It’s pointless for Tim to go on pretending. Actually, he’s relieved, almost proud to admit that he’d been inside Ian’s house. He’d breeched the bastard’s defences. ‘Yes, all right, I took it from Ian’s house.’
The detectives look towards Emily McConville who shrugs and makes a face, but says nothing. A tension has gone out of the room, it seems. Plain sailing so far. Tim waits unconcerned for the next question.
‘Why’d you take the rifle?’
Why? No reason that he could explain. He just did, probably because the gun was in his hands when Dylan charged off into the bush. But he doesn’t tell Vlarnic about Dylan. He’s promised. The guy’s name isn’t going to pass his lips, no matter what.
After half a minute’s silence, Vlarnic has a go at his own explanation. ‘Cartwright was a violent man, wasn’t he? Your mother had made numerous complaints against him but they couldn’t be proved. I’ve seen the court records. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. He threatened you all constantly. Is that it Tim? You knew he had a gun and you were afraid he’d lose his temper once too often and use it against you. You did it to protect your family.’
Tim stares up at the policeman. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Finally, someone understands. ‘Yes, what you just said. It’s all true,’ he says quickly and an urge to cry out rises within him, a shout like he’d let rip in Dylan’s garage.
No, such acrobatics deep in his gut would burst stitches so he has to quash the impulse before it gathers momentum. Vindication is a drug in his blood stream, though. He mellows under its glow.
‘Tell us what happened when Cartwright arrived at your house,’ says Detective Vlarnic.
Tim tells them every detail, everything he remembers. The other detective, Tomlinson, has the sheets of paper opened between his hands now, listening to Tim. When he turns the page, letting the first two hang by the staple it’s as though he’s following a story printed there in front of him.
Tim ignores this. He has his own story, and delivers it. ‘He couldn’t find the gun in my room…’
‘Because it was in the wall space behind your wardrobe,’ Vlarnic interrupts and when Tim looks surprised, he explains, ‘Yes, we found your hidey-hole. Was he violent towards you and your sister at this stage?’
‘He punched me.’ Tim points to his jaw where the bruise is fading to a sickly yellow. ‘It was to make me tell him where the gun was.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘No,’ says Tim Beal, that same chin held high.
‘Kirsty had gone into your bedroom with you, is that right?’
Tim nods. ‘She tried to stop him hitting me, but he was too strong.’
‘So instead she went back to the lounge room and phoned the police.’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t hear her, but Ian did. He went out to stop her.’
Vlarnic has been bending forward to listen in concentration but at this he straightens up and glances towards his partner.
‘Cartwright wasn’t fast enough, though. The call was logged at…’
‘One forty-three,’ says Tomlinson, reading from the pages in front of him.
‘She only had time to give a name and plead for help but the address was traced from the phone number and a car dispatched at…’
‘One fifty-one,’ Tomlinson confirms.
Vlarnic waits an awkward ten seconds before he speaks again, although his eyes fix deliberately on the bed’s occupant, heavy and for the first time, ominous. ‘What did you do then, Tim?’
‘I got out the gun,’ he answers bluntly and again Emily McConville stirs uncomfortably from her spot near the window.
‘Why did you get out the gun?’
‘To kill Ian.’
‘Just tell them what you did, Tim,’ says Emily, exasperated. ‘You don’t have to say anything about what you intended, just what you actually did.’
She’s looking out for him, Tim recalls. He might end up in a court room, like his mother, even go to gaol. He doesn’t care. He wishes he had no past and no future. One is too painful, the other too hard. But he wants to tell this story so he ignores the lawyer and lifts his eyes to the policeman’s face. ‘I could hear Kirsty screaming. I had to do something and that gun was the only way.’
It wasn’t quite the truth, but it would do.
‘Was the gun loaded when you left your bedroom?’
‘Yes, ready to fire.’
‘What happened when you arrived in the lounge room? Did you say anything? Did Cartwright say anything to you?’
Tim takes his time. The past he doesn’t want is slipping around him like a greedy hand. When he speaks, he is there, in the lounge room of his house, the site of so much humiliation, so much abject terror. His lips move, repeating his own words from that afternoon and what was said to him, every foul curse, every threat.
‘I told him to leave Kirsty alone. He heard me but he hadn’t looked at me yet, so I told him again, leave her alone or I’d shoot him. He looked at me then, all right. He tried to laugh but I could see he was scared. That was when he started swearing at me. Called me a snivelling poofter, a weak piece of shit. He came towards me but I was pointing the gun at him. He couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t pull the trigger, no matter what he said. Kirsty came round behind me then so he couldn’t get at her. She said the police were coming, that Ian better go straight away if he didn’t want to be arrested. He swore at her too.’
Tim stops and looks towards Emily McConville. It’s not that he can’t remember what was said, it’s the language, he doesn’t like repeating it in front of a woman.
‘Ian wouldn’t go. I knew he wouldn’t. He even said so. He wasn’t going to let us beat him like that. He dared me to shoot him. Said I didn’t have the guts.’
He stops there and finds the policemen staring at him in astonishment.
‘How close was it?’ Vlarnic asks Tomlinson who seems especially surprised. Eyes on the pages in front of him he answers, ‘Almost word for word. Unbelievable that he’s got that kind of recall, after what happened.’
‘Did Cartwright try to grab the gun from you?’
‘No, he was too afraid. All that stuff he said was bullshit. I had the gun up to my face, ready to fire. He kept his eyes on the barrel the whole time. He was scared shitless.’
‘So Cartwright goes quiet, he’s standing there, afraid. Then what?’
‘I shot him.’
A groan from near the window. Tim glances again towards Emily and wonders whether it’s worth trying to explain. ‘I remember perfectly,’ he tells her. ‘I’m not going to hide what I did. I shot Ian in the chest. I was aiming at his heart, to make sure I killed him.’
‘This can’t go on,’ says Emily, pushing away from the wall. ‘It’s not fair on him. He’s only a boy, he’s still traumatised, been unconscious for days after they dug the bullets out of him. He’s still on morphine for that shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’s saying…’
‘Yes, I do,’ Tim protests firmly, but without too much heat. That will only make her think he truly is mad. ‘I aimed the gun at Ian and I pulled the trigger. I killed him because I had to. He’d been at us for years. I’m glad I did it, I’m glad he’s dead. You weren’t there, you don’t know what it was like. No one would help us, not even Dylan.’
Oh God, he’d said the name, but the policemen don’t seem to notice.
‘We have to go on,’ Vlarnic tells Emily. ‘We have to get to what actually happened. There are anomalies in these last statements he’s made.’
They win out over the lawyer. She stays close by the bed but can’t stop the questions from Vlarnic. ‘Cartwright is dead, Tim. That part is correct, but it didn’t happen the way you just described.’
Tim stares at them blankly. What are they talking about? Of course it happened that way. He shot Ian. The guy is dead. He tells them so and an argument follows. Tim doesn’t really listen and simply repeats the same words until Tomlinson comes forward from the end of the bed and hands th
e A4 sheets to Vlarnic.
‘Tim, did you know that your sister set up a video camera in the lounge room that afternoon?’
What were they talking about?
‘That’s right. She wanted to record what happened, thought your mother could use it to show the police how Cartwright harassed your family. Didn’t she tell you about this?’
‘No.’ For the first time since those early minutes after the detective arrived, Tim feels their physical presence looming over him, especially now that Tomlinson has moved. They form a matching pair, one on either side of his bed. Emily has closed in to stand beside his pillow now, so that they seem to be playing a game, two against two. The game is called tell the truth.
Tomlinson starts talking for a change. ‘We can’t see much of what did happen on the tape, unfortunately. It couldn’t take in the whole room and it was facing the wrong way for the most part, but there are glimpses as people pass b y, in and out of shot. It’s the audio that’s the most help. We don’t want to play it too you, Tim, because it would… well, it would be very hard on you, but those pages there are a transcript of what was said and other sounds picked up on the tape.’
He falls silent after this explanation. Vlarnic waves the transcript to claim Tim’s attention again.
‘So far, you’ve given a very accurate account of what happened, as it’s recorded here, wouldn’t you say, Geoff?’
‘Remarkably so,’ Tomlinson agrees.
‘But your statement about killing Cartwright doesn’t match this,’ Vlarnic says, shaking the transcript again. ‘And they don’t match the injuries to Cartwright’s body. He wasn’t shot in the chest at all, but lower down in the side. The first bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. Wasn’t enough to kill him. That came later. Now, at that range, Tim, your aim couldn’t have been that bad. You said you had the gun up to your face, in the proper firing position. You must have aimed away deliberately before you pulled the trigger.’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t. You don’t understand. I killed him. One shot in the heart. Dead.’
There is more silence in the room. Even Emily is staring at him now, instead of watching the cops.
‘Tim, Cartwright didn’t die from that first shot. He’s dead all right, but you didn’t kill him.’
‘I did kill him. I wanted to, I had to.’ He doesn’t look at anyone’s face now. Closes his eyes until he can see Cartwright in front of him, feel the rifle in his hands, the incredible weight of it, he can see the centre of the man’s chest in the v of the sight, feel his finger squeezing and the recoil of the weapon.
The policemen are talking over the top of him as though he isn’t here. He wishes that he wasn’t. Wishes he could hold that rifle in his hands again with the sight trained on Ian’s heart.
‘If we went through the transcript line by line, how would that go? Might bring back his memory of what really happened.’
‘Don’t know what else we can do. Tim, Tim,’ Vlarnic calls until he opens his eyes.
‘You’re wasting your time. I’ve already told you. Ian had to die, so my family could be free of him. We deserved that, didn’t we? After everything he’d done to us. It was up to me. There was no one else. I had to do it.’
Emily takes his left hand. ‘It’s not true, Tim. You shouldn’t say these things. It’s just not true. That’s what these men are telling you. Your memory’s got the story wrong.’
‘My memory. How do you know what I remember? Have you been inside my head?’ he asks and she recoils at the bitterness in his voice. He’s sorry to see it because he doesn’t mean her any harm.
Vlarnic shifts from foot to foot. It’s his first sign of impatience. ‘Listen, Tim, Ms McConville might not be able to read your mind and we certainly can’t, but the audio from the camera pretty much tells us what happened. Here, see for yourself,’ he says, leaning forward to place the curled pages on the tray. ‘There it is in black and white. There’s the line describing the first shot.’
Tim looks down at where the stubby finger is pointing.
Sound of fire-arm discharging. Adolescent female screams.
‘You fired that first shot, didn’t you Tim?’
‘Yes.’
‘You say you shot him in the heart and killed him but he’s not dead. Here, see for yourself,’ and he moves his finger down to the next lines.
Adult male cries out in pain. Sound of body falling heavily to floor.
Adolescent female: ‘Oh Jesus, you’ve shot him. Tim, what the hell have you done?’
Adult male: Expletive. Groan of pain. ‘Get away from me, you bitch.’
‘See, Tim, he’s not dead. He can still talk, still swear. The autopsy said the bullet lodged in fat above his kidneys. Not a fatal wound, not if he’d had medical help fairly soon.’
‘I aimed at the heart. He was dead when he hit the floor.’ ‘I think you know that’s not true, Tim,’ says Vlarnic. ‘Look at the next part of the transcript.’ He flicks over the page and touches his finger to the first lines.
Adolescent female: ‘Watch out Tim. Tim, keep that thing away from him.’
Adult male: ‘Give it to me.’
Adolescent female: Grunts in effort. Cries out loudly. ‘Don’t let him get it.’
Adolescent female screams. Sound of fire-arm discharging. More screaming from adolescent female. ‘Tim, Tim!’
‘That’s where he shot you the first time, Tim,’ Vlarnic says softly. ‘You’re lucky you turned away at the last moment because that bullet went into the ball of your shoulder where the bones stopped it from going into your lungs or a major artery. You were on the floor after that, of course. He wanted to finish you off, too. You were right about him, Tim. A violent man with a dangerous temper. Probably had the gun aimed at your head. We don’t know, but the transcript shows what your sister did. See.’
This time Tim won’t look down at the page so Vlarnic reads it to him, not word for word but the précis is accurate enough. ‘Adolescent female pleads with him to let you live. When he ignored her, movement on the edge of video suggests she tried to disrupt his aim. Sound of fire-arm discharging. That’s the bullet that went into your abdomen, Tim. Did a lot of damage, I’m sure, but not as much as it would have done to your head. She saved your life.’
Tim tries to let this wash over him. If he stood strong enough the wave couldn’t sweep him off his feet.
His eyes are drawn to the transcript, though. He can’t help it, can’t control them. They eat up the black words.
Adolescent female: ‘Please no more. He’s dead already.’
Adult male: ‘He would be if you hadn’t got in the way. Get away from him. He’s going to pay.’
Sound of bolt being wrenched backwards and spent cartridge ejecting.
Adolescent female: ‘No, please no.’
Adult male: ‘Move away or you’ll pay as well. I don’t care what they do to me. I’ve had enough of your whole family, the way you persecute me, make me come here so you can spit in my face. I’m fed up with all the games. Get away from him.’
Adolescent female screams.
Sound of fire-arm discharging.
Vlarnic can see that Tim has read to the end of the page. He picks up the transcript, ready to turn to the next one.
Before he can set it down on the tray again, Tim begins to thrash around in the bed. ‘It’s not true,’ he shouts. ‘It didn’t happen that way. I killed Ian. I had to, like the possum. I hit it with the pipe and it was dead.’
Around him the policemen and the lawyer share stunned glances.
‘What’s this about a possum?’ Emily asks them.
‘Haven’t got the faintest,’ Vlarnic answers, while Tomlinson shakes his head, perplexed.
‘Look, I must insist that you stop the interview,’ says Emily. ‘He’s gone right off the rails. This claim that he killed the man doesn’t make sense and now he’s going on about some animal he’s killed as well. I’m going to request a psychiatric assessment for my client.’
> Tim hears the woman’s voice but can’t make any sense of her words. Who are these big men around his bed, he wonders? They had a story they were reading to him, but he doesn’t want to listen to it now. He can feel his mind closing up, like a house on a hot sunny day when you want to keep the heat out. Darkness, yes, stay cool in the darkness. There’s something heavy on his lips that he wants to get out, one final word before he sleeps.
‘Kirsty.’
25
Dylan confesses
Dylan can’t stand the waiting. How long will it be before they come for him? Before Tim tells the police what the pair of them had been planning?
The worst thing, though, is visiting Kirsty. All he does is cry until his mother takes him home again. He wishes the police would come.
Then he walks out of the school gate one afternoon and sees a figure near the bus stop, taller than the kids around him and standing out among the scruffy uniforms in his shirt and tie. There’s no doubt who the guy’s waiting for. What was his name? Vlarnic, that’s it.
Why’s he come here to school, instead of home? Why didn’t he just phone Mrs Kane - please bring Dylan down to the station - like it’s been twice before?
But he knows why. He’s got his wish at last. He thinks again of the condemned prisoner walking out to face the firing squad - the dignified version. It’s more than he deserves. How can you dread that a particular moment will come, like your own execution, and yet feel a relief when it finally arrives? He looks down at his hands, surprised to see the trickle of moisture across the palms is no more than sweat.
Dylan makes eye contact then heads across the road, aware that the policeman is following him.
Kill the Possum Page 18
