This I Would Kill For

by Anne Buist

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Because she didn’t want to think about it. Mickie had closed down emotionally a long time ago. Or used the bottle to deal with whatever emotions she hadn’t been able to ignore. ‘Seems to me there’s far too much attention…the media is totally preoccupied with it and I find it all quite distasteful.’

  It was the stick-your-head-in-the-sand-and-hope-it-goes-away attitude of previous generations that had allowed priests and family members to abuse children for decades. Natalie contemplated letting her get away with it. But grandparents had an important role in children’s lives, and if Jenna was working and Malik didn’t have access, then the Radfords would be especially important.

  ‘Jenna was a very imaginative child,’ Stephen was saying. ‘And Chelsea even more so. I rather think…Well, she isn’t very reliable. She says what she thinks you want to hear.’

  Natalie looked at the couple. ‘Can you give me an example?’

  Stephen nodded. ‘Jenna has been…pushing her. Asking her all sorts of questions about Malik. Next thing I know, Chelsea was watching television and asking if the man was going to take the ladies’ clothes off! But that was exactly what Jenna had asked her…seemed to me she just regurgitates it.’

  Damn Jenna.

  ‘It would be better not to quiz Chelsea,’ said Natalie. ‘I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind—it’s why I’m not asking her direct questions. But unfortunately, these things do happen. Yes, they are distasteful—but we can’t pretend they don’t happen, because the impact is huge. Even if it’s stopped now, Chelsea will be affected throughout her life. Like her psyche has a scar that can be pulled off at any time by triggers that remind her of feeling alone. And being betrayed by those she trusted.’

  It was hard to interpret Stephen’s expression—it could have been an earnest attempt to make sense of what she was saying—or just an older man who believed he knew the world and was humouring her.

  Mickie looked at her watch. ‘Do you wish to see Chelsea? Because we have to take her on the hour.’

  As they left Mickie turned around. ‘Jenna’s always been a survivor,’ she said to Natalie. ‘She could wrap her father around her little finger, and after that it was her boyfriends. She’s good at getting what she wants.’

  Mickie wasn’t about to change her views easily—but at least Natalie had tried.

  Chelsea joined Natalie but without enthusiasm. She looked pale.

  This session, Declan had said, would be the one at which she would disclose her abuser—or at least give them enough to take to court. As long as Natalie didn’t mess it up. Or unless Chelsea just told her things Jenna had told her to say—either directly or indirectly. Natalie forced a smile.

  ‘How’s your week been, Chelsea?’

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘What would you like to do today then?’

  Chelsea didn’t respond, and continued to ignore Natalie when she proffered some options.

  ‘I kind of get the idea that you’re feeling pretty sad,’ said Natalie. She stopped. Actually, while Chelsea’s expression was sad, that wasn’t what she was conveying.

  ‘Maybe not just sad,’ Natalie continued. ‘I wonder…are you a bit angry?’

  Chelsea still didn’t respond—but Natalie had the sense she was listening.

  ‘Last week,’ said Natalie, ‘I was pretty worried about you. I know your parents worry too.’

  There was a quick look up. Chelsea’s mouth was in a firm, grim line.

  ‘Everyone wants to make sure you’re safe, Chelsea. Sometimes it’s kind of hard to know what is best, even for grown-ups.’

  ‘I’ll never get to stay in the new bedroom at Teta’s.’ Chelsea’s voice was soft. They were both sitting on the floor, and Natalie shifted position, earning an alarmed look from Chelsea.

  ‘Maybe one day.’ Natalie wished Declan was there to tell her what to do. Go with your instinct he would say. But was her instinct right for an eight-year-old? A feeling was welling up inside her she couldn’t quite make sense of; a feeling that something wasn’t fair…Anger. But not just what she had sensed in Chelsea—this seemed to be her own.

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of feelings,’ said Natalie. ‘And sometimes you are angry and upset with someone you love and that’s even more confusing.’

  ‘Daddy will have to go on holiday by himself.’

  Natalie’s skin tingled. Holiday? Meaning Egypt? ‘Luxor?’

  Chelsea shrugged.

  ‘I know he’ll be upset,’ Natalie said. Chelsea had tears in the corners of her eyes and Natalie wanted to give her a hug—but at the moment she was part of the problem. Another adult to have to dance around and satisfy. ‘But your daddy’s a grown-up, Chelsea, and grown-ups know how to deal with feeling bad. He’ll have people he can talk to—it won’t mean he won’t be sad or that he doesn’t miss you, and he’ll still love you, but he’ll manage those problems. And he won’t blame you, okay?’ Ideally. It didn’t always work out like that.

  Chelsea now looked more miserable than angry, which might have been an improvement. Natalie wasn’t sure.

  ‘These sessions,’ said Natalie, ‘are for talking and playing and managing feelings.’

  ‘I don’t feel like talking.’

  Natalie’s heart sank. What had happened after the last session? Did Chelsea blame her? She had to get something this session. The last week had been agony, thinking about knots in trees and whether more were being added—an entire scarred trunk—because of her inability to convince any court on soft data.

  ‘Maybe only talk if you feel like it,’ said Natalie. ‘We can draw or play in the doll’s house or even the sand pit?’

  Chelsea frowned. ‘Mummy said…’

  After a moment when she didn’t continue, Natalie prompted her. ‘What did your mummy say?’ She added: ‘She may be right.’

  ‘That I was coming so you could find out about Daddy.’

  Just as Stephen had indicated. Natalie made a note to personally wring Jenna’s neck. ‘What do you think that meant, Chelsea?’

  ‘Mummy thinks Daddy is mean to me. Like the war-ock in the book I had.’

  War-ock? How many children’s books was Natalie going to have to scour? Maybe she’d start the bean on bicycle maintenance manuals.

  ‘I have bad dreams about witches and war-ocks.’

  ‘Warlocks.’

  Chelsea nodded.

  ‘How about you try and draw that dream? Maybe if it’s on paper it won’t be in your head to be in a nightmare anymore.’

  Natalie chose a large piece of white paper—and put the crayons out. Messier, less controllable. She wanted Chelsea to put feeling into the picture.

  There was plenty of that. Along with the humming—was it a self-soothing technique?

  ‘Is that “Round and Round the Garden Like a Teddy Bear”?’ asked Natalie. The thought came from her nightmares not from the tune. Had she been listening properly, it was obviously not what Chelsea was humming.

  Chelsea shook her head. Sang the first line of the chorus. She looked vacantly at the picture.

  ‘“Teddy Bears’ Picnic”,’ said Natalie. Her mother had sung it for her—or was it her Nan? Teddy bears everywhere.

  Chelsea nodded, and kept drawing.

  At the end of the session, when Chelsea had left with her grandparents, Natalie was left staring at a picture not of witches or bears or clowns, but of one monster. Mostly formless, but it was hard to go past the size of the monster’s hands in comparison to the central body mass. And the clear phallic form in the lower half where legs should have been.

  ‘Treat this as a new notification, Winona.’ Natalie was on the phone to Protective Services as soon as they had left.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve just seen Chelsea. I can’t tell whether it happened recently or where or by whom. But I have clear evidence she is being abused.’

  Natalie outlined what Chelsea had drawn.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Told y
ou he was a slimebag. We’ll get an emergency court session.’

  ‘It’ll be enough, won’t it?’

  ‘It’s not a name or a video, but this isn’t a criminal hearing. Might not convict Malik, but it’ll be enough for the Children’s Court to indicate risk. I wouldn’t mention the tree, but both you and I know little girls don’t draw monsters with penises unless they are being abused.’

  ‘It might not be Malik,’ Natalie warned. ‘It’s taken her this long to trust me…it could be in the past.’

  ‘She also drew it now Malik had access back; reckon that’s pretty persuasive myself.’

  ‘You’ll try to get Chelsea and Chris back to Jenna’s sole care?’

  ‘You got a better suggestion?’ said Winona. ‘Email a summary of what you just told me in the next ten minutes.’

  It took fifteen minutes—five for the phone call to Jenna, who didn’t say ‘I told you so’. No need to.

  35

  In the Herald Sun, Mark La Brooy was getting personal.

  Last month I shared my fear that political correctness might have led to the Children’s Court delivering an eight-year-old girl back to her abuser. It gives me no satisfaction to be proven right.

  ‘Liar,’ snorted Natalie, almost amused—until she read the next paragraph.

  A professor of psychiatry—an expert whose assessments the Royal Commission has relied upon—was unequivocal in stating that the stepfather was a psychopath and a danger to the child. But the judge preferred the opinion of a non-specialist junior psychiatrist—Natalie King, who, incidentally, has a history of instability and poor judgment.

  The rest of it was his usual outpouring about the intellectual games of the regressive left, and Natalie barely registered it. She put down the paper feeling sick.

  Mark La Brooy appeared to have a direct line to the Children’s Court. Or maybe the department’s high-priced lawyer. And who else?

  Unstable? Natalie felt like demonstrating it. Breathe, she told herself. If La Brooy had searched her name in the archives, he’d have found the story of her leg-sweeping Liam off his feet in front of the courthouse steps a year earlier. Nothing about her mental illness and treatment was in the public domain. Why didn’t he just mention the steps episode, then? Was he fishing? Did he know something else?

  Ken Rankin would be on the phone to Declan before his morning Weetbix. And then what? A disciplinary hearing, or did they just rescind her right to practise—guilty until proven innocent? Play it safe when the public were at risk? She needed to ring her professional indemnity insurers. Could she sue La Brooy? Demand a retraction…

  Not really an option. What was particularly galling was that the right-wing arsehole was basically correct. She didn’t want to be upset that he had put her name in print: she wanted to be upset for any harm she had caused Chelsea. But her livelihood was on the line. And that meant the ability to pay her mortgage…and support the bean. To say nothing of her sense of self.

  Natalie threw her coffee mug at the wall and it shattered; the sound sent Bob into the air, seed kernels adding to the mess as they fluttered through the air and landed across the books and papers strewn across the floor. Unstable.

  ‘You’re a complete unknown!’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Natalie muttered.

  It would take the College less than a minute to connect this article with Wadhwa’s complaint about her. And if they were on Twitter? Add DrK and #PsychBitch into the mix. Brilliant.

  Twitter was right onto it.

  Liza R @lizar82: If they’d believed the mother instead of #PsychBitch abuse would have stopped weeks ago #unforgiveable.

  Kids Really Matter @KidsReallyMatter: #PsychBitch finally gets it right. Maybe she’s back on her meds.

  Man Under Fire @ManUnderFire: @KidsReallyMatter Meds or no meds, they don’t get it right all the time. Mistakes about child abuse have disastrous consequences #PsychBitch.

  Natalie stared at the last texts and her hand was trembling so much she thought she’d drop the phone. Meds. Was this a wild stab in the dark or did someone know she took mood stabilisers? Would anyone else see this? Her skin seemed to turn cold. If she couldn’t work…if this meant the College said she wasn’t fit…She wanted to weep at the unfairness of it. Doing the right thing, getting help was what was now likely to get her into trouble.

  She wanted to talk to Liam about it, but she’d ignored his calls and would continue to do so until the DNA result next week.

  Declan was the obvious alternative, and better placed to support her as a psychiatrist. But she wanted…She wanted not to be judged. For someone to just say life was shit and give her a hug. Her mother would do that—but quite aside from her being out of bicycle range, there was Natalie’s own longstanding belligerence, which she just didn’t seem to be able to get over. It was partly why she didn’t want to talk to Declan either.

  ‘You underestimate your mother, Natalie. She loves you,’ he had said. ‘You’ll need her.’

  Natalie hated needing anyone. Better to do something for someone else; keep busy, focused. At the moment it was Chelsea who was most on her mind. She rang Damian.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Natalie lied. ‘You know how I asked you to check out that teacher?’

  There was an audible sigh down the line. ‘Natalie, you know—’

  ‘There was a teacher indicted to stand trial from the Royal Commission.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Damian cautiously.

  ‘Could you get a list of the schools he worked at? See if he overlapped with Ted Beahre?’

  ‘Natalie—’

  ‘You would if it was your daughter.’

  ‘Jesus, Natalie. There are a lot of teachers and schools.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do—but only because it’s public record anyway, okay?’

  Not really. And no way he was going to look and see if he could find out who @KidsReallyMatter was, so no point asking. When she hung up Natalie still felt restless, so she went to get dinner at the pub.

  Vince was able to do what all good publicans did—he gave her an ear, a lemon squash and a burger.

  ‘How about I become a full-time singer and give psychiatry away?’ She thought she was sounding slightly hysterical but she was pretty sure that as yet it was just stress, not pre-mania.

  Vince’s ruddy colour looked darker in the dim evening light that reflected off the glasses hanging above him. ‘One of those jerks gonna look after you, are they?’

  Natalie laughed, but heard an edge to the sound. Like she might lose control and start screaming or crying. ‘I take it that’s not a vote of confidence in my ability to provide with a career in rock ’n’ roll.’

  Vince shrugged. ‘Seems to me being a doc pays pretty good. And it took you a long time to get there.’

  But her angst wasn’t really about being a psychiatrist anyway. Well, only in part.

  ‘What sort of mum do you reckon I’ll be, Vince?’

  Vince grinned. ‘Bet you gave your mum a tough time. And you both survived it, didn’t you? You’ll be fine. With or without the jerk.’

  Natalie smiled; almost felt like she meant it. Vince was good therapy. ‘Thanks Vince. You’re probably right—my mum did lots of good things. I just need to get over—’

  What? That she wouldn’t ever find out who her father was? Or that he had abused her? Was she really so stuck on some fairy-tale ideal that she had got hooked on as a child? ‘What were Adrianna and Benny like as teenagers?’ Natalie asked Vince. She knew Ben with his pink mohawk because he did security at the bar, and Vince had twisted her arm to sing at Adrianna’s wedding five years earlier. Luckily, he didn’t know Beverley to pass this information on.

  ‘I don’t do weddings, Vince,’ she had said.

  ‘Everyone does Italian weddings.’

  As there were five hundred guests, he’d been more or less right. And despite herself, she and the band had enjoyed themselves. The wedding party had had tears rol
ling down their cheeks at her version of He’s a Rebel with the three Castentella brothers playing the doo-wop role—the youngest, Nick, leading them. He didn’t have a bad voice, and had been hilarious camping it up, Vince wiggling his butt and Tony, the quiet one, rolling his eyes. Nick had even managed to get Natalie on the dance floor, though even to this day she couldn’t recall how he’d managed that. Dancing was not her thing, and she hadn’t got close to keeping up with Nick’s moves. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The groom and his attendants were all bikers and were glowing as if the song was written especially for them.

  Natalie didn’t think this would work at Beverley’s wedding, but she couldn’t think of any suitable dentist songs.

  ‘You’ve seen Ben’s hair,’ said Vince. ‘Carmel thought he was gay, cried every night till I convinced her he was two-timing her best friend’s daughter. Now she’s happy her son’s a louse.’

  ‘And Adrianna?’

  Vince shrugged. ‘She married a biker. What can I say?’

  ‘So the moral is all kids cause havoc and parents just have to pray.’

  ‘And drink.’ Vince grinned. ‘Keeps me in business.’

  Not an option at the moment. Maybe this was why instead of going home—before she had thought about where she was going or why—Natalie cycled to South Yarra, and looked up at Liam’s apartment. It fronted onto Toorak Road with a balcony, blinds open.

  She could see Liam through the window, sitting on the sofa with James, both focused on the television. After a few minutes Megan joined them, kissing Liam’s cheek before snuggling up to him.

  Natalie felt her eyes moisten. Angry at herself, she got back on her bike and rode home. She stopped off at the Ducati showroom window to pick out her next motorbike. It was probably just as well they were closed and she couldn’t take it there and then.

  36

  Natalie arrived at Declan’s for her weekly appointment fifteen minutes early. Time for a coffee? High Street was a happening place for foodies and there were plenty of options. She propped the bike against Declan’s fence and bent over to put the lock on, catching movement in the room beyond out of the corner of her eye. Declan’s office. A woman in a blue dress: blonde, not his wife with her red curls. Was he finishing with a patient?