The Last Time

by Sharon Haste

  The seller's wheedling voice brought her back, and she blinked in the sunlight, shook her head, and hurried on, her ghosts in hot pursuit. She lay the repaired suit and her other purchases on the back seat of her car and drove toward Ash's school. She was running late; her hands were shaking with sudden nerves. It happened sometimes when the past crept up on her. She took the back road to avoid the traffic, noticing a silver sedan in her rear-view mirror. It was far enough away, so she couldn’t make out the driver, but it stayed with her for the entire trip to Ash's school. The car drove past her as she parked in the pick-up zone. She tried to shake the feeling of foreboding that had descended upon her. You're being paranoid. It's just a car. She had seen him everywhere in the last few months. The thought made her shudder, goose-flesh crawling her body and acid rising in her throat. Am I losing my mind? Why am I thinking of him now?

  Ash opened the door, smiling, and he was eager to share his day. Glad of the distraction, Clare listened with a smile, asking the right questions and squashing the dark thoughts to the back of her mind. Ash always made her feel better; he was a beacon in the dark. She smiled at his animated face as they headed to Delany Park to run in the playground and feed the ducks on the lake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  People spill from the church onto the lawns, listening to the eulogy through external speakers. Half of Delany is in mourning as cars line the street outside. Saffron sits on the grass smoking a cigarette, inviting disapproving frowns from the people around her. She rises, extinguishing her stub on the grass with the heel of her shoe and heads to the bus stop to catch the bus to the cemetery before people start pushing out the doors.

  When she arrives at the gravesite, the crowd is already gathering. She stands in the middle rows, on the periphery. She is soon hemmed in by the growing swell of people, feeling underdressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. Her dark hair hangs in a single braid, and she lifts it up and wraps it around itself, off her neck.

  Her eyes search until they find their mark, resting on his stricken face. Memories of another funeral, so long ago, come flooding back. She shakes the image, and her eyes continue to meander over the crowd; she's disappointed that she's not beside him.

  The trees sway with a breeze not felt on the ground. The December air is oppressive; sweat trickles between her breasts. Her thin face burns, and her hair is damp and sticks to her head. She stares at the grass under the tree; a fresh carpet of green turf surrounds the gaping hole and the polished wooden box. The crowd is dressed in drab winter colours, contrasting with the bright, sunny day. Heads are cast down, and eyes are to the ground. Salt licks the odd cheek. What a sombre ritual. Who celebrates a life by putting the body into the earth? She scratches her ear and adjusts her bra strap; her mind dances from thought to thought as it often does, eventually settling on a familiar pattern of memories. A thin, motherless kid springs to mind. She dresses in hand-me-down clothes; her skin is too dark to be beautiful. She is judged, taunted, used, and discarded at whim. The memories are so vivid that she tightens her fists, clenching her teeth hard. Motherless. She had a mother once. She inhales a jagged breath and sniffs as her eyes moisten. The priest's gentle monotone brings her back. Crickets sing, gulls caw above, and leaves rustle in a fitful breeze. It dries her sweat. She realises her eyes are closed and opens them to see the old man make the sign of the cross.

  She feels the crowd shifting, the heat urging them to disperse, and feels her own feet itching to move. Fascination compels her to stay. The old man drones on, hands swat at flies, and a sliver of sea air zigzags through the humans, touching people at random.

  And then the coffin is moving, descending into the earth. The crowd tenses, sensing the end is near. Her eyes follow the polished box until it disappears into the hole. A slender lady in an elegant black dress sobs as she tosses a clump of dirt into the darkness. He hovers beside her, dressed in a dark suit with his public mask on. He bends and also throws dirt into the hole. The woman's fist curls around a bunch of white roses, and then the fingers relax, letting the flowers chase the dirt for purchase on the box. Mourners form a steady line, dropping dirt and flowers into the grave. She waits, positioning herself into the breeze and relishing the drying sweat under her neck and arms. A man hangs back under a shady tree with a cigarette stub balanced on his bottom lip. A shovel leans on the trunk. He looks to the sea, waiting his turn.

  There's a commotion at the back of the crowd. She turns to look. A small group circles around something.

  'Give her air.'

  The crowd takes a step back. She cranes her neck, heart tapping. A blue uniform catches her eye, and she jolts. Cops. Her feet are moving, and her eyes are to the ground as an automatic response. She gives the uniforms a wide berth, glancing at the circle of people as she walks past. A familiar dark head bobs up. What's he doing here? She stops to stare, wanting to get his attention, but he's busy with someone on the ground. She moves on. Her lowered eyes light on a single red rose, and she stoops to pick it up, bringing it to her nose and inhaling the most exquisite perfume. Glancing left and right, she keeps walking with the rose gripped between her fingers.

  She fumbles in her jeans pocket for her smokes, lighting one up and taking a hungry drag with her fingers shaking. Funny, if someone asked her a year ago, even a month ago, whom she wanted to be, the answer would have been easy: Charli Richter. Not because she's rich, smart, or pretty, but she had her reasons for choosing Charli. She lifts the rose to her nose and sniffs again. Strange how things turn out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charli stares at a stranger's reflection. A blonde bob frames a face hidden beneath a thick layer of camouflage: her skin is lightened, her eyes are rimmed with dark kohl, and her cheeks and lips are contoured with deep rose. She looks ten years older; her reflection has shed the schoolgirl image. Her body is buried beneath a straight black dress falling mid-calf. Contact lenses give her brilliant blue eyes beneath tweezed brows and false lashes. She touches her hair, relieved that Jael had found a wig rather than cutting her tresses. She runs her hands over the dress and looks down at her plain, black, court shoes. She can't believe the transformation. She swings this way and that, trying to find herself in the costume. She places a pair of stylish sunglasses over her nose and turns to Jael and Tobi with a well of gratitude in her heart. They've done very well for boys. Who knew they had it in them?

  'Well?' she asks, her nerves tingling.

  'Awesome,' Tobi says. 'You look so different.'

  Jael whistles, making her cheeks flame. 'Shall we go?' Jael asks, holding out his arm. Charli grabs a black purse and takes his arm, stumbling as her nerves get the better of her.

  She stands on the periphery of the crowd, overwhelmed by the volume of people swelling across the grass and wired by a floating anxiety that refuses to settle. She didn't dare go to the church, but she thinks out in the open, under the swaying trees of the cemetery, there's a better chance of blending in. Her heart's a stone in her chest, but there's something else, a nagging deep in her gut that's she's never felt before. It's probably just a feeling, but she can't shake it. Fear has a grip on her so tight that she feels sick.

  I've made a mistake. The boys are right; I shouldn't be here. The place is crawling with cops. What was I thinking? Her thoughts scatter. People press her from all sides. Jael's arm is around her shoulders; his body is hot against her. Above the throng, an elderly man speaks, his humble words silencing the crowd.

  Sweat builds in her armpits and torso as the darkness swallows her. Bodies stand too close, increasing the temperature and stealing her air. Her heart fights, beating with fury as the shadows rise. Her fear swells to match them, intensifying and heightening her senses. She gasps for breath, panicking as the blackness claims her. Jael's face is the last thing she remembers as the victorious dark sweeps the ground from beneath her, and she starts to fall.

  Charli wakes to a sea of faces. Her eyes are wide as they jump from face to face. She feels something plucking at her
. Jael. She strains to catch his words, but she's so tired. Her limbs are like lead. Her eyes close, and his words penetrate the fog: 'Get up.' Someone shouts her name, and then the memories flood back. Oh my God, the funeral. I'm at the funeral. Nobody is supposed to know. She tries to sit up, but someone holds her back. Excitement ripples through the circle around her, and she feels their anticipation. Jael's scent fills her nose, and his arms are around her, dragging her to her feet. Her head swims, and she tries to walk, but she's hemmed in. Cloaked in fear, she looks up and recognises several people from their annual party. She silently begs them to turn back to the service and forget they saw her.

  Jael releases her arm, and she wobbles, standing on her own as the crowd parts, and her father jogs toward her, flanked by two detectives. As fear and anger dance in her head, she forces her limbs into action, turning to run, but it's too late. Her father's hand snakes around her arm, and she's crushed against his chest, the smell of his aftershave making the acid rise in her gut. The detectives hover in her periphery, holding back the crowd with outstretched arms. Mal gives gruff commands to the uniformed police. She hears the whirr of cameras; she is blinded by the constant flash. Pressed hard against her father's side, she's propelled forward. A dark, unmarked police car waits, and she's forced into the back seat, flanked by her father and Mal.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam's sitting in front of a laminate, wood grain table in one of the station's interview rooms. Charli is on her left, and Thomas is to the right. Mal flanks Charli's other side. The walls are the palest green, and there are a whiteboard and wall-mounted camera. To her right and in front of Charli, there's a two-way mirror. She wonders, for a moment, who is behind there watching.

  They've been there long enough for the stiffness to set in, her thighs growing sore from disuse. Charli is still in the black dress. Her blonde wig is flat on the table. The makeup makes her look years older, not helping her cause. She fights the urge to wipe it clean and show Mal she's just a girl. Thomas sits pokerfaced and pale, contributing very little to the conversation.

  'You were in the driver's seat of the car,' Mal repeats. 'Your mother and brother were both in the back when the car went into the water.' He waits, eyes boring into her. 'It has been ascertained that you all had traces of the drug in your systems after the incident, but you were the only one who had the substance on your person. Do you have any idea how your mother and brother consumed the medication or how that same substance came to be in your pocket that night?'

  Sam is frustrated with his persistent, stubborn line of inquiry and told him so when they had a short break two hours into the interview.

  'There's no other suspect, Harris. Sometimes it's as simple as it looks. Charlize Richter was driving the car, had the substance on her person, and was the only one to survive. She is the benefactor of her mother's fortune. Isn't that reason enough? The same substance was found in her mother and brother's blood stream and in the car. She's the only one with motive and opportunity. They were unconscious. You've seen the size of them. It wouldn't have taken much to get them into the car and drive them into the lake while her father was dropping his friends home. She knew they'd sleep through it.'

  'But she was drugged, too,' Sam says.

  'There was no sign of forced entry in the home, so it was someone within the walls. Charli was the only one in the home, besides the deceased. Have you wondered how she got out of the car and dragged her brother to the bank under the influence of that drug? She took it after she was found so she wouldn't be blamed. There are no other suspects in the case. It's a rubber stamp job. Let it go. There are plenty more cases that need your attention.' He turns away from her.

  She feels her tension rising as she listens to him repeat the same scenario to Charli. She's further infuriated by the lack of concrete support from Thomas. Despite his physical presence, he's vague and disconnected, insisting she cooperate with Mal and that she doesn't need a lawyer. He keeps touching her hair, rubbing her arm, and distracting her. Sam frowns; this is not the Thomas Richter she'd seen fighting for the rights of his people. What about your daughter's rights? Sam remembers his passion at political campaigns, but she sees no sign of the overzealous politician in the man before her; it's like he's morphed into someone else. And why isn't Edward Attenborough in here batting for Charli? She resists the urge to call him, knowing she'll be overstepping the line and will face Mal's wrath if she does.

  An exhausted Charli continues to tell them the same story, denying any memory of the events and taking them through her day. Despite the evidence, Sam's gut tells her that this girl is innocent. She stares in disbelief when Mal reads her rights aloud and charges her with murder. Charli slumps, the wind knocked out of her sails, and Sam itches to comfort her and to scream at Mal for what he's doing. Charli's tears are silent as she looks to her father for support. Sam wills him to say something, but he remains close-lipped as he reaches across to squeeze Charli's hands, shaking his head. She starts to plead with him to stop them from taking her.

  'Dad, help me, please.' Her plea snaps him to attention, but Sam's shocked by his words.

  'It'll only be for tonight,' he says. 'I'll ring Edward now. Be brave, my darling.'

  Sam wants to shake him and snap him out of his mental fog. They're taking your daughter to prison. Are you just going to stand there and let them do it? Charli's colour drains, and she grabs his shirtsleeve.

  'But I didn't do it, I swear it. Please, Dad, don't let them take me, please.'

  He folds her into a hug, squeezing her into silence. 'There's nothing I can do, Charli. I'll get you out as soon as I can. I'm sorry.'

  Charli falters and swoons, and Sam pushes herself to her feet, thinking Charli's going to faint. A primal sound emerges from Charli's lips, and Sam's startled by the volume. Sam places a hand either side of Charli's shoulders and squeezes. Charli's eyes fly open, and she stares at the detective.

  'You're going to be all right, Charli,' Sam says.

  The young girl's green eyes meet hers, and she presses her lips together and nods. There are two uniformed cops standing behind her, and Sam turns.

  'I'll do it,' Sam offers, and they hand her the cuffs. She turns back to Charli and whispers, 'Be brave. I'm just going to put these on now.'

  Charli starts to hyperventilate, and Sam talks her through it, whispering in her ear. 'It's all right. I'll stay with you.'

  She pales even more.

  'Look at me,' Sam whispers, lifting her chin with a finger. 'Focus on me.'

  Charli's eyes are on her, staring. Sam can see the fear there, threatening to spill into the room. Her fingers place the metal cuff around Charli's slender wrist before locking the other one around her own wrist. Mal starts to protest, but Sam raises her free hand and gives him a dark look.

  'I'll take her to DJ,' she says. 'She knows me; it'll be easier for her.'

  He opens his mouth again, but he remains silent. His face is bright red as he storms from the room, thrusting the paperwork at one of the uniformed officers on his way out. Sam's heart speeds up, but she turns to Charli and gets her to focus on breathing nice and slow. Charli does as she's instructed and then lifts her eyes to Thomas. Sam follows her gaze, surprised by the helpless hang of his head and his refusal to meet her eye. What's wrong with him? Why isn't he helping?

  'Ready?' a uniformed constable asks at the door. He's young and has a bright smile on his face. Sam nods and waits while Thomas hugs his daughter goodbye.

  'Don't forget to call Mr Attenborough,' Charli says before they turn and walk down a long corridor to a heavy wooden door and waiting car. Sam looks back at Thomas, his dark eyes following her as she leads his daughter away. Once Charli is strapped in, the car moves off without hesitation, bumping along the darkened streets, through the town, to the open fields beyond the city limits. Sam can almost smell the mown grass as the countryside slides by. The car follows a series of gentle bends until the driver clicks the indicator and brakes at a wide driveway, the ty
res crunching on the loose bitumen. A security guard high atop the fence presses the control, and the gate, with barbed wire curling across the top, rolls open with creaking resistance. A broad sign says: 'Delany Juvenile Correction Centre', and Sam squeezes Charli's arm as she feels her growing apprehension.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The processing takes more than an hour by the time they complete the paperwork, take photos and fingerprints, and surrender her to the nurse for a health check and body search. Charli is surprised to see Sam when she emerges from the office humiliated and exhausted. As she bids her farewell, she sees the detective as an ally, maybe someone she can trust. This warms her a little. She's allowed to wear her own clothes, but she wants to get rid of them, so she accepts a blue cotton shift that still holds the shape of the last body that wore it. The clang of the gate behind her is like a knife in her heart as she walks towards her future. She clutches a bundle of sheets to her chest as she's led to a room with two other occupants. Charli feels their eyes on her while the guard issues instructions and barks her name at the other girls before disappearing through the door. A chill creeps over her when the blonde one turns and asks her what's she's done. Her hard, grey eyes crawl every inch of her skin, and a single finger twists a snake of long hair. She is reed thin. She steps closer with a sneer curling her lip; Charli notices that the blemishes on her chin are red against her pale skin. Charli's heart canters. The girl pokes a thumb at her own chest.

  'I'm Ren, and this is Kiah.' Her thumb jerks behind her.

  'Charli.' There's a nervous edge to her voice.