Smashed (9 page)

As I climb into bed I think about that kiss from Dad. It’s not that I hate it — in fact, it’s nice to know how much he cares. My folks have always been like this, really touchy-feely compared to the parents of all my friends. It used to embarrass me a few years back. I wouldn’t even walk beside them just in case one of the soppy buggers
held my hand. I used to think it meant they saw me as a little kid. But now, you know, I kind of like it.

I close my eyes and try to block all thoughts and images out of my mind. Try the old meditation trick — breathe in, one; breathe out, two … breathe in, one; breathe out, two … God, Don’s head was — no! Block it,
block it
, from my mind. Breathe in, one; breathe out, two …

Then it hits me like a bombshell — I told Rita I was innocent, that I didn’t do anything to Don. I picture him on the ground; remember the awful grovelling way he begged me not to rough him up … But is there something my memory’s trying to hide? What about the blood under my fingernails? What about the blood smeared up my sleeves?

I’m woken from a dreamless sleep by Mum. ‘Toby, get up right now. The police are here.’

‘What? What do they want this time?’

‘They’ve got more questions.’ Mum hovers near the end of my bed as I throw on jeans and a t-shirt. ‘Look … you have to tell them everything, love, but think very hard before you answer. There’s a lot at stake.’

Like I don’t know?
I shake my head to clear away the cotton-wool effects of sleep, but my body’s pleading with me to lie back down. Mum loops her arm around my waist and walks me out.

Sergeant DeVinnie and Constable Gordon are sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. Behind their heads, the oven clock reads 9.15. It’s psychological torture — the cops must know most teenagers’ brains don’t switch on till at least midday.

‘Hi.’ I slide into the seat opposite Sergeant DeVinnie, and Mum sits down close beside me.

‘Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep,’ DeVinnie jokes. ‘I thought we’d find you studying.’

Damn it
. Even as he says it, I realise I’m supposed to be sitting a psychology exam this afternoon. How could I have forgotten this? ‘Yeah. Should be.’ I know how this must look, like I’m a useless teenage slacker.

DeVinnie produces his beloved notebook, flicks forward to a bookmarked page and reads whatever’s written there before he starts. ‘It seems that you were spotted close to the area where Donald’s assault took place.’

I’m waiting for him to ask me a specific question but he just sits there, watching me. Constable Gordon sips at his tea, every swallow loud and awkward in the room.
Mum’s twisting her wedding ring round and round on her finger. She meets my eyes and nods, ever so slightly. I know what she’s signalling —
tell them the truth.

I want to — in a whole lot of ways I just want to blurt it out and get the whole thing over with — but my heart’s beating really fast and I just can’t seem to form the words. DeVinnie’s eyeballing me, I’m eyeballing him, and all the time there’s this gulpy swallowing from Constable Gordon in the background.

Then, ever so softly, DeVinnie says, ‘Just get it off your chest, lad. You’ll feel a whole lot better if you do.’

He makes it sound so reasonable — like he’s on my side. And for a moment I think maybe it will all work out, that all I have to do is tell him everything and he’ll be gone. But even though I’d be a halfwit if I bought his chatty little act, it’s the knowledge that he really has no doubt about my guilt that forces me to blab it out. I can’t bear that Mum’s sitting there nearly screwing off her ring finger from stress. Besides, I figure it’s my responsibility to settle this so Mum and Dad can concentrate their energy on Rita. ‘The truth is this …’

I tell it to him as straight as I can remember — from setting up the meeting with the help of Carl right through to waking up yesterday morning on Mount Vic. Constable Gordon’s taking notes furiously as I speak, while DeVinnie
just sits there nodding till I reach the end.

‘So, you don’t
remember
doing it?’ The tone he uses clearly says
pull the other one
. He turns from me to Mum. ‘Did you see him arrive home?’

Mum shakes her head. ‘No. I didn’t see him until later that morning. I arrived after you, remember?’ Her voice sounds very tight and small.

‘Have you seen or heard anything subsequently that might shed some light?’

Mum swallows hard and looks at me. I know what she’s thinking.
The sweatshirt sleeves
. I can almost hear the argument she’s having with herself inside her head — should she tell them what she knows and risk my being charged, or keep it secret and live with the fact I’ve forced her to tell lies?

Tears are forming in her eyes — it’s just too much.

‘My sweatshirt,’ I blurt. ‘She found my sweatshirt on the bathroom floor. Its sleeves had blood on them.’

‘May we see this, please?’ Sergeant DeVinnie directs this straight to Mum. She hesitates, and he loses all pretence of niceness. ‘You haven’t washed it, have you?’

Mum’s face flushes crimson red and I’m praying she’s had the sense to do just that. It never even occurred to me to check — how dumb am I?

‘No,’ she admits. She gives me a look that screams
out
sorry
, then gets up from the table and leaves the room.

DeVinnie leans across the tabletop and talks real low. ‘It’s not looking too good for you, Toby boy. How about you just come clean?’

‘But I —’

Mum has come back already, so I don’t bother finishing. She must’ve had the sweatshirt packed up, waiting for just this moment.
Good one, Mum. Nice to know you’re on my side
.

As she hands it over in a supermarket bag, I smell the stench of stale spew. I’m doomed.

Sergeant DeVinnie glances at Constable Gordon, who takes the bag and leaves the house without a word. Then he stands up. ‘I’d like to finish our conversation down at the station now, if that’s okay with you.’

Mum’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘What about his legal rights? Shouldn’t he talk to a lawyer first?’

DeVinnie smiles. ‘It’s just a chat, Mrs Young. We haven’t charged him yet.’

Yet … there it is. As Mum scurries around, calling Dad and texting Rita to say she might not be home at lunchtime, all I can think of is that one small, incriminating word. It seems to float in the air ahead of me as they lead me to the police car and hold the back doors open for
me and Mum. And now we’re driving down our street … past the nosy neighbour’s house … past my old primary school … past the shops where Carl and Don and I used to hang out … past the wall where Carl once scrawled graffiti saying
Cowboy Rulz
… past the hospital where Don lies fighting for his life … past Rita’s school. Each place, each physical touchstone from my life, slides by, huge and symbolic and accusing as this shark-like police car weaves through my neighbourhood, ever closer to jail.

We drive up the ramp into the internal car park at the Central Police Station, as the roller door rumbles shut behind us. We’re inside the bowels of the building. Mum slips her hand over mine and squeezes it really hard. I know I should say something comforting to her but instead, this crazy little song of Cowboy Carl’s fills up my head …
How can you believe me when I say I love you, when you know I’ve been a liar all my goddamned life?

T
here must be twenty police cars parked on the level where we stop, and the next level up looks chocka too. It’s like being escorted into the middle of a hive, where everything is regimented and labelled, and every person has their role. Constable Gordon opens up a side door and we’re led over a kind of bridge where each side drops away several storeys. I try to keep my eyes focused on the back of Constable Gordon’s neck, feeling the gravitational pull of that drop egging me to make the jump. Perhaps Mum guesses this, as she puts a hand onto my shoulder and grounds me as we walk across.

Inside, the offices and cubicles all look the same. We walk down one claustrophobic hallway after another, stopping at a nondescript closed door. ‘Do you want your mother to remain with you through the interview?’ Sergeant DeVinnie asks.

Mum’s eyes pop wide open, like she never questioned this at all. 

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine.’

In fact, her anxiety is overwhelming me. Besides, I’m seventeen — I should be old enough to deal with this. I’m perfectly articulate, and I’m counting on the fact that I’ve done nothing wrong, so I’m not sure what Mum can do to help.

I can see she’s spewy with me about this, but I let them lead me into a nasty little cubbyhole of a room and stay there while they take Mum up to a waiting room on the main floor. There’s metal-grey carpet coming halfway up the walls, and the rest is covered in those ugly ceiling tiles with random holes just like my dentist has (I count the holes each time I go to take my mind off whatever torture he might do). There’s a bloody great wall of video equipment too, and I can see myself on screen so I turn away.

Sergeant DeVinnie returns, but Constable Gordon has been replaced by a woman officer, who introduces herself as Constable Price. She looks really young — maybe early twenties — and she’s actually quite pretty, with kind brown eyes. The kindness is confirmed when she brings me in a cup of coffee and a couple of chocolate chip biscuits before we start.

The truth is I’m feeling pretty bloody crook. The room’s so small there’s hardly enough air for three sets of
lungs, and I find myself breathing really fast and shallow just to get my share. I’m having trouble staying awake, let alone concentrating well enough to help myself. My head aches and my gut feels like it’s filled with lead. And, to top it all off, I now have this desperate urge to pee. I daren’t ask if I can go to the toilet — they’ll think I’m just making it up — so I push aside my cup, rather than dare take another sip. The last thing I need here is some humiliating accident.

‘Now, Toby,’ DeVinnie says. ‘Let’s just chat about your friendship with Donald, shall we?’

He has a stack of paper in front of him which he’s headed with my name, the time and date. I nod, but don’t answer, though I wonder what he’d do if I said no.

‘When was the last time you saw Donald, before the night of the assault?’

‘We went to a friend’s party in Don’s car. Me and my sister Rita — and another friend.’ There’s no way I’m going into what happened with Jacinta.

‘Did anything happen between the two of you at the party?’

That crack Don made about my soaking in the pool comes back.
Good wet dream?
It’s obvious now he had his mind on sex all night and clever Toby-woby just helped him out. ‘No.’ I try to keep my voice composed.
It’s clear already where DeVinnie’s heading.

‘So you all left together then?’

Why ask me when he already knows?
‘No.’ I conjure up the image of Rita, how happy she looked dancing with Sally, the twinkle in her eyes as I left her there.

Sergeant DeVinnie carefully puts down his pen and stretches back in his chair, his hands resting behind his head. He yawns so wide I could count the fillings in his back teeth. ‘Tell me what happened, eh? In your own time.’

I stare up at the ceiling for a minute, where the damp is flowering through the paint. ‘There’s nothing really much to tell.’
Just the usual stuff, officer … booze, drugs and a little rape on the side. Nothing much
. ‘I left early and Don said he’d bring Rita home. I had no problem with that — he’s never done anything dodgy before. We were mates.’

It’s like I’m in some lame TV show like
The Bill
, and I’m the petty criminal. Even the way my words are coming out sounds nothing like the real me.
Or’right guv’na? We was mates
.

‘When did you find out what he’d done to Rita?’

‘A couple of days later — the Monday of my Bio exam.’ This reminds me where I should be now. Not turning up for my Psychology exam means an automatic fail, and that’ll stuff up my whole year. What’m I supposed
to do? Tell them I was being nicked? Though maybe I can bluff it and say I was doing research. There’s a guy I’ve learnt about in class — Robert Axelrod — who figured out this tricky philosophical problem that’s based on hardcore maths called ‘game theory’, which features these two dudes who end up being questioned by the cops and —

‘Poor Rita.’ It’s Constable Price. ‘That must have been an awful shock.’

I’m so surprised I answer her without a thought. ‘You’re not kidding!’

She nods sympathetically and holds my gaze with her warm brown eyes. She reminds me of Don’s sister, Danica; her eyes have that same chocolatey glow. ‘How is she now?’

‘Terrible,’ I say. ‘She won’t let anyone talk to her about it and she’s so jumpy and easily upset — you should see how sad she looks. I hate it.’

‘It sounds like you’re a pretty nice brother, if you ask me.’ She smiles at me and I can see she means it. Thank god
someone
understands.

‘I try to be. She’s really cool, Rita — not annoying like most sisters are.’

Constable Price’s laugh is light and totally contagious. ‘I bet that’s not what
my
big brothers would say!’

DeVinnie nearly cracks a grin. ‘You love her?’ 

What a stupid question. ‘Course.’

Constable Price shoots DeVinnie a weird look, like she wishes he’d shut up. Then her face softens as she turns back to me. ‘I bet you felt really crappy that you weren’t there for her?’

A hurt groan escapes me. ‘Yeah. You’ve no idea. If I’d been there it never would’ve happened.’

‘She looks up to you?’

I laugh. ‘That’d be going a bit far!’ I think about this a little more. ‘But we’ve always been able to talk, you know? We hardly ever really fight.’

‘Wow — you guys must be pretty rare! My brothers made me cry almost every day when we were growing up.’

‘I hate it when Rita cries,’ I say, remembering how little she seemed this morning when she cried in my arms. So little, while Don is so big … ‘It’s just so horrible to see her hurt.’

She chuckles. ‘You’d protect her with your life, eh?’

She gets me, this lady cop. I really think she understands how much it hurts. ‘Hell yes!’

‘I bet if someone tried to hurt her, you’d make them pay.’ She’s got these cute little dimples that dance around each side of her mouth while she talks. I can’t help it, but I check her ring finger to see if she is married.
Sad-arsed teenage virgin falls for pretty cop
. 

‘Too bloody right!’

Constable Price leans over and puts her hand on my arm. I can feel my tell-tale face heat up. Is it remotely possible she likes me too? ‘I don’t blame you. I reckon if that happened to
my
little sister, I’d want to —’ she pauses, like she’s trying to choose from all the crazy cop tortures she must know.

‘Kill him?’ I say.
Damn!
The moment these stupid words pass my lips I know I’ve dug myself into a hole.

Constable Price withdraws her hand. Sergeant DeVinnie clears his throat. He leans forward now and speaks real low. ‘Is that what you tried to do, Toby? Kill Don?’

‘Look,’ I turn to Constable Price, hoping she’ll understand that I’m being really, really honest. ‘I felt like it — there’s no denying that. But I really didn’t do it.’

She’s not looking too convinced and my stomach’s starting to spasm in my panic to make them understand.

‘I couldn’t have … I’d know it, wouldn’t I?’

Neither of them answers, and the room is suddenly so quiet I can hear someone laughing down the corridor, and then the crash of slamming doors. I really have to pee now; it’s getting painful to hold on.

‘Can I go to the toilet please?’ This comes out sounding whiny and pathetic, and I reckon they’re thinking
this is all an act — that I’m some ruthless, lying thug.

DeVinnie nods and Constable Price rises from her seat. ‘Come on.’ She leads me down the narrow corridor to the men’s loo and waits outside as I go in. I’m so conscious of her standing out there, listening, I can’t pee. In the end I turn the basin taps on really hard and use the running water as a cover-up to help me go.

When we get back to the interview room, Sergeant DeVinnie clears his throat and starts right in. ‘Do you have any witnesses who can back up your story?’

All I can think of is the Blanket Man, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t count. And I guess there was the guy in Burger King — but confirming I was in Courtenay Place that night is
not
a help. I shake my head.

‘And if I say we have a witness who saw you running from the scene?’ He’s scrutinising every move I make, but I can’t disguise the horror that screws up my face.
Could that be true?

I close my eyes, trying to calm myself, to think more logically. Okay, so it still can fit. I reckon when I saw Don at the wharves, the chances are I turned right around and ran away. ‘It doesn’t prove anything.’ I lean forward, trying to look my intelligent, nerdish best. ‘I’m not denying I saw him there — or even that I went with the intent to hassle him — but someone had beaten me to it …’
Beaten
me, now there’s a pun
. I resist the urge to point it out. Sergeant DeVinnie doesn’t look the type who’s into word games.

There’s a knock at the door and Constable Price leaps up to open it. She slips out into the hallway. All I can hear are mumbles, but when she returns she sits down with a decisive thump. ‘We did a check on the blood found on your sweatshirt, mate. It matches Don’s type.’

That seals it
. I wish I could be outraged but, the truth is, I suspected this. I don’t know how that blood got there, but it’s logical it came from Don. That’s the problem with having a really high IQ — there’s no way you can pull the dumb act in an argument that’s going on exclusively in your own head. Only, I don’t remember touching him. I really don’t.

DeVinnie glances over at Constable Price with the most minuscule yet brisk of nods. ‘Okay …’ He straightens up the papers in front of him. Presses a button on the video machine to make it start. Looks straight at me. ‘Tobias Young, I am now going to formally interview you about the assault of Donald Raymond Donaldson.’

Holy shit
. I can’t believe it’s happening. ‘But —’

He holds out his hand to silence me, talking like a robot set on auto-arrest. ‘You have the right to consult
and instruct a lawyer without delay, and in private. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be recorded and may be shown as evidence. Do you understand?’

I nod. ‘Are you arresting me?’ My heart’s beating so hard I’m sure it must be rocking my whole body and I can’t sit still. I think of Mum, somewhere on a floor above me, and desperately want to see her now.
Why the hell did I send her away?
I must be mad.

‘No, not at this time …’ His voice softens a little, and he almost looks fatherly. ‘But you need to know you are our prime suspect and that if you are arrested you could face a very serious charge.’

Very serious charge
… my god, could that mean jail? I really don’t know what to do. ‘Can I see Mum?’

Sergeant DeVinnie studies me, tapping his index finger against his chin. I can’t meet his gaze — feel like I’m guilty now, no matter what — and swallow hard to keep myself from crying while he weighs things up. Then he turns to Constable Price. ‘Jenny, could you please fetch Mrs Young?’

She leaves the room without a word, and DeVinnie stands. ‘Follow me.’ He ushers me through to an identical cubicle right next door and gestures for me to wait. I’ve no idea why I’ve been moved, but I’m taking DeVinnie
seriously about my right to remain silent — besides, I’m far too bloody scared to speak. The silence grows so suffocating I can hardly breathe. It’s like the mental version of staring someone down, with neither person prepared to blink until the only thought that’s screaming through your head is
blink, blink, blink
. Even my breathing starts to sound too loud, and I try to control it, focusing all my energy on the smooth passage of air in and out of my lungs. It helps to dampen down my panic too. If I concentrate solely on my breath, I can’t be thinking about what the hell is happening and whether I’ll be locked in jail.

There are words and symbols scraped into the pile of the wall carpet, presumably made by the poor suckers who’ve been here before me, and I have this overwhelming urge to run my hand across it all — to wipe it clean. But I’m too scared to move, and force myself to refocus on my breathing, which grows fast and shallow every time I slacken off.

Finally, there’s a tap on the door and Constable Price comes back with Mum. Her eyes are all red-rimmed from crying and her chin is wobbling hard-out as she fights off more tears. She sits down in the chair offered by Constable Price and takes my hand. She squeezes it, and I squeeze hers back. 

‘We need an in-depth interview, Mrs Young,’ DeVinnie says. ‘If you have a lawyer you would like to contact …’ He lets the sentence dribble out — it’s more than obvious what he means.

Mum nods. ‘Of course.’ She starts to scrabble through her handbag for her mobile phone. ‘I’ll call her now.’

DeVinnie stretches then, and stands. ‘I’ll be outside.’ He makes for the door, holding it open to let Constable Price out first. ‘If you could keep it short?’

Mum’s hands are shaking so much she can hardly shuffle through the stack of business cards she stores inside her wallet. ‘Here.’ She puts the lawyer’s card on the table in front of her, then turns to me and wraps me in a giant hug. ‘I can’t bloody believe this.’ She pulls back, drawing a couple of quick breaths to calm herself, and then holds my face between her hands. ‘Before we do anything more — Dad and I will love you, Tobe, no matter what, but it’s vital that we know the truth.’ The fiery flecks of orange in her eyes stand out like flames against the green. ‘Did you do this?’