Tunnel Vision

by Andrew Christie

  “If I was a real terrorist, I would’ve been spraying Woodward’s own blood around. Not some poor pig’s.”

  “They can’t prove it.”

  “They don’t have to.”

  Billy shook his head. “No one will believe them.”

  “No? They twist stuff. That’s what they do, or they just make it up. I wrote some stuff about the refugee crisis in some e-mails to Visu, and after he died, I wrote to his father. They’re gonna use that, make it look like I intended to hurt Woodward. And they’ll use bloody Baxter too.”

  “That was an accident. You didn’t touch him.”

  “They say it was my fault.”

  It’s both our faults, Billy thought. “These e-mails, what exactly did you write?”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? They’ll make it up. Change everything. They can say what they want, lie about it all. What can I do? Not a fucking thing. No one will believe me.”

  “But…you’ve got a lawyer, right? What does she—”

  “She’s fucking useless. Has no clue, blames me. I don’t know where the hell Mum found her, some shopping centre probably. The cops and the government people, they walk all over her.”

  It was hot and airless in the room; Sweat prickled Billy’s skin, shining up his face. “Can I open the window?”

  “No. The bitch next door listens all the time. I’ve seen her, standing there, her bloody ears flapping.”

  Billy glanced at the curtain-clad window and the shut door. He wanted air. He wanted to be outside, to be moving. “So…” he said. “What’s going to happen?”

  “They’re going to charge me. Assault and conspiracy or some shit. They kept talking about that, saying my uncle and I conspired. They’re waiting for more information from Sri Lanka, from the police there. It’s been nearly fifteen years since I was there. Sri Lanka’s got nothing to do with me.”

  Billy nodded. “It wasn’t about Sri Lanka. It was about here. About Woodward, the government in Canberra. All those arseholes. Not helping people who needed it.”

  “Exactly. People who just needed help. People who could have been saved.”

  “You need to talk to the television people.”

  Rash shook her head. “No, not after last time. Bastards made Mum sound like a fucking idiot. Twisted everything she said. You can’t trust journalists. They lie. Everyone, they all lie.”

  Billy went to the window. He put his hand on the glass beneath the curtain, felt the heat of the sun through it. “You have to trust someone. What else can you do?”

  “Yeah, but who?”

  Me? he thought. He wished he knew what to do and how to do it. John maybe. If she needed someone beaten up, John could do it. But this? What could John do? And anyway, he was still pissed at the two of them. Who else? No one at the school. They all hated Rashmi even more now. “What about your grandfather?” Billy suggested. He’d never met the man, but she’d talked about him a lot. How smart he was even though he’d never finished school. How he was self-educated.

  “Yes.” Rash was sitting up. “Grandpa. He’d help. He’d hide us.”

  “Hide us? Where? They’d find us.”

  “Grandpa’s farm. They’d never find us there. It’s way up in the hills, just a few cows for neighbours.”

  Billy knew Rash’s grandfather lived somewhere up the north coast. She had talked about how she used to go there for holidays when she was little.

  “Billy, we should go. Right away. Tomorrow.” Rashmi bounced across the bed on her hands and bum. “Before they have a chance to charge me. It’ll be too late for us to try to leave once they do it.”

  “How? Your mum’ll never let you go.”

  “We’ll go at night, get on a bus to Brunswick Heads, be gone before anyone notices.”

  “I don’t… Your mum, she’ll get in trouble.”

  “She won’t know. They can’t blame her for something she doesn’t know about.”

  Yes, they can, Billy thought. His whole family knew that.

  “Come on, Billy. We might not get another chance. I can’t sit around here waiting for them to lock me up. Remember, I’m taking the blame. For all of it. For both of us. And for John and Tony too.”

  “Okay, okay. But how? Your mum will find out.”

  “She goes to bed really early these days. Says she’s had it with me. Goes in her room, takes pills, and watches TV till she falls asleep.”

  “She’ll be worried when she finds out.”

  “I’m not staying here, Billy. I’m going. With you or without you.”

  “All right. But she’ll know, won’t she? If you go to your grandfather’s. She’ll know to look there.”

  “Grandpa won’t tell her. I’ll leave her a note. Say I’ve gone to Tasmania.”

  “Tasmania?” Billy scoffed. “She’s not dumb.”

  “You’d be surprised. Anyway, I’m going. Tomorrow night, I’m going.” She grabbed Billy by the shoulders, pulling herself closer to him. “Are you going to come with me or not?”

  Billy felt the heat coming off her as she stared at him, her dark-brown eyes shining in the gloom. Perspiration trickled down his neck. He wanted to touch her face.

  “Well?”

  “Of course I am. I always said we were in this together.”

  “Good.” She kissed him, hard and fast on the mouth, before he had a chance to react. “We’ll catch a bus. They go up the coast all the time.”

  “Where from?”

  “Central. You’ve seen all the backpackers, haven’t you?”

  Billy nodded, still feeling the imprint of her mouth on his. “Yeah. Backpackers.”

  “And we’ll have to leave our phones behind.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because they can track them. Don’t you watch TV? They can track them even if you aren’t using them.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Have you got an MP3 player?”

  “What? No. What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I have —an old one—so I’ll be all right for tunes.” She grinned at him.

  “Piss off,” Billy said.

  Chapter 7

  Uncomplicated

  John Lawrence walked along the edge of the cricket field, picking up orange cones. Ahead of him, Shasta was talking to two of her class members, older women in leggings and running shoes; they were all laughing at something one of the older ladies had said. The rest of the class was leaving. Some climbed the fence that enclosed the oval; others, not feeling so energetic after class, made for the gates. Shasta looked fantastic, even in her leggings and sweatshirt, standing there in the early-morning sun. Whenever John saw her like that, from a bit of a distance, he was struck by how gorgeous she was. How much life there was in her. Tall and curved, she always attracted glances, but it was her face that had attracted John at first. Her pale eyes, the way they crinkled, and her freckles. She shone compared to the people around her. Especially compared to him.

  Shasta waved goodbye to the women and smiled as John brought the cones over. “Hey, you.”

  “G’day.” He squatted and put the cones into one of the nylon bags at Shasta’s feet. When he stood up, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. You’re such a sweetheart.”

  “I thought we could have breakfast. This was your only class today, right?”

  “Yep.” She grinned at him. “I’ve got nothing particular to do until two.”

  They sat side by side outside the café that overlooked the park, in the shade of the awning. The grass of the playing field was glowing bright green beyond the deep shade of the fig trees that lined the boundary of the park. The café was busy, the big table inside full; outside, the pavement was crowded. Workers from the university checked their emails while they waited, and mothers, with babies in prams, loaded up with coffee to fuel their morning walks. A pair of staffies leashed to a parking sign panted, waiting impatiently for their owner to come and set them free.

  “Hey, John. You having b
reakfast today?”

  The waitress had dyed silver hair and a nose ring. She’d been working at the café for about three months. John saw her nearly every morning, but he had no idea what her name was. Yet she knew his. She was nice enough; he always smiled at her. There was no reason why her knowing his name should be a problem.

  Shasta ordered muesli and a juice with apple, celery, and ginger. John had the same breakfast he always did: a flat white and a bacon-and-egg roll.

  The girl with the silver hair brought them glasses and a bottle of water. John watched her disappear back into the cafe, a tea towel tucked into the back pocket of her very short shorts.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” A pair of enormous black sunglasses hid most of Shasta’s face, but her lips were trying for a pout.

  “Stunning, an absolute knockout. Terrific legs on her.”

  “Stop it.” Shasta broke into a grin and punched him on the shoulder. “You’re supposed to be paying attention to me.”

  “I am.”

  “Bastard. You were watching her arse.”

  He’d been wondering who had told the girl his name. And what else they might have told her.

  After they’d eaten, Shasta leaned against him and ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. “What have you got on today?”

  John grunted. “Nothing, as usual. What have you got in mind?”

  He’d first met Shasta this past winter, but he’d seen her around for a while before that. She stood out: a tall, good-looking woman who always seemed to be smiling and joking with her class. Not a shouter like some of the other personal trainers.

  They got on well. She was uncomplicated, nearly always cheerful. Good for him. She had gotten him to look after himself again. Gotten him to run and work out at the gym, and the sex was good too.

  Shasta finished off her juice and delicately disposed of the pale-green frothy moustache on her upper lip with a swipe of pink tongue. “Let’s go,” she said, sliding her hand along John’s thigh again. “Time’s a wasting.”

  That afternoon, after Shasta had showered and gone off to do some Christmas shopping with her mother, John lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling. His mind replayed the kiss she’d left him with, her teeth pulling gently at his lip. And before that, her hand cupping his balls, her breasts swaying above his face.

  Shasta was funny and uncomplicated; her energy seemed to occupy all the space around her. She left no room for doubt, no room for anything that wasn’t her. When he was alone, though, the house took over his thoughts again—the gaps and unpainted walls a constant reminder of the things he hadn’t done. Of all his failures. Of the day his mother and Annette Morgan had died. Shasta’s buzzing energy kept his brain from careening down those same old tracks, wondering what he could have done differently. Her presence kept the whispers at bay, the ones that came up around the chipboard floor in the hall, where he had ripped out the floorboards stained with Annette’s blood. Shasta stopped him from thinking of that night, of the flames in the roof, of his dragging his mother’s body across the floor, a bullet hole under her eye.

  Above the bed, there was a gap between the ceiling and the top of the walls where he still had to do the cornices. The mouldings weren’t a problem; he could get those in a couple of days. No, he was the problem. After his mother and Annette were killed, John had wanted to just sell the house. To move on, go somewhere that didn’t remind him of the bullets that had torn through the front door and killed Annette. The bullets meant for him. If she hadn’t started working with his mother, and if he hadn’t let her work at his house, her kids would still have a mother. If he hadn’t left her alone that day… All the ifs.

  It was Billy who had stopped him from selling the place. His look when John had said he was going to flog the house off as soon as they got it habitable. Billy hadn’t said anything, didn’t have to. The house had been his grandmother’s and had probably been the only stable thing in his life. Meeting John and working with him on renovating it had kept him in contact with that one good part of his family. And it had given him somewhere to get away from his drugged-out mother.

  Having given the boy back some part of his childhood, making him part of the household, with his own room, John couldn’t take that away again. So he had done nothing. He hadn’t sold the house, and he hadn’t finished it either.

  There wasn’t that much to do really, mostly just trim. Painting too—there was plenty of that still to be done, along with new floorboards in the front hall. The house was liveable: everything worked; everything was functional. It just looked unfinished. He charged Tony and Shasta less rent because of that. They seemed happy enough with the arrangement.

  He supposed that if he and Billy got stuck in, it probably would only take them a few weeks. They could easily get it done before school started up again. Assuming Billy wanted to help. Things between them had been pretty rocky lately. Some of the trust had gone; neither of them was relaxed around each other anymore. They were still waiting to see where all the shit from Rashmi’s Speech Day stunt would fall.

  Since Rashmi had been around—and Shasta too, he supposed—he and Billy hadn’t spent as much time together. They used to do things together, go camping during the holidays or go-kart racing and quad biking on weekends. Those trips had been fun while they’d lasted.

  John had been glad when Billy started hanging out with Rashmi. She was a bright kid, despite her hair and clothes. Too bright for her own good maybe.

  The sound of the postman opening and closing the letterbox got him out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs, stepping out onto the hot pavement in bare feet. An electricity bill and a statement from the bank. He didn’t open them; he knew they’d both detail the depressingly large amounts of money he owed. He flicked the letters onto the desk in his study. Although the front room on the ground floor was officially the study, he still thought of it as Annette’s room. Where she’d been working on his mother’s photography portfolio the day she’d opened the door to the wrong man. His mother’s photos were still there, packed away in boxes along the wall. Her legacy. John had no idea what to do with them now.

  Upstairs again, he sat on the bed and looked at Shasta’s Lycra exercise clothes, which lay in the corner where she’d kicked them off when they’d tumbled into bed. He hadn’t seen Billy since the day he’d come around to get his laptop. The news coverage of Rashmi’s stunt, and the teacher falling off the stage, had fizzed and popped for a few days. The media kept telling the story over and over, jumping onto any new details. New quotes anytime they could find someone to talk to them. Rashmi’s background came out in a feature profile, stories about her father’s work as a doctor, and about her dead cousin. John assumed that Sally McPhedran had decided to talk, to try to put Rashmi’s side out there. Try to garner some sympathy. He wondered if anyone was advising her on how to handle the media. There were some prominent, resourceful people sympathetic to the refugee movement who might be able to help them. Trouble was, with that teacher getting hurt, no one had much sympathy for Rashmi. No one would want to be seen supporting her.

  John supposed that if they were going to charge anyone else, he would have heard something by now. They would have interviewed him or Billy. So far Rashmi must have been able to stick to her story and keep quiet about Billy’s part in the scheme. Maybe she could keep it up. He hoped so for Billy’s sake. He wished Billy would get in touch, wished he would come home. The house on Broughton Street was Billy’s place as much as John’s. The two of them had made it into something. The thing he had with Shasta was great, and Tony was good company when he was around, but Billy was family—as good as anyway. The only family John had now.

  When Shasta had asked what was going on with Billy, John had just shrugged.

  “Don’t you think you should find out?” she’d asked.

  “He’ll contact me if he wants my help.”

  “But he’s just a boy.”

  Part of him was still angry w
ith Billy. And embarrassed at some of the things he’d said to the kid. He pulled out his phone. The last message he’d received from Billy was from before Rashmi’s stunt, sent while John was out running one morning: We need milk.

  John thumbed in Billy’s number then waited, listening to the ring tones. Billy didn’t answer, which wasn’t surprising. When the call went through to voicemail, he left a message. “It’s John. Call me, mate. We should talk.”

  There was no point calling Billy’s mother’s house. Mary Sheehan never answered her phone, and she’d probably be totally out of it anyway. John scrolled through the contacts on his phone. He knew he had a number for Rashmi’s mother somewhere. He had asked Billy to put it in there, back when he’d first started spending time at her house.

  The phone rang a few times then went to an answering machine, which John half expected; he figured they probably were screening their calls. He left a message. “Hi, Sally. It’s John Lawrence, Billy’s friend. Just wondering how you’re getting on. Wondering if there’s anything I can do.” He was really wondering whether she or Rashmi had seen Billy and what they’d told the police.

  Sally McPhedran rang back a couple of minutes later. She sounded tired. “Hi. Thanks for calling.”

  “How’re you two doing?” John asked.

  “Oh, okay. Hardly talking, which is pretty normal for us, I suppose. The police keep talking about Rash’s father’s family in Sri Lanka, saying they’re terrorists. They haven’t laid any charges yet, still investigating.”

  “You’ve got a lawyer?”

  “Our solicitor. Yeah. It’s not her usual thing, but she’s been a big help. How’re you? How’s Billy?”

  “Okay. I haven’t seen much of him lately. I think he must be staying at his mother’s place.”

  “Oh…right.”

  Neither of them knew what to say after that. John finally said, “Well, glad you’re okay. If I can do anything, let me know.”