‘Not all men are like that, Nell.’
He held her for a moment, then let go, reaching down to retrieve his cereal. Nell felt her body cool in his absence. But some are, she thought. And that was the worrying thing.
*
Outside the sun was making a valiant appearance in the mild springtime sky. Nell was not a regular jogger but this morning the cells of her body were tight and agitated, calling out to release the pre-court pent-up energy within. The air when it hit her was crisp and sharp. She set off at a leisurely pace, her limbs responding slowly. She quickened her tempo until it reached something of a brisk trot, her arms swinging against and then with the motion. Soon she found herself pressing forward, lurching into a jog-like rhythm that ate greedily at the pavement. Deep within her chest the burn and yowl of her recent sedentary lifestyle started scratching about, but she ignored it. She turned onto the bike path, narrowly avoiding an oncoming cyclist, then focused on the staggered white line stretching out before her. The bike path sloped down then up, and she found herself suddenly removed from the mutter and mayhem of the inner city. She’d forgotten this park was here, a nature reserve along the river, preserved and precious, housing community gardens and wide-open spaces to help the city forget itself. She hadn’t been here since before she’d started at Williams & Williams – well before that, now that she thought about it. They’d come here for picnics, Rani and their other law student friends, until they’d graduated and everyone had taken their separate paths.
Her heart pounding in her chest, Nell slowed to a walk. She had met with Rani the night before, Nell’s pre-court nerves getting the better of her as she prepared for battle. Rani had been waiting for her in the bar, having secured a small table by the window. Dressed casually in jeans, she’d reclined lazily against the chesterfield, pretending to swirl a glass of something strong, making Nell smile for the first time that day.
‘Can I get you a real drink to ponder with?’ Nell said, and returned soon with two stiff whiskies that made both of them gag.
‘That was a very expensive joke,’ Rani commented, ordering them white wine instead.
‘This is why we’ll never make the old boys’ club,’ Nell sighed, pulling the amber liquid into a satisfying swirl before abandoning it for the sauvignon blanc.
‘How’s life?’ Rani asked, and Nell rolled her eyes.
‘I hear you,’ Rani replied. ‘How’s the case?’
‘Contested hearing tomorrow. No one budged at directions. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s so complicated. Both their affidavits are strong. And her ex the lawyer isn’t making it easy for anyone. DB is confident, but I’m not sure.’
Rani wrinkled her brow.
‘I swear we didn’t realise it was so complex. Sorry this was the one we handballed to you.’
Nell shrugged. ‘We’re in it now.’
Madeline was, now that Nell reflected on it, at odds completely with the person captured on that paper. She was, for want of a better word, positively chipper now, enlivened by the prospect of finally being heard. At their last meeting she’d been so excitable someone had knocked on the consulting room door to check everything was okay. The only downer had been when they’d reviewed Eric’s affidavit together, her face oscillating between hurt disbelief and table-pounding outrage. It had included the intervention order breach, though thankfully he hadn’t reported it to the police.
‘I sound like a train wreck,’ she’d muttered quietly, before buoyed by a renewed burst of energy. ‘That lying bastard. He’ll get what he deserves.’
‘Did the magistrate schedule one day or two for the hearing?’ Rani asked, wineglass near empty.
‘One. There are so few witnesses. We’ve got none. I’ll be happy when it’s over, to be honest.’ She studied her wineglass for a moment. ‘Doesn’t it ever get too much for you? All those stories of violence and abuse, day after day? I mean, this is just one case and already it’s messing with my head. He’s supposed to be this fantastic person when he’s not at home but some of the things he’s accused of doing . . . It’s like now I look at everyone and think “What are you capable of?” In the office, in the supermarket, on the tram home. Who knows what happens once each of those people closes their front door?’
‘You know what’s shit?’ Rani said. ‘You spend so much time listening to stories of all the horrible things people do to the people they’re meant to love, and it makes your own relationship look perfect in comparison. I go home every night and feel lucky that Rob isn’t a perpetrator, and that’s fucked up. But I’ve worked with people from every single walk of life, and none of us are immune to this. I mean, look at Madeline. She was us right up until she met that guy.’
‘Almost us,’ Nell replied. ‘I mean, there’s the drinking and everything. It doesn’t help us that she’s not the most reliable of witnesses. It would help if she acted more like a victim.’
Rani tilted her head, squinting at Nell.
‘What does a victim look like, Nell?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Nell said. ‘She doesn’t present well to the magistrate. She’s not sympathetic.’
Rani placed her wineglass on the table. Outside the window a tram rattled past, packed full of evening revellers. Football finals were on and excited passengers waved their scarves out the windows. Black and white, navy and white, a sea of wool waving in the dying light.
‘You know, the problem with victims, Nell, is it’s a status that takes away people’s agency. Their complexity. The nuances that make us human. They exist in shades of grey, which isn’t the easiest colour to capture. None of us are sympathetic in real life because that’s what it is to be human. But none of that negates our right to live safely, to command respect, to access the full extent of the law. There’s a reason Lady Justice has that blindfold.’
Nell raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not that the wool has been pulled over her eyes?’
‘Does it matter either way?’ Rani replied. ‘You’re her lawyer. It’s your job to tell her story properly.’
*
They arrived early at the magistrates’ court. Despite this, the waiting room was so crowded they were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder, or more like shoulder to shoulder to chest as DB towered over the two women, the lapels of his well-cut suit at eye level to them. They’d positioned Madeline between them, trying to block Eric from her view as he stood on the other side of the room chuckling at something his lawyer had said. He’d been to their place for barbecues, Madeline had told them the first time she’d seen Eric’s lawyer. He and his wife had brought gluten-free sausages as they were paleo now. Their children too, though she’d found them hiding in the boys’ playroom stuffing their faces with fairy bread at one point in the afternoon.
Madeline had dressed carefully today. Nell could see she had paid particular attention to her hair, her makeup, and had chosen a demure yet sophisticated blouse and blazer with a set of pearls she said she’d borrowed from her mother. Her mother who had that morning, Madeline informed them, told her that it wasn’t too late to put all this silliness behind them and try to work things out. Counselling, she’d suggested. For the sake of the children. Friends, too, apparently mutual, had been sending messages full of love and best wishes and the awkward assurance that they would still be there for her no matter what the truth turned out to be. She was nervous, shaking, her hands clenching tightly before her. Nell suspected that if the press of bodies was to evaporate she would crumple without their support. Nell’s own stomach was a mess, hyperactive butterflies that had caused her to use the bathroom already on multiple occasions for what DB sometimes referred as pre-court cramps. DB’s face was set impassively but she could tell he was nervous. He’d repeatedly stepped them through the process and in his silence picked relentlessly at a non-existent spot on his suit.
As they waited to be called, Nell looked about the room. For the most
part it consisted of other groupings similar to their own, though a significant number of individuals sat disparate and downcast, dressed in formal clothes they did not wear often enough to feel comfortable in. Some of them would seek out the court’s duty lawyers, who would shake their hands, hear their story, then, depending on their assessment – and time permitting – either accompany them inside if they were lucky, or provide some brief advice and send them in to battle unchaperoned. Others would go it completely alone, armed with only a flimsy folder of photocopied documents. She could pick the private solicitors – all tailored jackets and buffed shoes – from the community lawyers, who often appeared in crumpled suits and well-worn shoes. She imagined them collapsing back into their suburban offices, stripping themselves of their finery, comfortable once more in their sweaters and flat footwear. Occasionally someone would burst into brief, mortified tears, either in the process of entering or exiting the court, or else hidden behind tissues as they waited to be called. There was security, too, a clear reminder that for some of the applicant/respondent pairings, acts of extreme violence had occurred between them.
From across the room Eric’s lawyer caught their attention. He motioned to DB, who approached grimly. They stood in a huddle, gesturing neatly. Madeline gave Nell a questioning look.
‘They’re making an offer,’ she said gently.
DB was statue-faced when he returned.
‘They’ve offered us a bargain,’ he informed them. ‘Prepared to settle on the steps. You plead consent without admission. You’d get a limited order but you’d be free to see the children. Obviously, you’d drop your cross-application.’
Madeline looked between them, panicked.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you accept the intervention order against you but it’s adjusted to a limited order, which means you can go to the house, see the children, communicate with Eric, etc, you just can’t commit family violence,’ DB explained. ‘If you accept, we go in, tell the magistrate, and the magistrate gives the final orders straight away.’
Madeline was watching him intently.
‘So I wouldn’t get the chance to tell my story?’
‘No.’
Her brow scrunched at this.
‘So it would be like admitting to all his lies?’
‘Technically no. Consent without admission means you’re not contesting the order against you, but you’re not admitting guilt either.’
‘I don’t think anybody outside this room gives a shit about technically. It’s basically the same thing. Promising not to commit family violence when I never bloody did in the first place.’
She stared at them both.
‘And no one would ever know the truth,’ she continued. ‘He gets to carry on with his lies. While it’s forever known that I had a fucking intervention order against me?’
‘It’s not on your public record,’ DB clarified. ‘I mean, the police, yes, but it’s not like future employers could access it.’
‘That’s not the point. People would still know.’
DB moved his hands in a more-or-less-but-not-necessarily kind of way.
‘On the other hand, think about your reputation,’ he cautioned. ‘Everything will come out in court. Everything you say but also everything he has to say. And it might affect you further down the track when you go to the Family Court. Their priority is the safety and wellbeing of your children.’
Madeline looked crestfallen.
‘And you think mine isn’t? So you think I should accept it. Nell?’
Nell shifted uncomfortably. She knew what DB was thinking. This was more of a sure thing than the chance they’d win inside. And it wasn’t a win, but it wasn’t a loss, either. It was grey, the murky haze that Rani spoke of, where things were neither clear nor certain, and while it wasn’t what they’d prepared for, perhaps it was the compromise they needed.
‘Well, you can never predict the outcome of the court,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s your choice. There’s a chance you won’t come across well on the stand, and like DB said, you’d be airing all these things in public. You’d have to talk about the incidents. You’d be examined, cross-examined, re-examined. They’ll hone in on the drinking. And then there’s the breach. And, well, like DB said, Eric could use it against you in the Family Court when you go for parenting arrangements. Even if you don’t take the witness stand, he can still use your affidavit.’
Nell pressed her thumbnail into the flesh of her index finger, clicking it softly.
‘Sometimes it’s more about the long game,’ she added, hating herself.
Madeline stared at the two of them for a long, bitter moment.
‘I didn’t realise the law came with that caveat.’
She looked over to where Eric and his lawyer stood, sharing a smug look. DB stepped forward to block her view. He looked exhausted.
‘Look, we can’t tell you what to do. You have to make that decision for yourself. We either go ahead, you tell your story and we hope for a positive outcome, or you take the limited order, get to see your kids and in all likelihood in twelve months the order expires and you’ve nothing on you anymore. You could walk away with everything you want, or nothing at all. We can’t make that call for you.’
Nell felt Madeline’s body press against hers, heavy suddenly with the weight of things. She brought her hand to her throat, her face pale as she clawed absent-mindedly at her skin. She straightened, suddenly, clearing her throat.
‘Can I have a few minutes to think about it?’
25
Patrick
North Facing Window: Seymour Swansea
September 2016
By ?
Seymour Swansea was born in the north and, if his present circumstances are anything to go by, he will die here too. He is a man of the world, in as much as anyone with an internet connection, a streaming subscription and the vague memory of a gap year two decades ago can claim to be so. Each day he cycles from his terrace house in Brunswick down the Upfield bike path, past Princes Park, hugs the crest of the cemetery and follows the bike lane all the way to his Fitzroy gallery. Sometimes he returns the other way, north up St Georges Road past the Edinburgh Gardens and west through Brunswick East, completing a ten-kilometre circuit that roughly encapsulates the girth of his life now, for rarely does he travel beyond this parochial rectangle anymore. He did once, before life trampled him down and he chained himself to the expectations of others, back when he looked out at the world instead of in on his own. Back when he saw opportunity instead of imminent disaster, and hope instead of worry. Back when he was a man for the world, and there was nothing not to love in that.
Patrick read through what he had written. His head was beginning to ache again, had been threatening to since midday. He deleted it letter by letter until he got to the stranded question mark. He couldn’t bring himself to write ‘Rik’ anymore. It had been a whim, something he’d thought both clever and cleansing at the time, and he’d fancied it an homage to Rik Mayall as well as a reinvention of self. Only it looked stupid and made him sound like a middling pop singer and had failed to shield him from the claws of the world anyhow. His head was thundering and he pushed the laptop away. He grabbed the packet of foreign painkillers, punching the remaining two tablets out of the capsules. He swallowed them then collected up the empty plastic. That was it now. They were all gone.
His laptop sat before him, its blank white rectangle staring earnestly back at him. Empty, and refusing to be filled. Patrick seized the thing and hurled it across the room. It did not go far because it was a very small room, and it left a pathetic dent in the plaster from its pitiful impact. His head was buzzing, wild with today, and with yesterday and the long hopscotch of days before, all trailing back into each of his idiot decisions. He brought his fists to his temples as if to beat it all away, the memories and the pain and whatever
else was lurking about inside there. When this didn’t work, he stumbled to his bedroom and crawled into bed. It smelt of his failures, stale and tart, so he stripped the sheets and lay on the naked mattress instead. The migraine dutifully descended, stripping him of his vision. He lay motionless, his head set at the least painful angle, then pulled the naked duvet over his head. Here it was dark and here he would stay, forever at the very least. But no one can stay anywhere for long, and soon he was transported by the stillness back, back, back into that empty little Anatolian guesthouse room . . . And he was failing, failing to capture anything in the empty notebook that sat before him, fortressed from the world in his cramped island bed, hemmed in by the four heavy walls, even though the sequence of events played through his head like a film reel set to repeat. And all he could hear was the scrape of fork clearing plate and the phlegmy freeing of a throat and the sweep sweep sweep of a straw-bristled broom somewhere out in the courtyard. And the bare light bulb was too fierce, but the light that flooded past the nudged-aside curtain was too, and there was a mosquito, somewhere, and a dog barking, somewhere, and at the back of it all a man pleading pointlessly because he only wanted to help. And Patrick had heaved himself from the bed because it was too loud in this little empty guesthouse room, and taken himself out into the world with his face an unkempt garden save for the one careful row mown from gullet to jaw. And it had been beautiful out there – the way the sea hugged the stone harbour with a turquoise indescribable, and the boats had bobbed in the breeze in their multicoloured breeches, and the rich red flag had coiled in the salty air, offering its crescent for all to see, and it had smelt sweet and earthy – of something baked in syrup and something else cut fresh from a garden – and he had sat at a plastic table by the harbour with a glass of tea before him and there hadn’t been any milk because you weren’t supposed to drink it that way. And after he had drunk this milkless tea and stared out at the world he saw the beauty of it all, but when he tried to write about all that had happened he failed once more because there were no words to capture the reality of these things. Every phrase seemed wrong – too laden with cliché, too emotive; either bathed in simplicity or riddled with needless ornament. Unable to shape itself around the immensity of what he had experienced, witnessed, caused. Caused. There was a word that would stick. And in the back of his eyes and the canals of his ears, the film reel played again and again.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 28