by Andrea Drew
“I didn’t think you would be. You never know; doing this my way might work.”
He disappeared toward the bathroom, and I turned to find some clothes to wear. This could get interesting.
***
Kieran Walkley looked up from his elevated desk above the court room. Davis Vs Davis. He should probably pay more attention, but after nineteen years, the cases and people involved had blurred, all too similar and familiar.
He wondered where Camilla perched her pretty little ass and if they could slip in a quickie if he got through the cases ahead of schedule.
The Davis couple had divorced, and Mr. Davis decided he wanted the eggs they’d stored during IVF, and of course so did Mrs. Davis. Typical. He wondered if either of them had moved on and found new partners. He’d lost count of the number of families desperate for children. It was a primeval, instinctive urge, one that spurned multimillion dollar industries tailored to the niche market of helping infertile couples either have babies via IVF, adoption or foster care, tempted with the promise of big bucks and spurred on by the whiff of desperation.
He’d tapped into the market about a year ago and now he’d established the well-oiled machine, it worked well and with minimal effort now, which was exactly the way it had to be. His overseer rarely contacted him, he knew better than that. If a meeting was required, Kieran would send an occasional text message from the untraceable mobile phone.
He and Jack, his right hand man and overseer, usually met in a shopping center car park to exchange money or discuss plans for the coming months. If the matter was urgent, Jack would send a message via Camilla, the court social worker, who although a little limp and clinging at times, remained decidedly young, nubile and hot. She had contacts in both the parole and family court system, contacts that shared his understanding of the system and associated industry. She’d continued her pleas for a commitment, but he’d never leave Julie, his wife of over thirty years.
It was simply too much upheaval for his liking. There was no need, Camilla assisted with his more basic urges and carried out some of the business dealings. Julie maintained the home and the air of middle class respect and prestige befitting a family law magistrate.
Kieran presented his ruling: due to there being no provisions in the pre-nuptial agreement, the eggs were to be destroyed. Both parents sought the right to use them in the future but Kieran wasn’t convinced. Apart from the fees associated with storage of the eggs, they would both be far better off either conceiving children naturally if possible with their new partners, or coming to him for an adoption, which was of course the first preference.
He would refer them to Camille, who could arrange an introduction to New Beginnings, his ‘adoption’ agency. There was certainly no shortage of children; there were millions of progeny around the world and many poor families all too eager to give their children away for quick cash. Camille and Jack had the contacts, and the systems of getting them here remained nicely grooved in without too much dirty work.
He watched the shock and grief pass across the pale expressions on both Mr. and Mrs. Davis’ faces. They’d get over it. Camilla would soothe them, no doubt.
New Beginnings was in its second year, and turning a nice profit. There was no way on earth any investigator, no matter how determined, could trace it to him.
No one gave a damn about the individual families, soaking in their grief and torment. They were another face in the mass of humanity. He was merely offering a much needed service, for a fee of course. If Camilla occasionally seemed surprised at the numbers, well, she hadn’t taken the brunt of the risk in forming the enterprise.
Tidying his papers, he apologized to the parents, recommending they explore their available options and advising them that referrals to counselling services could be accessed once they spoke to the court registrar and social worker.
Camille knew what to do.
Kieran ended the hearing and called a short break. He never tired of watching her work.
***
2
Connor and I headed off early, hoping to beat peak hour traffic, but a surprising amount of traffic on the roads spiked my blood pressure. We didn’t talk as we headed for the usually busy intersection of Canterbury Road and Burke Street, Camberwell, the scene of my vision. I knew the den where Kelly aka Madison ran what she conveniently believed to be a child care center.
We were almost there. I knew the area, as I’d driven through it and shopped there enough. Connor had turned into a side street, on the lookout for a place to park. We pulled up behind a four wheel drive, and I noticed the sky beginning to lighten.
“I’m not keen on waiting here. I could wait out of sight, you need back up.”
“Of course you’re not keen, you’re a cop.” I didn’t want him with me until I’d not only tracked them down, but paid a visit. The woman would probably freak out once I found out where she lived, and a man beside me who practically screamed police even in plain clothes wouldn’t help. “Give me half an hour, Connor, just half an hour. After that, call me on the phone or text me. That’ll be all I need.”
Connor extended an arm toward me, his face pained. “Gypsy, hang on. I’m still not convinced−” I slammed the passenger door, blew him a kiss, and strode away.
As I reached the end of the side street, I slowed my pace. No need to rush now, I’d confirmed he’d remained behind. I figured Connor had conceded defeat and wouldn’t attempt to argue or talk me out of doing this alone. After a couple of years together, he’d learned to pick his battles.
Leaves scuttled across the footpath of suburban Camberwell, a more well-to-do suburb of eastern Melbourne. Footpaths were well swept, homes freshly painted, hedges trimmed, and barely a weed out of place.
I turned left onto the busier main street, known as Canterbury Road. Lining the busy road were large, immaculately manicured homes. Trafficked whizzed around the bend, brakes squealing as they reached the traffic lights.
I focused on the task ahead, casting my mind back to my first contact with the spirit child and from there the woman and child. The picture snapped into view. Blowing a strand of hair from her face as she struggled with the dark-haired toddler tucked under the crook of her left arm, she’d scanned her groceries at the self-serve register with her right. The child’s screams barely raised an eyebrow. I zoned in on the woman, wearing jeans and a grey woolen top, her dark brown hair scraped back in a ponytail. Strands had made a bid for freedom, falling around her face. She sighed as she dragged the bag of groceries and the girl away from the supermarket. I followed them both with my gaze, tuning in to them, tracing their signature until I saw their location. It lay just around the corner, I was sure of it.
A cathedral came into view and I quickened my pace. Leaves swirled around the metal paling fence, and I admired the bluestone walls, stained glass windows and flowering bushes dotting the grounds. Bells reverberated loudly, clanging over the top of the traffic noise. I stopped, pausing for a moment to take in the scene. Something about the ringing, the swirl of the leaves, and the sight of a young mother on the front steps chatting with another woman as her son grabbed at the piles of dry leaves with a whoop of delight, resonated with me, a pinging at the back of my mind, just beyond reach.
Had the woman been to this church? As the bells chimed their last goodbye, a tram rang just ahead, at the intersection of Burke and Canterbury. I watched as it trundled past, dinging a warning bell at the traffic blocking its path.
Brown, yellow and red leaves rustled as I reached the busy intersection. The pungent aroma of garlic hung in the air.
As the vibrations from the bells died off, a scene appeared in my mind.
A dark-haired boy, possibly around eight years old, rode a black bike, ringing the bell happily as he rode up and down a quiet court, an alcove, with limited traffic. He called out to a friend, his voice cheerful and insistent.
The quiet court contained no more than eight houses. The boy on the bicycle careened down a sligh
t bend, squealing with delight. His head flicked behind him briefly, grinning at the parade of children following him down the hill, as happy as the pied piper. The three children shuffled behind, yelling at him to slow down. A girl around four, traces of jam smearing her mouth, trundled after him, waving a stick as she chased him to the bottom of the court. Another boy, with longer curly hair, pulled up his faded jeans, head down in concentration.
As they formed a huddle with heads bowed, I willed them to head home. Snatches of conversation floated up from their huddle. The name ‘Kelly’ surfaced repeatedly. The knot of children had formed under a street sign, ‘Chatham Way.’
The ghost of a smile formed. I had them. Chatham Way, Camberwell. I’d thank them in person soon enough.
I reoriented myself to the present, returning to the busy corner. Traffic sped by, the occasional braying of a car horn, the smells of nearby restaurants... With a jolt, I snapped back to reality and stood at a pedestrian crossing on the corner. The woman standing on the church steps bid her friend a goodbye and headed off, dispensing the toddler back into her pram and wheeling it down the road, away from me.
Hang on to your kid, lady. Camberwell, the seemingly innocent upper middle class suburb, hid a nest of secrets, guarded by a stripper turned nanny. I figured Kelly had been the perfect choice, regardless whether it was her real name or not. An ex stripper wouldn’t want to be letting anyone in on her past life, or her sudden change in career.
Time to pay a visit to Kelly, otherwise known as Madison.
I jammed the button on the pedestrian crossing, eyes ahead, and squared my shoulders, ready for battle.
***
Connor had resigned himself to taking a back seat to Gypsy’s latest quest for justice. While inertia and inactivity didn’t rank up there as his first choice, he’d learned over the past couple of years not to push Gypsy; it would probably lead to a fierce argument and drive her further away from him. He didn’t have the energy or inclination for it. It was far better, and more productive, to work with her, and join the fray at the appropriate time. Plus, he loved Gypsy and all of her foibles, her dogged determination, her spontaneity, hell; even her sass and feistiness had grown on him. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. He’d give her ten to fifteen minutes more then go looking for her.
Without notice, a random picture jammed its way in, blocking all other thoughts. He stood at the top of a small hill, in a suburban street, standing on a front porch. He held the screen door open as he called out to a group of children at the bottom of the sloped driveway. Connor realized he was seeing pictures of her again, the dark-haired woman. Gypsy hadn’t been able to explain why the visions had suddenly appeared, and neither could he. In each one of them, he became the mystery woman. Why? What was going on? If Gypsy was talking to these children, abducted by the dark-haired woman, who the hell was she and what were her motives? And why did she appear in his visions as the main focus?
He looked down through the open door at a sloping driveway where a group of four young children played at the bottom of the hill. Squatted down to talk to the children, hair hanging in her eyes huddled the figure of Gypsy Shields, the love of his life.
Chatham Way, they were on Chatham Way, Camberwell.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Usually her missions put her in the line of fire, this one better be the exception.
On the other side of the quiet court, an olive skinned arm hung from the open window of a white falcon. The driver's face partially obscured by shadow, the hair was dark and he had turned toward the children.
Something about the scene twisted his gut. The urge surged, he needed to get there, and fast.
Connor twisted the car keys out of the ignition, grabbed his wallet and locked up the car within seconds. Running along the quiet suburban street, he headed for the main road, picking up his pace. As his breath quickened, he dialed Gypsy’s number again.
Answer the damn phone, Gypsy, just answer it, now.
Shit. Voicemail.
Connor broke into a sprint.
***
Kelly grasped the door frame with clammy hands. She froze at the sight of the dark-haired woman kneeling at the bottom of the driveway, in front of the circle of kids. Her kids. When she’d taken over the job of nanny initially, the fear of discovery had filled nearly every crevice of the day, but over the last year, she knew she’d become complacent in her safe haven.
The day she’d hoped would never come, and eventually accepted as impossible, had arrived.
Someone had found them, and she didn’t know who the hell this bitch was. As Kelly pulled her hand away from the net curtain, she noticed a twitch in her fingers. Were they shaking? The desire to run filled her. She could run, never come back. What the hell would she do for money though? The idea of working the streets again caused a jolt of electricity to run up her spine. Could she try one of those women’s shelters? If she ran in a mad panic, what would happen to the children? Shelters weren’t in the habit of taking a woman with four kids, especially if they weren’t biologically hers. What if this woman at the bottom of the driveway, sticking her nose in and talking to her children, was an undercover cop, or from social services? She’d end up back with slime-ball Nick again, and no way would she ever again come within spitting distance of that bastard.
She blew out a breath. Should she go out there and find out what was going on? She figured it would be better to talk to her outside, at the bottom of the driveway where they were on the street in full view rather than letting her into the house. She wanted to know, but she didn’t.
Go, Kelly, you survived nearly two years on the streets; you can have it out with her. Ignorance really wouldn’t be bliss, even if she didn’t really want to know how they’d been tracked down or why.
Once the random stranger ended up inside the place that would be it. Game over. She’d need to contain it outside.
Kelly opened the front door and let it swing back slightly, then reached for the house keys nestled inside her handbag. She tentatively stepped outside, heading down the porch steps toes first. The woman stood up, lifting her head to look at her from the street below. Joey, Mitchell, Dan and Lisa trotted up the driveway.
“Inside, kids.” Kelly’s heart banged in her chest. She hoped she appeared calm and composed.
“Can we watch TV, Kelly?”
Don’t say my name, Lise, why did you say my name?
“Inside, guys, go play in the backyard. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The dark-haired woman stood up and the children wandered up the driveway. After a few steps, Lisa stopped and turned to look back at them.
“Off you go, lovely, I’ll be there in a minute.” As she walked down the driveway, the wind blew tendrils of hair across Kelly’s face.
“She’s not yours, is she?” Skinny face, thin brown hair, not much of the woman really.
“Who are you?” Kelly didn’t bother with niceties. The only visitor they ever had was Jack Regan, and that only occurred to exchange cash for groceries. A random stranger hanging around talking to the kids meant only one thing: her utopia might soon come to an end.
The woman pulled a card from her pocket. “Gypsy. Gypsy Shields.”
Kelly gazed at the card. “A writer? What do you want? How did you find us?”
The woman’s gaze didn’t waver. She was shorter. In a split second, Kelly considered the possibility of pushing her to the ground, stepping all over her and bolting away, never to return.
“You don’t know me.” The woman who she now knew as Gypsy pressed her lips together firmly. “A friend sent me. I met her at the supermarket. With the little girl, I think you called her Lisa?”
Hands hanging by her side, Kelly shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“I don’t have many friends. Who exactly is this friend? How did you find us?”
“I’m a psychic medium, sometime telepath. Your friend, or should I say adopted child, goes by the name of Li.”
“What?” The hair on the nape of Kelly’s neck and arms lifted, and her leg muscles tightened. “Stay away. You have no business here. If you come here again…” The pitch in her voice rose and Kelly shoved her hands under her armpits in an attempt to stifle the rapidly forming particles of sweat. She turned to stride back up the driveway.
“You’ll do what, call the cops?” Gypsy called out, but she had already stormed up the driveway and reached the front door, where she slammed it firmly behind her. Falling back against it, she let out a breath. Peering through the shaking curtain again, hands trembling, she saw Gypsy turn and head away from the house, barely noticing the dark-haired driver parked in the court.
Shit. Regan had probably seen the whole damn thing.
***
The nosy bitch finally gave up. She hung around at the end of the court, muttering into her phone and staring up and down the street before eventually she pissed off. Jack Regan pushed open the car open and slammed it closed with his size eleven sneakers. He threw the cigarette butt in the gutter and stomped up to the front door.
She’d locked it, so he pounded on the beige wooden frame, the three bangs booming through the quiet suburban street.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Kelly yelled. Her footsteps pounded closer then stopped as they reached the other side. She must be staring at him through the peephole. Stupid bitch, did she think she ran the show?
The skank finally opened the door. He pushed it open.
“Who the fuck was that? Turning tricks again?”
A frown marred her pale face. “Keep your voice down, the kids will hear you.”
He stood in the hallway, patting the gun in his waistband. “I told you; keep to yourself, quiet and calm. Instead you invite random fucking bitches in for coffee.”
“She didn’t come in for coffee and I didn’t invite her. She tracked me down.” She rubbed her upper lip before turning away toward the kitchen. He grabbed her elbow and wrenched her back to face him.
“How the fuck did she track you down?” She’d turned away from him and he grabbed her arm again, spinning her back “Look at me! People snooping around means we’re done. Finished. The kids go back and you move back in with your mate Jimmy. Who the fuck is she?”