Chapter 13

i.

Kyle stared around the interview room, fidgeting in the chair, and wondering how long he was going to have to sit here on his own before someone explained to him what was going on. He knew that they liked to let the suspect sweat before they came to interview them, but surely this was different? This time he was the victim. This time he hadn't done anything wrong!

He didn't understand why he was being treated like this.

Kat had told him that a detective from Melbourne was flying in to interview him, and that he'd have to sit here and wait until he got here (however long that took). She'd been acting very strangely, avoiding eye contact with him, and flat out refusing to explain what was going on.

He'd heard Heath and Tamara yelling outside, so he knew that they'd followed him down here, but they hadn't been allowed to come in. Of course, he'd been questioned by the police many times before, (what Braxton hadn't?!) so he was no stranger to a police interview room… but this was different. This time they wanted him to talk about something deeply private. Something that he didn't want to… couldn't… talk about. Something too painful. Something that really hurt.

As sooky as it might be, he desperately wanted Tamara to come in and hold his hand.

The more he thought about the questions that they were going to ask him, the more he began to panic. He could feel his whole body shaking as he sat there on the plastic chair and leaned on the table.

'Get it together, Kyle!' he told himself, as he jittered his knee up and down, 'You're a Braxton! This is nothing fuckin' new!'

But it was new. This was about what had happened 'before'. He didn't talk about 'before'. That had always been off-limits.

He didn't understand why he was being treated like a suspect either, and how they thought that they just could force him to talk. Didn't victims have rights?!

There was a two-way mirror on one of the walls, and he hated the thought that people could be out there now, just watching squirm. It was making him feel even more anxious than he already was. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the table, unable to even look himself in the eye. Not when he was going to have to talk about this! Not this!

He didn't want to talk about it with anyone. He didn't want to have to say those words out loud to total strangers. Or worse still, to have Kat know those things about him.

The thought of it was making him feel sick.

He got up and began to pace the room in the hope that moving might help to ease the rising wave of nausea in his stomach. He could feel the panic taking hold now as every inch of his body told him to get out and start running. The adrenalin was coursing through his bloodstream and he could feel his heart thumping.

He spun around when Kat opened the door. She was carrying a can of Coke and a packet of potato chips for him. She gave him a sympathetic little head tilt because she could see how nervous he was.

"Can you sit down, please, Kyle?" she said to him, setting the drink and chips on the table for him.

"Kat, can you just tell me what's going on?!" he asked a little breathlessly. He had his fists clenched at his sides and was noticeably shaking. "I mean…" he continued, "What is it you think I've done? Do I need a lawyer or something?"

Kat shook her head and said, "You're not under arrest Kyle… They just need your help with some enquiries…"

"If I'm not under arrest then I can just leave, can't I?" said Kyle.

He was fairly well-versed at this stage in the rules that the police had to follow. He started to move towards the door. The need to get out of this room right now was overwhelming.

"Sit down, Kyle!" said Kat, catching his wrist and pulling him back into his seat by force. "You need to stay until you've been interviewed… Trust me, it'll be better if you co-operate."

"Co-operate?!" he said, looking up at her in confusion, "I don't... I don't understand what's going on?!"

Suddenly the door opened and a middle-aged man with grey hair and a crumpled suit walked in. He sat down, and without even a pause, he pressed record on the tape recorder beside him.

"Kyle Braxton interview commencing 23:55 at Yabbie Creek Police Station, with Detective Wainwright and Constable Chapman."

He leaned back in his chair and nodded at the chair beside him for Kat to sit down. As she took her place, the man continued to look Kyle up and down with what almost looked like a smirk.

"Could you please state your name for the recording?" he asked, eyes locked with Kyle's in a challenging sort of way, "And your date of birth?"

Kyle couldn't help frowning a little. There was something about the way this man was looking at him that put him on edge. There was nothing kind about his gaze.

"K-Kyle Braxton" he stammered, wiping his sweaty hands on the legs of his jeans, "12th... 12th December 1990"

There was something odd about the way that Wainwright looked at him then, his mouth curling up at one side. He really didn't like this man.

"Kyle, I'm Detective Wainwright" he said, staring at him again for an uncomfortable length of time before continuing. It was like he was sizing him up or actively trying to unnerve him.

"Now, I have to say…" he smiled, when he finally continued speaking, "When Constable Chapman here told me about you, I didn't even know that you existed. But some things have come to light now, and I can't lie, I'm very interested to meet you"

He gave him another little smile, and set a thick brown folder down on the table.

"Very interested indeed!" he said.

Kyle gave him a quizzical look and wondered at his tone. He didn't sound like he was in any way sympathetic to his plight and seemed to be viewing him with suspicion and a look of distaste. His mind raced, as he wondered what he could possibly have done to warrant this kind of treatment. Surely, he wasn't in trouble for the things that had happened in that house?! He'd only been a child. He hadn't had a choice!

"W-What?" he stammered, unsure of what to say. "…What… What d-do you want from me?"

"An explanation would be a good start!" said Wainwright.

"An explanation?" repeated Kyle. He really didn't understand this.

Wainwright smirked again as he opened the file and pulled a large brown envelope out. He delved inside and pulled out a stack of photos, before sliding one of them across the table to Kyle. It was a magnified image showing a serial number imprinted into some kind of metal object.

He looked at it in confusion, without the faintest understanding of what the object was, and then looked back up at Detective Wainwright.

"I don't… I don't know what this is" he said, shaking his head. "What's this got to do with me?"

"Nothing" said Wainwright, shaking his head and chuckling in a way that seemed threatening to Kyle. "That's exactly the point!"

ii.

13 years ago…

The man dragged Kyle by the arm up the steep steps, digging his fingernails into his flesh, and pulling at him roughly as they went. Kyle looked up, feeling dizzy and disoriented, at the wide open space around him. They were outside an old house that he'd never seen before. It was a wooden house, with green peeling paint and dirty sash windows, but it looked like it might have been beautiful once, when someone had cared for it.

The man knocked on the door and waited. Kyle stood shaking beside him on the porch, terrified at the prospect of what lay beyond this door, but maybe just as frightened of the vastness of the world out here.

He couldn't understand what had just happened and no-one seemed to want to take the time to explain it to him. Not that that surprised him. No-one had ever taken his feelings into account before. No-one had ever explained anything to him, or given him any kind of say in what happened to him. Why should this be any different?!

They'd taken him away from his 'home'! Just ripped him away!

He'd been inside that car, with two men and a woman, for what felt like a very long time. Long enough for him to vomit three times! They hadn't spoken to him very much, other than issuing orders, and dragging him about the place. They'd stopped outside a different building and pulled him inside with them. All he knew was that it had very bright lights and a number of those 'computer' things that Jessica and Simon liked to use so much.

He'd been made to sit in a seat while they typed up documents and printed them out. The woman took photos of him and printed those too.

"I got that medical report" said the woman, looking up at the man who'd taken him from the house, 'Dr Phillips… He's always a good bet… Clean bill of health."

He watched as she then slipped some pink sheets of paper inside the folder.

"Good" said the man , "Should stop that woman dragging him off to see a doctor."

The man walked over to him and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back to make him look up at him.

"I wouldn't go crying about any of your 'boo boos'" he growled at him, "There's nothing wrong with you, boy! …Whinging's just gonna make people angry… No-one likes a moany little shit! …So, you make sure that no-one sees your bruises… You just keep that mouth of yours shut, or you know what'll happen!" He yanked his head back again and shook him roughly. "You hear me?!"

He nodded quickly. These were rules that he understood.

He didn't know how long he'd been made to sit there, but once they'd got the brown folder full of paper and photos, they dragged him back onto his feet and shoved him back in the car.

He'd felt like his head was spinning!

Now, here he was, standing outside another door, wondering what waited on the other side.

Nothing good, he supposed...

He looked at the cracked white paint on the door in front of him and wondered if this is where all the other kids had gone when they'd disappeared from the house. One day you were there, and the next day you weren't!

(Simon liked to scare the kids that were left behind, with horror stories, and threats of violence. He'd tell them their friends had been ground up as hamburger meat or fed to the dogs. That they were dead and that they were never coming back. That that was what happened to kids who were bad. That's what happened when you didn't do as you were told!)

Problem was, he didn't know what he'd done wrong?!

The door suddenly opened, and a man in a filthy white singlet and boxer shorts pushed the screen door open, and leaned against the door-frame. He had a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah?" he asked, glancing down at Kyle with interest.

"Is Jackie Braxton here?" asked the man, gripping the boy's shoulder a little too roughly and hurting him. "This is her nephew."

The dishevelled looking man turned and yelled, "Jackie, the kid's here!" before walking away and letting the screen door bang shut.

A rough looking woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, walked towards the door wiping wet soapy hands on her tracksuit bottoms. She pushed open the screen again and looked down at the boy standing in front of her.

"This is him, is it?" she said, in a hoarse smoker's voice.

She put her hand out and lifted his chin but he continued to stare at the floor. She looked back at the man standing beside him.

"What's wrong with him?!" she asked, with a look of disdain, "Is he simple or something?!"

"No, he's just a bit quiet" said the man, giving him a shove through the doorway.

Jackie took hold of his elbow and led him through to the living-room and over to the couch. She pushed on his shoulders to make him sit. He couldn't help wincing a little as he sat down but they didn't seem to notice.

Jackie stood looking at him with her hands on her hips.

"So, you're Kyle!?" she asked, "Danny's little boy!?"

She tilted her head at him, and looked him up and down, eyes narrowed in a suspicious sort of way. Then she turned to look at the man that had brought him here.

"He doesn't look like Danny…" she said, a little accusingly, "…Or anyone else in our family…?"

The man shrugged and nodded a little.

"Must look like his mother then?" he said, handing her the brown folder. "This is his case file, there's a photo of the mother in there."

Jackie took it from him, glancing at it a little scathingly, before throwing it on top of the coffee table unopened. It landed among the empty beer cans and used ash trays.

"Piece of trash, that Bennett girl…" she growled, "Smackhead, from what I heard! Men coming and going at all hours... Who's to say he's even Danny's?!"

She caught herself, and looked down a little guiltily at the boy cowering on the sofa.

"Although…" she said, making her voice a little softer, "I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, I suppose..."

She nodded her head towards the couch to tell the man to sit down. He moved a cigarette lighter and pack of cigarette papers from the cushion beside Kyle and threw them on the table. Then he sat down and put his hand on the top of the boy's head, ruffling his hair, and giving Jackie a big smile.

"Kyle's a good boy" he said, "Very quiet, but I don't think he'll give you any trouble." He looked at Kyle and gave him a smile, "Now, you'll be good for your Auntie Jackie, won't you Kyle?"

Jackie asked if the man wanted a cup of tea and turned to go and make it before he even got a chance to answer. He put his hand on Kyle's knee and gave it a cruel squeeze, digging his fingers into the flesh until the boy made a little squeak, his eyes wide with fear.

"Now, you remember what Simon said!" sneered the man, as he stuck his tongue out at him with a wink. "I'll be keeping a close eye on you!"

Jackie came back with a tray with three cups of tea, and set them on the messy coffee table in front of them. The cups looked chipped and a bit grimy. The man eyed his cup with distaste.

"You know what?" he said, "I'm actually late for another appointment, so I'll have to skip the tea… Thank you though." He got up to leave, and smiled at Kyle. "But remember, Kyle, I'll be back to check that you're behaving yourself!" he warned, "You remember what I said to you."

After he'd gone, Jackie flopped down on the couch beside Kyle and tried to make eye contact with him, but he wouldn't look at her.

"How do you take your tea?" she asked, reaching forward to pick his mug up off the table. There was a bag of sugar with a sugar-encrusted spoon stuck in the top. "Do you take sugar?" she asked.

He just stared at the floor.

Suddenly, the dirty looking man reappeared in the doorway and leaned against the door-frame, cigarette in one hand, mug of tea in the other.

Kyle stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. There was a noticeable wet patch on his boxers. He'd just been to the toilet, but Kyle interpreted it as something else entirely. He was scared, and disgusted, but resigned at the same time. There was no point in fighting. The man was nearly twice his size. He obviously wouldn't win

'Maybe Simon and Jessica sold me?' he thought to himself, 'That would make sense...' Simon had threatened him often enough.

He returned his attention to the floor and sat waiting for the inevitable 'invitation' to come back to one of the bedrooms. The thought of it made his skin itch and bile rise up in his throat.

"Come on, Kyle!" said Jackie, waving the mug of tea under his nose, "Aren't you gonna talk to your Auntie Jackie?!"

Kyle didn't answer. He didn't even look at her.

"Looks like you've got yourself a real retard!" chuckled the scruffy man, "Fat lotta use he's gonna be around here... Can't even talk!"

"Shut up, you!" she scowled at him, before turning back to the boy on the sofa. "You can talk, can't you, Kyle?" she said with a little wink, "Or has the cat got your tongue?"

His eyes widened in fear at that. They obviously knew about Simon's threats... and they were testing him!

He clenched his teeth, and clamped his lips together tight. They weren't going to get his tongue without a struggle! He was never going to talk again. Not ever!

He didn't doubt for a second that Simon would cut his tongue out, but he didn't know what this woman was capable of. He didn't know who she was, or what connection she had to Simon, but she'd just threatened him! In no uncertain terms. That much, he understood.

She'd called herself 'Auntie', but words like that had lost all meaning to him. He'd had lots of 'Aunties' in the past, and more 'Uncles' than he could count. Those names had always been used to hurt him... and this woman was obviously no different.

He also couldn't figure out why they kept calling him that name. He didn't remember ever having a name before. He'd been 'Boy' and 'Kid', and sometimes 'Baby', said in a way that made his skin crawl. There was even one man who liked to call him all sorts of disgusting names... but he didn't think that he'd ever really had a name. Nothing like 'Kyle' anyway...

It didn't matter though. He didn't really care what he was called, as long as they weren't going to hurt him (too much), and he figured that the only way he could protect himself was to keep his mouth shut.

iii.

Wainwright took a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped it repetitively on the table. "I tell you what, Kyle" he said, "Why don't I tell you what I know about Kyle Bennett, A.K.A. 'Braxton'?"

He opened the file in front of him again and cleared his throat a little theatrically.

"Let's see now… Kyle Bennett was born on 12th December 1990 to a woman called Sarah Bennett. Single mother, bit of a substance abuse problem, lots of men coming and going within the home. Links to a local pimp who often hung around the house too… Father, Danny Braxton, career criminal. In and out of prison so many times you'd lose count…"

Kyle, of course, knew all of this, and wondered where the Detective was going with it. He didn't like the man already, and he glanced at Kat hoping that she might be able to help him out here. She just stared at him passively and then looked away unable to maintain eye contact. He really couldn't understand why this was being conducted like an interrogation rather than an interview with a victim.

"Here's where it gets very interesting, Kyle…" he continued, "You don't mind me calling you 'Kyle', do you?"

Kyle just shrugged.

The detective pulled out some A4 pieces of paper and what looked like a photocopy of an x-ray.

"See, Kyle Bennett…" he said, enunciating the two names slowly for emphasis, "Well, he had a very nasty accident when he was five years old… A broken arm when he 'fell down the stairs'…"

He did the inverted commas sign with two fingers on each hand. It obviously hadn't been an accident.

"Strangely enough" he continued, "That little 'accident' coincided with one of his father's stints in the outside world… Very nasty injury…"

He slid the photocopy of the x-ray across the table to Kyle and nodded at it. It showed a forearm with what almost looked like scaffolding to hold the bones together. A long plate with screws to hold it in place.

"Little Kyle had to go to hospital and have the bones reset." he said, nodding at the piece of paper now on the table, "He had a surgical procedure done… 6 internal fixation screws were inserted… and a metal plate to hold the bones together… Just like the one in that photo I gave you".

Kyle looked at it, furrowing his eyebrows, as he felt down the bones in each arm. He knew that he'd had a broken arm before, when he was little (maybe even more than once?) but he didn't remember having metal put in there. Or being taken to the hospital for that matter… But then maybe he just didn't remember?! He half expected to feel the screws inside there, as though he might just never have noticed them. He looked back up at the Detective.

"But I… I don't think…" he stammered, "I mean… I…"

"The interesting thing about any medical implant…" said Wainwright, cutting him off. "…is that any little bit of metal the surgeons put in you… well, they all have a tiny, barely visible, serial number on them… It means that we can trace the part to the patient"

Sliding the two A4 pages across the table, and raising his eyebrows at Kyle, he said, "So, I suppose the real question is this. Why did we find those surgical fixation screws, registered to 'Kyle Bennett', in the bones of a murdered child found at the house in Melbourne?"

Kyle stared at the pages in front of him, seeing his own name entered on the documents. A coroner's report detailing the circumstances of his death at the age of 13. The death certificate had his name printed on it, clear as day: 'KYLE BENNETT', 'Date of Death: March 2004', 'Cause of death: Homicide'.

His world felt like it was tilting on its axis. He felt like he was suffocating, like his whole respiratory system had simply stalled.

"B-but… this… this doesn't…" he began to stammer out.

His heartbeat was thudding in his ears as a whirlwind of long-suppressed memories swirled around his mind. He was trying desperately to join the dots.

"Kyle Bennett is dead…" stated Wainwright, sliding a final piece of paper across the desk. It was a photo of the skeletal remains of a young boy. "He died 13 years ago" he added, "Murdered."

Kyle gasped and looked away. He didn't want to look at it! It was a horribly confronting sight.

"Those are his remains" continued Wainwright, "And those remains are currently sitting on a table at the City Morgue in Melbourne."

The metal plate secured by 6 little screws could clearly be seen in the bones of the forearm.

"That is a photo of the metal implants" said Wainwright, jabbing his finger at it to emphasise his point, and make Kyle look at it again, "Implants that this little boy had in his arm…"

He sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest and stared at him coldly.

Kyle stared down at the name on the piece of paper, his eyes nervously flitting to the horrible image of the small boy's skeleton. He couldn't stop looking at it, even though it was making his stomach churn. He couldn't stop himself.

'Kyle Bennett is dead?' he said in his own head, 'But... I'm Kyle Bennett… aren't I?'

He stared at it. But he couldn't make any sense of it. Could there have been two Kyle Bennetts in that house?

That seemed unlikely.

Surely, the Detective had it wrong then? The skeleton in that photo couldn't be Kyle Bennett... because... because...

...because...

But then, suddenly, with a terrible jolt, he realised what the Detective was trying to tell him.

He WASN'T Kyle Bennett!

It was like a delayed reaction. As though his brain had gradually been gathering the information but taking its time to file it away. But now it hit him like a freight train... The room began to spin…

He wasn't Kyle Bennett!

He wasn't Kyle Bennett…

He'd never been Kyle Bennett…

And deep down, he'd always known that…

"So?" said Detective Wainwright, with a sarcastic curl of his lip, "I think you might forgive me for asking… Seeing as you're not who you say you are… Not Kyle Bennett… and definitely not Kyle Braxton…"

Kyle looked up at him with a dazed sort of expression before looking back at all the pages in front of him. His heart was hammering. His world was collapsing and this man seemed to think it was funny?

"Who are you?" asked Wainwright, "And why are you going around pretending to be someone you're not?!"