by Emma Viskic
‘Where’s. The. Girl?’
Jesus fuck, he was still after Tilda. Imogen hadn’t told him.
‘It’s over. Maggie’s records are online. Ask Imogen.’
‘… talking about?’
‘Everything’s public. No reason to hurt Tilda. Call Imogen, ask her.’
Hollywood’s face cleared. He released Caleb, reached for his phone. No. Not a phone, a gun. Cleaning house. If Caleb was dead, there’d be no one left to identify Hollywood and Imogen.
Hollywood raised the gun. Caleb smacked his head forward. Dull pain, forehead hitting cartilage and bone. The man reeled back, blood streaming from his nose. Wouldn’t stop him for long – get something sharp, stab him. Windscreen wiper. Caleb grabbed it with both hands, tugging hard, yanking. He staggered as it snapped. In his fist, turning, ramming the jagged edge into Hollywood’s face, scraping along cheekbone and skin into his eye socket.
Hollywood dropped. Hands to his face, mouth contorted in a scream. Still holding the gun.
Get away. Up to the street. Lurching from car to car, leg buckling, hands slipping from the duco, slick with blood. Up the driveway towards the exit and the dying light of day. Nearly there.
A silhouette appeared: Imogen running around the corner into the carpark.
She skidded to a halt when she saw him, lifting her gun. Couldn’t get away, nothing he could do. Her feet were spread wide, both hands on the weapon. The same stance as when she’d killed Frankie.
She exhaled and squeezed the trigger. A distant thump.
No punching heat, no bullet.
Imogen was still aiming the gun. Shouting, smacking the air with a flat palm, repeating two blunt syllables. Get down! He dropped.
Another dull thud.
Stillness.
His face pressed to the cold concrete, fingertips gripping. Imogen ran past him. He pushed himself into a sitting position, turned. Hollywood was still doubled over clutching his face, the stairwell door open behind him.
Imogen knelt by a sprawled figure, feeling for a pulse, a gun lying a few metres away. Long dark hair spread on the oil-stained ground, fine features turned towards him, slackened in death: Quinn.
His brain ground into gear. Quinn was behind the bloodshed, not Imogen. Quinn with her sharp mind and need to get ahead. Not just Maggie’s hireling, but a business partner. Making the most of the opportunities Lovelay had given her. ‘He did everything for me. Taught me things, introduced me to the right people.’ Trying to protect herself and her hard-won success by destroying the records and everyone along with them.
Caleb had seen her brightness and still been fooled.
Imogen pulled out her phone, her eyes on Hollywood. Calling the ambulance and her colleagues. They’d come with their endless questions and need to understand; people in uniforms and suits, cotton overalls and latex gloves.
Let them find him.
He hauled himself to his feet and limped towards the fed. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
He ignored her rapid spill of words and kept going. Past Quinn and Hollywood, past the blood, the gun. He slowly bent to pick up his crutch and made his way to the stairwell. Started climbing.
45.
They met at the Vic Market again. The vegetable stall this time, Caleb with his walking stick, Henry Collins with his wicker basket. Only two potatoes in it so far. A rain-washed day, the concrete path slick with mud and rotting leaves, but plenty of people out shopping, coats buttoned to their chins, breath steaming towards the arched steel roof.
The therapist was pawing through the avocados, poking each one as he sought the softer flesh. He looked at Caleb, golden hair flopping across his brow. ‘You haven’t mentioned the ultrasound.’
‘All good.’
Or so the doctor said; he hadn’t been able to look at it. Kat had – a first for her. She’d gripped his hand and smiled and cried, and taken a copy home to show her family.
A gentle smile. ‘That’s good news, Caleb. It’s OK to be scared, but it’s OK let yourself be happy, too.’
He nodded. Tedesco had said much the same thing during the one stilted conversation they’d had so far.
Henry added, ‘You haven’t mentioned the coroner’s report, either.’
‘This “haven’t mentioned” thing’s a bit passive aggressive for a therapist, isn’t it?’
Henry stood waiting, face open and eager. Their fourth session in the two weeks since Tilda, but the therapist hadn’t run out of patience with him yet. God knows why; he certainly had. ‘Sorry. There’s nothing much to say. Quinn killed a lot of people, and now she’s dead.’
Still couldn’t quite get his head around it. Bright, funny Quinn behind all that death. The informant, Jordan, had been first; a brutal decision to try and head off any danger from their panicked clients. She must have been terrified when Maggie was attacked, thinking she’d be next, running to hide in the childhood home she’d worked so hard to leave. But she’d still been quick-thinking when he and Frankie had turned up with news of Tilda’s kidnapping. Distanced herself from her hit man and decided to kill Tilda, directed their suspicions towards Delaney. The damp solicitor had been the perfect fall guy: a new recruit with no criminal mates to protect him, or obvious links to Quinn. His guilt-induced family holiday had probably saved his life.
Henry had moved on to the cauliflowers. Caleb followed, careful on the wet ground with his cane. A passing thought that the city’s original graveyard lay beneath their feet. Bodies never moved, just paved over. Early settlers lost to accidents and illness, the local Wurundjeri people slaughtered and infected with disease. Children. Lots of children. The bones of nine thousand people crumbling in the clay.
Henry was watching him, a robust-looking cauliflower cradled in his hands. No new additions to the wicker basket. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That we’re standing on a graveyard. You going to buy that or did we come here for two potatoes?’
Henry examined the cauliflower, didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘Are you having suicidal thoughts?’
‘No.’
The therapist turned the cauliflower over to study its underside. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You think it might have slipped my mind?’
‘How would you describe your emotional state?’
Bereft, rudderless, empty. ‘Angry.’
‘With Frankie?’
‘Yes.’
‘With yourself?’
‘No, I’m great. I made all the right decisions, and everything turned out fine.’
Henry lowered the cauliflower. Direct eye contact now, no waver to his focus. ‘A lot of people did terrible things – Frankie, the hacker, Tilda’s mother. Do you blame yourself for their decisions?’
Back to this again. Asking for this session had been a mistake; he was too tired to cope with Henry gnawing at his brain. Should have just stayed in the office, buried in mindless paperwork.
The therapist was opening his mouth to take another bite.
No. Couldn’t do it right now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told Henry. ‘I have to go.’
He went down the aisle towards the street. People jostling and talking, stuffing their baskets with produce. At the kerb, a swirling pool of grey water where the gutter had flooded its concrete banks; a dank scent, the rubbish and ruin of the city flowing out to sea. He stood for a moment, then stepped into it and headed across the road.
Epilogue
The marquee was in the alley behind Alberto’s. Bigger than Caleb expected, with steepled ceilings and white canvas walls. Flowers and fairy lights, gas heaters warming the air. Only the umbrellas and puddles of water by the entrance hinted at the squalling rain outside. Nick was by the kitchen door, looking his way. Caleb ignored him and escorted Kat through the crowd towards an empty table, grateful he’d left his aids at home. A five-piece band was poun
ding out a dance beat on the raised wooden floor, amplifiers turned to full. People were already up and moving, most of them barefoot.
Kat stuck in foam earplugs as soon as she sat down: orange to match her headscarf. She was a flash of brightness in a flowing red skirt and slinky top. No more hiding the high mound of her stomach now, at twenty-three weeks.
‘I like the outfit,’ he told her.
‘Wait till you see me dance in it.’
‘You’re going to dance?’ Kat dancing was a gift – free and joyous, with the disco moves of a bad seventies movie.
‘You are, too. And don’t pretend your leg’s too sore, I know you’re back running every day.’ A gentle nudge: telling him she knew he’d slipped into obsessive behaviour. That he should make another appointment with Henry. That his forced smiles didn’t fool her.
She was waving at someone behind him. Alberto was winding his way towards them, back to his usual darting walk; no sign of the bruises that had disfigured his face a few weeks ago. ‘My dear,’ he told her, ‘you look delightful.’
A hug and a kiss for Kat, a hug for Caleb. Not quite a return to his usual rib-cracking enthusiasm, but getting there. Alberto had accepted Caleb’s apology graciously, seemed to believe the story he’d spun about Jimmy Puttnam targeting the business due to mistaken identity. Hopefully he’d never discover the truth.
‘I’m glad you came,’ Alberto told him. ‘We wouldn’t have made it without you.’
‘No more problems?’
‘No.’
There shouldn’t be: Lovelay had agreed to pay off Puttnam without too much persuasion. Maybe because he’d wanted to help save another family and its wayward son; maybe because Caleb had promised never to mention the judge’s name to the police.
Alberto gave Kat a little bow. ‘Dance with me?’
‘Of course.’ She stood, shooting Caleb a look. ‘You’re up next, Travolta.’
Caleb watched them go, then headed for Nick. Might as well get it over with; Nick had been trying to talk to him ever since he’d told the teenager that he’d fixed things. He caught the boy’s eye and went out into the chill night air, Nick following. Tarpaulins had been strung between the kitchen and marquee to protect the waiters ferrying trays. Water pooled on the rubber mats and formed slow drips overhead. Caleb shivered as a splash ran down his neck.
Nick’s head bobbed nervously. ‘I wanted to thank you. For, you know, what you did. We would’ve been stuffed without you.’
‘I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Alberto. But there’s no more money where that came from. You get into debt again, you’re on your own.’
‘It wasn’t like that. Wasn’t my fault.’
Just like Frankie, blaming everyone else for his problems. No point arguing; people didn’t change. Caleb turned towards the marquee, and Nick grabbed his arm. His mouth was trembling. ‘It’s true. It was Dad’s debt. That guy, Jimmy came to the house when Mum was out, said we had to pay now he’d skipped town. He knew all about us. Had it all written down so I’d understand.’ His eyes and nose were running; he scrubbed them with a sleeve. ‘He said he’d hurt Mum and Grandad. Showed me this video of him bashing, whipping people. Said he’d do it to them.’
It had the ragged feeling of truth. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell someone?’
‘I couldn’t tell Mum. I just couldn’t.’
‘Then Alberto. He would have helped.’
‘He would’ve sold the business. It would’ve killed him.’
Maybe, but there was more to Nick’s hesitation. The poor, scared, stupid kid.
‘You didn’t want Alberto to know about your father.’
‘Dad didn’t mean to get us in trouble.’
As if someone you loved wouldn’t hurt you, wouldn’t rip out your heart. Destroy you.
‘Your father’s weak, but you’re not. Don’t be dragged down by him.’
He left Nick shivering in the walkway and returned to the warmth of the marquee. People signing and dancing, ferrying plates of food and drink, the amplifiers thumping out a Latin rhythm. Alberto had disappeared, but Kat was in the middle of the dance floor, barefoot and flushed, skirt swirling in colourful spirals. He kicked off his shoes and went to her.
A bright smile as she saw him, eyes shining. She flung her arms around his neck, faltered slightly at the stiffness in his shoulders. He clasped her to him and spun her around. Arms wrapped tight, moving with her, the music pulsing through him. Trying not to think about what he’d lost and what he might lose. Just clinging to the moment. Trying to breathe.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Medina Sumovic for her insight into Deaf culture and watchful eye on my Auslan. To pedantic ghoul Kate Goldsworthy, whose editorial insight made all the difference to me and the book. The Echo team, in particular publisher extraordinaire Angela Meyer for her ongoing support. Janette Currie whose talks of books and darkness spurred me on, and Sandy Cull for the beautiful cover design. Simon Dale and Marcus Viskich for their IT advice, and The Hot Milkers for their writerly chats and laughs. I’m grateful to the Australia Council for giving me the much-needed time to write. And above all to Campbell, Meg and Leni for their patience, love and support; I owe you all a holiday.
Emma Viskic is author of the critically acclaimed Caleb Zelic series. Resurrection Bay won the 2016 Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction, as well as an unprecedented three Davitt Awards: Best Adult Novel, Best Debut, and Readers' Choice. It was iBooks Australia's Crime Novel of the Year and was shortlisted for the UK Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger and New Blood awards. Its sequel, And Fire Came Down, won the 2018 Davitt Award for Best Novel. Also a classically trained clarinettist, Emma studied at the Victorian College of the Arts and the Rotterdam Conservatorium. Her musical career ranged from performing with José Carreras and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, to playing at an engagement party that ended in a brawl.
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Copyright © Emma Viskic, 2019
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First published 2019
This ebook edition published 2019
Cover design by Sandy Cull
Page design, typesetting and ebook creation by Shaun Jury
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia
ISBN: 9781760685812 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781760686161 (ebook)
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