by Emma Viskic
And stoned enough to have forgotten to pass on the damn message.
A weight lifted from his chest. A message, not some dodgy scheme.
He sat up and kissed Kat. ‘You’re a genius. I’m going to see Ant.’ He began pulling on clothes.
‘Then do you want to run away somewhere? Somewhere warm.’
‘Not Melbourne, then?’
‘Western Australia,’ she said. ‘Or Queensland. I’ve got a new bikini I’d like to try out.’
He paused with his T-shirt half on: Kat in a bikini against white sand. ‘Either. Both.’
‘If we leave now, we could catch an evening flight.’
We: such a beautiful word. It lifted from her lips like a blessing.
‘I can’t,’ he said.
She pulled her laptop from the bedside table. ‘I’m thinking the Whitsundays. One of the little islands. Just the two of us.’
No people, no death, no knives, just Kat by his side, always within reach.
‘I can’t.’
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. ‘There’s a flight leaving at nine tonight. Looks like there are seats available.’
‘Kat.’ He put a hand over hers to stop her frantic typing. ‘I can’t leave. Not until I’ve found Frankie.’
‘The police are looking for her, Caleb. What can you do that they can’t?’
‘Care.’
‘Caring isn’t going to find her; it’s just going to get you killed. And you won’t even know why.’
‘I’m not going to get …’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare promise that.’
Which left nothing but empty words. He knelt on the bed and pulled her to him. There was no softness now, just rigid muscle.
He coaxed the Beetle the few kilometres to his old family home and pulled up in a cloud of black smoke. The house looked as though it was holding up well under Anton’s benign neglect. The eaves needed painting, and four years’ worth of weeds strangled the lawn, but there was no obvious damage to the place. It was a two-storey box with far too many rooms for a family of four. Ivan Zelic had laid most of those bricks himself, commandeering his sons to help every weekend and after school. Caleb had dreamed of climbing ladders for months. Up and down, up and down, painting and repainting every inch Ivan hadn’t deemed perfect.
‘If your best isn’t good enough, try harder.’
As he climbed from the car, the next-door neighbour’s front door opened and Mrs Naylor shuffled out; five foot nothing, with sparse white hair. Too late to pretend he hadn’t seen her. Too weak to make a run for it.
‘Young Caleb. My goodness, it’s been the longest time. I said, IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME.’
He crossed to her front gate. She’d shrunk since he’d last seen her, but her garden was the same unyielding square of lawn it had always been. In its centre lay the concrete pond he and Anton had used to dare each other to piss in. Points awarded for duration and aim.
‘How are you, Mrs Naylor?’
‘Oh well, I can’t complain. I said, I CAN’T COMPLAIN.’
Her yelling was accompanied by the exaggerated mouthing she’d always used with him. It was a study in perpetual motion; the worse she spoke, the less he understood, the worse she spoke, the less he understood. As a child, he’d gone to a lot of effort to avoid her. Except when playing Anton’s translation game.
‘Tell her she looks like a gorilla,’ he’d sign to Anton. ‘And farts like a cow.’
‘Mrs Naylor, Caleb says you look beautiful today.’
Points awarded for duration and outrageousness.
‘… and the tablets, but she’s got it worse. I said, SHE’S GOT IT WORSE.’
‘That doesn’t sound too good.’
‘Mavis Harrington said she saw you in town with Kathryn yesterday. Are the two of you back together again? I said, ARE YOU AND KATHRYN BACK TOGETHER?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame. I said, THAT’S A SHAME. I hate to see you young ones give up on marriage so easily. My Harold and I were together forty years. FORTY YEARS. But I suppose a mixed marriage has its own troubles. I said, IT MUST BE DIFFICULT.’
Hard to argue with that. Living with him had definitely been hard on Kat. A whole new language to learn, no concerts or large groups, no uncaptioned movies, no … Maybe he should stop before he drowned himself in the piss-filled pond.
‘… maybe it’s for the best. After all, your children would have been half-castes and that never works out well.’
‘What?’
‘I said, IT NEVER WORKS OUT WELL FOR THE CHILDR–’
Fuck that. He walked away, leaving her mid-screech.
The front door opened before he reached it and Anton peered out through his long, brown hair. Normal pupils, shaved, clean. A little weight on his skeletal frame.
The knot in his stomach loosened. ‘Hi, Ant.’
‘Cal. Fuck me. Well, that explains all the yelling.’ He waved over Caleb’s shoulder. ‘Hi, Mrs Naylor. Cal says you’re looking quite lovely. Oh, she’s gone. You in town long? You want to stay here? Hey, cool car. You in the porn business now?’
He weeded out the real question and answered it. ‘I’m not staying, I just need to ask you something.’
‘You? Ask me?’ Anton’s face went through a parody of emotions: shock, surprise, humility. ‘And so the student becomes the master.’ He bowed and swung the door wider; always the clown, even when he was rotting inside.
Caleb paused on the threshold. Under the recent smell of cigarettes lay hints of other things: furniture polish and eucalyptus oil, lavender and White Linen perfume. The house still exhaling the aromas of long-gone family life. He followed Anton down the wide hallway, their footsteps reverberating dully on the terracotta tiles. Empty room to each side, a fine layer of undisturbed dust. It couldn’t be good for Ant, rattling around this mausoleum on his own.
‘You ever think about getting some boarders in?’
Anton stopped in front of him. ‘You want some rent? I’m doing OK, I can give you some now – I’ve got a job down the bottling factory.’
The bottling factory. An IQ double Caleb’s and he was working in a fucking factory.
‘No. I was just wondering.’
The living room was a lot cleaner than when he’d last been here three years ago. And a lot emptier. The dining table was gone, the grandfather clock. Looked like all of their school awards were still in the trophy cabinet, though. Probably not worth enough to bother selling. A little ironic considering the blood he’d sweated over them. The piano was there too; squat and warm, its keys yellowed by age. Not that it meant anything to him, but it was good that Ant was still playing. Did a house soak up music the way it did scents? All those Chopin Études their mother used to play. He ran a hand along the wall as he passed, but felt nothing.
Anton led him to the small sunroom at the back of the house. It looked as though he spent most of his time in here. There was a small pine bookshelf and MDF coffee table, a couple of brown beanbags that looked like dead sea lions. Thrift-shop decor. But clean. No syringes or burnt spoons, no twisted joint ends floating in half-drunk cups of coffee. He wasn’t about to crack out the bubbly, though: they’d been here before.
‘Take a load off,’ Ant said, folding himself into a beanbag.
Caleb tried to copy his easy descent, but ended up looking at the ceiling with his knees around his ears.
Anton smirked. ‘And it’s a 3.2 from the Russian judge.’
Still speaking, not signing. Growing up, he’d only used his voice with Caleb when their father was in the room.
‘Silly monkey business, speak properly.’
‘I’m really sorry about Gaz,’ Anton said. ‘I was going to write, but an email seemed so impersonal, then I thought maybe a letter, but that seemed too formal. Anyway, I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah. It’s Gary I want to talk to you about. I’m trying to work out why he was killed. The cops are saying he was bent.’
; ‘Gaz? No way. Straight down the line. It always surprised me that he became a cop, you know? I never could imagine him squaring it up with the big boys. I used to think you might, though, particularly after you scared off Jasper Halloway for me. And Ben Jardin. Steve O’Brien.’
He was used to Anton’s narrative meanderings, but this was a new road to wander down. ‘Me a cop? You didn’t think there might be a problem there?’
‘Well, this was back when I thought you had superpowers.’
He’d forgotten about the superhero phase. Anton had been four, heavily into comic books, and convinced that because Caleb went to a special school, he must have special powers. It was possible Caleb hadn’t discouraged the idea.
‘I was hoping you’d teach me how to fly,’ Anton said. ‘But I was OK with you being a cop, too. I figured you’d let me use your gun.’
‘Yeah, that definitely would’ve happened. Listen, when Gary called you last week, did he give you a message to pass on to me?’
‘Gaz?’ Anton looked around the room as though expecting him to appear. ‘Call me?’
‘Ant, seriously, this is important. What did he say?’
‘He didn’t call me.’
The weight that had lifted settled again, heavier than ever. ‘The cops have got his phone records, Ant. He rang you a couple of hours before he was killed. You talked for over a minute.’
‘Oh.’ Nothing but open puzzlement on his face. But Anton was an expert at bewildered innocence: he hadn’t touched the money, the pills were just headache tablets, he was minding the grass for a friend.
‘Were the two of you doing something together? Selling something?’
‘Is this about the furniture? Sorry, I know I should have asked first, but I didn’t think you’d mind. Well, not too much, anyway. And it was a couple of years ago now. I tried to buy the clock back, but the shop’d already sold it.’
‘No, Ant, I’m asking if you were dealing drugs with him.’
‘Dealing? With Gaz?’ Anton’s face creased in a doubtful smile. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Just tell me straight, were you dealing drugs with Gary?’
‘No. Of course not. I don’t deal.’
‘You went to jail for dealing, Anton.’
‘Jesus, Cal, that was eight years ago, I was nineteen. And it was knocked down to possession.’
He didn’t reply.
‘I’m clean. I’ve been clean for fourteen months. Don’t look like that, Cally, I am.’ He hunched forward in the beanbag. ‘I’ve been going to those meetings, the ones I emailed you about. I’m over the hard part, I wouldn’t stuff that up by dealing.’
‘The cops think you’re up to something.’
‘Oh shit, really? Fuck. They came round a few days ago, but I just sort of … ignored them.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? Because they never stop hassling me. Every time someone knocks over a house or sells a bag of weed they’re around here. But shit, they really think I’m involved in Gaz’s death?’ Anton’s hands kneaded his thighs. ‘I can’t go back inside, Cal.’
He had a flash of the emaciated, twitchy wreck his brother had been after his six-month sentence.
‘It won’t come to that. Just tell them what you’ve told me. Outside, though, don’t let them in the house. If they want you to go to the station, call Dad’s old lawyer. Don’t say anything until he gets there. Anything. Don’t even ask for a glass of water. Understand?’
‘Keep my mouth shut.’ The kneading continued. ‘But you believe me, right, Cal? I mean, even if you think I’m a piece of shit, you know Gaz wasn’t.’
‘I don’t think you’re a piece of shit, Ant. Just a dickhead.’
Anton smiled, but without much conviction. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Listen, Gary also called Vince Kovac that night. Do you have any idea why? Did they know each other well?’
‘Vince?’ Anton screwed up his face. ‘I would’ve thought Gary had better taste in friends. Then again …’ He flicked a flinger towards Caleb.
‘Why? What’s wrong with Vince?’
‘I guess you haven’t see him lately. He got Born Again a few years ago. Changed him from being a wet stick-up-the-arse to a total stick-up-the-arse.’
‘Ah. I guess you’re not friends then.’
Anton gave a thin smile. ‘The only reason he’d talk to me would be to cast out Satan.’
‘OK, thanks.’ He struggled from the beanbag’s clutches.
Anton shot to his feet. ‘Why don’t you stay for a bit? I could ring for pizza and …’ He stopped. ‘Phone. Hey, hang on.’ He grabbed the phone from the bookshelf. It was a cordless one, with a base station that looked as though it could fly a Boeing jet.
‘I don’t want pizza, Ant.’
‘Hang on.’ Anton had the phone to his ear, frowning in concentration as he listened to something.
Caleb’s heart thumped – a message.
‘Is it from Gaz?’
Anton lowered the phone, eyes shining. ‘Shit, I never check for messages. I mean, who leaves messages? Who even rings landlines anymore? I don’t even known why I’ve still got one. Shit … It’s a bit weird hearing his voice like that.’
‘Anton, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Yeah, sorry, it’s Gaz. He’s asking … He was asking if he could bring Sharon and the kids here to stay. Something about not wanting to go somewhere obvious. Does that make sense?’
Total sense. But not something he’d thought of. No, he’d gone for the my-best-friend-and-brother-are-trafficking-drugs scenario. Not a huge stretch in Anton’s case, but Gaz was the kid who never nicked stuff from the milk bar, the one who’d watch your back while you snuck into the cinema, but would always pay his own way.
‘Yeah, it does. Listen, you have to go straight to the cops with that. They’ll leave you alone once they hear it.’
‘Good idea.’ But Anton’s face had gone blank.
‘What’s wrong? You can play it remotely, can’t you?’
‘Yeah, easy.’ Still no expression.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘No problem, I’m just not a big fan of cop shops.’
‘It’s not like they’re going to lock you up or anything. They’ll say “thanks very much” and send you on your way. Ring the solicitor if you’re worried.’
‘Yeah, good idea. I’ll give him a ring in the morning.’
Shit, Ant was going to do his usual ostrich impersonation. He was going to have to drag the idiot down there himself. Into a building full of cops. Fuck. Still, what were the odds any of them would have a connection to Grey-face?
‘It’s important, Ant. Let’s go now. I’ll take y–’
‘It’s fine, I’ll go tomorrow.’
Or he could let the dickhead work it out for himself.
‘Up to you.’
They walked to the front door in silence. Anton stopped in front of it, his eyes not quite meeting Caleb’s.
‘Cal …’ He tapped his chest, then brushed his palm down and away – I want.
Now he decided to sign.
‘How much?’ Caleb said.
‘What? No. No, I don’t need money. Just, you sure you don’t want to stay for a drink or something? It’s been a while.’
‘Maybe next time.’ He paused halfway out the door. ‘I almost forgot, have you got Scott’s phone number?’
‘Scott? Scott who?’
Good eye contact, no change in breathing.
‘You know – the guy Gary was working with. He said you knew him.’
‘Sorry, no, don’t think so.’ Anton’s face brightened. ‘Want me to ask around? I could make some calls, see if anyone’s got his number.’
‘No, it’s right. Thanks.’ He hunted for the right words. ‘Sorry to have, ah …’
‘Accused me of being a murdering drug dealer?’ Anton shrugged. ‘I’m the one who stacked the BMX you got for your eleventh birthday, so I guess we’re even.’
‘T
hat was you? You little shit. Mum said it was stolen.’
‘Like I said – even.’
‘Let me know if you change your mind about the cops,’ he said as Anton closed the door. ‘I’m at Maria’s.’
There was an odd lightness to his feet as he walked to the car.
17.
Kat ran out to meet him as he pulled up in front of the house. Shoeless on the gravel driveway, breathless, clutching his phone. He was out of the car before the engine stopped shuddering.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Frankie. She’s all right.’
She hadn’t said it. He was just seeing what he wanted to see.
‘Frankie,’ she said again, then finger-spelled the word: F. R. A. N. K. I. E.
He reached for her arm. ‘She’s OK? She isn’t in hospital?’
‘She sounds fine. I’ve still got her on the line.’
‘Did she …? No, wait, give her your Skype name, I want to talk to her.’
Kat nodded, but looked like she remembered his previous attempts at video calls. He ran into the house and hunted for the laptop. Not on the bedside table, not under the bed. An entire week. Why hadn’t she called before now? What could have happened? Not in the kitchen. Try the living room. Had she been concussed? Held hostage? There it was, on the couch.
Kat wandered into the room, deep in conversation. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit surprised, too.’
‘Did you give her your Skype name?’ Caleb said.
She nodded as she curled onto an armchair. ‘I know, but there’s this crazy hope that he’s changed.’
‘Kat, will you hang up?’
‘Hang on, he’s getting snotty. Ha, yeah, you’re right, a little vein on his forehead.’
He plucked the phone from her hand. ‘I’m hanging up. Skype me straight away.’
Frankie must have been near her computer, because the little blue sign began to flash almost immediately. Her pale face filled the screen; hair flat against her skull, skin like over-washed material. A fading bruise yellowed one eye.
His throat tightened. ‘Fuck, Frankie. Are you all right? You look like shit.’
She raised a grim smile and launched into speech.