The Practice Baby

by LM Ardor

  Dee watched as Marlena wriggled through the courtyard between suits with blonde girlfriends. She was the only person on her own in the bar; alone with the problem of justice for Tom.

  Marlena had said they would only look into it if there was more evidence. Where was that going to come from? Dee wasn’t a detective. There didn’t appear to be any way forward. Any sensible person would give up.

  But Leah was so frightened and so sure she was being watched, Dee thought. How did the person watching the surgery, if there was one, know when Leah was due for an appointment? Why did Adam need her address so urgently? The ‘if’ was an important qualification in assessing Leah’s story, she reminded herself.

  Dee remembered the sneering tone Adam had used about Tom at the medical meeting. She went over it in her mind. She had defended Tom; told Adam he was a hacker. Could that have meant Adam detected Tom’s raid on GenSafe’s computers? The logical thing to do about that would be to report it, to prosecute Tom rather than murder him.

  Unless Adam had something major to hide? She knew Adam was totally single-minded. He never allowed anything to come between him and what he wanted. But what could he want? Everything – success, wealth and academic respect were already in his hands. He had no need for illegal or illicit activity. She reminded herself that her inability to imagine how or why someone would commit murder didn’t exclude the possibility. Murders happened every day.

  With that logic, she had to admit Leah was also a suspect. She had a clear and sufficient motive and she was missing. Her allegations about Adam could be a ploy to deflect attention from the insurance as a motive.

  She should find out more about Glen. Check up on his record. If it was him, Charlie and Skye were at risk in the future, once they had the insurance money.

  The police were no help.

  Raj was the only person who would listen. She didn’t want to ring while she felt so hopeless. They had a date for the opera on Sunday night. The kids would be home tomorrow. They always brought perspective when she was down. It would be better to wait till she felt better before she inflicted herself on anyone else.

  Home was the answer. At home she could drink herself to forgetfulness and fall into a dreamless slumber. She bought a bottle of the Swan Bay Shiraz she’d been enjoying with Marlena and drove home with it for company.

  27.

  On Saturday morning Dee drove into her car space relieved nothing happened on the way. She probably should have taken a taxi. She’d woken early with a dry mouth. After several glasses of water and two paracetamol, she left home early and drove carefully within the speed limit. A whole bottle of red at home plus a glass at Gallon was bad. It was possible she was still over the limit. Janelle was on duty. There were just the two of them and it was only till midday. Dee ordered a sausage roll with tomato sauce as well as her usual double shot latte. Janelle offered her a strong mint. Did her breath smell of alcohol?

  Roger lay on the couch in the spare surgery ready for his regular bloodletting for polycythaemia. There was only one other patient to see.

  Dee had made it. Soon she could go home and nurse her headache, have a quiet afternoon and recover ready for the children to be back that night.

  She sat her phone on the trolley, wheeled it over to Roger and pulled on gloves. She fastened the tourniquet on his arm and unsheathed a cannula. Her phone beeped, she glanced at it. There was a text message from an unknown number—Glen S. Blayney May 2007. Marlena had delivered on her promise.

  ‘Shit,’ she said to herself as the blood welled up from her gloved finger.

  Roger hated blood. He kept his eyes closed through the process and hadn’t noticed. It was one small mercy.

  ‘Sorry, just a minute,’ she said, disposed of the cannula and went to the next surgery to wash her hands and apply a Band-Aid.

  It was years since she’d had a needle-stick. This time it was with an uncontaminated needle but that was only luck. If the needle had had Roger’s blood on it they would be into the whole PCP prophylaxis protocol. That required permission from Roger for blood-borne virus testing, bloods from her and follow-ups for both of them. The whole fuss would go on for months.

  Tom was still there in the back of her mind. Alcohol was an unreliable friend. This time it inhibited the brain cells for physical coordination rather than those that felt grief.

  28.

  Raj was due in five minutes. Dee checked the mirror on her wardrobe door. The deep-green silk jersey dress draped around her breasts to emphasise her waist. It skimmed discreetly over her hips and thighs. With the updated shoes and handbag, the outfit had cost more than she usually spent in a year on clothes. The feel of the fabric, the designer labels, made her feel safe in the first-night crowd.

  The front doorbell rang. Dee listened. Ollie got to the door first. He took Raj into the lounge. She couldn’t quite hear what they were talking about. Probably sport. Beatrice came out of her room and Dee heard her compliment Raj on his tux. It was a step forward. Raj didn’t seem out of place. Christmas had broken the ice.

  Dee gave them a few moments together. She went into Eleanor’s room, held out her arm and whispered, ‘Come on.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Ellie said but got up and took her mother’s hand. Dee nodded. Ellie leaned in so she was enclosed by Dee’s arms. They walked together into the lounge.

  ‘Hi Raj,’ Ellie said politely.

  ‘Hello Eleanor.’ He stepped back half a pace to look at Ellie. ‘Wow. What a stunning pink. Where did you get it?’

  The hoodie, which Dee thought ridiculously girlie, was in a hot candy pink. Ellie had worn it every day for a week. As Dee watched, her daughter’s face almost broke into a grin.

  *

  ‘Thanks for being nice to Ellie. She’s shy,’ Dee said when they were in the hire car.

  ‘She’s very sweet. She reminds me of girls in India. They’re not as grown-up as here.’

  Raj was excited. Mozart’s The Magic Flute was his favourite opera. The exotic costumes and frivolous plot might have been created for him. In his midnight blue tuxedo with scarlet bow tie, cummerbund and socks and with deep blue patent leather shoes he wouldn’t be out of place if he walked onstage.

  Talk of past productions bubbled up from him with the enthusiasm of a four-year-old who’d just caught his first tadpoles. The ultimate was at the Met in New York in 2007.

  ‘Diana Damrau is the ultimate Queen of the Night. I’ll never see another performance to top that,’ he said.

  Tonight was the gala opening of the season; they would be pulling out all the stops, including fireworks over the harbour at interval.

  His enthusiasm should have been infectious but it wasn’t. Dee smiled and responded as required. She had to tell someone about her meeting with Marlena but it seemed wrong to contaminate Raj’s excitement.

  By the time their limo sailed through the security gate at the entrance to the Opera House, Dee wondered if Raj had completely forgotten about Tom. They walked up the long low stairs to the level of the iconic sails. As usual, heads swivelled as they caught sight of Raj. They emerged into the glass-walled foyer surrounded by the harbour. The sunset still glowed in the sky off to the west, silhouetting the Harbour Bridge and the city skyline.

  Everyone glowed and glittered in evening dress. A yellow arc of the full moon pushed up from the water off to the east. The moonrise was a welcome distraction from Raj as the focal point of everyone’s attention.

  Dee stood in the faint breeze from the open doorway and watched as Raj got drinks. He towered over others in the crush at the bar.

  He was a good friend. When he’d first asked her to go with him to the opera he said he had a spare ticket because a friend was ill.

  The first night after La Traviata they talked for two hours. It was easy. They were instantly comfortable with each other. Dee guessed Raj was lonely; in need of uncomplicated adult company, like her.

  She had never asked how rich he was, his lifestyle told the story. Oliver had g
oogled him. Dee made a fuss but was pleased to have the information without stooping to snooping herself. The IT start-up he created in India had sold for $10 million dollars before the GFC. In Australia his computer security firm was reported to have more than sixty percent of the medical market, from government to individual practices like Dee’s. Money wasn’t an issue. He was a generous friend.

  Last year he presented her with a premium reserve season ticket to the opera. The year’s subscription prompted her to buy the new outfit. In it she was less like the dowdy mate of a magnificently plumed bird, or looking as though she was accidentally standing next to Raj and they weren’t connected at all.

  Dee loved the music, the singing, the costumes and the over-the-top drama of it all. Raj’s gift opened a world she would otherwise have missed. The pleasure was complicated by memories of her mother; tinged with sadness and the notion of sacrifice.

  As a child Dee occasionally came home to find Puccini or Verdi arias floating through the house but her mum would turn the music off when anyone else was around—as though opera were something shameful or self-indulgent. Her mother died not long after Dee’s graduation as a doctor. At the funeral, she found out that her mother gave up training as a soprano when she married.

  Mum’s vinyl records were still around somewhere. Probably in the storage basement at Rob’s office; unless he’d thrown them out. Surely he wouldn’t though without telling her?

  Dee used to play them on the turntable Rob had bought in his jazz period. As work grew busier and the weekends were filled with ferrying three children to endless activities, she played the records less and less. She couldn’t remember the last time.

  The Magic Flute was Dee’s favourite too. She never knew the words but its lightness made it easy to play without sinking into sorrow that Mum was gone. She hoped her mother would be happy her daughter had discovered the magic of her world.

  ‘I’ve booked supper at the Bennelong. Is that okay?’

  Raj was back. He handed her a glass. She didn’t want to let go of a tender sadness for Tom and for her mother. Neither of them would ever feel the breeze of a midsummer night, be in a crowd in the myriad colours of their best outfits, marvel at the birth of a full moon, taste champagne. The only place they existed was in the memories of those who knew them. If she stopped thinking about them they didn’t exist anymore. She wanted them to be here to enjoy the world too.

  Dee held the glass up to her face so she wouldn’t need to talk. She took a sip. Delicious—icy, yeasty bubbles brought her out of her head and into the sensations filling her mouth and nose. She came back to the present. For tonight she should be here for Raj and herself. She should let go of those who were gone and be with the living.

  The bells rang. The multicoloured flock startled and took off up the stairs to their seats. Raj stayed put as usual. He sipped the rest of his drink. It was the same every time. Dee worried they would be locked out. Several minutes after everyone else was gone they moved to the door. He took her elbow on the stairs. It was an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy—useful with the unaccustomed heels. The rest of the audience watched as they squeezed past those already seated to get to the middle of their row.

  As they sat down, Raj whispered, ‘There’s some news about Tom’s computer. I didn’t want to spoil the opera. I thought it’d be better if we talked about it properly later. I want you to see this first.’

  The lights dimmed, the conductor walked on and the crowd applauded.

  Dee couldn’t say anything. Raj’s love of the dramatic moment was one of his most endearing qualities but sometimes she wished for less of it. At interval she would protest and get the story.

  She gave herself up to Mozart. The plot was ridiculous but it had an emotional logic. It provided an excuse for the costumes, the sets and the characters’ overwrought outpourings.

  The Queen of the Night emerged from vapours at the back of the stage. Dee opened and closed her eyes to check what she saw. She held her breath—stunned. The soprano had flaming red hair with a white flash at the front. Her dress was green.

  Raj whispered, ‘It’s you,’ and it was.

  Dee slid down in her seat. It felt weird; as though she had deliberately drawn attention to herself as an imitation of a character on the stage. She looked around. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the stage. No one would remember her except while they filed slowly along the row to their seats, even then it was Raj they were looking at.

  *

  At interval Dee made Raj wait till the others had left the auditorium before they got up. She hurried down the stairs and went outside to the relative darkness of moonlight. Raj picked up their drinks. Embarrassment and curiosity vied for top billing in her emotions.

  ‘Please, Raj, what’s happened? Tell me,’ Dee asked when he returned from the bar.

  ‘Not yet. I want you to see the Queen of the Night aria before we talk about it. It’s important.’

  Dee sighed. ‘Yes, about that too. Did you know? You could have warned me.’

  ‘The Queen of the Night is usually in black. The only time I’ve seen her with red hair was Vienna in 2005, or maybe 2006. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Stop it, Raj! That doesn’t matter. I feel like a complete idiot. Let’s go back in now. I want to be sitting down before everyone else comes in.’

  ‘Of course. What’s wrong?’ Raj looked mystified.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t understand, would you?’ Sometimes the baby-fresh innocence of his own peculiarity was too much.

  In the second act the queen appeared with a dagger. She implored her daughter to take vengeance on the evil sorcerer Sarastro. It was the most wondrous coloratura overture, dubbed unsingable due to the stretch to high Fs —the highest notes in opera. It was Mozart’s challenge to sopranos.

  ‘This is it—this is the bit that made me think of you.’ Raj put his hand over Dee’s.

  Dee had heard the aria before but with the surtitles she understood the words for the first time. The queen was a powerful figure in an otherwise frivolous story.

  The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,

  Death and despair flame about me!

  If Sarastro does not through you feel

  The pain of death,

  Then you will be my daughter nevermore.

  Disowned may you be forever,

  Abandoned may you be forever,

  Destroyed be forever

  All the bonds of nature,

  If not through you

  Sarastro becomes pale! (as death)

  Hear, Gods of Revenge,

  Hear a mother's oath!

  By the end of the final act, the moon was full over the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. The Bennelong restaurant bar sat at the top of the plinth under its own mini version of the famous sails.

  ‘What’s up?’ Dee asked as they settled into swan chairs at the bar.

  ‘You know I’ve always thought the Queen of the Night was the best character in The Magic Flute and now I know why.’ Dee started to object but Raj was too excited. ‘She’s so fierce, and so determined, what about “the vengeance of hell boils in my heart”. And the singing …’

  ‘Well I could have done with some warning.’

  ‘Believe me, I had no idea about the costume. But it’s so perfect. She’s always reminded me of you.’

  ‘You think I’m a mad woman intent on revenge by getting my child to commit murder? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘No, no—sorry. That’s not it at all. It’s just the power, the determination … all that’s there in you too.’

  Their order arrived. Neither of them spoke as the waiter arranged margaritas and mini lobster rolls in front of them.

  Raj was perched on the edge of his seat. Once they were alone he leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, it wasn’t easy, but I have a contact at the ISP we use; we’re a major customer for them so they try to help out when they can. Tom’s computer was in use for about three hours on the night he died. There was minimal ac
tivity but it was used to connect to the cloud and search for data around the estimated time of death.’

  Dee felt dizzy. She put down her glass. This was proof—someone was in the flat when Tom died. Who and why? It fitted with what Jock said about someone sneaking down the stairs in the early hours. There was no break-in. Who had keys? Only Skye, who claimed to have lost hers, and Leah, who said she had given them back to Tom. Dee didn’t want to go there. Both of them loved Tom. Perhaps it was someone Tom had let in himself?

  ‘You’ve gone pale.’ Raj looked expectantly at her.

  ‘Leah said the backup drive wasn’t in the right place. I thought she was just paranoid.’

  Raj waited then spoke again softly.

  ‘Yes, well that fits. I’m still working on one of the backup drives, all the computers were shut down so I still need Tom’s password to access them. But, interestingly, one of the backup drives had a protection against accidental cut-off. The mystery user didn’t shut down in the correct order so we may be able to get in and get more.’

  ‘Raj, we have to go back to the police. This proves it’s murder.’

  ‘My contact is not going to risk his career by admitting he gave out data. And just because someone was there doesn’t mean they murdered Tom. He could still have died from asthma and then someone took advantage of his death to search his computer files. Let’s leave the police until I see if I get somewhere with Tom’s computer.’

  Dee needed fresh air. The glamorous bar with Swedish designer chairs and artichoke lights was suddenly oppressive.

  Raj left his liquid-light jacket over his chair so the staff wouldn’t think they’d done a runner and they went outside onto the upper concourse, between the restaurant and the foyer of the opera theatre. Cleaners and catering staff were clearing the foyer.

  Dee took deep gulps of the cool fresh air from the harbour. Raj held her arm. He had his hand at the small of her back. Each point of contact was alert, electric with the physical presence of Raj. She lifted her head. His face, as he gazed across the water in the moonlight, was a modern sculpture composed of silver and navy planes. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.