On the way home George smiles to himself and says, ‘On ya Perry,’ to the luxury leather interior of his special edition Porsche, just as a Subaru hatchback stops dead in front of him. He slams on the brakes but it’s too late.
As air bags explode around him, George Pessites calculates that his three-hundred-thousand-dollar car will be off the road for at least two weeks. He’ll be driving around in some crap loaner all because Christina Bowden called him up to school. All because Perry put some little bitches in their place. All because the little bitches were giving Eva a hard time. All because one little bitch in particular punched his Eva and called her names. What was her name? Ruthie? Rosie?
The tow-truck driver drops George outside a row of expensively renovated neo-Federation shops where Mr Pessites enters his wife’s emporium—All Gifts Great and Small—to get the keys to her Audi when, as fortune would have it, he meets Constable Lance Johnstone.
Constable Johnstone is tall and thin with once-carrot hair that is fading to a dull brown. He has been a member of the police force for just over ten years. He joined in his late twenties after a number of unsuccessful attempts at various careers in sales. Selling life insurance was a little too esoteric for Lance so he moved on to selling objects—cars, kitchens, appliances—but never found his niche until the store where he was working was held up one day. He got talking to the cop who arrived long after a young man of Middle Eastern appearance absconded with just over a thousand dollars cash and seven laptops, and discovered that he wanted to become a police officer.
Lance signed up, filled with hope and ambition. Finally on the right path, he secretly dreamed that he would be promoted to commissioner in record time. But today, on the wrong side of forty, Lance remains a constable for reasons that elude him. He is a disappointed man who consoles himself with the small compensations that being a member of the police force afford him.
Mrs Pessites never fails to compensate Constable Johnstone with a twenty-five per cent discount on any of his purchases from All Gifts Great and Small. When wrapping his selected gift she often slips in another gift of greater value than the one he has purchased. Today, for example, an eighteen-dollar (marked down from $24.99) pewter mug purchased for his great-nephew’s christening has been supplemented with a sterling silver baby rattle normally retailing for $49.99 but included gratis. He knows it’s Mrs Pessites’ way of thanking him for his service to the public and he is graciously accepting her wrapped-and-ribboned offering when George Pessites walks through the door.
Constable Johnstone almost wets himself. George is very rich and owns lots of really big trucks. For a sweet second the constable is as giddy as a teenager but collects himself and adjusts his gun belt with appropriate gravitas. When George Pessites says, ‘Hello Lance,’ Lance can’t believe that amongst all the important information George carries around in his brain, he has bothered to remember his, Lance’s, name. It’s quite a compliment and the constable is more than a little chuffed until he remembers that he is wearing a name tag.
After an exchange of pleasantries, George asks Lance to join him for a drink in the pub; there’s a matter he’d like to discuss. Lance declines with a gesture that he hopes strikes the perfect balance between respect and firmness, explaining, like it’s a unique and saintly attribute, that he never drinks when he’s on duty.
George says, ‘Then have a lemonade,’ and heads out the door, certain that Constable Lance Johnstone is right behind him.
11
Wendy is at work, Declan is at school and Rosie is still at home, talking to Juan downstairs. Listening to the rumble of their voices below, you are slumped at the dining table in front of a cold bowl of uneaten porridge when you remember a doctor’s appointment. You are not supposed to drive because you are still on crutches but you can think of no other way to get there so you hobble down to the car.
As you manoeuvre yourself into the old Volvo, it occurs to you that you should really move the appointment to another time when Wendy is available to drive you. Trouble is, it’s hard to get an appointment with the good doctor because he’s popular because he’s a good doctor.
You need to see him because something has started to happen to you, almost on a daily basis: a kind of despair descends and paralyses you, sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes longer. You feel it like a chemical wash emanating from some mysterious point at the top of your head and soaking your brain until you can no longer function.
Mostly you can sleep it off—after an hour or so in bed you wake and are able to carry on—but sometimes it lasts all day until the next morning when you wake feeling slightly disappointed that you are still alive. This cannot continue: you have books to write, a family to support. You have every faith the good doctor will help put things right. Who knows? It could be something as simple as a vitamin deficiency.
Fortunately the Volvo is an automatic so you park your swollen left leg to the side and operate the brake and accelerator in the usual way. As you crunch out of the gravel driveway, you’re feeling light-headed and a little guilty for driving in such a state but you tell yourself it’s only up the hill, and you drive—well, like a Volvo driver—practically crawling all the way to the car park next to the doctor’s surgery.
You writhe and hump and hoist yourself out of the car and are attempting to extract your crutches from the back seat when you hear a voice say, ‘What happened to you?’ You turn to see one of the dads from Boomerang. You can’t remember his name but you know he lives nearby. You’ve spent the odd Saturday morning with him chatting on the sidelines while Rosie and his big-boned blonde daughter play soccer. He’s visiting the doctor too so he escorts you inside.
The waiting room is full except for two empty seats so you wedge yourselves in with the snuffling, coughing hordes and throw hateful glances at the reception Nazi who has gleefully informed you that the doctor is running at least half an hour late. What’s-his-name asks hushed questions about your accident, which you answer in a voice likewise lowered, as if you’re talking in a library. If the point of this is privacy you are wasting your time because everyone in the tiny room can hear you.
Half an hour later the name Jason pops into your head. What’s-his-name has a name. Jason. You mentally raise your fist in a victory salute and proceed to overcompensate by inserting ‘Jason’ into every sentence you utter. Just as the conversation is flagging, Jason asks how Rosie is going. He does this in a voice so quiet you have to lip-read.
So he knows, you think. Of course he fucking knows! The whole school knows.
Jason uses phrases like ‘storm in a teacup’ to let you know he’s on your side. Then he does something oddly intimate: he puts his hand on your forearm and moves in close enough to kiss you. In a tiny whisper of minty breath he says, ‘Be careful of those Pessites.’
‘What do you mean?’ you whisper.
‘They can be…vindictive.’
‘Vindictive? How? You mean they’d hurt Rosie?’
‘Not physically.’
‘Then how?’
‘They might use their influence…’
‘How? With the school? I don’t think Christina Bowden can be influenced.’
‘No, not the school…’
‘Then…?’
‘I-I don’t know. All I’m saying is, be careful.’
A bewildered-looking woman whom you recognise as one of the other doctors appears and calls Mr Lind. Lind, that’s it. Jason Lind gets up and heads out. He pauses at the doorway to give you a reassuring nod, leaving you to ruminate for another fifteen minutes before Doctor David Wilson appears with his thatch of prematurely white hair and calls out your name.
Stray hairs from Egg float permanently through the atmosphere of the O’Dell household so when Wendy decides to multitask and paint her nails while stirring bolognese sauce and talking on the phone to her mother, she is unperturbed by the discovery of not one but two dog hairs drying into the pearl pink enamel of her left index finger. She informs her mother of the c
risis, hangs up promising to call back, removes the errant hairs and ruined polish, reapplies fresh enamel, stirs the bolognese, and is about to dial her mother’s number when the phone rings. She scoops it up and cradles the old-fashioned receiver between her shoulder and her ear, expecting to resume the conversation about her brother’s irresponsible attitude towards money, only it’s not her mother.
‘Can I speak to Rose, please?’ The voice is older, male, with a rough edge to it.
‘Who can I say is calling?’
‘I’d like to speak to Rose O’Dell, please.’
‘Yes, this is her mother. Who’s calling?’
‘Constable Lance Johnstone.’
‘Um. Why do you want to speak to Rose?’
‘It’s regarding an incident at the school.’
‘Do you mean the ar… ar…’
‘The fight with the other lass.’
‘Oh. What do you want to talk about?’
‘I’d just like to ask her some questions is all.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘About the fight.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s, er, imperative that we ascertain what happened.’
‘Um, Constable, you must be aware that Rosie is a minor. I’m happy for you to talk to her but only if I am present.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’
‘Do you want me to bring her down to the station?’
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary.’
‘But if you want to talk to her…’
‘Look, I’ve got a bit of a full plate at the moment; I may have to get back to you.’
You wake from an ugly dream, sweaty and dry-mouthed, to find Wendy frowning into the small mirror above the old chest of drawers with the missing knobs. She tells you about her conversation with Constable Lance Johnstone. You tell her about your conversation with Jason Lind. Could the Pessites be behind this? Why did the cop ask to speak to Rosie without identifying himself? Why didn’t he follow protocol?
Wendy has an epiphany: there is no Constable Lance Johnstone. Someone pretending to be a cop has called to give you a fright. Quickly she dials the local police station and asks to speak to Constable Johnstone. There is pause. She puts her hand over the receiver, ‘Well, there is a Constable Johnstone,’ she says.
But is there a Lance Johnstone?
Someone comes on the other end of the line. In his unmistakable voice, Constable Lance Johnstone identifies himself. Wendy hangs up.
A panicked discussion ensues. Could he have known who was calling? Could he tell what number was calling? Is it illegal to call someone and hang up? Over the course of the evening, you try to reassure each other that the constable’s call was an insignificant event. But you both go to bed that night feeling slightly nauseous.
12
You are in the doctor’s office again, trying to distract yourself by reading your medical details on the computer screen while the doctor takes your blood pressure. He’s just weighed you to discover you’ve put on a kilo since your last visit, less than a week ago, and ten kilos in the five weeks since the accident. You tell him you haven’t been eating much and he explains that the radical change to your exercise regime may well blah blah blah blah.
You do not want to be here.
He has asked you back because he wants to discuss your blood test results. And because last time he ‘wasn’t happy’ with your blood pressure. You hate the feeling of the black armband as it inflates and constricts the blood flow around your left biceps. You are aware of your pulse beating in your temple and you’re pretty sure that all this circulatory self-consciousness is pushing your high blood pressure even higher.
Finally the good doctor exhales a long breath through his nose, removes the stethoscope from his ears and rips the black nylon band from your arm.
‘How is it?’ you ask.
‘Let’s try you lying down,’ he says, indicating the examination table behind you. You know that this means your blood pressure is high and if you were in any doubt, Doctor Wilson smiles his winning smile at you and adds, ‘Try to think of something calming.’
As he takes your blood pressure while you’re lying down, you attempt to make a shamanic journey. Once, years ago, when you were on a junket for some movie—a post-modern western—you participated in a workshop with a Native American shaman who taught you how to visualise a safe place and journey towards it until you arrived at a deep sense of peace and tranquillity.
You imagine yourself walking down a beach towards a warm rock pool filled with tropical fish. When you reach the rock pool, you discover a set of stairs leading to a mysterious underground grotto. Light refracts from the clear blue water and plays around the pale stone walls. You begin to descend. You’re about half way down when Doctor Wilson suddenly says, ‘Okey dokey,’ and packs up his equipment.
The good doctor scratches his thatch of hair and looks at you, unsmiling. This is bad because he is always smiling. He tells you that if your blood pressure remains at this level you will require medication. You’re busy processing this when he drops another bomb.
The blood tests have not revealed any specific physical reasons for your bouts of depression but there are other areas for concern. You have appeared before this man with half a leg hanging off and he hasn’t been worried so it is with some measure of alarm that you ask him what he means by ‘areas for concern’.
Your blood sugars are ‘all over the shop’ which may indicate your pancreas is producing insulin erratically which might explain your weight gain. He shows you a series of red figures on the pathology report that indicate your liver function is not within acceptable norms. He hypothesises you have had internal bleeding—causing damage to your pancreas and liver—that went undetected by the X-rays taken at the hospital.
He talks about further investigation and more tests and you know you should be asking a million questions but all you want to do is curl into a ball and disappear. You shift your attention between the three white hairs growing out of his left nostril and the uncommonly large pores in the skin on the end of his nose. You force yourself to find the pores so compelling that his words wash over you until your time is up.
Wendy is in the waiting room. She looks up from an ancient Vanity Fair with such dread that you decide to spare her the news. In the car on the way home you tell her some of the truth: the blood test revealed nothing about your depression. Wendy says she doubted it would anyway and tentatively suggests seeing a psychologist. You surprise her by instantly agreeing and then mercifully her phone rings and she’s busy dealing with a work matter until she drops you home. She kisses you on the cheek, still talking on the phone, and heads on to her office. You hobble into the house on your crutches to be greeted by Egg as if you’ve been curing cancer and negotiating world peace.
You know you should be working on your book but you’d rather stick needles in your eyes so you construct a More Pressing and Important Task. Suddenly it becomes imperative that this very afternoon you learn to walk without your crutches.
You decide to practise walking up and down the hallway where the walls are less than a metre apart which means you can stretch out your hands to steady yourself. You discard your crutches at the entrance to the kitchen and shuffle-clomp towards the bedrooms with your arms pushing against the walls, a perambulating crucifixion.
You make it all the way to Declan’s bedroom without incident. You put your hand on his closed bedroom door. The metal tongue of the lock has not fully engaged with the doorjamb, so that when you lean on it, it swings open. You try to steady yourself, clutching at the retreating doorknob, but you plummet to the floor of Declan’s room, landing on your swollen left thigh. You roll over, groaning, as the pain buffets your body.
Eventually you formulate a plan to get yourself upright. You muster the will to turn yourself onto your side and that’s when you see it: a small length of green garden hose protruding from the brown cotton valance surrounding the underworld of Decl
an’s bed. You flip back the valance to discover the garden hose is inserted at a forty-five degree angle into a large empty soft-drink bottle. You reach out and grab the makeshift bong and sniff the telltale perfume of marijuana. Your heart sinks: your son, at the tender age of seventeen, has a history with this drug.
On his sixteenth birthday, Wendy found Declan sitting on a white plastic chair in the back garden with tears streaming down his face. She asked what was wrong and he said he didn’t know. He’d been smoking the occasional joint but you’d both viewed this as a rite-of-passage activity, nothing to be overly concerned about, until experimentation had become habit and you were dealing with a weeping son.
With her usual thoroughness, Wendy researched the effects of heavy dope smoking and the dangers of hydroponically grown marijuana (up to twenty-five times stronger than naturally grown crops) and you both presented her findings to Declan. He agreed not to touch it again. You watched him carefully for a while and a marked improvement in mood and behaviour seemed to indicate that he had, indeed, given up.
And now this.
You drag yourself onto Declan’s bed and sit there feeling extremely pissed off; pissed off with yourself because you haven’t been more vigilant; pissed off with Declan for not taking care of himself; pissed off with Declan because you have your hands full with Rosie and Constable Johnstone and your own failing body; pissed off with yourself for being pissed off with Declan because he has as much right to your attention as any of those other calamities.
You look around the room and try to think what a normal, high-functioning father would do in these circumstances. You decide not to decide what to do until you have armed yourself with as much information about Declanworld as you possibly can. You institute an intelligence-gathering search, limp-hopping from desk to drawers to cupboards, rifling through hidden secret places in pursuit of you’re not sure what exactly. As you do this, you reflect upon how radically your attitude towards your children’s privacy has changed.
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