by J. M. Green
‘Yes. But if you want a job in the community sector, I can help you. Despite your record, there’s legit work you can do.’ I paused. ‘If you want.’
Her face broke into a smile. ‘Come on up, mate, I’ll put the kettle on.’
I trotted up the last few steps.
‘Nobody lets you forget your past, do they?’ she asked. I would have agreed with her, but she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘If I’m Josie, I can move on with my life.’
‘Fair enough. Alma spoken to you lately?’
‘That kid, I tell you. Too smart for her own good.’ A burst of laughter. ‘How you been, mate?’
‘Not bad,’ I followed her into the flat. It was fitted out in fifties retro, or maybe it was all original. An engine in pieces on the floor.
‘Don’t mind Ox’s shit. Messy bastard. Men, eh?’
‘Yeah.’ I thought of Brophy. He was neater than me.
‘Take a seat, mate. Cuppa? Earl Grey?’
A canary-yellow kitchen, a circular glass-top table, four yellow vinyl chairs. Checkerboard lino and lace curtains on the window, drawn back fifties-style. She took some tea bags from a yellow canister. I pulled out a cane stool, cushion upholstered in yellow floral.
It was hot in the flat, and she stripped off her tracksuit top to the tank top beneath. She had thin, muscular arms, a couple of smudges of blue ink — definite prison tatts — and across each wrist a long white scar. ‘Sugar?’
‘Two,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘Yeah, me too. Didn’t have a sweet-tooth until Thailand. They put sugar in everything. Pretty soon I’m on board. Five years is a long time. A hit of sugar helps.’
‘Five years,’ I muttered, mechanically.
‘Death sentence first, then life, then twenty. Then busted down to nine. I did five in Klong Prem, women’s unit, packed to the shithouse. We were in each other’s armpits.’
‘Sounds like hell.’
‘You get used to it. They reckon for the same amount here I would’ve walked. But after the transfer, to make the Thais happy, they had to keep me locked up.’
‘Smuggling heroin out of Thailand — pretty dicey,’ I said, trying not to sound judgemental. ‘You must have been young at the time, who put you up to it?’
‘No one put me up to it.’ She turned her back, busy at the sink. ‘We knew the risks.’
I glanced around the flat. Leftovers on the kitchen table. A takeaway bag labelled Madame Mao’s Handmade Dumplings. ‘What went wrong?’ I asked. ‘Sniffer dogs at the airport?’
‘Someone talked.’ She faced me, ferociously eyeballing me, like it might have been me she was talking about.
‘Who?’
She shrugged, gave the bench a breezy wipe-down. ‘Dunno. But I’d like to punch him in the face — but then I’d be up for assault, right?’
‘Hire someone else to punch them for you?’
She cracked up. ‘You offering?’
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I’m making a living, thank you. Just.’
She cocked her head. ‘So, social work. Good fun?’
‘Sometimes. I went bowling recently.’
She laughed her deep cackle.
‘Mostly we settle for a minor gain against the tides of shit.’
She shrugged. ‘World’s fucked up. What are you going to do?’
‘And you’re trying to get through to the kids on the street because of what you went through, is that right? Keep them out of trouble, off the drugs and out of the jails?’
Her eyes wide, big nod. ‘Yep. I’m getting through to them, too.’
‘Awesome.’
The water boiled and she jiggled teabags in the mugs, an image of a woman on each one. They were dressed in black, in a silly pose, back to the camera, turning and blowing a kiss behind them.
‘So you’re trying to keep them out of places like Thailand?’
‘For sure.’
‘And Burma?’
Josie paused the teabag-jiggling for a beat, and then glanced up, smiling. ‘Wherever, mate! Keep ’em out of anywhere you like.’
She placed a mug in front of me and waited behind the counter. I picked it up. The hot water had changed the pictures, erasing the black clothes. The women were naked. ‘Pisser, isn’t it? Had to buy ’em.’
‘Wow. How about that.’
‘Now, Stella, what’s this really about?’
‘Um. Your career.’ I made a note of the exits. It looked like the main door, down to the workshop, was the only one.
‘Alma reckons you’re looking for Mortimer. I said she’s dreaming. You’re too smart to get involved with that crowd.’
I leaned on the counter. ‘The Corpse Flowers, you mean? Like your boyfriend?’
Her head tipped to the side. ‘Ox isn’t a Corpse Flower, that’s all behind him.’
‘Right. I heard that. Good for him.’
‘As for Mortimer, he’s still with them, as far as I know. Don’t really care. Bikies are a bunch of dicks. There’s no honour. It’s money and hurting people for fun.’
‘I have an address in Norlane, his old place. Would he still be there?’
She shrugged. ‘What do you care? I don’t get it, what’s a nice girl like you want with a thug like Mortimer?’
‘He owes me money.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’d be right,’ she said eventually.
‘What about his friends, like the Turk? Would he help Mortimer? Hide him maybe?’
She glanced out the kitchen window. ‘Who?’
I turned the mug around; the other side was a full frontal. I sipped the tea. ‘I’ve wasted your time. I’m sorry.’
She rinsed her cup. ‘I bet he’s crawled back to Norlane.’
‘The cops have been there.’
She turned the tap off, turned around slowly. ‘How do you know?’
‘It was on the news.’
‘Is that right?’ A broad smile on her face, but not reaching to her unblinking eyes.
‘Yeah, the cops went there to arrest him, but he’d cleared out.’
‘I’m not surprised the jacks haven’t found him. Not looking too hard. Certain people up high don’t want Mortimer found. Rather kill him than arrest him.’
‘Like who?’ I asked. ‘Which cops might want to kill him?’
‘They’re all bastards.’
The girl on my mug had her clothes back on. Another dead end. ‘I better get going.’
‘Wait, have another cup of tea. Ox is on his way home, he’d love to meet you.’
‘I’d love to meet him too, but I’ve got stuff to do.’
A long pause. We locked eyes. I would not’ve been surprised if a harmonica played a Morricone riff.
She blinked first. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this …’ She leaned over the counter and gripped my arm, hard. ‘And don’t breathe a word to anyone.’ She tapped a finger on her lips.
I crossed my heart.
‘Norlane. Really. He’s back there.’
32
I WALKED to Sunshine station. It was time to ring Phuong, give her this unsubstantiated report of Mortimer’s whereabouts, and go home.
I could do that …
Or better yet, as a peace-offering, go to Norlane, confirm if Mortimer was there, ring Phuong, and go home.
I made up a song about taking the last train to Norlane; it was pretty catchy. To get to Geelong, I had to take a V/Line service, and I had to buy a separate ticket. I should keep better track of my expenses, I thought. When this was over, I’d hand Copeland my bill. A train approached, but didn’t stop. I sat down.
Ox Gorman — boy, I was glad I didn’t cross paths with him. If he wasn’t an actual Flower, he was part of the arrangement, a decorative branch perhaps.
Another train came and went wit
hout stopping. I was getting sick of this. I pulled out my phone. ‘Hey, Afshan. Where are you? It’s so noisy.’
‘Guess!’
The rumble of balls rolling on the boards, the ping of scattering pins, the tinny blare of Shania Twain on the PA. ‘Funky Town?’
‘Correct!’
‘Sorry to interrupt your game, but I need your transport services.’
‘Not now, Stella. Shahid missed two easy spares, he’s so bad at this.’
‘I need to get to Geelong. I’ll pay you.’
A pause.
‘One hundred,’ I said. ‘Cash.’
‘On our way.’
It was a short drive from Funky Town to the Sunshine train station; it wouldn’t take them long. I hurried to a nearby ATM and withdrew the cash. Sure, I was over-paying, but I needed the ride. Also, people on temporary protection visas were not allowed to work. I didn’t know how Shahid and Afshan could possibly survive without some help. As I walked back to the station to wait for them, I made up a song about Afshan and Shahid bowling at Funky Town. It was pretty catchy, too.
A wreck of a van appeared in a puff of exhaust smoke. Afshan saw me and waved. He’d had a haircut; the fringe was ruler-straight. ‘Stella, would you like a hotdog?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, shocked. ‘I’m pretty sure they’re not halal.’
‘Not for me, for you.’
‘I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Oh, yes. As you said.’ He and Shahid enjoyed a good laugh. Then he handed the hotdog out the window to a startled passer-by.
‘How did you go?’ I asked, getting in the van.
Afshan beamed. ‘Hundred and fifty-three. Personal best! In this game, five strikes.’
Shahid clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sweet bowling, man.’
I had to laugh. ‘Yeah, man. Sweet.’
‘Now, where to, lady?’
‘You guys know where Norlane is?’
‘You can direct us.’
And with a backfire that could break a window, we were off. I have always liked an old-fashioned bench seat. They were friendlier than bucket seats. With Shahid driving and Afshan hanging his elbow out the passenger side window, and me in the middle, I was feeling pretty content. On the other hand, the van was less roadworthy than Brophy’s. Shahid struggled with the wheel. He battled a sideways drift, and we pitched forward. The experience was like sitting in a tin can, balanced on a ride-on mower … that was doing ninety. Ricocheting rather than driving. We were gestured at, abused, and often cut off.
I checked the glove box and found a cassette of Dave Dudley singing your truck-drivin’ favourites. Before long, we were singing along, to the kiss-stealin’, wheelin-dealin’, truck-drivin’ son of a gun.
They didn’t ask my business in Geelong, and I didn’t tell them.
Around the You Yangs, when the tape ran out, Afshan turned to me.
‘You know what whippy is?’
I shrugged. ‘Ice-cream?’
‘Whippy is the money the police take from you. If they find money while they search your place, they keep it.’
‘Did they search your place?’
He waved his hand. ‘There was trouble with that boy in our street, the weird one who burned the cat? Last year, he broke some car windows. The police came, talked to everyone in the street. We all knew who was responsible. When they came to our house, they asked for papers. They saw we are on temporary visas, everything changed. They pushed us, asked for money. And every few months, they come back. Each time, the same two cops, and they always search.’
In the scheme of things, it was probably small Tim Tams. ‘What did they take?’
‘We had some cash. A gold watch. Some precious things. Things we sold for money to live on, because we can’t work. We’ll never get those things back.’
He was right. The powerless seeking justice was a time-consuming, soul-destroying business. Victories were rare, often pyrrhic. ‘How much money are we talking about?’
He lowered his voice. ‘Ten thousand.’
I coughed.
‘You think I’m making it up?’
‘No.’ He had my attention now. ‘What are their names? We’ll contact the multicultural legal agencies, make a fuss, protest to police-integrity people. Make them investigate.’
He shook his head. ‘If we go to the authorities, first they won’t believe us, then they will stall, it will go to court. It might take years. Even then, the money is gone.’
That was a pretty accurate description of the process.
We hit the suburb of Corio, and I used a phone app to direct Shahid to a grid of narrow streets on the coast-side of the highway. We found Marsden Avenue, and I asked him to stop the van on the corner.
‘Now, you two, please don’t go doing anything stupid. That money’s gone now. I’ll help you with legal channels. Legal. Not vigilante.’
Afshan shook his head. ‘What do you think, Shahid?’
‘The Dude abides,’ he said.
I took that to mean they would take my advice, and I hopped out of the van.
‘You want us to wait?’
‘No. I’ll take the train back.’
‘Sweet. Abyssinia.’
‘Salada.’ I waved, and hurried away from the fumes.
33
I CROSSED the road and walked, acting nonchalant. Cars lined the street: Falcon, Commodore, Commodore, Falcon, beaten-up Hyundai, Falcon. No one was in them that I could see. The place had a dead feel, not a ghost town exactly, because there were people about. On a porch, an old guy with one leg was smoking and listening to the races. A kid on a bike wobbled by. A lady held a hose on a rose bush. The afternoon had a dry, lazy heat. I passed Isaac Mortimer’s house, no visible signs of people, neither cop nor crim. It was neat, the lawn cut. A carpet of dead flowers beneath an old camellia. Empty letter box.
I crossed again and walked back.
I went up the driveway. A high fence from the back of the house to the garage blocked access to the backyard. Between the garage and the house next door was a narrow gap. I squeezed through. Just. The back was sparse but well maintained, the Hills hoist had a token towel. The bungalow was a sad fibro box with louvre windows. One set of louvres was ajar. I stood on tiptoes and peered in. It was dim, but I could see the double bed with a candlewick bedspread, and a vinyl armchair. On the coffee table, piles of motorcycle magazines and a full ashtray. Smoke rose from one of the cigarettes. I swore, and a gut feeling hit me with a flood of cold adrenalin. Go, now, time to leave. I spun in a panic, and smacked into a brick wall that wasn’t there before. I stepped back. He was in leathers, head freshly shaved and shining, the cheerful tangerine tuft atop. Mr Bust Face.
The fist blocked out the sun, force of a machine, smacked into cheek, jaw, eye. Head snapped back, and staggering, falling, and bright light, lights out.
34
MY FEET together, on my side. Engine drone. Jostled up and down, rolling. Green-apple fresh and oily odours and the sour smell of my fear. My abject terror. My forthcoming death, though not yet. Alive for now in this lurching car or van or something, something that moved down a second-rate stretch of road. Possibly dirt — the tyres didn’t hum, they crunched on the corrugations and pot holes.
Sudden breaking, waiting, and sharp turns sent me sliding across the seat. Fabric against my mouth and nose, a hood of some kind. I pushed my legs back and found the door, my feet were bare. I moved my hands, tried to, they were bound behind me. My eye adjusted and bits of light filtered in. I attempted a roll and lift to get myself upright, but my head hurt, enough pain to give up on that idea.
If I put my head at an angle, right on up the fabric, there was a narrow gap, a stitch hole, and I could see the back of his head. ‘Buster?’ I called.
Buster twisted in the seat. ‘What’d you call me?’
No response.
‘What do they call you?’
He hesitated. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Where’re we headed, Buster?’
‘Fucking Woop Woop. They give me directions.’
I had dealt with unpredictable people. An aggressive, or drunk, client, who had to be cajoled. Any public transport user, any public library patron, anyone who’d ever left the safety of their home had had to deal with a wildling — free folk, who screamed ‘you bastards’ at a fire hydrant or sat staring at you while they wet their pants. And what had all that experience taught me? Stay calm, or try to. Minimal eye contact? Check. Keep the conversation friendly. Deep breaths, slow in, slow out. Eyes closed. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s your day been?’
He sniggered.
‘Mine’s been grand. Impromptu trip to the county. I often say I should get out of Melbourne more often. Get among nature.’
‘Got that right.’
‘Ha! You mean buried in it, right?’
Another snigger.
Heart rate soaring; sweating. Don’t panic, I repeated in my head. Calm. Slow and calm. Breathe.
‘Hey mate, can you take the hood off? If I suffocate, no fun of killing me, or whatever.’
For a moment nothing, then he hit the brakes and we skidded to a stop. I felt the car mount an embankment. A hand grabbed the hood from the back of my head, a handful of hair with it, and pulled. I was free and gasping. Plastic cable ties held my ankles, impossible to walk, let alone run. Only Buster and I in the car.
‘Thanks. Much better.’
‘No worries.’ He gunned it.
‘Whereabouts are we going, Buster? Is it someone’s house? I promise I won’t tell.’
He sighed, almost wistfully.
I lifted my head, and checked out the scenery. The volcanic plains of the outer western precincts. Low clouds rolled in over the developer’s dreams, the first-home-buyers’ only hope. I saw a multiple powerline, tall transmission towers. The edge of Tarneit, perhaps, between Werribee and Rockbank. My guess, we were heading towards Luigi Tacchini. The Turk.
At a lonely crossroad, Buster turned onto a road with open paddocks on either side that gave way to five-acre blocks with generic brick-veneer houses surrounded by rusted car bodies, half-arsed shedding, and derelict farm equipment. A pastoral ghetto, which would soon be sacrificed to the medium-density lifestyle, only thirty kilometres from the CBD.