You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (best fiction novels .TXT) 📕

‘Just because I said I wanted to kill him doesn’t mean I’d actually fucking do it … For God’s sake, I was at the gym that night. There are dozens of people who can vouch for me.’

An accusing silence before Megan changed tack. ‘How’s Alex?’

‘Good. Moved in with me last year.’

This was a surprise. Megan hadn’t picked Alex as the cohabiting type, but what would she know?

‘Still in the landscaping business?’

Jess rolled her eyes. ‘A glorified gardener, in my mother’s eyes.’

Jess’s parents maintain that they’re ordinary people. Her father is one of the leading heart surgeons in the city and her mother used to be a concert pianist. They own a six-bedroom home in one of the most affluent suburbs in Sydney, a boat that’s moored at Bobbin Head, and a holiday house in the South of France. Not ordinary by any definition of the word.

‘How are your parents?’ Megan asked from ingrained politeness more than a desire to know.

Jess shrugged and grimaced at the same time. Her shrugs always had a vocabulary of their own. ‘Dad’s preoccupied with work, Mum’s preoccupied with her students. Both of them seem perpetually disappointed with me and suspicious of Alex … They think he’s after my money – their money – which is laughable …’

Is it so laughable? Is Alex impervious to money? Megan’s head was turned by their wealth. The Fosters were rich in a real-life way. Dog hairs on the custom-made sofas and expensive rugs. Towels discarded in the cabana next to the 25-metre pool. Designer clothes and shoes overflowing from closets to bedroom floors. A set of mud-spattered Range Rovers in the driveway. Mrs Foster admonishing her untidy children in a mildly exasperated manner, all the while knowing that the cleaner would come on Friday and make the place spick and span. Mr Foster unperturbed about the household chaos, possibly quite refreshing after a day spent in the sterile confines of a hospital theatre.

There is something intoxicating about wealth that’s scruffy and real-life as opposed to the showy, cringy kind. So, yeah, Megan can admit that her head was turned. She was impressed, a little envious. But the downside of that kind of careless wealth was revealed to her during the trial. The danger that comes from not having to clean up after yourself, not having to worry about bills that need paying, from having the luxury to pursue something that is ultimately going to lose you a lot of money, just to make a point. It cultivates selfishness, a poor grasp of reality.

Jess didn’t ask after Megan’s family; there’s a point where politeness becomes farcical.

‘I still can’t believe I was the first responder,’ Megan said, steering the conversation away from the minefield of families. ‘It feels too coincidental.’

All she got was another shrug, one that said: Don’t ask me. Surely, Jess could understand why she was here, trying to have this conversation? For God’s sake, she had vocalised her desire to kill Newson! More than once. Admittedly after hours of intense cross-examination, riled by the barrister’s audacity.

Did you make eye contact with the defendants?

Did you smile at them?

We have testimony from several witnesses that you were being sexually overt with these two men.

The idea that Jess might be somehow involved didn’t occur to Megan immediately. The notion crept in later, lodging itself in her brain, arguing its case. Jess hates losing a fight. Her crooked nose is proof of her determination, her ability to prevail over pain. How many other bones did she break when she was fighting professionally? How many times did she pick herself up off the floor and resume the match? Or take a bashing against the ropes until the bell went? If there’s anyone in the world who could hold on to a grudge for twelve long years, it’s Jess. Her incredible doggedness. Her actual words: I want to kill that cold-hearted bastard …

Megan could have asked more questions as they sat there, the only two people in that soulless little café. In the end, she wasn’t ballsy enough to persevere.

They said an awkward goodbye and went in separate directions outside the café.

Megan and Lucas are playing cards with another crew, Kaz and Sakar. The day has dragged on. Only two more call-outs: a great-grandmother with a suspected heart attack, and a withered old man suffering from a dizzy spell. On days like today it’s the elderly who keep them in a job.

‘Hey, Megan. You’ve been to Italy, haven’t you?’ Kaz asks as she shuffles the cards.

‘Yeah. Ten years ago, though.’

They’re playing Twenty-one, each chip worth ten cents. The small bet generates excitement, which passes the time while nobody is at risk of losing more than a couple of dollars.

Kaz deals the cards deftly. ‘Can you give me some recommendations, darl? Tripadvisor’s driving me crazy. Too many reviews, too many opinions, too much bloody whinging. If you read it all, you’d never go anywhere.’

Megan is the resident travel advisor at the base. Everyone knows she spent three years hopping from country to country, and even though it was a long time ago, they still ask her for recommendations.

‘Sure. I’ll look through my stuff when I get home.’

Her ‘stuff’ is in dusty boxes under her bed. Bus tickets, tour brochures and other keepsakes. Photo albums, with place names and dates meticulously written in the margins. Pictures of churches, town squares and sunsets. The wizened faces of old men and women sitting outside their homes, and the soft laughing faces of children. Megan’s in very few photographs. She hated herself at the time.

Megan surveys the cards in her hand. Bust. Again.

‘What cities did you go to? I’ve only got six days.’

Six days isn’t enough, but it’s obvious Kaz already knows that. Not everyone has what Megan had: an open-ended ticket and nothing worth returning for.

‘Well, if you’re short of time you should concentrate on the major ones, Venice, Florence, Rome …’

Lucas wins the round, scooping up the chips with a whoop. Kaz deals another hand and Megan’s