Come Back to Me (25 page)

Chloe woke up with a start, a shiver of trepidation running through her before she even had time to think. She looked down to find herself sprawled among a heap of bedclothes that barely covered her. It was cold. She still had her bra on underneath her half-buttoned shirt, and her knickers. But that was all. And she could hear the radio playing downstairs. She shivered, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. Her head was pounding, though she didn't remember drinking that much, and her eyes felt swollen.

A wave of queasiness washed over her as she thought about the previous night. Mark had kissed her, and she'd kissed him back. What a mistake that had been. After they'd broken apart she remembered bursting into guilty, hysterical tears, and ranting and crying while the expression on Mark's face varied from sympathetic to shocked – mostly the latter.
She recalled him helping her upstairs and cuddling her on the bed when she had finally calmed down, and then he'd started to undress her …

Shit! She jumped up and headed for the bathroom, confirmed briefly that yes, her eyes were red and half-shut, and grabbed her dressing gown, pulling it on in a rush as she ran down the stairs.

Mark sat at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. He was wearing the shirt and jeans he'd been in the night before, but the shirt looked rumpled and creased now.

‘Morning,' he said, looking up.

Chloe was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to be sick. She put her hand over her mouth with a squeak and ran to the kitchen sink, where she promptly threw up a watery mess. Acutely embarrassed, she avoided turning around as she ran water and rinsed the basin.

‘What a delightful effect I have on you, Chloe,' Mark's voice drifted over to her.

‘You stayed,' she said uncomfortably, splashing her face with water and then turning around. She was remembering more pieces of last night and trying to block them out. She felt as though she'd had gallons of alcohol to drink, but knew she couldn't have.

‘I couldn't leave you, could I,' he said, half-exasperated. ‘But I really should get going now. God knows what state my dad will be in after a night with just the whisky bottle for company. Hopefully not dead, is all I ask.' He jumped up and came over to kiss her cheek. ‘I feel like a bloody nurse-maid at the moment. I'll call you later.'

‘There's no need,' she began, but she didn't have time to
add anything before she was overwhelmed by the urge to be sick again. She turned back to the sink and felt Mark's hands pull her hair back as she bent over double.

He reached across her to turn the tap on.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said, feeling wretched and humiliated.

‘Don't be,' he answered. ‘Pregnancy looks like a blast,' he added sarcastically.

She swung around, almost knocking him off-balance. ‘You know?' she gasped.

‘Jesus!' Mark held his hands up, a smile curving his lips although his eyes were solemn. ‘Chloe, how stupid do you think I am? You're throwing up in the mornings, and you mumbled the word “baby” quite a bit last night – though it was hard to make out what you were saying at times – at first I thought it was an endearment.' He mock-rolled his eyes at himself.

She could feel her cheeks burning. ‘You undressed me …' she began.

He looked at her, and she saw his expression change to indignation as he realised what she was implying. ‘Last night …' he began, then obviously decided to change tack. ‘I didn't take advantage of you while you were sleeping, if that's what you think.' He snorted derisively. ‘I prefer my lovers conscious, and preferably not pregnant. Besides, I tried to help you but you wouldn't let me near you – you took your own trousers off and then ordered me out.'

Chloe felt absurdly insulted and deflated by his words. ‘
You
kissed
me
,' she added petulantly, berating herself as she did so. She sounded like a twelve-year-old in the playground.

‘Okay, Chloe, whatever.' He held his hands up. ‘I really
do have to go, you know. I'll speak to you later.' He came across and pecked her on the cheek, and she tried to avoid his gaze, feeling the intensity of it beating down on her, and leaving her more confused than ever.

By the time they reached Perth it was too late to do much except find their hotel and grab a meal. Alex had prebooked a twin room over the internet, but there was an embarrassing farce when they were shown to a double and he had to go back and request two single beds. The young man on reception kept his face a mask of politeness as he sorted it out.

Alex wasn't even sure if sharing a room was the right thing to do, but he considered Amy a flight risk, with good precedent, so felt he needed to keep her close. She hadn't said much for the whole journey, and after dinner immediately took herself off to bed. Alex's mind was tired, but he still couldn't sleep, so he set up his laptop and began checking things out online.

It wasn't hard to find details of the trial. The local media had been reporting it faithfully, even if just a paragraph on dull days of legal procrastination. The evidence against the
three men seemed substantial. He couldn't see there was any way they'd be set free.

He had been so quick to get them here that it was only now, when they had flown halfway around the world, that he realised their plan was somewhat absurd. What if, somehow, these weren't the three men they thought they were? What if this was the worst decision they could have made? What if, against all the odds, these men were found innocent? They would have to stand by and watch them walk free. Jesus, Amy couldn't do that; it would break her all over again.

Plus there were smaller problems. He had presumed they could get into the public gallery, but what if they couldn't? It was a high-profile case; why had they just assumed they would be able to do what they wanted, when they needed to?

He looked away from the lamp-lit desk to the sleeping bundle that was Amy, in the shadowy corner of the room. He wanted to wake her and tell her that he was hopelessly out of his depth, that every decision he had made since this nightmare began so long ago became flawed in hindsight, even if it seemed right at the time. He didn't trust himself any more. She would be better off with Chloe, he thought, who would have some idea of how to get into a courtroom, how to follow legal proceedings. He had a pang of desire to reach out to his wife and appeal for help, but he felt that would be asking too much of her. And what if Mark were still with her? Could he bear to know that, as he sat here thousands of miles away? No, he decided – he would wait until tomorrow, when he could tell her more about the trial, before he called again. Although, in the future, would this be another regrettable choice of his – yet one more thing that he'd long to undo?

On the way home to find out if his dad was still alive, Mark couldn't stop thinking about Chloe.

What a liar he was, cajoling her into thinking that friendship was all he wanted, when the more he thought about it, the more he felt she was right for him, always had been. He could see that Chloe was worried she was second fiddle to Alex's affections for Julia; how ironic that the roles of the two women were reversed in Mark's mind.

And now she was pregnant! Mark couldn't get his head around what that meant for him. He tried to block out uncomfortable thoughts, but they kept sneaking back in again.

Bloody Alex. He hated that man.

When he got back to the apartment, to his surprise his father was actually awake and drinking coffee.

‘Didn't come home last night?' he said gruffly as Mark
banged his briefcase down onto the table and headed for the bathroom.

‘Obviously,' Mark replied.

‘Good night?' his dad asked, still studying the paper.

‘Fine. Did you get anything sorted with Mum?'

‘That woman is a liability – haven't heard from her since she stormed out. Too bloody emotional and hypersensitive, that's her problem. She thinks the world revolves around her.'

Finally, Mark had had enough. He came back and threw himself down into the chair opposite his father. ‘You both need to grow up,' he said bluntly.

His father looked up in surprise, mug poised against his mouth. He put his drink down slowly, his hand trembling momentarily so that the mug rattled against the table. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You heard me. Whatever is going on with you, sort it out. Mum might be like a bulldozer, but you're just as bad. Otherwise, why have you run away from home, Dad?'

Henry's face had reddened. Mark waited for the outburst, but instead, his father leaned back and sighed.

‘It's complicated,' he said, like a petulant child.

Mark leaned further forward. Now he had his dad on the ropes, he dared not let go – it might never happen again.

‘Try me.'

‘Getting older isn't easy, you know,' Henry said belligerently.

‘Don't tell me this is your mid-life crisis!' Mark snorted. ‘Bit late, isn't it?'

Henry's next verbal blast pushed Mark back with such
force that their roles were instantaneously reversed. ‘You little shit!' he shouted. ‘You think you're so clever, sneering at your father because he's
old
. Relative youth doesn't give you any advantage, you idiot, except a false sense of security that is soon enough undone.'

‘Dad, I …'

‘DON'T YOU DARE,' Henry growled, leaping up and heading for Mark's bedroom.

Mark's hands were balled into tight fists, but he kept them on his lap. He ceded this argument for now, and changed tack as he called after Henry.

‘Dad, I need to get ready for work.'

‘I'll be out of this place as soon as possible, don't you doubt it,' Henry raged, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

Mark leaned back into his chair, looked down at his shoes, and sighed.

To get to the Supreme Court you had to walk through glorious lush gardens, where lemon gums and umbrella trees sheltered you from the fierce midday sun, and brightly coloured flowers lined your way. For Amy, it was like walking through the Garden of Eden to get to the Gates of Hell. She wondered if the gardens made it worse for all those who knew they walked this way in their last moments of freedom – a stark reminder of what they had forfeited their right to.

The court building itself was one of a cluster of historical buildings incongruously sandwiched between modern skyscrapers and laissez-faire pubs and sailing clubs by the river. Thick white pillars supported the porticoed entrance. It was at these pillars that Amy's step faltered, and she would have stumbled if Alex's hand hadn't been there, grasping her elbow.

She hadn't slept much over the past few days, but her brain seemed to have decided that now was a good time to shut down. Her mind was foggy, her eyes bleary, and all she really wanted was to go back to bed.

A couple of security guards turned suspicious gazes on her. She smiled feebly and righted her stride, allowing them to check her bag as she heard Alex asking in hushed tones for Court Number Two. The entrance hall was full of people, a babble of noise. The guard asked why they were there, and Alex quickly told him they were related to the victim. She supposed it wasn't even much of a lie. They received instructions on general court etiquette, such as bowing to the judge, which her sluggish brain did its best to remember.

There was an extravagant staircase ahead of them, which, while more suited to the frippery of a stately home than the practical environment of a court of law, made the place seem all the more foreboding. Amy grasped the thick wooden rail tightly as they climbed. She felt as though she were hyperventilating. Her heart was beating erratically – strong beats staccatoing against her chest. She desperately sucked in air. The surroundings swam before her eyes and she thought she was going to faint, but the twisting molasses inside her head continued. Alex's arm was firmly around her waist, and he was marching them on. There was no way he would let her back out.

When they got through the doors to the upper gallery, there were people already seated in the public viewing area: a middle-aged woman with tired, sad eyes; a quartet of girls in their early twenties; three police officers; and two court security officials. Amy was surprised. She'd thought there
would be more people here. The press must be somewhere else.

Alex took her hand and guided her to seats at the front. She held on tight, feeling a small pulse throbbing through his fingertips and connecting with her own.

From where they sat they could clearly see the front of the courtroom. She took a tentative look down at the lawyers' desks, vertigo like a slow spinning top in her head, but was then distracted as the jury filed in. They were followed by the judge, who strode confidently to his chair as they all stood for him. As he sat down, his expression was unreadable and Amy marvelled at how this could be. He reminded her of her dad – she'd be embarrassed to use a mild swearword in front of this man and yet he'd just spent days digesting the most obscene details of this case.

Before she sat down she automatically glanced over the railing again. And saw three men, besuited, standing in a line. As she watched, one of them turned briefly to look up at the gallery and she quickly strangled the squeak of shock that escaped her. The judge glanced up, and people nearby turned to stare at her. Alex's grip on her hand tightened, but she sat down quickly, outwardly quiet, even though her heart was thundering.

It was overwhelming to see them in the flesh, she thought, trembling. They might be evil cloaked in skin and bone, but they were just three men. So ordinary, yet she had recognised the one who looked up as the man who had pinned her in the back of the van – Dregs, she'd never forget that name. He was a lot thinner now, and his hair was shorter, but his features were more memorable. She stared
at her feet, trying to shake off the thought that they were so close to her.

Nevertheless, she didn't last long after the first defence witness of the day was called. The man described seeing the victim, Vanessa, smiling at the men as they chatted to her in the bar where she had last been seen alive. He recalled that she didn't look too worried. But under cross-examination, the man admitted that he played football with the brother of one of the defendants.

Amy was shocked. Surely no one would choose to defend these animals because of such a tenuous link with them.

And then she realised with a start that there might have been a trial like this for her own murder, but for their botched attempt at killing. If the knife had cut her throat as deeply as they had meant it to, then Alex would be here alone, her mum at his side, maybe her dad, watching on as people who had never known her talked about her. Or maybe her body would still be lying under the trees somewhere, like Vanessa's had been for six weeks, decomposed, half-eaten by bush animals.

Her first retch was dry, because she hadn't eaten anything that morning, but on the second she disgorged thick white sputum into her hands. She got up hastily, even remembering to make a weird attempt at a bow to the judge, who, she half-noticed, was looking up again, before hurrying towards the door, which a security guard opened for her. Although she had said nothing to Alex, she was certain he was behind her, and, sure enough, as soon as they were outside, his arm came around her shoulder, and she shrugged it off.

‘Amy!'

It wasn't Alex who had just spoken. She was frozen like a hunted animal, fearing to look behind her, but her body responded like a reflex to her name and turned anyway.

Alex was turning too. And she was still registering the man's face as he said, looking pale with shock, ‘I thought it was you.'