Trilemma (22 page)

It's eight o'clock in the evening and I am still in the office reviewing every last cost line when my cell phone rings.

“Lin? It's me.”

“Sally. What's up?”

“You've got a visitor.”

My heart leaps in hope. “Ben?”

“His sister, apparently. She's been beaten up. I've patched her face, but she really should go to Accident & Emergency for a proper check. And she should be talking to the police too. But she refuses to budge.”

“I'll be home in fifteen minutes.”

Cheryl's face is a mess. I would not have recognized the pretty woman I met several years before. She has the same large, soulful blue eyes as Ben, but now one eye is swollen shut and her lip is split. Her beautiful chestnut hair is greasy, tied back into a rough ponytail, and she is dressed in a shapeless, gray pullover and tracksuit pants.

“No police,” Cheryl pleads. “And you mustn't tell Ben.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to go back,” she says. “The kids will be missing me. And Joe will be sorry he hit me. He always is.”

“Next time he might kill you.”

She shakes her head and then winces. “I have to go back. I have to take care of the kids.”

I gaze at her in frustration. “They aren't your kids, Cheryl.”

“You don't understand! If I'm not there he might, that is, he gets so angry! I can't just walk away!”

“Angry?”

She looks away and her mouth trembles. “The kids aren't safe.”

“Ben could sort Joe out, like he did last time.”

“Noooo!” she cries and dissolves into tears. “Joe and his mates are tough guys. They won't stand for Ben coming and beating one of them. They won't! Make him stay away, Lin, please!”

“Have you thought of taking lessons in self-defense?” I ask.

Her eyes go round. “No.”

“Although, he is a big bastard, isn't he?”

She looks at me blankly for a moment and then nods her head. She's a wimpy little thing. Even if she had a gun, she'd be too gentle to use it.

“Can't you call Social Services about the children?”

Cheryl shakes her head again and then buries her face in her hands and sobs despairingly. “I can't do that to them. And Social Services would give them back again anyway, because there isn't any proof. I just, I just—” and she chokes and gulps and won't say what she knows.

“And you can't take them away yourself?”

She shakes her head. “They would never let me.”

“What about the children's family, can you talk to any of them?”

“His sister won't listen to me. She thinks if Joe hits me it's my fault for being a nag. She won't believe Joe would ever hurt his kids.”

“What about grandparents?”

Cheryl wipes her face dry with her sleeve. “Lola? She hates me.”

“But would she take good care of the kids?”

Cheryl sniffs. “Probably. But she lives in the North Island and the children are in the South Island. I don't think she has a
car or anything. I don't think she'd be able to get them, even if Joe was prepared to let them go.”

“You have to call Ben.”

“No! I don't want him to know! Lin, you mustn't tell him, promise?”

She starts weeping in great gusty sobs, so I call Sally.

“Cheryl keeps crying. Is there anything you can give her?”

“Do you have any lint?”

“Lint? You want me to give her a bandage for her broken heart?”

“No dummy,
Lindt
!”

I investigate the pantry. “I'm out of Lindt. There's a block of Whittaker's, will that do?”

“That will do fine. And get her a glass of something to wash it down with. Not gin, mind. Sauvignon Blanc would be best.”

“You can't drink Sauvignon Blanc with chocolate!”

“Chill out, Lin. Most women can drink Sauvignon with anything. Next, a Georgette Heyer novel or, failing that, a chick flick. I don't suppose you've got much of a DVD selection?”

“I can get something from the local video store. Um,
Pretty Woman
?”

“Nothing starring a brooding sultry hunk. That would just remind her of her bloke.”

“
The Notebook
?”

“Too sad. Try to find something with Hugh Grant. He's about as opposite as you can get from a sultry and brooding hunk.”

“Okay.”

I pour Cheryl a glass of wine, open the wrapping on the chocolate, and take them to her. Listlessly, she holds out her hand for the wine. Her head turns as she catches the scent of the chocolate, and her other hand reaches out and takes the packet.

“Thanks.”

“Tomorrow I'm going to take you shopping.”

“I don't have any money.”

“I want to buy you an early Christmas present. And something for last year too, and the year before that. Come on, please let me, it will be fun.”

Finally, a watery smile moves across her face. She swallows her mouthful of chocolate and chases it down with the wine. “I haven't had anything new for a long time.”

An hour later, fortified by wine and chocolate, corn chips and guacamole, and a wedge of Camembert and crackers, we settle in front of the television to watch
Music and Lyrics
.

“Aww,” she says. “Isn't he lovely? I wish I could meet a nice bloke like that.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“Ben's a nice bloke, Lin. Are you guys going to get back together?”

“I … hope so.”

When Cheryl has gone to bed, I lie on the sofa, trying to work out what to do. I analyze several alternatives before coming to the solution I think has the best chance of success.

There would be risks, especially to my reputation. I gaze at the wall. I couldn't let Cheryl go back to be beaten again and again and again. I gaze at the other wall. We couldn't desert those children to be beaten either. I gaze at the ceiling. So, I would do it. But not alone.

She begged me not to call him, but everything was heading in the one direction my own heart wanted to take me. I select the number.

“Lin!” he says. “You rang. I am so glad. How are you?”

“I'm fine, but Cheryl's not. Joe beat her up again and she came to me.”

“Is she all right?”

“A black eye and bruises, but no broken bones. But she's worried something might happen to the children if she's not there to protect them, so she's talking about going back.”

“She mustn't go back! We'll have to call Social Services—”

“She refuses to call them, she says it's a waste of time. She thinks they'll do nothing until someone actually hurts the kids, and she won't stay away and wait for that to happen. I've told her to call the grandmother up in Hawke's Bay, but she says Lola won't believe her.”

“I could go and see him, threaten him or something, if he touches her again or the kids.”

“She doesn't want you to. She's worried about Joe's mates as well as Joe.”

“I'm not afraid of them.”

“Well, she is. And she won't forgive herself if you get hurt. Besides, I don't think he'll stop even if you threaten him. She says he's violent when he's drugged or drunk. He'll hit first without thinking.”

“We can't just do nothing about the children. And I'm not letting her go back to that bastard!”

“Can you get away for a few days?”

“To help Cheryl? When she's been hurt? Of course.”

So I explain what I've been thinking, and he agrees it might work.

“I'll make the bookings,” I tell him.

“Okay. Well, I'll see you soon.”

“Yes, soon.”

I hold the phone against my chest and feel my heart beating fast, adrenaline surging in anticipation.

Of course there are risks. There are always risks.

Tom and I sit on one side of a table in a giant fishbowl in Auckland, waiting for the delegates from Kiwicom to join us.

A couple of chirrups break the silence. Tom puts his hand in his jacket pocket, and I reach down and take my phone from my handbag.

WE'VE REACHED PICTON, says the text message from Ben.

I place the handset on top of my folder so it can't make that annoying buzz on the surface of the table.

“They're on their way,” says Tom, and places his phone on the table beside his papers.

The door opens and two men and two women come in and lay down their papers. I haven't met these people before. Kiwicom likes to restructure every six months, so this lot are new to their roles.

They introduce themselves, shake our hands, and sit down. In unison everyone switches their cell phones to silent and places them on the table as if they are weapons. It is like a meeting of opposing drug cartels.

As the meeting moves through the opening phases of politeness, where teeth are bared in smiles while eyes scrutinize for reaction, I keep a surreptitious watch on my phone. Half an hour later the phone quivers. I reach down and take a look.

SHE'S GOING IN NOW.

“We can't guarantee we can meet the time frame you're insisting on unless we get these test plan forms completed,” says the dark-haired woman.

“We completed the forms and sent them to you last week.”

“This is a different set.”

Tom examines the forms. “I haven't seen these before.”

“You didn't ask for them.”

“We didn't know about them.”

“You should have asked.”

“We—”

I touch Tom's arm. “We'll get them to you tomorrow.”

The woman smiles. “Next item on the agenda.”

An hour passes. It is now three o'clock, and I haven't heard from Ben whether Cheryl has made it out with the children.

“Shall we take a five-minute break?” I suggest.

Everyone picks up their phones and checks their messages.

I text Ben. IS SHE THERE YET?

SHE'S JUST COME OUT, he texts. SHE HAS THE BABY IN THE PRAM AND THE TWO LITTLE BOYS, BUT THE TEEN NEPHEW IS WITH THEM.

CAN'T YOU TAKE HIM TOO?

NO, HE'S UNCLE'S PET, HE'D TELL JOE.

“Coffee?”

I look up. “Flat white. This is taking longer than I hoped. Can we skip the next three items? I don't need to be involved in those discussions. You and Tom can sort out the arrangements.”

THEY'RE AT THE SCHOOL GATE.

The fatter of the two men from Kiwicom looks up from his phone, his thumbs still flicking over the surface. “Joanne needs to join us for the next agenda item.”

CHERYL'S IN A PANIC. NEED TO THINK OF SOMETHING.

“How are you enjoying New Zealand?” asks one of the juniors as she hands me the next stack of papers.

“It's a beautiful country,” I reply automatically, my fingers moving busily.

SEND THE BOY A TEXT TO MEET AT THE HOUSE IN FIVE MINS.

WHY WOULD HE MEET ME?

DON'T SAY WHO IT IS.

A tall woman arrives and is greeted with deference by the other Kiwicom staff.

“Shall we get going?” she suggests.

The fat man looks around. “Where's the coffee?”

HE'S JOGGING BACK TO THE HOUSE. WE'RE GOOD TO GO!

“We're good to go,” says the dark woman as the coffee arrives and is handed carefully out.

The final agenda item is the process for requesting changes to the interconnect tests. We are given a twenty-page pack containing diagrams and footnotes and a set of new forms.

By six o'clock I still haven't heard again from Ben. I pick up my phone.

“Sorry,” I say. “I've got to chase up an important deadline.”

“Are you on board yet?”

The phone switches to Ben's voice mail message, so I return my attention to the swim lane that describes the process for requesting changes.

“What!” Tom looks up. “Are you saying we haven't given you enough notice?”

The tall woman smiles. “Well, technically, you have missed the boat.”

My phone dances, but when I look it is not Ben's cell phone number, so I ignore the message.

“We have your e-mails and those of your predecessors,” I say. “And so do the lawyers and Dr. Grey. Their opinion is that we followed the process that was published at the time and therefore we have provided the requisite information in the requisite time frame.”

The fat man and the tall woman exchange glances.

“As I was about to say, we're prepared to cut Hera some slack on this point, but please don't expect us to allow you to fast-track the process again,” Joanne says.

This was the final issue to resolve. Tom and I rise to leave.
Hands are shaken again and phones turned back on, and Tom calls a cab to take us to the airport.

I read my message.

BEN BATTERY FLAT WE ON FERRY SAFE NOW, CHERYL.

“What was the urgent deadline you had to chase up?” Tom asks in the taxi on the way to Auckland airport.

Your chief executive has been helping kidnap some kids.