Crisis of Identity

‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I…?’ Mitch said as he approached.

With a roll of my eyes I said, ’now you turn up…’ I leaned my hands on the bar. I could’ve done with Mitch’s 105 kilo, 6-5 frame around a little earlier. Maybe none of this would’ve happened.

The barman lifted his chin to me. ‘You OK, bro…?’ he asked.

I nodded my confirmation. ‘Yeah. All good thanks, mate,’ I said. ‘Can we have two shots of Jack and two schooners of the good stuff, thanks,’ I said flicking a finger at the beer tap.

Mitch jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘What was all that about?’ He said. ‘I only caught the end of it.’

‘That…’ I said glancing at old mate and his friend disappearing out the exit doors. ‘Was courtesy of fucken Brent Dawes…’ Mitch frowned his confusion.

‘The one at the back there,’ I said lifting my chin to the exit. ‘Recognized me from the newspaper article. He called me “kidnap kid” and demanded I buy him a beer… When I refused, it escalated.’

’Arse ‘ole.’ Mitch shook his head in annoyance.

I watched the barman pour the shots. ‘The piece of shit knocked my schooner out of my hand…’ I jabbed a thumb towards the floor where it earlier landed. ‘Landed right over there...Worse part was…it was half full…’ The bar man set up the schooners. ‘Cheers, mate,’ I said to the barman. I handed Mitch his shot.

‘Made a mess of his face, bro. What did you do…Open the proverbial can of whoop arse on him, or something…?’

‘Cheers,’ I said then drained the shot of Jack. ‘Nah. Liverpool kiss…’ I said, chasing it with a swig of beer.

Mitch’s face distorted. ‘Ouch…’ he said, then drained his shot and chased it.

The barman hung around after setting our drinks. ‘Do you know those blokes…?’ the bar man said, draping a tea towel over his shoulder and leaning in his hands.

‘Never seen them before in my life.’

He shook his head as he glanced towards the door. ‘Nah, neither have I.’ The barman shifted his focus to Mitch. ‘Ya shoulda seen this guy…’ He jabbed a thumb at me.

‘These two idiots started hassling him…knocked his beer out of hand and everything…then wham,’ he said clapping his hands together for emphasis.

‘One of the best head butts I’ve seen and I’ve seen many in my time, I tell you.’

‘So I hear…’ Mitch said.

‘I wasn’t looking for any trouble, mate,’ I reassured.

‘I could see that,’ the barman said. ‘You took more than I would, before reacting. But they were looking for trouble and they found it, in spades. Well done, bro… Well done,’ he said, then tapped the bar twice before moving over to serve another patron.

‘I gotta tell you, bro… It’s all Dawes. None of this shit would happen if I’d never met him…’

‘I hear you, mate,’ Mitch said. ‘How’s the nerves, after those flogs…?’

Holding out a steady hand, I said, ‘all’s good, mate. I never let them get to me. And let’s face it… they weren’t the most intimidating, were they?’

‘Regardless, ya never know, bro… These dickheads who can’t fight usually carry knives and shit, so you have to watch out.’

‘It’s all good, mate. I was watching out for that. Hey…Have a look at this,’ I said lifting my phone and opening a text message. I handed Mitch my phone. ‘That’s from Sarah in Queensland…’ I said as Mitch read the text.

’So that article from the West Australian was on the news in Queensland quoting that you are the missing boy from twenty-five years ago…’ Mitch shook his head as handed back my phone. ‘Unbelievable. They’ll gobble that shit up. That missing kid case is legendary over there.’

‘Tell me about it. Anyway,’ I said lifting my chin to the TV screens. ‘Ready to get your bet on…?’

‘Let’s do it…’ Mitch said, ‘I’m feeling lucky…’

Neither mum nor I was in the mood for conversation during the drive out to Osborne Park, a suburb north-west of Perth.

This is what Dawes has reduced us to. Normally, we would openly chat about anything and everything. But when you add Dawes into the mix, all the life gets sucked out of the room. All I feel is the tension shared by both of us.

After parking mum’s car in the visitors’ car park, we met up with Miles waiting for us in the foyer of the West Australian newspaper. The Managing Editor of the paper requested this meeting after Miles served the newspaper with defamation papers.

We didn’t have to wait long before we were escorted to a large conference room on the ground floor, at the front of the building. As we approached the room, floor to ceiling windows revealed two people— a male and a female— seated at an oversized timber table, facing the open door we were heading towards.

The male, presumably the Managing Editor, stood and welcomed us as we entered. With his short stature, portly stomach, round silver framed glasses and advanced male pattern baldness, he was a dead ringer for George Costanza from the Seinfeld sitcom. He greeted us with handshakes and introductions.

‘Welcome. I’m Gary Dent. I’m the Managing Editor here at the West Australian.’ He gestured to the female seated to his right. ‘This is Christine Gould, one of our journalists.’

With shoulder length, light-brown hair, tanned complexion disappearing into a white collared shirt and piercing green eyes, the journalist was my age. She had a bright Hollywood smile.

Under any other circumstances I would have been suitably impressed at such a fit looking woman. But she paled into insignificance when I heard her name. In my mind she was the wicked witch of the west, and just as ugly.

My eyes narrowed at her. ’So, you’re the one who wrote that article…’ I said with a deliberate glare. ‘Finally… A face to the name of the fiction writer from this newspaper.’ I held my glare of disapproval.

Her confident smile wiped from her face. Her eyes lifted to her boss, standing beside her.

‘Please…’ Gary said. He gestured to our seats. ‘That is why we asked you to come here today.’

Mum and I exchanged glances as we took our seats opposite our hosts. Gary took his seat. He clasped his hands together in front of himself as he proceeded to explain why he requested this meeting. All I heard was the rantings of someone in damage control.

Miles articulated our position and why we believe our reputations have been damaged by the libellous article that contained baseless accusations about my parents and me.

He chaired the meeting like he was conducting a witness deposition as he directed his line of questions to the journalist.

‘It is apparent from your article that you had a conversation with a Queensland Detective by the name of Brent Dawes…’ Miles said, addressing the journalist. ‘Did he contact you, or you, him?’

‘He contacted me.’

‘Why was that…?’

She adjusted herself in her seat. ‘He said he had some news about a twenty-five year old missing person case from Queensland that he thought I would be interested in,’ she said in a voice lacking confidence.

‘Just so we are completely clear… The twenty-five year old missing person case you refer to was Jayden Evans, a three year old boy who went missing from his Robina home on 8th of May 1994… Is that correct?’

‘Correct.’

’Why did he think you would be interested in a cold case from Queensland…?’

’Because he said the missing boy now lives in Perth with the family who kidnapped him twenty-five plus years ago…

’He showed me a photo of the missing boy aged three and a police digital image prediction of what they estimated the boy could look like today.

‘He then showed me a recent photo of….’ Her focus shifted to me. She lifted her chin in my direction. ‘Of Mr Miller…’

‘And you thought that because of my client’s similarity in appearance to a digitally produced image of what the police “estimated” young Jayden would look like today, Mr Dawes must be telling the truth…’

‘The digital image and photo certainly gained my attention. Plus Mr Dawes was very passionate…very convincing…’

‘And very psychotic…’ I interjected.

Miles placed a silencing hand on my forearm, then he continued.

‘Convincing…? I hope your newspaper relies on more than “convincing” before you choose to publish such damaging articles…’ Miles didn’t wait for a response.

‘Tell me this… Did you conduct any research, or any other due diligence inquiries into this case, after your meeting with Dawes and before you ran your article, to verify the information provided to you by Mr Dawes…?’

‘I did…’ her nervous eyes glanced at her boss. ‘Mr Dawes showed me a number of records from his investigation. I also conducted my own inquiries into the case.’

‘What research did you undertake?’

‘I don’t think we need to treat this like an interrogation, Mr Davis,’ The Managing Editor appealed.

Miles shifted his firm focus to the interjector. ‘You asked for this meeting, Mr Dent, presumably to explain the newspaper’s position as to why you ran such a libellous article about my clients…’

‘That is correct, but I—’

‘Well, I am trying to find out what information you were provided by Mr Dawes and what due diligence inquiries, if any, the newspaper made as a result, before you decided to run your article full of untruths.’ Miles held his firm glare on Mr Dent. ‘May I continue?’

‘You may. But if possible, let’s make the questioning less like an interrogation.’

‘I won’t be apologizing for my directness, Mr Dent. You may be interested to learn that it was because of your newspaper article, the same one containing the false information about my clients’ family, Mr Miller here was accosted last Saturday in a Perth hotel. His attacker called him “Kidnap Kid”.

’Where do you think that derogatory name came from…?’ Miles asked rhetorically.

The Editor’s shoulders slumped slightly as he his eyes flicked to me.