‘Thanks, Alice,’ Luke whispers, giving her one of his smiles. ‘Hang around a bit if you want.’
‘You sure that’s okay?’ she asks, pleased. The office is quiet and Martha has already told her she doesn’t have to hurry back.
‘Of course!’ He points back to the public pews. ‘Park yourself over there.’
There was no need to be self-conscious. These kinds of small interruptions happen all the time during a court case. Once settled, she looks around to see that no one has taken much notice of her at all. They’re all paying attention to the woman in the dock, who is nervously giving an account of being attacked.
Mrs Susan Henley of 15 Miller Street, West Warrnambool, came home late one night to find her ex-husband in her kitchen, going through her cupboards. When she objected, he’d attacked her, held a knife to her throat, verbally abused her, then kicked and punched her, continually threatening her life. Alice finds herself leaning forward, her breath becoming short as she listens to the woman give her account of two terrible hours under the man’s control before she managed to escape. The story proceeds at a halting pace, with questions from the woman’s barrister prompting her for more details.
The accused’s barrister stands up. ‘Mrs Henley, would you say that your husband loved you?’ The question seems to startle the woman. It is as if she’s been slapped. One of her pale hands goes straight to her mouth and the mousy-blonde hair that she has pinned back from her face comes fractionally loose. What a question! Everyone in the courtroom takes a breath as they wait for her to respond.
‘Mrs Henley. Let me repeat the question. Would you say that—’
‘Objection, Your Honour!’ Mrs Henley’s lawyer stands to intervene. ‘This has nothing to do—’
‘Objection overruled.’
And so it goes on. ‘I think he loves me,’ Mrs Henley is barely audible, ‘in his own way.’
‘Mrs Henley would you mind repeating that,’ the crisp voice of the barrister interjects, ‘I don’t think the jury heard you.’
‘He loves me . . . in his own way,’ she whispers.
In his own way . . . Alice’s eyes swim with tears as the soft hesitant voice of the woman in the dock drones on. Thoughts and memories of her own mother build in her chest, one on top of the other, like a pile of beautiful river stones made smooth by water and sun, each one so strong and warm and . . . alive.
Alice sits there in the public gallery of the local courthouse and the great shocking fact that her mother is dead hits her as forcefully and brutally as it did the very first time she knew it to be true. It’s a semitrailer filled with bricks riding straight towards her, crushing her flat. Dead. Her mother is dead and buried in the ground and Alice will never see her again. Can it really be true . . .
She opened the back door in the early morning, a normal enough fifteen-year-old school girl, and minutes later . . . she was somebody else entirely. Who exactly, she didn’t know, but in some deep way she knew she would never again be that girl who came bounding out of the house to ask if she could buy her lunch that day, seeing as her mother had obviously forgotten to make it.
Her mother was there all right, but . . . she was lying in the grass under the clothesline down near the back fence. Her head was twisted to the side and her work dress was up above her knees, one arm was bent back almost under her head and the other was across her chest, as though she might have been simply resting. But she wasn’t asleep. No. Alice could tell straight away. One of her eyes was open, glassy and lifeless. A stream of small black ants made their way to the blood around her head and in her hair.
And the necklace was missing. The necklace that her mother had taken to wearing all the time. Alice felt nothing at first. She hovered above the scene like a bird, watching, waiting for movement so she could dive once again into her real life. She wondered vaguely if she should listen for a heartbeat or feel for a pulse in the way she had learnt in First Aid at school. But she didn’t. She stood there, rooted to the spot, breathing in and out and looking down at her mother who . . . was no longer her mother.
Silence, heavy and thick, had descended on the warm summer morning. Her ears felt blocked, as though she was underwater. Alice twisted her face away, up to the perfect blue sky, and wondered if she went inside and came out again, retraced that small journey from the back door to the clothes line, would this thing, whatever it was, undo itself? Like a few badly knitted rows on an otherwise perfect woollen jumper. Maybe she could just pull out the stitches and re-knit that section. And instead of this, if she came out again, she very well might find her mother pegging clothes to the line, or up behind the shed planting the new shrubs that she’d bought only the day before.
Alice knelt down beside her mother and began to search frantically in the long grass for the necklace. If only she could find that lovely thing, then her mother might spring to life again.
Back in the courtroom, Alice’s eyes are awash with tears. She is trying like crazy to think of something else, because she is desperate not to break down in a public place. But she isn’t hearing the woman’s testimony any longer, she is hearing her own mother’s voice, waking her in the morning. Up and away, babe. It’s a brand new day. Too incredible that she will never hear that voice again.
Her face is hot now. She can hardly even breathe because the howl is building in her chest like a balloon getting bigger and bigger. This has always been the way tears come for Alice: without warning, like a freak storm in the middle of a pleasant day. If she’d had any idea, any warning that they would be about to make their grand entrance, she wouldn’t have come. It’s a courtroom for God’s sake. If only she’d stayed away! She tries not to sniff as she fumbles about in her pocket for a hanky, then blows her nose in a bid to calm herself. But the tears have begun to seep from her eyes like fresh water from a spring. She takes a furtive look around but luckily no one seems to be paying her any attention.
Alice bites her lip, as the tears spill down her cheeks. She gulps and risks looking around again. And there, sitting just across from her, is . . . Tom Mullaney! Oh God! There he is, sitting in the space reserved for the press and the police, a pen in his hand, some kind of notebook in front of him and . . . he is not writing anything. He is not looking at the woman in the dock, nor trying to suss out the jury’s reaction to the evidence. He is staring at Alice.
No! He has seen her helpless gulps and flushed cheeks. Seen the tears. She is coming undone in front of him!
Alice locks eyes with him for a flat three seconds before she turns away, overwhelmed with humiliation. She wishes she had Leyla’s hunting rifle. If she did, she would shoot him right between the eyes. Stone dead. That’s the way she’d like to see Tom Mullaney! Lying on the floor, quite still and unable to see inside her pain.
How dare you look at me!
There is nothing for it, Alice stands awkwardly and makes for the door. She remembers to bow towards the bench before she grabs the heavy handle, pulls it open and rushes out into the quiet lobby. There are a few straggling family groups and a hotchpotch of ‘singles’, waiting about on the rows of seats, most looking worried or bored. The younger guys, with their tatts and weird haircuts, look uncomfortable in their neat cheap suits, put on especially for their court appearances. They all look up when Alice comes rushing out, but she is so upset she hardly notices anything around her. She presses the button for the lift but when she sees it is stuck on the ground floor, she runs for the stairs.
Down two flights and then past the information desk, not crying now but panicking, because her breathing has become shallow. She knows she must look a fright with her tear-stained face and red eyes. A few police standing in front of the water fountain turn to watch her rushing past, but she is only barely aware of them. At last she is through the sliding glass door and out into the weak sunshine. She takes a few deep breaths, heads for the seat furthest away from the street, plonks down and blows her nose again. The terrible need to howl is slowly ebbing away, but her hands are
trembling. Hopefully Luke didn’t see her exit. Her enjoyment of the job is dependent on maintaining a certain formality between them. Things must stay on this even keel or she won’t be able to manage the job at all. She throws her head back and shuts her eyes, as a shudder of shame passes through her. Tom Mullaney witnessed her sorrow and that makes her feel exposed, like he has seen her naked. Of all people! She doesn’t want anyone to see her like that, but especially not him.
‘Alice?’
Alice jerks into a sitting position, opens her eyes and looks around wildly. He is standing just a few feet away, in his jeans and sneakers, looking down at her. One eye is still a little swollen and there is a deep bruise on the other side of his face and around his neck. Tom Mullaney.
‘Can I join you?’
She says nothing as he sits down on the far end of the seat. Alice is desperate to get up and walk off but can’t seem to move. He pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.
‘Smoke?’ He holds the pack out to her, and Alice, who has never smoked in her life – in fact hates the smell and the whole idea of smoking – leans across and takes one with trembling fingers, noticing the cuts along his fingers. Well I’ve got to do something!
She puts it in her mouth. He leans across to light it for her and she takes a tentative puff. Ugh! How revolting. Worse than she thought. But it gives her something to do while she garners her courage to tell him . . . what? She can’t remember. Her mind has gone blank. The pale sky above her is packed with dead, swollen clouds that might give way any minute with some ghastly secretion. Not water. No. What are clouds? These ones look like . . . bags of pus. She shudders, thinking of them oozing out over the world. They are just sitting up there with their disgusting contents, taking up space, and air. Tom doesn’t say anything for a while, just crosses his stretched-out legs at the ankle and blows a thin stream of smoke into the air.
‘Pretty gruelling in there, huh?’ he says eventually.
But Alice doesn’t answer. If she plays dead he might leave her alone. Moments pass and he continues to sit there as though he has every right.
In the end, it is Alice who opens the conversation. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice is hoarse.
‘I saw you run out,’ he mumbles, ‘and I realised that I never thanked you for your . . . help that night. So thanks, Alice. Thanks a lot.’
‘Okay,’ Alice murmurs, taking another tentative puff. Just go away will you. I don’t need you or your thanks! But she doesn’t say that. She wonders if he’s noticed the cylinder of grey ash at the end of her cigarette. She can’t even smoke properly. I’m a fake smoker. Another thing to feel embarrassed about. If only the ground would open up.
‘Just okay?’ He gives a wry smile.
Alice meets his eye briefly but doesn’t return the smile.
‘Actually, I’m lying,’ he says, more forcefully, as though he’s only now decided on something important. He folds his arms across his chest. ‘I didn’t follow you out here to thank you at all,’ he sighs, ‘it’s about something else.’
‘What?’ she sniffs coldly.
He shifts in his seat and clears his throat a couple of times.
‘It’s a bit . . . difficult,’ he mutters. She flicks the ash onto the ground and takes a deep furious drag on the cigarette. Her throat immediately lights up and she begins to cough and splutter. Oh, get on with it, you wanker, you pretty boy! She wishes that she had the guts to tell him to stick his difficult right up his arse! The coughing fit over . . . she is still glued to her seat.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about . . . stuff,’ he tries again.
‘Stuff?’ she mumbles sarcastically under her breath.
‘About what you asked me . . . last time,’ he replies, lifting both hands helplessly as though to say, Come on, Alice, give me a break.
But she won’t. She won’t! She hates him. Alice suddenly has the sensation of being caught in a mudslide, of being sucked down inch by inch from where she is sitting.
‘I saw you crying in there.’ He moves closer, waving his burning cigarette in front of him like some kind of divining rod. ‘It made me feel—’
‘None of your business,’ she cuts in sharply. ‘The way I feel is none of your business.’
‘I know that, but . . .’ he speaks fast, ‘you asked me to help you. I just wondered what you had in mind.’
‘Nothing!’ Her tone is more unpleasant than she intends, but she can’t seem to help that. To soften it now would be like a semi-apology and there is no way she is going to apologise to this handsome, skinny jerk. ‘I had nothing in mind. Only that if he did it, if he killed my mother, then he shouldn’t be just walking around!’ Her voice catches in her throat.
‘I agree,’ he says quickly. ‘He shouldn’t be just walking around.’
‘And he is.’
‘I know . . . why you’re angry.’
‘No you don’t!’ she snaps.
‘Well, I do, partly,’ he says tentatively. ‘I knew your mother and I refused to do what I can to help get justice for her death.’
‘Her murder,’ Alice cuts in ferociously, feeling her throat constrict and fresh tears rush up behind her eyes. She looks away, but she doesn’t care that much any more if he does see her. ‘Justice for her murder, you mean!’
‘Her murder then,’ he mutters.
‘It’s different to just dying.’ She is almost choking as she speaks.
‘Yes,’ he agrees slowly, ‘it is different.’
Tears begin to splash down her cheeks. Alice butts out the stupid cigarette, does up her coat and wraps the scarf more tightly around her neck. She stands up and walks off without saying goodbye.
TOM
No cameras are allowed in court, so when the editor of the newspaper found out that Tom could draw, he sent him down to get a likeness of the key players in the aggravated assault case. Tom had no idea that his old man was representing the accused. Since he has been home, they haven’t talked much about Luke’s work. Tom used to love hearing about different cases, all the stories about what was going down around town, the burglaries and the divorces, and who was suing who over what. Now he gets the feeling that Luke would rather leave work at the office. Whenever they do start some real talk at home, Nanette inevitably makes a grand entrance to complain about the cigarette smoke or the dog being inside, and the conversation is truncated.
When a girl carrying a bundle of documents walks into court, Tom doesn’t take much notice. She’s dressed in boring, old-woman clothes and her face is half-hidden by a scarf. But when she goes over to give the files to his father he recognises her. Alice Wishart. Before then, Tom had been doodling about with his pen trying to get a likeness of the woman on the witness stand, and idly wishing his father wasn’t representing the smirking mongrel on the other side of the courtroom. But as soon as Alice Wishart sits down, he can’t look anywhere else. He is drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
The way she leans forward to listen, so still and serious and concentrated, with her arms folded over her chest. Her face reminds Tom of one of those black-and-white portrait shots taken in the forties of Italian peasant woman at funerals or going about their tough work in the fields. Stolen images of grief and hardship and familial closeness. Where are all those people now? Do they have any idea that their faces have made the photographic careers of strangers? Her face seems to contain so much. It has seen a lot, and felt a lot, yet is still young and vibrant and . . . beautiful. The strong nose and chin and heavy eyebrows are almost masculine, but the delicacy of bone structure and the tenderness around her mouth and eyes belong to a woman.
Tom watches Alice Wishart as the other woman continues her testimony. Watches her frown clear, her mouth open and her cheeks become flushed. It’s like watching the sky as a storm builds, those eyes widening and filling with tears. They glisten in the milky-pale light coming down from the narrow high windows of the courtroom. His own heart moves up into his throat, suddenly swollen with a weird grief. He
wants to howl too, to shout and chuck his drawings, along with the rest of his life, right up in the air.
She blows her nose and tries to wipe her eyes without drawing attention to herself, but the tears continue to pour down her cheeks. And then, when she looks up and sees him looking at her, it is as though everything closes down around them and becomes very still. No one is breathing. No one else is in the room. They stare at each other for . . . how long? Tom has no idea, but for that time he seems to know her. Every single thing about her becomes clear. It feels as though he is looking right into the soul of Alice Wishart. It lies open before him like a wide, long pane of glittering glass. So delicate and beautiful and . . . ready to break.
At the same time, Tom can see that she doesn’t like what is happening one little bit, that she is actually angry with him for watching her. He tries to smile to let her know that it’s okay, but can’t. He wants to look away. In fact, he wants to get away from the whole situation. But he can’t. Instead he is drawn in, further and further into the turmoil that is . . . her. It’s like some invisible rope is drawing him in against his will.
Tom watches her get up and rush out of the room and he can feel the deep wild strands of insanity coalesce inside him. I love you, is the sentence that runs through his head as he closes his sketch-book and packs it away. The words come to him with such force and defiance that he has the feeling that he’s actually said them aloud when, of course, he hasn’t. He has to speak to her.
But how crazy is that? I love you! Fuck. Nothing about it makes any sense. He has hardly exchanged a dozen sentences with Alice Wishart. He doesn’t know her. Physically, she isn’t his type and yet . . . I want her. No one else. I love you, Alice Wishart, and I want to help you! We belong together . . .
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