by Diane Wood
“Well, I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose by meeting with you,” she replied thoughtfully. “But I must warn you that you may be wasting your time. Right now I’ve got a pretty hectic schedule.”
“That’s fine, I’ll take my chances. When would you be free to meet?”
“What about lunch tomorrow at my house? I’ll even provide the food. It’s just that I’ll be going out later and it makes it easier.”
After she hung up, Nathalie couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this woman. There was a cadence to her voice that made her think of the past. Someone from university or the law firm maybe? The name meant nothing to her, but it made her curious.
* * *
The nightmares returned that night. The man with the rough hands had her on her stomach, penetrating her from behind. The pain was excruciating and his weight crushed the breath from her body. In the background a woman whispered instructions, her voice becoming more and more excited. Then there were the two mothers, one crying and turning away, the other leering and voiceless—her eyes promising untold horrors still to come.
She woke just after three a.m., the vivid memory of pain and terror producing gasping, body-shaking sobs. She sat up until dawn, every light in the flat blazing. That the nightmares were getting worse couldn’t be denied, yet the idea of telling anyone the details of these hideous dreams frightened her more than the horror they evoked. Somehow she had to deal with them—had to make them go away or fade into insignificance. She’d done it as a child. Why was it so difficult now?
It was cloudy when Nat pulled up outside Alexandra Messner’s large modern townhouse and found an attractive brunette pulling weeds from the small garden bed.
“You must be Nathalie Duncan,” she said with a smile as she extended a soft, warm hand. “Please come in.” She appeared to be several years older than Nathalie and was dressed for the garden in bike shorts and an old shirt—her suntanned shapely legs immediately catching Nathalie’s attention. The woman seemed relaxed and her green eyes sparkled with warmth and intelligence.
Alex Messner was surprised. For some reason she’d expected Nathalie Duncan to be older and more motherly. Instead here was an attractive young woman of mixed race, dressed in a business suit, with the most startling gray eyes she’d ever seen. Instantly she knew this was someone she’d like. Indicating for Nat to have a seat, she threw herself into the chair opposite. “I’m sorry to have to ask you here,” she said, assessing Nathalie’s body language. “But as you can see, I’m not really into formalities, and I’m always more comfortable in my own setting.”
“You’re very honest,” replied Nat, suddenly feeling nervous. “I appreciate you making the time to see me.”
“Have you had to come far?” Alex asked, curiously.
“Not far,” Nat answered. “I only live seven or eight kilometers from the crisis center at Strathfield.”
“So what role do you play at the center?” asked Alex, keeping her eyes fixed on Nathalie’s face.
“I give legal advice,” she answered quietly, “and I do the occasional babysitting and paperwork.”
“Babysitting?”
“It’s optional,” Nathalie replied with a laugh, enjoying the look of horror on the woman’s face. “But it gives some of the mothers without family support an hour or so to themselves.”
“So you’re a lawyer?”
“I am a lawyer, but I’m also a police officer. Consequently, I never represent anyone in court, but I do offer legal advice and I’ll sometimes write letters or make submissions for them.”
“And you’re looking for a psychologist?”
“Yes. Many of those we see, including the children, have suffered trauma. Often domestic violence or relationship breakdowns, sometimes sexual assault, sometimes it’s simply a matter of not coping emotionally with what’s happening in their lives. Most of them don’t want anything to do with social services or the police, and they don’t have the money to seek private counseling. We can’t provide long-term fixes, but our aim is to provide them with coping mechanisms in the short term and some basic tools for the long term.”
As she listened, Alex detected a hint of passion in Nathalie’s voice. Obviously the center meant a lot to her. “Well, I’m a clinical psychologist,” she stated thoughtfully. “So I imagine I could provide the service you want, but to be honest I’m not sure that I’d want to. The problem is that I work with traumatized and disturbed women all day in my job, and it can be quite exhausting.”
“I understand,” replied Nathalie reluctantly. “But that’s exactly why you’d be ideal. You’d have a greater understanding of these women than anyone we could get from private practice. And perhaps if they get help in the early stages it might stop them from becoming clients of the prison.”
Alex could see how Nathalie Duncan would be a good lawyer, something about the light in her eyes and her intensity made you listen—made you want to please her. And she certainly was attractive.
Standing, Alex indicated for Nathalie to join her. “I’ve made us a chicken salad,” she said, moving toward the rear of the house and into a cozy dining area that opened onto a small patio. “If you’re vegetarian, you’ll just have to ditch the chicken,” she finished with an accompanying laugh.
Moving to a seat, Nathalie looked around. The house was larger than she’d expected and tastefully and comfortably furnished. Everything was neat and tidy and seemed to mirror her own taste.
During lunch they discussed the center, the house, Nathalie’s home, their jobs and general subjects that didn’t intrude too far into the personal. Throughout, it niggled at Nathalie that Alex reminded her of someone and that she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“You make an impressive argument,” stated Alex seriously, as Nat finished explaining how her services would benefit the center’s clients. “And I’m impressed by your own commitment. So how about you show me around, introduce me to the staff and some of the women and then I’ll decide.”
“Whenever you’re available,” responded Nathalie, sensing victory.
It was arranged for Wednesday, with Nathalie picking Alex up from her house.
Satisfied to have got this far, Nathalie left the house on a high. Alex’s warmth and humor had raised her spirits and she knew that Alex would be the ideal recruit.
Alex was intrigued. Normally able to assess a person’s sexuality and personality easily, she had found Nathalie Duncan an enigma. With her short-cropped black hair and somewhat androgynous appearance, she could appear either quite feminine or slightly masculine. Her manner was neutral to the extreme, as was her clothing, and she gave no indication by look or conversation that would indicate her sexual preference.
Glancing at her watch, Alex realized that she had only half an hour to get ready before her mother arrived and headed for the bathroom. As the water from the shower poured over her, she acknowledged to herself that if she decided to volunteer at the center, getting to know Ms. Nathalie Duncan could prove very interesting.
* * *
That night Nathalie received a phone call from her mother. It was their first contact in nearly twelve months. And the call did not come from overseas.
“So how’s my only daughter?” she started, her cold, hard voice cutting through the phone line.
“Mother—” Nathalie gasped in shock.
“You could sound happier to hear from me,” the woman interjected acerbically.
“It was a surprise, that’s all,” she mumbled, trying to stop the anxiety spreading through her body. “Of course I’m happy to hear from you.”
“I’m home for a while and George has invited us to a get-together at the house. I trust you’ll be there?”
Her soul shrieked, NO, but her voice asked where and when.
“Next weekend…you don’t work weekends, so it shouldn’t be a problem. George is keen to see you, since you don’t keep in touch. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”
Swamped
by a dread that reached her bowels, she remained silent.
“Answer me, child,” demanded Charlotte Silver. “You will be there, won’t you?”
“Yes…of course, Mother,” she stuttered by rote, the frightened child she thought gone forever returning in force.
“Then we’ll expect you in time for tea on Friday.”
“Friday…no…I work at a women’s center Friday evening.” It was out before she could stop herself. The less Mother knew about her life the better, but for some reason her brain seized when forced into confrontation with her.
“Then I expect you’ll have to cancel it.”
And Nathalie knew that’s exactly what she’d do.
Staring blankly, she dropped into the lounge chair, her head threatening to explode. How could she go back now?
It had been years since she’d seen Mother or George and even longer since that unforgettable phone call in the middle of the night informing her that Christine Martin was dead.
“An overdose,” Mother had said from Sydney. “Sometime in the early hours of the morning. George found her dead on the bathroom floor after a party with friends. I want you to give the police as little information as possible,” she’d demanded. “They got your details from George. They want a statement from you because the flat is in your name and you’re George’s sister. They know you’re in Armidale, at the university, so they’re going to get local detectives to contact you.”
The detectives had rung a few days later, requesting her attendance at the police station.
“So, how long had you known Christine Martin?” the middle-aged detective had asked when she’d presented for interview.
“Since we were fourteen,” she’d answered quietly, remembering those early days together.
“What was your relationship with Ms. Martin?”
“She’s…she was my brother’s girlfriend.”
“That was all?”
“She was a friend.”
“Where did she live?”
“At the flat where she was found.”
“You mean your flat!” It wasn’t a question, it was more of an accusation.
“I own it, but I don’t live there,” she answered, trying not to show the annoyance she was feeling.
“Did you know she used heroin and other substances on a regular basis?”
Shrugging, Nathalie remained silent.
“It seems that nobody’s willing to admit that they knew Ms. Martin had a serious drug problem, yet she must have been using daily.”
“Is that a question?” she asked. “I don’t live there, remember.”
“Actually, Ms. Duncan,” the older detective had answered, “it is a question. You see her family claims that it was your brother who introduced her to heroin and that your family encouraged her use. Is that true?”
“She made her own choices, just like we all do.” Nathalie shrugged again. “My family gave her a place to stay after she got involved with my brother and left home. That’s all.”
“Your mother is Charlotte Silver, and her occupation is…” Now he made the pretense of looking at his paperwork, “fortune teller?”
“Yes.”
“She has an impressive client list from what the Sydney detectives tell me.”
“So?”
“Well, the family is claiming Christine was threatening to expose a crime committed by your mother. They claim the victim had intended taking her information to the police.”
“Really, that’s interesting, considering she hadn’t seen her family for the last couple of years. She moved out of her home, dropped out of school and rarely contacted them.”
As she’d said it, Nathalie remembered a strange conversation Christine had tried to have with her over the phone, about diaries and a murder and secrets that were too awful to talk about. Chris was obviously high and was rambling, and Nat remembered impatiently cutting her short—telling her that she’d talk to her the next time she was in Sydney.
That was the last time they’d spoken.
“So what are they trying to claim?” she asked angrily. “That her overdose wasn’t an accident? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is George Silver…is your brother a regular drug user?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“What about you, Ms. Duncan, do you take drugs or were you ever present when Ms. Martin used drugs?”
“Of course not, Detective, they’re illegal, and if I did anything illegal I wouldn’t be able to apply to the bar once I complete my law degree.”
The younger detective hadn’t been able to disguise the grimace that crossed his face, but the older one had looked completely disinterested.
Nathalie realized that this was a routine inquiry brought about by the insistence of the Martin family. She also knew it wasn’t going anywhere. She remembered feeling a strange sense of annoyance about this lack of interest.
The interview had lasted only a few minutes more and had included questions about where Nathalie had been on the night Christine died.
* * *
After Christine’s death, even with the frantic pace of exam time, Nat found it hard to stop thinking about her. Her death had raised so many questions, things Nat had always refused to think about. Things Mother had always insisted didn’t need thinking about.
At Mother’s insistence, they’d gotten together after the interviews. Apparently Chris’s mother had rung the house a few times, blaming them for luring Christine from her family and for encouraging her drug use. Nathalie had been upset by Chris’s death, and George had seemed shocked, but it hadn’t appeared to have worried Mother.
Nathalie had been so glad she’d moved away. At home she’d felt overpowered by Mother’s personality and expectations, and she’d wanted it to stop. Yet somehow, while she lived there, she’d never found the courage to refuse. Life had been different at the university. For the first time, she’d actually seemed to blend in. It had meant dressing and acting more conservatively, but that had quickly become very comfortable. And she’d enjoyed the challenges of academic life without the feeling of being an outsider. Nobody there knew about her background or her past; it had been liberating.
By the end of the first year she’d excelled in all subjects, but best of all, because the university was nearly six hours away from Sydney, she’d spent the entirety of each semester without the obligation of bringing anyone home to meet the family. And for the first time since she could remember, she’d been under no obligation to sleep with anyone.
Of course she’d been expected to go home each Christmas, although she’d never been sure why. Mother didn’t celebrate the holidays. It had only been Christine who’d made the effort to put up a tree and make a Christmas dinner.
Mother had been right. Christine wasn’t like the other kids she’d brought home, yet she’d chosen to return to the house more and more often after that first night. For a while they’d continued to be together after school, but soon Chris made it obvious that she preferred being with George. That had hurt. She’d really liked Christine, enjoyed being with her, and found her easy to talk to. But it wasn’t surprising. George was as handsome as Mother was beautiful, and she’d never been able to compete with them in either looks or personality. It was how it always ended. Only this time it had actually mattered.
The more time Chris spent with Mother and George, the more her personality and attitude had changed, until a deep chasm formed between her and her own family. They’d fought it, of course, but in the end she’d cut them off. By then she’d thrown herself full tilt into the family business and had started doing her own recruiting for Mother.
Gradually they’d stopped noticing when Nat began spending more time at the flat, and less and less at the house, until eventually, Chris and George had stayed with Mother and Nat had moved to the flat.
On the weekends Chris had replaced Nat at the parties for Mother’s rich clients. No one complained. Chris looked very young and was more beautiful and feminine
than Nat.
It had been a relief to lose the obligation, although the money she’d saved over the years from this work was what had put her through university—certainly Mother had never offered to help.
That first Christmas, when Nathalie had returned at Mother’s insistence, she found another young teenager in the house. Ari looked about fourteen, although he’d claimed to be eighteen. He was strikingly handsome in a very boyish way, and both Mother and George had doted on him.
Nathalie soon discovered that Mother’s expectations of her hadn’t changed. But she had. Although she’d participated, her role in this family’s bizarre private life had become so loathsome she could only deal with it by the use of strong drugs. Whenever she’d thought of refusing, the permanent fear that had taken root in her soul would engulf her and turn her into Mother’s submissive and obedient little girl.
The Christmas week hadn’t gone well, to say the least. There was constant tension between Nat and her mother. At best Nat had only ever felt tolerated by her mother—now Charlotte didn’t even attempt to hide her outright dislike of her daughter. In the end, the only way Nat had survived was to spend the whole time seriously high.
* * *
And so it had continued for the following three years—the comfort and challenges of university, independence and her studies, followed by the Christmas trip home and her almost childlike adherence to her mother’s demands.
Until one day, just prior to her final exams, Mother had rung to say that she’d sold the house and was moving to California where she had numerous wealthy clients seeking her services. There was no explanation, other than she felt it was time to move on. George was to move to a large new home on the fringe of Sydney’s inner city and continue Mother’s business. The rich and debauched still wanted teenagers, still wanted to be entertained somewhere where they could be free to indulge their variety of perversities in a place of discretion, privacy and safety.
Nat didn’t care. A benevolent force had finally released her from her dark obligations. She wouldn’t be involved, and with Mother out of the country there would be the real chance to begin her life again.
