This I Would Kill For

by Anne Buist

  Afterwards, snuggled together on the couch, they talked about the Children’s Court case.

  ‘What makes you think it’s you who makes the decisions?’ he said.

  ‘The judge might make the final judgment, sure. But how can she do her job if I don’t give her the right information?’

  ‘What makes you so sure that any information you have is “right”? The law is about balance of risk and probability.’

  ‘So are my recommendations.’

  ‘But what if,’ suggested Liam, tracing his finger down her neck, ‘someone else tells the judge that, let’s say, your patient is running a cocaine cartel and using the children as mules—facts you haven’t been privy to?’

  Liam had a point—but if she did her job well enough, wouldn’t she pick that something was seriously wrong with Jenna—or Malik—even if she didn’t know the details?

  ‘You’ll never know everything,’ said Liam. ‘Best information you have, with the best minds available. Or best mind in your case.’

  She wondered if she was just too tired to argue, or that Liam really did make her feel better about the sort of work she—they both—did? There had to be something in his insights, in how they clicked, beyond the sex; when she woke up in the morning and saw he was still there she wasn’t overcome with the urge to get him out.

  10

  Malik stood up and then sat down every time she passed him in the waiting room. Three times up, nervous smile and hopeful look, three times an embarrassed return to the chair. He was younger than Jenna, Natalie saw as she looked over the patient information sheet he had completed. Only thirty. And as good looking as she had noted in court—about as trustworthy as a fox in a chicken coop Beverley had said. Open-necked white shirt again, emphasising the honey tones of his skin, thin gold chain around his neck. Black hair over the shirt collar. A little-boy smile and deep black eyes. It was easy to see what had attracted Jenna—but Natalie needed to know what was beneath the veneer: not just psychiatric history but core values and beliefs, which he was likely to be pretty guarded about. Being a woman probably put her at a disadvantage.

  And then the real issue—whether he was a child abuser. Was Jenna’s certainty based on some visceral maternal reaction to a real situation—or redirected and misinterpreted concern and guilt about her own parenting and choices? Natalie had dealt with several child abusers and one child pornographer. Had there been any identifying feature? Perhaps a superficial charm, a readiness to manipulate and to see the world in a self-serving way. A way that allowed them to keep believing that the children needed their love and weren’t being harmed by the abuse. A sense of weakness and a lack of integrity; an impression that the building blocks of the self were founded on sand. One man had thought he was doing the child a service. Natalie shuddered. Those men had made her skin crawl with their soft-spoken self-righteousness. But she didn’t know if that was a detectable characteristic. She had already known what they’d done.

  Malik followed her into her office, hesitating in the doorway. Natalie made the decision for him and sat at her desk. She wasn’t doing therapy with this man, and needed to assert her authority from the beginning.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Essa. May I call you Malik?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Malik smiled. Natalie gave him a curt nod and his expression became wary. He took out a business card and handed it to her. Easy Tiger Imports.

  ‘Let me explain about this process,’ said Natalie. ‘Today I need to talk to you about your background, hear your story. You know, of course, that Jenna has already spoken to me. At the next appointment, I want to see you with Chris, and the one after with Chelsea. I’ll be doing the same with Jenna. Protective Services and the police will follow up to interview Chelsea alone and I will not be a part of that.’ Natalie waited for Malik to take it in. ‘Any questions?’

  Malik’s expression was anguished. ‘I would not know where to start.’

  ‘Then let me begin,’ said Natalie. She was about to ask for his response to the accusations and stopped herself. Build rapport. She had, she realised, already taken Jenna’s side; yet she had never met this man and the court needed—demanded—impartiality. She thought of Liam’s hypothetical drug cartel—after all, she wasn’t God and couldn’t know everything. Katlego Okeke’s article and the biased and angry tweets in response came to mind. Was she any better, if she didn’t allow Malik an opportunity to prove himself? She took a breath, smiled. ‘How about at the beginning? Where you were born, about your early life?’

  ‘But…’ Malik stopped himself; there was an effort being exerted. Malik wanted to appear reasonable. ‘I was born in Cairo. I am the eldest. My brother is here with me and my mother. My sister is with her husband near Alexandria.’

  His father, as Natalie already knew, had died when Malik was eleven. A lymphoma, said Malik. Malik’s uncle had supported the family. It was Malik who had moved first to Australia and organised the others to follow.

  ‘My uncle’s business in Egypt, I started here. Importing,’ Malik told her.

  ‘Importing what?’

  ‘All things. Someone wants something? We find it. We have the buyers: designer bags, children’s toys, kitchen utensils. Anything. If you would like something for Christmas, let me know.’ He smiled.

  Great. A fake Gucci for her sister Maddison maybe? She thought of Blake’s boxes.

  No psychiatric history—either himself or his family. No run-ins with the law—though as a pre-teen he had been in a fight that had caused a lot of trouble at school, around the time his father died. Malik glossed over it, but it had been about his father.

  No drugs anymore—and he’d only ever tried them ‘once or twice’, a downplay of Jenna’s version; alcohol socially.

  ‘Is it a religious issue for you?’ asked Natalie.

  Malik shrugged. ‘Religion is not much of a thing for me. I was more observant in Egypt.’

  ‘You drink at home?’

  Malik hesitated. ‘With my brother, some beers maybe, but his house is not really my home. Home is the house where Jenna is. With my children.’

  ‘And when you were living there did you drink?’

  ‘No, never. It would not have been good for Chris.’ Forceful, a touch of self-righteousness.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘When she was pregnant. You know your government made me go back to Egypt because my visa ran out? To leave her? If she had got drunk then and harmed him, it would have been on their heads. Now I worry again.’

  Natalie let that go. ‘Tell me about meeting Jenna, and your relationship.’ Malik was still being cautious but it seemed that he was more likely to give away something of himself on a hot emotional topic—and there was no doubt Jenna was the button.

  ‘We were together, in Paris. My uncle supplemented my scholarship so I could go to university there. Jenna was in the same student residence. Very sexy, fun. We were in love. She had this great smile. Has. It’s been a long time.’ His eyes sought Natalie’s sympathy. ‘Why has she changed? How can she say these things? These terrible things?’

  ‘Let’s stay back when you met. What attracted you to her?’

  ‘As I said, her smile. She was fun. But also…’ Malik frowned. ‘There was some hurt perhaps.’

  Jenna’s knight in shining armour. ‘You wanted to help her?’

  Malik shrugged. ‘Of course. And I was lonely.’

  ‘How did you feel when she told you she was pregnant?’

  ‘That it was meant to be.’

  ‘But it wasn’t easy for you. Coming to Australia. Taking on an extra child that wasn’t yours.’

  ‘Only the government made things hard. I was sent back to Egypt and missed out on six months of Chris growing up.’ Malik looked torn between bursting into tears and ripping out the throat of any passing government official. ‘When I arrived back, she stopped cooking. One night I find nothing in the cupboard, nothing. Chelsea was starving.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  �
��We had an argument. Jenna was unreasonable.’

  ‘Who fed Chelsea?’ Natalie asked. Chris had been breastfed—all the nutrients going to him would have accelerated Jenna’s weight loss.

  Malik blanched. ‘I…I left.’ Which meant the child had remained hungry until the next day at least. ‘But after this,’ said Malik, leaning forward, earnest expression, ‘I organise the feeding of Chelsea and me.’ He shrugged. ‘I am not so good a cook, sometimes it was MacDonald’s. But we ate.’

  ‘How long did this go on for?’

  ‘A few months. Then she got better. My mother was allowed to come. Things were fine, we were good, a family. Until Jenna went back to work. Why did she do this? There was no need. We were not rich, but there was enough.’

  ‘She went back to work not long before you broke up, right?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Malik took a breath. ‘I think perhaps this is where she met someone else.’

  ‘You checked on her?’

  ‘She is my wife.’

  Natalie bristled. ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘She makes lots of phone calls; some to men. When I asked her about this, she was upset, we fought, she hit me. I had to sit on her to stop her breaking all the glasses. Plates my mother gave us. In the end, I went to my mother’s so Jenna can calm but then she says she does not want me back. She threatens me with an intervention order, when it is she that causes the problem.’ Malik’s speech had picked up speed, his tone heading towards a whine. So much for the knight in shining armour.

  ‘When you argued did you ever hit her?’

  The reaction was immediate. ‘Never! Did she say this? It is not me that hits her, it is she that hits me!’

  ‘When? Did she hurt you?’

  ‘Once, she scratched me. When we fought, when she makes it so difficult for me I had no choice but to leave, or else I might…she makes me very angry.’

  Different from Jenna’s version. But…it fitted. Natalie couldn’t see Jenna as being able to get him to leave by merely standing her ground; there was something not quite grown up about either of them.

  ‘So Jenna became more assertive?’ Natalie asked, careful to keep her tone level.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Malik. ‘Aggressive. She thinks she can do what she likes, like she is still single.’

  And he didn’t like that—and Jenna not needing him anymore. Natalie sketched the cycle that they had become sucked into. Jenna trying to be more assertive. Malik becoming defensive and somewhat paranoid. Jenna withdrawing emotionally and ending up aggressive, pushing Malik away further towards paranoia and trying to take control—which resulted in Jenna pushing back and the cycle starting again.

  People thought domestic violence towards men by women was less common than it actually was—partly because women did less physical damage, and partly because men were too embarrassed to report it. Either way, this type of violent cycle suggested both of them had insecurities that kept feeding it.

  Jenna had broken free of the cycle…but had left Malik feeling inadequate. It was conceivable that in a situation like this a man might use the daughter as a substitute for his wife—one he could control.

  ‘She married me, it is my name that they have.’ Malik’s voice trembled slightly. ‘I adopted Chelsea, I am her only father.’

  ‘And Jenna is their mother.’

  ‘My son needs me, Chelsea too. Don’t let her mess them up; let them at least have one parent who is stable.’ His eyes had tears in them. ‘Do you know what it is like? I found myself on edge when I was with Chris, my own son! Then I realise it is because already I dread handing him back. The house I live in now, it is…so…empty. Like there is something missing, and it is missing in my soul.’

  Good performance. But even if he did miss his children, it didn’t mean he wasn’t abusing them.

  Natalie took a deep breath. ‘Malik, all I can tell the court is what I see. Tell me about these accusations.’

  Malik shook his head. ‘It is all made up. Perhaps her lawyer told her to say these terrible things? Is it for money? She must know I have little, that what I have I will use to support them. I have had the police come to my home. To my mother’s home. She says this is worse than being in Egypt. I would be listened to there.’

  ‘Jenna thinks…it is possible that abuse—or the separation—could result in the behaviours Chelsea is showing. Regardless, I don’t believe Jenna is lying.’

  Malik stood up and started pacing, running his hand through his hair. ‘This makes no sense to me. Chelsea is just a child. They are making too much of it.’ He stopped, his expression brightening. ‘The other doctor said Chelsea was fine.’

  Natalie shook her head. ‘That just means that there is no sign of penetration.’

  Malik flinched. He seemed genuine but Natalie watched him carefully as she went for broke. ‘There are other types of sexual abuse. Having Chelsea touch your penis; or oral sex.’

  He was visibly shaken. He flopped forward into the chair, head in hands. ‘Chelsea is only a little girl, this cannot be possible. It is a mistake.’

  It could be, Natalie reminded herself; Malik might not be able to handle strong women, but that didn’t mean he was a paedophile. There was no physical evidence, and no statement from Chelsea herself. And sexual abuse might be perpetrated by someone other than the father or stepfather. She needed to cover this as well. Malik had a brother he was living with.

  ‘Is there anyone else that Chelsea could have been left alone with?’

  Malik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps Jenna has a boyfriend? She has been lying about me, so what else has she lied about? Please, you must help me.’ He looked Natalie directly in the eyes. ‘More important, even than this, you must help Chelsea.’

  After he left, she slipped Malik’s business card into her pocket, and found herself thinking more about him than she would have liked. Yet she found herself no closer to knowing the truth than she had been at the start of the interview.

  11

  When Natalie got home she had a shopping bag of salad ingredients: how hard was throwing some greens together and adding oil? She figured it would be a night or two before she saw Liam again, and until she had the DNA test results, they weren’t going to be doing much talking about a relationship; anyway, he was juggling two kids part of the time in his apartment in South Yarra. Access was always ad hoc, usually related to urgent WHO meetings in Geneva, conferences or funding body meetings that overran. Associate Professor Lauren Oldham could organise the world’s response to Ebola but not her own schedule. Or at least not in any way that might have been convenient for Liam.

  She turned on the news, as much to fill the place with sound as anything, and was feeding Bob when she caught sight of Liam in the footage, standing behind a blonde reporter.

  The child abuse Royal Commission. That had been the other bit of news from Liam. He’d taken leave of absence from his role as a public prosecutor to assist the Royal Commission.

  ‘I’d hoped the hours would be better so I could be around for Megan and James,’ he said. ‘I should have known better. There’s enough material here to keep a commission going for years. And I’m still working with the OPP to prosecute the cases in our jurisdiction.’

  He hadn’t said much else about the new role, but Natalie could see he was disturbed by what he was being forced to deal with. Hundreds of adults who had been in orphanages and church-run homes as children making graphic, explicit submissions of what they had been subjected to.

  Natalie tuned into what Blondie was saying on the TV.

  ‘Professor Wadhwa today gave evidence about the unreliability of memory…’

  Great. Her nemesis—and former boss—was in a position to give both her and Liam a hard time.

  When the doorbell rang she started. For the first time in weeks, she had a flashback to the stalker. She took a long, calming breath before checking out her guest through the spy-hole.

  In the dim light Natalie could see a hooded figure
walking restlessly before stopping to light a cigarette, then moving across the lane to look up at her windows. When he raised his face she could just make him out.

  She opened the door. ‘Blake?’

  ‘You didn’t answer your phone.’

  ‘I had it turned off—means I don’t want to be bothered.’ Natalie stood in her doorway, arms crossed. ‘You’re here to get rid of the boxes?’

  ‘That’s what I needed to talk to you about, Nat.’ Blake flicked his cigarette into the lane and followed her up the stairs. They looked nothing alike—he took after their mother. Willowy with long fingers; pretty, delicate features with dirty blond hair that he wore either in a ponytail or, like now, in a bun, and a trimmed goatee. And pretty, pale blue eyes that he had been using all his life, along with a hesitant smile, to get everything he wanted with as little effort as possible.

  ‘I’m listening.’ Natalie ate her salad—maybe a bit too much green; it would have benefited from a tomato—while Blake, who’d checked the bowl out and winced, poured himself some of the whiskey Liam had left.

  ‘There’s been a bit of a problem—’

  ‘There’s always a problem, Blake. But it’s not my problem. The stuff needs to go or I’ll get a truck and take it to the tip.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I will. Blake, I have the Crown Prosecutor here some nights. If he thinks there is any chance of connecting him with whatever shit you are up to, we’re both dead meat. I need it out. This weekend at the latest.’

  Blake frowned. ‘Nat, I just need another week, two at the most. The wholesalers have turkeyed on me. I need to find a new buyer.’

  Natalie picked up her phone. ‘I’m googling removal companies.’

  ‘Good thinking! We can put it in storage. I can pay you back when I sell it.’

  ‘I’m finishing my salad and watching a movie in bed. Be sure to slam the door when you leave.’