The Third Deal

 

COME IN SPINNER

T HE FIRST BIT OF BAD NEWS CAME AS HANNIE WAS about to leave her house and pick up Jezza to finalize the equipment hire. The phone rang and Hannie, caught in the middle of inching her way into a tight denim jacket, decided to leave it for the answering machine. The voice was slow and soft and unfamiliar. So sorry, it said. My name is Sorrell Bagg. Elizabeth is my mother. She’s in hospital. Hit by a ute. Won’t be able to do the interview thing. So sorry.

Hannie picked up the receiver, but the voice had gone, leaving only the screech of feedback on the line. She put the phone back on its cradle and tried to place the name, but she didn’t know anyone called Sorrell or Elizabeth. She pressed the Replay button. The message rewound then played again and this time Hannie understood the importance of the soft words: Betty Bagg was the Kangaroo Lady and she had been hit by a ute. She could not do the film.

Hannie stared at the machine. Not only was Regina missing, but now the Kangaroo Lady was out of action. Shit, Hannie thought, just what she needed. Then she remembered that Betty was actually hurt and in hospital and added a quick guilty wish for her quick recovery. She’d send flowers too, she decided. But guilt and sorrow didn’t change the fact that one of her documentary’s main subjects was in hospital and another was nowhere to be found. It could be enough for the IFF to pull her project. If they found out.

Hannie weighed up whether she should tell Mosson the bad news. Over the last three weeks he’d been the perfect collaborator—fixing the budget, brainstorming ideas, smoothing the way with the IFF. She pictured Mosson’s face and felt a drag of regret. It would have been nice to have shared the worry, but where did his loyalties really lie? No, she’d keep quiet for a week or so; maybe she’d find Regina or come up with an alternative. She picked up her keys and bag from the hallway table and opened the front door.

The drive from Jezza’s flat in Richmond to Condo Spinner’s showroom in South Melbourne was strangely tense. Jezza sat hunched in the passenger seat, her large hands tight around the straps of her backpack. Hannie told her about Dr. Lomas and Dudley, but knew something was definitely wrong when Jezza didn’t react to the news that the Kangaroo Lady was in hospital and Regina Wilcox was missing.

“Are you okay?” Hannie finally asked.

“I’m fine,” Jezza said, but her shoulders hunched even higher.

Hannie turned left into Clarendon Street and glanced at her friend, trying to gauge if she should press her or leave her alone. It was hard to know with Jezza. Her long-legged height and broad strength made her seem invulnerable, and she had a curious self-containment that Hannie fancied was a defense against always being noticed. Hannie remembered the last time she had felt this closed heavy silence in Jezza. It was about six years ago, when Jezza’s father died. Even then Jezza had taken on the pragmatic weight of grief; holding her shivering mother, organizing the funeral, understanding the intricacies of taxable death. Then one afternoon, as Jezza sorted her father’s shoes for charity, Hannie had gently pushed against the stoic exterior.

“It must be really hard to pack up his stuff,” she’d said.

Jezza had paused, holding an old dark brown sandal. The leather was stiffened and cracked by long-ago seawater.

“Dad used these to walk on the coral up at Hayman Island, before it got posh,” she said. She slid her hand into the shoe, holding it up so that the sole showed. “Look at this.” She bent the sole back and myriad cuts opened up, flashing bright tan. “He got coral poisoning once. His legs swelled up and everything.” She flexed the sandal again. “I think I want to do this alone, okay?”

It was the first of many dismissals that Hannie had received from Jezza throughout their seven-year friendship. Hannie had slowly learned not to take it too personally; Jezza was just not into sharing every emotion or thought that she experienced. It’s all too bloody American, she’d once said after a job call with another spotlight operator, who had told her every twist and turn of a recent relationship. As if I wanted to know her ex wouldn’t give her head, Jezza said. Hannie had nodded, but knew that if she had been listening to a story of bad sex and doomed lovers, she would have been riveted by the glimpse into another person’s life.

Hannie stopped at a red light on the intersection of Clarendon and Park streets and saw the orange and black roof sign Come In Spinner Film and Video Hire. Whatever was bothering Jezza would have to wait until they had finished dealing with Condo Spinner.

“We’re here. Keep an eye out for a park,” Hannie said. But Jezza had shut her eyes and was taking deep, labored breaths, her hand pressed into her chest.

“Christ, what’s wrong? You look awful.” Hannie pulled the car over to the side of the road, ignoring the enraged beeping behind her. She touched Jezza’s arm.

“No, no, I’m fine. I just feel a bit dizzy.” Jezza rubbed her chest and smiled. “See, it’s gone already. I’m fine.” She pointed to a car pulling out of a space halfway up the block. “Look, there’s a spot.”

Hannie searched Jezza’s face. She was still pale, but the blood had returned to her lips and her breathing was back to normal.

“Do you want to stay in the car while I see Condo?” Hannie asked. “It shouldn’t take too long. Or maybe I should just take you home.”

Jezza hesitated then straightened her shoulders. “No, we’re here now. I’ll come in with you.”

Condo Spinner’s showroom was on the second floor of a narrow concrete office building that was jammed between an Indian restaurant and a hair salon. There were no windows in the smooth gray frontage, only a locked steel door and an elaborate security intercom. Hannie pressed the second button, labeled Come In Spinner.

“Yeah?” Condo’s voice was thin and broken through the intercom speaker.

Hannie leaned down to the microphone. “Condo? It’s Hannie Reynard. I’m here with my deposit.”

Jezza lunged towards the intercom, bumping Hannie against the steel door.

“And Jezza,” she said, her mouth up against the plastic. “I’m here too. Hi.”

The intercom was silent. Hannie rubbed her elbow.

“What—” she began, but Jezza shook her head, stopping the question with a tense hand.

The intercom crackled. “Come on up.” The door buzzed and clicked open.

Condo was waiting for them in the doorway of his showroom. Although she had known him for five years, Hannie was always struck by Condo’s beauty. And his smallness. He was, she thought, like one of those Pomeranian dogs; scaled down to a gorgeous, perfectly proportioned miniature. He had the same kind of thick golden hair that fluffed around his face and although he had to tilt his head to look up at everyone, he still managed to look supercilious.

“How are you doing, Condo?” Hannie said.

He nodded and his amber eyes slid from Hannie to Jezza then back again.

“Hi,” Jezza said brightly.

“You’re here to pick up, right?” he said to Hannie, ushering her through the door.

Hannie looked back to see Jezza still out on the landing. She had never seen her friend look so diminished. Did Jezza have some kind of crush on Condo? An image flashed into Hannie’s mind of Jezza and Condo hugging, Jezza’s large breasts resting on the top of Condo’s head. Hannie stifled a smile. She preferred tall men, like Mosson. Not that she would ever fancy Mosson, she thought, and quickly concentrated on the showroom.

The huge open space was half office, half warehouse. Ranks of metal shelving stacked with silver road cases and loose equipment stretched across the street end of the room. At the other end, a young woman sucking on a Chupa Chup worked at a desk under a long window that provided light and a view of a car park. The two areas were separated in the center by a pair of curved red couches that faced each other across a glass coffee table, their out-of-place elegance bounded by a red and gray rug on the wooden floor. Condo gestured for Hannie and Jezza to sit down. Hannie chose the far couch then had to shift along it quickly as Jezza dropped next to her, sitting so close that their thighs touched. Hannie tried to slide apart, but Jezza followed.

“Have you met my assistant, Tori?” Condo asked. He waved in the direction of the woman at the desk who looked up from her computer and smiled, the Chupa Chup stick flicking upwards. She was cute in that young, unformed kind of way, Hannie thought and smiled back. Beside her, Jezza stiffened slightly.

Condo sat opposite them and leafed through a folder marked Bookings. “Okay, here it is.” He ran his finger down the columns. “You owe me a ten percent deposit for a Digital Betacam kit, lighting kit, standard audio with boom and brace, and a nine-inch field monitor. Right?”

He looked up at Hannie.

“Right,” she said. “Except I’ve just found out that our schedule has been totally wrecked. One of the talents got hit by a car and is in hospital. I still want the same equipment, but I’m going to have to change the dates, Sorry.”

“You’re supposed to give me twenty-four hours’ notice,” he said, frowning. “I should really charge you a cancellation fee. But I’ll let it go this time. When do you want it for? I’ve only got three of these DBCs and they’re out most of the time.”

Hannie tapped her knee. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jezza staring at Condo. It was the fixed stare of a dog looking at a lamb shank. Even Hannie could feel it pressing against Condo. “Have you got one for next week?” she asked. “Starting the twelfth?” That would give her a week to work something out, but still stay within the schedule.

Condo looked across at his assistant. “Tori, check the DBC bookings for the twelfth. Are they all out?”

The girl tapped some keys and studied the screen. She pulled the lollipop out of her mouth and said, “Number two is coming back on the twelfth.”

“Okay, thanks, sweetheart,” Condo said. He turned back to Hannie, his eyes skipping over Jezza. “You’re lucky. Want me to book that same order in for the week of the twelfth?”

“That would be great. I’ll give you the deposit now,” Hannie said.

“Do we still get a discount?” Jezza asked abruptly.

“Yeah. Five percent.” Condo’s eyes didn’t move from Hannie.

“Thanks. That’s a real help,” Hannie said, trying to cover the awkward moment.

She opened her purse and handed Condo a check. The equipment and crew hire were going to take up a fair chunk of the remaining grant money. Hannie hoped what was left would last the distance. Last week, Mosson had taken a look at the books and helped her revise the budget. She smiled, remembering Mosson’s ironic approval of her accounts. “Very neat,” he’d said. “No wonder that thirty-thousand-dollar discrepancy stuck out like dogs’ balls.”

“I’ll get you a receipt,” Condo said. He walked over to the desk.

Jezza leaned even closer to Hannie. “Do you think he’s on with his assistant?” she whispered.

“What?”

“She’s awfully young, isn’t she?” Jezza sat back as Condo turned around.

“Okay, so we’ll see you next Monday for pickup,” Condo said, passing Hannie the receipt. “The DBC should be in by around 4 P.M.”

Behind him, the girl answered the phone in a singsong voice. Hannie pushed herself up from the couch and shook Condo’s hand. Jezza stood up too, her hand outstretched, but Condo was already moving towards his assistant.

“It’s the bank,” she said, holding out the phone.

“Sorry, I’ve really got to take this call,” Condo said to the air beside Jezza.

Hannie pulled Jezza’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Jezza nodded, still looking at Condo’s back.

They walked in silence down the steep narrow stairs and out into the street. Hannie knew she had not left herself much time to solve the first shoot problem. Her third freak, the Human Slug, lived in Sydney, but was on holiday overseas and couldn’t do the interview for four weeks. According to the new schedule, Hannie was supposed to wrap Regina and the Kangaroo Lady before going to Sydney, so she could go straight into post-production when she got back. Now it was all fucked up and it was her responsibility to get it back on track. But what do you do when your brilliant idea is screwed by circumstance? Come up with another brilliant idea, Hannie told herself. Work around it. Unfortunately, nothing was coming to mind. Hannie decided to focus on something else and hope that her subconscious would come up with a stunning bit of inspiration that didn’t blow the schedule or the budget.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” she asked, turning her back against the cold wind. She wanted to ask Jezza what was going on between her and Condo, but was stopped by the stony resignation on Jezza’s face.

“No. I want to go home,” Jezza said. Hannie nodded. It seemed like the best thing to do.

The car had been parked in a patch of weak sunlight and the air inside was warm and thick, easing Hannie’s chilled skin and bringing on a deep, relaxing yawn. She slid the key into the ignition and adjusted the rear-vision mirror. Beside her, Jezza bent over her seat belt, scraping metal against metal as she tried to lock it into place. She finally smashed the buckle against the lock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she yelled. “Fucking useless fucking thing.”

She drew a deep shuddering breath then keened, an age-old sound of abandonment that made Hannie’s shoulders lock. She recognized that cry; it was the same sound she had made night after night when Sigmy had left. Hannie knew the only thing she could do was pull Jezza against her chest and wrap her arms tightly around the broad, shaking shoulders.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” she said, her hand rubbing a large circle on Jezza’s back. But she knew it wasn’t all right. “What did Condo do? Tell me. What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Jezza sobbed. Hannie stroked her friend’s short blond hair and waited for the truth to wash out with the tears.

Jezza finally pulled away.

“We had a one night stand,” she said.

Hannie nodded.

“And I’m pregnant.”

THE SPIRIT OF THE SAMURAI

I ROLL OUT OF THE BED AND INTO A CROUCH, GRABBING the Browning off the floor. The motel room is dark, the shadowy terrain of the furniture already mapped. Sweat chills the small of my back. I hear a door closing in the nearby office, a murmur of voices in the car park. The once faint ammonia of the bathroom cleaner is suddenly overpowering. I see no one. Hear no one. Smell no one.

There is no one.

I slowly rise, scanning the room. The wedges I’ve pushed into the top and bottom of the door frame are still in place. What woke me? I walk over to the en suite bathroom and press myself against the outer wall to listen. Nothing. I slam the door against the bath and cover the recessed toilet. Nothing. I lower the gun and flick on the light, squinting as the brightness bounces off the white-tiled walls. My razor has slid off the soap rest into the basin. Was that it? Did that wake me? I pick it up and place it back on the rest, then push it over the edge with my finger. It slides down the porcelain, the sound like a Hollywood knife being drawn out of its sheath.

I look at myself in the broad mirror. There is something ridiculous about holding a gun when you’re naked. Especially when your hair is standing up on end and your cock is at half-mast. I walk out of the bathroom and turn on the main light: 3:27 A.M. Four hours’ sleep. Better than last night. It seemed like I had the shakes for hours—ended up sitting in a hot bath with a bottle of bourbon. It was a real struggle to keep driving today. The Hume is so fucking boring; yellow paddock followed by brown paddock, followed by yellow-brown paddock.

At least the shakes aren’t coming straight after each job. I got six hours’ grace with Carousel, eight hours with Lily, the first pregnant one, only four with Rani in Perth, and yesterday I got fourteen hours. I needed it; Stella was very pregnant and I had to be out of Victoria before she was found. I can’t find any connection between these women. No pattern that might explain the contract. Not all of them are pregnant, they don’t seem to know one another, they haven’t worked for the same company, they’re not the same age. They’re not even the same race. The only common thing between them is that they’re women. If I haven’t cracked who’s behind it all by the time I head back to Melbourne for the last job—for Regina—I may need to work the problem from the target end. Maybe meet Regina “accidentally” and have a chat about old times over a drink or two. See if she knows anything that might help me trace the jobs back to their source. It wouldn’t be my best moment, but then again, it wouldn’t be my worst.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the bottle of bourbon on the side table. I must have drunk half of it last night, trying to burn away the shakes. Probably why it was so hard to drive today. I take a mouthful and put the bottle back on the table, next to Hong’s samurai hilt. Still, I’ve made good time—already halfway to Sydney. I lean down and push the Browning back under the bed, grip facing outwards. In fact, I’m making good time all round. Four jobs completed in eight weeks. If I keep going at this pace, it will be a new Carmichael record. Maybe even a new record all round. I’ll be back on top. Number one.

I swing my legs back onto the bed and push myself up against the pillows. As far as I know, Roosie, Tanloe, and the Tapdancer have never taken on a job this big in such a tight time frame. Pauley Barker, on the other hand, did the Market jobs last year. All six of them were torture-and-kills—right up Pauley’s alley. It takes a special kind of bastard to pour acid into someone’s eyes and up their arse before killing them. Makes you wonder how he got the acid up their arses. Did he have them hanging upside down? Whatever way he did it, the Market contract was only six targets. Not seven.

Tomorrow I’ll phone Sylvie and tell her I’ll be getting into Sydney at about eight o’clock. She’ll ask me to stay; she always does. Her flat will be a good base for the next job, in Glebe. Then I go bush for number six. But before I do any of that, I’ve got to find Teo and hear what he’s got to say about the Triads. My guess is that it will be a dead end, which means I’ll have to follow up on the Jap connection. It’s not going to be easy. Most of my dealings have been with Triad and Mafia; Yakuza is unknown territory. About fifteen years ago Hong taught me the proper way to approach a Yakuza soldier, but I’m not sure if I can remember the whole drill. I swing my legs back down to the floor and stand up.

It was in another hotel room. In Singapore, I think. Hong had walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips and his hair hanging down his back in long wet tails. He would have been about forty-five then, but he still had good muscle definition. He switched the kettle on and chose a tea bag out of the complementary basket. I was sitting by the window, having a very expensive beer, courtesy of the mini-bar.

“Imagine I was Yakuza,” he said, suddenly swinging around. “You want information. How are you going to approach me?”

I took another swig of beer. Hong was always doing this—setting up a situation, teaching me how to handle it. Sometimes I was in the mood for it. Sometimes I wasn’t.

“I don’t know. Grab you by the balls and twist it out of you?”

“My friend, you would not even get close to my Yakuza balls,” he said, ripping open the little green tea envelope. “No, you’ve got to understand how the Yakuza work and then play it by their rules.” He placed a cup on a saucer and dropped the tea bag into it, pulling the tag out to dangle over the edge.

“Come on, stand up.” He took the beer out of my hand and waved me up out of the chair.

“Three things to remember,” he said. “First, the Japs live by duty and obligation. Everything runs on the favor system.” The kettle whistled. He turned around, flicked off the switch, and poured the water into the cup. “Second,” he continued, “they operate in a strict hierarchy. If the boss man above them says jump, they jump. No questions asked. And third, they will not, under any circumstance, say no. The closest they’ll get is a maybe.”

“Why won’t they say no?”

Hong peered into the cup and frowned. “I think this tea bag’s a bit old.” He looked at me again. “The easy answer is that it’s impolite. But the real reason?” He shook his head. “My theory is that it’s because the Japs put the group above everything, not the individual, like Westerners. Agreement and harmony is everything. In fact, the Japs don’t think there is a set reality out there.” He waved his hand around the room. “Instead, they have this thing called tateme, which roughly translates to an agreed version of reality.”

“Don’t Westerners basically agree on a reality too?” I said. Ten years of listening to Hong crap on about philosophy had taught me a few things.

He laughed. “Maybe. But we’re still hanging on to the idea of the logical objective reality too. It’s called science.” He pulled the tea bag out of the cup and dropped it into the bin. “The difference with the Japs is that logic never comes into it. It’s all about agreement. So, saying no becomes a threat to reality.”

“Sounds like they’d be hell to do business with,” I said.

“You’re not kidding, and Yakuza are the worst. The first thing you’ve got to do is find one of the buggers. Your best bet is a bathhouse. A Jap one, if possible, but if there isn’t one around, then you’ll probably find them in one of those Turkish places. Second, find the guy with the tatts everywhere. You know the look; arms, back, torso, but done so a suit will cover everything. Third, try and get him on his own.”

He suddenly pulled his towel off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I said, stepping back.

“You’re in a bathhouse. No one’s going to be wearing clothes. Just keep your eyes up. Now, you’ve got to do the introduction stance.”

He stepped forward so that his legs were about shoulder-width apart and his body was angled towards me. I tried to keep my eyes at a safe level, but it was hard to ignore his tackle just swinging there in the breeze. He bent his knees and placed his far hand on his knee, extending the other hand towards me. It looked a bit like a shallow side-on sumo stance. He looked me in the eye and nodded once.

“Okay, you do it,” he said, breaking the posture. “And for chrissakes, keep your eyes up or he’ll gut you.”

I slowly followed Hong’s instructions, stepping forward, bending down, and holding out my hand. Hong kicked my feet a bit further apart and pushed me down a bit lower.

“Okay, and remember to look him in the eye and nod once,” he said.

I nodded.

“No, just once,” Hong said, squatting down into the stance opposite me again. “Okay, the Jap is going to be a bit startled to see a gaijin doing this, but if he’s open to contact, then he will get into the stance too. And since you’ve initiated, you get to talk first. Introduce yourself like this: ‘I am Carmichael, a free agent. May we talk?’”

I repeated the words.

“Then he’s going to give his last name, his first name, and the name of the house that he serves. And he’s probably going to ask you who you serve.”

“Who I serve? Didn’t I just tell him I’m a free agent?”

“Well, he’s probably a free agent too. But he’ll either have taken an oath to serve a family or be currently employed by one.”

“So, what do I say?”

“Tell him that you serve many masters.”

“And then what?”

“Break the stance and do business.” Hong straightened up, flicking his wet hair back over his shoulder. He picked up the towel and wrapped it around his middle again. “Just remember that their world revolves around favors. You’ve got to have something to offer them.”

“Information,” I said, nodding.

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, it’s not going to be your skinny arse.” He pushed me back, laughing. I grabbed his forearm and pulled him with me onto the thick carpet, rolling on top of him with my knees pinning his shoulders and my forearm against his windpipe.

“Very funny,” he whispered. “Now fuck off. I want my tea.”

I pick up the bourbon bottle and take a mouthful, looking at my naked body in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. Fifteen years haven’t made too much of a mark. A bit heavier all over and muscle tone not as good, but not much of a gut and I’ve still got most of my hair—there’s a lot of gray and a bit more forehead, but it’s still there. It’s the face that looks totally fucked. I rub my hand over my eyes. It’s probably because I haven’t slept much lately. And these motel lights are fucking ruthless.

I take one more mouthful of bourbon then screw the cap back on. Enough for tonight. I slide the bottle back onto the table, catching the edge of the tsuba. I pick up the solid iron disc and let the weight settle in my palm. Maybe a Jap antique will help me get into a Yakuza frame of mind. The spirit of the samurai and all that kind of crap. I stroke my thumb across the embossed gold and iron rabbits. Hong said they were symbols of protection and immortality. Maybe he should have kept it. He could have done with a bit more protection. I face the mirror and step one leg back, bending my knees. Far hand on thigh, other hand outstretched, the hilt heavy on my palm. I nod once, eyes up. I just hope I’ve remembered the whole thing. Otherwise, it could get very messy.

LIKE A LITTLE GALAXY

M OSSON LEANED FORWARD ON THE SOFA, PRETENDING to study his laptop computer as he raked his foot along the carpet under the coffee table. He was pretty sure he’d left his old Speedos there last night. Had Hannie seen them? He glanced at her sitting cross-legged on the carpet, reading an article from Dr. Lomas. It wasn’t only the bathers. His dirty breakfast dishes were in the sink in the kitchen too. He was probably being a bit fussy, but in an open-plan apartment with minimalist white walls and black furniture, even a fallen petal from a vase looked messy. His foot snagged the Lycra cloth. He dragged them out with his toe then pushed them under the sofa with a casually dropped hand.

“According to the Web,” he said, “PMS refers to a million pre-menstrual syndrome treatments, a cyber game called Psycho Men Slayers, or a company selling plant mulch. None of them sounds like an underground organization.”

Hannie shuffled on her knees to the coffee table and read the computer screen.

“What about this ParaMilitary Society? That sounds more likely,” she said, pointing to the grab line. “Listen to this—We believe in freedom and justice for all man- and womankind. We believe in meeting violence and violation with maximum…click for more information.”

Mosson shook his head. “A group of morons arguing about which submachine gun is best for pig hunting.”

“Lovely.” Hannie pressed Page Up. “How about the writing-on-the-footpath stuff. Hasn’t any of that come up?” she asked.

“Only the articles you’ve already got from the papers.”

“So, a big fat zero.” She sat back on her heels.

Mosson frowned at the screen, attracted to a sudden flash of clear space on the search list. The letters PMS without any grab line. Unusual. He activated the link. The screen cleared, flashed up an error URL, cleared, then went black.

“That’s weird,” he said. “I just clicked on a link that said ‘PMS’—nothing else—and—”

He stopped, transfixed by a small rectangle of white with a pulsing cursor that had appeared in the center of the black expanse.

“What is it?” Hannie asked, leaning her elbows on the coffee table.

“It looks like a password log-in,” he said.

“Maybe it’s some way of contacting the PMS,” Hannie said. “We should try to—”

Mosson shook his head. “Without the password, we haven’t got a chance. It could be anything.”

Hannie stared at the computer screen, riding a sudden swell of irritation. Why was he being so negative? Or was she just oversensitive from the cortisone?

“We can at least give it a try,” she said, readying her fingers on the keyboard. “What kind of password would a secret organization have?” She typed in PMS, then hit the Enter key. It was was probably too obvious, but maybe they were double-thinking. A red message flashed up on the black screen: Incorrect Password. The white rectangle and cursor reappeared. The same thing happened for the words underground, hide, smuggle, help, and hello.

“See, I told you,” Mosson said. “There are millions of possible passwords in the world. It could be a word, or a string of numbers, or both. For all we know, it could be a nonsense word or in another language.” He stood up. “The fact is, we don’t even know if the PMS exists. It’s probably just one of Dudley’s lies. Mrs. Tricorn said he lies all the time.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hannie said, but she quickly typed refugee in the rectangle and hit the Enter key. Just in case her luck changed. Incorrect Password flashed on the screen. She burrowed her hand through her thick hair and rubbed the back of her neck.

“You look exhausted,” Mosson said. “How about we have something to eat? It’s way past my dinnertime.”

“Yeah. Let’s get some takeaway or something.”

“I don’t mind cooking if you don’t mind a bit of mix and match,” Mosson said. He walked into the galley kitchen and pulled open the fridge door. “How about miso soup followed by…” He picked up a package and weighed it in his hand. “Pesto linguini?”

“Sounds good. Are you sure you want to cook?”

“Positive.”

Hannie turned back to the screen and stared at it, her eyes unfocused. Mosson was right, she was exhausted. She had spent the previous night at Jezza’s, watching her friend roam around the tiny three-room flat. Hannie had sat on the brown vinyl couch and listened to Jezza talk; about Condo and their night together, about the pregnancy tests turning blue, about having no money. “I’m Catholic,” Jezza had said over and over again. “I can’t have an abortion.” “Then have the baby,” Hannie said. And for a minute Jezza dreamed the possibilities out loud; “Other women have had kids by themselves, I could do it too, there’s plenty of time to work hard and save money; I’m thirty-seven, this could be my last chance, I may never meet the right guy.” Then she stopped talking, the impossibilities just as loud in the silence. Hannie held out her hands and Jezza sat down beside her, curling her strong pregnant body into Hannie’s arms.

“Do you like tofu?” Mosson asked. He unhooked the medium saucepan from the rack on the wall and put it under the tap in the sink, half filling it with cold water. “If you don’t, I won’t put it in the soup.”

He watched Hannie stand and stretch, her top riding up and exposing a strip of smooth pale stomach. “No, I like it,” she said.

Mosson nodded, averting his eyes from her skin. She walked over to the kitchen counter that faced into the living room and hoisted herself onto a bar stool. Mosson put the saucepan on the stove and lit the gas burner. He ripped the top off the new packet of dried kombu with his teeth then pulled out two long pieces of the seaweed and placed them in the saucepan.

“Do you make your miso from scratch?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the stainless-steel counter. “I cheat. I use those little packets.”

“Well, it doesn’t take too long to make dashi, the basic stock,” he said. “I think it tastes better.” He turned back to the stove, suddenly aware of another time, when his mother had sat opposite him at the counter and asked the same thing. She’d lit a cigarette and said, “Why do you bother making dashi when the packet stuff is so good? No one I know makes it themselves anymore—not even Aunt Momi.” She’d punctuated her point with a shake of the slim gold lighter that had been a birthday present from Mosson’s father, the bones in her hand stark under the frail skin.

“I hope I’m not being stupid, but are you Japanese?” Hannie asked.

“Half Japanese, half Australian,” Mosson said. “My mum was Japanese.” He sealed the top of the kombu packet with a tiny bulldog clip. “She died last year.”

Hannie looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“Cancer. It took three years to kill her.”

“That’s awful.”

Mosson nodded and turned around to the stove, fighting against the tightening in his chest. It had been a year, for chrissakes. Time to get over it. Time to stop blurting it out to anyone who would listen. He adjusted the gas knob until the water was simmering, reluctant to meet Hannie’s awkward silence.

“I haven’t lost anyone really close to me,” she finally said. “I don’t know how it must feel. Just thinking about it scares me.”

He turned and faced her. She was frowning slightly, her hand wrapped in her hair again.

“You’re right to be scared,” he said. “I thought losing my dad was bad enough, but when my mum died too…” He shook his head. “One minute you’ve got parents and then, wham,” he brought his hands together and Hannie flinched, “you’re suddenly no longer the son or the daughter. You’re the older generation. You’re supposed to keep the history going, you’re supposed to…” He stopped. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

“You’re supposed to be the parent,” Hannie said.

They looked at each other.

“Well, I’m failing miserably on that count,” Mosson said.

Once, he’d nearly been a dad. Six years ago, with his girlfriend Paisley. He thought they had been happy, but out of the blue she’d called him at the office. “I’ve changed my mind,” she’d said. “I’m not going to have it. I’m at the clinic now.” Mosson had stared at the photo of her on his desk—taken on the Williamstown Ferry, her long black hair wild and her face half-turned away. “But we agreed,” he’d said. “We’ll get married. Everything will be okay.” All she could say was, “Sorry.” And “Good-bye.” He had put down the phone and felt the soft wet buds of his jubilation shrivel under a blaze of anger.

Six years. His kid would have been at school now.

He pulled the saucepan off the stove and spooned out the two pieces of seaweed, dropping them into the sink.

“I don’t think I even want kids,” Hannie said.

He unclipped another packet and scooped out a handful of transparent beige flakes, dumping them into the saucepan. “Why not?”

The sharp saltiness of dried fish spiked the air.

“I really want a career in filmmaking,” Hannie said. “I’ve got a ten-year plan worked out, if I can keep on getting the funding.”

“And if you stop blowing it,” Mosson said, smiling.

“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” Hannie said, but she met his smile. “I know a film career doesn’t mean I can’t have a kid too, but the reality is that it sets you back. One study says as much as six years. And I don’t know if I could do both.”

She watched Mosson stir the flakes into the seaweed stock, the thick muscle in his forearm moving under the smooth tanned skin. There was one thing she did know for certain—she’d never want to have a baby alone. Not when she couldn’t trust her body to be strong. The doctors said Crohn’s disease didn’t affect a pregnancy. But what if she got an attack straight afterwards? What if she passed it on to her kid? They didn’t even know what caused Crohn’s—it could be hereditary.

“I really wanted a career in film too,” Mosson said. “Cinematography.” He put the saucepan back onto the heat. “But I got sidetracked by a good paycheck—seduced by the dark side.” They both started to hum, “The Imperial March” from Star Wars and laughed at the synchronicity.

Mosson shifted around the packets of seaweed and bonito flakes. “That’s why I’ve kind of muscled in on your film,” he said. “It’s too late for me to start at the beginning again. I just want to see if I have the old fire.”

Hannie stared at him. Was this an apology of sorts?

“And do you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Wait till I’m behind a camera again. Then maybe I’ll be able to tell you.”

He said it lightly, but Hannie sensed the longing and insecurity behind the words. Was this the time to tell him about the application tape? Clear the way between them? It would be such a relief to confess. No, she couldn’t risk losing the fragile goodwill they had built up over the last few weeks. She’d had a brilliant idea that could save the film and she needed his full cooperation to make it work.

“This is the bit I like,” Mosson said, taking the saucepan off the heat and placing it on a wooden cutting board in front of Hannie. “You strain out all the bonito flakes then add the miso paste and it kind of swirls around like a little galaxy.”

He pulled another saucepan off the rack and placed a wire sieve over it. Hannie noticed the wide span of his long fingers, and the bright kitchen reality snapped into an image of his hands stroking her face. She pressed herself hard against the edge of the counter, the sharp pain shattering the vision.

“Can you cut up some spring onions for me?” he asked.

Hannie nodded. He handed her four spring onions and a small knife then slid another cutting board across the counter. She lined up the onions. Would Mosson agree to support the new film idea? She’d had it that morning in the shower; a sudden synthesis of images and emotions that had peaked into a surge of adrenaline. Hannie knew the concept was good. Very good. It still felt newborn and shaky, but if it was the way ahead, they would have to move quickly. She had already spent the whole afternoon sketching out a rough outline.

“Cut them really thin,” Mosson said, pouring the dashi through the sieve into the other saucepan. He opened the lid of the bin and rapped the sieve against the side until all of the bonito flakes dropped out.

Hannie finished slicing the onions and scraped them to one side of the board. Mosson seemed fairly mellow—it was probably a good time to explain the idea.

“I’ve got some bad news,” she said carefully. Mosson looked up, concerned. “The Kangaroo Woman got hit by a car. She can’t do the film.”

“That’s bad luck. She’s okay, though, isn’t she?” Mosson said. He rinsed the sieve under the tap.

“Yeah, she’s going to be fine. But it’s made me rethink things a bit,” Hannie said. She licked her lips. “I’ve been going over what Dudley and Dr. Lomas and that journo said, and I think the real story is Regina. I mean, everyone seems to be really jumpy about her and no one knows where she’s gone. I want to focus on Regina—track her down on film. Make it a kind of mystery story.”

Mosson crossed his arms. “But what about Tammi what’s-her-name, the Human Slug? The IFF has funded a film about Australian medical freaks, not a missing freak.”

“You know the film’s not really about freaks. It’s about women and the medical industry. And it still will be, but we’ll follow one woman instead of three.”

“I don’t know. It seems like a big gamble. What if there is no story? What if Regina refuses permission when we find her?”

“We still have the Human Slug if it doesn’t work out,” Hannie said. “Look, in my gut I feel this is the right way to go.” She slapped her hand against her stomach. “Haven’t you ever known deep down that something was right?”

Mosson nodded, but he knew he hardly ever followed his gut feelings. And in those rare moments that he did, it was only on small things, like the trip to his mother’s house to find his camera. Yet here was Hannie, willing to change the whole direction of her film on a gut instinct. It was a huge decision that was going to risk a lot of money and her credibility. Possibly her whole career. Was she brave or stupid? Mosson didn’t know, but he felt Hannie’s certainty grate against his own doubts. Perhaps it had been a lack of faith in his own gut instinct that had made him waste so many years checking spreadsheets. Or was it that he just didn’t have the balls to leave the security of his job and see whether his talent had been real or just adolescent enthusiasm?

“You’d have to file a project-change report to the IFF,” Mosson said. “I suppose I could put it on record as being received and approved.”

“Yes,” Hannie yelled, clapping her hands.

“Wait a minute, I haven’t agreed to it yet. To change the whole focus this late in the proceedings…it’s going to be tough. We’ll have to work really fast. I can’t delay delivery to the IFF forever,” he said. “You really think this is the way to go?”

Hannie nodded. “I really do. It’s the gut.” She laid her hand against her stomach again.

Mosson walked to the fridge and opened it. He couldn’t argue with gut instinct.

“All right, then. Let’s do it.” He picked up the block of tofu and the container of miso paste—the good, expensive stuff. “Let’s start working out what we need to do. Get some kind of schedule happening. And a new budget.” He handed Hannie the tofu. “Here, chop about half of that into little blocks.”

Mosson spooned miso paste into the saucepan and stirred, watching the tiny galaxies swirl and form then break apart again. His heart was beating hard against his chest. Why was he following this woman deeper and deeper into her fraud and deception? Was the roiling in his own gut a warning or excitement? He just didn’t know. Mosson could no longer distinguish the truth in his body; there had been too many years of carefully dampened feelings and smoothed-out responses.

He picked up the cutting board and scraped the chopped spring onions and tofu into the saucepan, placing the completed soup back onto the heat.

“It will be all right,” Hannie said. She smiled.

Mosson nodded and opened the cupboard below him. It seemed like the time to finally use the antique miso bowls that he had brought back from Japan. He had been immediately struck by the elegance of the set, each of the four bowls etched with a gold crane around the base and topped by a paper-thin lid. After much deliberation, he had decided to split the set and give two of them to his mother, but was appalled when he saw her using them every day for rice and pickles. “Why would I keep them locked away,” she’d said. “Better to have the joy of them now.”

Mosson ladled the soup into the bowls and placed one in front of Hannie.

“Miso soup, made the traditional way,” he said.

Mosson raised the bowl to his lips and watched Hannie do the same. He tasted the pale soup, its soft saltiness like licking warm skin. It felt like a toast to the future.

SOME FRAGMENT OF REGINA

T HE NEXT DAY, MOSSON DROPPED OFF A REVISED project budget to Hannie on his way to work.

“It’s going to be tight,” he told he as he stood at her front door. “We can’t afford a production manager, so you’ll have to do all the nitty-gritty organization yourself. Consider it your penance.”

Hannie crossed herself wryly and got to work.

First, she rang Mrs. Tricorn at the hostel to ask if Regina had turned up again to visit her brother.

“Not that I know aboot,” Mrs. Tricorn said briskly, making Hannie smile affectionately at the Canadian vowels. “Dudley doesn’t tell me everything, of course, but I’m sure he would have told me if Reggie had come by.”

Hannie knew it had been a long shot. Still, it was worth double-checking, just in case the missing woman had surfaced again. Sighing, she turned her attention to the other people in Regina’s life.

By late afternoon she had organized fully crewed interviews with Byron Solange on Tuesday and Dr. Lomas on the Monday after.

The doctor had been hesitant at first, but finally agreed to be interviewed when Hannie assured her they would respect her doctor-patient confidentiality, and only wanted her to talk about resorbing in a general way.

“But I must insist—yes, I must insist—that I have final approval of the interview,” the doctor stuttered over the phone. “Must be very careful. Ethics, you understand. It’s the ethics.”

“Of course,” Hannie said. “I wouldn’t want to do anything unethical.”

Byron, on the other hand, had jumped at the chance to be on film. Hannie made the mistake of giving him her mobile phone number and an invitation to call if he had any other questions. He rang her twice on Saturday afternoon, first to ask if he should wear his Saba suit, and the second time to tell her that he had done some extras work and had a great show-reel. Would she like to see it? Hannie politely listened to the detailed description of his crowd scene in a bank commercial then turned off her mobile phone for the rest of the weekend.

On Tuesday morning, Mosson arrived at Hannie’s house at 8:59 A.M. in an old blue station wagon with a sign mounted on the roof that read: Raphael’s Plastering—Call the Old Master and Get It Done Faster. Hannie stood at her front door and watched Mosson pull open the tailgate, sending up a haze of white dust.

“I swapped cars with a mate of mine,” he called. “Thought we could save a bit on van hire for the week.”

Hannie took a deep breath and reminded herself that it was her fault they couldn’t afford a van or a production manager. “Great,” she said. “We’ll pick up Jezza and Chilla then go over to South Melbourne for the gear. I was going to get it last night, but Condo gave me a call and said it wouldn’t be ready till this morning.”

The day was already getting complicated. Hannie knew the last thing Jezza wanted was to meet Condo again. Maybe they could double back and get Jezza and Chilla, the volunteer film student, after they’d got the equipment. She abandoned the idea; it would take too long and they had to be at Byron’s house for the interview by ten. Jezza would just have to tough it out. Hannie firmly visualized the day ahead: Mosson obediently following her direction, Jezza quietly organizing the lights and sound, Chilla running for sandwiches and Diet Coke. A professional film crew.

“Have you got a blanket or something?” Mosson said, brushing his hands together. “There’s a bit of plaster grit back here. We don’t want it to get in the camera.”

By 9:15 A.M., they were turning left into Victoria Parade on their way to Jezza’s flat. Mosson was having trouble with the gearshift, his embarrassment a thick wall that blocked any conversation. He seemed a bit nervous too, Hannie thought.

She unfolded her script outline and reviewed the interview questions. As usual, she’d memorized them, but told herself not to hold on to the sequence too tightly. It was important to be flexible, to follow up any interesting leads. Her favorite lecturer at college, Darko, had once told her that a good interview director should figure out the construction of the piece as the questions were being answered and filmed. It was all about listening and understanding how the narrative was being built—the chronology, the revelation, the sentiment. It was also about only having one chance. If you missed the revelation or mixed the tenses or allowed wrong information to go through, you lost your opportunity. Failed as a director. There was no going back and asking a nonprofessional to “do that again, but this time with more feeling.”

“Do you remember Darko Frond?” she asked Mosson. He had just successfully shifted into third and seemed a bit more relaxed. “He was that doco lecturer at college.”

Mosson nodded. “Sure. I see him now and then at premieres and conferences. He’s some bigwig at the ABC now. Commissions stuff, I think.”

“Really? That’s good to know. I didn’t think he’d stay long at the college.” Hannie remembered the night when Darko had kissed her in the deserted college car park. One kiss: smooth, a bit of tongue, full of instant regret. They had both stepped away and apologized, too many tutorials left in the semester. Probably the last time she had been sensible with her heart and body, Hannie thought.

She looked out of the car window and recognized the old pub on the corner. “We’re coming up to Jezza’s street,” she said. “Take the next left.”

By 9:30 A.M., Hannie, Mosson, Jezza, and Chilla were heading down Punt Road towards Condo’s showroom. Jezza was in the front passenger seat for the legroom, but twisted around to face Hannie, who was sitting behind Mosson.

“I’m not going upstairs with you,” she hissed. “The last thing I want to do is see him again. He won’t even answer my phone calls.”

“I’m not saying you have to,” Hannie hissed back. “You can stay in the car.” Jezza turned to the front again, leaving Hannie to meet the interested stare of Chilla. The girl was very pretty, Hannie decided, if you didn’t mind the nose and eyebrow rings. Mosson certainly didn’t seem to mind. He kept looking at her in the rear-vision mirror. Hannie smiled tightly.

“So, how’s college going, Chilla?”

“Okay,” Chilla said, shuffling her hand through her black cropped hair. “I’m probably more interested in features, but thanks anyway for letting me come on your shoot.”

“Right,” Hannie said. She felt a twinge of the familiar urgency in her bowel and shifted in the seat. A few days ago her doctor had dropped her dose of cortisone by half a tablet. It had been a relief to reduce the high dose, but the tiny tremors of instability had started almost immediately.

Jezza twisted around again. “Are you going to be able to get the gear down without me? I really don’t want to go up there.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hannie said. “I’ve got Mosson and Chilla to help me.”

“Actually, I’m not allowed to lift heavy things,” Chilla said. “My doctor said so.”

Hannie looked up and met Mosson’s eyes in the mirror.

“Not a problem,” Hannie said. “Can you lift sandwiches and drinks?”

“Sure,” Chilla said. “I’m good at food.”

In the end, Condo helped Hannie and Mosson carry the equipment to the car. Jezza sat rigidly in the front seat, her eyes forward as Condo stacked the tripod and monitor in the back. Condo kept his amber eyes on the equipment or on Chilla, who had set up a shallow orbit around him and was eagerly offering him a cigarette, or a mint, or a sip of her Coke. Or a fuck, Hannie thought sourly as she heaved the sound kit into the back of the car. She already felt tired. As they drove away, Jezza unbuckled her seat belt and awkwardly turned in the small space, kneeling on her seat. Ignoring Mosson’s protest, she gripped the headrest tightly and leaned over to Chilla.

“Don’t go there,” she said, her face centimeters away from the girl’s nose. “He’s a real bastard.” She collapsed back down onto her seat.

“Jesus,” Chilla muttered.

Hannie closed her eyes. It should take about an hour to set up the equipment, forty-five minutes for lunch, and about four hours to wrap the interview, cutaways, and establishing shots. Then another hour to pack the car again. If everything went to plan, she could be home by 6:30 P.M. and in the bath with a glass of red wine by 7:00 P.M. She pulled out her mobile phone from her bag. Time to call Byron and tell him they were running late.

They arrived at the Segue Street house at 10:30 A.M. After two false starts, Mosson successfully backed the car up the driveway under the terse instruction of Jezza, who had stalked up the cracked concrete and directed him in with impatient waves. Hannie opened the tailgate and dragged out the Louis Box. She always loved packing it for a shoot. A ritual ordering of tea bags and Nescafé, sugar and milk, Scotch Finger biscuits and Kambrook hot water urn. She had found the box in a thrift shop, the scratched and scuffed bottom half of a small leather Louis Vuitton valise. Probably worth a mint, or half a mint, but she’d only paid two bucks for it. Tiny Romano, who usually did camera op for her, nicknamed it the Louis Box and the name had stuck. It had been through five years of shoots and one wet Cup Day picnic.

For Hannie, the packing of the Louis Box was usually a quiet time of optimism and possibility. But that morning, when she had set out the items on her kitchen table, there had also been an undercurrent of dread. This was the first project she had ever got off the ground by herself. The first she had written by herself. The first she was directing by herself. This was her chance to put her own passion into the world. But Hannie knew it was easy to make a clumsy move and lose the delicate balance that created beauty and vision. She had seen and worked on too many projects that had fallen short because the director had lost sight of the whole or ignored the gut level, where personal and universal truths crouched. Could she do better? Could she push through her own smallness and create something that had importance outside her own limited world? The question had churned in her stomach like a bad case of gastro and she had quickly packed the Scotch Fingers away, for once not opening the packet for her traditional shoot-morning shortbread.

Hannie called Chilla to the back of the car and handed her the Louis Box.

“Don’t worry, it’s not heavy,” she said. “Find the kitchen and set up the urn. Then see if anyone wants a cuppa.”

The front door of the house opened and Byron Solange stepped onto the porch. He had obviously decided to go with the suit, the expensive brown material falling in exact lines over his thin body. He smiled and waved.

“I got my sister to clean up,” he said. “But she’s gone now. Come on in.”

“Let’s find a good location,” Hannie said to Mosson. “Jezza, are you going to be okay lifting all this gear by yourself? I’ll send Chilla out to help you after she’s set up the tea and coffee.”

“Of course I’ll be all right,” Jezza said, frowning, her eyes flicking to Mosson.

Hannie followed Mosson up the pathway to the house. Someone had swept the concrete clear of the slippery leaves and removed the old towel from the steps. Byron’s sister, no doubt, Hannie thought. Did Regina clean up after him too? For some reason she wanted to believe that Regina wasn’t the type of woman who would run after a man and keep house.

Was she already casting Regina as the complete feminist heroine? She’d have to keep that pre-conception under control. Hannie reminded herself to ask Byron for some photos of Regina; they would make her seem more real and if they were any good, she could use them as establishing stills.

Byron led the way into the house. The hall was partially blocked by a mountain bike leaning against the wall and stacks of newspapers tied together with white nylon string.

“I reckon you’ll probably want to film me in the living room,” Byron said. He pushed apart opaque glass doors and gestured them through. “What do you think? It’s got good light if I open the blinds.”

The first thing Hannie thought was that Byron Solange must have a bit of money stashed somewhere. A white leather couch with two matching armchairs took up most of the floor space. Against the end wall, a large silver stereo and a wide-screen television were encased in a blond wood entertainment unit. The carpet was pale yellow, unmarked and still smelling of hessian. Three matching pastel prints of a beach scene were staggered on a sky blue feature wall. It all seemed incongruously opulent after the peeling, cracked weatherboard exterior of the house.

“I’ll look good on the couch,” Byron said. “Or maybe the armchair for more texture. What do you think?”

Mosson turned away to look at the prints, but Hannie knew he was stifling a smile.

“It’s a possibility,” she said. “But we should have a look at the rest of the house before we make the final decision.”

The rest of the house matched the exterior: worn, dark, and smelling slightly of cat piss. They passed Chilla in the kitchen struggling to find a working power outlet for the urn. Byron rocked the yellowed refrigerator away from the wall and pulled out the plug.

“There’s nothing much in the fridge,” he said. “You can use that socket.”

They continued through to the first bedroom. The single bed was stripped down to an old stained blue mattress. Two large cardboard boxes were pushed against the door of a plain white wardrobe. One box was filled with low-heeled shoes, the other with carefully folded clothes. The only picture on the wall was a plastic Sacred Heart above the bed, framed in gold.

“This was my mum’s room,” Byron said. “She passed away four months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Mosson said.

Hannie murmured her agreement. Byron shrugged.

“She’d lost her mind a bit,” he said, staring at the Sacred Heart. “You know, that dementia thing. Spent most of her time watching the tellie. I set the living room up for her to be like the beach. Lots of blue. She really liked the beach.”

“It’s hard to pack up their stuff, isn’t it,” Mosson said.

Byron stared at him. “I’m not packing it up. That’s a woman’s job.”

He turned and walked out of the room. Hannie pressed her palms together to blunt her sharp irritation. She couldn’t let her growing dislike of Byron get in the way of the interview. She had to remain calm and talk gently to him. Make him feel at ease or he might shut down. Beside her, Mosson cleared his throat.

“Shall I leave you to finish the packing, then?” he asked.

She punched his arm on her way out of the door, surprised by the thick solidity of his bicep. She hurried towards Byron, who was waiting further up the hallway.

“That’s my sister’s room,” he said, pointing at a closed door. “But she doesn’t like anyone going in there.”

They moved along the corridor, towards the back of the house.

“Bathroom,” Byron said. “Toilet’s through there too.”

As she passed the open door, Hannie glimpsed gray tiles and an old stand-alone pink basin that was cracked along the edge. Her face flashed past in the smeared cabinet mirror; blotchy from the last of a deep flush.

“And this is where me and Reggie sleep.” Byron opened the end door and stood back.

Hannie walked in first, eager to finally see some fragment of Regina. The room was dim and cold. Most of the morning light was blocked by a roughly cut piece of cardboard taped over the window. Hannie made out a double bed covered by a faded blue doona and an old metal shop-rack full of clothes. A pair of black lace-up boots and a single silver high-heeled sandal were lined up toes-first along the wall next to the door. Hannie stepped closer to the rack. She longed to flick through the hanging clothes. What size did Regina wear? What styles did she like? What colors made her feel good? Hannie wanted to smell Regina’s perfume in the cloth and touch the textures that Regina felt against her skin. She stretched out her hand but Byron turned on the light, stranding Hannie in her own sense of etiquette.

“It’s always a bit dark in here,” he said. “I covered the window to stop the sun in the morning. Reggie hates getting up early.”

Hannie settled for quickly brushing her fingers across a mauve velvet sleeve then stepped away from the rack. Black, purple, dark denim, and curving slices of silver—Regina Wilcox wore the colors of night. Hannie had finally made contact.

“We’ll use the living room,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”

As Hannie had estimated, it took an hour to set up the camera, lights, and sound equipment. She decided to film in the corner of the living room, where the white wall met the blue feature wall. For texture, she whispered to Mosson. He smiled and plugged a jack into the monitor, placing the small screen on a stool from the kitchen.

“Is this going to be all right for you?” he asked.

Hannie stepped behind the monitor. Nine inches of screen framing her vision of Regina’s story. She remembered Darko’s favorite saying: change the camera angle, change the story. She looked across at the white leather armchair where Byron would be sitting.

“Chilla, go and sit in the chair for a minute,” she said. The girl edged her way past a light stand that Jezza was adjusting and sat down.

“Let’s have a look at the framing,” Hannie said to Mosson. “Do a close-up.”



Although Mosson knew how to move into a close-up, he felt his stomach clench at Hannie’s order. He stepped behind the camera and wiped his hands on his jeans. A few days ago he had visited the guys down at the IFF Production Unit for a crash course in operating a Digital Betacam. All the old techniques had come back to him, but he knew he was still clumsy and hesitant with the unfamiliar technology. It was a lot harder than he had remembered or fantasized, his shoulders already aching with concentration and doubt. He slowly brought the focus in and framed the shot, then looked across at Hannie. She was studying the monitor, her hands on her hips.

“Mosson, shift around a bit to the right. Yes, that’s better,” she said. “Jezza, I think we’ll have to have some fill. Come and have a look.”

Mosson watched Jezza bend down in front of the monitor. “Yep, it’ll take out that shadow,” Jezza said, her finger tracing the screen.

“But not too soft, okay?” Hannie said.

Jezza nodded.

“Mosson, pull out and show me a mid-shot,” Hannie said.

He knew she was testing him. It was to be expected. But was he passing? She seemed so assured in the director’s role, exchanging her usual tense energy for calm professionalism. He wasn’t so sure he liked the change in himself; there was none of the exultation he used to feel behind a camera and he couldn’t name the dragging uncertainty that made his hands stiff and slow. He’d been fooling himself to think he could just pick up where he had left off ten years ago. Hannie was no longer a stumbling student shooting a ten-minute film. She expected quick, professional camera work and his body was moving like a third-year dropout. He refocused the lens slowly, pleased that the movement was at least smooth and precise. Beside him, Hannie studied the screen then tapped him on the shoulder, the script outline in her hand.

“Come out to the car with me,” she said. “I want to talk to you alone.”

Mosson straightened up. Had he already failed and made a fool of himself? He followed her out of the house, trying to gauge her mood from the way she walked. Quick and confident. She must have seen through his bravado. She was going to break their agreement and tell him to get lost. He licked suddenly dry lips. If she did, then he would have to report her embezzlement to the Fund. It seemed a strangely disloyal thought.

She leaned her back against the station wagon. “I want to go through the shots for each section of the interview,” she said, unfolding the outline. “Have a look at this and tell me what you think.”

She waved him closer. Mosson leaned over to look at the plan, his sharp relief perfumed by the soft candy smell of her hair.

“I was thinking of starting with a mid-shot for all these setup questions,” she said, running her finger down the page. “And then when I start asking the important questions about Regina and the resorbing, I want you to go in close. I’ll leave it up to you when you go in and how close.” She looked up. “Okay?”

He nodded, his nostrils still too full of sweet reprieve to say anything. She rolled the paper into a tube, tapping it against her palm.

“I usually get Tiny Romano to do camera,” she said. “Do you know him?”

He tensed again. “No.”

“He and I have this code. It’s when I want him to keep rolling even though I’ve said cut.”

“Keep rolling?”

She kept tapping the tube.

“If we want the talent to think they are not being filmed anymore. To get their off-camera reactions to sticky questions.”

“I see. And you want to do this with Byron?”

She nodded. “I’ve got a hunch that he’ll say or do something interesting at the end when I ask him why Regina is missing. The idea is that when I say ‘Cut,’ you don’t button-off for another twenty seconds. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She smiled. “Am I corrupting you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said, and returned the smile.

 

Hannie led the way back into the house, their collusion warm in the pit of her stomach. She paused in the hallway to look at her watch. It was nearly noon. By the time they finished the setup and had a break for lunch it would be nearly one o’clock. Pretty much on schedule. She walked briskly into the living room and called Chilla over to her side.

“Here’s thirty bucks,” she said. “Ask everyone what they want, then go to the Milk Bar on the corner and get lunch. And don’t let Jezza get a caramel milk shake—it makes her sick. I’ll have a salad sandwich, no tomato.”

After the lunch break, Hannie called her crew together. Were they ready to record? Jezza wanted to do another sound check, so Hannie settled Byron into the white armchair and showed Chilla how to manage the boom, deftly swinging the long-handled fuzzy microphone above Byron’s head to keep it out of shot. She watched Chilla awkwardly position the boom, then stepped back behind the monitor.

“Byron, can you tell us what you had for breakfast so Jezza can do a sound check?” she said. “Just talk normally so we can get the levels.”

Byron scratched his nose. “Well, I don’t really have breakfast. Just a cup of coffee. Sometimes I have a bit of toast too, but not this morning. Had some butterflies in my belly. Always get them on a shoot day.”

Jezza adjusted the levels then tightened a strap on the PortaBrace that held the sound kit against her body. She nodded her readiness. Hannie looked at Mosson. He nodded.

“Okay, let’s put one down,” Hannie said. “Stand by to record.”

She rubbed her hands together, forming the first question in her mind.

“And roll tape,” she said.

TAPE 1
BYRON SOLANGE INTERVIEW
FINAL SEVEN MINUTES—UNCUT

…you see a young Asian man, about twenty-five years old, sitting in a white leather armchair. His hair is slicked back and falls in a blunt wedge along his collar. He is wearing a light brown suit, and you know that it is expensive by the way it follows his shoulder line without a pucker or fold. His shirt is black with an iridescent sheen and is buttoned tight to his thin throat. He does not wear a tie, but his hand hovers at the top of the soft collar and picks at a gold button. You notice thin eyebrows that angle up at the end and a small mouth that is pursed with concentration.

A woman’s voice, muted and distant, asks, “And how did you and Regina first meet?”

The young man’s dark eyes flick upwards to the right and you know he is searching for a memory.

“We met about three years ago,” he says, the sentence swinging up at the end. It is an Australian city voice, fast and hot, with no ghost of another country in its tones. “Reggie was working on my employer’s patch, you see, and he got wind that she was operating there without paying her dues. So he sends me and this guy called Daz to see about it.”

The woman’s voice cuts in again. It is still muffled, but you catch the last few words. “…work Regina was doing?”

The young man nods quickly. “Sure, sure. She was working a few scams. Nothing big, just a bit of three-card and stuff like that. Anyway, the first time I saw her, I thought she was a real looker. Long blond hair, great tits, and…” He stops and leans forward, his hand smoothing back his hair. “Shit, can I say that?”

“…can say anything you like,” the voice says.

He nods and relaxes back into the chair. “Yeah, she’s got great tits. Real sexy. I suppose that’s why she was doing so good. But she’s cut her hair short now, so she doesn’t look as hot as she did then. Me and Daz found her in a little alley near the train station. She’d just set up a game so we let her play it through and take the mark for about fifty bucks. She was real quick. Even Daz didn’t see her palm the card, and he used to do a bit of it himself. We told the mark to piss off, and then we had a little chat with Reggie.”

He picks up a glass of water and takes a sip, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. It is the same movement you have seen countless times on television; the tough guy wiping off the last drop of scotch.

“She wasn’t even fazed,” he says. “She’s got lots of guts and she knows the score. I suppose you have to if you play the con. We worked out a mutually satisfactory agreement and then Daz says he wants to get some lollies from the supermarket across the road. So I stay and talk to Reg. She’s real funny and sexy, so I ask her to come to one of my boss’s joints that night. But she says she doesn’t throw away her money on gambling. Can you believe that?” He laughs, a high-pitched giggle. “She’s such a crack-up. So we agree to meet at a club down on King Street. You should have seen my mates when she walked up to me at the bar. I reckon every one of them had an instant boner.”

The screen is now filled with the young man’s face. The voice asks another question, but it is just a burr of sound and you must wait to glean its sense from the young man’s answer.

“It was pretty quick,” he says. “Only about three months. Reggie was getting chucked out of her place, so it kind of worked out that way. My mum was too far gone to really notice. You know, senile. But my sister was real pissed off. Said Reggie was just a whore looking for a stupid prick to live off and guess who was the stupid prick. I thumped her for that. She gave Reggie a hard time for a while, but she settled down. I reckon she really likes Reggie now—stopped bitchin’ about her and everything. And anyway, Reggie comes and goes a bit, so my sister gets the place to herself.”

He rubs his right eye, pulling down on the lower lid so that the wet pink underside is exposed.

“How would you characterize your relationship?” the voice asks, suddenly audible.

“What do you mean? Like, is it all nice and happy?” he asks. “It’s okay, I suppose. Reggie’s got a bit of a temper and she can be a real bitch. We’ve had a few punch-ups. Mainly over other girls. She busted my nose once so I busted hers back and we ended up having matching plasters. Reggie said it looked like we’d got a group discount on nose jobs.” He giggles.

“You said Reggie comes and goes a bit. Has she gone missing before?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it missing. She’s got that brother of hers that she’s always bailing out of shit, and sometimes she just likes to take off for a while. When all that stuff about the resorbing happened in the paper, she took off for about two weeks.”

“How did you feel about her resorbing your baby?”

You see him look down, his head tilting in a shrug.

“I suppose I got a bit pissed off, especially the first time.” He looks at the camera and you see glassy caution in his eyes. “I usually use rubbers, but that time we did it in the car after a party and I didn’t have one. So I took a chance and she got pregnant. She said she wanted to have the kid, so I said okay. I could do the dad thing. And after a while I was getting kind of excited about it all, buying lots of toys and crap like that. Then, when she was five months gone, she suddenly decides she doesn’t want to have it anymore and pisses off for a week. When she comes back she’s not pregnant. I figured she’d had an abortion, but she told me she did it by herself. Said she just has to go away somewhere quiet and think about it and it happens. It kind of creeped me out.” He lifts his shoulders and twists them as though throwing off the thought.

“The second time was when that doctor made the ultrasound tape. Same deal. First she wants the kid and then four months later she changes her mind. Except this time she doesn’t go off by herself to do it. Reggie reckoned she could get some money for letting the quack tape the whole thing. And she was right. The quack jumped at the chance and let Reggie stay at her swanky flat in the city for about a month.”

“And did Reggie receive money for the tape?”

“Yeah, about five hundred bucks. But she didn’t split the money with me.”

“How did Reggie find the doctor?”

“I think it was the other way round; the quack called her a while back for something else. Got her name from some kind of study.” He shrugs again. “Don’t really know much about it.”

“Reggie has been missing for more than a month now. Her brother says someone is after her and she’s being hidden by an organization called the PMS. Do you know if this is true?”

“You can’t believe a word Dudley says. He’s a real crazy.” He twirls his finger beside his ear.

“Do you have any idea where Regina could be?”

“Nah, she could be overseas, for all I know.”

“Do you have any idea why Regina has gone missing?”

The young man looks down again. “No, not really,” he says. “She just takes off sometimes.”

The voice says, “Cut,” and the young man looks up.

“Is that it? Was that okay?”

“It was great. Thank you.”

The young man sits back in the chair and smiles. “You know, it could have something to do with her finding out about Mara and me,” he says. “Reggie was pretty pissed off. But you know, she was over seven months gone and too big to screw, so what does she expect? And she wouldn’t even say if it was my kid or not.”

He stands up and moves away. All you see is the white armchair, the imprint of his body still in the soft leather. You hear him say, “She’s probably gone away to get rid of it again. Pay me back for doing Mara.”

The screen goes black.


In the seaside living room, Hannie took a deep breath and looked across at Mosson. Had he got that last bit? He smiled and nodded, his finger still resting on the Record button. Hannie gritted her teeth to contain her surge of triumph. She had been right—Regina Wilcox was going to make a great story.

“That was good, hey? Told you I was a natural,” Byron said, standing too close to Hannie.

“I didn’t know Regina was pregnant,” Hannie said.

“Yeah, but don’t get too excited. Like I said, she’ll probably get rid of it again.” Byron lifted his head sharply. “Oh, I get it. You want to find her before she resorbs it so you can film her. Right?” He laughed. “Got to hand it to you, that would be real good tellie. Do you need me to do any more?”

Hannie stared at him. She had hardly processed the information that Regina was pregnant, let alone jumped to the idea of filming her in the process of a resorption. Like he said, it would be good tellie, but there was also something repulsive about it. Maybe it was because Byron had suggested it. Or maybe it was because Byron had expected her to think of it.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

Hannie nodded. “We just have to do some cutaways and some shots of the room.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “But I got to take a piss first.”

Hannie watched him walk out of the room then stepped around the tripod, gripping Mosson’s shoulder briefly in thanks. He’d done a reasonable job, although he was slower and more tentative behind the camera than she’d expected. It was probably just a matter of practice. But something was wrong with Jezza. She was standing too still, her hands in tight fists above the kit strapped to her body. Panic squeezed Hannie’s throat.

“There’s nothing wrong with the sound, is there?” she asked.

“No, the sound’s fine,” Jezza said. She scrubbed at her eyes. “Jesus, she’s over eight months, now. Do you really think she would…?”

Hannie touched her friend’s arm. She should have realized Jezza would be upset. “Byron doesn’t know for sure,” she said softly, but she felt a shiver spasm across her shoulders. She had seen pictures of an eight-month-old fetus in a pregnancy book—the little arms and legs, the little eyelids. “Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea.” She turned to Mosson and Chilla. “Fifteen-minute break and then we’ll do the cutaways.”

It took over three hours to tape the cutaways and establishing shots. Byron was unhappy with the first lot of cutaways, insisting that they do three takes of him walking out of the house and down the path in his sunglasses. Then he refused to film the establishing shots in the living room until it had been vacuumed and dusted again. He wanted to call his sister home to do the job, but Hannie gave the vacuum cleaner to Chilla and herded Byron out of the room.

It was 6:00 P.M. by the time Jezza and Chilla started to break down the lights and Mosson and Hannie packed up the camera and sound equipment. They drove away from Byron’s house at 7:00 P.M. a weary silence settling over the car. Hannie watched the light-filled houses and shops slide by, lulled into a dreamy indifference. She barely noticed Mosson dropping off Chilla at a train station and Jezza at her flat. And when Mosson pulled up at her house at 7:30 P.M. and got out of the car, she sat motionless in the backseat, unwilling to leave the warm cocooning quiet.

Mosson opened her door. “You going to get out?”

“It went well, didn’t it?” Hannie said.

She knew she should be elated by what was on the tape, but she felt curiously flat. It was probably just the Crohn’s acting up, she told herself, trying to ignore the brutal Byron sound bites that kept breaking through her fatigue: busted my nose, letting the quack tape it, pay me back for doing Mara.

“It went fine,” Mosson said. “I’d forgotten how tough a shoot can be.”

He looked down at the ground, wanting to ask her if his camera work was okay. If he still had any of his old flair. He could only think of his mistakes: going in too close too soon during the interview, screwing up the white balance for the first outside shots. His whole body ached with the memory of it. But he’d got that scumbag bit at the end. At least he had got that. He longed to check the footage. Make sure it was up to standard.

Hannie swung her legs out of the car. “What about Regina being pregnant, hey?” she said.

“She sounds like a bit of a nutcase,” Mosson said. “Byron too.” He flicked the door handle up and down as though checking its action. “I wouldn’t mind looking over the footage again. Check a few things.”

“Well, not tonight. I want a nice hot bath and then I just want to go to sleep. Come on, let’s get this stuff inside.”

They slowly carried the equipment into the house, dumping it in the hallway. The last thing to be unloaded was the Louis Box. Hannie held it against her chest and stood at the gate, watching Mosson wave as he pulled away from the curb. He was right, she thought, it had been a tough day. She looked in the box. Chilla had made a real mess of repacking it. Hannie started to shift the contents back into place, tucking the milk carton into the corner, stacking the biscuits on top of the coffee tin, trying to soothe the vague unrest that was riffling across her exhaustion. Was Regina really going to resorb her baby? Hannie pushed the bag of sugar in between the urn and the coffee tin. It would be an amazing thing, a shocking thing, to have in the documentary. She imagined a sequence that cut between the ultrasound video and an interview with Regina while she was in the process of resorbing. It would all depend on whether they could get that tape from Dr. Lomas and find Regina in time. Or maybe Regina would agree to have another ultrasound video. How much had Dr. Lomas paid her? Hannie felt her shadowy unease sharpen into an image of Byron Solange. His words were clear in her mind; Got to hand it to you, that would be real good tellie. Hannie hugged the Louis Box tighter to her body and ran up the pathway to her house. It would be good television, but did that make it right? The front door was open. She kept moving, jumping over the piles of equipment in the hallway, trying to outrun the dark edges of her own ambition.

A PERFECT FIT

I TWIST MY HAND TIGHTER INTO SYLVIE’S THICK hair and press down, pushing her mouth further along my cock. She is on her knees on the kitchen lino, the heels of her bare feet pale in the dim light. I lean over to watch the straining curve of each arch.

A phone rings. My business phone.

I pick it up off the sink and squint at the tiny display. The number is familiar: Dug. Why the fuck is he calling me on this phone?

“Syl, I’ll have to answer this,” I say.

She sits back on her heels and looks up at me, wiping her mouth.

“My knees were giving out anyway,” she says.

I press the Answer button and step out into the cool dark hallway. This phone is strictly for business calls. It’s registered under Sylvie’s name and I don’t keep any numbers in the memory in case it gets nicked. I told Dug to only call it in an emergency.

“Yes, what is it?” I stroke my cock, but the cold air is taking the edge off Sylvie’s good work.

“My friend?” Dug says in urgent Cantonese. “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Teo’s dead. His own fucking people did it. They killed him.”

I stare down at my hand wrapped around my softening cock. It’s the only warm part of my body.

“When?”

“I got a call a few hours ago. Said I’d find him in an alley in Richmond. They fucking cut him to pieces with a machete.” Dug’s voice is building into a sob.

Killed just like his father; ambushed, with no one to watch his back. I should have been watching his back.

Dug draws a shuddering breath. “He wasn’t dead when I found him, Trojan.”

I’ve seen two machete deaths in my time. It’s a long, messy process. The Chinese call it the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Every bit of fat and muscle is flayed on the body and left hanging by strips of skin. I remember seeing one poor bastard in Hong Kong trying to fight back, both biceps hacked open, the raw meat muscles flapping open and closed.

“Are you still there?” Dug asks.

“Did they say why?”

“Just said it was a private matter. Some shit about him breaking his pledge and betraying his brothers. He was just a fucking kid.”

“Yeah, I know, just a kid,” I say.

Hong’s kid. Trying to prove himself. All he had to do was keep an ear out, see if he could pick anything up about the contract. But he was like his father—charging in feetfirst then putting too much trust in his luck.

“What are we going to do?” Dug asks.

“Find a name. Then leave it to me,” I say.

“Yes, I can do that.” Dug pauses. “The funeral is next week. Thursday. I know you don’t…”

“No, I don’t.”

“I just thought…” Dug stops. “Anyway, it’s on Thursday morning.”

Next Thursday morning I will be aiming a .308 at a young woman who is barely more than a kid. I don’t share the irony with Dug.

“Call me on this phone when you get the name,” I say.

“I will. And Trojan, we did the best we could, didn’t we?”

I disconnect the call.

The fluorescent light in the kitchen flickers then buzzes into cold brightness. Sylvie is at the doorway, the right side of her naked body sculpted into sharp curving shadows by the harsh light. She holds out a stubby.

“You want a beer?”

Sylvie learned a long time ago never to ask questions about business. Her husband, Keegan, was in Rhodesia with me, another one of Hong’s recruits. I brought his body back. Always bring them home—that was the code. Sylvie was pregnant with Quinn at the time. It just started with me giving her a bit of money now and then for the boy.

I hold my hand out for the bottle. She steps closer.

“You okay?” she asks.

I take a swig. The beer is icy, making the back of my throat ache.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she says. “It’s not as warm as I thought it was.”

I follow her up the hallway. My guess is that Teo’s execution was ordered by someone at the top of the Noble Serpents. Maybe Jie Chee or Bobby Lo. It would be tricky to bring either of them down, but not impossible.

Sylvie turns on a lamp beside the bed then pulls back the blankets and top sheet. She pushes her feet and legs under the covers, resting her back against the plain wooden headboard.

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” she says, patting the space beside her.

She takes the beer out of my hand. I sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Have you got it?” she asks.

I lean down and pull the Browning from under the bed. The box magazine slides out of the grip with a small slithering snick. I press against the first spring-loaded bullet and thumb it onto the carpet. The rest of the clip feeds out in tiny clicks.

“What are you doing? Can’t you find it?” Sylvie asks.

Corraling the ten bullets against my palm, I push them back behind the bed leg then reload the empty magazine into the gun. She won’t know the difference. The bed bounces as she moves up against me and looks over my shoulder.

“Let me have a go,” she says.

I pass her the pistol. She holds the grip gingerly between her hands.

“Is it loaded?”

“Yes.” I kneel on the bed beside her and hold out my hand for the gun. She lays it carefully on my palm. “Want me to shoot something?” I say. “How about that shitty lamp?” I aim at the 1970s orange tube on the bedside table.

“No. Quinnie gave me that.” She laughs. “He found it in a thrift shop.”

“How about the mirror? Only seven years bad luck.” I swing the barrel around to the etched vanity mirror on the chest of drawers.

“Don’t you dare, it was my mum’s.”

“How about you, then?”

I grab a handful of hair and drag her head down onto the mattress. She claws at my wrist, trying to twist free. I push her head down harder and press the muzzle against her temple. This is what she wants. What she always wants. Did Keegan always fuck her with a gun to her head? I move the muzzle around until it rests in the hollow where her skull meets her spine. A perfect fit.

“Get up on your hands and knees.”

She pushes herself up onto all fours. I let go of her hair, sliding my hand across the wing of her shoulder blade and down her side, feeling the ridging of ribs and hip bone, and the long trembling muscle in her thigh. Gripping the soft inner flesh, I pull her thighs further apart. She tilts her hips forwards and backwards, stroking herself against the back of my hand, her wetness smearing my skin. I push her hips back.

“None of that,” I say, and she stops still.

Tonight must be a “no hurt” night. If she wanted me to go further, she would have disobeyed. I used to wonder what she would do if I ignored all her rules and just thrashed the shit out of her? It took me a while to figure out that she knows exactly what I am, what I can do. That’s why I’m here.

Pressing my cock up against her arse, I dig the end of the muzzle into her pale, freckled skin. Down the smooth indent of her spine, past the rib cage, to the flare of her hips and then across the broad, rounded flesh of her arse. A red welt trail maps my progress.

“Christ,” she whispers, and I lift the barrel and push it into the hollow of her skull again.

I reach my other hand between her legs and push into the thick slippery folds. My fingers come away glazed. They taste like caramelized salt. I burrow into her again then force my forefinger into her mouth, holding it there until she cleans it with the flat of her tongue. Do I make her turn around and blow me or do I just fuck her? She rocks her arse against my cock and balls. The warm grinding pressure and red welts are too much. I lift my hips and press into her, but my cock slides past her tense, wet opening. She reaches back and guides me in, grunting as I jolt her body forward. Another stroke and she is down on her forearms, bracing against the slap of my body. She pushes back against me and her sucking wetness grasps my cock. She is meeting me stroke for stroke, the flesh of her buttocks rippling with the blows. We are breathing together. Gasps that rise and fall in grating unison. We slam into each other, bone and sweat-slicked flesh meeting in bruising rhythm. I dig my hand into her hair and jerk her head back. The shock drives her into waves of shuddering contractions. The gun drops onto the bed. I fold my body over hers as the hot fluid spasms, laced with pain, convulse through me, emptying into the tight grip of her orgasm.

She collapses onto the bed, pulling me with her.

“You’re squashing me,” she says into the mattress.

I push away from her, my spent cock sliding out easily. The sheet feels cold under my knees. Sylvie rolls over onto her back and brushes my thigh with her fingers.

“You want some?” she asks, reaching for the beer.

“No.”

She sits up to take a sip, then puts it back on the bedside table. “Got to pee. Do you want something to eat on my way back?”

“No.”

She looks at me for a moment, then nods. “Right, then.” She stands up and pushes her feet into a pair of star-covered slippers on her way out of the door.

I pick up the Browning and wipe it on the sheet. It’s disturbing to know it’s unloaded, useless. I release the empty magazine onto the mattress and lay on my stomach to collect the bullets. They’re heavy in my cupped hand. A comforting weight. I hold them there for a while, letting my lethargy ease away. At the other end of the house, the toilet flushes. I close my hand around the bullets. R&R is over. Grabbing the gun and clip, I roll off the bed.

The hallway is dim, the light coming through the kitchen door softened by distance. I look into Quinn’s bedroom. Sylvie tells me he’s living most of the time at his girlfriend’s place near the university. Studying biochemistry or biology or something like that. I lean against his doorway and start to press the bullets back into the magazine. He’d be nearly twenty-two now. Two years older than Teo. The room is strangely neat; CDs in a bookshelf, nothing on the desk, bed made. Maybe Sylvie has cleaned up. Or maybe Quinn is just a tidy kid. Teo wasn’t. He drove Charmaine crazy with his mess. Week-old bananas left under the bed. Stacks of motorbike magazines all over the house. And when he was a little kid, his collection of Imperial dragons left on the floor. They were my fault. I used to bring them back for Teo whenever I went on a trip.

Dug will bury the boy next to Hong at the Necropolis. East side, section D, row 8. Dug chose it carefully for the Feng Shui. An excellent aspect, he told me. I’ve only been to the place once, to visit Hong. The aspect didn’t seem that good, but maybe a busy freeway and a rifle range is good Feng Shui for the dead. I’d squatted beside Hong’s grave and burned the otherworld currency that I’d bought in a strange little shop in Chinatown. Five stacks of gaudy pretend money, printed in the name of the Hell Bank. Apparently Hong will be able to use it to bribe the underworld officials. I like the idea of a corrupt afterlife bureaucracy—no doubt my friend is feeling right at home. I’ll have to go back to that shop and buy more money. How much will it take for Teo to buy his way into paradise? How much to bribe the ghosts to be quiet?

I press the last bullet into the clip. It’s now the first bullet, spring-loaded and waiting. I snap the clip back into the gun with the flat of my hand. A pistol is an effective close-range weapon but it doesn’t have the intimacy of a knife or garrote. I don’t go in close anymore; it’s too risky. But I’ll make an exception for the man who killed Teo.

A mobile rings.

“It’s yours,” Sylvie calls. “I’ll bring it with me.” She comes out of the kitchen door, her slippers slapping on the floorboards. She hands me the ringing phone.

I connect the line.

“Yes?”

“The name is Jie Chee,” Dug says.

9 P.M. TOKYO TIME

T HE FORECASTER SQUINTED AT THE SMALL DIGITAL clock that stood on his kitchenette bench, the red numbers difficult to see in the bright sunlight. Four more minutes until the phone call from his wife. She always called him at exactly 2 P.M. on Sunday afternoon—9 P.M. Tokyo time—and finished the call exactly half an hour later. Recently the Forecaster had realized her punctuality had nothing to do with courtesy; her favorite television show started at 9:30 P.M., and its clanging musical introduction was her way of containing their conversation.

The Forecaster picked up an article he had saved from the daily newspaper and smoothed it flat on the small kitchen table. He always read something to his wife once the news of their son had been exhausted—it was the only way he could stop her catalog of health complaints. This week he’d found a report about a woman who fell down some stairs and claimed her cat had dialed the emergency number. A silly story, but his wife liked cats. And it would fill in at least five minutes.

The Forecaster decided to keep quiet about his special assignment. He would wait until he had succeeded in eradicating the Rabbit Woman problem, received his reward, then casually slip his promotion into their conversation. He smiled, imagining his wife’s shrill response to the news that the Director had personally invited him to join the inner circle. Was he being too audacious in his hopes? No, the Director had more or less promised it to him in their private meeting. Nevertheless, he quickly shrugged off the expectation; if he was not careful he would make the gods jealous with too much brash success. But he could not resist playing the idea through his mind again; a place in the inner circle by the Director’s side. So much honor. And a great advantage for his son’s career; a father in the Executive of Osagi-Fowler would not hurt the boy’s prospects at all.

The Forecaster looked across the bench at the photograph of his son propped against the wall: a bleached portrait of an unsmiling young man tucked into a yellow cardboard frame from a processing lab. He had seen the boy grow from child to man in a series of those frames, each static image brought to life with gestures and smiles that were part imagination and part hazy memory gleaned from his yearly visits home. And now the boy was close to graduation. If the Rabbit Woman project was finalized soon, maybe he would be able to secure his son a junior position in the Company. The nepotism rules would, no doubt, bend for a man in the inner circle.

Around him, the room dimmed. The Forecaster grunted and leaned towards the view of the Harare skyline through his large kitchen window. A thick club of black clouds was passing his apartment block and moving swiftly over the city. He watched as the warm tan and cream tones of the office buildings darkened into muddy shadows.

“A storm comes,” he said out loud.

It was the first time he had spoken that day and the sound was a strident surprise. He cleared his throat, the rough hack echoed by a roll of distant thunder. Perhaps rain was on the way—there was a desperate lack of water in the city’s reservoirs. He settled back into his chair to enjoy the spectacle. The window was the reason he had leased the apartment, the panoramic view of the cityscape compensating for his brief disconnections from the Company and the strange habits of his neighbors.

If his son came to Harare, would they share an apartment? Would his wife join them to complete the family? He looked around the small room that served as kitchen, dining, and living area; he would need to find a bigger place. Perhaps in Borrowdale, where the city’s troubles could be held at bay by the leafy avenues and secure fencing. Of course, nothing could be finalized until he had completed the project.

The first stage of the plan was proceeding well. At the bar a few nights ago, the Irishman had reported that four of the seven Australian jobs had been completed. He had also added that it would soon be time to unleash Pauley. The Forecaster had thought the choice of words strange: unleash Pauley. Was the man a dog? But a worrying development in Australia had made him shake his head and say, “Not yet.” He had received a piece of information from Dr. Famagusta that needed to be confirmed before Pauley could be deployed. It seemed Famagusta’s protégé, the ugly Dr. Lomas, had agreed to be interviewed for a documentary about one of the Australian Rabbit Women. It was bad news on both counts: Dr. Lomas had privileged information that could harm the Company, and a documentary about one of the Rabbit Women was not acceptable. Something had to be done.

The Forecaster folded his hands across his chest as he considered the situation. He needed more information. First he would order his two spies, Famagusta’s man and the Irishman’s cousin, to seek out verification. Then, if the report was correct, he would arrange for Dr. Lomas and the filmmaker to be scared away from their purpose.

The digital display pulsed into 2 P.M.

On cue, the phone rang. The Forecaster cleared his throat again then picked up the handset.

“Husband,” she said, as she always did.

“I am pleased you have called,” he said. As he always did.

“Our son is well and studying hard.” It was the prologue to her detailed description of their child’s triumphs over the past week. The Forecaster listened carefully to the long list, gratified to hear that his visit to the Company shrine had helped the boy achieve excellent exam results.

“He will soon be graduating,” the Forecaster said.

“There has already been interest,” she said proudly.

“He should not make any decisions yet. I may be able to arrange something here.”

“With you?” He thought he heard protest in her voice. “How can that be? The Company does not allow it.”

He hesitated, but could not resist the chance to boast. “I have been honored with a special assignment from the Director. When I succeed, he has promised me a position on the Executive.”

He heard his wife’s sharp intake of air and instantly regretted the confidence.

“The Executive? No one jumps from your position to the inner circle,” she said. “What is the assignment? This is not one of your floating worlds, is it?”

The Forecaster gripped the edge of the table. She had never understood that his brilliance came from his imagination. If they had been sitting across from each other, she would never have spoken to him in such a way. It was the distance that created such honne, such forthright airing of her true thoughts.

“He promised it to me himself,” the Forecaster said stiffly, her disbelief turning the Director’s hint into hard fact.

“What has he asked you to do?”

“I cannot say,” he said.

For a long moment, there was heavy silence.

“Then such an assignment can bring as much shame as it can glory,” she said flatly. “You must make sure you do not fail or you will shame your son and ruin his chances.”

The Forecaster stared out of the window at the slow-moving clouds. She was right. There must be no chance of failure. No possibility of shame for their son. A warning from Sun Tzu crossed his mind: a general who is overly compassionate can be harassed into ineffective action. It was a timely reminder that half measures lead to disaster. If the report was correct, scaring the ugly doctor and the filmmaker would not be enough. They had to be stopped.

“I will always protect our son,” he said.

“Even above your duty to the Company?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Another rumbling boom resonated through the air, but the clouds were already breaking apart without dropping rain. The thunder was just empty noise.

The Forecaster looked at the clock; still fifteen minutes to go. It was time to read the piece about the cat.

A NEW CONCEPT OF DEATH

M OSSON TUCKED THE DIAGONAL EDGES OF THE blue and white furoshiki cloth around the small pile of red-bean cakes. That was the easy part. Now he had to remember how to make the next fold. He hadn’t wrapped a gift in furoshiki since he was a child. The basic idea was to knot the corners into a makeshift handle while retaining some elegance of shape. He drew up the edges and tied them together, poked in a wayward piece of cloth, then stepped back from his kitchen counter to see the effect. Lopsided and lumpy. Maybe he should have put the cakes into a box.

The red-bean cakes his mother used to buy always came in a neat wooden box. She only got them at Christmas when she went up to Melbourne to do the big shop. A treat for her and Mosson on Christmas Eve. His father had never understood the attraction. “They look like homemade Play-Doh,” he’d say. “Taste like it too.” Which was half true, Mosson thought. They did look like gray patties of kid’s clay. But the dense squashy outside and brown nutty center was like eating raw biscuit dough—a heavy reassuring sweetness that reminded Mosson of hot syrupy nights and Carols by Candlelight. The day before he’d rung around and found a Japanese grocery on Glenhuntly Road that sold the cakes individually, wrapped in cellophane and kept in the freezer. He bought ten as a gift for Aunt Momi and had to leave them out on the sink overnight to defrost and drain before he wrapped them. He hoped the hour-and-a-half trip down to Rye would help dry them out.

Aunt Momi had moved into the Rye Beach Garden Retirement Village five years ago when her husband, George, had died and she finally retired from her job as a mothercraft nurse. “It’s big enough for just me,” she told Mosson at his mother’s funeral, “although I do wish they would let me have a little dog.” Aunt Momi had never had children, but for as long as Mosson could remember, she had always had a little dog. As Mosson drove down the unsealed road that led to the retirement village, he wondered why the management wouldn’t let a lonely old woman keep a pet dog. It just seemed petty. He parked his car at the unmanned security gates and walked along a gravel pathway towards unit 18, the furoshiki swinging from his hooked forefinger and his mother’s scroll under his arm.

The retirement homes were set out in two long, staggered lines; twenty-five brown boxes in a carefully landscaped bush setting. Each unit had a ghost gum, three low-lying native bushes, and a sandstone path that led to a green front door. Mosson pictured the formal Japanese garden that Aunt Momi had painstakingly built around the house she had shared with George; the exact curving lines of pebbles and rocks and the precisely positioned shrubs. No doubt she hated these unimaginative native gardens. Mosson expected to see at least two renegade bonsai maples before he got to her front door.

He was wrong. Unit 18 had the same native garden, the same path, the same green door. He pressed the bell, looking around for some evidence of Aunt Momi’s elegance on the shallow porch. There was none. What had happened to that magnificent ironwork fish lantern that used to hang by her front door at the old house? Mosson hoped she hadn’t been bullied into giving it away. His mother had told him it was an antique from Japan.

The front door opened. Aunt Momi smiled up at him, her thick glasses doubling the size of her shrewd eyes.

“Mosson-kun, how good to see you,” she said, bowing. She was a lot thinner than when he had last seen her, at the funeral, her carefully coordinated blue skirt and cardigan hanging loose on her body.

Mosson bowed in return, the movement both awkward and familiar.

“It’s good to see you too, Aunt,” he said. He held out the furoshiki. “A little something for you. Your favorite cakes.”

“No, no, you shouldn’t have,” she said, shaking her hands.

Mosson smiled at the traditional refusal. “It’s my pleasure. I insist,” he said solemnly.

She took the package and bowed again. “So thoughtful. Come in, come in.”

He stepped past her into the unit. The front door opened directly onto an L-shaped living room, a lifetime of furniture and memories crammed into the small space. A leather sofa, more suited to a large house, split the room in half, and a matching reclining armchair was positioned in front of a television. Two sets of tall shelves, double-stacked with books and photographs, flanked the front window. On the far wall, a series of Japanese flower prints hung in a neat line above a heavy mahogany dining table. Mosson recognized a woodcut his mother had printed hanging on the wall between the bedroom and bathroom doors; a long washi paper scroll with a swirling dragon in black ink, the tiny red box of her artist’s mark near its furious tail.

“Will you have tea, Mosson-kun?” Aunt Momi asked.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, although he would have preferred a strong coffee. Green tea was part of the ceremony of visiting Aunt Momi.

“Sit down. Tell me how you are. How is your work?”

Aunt Momi stepped behind the low counter that separated the narrow kitchen from the living room. She flicked the switch on an electric kettle. Mosson pulled one of the dining chairs out from the table and sat down, placing the scroll beside him on the polished wood.

“I’m good,” he said. “Work is good too.”

Aunt Momi looked up from arranging two Japanese mugs on a lacquer tray, each smooth column of porcelain circled by a delicately painted blue and gold fish.

“And are you still working with the money or have you asked to be moved to that filming area?”

“How did you know about that?” Mosson asked.

Aunt Momi untied the furoshiki and smiled with pleasure. “Ahh, daifukui. Yes, they are my favorite. Thank you, Mosson-kun.” She smoothed out the cloth wrapping. “Your mother told me you weren’t happy and wanted to move over to another department in your company.”

Mosson shifted in the chair. For a second it was like his mother was still in her house a few kilometers up the road, still gossiping about her son’s life with her best friend.

“Actually, I’m doing a bit of filming now,” Mosson said. “Helping out with a project.”

“Then you must be very happy, to be doing what you have always wanted.”

Mosson looked down at the smooth beige carpet. After the grim year of grieving for his mother, he had hoped that finally being behind a camera again would bring back some of his joy. Instead it had just brought the uneasy knowledge of an outgrown dream. He was no longer the fifteen-year-old who had filmed himself on Super 8 and dreamed of a glorious career; no longer the twenty-nine-year-old star of the film college. He was a bored thirty-nine-year-old Film Fund bureaucrat who had let his creative courage seep away until all that was left was an adolescent fantasy. The realization settled coldly in Mosson’s stomach.

“I’m not sure it’s what I want to do, after all,” he said. “I’m not even sure I want to stay at the Film Fund.”

Aunt Momi poured boiling water into a heavy pottery teapot.

“Do what makes you happy,” she said. “Your mother wanted you to be happy. And rich.”

Mosson leaned back in his chair. When was the last time he had been happy? He searched his memory for the most recent flicker of warmth and comfort. With a jolt, he realized it was when he had made miso for Hannie.

“We miss her, don’t we,” Aunt Momi said. “I still reach for the phone to call her.”

Mosson blinked, then realized she was talking about his mother. He nodded.

“I can’t seem to shift this heavy feeling,” he said, rubbing his chest through his jumper. “It makes it hard to breathe.”

“Sometimes George steals my breath away too,” Aunt Momi said. “But I don’t mind sharing it with him.” She pulled open one of the cellophane packets and placed a bean cake on a plate. “Is that the scroll you told me about?” she asked, nodding towards the dining table.

Mosson picked up the carefully rolled parchment. “I was wondering if you could read it to me. It’s got my name at the top.”

Aunt Momi carried the tray to the table. She set it down and poured green tea into the elegant cups, placing one in front of Mosson and the other opposite him. A small matching plate with a bean cake on it was placed beside each cup. She slid the tray back onto the kitchen counter and sat down. Mosson waited until Aunt Momi bowed to him, his cue to drink. He picked up his cup, the heat burning his fingers through the thin porcelain, and tasted the astringent earthy tea, nodding with appreciation. Aunt Momi smiled and lifted her own cup to her lips.

“I think I’ve seen this scroll before,” she said. “Your mother showed it to me a long time ago.”

She placed her tea back on the table. “May I open it?”

Mosson passed her the scroll. She untied the red cord and worked her thumbnail under the weakened wax seal. The parchment ends sprang apart. She twisted around in her chair and unrolled it, holding the ends open.

“Yes, this is your family tree. Your mother told me she copied it for calligraphy practice from the original scroll that her father kept. He was the head of your lineage, so he kept the family records.”

“She never really told me about her family.”

Aunt Momi turned the scroll to face Mosson. “That’s because they disowned her when she married your father.”

“Disowned her?”

“Your mother and I have very similar stories. We both come from proud families, old warrior families. You can’t see it in me, but your mother was a true warrior woman. Do you remember her fight with the librarian at your school?”

Mosson laughed. It was a favorite family story. Mrs. Brankoff, the angular school librarian, had blamed Mosson for a broken window and denied him access to the books. Mosson remembered his fluently bilingual mother marching into Mrs. Brankoff’s office during one of his study periods and screaming at her in fake broken English, demanding to know why “prejudiced bitch in charge of children library?” Mrs. Brankoff tried to defend herself, but in the end was defeated by Yoshi Ferret’s masterful surprise attack and frequent lapses into vicious Japanese. The librarian reinstated Mosson’s lending rights and remembered that she had seen another boy near the window just before it was broken, a boy whose mother was long dead and buried.

“Your mother and I both fell in love with gaijin, foreign devils. A terrible thing to do, even though it was so long after the war,” Aunt Momi said. “Your mother used to say that nothing of importance happened to her until she met your father.”

Mosson nodded. As a child, he heard his mother say that many times, and saw his father duck his head with pleased embarrassment.

“But that wasn’t quite true,” Aunt Momi said. “See here?” She pointed to a column of kanji on the scroll. “That reads first daughter adopted from Hisao Anomotsu. That first daughter is your mother.”

“She was adopted?”

“By her aunt and uncle. They were childless so your mother was given to them to raise as their own daughter. You look shocked, but it wasn’t so uncommon when there were many children in a family; your mother had three older sisters and two older brothers. A lot of mouths to feed. In the end, the adoption saved her life. Her real mother and three sisters died at Hiroshima. Your mother was safe in Kyoto with her adopted family.”

On his trip to Japan, Mosson had visited the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. He walked around the huge exhibit, numbed by the facts and photos of the atomic blast, until he came to a small glass case. In it were the raggedy tips of a young boy’s fingers, the brown thickened skin curling around amber nails. A small museum card, typed in English, told the story. The boy had been at a school close to ground zero. Severely burned, he had walked for miles through the devastation to his home. It took five days for him to die. As his body deteriorated, his fingers crumbled away and his mother folded the tips into a white handkerchief to show his father when he came home. Mosson had stared at the yellowed scrap of cloth with its macabre keepsake, thinking of the woman watching her child die; watching his flesh, his cells, his DNA disintegrate into a new concept of death.

“Mum told me about losing family in Hiroshima,” Mosson said to Aunt Momi, “but she never told me her parents gave her away.” He clamped down on the anger that speared through his grief. His mother had never told him anything about her childhood.

“She didn’t like to talk about it much. Said she didn’t want her good fortune brought to the attention of the gods.” Momi smiled. “Here, you hold this up now, my arms are too old.” She passed the scroll to Mosson. He pushed the parchment apart until his name was visible at the top.

“So why did she write my name in English?”

Momi took a sip of tea. “When your mother told her parents she was going to marry an Australian, they were horrified. Her father was a very traditional man, like my father. Yoshi was supposed to be married to a fine young Japanese boy of good family. Her father forbade the marriage, of course, with many harsh words about her character and loyalty, and a beating that broke one of her ribs.”

Aunt Momi stared down at her hands, twisting the heavy gold wedding ring on her finger. “Although the beating was painful, his words hurt even more,” she said, and Mosson realized she was not only telling his mother’s story.

“But Yoshi didn’t give in. Even when her father found out she was pregnant by the foreign devil. Even when he made her dear gentle mother order her to abort the child. Yoshi refused; she would not give up her man and she would not give up her baby.” Aunt Momi’s face was tight with her own memories. “Yoshi was a warrior woman. She didn’t give in.”

“That was me, wasn’t it,” Mosson said. “She was pregnant with me.”

The memory of Paisley and her betrayal seared through him. Unlike his mother, he had not been able to save his unborn child. Paisley had always said she never wanted a baby, never wanted to get married, never wanted to settle down. He had thought she would change her mind. Then, one day, she was gone. And so was his baby.

“Yes, she was pregnant with you,” Aunt Momi said. “She disobeyed her parents and ran away with your father to Australia. Her family disowned her. When you were born, Yoshi sent a photo of you to her mother. She received a letter back from her father that said she should not write again or send pictures of the haafu. So Yoshi disowned them as they had disowned her and you.”

“What does haafu mean?” Mosson asked, although the watchful hard-fisted boy in him already knew.

“Literally, it means ‘half,’ an abbreviation for half Japanese and half something else. It is not a good word. I’m afraid there is often great prejudice in Japan against those of mixed race.”

Not only in Japan, Mosson thought, picturing his Australian grandpa in his big brown recliner chair, eating peanuts and watching his half-breed grandson look in vain for a Christmas present under the family tree. Mosson felt a hollowing out in his gut that he’d thought he’d left behind in the school yard.

“And she never contacted them again?”

“Never. When your mother showed me this scroll, I asked her why she had written your name in English. She said that you were Australian and the beginning of a new family, not haafu and the end of the old.”

Mosson remembered the dusty taste of playground tan-bark in his mouth, the breathless shock of a kick in the stomach, the feel of soft flesh and cheekbone against his knuckles. Slope and Nip, that’s what they’d called him. But he wasn’t Japanese. His trip to Japan had made that clear. He had pushed his way through the tight high-rise streets of Tokyo, seeing thousands of faces like his own, but knowing that in his mind he always walked a landscape of wider spaces, broader skies, and bright harsh light. His bones and muscles were made of hot Christmases, football practice, and mowing the brown raggedy lawn with his father. He had resisted the knowledge at the time, wanting to claim the label forced on him. Now he understood that he would always be a tourist in his mother’s country, looking at his heritage with the round eyes of a romantic Westerner.

“Do you know if I still have any family left in Japan?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, but I think you have an uncle still alive.”

Mosson stroked his thumb across the bold letters of his name on the parchment. Maybe one day the Australian branch of the family would try to make contact with the Japanese. Not now, but maybe one day. Mosson closed the scroll and pressed the seal gently back into place. He watched Aunt Momi pour more tea into the cups, her hand shaking with the weight of the teapot.

“And what about you, Aunt Momi? Do you still have family in Japan?” he asked.

“I no longer know,” she said. She placed the teapot back onto the table and bowed, waiting for him to drink.

Mosson picked up the cup and took a mouthful of bitter tea.

DISCLOSURE IN HER EYES

H ANNIE CLOSED THE NOTEBOOK AND SLUMPED back in her armchair. She had memorized the interview questions for Dr. Lomas, double-checked the equipment, and restocked the Louis Box. Everything was ready for tomorrow. She picked up the remote control and turned on the television. The screen buzzed and flickered into the start of the late-night news. The lead item was about a body that had been discovered at an isolated farm near Yea. The twenty-six-year-old pregnant woman had been shot dead at least a week ago, the solemn-faced newsreader said. The ring of the phone next to her startled Hannie upright. She picked it up, her attention still on the television. There was no apparent motive for the brutal murder.

“Ms. Reynard, I need to talk to you about the interview.” It was the thin, anxious voice of Dr. Lomas.

Hannie felt her stomach harden. “Yes, we’re all ready to go,” she said quickly, hoping to head off a cancellation.

“I don’t want to film it at the hospital,” Dr. Lomas said. “Not at the hospital. Not at my office. We need to do it somewhere else.”

At least it wasn’t a flat-out refusal, Hannie thought.

“That’s going to be a bit difficult, Doctor,” she said. “I’ve already organized the crew for the hospital. Why don’t you want to do it at your office?”

“They’re watching me—I know it. And I don’t want any crew. Just you. I’ve got something important to tell you about Regina. But I’ll only say it to you. And not at the office.” There was a pause. “Please, Ms. Reynard, it’s important.”

Hannie heard the tremble in the doctor’s voice. Something had spooked the woman. “I understand what you’re saying, Dr. Lomas, but I need some crew to do my job properly,” she said, quickly thinking through her options: her place was too small, so was Jezza’s. Maybe Mosson’s place. “How about a compromise? We can film at another location, but I’ll need at least one other crew member. Would you agree to Mr. Ferret? You’ve already met him, remember?”

Hannie held her breath. How much did Dr. Lomas want to have her say?

“All right,” the doctor said. “But only you and him. Is that agreed? Only you and him? Or I won’t do it.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll give you a call back with the details.”

Hannie wrote the mobile phone number on the front of the television guide then stabbed her finger down on the receiver cradle. What a pain in the arse. She pressed the speed dial for Mosson. His voice was hoarse with disturbed sleep and reluctance. “It sounds like she’s having some kind of paranoid fit,” he said. Hannie pictured the strained, twitching face of Dr. Lomas. Maybe he was right. Nevertheless, she had to find out if the doctor knew something about Regina. It took ten minutes of fast talking to convince Mosson to relocate the shoot to his flat. It was only after she’d hung up and taken a deep breath to clear away the urgency that she realized his sleep-burred voice had softened when she had first said hello. She smiled, replaying those first few unguarded moments as her call to Jezza was redirected to her friend’s mobile.

“I’m at my mum’s,” Jezza said, her voice heavy with warning. Hannie understood; Jezza’s mother could never know she was pregnant. Hannie gave Jezza the new earlier call time. “So you can be out of Mosson’s flat before the doctor arrives,” Hannie said. There was a tight silence, then she heard the sound of a door snapping shut.

Jezza cleared her throat. “I was hoping to get a chance to talk to Dr. Lomas,” she whispered. “I need to get a referral to a good clinic.” Hannie shivered; she had watched Jezza struggle with the decision, caught in a snarl of desperation, desire, and belief. Now she had found the courage to make her choice and, for once, she needed Hannie’s help. Hannie began to explain the “no crew” agreement she had made with Dr. Lomas.

“Then you ask her for the referral,” Jezza said, and hung up.

All of this better be worth it, Hannie thought as she rang back Dr. Lomas and gave her the new shoot details. Stuttering badly, the doctor repeated the address, then said an abrupt good-bye and was gone.

What an ungrateful bitch, Hannie thought, but immediately knew the spike of resentment was too excessive to be real. It was just part of the Dump—the name she gave to the sudden drop of energy that occurred every night when the cortisone left her system. She wearily pushed the phone back into place on the coffee table, switched off the television with the remote control, and closed her eyes. Sometimes she knew where she ended and the cortisone began, and sometimes she didn’t.

The following afternoon, Jezza and Hannie had just finished setting up the camera in Mosson’s living room when Dr. Lomas knocked on the door. Twenty minutes early, Hannie noted grimly as she stood back to let the doctor into the flat. The woman still looked like a nervous llama; a striped boat-neck top emphasized her stringy neck, and a green gingham head band bunched her hair into a tuft on the top of her head. Something would have to be done about the hairstyle, Hannie thought as she followed her through the small entrance hall. The doctor suddenly stopped and turned, as if to bolt, her briefcase clutched against her chest.

“You said it would be just you and him,” she said, her voice shrilling with panic.

“It is. It will be.” Hannie blocked the doorway with her body. “You’re early. Jezza is just helping us set up. She’s going to leave.”

Mosson stepped forward into the hall.

“It won’t take us much longer,” he said.

Dr. Lomas shied away from him, swerving into the dead end of the galley kitchen. From behind, Hannie grabbed Mosson by his shoulders and pushed him in front of the narrow archway.

“Keep her there,” she whispered against his ear. She felt his neck muscles stiffen in protest. “Please. I’ll owe you one.”

He turned his head. The odd smoothness of his chin brushed her cheek.

“That sounds promising,” he said softly, his breath warm against her nose and lips. He faced the doctor again. “Would you like a coffee, Dr. Lomas? I’m making a fresh pot.”

“Yes, a coffee. Lovely. Lovely,” the doctor said. Her back was pressed up against the larder door at the far end of the kitchen. Hannie felt Mosson move; her hands were still on his shoulders. She snatched them away and retreated across the room to Jezza, who was crouched by the sofa connecting a cable to the monitor.

“You all right?” Jezza asked. “You look a bit weird.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?” Hannie asked. She frowned down at the neatly laid-out cords. Mosson had just made a pass, hadn’t he? Or had she imagined it? She rubbed her hands together, remembering the feel of the hard muscles in his shoulders moving under her fingers.

“About ten minutes. Then we can do the checks,” Jezza said.

“Right. Good.” Hannie noticed the bleak shadows under Jezza’s eyes. She squatted down beside her friend and scooped up a roll of black gaffer tape, picking at the back-folded end. “Thanks for doing this, Jez,” she said. “And don’t worry, I’ll ask for the referral when we’ve finished the interview.”

Jezza straightened the cable along the carpet, pressing it into the deep pile. “I just don’t want to have to ask my family doctor. He’s known me since I was a kid. It would just be…” She shrugged. “You know.”

Hannie nodded. “If you want me to go to the clinic with you, or anything else, just let me know. Okay?”

“Okay.” Jezza gave her a quick smile and turned away, smoothing a section of cable that was already in place.

Hannie put the gaffer tape back on the floor and stood up. She hoped Dr. Lomas would come through, for Jezza and for the film.

 

In the kitchen, Mosson sipped his coffee and tried to focus on the doctor’s stumbling description of her work. What he really wanted to do was turn around and watch Hannie. He wanted to watch her long hair swing heavily in its plait. He wanted to see the curve of her arse when she bent over. He wanted to feel her hands on his shoulders again. That had been a come-on, hadn’t it? She had kept them there for a long time, much longer than necessary.

“…I’ve never been very good with patients,” Dr. Lomas said.

Mosson nodded, trying to catch up with the conversation. The doctor’s tone was strangely confessional and she had finally stepped away from the safety of the larder door, her sharp shoulders hunched over her coffee mug.

“That’s why I’ve always preferred to do research,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. I want to help women and I consult at a women’s clinic. I just prefer to help a lot of them at once rather than one at a time. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“Sounds reasonable,” Mosson said. He took a long sip of coffee, searching for a way to swing the conversation around to Regina and the other women in the study. “So how is the research you’re doing now going to help lots of women?” he asked.

Dr. Lomas ground the heel of one hand into the other. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it. It was supposed to be the start of something big. Complete control over fertility. No pills. No gadgets. No nothing. Women could have complete control. I thought that’s what the study was about.”

“And it isn’t?” Mosson asked, watching her hands redden with the force of her reaming. He had obviously hit the bull’s-eye.

Dr. Lomas looked down at the floor. “No. Well, I don’t know,” she said. “That’s what I want to talk about. On the film. I want to put it all on the film. For the record.”

“Put exactly what on the record?” he asked.

He felt the air between them contract. The doctor swayed towards him, disclosure in her eyes.

“Are you ready to go through the checks, Mosson?” Jezza said, leaning across the counter. Her sudden presence pressed Dr. Lomas back against the larder door.

“Give me a minute,” Mosson said sharply, his face still angled towards the doctor’s unsaid words. But it was too late. Dr. Lomas was silent, her thin throat rippling with convulsive swallows. Mosson felt his own esophagus catch and spasm in sympathy.

“I’ll be right with you,” he said to Jezza.

Mosson walked quickly out of the kitchen, trying to work the anti-climax out of his tense muscles. He’d had the ridiculous desire to hear the doctor’s big secret just so he could take Hannie aside and present her with the information. Like a cat leaving a dead mouse on the doormat, he thought sourly. He walked across to the camera and tripod, watching Hannie tighten the sound-harness strap around her waist. No doubt she would get the information out of Dr. Lomas anyway, he thought. No need for his inept help.

The previous night Mosson had decided to quit as Hannie’s cameraman. Without the energy of true vocation behind it, filming was hard, tedious work, and Mosson was tired of feeling like a fraud. It would be better for everyone if he stopped trying to return to his glory days. He was a good executive producer. A good numbers man. It was time he went back to the office, where he belonged. Then Hannie had called to rearrange the interview and the warmth in her voice changed his mind. Mosson knew he could not let go of the delicate possibility between them. Maybe he had been fooling himself about his brilliant film career, but at least as her cameraman he would see her every day of the shoot. An executive producer would hardly see her at all. He saw her straighten, arch her back, and the small movement suddenly speared him against a wall of want.

 

Hannie pulled on the buckle of the waist strap, aware that Mosson was watching her harness-up. She glanced across at him and felt her quick scan lock on his raw gaze. His whole being was centered on her, the soft weight of his smile pressing against her breasts and belly and thighs. This time there was no ambiguity. Hannie looked down at the headphones in her hands—away from his question, away from the moment of decision. A spinning tangle of Sigmy, Robé, and Mosson coursed through her body. Could she bare herself again? Trust in the depth of this man? If she didn’t smile back, she could stop it now. Keep it professional. She closed her eyes, distracted by the beat of an older rhythm surging through her body. The pounding need to touch smooth skin and hard muscle was already clouding her fear. She looked up at Mosson and smiled.

“Are you going to do a white balance or not?” Jezza said. She was standing in front of the camera, holding up a large piece of white cardboard.

Hannie quickly turned away and snapped the headphones over her ears. Although she was facing Jezza, every part of her was straining towards Mosson. She saw him stoop down behind the camera, the promise of pleasure still stretching between them like a shivering spiderweb.

“Jez, I’ll get you to give me a hand with the sound. Then you better get going, okay?” Hannie said briskly. She had to stop focusing on Mosson and start concentrating on the shoot. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him lean back from the camera and turn to look at her again. She lifted her shoulder to block her line of sight. It was going to be a difficult day.

As soon as Jezza left the flat, Hannie coaxed Dr. Lomas out of the kitchen for the final checks. The doctor sat waiting in front of the camera with her briefcase pressed firmly between her legs and her fingers twisted into a tight ball on her lap. Her hair was still bunched into a lopsided topknot. Hannie longed to reach over and twitch it out of the headband. She studied the monitor, instructing Mosson to go in close. Maybe they could just leave the topknot out of frame.

The close-up of Dr. Lomas frowned. “I don’t want to be interviewed,” it said.

Hannie snapped her head up from the monitor screen. “What?”

“I don’t want you to ask me any questions. I just want to have my say and leave it at that,” Dr. Lomas said. She crossed her arms and stared down at the floor.

“But I’ve got all the questions ready,” Hannie said, straightening up. Her petulance echoed in her ears. She pushed the headphones off, hooking them around her neck. “Dr. Lomas, you agreed to be interviewed. We reorganized the whole shoot to suit you.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I told him before that I changed my mind,” the doctor said, nodding towards Mosson.

Hannie swung around to face him. Mosson shrugged and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said. “I didn’t realize that’s what you were trying to say.”

Hannie heard the slight edge in his voice. Was the doctor lying? Hannie knew it was no use arguing the point; she would just lose the shaky rapport she had built up with the woman. She would have to let Dr. Lomas have her way and try to slip in a few conversational directions as they went along.

“Okay, Doctor. That’s fine,” Hannie said. She glanced across at Mosson. “There seems to be a problem with one of the connections,” she said, tilting her head towards the kitchen. “We’ll need to check the power supply. Just bear with us, Dr. Lomas.”

She unplugged the sound recorder and walked over to the sleek steel counter that separated the kitchen and living room. Mosson jogged up.

“What’s wrong with the power supply?” he asked in an undertone.

“Nothing, I just wanted to talk to you,” Hannie said, her face turned away from the doctor. She knelt down and fiddled with a cable gaffered to the carpet. Mosson squatted beside her with his back to the living room. She could feel the heat from his body.

“I think we should go in for a close-up from the beginning,” she continued softly. “If the doctor sticks to this ‘no interview’ business, we can’t anticipate what she’s going to be talking about or for how long.”

“Okay. Close-up from the beginning.”

“And Mosson, can you frame her so that bloody topknot isn’t in shot?”

“Not a problem,” he said, smiling. As she moved to stand up, Mosson touched her quickly on the arm. “She didn’t tell me about changing her mind, you know.”

Hannie pulled her plait over her shoulder and ran her fingers down it, soothed by the soft corrugations. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to be a problem,” she said. Mosson was watching her hands. She let go of the plait. “I just hope we get something we can use.”

They walked back to the makeshift set. Dr. Lomas pulled out a bulging red manila folder from her briefcase and cradled it on her lap. Hannie plugged in the sound recorder again and waited for Mosson to frame the close-up. The tight shot did nothing for the doctor, but Hannie sensed the drama of the pale, tired face that filled the monitor screen. She picked up the boom, swinging it above the camera.

“Doctor, I’m going to do a sound check. Could you tell me what you had for breakfast today, in your normal speaking voice?” She positioned the headphones back over her ears.

“Porridge,” Dr. Lomas said. “I like porridge with prunes and yogurt. It’s very good for your bowel. Fiber, you see. We all need more fiber in our diets. The incidence of bowel cancer in the Western world is on the rise.”

“Thank you,” Hannie said. The levels were fine; Jezza had done a good job. “Okay, we’ll put one down. Are you ready to tape, Mosson?”

“Ready,” he said.

“Are you ready, Doctor?”

Dr. Lomas sat forward and swallowed. “Yes. I’m ready. Yes, let’s do it.”

“And roll tape.”

TAPE 1
DR. ARGALLA LOMAS INTERVIEW
TOTAL—NINE MINUTES

…you see the long, thin face of a woman, about forty-five years old. She is blinking rapidly, her gray eyes bruised underneath by exhaustion. She licks her lips. You notice they are cracked and only one shade darker than her pasty skin. She seems almost colorless, except for the gaudy rim of a green gingham headband that scrapes back her light brown hair. She swallows and looks to the right.

“Shall I start now?” she says. Although her voice is shrill and choppy with anxiety, underneath you hear the smooth edges of education.

“Go right ahead, Doctor. Just talk to the camera,” a female voice says.

The woman nods. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. Yes, at the beginning.” She looks directly at you. “For the past year—no, it’s been a year and a half now—I’ve been based at St. Michael’s Hospital, researching an enzymatic trigger in the female population.”

The woman licks her lips, the quick flash of her tongue vivid red against her pallor.

“It’s a worldwide study funded by Osagi-Fowler Pharmaceuticals. They specialize in fertility drug research and may have isolated a cellular trigger for a process in women called resorbing. I’m doing the Australian research. It’s mainly statistics, looking at the incidence of the trigger in the population. At the moment it’s quite rare and seems to be a random and spontaneous mutation, but it could be the next evolutionary step for humanity. Well, I think it could be. Osagi-Fowler is being shortsighted about it.”

“Could you tell us a bit more about resorbing, Doctor?” the voice asks.

You see the woman’s face stiffen with irritation. “I was going to,” she says. “Resorbing is the ability of a gestating female to reabsorb developed fetal material back into her body at a time of stress. It’s been widely documented in small mammals like rabbits in overcrowded conditions, but human females have only been known to resorb at a very early cell stage of pregnancy. No more than one or two days after implantation.” The doctor leans forward. “Late resorbing—and by late, I mean months into the pregnancy—has never been documented before. But I got one.” Her eyes widen with importance. “I got one on ultrasound video. I recorded a woman resorbing a four-month-old fetus.”

The doctor looks down. She is chewing on her lower lip, her teeth tearing at the splitting skin. The short silence lengthens into heavy seconds.

“You recorded a late resorbing?” the voice prompts.

The doctor looks up, her face mottled by a flush. “I paid the woman to resorb,” she says, the words coming in a rush. “I know it wasn’t strictly ethical, but I didn’t have time to put it through the committee. They take so long and Regina wasn’t going to wait. She said she could resorb at will and if I paid her five hundred dollars, I could video her resorbing her baby. That day. Take it or leave it. It was such an amazing chance. Do you know how rare this profile is? I’ve only found seven women in Australia who have the right genetic profile. I had to act quickly, so I paid her out of my research funds. Okay, it was without authorization, but I thought,” she stops and swallows, “I thought it would be such a coup for the hospital and Osagi-Fowler.” She looks down again. “And me.”

“And was it?”

She gives a short laugh. “No, I wouldn’t call it a coup. I wrote a paper, but they wouldn’t let me publish it. Said it wasn’t what they were funding and that I had compromised the research. I can’t believe they’re being so shortsighted; it’s the first documented late-resorbing in a human. And not only that, if Regina was telling the truth, it was done at will.” The doctor draws back, takes a breath. “It was picked up by a newspaper. I don’t know how.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t tell them. A little man came round and interviewed me. He was really interested. Wanted to do a feature on me and Regina, but they wouldn’t allow it. Said there were too many legal issues. I’ll tell you what the issues are: they don’t want my finding to overshadow their research.”

“Do you mean the hospital or the pharmaceutical company?” the voice asks.

“Both, I suppose, although it was Salvatore who rang me…” she pauses, her mouth tightening for a moment, “…Dr. Salvatore Famagusta, he’s in charge of the study at Osagi-Fowler. He rang and told me not to comment.” She pushes the gingham headband back. “Look, I don’t want to answer any questions. You said I could have my say. And that’s my say. An important discovery is being gagged. My important discovery.”

“Do you know why they are gagging your discovery?” the voice says.

“The official reason is that they aren’t happy about the ultrasound video. You see, I didn’t get Regina to sign any release forms. I should have, but I didn’t.” Her thin fingers massage her temple. “I don’t think Regina would have signed a release anyway, unless I paid her more money. Salvatore said I was on very shaky ethical ground and insisted I send him the tape. So I sent him a copy and kept the master. I mean, I’m not going to let someone else take the credit for my discovery.”

“Do you know that Regina has been missing for nearly six weeks now?” the voice says.

“From what I can tell, she does that kind of thing all the time,” the doctor says quickly. “She seems to be mixed up with some very rough people.” She pauses, frowns. “But what’s really strange is that I can’t seem to contact another girl on my list. And this girl’s not the type to just take off, like Regina.” Her head tilts in a shrug, “I don’t know. It just seems like a strange coincidence.”

“What list? What girl?” the voice asks.

The doctor leans forward. “Can you cut now? I don’t want to be filmed anymore. I won’t say anything else until you stop the camera.”

“Cut,” the voice says.

“Is it off?” the doctor asks. “I don’t want this on film.”

“It’s off,” a male voice says.

“Okay. Good.” The doctor looks down and you hear the sound of papers rustling. “This is a list of the seven women I’ve found so far in Australia who have the profile.” She holds up a piece of paper sideways, the short list of names and addresses spiking up along the margin like a bar graph. “I contacted Regina and this other girl, Carousel Dane, a few months back to see if they…” she stops and pushes on the gingham headband again, “…if they would answer some follow-up questions. Just those two; none of the others. Regina said no, but Carousel agreed to come in. She was supposed to see me a week ago, but she didn’t show. She might just have forgotten the appointment. I mean, she forgot the first appointment. But this time when I rang to reschedule, her phone was disconnected.”

“Have you contacted anyone else on the list?” the female voice asks.

The doctor wets her lips with her tongue. “Well, no. I’m not really authorized to contact any of the women on the list. The reports I’m using for the research are supposed to be confidential. I…” She takes a deep breath. “The truth is, I was doing a bit more research about whether resorbing can be done by will. Nothing that would compromise the Osagi-Fowler study. It’s just that I can’t let this chance slip away. I videoed the resorbing—I should be able to publish and get the recognition. Don’t you think? I should get the recognition for what I’ve done.”

“Have you checked to see if any of the other women on your list are missing?”

“I’m sure it’s just coincidence. Carousel has probably moved house or something. And I’m not supposed to be contacting these women anyway. I could get into more trouble. Serious trouble. I could even lose my job.” The doctor moves and the screen is suddenly patterned with navy blue and white stripes, the neatly knitted bands warped by the swell of her small uneven breasts.

“Perhaps we could check the list for you, Doctor,” you hear the female voice say.

The screen goes black.


Hannie put down the boom and slid the headphones off her head. She kept her eyes on Dr. Lomas, aware that Mosson was turning off the camera under the pretext of stretching. It was good that he had kept filming, but Hannie knew she wouldn’t be able to use the extra footage this time. The doctor had asked for the camera to be turned off—it would leave them too open to a lawsuit. Even the extra Byron footage was going to stretch the ethical and legal boundaries.

“No, I can’t do that,” the doctor said. “The list isn’t mine. It’s the property of Osagi-Fowler.”

“Yes, of course, I understand,” Hannie said. She hadn’t really expected the doctor to hand it over. It was a pity, though—two missing women seemed a bit of a coincidence. Hannie would have liked to have followed up on the names on the list. “The video, though,” she said, “that’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Well, I suppose so. Technically, a medical test is the property of the requesting doctor.”

“Would you let me have a look at it? I’d really like to see your discovery. And I could get a better idea of what the resorbing process looks like.” A plan to animate the process was forming in Hannie’s mind. Just a few minutes of digital animation to show how it all happened. It would be expensive, but maybe she could find some students who would be willing to take less money for the credit of working on a professional film. She smiled encouragingly at the doctor. “It would be just for my information. I wouldn’t use the ultrasound unless you and Regina okayed it. And if that happens, then of course you would get full recognition for it. We could even do a follow-up interview about your work.”

“Another interview? About my work?” The doctor licked her lips. “I suppose I can let you see it. But you can only have it for a few days. I’ll have to have it back by the end of the week.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

The doctor bent down and dug her hand inside her briefcase. She pulled out a videotape.

“You carry it around with you?” Mosson said, walking up beside Hannie.

The doctor flushed. “I brought all of Regina’s file with me. I don’t like to leave it at the office.”

She handed Hannie the tape then picked up her briefcase, holding it tightly under her arm. Hannie stared at the overstuffed folder poking out of the top of the bag.

“Since you’ve got Regina’s file with you, would you let us have a quick look at it?” she asked. “Just to see if there’s anything that might help us find her.” She knew it was a long shot. From the way the doctor was clutching the briefcase, she probably slept with the file.

“There’s nothing in here that will help you find Regina,” Dr. Lomas said. “It’s just medical records.”

Hannie stroked her plait. All that information about Regina. So close. When the doctor turned to go, it would only take a quick flick of the wrist to pull something out. Maybe even the list.

Mosson shifted beside her. “Right, thanks for coming, Doctor,” he said.

Hannie exhaled—the sharp lunacy of the moment gone. “Yes, thanks for coming,” she echoed. She pulled the headphones from around her neck and unclipped the harness buckle, twisting out of the PortaBrace. She had a promise to keep. “Here, let me show you out,” she said, ushering Dr. Lomas towards the front door with an outstretched arm. She looked back to make sure Mosson wasn’t following.

“Doctor, there’s something I’d like to ask you,” she said when they reached the front door.

Dr. Lomas laid a protective hand over the folder.

“No, it’s not that. It’s about my friend who was here before,” Hannie said. “Jezza, the tall one. She’s…” Hannie leaned closer and lowered her voice. “She needs a referral. She’s just found out she’s pregnant and she…well, she needs a referral for a clinic.”

“She should see her own doctor.”

“No, she doesn’t want to see him. He’s an old family doctor and she feels a bit weird about it.”

“She’s really supposed to see someone before she’s referred to a clinic,” Dr. Lomas said. She chewed on her bottom lip. “Look, I work at the Richmond Street Clinic on Monday mornings and Tuesdays. If she comes in first thing tomorrow, I’ll organize an appointment with one of the counselors. But I have to warn you, she may have to wait up to two weeks for the procedure.”

“Thank you,” Hannie said.

Her eyes dropped to the red folder again. Even a quick look at the list would be helpful. Whatever it takes to make the best film, Hannie thought. She opened the front door. The doctor would turn any minute and the briefcase would be at hand height, the file ragged with loose pages. Whatever it takes. The caustic memory of two red-wrapped tapes made Hannie step back, away from the temptation. It made her look down the hallway at Mosson, at the man who had pressed his smile against her body. She had missed all her chances to tell him about using his tapes. Now it was too late; the hope between them was more important than the truth.

Hannie moved aside to let the doctor walk out of the apartment then closed the front door. She stood for a moment in the narrow hallway, reluctant to return to the living room. They were alone now. She fluffed out her fringe and smoothed her thumbs across her eyebrows. Best to keep things businesslike for the moment, she thought, as she walked towards the main room. That way she could let him make the next move. She stopped at the end of the corridor. Mosson was winding a cable around the axis of his smooth forearm, the certainty of his movements holding her eye.

He looked up. “She gone?”

Hannie nodded. Everyone was gone. “Thank you for opening up your home. It was very late notice and I appreciate it,” she said, knowing the words were too formal, too businesslike.

“Mi casa es su casa,” he said lightly, but his face had tightened into a watchful neutrality. “We didn’t get much new information about Regina, though, did we? We already knew the doctor had paid for the tape. She just wanted to bitch about her research.”

“We didn’t know that another girl was missing,” Hannie said. She pulled her plait around and played with the tufted end, flicking it across her palm.

Might be missing,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cable he was looping. “Dr. Lomas just couldn’t get in touch with her. And you can’t call Regina missing. She’s just fucked off somewhere.”

“Still, I wish I’d got a look at that list of women.”

Mosson tossed the cable into the storage crate. “I think the doctor would have defended her file to the death.” He looked at his watch and inhaled a hissing breath through his teeth. “Bugger. I’ve got to get back to the office for a budget meeting. Let’s get this stuff packed up as quickly as possible.”

“Right. Okay,” Hannie said.

She dropped her plait. He was keeping things businesslike, too. Which was good, she told herself. No need to rush things. She had a film to make and he knew that was the most important thing at the moment. He was probably just being careful. The memory of Sigmy’s rejection of her diseased body roiled in her gut. She walked over to the fill light and bent down to unplug it, ducking away from the creeping fear that Mosson wasn’t being considerate or cautious at all, but had also decided that her body was too disgusting to touch.

WHAT’S THE DIFF?

I ’LL HAVE THE AGADASHI DOFU,” I TELL THE YOUNG Japanese waitress. “And green tea.”

I would have preferred a bottle of sake to go with the agadashi fish stock, but I need to be sharp tonight. The waitress smiles and dips her head in a shallow bow. She’s not pretty—too many teeth, and bad skin—but she’s got a great little body. She shuffles off towards the kitchen. I follow her progress with my eyes then let them rest for a moment on the three Japanese men sitting at the table across from me. One big bastard who looks like Elvis in the fat years, a skinny guy with a long stringy ponytail, and a thickset kid about Teo’s age. They are Yakuza.

This little side visit to the Oishii Japanese Restaurant has put me behind schedule. I should be out of Sydney by now and heading to Grafton for the sixth job, but it took me all yesterday to find out where I could contact some Yakuza. Hong’s idea to go to a bathhouse was way out-of-date; the three I went to were full of poofs. So I went looking for Dug’s cousin, Benison, for some updated information. I found him losing hard in a crap game at the back of a bakery in Chinatown. He told me I would find an old-guard Yakuza at the Oishii. He also told me he flew down for Teo’s funeral the day before. “Dug was looking for you,” he said, then threw the dice. Snake eyes.

I’m waiting for Fat Elvis to take a piss. A restaurant toilet is not my usual choice of meeting place—a bad place if it comes to a fight—but I haven’t got time to fuck around. At least the one at the back of this place is big enough for two men to hold a conversation with a decent amount of space between them. I figure I’ll have a better chance approaching Fat Elvis than the two kids. He looks about my age—well past any stupid bravado and more familiar with the tricky business of information exchange. Of course, it will all depend on whether he’s interested in the name of the man who topped Mickey Shima three years ago. He may not give a damn; I don’t know how tight the Nip network operates. I came across the name by accident, a few unconnected comments around the traps that added up to the killer of Mickey and his pregnant girlfriend. No use to me at the time, but now it might buy me the information I need.

The waitress carries over a porcelain teapot and a small cup, placing them in the center of my table. She pours the golden-green tea then bows and heads off towards the Yakuza. I watch her bend down to listen to the man with the ponytail. Suddenly she laughs, quickly raising her hand to hide her mouth. Fat Elvis smiles at the joke then scans the room. We lock eyes for a second. A long, calm, sizing-up second. His eyes are tough-guy neutral, then I catch a flicker of ironic acknowledgment. It’s so like Hong that I almost smile back. The thickset kid opposite him has noticed the exchange and turns to look at me too. Face-on, the resemblance between them is so strong that they must be father and son. A Yakuza family. The boy asks Fat Elvis a question in urgent, low-toned Japanese. Fat Elvis shakes his head. Bingo—he’s decided to deal with me himself.

I remember sitting at the back of the Jade Lotus with Hong a few days after Rosetta’s funeral. Teo would have been twenty this year, so it must have been almost ten years ago. Dug and Charmaine were upstairs showing Teo his new bedroom, while Hong and I waited at the family table in the restaurant. Hong was staring at the beer in front of him.

“I think Dug and Charm will do a good job of looking after him,” he said, without looking up.

I drained my second stubby. Personally, I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to Charmaine Chung, but saying so wasn’t going to help Hong. I pushed the empty bottle onto the table, lining it up with the first. “You going to drink that?” I asked, nodding at his beer.

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “No, you have it.”

I picked the bottle up by its neck and took a swig.

Hong crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “They’ll probably do a better job with him than I ever did anyway.”

“I dunno,” I said, rolling the cold stubby between my hands. “You did all right. She always got her money.”

Hong gave a sharp laugh. “Yeah, I was always on time with the money, but I never got to see him. Rosie said it just made him upset. I hardly know the kid now.”

“Well, Rosie’s not here anymore,” I said. “Get to know him now. You could even train him up like you did with me.”

“Yeah, Rose would have loved that,” Hong said. He shook his head. “No, Teo’s not cut out for it. Too impulsive, too impatient. He’d do something stupid and end up dead.” Hong brushed his hand across the tabletop, smearing the wet circle left by the bottle. “I wouldn’t want to outlive my own kid. It goes against nature.”

The waitress slides a carafe of sake onto the Yakuza table then hurries over to an impatient couple with sleek hair and solarium tans. Young Elvis pours a glass for his father, the wine overflowing into the square lacquer saucer beneath it. I sip my tea. I should have taken on Teo before he joined the Serpents. Trained him, like Hong trained me. I just didn’t think the boy was ready yet. I suppose I could’ve started him off with some straightforward surveillance. Teach him how to wait—how to find that space where time and body aren’t important. If he’d handled that all right, then maybe I could have shown him how to do the job properly, how to be my partner. He would have had to learn that it isn’t all gunfights and car chases, like the movies. If it does come down to a gunfight, then you’ve blown it. You’ve failed. It’s a hard thing for young kids to grasp; they all think it’s about the glory of the fight. Old survivors, like me and Fat Elvis, know that the glory is in the well-executed plan. But that’s the stuff of experience.

First things first: surveillance and then intensive target training. We could have gone to a great little place just out of Eildon for a few weeks. It’s not fancy, just a shack with the basics, but it’s got a good stretch of private property where you can shoot without being disturbed. I think Teo would have liked learning how to handle the long-range equipment. That’s how Hong taught me—long-range first, then build up to the hand-to-hand stuff. Of course, the real skill is in planning the job so that you never have to go in that close. If the kid had got good enough, then maybe I could have given him the samurai hilt, after all. Passed it on, from father to son.

“Agadashi dofu,” the waitress announces, arranging a deep-sided black lacquer bowl and flat-bottomed spoon in front of me. Three large golden cubes of fried tofu sit neatly stacked in the center of a shimmering brown stock, the top cube decorated with spring onions, pureed ginger, and bonito flakes. The steam from the stock is making the flakes wave and shiver as if they’re alive. I nod my thanks to the waitress and breathe in the fishy heat coming off the soup. Maybe I could go and live in Japan for a while after I finish the job. Or I could go back to Africa—there’s always work in the south or along the coast. That would make it a full circle; I did my first job in Harare when Zimbabwe was still Rhodesia. Hong arranged it—a minor government official called Lance Chokely who was getting in someone’s way. I was young and cocky enough to think killing a civilian for money was the same as killing a noggie or a terr.

“What’s the diff?” I said to Hong before I went out to do the job. I was toeing around the overbright hotel room, working a bit of the adrenaline out of my system. Hong was sitting on the end of one of the double beds. He looked right through me; the thousand-yard stare of the combat vet.

“There’s no excuse now,” he said slowly. “That’s the difference.”

I had no idea what he meant. I left the room and did the job. A clean shot to the head outside a brothel. When I got back to the hotel room, I walked straight through to the crappy little bathroom, grabbed each side of the chipped toilet bowl, and chucked my guts up. Adrenaline overload; I hadn’t had it since my first days in Vietnam.

Hong stood in the doorway holding a new bottle of bourbon and watched me. “Not the same, is it?” he said.

In the lull between heaves, I shook my head.

He passed me the bourbon. “It will be.”

I drank the whole bottle by myself. The next morning I was as sick as a dog again, but the booze had helped me make up my own excuse. It’s helped ever since.

I slice one of the fried blocks in half with my chopsticks and pick up a piece. It’s good tofu, firm and creamy with a crisp outer layer. Fat Elvis is eating salmon sushi and listening to the skinny guy tell a story, but I can see he’s monitoring me. I take another piece of tofu and swish it around in the soup. If Fat Elvis doesn’t make a move soon, I may have to force the issue. I need to be out of here by ten if I’m going to get to Port Macquarie by morning. Two more women to track down, and under three weeks left to finish the job. It’s going to be a close call. Then I have the small matter of Jie Chee. It’s going to be risky hanging around after I finish the contract, but I can’t go anywhere until I take out the bastard. It won’t help Teo, but at least I’ll get a bit of satisfaction.

I swallow the last of the soup and place the spoon back on its rest. Fat Elvis awkwardly reverses his bulk out of the cramped seating then weaves his way through the tables towards the back of the restaurant. Was he waiting for me to finish? I sip my cup of green tea, count ten beats, then stand up. Young Elvis marks my movement with a frown. He knows something is going on, but Fat Elvis must have told him to stay put. I give the boy five minutes before he comes barging in to check on his father. Family always gives the best backup. Unless, of course, they’re sitting in a pub drinking bourbon, too pissed off at you for not listening to their advice. Too pissed off to guard your back.

The toilets are at the far end of a thin corridor that leads past the kitchen and out to a dingy back courtyard. The wire-screen door is open, a chill breeze clearing away the compressed smell of hot oil, wet dishes, and soy. A girl with short red hair and freckled skin steps out of the Ladies’ and presses her body against the wall as I move past her, a small smile of apology on her glossed mouth. Her belly bulges out above low-cut jeans, the pale flesh both arousing and obscene. It reminds me of Sylvie—I was going to ask her to come overseas with me. But she’s got a life here. She wouldn’t want to be so far from her kid.

I stop outside the Men’s and picture the room inside: a small wash area about two meters by three and a doorway to the right that leads to a couple of stalls and a urinal. Fat Elvis will be waiting to the left, angled behind the door swing, out of the immediate line of sight. I step to the hinge side and push open the door.

Fat Elvis is standing in the doorway to the stalls, arms crossed, heavy body filling the entire space. A shoulder holster is straining the seam around his left armpit and he’s slipped the fingertips of his right hand just under the lapel. It’s not a threat, he’s just pointing out the possibility of quick action. I step into the cramped room and let the door swing back. He stares at me, his thick eyebrows lifted politely. It’s my move. In such a small space, the Yakuza greeting is going to put me at a disadvantage, but at least he’ll know I’m not there for a fight. I slowly squat down into the side-on stance and extend my hand. It’s a tight fit. I nod once, looking up at him, every cell in my body warring against the position.

“I am Trojan Carmichael, a free agent. Can we talk?”

Fat Elvis clears his throat and steps back, eyeing me as if I’ve just offered to suck his cock. I keep my eyes on his, fighting the urge to stand up. If someone opens the toilet door now, they’ll smash my face in. Fat Elvis must have come to the same conclusion, because he backs a little way into the stall room then carefully lowers himself into the stance. He extends his hand and nods.

“I am Sukama Hiro, a free agent, currently sworn to the Itamoko house.”

The Itamoko family? The name jogs a memory; big Gold Coast Yakuza with huge gambling interests. Sukama is well connected.

He steadies himself with a hand on the door frame. “It’s a bit small in here for this,” he says. “Do you mind if we get up?”

“Good idea.” I stand, my tension easing down a notch. Sukama waits until I’m standing then pulls himself upright.

“So, Trojan Carmichael, who do you serve?” he asks, smoothing a crease out of his trousers. A man who gets down to business.

“Who I serve is what I want to talk about.”

He stops brushing the cloth and looks up at me. This is the tricky bit—how much do I tell him?

“I’m currently engaged in international business that has a number of levels of security involved,” I say, feeling my way.

Sukama nods, his eyebrows drawn in polite concentration.

“It would be very useful to know,” I continue carefully, “if you have heard of any Japanese organizations that have initiated a large multiple contract in Australia in the last six months.”

“In what area?”

“Terminations,” I say very softly.

Sukama grunts.

I hold out my hands, palms up. “Of course, such help would be greatly appreciated.”

“Of course,” Sukama says blandly.

I only have one card in this game. If it’s not good enough then I’m out.

“Mickey Shima,” I say, playing it straight.

Sukama stiffens. My card is good.

“You know who did this?” Sukama says, his voice rough.

“I’ve got the name and the address.”

“Hi,” Sukama says, nodding, “the appreciation matches the request.”

We eye each other, weighing up the possibility of a con.

“Barry Lau,” I say. “Currently at the Southern Star in Fitzroy.”

“Yosh!” Sukama gives one quick nod of his head. He stares down at the tiled floor, lost for a moment in plans for Barry Lau of Fitzroy. “It’s good,” he says. “And your question. I know of one multiple contract. Not out of Japan. Somewhere in Africa, but with Japanese interests. That’s all I’ve heard.” He shrugs.

“A Yakuza contract?”

“Maybe,” he says, gruffly. Which, according to Hong, means no.

It’s my turn to look at the floor. If the contract is coming out of Africa, has Japanese interests, but isn’t Yakuza, it must be legit.

But where in Africa? It’s a big place.

The toilet door swings open, hitting me hard in the shoulder. I step back against the wall as Young Elvis squeezes into the room. Sukama frowns, snapping something in harsh Japanese. The boy reddens.

“Sorry,” he mutters in my direction, backing out again. The door swings shut.

“My apologies for his rudeness. Very young, very eager,” Sukama says, shaking his head.

“But it must be good to have your son watching your back,” I say. “Family has the sharpest eyes, hey?”

Sukama laughs and moves towards the door. “Koji is not my son,” he says. “My son is studying economics. At Sydney University. A very good school.” He pauses and bows his head in a quick salute. “Good-bye, Trojan Carmichael. Good luck.”

I nod back. Sukama turns and pushes through the swing door. A son studying economics—about as useless as you can get. But I suppose he won’t get hacked to death with a machete.