Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  The restaurant was busy, mostly holidaying families salvaging a highlight from a dismal day. Sam was eating grilled snapper and I was tackling chilli crabs. We were drinking Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc. Sam’s treat.

  ‘Can I keep this?’ Sam said, indicating the Black Sabbath T-shirt he was wearing, which was one of Toby’s.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head.

  ‘Did you tell Mum about last night?’ Sam asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you wouldn’t do that. You’d expect me to tell her.’

  I nodded. ‘And will you?’

  ‘Sure. In about a year.’

  When I’d stopped laughing, I recounted my conversation with his mother, and then asked if Harper had told him anything about the vandalism at Tattings.

  ‘You mean Knickergate?’ Sam said.

  ‘Yes, I do. Your mum caught the culprit today.’

  ‘Mum did! Who was it?’ Sam was visibly impressed.

  Thinking that it might be helpful to have a young person’s perspective on this, I related the information Harper had given me. Maybe Sam would have a fresh angle.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense that Mary Whatsits was jealous,’ he commented.

  ‘Niles,’ I corrected. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, according to Mum, everyone hates the four victims. You don’t get jealous of classmates that nobody likes. That doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  I stared at him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You envy kids who are top at sport, or achieve good grades, or are popular. Not the mean girls.’

  ‘So give me some reasons why Mary might have done this?’

  Sam took a bite of fish, sipped his wine and put down his knife and fork. He placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together just like his father, and I couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘I think they were bullying her,’ he concluded. ‘And it got so bad that she retaliated. Mary would be ripe pickings, a dumpy scholarship kid with a single mother and disabled sister. I bet they were making her life hell. It’s the sort of thing that mean girls do—go for the weak and vulnerable.’

  ‘Have you ever been bullied?’ I asked.

  ‘Once, at primary school.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was being thumped by a kid on a daily basis. One day he took my lunch and threw it on the ground and stomped on it. I told Max and he and two friends tied the kid to the school fence and peed on him. It never happened again.’

  I laughed aloud. ‘Does your mother know about this?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Max would still be in counselling.’

  We ate in silence for a while as I mulled over Sam’s theory on Mary Niles and bullying. It made a lot of sense.

  ‘You know, you’ve been very helpful,’ I told him.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Can I have the shirt?’

  Later that evening, while Sam and I were watching television, I came straight out with it.

  ‘I’m a yarn bomber,’ I announced. ‘I belong to an underground group called the Guerilla Knitters Institute, GKI for short, and members go out at night and decorate objects about town with knitted items. Technically it’s graffiti, but we prefer to call our activities urban beautification. We cover trees, fences, signposts. Don’t tell your mother.’

  Sam looked at me as if the chair I was sitting on had spoken.

  ‘You what?’ he said.

  It’s always a thrill to shock a young person, particularly a relative.

  ‘You heard,’ I said. ‘And tonight the GKI meeting is at midnight on my back verandah. Then we’re going on a mission. I have to tell you as it’s too late to cancel, so you have a choice, and both choices involve you being sworn to secrecy.’

  Sam’s mouth had fallen open.

  ‘Sweet as,’ he said once he’d recovered. ‘Old Aunt Scout’s a graffiti artist!’

  ‘I’m serious, Sam, you must never tell anyone.’ My expression was grave.

  ‘Hell, you are serious, aren’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘Your choices are to do nothing and say nothing, or I’m inviting you to be a part of GKI. What we do is against the law, though we never do anything that causes permanent damage, or isn’t easily and safely removed. But you need to be clear, before making a decision, that our activities may have unwanted consequences. You also need to know that tonight’s mission involves the police station where you were held last night.’

  ‘Does Hibiscus Man know about this? Is he part of it?’

  I shook my head. ‘No way.’ For some strange reason the fact that Rafe might be working the night shift again, and might therefore be at the station, only served to add to the risk and my excitement.

  ‘Do you have tags like real graffiti artists?’ Sam asked.

  ‘We do. I’m Adam’s Rib. The rest of the GKI members are Bodkin, Purl One, Needles and Old Blood and Guts.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. You’re having me on?’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ I assured him. ‘Do you want to be involved?’

  Decision-making wasn’t a problem for Sam, and I could tell that he was excited by the idea.

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from seeing this one,’ he said. ‘Does Toby know?’

  ‘No one knows, Sam, only you. Members of GKI never use their real names, so you’ll have to come up with your own tag before the meeting, and then I can introduce you to the others.’

  While I explained more about GKI, we kitted Sam out with black clothes from Toby’s Byron pile. Then I unlocked the steamer trunk, took out the bag of knitted rectangles, a reel of bright orange ribbon and two black balaclavas. I handed one of the balaclavas to Sam.

  ‘How come you’ve got so many?’ Sam said, peering into the trunk at the large bundle of balaclavas. ‘It looks like you’re planning a major robbery.’

  ‘Purl One knits them during meetings,’ I explained. ‘She enjoys it and they’ll come in handy if there’s another ice age.’

  Chairman Meow suddenly leapt from the sofa into the trunk and he made angry meows when I lifted him out and closed the lid.

  ‘You haven’t told me about the other members yet,’ Sam said, pulling the balaclava on and moving his head from side to side. ‘What sort of people are they?’

  ‘Hardened criminals,’ I told him. ‘Bodkin, the only male, is a lawyer, Needles is a grandmother and works in a bakery, Old Blood and Guts is a female surgeon, and her friend, Purl One, is a jewellery designer.’

  ‘The dregs of society, then,’ Sam said, and I grinned.

  ‘You don’t need to wear the balaclava for the meeting,’ I told him. ‘We put them on as we leave on the mission. If the police turn up, run like hell, and you have to swear to me that if you’re caught you won’t divulge anyone’s identity.’

  Sam pulled the balaclava off, ruffled his curls back into position and placed his hand on his heart. ‘I do.’

  ‘Your heart’s on the other side,’ I informed him. ‘Now, do you have any questions?’

  ‘Am I the youngest?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Yes, you’re our student.’

  ‘Does Needles bring leftover cakes from the bakery?’

  I nodded. Boys!

  Sam suddenly looked crestfallen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said, ever the worried aunt.

  Sam plonked down on the sofa, put his head in his hands and moaned, ‘I can’t knit!’

  When I’d stopped laughing, I said, ‘Trust me, Sam, that’s the least of your worries.’

  Chapter 35

  At 11.50 pm I changed into black clothes and Sam and I lit citronella candles on the back verandah and put bowls of olives and nuts on the table. Chairman Meow had commandeered the wicker chair in the corner near the washing machine so he could keep an eye on proceedings.

  ‘Should I put out water and glasses?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No, we drink gin slings.’

  Sam looked impressed. ‘Way to go, Aunt Scout.’

  ‘Ada
m’s Rib,’ I reminded him.

  At midnight Bodkin, Purl One, Needles and Old Blood and Guts arrived, all dressed in black and bearing gifts. Bodkin was carrying a bottle of gin, Purl One a bottle of sweet vermouth, Needles a large plastic bag full of bread and cakes, and Old Blood and Guts three pizzas and a mesh bag of lemons.

  ‘You must be Sam,’ Needles said, grinning at him.

  ‘Headlice,’ Sam corrected, and Old Blood and Guts laughed.

  Raising an eyebrow at Sam, I made a mental memo to ask him later what on earth headlice had to do with knitting or wool. Obviously Old Blood and Guts had made the connection.

  ‘Is he sworn in?’ Purl One asked me.

  I nodded. ‘I’ve explained everything and he wants to be part of GKI.’

  Using their tags, members introduced themselves to Headlice, and shook hands with him. Bodkin and Old Blood and Guts made the gin slings, I put napkins on the table for the pizzas, and Chairman Meow said hello to everyone and then hopped back on his corner chair.

  The meeting officially opened at 12.30 am, and I noticed Sam looking around in a sort of childlike wonder. I wasn’t surprised. Here we were, in the dead of night, speaking in hushed voices, wearing black and holding a meeting by candlelight while drinking gin slings and eating pizza. Sam saw me staring at him, grinned widely and raised his glass to me. It was a very bonding moment.

  Needles chaired the meeting and, keeping her voice low, ran through the order of play for tonight’s caper, reassured us that it wouldn’t rain, made sure we all had coloured rectangles, elicited from Bodkin that he was okay with the mission and, looking at Sam, double-checked that no one carried any ID or mobile phones.

  Sam shook his head. ‘The only thing I’ve got to identify me is the same DNA as Adam’s Rib,’ Sam said, and Needles gave him the thumbs-up.

  ‘Here,’ I said to Sam, handing him the reel of orange ribbon, a tape measure and scissors. ‘Cut thirty even lengths of thirty centimetres.’

  The rest of the meeting was taken up reminiscing about the orange wigs and showing round the photos, eating, drinking, handing out surgical gloves (provided by Old Blood and Guts) and making sure we all carried doggy treats in our pockets, just in case.

  At 2 am we each collected orange ribbons from the table, pulled on our balaclavas and gloves and shook hands, our pre-mission ceremonial signal that the game was on.

  Sam let out a huge laugh.

  ‘Shhh!’ we all chimed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, making an apologetic gesture. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, lad, laugh all you want, but do it quietly,’ Bodkin said softly. ‘This is about creating fun, biting our thumbs at the establishment, having an adrenaline rush. If everyone’s ready, we’ll go.’

  Following Needles, we moved silently along the back lane, through alleyways and over the railway line, ducking into doorways and behind lampposts like covert stalkers. Suddenly a vehicle came heading along Shirley Street towards us. Just in time, we ducked behind bushes, escaping the headlights. When the coast was clear, Needles hooted softly and we crept on.

  As I’d told Sam, our target was the police station, though more specifically it was the parking lot. Our aim was to cover each windscreen wiper on the police vehicles with one of the knitted woolen rectangles, tying them on neatly with brightly coloured orange ribbons. This was a brilliantly conceived mission created by Needles—difficult, risky and extremely silly. It ticked all the right boxes.

  As aesthetics are an important component of our urban beautification, the wipers on each vehicle had to match and, as Sam and I had the longer purple rectangles, Needles pointed us to the large police van. She then directed Bodkin and his bright pink rectangles to a car near the exit, Purl One and her red rectangles to the car next to it, Old Blood and Guts with rainbow-wool rectangles to the one in the corner, and Needles herself set about the last car nearest the station steps with her bright yellow rectangles.

  Sam and I were tying our purple rectangles onto the police van’s wipers when I heard a soft hoot from Needles. I grabbed Sam’s arm. Two seconds later a male officer walked out of the station and came down the steps into the parking area. Sam and I dropped silently to the ground and commando-crawled under the van.

  From my position I could see the man clearly and it wasn’t Rafe, nor for that matter was it anyone I recognised. The officer looked around and lit a cigarette, then proceeded to wander about the yard while he smoked. I tried to remain calm, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth—GKI were sunk if he noticed the covers on the wipers. He’d be sure to call the other police to come out and look, and one of them was certain to spot us. Added to this was the very real risk of another police vehicle pulling into the parking lot or, worse still, this officer climbing into one of the cars when he finished his cigarette and driving over one of us.

  My heart was in my mouth and, although I couldn’t see Bodkin, I knew his heart would be doing the salsa. The consequences of a senior criminal lawyer being caught skulking around outside a police station while wearing a balaclava didn’t bear thinking about.

  When the officer had finished his cigarette, he ground the butt into the asphalt with his size tens, picked it up and flicked it into the bushes. Then he put his hands in his pockets and walked up the steps and back into the station.

  I sighed with relief and put my hand on Sam’s arm to indicate that he wasn’t to move. We stayed that way for more than five minutes until Needles hooted the all-clear, and then, one by one, GKI members emerged in silence from under vehicles and behind bushes. Bodkin, when he stood up, had his hands in the air as if someone had a gun in his back, and I knew the others would be quietly laughing, too.

  Bodkin drew his hand across his throat indicating that it was time to cut loose, and he bent down and crept out of the parking lot followed by Needles. Purl One and Old Blood and Guts were rapidly tidying the ribbons on their wipers, making them look pretty. Quickly, I finished securing our purple covers on the van’s wipers, and then Sam and I crept out of the police station grounds and joined the others on Shirley Street. Without talking, and keeping low, we crept back over the railway line, Needles in front and Bodkin bringing up the rear.

  At the corner of Jonson Street we all shook hands in silence and then dispersed, like thieves in the night.

  ‘It doesn’t get much better than that,’ I said to Sam as we ran laughing all the way home. As soon as we reached the back verandah, we removed our balaclavas.

  ‘What if he’d caught us?’ Sam said, leaning over and breathing heavily, as much, I suspected, from adrenaline as from running.

  ‘That’s the thrill,’ I crowed, ‘the risk of getting caught.’

  ‘That was the best,’ Sam said, shaking his head and grinning at me. ‘Almost better than . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ I finished for him, and I grinned, too. Sam’s eyes were sparkling with excitement and I momentarily rode on a warm wave of familial love. Truly, I hadn’t anticipated the sheer joy of sharing my secret with one of my nephews.

  ‘Are you sure Hibiscus Man doesn’t know about this?’ Sam said.

  ‘I told you, no one knows but you.’ However, I wasn’t totally sure that Hibiscus Man didn’t suspect me.

  ‘So you chose to trust me and no one else in the whole family?’ Sam said, looking smug.

  I nodded. Then I said, ‘Headlice? I can’t work that one out.’

  ‘Knits, nits—get it?’ Sam scratched his head to reinforce the image.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Good one.’

  ‘I’ll never tell,’ Sam declared, his tone at once serious.

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  ‘It would take all the fun out of it—be like Sir Percy Blakeney telling everyone he was the Scarlet Pimpernel. Takes all the excitement away,’ he said.

  ‘Atta boy.’

  Chapter 36

  On Wednesday morning Sam and I searched local media websites for any reports on our GKI activit
ies, but there was nothing so far. Sam said he would listen to local radio on his way north and call me if there was anything on the news.

  As soon as Sam had left I called Marcia. She hadn’t seen anyone suspicious in Surfers Paradise yesterday, but had only stayed a short while because of the rain. We arranged that I would pick her up from Burleigh Heads at noon, and then we’d head up to Surfers together for my meeting with Cinnamon Toast.

  For a moment I toyed with the idea of telling Marcia what I’d learned from Dan and his patient, but then I decided it wasn’t morning telephone material. Like the rest of my plans for today, that particular discussion would have to fall under the master plan of watch, see and decide.

  The dark rainy skies of yesterday afternoon had moved offshore and the sun was dodging in and out of little white puffs of cottonwool clouds. After I’d fed Chairman Meow, I made a pot of Old Socks and sat on the back verandah sipping tea and staring at a photo of Tildy Wilding, memorising the pretty delicate features, the warm brown eyes and the small beauty spot beneath her left eye. I did the same with the photograph of Casey Steinman, alias Harmony Bliss—blonde hair, wide blue eyes, broad smile and perfect teeth: the quintessential American cheerleader.

  The home phone interrupted my concentration and I ran inside in case it was Marcia changing plans. It wasn’t Marcia, it was Rafe and, like an ardent romance heroine, I automatically placed a hand to my throat. As if by stealth, an image of Rafe forced itself, uninvited, into my mind. He was standing by the phone, a white towel secured low around his waist, his hand sweeping long sensuous fingers through thick black curls that were tussled and damp from the shower, the soft dark hair glistening in his raised armpit . . .

  ‘How’s Pavarotti?’ Rafe asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Sam went home this morning,’ I said merrily. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I was on night shift last night and can’t sleep. There’s something troubling me,’ Rafe said.

  Oh, help! He had to know about the covers on the wipers in the car park. Was that why he was calling? Had we been seen? Had Rafe recognised me?

  ‘You’re probably overtired,’ I said casually.