This I Would Kill For

by Anne Buist

  She couldn’t recall the nightmare that woke her later. But unlike the others over the last months, it left her not with a fear of something or someone, but rather a feeling that she had done something wrong. A feeling that seemed out of place and time, and just out of reach. Was it the brief image of the hoodied Blake in the streetlight that had triggered her? Probably, but she refused to dwell on it. Refused to let her memories gain traction. She’d spent six months working on mindfulness and it had been more than three weeks since she had woken drenched in sweat, her heart racing and her mind frozen with fear.

  At 5 a.m., unable to get back to sleep—assuring herself it was just her mind testing her randomly and that it wouldn’t happen again—she got up and worked out in her makeshift downstairs gym, Lil Wayne blaring.

  The photo of eight-year-old Chelsea kept flashing into her mind and she said to herself with each biceps curl what Declan would be bound to say: Don’t get over-involved. You can only do your best—give the court the facts and let them decide.

  Trouble was, no amount of Liam telling her that the law was his domain could convince her that it knew what it was doing when it came to psychiatry, parenting and children.

  But right now, she didn’t have any answers either.

  12

  Jenna was late. Natalie made coffee and settled down to read the newspaper on her iPad. Two articles on the Royal Commission and in one of them there was an inset photo of Wadhwa. Apparently he didn’t believe there was any compelling scientific evidence to support repressed memory as a genuine phenomenon. Natalie gritted her teeth; presumably he was waiting for someone to do a randomised control trial where half the children were submitted to abuse and the other half not, while researchers stood by with clipboards. The online comments were overwhelmingly critical of him.

  She wondered if Twitter was still responding to Katlego Okeke’s article; found that #SaveOurKids continued to trend. The tweets were coming from all directions—some responding to Okeke, some commenting on the Royal Commission and some that had nothing to do with either.

  Okeke’s supporters included some she may not have wanted:

  Casey Hatton @caseyhatton85: Muslim or Zoroastrian, doesn’t matter. Any decision that recognises men’s rights is a step forward.

  The detractors, some of whom seemed to have been prevented by the 140-character limit from developing their arguments in full:

  My Bitchin Rules @MyBitchinRules: Go back to Africa.

  And some who appeared to have inside knowledge:

  Liza R @lizar82: @NotOKK Why didn’t you disclose he’s not the biological father? #sjwbias #SaveOurKids

  Liza R’s tweet had prompted a string of outraged replies, but no defence from Okeke.

  Twitter didn’t seem to have any mentions of Wadhwa. She checked out the lawyer, Harvey Alcock, and found that he tweeted under his own name, with a blue ‘verified’ tick. Nothing on the current case, but enough to confirm his politics:

  Harvey Alcock @HAlcock75: Religion of peace? You haven’t read the Koran, have you?

  @HAlcock75: If you’re supporting same-sex marriage, you can’t side with Islam. #cognitivedissonance

  Natalie didn’t do social media—and this wasn’t about to change her mind. But until her dealings with the Essa case were over, she needed to keep an eye on these feeds. She added a picture of her cockatoo to @bobnotdylan82 and followed Alcock, Okeke and Mark La Brooy.

  Jenna and Chris finally arrived for their joint assessment—twenty minutes late. Jenna looked flustered. ‘Sorry. Chris has been impossible,’ she said, watching the boy run up the corridor.

  As they trailed after him, Jenna added, ‘He’s been behaving like a little shit. I can’t get him to do anything. He just laughs at me.’

  ‘What do you think’s happening for him?’ As opposed to eight-year-olds, Natalie did know a bit about babies, toddlers and attachment. Theoretically at least.

  ‘He hates me.’

  Not likely. ‘Is there any other reason he might appear angry?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t doing what he wanted me to. When he wanted me to.’

  ‘It must be hard for Chris to understand why he isn’t with his dad.’

  ‘He could be if Malik wasn’t so…’ Jenna shook her head. ‘Can we just get this assessment over with?’

  After retrieving Chris from the tea room, Natalie led the two of them upstairs and settled them into the room Gerry Milton used for his sand-therapy clients. It had a one-way screen, so she could watch Jenna and Chris together without her presence distracting them. Chris went inside without them, just as Jenna’s phone went off in her pocket. She grabbed it, went to turn it off but stopped. ‘It’s Malik,’ she said, looking at Natalie. ‘He’s been…Can I put it on speaker?’

  Natalie hesitated. She stuck her head around the door and saw that Chris had gone straight to the low central table with its neatly raked sand inset. Out of earshot. He looked suitably occupied and she thought he was old enough not to eat the sand, so she gently pulled the door shut, nodding.

  ‘Malik? I’m about to see the doctor with Chris.’

  ‘Chris? What have you done to him?’ Malik sounded alarmed.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Not that sort of doctor, Malik. Doctor King for our assessment.’

  ‘I’ve told her you hit me. Are you drinking again? Have you told her about that?’

  ‘Have you told her about checking my phone records? Ringing my boss because you found his number on my call list? Putting paint on the car? How about that, Malik?’

  Natalie frowned, and gave Jenna the signal to wind it up. Having them continue an argument might give her insight into their relationship but was unlikely to leave Jenna in the right frame of mind for the assessment she needed to complete.

  ‘I didn’t lie, Malik,’ said Jenna. ‘I’m her mother, I know you’ve done something to her.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Malik was almost screaming. ‘My mother is right, perhaps I will go back to Egypt!’

  Jenna hung up. But she had paled. ‘They don’t have passports. He couldn’t get them, without my knowledge, could he?’

  Natalie supposed anything was possible. But the authorities dealt with this all the time. ‘Tell your lawyer you’re worried. Let her take care of it.’

  Jenna looked anxious, tapped her phone. ‘There’s a message here from my mother. Might be about Chelsea. Do you mind if I take it?’

  Jesus, people and their phones. Natalie nodded and went to check on Chris.

  The therapy room bore little resemblance to what Natalie had seen a few minutes earlier.

  Figurines from the shelves that lined three of the walls were strewn across the floor: soldiers, Disney characters; jungle, farm and sea animals. The meticulously arranged toys on the upper shelves marked the limits of the child’s reach and provided an indication of what Natalie would have to reinstate.

  What Chris had done with the sand was worse. When Natalie had let him in to play, the central pit in the low wooden table had been all Queensland tourist brochure; now it was more post-Tsunami aid request. There was as much sand over it as in it, to say nothing of the handfuls of sand this little monster had thrown around her colleague’s formerly pristine office. Had the pit been deeper than the ten centimetres needed to fuel children’s imaginative play, Natalie would have considered turning him upside down in it.

  The little monster stomped on a figurine as he held onto a plastic tiger and growled, then looked at Natalie for her reaction. Part of her wanted to laugh: the child was so obviously playing for attention. But the other part of her wanted to hose the gel out of his black spiked hair, strip him of his Osh Kosh outfit and tell him to behave himself. Then head plant him. Or maybe head plant his parents?

  Instead, she shook her head. Chris crossed his arms as if to say Bring it on—and Natalie started to see where Jenna was coming from.

  Maybe Natalie really didn’t know that much about three-year-olds after all. Smack his bottom? Besides being ille
gal, it would only show the unfortunate short-term effectiveness of brute force—and he’d probably get enough of that message elsewhere. Trouble was, she had no authority with this child, no relationship. Which left—what?

  Natalie took a breath, dropped to the ground and started screaming, pummelling the floor with her hands and kicking her legs in the air. She grabbed one of the figurines and banged it into the floor. Threw another one. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Chris staring in bewilderment. He had backed off, mouth gaping and eyes wide; no longer in charge—just a bewildered three-year-old boy. No more than thirty seconds had passed. Natalie sat up, crossed her legs and brushed the sand off. ‘See? I can do that too.’ Her hair shed sand every time she moved. But at least she had the child’s attention.

  Chris looked relieved when Jenna came in minutes later. Natalie withdrew after quietly explaining the protocol to Jenna, leaving them to play. Natalie squashed herself into the observation room, between old files and boxes of paper and envelopes. She made herself as comfortable as possible on one of the boxes and sat to watch through the one-way screen. Jenna had been the stay-at-home mother with Chris, and therefore his primary attachment figure. It was from Jenna that Chris had acquired a template for future relationships—and that was what Natalie wanted insight into. Of course, not even the best mother could prevent adverse consequences if a young child was dealing with sexually predatory behaviour from the other parent.

  The sound system was emitting a low buzz but she could still hear over the top of it. Chris started wandering around the room.

  ‘Come and play, Chris,’ said Jenna, picking up some of the figures. ‘This is your favourite. Superman.’

  Chris looked at his mother and started playing with the cord for the blinds. ‘Superman’s stupid. I like Thor.’

  ‘Come play with me, Chris.’ Jenna picked up some other figures and started to put them back on the shelf. Out of order; Gerry Milton had them all in clusters. His OCD would go into overdrive. ‘Look Chris. Lions and tigers, remember, we saw them at the zoo?’

  Chris wandered over but didn’t appear interested. He pointed to some figures he couldn’t reach and Jenna handed them to him. Jenna’s phone must have vibrated—she pulled it out of her pocket and looked at it. Really? Chris didn’t know Natalie was watching, but Jenna certainly did. Did she really think this was how to be a good parent? Or was she just too preoccupied with the abuse from Malik?

  Chris quickly got bored. He looked up to his mother, who was tweeting or texting. He threw a figure at her, hitting her on the leg.

  ‘Ouch!’ Excessive: it couldn’t have hurt much. Chris threw another one. Any reaction as far as a child was concerned was better than none at all. This one missed.

  ‘Why don’t you make a farm? There’s some ducks and sheep there.’ Jenna pointed. Natalie felt like yelling, Help him—enjoy it with him!

  Chris picked up a figure and put it down, rolling over onto it. ‘Don’t want to play with a farm.’ He moved across the floor like a commando.

  Jenna leaned forward and put together some fences; added a couple of random animals. Checked her phone. Bit her fingernail. Chris tried to put up some fences next to hers but knocked everything over, more accident than deliberate. Frustrated, he threw another figure across the room.

  ‘There’s some Lego there, Chris.’

  ‘I’m Thor,’ Chris said in a booming voice.

  ‘Okay, Thor then.’ Jenna sat down and collected all the Lego in a pile. ‘How about we make a zoo?’

  ‘That’s stupid.’

  Jenna’s expression conveyed childlike hurt. Chris smiled and strutted around the room, returning to kick her Lego blocks.

  ‘Suit yourself, then.’ Jenna sat back on the chair, missing the look of what Natalie took to be confusion on Chris’s face. Followed by more kicking and throwing.

  After fifteen minutes Natalie had seen enough. She used the intercom to ask Jenna to get Chris to help her tidy the room.

  ‘Pack up time,’ said Jenna. She stood up, as keen to leave as her son. ‘Come on Chris.’ Her voice carried no conviction. Chris was already at the door, trying to reach the handle. Luckily he couldn’t. ‘Chris, help Mummy pack up.’ The tone said: You’ll do this if you love me. Jenna started to pick up the toys that now decorated the room. Chris moved from the door to the desk, but with no intention of engaging in the task.

  The room got packed up—more or less: but Jenna did it all. Except the sand. That was a job for the cleaners.

  13

  Ama hadn’t seen the point in talking to Natalie when she called, but after Natalie explained she needed to hear both sides of the story, she said, ‘Of course, there is much I can tell you about Jenna.’

  Natalie was sure there was. ‘I want to talk about Malik—you know him better than anyone.’

  ‘Malik is a good father.’

  ‘I was actually more interested in hearing about what he was like as a child.’

  Natalie couldn’t see Ama’s expression at the other end of the phone, but the pause made it clear she couldn’t see why that was relevant, and she answered the questions that followed with barely disguised impatience. There were no surprises. A good boy, always ‘responsible’—which was more than Ama could say for Jenna.

  ‘What was his relationship with his father like?’

  There was a hesitation. ‘His father died young.’

  ‘But before he died?’

  Ama sighed. ‘His father was a security guard. There was a bank robbery. He was not the same after.’

  So Malik’s father had PTSD? Natalie thought of the veterans she had cared for and the impact the trauma had had on their ability to relate to their families. If the bank robbery was shocking enough it might have had similar psychological effects.

  ‘In what way?’ Natalie asked.

  ‘Why does this matter now?’

  ‘How we parent is affected by how we were parented ourselves.’

  ‘I raised Malik and his brother and sister. Uri’s brother too, was a good man; he helped.’

  ‘But Uri was Malik’s father.’

  ‘Uri was a coward.’

  Okay.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My friend’s husband, the other guard, was killed. Uri gave the criminals his gun.’

  ‘Was anyone else killed?’

  ‘No, but he could no longer work because of the shaking, the nightmares.’

  ‘It sounds terrible. For you all,’ Natalie said.

  ‘Mostly for Malik. He defended his father’s honour but boys are cruel—the child whose father died beat him up, put him in the hospital.’

  This was the episode Malik had downplayed. Ama clarified that it had happened after Uri had died, and was at pains to point out that he had got through it and done well at school, gone onto university. He’d had one long-term girlfriend. Ama hadn’t liked her.

  ‘She was always demanding he should be there and then, when he was, she just complained.’

  ‘One more thing. I wondered if you could think of any way Chelsea might have…maybe heard a TV show where people were having sex? Exposed to sexual matters in any way at all.’

  Ama snorted. ‘She is a child. My son is a good father. He has done none of these things Jenna says.’

  ‘Do you—did you look after Chelsea often?’

  ‘Of course. When Malik and Jenna were together I would have both children. Mostly I see Chris because he is not at school. She’—sniff—‘would often leave him with me. Because of work. Maybe you should ask her these questions.’

  ‘And Youssef? Did he see much of the children?’

  ‘Youssef does not live with me. He comes for dinner sometimes. He is a good man too.’

  And if he wasn’t, Natalie would be the last person Ama would tell—before the cops.

  ‘Have you seen Chelsea since the separation?’

  ‘At first. But now, not for some months.’

  ‘How do you think she was taking it, the s
eparation?’

  ‘She is normal. She likes to see my son. Malik is good to her. It is Jenna; she has a problem in her head.’

  Malik was looking around the waiting room warily, Chris on his knee. The only other occupant, a dishevelled man talking to himself, looked more 86 tram on a Friday night than doctor’s office. One of Natalie’s colleagues worked closely with the public mental health service, and bulk-billed some of the clientele who had chronic schizophrenia and substance abuse issues.

  ‘I wanna go home.’ Chris glared at Natalie.

  ‘Maybe this time you can play trains with your dad?’

  ‘I wanna go home. Daddy, I wanna ice-cream. I want it NOW!’

  The shout jolted Malik. He frowned at his son. ‘That is enough Christopher. I told you the ice-cream depends on you being good.’

  Christopher mimicked the frown, looked like he was going to yell again then thought better of it. Malik smiled at Natalie. ‘It’s okay to say that, isn’t it? I mean all parents bribe their kids, right?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

  Natalie led them up to the playroom Chris had been in with his mother. The sand had been cleaned up—and the table lid was firmly in place.

  ‘Have a play together,’ she told Malik. She avoided looking him in the eye. She just wanted to get this assessment—and Malik—out of her life.

  Malik nodded, walking into the room with Chris and checking it out before he sat down on the floor next to the toy box. Natalie positioned herself in the observation room. By the time she got there, Malik and Chris had constructed half of the train track and were well on the way to completing it.

  ‘Try that piece,’ Malik suggested, pointing to a bridge that was part of the set.

  Chris frowned, picked it up, tried to attach it and couldn’t. Natalie thought he was about to chuck it but instead Malik intervened.

  ‘Try it the other way, maybe.’

  Chris looked at him, paused, tried again, copying his father’s mimed actions. This time it clicked. There was a look of triumph on the child’s face. Malik smiled in recognition of the boy’s achievement. Chris looked at the animals and picked up a plastic tiger and put it in one of the railway trucks.