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Supreme Court of Western Australia

PERTH

October 15th

I see you as I scan the courtroom. The familiar jolt hits deep in my stomach, and I twist in the hard chair to look properly.

Can it be you?

How?

You have a suit on. From behind, I see the white of a crisp shirt collar above a black jacket. A nice jacket, I can’t help but notice, good quality, tailored. I always thought suits never suited you, but what else would you wear today? Ten years ago someone also found you a suit.

You’re talking to a woman, bending to catch her words, your hair freeing itself from behind your ears. It’s neatly trimmed and golden, rinsed with sunlight and shampoo, clean as morning. You’ve tried. Of course you have. Today is all about you. Today is what happens next.

Despite everything, I’m glad to see you. You shouldn’t have come. You must know that your being here changes everything. The quake inside me enters my veins, bones, skin. You always were someone who brought change, like the rain. Tyler MacFarlane—the rainmaker, the firestarter, Loki in a rich man’s suit.

I shut my eyes, clench my jaw, and try to contain this feeling. It’s how I felt before, and I thought I’d gone beyondthat. Perhaps you’ve come for me, like I came for you, for revenge or even forgiveness. Perhaps we’re even.

I blink fast and return to this cavernous, wood-panelled room. My barrister, Jodie, is talking to me. She and I and my solicitor Mikael are standing behind a grainy table. Jodie is pointing at words on a blinding white page. Words about you. Words about me. These words are my story now; this is what the court wants to hear, or doesn’t. When the jury decides, will they be with me, or with you?

Should we place a bet, Ty?

Me against You.

Jodie is frowning. She’s asked me something, and I haven’t been listening. She pushes the paper into my hands. So much black and white; you and I are so many words now. We are novels and films, stories in the minds of thousands.

‘Have you read over this?’ she says.

But I shouldn’t have to practise or learn these words by heart. They should come from the core of me: my truth. What is that core of me now? Did I ever know?

‘I’ve practised,’ I say.

I dart around and look for you again, your shimmer of blond hair, your scar. But now, of course, you’re nowhere. I’ve only imagined you.

My ghost man.

You are only inside me. Even after all these years, you are still here inside my head. Crazy? Maybe. You know, there are people who say I only exist because of you. Perhaps it is actually the other way around.

I shake my head to concentrate, study the dark brown wood beneath my fingers and press into it, lightheaded. I look up again when the jury files in. They settle and starelike a bunch of wide-eyed owls. If I make a sudden movement, perhaps they will flap away.

I keep very still, and wait.

Were we always going to come back here, you and me? Perhaps our story—my story—was never really over until now.