by Lisa Henry
John reached out and squeezed Caleb’s shoulder. “Did this guy try something? Something you didn’t want to do?”
“No.” Caleb shifted. His worried gaze found John again. “No, it was me, not him.”
John nodded.
“We went to a hotel.” Caleb’s gaze slipped away again. “He said I was a slut.” His voice hitched. “Said I was bad.”
John moved his hand from Caleb’s shoulder to his cheek. Caleb was still so cold. “If you tell me he was being a prick, I’ll track the fucker down.”
“The way he said it, I was supposed to like it. Wasn’t his fault.” Caleb closed his eyes. “I didn’t even mind, not much, not when he was there.”
John sighed. “What happened when he left?”
Caleb shuddered. “When he left, all I could hear in my head was Ethan.”
John tensed, and tried not to let Caleb feel it.
“So loud,” Caleb sighed.
John withdrew his hand. “Look at me.”
Caleb opened his eyes.
“Next time you hear Ethan Gray in your head, you don’t listen to him.” John shook his head. “You call you dad, or your doctor, or you call me, doesn’t matter what time, you call me and I will be there. You understand me?”
Caleb jerked his chin in a nod.
“You don’t cut yourself, Caleb.” John frowned. “You understand me?”
“Okay,” Caleb murmured.
The worst part, John knew, was that Caleb meant it, and would go on meaning it right up until the next time he was holding a blade against his wrists.
You’ll break my heart one day, Caleb Fletcher, I know you will.
John forced a smile. “Okay.”
Caleb sighed and closed his eyes.
John watched him until he fell asleep, then got up and hunted down a blanket.
Darren Fletcher was Caleb in thirty years. It wasn’t just genetics; Darren’s face was etched with just as much tired misery as Caleb’s.
Darren leaned against the wall outside Accident and Emergency and lit a cigarette, ignoring the signs that said it was a non-smoking area. And the one pointing to the oncology unit.
“I’ve got to head off,” John said.
They didn’t bother with small talk. They were both too practised at this.
It had been a while, but they fell back into the routine easily enough. Was it nine months or ten since Caleb had last ended up in hospital? Ten, John thought, but the maths was impossible in the middle of the night. A long time, anyway. Long enough that John had started to think that maybe it wouldn’t happen again, that maybe Caleb was better.
Stupid dumb hope, because Caleb wasn’t going to get better. He had no baseline of good mental health to try to reclaim. Caleb had been broken for too long, into too many pieces, and there wasn’t a doctor or a medication in the world that could plaster over all the cracks and pretend they didn’t go bone deep.
Caleb couldn’t go back. None of them could.
“Jason’s never coming home,” Darren had said to John eight years ago in another fucking hospital. “I’ve got Caleb now.”
Not the same son he’d lost.
A cuckoo in the nest.
A changeling.
“You right?” John asked Darren.
Darren exhaled, breathing smoke into the air. “Yeah. I’ll call you when we’re finished with the psych registrar.”
John knew exactly how things worked on a busy night: Caleb’s mental health assessment would very much depend on whether or not the hospital had a spare bed. “If they try and push him out the door, call me straight away.”
“I will.”
John looked across to where Liz was waiting. She was leaning on the car, talking on the phone.
“Did he tell you what happened?” Darren asked.
John hesitated.
“Yeah,” Darren said, and flashed him a wry smile. “He told you.”
John nodded.
Darren flicked his cigarette butt onto the concrete, the ember flaring brightly for a moment in the air. “I wish he didn’t try to do everything on his own.”
“He doesn’t want to tell his dad he’s going out to find a guy and get laid,” John said. “It’s understandable.”
“That conversation,” Darren said, “would have been a shitload less awkward that the one we’re going to have now.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean I know I can’t hold his hand.” Darren lit another cigarette and shoved the packet back into his shirt pocket. “He’s twenty-two. The last thing he needs is his dad sticking his nose in his sex life but, Jesus, what the hell am I supposed to do?”
John looked up, but the glare of the lights in the car park hid the stars.
Darren exhaled heavily, and said again, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
John didn’t answer.
There was nothing to say.
They stood there in silence for a few minutes more.
“I’ve got to head off,” John said at last.
“I’ll call you later.” Darren shook John’s hand and headed toward the doors of Accident and Emergency.
“You okay?” Liz was driving.
The lights on the freeway slid up the windscreen.
“Yeah,” John said. He squinted at his notebook. “Did those car keys for the Audi come from the break at twelve or fourteen? I wrote down twelve, but I thought the occurrence said fourteen.”
Liz didn’t answer.
“What?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that really what we’re doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going to pretend that didn’t happen, are we?” She snorted. “Caleb only slashed his wrists again, but you’re fine and dandy? Really?”
John shrugged.
Liz took the exit for Logan.
“Not much I can do about it,” John said at last. “Can’t fix him.”
You’ll break my heart one day, Caleb Fletcher, I know you will.
“No,” Liz agreed. “But are you okay?”
“Is this because you went on the Peer Support Officer course last week?”
“Fuck off. I’m asking as a friend, not a PSO.”
“Okay,” John said. “I’m tired, and I’m pissed off, and I want to fucking slap him around the head for doing something so stupid.” He struggled to draw an even breath. “And every time he does something like this, every time he thinks he’d be better off dead, a part of me wonders if he’s right.”
Shit.
“I get that,” Liz said, her tone soft.
John closed his notebook. A second later he closed his eyes. “So what’s your advice?”
It was an unfair question, he knew—unanswerable—but he couldn’t help asking. Maybe some part of him hoped that she’d actually have the solution.
“A vanilla thickshake,” Liz told him. “And a cheeseburger with fries.”
John opened his eyes and flashed her a smile. “Did you even pass that PSO course?”
“Everyone passed. It was that sort of course.” Liz stopped for a red light and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “If I order a large fries will you help me eat them?”
“Sure.” His stomach rumbled.
“I’d better order two then,” Liz said.
There was a crowd of kids at the nearest McDonald’s, hanging around outside and yahooing at cars using the drive-through. Probably stragglers from the party in Timor Avenue, John thought. That was fairly close.
Liz parked the car and they got out.
“How’s it going?” she asked the nearest bunch of kids, flashing her badge. The others melted away like magic. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
They took names and addresses and checked backpacks and pockets.
“What’s this?” John asked, holding up a can of deodorant. “You been sniffing?”
“Nah.” The boy didn’t look high. “I don’t do that.”
“That will fuck you up, yeah?” John
shone his torch in the boy’s eyes to check his pupils. “It can kill you or give you brain damage.”
The boy mumbled something.
John passed him his backpack. “Keep out of trouble.”
The boy squinted at him. “Can I have the deodorant back?”
“No,” John said. “Get out of here.”
The boy trailed away.
John and Liz went inside and ordered, and John dumped the can of deodorant into one of the bins. When they walked back outside to the car, the kids had gone.
They’d hardly left the car park when the radio blared: “Three-oh-six, urgent!” A blast of static. “—hit with bricks. At least two armed with knives.”
John recognised the voice: Craig, Liz’s husband.
“VKR to any units able to attend Timor Avenue. Code One authorised.”
John reached for the radio as Liz hit the siren, waiting for a break in the suddenly frantic radio traffic. “Five-forty, VKR. Show us proceeding from Bryants Road.”
So much for dinner.
They didn’t make it back to the office until a quarter past five.
Timor Avenue, the surrounding streets, the watch house, then back to Timor Avenue when it all kicked off again. Then the watch house again, then back to the office to write up the log.
The sky was softening to grey in the east. The birds were awake, swooping through the car park as John cleaned out the car: their vests, their gear, and the congealed, cold fries.
John went inside, leaving Liz on her phone talking to Craig: “Have you seen a doctor yet? How’s your newbie?”
John made a coffee and inspected the red marks on his forearm. Lucky for both of them the drunk girl hadn’t drawn blood. Lucky for her because otherwise John would have charged her for assaulting police instead of just resisting arrest, and lucky for John because otherwise he’d be facing months of disease testing.
John sat at his desk and drank his coffee. There was nothing like a street brawl to get the blood pumping, but the adrenaline dump had hit while he was waiting in the long queue at the watch house. Now he was just tired.
“Is Craig okay?” he called out as Liz came back into the office.
“He’s fine. A bit sore, but nothing broken.” The relief in her voice was palpable.
“Are you okay?”
She flashed him a shaky smile. “Yeah.”
Things could go to shit in seconds. Not just in the job, but in every aspect of life. John had felt that acutely of late. His dad’s death had brought so many fears into sharp relief: You could lose them all in a heartbeat. You will die alone. You have no-one.
He thought again of Caleb.
Again. Always. Same thing.
John opened his drawer, just to check the discs were there. Nothing written on the cracked plastic case but the crime report number that John knew by heart. Nothing on them but a total of six hours and thirty-seven minutes of recorded interviews with a scared, skinny kid who called himself Caleb Gray, that John knew word for awful word.
John had been there for most of them. For one, he hadn’t. He’d had court, and couldn’t shake it.
“Where’s the other man?” Caleb had asked.
“The other man?” Brian was retired now. He’d bought a place up at Maroochydore. Went fishing.
“The big one.” Caleb had traced his fingers over his skinny upper-arm and up his neck, following the path of John’s tattoo on his own skin.
“John. He’s in court today.”
“John,” Caleb had repeated. “Yeah, John.”
Then he’d curled his arms around himself and stared at the laminate tabletop and refused to talk. The next time, Brian had made sure John was there.
Eight years later and John still was.
He rubbed the raised scratches on his forearm, and sighed, and checked his phone for messages.
One from David: Footy at 9 if you’re up for it. Can use you on the BBQ.
John doubted he’d stay for the game or the barbecue, but he needed to catch up with David, and with Jess. And see if he could convince Jess to head home without starting World War Three. He’d never hear the end of it from his mother if he made it worse.
It was either too late or too early to message back.
There was a message from Darren as well: Caleb in MHU til Monday. Thanks.
Darren would still be awake so John sent back: Good. Talk to you in the week.
So at least something had gone right tonight.
John rubbed his arm again and wondered how long his luck would hold.
Chapter Three
“Holy shit!” John dropped the bolt cutters. “Boss!”
It was so dark in the old tank that he couldn’t see much. Dark, and hot as hell. He saw enough though. Saw the kid lying there, covered in blood and filth and blowflies.
John went down onto his knees. New trousers—fuck ’em. He stuck his fingers against the kid’s throat, searching for a pulse and half-doubting he’d find one. The kid moaned.
“Boss!” John yelled. “I need help in here!”
Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. The stench was so bad he thought he’d vomit.
“You’re okay, mate,” he told the kid. “You’re okay.”
The kid’s wrists were bound together with thin rope. John pulled out his pocket knife and sawed at it, then pulled the rope free.
The kid’s eyes flickered open, widened in sudden shock, and then he did what shouldn’t have been physically possible: he made a fist and tried to punch John in the face.
The kid was a fighter.
John didn’t sleep.
At nine a.m. he met his brother David at the oval where he coached the local Under Tens Rugby League team. David loved the game. He’d played all through school and been on target for the A Grade until he’d busted his knee. It was a credit to David’s easy-going temperament, inherited from their dad, that he hadn’t become bitter. He still loved the game, and he fostered the same love of it in the kids he coached.
“Where’s Jess?”
“Shopping,” David said, easing himself down into a crouch to help a boy with his laces. “You lace ’em up tight and tuck the ends in, okay, mate? You don’t want to trip over like last week.”
The boy scratched his scabby knees. “Thanks, coach!”
He skipped away.
David’s infinite patience was the same as their dad’s.
“She’s with Tee,” David said. “They’ve gone to get their nails done, and buy a dress for Jessie’s date with a boy in her class, and look at earrings, then they’re going to get sushi for lunch, and I’d better not leave muddy footprints all through the house again while they’re out.”
“What?” Sleep deprivation and bright sunlight was doing John no favours. “Jessie’s got a date?”
Not after pulling this stunt, she didn’t.
“Apparently.” David shrugged his massive shoulders. “What can you do, hey, bro?”
John rolled his eyes.
“Tee’s gonna take her to Ma’s after shopping.”
David’s girlfriend had gone from Christina to Tina to Tee in a matter of weeks. Even their mother called her Tee.
David had met Christina at the car dealership he worked at when she was temping. He’d told her the first time he met her that she was the girl he was going to marry. She’d told him to piss off.
That was two years ago.
John still wasn’t sure how the hell David had done it. He had an easy-going charm that worked on everyone, from small children and animals all the way up to cranky sports-mad parents.
Shrieking and laughing, the kids began to gather near the shelter shed. On the sidelines, parents and family were unfolding chairs or putting down blankets.
David raised his voice. “Get out there and practice kicking, kids! Mark! Have you got your puffer?”
A freckled boy gave him the thumbs up.
The kids hit the oval in their black and white striped jerseys, and John couldn’t help smiling. Go the mighty Magp
ies. It was the same team he and David had played in when they were kids.
“Are you ever sorry you didn’t make it?” he’d asked David once.
David had shrugged. “Nah. Look at all the footy players on the news, being drunken dickheads. I would love to have a Maroons jersey with my name on it, but if I’d gone A Grade I wouldn’t have met Tee. No football jersey is worth that.”
There was nothing missing from David’s life, and he was lucky enough to realise it. John envied his brother that.
“You look tired,” David said. “Have you even been to bed yet?”
John shrugged. “I’ll catch a few hours this afternoon.”
Unless work needed him, or Ma did, or Darren and Caleb. Mostly Darren and Caleb.
“You work too hard, bro.”
John shrugged again.
What was the other fucking option? You either worked at some place where they ground you slowly down, or you sat on your backside on the dole and got nowhere in life. Except right now, getting nowhere in life seemed like a pretty sweet option.
Shift work and sleep deprivation. It fucked his head up sometimes.
David cast his gaze out over his team. “Ma said you visited her last night but you had to go.”
John nodded.
“Something about Caleb.” David’s shrewd gaze said a hell of a lot more than he did. Sometimes he was too bloody smart for a meathead footy player. “Is he okay?”
“He will be.”
How much of that was a lie?
“Okay,” David said. “What about you?”
“What about me, what?” John was too tired for this.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Another lie. “Yeah, just tired.”
Down on the field, the kids were lining up.
“You’d better get down there,” John said.
“You want to stay and watch the game?” David asked him. “We’re having a sausage sizzle after.”
Some things never changed.
“I should head home.”
