Greenlight

by Benjamin Stevenson

  ‘Looks finished to me.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, and I don’t want to get into it. Point is, I broke his windows because I figured he owed me a little. And I figured he could spare it. He’s got the money – put in some tacky wine storage humidifier thingos – three of them, twenty grand each. Just woke up one morning and called me, said to put them in. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘If you were short, why not ask Andrew? He’s basically the town benefactor.’

  ‘Andy helps everyone out from time to time. He put new doors on the motel after the wine stained ’em all. He repainted Mary-Anne’s house, for the same reason. But, just, I didn’t want to ask him for too much. I thought this was something I could do on my own. Me and the boys.’

  Jack shook his head in disbelief. Brett saw ripping off Curtis Wade as a family bonding exercise. He changed the topic. ‘I know Andrew asked you to come here and play nice.’

  ‘Look, I bought you a drink.’

  ‘I can buy my own drinks. Be useful.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone who killed anyone. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Man, what do you want me to tell you?’ He threw his hands up. ‘All I know is boring country shit. Like that the yield should be higher this year than last. Like that this rain won’t help Curtis’s dying vines, because he’s too cheap to fix the irrigation through there properly.’ Jack resisted the temptation to point out that that was because of the concrete slab Brett had put there himself. ‘Or that Andrew’s Forester needs a new clutch soon, because I can hear it when he pulls up. That I’ll be patching the roof at the bakery tomorrow because she’s not ready for the hail. That Alan Sanders has gout. Yeah.’ He raised his voice and yelled to the bar. ‘Gout! Of course I know boring shit. It’s Birravale, for fuck’s sake, not Caracas.’ Jack must have looked surprised, because Brett added: ‘I watch the news. We’re not all idiots . . . And you mope around wondering why no one here likes you? You’ve turned us into the murder capital of the world.’

  They were interrupted by Alan sliding a plate down in front of Jack. A kid’s meal. Spaghetti. Jack couldn’t remember ordering when he came in. He didn’t think he could handle eating right now. He needed focus, even for this small war. His acrobat needed silence and calm to walk the rope.

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ Jack said, ‘but I haven’t paid.’

  ‘You’ve been buying half meals at full price. I figure we can count this one sorted.’

  Another Freeman favour, Jack supposed. One phone call and suddenly the whole town was onside. But the kindness was as fragile as scum on the surface of a pond, easily broken should you throw the right stone. The vibe of the place was all wrong, as delicate as Andrew’s carefully stored wines. This was a kindness that required its environment to remain consistent.

  Brett stood.

  ‘Don’t know why you’re still here,’ he said. ‘You already know who did it. We all do. You just want to invent something bigger.’

  He went to the door and paused a second, appreciating the gale. Decided to brave it.

  Jack looked down at the pasta. He felt full to his sternum even as he twirled it around his fork. He needed Lauren, he realised. He missed her company. Shit, he realised. He missed her.

  Brett, just like everyone else, thought the answer was easy: that the real question wasn’t whether Curtis had killed Eliza but whether he’d killed Alexis as well. But that just didn’t sit right in Jack’s gut. He’d already dismissed the idea of Curtis sitting in his prison cell, slowly dragging a pencil across candy-wrapper thin prison paper, plotting revenge. Besides, he’d met the copycat – they’d almost taken his head off.

  You get the threats too? Alexis had asked him, back in Sydney, her warm hand on his. Or had she put her hand on his after she’d said that? He couldn’t remember. She was a wisp in his mind now. His memory of her wouldn’t stick. He thought of her cigarettes on her dresser. How he hadn’t known she was a smoker either. Best carton of cigarettes I ever bought.

  Another thing she’d said dislodged inside his brain. Those cigarettes. She’d framed an inmate about to walk from a grisly crime, her big career-making case. Alexis had a gutsy, tenacious side. One that cast aside certain morals in the pursuit of her own ends. One that could make enemies, perhaps. Jack realised they’d made basically the same decisions. Was it so different that her goals were morally superior to his own? Fuck, whoever killed her and tried to pin it on Curtis, they’d basically done the same thing too.

  Was framing a guilty man as bad as framing an innocent one?

  Framing a guilty man. Jack turned the thought over in his head. Curtis hated her because she’d sent him to jail. But Jack’s cast was too small. Curtis wasn’t the only one.

  What had Curtis said to him, back in the house, when he’d been too captivated by Alexis’s phone to take any real notice? Jim Harrison, fuck, he’d tell you some stories.

  Jim Harrison. The nickname had skipped over Jack, but Curtis had been talking about James Harrison. Two of Alexis’s most high-profile cases, and they’d been in the same prison.

  Right motive. Wrong person.

  Best pack of cigarettes I ever bought.

  That word bubbled inside him again.

  Revenge.

  James Harrison didn’t look like someone who could gut a rabbit with a steady hand, let alone a teenage boy. He had a turtle’s neck, sails of thick skin webbed to his skint collarbones. Adam’s apple in the space between skin folds, set back into his neck: a whorl in a bushfire-hollowed gum. He was skinny, too. His plain grey t-shirt fit him like a teenager’s hoody. He wore cheap, gold-framed reading glasses. The type of glasses you find warped on the sides of roads, left at bus stops. Short grey stubble, chin and crown.

  They shared a similarity in thin wrists, Jack noticed, though James’s were chained to the stainless-steel table between them.

  He had not been hard to find. Alexis’s obituary had flagged the Harrison case as her big break, profiling how she put him away. His victim, Tom Rhodes, was the son of a wealthy property developer. It was kidnapping gone foul. There were gangs involved, organised crime. Jack imagined Curtis and James – in his mind they shared a cell – throwing a ball between the top and bottom bunk. Curtis on the bottom, lobbing it up. James on top, clawing it out of the air with a flat hand, before dropping it back down. Back and forth the ball – it was red and rubber in his mind – would go. And all the while, the two criminals traded battle stories of that bitch of a lawyer that screwed them. Maybe they made a deal.

  After the storm had passed, Jack had walked back to the B & B. In his doorway, the black banana had been replaced with a freshly baked muffin. He picked it up and smelled it. Banana. Another omen of Andrew Freeman. He placed it on his bedside table, so it would at least look like he appreciated the gesture.

  His research confirmed that Tom Rhodes had been eviscerated as Alexis had described. That Alexis had uncovered star testimony at the final hour and convinced a deadlocked jury to convict. It all fit. And James Harrison was indeed still housed at Long Bay. It was never hard to talk himself into the prison: the guards knew him, and were, for the most part, excited to have him there – each hopeful for their own part to play in the national pantomime that true crime podcasts and TV had turned the justice system into. It was the same with the prisoners. Jack had been worried that James wouldn’t want to talk to him, but the guard had come back almost immediately with his message: When can you come?

  He rang Lauren and filled her in. She seemed confused, not as pleased to hear from him as he’d been hoping.

  ‘James Harrison?’ She put him on speaker while she tapped at her phone, pulling up his case. ‘Okay, he has motive. I see it.’ Her voice was flat and analytical.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘How’d he kill his lawyer from inside a prison cell? You’ve gotta find the axe, I think.’

  ‘I’m thinking that he might have pa
id someone, you know, with his organised crime connections.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And who’s Hush then?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m going to see him. You coming?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘You’re busy?’ He didn’t do a good job keeping the incredulity out of his tone.

  ‘I might have a closed restaurant, but I still run a winery.’

  ‘Vineyard.’ It slipped out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Did I do something?’

  ‘The cops were here. They were looking for the axe. That Winter bloke is aggressive. He almost arrested Curtis. Hell, he would have arrested me too if he could have.’ Jack breathed out in relief. Thank God he’d taken the phone. ‘They didn’t, this time. But they’re coming back.’

  ‘I didn’t tell them anything.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He was pleading now.

  ‘You went up to the Freemans’?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d poke around. I thought he might be Hush.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. Andrew gave me a bottle of wine.’

  ‘So you’re friends now?’

  ‘No. Look, I didn’t even want it. I thought you’d be pleased to hear about James. It all fits, this could be it.’

  ‘It doesn’t fit,’ Lauren snapped. ‘It just fits in your head. Who’s Hush? Get the axe first, that’s the most important.’

  ‘Alexis’s death is looking more and more planned the further we go. Does he fit anymore?’

  ‘He’s the only one that fits. But you want something dramatic, so go chase your serial killer.’

  ‘Lauren —’

  ‘What type of wine was it?’

  He told her.

  ‘Wow. He must like you.’

  She hung up on him.

  The rain had sapped the morning, so it was nearing dusk when Jack finished the drive back through Sydney to Long Bay. They’d taken him straight into the interview room, switched the camera off for him. James Harrison had been set up in there already, chained to the table. Waiting calmly for Jack Quick to come for him.

  As he always hoped he would.

  ‘So glad you’re here,’ James said. His voice was high-pitched, each word moist, as if he was chewing each thought like tobacco before spitting the words out.

  ‘Jack Quick.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  Jack was aware of the pointless introduction, but unsure where to start.

  ‘So, how do we do this?’ said James.

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘It’s your show.’ James rocked back, which clinked his chains against the table. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘About Alexis White,’ Jack said, examining James’s face for a reaction. To his surprise, the killer broke into a wide smile and leaned forward. He was excited, speaking his wet words quickly.

  ‘Yeah? That’s good. She set me up, right? Prison testimony. Bull’ – he flicked a thumb up, as if counting off syllables – ‘shit.’ Then a pointer finger. He seemed to surprise himself that his finger made a gun; he pointed it at Jack. ‘Knew it.’

  ‘You knew Curtis Wade in here?’

  ‘I mean, I knew he was here. Not well, though. But we watched him on the TV, so I guess we all knew him.’

  ‘You watched the show?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you knew Curtis?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He thought a second. ‘I see where you’re going with this. The two of us. I LOVE it.’ He smacked his hands on the table. ‘So good! Yeah then, if it helps, I knew him. Real well.’

  They seemed to be having two separate conversations at once. Jack tried to understand what James was telling him. Was he admitting that he and Curtis had planned this together?

  ‘Tell me more about Alexis.’

  ‘She got what was coming for her.’

  ‘So you’re saying she deserved it?’

  ‘Fuck yeah, I am. Curtis Wade’s harder than I gave him credit for.’

  ‘I know that you and Curtis had a plan,’ Jack said, lowering his voice.

  At this, James leaned in, dropped his shoulders.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah. Kay. Sure. We’ll do it like that.’

  Jack wished he would stop saying we. James seemed to be filling in a picture that Jack didn’t even know was there.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I know why you did it. The two of you were burned by her. But I’m not quite sure how. Did Curtis commit the murder for you? And if he didn’t, tell me who did.’ That didn’t sound right. Why would Curtis frame himself? Another name came to him, and then it was in the air, an accusation: ‘Andrew Freeman?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind. Who committed the murder?’

  ‘Wait. What?’ James scratched the back of his wrist – his thinness gave him a good range of movement in the cuffs – and his forearms rattled in the loops like the ball of gas in a spray can. ‘I did.’

  ‘Did what?’ Say it, Jack thought, say it.

  ‘Killed him.’ James shrugged.

  Him? Jack paused a second. James was confused; he was talking about the old murder.

  ‘You mean Tom Rhodes?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yeah, I killed him.’

  ‘And what about Alexis?’

  ‘Well, she stitched me up, right? That’s what we’ll use.’

  ‘Stopping saying we.’

  ‘You, then.’

  ‘I’ll do what?’

  ‘Use that.’

  ‘We’re getting sidetracked. You killed her?’

  ‘Fuck.’ James leaned back, and his chest hopped with his small chuckle. ‘I wish.’

  ‘Did you work with anyone on the kidnapping of Tom Rhodes? Were you part of an organisation? If it wasn’t Curtis Wade and it wasn’t Andrew Freeman, is there someone you knew from back then? You know, a contract killer?’

  ‘I think we should start again,’ James said, after thinking for a beat. ‘Because I’m keen. But you gotta tell me what to say. The criminal underworld, all that business, I can’t say I really know. But if that’s what you need. I’ll tell you something.’

  Jack closed his eyes. Was James such a psychopath that he was literally unable to make sense or was he enjoying running Jack in circles? Or was Jack missing something? The oddity of sitting here unable to extract a confession from a killer who was telling him everything didn’t escape him.

  ‘We’ll start again,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s try simple yes and no, for now, and see where that takes us.’

  ‘’Kay.’ James grinned and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Did you kill, or arrange to kill, Alexis?’

  James thought, trying to figure out something. Perhaps how the conversation had led to this. ‘You want honesty?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Jack tapped a scarred knuckle on the table, frustrated.

  ‘Not the right answer?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Well.’ James rubbed his chin. ‘Yes?’

  He said it as a question, voice lilting up. As if he wanted Jack to be happy with the answer. As if he wanted to give the answers Jack wanted him to give. Jack sighed, shut his eyes, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Lauren had been right, he was still chasing drama over truth.

  ‘Was that the wrong answer too?’ said James, a pleading tone to his voice.

  ‘Why do you think I’m here?’

  ‘You got my letter.’

  Perhaps it was the disappointment of it, or the simple way James had said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Jack felt like he was about to throw up. He was so fucking tired and so fucking hungry and, most of all, so fucking full.

  ‘Okay.’ Jack tried to keep the shake out of his voice as he stood. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You got wha
t you need already? But you didn’t record anything?’

  ‘Sure. Yeah. I got what I needed. You didn’t kill Alexis.’

  ‘’Kay, sure. Whatever you say.’

  And that was James Harrison, laid bare. He hadn’t killed Alexis. He just thought Jack Quick, television shaman, could get him out of jail.

  James Harrison thought he was the goddamn sequel.

  ‘You’re a guilty man,’ said Jack.

  ‘Guilty, but wrongfully convicted, yeah?’

  ‘Tom Rhodes —’

  ‘I killed him.’ James mimed sticking a knife in the table, drew it across like a child with a pencil: a curled fist, pressing hard. ‘I’ll give you the details. Gory ones. If you want?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be telling me this.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re supposed to tell me you’re innocent.’

  ‘Does that make it easier for you?’

  Those words took the wind out of him. He had to leave. He turned for the door, rapped it twice. There was a crash from behind him. James had stood, flicked the aluminium chair against the back wall, where it now lay on its side. He was standing, stooped though, still bound to the table. He was breathing through his nose, shoulders heaving up and down, his turtled-neck dipping in and out. Glasses askew.

  ‘Why the fuck are you here then?’ he yelled, the sound bouncing off the walls. He spat in Jack’s direction; it fell well short. He was shaking the table. Rabid. ‘If you’re not going to help me?’

  ‘I won’t help you,’ Jack said. Not I can’t, which he almost said. I won’t.

  Jack heard the door open, but didn’t turn. James locked eyes with him and seemed to calm down.

  ‘But that’s what you do, isn’t it, Mr Quick?’ The insult seethed through his teeth, and then a smile. ‘You get people like me out of jail.’

  The all-night service station glowed green and white in the dark, levitating strips of neon. The light stung Jack’s bleary eyes. It was ten minutes to the turn, then nothing to Birravale. He pulled in. Black bugs flecked him, spiralling up to circle the neon. Jack filled his tank and washed his windscreen. Inside, it was brighter. Clinical. The hum of fridges. Jack swiped his card. It was more than a hundred bucks, so he had to sign. Walked out crinkling.