‘Reid Harris is my brother.’ He felt a tremor of pride at coming out with it.
‘Really, he has siblings? I thought he was an only child.’ She sat back, regarding him.
‘He’s my half-brother.’ He thought of Reid’s face. His hands clenched on the table in front of him. ‘I didn’t know him, until I was approached by a friend of his mother.’
‘Do you have contact with him?’
‘Yes, I’ve contacted him. I don’t know if he’s seen me here today. But we have met. Quite a few times.’
She looked fascinated now. Ford wished he could stop this, yet her interest made him keep going. He’d been thinking about this for days, obsessing about it really; now here was someone he could tell it to. He hadn’t wanted to bother Simon with it. There was no one else.
‘His mother is,’ she thought for a second. ‘Rima Richards. A member of the Assembly of God.’
‘Reid and I have the same father.’ Ford brought this out with difficulty.
‘Really?’ There was something in her keen-eyed expression, was she laughing at him?
‘Yes, really,’ Ford said coldly. He wished she would go away.
‘My name’s Emily Svensson,’ she said and held out her hand.
‘Ford Lampton.’ He shook her hand, leaned forward and said urgently, ‘I don’t think I should be talking to you. You’re a journalist. I don’t want you to harm Reid in any way.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think he’s innocent?’
‘He doesn’t need me interfering, making things worse. And yes, I do think he’s innocent.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the things he’s told me. He did nothing wrong. I absolutely believe him.’
‘Your brother …’
‘Yes, he’s my younger brother. Half-brother. And he’s on trial for his life. He could get eight years in jail. And you ask all these questions, no doubt you’ll write something inaccurate.’
She didn’t react, only looked at him, bright-eyed, thoughtful. She held something out to him. ‘This is my card.’ And then, ‘Can I ring you?’
Ford looked at her slender bare arm. His nerves prickled. He steeled himself.
She said steadily, ‘I won’t write anything you’ve said. I won’t do Reid or you any harm. I’d just like to ring you.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She smiled, sighed.
He said, ‘I’m at the university. You know my name.’
‘Will you take my card?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ He took it, rose and walked away, his shoes squeaking on the tiled floor.
Emily watched him leave. A corner of his shirt had come untucked and was flapping at the back of his trousers. He smoothed back his hair — a nervous gesture.
She took out her phone and wrote a text: Guess what one of half brothers here at court. Talked to him but not much. Says RH ‘not guilty’.
A text came back. The doctor?
Lecturer. She replied. No sign of the dr.
She yawned, stretched and finished her coffee. People were moving. The court would be back in session. She followed the crowd back upstairs, thinking intensely about Ford.
Ford had grabbed a better seat. He turned Emily’s card over in his hands. He looked at the line of journalists in front of him, some of whom he recognised from TV; pretty, thin women, a young man with gelled-back hair. Many were furiously texting before the registrar came back in. The registrar policed the court with gaunt vigour, threatening to confiscate phones. Ford watched the blonde woman wearing a gold cross thread between the seats. There was a quality of stillness about her, something watchful and contained.
The jury filed in, and then the judge.
Emily made herself stop looking at Ford, and watched Reid Harris.
Six foot three. Physically powerful, muscular, obviously works on fitness, body-builds, whatever it takes to get shoulders and arms that big. Alert eyes, sharp face, wide, thin mouth, an overall appearance of pumped-up masculinity that will be construed as arrogance. Undeniably butch, extremely tough, but not necessarily nasty. Neither stupid nor vicious …
Emily sat back and considered, twirling her pen in her hand.
According to the charges, a young woman had come to Reid Harris’s door with a petition while he was living in a house in Northland. He was posing as a drug dealer in an undercover police operation. He was alleged to have dragged her into the house, sexually assaulted her and raped her. It was a historic charge, some years old.
The complainant, a tall, slim, attractive woman, had been brought over from Melbourne for the case, and the press had been allowed to watch her give evidence. On that day the glass doors had swung open and shivered back into place and in a sudden rush of activity Ms Charlene Heka, now Mrs Vitali, had swept into the corridor amid a parade of supporters and cops. She had been stationed in an interview room and her husband, Mr Vitali, could be seen roaming to the door, peering through the glass, scanning the hall and veering away again like a predatory fish in a glass tank, while his wife sat immobile at a table, guarded by a woman detective from Melbourne who wore high-heeled boots, had her foot up on a chair and a cell phone clamped to her ear. When she was called as a witness there was a sudden intensifying of police activity, much important marching about, and as she was brought into the court the air seemed to compress, as if the room itself were drawing a long, excited breath. Reid Harris’s lawyer swivelled on his chair and stared grimly over his half glasses and the prosecutor rose, held up his hand and nodded to the assorted press, acknowledging the intensity, the fearful glamour of the moment.
On the stand she was likeable and attractive. She had a low, pleasing voice and a way of leaning forward conscientiously to listen to questions, keen to get details exactly right. She paused, thought before she spoke, admitted when she could not remember or when she might have got something wrong. Listening, Emily found it impossible to imagine someone more honest and sincere. She conveyed no sense of melodrama or relish, no shrillness or anger, only a kind of delicate distress at the situation in which she found herself. Details of the actual assault had to be dragged out of her, the prosecutor coaxing, apologising, taking inordinate care to be sensitive. When at last Mrs Vitali had been induced to describe the nitty-gritty of the assault, to name, unwillingly but bravely, body parts and functions, Emily had seen one of the juror’s eyes fill with tears, and Emily herself had felt that a kind of violence was being inflicted on this slender, gentle-natured woman.
Reid Harris’s lawyer couldn’t get anywhere with her. He needed to challenge her, yet he risked alienating the jury, who liked her. On the other side of the courtroom Reid Harris sat motionless, his hands clenched in front of him.
On that day — it was two days ago now — Emily hadn’t fully heard the question, her mind must have wandered, but it was some time in the afternoon as the late sun was slanting in and the air, full of revolving dust, had a drowsy shine to it; the tension of the day had slackened, the jury were glazed and Mrs Vitali seemed wan, her hair awry and her composure dented. afterwards, Emily had searched the transcript to find the exchange. Q: ‘After the day you say you were assaulted, did you seek a pregnancy test?’ A: ‘I don’t know.’ Q: ‘More than one pregnancy test that year?’ A: ‘I don’t know when I had tests. I might have had lots, I can’t remember. I — my boyfriend and I — had a baby the following year.’ Q: ‘A baby?’ A: ‘He died of cot death. One week old.’
There was an objection, the prosecutor was on his feet, the jury blinked, looked muddled and dragged themselves upright, refocusing, in their seats. A piece of paper fell off the edge of the registrar’s desk and swooped through the shining air. The registrar reached out to grab it and Emily looked past her at Mrs Vitali who was leaning forward and holding the wooden rail in both hands. She had her eyes on Reid Harris and he was looking back. An intense, silent communication passed between them, and in that instant Emily saw that they knew each other. They knew each other well. T
his could not be what would pass between a woman and a stranger who had attacked her. She thought, he’s telling the truth. They have known, maybe even cared about each other. What if this isn’t a rape case? What if it’s something else?
Emily had a free night on Fridays. Caro stayed with Beth and Per, and usually spent Saturday morning with them.
She sat alone at her kitchen table, drinking a glass of wine, her notebook in front of her, and read over the description of Ford Lampton. She had not stopped thinking about Ford all afternoon.
Emily hadn’t been with a man since Harry had left. Caro had recently turned four. At first, Emily had been too busy trying to be a good parent to go looking for a man. But lately the idea had begun to haunt her: I will grow old and die and never have anyone else.
A fierce restlessness sent her pacing around the kitchen. Time was passing, she would get older, no one would want her and life would be over. It had been fine, just Emily and Caro getting on with life; now, suddenly, it was agony. She could not get Ford Lampton out of her mind. Why him? Why anyone, she thought. There was something about Ford (the way he looked, the way he talked?) that had got her into this strange mood.
She picked up the phone book. There was a listing for F Lampton and Dr M Bandaranaike in Grey Lynn. He would be at home with his wife, he would be out at dinner; he would be in bed with his wife (her scalp prickled). She rang the number.
Ford answered.
‘It’s Emily Svensson.’
There was a long silence. Ford said, ‘I’m sorry, I told you, I don’t have any comment.’
‘I know you said that, but I wondered if we could meet.’
‘I don’t know any more about the case than you.’
She thought, I want you to come over here, we could go for a walk, we could have a coffee, we could talk about our problem brothers, we could compare family weirdness, we could laugh about the fact that we turned out normal and sane, we could walk closer and closer until your hand brushed mine and then on some street in the sun we would be kissing and go home and get between the sheets and fuck one another blind, because for some reason I like you, strangely you, because time is running out, because the world is going to hell, because all I want to do is fuck you to pieces, now now now.
She said, ‘I know you may think it’s “inappropriate” of me to call. But I would like to talk, just briefly, about the business with Reid.’
He laughed sourly. ‘The business?’
She said, ‘I think he’s innocent too. There’s something I could tell you.’
‘So tell me,’ he said coldly.
‘I realise you don’t want to talk to a journalist. I know that.’
‘I’ve read your stuff. Your in-depth profiles. Your reputation for “honesty”. You don’t leave anything out. Why would I want to end up in one of your pieces?’
She registered this. He knew who she was. His tone was hostile; there was something else, a sadness. A quick perception flashed into her mind: he was alone. She said, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you and your wife …?’
‘No problem,’ Ford said in a harsh voice.
Emily waited. The silence lengthened. She held out.
‘My wife is dead.’
Emily stifled a sudden laugh. She got up and paced around the room. She was struck with an exquisite, private sense of comedy.
‘Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily said, and squeezed her eyes shut. She put her hand over her mouth. What was she doing?
‘She died in a car accident.’
Emily took a reckless swig of wine. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Last year.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.’ She winced, willing him not to end the call.
‘She was a doctor. An anaesthetist. I don’t know how I’ve got through the year without her. She was the most beautiful, talented, charismatic person I’ve ever known.’
Emily, the phone clamped between her shoulder and cheek, stuck her head in the fridge, drew out the wine bottle and said, ‘Go on?’ A milk carton tipped up and spilled, she grabbed, missed and it sprayed across the carpet. She threw a tea towel on the floor and stamped on it vigorously, filling her glass at the same time.
Ford said vaguely, ‘She was driving on the northwestern motorway. I should have been with her. She was badly injured, didn’t have a chance.’ He sighed, a lost sound.
‘Can we meet?’ The words shot out. She couldn’t tone down the abruptness.
His voice went flat. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t have any comment.’
She should have let him go on more about the wife. Now she’d sounded cynical, impatient. She’d lost him. She tried to think quickly. ‘Have you spoken to Reid today?’
‘Yes, I have,’ he said.
‘What about?’ No no, wrong question. She closed her eyes, clenched her fists.
‘None of your business,’ Ford snapped.
Emily picked up the milky tea towel and whirled it round in frustration. ‘I don’t just want to talk about the case. Honestly, if we met it would be more just a social thing.’ She grimaced, waited.
‘A social thing? Since when does a journalist just want to have a social thing? It’ll be all very cosy and chatty and then I’ll pick up the paper and the whole thing will be there, transcribed. No thanks.’
She said desperately, ‘What if I promise not to talk about Reid at all?’
‘What’s the point of that?’ He sounded amazed.
‘Then it would be purely a social thing.’
‘Look, Emily, I’m sure you play these kinds of games all the time.’ His tone was final.
She wanted to tell him, I do play around with subjects, I do interview people, I do write about them, but I’m straight about you.
‘I’m sorry to have bothered you then,’ she said brightly.
‘I admire your tenacity.’
‘Oh well, back to business. Life goes on, and so on,’ Emily said surreally.
‘You must have a very interesting life.’
‘Yes. It’s fascinating,’ she said.
She hung up, fell face down on the couch, and lay there for a long time.
The next morning at the first adjournment, Emily sat down next to Ford in the court café. He put his newspaper down and looked at her, long-suffering.
‘I can’t write anything about Reid now, it’s sub judice.’
‘Yes, but you’re here with a view to writing something after the trial, aren’t you,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
‘No. Okay. But I wanted to tell you. I saw Reid and Mrs Vitali looking at each other and I could tell they knew each other. It was when she said she’d had a baby that had died. The baby could have been his.’
Ford winced. ‘Well, he is supposed to have raped her.’
‘Yes, and you couldn’t prove now that it was his, and even if you could it might only say something about dates — that they were having sex after she says he attacked her. But the baby’s dead, so that’s not helpful. The point is, when she mentioned the baby she looked at him, their eyes met and I could tell.’
Ford looked weary and troubled.
‘Tell what?’ he said in a flat voice.
‘That they were communicating. That they had a history. That more had gone on between them than just one “attack”. ’
‘I see.’
She looked at her fingernails, considering. ‘My editor wants me to do an interview with Reid, to run it if he’s acquitted.’
‘And you want me to help you.’ Ford crossed his arms and assumed a grim can’t-fool-me expression.
‘No, that’s my job. I don’t need your help,’ Emily said sharply.
He folded his paper and slapped it down on the table. He pursed his lips, haughty, high-minded. He picked a thread off his sleeve. ‘Are you the sort of person who derives enjoyment from other people’s pain?’
Her expression changed. She leaned forward.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m a sadist. That’s it. I’m just here taking an interest, telling you these things because I’m a sadist.’
He stared.
‘Forget it. I’ve been awake all night thinking about you, about this case, I mean, about your brother, and I’ve got a few ideas about it, and I’m just doing the job I get paid for and it’s not necessary for me to talk to you. It’s just not necessary.’
She put down her cup. Near them, a man in a suit rose from his table, flipped open his beeping phone and said intently, ‘Yeah yeah yeah yeah.’ The glass doors opened, a baby wailed, and a woman walked across the foyer grappling with a heavy child, the sun making long dusty shafts of light through which she staggered, the child flailing, the mother’s face averted from the little fists.
Ford, his knees locked together, swivelled awkwardly on his seat, his hands clenched on his thighs. ‘Emily.’
‘Forget it.’
He held up his hands, looking around, wanting to quell this sudden alarming surge of intensity. His face was creased with consternation.
She stood up and walked off, leaving him at the table. She went into the ladies, looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. She thought again, what am I doing?
Late morning, the next day. In his office, coffee mug in one hand and a folder in the other, Ford ran his eye down the list in his inbox. He stopped abruptly at the name. Emily Svensson.
He lowered himself into his seat. Good God. Now she’d got into his email. Like a stalker. But it was what journalists did, stalk people. Follow them, find out about them, write about them.
He opened the message:
Now I can’t concentrate! Is this case rather distracting or … Sorry, if I’ve bothered you recently. I need to get back to work don’t I. I have a deadline and I’m just so uncharacteristically … distracted.
That was all. Ford looked at the words, trying to hear her saying them. She sounded girlish, playful, apologetic: sinisterly so? That ‘distracted’. It was like saying, ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’ Not asking for anything specific, but definitely inviting further talk. The time of the email, he noted, was 1am. Last night. She’d been sitting up late then, trying to work but her mind straying. To him. Weary, frustrated, oppressed by her deadline, she had fired off, on impulse, a quick message to the person who was distracting her.
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