by Emma Viskic
Lovelay gave him a grateful smile. ‘Jordan.’
38.
Jordan’s old flatmate was called Ike. Or possibly Mike. Early twenties, squat and thoroughly stoned. After a few failed attempts, he finally understood Caleb wasn’t there to see Jordan, but talk to the man’s friends.
‘Right, yeah, come in,’ he said. ‘Ben knew him best. Come and –’ He wandered into the house, still speaking.
Caleb followed, hoping Ike wouldn’t get too distracted on the long walk down the hall. The house was one of the few un-renovated terraces remaining in Carlton. Threadbare carpet and peeling paint, the heady scent of fresh dope and unwashed dishes; not squalid, but giving it a good try. According to Lovelay, Jordan had been studying at nearby Melbourne Uni and living off a ‘small trust’ provided by his stepfather.
Ike led Caleb to a dim smoke-filled room. Purple velvet curtains and an odd assortment of furniture. What looked like a vintage record player was pumping out a heavy beat. A freckled young man was sprawled on a couch, smoking a bong. Ike flopped next to him.
Caleb stayed standing: dark, loud music, two people. Two very stoned people. ‘Can you turn off the music?’
Neither of them moved. He went to the record player and lifted the needle, switched on the overhead light. The students recoiled.
‘The fuck?’ Ike said.
‘Sorry, I need to see.’
‘Nah, bro, turn it off. Too fucken bright.’
‘I’m deaf, I’m lip-reading.’ He braced himself. Young men were usually the worst: too desperate to prove their manhood to let a perceived weakness go unchallenged.
They stared at him, a pair of very relaxed owls.
‘Cool,’ the freckled guy eventually said, and offered him the bong.
Caleb shook his head. ‘You Ben?’
Freckles nodded, his eyes so bloodshot they looked painful.
‘I’m here about Jordan. Ike said you knew him best.’
‘Guess so.’
‘You meet any of his friends?’
‘Nah, Jordy kept to himself.’
‘He ever mention someone called Maggie or Imogen?’
‘Nah.’ A pause for thought, or something approaching it. ‘Have you got a seeing-eye dog?’
‘No. How did Jordan seem before he died?’
‘Why haven’t you got a dog?’
‘Because I’m deaf, not blind. How was Jordan in the last few weeks?’
‘Good. Real happy. That’s how we know he didn’t top himself. Told his dad that at the funeral. Stepdad.’ Another long pause. ‘Dunno why he was there. Jordy hated him.’
‘Why?’
‘Rooted around on his mum. Jordy reckoned she died because of it. Had a stroke or something. Couldn’t let it go.’ Ben looked at his mate for confirmation.
Ike nodded. ‘Real Oedipal shit.’
Lovelay weeping in that empty house; a man grieving alone because of his own stupidity. Should hang him on the wall, use him as a warning. Or a mirror.
‘Is Jordan’s stuff still here?’
‘Yeah.’ Ben gazed at him. ‘What about one of them canes? White ones. You use one of them?’
‘Only when I’m driving. Where’s his room?’
‘Upstairs. Near the balcony.’
Jordan’s bedroom was the cleanest thing in the house. A pile of dirty clothes in one corner and an almost-made bed. No computers, but a good-quality printer. The shelves held textbooks and a well-thumbed copy of Infinite Jest, uni work with an assortment of high distinctions and fails. In the mix were printouts from real estate sites: not the small family homes Caleb had been leaving for Kat to find, but rambling country properties. Looked like the ‘small income’ Jordan had been getting from Lovelay’s trust would stretch to some significant properly investment. Not bad for a 23-year-old.
Jordan had obviously wanted to punish Lovelay by exposing his dirty money. The question was, who’d taken his laptop – a family member, or someone who’d been in on it with him?
Caleb went back downstairs. The students looked at him without surprise or recognition.
‘Who took Jordan’s laptop?’
Ben sucked on the bong, searched a distant part of his memory. ‘Some bloke.’
‘Big guy? Lots of muscles?’
‘Nah.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Um.’ Ben looked at his mate for support, got nothing.
Christ, not this again. Was it too much to hope for a simple fucking description? ‘Tall? Short? Young? Old?’
Ben jerked back, blinking in confusion.
OK, possibly a bit too much force behind the words. Caleb tried again, hoped he didn’t overshoot, end up whispering. ‘Can you remember anything about him? What he said? What he was wearing?’
‘Oh. Yeah, a baseball cap. Pulled it kind of low. Bit of a dick, really.’
A spark of excitement. ‘What colour was it?’
‘Blue.’ Ben squinted at him. ‘Blue’s a funny word. Ever notice that? Bluuuuuuue.’
***
He went to use the wi-fi in the uni library. Well after business hours, but a lot of students were still around, sharing study notes and saliva.
A sense he was on the cusp of understanding. If he got Tilda back tonight, she could sleep beside her mother.
The uni wi-fi needed login details, but Big_Dick_Boy_251 had an open hotspot on his phone. Might as well walk around with a neon sign saying ‘insecure’. Caleb logged on, resisting the temptation to change the username to It’s_Going_To_Be_OK.
One missed video call from Kat, and a forwarded text message.
Here safe. Yes you missed a call from me but don’t stress, everything’s OK. No need to call back. xx
She knew him too well. But he’d still return the call: video meant she wanted to say something face-to-face. She answered after only a few seconds. Sitting on Georgie’s couch, looking tired, but well; smiling. ‘You beat my estimate by half an hour.’
‘That’s the Zelic promise – often early, never wrong. Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, we solved the public housing crisis on the way down. On to fixing the pay gap now. What’s happening with Tilda?’ Signing a little too fast, her hands fluttering.
‘I’ve got some good leads. You all right?’
‘Yeah, great. Mum and Dad have gone away for the week. Can you believe it? Can’t remember the last time they had a holiday.’ Avoidance was a new technique for Kat, and an obvious one: averted eyes when she passed baby shops, a change of subject when anyone mentioned her tiredness or due date.
‘Kat,’ he said out loud, ‘what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Seriously. It’s just, I, um, I can feel the baby moving.’
‘Oh.’
She’d felt the first stirrings in the second pregnancy, too. Giddy when she’d told him that time, describing the feeling in breathless detail.
A sheen to her blue eyes as she kept going. ‘I thought maybe I could the last couple of days, but then in the car, something about the way I was sitting.’ Tears overflowed. ‘I’m feeling a bit weird about it.’
‘Yeah.’ Say something, sign something. Something joyful and reassuring, without fear or false hope. No language in the world could do it. He pressed his fingers to his lips, then the screen; Kat mirrored the movement.
Perfect stillness, then she dropped her hand. ‘I won’t keep you, I just wanted to let you know. Tell me when you’ve found Tilda. Any time.’
‘I will.’
After she’d ended the call, he sat without moving. Five whole days until he’d see her again. Too long – always too long, her absence a hollow inside him. As soon as this was over he’d take time off, go down to the Bay. They could spend the evenings together, maybe even the nights. End this limbo and talk about moving back in together. An incred
ible lightness at the thought.
He tucked the idea safely away and got to work. One of the kidnappers must have known Jordan personally if they’d been aware of the young man’s anger and how to manipulate it. Somewhere, there’d be evidence of their relationship.
Jordan’s social media accounts were private, but a few schoolfriends had tagged him in photos after his death. Sullen and awkward, wearing the navy blazer and striped tie of one of the more expensive private schools. A rare one of him smiling, age sixteen or seventeen. The school football team, mud-spattered and victorious, Jordan’s arm around the shoulders of a boy with sinewy limbs.
A jolt at the friend’s long face and nose. Recognisable even without his swimming cap and tinted goggles – Fawkes the hacker.
Jordan and Fawkes working together.
Lovelay hadn’t been the goal, just a bonus. It was all about bringing down Maggie’s clients. No wonder the hacker had been eager to get her records. His claim he could ID the customers hadn’t been a boast. Tilda must know where the list was. Jesus. Not an organisation or gang, just a twenty-something hacktivist taking on the world, using Tilda to do it. The stupid, selfish prick. Hollywood and his mates must be getting close to IDing him; when they did they’d bust down the door of whatever squat he was hiding in, and slaughter him and Tilda.
Caleb got to his feet, sat back down. Where the hell did he start looking? Even if he worked out where Fawkes was, he couldn’t storm a building by himself. No police, no Frankie, no Tedesco.
Imogen. An uncomfortable choice of partner, but she was fearless and driven. And she had a gun.
39.
Flinders Street Station was crowded. Shoppers and families going home, couples heading into the city for a late-night dinner. No sign of Imogen yet. Caleb kept a tight grip on Frankie’s camera as he went through the turnstiles; all he needed now was a snatch-and-run. He’d bought a memory card on the way and uploaded a single page of Maggie’s docs, hopefully enough to tempt Imogen to help. If it wasn’t, he was out of ideas.
He stopped around the corner, his back to the toilet wall. Not much ambience but a good view of the concourse. Overhead, a giant television was flashing the day’s news; footage of people standing on the roof of their car, muddy water swirling around them. A strong feeling of kinship.
So far he’d only discovered the basics about Fawkes – the name Zack Billington and a former address – but possibly enough to track down his hideout. Just a little luck needed: a speed camera or toll road, a friend’s holiday house. If Imogen turned up.
He checked the time on the TV. The image had changed to a news anchor, a man with trustworthy features, the photo of a young girl behind him. Tilda. An old school photo, her hair brushed into unnatural neatness. Words appeared at the bottom of the screen: Mum’s Tragedy.
Blood drained from his head, his heart. No. Please God, no.
He blocked a businessman heading for the turnstiles. ‘Can you hear the TV? I need to –’ The man moved around him. Next person, young woman texting. ‘I can’t hear. Can you –?’ She kept walking, not looking up.
Fuck. Fuck. Breathless, pain shearing his chest. His phone was in the car. Borrow someone’s, steal it.
Imogen appeared in front of him, talking rapidly.
‘Did you hear it?’ he said. ‘What’d it say?’
‘Calm down. People are looking.’ She pulled him to the wall, fingers tight on his arm. ‘I caught the full bulletin in the car. The idiots are appealing for information, playing the sympathy card about Maggie’s injuries. That picture’s everywhere.’
He slumped against the wall. Not dead. But not safe. Not with that photo beaming out across the country. A helpful citizen seeing Tilda’s photo, realising they’d seen her and that nice young man in the car, the petrol station, the flat next door. Their hotline message going straight to Hollywood and his mates.
Imogen was speaking again. ‘… police?’
‘What?’
‘Why the hell did you go to the police? She’ll be dead by morning.’
He pushed down the rising panic. ‘I need your help. I know who took her.’
‘It’s not my concern.’
‘It is. She can help ID Maggie’s clients.’ He explained about Lovelay and Fawkes, handed her the camera. ‘Maggie’s records.’
She examined the screen. Her hair was limp today, dark smudges under her eyes. Strange to be with her instead of Frankie; only yesterday the three of them had stood on that pier.
Imogen lowered the camera. ‘Where’s the rest?’
Under the sole of his shoe, one useful thing Frankie had taught him. ‘You’ll get it when we get Tilda. Along with whatever she knows.’
Imogen scanned the crowd as she contemplated his words, more open in her stance than usual, arms uncrossed, chin lowered. ‘You speak to Billington’s family?’ she finally said. ‘They got a holiday house? Could be there if he snatched her without planning.’
‘Not yet, but he went to Melbourne Grammar with Jordan. Call –’
She was already dialling.
Had the kidnapping been spur of the moment? Fawkes might not have known Tilda was Maggie’s weak link, but he’d known from the video someone was – he would have been prepared. He wouldn’t be in a squat or family home, but a rental property. A house with no near neighbours.
The real estate brochures in Jordan’s house – not an investment, but a hideout.
‘I’ve got it,’ he said, then stopped. A point of stillness in the moving crowd, the blurred reflection of a large man on the TV screen. Waiting just around the corner by the turnstiles. Hollywood. How? No one had followed him, no one knew he was here.
Except Imogen.
She was working with Hollywood. On the take, or the actual ring leader? Work it out later, just get away as quickly as possible.
She was looking at him, impatience in the set of her mouth, as though she’d waited too long for a reply. ‘Where?’ she said.
He spoke the first lie that came into his head. ‘Lovelay’s holiday house. Ring and ask where it is, I need to piss.’ He headed towards the toilets. Walking steadily, easy swing of his arms. Into the stream of people flowing around the corner for the trains. Down the escalator and along the platform to the Elizabeth Street exit. Didn’t look back.
40.
The farmhouse was a couple of hours west of the city, along a turn-off he’d passed hundreds of times on trips home to the Bay. Could have kept driving past it for the rest of his life, never knowing Tilda was there. He left the car hidden in a pocket of trees, phone well wrapped and tucked inside the glove box, then cut across open grazing land. An inky wash of stubbled grass, moon struggling from behind gunmetal clouds.
A stand of tall eucalypts loomed ahead. According to the satellite map, they bordered all three sides of the backyard, with a blackberry-lined creek running along the rear. He hopped the driveway fence near the garage. A kick of adrenaline at the sight of a silver Holden parked nose-in: the car he’d seen outside the pink motel.
Across a wide garden, with overgrown trees and grass. Past the dim shape of a chicken coop to the house, a well-kept weatherboard with deep verandas. An air of desperation to the online listing, the place still furnished, photos showing the wood-panelled room and brown couch from Tilda’s proof-of-life video. He circled it, testing the windows. All stuck. Had to be screwed shut, no farmer would put locks on the windows. The front room was lit, heavy curtains drawn. He went past it to the back door. The handle turned easily. Edging it open, breath held.
A jab in his back. Hard, the size of a gun barrel. He froze.
Someone speaking, barking an order. Stand still? Turn around?
‘I can’t understand –’
The gun pushed him forward. He stepped inside, no sudden movements. Through a darkened laundry and up a long hallway towards a lit room, the gun
firm against his spine. Empty rooms to each side, the last on the left closed, a shiny new bolt securing it. A shove towards the open door and into the wood-panelled room from the video. Couch and armchairs, a bright camping lantern on the coffee table, a laptop next to it showing a simple map of the property. Flashing green perimeter lights, a red one where he’d jumped the driveway fence.
He sped up to get a bit of distance between him and the gun. Turned with his back to the window. Fawkes was by the table, resetting the laptop. Some tension left Caleb – Fawkes was an activist, not a killer; he wouldn’t shoot in cold blood. Particularly as the young man was armed with a screwdriver and pepper spray, not a gun.
‘Jesus,’ Caleb said. ‘You scared the shit out of me. Could have just tapped me on the shoulder.’
‘And have you punch me? No thanks. How the hell’d you find me?’
‘Real estate flyers at Jordan’s. Where’s Tilda? She all right?’
‘She’s fine. Asleep. Is anyone else here? You got a phone on you?’
‘No. But we have to go. People are looking for you, and if I can find you, they can.’ He glanced at the bolted door on the opposite side of the hall. ‘She in there?’ He moved towards it, stopped abruptly as Fawkes darted forward, pepper spray raised. If he got a dose of that, he wouldn’t be driving Tilda anywhere tonight.
‘Don’t move,’ Fawkes said. ‘Where’s Frankie? She out there, too?’
The words hung in his brain without meaning. ‘You know Frankie?’
‘Course I fucking know her. Why do you think I let you catch me lurking around Maggie’s computer? I’m not an idiot.’
Frankie and Fawkes working together. So many thoughts, none of them making sense. He asked the first question he could catch hold of. ‘How do you know each other?’
‘Maggie kept going on about Frankie stealing the records, so I tracked her down. Finally found her last week. Not that she was any help. The only good thing she did was put me on to you. That lip-reading thing was great.’
Lip-reading. That’s why Frankie had dragged him into this – to read the video. ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I know you’re only in this because of my fuck-ups.’ Sorrow in her expression, maybe shame. And the kidnapping? Had she known Fawkes was behind it? No – her stricken face and growing terror – she was innocent of that, at least. Like Caleb, she’d been hunting for an organised gang, not an angry young man with a grudge.