Heller’s Decision

by JD Nixon

  I leaned back in my chair and considered. “What about getting a dark magic practitioner and maybe a religious fundamentalist together?”

  “No way. Too controversial.”

  “Geez, I never thought I’d hear you say that!”

  “Me either, frankly.”

  “Okay, what about a fundamentalist and a practitioner of good magic? Like a Wiccan?”

  He thought about it. “That might work. Can you round anyone up in time?”

  “I have no idea how to find either of them. But I guess that’s what you pay me for, right?”

  “I knew there was some reason.”

  “Ha, ha, you should go into comedy. I think you missed your calling.”

  “And with that praise ringing in my ears, I’m off for the night. I have a date.”

  I checked my watch. “It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”

  “This isn’t a dinner date.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  I held up my hand. “I don’t want to hear anymore, honestly. It’s like hearing about your parents’ sex life.”

  “Impertinent minx. And speaking of sex lives, how are you and Mr Beautiful getting along?”

  I shrugged. “Mostly okay. It’s a little rocky now and then.”

  “Can’t be worse than my relationships. My last lady friend wanted to spend most of her time ‘discussing’ it, which usually meant pointing out all my flaws as a human being.”

  “Can’t blame her. There are a lot of them to discuss.”

  “Watch it, girly.”

  “And which lady friend was this? The last one? Or the one before her? Or the one before the one before her?”

  “You make me sound like some kind of slut.”

  “Hey, if the panties fit, you should wear them.”

  “Speaking of panties, I’m out of here. Don’t stay too late.”

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me it was past dinnertime. “I won’t. Especially now I’m here by myself with nobody but this scary Malefic dude for company.”

  I stayed another hour, managing to track down a couple of guests for the next night’s show – Joshua, the reverend of a local independent church, who eagerly agreed to be on the show, and Liya, an active Cybelian, a ‘church’ that worshipped the ancient Anatolian earth mother, Cybele, and practiced good magic. Pleased with that result and expecting a lively discussion, I was just shutting down my computer when my phone rang.

  “Matilda, where are you?” reproached Heller. “You should have been home ages ago.”

  “Sorry, I just had some things to wrap up at work. I’m on my way now.”

  “You need to let me know when you’re going to work late. I was concerned something may have happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hurry home now, please.”

  “Okay.” But I was talking to myself. He’d already rung off.

  Chapter 17

  The next day, the courtroom was full as people squeezed in to every last space to watch the committal hearing of the two women. They’d insisted on being tried together, though they’d been forced to accept separate public defenders by the Attorney-General. Although they sat in the same dock, they were made to sit at either end, each with their own corrective services officer, with no possibility of physical contact between them. This didn’t stop them from gazing at each other in desperation. It was probably the first time they’d seen each other since they’d been arrested. Each conveyed palpable yearning for the other in their body language and eyes.

  Six months in prison while on remand had brought about some physical changes, rendering them different in appearance from the news pictures of them at the time they’d been arrested. Charlotte Tank had since put on weight; Alice Turbot currently suffered from a terrible acne breakout. The black dye job in their hair had partially grown out to its natural colours and while Charlotte had kept her lank hair long in prison, Alice had cut most of hers off. They shared similar sullen, defiant expressions.

  “All rise!” called the court clerk as the magistrate swept into the courtroom. Everyone promptly rose to their feet, except the two defendants who took their time about it, earning them a sharp, “On your feet, ladies,” from the clerk.

  The magistrate settled herself and we sat again. She shuffled some papers while waiting for the courtroom to become quiet again.

  Alice spoke out in a loud, clear voice. “I demand to be called by my demonic name, Abere, during this farce of a hearing.”

  “And I demand to be called Ala, my demon name,” chorused Charlotte.

  Unimpressed, the magistrate looked down her glasses at the public defenders. “Gentleman, you’d be advised to remind your clients to remain silent unless they are requested to speak.”

  “Yes, Your Honour,” the two embarrassed men said, both turning to glare at their outspoken clients.

  The magistrate spent some time explaining to the defendants what the process would be during the hearing. Then she invited the public prosecutor to commence outlining the case against the two women. And so it began.

  Though my butt grew sore from sitting still for so long, I scribbled furiously in my notepad the whole time, unsure of how much detail would interest Trent. The prosecutor’s case took up the entire first day of the hearing and looked as though it might take up much of the next as well. As the girls hadn’t been particularly cautious during their killing spree, there were a lot of witness statements and forensic evidence to go over.

  After court adjourned for the day, I raced over to the studio so I could be on hand for the filming of Trent’s big story for the show tonight. Because I’d only been able to arrange the lineup last night, the story had to be pre-recorded right before the show went live, due to the availability of the guests. There was little room for error.

  I instantly recognised Reverend Joshua as a trenchant warrior of his particular version of God, with ultra-conservative social views and forever with his censorious face in the paper and on the news condemning anything remotely fun about modern life. He and his very vocal parishioners spent much of their time rallying in front of nightclubs, casinos, adult shops, pubs and legal brothels, railing against sinners. On Sundays, he preached his ‘brimstone and fire’ sermons to the converted in his fringe, breakaway church, mostly reinforcing his beliefs in traditional gender roles.

  Liya was an exotic beauty – tall and graceful with dark skin, liquid chocolate cat-eyes and long hair tightly plaited into hundreds of small braids, which she held back with jewelled hairclips. She wore the sort of flowing, mismatched, bohemian clothes that looked natural on some women – like her – but which would leave me looking like someone who’d wrapped myself in a parachute in the dark while completely intoxicated (and probably with a monkey on my back). She oozed warmth and calm confidence, as if she’d pretty much worked out the meaning of everything in life.

  I wanted to be her.

  Trent virtually rubbed his hands together in anticipation when he set eyes on both of them. “Oh yes. Ratings winner,” I heard him gloat to himself.

  He had every right to be gleeful. The interview started badly. Trent first gave a brief overview of the trial and reminded his viewers, as if anyone didn’t know by now, of Malefic’s supposed influence on the young murderers. I personally didn’t think Trent should have broached the topic of Malefic, because it only gave him the publicity he probably craved. His website would be flooded with hits later tonight from curious viewers.

  Trent went on to describe the credentials of each of his guests, giving Reverend Joshua due credit, to which that man sat nodding his head in arrogant agreement. But Trent didn’t even make it through one sentence about Liya, before the Reverend butted in on him.

  “I don’t know why you even bothered to invite this . . . person . . . this witch . . . on your show.”

  Trent was taken aback at his vehemence. “I always try to present both sides of –”

  “There are no two sides to this debate! There is only one side and that is the
side of righteousness, the side of God.”

  Liya rolled her beautiful eyes. “Glad you’re prepared to be so open-minded today.”

  “I will never open my mind to Satan. That thing you practice, that so-called religion, is evil and corruptive of God’s people.”

  “Thanks for your tolerance in giving me a fair opportunity to speak.” Liya did a nice line in sarcasm – I liked her even more.

  “I will deny you any opportunity to ever speak of your evil ways.”

  “Hey now,” Trent interjected. “It’s not up to you to decide who gets to speak on my show. And may I please introduce my other guest?”

  “It is always up to me to ensure that the devil words from advocates of this ‘religion’ of false magic remain unheard by innocent ears.”

  “We don’t practice false magic,” said Liya hotly. “Why don’t you do a bit of research on Cybelians before you say uninformed things like that?”

  “False magic, dark magic. Satan’s tools.”

  “Let’s be clear about one thing – we do not practice dark magic. Cybelia is a positive force. It’s a helping religion. Unlike yours, which just spreads ignorance and hatred.”

  “My faith spreads the truth. Yours is a false religion and you are a charlatan.”

  “Look, buddy. Maybe you should shut your big –” Liya started.

  “Why doesn’t everyone just settle down?” soothed Trent. “I’m sure we can discuss this in a reasoned way.”

  Reverend Joshua turned on him. “Why don’t you stop denying the truth that this woman is a tool of the devil?”

  “Call me that one more time,” dared Liya.

  “Please!” Trent half-demanded, half-pleaded, frantically pressing the security button. I watched on with growing trepidation. He wasn’t going to be happy with me after the show, because the story had run away from him. I’d have to make sure I scooted away earlier than him to avoid the repercussions of not checking the guests out more thoroughly. “Let’s have some sensible discussion on this topic.”

  “There’s nothing sensible about this man,” Liya scorned.

  “I won’t sit here any longer with this devil woman.”

  Liya half-rose. “I warned you.”

  “Everyone just settle down!” Trent shot Reverend Joshua a look. “Tolerance is not an over-rated emotion, you know.”

  “Don’t you lecture to me about what’s right and wrong,” the Reverend shot back. “You’re nothing but a filth merchant and a whoremonger.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Trent spat, genuinely offended.

  “I’ve heard about the types of stories you air on this show, which I remind you can be viewed by anybody with a television. And I’ve heard about all your fancy women. A fine kind of morality you like to display. It’s disgusting you’re considered to be a public figure.”

  Trent barely held his temper in check. “My alleged private life has nothing to do with this story, so can we stick to the point?”

  “I notice you don’t deny any of it. This devil creature is probably one of your fancy women too.”

  “You are so asking for it, you overblown arse,” threatened Liya, rising again from her chair.

  “This interview needs to end now,” Trent said firmly, looking over towards Brady. “Cut.”

  “Good. I cannot bear to share space with ungodly people,” intoned Reverend Joshua.

  “Excellent. Piss off, you lunatic,” snapped Trent, unwisely. Then to Brady, “That fucking camera better be off.”

  His lips pinched together with righteous rage, the Reverend dumped his glass of water over Trent’s head, leaving him gasping in surprise. “I hope that cures you of your filthy mouth.” He stormed off-set and out of the studio, throwing back over his shoulder, “You’re violating the laws of God by promoting this devil magic. I hope you all burn in Hell for eternity.”

  “God,” said a shocked Trent in the aftermath of that, Viv rushing onset to dab him down with a towel. He searched around for me in the darkness of the studio, a murderous expression on his face. “Tilly!”

  Uh oh! I recognised a reason to run when I heard one being hollered at me. Fairly sure he wasn’t going to laugh this one off, I hurriedly escaped the studio, snatched up my handbag from my desk and fled to my car.

  “Why are you sprinting out of here?” demanded one of the unfriendly station security officers as I left the building, the other eyeing me suspiciously. “What have you done now?”

  I guess that meant I was building a reputation of sorts around the place.

  “Nothing,” I lied, rushing past them. “I just remembered I left the iron on.” And I didn’t breathe easily again until I was in the car with my mobile phone turned off, driving home.

  Dispirited, I climbed the stairs to my place, not wanting to talk to anyone about anything. So of course my mother rang.

  “I want you to come to dinner tomorrow night, Tilly darling. Everyone will be there, including your grandmothers.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, thinking it would probably be for the best if Scottie helped out on the show tomorrow night instead of me. I hesitated. “Do you mind if I bring Heller with me?”

  “Of course not! He’s always very welcome at our house,” Mum enthused, showing admirable amnesia about the time Heller had wrecked their lounge room. But he’d been rather a favourite of hers ever since I’d introduced him, and she didn’t get to see him very often. “We’ll expect you at seven. I can’t wait to see you again.” And I didn’t know if she was talking about Heller or me.

  In my own bed that night by myself, I wondered if I should use the opportunity of a family gathering to finally announce to them all that Heller and I were now a couple? No, that wasn’t the right term. An item? No. Shagging each other’s brains out every night? Hmm, maybe not – my grandmothers were going to be present. So once again, with all solutions to this tricky problem eluding me, I avoided the question and snuggled down to sleep, only to be woken what seemed like five seconds later, by a very insistent pair of hands removing my clothes.

  “I’m tired, Heller,” I complained, half-asleep and trying to roll away from him.

  He rolled me back and kissed my neck. “We don’t have to have a conversation afterwards.”

  “You never want to have a conversation afterwards anyway,” I giggled.

  “Yes, I do, Matilda. I always want to hear you telling me about how good it was.” His teeth glinted in the moonlight as he smiled.

  I giggled again. “That’s not a conversation. That’s me stroking your ego.”

  He clasped my hand and moved it lower down on his body. “You can stroke this if you’d prefer.”

  So I did and I let him have me once more. And in the end, clearing my mind of anything else except him and me and the pleasure we gave each other, was the best thing for erasing everything I’d heard and seen today. I slept well in his arms, waking up the next morning alone, but refreshed and ready for action.

  As I ate my toast and sipped coffee, I watched the previous night’s episode of People’s Pulse, which I recorded every night. I was half-dreading, half-curious to see how that story had turned out in the end. Brady had shown his usual empathy while editing and Reverend Joshua’s whole water-dumping, storming off episode had made it into the evening’s show. But once again demonstrating his firm belief that the show must go on, Trent had dried off, made a self-deprecating comment about the experience and continued on to interview Liya at length about Cybelia and Cybelians. I found it fascinating and sat watching, transfixed, until I realised I’d be late for court if I didn’t hustle my butt.

  Not quite brave enough to tell Heller to his face that I was taking him up on his promise to visit my parents for a meal tonight, I waited until I was at the courthouse to text him the good news. His voicemail response was a simple, unhappy: Matilda. I thought, too bad. He’d said he would accompany me and I took that to mean he was being sincere.

  That terrifying task completed, I decided I couldn’t ignore Trent�
�s texts and voicemails forever, though it was an extremely tempting proposition to do so. With a few minutes to spare until we were allowed into the courtroom for the day, I plucked up my courage and rang him.

  I didn’t bother beating around the bush. “Do I still have a job?”

  “All I can say is you’re lucky you’re so cute,” he advised me sternly, but I could hear the reluctant smile behind his words.

  “I watched it this morning. You have to admit it made good TV.”

  “You have to admit you’re a huge pain in the arse.”

  “Speaking of being a pain in the arse, I won’t be coming to the studio tonight after court finishes. I have a family dinner to attend.”

  “There is a reason I pay you, you know. So it would be nice if you turned up occasionally.”

  “Hey! I’m working right now doing what you asked me to.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “It’s gruesome. The prosecution team is still outlining the forensics, there was so much of it.”

  “Send me some notes about the hearing at the end of the day before you go off to dinner. Scottie’s lined up an interview with some academic with a PhD in occultism for tonight’s show. I want to lead into it with a brief summary of the case so far.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  “Oh, if only you were that respectful.”

  I smiled. “I have to go. Bye Trent, and thanks for being such a great guy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go do some work for me.”

  Once again, the courtroom was jam-packed with observers and media. Just as the magistrate warned, the continuing prosecution case consumed the entire morning session of the hearing. The attitude of the two defendants hadn’t improved by their return to prison overnight.

  During the lunch recess, I grabbed a quick sandwich from a nearby eatery and sat in the park, typing up my notes on my tablet. Back in the courtroom for the afternoon session, the crowd settled itself waiting for the magistrate to return to recommence proceedings.

  The two women sat apathetically, as if bored by the whole situation. I wasn’t sure what happened to them during the hearing breaks, but suspected the court complex must have holding cells to contain those people in custody at the time of their hearings, somewhere where they were locked down for breaks and given their meals.