The Fall

by Tristan Bancks

  Is the crime part of something bigger?

  If it was him, that meant a crime reporter had been pushed from a balcony right above my father’s apartment. What are the chances? There might only be ten proper crime reporters in the entire city. Coincidence or something else? Did Harry know this was going to happen? Was he involved in it?

  Goosebumps made a skirmish line from my neck down the right side of my body. I tried to remember what Merrin’s voice was like, if it matched the voice I heard upstairs last night. In the photo his glasses were bronze-brown metal, like the arm that I had found in the yard.

  I carefully lowered my leg to the floor, grabbed my crutches and retreated from the window. I realised how dark it was in the room aside from the flickering TV. I muted the sports report and listened. The lift rattled and shuddered up or down the shaft. Up, I thought. I hoped and feared that it was my father.

  I love you.

  The last thing he’d said to me. Sure, he muttered it through a door but he had never said it before – not on the phone the time I had called him at the Herald when I was nine, not in the letter he didn’t send me or any time this week. The note with the pile of comics he had sent years ago read ‘For Sam’. That was it. Very touching and heartfelt and it must have taken him hours to write but it wasn’t ‘love’. I wondered if he had said it when I was in my mother’s belly.

  He had definitely said it this morning before he left.

  I love you.

  Why?

  Because he knew that he might not come back?

  Because he knew he was going out to do something dangerous, something to do with the crime? That’s why he didn’t want me to go with him. That’s why he said ‘I love you’. But did that mean that he was involved in the crime? Or just that he was investigating it?

  Maybe it meant neither, or nothing at all. Earlier in the week, late one night, I had asked Harry about his second commandment:

  Make contacts. You have to know crime fighters as well as criminals. You need sources of good information on underworld dealings.

  I’d asked him what it was like being friends with criminals and cops. He had sat thinking for a moment, then said, ‘They’re not that different.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bad guys do the wrong thing with the same conviction that good guys do the right thing. Bad guys never think they’re doing the wrong thing. There’s always some justification for their actions. No one wakes up in the morning saying, “I’m going to do evil today”. Everyone’s doing what they think is right, even if other people don’t understand their logic.’

  ‘And you’re right in the middle,’ I had said.

  ‘That’s right.’ And then something interrupted us. We were watching TV or the jug boiled. Something broke the moment and the conversation was left hanging.

  My phone pinged, shaking me out of the memory.

  Goodnight. If you’re still

  awake. Which you shouldn’t

  be because it’s 9.35 ;)

  See you in the morning.

  I can’t believe you’ll be 13!

  I remember the day you

  were born.

  Night

  I thought for a moment, then I sent another message.

  I love you

  Wow. You haven’t said

  that in ages. I love you

  too.

  I sat on the couch, staring at the words on the phone. I wanted to say something, to tell her that Harry wasn’t back, that I was scared, that maybe she was right about me, right about Harry, right about everything.

  Tell her.

  It didn’t make sense to keep this from her. I wanted to tell the police, so why not tell Mum? She would know what to do. She would come get me.

  I need to tell you something

  I typed the words but didn’t hit ‘send’. Not yet. I reread the message and wondered exactly what I would tell her. Would I admit that I had messed this up, too? I had done so many stupid things at home and school to make her stressed and embarrassed. I was almost thirteen years old and I couldn’t be trusted to stay home by myself for a week while my mum was at work. It was pathetic. I didn’t want to be the ‘me’ that I had been before I came to Harry’s. I wanted to be someone new, someone better and more mature, who could make good decisions.

  Make good choices, I heard Mum say.

  I still had time to set things straight, to take action without my mother having to rescue me.

  I deleted the words.

  TWENTY-TWO

  COP

  It was 9.47 pm. This was the last time I would travel in this lift. The information I had gathered rattled around my tired mind as the doors of 2A and 2B disappeared from view through the narrow lift window. I would tell the police what I had heard last night and what I’d seen on the ground. I would present them with my physical evidence and photos.

  The rhythmic squeak of the lift whispered go back, go back, go back inside. I tried to ignore it.

  I felt like I was giving up but I couldn’t spend another night in that apartment alone. Why hadn’t Harry come home? Or at least called? ‘That’s a promise,’ he had said. ‘I love you.’

  Magic licked the palm of my hand as the first floor slipped past.

  Scarlet had been right, too. About going to the police. I was annoyed when she said it. Crime reporters didn’t just squeal every time something went wrong. They sat tight. They showed determination, patience, mindfulness. They evaluated all evidence. Commandment number ten. But one thing I had discovered in the past nineteen-and-a-half hours was that I was not a crime reporter. I was a twelve-year-old boy. Mum reckoned boys didn’t grow up till they were twenty-five and some of them (a silent, ‘like your father, for instance’) never did.

  I felt like I was betraying Harry by going to the police. Which was funny, because he’d betrayed me my whole life and probably was again tonight. But I couldn’t help feeling that something had happened to him. Part of me almost wished that something had happened just so it wouldn’t mean that he had broken his promise.

  Go back, go back, go back.

  The lift shunted to the ground. I pushed open the thick metal door and looked around carefully. Magic led the way out, pulling me along behind her. We moved quickly across the dirty-red-carpeted foyer.

  Go back inside.

  I could already feel the man’s hands on the back of my neck and the knockout blow delivered to my head with a bottle or the butt of a gun, like in Tintin or Crime Smashers. I reached for the front door of the building. He would be standing there and he’d say something like, ‘Looky what we have here,’ or ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ or ‘Wiseguy, see?’

  But there was no one outside. Just wind and sideways rain pelting the dark, lonely street, and burnt-orange leaves blowing up in gusts and flopping down into puddles. I planted my rubber crutch-bottoms firmly on the path and launched myself down the three stairs.

  Magic hauled me along the street, carving through the wintry night, my crutches reaching and launching my body forward in a blur of movement.

  A car would pull up at any moment, I knew, and bundle me inside. A goon in a fedora hat would grab me and wrestle me into the back seat where the perp would be waiting. And with hardly anyone else on the street, no one would see. No one would ever know I’d been taken. Apart from Magic. And her English wasn’t so good.

  I needed to slow my mind, to breathe. My fear and panic needle was edging into the red. I am not in a comic book, I told myself. This is real life and in real life there are no goons. In my entire twelve years, three-hundred-and-sixty-four days I have not encountered a single goon in a fedora or any other kind of hat. This made me laugh on the inside and brought my fear-ometer back to orange.

  The glowing blue-and-white Police sign was fifty metres away. Safety had been this close the whole time. I ignored the pain in my leg, the agony in my armpits and hands. Once I was inside that building, there was nothing anyone could do to me. I charged alon
g the footpath, in and out of long shadows and pools of streetlamp light. My hair was stuck flat to my forehead. Rain ran rivers into my eyes.

  Footsteps approached quickly from behind and I twisted hard. A jogger ran by, a lady – blonde, in a black rain poncho, about twenty years old, I figured. She looked back at me, startled by my quick turn, then she continued.

  I reached with my crutches and swung my legs forward. Reach and swing, reach and swing, until I felt the warm interior light of the police station on me and Magic sniffed the narrow gap between the heavy glass double doors. She shook from side to side, her ears flapping loudly against her cheeks, showering me with fine dog-stink spray.

  Inside, an officer was working on a computer at the counter. I pushed open the door and crossed the threshold from danger to safety and I knew that everything was going to be okay. It was warm and smelt like fresh coffee and disinfectant and security. There was a sea of deserted desks behind the tall front counter. I crutched across the flat brown carpet of the waiting area and collapsed into a plastic chair against the wall. I breathed hard and looked back out into the darkness.

  ‘That’s a very nice dog,’ the officer said, ‘but you can’t actually bring dogs in here unless it’s a guide dog. You’ll have to take him outside.’

  I pulled myself up on my crutches and hopped the four or five steps to the tall black counter, taking Magic with me. The officer had light-brown hair in a bun and olive skin. Her name tag read:

  SENIOR CONSTABLE

  KATE PINNEY

  I noticed now that there was another officer sitting at one of the thirty or so identical desks behind the counter and another couple walking around the open-plan office space. There were six or seven glass-walled offices at the back of the station. I was surprised by how busy it was this late at night. But with people being thrown from buildings and disappearing all over the place, I figured I probably shouldn’t be surprised.

  ‘I need to report a crime,’ I said.

  ‘And what crime is that?’ She peered over the counter at Magic, who panted and looked up at her with a smile. A long string of drool hung from the side of the dog’s mouth, making a damp patch on the carpet.

  ‘A murder,’ I said. I almost didn’t believe the word as I said it. I’m not sure Senior Constable Kate Pinney believed it either.

  ‘Right. And where did this take place?’ She shifted a notebook across the desk and grabbed a pen.

  ‘Just up the street. About a hundred metres from here.’

  She studied my face, probably searching for body language cues she’d learnt in training. I’d read about the techniques officers and detectives used to decide if a witness was telling the truth or not. Breaking eye contact, crossing arms or turning your body away told them you were lying. I did none of these things. Stretching and yawning wasn’t great either. Police officers analysed the speed of the person’s response and the tone and volume of their voice, too. I was aware of all this as I spoke to her, which probably made me seem totally suspicious.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This morning,’ I said. ‘Just after two o’clock.’

  ‘And why haven’t you reported the crime till now?’

  I shook my head. ‘I was scared. I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Where are your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m staying with my dad but I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Tell me what you saw. Actually, can you wait here for one moment? I’d like to have a more senior officer present. You can take a seat again if you like and we’ll come around there. Can I get you some water?’

  I shook my head once more.

  She turned and strode towards one of the offices at the back of the station. A ball of hot acid burnt away at the lining of my stomach. I felt light-headed, exhausted, glad it was almost over. I hopped to the left to turn around and saw Kate Pinney knocking on the door of the glass-walled office in the far right corner.

  I heard a big, meaty cough, like a man had gravel caught in his throat, and I saw someone inside the office that made my breath stop dead.

  TWENTY-THREE

  RUN

  The office windows reflected the fluoro lights from the main part of the station but I could still see him. I leaned in, squinted to sharpen my focus, my certainty. Kate Pinney opened the door and the man looked up.

  He turned and stared right at me. His face was as white and full as the moon. I dropped down low behind the counter. I scrambled across the carpet towards the front door, dragging Magic, sliding my crutches along the floor. I tried to protect my right knee but in that moment I felt no pain. I pushed open the glass door and the cold night slapped me in the face. I pulled myself up on the doorhandle, staying as low as I could, and ducked to the right, across the slippery tiles at the entrance and out of sight. I did not look back.

  How can he be a police officer? It’s not possible.

  Sick, blind panic streaked through me. Magic and I ran up some steps, past a large fountain, across a patch of well-worn grass, then down a laneway between a restaurant and an apartment block. The lane was just wide enough for a car. I stayed to the right, against the wall, running on my crutches past overflowing bins at the back of another restaurant. Further down, I could see the small, steam-covered front window of another eatery. I ran past the window: ‘Red Dragon Food and Gifts’. There was a ‘Closed’ sign on the door. Inside, dumplings on a flour-covered bench. A lady spooning goop from a silver bowl into small, round wrappers.

  I looked back to see if the cop was standing in the mouth of the alley, then I shoved the narrow red shop door. I was surprised when it opened. I poked my head inside. It was warm and smelt good.

  The lady turned to me. ‘Not open, not open,’ she told me, waving her hand.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Not open.’

  I let Magic in and stepped in behind her. They wouldn’t be far away. Kid on crutches comes in to report a murder. Cop goes to alert a more senior officer and kid disappears. They would come for me.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’m very tired.’ I motioned to my crutches.

  She regarded me, clicked her tongue, turned away and continued spooning mixture into dumpling wrappers. My stomach snarled. I had hardly eaten all day.

  She shook her head. ‘Why are you alone?’

  ‘Just a few minutes, then I’ll go.’

  ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘My dad’s at work,’ I said. ‘He’ll be home soon.’

  She clicked her tongue again, like she knew I was lying, then waved a hand covered in dumpling-mush towards a small, red wooden table in the back of the store, near a scattered collection of teapots, lamps and bamboo steamers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and shuffled over. Magic was tired now and would only walk at a snail’s pace, so I pretended to browse the cumin seeds, crushed chilli and fish sauce bottles lining the counter. The lady was paying me no attention anyway, so I dragged Magic along, steered her into the corner and partially hid her behind a display filled with pink and red Chinese slippers.

  I pulled one of the four small chairs out from under the table and flopped down onto it. I was physically exhausted, mentally on fire. I could still see the front window but I could easily lean to my right, out of view behind a shelf filled with lamps, if I needed to. It felt good to be in here, even though the lady with the dumplings couldn’t do much if a police officer tried to drag me away.

  Being inside the shop made me feel like I had stepped outside time for a moment, like I’d gone through a portal. The music sounded like Buddhist monks chanting on a hilltop somewhere and the spicy smell and steam and colourful cushions and birdcages took me to some other place. It bought me a few moments to think.

  How could he have pushed that man off a balcony and be a police officer? Maybe he’s not a police officer, I thought. Maybe they caught him. He was a criminal waiting to be charged. But he was in uniform.

  Can you wait here for one moment? I’d like to have a
more senior officer present. That’s what she’d said. Then she knocked on his door. She was a senior constable. He must have been a higher rank than that. He had a corner office that looked important somehow.

  What am I involved in?

  I thought of the other times in my life I’d had anything to do with police. Two young officers had helped us when our house was broken into. They took our fingerprints and one of them, a lady with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a super-heavy belt with pepper spray and a gun and a bunch of other stuff, had put her arm around my mum when she had cried. And Mum knew a cop called Clint from when she went to school. He worked at Katoomba Police Station now and she sometimes said hello to him when we were up in town. Once, he let me off with a warning for riding without a helmet. My only experiences with police had been good. They were supposed to be good people. So who was this guy? How did he get a badge?

  My brain felt like dumpling mush. I stared out the front window, past the rhythmic rise and fall of the woman’s shoulders as she made her food.

  Who do you go to? Who do you go to when you’re in very deep trouble and the police are not an option?

  Mum, was my first thought. Before I get in any deeper.

  I pulled out my phone and sent her a message.

  Are you busy? I really need to

  tell you something

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HOW IT FEELS

  I always thought that Mum didn’t understand how hard everyday life was for me, even though she tried. At the public school down the road, I used to get teased and pushed around for my hobbly walk. So she sent me to the independent school, which she couldn’t really afford but she said she would somehow. And guess what? Kids picked on me there, too. So I went back to the public school the next year.

  She wondered why I was angry all the time, why I got in trouble, why I argued non-stop with her, why I seemed to get detention every second day, why I hit that kid one Friday morning.