It was not how Bec imagined it. For her it was important to think of battles being won, steady progress. She liked what Sharon had said earlier about Harris having that unstoppable urge to win. It was what drew people to him.
But you did need more than work, she decided now. Looked at the wind working on Sharon’s dress and then away, down the coast to the expensive houses in Lurline Bay. She turned her back on the sea. There were dogs in the park and a family was flying a kite, their cries of pleasure loud against the sound of the seagulls. It was all beautiful, sane.
‘Shall we go?’
That Sunday there was a public meeting to discuss the Drug Buyers’ Act, and the turn-up surprised the organisers. The theatre at the Opera House overflowed and a hundred people sat in the foyer, watching the proceedings on television.
Stephen Brunton said in his speech that people were weary of a war without end, a war where all the strategies had failed. In the early days, people of goodwill had hoped it was a war of attrition, assumed that the forces of government and morality would eventually triumph. After forty years that end was still not in sight.
Karen sat in the front row, pleased for her husband, for the large crowd and the fact that the last conservative prime minister had spoken out in favour of the proposed law and was here now, three seats down from herself. He had been a staunch warrior during his years in office, and unlike some other retirees was not retreating from his views. Stephen’s proposed law gave him hope. It provided a chance of vindication.
Stephen referred to the most recent spate of drive-by shootings, and congratulated the police minister for his quick response. No one had yet been arrested, but two dedicated strike forces had been set up, and Cabinet had approved another increase in the size of the police force. Chris Byrne and he had their differences—there was laughter from the audience—but they stood shoulder to shoulder in their desire and determination to win the war.
But as he went on, Karen began to feel uneasy. For the first time she saw the flaw in his approach. In Australia the phrase ‘war against drugs’ was hardly ever used. The war existed but it was rarely named, instead spoken of in terms of violence and harm minimisation, money laundering and personal tragedy. The purpose of this, she now saw, was to avoid acknowledging that the drug prohibition lay at the root of so much serious crime, to pretend that all these problems existed independently of each other and could be solved separately. It was an evasion of understanding.
Stephen was asking people to understand, he wanted them to see the problem in terms that would encourage them to support his own solution. But if they began to talk of it as a war, they would have to compare it with other wars and think about success and failure, exit strategies. Suddenly she saw how desperately they did not want to think about such matters. She needed to take Stephen aside and tell him this, but of course it was too late. He was on the stage of the Opera House, being cheered.
It was the twins’ birthday and they were holding a party that afternoon, at the Laser Skirmish venue at Fox Studios. Stephen would not be there. Karen imagined a checklist in her mind, and began to go over the arrangements for the party. This she found immensely soothing. Georgia and Lizzie were alive and insistent, and they gave her hope. They too would grow up; but not just yet.
There was a bad accident in Gardeners Road, the traffic almost at a standstill for an hour. Stuck in her car, Bec eyed the storm clouds gathering overhead, waited for the downpour but it didn’t come. Maybe they would move on, dump their load out to sea.
When they’d reached Shepley Close a few hours ago, she’d parked and checked out the tennis courts across the road, where a dozen people were playing. Happy people, like those at the beach. Said, ‘Don’t call anyone from the house.’
Sharon yawned and nodded. She seemed calmer, as though she’d handed over the burden of her fear, but it might just have been weariness. Out of the car, she stood for a moment, taking it all in, the neat grass and garden of the front yard, the heavy tile roof sitting on the brick box of the house. She seemed to be looking though the materials, at something else.
Finally she said, ‘I grew up in a street like this.’
Bec hadn’t; hers had been a long road of fibro houses and empty blocks, rubbish in most of the yards. It was public housing, with broken windows and blocked toilets. The residents had kept their pride by treating the houses with contempt.
She walked up the Neills’ front path and unlocked the door. As soon as she stepped in, the back of her neck tingled and she knew someone else was there. Pulling her gun, she signalled to Sharon to stay outside, then walked down the hall, slow and quiet on the thick carpet.
Lounge room clear. Kitchen too, but the back door had been forced open, lintel splintered. Hall clear bathroom and first bedroom, second bedroom. In the main, two figures asleep on the big bed, one disturbed by her arrival, yawning and sitting up. Young girl, pale skin, long black hair: familiar.
‘Gee Ian, it’s the cop.’
Bec felt outrage. Like they’d come into her own place, although it was worse. She’d brought this on Magda and Tim, felt angry with herself. Junkie shit. It was what drugs did, delete all decency.
Ian sat up, body propped on a thin white arm.
‘Oh fuck,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m so sorry. We just . . . we were so tired.’
‘Up,’ Bec said, holstering her weapon. ‘Into the lounge room.’
There were bars on the windows, so the kids couldn’t get out. Sharon was behind her, listening. Bec backed up the hall, explained. Ran her hands through her hair and Sharon put a hand on her shoulder.
Ian and Trish appeared out of the bedroom, carrying shoulder bags and blinking.
‘You little bastards,’ she said.
They stopped, Ian’s face going blank, Trish yawning and scratching herself through a black T-shirt. As though other people’s contempt put them at ease.
Bec said, ‘You don’t do this. Especially to people who have bought you food.’
‘We didn’t ask you to.’
‘You ate the food.’
Trish said, ‘Shit happens. Time for us to go,’ and went to walk past. Bec grabbed her arm.
Ian said, ‘We went down the tunnel yesterday, did twenty-four hours straight. Look!’
He produced a folded sheet of A4 paper from his pack, spread it out on a sideboard, monsters looming out of a primeval forest. Bec wanted to ram it down his throat.
‘The art is fantastic,’ said Trish proudly. ‘It’s finished now.’ They seemed to feel that if only they could explain their world to you, everything would be all right. ‘Got out just in time. “If it rains, no drains.”’
‘What?’ said Sharon.
‘Big storm on the way.’
‘Needed somewhere to kip,’ said Ian. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’m going to call the police,’ Bec said. ‘You broke down my friends’ back door. You cannot do things like this.’
Civics 101.
‘Bitch!’ said Trish.
‘You think you’re fucking outlaws,’ Bec said, as though she was the one who needed to explain. ‘But it’s not just the law you’re outside of, it’s human feeling. You’re . . . outliers.’
Not sure if that was the right word. But it felt close to right.
Ian was staring at the floor. ‘It’s okay.’
Bec called Emergency and gave details. Sharon had disappeared.
‘Fuck you,’ Trish said. ‘Fascist.’
‘Your shoes are wet, aren’t they? You slept in their bed, in your shoes!’
‘It’s up on the site urbanwanderer,’ Ian said, ‘getting a lot of attention. Some bloke told me there’s already a copy in Seattle. I just need another hour down there.’
‘I thought it was finished.’
‘Half an hour.’
‘Ian,’ she said, ‘it’s not just about you. You need to understand that.’
‘Yeah.’ He looked at her dully. ‘Yeah, I do. I’m really trying.’
More
like rejection than insolence. She’d been sure after last week there was a strand of feeling between them, but of course there wasn’t. Fucking junkies.
The uniforms arrived soon, Bec had said she was in the job. One took charge of the kids while Bec showed the other the kitchen and the main bedroom.
‘Who’s that?’ asked the uniform.
In one of the other bedrooms, Sharon was already asleep, a blanket across her chest. ‘Friend of mine. House-minding.’ She got the uniforms out of the house with the kids, Trish spitting on the grass as she was led to the truck. Bec hoped this would be the end of it, that the kids wouldn’t come back. The Neills were due home next week, with their two small children. She wanted no trouble for them.
One of the keys Magda had given her fitted the back part of the garage, a workshop. There were plenty of tools there and she figured she could repair the lintel; she’d once spent a fortnight with Magda building a spare room onto her grandmother’s place up the coast. Neither had much expertise, but as Magda said, men built things all the time, so it couldn’t be that hard. Fixing the door would give her something to do while waiting for Harris’s plane to land and Sharon to wake up. She found a tape and measured up the job, worked out the materials she’d need. Lots of concrete bolts to make it more secure than before. Inside, she closed the door as best she could and dragged a sideboard across, so it couldn’t be opened. Used her mobile to locate the nearest Bunnings and went into the bedroom. Sharon was on her side, the blanket fallen off and the contour of her body sinuous.
As Bec picked up the blanket she opened her eyes. ‘What you doing?’
‘You cold?’
‘Sleep, Bec, that’s what I need. You won’t tell anyone where I am?’
‘Only Harris, when I get on to him.’
‘But carefully.’
They’d already agreed: once she reached Harris, she would not provide the address until she called him again from a phone box. Her phone might be off by now, but his would be okay so that would be a clean call.
Sharon smiled and closed her eyes.
The trip to Alexandria took longer than expected, the number of cars on the roads diabolical. She wound down the window and felt not just the humidity but an increase in air pressure in advance of the approaching storm. Sydney had a few each year, and they were torrential, as though the city had been moved a few degrees closer to the equator.
On the way back, stuck in the traffic, she thought about Ian and his mother, what it must be like for Karen. There was a word, distrainor, that might have been invented for the kid: one who subjects another to distress. Chevon had been like that too. Lately her mother’s beauty had gone, and men no longer came to her. She’d got a job with Community Services so she could still get the drama, but at a remove now.
The phone rang and she hoped it was Harris and not Vella. It was Knight, asking if she’d heard more from Beirut. She said no, and explained about Sharon, her claim there were leaks from within the police. Didn’t say Sharon was an undercover cop. Did say she had her stashed in the house of an old navy friend. Didn’t say where. She had to keep that in the front of her mind now: Knight might be the one.
‘You’ve finished your job down there, Sarge?’
‘Just about.’
‘Funny they asked you back, isn’t it?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘In the middle of a murder trial. What was it, crime of the century?’
‘You and me, we need to have a chat. When I get back.’
‘Can’t be too soon.’
Take it up to him. But Knight just laughed. ‘That Harris,’ he said, ‘telling us Zames had disappeared.’
‘He’s a bastard.’
‘Been called worse. You found out anything more?’
‘Lots of things. Like I say, we need to talk.’
‘Let’s talk now.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘It might be important to tell me now.’
‘Goodbye.’
By the time she reached Shepley Close, the tennis players had departed and the courts were in darkness. One lamppost illuminated a small section of the park, and a light was on in a front room of the house. The townhouse development next door was dark too. She got out, and a few big drops of rain fell on her face, oddly heavy, as though the sky was leaking. She went into the front yard, saw the door was open and pulled out her gun. If it was the kids again . . .
‘Police,’ she called at the front door. ‘Anyone there?’
‘Bec, mate.’
Entered and turned left, Harris sitting on the big sofa in the lounge room. In her chest a surge of relief did battle with the adrenaline as she replaced the weapon. Stubble, white T-shirt beneath a brown leather jacket, jeans and workboots. Back from a hard day burning marijuana plants in the mountains, phone in hand, fingers twitching with it, as though wanting to call someone but not sure who.
Confused, Bec said, ‘Sharon rang you?’
Harris nodded, said heavily, as though he had a cold, ‘Sorry I haven’t returned your calls, not sure about security. Grateful for what you’ve done today. We’ll handle it now.’
He looked different, his face darker than she remembered, a mixture of sunburn and dirt. Because of this, his blue eyes seemed more intense.
She blurted, ‘The way you handled her and Teller, it was a disgrace.’
‘What?’ Eyebrows raised, Harris ran a hand over his cheeks. He looked tired. ‘Bec, mate.’ Shook his head, gathering himself. ‘You don’t know the half of it, not one tenth. Constable.’
There was contempt there, and complete certainty. Suddenly aware of her ignorance, and her presumption, Bec craved forgiveness, realised it was too late.
Harris sighed and slipped the phone in a pocket. ‘It’s important you leave now. That’s an order. I’ll arrange for a guard on the house overnight.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Not your business anymore.’ Harris coughed several times, banged his chest. ‘Smoke, fucking dope plants when they burn.’ Then, change of tack. ‘Thanks again for your help. This is all confidential, you know. You can’t tell anyone. Go now.’
He leaned forward, rubbed his hands together. The sense he wasn’t taking her seriously made her reluctant to move. Not just her, but the situation. There was something wrong, or at least not right. She said, ‘You should have been here.’
‘Yeah, well, I am now.’
‘I’d like to say goodbye to Sharon.’
‘Too late. We’ve moved her. I’m about to follow. Thought you might be my ride.’
‘It’s my friend’s house. The back door’s fucked.’
‘We’ll fix it, talk to you tomorrow. You’ve got to go now. That’s an order.’
His voice was slow and rasping, as though the energy was draining out of him.
‘I’ll just—’
‘Piss off, okay? I’m not going to say it again.’
She felt a jolt of anger and walked out, but not to the front door.
‘Come back here,’ Harris called from behind her. ‘Wait!’
Ian was lying on the kitchen floor, staring at the ceiling. There was a terrible wound in the centre of his chest, a pool of blood on the shiny slate floor. Like most rooms with a body in them, this one looked all wrong.
Mate, there is so much trouble this weekend and it is all that one word—Shada. On Friday we is all going to the mosque to pray, this is what we people is calling jumma, and the imam is telling us a sermon about how the women needs to be modest in all things, a sermon like we is all hearing a hundred times. Then on Saturday afternoon Shada is coming home from Lakemba shops wearing a burqa and I’m telling you at first I did not recognise her and then I am almost crying because it is a thing like no woman in our family has ever worn before. The papa is yelling at her and screaming, and the mama too is on the phone with all the emotion, and there is nothing new about that. I am thinking, we yell and scream all the time, so what is there to do now something really serious i
s happening like this?
Shada is having this strange conversation with them, saying they educated her to be a strict Muslim girl, always watching her and never letting her go out with boys or study medicine, even when she was a child not letting her ride a bike like us boys, because of the hymen thing. Do you remember Baiyeh hitting me when I got on John’s bike that time? she says to the mama. And now I am turning out to be a good Muslim, just like I was educated for, so do not be sad. She is saying other things too, like how good it is to be a Muslim and get up at three o’clock in the morning to have breakfast during Ramadan and how she loves going to the mosque at Eid and loads of other stuff, like she is having some sort of nervous breakdown. The mama is just crying when I talk to her on the phone and I can see the difference, it is like Shada has decided to be logical while the mama just wants nothing to change. I is thinking both of them are going to be very unhappy.
The papa is ringing Farid and having this conversation with him and giving the phone to me. Farid is saying, John you have to keep the old man under control and stop him ringing me all the time when I have business and stuff with my family and shit. Bro, cannot you give Shada a word or something from me and tell her enough of the drama? He is sounding really angry and I am thinking there is so much here I want to talk to him about but Jamila is right and you cannot talk to Farid anymore. I try anyway and there is an argument and Farid yells at me to shut up and when it is calm again he says, Shada will be all right when she gets married and has children. We is needing to introduce her to some good boys John, not any gangsters or something. Maybe you can find her a lawyer or a doctor?
Shada goes into her room and comes out later for dinner but does not have the burqa on no more, and the family calms down. I am at home even though it is Saturday night because Dani has gone to a concert I do not want to go to with some of her skip girlfriends. Rafi is out even though his bail curfew is 6 pm and the papa rings him to come home but he says he is celebrating the end of his trial even though it is not the end yet and he tells the papa the jacks would not be making trouble for him now it is almost over. The papa tells us this at dinner and shakes his head and says he wishes the mama was here. After the meal I do not go out with my mates but I play chess with Shada, something we have not done for a long time. Before I met Dani I was playing chess with Shada almost every day because she sure likes that game.
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