Deserving Death (15 page)

‘It’s engraved.’ She took it back to show him.

‘
For you with love from me
,’ he read. ‘I like it. Simple. Anonymous.’ He smiled.

She grinned. ‘Keeps the eBay value right up there.’

He kissed her. ‘Thank you. I love it and I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ She strapped it on his arm and did up the buckle. ‘Lookin sharp, Doctor McLennan.’

‘Like a scalpel,’ he said.

*

Tessa grunted each time she hit the heavy bag. The impact jolted her shoulders and she took pleasure in the feeling, in the rattle of the chain the bag hung from, in her ability to keep the bag off the vertical with evenly paced right and left jabs. She thought of Robbie and John and her mother, and jangled the chain up on itself.

‘Good job,’ the trainer said, coming past.

She didn’t pause or respond but shifted smoothly into a jab-cross-hook combination. The bag bounced and swung. The sound of the other students hitting their own targets melted away. She focused on the surface of the bag, her target spot, and threw all her power into the punches.

Three minutes later she stopped, blowing hard, sweat running down her ribs.

‘You’re in form tonight,’ the trainer said. ‘Working out some issues?’

‘As always.’

‘Feel like some grappling?’

‘Sure.’ Tessa took off the thick gloves and shook her throbbing hands out by her sides. The air was cool on her sweaty palms. She pulled on her lighter MMA gloves and flexed her fingers as she went to the mats. The trainer stopped on his way over to correct another student’s technique, and Tessa walked a tight circle, fists on her hips, feeling the blood pump.

‘Time for new gloves soon.’ The trainer nodded at her sides, where scraps of black plastic adhered to the sweat on her skin.

Tessa looked at the gloves and saw the plastic coating was damaged. She hadn’t noticed them to be so bad before.

‘I guess so,’ she said.

Sixteen

C
arly squatted by the patient on the footpath on Alfred Street, injecting morphine into the IV line she’d put in his wrist. Mark crouched by the man’s legs, easing the brown polished leather shoe off the foot, which stuck out at a sickening angle. They worked by streetlight while traffic crawled past and pedestrians stepped into the gutter around them, murmuring their revulsion at the injury. At least none had stopped to take photos with their phones, Carly thought. So far anyway.

The man moaned. He was biting his wrist, tears in his eyes as he stared at the darkening sky, his head resting on his briefcase. His other hand gripped the toe of Carly’s boot. Carly depressed the plunger of the syringe again and at last he relaxed, his face smoothing out, his blink slowing, his hold loosening on her foot, his arm drifting down to lie on his splayed-open suit jacket.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

He rolled his head to look at her, pupils tiny from the drug. ‘Peter,’ he mumbled.

‘And how did you get like this?’

‘Tripped off the gutter.’ He’d been in too much pain to speak before. Now he managed a smile. ‘Like an idiot.’

‘Not at all,’ Carly said, inflating the blood-pressure cuff. ‘These things constantly happen.’

He yelped and flinched as Mark fumbled the shoe and bumped his foot.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Mark said.

Carly saw sweat on Mark’s forehead in the light from the passing cars. ‘You okay?’ she said softly.

He nodded and started cutting through the sock, his brow furrowed with concentration, his gloved and trembling fingers avoiding the skin stretched tight over the broken bone ends.

Perhaps the injury was getting to him. Everyone had their threshold, their particular
thing
that made them queasy. She’d known the toughest guys to retch when faced with phlegm. And the ankle didn’t make her all that cheery either.

She said, ‘Got any medical problems, Peter? Taking any tablets?’

‘No and no.’

‘Got pain anywhere else?’

‘No.’

Mark eased the sock off. ‘Can you feel this? Can you wiggle these guys?’

‘Yes.’ Peter closed his eyes as if to focus and his toes moved a little.

Mark pressed his gloved fingers to the top of Peter’s bare foot. ‘Good pulse,’ he said to Carly. ‘Skin’s warm.’

He reached for the splint and bumped Peter’s foot again.

‘Jesus!’ Peter cried.

‘Sorry,’ Mark said again, squeezing Peter’s shin. ‘I’m so sorry, mate.’

‘Ouch. Fuck, just watch it there.’ Peter shut his eyes.

Carly raised her eyebrows at Mark. He didn’t meet her gaze, and laid thick dressings in the splint.

‘Okay,’ she said to Peter. ‘We’re going to splint your ankle so it won’t wobble around and hurt when we move you.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ he mumbled.

Beyond him, a man in a suit slowed, his phone held up, his eyes on the screen.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Carly said to him, and the man lowered the phone like he was up to nothing and hurried on.

‘Who was that?’ Peter slurred.

‘Nobody,’ Carly said. ‘We’re going to put this splint on now, okay? Just keep still and breathe deep and try to relax.’

Peter nodded.

Carly moved into position by his ankle. Mark held Peter’s foot in both his hands, silent. Carly fitted the splint carefully around Peter’s leg. He flinched a little, so she slowed her movements and watched as he relaxed. She started to bandage the splint into place. Mark changed his grip to hold it. They were practically shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Carly could hear him breathing.

‘Sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

‘Everyone has an off night sometimes.’

She saw that he was looking up the street. She followed his gaze and saw people walking, waiting to cross the road, peering their way.

‘See someone you know?’ she said.

Mark looked back at Peter’s leg without answering.

Carly forced herself to slow down, calm down, so she didn’t pull the bandage too tight. She could see the glint of fresh tears in Peter’s eyes.

‘Almost there,’ she said.

She was wrapping his foot when she heard a buzzing. It came from Mark’s uniform shirt pocket. She looked into his face, but he was gazing up the street again.

Carly taped the tail of the bandage down with tense fingers, breathed out, then touched Peter’s arm. ‘How’re you feeling?’

He raised his head off the briefcase. ‘Is it all done?’

‘You’re wrapped up and ready to go.’

Carly checked his blood pressure again. One ten on sixty. Pulse of ninety-eight. His skin was cool but dry. He was in good shape.

Mark’s pocket buzzed again.

‘Someone’s keen to get in touch,’ Carly said.

Mark didn’t answer, and went to get the stretcher. Carly watched him all the way.

*

Ella collected a cube of cheese, a snip of salami and a green olive on a toothpick and pulled them off as one with her teeth. A bunch of nurses had commandeered the stereo and were dancing and singing to one-hit wonders from the nineties. ‘God help us all,’ someone said behind her as ‘Do the Bartman’
came on.

Callum was deep in conversation with one of his doctor mates. He’d introduced Ella to everyone but she couldn’t remember their names. It didn’t matter. He looked like he was having a great time and she was happy with that. He was wearing the watch too.

The front door opened and his mother, Genevieve, stepped in. She was smartly dressed in a red skirt and black jacket, but her hair looked like she’d been driving with her head out the window and there was a glaze in her eyes that Ella had seen when dealing with drunks after pub fights.

Genevieve slammed the door and leaned against it. ‘Hello,’ she said grandly to the room.

Callum looked up. ‘Mum.’

There was a murmur near the stereo and someone turned the music off.

‘It is.’ Genevieve looked around the room. Ella didn’t know whether to step forward or hide.

‘Are you okay?’ Callum said. ‘You didn’t drive here, did you?’

‘I came to wish you a happy birthday.’ She pulled his head close and kissed him loudly on the cheek. ‘Since I otherwise wouldn’t see you until the weekend.’

‘Come and sit down,’ he said. ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’

She grabbed him again and kissed him on the other cheek. ‘My boy.’

Red-faced, he led her to the lounge, and the people sitting there got up and moved away. Ella got a clean glass and filled it with water. He came into the kitchen and she gave it to him. He looked flustered.

‘Should I, uh . . .?’ she said.

‘Maybe just stay in here for the moment.’

‘Okay.’ She reached up to wipe the lipstick from his cheeks but he was already walking away.

The music went on again, but low, and the conversation slowly restarted. Ella watched Callum talk with his mother, a serious look on his face. Genevieve looked much older than when Ella had last seen her, sobbing outside the courthouse when her husband had been sentenced for the murder of Callum’s cousin Tim, and she’d lost weight too. She’d known for some months that Callum and Ella were a couple, but refused to meet or speak to Ella. Now she sat with slumped shoulders and didn’t take the glass of water. After a moment Callum put it on the coffee table and hugged her. Her thin fingers grasped the back of his shirt with a desperation that made Ella look away.

She felt alone in the crowded flat, felt like her world and this one didn’t quite go together. Would they ever? One thing was for sure: they couldn’t go on like this, because eventually Callum would be forced to choose between her and his mother, and she didn’t like to think about who might win. But today was his birthday, and the anniversary of Tim’s death, and not the day to start getting things sorted.

‘I should go,’ she said to nobody in particular, but then Callum was making eye contact and motioning for her to join them. Her heart lifted. He wouldn’t do that unless Genevieve was receptive.

The walk across the carpet felt long, then she was sitting down where Callum pointed, on the other side of Genevieve. The blood beat hot in her wrists.
Oh, come on. You’ve faced killers.

‘Mum, you remember Ella.’

‘Hello,’ Ella said.

Genevieve glanced at her with no expression. ‘Yes.’

‘Ella, I was just saying that as it’s my birthday we might be able to make a bit of an effort to be friendly.’ Callum’s words were stilted and his face anxious.

‘Sure,’ she said.
Killers
, she reminded herself.

Genevieve pressed her lips together and clasped her hands in her lap.

‘So,’ Ella said, ‘how’ve you been?’
Fuck, fuck! How do you think she’s been?
‘I mean, it’s nice to see you again.’
Just as bad. Shut up right now.

‘She’s been busy growing orchids,’ Callum said. ‘Won an award recently, didn’t you, Mum?’

Ella was cringing for them all but stretched her face into a smile. ‘That’s great. My dad’s into roses.’

‘Lucky you, having your father around,’ Genevieve said.

Ella looked at Callum. He was blinking back tears. She turned to Genevieve. ‘You’re clearly angry, and I’m sorry about that. But this is his birthday.’

‘Oh, you’re sorry,’ Genevieve said.

‘I am,’ Ella said. ‘But come on. He’s your son. He’s caught in the middle here.’

‘Ella,’ Callum said, but Genevieve interrupted him.

‘You forced my husband to lie.’

Ella blinked.

‘He told me all about it,’ Genevieve said. ‘How you pushed him and pushed him until he cracked and said what you wanted him to say.’

‘Mum,’ Callum said.

‘You were in the courtroom,’ Ella said. ‘You saw the recording of the interview.’

‘All it showed was a broken man sobbing into his hands. Who knew how long you’d been at him before that?’

‘The court knew,’ Ella said. ‘The judge and jury knew. It was all documented.’

Genevieve was shaking her head. ‘He told me what happened.’

Well, he lied, Ella thought. ‘I understand how hard it must be –’

‘Do you,’ Genevieve said. ‘Do you indeed.’

‘Ella,’ Callum said.

‘I can’t put myself into your shoes,’ Ella said, ‘just as you can’t put yourself into mine. But due process was served in that case. The appeal court went through it all again. The decision was sound.’ She wanted to add,
And your husband got what he deserved
.

Genevieve was weeping. Callum put his arm around her. Ella couldn’t read his face.

‘Mrs McLennan, I can only try to imagine how it feels to be in your position,’ she said, softer now. ‘To have grieved for so long for your nephew, and to want so desperately to find his killer, and then to learn that . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Denial would be a common response. That I understand. But your husband wasn’t made to say or do anything. He confessed.’

Genevieve put her face in her hands and sobbed. People around them were staring. Callum held her close and murmured something to her without meeting Ella’s gaze. Ella felt sick. She’d screwed everything up royally now. She’d be lucky if Genevieve didn’t start demanding Callum break up with her immediately. She mumbled an apology and got up.

Back in the security of the kitchen, she crouched as if getting herself a beer and gripped the cold edge of the plastic bin. How the hell had she thought she could ever get Genevieve to see the truth? And really, who was she to try to break down the structure Genevieve had built to save her sanity? If thinking that Ella was a bitch was better than acknowledging that her husband was a paedophile and murderer . . . But no. It wasn’t better. Her husband had committed the crimes.

He
had done it.

Not her.

Ella stood up. She went back through the crowd to the lounge. Callum still held Genevieve in his arms, and he shot Ella a warning look, but she knew what needed to be said. She crouched beside her.
Get down lower, makes the person feel bigger, better. Helps eye contact too.

‘Mrs McLennan,’ she said, ‘it’s not your fault.’

Genevieve raised her tear-streaked face.

‘He did it, not you. And he hid it so well. There’s no way you could’ve known. It’s not your fault,’ Ella said again.

Genevieve stared at her. She looked frozen. Spellbound, Ella thought, and had a sudden glimpse of a future where they got along, where she could go with Callum to family dinners and they would all smile at one another, and the elephant would still be in the room but it would be just a baby one, and no doubt Genevieve would want to make up some story to tell her friends how she and Callum had met, but still. This could work. This could really work. Genevieve had just needed to hear those words.

Ella smiled.

Genevieve slapped her.

Ella stumbled backwards in her crouch and into the coffee table. Callum was half out of his seat, his face white with shock. Everyone was staring, and the room was silent except for Billy Ray Cyrus singing about chest pain. Ella’s face stung, but her pride stung even more. She got to her feet, determined not to touch her cheek, not to give this woman any satisfaction.

Genevieve extended a wrathful finger. ‘Keep away from my son.’

‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Ella said, standing straight and tall. She looked Genevieve hard in the eye, then stalked past.

In the kitchen, she collected her handbag. Her cheek was aching.

‘Guess I’ll be going,’ she said to Callum, who’d followed her.

He was looking back and forth between her and his mother. ‘Wait for me? Two minutes.’

‘I’ll be downstairs.’ Ella turned and walked out.

The air in the stairwell then on the street was cool on her burning face. She stood by the kerb and watched the traffic go by, the headlights bright in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not. Her cheek throbbed. If Callum wasn’t out soon, she’d walk up the street to her car and go home. It might be better anyway. What could they say to each other after that? She felt shrivelled with shame, unable to believe her gracious bestowing of no fault, of how she’d thought maybe that was what Genevieve needed to hear to make it all better.