In Safe Keeping (3 page)

It grated, Duncan’s habit of bringing up the one-horse town he’d been dragged up in. Like he needed reminding. Like he was in danger of taking his success for granted.

Success.

Laila had jumped at
her
chance, seizing the opportunity to represent a high-profile figure like Scarlett. And he couldn’t blame her, though he hadn’t picked her as the ruthless business type who sacrificed relationships for work.

That was him.

Evan watched his friend move away, hoping for Duncan’s sake that the marriage crisis did turn out to be a storm in a teacup — and not only for the sake of the development. Duncan had been the only kid to befriend him when he’d arrived at their exclusive school in Sydney, and, in return, he’d fought off the bullies making the rich kid’s life miserable. And all these years later, though they were very different people, he and Duncan still needed each other.

But Laila didn’t need him. She’d cut him loose tonight without a second thought, which confirmed what he’d suspected for some time. While she wanted him for sex, and he’d been happy to oblige her, she was still in love with her late husband.

Gazing down at the golden liquid, Evan twisted the stem of the glass between his thumb and forefinger.

Oh, fuck it!

Maybe she’d done him a favour.

Determined to shake off his sombre mood, he called out to Duncan. His friend turned, eyebrows raised, a ‘what now?’ expression on his face.

Evan raised the glass in a toast, then slowly tipped the contents into the potted palm, smiling as Duncan’s expression turned scandalised.

He forced a smile. ‘Get me something worth drinking — a beer?’

As Duncan clapped his hands and disappeared inside the cabana, Evan cast a disinterested eye over the female smorgasbord on offer.

Who the fuck was he kidding?

Conflict of interest aside, he had every intention of making Laila Richards deal with him. He mightn’t be showing up at her place tonight, but his brown-eyed girl had needs to rival his own, and they’d been having too much fun for him to let her slip away.

Yes, if Scarlett had indeed left Duncan, it was time he brushed up on the Family Law Act.

And Ms Laila Richards had better square up for the fight of her life in court.

7:15 p.m. Friday

An hour and a half after leaving Evan, Laila stepped inside her home in the beachside suburb of Bronte. In contrast to the upbeat, colourful atmosphere of The Bowery, where the beautiful people were dancing the night away and toasting each other’s success, the hallway of the semi-detached cottage was dark, silent and unwelcoming.

With a dispirited sigh, Laila dumped her bags on the floor and tramped towards the rear of the house, switching on lights as she went. Immediately the house changed character, the soft pastel paintwork, old-fashioned light fittings and wooden picture rails creating a cosy space that seemed to wrap around her.

She poured herself a glass of oaky Chardonnay in the kitchen, and carried it into the living room. A young Will gazed at her from the mantelpiece, the photograph taken at their high school formal.

Laila kissed her fingertips and placed them over Will’s lips. ‘I’ll fix this. I promise you.’

Laila took a sip of the full-bodied wine and settled herself on the comfortable sofa. Her mother had been beside herself with excitement when she’d seen that photograph, convinced Laila would abandon her big-time dreams of becoming a lawyer and settle in the satellite suburb of Adelaide, where she’d grown up. All she had to do was marry Will Richards, and the life her parents had mapped out for their only child would be complete.

But even back then, Will had plans to join the army.

And Laila had plans to get out of town.

The landline rang, its shrill demand interrupting her thoughts and making her heart jump. Pushing herself up from the lounge, she gave a weary sigh and told herself it was ludicrous to imagine it might be Evan. He always rang her mobile.

Still, she held an expectant breath as she hurried into the hallway and picked up the handset. ‘Hello.’

‘You’re late getting in.’

Laila went cold, her skin turning to gooseflesh. It was like one of those peculiar moments when she imagined the doorbell ringing, and then it did.

How long had it been? Two and a half years, give or take a month or two?

‘Hello Mum.’

‘Ever think of us?’

Think of them? She fought the battle of their conditioning every day of her life.

Laila stayed silent.

‘You can do a course and become qualified in South Australia. I looked into it.’

When hell freezes over.

‘I’m qualified in New South Wales.’

‘Well, you’ve always been selfish.’ Her mother’s voice grew louder, her tone more accusing. ‘There’s no reason for you to stay up there now, with your husband gone four years.’

The old anger welled up inside Laila. How long would this go on? How far away did she have to go?

‘I’ve renovated a house. Imagine that. Hopeless old me?’

Don’t do this Laila. Don’t engage. Just hang up.

Her mother laughed, as if she knew she could still get to her.

Laila ground her teeth.

‘Well you won’t get anything from us when we’re gone. You were the one who decided to choof off to the big smoke, after all we did for you.’

The resentment in Pauline Richards’ verbal slap down never failed to pull Laila down like an invisible undertow. But this is what people like her parents did. They manipulated and controlled their children’s behaviour using guilt and obligation.

And now, insinuation. Insinuation that she’d grown too big for her boots and had left them in her wake.

As difficult as it was to steel herself against her parent, when all she’d ever yearned for was a close relationship with mutual respect, Laila recalled the words of her high school counsellor.

The only thing you can do is get out. When you’re an adult, your parents don’t get a vote in your life.

‘Anyway, I must go.’

She cut off her mother’s stream of conversation and walked into the bathroom. As she always did after a confrontation with her mother, she decided to take a bath. The practice had soothed her through her tumultuous teen years, providing a place where she could lock herself away for a short while and cleanse herself of the toxicity of the household in which she lived.

She put her wine glass on the edge of the tub with an unsteady hand, telling herself the old feelings of inadequacy, drilled into her by her parents, would pass. When she emerged in half an hour’s time, the person she’d fought hard to become would be back.

But when she leaned over to turn on the taps, she froze. Small pieces of grey, fibrous material lay scattered on the floor, right near her discarded shoes. A few pieces had even fallen in the bathtub.

Frowning, Laila sank down onto the bathmat and ran a hand over the cold, white tiles. Tiny bits of a rigid, foam-like substance stuck to her upturned palm.

Resting back on her haunches, she brought her hand closer to her face. She hadn’t dragged this in on her shoes. She recognised the grey, fibre-like substance. Spray-on insulation, from inside the roof. She’d vacuumed the darn stuff up enough times when the electrician had worked on the wiring.

Laila tipped her head back and stared at the manhole directly above her, then back down at her palm. Last night she’d polished furniture, vacuumed carpets and mopped over this very floor.

Laila straightened up, running though reasons for the mess on her bathroom floor. Sometimes the wind got in under the tiles and blew through the ceiling space. Once, when a southerly buster had howled up the coast from Antarctica, a couple of roof tiles had blown off and the cover had shifted a bit. She remembered fetching the stepladder and straightening it.

But last night had been still, peaceful and dark. She’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep, knowing that today she’d be sacrificing the only thing in her life that gave her joy.

Laila turned on the tap and washed her hands in the basin. She had no idea what the weather had been like today. She hadn’t left the office until she’d gone to see Evan at Poole Greenwood.

Drying her hands, she glanced at the common wall dividing the two properties. The most likely explanation was that Grind had accessed the combined ceiling space and forgotten to tell her. The young musician had little time for the mundane aspects of life.

Still, it was disconcerting to think someone had been crawling around in the ceiling without her knowledge, and as Laila walked through the house, making sure everything was in place, she vowed to talk to her neighbour about their security.

She checked her watch. 8 p.m. Grind could have left already to play his regular Friday-night gig.

Scolding herself for being lazy and not walking next door, Laila raised the handset and pressed the short-cut button for Grind. There was probably some crazy explanation. Maybe he’d run out of space, and decided to store an amp in the ceiling.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear, and Laila listened for the beeps that would connect her call. Nothing happened. The dial tone continued its monotonous buzz.

She hit the number a second time.

Again, the call failed to connect.

Laila’s mouth went dry, heart racing in her chest as this time she chose the pre-programmed number for her office.

Again, nothing.

She lowered the handset, keeping it in her hand as she walked back into the kitchen. Maybe a workman had switched off the power, or they’d had an electrical outage, and the pre-stored numbers in her phone had been wiped. When that happened, the digital clock on her oven went back to zero.

She stopped in the doorway.

Even from here she could see the digital display glowing 8:05p.m.

Back in the hallway, she retrieved her mobile phone from her handbag and called Grind. After five rings the call went to message bank.

Tapping her foot on the polished boards, Laila waited as Grind’s recorded voice mumbled a random greeting.

‘Hi, it’s Laila. I need to know if a tradesman’s been in the roof space today. There’s some insulation on my bathroom floor, and I’ve lost the call history settings on my phone.’

Laila felt the heat rise in her face. Spoken aloud, the words sounded crazy, certainly nothing to get all worked up about. It wasn’t as if there were signs of forced entry and things were missing.

Laila closed her eyes and shook her head. She could just imagine Grind listening to her message during a break in the band’s set list, and shaking his head at her weird behaviour.

‘It’s okay,’ she mumbled. ‘Call me if you get a chance, otherwise I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

She killed the call and looked around. She was tired, sleep deprived and strung out from her conversation with Evan, not to mention the one with her mother, of all people.

She glanced around for her wine glass.

What she needed was a soak in the tub and a solid night’s sleep.

11 a.m. Saturday.

Trudy Henderson’s puffy, black-ringed eyes spoke of years of sleepless nights. But it was the sad acceptance lurking in their depths that made her look older than her thirty-five years — a look that said life had dealt her a crappy hand.

And it had.

Life had dealt them all a crappy hand the night the Blackhawk went down.

‘Thanks for coming in, Trudy.’

Trudy sighed and sat down in one of the client chairs across from Laila. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get in during the week. It’s easier on the weekends to get someone to sit with Eddie.’

Eddie had been on the Blackhawk. Now he had shrapnel in his brain.

‘It’s never a problem. I often come in on Saturdays.’ Laila watched the other woman take off her pale blue cardigan and fold it in her lap. ‘How’s everything going?’

Trudy gave a dispirited shake of her head. ‘He has good days and bad — mostly bad. He won’t improve, Laila. He’s totally dependent on me, and he hates it, so much.’

Trudy’s eyes glistened and she leaned over and pulled a tissue from her bag. ‘He thinks he’s a burden. I fear, one day — well, you know.’

Sometimes, in her dreams, Laila saw Will, like Eddie. She always woke with a sense of relief, followed by a profound guilt that tore at her insides and left her unable to go back to sleep.

Except when Evan was beside her.

Laila pushed the images away and took a steadying breath. ‘Did you manage to speak to Eddie about the class action?’

Trudy’s nervous fingers plucked at a fine gold chain encircling her throat. ‘He wants to take part in it.’

‘He’s willing to be named as one of the plaintiffs?’

‘Yes, and he understands I would have to act as his representative, because of his incapacity.’

‘Good.’ Laila leaned back in her chair. ‘Are you sure you’ve had enough time to think everything through? If either of you have second thoughts, we should discuss them now.’

Trudy shook her head. ‘No, he’s sure. So am I.’

Laila breathed a sigh of relief. She now had nine plaintiffs, more than enough to act as standard representatives of the eighteen injured or deceased men.

‘Okay.’ She opened the file and took out the pages she’d printed that morning. It was a statement of Eddie’s recollections of that fateful night. It had taken all of her resolve to get through another account of the last moments on board the Blackhawk; the final, frantic moments of Will’s life.

‘Take this home, and when Eddie’s having a good day, read it to him. If everything’s in order, we can go ahead and have you sign as his representative.’

Trudy nodded. ‘How long until you file the suit?’

Laila wished she knew. ‘I need to secure sufficient funding. Until I do, I can’t arrange for a proper investigation to start. And a thorough investigation is necessary before we start our case.’

Acquiring Scarlett Peyton as a client would help fund the action. In the meantime, frustrating as it was, there was no point in her clients believing things would move quickly.

Trudy picked up the statement, but didn’t look at it. ‘The army wives — we’re grateful for everything you’re doing Laila. And it would be nice, you know, if you’d come back to the base and visit us sometime.’