by Jen Cole
They pulled into Richmond Station and a new group of passengers boarded – a woman with a small child in tow, a group of teenaged schoolboys laughing at an off-color joke as they dropped their sports bags in the aisle, a sad-looking middle-aged man with a briefcase and a twenty-something woman dragging a fat romantic novel from her bag as she sat. None of them looked like agents, except perhaps the man with the briefcase, but he hadn’t even glanced at her.
Tired of making notes, Jo thrust the pad and pen back into her bag and caught another whiff of her BO. I’ve got to find a place to take a shower, she thought. Otherwise people are going to start remembering me. Her lids dropped, and she let them rest for second.
“Next stop, Carnegie Station.” The singsong voice of the train’s PA system woke Jo and she jerked upright in shock. How could she have fallen asleep? Carnegie – it was the station before Murrumbeena. She’d memorized it in order to be ready for her stop. Her watch now read 11.45. She’d been on the train for half an hour, twenty minutes of it asleep!
Maybe that “power nap” was a good thing, she thought as the train pulled out. I do feel a lot better for it. Jo took the bank manager’s card from her pocket and peered at it, trying to decipher his scrawl. Looks like Neerim Road. What strange names they have in Melbourne.
At Murrumbeena station, she abandoned the flowers and stepped out, walking briskly through the exit gate to the street beyond, which indeed turned out to be Neerim Road. On the corner was the Bendigo Bank.
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CHAPTER 8
Feeling disheveled, Jo shook out her hair and then re-twisted it up under the beret. She unbuttoned the coat for quick access to her bag and entered the bank, hoping the transaction wouldn’t take long. It didn’t. The money was waiting for her, and on proof of identity, the teller handed it over without a fuss.
Now back on the street, Jo eyed the taxi rank outside the station. With no idea where Chadstone was a taxi seemed the obvious choice. She walked to the first car in the rank and climbed into the back seat.
“Chadstone Shopping Centre, please.”
“No worries.” The heavy-set driver spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. “Which entrance?”
“Um…” Jo hesitated.
“You want groceries, clothes, see movie, what?”
“Clothing,” said Jo.
“Okay!” The driver pulled out into the street. “You been to Chadstone before?”
“A long time ago.”
He laughed. “My wife she hates Chadstone. Too big, she gets lost all the time.”
“I guess it’s grown since I was last there.”
“Yes, very big! Last month my wife has to go there – doctor appointment. She walks in from carpark and sees Coles Supermarket. She thinks, “This is my way out.” After appointment she ask someone, “Which way to Coles Supermarket?” You know what they say?”
“What?”
“They say, “The old Coles or the new Coles?” There are two of them!” He laughed so hard the taxi began veering into the next lane and the car behind tooted loudly. Unconcerned by this and still chuckling, he turned into the lane feeding off to the shopping center.
As they drove between rows of parked cars, Jo extracted several hundred-dollar bills from one of the bundles and slipped them into her empty wallet. Nervously she eyed the seven-dollar meter charge for the brief trip and wondered whether the driver would be able to change a hundred. She’d have to ask and risk his possible wrath, but when the taxi pulled over near the entrance, Jo realized this potentially embarrassing moment was in fact an opportunity. The driver’s ID card said his name was Hassan bin Evhad and when he turned she said, “Hassan? Is that how you say your name?”
“Yes, Hassan,” he said.
Jo held up the hundred-dollar bill. “I only have a few things to buy, Hassan. Will you wait for me?”
“For hundred dollars I can wait an hour,” he said with a grin, taking the note. Jo checked her watch. It was just after midday.
“Okay,” she said getting out of the car. “I’ll expect you back here at one o’clock.”
He waved acknowledgement and drove off, leaving Jo beside an outdoor cafe. In her heavy coat and scarf, even the weak noon sun felt hot. Surely she could lose some of this gear. The Hunter and his agents were most likely still in the city. Jo unwound the scarf and took a grateful breath as the cool air reached her face. Yanking off the beret as well, she stuffed both into a nearby bin. Though she’d like to have shed the coat, she settled for leaving it unbuttoned, not prepared to fully expose her outfit.
As she entered the shopping center, Jo remembered the taxi driver’s story and paid close attention to the stores around the doorway. On her left was a kitchenware shop, displaying racks of gleaming saucepans hung with red and white sales signs. On her right the cafe extended indoors. Hassan hadn’t been kidding. The place was vast… and so different from the city, with its narrow streets and old buildings. Each of these spacious corridors could fit three city arcades and the displays in their enormous windows were fresh and vital. Light flooded through the curving transparent roof, and strategically placed cycads and giant palm trees created a sun-drenched oasis.
Beautiful perhaps, but so extensive that Jo immediately became paralyzed, realizing she had little chance of getting all the items she wanted and finding her way back to this spot in an hour.
In marked contrast, a girl of eleven or twelve ambled loose-limbed along the walkway towards her. In ripped jeans and skimpy t-shirt, she seemed unconcerned by the winter temperatures, and appeared to have all the time in the world, stopping to inspect the fashion shoes in one window, before moving on to the nightclub gear in the next.
Without waiting to consider, Jo took a hundred dollar note from her bag and approached her. “Excuse me.”
The girl looked up, not quite meeting Jo’s eyes. She had three rings spaced down one ear and her dull brown hair, held loosely in a fraying scrunchie, was crying out for a wash. She looked ready to take off and Jo blurted out her question.
“Do you know Chadstone well?”
The girl’s voice was tinged with caution. “Yeah.”
“Then if you have time,” Jo held up the note, “I’d be willing to pay you a hundred dollars to be my guide for an hour.”
Now her eyes lifted, and her hand shot forward. “Okay.”
Jo paused in the act of passing it over. How reliable would this urchin be? She looked as though she hadn’t had a decent meal in a long time and she certainly must be skipping school right now.
“Payable on getting me back to this spot by one o’clock with the things I need,” said Jo, putting the note into her pocket.
The girl looked disappointed. “What do you need?”
“Not much. Shops that sell sports shoes, cheap clothes, travel gear and mobile phones.”
A smile lit her face. “I can do that. I’m Danielle.”
“I’m J.. Judy,” said Jo. “Let’s get started.”
Danielle turned. “There’s a sports shoe store on the level below.”
She set off at a smart pace and Jo hurried to catch up, wincing as her blister seared. At the shoe store a hunky assistant strolled over and flashed Jo a cheeky smile, which triggered a pleasurable tingle, until she remembered her ‘hat hair’ and BO. Embarrassment, however, was not an emotion she could afford and she straightened her shoulders.
“I need a good pair of sports shoes.” She glanced at her badly scuffed boots and again felt her face grow hot. “But I don’t have any socks with me.”
“No problem.” The guy cheerfully indicated the racks at one side of the store. “We sell a wide range of sports socks.”
He walked across and selected three packs, splaying them for Jo as he returned. She pointed to one and he popped open the plastic casing. While she removed her boots and pulled the socks on over her tights he brought out a metal measuring device.
“I know my size,” she protested as he slipped it under her foot.
; He adjusted the metal width slider. “Ah, but we like to measure to ensure we get exactly the right shoe for you. What activity will you be using them for?”
“Mostly walking and possibly some running.” Jo hoped the latter would be minimal.
He rose confidently. “I have just what you need.”
As he headed towards the back, Jo checked for Danielle and saw she was happily engaged in trying on shoes from the sale tray at the front of the store. Hunky guy returned carrying two shoeboxes.
“These are both good brands,” he said removing the lids. “They give excellent side and arch support as well as overall cushioning.”
Jo peered into the boxes and rejecting the pair with fluorescent stripes, indicated the more conservative ones. The salesman laced them on and she stood and took a few steps.
“Fantastic! I feel like I’m walking on air.”
He smiled. “Reasonably priced too.”
Jo glanced at the price sticker and had to look again, having never spent so much on shoes in her life. She gave no indication of her shock. “I think I’ll leave these on. I can’t face going back to my boots.”
Hunky guy was unfazed. “A lot of people do that. Those shoes are great for shopping. They put a spring back into your step.”
Jo paid for them, bought two extra pairs of socks and accepted the bag containing her boots. At the front of the store she collected Danielle, who cheerfully abandoned the sale tray asking, “Where now?”
“Clothes, mobile phone, travel store, and if you know of a shop that sells wigs…”
“Oh sure! There’s a hair warehouse here. They have extensions, wigs – you name it. Wigs are so cool. Do you want real or fake?”
“Maybe both!” Danielle’s enthusiasm was infectious.
By five minutes to one they were back at the starting point. In addition to the hundred dollars, Jo had given Danielle her boots, which the young girl willingly accepted before heading off with a happy wave. Jo felt uneasy watching her go. Danielle seemed neglected, but what could she do? At least the girl now had some money for food… and no one was trying to kill her.
At the outdoor cafe, Jo wolfed down a thick sandwich and reviewed her purchases while she waited for Hassan. She was now wearing a new watch with an alarm function and hefted a day-pack containing: a money belt, a packet of Band-Aids minus one, which was covering her blister, a four-pack of undies, deodorant, wet wipes, a mini tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.
In the disguise department, she’d acquired grey track pants with a matching hoodie, a pair of jeans, two loose shirts – one black and the other a more tailored beige, and a casual lightweight khaki jacket. She was particularly pleased with her purchase of a real wig that closely matched her own hair color and length, and two artificial wigs – one a mop of light brown curls and the other a black spiky cut with dark red highlights.
One failure had been the phone. When she’d asked about a pre-paid mobile, the assistant had been happy to sell her one, but had passed over a clipboard with a form attached. It required her to fill in personal details and provide several types of identification.
“What’s this?”
“Government regulation to prevent criminal use. We can’t sell you a wireless communication device unless you fill it in.”
So much for being untraceable with a pre-paid phone. For a second Jo had considered asking Danielle to buy one, but at her age they’d no doubt require a parent to fill in the form, so she’d given up on the phone idea for the moment.
The taxi pulled up and Jo gathered her purchases and jumped in.
“Good shopping?” grinned Hassan.
“Yes, but now I need a motel at least twenty minutes away.”
The driver considered. “Dandenong is twenty minutes.” he said. “Many motels there.”
“Great, a Dandenong motel then.”
A twenty-minute drive, she figured, put her far enough away from Chadstone that her two o’clock coordinates would not link her to it, for she intended to return.
~~~~
CHAPTER 9
In the back of the taxi, Jo swallowed the last of her sandwich and considered the next hurdle. The motel would want a name and address. She’d stick with Judy, the name she’d given to Danielle, and choose a surname starting with W, like her own, to make it easy to remember. As she toyed with W surnames, the taxi passed a billboard displaying tantalizing glimpses of a golf course estate behind the vertical bars of a burgundy gate.
Winegate, she thought. That will do. An address now… interstate is less likely to be challenged. A childhood memory surfaced of Saturday walks to the postbox with her mother. Mum had written regularly to an old friend who lived in Church Street, Canterbury, in Sydney, and little Jo had been entrusted to push the weekly letter through the slot. It was perfect – a real street in a real Sydney suburb.
Relieved, Jo allowed her mind to slip into blank mode for a while. Fortunately Hassan seemed over his chatty streak, and peace enveloped them as the uninspiring scenery flashed by: fast food places, car yards, furniture outlets, and warehouses.
Sooner than she was ready, they reached Dandenong and passed through the main street of rundown shops, several boarded up. The motels that began appearing also seemed on the sleazy side, but Jo didn’t have time to be picky.
She leaned across to the driver. “Hassan, that one with the vacancy sign coming up.”
He swung into the entrance and drove to the reception area.
Jo flipped the handle. “I’ll just be a second.”
She pushed through the glass door into the tiny office where a battered desk took up most of the space. Behind it stood a tired looking man wearing a white nylon shirt and a limp tie. He flicked her a glance, which she took as an invitation to speak.
“I’m on my way to another town. I just need a room for an hour or so to wash and freshen up.”
His lip curled. “We don’t rent by the hour. Minimum room hire is a day.”
“How much is that?”
“Hundred and twenty-five.”
Jo glanced at her watch. It was close to 1.30. With a sigh she extracted one hundred and twenty-five dollars from her wallet and pushed the notes across the counter.
The man eyed them suspiciously. “We prefer credit cards.”
“Don’t believe in them,” said Jo. “They make people spend beyond their means. The room’s one hundred and twenty-five. There it is, in advance.”
With apparent reluctance, he dragged the notes into a drawer on his side of the desk, scribbled the payment and date into a small receipt book, tore off the page and handed it to Jo. Then he opened a large registration book and stood poised with pen in hand.
“Name.”
Jo was ready. “Judy Winegate.”
“Address.”
“48 Church Street, Canterbury, NSW.”
“What’s the postcode?”
Shit! After a slight hesitation, she recited 2137, knowing that for New South Wales, the two was right at least.
“Car registration,” the man continued.
“I’m in a taxi.” Jo indicated the cab waiting outside the door.
The man grunted and turned the book around, handing over a pen.
“Sign here.”
Jo picked up the pen, wrote JW and caught herself in time to finish with Winegate, rather than Warrington. Another good reason to have an alias with the same initials, she realized.
Dourly the man handed her a set of keys. “Room twenty-eight, up at the end.”
Feeling no surprise this motel had vacancies, Jo returned to the taxi and directed Hassan to the parking space outside room twenty-eight. The meter read thirty-four dollars.
“Can you keep the meter running, Hassan? I’m just going to clean up and I’ll be out in half an hour.”
Hassan nodded. “I wait.”
The motel room was dark, cold and stuffy, but Jo barely noticed. She stripped off her coat and flung it over the back of a chair, then upended the bulging day
pack onto the luggage bench. From the pile she grabbed the deodorant, money belt, jeans, black shirt and jacket. She had less than half an hour till her next coordinates posting and a lot to do.
Hurrying into the bathroom, she glanced at her watch, happy about being able to leave it on. It was water tested to fifty meters, which the saleswoman had said was the minimum requirement for being able to wear it safely in the shower. She’d set its alarm to go off three minutes before 2.00 p.m.
Jo used the toilet and then turned on the shower, stripping while the water heated. The gushing stream felt so wonderful she managed to quell the thought of the watching TV audience and concentrate on getting cleaned up as quickly as possible. This done, she wrapped one towel around herself and rubbed at her hair with another before finishing with the motel’s hair dryer.
In the main room Jo applied the super plus deodorant, which promised to keep her fresh and dry for twenty-four hours, and slipped underwear on beneath the towel. Then she pulled on the jeans and eyed the money belt.
“Get a quality belt,” the salesman had said. “My sister travelled to Bali a few years ago with a cotton one. During her first day of sightseeing, she dipped into it and found her sweat had made the notes so wet they tore in her hands. When she took the belt off that evening, she had a black ring around her waist where the ink had leeched through onto her skin.”
Jo had laughed dutifully while privately thinking it would hardly be a problem with Australia’s plasticized notes. In the end she’d bought a large, six-pocket belt. The side worn against the skin was chamois to minimize chaffing and absorb sweat and the pockets had a waterproof lining.
Tipping out her shoulder bag onto the bench, Jo separated the bundles of money and removed their elastic bands. She put five notes into her wallet and began arranging the rest into six even stacks. She’d already spent close to 1500 dollars, which left around thirty notes per stack. By the time she’d stuffed each stack into a pocket, the belt had swelled to twice its size.
Jo clipped it on, ignoring the discomfort, and finished dressing. She inspected herself in the half-length mirror above the luggage bench. Not too bad. In shopping with Danielle, she’d grabbed items more generous than her regular size 8, with the thought of accommodating the money belt. It had been a good move. The loose black shirt, which she wore over her jeans, concealed the treasure beneath. As she slipped on the jacket, Jo decided her look was that of an ordinary, albeit rounded young woman with no greater worry in the world than deciding whether to order the chicken or bacon burger. If only that were so.