You’re standing in the lift watching the floor numbers light up as you descend when you realise you can’t remember whether you thanked him or shook his hand or said goodbye.
Out in the street it’s cold and raining and the city is seething with people bearing dark umbrellas. Putting a newspaper over your head, you launch yourself into the stream of soaking humanity and try to make your way to the kerb. A harried young mother rams her stroller into your shin and frowns at you as if it’s all your fault. You limp-push your way to a light pole and look across the street. Your mouth dries up and the colour drains from your vision. You slide into the gutter and sit in a puddle, head spinning.
16
You wake. It’s been raining on and off for days but the sky has cleared again. The absence of sun through the venetians tells you that the morning has passed. You wonder what day it is and whether anyone is still home. You feel a movement at the end of the bed and reach down to pat Egg but a hand takes yours and a familiar voice says, ‘Hey there.’ You turn and focus. Your sister Ingrid is there. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Wendy has left the heater on to keep you warm but you’re overheated. ‘Water,’ you croak.
‘You’ve got some,’ she says and you follow her look to a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. You now remember your other sister Tess bringing it; the sunlight was over her shoulder so it must have been morning.
Ingrid watches as you gulp down the water. You hand her the empty glass, say ‘Thanks,’ and close your eyes again. You’ve been sleeping since your failed meeting at the paper. You don’t know why and you don’t care.
The light snaps on and you blink yourself awake as Wendy ushers Doctor Wilson into the room. He puts an icy thermometer under one arm and wraps a black Velcro bandage around the other. Pumping up the sphygmomanometer (hate the device but love the name), David Wilson smiles his caring smile, and runs a hand through his teeth-white hair. ‘I’d like you to see a psychiatrist,’ he says.
‘I can’t afford to see a psychiatrist,’ you say.
‘You can’t afford not to.’
Your doctor thinks you are crazy and this scares the living shit out of you. You toss and turn for the rest of the night, leapfrogging from calamity to catastrophe between feverish dreams. You wake with the rest of the family and are first into the kitchen, preparing breakfast for everyone.
Wendy is palpably relieved to see you up and about. You tell her that you’re going to work on the book this morning and may take in a movie after lunch with the intention of bashing out and flogging a freelance review. Wendy is taken aback by your about-face but you can see she has decided to believe you.
Declan flops at the breakfast table, bleary-eyed, which inspires Wendy to suggest that maybe you could help Declan with a school project. He has decided to make a short film as his major assessment piece for drama.
Declan perks up. ‘Would you look at the script, Pa?’
‘Sure,’ you say, feeling a twist of dread in your gut.
When everyone leaves the house you sit down and read Declan’s script. It’s a black comedy about a thief who holds up a convenience store. Customers in the store begin to critique the thief’s hold-up style, offering helpful suggestions on how to be more intimidating. Eventually the thief unravels.
It’s pithy, funny and well structured. You are surprised and impressed. Your son has a gift for storytelling and it fills you with pride. And then relief that for once you can engage in an exchange with him that doesn’t involve cross-examination or admonishment.
That night you tell Declan how wonderful you think his script is and he whoops with delight. He asks you if you have any criticisms and looks at you in complete disbelief when you say (truthfully) that you don’t. It makes you wonder whether you’ve been too critical in the past.
Wendy joins the discussion and you begin to nut out the details of the shoot. Declan wants to film at the local shopping centre but it flashes through your head that one of the actors will be wielding a gun—albeit a toy gun—and that this may draw unwarranted attention. Your mind races straight to the scenario in which an over-enthusiastic local raises the alarm and an idiot cop ends up shooting the hapless actor holding the gun. It’s so ridiculous that you don’t verbalise it but you do suggest that Declan might be better off shooting in a more controlled environment, like the school canteen.
School holidays are coming up so he can make use of the facilities during the winter break without being interrupted or interrupting anyone. Declan thinks this is a great idea and goes off to organise actors, costumes and props. Wendy puts her hand on yours and smiles. She asks if you’ll go to the shoot to support Declan during filming.
‘Of course,’ you say, ‘of course.’
Egg starts barking and wagging his tail and a moment later Rosie staggers through the door. She’s been at an interschool French seminar and she looks exhausted.
‘I want to go to Mount Karver,’ she announces.
Mount Karver is co-ed in years 10, 11 and 12. Rosie’s name has been on the enrolment list there for years but up until this year she seemed settled at Boomerang.
‘Before you say it, it’s nothing to do with Eva. And I know I’m supposed to stick it out and everything but it’s not that. I just want a change and I really think it would be good to be with boys as well—good to get away from the whole all-girl thing. Girls can be so bitchy…’
Rosie’s face crumples and tears tumble down her cheeks. Defiant, she wipes them away and is about to launch further arguments when Wendy promises to look into it.
You’re sitting in a delicious pool of sunlight outside the Mount Karver canteen, reading a book. Inside, Declan and his crew are filming the robbery script. You’re supposed to stop any potential intruders but because it’s school holidays there are very few people around. Declan calls, ‘Action,’ and the actor playing the robber shouts, ‘This is a stick-up! Hands in the air!’ There is the rumble of voices, some indecipherable yelling, then Declan calls, ‘Cut.’
You are proud of your son. You know he is going to make a fine film. You feel this green-shooted thing breaking through the shell of your despair. It startles you with its freshness, this hope, this happiness.
What you don’t know is that less than a hundred metres away, Liesel Ham is drying her squirming four-year-old son, Arthur, with a towel. During the holidays, Mount Karver runs swimming lessons in its indoor pool complex and Arthur has just completed twenty minutes of excellent dog-paddling. Liesel pulls a T-shirt over Arthur’s wet red head while her two-year-old daughter, Bella, clings to her leg, grizzling. Bella needs a nap and Liesel goes into packing-up mode so she can get her home to bed before the man comes to fix her dishwasher.
Liesel slings her bags over one shoulder, scoops Bella onto her hip and tugs Arthur behind her. They hurry down the path leading to the main drive and, even though no one is about, Liesel makes a point (for Arthur’s benefit) of stopping to look left, right, then left again because you’re never too young to learn the principles of road safety.
When Liesel looks left the second time she sees something odd: twenty metres away, a blond man is sitting outside the canteen as if he’s guarding something; it’s not exactly a sinister vision but for some reason it makes her feel uneasy.
Then Liesel hears shouting. ‘This is a stick-up! Hands in the air!’ Her blood runs cold. She scoops Arthur onto her other hip and sprints towards the street where her car is parked.
You glance up, see a woman hurrying out the school gates with her kids, and think nothing of it.
Frantic and fumbling, Liesel unlocks the car, clips the kids into their seats, leaps into the driver’s seat and locks the door. Checking to see that no one has followed her, she extracts a mobile phone from her bag and dials the police.
The sun has shifted and you’re almost in shadow. Feeling the winter chill, you’re about to go to the Volvo for your blue coat when you hear sirens in the distance and wonder whether they belong to police,
ambulance or firemen. You don’t take much notice as the sirens wail closer. You don’t take much notice until they are right outside the school, and then you look up from your book, expecting to see the flashing lights whizz past the main gates.
Only they don’t.
The blue flashing lights of two police cars swing into the Mount Karver gates and scream down the driveway towards you. You’re barely forming a what-the-heck when they stop outside the canteen. And suddenly, in an explosion of cerebral activity, a million pennies drop at once. Your worst nightmare has come true: some idiot has heard the yelling and called the cops.
You get to your feet, ready to launch into an explanation when cop-car doors burst open and a cop charges at you. ‘Stop where you are! Put your hands in the air!’
You are astonished to see the cop going for his gun so you drop your book and thrust your hands into the air. You lift you eyes from his gun holster to his face. Your worst nightmare just got worse.
You cannot believe it.
You can’t fucking believe it.
Striding towards you with his hand on his holster is Constable Lance Johnstone. Cuntstable. Lance. Fucking. Johnstone.
You’re a character trapped in a Kafka novel. Or from some B-grade movie. If you were reviewing this movie, you would be pouring vitriol over this improbable plot point. ‘Ludicrous,’ you would write, ‘a ludicrous deus ex machina pressing beyond the bounds of all believability.’
But this isn’t a movie. This is life. Your life. Where, you are learning, lightning does indeed strike twice.
Still with your hands in the air you start to babble: a short film. Not a robbery. Son attends school. Son doing drama assignment.
A gaggle of faces appears behind you—Declan, actors, crew members—drawn by the sirens.
Even Lance Johnstone can see that you are telling the truth. He still hasn’t recognised you, and you’re hoping that he may see the funny side of things and just go back to the station.
Stupid you.
Lance demands to know who’s in charge and you say you are. He asks if there’s a gun involved. You say not a real gun—just a toy. He asks to see it.
Toby, the young actor playing the robber, produces the gun and goes to hand it to the constable, inadvertently pointing it at him. The constable practically slaps the gun out of Toby’s hand and it drops to the ground.
Lance Johnstone reels back, regarding the shiny pistol with horror. ‘I would have shot the boy I saw holding that gun!’ he proclaims.
Lying on the ground, the gun does indeed look real but Declan assures him that it’s a BB gun, capable of shooting only potato pellets. Constable Johnstone will not be placated. ‘I would have shot the boy I saw holding that gun!’ he repeats.
He raves at you about more squad cars coming, a helicopter on the way. He tells you how stupid and foolhardy you are not to inform the local police when undertaking an activity involving dangerous firearms.
Lance Johnstone seems to be on some kind of loop, repeating the same accusations and warnings, in the same order, over and over again. You can see the cast and crew exchanging glances; clearly this guy is insane. Fortunately they sense the clear and present danger in his special brand of nuttiness and not one of them comes out with a quip or retort that might send him spinning out of control.
The second squad car executes a U-turn and exits the school gates.
You’re starting to wonder if Constable Johnstone is ever going to stop raving at you when the young policewoman who has been hovering in the background gently suggests they take some names and details.
While Constable Pamela Bird scribbles everyone’s names into a small spiral-bound notepad, Constable Johnstone takes the potato-firing weapon to his car. He tells Pam he has to make urgent radio calls to halt the legions of law enforcers speeding and choppering towards the national disaster unfolding at the Mount Karver canteen.
Pam Bird is clearly embarrassed by her cohort’s behaviour; you can sense her empathy as she takes down everyone’s details. Finally she gets to you.
Just as you are saying Michael O’Dell, Constable Johnstone reappears. He glances over Pam’s shoulder. ‘How’s Rosie?’ he asks.
A lurch of dread, then a rush of hatred.
You’d like to grab Lance by the throat and choke the life out of him. There are a million things you’d like to say about bullying and thuggery and his appalling treatment of your daughter.
But your son is standing behind you. And other people’s sons and daughters too. And you know how cruel and disproportionate this guy can be. He has spent the last fifteen minutes refreshing you on the subject of his stupidity. This makes you afraid.
‘Fine thanks,’ you say.
‘Settling down a bit, is she?’
Bastard. ‘She’s doing well thanks.’
Pam Bird is obviously wondering who the hell Rosie is but neither of you offers an explanation. You’re desperately trying to think of a way to shut this conversation down when the squad car radio burbles at them.
While Constable Johnstone answers the call, one of the kids asks Constable Bird if it’s okay to continue filming and she says she supposes it is. Pam suggests you put up signs saying you are filming. You direct her attention to the two large signs that Declan has already taped either side of the canteen entrance saying: QUIET PLEASE, FILMING INSIDE.
Declan asks if there’s any chance you could have the gun back so they can finish shooting the rest of the scene. Constable Bird looks at you, imploring you with her eyes to be mindful of the madman in the squad car behind her. She says, quietly, that they are confiscating the gun for the time being. Declan is about to appeal, but you turn to him and say, ‘Declan,’ with enough authority to silence him.
Constable Johnstone returns and tells you he and Constable Bird have to go now, like that’s something you’d be sad about. He tells you he’ll be taking up the matter with school security. He says that he may need to ask more questions in a couple of days.
And then finally, blessedly, he leaves.
You fashion a new gun from black tape, a block of wood and a cigarette lighter. It looks fine in the wide shots. Filming continues without incident.
17
Three days after the Mount Karver debacle, Constable Johnstone calls to inform you that the toy gun is officially classified as an illegal firearm. You express polite consternation and tell him that it is your understanding that the gun fires only potato pellets. Constable Johnstone says, yes, this is true but because the gun is an exact replica of a Glock pistol, it’s illegal. He asks you where you got it. You tell him that you have no idea; you assume someone borrowed it for use during filming. He asks you to be more specific. You tell him that you are unable to be more specific and that you will need to make further inquiries. He instructs you not to make further inquiries; that’s his job.
Then he asks you to come down to the station to discuss the matter at your earliest convenience. Your stomach flips and you tell him you’ll get back to him.
As soon as Wendy walks through the door, you debrief. Wendy says no one from this family is going anywhere near that nutter and you realise with amazement that you were actually considering complying with his request.
What is wrong with you?
Wendy calls Shelley Mainwaring who laughs and can’t believe your luck in coming up against the same crazy cop twice. She tells Wendy that she’ll give him a call and have a chat. There’s a lawyer–cop dialect that ordinary mortals don’t speak and she feels confident she can sort out this minor incident in no time. She signs off, promising to phone Constable Johnstone immediately. She’ll call back in five minutes.
You wait by the phone with Wendy. Five minutes pass. Ten minutes, fifteen. Half an hour. Maybe Shelley has forgotten to call back. Wendy calls Shelley; Shelley is engaged. The phone finally rings an hour later. Wendy races to answer it and by the time you reach the study she’s talking to Shelley.
Shelley is in a state of shock. She’s met some st
range and bent cops in her time but the only expression she can find for Lance Johnstone is ‘whack-job’.
‘He’s a whack-job. A total whack-job,’ she declares.
Not only is he a whack-job, he’s furious that you have not come down to the station as he requested, so he is on his way to your house to arrest you for supply and possession of an illegal firearm!
You babble an astonished protest via Wendy until she surrenders the phone and you talk directly to Shelley. Shelley tells you to calm down, which has the opposite effect. She tells you to leave the house immediately. Take the kids with you or farm them out to friends.
‘For how long?’ you ask.
If you had any doubts that you were not in a Kafka novel, Shelley’s answer confirms it. ‘Three hours,’ she says.
Constable Lance Johnstone’s shift ends at 10pm. After that he’s on ten days’ leave. So all you have to do is stay out until Lance’s shift ends. No one else will come to arrest you because this is Constable Johnstone’s case. Shelley feels confident that during the constable’s holiday she will be able to make representations to stop you being arrested. She makes an appointment to see you at 10am in her office and reminds you to hurry: the crazy cop is on his way.
You and Wendy bundle the kids into the car and drop them at friends’ houses. Then you drive across town to the newly renovated terrace house of your architect chum, Felipe, and his wife, Jools. They stare at you both, eyes widening, as you double-act the story thus far.
Jools says it would be funny if it weren’t so serious. Both of them assure you that this will not, cannot, end badly. Felipe reminds you that we do not live in the kind of country where well-intentioned parents are bundled off to prison because their child uses a BB gun during the filming of a school drama project.
You know what they are saying makes perfect sense and, if it weren’t happening to you, you’d be more inclined to be comforted by their certainty. But frankly you have no idea what kind of country you live in anymore. You seem to have slipped into an alternative universe, an Alice-less Wonderland of mad hunters and random outcomes.
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