Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  My apartment has one bedroom plus an open nook, pitched to me as a study but which I immediately turned into a quasi-bedroom for Ben. I bought his bed before mine, and slept in the narrow space for over a week. I put up posters of his favourite soccer players and carefully arranged glow-in-the-dark stars along the cracks in the wall.

  He’s only been to stay with me once, in the mid-year school holidays. Dad came too, along with Rebecca, his new girlfriend. They’d started seeing each other around the time that I split with Scott. I was dreading spending so much time with Rebecca—seeing as our relationship in Smithson had been quite frosty—but thankfully Dad seemed to pre-empt this and booked them both into a modest hotel nearby. Ben stayed with me and I spent the entire four days of their visit fantasising that it was real, that I was a single mother who lived with her young son in the middle of the city.

  Ben loved his tiny room. Loved Frodo the goldfish. Loved the swarms of pigeons and seagulls. But he didn’t like the noise: the constant grind of the traffic, the dinging of the trams, the thump and pull of the garbage trucks. He had two nightmares in as many days and I couldn’t get it out of my head that he was allergic to my new life.

  I took them all out for dinner on their last night in the city. The restaurant was loud and full of tourists. The ceilings were low and the menu was written on a wooden board that sat at an angle along the back wall; Rebecca couldn’t read it from where we sat. Ben’s meal had too much chilli and Dad could barely hear me over the relentless chatter.

  The next morning we had a coffee at Federation Square. Rebecca wanted to sit inside out of the cold. Dad had a headache. I pointed out my regular haunts and told them about Fleet and Nan and Isaacs, people they would never meet.

  I bought Ben a helium balloon from a roadside florist. It was printed with a happy birthday message, even though his birthday had been two weeks earlier. He looked up at me, shivering but with a smile—purely for my benefit, I am certain. I caught Dad looking at me too, his eyes creased with confusion as he tried to figure it all out. Figure me out. He didn’t understand this place or my life here.

  I caught the taxi out to the airport with them that night, wanting to soak up every last moment with Ben. I held his hand as Rebecca prattled on from the front seat about her fear of flying. I studied my little boy’s gentle profile, memorising his face all over again. I bought him a book and a model plane, and then they had to go and I hugged Ben, squeezing my soul into him, praying that he understood what I couldn’t find the words to explain.

  Afterwards, I watched the planes come and go into the night before heading to the airport sports bar. I drank two large glasses of wine as I went over some case notes, half-watching tribes of businessmen slap each other on the back as they downed beers and mopped up sauce with chips. Emboldened by booze, one of them tried to talk to me, offering to buy me a drink, but I shook my head and kept my eyes on the table.

  I escaped to the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet with my head between my legs, panic churning until I abruptly spun around and yanked the toilet lid up before being neatly sick into the bowl, completely purging myself of the day with my son. Crying, I stayed in the stall for almost thirty minutes listening to the sounds around me: kids fighting, mothers pleading, cleaners bitching, all between the blasts of water from the tap and the whir of the hand dryers. I was too tired to get up, too tired to get back to my apartment, too tired to keep doing this anymore. All of it.

  Eventually I stood, legs shaky. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face in the sink, then patted it dry with a paper towel before making my way to the taxi rank, the taste of vomit making me retch. I stood shivering in the line between the weary but excited travellers and their giant suitcases. In the taxi, its driver complained about the tax system, the politicians, the weather, his bad back. I let his voice fade away while I watched a plane move through the sky, its tail-light flashing in time to my heartbeat as we rounded into Melbourne. Streetlights blurred as I stared into them and the stars did the same above us until the sky was a reflection of the world below. Amid the stream of the driver’s gripes, I let the city pull me back in. I felt calmer, but already it was hard to remember the pitch of Dad’s voice. The way Ben’s small hand felt in mine.

  After directing the driver to drop me off near Bourke Street, I walked through Chinatown, breathing in the smells, soothed by the bustle. I was alone: barely a mother, barely a daughter. But somehow, despite my guilt and melancholy, I had slotted into my new home more easily than I had intended.

  Thursday, 16 August

  7.36 am

  Sterling’s parents arrive at the Melbourne morgue, bent over and blinking into the fluorescent glow. I notice that Matthew Wade has a tiny piece of hay clinging to the pocket of his flannel shirt. They identify their son’s body, as naked as he was the day they met, his shock of thick blond hair angelic in the white light. Afterwards, at our office, they hold hands like lost children in one of our interview rooms, huddling across from us on a worn couch, behind the haze of steam that rises from overfilled mugs of tea, and answer our gentle questions softly. While this scenario is cruel and challenging for any parent, they seem particularly timid. It’s hard to imagine them navigating life with such a famous child.

  Matthew is slim but tall, with kind blue eyes and a face folded by the sun. His wife, April, is a fawn of a woman: petite, with deep-set brown eyes bordered by comically long lashes. She twists her plain gold wedding band while she speaks, her eyes leaking as the shock cuts more deeply through her by the minute. They haven’t slept and it shows.

  ‘Sterling was a good boy. He always was.’ She looks first at me and then at Fleet, her head bouncing on her tiny neck.

  ‘When did you last speak to him?’ I ask, nudging the hot tea toward her. As much as my heart breaks for these poor people, I’m keen to keep our conversation moving. I’m impatient to see the film footage of the attack that Cartwright’s producer, Katya March, sent to Isaacs overnight.

  ‘Oh, well.’ April grips her throat as if she’s trying to help let the air in. Her eyes already seem to have sunk back into her skull, scared away by death. ‘Maybe Monday? He usually calls once a week, doesn’t he, Matt? He always calls.’

  Matthew looks at his wife as if she’s just woken him from a deep slumber. He rubs at his eyes. ‘Yes, he does. He always calls.’

  ‘Do you have other children?’ I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  ‘Yes. We have three children.’ April reaches out for her husband again, who obediently takes her hand.

  ‘Are they close to each other?’ asks Fleet.

  The Wades pause in their grief to exchange a look.

  ‘They were as children, but Sterling’s, ah, situation has made things hard,’ says Matthew quietly, as if he’s worried that Sterling will hear him. ‘He moved to Melbourne when he was thirteen to work on Team Go and lived with another family, the Beaufords. They’re lovely people but it was an unusual situation.’ He pauses then says, almost as an afterthought, ‘We probably should call them.’

  ‘It was wonderful for Sterling, of course,’ April rushes to add, brushing tears away. ‘It’s just such a different world, and Melissa and Paul found it a bit challenging. Sterling didn’t really understand life on the farm.’

  ‘Where do your other children live?’ I ask, sensing an undercurrent worth riding.

  ‘Melissa lives with her husband in Karadine, just down the road from our farm. And Paul moves around a lot, doing all kinds of jobs.’

  ‘Melissa and Paul are pretty traditional names,’ I venture, ‘especially compared to Sterling.’

  April’s mouth tugs into a reflexive smile before she remembers what has happened. I can see a hint of Sterling’s famous face across her cheekbones. ‘Yes. He used to tell us that everyone thought he’d changed his name, you know, to be more memorable for TV or something. But Sterling is actually an old family name.’

  ‘Does Sterling still see the Beaufords?’ I press, noting the sl
ump to their postures. They don’t want to be talking about this, they don’t want to be doing anything, but I know that this is the best time to get them talking. Information will flow freely from their mouths as their minds are distracted by shock. Little things that seem insignificant might emerge, things that in a few days’ time they won’t have the energy to conjure. We need to keep the words coming because soon April and Matthew will leave this room and head toward their first day in a world without their son.

  For a small window of time there’s a sense that it might all be a terrible mistake. A few victims’ families have confided this to me, and I have experienced it myself, that the first day after real sleep is the worst one, because it’s the point at which reality hits. A woman whose brother was murdered in a drug deal gone bad told me that on the night he died she held on to a tiny glimmer of hope that there was a crack in the universe, a programming error that could be corrected with the rise of the sun. She said she’d never felt so cheated as she did the next day when she woke up and her brother was still dead, the sun blazing down from the heavens.

  Matthew takes a sip of tea before answering my question about the Beaufords, but he seems to struggle to keep the liquid in his mouth. Fleet and I avert our gaze as he dabs his chin with a tissue.

  ‘I think so,’ he says. ‘Sterling used to talk about them quite a bit and they live in Melbourne so it’s easier for them to see him.’

  There’s a mild bitterness to Matthew’s tone and it prompts me to imagine what it would feel like if Ben replaced me with another parent, for him to slot so neatly into a new family.

  ‘Were Paul and Melissa still in touch with Sterling?’ I ask.

  Matthew sighs deeply. ‘Well, I guess it’s no secret that they had a bit of a falling out. It started when he got the role on the show, you know, The Street, and got worse over the years. Broke April’s heart.’

  ‘I just wanted them to get along. They are all good kids.’ April crumples a little and starts to cry again. I can tell her brain is still dipping in and out of accepting this new reality. She is now the parent of a dead child, surely the most unenviable role in the world.

  ‘It’s the money, I think,’ says Matthew gruffly. ‘Too much money is never a good thing. Our other kids, and our son-in-law, they work so hard, I think it made them uncomfortable, all that money Sterling had access to. We’re not from that world.’

  ‘Do they come to the city much?’ Fleet asks.

  The Wades shake their heads, little birdlike movements. ‘Melissa hasn’t been to Melbourne for years,’ Matthew tells us. ‘She and her husband, Rowan, their whole lives are in Karadine. Paul comes down here occasionally, I think. He has a few schoolmates who live in Melbourne. He’s a quiet boy and his work takes him all over. He comes and goes. I don’t think he sees Sterling when he comes to Melbourne. Sterling was always so busy.’

  ‘What kind of work did you say Paul does?’ I prod gently.

  ‘Sometimes he gets a few weeks’ house painting. He builds decks, drives trucks.’ Matthew sighs again and it turns into a rasping cough. ‘Paul will take over the farm when the time comes. It’s always been the plan but I wanted him to have a few years away from the place. He had a bit of a hard time settling in Karadine after he finished school.’

  ‘What kind of hard time?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh well, it was nothing really. He just got into a few fights. Silly, really. Typical for boys that age.’

  Fleet and I don’t say anything and Matthew Wade looks apprehensive.

  ‘I wanted him to get some experience away from the farm,’ he repeats. ‘And any good honest work has always suited him just fine.’ The implication that perhaps Paul’s younger brother was a different story hangs in the air, and we let it breathe for a few moments.

  ‘Where are Paul and Melissa now?’ I ask.

  April muffles a sob with her hand and then tries to calm herself with some deep breaths. ‘We called Melissa last night, straight after we heard. Rowan had already seen something online about it but he thought it was just a silly rumour. She called Paul for us…I couldn’t bear telling him too. He’s been housesitting a friend’s farm in Castlemaine these past few weeks while he paints their new extension.’

  ‘They’re both coming to stay with us at the hotel tonight.’ Matthew glances at his watch and then at his wife. ‘Look,’ he says with a slight firmness, ‘Melissa and Paul weren’t close to Sterling, especially not over the past few years, but they loved each other. We’re a family,’ he says, as if this proves a point, and I nod reassuringly.

  April’s sunken eyes seek out mine. ‘We’ll need to stay here for a while, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘It will be easier if you’re in Melbourne for at least the next few days. There are things that you will both need to do.’ I pause. ‘The initial autopsy will be conducted later today. And then funeral plans will need to be made. You should probably speak to Lizzie about that.’

  April looks at me blankly, her mind clearly sorting through all the unthinkable things that are yet to come, as if seeing her son’s cold, dead body wasn’t horrific enough.

  I hold her stare, silently urging her to dig for the reserves of strength that I hope are buried deep inside. ‘The media coverage will remain very intense,’ I say.

  She nods absently but I can tell she doesn’t comprehend just how bad it will be.

  ‘There were reporters at the hotel this morning,’ says Matthew.

  ‘If they really hassle you, let us know,’ I tell him. ‘We can issue them with a warning.’

  ‘We’d like to talk to Paul and Melissa too,’ Fleet says.

  ‘You need to talk to them about this?’ says April, sounding surprised.

  ‘We want to talk to anyone who knew Sterling,’ confirms Fleet. ‘Every piece of information helps. He might have mentioned something important.’

  April closes her mouth and clutches the mug of cooling tea. Matthew attempts another sip of his before pushing it away.

  We speak for a few more minutes but their shock has turned their helpfulness to helplessness. We bundle them into a car with one of the uniforms and send them back to the small boutique hotel in St Kilda that Sterling’s management has arranged for them.

  Fleet and I stand inside the hospital’s front entrance, watching them go.

  ‘Well, that was a fun start to the day,’ says Fleet, leaning exaggeratedly against the wall and blowing a breath out forcefully.

  ‘It must be strange to have a child who’s so famous,’ I say. ‘Especially coming from a country town like that. Karadine is tiny.’

  ‘But it’s probably no different to how your folks feel about you, Gemma,’ says Fleet. ‘Their daughter suddenly a big important detective in the city.’

  ‘Whatever. We should check out this foster family. The Beaufords. That’s all a bit strange too, don’t you think? Leaving home at thirteen and staying with another family.’

  ‘So far it’s all extremely odd, if you ask me.’ Fleet stifles a yawn. ‘Right, what’s next?’

  ‘Well,’ I begin, just as a loud wave of taunting starts up from the pack of journos lurking near the hospital entrance—one of them has tripped over. I raise my voice above the clamour. ‘I guess we should go check out this zombie movie.’

  Thursday, 16 August

  8.42 am

  In Smithson we had an old TV in a small meeting room that we used to view case footage. Most files were sent out for analysis. Here we have a whole team of experts who sit in dark caves all day, dedicated to seeing more than the human eye could ever be expected to, extracting crucial information from hours and hours of captured time.

  Fleet pulls open the heavy door of Video Room C and we step inside. Edo Ng, one of the video techs, lifts a hand in greeting, and my pupils shrink as I make my way to the back of the room. Fleet and I sit side by side on matching plastic chairs, facing the large TV in the corner as we wait to watch the moment that Sterling Wade was stabbed. Nan’s solid frame is p
erched on the edge of the table that holds all of Edo’s equipment, and she is typing quickly on her phone, her round face lit up by its glow. Isaacs leans against the back wall, his expression unreadable.

  ‘Hang on just a tic,’ says Edo, drawing out ‘tic’ in a way that I find inexplicably irritating. ‘Okay, folks, here she goes.’ He presses a button on his keyboard with a flourish. The vision cuts to a long shot along the asphalt at the top end of Spring Street.

  A lanky guy wearing a headset appears in frame and smiles crookedly at the camera, holding a movie clapper. ‘Scene twenty-four, take one, action,’ he says half-heartedly as he snaps it together.

  Sterling Wade appears, the camera trained on the back of his head. Even though I can tell it’s Spring Street—I recognise certain landmarks, even a specific rubbish bin—it looks completely different through the frame of the camera. The edge of the city seems like another world, dark and sinister. Wade’s blond head bobs along. He is impossibly handsome even though he’s been dressed down to look like an average guy. He’s nervous, sporadically turning around this way and that, eyes wide, anticipating danger. His heavy breathing is audible. Other people are walking past in the background but they are not in focus and seem separate from the scene. As the camera pans around to take in his face, his desperation is palpable, the suspense carefully manufactured: something bad is about to happen. His jaw is tight, and he’s thrusting his hands through his hair. He’s clearly running out of time to do something. My heart rate is picking up even though I know what awful thing happens next.

  Suddenly something shifts and his eyes go wild. He starts to run. The scene abruptly ends, the camera cuts to black.

  The vision returns and the lanky guy is back with a lopsided smile. He lifts the top of the clapper and drops it down again, saying, ‘Scene twenty-five, take one, action,’ before jumping out of the way.