Double Exposure (12 page)

‘Do you think we have control over our lives? I mean
really
? We spend our whole lives reacting to things. Insults, praise, prejudice. Threats and kindness. Things people do or don't do. Acts of God. Even when we think we're being proactive, we're really only reacting to programming that was laid down by someone else, some time in the past. Wouldn't it be easier to accept that we don't control a damned thing and blame Fate. Or the gods?'

‘Or the government. What about free-will?'

‘What about it? I'm a creature of my upbringing, and so are you. I ended up here, you ended up on the street. It could easily have been the other way around.'

‘And the point is?'

‘There might
be
no point. That's the point. There might be no reason to anything. Maybe the Greeks had the right idea. We're like pieces on the giant chess-board of some deranged deities, going through the motions, thinking we actually choose our actions.'

‘So, we're not really responsible for our decisions? You know that's bullshit, Chris. Just because some people are unluckier than others doesn't change anything. In the end, we all have choices. Fate might give you access to a gun, but you
choose
to pull the trigger. Otherwise, there
is
no point. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I act. I act, therefore I'm responsible for my actions. I'm responsible, therefore I can choose the consequences.'

‘Like taking the rap for someone else?'

‘Perhaps. But however you look at it, Fate's a cheap cop-out. If someone throws shit at you, you can eat it or you can put it on your garden. But if you choose to make a meal of it, you can't blame them when it tastes like shit. And you can't say your neighbour's luckier than you are, just because he's able to grow better vegetables.'

‘Where did you learn to think like that?'

She lays her head gently onto his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart.

‘Ten years of Catholic school. Can't beat it. Sometimes I still catch myself praying.'

For a long time they share the silence and the moon-glow. She is drifting slowly off to sleep, lulled by the soft rhythm of his heartbeat.

‘I'm sorry,' he whispers quietly.

‘For what?'

‘For not knowing you when you were fifteen. For not being there to help when you needed it.'

Raising herself onto her elbow, she looks at him.

‘I need it now. And you're here.'

His eyes are closed.

‘Yeah, I guess I am.'

Nineteen
Healthy paranoia

14 August 1994

‘You promised, Abraham. You said they'd decided …'

His mother's voice is pleading. Cain puts down the toy car and shuffles across the floor on his knees, until his ear is against the dark-stained wood of the playroom door. On the other side of the room, Chris stops drawing for a moment, listening to the sound of raised voices beyond the wall.

His father is shouting now, angered by something in his wife's words.

‘I know what I said, damn it! I said what Bradley told me. I trusted him.'

‘But I thought –'

‘Yeah, well that was where you made your mistake, wasn't it. Thinking. For Christ's sake, Ruth, I may not even have a job next week, and you're harping on what I said a bloody month ago. Grow the hell up!'

A moment of silence. Cain shifts his position, sitting down with his knees drawn up to his chest, side-on to the door, his ear still glued to the wood.

‘I only …' his mother begins, then pauses. ‘It's just that you've been working so hard, and I thought –'

‘What? That you could believe a single word that slimy creep says? He screwed me. And I don't need you whingeing about promotions and bloody pay rises. They're retrenching half the damned company. If I lose this job –'

‘That won't happen, Abraham. It can't.'

The sudden crash of crockery against the wall. Cain starts back a few centimetres from the door.

‘Can't?
What the hell would you know about what they can't do? And stop your pathetic crying.'

Cain looks up. His brother has moved across to stand over him, staring at the door as if he can see through the solid wood.

As the anger builds and the shouting swells towards its inevitable conclusion, Chris kneels down in front of his brother, leaning forward until their foreheads are touching.

‘Want to see what I'm drawing?' He whispers the question and takes hold of his brother's hand. Standing, he leads him unresisting away from the door. ‘It's the possum we saw at Uncle Rick's. The one that stole the biscuits off the barbeque table.'

Outside, a muffled thud.

Another explosion of breaking crockery.

A woman's stifled cry …

*

Cain's story

She was sitting in the kitchen when I came down. I'm pretty sure she'd been crying, but she was a past master at covering her tracks.

As I moved in through the doorway, she rose and walked over to the sink, speaking to the garden outside the window.

‘Want a cuppa before you go? I was about to put the kettle on.'

‘I guess,' I replied, watching her body language as she kept herself busy and her eyes away from me. As usual, the pipes behind the sink voiced their objections as she filled the jug. I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, wondering why it was so hard to talk to her.

Her shoulders were rounded and her head was bowed. She sighed and placed the jug in its cradle.

‘Rough day?'

The reflex question.

Her hands were inside the cupboard rattling the cups and saucers. She didn't answer. As she moved to the fridge for the milk, the kettle began its preliminary hissing.

Wiping her face with the tea towel, she turned in my direction – except for her eyes, which were looking down.

‘How's Chris?'

‘Why don't you phone and ask him?' I regretted the words immediately. She shot me a hurt look and turned to fetch the sugar from the breakfast bar. ‘He's fine, I guess. Considering.'

I left it up in the air, in the hope that she'd ask me what I meant.

But of course she didn't bite.

The kettle boiled and the tea appeared before me. I poured the milk and sipped the warm liquid, hoping it would melt the lump I could feel growing in my throat as I watched her.

‘He could call
me
, you know.' The words were a whisper. ‘I never said he couldn't call. I didn't do anything to him. I didn't –'

‘You didn't
back
him, Momma! He stood up for you every time, took all the beatings, and you didn't once stand up for him. Not once.'

The tears that stood in her eyes stubbornly refused to overflow, but they distorted the pale blue of her irises. I tried to hold her gaze, but what I saw behind those eyes forced me to turn away.

‘I'm late.'

Standing, I looked back at her, but her head was bowed again. Her fist was clenched under the table; it showed in the rigid tension of her arm. I considered reaching out to touch her hair, but something stopped the impulse.

‘I'll see you in the morning,' I added weakly.

She spoke into her half-empty cup.

‘Be careful, Cain. The road's wet.'

I hesitated a second longer and left.

*

T.J.'s story

‘Cain hasn't been in since Saturday. He asked for the week off.' Amy stood behind the Candy Bar, resting her arm on the touchscreen of the register. She was answering my query, but her eyes were on Ty, who was standing staring at the bins of coloured lollies in the self-serve section. ‘He said he had some family business to deal with. And it's not like he doesn't deserve some time off. He didn't tell you?'

I think I shook my head. I'm pretty sure I didn't answer. But Amy's no idiot.

‘You okay, kid?'

‘I've been trying to contact him since yesterday, but all I get is his message-bank. It's not like him not to call, Aim. Ty's missing him, and –'

‘And you're not.'

‘I don't know what I am! Shit, Amy, I promised myself I wouldn't let this happen.'

‘Let
what
happen?' I couldn't read her. Was she really snapping at me, or was she just trying to snap me out of whatever irrational insecurity was suddenly driving me?

‘I promised I wouldn't let myself need him. That I wouldn't give up my independence again. And now I can't contact him for a couple of days and I'm behaving like … this.'

‘Newsflash, babe. It's way too late for that particular New Year's resolution. Admit it, you do need him, and there's nothing wrong with that. When I think of some of the Neanderthals I've dated … Look, all you're feeling is a little bit of healthy paranoia. He's disappeared without telling you about it – for which crime, he will serve a week of double-shifts in the ticket-booth when he comes back – but this is Cain we're talking about, kid. And Cain is nothing if not dependable. If he says he has family business to deal with, I'd be inclined to believe him. At least until he proves himself to be as unreliable as the rest of the world's male population.'

‘But without even telling me?'

A small shrug of the shoulders.

‘What can I say? In spite of all his good qualities, he's still a male. Won't ask directions, won't back down from a pissing competition – and won't remember to let you in on what's going on in that muscle he calls a brain. Hey, Tyson, can you bring Auntie Amy a choccy? That's right. Just lift the lid. Good boy.'

Ty's a quick learner. He worked out the lolly bin in about a second and a half, and covered the few steps between it and the counter with a Mars Bar held out in front of him. Amy smiled and relieved him of it.

‘Did you call his brother? I mean, if it's family business …'

She unwrapped the chocolate and pretended to take a bite, while Ty watched her like a cat outside a fish-shop window.

‘Want some?'

As he reached up to take it, she looked back at me, waiting for an answer. Finally I obliged.

‘I called, but no one's picking up. Chris has enough on his plate at the moment, without worrying about my neuroses. Look, I'm sorry. You're working. I shouldn't –'

She reached a hand out and touched my shoulder.

‘Chill, kid.
Mi casa es tu casa.
It's Wednesday lunchtime. You could fire a freaking shotgun anywhere in the complex and not hit anyone. I don't think they'll go docking my pay for a five-minute conversation.'

She winked and turned her attention back to Ty, who had managed to spread the chocolate halfway across his face. I couldn't help smiling.

‘Oh, and by the way,' she went on, ‘I've got a present for my favourite little man. Hang on a sec.' And she disappeared through the swinging door behind the drink fridge, returning a few seconds later with a small display box.

‘Okay, Tyson, close your eyes and put out your hand.' Ty did as he was told, and she opened the box, taking out a miniature Spiderman watch. ‘It's left over from the last promotion,' she whispered, fastening the strap around his tiny wrist.

I smiled. ‘He can't tell the time yet,' I confided.

‘Never too young to learn,' she replied. ‘Okay, Champ. You can open your eyes now.'

Of course, he loved it. If Amy had given him a ticket-stub he would have loved it. He adored her, and she returned the favour. I knew I was going to have a struggle ever getting it off his arm.

‘Thanks, Aim. Still, I should be getting chocolate-face back for his nap.'

Amy nodded.

‘Okay. But just promise me one thing. You won't worry. Cain's about as close to a saint as anyone of the male persuasion can come. He'll call before you know it, and there'll be a perfectly reasonable explanation. At least, as far as he's concerned it'll be reasonable.'

I knew she was right. She had to be. Because the alternative was that I'd screwed up again.

*

14 August 1994

For a full minute after the door slams they wait, listening for sounds of his return.

Finally, Cain turns the handle and pulls the door open, waiting for his brother to move through into the living area beyond.

‘Momma?'

Ruth Eveson stands with her back to them, staring through the window. A sob escapes as she attempts to control the emotion, clenching her right hand in front of her then slowly relaxing it.

Cain remains motionless by the bedroom door, as Chris approaches his mother, taking her hand in his and looking up.

‘Don't cry, Momma. Don't …'

Gathering her strength, she looks down into his face.

‘Momma's fine, Chrissy. Daddy's just a bit… sad today. But it'll be alright. Really Cain, baby, come and give Momma hugs?'

Another moment of hesitation, then he is moving towards them. She kneels and gathers both boys to her, hugging them uncomfortably hard.

But Cain barely notices. He is staring at the food-stain on the wall. Tomato salsa, vivid as blood against the cream of the paintwork. The stain, and the mess of food and broken crockery on the tiles beneath it …

Twenty
Payment in kind

‘You want to go home?' Chris asks the question, half-hoping for a last-minute failure of nerve.

Abby's eyes flick an unreadable look towards him and she breathes in deeply. She lets the breath out slowly, shaking her head, then she turns away, pushes open the heavy front doors of the police station and disappears inside.

Behind the counter, the twenty-something cop stabs at the letters on the keyboard with thick index fingers. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he concentrates.

For the first time since they left the gallery, Abby hesitates, leaning on the back of the waiting-room bench.

‘I'd like to speak with Detective Pollock,' she announces, without prelude.

The policeman looks up from his work, barely interested.

‘Name?'

‘Abby … Taylor.'

No sign of recognition.

‘Is he expecting you?'

For a brief instant, an almost-smile touches her lips.

‘I doubt it. But he'll want to see me.'

Slowly the policeman unfolds his two-metre frame from the chair and moves up behind the counter.

‘Can I tell him what it's in reference to?'

‘Just say I might be able to help him with his enquiries. That's the phrase they use on the news, isn't it?'

The constable regards her strangely and turns away, disappearing through a door at the rear of the office, and she wonders if the nervousness that is knotting her stomach is showing on her face.

When the door opens again, the first man through is shorter and twenty years older. His sandy hair is thinning and he wears the world-weary look of someone who has seen too much and slept too little for a very long time.

‘Abigail Taylor?'

‘Abby. No one's called me Abigail since Sister Thomas when I was in Third Grade. Look, my guts are doing gymnastics here. Can we get this over with?'

*

Chris's story

They took her into one of the interview rooms in the back and told me to wait.

I don't know what I'd expected to happen when she announced herself, but it wasn't that I'd end up sitting alone in the waiting room watching the duty cop practising his two-finger touch-typing.

He was playing music on a small portable CD player perched on the narrow shelf next to the monitor. Elton John.

Which figured, in a perverse sort of way. With all the CDs in the world to choose from, he'd gone for the absolute universal average. The musical equivalent of total, unconditional, white-bread normality.

While in one of the rooms behind the door, questions were being asked, and answers given, that threatened to throw her world – and mine – permanently off its axis.

*

Midnight.

The solid bulk of the warehouse across the street is illuminated momentarily as the heavy cloud moves across the face of the moon, hanging huge just above the skyline. Cain shifts his gaze towards the source of the light. The sky between the clouds is unnaturally clear and the craters shadowing the face of the ancient satellite are clearly defined.

‘You couldn't really expect anything else, could you?' he asks, still studying the moon.

Behind him, Chris sits on the floor, his back against the wall, his eyes closed.

‘I guess not. But you can hope. I mean, it's not like they had to track her down and catch her. She walked straight in there and gave them everything they needed to know.'

‘And a bit more.'

‘Okay, so why couldn't they allow her bail? She's not about to –'

‘Hey. Time out, man. Reality check. A man
died.
Not much of a loss in the scheme of things, but he did die – with his skull caved in by a grog bottle. It's a high-profile case. “Pimp bashed to death in city street.” Even if they think it'll end up as justifiable homicide, they can't just sweep it under the carpet – especially in an election year. The press would have a field day. So they have to come across looking like they're trying to make the streets safe for normal people.

‘Besides, sixteen or not, she's a minor, and she's in what they might call ‘moral danger'. As far as they know, she's been living on the streets since she was fourteen. Even without a murder charge hanging over her, they'd take her in for her own protection. And no offence, brother, but I don't think your studio quite fits their criteria for the ideal foster home. Where's she going to go? Back to stepdaddy? Anyway, the real question is, what happens now?'

No answer. Outside, another cloud drifts across the face of the moon. Behind him, he can sense his brother standing.

‘I could contact Ricky's father and ask him to help her. I should have done it weeks ago, I just didn't think … Even if he can't run the case, I'm sure he'd give her some good advice.'

‘What makes you think he'd do that? Just because he gives you free rent doesn't mean he'll want to get involved in a case like this. Not
pro bono,
at least. This is his business, Chris. And from what I hear, he doesn't come cheap.'

‘Maybe, but now that I'm about to be exhibited, neither do I. Maxine reckons any of these pieces could bring five, six thousand – and that's as an unknown. In two or three years, who knows? Ricky's father's a businessman as well as a lawyer. I'm sure I can interest him in investing some time in return for payment in kind.'

‘You mean your pictures?'

‘Or some family portraits. We could work out the details. Can't hurt to try.'

Turning from the window, Cain finds his brother staring up at the picture of Abby at the end of the huge room.