You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

Newson and his assault on her credibility and character. About this house and all the good and bad memories within its faded walls. About the disquieting Google history on her mum’s laptop.

Police uncover threats on William Newson’s life.

Detectives looking for Yamaha WR450F motorbike in relation to shooting.

Family and public left without answers.

The problem is that Roslyn isn’t just mildly curious. Her reactions to William Newson were never mild. On one mortifying occasion she had to be escorted from the courtroom after standing up and screeching at him.

‘Stop! Stop saying those terrible things about my daughter.’ Her finger stabbed the air in front of her. ‘How can you call her a liar when you haven’t said a word of truth since the day we came in here?’

The judge cautioned her but she was oblivious.

‘How can you live with yourself?’ Her face was contorted, almost unrecognisable. ‘How can you assassinate the character of these innocent young girls?’

The judge called for one of the court officers, who unceremoniously steered her from the room. She was allowed to return the next day only because the judge felt sorry for her; he could see that this was a woman to be pitied, not punished.

On the day the jury handed down their verdict, Roslyn lost control again. Spitting with disappointment and rage on the steps outside the courthouse, newspaper and TV cameras capturing her reaction and broadcasting it around the country. Megan’s parents were firm believers in the establishment. They respected school teachers, police officers, law and order. They kept to the rules, drove below the speed limit, never parked illegally or took an illegitimate sick day. The trial crushed their belief in the establishment. Rapists could get away with the most heinous crime. Defence barristers could tell shameless lies. What was the point of keeping to the rules?

Painting the skirting boards is back-breaking, fastidious work, albeit strangely therapeutic. Slow precise strokes of the brush, the clean smell of paint, the satisfying improvement after the first coat. The Fray’s ‘How to Save a Life’ is playing on her phone. The song was popular around the time of the trial. Megan remembers hearing it on the car radio on the way into court in the mornings, her dad driving in his careful way, her mum fixing her hair in the sunshade mirror, both of them still hopeful about the outcome.

William Newson chipped away at their hope, day by day, week by week, until it was extinguished. He chipped away at their belief system, until it crumbled around them, leaving them looking foolish and naïve. Worst of all, he chipped away at their fortitude.

It’s no surprise that Roslyn has been compulsively following the news. She is selling her house because of William Newson; he is still impacting her life, all these years later. It makes Megan uneasy, that’s all. Something snapped in Roslyn that day in the courtroom. Her pain was excruciating to watch. Her outrage was both magnificent and deeply disturbing.

For the first time in her life, Megan was frightened of her.

Dinner is salmon and salad. Roslyn is complimentary about the simple meal as well as Megan’s progress with the painting.

‘The place is starting to look really good, love. Amazing what a lick of paint can do.’

‘Walls next– that should make a big difference. I spoke to Seb. He’s going to fly up Saturday and help with the outside.’

Roslyn is thrilled; they haven’t seen Seb since last Christmas, when he, Cassie and three-month-old Tia visited. Tia is almost one now and starting to bear weight on her pudgy legs, using furniture to pull herself up and into all sorts of mischief. Not a lot of painting would get done with her around so on this occasion she will be staying at home with her mother.

After dinner, Roslyn starts decluttering the kitchen cupboards. Now that she has committed to the sale, she seems to be a mixed bag of emotions. Nostalgic. Excited. Terrified. Just like Megan. But the important thing is that they’re finally doing this.

While Roslyn works in the kitchen, Megan attacks her wardrobe. Her approach to fashion has always been random, acquiring single pieces rather than complete outfits, mixing and matching clothes and accessories from all eras of her life. Now it needs to be culled to fit the limited storage space of a one-bedroom apartment, her future accommodation.

Roslyn comes to say goodnight about two hours later.

‘Are you planning on sleeping in there?’ she asks, eyeing the bed, which is buried under mounds of clothes.

‘Yeah. Being ruthless is harder than I thought.’

Her mum puts her hand over her mouth to contain a yawn. ‘The kitchen is a mess too, but I’ve run out of steam. Hopefully, it won’t get in your way.’

‘It’ll be fine. Night, Mum.’

The clothes are more than just a jumble of fabric, colours and styles. They hold memories of foreign cities and nights out with friends. A leather jacket purchased in Barcelona, even though the weather was unbearably hot. The green maxi dress she wore to Seb’s wedding. It’s a wrench, but both items haven’t been worn for years.

It’s another hour before Megan emerges with two black garbage bags destined for the charity shop. As Roslyn forewarned, the kitchen is in disarray. Megan navigates her way through half-full boxes and lifts the kettle to establish its water level: just enough for a cup of herbal tea.

Roslyn’s phone is charging on the kitchen counter. Megan looks at it, and quickly looks back to the kettle, which is starting to make noise. She glances at the phone again, before swinging around to extract a cup from the wall-mounted cupboard behind. One last, prolonged look before sighing and giving in; her mum’s passcode is Seb’s birthday.

Megan checks the pages that have been left open on Safari: headline after headline about the shooting. Between the laptop and the phone, there are dozens and dozens of news articles, all recent except for one that’s a few months old.

Young woman uses shock tactics to draw attention to low number