Saving Jazz (13 page)

‘Hey,' Aunty Jane called through the window, ‘what you up to?'

‘Studying,' I called as she walked into my cabin.

‘On Facebook?' she laughed as she sat on my bed.

‘Yeah,' I twisted my hair wistfully, ‘sometimes I just watch, to see what's going on. Still can't find out anything about Annie.' I shrugged and wiped the tears away. ‘Oh Aunty Jane, I feel so terrible.'

‘I know, honey,' she put an arm around me.

‘I mean, I wouldn't go to her funeral — I wouldn't be welcome and I couldn't face those people. It's just … I need to know.'

‘I'll make a call,' Aunty Jane pulled her phone out of her pocket.

‘Who?' I asked, alarmed. ‘Who will you call?'

‘Your mother,' Aunty Jane said, walking out on to the deck.

I tried not to listen, but I couldn't help it. Aunty Jane's voice was low, and she was making a lot of single-word responses. ‘Right. Yes. Thanks. I'll tell her.' She came in and gave me a small smile. My stomach was dipping and rolling.

‘Annie's not dead,' she said.

‘What?' I wiped the tears away. ‘Why did they say that then? All that shit on Facebook. What was that all about?'

‘They did turn the machine off, honey,' Aunty Jane said, ‘but they knew she was going to be able to breathe on her own. She was progressing — so she is home now, but the family, like a few others, have put their house up for sale. They haven't returned there, and your mother doesn't know where they're living now. I think Greenhead is becoming a bit of a ghost town.'

‘I don't understand. If she's alive, is she okay?'

‘I'm not sure. Your mum seemed to think she was still having a lot of rehabilitation. No one really knows. The Townshends are pretty private people.
Shall we go for a walk?'

I nodded and pulled my Skechers on. We walked down the road. The sun was setting, the Geraldton wax bushes were in full bloom and their purple flowers made everything feel slightly surreal. It was like my two worlds had collided.

‘It's so beautiful,' Aunty Jane murmured.

‘What is?' I asked, although I was nodding my head at the street in front of us.

‘Life,' Aunty Jane said. ‘I know it's easy to get down, but remember, at the end of the day, there is still a lot of good, a lot to look forward to.'

I shrugged. I knew she was right, but trying to think positively some days was a lot harder than others.

Tommy and Jack also had their hearings in the Children's Court. Tommy faced several more counts than Jack, not only with regard to what he did to Annie, but also the stuff the cops accessed on his computer — charges relating to child pornography. He got twelve months' detention, but with allowances and concessions — I'm not sure exactly. The most time he would serve would be six months.
It doesn't seem like a lot in retrospect, but at the time no one could believe that we would face prison. Least of all Jack — that's what he told me when I visited him in detention. But he got a month for his part in it.

‘My lawyer was so surprised,' Jack said across the metal tabletop. He looked so bad, so small and grey. ‘She didn't think I'd get any time at all. Community service, that kind of stuff. But the judge was furious, said this behaviour was a scourge on society. That we were out of control. That this kind of behaviour had to be stopped. An example.' He shrugged defeatedly. And that was it, he looked defeated.

‘What's it like?' I asked. When he looked at me I knew then that something had been broken inside him. Irretrievably broken. He looked me squarely in the eye, yet it was like he was seeing straight through me. Seeing something, or many things, that he wished he had never seen.

‘I can't lie to you, Jazz,' he reached across and held my hand so tightly I swear I thought he was going to pulverise my bones. ‘It's a living nightmare.' He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and grimaced. ‘I know I've got what I deserve, probably
less than what I deserve. When I think about what we did. And I think about her, alone in a hospital room, not being able to breathe for herself. I guess that's the real nightmare. But fuck, Jazz, if I could turn back time I would in a heartbeat, just to never see what I've had to see or do here.'

Things ran through my mind. Hollywood TV shows about male prison — knifings, fights, drugs, and the other … the one that made me cringe (don't worry, the irony is apparent) — rape. Had Jack been raped in there? ‘Like what?'

He shook his head. ‘I can't tell you. It's best you don't know. But whatever you're imagining, knowing you as well as I do, you're probably right.'

I listened to his words and realised he was wrong. We didn't know each other well at all. That too had been destroyed. He was still Jack, but he'd never be
my
Jack ever again. When I used to think about the future, Jack was always in it, always my go-to guy. I'd imagined we'd go to uni, we'd always socialise together, one day he'd get a girl and I'd be best man at his wedding. But now, looking at the hollowed-out shell of who he was — the flimsy photocopy where the ink had faded in lines, blurring
edges and details — I realised that was never going to happen. That we had killed that too.

‘Where's Tommy?' I asked after we had sat for a while in that awkward silence where no one can think of a thing to say.

‘In a different section,' Jack said, ‘under protection, really.'

‘Why?' I asked surprised.

‘Because he's a fucking dog,' Jack spat, and in those words the enormity of the change was apparent. The tone, the jargon, words my Jack would never have used before in his life —
a dog
. He sounded so, so, criminal. ‘Others in here know about him. He came in the big man, boasting about his achievements, what he'd done, why he'd done it.'

‘Why?' I asked, genuinely interested in the answer. ‘Why
did
he do it?' It was something that had plagued me from the beginning of the whole Greenheadgate saga. What had compelled Tommy to post those photos and upload that video? He'd never been the smartest kid in the class, but that was so dumb. Even a ten-year-old would know they were incriminating themselves with such hardcore evidence. Why did he do it?

‘Attention,' Jack said staring over my shoulder. ‘Kudos. Feeling important. He told me after we were arrested that's why he did it — because he could. He didn't care about the consequences. He said his mum was such a bitch, he could see why his dad had pretty much permanently fucked off — so why not? Who would care what he did, he was leaving Greenhead anyway. He said chicks deserved it. If only I'd listened to you, Jazz.'

‘Me?' I said, ‘what do you mean?'

‘Ages ago you said there was something wrong about him. You were right.'

‘It doesn't matter now,' I said.

‘No, it doesn't. I'm in here for a month. Tommy is being protected because he's been beaten pretty badly and some of the guys in here would be happy to see him dead.'

‘Dead,' I said. ‘Seriously?'

‘This isn't holiday camp, Jazz. Some of the kids in here have committed serious crimes — like one guy killed both his mother and father over a fight about some biscuits, or some shit. Tommy thought he was the big man but he had no idea how fucking puny he is.'

‘They've turned Annie off.' There, I'd finally said the words I'd come to tell him. I watched him go that sickly shade of green-grey again, like he did that time the video came through.

‘Fuck,' he put his head into his shaking hands.

‘She's alive,' I said softly. His head snapped up and he glared at me. Really hatefully — a look I'd never seen before. A look that belonged to this new Jack.

‘You waited all this time to tell me?'

‘I
came
here to tell you,' I said angrily.

‘You let me talk about the shit in here when you could have told me straight away. The one thing I've waited for all this time. The one thing I needed to know. I needed to hear. To know that it'd all be alright.'

And like you, dear reader, that was all I heard as well. I, I, I, me, me, me. How this would impact upon Jack. Jack's ability to leave this place and live his life without the knowledge that he'd contributed to the death of someone. It made all his remorse and tears look like bullshit. This new version of Jack was someone I didn't care to know at all.

I stood up.

‘Wait, Jazz,' he put out his hand again. I noticed the bitten fingernails where the skin was broken and bleeding, a habit Jack had overcome at the start of Year 8, when he used to bite and pluck at the skin on his thumbs until they were red and swollen and bleeding. ‘Is she okay?'

I shrugged. ‘I don't know. They switched her off knowing she would breathe. I don't know if she's brain-damaged or not. No one does.'

‘Fuck,' he sighed.

‘I'm going.' I wanted to get out. I hadn't expected it to be like this. I'd gone in to speak to Jack, not this shady replica of him. He gave me the creeps. I didn't trust him.

‘Jazz, will you come back?' Jack asked. ‘I know it's not long, but I need all the support I can get.'

‘Sure,' I said, knowing full well I'd never go back there again.

It was a house not unlike Aunty Jane's and it was only two blocks away. That first morning I told Aunty Jane I'd walk there, but she didn't seem convinced.

‘Do you want me to walk with you?' she asked as we finished our coffees. I shook my head. It was another beautiful day. I watched the light flit through the leaves of the huge gum tree in the backyard as they wavered lightly in the breeze.

‘No,' I said, ‘thanks, but I think I need to do this part on my own.' I'd lain awake most of the night, unable to turn my racing brain off. This was the punishment I'd been given for my part in the whole affair. Everyone else was facing (or had faced) their punishments alone, and I knew I had to as well. I
couldn't rely on my aunt for everything. At some point I had to grow up and accept responsibility. A part of me also thought that maybe this would be it, that facing my punishment alone would be a way of signing off on the night of Greenheadgate.

Despite my convictions, I've got to admit I was terribly nervous as I walked down the street. I wasn't sure what I would find. During the night I'd googled the organisation that runs the refuge and read up on its services and objectives. It provided crisis relief to women trying to escape violent and abusive relationships. The address of my specific refuge had been given to me over the phone by their Volunteer Coordinator but was nowhere online, to protect the women's safety, and I had signed a confidentiality agreement that really emphasised the need to protect people's information. It never properly occurred to me before that information had such power.

I walked in the front door. It was the entrance hall of the original house and a young woman emerged from a back room. She was wiping her hands with a tea towel, and gave me a somewhat reserved smile. ‘Can I help you?' she asked.

‘Hi,' I said, my mouth dry, ‘I'm Jasmine and I'm here to do some volunteer work.'

‘Right,' she said, neither friendly nor hostile. It made me even more nervous. ‘Come through here.' She led the way into the kitchen, where the sink was full of hot suds. ‘You wash and I'll dry.'

I nodded and started washing up the cups, placing them on the drainer for her to dry. ‘My name's Carol,' she said, ‘and I'm full-time here.' I nodded silently. I didn't know what to say, what to ask, or even what to volunteer. ‘I saw that this is court-ordered,' Carol said.

I glanced at her. Again, I couldn't read her face and wasn't sure whether she was being disapproving or not. ‘Yes,' I said, ‘I got into a bit of trouble and this was what the judge ordered me to do.'

‘Well, I'm glad you're here,' Carol said and I glanced her way again. This time she smiled at me. ‘A lot of people never fulfil their orders.'

‘Really?' I was amazed. ‘Even if a court demands it?' Who on earth would disobey a judge?

‘Yes, I hear about it all the time. In fact, in this place you hear about a lot of things that are unbelievable. To me, the fact you came indicates
you really are remorseful for what you've done.' It had never occurred to me that I might not fulfil my punishment. As far as I was concerned, not going would have led to more trouble, and the last thing I wanted was any more of that.

‘It's a difficult system, see,' Carol continued to talk as she put the cups away. ‘There's not enough money or help. We rely on volunteers and donations to keep the place going. Government funding is constantly cut, yet the incidence of domestic abuse is on the rise. Come through here.' She led the way to a laundry out the back of the property. Two large washers were at work. ‘We'll fold these,' she pointed to a mountain of bed linen. ‘The situation is that one woman dies every week in Australia at the hands of her partner or ex-partner.' Her words chilled me.

‘Really?' I said. ‘That's so many.'

‘It is,' Carol agreed, ‘but the problem is they have nowhere to go, so they stay as the violence escalates. Or they have a VRO in place, but the partner just ignores it and returns to the home. It's difficult to follow up on and often, when the partner doesn't show in court but hasn't reoffended, the system lets it slide.'

‘What's a VRO?' I asked.

‘Violence Restraining Order — it's court-issued and prevents a person being within a certain distance of another,' Carol said.

‘And these men just ignore it?' It seemed outrageous. Where was the protection?

‘Yes,' she nodded, ‘often there's drugs and alcohol involved, and sometimes when that's the case all reason and logic is gone.' Her words resonated with me. I'd experienced that exact thing. ‘We've got ten beds here, and they're always full, but this accommodation is crisis — which means only temporary — so we try to get counselling and help while they're here and then find them somewhere safe to go.'