by Anne Buist
Natalie, watching her patient relive the episode, half-expected her to dissociate. A little at least. Some of what she’d seen in the past had been for show, but some had been genuine.
‘She made me hold out my hands and she hit them with a wooden spoon.’
It wasn’t the pain that had upset Georgia. Something else.
‘I just kept looking at the eggs. It sounds stupid.’ She shook her head, her ice-blue eyes meeting Natalie’s. ‘I somehow believed that I’d killed a real chick. We had some at kindergarten and we’d petted them and next day they were all dead. But this felt like I had done something even worse. Something…’ her head dropped towards her lap as she whispered, ‘something wicked.’
For a moment Natalie just stared. Was it this scenario she had recreated as an adult, only with her children instead of eggs and chicks? Identification with the aggressor. A defence mechanism developed to shield oneself from immense fear and pain. And shame. Using anger and self-righteousness she’d learned from Virginia to cover what she really felt.
‘How old were you Georgia?’
Georgia sighed. ‘I don’t know. Four I suppose.’
So maybe a year at most after her mother was imprisoned for murdering her father, and after a series of foster care placements before she was uprooted to live with an aunt she had never met and who hadn’t wanted her.
‘Do you remember anything else?’
Georgia shook her head. But she didn’t look up.
‘You were there standing with sticky hands, looking at the eggs. Did she make you clean it up?’
Georgia started trembling. Natalie watched it start in her patient’s legs and work through her body until finally she was rocking, teetering, on the edge of her chair. Teardrops splashed onto her hands; later Natalie wondered if it was this sensory trigger that took her back. Certainly she was revisiting some intense memory, perhaps several, from her first difficult year with Virginia, before she turned into the perfect child who never again risked her aunt’s wrath. As Natalie moved closer, knees touching, hand steadying her, Georgia cried deep sobs that moved like tidal waves through her body. She cried out that she was terrified of the dark, begged to be let out of the cupboard. In a final recreation of trauma, as Georgia reached the same depths of despair she had experienced so many years ago, her bladder gave way and she wet herself.
‘It was the most primitive experience of humiliation I have ever witnessed,’ Natalie told Declan later that afternoon. She had declined the tea. She was riding back to the coast when they finished and didn’t want to have to stop.
‘Genuine?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘A critical turning point in therapy, then.’
‘For what it’s worth. I won’t get to see her in prison.’
‘Perhaps you won’t need to. She’s made an enormous breakthrough, reliving a trauma without the same ending. If you’re right about her husband manipulating her to satisfy his own needs, it’s for the first time in her life.’
‘That’s assuming the new ending was better.’
‘Was it?’
Natalie nodded. It hadn’t been easy remaining calm with her trouser legs soaked in urine—she’d been kneeling at Georgia’s feet before she noticed the accumulating puddle—and reassuring Georgia at the same time. She asked her secretary to dash to the nearest Target for two pairs of tracksuit bottoms and some underwear: staying with Georgia was one of the greatest feats in her career to date. The woman had needed a mother in that moment who was above all else kind—one thing Virginia had never been. Natalie couldn’t give her the unconditional love of a mother, but she could respect her and honour her pain. This would normally be the beginning of a long process of resolution in therapy. Prison, however, wasn’t renowned for kindness. The best that could happen there was that Georgia would grow old in relative peace; find the pain diminished without being triggered by relationships.
‘She went a deeper shade of crimson than I thought was physically possible,’ said Natalie. ‘And when I looked into her eyes…’ It was hard to explain. The pain and despair seemed like those of a three-year-old. ‘She thanked me, but then after she changed her clothes, the veneer was back up again. As if none of it had happened.’
‘Your attitude towards her has changed.’
Natalie was startled. Declan was right. When she had first seen Georgia she viscerally disliked the woman. ‘I guess…I understand her a bit better now. She’s no longer trying to manipulate me, and she’s allowed herself to be vulnerable. She has antisocial traits, and it doesn’t excuse what she did, but mostly she’s a damaged child who uses narcissistic defences.’
‘Is she living alone?’
‘Yes.’ Georgia had been out on bail since before Christmas. Natalie knew instantly what Declan was thinking and looked at him. ‘You think she’s at risk?’
‘Narcissists live in a world where they, or perhaps their partner and relationship, are perfect and special. Georgia’s shown you how good she is at denying that anything other than perfect exists, certainly denying the importance of emotions. It is a long way to fall from that fantasy world of perfect to reality. Especially the harsh true glare of her particular reality. She won’t know how to ask for help—vulnerability is failure, meaning she’s unlovable and thus rejected. So yes, she’s at risk. But perhaps not right now; unlike Virginia and Paul, you didn’t reject her.’
Uneasiness seeped into Natalie’s mind. Reject her? Not as such. But what about her report? And what might happen when Liam interrogated her on the stand?
She didn’t see Frank all week. He was in Canberra according to Wei, romancing the national medical research funding body. He was flying back on Thursday but Natalie assumed he would head straight home; Alison was, after all, now thirty-nine weeks. She assumed wrong. The text came through after he landed: see u @ W.R at six. She contemplated cancelling, recalling Declan’s unease with the relationship. He’d only been partly reassured by Alison’s interrupting their last session, and Natalie’s interest in Damian.
But Natalie didn’t cancel, precisely because Alison was thirty-nine weeks. Frank’s anxiety would be at its peak from now until delivery. At least, that was what she told herself. She didn’t think it would convince Declan. Truth be told, she wanted to see Frank not because of any attraction he held for her but because she was sure he had lied to her about Reeva.
What had happened the night of her death and why hadn’t he been sleeping with Reeva? Natalie wasn’t going to rest until she worked out why, and exactly what happened to the exceptional Dr Reeva Osbourne. She was almost certain Frank knew, or at least knew more than she did, about how the events leading to Reeva’s death had unfolded. A knowledge he hadn’t seen fit to share with the police or the coroner.
She arrived at the pub before him and ordered the beef casserole with extra fries. Closest she came to cooking casserole was heating a can, and frozen fries just lost something. She wondered if Frank or Damian cooked. She doubted it.
She was looking at a plate of steaming meat and vegetables—greens as well as the essential carbohydrates—and was trying to recall when she had last eaten anything containing this much B12 and folate, when he walked in.
‘The traffic getting out of town was unbelievably bad.’ He looked tired and distracted.
‘Hope you don’t mind me eating.’
‘No, of course not. I’ll just stick with the wine. I can always get something at home.’
‘Alison might have preferred you to go straight there.’
‘She’s being…it’s a difficult time.’
And you seeing me isn’t making it easier, Natalie wanted to say, but instead took a mouthful of food. When he didn’t continue she swallowed and asked, ‘Why do you think that is, Frank?’
‘She doesn’t like it when I’m away, but then when I’m there she complains I’m fussing too much.’ Frank didn’t seem to think both could be true, or that Alison might want something in between and that it wasn’t an u
nreasonable expectation. Then Natalie remembered how Alison had been at the last meeting, and thought she probably wasn’t making Frank’s life particularly easy.
He went on. ‘I’ve been thinking maybe she should stay with her mother.’
Really? ‘Why?’
He wasn’t touching his wine. ‘We’re a long way away from the hospital.’
‘What, an hour and a half?’ Natalie looked at him with no attempt to hide her frustration. ‘Frank, first labours take longer than that. And worst-case scenario? She delivers in the back of the car.’
‘Yes of course, you’re right, I know.’ His smile waned.
‘Is there anything else, Frank?’ She tried for a softer tone. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like anything else that is reminding you…triggering memories of what happened with Reeva?’
For a moment he stared, and she felt that he was looking right through her, that he had somehow briefly been transported elsewhere.
‘No, no. Just that Alison’s so close. She saw her obstetrician today. He’s happy. I rang him myself to be sure.’ ‘Then stop worrying.’
He smiled, the boyish smile that took years off his age. ‘Did I tell you that you look really hot as a blonde?’
16
I understood that it was Alison’s insecurity that made her fearful I would be attracted to someone else, and it wasn’t without basis. But her attack strategy, accusation oscillating with slobbering remorse, was unattractive. And tiring.
‘You’re meeting with her again.’
Alison has a talent for stating the obvious.
‘Alison, she is doing a PhD with me. Given I haven’t funds, I’ll be lucky if I can keep her. And I need someone smart to write research proposals.’
‘That’s what Wei does.’
‘Wei isn’t a doctor.’
‘Like Reeva, you mean.’
I really did try hard not to lose my patience. ‘You should stay with your parents. Until after the baby.’
‘So I won’t get in the way of you screwing the bitch?’ Alison’s face was blotchy with tears. If her obstetrician hadn’t assured me her protein was fine I’d have wondered about fluid retention.
‘Over the last eight months I have found methods of relieving sexual tension that do not require the services of Dr King, or anyone else for that matter.’ Though the thought of the good Dr King taking over from Mrs Palmer was appealing.
‘It’s your baby.’ She said it as if it hadn’t been her screaming biological clock that had brought us to this point.
‘And your choice.’ I didn’t wait for her to burst into tears. I left and locked myself in the study. I truly did not want to do something I might regret.
17
Natalie woke at 3 a.m. just as the phone stopped ringing. A local number. The voicemail—Frank’s voice, indistinct—just said to ring. She replayed it, tried to make sense not of the words, but the tone. Then she got it. Shock.
It wasn’t Frank who picked up when she rang back. It was a vague-sounding woman who said she’d give it to someone else. It was a few moments before an authoritative voice identified itself as Sergeant Mark Pengana. ‘Who am I talking to?’
‘Dr King. Professor Moreton left a message for me.’
There was a pause. ‘One moment.’ She could hear the murmur of voices but they were muffled, probably by his hand over the receiver.
‘Professor Moreton wonders if you could come.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you should just come.’
She googled a map as she dressed. Straightforward, but it meant a dark ride along unfamiliar winding country roads with a turn at the end that could easily be missed unless Sergeant Pengana had blue and whites outside with lights flashing. At least she’d only had the one beer, a few hours earlier. What on earth was going on? Pengana may have assumed she was Frank’s GP. If he did need a doctor, she was badly equipped. She packed a bottle of her own diazepam, another of quetiapine. She could at least sedate someone. After all, Pengana was a cop. It wasn’t a medical emergency that had brought him to Frank’s house.
Which meant what? And what on earth would have made Frank think of calling her? Her senses were on full alert. Everything about this felt badly wrong.
At Lorne she slowed, not quite to the legal limit, and turned left, away from the ocean into the Otway Ranges. The road to Mount Malosevic meandered around the hills behind Lorne, through the dense foliage of the national park. The sky above was heavy with cloud, and even if it hadn’t been the moonlight would have struggled to penetrate the canopies. Confronted by the unknown at each corner, she was concentrating on the road because not to do so was to risk losing the bike. But it was hard not to let her mind drift to the situation she was heading to.
As a forensic psychiatrist—until recently at least—she was well aware of the bad things that could happen. Images of Alison, her face taught and tense, flashed before her. Angry, tearful, but…Alison was healthy, early thirties. Maybe a little old for a first child but not dangerously so. She’d just been to see the doctor and been given the all clear. If she went into labour, she was essentially full term.
But if Alison was okay, why would Frank ring her? It certainly wouldn’t have been Alison’s idea. Shock treatment might have meddled with Natalie’s intuition, but not on this. The clear ultimatum in subtext from Alison was Stay away from him or else, you bitch. Maybe she’d goaded Frank into violence. Natalie would not be on board with supporting Frank if he was the perpetrator of DV.
The strong smell of eucalypts penetrating the layer of mist was the first thing Natalie was aware of when she slowed her bike down at the huge wrought iron gates of Mount Malosevic. The sign at the entry gave visiting hours but also acknowledged the original designer, Antonije Malosevic; Frank’s grandfather. The driveway went for nearly a kilometre. In daylight, presumably, it gave the visitor a sense of approach, of natural context. Now in the silent darkness with the light in the distance, the impression was of oppressive solitude.
It wasn’t until the final turn that the mansion appeared, and there was no doubt in Natalie’s mind that the dramatic reveal was intentional. Rising out of a shimmering moat and rock walls with cascades of climbing plants was a wall with long, narrow windows reminiscent of mediaeval arrow slits and, judging from the glow above it, a ceiling of glass. Every light in the house, it seemed, was turned on, ensuring it appeared as a beacon to passing planes.
Or passing cops. There was one standing out the front by a divvy van: no lights on. A couple of other cars were parked in a lane heading to what she assumed was a garage. The policeman straightened his shoulders and hat and frowned at her. He looked about twenty.
‘This is a crime scene,’ he told her. It sounded like he had been wanting to use the line for years. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ He tilted his head to get a better look at her bike before he remembered his role, and frowned.
Natalie pulled off her helmet and tossed her hair behind her. She could see the constable wasn’t expecting a woman. ‘I’m the doctor,’ she said casually, all the time wondering what crime? ‘I spoke to Sergeant Pengana.’
The constable did a double-take. She saw red hair at the base of his cap as he pulled it down harder. ‘Um, yes of course, I thought we were expecting Dr Taylor?’
Natalie had no idea who Dr Taylor was. Local GP?
‘I’m Professor Moreton’s…colleague.’
Constable Red Hair seem to decide that this was one outside his pay scale. ‘Wait here.’ He disappeared through ceiling-high front doors that looked like half an oak tree was used to form them. Maybe a whole one.
There were murmurs in the distance. Shadows flickered and for a fanciful moment she felt menace in the ice-cold wind that swept across the drive. She shivered, and was pulling her jacket tightly around her when Constable Red Hair emerged and invited her inside.
The wide hallway opened out into a spacious living area. A wall of glass merged with the ceiling, which w
as also glass for its first metre. In daylight, she imagined, you’d be able to see right along the coastline—Point Lonsdale in one direction, Portland in the other. Except that the Otway Ranges would get in the way. At the other end, a huge canvas hung in mid-air beside a spiral staircase that ascended to the balcony. Later she was unable to recall anything about the painting except that it had made her catch her breath with the sense of a surge of electricity passing through her. She dragged her eyes away from it, aware of a light outside: through the huge window on the far side of the house, there was a lake with some kind of boathouse beside it. A lit window sent streaks of light across the lake towards her. She could make out a lone uniformed policeman standing on the jetty and a small row-boat moored to it.
In the room in front of her Sergeant Pengana was standing: around forty, at least partly Indigenous with a richly toned skin and broad nose. His black hair was greying at the temples and his frown suggested he’d be greyer before the night was over. Behind him on a sofa, Frank Moreton sat with head in hands. He didn’t look up. There was a woman on either side of him; each of striking appearance. The three together might have been doing a photo shoot for Vogue. The older of the two was about sixty; Natalie took her to be Frank’s mother. She had long black hair streaked with grey and was dressed in a flowing white robe—either a kaftan or a nightie, Natalie couldn’t be sure. There was an ethereal quality to her, as if she didn’t quite belong in the world. She looked at Natalie but her gaze was glassy. As if she had just been woken or hadn’t bothered to find her specs. One hand was on Frank’s knee but it was hard to know whether she was comforting or drawing strength from him.
On the other side of Frank was a woman about her own age with long blonde hair done incongruously in pigtails. Natalie fancied that, dressed differently, she would be stunning. She was wearing a long pale blue silk top and baggy trousers and here, too, it was unclear whether it was bedroom attire or boho couture. Natalie thought she looked vaguely familiar, then realised she was the woman who had come to meet Wei at the lab some weeks earlier without introduction.