You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘When did you last see the two men?’ Bridget asks, watching her carefully.

  ‘I never actually met William Newson,’ she admits with a shrug. ‘I knew his name, that he was Thomas Malouf’s lawyer, and that he had an impressive track record. As for Thomas, I didn’t set eyes on him after that night. Everything was handled through police and lawyers. I guess I would have seen him if we’d actually made it to court.’

  ‘It said in your file that there was no trace of drugs found in your urine or bloodstream,’ Bridget challenges, although she’s aware that date-rape drugs can be gone from the system within a few hours.

  Another nod, followed by another shrug. ‘Your body knows, even if no trace has been left, even when you can’t rely on your mind to properly remember. I knew something was wrong the minute I woke up the next morning.’

  ‘Can you tell us where you were three weeks ago on Tuesday August twentieth?’

  ‘I was at work.’

  ‘Which hospital do you work in, Hayley?’

  Redfern is well-situated for Royal Prince Alfred and St Vincent’s. Doctors, nurses and medical staff would find the suburb a convenient place to live, if not the safest after nightfall.

  ‘I’m not in a hospital,’ she says, her eyes downcast. ‘I don’t work as a nurse any more. I decided I wasn’t cut out for it. I retrained – I’m in a call centre with the health department now. It’s easier at the end of a phone. I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress syndrome.’

  Sasha asks if there’s someone who can verify that Hayley was at work, and records the details in her notebook. She and Hayley are close in age. Sasha goes clubbing some weekends, and it’s obvious from her expression that she can easily imagine herself in Hayley’s position: choosing the wrong guy to dance with.

  Bridget and Sasha say goodbye shortly afterwards and walk briskly to their car. Two doors down they pass a heroin addict shooting up. Redfern is becoming more gentrified, but pockets of poverty, violence and drug addiction constantly undermine the efforts of town planners and police.

  ‘What did you think of that?’ Bridget asks, when they’re safely in the car and on their way.

  ‘I felt sorry for her,’ the young detective replies. ‘Hard to move on from something like that. Charges being dropped when you know the person is guilty. Seeing them get off scot-free. It’s just not right.’

  Thomas Malouf got off scot-free … but William Newson didn’t. He paid the ultimate price: his thirty-five-year marriage. His wife divorced him because of Hayley Webster.

  ‘You know that Malouf’s sexual history wasn’t deemed relevant?’ Bridget says, stopping at a T- intersection. ‘The fact that this was his second time being accused wasn’t weighed up in the decision to drop charges.’

  Sasha’s mouth is an angry line. ‘The unfairness is enough to make you go crazy.’

  Bridget spends Sunday at home, even though her mind is in the office, mulling over the names on Katrina’s whiteboard, in particular the newest addition: Hayley Webster. Did the unfairness make Hayley go crazy? The charges being dropped is one thing. PTSD and being unable to work as a nurse are another thing altogether: the course of a life changed for ever. Hayley was adamant that she was drugged, but it’s human nature to find excuses for our bad decisions. Is it possible that Thomas Malouf was unfortunate enough to be falsely accused on two separate occasions, ten years apart? And how much digging – if any – did Hayley Webster do into his background? Did she find out about two other girls – nameless, thanks to identity protection – whose case did make it to court, but still didn’t result in a conviction? Would such knowledge have made her even crazier? The fact that she lives in Redfern could be relevant. Crime, violence and poverty conveniently on her doorstep. Not that hard to procure a gun … or find someone willing to kill for a price.

  In the afternoon, Bridget drives her daughter to Chatswood, to shop for a dress for her Year 12 formal. Forget Hayley for the next few hours. Focus on Cara. Her daughter is on the cusp of finishing school, striking out in the world. Classes will finish next week, then it’s a couple of weeks’ study leave, followed by the dreaded exams. Cara seems more focused on the formal than the exams, which could be a blessing.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks, emerging in a full-length sky-blue dress, the plunging neckline exposing the undersides of her breasts. Good thing her father isn’t here, Bridget thinks. Shane would have to be resuscitated.

  ‘Turn around,’ Bridget says, mustering a casual tone. ‘I’m not sure about how the back is falling …’

  Her next choice is emerald green – a beautiful shade that complements her auburn hair – with an equally revealing drape neck.

  ‘Gorgeous colour. Maybe a bit too much fabric with the fall …’ Good thing Bridget doesn’t have to pass a lie-detector.

  They go to a different store and select another armful of dresses to try on. Then on to a different shopping centre, which has lots of small boutiques. Short dresses, maxi dresses, lace, satin, all with one thing in common: low-cut necklines and exposed backs. How is one meant to wear a bra?

  ‘You don’t wear a bra, Mum,’ Cara informs her in a condescending tone. ‘You use those stick-on cups.’

  Another image of Shane being resuscitated.

  It has been more than two hours. Cara is getting frustrated and Bridget is getting impatient. Hunger is making them snippy with each other. Then they find it: a maxi dress with navy sequins. A slit starting high on the leg, not too much cleavage on show. There’s a teary moment of mother-daughter bonding, followed by a different type of eye-watering on viewing the price tag.

  ‘Let’s get something to eat before we look at shoes,’ Bridget says, burying the receipt in her handbag.

  They’re eating sushi at one of the food courts when Bridget’s phone begins to ring. It’s Dave. She mentioned to him that she had an important date with her daughter. Dave has a family, too; he understands the delicate dance between home and work. Shane is extremely competent, but Cara needs her mother for this one.

  ‘What is it?’ Bridget’s mind is full of sequins, silicone bra cups, and shoes that achieve the dual purpose of elegance and comfort (which everyone knows is impossible!).

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Bridge. I’ve got something huge.’ Bridget can only just make out what he is saying against the background noise of the food court. ‘We’ve found the Yamaha and the gun.’

  Did she hear him correctly? She presses the phone to her ear. ‘Together? In the same place?’

  Dave confirms it: the motorbike and gun have been found in a storage facility in Brookvale. Thomas Malouf’s name is on the paperwork.

  ‘Secure the scene,’ Bridget commands. ‘Don’t let anyone touch anything until forensics get there. I’m on my way.’

  She hangs up. Cara is staring at her. Oh dear.

  ‘It’s okay, I was getting tired anyway.’ Cara stands up, her unfinished sushi box in hand. ‘Can you drop me home on your way?’

  ‘Sure. Sorry. We’ll get the shoes next weekend.’

  The investigation looks like it will be wrapped up by then. Bridget didn’t see this coming.

  Thomas Malouf killed his barrister. Then he killed himself.

  43

  MEGAN

  The home stylist arrives on Monday morning. Clipboard in hand, she moves from room to room, her frown becoming more pronounced as she goes. She ends with a declaration that none of the furniture is up to standard except the beds, which can be disguised with good linen and cushions.

  ‘The right furniture will accentuate the space. First impressions are vital!’

  Then she tells Megan how much it’s going to cost for furniture rental and a six-week campaign.

  Megan phones Seb later in the morning. ‘Good thing Mum was at work. She’d have said a flat no. I signed up for it. Plus I booked the removalists for Friday.’

  ‘What if it takes longer than six weeks to sell?’

  ‘Don’t even go there.’

 
‘I’ll come on Friday to help,’ he says impulsively. ‘I’ll get an early flight.’

  ‘Great! I’ll be coming off a twelve-hour shift, so I won’t be much good.’

  Her shift hours are 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. this week, her least favourite timeslot. Starting work as everyone else is finishing. Driving home as dawn is breaking, knowing you need to go straight to bed when all your instincts are telling you otherwise. Forcing yourself to sleep, forcing yourself to wake up, forcing yourself to stay awake. But it’s only for four days, then four days off to compensate.

  Megan is excited to see her brother so soon. She checks the time: hours to go before her shift starts and plenty of work to do. Seb’s old bedroom is next to be tackled. She has been avoiding it; it’s been used as a dumping ground for years. Dust mites in the air and a faintly musty smell: not quite the first impressions the stylist was talking about. Megan opens the window before setting to work. The wardrobe is so full its doors don’t properly close. She clears everything from the rails on to the bed. Mostly spill-over from her wardrobe and Roslyn’s. A few old things of Seb’s: a leather jacket he used to live in and a pair of old Levi’s. Some of her dad’s clothes, too. Did Roslyn forget they were here, or couldn’t she bear to part with them?

  Megan has been trying not to think about her dad during this process. He mortgaged himself to the hilt to save this house. In his mind, it was all they had left. Selling feels like a huge betrayal.

  Sorry, Dad. I hope you can’t see any of this.

  The top shelf of the wardrobe is out of her reach; she goes to fetch the step ladder from the garage. Lifting and manoeuvring the ladder reminds her muscles how sore they are from the boxing on Saturday. But it has to be said: hitting something hard really did help. She is still sad about Lucas. She is still asking herself ‘what if’, but accepts there is no way to change the timing of when they met. Her face was taut and dry when she woke this morning, a reminder that she’d cried herself to sleep again, but she opened her eyes with fresh resolve.

  He was never mine. It was all in my head. I’ll get over this.

  The contents of the top shelf are eclectic. Most of it has been there a long, long time. Mouldy skiwear. A few bulky sweaters. Some dusty photo albums. Megan sweeps what she can to the floor, and goes up and down the ladder half a dozen times with the rest. Once it’s empty, she wipes it down with a damp cloth, then folds the ladder away.

  The room looks worse than when she started: a cyclone of clothes on the bed, balls of fluff on the carpet, the air thick with dust. It’s funny that out of all the stuff in this room, Seb owns the least. She puts his things in a pile – he can go through it when he gets here Friday. On impulse, she sits down on a corner of the bed and flicks through the photo albums. School photos, all the way from a cheeky five-year-old with a gap in his front teeth to the long-haired handsome boy who graduated. Seb with his beloved guitar, eyes staring at sheet music while his fingers automatically picked the correct chords. Seb and his beleaguered football team, who – as she remembers it – very rarely won their games.

  A few pieces of paper are wedged in the back of one of the albums.

  Certificate of Achievement for Music and Performance: Sebastian Lowe

  Travel Itinerary Nepal: Sebastian Lowe

  Apprehended Personal Violence Order: Sebastian Lowe

  Her breath catches in shock. An AVO? A familiar name jumps out from the closely spaced text: Thomas Malouf. Oh God, oh God, oh God!

  The document is dated more than a year after the trial. What did Seb do to Thomas Malouf? Does this mean her brother has a criminal record?

  How did she not know about this? Does she really want to know now?

  APPREHENDED PERSONAL VIOLENCE ORDER – SEBASTIAN LOWE CRIMES (DOMESTIC AND PERSONAL VIOLENCE) ACT 2007

  Sebastian Lowe you must follow the orders below. It is a criminal offence not to follow these orders.

  The Orders have been made to protect Thomas Malouf.

  Orders about Behaviour

  1. You must not do any of the following to Thomas Malouf:

  A) assault or threaten him

  B) stalk, harass or intimidate him

  C) deliberately or recklessly destroy or damage anything that belongs to him

  2. You must not approach Thomas Malouf or contact him in any way, unless the contact is:

  A) through a lawyer, or

  B) to attend accredited or court-approved counselling, mediation or conciliation, or

  C) as ordered by this or another court

  D) as agreed in writing between you and Thomas Malouf

  Orders about where you cannot go

  You must not go within 100 metres of:

  A) any place where Thomas Malouf lives, or

  B) any place where Thomas Malouf works

  44

  JESS

  It’s youth class, and hooray: Tyler finally remembered his mouthguard.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ Jess tells him. ‘Don’t ask me why, but I am! Come on, I’ll pair you with Andy.’

  Alarm registers on his face. Andy is older and bigger. Tyler wouldn’t know that Andy is more puppy fat than muscle, or that his coordination and reflexes aren’t exactly razor-sharp. What Andy does have is a kind heart; Jess can rely on him to go easy on Tyler.

  ‘Okay, mate, this is how it works. One of you hits and the other catches the hit. That means you’re practising hitting and, just as important, you’re practising defence, but we don’t do both at the same time. Now, I want you to hit first. Come at Andy. That’s right. Push off the right foot. Jab from out there. Long arm. Great work.’

  Andy isn’t moving around that much, making it easier for Tyler to connect. The younger boy is warming to the task, bouncing, trying to push off his feet, throwing with intent. The best things about boxing are right here on display. A kid who lacks motivation suddenly finding it in the ring. Another kid, with a poor self-image and more to prove than anyone else, taking a back seat so the other can succeed. Respect. Mateship. Physical satisfaction.

  ‘Go on, Tyler. Shove it at Andy, he’s not going to hit you back. Power comes from your hips. If you rotate, you get more power … Twenty seconds left … Jab, jab … Hands up, Andy, protect your head … Time.’

  Jess gives them a couple of minutes to catch their breath, then the roles are reversed.

  ‘Just practising your catching now, Tyler. See him coming, catch. Don’t try to push it away, catch the hit like a ball … Catch, turn … Catch, turn … Don’t forget to move … You can’t stand in front of him like that, mate. He’s too big!’

  Defence is harder to teach. Tyler keeps dropping his left hand and needs reminding it’s just as good as his right when it comes to protecting himself. He gets left and right mixed up, too, something that happens across all age groups.

  When the round is finished, Jess calls Jayden into the ring to be Andy’s next opponent.

  ‘Tyler, come over here with me and watch Andy’s next round.’

  Andy stands tall while he waits for Jayden to get his gloves on. He isn’t often held up as an exemplar to others; Jess can practically see his self-confidence inflating.

  ‘I want you to keep an eye on two things, Tyler. Andy’s feet. See how he keeps them below his shoulders all the time? Now watch how he catches the punch. Jayden has a really long reach, so Andy can’t afford to let one hand slip. See?’

  Andy does another round with Jayden, and Jess sends Tyler to practise on the tear-drop bag. She finishes the class with the usual core work on the mat.

  ‘Well done, everyone. Really great session this afternoon. Now don’t forget to get around to the community hall on Saturday night. The boys need your support, you’ll learn heaps from watching and it’s a really fun night.’

  Andy and Tyler are beaming and nodding. This is one of those days when Jess loves her job more than anything in the world.

  Her shift finishes after youth class. She walks briskly to the train station, sits on one of the benches. The n
ext train is in four minutes. Her attention is caught by some teenagers on the far platform – the city-bound side. They’re in formal wear, the girls in sleek dresses and high heels and the boys in slimline suits. It’s that time of year: school formals and socials. Young people fretting about who to ask and what to wear. This lot are probably on their way to a harbour cruise or some other city-centre venue. The train is a practical solution: no point hiring a limo only to get stuck in rush-hour traffic. Jess didn’t attend her Year 12 formal, neither did Megan. The dresses they’d bought (too far in advance) hung unworn in their wardrobes. The boys they’d planned to ask never got invited. Jess could barely motivate herself to shower and brush her hair; attending the formal, or any kind of social event, seemed impossible.

  Thomas Malouf and Dylan O’Shea went to theirs. Jess accidentally came across photos on social media, and there they were: wearing trendy suits and standing alongside girls who she immediately wanted to warn off them. Thomas and Dylan had been charged at that point, but it was still up in the air if the case would proceed to prosecution. But there they were, all suited up for a rite-of-passage in which she and Megan felt unable to participate. It stung. Resentment festered over the following years; Jess realised she could never reclaim that point in time, that precipice between being a schoolgirl and a young woman, or the giddy whoosh of freedom on finishing school and celebrating it accordingly. She wasn’t a girly-girl, but the dress and make-up were part of that rite-of-passage, and she’d missed out on them.

  ‘I’ll take you to a dinner dance,’ Alex promised, a few months after they met. The conversation came up at the farm. Jess loved it there: the animals, the fresh air, Alex’s down-to-earth parents, seeing him outside the constraints of the city, herding cows astride a dirt bike, his huge hands helping with the birth of a calf. At night they drank beer on the veranda, and talked honestly under the protective cloak of the black sky and abundant stars.