by Berry, Tony
‘He’s in a youth refuge,’ said Liz. ‘We struck lucky. They had a vacancy occur on the day he left hospital. Places like that are not easy to come by.’
Bromo finished his coffee, pushed the glass to one side and put the Age back on the pile. Someone else could finish the crossword.
‘When do we go? I’m free now if you are.’
‘Ten minutes? I’ll pick you up outside your office.’
‘Done.’
‘Thanks, Bromo. You can be a real sweetie when you try.’
He sniffed.
‘You’re just saying that because you want my body.’
‘You wish.’
‘I do, indeed.’
‘Dream on, Bromo. See you in ten.’
He slid off his stool and threaded his way towards the door, the glimmer of a smile showing at the corners of his mouth. From his position behind the Gaggia, Dom thrust forward both fists, thumbs pointing upwards.
‘Go for it, Bromo,’ he called out. ‘A trip to Reno’s and you’ll really be smiling.’
Yes, and several hundred dollars poorer. Forget any smiles Reno’s might produce; his occasional fanciful dreams of Liz seemed a much less expensive and troublesome option. He strolled up the street to await her arrival outside his office. A car ride to the juveniles’ refuge would have to suffice.
FOURTEEN
Liz waited for the tram to board passengers and move forward off the stop. She followed in its tracks for 50 metres then turned the car left off Hawthorn Road and drove across the bridge over the rail line into the city. She spun the wheel left again and they entered a wide street of substantial homes. A median strip of tall, mature trees spread shade and leaves.
Development had been slow in this quiet corner, hidden from main roads and shopping strips. Some houses had been demolished and replaced by austere two-storey apartment blocks lacking any architectural merit. Others, their paintwork and gardens showing signs of neglect on the part of ageing owners, seemed destined for a similar fate. The majority, however, still faced the world with a sparkle and grace like sprightly senior citizens determined to prove 70 is the new 40.
The footpaths were wide, the nature strips neatly cropped and manicured, with shrubs and bushes at regular intervals. High brick walls and wooden fences shielded many of the houses. Others marked their boundaries with lower surrounds and showed off gardens luxuriant from hours of loving care. These were the homes of solid respectability, conservative attitudes, private school education and plodding senior management jobs.
The Yankamulla refuge for homeless and disadvantaged youth did nothing to disturb this backwater of propriety. It arrived there like a sneak thief in the dead of night when the social services department acquired a deceased estate as discretely as possible and converted a rambling old red-brick mansion into living quarters for a dozen or so of its charges.
There was no board or plaque announcing its name or presence. Plastic numbers screwed into the wooden gatepost sufficed to identify its address, making it as anonymous as its neighbours. At some time in its long past, the house had been a pair – two substantial homes joined at the dividing wall running from front to back. Decades ago, some expansionist entrepreneur had acquired his neighbour’s property and converted them into a single entity.
Liz steered the car into the driveway that curved through the front garden.
‘Some refuge,’ said Bromo. ‘More like a classy B&B. It’s even got a concierge.’
He indicated a short, stocky man in baggy blue jeans, open-neck checked shirt and work boots who had emerged from the arched entrance and was walking across the gravel towards them.
‘Not quite,’ said Liz. ‘Will you settle for a warden? His name’s Peter Jardine. Ex-army, tough as nails, bit of a disciplinarian, but the kids mostly adore him.’
‘Discipline’s good. Never hurt anyone,’ said Bromo, pushing open the car door.
He extended his hand and winced as Peter Jardine gripped it and squeezed with the strength of a vice. He noted the unblinking grey-green eyes, short-cropped sandy hair and broad muscular shoulders. Army, maybe, but no rank and file sapper. More likely the paras or even the SAS. There was a look about them that no amount of time in civvy street could ever erase. Liz came round from the driver’s side and joined them.
‘I see you’ve done the introductions,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Bromo. ‘Common ground.’
He caught a glance from Jardine and winked. The message would be read and understood. They were two of a type: building new lives, new identities; emerging from service backgrounds, programmed, trained in secrecy – about who they were and what they did.
Jardine led them into a small room off the wide entrance. Beyond, a long hallway of polished bare boards stretched towards the rear of the house, several doors into rooms on either side. The room was an alcove pretending to be an office. Shelves were crammed with books, files, videos, reams of paper, a couple of bike helmets, an emergency flashlight and an unopened six-pack of toilet rolls. A space had been cleared on the widest, thigh-level shelf for a computer screen linked to a hard drive case on the floor. A well-worn office chair provided the only seating.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit cramped,’ said Jardine. He pushed the door shut. ‘But at least it’s private.’
He indicated the chair and gestured towards Liz: ‘Please.’
She accepted his offer and sat, swivelling the chair to and fro in a quarter circle.
‘What can you tell us about Luke?’ she said.
Jardine crossed his arms and leaned against what passed for a desk. He breathed deeply. Bromo recognised the signs – the careful weighing of a situation, assessment of the need to know, the level of trust, how much to tell.
‘Luke’s not been here for a couple of nights,’ he said.
Bromo shuffled his feet, looked for somewhere to prop. The room was too small for the three of them. He hated small, closed spaces, wanted to be outside, able to move.
‘Is that unusual?’ he said.
‘Very. Luke’s one of our most reliable residents. We’re always getting kids bunking off for a night. We’re not a prison and sometimes they can’t resist the urge to get back out there with their mates. It’s a way of life to many of them. We try to wean them off it, give them a protective home environment – no hassles, no abuse – but sometimes they find the adjustment too sudden, to difficult. The girls are the worst.’
‘And Luke?’
‘He’s been a bit of a mentor to the other kids, especially since he started working at the agency. I suspect he’s slipped out every now and then, but he’s always been here for breakfast and gone off to work on time. He was ready to move on, be independent.’
Bromo sensed the pride in Jardine’s voice. As the guardian of a bunch of kids who lived on the edge, any positives would always be welcome. To have one who set an example in getting out of the rut would be a heaven-sent bonus.
‘Any idea where he would have gone?
‘Probably back to his old haunts.’
‘Not Mack’s surely.’
Bromo registered the fleeting look of surprise on Jardine’s face. It seemed Liz hadn’t revealed their past connection. He pressed on.
‘I thought that had been shut down. The wreckers have moved in.’
‘Correct. He found another place. Down by the river. Under the freeway. There was an older guy sleeping there, too, looking after him. Seems it’s fenced off and they can lock themselves in.’
Bromo shot a look of alarm at Liz.
‘Sounds dodgy. I’m not keen on old men who take care of young boys.’
Jardine shrugged.
‘Me neither. However, this one seems okay. Luke reckoned he’s quite respectable. Not your average bum. I think Luke feels sorry for him. Seems he’s highly educated, some sort of executive in a former life. Probably down on his luck or shunning society.’
Bromo tugged at his earlobe, gave it rub. Bloody nuisance.
‘May
be it’s society that has shunned him,’ he said. ‘Something he’s done – white collar crime, bashed his wife, wasted the family fortune – plenty of reasons.’
Liz spun the chair to face him.
‘Stop being a cynic, Bromo. There are lots of genuine bad luck stories out there, too. They’re not all no-hopers and conmen.’
He accepted her chiding. It was fair enough. Maybe he was too jaded about people. In rare moments of self-analysis, usually stimulated by criticism from friends or colleagues, he traced its genesis to early years clerking for a law firm. Fresh out of school with all the optimism and idealism of the young, he’d spent his working days mingling in courthouse corridors with the gamut of the lawless underclass. He soon learnt there was one common denominator. Everyone, from mere miscreants through petty crooks to career criminals, looked so damned ordinary. They could not be corralled or labelled by looks or demeanour. A scruffy, down-at-heel ruffian was as likely to be a key witness or complainant as the suave pin-striped suit type alongside could be the perpetrator of mayhem and murder. He lost count of the times he heard bewildered parents say of their delinquent offspring “but he’s such a good kid at home” as the youth was sent off to a remand home for some brutal or anti-social crime. In short, he ceased to be surprised at human behaviour. His thoughts became words.
‘Expect the worst, Liz, and you could get a nice surprise when things don’t turn out that way. Meanwhile, any chance we could pay young Luke a visit at his riverside retreat?’
‘You’ve got two options,’ said Jardine, the voice sharp and crisp, the military man taking over. ‘Either after dark or at first light.’
‘I’m a night person myself,’ said Bromo. ‘Dawn’s for the birds.’
‘More of a surprise in the early hours,’ countered Jardine. ‘Their system’s shut down. If he’s out on the streets, we don’t know what time he turns in. Might have to wait all night.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Bromo. ‘If this older guy’s running the show, keeping them both under lock and key, he’s going to set some rules for his own protection.’
There was silence. A couple of old campaigners were considering strategy. Jardine rested his chin in his hand, gazing at the threadbare carpet. Bromo let his eyes wander along the shelves. Liz swung back and forth in her chair, a squeak punctuating each change of direction – an irritating squeak; one that got on your nerves, magnified and penetrating in such a claustrophobic space. It was as regular as a metronome. Squeak, pause, squeak, pause …
Bromo jerked forward, one hand waving at the shelves.
‘Christ, is there an oil can in all that mess?’
His outburst stopped Liz twisting her seat. Jardine eased forward off the bench, unruffled.
‘Sorry about that. Guess I’m used to it. I don’t let it get to me.’
The slightest of smiles creased the corners of his mouth. Bromo recognised it as the smirk of one-upmanship. Jardine saw himself as the victor in a game only he knew they were playing.
‘I’ll get one of the kids to fix it. Later.’
‘And Luke?’ said Liz. ‘Do you also intend leaving him ’til later? Wait until some precise time in the middle of the night or at crack of dawn that you two strategists decide upon when you’ve finished planning your great campaign. This is a frightened and vulnerable kid we’re talking about – not a raid on some imagined terrorist cell in the backblocks of Thomastown.’
Silently, Bromo cheered her on. He admired her sudden fury. It expressed all he wanted to convey but was wary of saying. They needed Jardine on side and he was not the one to achieve it. Jardine was still sounding him out, testing him, for some reason only he understood. Liz was on another level in Jardine’s books, and she knew it. Her outburst had discomfited him.
‘Sorry, Liz,’ he said. ‘Bit of a lapse. I appreciate your concern. On the other hand, Luke is under my care. As his guardian I’ve got certain rules and procedures I have to follow.’
Liz slammed her hand down on the bench top. The shelf above shuddered and a roll of adhesive tape rolled off.
‘Fuck it, Peter. Stop playing games. Chuck off that stupid bloody bureaucratic straitjacket. It doesn’t suit you.’
Jardine fumbled with the fallen tape, trying to squeeze it back into place. The distraction failed to deflect Liz’s verbal attack.
‘It’s me you’re talking to, Pete, not some departmental official or a stroppy interfering parent. I fully appreciate Luke’s under your care, but I do have an interest in his welfare and I’d rather like to speak to him and put his mind at ease. Surely a bit of help to do that is not too much to ask.’
Jardine raised his eyebrows. He exchanged a knowing glance with Bromo. The antagonism was ebbing.
‘Okay, Liz, you win,’ he said.
‘It’s not a question of winning,’ she snapped back. ‘You’re not at the footy now.’
Bromo reached out towards her.
‘Calm it Liz. Let’s hear what Peter suggests.’
He felt Jardine’s eyes on him and returned the look. The barriers were coming down. He’d scored a point, maybe more. Liz took a deep breath and stayed quiet.
Jardine took two small steps into the centre of the room, hands clasped in front of him, fingers entwined. His voice was calm, measured, a man in charge. Bromo could imagine him giving a briefing in a more tense and demanding setting, commanding attention and ensuring little room for error or misunderstanding. It took him back to his own days of missions, deployments, field surveys – weasel words used by the pen-pushers afraid to foul their mouths with the realities of action in dangerous and unfriendly territory. Bromo sensed Jardine would share his distaste for those mealy-mouthers who devised plans and strategies with architectural precision but never had to see them through or cope with on-site emergencies. Some other poor sod had to do that – and cop the disasters that followed.
‘We’ll go at dusk, before it gets too dark,’ said Jardine. ‘Approach along the bike track along the river bank from Mary Street. There’s a park there where people walk their dogs. We won’t stick out.’
Bromo stood tall, hitched his pants up and drew his stomach in tight.
‘Perhaps we should wear tracksuits and runners,’ he said. ‘Blend in with the landscape.’
He looked pointedly at Jardine’s midriff.
‘Maybe a bit of exercise wouldn’t go astray.’
Jardine’s hands dropped suddenly to his sides, fists clenched, his right arm bending back ready to give full momentum to an uppercut swing. Bromo levered his upper torso slowly backwards, moving out of range. The three of them froze. The punch never came. Jardine let his arm drop limply back to his side. He gave a faint smile.
‘Ach, you’re not worth it. Certainly not for a piss-weak joke like that.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Bromo, a grin cloaking his relief that Jardine’s temper had died as quickly as it had flared.
A punch-up was the last thing they needed. The cheap shot had served its purpose: his early guess that Jardine worked off a short fuse had been proved correct. Something to watch for if they were to work together.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Bromo. ‘My sense of humour isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, I still think a bit of jogging is the way to go. Nothing too extreme. Take it easy and give ourselves time to suss it out. We can perhaps tailgate a few other joggers and trot past Luke’s hideout or whatever it is and take a look without causing too much suspicion.’
They mulled over the suggestion in silence. Looks were exchanged. Heads nodded. They had a consensus. Liz stood and turned towards the door.
‘Right then, see you in the park,’ she said. ‘I’ll be the one doing the stretching exercises and telling her legs it’s all in a good cause.’
‘And looking good in Lycra, too, I bet,’ said Bromo as he fell in to step alongside her.
Liz gave him a sideways glance.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment in advance,’ she smiled. ‘And there’s to be no going
back when you see the real thing. It’s not a pretty sight.’
Bromo reached out an arm to push open the front door.
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said.
He extended his other arm towards Jardine and made sure he grasped the warden’s hand with as firm a grip as the one he knew he’d receive.
‘Thanks for your help.’
He decided to mend any broken bridges.
‘Give us a call if Luke turns up. Otherwise, we’ll see you tonight.
FIFTEEN
Liz lived up to her promise. When Bromo pedalled his bike into the McConchie Reserve she was standing with one leg raised on a bench as she leaned forward to grasp her ankle and gently stretch her muscles. And she was in Lycra – turquoise three-quarter leggings fitted as taut as a second skin and defining a trimness that her normal preference for flowing attire had never revealed.
The contours of her upper body were equally well defined thanks to a tight-fitting, long-sleeved,white skivvy decorated with the broad diagonal black and yellow stripes of the local footy club. Bromo dismounted and watched as she held her pose, gradually extending the stretch.
‘Didn’t pick you as a Tigers’ fan,’ said Bromo. ‘Bit too much of a lost cause.’
She kept her head bowed over her knees.
‘Stop perving and come and join me.’
‘A man’s gotta do what a man always does,’ said Bromo. ‘I’m admiring the view.’
‘Me, too.’
Bromo swung round, one hand dropping from the handlebar, his bike slipping sideways. Peter Jardine, in black leggings and black singlet, had appeared silently alongside him.
‘I see you’ve lost none of your skills,’ said Bromo, trying not to show surprise at Jardine’s quiet approach.
‘Once learnt, never forgotten,’ said Jardine.
‘And once a perv always a perv, I suppose,’ said Liz, now upright and staring them down as she revolved her shoulders slowly backwards, giving emphasis to the shape of breasts only slightly flattened by a sports bra clearly outlined beneath her top.