by J. M. Green
Time to go.
I hesitated.
I’d broken into buildings before, but I’d always had help. My brother, the petty criminal, could jimmy open a window on the third floor of my building before you could say ‘Magistrates’ Court appearance’. Even Phuong had a nifty multi-purpose tool and a no-nonsense approach that got us inside a Sunbury meth lab in about five seconds flat.
Today, I was on my own, but feeling upbeat. I could do this.
I walked around the back; the backyard was bare concrete, a few concrete planters with dead plants in them, and big, ugly fish pond full of green water. Other than that, there was no garden, not even a tree. Against the back fence, a pile of household rubbish rotted in the sun. A haven for rats. I checked the house for points of entry. The windows were small and too high to climb in. The back door was locked. I walked down the side of the house and put on the gloves. The side windows were about waist-high. I peered through them, and saw empty rooms strewn with rubbish, boxes, lengths of pipe, a mixer tap that might inflict harm if used with sufficient force. Rolls of plastic, bags of rocks, lights, cords piled in a heap.
I put my gloved hand flat on the window and tried to slide it. The catch snapped and the window moved about three centimetres and stopped, held up by a length of thin dowel in the runner. The cold stink of fusty organic matter drifted out. I tried to use the screwdriver but the handle was bulky and couldn’t get through the gap. The knife slipped through, held by two fingers. I bent my hand around, fingers extended, and edged the point of the knife under the dowel. Out it popped. The window slid open. I put one foot on the fence behind me and lifted my weight to the sill, leaned in, and fell the rest of the way. I landed on a pedestal electric fan, hitting my leg. I suppressed a shriek of pain and waited for the worst to pass. I breathed, did a few stretches, and got to my feet.
Internal glass double doors separating the room from the next were propped open. A lighting rig on the ceiling ran the length of both rooms, and a series of extension cords dangled from it. Wide strips of black plastic were piled up on the floor, a few strips were still taped to a window. A row of large plastic tubs, with taps on the side, were hooked up to hoses that went nowhere. Cut by the cops, presumably, who’d hauled the dope out of here.
I sifted through the contents of the boxes. Seed trays, sundry horticultural items.
The two bedrooms were a mess of junk-food detritus, takeaway bag’s from Madame Mao’s Handmade Dumplings, empty beer cartons, numerous bottles, a couple of camp chairs. Neither room had a bed, and the built-in robes were bare.
I checked the bathroom. A compact space, shower head over the bath where Peck’s body had been. A mouldy shower curtain. Pink fifties’ porcelain. The matching basin built in a cupboard, both doors open, and overflowing with plastic supermarket bags. The mirrored cabinet above was open and bare.
I went through the house again, checking for secret doors, or fake panels. That was fruitless. Then I went scanning the ceiling for the manhole into the roof. It was in the hallway, but the cover had been removed. The police had probably been through it, but I dragged a crate over from the main room, and shone my phone up there. Nothing. I put the crate back and noticed the drop-sheet that had been scrunched up behind it.
I held it up — it was about the size of a single bed sheet. Dirty and mouldy, and smeared with mud. I was about to toss it aside. In the dirty smudges were patterns. I spread the sheet out on the floor. There was a mark on it, a foot print. It was a clear distinctive sole, with a unique ripple pattern. The print was a Dunlop Volley. The preferred casual sneaker of Ricky Peck.
I stood there, thinking. One clear shoe print and a mess of mud. Brown clay. I got down on the carpet. It was soiled, but not muddy. I walked around the house. The floors were filthy with dust and dirt, but not the same type of mud.
I stood in the narrow hall leading from the front door, past the bathroom, to the back door. No muddy tracks.
I went back to the room where the hydroponic set-up had been. Water had been stored in the tubs, which the crims had kept tidy, and which were now emptied and stacked. Even if the water had leaked, there was not enough dirt there to make mud. I scrutinised the rear yard, just a square of dry grass. Mud was inside the house, and had been hastily wiped up with a drop-sheet. But it hadn’t been walked in from the backyard.
I walked slowly, from room to room, scrutinising the floor.
Halfway down the hall, I clocked a streak of brown dirt on the linoleum. The same brown as on the drop-sheet. But someone had tried to wipe it up and done a crappy job. I got down on the floor. There was a small smudge on the skirting board. I inspected the pattern in the lino, looking for a break. There was a join, but it was a neat line and easy to miss. I couldn’t lift the corner. I dug the knife under there and a piece nearly a metre-square came away.
A small rectangular hatch was built into the floorboards. The knife slid into the edge and the boards lifted out. Too dark down there to see anything, but I did manage to inhale the fetid air, and probably air-borne diseases. They had a dampness problem. Water leaking under the house, a blocked downpipe maybe.
I shone my phone down, saw the problem. No ventilation, all the vents were obstructed by stacks of plastic containers. The space was small, and cramped, but there was enough room down there to also store a large packing crate and a big metal toolbox.
A car drove by outside. I froze. A door slammed, some people said goodbye, and it drove away. I should leave now.
I took off my runners and lowered myself down. The ground was cold and soft and squished through my toes. I lifted the lid of the nearest container, aimed my phone inside. Files. I opened one marked inventory: statements, customs information, quarantine periods, lists of units in a shipping container.
Another container held more files. I flipped one open. Photos of Brook, some in a t-shirt and shorts, measuring one hundred and sixty-eight centimetres against a height chart; another, a simple headshot, blonde with a slick make-up job, almost unrecognisable, smiling at the camera. Under it, a statement of medical history, with blood type, boxes ticked normal for all tests, screened and all clear for viruses, including HIV.
The toolbox was new-looking. A padlock dangled from the catch. Someone was careless, or maybe in a hurry.
I lifted the lid, shone the phone on neat rows of fifties and hundreds bound with elastic. It was a deep toolbox. My guess, over a hundred-thousand dollars’ worth.
I touched nothing, closed the lid and moved on.
Another plastic container held more paperwork. Correspondence. More documents. They would be worth proper inspection. I looked for something to hold all the paperwork, and found a large manila envelope. It had weight, something bulky inside. I held the phone up higher and tipped out the contents. Five Australian passports. I opened one and checked the photo. A serious boy, staring. Razz, Cory’s friend from the car park. I opened another: the girl I’d seen with Cory, outside Brophy’s studio. I put all the passports back in the envelope, thrust in the other documents, and threw it up through the hatch on the floor.
Best be on my way.
Maybe one more container. Or maybe the crate. The lid had been removed. I held my phone up. It was full of white spongy packing beads. I shifted them around, saw a grapefruit-sized olive-green casing, pin still attached.
Another car, right outside. A door slammed and I nearly fainted. I moved a container away from an air vent and looked out. A beaten-up old station wagon was parked in the driveway — not the usual bikie transport. A man of about sixty in overalls, and another much younger man, for whom ‘Stretch’ or ‘Beanpole’ would be a good nickname, also in overalls, came sauntering up the drive, conversing loudly in a language that sounded Eastern Europe. The younger one was holding a wrench. Run or hide? I climbed out from under the house, wiping the mud off my feet on the drop-sheet. They were at the back door, talking something over. I pull
ed off the gloves and slipped my feet into my runners, just as a rock came through the glass in the back door. I picked up the manila envelope and covered the hole in the floor with the sheet of lino.
A hand came through the broken window and tried to turn the deadlock. Amateurs.
I went to the back door, shoulders squared, holding the envelope in an officious manner. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked through the broken window.
‘Dad, someone here.’
‘Marion Cunningham, Cunningham Real Estate.’
The boy stepped back. The older man stood behind him, his legs planted. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded.
‘I should ask you that.’
‘This place is abandoned,’ said the boy.
‘I’m afraid not. The house is the legal property of my client.’
‘We take only metal,’ his father said.
‘I can’t allow that. I have instructions from the owners to make an evaluation for the future sale of the property. Including all fittings, fixtures, taps, pipes, and decorations.’
‘You don’t look like real estate,’ the boy said. ‘You have a bruise on your face.’
‘I’m aware of that. If you leave now, I’ll forget about the window.’
The father hooked his thumbs in the bib of his overalls, and spat at his feet. ‘This is bullshit.’
‘I must ask you to leave or I’m calling the police.’
He said something in his own language, and they walked back the way they’d come. I put the passports in my handbag and waited while they climbed, swearing, into the car and slammed the doors. When they drove away, I kicked off my shoes again and, once more pulling back the lino, jumped down. I opened the boxes and started to stuff files into my bag.
44
I HAD files, passports, correspondence. That should be plenty. I hauled myself out. I replaced the hatch, and lined up the lino. Then I used the drop sheet to wipe my feet a second time, and to clean mud from the floor. I got as far as the window I’d climbed in through, and stopped.
One stiflingly hot afternoon, in my sixth year at Woolburn Primary school, my teacher told me that I had a unique skill: the complete inability to learn from my mistakes. I thought that was harsh, at the time. Too harsh. And yet, I was hesitating, heart pounding, thinking about the cash under the house. Enough for Afshan and Shahid to have a life. Enough for even bloody Kylie and Tyler to play farmers, and breed bloody Dexters.
The last time I had done something so foolish, it had cost me sleep, a paranoia-free existence, and my composure for the better part of a decade. Peace of mind was important, wasn’t it? I’d put it all on my mortgage, giving me a semblance of security. Did that balance it out? The crazy with the sensible?
I ran to the bathroom and grabbed the plastic shopping bags from the cabinet. I couldn’t hold my phone and grab the cash at the same time, so I propped it up on the crate, and worked in the semi-dark. By the time the toolbox was empty, I’d filled five bags and tied them off.
Sweat dripped and I buzzed with adrenalin. I snatched up the phone and it slipped from my hand. I felt around for it. My palm touched a corner. I picked it up and turned it round, hoping the crack in the screen wasn’t worse. It had survived but was caked in mud, and something small was stuck to it, the size of a finger, soft and round. A cigarette butt with a gold band. Hero brand. Cuong’s brand.
I put the butt in my pocket and threw the bags out onto the hallway floor.
I couldn’t walk out of here with bags of noticeable cash. In one of the bedrooms, I grabbed an empty beer carton. I filled it with the plastic bags of money and folded the cardboard ends down. It was bulky and heavy, but I could manage it. I looked out the window to see if anyone was about. The street was deserted. The front and back door were deadlocked, so I threw the box, and my handbag, out the side window and climbed out. I dusted myself off and walked as casually as I could down the driveway, holding what looked to the world like a slab of VB, and my handbag slung over my shoulder. I closed the gate behind me.
In a neighbouring wheelie bin, I dropped the rubber gloves and the cigarette butt, then walked to Wright Street, heading east, towards home.
When a cab passed, I waved it down and offered the driver one hundred bucks to take me to Ascot Vale and forget I existed.
I stood across the road from Pine View, holding the beer carton, and watched my building for signs of intruders. I decided it was safe and climbed the stairs.
I opened a kitchen cupboard, plastic containers spilled onto the floor. Bags of cash would never fit in there. In my bedroom, strewn with clothes, I stuffed the carton under the bed. I thought for a moment, then I went back, took out half the cash, and stashed it in my freezer.
I poured myself a vodka and took out the manila envelope with the documents and passports. According to the details, Razz was nearly fifteen. And Cory’s friend, the girl, her passport photo looked like a glamour shot, hair swept back off her face; she was even wearing a blazer. The other passport photos were of teenagers I didn’t recognise. They all had studio hair and corporate attire, as though they were going to a costume party as a young liberal or a stockbroker. But no make-up in the world could disguise their terrible dull-eyed expressions, the kind I’d seen on junkies down on their luck.
I considered the best thing to do with it all. An anonymous tip off? But I couldn’t be sure the information would be understood or acted upon. Some of those front-room cops were a bit thick. Anyone higher up was a possible Flower stooge. Clearly, going to the cops was off; we couldn’t trust them. Also, it might incriminate Cuong. Also, as of this afternoon, me.
I did something out of character, I rang my mother.
‘Sell the farm to Kylie and Tyler. They’re good for the money.’
‘Eh? What? You say they’ve got money?’
‘They’re good for it, yes.’
‘All right. Good news. I’ll tell that Farquhar to get on his bike.’
I smirked; it grew into laughter. The adrenalin of what I had just done hit. I jumped up and put Amy Whitehouse on my little-used CD player, cranked it way up, and danced around until Brown started bashing on the wall and yelling something about not acting like beasts, reminding me why I hardly ever listened to music at home.
The volume came down and so did I. All the files went back in the envelope, except for the passports of Razz and the others. Those I put in an old envelope. I would show them to Phuong tonight at dinner. I’d like to see her face when I told her what I did. Not everything, not the money part, just busting into their stupid lair and raiding their stash.
The rest of the documents I hid under a cushion on the sofa. After I had a chance to talk with Phuong, I’d give it to some media person who knew their outlaw motorcycle gangs from a hole in the road.
I was feeling pretty good, and went hunting for my DVD of Blood Diamond to finally see the ending. I ran an eye over the spines, stopping at Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
Li Mu-bai, warrior monk, a man full of quiet regret, who in the end wanted nothing more than to be a ghost, so he could be by the side of Yu Shu Lien. Was there a more melancholy figure than Li Mu-bai?
Brophy, maybe.
An uncomplicated, undemanding man. A man quietly struggling to live his dream. And what had he asked of me? Patience. Forbearance. A little faith.
Perhaps I’d been negligent in that.
Hell, no, a voice said. Nuh uh. Why help your nemesis? Your worst enemy? You should pour another vodka, go back to bed. I agreed.
But Brophy …
I checked my phone. There was enough time to see Flicky and be back for dinner at Phuong’s. Oh, alright. Fine. One last chore to do.
I changed out of the muddy jeans and into a dress — a pink shift — and slipped on a pair of black ballet flats. It was a wildly impractical outfit for my lifestyle, and some scars and plasters were exposed,
but I didn’t want to rock up to Flicky’s looking like a tradie. I wanted to feel feminine this once. One thing ruined the effect: no pockets, there was nowhere to keep a weapon handy. I dropped the knife and the screwdriver in my handbag, with the passports, and ran out into the street to hail a passing cab. ‘Williamstown,’ I said, getting in the back. We flew to Flicky’s, lickety-split.
The front door was chocked open and only a flimsy, tattered fly-screen protected the Sparks family from riffraff like me. Inside, a woman was on the phone, voice of an extrovert, shouty, raucous. It reminded me of my mother; she bellowed down the receiver like someone using a megaphone, like she didn’t believe telephones actually worked.
‘Of course, last year Cynth wore that chiffon thing, remember? And that hat, size of a beach umbrella, taking everyone’s eye out. Plastered by two, Henry carried her to the car!’
I made a fist, and used a knuckle to tap the frame.
‘Better go, hun. Someone’s at the door. See you Tuesday, we’ll swing by in the limo. No chicken, please, goes off in the sun. Bring flats — I am. Bye, sweetie. Bye!’
A thin silhouette in chunky heels clomped down the wooden hall. The screen door swung out at me and I took a step back, the better to take in this vision of well-preserved beauty queen. Mrs Sparks smiled. ‘Goodness, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’
‘I fell. It’s nothing. Is Felicity home?’
‘Come in, she’s in the garden.’
‘I’ll wait here, if that’s okay.’
She looked at me, the smooth face motionless, but the eyes darting. ‘Alright then, I’ll fetch Flick.’
I knew it. Flick. Tricky Flicky. She came bouncing down the hall and stopped dead in her tracks when she clocked me. ‘Jesus, Stella. Are you okay?’
‘Where’s Brophy’s money?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The money you stole from him, where is it?’