Inconsolable

by Ainslie Paton

“Yes.” More’s the pity.

  “How many times would you say you ran into each other during the event?”

  “We didn’t run into each other.”

  “How would you characterise it?”

  “As unimportant, irrelevant.” And now an enormous nuisance, or an opportunity.

  Pagonis leaned forward and opened his mouth for the first time. “You think this is funny?”

  Drum thought it was a form of torture, because outside the woman he loved was waiting to have his culpability for a hateful crime confirmed. “No.”

  Toshber took over. “Okay, tell us about how you met on the day the removal was happening?”

  “What is it that you want to know?”

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” she shook her head and gave a noisy sigh. “We were getting along so well there. I want you to tell me how you met.”

  “There was no handshake, no exchange of names.”

  “So, she didn’t ask if you were Drum, the man from the cave?”

  He was caught on that technicality. “Yes.”

  “Are you changing your story? You’re saying you did meet after all?” said Pagonis.

  Drum eyeballed Pagonis. “I haven’t told you any stories. And I don’t intend to. I don’t consider what happened to be the definition of a meeting. I was watching a group of protestors.”

  Toshber jumped in. “Protestors. What were they protesting?”

  He smiled. “Me.”

  “Sorry, I’m lost. You were watching a group of people protest against you.”

  “Yes. Specifically a guy called Walter Lam being interviewed by the paper while his group stood about in front of a protest sign.”

  Toshber and Pagonis exchanged a look that wasn’t from any cop playbook, it was pure amusement.

  “And you weren’t worried they’d know you were there?” Toshber said, struggling to keep a smile off her face.

  “I was careful. They were busy being important and for all the fuss about me, there’ve only been snatched, blurry photos on phone cameras. I believe the paper made a decision not to make things worse by printing my picture.”

  “What happened?”

  “I watched Walter give an interview. When I’d had enough of that I turned to leave the park. The woman in the photo was standing behind me. She spoke to me. I don’t recall answering her.”

  “Why wouldn’t you answer her?” said Pagonis.

  “Because I’m a scary guy who lives in a cave. I’m not out there to make friends. I’m not exactly sociable.”

  “You referred to yourself as scary. Did you scare her, Drum?”

  He couldn’t possibly have scared her and he knew how to do that. He’d scared Foley in a dozen different ways. “I walked past her. I barely glanced at her.”

  Toshber consulted her file. “You didn’t ask her to buy you coffee?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask her to meet you at the cave?”

  “No.”

  From out of the file came a book. It had a torn cover, it was scuffed but it was also still clean enough to be relatively new, as though it had been deliberately roughed up. “Is this your book?”

  Of Mice and Men. “My copy was a hardcover. It had pencil notes written in the margins.”

  “Where is your copy?”

  “I burned it. It was torn apart and there was no point keeping it.”

  “Convenient,” said Pagonis. “You said your cave got ransacked. When did this happen? Is that when your books got wrecked?”

  He told them about finding the cave torn up, remembering how that was the night Foley stayed to watch the sunrise, to lean on his shoulder and fall asleep.

  “Did you tell anyone about this?” Same question as yesterday.

  “No.” Same lie on a technicality.

  Toshber pulled a folded shirt from the folder. “Is this yours?” She shook it out and it brought a rank smell of sweat and sourness into the room.

  It was a nondescript grey t-shirt, not far different from the one he was wearing but stained and filthy, as if it’d been dragged through mud, sprayed with liquid garbage and never washed. It was about four sizes too small. He didn’t need to tell them it wouldn’t fit.

  Pagonis stood up and made a show of stretching. “Here’s what we think happened. You met Alison, the woman in the photo, at Marks Park several times. You struck up a conversation, you drank coffee together, had a laugh. On the day the sculptures were shipped out you invited her back to your cave. You’re two consenting adults. You make out, but when she says no to something more, you force yourself on her, you strike her. You threaten her with further violence and you tell her you’ll throw her over the cliff if she screams.”

  It could’ve occurred like that, so easily, a plausible story. “That never happened.”

  “We think you attacked and assaulted Alison.”

  From tiny truths the construction of a huge lie, but it wasn’t his book, or his shirt, and Foley had been with him that night. It was the first night he’d fed her. “I barely acknowledged this woman. I never invited her to the cave. To my knowledge she never went there. That’s not my book or my shirt. She’s not telling the truth.”

  Toshber snapped her fingers to make him look at her. “Why would she lie?”

  “Why does anyone?”

  That’s not what they expected him to say.

  Toshber packed away the shirt, book and photo. Pagonis opened the door and they both left without a word.

  He was in deep trouble. But they hadn’t charged him. So far it was just talk. He stood and walked around the interview room, circling the table. Had he brought this down on himself, was this part of what he deserved for his other crimes? Was it wrong to fight it?

  There was something unstable about a woman who’d accuse a stranger of attacking her, hurting her, and fabricating evidence. She needed help. He had to trust the cops were smart enough to work that out; that they didn’t intend to make an example out of him. He needed to keep his head on straight.

  They left him for a long time. He might’ve worn a groove in the floor. They came back with coffee and a sandwich. Then they put him in a line-up. Six other guys, his height and build, dressed down to match. He could’ve said no. Could’ve asked for a lawyer. But a positive identification barely mattered. Anyone could’ve worked out he was the caveman.

  He had a decision to make. He could fight this with the kind of force that would tear the life of his accuser apart, expose her secrets and motives and reveal his innocence in this. Or he could let things take their course. Offer himself up.

  Back in the small interview room, he paced again, and considered his alternatives. Before he’d found the cave, he’d argued culpability and been denied it, he’d asked for punishment and was given absolution instead. Did it matter if retribution came finally from the wrong source?

  It wasn’t even a coin toss. If they charged him he’d let it stand. He was guilty of so much worse, it hardly mattered that the details weren’t correct. After all this time delivering his own handmade justice, the idea of handing himself over to professionals should’ve been a relief. And it was in so many ways. He felt the rightness of it, but still regret like heartburn twisted in his chest because he’d lost the chance to explain himself to the one person who’d looked at him and instead of seeing foulness, saw something worth her time and care.

  25: Doubt

  Midafternoon Nat stood over Foley. “How many homeless guys do you reckon have access to a multimillion dollar beachside home?”

  Foley kept her eyes down. “You want me to play twenty questions?”

  “I want you to tell me what you know.”

  Nat might’ve rescued her from Toby, but Foley wasn’t interrogation free. “I did. Drum said someone he knew owned it and let him stay there.”

  Nat made a noise of disgust and sat beside her.

  “What was that for?”

  “You let that stand. You didn’t think to ask about it.”

>   Foley sighed. “I was sick. The hail apocalypse arrived. It occurred to me we’d broken in, but I trusted him when he said we hadn’t.” Nat repeated her annoyed snort. “I’m sorry if that doesn’t get me my junior scoop badge.”

  “You went to an empty mansion with a homeless guy you hardly know. I never thought you’d be so stupid. It could be you in there trying to prove you were assaulted.”

  Foley looked away, out towards the road where traffic moved. People going about their day like normal. Sitting here, waiting to see if the man she loved was a violent criminal, wasn’t any kind of less ordinary she’d imagined.

  “That house is owned by a trust, like your bloody Beeton house. Can’t tell who’s behind it, but I’m working on it.” Nat’s phone rang and she stepped away to answer it, and Foley tried to distract herself with email, pretending to work, but she had the concentration span of a hangnail.

  She turned her face up to the sun and tried to find a way to fault Drum’s behaviour towards her. After that one scary incident he’d been nothing but gallant, and even though she’d needled him by prodding at his silence, by testing his limits, she’d felt nothing but cared for, cherished and respected, yet he was inside that station being questioned about a shocking crime.

  When Nat came back, Foley tensed for another reprimand, avoiding eye contact. Nat kicked off a shoe and picked it up. Its sole was cracked, the heel loose. It was a skinned knee, a headfirst roll down stairs, a broken foot waiting to happen. Nat poked at the heel, prodding it back in line. “I liked these shoes.” She put the shoe back on.

  There was no saving the shoe. “Time to move on,” Foley said, her voice fracturing.

  Nat bumped her shoulder. “It’s just a shoe, Scoop.”

  Foley nodded, not trusting herself to speak without blubbering. They both knew she wasn’t talking about footwear.

  Nat leaned in. “Don’t get too excited, but there’s something not right about Alison.”

  “What?” Foley sniffed. No breakfast, no lunch, very little sleep, she was starting to unravel. Nat was right, she might’ve been Alison, but it was so hard to imagine that.

  “Drum isn’t the first man she’s accused of attacking her. She’s got a history of assault accusations. Doesn’t mean they didn’t all happen, but it’s not as clear-cut as it was yesterday.”

  Foley’s heart climbed so high in her throat it squatted on her voice box, her pitch was Chipmunks. “How many?”

  “This makes five. But the real question is how many convictions.”

  “How many?” she squeaked.

  “None.”

  She bent forward and pressed her face towards her knees. “Oh my God.”

  Nat rubbed her back. “I don’t think he did it. He might be the guy living on a cliff but it’s Alison who’s not mentally stable.”

  Foley sat upright and shifted to face Nat. “You’re getting this from the cops?”

  “It’s police records we’re looking at. But you can thank Toby for digging it up and sharing it.”

  Foley blinked in surprise. “He shared it?”

  Nat nodded. “Happens more often than you think. Our papers aren’t in competition.”

  But this didn’t gel with Drum’s obvious guilt. He’d reacted as if he’d known this would happen, as if he’d been waiting to be caught. “What if he’s guilty of something else?”

  Nat frowned. “What are you worried about?”

  Nat couldn’t know Foley had seen Drum after she knew about the arrest warrant, unless she wanted to strain the friendship beyond any reasonable boundary. “He thinks he’s done something bad. He carries this dreadful guilt. I was ready to believe it was about this, but this is not what put him in the cave. There’s something else.”

  “If there’s a warrant in another state or he does have a record that’s sealed for some reason, the cops will turn that up. Like I said, don’t get too excited. An arrest over one thing can turn into a conviction on another.”

  Despite that, there was enough of the flavour of relief in what Nat said to settle Foley’s nausea. She phoned another update through to the office.

  It was close on 5pm when Alison exited the building, again under escort. This time she kept her head down, turned away, and none of the shouted questions were answered.

  After all the sitting around, Foley almost missed it. “What happened?”

  Nat walked back to her side. “Dunno. But we’re all on deadline.”

  The sound of the doors opening again caught their attention. Nat moved forward, Foley’s feet were fused to the pavement. Two cops walked out on either side of Drum. He looked for her, found her, then one of the cops walked in front of him and he was forced to turn aside, going with them to a police car and getting in the backseat. He wasn’t handcuffed, but they were taking him away.

  She looked for Nat, for an explanation, and found Toby. Any hint of pretence she was the lunch girl had long worn off. He made for her and the doors opened again, a cop walking out with a piece of paper in her hand. Toby dropped Foley like she was five-day-old fish and spun around.

  The cop read a statement, formal words, cop speak, but all that mattered was the charges had been dropped. It was over and Drum was free.

  She should’ve waited for Nat, but she’d waited for two miserable days. Foley bolted to her car, fingers crossed it would start; the parking ticket would be that much more painful if it didn’t. It kicked over. There was only one place Drum could go that was safe enough. He’d know the cave wasn’t; that his curiosity value would be too high.

  She drove to the house on Tamar and parked outside. The entrance foyer light was on. She got out of the car and then her momentum stalled, her own battery dead. She’d effectively finished it with Drum the last time she was here, accusing him, backing him into a corner, then turning informant on him. It was enough to know he didn’t attack anyone. It was enough to know he was safe.

  If she went back inside the house she was starting things up again, she was asking for trouble. There was no guarantee he’d want to see her anyway, given she’d served him up to the cops. The smart thing to do was get back in the car. Nat would approve. Drum wasn’t her job anymore and she’d been kidding herself about loving him, about him being part of her life.

  The light in the house was a steady glow, the one around her heart flickered, faltered. She got back in the car and started bargaining with herself. If the car didn’t start, she’d go inside, only for five minutes, just to see him, convince him to enrol in a program, get help, tell him the cave was going to be boarded up, wait for road service.

  The car coughed and then did its best imitation of a Ferrari. So, that was it. She let a song play, no idea what it was, something about saying Geronimo. That might’ve been her motto, a catchphrase for a less ordinary life, for jumping in and taking a chance. Sitting in the car in the dark she didn’t feel like an adventurer. She felt like a failure. A starving hungry, anxiety sick, love struck, career blocked, hesitant fool. And she didn’t much like that collection of feelings.

  She turned the engine off and got out of the car. She locked it and leaned against it. She was going into the house. She was going to find out what Drum’s story was and then she was going to say goodbye properly with one of those sense resetting kisses, a last great one for the hell of it. Then she’d get back in the car, drive home, eat something so her stomach lining didn’t dissolve, turn corrosive and acid burn through her body, and start thinking about how she could fix her work situation. That’s what a smart person would do.

  Bombs away.

  She went to the gate and it clicked open before she pressed the buzzer. The front door opened before she got both feet on the tiled path. He stood in the doorway. Same rock star torn jeans, same shapeless grey t-shirt under a washed soft zippered hoodie, he was barefoot, the wind had been in his hair, he was clean-shaven, and his eyes were full of storm damage, but he smiled.

  She was in his arms before the door closed; hands exploring him for kno
cks and dents, for injuries to his pride and conscience, and face tucked into his chest, breathing his welfare. His cheek went to the top of her head, his arms banded her ribs, a tremble in his body spoke to how the last few days had wounded him.

  “I didn’t know if you’d come.” That vibration was in his voice too and it raced under his skin, twitched in his hands.

  “I didn’t know if I should. We have to talk.”

  He took a deep breath and his hold went slack, but only so he could bring her chin up. Her being there was no insurance and he knew it. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  She closed her eyes to block out the fear of what she’d learn, the certainty it would put her back in the car, back on her way to getting over him, and he kissed her; the gentlest, most hesitant press of dry, warm lips on hers. It should’ve been a comfort. He pulled back and she chased him, a hand to the back of his neck, because it wasn’t enough, not near enough, to banish the terror of thinking he might be someone else, a man whose hands had hurt, whose lips had lied, whose body had harmed another.

  This next kiss surfed currents of confused desire in both of them; a riptide of emotion compressed into open mouths and the touch of tongues. Drum leaned on the closed door and brought her closer, moving his hands on her body to anchor them, hunger in his kiss making desire swell in her till she drowned in the want for him, swept out beyond the place where good intentions and sound reason lived, to an island of blue calm where all that mattered was this swirling connection, this desperate attachment to him.

  He broke the kiss, but not the ties. “You make me forget. You make me want, Foley. Want so many things I don’t deserve.” He stroked her back, her arm, raising goosebumps with his words. “I don’t want to let you go because I’m scared I’ll never see you again. I can hardly believe you’re here now.”

  He traced a finger around her ear to cup the back of her head. He brought their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “Obsession, compulsion, they’ve wrecked me, they’ll wreck me again over you.”

  “Let me help you.” If she could help him, she could help herself, because it was impossible to tear away from him.