Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  She called for Spirit then turned and hurried toward the street. Linc watched her leave. The dog didn’t show.

  Chapter 17

  HE SPRINTS DOWN a dusty country road, snot running from his nose as he howls in fright.

  ‘You can’t run from me, you little shit,’ she screams. ‘I’m gonna get you one way or the other. And when I do, I’m gonna string you up by your itty bitty balls and skin your hide.’

  He runs faster than his skinny legs can manage. His shoes slap against the baked road. His underdeveloped lungs heave under the strain of tears and sharp breaths filled with the red dust that never stops blowing across the scrub.

  ‘You owe me.’ Her screech drags across his skin like a blade. ‘Get back here!’

  He is certain she is right behind him. Her long strides make her fast. She’s caught him before. Many times. He stumbles, dashes his knees on sharp stones that cover the ground. His only pair of long pants tear.

  Her red claws grab his arm. She yanks him to his feet. Slaps his cheek. Once. Then again. She shoves her face with its too bright lipstick right into his. He knows what she’s thinking though she hardly says it anymore: she could have been something if it wasn’t for him; if not for him, she’d be a star.

  ‘All you have to do is be nice to Uncle Jimmy,’ she coos. ‘Be nice and we could be out of this shit hole faster than Jimmy can finish his beer. Okay, darl?’

  Her flinty eyes don’t match the sweetness in her voice. They never do for him. When he doesn’t reply, she snatches at the hated elastic bow tie around his neck and lets it snap back. It hurts worse than the strap he’ll get from her later, when it’s dark and they are alone.

  She shoves him back in the direction of the hovel she allows him to share. Where Uncle Jimmy waits for them…

  He heard the slap of her sandals on the dry earth, the rasp of his breath as it tore through his weak lungs. This time he’d outrun the bitch. Her screeching became shrieks, jarring, like the ringing of a phone.

  Slab lurched awake.

  A phone!

  He opened his eyes. In the mirrored window of his mezzanine room at the club he saw himself: a muscle-bound man, hands over his ears, cowering at the memory of a bitch who’d been dead more than twenty years. A bit of rough trade with Candii hadn’t changed anything.

  His mobile was still ringing. He snatched it up.

  ‘What?’

  Music from the club penetrated the floor and competed with the clamour in his head. He pressed the disposable mobile to his ear. Some bloke was talking at him. It was like he was speaking through plate glass, saying something about company. What the fuck did that mean? He stared at his mirrored image, at the man who could put the fear of death into a person with just a look, and the noise in his head dimmed.

  ‘Boss. You there? You hear what I said?’

  Tiny. It was Tiny, telling him he had an unwelcome visitor.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Slab moved to the window that overlooked the street. A mauve dusk had settled and he could tell by the barely-dressed crowd on the street it was still steaming. Hot weather always brought them out and into his clubs.

  In the alley between the tattoo parlour and the hair salon both frequented by his girls, was a midnight blue sedan. He couldn’t see much beyond the car’s tinted windows, except that it was obviously an unmarked cop car. In his line of work, he’d learned to suss them early. Tiny reckoned the shadow behind the wheel was Drummond. If that was true, how the hell had the copper found him? Officially, his only property was the penthouse apartment, and he paid good money to make sure it stayed that way. His other properties, like the bulk of his business interests, were buried in shell companies owned by overseas syndicates he’d set up with the help of his accountant. Bernie assured him there was no direct link to him, but this Sydney stooge had found him as easily as if he’d advertised in the Yellow Pages.

  ‘Keep your eye on him,’ he told Tiny, ‘but keep your distance.’

  Slab picked up his flick-knife. It was a well-hefted tool with an edge sharper than his ma’s tongue. It trembled in his hand. Shit. This stuff about his ma must really be getting to him. He played with the knife, loving the rasp as it opened and shut, and shook off the last shuddering remnant of his dream. It didn’t matter how much Drummond knew. He’d never get past Tiny or the maze of companies. And he’d never discover the secret of his penthouse sanctuary. No one knew about that. Not Tiny. Not even the stubbornly mute Croatian woman who cleaned for him.

  He tossed the knife and dialled his insider. The guy needed reminding what he stood to lose if he didn’t do what he was paid to and keep that Sydney stooge on a leash. When the bloke finally picked up he sounded half-asleep.

  ‘You’re supposed to be keeping him busy.’ Slab paused to let the bloke’s brain catch up. He wasn’t the dumbest he’d ever used, but he was close. Sometimes clueless was best.

  ‘I am, mate.’

  ‘Then why is he sitting opposite my Hindley Street club right now? And how the hell does he know about this place?’

  The informant’s breathing shunted down the phone line. ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Someone’s snitching.’

  ‘No way it’s one of our blokes.’ The insider lowered his voice. ‘No car, no leads, no friends. I made sure. Just like you told me.’

  ‘He’s got a car. I’m staring at the bloody thing right now.’

  ‘It’s not one of ours.’

  ‘It bloody well is. It’s got two freaking great lights in the back window. One red. One blue. Any dickhead can see them.’ Through his binoculars he made out the number plate and gave it to the insider. ‘You run a check on that and make sure you get back to me.’

  ‘Yeah, I will, mate. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’m not the one who has to worry.’

  He hung up. Let the lazy bastard stew on that.

  Slab dialled one more number. If someone was talking, Drummond was more of a threat than he thought. It was time he learned more about this stooge. This time he’d go straight to the source: a certain Sydney tosser who had a lot to lose if Drummond figured out what was really going on.

  As he waited for Quinlan to pick up, his ma’s banshee scream echoed in his thoughts. He hadn’t dreamt of her in ages, yet lately it was all he did. He’d cut her from his life, but he’d never managed to pry that bitch from his memory. She’d made him apologise and stood by while Jimmy metered out his sick punishment. He was a kid, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t have to love him, but she should have stopped it.

  He’d never forgotten that apology or the punishment. He made sure his ma and her fat boyfriend never forgot it either.

  Back then he hadn’t been as skilled with Jimmy’s flick-knife.

  Chapter 18

  MINA WIPED THE SWEAT from her brow with the edge of her t-shirt and filled the water bowl for Spirit, who had flopped out panting on the cool kitchen lino. He hadn’t come when she called him as she escaped Drummond’s unsettling questions, and she’d had to wait until she was certain the police invasion was over before she returned to look for him. Spirit had been fast asleep behind the workshop. As soon as she mentioned a run, excitement replaced his lethargy. Their ten-kilometre jog along the recreation path as the sun dropped into the ocean had burned off considerable frustration.

  It hadn’t cleared her head.

  She downed a glass of cold water, gazing at the closed door to her mother’s quarters. Fingerprint powder was stark against the cream paint and threw the chisel marks into relief. Three months it had been. Three months since she locked everything behind that door. And now Drummond and his heavy-footed cronies had trooped through like it was nothing. She wiped her brow again and put her empty glass in the sink.

  ‘Right.’

  Spirit lifted his head.

  ‘May as well get it over with, hey, boy?’

  He followed her across the kitchen, nails clacking. Mina pulled open the door and hesitated on the dark threshold, rememberi
ng the intruder, Drummond’s hand on her shoulder, Wainright with her nightie…

  It was time she faced it. She strode down the hall, flicking every switch in every room to flood them with light.

  There was nothing chic about the shabbiness. From every corner hung peeling wallpaper and dust-veiled cobwebs. Sheets shrouded the furniture. The tea set crafted by her mother had pride of place on the bookshelf, its once vibrant cerulean glaze faded and cracked.

  Mina wiped at a stray tear. As much as she loved history, it did no good to hang on to a past that couldn’t be changed. She had a business to think about. No time for sentimentality. If she was going to move forward, she had to confront the memories that tied her stomach in knots and made her hate herself. It was time to stop hiding. Time to live her life in her house the way she wanted to live it.

  She flung open the heavy curtains. If the neighbours saw, she didn’t care. In a whirl of dust-filled activity, she yanked the sheets from the furniture while Spirit danced around her, growling playfully and biting at the trailing sheets. He seemed recovered from his run. Amazingly unharmed after the kicking he’d taken from the bastard who’d broken in.

  Not stopping to look at what was revealed she whipped through the rooms, but when she reached her mother’s door her hand trembled on the doorknob and the familiar ache bloomed in her chest. Spirit’s wet nose nudged at her elbow. She ruffled the luxuriant fur on his head, seeking comfort in his solid weight as he leaned into her. The thick white stripe above each intelligent blue eye made it seem he was waiting for some kind of answer.

  ‘Sorry, boy. I can’t.’

  If she went into that room, the ache in her chest might get worse. She might go back to the days when her whole world was made of that tight pain. Just the sight of the interior of her mother’s bedroom had caused her to cling to Lincoln Drummond. It scared her how easily he comforted her. And how much she wanted it. When he’d sat beside her on the garden bench, the longing in his gaze had left her breathless. If he’d touched her then, she would have broken apart. She almost had. That’s why she’d blurted the truth. That she was an Everton, forever marked by the long shadow of her father’s crime.

  Spirit nudged at her again.

  What did she expect to achieve by opening up these rooms? It wasn’t like she needed them or could ever face using them. She turned away. There were more important things to tackle: the kitchen needed a complete wipe down and she wanted to empty her tallboy and wash everything. Christ knows what else Wainright had put his hands on.

  She took a step along the hallway. The sight of the lounge room, now free of its shrouds, stopped her cold.

  It had become a museum. Made more so by the bright dust particles hanging in the air. The only things missing were the velvet rope and life-size dummies. The big settee was where her mother had curled up with her herbal tea and a huge sketch pad in which the idea for a new sculpture would begin. The worn leather chair was where she’d sat on her father’s knee, bursting with anticipation for the adventure about to unfold as her mother poured tea into the bright blue cups she had crafted especially for their Sunday afternoon storytelling.

  Sundays had been her favourite.

  Mina pictured her father bouncing into the lounge room after his footy match, laughing, kissing her mother regardless of winning or losing; the way he’d drop into his favourite chair singing, “Ready, steady, here we go. It’s about time for the Everton show”; him flicking open his great grandfather’s fob saying, “It’s four o’clock, kettle’s on the hob, where are we going today, girls?”; giggling at his silliness as they all settled into their regular chairs, tea and cake at the ready.

  For more than a decade she’d managed to block Jacko from her thoughts, but now all she could remember were pieces of the lie that made up her childhood. Her entire life had been a game of make-believe. Because it hadn’t ended when Jacko left. She and her mother had pretended they were fine, that they didn’t hear the jibes or see the way they were shunned by those who were supposed to be their friends. They were never fine again.

  Forbes was right. She needed to leave this place and build a new life. He should have pushed harder, rolled right over her excuses as she’d seen him do to others in council meetings. With her, he was always so bloody reasonable. So willing to give her space and time to heal. Couldn’t he see that sometimes she just needed to know she didn’t have to stand alone, that it was okay to be weak and feminine?

  Yet moving house wouldn’t solve her current problem. It wouldn’t have stopped her hunting up bargains in a pawnbroker’s in the middle of nowhere or being so pushy and stubborn she put herself right in the middle of the robberies half the town blamed on her dad.

  Mina threw herself onto the lumpy couch, raising a musty odour from the cushions. Spirit jumped up beside her and rested his big head on her lap, his brows raised, his blue eyes vivid in the electric light. She caressed the thick hair behind his ears and smiled when he closed his eyes and relaxed into her, trusting her. He’d only been in her life two days and yet she couldn’t imagine life without him. Who needed the complications that came with a man like Drummond when she had Spirit’s unconditional affection and loyalty? When they ran, Spirit matched his pace to hers. He listened to her when she spoke. He seemed to sense when she needed space and when she needed comfort. No matter how bad things were, her day seemed brighter with him in it. She felt safe.

  She’d felt safe once before. Safe and loved and so wrapped up in her tiny dramas she’d been completely unprepared for what happened that weekend of the barbeque. She tugged the watch from the waistband pocket of her running shorts and held it in her palm. So much had changed and yet this…

  ‘Why did I do it, Spirit? Why did I need to have this stupid watch?’

  Beneath her thumb, the engraving felt exactly as she remembered. She’d always loved the contrast of the smooth ridges and the sharp pointed stars. She trailed her finger along the striations that formed the river, just as Jacko had done so many years earlier.

  ‘This represents life,’ he’d said. ‘The dog represents protection. My dad reckoned the dog shows up whenever the keeper of the watch needs help.’

  ‘Like a ghost dog? Cool.’

  Mina looked at Spirit, ran her fingers through his soft fur, felt his heart beating against her thigh. Funny how he’d turned up just when she needed him. Almost like he’d known she would find the watch and make a mess of everything. She laughed at herself. The heat must really be getting to her. The ghost dog was just another story. She’d had nothing but trouble since she found the watch, but leaving it in that junk shop had never been an option because she just couldn’t believe Jacko would willingly part with something that meant so much to him. Now she realised his story about its place in his life was just another silver thread in his web of lies.

  Spirit jerked up his head, his ears pricked as he stared at the window. It was dark outside. All she saw was the pale reflection of her face. The dog’s low growl vibrated through her lap, then he leapt off and raced from the room.

  From outside came the distinctive sound of someone walking along her gravel driveway.

  Chapter 19

  CRICKETS! KEGS HATED THEM. Too many bloody crickets, chirping and carrying on like a bunch of drunk women. How had he ever got himself into this mess? Talking to Slab Carlson, that’s how. He never should have told him about the Everton girl and that bloody watch. Then he wouldn’t have spent the morning stuck in his car. And he wouldn’t be doing penance now.

  When the call came, there was no getting out of it. He’d told Dunny to keep him a cold one, but the way that kid went through VB, there wouldn’t be nothing left when he got back. Not at this rate.

  Kegs dragged the black plastic toward the water line of the river, trying not to grunt with the effort. This little package was heavy, his left arm had been aching most of the day, and it was almost too dark to see.

  Torrens Island was an eerie place at night. Come to that, he wasn’t that
comfortable being out here in the daylight. Could have done with a nice clear night and a bright moon to light his way, but there were plenty of eyes hiding beneath the hush, and this little job wasn’t something he was proud of. Mud sucked at his boots. Mosquitoes buzzed near his ears. His arms throbbed with bites. A fresh one stung his cheek, but with both hands wrapped around the garbage bag, he couldn’t swat the little buggers.

  Where the hell was Dunny when he needed him? He could’ve done with a good set of eyes and another pair of hands. Should’ve taken up the kid’s offer of help, but when he’d said no, he hadn’t a clue what the boss wanted and thought it better to keep Dunny well out of it.

  His foot found a swampy patch. He fell sideways. A thick mangrove root jabbed at his hip. The shallows were cool at least, and he thanked God he didn’t have to worry about crocs this end of the country.

  He reached for a branch to haul himself up, but couldn’t raise his left arm. His shoulder and chest hurt like hell. Must have landed harder than he thought. With a firm right-handed grip on one of the overhead branches—tested first to make sure it would hold his weight—he hauled himself upright, then had to fish around for his load.

  A black plastic bag, even one this size, was no easy thing to find in the swamp water in the dark.

  He tightened his fingers around the slippery neck and dragged it through the tangle of weeds and mangrove, hoping to Christ the bloody thing didn’t tear. He hadn’t seen what was inside, but he could guess. When you’d worked for Mr Carlson as long as he had, a bloke learned to not ask questions or peek at things that were none of your business. He’d told Dunny that Slab Carlson had put plenty of blokes in the ground, but lately the boss had favoured water and wasn’t bothered about bumping off the odd girl when it suited him.

  He wished Dunny was with him now. Was a time when Kegs wanted the kid to piss off for a bit, give him a bit of space instead of hanging around him every second of the day. Hadn’t realised how much the kid had grown on him until he started staying out all night, dreaming his weird little dreams about the Everton girl. If it wasn’t for her sticking her tiny nose in his business, he wouldn’t be in this bloody mess.