You Had It Coming Page 17

  Dave takes over the questioning. Bridget concentrates on reading Dylan’s body language. ‘When did you last see William Newson?’

  ‘Not since the trial.’

  ‘Jessica Foster mentioned you’ve been in contact with her.’

  His shoulders hunch. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you elaborate on why?’

  ‘I want to say … s-sorry to her and M-Megan.’ His face has turned pink. Embarrassment? Shame? ‘I never ap-apologised in person. Mr Newson had us under s-s-strict instructions not to speak to the … com-com-complainants or make any kind of c-c-contact.’

  ‘Why do you feel you owe an apology?’ Bridget interjects. ‘The verdict cleared you of any wrongdoing.’

  He shifts in his seat. He’s agitated, his speech deteriorating accordingly. ‘The verdict m-m-meant there wasn’t enough evidence … I was … drunk, really drunk, and I can’t actually r-r-remember that much. What I do … remember is Megan t-turning me down earlier in the night, when we were both f-f-f … sober. So, whatever happened afterwards p-p-probably shouldn’t have … happened. I’ve thought … about this a lot. It’s one thing con-convincing a j-j-judge and … jury. It’s another … convincing yourself that you did n-n-nothing wrong.’

  So, there’s remorse. That’s something, at least. Was Thomas Malouf remorseful, too? Had he done any self-examination in the years following? And how about Megan and Jessica? How are they going to receive this belated apology? Are they in a forgiving frame of mind?

  Dylan takes his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen before putting it away again. Presumably checking the time, or missed work-related calls or messages. He’s a software engineer in one of the technology companies in Macquarie Park. She can imagine him in that role; preferring to interact with computers and code rather than people.

  ‘Thank you for being so candid, Dylan. We’ll finish up soon. Before you go, I want to talk through some extra security measures. Simple things like letting friends and family know your whereabouts at all times, keeping windows and doors locked and trying not to be alone. Be vigilant. Just until we get to the bottom of exactly what’s happening here.’

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let’s take a moment to recall the evidence submitted on physicality. You saw some photographs on the screen. Megan and Jessica at the karate class where they met each other and began a friendship. Megan sparring with another class member. Jessica breaking a board with her leg – she was only sixteen at the time, but obviously fearless. According to their Sensei’s testimony, Megan was extremely strong but lacking in agility. Jessica, on the other hand, had both – she could have gone far in the sport had she more discipline. The evidence highlights the fact that neither of these young ladies were weaklings. They were trained in self-defence, for goodness’ sake. If a boy needed to be pushed away, they were capable of that … and much more. These girls knew how to protect themselves. They were not victims. They were willing participants.

  33

  MEGAN

  These girls were willing participants. This became one of William Newson’s catchphrases. Every day, as many times as he could manage, he got it in there, gelling the idea in the jury’s heads. So unfair that a barrister can stand up and say whatever he wants while the complainant sits there helplessly, with no immediate right of response. Of course, the prosecutor lodged objections, and on a few occasions the jury was asked to leave the room until the judge made a ruling. These girls were willing participants. It stuck, like one of those songs you hate yet can’t get out of your head.

  Lengthy cross-examinations. Precise questions. Everything done and said that night funnelled down, down, down until it became one singular question: had consent been given? The one thing Megan knows for sure is that she did not consent. Therefore, it should have been black-and-white. William Newson excelled at introducing grey, querying their trustworthiness, their motives, even their ability to defend themselves. Thomas testified that he’d merely been bragging in the text (What a fucking night. Two virgins! Sick.) and he’d only had – consensual – sex with Jess. Leo Malouf had purportedly been lying awake in his bedroom next door and testified that he heard no sounds of dissent or requests to stop (in fact, he heard laughter and giggling). The fact that the boys had been intoxicated too blurred the whole consent issue. The fact that the girls had waited a week to report the assaults to the police drew question to their motives, as well as having the effect of vital evidence no longer being detectable. The fact that the jury was composed of largely middle-aged to elderly people, with only four women. Megan and Jess were too naïve to understand the jury selection process and the use of pre-emptive challenges. The system had started to work against them even before a word was uttered in the courtroom.

  The boys were acquitted. No sentencing. No victim impact statements. No further discourse on the many ways in which the girls had been affected. Those precise questions had left so much unsaid. Megan ended up writing her own victim impact statement as a form of self-therapy: I was not a ‘willing participant’. I did not want to lose my virginity that night. My trust in people, and in the world, has been shattered. The only person who read her statement was her mother.

  *

  Megan is meeting Jess at her apartment, in Pymble. The street is one of leafy trees and old wealth. She parks her ten-year-old Toyota between two fat BMWs.

  The lift is small and slow to arrive. Megan is beginning to consider the stairs when the bell finally pings. An elderly man and woman are inside.

  ‘Come on, Harry. We’re keeping everyone waiting.’

  Megan sticks out her arm to hold the doors open. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Sorry we’re so slow, dear. Come on now, Harry.’

  Poor Harry looks confused. Dementia? ‘Where are we going, Bev?’

  ‘We’re going for a walk, Harry.’

  Not very far, by the looks of things.

  Jess’s door is on the latch and Megan knocks lightly before letting herself in. The interior is a surprise. Large windows, high ceilings, soft natural furnishings.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ Jess calls out.

  The kitchen is a galley one. A large, expensive-looking coffee machine sits on the counter, along with a fresh latte. A teabag and boiling water are brewing in another cup. Jess is wearing gym wear, her hair scraped back in its customary high ponytail.

  They take their drinks outside to the balcony, which is another surprise. A vertical garden on one wall, shelves with plant pots on the other. Two chairs with printed cushions. This is a grown-up apartment. It belongs to someone who knows who they are, how they want to live. Megan can’t help feeling inadequate by comparison, still living in her childhood bedroom. It’s little consolation that her living arrangements are about to change.

  ‘Is that you, Jessica?’ a quivery voice calls from next door.

  Jess’s smile obliterates the sharp angles from her face. ‘Morning, Helen. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ A loud sigh. ‘Another blue sky. It’s a curse!’

  Jess smiles again, then whispers, ‘Helen is a darling. Alex and I are the youngest here by at least forty years!’

  This is a new Jess. A benign, more domesticated Jess. Megan feels sheepish when she thinks back to their meeting at the café. Her blunt accusations. No wonder Jess was affronted.

  Megan sits back in her seat. ‘So, now Thomas Malouf … What’s going on?’

  Jess shrugs, drawing attention to her thin shoulders. ‘Stuffed if I know! Good thing I have people who can vouch that I was at work both those nights. That detective looked like she didn’t believe a word I said! Suppose it didn’t help that I was at the train station not long afterwards.’

  It’s beyond bizarre. Megan being with William Newson during the last hours of his life, and Jess minutes away from where Thomas Malouf died. Something is going on, some sort of masterplan. Can they work it out if they put their heads together?

  Megan chooses her words carefully. ‘Bridget
Kennedy seems suspicious of Mum, too.’ She isn’t ready to admit that she’s had her own doubts about Roslyn.

  Jess’s eyebrows, tinted a shade too dark for her hair colour, shoot upwards. ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  Megan sips her tea, once again casting around for the right words. ‘Mum can’t prove she was home on those nights because I was at work. And she said some pretty bad stuff at the trial.’

  Megan hasn’t checked her mum’s search history for a few days, but she’s willing to put money on Thomas Malouf featuring heavily.

  Jess snorts. ‘You don’t need to worry about people who proclaim their feelings out loud. It’s the ones who let it fester that you need to watch out for!’

  That’s a fair point, and applies to both Jess and Roslyn. But what about Alex? Does he let things fester? Is there a way to ask Jess without offending her?

  Jess has moved on. ‘Dylan O’Shea phoned out of the blue. He wants to meet up.’

  ‘He contacted me, too. Are you actually going to see him?’

  ‘Yep. Tomorrow.’

  Megan cannot think of anything more excruciating than seeing Dylan O’Shea after all these years. No doubt he’ll have matured. Instead of one mental image, she’ll be haunted by two: the younger version and the older one.

  ‘Is that wise? Given everything that’s going on?’

  Jess’s bony shoulders rise in another shrug. ‘I don’t really care what’s wise. I want to get some things off my chest.’

  Megan is caught between admiration and apprehension. ‘At least don’t go alone!’

  The dark eyebrows rise again; Jess’s eyebrows and shoulders seem to be in constant movement. ‘Are you offering to come?’

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t bear it – and anyway, I have work. But now I’m worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I can more than take care of myself.’

  True. Not that long ago she was a professional fighter, one of the best in the world. Quite suddenly, Megan wants her to punch Dylan O’Shea. A fist straight in the face, that he didn’t see coming. A follow-up to the ribs, where it would hurt the most. Something unwinds in Megan at the thought. Something that’s been coiled up for a very long time.

  She drains the last of her tea and sets the cup down. ‘I’m confused, Jess … Why is this restarting now? Why does it feel like we’re being implicated? Is someone trying to punish us or set us up?’

  Jess is suddenly still. ‘Neither … I actually think someone is trying to vindicate us. It reminds me of Helen’s cat, next door.’

  Megan is lost. ‘What?’

  ‘How it brings its killings to the back door, drops them on the step for someone to find first thing in the morning. As if to say, “Look what I’ve done! Aren’t you proud of me?”’

  That’s an appalling analogy. But it has an undeniable ring of truth.

  A door slams in the apartment.

  Alex’s voice booms out. ‘Hey, babe, you still here? Forgot my phone.’

  Megan and Jess stare at each other. Then Jess stands up to go and greet her boyfriend.

  34

  JESS

  These girls knew how to protect themselves. William Newson was correct in that regard. The question that should have been asked was what stopped them from protecting themselves, from fighting back? Jess and Megan had bruising and chafing, but nothing that indicated a true struggle. Even if the boys had overpowered them, what happened to their voices? Why didn’t they scream the house down?

  The possibility of date-rape drugs didn’t come up during the trial because there was no trace in their blood or urine samples (which were tested a week later, due to Megan dragging her feet). Jess held the possibility at the back of her mind, though, because it was the only plausible explanation for their docility and patchy memories. Many years later it came to the fore of her mind. She was suffering from a broken nose and several cracked ribs as a result of a fight; the pain was intense. The doctor prescribed painkillers that had a sedative effect, to help her sleep. She woke the next morning with very little memory. She couldn’t remember eating dinner, or what time she’d gone to bed. She’d slept in track pants and a sweater, hadn’t even loosened her hair from its ponytail. Alex said that she’d been ‘out of it’, walking and talking but acting really weird. Something clicked in Jess’s brain. This had happened to her before.

  Yesterday morning, she discussed her theory with Megan, who agreed it was possible that GHB had been put in their drinks.

  ‘It can only be detected in the blood for up to four hours and in the urine for twelve hours, which is why it’s the perfect date-rape drug.’

  Maybe that week’s delay hadn’t cost them so much after all. Any trace of drugs would have been gone by the next day.

  Megan knew quite a lot about GHB, thanks to her job. ‘It has a steep dosage response, as in a tiny increase in dose can have a dramatic increase in effects. Of course, there’s no quality control, so you can’t be sure what even qualifies as a dose to start with. If there’s alcohol in the mix, or over-the-counter medications, it’s even more dangerous. It’s one of the main culprits for accidental overdoses at clubs and parties.’

  It felt good to be with Megan, sharing the problem, throwing around theories. The only interruption was Alex, but he seemed to understand that they were in the middle of something heavy; he found his phone and didn’t hang around.

  Jess is not dumb. Dylan wants to either plead his innocence or say sorry. Maybe he’s in therapy because the guilt has been eating away at him. Maybe he’s become religious and wants to atone for his sins. Well, if he’s sorry, he should do the decent thing and tell the truth. Jess and Megan have a right to know if they were drugged.

  Jess is meeting him at the Pymble Memorial Park. A café or a pub didn’t seem right; she is not sure she could stomach coffee or any kind of food. She didn’t want him in her apartment and neither did she want to see where he lived. A public park seemed like the only option, although yesterday Megan was concerned that it might be too deserted.

  ‘Will there be people around that time of day? Is there passing traffic?’

  Jess is expecting plenty of mums with prams. Yes, there is passing traffic, although the park is shielded due to a slope and some well-placed foliage. Most importantly, she can walk to the train station from there and the fact that she is going to work straight afterwards also removes the question about what to wear: black gym pants and T-shirt, and a dark grey sweater. Not the most flattering colours, given her pale complexion, but uncompromising: bleak, even.

  Jess doesn’t want to admit to herself that she’s nervous. What if she’s wrong, and an apology isn’t forthcoming? What if he’s angry or abusive? Is she ready to fight back, defend herself? She checks her phone: ten minutes until she needs to leave. She spends it tidying Alex’s clothes off the floor – he is such a slob sometimes – and giving the bathroom a quick once-over. She never thought she’d be the house-proud type. Things change when you have your own place. When it’s your hard work and money going into the mortgage and furnishings. If Alex doesn’t start cleaning up after himself, she’ll threaten to charge him rent. Speaking of Alex, she feels guilty that she didn’t tell him where she is going today. She was scared he’d stop her or – worse – insist on coming along. Alex would lash out at Dylan, he wouldn’t be able to help himself, and then she wouldn’t get what she wants: answers. Now it seems like a big omission, not telling him. Too late now, though.

  Two minutes to go. Jess checks her backpack to make sure she has her wallet and phone. A loud buzzing sound causes her heart to leap: the intercom. There’s someone at the door downstairs. Does Dylan know where she lives?

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice comes out high-pitched and nervous.

  ‘Me, Natasha. I’m so pleased you’re home. Can I come up?’

  Fuck! Her sister, who she barely sees from one month to the next, chooses now for a visit. Baby Lucy starts to wail, letting Jess know that she is out there too.

 
‘Sorry, I should have called ahead.’ Natasha is being drowned out by Lucy’s wails. ‘This is a bad time, isn’t it?’

  Yep, it’s a bad time. But this might never happen again. Her sister turning up unannounced at her door. Her super-organised, super-competent sister, who sounds like she is at the end of her tether.

  Jess presses the button to unlock the front door. ‘What a nice surprise! Come up … I’ll put on the kettle.’

  Is this a flying visit or something longer? Should she text Dylan to let him know she’s running late? Fuck him. She owes him nothing.

  35

  BRIDGET

  Another funeral. Another sunny morning and crayon-blue sky. The church is at full capacity: Bridget and Sasha only managed to get seats because of two chivalrous middle-aged gentlemen who insisted on giving up theirs. It’s obvious that the Maloufs are an extensive family, a mini-community in their own right. Everyone here knows each other and they’re not afraid to show their grief: sobbing, nose-blowing and throat-clearing provide a backing track to the Catholic service. Bridget can easily imagine these people at the party that was thrown after the verdict. Bellowing congratulations to Thomas, backslapping him and each other, filling themselves with food and becoming intoxicated on pure relief. Telling themselves whatever they needed to tell themselves to make the situation more palatable.

  The eulogy is delivered by Leo Malouf. His words come across as stiff and utilitarian. ‘My brother lived life in the fast lane. He wanted to experience everything, wasn’t afraid of anything …’

  ‘Fast lane’ is code for recreational drug use, which may have deteriorated Thomas’s decision-making abilities on that night, or seen him hanging around with the wrong sort of people.

  ‘I was always in his shadow, the annoying younger brother, but I didn’t mind …’

  Leo’s words and tone are saying two different things. Maybe being stiff is the only way he can keep his emotions in check. Or maybe he wasn’t close to his brother and is struggling with what to say. People display grief in very different ways, but even taking that into account, Bridget is not getting the sense that the brothers were close. She tries to visualise fifteen-year-old Leo testifying back in 2007. Did he use the same flat voice, lacking in vigour and conviction? Did he tell the truth when he testified? He was in the bedroom next door. Did he really hear nothing at all?