What Matters Most

by Dianne Maguire

  ‘There’s nothing unusual about that, mate,’ Noah chuckled.

  Tim followed as Noah wound his way through rows of desks occupied by uniformed and plainclothes police, along corridors and finally through the narrow doorway of a small interview room. Noah closed the door behind them and placed the plastic bag bulging with Rachel’s nightie and sheet on the table, then sat and gestured for Tim to sit opposite.

  ‘Can I get you something, Tim. Coffee … water?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Tim glanced around the room, certain if he stretched out his arms at shoulder height he would touch the pale walls. He wished he had a choice about this. But he knew he didn’t. He cleared his throat and listened to Noah explain what was about to happen. Then in harsh detail Tim described to Noah and the tiny green light on the camera, what he had seen that day in Rachel’s bedroom.

  An hour later Tim emerged from the police station, blinking at the sudden brightness of daylight and wordlessly climbing into the front seat of the police car. ‘It should only take a few minutes to get you back to the hospital,’ the young female officer with her hair bun jammed under her cap told him, cruising slowly through the compound gates and into the traffic. Tim did not reply. He had exhausted all words. All thought. The only thing he said to her was ‘Thanks,’ as he climbed out of the car at the eastern entrance to the hospital. His mind seemed empty, yet in turmoil as he stood there, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, and watched the rear lights of the police car grow smaller.

  Rachel’s eyes flew open the moment he crept up to her bed.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  She closed her eyes again, her face contorting like a little kid’s, oily tears instantly sliding down her pale cheeks.

  Tim was getting used to the idea that tears were good. At least her eyes had lost the look of the living dead, he thought. ‘Was it a tough interview?’

  She shook her head. Pressed her lips together so hard that her chin dimpled. ‘I don’t remember much of it even though Maggie and Noah said I did well.’ She stared out the window. ‘I just think … I feel as though … it’s not his fault, Tim. I don’t think he can help what he did to me.’

  Tim jumped to his feet. Stared down at Rachel. ‘That’s total bullshit. Regardless of anything, he had choices. And he made them.’

  Rachel’s pleading eyes were more those of a grown woman than a 15 year old schoolgirl. ‘But maybe he didn’t have choices, Tim. Maybe something happened to him when he was a little kid.’

  Tim recalled what Noah had told him about their grandfather being a convicted paedophile. Wondered if their father had, in fact, been his victim. Decided it was a moot point and avoided passing the information onto Rachel at that moment. ‘Yes, that’s true. And I feel sorry for him if he was a victim. But I still say he had choices and he made them. Noah told me that not every kid who is abused turns out to be an abuser. In fact he said most of them don’t.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong about Dad having choices, Tim. Maggie Malloy told me he said he can’t remember doing anything to me. And he probably can’t.’ She closed her eyes and tears slid down her cheeks. Took a deep shuddering breath. ‘When he was, you know … doing it to me … it was like he turned into another person.’

  ‘You mean when he was pinching the hell out of your legs. Or wanking himself all over you? Or sticking his filthy fingers inside you? Is that what you mean? Well, consider this, Rach … telling everyone he can’t remember just might save his bacon. Have you thought about that?’

  She threw her head back on the pillows and squeezed her eyes closed, her chin dimpling yet again. ‘Don’t, Tim. Please don’t be angry. I need you to understand.’

  ‘I don’t get why you keep making excuses for him, Rach. You are treating him like a normal father when he is not a normal father.’

  ‘I want to see him, Tim. I really need to see him.’

  Tim gasped. ‘For chrissakes, Rachel. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know it would help. I know I’d feel heaps better if I could see him.’

  Tim anxiously scratched the side of his neck. ‘I don’t know, Rach. You’re sick in hospital. He is in prison. It sounds impossible.’

  She lay back on her pillows. ‘Right now, it’s like he has died and everything is unfinished. That sucks almost as much as when he was doing it and no one knew.’

  ‘Jeezus, Rachel. Don’t say that.’

  ‘Pleeease, Tim. I really, really want to see him.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Molly sat tall and straight in the passenger seat beside Mia, her pink tongue lolling outside ebony lips, her ears straining forward as though charged with anticipation. Mia smiled at the dog’s exuberance for life — every day was the adventure of a lifetime as far as Molly was concerned.

  ‘Having you sitting there reminds me of the day I found you and loaded you into my car,’ Mia told her, the dog turning briefly as though respectfully acknowledging her words. ‘Was that only yesterday? My goodness. It feels like forever that you and I have been together. And last night with you stretched out on the bed beside me, I had the best sleep ever. But don’t tell anyone,’ she said aware that, to some people, sleeping with a dog may appear unhealthy at best, and creepy at worst — like she was seeking an Eric replacement. ‘At least you would stay faithful to me,’ she said, rubbing the dog’s thick coat.

  Even though Mia was happily taking Molly back to the city, she felt unsettled. She was growing more attached to the dog by the day, but still no one knew her rightful owner. She thought back on the agitated manner of the bespectacled woman from the local council who had sat at her desk and ducked and weaved over options once she had scrolled through countless computer screens and hard copy records to confirm the dog had not been registered. She had practically begged Mia to keep Molly until the rightful owner surfaced because the pounds were at bursting point. Horrified by the thought of Molly in some dank space surrounded by wire, and without mentioning to the woman that holding onto her had been her preferred option all along, Mia had happily agreed to the condition that she register as a foster carer.

  The local vet, his small face sprinkled with a combination of bristles and acne and whose halitosis made it impossible for her to stand any closer than a few metres, had informed Mia with unpolished superiority that Molly was four years old, had been spayed but was not microchipped and that she seemed to have received abundant love and care. He too was curious about how such a dog could suddenly become a stray without anyone stepping forward to claim her.

  Mia gazed out at the continuous green blur of the pasturelands, the sun glittering on the sea beyond and hoped matters would soon come to a conclusion whether it be good or bad. Almost every hour on the hour since Molly had entered her life, she had envisaged the time when finally, she would be forced to face the dog’s beaming owners and sadly place the looped handle of her new leather lead into their open palm. Molly’s tail would be wagging excitedly from the relief of knowing that at last she was back where she belonged.

  Almost home, and grateful that today she was scheduled to work for only a few hours, she planned to shower, change and take time to settle Molly, before working her shift at the hospital and being home again for Molly precisely by 10pm. It was not ideal, but it was all she could do at this stage. The phone’s unexpected shrill caused her to start, then brought a spontaneous groan on noticing the call was from Debra. She wondered what the bad news would be this time.

  ‘You’re probably coming to expect this by now, Mia, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Eric has hired some top gun American lawyers — not that they worry me — but it makes matters more complex when we have overseas counsel involved. Anyway, he’s disputing our right to place a hold on your joint finances. I’m afraid he doesn’t have a very strong case on that matter because he’s still pulling an eye-wateringly healthy salary from his new position in his firm’s American office …’ Debra’s voice fade
d to a background blur as Mia tried to process that Eric was now living and working in the United States. She pictured him sharing a Manhattan apartment with Lucinda during the week and a Malibu Beach house on the weekends.

  ‘The information that may be more bothersome to you,’ Debra was saying, ‘is that he is adamant he intends to vigorously defend his rights to your little place on the coast.’

  Mia’s gasp was sufficient to turn Molly’s head. It was as though someone had pulled a plug and the positives that had accrued in her life since Eric had left instantly drained away. ‘What can we do?’ she rasped.

  ‘Nothing at this stage,’ Debra replied curtly. ‘I think it’s good news that he has shown his hand early. Gives us more time. I don’t want you to twist yourself into a knot with worry, Mia. This is just to keep you informed, not to have you spiralling into depression. Now leave it with me,’ she said before terminating the call.

  ‘Debra’s talking about Eric,’ Mia told Molly as she stabbed the off button. ‘He’s an arsehole. I hope you never have to meet him.’

  Crossing the city limits and now only moments from home, all Mia could think about was losing the beach house. That, and Eric’s unfathomable heartlessness in the face of knowing what an important part the little fibro shack played in her life.

  The moment Mia cruised into the undercroft and cut the motor, Molly pranced expectantly on the front seat, wagging her tail and whining as though she knew this was home — at least for the time being. She eagerly followed Mia up the stairs and waited while she unlocked the door, rushing in with her nose down and tail wagging, sniffing from room to room. She waited on the bedroom carpet outside the en suite while Mia showered, immediately rushing forward and licking her legs the moment Mia stepped out. ‘Oh, gosh. You must be thirsty. Sorry, girl. I’m still learning.’

  Mia threw on tight black pants, flat, above-the-knee boots, and a long-length jumper before wrapping a patterned linen scarf around her neck. At the back door she bent and took the dog’s soft face in both her hands. ‘Molly. I am going to work. I want you to have a luxuriously long sleep. I’ll be back later tonight. Then in the morning I’ll take you for a big walk.’

  Molly’s ears pricked up and she turned her head on the side her brown eyes sparkling.

  ‘You know that word, don’t you? Oh my gosh, Molly. I do hope you are not some lovely child’s pet.’

  Within an hour of being back at work, Mia felt as though she had never been away — apart from the hundreds of emails begging attention, and a mountainous stack of papers and files to be signed.

  At break time she thought about clearing them all, but decided instead she wanted to talk to Declan. Common sense told her there was nothing he could do about Eric’s threat to take her beach house away, but at the very least he would be a comfort.

  ‘You look like you have just won the lottery,’ Mia said to Ellen when the nurse stepped into the elevator.

  ‘Better,’ Ellen said, her smile growing even wider. ‘I am having tea with a really cute guy tonight … guess who he is.’

  Mia hated guessing games, especially when she was focussed on other things and pushed for time. ‘Oh, I don’t know — George Clooney?’

  ‘Better. You actually know him,’ Ellen said, beaming. ‘Okay, I won’t keep you in suspense. It’s Tim Hooper,’ she finally said to Mia’s immense relief and interest.

  Mia recalled Tim’s beautiful smile. His athletic build and straight shoulders. His soulful disclosure and the trust he had shown her in the telling of it. ‘Lucky you,’ Mia said sincerely.

  ‘I know. Only two hours and seven minutes before I meet him in the pub across the road.’

  Mia smiled. Tim had made a good choice. ‘Have fun,’ she said, stepping from the lift.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m sure we will,’ Ellen said, vampishly raising her eyebrows.

  The laughter pouring from Declan’s office caused Mia’s steps to slow. She tentatively approached his open door and peered in, immediately wanting to turn and run when she spotted Noah Tamblyn sitting opposite Declan’s desk. Noah’s smile faded at the sight of her, as did Declan’s and Lauren Quayle’s as she lounged in the chair beside Noah’s. For some inexplicable reason the sight of them all together annoyed her.

  ‘Mia — come in,’ Declan said, smiling and beckoning her with a wide sweep of his arm.

  ‘No, I won’t interrupt. I’ll catch you when your meeting is finished,’ she said in her most officious voice, turning to leave.

  ‘Now don’t be like that Mia,’ Declan said, still smiling.

  She glared at him and his smile instantly faded on realising that patronising her only made her pricklier. ‘Of course, it’s your decision,’ he added, ‘but we are here to talk about Rachel. You may be interested.’ He turned to Noah and Lauren. ‘Mia is supporting Rachel in her dream to study medicine,’ he said as though desperately clawing back a semblance of her favour. She felt appeased that he cared — and remorseful for her churlishness. Declan jumped up and pulled a chair over. Sat it down beside Noah who was leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, grinning at her mischievously as she sat.

  ‘The reason we were laughing when you came in, despite the seriousness of Rachel’s situation,’ Declan continued by dint of further apology, ‘was because …’

  ‘It’s okay, Declan,’ Mia said softly.

  ‘Very well. To continue,’ Declan said, suddenly straightening in his seat with a final glance at Mia. ‘Maggie Malloy has been told by Tim that Rachel is desperate to see Peter. I won’t know for sure until I see her tomorrow, but my initial response is that wanting to confront her abuser is a positive step forward for Rachel. However, it will be extremely difficult, if not impossible, for us to make it happen.’

  ‘Why?’ Mia said looking around at them.

  ‘Because detainees on remand for sexual offences against children are rarely permitted access with any child under 18 years old,’ Noah said. ‘Not even electronically. And especially not with their victims.’

  ‘We thought we could encourage him to write her a letter,’ Lauren added, ‘but it’s possible his defence lawyers would not be happy about that.’

  ‘So … that means Rachel has to wait until the matter goes to trial before she can hope for even a hint of an apology from her abusing father. Is that correct?’ Mia said, immediately angry.

  Noah screwed up his face. ‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The matter may not even go to trial.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Mia spat. ‘How can it not go to trial? Peter is not owning up to what he did and you have two incredibly reliable witnesses with smoking gun evidence.’

  ‘Because Peter is insisting, quite convincingly, according to the psychiatrists, that he has no memory of committing the offences. The matter may not go to trial if his claims can be clinically backed up. In other words, his lawyers may argue he is unfit to stand trial.’

  ‘What will happen then?’ she said feeling the heat crawling slowly but surely up her neck.

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ Noah replied firmly and calmly as though to a child. ‘We are in the process of seizing his computer. It is possible there may be additional charges laid against him. It’s a work in progress, Mia.’

  ‘At this stage, it seems as though the law is an ass, doesn’t it?’ Mia said sardonically. ‘When a 15 year old girl finally confronts the terror and anguish of telling the people who are meant to help her that she is being abused by her own father; when we have screamingly irrefutable evidence and the law still cannot protect her … whose side is it on?’ She stood and made for the door. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Declan. This conversation seems to be going nowhere.’

  ‘I’ll phone you when we have finished our meeting,’ Declan called dutifully after her. Then she heard him say in a dropped tone, ‘Her husband is giving her one hell of a hard time with their divorce.’

  She felt driven to march back and thump the desk under Declan’s nose, but decided Noah must be thinkin
g she was demented enough as it is.

  Declan did not ring Mia as promised on that day, which came as no surprise given he often made undertakings to her in the heat of the moment which he later failed to carry out.

  But less than an hour later, Noah Tamblyn knocked on the open door of her office.

  ‘Do you have a minute?’ he asked from the doorway.

  She looked up from the screen without smiling and tugged at her earphones, allowing them to fall onto her desk.

  ‘You seemed pissed off in there,’ Noah said.

  ‘That’s stating the obvious, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Mind if I sit for a moment?’ he said, sitting without waiting for a reply.

  ‘No, Noah. Help yourself,’ she said with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘We need to take this one step at a time, Mia. Although Rachel is asking to see him today, she may have a different view tomorrow. Kneejerk responses, such as giving into everything she says and asks for, will end up doing her more damage than good.’

  ‘I can see what you’re saying,’ she admitted reluctantly, fidgeting with her earphones. ‘But you would have to agree, blind justice seems to be blisteringly blind as far as victim’s rights are concerned. And on full alert, with eyes wide open, in protecting the accused.’

  Noah nodded. ‘Yes, I know it seems that way. But again, it’s early days. Just know that the prosecuting lawyers are rabidly intent on Peter getting proper retribution, and securing a just outcome for Rachel. They will be working hard to do that without putting Rachel through the anguish of giving evidence on the stand. We must have faith that the system is working if we are going to be able to give Rachel the hope she needs to get her through this.’

  ‘It is set to be one hell of a ride,’ Mia said sighing. ‘I only trust Rachel can continue to be strong, along with those around her.’