Double Exposure by Brian Caswell Page A

knowing innocence, her halo a gentle, almost invisible shimmering of gold.
    I try to speak, but the words won’t come.
    â€˜Chris,’ I begin, ‘I’m …’
    But I guess I don’t need to say anything. He flashes a relieved smile and turns towards the dividing curtain.
    â€˜Want a cup of coffee?’
    I nod, but he’s already gone. I look back towards the end of the room. From the photograph the girl’s eyes stare back at me, simultaneously seductive and accusing. From the painting, they hint forgiveness.
    And yet the faces are the same …

Ten
The prodigal
    T.J.’s story
    I can’t say I ever believed in fate. My friend Thi does, though I doubt she would admit it in public. Thi was born here, and when she speaks she sounds about as Vietnamese as I do, but when it comes to the traditional customs of her family … Well, I guess she’s as susceptible as any of us.
    Her grandmother is to blame, of course. The old woman’s life is ruled by the orders of the feng shui master, as she attempts to control her luck and cheat the destiny that another part of her -the one that spends all those hours at the temple – knows is essentially uncontrollable.
    â€˜In the end, you can’t cheat fate,’ Thi told me once, when I was having a particularly tough week, with Ty sick and my Design assignment way past due.
    I’d been using her as a wailing wall in the break between classes, expecting at least the pretence of sympathy, but all she could manage was, ‘Everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t see it that way at the time. It’s fate. Karma. And in the end, you can’t cheat fate. Your path was decided for you before you were born and you have to walk it in order to work out why it was the path chosen for you. Whatever you learn in the process is what you were ultimately meant to learn. It’s all part of the journey.’
    So much for sympathy.
    I would have settled for a sincere, ‘Life sucks!’ or even a semi-sincere, ‘Shit happens, girlfriend …’
    Anyway, the point is, there are times when you have to wonder whether it’s fate throwing a curve – or just an incredible coincidence …
    *
    Midday.
    The stroller is top-heavy from the bag of groceries perched on the hood and she pulls it up onto the kerb backwards, supporting the weight on her right thigh, trying not to jolt the boy awake.
    Before she can turn the pram around, she feels the hand on her shoulder and hears the whisper that freezes her blood.
    â€˜Hello, T.J. Long time no see.’
    She swings around, throwing off the hand and placing her body between him and the sleeping child, but his fist is already in motion. It connects and her head snaps sideways with the impact. The world swims, then the pain washes over her like a wave and her knees buckle.
    He pushes past her, but her fingers are like rubber, sliding off his jacket as he shrugs her aside and steps towards the child.
    â€˜Noo! You bastard …’
    A lunge and she has hold of his leg, but another blow, this time with the back of his hand, sends her sprawling to the pavement. Her elbow strikes the concrete and somewhere beneath the horror she feels the sharper pain of torn skin.
    â€˜Ian, please …’
    But the plea is ignored. The groceries have fallen from the stroller and they lie scattered across the footpath. An egg lies smashed in front of her, bleeding yolk into the gutter.
    She tries again to speak, but the words stick in her throat. Ian stares down into the stroller, the look in his eyes impossible to read.
    â€˜Hey, dickweed!’
    The voice forces him to swing around and she follows the direction of his gaze.
    Cain is standing a few metres away, legs spread, arms held loosely at his sides. His face is relaxed, but something behind those chameleon eyes has gone ice-hard and he doesn’t blink.
    â€˜I’ll make a deal with you,’ he continues,