A couple of blocks before Christian's building, Seren checked her digital recorder again. It had become a stupid ritual. She had to press record, capture something, rewind and play it back; she'd watch the tiny screen with the sound off. Then she'd do it again. She always operated the camera using the most minute of movements, hooking her thumb into the pocket just inside her bag and depressing the button. The tiny device pointed its little glass nose out through the zipper and captured everything surrounding it in surprising detail. She knew exactly where it was by feel. But if something distracted her, if she even suspected that there'd been a break in her concentration, she'd have to do the ritual again. Twice. Lately, if she'd had a negative feeling during the process, she'd do it three times. One extra to counteract the bad thoughts.
You're losing it, Templeton, she told herself in the cab. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. An intern psychologist at the gaol had told her about the term, and she wished now that she'd never agreed to go along with the stupid test. Some uni girl had arrived at the prison, shining and brand new, bubbling along behind her supervisor, the burned-out prison psych, Eleanor Carnegie. Carnegie had asked if anyone would be willing to become a subject for Naomi Willis. She was already a full psychologist, and was studying for her masters, the psych had told them. Poor old Carnegie, Seren had thought at the time. The girls had told Seren in her first week that Carnegie was a soft touch. Had more days' sick leave than she showed up, and if you had a session with her, well fuck knew, you'd be handing her the tissues before she passed them across the desk.
Some of the prisoners had signed up for the sessions because it got them out of duties. Seren had signed up because that girl could be her. If her dad hadn't died. If her mum hadn't hooked up with that motherfucker. If she hadn't had Marco at fifteen.
Marco was another reason she'd signed up. Because Seren signed up for anything in there – anything that would keep her from thinking about her little boy and how the hell he was coping without her.
She'd completed hundreds of questions for Naomi. And after all the psychobabble, Uni Girl had told her what she already knew. That Seren was traumatised by her childhood – yay, Naomi, top of the class – and that she had a tendency to be obsessive. Seren had never heard most of the terms before Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Fucked up, is how she'd interpreted them. Well, fuck them, she'd thought. If they can break it, I can fix it.
She'd told Naomi thanks but no thanks for the ongoing therapy sessions and went back to her revenge fantasies. No point forever living in the past. Seren had a son. He had a future, and she was going to make sure he got there with less baggage than she'd dragged into hers.
Now, she stepped out of the taxi and handed the frothing driver a cab voucher without even looking at him. The longer she did this, the dirtier she felt. She shrugged off his leers, squared her shoulders, and stalked into the lobby of the impressive building as though she owned it.
Christian waited by the lifts. Always on time. Always the gentleman. Thirty metres of gleaming granite stretched between them, and as she sashayed towards him, she remembered crossing the same floor holding her little boy's hand on the way to visit the eye specialist. She clenched that hand now, as though his chubby fist was still in her own, giving her strength as it had that day, each of them then overwhelmed by the sophistication of the city.
No wonder she had been completely bowled over by this guy, she thought. Christian Worthington leaned against the wall, spotlit by points of illumination embedded in the floor, the ceiling and the wall around him. As though surrounded by magic. He might as well have been from another universe. Any man caught in her housing estate wearing a scarf like that loosely draped around his neck would find himself bent over a public toilet servicing Tready and the other boys who'd done a lot of time; and doing it old-school, using a plastic bag as a condom, just like inside. But call one of those blokes a poofter and you wouldn't live another week – they knew they loved women; it was just that they had got a taste for the girly-boys in the lock-up, and it was fun to eat out for a change.
But in this world, Christian belonged. No – more than that. It seemed to Seren as though he stood above it, reaching down to manipulate things the way he liked them, so that everything was always perfect, for him.
Like he had written the software.
Seren crossed the last three strides between them, a knowing smile in her bottomless blue eyes. She snaked a bare arm around his shoulder and nuzzled his neck in greeting.
She wondered how he'd feel if he knew she was a virus in his system.
Byron slammed his hand against the steering wheel and screamed.
'For fucksakes, you fucking cunt, the light was orange, you coulda gone through that, you piece of shit!'
He thought about taking his wog-basher out from under the passenger seat and teaching this fucker in the Volvo that he should have learned how to drive before he dragged his arse out here tonight. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to get himself together. Get a grip, Byron, he told himself. This is your step up in the world. He forced himself not to look at the clock as he waited. It had taken him twenty minutes to get around the Pitt–George–Market Street block. Why would anyone wanna come into this fucking city anyway, he wondered.
At the front of Worthington's building he pulled the Rexie into a no standing zone. Motherfuckers could give him a ticket: he didn't care. Worthington could take care of that too. He jumped out of his cockpit and popped the boot, pulled back the carpet and lifted out the gym bag. He glanced down at his shiny Nike tracksuit: it was the latest from the US. A little too cool for the couriers around here, but he figured he could pass. Besides, Worthington said he'd wait for him in the lobby, to get him up past security. Byron beep-locked the Rexie and jogged into the building.
Well fuck me sideways, he thought, spotting Worthington immediately, standing beside the security desk. That lucky motherfucker. Byron didn't think he had ever seen a chick that hot in his life, even with her short hair. Tall bitch, though, he thought as he got closer. She's as tall as Worthington. Bet she's a model, he thought. Bet she won't even look at me. But if she's hanging round with Worthington she's probably got a coke habit. Byron knew that only beautiful girls got coke habits – the dealers wouldn't waste the blow on the fat ones. Byron increased his swagger just a smidge. Well, he was a new player now. Maybe he could get this bitch to look at him. The height difference wouldn't worry him – it was all the same when they were on their knees.
'You're a little late, Byron,' said Worthington.
'Yeah, sorry, boss. Fucken traffic.'
'Yes. Let's get you out of here.' Worthington nodded at the security guard staring at them and turned towards the lifts. On the move, he said, 'Byron, this is Seren; Seren, Byron.'
Byron stared up at the girl, expecting her to stare straight through him. Instead, he felt suddenly as though he were falling, lost in her blue eyes. Rather than the vacant, soulless, is-someone-there-I-can't-see-anything look he got from most bitches, this chick's eyes seemed to tell a tale that went forever – speaking intensely to him. Byron couldn't understand a word.
He dropped his gaze back to the ground, as much as an instinctive avoidance of the cameras everywhere in this fucking building as a way to hide the way he felt. How he felt, he had no idea. He only knew he could never handle a bitch like this, on her knees or not, and he hated Worthington more than ever for being able to control someone like her.
All the way up in the elevators Seren prayed that the bag held what she thought it did. This Byron could not more stereotypically fit the part. Oh my God, that tracksuit! He had to be a drug dealer, didn't he? The size of the bag worried her, though. It was too big. There was no way all of whatever was in there was drugs. Could it be cash?
It could, Seren, she told herself, just be this wannabe's change of clothes for the night. He might just be Christian's client.
But there was something about the way Christian had introduce
d them, about the importance he'd placed on meeting this guy in the lobby, about the tension she perceived emanating from Christian's body.
Another thought occurred to her as they walked down the quiet fluorescent hallway past closed doors on the way to Christian's office. If this was a major drug deal, why would he do it in front of her? But then again, why not? she answered herself. She'd seen him do plenty of deals; he trusted her. And even if he didn't, who was she to threaten him? He was Christian Worthington. She was a parolee.
A parolee with a digital camera.
Seren prayed tonight would be the night.
Byron didn't know what the chick was doing here.
Well, he got it that Worthington wouldn't want this one getting too far away from him on a Saturday night. Just on the way round the block out the front he'd seen two SL600s and a new Bentley. That was 1.5 mil right there. Plenty of money out there to snatch a girl like this right out from under a prick's nose. But surely Christian would make her wait somewhere else while they did the deed? Bitches shouldn't be involved in business: that was Byron's motto.
He let himself fall a couple of steps behind them, imagined himself holding that arse. He smiled – he was going to be imagining that picure a fair bit, he knew, starting later tonight.
Oh shit! Byron dropped his eyes to the floor. Blondie had seen him checking her out. His cheeks flamed. Did she just wink at him? Nah, Byron, you silly prick, he told himself. She must have had something in her eye. That is, unless she does know what's in this bag, and wants a little taste.
Just focus on what you're doing here, Byron. One thing at a time. Kasem's waiting at Merrylands, and I've gotta bring him back eighty grand. This is the start of something big. Finally, I'm gonna get some big-time action, he thought. He was getting tired of the looking-around-hands-in-pockets-quick-swap kind of deals done in alleyways. Pockets full of sweaty twenties and wads of little plastic bags.
This is the kind of work I want to do, he told himself. Proper business deals in places like this, with people like them – he watched the backs of the gods walking before him. Byron straightened a little, and then spotted the winking blue light at the end of the corridor and dropped his eyes again.
Knowing how badly she'd regret this later – leaving with nothing – Cassie forced herself again to the office door. She had to go. Right then, Christian's voice approached from the hall outside.
Her heart jumped to her throat. With no idea why she would do such a thing, she dived into the coat cupboard at the entrance to the room. She left the door open just a crack.
She stood there in the semi-dark wardrobe, feeling like a complete idiot. At least she had a few more moments to figure out how this Saturday night was going to play out. Would she wait until Christian left, find her own way out and telephone for a bed at a detox clinic? Or, would the need to quench this anxiety just one more time see her use this cupboard to check her own coat and go out to meet Christian wearing just the boots?
At least it's good to have choices, she thought.
51
Saturday 13 April, 7.55 pm
Damien left the note for Whitey on his pillow and pulled the bedroom door closed. One thing he would not miss, he decided, would be the stench of this house. He made a face. When he got settled he'd have someone come and clean for him every week, and he'd make sure his place smelled great. He'd been learning about the chemical components and synthesis of scent this past semester, and he'd been thinking that he might try his hand at making perfume. There was money in that too. He smiled. He could make a signature scent just for Erin. Might not get him the same kudos as a handful of eccy, but he figured that any girl would like their own designer perfume, especially if it came delivered with a business-class trip to the UK.
'Hey, uni boy. Nice bag. Is that what the in-crowd carries around these days?'
Damien bolted for the front door, ripped it open and smacked straight into Urgill's chest. The bald man belly-charged him back into his lounge room and he tripped, falling backwards and landing spreadeagled, staring up at the ceiling.
'Where you off to tonight, uni boy?' Kasem Nader stood up from the lounge and prodded at Damien's ribs with a pointy-toed boot.
Damien just lay there.
'Not a lot of work going on around here,' Nader said. 'That's not what a business partner likes to see.' Nader stepped over Damien and walked towards the kitchen. Damien heard the front door close and saw Agassi follow Urgill into his house.
'You see, what you've got here, Damo, are a few mystery shoppers,' said Nader. 'It's a business term; not sure whether you're familiar with it. Anyway, basically, management – that would be me – sends in a couple of people to check on progress when their staff – that would be you – least expect it.' He smacked his hand down onto a large box on the counter that hadn't been there before Damien went to his room to get the necklace.
Prick must've let himself in while I had my head in the roof, Damien guessed.
'Now, I know Whitey's on his way over here,' said Nader. 'And I told Byron to get his arse back here after he makes some deliveries for us. But, you, you're the chef, Damo, and you can't just go clocking off whenever you want. There are no union hours in the drug trade, mate.' He moved back towards Damien. 'You bloody uni students. You're all left-wing unionists, I know.' He smiled widely. 'What are you still doing on your arse, you idiot?' Nader reached out a hand and Damien saw nothing else he could do but take it. Nader yanked him to his feet, and gave him a playful punch to the deltoid. He nearly hit the rug again. Fuck.
Damien rubbed his throbbing shoulder. There was obviously no way he could get out of here tonight, and the longer he stayed in Australia, the closer he was coming to copping formal charges. He didn't know what would happen then about travelling. Could they automatically stop him at the airport when he tried to buy a ticket? He didn't know how these things worked.
'So where were you going anyway, Damo?' Nader wanted to know.
'Just to get something to eat,' he said, his voice reedy and high-pitched. I sound like I've just been castrated, he thought. He stared morosely at the thugs who shared his lounge room and figured he pretty much had been. 'You scared the fuck out of me. I didn't know who you were, sitting there.'
'Yeah? You don't need to be scared of me, Damo.' Nader turned to Urgill. 'Go get some food,' he said. 'What do you want, Damien? Chinese? KFC? What about Lebo?'
'Whatever,' said Damien. As if he'd be able to eat anything. What the hell would happen with the listening device now? Would this mean the cops would say he hadn't cooperated? They couldn't! Detective Jackson said she'd make sure Kasem Nader wouldn't come over here tonight. Great job there.
'What's that?' Damien asked, walking towards the kitchen and the box that took up most of the bench. Nothing he could do about the cops now. He was stuck here with these pricks until they decided they were ready to go.
'Pseudo,' said Nader.
'What, all of it?'
Nader laughed. 'You think that's a lot? You toys. I've got a fucking warehouse of this shit. You'll get a box a day for starters until we can get somewhere bigger for a better production run.'
This time Damien laughed. It sounded as though he'd inhaled helium. 'Are you crazy! Where the hell did you get that much? And anyway, I can't cook that fast. We're not set up to turn around that much shit.'
'So we set you up,' said Nader. 'That's another reason that you're where you are, Damien, and I'm where I am. You see an obstacle; I see a solution. You see a problem; I see an opportunity. But that's okay. That's why there are soldiers and generals.' He moved to stand next to Damien and gripped his shoulder. 'I don't even know that I'd call you a soldier, Damo. Agassi, over there? Now, he's a soldier. Urgill, soldier. What are you? Maybe you're in the engineering corps? Is that what they call it? Whatever. You're my little uni boy, and you're finally gonna learn what it means to work.'
Nader turned to face his friends. 'Hey, Agassi, you heard that joke about the uni student who goes
for a job in a deli to pay his way through school?'
'Nuh,' said Agassi. He didn't sound as though he especially wanted to.
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