by Sarah Bailey
Finishing my food, I go to the fridge to retrieve the wine. On the way back to the table, I notice a small stack of manila folders on the kitchen bench: ‘bills paid’ and ‘bills yet to pay’ reads Josh’s neat handwriting on the tabs. I top up his wineglass. An automated air freshener lets out a little puff of fragrance from its perch on the wall as I walk past the table and sink onto the couch, toying with the tassel of a throw rug. I’ve eaten too quickly and feel queasy. Josh finishes his meal and settles into the armchair opposite me. He tilts his head back to drink some wine and then sweeps his hair to one side, resting his chin on his hand. For a moment, he looks so much like a boy band member on an album cover that I almost laugh.
‘Is it strange working on a case where the victim is so famous?’ he asks me.
‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about my work,’ I reply, smiling.
I lie back against an oversized cushion and look at the row of photo frames on the side table. Shots from family holidays when Josh was much younger. Shots of him with his mates. They remind me of the array of photos on display at Wade’s apartment. Josh’s evolution from cute young boy to handsome young man is charmingly documented. There are a few shots of him in rowing gear with other clean-cut boys. A photo of him in university robes graduating. Josh beaming as he cuts a large birthday cake while a group of happy tanned people clap. I pause briefly at an image—one of the older women in the background looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen her.
I realise Josh is waiting for me to respond.
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it’s definitely weird working a case where everyone knows the victim. Or thinks they know him anyway.’
‘It must be totally bizarre,’ marvels Josh. ‘I mean, the whole thing is. I still can’t get my head around it. Hey, so what happens if you don’t get a lead? How long do you work on it until it goes cold or whatever?’
I stifle a yawn as I reply. ‘It depends. There’s so much to process with a case like this. And there are so many witnesses. That’s the good thing about the cases here in the city,’ I add, ‘there’s normally lots of people around.’ I stretch out my legs. ‘Though witnesses can bring their own problems. People haven’t always seen what they think they’ve seen.’
Josh joins me on the couch, and I shift to the end so we are facing each other. He slides his legs between mine and launches into a longwinded story about a fraud case his law firm is working on at the moment.
I start to feel sick and wish he would stop talking. My stomach is struggling to process the large injection of food, while my overworked brain continues to sift through the leftovers of the past few days. How does it all fit together? Is any of it relevant?
I begin to wish Josh would disappear so I could close my eyes and sleep right here on his couch in peace.
‘You seem pretty tired,’ he says. ‘I’m guessing you don’t want to meet up with my friends?’
I look at him through half-shut eyes, fixing on his smooth face.
He flashes his dimples at me shyly. ‘It’s cool if you want to stay here.’ He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he throws back some wine.
Underneath the tinkling music, I hear a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment.
Josh shifts closer to me and rests his hand lightly on my upper thigh. ‘Do you want any dessert?’ he asks, his voice lower. ‘I have ice cream.’
‘I actually don’t feel very well,’ I say, sitting up as a knot of panic steadily works its way through my body.
I want it to be like it is with the men at the hotels. Where I don’t have to think and I don’t need to worry about anyone’s feelings. Where my thoughts disappear and I achieve primal, blissful nothingness. But in those instances, sex is the end. With Josh it might be the beginning, and it terrifies me.
I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to be here.
Josh leans forward and kisses me. It’s tentative, as if he’s asking for permission after the fact. I’m still sitting upright and can’t bring myself to do what I’m supposed to: pull him close and rearrange myself so we’re lying side by side. Instead, my hands hang loosely at my sides. My body has shut down.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I pull away, ‘but I really don’t feel well. You should go out, meet up with your friends. We should do this another time.’
He studies me carefully but I have no idea what he’s thinking.
‘When I’m feeling better and not so tired,’ I add, trying to explain.
‘I hope it wasn’t my cooking,’ he says and laughs awkwardly.
‘I think I’m just completely exhausted, you know? I’m sorry I’m not much fun to be around at the moment.’
I can’t tell if Josh is disappointed, but I sense some relief from him too. Maybe he’s not sure if we are more than friends either. I gather my things and reassure him I don’t need to be escorted home. I hug him goodbye, thanking him for dinner, and repeat that he should go out and meet his friends.
Bundled into a cab, I head back toward the city, electricity sparking up and down my limbs.
I pay the driver and get out. I’m teetering on the brink of being sober and feel wide awake. I pause at the bottom of my apartment building, already knowing I don’t want to go home.
I glance at my reflection in the window. My hair is wild from the wind. A few metres away, a man sitting on a bench drinks from a paper bag, his eyes clouded with a milky haze. I avert my gaze and walk on, the cold wind prompting tears. I have no plan but it’s not late, just past 10 pm, and restaurants and bars are cosy blazes of orange, laughter pouring out, switching places with the cold every time a door is opened. I walk for maybe ten minutes, pushing past loved-up couples, groups of noisy young boys reeking of smoke, harried-looking parents carrying sleepy children, and a homeless man and his dog, their white puffs of breath mingling in the night.
Maybe I should call Josh and tell him I want to come out after all. But no, that’s definitely not what I want. I want to be alone. I want a drink. It starts to rain, a hazy half-hearted release from the sky. A door swings open a few metres from me and a giggling threesome of girls exits a busy bar.
‘Can you believe he said that?’
‘I know!’
‘Seriously, what the fuck?’
They fall quiet as they light cigarettes before they revert to their collective disbelief over whatever he said. I sense them watching me as I step toward them, heading to the bar’s door, and the blonde gives me a polite smile as they shuffle over to let me past. ‘Fuck, it’s cold!’ one of them exclaims.
When I push inside, my frozen face is hit with a blast of heat. I smell alcohol and sweat. An open fire. Hot chips. I look around the small room, the music running through the floor and up my legs. My ears buzz with chatter as I weave my way to the bar and shed my coat. The bartender throws me a smile while he shakes a silver canister around his ears.
The couple next to me are talking in low, serious voices and I catch pieces of their conversation. Your fault. Not fair. So unreasonable.
‘Sorry,’ a voice says in my ear as a man pushes his body into me.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ the bartender asks, appearing in front of me.
I shake my head. ‘No, I just want a drink.’
He lifts his brows. ‘Can do. What do you fancy?’
‘Whisky,’ I say and watch his brows lift a little higher.
Thirty minutes later I’m on my second drink and my thoughts are drifting past me. I decide to stop trying to catch them.
No one has spoken to me aside from the bartender. In Smithson, I could barely go anywhere without bumping into someone I knew. The familiarity was suffocating. The inane small talk. The constant observation. This invisibility suits me much better.
‘Good night?’ The bartender is slicing some limes a little way along the bench, and for a moment I’m not sure whether he spoke or I imagined it.
He glances up at me, clearly waiting for an answer.
‘Y
ep,’ I say.
‘Excellent,’ he replies.
A girl leans across the bar to order a drink. Her forehead almost touches his. He starts to mix more drinks for the insatiable crowd of revellers and I am left alone again.
Sterling Wade would never have had moments like this, I think as I look around. Moments where he could just fade into nothing. Everywhere he went he was known. Like the entire world was a small nosey town. He was always noticed. Watched. Followed. I wonder what that would be like, the relentless recognition. He would rarely have met someone without suspecting they liked the package more than the person.
But then maybe that’s always the case. I’m sure Scott was initially drawn to my work as a detective; he found it intriguing and appealing, until it gradually became the thing about me he hated the most. No doubt Josh will be the same.
A hazy slideshow plays in my head. Sterling getting stabbed, the shock on his face raw and real, the surge of zombies, Lizzie’s screams. I wonder what was really going on in their relationship. Was the engagement a cover for his relationship with Brodie? Or had Sterling perhaps called things off with Brodie? Would that have made Brodie resentful, even dangerous? Or is it possible that Lizzie is lying about the proposal and trying to claim the highest status of grief that she can? The timing of the engagement does seem odd—at the beginning of a gruelling film shoot—but maybe Sterling got carried away in the excitement of it all. They were making plans to move overseas; everything points to their relationship being serious. Still, I’m struggling to believe that Lizzie was unaware of Sterling and Brodie’s relationship. Surely living in the same house would make it impossible to avoid. Perhaps she just didn’t want to see it. And was Sterling gay or was he bisexual, or simply in love with Brodie? Is it possible that Lizzie and Brodie were closer than they have led us to believe? Did they perhaps both feel betrayed by Sterling?
The young actor was so much more complex than his lighthearted interviews suggest. He was on the cusp of so many things. A new level of fame, a possible move overseas. Who would want to cut that short?
In my mind, I thumb through more pictures: the autopsy, the angry dark wound near his heart. His perfect face. His parents’ heartbreak. His siblings’ seeming indifference. Cartwright’s dumbfounded shock. Lizzie’s tears. Brodie’s passionate grief.
My glass is empty. I should go. I feel hot, my underarms are damp and my feet are on fire inside my boots. The other women here are dressed in skimpy tops and narrow jeans with strappy heels. Their painted faces are layered like mountains with peaks and dips that I’m sure I don’t have. I don’t know how to be like them. On the rare occasions that I dress up and wear make-up I feel public and exposed, as if my face is a beacon. The scrutiny it prompts makes me uncomfortable. I much prefer the comfort of hiding in plain sight.
‘Another?’ asks the bartender, standing right in front of me.
‘I’m not sure I should.’
‘It’s on the house,’ he says, his voice suddenly low and full of meaning.
We make eye contact and a jolt of pleasure surges straight to my core.
‘Well, okay then. I’ll be back, I just need to go to the bathroom.’ ‘Sure,’ he says, his eyes lingering on me.
I wait in the short queue in the dim corridor, flat against the wall, as swaying men and women walk past. One man eyes me appreciatively. ‘Having a good night?’ he asks and I shrug, looking at the floor to ward off further conversation.
Back at the bar I sip my fresh drink as a loud voice in my head tells me to leave. I pull out my phone to see that it’s past midnight. There’s a text from Josh saying he hopes I feel better when I wake up. With a start, I realise that Josh is the closest thing I have to a friend in Melbourne. Seeing how terrible I am at staying in touch with my small collection of friends in Smithson, he’s becoming the closest thing I have to a friend anywhere.
‘You okay?’ asks the bartender, who is starting to clean up. He is rhythmically placing dirty glasses over a small tap that shoots a burst of water up into their guts.
I look at him and wonder how to answer.
‘I think so,’ I say.
‘What do you do?’
Sterling’s dead body flashes into my thoughts. ‘I’m a teacher,’ I reply.
‘I always wanted to be a teacher.’
I smile back at him, pushing the ice in my glass with my finger so that it keeps bobbing back up. It’s like a tiny swimmer choking for air and I force it under again, holding it down for longer. I keep seeing the deep black line across Wade’s chest, just under his rib cage where his life leaked out.
‘What grade do you teach?’
I blink, looking into his eager face. ‘Uh, Year Ten.’
His mouth pulls into a mock grimace. ‘Teenagers, huh. Must be exhausting.’
‘Yeah. It is.’
‘So how come you’re here alone tonight?’
‘Why do you think I’m here alone?’ I say automatically.
He leans in, encouraged, and looks deep into my eyes, pretending to try to figure it out. ‘You deal drugs on the side? A Tinder date that went bad? You’re a Russian spy?’
I laugh in spite of myself. ‘All of the above.’
‘Yeah, it was pretty obvious in the end.’ He serves a group of tattoo-covered guys as I keep drinking.
A thought desperately tries to find its place in my mind. Sterling’s corpse flares again, that angry final legacy carved into it. The image won’t leave me alone.
‘Hey,’ the bartender says, ‘so we shut in about fifteen minutes.’
I hold his look but can’t bear it for too long, so I pretend to search for something in my bag. ‘That’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I need to get going anyway.’
‘Cool,’ he says. He disappears out a side door as I knock back the last of my drink. My throat burns and my skin feels loose on my bones. I’m very tired but my brain continues to flit erratically around the gory pictures.
The bartender returns carrying a tray of clean glasses, a dishcloth on his shoulder.
‘I’m Zac,’ he says, reaching across the bar to shake my hand.
‘Zoe,’ I say quickly. I know what is coming next.
‘I’m not closing up tonight. Do you want to go somewhere else for a nightcap? My shout.’ He looks at the bar, then the last group of people at the table behind me, his eyes roaming anywhere but my face as he waits for my answer.
‘Sure. Why not.’
He looks toward the back room. ‘I reckon I’ll be done in about ten or so.’
‘Okay. I have to make a quick call, so I’ll just wait outside.’
The night air shrinks my lungs and I lean against a lamppost. There are fewer people around now and they are quieter, walking with heads down, pushing through the cold.
Stay or go, I think. Stay or leave.
Minutes later Zac emerges from the bar, giving me a soft smile as he zips up his jacket.
‘Where do you want to go?’ he asks.
‘Your place,’ I say without hesitation.
Zac lives in a scruffy loft apartment in Collingwood. In the tiny kitchen a tap drips loudly into a metal sink, and I find myself counting along to its steady beat. I sip my gin and tonic as I watch him scroll through an endless list of alternative music tracks.
Before the first song is over, Zac leads me into his room, pulls off his jumper and pushes me onto the bed. He’s rough and I want it, want him inside me. I want all the thoughts to stop, to have some peace.
With every thrust I breathe in sharply, my eyes fixed on an abstract painting, the colours slashing across the canvas. In my mind knives plunge into skin, opening wounds; faces are twisted in pain. Panic rises in my chest as I’m trapped under Zac’s weight. Completely helpless. He holds my face and kisses me. I feel desire and guilt meet in the middle, as I get closer to the point of nothing.
After our frenzied blur of sex is over, Zac slides down next to me and I turn to face the wall, my skin damp and flushed, my heartbeat slowing as
I will him to fall asleep. I’m desperate to escape but his arm rests heavily on me and I shift away from its weight, emitting a sleepy-sounding mumble.
‘That was amazing,’ Zac whispers as he softly pulls his fingers through my tangled hair, lifting it off my face. ‘I’m glad you picked my bar to have a drink at tonight.’
He gets out of the bed and I hear the sound of a drink being poured. Returning, he sits propped up next to me sipping his whisky and humming to the music, his fingers playing piano along the top of the blanket. After a few moments, he pulls the covers up around us and turns the lamp off. I smell booze, faded aftershave and the mild musk of our sweat. I feel his body sink into sleep and I lie awake next to him for what feels like hours, willing myself to sleep but seeing knives stabbing into flesh every time I close my eyes.
Sunday, 19 August
6.32 am
Upon waking, the night before feels like a dream but the sharp pain through my forehead tells another story. I dress quickly, creep out of Zac’s place and walk to the end of Smith Street. Curious fingers of morning light prod at me. I pause against a brick wall thinking I’m going to be sick but the moment passes.
I hail a cab and make it back to my apartment where I lie in bed, my eyes on the grey sky through my window as I wonder what Ben is doing. He’s probably watching cartoons. Or maybe he’s in bed with Scott. I let my thoughts drift from Ben and Scott curled up together to Ben snuggling with Scott and a woman, a stranger. I cry out loud and haul myself upright. My thoughts won’t be tamed when I am in this headspace and I look around the apartment for a distraction. Catching my reflection in the mirror I see that I look terrible: cracked lips, sallow skin, my hair a ratty dark cloud.
In the shower, I pray that the alcohol will work its way out of me quickly, taking its pain with it. As awful as I feel, one thought continues to pulse in tandem with my aching head. I need to get to the station to look at those autopsy pictures again.
After pacing around the case room for over thirty minutes, my theory circling in my head until I hear sounds that I know aren’t really there, I call Fleet.