‘Nell, can we have a word outside?’
Nell rose, turning to Madeline.
‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Merlot, if you’ve got it,’ Madeline replied. ‘That was a joke. I only drink white.’
She smiled to herself, a sad faraway smile. They huddled together outside the consulting room, voices low.
‘We need more,’ DB hissed. ‘That’s the worst attempt at an affidavit I’ve ever seen. It’s more like the Wikipedia synopsis of a very sad movie than an actual legal document. We’ll be eaten alive if that’s what we submit. She’s not doing herself any favours. And what if he reports the breach? Jesus . . .’
He fell back into the wall as if no longer able to support his six-foot frame.
‘Maybe she doesn’t remember?’ Nell offered hesitantly.
DB ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, while I appreciate that, it’s not going to help her in the end. I’ve seen his. Came through this morning. It’s better. Way better. She comes off as a drunk and a risk to her children. And what she’s giving us in that room isn’t much of an improvement. She’s not a good witness. She can’t remember a bloody thing. And even if we didn’t put her on the witness stand, there’s nothing in that affidavit. She has no story.’
He stepped back, his hands on either side of his face like a panicking child.
‘We could lose this. Shit shit shit. Williams will not be impressed if we lose this. It’s meant to be our resounding pro bono victory. Redefining our whole goddamn social corporate responsibility ethos. They want to feature it in the bloody internal newsletter. And the annual report. I mean, it’s four-fifty an hour we’re not earning for this place. We need to make it count!’
He pulled his hands from his cheeks and started flexing them in front of him as if to tear a hole in the fabric of the space-time continuum through which to travel back to before. What happened to Ned Kelly? Nell thought.
‘It’s . . . stop that. It’s okay. We’ve still got time. Why don’t I speak to her? See if I can convince her to give us more detail?’
She had seen this, back when she was volunteering, the delicacy needed for a system that required its victims to speak the unspeakable. There was one woman, a victim of repeated and degrading sexual assault at the hands of her partner, who had wept openly for the full two hours it took to record her experience. Nell copied it all down because the woman herself refused to have it captured by her own hands in case it stayed there for good. She had done this, attended each session armed with her memories and a box of tissues, then once it was recorded she never returned, her court day coming and going without her.
DB agreed to Nell’s suggestion and fled to make himself an espresso from the pod machine in the kitchen.
‘Are you done whispering about me?’ Madeline asked as Nell took a seat opposite her.
‘Did you ever end up practicing law?’ Nell asked.
This, of all of it, had shaken her the most. That amid all this horror there was something they shared. The question threw Madeline, who gave a half-shrug.
‘No. I meant to, but I took a summer job working in the office of a local politician and then that turned into an actual job, and by the time I thought to go back and do my Articles or whatever it’s called now there didn’t seem much point. Eric seemed so far ahead of me by then it felt like I would be forever catching up, and then the kids came along and I ended up not going back to work at all.’
She raised her hands in mock triumph.
‘So I’m an ideal role model for smart young female lawyers like yourself, obviously.’
‘Do you remember much of it?’ Nell asked, and Madeline made a face.
‘Bits and pieces, I guess. But I’d assume it’s changed somewhat in the last fifteen years. You’d hope so, anyway. The Family Violence Protection Act, for one thing. That’s new. Didn’t think it would be used against me, though. I should have remembered all that rules of evidence stuff. Turning up like I was Sherlock fucking Holmes with my little recording. What an idiot.’
She slapped her palm to her forehead in pantomimic outrage.
‘Well,’ Nell continued. ‘One of the things that is still the same with civil proceedings is that at the end of the day they’re looking at the balance of probabilities that one of you did something wrong. It’s a lower bar than criminal law. In criminal you have to show beyond reasonable doubt that someone did something, but in civil they’re testing the evidence to see if the balance of probabilities is that something did or didn’t happen. Because it’s a cross-application, the magistrate will look at both your stories and evaluate each of them – did this happen and is there a risk of it happening again? So at the end of the day, it’s about who tells the story best; whose version is the most convincing and reliable. Details, evidence – this is what helps to do that.’
Madeline’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears. They tipped over her lids, pooling in the hollows under her eyes.
‘Fucking details. You know the thing about details is that when all is said and done, it’s the details you remember. I couldn’t tell you how many fights we had, how many times he punished me for all the various things I was apparently doing wrong. Hundreds? Thousands? Who knows? But you can bet I remember details. Particular phrases he used. Certain words that he knew were like bamboo under the fingernails. “Failure”, that was one. “Disappointment”. When the boys struggled at school it was because I was a terrible role model for them, sitting around on my fat arse all day doing nothing. Things like that. “I could wrap this car around a tree trunk and orphan our boys.” That one word for word, and I can name the exact point on the exact road where he said it. Mimic the exact fluctuations of his voice and tell you what song was on the radio too. Tina Turner. Ironic, right?’
Madeline raised her eyebrows at this part.
‘But the thing is, do I want all those details in court? Do I want to share them with a magistrate? With you? With that morose pup of a lawyer lurking about outside? It’s bad enough knowing I was stupid enough to put up with it for so long, but to have everyone else know that too?’
Nell swallowed. ‘I understand where you’re coming from. Of course I do. But we want you to win.’
Madeline stared at her, her eyes hard and hollow, until Nell looked away.
‘Do you really think any of us “win” from this situation?’
Nell changed tactics. ‘Tell me about your boys.’
Madeline smirked. ‘Good strategy. Get the woman talking about her kids then use that as leverage.’ She pulled out her phone again, her face set with bitter mirth. ‘Here.’
She flicked through some photos showing two young boys trapped in fits of hysterics. The older one had the same long face as his mother, while the younger one shared her smile. She ended with a photo of the three of them, lying together on a trampoline, their limbs tangled together.
‘The older one is such a serious little man. Very into mechatronics and coding and things like that. And the younger one is the sweetest little bugger. That smile could charm Stalin, and he gets everything he wants, too. So now that we’ve gone down this path, I guess you’re going to tell me that I have to do this for them?’
Nell met Madeline’s hard stare.
‘No. You have to do this for yourself. Write what you can and send it to me, and I promise you we will tell the best story on the day.’
16
Aida
Once, long ago, my father sat my brothers and I down to tell us about the labours of Rostam, hero of Iran. These seven struggles, his haft khan, shaped him from the boy he had been – the son of great Zal – into the man he would become – a ruler in his own right. My father
Aida paused, the silence distracting her from her writing. In this house of Niki and the Cyruses, silence was a rare, unnatural thing. Her arm darting from under the cover into the cold sti
ll air, Aida fumbled for her phone. It was silent too, the messages from her mother slowed now, as if reality was suddenly too hard to share. Aida glanced at the screen. By this time Elham should be up, clattering in the kitchen as the cats whined for milk, calling for Niki to sit down/eat her breakfast/no time for television/don’t touch the cats. Niki should be protesting in response, scattering her breakfast across the floor, wailing by the mute television, hurling her clothes about like a tetchy tornado. Aida listened to the stillness of the house, her heart racing in her chest. Was that a soft feline cry she could hear? Or maybe it was her own panic, rising up from her stomach and thundering about her mind?
She rose from bed, hastily pulling a thick jumper over her pyjamas, and walked towards the bedroom door. She opened it anxiously, the quiet corridor greeting her. She glanced towards the kitchen, bathed in peace, then towards the lounge, similarly still. Perhaps they’d left early, so quietly and carefully she hadn’t even stirred? That must be it, though their boots were still by the front door. Aida walked towards their bedroom, her breath catching in her throat. She gave a tentative knock. She knocked again, this time pushing the door open and peering in nervously. Elham lay on her mattress, Niki beside her. The little girl was stroking her mother’s face, her pink fingers tenderly following the curve of her still brow.
‘Elham?’
Elham didn’t respond, her dark eyes staring into nothing. Beneath the sheets, her chest rose and fell in solemn rhythm. Aida had seen this before, eyes that saw only the past.
‘Niki-joon, come here. Let’s get you up and ready for kinder.’
The little girl refused to move, her eyes fixed on her mother.
‘Come, Niki. You’re going to need some food and I think we might just have to turn the television on this morning.’
At this, Niki’s concentration wavered. She looked uncertainly at Aida then back at her mother.
‘Let’s leave her to rest,’ Aida suggested, and Niki took a small step towards Aida, her eyes undecided.
Her round cheeks were red from the cold. Aida held out a hand.
‘Maybe we can even eat our breakfast in front of the television?’
This won Niki over. She minced across the room towards the lounge, her step quickening as if expecting Aida to change her mind. As the television roared to life in the lounge, Aida knelt before Elham. Her sallow face offered no recognition.
‘You just rest, okay?’ Aida said softly, placing a palm against one of Elham’s cold cheeks.
The recent federal election results meant more of the same, so nothing seemed likely to change, and Elham had taken this heavily. Aida knew where she was, adrift somewhere amid the waves, the villages, the razor-wired cages, or the comforts and terrors of home.
‘You come back when you’re ready,’ she whispered, pressing her lips to Elham’s brow.
As Niki sat engrossed in the television, her breakfast falling blindly about her mouth, Aida hastily scrolled through her phone. Kat was unable to start any earlier but Nina said she’d cover for Aida until she arrived. She eventually managed to get Niki ready, the two negotiating a compromise in which a warm blue jumper was matched with the crumpled pyjama pants she refused to take off.
By the time they arrived at kinder the other children were well into their play. As Aida entered the code, the woman from weeks before came hurrying towards them. Niki ran off to join her friends and Aida tried to recall the woman’s name. Beverly? Helen? The woman paused when she arrived, smiling expectantly. When Aida didn’t fill the silence the woman reluctantly did.
‘We’re a little late today, aren’t we?’ she offered.
Aida swallowed all the snide remarks in her head and gave the woman her best ‘no-English’ smile.
‘Heather,’ the woman reminded her. ‘Elham?’
‘Aida,’ Aida corrected her, enjoying the flicker of annoyance that crossed Heather’s face.
‘No, I meant . . .’ she began, trailing off at Aida’s reinforced smile. ‘I wanted to check on how things are –’
‘I must work now,’ Aida interrupted her, turning towards the door. ‘Please can Niki stay later today? I will pay.’
Heather hesitated then nodded. Aida knew she would have words for her, but that could wait for later.
She arrived at work to find the little café hectic with the late-morning rush. Peter had joined Nina behind the counter. Aida cursed to herself. Her hopes of her tardiness remaining unnoticed quickly dissolved. Peter said nothing, simply thrust an apron at her, and she joined the meaty production line. The hours passed quickly, spurred by in inordinate demand for stuffed pitas that Aida could only put down to a mix of the cold weather and the launch of a new meat industry-driven public ‘education campaign’ championing a lamb-based reduction in iron deficiency. The staff called it Big Shawarma, a joke she’d had to explain to the others at first. Aida spent much of the day shrouded in silence, awaiting the inevitable disciplining that never seemed to come. The day’s only lull came mid-afternoon, the sky already darkening beneath the low grey clouds. Peter had retreated to the back room. Aida pulled out her phone and called Elham. Eventually it rang out and Aida shoved it back into her pocket.
‘Is everything okay?’ Nina asked.
Aida looked at her, unsure where to begin. Nearby, Kat cleared her throat loudly, and the three women went back to their work as Evangelia bustled in. Giving their work only a cursory glance she strode through to the back room and they heard the sounds of raised voices before the door slammed shut. Working a broom across the tiled floor, Aida wondered what they were talking about. Her, perhaps, and she wondered how much longer she might have a job for. Nor did she know how long she could continue to pretend to know how to care for Niki. She wanted to ask her mother, to quiz her on how one went about parenting a child, but she knew it wasn’t the time for this. Her father lying in the hospital, she couldn’t add to her mother’s worries, because worry she would, about Aida and about Elham and about the way their lives were tumbling wildly out of their control.
The bell above the door jingled and she looked up as a woman entered pushing a pram, two other small children flanking the sides chattering to each other. The woman paused, pushing her dark hair off her face, and for a moment Aida was transported. For the briefest second the air around her was hot and dense with the salt and tang of Cidaun, the air shuddering with the shrieks of the young Sri Lankan woman clutching wildly at nothing as the hall slowly filled with the lifeless bodies retrieved from the Indonesian sea. Her children – there had been two of them – first one then the other pulled from waters near the horizon as survivors told the story again and again of the ship that had seen them floundering but failed to stop. The bell jingled again, and Aida steadied herself. No, this was not that woman, standing here with her children close. Look how her nose curved differently, her cheekbones sat lower. This woman was here and so was Aida.
The rest of the afternoon passed and the café finally closed its doors. As the three women waited for Peter to tally the day’s takings and hand them their pay, they exchanged looks.
‘Here.’
Peter motioned to them, notes clenched in his hand. They approached, one by one. First Kat, then Nina, then finally Aida. When it was her turn she held out her hand but he didn’t move. Their eyes met and she held his gaze for a moment before looking away. Finally, he placed a single note in her hand, less than half of what they usually made. She stared at it, her hand still outstretched.
‘Is there a problem?’ Peter asked.
Aida said nothing, her cheeks burning. On the train, Aida leant against the window. It was scratched with graffiti, indecipherable and coarse. At the next station two young men in ruffled school uniforms darted through the doors just as they closed, yelping with victory as they settled opposite her. The mobile phone in the taller boy’s hand bleated and the other snatched it from him with a grin.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s the happs?’ the young man with the phone hollered, pulling his collar from his neck.
He listened for a while, nodding enthusiastically.
‘That’s the tee-ruth, bra. Not my problem, TBH . . . Yeah, this is totally him.’
His friend grabbed at the phone.
‘Give it to me, you fuckin’ ESL-sounding weirdo.’
As they scrabbled in play-fight, cursing each other graphically, Aida watched the lightness of their youth. There, for a moment, were her brothers, lashing at each other with their long limbs, somewhere in the cusp between play and intent as their mother shouted at them to stop. There, too, was Aida and her best friend Shirin, squeezing into the overcrowded metro on their way to the movies or to wander the malls. Before any of the trouble that came later, lost in a youth that seemed so far away now. Enough, Aida! She pulled her mind from the past. Look at Elham, no doubt that was where she was stuck. The past was no place for anyone. For the rest of the train trip she made herself think of nothing, clearing her mind of the inexorable barrage that lived at the cusp of her thinking.
She found Niki, weary and cranky, at the doors of the kinder. Picking up her bag, she hurried her out the gate as Heather made her way towards them.
‘Aida!’ she called, but Aida pretended not to hear.
They walked in silence, and Aida worried about what they would find at home. Beside her Niki’s grumbling became more audible. She stopped suddenly, refusing to continue.
‘Tired,’ she cried, sinking to the ground, her lip spilling forward into a pout.
‘Please, Niki,’ Aida said. ‘Not far now.’
She felt warning throbs echo about her temples. It was too long a day for this.
‘Tired,’ Niki insisted, sinking lower.
Powerless, Aida sunk down beside her, the cold concrete radiating up into her skin.
‘What can I give you, Niki?’ she asked wearily.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 18
