The cabbie swerved hard into the right hand lane. “What made you come back to Melbourne?”
Scott wondered if he could read minds. “I don’t know. I turned twenty-eight and I realised I’d been doing the same job for seven years and my girlfriend wanted me to marry her and…”
“Had to run away, ey, mate?”
That was the easiest explanation. That was what everyone heard when he said he was moving back to Melbourne, anyway, but it never felt true. He wasn’t afraid of roots, he saw himself getting married and having children, he just couldn’t imagine the house or wedding. It was always fuzzy, like the picture on old black and white TV. After his twenty-eighth birthday, a quiet mania took over him, a buzzing restlessness no workout, whiskey nor wank could cure. He fought it. God, he fought it, but after six months, he knew he’d have to change or become one of those arseholes you found propping up bars the world over, trying to drink away their bitterness. He’d taken a holiday by himself, but as he wandered the streets of Barcelona, all he could think about was Melbourne. Once struck, the idea refused to leave and after a month of fighting, he’d decided to make his plans.
“You got a job lined up down here?”
Scott wondered if he was about to be offered some cash-in-hand work. “Yeah, I’ve transferred from my company in London.”
“What company would that be?”
“Hydrus. Banking.”
“Ah,” the cabbie said. “You know what I reckon about banking?”
The conversation took him all the way to his new South Melbourne apartment. He paid the driver, got out of the cab and extracted his luggage from the boot, intent on nothing but a cup of tea and sleep.
“Scott.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. It couldn’t be… No, if he ignored it, he’d be fine. He was tired, he was very tired.
“Scott, are you gonna turn around or what?”
Nope. It was definitely him. Scott lowered his bag to the nature strip and turned. Sure enough, his father was behind him, looking the same but not the same. Just as tall, just as impatient, but with a wider belly, jowls and webs of grey in his thick black hair. “Hello, dad.”
When he found out he was moving to Melbourne, his father had told him to come and stay with him until he bought a place. Scott had lied and said he was staying at a friend’s place for free. He wasn’t going to live with his father again. Not for any reason. Yet here his was, standing in front of his apartment as though Scott had given him the time and place.
His dad extended his hand for the brisk shake that passed for affection in men he was related to. “How was your flight?”
“Good. How did you…?”
“Called Amy. She told me where your new place was and when you were arriving.”
Right. Of course his dad was in contact with his ex-girlfriend. Scott knew his dad must want something. He’d never have schlepped his ass all the way to South Melbourne to greet his only son on his homecoming. He’d have to invite him inside and figure out what it was. “Okay, so, do you want to come in?”
“No, I want to stand on the front lawn talking. Of course I want to come in. Don’t worry about unlocking the door, I found the key and let myself in.”
Fucking hell.
Whenever Scott spent thirty seconds in his dad’s company, any bad feelings he had were amplified by a thousand. Sure enough, his dad had barely stepped through the front door and he wished a meteor would fall on his head and give them something to talk about. They’d never been close, and after his mother died, the space between them had only grown wider. He’d remarried in Scott’s second year of university. Marina was a softly spoken Lebanese woman who ran his house and helped out with his businesses. Scott had no idea where his father kept finding such kind, patient women, but his mother and stepmother qualified for sainthood.
Scott followed his father into his apartment, noting he’d already turned on all the lights and filled the kettle. “How’s Marina?”
“Fine.” His father kicked the legs of a fake mahogany dining table. “You rent this place with the furniture in?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be…” What did he want to say here? Cheaper? Easier? His dad hated both those things. “…more efficient. Until I can find my own stuff.”
Thankfully, his father grunted his approval. Efficiency, he understood. “Look, I know you must want a shower so I’ll get to the point. I’ve got a favour to ask.”
“Name it,” Scott said, relieved they were getting to business.
His dad shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You remember the DaSilvas?”
Scott’s rented kitchen had a sudden airless quality. He’d known that name was coming, but he was still taken aback. Maybe because it felt as though he’d dreamed that family up. Met them in a parallel world, like Edward stumbling into Narnia.
Did he remember the DaSilvas? Tabby setting off cherry bombs in the side ally? Nicole winning nationwide academic competitions? Edgar DaSilva asking, “How are you, Scott? Feeling like you’re in charge of your own destiny?” when all Scott felt was that he’d rather die than answer that question.
Did he remember Samantha DaSilva? Her thick black hair and laughing blue eyes? Only in the sense that he’d spend every night of his adolescence sweating through his sheets for her and the mere mention of her name made his stomach tight and his mouth go dry.
“Yes,” he told his father. “I remember the DaSilvas.”
His father grunted his approval. “I need you to go and talk to them.”
“About what?”
“Selling their house.”
Scott felt a familiar sinking sensation. “You don’t still want to buy it?”
“I do,” his father said, his voice full of silk and malice. “I haven’t approached the DaSilvas about it for a long time—”
Not since Edgar DaSilva told you he’d get a restraining order if you didn’t stop harassing him, I’d imagine, Scott thought. What was that? Nine years ago?
“—but things have changed. Now is the right time to strike.”
Scott stared at his father. After he remarried, he’d moved in with Marina and rented out the house where his wife had died. He had no reason to think about, much less bother the DaSilvas, yet he was still obsessed with buying their property and turning it—and the tattoo studio—into rubble.
His father was a bulldog conservative who despised everything the leftie, single parent DaSilva family stood for—but the truth of why he hated them was slipperier. It had something to do with how the DaSilva girls laughed, the way they kissed their boyfriends in the street in full view of everyone. Scott suspected it also had a lot to do with the pots of tea his mother and Edgar had shared on the back porch whenever his dad was out of town with work. He’d come home early one day and found them at it. Later that night, when no one was watching, he smashed his mother’s favourite set—the Royal Albert set she’d gotten as a wedding gift. Scott shook his head, trying to rid himself of those miserable memories. They were ancient history. They weren’t important.
“Why is now the right time to strike?” he asked his father.
“Because their business is going under.”
“Edgar’s tattoo studio?”
His father’s dark eyes filled with the rage that always accompanied a mention of tattoos or their amiable ex-neighbor. “Yes. I always knew that idiot hippie couldn’t run a business. They’ve had health complaints, official warnings from the council and someone put a complaint on Facebooks and said they’re suing for a bad tattoo and no one should go there.”
Scott brushed aside his father’s mispronunciation of the world’s most popular social media site. “Dad, that doesn’t mean—”
“The tenants told me there are barely any customers coming, anymore. DaSilva won’t be able to keep his doors open for much longer. That’s why I want you to make DaSilva an offer. Three million.”
Scott almost choked on his own spit. “You can’t
be serious?”
His father glared at him. “You haven’t been home for a while, Brunswick’s prime real estate, now. The place isn’t worth that much outright, but it’ll get them to hand it over. You tell them that I’ll want them out by the end of next month.”
Scott held up his hands. “Hang on now, I’m assuming the DaSilvas don’t know anything about this. Why would they sell?”
“Because if they’ve got half a brain cell between them, they’ll know it’s better than anything they can expect on the open market and their business is dying in the arse.” His dad rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. He should have looked silly, but the cold in his eyes gave the gesture genuine malice.
“Dad…”
“I want both houses, Scott—side by side. I’m gonna turn that shop into a fucking laundromat.”
Scott wanted to ask why his father was willing to pour so much money into a mediocre house in East Brunswick, but he already knew the answer—because he hated Edgar DaSilva. He hated him more than all the left-leaning voters and crowded freeways in the world.
“I’ll email you the proposal,” his father said, pulling out his phone and pressing at the screen. “Print it out and give it to Edgar yourself and make it clear to that prick that he’s not going to see money like that from anyone else.”
Scott was disturbed at the rate at which this proposal was progressing. “Dad, I don’t know if I’ll have the time. I’m in the new office on Monday and I’ve got to—”
“You can go tomorrow when you’ve slept a bit. Early afternoon, at the latest.”
Scott opened his mouth to tell his father he hadn’t returned to Melbourne to be a foot solider in his illogical war with their neighbors. Then he saw Samantha DaSilva’s beautiful face smiling at him from across the street. His guts cramped with excitement, just like they had when he was a teenager.
“Okay,” he heard himself saying. “I’ll go talk to them tomorrow. Just don’t get mad at me if they don’t take the deal.”
Appeased, his father leaned back in his chair, grinning. “They’ll take it, Scotty. They have to.”
Chapter 3
The storefront of Silver Daughters Ink was both familiar and different. The paint was still red but the colour of old boots rather than cherries. The signage was still incredible, the twisted jungle animals painted in painstaking detail, but some shithead graffiti artist had left his tags all over it. The windows needed a wash and the footpath was littered with cigarette butts and discarded leaflets for Chinese food and religion. To Scott, it felt tired, a once-bubbly mother who’d been working double shifts at the supermarket to make ends meet. His dad was right—Silver Daughters Ink was in some kind of trouble.
He moved closer to the door and nostalgia hit him at roughly the speed of light. How many times had he walked past, his schoolbag heavy on his shoulders? If he was alone and no one was paying him attention, he’d glance through this door and try to see Samantha and her sisters. They were always sprawled out on the couches, flipping through the customer tattoo books and laughing.
“Galahad,” Sam would say if she spotted him. “How’s the chastity going?”
They’d been friends for a week when he first moved to Australia. He still had no idea why their amicable nighttime play-dates dissolved into hatred, but Samantha remembered enough about their brief window of friendship to give him that nickname. Galahad. In any other circumstances, he’d have been flattered to be compared to a Knight of the Round Table, but Samantha wasn’t referring to Galahad’s gentlemanly nature. She was shitting on him for being a virgin.
That was years ago. She won’t be here. And I’m not a bloody virgin anymore.
He couldn’t see anyone through the admittedly grimy window so he backed up and read the piece of paper sticky-taped to the other side of the glass.
Silver Daughters Ink considers tattooing an art form. We don’t do Southern Cross flags, tribal bands, sportsball championship bollocks or symbols you don’t understand without the aid of Google. We are artists with individual styles and do not imitate the work of others. If moveable masterpieces crafted especially to your taste is what you desire, enter. If you’re a bogan, a try-hard or an eighteen-year-old with an axe to grind, be on your way.
Scott couldn’t help grinning. He looked around for someone to share the joke with and his gaze fell on the place he’d been determined to ignore.
The back of his old house looked exactly the way he remembered, the rendered walls painted white and draped oh-so-classily with ivy. His mother had died in that house. After all these years it was still so hard to believe.
Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away from it all. He walked up the street, needing a coffee and some fresh perspective. Nothing about his old neighborhood looked familiar. Gentrification had torn through Brunswick with the force of a rampaging bull. When he was a kid, the majority of the businesses had been niche greengrocers, grubby bakeries and car dealerships. Now everything was sparkling clean and yuppie—vegan cafes, organic supermarkets and gastro pubs. As a tattoo studio, Silver Daughters Ink had once stuck out like a middle finger. Now it was utterly in keeping with the street aesthetic—if a little shabby, compared to the glossy black studio a few doors down.
Brunswick still wasn’t South Melbourne, but it was a damn side more expensive than the place he’d left at eighteen. His father’s offer of three million dollars didn’t seem as bizarre now—if you left out the part where he was trying to revenge-purchase his neighbor’s house. Scott entered an upscale French patisserie and a waitress in skintight leggings handed him the croissant and coffee he’d ordered. She asked about his accent in a way that said she was open to flirting, but Scott couldn’t get his head in the game. He sat down, tearing into his pastry and dipping it in the coffee.
Scott took a swallow of coffee, dimly acknowledging how good it was. As soon as he was done, he’d head back to Silver Daughters and go inside. Would Edgar remember him? Possibly. The more important question was—would he ask after Samantha? Could he handle knowing she was in Japan or Brazil? That she’d gotten married or had kids? He’d Googled her a few times over the years, but nothing had come up. Samantha had always been insanely technophobic, refusing to get a Myspace or a mobile phone. He was always relieved when his reconnaissance failed to show anything. It wasn’t right that he should still be so obsessed after all these years. He chewed the last of his croissant and stood, determined to get this whole thing over with.
“Bye! Hope I see you soon!” the waitress called after him.
“You too,” Scott lied. The coffee was good but this place was far too close to Silver Daughters. Besides, it wasn’t like there weren’t other cafes. From what he’d seen, Melbourne’s café quota had risen to one per person.
He walked back toward Silver Daughters Ink, ignoring the way his hands were tingling as though he was headed for a job interview or certain death.
“She won’t be in there,” he said aloud. “It’ll just be her dad. We’ll spend a few minutes talking rubbish before—”
A short man exploded out of Silver Daughters slamming the glass door back on its hinges. Scott had a second to wonder what was happening before he was knocked backward. Pain exploded in his arse-bones as he hit the concrete. The man fell on top of him, his breath sour, his wooly jacket smelling strongly of mildew. Scott pushed at his chest, trying to get him off. “What are you playing at?”
The man rose and resumed running, his battered shoes making loud slapping sounds on the concrete. Despite his furious movements, he wasn’t going very fast. He looked as though he were sprinting underwater.
“Are you okay?” Scott called after him.
The man jogged on, his chunky arms swinging ineffectually. Still sitting on his arse, Scott watched him, fascinated.
“Oi!” a woman called behind him. “Stop that asshole! Grab him!”
Scott glanced over his shoulder and saw a girl in black jeans and a shiny red top sprinting toward h
im. “Grab him!” she shouted, pointing in the direction of the short man. “He robbed me, grab him!”
Scott struggled to his feet but before he got his balance, the woman had blown past him and launched herself at the short man like an alley cat.
“Gotcha!” She pinned the short man to the ground, bundling his arms to his sides. “I can’t believe you did this, Frank, you absolute toolbox.”
“Get off me,” the short man hollered. “I’ll pay you later, I promise.”
“You get your ass back in the store and pay Gil right now. You’re not getting away with this!”
“I can’t pay. I don’t have any cash on me!”
“Then I’ll call the cops!”
The short man cackled. “How’re ya gonna do that if you’re on top of me? I know you don’t have a phone, Sam.”
Scott, who was brushing the gravel from his suit pants—the nice ones, goddammit—froze. Sam? Did that guy just say…?
The woman glanced at him. “Look, mate, if you’re okay, can you please call the cops?”
But Scott couldn’t do that. All he could do was stare.
Samantha DaSilva had been an astoundingly beautiful teenager—milky skin, wide blue eyes, the kind of girl that could have played a teenager on TV. While everyone else slogged it through puberty, she swanned around in midriff tops, her skin clear as a summer sky, her silky black hair like something out of a shampoo commercial. It had been Scott’s evil hope that her beauty would burst by the time they were twenty-four. That she’d grown craggy from all the cigarettes she smoked and paunchy from the beers she drank. He wanted that because then he could look back on his crush with something like nostalgic relief.
He’d hoped in vain. She was even lovelier than when she was the loveliest teenager on earth. Her mouth was wide and her eyes were the same deep, breathtaking blue, but there was a seriousness to her features, a solemnity that made her look as though she’d seen and felt a world of things since he’d left. Given their location—and the fact she’d just tackled a man—he should have recognised her sooner. Why hadn’t he recognised her sooner? Was it the tattoos? There were a lot of tattoos; elvish markings across her collarbones, an antique cameo bracelet on her right bicep, lacy wrist-cuffs that made her look like a gothic Wonder Woman. But there was something he’d forgotten, something that, as she struggled to hold the short man down, he could only marvel at. She was alive. She was so fucking alive. Not happy, not sweet, not demure or in any way subdued. She was passion itself, wrapped in an insanely gorgeous body. She’d been that way from the moment he’d seen her. Fearless. Wild.
So Wild Page 4