Short story: Four years and nine months, by Jennifer Lane

2026-03-13 - 17:07

Four years and nine months As they walk into the room, Josie notices the drop in temperature and rubs her goosebumped arms. The carpet is blood-orange and the rows of chairs – practical, black plastic encased in silver metal – make Josie think of school halls. Of prize nights. Chair legs scraping. Rubber soles squeaking. The damp, sweaty-sock smell of cooped-up kids. A thousand voices belting out God Defend New Zealand, half of them cracking on the high notes; some deliberately, some not. “Where will we sit, Mum?” Olive, Josie’s daughter drags her into the present, to the empty rows of practical chairs. But Josie doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to indulge herself. She lets her mind jump back to that magical prize night Reuben’s name was called. Heads turning, necks craning, eyes searching for the boy who’d sprung out of nowhere to claim Year 9’s English prize. Reuben climbing the stairs, crossing the stage, black shoes freshly rubbed with Scruff Stuff, blazer rescued from lost property, fringe trimmed over the kitchen sink. Pausing to face the audience, searching the blackness – for her, she hoped – blinking under the dazzling lights. Josie leaning forward for a better view of those blinking eyes, his big grin. Reuben extending his hand for Mr Hammond to grip, to give it its first proper shake. Mr Hammond proclaiming to the whole school, to all those plural parents, how remarkable Reuben’s essay on Huckleberry Finn was, how Reuben had taken everyone by surprise. Tears pooling on the end of Josie’s nose, hands red and stinging from clapping so hard, pride bursting out of her. Hoping like hell Mrs Baird, Mr Hall, and that bully with an earring were paying attention, were watching the principal wrap Reuben’s hand in his. Seeing how wrong they were, how badly they’d misjudged her son. “Mum? Which seat do you want?” Olive has never won a prize, has probably never felt a need. She’s been solidly average since the moment she arrived – a bang-on average seven pounds, two ounces – at Lower Hutt hospital 19 months, two weeks and three days after her brother. Josie nods at the chairs on the end of the fourth row, despite the first three rows being bare. The end, because she wants to feel like she can make a quick getaway, even though she’s certain that the second proceedings begin, she’ll be as stuck and unmoving as the plastic beneath her. The fourth row, because she wants to keep her distance from the complainant and her entourage. Complainant. Josie is now familiar with terminology she never wished to know, is part of a world she never wanted to belong to. Olive takes the seat second from the end, placing her Canterbury University tote bag under her chair, using her foot to stop its contents, a large dusty-pink metal drink bottle and papers in plastic folders, from spilling out onto the floor. Josie sits next to her, on the very end, a metre or so from one of the white walls that will keep them trapped there, inside the courtroom. She holds her handbag on her lap – at the ready – and feels the chill of cold plastic through the thin floral dress she bought on sale at Jacqui E. After Reuben won that prize, for his “remarkable” essay on Huckleberry Finn, the best piece of writing produced by all Year 9 students at his school in 2015, Josie posted a photo of him on Facebook. Reuben holding the certificate in front of his chest, his mouth twisted into a pout, that silly pose favoured by Olive and her friends. His emerald eyes bright, twinkling almost, before he rolled his pupils back into his head. Before he tossed the certificate onto the sofa and said, “Enough Mum! Or I’ll charge you a modelling fee,” but teasingly, not out of anger. “He’s here,” Olive whispers, nodding to the right of the courtroom. Josie realises she hasn’t looked up since they stepped inside, has focused on the blood-orange carpet, on the rows of practical chairs. She lets her eyes follow Olive’s and feels her insides wringing themselves out. Behind a glass panel and flanked by two guards, both over six feet tall and almost just as wide, stands her first-born. Reuben William Andrews. Ruby. Ru-Ru. Head bowed. Shoulders slumped. Hair hacked close to his head. The navy suit she’d bought him from Barkers on Lambton Quay that same windy spring day next-door’s poplar tree fell and flattened the fence. How had he reached the age of twenty-three without ever owning a suit? How had she let him? And how tragic that the only reason he got one was to attempt to convince twelve random strangers that he was just as worthy of walking down the street, of going to the supermarket, of enjoying a Hurricanes’ game, as they were. Fat lot of good it did. “He looks less like a stick insect,” Olive says into Josie’s ear. “Must’ve finally eaten something.” As if he can feel them watching, Reuben lifts his head, but keeps his eyes down. Pink cheeks, like he’d just been slapped on both sides of his face. Has he been drinking? He’d assured Josie there was no alcohol or drugs in the remand prison. Promised he was attending AA meetings three times a week. The meetings were online. On Zoom. Josie liked the thought of him connecting with the outside world. It comforted her, made her feel warm with hope. Even so, she’d rather picture him seated in a circle of real-life people, getting real-life support. Knowing Ru-Ru, he’d be playing Grand Theft Auto on another tab. Josie feels her teeth chattering, loud and vigorously like cartoon-teeth. She remembers Olive saying during the trial that courtrooms were deliberately cold to keep the jury awake. Josie could see the logic in it, but it felt wrong somehow. Underhanded. Olive’s chair leg clangs into hers and she sees that Olive is squirming. Josie turns her head, lets her eyes crawl to the end of the row of chairs. To the source of Olive’s discomfort. She has arrived. The complainant. Josie is pretty sure she’s heard someone call her Abigail, but Josie doesn’t want to know her name. Prefers to stick with “the complainant”. “C” for short. C has shrunk over the past three months, since the trial. The C approaching the front row is more gaunt, ghostly, than the version in Josie’s nightmares (the nightmare version has a bigger mouth too, always open wide, yelling, accusing). Sunken cheeks shrink-wrapped in almost-translucent skin. Long, blue denim shirt dress with a wide brown belt. Knee-high brown boots, khaki Kate Spade handbag on her shoulder. Holding the hand of a different man, this one a red-head, with nervous, darting eyes. Probably wondering what he’s got himself into. Where’s the guy she was with at the trial? Josie isn’t judging though. She’ll never be in a position to judge. C and the young man attached to her are followed by several – six! – solemn-faced girls. Women really, early twenties. Long hair in various shades of blonde. Middle parts. Hushed voices. Floral fragrances. C’s friends, Josie supposes. Perhaps they all went to school together. Where are Reuben’s friends? His mates. As far as Josie knows, he hasn’t heard from any of them since the night the police dragged him out of his Aro Valley flat – hands round my neck! Not even that dreadful Michael aka Macca, and this is his fault. At least partly anyway. Josie would bet on it. Hobbling behind the blondes are a woman in pale blue and a gruff-looking man in a navy suit, both overweight, both with greying hair. C’s parents. Josie’s seen them before. She quickly turns her head, stares down at the handbag on her lap. There’s an unspoken hierarchy in this room and Josie knows her place. This is fine by her; she prefers to blend in. She’s here to support Reuben, to show him she’ll always love him, no matter what – though please God don’t let him test her any further – and if anyone asks, of course she won’t deny being his mother, but she isn’t going to put her arm up and say, I raised him! Because this isn’t her fault, is it? She relinquished her responsibility of Reuben the day he stuffed his clothes and Xbox into supermarket bags and moved into a mouldy flat in Aro Valley with Macca and co. She’d tried her best to dissuade him, to lure him home with her crunchy apple crumble, unlimited Wi-Fi, a chance to thrash her and Olive at Smash Karts. If anyone is to blame for how he turned out, it’s Raymond, his dad, who upped and left before Olive was fully weaned. Sure, that turned out to be the best thing Raymond ever did for them, but still. Try bringing up two kids and the world’s fussiest cat on a primary school teacher’s salary. It’s a different judge. This one’s much younger; too young, surely, to be given such power over Reuben’s life. Thick, black hair neatly cut, caramel skin, a rugby-player’s build. He looks kind, a weary smile lighting up his face as he introduces himself. Judge Rewi. Imagine how proud his mum must be! Her Facebook page must be full of photos of a grinning Rewi winning prizes at school and university. Josie feels herself smiling back at him, but then realises, der, who will benefit from his kindness. Speak of the devil. C stands, shuffles to the lectern in her brown boots, while the audience, if that’s the correct word to describe a group of people freezing to death in a courtroom, holds their breath. C adjusts the microphone, wrists thin as twigs, and speaks into it, facing the front of the courtroom. She addresses Judge Rewi – not slap-faced Reuben – her voice wobbling, tears bubbling over. Josie’s chest rises, falls, rises, falls. She wants to stand, walk in as dignified a way as possible out the door, along the corridor, down the stairs, out of the District Court to Brandon Street where Olive parked the Mazda – in a disabled park, because it was the only one available and when Olive refused to take it, Josie had tearfully pleaded, “Look how much I’m shaking! How am I abled?” – but she’s paralysed. She can’t even lift her hands to cover her ears. She squeezes her eyes closed, as if that’ll help block out C’s words: “... can’t dress myself without fear of ... keep all the curtains closed ... panic attack in Queensgate shopping centre ...” Josie’s hot now, so hot she’s melting. Her bones are coming loose, her tired leathery skin the only thing holding them in place. As C returns to her chair, hair curtaining her face, a piece of paper slips out of her hand and floats down to the carpet. C’s mother grunts as she leaves her chair to retrieve it. Seated again, she glances at the paper before scrunching it into a ball and stuffing it into her cream leather handbag. C is oblivious, sobbing into her boyfriend’s shirt, receiving caresses by various hands in different shades of nail polish. Next to Josie, Olive gnaws away at her already chipped nails. Sweet Olive. She’s taken the whole week off uni to be with her mum. Flew up from Christchurch on Sunday, knowing Josie would already be in panic-mode, would ring in sick on Monday and Tuesday, would be surviving on Merlot and seaweed crackers. Olive drove them into town this morning, knowing Josie would need to take her anti-anxiety meds and would be too shaky to drive anyway. Olive isn’t much younger than C. What does she really think of her brother? C’s lawyer is now speaking. Indian, black bob, red suit. Red means power and this woman’s got it in spades. Her voice is strong, calm, callous. She says Reuben hasn’t made any attempt to rehabilitate while on remand, participated in any of the programmes. Has been caught with alcohol on numerous occasions. Should Josie believe her? Isn’t this woman paid to guarantee he gets the longest possible sentence? How can Reuben not be trying to rehabilitate, doing everything he can to be freed? But his face is scarlet, mottled. Jesus Christ, maybe he really is hungover. Josie clenches her fists. How the hell could he have got his hands on booze? He hasn’t glanced at her or Olive once. Does he know they’re there? Does he even care? He does. He must. He’s not well. It’s not his fault he takes after his dad. That nature shat all over nurture. Reuben’s never even met Raymond. When the kids were in primary school and Josie rescued a tabby from the SPCA, Olive named him “Daddy” and, weirdly, that put an end to her and Reuben’s questions about their parentage. Daddy was as good a father as Olive and Reuben were ever going to get. He was also far better company than Raymond and a hell of a lot tidier. He stuck by them too, even after the Halloween Olive squeezed him into a pumpkin suit and carried him down Jackson Street in her school backpack. Josie reaches into her handbag and, quiet as a mouse, sifts through the keys, tissues, Snapper card, tiny hessian bag of worry dolls she never leaves home without, pens, and receipts, for the little plastic container, her security blanket. Grips onto it. What if she hadn’t given in to Raymond’s pleas that night? The night of Suzie’s wedding, of Josie’s first and only stint as bridesmaid, dressed like a raspberry in pink taffeta. Baby’s breath sprinkled in her hair, as if she were eight years old and making her First Holy Communion. If Josie hadn’t gotten pregnant, her relationship, if you can call it that, with Raymond would’ve ended the second he snibbed the lock to the garage door, trapping her inside with only a greasy towel for warmth. She’d never have tried to make a “go of it”, as her mother, blinded by Catholic beliefs, urged her to. To endure his alcohol-fuelled tirades. Rancid beer breath on her face. Bloodshot eyes, wet and fierce. And the next twenty-three years would’ve been a damn-sight easier. She might, today, more closely resemble other women her age, like Sarah and Debs, who she still occasionally meets for coffee at the library cafe, when they remember to invite her. Eyes free of bluey-grey shadows. Smooth skin. Glossy hair, cut and coloured every six weeks. A mind abuzz with uplifting thoughts, of kayaking in Wellington harbour and ticking off a few Great Walks, instead of ruminations about her decade-old decision to send Reuben to cubs instead of onto the rugby field. It was wrong – wasn’t it? – to wonder what life would be like if you’d never given birth to your child. But it’s not like Reuben would care. I hate this world and every fucken thing in it! She closes her eyes, squeezing out tears. It wouldn’t have been wrong to spare him this. All the pain. Being treated like a sub-human. A criminal, which she supposes he is, but still. Locked up. Told what to do. When to wash. Sleep. Eat. He’s always been a fussy eater. Pumpkin makes him gag. Reuben’s lawyer, up at last.Thomas Bowers. Not Reuben’s original defence lawyer. A ring-in. Mid-thirties maybe, well-mannered with a slight lisp. Definitely no match for Red Suit. Speak up, Thomas! Talk with confidence! But he continues his spiel in a dull, measured way. His moustache is a remnant from the 80s – Magnum PI comes to mind – and his too-tight suit suggests he’s enjoyed many long lunches. He’ll probably head straight to the pub from here: as far as Thomas Bowers is concerned, the sooner things are wrapped up, the better. Now he’s saying the defendant, meaning Reuben, has recently made a request for restorative justice. But why, if he’s not guilty, if it’d been “a set up”? I was totally off my face, but I swear, Mum, I never did anything to her. You know I’d never do anything like that. Apparently, a few of them had been at the Speights Ale House that night and they’d all gone on to C’s party in Woburn. Macca among them. But Reuben has lied to Josie before. She glances over at him, wishes he’d show his face, display some emotion. Remorse. Sorrow. Something! He’s not doing himself any favours. She unscrews the lid on the little plastic container, and still in the secrecy of her handbag, tips a pill into her hand. It’s so small and light she can barely feel it in her palm. He didn’t write that essay on Huckleberry Finn. Well, he handed it in, but it was the work of his mate Scott’s brother, a third-year English Lit student. She only found out years later, when Reuben and Scott came to blows. Scott rocked up to their front door one night, bottle of beer in hand, saying he was there to collect some cash Reuben owed him. Reuben refused to come out, saying Scott was full of shit, so Josie asked Scott to go home. Scott was incensed, lifting his arm as if to hurl his bottle onto the doorstep. As Josie quickly closed the door, he yelled at her. “You believe ’im, do you? He’s a liar and a cheat. Probably robbed you too. How else did he pay my brother for that bullshit assignment?” When Josie confronted Reuben about it, he threw the blame back at her. “I did it for you, Mum! I just wanted you to be proud of me.” She stared at her 17-year-old son.Crouching in the corner of his bedroom in black tracksuit pants and navy Nike hoody, tears streaking his cheeks, dirty fingers clutching a shiny silver pipe. Her words were big ugly lumps in her throat, which was a good thing because how can you scream at your son when he’s lying, broken, on his bedroom floor? Instead, she turned and walked out, taking care not to slam the door. Josie covers her mouth with her hand, swallows hard. The pill leaves an acidic taste on her tongue. Thomas Bowers takes his seat and looks down at the papers on the bench before him. As Judge Rewi sums up, Josie lets his words – delivered in an assured, private school boy voice – float over her: “Abandoned by his father ... drug and alcohol addiction ... time already spent on remand ... weekly counselling sessions ... request for restorative justice ... Seven years adjusted to four years and nine months.” Four years and nine months. C lets out a sound that Josie can’t tell is relief or disappointment, and her boyfriend slings an arm around her. Her supporters turn to each other, eyes bulging as if they themselves had just been sentenced to four years and nine months in prison. C’s mother rests her head on C’s father’s shoulder. Olive rubs her hands along her thighs, ironing the creases out of her skirt. Four years and nine months. Josie tries to picture Reuben at twenty-eight. Will he still have his thick, dark curls? She’d heard through the grapevine that Raymond was “bald as a baby” by thirty. “...fucking joke!” one of C’s supporters is saying to another. “I thought he’d get at least twenty,” the other says. “The man’s a menace.” Josie winces at the word “menace”, wants to stand up, wave her finger at the ignorant girl and say, you listen here. That “man” is actually a person – my son! – who just got mixed up with a bad bunch. But does she really still believe that? Aren’t Scott and the rest of the bad bunch doing well for themselves now? Even Macca? Olive heard that he’s doing some kind of apprenticeship and is living with his real estate agent girlfriend in an apartment on Oriental Parade. Perhaps Josie should just ask these young, naive girls to please spare a thought for “the man’s” mother and sister, who never imagined themselves sitting here in this courtroom. But she doesn’t want the attention, doesn’t want their angry eyes boring into her. Josie feels her hand being squeezed, realises Olive has grabbed hold of it. She tries to smile at her daughter, but Olive is now bending over, reaching for her tote. She sneaks a last glimpse of Reuben, standing behind the glass that separates him, the bad, from everyone else, the good. He looks up, just for a second meeting her eyes. Ru-Ru. Please! You’re the only one who can save yourself. Buthis gaze slips away, his head lowers once more. “Let’s go home,” she says. Olive nods but then neither of them move. They sit waiting, eyes on their knees, until everyone – Reuben and Reuben’s guards, C and C’s supporters, as well as those who were paid to be there and who are probably looking forward to a well-earned lunch – have drifted out. Until the courtroom is silent and empty, and it’s just Josie and Olive and the rows of practical chairs. Asked what was on her mind when she wrote her courtroom story, the author replied, “It draws on my experience as both a witness and a support person for a victim of a violent crime. Most of us feel empathy for victims and their families, but we rarely consider what it’s like for the defendant’s family. I wanted to explore a sentencing from the perspective of the defendant’s mother – a woman forced to reconcile her love for her child with the reality of his crime. How do you support someone you love – someone you’ve raised – when they are accused of, and ultimately convicted of, something horrific?”