In the end, he returned after an hour and a half, dragging a caravan that Emmaline was amazed had survived the haul. He parked it in a free space a few plots away from the Maguire house.
He exited with a smile. ‘It’s not the Ritz.’
Emmaline walked around the outside. It didn’t take long. There was room for one. Two at a squeeze.
‘Are we sharing?’ she asked, her instincts overruling common sense. A few hours and it would be midnight, so technically the second day. A loophole she had exploited before.
‘Do you want me to?’
She caught his eyes, dark like hers but with a hint of warming hazel. They held her stare. Long enough for common sense to regain control.
‘Let’s raincheck that. Once we find them.’
He smiled. ‘As an incentive.’
Emmaline smiled back. He knew how to play the game. It was better when they knew how to play the game.
With a wave and unhurried exit, in case either of them changed their mind, Rispoli left.
Taking a last look around, she entered the caravan. The revolting aroma of cigarettes hit her instantly, like the air itself had turned sour. That a smoker had lived there was further evidenced by the unnatural yellow of the roof and piss-coloured tinge to the cushion fabric. Emmaline cracked open the window – two inches before it caught on the latch – and settled on the narrow couch that encircled a chipped MDF table.
The caravan was stocked with a kettle, coffee and some packets of dry noodles. Enough for tonight at least. It’s what had taken Rispoli the extra half-hour, she supposed. She smiled. She could add thoughtful to the positives. He was putting forward a strong case. After making some chicken noodles that tasted like warm cardboard but filled her stomach, she settled in to read the file of documents on the Maguire family that she hadn’t got to on the plane.
Lorcan Maguire was up first. Perth born and bred. His most recent job was with a company called INK Tech which offered financial advice, investments, stock options, as well as a sideline in buying up companies in financial difficulties and asset-stripping them. Employed for eight years with a couple of promotions. And then suddenly, last month, he’d been made redundant. Streamlining. A disappointing tale but all too familiar. He had apparently received a reasonable redundancy payout. Which, she assumed, he was using to finance this move and the house repairs.
But there was something else. An add-on to the story. After he had left, a glut of information had been reported as missing from INK Tech’s system. Suspicion had been raised that Lorcan had taken the information to sell to a rival. Or to blackmail the company. A court case regarding criminal misconduct had loomed briefly but was dropped as it couldn’t be proved that he did it or that he did it maliciously.
Something else caught Emmaline’s eyes. The owners of INK Tech. Georgios and Nikos Iannis. Well-known in Perth circles. Both with a chequered past. Criminal records for fraud and extortion. They had used jail terms to gain qualifications in finance and cleaned up their act. But there was always a little dirt under the mudguard. Prison had made them smart. Emmaline wondered if it had removed their propensity for violence.
18 Naiyana
The house was done. Or at least she had done everything she could. You can’t polish a turd, she thought to herself, as she took a walk. Through her town, a thought which filled her with a strangely uplifting sense of importance. A broken kingdom was still a kingdom after all.
She would walk and vlog. If Lorcan could write a book maybe she could vlog about life in town. At least fucking YouTube wouldn’t bow to some sweaty bastard in a suit stuffing dollars in its G-string and get her channel shut down like the test centres ones. Those had been genius. Well planned, perfectly executed. But illegal.
There was only one problem. Dylan, tagging along, pausing every few seconds to investigate something. And constantly talking over her monologues.
‘Mum, Mum, film me!’
The tug on her arm distorted the camera shot.
‘Dylan, not now,’ she berated him.
‘When?’
‘Later.’
‘You said that five minutes ago. I want to be in it.’
Naiyana wasn’t having it. She was still unsure over showing her own face in them. In case it was seen by the wrong people. People who might want to harm her. Words were powerful and all she had. One hundred and ten pounds with arms like matchsticks does not a fighter make.
Her words and looks had won Lorcan over. Though handsome, a good earner and a good father she always wondered if she had sold herself short. When she had first met him she had been a touch broken-hearted. And fried-out from the non-stop social justice campaigning and the many protests across the state and further wide. Each battle like a war. And though her wounds couldn’t be seen they were there. She was weakened. He was a solid and undemanding choice.
Then motherhood took over, creating a bubble she found it hard to escape from. More love-stuck than love-struck. Then a couple of years ago she had bumped into a former colleague and now campaign head who had asked her to get involved again. Only this time, she had something tangible and personal to fight for. Her child. And herself. She desired real change. Having Dylan had instilled in her the sense that she could do anything. She could create life so what could stop her? But there was one thing she had lost from her teenage firebrand years. The stop button. The tap could be turned on but not off. This unrelenting forcefulness made her popular in the community. A driving force. But she had taken it too far. Marches and protests were fine but she needed more. She demanded infiltrations and graffiti. Politics and smearing. Which led her to become a pariah, although she thought of herself more as a martyr, for she had been right. But it had hurt people.
She aimed the phone down the street. The road arrowed perfectly straight almost all the way to the horizon where it twisted off deeper into the outback, towards Orange Lake and after that, she had no idea. And had no intention of finding out.
The emptiness seemed a fitting end to a first chapter. She would upload it when she got to Hurton tomorrow. Squeezing her eyes tight and opening them she let them readjust to the real world, brighter than the screen, the colours sharper and more intense than the digitized version. The realization that she actually was here, and not viewing this barren town on a computer screen back in civilization, hit her with a thud of sadness. She would be back amongst the living sometime soon, she promised herself. But right now it was time for dinner. She glanced around. Dylan was nowhere to be seen.
‘Dylan?’ she called out.
There was no answer. Not even an echo, nothing of significance for the sound waves to bounce off. There was nothing for miles.
She swivelled around to look towards the crossroads. She searched for a speck of movement amongst the disused buildings. Nothing. Sliding the phone into the pocket of her shorts she called out again. More urgently this time, trying to muster concern more than anger. And failing.
‘Dylan, get out here now!’
Again there was no response.
Moving to the nearest house, a wooden bungalow that was missing one entire side wall, she peeked inside.
‘Dylan?’ she called out again, only to be met with silence.
It was the same in the next broken shack.
‘This isn’t funny, Dylan.’ Concern had now turned into a deep, hollow worry that echoed inside her.
She looked at the doghouse that adjoined the shack. It was still standing, better constructed than the shattered dwelling it was attached to. She didn’t think Dylan would have crawled into it but he could have. So she checked, squeezing her head inside and nearly vomiting with the musty smell of hot, stale air and straw bedding that had turned to dust.
She stood up fast, squeezing her eyes shut, this time to fight the dizziness. Her legs and arms felt numb.
‘Get out here now, Dylan!’ Anger had turned to fear. This was a game of hide and seek she was not enjoying. Hide and seek was tolerable only in a safe and controlled e
nvironment. Where she knew every place Dylan could hide and she could delay the search to sneak another sip of wine.
She passed on to the next building, her cries for Dylan growing more frantic. Her desperation was building as was her hatred of this town. There was something else too. The sense that there were eyes on her. Watching her every move. And taken her son.
Moving back to the middle of the street, she looked around again. But there was nothing. Nobody and nothing. But she knew there was. She could feel it. There was something here with them. In Kallayee.
Her veins froze and her muscles seized. Maybe Dylan had been right. Maybe he had really seen someone in town. Suddenly it felt as if each grain of sand was an eye watching her, looking, judging. A million eyes. A million judgements. She took a breath, the fiery air choking her lungs. Was she going crazy? Was there something creeping up from below the ground, a toxic gas from some long-forgotten mine that silently blanketed the town? She had read about that sort of thing before. Carbon dioxide or monoxide. Or maybe that was a hallucination as well. Maybe they were all slowly going crazy.
Or maybe they were being haunted by the ghosts of the people who had once lived there. The collapsed mine. The twenty dead miners. A shiver ran down her back at the thought, enough to loosen her muscles. Taking another breath she chided herself for getting caught up in paranormal nonsense. Dylan was here. Somewhere. It was just her and him. In this town.
19 Emmaline
It was too dark to explore a town that was filled with dilapidated houses on the brink of collapse. And it was too early to sleep, so Emmaline drove to Hurton, careful to avoid running off the road. That was another angle to consider. That the family had simply driven off the road and been killed. Or maimed. Or trapped. Sending up some eagle eyes might be the way to go. A light plane out of Leonora or Kalgoorlie. Something for her to follow up on tomorrow.
There was only one place open in town. A pub that had seen better days, the brick crumbling and one of the porch lights flickering like a drunk passing in and out of consciousness, but better than nothing.
All eyes fell upon her as she entered. She recognized the stares, a mix of curiosity, lust and suspicion, all in equal measure.
She took a seat on a stool that squeaked under her as if protesting the disruption to its evening of quiet inaction. At the far end of the bar, two men in baseball caps sat on similar red-topped stools, while a third stood between them. Their conversation had paused in favour of visually undressing her. There were further mumblings from the booths beyond but it was too dark to see into them.
The barman left his perch along the back counter and stepped forward to meet her. His eyes betrayed the same suspicion, his eyelid half-closed on one side. His mouth slightly drooped too. On the same side. Bell’s palsy. Not severe but noticeable close up.
‘Got any vodka?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good vodka?’
‘It all does the same job.’
Emmaline smiled. ‘A double. Dash of pineapple juice. And ice.’
As she waited for her drink she awaited the questions. There were always questions for a young, attractive, single woman in a pub. What was up for grabs was whether they would be inquisitive or intrusive.
‘Where are you from?’
It was the guy standing up between his friends who broke the ice.
‘Out of town,’ said Emmaline meeting his narrowed eyes.
‘Out of country, more like,’ said the guy, bathing in his friends’ laughter.
Emmaline met the comment head-on as her drink arrived. Lacking a straw she stirred it with her finger as she replied. ‘Nope, Australian. What’s your excuse?’
‘Excuse for what?’ asked the guy, confused, a look on his face as if wondering whether he had left the gas on at home.
‘For that dumb look on your face. And that haircut. Was your mum drunk when she did it? Or just angry that you didn’t pull out when you promised?’
The guy’s friends exploded in laughter, one spitting out his beer over the bar, the cascade just missing the barman.
Emmaline swivelled on her stool and waited for the guy to charge over. He was tall but skinny. Manageable. She had studied a number of forms of self-defence. It was only smart to in her job. Sometimes she had to ask questions that riled people. Sometimes she just liked asking questions that riled people.
But the guy was being held back by his still chuckling friends, seething but subdued by the offer of another beer. They were dropkicks, neither smart nor gonna make it very far. She turned her attention to her reason for being here.
‘Any of you know the Maguire family?’
The question was met with murmurs that suggested knowledge but no outright response. Interesting but not incriminating.
Emmaline was used to being treated with suspicion. Because she was a cop or because of her skin colour. Some even considered it a kind of novelty. As if they were surprised she was able to do the job.
‘You can’t find them?’ came an anonymous voice from a side booth.
‘I have news for them,’ said Emmaline, wanting to avoid disclosing the circumstances. News of the disappearance didn’t need to be broadcast yet. There were formal channels for that.
‘So are you a postwoman or a cop?’ said one of the three from the end of the bar. One of the seated ones. As ugly as his mate, features bent out of shape.
‘Right now I’m tired and pissed off. They lived out in Kallayee.’
Met with more murmurs but nothing substantial, she returned to her drink, the vodka cheap and nasty as was the pineapple juice. Enough to get the job done. But she wouldn’t drink too much. She had the guys at the end of the bar to keep an eye on.
As she nursed the dregs and weighed up having a second against the perilous drive home, she felt a presence beside her. She turned around to find a guy with a pair of sparkling blue eyes that contrasted a worn, tanned face that made him look older than he was. Outdoor work maybe. A farmhand. A high-wire guy maintaining the electricity lines. A painter–decorator. Possibly Miller who owned the shitty B&B Rispoli mentioned.
‘Are you a cop?’
Emmaline paused. She didn’t detect any accusation or bitterness in the question. She nodded.
‘Haven’t seen you before,’ he said.
‘Do you get many cops calling with you?’ she asked.
‘That would be telling. Another?’ he asked, tilting his head towards her nearly empty glass.
Emmaline shook her head. Half an hour and she’d attempt the drive home. ‘You go right ahead, though.’
He did. He was handed a foamy beer that threatened the lip but stayed in the glass. He nodded at the seat. ‘Mind if I?’
Emmaline waved her hand in invite, overhearing some protests from the far end of the bar. But those three had lost their right to speak to her. Informally. Formally she retained the right to speak to all of them anytime she liked.
‘The name’s Matthew. Or Matty if you want.’
Emmaline took the offered hand. It was calloused and meaty. She squeezed it to show she wasn’t intimidated.
‘Emmaline.’
‘Nice name. Unusual.’
‘Unusual to have a nice name?’ she asked.
‘Unusual to hear it.’ Matty sipped his beer. ‘Do you always try to wind people up?’ he asked, nodding to the far end of the bar.
‘Only if I’m bored. Or fucked with.’
Matty smiled. ‘I’ll try and do neither then.’
‘Then we might just get along,’ said Emmaline.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked, taking another sip.
‘The Maguires. Do you know them?’
‘Not as such. I saw them around town. Heard somethings.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Usual small town stuff. Gossiping. Speculating. The father came in to buy materials at Spider Mallon’s place.’
‘Often?’
‘Every couple of days. Maybe just to get away from there. T
o not go mad, you know? Like cabin fever.’
‘Does that happen a lot out here?’
‘Been known to,’ said Matty with a knowing nod.
‘What was he like?’
‘I only spoke to him once. He seemed guarded, I suppose, but you would be if you didn’t know anyone. He just came in to do business and got out. He was always glancing over his shoulder though, as if he thought he was being watched.’
‘What did the wife and kid do when he was getting the materials?’
‘That was the odd thing,’ said Matty. ‘You never saw them together. It would either be him or her in town. Her less often. And only to buy groceries.’
‘How often?’
‘Only a couple of times.’
‘So she bought in bulk?’
‘You’d have to ask Darcey at the store. But I doubt it. You don’t keep nothing in bulk around here. Except the golden stuff,’ he said, raising his half-empty glass.
Emmaline wondered about the grocery shopping. Maybe Naiyana Maguire drove further afield to get supplies. To Leonora or Wisbech perhaps. To pick up specific items, stuff to make them feel at home.
‘And the boy?’
‘Sometimes he was with them, sometimes not.’
‘Any sign of trouble? Aggro?’
Matty laughed. ‘Like what? They didn’t spend every living minute together so maybe they argued, maybe they didn’t. Or maybe they didn’t have to live in each other’s back pocket.’
He was of course right. Most trouble wasn’t an explosion. It was devious and cunning, bubbling slowly underneath the surface before revealing itself in all its destructive glory. Like a volcano.
‘Did you spot anyone else new in town?’
‘What? Apart from you?’
Emmaline smiled and looked to the end of the bar. The three guys were whispering amongst themselves. Her senses warned her that they were planning something.
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