Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  Hours later he woke up to see a woman sleeping on the couch near the window. Jacoby was on the balcony arguing with another woman; their fight was heated and Jacoby sounded furious. After a few minutes Josh crept over to the window where he saw Jacoby holding the woman aggressively against the wall as she cried. This was around the time that Sasha Cryer woke from her spot on the couch, and Josh quickly returned to the bed. He feared the worst when he heard Ginny screaming a few seconds later but despite this decided that confronting Jacoby wasn’t an option. Hoping the woman on the couch was too drunk to remember anything, he pretended to go back to sleep while trying to decide what to do. Eventually Sasha left the room.

  Just before 3 am, his uncle sought him out, telling him they had to leave—there had been a terrible accident and they needed to get Josh out of the apartment. He got dressed as his uncle stripped and remade the bed. Jacoby, Josh’s uncle and a male friend accompanied Josh down the fire escape to avoid the security cameras. They drove him to his uncle’s place where he hid in the garage until late the following day.

  Jacoby told him to keep his mouth shut or kiss his career goodbye.

  Josh knew who I was from the beginning, having recognised me from the press conference shown on the news the morning of the day we met at the courthouse. He figured if he could befriend me, he might be able to find out how the case was progressing—and put himself back in Jacoby’s good books. He got my number. Did a bit of research and realised I was new in town; he assumed that I’d be open to a new friend. His uncle encouraged the idea.

  ‘But the thing is, I really like you, Gemma. I didn’t expect to but I do. You’re so different to the people I normally hang out with. I’ve stuffed everything up. I should have gone to the police from the beginning.’

  Pushing his hand away, I told him that if he didn’t go to the police by 9 am tomorrow and tell them what he saw that night in July, then I would turn him in. Apologising over and over, Josh promised he would. We agreed that he won’t mention me to begin with, but I know my link to him will become apparent fairly quickly.

  I haul myself to my feet, winding my scarf around my neck. As I walk toward home, every step matches the beat of my headache. I feel used by Josh, used by Fleet, and beyond stupid.

  A tram rattles past as I make my way up Bourke Street. Giant signs scream at me from shop windows, promising savings and discounts. A jeweller advertises the resetting of old gemstones for new love, which reminds me of Dad and Rebecca’s engagement. My jaw clenches and I keep my head down while I cross Swanston Street. Gusts of chilled wind seem to come up from the ground. I pull out my cigarettes, ducking into a laneway to shield the flame from the wind as I attempt to light one. I flick the lighter a few times without success. I turn my back on the main street, trying to escape the wind.

  I hear a noise behind me but before I can think anything more than that, I’m slammed against the brick wall with such force that for an instant I think there’s been an earthquake. The sting across my face comes a second after the impact, followed quickly by a dull pain that seems to be holding my brain hostage. I try to think, to process what’s happening, but there is only an endless ringing.

  A large hand shifts its grip on the back of my head and the weight of a body pins me to the wall. Hands run up and down the length of my body. I’m trapped. I breathe out slowly, too shocked to cry.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper.

  ‘You stupid bitch,’ hisses a voice as the hand releases my head slightly before smacking it into the wall again.

  My legs fold in on themselves and I drop to the ground, cigarettes scattered around me as the sound of retreating footsteps rings in my ears.

  Friday, 31 August

  7.16 am

  I am roused by an eager beeping sound and open my eyes to a bright white wall. The pain has attached itself to my head but the excruciating throb from last night has been wrestled into submission by the handful of pills I was encouraged to take.

  The pale blue curtain at the end of the bed rustles and the smiling face of a nurse appears. ‘Oh good, you’re already awake. How’s the head?’ Her voice is familiar and I recall that she woke me at various intervals during the night, saying my name and shining a light in my eyes.

  I swallow, trying to force saliva into my dry mouth. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ she says cheerily.

  It all comes flooding back: Fleet’s alcohol-ridden breath as he grabbed at me, Josh’s confession. The grip around the back of my head before it was slammed into the wall.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask the nurse.

  ‘A quarter past seven,’ she says.

  Gingerly I sit up. Pinpricks of white form a snowstorm across my vision, but it doesn’t seem to make too much difference to the pain.

  ‘I have to go,’ I tell her, stifling a yawn and shifting my weight to the other side of the bed.

  Her brows dip together and she bites her lip. ‘You really should stay for a few more hours. We like to keep an eye on people who’ve had nasty falls and bumped their heads.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I assure her, getting to my feet.

  ‘Well, do you have a partner? Someone who can look after you?’ ‘Yep,’ I say, throwing her a quick smile.

  After she checks me over, she bustles off to tend to someone else. I get dressed, pressing the side of my head experimentally. I pull back the curtain and walk through the ward. I sign myself out and jump into a cab.

  Entering my apartment, I’m surprised to find it exactly how I left it yesterday morning. The blanket I gave Fleet is still folded on the end of the couch. Frodo gapes stupidly, hoping food will find its way into his mouth. Studying myself in the bathroom mirror, I inspect the sprawling bruise that clouds the edge of my face. Fortunately most of the damage is to the side of my head and covered by my hair, though a sharp cut runs along my hairline just above my ear, and the faint rings of a black eye are forming. I wash the area gently in a lukewarm shower and then cover the smudges of blue and purple with make-up as best I can.

  I let myself consider what happened. Was it a random attack or some kind of warning? Was it the same person who attacked Ava? Is any of it linked? I carefully comb my hair and stare at my face in the mirror, considering the possibility that it perhaps had something to do with Jacoby. I swallow, feeling foolish all over again. That voice was unrecognisable—I don’t want to seriously consider that it might have been Josh.

  Josh. The burn of humiliation surges again as I think about the way I was duped. I wonder if he’s already at the station. Will he really come forward? My ultimatum was clear and he seemed almost relieved that I’d confronted him, desperate to end the whole sorry saga. Part of me believes he was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I don’t know him. I don’t know how deep his deception runs, how much influence his uncle and Jacoby have over him.

  The one thing I do know is that without Josh’s confession, there’s very little evidence that Jacoby pushed Ginny Frost over the balcony. Maybe he spoke to his uncle last night; maybe they’ve formed a plan for how to deal with me.

  In the midst of my panic, a text pings onto my work phone: Fleet asking if I’m coming to the case meeting. It’s exactly the kind of text he would have sent me two days ago. Before he crossed the clearest of lines.

  My breathing quickens and I think maybe I’m having an anxiety attack. But as I clutch the bathroom cabinet, the wave of terror peaks and then quickly recedes.

  Not knowing what Josh is going to do makes it difficult for me to decide how to approach things. Should I confess our relationship to Isaacs and risk looking like an idiot, or plead ignorance? If Josh doesn’t come forward I’ll need to lead the charge, force a tidal wave of action, potentially send myself straight back to Smithson in disgrace.

  And that’s before giving myself the headspace to consider what to do about Fleet.

  Fingers shaking, I text back that I’m on my way. I blow-dry my hair but leave it loose to help hide t
he evidence of last night’s attack. I shrug on my coat and walk out the door, gritting my teeth and swallowing past the lingering sensation of the hand on the back of my head and the terror that took over when I thought I was going to die.

  ‘Jeez, what happened to you, Woodstock?’ remarks Fleet, looking at me in alarm and I wonder if he thinks that perhaps he might have done this to me.

  ‘I fell,’ I say tersely.

  My body is out of control, reacting to his presence like he’s radiating electricity. All moisture leaves my mouth. Flashes of the minutes in my bedroom flit through my mind.

  He’s about to say something else when a rumble of excitement erupts behind us. Nan and Calvin are summoned into Isaacs’ office. Josh, I think. Isaacs throws me a cool look and I see my career flash before my eyes as his door clicks shut.

  ‘Wonder what that’s all about?’ Fleet says as he stands up, stretching. ‘God! I feel about a million times better today than I did yesterday.’ He smiles sheepishly at me. ‘I’m getting too old for midweek benders.’ He steps toward our case room. ‘Are you coming?’

  My limbs are like lead as I grab my notebook and follow a few paces behind, struggling to make sense of his nonchalance. Does he remember what he did? And, I think wildly, does that matter?

  ‘Perk up,’ he calls over his shoulder, and I stare at the back of his head, fantasising about slamming it against a wall.

  No one comments on my swollen face but several glances make it clear that I haven’t covered up the bruises as well as I thought.

  ‘Right,’ I say, with far more enthusiasm than I feel. ‘Because Detective Fleet was absent yesterday, let’s quickly get him up to speed. Ravi, please run us through the case log, and then I want updates on alibis and footage.’

  I tune out a little as Ravi talks; my vision blurs slightly as I stare into the dark weave of the carpet. I can already tell there’s no new information of note, not like the breakthrough that Nan and Calvin are probably about to be gifted.

  Fleet cuts Chloe off, barking questions at the team, clearly pissed off that there’s still no sign of Brodie. He’s hated him from the start, I realise, remembering his discomfort with Brodie’s easy declarations of love and unchecked grief.

  Fleet gives out instructions for the day before everyone rises. I walk over to the case board, staring at the two dead men, and a wave of guilt hits me square in the middle. There’s something we’re not seeing. I stand there with heat flooding to my face, reactivating the throb in my broken head, as I think about Wade and Miller collapsing to the ground in pools of their own blood. It could so easily have been me last night; it takes such a short amount of time to kill a person.

  I jump a mile when Chloe brushes the side of my arm as she reaches up to pin a CCTV frame of the crowd: they’re looking on as Wade is bundled into the ambulance.

  ‘Sorry,’ Chloe says.

  ‘Don’t apologise. I spaced out for a minute there.’

  I look at the picture. It’s like an ancient battle scene, with Wade the slain war hero at the front.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I ask Chloe, my eyes drifting to her swollen belly.

  Clearly pleased to be asked, she puffs out her cheeks. ‘Not too bad. It’s getting a bit hard to move around as easily as I usually do but I’m fine. I want to keep working as long as I can.’

  She attaches another photo to the board and her wedding rings pass in front of my face. I remember the loving gaze Rebecca gave her engagement ring last weekend and the wistful sadness in Lizzie’s expression when she’d looked at hers. Through the fuzzy jabs of pain down the side of my face, tendrils of thoughts join together.

  ‘Lovely rings,’ I say to Chloe.

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Yes, they are beautiful.’

  I recall the jeweller I walked by last night, all the gemstones turned away from the window with just the advertising left in place.

  ‘Chloe,’ I say, ‘I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Of course.’ She pushes her hair back from her face and squints at me. ‘Excuse me if this is inappropriate, but are you sure you’re okay? I noticed your injury.’ Her eyes are full of concern and I marvel at the ease with which she expresses care.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say dismissively, stepping back. ‘I want you to look into an old case—a house fire that killed a woman down the coast about eight years ago.’

  Sick with worry over Josh’s confession, I take the stairs to the car park on Level 2 and cut through the rows of cars to the tiny platform that looks out over the street. Sheltered from both the wind and prying eyes, I light a cigarette and lean back against the wall. Brodie’s pale pleading face won’t leave me alone. Every instinct I have is telling me he’s in danger.

  ‘Fancy finding you out here,’ booms Fleet.

  I drop my cigarette. For some reason, this puts me on the brink of tears.

  ‘Things must be bad if you’re smoking at work,’ he says.

  I don’t say anything but edge into the corner, wanting to be as far from him as possible.

  ‘You sure you’re alright?’ he asks, lighting a smoke and peering into my face.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I don’t believe for a second you fell over.’ His dark eyes are kind as he says this, his voice full of concern.

  Something bursts inside me and to my horror my face collapses, the tears unstoppable.

  ‘Woodstock, what is it?’ He comes to me and awkwardly puts his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, lurching sideways.

  He steps back, holding his hands up. Ash snows down around him. ‘Okay, okay.’

  For a moment neither of us says anything. The wind whistles around the concrete pillars as though waiting to see what will happen next.

  ‘Will you at least tell me what’s wrong?’ Fleet asks. ‘Or do you just want me to leave?’

  ‘I know who the missing Jacoby witness is,’ I say, no longer able to hold it in and knowing that it’s all about to come out anyway.

  His eyebrows shoot up comically. ‘You do?’

  I look at the tip of the burning cigarette. ‘It’s a guy I’ve been seeing. I think he’s going to come forward today. I think he’s here right now.’

  Fleet seems to think about this for a moment. ‘Did you know?’

  I meet his eyes and then quickly look away, feeling more stupid than I can remember. ‘No, not until yesterday.’ I wipe off the last of my tears. ‘But it’s not going to look good. I’ll be all over his phone records.’

  ‘Will he say anything about you?’ asks Fleet. ‘Did you accidentally feed him any information?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He said he wouldn’t say anything but I’m obviously going to need to deal with it.’ I make a strangled sound. ‘I feel like such an idiot.’

  Fleet nods, still taking it all in. Suddenly his mouth curls in a snarl. ‘Did this guy hurt you?’ He gestures toward my head. ‘I’ll fucking kill him if he did.’

  I picture Fleet pushing his body against me, his hot boozy breath on my cheek, his fingers digging into my arse. I feel the grip of the hand on the back of my head last night, followed by the shock of connecting with the wall.

  I just want them all to go away. I shake my head and push past Fleet. ‘I need to go home,’ I say, as the sky opens.

  No one is around when I grab my things from my desk and head out into the storm. Rain falls in jagged sheets, filling the gutters and giving new life to old rubbish. I’m quickly saturated, numb to the centre. I’m exhausted. I need sleep.

  At home I wrap my wet hair in a towel, swallow a couple of painkillers with water and crawl into bed, welcoming the soothing buzz of unconsciousness.

  I wake just after 3.30 pm in the exact position I curled up in. My head throbs but I feel more rested than I have in a long time. Outside a swirl of rain hovers above the city.

  I drink more water and sit near the window, wondering what will happen to me. The investigation into Josh could well see me lose my job.
Or at least see a severe black mark chalked against my name. Maybe what I said to Fleet is true—maybe I really should go home, back to Smithson, and stop pretending that I can make this life here work.

  Lightning cracks across the sky followed closely by a chilling rumble of thunder. My work phone rings as if triggered by the madness of the weather.

  ‘Detective Woodstock,’ I answer, seeing that it’s a station number.

  ‘It’s me—Chloe.’

  ‘Yes?’ I’m relieved that it’s not Isaacs but note the charge in her voice.

  ‘I looked into the old fire death. I’m not sure what you were hoping for but it was definitely not a cut-and-dried case.’

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I say, wanting to think about anything other than Josh’s perfect face.

  ‘Well, arson was never ruled out but the investigation was inconclusive. Lizzie Short’s mother died, as you know. She couldn’t get out of her bedroom. Her son Kit, however, managed to get out with just minor injuries.’

  ‘Where was Lizzie?’

  ‘Staying at a friend’s place.’

  ‘Why couldn’t they rule out arson?’

  ‘It wasn’t clear if inflammables had been used. The carport was off to the side of the house near Jenny Short’s bedroom and investigators found traces of chemicals in there. The place was pretty run-down so it’s possible that something caught alight and spread—or that someone snuck into the carport and started the fire. Jenny had a boyfriend at the time who was known to the police. There was a history of abuse and his alibi was never substantiated.’

  I play this over in my mind, my eyes still on the dark grey clouds.

  ‘At the time, did the police peg the boyfriend for starting the fire?’ I ask.