Either Side of Midnight : A Novel (2020)

by Stevenson, Benjamin

  ‘Hire a PI.’ Jack left the envelope untouched. ‘They’ll be more useful.’

  ‘You used to work there. You knew him.’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘A little is enough. You know the station, how these shows work. You can talk to people, get inside, check things out.’

  ‘A lot of people have asked me to solve their crimes for them. I’ve said no to every one of them.’

  Harry shot a look down, raised his eyebrows at the envelope.

  ‘Is that money, then?’ Jack relented. His bluff dropped, ever so slightly, his voice rising in pitch. He had forty-eight tally marks on his wall, after all.

  ‘Fuck no.’ Harry laughed, then stood. ‘Though Midnight Tonight was one of the most popular nightly TV programs for a reason. Money’s no problem. You tell me what you want when you change your mind.’

  ‘If I change my mind.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘The envelope?’ Jack persisted, now more curious.

  ‘Oh.’ Harry picked it up and ripped it in half. It fluttered, empty, to the table. ‘Nothing.’ He laughed again.

  Jack couldn’t get a hold on the man, simultaneously exuberant and devastated. Grief slid through the blood differently, but this man was almost manic. Must be hard, wearing a dead man’s face.

  ‘Wanted to see what you’d think was in there. I thought you might want fame. But you want money. Great, that’s easy. In any case, I thought it’d make me look serious.’ A beat. Jack’s expression didn’t change. ‘Jesus, lighten up.’

  He reached into his pocket again and this time grabbed a pen, with which he jotted a number on one half of the envelope.

  ‘I won’t call.’

  Harry paused mid-four and raised his head. Despite his shambolic and unpredictable nature, Jack realised he was sharp. He’d set up and caught Jack’s slip on the mention of the money. He had confidence now.

  ‘You want the envelope to have a big fat cheque in it? Fifty thousand dollars. There. And what you find, you keep. Make a show.’ He put a hand up. ‘I know, I know. You don’t do that anymore. But handy to have in the back pocket all the same. You allowed to keep this in here?’ He held up the phone number. Jack nodded. ‘Call me when you’re out.’

  ‘I still don’t un—’

  ‘Yeah, well, me neither. You got a brother?’

  Jack assumed that Harry already knew he did. Already knew everything about him, that Liam was at his father’s house, tied up in tubes, nothing to do but wait for Jack to come home.

  ‘They found stuff on his laptop. The one at work. I don’t know how much. I don’t know what. I haven’t seen it but they told me – as if that’d help. Your brother killed himself but, hey, he’s a paedo, so, like, chalk that one up as a win. They reckon that’s why he did it.’ Harry walked to the door, turned away from Jack and for the first time dropped his shoulders, leaned a tired flat hand on the door. Some reality behind his gregarious facade. ‘I know my brother. I know that’s not him. I also know that’s what they all say, and that no one knows a sicko till you trap ’em. But no, not him. Not Sam.’

  Then he knocked on the door. Jack heard McCormack’s keys clink as he worked the lock.

  ‘I won’t call,’ said Jack quietly. Not looking at him, staring down at his murky reflection in the tabletop’s aluminium sheen. He heard the door open.

  ‘I’m not asking you to buy the whole story,’ Harry said. ‘I’m asking you to believe one small thing. That Sam wasn’t what they’re calling him. From there it’s logical. If the photos were planted, they’re there to cover something up.’ That booming voice, calm and even, goaded Jack into looking up. Harry’s eyes were scanning him; Jack couldn’t tell for what. Compliance? Cowardice? Could he tell Jack was trying to divide fifty thousand dollars by three hundred and fifty-seven? Harry prompted, ‘You say my brother shot himself in the head?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘A million witnesses saw him pull the trigger?’

  Jack nodded again.

  ‘He did. But if someone put the stuff on his laptop, maybe they can put a gun in his hand. And that’s why you’ll call.’

  ‘I googled it,’ McCormack said, as he walked Jack back to his cell, iPhone in his hand. ‘His head just fucken disappears.’

  He thrust the phone at Jack, but Jack swivelled his gaze away. He didn’t want to see it. The prison was busier now, prisoners out of cells and moving towards the cafeteria. There was dawdling, leg-stretching, a lack of urgency in this parade. Inmates were dotted across the three levels of walkways.

  ‘I don’t think you should be showing me that,’ Jack said.

  ‘Shit, man.’ McCormack frowned. ‘We did suicide trigger warnings on our training. Is this one? Didn’t realise you’d thought about it.’

  The implication, which slid so casually from the guard’s mouth without a glimmer of awareness, surprised Jack. Doctors had asked him this before, but he’d figured out pretty quickly to answer as close to ‘Never’ as the paperwork would allow. Otherwise they took things away from you. Shoelaces. Belts. ‘I never thought of killing myself with toenail clippers,’ one of Jack’s hospital friends had said, years ago, ‘until they took them away, and now in my head I keep conjuring this absurd massacre.’ Then in a week they gave you another form. How do you feel now? And, apart from having longer nails, nothing else had changed, but you told them you were better so you got your stuff back. Jack was wary of this bureaucratic cycle and had never answered the question honestly – he’d always ticked the right box, put the chocolate wrapper face-up in the bin – but something about the off-handedness of Lee’s comment gave him pause.

  Had he thought about it? Maybe. At his worst. Head down, tongue fizzing, nose dog-wet from toilet water. Fuck, he almost said, hasn’t everybody?

  ‘Nah,’ he said instead. ‘Not me. Tell me something.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That inclusivity training you did – what score did you get? Or was it a pass–fail kind of thing?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said McCormack. ‘Had to leave after half the day.’

  Jack allowed himself a smile; McCormack’s cluelessness was almost endearing. He was glad for it. After the conversation with Harry he felt over-exerted, feeling his grief by proxy (because Sam’s brother was still too deep in the denial phase), the agony of the money in front of him, and that itch: that something was wrong with Sam Midford’s death. And that Jack probably wanted to know what it was.

  He felt tired. Hungry. Had he eaten today? That wasn’t good. He was more likely to binge. Balance was important, Jack knew, because his illness was too deceitful to be conquered by mere avoidance. Too little, too much. A sickness at each end of the spectrum waiting to ambush him. He stood in the middle of a circle of sneering ancient soldiers, ready to ricochet him from illness to illness if he slipped too far to either side. And that dead-centre equilibrium was hard to maintain. When he was emotional, when he was tired, when he was lying, the soldiers stamped their feet and clashed their rectangular shields together. Took a step forward.

  ‘Fuck!’ McCormack interrupted his thoughts with a yell. He was poking at his phone. ‘I used the staff wifi for the video. Fuck!’ He hurried off, leaving Jack to follow the stragglers to the cafeteria.

  Jack sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an object with a glowing orange screen, two directional microphones protruding from the top like a small claw. He’d lied to Harry: of course Jack’s interest had been piqued when a dead man came to speak to him. He’d had to take his audio recorder. An ear for a story doesn’t fade. It was strange to feel so known.

  He heard a hand grenade of a cough from above him. Looked up.

  Ivan Fraye sat on the level-one catwalk, green-tracksuit-clad legs swinging over the lip. He had a wry smile. Jack could see the scar tissue, glossy on his neck. He’d been listening to their conversation, had heard McCormack ask about suicide. Had heard Jack say to McCormack: not me.

  Ivan licked his lips
, as he always did before he spoke. Choosing his perfect word that was worth the pain. And when it came, the word ripped apart in his throat, fired in a shrapnel blast: ‘Bullshit.’

  CHAPTER 3

  They only sent one reporter. And a junior one at that.

  Twelve days earlier (his wall tally had got down to thirty-six before a guard had thrown a bucket of water at it and scrubbed the chalk to zero), Jack had been annoyed when Harry told him he was still in the press. But now there was a strange strike of disappointment, a slice off his pride. Last time Jack had been in the carpark of Long Bay for a prisoner release, it had been bustling to the point of riot. Even though Jack was glad to be left alone, it still felt like no one had shown up to his birthday party. And alongside that feeling, a rumble of caution: if he wasn’t in the papers, just how much research had the Midford twin done on him?

  It was midday, March, the sun plump in a clear sky, though just for show: it preened rather than warmed. A sea breeze kicked the chill into him. Jack’s illness made him susceptible to the cold. He was wearing a collared button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, runners, and jeans that cut slightly into his waist. He’d yanked them on with some delight at the fit this morning. His belt lay curled in a plastic bag, which also included his phone, wallet and keys, unneeded. The carpark was sparsely dotted with cars. A VW Golf flashed its lights from the far end. Jack headed towards it.

  Jack hadn’t slept well. Long Bay wasn’t known for farewells, but Kensington had given him a weigh-in and smugly organised a cake the night before. Jack suspected he might be chalked up at conferences as one of the doctor’s great success stories. I let him eat cake. Jack spent all night trying to hold it down. Prison was a breeding ground for irony.

  Some prisoners had said, ‘See you later.’ Others had patted him on the back. Some were genuine, others merely filling the air out of obligation while lining up for a slice. That morning Ivan had given him a salute, two fingers on his forehead, but didn’t spare him any words.

  Now, walking across the carpark wasn’t the revelatory experience Jack had quietly been anticipating. The air wasn’t any fresher. The world no larger. He didn’t feel any freer.

  The lone journalist had parked closer than the Golf and, unhurried, strolled up to Jack. No cameraman and an unkempt beard marked him as off-screen talent. He had a small lined notepad and a pen. Jack often liked to consider people by how he’d cast them. In this guy’s case, Jack would have written on a casting brief: early twenties; wears t-shirts to meetings; struggles to hail a cab or push through to order a drink at a crowded bar; not the love interest’s best friend, but the best friend’s best friend.

  ‘Jack?’ the journalist said. Didn’t offer a hand or name.

  Jack kept walking. The seam of his jeans gave a slight and satisfying chafe.

  ‘You’ve just served a year and a half?’

  ‘About that,’ Jack said, figuring there was no point denying the public record.

  ‘What’s the first thing you’re going to do with your freedom?’

  In the face of such hard-hitting journalism, Jack saw no point in not answering. ‘What everyone does: breathe the air, see my family, talk to an intern in a carpark who’ll misspell my name in tomorrow’s paper. Been looking forward to that the most,’ he said.

  ‘Cool,’ said the reporter, but he didn’t write anything down. ‘You know Sam Midford?’

  ‘I keep to myself.’

  ‘Sure. But Sam Midford. You used to work with him. You know him?’

  ‘I know of him. Who are you with?’

  ‘With?’

  ‘You’re not TV. Which paper?’

  ‘It’s not important. You talk to Sam much?’

  ‘Good morning. Hello. That kind of thing. Not for years, been busy.’ Jack stopped, turned. In the wind he heard the grunt of the Golf starting up. ‘Are you police?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Sure, as in, you are police?’

  ‘Sure. I’m police. You know he shot himself, right?’

  ‘Impersonating a police officer is a crime.’

  ‘Just a citizen, then.’ The bloke shrugged, flicking the notebook shut and ending the masquerade. The ghost of a chuckle haunted Jack’s chest: not even here for the ‘birthday boy’. ‘His brother came to see you?’

  ‘Harry hired you too, huh?’ said Jack. ‘So you’re on the payroll at a firm that’s happy to take his money to dig around, even though you know he’s barking. Look, I told him what I’ll tell you. I didn’t know Sam. At all.’

  ‘Did he seem weird? Like, his mental state?’ This guy didn’t take a hint.

  ‘I just told you—’ Jack was about to explain again that he hadn’t seen Mr Midnight in years when he noticed the man’s pen, up to here just a prop, was now poised to the paper. That movement, meaning something was important enough for this guy to write down, twigged something in Jack’s mind: insurance. Might be the network’s. Might be the family’s. Either way, while Jack was happy to entertain a journo or even a cop (he’d resolved to play nice with police from now on), he did not want to get caught up further in the Midford business. Though he had a feeling he was already in it.

  ‘His mental state?’ Jack said. ‘Last time I saw him was on the telly, and he was busy painting the wall behind him. Work backwards.’ The Golf rolled up beside them. Gravel cracked. The guy was still tapping his pen. Jack put his hand on the car’s door and smiled: ‘I hope I’ve assisted your investigation, officer.’

  He opened the door and got in, shutting the door quickly before he could be interrogated further.

  ‘Who was that?’ Jack’s father asked, putting the car in neutral.

  ‘Insurance, I think,’ Jack said. ‘About someone else. I couldn’t help him.’

  Jack looked at his father. Peter was the only person who’d visited Jack in prison, and he’d visited often, but his appearance still surprised Jack. The red polo shirt with an embroidered yellow logo, a recent look that would take some getting used to. As would Peter’s noticeable ageing. Not from ill health, he’d just reached a certain point where the physicality of life was becoming much more obvious. Like a drag race, the most noticeable changes are at the start and the end: acceleration and deceleration. Peter’s parachute was out. He wore glasses now. The lines in his face had deepened, drought-struck. He had a short, scruffy grey beard to compensate for the lost battle on top. As if his crown had just thought, fuck it, and rotated.

  Even a couple of weeks was enough for noticeable changes. In prison everyone was in stasis. They wore the same green tracksuits. Ate the same food. Got the same amount of sunlight for the same sickly pall, the same haircuts. Everyone still looked different – skin colour, tattoos, heights, muscles – but there was a blurring of identity. And eventually you began to believe that the whole world might be like that. And then Jack’s dad would visit, and he’d be a little bit shorter, a little more brittle, than the time before. And he’d look so sharp in contrast to the homogenised population Jack had become so used to. It was like watching a movie with a reel missing. His father ageing in blinks, black spots in between, the differences so clear. Now there are glasses. Now there’s a yellow tooth. Now there’s an old man. It kept catching Jack off guard.

  Peter scanned the carpark. Seemed surprised by the lack of media. ‘I thought it’d be busier,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t kill enough people.’

  Peter gave him a small smile. Paused. His hand hovered over the vibrating gearstick, unsure of whether to put the car in drive or whether the occasion called for something more. Jack and his father loved one another in a classic Australian fashion, unspoken and unacted. Jack could feel the tension: did they hug now? That’s why men like cars. You don’t have to hug anybody. The handbrake’s in the way.

  Peter settled for giving Jack a squeeze on the shoulder. It lingered just a little bit too long. Checking the weight on him. Out of prison: still watched.

  ‘Had enough of this place?’ Peter said, lett
ing go, having satisfied both his fatherly and medical obligations. He put the car in gear.

  Jack nodded. ‘Let’s go home.’

  CHAPTER 4

  In the forty-minute drive from Long Bay, Jack started to feel his newfound freedom. The vibrations of the seat under his legs. The blast of air through the window, cracked a finger’s width. The cold of glass on his cheek. The rattle of a road-side jackhammer. There wasn’t much different with the world itself – he hadn’t been in prison long enough for that – but there was something almost overwhelming about it. For the last year and a half everything he’d handled was made out of the same cold polished aluminium, concrete or plastic; every sound – the slamming of a door, the hum of the cafeteria – rotated on a schedule; every view repeated, the rooms duplicated through the prison; even the temperature stayed within the same chilly range. His senses had atrophied. So he sat quietly while his father drove, his body catching up with the bombardment of unexpected minutiae.

  There were some notable differences. The pedestrian bridge over one of the major roads had been finished. Then they’d started building something else a kilometre further up, because God forbid a road in Sydney was ever finished. The pet shop on a busy corner had morphed into a yoga studio. His phone had been two models out of date when he’d gone inside, and now it didn’t even look like it was from the same decade as the ones on the billboards. His still had a number after the model, while the new ones were tagged with Roman numerals. When your technology is so out of date the Romans are ahead of you, it might be time to get a new phone, Jack mused. Bus stops showed different superheroes in front of the same explosions. And, of course, the biggest difference of all: there was a woman waiting for them at his father’s house.