She was right. All of his research had been younger people (except for the case in 1816, but that man had been on death row in the first place). It didn’t make Sam’s death impossible, it just made him unique.
‘He had history. Medication. Previous attempts,’ Jack said.
Her silence said enough. She hadn’t known.
‘Even if—’ She hesitated. Trying to build the scenario. She couldn’t. ‘I mean . . . What words would you use?’
Jack handed her the slip of paper that he’d transcribed the lethal words on. She read it aloud, slowly, unconvinced. Jack told her it was just the end of the script, what he’d managed to grab from the reflection in the broken plasma screen. The killer could have said anything in the eight minutes preceding. She was nodding as he explained, but her eyes were staring at those eleven words as if they had the power to set the paper alight.
‘I need the autocue script,’ Jack said. ‘For the rest of it.’
She looked up, frowning. ‘We don’t have scripts.’ She swivelled the autocue so Jack could see it. ‘These are made of glass and mirrors and screens. It’s just a reflective unit – there’s no computer inside it. No memory or storage. Scripts are run off a USB stick or an iPad. We tend to prefer iPads.’
‘Okay, so I need the iPad.’
She shook her head. ‘We delete prompt scripts. There’s no need for them, because it’s supposed to be the same as the normal script. That I can give you, no problem. But I checked before I gave it to you, just in case there was sensitive company information on there, and, honestly, there was nothing like this.’ She took a breath. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Of course it does.’
‘I’ve had that day stuck in my head for weeks. I go over the details. Our operator . . . it was a different person to usual. Maybe he was sick, swapped a shift? Sometimes we have interns. I don’t know. When I showed up there was someone in his spot, ready to go. It’s a frantic job putting a live TV show to air. I just assumed someone had sorted it, ticked it off my list and got on with my job.’
‘Did you talk? Remember anything at all about them?’
‘They were wearing a cap. Big coat indoors. I thought it was unprofessional but I didn’t talk to them. I only saw them from the back. Got a thumbs up before we rolled camera. After, God, it was just chaos. It’s not like we did a headcount. I’m sorry, Jack. You know how producing a show works – if something’s not broken, I’m not dashing around trying to fix it. At some point you trust everyone is where they’re supposed to be and doing what they’re supposed to do.’
And the security cameras were off, Jack almost sniped but held his tongue. All of this left him with only the screenshot of the footage. A fuzzy, hunched-over spectre in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it crowd shot.
Beth’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, checked it. ‘I really do have to go, and I really do have to ask you to leave.’
Jack ignored her. ‘This mystery operator. They talked their way in. They know how to use the tech. They managed to secrete a gun under the desk. This seems like someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘By “someone who knows what they’re doing”, I assume you mean someone who works here?’ Beth cocked an elbow, hand on her hip.
Jack was suddenly aware that she’d taken him away from anyone who might see something happen. There was a long silence. Jack could see Beth weighing up whether to take the accusation personally. It was strange: in the empty Breakfasters studio, it felt as if they’d cut to a commercial break.
All or nothing, Jack figured. ‘Whose skeletons are you hiding?’
Beth’s forehead crinkled; she pursed her lips. It was either a look of concern or she didn’t understand the question.
‘I heard you,’ Jack said. ‘Outside, on the phone. Why are you here so late, and why are you so keen to see the back of me?’
Beth’s look of concern changed slowly, the tide coming in on a wry smile.
‘Skeleton crew,’ she almost shouted.
Jack immediately felt foolish. A skeleton crew was the bare minimum number of people required for production. She was here in stage make-up, dressed for work, not sabotage.
Beth continued just to rub it in. ‘I don’t have enough of a team to make what they want me to make, so I was telling Gareth I was sick of working with a skeleton crew. Damn it, Jack, why don’t you just accuse me outright? I’m on the video, I’m not operating the prompter. You’ve got my alibi. Jesus. I’m here at fucking’ – she checked her watch – ‘one in the morning because I’m getting spanked over putting his death to broadcast, and working graveyards is my penance, okay? And I’ve worked too hard. I’m not letting my career sink because of what he did. So I’ll take the slops and smile, and say it’s delicious and still ask for more. Because that’s what you do here if you ever want one of those.’ She waved an arm towards the four vacant panel chairs nearby.
‘Do you want to sit in that chair?’
She looked at her phone again. ‘I have work to do. Do I need to get security?’
‘I’m allowed to be here.’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Did Channel 12 offer you a job?’
‘What?’ She grimaced like she was allergic to the question.
‘Channel 12. Tom Dwyer. The Round Table – were they headhunting you? I saw the list of new host options in the tabloids.’
‘Come on, Jack.’ She kept checking over her shoulder. ‘You know how these things work. You’ve gotta make sure the stars don’t feel too comfortable, otherwise you get a dictatorship. Tom Dwyer was on our list, and Sam was on theirs. I read about these things at the same time as the rest of the public. Full credit to Channel 12 for actually spicing up their demos, though I don’t know whether to take it as an insult. ’Cause they use that as a threat. ‘Watch out’ – her fists exploded into little fireworks of mock-surprise either side of her head – ‘We might replace you with a woman.’ She wriggled her fingers as if saying something scary.
‘So what are you hiding here?’
Seeing Jack wasn’t going to drop it, she checked over her shoulder, then whispered, ‘It’s a finale, okay? We’ve flown back three people from the jungle and we’re choosing a winner. Filming three endings. Because someone always spoils a reality winner these days so you need to throw in a few fake-outs. Terrorist security comes second to television these days. No one is supposed to know. By all reports, they’re still in the jungle. That’s why I’m working with a small crew. And then you blunder into the middle of it? I can’t have this set exposed to anyone, let alone someone who walks around with their own recording equipment. And if I stuff up again . . .’ She spoke quickly and with a harsh edge. I’m telling you because I have to, but I’m not happy about it. Her eyes flitted over Jack’s face as she spoke, looking for signs she’d convinced him. Her voice softened for a final plea: ‘I’ll ask around about the autocue tomorrow. Let’s swap numbers – I’ll call you, I promise. But tonight, will you do me a favour and just go?’
Jack walked back to his car. Sat in it, engine and lights off. He believed her, but he still had too many questions. He wanted to see if anything else happened. Besides, he had nowhere else to go. The 24-hour KFC had a bright fluorescent-white sign glowing across the road. Jack focused on Channel 14.
Beth was in the building a while, two hours or so. Jack had forgotten to check the time when she’d gone in. Amateur. He reclined his seat, eyeline level with the window. It was a fairly futile effort. A bright red VW Golf with a For sale sign is not the best stakeout vehicle. Not only was he underprepared, but he was also out of practice. He almost missed her coming back out. He was rubbing his eyes and then she was standing in front of the entrance, having a cigarette. She ground it out with her toe, then knocked on the glass and waved her arms at the security guard. Shrugged animatedly. That was a familiar dance: forgot my pass.
This time she was inside less than twenty minutes – Jack remembered to clock it – and then she was going for good.
She blew a misty breath and tied her coat, walking off the path and around the side of the building. Two minutes later her car pulled out of the staff carpark. Jack lay back in his seat as she turned, her lights scything in a semi-circle above his head. When he sat up, she was merely brake lights.
Jack couldn’t face home just yet. He briefly considered the absurdity of asking for refuge on Harry’s doorstep, but decided against that too. He levered the seat down all the way and shut his eyes.
Jack had slept in cars before. His illness sometimes ran him on rails, like sleepwalking, where he wouldn’t remember pulling himself out of bed and, fridge already raided, driving down to the all-night supermarket. Waking up with the seat back, head tilted as if at a barber, with no recollection of how he got there, gathering evidence on his body’s autopilot afterwards. Searching the car for his own clues. Crumb-laden, foul-mouthed: it wasn’t hard to figure out what he’d done. Multiple receipts would show he’d been in three, even four, times. Some nights he slept until morning and drove home. Other nights he’d be woken, possum-eyed in the glare of an officer’s torch clacking on the window.
Even with all his experience, he slept badly. The bright white light from the KFC sluiced through the car and made the back of his eyelids glow red. He was fitful. The dashboard clock either crawled minute-by-minute or jumped forward in miniature increments. Ten-minute brackets were small victories. Eventually, the skips became larger.
When he woke next, he’d lost an hour. The white light was brighter. Closer.
CHAPTER 21
Whoever penned the phrase ‘All roads lead to Rome’ hadn’t been to an Australian coastal town, where all roads lead, instead, to the fish ’n’ chip shop.
Wheeler’s Cove’s fish ’n’ chip shop was no different. It was called Gone Fishin’ and had pale blue walls with a vinyl cut-out of a breaking wave framing the awning. It was full to bursting behind the plate-glass windows. Line out the front like a nightclub. Red and white umbrellas were staked through circular tables, most of which were taken up by silver-haired retirees in billowy white linen shirts. Teenagers, wetsuits peeled to hips, stood in circles or sat on the gutter and spread their newspaper-bound chips on the footpath. Surfboards were stood upright in the bike racks or piled three-deep against any available wall, including the window of the newsagent next door. Inside, people pushed and yelled their orders, cash in raised fists, as if placing a flutter on the dogs. Of course, it was cash only. The menu was chalk, hand-scrawled. Two asterisks marked menu footnotes:
*Tomato sauce: 50c extra.
**Vegetarian options: Get f**ked.
It was early afternoon by the time Jack and Harry got into town. Jack had a crick in the neck from his night in the car. On the way he’d handed the iPad, on which he’d screenshotted the final frame, to Harry. Harry had read the words aloud just like Beth had. Slow, like he was learning how to read. Jack asked if the words had any special significance, or if Harry recognised them at all, and Harry simply shook his head. He was overcome with emotion. Eyes shining with welled tears, a big smile. Jack had never seen anyone so happy to be proved correct.
The highway out of Sydney went south for about an hour, before bending left into a densely forested hillside. From there was a steep descent marked with signs asking drivers to Limit compression braking. The opposite side of the road was dotted with cars that had pulled out of the climb early. The bush was overgrown, rainforest-like because of the water pooled and running down the hill. Glimpses of blue ocean were rare but popped up between the bends. SUVs, back windows blocked with baggage, drove past with children’s faces pressed against the windows. The road levelled out at the same time as the trees thinned, ears popped and brackish air replaced the tang of brake pads on the tongue. Fifteen more minutes to Wheeler’s.
The population was listed on the Welcome sign as two thousand, but Jack suspected the sign might have generously included pets. The entire town was propped on either side of the main road, which followed the cove in its concave bite of the coast. There were no side streets or turns. On the right, with the water, the houses were squat, timber-slatted buildings with salt-rotted fenceposts. On the left, dense foliage led up the hillside, the occasional gouged-gravel dip in the kerb or rusted letterbox the only clue of a long-winding driveway heading into the bush. To Jack’s eye, it seemed there was no school, no hospital and no police station. There was one petrol station so ancient the pumps would have coughed dust, and which, Jack thought, if this was a horror film, was almost guaranteed to have an attendant spit tobacco and offer you a ‘shortcut’.
Even with a bright, clear sky, Wheeler’s Cove wouldn’t have qualified for a tourism brochure. The beach was pebbled and grey – no famous soft yellow Aussie sand – and the ocean itself was metallic and choppy. Waves didn’t glide into shore; they smacked into one another with the force and crack of duelling antlers. Surfers, no more than wetsuit-clad black dots at this distance, bobbed up and down in the middle of it. A small bridge split the town in half, and underneath the water flowed through to form a small lagoon. That was closer to making the brochure, with sandy banks, sunbathing and children splashing around. Green and silver tents rippled on the side of the lagoon: a small caravan park. Further along was a lone pub.
The carnival was seaside – Harry had told him it would probably still be there for late March – and Jack had caught his first glimpse of the Ferris wheel that had trapped the Midnight Twins and taken Sam’s fingertip. It slowly spun, as if turned by the breeze. The carriages were colourfully painted and rainbow lightbulbs lined the spokes, but the lights weren’t on and in the daylight all the paint was faded. Jack pulled into the parking lot alongside the makeshift caravan village.
Ryan Connors had suggested they meet at Gone Fishin’ because it was easy to spot. As Jack and Harry walked through the parking lot, Jack peered into the row of caravans. A family, ranging in age from a toothless elderly man, to a beer-bellied guy in a black singlet about Jack’s age, all the way down to a baby cradled on its mother’s stomach, sat around a portable Weber barbecue in a semi-circle of canvas camping chairs. The man in the singlet was standing, drinking from a brown glass stubby. He took a swig, then dumped a healthy pour on the meat.
Jack and Harry walked past the carnival entranceway, which had a hessian-covered fence pulled closed and a sign that read, Opens 4pm. Jack craned his neck upwards. The Ferris wheel was petite, only a few metres at the peak. Despite what had happened to Liam, Jack wasn’t scared of heights – he just respected them – and he caught himself wondering if he would have had the guts to try to climb down. Even with the sun at its peak, the wind was blowing inland now, crisp off the water. A long night up there would have been horrible.
‘Yeah,’ Harry said, reading Jack’s thoughts. He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t look so scary to me now either.’
At the fish ’n’ chip shop, Harry braved ordering while Jack hung out the front to scout a table. It was an everything-cooked-in-the-same-fryer establishment. One where, if you were stupid enough to come at a peak time – lunchtime, or a warm night with a late sun – they didn’t call out the orders, just threw the butcher’s paper packages on the counter and, if you’d waited your fair amount of time and the parcel looked about suitable for the size of your crew, you just grabbed it and were happy with what you got. This was a no-complaints establishment. Not enough salt? Shake a dread-locked surfer on it. Too much salt? Grow a pair. Harry’s TV charisma served him well, as did the informal preferential system of being ‘from around here’, and he came back quickly with a medium chips. He held the parcel upright, where he’d torn the top off, and gripped it like a bouquet. He offered it, and Jack – who wasn’t afraid of hot chips, he was just respectful of them – took a couple. Chewed slowly.
‘I’m sorry to bring this up,’ Jack said. ‘But the money landed. You only paid me ten thousand dollars.’
‘Transfer limits,’ said Harry. ‘Gotta do it in pieces per day. I got you, mate.’
Ryan
Connors showed before a space opened up at an umbrella-ed table. He was wearing thongs he was too cold for, boardshorts he was too dry for, and a t-shirt with a joke slogan he was too old for. His hair was, if possible, even curlier and scruffier than it had been after fighting: salt-styled. He had a small scab on one ear, and a purple and black storm cloud brewed above the horizon of his eyebrow. Ryan wriggled a chip out of Harry’s parcel, jerked his head in the universal sign for follow me and they walked up the hill.
‘Be glad you didn’t get a seat,’ Ryan said. ‘Kids don’t sit on the kerb out of politeness. Gary and Michelle’ – he snaffled another chip – ‘the owners, don’t pack up the benches at night. And this is on the walk home from the pub. So they’ve all been pissed on.’ He breathed through his nose like he was powering up. ‘Fuck, they make good chips, though.’
Harry took the hint and handed him the whole package, which Ryan took with delight, tearing down the sides as they walked, licking his fingers. His thongs slapped against his heels. He was walking quickly, excited. Really burning thong rubber.
The Connors’ house was on the left, opposite the water, with a steep leaf-strewn driveway. Four steps into the drive, it was noticeably colder. The trees stretched out with fat green leaves that blocked the sun, the air damp. Down from the canopy, there were hundreds of hip-height ferns. Harry, pointing into the foliage, said his childhood home was a five-hundred-metre bush-bash through. Jack imagined Sam questing through the shrub, he and Lily meeting up in the dappled sun, lying in the dry leaves. Or at night. It was easy to think here, quieter, calm and secluded. Soft croaking frogs replaced the fizz of the ocean. A perfect place for a teenage rendezvous, Jack thought as they approached the house. It was the same white-painted weatherboard-slatted build as those along the beach, but while those were wind-whipped and paint-peeled, this was moss-streaked and water-stained. Two-storey, with brown wooden roof-tiles nailed down like scales. Rope swing out the front, a red plastic kayak on the lawn. It wasn’t luxury, but it was peaceful. In TV land, this was the type of place that a high-powered advertising executive inherits from her dead father – Jack could see her walking up the drive, flicking her heels at every wet leaf that papier-mâchéd itself to her feet – and decides to fix up, learning about small-town friendships and love along the way.
Either Side of Midnight : A Novel (2020) Page 15
