Not Bad People

by Brandy Scott

  And Melinda was amazing. Aimee snuck a peek at her former friend as Damien leaned over to state his name and address. Even in the dim light of the town hall she glowed, not with perspiration like everyone else, but with intelligence and energy and expensive serums. Melinda had started out with the same opportunities and education as Aimee, as Lou even, and through sheer force of will and imported skincare, she’d managed to transform herself. But now, Melinda had to go and be amazing somewhere else. Aimee nodded to herself as Damien recited his credentials. It was obvious: Melinda was only running around in stupid circles after her father, after Nick even, because this town wasn’t enough for her. Nature abhors a vacuum, Melinda always said. Yet she’d created one.

  Aimee fiddled with her modest engagement ring. Maybe the same was true for her. Maybe her brain would benefit from more to do, rather than less. If we get through this, I’ll go along with whatever he wants to do with this cellar door, Aimee promised the universe. Because look how lucky she was. Her husband really didn’t like her right now, but he was holding her hand anyway, to make her feel secure. Or to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. Regardless, it was nice.

  Did she really want to risk this? Aimee asked herself, as Damien began to give his overview of the crash site. To hold a torch to the already flammable remains of her marriage? Damien caught her eye and nodded, reassuringly. She remembered the way he’d initially resisted her kiss. Stood back as she pulled off her shirt. She’d had to be the aggressor, pulling him clumsily onto the groaning hotel bed. He was concerned about her still, she could tell, monitoring her reaction as he carefully described the state of the plane they’d found at Maddocks Clearing.

  Nick squeezed her hand as they heard about the fire that had consumed the little plane’s fuselage. Two good men, making sure she made it through this inquiry, neither of them knowing why it mattered so much. Aimee looked sadly at Melinda, with nothing to hold except her phone, and stretched out a hand. Melinda looked suspicious, but took it. Aimee jerked her head towards Lou.

  ‘No way,’ muttered Melinda.

  ‘Do it,’ said Aimee.

  And Melinda did.

  What the fuck? Melinda sat with her arms outstretched, linked to Aimee on one side and bloody Lou on the other. Because that didn’t look suspicious at all. Lou clearly didn’t like the idea any more than she did; her sweaty hand lay limply in Melinda’s with minimal contact, just enough to keep Aimee happy. And she was happy, smiling wetly at them as the greying investigator described the angle the plane would have been flying at when it crashed. The trees that had slowed its descent, saving Pete’s life. The site findings must be coming up soon. Those bloody notecards. For the hundredth time, Melinda cursed herself for not using a sheet of A4, like everyone else.

  In her lap, her phone began vibrating. Claudia Lang. It rang silently as the investigator explained about nose altitude. Cut out and rang again as he spoke about compression forces. Finally a message flashed up: Sending email.

  Melinda waited what seemed like years as the investigator told them sadly how fire and impact damage meant there was no way of knowing what position the plane’s controls were in before the crash. Well that was good, right? The less they knew the better. Melinda’s email icon finally lit up; she lifted her hand from Lou’s loose grip and opened the email as technical details droned around the hall.

  ‘The position of the flap-actuating rods suggests they were extended at the point of impact.’

  Sorry to inform you that I can no longer support your application for adoption.

  ‘Unable to take fuel samples due to the post-impact fire.’

  Did say that this application could not afford any controversy or scandal.

  ‘Damage indicates the propeller was still rotating at the time the plane connected with the terrain.’

  In light of your current situation, I would not advise you to proceed. Your chances of a successful adoption are extremely slim.

  ‘While fire had consumed most of the cabin fittings, we were able to ascertain that both seatbelts had been manually undone.’

  Trust you understand.

  Melinda gaped at her phone. Scandal? They were only halfway through the inquiry. How would Claudia Lang even know? She leaned towards Lou, still staring at that bloody banking page. ‘Who did you tell?’ she hissed.

  ‘No one,’ whispered Lou. ‘Yet.’

  Two hands rested heavy on Melinda’s shoulders.

  ‘I really need to talk to you,’ Clint said quietly. ‘Come outside. Now.’

  Aimee watched Melinda stumble from the hall. Putting business first, as usual. She turned back to the stage, to Damien, as he began to describe the debris they’d found around the plane. This was probably the moment, she thought, as pictures flashed up on the television next to him. One of Pete’s shoes. A pair of blackened headphones. Aimee felt the weight of her husband’s hand around hers. A set of navigational charts, curiously intact, likely blown from the windows on impact. And a small piece of pink and gold cardboard, around four centimetres long, possibly from a birthday card. Lincoln had recently turned sixteen.

  Pete listened closely. No one would have given his son a pink birthday card. And Lincoln hadn’t taken any of his presents up with them, except for the new Bose headphones he’d begged for. He’d been so proud of those headphones, exactly like Pete’s own. They were a bit big, but he’d grow into them, Pete had thought. Years of use in those. He took a deep breath, but said nothing.

  Aimee also said nothing. She listened to Damien describe the mystery piece of cardboard and didn’t act. Just pressed her lips together and let the moment pass. Because she wanted to keep what she had, fragile as it was. You don’t really want to do this, do you? Damien had whispered as she’d fumbled with his belt, eyes closed. Aimee. Stop it. You’re kidding yourself. She was worried he’d be angry but he just smiled sadly as he handed her back her shirt. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Aimee, but this is not the solution.

  She met his eye and gave him a small nod. Damien had understood. Had made them both dreadful coffee, granules from an ancient sachet that hit Aimee like a train. They’d climbed back on top of that lumpy bed, him reading the report out loud as she lay staring at the dingy moulding on the ceiling, realising she might still lose everything anyway. Aimee laced her fingers through Nick’s. But she’d keep it as long as she could.

  Melinda could hold her hand all she liked; it wasn’t going to stop Lou from doing what was necessary. And now Melinda wasn’t even bloody there. The moment of truth, their evidence, and she’d walked out, as though the inquiry didn’t concern her. As though any repercussions would simply slide right off her, splattering Lou and Aimee instead. Worse, she was probably right. Lou gripped her phone. Melinda could afford to pay whatever fine they were served. Melinda could simply leave any scandal behind, move somewhere else. Melinda’s father would bully or coerce or sue anyone who tried to hold her accountable. Melinda . . . Melinda had paid her the money. Lou blinked at her phone in disbelief. There it was, a column full of zeros. She refreshed the page, but the money didn’t disappear. It was hers.

  This was bad. Very bad. Melinda stood blinking at the article in the harsh January sun while Clint raged at her.

  ‘The investors are freaking out, Melinda. I don’t know what to tell them. You took your eye off the ball.’

  ‘I took my — you turned my company into something it was never supposed to be! These are your reforms. This is all you.’

  ‘This woman’s been calling you for the last week, trying to get comment. You could have shut this down, if you were paying attention.’

  ‘I pay you to pay attention!’

  ‘No, you pay me to do the things you don’t want to do, except when you decide you want to do them.’ Clint’s face was twisted. ‘You signed off on all these changes, so don’t try and pass the buck. You wanted profits and you wanted investor interest and you didn’t care how I got it.’ He shoved the newspaper at her. ‘You were
interested when it suited you. Like with me.’

  Melinda’s mind spun. Had he sabotaged her company because she’d stopped sleeping with him? But no, she thought sadly, gazing down at the orderly columns of tiny words tearing her business apart. The rot had set in before that.

  ‘Just go,’ she said. ‘I’ll take care of this. Just leave.’

  ‘Look, we can fix this.’ Clint walked around in a circle on the concrete, hands on his head. ‘Give me a couple of hours. I’ll make some calls, rustle up some testimonials. Women who dispute these claims. You’ve got hundreds of happy curators, it won’t be hard. You’ll have to make a statement denying it all. Maybe backtrack a bit on some of the reforms —’

  But Melinda was through with his fancy ideas. ‘Please go,’ she said again, hugging the newspaper to her chest. ‘I need to make this right myself.’

  She should thank her. It seemed only right. Although what was the proper etiquette for blackmail? But she should acknowledge the money at least. Reassure Melinda that she’d bought her silence. Just like her father. Lou pushed that thought out of her mind as she got to her feet. Half their row had buggered off; there was no need for Lou to even sit here. She’d grab Tansy, take her home, get on with their lives. Put this all behind them. Lou paused as she picked up her bag. Tansy had been gone an awfully long time for someone who just needed a quiet spew.

  Someone had opened the fire doors to try to let some air in. Pete could hear a couple yelling, the buzz of a helicopter as he leaned forward, trying to catch a breeze. Not much traffic noise though; everyone old enough to drive in Hensley was inside this hall. Arthur was in the hot seat now, talking about Pete. It was slightly surreal, hearing his own habits and routine described in the third person. And sad. Arthur spoke of a man who drove to work every morning at quarter past seven, returned home like clockwork at half past five. Rarely went out in the evenings except to pick up his son from sports practice. Pete tried to focus on what the policeman was saying about phone records, but it didn’t sound like they had any concerns. His only call the day of the crash was to the dentist. His phone was switched off the night before at half past eight. Dull, thought Pete. Boring, predictable. It was good for the inquiry, but really, what they were hearing was the description of a man who’d already given up.

  ‘Tansy?’ called Lou, as she pushed open the door of the ladies. But quietly — sound carried in this building. She could hear old Arthur droning on from the main hall. ‘Tansy?’ she said again.

  There was a rustle in the far stall. Lou stood listening for the flush, the smell of industrial disinfectant giving her flashbacks to all the times she’d popped Tansy on one of these toilets, urged her to go before forcing her to watch whatever public event her parents were patronising. There was a click as the lock turned. Lou looked up smiling, but it was an older woman. One of her mother’s friends. Lou nodded in recognition, then fled.

  Melinda sat in the old tyre swing and read the newspaper article again. It was well written, she’d give Stacey that. LoveLocked’s early days. Melinda’s drive to make it more than just another direct sales business. Lou’s story — Melinda winced — without her name, but it would be obvious to anyone local who they were talking about. I credit her with my company, Melinda had apparently said. Without her, there would be no LoveLocked. The article described the company’s caring ethos, its determination to put people before profit. Yes. She’d done that. Melinda swung listlessly. But then the story turned darker. Curators complaining their terms and conditions had changed, and not for the better. Fees for everything, unreasonable targets. Worse, they said, there was a growing emphasis on recruiting new members, taking a cut from their sales rather than selling yourself. It had become a kind of pyramid.

  Lou stood on the town hall steps, scanning. The main street was deserted, and why wouldn’t it be? All the action was taking place inside. She wandered down the road, not quite sure what she was looking for. Tansy emerging from the supermarket with a bar of chocolate? Tansy, bored, flicking through magazines in the newsagents? But her daughter was nowhere to be seen. Neither, she realised, as she turned back towards the hall, was her car.

  The newspaper had gone into considerable detail about what constituted a pyramid scheme in Australia. Technically, LoveLocked was not — Melinda could hear the warnings of the paper’s lawyers in Stacey’s careful sentences — because there was still a genuine product changing hands. But it had veered well into the murky territory of multi-level marketing schemes, the paper declared. It quoted women whose families were avoiding them after they’d tried to sign up relatives for extra revenue. Women who’d taken out multiple credit cards to buy stock. Women who’d been promised other people would earn the money for them; all they needed to do was sit back and collect. Consumer groups were calling for tougher laws on selling practices. Potential investors were thinking twice about getting involved. The paper’s business editor questioned LoveLocked’s IPO valuation, whether the offering would go ahead at all. Melinda buried her face in her hands.

  Lou ran back towards the town hall. She could see Melinda slumped in a swing in the children’s play area. A young bloke smoking out the front, fag held inwards towards his palm like a guilty secret. And Byron, propped up against a side wall, his too-long legs sprawled across the concrete as he watched a video on his iPad.

  ‘Byron,’ said Lou, trying not to sound frantic. ‘Have you seen Tansy? I can’t find her anywhere.’

  Everything she’d built, everything she’d worked for. Melinda crumpled the newspaper in her hands, trying to process what had just happened to her. The adoption at least had been a long shot, although now it had been ruled out, she realised that she wanted it very, very much. But her company — Melinda began to tear the paper into furious shreds, angry not at Stacey or Clint but at herself. She hadn’t been watching. ‘Melinda Baker did not respond to repeated requests for comment.’ Worse, she’d been greedy. Wanting to set records, to force her father to take notice, to have a nicer apartment and car and wardrobe than everyone else. To be the best. And in doing so, she’d turned LoveLocked into the very thing she hated. A company that profited from women, rather than one that helped them. Just another multi-level marketing scheme, a logo you scrolled quickly past when you saw it on a friend’s Facebook feed. Jewellery this week, aloe vera and coconut oil the next.

  Melinda wiped uselessly at her face as voices floated out from the town hall. It almost didn’t matter what they were saying in there. Everything she cared about was already going up in smoke.

  If there was anyone else, anyone at all, Lou would have asked them. But the car park was empty; even the smoking bloke had wandered back inside for the next instalment. Lou walked slowly over to the playground.

  ‘I really wish I didn’t have to do this,’ she said to Melinda, deliberately not meeting her red eyes. ‘But can I borrow your car? I think,’ Lou paused, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, ‘I think Tansy might be about to do something really stupid.’

  CHAPTER 39

  ‘I’d like to call upon the pilot of the plane, Peter Kasprowicz.’

  You could feel the mood in the hall change. Mothers shushed children, rustling ceased. This was what they’d come to see: justice, or some small-town equivalent. Cameron jumped up to help his stepfather find the red vinyl seat at the front of the hall, even though he knew the layout, had insisted on arriving early to count the steps.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Pete, waving him away.

  ‘I know,’ said Cameron. But he was pleased when Pete stumbled slightly, misjudging the distance between the chair and the table in front of it. A bit of sympathy never hurt.

  The silence in the car was beyond awkward — it was excruciating. Lou squirmed in the passenger seat. ‘Say something,’ she begged, as they waited to pull out onto the highway. ‘Anything. Please.’

  Melinda sighed. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why would Tansy want to get rid of the baby? I thought you said she wanted it. I thought
you were the one who didn’t want it.’

  ‘She does want it,’ said Lou, mentally willing the truck in front of them to pull the fuck out already. ‘And so do I. But there are complications.’ She and Tansy were still waiting for the test results. The end of the week, probably. But Lou was already prepared for the worst-case scenario. In her mind, the test was only a formality.

  Melinda turned to her in disbelief. ‘How have you not told me all this?’

  Lou snorted. ‘Well, we’re not exactly mates.’

  ‘But this is huge. This is far more important than —’ Melinda broke off as the truck finally lumbered onto the dual carriageway. ‘Thank you.’

  Lou understood what she meant. But it was hard to know what the rules for their friendship were any more. Did a problem with the baby supersede all the bad blood of the last week? Did it cancel out attempted blackmail? Actual blackmail. Lou felt slightly sick.

  ‘Can you just drive?’ she pleaded, wishing that the money hadn’t gone through after all. ‘As fast as you can.’

  The ATSB officer — Steve, Pete remembered him from the hospital — went to great lengths to remind everyone that this inquiry was all about prevention. The ATSB’s job wasn’t to assign blame, but to make recommendations and prevent further accidents. Any criminal charges were the domain of the police. But everyone in the hall, Pete included, knew those words were just window-dressing. Whatever happened today would influence Arthur’s decision on whether to press charges. And it would be remembered in Hensley for the rest of time. Pete tried to look unflustered. He reached for the glass of water Cameron had carried up for him and promptly knocked it over.

  Every question Melinda wanted to ask was full of judgement and best not said. Or it came back to the money. She wouldn’t mention the money, not right now.