The Way It Is Now

by Garry Disher

  Clearly not Frankston Private, thought Charlie. This hospital was a gamely struggling place of noise and underfunding, and he was in a bed curtained off from other beds, other poor souls going into or recovering from procedures and—pain. Acute pain. Not skull deep, brain deep—and right now pressing behind his left eye. He put a hand to it, but that strained parts of his torso that wanted to be left alone. He sank back against the pillow, both eyes squinting, spine straight, not daring to risk further movement. ‘Was I out for long?’

  Another question. With exquisite distaste the specialist said, ‘Apparently you recovered consciousness in the ambulance for a short time. Do you recall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In addition to a very nasty crack to the head, your ankle was twisted.’

  Charlie couldn’t make sense of any of it. ‘Ankle?’

  A new face appeared; she’d been standing beside him at the head of the bed all this time. ‘It got caught in the pedal.’

  Pedal—bicycle.

  Charlie gave her a thankful look. Suzi, according to the name tag. Tatts, half-shaved neon-pink hair, piercings and a sweet smile.

  He returned to the specialist. ‘But I was wearing a helmet.’

  The old patrician tugged back his sleeve again, read his watch face and said, ‘Not all bicycle helmets provide sufficient protection from transverse or lateral impacts.’

  He waited a microsecond for that to sink in. ‘Rest. You will be monitored for concussion overnight and, all being well, you may go home in the morning.’

  Charlie wanted to demur, but they all swept out, leaving him with Suzi, who wheeled him through corridors to a private room. Private. Would his insurance cover it? She got him settled and flicked about the room: water jug; patient chart; venetian blinds. Still light outside but light of the long, low kind: late afternoon. He must have lost a couple of hours of his life.

  Suddenly Anna was there in his head, behind the pain. He said, a croak in his voice: ‘I was with…Did someone…’

  Sentences were troublesome, so were sentence fragments. Thought fragments. He tried again. ‘I was riding with a friend.’

  Suzi gave him a look of sweet regret. ‘Sorry, I don’t know the circumstances, only that you were knocked off your bike. But you do have a visitor. Just let me finish here…’

  A minute later she hurried out. And Charlie thought: Anna, but Emma hurtled in, saying, ‘Daddy!’ and he thought: How could I have forgotten I have a daughter?

  ‘Careful,’ he said, wreathed in smiles and pain as she threw herself against him.

  She jerked back, her dismayed face fringed by sun-bleached hair. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. Sit.’

  Thin, leggy, summery, Emma eyed the edge of her father’s bed and rejected it, her gaze settling on the only chair, which was against the wall, under the TV, and the same non-colour as the room, upholstered in the same non-fabric as the floor. Swinging it out of its hidey-hole, she sat close to Charlie’s bedside cabinet. ‘I was so worried.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Mark. Mr Valente. He called Mum; Mum called me.’

  Jess was holidaying on Norfolk Island. Charlie visualised the calls bouncing around the world, across the seas. ‘But how did you get here?’

  ‘The train. Mark picked me up at the station.’

  Charlie patted the back of her hand. ‘I’m glad you’re here, but really, I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be a martyr.’

  She’s like her mother, he thought. ‘Did Mark stick around?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

  It was a strain on Charlie’s neck, looking up at his daughter from the pillow. He scooted back, pushing down on the mattress for purchase, and the world spun. ‘Whoa.’

  ‘Here,’ she said, helping him.

  ‘I was riding with a friend,’ he said.

  ‘I know. Mark told me.’

  ‘Is she okay? No one’s told me anything.’

  ‘Mark said her leg was banged up pretty bad. They took her to the Austin.’

  Charlie closed his eyes.

  ‘She’s the one you’ve been seeing? Anna?’

  Charlie croaked, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I hope she’ll be okay.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I told Uncle Liam, but I don’t know if I should tell Grandpa and Fay, it would worry them.’

  ‘Yeah, don’t tell them, I’m going home in the morning anyway. Somehow.’

  ‘All organised. Mark’s taking me home to your place, and I’ll sleep there and drive back here in your car in the morning.’

  ‘My god—up before noon again.’

  ‘That’s getting a bit old, Dad.’

  In the doorway behind her a cop voice spoke. ‘Mr Deravin? A few questions, if you please.’

  21

  PLAIN CLOTHES. A MAN and a woman at the fag-end of a long day. When Emma excused herself, they came in, faces blank, a job to do, introducing themselves as Major Collision Unit officers, a leading senior constable named Grieve and a constable named Ransome.

  ‘Major collision? This was attempted murder.’

  Grieve took her time. Younger- and smarter-looking than Ransome, she settled into Emma’s chair, first pulling it away from the bed. Ransome meanwhile propped himself against the doorframe and seemed to zone out. He was racked with yawns that showed too many teeth, accompanied each time by a little recovering shudder; recovering eyeblinks, another yawn.

  Charlie yawned. ‘I said, this was attempted murder.’

  Ransome stirred. ‘We heard you.’

  Is that how it’s going to be? thought Charlie. I have to watch both of them? He focused on Grieve. ‘It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘The heart of the matter,’ Grieve said. ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘Look, before we go any further, I haven’t been awake for long and no one’s told me what’s going on. All I know is, I was knocked off my bike and might have concussion. But I was riding with a friend and I need to know how she is. And no bullshit.’

  Grieve pulled the chair closer. Too close. Charlie retreated along the pillow, his head complaining.

  ‘She’s in the Austin. Nothing life-threatening—in fact, she was able to give a statement—but she has a broken leg and a possible rib fracture.’

  ‘So I wasn’t imagining it, he ran into her as well as me.’

  Grieve cocked her head. ‘You witnessed it?’

  ‘No. It’s just an impression I have. I heard a vehicle start up behind me, the rest is a blur.’

  Grieve chewed her bottom lip. ‘We think the front bumper hit your back wheel and went on to hit Miss Picard side-on, in the leg. Not a high-speed impact, but enough to hurt you both.’

  Memories were returning. ‘There were people around.’ Namely, Mark Valente.

  ‘We do have a witness.’

  ‘And?’

  Grieve said stiffly, ‘This person believes you were run over deliberately. Why would that be, Mr Deravin?’

  ‘Did this witness see the driver? Have you made an arrest? Have you found the vehicle?’

  ‘Steady on, a question at a time. What can you tell us about the vehicle?’

  Over by the door, Ransome yawned again, audibly. Charlie wished the guy would just go home. ‘Seems like you get to ask questions and I don’t. If I’m not mistaken, we were run over by an old Land Cruiser, dirty white, mounted with a bull bar.’

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘It was following you?’

  ‘Putting words in my mouth, Leading Senior Constable Grieve?’

  ‘Gathering facts, Mr Deravin.’

  Charlie pushed the headache away, looking for the words he wanted, clear words, and proceeded to tell Grieve about Anna, the first Kessler trial, the words spray-painted on Anna’s door.

  Grieve nodded as he spoke but said nothing. She already knows, he thought.

  ‘It’
ll be one of Kessler’s footy-club mates,’ he said.

  Grieve gave him an empty smile. Charlie knew all about empty cop smiles. This one was replete with intel she didn’t intend to share.

  ‘Have you found the vehicle?’

  She ignored that. ‘What can you tell us about the driver?’

  Charlie concentrated. The pain shifted to his right eye socket and hammered him for a while. ‘Honestly? Nothing. Didn’t occur to me I’d have to ID him later. A youngish bloke, that’s the main impression I got.’

  Grieve signalled to Ransome, who handed her a laptop from a briefcase. ‘Some photos we’d like you to look at.’

  Charlie gave her a long look. Quick work, he thought. Mark’s description must have meshed with Anna’s. Maybe she’d even recognised the driver. ‘Already?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, Mr Deravin,’ Grieve said, loading the screen and proceeding to recite the arse-covering preamble he himself had recited plenty of times—to rape victims.

  He scrolled through a mix of booking photos and candid shots. Young men with attitude, with shaven domes, mullets, crewcuts, designer tousles and unwashed mops.

  And Jake Allardyce. Inspector Allardyce’s son.

  But Charlie was a fair man. ‘Could be any of these. I didn’t see his face. Maybe try hypnosis on me?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Grieve said, resettling the chair under the TV, where it seemed to vanish into the wall paint before she returned to the bed. ‘Here’s my card. If you do remember anything, however minor, give me call. Hope you get better soon.’

  They reached the door and Charlie shouted, ‘Wait!’

  Grieve raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Anna, my friend—you going to protect her?’

  Grieve nodded as if weighing the merits. Nodded, smiled with some warmth, and left Charlie there, his mind racing.

  22

  HE WAITED FOR EMMA. She didn’t return. He dozed and woke to find a cling-wrapped sandwich and a pot of tea. He picked and sipped, the sandwich stale, the tea lukewarm, and pushed it all away. Anna. Where was his phone? He checked the bedside cabinet. House keys, wallet, phone. The screen was cracked, but it powered up, responded to his touch and reached out to Anna’s phone.

  Rang and rang. A kind of dread lodged in him, until a strained, last-minute voice snatched a reply. ‘Hello? You’ve reached the number for Anna Picard.’

  ‘This is Charlie Deravin. I’m a friend of Anna’s, we were—’

  ‘I know who you are, Charlie. It’s Andrea, Anna’s sister.’

  The tone was neutral. Condemnatory would be better. Or recognition that he had a stake in the whole sorry business.

  Charlie floundered on, not knowing where he stood with the Picard clan. ‘Oh, hi, just calling to see how she is. Can I speak to her by any chance?’

  Gentler now, tinged with regret: ‘Actually, Charlie, she’s asleep, but I know she’d love to talk to you. Maybe call her in the morning?’

  ‘Will do.’

  Time passed again. Still no Emma. He grabbed his phone when it pinged: a string of WhatsApp photos from Fay and his father: the ship again, harbour markets, misty mountains and Rhys singing karaoke, the images shifting and splintering as Charlie tilted his smashed-up screen.

  He texted a vague reply, then texted his daughter—All clear—and slumped back on his pillow in a flare of pain. He explored it: still deep, still not content to settle in one place, sending warning signals from the outposts. His left eye, then his right. The crown, the back of the scalp, and all through his soul like a full-body toothache.

  He squinted, swiped at a tear, and saw that he had visitors again.

  ‘Charles.’

  Charlie scooted his spine along the mattress and up against his pillow and the world tilted. ‘Senior Sergeant,’ he croaked.

  Frances Bekker took another step into the room, then to one side, revealing her tough little offsider. ‘Charlie, this is Detective Senior Constable McGuire.’

  McGuire nodded, filling the doorway as if to stop Charlie from bolting. She was expressionless—if you didn’t count the gleam in her eye. A cop on the hunt.

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the accident people,’ Charlie said.

  Bekker nodded. ‘We saw them in the foyer. They filled us in on what happened.’

  Charlie tried to read her. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘May we come in?’

  They were already in, but Charlie nodded. Regretted it. His hand went to his eyes and Bekker was murmuring, ‘We won’t stay long,’ as she settled onto the edge of his bed, a few centimetres from his feet, a development that alarmed him on almost every level. It seemed intimate, but he doubted that was her intent. It was presumptuous. He was helpless and she knew it.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We came here initially to see if your accident, for want of a better word, had anything to do with your extracurricular activities.’

  Charlie’s eye leaked again. He swiped at it cautiously. ‘Extra-curricular?’

  ‘We’ve had a complaint,’ said McGuire from the foot of the bed.

  ‘Or rather,’ said Bekker, ‘a phone call from a man who wanted to know if we suspect him of something.’

  McGuire said, ‘What can you tell us about that?’

  A question Charlie had been asked too many times in the aftermath of shoving Inspector Allardyce in the chest. Mostly he chose not to answer. This time he couldn’t answer since he didn’t know what they were talking about.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fellow called Kevin Maberly. Know him?’

  Charlie was astonished. ‘He was the one who ran me over?’

  Bekker’s smile said, don’t waste my time. ‘You went to see him, Charlie. Grilled him, to use his words. Why would you do that?’

  Charlie felt like a schoolkid challenged by a teacher and not up to it. The pain shifted again, lodging behind both eyes, but this time bringing clarity, unblocking his neural pathways. ‘I was doing what the police have failed to do for twenty years—looking into my mother’s case. It’s interesting that you think it might be connected to someone running over me.’

  ‘We did wonder,’ Bekker said, ‘but for the life of us we can’t see a connection.’

  She patted his sprained foot. He jumped, and she jerked back her hand: ‘Sorry!’

  Charlie still couldn’t read her but knew there was something else going on. ‘You didn’t come here just to tell me off.’

  Bekker nodded slowly, weighing up her words. ‘We think we’ve found Billy Saul.’

  Charlie opened and closed his mouth. For twenty years he’d been seeing Billy Saul’s body tumbling as the tides surged, pulled back, surged again. The shredding rocks. The sea creatures nibbling and chewing. He shook that off and said, ‘You asked to be assigned to this, right? When you got word it was a kid?’

  Her face was neutral: she wasn’t going to admit to an obsession with the Billy Saul case. But then she surprised him. ‘That’s partly true. You could say my antenna was up and working. Then word came in that they’d found a watch with the remains. Billy’s name was engraved on the back.’

  Charlie shook his head in wonder. ‘All these years we thought he’d drowned. So either someone snatched him from the beach or staged it as a drowning.’

  ‘That’s for my squad to decide, Charlie. Meanwhile, we’re hoping to obtain DNA.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie absently, thinking about the beach towel. The search for Billy Saul: the vivid day, full of gumtrees ticking in the still heat; the salty sea in his nose; the metallic taste of the water from the youth camp’s kitchen tap.

  Now he skipped twenty years and visualised the disinterment, the transportation of the remains, the autopsy table, the extraction of DNA for a familial match.

  The world receded, flooded back again. He heard electric beeps from another room and the lights were unforgiving, the air super-sanitised. ‘How did he die?’

  Bekker got to her feet. ‘I wan
t you to keep this to yourself, understood? Head injuries. Severe trauma.’

  ‘Accident?’

  McGuire gave Charlie the sleepy-eyed look of an accuser. ‘Even if it was, someone covered it up.’

  An insinuating thread in her tone, and Charlie bristled. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Interesting that your mother’s car was found with damage to the front.’

  Charlie lifted himself in the bed and everything pulled and twisted. ‘Well aren’t you a piece of work?’

  Bekker intervened. ‘Enough, the pair of you.’

  She stood, looking down at Charlie. ‘Hope you feel better soon, Mr Deravin. I’m glad it wasn’t worse.’

  Charlie eyed her for the hidden meanings. Found none. ‘Okay, thank you.’

  ‘Stop playing detective, Charlie, please?’

  And they were gone.

  But they hadn’t gone far. Charlie heard Bekker’s low voice in the corridor. ‘If it isn’t Mark Valente.’

  ‘And behold, she appeared upon a white horse.’

  ‘Oh christ, I’d forgotten that about you. Thought you’d retired to the Gold Coast. Noosa, somewhere like that?’

  ‘I winter up there, summer down here.’

  ‘All right for some,’ Bekker said.

  ‘Heard you’d moved on from uniform, Fran.’

  ‘For my sins.’

  A pause. ‘You’re here bothering my boy?’

  ‘Oh, is he your boy?’

  ‘Known him forever,’ Valente said. ‘This is his daughter, Emma. Em, Senior Sergeant Bekker.’

  Charlie heard tension in Emma’s voice as she said hello and asked: ‘What do you need my dad for?’

  ‘Just paying our respects, nothing more.’

  ‘I bet,’ Valente said.

  ‘Well, better be off,’ Bekker said. ‘Bye, Mark. Bye, Emma.’

  Over his daughter’s soft, ‘Bye,’ Charlie heard Valente say, ‘Don’t hurry back.’

  Then, as squeaky footsteps receded along the corridor, Emma charged in calling, ‘Daddyo,’ and throwing herself onto Charlie’s chest again before she could stop herself.

  He gasped. ‘Careful.’

  ‘Sorry!’

  Looking past her shoulder he saw Mark Valente, a bulky form filling the doorway. ‘Mark.’