Too Easy

by J. M. Green

  ‘Did he sit the exam?’ I asked.

  ‘What exam?’ Brook stopped picking at her nails and looked at me.

  ‘The test, I mean. Did any of you take the test? Isaac told me the Corpse Flowers wanted some kids to take a test.’

  Angie laughed. ‘He means the blood test. You need your blood type to get your passport.’

  Not true, I thought. I didn’t contradict her.

  She put the lid on the jug, placed it down into the ice and closed the lid on the esky.

  I could contain my curiosity no longer. ‘What’s CWE?’

  ‘Cold water extraction,’ the boy said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Get the codeine, but leave out the paracetamol. That shit will kill ya.’

  ‘Why are you here again?’ Angie asked.

  The boy sucked on the cigarette. ‘She reckons Isaac sent her.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I acted solemn and official, like I was on a serious mission. ‘Isaac’s very concerned. Since Cory died.’

  ‘What’d he say?’ Brook said, getting to her feet.

  ‘Um, he’s concerned.’

  She appeared to accept that. ‘Isaac goes, stop using their shit, and stay away from them. But they were giving us wads of cash, buying us drinks. We were having a great time.’

  ‘Yeah, haircuts,’ Angie said. ‘Tried to.’

  ‘Wait, haircuts?’

  ‘They made appointments, but we didn’t go,’ Angie was saying. ‘One time, Brook did show up, but they went bat-shit about her green hair.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘I started getting suss, then. Isaac goes, “Yeah, stay away.”’

  The boy agreed. ‘Don’t even talk to them, he reckons.’

  ‘Who’s them? Can you be more specific? Was it Josie?’

  Brook smirked. ‘Some old lady came in Macca’s toilets asking Alma where Isaac was. After Alma left, I fed her some bullshit about The Ashbrook.’

  ‘Good one, Brook.’ The boy laughed. ‘As if he’d go there.’

  I nodded furiously. ‘Yeah. Good move, Brook, sending her to The Ashbrook, which she probably would have hated because, like, the food there isn’t that nice, and her boyfriend too, if she had one, I bet he hated it. Probably created all kinds of tension between them.’ I hooted. ‘Too funny.’

  ‘I don’t think one bad meal would create tension.’ The boy was pensive. ‘Only if things were already a bit rocky, like if there was another underlying issue.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, maybe he’s got pressures in his life. Conflicting priorities.’

  ‘What the fuck, you guys,’ Brook said.

  ‘This boyfriend, say he just got retrenched, and he’s finding it hard to adjust, and he doesn’t feel supported by her …’ the boy was saying.

  ‘Alma thinks she’s so smart, but they’re using her,’ Angie said. ‘It’s like Amway. My mum was into that for a while. You have to get your friends to buy. It’s horrible.’

  ‘What’s Alma selling?’

  ‘Kengtung, and the money everyone’s gonna make.’

  Brook laughed. ‘Yeah, but they didn’t realise we hate Alma.’ She stood in front of me. ‘That’s why we’d never bring her here. We’re not supposed to be here, no one is. If you’re friends with Isaac, you’d know that.’

  We faced each other. My heart rate rising, but my gaze steady.

  ‘He’s skipped town,’ she said. ‘He’s not talking to anyone.’

  ‘He’s still in Melbourne.’ I kept my voice low and flat.

  She put both hands in her back pockets. I exhaled, my fear easing. She was mere bones. I could lift her off the ground with one hand.

  Then her hand came out holding a blade. My legs went to water. She darted forward and pressed the edge into my flab, looking for a rib, twisting. ‘Where?’

  I found myself against the wall, no room to move. ‘I spoke to him today.’ Calm as I could, as blood trickled down my side.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m the one with the cool drugs Isaac wanted you to have.’

  She lowered the blade.

  ‘That’s right.’ I was speaking, and moving sideways. ‘They’re in my car. Which is parked. Near. The Footscray market.’

  The three of them were watching me. ‘Thank God,’ said Angie. ‘This CWE is shit.’

  ‘I’m going to get the stuff from my car, and I’ll bring it back here.’

  They stared at me with heartbreaking optimism.

  ‘Be right back.’ I gave them a thumbs up.

  I darted down the hall and slammed the front door behind me. I hit the footpath at a canter. It had been a very long time since I’d run flat-out. Soon I was puffing, struggling to get air in my lungs. Like a middle-aged fool, I worried I might trip, maybe break something. On the other hand, if Brook or Angie caught me, they’d go the bash. Or the slash. The boy, not so much.

  I ran alongside the market, in the shadow of the awnings, and turned into Leeds Street. The passers-by went about their business, shopping, and chatting. Some looking to score. No one seemed concerned by the desperate life-or-death expression on my face, or the blood stain spreading on my t-shirt. At last, I thought, I was fitting in.

  25

  I ASSESSED each shop for hiding potential: immigration agent, no; gold and jade merchant, no; mobile phones and sim cards, no. Indian grocery shop, yes.

  Inside, the air was cool and heavy with fragrance. Rows of lentils, bags of spices, bottles of rose water and soap and henna, and packets of incense. I walked straight to the back of the shop and, obscured by a pile of atta-flour bags, I dabbed my injury with a tissue. It wasn’t bad; the bleeding had stopped. I rolled up my t-shirt in the front and tied a knot, exposing some skin but concealing the bloody stain. Then, to avoid attracting attention, I occupied myself reading the contents of the fridge. Time passed. I moved past a display of five-litre ghee tins, and casually peered over a pile of forty-kilo sacks of basmati. The streets were delinquent-free, as far as I could tell. Had they followed me, they’d have come in and clobbered me by now. I relaxed a little, though I waited a bit longer to be sure. I walked along the aisles, past shelves of neatly arranged kilo bags of whole spices. Who, I wondered, used that many cloves?

  A man wearing a shirt that reached down to his knees, and baggy long pants, came down the aisle carrying some boxes from the back of the shop. He ripped the tape from a box. It would seem suspicious if I simply stood here, so I moved down to the next shelf and picked up a bag of cardamom pods.

  The man smiled at me. ‘Not that one.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The black, not the green. The green are not as good. Madagascan is the best, but here we have only black and green. Take the black.’ He looked on the shelves and found a packet of black cardamom and offered it to me. A one-kilo bag. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Oh, a delicious … food thing … that you eat.’

  ‘Cookies? Iraqi cookies with almonds and cardamom, they are very nice. Or maybe you put it in coffee? That is good also.’

  ‘Yes, cookies … and coffee. Coffee-flavoured cookies.’

  I took my cardamom to the counter.

  He ran the scanner over the bag. ‘Fifty dollars, please.’

  A pineapple? A whole pineapple for a spice I didn’t want or need? If I cooked at home for the rest of my life, I’d never use a kilo of cardamom. ‘Do you have a smaller bag?’

  The man went to the back of the shop. I glanced out the front, crowds bustled to and from the station, people with trollies doing last-minute food shopping, families out to dinner. A bone-thin man with a maniac stare tried to run through the crowd, he turned to yell at the woman following behind him. Her expression was grim and hostile. He stuck out a hand, she grabbed it and they ran on together. Romance was not dead for some.

  On the counter
was a stack of brochures for a brand of lentil, the world’s best lentil, it said. On the back was a recipe. Curiously, the recipe did not include lentils. But I liked the sound of it, kaddu bharta, and it had palm sugar in it. That had to be a good thing.

  A plan was forming. A romantic dinner for two, at the triumphant close of Brophy’s exhibition. Reading the ingredients: cardamom seeds, crushed, was taken care of; pumpkin, easy. Unsalted butter, fennel seeds, green chillies, palm sugar, chopped toasted hazelnuts, and lime juice. The salt, I had already.

  All this spice was going to my head. I imagined myself pounding them with a mortar and pestle, guiding these flavours into a seductive unity. I’d create my own garam masala, a secret blend with potent seduction properties.

  The man put a smaller packet of cardamom on the counter. ‘Anything else?’

  I rattled off the list on the recipe card.

  ‘Ah, kaddu bharta. Very good.’ He pointed to a stack of plastic hand baskets. ‘You will find all of those items here.’ He smiled.

  I went hunting around the shop. On a high shelf, I spotted a box of Turkish delight from Iran, for which I had a sudden hankering. I was counting out the green chillies when my phone rang. It was Afshan. ‘Hello, Stella!’

  I could hear a rumble in the background and then a crashing sound. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Funky Town.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No. Shahid wanted to try bowling. Like The Dude.’

  ‘The Dude abides, man,’ I said solemnly.

  ‘Stella, join us, come to bowling with Shahid and me. If you’re free?’ He was shouting over the noise.

  It was a lovely offer. Trouble was, I now categorically hated bowling. ‘Another time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I yelled. I put my phone away and took my basket to the counter. The butter and the pumpkin, I would get at the supermarket.

  ‘Rice?’ The man asked. ‘I’d serve kaddu bharta with rice or chapati.’

  ‘Rice,’ I agreed. ‘But your smallest bag is five kilos. I’ll never manage it on the tram.’

  His response was a subtle tilting motion of the head. At once enigmatic and full of meaning. A gesture that I understood to mean: we are all one, creation exists in the mind, beyond all thought is the ultimate bliss of consciousness. But he may also have meant: that is the amount of rice we have; the decision is up to you.

  I bought the rice. Outside, seeing no one with green hair, I slipped into the shadows and moseyed down the street to a waiting tram. I hauled my rice aboard and sat near a window, where I had a view of anyone coming from Hopkins Street. My fellow passengers seemed harmless, no orange-topped heavies, and no scary teenage combatants.

  On the way home, I sifted through the mail I’d lifted from the letterbox at the squat. Some catalogues from a local supermarket, a generic message from the local member of state parliament, and two window envelopes, each addressed to a different Richard. Richard Peck had a summons for an altercation with a driver in a car park in Norlane. The incident happened in June, the letter was dated three weeks ago.

  And a Richard Turner had an itemised account from Rising Star Glamour Photography. They were based in Werribee. Company slogan: We put you in the picture. Listed on the bill were forty high-definition colour photographs, files supplied.

  It was after nine on a Friday night. Some places worked late on Fridays though. I glanced up; a handful of passengers were mostly at the front of the tram, out of earshot. I searched on my phone and hit the number.

  ‘Rising Star Glamour, this is Travis.’

  ‘Travis, I’m Emily Turner, sister of Richard Turner and executor of his will. Richard passed away and I’m paying his accounts. I’m ringing about some shots you did for him?’

  ‘Honey, you have my condolences, but that job was a nightmare from start to finish and I still haven’t been paid. Would you mind telling me when I’m going to get my money? What’s the hold-up?’

  Jeez, what an arsehole. ‘Just a small issue. I need to know the purpose of the photos, if they were personal or —’

  ‘Business. Nasty business.’

  ‘Why nasty?’

  ‘One of those fucking kids had head lice. I had to fumigate the studio after that.’

  ‘Sorry, would you mind giving me more detail?’

  ‘First, the assistant came in, she gets some sexy portraits — impress the boyfriend. Tasteful lingerie, you know? Beautiful. She took the full package. Then she asks about shooting kids, says she’s asking on behalf of her boss, this guy who runs a kids’ charity. He wants glamour shots. Hair, make-up, the whole shebang. He wants passport head shots and these ghastly full-body poses. Says he’ll pay extra, for discretion.’

  ‘Full-body? Like frontals? As in … nude?’

  ‘Clothed. This is a legit business, lovey. Full, as in you can see the feet. Afterwards, I see all these fucking bugs in the basin and I rang her, I said head lice is going to cost you extra, sweetie, and no more kiddie shots. Nada, zero, zip, that’s it for me.’

  I thanked him, said I’d send a cheque, and ended the call.

  What drug-dealing thug wanted to take disadvantaged children to get glamour portraits? I recalled Josie in Macca’s, talking to Alma about hair appointments for the kids, and something about a test. According to Raewyn Ross, some kids had called Ricky Peck a paedophile. Maybe he was. But he was working with Enright. Was she a sex offender, too? Or was she genuinely volunteering to save street kids from her fate?

  At my stop, a kind soul helped me off the tram with my bags. I struggled up the hill, glancing behind me to see if I was being followed. There was no one around, but instead of entering my building, I crossed to the street and slumped down in a dark position between street lights and waited. It felt like an age since I’d last been home, in my sanctuary from life’s knockage, and I was dying to get inside, pour a glass of wine, and watch a movie, preferably a soothing old favourite. The minutes passed. I put on my cardigan.

  The street was quiet, and apart from the occasional car going by, no one stirred.

  This was silly, I told myself, no goons were coming for me. Least of all Mortimer, who was supposedly in hiding. I started to cross the street.

  A light-coloured SUV turned the corner and crawled down Roxburgh Street, and paused outside my building.

  Panic froze me to the spot. A startled rabbit had more self-control. Think, I thought. Run? They’d follow me. Weapons — what did I have? A five-kilo bag of rice. Not very helpful. There was nothing for it, death had arrived at last. Sorry, Hardy, you’ve had a few lucky escapes in your time, but your hour has come. I crossed the road, went to the car, and looked in at the driver. A woman in her late thirties, blonde, similar facial structure to mine, only a lot more attractive. ‘Kylie?’

  ‘Stella, at bloody last,’ she said, getting out. Two boys of about ten jumped from the car and immediately started to rumble on the nature strip.

  I wrapped my cardigan around me to conceal the blood stain on my t-shirt. ‘This is a surprise,’ I said.

  ‘Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for ages.’

  My sister still lived in the same town we grew up in, and assumed a city of five million functioned much the same as Woolburn, a town of two hundred and seventy people. In Woolburn, you could rock up unannounced to your sister’s house, and if she wasn’t home, let yourself in. In Woolburn, you could ask a neighbour where your sister was and they’d know. In Woolburn, you could expect someone to be home on a Friday night. She’d driven for four hours on the off-chance I’d be here, ready to receive visitors. ‘Why didn’t you ring me first?’

  ‘I left about five messages,’ she said. ‘You never return my calls.’

  ‘Aunty Stella, we’re starving!’ one of her boys moaned. Chad? Blair? I could never tell them apart.

  ‘You’ve j
ust had cheeseburgers,’ Kylie said, and then to me, ‘We were driving around for something to do. I let them have McDonald’s, Stella. That’s how drained I was.’

  The only diet-conscious parent in the Mallee.

  ‘But we’re starving!’

  She seemed on the verge of tears.

  ‘Come on, everyone upstairs,’ I said. ‘How’s Vegemite on toast?’

  The flat was hot and stuffy. I opened a window, whacked the kettle on and threw some bread in the toaster. Kylie’s judging eye roved, appraising every detail. ‘Nice place.’

  Nothing about my lifestyle fitted her idea of ‘nice’. ‘Thanks. What brings you here?’

  She pulled out a chair and gave it a quick brush, and sat. ‘We need to halt the sale.’

  Our mother’s farm, she meant. My mother, Delia, and her partner, Ted, made plans to move to a unit in Ouyen. The Hardy matriarch was as tough as granite, and a farmer in her own right, but getting on in years. Semi-retired, they’d sold off stock, and half the land in acreage lots. The sale of the rest of the land with the family home, had stalled for some reason. I suspected the delay was emotional rather than a simple matter of red tape. My father had worked the place for twenty years, sheep and wheat. In the late eighties, when he was crop-dusting, his light plane had crashed. Thirty years had passed, yet I suspected my mother still quietly grieved for him, and was still attached to the house they had made into a home together.

  To make matters even more complicated, Shane Farquhar, the Woolburn farmer who wanted to buy the land, was my former high-school tormenter. He’d bullied me, spread rumours about me, and generally made my life hell. His place bordered the Hardy farm. When he first tried to contact my mother to discuss the purchase, he couldn’t get her on the phone. This was sufficient grounds to accuse me — me — of blocking his progress as payback for high school. The truth was, my mother had not sought my opinion on the matter, let alone my counsel. He was just paranoid and feeling guilty.

  Since then, both parties had come to the table and seemed on the verge of reaching an agreement. I was pretty sure there’d been a handshake. ‘It’s a done deal, isn’t it?’