The First Week

by Margaret Merrilees

  ‘Are you Mrs Anditon?’ A man in a suit appeared in front of Marian. He held out his hand. ‘Simon Ingerson. I’m representing Charles this morning.’

  ‘Those people …’ she swayed slightly.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He spat at that man.’

  ‘Yes?’ Simon Ingerson glanced around briefly. ‘Sexual assault case I believe. Must be out on bail. Sorry it upset you. Come inside.’

  One foot in front of the other. She remembered being seven and learning to ride a bike on the gravel track behind the house, her father running alongside with his hand on the back of the seat. Wobble, wobble. You can do it!

  The room was packed with people. Turning back in a panic Marian cannoned into the lawyer. ‘Who are they? Are they all here for Charlie?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. No. Long list this morning. Not sure where Charles comes. What say you sit here at the back? He’ll come through that door over there into the dock.’

  Marian stopped in her tracks. ‘No.’ Seeing his veiled impatience she tried again. ‘I want to see him. Be close.’

  The lawyer frowned. ‘You won’t be able to touch him or anything like that.’

  He thought she was going to make a scene.

  ‘I won’t say anything. Just watch.’

  ‘Right. Listen, I’ll catch you afterwards. There are things I need to talk to you about.’

  Marian edged her way past two people sitting in silence. The woman was older than Marian, her expression grim. The man was softer, shoulders rounded. He looked miserable, his face pale and his eyes puffy.

  What were they here for?

  The man in the mismatched suit had come in behind Marian and sat down next to them. The old man turned towards him, but the woman went on staring ahead.

  Of course. They were his parents, the paedophile. Marian’s chest tightened with pity and fear. She turned away hastily and found a seat.

  The dock was empty, a raised area separated from the public part of the courtroom by glass, but from the official benches only by a low partition. It was a big space. You could fit the old dining table in there easily, with the six chairs and all. Why did they need so much room?

  Perhaps there’d be a lot of police.

  ‘All rise.’

  A panel in the back wall of the court opened and the magistrate appeared, a tall thin man with grey hair. He seated himself behind the highest bench. ‘Please sit down.’

  He didn’t seem unsympathetic, but didn’t smile either, and he was looking straight at Marian. Her heart began to race. It took her a second to realise that she was the only person still standing. Everyone was waiting for her. She sat down with a bump.

  The buzz in the room grew in volume again. People shuffled papers. An official in a shirt marked Security read from a clipboard. ‘Two five six. Johnson.’

  A man in the front row stood up, smoothing careful strands of hair across his bald patch. The clipboard man pointed him forward.

  ‘Let’s hear the charge,’ said the magistrate.

  A gangly policeman stood with his back to the court, held up a bunch of papers and reeled off a string of words that were inaudible to Marian. Was it something to do with Charlie? Had this man been there? But he wasn’t in the dock.

  She fumbled again for her glasses, then realised how useless that was. Glasses wouldn’t help her hearing. And anyway they weren’t there.

  The magistrate spoke to the accused. ‘You understand the charge, Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Yes your honour.’

  ‘And you choose to have the matter dealt with today in this court?’

  Mr Johnson nodded.

  The magistrate sat back and smiled encouragingly. ‘What have you got to say about it?’

  Mr Johnson cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. He was powerfully built, probably accustomed to roaring. The unfamiliar effort to sound polite contorted his whole body. Even from behind the effect was disturbing.

  ‘It was wrong, your honour. Only he insulted my girlfriend. In the pub.’

  Pub? What did that have to do with the supermarket?

  ‘I shouldn’t have pushed him,’ the big man was saying. ‘I know that.’

  The magistrate sat back and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Fell backwards and hit his head, eh? Sometimes when people hit their heads they don’t get up again. You know that? You were lucky, weren’t you? Because otherwise you’d be here on a manslaughter charge.’

  ‘Yes your honour.’

  This wasn’t connected with Charlie. It was some fight in a pub.

  The magistrate turned back to the policeman. ‘Any previous convictions?’

  The policeman mumbled.

  Marian looked around. The paedophile’s mother was leaning forward with one hand behind her ear.

  The policeman had apparently finished what he was reading.

  ‘Well Mr Johnson,’ said the magistrate, in his headmaster voice, ‘I’m only going to fine you this time. But you’ve got to cut down on that drinking. If you can’t control your temper, then you shouldn’t drink.’

  ‘Yes your honour. Thank you, your honour.’

  ‘Wait over there while they sort out the paperwork.’

  The security man with the clipboard was on his feet again. ‘Two five seven. Wardle.’

  A door in the side wall of the dock opened and a guard ushered an Aboriginal man to the front.

  Why was this one in the dock when the last one wasn’t? Perhaps this was more serious. This might be part of Charlie’s business now. Was that it? Had Charlie got mixed up in some Abo thing? Drinking?

  The gangly policeman stood up. ‘Mumble mumble … drunk … mumble resisting mumble …’

  ‘Do you understand the charge, Mr Wardle?’

  The man in the dock nodded, staring at his feet.

  There was a rustle along the official benches and a piece of paper was passed up to the magistrate.

  ‘Yes, I see. I understand you couldn’t raise the bail?’

  Mr Wardle spoke to the floor in front of him. He had to get back to his job. Out from Mt Magnet.

  ‘In that case, it will only be a fine.’

  Nothing about guns. Not Charlie, then.

  ‘And I’m taking into account the four days you’ve already been in custody. One hundred and fifty dollars. You’ll be free to go when the paperwork’s ready.’

  But hang on. They were going to let this man go, but he already couldn’t pay the bail. How was he going to pay a fine? Marian looked around, expecting someone to step forward and fix the mistake. But no one seemed concerned.

  The usual paper shuffling began, ready for the next case.

  The main door of the court opened. Marian turned to see who was coming in, and realised that everyone else in the row had done the same thing. Two girls hesitated in the doorway. Marian was aware of spiky hair, bright ragged clothes. They made for seats at the back of the room.

  The clipboard man was making his next announcement. ‘Two five eight. Anditon.’

  The name took her breath away. She had the sensation of her insides being sucked suddenly downward.

  Charlie had come silently into the dock, a policeman on either side, and stood where they showed him, facing straight ahead.

  Marian’s ears were filled with the sound of her own throbbing blood.

  He was exactly the same as usual. A bit pale, and dark marks under his eyes. But unmistakably Charlie. His ordinariness shocked her. She had expected … must have been preparing herself for something. What? That he’d be in a strait jacket? Drooling?

  Simon Ingerson stepped forward and bobbed his head at the magistrate, who nodded gravely at him. ‘Mr Ingerson. I take it that you’re representing the prisoner?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  The prisoner.

  Marian opened her mouth. No sound came out, but Charlie turned as though she’d spoken. His expression didn’t change and he turned back quickly towards the magistrate.

&n
bsp; Marian wedged one hand under her knee to stop it shaking and held her bag tightly with the other. The roaring in her ears drowned out the sounds of the court.

  She watched the back of the gangly policeman as he did his mumbling. That uniform was too big for him. The collar was stiff and pushed up into the base of his skull when he sat down. New shirt. Why would he choose such a big shirt?

  Perhaps he was one of those people who always got leftovers when things were handed out, uniforms. Too shy to push forward. The runt of the litter.

  ‘Do you understand the charge, Mr Anditon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie muttered, staring downwards. One of his escorts jogged his arm. ‘Yes sir,’ Charlie said, his face a dull red.

  Marian glanced quickly at the magistrate. He’s nervous. He doesn’t mean to be rude.

  The magistrate was reading through a pile of papers. Marian looked back at Charlie. As she watched, he twisted his right shoulder up and back. Both his escorts moved in closer, but he wasn’t planning anything. It was a completely unconscious stretch, she could have told them that. He does it when he’s thinking. She was overcome by all that she knew about Charlie. The way his hair kinked behind his ears. The star shaped scar on the knuckle of his left thumb from trying to chop wood when he was four.

  She should tell them everything. So they knew how to look after him. But before the thought was formed properly she recognised the futility of it.

  It seemed impossible to get enough air into her lungs. She dragged her gaze away from Charlie and examined the ceiling. The central section was all framed panels, like a skylight. But it couldn’t be. They were only halfway up the building. There was a great weight of offices over their heads, people sitting at desks, moving around, answering phones. Oblivious.

  ‘I understand you’d like more time to consult with your client, Mr Ingerson?’ the magistrate was saying, still in the same courteous voice he’d used all morning.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Two weeks?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Charles Anditon, you are remanded in custody to appear in this court on August the thirtieth.’

  Already Charlie’s escorts were hustling him towards the door. Marian opened her mouth. ‘Charlie …’ The sound was a husky rasp, but Charlie heard her and looked back across his shoulder, face undefended. She saw his fear.

  It only took a moment. The guards pushed him through, and the door swung shut. The dock was empty. The clipboard man stood up. ‘Two five nine.’

  Marian slumped in her chair, exhaustion weighting her body, and let the sounds of the court blur.

  The bag in her lap had come open. And there were her glasses, they must have been there all the time.

  She pulled herself up and stumbled to the door, mumbling an apology as she squeezed past the paedophile and his parents. They were straining forward, completely intent, and took no notice of her.

  Nothing happened when she pushed at the doorhandle. Someone stepped in behind her and pulled the door open. Towards her, not away.

  ‘Thank you,’ Marian said, and had stepped out in to the corridor before she realised it was Simon Ingerson. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, though she wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for.

  He pushed a small piece of cardboard into her hand. ‘Got to run. Got another case. Come and see me? Okay?’ He was already striding away.

  The card read 10am Wednesday. But where? She turned it over and found that it was printed with an address and three different phone numbers. Three secretaries to handle all his calls. The official appearance of it was reassuring. This man must know what he was doing, in spite of his abrupt manner.

  She put on her glasses and looked more closely. Phone. Fax. Mobile.

  Oh well. One secretary. But it did sound businesslike.

  Two girls came up to her. The girls from the court. One of them had a silver spike embedded in her eyebrow. Her hair was pure black and stood up in tufts. The other girl wore a beanie with chooks embroidered on it. The hair that curled out from under the woollen ribbing was bright pink. Marian started to move away, but the tufty girl stepped forward.

  ‘Uh, Mrs Anditon? I’m Sam.’

  Marian stared at her. Up close she could see that the flesh around the spike was pink and swollen.

  Sam?

  ‘You know? I rang you.’

  The girl on the phone.

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. Sam.’

  ‘This is Ros.’

  The pink-haired girl smiled wanly.

  Sam spoke. ‘We’re, um … we thought you might like to grab a coffee.’

  So these were the friends. So called. All very well to look hangdog now.

  Marian didn’t want to talk to them.

  But she had to. This was what she was here for.

  She looked more closely at Sam. The girl’s skin was pale, her eyes shadowed, and she held onto her friend’s hand as though she really needed it.

  This was Charlie’s friend, perhaps even his girlfriend.

  ‘I’d be glad of a cup of tea,’ Marian said stiffly.

  As they made their way through the crowd a man and woman moved up to them.

  ‘Mrs Anditon?’

  Marian was aware of the two girls tensing beside her, but neither spoke.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Nile, and this is Sergeant Glover.’

  Marian’s mouth was suddenly dry. These two had been in court on the official benches. She’d thought they were court people. But they were police.

  ‘I wonder if we could talk to you?’

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘There’s a room here we can use,’ the Inspector said, pointing down the corridor.

  ‘Save you having to go anywhere else.’ Sergeant Glover, a young woman, closed in on Marian’s other side, so that she had no choice but to go with them. She glanced across at the girls.

  Inspector Nile nodded at them. ‘Excuse us, ladies.’

  Ladies?

  ‘We’ll wait for you,’ the pink girl said. Ros. Her face was flushed, but she spoke firmly.

  ‘Thanks,’ Marian whispered and followed the police down the passage. People seemed to draw away on either side. She stared at her feet, looking up only when they reached a small room with a table and four chairs.

  Her whole body was shaking and she was embarrassed by it. If you haven’t done anything wrong then you don’t need to feel guilty. How stupid. Even at school she knew it wasn’t true. And anyway, she had done wrong. Hadn’t she? Charlie …

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Anditon? Would you like a glass of water?’

  Marian focused on his tie. Inspector Nile. She put her bag on the seat beside her and sat on her hands to stop the trembling.

  ‘No thank you.’ If she tried to drink from a glass she would spill water everywhere.

  She gave her name and age and address and relationship to Charlie, voice tremulous, and managed to get her driver’s licence out of her bag and show it to them.

  ‘And you were at home on Sunday night and Monday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t hear from Charles at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you didn’t know what had happened until …?’

  ‘Monday morning. Or lunchtime perhaps.’ When? But she couldn’t remember. Her mind wouldn’t work.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure when exactly. One of Charlie’s housemates rang me. Sam … I don’t know her other name.’

  She felt stupid and imagined their scepticism. Doesn’t know who her son was living with. ‘He doesn’t tell me that sort of thing,’ she said defensively, and then wished she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Oh yes. That’s all right. Sam Barton. That was her outside, wasn’t it? We’ve spoken to those two already.’

  What had they said? What did they know? Did everyone except her understand what was going on?

  ‘A couple of questions, Mrs Anditon. The gun. I believe it’s registered in your name?’


  Marian felt the blood drain away from her head. When she opened her mouth no sound came out.

  She wanted more air, but the window was high in the wall, the glass fixed and opaque.

  ‘The twenty-two?’ Her voice was a squeaky whisper.

  ‘That’s right. Did you know that your son had it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know it was gone.’

  Silence.

  ‘It hasn’t been used for ages. My son has another gun.’ I’m babbling. ‘My other son, I mean,’ she finished lamely. ‘The one who runs the farm.’

  It sounded terrible. Too many sons. Too many guns. Marian could imagine them exchanging glances and kept her eyes on the floor.

  ‘That would be Brian Anditon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes. A local officer spoke to him yesterday. I believe you’d already left for Perth.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Where was the twenty-two kept? Normally.’

  ‘In a cupboard near the back door. My husband kept his boots there,’ she added in explanation. But of course they didn’t care about Mac’s boots.

  Marian had a vivid image of the cupboard. It was old and had been grand once, with a pattern of leaves carved around the top of each door. But the wood was dried out and one of the hinges was broken. She walked past many times every day and never saw it. How long since she’d opened the door and looked inside?

  ‘When did you last see the gun?’

  ‘Oh. Um, perhaps a year ago. No, I know. Last spring. I was trying to find the spare nozzle for the knapsack spray. I pulled everything out. I’m pretty sure it was there then.’

  ‘Nearly a year ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They made polite faces. Did they believe a word she said?

  ‘I think I would have noticed if it wasn’t there.’

  ‘What about ammunition? Was that in the cupboard too?’

  There was that faint edge in his voice again. Sarcasm?

  ‘Oh no. We never keep them in the same place. That’s in the desk drawer in the living room.’

  ‘Locked?’

  ‘Um. Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Would Charlie know where the key was kept?’ The Inspector’s voice was carefully neutral.

  ‘Yes.’ Marian was stung. ‘It’s a farm. Kids learn to shoot. They need to know what to do if an animal’s injured, or there’s a snake. Or to keep the rabbits down.’