One Punch

by Julie Fison

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

A contemporary family drama following two mothers at the centre of a tragedy, One Punch is for fans of Jodi Picoult and Celeste Ng's
Little Fires Everywhere.
Yasmin Weston is on holiday when she learns that her son Daniel has been assaulted at home in Australia, leaving him with a debilitating brain injury. She vows to hunt down her son's attacker.
Evie MacIntyre knows the Westons from school. She's never had
much time for Yasmin, and she dislikes Daniel because he bullied her son, Brody. When Evie discovers evidence that Brody was involved in the attack, she is torn but decides there is no way she
will let her only son go to jail.
As two mothers wrestle with the consequences of their actions, two families suffer the shockwaves of one catastrophic night and a punch that changes everything.

Release date: May 31, 2022

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 320

Sample

1

Yasmin

Yasmin Weston ignored the first call. She’d just slipped into the pool and the jets of warm water were already doing wonders for her hip. She checked the bruising. That last fall was a doozy. It was crazy to be skiing on Storm Peak in this weather – she was too old to be testing her luck in a white-out, but Kat wanted to prove they were fifty, fearless and fantastic. Safe to say, Yasmin proved otherwise. She settled deeper into the water as the snow fell in thick flakes all around. She wasn’t getting out until she was properly pruned.

‘How magical is this,’ Kat said, sweeping across the pool, almost vanishing in the steam. A pile of blonde hair and pink cheeks floating in the distance. ‘I can finally feel my toes.’

‘There’s something very decadent about being snug in a blizzard.’ Yasmin closed her eyes. The pool was fed from the nearby thermal springs and she could feel the mineral salts soaking right into her muscles. The only thing interrupting the peace was the constant buzzing from the bench.

‘Is that your phone?’ Kat asked.

‘Just try to ignore it. It’ll be one of the boys. They’re probably looking for the oven.’

Kat laughed. ‘I had a text from Toby about the washing machine. Mum, I really think it’s shat itself.’

‘Care factor: zero,’ Yasmin said, sinking a little deeper. ‘We’re on holidays, not staffing the domestic support desk.’

She had a son at university and two at high school, plus a perfectly competent husband. Surely they could fend for themselves for a week. It wasn’t like she travelled for work or flitted around the world on endless self-discovery journeys, like some people she knew. She rarely went anywhere without them. Her last solo trip had been over a year ago. A spa weekend with friends that ended abruptly at a highway service station, in the toilets, thanks to a dubious turkey sandwich. She’d been off duty for less than a day. As for the ski trip, it was a last-minute thing. A favour to Kat because her sister had been forced to cancel. Admittedly, skiing in Colorado wasn’t an arduous favour, but still, she’d had jet lag to contend with and a very surly flight attendant on the way over.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, her shoulders started to tense as it dawned on her: it was late morning in Steamboat, but it was the middle of the night in Australia. She clambered out of the pool, dried her hands on her towelling robe, unwrapped the phone.

James. Five missed calls.

She stared at the screen, the mineral salts suddenly abandoning her muscles and the pain in her hip flaring. Her husband wasn’t calling about an appliance. It was almost certainly about her father-in-law. He’d come down with pneumonia days before she left; his condition must have worsened.

She silently cursed the timing. She’d probably have to cut her trip short. Such a hassle to change flights, and she’d just booked tickets to a music night at the cutest little country bar, with exposed beams and antlers on the walls, right in the snow. She’d bought new cowboy boots and everything. Still, if James needed her at home, she’d go home. She took a deep breath and answered the call.

‘Why didn’t you pick up your phone?’ James asked. She hadn’t even had a chance to say hello.

‘I’m skiing. It wasn’t that easy—’

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘What’s up? Is it Douglas? Is your dad okay?’

There was a choking noise, and then, ‘I’ve got bad news.’

Oh dear. It was worse than she thought. Douglas must have passed away. She’d definitely have to cancel the country and western night, and she probably wouldn’t get anything back on the heated ski boots she’d rented for the week. She chided herself for worrying about the boots at a time like this. But as a gondola trundled up the mountain into a cloud of white, she couldn’t help hoping it would be bright enough for a quick ski in the morning before she had to leave. Douglas would surely have approved. He’d been a gun skier in his day.

‘James, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Your father was such a—’

‘Yaz, it’s not my father. You need to get on the next plane home.’

2

Evie

Evie MacIntyre peeled herself off her yoga mat. Sweat was gushing from every pore, soaking her top and leaving a large damp patch between her legs. She discreetly studied her tights as she rolled up the mat, wondering if she’d actually wet herself. Given the intense pain from her crotch area during the final warrior what’s-a-name, anything was possible. Her ex-husband had promised yoga would make her feel a foot taller. An inflexible, fat slob, more like. The girl in front had been doing handstands, for God’s sake. Evie was flat out balancing with two hands and two feet on the floor. Never again.

She grabbed her keys and Birkies from the open locker, pausing to read the poster on the wall – partly for entertainment value, but also to give herself a few minutes before tackling the stairs to the car park. The studio’s annual retreat to Byron was coming up, according to the poster. Four days and three nights of spiritual, mental and physical enrichment. Four days of torture, for sure.

‘Looks tempting,’ came a voice from behind.

Evie turned to find a tanned glamazon, a mat under her toned arm, flamingos dancing down her long legs.

‘Hey, how are you?’ She knew the woman from school but couldn’t immediately recall her name. ‘How’s …’ She grasped for the name of the woman’s son, but that eluded her as well. She wondered if early-onset dementia or yoga-brain was to blame. ‘How’s everything?’

‘Great. Great. Love the classes here.’

Evie noted the woman’s pristine tights and perspiration-free forehead. ‘You here for the next class, are you?’

The woman smiled. ‘I was right behind you. Your first time?’

‘That obvious, hey.’

‘Not at all. You did so well,’ the woman said with an earnest expression, as if she’d been employed to offer encouragement. Then her face became suddenly serious. ‘Oh my goodness. Have you heard about Dan Weston?’

Dan Weston. That was a name Evie couldn’t forget. ‘What’s that shit done now?’

The woman stiffened. ‘Dan Weston’s an absolutely gorgeous boy. Captain of cricket.’

‘Oh, Dan Weston.’ Evie tried to recover. ‘I was thinking of that other Dan, a nasty piece of work.’

The woman seemed confused for a moment and then composed herself, clutching her throat for dramatic effect. ‘Dan Weston got attacked. A coward punch. In the Valley. Really bad. Some thug came out of nowhere, smashed him in the head. It was on the news.’

‘God. Sounds terrible.’

‘Poor Yasmin. Can you imagine what she’s going through? She gives so much. And then this.’ She shook her head. ‘Life is not fair. Poor Yasmin. Anyway. Sorry. Not really the best topic for a yoga studio. I just found out. Still in shock. So tragic.’ The woman touched Evie’s arm, her smile returning. ‘Nice to see you. Take care.’

Evie left the studio, suddenly remembering the woman’s name – Amber – and feeling guilty for calling Dan a shit. Then her thoughts turned to poor Yasmin. She reluctantly recalled last year’s Spring Lunch. She’d had a skinful of champagne and barely a morsel of the chicken piccata and was three sheets to the wind before the a cappella group finished their first number. She couldn’t remember the speeches but had a vivid recollection of her comments about Yasmin, the lollipop lady in her high-vis dress. Evie had bagged that hideous designer outfit to anyone who’d listen.

She got to her car, scanned the news on her phone, found a few lines about the attack. One punch, leaving a seventeen-year-old fighting for his life, and the police calling for witnesses, looking for a man in an orange baseball cap who might be connected. There was no mention of Dan Weston but she was sure it was him. The article talked of a brain injury, a fractured skull. She’d been a nurse long enough to know how serious this could be. He might walk out of hospital in a week or so, but he might be bedridden for months. Or worse.

She started the car, anxious to get home. She’d been so flat out with groceries, washing, preparing for work and trying to get all Zen this weekend, she’d barely had a moment for Brody. Suddenly she needed to hug him, whether he wanted hugging or not. Then maybe a takeaway and a TV movie – Brody’s choice. Just the image of them settled on the sofa made her feel calmer.

‘Brody?’ Her voice echoed down the hall of the timber Queenslander. There was no reply, which was weird – Brody never went anywhere on a Sunday afternoon. She called again. This time there was a shuffling sound from the bedroom, a barely audible groan. She peered into the gloom of Brody’s room. The blinds were down and, even with the fan on full bore, the room reeked of rum and stale socks. Brody was still in bed, face down – distinctly unhuggable.

Great. His first hangover. A milestone she would have preferred he reach after finishing high school. This was his final year. He couldn’t afford to be cutting loose now.

‘If you’re going to drink, you need to learn moderation,’ she said, hovering in the doorway, where there was less chance of asphyxiation from the alcohol fumes. ‘Drinking isn’t about getting plastered. Look at you. It’s five in the afternoon. You’ve wasted the entire day.’

Brody groaned. Possibly her sermon was a day too late. She might have delivered it yesterday, if she’d known he was going out. He must have slipped off after she’d gone to sleep. It had been a gruelling week at work and she’d passed out in front of the TV during the news, was tucked up in bed shortly after. God knows what time Brody came home. ‘Are you listening? You need to know your limits.’ No response at all, so she braced herself, strode across the room and hauled up the blinds, prompting a loud moan from Brody and startling his pet scorpion. It twitched, just slightly, in its lonely terrarium.

‘I just saw Sally the Mani move,’ she announced. She watched the little black creature for another moment. Nope, that was it. She was done with her antics for the day.

Brody rolled over, blinked into the afternoon light. ‘She’s a Urodacus manicatus. Not a Mani,’ he said firmly. A hangover apparently no time to be loose with science. ‘And her name is not Sally.’

‘Well, Sally is better than no name at all.’

By then he’d buried his face in the pillow again.

‘I was thinking Thai takeaway.’

‘Sleeping,’ he said, muffled.

‘Or Japanese if you prefer. Brody?’

‘Please, Mum. I need to sleep.’

‘What were you even doing last night? You’re always telling me you hate alcohol.’

‘The guys at the arcade bought me a few shots for my birthday,’ he muttered without lifting his head.

‘Did they?’ She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. Brody had turned eighteen the week before and insisted on a family dinner at the local Italian. No fuss, no fanfare. Just Brody, Evie and her mother. The three of them, sitting at a corner table: Brody cutting his margherita with a knife and fork, Jan flirting with the waiters and Evie trying to liven up proceedings with a round of limoncello. Brody barely even took a sip. She was happy he’d celebrated his eighteenth with friends, but she wasn’t keen on Urban Games. She didn’t know any of the guys he hung out with down there, but she imagined them pressuring him into a round of shots, then another, then another. No wonder he looked so rough.

‘Well, definitely no more spirits for you. Look at the state you’re in. And weren’t you meant to be at work this morning?’

Brody peered at her with puffy, bloodshot eyes; even the irises had turned a dull grey. ‘I went to work. I got off early.’

‘Brody, that’s not good form. And you can’t just go out without telling me. I bet you walked home, too.’

‘It’s not far.’ He closed his eyes, like he’d heard enough.

‘That’s not the point.’

She moved his cricket gear off the bed and sat down, gazing at him. The thick brown hair, the wide jaw, the light shadow of stubble. A fully grown man – on the outside, anyway. Inside, he was still fragile. The same kid who corrected his primary school teachers in front of the class and, possibly as a result, hadn’t got a single party invitation until Year 5. She’d taken him for ice cream so often to make up for it that she still got teary when she passed their favourite gelateria. Now, he was way too big to be fussed over, but she’d probably always worry about him. Her thoughts turned to Dan Weston, lying in intensive care. What if it had been Brody, in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if she’d been the one getting the call in the middle of the night? He’d walked home through the Valley. Probably right past the street where Dan was attacked. The back of her neck started to burn just thinking about it. There but for the grace of God go I.

‘Did you hear about Dan Weston?’ she asked. ‘He got assaulted. In the Valley. What he was even doing in that festering nightclub area … He’s seventeen, isn’t he? Still, horrific. Scary stuff. Really scary.’

Brody opened his eyes for a moment and then closed them again. He probably knew about it already. That kind of thing travelled through the boys like gastro at a school camp. An attack on one kid affected everyone. Brody was no fan of Dan Weston but he’d still be upset – when he wasn’t so hungover. Hopefully the tragedy would serve as a warning, a reminder that there were thugs out there. Just because he was male didn’t mean he was safe in a dodgy part of the city. That’s what she’d tell him. But not now. He wasn’t in a state for more lectures. Gently, she touched his hair. He flinched, but let her hand rest there for a moment, a very rare privilege. Love you. Love you so, so much. Don’t know what I’d do without you. ‘So, what do you think? Thai or Japanese?’

‘Just rice would be fine.’

She got to her feet. ‘Okay. I’ll let you and Ms Urodacus have some peace. I’ll give you a shout when the plain rice is here.’

‘Mum.’ Brody pointed to the blinds with a limp hand.

She huffed loudly. ‘What did your last slave—’ She stopped mid-sentence. Were those bruises on Brody’s knuckles? She reached for his hand. This time he pulled away, burying himself under the sheet.

‘What happened? Let me have a look.’

‘It’s fine. Just banged it. This morning.’

‘At the pet shop? More likely a pinball machine didn’t see things your way.’

‘I don’t even play pinball machines.’ He pulled the sheet over his head, bringing the discussion to an end. For the time being anyway.

She dropped the blind, turned to leave the room and stopped in her tracks just short of the door. Lying among the dirty clothes was an orange cap.

3

Yasmin

Yasmin strode across the concrete concourse towards the hospital, shielding her eyes against the glare as James went into full protective-man mode, asking her for the twentieth time since she’d got out of the taxi if she was okay. She’d just spent twenty-six hours travelling, self-medicating with shiraz and Panadol, and tearfully googling brain injuries – her mind bouncing between Daniel lying unconscious on the footpath and violent ways to punish the evil lowlife who’d punched him. Of course she wasn’t okay. But at least she was finally home, flanked by her precious boys, almost close enough to touch Daniel. The doors to the hospital slid open, bathing her in a welcome blast of cold air. The pounding in her head continued. Oshan, her youngest, raced across the foyer for the lifts, his long legs and big feet so far in front he almost took out a man on crutches. Leo ambled along behind, telling him off.

‘A coffee? Do you want a coffee before we go up?’ James asked. ‘It’s not too bad at the cafe here.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, impatient. She wasn’t anywhere near fine and she definitely needed caffeine, but she wasn’t wasting time while some spotty teen puzzled over a coffee machine. She needed to see her son. To touch him, to hold him. She’d heard about the healing power of skin-to-skin contact for premature babies; a scientific study that confirmed what mothers have always known: a loving hug can work miracles. She banged on the lift button, trying to hurry it up, even though it wouldn’t make any difference, and even though she’d seen Oshan press it at least five times already. She pulled her youngest in close, as he and Leo bickered over how many cricket games Daniel would miss as a result of his injury. James stared blankly at the closed doors, his eyes almost disappearing under their drooping hoods.

‘I have to warn you,’ he said, when the lift finally arrived and they all shuffled in. ‘Dan’s in a bad way. A very bad way.’

James had been at the hospital since Daniel was brought in and knew the full extent of his injuries, but he had spared the boys the details, only telling them it was like a really serious concussion. She knew the truth, though. The punch had knocked Daniel unconscious. The fall to the kerb had fractured his skull, sent his brain lurching from one side of his head to the other, causing a traumatic injury. Surgeons had sucked a blood clot from inside his head. She almost heaved at the thought.

‘It’s very serious, but young bodies have a way of bouncing back,’ James added. ‘Dan’s tough. He’ll come through.’

‘You think he’ll be okay to go mountain biking at Easter?’ Oshan asked. ‘If his head’s still swollen, he probably won’t be able to get a helmet on.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Osh! His brain’s swollen, not his head.’ Leo swiped at his brother with an open palm. Oshan ducked in time, elbowed Leo in the ribs, while James put a hand up – a half-hearted attempt to intervene – telling the boys to keep things civil.

‘Yeah, Leo. Put a sock in it, or I’ll put you in a hospital bed right next to Dan,’ Oshan shouted, right over the top of James’s lecture on respect.

‘Love to see you try,’ Leo snorted.

The lift ground to a stop and the doors clattered open. Yasmin stumbled into the corridor, wiping her eyes with a soggy tissue, barely registering the argument. It was the boys’ first hospital visit and they were just trying to process what was going on. Oshan was fifteen and had an overactive imagination, thanks to too much time with his nose buried in the Worst Ways to Die in the Wild. And he worshipped his brother. He’d be nervous about seeing him in hospital. Leo was nineteen but, behind the bluster, a sensitive young man, squeamish at the sight of blood, terrible in a crisis. He’d be scared too. They all were.

‘Is Dan going to be all right?’ Oshan asked quietly, reaching for her hand. ‘Mum, he’ll be okay, won’t he?’

She was too choked up to say a word. She looked to James, waiting for something positive. He had a catchy cliché for every occasion, but her husband’s focus was elsewhere. A young man who didn’t look much older than Daniel was in a wheelchair, dressed in a hospital gown, a brace around his neck, an orderly pushing him towards the lifts. Yasmin held her breath, desperate not to weep, her mind going to dark places as the wheelchair passed by. Even Leo and Oshan went quiet as the possibilities of what lay ahead began to sink in.

The silence was finally broken when a nurse arrived, offering an alarmingly cheery greeting and providing a full briefing on the rules of intensive care. Only close family. Just two visitors at a time. No food inside, please. ‘The boys can wait in the family room while you see your son.’ The nurse nodded to a sad-looking room, painted a washed-out blue, where two women were playing cards; a man dozed in his seat nearby. By the look of his hair, he’d been there for days. Yasmin didn’t want to leave the boys. She wanted to keep the family together, to show Daniel how much they all loved him. But Leo and Oshan followed the nurse’s directions, settling into the waiting room, getting out their phones. Yasmin hesitated for a moment, then gave them a kiss, said she’d be back soon. She had to hurry after the nurse, who was going through the details of Daniel’s injuries as they approached a pair of large steel doors.

‘I still don’t really understand,’ she said after the nurse had just spent several minutes explaining the causes of traumatic brain injuries. ‘Is my son going to be okay?’

The nurse fiddled with a staff card on a lanyard around her neck. ‘You can talk to the doctor later. She’ll be able to answer your questions.’

Yasmin wanted to know now, but by then the doors to intensive care had opened, revealing what looked like a brightly lit beehive. Nurses crisscrossing the corridor, doctors huddled over computers, racks of equipment humming busily. Chatter, movement, purpose. But it was the stillness in the beds that made her shiver. Most of the patients looked so lifeless, she wondered if some of them were already dead.

‘This is Dan, next on the right.’ The nurse led them past yet another motionless body, so heavily bandaged Yasmin couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. A young couple sat with the mummy, quietly sniffing, eyes on the floor.

Yasmin braced herself as they approached the turquoise curtain. Daniel will come through this. Daniel will come through, she told herself, but with every step, disinfectant bit into her nostrils, a strange metallic odour turned her stomach. Dread made her legs so heavy she was barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other. James took her hand, pulling her along, but when the curtain slid away, she stopped, confused. They were in the wrong place.

‘Go ahead,’ the nurse said. ‘You can talk to him.’

Yasmin dropped James’s hand, her mind scrambling to understand, her eyes roaming over the boy in the bed. His head was a battered watermelon, one eye closed, the other just a black slit in its swollen socket, the mouth gaping like one of those laughing clowns you see in grubby sideshow alleys. A tube disappeared down his throat, more snaked into his arms, finding their way to his chest. Another one burrowed into his partially shaved head.

She stepped away from the bed. ‘This isn’t Daniel,’ she told the nurse. ‘This can’t be him.’ She turned to James, willing him to explain. Someone had got it wrong. There’d been a mistake. But James seemed hypnotised by the electronic sounds. A tear trickled down his face, catching in the grey stubble on his cheek.

She looked again at the boy in the bed. Studied his forehead, his chin, his nose. She didn’t want to find Daniel. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Daniel’s mole. Daniel’s scar. It was Daniel. It was Daniel.

The reality seeped in slowly, cell by cell reacting to the sight. Then it hit her. It hit her like a monstrous foaming wave, the type that batters the coast in cyclone season, crushing boats, pounding houses, flattening crops. It swamped the air in her lungs, leaving her fighting for breath, drowning in a sea of sterile equipment. She reached for the bedrail, too scared to touch her son. ‘Daniel. My darling …’ The words stuck in her throat as wave after wave pounded her, pushing her under, so deep she couldn’t see the light. When she opened her mouth, a soft, primal cry filled the room, more she-wolf than human, the sound mixing with the beeping machines and the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator. It was so foreign she wasn’t sure if the sound had escaped from her own throat.

She squeezed her eyes tight, pushing away the scene, searching for last weekend’s cricket game. Daniel scoring a century for the Firsts, holding his bat in the air, acknowledging the applause, the air thick with freshly mown grass and greasy hot chips. She was back in the stands, cheering him on, until a high-pitched beeping brought her back to the room. She opened her eyes to find two nurses rushing to Daniel’s bedside, a doctor right behind. At least she thought it was a doctor. There was a stethoscope around her neck, so she had to be, but she looked too young. Was she just a trainee? The doctor peered at a monitor, a single crease deepening on her forehead, numbers flashing across the screen.

‘What’s happening?’ Yasmin asked as the nurses unplugged machines and rearranged equipment.

‘Afraid you’ll have to come back later,’ the doctor said, adjusting the tube in Daniel’s mouth. ‘We’re taking Dan for a CT scan. We’re worried about the pressure on his brain.’

‘What pressure? Is he going to be all right?’

‘We’ll know more after the scan.’

‘Is he going to be all right?’

The doctor put a hand on Yasmin’s shoulder. Her face was a picture of compassion, but she clearly wasn’t a mother, so how could she possibly understand?

‘I know this is frightening but we’ll talk again soon,’ the doctor said.

Frightening? Yasmin wasn’t frightened. That was something she felt looking over the railing on a high balcony, or swimming in murky water. This was her son. Rigid, barely recognisable, being wheeled out of the cubicle, the tubes still attached, the machines following along behind. She’d just flown all the way from Colorado to be with him. Now they were taking him away. She st. . .