Into the River

by Mark Brandi

  An old cream ute.

  ‘You boys right?’ Fab couldn’t make out the face, but it sounded like an old farmer, his voice raspy and dry. A dog barked in a cage on the rear tray – it must sense something.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fab said. ‘Car trouble. Alternator. All sorted now.’

  ‘That right?’ He slung an elbow out the window. The engine idled roughly and the dog settled into a low growl.

  ‘Yep, all sorted,’ Fab said.

  He could feel the farmer’s eyes, the dark face, watching, judging, knowing. He stopped breathing. He could hear the radiator fan kick and whirr, the dog jangle a chain in its cage, and Ben shift his feet slowly in the gravel.

  Just leave, leave you old bastard!

  ‘Righto then.’

  The farmer crunched the ute into gear and slowly pulled away.

  They both stood, breathless for a moment, listening and waiting in cool disbelief until the tired whine of the engine faded into the night.

  They stood there, perfectly still, until all that was left was the rush of the river and the smell of the rich, moist earth.

  And their hearts, pounding blackly in their chests, pulsed with the same dark energy.

  Twelve

  As light filtered down the stairwell, Fab could tell from the soft white glow that the sky must be overcast. There was a chance the sun would burn through later. It was like that – the sun was sometimes hot enough to burn away the clouds.

  When they went yabbying, they always had better luck if the sun was out. But sometimes they had to take the risk and head out when it was still cloudy. Sometimes, they just had to hope the sun might burn through.

  As they climbed the stairs from their cells in the bowels of the court, Fab closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the street below. The car horns, tram clatter, the crush of a building site somewhere.

  Unfamiliar. Alien. Exciting.

  He felt a sudden desperation to be out there and to feel it. To be around people, city people, going about their day. The drab office workers in suits, the lazy-day uni students, the backpackers with clear, bright eyes and strong brown legs.

  He should have moved here years ago.

  It’s what he would do.

  When it was over.

  ‘So, what do you reckon?’

  A voice broke his daydream and Fab’s eyes opened to the sharp angles of that face and those black, sunken eyes, his arm looped by a sturdy prison officer, wrists cuffed in bright steel rings.

  The first words. Since that night. Eleven years.

  ‘Dunno,’ Fab shrugged. ‘It’s good to see ya though.’

  Ben stared at him for a moment, silent, his eyes sharpening to focus.

  ‘A long time,’ he said.

  Fab nodded.

  Then, as the heavy timber door back to the courtroom swung open, Ben said something else, softly, almost under his breath.

  ‘What?’ Fab said. ‘I didn’t hear ya.’

  He said it again, but was drowned out by the growing murmur from the court.

  ‘I didn’t hear.’

  Ben turned back as he was led through the door, his eyes full of tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Fab shook his head. ‘No, I’m the one who—’

  ‘No more talking!’ The officer, all home haircut and backyard tattoos, turned to Fab sharply. ‘You know the rules.’

  Fab tried to catch Ben’s gaze, just to mouth the words, but he seemed to look right through him.

  It was as though, in that very moment, he had finally emptied of everything.

  * * *

  In the courtroom, the numbers had swelled. Fab only recognised a couple of people. His mum wasn’t there, but Ms Rosetti had told him she wasn’t coming. Doctor’s appointment or something. Fair enough. Probably better if she stayed home.

  He saw Vince, the copper from the Homicide Squad. He was all right, but he never looked very happy. Maybe he had one of those faces.

  His boss, that other copper, looked half-asleep. He reminded him of the coppers back in Stawell. Slow. A bit lazy.

  At the front table was the prosecutor who Fab had decided looked a bit like a vampire, like Max Schreck in Nosferatu, but with hair. Ms Rosetti was there too and she smiled, but twitched a bit when she did it. She’d said a quick decision could go either way, but Fab saw something in her eyes that meant the opposite.

  He thought he saw Ben’s dad in the gallery. It looked like him, but thinner and paler looking, so he couldn’t be sure of it. He looked out for Lucy, but still no sign.

  Near the front, someone put their hand up and waved with fingers spread wide apart – like they were miming a window washer. Fab sat up in his chair and saw the sheepish smile and those round brown cheeks.

  Afriki.

  Fab smiled, but Ms Rosetti caught his eye, frowned, and shook her head. Fab wondered if Afriki had moved yet, or if he’d taken a couple of days off to—

  Then that little timber door behind the judge’s bench creaked open.

  ‘All rise. The Honourable Justice Pemmick presiding.’

  The judge raised his eyes briefly to the courtroom. ‘Be seated,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Benjamin Carver,’ the judge turned to Ben. Jesus, it was gonna happen now. So fast. Fab could feel the floor begin to vibrate. It was Ben, bouncing his leg.

  ‘Mr Carver, you have pleaded guilty to the murder of Mr Ronald Bellamy and there are certain matters I must consider when formulating the sentence for your crime.

  ‘The crime of murder is the most serious in our criminal jurisdiction and carries with it the most severe maximum penalty, that of imprisonment for life. The imposition of such a penalty is an extremely grave matter and not one which is ever taken without deep consideration.’

  Fab felt his throat constrict as the judge launched into a summary of the evidence. Then, he got to the guts of it.

  ‘I accept the submission of the defence that the crime itself was unplanned, without premeditation and largely spontaneous. Indeed, were it not for the spectre of child sexual abuse, it would be almost inexplicable.

  ‘Furthermore, I do accept the submissions that it is indeed possible, if not likely, that Mr Bellamy and others committed grossly indecent acts against you. The relevance of the information you have provided to police – and the corroboration of Mr Morressi, to the extent he is able – suggest that it was not a concoction.

  ‘Moreover, Mr Bellamy’s prior offending heightens the prospect that you are telling the truth. Indeed,’ he looked to the prosecutor, ‘the court has not been presented with a credible alternative motive. As such, I am prepared to accept you were driven solely by revenge. It appears it was a crime committed without planning or forethought.’

  Ben stopped bouncing his leg.

  ‘Away from Mr Bellamy, you were able to build the foundations of a positive future. You were, to appearances at least, able to overcome the pain of your past.

  ‘Undoubtedly, what occurred on that November day was a terrible act that you would live to regret. But I am willing to accept the submissions that you were deeply damaged by the violations perpetrated against you by Bellamy and, it would appear, others who formed part of a vile paedophile ring where children were groomed and shared.

  ‘I trust that the police will be pursuing certain matters arising from and relevant to this case with some haste, and that your continued cooperation will be instrumental in those investigations. I am limited, however, in the extent to which such cooperation may be brought to bear when considering your sentence, given those matters are yet to be concluded.

  ‘Nonetheless, in formulating your sentence, I do have regard for the abuse as a mitigating factor, despite your clear culpability for the offence of murder.’

  The judge took off his glasses and looked at Ben directly.

  ‘Ideally, Mr Carver, as suggested by the prosecution, you should have reported your allegations against Mr Bellamy at the time, so that the police may have investigated it. But I ac
cept that this may have been something you did not want to expose. Indeed, the impact of such events would be compounded in a country town, where it is difficult to maintain privacy over one’s affairs.

  ‘It is nevertheless important that the community understands that people cannot take the law into their own hands. Your actions in savagely beating Mr Bellamy to death were grossly violent. The cooler heads in our community, quite rightly, have an expectation that individuals are not subject to violent retribution, however aggrieved one may be.

  ‘On the other hand, the community holds the violation of children, especially sexually, as among the most vile and despised acts. Children should be protected from the depravity of people such as Mr Bellamy, and those like him. And it is understandable that a deep well of anger exists within the victims of such acts. Thus, many may well regard your crime, while extremely serious, as less grave than acts of murder motivated by jealousy, greed or malice.

  ‘However, I must have regard for general deterrence, as is required by the Act. It is this aspect that I have grappled with most extensively. While I have sympathy for your individual situation, the weight of the law must have regard for more utilitarian purposes – that is to say, the greater good of the community. In this respect, I am concerned that anything less than a severe sentence may be viewed as a lessening of culpability for crimes such as yours. It is against this test that I must weigh your individual circumstances.’

  Ms Rosetti looked very pale, almost like she hadn’t breathed.

  ‘Finally, with respect to the disposal of the body, I accept the submissions from your counsel and the prosecution that you were neither the architect of, nor the primary actor in the dismemberment and disposal of the corpse of Mr Bellamy. Indeed, on the evidence presented, I accept that it is likely you were in a state of shock in the aftermath of your crime.’ The judge took off his glasses. ‘Mr Carver, please rise.’

  Very slowly, Ben stood. He straightened his jacket a little, and then looked up with his chin jutting out.

  ‘Mr Benjamin Matthew Carver, for the murder of Mr Ronald Bellamy, you are sentenced to a term of seven years imprisonment, with a non-parole period of four years.’

  There was a murmur around the court, but Ben didn’t make a sound.

  Seven? Four? Didn’t sound too bad. Not bad at all.

  Ben put his hands on the edge of the dock, his fingers trembling.

  ‘Silence, please,’ the judge said. A hush returned to the room. ‘Mr Carver, you may sit.’

  As Ben sat back down, Fab looked at the judge squarely and felt a burn in his belly. The room suddenly swam, the walls heaving up and down, the faces all a blur.

  Jesus Christ.

  He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to calm himself. He opened his eyes and looked at Ms Rosetti, who smiled and nodded at him like it was going well. He swallowed drily and turned back to the judge.

  ‘Mr Fabrizio Morressi, you have pleaded guilty to being an accessory after the fact to the murder of Ronald Bellamy.’

  Morr-essi, not Morrissey. Not even the judge could get it right. Out in the gallery, Afriki smiled and gave him a thumbs up. That was new.

  ‘And his life was ended in a savage manner...’

  Fab had a thought intrude, a pleasant one. Lucy. He closed his eyes again and pictured her. She would have wanted to come, but Bob wouldn’t have let her. He would have said they couldn’t close the kitchen, or that his back was playing up, or some other bullshit. Either way, it didn’t really matter now.

  ‘...he was evidently a dark presence in your friend’s life and this coloured your judgement...’

  He thought about her soft doe eyes and the way she smelled like strawberry in the afternoon, then schnitzel at night. And he wondered, as he had done almost every hour of every day since, whether she had come to his house. He wondered if she’d come to tell him she would leave Bob after all. Maybe she was there that afternoon, with her bags, knocking on his door, but he was already gone. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was true.

  ‘...I have also considered your character. You were apparently gainfully employed, but with few associations outside of your workplace...’

  Where would they put him? Ms Rosetti reckoned if it was a decent term, he might get medium security. Maybe Beechworth, not Port Phillip or Barwon.

  Where was Pokey? Was it Barwon?

  If he ended up there, there’d be trouble for sure. But if it was a light sentence, maybe it’d be a prison farm, Dhurringile or somewhere, minimum security. That would be even better. Lucy might be able to visit, if she had time. They could keep in touch. Either way, he would write to her. Call her if he could, but only if it didn’t cause her too much trouble with Bob. Then, once he got out, they could start over.

  ‘...Mr Morressi...’

  What would the beds be like? A stretcher type or a mattress? Hopefully a mattress. Nothing fancy. Just as long as it was firm.

  ‘Mr Morressi...’

  There’d be a telly either way, so it wouldn’t be too bad. Could even keep fit too, out in the yard. Lucy would be impressed if he kept himself in shape – and there’d be no booze or dope to lead him astray. Hopefully Ben would be at the same place. If not, he’d try to get transferred to where he was. It was like a second chance in some ways. They could keep an eye out for each—

  ‘Mr Morressi!’

  He opened his eyes and turned to the judge. His face was crimson.

  ‘I am giving the reasons for your sentence, so I suggest it is not the time to daydream!’

  ‘Sorry, your Honour.’

  The judge nodded and returned to his notes. ‘Mr Morressi. I accept the submission of your counsel, insofar as your actions were motivated principally in protection of your friend, the codefendant in this trial. It is possible that, if one is to accept that sexual abuse has occurred, you may have felt some degree of guilt that you hadn’t done all in your power to stop it occurring.’

  Fab glanced at Ben and felt his guts sink.

  ‘But I suggest to you that such remorse is misplaced. As a child, even if you had been certain of the abuse, there was, most likely, little you could have done to prevent it. But these feelings of guilt do not, in my assessment, amount to a significant mitigation of your culpability.’

  Pemmick leaned forward.

  ‘These are very serious matters. You went to great lengths to conceal the crime. And your actions constitute the most serious violation of a corpse I have come across in twenty-three years on the bench. According to the forensic evidence, you savagely dismembered the corpse of Mr Bellamy in the most grotesque fashion. It would seem to indicate that you may have derived some perverse pleasure from the act. Moreover, you came prepared with the bin, demonstrating a high degree of forethought.

  ‘Mr Morressi, you mutilated the corpse of Mr Bellamy in the most horrific way imaginable. This is a serious aggravating factor in my consideration of your sentence. Your disposal of his remains in a rubbish bin heightens the inhumanity of your actions. And you were just eighteen years old! I have much difficulty understanding how a young man could so easily be given to such peculiar acts of gross violence.

  ‘The maximum sentence for the crime of being accessory after the fact to murder is the same as that of murder, life imprisonment. In sentencing, I must have regard for the nature and gravity of the offence, which is, in this case, amongst the most serious I have encountered.

  ‘The suggestion of the sexual abuse of Mr Carver, while a mitigating factor in his defence, is not sufficient to warrant a diminution of your sentence.

  ‘The fact that you left the scene, planned and thought through your actions, shows a level of calculation. Had you acted purely on the spur of the moment, then that would have been a different matter. But you had time to consider and weigh up your decisions. You would now know, certainly, that you chose very poorly. ‘Mr Morressi, you committed acts of utter savagery. While you were witness to the murder and this should have affecte
d you, you seemed unencumbered by emotion or fear. You had a clear choice. You could have gone to the police and reported what occurred, while still offering support to your friend. Indeed, if sentenced as a juvenile, Mr Carver would have been a free man today.

  ‘It is important that the community are reminded that assisting another person to conceal a serious crime, whatever the motivation, carries a significant penalty. I can accept that a decision to turn in your friend to the police would have required great courage. But it is vital to the maintenance of a civil society that those who attempt to conceal such crimes are punished. And it remains, despite the circumstances of your friend, difficult to fully understand your motivation.’

  But you don’t know the things I saw.

  ‘I accept the submissions of your counsel, insofar as your initial actions were to protect your friend in an act of loyalty, however misguided. But your subsequent actions in returning to the scene and the callousness with which the corpse was handled, indicate a frightening level of detachment, bordering on psychotic.’

  No one knows the things I saw.

  ‘The brutality with which you handled the body is a disturbing insight into your capabilities. I am concerned that you are indeed capable, if not likely, to commit serious crimes in the future. And, for this reason above all others, you must be separated from the community. Mr Morressi, please rise.’

  I hid it down the mineshaft.

  ‘Mr Fabrizio Morressi, for being an accessory after the fact to the murder of Mr Ronald Bellamy, you are sentenced to a maximum of nine years imprisonment, with a non-parole period of six years.’

  And it goes almost to the centre of the earth.

  Thirteen

  Every night, after the customers had left and Bob had gone to bed, Lucy mixed herself a special Southern and Coke with a double shot. Instead of the cheap, syrupy cola from the dispenser, she’d open a can of Coke from the fridge, pour in just enough, then tip the rest down the sink.

  She would sit and smoke in the bar on her own, with the lights off and the blinds pulled down, and the television casting a dim blue haze. Her eyes would be on the telly, but she was never really watching.