Double Take (11 page)

“Well, there's no way you can come back here again. Ever. Do you understand?”

“But Dad—”

“No, Max. I absolutely forbid it. Didn't you see that guy in the blue singlet? The one with all the tattoos? He's the one who found the Matchbox car. And now they know kids might be around.”

Trent didn't even bother to argue. He'd already figured as much.

“What's that smell?” Max said.

Trent sniffed and knew exactly what it was. “It's pee.”

“Oh poo!” Max said. “I don't want to walk through that.”

Of all the places that guy could've gone, he had peed right into their gap in the boards. Max was able to manoeuvre through the hole, but for Trent and his dad it was impossible to get through without stepping in it.

Outside, Murray scraped his feet on the grass. Trent did the same.

“Holy shit, that stank,” Max said, obviously without thinking again, because when Dad swung towards him, he covered his mouth and backed up a little.

“Max! You're not to say those words. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Dad. Sorry. But it did stink.”

“I know, come on. Let's get home.” Dad turned Max by the shoulders and then led him along the side of the shed. He did a quick check around the corner before the three of them hustled up the driveway to the street.

Gemma must've been waiting for them, because when they got home the front door opened as soon as they reached the bottom step. “How'd you go with the photos?” She was beaming with excitement. The exact opposite of how his father looked.

G
emma wished Murray would make the boys go to bed. Since they'd come home, Trent and Max had not let up for a minute about what happened under the shed. But Murray had barely said a word. Most of all, she wanted to hear the tape, but Murray refused to let the boys listen to it on account of all the swearing.

Finally nine o'clock rolled around and he sent them off to bed.

“Want to tell me what really happened?”

Murray glanced over at her and she noticed tiny red veins creeping across the whites of his eyes. He looked like he'd been crying.

“It was horrible, Gemma. So scary with the boys there. At one point this guy came downstairs, they called him Pete. You should see him. He's covered in tattoos. And I mean covered. His arms, chest, neck. He was built too, like he does body building or something. Anyway he came downstairs and peed in the gap in the wall we crawled through. All it would've taken was for him to glance up and I swear to God he would have seen us. It was stupid. I should never have gone there. Especially not with the boys.” He twisted the empty wine glass in his hand.

She wished she'd been there, but she couldn't get out of work today, not after she'd charged the wedding party triple her normal fee to be open on a Sunday. The whole time she was waxing, plucking and spray tanning the giggling girls, her mind was on Murray taking those photos. “So how many photos did you get?”

He turned to her with a vacant expression on his face.

“What?” She shrugged.

He blinked several times, then sighed. “I only took one photo, but I don't think it'll be any good. It was dark under there.”

“Where's the camera? I'll take it to the camera shop tomorrow and get the film developed.”

“On the sideboard at the front door.”

Gemma fetched the camera, put it in her handbag so she wouldn't forget it in the morning and walked back. “So did they say anything about how much money was going to be in the bank?”

“No.”

“Let's listen to the tape.”

“You can. I've heard enough for one day.”

“Are you sure?” But one look at his face was enough of an answer. “Oh, okay then.” Leaving him on the lounge, she grabbed her wine glass, topped it up at the fridge and then sat down at the kitchen table. She couldn't understand what was wrong with him. For the first time in, well, ever, something exciting was happening.

She listened to the tape, refilling her glass several more times. It was everything she expected and more. Swearing, violence, threats, secrecy, mistrust, and the most intriguing of all was the woman. By the sound of her she seemed more like a high tea guest than a bank robber. The tape finally ended, and while it rewound to the beginning she finished off her wine. When it clicked to a stop she stood up and walked back to Murray who was still sitting in the same position. She straddled him on the lounge.

“What's wrong, baby?” She kissed his forehead and then tasted the saltiness on her lips.

He looked up at her. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't quite read. Was it fear? Resignation? It definitely wasn't excitement. He sighed. “As I said before, Gemma, this is real. It's not a movie we're somehow starring in.”

“I know that, babe. But don't you think it's just a little bit fun and exciting?”

“No. I think it's scary.”

She cupped his cheeks and pouted her lips at him. “Not that scary. You guys are okay.”

“But we nearly got caught.”

“But you
didn't
, babe. So it just proves the hiding space is perfect.”

He rubbed his eyes. They were even more bloodshot now. “Are you going to take the tape to the police this time? Or shall I?”

“I will. But I'll get the photo developed first so I can take it to them too.”

Murray studied her, maybe looking for confirmation that she meant it.

For the first time she noticed a couple of grey streaks in his moustache.
Maybe it's time to shave it off
. She wondered what he'd look like without it. Younger maybe. He could also use an update of clothes. She hadn't seen him in anything new since she met him. Actually, they could both use a wardrobe overhaul. But that was unlikely given they pretty much lived from pay cheque to pay cheque. Some weeks Gemma couldn't even afford to draw a wage.

She chewed on her inside lip. “So how much money do you think the bank will have on Melbourne Cup day?”

He shrugged. “Probably more than we'll earn in our lifetimes.”

“It's not fair,” she said. “We work all our lives and never see that much money. These guys do a couple of weeks planning and get millions of dollars.”

“I doubt it'll be millions, and look at what they're risking to get it… Their lives, their freedom.”

“Imagine what we could do with all that money. You and I could both get new cars and we could buy the boys one of those Sony Discman thingies.” She kissed his forehead again, then cupped his cheek. “I'd be able to sell my business. Oh…imagine the holidays we could have with the boys.”

“We don't have that kind of money and we never will. I wish you'd stop thinking about it.”

“I can't, it's millions of dollars.”

“You don't know that!”

“I know, but I can dream a little, can't I?” She squeezed his cheeks, forcing his lips to pout, and then leant in to kiss him.

N
o-one likes going to hospital, but for Candice the appointments always felt like
Groundhog Day
—a pointless and depressing repeat of the previous ones. Surgery for her condition was inevitable, but there were only three ways she could get it.

The first way was to pay for it, and short of some kind of miracle that was never going to happen. The second was for all the people on the waiting list before her to progress through, either by receiving their life-saving defibrillator implant or via the unfortunate opposite scenario—which she didn't even want to think about. The third way was by falling to within inches of her life; then and only then would they perform emergency surgery.

According to her doctor, it was lucky she was young, and, other than this condition, she was also healthy. But that first diagnosis was three years ago. Candice certainly didn't feel young anymore. Or healthy.

Jack was normally a bundle of stress on the drive to the hospital, but this morning he seemed unusually chirpy. When he began to whistle she glanced over at him. He was clean-shaven today, and his hair, a bit longer than usual, was neatly parted off centre and swept back. She noticed he was wearing aftershave. He hadn't used this scent in a while. “You seem happy.”

Jack grinned at her. “I feel good about today.”

“Why?”

“Don't know.” He shrugged. “I just do.”

It was usually her propping him up. Ever since she'd been diagnosed, Jack had become increasingly angry with the doctors and frustrated with their inability to help. Last time she thought he was going to leap over the table and punch Dr Shaw in the nose. Maybe he was feeling a little embarrassed about that. After all, the doctor was on the verge of calling security when she managed to drag him away. Jack had yelled profanities right along the hallway and hadn't stopped until they'd reached the car. She couldn't remember another time when he'd raised his voice at anyone. They'd laughed about it afterwards.

But he seemed to be trying a different approach today.

He pulled in to the parking tower, and it wasn't until they reached the fifth level that they found a spot. “Stay here, I'll get a wheelchair.”

“I'll be okay.”

He glared at her and she knew it was pointless to argue. As he strode from the car she reflected on the decline of their life. Four years ago they'd had it all. They'd lived in a beautiful house, she had a job she loved working in a childcare centre just down the road, they each had a car, they went out and enjoyed life, and most importantly they were both healthy. Now she couldn't even walk fifty metres without struggling to breathe.

She rolled her head back and stared at the car roof interior. “Why me?” she said aloud.

Of course the doctors couldn't answer that. Her heart condition was apparently hereditary, but they'd found no trace of it in her family history. She'd never smoked, hardly drank alcohol and pretty much lived a healthy life. Often she wondered if this was a test. Was this God's way of challenging her? If so then she was determined to beat it. No matter what happened, she wasn't going to be defined by this condition. As far as Candice was concerned her ventricular tachycardia could go screw itself.

She heard Jack whistling before she saw him come racing around the corner with the wheelchair. As instructed, she waited for him to help her out of the car. Once she settled into the chair, he zipped along at an abnormally fast pace. “Hey, slow up, baby. Don't want to give me a heart attack.” Jokes aside, it was unfortunately possible.

He slowed down.

After the standard two-hour limbo in the overcrowded and aptly named waiting room they were finally welcomed into Dr Shaw's office. Jack stepped in front of the wheelchair and offered his hand to the doctor. “Doctor Shaw,” Jack said. “Please accept my apologies for what happened last time. I'm so embarrassed about what I did. I promise you'll never see anything like that from me again.”

Dr Shaw accepted his handshake with a smile. “Thanks for the apology. But it's okay, Jack. I totally understand your feelings. Unfortunately I see this situation on more occasions than you'd care to imagine.” Candice didn't know how the doctor did it. In this profession you'd expect him to be aged beyond his years, wrinkled deep from worry and a bundle of nervous energy. But instead he was always quick with a smile, seemed eternally relaxed and although she didn't know his age, she imagined he looked younger than he actually was.

“It's just the sense of doing nothing that drives us crazy,” Jack said as he took a seat beside Candice's wheelchair.

Jack was constantly downplaying what he'd done since she became ill. When they couldn't afford her medication, he sold her car. When the doctor's bills had continued to pile up, he'd sold their house. Their new little home was in a caravan park just six kilometres from the hospital. That was no fluke. Jack knew the ambulance could make the trip in four minutes—traffic permitting. Two of their neighbours knew of her condition and one of them, Rose, had the other end of an alarm that Candice could activate if she needed help.

Dr Shaw did his standard tests: checked her heart rate, pupils, down her throat. He removed the EKG Holter monitor that she'd put on before she went to bed last night and plugged the portable recorder into his computer to download the results. While he was waiting he asked her the standard twenty or so questions.

“How are you sleeping?”

“Are you taking your medication in order and at the same time each day?”

“Have you had any more incidents?”

When she described what happened the other day, he tapped away on his computer while he watched her with kind, caring eyes.

She finished describing the episode and seconds later he stopped typing.

He wrapped a blood pressure monitor around her upper arm and pumped it up. “Your blood pressure is good. I'm confident we have the medication right now.”

“But what about the other day?” Candice asked.

He rubbed his chin. “You say you were just sitting down and chatting.”

“Yes, but when I stood up it happened.”

He nodded and a frown wrinkled his forehead. “Would you say you were a little excited or agitated?”

She shook her head, then shrugged. “Maybe, but only a little.”

The doctor turned back to the computer but refrained from typing anything.

Jack rested his hand on her knee. “So, Doc. Just to clarify, the operation costs $62,000. Is that right?”

Candice shot him a look.
Where's he going with this?

“Oh, I can't remember exactly.” Dr Shaw tapped away on the keyboard.

“And the after-hospital expenses should add up to about $12,000. Right?”

“Honey.” Candice put her hand over Jack's and squeezed. “We have all this information at home and we—”