‘But he came by, right?’
‘What?’ Bill’s not even looking at me anymore.
‘He came by. Two mornings ago. With your money.’
‘Little girl, two mornings ago I was at Centrelink. And there wasn’t any money waiting for me when I got back.’
‘When did you last see him? A week? A month?’
He shrugs; his man boobs jiggle. ‘Not my fault if he doesn’t want to be found.’
He tries to close the door, but I shove my combat boot in the jam and press my palm against the frame. ‘And that doesn’t bother you? He’s fourteen.’
Bill lets the door fall open and adjusts his ‘package’ again. Am I sheltered or do they really require that much manoeuvring?
‘Course it bothers me,’ he says. He treats me to another coin-slot grin. ‘He owes me four and a half grand.’
‘He really hasn’t paid you back?’ I pull out my phone, flipping through screens to playback Xavier’s message. ‘He said, I mean, his message, it said he was . . .’
Bill’s cloudy eyes wander down to me. ‘Look, kid,’ he says. ‘I haven’t heard from him because he knows if he shows his face around here without my money, I’ll rearrange it.’
In Year Ten the level coordinator told me to imagine shoving my fist in my mouth in moments like this. Apparently it’s to stop me from shooting my mouth off – or worse. It doesn’t work (ask Steve Sparrow) but I imagine shoving my fist down Bill Green’s throat and that kind of helps.
None of this makes sense. Xavier said he had the money and was going to pay his dad back. So what stopped him?
A cold hand grips my heart.
‘Do you have any of his friends’ numbers? I want to make sure he’s okay.’
‘Don’t know any.’
‘There’s one called Nate. Bit older than me. Hair like a tumbleweed.’
Bill shakes his head.
‘Well, what school does Xavier go to?’
‘Something High.’
‘Well, you’ve just been a wonderful help.’ I imagine my fist smashing into his teeth – even better.
Bill itches his chest. Before he closes the door in my face, he says, ‘Do yourself a favour, kid. Forget about Xavier. He’ll drag you through the shit and rip you off on the other side. He learnt that from your mother.’
The door slams, glass rattling.
‘Aiutati che Dio t’aiuta!’ shouts the old lady.
I’m trembling as I walk the path out of there. No jumping this time. Unless you count the pulsing beat of my heart, close to jumping out of my chest.
I bend to pick up a palm-sized stone from next to the gatepost. I think it might be a chunk of old path.
I weigh it in my hand, giving myself a few deep breaths and a count of ten to change my mind.
I don’t change my mind.
‘This is something I learnt from my mother.’ I hurl the rock at the front door. It crashes through the bevelled glass.
As I run down the street, the old lady claps her hands. ‘Bravo,’ she shouts after me.
I pause long enough to bow.
The bowels of the Collingwood police station open up, ejecting two uniformed officers arguing about football. They don’t look at me as they pass. No one’s looked at me.
Last time I was here they gave me colouring-in books and lollies. Of course, back then I was four and newly dumped. Now, I’m a soon-to-be-expelled miscreant worried about her missing, thieving half-brother.
Still, the service has really gone downhill.
It’s been thirty-seven minutes since I spoke to the officer on the front desk, a policewoman who rolled her eyes before saying someone would be down to take a statement ‘real soon’. Guess I missed the sarcasm.
I thought people made a big deal about missing kids. I thought they cried on TV and offered rewards and made public vows to never stop searching. It’s what Harrison Finnik-Hyde’s parents are doing. I watched a clip on my phone – tears, hiccups, scrunched-up faces, pleas.
I tried picturing Bill Green weeping into a hanky on TV. Not likely. And I called Xavier’s school. Actually, I called every high school in Reservoir until . . . jackpot. ‘Haven’t seen him for a week,’ said the coordinator. ‘I’d be more surprised if he actually showed up.’
What the hell? Some Malvern kid doesn’t front up to school for one measly day and we get a state-wide manhunt, but my brother goes AWOL for a whole week and no one gives a shit?
I shove my head between my knees and run my fingers through the long strands of hair swaying in front of my face. Buttons does this thing where he sits over the back of the chair, grabbing at his tail like he doesn’t know it belongs to him. I can’t pretend the hair’s not mine because it tugs whenever my fingers get caught in a knot.
Why doesn’t Xavier just call? ‘Hi, it’s me. I don’t want to be found but you should know I’m okay.’ That would take, what? Five seconds? I’ve left enough messages on his phone today for him to know I’m freaking out.
Unless he can’t call.
A bear-hand clamps down on my shoulder.
I flick my head up: cheap polyester, coffee breath, stale cigarette smoke and a sparse comb-over.
‘What are you doing here?’ I sneer. I’m all charm.
Marzoli doesn’t even blink. ‘It’s a police station. I’m a cop. You do the math.’
‘I failed Maths.’
‘Shall we head to the interview room? I need to take a statement from you.’
I stand and he grabs my arm, steering me toward a nondescript door to the right of reception. ‘In here.’ He guides me into a windowless room painted mental-asylum green.
‘Sit,’ he says, pushing me into a chair.
I freeze. I can’t even breathe.
It’s the same room.
They haven’t painted the walls of this room for fourteen years – and they were scuffed and dirty back then. It’s smaller than I remember and the roof is lower. The light flickers and hums.
I leave my life up to fate for a few minutes and look what happens. If karma’s a bitch then fate is her psychopathic cousin. You know, the one no one invites to family reunions because she makes the little kids cry.
I shove the tip of my thumb into my mouth and start chewing the nail.
Marzoli plonks a manila folder stuffed with papers on the table in front of me. The cover is stained with two coffee rings overlapping like a Venn diagram. Papers in different shades of white are stuffed inside, their edges curled, torn, manhandled. The words ‘Xavier Green’ are scrawled in pencil across the top right-hand corner.
Shit.
He closes the door and takes a seat.
‘The PC on the front desk said you think a young gentleman by the name of Xavier Green is missing.’ He drags the folder across the table and into his lap, loosely crossing his right leg over his left. ‘What makes you think that, Miss Vega?’
He begins to flick through the folder. Slowly. It’s a pretty thick folder for a fourteen-year-old boy.
I shrug. My stomach is cramping and, despite the icy temperature, my face is burning.
‘What’s a DI doing taking a missing kid statement? You short staffed or something?’
‘How do you know Xavier Green?’ Marzoli doesn’t look up.
‘He’s my half-brother.’
‘Didn’t know you had a brother.’
‘Half. And neither did I.’
‘When did you last hear from him?’
‘He left a message on my phone two days ago. I’ve called him a gazillion times and he’s not answering.’
‘Any particular reason why you think something’s happened to him?’
I give him a were-you-dropped-as-a-baby look followed by a well-duh voice. It’s a classic combination. ‘No one has seen him. He’s missing.’
‘But why do you think he’s missing and not just a runaway?’
Okay. First off, ‘just a runaway’? Stellar empathy there, Marzoli. Secondly, the answer to Marzoli’s superb q
uestion is actually: because he stole over four grand from his dad, maybe even more from someone else, and then did something possibly more illegal, possibly more stupid to get the money back. But that’s not an answer I can give.
‘Because, Detective Inspector, he didn’t have a reason to run away. He was happy.’
Marzoli sighs and then rattles off more questions, scribbling notes the whole time. Missing person’s full name, date of birth, description? Any scars, tattoos, birthmarks, distinctive jewellery, clothing? What kind of car does he drive (he’s fourteen, dipshit)? Credit card details, favourite places to hang out, friends, contact details for friends, medical conditions, medications, GP? Blah, blah, blah.
I’m able to answer two-and-a-half questions – the rest get a shrug. God only knows what Marzoli is scribbling.
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Thursday.’
‘You two have a fight? Maybe said things? I know you’re not the type to blow up at someone and say stuff you later regret but . . .’
I glare at a stain on the laminate table. Probably some crim’s brain matter from when Marzoli roughed him up for a confession.
‘He’s missing,’ I say. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
Marzoli picks at the corner of the folder. ‘Have either of his parents seen or spoken to him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll just go ask Mummy dearest. Oh wait, I can’t. She’s missing too.’
‘His dad?’
I shake my head.
Marzoli scans the folder, pursing his lips like he’s reading a bestseller. ‘Did you know Xavier’s run away before?’ He pulls out a single page, holding it at arm’s length to read. ‘He’s been in trouble with us a fair bit. Done community service. Currently on probation.’
‘He’s missing. You forgot to add that to the list. Missing and only fourteen.’
‘I’m just putting it out there that maybe – maybe – he’s not missing. Maybe he’s run away. Again.’
‘Did you give the Malvern kid’s family that line?’
He doesn’t look at me. Just the stupid folder. ‘That’s not my case, Frankie.’
Of course it’s not his case. They’d only have the best for Harrison Finnik-Hyde.
‘Just say you’ll look into it.’
It takes him a second longer than it should to answer me. ‘Of course we’ll look into it.’
He can’t meet my eye. So I figure that by ‘look into it’ he means ‘throw the report into the bin the second I’m out of here’.
This was the worst idea ever.
Fuck you, brain. Fuck you very muchly.
He clears his throat. ‘Rest easy, Frankie. I always get my man.’
‘Is that your tagline on RSVP or are you trying to comfort me?’
His lazy smile says ‘hardy-har-har’ but his eyes say ‘I’m going to stand over your dead body and cackle’.
‘Listen, Frankie –’
‘Forget it, Detective. We all know the son of a junkie doesn’t get a front-page spread so let’s just call this what it is – a waste of everybody’s time, mostly mine – and move on with our lives. You obviously have an RSVP profile to update and I have kebabs to make.’ I stand, my thighs bash into the edge of the table, ramming it into Marzoli’s crossed leg. He swallows a curse and drops the folder, pages spilling all over the floor. One of them is a mug shot.
The dimpled smile is there. And so much of Juliet I want to puke.
I push straight past Marzoli and burst into reception, everything blurring around me.
‘Frankie, wait.’
No chance.
I’m so busy thinking about how the hell to get out of this place that I don’t see the guy until I’ve face-planted his chest.
It’s Shia LaBeouf.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Watch where you’re . . .’
I figure the point that his voice trails off is the point at which he recognises me. And boy does he recognise me. It’s the look of horror and all-consuming anger that gives it away.
He doesn’t say anything though. Neither do I. We just do the whole open-mouthed stare thing for way too long.
Under his cooler-than-cool jacket he’s wearing a – gasp – Smiths t-shirt. His dark hair falls messily across his face, almost hiding a purple bruise circling his right eye. Guess I’m not the only one Nate has pissed off.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ says the cop behind him. It’s Peters, the snot-nosed guy from Marlee’s. ‘Need to get past.’
My gaze travels down to where Nate’s got his arms pulled behind his back and Peters is gripping Nate’s handcuffed wrists.
‘Didn’t you hear the man?’ says Nate. ‘Get lost. VIP coming through.’
‘By VIP you mean “vulgar impotent pig”?’
‘Careful with the name-calling. I might have to start calling you “snitch”.’ Nate jiggles his arms, handcuffs rattling. ‘You just like hanging around cop shops, do you?’
‘Whoa. I’m not here to –’
I smell Marzoli’s cologne before he opens his mouth. ‘Nate Wishaw,’ he growls from right behind me.
‘Detective.’ Nate grins. Long-lost friends apparently.
Marzoli stands like the sheriff facing an outlaw at high noon: hands on hips, pushing back his trench coat, slightly bowed legs, narrowed, wizened eyes. ‘You don’t get frequent flyer points round here.’
I get squeezed out of the way as he steps up to Nate and they have a stare-off.
‘Ask Mr VIP where my brother is. I bet he knows.’
Marzoli chuckles, rubbing his stubble. ‘You mean Nate Wishaw and Xavier Green are mates? Why doesn’t that surprise me? A match made in heaven.’
Nate throws me a look, something halfway between a smile and grimace.
Interesting. Looks like Mr Unflappable is getting a teensy bit flapped.
‘Green’s missing,’ says Marzoli to Nate. ‘Know anything about it?’
‘Nate was the last person I saw Xavier with. Of course he knows something.’
Marzoli looks at me like I’ve just dumped a million dollars into his lap. ‘You saw Wishaw on Thursday? What time?’
Nate is staring at his boots, jaw set firm.
As I glare at him, I mentally run through everything I know. I know Nate and Xavier robbed my neighbour’s house Thursday afternoon. I could easily tell Marzoli everything. I know Marzoli’s investigating the burglaries and he’s positively salivating at the idea of sending Nate down for it. I know it’s a crime to lie to the police but I also know pinning Nate for this crime dumps my brother in the shit too. Which he deserves. But Vegas don’t snitch.
I know Xavier owes a heap of money. What I don’t know is what Xavier did to get the money back, where he went instead of delivering it and how I’m going to find him.
And if I can’t find him, how can I make sure he’s okay then beat him over the head with Uncle Terry’s baseball bat for being the second blood relative to skip out on me?
But maybe Nate knows the things I don’t.
And he can’t tell me anything if he’s rotting in jail.
‘Five pm,’ I say. Which isn’t a lie.
Marzoli licks his lips. ‘And where did you see them, Miss Vega?’ I think he’s already planning a victory party. Would Marzoli do the conga?
‘Inside the Emporium.’
Marzoli turns his pit-bull stare my way. If he was doing the conga in his head then he just tripped and fell on his lei. ‘Repeat that, please.’
Breathe, Frankie.
‘My brother came for dinner and he brought Nate with him. We played Scrabble. It was fun.’
I look at Nate. He looks at me. There’s a lot of looking. Those eyes are very blue.
Nate swallows hard. ‘Got a triple-word score with “indebted”.’ For a second he looks genuinely thankful. Sincere. Humbled.
Then he winks.
And we’re back to normal transmission. Do not adjust your TV sets.
Marzoli’s jaw twitches. ‘Are you sur
e about that, Miss Vega? It’s really important you’re sure.’
I glare pointedly at Nate. ‘They stayed until closing – one am. He’s lying about the triple-word score, though. He didn’t make a single word bigger than four letters all night.’
Nate shrugs. ‘There are plenty of good four-letter words.’
‘You know it’s an offence to lie to the police, Frankie?’ Marzoli is going to grind all the way through his teeth and into his jawbone if he’s not careful. ‘You’re sure this kid was with you the whole time? He didn’t sneak out for a cigarette?’
I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I’d remember if he left; I’d have noticed how much less annoyed I was.’
‘Well, that’s me in the clear.’ Nate jiggles his wrists. Rattle, rattle, clink.
‘We’ve still got questions for you, Wishaw.’ Marzoli waves Nate toward the interview room.
‘But I’ve got an alibi.’ He goes stumbling as Peters shoves him forward. He wriggles around in Peter’s grip to face me. ‘Airtight.’
He laughs as I give him the finger.
Marzoli bashes his fist against the wall. ‘Shut him up, Peters.’
The door to the interview room slams shut on Nate’s grinning face. Can’t believe I just helped that guy. Hope I don’t live to regret it.
Speaking of which . . .
Marzoli leans over me, his coffee breath testing out my wobbly stomach. ‘If I can prove you’re lying,’ he says, jabbing his finger at me, ‘I’ll have you thrown in jail.’
I hold my ground. ‘Just make sure you ask him about my brother.’
Marzoli snorts. ‘Get out of here.’ The tail of his coat flaps as he swings around. It’s a little bit superhero-like. Well, it would be if he weren’t such a massive tool.
The door to the interview room slams shut for a second time.
In Year Eight, Mark read this book about some dude who went to Antarctica and nearly died. It’s all he talked about for weeks: he kept saying how the guy ate his dog and how his feet were so frostbitten, bits kept falling off. He totally had a hard-on for the guy. Right now I’m so cold that bits of my feet are probably falling off, but I don’t think I’ll write a book about it. The dog barking at me from behind the fence next door better watch out though.
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