Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Sir
Lambert’s break, when it comes, is pure coincidence. As so often happens in the policing business, he’s not even there.
Couple of uniforms on routine patrol in an unmarked pull over a silver Mazda 3 that’s left it just too late at a set of traffic lights, doesn’t quite make it through the intersection before amber turns to red. They put on the blue light and pull the car to the side of the highway. As it comes to a halt, the passenger opens his door and makes a run for it, faster than a footballer at an RBT stop. It’s so unexpected, neither of the cops even gives chase, the bloke’s gone, disappeared down a walkway between a couple of houses, before they’ve really registered what’s happening.
The driver of the Mazda stays put. Uniform One stays behind the wheel of the unmarked and radios in, gives dispatch a description of the bloke who’s done a runner so that his colleagues can keep an eye out. Meanwhile, Uniform Two walks over to the Mazda, traffic pad in hand.
“Afternoon, Sir.”
The man in the car says nothing, puffs on his cigarette. The motor’s still running.
“Sir, turn off the engine.”
The man complies while Uniform Two watches. He’s not exactly hurried in his movements, doesn’t seem to be at all worried by this turn of events. As he completes the task, Uniform One arrives at the Mazda’s driver’s-side door.
“So, what’s going on?”
For a moment, neither his partner nor the driver of the Mazda answers. Uniform Two’s not really sure and the bloke in the car’s obviously got no intention of enlightening them.
“Dunno. Bloke’s not very talkative.”
Uniform One decides to start at the beginning.
“Did you know you just went through a red light back there?”
This gets a response.
“Nup. Was amber when I crossed. Didn’t think I could pull up safely so I kept goin’.”
The man’s accent is broad. Australian, yes, but not from round here.
He takes a drag on his cigarette, blows smoke out the window, in the direction of the coppers, extends his long arm out the window and drops the butt on the ground. It’s almost like he’s trying to be discreet about it, keeps his arm close to the side of the car, hangs his hand from the full length of the limb to which it’s attached and then opens his fingers to let it drop to the ground. All the while staring down the cops, his pale, watery blue eyes distracting them from his act. Uniform Two, closest to the car, steps on the butt to put it out. Never know what might start a bushfire and it’s hotter and drier right now than he can remember it ever was. He’s sweating just from the effort of standing up.
“Well, it was red before you got through the intersection. You could have pulled up. So, we’re going to have to give you a ticket for that.”
The man says nothing.
“Can I have your licence, please, Sir?” Uniform One leans in closer to the open window of the Mazda, close enough to catch a whiff of the driver’s breath; coffee and cigarettes, no hint of booze.
The man lifts his right buttock, pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his grimy blue shorts. When he produces his licence, it’s as Uniform One has suspected, interstate address, Brisbane. He takes down the details, while he thinks about his next question. Can’t write and talk at the same time. Before he speaks again, he hands the small rectangle of laminate to his partner so he can check out the driver’s details on their in-car CrimTrack terminal. Fucking amazing what computers can do these days.
As Uniform Two walks back to the unmarked, Uniform One asks his next question.
“Your mate. What’d he run off like that for?”
“‘Eez not my mate. Picked him up hitchin’ back down the road.”
“Did you, now, Sir? So, you don’t know him? Don’t know his name?”
“Nope. Never seen him before.”
“You picked him up down the road, did you?”
“Yup.”
“Where?”
“Couple a ks back.”
“And, did you talk to him? Did he tell you his name?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t talk to him? Didn’t even ask where he was going?”
“Well, yair. He said he wanted a ride to the shops. I was goin’ that way, so I decided to take him. S’orright, isn’t it?”
“But you don’t know his name? Didn’t talk to him or ask him anything?”
“Nope.”
“So, why did he run when we pulled you over?”
“Dunno.”
Uniform Two returns from the unmarked. It’s only a couple of metres behind the Mazda, but his mate could swear he’s breathing heavily from the walk. Maybe it’s just the heat.
“Nothing on the system.”
The man’s licence hasn’t turned up anything, but they’re still interested.
Uniform One keeps asking questions, while his partner hangs back a bit, holding the licence, glancing at it from time to time like it might just reveal some detail that the in-car computer terminal hasn’t.
“So, you don’t know the person who was with you when we pulled you over? Never seen him before?
“Nope.”
“OK. So, you won’t mind coming with us to answer a few more questions?
This question doesn’t get an immediate response. Most of the time, the driver of the Mazda’s been looking straight ahead while he answers, staring through the cracked windscreen.
After a while, “Why?” and he turns his eyes to Uniform One, and they’re asking the same question. The Man’s voice, this single word, the turn of his head, his eyes, give just a hint of nerves now. Until this moment, he’s not raised even a single bead of sweat, though the car’s air con went off with the motor and by now and it’s got to be a hell of a lot hotter in there than it is outside. He must be cooking.
“We just need to get your details, Sir, just in case we need to follow up on your passenger. He obviously didn’t want to talk to us, so I want you to do your duty as a citizen and come and give us a few more details.”
“I don’ know anything.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we, Sir.” Uniform One’s opening the Mazda’s door as he speaks, reaching in to help the man out of the car. He’s convinced the Queenslander knows something. About something.
Shit-stained sheets
When Nathan makes it home he’s gasping and lathered with sweat. He’s only run for five minutes, but he’s been going flat out and it’s fucking hot out there. Besides, he’s no fitness fanatic.
His hand’s shaking as he tries to get his key in the lock. The shakes aren’t all from the effort of the run. He’s seriously shitting himself now. He’s got to get inside and, as he fumbles with the key, can’t force it’s intercourse with the tricky slot quick enough, he tries to think what he’ll do first. He knows what he wants to do, needs to do, but he thinks his bowels might just overtake him.
Once inside, he goes straight to the back bedroom. The boy’s still there, where they last left him. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he looked in here. A couple of days now at least. He doesn’t know when Ed was last in here. Doesn’t want to know. The boy is still manacled to the bed, his t-shirt on, underpants and shorts pulled down around his knees. The mattress is soiled and the room stinks. When Nathan opens the door the boy doesn’t move. He’s awake and alert, but he can’t even register Nathan’s presence any more. Fuck knows what’s happened to him, but Nathan knows that what’s on the bed is just a shell.
Nathan takes a key out of the top drawer at the side of the bed. The chest is cheap chipboard covered in what once was while laminex. It’s not white any more. As he unlocks the cuffs, Nathan sees the cuts on the boy’s wrists and ankles. They’re red and deep purple, scabby and pussy and he thinks he can smell something. It smells like rot, just the beginning. Its the smell that precedes the arrival of death.
He’s free, but the boy just lies on the bed. Nathan looks at him for a while, wondering what to do. He bends over the boy, reaches down and pulls up his undies and shorts. The boy’s completely passive, not resisting, just dead weight. In the end, Nathan has to get a bit rough to get the job done. When he’s finished, the boy’s fully clothed again. But he’s just lying there.
“Hey, matey,” Nathan’s forgotten the boy’s name. “Matey, it’s OK, you can go now.”
The boy doesn’t move. His eyes are open, but he’s not looking at anything.
“Mate,” Nathan’s voice is louder now, impatient. “Get up. You can go. Get up!” His voice is rising in both tone and volume.
The boy doesn’t move.
Nathan takes a step forward. He yells, “Get up!” and slaps the boy’s thigh.
The boy screams, springs off the bed and runs at the door of the bedroom. Nathan doesn’t see where he goes after that, he’s staring at the shit-stained sheets. When he goes into the lounge, the house is quiet and empty.
Nathan sits in his chair and waits.
Still not pleased with the results
Chris is nervous like he’s never been before. Not when he went to Spring Lakes. Not when he was in Detective Senior Sergeant Lambert’s line of sight. This is different. This feels like a debut of another kind all together. The start of something, not the end. So, the nerves are different. Just as unmanageable, but Chris doesn’t believe they’ll kill him. Doesn’t want them to, either. Not this time.
He spends the morning getting ready. The routine’s familiar by now, but he pays more attention to the details than ever before. When he’s finished, he looks in the mirror. He’s still not pleased with the results.
Christine goes through to the lounge, sits on the sofa and turns on the TV, the bracelet on her right wrist clattering on the plastic of the remote control, false nail impeding the finger pushing the buttons. She’s early. She tries to settle for the wait. Someone who can step in if things turn to shit
Tiffany deals with her nerves the only way she knows how these days. She starts the day with coffee and a line. She keeps at it during the morning and by the time she gets in her car for the drive up the highway to the northern suburbs, she’s feeling pretty fucking good. Trouble is, she’s not sure how long it’ll last, but she’s brought some reinforcements, just in case.
Driving up the highway, the houses getting less desirable, but more widely spaced the further she travels, Tiffany thinks about how this might go. She’s a journalist, so she’s been in some tricky spots before, but she’s never really freelanced like she is now. She’s always followed leads established by someone else, asked the questions that have been written for her and, where there’s been any hint of trouble, any possibility at all, she’s had a minder with her. There’s always been a producer or a cameraman, someone who can step in if things turn to shit.
Not this time.
Tiffany wonders what she’s walking into. What if this guy’s some sort of freak? She already knows he’s into some kinky stuff in the bedroom, but it’s not that that worries her. She’s even a bit interested in that, of course she is, but she doesn’t think they’ll be getting to anything like that today. No, that’s not what’s worrying Tiffany. It’s the police investigation, the missing boy. Lambert said they were looking at this man for the boy’s disappearance. That’s not what she’s coming to ask him about, but what if he’s involved? What if he’s done it? What if he’s some sort of psychopath?
Tiffany decides to stop for coffee on the way up. She stops thinking and actually looks at the road for a while. The landscape’s changed and she knows she’s not going to find a cafe anytime soon, so she pulls into the first Maccas she sees, orders a coffee and visits the toilet. By the time she’s finished, Tiffany’s feeling more confident. She can handle this. It’ll be OK.
She’s running late now. She gets frustrated at the hold up a bit further up the highway. Cops have pulled someone over. Two of them, uniforms, but an unmarked car, talking to the driver. Tiffany hates the way people slow down to rubberneck. Poor bastards’s been pulled over for some minor traffic thing and all they can do is gawp.
By the time Tiffany pulls into the driveway at the address that Lambert gave her — but that she still asked Chris for when they spoke yesterday, just so he didn’t get too thoughtful about how much she might actually know about him — she’s half an hour late.
She’s blushing at the compliment
When she hears the car turn into the driveway, Christine pulls the curtain aside minutely, just enough to see, but not enough to be seen. She watches the person get out of the Prado. It’s a blonde woman, it’s the newsreader. It really is her! She’s doubted this, particularly since she’s sat down to wait. She’s doubted that anyone would turn up at all. But now someone has turned up and it’s the newsreader. Tiffany Robson’s walking down her driveway.
When the knock comes, Christine is sitting down again. She hesitates before getting up. This is beyond her. Beyond anything she’s ever imagined or dreamed she might experience. She doesn’t know hot to cope with this experience, but it’s too late to back out now. So she gets up, smooths her dress around her hips and buttocks with her hands and walks carefully on her heels to the front door. She stands to the side as she opens the door. Christine’s front door opens onto the street and she wants only the newsreader to see her. She’s rehearsed this move in her mind through last night. Sleep has not come at all.
“Hello. Come in. Please.” Christine says this last word when she thinks the newsreader’s hesitating on the doorstep, having second thoughts. It’s not really because she’s super keen to have her guest come inside, she’s ambivalent at this moment. It’s because she doesn’t want to be standing exposed at the door for too long. Christine opens the door wider, as wide as she dares, to invite the newsreader in.
“Hi,” Tiffany says and smiles, she hopes encouragingly. While her confidence is raging through every capillary, she’s trying to be sensitive to how nervous Christine must be. She wonders whether to step forward into the space made by the open door or wait until the occupant of the house opens it wide enough for her to actually come inside. When it’s opened just a little wider, Tiffany takes charge, steps forward, takes hold of the door and pulls it open so she can walk through.
Christine turns and walks into the lounge room onto which her front door opens directly. Tiffany follows. When they’re standing in the middle of the room, Christine speaks again.
“Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Tiffany looks at the choice of furniture and takes a seat on the far left side of the leather couch facing the TV.
“Um, yes, thank you.” She’s hesitating over whether to ask for coffee, but decides against it.
“Won’t be a minute.” Christine turns and walks away from Tiffany, towards the kitchen.
Tiffany studies her as she leaves the room. Christine’s wearing a knee length sleeveless dress, a vee at the back exposing a little of the flesh between her shoulders, but most of this is covered by long, deep brown hair, hanging free. The dress is patterned, black and white, almost a zebra stripe, but not quite. It’s simple, but well cut, a little baggy at the hips and rear. The heels on Christine’s sling back shoes are higher than Tiffany would have worn if she was that tall and she’s wearing black hose, they look opaque. Tiffany’s not wearing anything on her legs, it’s too hot for that.
As Christine returns from the kitchen, a cup in each hand, Tiffany can’t help but continue her observation. Her impression, now that she can see Christine’s face is that the person walking towards her is a man. Very carefully made up, dressed and presented, but still a man. She’s too tall, the shoulders are too broad, although they’re narrow for a bloke. Her hips are too slim, her bum’s non existent, all her fat’s in the wrong place. The bracelets at each wrist aren’t quite big enough, they don’t so much rest on the wrist bones as get stuck on the flesh just above them. All the details are there, but they’re not quite right.
But Tiffany can’t help but admire this woman, can’t take her eyes off her. She’s attractive, she’s almost beautiful. But she’s still a man.
“Here you go. Mind, it’s hot.” Christine hands the cup to Tiffany and takes a seat at the other end of the couch.
“Thank you.”
The two sit looking at each other for a minute. Christine is the first to break gaze. She smiles and then laughs.
“Sorry, this is, this is ... I don’t know what this is. You’re Tiffany Robson and you’re sitting in my lounge room. I don’t know. I don’t think I know what to say. Sorry.”
Christine takes a sip of her drink, leaves red lipstick on the rim of the cup. Tiffany does the same, but her lip gloss leaves no visible trace.
“It’s OK. No need to be sorry. Christine. Is it OK if I call you Christine? Anyway, thank you. Thanks for having me over like this. How about we just get down to it?”
“Sure. OK.” Christine’s relieved that there will be no more awkward small talk. She crosses her right leg over her left at the knee, leans forward towards Tiffany. Attentive.
“So, Christine. Tell me about yourself. Tell me how you came to be ... well, how you came to be Christine.”
Christine begins to tell the story that Chris has told the Detective some of only days ago. This time, she’s in charge, though. This time, she’s enjoying talking to this woman about herself.
As she talks, Christine can’t help but examine the woman sitting at the other end of her couch. She’s seen Tiffany many times before, but the HD experience is nothing like the real thing. Tiffany is wearing a shortish black skirt and low-heeled black sandals, her legs are bare. Her boyfriend shirt is white, simple, expensive. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail, there’s no hint of product. Her jewellery is gold and pearls, enough, but not too much. Her make up is barely there, mostly mascara and eyeliner. She’s rather delicious, Christine thinks, with a pang of envy.
She’s through her childhood and on into the present day. Tiffany hasn’t interrupted, just listened and encouraged every now and then with one of those noises they encourage her to make at the station when filming the reverse angle shots for interviews. When Christine dries up, has spilled all she can think of to say, Tiffany asks her first question.
“So, tell me, if you can, are you a transvestite, transgender, or what? I’m sorry, I feel bad asking, I should know, but I’m not sure.”
“No, that’s OK. I don’t mind. Ummm, I don’t know really. It’s taken me a long time to feel anywhere near comfortable as Christine. I’ve felt so much shame and guilt about this, about how I am and how I feel. If I’d had the courage, I think I’d be a woman now, transgender. But I don’t, and now I think I’ve left it too late. I’m a man. I’ll always be a man now. It’s too late for me ...” Christine trails off.
The two sit in silence for quite a while, as they both digest what’s just been said.
For Christine, forming the words and speaking them aloud is the first time she’s properly known her mind on this. She turns her words over in her mind, lets them replay while she thinks about what they mean. Yes, it’s too late. In her mind it is. She’s thought about the journey to womanhood so many times, done the research, she’s even started the rounds of appointments at a sexuality clinic. All the time, never telling anyone she knows about what lives inside her, who she really is. Except for online and, once, in real time, the visit to Spring Lakes about a week and a half ago now that’s caused her secret life to spill out into the real world. And now, as a result, Christine is sitting here in her lounge room with Tiffany Robson, the Channel Six newsreader, talking about ... Christine. And now, talking about herself, she knows, Christine is here, she’s part of the person that Chris is, has been for ever. And she’s here to stay.
Tiffany can feel Christine’s agony. She’s been listening, fascinated, not really daring to interrupt in case she breaks the spell. What gets to her most is the compulsion that Christine describes. The impulse to behave in ways that are outside of rational control, beyond reason. It’s like an addiction. You don’t want to do it, but you need to. And the more you do it, the more you have to keep going. The more you try to stop, the more it takes control. What she doesn’t get is the guilt, the shame. Christine’s used those words many times throughout her story. She must’ve had a terrible time of it. But Tiffany doesn’t get it. Sure, she’s done a few things she’s regretted the next day when it comes to the bedroom, been less discreet than she probably should have, but she’s never felt guilty about her explorations, never felt ashamed. She can’t quite understand that and she’s trying to think of the right questions to ask that will get Christine to tell her more about this aspect of herself. She’s interested in the guilt.
“So, tell me, how do you feel right now, Christine?” Tiffany begins to zero in on what she wants to know.
“Um, I’m OK, thank you. I feel OK.”
“Yes. Good. I hope you don’t mind me asking. You know, I should have said this before, you’re gorgeous, by the way. I hope you don’t mind me asking. Do you feel guilty or ashamed right now?”
Christine takes a long time to answer. She’s blushing at the compliment. Tiffany can see it through her foundation.
“No.”
That single word tells both women that maybe a threshold’s been crossed.
“You’re OK sitting here with me as Christine?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I am. I didn’t know if I would be, but I’m OK. This feels OK. It’s all right.”
“Good.” Tiffany smiles and leans forward, towards Christine. She reaches out a hand and takes Christine’s in hers. She’s surprised by how smooth and soft Christine’s skin is.
As Tiffany leaves, Christine stands at the open door and watches her walk up the driveway to her Prado. Tiffany turns and waves to Christine as she steps up into the four-wheel drive. Christine holds up her hand in response and then slips back into her house, closes the door.
Grudgingly impressed
“Good Evening, I’m Danielle Peterson and this is Six Evening News.”
Tiffany’s watching her old gig for the first time since she got the flick. She’s heard about it, but she still can’t believe that Bob actually did give the spot to the weather girl. Now she’s seeing it for the first time with her own eyes. What a cunt Bob Mullen is!
Since getting home from the northern suburbs, Tiffany hasn’t done much. She keeps thinking about Christine and the conversation they had this afternoon. She feels like she’s been in a counselling session. Wonders whether Christine’s feeling OK. Thinks for a moment about what she’s doing. Is she still dressed as Christine, or is that only for special occasions? She’s still got a lot of questions.
Tiffany’s only turned on the TV to break her thoughts, for a bit of company. But the top story snaps her attention to the screen.
“In breaking news tonight, police report that they’ve found Peter Johnson, the twelve-year old boy who went missing two weeks ago. Details are sketchy at the moment. For more, we cross to Six News reporter, James Hammond. James, what can you tell us about this? Do you have any more information for us?
Vision switches to the reporter standing, microphone in hand, in front of a hospital emergency department.
“Danielle, police have confirmed that Peter Johnson was found this afternoon wandering the streets of his local neighbourhood. It’s not known just yet what happened to the boy, but he’s reported to be in hospital undergoing medical tests, his parents by his side.”
“Thank you, James. More on that story as details come to hand. Now to today’s other top stories.”
Tiffany’s grudgingly impressed with her former colleague’s performance, she knows what it takes to put together the news and make it all look so easy. For a moment, she’s deeply jealous, and then she’s not. She thinks about calling Christine, just in case she hasn’t heard the news, but decides against it. Instead, she picks up the phone and dials Karla’s number.
It’s Friday and Tiffany feels like a night out.
Tomorrow it might rain
Chris Baker stands at the top of his drive. It’s early evening and already the sky’s beginning to dim, the scraggy ends of clouds tipped pink and grey by the disappearing sun. The air is still and, as he breathes and squints up at the sky, it takes Chris a while to notice how still it is. The absence of breeze. He looks around toward the east and the highway. As his head turns he sees the curtain move in the side window over at the Yannis’s place. They’re watching.
“They must think I’m fucking mad,” Chris thinks as the beginning of a smile sneaks shyly across his face.
As he looks towards the highway, Chris hears movement behind him. Standing over his letterbox is a bush. It used to be a tree until he had it cut down at the request of his used-to-be neighbours, the ones who lived at Yannis’s before. The old biddies didn’t like the nuts the tree dropped all over their parallel driveways and Chris has never been one for gardening. So he had it cut down. A while later a leaf snuck up from the stump, pulled a bit of a branch out with it, well more like a twig really. A couple of times, Chris pulled it off, but the thing just kept on sprouting until Chris let it live. Figured if it wanted to be here so much, who was he to stand in the way. Now it’s a mass of leaves standing at the top of his driveway. It’s been green all summer, deep luscious, in your face green. Alive!
The leaves are moving. Just a bit at first, one here and there. Then trills of movement, like the backs of fingers up and down piano keys. The leaves are moving and the conductor that’s moving them is coming in from the south west, tentative at first like it’s not sure the orchestra will follow, but with confidence growing all the time. The sea breeze has finally made its way into this suburb.
Chris’s face breaks. Yannis’s would have seen his teeth, if they were still looking, but their interest isn’t as strong as Chris supposes. They just like to know that the mad Australian next door is OK, so they look out for him from time to time. They’ve got their own business to conduct behind their curtains. Let’s not go there. That’s a story for another time.
Chris watches for a while longer and then walks back inside to open some windows and turn off the air con. Tomorrow it might rain.
