by J. M. Green
She blinked; a crinkle appeared in the serene forehead. ‘It’s July.’
‘Is it? Dodgy bloody calendar.’
She snorted and dropped the cool act. ‘Happy New Year to you, too,’ she said, laughing. Not the gasping, desk-thumping, purple-faced fit of laughter my bad Vietnamese used to bring forth. Instead Phuong looked like she always did, like she lived on a diet of macrobiotic organic roughage and jogged ten kilometres a day. A complexion so radiant it made me physically ill.
‘Coffee?’ Phuong nodded towards the café across the road.
My headache tablets were wearing off; I was hungover, and buzzing, and lethargic all at the same time. There was a ringing in my ears and an odd tingling in my hands. More coffee would be ideal.
The café was the size of a walk-in wardrobe, with little kid tables and stools. Phuong ordered lattes and the guy flicked the switch on a coffee grinder. In the tiny space we waited, side-by-side, listening to the grinding. Probably the thing to do was to make some observation of the weather or the footy or the price of microdermabrasion these days, but my small talk was backed up like a dodgy sewerage system.
Phuong finally went with ‘How’s work?’
‘Ah,’ I closed my eyes — it felt nice, I was pretty tired. ‘Okay.’
At last the guy put two glasses on the counter. I fished in my bag, but Phuong shelled out. ‘We’re taking these upstairs,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring the glasses down later.’
‘No worries, take your time.’ The guy practically curtsied at her.
We went up in the lift, and I followed Phuong through a warren of partitioned workspaces to her cubicle. She patted the spare seat and I lowered my bottom onto it. By now, my vision was speckled, and either the air-conditioning was about to explode or I had developed tinnitus. ‘Nice office, at least you get a window.’
‘Building’s already obsolete. We’re moving to a mega cop-shop in the Docklands. So I’m told.’
‘Why’d you transfer from Footscray?’ I asked.
‘Sat the test.’ Phuong flashed her inscrutable smile. ‘I’m with homicide.’
I hadn’t seen it coming. Phuong, moving on. Moving up.
She picked up her pen, all business. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘Two years ago. Footscray. The Station Hotel.’
Phuong started to write, but stopped and looked at me. ‘Stella, don’t do this. Now is not the time —’
‘Oh, yes. Now is. Very much.’ I scooted my chair closer and lowered my voice. ‘You sat there judging me like some B-grade celebrity on —’
‘I really don’t think —’
‘I was simply trying to make a point about Australian men.’
Phuong mimicked me. ‘It’s culturally ingrained. Australian men think it’s funny. Being a bastard.’
‘Yes!’ I hissed. ‘But you took me completely out of context.’
‘What was the context? Your abusive relationship?’
‘No. I was speaking generally. But you go, “I don’t think I can listen to this again.” And I go, “What do you mean this?” And you go, “Endless complaining.”’ My face felt warm.
‘Oh, I remember,’ Phuong hissed back at me, pink spreading across her cheeks. ‘Because you started going, “But Phuong, he’s an arsehole. He laughs at me.” So, you know. Touché.’
‘But you got all moral about it.’ Now I mimicked her. ‘“It’s wrong, he’s married.”’
‘God, I do not believe you. You think I was moralising? I was worried about you. What was I supposed to do?’
‘You were my friend. You’re supposed to validate the shit out of me. Instead of doing this one-woman intervention thing.’
‘You were being emotionally abused. You said as much.’
‘No. You objected because it was an affair. Because it was for sex. Jesus, the entire world does it. And you go all, “I can’t pretend to tolerate it this time.” And you go, “It’s not just a bad relationship. He’s not simply self-centred.”’
Phuong sniffed, and squared off the papers on her desk.
‘And you never said Jacob’s name. What was he, Voldemort?’
‘It was doomed from the start,’ Phuong said, not looking up.
‘Buddhists are supposed to be non-judgemental.’
Phuong leaned back in her chair, her eyes locked on mine. ‘You know, there are a lot of women like you, intelligent, capable, confident, brought undone by scumbags. Men so beneath them —’
‘Okay, okay.’ How could I argue with that? I gave her an apologetic look, hoping I didn’t have to give her a verbal one.
‘Is Jacob the one? Does he make you happy?’
‘No. He doesn’t, actually, because it’s over. For a while now. So, there you are. You were right.’ That night, after Phuong left the pub and the door swung shut behind her, I watched as one of the few dependably heartening things in my life disappeared. ‘I haven’t been seeing anyone. It’s the single life for me. All work and Thai takeaway.’
‘Stella.’ There was genuine sympathy in her eyes. ‘He didn’t deserve you.’
‘By the way, you don’t say touché about your own hit.’
Phuong raised a shoulder, a one-sided shrug, very French. ‘I don’t see why.’
I started to laugh. ‘You say it when someone hits you. As in, you got me.’
She shook her head. Stubborn. Always was. ‘Is there an actual police matter? Or did you just want to correct my English?’
‘It’s French.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Stella, come on, I’m busy.’
‘Right, this is it,’ I said. ‘Adut Chol has a younger brother. I think he’s in trouble.’
‘African kids. There’s always some crisis. You hear about the teenage prostitutes? They get driven around the western suburbs by a relative in a minivan.’
‘Cop-culture got to you?’
‘What?’
‘Your fucking blasé racism.’
She turned to me, a look of surprise. ‘No.’
‘This kid, Mabor, I know him. I work with his mother.’
Phuong’s gaze moved from me to the window. ‘Adut Chol — who is he again?’
‘He’s the kid who was murdered last week. Clacker Pickering stabbed him —’
‘Allegedly.’
‘— Yes, whatever, and he died in hospital.’
Another cop peered over her cubicle. He wore a police-issue beanie and sported an enlarged upper lip, possibly from a fight. His name tag: Constable Ashwood.
‘Tom,’ said Phuong, with a sniff. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Mind if I sit in on this one?’ he said.
‘That’s not necessary,’ Phuong said. ‘I’ve got this.’
‘Come on, Fang.’ He came round and leapt up so his bum landed with a thud on her desk. ‘Don’t be selfish.’ His indolent psycho-eyes began a slow sweep of my chest area. He looked stoned — maybe he was just tired. Then he picked up a small figurine from Phuong’s desk, a deity of some kind, with flowing robes, and started to play with it.
I looked at Phuong. She sat back and closed her eyes. So I said, ‘It’s pronounced foong, dickhead, and get off her desk.’
Phuong opened her eyes, and I saw a flicker of light, as a silent understanding passed between us. Beanie-cop gave me a greasy eyeball. I smiled sweetly at him. He handed the statue to Phuong and moved, extra slow, off the desk. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. The fluorescent lighting was unkind to his acne-scarred face. Phuong put the statue down. ‘That’s fine, Tom. I’ve taken care of the matter.’
‘Matter? What matter?’
Phuong coughed.
‘Going up the chain, is it? You seem to know how they like things done.’ His words were full of ba
rmy innuendo, like Phuong was in on some conspiracy. He pulled up a chair, turned it around and straddled it. ‘Name?’
‘Stella Hardy.’ I spelled it, glancing at Phuong, who looked mildly amused. Frankly, I was frustrated with both of them.
‘Address?’
‘I’ve already got the details, thanks Tom,’ she said.
Ashwood’s fat lip curled. ‘Of course you do.’ He rose from his chair and swaggered back to his desk.
I knew his type. Where I came from, boys like him lived and breathed the same casual aggression. In my high school days, most of the boys were practised in the art of threat and humiliation, particularly Shane Farquar. Year eleven had been a difficult year for me — rumours circulated about me and some of the boys on the debating team. Farquar had cornered me in the gym and demanded to know the details. Every time I tried to get away, he blocked my path. He only let me go when the PE teacher came to get the croquet mallets. As for Ashwood, the dickhead remark probably didn’t go down well.
Phuong tapped on her keyboard like Ashwood had never interrupted. ‘Who is Adut Chol’s brother then?’
‘Mabor. Good kid. Smart, good at school.’
‘And?’
‘I overheard him in a conversation with a very dodgy-looking bloke, and they were saying stuff about getting someone inside.’
Phuong stopped typing, a hand went to her ear, moved the gold sleeper around. ‘You overheard him?’
‘Yes, I mean, it was clear. Very clear, and they were talking about making someone suffer.’
Phuong sighed. ‘Stella, you do tend to get over-involved with your clients, emotionally. Sometimes it can be hard to see the facts clearly.’
I saw the facts clearly. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I believe you heard something. Look, why don’t you tell the Flemington police. They probably already know who Mabor’s hanging around with.’
Tell Flemington? Tell Ross? Or that cop who referred to Ross as ‘the Khaleesi’ — that bully? ‘It relates to Adut’s murder. It’s completely within your bailiwick,’ I said.
‘But I can’t go to Copeland with something you think you heard. I need more evidence than a conversation with some guy — you don’t even know who he is.’
‘Show me some mug shots, I’ll identify him. He seemed familiar, I bet he’s a known drug dealer.’
‘Evidence.’
Adut’s book was somewhere in the bottom of my handbag. A drug dealer’s client list. From it, the police could trace the dealer, connect the dots. I inhaled and drew myself up. ‘Well, it was nice seeing you.’
‘Oh come on, don’t be like that. Got plans for lunch?’
I shrugged.
‘I’m flat out here all morning but let’s say I pick you up later at your place. We’ll have lunch and you can tell me all about it.’ Phuong ushered me to the lift. Before the doors closed, she started laughing: ‘Did you see the look on his face?’
‘Who?’
‘Ashwood. Classic Stella.’
7
THE PLAN: go home, change out of my dirty clothes, and slip into a fabulous new outfit. Sitting on the tram, I regretted rushing to St Kilda Road in my usual shabby clothes. Phuong may have misinterpreted my attire as a sign that I was a depressed, barely-functional figure of misfortune. I intended to arrive at lunch looking confident, fresh, respectable — then give Phuong the book: here’s your damn evidence. She would know what to do, how to keep me out of the picture. It was only my address after all, not some statement of guilt.
In the time it took to walk from the tram to my street, I’d changed my mind. The book was my secret. Why get the police involved? My god, what was I, crazy? I might inadvertently cause them to dig further, to investigate an event that happened six years ago; an event that was not really a crime, not a proper one.
In the PineView foyer, I found my letterbox stuffed full. I juggled the shopping and put the bundle of letters under one arm and bolted up the stairs. On the third-floor landing, a figure in a hoodie sat cross-legged on my doorstep. I released an involuntary shriek. It looked up from the newspaper it was reading. ‘Hey Stella, it’s me.’
My youngest brother, without a word, appeared and disappeared with the speed of a delinquent Harry Potter. ‘Ben. Long time — no requests for money.’
‘Good to see you, Stella. How’s it going?’
I let myself into his embrace. It was not as comforting as I’d hoped. His body was cold and he was thin. ‘I’m okay.’
He stepped back. ‘You look different.’ He studied my face in the poor light. ‘You’ve got wrinkles.’
I let that go. ‘When did you get out?’
He shrugged. ‘A while ago, been living in Sunshine. Boarding house.’
‘That sounds nice.’ I unlocked the door. ‘Eaten anything today?’
‘No. Actually, I’m starving.’
I threw my bag on the sofa and had a good look at him. He was standing self-consciously in the middle of the room. He coughed. He frowned. He opened his mouth and closed it. Hard to believe that he’d once been a cheeky little hell-raiser, so advanced was his state of decay. The grey whiskers added ten years, and his number-one haircut made him look frail rather than tough. I was not a fan of the number-one. Why had every male in the country decided, overnight it seemed, to forgo hair? He coughed again. I twigged at last. ‘No.’
‘But you’re family.’
‘Mum’s family. Stay with her.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. Come on, Stella. My shit is together. Look, I’m clean.’ He rolled up his sleeves and showed me his arms, twisting them round. I inspected them closely. Apart from his dodgy tatts, there were no track marks and none of those scratches the ice addicts do to themselves. ‘I’m working,’ he said, pushing his sleeves down. ‘Going straight — and this time I mean it.’
I let my sigh go on till my lungs nearly collapsed. ‘How long?’
‘Only for a couple of weeks.’
‘One week.’
He grinned and dropped his backpack. ‘What’s in the fridge? Fuck me, Stella. What do you live on?’
‘Toast.’
‘You can’t live on toast. You need vegies. Five serves a day.’
‘You want toast?’
‘Sure.’
‘One week, right? And that’s it.’ I dropped a couple of slices of Wonder White in the toaster. ‘How did you know I wasn’t at work?’
‘I didn’t. I was going to hang around until you got home.’
‘You’re pathetic.’ I put margarine and Vegemite on the bench.
He stood guard over the toaster. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘Mind your own beeswax.’ I left him to sort himself out, toast-wise. Heaven knew it was the only kind of sorting he could do.
In the bathroom, I opened the door of the medicine cabinet so I could see my wrinkles in the mirror — they were there. I turned to leave and whacked my forehead on the corner of the cabinet. I stood there cursing and holding my head. Then it occurred to me that Tania may have had an accident at home. If she had slipped in the bath and was lying there unconscious this whole time, I’d feel like a real dill. I found Ben in the kitchen sorting my mail. Perhaps this was what a personal assistant was like. I thought of Finchley, imagined the order and elegance of his daily routines.
‘Who’re Joyce and Frank?’
‘Wrong letter box,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it down later.’
‘They’re having the best time. Snorkelling and paragliding, and tomorrow they’re taking a boat to Oarsman’s Bay.’
‘Ben?’
‘S’up?’
‘With all your unauthorised skills and talents, are you able to break into, say, a third-floor flat? Hypothetically?’
‘Is the Pope an accessory
to child abuse?’ He munched his toast like a starved animal. ‘Hypothetically? What’s the flat?’ I gave him a truncated version of the particulars and a fib about lending Tania a DVD — sure she wouldn’t mind, must have it back.
‘You’re sure she won’t mind? I’m on parole, you know.’
‘Yes. Totally sure.’
‘Alright, let’s do this shit.’
Apparently the paperclip-in-the-lock thing was bollocks. Ben told me that with a disdainful look. And with the words, ‘Where’d you get that stupid idea?’
‘Terminator 2,’ I said. ‘What, then?’
‘Bathroom window.’
‘On the third floor?’
‘It’ll be open. Everyone leaves their bathroom window open.’ He was already bounding down the stairs, two at a time. I bolted after him and skirted round to the rear courtyard.
Ben was at the back of the flats pointing. ‘See?’
I followed the line from his finger to a not-closed casement window roughly ten metres from the ground. He tested the downpipe; it seemed secure. He grabbed it with both hands and began climbing up the wall. He swung a leg round to rest a foot on a second-floor window ledge, and manoeuvred his weight across and up further. Then he grabbed Tania’s window ledge and raised himself up. He flicked the metal arm, pulled the window back and squeezed in. Easy as you like. ‘I’ll open the front door,’ he called, in a stage whisper. Unnecessary, I thought. And a bit conceited. I ran round and up the stairs. Tania’s door was ajar.
Her flat was a mirror image of mine, only much, much better. The TV was the size of a boardroom table. A black leather Bauhaus chaise — a reproduction surely — stood in the corner. On the wall was a small, unframed painting that looked like an early John Blackman. It must have been a copy. Still. I was impressed by her taste. Or was that her business acumen? Art was considered a good investment. If I ever had money, I’d put it in art. I resolved to investigate some galleries just in case.
All this luxe made me wonder what a beauty therapist earned these days. Clearly, the community sector had some catching up to do. Of course, you didn’t do it for the money. There was the opportunity to rub shoulders with grinding poverty and self-defeating behaviour. Unfortunately however, every now and then, you did come across some truly dreadful people: the bureaucrats and politicians passing through for photo ops. Truth be told, as far as my clients were concerned, money, or the lack of it, wasn’t the number-one issue. The divisions were deepest in values, attitudes, clothes. The law courts were a good place to see that. The lawyers were all dark suits and business shoes and the accused was in his best hoodie. His friends and family showed up in trackpants — worn low — T-shirts with obscenities on them, football guernseys, a certain style of sports leisure-wear, the mere sight of which unnerved the more genteel middleclass. Only the deluded could say Australia was classless.