The Unbroken Line

by Alex Hammond

  Will blinked and exhaled, lowering a veil of civility behind the Venetian mask he wore.

  ‘Ms Brennan,’ he said, ‘it’s a masquerade party. We’re all supposed to be incognito.’

  She stood beside him to look out through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  ‘Well, as you say, it’s a party, hosted by your mother, no less. Which got me thinking about who might feel socially obliged to be here, but then spend the entire evening alone brooding out over the city. Only one name came to mind.’

  She smiled at him, her broad mouth drawing the freckles on her cheeks up under her mask.

  ‘That obvious, huh?’ Will said, adjusting his mask to stop it rubbing over the cuts on his face.

  ‘ ’Fraid to say it.’

  She sipped from the Scotch in her hand. Will followed suit. On the street below, the bright lights of an ambulance flashed briefly and then disappeared. He turned back to the room.

  A room of masked men.

  The irony that he felt safe here wasn’t beyond him, his justified paranoia ebbing in an invite-only room of cops and lawyers. No. His attackers would not be here.

  ‘I’m losing count of the number of times you’ve been assaulted and ended up in hospital.’

  Will wasn’t sure if she was goading him or being genuine. He tracked her face to see that the smile had slipped away and a frown of worry had risen above the top of the mask.

  ‘Twice,’ he said, deciding to assume the best of Brennan.

  ‘You know, you gave us the run-around over at Prosecutions. That was some crazy scheme to get your client released. Hunt down the real killer and force a mistrial. We’re not sure whether to be in awe or frightened. You may have set a precedent, but I can’t really see anyone else following it.’

  ‘Explains why the cops don’t like me.’

  ‘They’ll get over it.’ Brennan took another sip of her Scotch. ‘I’m glad you’re all right. You got those flowers we sent?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I should really send out some cards, but with the new firm I haven’t had time.’

  ‘It was just too awful, too shocking, and here in the heart of Melbourne. You really know how to get yourself into trouble.’

  ‘Seems like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘When are you next seeing Haigh?’

  ‘Tomorrow actually. To review the footage from the tunnel cameras.’

  His stomach churned and his head felt light at the thought of it – reliving the attack, watching Eva get cut. At least it might fill in the blanks in his memory.

  Brennan placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hey, try not to take responsibility for all of it. Haigh’s a good cop. She can hunt the clues and she’ll stay on this until they find the fuckers. Is your girlfriend okay?’

  Will took her hand from his arm, squeezing gently before letting go.

  ‘Teresa. Thanks for coming over. It’s good of you. But I still haven’t spoken to my mother yet. And I really should, you know . . .’

  ‘No problem,’ she said, smiling. ‘But if you need anything, give me a call, okay?’ Brennan pulled a business card out of her clutch and held it towards him. ‘If you want any updates on how the case is going, I can do some asking on your behalf. As a favour for all the shit you’ve gone through. No one will think anything of it.’

  ‘No one? There are a few cops saying that I think I know how to do their job better than them.’

  ‘Sure. There’s an element of that. But they’re just cops, Will. They don’t have the kind of clout that I do.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  As he took the card her fingers brushed against his grazed knuckles.

  ‘Shit, you really are torn up.’

  ‘Thanks for the card.’

  At the entrance to the gallery was a framed photo of his father, with fresh flowers on either side like an honour guard. The banner above it read The Daniel Harris Literacy Foundation. Will paused in front of the picture. It was one of the reasons he didn’t like coming to these things. It was the most librarian-like of all the pictures his mother had of his father. She’d asked Will to help her choose it when she first started the charity – his father sitting there, looking awkward, a wall of books behind him, his reading glasses partway down his nose. Will shared many of his traits – the dark eyes, the long forehead and the thick nose. On his father the features were more harmonious, more heroic, than the uneven arrangement on his own face.

  He’s never going to turn grey.

  It was true. In his mind, his father would be forever in his forties. Seasoned, but never to lose himself in dotage. Not that his mother showed any signs of slowing.

  He scanned the room for her.

  It was full of old men – property magnates, senior police, politicians and lots of lawyers. The success of his mother’s fundraiser was, for him, a social minefield. In the crowd were other faces he recognised, people he wanted to avoid. Alida Paraskos for one, in a bright red dress and feathered gold mask. As the prosecutor for Nicholas Aaron’s case, she’d want to talk to him.

  Will kept his head down and made his way back to the bar, refilled his drink and asked where his mother was.

  The bartender nodded to the back of the gallery. ‘The office.’

  He crossed the polished concrete through the unused half of the gallery. At the end was an inconspicuous door in the centre of a white wall.

  Will knocked.

  Moments later his mother opened it. She’d had her hair cut and straightened into a grey bob for the event. She wasn’t wearing a mask.

  ‘How’s the party going?’ she asked.

  ‘Well. Maeve, I’m heading off. I think you’re right. I’ve pushed myself too hard by coming here.’

  ‘Is that William?’ A man’s voice came from out of the darkness.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, come in,’ Maeve said, ushering Will inside.

  It was a long room that smelt of canvas and dust and ran the width of the gallery. The forward section, where Will and Maeve stood, was set up as a small office. A white desk held only a computer monitor and telephone. The pin board on the wall in front of it was filled with business cards and invitations for other exhibition openings. The majority of the room was given over to racks for storing paintings. Sitting in front of these, on the office chair, was a man. Will struggled to recognise him, even though he wasn’t wearing a mask. Draped statues loomed in the darkness behind him.

  ‘Will, you remember Alan Walsh?’ his mother said.

  Now it came back to him from his childhood: family barbeques on a large estate down the peninsula; a swimming pool filled with children, shrieking and running around the edges, despite parents’ warnings. Walsh’s daughter, Andie, had been Will’s first crush – two years older, gregarious, tanned and not interested in a pale, chubby bookworm.

  Will walked over and held out his hand. ‘Justice Walsh.’

  ‘Alan, please, Will,’ he said as he shook it.

  ‘How’s Andie?’

  ‘Doing really well. In London researching human tissue regeneration. Been told she spends a lot of time in the company of lizards. In many ways, not dissimilar to what we do.’ Walsh chuckled but his grin quickly vanished.

  They all stood in silence. Walsh held a glass of whisky. It looked like a double. Will felt ridiculous in his mask so he untied the satin ribbon around his head.

  Walsh stared at Will’s face, his eyes growing wide.

  ‘I can tell I’m interrupting something. I’ll go,’ Will said.

  ‘Actually,’ his mother said, drawing her shawl in closer to her neck as she folded her arms across her chest, ‘Alan was going to ask you for your assistance.’

  ‘I was.’ Walsh took a slug of the drink. ‘How’s the practice going?’

  ‘Well. Are you in trouble, Alan?’ Will asked as he found the only uncluttered section of the wall to lean against.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Will saw the lines of worry across Walsh’s face. These o
nly partially faded as Walsh smiled at him, grim determination replacing his apprehension.

  ‘It’s Saxon.’

  ‘Saxon?’

  ‘You’ve never met Sandi, my second wife. Saxon is my son by her – Andie’s half-brother.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Old enough to know better.’

  ‘Seventeen,’ Maeve said.

  ‘He’s a good kid. Great results, good group of friends, never in trouble. We’ve tried very hard to accommodate his perspective on things, to treat him like an adult. Perhaps that was our mistake.’ Walsh got up and started to walk around the room, examining the artworks in the racks.

  ‘What happened?’ Will asked.

  Walsh paused and turned back to Will. ‘On Friday, one of Saxon’s friends died.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Will said.

  ‘Just tragic,’ Maeve said, nodding in agreement.

  ‘This boy, Connor, was hit by a train. Fell from a pedestrian bridge over the tracks.’ Walsh shook his head. ‘The police have witnesses who say Saxon was with the boy before he fell. They were seen talking on the bridge before Connor went over the side.’

  ‘So, what’s the charge?’

  ‘No charge yet, but I’ve been given word that they intend to – under Brodie’s Law.’

  ‘Bullying?’ Will asked. ‘You said they were friends.’

  Walsh nodded and moved back to the centre of the room. The clink of glasses and a burst of laughter penetrated through the office walls.

  ‘That’s the information we’ve received through back channels,’ Maeve said. ‘Thankfully Saxon is underage, so the family will be spared the attention of the press.’

  ‘Small mercy,’ Will said.

  Walsh sighed. ‘It’s been a difficult few days, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Have the police interviewed him yet?’ asked Will.

  ‘Just once. I sat in, but now that it looks like they’ll press charges, we’re going to need a lawyer.’

  Walsh ran a hand through his greying beard. It was the same length as his clipper cut, a utilitarian style for the hours he spent wearing a wig.

  ‘I’ve presided over hundreds of trials. How many times have I watched families – the defendant’s, the victim’s – torn apart by the slow grind of the gears of justice? Never for the life of me did I think I would be in that situation. You give your kids all you can. Make sure that they have opportunities, that they’re cared for, that they know you’ll support them in their choices, that their happiness is paramount . . . I won’t let them have my son. I won’t have him dragged through the mire.’

  ‘I’d like to help, believe me, but I’m in a difficult situation of my own at the moment.’

  Walsh looked up at him.

  ‘You’re talking about the professional practice hearing,’ he said.

  ‘I am. You know about it?’ Will glanced at his mother. She shrugged.

  ‘We were discussing it before you came in. It’s entirely vexatious,’ she said, as though reassuring herself.

  ‘It may well be, but they’re putting a bit of pressure on me to stay away from back channels. Saxon’s situation and your involvement so far, no offence, has that whiff of privilege already.’

  Sitting forwards, further into the light, Walsh was like stone.‘I can help you there.’

  ‘Alan, I’m not sure —’

  ‘Maeve, it’s fine. Will can help me; I can help him. It’s the way we’ve always done it.’

  ‘Justice Walsh, that’s very kind of you to offer. But this is exactly the sort of thing that got me into trouble in the first place.’

  ‘I’ll have a word. Nothing serious. Just to find out where this is coming from, see if it can go away, quietly. Nothing that will come back on you. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘Will, let him help you. You know the hearing is politically motivated. Your accusers opened that door; you should take advantage of it and retaliate in kind.’

  Walsh held up his hands. ‘I promise I’ll tread lightly. Nothing substantive without checking back in with you first.’

  Will stared into his glass. There was nothing to say that Walsh wouldn’t be able to shut down the hearing. Judges were connected in ways that he couldn’t imagine, very desirable as confidants, and priceless as allies. There was every reason to agree, and yet something about the conversation, about Walsh’s shock when he saw Will’s face, had him concerned. Will’s judgement was too blurred by painkillers and alcohol for him to see clearly. And yet this could be the solution to the hearing, one item he could strike from his ledger of ongoing problems.

  Fuck it.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it but I need to talk to Saxon first. Get a sense of this. Obviously I need to run it based on the facts.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Just to be clear,’ Will said.

  His mother frowned. ‘We’re judges, William. What are you trying to say?’

  You know exactly what I’m saying.

  ‘Just to be clear,’ Will repeated. ‘No matter what we discover.’

  Walsh reached out his hand. ‘Absolutely, Will. I’m certain that Saxon wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s a misunderstanding. We just need to prove that that’s the case. And thank you. It’s good to have a friend of the family taking care of this, and not an opportunist sniffing for a career boost.’

  ‘I’m just glad I can help.’

  ‘Good,’ Maeve said. ‘We can get through this, Alan. We just have to hold the line.’

  ‘Shall we set something up for the weekend?’ Will asked. ‘Outside of court hours?’

  ‘Could you make Sunday afternoon? At three?’

  Will nodded as he tapped the date into the calendar on his phone.

  ‘Well, I should really go back,’ Maeve said, checking her watch. ‘I’ve delayed this speech long enough already.’

  Will followed his mother back into the gallery. She held three fingers in the direction of the hostess, who went off into the crowd. Will looked over his shoulder. Walsh was slumped against the doorframe of the office, his eyes glazed over.

  ‘You know the kid might have done it. Saxon,’ Will said.

  ‘Of course. But I also know that you can help him if that’s the case – keep the sentence low, give him a chance at some semblance of a life.’

  ‘I can only do what I can.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Will followed his mother past Brennan and Paraskos, who stopped chatting about one of the artworks. Brennan smiled at Will as Paraskos held up her hand in front of him.

  ‘Justice Sheehan, you don’t mind if I talk to your son for just one moment?’ Paraskos asked.

  ‘Ms Paraskos. Not at all.’

  ‘You want to talk to me about Aaron?’

  ‘Yes, I want to talk about that. Last time we met, you came to me about putting him away. Now you’re defending him?’

  ‘It’ll be a smooth one. We’re not contesting. I can bring you up to speed at our meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘Will, I need more information than that. None of this sits right and I don’t want any nasty surprises. Not after the way you fucked me over last time.’

  His mother raised an eyebrow. Paraskos blushed and placed both hands up in front of her. ‘Excuse me, Your Honour.’

  Maeve continued across the room and Will took the opportunity to move in her wake.

  ‘No surprises,’ he said to Paraskos. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  As they crossed the room Maeve waved at a group of men talking in a cluster of armchairs. One of them stood.

  ‘Justice Fife,’ she said to Will. ‘He’s been invaluable in getting a lot of these people here tonight.’

  Fife stood and walked towards them, brushing down his tuxedo. His mask bore the long black nose of a plague doctor. He reached out a thin hand to Will and stood before him. ‘Mr Harris, I’m so sorry to hear about what happened. I hope the police are successful in finding the attackers.’

&n
bsp; Fife spoke with the outdated vowels of received pronunciation.

  ‘Uh, thanks,’ Will replied.

  ‘It’s incredible to think that this type of thing could happen in Melbourne.’

  Will had never appeared before Fife, but he’d heard the stories – inquisitorial courtrooms and maximum sentences from Melbourne’s hanging judge. The implication of Fife’s mask was probably intentional – a thing worn to hunt and eradicate disease.

  ‘Thank you for your help tonight, Konrad,’ Maeve said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Fife replied.

  Maeve started tapping a spoon against a glass and quiet fell around the room. Fife walked over to a small podium beside the picture of Will’s father and removed his mask.

  ‘Good evening, everyone, and thank you for coming. I’m Konrad Fife and I’m so pleased to introduce Justice Maeve Sheehan to speak on behalf of the Daniel Harris Literacy Foundation. As I’m sure you’ll all agree, literacy is the vital underpinning of education, the answer to all our social ills. As a judge I have seen so many lives ruined by lack of access: access to education, to life skills, to an opportunity to learn about the moral code that underpins civilisation. To be able to read – Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tolstoy – is a privilege that so many of us take for granted.’

  Jesus.

  ‘I’d now like to welcome Justice Sheehan, who will tell you how you can spend some money to contribute to this worthwhile charity.’

  TEN

  From outside the window flashing bollards cast a garish techni­colour cycle of light over the growing spread of papers in Chris Miller’s office. Will still clutched the masquerade mask as he looked over the scene. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the room. Were he to turn on the light, he would no doubt see its haze floating below the ceiling.

  Will had just missed him.

  Miller had been busy since Will was last here. The pile of briefs remained untouched, but the parcel from the National Archives had been ransacked. Now across the floor lay neat stacks of paper. A curling map of Sydney Harbour was spread out on the remaining floor space, its corners held in position by books from their reception’s library.

  On the desk were the history books and the pages of lists from the late 1700s, with names written in an evasive cursive, copies of an original document. Will turned on the desk lamp and scanned through them.