Smashed (13 page)

‘Darwin and the theory of evolution can be blamed for lots of things,’ I say, ‘but excusing rape is not okay.’

I must’ve let my voice get really loud because, beside me, Carl startles and murmurs something that sounds like ‘whack-a-doo’. We both hold our breaths, waiting to see if he wakes up, but whatever is going on inside his head is smothered down again by drugged-out sleep.

Danica pulls a crumpled hanky from her pocket and blows her nose. ‘You’re not going to say what Don did in court are you?’ Anger powers her words, and I reckon she’s still suspicious of me.

I don’t know what she’s wanting me to say, so try to keep it casual, to stall for clues. ‘Not sure.’

She tears a hunk of fingernail off her little finger, so low down it starts to bleed. ‘I wanted Donald to kill Dad, you know? For what he did.’ She sucks the blood off her finger and wraps the hanky round it tight. ‘In fact, I didn’t care who did it, I just wanted him dead.’ 

‘Do you wish your dad had gone to court?’

Danica grunts. ‘My nana took me to the cops. Wanted me to lay a charge. But I couldn’t go through with it. My mum begged me not to, saying she didn’t know how they’d survive if Dad went to jail.’

It’s bad enough knowing that Sidney beat up on Don and probably on Don’s mother too without the thought of what he did to his daughter. It’s so sick I can’t even let my mind go there — have to block the pictures from my head. When I look over at Danica, it’s like I can see through her outer shell, and for some weird reason I feel ashamed. For me. For her.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she accuses. She’s up and off the chair again. ‘You think I asked for it — enjoyed it. You bloody men are all the same.’ There’s so much scorn and fury in her voice it’s like she’s slapped me fair across the mush. And she doesn’t wait around for me to answer her — she’s fighting with the curtains to escape.

‘You’re wrong!’ I hiss. I make a grab for her arm and jerk her around, way too hard, and I see her wince. But if I don’t get this settled right now, I’ll never get another chance. ‘I get it, okay? I’ve seen what Don did to Rita — I’m not thick. You think I’d blame a twelve-year-old for something done to her by a grown man? By her
father?
I’m not
that
sick.’ 

‘Give her one!’ Carl suddenly yells — and we’re both so shocked we turn around to see the stupid bugger’s face. He’s leering at me like a drunken corpse and trying to get himself up onto one elbow. ‘Einstein!’

The fact that Carl’s awake and seems okay should make me pleased, but the last thing I need right now is another argy-bargy with him. I pull Danica out through the curtains and into the corridor, and hold her arm. ‘Please,’ I beg, ‘can’t we be friends?’ Don’t ask me why Danica’s good impression of me matters so much, but I feel as if my whole life’s at stake.

She shrugs my hand off her arm and brushes herself down as if to wipe my germs away. ‘Don’t put Rita through it,’ she declares. ‘It’s just too hard.’

She starts to walk away then, while I vigorously nod my head to try to show I’m on her side. She’s almost at the doors when she spins around and walks two paces back towards me, shuffling and looking shy.

‘I reckon if you really want to figure out what happened on the night, the best thing you could do is go back there — retrace your steps.’

Of course! If I take myself back to the last place I remember and walk myself through the route I took that night, it’s bound to jog my memory … The girl’s a genius!

‘Will you come with me?’ I ask. ‘To the waterfront?
To help me?’

She stares at me for a minute, obviously stuck for what to say, and I realise how completely stupid I must be to think that the sister of the guy I’m supposed to have beaten up might help me out.

‘When?’

Does this mean she has agreed?
‘Any time you can come.’ If I was a dog right now I’d have my tongue out and a wagging tail to convince her how pleased I am — how non-threatening and pleased.

She shrugs. ‘I’ll let you know when I have time.’ Her voice sounds flat and I realise she is probably just being polite. I’m such a nerd.

‘Yeah. Thanks,’ I say and turn away. I step under the automatic sensor to go back through the sliding doors and feel a small hand brushing my elbow. I look around.

‘Wait for me to ring,’ she says, and almost smiles.

W
ith three weeks until my status hearing, I try to keep myself occupied by catching up on all my study. My application about the missed exam is being considered, though the tutor gives me dodgy glances whenever he walks by me. I’ve also had another excruciating meeting with Sandra who seems convinced I won’t get off. The good news is she thinks that if we’re lucky I might get some kind of sentence like community work — maybe about 200 hours. Whoop-
di-doo
… a conviction that will stick to me for life, and all my weekends for the next 300,000 years spent picking up other people’s rubbish from the side of the road. But the big unknown, she warns, is Don. He still hasn’t woken from his coma and, no matter what a goodie-good I am in court, if Don dies I’ll get locked in jail.

No word from Carl. His mother’s rung a couple of times to try to track him down, so I gather the stupid bugger’s gone on another drug-fuelled binge. No word
from Danica either. Every time the phone rings I hold my breath and wait in hope … Perhaps she was just being kind and never intended to call. What really makes me kick myself is that I didn’t have the sense to ask her where on earth she lives. In all the years I’ve known Don he’s never said, and now I’ve got no clue if she lives close by or not. How dumb is that? You know, the last few weeks have proved to me that IQ counts for nothing in the real world. People can be smart as hell, but if they don’t know how to relate to other human beings they’re totally doomed. Just look at me.

Home, too, is bloody grim. Rita’s now stopped sleeping altogether — every time she tries to close her eyes she gets flashbacks that set her off. I’ve grown so used to hearing her tossing and turning in the night I’ve stopped going in to check on her, cos there’s nothing I can do to help. She’s so overtired it’s hard to look at her without her going off her nut. She’s moody, tense and hypersensitive, and now her school work’s gone to hell. She just seems to have stopped caring — sometimes she doesn’t even wash.

I know it’s driving Mum nuts. She’s tried four different counsellors, but Rita seems to hate each one. One moment she agrees to go — and even yells at Mum and tells her she should hurry up to get her help — but when
Mum finds another counsellor with time to spare, Rita will not leave the car. Other times, Mum says, Rita tells the counsellor she’s fine — if she talks at all, that is. And this week she’s decided there is no way she will make any kind of statement to the cops … again. I can see Mum straining to keep calm; it’s obvious she’d like to strangle Rits at times, but knows it’s really not her fault. It’s like tightrope walking on barbed wire — no matter how careful you think you are, every way you place your foot you’re doomed to hurt yourself and fall.

Mum’s painting has gone to the dogs. She stands there with brush in hand and cannot do a damn thing. It’s like all the stuff that’s going on has sucked her creative juices dry. Last night, after another bitchy episode with Rits, Mum stormed into her painting room and smeared a whole new canvas just with black.

The atmosphere is so high-tension in the house I spend the time I’m not studying out in the shed with Dad. He’s putting the finishing touches to his radiolarian cage, and it’s shaping up to be the best one he’s ever made.

This evening I’m gluing tiny paua circles into silver settings welded on around the base. It’s a relief to be doing something that takes concentration but no brainpower, so I can switch off my thoughts.

Dad’s twisting copper wire around a frame, to flesh
out an oversized model of a bird — to hang inside the cage, I guess. There’s something sickly and depressing about this. It’s like he’s saying cages must always be filled, and that filling cages means something (or someone) must always be confined inside. Okay, maybe it’s just my paranoid take on it, but the thought sits, brooding, in my head.

To distract myself from this, I start to tell Dad about my day. But, as if my mind is stuck on a loop of terrified self-pity, the only thing that springs to mind is the revision tutorial about the prisoner’s dilemma we just did in Psych.

‘There’s these two guys, you see,’ I explain to Dad, ‘who’re both being questioned by the police.’

‘Ironic timing,’ Dad says, and he grins through the silver bars at me.

‘Yeah.’ I scoop up another handful of the glistening paua shells and begin a new section while I talk. ‘The cops don’t have quite enough evidence to convict them of the crime they want to, but have got enough to get them on a lesser charge — one that’d put them both in prison for a year.’

‘What’d they do?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Dad. It’s hypothetical — you don’t need to know.’

‘Bugger that. There’s nothing hypothetical about
a year in jail. It stinks.’

As soon as he starts saying this, I get the link. Talk about obvious. ‘Shut up and concentrate!’ I demand. ‘Here’s the thing … the chief prosecutor guy badly wants a conviction on the more serious charges —’ I can see Dad getting ready to ask me what the charge would be, so get in first. ‘I dunno what the charge is, okay? But he pressures each guy to confess and blab on the other one — with strict conditions.’

‘Sounds a bit dodgy to me. Are you sure these guys aren’t corporate fraudsters? That’d make the thing worthwhile!’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I say, as sarcastic as I can make it sound. ‘They’re corporate fraudsters — probably work for Telecom or Inland Revenue. Okay?’ He laughs and gives me the thumbs-up. ‘Anyway, he tells each of these guys, “If you confess but your partner doesn’t, I’ll let you off free and use your testimony to lock him up for ten years. If you don’t confess, but your partner does,
you
go to prison for ten years. If you confess and your partner does too, I’ll put you both away for three years.” The trick is to figure out what’s best for them to do.’

‘Why?’

‘Duh, Dad! Because it’s a classic psychological dilemma — and if you play it repeatedly it’s got so
many variations people all around the world have even programmed computers to figure out how many variations there can be and what that tells us about human nature.’

Dad stops what he’s doing and wipes his brow, smearing copper grime across his forehead. ‘I’m pulling your leg, mate. Of course I’ve heard of it. But the thing I hate is it’s saying that to get off free you have to hope your partner is a liar — and if you both tell the truth you’ll be punished
more
than if he lied. What the hell does
that
tell us about human nature … except that trust and truth are very delicately balanced things?’

You know, I’d never thought of it that way. I’ve always focused on the maths in it — the challenge of working out the variations and the patterns of learnt behaviour that those answers show. I look at Dad, standing there all grimy, grinning at me like a Chinese fortune cookie, and I realise sometimes I forget he’s really a clever guy.

‘I think that’s what pisses me off most about what Don did to Rita,’ I admit, the words bursting out of me with unexpected force. ‘I trusted him, and so did she.’

Dad nods, but doesn’t immediately reply. I can tell he’s churning something over in his head by the way his eyes darken from their usual brown to almost black. It’s a funny thing about eyes — how they can change colour depending on what’s going on inside our heads. I wonder
if I’m the only one who’s ever noticed this? Take Carl, for example. It’s almost like you can see the computer workings of his brain flicker and ignite, and then there’s the unearthly spark that flares up in his eyes when he’s about to have one of his psycho fits. Or those horror movies where the creepy bad guys’ eyes glow green or red before they kill … I reckon it’s not far off the mark. I’ve heard it said that eyes are the mirror of the soul — that’s probably why so many crims wear dark glasses day and night!

‘You know Mum and I trust you, don’t you, mate?’ Dad says at last.

‘Yeah … thanks.’ I know they’ve both said this before but, I tell you, it preys heavy on my mind, for sure. I mean, what if it turned out I really did beat up Don and just couldn’t remember it? How would Mum and Dad feel then?

Dad finishes winding the copper wire around the frame and stands back from the giant bird to take a look. ‘Well … I reckon this should sell for heaps.’

‘You’re going to sell it?’ I ask, amazed. ‘You’ve never sold anything you’ve made before — and this one’s the best.’

Dad shrugs. ‘Mum’s lawyer friend Sandra comes at quite a price.’ 

‘What? You can’t sell it because of me.’

‘Forget it, mate. It’s just a thing …’

‘But —’

‘I said forget it.’ He starts to slide the giant bird shape carefully through the gap he’s left between the bars. ‘Now help me get this into place.’

His tone leaves no room for argument. But, as I help him mount the bird inside the cage, I know how this bird, if it was alive, would feel. Trapped. Confused. With no way out.

The bird is me.

Danica rings me the night before my status hearing. ‘I’m at the hospital with Don. You want to meet me tonight?’

It’s already past my curfew and I’m in such a state of nerves it’s hard to think. ‘I’m not allowed out tonight — can we make it some time Friday, during the day?’

‘No.’ There’s a moment’s awkward silence.

‘What about the weekend?’

‘No … I’ve got a job.’

‘Okay …’ I should just tell her it’s not going to work, but to hell with that. ‘I’m gonna have to work around my curfew then.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I can hear the
Coronation Street
theme
blaring in the background. ‘Can you sneak out when your folks have gone to bed?’

‘I guess.’ I weigh this up. Mum and Dad usually hit the sack about ten. ‘I reckon I could get to you about eleven thirty. Is that too late?’

‘That’s sweet. I’m here all night.’

Once we’ve sorted this she gets all chatty. I reckon it must be a girl thing, cos Rita gossips on the phone for hours, while I can’t wait to say whatever’s on my mind and hang up quick. It turns out Danica lives with her nana out in Wainui and only comes to Wellington when she’s sure her folks won’t be with Don. Her nana sometimes lets her stay at the hospital and go straight to school the next morning, so we’re fine tonight. I also learn that she turned sixteen five months ago, her nana’s cool but fairly strict, and that her favourite subjects at Hutt Valley High are Graphics and Art.

Sneaking out of the house is no big deal. Mum and Dad are watching the late TV news in bed, and Rita’s taken to listening to the radio half the night. There’s more than enough noise to cover climbing out my window when it’s time to leave.

It’s a windless night, and the trees stand silent as I leg it down past the zoo and make my way through the quiet streets of Newtown to the hospital. I feel light and
kind of giggly, and I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m breaking my curfew or the fact that I’ll see Danica.

She’s waiting outside A and E, and her teeth glow an iridescent white when she smiles. ‘Hi!’ she says. She’s wearing jeans and a dark hoodie which almost covers her eyes.

‘How’s Don?’

‘He’s started trying to pull out the tube that’s down his throat and jerking when they jab his foot. They say it’s good — that maybe soon he might wake up.’

‘That’s great!’ I say, caught up by the hope that, for one moment, lifts her voice.

‘Maybe.’ She shrugs. ‘They just won’t know what state his brain’s in till he wakes. It’s fifty-fifty whether he’ll know who we are or how to speak.’

‘Shit.’ There’s nothing else to say to this. Suddenly I’m reminded why we’re here, and all of my excitement drains away with that one word. ‘Are you sure no one will worry where you’ve gone?’

‘Doubt it,’ she snorts. ‘Half the time it’s only nursing temps who’ve never worked the ward before. They’re way too busy running around to worry themselves about me.’

‘Well then,’ I say, ‘I guess we’d better mission on.’

We catch a bus down to Courtenay Place and decide to go straight to the waterfront, to jog my mind. I’m sure
I can remember making my way there past the big New World, so that’s where we decide to start. Across the road, at Waitangi Park, gangs of skateboarders crowd the ramp and we keep our distance, not sure how friendly they will be.

‘I used to hang out down here before they did it up like this,’ Danica admits. ‘It was just bare land then — full of junk and broken glass. I’d come down here and try to get stoned … the only way to cope with Dad.’

‘It must’ve been bloody awful,’ is all I offer — I’m scared of saying the wrong thing.

She laughs, hard-edged. ‘Yeah … it was.’

I try for a lifting of the mood. ‘Well, it’s good you’re over it all now.’

Danica stops in her tracks. ‘Are you stupid?’ She throws her head back, so she can burn me with her scornful look. ‘It’s not something you
get over
, dweeb. It’s there for life.’

‘I didn’t mean it like —’

‘Yeah? Well, you’re going to be stuff-all help to Rita if you’re waiting for her to
come right
. It never bloody goes away …’

‘But I can’t bear to think of her — or you — screwed up for life. I want her to get better … to move on through and be the way she used to be.’