by Nova Weetman
And they’re right. I have done something wrong. And I hate myself for it.
I get to the counter and for some reason I look down at the floor and see a coin lying near my foot. My mum’s voice is in my head. See a penny, pick it up and all day long you’ll have good luck.
I pick it up. Just in case. I slide the twenty-cent piece into my pocket, hoping it will help, hoping that maybe luck will be on my side.
‘You right?’ says a voice from behind the counter. I look up and into eyes that are already judging me. A moustache I would laugh at if I weren’t in here.
‘Um,’ I say, not knowing how to start.
The eyes narrow at me, hardening in their judgement, as my fingers pick at the lucky coin in my pocket.
‘Yeah?’ the policeman asks, growing impatient. He sips from a pale blue cup, then wipes the back of his hand across his moustache.
‘I, um, last year, um … my mate and I …’
I try but I’m chickening out. I know it. The words aren’t coming.
‘Your mate? He got a name?’
The cop isn’t looking at me. He’s pretending not to care about the answer but I know he does. I know he wants to know.
I hear a buzzing noise and I look up to see a fly circling the ceiling light, going around and around in the same direction. It could probably do that all day. But just then it proves me wrong by landing on the light. I wait for it to take off again. Finally it does, flying at the same speed but the opposite way.
I look back at the cop. I don’t have to say. I could leave Alex out of this.
‘Alexander Cormack,’ I say. The man scribbles down the name and puts it to one side.
‘And?’
I pull out the newspaper clipping from my back pocket and slide it slowly across the counter, making him reach forward and grab it. It’s been folded and unfolded so many times I wonder if the creases give anything away.
I wait for the police officer to look at me, but instead he reads. His eyes skim over the clipping, and I wish I could change what he reads. But it’s all there. The photo. That car. I’ve read it so many times I could tell him every word on the page.
‘You know something about this?’ he says, fidgeting with a pen.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak yet.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks.
‘Jake Reynolds,’ I say, my voice so small I have to repeat myself.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘You on your own?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right. Come on through. There’s a room out the back,’ he says as he unlocks the door. Keeping an eye on me, he calls out, ‘Jenny, come watch the counter for a minute.’
A female cop walks in from the back room. ‘Timing … was just zapping my pasta,’ she says, carrying a bowl of steaming food. Then she glances across at me. She’s Mum’s age. Maybe a bit older. I back away, bumping into the wall.
‘Come on then, Jake,’ says the first cop, and I realise he’s holding the door open so I can come through, but my legs are wobbling strangely and I’m not sure I can move. I lean against the counter, letting it take my weight. I don’t feel good.
‘Come on, Jake. I’ll get you a Coke,’ he says, his voice soft.
‘I don’t like Coke.’
He laughs but it doesn’t sound real. It sounds like he’s trying to be friendly. Trying to make me feel okay. Maybe that’s what they do to butter you up.
‘Have you rung a parent?’ asks Jenny with a mouthful of pasta.
‘No. I don’t want my mum here,’ I say, sounding sure.
‘Let’s just have a chat, hey?’ says the policeman.
I nod. A chat. I can chat. I’m good at chatting. And I want this. I need it. I can’t go home. Not until I tell someone. I wonder what they’ll see when they type my name into the computer. Will my dad appear? Will Joseph Reynolds pop up in the system and strike a mark against my name?
I make my legs work. I step slowly towards the door, looking anywhere but at the cop’s face. I wonder if he’s going to frisk me. The website I read said they’d question me. Maybe charge me if they needed to. Keep me in until they got me a lawyer.
I make it through the door. The floor’s brown. There are some stains under my feet. I wonder if it’s blood. Or coffee. It’s that in-between colour. I focus on my feet. On the shoelaces I didn’t tie properly. On the rubber trim that has split at one end. On Mum’s face when she gave them to me for Christmas. No. I don’t want that image. Not her face. Not her. She’s not here. She’s got nothing to do with this.
I make it into the room. It’s grey. Walls, floor, chair, table. Everything grey. The cop leaves the door open. I’m happy about that. I don’t know which chair to take. He holds one out for me and I see his wedding ring. The bulge of fat on either side of it that wedges it in place. I wonder if he has kids. Boys.
‘So, Jake, what do you know about this?’ he asks, tapping his hand on my newspaper clipping.
I reach for it, touching it with my little finger. His hand hovers over the clipping like he’ll snatch it up if I make a move. Like it’s the evidence he’s been waiting for. I look up into his face. He’s watching me. My heart is going to explode. Everything is ringing in my head. The sound is screaming.
‘We killed him …’
Another cop’s hand is on my arm as he leads me down a hallway. His fingers are warm on my skin, but firm, like a warning. He hasn’t said anything. I wish he would, because I’ve said everything I came here to say. Now I just feel empty and tired. Like I could lie down right here in the corridor with all the noise and the phones and the people passing and sleep for a hundred hours.
They’ve been strangely nice to me since I came in, but it’s not helping. I feel wrong being here. Like I’m waiting for the punchline to a joke I’ll never get.
We stop. Halfway down the corridor at a ledge with a phone sitting on it, attached with thick plastic-coated wire like it might go missing. He lets go of my arm but keeps an eye on me as he pulls out a phonebook from the drawer underneath and hands it to me.
‘You can make two calls. If you want,’ he says, coughing at the end of his sentence.
‘I don’t have anyone to call,’ I say, feeling stupid.
He shrugs and it’s strangely reassuring. ‘I’ll give you a sec. See if you think of someone.’
The phonebook’s clean and in good shape like nobody has used it before.
‘I didn’t know they still made phonebooks,’ I say loudly for something to say.
He shrugs again. ‘I guess they have to. Not everyone has the internet.’
He walks off a bit and leans against the wall, taking out his mobile and holding it close. I wonder if he needs glasses.
I start flicking through the phonebook, balancing it on my knee, and trying to turn the flimsy pages, while my heart races and then slows in some irregular pattern of terror. If I call Mum, then I’ll have to see her. And I’m not ready yet. But I can’t give the book back without calling someone. So I keep flicking, hoping a name will pop into my head. I could ring Ellie but then I’d have to tell her why I was in a police station, and she would realise I lied about who I was. I should ring Alex and warn him about what’s coming. But I want him to feel the way I feel. Scared, angry and unmoored.
And then I get it. The only person I’m supposed to call.
Her. The girl whose life I ruined four months ago.
It takes a minute, but I find it: the number for the large brick house in Hawthorn with the balcony and the little path through all the trees. I can’t imagine she’ll actually answer because she’ll be at school. But I’m still going to ring. Let her know I’m here, just so she can get some sleep tonight, and stop looking like she’s one of the walking dead.
The phone smells like other people’s fear. It has that warm plastic feel to it that makes me not want to put my mouth too close. I start dialling, looking over at the officer to see if he’s watching. But
he’s not. Perhaps in my skinny jeans, Alex’s old Vans and black t-shirt, I don’t look very threatening. I’m much too small to try anything physical, and they’ve already checked my pockets for weapons.
I hold the receiver gently and press the numbers. When I get to the last one, I close my eyes, hoping she won’t answer, hoping she will. She doesn’t. It clicks to message bank pretty much straightaway and I wonder if anyone answers at this house anymore, or if since that night they’re terrified every ring will bring more bad news.
‘Um, hi, hello,’ my voice crackles down the phone line. I don’t sound like me. At least not the me I like sounding like. I sound more like the one I’ve become since that night. All tentative and jumpy.
‘This is Jake Reynolds …’
And that’s it. That’s all I manage to say before the beep cuts me off and I hang up. I wonder if it counts as one of my calls if the person I was ringing wasn’t home. I drop the receiver back and it misses the cradle and clunks against the wall. I fumble to pick it up.
‘You finished already?’ says the officer as he half looks up from his phone.
‘I don’t have a lawyer,’ I say.
‘Who does?’ he says as he pockets his phone and starts to walk over.
He has that wide-legged walk that big men often have. And he’s slow, like he couldn’t do much if he had to chase someone. But his gun is right there on his hip and maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel like he has to make much of an effort in the speed stakes.
‘We just call Legal Aid and they send someone down,’ he says, almost gently, almost like I’m not the person I said I was.
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘You hungry?’
‘Yeah, kinda,’ I say, pretending I’m not starving.
He nods and starts leading me down the white corridor to where the cells are. I wish he’d hold my arm again.
I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this. This is more like a row of hospital rooms, tiny but shut off. I thought it would be bars, lots of bars, where people stared out at you, threatening, spitting, a bit like in that film, The Silence of the Lambs. But I have no idea if there’s anyone else even in them. Or if the cells are all empty, and I’m supposed to pick my favourite like I’m in a hotel instead of a police station.
‘You’ll get a tray with some dinner later. Not long now,’ he says, stopping outside number five. He pulls a wad of keys out and unlocks the cell. My heart is racing along, skipping beats and threatening to burst out of my chest. What if I have a cellmate? I hadn’t thought of that before. What if it’s someone huge and violent who hates kids? Perhaps I should remind the cop I’m only fifteen and eleven-twelfths. I’m still underage.
But as he opens the door, I’m relieved to see that it’s empty. Except for a low bed down one wall and a toilet and washbasin in the corner. Patches of the walls have been painted to try and hide the graffiti but it still peeps through, like it’s behind a screen. I wonder how anyone managed to smuggle a pen in here. But the cell isn’t so bad. There’s even a window. High up so the light comes in but you can’t see out. And that’s okay. I don’t want to see out.
‘You right? I’ll make sure someone calls Legal Aid now. Get you that lawyer,’ he says as he walks me part of the way into the cell.
I really want to hug him. He’s about the size my dad was, big around the middle with thin arms, once muscly but gone to seed. I used to love hugging my dad. Before.
Instead, I sit down right on the edge of the bed, wondering how many other bums have perched here, and what became of them. I hope they wash the sheets well between each visitor.
‘What happens next?’ I say, suddenly sounding like the minor I am.
‘Just wait for the lawyer. They’ll explain. It’s not really my department,’ he tells me, like I’m in a bank waiting for a loan, not in a cell waiting to be charged. But I nod. I don’t want to be difficult.
‘But do I stay here?’
‘Nah. We’ll question you properly when your lawyer arrives. Lay charges if that’s the way it’s going to play. And then you’ll probably get to go home.’
‘Home?’ I sound as alarmed as I feel. But how do I go home now? How do I see Mum? How do I walk into the flat like nothing’s changed? How?
The policeman shrugs, edging closer to the door. I can tell he’s done with me. His part of the job is over. ‘With kids they usually let you go home until your court date. But maybe not … I dunno.’
My hands are clammy and I swallow hard, my throat all gravelly and dry. I don’t want him to lock the door. I don’t want him to leave. Panicking, I hurry over to where he stands in the doorway, causing him to straighten, his hand finding the gun on his hip like I’m going to rush him or tackle him or try something stupid. But I just want him to stay. ‘Um, my mum … what if she turns up?’ Because I know she will. As soon as she gets my note, she’ll storm down here.
He nods. I wish he’d smile but he doesn’t. ‘I’ll let someone know.’
‘Thanks.’
Then he looks down at me and I see his eyes are blue. Like a faded version of Mum’s. ‘You’ll be right,’ he says. He steps into the corridor, shutting the door quickly behind him. I hear the key turning on the outside and the clunk of the lock as it falls into place.
I try and breathe but no air’s coming. It’s stuck. I think I’m going to faint. I push the door. But it doesn’t give. Rattle the handle but it’s locked. I’m stuck in here. This is it.
alex
Apparently this is quiet for a Sunday but I’ve already counted thirty-two men in ridiculous-looking pants. At least Dad is just wearing grey ones that actually reach his ankles. I turned up in jeans and was almost not going to be permitted to play because there’s a dress code Dad obviously didn’t know about, because he didn’t tell me. Apparently nobody golfs in jeans at Rivergum Golf Club. The worst thing was Tone’s dad, Fraser, had to talk to the manager before I was allowed on. Now I feel like everyone is staring at me, and of course Tone is playing it all up because he loves it when someone else is out of place.
I’ve never been here before. Usually when I play golf it’s with my uncle at this funny little course out near his place on the beach. It’s not fancy. It’s not full of men in three-quarter pants. And it’s not at nine a.m. on a Sunday. But this place is all green and hilly and even though it’s close to the city, it feels like we’re in a tree-lined bubble far away from everything.
I watch Dad swing. Line his club up and swing again. Tone’s dad is giving him shit. I see Dad’s face redden with embarrassment that he hasn’t fully mastered the art. I wonder if the others notice too.
‘Birthday lemonade?’ says Tone, holding up a bottle and a can.
‘Big spender. Thanks,’ I say as he tosses me the can.
‘So what else did you get, other than clubs?’
Tone doesn’t try to hide how unimpressed he is that golf clubs were my number one present.
‘You know, books, clothes, vouchers.’
‘That all? I’m hoping for a car.’
I wait for him to laugh, but it doesn’t happen. I look across at him, trying to assess the joke. He looks back. ‘What? If I’m going to learn how to drive, I may as well do it in my own car. Dad doesn’t want me driving his. It cost half a mill.’
‘Yeah. Right,’ I say feeling both stupid and shocked. I don’t know anyone who gets a car for their birthday. Up until now I thought golf clubs were pretty generous. But Tone’s different to everyone else. His path is so smooth. I wonder what he’d say if I told him what we did last year. I wonder if he’d just shrug it off like he does with everything else because he’d know if it happened to him, somehow he’d walk clear.
My phone rings and I slide it out of my pocket. It’s Jake. I silence it and let it ring.
‘Lady friend?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Well, this is boring,’ says Tone, shaking his lemonade bottle. I step back, knowing what’s coming. He twists the lid, causing
the lemonade to spurt out, fizzing wildly. We both laugh as it drips down onto the green, and is swallowed up.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I check the message.
Happy 16th. What time’s good for you?
I realise Tone’s trying to read over my shoulder. I swing away but I’m too slow.
‘Who’s Jake? Is he that guy from your old school?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, wishing you happy birthday … nice …’ Tone’s voice suggests it’s anything but. He’s been pretty clear on where he stands with my old friends.
I have to make a choice. I wish Jake would understand. I text him back.
Can’t today. Family stuff. Soon.
I know it’s a risk. He made me promise. And I did. But he was threatening me and it’s not fair that he guilted me into hanging out. My phone beeps again.
‘Pushy little fella, isn’t he?’
Ignoring Tone, I read the text.
You promised!
I don’t know what to say to Jake. I can’t be who he wants me to be anymore.
‘Told Lucy about your party. She said she’ll bring chicks.’
I realise Tone’s watching me, waiting for something. Instead of texting back, I turn off my phone, knowing it’s the wrong thing to do, but not wanting Jake to ruin everything either.
‘What?’ I say.
‘I fucking hate golf,’ says Tone, watching my dad trying to connect with the ball.
‘I love it.’
He shoots me a look to see if I’m joking. I’m not.
‘No wonder my dad approves of you,’ he says before finishing the dregs of his lemonade and then grabbing my can and drinking that too.
‘Your dad isn’t much good, though,’ he says as Dad finally connects and sends the ball puttering down the course only about 100 metres. I hear him start to make an excuse and smile.
‘He’s tired, Tone,’ I say, echoing Dad’s excuse and making Tone raise an eyebrow.