The Family Doctor

by Debra Oswald

  Anita loved all her Chilean cousins but Fernanda had always been her favourite. After the news about Anita’s dead friend spread to the relatives back in Chile, there were many loving messages and boxes of sweet treats posted to her. Fernanda sent a short, beautiful text and a link to a Spotify playlist she’d put together for Anita.

  Meanwhile, in Sydney, Anita’s mother was cooking on an industrial scale. In emergency mode. The woman already had a full schedule, ferrying Anita’s dad to his many medical appointments, as well as wrangling her own health issues, but she was staying up past midnight preparing batches of pastel de choclo and cazuela to deliver to her daughter in this time of sadness.

  Anita’s freezer was now jammed with containers of Chilean comfort food. She must take some around to Paula’s next time.

  Anita glanced out the side window of the car to see a truckie looking down at her as she danced in the driver’s seat. Anyone cruising past would assume this was a happy woman in high spirits. But it was only the music, the irresistible beat and effervescence of it, making her move like this, in defiance of her true mood. Maybe it was inappropriate, fake, wrong. Still, it felt beneficial, as if she was keeping circulation going to dead limbs and maintaining muscle tone ready for a future when genuine good feelings might return. That was why she’d been playing that cumbia playlist on a constant loop in the car, on walks, in her apartment.

  She didn’t tell Paula about the dancing around the house or the moments when she forgot about Stacey and the kids for stretches of time. Not that Paula would judge harshly. It would be Anita judging herself and putting that on her friend (which was something she must stop doing). In fact, Paula was a generous-spirited person who would appreciate the value in finding joy again. In fact, fuck it—Anita should suggest they go on a trip to Chile together soon. Then again, Paula might be better off travelling with someone else if she wanted to have a fun, joyful time. Maybe their friendship would forever be in a special category, a precious but painful category, draped in black fabric.

  She turned off the music as she neared Lidcombe.

  Anita pulled into the car park of the coroner’s court complex, but she wasn’t there to cover a current inquest. In recent weeks, she’d made several visits, gathering material on past cases for an article she’d pitched to Caroline, the editor of the paper’s weekend magazine: a long feature about how the system failed to protect women and children killed by men.

  Caroline was pushing her to go with the personal angle—‘my friend was murdered’—but Anita baulked at that approach. For one thing, that would feel self-absorbed and tasteless. But more importantly, she wanted to write a ferocious but surgical piece, bristling with statistics and meticulous research. She didn’t want anyone to diminish the power of the story by sympathising with her as a bereaved friend nor to explain it away as personal angst.

  Paula kept expressing doubts about the project, not sure it was wise to wade into this stuff. Anita knew how Paula regarded her: as a person too unstable, too ‘emotionally labile’, to handle such material right now. And sure, Anita could be impulsive and reactive sometimes, but Paula didn’t understand the solid base of her journalistic skills. No point trying to explain or defend herself. And anyway, Paula was only worrying out of love for her.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Anita reassured her. ‘It’s a way to funnel my rage. It’s therapeutic.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Look, doing this project helps me control the urge to punch random men in the face. So it’s therapeutic for those guys, isn’t it?’

  Of course, scrolling through the newspaper files and coroner’s office archives made for hard reading. So many dead woman, so many dead children. So fucking many.

  The reports often showed a common pattern. First, the man would charm the woman, seducing her in the fullest sense of the word. One detail that jumped out at Anita was the number of men who made a point of characterising the woman as the stronger, more dominant person in the relationship. She’d seen Matt do that with his forlorn puppy adoration of Stacey. ‘I love her more than she loves me. There’s an imbalance.’

  Next, the man would isolate the woman from other people in her life. And it would be hard to be more isolated than Stacey had been living on the Maryvale property: off the grid, eleven hours’ drive from friends, with no way to communicate with the outside world.

  Usually, there were threats of violence before the physical abuse began. The safety of the children would be used as a control mechanism. Then threats to kill would be woven into the abuse. Finally, the man would murder her.

  Stacey’s case slid into sharp alignment with the pattern. Recognising the common pattern didn’t suck any of the poison out of her death, but it formed a structure in which Anita could place Stacey’s story when it was too hard to hold it in her head.

  Anita walked into the coroner’s records office and exchanged smiles with the two staff members. Bronwyn and Yianni had become used to her showing up, requesting their help to find documents for the feature article.

  Bronwyn was a short, blocky woman in her late fifties who maintained a short, blocky haircut. Yianni was slightly younger, with silver-haired, dark-eyebrowed Greek good looks.

  Anita’s default setting was to be outgoing. (Sometimes she worried she was excessively gregarious, in a way that made certain people back off.) Both Bronwyn and Yianni could be a little wary and officious, holding tight to their authority in this place, nursing the solemn duty of their jobs. But in the face of Anita’s relentless friendliness, they’d loosened up and turned out to be very helpful. She expressed her gratitude profusely. (Maybe a bit too much so.)

  Before Anita had a chance to mention the case files she was hoping to see this afternoon, her phone vibrated with a message from the newspaper office. The subeditor was querying a few chunks of wording in the court story she’d filed an hour ago. Anita ought to sort out any problems before the piece was lawyered too savagely.

  She held up a finger to indicate to Bronwyn and Yianni that she’d be back in a second, then sat down in the waiting area to respond to the sub’s questions.

  While Anita hunched over her phone, typing, she was aware that Bronwyn had called Yianni over to her desk to look at something on the computer screen. They were conversing in low voices, but certain words spiked in Anita’s hearing and caught her attention.

  ‘Her and the two kids were living at a friend’s place,’ said Bronwyn.

  ‘The friend was a doctor? Is it that one?’ Yianni asked.

  ‘Yep. The GP. That’s who found the bodies.’

  They were talking about Stacey and Paula.

  Anita kept her head down. Presumably they didn’t know about her connection to the case. Just as well—she’d prefer not to get into a discussion about it with them.

  ‘Apparently, no one even told her the husband had been let out of jail,’ said Bronwyn.

  Yianni responded with a groan of disapproval.

  ‘I know—terrible,’ Bronwyn agreed. ‘Have you seen the photos yet? The two kids were shot in the back of the head. Execution-style almost.’

  ‘By their own dad.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a nasty one. In the end, he shot himself in front of the wife’s friend,’ she added.

  This wasn’t a moment of necessary professional discussion of the case. This was straight-out gossip. It hit Anita how ugly gossip could sound. She’d often heard the horror-movie thrill in people’s voices, the titillation they felt, when picking over the details of shocking cases. Anita had been guilty of indulging in such talk plenty of times and she must’ve sounded as unattractive and sticky-beaky as these two. She felt a pang of retrospective shame.

  When Yianni started speculating about the order in which the family members were killed, Anita struggled to tune out their voices and focus on her email.

  But then she heard a different voice.

  ‘Please. Please.’ It was Stacey’s voice.

  Anita jerked her head up and B
ronwyn must have mistaken the shock on her face for curiosity.

  ‘Yeah. Come and look at this, Anita.’ Bronwyn beckoned her closer to the computer monitor. ‘You know that guy who killed his family? The police got this off his phone.’

  Anita moved close enough to see the footage playing on Bronwyn’s screen. She recognised the interior of Paula’s house and the sound of Matt’s voice, his breathing. He walked past the hallway mirror and there was his reflection, holding the phone out in front of him. As he moved into the living room, the picture lurched around, so you could see his runners clomping across the floor. Then, for a brief flash, the rifle was visible in his free hand.

  The image tilted up again and Anita saw Stacey scrambling to her feet near the living room fireplace. Her neck wasn’t bloody—this had been filmed in the moments before he shot her—but she was groggy, as if she’d been knocked down.

  ‘Matt, what are you doing?’ Stacey was saying. ‘Cameron! Cameron, sweetheart—I’m here. I’m here. Please, Matt. Let’s talk. Can we talk? Please.’

  Next the camera angle jerked around to show Matt’s shirt up close and the picture went dark. He must have put the phone in his pocket. But it was still recording audio.

  Matt’s hoarse breathing dominated the sound, but Anita could hear him saying, ‘This is your fault.’

  Stacey’s voice pleaded with him, then two rifle shots tore through the recording, followed by the animal sound of Stacey howling.

  Matt took the phone out of his pocket again and focused the camera on Stacey, her face contorted with shock. A primitive mask of pain.

  ‘This is your fault, Stacey,’ he repeated.

  Stacey lurched towards the dining room where the children had been lying curled together against the skirting board, trying to hide from their father. Then the footage cut out.

  Yianni stared at the monitor, exhaled heavily, then murmured, ‘Far out …’

  ‘Yeah, right?’ said Bronwyn. ‘The guy knocks her unconscious so he can chase the children through the house. But then he waits till she comes to before he shoots them. That psycho wanted to film her reaction as he killed her kids.’

  ‘And—what—was he gonna watch it back later? Like a trophy?’

  ‘Guess so. Except he shot himself. Hang on, maybe we can see …’

  As Bronwyn clicked on the file to watch the footage again, Yianni gave her a warning nudge on the shoulder. She swivelled around on her office chair and saw Anita’s face.

  Anita didn’t speak a word—she would not have been capable—but the other two immediately checked themselves. Possibly they remembered she was connected to this case, or maybe they understood at some gut level.

  Bronwyn paused, cautious, but then inhaled, clearly about to launch into some explanation or apology. Anita didn’t want to listen to any of the possible things that might be said in this moment. She didn’t blame Bronwyn or Yianni, but she didn’t want to engage with them right now.

  She grabbed her stuff, pushed through the door towards the exit, and ran across the car park, hands splayed to hold her bag and notebook and phone and keys against her chest so she didn’t drop anything. She opened the passenger door and let everything tumble onto the seat. She needed to speed away from what she’d seen as quickly as possible.

  But once in the driver’s seat, her hands trembled on the steering wheel and her field of vision was bleached out, as if she’d just stared directly at a bright light. The reality of that video was pressing in on her skull—too potent, too enormous, for the small, sealed space of the car. But she couldn’t move. And she wasn’t fit to drive.

  Anita had been sitting there, stranded in the car, for fifteen minutes when the phone rang—Paula on the caller ID. She should’ve let it go through to voicemail, but she was caught off guard.

  ‘Paula. Hi.’

  ‘Oh, you are there. Where are you?’

  ‘Uh—in the car. Parked.’

  ‘What’s wrong? You sound—’

  ‘Nothing. I’m okay.’

  ‘I can hear you’re not okay,’ said Paula.

  ‘I’m just—I’ve just … The police found a video on Matt’s phone.’

  ‘From that day?’

  ‘Yeah. He filmed Stacey.’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Just now. By accident.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I dunno. It’s …’

  ‘What about the kids? Does it show the kids?’

  ‘You hear the gun but you can’t see the—y’know—the moment, thank Christ.’

  ‘But on the video, can you tell if—I mean, does Stacey see what happened?’

  ‘Yes. He wanted her to watch him do it. Before he shoots, he says, “This is your fault.” Says it again afterwards. Then the film cuts out.’

  There was a silence on the phone line.

  Eventually Paula spoke, stepping carefully from one word to another, as if trying to maintain control of her own thought process. ‘Well, so, it’s what we thought probably happened.’

  ‘I guess it is. But knowing for sure is—fuck … We can’t hope it was different. We can’t kid ourselves.’

  ‘No,’ Paula said, but then she went very quiet on the other end of the phone.

  ‘You still there?’ Anita asked. ‘I’m sorry … I shouldn’t’ve told you.’ Blurting it out in the moment—Anita immediately saw that had been a mistake. ‘Do you want to grab dinner tonight or … ?’

  ‘Can’t. I’m working until nine. And I’ve got a patient waiting right now. Talk tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. For sure. Bye, lovely.’

  The instant the call ended, Anita regretted even mentioning the video existed. The details would have come out at the inquest in any case, but that would be many months down the track, when they’d all be better fortified to handle it. Not that Anita ever described the footage in graphic detail. But Paula would be imagining every beat of it anyway.

  A car pulled into the car park, and Anita saw Rohan Mehta hop out of the driver’s seat while an older detective, Gary Walsh, emerged from the passenger side.

  As the two cops headed towards the entrance together, Rohan spotted Anita sitting in her car. He waved hello, squinting against the afternoon light that bounced off the windscreen. As he walked further on, he must have caught a clearer view of her face through the glass, because he stopped and exchanged a few words with Walsh. Then the older cop continued into the building on his own while Rohan approached Anita’s car.

  Through the side window, he said, ‘Are you okay?’

  Anita shook her head.

  Rohan indicated the front passenger seat, miming Should I get in?

  Anita nodded, then swept the notebook and bag and other stuff onto the floor so he could sit.

  ‘I saw the phone video.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rohan sighed. ‘I’m sorry. How?’

  When she explained, he wanted to march straight inside and tear strips off Bronwyn, but Anita urged him to leave it be.

  ‘This isn’t anyone’s fault,’ she argued. ‘Well, it’s Matt’s fault. Let’s save our anger for fucking Matt.’

  Rohan nodded, though he still didn’t look happy about it.

  ‘And the video only confirms what we already thought happened,’ Anita said. ‘As you said: no twists.’ She attempted a dry smile but her mouth was quivering.

  ‘Are you okay to drive?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Anita saw him looking at her hands, which were jiggling on the steering wheel. ‘Do you believe I’m a danger on the roads in my current state?’

  ‘I do. Why don’t I drive you home?’ he offered. ‘I can ask Walsh to handle things here and bring my car back later.’

  On the half-hour drive from Lidcombe to Newtown, Rohan driving Anita’s little hatchback, they agreed not to talk about the video or about any of their mutual work stuff, given that it all revolved around people being murdered. They tried listening to news radio, but that threatened to add another grim layer to
the mood. Then they tried an easy listening music station, but the wailing ballads with their cloying string arrangements made them both sick. Finally, Anita played the cumbia music playlist and chatted about her many cousins.

  In the car park under Anita’s building, Rohan handed back her car keys with a small courtly bow.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Very much.’

  He smiled and shrugged. No problem.

  ‘Look, um, if you fancy some early dinner,’ said Anita, ‘I happen to have a freezer full of Chilean comfort food.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Was that “Oh” as in “How do I politely sidle away from this shaky woman and her offer of a stodgy corn-based meal” or “Oh” as in “I would love to eat a stodgy but tasty corn-based meal but I’m not sure if it’s a genuine invitation or she’s just being polite”?’

  ‘The latter,’ he said.

  ‘Goodo. And it’s a genuine invitation.’

  They headed upstairs, and Anita watched Rohan Mehta pace around the small living room of her flat making work calls. She liked the way he was in his police detective mode—steady, well-mannered, firm. She liked the way he scrunched up his face slightly to concentrate as he listened, and how every now and then he would nod or laugh softly at something the person on the other end of the phone was saying.

  Meanwhile, Anita extracted a terracotta dish of pastel de choclo from the freezer to defrost in the microwave and then heat up in the oven. She assembled the most interesting salad she could out of the vegetable matter in her fridge.

  By the time Rohan finished his string of calls, she’d opened some wine. By the time the food was ready to eat, they’d finished most of the bottle.

  The top part of the choclo—the slightly sweet, pudding-y corn layer—had caramelised around the edges the way Anita hoped it would and the bottom layer of beef, onions, olives and spices was as juicy with flavour as it should be.

  ‘This dish is kind of a Chilean cottage pie. I realise it isn’t exactly sophisticated,’ Anita said.

  ‘Yummy is what it is,’ Rohan mumbled around a mouthful of food. ‘Thank you for introducing me to choclo—never heard of it before.’