by B M Carroll
‘And sisters and brothers,’ adds Natasha, clinking enthusiastically.
Megan and Seb share a smile, and echo the toast. ‘To old friends, and sisters and brothers.’
Pink’s ‘Try’ is booming through the sound system, the lyrics apt for the occasion. It’s 7.45 p.m.: fifteen minutes until the first fight. Billy is fourth in the order. They join the line for the hall, paying the ticket price at the door in exchange for a fluoro-green wristband. Officials in white shirts and black trousers sit at tables on each side of the boxing ring. The atmosphere is electric. Voices, camaraderie and anticipation rise above the music. This is a grassroots event. The crowd is a mish-mash of ages, mainly comprised of friends, family and fellow gym members. There is the strong sense that everyone, from kids to pensioners, shares a love of the sport.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome, welcome, welcome. We’ve got sixteen bouts for your entertainment tonight, including some belts up for grabs. We’ll be kicking off in a few minutes with some action in the heavyweight division.’
They find seats, towards the back. Alex and Seb are talking and laughing; they’ve hit it off. Megan feels another shift within herself. She has been unfair to Jess’s boyfriend, suspecting him of all sorts of awful things. And here he is, being so friendly and genuine. Sorry, Alex.
The lights in the hall dim, the ring illuminated with floodlights on each of the corners. The heavyweights are waiting to be called. They’re enormous: ninety kilos, according to the announcer. Megan is half enthralled and half appalled at the spectacle that’s about to unfold.
‘Megs? Have you got a sec?’ Jess has materialised, her expression anxious. ‘Billy’s complaining about a niggle in his shoulder … would you mind having a look?’
‘You know I’m not a physiotherapist, right?’
‘Yeah, of course. I think it’s all in his head. He’s nervous but won’t admit it. Fucking lawyers. Never tell the truth.’
They laugh without a trace of bitterness. Megan hands her Coke to Seb for safekeeping, and follows Jess out of the hall and back to the sectioned-off area in the foyer.
‘Which shoulder?’ she asks, looking into Billy’s almost-black eyes. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Left one. Jarred it while I was warming up.’
Gently, she manoeuvres the arm in a few directions, checking the impact on his shoulder. ‘Doesn’t look like anything serious … Which one is your opponent?’
Billy nods towards a competitor wearing a red vest and shorts, shadow boxing a few metres away. His hair is shaved and he has a mean-looking face.
‘Shit.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He grins.
‘How about a massage to loosen up the shoulder?’ Megan offers, more as a sympathy gesture than anything.
‘Great. Thanks.’
Jess produces some gel from the medical kit. Billy’s skin is taut, tanned and warm. His shoulders rise and fall in line with his breathing. Megan’s breathing unconsciously syncs with his. The music pulses in her ears, fills her heart. Sometimes life presents a randomly exquisite moment. She goes with it.
60
JESS
Boxing is about trying to hurt someone, while abiding to a strict set of rules. Boxing is about intimidation and aggression, to give yourself an edge. You’ve got to have someone to hate in that ring. If it’s not your opponent, then you need to imagine someone else in their place.
‘Have you got someone?’ she asks Billy. ‘Someone you hate and want to hurt?’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
Jess hopes Billy can summon some real aggression because Kyle, his opponent, looks dangerous. His shoulders are broad and powerful and he’s a few inches taller. This is his third amateur fight; experience is on his side, too.
Three rounds of three minutes each. Billy and Kyle receive some pre-fight instructions from the referee. They’re poised to begin, eyeing each other from behind raised gloves. Billy has swagger, but Jess can tell he’s scared shitless. She’s scared, too. He’s the first person she’s coached to this level. It’s her debut, too. The presence of Alex, Natasha, Megan and Seb is gratifying, but adding to her nerves.
The clang of the bell and they’re off. Billy and Kyle dance around each other, the referee watching closely. A half-hearted jab by Kyle, which Billy defends easily. He’s doing well. Being patient. Using the space.
‘Come on, Kyle,’ someone shouts from the crowd. The music has been turned down, the babble of voices acting as a soundtrack.
Two more jabs, which Billy defends, before landing a cracking right hook.
‘That’s it, mate,’ Jess responds. ‘Keep working. Don’t let him get away. Stay there and work!’
The bell rings. The first round is over. Billy returns to the corner and she hands him his drink bottle and a towel.
‘Great defence, mate. Don’t let him pressure you. But don’t give him too much time either.’
He nods, mopping the sweat from his face.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the second round of action between these two light middleweights.’
Billy and Kyle are more wary in the second, ducking, bouncing and sizing each other up. Billy is in a defensive stance; he’ll need to get some shots in if he wants to win this. Just as Jess is thinking this, he goes for Kyle’s head, completely misses and leaves himself open. Kyle pushes him back on the ropes, which rattle loudly. He lands some jabs straight on the ribs, and one to the face.
The referee orders them to stop, and begins to count. ‘One, two, three …’
‘First count of the night,’ the announcer declares. ‘Doesn’t mean much in amateur boxing. Only one point.’
‘Keep him away,’ Jess shouts, as the fight resumes. ‘Use your feet, Billy. Move.’
And Billy moves. He manages to redeem himself with the judges by landing a couple of jabs before the second round is called.
Billy returns to the corner for a drink and a lecture. ‘Don’t get lazy with your hands, mate. You don’t have to go for the big shots every time.’
He has a bust lip; he got off lightly. He gulps some water, dries his face.
‘Third and deciding round,’ the announcer calls. ‘This is a close bout, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Smash him, Billy!’ a woman screeches; she sounds suspiciously like Natasha.
Jess tunes out the woman and the crowd. ‘Straight punches, mate. You’re free-range right. Faster hands. That’s too late.
‘Keep him away. You’re standing too tall. Get lower, mate, lower.’
Billy’s right in there, jab for jab, uppercut for upper-cut. Billy has style and ingenuity; Kyle has experience and strength. Billy is better at defence, Kyle is better at hitting. It’s close, very close.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, that’s the end of the final round and definitely a rematch in the making. We’ll have an official decision shortly.’
Jess undoes Billy’s headgear and helps remove his gloves. The referee checks his hands, and those of his opponent. Then he positions them on either side of him, to await the announcement of the decision.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the winner by way of split decision goes to the man in the red corner, all the way from Orange, New South Wales, Kyle Landon!’
‘Welcome to the world of split decisions,’ Jess sighs, clapping Billy on the back. ‘Not a bad result for your first fight. Well done, mate.’
‘Thanks.’ He grins, his face glowing with blood, sweat and relief.
Jess’s eyes locate Megan in the crowd. Her face is animated, she looks like she’s enjoying herself. Megan is part of the reason Jess arrived at Vince’s doorstep twelve years ago, seeking a fight she at least had a fair chance of winning. Now this, a new phase in her coaching career. It feels fitting that Megan is here. They’ve come full circle.
All the handshakes are done, and the next pair of fighters are waiting their turn in the ring.
‘Come on,’ Jess says. ‘Let’s get some ice on that nice shiner you’ve
got coming through.’
61
BRIDGET
Whether it’s suicide or homicide, there’s the same shock, confusion, guilt, anger and devastation. The endless ‘what if’ questions. Something that could have been done or said or noticed that would have diverted to a different outcome. Families left shattered. Friends and colleagues dangerously unanchored. Ripple effects felt for a lifetime.
Bridget has called Katrina and given her the latest news. Three investigations solved at once: the detective inspector is as pleased as one can be in the circumstances. The rational part of Bridget’s mind tells her to leave Megan and Jess until tomorrow, but the emotional part can’t wait until then. She’s invested in these women; she can’t leave them waiting any more than she could leave Cara waiting. Jess’s phone rings out, and Bridget belatedly remembers that it was seized last night. Megan answers hers after a few rings.
‘Megan, it’s Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy … Are you at home?’
‘No.’ There is a lot of background noise: cheering and whistling. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Where are you? I have an important update.’
‘I’m at the community hall in Artarmon. Jess is here, too.’
‘Give me twenty minutes,’ Bridget says, already moving.
She calls Shane from the car, giving him a brief explanation for her continued failure to arrive home.
‘Katrina has promised me a few days off next week,’ she says, a yawn escaping at the same time. The wipers slick mesmerisingly from one side to the other. She shakes her head until she’s appropriately alert.
Shane’s tone is sombre over the speakers. ‘I guess we’ll see you at some stage tonight. Be careful. Love you.’
He is wonderful, her husband. The wheels would come off without him. Next week she has some serious making up to do, with him and the kids.
The car park adjacent to the community hall is close to full. The rain is coming down more heavily. Bridget pauses for a moment on getting out of the car, raising her face, giving the rain the welcome it deserves. It stings her skin, cold, reviving. The air smells of mingled dust and water. She takes a deep breath before following the sound of voices and loud music. The foyer of the hall has a canteen and a sectioned-off makeshift dressing room, competitors wearing either red or blue, coaches and support staff in dark-coloured polo-shirts.
Bridget smooths down her hair; it tends to go frizzy in the rain. The smell of hot food reminds her how hungry she is. It would appear that the main action is happening next door, in the hall. An announcer’s voice booms over the sound system.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the winner by way of referee stops contest is the fighter in the blue corner …’
She spots Jess’s pale blonde head in the provisional dressing room. Next to her, sitting down, is a familiar-looking man in his twenties, his face smeared with sweat and blood: the lawyer. Megan is bent over him; she seems to be examining one of his eyes.
Bridget manoeuvres her way through the crowd and Jess turns her head sharply, as though sensing her approach. She frowns, touches Megan’s arm, murmurs something in her ear. Megan straightens, swiping a strand of dark hair away from her eyes.
‘Hello. Sorry to gatecrash like this.’ In normal circumstances, Bridget would ask the lawyer to leave so she could have a private word, but he looks rather worse for wear. It seems equally impossible to ask Jess and Megan to leave him to his own devices. There are people everywhere, but the noise level offers a certain degree of privacy. ‘I’m here to let you know that Dylan O’Shea has died …’
‘Oh.’ Megan’s eyes are wide, her mouth agape. ‘Oh my God.’
Jess is tight-lipped. Her shock is contained, but just as forceful.
‘His body was found at his home this evening, along with a written statement in which he admits to shooting William Newson and framing Thomas Malouf for the crime.’
Megan grabs on to the back of the lawyer’s chair to steady herself. Jess is untethered, dazed, white as a sheet. Music booms from the hall next door.
Bridget forges on. ‘The statement confirms that you were both given GHB on the night of the party. The twist is that Dylan was drugged too, although he didn’t discover this until recently—’
‘What the fuck?’ Jess’s eyes narrow with disbelief. ‘What does Dylan being drugged have to do with anything?’
‘Thomas gave him a lesser dose, just enough to loosen his inhibitions – his actions that night were certainly compromised by the drug. Dylan never got over what happened. According to his father, he never had a proper relationship with a girl, didn’t pursue close friendships, and kept a low profile at work – he was constantly fearful that someone would find out. The shame and guilt had a significant toll on his mental health. A few months ago, he discovered that Thomas had drugged him, that Thomas was still using GHB to prey on other women, and that William Newson had got him off another charge. It would seem that these developments sent Dylan over the edge.’
‘Oh my God.’ Megan’s brown eyes are blurry with tears. ‘I never thought I’d feel sorry for Dylan O’Shea!’
Jess is fighting the urge to cry, her mouth trembling with the effort. ‘Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t! What type of person does this kind of shit?’
‘Someone deranged.’ The male voice takes Bridget by surprise. Billy: she’d forgotten about him. ‘Someone who believes their actions to be justified when any sane person knows differently … Where did he get the gun?’
The question is calm and deliberate. Bridget realises that Billy doesn’t care about where the gun came from: his intention is to diffuse some of the emotion with cold hard facts, a technique she often employs herself.
‘Both the gun and the motorcycle were stolen. At this point we’re assuming that Dylan acquired them through the black market. We’ve already found evidence of membership to a shooting club.’
Billy nods. The ensuing silence contains the beginnings of acceptance. This is the point where Bridget might step forward to hug the women if she weren’t acting in a professional capacity. The hug would portray the depth of her sympathy, as well as her emotional connection to the case and her admiration for them both. Words feel like a poor substitute. She chooses them carefully.
‘I know this has been a difficult few weeks. I’ve had to ask intrusive and upsetting questions, dredging up bad memories. I just want to say how brave you are. When I’m not at work, I’m mum to a seventeen-year-old girl and a fifteen-year-old boy. If my kids turn out like either of you, I’ll be the proudest mum in the world.’
62
ONE MONTH LATER MEGAN
The girl, Hannah, is only sixteen. She regains consciousness on the way to the hospital. Confusion registers in her bloodshot eyes, followed quickly by horror.
‘You’re all right.’ Megan squeezes her hand. ‘You’re safe. Everything is fine.’
Tears well. Her mouth trembles.
‘Sorry. I’m so stupid. My parents …’
‘Your mum and dad are meeting us at the hospital. They’ve had a shock but they’ll be okay once they know you’re okay.’
Hannah’s skin is cold and clammy, despite the foil blanket tucked around her. Her heart rate is slow, her pulse irregular. An IV is attached to the pale smooth skin in the crook of her elbow.
Megan gently wipes some vomit from the girl’s chin, a task that’s part and parcel of most Saturday-night shifts. She doesn’t mind, even though the smell sticks to her skin and clothes. She’s going to Billy’s place straight after work; she’ll have a shower there.
It’s slightly startling when she thinks about Billy, and how quickly he’s become embedded in her life. It started with drinks on the night of his fight – with Seb, Jess and Alex – before catapulting into a full-blown relationship. Billy is smart, uncomplicated and certain about what he thinks and feels. Megan doesn’t have to second-guess him, or be on standby for him to let her down: he makes his feelings very obvious.
‘I really like
you,’ he said on that first night, a little bit drunk but clearly genuine. ‘I mean really, really, really like you.’
In response, Megan has opened up about her own feelings, including her remorse over Dylan, how she vacillates between anger and guilt and sorrow. If she’d spoken to him, granted him the opportunity to tell his side of the story, would that have changed how things turned out?
‘Why don’t you talk to his family?’ Billy advised. ‘It might help you and them.’
Poor heartbroken Mr and Mrs O’Shea. Megan’s chat with them was both revealing and cathartic. She discovered, among other things, that the Malouf family had bullied Dylan in the months leading up to the trial. You’d better stick to the story, or else … We’ll ruin your life if you ruin Thomas’s life …Just shut up and do what the lawyer tells you to do. The bullying had intensified Dylan’s feelings of helplessness and fear. Who knew what his testimony would have been without their influence? A guilty verdict, albeit disastrous for the boys at the time, could have saved three lives twelve years down the line.
‘How’s everything back there?’ Kaz calls from the front of the vehicle.
‘All good,’ Megan replies, giving Hannah a reassuring smile.
‘Mum and Dad are going to kill me,’ she croaks miserably.
Megan spots some more vomit on her top, scrubs at it. ‘Just tell them the truth. You drank too much. You misjudged the effect it would have. We all make mistakes. I know I have.’
63
JESS
Jess helps Alex with the baby carrier while Lucy watches wide-eyed from her car seat.
‘There, I think that’s how it goes.’ Jess double checks each strap before lifting Lucy in, facing her towards Alex’s chest. The baby grins and kicks her legs. She can hold her head up now, and is very interested in the world around her. ‘You like it in there, do you? Ready for a nice walk in the bush?’
Natasha and Oliver are at a wedding today, and Jess and Alex are babysitting. Jess grabs the baby backpack (containing nappies, baby wipes, a pre-prepared bottle, spare clothes and a hundred other necessities) from the back seat and locks the ute.