The Cry Read Online Free PDF Page A

kids, and both doctors.
    Judge, opposing lawyer: good mothers, both of them.
    ‘They were doing it in my mum and dad’s bed. I found out later she’d been after him for nine months.’
    The courtroom artist was going for it now. A new reaction. A new page. Pencilling, rubbing, blowing, brushing the paper with her hand, pencilling again, eyes at Joanna, eyes at sketchpad. What was she seeing? The earth mother artist narrowed her eyes as she examined Joanna’s face, answering her question: A murdering slut, that’s what.
    Joanna’s nose was itchy and she’d been told she couldn’t scratch it, not now. She couldn’t scratch it and she couldn’t fidget and she couldn’t – For God’s sake, never! – smile. She hadn’t felt like smiling much since , but the daily coaching sessions Alistair had given her – about fidgeting and smiling and many other things – had firmly rooted that last idea in her head. Don’t smile, don’t smile , remember Foxy Knoxy, remember Lindy . She chanted it to herself, forgetting the original problem, which was a nose itch. Why on earth would she smile? Don’t, just don’t.
    In the end, the urge to scratch subsided. She turned to the screen and focused: look sane, look responsible.
    Chloe’s eyes were right on hers. ‘My mum’s a good mum,’ Chloe said. ‘She and Dad were happy before her.’

6
    JOANNA
    15 February
    Joanna turned to check on the baby. He was sound asleep, his face snuggled sideways into the blanket.
    ‘He’s going to be a lady-killer,’ she said to Alistair, smiling. How she loved Noah when he slept.
    ‘He’s going to be prime minister,’ Alistair said.
    ‘Of Scotland!’
    ‘Wash your mouth out!’ Alistair scolded.
    Alistair was a staunch Labour supporter. With a politics degree and MBA from Melbourne University, and a fierce determination to succeed, he had climbed from being a lowly council PR officer to political advisor to the Labour Party candidate of Victoria. He did such a good job that the British Labour Party poached him. As Alistair’s father was Scottish, he was granted citizenship in the UK. He worked in London for two years until he was seconded to Scotland, where the Party was in need of a PR miracle. He was powerful and well respected, and – as reported in James Moyer’s blog – was indeed being primed for a safe seat in the next election.
    Joanna was socialist and pro independence. She voted for the Scottish National Party. From day one, they had enjoyed jibing at each other’s political views.
    They’d met on polling day. Joanna’s school had been overtaken for voting. Alistair was supporting the local Labour candidate at the entrance and offered her an election leaflet as she walked in.
    ‘No thanks, I’m not conservative.’
    ‘Neither are we!’ he said, watching her go inside. She had running gear on. She had good legs and an excellent bum. She knew he would notice.
    ‘I can prove it to you,’ Alistair said as she came out again.
    ‘Prove what?’
    ‘That we’re nothing like the Tories.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Over dinner.’
    He didn’t tell her he was married until four weeks later.
    *
    The road to Geelong was famously dull. The only landmarks were the crosses at the side of the road, where people had died trying to get the journey over as quickly as possible.
    A thick cloud of black smoke was visible ahead.
    ‘Shit,’ Alistair said. ‘I thought it was up north, around Kilmore.’
    He turned the radio on. The first channel was classical music. He pressed another button. A flat female voice was saying: ‘If you live in Anglesea and Lorne and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late . . . If you live in Torquay and you are seeing flames, do not attempt to leave your house. It is too late. If you live in . . .’
    ‘Bloody hell,’ Alistair said.
    ‘What does it mean, too late? That you’ll just die?’
    ‘Probably means you’ll have a better chance of protecting yourself