Somebody's Crying

by Somebody's Crying (retail) (epub)

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘It’s South Primary School first up,’ he says casually, pointing to the Nikon on the bench. ‘They’ve got some special multicultural day happening. You can go out there with Leanne.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom picks up the camera and slips it into its case, checking first to see if the right lenses are there. ‘Just got to make a phone call first.’

  ‘Hurry then,’ he says going back to the computer. ‘She’s waiting for you with the car out the front.’

  Tom rings his dad’s office, hoping that he’ll be able to meet up with Luke for lunch. Maybe Alice will be there too. Maybe the three of them will be able to sit down together and talk things through.

  The phone is picked up after only two rings.

  ‘Good morning! You’ve rung Mullaney Law Practice. It’s Alice speaking. How may I help you?’

  Oh shit! ‘G’day, Alice!’ Tom tries to sound cheery. ‘It’s Tom here.’ He gulps and waits for her to say something. ‘Tom Mullaney.’

  You rang me last night, remember!

  Silence. Even a murmured ‘hello’ would do. She doesn’t have to use his name. But there is only silence. She says absolutely nothing. He can’t even hear her breathe. He is about to blather on about how grateful he is that she rang him the night before and how sorry he is to see the Chronicle that morning. Sorry, too, that she has to live through it all again. Sorry about everything, Alice. ‘Is Dad there?’ Don’t hate me, Alice, please, because . . .

  ‘Sorry, Tom,’ she says in that special singsong style that all secretaries seem to manage. ‘Luke is in court all morning and he has been called out to another matter for the afternoon. He won’t be back in the office before four, but you can try him on his mobile.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom gulps again. ‘Thanks, Alice.’

  She hangs up without saying goodbye.

  Tom rushes out the front with his camera case. Leanne is leaning on the car, scowling.

  ‘Sorry, sorry!’ Tom runs over. She is one of the senior reporters and she’s obviously irritated at being kept waiting. She stubs out her cigarette on the pavement and unlocks the work car.

  ‘You know anything about that?’ She points to the Guilty billboard.

  ‘No.’ Tom gets into the car and slams the door. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I thought you and his kid Jonty were best friends.’ Is there sarcasm in her tone or is he imagining it?

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Tom starts to feel sick all over again. ‘We used to be.’ How would she know that? It was three years ago. Leanne is in her thirties. He never knew her or her family before coming back to work here.

  ‘You know the old man?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Bit of a nutcase.’

  ‘You think he might be trying to take the flak for his son?’

  ‘He isn’t the kind of guy to take the flak for anyone.’

  ‘Even his son?’

  ‘Especially his son.’

  She doesn’t say anything else. Just starts the car and heads off to the primary school. Tom’s forehead is damp and he feels a trickle rolling down his back. He’ll be having conversations like this every day from now on. Everyone he meets in the street will ask his opinion of Jed van der Weihl and whether Tom thinks Jonty was involved too. They all know he was close to the action so the tone will be curious, suspicious, as though he might be hiding stuff. Well they won’t be wrong there, will they? Three years ago he was sharp enough to know that certain things could be taken out of context. He’d told himself then that none of what he withheld was relevant to the murder. Now he knows that’s not true. But it’s too late now.

  It’s not until evening that he gets to talk to his father, who turns out to be just as stunned and curious as everyone else around town, although he doesn’t say much.

  At around ten, Tom summons up every bit of courage he has and rings Jonty. ‘Jonno, it’s me.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Tom Mullaney.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  And the line goes dead.

  Jonty

  ‘Something wrong?’ Buzz asks.

  ‘Nah.’ Jonty tips a plate of expensive leftovers into the slop bucket, wondering how he managed to get two orders wrong and mess up that pumpkin risotto that he can usually do to perfection with his eyes closed.

  ‘Go home, mate.’ Buzz puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll finish here.’

  ‘I’m okay.’ Jonty hands a garden salad to the new waitress, Lou-Mai, who is waiting with one of her dreamy little smiles playing at the corners of her mouth and eyes. God, if only I could get it on with her, all my troubles would be over!

  Everyone has the hots for Lou-Mai, Buzz included. She has coal-black hair hanging to her waist, and her smiles are so slow that you’d swear she knew exactly what you were thinking. Jonty turns back to the stove. So what would she think of him? An ex-drugged-up Aussie loser with a weird past! Christ, he’s feeling mad tonight, crazy with something. Everything seems wrong. He’s wondering why the hell he’s doing what he’s doing. What is he doing back in this town? Working in this kitchen? Making food for rich people? Shit. What’s that all about? Who decided that’s what he should be doing with his life? What will it prove?

  ‘Listen, this whole business must be traumatic for you.’ Buzz takes the bowl out of Jonty’s hand. ‘So off you go, mate! Have a break. See you Monday.’

  Jonty is left standing with his hands hanging empty by his sides, watching Buzz’s skinny arse slinking off towards the sinks, and he can hardly see because he is suddenly so pissed off. He wants to kick Buzz’s legs out from under him, hammer his head against the floor and hold a knife at his throat. The moment passes, leaves his head reeling. Jeez! Where did that come from? Jonty has an hour left of his shift and Buzz is telling him to go home? Home? Okay, but what then? What do I do at home?

  Since he’d got up that morning and seen the local paper with his old man’s face plastered across the front page, the ground under Jonty had felt slippery, as though it might give way any moment. Three years ago Detective Lloyd Hooper used to lean across the table and tell him that it was only a matter of time before he would start to unravel. Sooner or later everyone has got to tell someone Jonty, otherwise they come undone. One way or another they start to unravel. Well his old man had proved that true, hadn’t he? Old Jed unravelled good and proper. Took him long enough, but . . . he did it!

  Jonty collects his jacket, winds the scarf around his neck and steps out into the dark night. Now it’s my turn.

  He’ll go straight home now, make some tea and watch a movie. His mother is taking it all pretty hard, so with luck she’ll be out of it on the pills the doctor gave her.

  Jonty had been expecting something since his father had turned up outside their house just before midnight a few days previously. Jonty had known in his bones it was just a matter of time. Something was going to explode.

  The knock at the door came at about 11.30. Luckily it happened to be his night off work, so it wasn’t his mother who answered. For a second or two he didn’t know who was standing there because he’d forgotten to turn on the porch light. Even so, the shape of the head, the wide shoulders and blocky build were immediately familiar. Jonty blinked a couple of times. It was his father standing there holding out his hand! Jonty didn’t move, not even a muscle in his face.

  ‘Is your mother in?’

  Jonty stared back. It didn’t occur to him to answer.

  ‘Jonty,’ Jed said in a low voice. ‘Get your mother, please.’

  ‘She’s asleep.’ Jonty said, quite clearly. He was on auto now.

  So they stood there facing each other, saying nothing, for however long.

  ‘I’ll come again in the morning,’ he said. ‘Will you tell her that?’

  Jonty didn’t answer.

  ‘God bless you, Jonty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God bless you
, son.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Jonty snarled. ‘Whatever!’

  ‘Just give me a chance.’ His father extended both hands in a helpless gesture. ‘You’re my only son. Please give me a chance!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come home for you, Jonty. I want to set things right. None of it was your fault,’ his father pleads softly, ‘none of it.’

  ‘None of what?’

  ‘I’ve come home to beg forgiveness. For all I put you and your mother through. I want to make up for everything. I’ve seen the light now Jonty, and . . . I want to save you too!’

  Jonty closed the door on him. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. When he came out again, his father was gone. Jonty ran to the front gate but the street was empty. He went back to the house and sat on the front step, listening to the strange night sounds and the beating of his own heart. His mother need not know of this. Never. He would protect her always. Even so, part of him knew something would blow – sooner rather than later, probably. His father was back. There would be no keeping it from her.

  Tomorrow is Sunday. His old lady has been building up to it all week. Trying on different outfits, asking Jonty if this suits her or if something else looks better. Should she try to be young and breezy, or more demure and old fashioned? Yeah, whatever, Mum! How the hell would he know what middle-aged women should look like? But he tries not to let on what he’s thinking because . . . she hasn’t got anyone else.

  ‘That’s it, Mum,’ he says when she comes out in some pink thing with flowers on it. ‘That one looks good.’

  Standing at the door in their best clothes. Ringing the bell. Jumpy. Been like it all morning. Jonty is trying to picture his grandmother but all he sees is this thin, stick-like black shape walking away from him – black hat, black coat and a kind of mesh veil over her face. A spider, tiny but reeking with some kind of weird power.

  That’s Jonty’s one big memory of his aunt’s funeral: his grandmother. Apart from then, he doesn’t reckon he’s seen her up-close since he was about ten. Not properly. He pushes the hair out of his eyes. His clothes are clean and his boots are polished – all organised by his mother. He’s wearing a new white T-shirt and black jeans. His mother has an orange mouth and black stuff around her eyes. It pulls at his heartstrings. But Jonty says nothing. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. The long and the short of it is that they’re here for the old bird’s loot and he doesn’t feel too comfortable about that. Grovelling is the one thing he doesn’t do. Money was never his problem.

  Alice opens the door, in jeans and a dark striped shirt. Her hair is pulled back from her face with a velvet band and . . . Jonty’s eyes flick away in surprise. Jeez! She looks so much like . . . yeah well, her mother! Lillian. She used to pull her hair back like that too. His heart is suddenly pounding. He’d been getting so uptight about meeting the old lady that he’d forgotten he’d have to deal with his cousin. Guilt washes over him as he remembers watching her dancing alone in that house.

  ‘Hello,’ she says with a tight smile for his mother, ‘Aunt Marie?’

  ‘Alice!’ His mother smiles nervously and steps forward for the obligatory kiss, but his cousin steps away sharply and pretends not to see the extended hand. Instead she turns to Jonty.

  ‘Hello, Jonty,’ she says carefully, trying to smile. Holding the door open wider she motions them inside. ‘Gran is ready for you.’

  Jonty and his mother follow her into this big draughty hallway with dark wooden panelling halfway up the walls and a huge staircase at the end. They follow her past a carved polished-wood hallstand, and Jonty sees his face in the mirror above it. Yeah, that’s him. Sometimes he has to look twice to make sure. In spite of all the clean clothes, he looks like Kurt Cobain’s little brother on a bender – pale and edgy. As though he’s on a massive dose of speed. His eyes glitter in his head like green marbles.

  ‘So, this where you grew up, Mum?’ he asks, looking around.

  ‘Lillian and I used to slide down those banisters!’ his mother points, then pulls her hand away so he can’t see her trembling.

  ‘Hey, just relax,’ Jonty grabs her shoulders briefly, ‘everything will be okay.’ But he’s nervous now too. This old joint is so big and dark and quiet. It’s creaking with money and class, and he knows how much his mother wants it all. After heading through a heavy wooden door they are suddenly standing in a wonderful room. Jonty looks around admiringly: it’s so big and full of light and air and blue carpet and bits and pieces of polished furniture. You hardly finish looking at one thing before something else demands your attention. There’s a big vase of real flowers on the sideboard – Jonty can smell them from where he’s standing at the door – and a carved ivory chess set on the round polished table in the middle of the room. The main window has a view over the whole town. This place even smells different from an ordinary house. It’s got that deep sweet whiff about it, nicer than a fancy hotel. Jonty has stopped to take it all in, but his cousin motions him towards the fire at the other end of the room.

  His grandmother is sitting by an open fire in a blue velvet chair, staring as they approach. Jeez the old bird is ancient! Did his mum say over ninety?

  ‘At last!’ the old woman barks in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘You’re here at last, Marie!’ She doesn’t stand up or even try to smile.

  ‘Hello, mother.’ It hurts Jonty to hear the tremble in his mother’s voice. He watches her hesitate a couple of feet from the old girl, and his heart is suddenly breaking for her, willing her forward. One of the scrawny arms reaches out and his mum goes forward to kiss the withered bark of her cheek. The claw-like hand lingers on Marie’s shoulder for maybe two seconds before retreating to the arm of the chair. His mum immediately jerks back, grabs Jonty’s arm and tries to drag him towards the old bird.

  ‘Jonty is here too, Mother.’ Marie sounds like a one of those TV sales guys trying to flog a dud washing machine.

  ‘As I can see.’ The old girl squints at Jonty without smiling. ‘They tell me you have a job?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nods, feeling even more weirdly nervous now. Fuck. She hasn’t even said sit down yet. He didn’t know what he expected, but this is totally outside anything normal as far as he’s concerned. Who does this old biddy think she is? The queen, or what?

  ‘Pull up a chair, both of you,’ his grandmother orders and then sighs as though she’s bored already but has to go through the motions. She reaches for her glasses from a nearby side table. ‘Let me have a proper look at you both.’

  Jonty pulls up a comfortable chair for his mum, then sits himself down next to her on a hard little number with a straight back and no sides. He waits as the old girl checks them over without comment. His cousin Alice is hovering somewhere in the background, but he doesn’t turn around. The truth is, Jonty is pretty intrigued by this decrepit old duck. So this is my grandmother. In a weird way, she’s perfect. Tom should take a few shots of that bony little head. He’d be able to catch those bright fast eyes flicking up and down, here and there, taking everything in. The old lady reminds him of a crow, that cold hard way they have of sitting up in the tree, surveying everything, waiting for the main chance. Crows are mean bastards, but you have to give it to them: they know what they’re doing and they don’t muck around. He likes her pressed linen shirt, the pearl brooch and the grey hair pinned back into a bun. She belongs in a movie or a painting.

  Everyone is seated now and Jonty is waiting for the conversation to begin with the usual inane comments about the weather and a question or two about how everyone’s doing in the aches and pains and fatal diseases department. But this old girl isn’t having any of that. She cuts straight to the chase.

  ‘So, why are you here, Marie?’

  His mother stares back for a moment or two, flummoxed, moving her mouth, but not speaking.

  ‘I’m your daughter,’ she mumbles eventually. Jonty sighs, wishing she’d remember that being subservient won’t work. ‘I really thought i
t was time we reconciled our differences,’ she adds lamely.

  The old lady gives an impatient snort. ‘You were my daughter twenty-five years ago!’ she snaps. ‘And it didn’t mean a thing then, so why now?’

  ‘I was . . . very young then, Mother.’

  ‘You’d reached your maturity, hadn’t you?’ his grandmother barks, waving one hand dismissively. ‘If I remember correctly, Marie, you were a fully functioning adult!’ She looks across to where Alice is standing by the chess table, watching all this, playing with one of the porcelain pieces at the same time. ‘For goodness sake, Alice! Pull up a chair.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to stay,’ Alice mumbles.

  ‘Well, of course I want you to stay!’ His grandmother points to a chair. ‘Why wouldn’t I want you to stay? Pull that one over and sit next to your cousin.’

  ‘Okay.’

  So it’s the three of them now, sitting along side each other in front of the old girl, like they’ve been pulled into the Headmistress’s office for a telling-off. Jonty badly wants to laugh. This is unreal! He has never been in a situation like this. If any teacher tried to pull this kind of stunt when he was at school he’d have been out the window by now.

  Hey, come on, Grannie, cut us some slack! Jonty wants to joke.

  ‘Youth is no excuse!’ The old lady looks straight at Jonty.

  Youth is no excuse . . . Wow. Okay, so she’s having a go at him already! Those glittering dark eyes are like stones boring into his skull. He stares straight back into them and holds tight. He knows instinctively that she is waiting for him to look away, but he won’t and . . . doesn’t. Jonty can beat anyone at this game. Being able to hold someone’s eyes can be the difference between being taken for a weak know-nothing idiot or someone worthy of respect. When you’re inside, it can actually mean the difference between surviving or . . . not. So he holds that look until it is she who turns away. A spurt of excitement runs through him. This is starting to feel like a BBC thriller. He’s not quite sure what part he’s playing yet, but the plot is hotting up.