by Emma Viskic
‘Not today.’
‘You’re very smart. Gorgeous, too. Want to come to bed with me?’ The edit button on his brain seemed to have short-circuited, an interesting side effect of sleep deprivation.
Kat patted his knee. ‘I like your confidence, but the only horizontal thing you’ll be doing is sleeping.’ An analysis or instruction? Sadly true, either way.
Tilda shifted against him as she started in on his food. She was rating Fawkes’ soft-drink collection now: not fond of Coke, but big fan of Passiona.
Kat followed his gaze, signed with small movements, ‘Is Maggie going to jail?’
‘Maybe not. She’s pretty cluey.’ Not sure if he was trying to convince himself or Kat. Strange for them both to be hoping Maggie would walk free.
He rested his head on the couch. Warm in here. Kat and Tilda leaning against him. The scents of waffles and coffee, wood smoke. They should get a house with a fireplace; extra bedrooms, too. Big, ramshackle home for whatever family they ended up having. Adoption, fostering, nieces, nephews; lots of different ways of doing it.
Kat touched his arm; he roused himself. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Go lie down. I told Maggie you were driving Tilda back from Sydney.’
A twelve-hour trip, more than enough time to work out what to do. Kat was a genius. ‘Have I told you how smart you are?’
‘Not in the last ninety seconds.’ She put her arm around him, and he leaned against her. Maybe close his eyes. Just for a minute.
43.
He was woken by a small body ricocheting off him. Georgie’s five-year-old daughter, Minta, had got in on the wrestling with the boys. A tangle of small brown limbs; wailing, but no sound. A lot of his parenting might be done with his aids off.
Through the open doorway he could see the kitchen table: Kat sketching, Tilda beside her, hair washed and tied in a neat ponytail, head bent over a large hardcover book. Possibly one of Georgie’s law tomes.
How long had he slept? A year, judging by the stiffness in his back when he sat up. A crutch lay on the floor next to him, along with a packet of bandaids and neatly folded towel. Taking it as a hint, he went to shower.
Georgie caught him when he limped out of the bathroom; towel around his waist, crutch under one arm, skin dotted with Mr Men bandaids. The duct tape was still suturing his thigh, a few more layers firmly applied. Georgie gave him a clinical up and down. He clutched the towel a bit tighter. She had a bundle of men’s clothes he hoped were for him. ‘God, Cal. Do you actually try to get in trouble?’
‘Raw talent. Can’t be taught.’
‘Can obviously be perfected, though.’ She gestured to his leg. ‘Go … bathroom … bandage … erlee.’ A moment to fill in the gaps: Go back in the bathroom and I’ll bandage that properly. No – if Georgie looked at it, she or Kat would end up driving him to hospital. The wound was narrow but dug into his thigh muscle, a lot deeper than he wanted to think about. It’d definitely need stitches, possibly surgery.
‘Thanks, but I’ll go to a doctor once I’ve got Tilda home.’
‘I can do it. Half my family are doctors.’
‘And yet you chose to be a lawyer.’
Her mouth compressed, but she handed him the clothes: dryer-warm and smelling of eucalyptus. ‘You … die … dead …’
Did he want to know? ‘Sorry, you’ll have to slow down. Haven’t got my aids.’
‘Huh. I forget you’re deaf sometimes. You’re usually so good at understanding me.’ Her expression gave him half the necessary information most of the time. Right now it was an odd mix of amusement, irritation and concern.
‘Some people are easier than others. Can’t understand your kids at all.’
‘Lucky you.’ Her hands went to her hips. ‘I’d rather you didn’t die,’ she said, then stopped. A keep-it-away-from-our-family speech. Definitely deserved; she’d been more than welcoming given the circumstances.
‘But I should fuck off now?’
‘But you need to get life insurance. You need to make sure Kat and the boorai are OK if you take it too far one of these days.’
‘Hi, I’m Caleb. Have we met?’
‘Sorry, of course – Mr Worst-Case-Scenario. You got top cover as soon as you found out.’ She gave an approving nod. ‘You might be a fuckwit, but you’re a good man, Cal. I hope everything works out.’ She strode down the hall, scooping up an abandoned shoe as she went.
Top cover. Alberto had used the same words. ‘Nick gave me the lecture last week. I upped the insurance, got top cover on everything.’
Nick had told Alberto to increase the insurance. Nick, who’d been there at every incident, who had direct access to the ordering system. A slipknot of tension loosened – Alberto wasn’t involved, just a stupid boy who didn’t know how lucky he was to be so loved. Son of a problem gambler, following in his father’s footsteps and getting into trouble with a loan shark, screwing over his grandfather to dig himself out.
But it was fixable. No idea how, but it was.
***
He fortified himself with waffles and more painkillers, and took Kat’s laptop to the couch. Tilda joined him, carrying a battered Guinness Book of Records, hair already coming loose, fringe sticking up. She launched into a quick succession of sign names: the stroked whiskers for Kat, his own simple CZ, Georgie’s Hands-On-Hips. Kat had been busy while he’d slept.
‘So I guess you’re waiting for your sign name?’ he said.
‘Yes please. It’s not culturally appropriate for Kat to give me one.’
He bit back a smile. ‘Do you know the word “swede”?’
‘Of course – it’s a vegetable and what people from Sweden are called. That’s why I’m called Turnip.’ She paused, examining his face. ‘It’s a joke.’
‘Yeah, thought it might be. The sign for “swede” reminds me of you.’ He placed one hand palm down, the other gently pulling tufts of hair into spikes. ‘What d’you think?’
A bright-eyed grin. ‘Deadly.’
He laughed. Kat had definitely been busy.
He opened the computer while Tilda settled in to read about parasites. Back up everything first. He uploaded Maggie’s records and code to the cloud, and sent the links to Tedesco. The email took a bit longer.
—Tilda is safe. Have sent you a link to Maggie’s financial records. The code will hopefully disambiguate the names. Imogen Blain is bent. Possibly taking kickbacks from Maggie.
He paused, then typed,
—We both did what we felt right.
A start towards mending the rift. Hopefully a start. He’d lost too many people to bear losing another one.
He opened Maggie’s records. Only one more step and Tilda would be safe. SWTTSAB78TBAAGN. A code? Unlikely. According to Frankie, Maggie had changed her security overnight, spooked by a break-in. Had to be something simple, something she could have done on the spot – in the computer, Tilda had said, so a password, or web address.
A web address. That story she’d told had ended in the word ‘net’. ‘… and a gold net.’ Could it really be that simple? Just an online file, accessible only with the right address; security through obscurity. He opened a browser and typed SWTTSAB78TBAAG.net, then hit enter. A page of writing appeared, names down the left-hand side, account numbers down the right. Light-headed, as though he’d surfaced too rapidly from a deep dive. That was smart, very smart. Easy to see where Tilda got her sharpness; Maggie hadn’t just found the fastest and safest way to store the list, but obviously remembered not to use her own computer to do it. The library maybe, or a burner.
He copied the names across to Maggie’s accounts, examined the results. Thirty people laundering different amounts. Judge Lovelay was one of the smaller clients, with enough dirty money to keep him very comfortably off, but not in the big league. Be interesting to know where the cash had come from, but t
hat was a job for the prosecutors. Maggie’s top clients were another story. If three months’ records were typical, all of them were cleaning around ten million a year.
A search on the three biggest customers revealed they were businessmen with a history of making large political donations. No wonder Transis had been shut down as soon as it touched Maggie. Like throwing dynamite into a pond. How many of them had been after Tilda? Just Imogen? All of them? Didn’t matter – once Maggie’s records were public, she and her daughter would be safe.
Time to get everything to Sammi. He emailed her the documents, then video-called. A bright smile when she answered, along with a stream of words, something about Kat. No: cats. Must be talking about his scratched face. Not politely, judging by Tilda’s abruptly turned head.
‘Can’t understand you,’ he said. ‘I’ve emailed you some records. Can you get them to all the top political hackers, particularly Anonymous?’
She gave a thumbs-up.
‘Straight away? It’s important.’
A double thumbs-up.
‘Out of the goodness of your heart?’
Double thumbs-down.
He sighed. ‘Put it on my account.’ He should just give her all his money and be done with it. An idea flickered into being, a possible way to help Alberto. ‘Delete a name before you send it,’ he said. ‘Angus Lovelay.’
Sammi gave him another thumbs-up and ended the call. He made the same alteration to his records before doing a general spray to everyone he could think of: police, newspapers, television. Imogen got her own personal email.
—Maggie’s docs are now public. There’s nothing left to kill for
A reply came immediately. Had she been waiting for his message?
—RING ME
He closed the laptop. An almost dizzying wave of relief: it was over. The terror, the lies, the betrayals. Caught between an urge to laugh and cry. Laugh, definitely laugh.
He left Tilda reading about intestinal worms and went to find Kat. She was in the study with Georgie; at the desk, pencil in hand, an open sketchpad showing her project with Jarrah. Eyes alight as she described the bird’s wings, its outstretched claws. A rare moment of unburdened joy. No, that wasn’t true; Kat was often light-hearted with her family and friends, with Jarrah. Her light only dimmed with him.
Understanding hit him like a physical blow, pain radiating from his chest. They weren’t going to make it if they lost the baby. There wouldn’t be any ramshackle house. No spare rooms, or dreams, or future. There were too many cracks in the foundations of their relationship to bear another sorrow, too many years of him ignoring them.
He gripped the doorframe to steady himself.
Kat turned at the movement, smile slipping. ‘You OK?’
He spoke out loud so he didn’t have to meet her eyes. ‘It’s over.’
44.
He borrowed Georgie’s Volvo for the drive back to Melbourne, an automatic with mercifully jolt-free suspension. Tilda was reading the Guinness Book of Records beside him, turning at each red light to tell him about skateboarding dogs and land-speed records. Surprisingly easy to understand despite the bizarre subjects and his lack of hearing aids. Despite the image of Kat’s dimming smile looping through his brain.
It took a bit of doing to get himself and the crutch out of the car while convincing Tilda not to sprint ahead, but they managed it without tears. The loose front door had been fixed; a new security screen and alarm fitted, along with CCTV. None of it went with the airy glass and timber house, but it was all top-of-the-line and very obvious. That Maggie had managed to pull it all together while dazed and injured was impressive.
The ex-army guard from the hospital opened the door. Caleb relaxed: Tilda was in good hands. The man must have IDed them via the monitor, but he still scanned the garden, his open jacket giving a glimpse of his gun.
Tilda slid behind Caleb’s leg. He put an arm around her. ‘It’s OK. He’s just one of the helpers your mum told you about.’
A couple of days to make sure word had spread, and her life could return to normal. Or almost normal – she hadn’t mentioned Frankie again, but she’d have to find out sooner or later.
She clutched his hand as he followed the guard down the hallway and into the cream and grey master bedroom. A uniformed nurse was reading a magazine by the window, Maggie sitting in the pillow-plumped bed, phone within easy reach. Smaller bandages today, eyes focused, but she still had the washed-out look of someone fighting a migraine.
Tilda released Caleb’s hand and ran across the room. Onto the bed and into Maggie’s arms, shaking with sudden sobs. Maggie kissed her, stroking her hair, patting her all over, as though checking she was whole and real. Caleb stood beside the bed, still trying to work out how to ask what he wanted.
When Tilda eventually stopped crying, Maggie raised her head, gave a little start, as though she’d forgotten he was there. She’d be doing that for a long time – forgetting conversations and events, losing time. Was there someone who could care for Tilda while she recuperated? Maybe that great-aunt Frankie had mentioned.
‘Thank you,’ Maggie said. ‘I don’t understand what happened, but thank you.’
The same shock at the familiar rhythms of her speech. Have to get over that.
‘She seems OK,’ he said. ‘The guy didn’t scare her too much.’
Rage flared in her eyes. ‘He’s definitely gone?’
‘Yes. A shotgun.’ He pushed away the memory of Fawkes’ grisly body.
Maggie nodded, but her thoughts seemed to have already moved on from the hacker, her expression faltering. ‘The police came. About Frankie. Did you tell –?’ She angled her head towards Tilda. The girl had snuggled under her arm, playing with her mother’s nightgown buttons.
‘No.’
‘They said you were there.’ Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. ‘Was she scared? Did it hurt?’
Frankie’s panicked eyes, her shock as the bullet slammed into her.
A moment before he could speak. ‘No. It was fast. Really fast.’
‘Was it money again? She owed someone?’
‘Yes.’
Maggie swiped at her eyes. ‘Stupid cow. I would’ve helped her if she’d asked. She knew that.’ She grasped his hand with cold fingers. ‘I’m glad you were with her. I’m glad she wasn’t alone.’
Eyes burning, a terrible pressure building inside. Tilda was looking up at Maggie; her face echoed her mother’s distress.
‘It’s OK,’ Maggie told her, ‘Mummy’s just a bit tired.’ She faced Caleb as the girl settled. ‘Go now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘I have to tell you something first. Frankie –’
‘Tomorrow.’ Steely-eyed now, a glimpse of her hard inner-core.
‘It’s important. You’re probably safe but you should hang on to the guard for a couple of days. I posted your files online to protect Tilda. There’s nothing directly linking you to them, so you should be safe from the cops.’
Her mouth gaped. ‘You posted them?’
‘It was the only way to keep her safe.’
‘Get out.’
‘I’m going. Just, could I see Turnip if she wants –?’
‘Get out!’
Tilda’s head jerked up. The guard was behind him, yanking him to the door. Slipping, the crutch skidding on the floorboards. Tilda scrambled from the bed to get to him.
Maggie held her back. ‘Stay away from him. He’s a bad man.’
Tilda looked from her mother to Caleb, body quivering. He let the guard pull him from the room. Down the hallway to the front door. Outside. He stumbled on the front step, kept going.
***
He drove to his flat and pulled into the underground carpark. A low ceiling, the weight of the building borne by spindly concrete pillars. Five o’clock on a Sunday and mo
st of the parking spots were taken, everyone tucked up inside discussing dinner plans or watching footy, thinking about the full weekend behind them, the busy week ahead. He found an empty space halfway along the wall, turned off the engine. Complete stillness, complete silence. If he closed his eyes the world wouldn’t exist.
‘He’s a bad man.’ Of course. What had he thought would happen? That he’d pop around for play dates with a child whose father he’d killed? That he could slip her into a life with Kat and become a happy, makeshift family?
Yes.
Yes, that’s exactly what he’d thought.
Should have known better. He’d asked Frankie why she’d gone into business with him, but it was obvious really. They were both destroyers, their lives filled with a long line of people who’d either loved them at their peril or hadn’t loved them enough. Perfect for each other; best kept at arm’s-length from anyone else.
He pulled the crutch from the passenger seat and got out. Cold. No air movement down here, just the mass of the building above and the stale smell of a place never warmed by sunlight. He headed slowly for the stairwell. Go to his flat and get drunk, take Henry Collins’ little pills, face reality tomorrow. Or not.
A slam of pain in his lower back.
Pitching forward, the crutch spinning away. Someone grabbed him and spun him around, slammed him against the back of a van. A forearm on his throat, hot breath in his face. Hollywood’s shirt was torn and smeared, face crusted with dried blood. Cold focus in his eyes.
Too big to fight; needed a weapon – keys. He grabbed them from his pocket, fist rising. Hollywood kneed his wound. A scream ripped from his throat. The world red black slipping sideways.
Hollywood shoved him against the van doors, windscreen wiper cutting into his head. He was saying something, asking something. Too close, too hard without his aids. ‘Can’t understand you.’
A punch to his thigh, pain spearing through him. Another jab. No. Too much. Panting, cold sweat slicking his body. Hollywood was talking again, getting ready for another blow.
‘Slower. Can’t understand.’