by Jean Bedford
You used to ask me when this started,when was my first memory,and I could never answer.It had always been the case.I couldn’t remember a time when it had not been part of my life.I do remember the first time he put his cock in.I must have been about six.Tie sat me on his knee—an unlikely event,I should have been warned—and put his fingers inside my underpants,pulling them down,roughly tugging at me while he inched himself up my bum.It must not have been very satisfying for him,that first time—the pain was sudden when he made his first real thrust and I cried out too soon and leapt away.Not out of his reach,never out of his reach,but he had to content himself with a beating then.All that time preparing me,preparing the place for him,he must have been furious to find I wasn’t quite ready after all.
I suppose the next time was easier.I don’t remember that,just the endless succession of times.
‘Come and sit on my knee,’he’d say. ‘Come and sit on your father’s knee, now.’It was his favourite way of doing it,though that didn’t stop him coming into my bed at night and entering me lying down,if there hadn’t been an opportunity earlier.It never occurred to me to cry out for my mother.Never once.I accepted unquestioningly that this was what daddies did,and therefore that mummies must know about it and approve.Yet I must have said something to her,some time.It was only after I started going to school that he threatened me and revealed that what he did was an important secret,never to be shared with anyone.I would be dead if I told,he said,and I believed him—how wouldn’t I?I knew what he was already capable of.And what my mother knew,I have never fully understood.She was certainly complied in my other punishments—the nights in the dark outside shed,the hot mornings tethered by a rope to the tankstand,with only a bowl of water to share with the surly dog and the shade under the tanks musty and spider-infested.They told me they were venomous,those spiders,and perhaps they were.And that there were snakes beneath the tangled honeysuckle roots and if I made too many sudden movements they would slither out and bite me.
Whatever my mother knew,she deserved what happened to her.They both deserved it.
Mick stood, dazed by the bright sunlight, waiting for Sharon to release the boot of the car. The petrol-cap cover sprang open and he laughed. ‘Other one,’ he said through the window. She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Fucking high-tech cars,’ she muttered, groping around near her foot, and this time managed to activate the boot lever. He flipped the petrol cover closed and got the wicker basket out of the back.
‘Jesus, what’s in this? Rocks?’ He pretended to stagger with the weight.
‘Wimp.’ She had locked the car behind her and was pulling off her cardigan, peering through the contorted banksias to the park lawns. ‘Is anyone else here yet?’
‘Anxious? Don’t worry, they’ll love you. Like I do.’ He put the basket down and kissed her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re not really worried, are you?’
‘Of course not. They’re only all your oldest and closest friends. They’re only going to look at me sideways all afternoon and compare me with Fran and probably ring each other up later and have a really good bitchy gossip about me. Why should I be nervous?’
He hefted the picnic hamper again. ‘If they do compare you with Fran it’ll only be to your benefit. She’s not part of this gang. She made it quite clear when we split that they were my friends, not hers. Come on, I can see Paddy.’
He walked off into the park and she took a deep breath and plumped up her hair before she followed him.
‘And this is Carly, and this is Tom. Rosa, Paddy, this is Sharon.’ Sharon smiled and nodded and tried to keep the names straight. A woman bending over the esky turned around. ‘Um ... and I don’t know who this is,’ Mick said.
‘It’s all right, I do,’ Sharon said, surprised at how relieved she felt, knowing someone else outside the circle. ‘It’s Noel. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m Paddy’s date,’ Noel said, her expression showing something of the same relief. ‘We share a landlord.’
‘Death to them all,’ Paddy shouted, raising his stubby and shaking it so that beer flew about. He was exactly as Sharon had pictured him from Mick’s stories — darkly tanned and muscular, with long streaked blond hair caught back in a loose pony-tail, and a wild, though slightly bewildered look about his pale eyes. She accepted a glass of champagne and sat on the edge of the blanket beside Noel, giving herself a space to examine the others.
They were all pretty much as she’d expected — Mick had a lawyer’s precision in his descriptions of people, and a flair for conveying their personalities, as well. Tom, the academic philosopher, dark, tall and elegant in his jeans and tattered T-shirt; Rosa, his wife, stocky and plain until you looked at her closely and saw the energy and warmth in her face. Some sort of paralegal, studying for a law degree part-time. Carly, the scarlet woman, who’d snaffled Tom for several years during a separation between him and Rosa. It didn’t seem to have left any hard feelings, Sharon thought, watching them. Rosa and Carly were talking quietly together, apparently relaxed and friendly.
She looked around — it appeared that Carly hadn’t brought anyone to the party; she wondered if that meant anything, whether she was still carrying a torch for Tom. She didn’t give the impression of a scarlet woman, with her tailored slacks and long-sleeved blouse. But she was very beautiful, Sharon realised. Ir was seldom that you saw anyone you really thought was beautiful, though you bandied the word about. Carly s broad, high cheekbones and fine slanted blue eyes were perfectly balanced by her long mouth. It was a face that felt absolutely right, that all other faces might be compared against and found somehow unsatisfactory. She must be in her forties, Sharon thought, like the rest of them, but her jaw was strong and pronounced, with no sign of sag under it, and her skin shone fresh like a teenager’s. Her hair was fair, loose around her shoulders and flipped under slightly at clavicle level. Sharon flushed when Carly looked up and found her staring. Carly stared back for a moment, then went back to her conversation with Rosa.
‘Sharon ...’ It was Noel, sounding tentative.
‘Sorry, I was dreaming. Listen, I wanted to apologise about the other day, when I did my block. I was going to ring you ...’
“‘Did my block” ...’ Noel laughed. ‘Jeez, I haven’t heard that since I was a kid.’
Sharon laughed, too. ‘I’ve got more where that came from. My dad was a wharfie, but a big quiet man, a peacemaker. He was always saying, “No need to do your block, mate.” And other things. He was practically a walking encyclopaedia of Australian slang.’
Noel stretched out on her stomach, chewing the tender stalk of a blade of grass. ‘You don’t come across as someone whose father was a wharfie.’
‘No, well, I got educated out of my class, didn’t I? Like most of us — or were you a well brought up gel to start with?’
‘Yeah, I was a bit. Private school and all that. I rebelled. Same thing in a way.’
‘I suppose. So, is Paddy a bit of rough trade, then?’
‘Paddy? God, no. He’s just a mate. Anyway, he’s got a degree in sociology or something, I think.’
‘He didn’t finish it,’ Sharon said. Mick had filled her in on most of them. ‘He dropped out to do things with his hands.’
‘Well, he doesn’t do them with me.’ They both turned to look at Paddy, who was sitting on the sea wall talking to Mick, the Bridge framing them against the torn blue silk of the sea like a photograph. ‘I suppose I assumed he was gay. Or neuter,’ Noel said. ‘All those muscles, and he never has any women around at the flats.And he doesn’t give off the right sexual vibes. Know what I mean? Not like your Mick.’ She gestured over towards the sea wall. ‘Hubba, hubba,’ she said, making her voice hoarse.
Sharon looked at her. ‘Hubba,hubba? I don’t think even my dad knew that one.’
‘It’s what we well brought up girls used to say all the time, usually about the state school boys we saw on the bus. Where did you meet him?’
‘Mick? At a cricket match,’ Sh
aron said absently. ‘Cops and robbers — lawyers, that is. Listen, Noel, have you talked to Albert Spinks yet?’
‘Don’t you do girl talk? Oh, all right — yes I spoke to him after I saw you.’ She pulled at another grass stalk, frowning. ‘He’s pretty convincing.’
‘What about? I mean, has he got anything concrete?’
‘No, not really. He admits the evidence points to Gus Farrell, but he’s pulled the medical files on the previous incidents involving Belinda, and he says they don’t match this murder.’
‘No,’ Sharon’s voice was impatient. ‘This time he killed her; the other times he didn’t.’
Noel didn’t reply. Sharon turned to watch her nibbling grass and shrugged angrily. ‘OK. What else?’
‘Spinks says he’s tried to tell the cops this, but they’re not interested. That’s why he dropped those hints in the interview — to cover his arse if anything blows up later.’
Sharon twisted her mouth. ‘Yeah, well. It’s all theory, isn’t it? I know the D’s who were on the case; they’re good cops. He couldn’t have been very convincing, or they’d have followed it up.’
‘Would they? Don’tdo your block again, but mightn’t they have just decided to get Farrell for what they know he’s guilty of? Which is bad enough. I can understand them feeling like that.’
‘No, you can’t. Remind me to show you the photos, one day, of the time he did her with the broom handle; then you might be able to imagine it. But it doesn’t work like that any more. We’re squeaky clean now, haven’t you heard? And a murder case — the evidence has to be foolproof or the Prosecutor’s office won’t touch it.’ She shifted her weight onto her other hip. ‘And if you’re thinking the cops planted the stuff themselves, it’s not possible. These guys didn’t know anything about Farrell or his previous history when they were given the investigation. Mind you, I might have set him up myself, if I thought I could get away with it. But it happened when I was on secondment.’
‘What are you two talking so seriously about?’ Mick squatted down beside them, a bottle of champagne in his hand. He filled their glasses, then drank from the bottle himself.
‘Hubba, hubba,’ Sharon muttered, looking at Noel. They both sniggered.
‘What?’ He was distracted by Paddy calling to someone. ‘Oho, here comes Judith and she’s got the ice princess with her. There goes the neighbourhood.’
They turned to watch the newcomers as they sighted the picnic group and waved, then walked the last stretch self-consciously. ‘Judith’s the token dyke,’ Sharon said to Noel. ‘And I suppose the ice princess is her girlfriend.’
‘Significant other, if you don’t mind,’ Mick said. ‘That’s the gorgeously unattainable Tess. We knew her slightly at university — all the blokes had a try at her, but she was never interested in any of us. Now we know why.’
‘Yep. It surely couldn’t have been because she found you callow and boring,’ Sharon said.
‘Hoy. I could talk about torts and precedents for hours on end in those days. Audiences sank down spellbound. Couldn’t be roused, some of them. And anyway, that’s all Judith ever talked about, too, so figure it out.’ He got up and hugged the taller woman. ‘Hi Jude. Tess.’ He introduced them to Noel and Sharon, then went with them back to where Paddy was now teetering riskily along the narrow stoneworks.
‘Judith Harbin,’ Sharon said in answer to Noel’s raised eyebrow. ‘DPP. Barrister. Don’t know what Tess does, Mick hasn’t told me about her.’
‘She does look a bit like an ice maiden,’ Noel said. ‘All that straight pale hair. And all in white. Jesus, fancy wearing white silk pants to a picnic.’ She glanced with satisfaction at her own khakis.
‘Has Albert got any otherclues?’ Sharon asked. ‘Has he found any other cases that might have the same MO or is he talking off the top of his head as usual?’
‘You really don’t do girl talk, do you? I don’t know. He only had an hour spare to talk to me. I’m seeing him again next week. Having doubts, are you?’
‘No. Farrell’s guilty, I’m positive. But if Albert’s shaking the tree, who knows what other rotten apples he might let drop.’
‘Great metaphor, kid. I can use that.’ Noel propped herself on an elbow, steeling herself for another rebuff. ‘Why did you become a cop, Sharon?’
‘Why do you ask?’ Sharon squinted at her against the sun. ‘Because I’m so articulate and all? I dunno.’ She was still trying to get comfortable on the hard ground and half rose to her knees, sitting sideways. ‘It was either that or social work, and you know what they say about social workers ... Besides, cops sometimes get to carry a gun.’
‘So you’re an idealist. Doing good in the world is your aim ...’
‘Is this an interview?’
‘Nah. Just champagne curiosity. It’s a thought, though. How many women cops do you reckon would talk to me?’
‘None. We’re the silent minority.’ They stayed unspeaking for a while, watching the others, relaxed, both aware they might be on the verge of a genuine, if uneasy, friendship.
‘Food,’ Mick said, looming over them again. ‘Come and eat.’
‘Thank God,’ Sharon said, grasping Mick’s arm and groaning as she stood up.
Today I went to a picnic.All the old gang,plus a few ring-ins.And me—but no-one knew it was me.
Tom and Rosa were there,looking unhappy together,and Carly;jealous as hell,still,but making Rosa her friend,secretly delighted at the marriage going sour for a second time,poised to leap into the gap again.
Mick Morgan brought his cop girlfriend,Sharon.The first woman he’s actually lived with since Fran.Sharon—what a name.She’s much younger than him.That won’t last—he thinks she’s cute as a bug now,but when he finds out she’s not his pet pussy cat,he’ll look for another one.She’s tough underneath,that little Sharon;Mick’ll get a shock the first time she shows her claws.I’d like to see them in bed together—she’s one of those tiny,wiry women and he still looks like a walking mountain,though he hasn’t gone to fat,surprisingly,given all the rich clients who must wine and dine him.He probably works out or jogs,or something.I sure can’t imagine him drinking Perrier or ordering a salad with no dressing.Meat and potatoes,that’s Mick.
Paddy Galen was there,too,playing the clown as always,still a sexually confused adolescent at heart,getting by with his old hippy charm and brutish good looks.I give him another five years before he’s a pathetic old has-been,showing his dick around the boys’ toilets and wondering why.He brought someone from his block of flats,a journalist.Noel Baker—she’s younger,too,around thirty,one of those Botticelli women with the thick hair and the heart-shaped face.But dressed cunningly against her looks in what seemed like disposal-store seconds.She and little Sharon sat with each other most of the time—banded against the older generation,I suppose.
And there were Judith and Tess.Judith’s lost all her old plumpness,she’s the real streamlined lady prosecutor these days—had her hair streaked,and even her jeans and shirt shouted success dressing.Tess doing her Grace Kelly act.The same fires burning under that cool exterior,though.I should know—everyone thought she was Little Miss Prim,but not with me.That was before she finally admitted she was a lesbian.No-one knew her secrets the way I did.I knew secrets about the others,too.I’ve always been good at secrets,a fact that will come in useful now that I have to start thinking more seriously about diversions,before they have a chance to close in.I’ve got my fallback position all worked out,but today I had the glimmerings of another possible red herring,a second scapegoat.I think it would serve to delay things,send the hunters down the wrong trail.I’m mixing my metaphors shockingly,I know.One of the possible signs of schizophrenia,you used to say,or just of muddled thinking.I don’t know—there’s a certain lateral freedom in mixing metaphors,a certain poetic sense of connections almost made,like those false syllogisms we puzzled over in First Year Philosophy.
Oh,and I was there,too,at the picnic.I told you that.But which one was I?Who am I
now?Would you like to know?
Rosa started speaking as soon as she came into the room.
She walked to Fran’s desk, instead of to the couch and stood leaning over it. ‘You didn’t tell me you knew Tom. You never once hinted that you knew him. You’ve let me go on and on, all this time, about someone you used to know. Surely that’s not ethical? It feels like you’ve lied to me, DoctorRimmer.’
Fran sat still for a moment, then sighed. Her hand hovered over the tape recorder and dropped to the desk without turning it on. She waited.
‘I never realised you were Mick’s ex-wife.’ Rosa’s voice got louder. ‘I didn’t know when I came to you that you were Fran Morgan. Sally told me you were American — you’ve got an accent.’
‘I’m not Fran Morgan any more. I was that only for a few years. Then I took back my own name and I went to Berkeley. I can’t help my accent — I’ve only been home a year.’ She frowned slightly. ‘Rosalind, I never knew Tom very well. They were all Mick’s friends — he saw a lot of them, but I wasn’t very social. I was doing my psych degree, as well as working as an intern. I didn’t have time for friends. The others had graduated, they could go out at night. Ask Tom. I wouldn’t have met him socially more than three or four times.’
‘I can’t ask him. He doesn’t know I’m seeing a psychiatrist. He’s guilt-ridden enough as it is. You should have told me. I had to hear from Carly Brandt, of all people. You’d have met her, too.’
‘Yes, once or twice. I’m interested to know how she found out you were seeing me.’
‘I told her.’ Rosa slumped her shoulders. ‘I don’t know — I used to hate her then, when Tom left me and went to live with her. I used to fantasise about killing her. Now I find her very easy to talk to. I feel as if we’re related somehow, because of Tom. It gives a feeling of ... intimacy.’
Fran depressed the button of the recorder. ‘Are you going to stay today, or is this to tell me you’re quitting therapy?’