by Debra Oswald
‘Umm—I don’t know if that’s …’
Santino stood up, prowling the space between the sofas, wanting to position himself closer to Paula’s bag. He was jittery, the pitch of his voice rising, like a kid building to a tantrum.
‘Come on,’ he urged, managing a smile but barely. ‘If you don’t want it, no point wasting high-quality medical-grade stuff. And I’m doing you a favour if I stop you using it, yeah?’
‘No, look, I should probably go home.’
And that was when Santino flared into sudden, intense anger—exactly the way several witnesses had described during the trial. As Paula went to stand up, he lunged down to bellow in her face. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot? You came back here with me because you wanted me to give you an excuse to use that stuff. Right? Right? I’m right and you know it, you stuck-up bitch.’
Paula had put herself into this situation on purpose and now it was clear she couldn’t handle it. She’d been a fool ever to think she was a person who could do something like this. She needed to abandon any plan and get out of there rapidly.
She shrank away from him. ‘Please, I’d just like to leave.’
‘Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?’
‘I don’t think you’re an idiot. But I want to go now.’
Paula slid her bum along the slippery leather upholstery to shift closer to the door.
‘You prick-teasing bitch! Did you honestly think you could go on and on all fucking night about that pure stuff in your bag and then just walk out? Are you trying to make me look like an idiot? Fuck me dead …’
‘I’m not trying to—look, I’m sorry. I should go.’
Paula clutched her handbag under her arm and stood up, but then lost her balance on the ridiculous high shoes. That gave Santino a chance to grab for the bag. As he went to yank it out from under her arm, she was still holding tight to the shoulder strap. He got hold of the handbag itself and slammed it hard into Paula’s face to make her let go. One of the metal corners on the bag whacked into her cheekbone and the force of the blow sent her staggering across the room, but still holding the shoulder strap. Santino was so clumsy-drunk, he must’ve lost his grip on the smooth leather surface. That seemed to make him even angrier and he let out a growl of frustration.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ Paula stammered. ‘I’ll give you the syringe, okay? Please don’t hurt me.’
Santino was panting, ready to hit her again, but controlling the urge if that meant he’d get the Dilaudid.
‘It’s here. You can have it,’ Paula said, in the most calming voice she could manage. ‘You can have it. You can have all of it.’
She opened her handbag and took out a travel-sized toiletry bag, just long enough to fit the syringe snugly. On the kitchen table at home, she had taken the bubble wrap off the bottle of Dilaudid Judy had asked her to dispose of safely. She had then put on latex gloves to remove a syringe from its packaging and draw up a large quantity of hydromorphone—more than twice the dose considered lethal. Still wearing gloves, she had dropped the loaded syringe into the toiletry bag and zipped it up.
Now she unzipped the bag and held it out to Santino. He reached in and took out the capped syringe. His fingerprints would be on it, but not Paula’s.
‘You can have it,’ she repeated, ‘if you let me leave.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Piss off.’
‘Do you know how to use the syringe?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve done this heaps of times. I might not be a doctor but I’m not a fucking moron. I know what I’m doing.’
‘I’m going to go.’
‘Good, because you are shitting me to tears, woman. Fuck off.’
Paula slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried down the black-wallpapered hall. She took a silk scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her hand before touching the doorhandle. Once she opened the front door, the fresher, cleaner air of the landing filled her lungs. She wanted to go straight home now and have a shower. But then she hesitated. She needed to know the hydromorphone was going to kill him. It was a huge dose, but what if he didn’t inject all of it? What if he’d been using opioids so much, he’d built up a tolerance? She needed to be sure.
Paula shut the door of the apartment loudly, so he would assume she’d left. She was trembling so much, she pressed her shoulders blades against the black embossed wall and slid down to sit on the carpet, staying as quiet as possible. She didn’t dare step back round the corner in case he spotted her, but from the hallway, she could hear Santino in the living room.
She listened to him prowl around, muttering, barely audible, but a few words were decipherable—‘bitch’, ‘cops’, ‘baby’, ‘fuck-wits’. The next thing she heard was the squeak of leather and the whoosh of air being pushed out of the cushions as he flopped down on the sofa.
There was silence for a few moments and then the sound of him sighing, making little satisfied vocalisations, punctuated by a couple of triumphant ‘ha’ sounds. This was him experiencing the initial euphoric rush of the drug he’d injected.
Paula leaned against the black wallpaper and listened to John Santino breathe. His respiratory rate dropped quickly but after ten minutes it seemed to sustain at a certain level. The dose in that syringe, assuming he had injected all of it, plus the alcohol in his system, should definitely be enough to suppress his breathing so severely he would die.
Her cheekbone was throbbing with pain where he’d walloped her. Putting her fingers to her cheek, she saw a small amount of blood, where the metal corner had broken the skin. She was careful to wipe her own blood onto herself rather than smear it anywhere in this apartment.
After another ten minutes, Paula heard Santino’s breathing grow rougher, rasping slowly in and out of his lungs. A few more minutes on, and she was listening to his Cheyne-Stokes breathing—that laboured breathing pattern, crunchy on the inhalation, with a wet mucosal sound on the exhalation. She’d heard such breathing many times, when elderly patients were in their final days. Many of those deaths had been peaceful in their way, family gathered around, and the final breaths could have a solemn, dignified quality. This wasn’t like that.
For a moment, Paula indulged the idea that she wasn’t murdering this man. He had willingly taken the drug from her—in fact, he’d assaulted her to get his hands on it—and he had injected it voluntarily. But she couldn’t delude herself. She had deliberately tricked him into taking a fatal dose. This was a murder.
John Santino inhaled, weakly, hoarsely, and there was a long silence. Was that the last breath? But a moment later, there was a snuffling sound and another breath. Then finally, the silence extended and he stopped breathing forever.
Paula hoisted herself to her feet, about to turn the doorhandle using the silk scarf. But then she remembered the bourbon glass she’d drunk from. There was very little—nothing, really—to connect her to this crime, to this man. But still, she didn’t want to leave any of her DNA lying about.
She found herself creeping back into the main living area—creeping as if the dead man might suddenly wake up and catch her. There he was, sprawled on one of the white sofas, a bright red latex exercise band tied around his upper arm as a tourniquet and the empty syringe fallen from his hand, lying next to his thigh. He was cyanotic, eyes closed, lips blue, with a purple tinge across his clammy face. Even though Paula knew he was dead, she still stopped to watch his chest for a few moments to assure herself there was no movement, no air going into those lungs.
She gulped the last of the bourbon he’d poured for her, shoved the glass in her bag and walked out of that place.
At home, she wiped off the handbag to remove any traces of her blood and his fingerprints. At work the next day, she whacked the bourbon glass against the edge of the sink and dropped the shards of broken glass into the medical sharps bin.
EIGHTEEN
THE MINUTE ANITA WALKED INTO THE DOWNING STREET court building on Tuesday morning, she heard the buzz of talk through the foyer. There was a pa
rticular timbre to the gossiping voices—a sign something juicy had happened.
She raised her eyebrows to one of the TV guys, Brad, as he was gunning it back outside.
‘John Santino found dead. Yesterday arvo. In his apartment,’ said Brad, then he dashed through the doors to join his camera crew.
Anita tucked herself into one of her little secret alcoves on the ground floor where she could have some privacy to phone Rohan.
‘What can you tell me? Off the record?’ she asked.
Rohan puffed out a breath. ‘This really does have to be off the record,’ he warned.
‘Sure, sure.’
‘Looks like an accidental overdose of hydromorphone. We found traces of it in the syringe.’
‘Hydro-what?’
‘Hydromorphone.’ Rohan pronounced each syllable distinctly, as if he was reading off his notepad. ‘Heavy-duty painkiller—used for cancer patients mostly, I think, but there are people who use it recreationally. Can be lethal, especially mixed with alcohol.’
‘Right, so you think Santino was drunk?’
‘Pretty sure the tox report’s going to show he was full of booze as well. He’d been drinking at Protozoa for hours the night before.’
‘So then he goes back to his place, pissed, and injects too much of the party painkiller?’
‘A not-so-tragic accident,’ said Rohan. ‘Remember, me saying that is so off the record it’s in outer space.’
‘Of course. Are you considering—I mean, he would’ve had a lot of enemies …’
‘No forced entry, no sign of a struggle. And look, I’ve seen the photos—the guy injected himself.’
‘Suicide possibly?’ Anita asked.
‘Possibly. But did he seem the type to you?’
‘No.’ Anita felt sure of that, but then again, she was also sure that you could never be sure what was going on in people’s heads.
‘Nah, look, this was an accidental overdose on top of booze,’ Rohan said.
‘Yeah, yeah, makes sense. Are you sorry?’
Rohan paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get the conviction. I’m sorry he’s not sitting in jail. But no, I can’t be sorry about this.’
Anita spent the afternoon in the newspaper office, writing up background material on John Santino that could be published now he was dead, plus as much about the conduct of the trial as she thought she could get past the lawyers and into the paper. She kept an eye on the bank of TV screens in the corner of the room. Whenever anything popped up connected to the case, she darted around the desks so she was close enough to hear the soundtrack.
Early afternoon, camera crews had footage of Marina Santino emerging from the Lidcombe mortuary and being bundled into a black car by a clutch of family members.
Marina stopped behind the open car door to address the cameras. She looked wretched, no make-up, face puffy from crying.
‘My beautiful brother had finally cleared his name, which makes this terrible accident even more heartbreaking. Please respect our family’s need to grieve in privacy.’
Then Marina ducked her head and disappeared into the back seat of the vehicle, hidden behind tinted windows.
Late afternoon, the crews were waiting outside Royal Women’s Hospital as Brooke Lester was discharged. She came out the main glass doors in a wheelchair with the baby cradled in her lap, swaddled in a blanket covered in pink elephants. A nurse was pushing the wheelchair while Brooke’s mother, Trish, walked alongside, her arms loaded with bunches of flowers and a bundle of pastel gifts.
Brooke kept her head tilted down, cooing at the baby and avoiding the glassy gaze of the camera lenses. But then she lifted her head to say something to her mother and she beamed a smile. Seeing that young woman smile, Anita made a small involuntary sound in her throat—relief, gladness, whatever.
A white Corolla pulled up in the hospital pick-up zone and Rob Lester hopped out of the driver’s seat. Trish put the flowers and other items in the boot, then carefully lifted the baby from Brooke’s arms and into the newborn car capsule. Meanwhile, Rob ran around the vehicle to help his daughter hoist herself out of the wheelchair. He held Brooke’s arm steady as she took cautious post-caesarean steps to the car and lowered herself gingerly onto the back seat next to the baby.
Rob Lester raised his hand, palm open and flat, in acknowledgement of the camera crews. He didn’t appear annoyed—in fact, the man was grinning—but he was tacitly requesting privacy.
Anita sent Paula a text.
Hello, lady. Did you see the news? A xx
Yes. I saw. P xx
Good to know Brooke and baby are with her parents. Safe.
Definitely.
Anita was aware that she hadn’t seen her friend for almost a week—too long—so a few minutes later, she texted again.
I could make a late movie session tonight?? A x
Yes please.
Anita pushed on with work until late, leaving her with no time to eat dinner before the eight forty-five p.m. movie session. As she hurried up the stairs into the Norton Street cinemas, there was no sign of Paula, so she jumped in the queue at the bar to buy the biggest glass of wine they sold plus a bag of cashews that would have to do as an evening meal.
Anita scanned the crowded foyer looking for her friend.
A woman she didn’t know was raising her hand—I’m over here—but must’ve been signalling someone else.
It took Anita’s brain a couple of seconds to process what she’d seen, then she whipped her head back to see the waving woman was in fact Paula. With blonde hair.
Paula was grinning, pointing at her newly bleached curls, loose around her shoulders. As they walked towards each other, zigzagging through the crowd, Anita did a pantomime of being surprised and dazzled by Paula’s glamour.
Paula laughed. ‘Your mouth’s hanging open.’
‘It looks great,’ said Anita.
‘Don’t feel obliged to say that.’ Paula ran her fingers through her new fair hair. ‘I still haven’t decided if I like it yet.’
‘Well, okay, so the reason my mouth was hanging open is just surprise. On account of the fact you’ve had exactly the same hair since the age of twelve. Until now.’
‘I guess I had a rush of blood to the head. You’ve always done a radical hair change when you need to reboot yourself after heartbreak or whatever.’
‘True. I have to come clean with you: it doesn’t actually work as a life-rebooting method,’ said Anita. ‘But meanwhile, I think it looks fantastic.’
Paula shrugged. ‘I can always cut it off if I hate it. Ooh, quick, we need to get in there.’
‘You can share my bucket of wine,’ said Anita, as they headed into Cinema 2.
Once they were settled side by side in their seats, Paula tucked her hair behind her ear and Anita noticed her friend’s cheekbone was slightly swollen. There was a large bruise almost concealed under foundation, with a small scabbed area where the skin had broken and healed.
‘What happened there?’ Anita asked.
Paula’s hand shot up to her face. ‘Oh, a patient was in a bit of a state, arm kind of flew out and knocked me against a cupboard.’ She then bunged on a Liam Neeson tough guy voice. ‘Doctoring is a dangerous game.’
‘It looks hurty.’
‘My professional medical opinion is that it is indeed hurty. But won’t scar, luckily. I mean, I need perfect skin to go with my new glamour-puss hair.’
If it were anyone else, Anita would have pushed a bit, challenged them. Is that the truth? Were you stumbling about drunk? Did someone hit you? But there was something about Paula’s certitude, her deeply adult assurance, that made Anita feel as if she couldn’t question her.
The movie was the species of British bonnet drama usually seen on TV. There seemed to be a lot of lavish period gowns swishing through opulent rooms, sumptuously filmed. Famous actors seemed to be doing a lot of award-worthy acting. But Anita barely engaged with the film. She couldn’t stop sneaking looks at
Paula’s blonded hair and bashed cheekbone. She couldn’t stop her thoughts pinging off at wild angles.
After the movie, Paula drove them both to Newtown to find somewhere still serving food so that Anita could obtain more sustenance than cinema wine and nuts. While she wolfed down a kebab and Paula took tiny nibbles on baklava, Anita talked on and on about Brooke Lester.
‘I mean, how horrifying is it that she almost died from being shoved against a table.’
‘Well, a thick glass tabletop—that makes for a hard edge. It’s effectively the same as a blow with a blunt instrument to her pregnant abdomen,’ replied Paula.
Anita held her hands to her belly in sympathy. ‘But she’ll be okay now, won’t she?’
Paula reached across to squeeze Anita’s arm reassuringly. ‘She will. Don’t worry. And baby Ava is fine and healthy.’
‘Oh, Ava’s a lovely name. I didn’t know Brooke had gone public on the name.’
Paula smiled. ‘I must’ve heard it somewhere.’
Anita was distracted for a moment, wrestling with the last messy handful of her kebab and wiping the sauce off her chin. ‘Tell me this, doctor, would you say there’s any chance Santino actually intended to kill himself?’
‘Well, I’ve known of people using hydromorphone recreationally, but I’ve never come across anyone using it to kill themselves. And anyway, did John Santino seem suicidal?’
‘He didn’t, no. That’s what Rohan reckons too.’
‘Ooh, the lovely Detective Mehta.’ Paula grinned. ‘Let’s talk about more cheerful stuff. I need to hear the latest romantic developments with your new man.’
The two women launched into the kind of relationship dissection they’d always enjoyed, flipping comfortably between candour, teasing and earnestness. The conversation felt entirely normal. Bizarrely normal, except that Paula had dyed blonde hair and an injured face and Anita had suspicions running through her head that she couldn’t fathom.