The First Week (4 page)

‘Could you tell me where the Ladies is?'

His voice was thick and European. ‘Up the escalator, missus. Over there.'

On the next level four Aboriginal youths in back-to-front baseball caps were laughing and pushing at each other. Marian clutched her bag closer.

The
Restroom
was bigger than she expected. Men to the left, women to the right. Two attendants had their heads together behind the counter, poring over a cross-lotto form. One of them caught Marian's eye and smiled.

‘Fifty cents.'

Marian paid her money and dragged her bag through into a light-filled sitting room overlooking the street. She sat down and stared blankly at the tree outside the window.

If she sat for too long she wouldn't be able to get up again. She couldn't stay here all day. It wasn't a hotel.

A notice board opposite was covered with bright fliers. After a few moments she realised they were advertisements for accommodation. She got out her glasses and moved closer.

Country Women's Association.

Of course. The CWA. That's where people stayed because it wasn't expensive.

1174 Hay St, West Perth.

The women at the desk had finished their cross-lotto form and broke off a conversation about reflux to give Marian change.

The voice at the other end of the phone was matter of fact. ‘Ninety dollars with en-suite. Fifty-five standard with shared bathroom.'

‘Oh standard. Standard is fine.'

‘What time are you arriving?'

‘I'm at the station. But I have to do something first. Can I come up at lunchtime?'

‘Sorry. We shut the office at 11.30. There's no one here till evening. But I've booked the room for you.'

There were lockers here in the Ladies where she could leave her bag, and armchairs where she could spend the afternoon if it came to that.

But there might be things she had to do. People she had to meet.

She didn't want to think about that.

Tonight was taken care of, that was a relief. When the time came she could just collect her bag and walk along Hay Street to West Perth.

What she had to do now was get to the court.

She shut her bag into the locker. Another bit of home left behind. But all she needed for today was her handbag. It was a process of stripping down.

Outside the station, the morning was overcast. Marian pulled her old coat around her. Should she have borrowed a smarter jacket from Michelle?

Michelle. She shouldn't have lost her temper. But the thought was soon gone, whipped away by the gritty wind.

The address of the court was in her pocket. Somewhere on the Terrace, opposite Government House. There were more arcades than she remembered, but she managed to thread her way through from Forrest Place and emerge into a chasm between towering office blocks. St Georges Terrace. Wasn't it? So she should turn left, to the east. But suddenly she wasn't sure.

She stepped towards a man who was hurrying past.

‘Excuse me …'

But her voice was drowned out by a bus and the man hurried on, briefcase held in front of him like an ice-breaker.

Huddled in the shelter of a building were two young Asian tourists studying a map, not the sort of people Marian would normally talk to.

But they did have a map.

‘Excuse me.' She spoke slowly and loudly. ‘Do you know where Government House is?'

They made helpless gestures of non-comprehension.

Well of course. They came over here and they couldn't even speak English.

Marian pointed at the map and raised her eyebrows. ‘Can I?'

‘Yes,' they said eagerly. ‘Yes please.' The young man handed her the map.

By rotating it she could orient herself with the station and Forrest Place. Yes. Government House was along to the left, across Barrack Street.

‘Thank you very much,' she said handing the map back. But she saw from the confusion on their faces that they hadn't understood. They had thought that
she
was going to help
them
.

Damn. She didn't have time to get caught up with these two. They should have a tour guide or something. Or they could get a taxi. They must have plenty of money.

She moved away, but the young woman held up her hand and spoke. ‘Please. Where is Rottnest?' The skin around her eyes was creased with the effort of finding the words. ‘Boat. Rottnest boat.'

For goodness sake. Why would you go to Rottnest in the middle of winter? Marian looked at the sky. What a terrible day for a boat trip.

But here they were, looking at her as though she was their only hope.

‘The ferry. You mean the ferry for Rottnest?'

The young woman smiled. ‘Yes. Rottnest.'

Marian took the map again. ‘It used to leave from the bottom of Barrack Street. Yes, here it is.' She handed the map back with her finger on the jetties. The young man took the map, but he was looking at her, not at the mark on the paper.

‘Oh come on. I'll show you. Along here'

Together they walked to Barrack Street and Marian pointed them down the hill. The young couple smiled sweetly and gave little bows, smiled again, and set off into the wind.

Marian had been picturing courts in movies, old stone buildings and wood panelling. But it turned out to be another towering office block. Three men in black leather jackets and dark glasses blocked the entrance, smoking and showing no sign of noticing Marian.

Bikies. It was only bluster.

When she walked around them the doors of the building opened automatically.

Two security guards stood at a table to one side. The larger of the two hitched his belt and stepped forward. Marian clasped her bag. Somehow they had recognised her.

‘Just check your bag thanks, madam.'

‘Oh. Of course.' She loosened her grip and handed it over. The guard opened it on the table and inserted one large hand, pushing into all the corners. Apparently satisfied, he withdrew his hand, snapped the bag shut and handed it to her.

Marian stood hesitating. ‘Is that all?'

He stared at her. ‘Lifts are over there.'

‘Oh. Thank you.'

The sign beside the lifts was blurred and unreadable. Marian reached into her bag for her glasses, but couldn't feel them. She stood on one leg to balance the bag on her knee and fumbled inside. The glasses weren't there.

She walked back to the guard. ‘Which floor is the Magistrate's Court?'

He gestured towards the sign. ‘Three.'

‘Thank you,' she said again, for the hundredth time that morning.

The lift doors opened into another world, a corridor bustling with people. Taking a firmer grip on her bag, Marian pushed through to a small reception desk.

‘What name?' asked the woman brightly through a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

‘Anditon,' Marian mumbled.

‘Sorry. What was that?'

‘Anditon,' Marian said, jaws clenched.

‘Oh yes, here we are,' said the woman, in what seemed to Marian like a shout. ‘Anditon, Charles Thomas. Court thirty-seven at ten. Right down the end there.' She smiled, but Marian could only see teeth.

People gathered in small tense groups in the waiting area. Marian stood on her own. Five to ten. The doors were still closed.

A man in a suit coat and mismatched trousers came down the corridor. He was grey, eyes sunken, hair grizzled. Even his skin was grey. A knot of people opened out towards him. Marian felt the sudden focussing of attention, a sucking in of breath. One woman stretched her hand out towards the boy next to her. Her son?

‘That's him,' the boy said distinctly, face contorted. He walked over and barred the newcomer's way.

Marian saw it in slow motion, a tableau. A gob of spit formed on the boy's lips and looped through the air.

A sppptt sound, Marian thought. Spit.

The boy and man faced each other. ‘That's for my brother, you fucking bastard.'

The man was silent, slime running down his cheek.

The tableau shattered. The door of Court Thirty-seven opened and two policemen came out. The woman bustled her son away before the police reached him.

‘Are you Mrs Anditon?' A man in a suit appeared in front of Marian. He held out his hand. ‘Simon Ingerson. I'm representing Charles this morning.'

‘Those people …' she swayed slightly.

‘Are you all right?'

‘He spat at that man.'

‘Yes?' Simon Ingerson glanced around briefly. ‘Sexual assault case I believe. Must be out on bail. Sorry it upset you. Come inside.'

One foot in front of the other. She remembered being seven and learning to ride a bike on the gravel track behind the house, her father running alongside with his hand on the back of the seat. Wobble, wobble. You can do it!

The room was packed with people. Turning back in a panic Marian cannoned into the lawyer. ‘Who are they? Are they all here for Charlie?'

‘I shouldn't think so. No. Long list this morning. Not sure where Charles comes. What say you sit here at the back? He'll come through that door over there into the dock.'

Marian stopped in her tracks. ‘No.' Seeing his veiled impatience she tried again. ‘I want to see him. Be close.'

The lawyer frowned. ‘You won't be able to touch him or anything like that.'

He thought she was going to make a scene.

‘I won't say anything. Just watch.'

‘Right. Listen, I'll catch you afterwards. There are things I need to talk to you about.'

Marian edged her way past two people sitting in silence. The woman was older than Marian, her expression grim. The man was softer, shoulders rounded. He looked miserable, his face pale and his eyes puffy.

What were they here for?

The man in the mismatched suit had come in behind Marian and sat down next to them. The old man turned towards him, but the woman went on staring ahead.

Of course. They were his parents, the paedophile. Marian's chest tightened with pity and fear. She turned away hastily and found a seat.

The dock was empty, a raised area separated from the public part of the courtroom by glass, but from the official benches only by a low partition. It was a big space. You could fit the old dining table in there easily, with the six chairs and all. Why did they need so much room?

Perhaps there'd be a lot of police.

‘All rise.'

A panel in the back wall of the court opened and the magistrate appeared, a tall thin man with grey hair. He seated himself behind the highest bench. ‘Please sit down.'

He didn't seem unsympathetic, but didn't smile either, and he was looking straight at Marian. Her heart began to race. It took her a second to realise that she was the only person still standing. Everyone was waiting for her. She sat down with a bump.

The buzz in the room grew in volume again. People shuffled papers. An official in a shirt marked
Security
read from a clipboard. ‘Two five six. Johnson.'

A man in the front row stood up, smoothing careful strands of hair across his bald patch. The clipboard man pointed him forward.

‘Let's hear the charge,' said the magistrate.

A gangly policeman stood with his back to the court, held up a bunch of papers and reeled off a string of words that were inaudible to Marian. Was it something to do with Charlie? Had this man been there? But he wasn't in the dock.

She fumbled again for her glasses, then realised how useless that was. Glasses wouldn't help her hearing. And anyway they weren't there.

The magistrate spoke to the accused. ‘You understand the charge, Mr Johnson?'

‘Yes your honour.'

‘And you choose to have the matter dealt with today in this court?'

Mr Johnson nodded.

The magistrate sat back and smiled encouragingly. ‘What have you got to say about it?'

Mr Johnson cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. He was powerfully built, probably accustomed to roaring. The unfamiliar effort to sound polite contorted his whole body. Even from behind the effect was disturbing.

‘It was wrong, your honour. Only he insulted my girlfriend. In the pub.'

Pub? What did that have to do with the supermarket?

‘I shouldn't have pushed him,' the big man was saying. ‘I know that.'

The magistrate sat back and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘Fell backwards and hit his head, eh? Sometimes when people hit their heads they don't get up again. You know that? You were lucky, weren't you? Because otherwise you'd be here on a manslaughter charge.'

‘Yes your honour.'

This wasn't connected with Charlie. It was some fight in a pub.

The magistrate turned back to the policeman. ‘Any previous convictions?'

The policeman mumbled.

Marian looked around. The paedophile's mother was leaning forward with one hand behind her ear.

The policeman had apparently finished what he was reading.

‘Well Mr Johnson,' said the magistrate, in his headmaster voice, ‘I'm only going to fine you this time. But you've got to cut down on that drinking. If you can't control your temper, then you shouldn't drink.'

‘Yes your honour. Thank you, your honour.'

‘Wait over there while they sort out the paperwork.'

The security man with the clipboard was on his feet again. ‘Two five seven. Wardle.'

A door in the side wall of the dock opened and a guard ushered an Aboriginal man to the front.

Why was this one in the dock when the last one wasn't? Perhaps this was more serious. This might be part of Charlie's business now. Was that it? Had Charlie got mixed up in some Abo thing? Drinking?

The gangly policeman stood up. ‘
Mumble mumble
 … drunk …
mumble
resisting
mumble
 …'

‘Do you understand the charge, Mr Wardle?'

The man in the dock nodded, staring at his feet.