To Know My Crime

by Fiona Capp

  It’s true she hardly knows Ned. But she knows Angela and that’s enough. When you’re a carer, you become part of another person, almost like a mother with a child. You start to anticipate their thoughts, their needs, the exact pressure to use when you touch them. You see the world through their eyes. Ned might have got himself into this mess but Mai can’t pretend it’s just his problem. She has to think of Angela. If Ned is prepared to take this risk for his sister, then so is she.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. About blackmail.’

  Ned twitches. ‘Do you have to use that word?’

  ‘There are so many kinds. Emotional, psychological, financial. And all these shades of grey. People do it all the time.’

  ‘Greymail. I like it. Doesn’t sound so bad. Wonder what whitemail would be?’

  ‘That’s the thing, there are shades of grey,’ Mai says. ‘I mean, think about gossip, for instance. Gossip is legal. Half the time it’s not even true. But that doesn’t stop people doing it or making money out of it. Like those shameless glossy magazines. If someone started to spread gossip about Morrow, about what he’s done, it could finish him. No need for proof. And he wouldn’t have any choice in the matter, unless he wanted to sue. But if you blackmail him – greymail, whatever – you give him the choice.’

  Ned’s leans back against the bench. ‘Nice,’ he says, admiringly. ‘I like it. Sounds like I’m doing him a favour. Unfortunately, there’s no high ground with this one. I’ve just gotta bite the bullet. And right now, I’ve gotta sleep. I’m sorry, but I’m knackered.’

  She goes to speak then changes her mind. ‘I’ll wake you at six.’

  When she has closed the door behind her, Ned lies down on the blanket. It is so good to be horizontal. He closes his eyes and inhales the heady smell of grass, wood shavings and petroleum. He is becoming a connoisseur of sheds. Much has been said about men and their sheds but he has a whole new take on the subject, which could prove fruitful if he had the time to do something with it. He can just make out the outlines of axes, hammers and screwdrivers attached to the wall above the bench. Not a reassuring sight given the proximity of Mai’s stepfather. What if he gets the urge to mow the lawn before breakfast? Stranger things have happened. Instinctively, Ned starts to spin out a sketch: the door opening, the look on her stepfather’s face when he spies Ned asleep on the floor . . .

  Suddenly Mai is shaking him, saying it’s time to get up. She whisks the blankets away and waits with her hands on her hips as he gets to his feet with a groan. This is no way to start the day. Her arms full of bedding, she nudges him out the door and says she will meet him at a nearby café.

  Still half asleep, Ned wanders along the empty street until he reaches the local shopping centre at the top of a great, swooping hill. The sky is oceanic, lit up by the morning sun slicing through a fissure in the clouds. Everything looks absurdly fresh and alive. How can the birds sound so chirpy? He feels like a man who has spent the night on the floor of a tool shed, which is as it should be. Boatsheds are infinitely superior. He can’t wait to get back to his.

  In the café, he sits with a glass of water, debating whether he can afford to eat. The night before, he blew the last of his money. Almost all of it. He has enough for the train and bus trip back and a few dollars on top of that.

  He is still debating with himself when Mai arrives, smiling brightly.

  ‘Don’t expect me to be lucid,’ he says.

  She takes a good look at him. ‘I can see that might be difficult.’ And then at his glass of water. ‘Have you ordered?’

  ‘I’m not a breakfast person.’

  ‘My shout. You bought drinks last night.’

  After weeks without caffeine, the coffee goes straight to his head. It’s never tasted so good. He can almost hear his synapses popping. ‘This stuff should be illegal.’

  ‘Talking of which.’

  ‘Forget it, Mai. You’re not getting involved.’

  ‘I already am. And I want to make sure it works. Someone has to be lucid.’

  ‘Nup, I can’t let you. Have you any idea what you’d be getting yourself into?’

  Mai’s eyes flash but she contains herself. ‘Probably as much as you do.’

  ‘Which isn’t saying much. If we got caught . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to spell it out.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. We’d end up in—’

  ‘The slammer?’ Mai looks at him po-faced.

  Ned’s eyebrows flicker. He raises her one. ‘The clink.’

  She stares him down. ‘The cooler.’

  ‘The nick.’

  Main leans forward. ‘The can!’

  ‘The pen!’

  ‘The . . . the . . .’ She falls back, light-headed and laughing. ‘Damn it. You win.’

  Ned shakes his head. She’s as bad as he is. Neither of them really have a clue. Probably lucky they don’t. You reach a point when thinking and agonising is useless. You’ve just got to act.

  Mai stares at him, suddenly sober. ‘There’s a few basics you’re going to need. Paper, printer, envelope, stamp.’

  ‘I can go to a library.’

  ‘They don’t give things away, Ned. I don’t want to rub this in but you couldn’t even afford to buy breakfast.’

  ‘So?’

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook and pen. ‘Let’s get this letter drafted.’

  ‘You’re starting to remind me of someone.’

  ‘Your sister? I’m flattered. Now, there’s some technical things you’ll need to get sorted. The last guy I went out with was a hacker and he taught me a few useful tricks. You’ll want Morrow to deposit the money so that it can’t be traced. I know what you can do.’

  All Ned can do is grin at her. When they first met, Mai seemed so sweet and unassuming. Then she got wary, as if she suspected he was about to pull one over her. And now, this other Mai. Cool-headed and savvy and fiercely onside. She has decided he’s worth the risk and there’s no talking her out of it. If things ever come to the worst, he tells himself, no one need know she was involved. And with her help, he could quite conceivably make it work. She was way ahead of him. He hadn’t given a second thought to the nuts or bolts of making it happen. He was still trying to reconcile the idea of it with who he thought he was.

  Mai flips open her notebook. ‘So, how do you want it to start?’

  9.

  A map of the city pulses on the screen of Mai’s iPad. The way it radiates out around the bay, its tentacles reaching deep into the surrounding countryside, makes it look like an alien growth, a cancer slowly taking over its host. At least she doesn’t have to go far, although it’s far enough out of her territory to make her jumpy, especially with what she’s got in her bag.

  The tram driver breaks sharply and everyone gives a jerky bow then falls back into their seats when the tram starts moving again. Mai glances out the window to see where they are. The flouncing skirt of the arts centre tower glides by, followed by the grey walls of the gallery scrawled with ghostly reflections from the pool out the front. On the other side of the road lies the inviting darkness of the botanical gardens. Overlaying it all, like a spirit photograph, are the reflections of the people inside the tram. The man opposite, a middle-aged businessman, keeps eyeing her and then texting, as if he’s filing a report. She tells herself she’s being silly, that he’s probably too lost in his thoughts or whatever is plugged into his ears to even notice her. And yet as she glances from face to face, she can’t help feeling that someone must know.

  She turns back to her screen, spreads her fingers to zoom the map in on the south side of the river. She tries to visualise the order of the suburbs but her mental map is full of blanks. When she promised Ned she would drop off the letter – they didn’t want it postmarked, and hand delivery would make it feel more intimate, more from inside his world – she didn’t mention she’d never been to this part of town. She might have driven through it on her way to the coast or somewhere else, but o
ne suburb blurs into another when you’re a passenger. Sure, she’d have noticed how grand the houses are compared to where she lives, but it is all too aloof and cloistered to hold much appeal. One of the few good things about the flat she grew up in was its location in the inner north, close to the city’s heart. Until Mai was eleven, it was just her and her mother and money was tight. It never occurred to them to venture to this side of town.

  The tram turns off the wide boulevard and climbs a hill with a church tower at the top. Ahead is a glittering chain of car headlights and tail-lights, and on either side of the road, brightly lit, ritzy-looking shops and cafés. Mai zooms the map even further until she finds the street she is looking for. She has five more stops.

  When it is time to get off, her silhouette scurries ahead of her along the high front fences. Once she leaves the main street, everything goes quiet and dark. Many of the houses are hidden behind walls or security gates. She turns into the cul-de-sac where Morrow lives and the sight of the dead-end makes her twitchy. If she needs to make a quick escape, she will have to run back the way she came in. Luckily there’s no one around.

  She checks the number Ned typed on the envelope. Beyond the fortress-like fence, she can see the upper storey of a block of large apartments, all steel and glass. There’s no sign of security cameras, or not that she can see. She hadn’t expected the politician to be living in an apartment, even one of this size. She remembers something from one of the glossies about a messy divorce. Earlier, she had wondered how she would feel about delivering the letter once she got to where Morrow lived and brushed up against his life, whether it would make her question what Ned was up to and her part in it. Now she is here, she feels suddenly small, like a kid who is beginning to twig that other people have lives of their own and that there is a lot about the world she doesn’t understand.

  She pictures him inside his apartment, eating his dinner as he reads the day’s mail, the television on in the background. He has his shoes off, his shirt collar undone. His socked feet up on an ottoman. A different man to the suited, haughty politician she has seen on the news. He opens the envelope, glances absentmindedly up at the TV and then back at the letter. As he reads, he stops chewing whatever he’s eating, tries to swallow and almost chokes. He reaches for his wine to wash it down and then his eyes scour the letter again.

  Mai looks down at the envelope in her hand. Who is she to issue such an ultimatum? To barge her way into his life? To menace him? And yet she must. For Angela. It was the Morrows of the world, with their shady, self-serving deals, who made things crash in the first place. Before she can have second thoughts, she drops the letter into the box.

  Which is more important? Morrow lining his pockets or Angela’s life? If someone matters to you, you have to be prepared to take risks for them, to do things you might, in other circumstances, never contemplate. Like Mai’s mother did when she met Mai’s father. It’s a story that will never lose its romance for Mai, even though her mother calls it the biggest mistake of her life. Ever since she learned how her parents met, their first encounter has been Mai’s measure for what love should be. Not even the failure of their marriage can shake this conviction. And it’s probably why she offered to deliver the letter. Why she insisted.

  Mai only has her father’s version of what happened. Her mother treats it like a no-go zone. All Mai knows is that Annabel Su was working for the Singaporean government at Changi airport, on notice from the authorities that if she didn’t cooperate with them, if she was involved in more student protests, she would end up in prison with her activist friends. It was the early 1990s, when the Soviet Empire was crumbling and the Velvet Revolution was sweeping across Eastern Europe. Mai’s father, a linguist heading for a conference in Russia, had come from Melbourne and stopped over in Singapore on his way to Moscow.

  He was standing in the Aeroflot queue, waiting to be issued his ticket, when a striking woman with a fixed smile approached him clutching a parcel. She drew him away from the queue and told him the parcel was for a sick friend in Moscow. She had to get it to her friend as soon as possible. Would he take it? There would be someone at Moscow airport to pick it up. Singaporean soldiers with machine guns slung across their bodies stood by doing nothing.

  The woman kept the parcel just out of his reach, as if she didn’t really want him to take it. Her eyes darted at the soldiers, warning him, but he kept talking just to be near her. They edged further away until they reached a pillar, which hid them from the soldiers’ view. That’s when she told him. It was a trap. The authorities were trying to test him. Not him, in particular. Aeroflot had just started operating in this part of the world and anyone flying to Moscow was suspect as far as the government was concerned.

  On his way back home, he stopped over in Singapore again. Within a year, they were married, and not long after, Annabel presented him with a package called Mai.

  There is the rumble of a car approaching from a nearby street. Mai breaks into a stride and just as she turns the corner and disappears into a pool of darkness, headlights rake the night as a car swings into the cul-de-sac.

  She is still panting when she gets on the tram. She waits until she is breathing normally before she calls Ned.

  ‘It’s done.’

  At first, Ned isn’t sure whom he’s talking to. He barely recognises the sound of her. Who is this mysterious, throaty-voiced woman? ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘didn’t pick you. Sounded like a stranger. Someone older.’

  Mai laughs. ‘My mother says I’m twenty-four going on fifteen.’

  He finds it hard to imagine. As far as he’s concerned, she’s the adult in this relationship. The way she took command of the business with the letter. He couldn’t have done it on his own. Once she knew, it sealed everything. They were committed, perhaps deeper than they realised.

  10.

  After a late dinner at the local restaurant which has become Richard Morrow’s second home since his divorce, he walks the short distance to his apartment through streets he has known all his life. Leafy streets with large, solid houses, each one surrounded by a moat of greenery contained within high walls. As the security gates close behind him, he reaches into his mailbox and gathers up the letters and journals, and drops the junk mail into the recycling bin. Once inside his apartment, he leaves the mail on the bench top in the kitchen while he pours himself a cognac and contemplates the events of the day.

  It is not until he is heading for bed that he remembers the unopened mail. He shuffles through it. Nothing looks urgent. As always, most of the letters are addressed to Mr and Mrs Morrow, to him and Veronica. He supposes that he will have to do something about that. Or, more precisely, get Caroline to look after it as she looks after almost everything. You’ll be fine, Veronica told him when they met at the lawyer’s office to decide who got what. You’ve got the Queen of Bling.

  He smiles at the epithet. In all the years – close to twenty – that Caroline has been his personal assistant, he has never seen her without an arm full of jangling bracelets and bangles or her arsenal of gold necklaces, earrings and gold-trimmed handbags and shoes. She could have made a packet in PR, with all her contacts and talent for schmoozing, but instead she has devoted herself to him. It was no wonder that Veronica resented her and suspected, perhaps rightly, that he depended upon his personal assistant more than he ever had on his wife.

  The next morning, after breakfast, he is about to scoop up the mail to take to the office to hand over to Caroline when he notices that one of the letters has no stamp. Just his name typed in Times New Roman and his address. Intrigued, he takes a knife from the cutlery draw – tearing open an envelope has always struck him as barbaric – carefully presses it under the flap and slices along the seam. Both the envelope and the paper have the creamy texture and weight of quality stationary. He unfolds the letter and scans the page.

  Dear Mr Morrow, It has come to our attention, it begins.

  The language is so mind-numbingly bureaucratic, so innocuous
, that he is about to toss it aside when his eye snags on the phrase unlawful inducement and then he reads every word. Through the fug of the pseudo-legal formality, the message is all too clear. Someone knows. He reads it over again and has to sit down.

  The room feels suddenly cold. He stares at the letter lying on the marble bench top and then looks around his living room and kitchen and out the window at the landscaped courtyard with its conspiring huddle of lemon-scented gums and the apartments on the other side. He wonders how visible he is to them. In all his years sparring with the media he has never felt this, as if the walls around him are porous, as if someone has got inside his skull. His first impulse is to burn the damn thing. But he can’t, at least not yet. He picks up the letter and puts it back in the envelope, then goes to his bookcase and grabs a heavy, leather-bound volume of Shakespeare’s complete works, slips it between the pages and snaps the book shut.

  Before he steps outside his front door, he checks the hallway to make sure no one else is about. Unable to face conversation with neighbours who might be in the lift, he heads for the stairwell where his echoing footsteps follow him all the way down.

  Ralph Stone must have let it slip. But surely Stone is too canny for that, too careful. Morrow goes back over his encounters with the mining magnate, the first one at the party conference. Stone had pulled him aside after a morning session and led him to a quiet spot in an alcove away from everyone else. Or so they’d thought. At one stage, Caroline tracked him down but he had seen her coming. She had something urgent to ask him and when he supplied the information she was after, she left them alone.