by Sarah Bailey
I glance at Jacoby and his friends again. They’re preoccupied with a loud recollection of one of their wins from the evening.
Dropping my head back down, I whisper to Fleet, ‘Come on, let me help you get into a cab.’
He moans as I pull him up and along to the cab rank. I yank open the back door of the first taxi and try to encourage him to get inside.
‘If you’re not coming, I’m not taking him,’ says the cabbie, looking at Fleet with disdain.
‘I don’t know where he lives,’ I tell him.
‘Not my problem, love,’ he replies. ‘You getting in?’
Fleet’s weight is now heavy on my left side as he edges closer to sleep.
A sleek silver Audi turns into the casino’s curved driveway and parallel parks next to the taxi. Jacoby’s crew lets out a little cheer and ambles over to it.
Jacoby opens the front door of the car, and suddenly I’m looking straight into the face of Josh Evans, my Josh, a beanie on his head, his eyes shifting from the driveway to the road as Jacoby and his drunk mates clamber in.
I lean forward so that my head is hidden behind Fleet’s, but before I can sneak another look into the car Jacoby pulls the door shut and they all disappear behind the tinted windows.
Thursday, 30 August
2.33 am
With the exception of Ben, Dad and Rebecca, no one has been in my apartment since I moved in. As Fleet and I make our way up the creaky stairs I feel an overwhelming sense of panic at letting him into this part of my life. In the taxi, as we left the casino, my mind reeling from the sight of Josh, I prodded Fleet first on the shoulder and then on the face, asking him for his address. I even shoved my hands into his pockets trying to locate his wallet. After a few minutes of this awkward fishing expedition, and a frustrated glare from the taxi driver, I reluctantly gave him my address.
Fleet’s head rolls against mine as we reach my apartment door. His thick hair tickles the side of my face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles into my hair, ‘I’m a mess.’
I ignore him, already dreading the awkwardness waiting for us in the morning. My exhausted mind is struggling to keep up as I lurch between the Wade case, Josh’s pale face in the 4WD and the bizarre babysitting role I’ve found myself in.
I push the heavy door open with my shoulder, then Fleet and I do a strange little dance as I help him to the couch. When I’ve deposited him as gently as I can, I rush to my room to get a spare blanket, hoping he won’t wake up and start talking again. When I return, his head is firmly entrenched on a cushion and his breathing is steady. I pull off his shoes and cover him with the blanket, fetching a glass of water and placing it on the coffee table. He doesn’t move.
I grab the photo of Ben from the bookshelf and hide it in a cupboard. I pull the curtain across his little nook room. Then I go to my bedroom, my arms aching from supporting Fleet. I undress quickly. My body prickles with goose bumps so sharp they’re like needles in my legs and arms. I slide in between the covers in my underwear and almost cry with relief as my head hits the pillow. Grabbing my phone, I shoot a message to Isaacs saying that we’ve had a late night and will continue to follow up a lead on the Wade case first thing. That should buy us a bit more time. What state will Fleet be in when he wakes?
Josh’s face appears in my mind but I grimly shove it aside. I’ll work out how to deal with that tomorrow.
Minutes later, or maybe it’s hours, the bed shifts and I’m jolted back into reality. My eyes are still shut and for a moment I think it must be Ben crawling into bed with me. I eagerly drift back into a dream.
A large hand clasps my hip, and I freeze.
The hand circles my thigh, fingers pushing beneath the thin material of my underwear. A moan creeps into my ear.
Fleet.
‘No,’ I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
There is an ache all over me—especially in my throat, which feels as if it has closed over. His hand grips my leg more firmly, then moves to my waist, just above my hip, rough and demanding. I can smell him, alcohol fumes and man. For just a moment I consider letting this happen. His skin is hot on mine, his need thick in the air. He moves against me. My body surges in response to his closeness, but I can’t tell if it’s danger or desire. I think about turning toward him and letting him touch me. Letting him be inside me. It would almost be easier than turning him away. But it’s not what I want.
Suddenly my impulse to be anywhere but living this moment is overwhelming. I curl myself into a ball, willing him to go away.
‘I want you, Gemma.’ His voice is thick, more animal than human, and comes from the darkness behind me and hovers in the black in front of me. I feel afraid of what he might do to me.
‘No,’ I say again, louder, forcing the words past the ache pulling at my jaw. I won’t cry now, no way.
‘Come on,’ he says, still grabbing me, trying to put his fingers inside me.
‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, and it’s almost a scream.
After an eternity, he releases his grip and the bed moves under me as he shifts his weight to the other side.
Wheezing, I try to calm my flying heart. I stare straight ahead and wish I could somehow turn myself off. Shut myself down. I can’t believe he has done this. That I have to deal with this. I turn silently to look at him, trying to think of something to say that will erase what just happened. I can only make out the thin white line of his profile; his fist is pressing into the centre of his forehead. I can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but I can still feel something toxic radiating from his body. I turn back toward the wall, willing for this whole night to be over and wiped from our memories. And then impossibly, despite the racing of my heart and the mad whirl of my thoughts, I fall into sleep.
Thursday, 30 August
7.58 am
It’s quiet in my bedroom, the faint sounds of a new day far away. The remnants of a bad dream choke and die, leaving my skin crawling. Emerging from my bedroom, I see that Fleet is gone: the blanket I placed over him a lifetime ago is neatly folded on the arm of the couch; a rinsed water glass is upside down in the drying rack beside the sink. Recalling the scene that played out in my bedroom just a few hours ago makes me feel desperately ill. I should never have gone to meet him, let alone brought him into my home.
I get in the shower and relish the burn of the scalding water down my spine. I scrub all the places he touched, wanting to cry but finding that I can’t. Lifting my head, I let the water run down my face and into my mouth. If I could walk out into the ocean right now and let it sweep me away, I would.
I shut off the tap and just stand there, paralysed by the unavoidable interactions in front of me. I’ll have to talk to Josh and work out what the hell is going on. Why was he picking up Jacoby and his mates from the casino in the middle of the night? Does it have something to do with one of his fraud cases? The irritating reliability of Josh, the dull but solid rock he has formed in my world, has suddenly turned into a dangerous gaping hole. Who the hell is he really?
And Fleet. I can’t bear the thought of seeing him.
I force myself through the motions of getting ready, regret and anger chasing each other around my head like rabid dogs. I pull on a shirt and cover it with a jumper. I comb out my wet hair and tug it into a low ponytail. I drink a large glass of water. A ragged sob blurts out of me and I clench my fists in an attempt to push it back inside. I catch myself in the mirror and wonder what Fleet sees. A lonely woman past her prime? A pushover? A friend? A conquest? A victim? Nothing? Ben’s image rises up above the thoughts of Fleet, and the sobs rally again. I can’t break now.
I wipe my tears away, sniff hard and take a deep breath. Then I punch a fist hard into the doorframe and walk out, my hand throbbing.
‘Fleet has called in sick,’ Isaacs tells me casually as he walks past. ‘Some kind of gastro, or food poisoning. Hopefully you don’t catch it, Woodstock. I’d like a case update when you have a moment. I’m keen to know what was k
eeping you busy last night.’
‘Probably a good thing he’s stayed away,’ says Nan darkly. ‘He’s been looking terrible all week. You both do.’
With only a few minutes until the case meeting, I smile thinly at Nan before darting to the disabled toilets where I snap the door shut behind me and retch dramatically over the bowl. Red-faced and heaving I stare at myself in the mirror, blanching at the smell. I would strangle Fleet with my bare hands if I had the chance. How dare he bail on me after this? I worked myself up to be in a position to deal with him, to have the inevitable first interaction. The idea of having to ready myself for it all over again feels impossible. His betrayal continues to wash over me. Splashing water on my face, I wait for the colour to fade before I blot my skin on the grit of a paper towel, and head to the case room.
We’ve lost two of the team to a violent rape that was called in late last night, three to the suspicious death of a shopkeeper in Balaclava, and two others to a hit-and-run. But the eighteen remaining faces that stare up at me as I pace in front of the board still look as resolute as they did two weeks ago—and a lot less tired than I feel.
I kick off the meeting and feel myself begin to calm. I hold on to my notebook, shift papers between my hands, run my eyes over lines of notes. The familiar dance plays out in front of us. Brodie is still missing. We still don’t know exactly where Paul Wade was at the time of his brother’s attack, or whether he was in Melbourne when Miller was killed. There doesn’t appear to be any communication between Cartwright and Brodie, and we have no idea if either of them had something to do with the attack on Ava. The only real development is that our confessor Simon Carmichael has gone to the media claiming to have spoken to Wade’s ghost, who supposedly told him he was killed by a loved one.
I look at the magnified photo of the masked zombie on the case board as the team members give their updates. It’s beyond frustrating to know that I’m looking at Sterling Wade’s killer but we’re still no closer to the answers.
In some ways, it’s easier to do all of this without Fleet. Without his cool judgement, I don’t think about what I’m saying, I just say it. Despite my spinning brain, I’m feeling a renewed sense of purpose. ‘Where are we with the footage from the restaurant Ava James was at the other night? I want that checked off today.’
Eyebrows lift at my blunt manner and suddenly I feel myself getting defensive. How else am I supposed to behave after the night I’ve had?
‘Where’s Detective Fleet today?’ Chloe asks, approaching me as the team starts to leave the room.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I tell her, ‘I should have said something. He’s unwell. I’m sure he’ll be back on board tomorrow. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘No. No.’ She ducks her head, goes to leave and then changes her mind. ‘I’ve been meaning to say that it’s really inspiring having a case like this led by a woman. I feel like I’ve learned a lot.’ She runs a hand along her pregnant belly absently.
‘Oh,’ I say, my face growing warm. ‘Well, thank you but it’s an equal partnership with Detective Fleet.’
‘I know that,’ she says, ‘but still, you know what I mean.’
I nod and she throws me a little wave and leaves, and I watch her go and wonder what exactly she does mean.
After returning to my desk I call the hospital and am informed that Ava will be discharged later this afternoon. ‘She says she’s leaving for the US first thing tomorrow morning,’ the doctor tells me. ‘She is very upset.’
I put the phone down and flip through interview transcripts that detail the accounts of the featured extras who were facing Wade when he was attacked.
We were running toward him like wild beasts.
I was totally lost in the moment.
It was such a high.
Then I panicked.
Something was wrong.
I didn’t know what was happening.
I have no idea who would do this.
No, nothing seemed out of the ordinary during the shoot.
I can’t think about anything else.
One minute everything was great.
I was going to be in a Hollywood movie, with real stars.
The next minute everything changed.
It was so awful, seeing him lying there like that.
It’s funny, really, commented one extra, how absolutely everything can be totally fine and then turn into a complete nightmare in a single moment.
At around 3 pm I call Josh, my insides like stone.
‘Hey, Gemma,’ he answers happily. Before last night I would have found his easy joy mildly saccharine; now my stomach flips.
‘Are you busy tonight?’ I ask, shutting my eyes. I don’t really want to see him—in fact, if I could erase him from the planet I would—but I need to get this done. I feel oddly empowered at the thought of closing out something properly for once.
There is a beat of silence. Josh is probably trying to read my tone. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I’m pretty tired though—I ended up having to work last night. But I can catch up if you want to chat. How are you? Is everything okay with the case?’
‘It’s fine,’ I reply. ‘I was thinking we could get a drink or something.’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Great!’ He’s clearly injecting some enthusiasm into his voice that he’s hoping will rub off on me. ‘I should be done by seven.’
‘Good,’ I reply, my voice firm. ‘Let’s meet at that bar we went to a while back, the place near the casino.’
Another pause. ‘Sure, Gemma, sounds good.’ Nerves are creeping into his voice, and I wonder if he’ll actually be there.
‘See you soon,’ I say, and hang up.
Thursday, 30 August
7.03 pm
I check my work phone. Then my personal phone. There’s a text from Dad but still nothing from Fleet. My emotions circle like a fussy cat, incapable of settling. Does he even remember what he did? Is he awake right now worrying about how to approach me? Is he angry at me, or ashamed? I can’t shake the feeling that this has ruined everything, and it’s tearing me apart.
The bar is well-heated but I’ve left my jacket on: there is nothing relaxed about this meeting. I sip at my gin and tonic. Soft conversations filter through my mind, as do the layers of the Wade case. Laughter erupts from a table near the window just as Josh walks in. A twist of cold air strokes my skin when he bends forward to kiss me before tugging off his scarf and shrugging his bulky coat onto the back of his chair.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late—Jesus, what a day!’ he says, enthusiastic as always. He rubs his hands together. ‘Well, this is nice. Two nights in a row.’ He scans the drinks menu. ‘How was your day? Any interesting case updates?’
I wait for him to order a drink and then say, ‘Why were you at the casino last night, Josh?’
His mouth drops open and his eyes bulge. ‘Huh?’
‘Why were you at the casino last night?’ I repeat calmly.
‘I wasn’t at the casino.’ His wine arrives and he takes a gulp, looking around the room before tossing me a casual smile. ‘Why, does one of your friends think they saw me there or something?’
‘You were there early this morning in a silver Audi picking up Frank Jacoby and his mates,’ I reply, not smiling back. ‘Why?’
He shifts in his seat, obviously filtering through options in his mind. He looks directly into my eyes, almost as if he’s pleading for me to understand.
‘I was just doing them a favour,’ he mumbles.
‘What the hell is going on, Josh?’
He pales and squirms in his seat. ‘Look. Frank’s a family friend. My uncle’s mate. My uncle asks me to do things for them sometimes.’ He laughs nervously and has a sip of wine that turns into a splutter.
‘How do you know him?’ I demand.
‘His wife is my uncle’s cousin.’
‘Ivy Strachan?’ I ask, finally putting a name to the face of the woman in the photograph at his apartment.
�
�Yeah.’ Josh has shrunk into his chair now; his shoulders slump and his head dips forward.
‘Was your uncle there last night?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘Jacoby got you the job at the law firm, didn’t he?’ I say.
Josh nods slowly. I’m hot, warm under my arms and on my chest and neck. My pulse is on the run and does bizarre laps around my body. We both know what’s coming next.
‘You were at Jacoby’s apartment that night,’ I say, somehow feeling even more tired than I did before. ‘You saw Jacoby arguing with Ginny Frost on that balcony. You’re the missing witness.’
Josh looks me straight in the eye, in silent confirmation, before he leans forward and grabs my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says simply. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’
Hours later I’m still at the bar, my stomach full of burger and chips. Josh is long gone. The day is cruising toward its finish line but my mind is far from winding down. The fury I felt at his deception has drifted into an apathetic numbness. I keep replaying our first meeting at the courthouse cafe over in my mind, feeling beyond foolish at not somehow sensing he held the key to a case that at the time was consuming so much of my life.
In between nervous hand-wringing, Josh told me the whole story. He managed to evade our meticulous investigation more by chance than clever design, as is often the case. His uncle had arranged for him to stay at Jacoby’s apartment for several days; his own place was being painted, and he was cramming for his exams. He’d fallen behind during the semester and knew he was in danger of failing, and so he disappeared into an intense study bubble, not leaving the apartment in the three days leading up to Jacoby’s Christmas-in-July party—hence completely avoiding the CCTV footage from the entryway that was processed and analysed.
Jacoby had completely forgotten Josh would be there when he arranged his winter get-together. He and his closest friends arrived at 6 pm to get things set up, and found an exhausted, caffeine-addled Josh. He started to leave but his uncle convinced him to stay, insisting that he deserved some time out after so much study. After three days of cramming and virtually no sleep, Josh had a few drinks early in the evening with his uncle and Jacoby’s other mates, and then snuck off before most of the guests arrived. He took a sleeping pill and put himself to bed in the guestroom at the far end of the apartment.