You Had It Coming Read online

  While Megan was fleeing from country to country, Jess began her career as a fighter, notching up titles along the way. Fight or flight, they say. Eventually, Megan stopped her flight and came home. The question is if Jess ever stopped fighting. She hates being the loser. God knows, she can hold a grudge. According to her, she was at the gym on the night of the shooting, and has witnesses who can confirm it. What about Alex? Where was he? Does he have witnesses, too?

  Alex’s parents have a cattle farm in the Hunter Valley. Jess used to talk about the farm; Megan can remember seeing some photos. The farm is large, several hundred acres, and, like many farms in New South Wales, besieged with kangaroos, rabbits and foxes. This translates to two things: dirt bikes to access far-off acres and livestock; and guns to control the pest animals.

  I want to kill that cold-hearted bastard. He’s worse than any rapist.

  Jess didn’t have to leave the gym. She could have asked Alex to take on this fight for her.

  11

  JESS

  Jess wakes up with a cracking headache, one of the worst ever. It feels like someone is tightening a vice over the front of her skull. The prospect of moving one centimetre to the left or right seems catastrophic. She lies perfectly still, fantasising about an ice-cold glass of water and a tiny white pill, but unable to mobilise herself to rise from bed to fetch them. She can hear the shower running. Alex will be out in a few minutes. She’ll wait for him.

  Her eyes close, shutting off the brightness slicing through a crack in the curtains. Nausea rises up her throat. The migraines come at random times. She can have a month without any, then suffer three in a row. The medication is effective if it’s taken at the onset. Waking up with one is the worst-case scenario, its stranglehold already established.

  ‘Hey, don’t you need to get going?’ Alex says when he emerges from the bathroom and notices that she’s still in bed.

  ‘Migraine,’ she mutters, keeping her eyes half closed. ‘Can you get me some water and my tablets? And when you’ve done that, can you call Vince for me?’

  ‘Sure, babe.’ He brushes his calloused hand against her forehead before heading to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge door opening and water being poured. Then the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, thuds that resonate disproportionately in her head. He’s looking for her box of medication.

  ‘Second shelf above the toaster,’ she calls out.

  He’s back. She forces her head off the pillow, pinching the tiny tablet before placing it on her tongue and glugging back most of the water. The liquid sloshes in her stomach. Another wave of nausea.

  ‘Vince,’ she reminds him as she flops back on the pillows. ‘Tell him I’ll be fine in a few hours.’

  Vince understands better than anyone. Concussions cause hypersensitive areas of the brain, which cause migraines. Vince had his fair share of concussions, too.

  Alex calls Vince while he’s making breakfast. Disjointed words float back to the bedroom; Jess’s brain hurts too much to segue them together. He sticks his head around the door when he’s done.

  ‘Vince says take the full day off. He doesn’t want to see you till tomorrow.’

  ‘All I need is a couple of hours.’ She sighs, hating the thought of inconveniencing her boss, who is always so accommodating.

  Alex leaves shortly afterwards, the front door crashing behind him. Jess winces on her own behalf, and on behalf of their elderly neighbours. Alex doesn’t do it on purpose. A certain clumsiness comes with being so tall.

  She falls back asleep. It’s ten when she wakes for the second time. The headache has receded, leaving her body tender, her mouth thick-tongued. Sunlight pours through the crack in the curtains, and she can cope with the brightness, which is a positive sign.

  She uses the toilet, splashes water on her face, and brushes the gunge from her mouth. In the kitchen, she fills a glass with cold water and takes it outside to the balcony, where she sits down gingerly on one of the deckchairs. The sun is filtered, winterish. Deep breaths in and out, each intake opening up those defective vessels in her brain. Alex has built a vertical garden on one of the walls, Boston fern interspersed with white and purple violets. The opposite wall has shelves laden with pots of rosemary, thyme and other winter-proof herbs. This is the only part of the apartment that has Alex’s stamp on it. This and the bathroom sink, the white enamel perpetually stubbled with his facial hair.

  She sends him a text.

  Feeling much better. Sitting outside and enjoying our urban garden.

  He must have his hands dirty because his reply takes about fifteen minutes.

  Great you’re feeling better. Just heading out to your parents’ now. Want to tag along?

  Jess’s mother asked him to quote on some landscaping around the pool. She has never used his services before, other projects coming and going without any mention of whether Alex might be suitable for the job. Jess and Alex are not sure if this change of heart means that she has finally accepted that he’s here to stay, or if it’s coming from a belated sense of politeness. Maybe it’s a means for her to keep an eye on him and come up with a fresh list of reasons why he’s all wrong for her daughter.

  It should be an easy answer. Jess has nothing pressing to do. The fresh air will be good for her. God knows, she is overdue a visit home. But it’s not easy. It never is with her parents.

  Okay. If you think you need a bodyguard.

  Jess slides back the passenger seat of the ute, so she can stretch out. There’s something tucked underneath: a black puffer jacket.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ she asks, holding it up.

  Alex gives it a quick glance, takes a moment to think. ‘Ramsey must’ve left it when we were out last week.’

  Jess brushes loose soil from the polyester fabric. Small brown stains persist. ‘Well, it’s going to need a wash.’

  ‘Ramsey won’t care. Probably something he wears at work.’

  Ramsey works in construction; Alex is right, he won’t be put off by a bit of dirt.

  Jess rolls it up and puts it on the middle console, where Alex is more likely to remember to return it.

  Alex pulls out from the kerb, pressing heavily on the accelerator. He usually drives with little regard for the rules of the road, but today is another level. Orange lights are a challenge, as is the slight loss of control on rounding corners. Of course, he’s driving too fast on entering her parents’ driveway. Gravel sprays in all directions. Jess can picture her mother’s pained expression.

  ‘Fucking hell, babe.’ She gives him an angry stare. ‘Stop giving her something to complain about.’

  The front door opens before they’re even close to it. Yep, she definitely heard their arrival. Margaret Foster’s frown says more than any words.

  ‘Jessica, I wasn’t expecting you. Don’t you have work?’

  ‘Day off,’ Jess replies in a tone that doesn’t encourage further questions. She doesn’t want her mother to know about the migraines. She’ll only get started on all the reasons why she should never have stepped into a boxing ring in the first place.

  ‘Come through,’ Margaret says, waving them into the hall.

  Alex glances at his work boots. ‘I can go around the side if you want?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. The floors need a wash anyway.’

  Margaret has never been pedantic about cleanliness, which probably saved her sanity when the house was full: four children, two dogs, school friends constantly coming and going. Jess’s dad used to call the house Central Station. Now it’s so quiet it’s like a morgue. Even the dogs are gone. Her mum and dad like to travel, so when Poppy and Samson died of old age, they decided not to replace them.

  Jess and Alex follow Margaret down the hall. Framed photographs line the walls on either side. Natasha and Edward receiving their Doctors of Medicine (Natasha is an oncologist now and Edward is in cardiology, like his father). A black-and-white photo of Angus in action with his clarinet at the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. They’
re a family of music and medicine. Even her father, when he’s not performing bypass surgery, enjoys a tinkle on the piano.

  Jess is last in the line-up of family photographs. Sweat glistening on her face, her lower lip swollen but still grinning from ear to ear. The referee is holding up her arm to signify the victory: her first Australian title. Not a musical bone in her body. Not a jot of interest in biology, chemistry or anything to do with medicine.

  Where did you come from? Margaret used to ask in a perplexed tone when Jess was younger. She still has the same question hovering on her lips, but knows better than to vocalise it these days.

  The kitchen is Jess’s favourite part of the house. White country-style cabinetry, pale-grey subway tiles and a solid wood countertop: rustic charm with a price tag. The kitchen always had the reassuring smell of food, a curry simmering on the stovetop, or muffins baking in the oven. If her mother wasn’t with students in the piano room, she could be found in the kitchen, her bony fingers gripping a wooden spoon, preparing to feed the hordes.

  Margaret yanks open the sliding doors that lead to the backyard.

  ‘Over here,’ she says, striding towards the pool. ‘This whole area needs work, Alex. The retaining wall is crumbling away, and this garden bed needs rebuilding. I want to put in some screening, mature trees that won’t take a lifetime to grow.’

  ‘Planning on some skinny-dipping, Margaret?’ Alex asks cheekily.

  Jess smothers a laugh. He shouldn’t tease her; their relationship isn’t good enough to withstand it. Right from the start, she made it clear she didn’t like him.

  Very rough and ready, isn’t he?

  I suppose your connection is a physical one, rather than intellectual.

  Little seeds of criticism, planted suitably apart, like fledgling trees!

  What’s in this relationship for you, Jessica? I see what’s in it for him – free rent, et cetera – but what do you get out of it?

  They were at a family barbecue when she came out with that one. Jess flounced off without vocalising her response. This is what’s in it for me, Mother: great sex, no criticism or hassle, someone who lets me be me.

  Alex runs his hands through the soil of the garden bed, presumably checking its quality. He uses his phone to take photographs of the wall, which looks like it needs to be repointed. Then he produces a measuring tape from his pocket.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Margaret says abruptly. ‘Come on, Jessica. Let’s get the kettle on.’

  Jess perches on one of the kitchen stools while her mother empties the kettle into the sink and refills it with fresh water.

  ‘Been a while since we’ve seen you, Jessica. I thought you might have at least phoned when William Newson got gunned down outside his house.’

  Fucking hell. Straight into it. Jess doesn’t feel strong enough today.

  ‘Look, Mum, I really, really don’t want to discuss William Newson … How’s Dad?’

  Margaret blinks. She’s a bit like Jess: it’s hard for her to walk away from something when her mind is set on it.

  ‘Has he got theatre today?’ Jess prompts her along.

  Margaret’s nod has more than a hint of reluctance. ‘A triple bypass. Very complex from the sounds of it. How’s work going for you?’

  ‘Fine. Good. The gym keeps getting busier and busier.’

  ‘You’re looking a bit pale. Are you feeling okay?’

  Margaret knows. She might not understand Jess, but she has always had the uncanny ability to see right through her. What have you done, Jessica? Tell the whole truth. We can’t help you if you only give us half the story.

  Jess adjusts her position on the stool. ‘Woke up with a bit of a headache. But it’s gone now.’

  Margaret gives her a scrutinising stare. ‘I wish you wouldn’t—’

  ‘Don’t, Mum. Please don’t. I’m fine. And I’m happy.’

  Margaret turns sharply. She’s rummaging in the freezer. A plastic container lands on the counter in front of Jess. Margaret extracts some frozen muffins.

  ‘Banana and vanilla. Have to freeze them these days, otherwise they go to waste.’

  The microwave door pings open. Jess’s stomach constricts with hunger and memories. Sometimes she gives the wrong impression. It was a happy childhood. Yes, she was different from her siblings, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t warmth or love. Margaret made sure the pantry and fridge were well stocked, and there was always a cooked dinner that catered for a few hangers-on. Friends would come for a swim and stay for dinner, then reappear at the breakfast table the next morning. Banter and squabbles at mealtimes. Excitement from the dogs when they got home from wherever they were. The sound of Margaret’s students playing their scales on the piano. ‘C sharp,’ she would correct them, in the same exasperated tone she used for her own children.

  Jessica, life would be so much easier for all of us if you just toed the line!

  Jess was the rebellious child. Pushing the boundaries, at school and at home. Ditching classes. Lying about her whereabouts. Raiding her dad’s drinks cabinet (a predictable story that ends with vomiting on her bedroom carpet). Pretty normal teenage antics. Until that house party, until the rape, until the trial. That’s when Jess recognised the dangers of having too much money, and the illusion that money can actually protect you. As a result, she keeps a distance from this life, and from her parents; too easy to get sucked back in.

  She made herself a promise after the trial: her mother and father would never have to pay another cent for her. Make her own way, pay her own way.

  Next time Jess fucks up, it’s on her alone.

  12

  BRIDGET

  Bridget is parked outside Suzanne Newson’s house, waiting for Dave to join her. She’s seeking a third opinion on William Newson’s ex-wife. Is Suzanne as congenial and harmless as first impressions suggested? She admitted that the divorce had been acrimonious, and Bridget and Katrina didn’t press for details. Her ex-husband’s life had been hanging by a thread; she was upset and in no fit state to be interrogated. Now, her ex-husband is dead, and after meeting with their son, Joshua, Bridget has a better handle on what questions to ask this woman. For a start, the specifics behind that gnarly word ‘acrimonious’. Was there a disagreement regarding assets or spousal maintenance? Or maybe bitterness generated by deceit or infidelity? Or perhaps it was years and years of ingrained resentment, leading to an inability to see eye to eye on anything at all, let alone the terms of a divorce. Or maybe, as Joshua alluded to, there were ideological differences.

  All those girls can’t be lying.

  Dave pulls up in a squad car. He gets out, straightening his tie. He and Bridget converge on the footpath. Because it’s just the two of them, they exchange a hug. He smells of coffee and sandalwood aftershave.

  ‘Bridget! We must stop meeting like this.’

  It’s obvious that he’s pleased to be working with her on the investigation. Homicide don’t have to involve detectives from local area command but Bridget tries to whenever she can. If the shoe were on the other foot, she’d hate being frozen out. Besides, Dave has invaluable local knowledge: CCTV locations, hide-outs and rat runs, ex-cons and current criminals living nearby. He has also orchestrated the search of more than a thousand rubbish bins in the surrounding area. No evidence was found, but that doesn’t detract from the gigantic effort or Dave’s stoic approach to the task.

  A bottle-green fence protects Suzanne’s colourful, well-tended garden from the road. It’s the tail end of winter, rainfall has been woefully scarce; someone has clearly put a lot of time and effort into this garden.

  The front door is the same bottle-green as the fence. Bridget raps on it loudly. A growl resonates from somewhere inside, followed by loud barking.

  ‘That sounds like a big dog,’ Dave comments warily.

  ‘It’s the little ones you need to watch out for.’ Bridget met the dog – a Golden Retriever – last week. She can’t remember its name, only that it was one hundred
per cent friendly.

  The dog bounds outside as soon as the door is opened.

  ‘Come back here, Mabel … Mabel! Mabel!’

  The dog pays no attention to its mistress, heading straight for Dave, jumping up on its hind legs.

  ‘Mabel! Mabel! Get down!’ Suzanne is wearing similar clothes to last week: tailored pants, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, sensible shoes. Her short grey hair is neatly combed, her face plump and exasperated.

  She smiles apologetically at Dave. ‘Sorry about that. She’s nearly ten and still acts like a puppy.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. People aren’t always so pleased to see me.’ He sticks out his hand. ‘Detective Sergeant David Nesbitt.’

  The dog doubles back to Bridget. She gives its head a ruffle.

  They follow Suzanne into the back of the house. The mid-morning sun illuminates the sparse furnishings: a floral sofa, a small table with two chairs, a TV perched on an old-fashioned wooden unit. The house and contents are in stark contrast to the multi-level architect dwelling of her ex-husband.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ Bridget enquires, a question she didn’t ask last week.

  ‘I bought it two years ago, after the divorce. Still haven’t got around to properly furnishing it.’

  Haven’t got around to, or not able to afford to? It doesn’t look like Suzanne came out of the divorce particularly well.

  ‘I was admiring your garden on the way in,’ Bridget says, sitting next to Dave on the sofa. ‘Mine’s parched. Not sure how much longer the plants will last with this drought.’

  Suzanne smiles. ‘The water restrictions make it difficult. Most people don’t have the time to hand water … Can I get either of you anything to drink?’

  ‘No thanks, we’re fine,’ Bridget assures her without checking with Dave. ‘We don’t want to bother you for too long, Suzanne. It’s been a difficult week for you and the family. We just want to follow up on a few things. Sorry in advance about the personal nature of these questions …’