Sixty Seconds

by Jesse Blackadder

  The detective waited.

  ‘Obviously it didn’t close properly after me and I didn’t notice. That’s the only way Toby could have got in. It must have shut behind him.’

  ‘I see,’ she said slowly. She scribbled something in her notebook then looked at him closely. ‘Mr Brennan, I have to caution you now that you do not have to answer any questions, and anything you do or say could be used in evidence.’

  ‘What?’ Finn shook his head, trying to understand.

  ‘We can continue this interview later with a solicitor if you wish.’

  ‘No,’ Finn said. ‘I’d rather get it over with. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘Could you show me the mechanism?’

  Finn stood and the detective followed him through the sliding door onto the verandah. They ducked under the tape. One of the other police officers came out of the pool area to join them and the detective introduced him as a scientific investigator. Finn pulled the lever to demonstrate how Owl Sentry worked. The gate eased its deadly way open, and, after a few seconds, swung shut with a firm clank.

  As the investigator took more photographs, the detective shook the gate to check it was latched. ‘It’s working now.’

  ‘It didn’t happen every time, or I’d have fixed it, obviously.’

  The thing could well have malfunctioned, Finn thought. How else could Toby have got into the pool area? It was the only thing that made any sense.

  ‘That’s all we need for now.’ She stepped back and closed her notebook. ‘Can you please advise us as soon as you’ve notified your family?’

  They had to start telling people. He’d have to call his father, his brother and sisters, their friends in Tasmania. Thank God his mother wasn’t alive. It would have killed her.

  He had to stop there. He couldn’t imagine the first phone call.

  She handed him her card. ‘Let us know if there’s anything else you remember. A funeral home will be able to help you with arrangements.’

  A funeral home. Didn’t she know this was his son? Who, three hours ago, had been bouncing around the house demanding someone read to him?

  The investigator lifted the tape and gestured for Finn to follow them out. ‘Please leave the tape in place and don’t go behind it,’ he said. ‘We’ll probably remove it later today, or tomorrow. Constable Feroka will stay to keep the area secure.’

  Finn couldn’t look at the pool. He had to go inside. Had to join Bridget and Jarrah. He just wanted to hold them hard to his body. His chest hurt as he turned and walked back along the verandah. He wondered, distantly, if his heart might simply halt. He’d be with Toby then, still and blue and cool, and Toby wouldn’t be alone wherever it was they had him now, in some metal drawer somewhere.

  He reached the glass door of the kitchen and looked inside. He saw Bridget, seated, her shoulders shaking, and Jarrah standing next to her. The boy still wasn’t crying, but the look on his face was worse than if he had been.

  They were the most precious things left to him, and he’d do anything. Anything. He’d take that weight for Bridget and never put it down.

  BRIDGET

  You want your mother. You felt the same way giving birth, you remember. A kind of primal need. She was there when you had Jarrah, but by the time Toby muscled his way into the world she was already dipping in and out of the fog of dementia. Now, with advancing Alzheimer’s, she is effectively gone from you.

  When Finn comes in from talking to the police, the three of you, by some silent assent, move into the lounge room and sit in a row on the couch. Finn in the middle, Jarrah on the right, you on the left. Finn clasps your hand so hard it hurts, and through that small, physical pain you know you still exist.

  You notice pieces of Lego rolled under the armchair opposite and you keep your gaze fixed on them. There is still a chance that if you stay sitting there, holding very still, silent, not crying, then you’ll wake up and this won’t have happened.

  Every few – moments? – minutes? – you drift away and then the memory of why you are there washes back through you in another sickening rush. Some part of your brain logs the stress process: adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine, flooding your body. Three pieces of Lego under the armchair. One blue, one red, one yellow. Three humans on the couch. Your life is measured now in threes.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Three knocks on the glass door, so sudden and loud that you nearly choke. A woman cups her hands on the glass and peers in, and for a long moment the three of you stare at her, until at last Jarrah stands and lets her in.

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ she says.

  Who is she, even? Someone Finn knows? Older, conservatively dressed. You can’t place her.

  ‘I’m Meredith Anderson. I’m a volunteer support worker with the hospital and I represent Caring Friends, a foundation that supports families after the death of a child. I wasn’t on duty when you came in this morning.’

  You cannot make her words mean anything, and eventually, when it’s clear no one else will respond, Jarrah says, ‘Right.’

  ‘You must be Jarrah?’ she says to him. ‘And Finn, and Bridget? I understand you haven’t been in town long. I’m here to help.’

  Her lip quivers and you wish she’d go. Everything is slipping through your fingers; the new world streaming in to replace the old one with shocking speed.

  She walks towards you, leans in, puts her hand on your shoulder, letting go when you flinch. ‘I know what it’s like.’

  No one can possibly know what this is like.

  She scans the three of you with an appraising glance. ‘Jarrah, do you think you could make us all a cup of tea?’

  Who is this woman, ordering your son around? You open your mouth to protest, but she squeezes your shoulder again. She’s right. You do need help, here in this unfamiliar town two thousand miles from home, with no friends of the real sort.

  Meredith isn’t afraid of silence. She moves to an armchair and the three of you listen to Jarrah’s methodical tea-making. When he carries the tea in on a tray, you know you will gag if anything passes your lips, especially when Meredith, without asking, stirs a sugar into each cup before handing it over. You take the cup and wrap your hands around its warmth. In spite of the day’s heat, you’re cold.

  ‘I know you’re in shock, but there are things you need to do today.’ Her voice is gentle.

  ‘OK,’ Jarrah says, on your behalf.

  ‘Finn, I understand you’ve identified your son’s body at the hospital and agreed to the autopsy, and you and Bridget have both made police statements. The next thing you need to do is notify your family and friends before they hear some other way.’

  One word leaps out. ‘An autopsy?’

  She nods. ‘It is required in a case of accidental death, as the doctor would have explained to Finn.

  You try to understand that Toby is now a body.

  ‘Notifying your loved ones is the most important thing,’ she continues. ‘I can help you make a list, and assist you with those calls, if you wish.’

  Your gut contracts. The Brennans. All of them. Not knowing yet.

  ‘The police won’t release Toby’s name until your family have been notified, but the story will be in the news soon, and these things get out fast on social media. I know this is very hard. Can I help you make that list?’

  She takes a notebook and pen from her handbag.

  The idea you could tell the Brennans is unthinkable and you’re silent. When it’s clear Finn can’t speak either, Jarrah starts listing names. ‘Um, my dad’s family, I guess. My grandfather. Uncle Conor. Aunt Mary and Aunt Carmel.’

  As the woman writes them down, Jarrah turns his head to you. ‘What about Nan?’

  You shake your head. You hated how dementia has stolen your mother, but suddenly it seems a blessing. There’s no rush to tell her.

  The woman won’t give up. ‘I’ll note down the numbers for you. Where can I find them?’

  ‘Mum’s mobile,’ says Jarrah. ‘Where is it
, Mum?’

  You jerk your head towards the kitchen, and he disappears in that direction. You think Finn must be crying again because you can feel him shuddering next to you. You should squeeze his hand or something.

  Jarrah comes back with your phone. ‘Some guy from work has texted. Says you’re missing a meeting.’

  ‘Let me notify them,’ Meredith says. ‘Your work may be worried if you haven’t turned up.’

  You don’t really want a stranger calling Chen, but at the pity on her face, you subside.

  ‘How about Jarrah and I go and sort out the kitchen while you and Finn make these first calls? I’ll be right here if you need support. You can put me on to people if you want, to help them with arrangements, after you’ve told them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Finn says. His first words since she arrived.

  ‘After that,’ she continues, ‘you could take a rest together.’

  Finn clutches your arm like he wants to take you down with him, and what will happen when you are alone together? What will happen when you look into each other’s eyes? Because each of you has seen Toby dead, and there is no refuge there. And tonight or tomorrow, someone will slice into his skin, examine his organs, take samples.

  Meredith hands you the list. ‘I’ll be just next door, with Jarrah.’

  Jarrah follows her out to the kitchen like some capable stranger. What has happened to your family?

  JARRAH

  It happened to people on television, or those tall black kids at my school – the Sudanese ones – who lost their mother and father and everyone else except an aunt or something. They weren’t in my class, so I didn’t know them, but I’d heard the stories. How did people actually live through it? The ones who lost their whole family? Was it the same pain multiplied? Could that even be possible?

  In the kitchen Toby’s book lay open on the floor and his toast crusts scattered across the tray of the highchair.

  The woman – what was her name? – patted me. ‘Do you think you could stack the dishwasher? I’ll just step outside and call your mother’s workplace.’

  Was she crazy? I slumped on a chair and listened to her making the call just outside on the verandah. There was a Vegemite handprint on the highchair.

  She was back in a moment. ‘It’s better to do something.’ She flipped open the dishwasher and sped around the kitchen, passing me things. Over the clank of dishes I strained my ears to listen to Mum and Dad’s phone calls. I heard low voices, but not the words. Then I heard Dad start crying.

  The woman paused and closed her eyes at the sound. Then she kind of shook herself and handed me Toby’s plastic toast plate. Her eyes were red. ‘My heart is breaking for your family. Our foundation provides lots of help and support. You won’t have to do it all yourself.’

  I shoved Toby’s plate in the dishwasher. ‘OK.’

  When the dishwasher was full I turned it on. Wiped the benches. She even got me cleaning the stove. When it got really quiet next door she went and had a look. Came back a few minutes later.

  ‘I’ve sent your parents upstairs,’ she said. ‘They said for you to come up when you’re ready. Is there anyone you want to call, Jarrah? A friend who could come around?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Someone knocked on the glass door and she let him in. It was that guy from Mum’s work. I’d met him once. She introduced herself to him. Meredith, and Chen, that’s what they were called. He hesitated and nodded at me.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ he said, twice. I think he’d been crying.

  ‘They’re resting now,’ Meredith said. ‘Maybe you can come back later?’

  He shook his head. ‘I want to do something. I’ll make some food.’

  She nodded and he starting pulling stuff out of the cupboards and the fridge. It was weird.

  ‘You feel like giving Chen a hand?’ she said to me.

  ‘No thanks.’

  She put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m just trying to help, Jarrah. You can come and see me for support. It’s free. I know you’re in shock now, but it might help in the coming days.’

  Did she mean things would feel worse in the coming days? I looked outside. The whole pool area was surrounded with that police tape, flapping in the breeze. There was still one cop under the shade of the palms. He just sat there, staring at the water.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Chen asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

  ‘Good,’ the woman said. ‘Be with your parents. You should stay together.’

  I left them in the kitchen and climbed the stairs on tiptoe. At the top I stopped. Down the hall, Mum and Dad’s bedroom door was ajar and it was really quiet in there. Did they know I was standing at the top of the stairs?

  One of them had made the worst fuck-up that was ever possible. I would never have let it happen, but one of them had. One of them had lost my brother.

  My breathing seemed loud in my own ears. I couldn’t go in there. My feet wouldn’t move. Instead I turned left and crept along the carpet to the open door of Toby’s little room at the end of the hall, tucked under the roof with a sloping ceiling.

  His familiar smell hit me first. Actual molecules of Toby still circulating in the air. Toby’s pyjamas on the floor, Toby’s bedclothes rumpled and heaped on his tiny bed – the one he’d only moved into three months earlier – as if he might be hiding under them, tricking us. Toby’s plush monster, manky and dribbled on.

  When my feet would move, I stepped inside and shut the door. Mum and Dad had each other. I had bits of Toby in the air.

  A parent’s pain must be the worst, right?

  I grabbed the plush monster, lifted up the cotton quilt that had covered Toby in his sleep, and climbed under. Curled into a ball, surrounded by the smell of him. I pulled the covers over my head and hunched in tight. Then I jammed that monster against my open mouth and it ate my howls.

  JARRAH

  I welcome you here today to pay tribute to Toby Brennan, to mourn the shortness of his life, and to comfort his family for their loss. His mother Bridget, his father Finn and his brother Jarrah have lived among us less than a year. The turnout today is a sign to the Brennan family that though you are new here, you are part of our community, which is full of compassion. Our hearts are with you at this tragic time.

  The closest I came to seeing Toby again was when we walked into the chapel at the crematorium at ten o’clock on Friday morning, four days and one hour after he died. There he was, just a couple of metres away from me, in a white coffin that looked too small to hold him.

  Earlier in the week the woman from that foundation thing, whose name I kept forgetting, asked if we wanted a viewing. Toby’s body would be back from the autopsy on Wednesday and there was time, she said.

  Dad just shut his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘You may want to give people the option. You might change your own minds. It can be an important part of your healing.’

  Did I want to see Toby? The idea was terrifying. But maybe if I saw him I’d believe he was dead.

  ‘It is a chance to say goodbye,’ the woman continued. ‘Toby will look very peaceful.’

  ‘After he’s been autopsied?’ Mum snapped. I think she’d forgotten I was there.

  I had a flash of Toby, eyes closed, skin pale. I glanced at Mum and Dad but they were both looking at the floor. If I said I wanted to see Toby, did it mean I was blaming them? Did I need their permission? Was I even brave enough? I was scared that dead Toby would get into my brain and be the only thing I remembered.

  The idea of seeing Toby never got mentioned again. Not when people started arriving, not when the house was full of Brennan aunts and uncles and cousins, making food and drinks all through the day and night, crying and blowing noses, hugging me, cooking and eating, cooking and drinking, always food on the table, more and more dropped off every day until we were throwing it out. No one asked about seeing Toby, or not in front of me, though maybe that was what the whispered
conversations in the kitchen were about, the ones that stopped suddenly when I walked into the room.

  I didn’t want to hear what they were saying anyhow. The thing I needed to hear and the thing I couldn’t stand to hear was what happened. Who let Toby out of their sight? Which one of them?

  No one talked about that.

  Then suddenly it was Friday and somehow we were running late for the funeral; suddenly it was all a rush and no one could get organised. We were maybe the last people to get there and we came down the aisle with everyone looking at us, and filed into the front row and sat down. And there was the coffin. When the service was finished, Toby would be cremated. That was the polite word for it. No chance to change my mind.

  I’d never seen a dead body. Not of a person. I saw our cat after she was crushed by a car back in Hobart. Gave me nightmares and we never got another cat. I’d had a nightmare about Toby too, the night after that woman asked about the viewing. I knew the body was Toby’s, but I couldn’t recognise him. Woke up choking. Maybe it was lucky the last time I saw Toby he was alive. Maybe it was lucky I could only imagine what had happened, and what he might look like.

  There I was, in full view of every person in the place. Toby out the front in the white box. Mum on the end of our row, me in the middle, Dad next. The two front rows were full of Dad’s relatives. Uncle Conor sat next to him, really close. Then Dad’s sister Mary and her girlfriend Edie, and his other sister Carmel and Uncle Graeme. Cousins – mostly older than me, who I didn’t know well – were in the next row.

  Conor was staying with us, sleeping on one of the couches. His wife Helen hadn’t come. Edmund was sleeping on the other couch. Everyone else was at hotels, but they spent all their time at our house. Poppa Brenn didn’t come.

  ‘He’s too old,’ Dad said when I asked. ‘He can’t cope.’

  Whatsername asked me all through the week if I had support, if I had friends, did I want counselling. She was trying to be nice. But every time she asked made it worse. No, I didn’t have friends. The closest thing to a friend, Billy, was just as outcast as me. He’d texted something during the week that sounded like his mother made him send it, but that was all.