Page 121 of A Country Practice Christmas
As if the ground beneath her had sent a fork of lightning up through the soles of her feet and straight into her limbs, she was on the move. Focusing on the group of idiots, she marched towards them, jaw set, every muscle in her body wound tight. A wild cat ready to pounce.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’
In her peripheral vision, the car slowed.
The boys on the ground, a couple of them no more than fifteen or sixteen, fell silent.
The older one, probably by a few years, stepped forward and lifted his chin. ‘Piss off, lady.’
But whatever he had to say held no interest. Striding past the mob, Hannah concentrated her attention on the thrill-seeker, now seated on the roof of the stationary car on the far side of the parking area.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Owen Morgan at least had the sense to look slightly chagrined. His eyes skittered from one of his mates to another as if hoping one of them might provide the answer.
‘I’m not talking to them, Owen, I’m talking to you.’
‘Tell her to get fucked.’
‘Who the hell is she anyway?’
The insults washed over her like white noise. ‘You have two choices.’ She held her hands at her sides, resisting the temptation to point her finger. ‘You get down off that car and come with me right now or I call the police.’
‘Fuck, she’s calling the cops.’ The driver stuck a hand out the window and banged on the roof. ‘Get off, bro, we need to get out of here.’
In a scramble of arms and legs, the group raced for the car, flinging open doors, closing them with a series of bangs, as Owen jumped from the roof and landed on all fours. The wheels spun and the car fishtailed away, leaving no sign it had ever been there other than the stench of burning rubber and a spiral of tyre marks on gravel.
Dragging himself upright, Owen wiped a layer of dirt from his hands onto his jeans. Licked his lips and swallowed. Stared at his feet. At least he wasn’t attempting to run.
‘Are you absolutely hell-bent on going to juvenile detention?’
A small shrug of one shoulder.
‘I’m guessing that was you and your mates getting kicked out of the pub earlier?’
A slight sidewards angle of his head, lips sandwiched together in a thin line.
‘Okay, so since you’re not going to answer any of my questions, you can listen instead. Do you know what happens to kids like you in juvie? They hang out with a bunch of others just like them, only worse. They learn new tricks. Take more drugs.’ Her blood pumped faster with every sentence, heating her skin and fuelling her fire. ‘They learn how to be criminals. They might go in there slightly off the rails but a lot of them come out taking even more risks than when they went in. They get into trouble again. They go back to detention and once they’re eighteen, it’s not juvie anymore. It’s prison. With hardcore criminals. Where the only way to survive is to become one of them. Is that what you want, Owen? Is that who you are?’
A huff. A sneer. ‘They’re not going to put me away for car surfing.’
His cynicism was all that was needed for the long-held rage fermenting inside of her to bubble up and explode. ‘Do you know how I know all this, Owen?’ Taking out her phone, she typed a name into google, held up a photo. ‘It’s not because of my job. It’s because this twenty-year-old, who had been in and out of juvenile detention since he was your age, killed my father.’
Owen flinched as if he’d been slapped.
‘In and out of there for three years, and then it was prison. He started out exactly like you, a little harmless fun on a Friday night, drag racing with his mates, stealing a car here and there, drug taking, and all he learned in the system was how to keep doing what he’d been doing and not get caught. Until one night, one wet Christmas Eve, driving a stolen vehicle and smashed off his face, he ran a red light.’
A small part of her, the logical professional who never crossed the line, wanted to stop. Wanted to take back the personal details and switch into counselling mode. But the beast inside her that had fed on grief and guilt and anger for all these years needed to roar.
She stepped even closer, shoved the phone into Owen’s face. ‘This man killed my father.’ Her voice shook, and not just with fury. ‘He ran the red light, careened into my father’s car and sent it spinning like a top before it hit a telegraph pole. My father died a horrible death. Alone. In a car. In the middle of the night. At Christmas.’
A mumbled sorry, a look of … possibly contrition?
‘Do you know what happened to this man?’ She stabbed a finger against the phone screen. ‘He went to prison. And when he was in there, he killed himself.’ She glared at Owen, letting the horrible truth sink in. ‘Somehow he managed to find a way to hang himself. Do you know why?’
Another pause. Owen visibly shaking now but making no attempt to move.
‘The guilt. He left a note saying he was sorry, that he wished he hadn’t done what he did. Wished he hadn’t taken a man’s life. But it was too late, so he took his own.’
