The Missing Pieces of Sophie McCarthy

by B M Carroll

  He pauses to take a breath. ‘For the purpose of these remarks on sentence, I will provide my own brief summary of the salient facts … The offender is thirty-five years of age and a captain in the Australian Army. He has served his country in East Timor, Afghanistan and Iraq and is currently responsible for the welfare of his company, which amounts to one hundred and twenty men. At the time of the accident, the offender resided with his wife and eight-year-old daughter in a house in Randwick. He now resides with Sophie McCarthy, the victim in this case …’ Another flinch from Chloe. I must stop looking in her direction. ‘Despite the strange personal circumstances, this is a relatively straightforward case. None of the usual aggravating factors so often present in serious collisions: speed, drugs or alcohol. The weather conditions were clear, and there was nothing to obstruct the view of either vehicle. No mechanical defects or failures were found … It is clear that the offender appears before the court as a person of good character. Testimonials have been tendered from Captain Jack Malone, senior chaplain and colleague of Captain Ryan, and Colonel Trapuzzano, Captain Ryan’s superior and mentor. These are people who’ve known the offender well over many years and are in a position to make an unbiased and level-headed assessment of his character. Mrs Chloe Ryan, the captain’s estranged wife, has attested to her husband’s deep remorse about the accident, his difficulty sleeping, his lowered mood and heightened anxiety, and his determination to “make good” his mistake. I accept that the offender is remorseful and has suffered emotionally. I accept that he made no attempt to avoid responsibility and pleaded guilty at the first available opportunity.’

  The magistrate coughs and takes a sip of water. ‘Nevertheless, as the police have demonstrated, the offence is a serious one and the injuries are long-term in their nature. The courts must be tough with cases like these. We need to do all we can to stop these awful collisions, where people die, or permanently lose their ability to think for themselves, or to walk for themselves, or to resume their life as it once was.’ He pauses again, and glances in my direction. ‘Miss McCarthy is an actuary, obviously good with numbers, and she may have a better understanding of the physics behind the collision than I do. How fast she was travelling – below the speed limit, according to the accident investigators, but possibly too fast for the level of congestion – at what point she braked, what her speed was at the point of impact. Miss McCarthy was on her way to work, her thoughts full of the day ahead. Then a car pulled out in front of her, and suddenly she had to fight for her life.’

  So many times, I’ve gone back to those crucial moments just before the impact. I’ve driven slower on approach. I’ve been more vigilant. I’ve swerved at the last moment. I’ve braked sooner, harder. Of course no amount of reimagination will undo the violence and devastation of his car hitting mine.

  The magistrate resumes with his remarks. ‘I turn now to consider the question of “special circumstances”. Special circumstances are a discretionary finding of fact, and even if special circumstances are found, the court is not obliged to vary the statutory ratio … That said, I am prepared to find special circumstances due to the age of the offender’s daughter – who is currently nine years old – and the impact it will have on this young girl if her father is in custody. I understand that the girl – Jasmin – already has some behavioural issues in relation to sleeping at night and that her mother will have difficulty coping entirely on her own. I even suspect, though this cannot be tested, that Captain Ryan’s momentary lack of attention on the morning of the accident may have been caused by fatigue, due to his daughter not sleeping well the night before …’

  Fatigue. It’s like being in another collision. Being hit at full force, out of nowhere. Driver fatigue: the underlying cause of so many car accidents. Why didn’t I think of it before now? The statistics speak for themselves: twenty to thirty per cent of serious accidents involve fatigue. I work in motor insurance, for God’s sake. It should have been obvious.

  ‘The offender is convicted and ordered to enter into a good behaviour bond under Section Nine for a period of twelve months. The offender is to be of good behaviour and appear before the court if called upon to do so at any time during the currency of the bond. The offender is to notify the registrar of this court of any change of residential address during the currency of the bond … The disqualification period for driving will be twelve months in total, most of which has expired.’

  Everyone stands as the magistrate leaves the court room. I’m dazed. Only half aware of the handshakes at the defence table. Of Dad glowering from his seat. Of Chloe slipping away.

  All I can think about is Jasmin.

  What were the chances? That’s what I’ve been asking myself, over and over, since it happened. What were the chances of me being on that precise stretch of road? What were the chances of Aidan being at that intersection at the exact same moment as me – it wasn’t as if it was his regular route to work. What were the chances that a man who is so exact in all areas of his life, so disciplined, would suddenly lose concentration, pull out in front of another vehicle and crumple both the vehicle and the driver?

  The chances were low. So low that I felt they were almost unquantifiable. So low I had to accept that freak accidents do happen, and get on with my life as best I could.

  I didn’t factor in Jasmin. Even when she was up and down out of bed when she stayed over with us, even when Aidan was obviously tired and stressed the next day from dealing with her, I never factored Jasmin into the equation.

  ‘Captain Ryan’s momentary lack of attention on the morning of the accident may have been caused by fatigue, due to his daughter not sleeping well the night before …’

  So obvious, in hindsight. Fatigue results in the impairment of driver decision-making and reaction times. I should’ve figured it out long before now.

  Fatigue: the underlying cause of so many car accidents, including mine.

  Jasmin: the underlying cause of Aidan’s fatigue.

  Aidan hadn’t had enough sleep. The accident happened because he was tired and not paying proper attention.

  The accident happened because of Jasmin.

  45

  Richard

  A good behaviour bond. This is our justice system. This is the best it has to offer: a bloody good behaviour bond. Waiting almost a whole year for that – for nothing. The man who broke my daughter’s bones, who stretched and tore her nerves, who stunted her career, who turned her into a shadow of her former self, who inflicted pain on her for the rest of her life, gets to walk out the door, free. A bloody good behaviour bond. It’s a disgrace. A horrendous waste of time and resources for everyone involved. An insult to those victims who are genuinely hurt by the careless actions of others, and to their families – their fathers and mothers and siblings – who feel that pain as their own. Every time I look at Sophie’s face, the anguish in her eyes, the press of her lips as she contains her pain, the flinch that seems to accompany almost every movement, I feel a stabbing sensation of my own, deep down inside me.

  A bloody good behaviour bond!

  It makes me want to kill someone.

  Chloe

  It’s over. Thank goodness the nightmare is finally over. I don’t need to go home to face my daughter and break the news that her father is going to prison. I’ve been spared that. My eyes filled with tears as soon as I heard the sentencing. I wanted to hug Aidan, to hold him in my arms, to sob openly with relief. I had no right to do any of those things. I left the court room without touching him, without speaking a single word to him. I slipped away discreetly. I didn’t want him – or Sophie – to see how emotional I was. I’ve had enough humiliation for one day. Hearing the judge refer to their relationship in his remarks – validating it in front of the court – was like a slap in the face. Then Sophie speaking about Aidan in her victim impact statement, the sense of intimacy she portrayed, the sense of knowing him, what kind of man he is, all made worse by the glances that were darting back and forth between the t
wo of them.

  I’ve no doubt that Sophie will experience pain for many months – or years – to come and that her life and her career will never be quite the same. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t all for nothing. She met Aidan. She took him from me and Jasmin. And it can be argued that our pain, albeit a different kind of pain, will be just as enduring as hers.

  Aidan

  I’m relieved. Of course I am. It didn’t matter how many times Barry Ford assured me that prison was an unlikely outcome, there was still that question mark hanging over me, as well as the deep-down feeling that I ought to be locked up. I had, after all, almost killed someone. In some ways, I relished the inconvenience of having my driver’s licence suspended. The pain of leaving Chloe and Jasmin was well deserved. Punishment seemed like the only salve for my guilt. But now that the punishment is more or less over, how will I manage to keep my guilt in check? Sophie is right. She’s destined for a life of pain, and I’m destined for one of guilt. It’s a sobering thought.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Barry, shaking my hand after the judge had left the room.

  I’m relieved, yeah, but I’ll never be at the point of wanting to be congratulated. For what? For getting off so lightly? For being another example of how lenient the courts are with matters such as this?

  ‘I’m glad that’s over.’ Sophie came over to join us. ‘Can we go home now, please?’

  Her face was strained, extremely pale.

  Chloe didn’t wait around afterwards. I wanted to catch her, to thank her for the character testimonial, and for turning up to support me, even though it must have been difficult to hear some of what was said about Sophie and me.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Sophie started walking towards the door.

  As soon as we were alone in the car, I discovered that her haste to leave wasn’t because she was in pain; it was because she was enraged.

  ‘Was the magistrate right?’ Her voice was shrill, accusing, as were the tyres of the car as we rounded each ramp in the car park. ‘Were you tired?’

  At first, I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. ‘What?’

  ‘Did it happen like the magistrate thought it did? Jasmin had kept you up all night and you were sleep-deprived the next morning?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ We pulled up at the boom gate. I handed her the ticket.

  ‘I’m just trying to determine Jasmin’s part in all this.’

  I waited until we were outside, on the main road, before I answered, enunciating each word clearly. ‘Jasmin had no part in this. Don’t blame her.’

  ‘Really?’ I didn’t turn to see her expression, but her voice was cold and sarcastic, and that told me enough.

  ‘Yeah, really.’ It had been a draining morning, to say the least, and the last thing we both needed was an argument, certainly not an argument of the magnitude this could be.

  She laughed humourlessly. ‘You’re forgetting … I’ve seen her in action, Aidan. And I’ve seen you the next day. Tired. Stressed. Not your normal self … I should have put two and two together before now.’

  ‘I don’t like where you’re going with this, Sophie. I’ve already told you: blame me. I was the one behind the wheel. It was my mistake.’

  ‘You were tired. Because of her.’

  ‘And I was tired countless other mornings too … I didn’t cause an accident any of those times, did I?’

  ‘It was waiting to happen, can’t you see that? Sooner or later, the tiredness was going to catch up on you and cause a mistake … and it did. What other explanation is there?’

  ‘Stop it, Sophie. Just … stop … it.’

  ‘And you should stop defending her and making excuses for her appalling behaviour.’

  Even though I wanted to end the argument, I couldn’t let her get away with that. ‘Appalling behaviour? What are you talking about? Jasmin is a great kid …’

  ‘She should know that her actions caused the accident … She might stay in bed at night if she knew the truth.’

  ‘How can you accuse her like that? She wasn’t even in the car when the accident happened!’

  ‘She didn’t need to be there. She’d already done the damage, making you so tired you couldn’t see what was right in front of you – my car, me!’

  ‘Jesus. You’re unbelievable … You really don’t like Jasmin, do you?’

  ‘I’m not saying that!’

  ‘It’s pretty fucking obvious.’

  ‘I won’t allow myself to be manipulated by a child, that’s all.’

  ‘Manipulated? Just shut up, Sophie. If you say another damn word, I’m getting out of the car.’

  She shut up and drove the rest of the way home in a jerky, furious manner.

  How could she accuse Jasmin like that? To lay the blame for my mistake, for her horrific injuries, on Jasmin’s young, vulnerable shoulders. What kind of person does that? Blames a child when things go wrong? Thinking it is bad enough. Saying it aloud, pressing home the point, is something else again. Yeah, I probably was tired – from memory, it had been a pretty bad night with Jasmin – but I could’ve asked Chloe to drive, I could’ve called us a taxi, I could’ve acknowledged my tiredness and made a conscious effort to be more alert with my driving. The decision to drive that morning, to pull out when I did, was all down to me.

  Sophie’s obvious dislike and vindictiveness towards Jasmin has left me reeling. It’s like the explosion in Iraq. I didn’t see it coming, the utter shock when it happened, the pain cascading down my arm, damn well furious with myself for being complacent and not spotting the signs.

  46

  Hannah

  Sophie has been in an especially filthy mood since her court case. It’s as if that discussion in her office – when she admitted to being in terrible pain and I almost told her the truth about the life insurance – never happened. All week, she’s been snapping instructions at me and everyone else, stomping to and from her office, slamming doors whenever the opportunity presents itself. Today, she commandeered my lunchtime with a supposed emergency. And now she stops me in my tracks as I’m on my way out the door, my head full of how the twins got on at school today – they were both excited about the try-outs for the school soccer team – and what I can rustle up for dinner.

  ‘What about the risk analysis? Have you finished it?’

  My face fills with colour. How does she do it? How can she make me feel so totally in the wrong when I know for a fact that I am not? ‘I didn’t know you needed that today, Sophie.’

  ‘Well, I do need it today.’ Sarcasm drips from every word.

  Don’t let her bully you. Don’t let her bully you.

  ‘You should have said so. I’m sorry, I really am, but I have to go now. My kids need their dinner …’ I laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood, but her expression stays as mutinous as ever. In fact, she looks furious enough to fire me right here and now, and realizing this fact is enough to make my resolve quickly disappear. ‘I’ll log in later tonight and make a start on it.’

  She doesn’t move from where she’s standing, forcing me to walk around her to get past. Oh God, this is as pissed off as I’ve ever seen her.

  ‘I want it ready first thing in the morning.’

  Well, that’s telling me. How many hours will it take? Three? Four? Another late night, and another groggy start to tomorrow. But anything to make her happy … or should I say, less unhappy. Anything to secure my next pay cheque.

  Callum’s mood is as bad as Sophie’s. I can tell the instant I see his face.

  ‘What’s up, love?’

  He scowls, mutters something that ends with ‘not fair’ and stalks off to the room he shares with Finn.

  His brother is left to explain. ‘He didn’t make it to the next round of try-outs.’

  ‘I see … And how did you get on?’

  ‘I got through.’ Now Finn is scowling too. ‘I don’t know why they picked me. Callum’s better, everyone knows that.’

  It’s true, Callum is the stronge
r player of the two. So why wasn’t he chosen? Didn’t he play well today? Or was it more to do with his behaviour? He isn’t popular with the teachers (uncooperative in class, poor concentration and participation rate, his teacher said when I was called in recently). But this is soccer, the very thing that brings him out of himself. Should I have a word with whoever ran the try-outs, plead his case? Oh God, another battle to face. I’m not sure I have it in me.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Mum says as she gathers her coat in her arms. She’s going for a meal with some friends tonight and she’s flushed with excitement.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I had some leftover casserole. I put it in the fridge in case you were stuck for dinner.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ My eyes fill up unexpectedly. Her face becomes blurry.

  ‘Come here.’ She pulls me in for a fierce hug. She’s quite a bit smaller than me, and hugging her always feels odd, unnatural. ‘You’re doing a good job … with everything. Do you hear?’

  ‘Not at work, Mum. Not at home either. I –’

  ‘Stop it now. You’re doing well, all things considered. Chin up, love.’

  She gives me another squeeze – so tight it takes the air out of me – before letting go. ‘I’ll be off. Try to get an early night.’

  She would be horrified if she knew what I have ahead of me tonight, so I don’t say a thing and nod as if going to bed early is exactly what I’ll do.

  Callum is sullen for the rest of the evening and nothing I do or say can change his mood. It frightens me, this dark side to his personality. It frightens me to the point where I am quite rigid with fear.

  ‘Do you want me to talk to the teacher?’ I ask, sitting on the side of his bunk as he settles down to bed.

  ‘No, Mum. It’d make no difference.’