Shoot Through

by J. M. Green

  At midday I walked to Union Road for eggs and coffee, a little unsteady, but not hungover as such. I sat at an outside table at Buffy’s with my ugly sunglasses on and a cloak of hostility, warding off anyone who might want a chat — even Lucas, who brought me my food with a cheery remark about the weather. I cut him off. Sunshine was not to be remarked upon. This was Australia, what did he expect? A blizzard?

  My mobile vibrated. Kylie. I tried to dismiss the call, but hit the wrong button.

  ‘Stella! Just got your message! Well done on the contract.’

  ‘Oh, right. Sure. Ben was —’

  ‘So you’re coming up next weekend?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Mum. Are we finally going to meet the mysterious Peter Brophy?’

  What was she on about? ‘Um, I guess.’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring the paperwork with you.’

  ‘No, sorry, I plan to leave it behind.’

  ‘But I need that for the —’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  ‘Oh, ha ha! Good one! So, I’ve been reading about Dexters, did you know they thrive on all kinds of pastures? They’re great doers, a real talent for foraging. That’ll save us heaps. We’re still working out the stocking rates, but the kangaroo numbers have gone up around here, bit of competition so —’

  ‘Sorry, Kylie, got another call. See you next weekend.’

  I ended the call and stabbed my yolk.

  Full of protein, I ordered another coffee and read the Sunday paper. I skipped the depressing piece about businesses underpaying employees and skimmed a finance article about how the United States Federal Reserve intended to stop feeding free money into their economy. Global apocalypse would follow. Lucas would be thrilled. And he was right, it really was a beautiful day. The wind had eased, providing Melbourne with a rare moment of stillness.

  A piece on private prisons caught my attention. It was by Father Rupert Baig, a Catholic priest and former prison chaplain. Certain private operators were so concerned with profits, he said, that they might put financial concerns ahead of their contractual obligations and the interests of citizens.

  My coffee was cold when I sat back to think, observing my fellow citizens going about their business. Did they care about the welfare of prisoners? Or the impending economic collapse? Or the underpayment of overworked employees at the local convenience store? I liked to think that they did. Most of them. Some of them. I was a starry-eyed loon.

  Back at the flat, I opened my laptop and wrote to Fr Baig, whose email address was printed at the end of the article. I mentioned my brother, Joe Phelan’s mother, and asked if he would have time to help me understand the issues in his essay.

  I googled BS12. Worldwide, they operated a lot of prisons. The company also provided security services. And they faced criminal charges in the UK over a failure to meet its contractual requirements at several events. Meanwhile, their website boasted:

  With employees numbering over 60,000, our international operation spans four continents: Europe, North America, Asia, and Australia and provides services in the sectors of private security, immigration, transport, and civic services. At BS12 our motto is, essential public services? It’s all BS!

  From further reading, it would appear that BS12 was so poorly managed it was barely functional. The company also gave large donations to both major Australian political parties. Of course, that was mandatory when bidding for million-dollar contracts in this country. Track record? Who cares, they gave us money. No wonder they flourished here.

  I left the laptop and picked up the dual-SIM phone that Loretta now thought of as hers. I tried to access the second SIM. The trick eluded me. I’d have to wait for Loretta to return and show me.

  A ding on my phone.

  Brash: G’day Hardy! News? Time’s a-wasting! One week to go.

  I replied: I’ve made a good start. Your texting is unnecessary.

  Ha ha. Get going!

  Another ding, this time my laptop. Father Baig had replied. He was at a conference in Auckland. But he could meet me on Wednesday evening after work, if that suited.

  I said it would. And I mentally took back every mean thing I’d ever said about priests, nuns, the Pope, the Vatican, Opus Dei, the Catholic Church, and Christianity in general.

  Instead of hanging around the flat waiting for Loretta, I went to the supermarket. I intended to make a curry for dinner tomorrow night. Brophy was coming, so it had to be special. At the checkout, I saw some cheap smartphones with a decent prepay deal. I bought one, plus an extra SIM card, and headed home.

  When I got in, the TV was on, but Loretta was on Joe’s mobile, crossed-legged on the sofa with Nigel.

  ‘How’s it all going in there?’

  She patted her belly. ‘Grouse. He’s moving around all the time.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon.’ She noticed the bags. ‘What’s all that?’

  ‘I’m cooking a veggie curry.’

  She looked genuinely horrified. ‘What about pizza again? I don’t mind. For tonight, too — order one extra, and have leftovers tomorrow.’

  On the matter of home-cooked curry, I would not be moved. She’d want to eat it when she inhaled the aromas. ‘It’s for tomorrow. I can’t serve Brophy leftovers.’

  She sat up. ‘Who’s Brophy?’

  ‘My boyfriend. You’ve met him. Remember? The other night when you came home late.’

  She slumped back down. ‘Oh. That guy.’

  I unpacked the groceries.

  After a moment, she said, ‘You feeling better, Stella? You were off your nut last night.’

  ‘It was nothing. Must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with me. I’m fine.’

  She was dubious. ‘But who was that horrible man? Bastard was going to kick Nigel.’

  I ignored the question and pulled out the mobile, still in its box. ‘Hey, Loretta, I bought you a phone.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She stared in disbelief, tears on her face. ‘Thank you so, so, so much.’

  Her gratitude made me uncomfortable. ‘It’s nothing, a cheapie. Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Stella, you’re amazing.’ She leapt up and gave me one of her bone-breaking hugs.

  ‘No. I’m really not.’ I patted her on the back. ‘I wonder if you could change the SIM to your new phone now? I’d like to take a look at the other phone.’

  She prised her SIM out of Joe’s phone. Then she ripped open the box and inserted her old SIM in her new phone. ‘Here you go.’ She gave me the dual-SIM phone. I had Joe’s second SIM. It would give up its secrets. The other part of my plan was to put a new clean SIM in it and use it when necessary to make untraceable calls. Loretta watched me try to insert the SIM without success. She took it from me and immediately slotted in the plastic bit of card.

  ‘Show me again how to swap between SIMs.’

  ‘You just go …’ She performed a rapid demonstration, which I failed to follow. She repeated the steps slowly. ‘Go to Settings, tap Connections, tap SIM Card Manager, in general settings tap Other SIM. Select On and you’re good.’

  Then she took her new phone to the bedroom, which she called ‘my room’, and closed the door. Nigel went to his corner, turned in a small circle, and settled down to sleep.

  I practised changing SIMs until I had the hang of it. Then I opened every app on Joe’s second SIM, and began searching for anything unusual. The tradie apps had zero. The notes app was unused. The voice recorder opened with a red blink: ready. Two items in the app menu. Home and History. In the history was a fifty-four-second recording. I hit Play.

  There was a hiss, then a man’s voice, faint, distant. His tone of voice was plaintive:

  In the blink of an eye, he got away … I tear up now just thinking about it … The thing was out of control. Bids going up and up …
It kicked alright, the market I mean. He was a stunner, too. Heavily muscled. Sky was antsy … All of a sudden, it got away. Bids over the three hundred and I just, I panicked. Vincent got away. I said, ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ll talk to Al.’

  I sat back, stunned. Was that such a big deal? A whinge about missing out on a ‘Vincent’ at auction. What was so earth-shattering about that? What was on it that needed to be suppressed? The names of the people? Al and Vincent. Not much to go on. The identity of the speaker, maybe? The voice was faint and a bit distorted. I turned up the volume and replayed it a few times. Something familiar about the tone. I replayed it again. Yes. It was the plummy screed of Marcus Pugh.

  15

  ‘AND THAT’S finance.’

  I aimed the remote at the TV and killed the Monday night news before it concluded. Sport was not essential, and the weather was no mystery. Any nong with a window knew it was nice out. Why stay for the finance? Because I’d been trying to educate myself on commodities and dollar fluctuations. I was in possession of a small fortune and was in want of a plan. Nibbles of miscellaneous expenditure had reduced the fund marginally, but there was still roughly four hundred thousand dollars in storage, and I needed to be sensible with it.

  Loretta sat in her usual spot on the couch with Nigel, scrolling on her phone with earbuds in. She was valiantly tolerating my TV preferences and had even promised to try a vegetable. With the caveat that she could make herself cheese on toast if she determined my cooking inedible.

  Earlier, at work, I’d been speaking to my colleague Shaninder. She’d asked after my sister-in-law, as Loretta had called herself when arriving at WORMS. I’d said, ‘Who knows?’

  At that, Shaninder had frowned. There were not many people whose good opinion I sought. Much of the time, I had no hoots to give. But this hardworking mother of three had a moral authority found elsewhere only in Toni Morrison and the Dalai Lama. Chastened, I’d said, ‘I’ve given her my bed, I ask how she is, she says she’s fine. I have no reason to —’

  ‘What about the scans?’

  ‘Scans?’

  ‘Ultrasound, Stella. How is that baby developing?’

  I thought of Loretta as an extension of Ben, and therefore, as a pain in the arse. But she was a vulnerable young woman, and there were potential risks around pregnancy that I had failed to consider. I was ignorant of the routine health checks. Scans were routine, apparently.

  While I was cooking, I gestured to Loretta to take out the earbuds. When she complied, I started chopping and casually said, ‘Had any scans?’

  ‘Of this?’ she pointed to her belly.

  ‘The baby, yes.’

  ‘Nah, it’s all good.’ To my sceptical look she added, ‘I can just tell.’

  ‘Do you have a doctor?’

  ‘Nah, don’t need one.’

  The girl had been homeless, her worldly possessions amounted to a shopping trolley. ‘Do you have a Medicare card?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s about you and your baby and giving birth, and both of you being around afterwards.’

  A little dramatic, sure. But it worked.

  ‘How do I get one?’

  I didn’t know, but I assumed it required several types of ID, something she might not have. On my laptop, we slogged our way through government websites trying to figure out how to replace a lost Medicare card and succeeded in getting the system to identify Loretta. This alone was a triumph. She was indeed Loretta Patsy Dolly Swindon. Twenty years of age. Australian citizen. And therefore entitled to benefits of our universal health care system.

  I made rice in the microwave and set the table. When the curry was simmering on the stove, I went to shower and change. With my bedroom to myself at last I reverted to habit: uncomfortable work clothes were put away on the floordrobe. The benefits of the floordrobe were many. You could see at a glance what was there, what was creased, what was covered in sour cream from a losing battle with an aggressive serving of nachos. I reclaimed a skirt and t-shirt and brushed my hair, my damned incriminating hair. I should shave it all off, Phuong would never find a match then.

  I put the TV on again, ready to flick around to something more to Loretta’s taste — World’s Greatest Farts or something. The ABC had an in-depth special on the upcoming state election. Pugh faced a plethora of microphones and repeated his ‘do the crime, do the time’ law-and-order line. A journalist in front of state parliament said, somewhat wearily, that both sides were saying the other side’s promises weren’t costed. I would have turned it off, but the next piece started with a graphic of prison bars. I stayed tuned.

  A journalist walked through a stark prison common room. ‘This is Victoria’s newest prison. Soon, Grainger Prison will be home to a thousand inmates. For the medium-security jail’s official opening, the Minister for Justice went behind prison walls.’

  Cut to Pugh inside a cell. ‘This is a very exciting moment for Victorians. From now on, the prison system in this state will be managed more effectively.’

  Journalist voiceover: ‘Inmates will be housed in single cells or multi-bed dormitories. Remand prisoners will be segregated from those serving sentences, and the building features new technology designed to prevent any costly prison riots.’

  Pugh: ‘We have a state-of-the-art biometric system, pioneered by BS12, so prisoners can’t move around the facility unless authorised to do so. This is part of our expanded partnership with BS12.’

  Journalist to camera: ‘In a first for this state, the consortium running the prison could be paid millions of dollars in bonuses if the recidivism rate for released prisoners is fifteen per cent lower than the current rate in other jails. But prisoner advocacy groups have warned that, even with this new facility, the state’s prisons will be at capacity in a matter of a few years.’

  Cut to Meredith Phelan: ‘This new prison will be as over-crowded as many others in this state. The government can relieve the pressure of over-crowding today by removing children from jail. The justice system is failing our children. We call for the immediate release from custody of children on drug-related offences. They need support and rehabilitation.’

  Pugh: ‘We are aware of the capacity constraints, and this government has already commissioned a report on the matter. Everything is on the table, including home-detention bracelets. And we intend to fully implement the recommendations.’

  Journalist: ‘Whoever wins the election, prisoners will be in Grainger Prison by the end of the year.’

  Brophy arrived with a kiss, a bottle of wine, and a box of cannoli from Footscray. He looked wild, like a nineties feral, gaunt and unshaven.

  ‘Not feeling any better?’

  ‘Tired. Working nights. I’m fine.’

  That didn’t ring true. Nights for a night owl like Brophy were his best hours. The productive sweet spot between midnight and dawn, when the world was silent-ish. Hours that were uninterruptable, with clear space to follow through on an idea. Maybe his work at the market was more physically demanding than I’d realised. I let it go.

  Brophy, Loretta, and I ate at my kitchen table, like a functional family. Unfortunately, I’d misread the recipe. There was too much chilli, and the curry was off the end of the Scoville scale. We piled on the yoghurt to take the heat down, but it was pretty much inedible. Brophy made appreciative noises. Loretta ate the rice, scoffed the cannoli, and went to bed.

  Brophy and I did the dishes and binged on Scandinavian murder, until midnight when he got ready to go to work. He sniffed and honked into a disgusting handkerchief.

  ‘Call in sick,’ I said holding him around his skinny waist.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t afford to.’

  Again, I had an impression that he was not being completely straight with me. Where was his money going? He seemed as broke as ever. I hated to doubt him. I’d been wrong ab
out him before, suspected his fidelity, and it didn’t feel very good. This was the lovely, loyal Brophy — a man who loved me and took care of his daughter and lived for his art. There wasn’t much else to it. He wasn’t a showy type who blew money. It was probably mounting up in a secret account for a rainy day.

  I pushed the doubts away and returned to the recording of Marcus Pugh. It was an anecdote of failure. Only Pugh could make failure sound like a brag. Code words and all.

  Don’t worry, love. I’ll talk to Al. Name-dropping and crowing about influence.

  … Sky was getting antsy. A koan to cause a Zen master’s head to explode.

  Brash hadn’t texted me today, but he didn’t need to any more. As I went to bed, I mentally ticked off another day without getting any closer to finding who had killed Joe Phelan.

  16

  I TOOK Tuesday afternoon off, with Fatima’s blessing, and Loretta and I took the tram to the Royal Women’s hospital for her first appointment with a doctor.

  We were seen within the hour. The doctor pressed her hands on Loretta’s belly, took her blood pressure, and took various samples for other tests. Loretta was slightly underweight, but otherwise healthy. Due to the late stage of this first contact with a health professional, we were given an ‘urgent’ status for immediate ultrasound. There’d been a cancellation, so we went straight up. That led to another hour in another waiting room. Loretta and I were the last people left. I flipped through a two-year-old Hello and jotted down recipes from a New Idea. She was glued to her phone.

  A squirt of lube on her belly and a wave of the magic scanning device, and presto, a foetus popped up on the screen. A baby girl, growing normally, heart beating rapid and strong. Tears streamed from my eyes, I’d never seen anything so remarkable. Perhaps I was tired, or the events of the last few days were weighing on me, because a loud sob escaped. Loretta patted my shoulder and smiled. I admired the tough little elf.

  Now that Loretta was considered a patient of the hospital, we were encouraged to attend antenatal classes and take the tour of the maternity wards. We both knew it was more likely that the birth would happen in a hospital near Woolburn, probably Mildura Base Hospital. But at least she was in the system, and the health of mother and child was established. Arranging the right hospital was a bridge we could jump off when we came to it.