The Wrong Hand

by Jane Jago

  ‘I wasn’t quite done for yet, but if you hadn’t come along . . . Thank you.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘This silly animal,’ he said, rubbing his dog’s head, ‘followed a stick in and got taken along by the current. I stepped in to reach her and lost my footing. She practically climbed over my head to get herself out.’ He stood up, took off his sodden coat and wrung it out, draped it over his shoulder and held out a hand. ‘Thanks again.’

  As he stood and watched the man walk away Liam became aware of the morning’s chill. He briskly retraced his steps.

  Climbing the stairs to his flat he contemplated his brother’s words and saw the futility of attempting to reply. A single envelope lay across the threshold; he stooped to retrieve it. The letter had no stamp. He ventured a look out of the open door; the street was Sunday quiet.

  Tearing the flap open, he rifled through the documents inside. A photocopied birth certificate of some sort for a Brenda Halliwell, a death certificate, a page from a typewritten letter stapled to some handwritten notes: ‘died 1979 aged twenty, never married, one stillbirth recorded. No previous issue.’ He looked again at each page for some message or sign that would identify the sender.

  The notes were written on a compliments slip from Ancestors Regained, Professional Genealogists, Glasgow. A single line was scrawled across the back: ‘Every word you ever uttered was a lie – I don’t even know who you are.’ The handwriting was Catherine’s.

  Apart from a sickening dread and the old fear of being found out and exposed, he felt a fatalistic sense of release. With his new identity under attack from all sides, he could finally let go of the hopes and dreams he had been encouraged to form. He saw with blinding clarity the impossibility of a life constructed from a network of lies. He looked again at the empty street then shut the door against the light.

  Whatever Joel or Catherine did now didn’t really matter. He needed to talk to his mother one last time and, one way or another, to disappear. He calculated how much money he had on hand and how quickly he could get access to it. The deposit he had been saving for the house with Catherine was more than twenty thousand dollars.

  In the bedroom he opened the file-drawer in his desk and flipped through the alphabet. At M, he slipped his hand down the back of a file and pulled out a takeaway menu. A telephone number was written on it.

  He sat on the unmade bed, then opened his mobile phone and keyed it in. He heard the number ringing. A woman answered: ‘Hello . . . hello?’

  The sound of his mother’s voice immediately paralysed him.

  ‘Hello?’

  Unable to speak, he closed the phone and ended the call.

  Daylight mocked him through the high dormer windows. Who was he kidding? There was no one he could safely reveal himself to and there never would be. He was dead already. He got up, opened the wardrobe and took down a green canvas duffel bag. He pulled a few items of clothing out at random and stowed them in it.

  At the top of the linen cupboard he found a small box filled with his papers and placed it on the bed. He fingered through the few pages, his entire ‘identity’. He removed his wedding ring and watch. He observed the initials ‘L.D.’ on the back, then placed both items inside the box. He lifted the bag onto his shoulders and walked out the door, leaving Liam Douglass in the room behind him.

  Truth

  ‘Wide is the gate’

  Alex Reiser, 2008

  The afternoon sun was obscured by a screen of white cloud. Pine needles covered the ground beneath Alex Reiser’s feet as he walked across the Queen’s Park reserve towards the Gumnuts playground. He could make out a fair-haired man sitting on the bench beside the sandpit. Detective Grant Oliver had agreed to meet him here and he had driven straight from the airport, after a two-hour flight.

  A plump four-year-old left the sandpit, ran to the bench and pulled on the man’s trouser leg. He looked at the large, bald figure walking towards him. ‘Grant?’ asked Reiser, once he was in earshot.

  The detective lifted the boy onto his hip and stood up. The two men shook hands.

  ‘Sorry to be so cloak-and-dagger.’ Oliver deposited the boy on the ground. ‘You go and play in the sandpit while Daddy talks.’ He patted him on the rear as he bounded off. ‘It’s my access visit with Sean and I didn’t want to meet anywhere near the station.’

  ‘I’m just grateful you’re willing to talk to me.’

  They sat down, facing the playground.

  ‘I don’t know for sure if the guy we arrested was your guy. I had a pretty strong sense that he was . . . and when I asked about accessing his file I was told in no uncertain terms to leave it alone.’

  ‘Look, Daddy.’ Sean held up a handful of sand and dropped it into a red plastic bucket.

  ‘Good work, mate. Make a castle for Daddy . . . I was part of the search team who found Benjamin Allen’s body. Some things you don’t forget. Even now I can close my eyes and see that baby’s face.’

  Reiser nodded. He had read all the transcripts.

  ‘And those two freaks who did it . . . The Harris kid was hysterical, screaming and crying, a real fruitcake, shaking and begging his parents to save him. Simpson was a different story, a callous little liar. Even though we were looking at a kid, quite a few of us had a hard time staying neutral, not dishing something out to the little bastard . . . I don’t think I could forget him, not even fifteen years later in an adult body.’ He reached under his coat. ‘This is the address he gave at the police station.’ He handed Reiser a yellow race-guide with an address written at the top of the page. ‘I’ve been tempted to go round there and put the wind up him myself, but it’s not worth my job.’

  ‘I never reveal a source,’ said Reiser. ‘Cheers.’

  Reiser popped the ring-pull on a can of gin and tonic, and sat down on the bed in his room at the airport Best Western. He leant back and contemplated his game plan. The address of one Geoffrey Roland Wickham was tucked into his trouser pocket. He pulled it out and located the corresponding map reference in the local directory. Less than a ten-minute drive across town from the hotel. After a decent meal and a good night’s sleep he would be ready to begin.

  He opened the bottom drawer of the bedside table and smiled to see the near-new Gideon’s Bible, a reassuring idiosyncrasy of motel rooms. On a whim he took it out and opened it at random: ‘You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.’

  ‘Amen.’ He closed the Bible and opened the room service menu.

  Fruits

  ‘Unto others’

  Geoffrey, 2008

  Feathers of dark auburn hair were scattered in a semi-circle on the bathroom floor. Geoffrey Wickham turned on the shower and stepped into the hot stream. He slid a bar of soap over his naked chest and shoulders, rubbed it over his bare scalp, turned his face into the water and rinsed off the foam. He surveyed his newly bald head in the bathroom mirror as he rubbed himself dry.

  He pulled on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, then slipped his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket. A horn tooted outside. Through the venetian blinds he saw the waiting taxi. At the bottom of the stairs he stopped to extract a wad of mail from his letterbox, a sushi menu, a local newspaper and one white envelope addressed to Geoffrey R. Wickham.

  He climbed into the back seat of the taxi and glanced at the photo ID of the turbaned driver. Ignoring the Sikh’s attempts at conversation, he opened the letter. It offered him a place on the computer programming course his counsellor had urged him to apply for in preparation for his impending relocation. He studied the attached enrolment form and allowed himself a little smile.

  After his recent arrest and a warning from his parole officer, he had been in a constant state of anxiety, forever looking over his shoulder, convinced he was being followed. Smithfield Institute of Technology not only offered an opportunity to retrain but, better yet, it was thousands of miles away on the other side of the country.

  The cab stopped outside a crowded n
ightclub hung with glowing red lanterns. Geoffrey took his place in line as a huge Samoan bouncer let patrons in and out of the building. The man looked at him for a moment, then gave an amiable nod.

  Dr Zoo’s Monkey Bar was a madhouse of sound and light. A central floating bar was surrounded by sections of dance-floor and seating. A live band played on a mounted stage; video graphics were projected on several screens. A mezzanine level supported couches and private booths. Geoffrey bought himself a beer and a vodka chaser from the bar and sat down on a red banquette. Three young women stood nearby, shouting into each other’s faces, attempting to communicate above the noise. One, a slender redhead in a skimpy green dress, looked in his direction as she spoke. Then she leant towards him: ‘Lissa’s lost her mobile. She was sitting in that chair.’ He shook his head, unable to hear above the noise. The girl repeated what she had said.

  Geoffrey stood up and the girl ran her hand around the back of the seat but found nothing. He skulled his vodka and watched the three walk back to the far side of the bar. He felt a core of warmth building inside him, filling his body, momentarily pushing the static out of his mind. He waded through the tangled mass of youth on the dance-floor and began to throw his body loosely about, lurching to the music, just another rhythmically challenged, white male dancer. Occasionally he opened his eyes and registered the strobed faces and flailing limbs around him.

  When the techno beat intensified, his movements became more frenetic. He pivoted his arms in the air and threw his gleaming head back and forth. As his movements expanded, he began to encroach on the other dancers: a small circle opened around him as they retreated.

  ‘Look out,’ said a female voice above the noise.

  He opened his eyes. It was the girl in the green dress, her expression hostile. He ignored her and spun around. He closed his eyes again and tried to get lost in the music but it was no good: his mind was now alert for trouble.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ called the bouncer, as he left the bar. Geoffrey stopped. ‘Do you know anything about a girl’s phone left on a red couch?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Hey, pal, I’m only asking.’ The bouncer stepped into Geoffrey’s body space.

  For a full second he fought the urge to slam his skull against the fat Samoan’s forehead. He visualized the impact and saw the bloodied nose, the big man dropping to the ground. He willed himself to walk away.

  He took the escalator to the Underground and bought some cigarettes at a kiosk. He sat on the platform and smoked several in quick succession. A few feet away, wrapped in an overcoat, a man lay on the cold cement. Geoffrey looked at the bloated red face of the sleeping drunk and thought idly of how easy it would be to roll him off the platform under the oncoming train, now shunting into the station with a screeching of brakes. The compartments flashed by, blank faces staring out. He boarded the train and stood between carriages. The thought of returning so soon to the empty flat was almost unbearable.

  He got off at the next stop and walked a block and a half to the Astor Cinema. The video games arcade attached to the complex was full of teenage boys and younger children. A few die-hard gamers in their early twenties drew a small crowd as they hogged some of the more popular machines. Geoffrey found a chair-console with a gun-sight that pointed to an animated screen. He dropped a coin into the slot and began eliminating the human targets that leapt continuously into the frame.

  The incessant gunfire soon drew a group of young spectators, who loitered around him. A boy placed a coin on the dashboard to reserve the next game. He draped his arm over the canopy, as the highest-score display flashed a row of digits, awarding a free game, then sat on the side of the console.

  Geoffrey zeroed in through the gun-sight and took out the oncoming opponent. He offered the gun to the boy and vacated the seat for him, then watched for several minutes. When the game ended he bought himself a hot-dog and walked the last few blocks home. Sauce from the bun ran down the side of his hand as he shovelled the remaining quarter into his mouth. He wiped it on the back of his trousers and he rounded the corner to his street.

  He immediately noted the outline of a late-model hatchback parked opposite his apartment block, and was unnerved to see the silhouette of a man behind the wheel. He accelerated his pace, and only when he was inside the gate did he dare to glance over his shoulder. The car was still there.

  He let himself into the flat and locked the door. Through the window, his view of the street was partially blocked by a neighbouring gum tree. Tired now, he dropped onto the dilapidated couch and pulled a quilt over himself. The TV remote lay on the floor in front of him. He picked it up and turned the set on. A group of unshaven, hungover musicians thrashed about wildly, screaming, ‘Hold you down and dirty, baby, I know you want it, baby . . . baby, baby.’ He changed the channel. An advertorial extolled the compact roll-away virtues of the Gym Master Mark II. Geoffrey’s eyes closed.

  Liam, 2008

  Blood trickled off the knuckle of his right thumb. Liam sucked it, then tightly wound a handkerchief around it. He reached through the shattered glass of the small window-pane and grappled with the inside latch of the door in front of him. He heard a distinct click as the lock opened.

  A large round stone lay on the black-and-white-tiled floor surrounded by segments of glass. He pushed aside the debris with the toe of his boot and walked along the passageway to the kitchen. He placed a half-empty container labelled ‘Berridale Emporium Pet Milk’ on the stainless-steel counter. He carried a green canvas bag into the empty living room and dropped it. He unlatched the French windows, walked out onto the timber deck and surveyed the surrounding countryside. Most of the ridgeline was already in shadow. The landscape that had once inspired hopeful dreams now underlined his isolation.

  He sat there for more than an hour, watching the darkness fall, then went inside and climbed the stairs to the attic.

  White gravel crunched under the wheels of a silver Jaguar as it turned into the driveway of the farmhouse and pulled up outside. Colin Holmes stepped out into the sharp morning air; he opened the rear door for one of his passengers, a well-dressed woman in her fifties. A slightly older man emerged from the front and joined them.

  The couple looked up at the house, and Colin stepped back. He loosened the knot of his pink tie, put his hands into his pockets and smiled smugly. ‘Impressive, huh?’

  ‘Very,’ conceded the man.

  Colin led the way past the Creighton and Davis for-sale sign, up the stairs to the front door, with its tarnished brass knocker, and turned the key in the lock. Inside, he made way for the couple and allowed them to wander through the lower rooms. ‘Quality inclusions, full country kitchen, marble tiles, two bedrooms down here and the attic has already been converted.’ He waited at the bottom of the stairs for the couple to join him. ‘The staircase is Huon pine.’

  The woman looked at the yellow-blond grain of the timber step beneath her suede boots.

  ‘I handled this property before the previous owners renovated. They’ve done a great –’ Colin stopped abruptly. A pair of feet was suspended at eye level in front of him. A man hung by his neck from a blue-and-white nylon rope tied to the heavy rafter above.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said the man behind him, grabbing his wife’s arm.

  The woman let out a little wail. ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘Jesus,’ whispered Colin.

  Under Liam’s hanging body, off to the right, lay an overturned tea-chest.

  Geoffrey, 2008

  The knocking continued for several seconds before it penetrated his dream: it became a volley of shots from a gun he was firing into a vacant building . . .

  The knocking sounded again. He opened his eyes and sat up.

  The TV was still on: a woman blew a bubble through a large wire hoop while a man in a bear suit mimed actions to a children’s rhyme.

  Geoffrey sat immobile on the couch as the knocking sounded for the third time. It was polite but insistent. Finally
it stopped. He held his breath. After what seemed like eternity he slowly eased himself off the couch and inched his way to the wall until he was almost close enough to see out of the window.

  A scratching sound at the base of the door stopped him dead. A small square of paper slid into view from beneath it.

  He knelt down and extended his body across the floor until his outstretched hand reached a business card: ‘Alex Reiser, Writer/Journalist’. Geoffrey’s mind was spinning as he turned the card over: Danny, it’s in your best interests to speak with me.

  Adrenalin flooded his chest and his extremities tingled painfully. He jumped up and went to the window. Through the foliage he could discern the outline of the same car he had seen the night before. A siren wailed insistently in the distance.

  ‘Danny,’ said a low voice, outside the door. ‘Danny.’

  He dropped back to his knees and put his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Danny,’ said the voice more loudly.

  ‘Fuck!’ Someone was in the hallway of his apartment building, using his real name. He pressed himself to the inside of the door and hissed, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Danny.’

  ‘That’s not my name.’

  ‘Okay – Geoffrey. That’s what you go by now, isn’t it?’

  Geoffrey was devastated. Whoever was on the other side of the door knew everything.

  ‘How do I know you aren’t here to kill me?’

  ‘I haven’t come to hurt you. I want to write your story. No one else knows I’m here so let’s keep it that way.’

  Silently he considered the implied threat.

  ‘Geoffrey?’

  He unlatched the door and threw it open. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he snarled.