Accidental exposure, p.42
Accidental Exposure, page 42
Kirsten isn’t smiling anymore.
“We know everything Brian. Well, not absolutely everything. We don’t know where Andrew is now, but we’ll find him. We’re going to find him very soon.”
“Who are you?”
“I may have told a little fib. I’m not actually a lawyer. Why don’t we go for a drink and talk about it?”
“No, stay away from me. Who are you?”
“Samuel Forcale is dying. He’s dying and he just wants this little thing to go away. Mr Forcale can be very generous.”
“Are you seriously offering me a bribe on the steps to our offices? I’m a lawyer. I could have you arrested for this conversation.”
The woman smiles again.
“For what? Asking a man out for a drink? We have lawyers too. You might be able to have me arrested, but my friends will still be searching for Andrew. We’re going to find him.”
Brian brushes past her and rushes down the stairs towards the road.
“Come on Brian,” she calls down on him. “Don’t be like that. Let me buy you a beer.”
He jumps into the back of a taxi and shouts his address. Brian looks back up and the woman is waving, grinning. She doesn’t speak, but she mouths the words ‘where are you going?’
The offer, the threat, is dancing through Brian’s mind as Sydney sweeps past the windows of the cab.
What the hell am I going to do?
Nothing. It’s just a scare; it means nothing. Brian looks at his phone and sees a message from Isabel. He takes a deep breath and opens the text. It doesn’t say much, just that she’ll be coming over tomorrow if that’s all right.
Brian has three sessions with Isabel a week and he’s noticed that she doesn’t conduct herself in the same way as the other psychologists he’s known. Brian has extra meetings during Isabel’s lunch break and she drops by his apartment after work at least once a week, just to check in.
At around six in the afternoon the next day, Isabel arrives to speak to Brian about the possible process of visitation with Andy. They sit in the living room across from each other, fairly informally, while a frozen lasagne prepares to bubble in the oven.
“So,” Isabel begins. “How are you feeling? Physically, I mean.”
“Great. I get headaches, but they’re not too bad.”
“Just keep an eye on them, maybe record what you’re doing when they hit. A lot of the time things like reading or staring at the TV for a while can aggravate the parts of the brain you didn’t use for so long. And your living arrangements are still working out?”
“Yeah, it’s going well. I’m quite good friends with my neighbour and you were right about the space, this is more than enough for just me and Yeeha,” Brian replies. The dog lifts her head to listen at the sound of her name, then lowers it after another second of inattention.
“That’s positive. Family and Community Services might speak to your neighbour about you to get an idea of your habits to make sure you’re responsible. They’ll want an insight into your day to day life since you moved in here to ensure you’ve been consistently dependable.”
“I also have some really good news on the work front,” Brian announces, eager to share his latest achievement. “I’ve been assisting our legal teams from behind the scenes for a while now, refining documents and that sort of thing, but on Monday they want me in the court room. I’ll be analysing the defence’s argument to try and anticipate their next move.”
“Fantastic!” Isabel explodes. “We can show how you’ve made measurable steps in advancing your career. It’s a clear indicator that society agrees you are ready for more responsibility. This is big Brian, really big.” A huge smile beams from the features on Isabel’s face.
Brian and Isabel are chatting casually when a short, loud exchange of threats from outside startles both of them. Brian moves to the window to investigate, trying to remain unnoticed. He can see Marta stumbling drunk and stoned through the courtyard as the sound of squealing tyres quickly carries a car from the scene. Brian and Isabel watch as Marta fumbles for a moment with her keys before falling into her apartment.
“That’s your neighbour?” Isabel asks.
“Yeah, she works late hours. She must be tired. I’m sure she’d be sober to speak to someone important.”
“That doesn’t matter. Family and Community Services can arrive unannounced and if they were to drop in now to speak to that woman, who you have named as your friend, there would be trouble. They see her as a neighbour, a role model and even a potential babysitter. Brian, you can’t be associated with people that act like that if you want Andy back,” Isabel instructs.
“That’s ridiculous. She’s a friend. I can’t turn around and just decide to stop speaking to her.”
“These are the sacrifices you have to make. If the government thinks that awarding you custody will expose Andy to derelicts like that woman they’ll keep him away.”
“Who do you think you are?” Brian barks at her. “You come around acting all familiar and going out of your way to keep extra tabs on me. So far you haven’t helped all that much, you just tell me the things I do by myself are helpful and half of those things are against your advice. You act like you have some personal connection to my family and me. Why? Because I threatened you in the hospital?”
“Brian,” Isabel says calmly, trying to interrupt.
“You even call my son ‘Andy’. His name is Andrew to the people who don’t know him.”
“Stop making assumptions. There is more going on here than you realise. ”
“Like what? Huh? You think you’re helping me by watching what I do? I would have gotten to where I am now with or without you.” Brian is yelling now and Isabel is leaning forward into his aggression, embracing the conflict.
“Don’t act so superior. Remember I fought to be assigned your case.”
Why does she keep bringing that up?
“I’m not acting superior. You take notes and observe. That’s all.” Brian can taste the bitterness of his words as they pass his tongue and he can feel the next sentiment bubbling up in his throat like hot phlegm about to be spit out.
He’s preparing to curse Isabel again, when she declares, “I know Annette,” and silences the room. Silences Brian’s mind. He freezes mid breath and pauses, hoping for an immediate explanation.
Isabel clarifies, “I mean, I knew Annette. I treated her.”
Chapter 28: Good Night Baby
Brian asks, “What are you talking about?”
“I knew Annette for a long time. I knew you before you knew me and I wanted to help when I read your medical report. I stepped in as a favour to my dead friend, not for your benefit.”
“How did you know her?”
“Don’t worry about it. If me coming over here is too personal we can wait until the next appointment.” Isabel stands and snatches up her purse from where it lies on the couch.
“Wait, how did you know Annette?”
“See you on Tuesday, good luck in the courtroom.”
“Hold on, wait,” Brian insists, but Isabel is already gone and halfway down the stairs.
The door was slammed a few seconds ago and Brian is left standing in the middle of the room, calmed by a storm of perplexity.
“Wait a minute,” he mutters to himself.
It makes sense, doesn’t it?
Did Isabel know anything other than my name, and Annette’s name, when she fought to be assigned my case?
Is it possible?
Is it, could it be, likely?
Brian makes his way to his bedroom, turning off all the lights on the way; there’s a pretty good chance he won’t want to get back out of bed tonight. Yeeha follows quietly and, after sitting next to Brian and sensing his distress, she snuffles at his leg. Brian pats Yeeha, kisses her on the top of the head as if to tell her to relax and she lies on the floor. He begins talking to himself; the words and thoughts just need to be outside of him like foul sweat the morning after a drunken evening.
“How?” He stops and closes his eyes.
“Even if she knew…” Brian’s speech trails away.
“Isabel never met me. Did she? How can she claim she knew me?” he asks himself a little louder and someone replies, “Maybe they were mates. ”
Marta’s familiar voice crosses from her kitchen to Brian’s bedroom and he turns to see her standing at the window wearing very little clothes. There are thin pink panties hugging the bumps between her legs and the triangles of a thin loose singlet cover her breasts.
Her lips and eyelids droop with drunken lethargy. Brian sighs and looks away.
“I’m not in the mood for this right now. Please leave me alone,” Brian says as he turns his attention to the floor.
“I heard everything she said. That’s a lot to process. Do you reckon she might be lying?” Marta continues.
“So, you heard everything?”
“Yeah. Even the stuff about me, but don’t worry. I understand,” she answers. There’s no sarcasm in Marta’s voice and Brian takes a second to secretly admire her for that.
“Marta, you are a lot of things-”
“I know.”
“You’re a lot of things and I am so glad that honest is one of them.”
She chuckles and says, “Maybe your wife and your shrink used to be friends. I tell my friends everything when I’m seeing a guy. Or guys.”
“Maybe. Good night,” Brian says as he closes his window and the curtains.
“Good night baby,” she calls back, muffled by the glass. “I understand if you wanna stop hanging out. Your kid needs a father. You have priorities. You need change.”
Chapter 29: Why Isn’t Anyone Listening
Monday morning rolls around and Brian couldn’t be more prepared for his first day in the courthouse instead of the office. He hasn’t spoken to Isabel since she stormed out, but he’s not worried. He expects she just needs a couple of days to cool off. He hasn’t seen Marta since that night either, but he knows that’s nothing more than coincidence.
Everything is going to be all right. Finally, everything is going to sort itself out.
As Brian has done every morning before work for the last couple of months, he stands and dresses in front of the mirror. He’s stronger now. His body is thick again, unlike the bony shell that shocked him on the first day he re-visited the office after a year’s sleep. There’s muscle on his bones and fat on his face again and the tired eyes of stress have been replaced with the confident gaze of success. Brian leaves his apartment behind to stride up the stairs to the courtroom with powerful bounds and make his way to the specified room to sit with the prosecution team. Forcale isn’t the criminal on trial today, but Brian has spent a fair bit of time with this team as well, so he knows he’s ready for the increased responsibility. Brian and his team all confer for a moment while the court waits on the offender, then the judge. As the day’s proceedings begin, so does the work.
The lawyers in the room whisper furiously and write with vigour, exchanging ideas and presenting their expectations as nimbly as they can. Brian can feel the tension in his skin as if that massive, coating organ has been put through the dryer and is now one size too small. His frantic and hushed conferences don’t make much difference to the case itself. The Queen’s Counsel that Brian is working for only takes on board about one in a hundred of the suggestions he and the other lower members of the team make.
Why isn’t anyone listening to me?
“We need to discredit the witness’ relationship with the defendant. Show that the alibi they’ve corroborated on isn’t trustworthy,” he whispers to the young man beside him. He shoots up a hand to silence Brian. Brian looks to the Queen’s Counsel as she presents the case. She’s already made that point; Brian is minutes behind.
“Why don’t we call the housekeeper to the stand? She’ll admit he wasn’t there,” he suggests.
“Get with the program mate, she was on the stand thirty-five minutes ago,” the kid snaps back. Brian is at least ten years older than the rude young teammate but somehow feels unbelievably inexperienced.
He can feel something is wrong. It’s like his brain won’t switch into third gear, or even second for that matter.
Something isn’t right. Brian sees a spot on the roof, a black mark out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks directly at it the dark patch vanishes. There was nothing but fluorescence there the whole time.
There’s another. This patch is more of an explosion than a mark. A burst of darkness on the floor, far to the left.
Brian feels sweat begin to sting his eyes, even though it isn’t warm. In fact, he’s freezing. He wipes his brow and realises his clothes are soaking wet.
“Something’s wrong,” Brian mutters as the sensation of pins and needles creeps into his toes.
“I need help,” he speaks a little louder. Now there is more darkness than reality, no matter where Brian looks.
He can’t breathe. He slaps the man beside him to get his attention. Damn the case; Brian is in real trouble. Real, physical distress.
“I need air,” Brian coughs, then he yells loud enough for the entire room to take notice, “I NEED AIR!”
Brian feels a hand grab his shoulder and he assumes one of his team members is telling him to be silent and act professionally. They could be saying anything; Brian’s hearing is completely gone and it’s been replaced by nothing more than thumps and bumps. This problem isn’t coming from his muscles or his bones or his joints; this is coming from his brain.
Brian barely manages to lift his torso above his legs, but he needs to leave. Brian tries to exit the seating and enter the central walkway. He makes it past the men beside him as he begins to feel painfully nauseous.
Brian tastes bile and he vomits into his mouth, clutching at his lips to stop the embarrassing explosion of fluid. He swallows.
Brian finds his way into a little open space then collapses with everyone watching, but no one ready to help. His skull barely misses the surrounding furniture. Brian lies unconscious on the varnished oak floorboards of the courtroom until the ambulance arrives.
He awakes only a few hours after the medical staff deliver him to the same hospital he was admitted to after both crashes. His overnight stay is much the same as it has been the times before. Misery, despair and hopelessness grip Brian as the doctors explain that loss of consciousness is common among recent coma patients, especially those who experience high levels of stress immediately after waking. These people speak to Brian as if they’ve seen this kind of loss before. They act as though every patient they speak to, who so much as faints, has to deal with the depth of issues crippling him.
Brian is broken, even before he notices the flashing light on his phone.
Brian dials his message bank.
“You have… one… new message,” the robot on the other end begins.
“No… saved messages,” it continues. “Message received… yesterday at … seven… twenty-two… pm.”
Mark Bressler’s South African accent tears its way out of the earpiece. He’s shouting and there is the sound of traffic in the background. He’s somewhere in public, a cab perhaps. “Brian mate, I’ve been trying like mad to reach you. Look, mate, we’ve got a big flippin’ problem now. We can’t employ you anymore.” Mark pauses as if he knows Brian will need a second to let the sentence sink in.
“You’re great at what you do, but your physical limitations are a liability. I’m sure you understand. We need to make sure none of the buggers we prosecute can find grounds to claim a mistrial. You’re obviously not ready. Lawyers can’t just collapse; we think this case will be dismissed.” He pauses again, surely thinking about whether or not he needs to explain further.
“I’m very sorry, really my friend, but what if this incident had been in the courtroom in front of Forcale? His people would have the case thrown out on the spot. Pardon?” He isn’t talking into his phone anymore.
“No. Not that one. No, not that one, the one I’m pointing to, the ham and cheese. Yes. Whatever, look I’m on the phone.” Mark isn’t in a cab. He’s picking up a sandwich while he fires Brian.
“I’m sorry mate, but I have to go. I hope you’re all right and thanks for all the help. You must come by for tea some time and the office will contact you about the particulars,” and the line is dead.
“You have no new messages,” the robot returns.
Brian doesn’t even bother to hang up his end; he just tosses the device at the far corner of the room where it can’t bother him. He lies in silence.
Brian’s work was an escape. It was a welcome distraction from his loss. He could forget his pain and worry about the criminal charges of the public. Brian was focused on other people’s problems for just that short period of his wretched journey.
Now he’s alone again. Back to the start.
Brian doesn’t cry now, not like before. Something is hardening in him. There is an undeniable sadness and a pain not unlike flaming indigestion in his chest, but now it’s coupled with something harsher. Something mean. It’s not exactly hatred, but it’s not far off.
“Hi, how are you feeling?” Isabel’s voice fills the room after an hour or two hours or however long it’s been. It doesn’t matter.
“Dandy,” Brian grunts.
“I’m sorry you’ve been alone, I came as fast as I could.”
“I don’t care,” he replies and a shot of insult crosses Isabel’s face. She sits in the sterilised chair beside the bed and places a hand on Brian’s shoulder. He knows she expects him to keep speaking or react to her presence in some way, but he disappoints her. Brian lies almost as still and unresponsive as he did eighteen months ago.
“Look, I have some bad news,” Isabel begins.
“Of course there’s more bloody bad news. Why waste any time?”
“I’m sorry, should I-“
“Just bloody say it. What’s wrong?”
“All right, well, unfortunately, in cases like yours, Family and Community Services always put the interests of the child first.” Brian’s gaze snaps up to look Isabel in the eye. The mention of Andy breaks his trance. He sees nothing but pity in his psychologist, his friend. Isabel can’t return the stare. As she begins to speak again, she looks away.
