Double Exposure (16 page)

Did he think they'd drive me away?

I mean, it wasn't as if he hadn't told me all about them.

I keep telling myself that if things had gone differently I would have pushed the point, but after that night things moved much too quickly …

Twenty-seven
Matrix

Chris's story

You can say what you like about the ‘artistic temperament', but when the canvas is painted and framed, when you've managed to draw out from inside yourself whatever it was that forced the conception into being in the first place, what you have left is a commodity. A product to be bought and sold.

With all that had been going on, with the court-case taking up a hundred and ten percent of my thoughts, I'd been going through the motions at the gallery. Libby and Maxine – mainly Libby – had taken charge of the exhibition, and I'd watched it develop gradually over days. Images hung on empty walls; photographs, paintings, drawings. They looked so different out of their natural environment. I'd only ever seen them in the studio, with its natural light and the city encroaching through the glass of the huge windows. They'd seemed right, back there. Connected, somehow.

Libby had done a great job setting the theme in the gallery – long converging lines, suggesting the city streetscape, decor constructed of cyclone wire and weathered brick, concrete and rusting steel. I was impressed, really. And so was Abby, when I took her to see it on the day before the opening. A kind of VIP preview for one.

But in the end it was all about sales, and that made the whole thing a little surreal.

The huge banner raised inside the gallery entrance read:

I guess it's about context. The pictures weren't diminished or enhanced. They were just … different. Not entirely mine any more. I guess it's how parents must feel when their kids grow up and leave home.

I felt proud. And tired. But ultimately disconnected.

I don't think there was any conscious intention of not turning up to the opening. It just happened. At about four, I went for a walk to clear my head, and that's the last thing I remember. I vaguely recall my mobile phone ringing, but I think I switched it off …

*

Six forty-five.

‘Bloody message bank!' Libby tosses the phone back onto the desk in frustration. ‘What the hell is he thinking? For
Christ's
sake!'

Abby opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. There is nothing to say. Nothing that makes the slightest sense.

‘God save me from temperamental
bloody
artists.'

Libby picks up the phone again and punches redial desperately.

Outside the office door, Cain and T.J. stand staring at the entrance, as if their combined willpower can make him appear.

The gallery is already filling, small knots of people gathering in corners or around particular pieces, drinking wine and sharing opinions. The invitations said seven o'clock, but the old hands know the advantages of getting in early.

Maxine moves out of the office and past them in a glide.

‘The show must go on,' she whispers, to no one in particular, assuming the smiling mask of the hostess. Then she is descending among the growing crowd, air-kissing and brushing her manicured fingers across cheeks and shoulders, shaking limp hands, and directing attention towards one piece or another, according to taste and gold-card status.

T.J. watches her in action. She is poised and welcoming, giving no sign of the concern she must be feeling.

Beside her Cain is thoughtful. Silent.

‘Are your parents coming?'

She asks the question without looking at him. Another small group of people enters, looking up at the banner as if to check that they are in the right place.

He shrugs.

‘Your guess … He sent them an invitation, which surprised me a bit. I doubt Dad will come. Too much history. Besides, if he did, he'd have to admit he was wrong. I don't know about Mum, though. She might just … Hey, there's Ty. And Mandy.'

In the doorway the young woman stands mesmerised, one hand guiding the stroller, the other holding the child's hand. He is looking up too – at the large picture of Chris which hangs from the ceiling a few metres to the left of the banner.

‘Cain,' he says, but too quietly for the girl to hear. Then he catches sight of his mother moving towards them across the gallery floor. ‘Mummy!' he shouts, and pulls his hand free, running to meet her.

T.J. sweeps him up into her arms and he points towards the huge photo.

‘Cain,' he repeats.

‘Almost,' she replies. The concept of identical twins is still a little beyond him.

‘Your mother's parking the car.' Mandy has moved the stroller up alongside them. ‘He wanted to walk. C'mon, Ty, into the pram. It's about to get crowded in here, and we don't want you getting trod on.'

But T.J. shakes her head.

‘I'll hold him for now. Until he gets used to the place. Leave the pram here and go have a wander. I think you'll like it.'

Mandy looks around.

‘I like it already. You want a glass of wine?'

‘Not me. I've just finished one. But get yourself one.'

‘Too right! Never say no to a freebie.'

At the top of the stairs, outside the office, Cain stands on the small landing, looking down. She waves Ty's hand in his direction and he smiles, waving back. Then he turns and enters the office.

A hand taps lightly on her shoulder and she turns.

‘Hey, kid.'

‘Dusan! I'm glad you came.'

The young man smiles. ‘Wouldn't miss it. Where's Cain?'

She nods towards the office.

‘Minor emergency. Chris has disappeared. It's a bit difficult to have a gala launch without the star of the show.'

‘No one knows where he went?'

‘Not a clue.'

He shakes his blond head and smiles broadly.

‘Shit, eh? Bloody artists … I think you chose the right brother, kid. Where's the booze?'

As he moves away towards the refreshment table, she smiles.

Pure class …

But he cares for Cain, and good friends are hard to find …

Seven-fifteen.

‘So, what do we do? Make up a story, or pray that he decides to grace us with his presence?'

Libby drains her glass and stares at Cain, demanding a miracle but receiving a helpless shrug in its place.

Of all the dumb-arse stunts, Chris …

Then suddenly the answer is clear.

Thank you, Leo!

‘You know what they'd do in the movies at this point, don't you?' he asks.

‘Blow something up?'

Abby's contribution. Even in the midst of disaster, her sense of humour hasn't completely deserted her. He smiles.

‘Maybe. But I wasn't thinking Steven Segal. More like
The Man in the Iron Mask.'
Libby looks up from the phone, which she is redialling for the hundredth time. ‘The thing about identical twins, Libby, is that they're … identical. Which means that most people can't tell them apart. Especially most people down there. If Leo Di Caprio can pull off a switch with the king of France, I'm sure I could manage a Chris Eveson impersonation – at least for a couple of hours. It'll solve the immediate problem, then we can worry about a ritual dismemberment – or some other such suitable punishment – when he finally decides to show himself.'

Libby is quiet, considering the suggestion.

‘But what would you say? I mean, about the work. He –'

‘You're
kidding,
right? Over the past couple of years, he's taken me over every brush-stroke, every aperture setting. Every convoluted thought process. I know these things almost as well as he does. You only want five minutes, don't you? The problem will be working out what
not
to say. You game?'

An embryonic smile.

‘Do we have a choice? There's just one thing, though. What if he turns up in the middle of your speech?'

‘Then I'll introduce him as my brother Cain. But I don't think he will. It's after seven now. If he was going to make an entrance, he'd have done it already. So if we want to know what's going on inside that brain of his, we'll have to wait until he decides to show up. What d'you say?'

‘What the hell! Just do it!' Abby sounds positively enthusiastic. Libby nods agreement.

‘Just do it.'

‘Should we let Maxine know?'

‘No time. She's smart. She'll catch on.'

Libby puts the phone down on the desk for the last time, and extends her hand.

‘Mr Eveson, would you like to accompany me downstairs to meet your public?'

‘Miss Fielding, it would be a pleasure. Abigail, will you join us?'

*

T.J.'s story

And so, ‘Chris' gave his speech.

There weren't more than a handful of people in the place who knew the truth, and we weren't telling.

At first I was terrified. How was he going to be able to pull it off? He was so different from his brother when you got to know them, how could he possibly …

But then I realised: no one here
did
know them. Apart from Abby, who wasn't letting on. And Dusan, who just smiled and sipped on his designer beer.

‘An individual's story,' he began, ‘is rarely the history of one person. It is a complex matrix of intersecting lives – of family and friends and enemies, of those we barely know, who have shared brief moments or life-changing events and moved on into unknown orbits. In life or in history, few incidents appear the same – or even similar – from different perspectives; rarely is a person universally loved or despised. Or understood. In essence, this is why we create Art – to explain ourselves to the world, and the world to ourselves.'

I was impressed.

I'd heard a lot of it before, of course, but then it had been about movies. The way he spoke about his brother's vision, the way he led the audience towards an understanding of the world behind the images, the way he introduced Abby as his ‘Muse', kissed her and made her take a bow – for those few minutes he
was
Chris, and I began to understand a little of what it meant to have the kind of connection that so few of us can ever share.

Then the formalities were over, and he was introduced around.

Maxine was playing along with the game and shepherding him between the different cliques, shamelessly commercialising everything he had just said. And the ‘Sold' stickers began to appear on the frames.

Abby came up beside me and smiled, but the smile didn't make it as far as her eyes.

‘Worried?' I asked.

‘Terrified. Where could he be? I mean, it's his big night, and all of a sudden …'

‘Stage fright, maybe?' I was trying to sound positive. ‘It's in the genes, you know. Cain too.' I looked across at where he was standing, deep in conversation with a fiftyish guy with a beard and a tweed sports-coat. ‘They just go “walkabout”. Sometimes for days at a time. Look, Ab, don't panic. He can take care of himself. Believe me, I've seen him in action. You'll probably get back to the loft and he'll be waiting for you with a private supper and soft music. He's a private person. That's why he can create all this. This … circus is probably just a bit too much for him. Especially after all that's happened in the past few weeks.'

‘You reckon?' She wanted to believe me. Hell,
I
wanted to believe me.

I reached out and hugged her.

‘You wait and see.'

That was the moment Mandy screamed and my carefully constructed world fell apart.

Twenty-eight
Greater love …

Seven forty-five.

The rain has begun falling again, but he feels nothing. Standing across from the gallery entrance, he is already soaked and he is beyond caring.

The drugs have dulled his emotions, but not his perceptions. Through the open doors he can see the Islander girl, and she is holding the kid. The speeches have finished and the crowd is beginning to mill around again, but his focus is tight. He crosses the road and mounts the steps, approaching the open doors slowly, cautiously, like a stray dog schooled by too many random kicks.

No one is looking towards the entrance. The centre of attention is deep inside the gallery and most people are studying the pictures on the walls, so he manages to cross the distance between the door and the girl before she is aware of his presence. The boy is half-asleep in her arms, and she turns to place him in the stroller.

As she sees him and recoils, he strikes her backhanded, hard across the face, and grabs the suddenly-awake child.

The girl hits the floor, screaming, and he sees the child's mother turn. Their eyes meet, and the horror and revulsion on her face are louder than a shout.

Then he is running, out of the doors, down the steps, stumbling but maintaining his precarious balance, as he closes the distance between the steps and his open car. A few more paces, and he throws the child inside, sliding in behind the wheel and turning the key.

The starter revs and dies. He curses, pumps the gas then twists the key viciously. This time the motor catches. The door swings shut as the car lurches forward, and he accelerates away from the kerb, scattering his pursuers as they grab for the door handles.

*

Cain's story

As Mandy screamed, I turned towards the sound and saw Ian turn and run. Before the significance registered, T.J.'s shout rang out.

‘Cain! He's got Ty!
Cain
!'

And then I was running. I made the doorway just as he reached the rusty Holden on the opposite side of the street, a few metres down. The rain was pouring and the steps were slippery, but I took them two at a time, sliding to a stop at the bottom.

By the time I reached street-level, the motor was labouring to start, and for a moment I thought we had him. I had overtaken T.J. halfway to the car and Abby was a few metres behind me, but then the engine burst into life, and I felt my heart lurch. The car leapt forward directly at us, and I felt two strong hands grab my shoulders and pull me aside, as the car surged past.

As we hit the ground, I recognised Dusan's jacket and I realised who had thrown me to safety.

‘Duse,' I shouted, ‘where's your car?'

He scrambled to his feet and began running towards the corner.

‘Just down here. Come on!'

‘Cain?' T.J.'s voice. I couldn't stop, but I yelled to her over my shoulder.

‘Follow us in your mum's car. I'll keep in touch on the mobile. And call the cops.'

We rounded the corner and slid to a stop beside Dusan's SX. The alarm was already deactivating, and the central locking had released the doors, so we scrambled in and Dusan found the ignition with his key.

As the motor fired, he was already flooring the gas and dropping the clutch. The car was tuned to perform and he was born to drive it. The tyres squealed and he slid into a power skid as he threw the wheel hard right and surged into a U-turn, missing the parked cars by millimetres.

Then we were flying, the turbo hissing, the tyres shrieking on the curves, and Dusan holding the wheel in a white-knuckle grip.

‘Where's he headed? Guesses?'

He yelled for directions, as I tried to second-guess a drug-addled psycho.

‘He was headed down Liverpool Street towards Darling Harbour. He could be … Anzac Bridge! He's going to cut down the Western Distributor and onto the bridge. He's heading for home. He's probably got a hideout somewhere close to her house. How would he know where we were, unless he'd followed us? Head for the bridge.'

Dusan obliged, gearing down and accelerating into a narrow space between two trucks.

‘Harbour Street coming up. Hang on …'

The light was changing to amber as we slid around the corner, fishtailing as he fought for control on the wet road, then accelerating as the tyres bit.

The phone began ringing, and I flipped it open one-handed, hanging on for my life with the other.

‘Cain?'

‘T.J. Anzac Bridge,' I shouted. ‘I think he's heading west. I'll get back to you when I'm sure.'

He had maybe two minutes start on us, and I was praying that I'd guessed right. If not …

Then, just as Dusan threw the car into the bus lane, and changed down for the long, steep on-ramp to the Anzac, I saw the Holden in the centre lane, just cresting the bridge and disappearing down the other side.

The car leapt forward again, and I knew Dusan had seen it too.

‘Got ya, creep.' He muttered the words to himself and allowed himself a cold smile. ‘You can't outrun the mighty Nissan.'

Two trucks, driving in formation, blocked the nearside lanes and he slid over two lanes to overtake, nearly tail-ending a campervan without the power to overtake the huge rigs. Sitting on the horn, he rode the van to the crest of the bridge, and as it picked up speed on the downward slope, he timed his move. The gap opened between the van and the nearest truck, and he jerked the wheel, darting into the opening and accelerating down the slope. I looked at the speedo, then away quickly. I'd never travelled this fast in my life, and Dusan was treating it like an everyday occurrence.

The Holden had caught the green at Victoria Road and was making its way down the Crescent towards the City West Link. The light turned red while we were still a hundred metres away, but Dusan showed no sign of slowing. He was watching the traffic on his right, and judging the gaps.

Two of the lanes were blocked with waiting traffic, but the centre lane was open, and with barely a touch on the brakes, he angled for the space and made the corner with centimetres to spare, spearing into the inside lane between a bus and a Ford two-tonner – which hit its brakes and its horn simultaneously.

I felt the sweat pouring from my hair and soaking into my shirt, but there was no stopping now.

The phone rang again.

‘We've got him in sight. On the City West Link just coming up to the Leichhardt turn-off. I'm putting you on speaker.'

*

Weaving through the slower-moving traffic, Dusan closes the gap between his car and the Holden, drawing up on the passenger side just as Ian looks across. It is an error that will haunt him for a long time.

Recognising the passenger in the Nissan, Ian reacts without thinking. The Norton Street lights are metres away, and he rips the wheel to the right, cornering at a sickening angle and clipping the rear wing of a car already three-quarters of the way through the intersection. For a moment it seems that he will slam head-on into the concrete barrier, but at the last moment the car steadies and he disappears down Norton Street.

‘Take the next right!' Cain shouts. ‘We can cut him off.'

This time there is no way through the on-coming stream. Dusan brakes hard and waits for the traffic to clear. Only a few seconds, but to Cain it is an eternity.

‘Teej, we're turning into James Street, heading for the bay. If he doesn't realise what's down there, we've got him. Tell the cops.'

Finally the gap appears and Dusan powers into it.

‘First left! If he keeps heading west, he's trapped himself by the water.'

‘Bastards!' Ian Wilson screams the curse at the windscreen as he speeds down the narrow street, scanning the way ahead for an avenue of escape. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he sees the green Nissan taking the corner at the lights a few hundred metres back.

‘Shit!'

The pedal is hard to the floor and the car is picking up speed on the slope towards the water, when he realises the trap he has created for himself. A hundred metres ahead, the road ends at the Iron Cove shoreline.

Then he sees it. A narrow street, barely wider than a laneway. Braking hard, he steers for it, but the damaged fender catches on the tyre and the manoeuvre is restricted. Instead of making the turn, the car crashes hard into the fence, splintering it and careening on, finally coming to rest with the front wheels over the edge of the bank.

Grabbing the boy's arm, he drags him out through the driver's door and looks around. Above him, spanning the junction where a wide canal meets the shore of the cove, a footbridge offers the only escape.

His injured wrist throbs cruelly. The impact has damaged it again.

Lifting the terrified boy with his good hand, he makes his way up onto the bridge, just as the Nissan skids to a halt in the dirt at its base.

Before the momentum is completely halted, the passenger door flies open and Cain jumps out, stumbling slightly then running towards the bridge.

‘It's over, man. Let him go.'

At the peak of the footbridge, Ian stops running. He wraps his arm around the child's neck and screams out, ‘Stay back. I've got nothing to lose. Stay
back
!'

Caught halfway between the shore and the centre, Cain slides to a halt. Beneath them, the water shines black, reflecting back the streetlights from the far side of the canal.

Ian has lifted Ty onto the railing and climbed up beside him, balancing precariously over the dark water.

Suddenly, the adrenalin-rush, which has fuelled his actions since they left the gallery, begins to fade. Cain stares at the scene unfolding in front of him, and the familiar feeling of helplessness seeps over him.

‘If you hurt him –'

‘What? What can you possibly do to me now?'

Headlights speed down the narrow road towards them. The battered white Mazda slides to a stop beside Dusan's Nissan and T.J. rushes out, stumbling to a halt as she takes in the stand-off on the bridge. A few paces behind her, Abby slows to a walk then stops.

‘Well, well …' Ian sneers the words and spits into the water below. ‘If it isn't the little woman. See what you've done, T.J.? See where it's ended up? You happy now?'

T.J. is frozen with fear.

‘Cain? What do we do?' The desperation makes her voice break. And the hopeless feeling swells inside him. He stares up at the city light reflecting dully from the cover of clouds and feels the drizzle settling onto his face in tiny drops.

What the hell do you want from me? I've tried. Haven't I tried?

‘Have you, Cain? Have you really tried? Or did you leave it all to me?'

The voice startles him and he looks across at the far side of the bridge.

Leaning over the railing, staring into the water, Chris runs a hand through his hair then turns to face him.

‘You always left the hard stuff to me. But that was fine. I didn't mind.'

‘Where have you been? How did you get here? What's … going …'

Slowly, Chris begins to shake his head.

‘You know the answer to that, Cain. I've always been here.' He taps two fingers against his temple. ‘Here.'

‘Cain?' T.J.'s voice intrudes, but he tries not to hear it. ‘Cain, what's going on? Who are you talking to?'

‘You gonna answer her, or should I?' Chris turns and looks down the bridge towards her.

‘Shut up! This isn't real. You can't be here. You're …'

‘Missing in action? Come on, little brother. Grow up and face it. You must've realised it would happen sooner or later. Bound to.'

‘What are you trying to pull, idiot?' Ian is staring strangely at him, but he is struggling to hold on.

‘Nothing. Just shut up and wait. I'm …'

‘You're a bloody fruitcake is what you are.' Then, to T.J., who is staring in horror at what is taking place in front of her, ‘You chose
this
freak? You let
him
loose with my son? The psycho's talking to himself.'

But Cain is beyond hearing.

‘Chris? I don't understand. What are you doing?'

‘Me?
Hold on, bro, I'm not doing anything.
You
called
me
. As usual, when you can't handle it. So, what are you going to do now? I can't bail you out this time. Not with all these people watching. This time it's up to you. Had to happen, kid. Sooner or later.'

‘But the pictures, the studio?'

‘Didn't think you had it in you, did you? Well, you do. Always did, really.'

‘Cain?' T.J.'s voice comes from behind him. ‘You're really scaring me. What's happening?'

He breaks eye contact with his brother to answer her.

‘Please, T.J. I just need a minute …'

His eyes flick back to the railing, but it is empty. Chris is gone.

This time it's up to you …

The words hang in the air, mocking his weakness.

Had to happen … Sooner or later …

Then, like the rain, a sudden deathly calm descends, bathing him, quenching the panic and the fear.

Breathing in deeply, he turns towards Ian and the boy.

‘Let him go now and we'll turn around and leave. Give you a chance to get away before the police arrive. It's the best offer you're going to get. And it has a time limit. Once you hear the sirens, there's nothing I can do to help you. Your choice.'

Slowly the bravado fades from Ian's face. He is trapped and the offer presents a slight hope.

‘How do I know I can trust you?'

‘You don't. But right now, the clock's ticking. You don't really have a choice.'

‘Okay, but if you –'

The words end in a strangled cry. As he shifts his weight to jump down, a searing pain burns through his damaged wrist and it collapses beneath him. He loses balance, tumbling backwards over the railing into the black water below.

For a moment, for an eternity, the child hangs precariously over the drop. Cain lunges forward, but his fingers grasp at air, as Ty topples silently over.