Shattered

by Gabrielle Lord

  As she studied these questions, and her attempts to answer them, Gemma started to get a sense of a shadowy woman – a woman who made anonymous phone calls to Natalie Finn about her husband. This woman must have had access to a Venetian glass heart of the kind the unimaginative Bryson Finn gave his female relatives and conquests. Somewhere, Gemma figured, was a woman – not Natalie, Bettina or Jaki – who’d also received a gift of Venetian glass. Leanne Morrison had mentioned rumours of a protégé. She could feel a fizz of excitement rising in her as these conjectures took on more form.

  Reason for anonymous woman to call Natalie, Gemma jotted: To destabilise the marriage. Gemma imagined herself in the place of the superintendent’s mistress – a protégé of Bryson Finn, protected by him, bedded by him, a very well-kept secret. Once Bryson had left the house and installed himself in a flat the affair should have been plain sailing. Mystery woman could visit her lover whenever she pleased. So what went wrong? Gemma imagined some possible scene, one in which Bryson said he wanted to get back with his wife. Or damn, other woman is Jaki Hunter. (No, don’t think like that; it’s not possible, Gemma told herself.) Or other woman finds she’s been supplanted by Jaki Hunter. Other woman’s plans explode in her face. She thinks, right, I’ll fix you. I’ll kill you and make it look like your wife did it. I’ll leave a threatening note at the scene that will implicate my rival and your wife, Natalie. That way, I get both of you – I punish both of the people who have thwarted my desire to possess Bryson Finn. One gets death, the other gets life imprisonment. Gemma recalled Donny’s words: his father had referred to a letter from someone called ‘the problem’ before the boy had run upstairs, distressed and frightened. But this made no sense either. All the evidence pointed to Jaki, not Natalie.

  Gemma stood up. She had to ask herself if Angie was right and she was conjuring up this phantom woman because she couldn’t bring herself to believe that Jaki was a killer. It’s denial, she told herself. After all, the anonymous phone call could have just been a spiteful mischief-maker not connected to the case at all. God knows, there was no shortage of people like that around. And she had to admit that although Dan Galleone had motive and certainly the know-how to pull off the murders of Bryson Finn, how likely was it that he’d gun down Bettina in her own home, then turn his weapon on a child who’d probably never seen him before? There was nothing to connect him to the murders.

  Gemma sighed. There were just too many questions. Instead of helping her clarify her thoughts, these questions and answers had only served to heighten her confusion. Until she’d written them all out, she hadn’t realised there were so many variables and uncertainties remaining.

  Why couldn’t she just accept that Jaki was guilty? Why was she putting herself through all these brain-screwers? Why dream up the existence of another, shadowy suspect?

  The answer came as she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and prepare for bed. She was creating the phantom suspect as a means of distracting herself from tomorrow’s termination. Tomorrow was the day that her dream of a little family would finally bite the dust.

  Twenty-Seven

  When she woke, it was still dark and the sea and the sky were simply different shades of grey. She hadn’t slept well. On and off during the night she’d woken, listing all the reasons she couldn’t have a baby. As she dressed, she recalled Angie’s words: of changing the family curse into a blessing. She reminded herself that it was still not too late to change her mind. But she didn’t.

  Now she lay like an invalid on a hospital bed, naked under the stupid hospital gown, feeling the effects of the pre-med injection. But through the mellow cloudiness, Gemma was aware of a painful apprehension. She would never know what it was like to be a mother, to have a baby. She would never discover what her baby’s face looked like. This thought so distressed her that even in her floating state she wanted to weep. But the potential future face slipped away to be replaced with a series of dreamy suppositions concerning the shadowy woman Gemma dimly sensed behind the phone calls to Natalie Finn. Venetian glass shards glowed in Gemma’s mind as she realised something significant. If she stacked up a series of seemingly unimportant incidents, a possible name popped up. It was related to overalls and engagement rings. And make-up. And heartbreak. And gold and crystal Venetian glass jewellery and the exhibit room. And it had to be someone with access to genetic material, and someone very close to the victims – or at least one of them. It was someone who knew how to manipulate evidence so that certain conclusions were drawn, so successfully that someone else had been arrested for the crimes.

  She tried to sit up and call out: I need to be sure of a name. I need to chase something up. But she found she could barely move, and when she went to speak, her lips didn’t want to work. Her mouth was horribly dry and there was no water anywhere.

  Someone jerked back the pale green curtain around the bed and a smiling attendant floated in front of Gemma’s drugged eyes.

  ‘I’ve got to find out a name,’ Gemma said, trying to climb off the bed.

  ‘Hello there,’ said the attendant brightly. ‘What are you up to? You’ve got a visitor but she can’t stay long because you’re scheduled to go in . . .’ She frowned and glanced at her sensible stainless steel watch. ‘Goodness, almost right away. Okay? I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’

  The attendant vanished. Gemma looked up to see Angie, in her navy work suit, appear between the curtains.

  ‘Angie . . .’ she murmured. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you.’ Angie pulled up a chair. ‘I woke up remembering today was the day. It suddenly hit me. I mean, really hit me. And I started thinking of the other day, outside the Police Centre, when that beautiful white bird nearly flew into your hands and you were so positive. You said “Angie, I can do this!” What’s changed since then?’

  Despite the pre-med float tank she was drifting in, Gemma was startled.

  She gathered her thoughts. ‘I was carried away that day. But the reality frightens me.’

  ‘I think you’re letting that incident with Julie and Steve at the funeral influence you. I think you’re somehow punishing yourself! Get your head together. There are heaps of women out there – me, for example – who are never, ever going to have a baby.’

  ‘You can’t say that! You’re still young enough. So am I.’

  ‘Gems, you’re dreaming. You know how hard it is to conceive at our age. There are women desperately trying and failing. You said to me that life had given you this gift. And you were going to run with it. This is it, girl. This is your chance to do it.’

  Gemma remembered the conversation; how the image of the withered pond and the stone nymph with her empty jar had come into her head.

  ‘I just had to dash over here and make a last-ditch attempt to get you to change your mind. It’s not too late.’

  Gemma struggled to sit up, dazed with sedation. ‘But I’m about to be wheeled in,’ she said. ‘Everything’s in process.’

  ‘That’s pathetic! Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘You know why I decided this way,’ Gemma whispered, falling back onto the pillow. ‘It’s just too hard. I’d be a hopeless mother.’

  ‘That’s not true. Look how kind you’ve been over the years to the Ratbag. He adores you. Don’t you get it? People love you. But you go for the wrong kind of man. And because of that, and because of your own early experiences, you somehow think you don’t know how to love. Or that you’re unlovable . . .’ Angie blinked. ‘I sound like I’m talking about myself,’ she added in a wobbly voice.

  For a few moments, Gemma wondered if she was hallucinating. She’d never heard Angie speaking like this and almost expected to wake up from a dream.

  Angie looked away, biting her lip.

  ‘Angie! What is it?’

  Angie appearing like this and speaking like this at the elevent
h hour was startling enough, but to see her friend on the brink of tears was altogether astonishing. ‘What is it, Angie?’ she repeated.

  ‘Later,’ said Angie. ‘I’m still waiting for you to convince me why you can’t have this baby.’

  ‘I’m not ready for a baby. I didn’t plan on this happening. I’m scared of doing it alone and with such an uncertain future.’

  ‘Hell, girl, the future’s always uncertain! Grow up. And you won’t be alone! There’s me, there’s Kit – she’ll be a fantastic support for you – and as for you not being ready, when do you think you will be? When you’re forty? Forty-three? Forty-five?’ Angie leaned closer. ‘Getting pregnant gets closer to mission impossible with every passing month, you know that.’

  Gemma stared groggily at the ceiling. Angie’s odd phrase kept circling in her mind. You’ve decided to break the family curse. All she had to do was get up and get out of here.

  The curtains suddenly parted.

  ‘Okay? All ready? Time to go down to the theatre,’ said the attendant. ‘Your visitor can wait or come back later.’

  ‘Come on, Gems. I’ve got the car out there. Get your gear on and I’ll drive you home.’

  She could change her mind, even at the eleventh hour. It wasn’t too late. She could accept the wild card life had dealt her. Mike had talked about saying yes and no to life. This was her life: this pregnancy was part of her life – not something apart from it.

  In her awkward half-sitting, half-sprawled position, Gemma looked from one to the other: Angie’s face eager, the attendant’s concerned and puzzled.

  ‘I’m not sure –’ she started to say.

  ‘About what?’ the attendant asked.

  ‘I think I’ve changed my mind,’ said Gemma, the words sticking a little in her mouth, feeling foolish in her dreamy state and silly gown.

  ‘You want to change your mind?’ the attendant repeated. ‘Last moment changes of heart happen here. Not often, but sometimes.’

  A change of heart. A change to heart, thought Gemma. As she sat up, a surge of soft energy that she thought must be love broke through the drug-induced weakness, charging her system with decisiveness.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said. ‘I’ve definitely changed my mind.’

  •

  An hour later, Gemma sprawled over the blue leather lounge with a herbal tea. Already, the effects of the pre-med injection were wearing off; she now felt washed out by the events of the morning and lack of sleep.

  Despite the grey, drizzly day outside, she felt warm and safe in her apartment as Angie bustled in the kitchen, making her breakfast.

  ‘I can’t stay much longer, hon,’ Angie said, carrying out a plate of wholemeal toast, an egg and some sliced fresh fruit on a tray. ‘So much to do.’

  ‘At least have some of this toast,’ Gemma said. ‘I won’t eat all that.’

  Angie perched on the footstool that went with the leather lounge, put her mug of coffee on the floor and took a slice of toast. ‘Okay. So how are you feeling now?’

  ‘Relieved,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m so grateful you came when you did. Otherwise, I’d probably have just gone on with it.’

  ‘And regretted it for the rest of your life. Sometimes, we just need an extra charge of hope from someone.’

  ‘Thanks, Ange. Let’s hope I don’t regret this,’ she said, patting her belly.

  ‘I’ve never heard an account of a woman holding her new baby and saying, “Gee, I regret having you.”’

  Gemma smiled, then serious again said, ‘But, Angie. What’s going on with you? You were almost in tears back at the clinic.’

  ‘Now’s not the time to talk about me. I’m just so happy you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘It’s Trevor, isn’t it,’ said Gemma. ‘Bloody Trevor.’

  ‘No, no. It was nothing Trevor did,’ said Angie, waving her words away. ‘It was me. Something happened to me. I was about to go to bed with him last night . . .’ she saw Gemma’s face, ‘No, don’t say a word! And I had the black French lace teddy on. The push-up bra and the suspender belt, the impossible stilettos, and suddenly . . . Hell, Gemma, I had this moment. I was suddenly tired. I saw myself in the mirror and sure, I looked pretty good. But I’ve been pulling those black lace stunts now for nearly twenty years – different men, same black lace.’ Angie lowered her eyes, pushing a piece of toast around her plate. ‘Different men, same result.’ She looked up, directly into Gemma’s eyes.

  ‘I just slumped, Gems. I was tired of all this trying. Trying to be sexy and wonderful and gorgeous. Trying, trying, trying to get a man to love me. It’s never worked. After a few months, it all fizzles out and they drift away. So last night I made a big decision. I’m not doing that any more. I’m not going to try to be this sexy siren any more. I’m just going to be who I am, Angie McDonald from Gulargambone who’s made a career for herself in the police, against all the odds. And if someone – some man – sees that and loves me for who I am, that would be great. If not, I save a hell of a lot of time and energy trying to be this femme fatale. Not to mention a fortune in imported lingerie.’

  She bit hard into the toast. ‘And I said goodbye to Trevor last night, told him I don’t want to see him again.’ She shrugged. ‘I woke up this morning and I thought, hell, if I can make a life-changing decision like that, so can my best friend. I knew that if I got in my car and drove really quickly to Family Planning, I just might be in time to ask you one last time.’

  Gemma rolled off the lounge and hugged Angie with all her might.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ laughed Angie, embarrassed. ‘What’s this about?’

  In response, Gemma hugged her again.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you,’ said Angie. ‘Guess who I put the fear of God into yesterday? The father of your little Ratbag friend. One Mr Gordon Sherry.’

  ‘Hugo’s father? What happened?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘Young Hugo came into the Police Centre asking for me,’ Angie said. ‘He made a statement and showed me the bruises. I believe the boy.’

  ‘Of course he’s telling the truth,’ said Gemma. ‘I had to drag it out of him.’

  ‘After Hugo made his statement, I rang his dad who tried to pooh-pooh the whole thing with the old “boys will be boys” number. I put on the tough cop act and said a citizen had approached me with some very serious allegations about violent assaults he’d suffered over a period of time at his school. I stressed to Mr Ratbag that as a police officer it was my duty to investigate and, if necessary, lay charges. I told him I intended to contact the school principal and interview the alleged offenders. I told him that serial abuse of students was something that other schools have had to address, and I mentioned a couple of the big schools in Sydney who’ve had their names splashed across the newspapers. Mr Ratbag was packing it by then. I take it he’s part of the school community in some way?’

  ‘Member of the board, apparently,’ said Gemma.

  ‘He was a very different member of the board by the end of our little chat,’ said Angie. ‘He was starting to see the light about dealing with abuse in schools.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Gemma, ‘but I’m surprised at Hugo changing his mind about taking action. He said he had to go back to stay at his dad’s place and I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘His dad’s place? He’s actually been staying with a woman called Gerda.’

  Gemma nodded. She was starting to understand.

  ‘It was Gerda who talked him into taking action. She’d been involved in some sort of assault herself and she reported it to the cops. The offenders were arrested in a matter of hours. Sometimes, the job gets done.’

  ‘You’re a good woman, Ange,’ said Gemma.

  ‘Aw shucks,’ said Angie.

  After Angie left, Gemma fell asleep on the lounge, only to wake when
shadows were greying the world again. Somehow, she’d slept most of the day away. When she woke, she felt restored, and, wrapped in a rug, went outside onto the deck. The decision to keep the baby seemed as right as the last light glowing under and above the sea, and as inevitable as sunrise next morning.

  She made more tea and, suddenly starving, gobbled a quick fix of toast and Vegemite, then threw the makings of a chicken casserole into a pot. She was wondering whether or not to add some potatoes when she was interrupted by the phone.

  ‘It’s me. Jade.’

  ‘How are you? Where are you?’

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Can you meet me somewhere?’

  ‘What? In Byron?’

  ‘I ended up not going. I’m still in town. There’s something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Jade,’ said Gemma, thinking of Jade’s bedroom and the wall-hanging with its glittering crystal drops, ‘I think I know already what it is. And, Jade, thanks. For not running away.’

  •

  After she’d called Naomi, explaining that she needed to use her house as a rendezvous, Gemma drove to Darlinghurst, noticing a couple of houses working ‘open door’ on the way to Baroque Occasions. Her head felt clear and straight after the good long sleep.

  Naomi had the door open before Gemma had knocked. ‘I should get some sort of carer’s allowance,’ she joked. ‘The people you send me.’

  In the little kitchen at the back of the house, Jade sat at a table, accompanied by a mug of black coffee and a plate of Tiny Teddies.

  Gemma slid into a chair opposite, stacking Naomi’s reference books and pads in a pile out of the way.

  ‘What is it, Jade?’ Gemma asked.

  Jade sat silently, looking from Naomi to Gemma.

  ‘We’ve been talking,’ said Naomi, her attention on the young girl. ‘Tell Gemma what you told me.’

  Jade pushed the Tiny Teddies around the edge of the plate, lining up their arms and legs.