Fractured (10 page)

‘Tony! Stop.’ Wendy put her hands up, palms facing him, as if she was trying to deflect his words. ‘I’m sure the police have
thought of that.’ She shook her head and blinked back tears. ‘But the way Anna was this morning … She’s just so very sick
– it’s no one’s fault.’

‘God, what if the guy who did this to them is still out there. Or it could be a woman, you hear about women stealing babies
—’

‘Please, stop this.’ Wendy wiped the tears from her face. ‘We don’t know what happened … but, yes, it’s a possibility, Tony.
Maybe she …’ Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. ‘My God, I’d swap places with her in an instant if it meant that
everything could go back to normal.’

He pressed the brake pedal and came to a stop at some traffic lights. Even Anna’s own mother thought she could have done this;
his shoulders slumped. Was he the fool here? He turned to face Wendy. ‘I just don’t know if I can do this.’

Wendy put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Yes, you can. We have to, for Anna. And for Jack.’

He nodded slowly. When the lights changed to green he turned off towards his parents’ house. Neither of them spoke again for
the rest of the car trip.

There was nothing left to say.

* * *

The four of them – Tony, Wendy, Ursula and Jim – sat on the couches in Jim and Ursula’s living room, just as they had the
previous afternoon. Tony could tell that his mum had made an effort by the furrows on the carpet from the vacuum cleaner and
the smell of furniture polish. He wasn’t sure if she’d felt guilty after their conversation earlier, or whether she had tidied
up because she didn’t know what else to do. He looked down at his white china cup and saucer; they usually only came out at
Christmas. His fingers didn’t fit through the handle, so he clasped his hand around it to drink the black coffee. A plate
of shortbread sat untouched on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room. It seemed absurd to be sitting around, pretending
they were at a morning tea, when everything around them was falling to pieces.

‘We all meet again …’ he said sarcastically, then regretted his tone.

Ursula glared at him; Jim reached for a biscuit and dipped it in his tea; Wendy matched Tony’s wry smile, then blinked back
tears.

‘Wendy, Tony told me you’d been to the hospital this morning to see Anna,’ Ursula said.

Wendy nodded. ‘Yes. I went last night too, but she was asleep. She was better today, she seemed more awake, but she’s not
good. I don’t even know if she recognised me. Well, I think she did at first, but then … It was horrible, I’ve never seen
her like that.’

‘Sounds like there’s not much change, eh Tony?’ Jim said.

Tony shook his head. ‘No. That’s what she was like yesterday morning.’ He felt disorientated, unsure whether he had really
seen her only one day ago or whether the past day or two had even happened. The room began to spin; he rested his head carefully
against the back of the couch. Why did he feel as though even his own family was trying to trick him into saying what they
all thought? ‘But she wasn’t like that at home. I would never have left her if she was.’

‘Of course you wouldn’t have, Anthony, no one thinks that,’ said Ursula. She turned back to Wendy. ‘So, Anthony told me they
want to give her electric shock treatment, is that true?’

Wendy nodded again. ‘I spoke to the psychiatrist, Dr Morgan, this morning.’

‘Have you spoken to this doctor, Anthony?’ Ursula asked.

‘I’ll call her later,’ he said tersely. She knew he hadn’t. He clunked his cup and saucer down on the coffee table.

Wendy glanced at Tony, then Ursula. ‘Anyway, they want to start it this week.’

‘This week? What’s the rush?’ Ursula slid a coaster across the table to Tony.

Wendy gazed out the window for a second, then shook her head slightly as if flicking away a memory. ‘She won’t eat or drink,
so she’s on a drip. She’s very ill.’ She faltered. ‘Dr Morgan said it’s a lot better than it used to be, it’s not like in
the movies. They do it in the operating theatre under anaesthetic.’

‘It seems very sudden – she’s only been in hospital five minutes,’ Ursula said.

Jim put his hand on Ursula’s arm. ‘Just let Wendy talk. Wendy, did the psychiatrist say what they think is wrong?’

Wendy nodded. ‘They think she’s psychotic. Apparently you can get it after having a baby, sometimes after being depressed.’
She looked up at Tony. ‘The doctor said that it comes on really quickly, sometimes too quickly to know what’s happening.’

Tony couldn’t meet Wendy’s eye. He wished everyone would stop trying to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault: it made him
suspect that maybe it was. He put his hand to his throat; the coffee was giving him heartburn.

Wendy drained her tea and put the cup and saucer down on the carpet at her feet. ‘Anyway, to do the ECT they need to have
a legal hearing, because Anna’s too sick to give consent. It’s tomorrow, at the hospital. I’m going, but obviously they’d
like you there too, Tony.’

‘What do you think, love?’ Ursula said, looking at Tony.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know much about it.’ He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. ‘Sounds like it’s a done deal
anyway.’

Wendy shook her head. ‘No, Dr Morgan said —’

‘It sounds pretty brutal to me,’ Ursula said sharply. Wendy shrank back. Ursula turned to Tony. ‘Anthony, you need to talk
to this psychiatrist.’

Jim frowned at Ursula before looking back at Wendy. ‘What do you think? You’re her mum.’

‘I think she should have it. The doctors know best, and to see her like that …’ She looked down at the floor and spoke quietly.
‘I know that ECT works.’

Jim kept looking at Wendy as if he expected her to continue; she sat back and shook her head slightly.

‘I agree,’ he said at last. ‘The doctors know what they’re doing. If that’s what they recommend, then that’s what we do.’
Wendy smiled a little at Jim. ‘Tony? What do you think, mate?’

What did he think? Tony didn’t think anything. He couldn’t think. ‘I don’t know! I’ll go and see her, OK?’

‘Anyone for more coffee?’ Ursula picked up the plunger pot and began to pour without waiting for an answer. She took a deep
breath, and spoke quietly without looking at anyone. ‘Did Dr Morgan say anything about Jack?’

Tony’s eyes immediately filled with tears; he closed them. He had been trying not to think about Jack. It was easier to think
about Anna: at least there was something tangible he could do.

Wendy shook her head. ‘No. Well, she said how sorry she was. But she said Anna hasn’t mentioned him. Tony, she might respond
to you, when you go.’

‘I said I’ll go! I’ve just got so much …’ He picked up his cup, now half-full of thick grainy black coffee again, and gulped
it down. ‘I can’t … I can’t get my head around this. The psychiatrist, the police, the coroner —’

‘Oh Tony! I’m sorry!’ Wendy covered her face with her hands, crying.

Tony’s ears began to ring and the room swirled around him. It was as if everything was shrinking and spinning away while he
sat still, unchanged. He stood up and staggered towards the door. ‘I can’t talk about this any more.’

Before anyone could reply, he walked out and slammed the front door behind him. He got into his car and locked the doors,
but he knew that no matter how far he drove, he couldn’t avoid the reality that this was his life now. Distance wouldn’t help
him escape. Nothing would.

* * *

Ursula stood on the porch and watched Jim’s ute drive away with Wendy in the passenger seat. Stepping back inside she closed
the front door and turned the latch to lock it. She was relieved Wendy hadn’t wanted to stay all afternoon; Ursula needed
to be alone without having to entertain someone. Tony hadn’t returned after storming out earlier, so the house was empty.
She went into the bedroom, took her shoes off and put on her slippers, then unbuttoned her pants at the waist. After getting
a tray from the kitchen she walked back into the living room and collected all the cups and saucers. She ate a piece of shortbread
as she walked, then another when she got back into the kitchen. It was easier than making something for lunch. Leaving the
tray on the kitchen bench, she walked into her bedroom, closed the door, and drew the curtains.

She lay down on the bed next to their ginger tabby, who was curled up as usual on her pillow. She was so tired. She closed
her eyes, but all she could see was the look in Tony’s eyes after he had answered that call two days ago. The memory was as
vivid as a film; Ursula could almost touch him. She opened her eyes again and let the image fade. It wasn’t a good idea to
nap in the afternoon anyway; it would make it even more difficult to sleep tonight. She picked up a library book from her
bedside table, and tried to concentrate on the letters in the words on the page; anything but the horror on Tony’s face.

* * *

Tony pulled his car into a bay marked
POLICE VEHICLES ONLY
, switched off the engine, then sat still for a moment. He leaned
to the side, taking the folded envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. He slipped out the letter, unfolded it, then read
it again, even though he knew it by heart. Should he show someone, or burn the damn thing? He didn’t want to make things worse,
but was he really making things better by hiding it? Refolding it along the same two creases, he put it back in the envelope,
then put it in the glove box, hiding it under the car manual. He clenched his hands in an attempt to stop them shaking, wiped
sweat from his upper lip, then looked at the police station. It was an ugly concrete box of a building that lurked among the
swanky cafes and expensive shops in the street.

He watched a couple saunter past along the footpath and heard the woman shrieking with laughter. They both carried white paper
bags and plastic bottles of juice; their lunch. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He didn’t feel hungry, but he had the
distinct feeling that his body was shutting down, cell by cell. He wished he’d brushed his teeth again; he could taste bitter
coffee mixed with stale alcohol. He almost smiled at the thought that he was about to walk into a police station and was probably
still over the limit. The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone through the windscreen. Opening the car door, he breathed
in the cool breeze, then walked briskly up to the front door of the station and went inside.

‘Tony Patton. I’ve got an appointment with Detective Inspector David Hill.’

The police officer sitting behind the reinforced glass picked up a telephone. ‘Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

There were four low chairs against the wall. He sat on the edge of one, avoiding the brown stain on the pilled fabric. A skinny
guy, probably not out of his teens, stared at Tony through a bruised, swollen eye. Tony tried to smile, then picked up a magazine
and flicked through the pages. There was a distinct smell – maybe not
a smell, more of a taste – that he remembered from the one and only other time he’d been in a police station, when he’d been
caught driving home from a party at Sean’s house after a couple of beers while still on his P-plates. The cops had shoved
him in the back of a paddy wagon and taken him to the cells for a few hours until his mum and dad picked him up. They hadn’t
said a word to him on the long drive home.

Tony heard a buzz and a click from the door to the left of the reception desk. He looked up to see a muscular, balding man
holding open the heavy door. He stood up, wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans, then walked forward. Detective Hill’s handshake
was strong as he introduced himself; Tony fought the urge to squeeze back even harder.

A door slammed somewhere behind him, and a shrill phone rang unanswered as he followed the detective along the empty corridor.
As they walked, Tony saw a photocopied poster hanging by one corner on a crumbling cork noticeboard, advertising last year’s
Christmas party. A drawing pin was still stuck where the other corner should be, but now it held only a torn shred of paper.

They entered a small room with a plain faux-wood desk and three grey plastic chairs scattered around it. Hill pulled one over
to one side of the desk, indicating for Tony to sit. He left the room without comment; Tony sat down and looked around. A
camera stared down from the corner of the room, and an old air conditioner grunted on the wall. There was a small window but
the view was blocked by dingy venetian blinds that clattered in the draft from the open door. He tried to sit still on the
chair, flexing and rotating his ankles and toes. He even sat on his hands to prevent himself from wringing them.

Hill returned with another, younger detective, and they sat down opposite Tony without a word. Hill pushed a red button on
the tape recorder on the desk. It began to hiss faintly. The younger one put a paper cup of water in front of Tony. Hill began,
‘This is the interview of Mr Anthony William Patton. Today is the sixteenth of September 2009, and the time is 12.20 p.m.
Mr Patton, for the
tape, can you confirm your name, and the date and time from the clock behind me on the wall?’

Tony looked up at the clock, then cleared his throat and repeated the information. His mouth felt dry. He took a sip of tepid
water from the paper cup in front of him, then put it down on the table.

‘My name is Detective Inspector David Hill. Also present is Detective Senior Sergeant Stephen Kaminsky.’

Kaminsky could have been Hill’s younger brother. He was a few inches taller but had that same solid physique that would soon
become stocky if left unchecked. Kaminsky wasn’t completely bald yet; his dark hair was shaved close to his scalp and Tony
could see the shiny skin on his forehead and crown.

‘Mr Patton, can you tell us when you last saw your wife on the morning of the fourteenth of September?’ asked Hill.

Tony took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he wasn’t in trouble, and if he stayed calm, neither would Anna be. ‘Yes.
When I left for work, at about eight.’

‘And what can you tell us about that morning?’