-infused sausages. The shovel was clean as a whistle. Too clean?

  She checked the washing machine. Empty. The dryer had finished its cycle. His jeans and T-shirt – the outfit he had on yesterday – were dry inside it. She looked at all his shoes. None of them had dirt or mud on them.

  Back inside, she read the Lonniebaby blog, which was now filled with page after page of facts and discussions about the case. The blogger seemed to know everything: about the many flaws in their relationship, that she hadn’t coped on the plane, that they’d argued at the side of the road, that the dirt was because he’d buried the baby. The last comment, from ‘Bobblypops’, read: ‘I think they accidentally overdosed him to stop him crying.’

  Before Joanna could ask herself why, she had sent an email.

  To: justicefornoah@hotmail.com

  From: anonymoussympathiser@gmail.com

  It was the fault of airport security.

  She waited for a response, but after five minutes there wasn’t one, so she browsed around the site, honing in on the page titled: ‘Questions Unanswered’.

  What I want to know is why Joanna Robertson needed to buy tampons at the milk bar. She was breastfeeding. You don’t get your period when you breastfeed. And no one uses tampons for discharge.

  They were driving from their holiday house in Point Lonsdale to his mother’s house in Geelong, right? So why was their car facing the wrong way when the baby was taken – i.e. as if they were driving towards Point Lonsdale?

  My mate knows the lady who owns the house they rented in Point Lonsdale and she says some garden equipment went missing from the shed. Did the cops ever ask them about this? No.

  Alistair Robertson says they stopped twice on the road to Geelong to ring his mother about the fires but why
did they both get out of the car?

  Two drivers report seeing them on the same spot on the side of the Geelong road but their reports are half an hour apart. Did one or both get the times wrong? Or were the Robertsons at the side of the road for at least half an hour? If the latter, why? It doesn’t take over half an hour to work out you have no phone signal.

  How come they didn’t stop at his mother’s house first? Geelong’s on the way to Point Lonsdale. Surely they’d pop in there, especially if they were worried about her and the fires, which is why they said they were trying to phone her on the way.

  She says she expressed milk when they got to the holiday house in Point Lonsdale so her mother-in-law could babysit that night. But the bottle in the hire car was found to have been diluted! Why??

  She was shocked at the depth and accuracy of the content. As well as locals and the general public giving opinions and information, it looked as if someone inside the investigation was leaking info to the blogger.

  She felt a tinge of pleasure knowing Alistair had made so many mistakes. She’d been too stunned at the time to point out that it would be very obvious that the breast milk was diluted. Looking back, she realised he always made mistakes: getting caught in the marital bed, for instance. Why had she ever listened to him?

  Beep. What do you mean? From justicefornoah.

  I don’t know. She was too scared to answer. What was she doing? She either wanted to confess or she didn’t. If she did, she should stop with the anonymous emails and the riddles. Her finger hovered over the keys.

  She couldn’t. She was scared and weak. She’d been scared and weak since the day she found out he was married.

  Who are you? the blogger asked.

  Just a miserable nobody. Who are you?

  Same.

  Why you miserable? Joanna typed.

  Because the world sucks.

  Why are you so into this case?

  I believe the baby’s dead now. And Joanna Lindsay is evil. I want to see her punished.

  She didn’t recoil at these words at all. On the contrary, they made her feel strong. She found herself typing: I want to meet you.

  Today?

  Yes. Where?

  In two hours. Geelong beachfront. I’ll be at the entrance to the pier, wearing a Find Noah T-shirt.

  *

  The taxi dropped her off a quarter of an hour early. She sat on the beach and watched the pier, wondering to herself if she was really about to hand herself over. Hand herself over! Such modern times, when you hand yourself over to a blogger.

  She stared at waves sliding over sand, clawing a layer back when they retreated. She and Alistair were to clink champagne glasses while looking at the bay. Alistair, her partner, the father of her dead child. The father of her alive child, once.

  Mesmerised by the waves, she found herself remembering how he used to sing to Noah at night. Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree-ee/ Merry merry king of the bush is he-ee. He used to talk to him as if he could understand. ‘This was your grandad,’ he said one evening, holding a framed photo over the cot as Noah lay gurgling (yes, gurgling!). ‘He was a good man. He would have loved you, my baby Noah, my son. You’re my son! Joanna Lindsay,’ he yelled to her, ‘I have a son!’ Alistair ran to the hall, grabbed her and twirled her in the air. ‘You gave me a son. You bore me an heir! And now, my beautiful Joanna, I am going to bore into you! I love you, Joanna Lindsay. I love you. I love you. I love you.’

  This was crazy! Alistair wouldn’t frame anyone. Watching him lie was driving her crazy because his lies mirrored hers. Only he wasn’t as bad as her. He wasn’t the one who killed Noah. She should be grateful to him for protecting her, for holding it all together. She recalled two of the ‘facts’ Alistair had listed at the side of the road on that terrible day, ones they’d repeated so many times since. They could both go to jail. Chloe could lose both parents.

  Her behaviour now was just as it had been during the affair:

  Then: One minute she was ending it, the next fellating Alistair in a lane. One minute she didn’t trust him, the next, with her life. One minute she didn’t love him, the next more than anything in the world.

  Now: She wanted to confess, she didn’t want to confess. She didn’t understand how Alistair could lie about this, she understood completely. She thought he was planning to frame his ex-wife, this was ridiculous.

  This constant turmoil in her mind! She knocked on her forehead with her fist. Stop!

  What did she think? What did she want to do?

  What do you want to do, Joanna Lindsay? Make up your mind!

  The tide was coming in. As it lapped at her feet she felt the dizziness of being twirled towards the bed, she heard Alistair saying: ‘I love you‚ Joanna Lindsay. I love you. I love you. I love you.’

  Shit shit shit! Call it post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever, she had gone mad. She couldn’t betray Alistair. She couldn’t meet this blogger.

  Joanna tried not to look at the person standing at the edge of the pier as she walked along the promenade. It was only once she was in the taxi, and it had turned around to drive her home, that she spotted the T-shirt. FIND NOAH, was written in thick black at the top. A photo of him was underneath.

  And wearing it, Chloe.

  *

  Joanna put her head down between her knees to hide, just like the old days. When the taxi arrived home, she threw twenty dollars at the driver and ran inside to type an email as if she was brushing a hairy tarantula from her chest.

  Sorry I couldn’t make it. Just want to say not all people are evil. Why don’t you move on from this and look at the good things in life? I’m sure you have good things, people who love you? There’s lots to be happy about. Signing off now, Anonymous1.

  Sent.

  Gmail account deleted.

  Breathing too fast. Feeling dizzy. Lying on the sofa . . . Feeling . . .

  *

  Joanna woke to someone knocking at the door. She looked at the clock. She’d been out for the count for over two hours.

  It was Detective Phan and the red-haired police officer who’d hugged her in front of the milk bar that first night.

  ‘The neighbours across the road caught someone sneaking around the back of the house about twenty minutes ago,’ Phan said, nodding towards the police car in the street and then at Joanna, kindly. ‘It was Chloe. She thought the house was empty, says she just wanted to have a look inside. She’s in the car. The bathroom window must have been left open and when we got here, she was climbing in. We could charge her, if you want?’

  Joanna peered at car. She couldn’t see Chloe’s face – she was looking in the opposite direction. ‘No. Of course not. Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s very drunk. Where’s Mr Robertson?’

  ‘Um, Melbourne.’

  ‘And Mrs Robertson?’

  ‘Elizabeth? I don’t know. Out. She doesn’t have a mobile.’

  ‘Chloe says she didn’t know you were in the house. She thought it was empty. She doesn’t want to see you or her father and her mother’s phone is ringing out. Because of the circumstances, with her little brother‚ I mean, we can take her home. Would that be all right with you?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks.’

  Joanna watched as the vehicle drove off but Chloe didn’t change the position of her head.

  *

  It was after eleven at night when Alistair arrived home looking positively cheerful. ‘Do you want the good news or the very good news?’ he said, sitting on the bed she’d been lying awake on all these hours.

  She sat up and welcomed his kiss, nervous about telling him of Chloe’s attempted break-in. ‘You choose.’

  ‘Okay, the good first. They want us on 60 Minutes next week!’

  ‘You’re joking? How is that good? You’ve not agreed, have you?’

  ‘And that book offer: fifty grand advance.’

  ‘I repeat: You’re joking? How is that good? We’re not doing either of those things‚ Alistair.’
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  ‘Okay‚ okay, I get where you’re coming from. I need to show you something. We’ll talk about that later. The very good news is that the lawyer says it’s confirmed there’s nothing concrete against us. We’re not suspects any more, not even unofficially. They see the gossip about us as typical and unhelpful. And,’ Alistair continued with excitement, ‘Chloe’s been skipping school!’

  ‘That’s very good news?’ Joanna couldn’t believe his tone. She suddenly felt very protective towards Chloe. She didn’t want to tell him what had happened that afternoon.

  ‘Well of course not, not right now. But it proves she’s not safe with that woman, see? She’s out of control.’

  ‘Alistair, she wouldn’t be safe with me either. We can’t go ahead with the hearing now. It’s crazy. Chloe hates me. The court will listen to what she feels, what she has to say. They won’t hand her over to someone she detests, let alone someone who’s going through what I’m going through. I’m not well – in the head, I mean. I’m really not doing very well. I’m seeing things! What’s the doctor got me on – antipsychotics?’

  ‘Just antidepressants.’

  ‘And isn’t there a risk she’d be handed over to someone different altogether with all this chaos, that she might even be taken into care?’

  He stiffened and presented the first letter of the alphabet. ‘A:’

  Oh God, point form. If he brought out a finger for this display, she would bend it backwards until it snapped.

  ‘. . . She doesn’t hate you – she doesn’t know you. B: She’s been screwed up by her mother. C: She’s a typical teenager, angry that her parents separated. D: She’s unsafe and out of control! E: We are good people. And F: The court will see all the above and discard everything else.’

  He hadn’t used his fingers, but the point-form had fuelled a fury which made Joanna breathe differently and sway a little. ‘Sit down so we can talk about this. I need you to listen to me.’ She was proud of her clarity and assertiveness. Well done.