Into the Night

by Sarah Bailey

  ‘She wouldn’t let me audition for anything,’ spits Lizzie. ‘She was jealous of me.’

  ‘Lizzie,’ I say, before I realise there’s nothing to say. ‘It didn’t have to be like this.’

  ‘He was going to leave me,’ she repeats softly, her jaw clenched. ‘I couldn’t have that.’

  ‘How did you get onto the set that day, Kit?’ I ask.

  Lizzie rolls her eyes and answers for him. ‘Too easy. I got a spare ID pass weeks ago when I said I lost mine.’

  ‘You just walked right in there,’ I say, and picture it. Kit looking out from behind his mask. No one having a clue that a killer was in their midst. Sterling caught up in the moment and then being struck by unthinkable pain. No one helping. Lizzie’s distraught face. Pawing hands. Blood draining onto the street as Kit quietly and slowly disappeared into the crowd.

  I look at Lizzie and see a monster.

  A voice threads through the darkness at the top of the hill and white spots of light circle madly through the trees. Kit startles and steadies his arm again.

  Chloe sobs and draws in a sharp breath.

  ‘Kit,’ I say, ‘put the gun down. You know this is over. I can help you. Don’t make it worse.’

  ‘Now, Kit!’ screams Lizzie, dropping to the ground and rolling aggressively toward Fleet.

  I move at the same time Fleet does. He bucks his body, throwing himself into the air and landing on his feet, before ramming heavily into Kit, headbutting him.

  A crack twists though the darkness, followed by a loud shot.

  I slam into Lizzie, pushing her into the trunk of a giant tree, before smashing into the ground. My mouth full of dirt, I scramble to Chloe and use my body to shield her bulging stomach from whatever danger is behind us.

  ‘Chloe!’ I say urgently.

  Her eyes are full of panic. She moans. Blood, sticky and wet, spreads down one side of her white shirt.

  Kit makes a horrible sound where he has fallen.

  There is a flash of silver in the moonlight as Lizzie reels toward Fleet and then back again so quickly I don’t realise what’s happened at first. She backs into another large tree, breathing like a wild beast and holding a knife out in front of her before she turns and disappears into the night.

  The red line seems to split Fleet’s face in half. Stunned, he rolls onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut. Blood streams down his neck and into the dirt.

  ‘Over here!’ I yell up the hill. ‘Help. Please!’

  Kit isn’t moving. Fleet coughs and splutters.

  Turning back to Chloe, I force myself to breathe. ‘It’s okay,’ I say automatically. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  I pull off my jacket, frantically trying to work out where the blood is coming from. I push the material against her shoulder. She has grown even paler and strains her arms against the tape, kicking her legs in vain.

  ‘Shhhh, shhhhh, don’t move,’ I soothe, tears sprouting into my eyes.

  I place a hand on the top of her belly, thinking that she’s only here because of me. She is boiling up, and underneath my hand I feel the flutter of movement. Swirling torches light up the night around us and I hold her close, telling her it’s going to be okay and praying that I am right.

  Monday, 17 September

  10.55 am

  The chatter of tourists blends with beeps from electronic devices as Fleet and I sit in the sun on the sand-coloured steps at Federation Square, sipping takeaway coffees.

  His scar is covered by a row of fine beige bandages. It starts at the centre of his forehead, cutting diagonally down his face, across his nose and ending at his chin. I can’t stop looking at it. He taps out a cigarette with his left hand, lights it and sucks hard, wincing. Chunky black sunglasses shield his eyes. He flicks the ash from his smoke distractedly, shifting his weight and cursing under his breath.

  The air between us buzzes, thick with unsaid things, though the toxic energy that crackled after that night at my apartment has dulled, replaced by something flatter.

  ‘So, you’re feeling okay?’ he asks finally, looking across the road to Flinders Street Station.

  ‘I’m fine—it’s just this that’s holding me back.’ I lift my bandaged arm in its sling, grimacing slightly.

  My elbow was sprained when I threw myself against Lizzie, though it wasn’t until afterwards, when Chloe was taken to hospital, that I realised how much it hurt.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask Fleet. ‘Are you…doing alright?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replies dismissively, his gaze on the parade of cars.

  It’s almost midday and the traffic is relentless, ferrying people to lunches and meetings, shifting slowly past the line of cabs and noisy buskers.

  I’m so used to the constant sound now. I’m not sure I could go back to the quiet.

  Ben, Dad and Rebecca returned to Smithson three days ago. They arrived the day after our showdown with the Short siblings.

  ‘You must stop doing this to me, my girl,’ Dad said, pressing his lips into my forehead as he took in my bruised face and arm.

  ‘You’re in all the papers,’ Ben told me, an edge of pride in his voice.

  ‘You really are,’ Rebecca agreed excitedly. She indicated her bulging canvas bag. ‘I bought copies of all of them.’

  At Rebecca’s suggestion, the two of us had a coffee together the day after they arrived. Summoning what I could tell was rare strength, she sat me down and gave me a talking-to. Told me how much she loved my dad. Told me my attitude toward her has been immature and unfair and that she wants us to get along for Dad’s sake. Deeply ashamed, I agreed and apologised.

  Even beyond that, their trip was different from last time. Once they were assured that my physical wounds were fairly superficial, they embraced the opportunity to explore the city, discovering its hidden gems. Come September, Melbourne was eager to shed its winter coat. Buds blossomed on spindly branches. Bulbs broke through the rich brown soil. Sunlight wove in and out of the city laneways, timid at first and then with confidence, enticing people to go outside.

  I’ve emerged from my own kind of chrysalis: reborn, or at least awakened. My head is clearer than it has been in a long time.

  A nearby family has ambitiously ordered ice creams and I smile as I watch the youngest boy struggle to keep his cone upright.

  ‘Jeez, it’s not that hot,’ says Fleet, frowning at the family.

  ‘Oh, lighten up,’ I admonish, ‘they’re happy.’

  He grunts and sucks on his cigarette again. ‘Thank god Chloe is going to be okay.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll come back to work?’ he asks me.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s too early to say.’

  He nods. ‘Isaacs won’t tell me anything, says he wanted me to have a complete break, but when I asked about the baby he said she’s doing okay.’

  ‘I can’t get a straight answer from anyone. But I think she’s doing as well as can be expected.’

  In the end, the doctors decided it was safer for Chloe’s baby to be born early rather than stay inside her traumatised body. The bullet had lodged in the flesh just below her collarbone and she had taken several hard knocks to the stomach. At just over twenty-eight weeks, her baby was born by caesarean: a tiny girl called Olive.

  Visiting Chloe in hospital, I apologised over and over for sending her out in my place that day. She wasn’t buying it. ‘No one could have known that Kit would flip out like that,’ she assured me.

  It seems that Kit Short did indeed panic that afternoon. As soon as Fleet and Chloe turned up he knew we were onto him. He grabbed his unlicensed gun—a weapon he’d stolen from his mum’s boyfriend almost ten years ago—and slipped out the back door to hide down the side of the house. He listened to Fleet on the phone to me, heard him detail our suspicions about his involvement, and then say they were about to go to Lizzie’s house to question her. This apparent threat against Lizzie set him off and, without warning, he sprang out from
the side of the house, holding a gun against Chloe’s head. He herded them both to the kitchen where he tied them up, pacing around the room as he switched between crying and frantically calling his sister.

  ‘He was all over the place,’ Fleet says. ‘Without Lizzie telling him what to do he was like a five-year-old. Albeit an armed dangerous one.’

  ‘Did you think he was going to kill you?’ I ask quietly.

  Fleet lights another cigarette and smokes robotically before answering. ‘I didn’t think it was looking good,’ he replies eventually, running his hand along the tip of the scar. ‘I was worried about Chloe and the baby.’ He stubs his cigarette into the crease of a stone. ‘Have you seen Lizzie?’ he asks, shifting to lean back against the step.

  ‘Yes,’ I confirm, ‘I’ve seen her.’

  Lizzie had been tracked down in the early hours of the morning about two kilometres along the creek. She was sitting in the dark. I observed her being interviewed at the station a few hours later—she refused to speak then and has barely said a word since.

  ‘She’s one messed-up young woman,’ I say.

  The papers have reported that Lizzie suffers from a personality disorder that has manifested into an obsession with fame. Her defence team is certainly embracing this theory, having engaged several high-profile psychologists. It seems that her desire to be known, to be successful at all costs, has played a role in her unhealthy relationship with the media and her own celebrity status.

  ‘They both are,’ says Fleet. ‘Kit’s dependency on his sister was something else.’

  ‘I’m sure their lawyers will use their mental health issues to put forward a strong case.’

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ he mutters.

  ‘Well,’ I say, thinking as I often do about Walter Miller, the truest collateral damage I have ever known, ‘they clearly both need help. Whether they end up in jail or a clinic, it will be for an extremely long time.’

  ‘Any word on Brodie?’

  ‘I spoke to Calvin yesterday,’ I say. ‘Apparently Brodie called his parents earlier this week. He told them he’s been staying in New Farm. A suburb in Brisbane.’

  ‘So he really did just run away?’

  I shrug. ‘His dad has no reason to lie. Kit and Lizzie maintain they have no idea what happened to him. I still think Kit found out about Sterling and Brodie but I wonder if he was too scared to tell his sister. Maybe he was embarrassed on her behalf.’

  Fleet seems to think about this. ‘I guess after everything that happened I can sort of see why Brodie would want to disappear.’

  I picture Brodie breathing in nature, trying to ground himself amidst his grief. I assume the place he is in has vast open spaces like Karadine and Smithson. I watch all the people around us right now, the hundreds of faces, the relentless activity, and can see why Brodie wanted to run away and disappear into a new life. To get some quiet after what happened. Ironically, the noisy place he has run away from is where I have finally been able to find some peace.

  ‘I noticed there are quite a few weirdos on the net declaring their love for Lizzie,’ Fleet says. ‘She seems to have some real fans. Her brother too.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll end up getting the adoration and fame she wanted. I did hear that a publisher wants to offer her a book deal after the trial.’

  ‘Fuck,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The depressing thing is, it will probably be a bestseller.’

  I nod and smile wryly. ‘Have you heard about Ava James’s big tell-all interview?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Apparently she’s doing a two-part interview on American TV about Sterling’s murder and Cartwright’s abuse.’

  ‘Including the part about Katya attacking her?’

  ‘Well, it’s getting a bit complicated,’ I say feeling a sharp stab of discomfort talking to him about this. ‘Isaacs told me that Katya is now claiming that Cartwright and Ava had a consensual relationship when she first signed on to the film. But when he started coming on to a make-up artist in front of her, she decided that he needed to be taught a lesson. Katya claims Ava exaggerated the incident with Cartwright and manipulated Sterling to come to her defence.’

  Fleet keeps his gaze on the passersby. ‘But if that was true, why did Ava come forward after Wade died?’

  ‘Katya thinks she wanted an out. She wasn’t sure what would happen with the film but she was contracted to finish it no matter what. Obviously she wouldn’t have been expected to work alongside Cartwright if he abused her.’

  Fleet doesn’t respond and I wonder what he’s thinking. My brain flits to us in my bed, his hands gripping my skin.

  ‘In her interviews Katya admitted she followed Ava to the river that night but swears she just wanted to talk to her. She says she was trying to convince her to drop the charges but Ava wouldn’t have any of it and they argued, and Ava fell into the river.’

  ‘But why didn’t Ava just tell us that Katya attacked her?’ asks Fleet, puzzled.

  ‘I think Katya was pretty threatening that night,’ I reply. ‘She claimed to have people ready to back up her claims that initially, at least, Ava was into Cartwright and that his flirting was welcomed by her. I think Ava felt her case against Cartwright getting flimsier and flimsier and, after Katya actually attacked her, she just shut down and decided it would be easier to forget the whole thing and leave Australia.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ says Fleet, shaking his head again.

  We sit in silence for a few moments. I shift my arm because it’s aching again.

  ‘When do you think you’ll be back at work?’ I ask.

  ‘Same as you—next week. Just not in the field for a while. Don’t want to scare the kiddies.’ He laughs, but he lifts a hand to his bandage again and I see a flash of emotion across his features. ‘I saw you the other day,’ he blurts out.

  I turn to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was having a coffee the day I got out of hospital. At that cafe we’ve been to a few times. You were with your family.’

  I swallow and look at my lap, not sure what to say, my heart racing as if I’ve been caught somewhere I shouldn’t be.

  He’s staring at me. ‘Your son looks like you. I could tell he was yours straight away.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Ben,’ I say simply, even though my feelings for Ben are anything but. Or perhaps they are just the simplest of all feelings.

  ‘He doesn’t live with you, does he?’ Fleet asks.

  ‘No.’ My voice comes out in a whisper.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Fleet seems to accept this. We sit for a moment longer, my insides twisting.

  ‘We shouldn’t work together anymore,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to speak to Isaacs about it when I get back.’

  A trio of seagulls argue at our feet and Fleet kicks his foot out to shoo them away.

  ‘Makes sense,’ he says eventually, still facing straight ahead.

  ‘I didn’t want any of this, you know. I’m so angry at you.’ My words come out in a tumble and they aren’t quite right but they are better than nothing.

  ‘I get it, Gemma,’ he says, kicking at the seagulls again. ‘You gotta do what you gotta do.’

  My hands have curled into tight balls, the nails cutting into my palms. I have to get out of here before I start crying. It’s clear he’s never going to give me what I want; he can’t or won’t say the words.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say stiffly, getting to my feet.

  ‘Bye.’ He looks across at the train station again.

  I walk up the wide stairs away from him, my face collapsing. I think I hear my name and reluctantly turn around, but Fleet hasn’t moved. He’s still hunched over, his hair beginning to grow into a messy tail, a fresh cloud of smoke reaching into the air above him.

  Monday, 24 September

  7.22 am

  Holding my hand above my brows, I squint into the sun as I make my way toward the rumble of noise in the middle of the Treas
ury Gardens. I keep to the edges of the crowd, breathing in air thick with pollen as I bounce along the emerald grass. Pausing, I stand on an exposed tree root and take in the scene. There must be over three hundred people here already: elegant business types sipping coffee, intricately tattooed men and women with cigarettes hanging out the sides of their mouths, young families with kids sucking on yoghurt pouches in prams, elderly couples holding hands and looking around expectantly.

  Through the sea of faces, I spot Macy at the front, near a row of signs. She’s wearing a rumpled sky-blue jacket and her arm is around a young girl with a scruffy ponytail. Someone taps on a glass bottle as if they are about to make a speech, just as a man hands me a pamphlet: a young Walter Miller smiles out at me. It looks like the photo was taken at a restaurant or bar. His haircut is all eighties, and he’s wearing a suit and a colourful tie.

  The conversations fade when Tammy Miller makes her way to the front of the crowd. She flashes a nervous smile at someone in the audience as she brushes her curly blonde hair away from her face. Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. She welcomes everyone and thanks us for coming. Then she tells the story of her father’s life. After this obituary, she recounts her own childhood memories and tells us that, when she was a young girl, Walter was her hero. Next, two of Walter’s homeless friends talk of his kindness. His decency. I look down at his picture again and my eyes prickle with tears.

  At the end, everyone is asked to sing his favourite show tune from Brigadoon. People smile at each other through their tears as they sing.

  After the service, I weave through the clusters of people to a park bench. I catch Macy’s eye and gesture at her to join me. ‘Morning,’ I say as she approaches.

  Her face cracks into a giant smile. ‘You came.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The warmer weather has her even chattier than usual. She tells me about seeing an old friend here this morning she lost contact with over ten years ago, and how one of the retailers got in touch with Tammy Miller and said she wanted to donate all of her old clothing stock for the homeless to wear to this service—and to keep, of course.