I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THIS.
DON’T BACK OUT ON ME NOW.
Murder by counselling.
Harry was right.
PART 4
RESHOOTS
This is a killing in which the murder weapon was words.
ACLU Massachusetts’ legal director, Matthew Segal, regarding the death of Conrad Roy III, June 2017
CHAPTER 18
On the surface it didn’t appear that those eleven words could convince a man to take his life. But Jack didn’t know what had come before, or even the context they were in. I thought you wanted this hinted that Sam was, in some way, complicit. Jack reminded himself they had no conclusive proof that the pornography was planted (so maybe he had owned it). Don’t back out on me now sounded personal. As if Sam had made some kind of deal. Forgive me.
Jack considered ringing Harry. It was late, but he might still be up, in his room of voices. Jack thumbed the dial button on his phone, deciding how much to tell him.
‘Jack.’ His dad interrupted his thoughts from the doorway. Red polo. Night shift. Name tag still pinned. ‘We can’t keep avoiding each other.’
‘Tricky in this house.’ Jack spread his arms. ‘No doors.’
‘Enough jokes. We need to talk about it,’ Peter said. And it was as if they were in Celia’s kitchen, talking around it for the sake of a child.
No point in subtlety here, Jack figured. ‘You want to kill him, I’d rather keep him alive.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It is that simple. We’re talking about a switch, aren’t we? It’s on or it’s off.’
Peter walked into the room, placed a hand gently on Liam’s ankle. He clocked the cake box, eyes darting back expectantly to Jack. Checked the corner of his lips. Chose his battle and didn’t mention it. Ran his thumb over the blankets, tight on Liam’s bony limbs as if vacuum-packed.
‘It’s just . . . maybe it’s time.’
‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ said Jack. He changed the topic. ‘I need to go down south tomorrow, to the coast. That new job, we’ve got some leads. Might be a few days. You might not see me.’
‘You’re poking around murders again, aren’t you? This isn’t healthy. You’ve been home two days.’
‘You know we need the money.’
‘Whatever they’re paying you, what does that buy? A year? Two? What happens after that?’
‘I’ll get a new case. Keep going.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘Well, that’s not up to you, is it? I’m doing what I have to.’ Jack slapped his chest on the ‘I’s.
‘And I’m not?’ Peter stepped towards him, on the verge of yelling now. ‘I’ve just sat on my hands for two years while you were in prison?’ He ripped off his name tag and threw it on the bed. ‘I’m sixty-five and I work in a fucking bottle shop.’
Jack’s father was always softly spoken. After they’d lost the boys’ mother at an early age, and then Liam’s accident, he and Jack had relied on each other more than most. They didn’t have these kinds of blow-ups. Peter never swore. But it was all coming out now.
Jack stood, eye to eye. ‘What if this was reversed? Give it twenty, thirty years and you’re in a nursing home and you’re lying in this bed. Wouldn’t you want me to fight for you?’ he asked.
‘I’d want you to do what’s best for me. It’s called mercy.’
‘Who are we to be merciful?’
‘Depends who you’re doing it for. Him or you?’
‘He’s not in pain.’
‘He’s not anything.’
‘He’s my brother.’
‘He’s my son!’
The loudest his father had ever yelled stunned them both. Peter took a half-step backwards. His hands were shaking. Liam’s chest kept time, unperturbed by the argument. He’s not anything. A shell. My son. My brother. Was he either?
‘It’s your call though, isn’t it?’ Jack said in a low voice. ‘You don’t need my okay. Why don’t you just do it then?’
‘I want you to be involved.’
‘No, you don’t.’
Peter chewed his lip. ‘We should sleep on it,’ he said. Anger gone. Surrender.
‘No.’ Jack wasn’t finished. ‘Don’t thrust this holier-than-thou stance in my face when you won’t do it either.’
Those words seemed to pull Peter’s spine from him. He crumpled to sit on Liam’s bed, hand on his shell-son’s thigh. He looked at Liam’s face while he spoke to Jack.
‘You’re right. It is my decision. And I’ve tried. I had the doctor and the ambulance here four months ago, ready to take him. But I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t have you walk out of prison to an urn on a mantle. What kind of father would that make me? And now you’re here, and I’ve realised the reason I backed out is that I’m not strong enough to decide on my own.’ Peter sighed. ‘I’m not asking for your permission. I’m asking for your help.’
‘It’s not fair,’ Jack sputtered. Which was such a pointless complaint to the universe, and one Jack didn’t often make, even on his knees on tiled toilet floors. But here he had nothing else. ‘I shouldn’t have to.’ He put a hand on his father’s shoulder. A bridge between them. Some understanding. Or just to steady himself. The image of his father, standing in this room with paramedics and an ambulance on the lawn, while Jack sat in a prison cell and scratched chalk marks off a wall. It made him feel ill.
‘I need you to do this for me. Please.’
‘Dad.’ Jack’s mouth was dry. What Peter was saying finally made sense. Jack had thought for so long that he and Liam had been in separate prisons – Jack’s mind, Liam’s body – but Liam wasn’t a prisoner. He was the prison. Jack’s. Peter’s. His body the bars.
‘Don’t feel like you’re taking anything from him. Maybe it is right. It doesn’t seem fair that it’s you, but maybe this is the way.’ Peter crossed an arm across his chest and laid a hand over Jack’s. He said softly, ‘You were with him at the start and you’ll be there at the end.’
Jack jerked his hand away. There at the start. Up the top, before Liam fell. Jack had been there too. He’d kept it a secret until, at last, he’d told his father before he went to prison. There at the end.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Peter stammered as he saw Jack’s reaction. ‘You know I don’t think . . .’
‘You did.’ Jack backed away.
‘I said it wrong.’
‘You’re saying that I put him there, and now you’re asking me to finish him off.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘It’s not what you meant,’ spat Jack, ‘but it is what you said.’
If there was a door he would have slammed it.
Down the stairs. Keys from the bowl. Out to the car. Engine on. His father didn’t chase him outside. Jack pulled the car in a circle back onto the road. Headlights scanned a silhouette in the doorway. Ground the gearstick. Tears in his eyes. He was short of breath. Stomach sick. Shoulders seized tight. He was so mad and insulted and upset it was like he’d gone a few rounds in the ring. He’d never had an argument like that with his father. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t stop them. Their barbs were only words and yet he still felt physically bruised. As he drove away, one thought kept circling through his head.
Words kill people all the time.
CHAPTER 19
Jack tore through suburbs at fifteen kilometres over the speed limit. Part of him planned on going to the television studio, part of him didn’t care where he was going. He just needed to be out of that house.
He ground his teeth, another symptom of his illness. Sometimes he felt like grains of sand were stuck to his tongue. Couldn’t spit them out. He cut his mouth often, his teeth were tongue-sharpened shivs. His mouth was sweet, sticky. The windscreen was blurred; he flicked the wipers. No change. No rain. Tears in his eyes. Gritted his teeth harder.
When he’d told his father that he’d been with Liam when he fell, Peter had
responded with warmth and forgiveness. He’d told him that he’d never blame a freak accident on a twelve-year-old boy. That it wasn’t his fault. Hearing that had been monumental for Jack’s condition, a real turning point in him being able to regain some control. He knew where he’d be without that support – mouth dripping, gums worn. He now saw more clearly through Mr Midnight’s eyes. It wasn’t Sam’s fault that Lily had killed herself, but he had missed her call for help. It wasn’t not his fault either. At least that’s how it felt. Jack understood Sam more now than he ever had. Because Peter’s words had physically hurt Jack, hampered his breathing, tightened his neck, soldiers at the armoury, bile automatic in his throat. We went up together. Liam slipped. Whether Peter meant it or not, he had inadvertently unveiled Jack’s biggest fear: that his father didn’t believe him.
The road hummed underneath him as the needle climbed. The view through the windscreen blurred with tears or rain, or both. Lights whipped past. All it would take was to turn the wheel slightly, a few degrees to the left . . .
It’s not killing.
Depends who you’re doing it for.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror, but didn’t recognise the man staring back. His brow was furrowed and his eyes shone viciously. His forearms were stretched out in front, disappearing from view beneath the mirror’s frame. Jack knew it was because he was grasping the steering wheel, but he couldn’t help thinking that the man in the mirror had his arms outstretched because he was throttling the life out of someone.
Channel 14 was the only building on the block with lights on. The glass atrium exuded a fuzzy glow, the type that made your nose twitch and eyes water. Jack didn’t really know why he’d come. The autocue discovery was exciting, but there wouldn’t be anyone to interview until morning, the studio likely locked. Was he going to go in and re-watch Sam on a loop, over and over, until daybreak? He’d seen him die enough times. But the building had many positives. It was open. He had a security pass. It wasn’t the 24-hour KFC across the road. Overall, it seemed like the healthiest option. Lots of boxes ticked.
Jack turned the car off and got out. His nose told him it was cold but, for once, his circulation was pumping hard and he was blooded and warm. He walked to the entrance and stood outside the glass. Inside, the security guard had his feet up, reading a book. He’d be easy to sneak a pistol past, Jack thought, except for the bloody metal detectors. The television screen was still cycling through those idiotic promos. Big block letters thundered onto the screen. WHO. Then the flash of several faces, turning to the camera in slow motion. WILL. The cinema on fire from the longer promo. DIE? A close up of a gun firing. Then a date and time. It was an ad for the soap opera the security cameras had been turned off for. An event. Jack thought it was tactless. Surely Channel 14 was sick of deadly events.
He got out his pass and was just about to press it to the sensor when he heard a voice.
‘Yes, I know. I’m here now.’
Beth Walters’ voice was clear and strong in the night. She was coming around the corner from the staff carpark. Jack ducked off the path and into the dark, squatted behind the hedge. He looked back at the entrance. Beth wore a knee-length overcoat and was on the phone. She had her back to him, hand against the door. It slid open. She stood in front of it for a moment, her free hand clenching the air in frustration.
‘You promised,’ she said. There was a pause. The next thing she said was muffled – she was lowering her voice in anger – but Jack caught the end of it. It sounded like she said, ‘If I have to deal with another bloody skeleton . . .’ Then a sigh. ‘All right. All right.’
Then she was inside. The door slid closed behind her and Jack watched the mime play out behind the glass. The security guard spun in his chair, recognised Beth and nodded her through. She ended the call, tossed the phone and a handful of junk into the plastic bucket, and walked through the metal detector. Then she took her stuff and disappeared onto the news floor. The guard returned to his book.
Jack stood and followed Beth’s path into the foyer. The security guard looked surprised to see him, but Jack had the right credentials so the guard waved him through. Jack collected his tray of items and walked across the news floor. Almost all the booths were empty. One scruffy head was hunched over next to a pyramid of bright-green cans. There was an industrial vacuum cleaner sitting in the walkway. The questions in his mind were piling up. Why was Beth here in the dead of night? And whose skeletons was she hiding? Jack was, like any good producer, prone to hyperbole, but he had the common sense to know she wasn’t talking about actual skeletons. It was shorthand for those in someone else’s closet. Those of whoever she was talking to. Whoever’s secrets she was tired of covering up.
There was light to his right – shadows on the walls, movement, more than one person – in the direction of Stage Three. As Jack got closer he could see the hydraulic door was open a person-sized crack and the studio lights were on inside. Jack’s heart quickened. He walked to the opening.
And felt a hand clasp his shoulder.
‘Not another step,’ Beth Walters said from behind him.
CHAPTER 20
Beth had removed the overcoat, revealing a svelte black jacket, frilly blouse underneath. Her hair was styled in waves, lipstick on. Very well dressed for such a late-night excursion.
‘Not tonight, Jack,’ she said. She sounded flustered, like she didn’t have time for bullshit. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Could ask you the same thing,’ Jack said.
‘No, you couldn’t. I work here.’
‘Surprised to see you pulling overtime.’ He nodded towards Midnight Tonight’s studio and took a half-step towards it.
Beth stepped quickly around him, blocking his way. Stopped short of putting a hand on his chest. ‘I’m serious, Jack. I don’t have time for this.’
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘What part of piss off don’t you understand?’ she hissed, glancing around as if someone might spy them talking.
‘And what do you think my job is?’ Jack took another step. Beth didn’t give any ground. His chin was at her forehead; her breath feathered his collar. Jack wasn’t the type of man to push her out of the way just to satisfy his curiosity, and she knew that.
‘Jack—’ Now her eyes were pleading, looking up at him. ‘Just go.’
Jack tried to figure out if she was scared – of someone else? – or if she was nervous.
‘It’s the teleprompter,’ Jack said. It took Beth a moment to figure out what he was talking about. ‘Sam wouldn’t have done it on his own. Someone convinced him to do it. I don’t know how, but they did it through his autocue.’
The revelation didn’t crawl across Beth’s features with the slow dawn of shock, but rather with the surprise of a torch flashed on and off. Her jaw clenched, neck tense, and then it was gone.
‘Away from the door,’ she said softly.
She led Jack into the Breakfasters studio. It was eerily empty. Jack had always found empty film sets disconcerting. Everything so plastic and cheerless. The Breakfasters was a permanent fixture, so the cameras were set in position. So too was an autocue: a television screen, bulbous glass like it was from the 80s, inside a four-walled cone. It was a big unit, almost like another camera.
‘This’ – she patted it – ‘killed Sam?’
Jack nodded. ‘I think he was influenced, yes. I know you won’t believe me.’
‘Have you heard of 13 Reasons Why?’ Beth asked, which was so off topic it surprised Jack. He thought she’d be more doubtful. He shook his head. ‘It was a popular young adult drama, targeted at, like, teens and up, I suppose. The whole concept of that show is centred around this high-school girl’s suicide. And the finale, well – they went there.’ She shrugged. ‘Showed it all on screen. Graphic stuff. In the bath with a razor blade. Ballsy broadcast move. We wouldn’t have done it, but, hey, we’re a commercial network.’
‘They got complaints?’
‘Fuck-tonne.’ Beth nodded vigorously. ‘Schools, parents. People said it gave their kids ideas.’
Jack had received the same complaints when he was making his show. Accusations that he was ‘putting ideas in people’s heads’ and ‘glorifying violence’. It was nothing new to filmmakers who kept up with current events – people complain because they don’t like seeing the real world thrown back at them. They want the sanitised, Hollywood version. Jack knew if he showed people the grim reality, the Lily Connors of the world, they’d complain that they may as well be watching the news.
‘Thing is,’ Beth continued, ‘they might have been right. Researchers are now saying there was a spike in youth suicide the month that show aired. A significant one. They are saying there’s a correlation. It’s just a study or two, but it’s got broadcasters on notice. Duty of care, and all that.’
Jack thought about this. His research had led him to believe that people could be influenced by text messages, phone calls, online messaging. Cult leaders used to have the market cornered on brainwashing, but now it could be anyone with a voice, a phone or a book. Why not a television show? And it wasn’t as ludicrous as brainwashing but it was just as vicious. ‘That’s why Gareth’s so keen to shut this down?’
She nodded. ‘If there’s something to be found, he wants you to find it first. Because it’s our fault. We put that to air. I’ve had nightmares – how many ideas have we put in people’s heads?’ She swallowed. There was guilt there. Jack could see she held it on her shoulders. She’d seen Sam’s bloodied mess of a head. ‘It’s like people who shoot up a school because they play Grand Theft Auto.’
‘More than that,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve read about kids who’ve done it because they were told to.’
‘I’ve seen those on the news. But these stories are about teenagers, Jack. Their emotions are a warzone. You’re telling me someone can do the same to a grown man?’
Either Side of Midnight : A Novel (2020) Page 14
