The Recipient

  “Look, it’s a part of her therapy,” Lionel lied. “It’s her way of trying to understand, I guess, what it is that is going on inside her head.”

  Peter’s mouth opened slightly. His glare became more intense. “In her head? You mean those bloody dreams?”

  Lionel shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Well, yes. Those dreams have been at the core of why Casey’s been so troubled. She’s trying to understand them and, hopefully, stop them from happening.”

  “Bullshit,” Peter spat abruptly. “That’s not it.”

  Lionel blinked as Peter screwed up the piece of paper in his hand and threw it to the floor.

  “Prishna has been to see us again. She thinks Casey’s up to something. Looking into an old case?”

  Lionel was about to speak, but Peter cut him off. “Casey discovered who her donor was, didn’t she? Some kind of hit and run?”

  Lionel sighed wearily which served only to cause Peter’s eyes to bulge. He shook his head incredulously, expecting more from Lionel.

  “And now what? Casey’s taken it upon herself to find out what happened? Because of this…dream?”

  Lionel nodded, “Yes.”

  Peter could not believe what he was hearing. “Jesus Christ, Lionel!”

  Peter pushed past Lionel and circled Casey’s workstation. He placed his hands on his hips, pacing the living room, trying to keep himself calm.

  “This is bloody ridiculous. Why are you letting her do this?”

  “Because I believe her,” Lionel responded, without turning.

  Peter froze in mid-step.

  “You believe her?” he hissed, stupefied.

  Lionel gazed at his son-in-law. “I believe her. Casey is one of the most pragmatic people I know. Have you ever known her to go off half-cocked with anything?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it. All her life, Casey has been the ultimate pragmatist. She has always followed the rules, applied herself to the fullest and she has never believed in anything that could not be quantified. She is applying that same approach to this situation now.”

  “But they’re bloody dreams, Lionel! They’re not real!”

  Lionel’s jaw hardened and he took a step towards Peter. “When I held her in my arms at the hospital, she told me what was happening to her. She looked me right in the eyes and told me the reason why she has been so disturbed all this time. And I believe her. I’ve since had the opportunity to look into her donor’s case and I think there are some things about it that are worth having a look into.”

  Peter clenched his jaw.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You have absolutely no proof to back up what you’re saying! You’re letting her ramble around the bloody countryside, distressing people who deserve to be left alone and causing all sorts of trouble for the authorities.”

  Peter turned away from Lionel again.

  “You haven’t been here to see what she’s been doing to herself all these years,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Christ, she’s been so withdrawn. So hyped-up on drugs. You’ve seen her breakdown for yourself!”

  “But have you ever asked her why she’s relied on drugs?” Lionel countered.

  “You’re indulging a fucking fiction, Lionel. You’re going to destroy her.”

  “You asked me here to help,” Lionel said quietly. “I’m helping her.”

  At that moment, the entry door rumbled aside revealing Casey standing there, an anguished look on her face. Both men looked in her direction and felt a wash of guilt.

  “What is going on?” Casey’s voice quavered, her eyes raw.

  Peter dropped his head down to the floor. Shame and grief overwhelmed him. Lionel just stood there awkwardly.

  “Casey, I’m so sorry,” Lionel whispered.

  “I can’t stay here,” Peter said. He marched across to the counter and snatched up his keys. He turned to Casey, but he could not look at her directly. “I’m sorry too, Casey.”

  Stepping through into the hallway, Peter turned back to Lionel. “Who are you doing this for, Lionel? For her? Or for yourself?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Turning on his heel, he disappeared down the steps.

  ___

  Lionel sat before the darkened screen of Casey’s computer. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and sighed heavily.

  He was still smarting from the confrontation with Peter. Casey was locked in her bathroom. They had barely spoken since Peter had walked out. The air had been thick with tension.

  He lifted his hand towards the power switch on the monitor and he let it hover there for a long moment. Lionel had never been overly computer savvy and he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be able to make sense of Casey’s custom built machine now.

  You’re indulging in a fucking fiction!

  Peter’s stinging rebuke echoed. It stung because a part of Lionel knew that his son-in-law was right. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Peter to be wrong.

  He needed Peter to be wrong.

  His finger descended toward the power button, but before he touched the surface the screen abruptly flickered to life and Lionel blinked at a welcome screen.

  “Welcome, Lionel,” an emotionless female voice greeted. “Please touch your thumb to the scroll pad.”

  Lionel blinked. He complied, reflexively, moving his hand down and positioning his thumb on the keyboard.

  “Identification confirmed. Please proceed. Would you like to commence a secure session?”

  “A secure session?” he mumbled aloud. “What on Earth is that?”

  Leaning closer, Lionel examined the window which had popped up. Two icons, one with ‘Accept’ and the other with ‘Decline’ were displayed there along with some smaller text underneath which he could barely read. Something about a secure network, encrypted browsing, external defence. He knew how diligent Casey was in maintaining her privacy.

  Touching his finger to the screen, Lionel pressed ‘Accept.’

  A browser window opened and Lionel was directed to a search engine.

  He focused in on the blinking cursor.

  What to look for…

  The Pleasant Festival had kept circling in his thoughts all evening.

  He tapped the keyboard and watched as a procession of results came up. He touched his finger to the first entry: the official website for the music festival.

  A brightly coloured page with a carnival themed design flashed up. Lionel noted that it was advertising for next year’s event. Searching the page for a description, he found an ‘About’ section and clicked through.

  ‘The Pleasant Festival: an annual celebration of grassroots Australian contemporary music, theatre, cabaret and comedy held in March each year in the seaside town of Queenscliff, Victoria. Since its launch six years ago, the Festival—affectionately known simply as “Pleasant”—has become a hugely popular event on the live music calendar, attracting acts both local and international to the crisp beaches of Port Phillip Bay.’

  Lionel examined the remainder of the site, viewing several picture galleries and press releases on the festival. It was all fairly stock standard information. Nothing caught his interest.

  Returning to the results, Lionel scanned them again and saw little that warranted further exploration. He scrolled up to the top of the page and tried another query.

  ‘Pleasant Festival 2012’.

  The results seemed to be no better but he went through them anyway, holding out hope for a sliver of anything that might lead them closer.

  This time, he noted several links to news items that referenced Saskia’s accident and he followed these, only to find that they contained the information they were already acquainted with.

  He scrolled to the top once more and saw the image search option. He tried that, causing a slew of results to flash up: pictures of the Pleasant Festival, both official as well as ones taken by attendees. Adjusting his glasses, Lionel leaned in close
and carefully examined each image in turn.

  There were a lot of group shots and selfies, the kind that usually end up on social media. But often these were the kinds of images that offered the most information. He’d trawled through thousands of images like these in the past, when he’d been working on difficult cases. In remembering that, Lionel chuckled under his breath. This task was usually the most boring one.

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter. He stood and went over to the fridge, put some ice into a glass, then splashed a generous lug of the scotch over it.

  May as well settle in.

  Lionel became lost in the images. Time drifted past his notice as he examined countless photos, looking for something. Anything.

  Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, he sat back and took off his glasses. He rubbed his tired eyes. Knots of tension had gathered in his shoulders. He reached over to massage his right shoulder, wincing as he did so.

  Looking out through the glass onto the balcony, he saw Casey huddled up in one of the lounge chairs, a blanket draped around her shoulders and down over her body. Her head leaned to one side and, though he couldn’t see her face, he knew that she was asleep.

  Asleep for the first time since he’d been here.

  Sighing, he turned back to the computer.

  He had gotten nowhere with this. Not that he really knew where he was headed.

  The images had blurred into a prosaic mass of young faces, revelling in the party atmosphere of the seaside, brightly coloured lights and fireworks, musicians and performers. He couldn’t be sure what he was seeing in them anymore.

  Absently, he reached across to his glass and lifted it to his lips, not realising that it was empty. He cursed silently, glancing across at the bottle. He raised one brow in muted surprise as he decided to pour one more glass. As he drew it to his lips, he could feel the warmth of the alcohol coursing through him.

  His hand brushed over the keyboard as he pushed back on the stool to stand. The screen flickered as it proceeded to the next page of images. He cursed, having lost the page that he was reading.

  As he looked down, hoping to reverse his unintended action, his eyes floated across the new gallery and he stopped.

  Something caught his eye toward the bottom of the page. He squinted against the bright light of the screen, spying a face that appeared familiar.

  He centred the thumbnail, then tapped it. A larger rendering of the image loaded.

  Lionel’s stomach plunged.

  He was looking into the eyes of Saskia.

  Posing coquettishly, draped over the front of a car, she reminded Lionel of a model one might find in a glossy automotive magazine.

  Lionel snapped up his glasses and peered closer, unable to believe what he was looking at. He flipped open his notebook to a page where he had stapled a photocopy of a newspaper article that had Saskia’s picture. He compared the two. It was unmistakable.

  Then, another bolt of realisation struck.

  Her companion.

  Adopting a similar pose, the young woman leaning suggestively against Saskia gradually came into focus once Lionel had positioned his glasses correctly. He recognised the girl as the friend from the photograph that Casey had snapped in Saskia’s bedroom.

  It was Shelley Agutter.

  He drew his hand up to his mouth as he examined the photograph. He could not make out the registration plate of the car they were posing with as it was obscured by Shelley’s legs. But, all at once, Lionel realised just what sort of vehicle he was looking at.

  A low-slung pair of headlights that tapered into the grille.

  Highly polished chrome rings, partially obscured by Shelley’s leg, captured the glint of the camera flash.

  Interlocking chrome rings.

  “Casey,” Lionel called into the darkness, his voice hoarse.

  On the balcony, Casey stirred in her chair. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice.

  “Pa?” she responded.

  “You had better come and look at this.”

  Shaking herself awake, Casey dragged herself from her chair and threw on her dressing gown. Stepping through the doorway, she approached Lionel, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, but she snapped to alertness when she looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. Lionel looked up at her. He tilted the screen so she could see it more clearly.

  Casey’s eyes fell across the image. Her jaw dropped.

  Saskia and Shelley together. The garish lights of a party. Striped tights and fairy wings.

  The car. The Audi.

  Casey’s knees buckled. All the air left her lungs. Her head swirled as the full realisation of what she was looking at dawned.

  “That’s it,” she whispered shakily.

  ___

  The line snaked from the courtyard cafe cart well into the thoroughfare. From her vantage point, Casey could still see the cart. Her eyes were focused on the counter where Shelley Agutter was serving.

  Casey had set out well before dawn, this time on her own. Her resolve was fuelled by the realisation that Shelley was hiding something significant. In her hand, Casey clutched a piece of paper, a printout of the image her grandfather had discovered last night.

  The Audi was no longer a nebulous vision. Shelley had been in the company of that Audi and quite possibly the owner of it. She had told the police nothing of it. There was nothing in the reports Lionel had viewed that mentioned Shelley speaking of a car of this or any sort.

  Casey looked down at the image as the line moved forward. There was no mistaking it. The two best friends. The Audi.

  She knew, Casey thought, trying to contain her anger. She knew all along.

  The line moved closer and Casey moved with it until she was right next to the cart, mere feet from the counter. Shelley hadn’t seen her.

  As she collected money from the customer she was serving, Shelley Agutter caught sight of Casey out of the corner of her eye. Her face hardened immediately. Fumbling with the change in her hand, and dropping some on the counter, she picked it up and handed it to the young man.

  Casey watched her resolutely.

  And then she was before her.

  “I thought I told you to leave me alone,” Shelley said as discreetly as she could.

  “I know about the Audi,” Casey said calmly.

  Shelley froze. Her hand shook and her mouth fell open.

  Casey watched Shelley stonily. “The night of the accident. There was a car. An Audi.”

  “How do you—?”

  “Know?” Casey finished for her. She slapped the picture down on the counter.

  Casey leaned over the counter. “We need to talk.”

  Ashen faced, Shelley turned to her colleague. “Nathan…”

  Nathan turned and saw her expression. He frowned.

  “Can you cover for me?”

  He nodded, gazing worriedly in Casey’s direction then back at Shelley. “Are you all right?” he mouthed silently.

  Untying her apron, Shelley nodded hastily and hung it on a hook behind her. She glanced at Casey, her eyes filled with fear. “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER 24.

  As Casey followed Shelley away from the courtyard and onto The Walk, she noticed how nervous Shelley appeared. She frequently glanced ahead and behind them, as though afraid she was being watched.

  Turning off The Walk, Shelley led Casey to a trio of benches tucked away in a quiet nook at the rear of the mansion. Shelley gestured to one of them and Casey sat down.

  “Okay. If you’re not with the police or the media, then who are you with?” Shelley asked, he voice shaking. “Were you at Pleasant?”

  Casey stiffened. She knew she would have to tread carefully.

  “I wasn’t at Pleasant. Like I said to you before, my name is Casey Schillinge. I’m looking into Saskia Andrutsiv’s accident.”

  Shelley frowned, confused.

  “How could you possibly know about that car?”
br />   “You didn’t say anything to the police about it,” Casey countered, deflecting Shelley’s question. “Why not?”

  Shelley wrung her hands in her lap, then clutched them together in a vain attempt to hide her fear from Casey. She shrugged.

  “I…” Her voice barely broke above a whisper. “I was scared.”

  “Scared? Did you know who was driving that car?”

  Shelley looked directly at Casey.

  “No,” she said determinedly. “I don’t.”

  “You knew she was in that car, the night of her accident. She didn’t leave the Pleasant Festival alone, did she?”

  She tensed at Casey’s persistence and shut her eyes tightly.

  Casey considered her words carefully.

  “Shelley, the police never closed Saskia’s case file,” she said, softening her voice. “It remains unsolved because they don’t have any fresh leads that might help them solve it. If you know something, I can take it to them. I can protect you.”

  She paused, touching her tongue to her lower lip.

  “But, I can also point them in your direction if you won’t help me. You’re scared of something. I can see that. Help me to understand what it is.”

  Shelley looked back at Casey with a tortured expression, only to meet Casey’s own determined visage.

  “Don’t you think Lesia deserves to know the truth?”

  Shelley blinked, stunned by the mention of that name. “Lesia? How do you…?”

  Shelley didn’t finish her sentence. She sensed that Casey must already have spoken to Saskia’s grandmother. “How is she?”

  “She seems okay,” Casey replied. Then she frowned. “You haven’t seen her recently?”

  Shelley looked down at her hands once more. “Not since the funeral. I haven’t been able to bring myself to. Anyway, I doubt she would want to see me. It was my fault what happened to Saskia.”

  Casey leaned forward, softening her expression further. “Shelley, if you know something that can help—that can get to the truth—please tell me.”

  Shelley hesitated. A weariness descended over her. The bulwark she had erected to protect her was crumbling. She regarded Casey and in that moment, Casey thought that Shelley Agutter appeared decades older.