You Had It Coming Page 4

  ‘Twelve years ago now,’ Megan continues in a voice that sounds very far away. ‘It took me a while to recognise him. He looked a lot older. And he was the last person I expected to see. I still can’t believe the coincidence …’

  Bridget is on high alert. Cold hard fact: coincidences are often not coincidences at all.

  She has a thousand questions to ask but suddenly there’s the crackle of the radio.

  Car 482. Category 2A, construction-site fall … Lucas and Megan are on their feet and already halfway out of the kitchen.

  ‘What was the verdict of the trial?’ Bridget calls after them.

  A beat before Megan turns around. ‘Not guilty … Aren’t they all?’

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have it on account that Megan Lowe has a quiet nature. We have heard evidence from her pastoral care teacher, Mrs O’Neill, who read us an excerpt from last year’s school report: ‘Megan is a hardworking and introverted student who sometimes finds it difficult to voice her feelings and thoughts. Next year I hope to see Megan grow in confidence and I will be encouraging her to speak up both in class and with her friends.’ Megan has a history of being passive, of not voicing how she truly feels, and of internalising her thoughts and true opinions. We all know that introverts are good, intelligent people. But no amount of thinking can substitute for talking. There are times in life when we need to articulate what we want, and – more crucially – what we don’t want. Megan didn’t need to give chapter and verse on the night in question. Monosyllables would have done the job. She could have said ‘No’. She could have said ‘Stop’. She could have said ‘Don’t’. She said none of the above, and my clients should not have to pay for the fact that Megan Lowe, at age seventeen, had trouble speaking up.

  7

  MEGAN

  ‘Right at the lights. All clear.’

  It’s Lucas’s turn to drive today, which is a relief because Megan feels off-kilter. She is in charge of navigation and the MDT, which require less decision-making.

  ‘Another right coming up. Watch that white car.’

  Lucas hasn’t brought up what happened in the kitchen. He’s waiting for a lull and there hasn’t been one. A construction-site accident. A schoolyard concussion. A pedestrian versus a reversing car. Now they’re on the way to a multi-vehicle accident. One of the drivers, an elderly woman, is reportedly unable to leave her car. She hit her head on impact. God knows what other harm has been done: her bones will be more brittle than a young person’s.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Three crumpled cars in a neat row of destruction. The first one appears to have stopped suddenly, the vehicle behind rear-ending it before getting rear-ended itself. Relatively high speed, going by the concertinaed bonnets and splintered windscreens. The elderly woman is in the middle car, damaged from both ends. The other cars appear to be empty. A brown-haired girl is sitting on the kerb. A man, with a cut on his forehead, stands back to allow access to the old woman. She’s leaning forward, into the airbag. Conscious. Wincing in pain. The car door is open, which is a bonus. In accidents like these, the doors often become crumpled and stuck, requiring the assistance of Fire and Rescue: extra levels of stress and complexity.

  ‘Hello there. What’s your name?’ Lucas asks her.

  ‘Shirley Wallis.’

  ‘I’m Lucas and this is Megan. What day is it today?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Do you remember everything?’

  ‘I do … Unfortunately.’

  Her sense of humour seems to be intact. That’s a good thing.

  ‘Was anyone else in the car at the time of the crash?’

  ‘Just silly old me.’

  Megan goes around to the other side of the car and opens the passenger door.

  ‘Just pulling up the handbrake and putting the car into park, Shirley,’ she explains, sliding in next to her. ‘Are you on blood thinners?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can you run your tongue around your mouth for me?’ The old woman complies. Megan presses fingers gently against her forehead. ‘Pain?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Gave it a right wallop. Saw stars. It was like one of those cartoons.’

  ‘How about your chest? Is it hurting?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t know the airbag would be so bloody hard. Took the wind right out of me.’

  Lucas is taking her blood pressure while Megan continues her assessment.

  ‘Any neck pain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pelvis area and legs?’

  ‘Just as rickety as usual.’

  Megan uses scissors to cut open her top. ‘You have some nasty seatbelt abrasions there, Shirley. Now Lucas is going to hook you up to the ECG so we can check your heart.’

  ‘I haven’t got a heart!’

  Megan laughs. ‘How old are you, Shirley?’

  ‘I’m ninety-one, but in my head I’m still nineteen.’

  Lucas and Megan share a smile. It’s moments like this that make it all worthwhile. Shirley – battered, bruised and after the fright of her life – still able to joke around.

  Lucas turns his smile on Shirley. ‘Considering you don’t have a heart, it’s beating just fine.’

  Megan leaves Shirley temporarily in his care. Time to quickly check on the other drivers. Make sure that their injuries aren’t serious. You can’t be too careful. Sometimes it’s the people who appear to be okay who are hurting the most.

  ‘Coming for a drink?’ Lucas asks after they sign off for the night.

  Oh God. He wants to talk. Megan doesn’t want to talk. She is depleted, particles of her left behind with each of today’s patients. What she needs is an early night: sleep puts her back together.

  ‘Nah, too tired.’ She hitches her bag on to her shoulder.

  They’re always tired at the end of a shift. Impossible not to be. But one look at his face is enough to tell her that he’s not going to let her get away with that excuse.

  ‘You can’t avoid me for ever, you know.’

  True. And there is a part of her that wants to get this over with. Blurt out the full story in all its ugly, mortifying detail. It has been so long since she has spoken about it to anyone.

  He senses that she’s torn. ‘Come on. Just one. Daniella’s expecting me home by nine, anyway.’

  Daniella is his long-term girlfriend. She’s a dentist, very precise in everything she does. Lucas deviating from an agreed plan would annoy her intensely.

  ‘Okay, okay. The usual?’

  ‘The usual’ is a wine bar in Pymble.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll see you there.’

  It’s a ten-minute drive. On the way, Megan passes the stretch of road where today’s car accident occurred. Some left-over debris is scattered near the traffic island: shards of broken glass and part of a wheel arch. Dear old Shirley, all that vulnerability and bravado. Hopefully, she has family and friends who can visit her in hospital. It’s quite shocking, the number of elderly people who are truly on their own. Some of them never married or had children. Others have kids who are interstate or overseas or can’t be bothered. At Shirley’s age she’s likely to have outlived her siblings and most of her friends. Perhaps even her children. It’s one of Megan’s biggest fears. Getting to that age and being on her own.

  Lucas – probably due to some lucky guesswork regarding routes and off-peak traffic lights – gets to the bar first and even has a glass of red wine waiting for her. The place is only half-full: plenty of free bar stools. Megan dumps her bag and jacket on one, sits on another. They clink glasses, wordlessly toasting to another day survived.

  He doesn’t make small talk. He’s waiting. There’s nothing but kindness in his brown eyes. His body is angled towards hers. Tell me. It’s okay. Tell me.

  A gulp of red wine. A ragged breath.

  ‘We were seventeen, in our last year of school. Two stupid girls who thought they knew everything. It was a house party, there was a lot of alcohol …’

  Her gaze slides away from
his, towards the entrance, where a group of women are in the process of coming in. It’s easier not to look at him.

  ‘To tell the truth, I can’t remember much. I got very drunk very quickly. I remember wanting to go home but Jess wanted to stay. I remember staggering into one of the bedrooms, craving sleep. Then I have vague memories of someone kissing me, lying on top of me. I must have passed out after that.’

  What a silly young girl! Drinking so much, inviting trouble, laying herself open to all sorts of risks. Less painful to pretend that the ‘silly young girl’ is someone else, a stranger.

  ‘It was light when I woke up, about six a.m. My head felt like it was going to crack open. I was shivering, I had no clothes on, neither did Jess … She was asleep next to me on the bed. We weren’t the kind of girls to sleep naked next to each other. Like most teenagers, we were horribly self-conscious about our bodies …’

  Confusion. Acute embarrassment. Where were their clothes? What had happened? Megan couldn’t get her thoughts to gel. Her head was weighted to the pillow. Her throat was raw and swollen; it hurt to swallow. In the pit of her stomach was a weird sensation, something she would later identify as foreboding. For years afterwards, she would wake up with that sensation: something terribly bad – but as yet unidentified – had happened.

  ‘My clothes were strewn on the floor. When I stood up, I saw bloodstains on the sheets. And I realised that it wasn’t just my head and throat that were sore …’

  Shame. Horror. Dressing clumsily before shaking Jess awake. Seeing her face as the truth hit home. Nothing would ever be the same again. Least of all their friendship.

  Lucas has put his arms around her. His embrace is warm, solid, dangerously addictive. It would be nice to stay here. It would be nice to pretend that they’re more than friends and colleagues. To forget about Daniella. Megan remembers an instant spark of liking and attraction on their first job together, before being devastated to learn that he had a girlfriend. The irony was that he’d met Daniella only a month earlier. A month!

  He pulls back, chocolate eyes brimming with sympathy. ‘So, William Newson got them off?’

  Megan blinks, unable to hold his stare. ‘He twisted the facts so that Jess and I looked like criminals instead of victims. We were liars. We were risk-takers. We had been excessively and illegally drinking. He was so good at his job even I believed it was all our fault by the end of the trial.’

  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Jessica Foster’s school reports had comments of a different kind to her friend’s. Mrs Goulding, her school principal, read some of the following excerpts to the court. Semester 1, 2006: ‘Jessica is extremely disruptive in class and fails to show respect for her teachers or for the learning environment of other students.’ Semester 2, 2006: ‘Jessica’s behaviour has deteriorated this year. She has failed to meet uniform standards, attendance standards and behaviour standards. We hope to see a significant improvement in her final year.’ Unfortunately, there wasn’t an improvement: there were numerous detentions and a suspension for drinking alcohol on school premises. Mrs Goulding confirmed that Jessica was pushing boundaries for a girl her age. We all have friends like that, don’t we? The reckless ones. The ones who talk us into stuff we know we shouldn’t do. The ones who look for excitement, for trouble, and can’t comply with the rules, no matter how many times they’re punished. We all know people like that, and I’m not saying a girl like Jessica is unusual. What I’m saying is, don’t go breaking rules and then look for someone else to blame when it all goes wrong. Step up and take ownership for your actions. Admit that you knowingly engaged in risk-taking behaviour. Don’t point the finger at two young men who did nothing wrong. Don’t ruin their lives because you broke one rule too many.

  8

  JESS

  Saturday mornings are busy, with back-to-back classes mostly populated by corporate types whose long work hours make it difficult to come during the week. Each Saturday they arrive with a week’s worth of frustration and angst. An hour later, they’re red-faced, sweating profusely and realigned for the week ahead. Jess finds the transformation gratifying.

  ‘One, two, rip … One, two, hook … Pick it up … Fast hands. Great work … Swap it over. Let’s go.’

  Each class operates on a rotation system. Five people per station: punching bags, skipping ropes, agility ladders and squatting against the brick wall. Rounds of two minutes, with short breaks to get from one station to the next. The usual soundtrack: the thwack of gloves making contact, the whistle of the skipping ropes, grunts and moans, Rihanna playing at full blast.

  ‘Whoever’s on the right moves first. Don’t cross your feet over. Try to catch up with each other. Quick feet.’

  Jess smothers a grin as she observes the disarray on the agility ladder. Performance tends to be directly related to age. The younger ones are nimbler and scurry along the rungs without having to stare at their feet the whole time. For the older ones it requires more concentration. Five push-ups are the punishment for tripping up.

  ‘Pump it up. Keep it tight. Last thirty. Faster. Nice work. Swap it over.’

  Saturdays attract more women, in vests and leggings and hitting the punching bags with such ferocity you’ve got to give them credit. The men tend to be grey-haired, mostly in their forties and fifties. Many are overweight and unfit. Some are decidedly weak. A few weeks of training, and the improvement is substantial. Improvement in the serious fighters is more subtle, and they’re not as grateful for it.

  ‘Has everyone been twice around the circuit? Okay, let’s get on the floor and do some core work.’

  A flurry as they unwrap the strapping from their hands and spread out on the mat. The more experienced ones grab a balance ball.

  ‘Everyone on your elbows and toes. Push down your lower back. Now hold the plank. Twenty more seconds. Hold … Ten … Hold …’

  Sun is spilling through the large corner window on to the blue exercise mat. Twenty people are on the floor, holding their plank position with varying degrees of success. Their faces are set with concentration and resolve. Vince is sitting at the desk, tapping at the keyboard with two fingers, catching up on admin. He glances up and points to the kettle. Jess nods: she could kill for a coffee. Vince is always looking out for her, in small ways and big. He’ll have her coffee ready at the end of class and she can sip it while chatting to everyone. Eventually, this lot will leave and the next lot will arrive. Full of angst and surliness. Another transformation to begin.

  Jess’s shift finishes at lunchtime. There’s a text waiting on her phone from Alex.

  Job bigger than I thought. Won’t be home till after five

  She and Alex left home at the same time this morning: 5.30 a.m. He dropped her to the station on his way, his stubble scratching her face as they kissed goodbye. Saturday mornings are busy for him, too: working mums and dads keen to get stuck into their gardens, seeking help with mowing, weeding and pruning. He thought he might be finished by early afternoon, but a job turning out to be bigger than expected is a common occurrence. They’re meeting friends for dinner tonight; still plenty of time to get ready if he’s home by five. A shower, an optional shave, any old thing to wear. Alex’s lack of vanity is one of the things Jess loves about him.

  She pops her phone into her backpack before slinging it over her shoulder. ‘I’m off, Vince. See ya Monday.’

  The gym is closed on Sundays. Vince is old-fashioned like that. In his view, Sunday is a day for rest, families and religion. If it were left to Jess, she’d open up in the morning at least. For the people who don’t want to rest or visit their families or go to church. For people like her.

  Vince glances up from the computer screen. His gaze is bleary and affectionate. ‘Take it easy, Jess.’

  The roller door is at half-mast; Jess ducks underneath. When she straightens, Megan is there, right in front of her. She stifles a scream: not the best greeting after all this time.

  ‘Shit! You scared me.’

  ‘Sorr
y. I was just about to knock.’ Megan glances dubiously at the roller door.

  An awkward silence, where they size each other up. Megan has put on some weight: her face is round and glowing with health. She’s in her paramedic uniform. The navy suits her. She looks clean, crisp and competent.

  ‘Sorry,’ Megan says again. ‘I should have texted. I came on impulse.’ She looks around at the other warehouses, most of which are closed for the weekend. ‘Look, is there somewhere we can go and talk?’

  ‘There’s a coffee place on the main road. This way.’

  They fall into step. It’s like walking next to a stranger, a wary silence and distance between their bodies. Jess hasn’t spoken to Megan since her father’s funeral, but the friendship was gone long before that.

  ‘Here we are.’ The café is nothing special. Clean and utilitarian. Metal tables and chairs, which are uncomfortable if you sit on them too long. Basic menu and order at the counter.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jess asks, more brusquely than intended.

  ‘Just a tea, thanks.’

  There’s no one else in the café. The order is placed and Jess is sitting back down in less than a minute.

  ‘A detective came to see me,’ Megan says carefully.

  Jess hurtles back in time. Detectives hammering her with questions, different ways of asking the same thing, trying to catch her out for inconsistencies. Detectives sending her for a medical examination, which was excruciatingly intrusive and embarrassing, until she learned that a courtroom can be more intrusive than any medical procedure. All at her own instigation. Megan wanted to keep it between themselves, to get on with their lives and not make the same mistake again. But Jess wanted her day in court. She wanted justice. And because she was the stronger personality, that’s what happened. A full-scale brawl. Detectives, lawyers, journalists, the public, a judge and jury. She got her fight, her day in court (three weeks, actually). And they lost. A unanimous verdict. A knock-out, to use a boxing analogy.