Ring finger: roll, press.
Pinkie finger: roll, press.
Thumb: roll, press.
Watching your daughter’s lovely hands, you are transported back fourteen and a half years.
You’re kneeling on the floor in front of Wendy, your jeans soaked in blood and water. The baby’s head has crowned and the midwife says, ‘Don’t push,’ but Wendy shouts, ‘I can’t not push!’ and this slippery little creature shoots out and you just manage to catch her in your hands. The umbilical cord is wrapped around her neck and the midwife quickly uncoils it. You look up at Wendy; she’s crying and laughing at the same time and you both try to absorb the miracle before you.
The midwife says, ‘It’s a girl.’ Indeed, she is a girl. You scan her body and that’s when you notice them and see that Wendy has also noticed them: her hands. Even on this tiny newborn, the hands are remarkable: long delicate fingers, impossibly expressive and elegant.
Wendy says, ‘Beautiful hands,’ and you nod, too moved to speak. ‘Great for jewellery,’ she jokes. And you’re nodding and smiling and smiling and you can’t stop smiling.
If anything, Rosie’s hands have become more beautiful, stronger and more dexterous. But now they’re covered in ink so Senior Constable Carol Fossey takes her away to wash them.
When Rosie returns, Constable Lance Johnstone also reappears. He leads all three of you down a short corridor to a windowless, airless room with a desk and three chairs. There is a beat while you all appraise the fact that one of you will have to stand. The constable leaves the room and returns with a fourth chair.
You and Wendy sit either side of Rosie, opposite Constable Johnstone. You look at his stupid, mean, ordinary face and it sickens you, the power he has over your girl. He explains that Rosie can either write a statement or make a verbal statement which would be recorded, transcribed, then printed out for her verification. Either version would be signed by her, then witnessed and signed by her parents. He adds that if she makes a verbal statement, he will have to transcribe it himself and then, attempting levity—how dare he make light of this, the fucker—he says he’s not a very good typist so that could take a while.
Rosie opts for writing a statement herself. Constable Johnstone warns her to make sure her handwriting is nice and clear, otherwise she’ll have to revert to the recorded option. She takes the pen in her ink-stained fingers and pauses over a sheet of unlined paper. Rosie looks up and asks where to begin.
All three adults answer her at once, overlapping, offering the same advice: start with when, where and who. Constable Johnstone repeats the information then admonishes you and Wendy because you’re not supposed to prompt Rosie. You apologise.
You apologise.
Pathetic loser that you are, you actually apologise to this cunt who is tormenting your daughter. A monstrous rage rises within you. It fills the room until it bursts through the door, a tsunami of hatred, pouring down the corridor, sweeping everyone in its path, dissolving them, writhing and screaming, in agonising acid.
Or something like that.
More than an hour passes as you all sit there in silence—bar the odd grunt or sniff—as Rosie pens her statement in a clear, elegant hand. Eventually the room becomes less threatening, less claustrophobic; normal even. Your palms stop sweating and you relax to the point of boredom. Page after page appears until, just when it feels like she’s never going to stop writing, Rosie stops writing.
Constable Johnstone is not a fast reader. It takes him a long time to get through Rosie’s six-page statement. Finally he looks up at Rosie and says, ‘I don’t think you’re being very truthful.’
Startled, Rosie replies, ‘But that’s what happened.’
‘I don’t think it is.’
‘Well it is.’
‘I think you made some comments about the other girl’s race.’
‘Her race? What race?’
‘Racist comments.’
‘I—I didn’t, I wouldn’t. I’m not a racist.’
‘And I think you said some other things that you haven’t put here.’
‘That’s what happened, everything that happened.’
‘I think you punched and kicked that girl a lot more than once.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘I think you did.’
‘Well, it’s not true! If that’s what Eva says…’
‘It’s not just Eva. I have statements.’
‘Statements?’
‘From witnesses.’
‘Witnesses? Who?’
‘I can’t tell you that!’
As soon as Constable Johnstone raises his voice to Rosie, Wendy takes control of the conversation. He claims to have seven sworn statements swearing that Rosie punched and kicked Eva several times before she was peeled off her. He wants Rosie to amend her statement to include this, otherwise he may be forced to take matters further.
Privately you wonder:
(a) why Rosie’s version of events is so different from the other witnesses, and
(b) are there really seven sworn statements from other witnesses?
Sobbing with outrage, Rosie refuses to amend a word of her statement. She insists she is telling the truth. Constable Johnstone tells her she is being foolish. Rosie’s anguish escalates and she says tearfully that he can put her in prison—she’s not changing her statement.
You say, ‘Enough,’ and Wendy says, ‘She’s not changing the statement.’
Constable Johnstone says, ‘Wait here,’ and looks at you all like he’s leaving to assemble a firing squad.
A half hour goes by while you wait, consoling Rosie and reading through her statement with Wendy. Despite the traumatic circumstances, Rosie has been lucid and concise in her reconstruction of events and they appear to reflect not only what she has previously divulged but also the version established by Christina Bowden’s investigation.
Constable Johnstone reappears and tells you that you will need to return next week with Rosie for a formal warning. You ask him to clarify. Does he mean a hearing? Will there be a court hearing? He tells you, like he’s doing you a great personal favour, that there will be no hearing; Rosie will be given a caution instead. Wendy asks whether he can give her the caution now so she doesn’t have to return. He says no, that it’s a formal process, that it will take an hour or so, probably one night next week.
You burst onto the street like you have broken out of prison. You and Wendy envelop Rosie in an embrace as a pretty policewoman passes and smiles at you and you think, Fuck off and die.
As you drive home, Rosie withdraws into a traumatised shell.
When you pull into the driveway, Juan and Declan are waiting at the top of the stairs, solemn sentinels. Rosie flies up the stone steps and surprises you by hurling herself into her brother’s arms, not her boyfriend’s. Juan pats her back as Declan hugs her tight. It’s barely a glimmer in the darkness of this ugly night but as you watch your son and daughter cling to each other, you think: at least we must have done something right.
That night you lie awake next to Wendy, torturing yourself with all the things you should have said and done in that police station. You are furious with yourself for your failure to protect Rosie, and you are furious with Constable Lance Johnstone for so many things that you think your head is going to explode. You get up and pace around on your crutches, then go back to bed and writhe around in the sheets.
And that’s how it goes for the rest of the night, fury, pace, fury, writhe, pace, fury, writhe.
Like a demented Sisyphus, you roll your frustration up the hill of your impotence until you are so profoundly exhausted that you sleep.
Sunlight streams onto your face and wakes you. You blink against it and turn to see Wendy sitting on the bed, buttoning a blouse. The brilliance is not kind to her: there are deep bags under her eyes and worry lines etched across her face. She tries to smile at you but it looks more like a wince and you smile-wince back, feeling almost no connection to her whatsoever. You’re
like two strangers who have happened to survive the same shipwreck.
Rosie appears at the door, headed for the shower. It’s supposed to be her first day back at school but neither of you will force her to attend. ‘How are you feeling?’ asks Wendy.
‘I’m going to go.’
‘Sure?’
‘Gotta start some time,’ she shrugs.
In awe of your daughter’s resilience, you say, ‘I think that’s a good decision.’
The doorbell rings and you wonder what fresh horror awaits. Wordlessly, Wendy shuffles off to answer it. Rosie goes to the bathroom. You hear Wendy answering the door. You can tell by her tone that it’s someone familiar and unthreatening. Later you will learn it’s Declan’s mate, James Brentwood.
James B of the pencil case.
14
James Brentwood leaves the house and Declan appears in the kitchen where the rest of the family—even Juan who has now started work at the chicken shop—is preparing for the day. Declan tries to act relaxed, bored even, but you can see something chaotic in his eyes. ‘Has anybody seen a pencil case?’ he says, offhand. ‘It’s James’s. He left it in my room.’
You study the porridge that you have been pretending to eat and feel Wendy’s eyes boring into the top of your head. You don’t want to look up because you don’t want to give yourself away so you say casually to the porridge, ‘Nup.’
Wendy says she hasn’t seen it and Rosie responds as if she has no idea what he’s talking about, which, of course, she hasn’t.
‘Are you sure?’ presses Declan. As he starts to describe the pencil case, desperation cracks his cool façade. Pretty soon he drops all pretence at flippancy and starts to interrogate Rosie and Juan, who are bewildered by his intensity.
Exhausted by the previous night’s events and on edge about her first day back at school, Rosie bursts into tears. Juan tells Declan to back off. Declan accuses Juan of stealing the pencil case. Juan says he’s not even at school anymore, why would he want pencils? Declan shouts, ‘Give it back!’ Rosie wails like a wounded animal and Wendy yells, ‘Stop!’
You grab Declan’s collar, pull his face close to yours and say, ‘Get down to the car now. I’m driving you to school.’
Declan enacts the small miracle that teenagers perform occasionally, and does as he is told. Wendy briefly attempts to stop you driving because of your leg but you tell her you have done it before; you will not be dissuaded.
You march-clomp down to the car and reverse out of the driveway so fast that Declan turns to you, alarmed. You stare back, daring him to utter one word of protest, hoping he’ll be dumb enough to complain because, boy, once a dialogue opens, watch out!
Who are you angry with? the voice inside your head says, Your son or that cop? Or yourself? For that piss-weak, kow-towing performance last night?
Pop.
It happens in an instant. You started the car knowing exactly how to handle your son, what to say and do. But now your certainty bursts and vanishes like a pricked bubble. Your mind races chaotically, playing out various successful and unsuccessful scenarios. You equivocate wildly, wondering how to begin this critical discussion. What are the basic requirements of this interaction? You need Declan to tell you the who, what, when, where and why of the drugs. You need him to see and acknowledge the error of his ways. You need to discuss punishment and develop a strategy so that it never happens again. Come on too hard and he’ll shut right down. It’s critical not to operate out of your anger. You must remain clear and calm.
Clear and calm. Clear and calm. Clear and calm. Clearandcalm. Clearandcalm.
The needle gets stuck in a groove. All the way to the Mount Karver gates, that’s all you think, all you can think, until you realise that you will probably never in your life feel clear and calm again.
You pull up at the school and Declan says, ‘Bye,’ and you say, ‘Bye,’ and that is the extent of your conversation.
Driving home, you say aloud, ‘You are pathetic. You are a failure.’
And then something occurs to you with utter certainty: the good part of your life is over; the bad part has begun.
Wendy drops Rosie for her first day back at Boomerang but, instead of heading on to her office, she comes home. When you see her car in the driveway you assume she has returned to find out about your discussion with Declan, but you discover that she has news of her own.
When Wendy dropped Rosie at school, there was a tap on the window and the headmistress was standing there, smiling. She wanted to welcome Rosie back to school personally. Rosie responded politely and headed to the locker room. Wendy then took the opportunity to brief Christina Bowden about the events of the previous evening. Christina was surprised and, although restrained in her expression, clearly appalled.
Wendy inquired why the headmistress had not informed her that the police were taking statements. Christina said she had no knowledge of any inquiry by anyone other than herself. She had had no contact whatsoever with the police about the Rosie–Eva fight. She had never heard of Constable Lance Johnstone.
Wendy asked how an inquiry could have taken place without Christina’s knowledge and consent. Christina suggested that the only possible scenario was that the police made inquiries during the holidays while the pupils were at home. Upon further reflection, it seemed extremely unusual that not one single parent of the supposed seven witnesses phoned or inquired about the matter; under such circumstances, she would expect the school to have been flooded with calls.
Sitting at your kitchen table, it is now completely clear to both of you that Constable Lance Johnstone is a liar; there are no sworn statements, except possibly, probably, from Eva Pessites. Your daughter has been the victim of some kind of elaborate favour performed by Constable Johnstone for the Pessites family.
‘What should we do?’ asks Wendy. You have a flash fantasy of dismembering Constable Lance Johnstone with an axe but instead you suggest that Wendy calls Shelley Mainwaring for advice.
Shelley tuts half-heartedly as she listens to the story of the debacle but the thing that shocks Wendy is that Shelley isn’t shocked at all. Sure, she says, you can complain to the ombudsman but that will require Rosie reliving the event via a detailed statement or possibly even a hearing. Wendy says, no, she doesn’t want Rosie more traumatised than she already is. Shelley assures her that the best thing to do is move on. Sure, the cop was a dickhead but there will always be dickhead cops; the trick is to avoid them, not confront them. In a few days Rosie will receive a brief, formal warning, which will not appear on any permanent police record. After that you can all put the whole horrible affair behind you, says Shelley.
Wendy hangs up feeling uneasy but certain that the best thing to do is let the matter drop. You have a brief discussion about your ethical obligation to report Constable Johnstone but this quickly evaporates when Wendy reminds you that you both have much bigger fish to fry with Declan the Drug King.
Wendy kisses you goodbye and goes to work. Her kiss lingers and you run your finger across your lips, contemplating the perfunctory nature of your communications these days. You try to remember the last time you kissed her passionately, but you can’t. You clomp down the hall to the study, pause at the door, scan your chaotic desktop, then keep clomping till you reach your bedroom and flop onto your bed. You curl into a ball and berate yourself for lying there when you should be working on your stupid, fuck-knuckle, wank-o-rama book. Soon, blessedly, you are asleep.
You wake to the sound of a key sliding into the front door and drag yourself through a molasses of self-disgust towards the realisation that you have slept the day away. Rubbing your face, you force yourself to sit up and listen.
The sounds of the house reveal all: you hear the fridge door open, milk extracted, the clunk of a glass on the countertop, the clinking of a spoon as it heaps chocolate-flavoured malt extract into the glass…one…two…three spoonfuls tells you it’s Declan. Rosie, a serious chocoholic, always puts more than three spoonfuls in her mil
k.
Declan has his back to you when you enter the kitchen. You say, ‘Hey,’ and it irritates you that he doesn’t bother to turn around when he says ‘Hey.’ You try to think of an interesting question but you can’t, so you say, ‘How was school?’ He mutters something and tries to push past you with his chocolate milk so you grab him and make him turn to look at you properly.
Your son has a large cut that stretches down his forehead from his hairline to his right eyebrow. His left eyelid is bruised purple and there is an angry red half-moon under his right eye.
‘God, what happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s not nothing. Sit.’ You say firmly, ‘Sit down and tell me what happened.’
Declan sits at the kitchen table. He tells you that he got into a fight with James B over the lost pencil case. He says there were drugs in the pencil case that James B had intended to sell. You ask what kind of drugs. ‘E,’ he answers. He tells you that he had reluctantly agreed to keep them overnight and that James had planned to sell them at the local station the next day.
‘To whom?’ you ask.
‘Kids like us.’
There are four or five schools that use the station as a transportation hub, making it an ideal trading venue.
‘Is this a regular thing?’
‘No.’
Declan explains that James is saving for a car so he cashed in fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of shares he had inherited from a recently deceased grandmother and bought the ‘E’ from a mate of his older brother. The plan was to sell the tablets, make a one-off profit of eight grand and buy a car.
It sounds stupid enough to be believable. But something about this story bothers you. Actually lots about the story bothers you, but something in particular doesn’t make sense.
‘Why did James B leave the drugs with you?’
Declan explains that James’s mother is ‘gay’. Not homosexual gay, bad ‘gay’. Apparently Mrs B questions James all the time, asking him where he’s going and looking through his stuff. (Outrageous!) Apparently James thinks you and Wendy are ‘cool’. Apparently this means you’re the kind of parents kids can leave their drugs with. For a moment you decide to tell Declan how you disposed of the drugs but you realise that such a declaration will be incendiary and that an explosion is not the outcome you want.
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