The First Week (18 page)

‘That's okay.'

‘I've had a short interview with Charles this morning, but he wasn't saying much. Have you seen him at all?'

‘Yesterday.' Marian cleared her throat. ‘I saw him yesterday.'

‘How was that? Can I ask?'

Marian's mind was empty. How had it been?

‘He's angry,' she said. It was the only thing obvious to her. He wouldn't have done it if he wasn't angry.

Jennifer didn't seem to think it was stupid. ‘Angry,' she said thoughtfully. ‘Yes. That's how he seemed to me. Why is he angry?'

But
she
was supposed to explain why. Wasn't she? Wasn't that what psychologists did?

‘Do you think he knows what's happened?' Jennifer asked, without waiting for an answer to her first question.

‘Yes. No. Well maybe. He said he doesn't remember.' Marian flushed, hearing how muddled she sounded. ‘He didn't want me to ask,' she added miserably. A proper mother would know what her son was thinking, would have found out.

‘That's pretty normal. He's in shock still, probably.'

Shock. That was what happened to people when they were injured. Or shot. Not the person who shot them. ‘Is that it? Shock?'

‘Perhaps not in the strict medical sense. I should use another word. Chaos. Has he ever been in trouble before?'

‘Oh no. Only small things. Not the police. Nothing like that.'

‘So he's way out of his depth. He's killed two people and he's in gaol. Now he must be terrified. Probably his mind can't catch up with what his body has done, if you know what I mean.'

‘That's it.'

‘You're feeling it too, are you? Wanting to sleep a lot?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's a normal reaction. How are you feeling now? Up to telling me a bit about Charles?'

‘I think so. Charlie.'

‘Charlie. Do you mind if I jot a few things down?' Jennifer asked, turning to the desk for a pen and a pad with a big orange cartoon fish in one corner of the paper. Perhaps it was supposed to put you at your ease?

‘Let's start with when you saw him last,' Jennifer said. ‘Before the shooting, I mean. How was it then?'

The shooting. That's how it would be from now on. Before the shooting. When everything was normal.

Was it normal? There must have been clues, but if there were she'd missed them.

Jennifer was waiting.

What was the question? How was it when she last saw Charlie? When he was still a normal son.

‘He had a fight with his brother.'

‘Older brother?'

‘Yes. He runs the farm.' She'd already been through all this with the lawyer.

‘The boys' father isn't around?'

‘He died.'

‘I'm sorry. Recently?'

Wouldn't it be in a file? Wouldn't they have asked Charlie?

Jennifer raised her eyebrows. ‘None of the paperwork has come through yet. I apologise. I'm relying on you.'

But Marian was no good. Jennifer must have realised that already.

‘Marian?'

‘I'm sorry. What did you ask me?'

‘When did the boys' father die?'

‘Eleven years ago. Nearly.'

‘So Charlie would have been …?'

‘Ten.'

‘And Charlie's brother? Was he still at school too?'

‘Brian. Yes.'

‘That must have been hard. To be left on your own with two teenagers and a farm to run.'

Must have been hard. That's what the lawyer said. Did they think that was why? Was it? Was that when she failed?

No. That wasn't true. In fact it was easier with the boys after Mac died. No one yelling. Or was she kidding herself? Better for her, but maybe not for the boys.

‘Difficult for all of you?'

‘The boys had to help more and that made it harder for them at school I suppose. They didn't complain.'

Didn't complain. But how did they feel?

‘Did they finish school?'

Marian felt the heat in her face. What would this woman have done? How would she have coped?

‘Brian didn't.'

‘I'm not criticising you. I can't imagine how you managed.'

Marian shuffled her feet on the glowing carpet. ‘I wondered …'

‘Yes?'

‘I wondered if it was too hard for Brian. I worried about Brian. I thought Charlie was okay.' Her voice trailed away. All the time she'd been worrying about Brian and hadn't noticed that Charlie … whatever it was she should have noticed about Charlie.

‘Charlie did all right at school?'

‘Yes. He was a bit quiet after Mac died. But his reports were good, like they always had been.'

‘So he's the clever one?'

‘Charlie runs rings round Brian. Brian's clever in other ways. With machinery. And he's a great footballer.' Why was she feeling defensive about Brian? Charlie was the one in trouble.

‘Does Charlie play sport?'

‘No.'

‘Oh?'

Marian had a flash of a wet Tuesday evening. Standing at the sink and hearing Mac and the boys in the hall.
I'm not coming to footy training, Dad.
Her neck muscles tightened all over again.

‘He doesn't like sport.'

‘How did Charlie get on with his teachers?'

‘They never complained. Not that I remember.'

‘So he didn't get into fights?'

‘No. Not at school.' She caught Jennifer's eye and realised how that sounded.

‘Not at school,' Jennifer said. ‘But at home?'

This wasn't fair. She was making Marian say more than she wanted to. What if it made things worse for Charlie?

‘I'm not saying it was anything major. Little things, like all families.'

Did Jennifer have children? Marian checked the left hand holding the clipboard near the fish. No ring.

‘Brothers fighting?' Jennifer asked. ‘The way they do?'

‘Charlie's so quick. Sharp. He gets at Brian. You know? Brian's bigger. But slow.' It was all right to tell Jennifer, a relief. Just two brothers.

‘And their father?'

Oh. Marian peered more closely at the carpet. The red was made up of shield shapes with a curly border around the edge. Blood red.

‘Did Charlie have a good relationship with his father?'

The rug was ten shields long.

‘Mac didn't understand Charlie. Charlie made him mad. Charlie saw things.'

‘What kind of things?'

‘I don't mean bad things. I mean … he saw where Mac was touchy. How to needle him. Charlie became a vegetarian.' Marian stopped. The words sounded so trivial.

‘As a statement?'

‘Yes.' Marian was grateful. ‘That's it. He didn't talk much. Then he'd make an announcement. Something that would get right up Mac's nose. Something about war, maybe. Vietnam.'

‘Mac was in Vietnam?'

‘Yes.'

‘Charlie was anti-war?'

‘Yes.' Was he? Or was it just part of being … opposed.

‘So what happened when he made his statement about Vietnam?'

‘Mac blew up,' Marian hesitated, ‘and hit Charlie.'

She watched Jennifer write a few words under the fish.

‘Mac wasn't usually violent. It only happened a few times.' She listened to her own voice, apologising. But she'd said it now. No use trying to unsay it.

‘Did he ever hit you?'

‘No.' Not when he was awake. For years he had nightmares. Sometimes she'd wake to find him trying to wrestle her out of the bed.

Marian's hands were trembling. She clasped them together.

She'd torn it now.

Jennifer would think it was all Mac's fault and put him down as a mad Vietnam vet. She'd want to know about every little fight. But it wasn't like that. Mac was a good father.

Even as the thoughts passed through her mind, Marian saw how useless they were. All her married life she'd covered for Mac, made excuses, made up to people he'd upset. What for?

She didn't have to do that any more.

Jennifer put her pad on the desk and reached for a paper bag, rustling inside it for a lolly. She offered the bag to Marian. ‘Barley sugar. I keep it for my blood sugar. Have one.'

Marian took a lolly, unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. The rush of sugar made her feel lighter, more purposeful.

Jennifer was sucking and reading her notes.

‘You said Brian and Charlie had a fight last time Charlie was at the farm. What was that about?'

‘Charlie found out we were selling the old ewes for the Middle-East trade.'

‘Live exports?'

Marian nodded reluctantly, not wanting to hear any city ideas.

‘Charlie didn't like that?'

‘No.'

‘So he's a pacifist and a vegetarian and cares about animal rights?'

Marian nodded again and waited for Jennifer to ask the inevitable question. So how come …?

Charlie didn't like people. Marian saw it clearly, sharply in focus. Charlie thought people were destructive. White people anyway.

He didn't like his own people.

The idea was so compelling that Marian opened her mouth to explain. But Jennifer was looking at her watch. ‘Sorry. We'll have to leave it there.'

That was the end?

Jennifer got up and waited for Marian to do the same.

Had Marian been talking too much, wasting her time?

‘You've been very helpful, Marian. Thank you so much. I'll ring you if there's anything else.'

Marian let the psychologist steer her out. The cream carpet again, so impractical.

‘Take care of yourself,' Jennifer was saying. ‘There's nothing wrong with sleeping. But you might want to see a counsellor.'

‘Um …'

‘Do you know of anyone down your way?'

‘Oh no.' We're not like that, she wanted to protest, not people who need counsellors.

‘Ask your GP.' Jennifer stepped back and began to close the door. ‘Bye now.'

Marian lifted her hand. ‘Bye …' But her voice was drowned out by the click of the door catch.

The afternoon light was still bright outside the building. Marian stood blinking on the footpath.

Was that all?

Nothing about Charlie's babyhood, or all the years after that. How could anyone possibly understand him with only those few bits to go on?

She hadn't said enough.

All the stories that would have described Charlie properly. How kind he could be. The sweetness of his smile, his real smile.

She'd thought a psychologist would want to know all that.

But of course the woman couldn't, didn't have time.

Marian started back into the building.
I should have convinced her.

But what about?

Perhaps a psychologist saw so many people that she stopped asking
why
.

Marian made herself walk away. The Kings Park trees weren't far and would be comforting.

Each footstep fitted inside one paving stone. But on every third footfall she had to straddle a crack. She tried to make the steps regular, but now and then had to add a skip to get back into rhythm.

A man in a suit swerved to avoid her.

Marian put her head down and walked quickly on. There were things to think about. Mac. The army. Their marriage.

She went back to counting her steps. One two three. One two three and … One two three.

The edge of the lawn made a horizon with the river below. From here the glass towers of the city looked clean, glinting in the light, as though they'd been polished with window cleaner. Tiny cars swarmed in neat lines around the curves and across the bridge, the spaghetti of roads that linked the city and the river. The cars were ants, surging along an ant trail, intent on their tiny business. If Marian put her giant foot down across the freeway they'd all pile up and fall into the river.

What would happen when the world ran out of oil? Would all the cars vanish and the freeway stop?

There was a lot of land in that long ribbon of bitumen. It would make good market gardens—a strip of green, people working away with spades and hoes and a track down the middle for carts.

But would there be enough water? You could set up hydraulic pumps to get it up from the river. But the river water would be too salty.

Well, they'd discover more and more things that could tolerate salt.

Marian sat down in a rotunda.
This Nook of Rest was erected by members of the Eleventh and Second Eleventh Battalions Association to the memory of comrades who died in two wars.

War. For her it was a thing that happened somewhere else. Bombs raining down. How would it be to watch everything blow up around you, the swirls of freeway turning into rubble and clouds of dust? The glass towers collapsing downwards, like New York.

It was odd. You'd expect them to fall over sideways, like a chopped tree. But instead they settled in on themselves.

How would it feel to kill a person? To take a living breathing human and stop him in his tracks. Drop him. Snuff him out.

Apparently it didn't take much. A karate chop, a cosh to the head, a quick stab. A small bullet hole. Marian thought of the body jerking as the bullet slammed home. Like a sheep.

She'd been there when her father died, twenty-four hours when she'd thought every laboured breath was the last. There'd be a long pause, then another noisy breath. And then suddenly the pause was final. The last breath was indistinguishable from all the others, except that it didn't have another one after it. Silence with no end.

Then the war was over
they said at school, as though that was an end to all the strife. But in fact it was only another beginning. When the soldiers came home they brought a load of new problems.

Their job was to build a new future. But building wasn't what they did. The rotundas and war memorials weren't enough. It was crashing, smashing, burning, digging-out work they wanted. What they did, every time, was clear more land.