The Wrong Hand

by Jane Jago

  The court process had been endless and baffling, He had no head for the many abstract arguments – the stopping and starting over points of law – but he pledged to be there every day, to hear every word and detail, much of it for the first time. He let the leaden fragments smash against the side of his head in hammer blows that left him nauseated, somehow allowing the words to run through and out of his mind. He did not look at the photographs presented to the jury. While Rachel withdrew further into the sanctuary of her memories and built a shrine to her lost baby, he stood and took all these assaults, as any husband would to protect his wife. A shattered man on the verge of implosion, he had nowhere to go.

  In the years since, so that he could keep fighting for Benjamin, he had learnt all he could about the legal system. It would have been so easy to throw his hands into the air and give up. Once the victim was buried, the entire process seemed to be about protecting the rights of the bastards who had done it. He could not quit or rest while they were at large.

  He positioned both of the computer-generated images, face down, on the scanner bed and closed the lid. A burst of light from the machine illuminated his features from below. His face was drawn from lack of sleep. As the images scanned, he cleared away the debris from his meagre evening meal and rearranged the papers on his desk.

  The front of his Fair Isle jumper was smudged with white paint and there were splatters in his greying hair. He looked, through watery-blue eyes, at the pictures now slowly loading onto the screen. He logged onto the internet and opened a site from his Favourites list, titled ‘Benjamin’s Place’. A scrolling banner, which read ‘For the Love of Benjamin’, repeatedly dissolved and refreshed itself. Below the banner, a little boy smiled out at him, his deep-blue eyes shining with mischief. The site was a memorial to his son, constructed in an attempt to reclaim him. A family album of who Benjamin had been before his face had become an icon for tragedy, before even his very name was irrevocably linked, in the public mind, with those who had killed him.

  Mathew Allen smiled sadly at the familiar pictures, photographs of a two-and-a-half-year-old Benjamin: with his young mother planting a kiss on his forehead; Benjamin holding his father’s hand in front of a tall ship down by the docks; Benjamin dressed as a monkey and blowing out candles on a birthday cake; Benjamin sleeping like an angel, his black lashes resting on his flushed cheeks. The pictures were accompanied by simple stories, a paragraph or two beneath each, chronicling a small event in his short life.

  At the bottom of the page was a list of related sites: ‘Victims of Crime’, ‘Mothers against Murder’, ‘Sustained Sentences for a Safer Society’.

  When the scanned images of A and B had uploaded, Mathew Allen created a new email message with the picture files attached. He selected all the names in his contacts list and pasted them in the address line. Exhausted, he leant back in his chair, moved the cursor over the send button and clicked.

  Shame

  ‘Hide not thy face’

  Geoffrey, 2008

  ‘Hey, Wickham –WICK-JAM!’

  Geoffrey Wickham looked up from his workstation. It sometimes amazed him that, even after seven years, he could still be thrown by the use of his ‘new’ surname. His baby-faced colleague, Nigel, clutched an outmoded laptop to his chest. ‘Another one for you. If it’s going to be complicated the owner would rather upgrade. Sounds like a virus.’

  ‘Leave it there,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks so much, Geoffrey,’ said Nigel, amusing himself with one of his funny voices.

  And Geoffrey, like Nigel, was – as far as G. R. Wickham was concerned – the name of a faggot. He deftly inserted a set of tiny screws into a computer back plate and turned them slowly into place. Fiddly little fuckers. He’d been working in this shit-hole for nearly five years and knew enough about fixing computers to start a business. Nigel’s father had even offered him the store manager’s job, but he preferred to avoid people, preferred to stay out the back and keep his hands busy. Let Nigel suck up to them – he was good at that.

  He could hear him at it right now, buttering up some dithering old fuck-wit at the counter. ‘Not a problem. Leave it with us overnight, and if Geoffrey can get it fired up, he’ll install the new modem for you.’

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ called Nigel. Geoffrey heard the sound of the door shutting in the front of the store. He rebooted the clunky laptop and waited while it searched for the newly installed modem. He dialled the connection and clicked the history file on the menu. Sure enough, there among the list of innocuous sites were the headings ‘Free Porn’ and ‘Hot and Horny Teens’. It wasn’t just the computer that had a virus. The old fart was just like the rest of them: another hypocrite. They were all at it. They made him sick.

  He checked the modem settings, then shut the computer down. He took a crumpled suede jacket off the back of his chair and let himself out through the rear of the store.

  The night was turning cold as he walked towards the steps at the end of the laneway. Up ahead the green-painted door of the Bali Hut restaurant opened. A slight Indonesian man swung a heavy bag of garbage up into a nearby skip. He smiled with perfect teeth and nodded in Geoffrey’s direction.

  Geoffrey remembered his disbelief on leaving the secure unit. At first he’d thought it was the shock of living in a capital city, but pretty soon he realized that the whole world had changed. As if he wasn’t alienated enough already, now he couldn’t even recognize himself in the faces around him.

  At the top of the steps he entered the anonymous comfort of the busy shopping strip and headed past the fast-food outlets towards the city centre. Here, dozens of illuminated plastic trademarks transmitted their hollow code – ‘Eat this!’; ‘Wear this!’; ‘Get laid!’

  Every store competed with its neighbour for his attention: a cluttered jeweller’s, a crowded coffee bar, the narrow red stairwell of a tattooist, a bare window displaying a chiffon wedding dress on a headless torso, lit only by one cold white globe. ‘Lovely girls!’ yelled one of the thugs outside the Venus Lounge. ‘Real girls, live on stage,’ he hissed, almost in Geoffrey’s ear.

  At the intersection, where the strip met the highway, stood the Orient Hotel. Young people spilled out of its doors and into the street, where they drank in small, animated groups. Some sat on the kerb, smoking and talking. Beautiful young men, clothes chosen for their careless, masculine impact, pretty and plain young girls made glamorous, displayed to devastating effect. Geoffrey watched their easy communication, heard their lubricated laughter. He saw hands lightly touching shoulders, arms reaching around waists, effulgent faces that flickered with the recognition of being known.

  He pressed the button at the crossing, then ran between two cars and crossed to the other side. A huge pair of crimson plastic lips was suspended over an entranceway with ‘Carmen’s’ painted below in an energetic script that suggested it had been written in lipstick.

  The cave-like interior of Carmen’s glowed with hot-pink light. Geoffrey sat at the bar. ‘Vodka and lemonade.’ A square-jawed brunette dropped a scoop of ice into a glass, covered it with the clear spirit and soft drink from the tap.

  He turned on his barstool to face the room. In the far corner a duo played a slow song with a Latin American beat. Two girls danced in front of the small stage, leaning into each other; one wore a tight red dress. Geoffrey sipped his drink and rolled an ice-cube around in his mouth. The girl in red gave him a little wave. He stared back. She waved again; he lifted his hand in response. Her girlfriend whispered something in her ear. The girls hugged each other and laughed.

  Fuck them. He bought another drink, moved to a table near the bar and lit a cigarette. The buzz of the vodka moved in a steady line from his head to his feet. He let himself relax.

  ‘Can I have a light?’ A well-built man sat down opposite him. Geoffrey held out his cigarette. Instead of taking it from him the man leant over and held the hand steady as he touched his cigarette to Geoffrey’s. His grip was firm and Geoffrey could
smell the not-unpleasant odour of his body. Once the cigarette was alight he let go of his hand. ‘Thanks. I’m Mario.’

  ‘Geoffrey.’

  Mario drew hard on his cigarette, then jerked his head to the girls on the dance-floor. ‘The bitch in the red?’ said Mario. ‘She’s onto you.’

  ‘Onto me?’

  ‘Into you. Whatever . . . Chicks don’t do it for me.’

  Geoffrey’s heart beat a little faster. Mario wasn’t the first guy who’d come onto him at Carmen’s – half the clientele was gay, for fuck sake. Why should he care? Each to their own. He could see the outline of Mario’s powerful arms through the thin sweatshirt he was wearing. He didn’t seem queer, but now that he looked at him closely there was something feminine about the shape of his mouth.

  Mario laid a rough hand over his. Geoffrey pulled away, but not before a pulse of excitement ran through him. ‘It’s cool,’ said Mario, judging his mistake. ‘Maybe next time.’ He got up.

  Geoffrey let a few seconds pass before he fled to the men’s room. He washed his hands several times, with soap. As he dried them he heard movement in one of the cubicles, shuffling and banging followed by a muffled moan. Fucking faggots, they’d do it anywhere.

  Back in the bar he nursed his third double vodka. The girl in the red dress walked towards his table, taking slow, deliberate steps, as if she were in danger of falling. ‘Hi.’ She sat down beside him. ‘My girlfriend said I should ask you to dance.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’

  Geoffrey turned towards the bar and saw Mario watching him. Mario pursed his lips and winked. The girl grabbed Geoffrey’s arm and pulled him up.

  He towered a full head above her as they danced. She pressed herself against him. Her fat blonde girlfriend danced nearby, her arms wrapped tightly around a bald man in a loud shirt.

  ‘I gotta go,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, aware of Mario’s watchful eye.

  She waved goodbye to her friend and followed him off the dance-floor and out at the rear of the building, stumbling on her heels in an effort to catch up with him. ‘Slow down.’ She grabbed his arm.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  ‘Canley Vale.’

  ‘Canley Vale?’ He was becoming annoyed. ‘Look . . .’

  She began fumbling with his shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She kissed him. ‘Let’s go to your place.’

  ‘No,’ he answered flatly.

  ‘Round here,’ she said, pulling him into the laneway. She dropped to her knees and began to undo his jeans.

  He looked down at the top of her head, and at her desperately groping hands. ‘Stop it!’

  She stood up and looked up at him drunkenly. ‘What?’

  He pushed her forward, face up against the wall, and lifted her skirt from behind. She arched herself up towards him. He tore at her G-string and pushed himself inside her, forcing her against the wall. After several hard thrusts, she gasped and began to moan, writhing beneath him.

  ‘Shut up!’ He put his hand over her mouth and quickly finished himself off.

  She turned around and leaned against the brick wall, breathing heavily. ‘I’m Courtney,’ she offered, tugging at the hem of her dress.

  He stuffed his shirt into his open trousers and looked at her lumpen face, the kohl-rimmed, lifeless eyes, the stupid lipstick-smeared smile. ‘See ya, Courtney.’ He fastened the button on his fly and walked away.

  Alex Reiser, Globe newspaper, 2008

  The offices were being refurbished. A crew of workmen were busy, breaking up a row of lavender-cloth-covered dividers. A carpenter used a claw hammer to prise the last of a laminated shelf from beneath a bank of windows that overlooked the city. Despite the nondescript architecture, the building was prime real estate, with million-dollar views.

  From his desk, currently crammed into a corner of the undisturbed side of the room, Alex Reiser could see all the way to the harbour. Over piles of jumbled, upturned desks he watched the foamy white trail of a distant ferry. He stretched out his legs, rested his feet on a low filing cabinet and returned to the book he was reading. He shifted restlessly in his chair and scratched his large round head. ‘Oh, give me a break!’ He groaned, throwing the book onto the floor. What author of any real ability would write, ‘When his cold hand cupped her atrophied breast, she knew without knowing that all hope was dead’?

  Outside the city was buzzing with activity, cars streaming between the soaring buildings. Alex was annoyed that he would have to spend the next few hours writing a review of this rubbish. Ghosts of a Dead Marriage. The title was enough.

  He left the book where it was and made his way, via a maze of office furniture, to a kitchenette area where the tearoom used to be and filled a chipped green cup with steaming black coffee. Somewhere behind a stack of partitions a female colleague let out an angry squeal. ‘Who jammed the fucking Xerox machine?’

  ‘Get a grip, Penny!’ called Alex, from inside his furniture fortress.

  ‘I bet it was you, Reiser!’

  ‘Prove it,’ he replied, holding his coffee aloft as he negotiated his way back to his desk. Fucking machines were always fucking up.

  One of the new cadets, an extremely tall girl with short bottle-blonde hair, walked between the desks carrying a basket of mail. She was so thin that Alex could count the ribs beneath her pink silk-jersey sweater. She stopped near his desk and dropped something onto his computer monitor. When he saw the large manila envelope, addressed to himself in his own handwriting, he sighed deeply. ‘Damn.’ He sat back at his desk and stared at it as he drank the last of his coffee. When he had finished he reluctantly picked it up and opened it. Attached to a substantial manuscript, was a letter.

  Dear Alex,

  Thank you for your submission.

  While your novel Timor Lost is impeccably researched, and beautifully written, I am unable to offer you publication at this time. Unfortunately we already have two forthcoming titles in our list on similar themes. I am also aware of a theatre project of the same title.

  As always this is only one opinion and I wish you well in finding a publisher for your manuscript.

  Ghosts of a Dead Marriage lay at his feet where he had flung it. He kicked it savagely, almost tearing the back cover from the spine.

  On his computer screen the incoming-mail icon flashed. He watched the spiralling blue arrow.

  At last he heard a loud ping. A whole string of emails appeared, three from the editor, one from his mate Penny, with several ideas of interest he might like to follow up, an invitation to a book launch at Collins Book-City Superstore and an email with an attachment. He recognized the sender’s name immediately.

  Two images, pasted side by side, loaded onto the screen – foreheads, eyebrows, eyes, noses, mouths and chins. The first face was labelled A, the second B.

  Alex Reiser studied the faces carefully. Is this what they look like now? Certainly the second image triggered some sort of recognition in him. He paused briefly before reading Mathew Allen’s accompanying note.

  Dear friends and supporters,

  These pictures were created by a forensic modelling program.

  Distribute or display them where you can.

  Mathew Allen was tempting Fate, thought Alex. No Australian newspaper would be able to print these images, not after the High Court injunction that protected the offenders’ new identities. There was certainly no way his editor would let the images go to print, but if these pictures were accurate . . . what a story! Alex looked furtively over his shoulder, making sure that no one else was seeing what he was seeing.

  He marvelled, for a moment, at Mathew Allen’s stamina. He felt for the man, he really did, but after fifteen years surely it would be healthier to give it up, let it go and get on. Maybe he had finally gone off his rocker. Then again, how would he behave if something
happened to one of his daughters?

  During the trial he’d had nothing but admiration for the quietly spoken man, his upright dignity, as he sat, day after day, through the harrowing details. Details that many seasoned police officers found hard to recount without emotion. As he saved the pictures on the screen, he remembered the frightened children seated in the dock, feet barely touching the floor. Even knowing the charges against them, no matter how intently he studied their reactions all he had ever been able to see were two eleven-year-old boys. ‘Just a pair of average scruffs like the rest of us,’ as one commentator had aptly put it.

  What did Mathew Allen hope to gain? Even if the pictures did look like them, they could be anywhere. Maybe after all these years they should just be left in peace.

  Peace? He knew what Allen would think of that. Where was his peace? All he had ever wanted was for them to stay in prison.

  When their release was announced, Alex had been conflicted. He’d done a series of passionate follow-up articles about the Allens called ‘A Life Sentence for Some’. In it he had calculated the cost of the boys’ new identities and chronicled the psychiatric and social support provided for their rehabilitation and compared it to the scant assistance offered to the Allens. The series had won him a prestigious Walkley Award, for excellence in journalism.

  Despite his advocacy for the rights of the victim’s family Alex knew that the truth was never quite so one-sided. His experience as a ward of the state from the age of fourteen had given him an acute affinity with the neglected and abused. He had seen the inside of enough foster homes to know that ‘childhood’ was not a luxury afforded to all children.

  He considered himself one of the lucky ones. With a mother who had fallen into and out of mental illness, he at least had had one parent to be returned to and elderly grandparents to visit twice a year. When she was lucid, his mother was the brightest, liveliest person in any room. For seven years he had also had the love of a father, not some deadbeat who had walked out on his responsibilities but torn in half in a banana field in Vietnam, after stepping on an M26 ‘jumping jack’, a device perfectly designed to cut a man’s legs out from underneath him. The detonation was felt almost seven thousand miles away by an idealistic young mother and a seven-year-old boy.