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

suspend collection tomorrow morning. Sort out some extra manpower. We need to search each and every bin on this street, and the next street, and probably the entire area.’

Dave’s mouth drops open at the magnitude – and messiness – of the job, but the necessity is indisputable: the weapon or clothes of the perpetrator could be discarded in any one of those bins.

Another car has arrived, a familiar silver-haired head alighting: Katrina, Bridget’s boss.

‘The detective inspector is here … One more thing: we need an address for the ex. We’ll call on her tonight. Don’t want to give her too much time to think about things.’

William Newson, by the nature of his job, might be moving in the same perilous circles as criminals and other shady characters. A crime like this – involving a motorcycle, an assumedly illegal gun and at least some degree of target surveillance – suggests outlawed bikie gangs, drug wars or some other organised crime. Nevertheless, Bridget always, always starts with the wife – or ex-wife, in this case.

Cold hard fact: we’re more at risk from our beloved than anyone else.

4

MEGAN

Megan wakes up with the sensation of not knowing where she is, which happens quite a lot. It’s been nine years since she returned to Sydney. It doesn’t make sense that her body – after all this time – thinks it’s in Europe or Asia or South America.

You’re here, at home, where you always are!

Next is the pervading feeling that something really bad has happened, another throwback to waking up in those foreign cities, listening to the babble of strange voices and sounds, her stomach clenching at the thought of what had driven her there.

Oh God, William Newson!

It’s happened twice before: arriving unsuspectingly at the scene, heart plummeting at the realisation that she knows the patient. One was a former friend of her mother’s, a glamorous and devout woman who collapsed at Sunday church. The other was someone from school, a boy she used to like. Both occasions were extremely disconcerting. Trying not to be distracted by her personal feelings. Trying not to be thrown by the abrupt change in context and roles. Her mum’s friend shuddering, frightened and looking ten years older than her age. The boy from school: a grown man, filthy drunk and concussed. Now a third occasion: William Newson.

A knock on her bedroom door. Her mum sticks her head around.

‘Oh good, you’re awake. It’s gone eleven. Might want to shake a leg, love.’

Eleven? That late? Oh God, her mum’s birthday lunch!

‘Coming,’ she promises, and swings her legs out of bed. ‘Happy birthday, Mum!’

‘Thanks, love.’

None of last night went to plan. An hour late clocking off work. Exchanging late-night texts with Jess. Would have been simpler to phone, but they haven’t spoken in years. Then awake into the early hours of the morning, reliving the shame, the unfairness and, like a scab wanting to be picked at, the apportionment of blame.

Toiletries, bathrobe, fresh underwear: her body is stiff and uncooperative as she moves around the room. This happens. Para medical work is strenuous. Lifting and manoeuvring bodies on and off stretchers, and up and down stairs. Crouching, kneeling, bending over. You need to be strong, physically and mentally.

The bathroom is a draughty walk down the hallway. Her hair – dark brown, shoulder length – needs a wash but she is not sure there’s enough time. Would William Newson have recognised her last night if he’d been conscious? Twelve years is a long time. It’s the difference between a hopeful seventeen-year-old and a hardened twenty-nine-year-old. It’s three years of running away (in the guise of travelling), three years of intensive studying and training, and six years on the road as a qualified paramedic. In those twelve years she has seen the best and worst of life. What happened to her and Jess wasn’t the worst. But it was close.

In the end, Megan washes her hair because if she doesn’t her mum will be quick to read things into her lack of effort. Back in her bedroom, she uses two fingers to separate the horizontal window blinds. It’s one of those stunning blue-skied winter days: warm in the sun, cold in the shade, with an air quality that’s pure and rejuvenating, unique to this time of year.

She surveys the contents of her wardrobe and eventually chooses a maxi dress she bought in Portugal. The dress is old but doesn’t look it. Large hoop earrings, a light cardigan, open-toe espadrilles. She is ready with a few minutes to spare.

She should ring the hospital, find out if William Newson lasted the night. She should not ring the hospital. She did her job, gave him the care he needed and got him to A&E in record time. Way more than he deserves.

Step back, don’t get sucked in, pretend he’s someone else. But following that logic, she always checks on critical patients, phoning the next day to see how they’re doing. Sometimes there’s been a miracle and they’ve pulled through. If the news is not good, it’s closure: she says a prayer for them, and moves on.

Her phone is in her hand. She is still see-sawing – call, don’t call – when a message comes in from Lucas.

He died during the night. How did you know him again?

Lunch is at a modern-Australian place in Turramurra. Megan is distracted, her mum is forced, but after a couple of glasses of wine they both relax and somewhat enjoy themselves.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Roslyn exclaims, blotting the napkin carefully to her lips. Her lipstick and finger-nails are in matching pinks, complementing the tiny dash of pink in her floral dress. She’s from that generation who’re obsessed with matching their outfit with their shoes and accessories. Roslyn is a receptionist with a busy car rental company, her uniform of white blouse, navy trousers and flat shoes thwarting her love of accessorising.

‘Yeah. We should come here again.’

Megan had asked if she wanted to invite any of her friends today but she’d insisted she