Already Dead (8 page)

She pressed her lips together, irritated that he hadn't given her a straight answer yet, recognising the tactic and already resenting it. She'd had twelve months of Homicide cops deciding how much she needed to know, picking and choosing what information they'd share, feeding it out like scraps to a hungry peasant.

‘You're safe, Miranda,' he said.

Except for that – she needed to hear
that
. His words cut through her temper and started a fresh rush of tears. She wiped her face with a corner of the blanket, cleared her throat, folded her arms on the table, grateful for his silence while she pulled herself together.

When she was done, he picked up a pen from the pad he'd put on the desk. ‘I'd like to get the details down while they're still fresh. Do you think you can manage that?'

The real question was whether she wanted the details to keep running through her head, weighing her down until she came back to the station to let them out. She knew what it was like to have shock and sadness linger inside her, and she wasn't sure she had room for more. She pulled in a breath. ‘Yes, let's get it over with.'

It took another hour to go through it. He asked her to start from when she left the house, steered her back on track when she struggled to stay in chronological order, pressed gently for when and how Brendan had shouted or lunged or freaked out. She waxed and waned between being grateful for Aiden's patience and wanting to tell him to give her a damn break, all the time trying not to let the process remind her of the long hours she'd spent with police over Nick's death – crying, being interviewed, begging for information.

Halfway through, the uniformed cop came back with new bottles of water and a couple of takeaway sandwiches, and left to let Tilda know they'd be finished soon. When Aiden finally drew a line under his notes, Jax stretched her neck side-to-side, a ripple of cracks popping down her spine.

‘I'd like to talk to you again when we've finished at the scene and completed the witness statements,' he said. ‘Can
you come in tomorrow afternoon? It'll give you a chance to add anything else you might remember.'

‘I was hoping to forget it.'

He nodded – empathetic but insistent. ‘I know you must want to put it behind you but we need to wrap it up properly.'

She thought of the past year, wondering how far they'd get with the wrapping up on this one.

The blanket was still around her shoulders as Aiden walked her downstairs and swung open the door to the foyer.

‘Mummy!'

Zoe
. Freckles and gap-toothed and soft, brown curls. Dragging Tilda across the waiting area, both of them wearing long, bright scarves and strings of Tilda's customary beads.

Jax dropped to her knees and caught her daughter in her arms. Hot tears welled behind her lids and she squeezed her eyes tight, trying to keep them from Zoe. She didn't need to see her mother like this. Not again.

It was dark and quiet on the streets of Newcastle as Tilda drove a familiar path home, over the headland and past a long stretch of beach.

‘And Aunty Tilda said I could wear her scarf and beads,' Zoe told Jax from the back seat, talking non-stop as though one night apart had been a whirlwind holiday. ‘She said I looked … What was that word?'

‘Gregarious,' Tilda answered.

‘Oh, yeah. Gregarious.'

And Tilda would know, Jax thought, glancing at her aunt across the car. Wealthy, arty, trim and glamorous in a bohemian, owning-her-age kind of way.

Zoe told Jax about the curry she'd helped cook and the painting at the gallery they'd visited and the peppermint tea she was allowed to taste.

Jax tried to enjoy her daughter's chatter, glad Zoe didn't know what had happened, wincing as the volume grated on the headache pulsating inside her skull. She turned her face to the passenger window and watched the fluorescent white crests of surf on the black ocean, remembering another time in Tilda's car, passing
this way with nothing but the clothes she'd been wearing.

That night, the stench of smoke had still clung to her hair from the fire that burned her home to the ground and turned her parents to ash. Her world-travelling, childless aunt had driven out west and picked her up, and Jax had arrived with no money and shattered by tragedy. Now, nineteen years and a lifetime later, she didn't feel a whole lot different – except this time, she'd brought a daughter.

Novocastrians had a theory that people who grew up here and left would eventually want to come back. There was plenty of reason to: Newcastle was a great place to bring up families or retire, where you could afford to live by the beach without spending every waking hour at a job that kept you away from it. Nick had talked about moving up – he'd figured they could both work from home and enjoy a better, freer lifestyle – but Jax had never wanted to return. Not to live. Newcastle was where she'd grieved, hurt and healed. The concept of returning had always felt like a backward step.

And now she was here and feeling like hell – for old and new reasons.

Tilda pulled the car into the garage and the three of them trundled through the internal door to the large, tiled foyer that sat midway between the two levels of the house. The sight of cardboard boxes stacked to one side made Jax's headache grind and a groan slip from her throat.

‘Don't even think about it now,' Tilda said. ‘Zoe and I made up your bed and found your jim-jams, didn't we?' Zoe looked up at them and nodded, bouncing strands of hair framing her freckles. Tilda gave Jax's shoulder a gentle
rub. ‘You don't need anything else tonight but dinner and a Scotch, and both are waiting for you upstairs.'

Jax glanced briefly down the half of the staircase that led to the lower level where she and Zoe would be living. The self-contained apartment had been painted two weeks ago and there was still a hint of the chemical smell in the air that wafted up. It was theirs – lovely, roomy, a financial blessing.

And the end of another life.

Trailing Zoe and Tilda up the stairs, Jax lifted her eyes to the expanse of glass at the top. Even exhausted, she found it hard not to be gobsmacked by the view. Tilda's two storeys were on the side of a hill, the top level looking towards the city, the lower facing the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. Tonight, the suburbs that stretched out below the house were a carpet of fairy lights that edged the surf all the way to the darkness of the next headland. Off to the right, navigation lights on the ships queuing for the port hung like lamps suspended in deep, dark space.

Five months ago, when Tilda suggested the living arrangements, it had been four years since Jax had visited. The house was too big for one person, Tilda told her. The downstairs area had been converted to a flat for a nurse back when Archie, her third husband, was dying of cancer. Jax and Zoe could move in, Tilda said. Have their own space while Jax decided what to do with the rest of their lives. And Tilda could use the time – however long it took – to think about moving somewhere smaller.

Jax and Zoe had come up for a trial run: two nights downstairs, visiting schools and supermarkets, cafes and the beach. That was three months ago – and now Jax was here for a second time … to stay.

Tilda sat her at the table, delivered a bowl of curry and a neat Scotch, and said, ‘Eat, drink and let me get Zoe ready for bed.'

When they were gone, Jax let her eyes wander around the room. She was keyed up and numb, her head ached and there was something wobbly inside her – and she wanted to be home. Her own home. The one she'd made with Nick.

Half an hour later, Jax had kissed Zoe goodnight, stood in a steaming shower and scrubbed at the grit from the motorway and the stink of fear. She wanted to sleep but her blood felt like a white-water course charging through her – way too wired to even lie down. Needing company, padding back upstairs, she was rising from the stairwell when Tilda saw her and switched off the television. Jax nodded at the blank TV screen. ‘What are they saying?'

‘The traffic's banked up for almost ten kilometres,' Tilda told her, avoiding the real story as she held the phone out to her. ‘Russell called again while you were downstairs. He's worried about you.'

‘Was he at home?'

‘I don't know.'

Tilda dropped ice cubes into two cut-glass tumblers as Jax stood by the windows, fiddling with buttons until she found the last number on the call register: the newsroom. ‘Hey, it's me.'

‘Fuck, Jax. Are you okay?' He'd been Nick's best friend for years, her self-appointed sergeant-at-arms since his death. It felt bloody good to hear his voice.

‘Shaken up, freaked out, mostly just happy to be alive to tell someone about it.'

‘Have you seen the coverage?'

She took the fresh Scotch from Tilda, smiled her thanks. ‘Not yet. Are they still running it?'

‘Nine had a chopper in the air when the police reports started coming in. It got there just after the cops. They went live during the news and they've been running the vision every half hour since. It's on again now.'

Picking up the remote from the coffee table, Jax hit power and flicked around the channels until she found it. ‘Oh my God.'

The picture was grainy and shaky from distance, but it was clear enough – the pull-over zone shot from above, two figures with guns. Aiden Hawke's arms were an arrow pointing straight ahead as he paced slowly towards her. She was loose and swaying, head turning one way then the other. Then her gun was on the ground and Aiden was patting her down, holding her up, half-carrying, half-dragging her to his car with the help of someone in uniform. It'd felt different to that. Slower, stranger. Less American reality cop show, more bad dream. The sight of it made her bones feel too tight.

‘What about the crash?' Jax asked. ‘Are they showing the crash? He's dead, Russell. The guy from my car is dead. He ran into the traffic right in front of me.'

His voice softened. ‘We know that now but it took a while for the information to come through. I don't think even the cops knew what had happened for a while.' He paused. ‘Jax, do you want to say something?'

He wasn't waiting for her to go on. She knew what he meant. They'd been news reporters together once. The four of them: Nick, Russell, his wife Deanne and Jax. Russell was now features editor at the paper and Jax hadn't put ‘news' or ‘reporter' on her business card in a few years but this was a big story, it was why he was still in the office
at 9 pm on a Monday. He was the go-to guy for a quote from her – and he knew how hard it'd been having Nick's story rehashed over and over during the past year.

‘I can't do an interview tonight. I can't think straight, I can barely string words together. And I'm already on my second Scotch.' She took a gulp, swirled the ice in the glass beside the phone so he'd hear it.

Another pause from him. She knew he wanted the scoop – who wouldn't? – but they'd been here before. She didn't want to
be
the story anymore, and it'd been his advice twelve months ago to let someone handle it for her.

‘What about a statement?' he asked.

‘Can you do it?'

‘Spokesperson for Miranda Jack?'

‘No, it sounds like I've walked off the motorway and hired PR. Make it “family friend”.'

‘What do you want?'

She perched on the edge of the sofa, trying to think. ‘Say he got in the car in Wahroonga. He had a gun and wanted me to drive north.' She stood again and walked back to the windows, thinking about Brendan's break with reality, remembering what it was like to have other people discuss Nick. ‘Say he seemed frightened and desperate and he wanted to get to his family.'

‘What about you?'

She watched the reflection of herself in the glass, remembered the look in her eyes when she'd seen herself in the cafe restroom. ‘You can say I was fucking scared.'

‘Hard to put in a headline.'

‘True. How about I was scared but I'm okay now. Saddened by the tragic outcome and my heart goes out to his family.' Bare bones but all true. ‘You can pretty it up.'

‘You want to see it before it goes out?'

‘No, I want to …'
Be someone else
. ‘… sleep.'

‘You sure you're okay?'

‘I'm too tired to know what I am. Before you go?'

‘Yes?'

‘Can you dig out a story for me? Brendan, the man in the car … he thought I'd interviewed him once, but I don't remember. There was a feature about five years ago, April or May I think. Double-page, soldiers leaving for Afghanistan, headline was something about tears and fears and goodbyes.'

‘So it
wasn't
random?'

‘Yes, it was. He didn't know who I was until I started talking to him.'

‘What did you talk about?'

‘Just stuff, anything I could think of. I was trying to calm him down. It didn't work very well but he asked about my husband, wanted to know where he was.'

Don't lie!

She squeezed her eyes shut as Brendan's voice charged through her head. ‘He wanted to know how my husband died, then figured out it was Nick and that I was, well, me.'

‘Can I use that?'

She sipped on the Scotch, stared at the TV: a reporter was doing a stand-up with the crash site in the background. ‘You can say I interviewed him before but keep Nick out of it. He's had enough said about him.'

‘Sure. And if I find the feature, I'll email it to you.'

‘Will you look tonight?'

‘Yeah, sure.'

‘Thanks. Now get to work so you can go home and tell your wife you love her.' Like Brendan had wanted to.

As she disconnected, Tilda picked up the remote and aimed it at the television.

‘Leave it on,' Jax told her. ‘It makes it feel real. I've barely got a scratch on me. I just feel like I've had an injection of adrenaline.' She perched on the arm of the sofa again, sipped Scotch as she listened to the sketchy details in the voice-over: gunman confirmed dead after being hit by a vehicle heading north as he tried to escape police; three passengers from the minibus and the driver of the Ford injured in the crash, none listed as serious; no details on where Miranda Jack was heading when the man got in her car; confirmation the carjacker worked in private security, was living in Sydney but had recently relocated from Newcastle.

He was in private security? An armed guard, a bouncer … or a bodyguard? Had he been guarding someone today? Someone who had people after them?

‘You look fearless,' Tilda said, nodding at the TV.

‘You think?' Jax watched the scene in the pull-over zone again, muscles clenched as she tried to connect the images with her memories.

‘Like you got up in the morning ready for action.'

She'd got up this morning to pack the remains of a life she'd loved into boxes that were now in police custody. ‘If I'd known I was going to be on national television, I might've chosen something else to wear.'

‘Oh, I don't know. Leggings and a singlet are perfect for a carjacking.'

Tilda would've added beads and bracelets. ‘You think?'

‘Sure. It'll be called carjack couture next week.'

Jax huffed a short laugh, lifted her glass in a toast. ‘Here's to being a fashion statement.'

Tilda patted the seat of the sofa. ‘Why don't you try to relax?'

She glanced at it from her spot on the armrest. She probably should. She'd never sleep if she didn't loosen up, but the thought of relaxing made her tense. Made her want to be ready to bolt if she needed to. ‘No, I'm okay. I'm … I don't know.' She closed her eyes, pushed a hand into her hair. ‘Christ, what am I doing, Tilda?'

Her aunt shifted along the sofa, curled a comforting hand around Jax's knee. ‘You're trying to cope.'

‘I thought coming here was the best thing to do, then I almost got killed on the way. What does that mean?'

‘It means life is heartless sometimes and sometimes we have to say “fuck you”.'

It hadn't helped in the past year. ‘I love it when you get eloquent.'

‘I rather like it too.'

Chuckling a little, Jax let her eyes shift around the room again. The furniture was updated, the kitchen renovated and Tilda's artworks – her own and her collection – had been renewed since Jax's days here as a teenager. The past was still there, though. Jax could feel it.

‘Will you take Zoe if I die?' she asked.

Other issues had to be taken into account before that decision could be made – Nick's parents and brothers at the very least – but Tilda took her hand, said, ‘Of course.'

Jax was grateful her aunt didn't try to rewrite history and tell her it wouldn't happen. She'd lost her mother and father in the one devastating fire, Zoe was down one parent already and Tilda had buried two husbands. They both knew the different ways life could be heartless – Jax just wondered whether it was satisfied with what it'd achieved so far or whether it was only warming up.