at the hospital where she worked. The man had seemed to be fitting in well, participating in group sessions and joining in the 'veranda therapy' with the other vets, who swapped jokes and cigarettes, life lessons and sometimes their meds.
One day Mercy had seen the man sitting alone by the rose garden with his head in his hands. She'd approached and asked him what was wrong. The look in his eyes had been wretched.
'What are you people fucking doing to me?' the man had demanded. 'Don't you know I've killed people?'
Mercy had told Jill that the question had surprised her. She'd been working with this man so he knew very well that she was aware he had killed people.
He'd continued, 'I've been fucking laughing over there!', pointing to the veranda behind them. 'If I let my guard down like that, who knows what the fuck I'll do next? I've killed people – if you try to get me to start feeling again, what if I can't control that part of me?'
Although Jill had understood the man's dilemma when Mercy had first related the story, its meaning was deeper for her now. Her life had so long been lived in absolutes that she was not sure she could tolerate the shades of grey that other people seemed to accept. The one glass of liquor last night would be just that to anyone else, but for Jill it could mean that she'd just taken her first step into the alcoholic spiral she had lived through for a year in her adolescence. It had always been all or nothing for her.
She got out of bed, the cramp in her neck finally demanding a stretch. She picked her tissue box up from the nightstand and walked with it to her loungeroom, slipping between the blinds and sliding the balcony door open a crack. She couldn't smell the surf through her blocked nose, but the sea breeze slapped her in the face. She took a few deep gulps of the cool morning air.
It wasn't just the alcohol. Other rituals were blurring, too. The exercise, for one. It was now every second day. Was that enough? Could she still fight for her life? Did she still need to? And then there was Gabriel. A week, she'd known him, and last night she had been drinking at his house. If someone had told her a week ago the way she would spend last night, she'd have laughed in their face.
She made up her mind. Despite this head cold, she couldn't spend the whole day inside feeling miserable. She needed some groceries and she wasn't going to let the day go by without some form of exercise. She quickly showered and dressed in leggings and a long-sleeved tee-shirt.
The Maroubra shopping centre was an easy three-kilometre walk. Jill wasn't going to do easy. No way she'd allow herself to get weak, she decided. She'd go to Eastgardens at Pagewood, and she'd take the long route, via Matraville.
When her feet hit the pavement outside her unit block, she started to run. Habit. At first, her lungs burned with the effort, and her feet felt heavy, but by the time she got to Beauchamp Road, she had found her rhythm and zoned out the pain.
Her thoughts turned again to the case. She considered the answers she wanted to get out of Joss Preston- Jones and Isobel Rymill tomorrow. The time had come for them to stop screwing around. In full flight at the Anzac Parade intersection at South Maroubra, she didn't bother to stop at the lights. Dodging through the traffic, it suddenly occurred to her that Joss and his wife could be in danger. She hit the pavement on the other side of the intersection. If Joss had recognised Cutter wearing a balaclava, surely it was possible, even probable, that Cutter had recognised him.
She thought about what she told most victims who were worried about offenders coming back to find them after they'd been robbed or attacked. The adrenalin rush the criminal experienced during the act of crime typically diminished their memory for incidental details of the crime scene. These incidental details included the features of their victims. She'd seen survivors sell their homes within weeks, quit their jobs, leave the state, even their families, afraid that the offenders would return and attack again, certain they were still on a hit list. When she spoke to the perps, however, Jill noticed that most of them wouldn't have a clue that their targets were still petrified that they'd be back. Most of the time, Jill's words didn't comfort the victims. Hell, her behaviour over the last twenty years indicated that she didn't believe them herself.
And the stakes were higher in this case. Cutter and his crew had committed murder. There were witnesses. If they believed that those witnesses could send them to gaol, they might try to return and take them out.
Heading downhill now, Jill ramped up the pace and felt her drug of choice – endorphins – kick in. She considered whether telling the couple about this risk might convince them to open up to her. She had no real evidence of a threat to their safety – in fact, she decided, the events so far would indicate otherwise. The offenders had done nothing to harm Joss at the time of the home invasion. Surely if he'd recognised Joss, Henry Nguyen would have taken him out that night? Jill knew that during robberies, mass murder would sometimes take place when the armed robber had gone too far and accidentally killed someone at the scene. Realising that the consequences of being caught were now far worse, sometimes the perps went postal and took out all of the witnesses.
After the five-kilometre run, she automatically took her pulse out the front of the sprawling Eastgardens shopping complex. A little higher than usual. She waited outside the huge glass doors for a moment, letting her heartbeat slow. She detested crowds, and she knew that she didn't need any extra stimulation when she entered the centre.
It seemed as though the spring weather had created a nesting frenzy. It looked like people had come from all over Sydney today to purchase their summer fashions, new cushions or a barbecue. She knew from her mother that around this time of year people started to think about a new lounge suite or plasma TV to impress their Christmas visitors. Hell, Jill thought, as she looked around her, some of these people would probably have their Christmas present lists on them. In October! Jill usually bought her presents on the twenty-third of December. She had promised herself she would use the internet to do her Christmas shopping this year, but she guessed she probably wouldn't get around to it.
Breathing normally again, she followed a twenty-something couple in through the doors. They held hands, but the woman was a step ahead of her man, her face shining, entering her Sunday house of worship.
Jill just needed some fresh vegies. She'd get fish, milk and coffee locally, but the vegetables were better in the larger centres. Music poured out of a huge boutique to her left and she paused. She really liked this song. The mannequins in the window angled bony hips and arrogant eyes down at her. Summer dresses. Full, floaty fabrics held onto bare shoulders by impossibly thin shoestring straps. Jill couldn't imagine herself wearing something that offered so little protection from the outside world. The jewelled colours conjured images of cocktails by the pool, tropical birds, sunsets and balmy evening Christmas parties. A world Jill wasn't part of. She knew there were others in the community also barred entry to this world, who malevolently resented its inhabitants. Isolated, violent males, who took this rejection personally, plotted revenge against girls who wore dresses like these. 'Paint it Black', the Rolling Stones song, came to her mind – for some people the bright summer clothes brought forward their darkest fantasies.
The opening notes of another track that Jill liked came from the boutique's sound system. She stepped inside and immediately regretted it. She usually purchased her clothing from Myer or David Jones a couple of times a year, shopping in the middle of the week to avoid the crowds. She felt safe in the spacious, quiet department stores. A salesgirl buzzed straight over to her, shining and glossy, almost fizzing with energy. Jill felt snotty and dull in comparison.
'Good morning! Are you having a good day so far?'
The girl was a riot of belts and bangles, piercings and hair fudge. She probably wouldn't sit her Higher School Certificate until next year or the year afterwards. Jill was awed by such confidence in someone so new.
Just looking, thanks, was her automatic response to salespeople, but for some reason she decided to try something on. Maybe it was the music. Or the braces on the girl's teeth, worn like jewellery. Jill admired her self- confidence. And maybe she needed some new clothes.
Forty minutes later, Jill finally made her way to the greengrocers.
She took a different route home, down Maroubra Road and past the police station. She wondered who was in there today and what she would have been working on over the past week had she stayed there. The thought made her think about the movie Sliding Doors. If she'd worked at Maroubra as usual over the past six days, she would never have met Gabriel. She had already learned so much from him, and the thought gratified her. Despite her discomfort around him – the ridiculous discomfort of being comfortable – she looked forward to working the rest of the case with him. She resolved again to ask him more about assignments he'd worked in the past and how he'd come to be seconded to the taskforce.
