18. “Hello?” the woman’s voice said at the other end of the phone. I heard it but could not bring myself to say anything and I hung up. At first I only really wanted to hear her voice. She had to take her share of responsibility for all this. I called again later that day, and again I just listened.
“Hello,” she said. “Hello? Who is this?” Then she hung up. It was a thin voice. I don’t know why I was so surprised at its thinness, its reedy quality. It’s just that anyone with a voice so thin should have been weaker, less hostile, especially a mother. I called that night before work and got him. I hung up.
The next day I poured myself a drink before calling again. Kelly was out. It was late morning when she picked up the phone.
“Hello,” she said again. “Hello? Who is this? Hello? I’m going to call the police.”
“Mrs. Heywood?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
All my rehearsals went out the window.
“Mrs. Heywood, you don’t exactly know me.”
“Who is this?” She sounded frightened.
“Mrs. Heywood, my name is Angela. You don’t know me but—”
“I know who you are,” she said suspiciously.
“I’m Simon’s girlfriend,” I said after a pause. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
“You’re not his girlfriend.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, Anna is his girlfriend. You’re the . . . you’re the whore.”
“Mrs. Heywood, I am a prostitute and I’m Simon’s girlfriend.”
“No, Anna is—”
“Mrs. Heywood, Anna is the wife of the man whose child he took.”
“What do you want? I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Simon is in great danger.”
“I . . . I can’t talk to you.”
“Just hear me out, Mrs. Heywood. If you love Simon—”
“Of course I love him. He’s my son. I love them all no matter what they do.”
“There’s someone in the prison . . . one of the prisoners in the same section as him is threatening to beat him senseless if he doesn’t get a certain sum of money by the end of the month. The man is a brutal thug. He’s done this sort of thing before. I’ve seen one of his victims, Mrs. Heywood. He’s brain damaged.”
“How much does he want?”
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Can’t your husband—?”
“This is a trick, isn’t it? The money is for you, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Heywood, if you visited Simon you could ask him yourself. You could see the prisoner, the brain-damaged one. He just sits there with his mouth open. You couldn’t miss him.”
She was thinking.
“My husband handles the money.”
“For God’s sake, will you do something for your son before it’s too late?”
It sounded as though she was putting her hand over the phone. Her voice sounded more muffled. “No one, dear,” she called. “No one. It’s a wrong number.”
Then she hung up. Simon was an orphan.
Kelly had left the T-shirt I had torn draped over a lampshade in the living room. The gesture, I’m sure she thought, was the most efficient way of getting back at me. She never tired. She would sleep, but other than that she never stopped doing what she did to put off thinking about what it was she was doing, or why she was doing it. I was seeing less of her not only at home but also at work, where I’d started doing less in-house and more escort work. Nobody said anything. They’d found me a little strange since Simon was arrested. I was not well. And then Staszic called.
“Do you agree, Angela, that the time is eleven-twenty A.M.?”
“Do you agree, Detective, that I have spoken to both of you twice before at your request? This time I have a lawyer on the way to sit in with us, and my lawyer has instructed me not to say anything until he gets here.” They looked at each other.
“Yes, but as a courtesy to you, Angela, we are seeking your comments at the earliest possible moment concerning certain information we’ve received.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you agree that the time is eleven-twenty A.M.?”
“Yes, yes.”
“It’s been said that you were acting in concert with Simon Heywood with respect to the kidnapping of Samuel Geraghty.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Are you denying any involvement in the kidnapping of—?”
“Absolutely, I deny it completely.”
“Do you deny also that you provided certain information to Simon Heywood concerning the whereabouts, activities, and routines pertaining to Samuel Geraghty, Joseph Geraghty, and Anna Geraghty—”
“This is crazy.”
“—that would assist Simon Heywood to stalk all or any of these people?”
“Joe Geraghty is a client of mine, a regular. You can’t possibly take his word.”
“Angela, for your own sake, the sooner you cooperate the easier it will go on you. We cannot stress that strongly enough.”
“Did Joe Geraghty come in here?”
“Angela, do you understand what is meant by the term accessory?”
“Why are you talking down to me? Is your tape still on? Is it recording us?”
“A person who commits an act with the purpose of impeding the apprehension, prosecution, conviction, or punishment . . .”
“Who’s the audience for the recording anyway?”
“Persons who conceal an offense for their own benefit are guilty of a separate offense altogether.”
“Benefit? Last time you said I was in it with Joe. Now I’m in it with Simon. Whoever’s listening to this—”
“Angela, you should be advised of the effect of Section 323 of the Crimes Act. I have a copy here.”
“I’m glad you’re taping this. No one would believe it. You’re trying to intimidate me.”
“It says, ‘A person who aids, abets, counsels, or procures the commission of an indictable offense may be tried, indicted, or presented and punished as a principal offender.’ ”
“Does your boss listen to this? Does the judge?”
“Angela, you could be punished as though you are the principal offender, as though you did it yourself. We know you weren’t the main one. You should tell us what you know.”
“Tell you what I know?”
“That’s right.”
“Is it on, are we recording?”
“Yes, get it off your chest. You’ll feel better. Go ahead.”
“You know, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this man here, Detective Staszic, pays prostitutes to vomit during the sex act. That’s what I know.”
19. Insomnia extended every night, stretched it, lengthened it, and the sourness of each added moment made a home inside me—inside my mouth, in the crevices of my tongue. The nightmare continued into the day, while other people were at work, or in supermarkets, or at their hairdresser’s, having on the way picked up the daily tabloid unthinkingly, as part of their routine. On the inside pages a barely intelligible sensationalized account of our mistakes, Simon’s and mine, waited for them. At work they talked about it, thinking I couldn’t hear. I heard but I was numb.
The full extent of the trouble I myself might be in only dawned on me when the police called, yet again. It was never good when Staszic himself called. Perhaps this time I would be arrested? This time I really would not go without my lawyer. They, and Staszic the milkman in particular, were eager for me to dig my own grave. I could hear it in his voice. He had some news, information that he thought I might want to have. It couldn’t be discussed over the telephone. I said I wasn’t going down without my lawyer. No, this was sensitive, off the record, no lawyers. Did he think I was an idiot? He said he was trying to help me. He wouldn’t tape the conversation. He promised. It didn’t even have to be at the police station. I could choose the place.
So we met at the Esplanade Hotel. He
was already there with a beer when
I arrived. It would have seemed strange going there without Simon had everything else not seemed far stranger.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked, sitting down nervously.
“He’s not here. We thought you’d be more relaxed, more amenable to cooperating, if you met one of us sort of . . . one on one.”
“So he knows about this?”
“Angela, I’m the more senior officer. But thanks for looking out for me.”
“You must be joking,” I said, not entirely to myself.
“Listen, Angela, I meant what I said on the phone.”
“What did you say? Do you have some good news for me?”
“You’re caught up in this, you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Each of these men accuses you of helping the other.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Joe Geraghty says you and Simon set him up. Simon says Joe Geraghty paid you to set him up.”
“Simon never said that.”
“You can’t have done both. The problem is, a jury only has to believe one of them for you to be in serious trouble.”
“I should have my lawyer here. I’m not saying anything—”
“Now, wait just a minute, Angela. There might be a way out of all of this. There ought to be some advantage attached to a young woman with all your . . . talent.”
“What are you saying?”
“I could make sure that you’re not charged with anything but I’d have to get something in return, you know.”
“I’ve told you everything—”
“It’s not so much what you can tell me. Give me a weekend.”
“What?”
“If you gave me a full weekend alone with you, full service, all your charm, I think you’d find you wouldn’t need a lawyer. We would just say that the evidence against you wasn’t strong enough, that it was in conflict with other evidence, which it is really. You wouldn’t be charged with anything.”
“I could report you for this.”
“It would be your word against mine. Who would they believe? Angela, be reasonable. You’re up to your neck in this, and I’m offering you a way out. Don’t put on this outraged act. It’s one weekend, for God’s sake, one lousy weekend versus serious charges in a highly public, very . . . what can I say? . . . very emotionally charged case. I’d be sticking my neck out for you and you’d . . . you’d be doing the same for me. No lawyer you can afford is going to get you a better deal than this. A friend of mine has a place in the mountains, very quiet, very leafy. Do you like pancakes?”
“You can fuck yourself.”
I was still shaking in the car. I shouldn’t have driven. My eyes were acting up, and I thought that I would never again know how it feels to sleep through the night without waking several times to some dread. Later the dread would be displaced by panic.
It can never be predicted where your mind will go in the middle of the night when starved of calm and sated with fear. Once it’s there you might be only minutes away from placing your hand on the telephone directory. Finding the right name and address can seem like a sign, an omen, if it is done under a small light in the dark. You hear the refrigerator hum and the ticking of a clock in another room, but otherwise there is nothing to compete with the sound of your own unspoken voice offering counsel inside you. I would try to see Joe, try to talk to him. Not knowing where he worked, only where he lived, not knowing exactly when he would be home, I decided I would camp outside his home sometime in the late afternoon, early evening, and wait for him.
I had never really thought about where they slept. I had never thought about the furniture they had, the knickknacks on the mantel, the art on the walls, or about the family photographs that were used to convey the impression to friends, to visiting relatives, or perhaps to themselves that they were not a collection of urges incapable of remembering when their particular coupling seemed like a good idea, but a fine example of what Simon bitingly described as the best micro-unit we have been able to come up with in thousands of years of trying to live together. It was an impression that Joe, at least, was still trying to convey. Even when he came to me week after week for his ego boost, for his analgesic endorphins, it was all so that he could go out there again, get back on the horse, keep going. He had to keep being someone’s husband and someone’s dad, otherwise he would be Simon.
Some part of him knew this and was determined to keep fighting for them, and I had helped him. That was my job, and I was good at it. If he knew that, then there remained the hope, however slim, however desperate, that he would be prepared to help me. I needed a chance to explain things to him properly, slowly. After all, what lasting harm had been done to him or to his family by me, or even by Simon? The truth was that Simon was not having an affair with his wife. What they had had was long over. The truth was that his son, rather than ever being in any danger, was for a few hours in the care of a very dedicated teacher who lavished attention on him. If Simon had done anything at all, he had drawn attention to gaps in their supervision of Sam. How easily something unthinkable could have happened to the little boy had someone else taken him, someone crazy in a different way. And for this Simon had landed in a maximum-security prison, thirty thousand dollars and a few weeks away from permanent brain damage and disfigurement. Could Joe perhaps think of it as a loan? I could pay it back, with interest if he liked. He probably had almost instant access to that kind of money. He wouldn’t feel it. That was the truth of it.
It seemed to make sense as I sat in the car parked opposite their house, watching the lights of their early-evening routine go on and go off. I was wondering if I could really say any of this, or anything like it, when it occurred to me that she was home without him. How hostile would she be if I went to the door? Maybe she wouldn’t be hostile at all.
The house, like many of the others around it, was two storied and imposing. Tall trees in the front garden obscured the view. Although all the houses had large garages, there was a line of sleeping European cars parked in the street, grazing on the fallen leaves. People around me were arriving home. When would he come?
A man walking a Great Dane slowed just a little to look into my car as he passed by. They seemed to sense that someone was alive inside this one. The street was quiet. The evening was fairly still and one of them, at least one of them, felt me, smelled me on the other side of the car door, my insides churning, my hand resting on the handle, squeezing it from time to time, a million miles away from them. What would the man do if someone he loved was in Simon’s position? The dog relieved himself beside my car without warning. Perhaps I would have to soon, too? As they started to move on the man looked back, for no apparent reason. That’s when I saw him come home.
I saw him in the car he had talked about, a car I had only ever pretended to imagine. I was scared. I twisted the keys out from the ignition and opened the door. He had opened the automatic garage door. I slid one leg out of the car. It was possible to see inside the garage. He seemed to be taking his time. I needed him to. He was playing with a hose or something. Just as I stood up and closed the car door behind me Sam ran out to him from within the fortress. Joe pressed him, hugged him, with one arm against his leg. He was somebody’s father. Then the automatic door slowly swung shut and the garage swallowed Joe, his car, and his son. I quickly got back into my car and pulled out from the curb. The man and his Great Dane had not walked very far.
20. I had forgotten how to sleep. I would hear Simon’s voice at all hours of the day and night, and I would cry. It was the middle of the night when I heard Kelly come in and close the front door behind her. She wasn’t even trying to be quiet. I looked at my bedside clock and saw that it was almost four. I got up and went into the living room just as she was turning on the lamp. The torn T-shirt was still on the lampshade, and she was singing.
“Well, look who’s here,” she laughed. She was high on something or other.
/>
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Time you were in bed, Angelique.”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t know. What did I say? Time you were in bed, Angelique.”
When she repeated what she’d called me, I suddenly saw her differently. I saw her the way they did. She was in a tight red body-hugging dress with a satiny feel to it, and there was nothing she would not do. It was four in the morning and I was semi-delirious, suddenly furious at the sound of the voice of the spaced-out whore I lived with, calling me by the name I had chosen for myself.
“It’s not Angelique!” I shouted.
“What?”
“What’s my name?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t even know my real name, do you?”