The First Deal

 

TWO RED-WRAPPED TAPES

H ANNIE REYNARD WAS HANGING UPSIDE DOWN from her hallway ceiling in a new pair of gravity boots when a letter shot through the front-door slot. The envelope arced towards Hannie’s forehead, and in the second before it hit her, she recognized the red logo of the Independent Filmmakers Fund. Fuck, they’ve found out, she thought as she swayed backwards. On the return swing, she snatched up the letter.

“You should get down,” Jezza called from the lounge room. “I read in Women’s Health that you shouldn’t hang upside down when you’ve got your period. Makes you sterile.”

Hannie ripped the top off the envelope, tearing the letter inside. She’d been hanging too long and her hands were hot and stiff.

“Apparently all the blood goes up your tubes,” Jezza added.

Hannie unfolded the letter. There was something vulnerable about reading upside down, so she tucked her chin up against her chest and held the letter close to her face.


Dear Ms. Reynard, it read.

It has come to the attention of this office that you have failed to lodge the last two progress reports for your documentary Freaks or Frauds. Also, a substantial discrepancy between your grant account lines and your original budget has been detected. Consequently, an investigation…


Hannie scanned the rest of the letter:


…make all records available

…appointment of an administrator

…meeting next week


She came to the signature: Mosson J. Ferret. Acting Finance Manager.

Mosson Ferret. They’d been in the same Advanced Film Editing class about ten years ago. Every Tuesday afternoon she’d sat behind his knobbly line of neck vertebrae and watched the flare of the overhead light slide across his bald skull. Someone had told her that Mosson had no hair on his body at all, not even up his nose. Hannie had wondered if that meant pubes too. He’d only spoken to her once.

“You’re Hannie, right?” He had screwed his body around in the cramped seat until one of his back bones jutted like a dorsal fin.

Hannie nodded. No eyebrows, she noted. She leaned forward. Or eyelashes. The bareness seemed to blur the Japanese curve of his eyes.

“Can you lend me ten bucks?” he said. “I can pay you back next week.”

“What’s it for?” Hannie asked.

“I’ve got a job interview. I need to buy a shirt.”

“What’s the job?”

“Shit-kicker at the IFF,” Mosson said. “Every other film nut will be after it, but I’m feeling lucky.”

A mutual friend later told Hannie that Mosson Ferret was the luckiest bastard alive. He didn’t return to the college, and his Advanced Editing seat was taken by Jeffrey Landis, whose neck was hidden by a thick pelt of black hair.

It was possible that Hannie would have forgotten Mosson Ferret and her ten dollars, but one afternoon near the end of that final year, she found his unfinished graduation work. It was lying at the back of a drawer in the college editing suite. Two videotapes wrapped in a red plastic bag. Two hours of brilliant film work. Just lying around.

“The manual says you should only hang upside down for five minutes. You’ve been up there for ten. Your head will explode, you know.”

Hannie dropped the letter away from her face and saw the dusty underside of Jezza’s knees.

“I’m in big trouble,” she said. “Read this.” She held the letter up towards Jezza’s hands.

“Let’s get you down first,” Jezza said, edging past Hannie. “I can’t talk to you properly when you’re like that.”

“I’ve been sprung by the IFF,” Hannie said.

From behind, Hannie felt Jezza grab her under the arms and push her up towards the bar across the ceiling.

“Gee, you don’t even weigh as much as a sixteen-channel sound desk,” Jezza said. “You okay?”

Jezza was a roadie and Hannie had seen her lift old-fashioned twenty-four-channel sound desks by herself with no problem; the woman was built like a brick shit-house. A very good thing too, Hannie thought as she grabbed the bar and hauled herself into a shaky stomach crunch. A less Amazonian friend wouldn’t be able to rescue her—she’d be stuck upside down until all her blood hammered its way out of her ears. She leaned back into Jezza’s steady grip and fumbled to unhook the left gravity boot.

“Can you push me up a bit more?”

She felt herself rise and quickly unhooked both feet. Jezza eased her to the ground.

“Are you going to faint?” she asked. “You look really pale.”

“I’m fine,” Hannie said, but her next words drained away with the blood-rush back through her body. She held out the letter, feeling for the wall behind her with her other hand.

“Go sit down,” Jezza said. She took the piece of paper, holding the ripped corner in place as she carefully read the words.

Hannie walked towards the kitchen, her hands slapping the damp-cracked walls for support.

“The bastards are going to take my film off me.”

“It doesn’t say that,” Jezza said, following her up the hallway. “It says that pending an investigation, an administrator will be appointed.”

Hannie sat down at the kitchen table. Jezza didn’t understand. Appointing an administrator meant sending round an IFF Nazi. Hannie knew what he would find in his investigation too: a thirty-thousand-dollar trip to Paris in the general-expenses account line. Her original project budget had only allowed ten thousand dollars for travel. Paris would be considered a bit off the beaten track. Especially for a documentary about three medical freaks in Australia.

“I’m an idiot,” Hannie said. “Why did I ever think I could get away with it? I’ve never gotten away with anything in my whole life.” Except for two red-wrapped tapes. The sharp flick of memory hunched her over the table.

“Then why did you do it?”

Hannie rubbed at a dried spill on the worn Formica top. She couldn’t tell Jezza the real reason why she’d suddenly stopped pre-production of her film and flown to Paris. How could she explain the ugly betrayal of her body and the creeping loss of confidence?

“It’s not fair,” she finally said. “Everybody uses their grant to go overseas. Why am I the only sucker who gets found out?”

“Probably because everybody else gets their figures right,” Jezza said. “You’ve got to admit, spending thirty grand on a holiday is a bit out of order.” She sat on the stool opposite Hannie and hooked her work-boot heels over the footrest so that her long legs frogged on either side. “Sister Mary Joseph used to tell me that God forgives all sins except failing maths.” She laid the letter on the table between them.

“I’ve wrecked my big chance,” Hannie said. “Now they’re going to put some idiot in charge who hasn’t got a creative bone in his body.” Or worse still, she thought, someone brilliant. Someone like Mosson Ferret.

“I thought they’d already put some idiot in charge,” Jezza said.

“Of course they did, but he got fired. The IFF never got back to me about it.”

“Well, they have now, like a ton of bricks,” Jezza said. “I just hope your trip was worth it.”

Although the spill on the Formica had not shifted, Hannie pretended to dust it off with the flat of her hand. The trip had cost her much more than her grant. She had rented a flat above a cheese shop on the Rue de Montmartre, with the old vomit smell of blue-vein embedded in the carpets. It was the specialty of the shop and every morning she and Robé had devoured it with fresh hard-crusted bread that had slashed their gums. Sharp cheese and salty blood. Robé had said the penicillin was already built in and had laughed at her anxious gum inspection. “I will adore you even if every tooth falls out of your head,” he’d said, gently licking her lower lip. She should have known then that he was a con artist.

“What am I going to do?” Hannie said.

She twisted her fingers into her hair and pulled on the long strands. After so many years of working for other people, she’d finally got the funding for a solo project. Sure, she’d used some of Mosson’s grad film in the IFF application, but she’d only done it to get her break. Everyone knew you got your break any way you could, then you proved yourself. Under the table, she pressed down on her stomach to stop the sudden quickening of self-doubt. Freaks or Frauds was going to launch her directing career—she had worked so hard to make it happen. It was true Paris had been a big mistake, but she could get back on schedule, and she still had a chunk of the grant money left. Oh, God, she thought, tightening her grip on her hair, had Mosson watched the application films and seen his own stuff? Was that why he was coming after her? A snap of pain jolted her hand away and she stared at the red-gold knot wrapped around her fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Jezza asked.

“I’ve got to get filming.”

Hannie shook her fingers free of the hair and opened the drawer under the kitchen sink. She scrabbled through the knife compartment. “Where are the bloody pens when you need them?” She pulled out a red Biro.

“Okay, let me think,” she said, flipping the IFF letter over. “I need crew and equipment.” She tapped the pen on the tabletop. “What are you doing the next couple of weeks?” she asked.

“I’ve got a bump-in at the Arts Centre tomorrow, but that’s about it,” Jezza said.

“You up for some lighting and sound work?” Hannie asked.

“Sure.”

“Great. If Tiny’s around, I’ll ask him to do camera.” Hannie wrote down the names and the costs. “Condo Spinner will fix me up with equipment. He owes me a few thousand favors.”

“What are we filming?”

Hannie paused. She had finished researching two of the women she wanted to interview, but both of them lived interstate. There just wasn’t enough time to get a film crew up to Sydney for the Human Slug, let alone Brisbane for the Kangaroo Lady. At least the third freak lived in Melbourne, but Hannie only had a tenuous lead on her: a newspaper article.

“We’re going to film a woman who can resorb her own babies,” Hannie said. She wrote phone Herald, about Rabbit Woman on the back of the letter.

“What do you mean, resorb?”

“Kind of sucks the baby back into her own body. Apparently rabbits do it all the time when there’s a drought or if they get overcrowded.”

“That’s revolting,” Jezza said, pushing herself away from the table. “I don’t want to see that.”

“We’re not going to film her doing it. We’re just going to talk to her,” Hannie said. “I’ll see if I can get an interview next week.”

Jezza folded her arms across her chest. “Does she suck back the bones too?”

“I suppose so. I’m not sure how she does it.” Hannie looked up from the piece of paper. “Are you okay? I didn’t know you were so squeamish.”

“I’m not.” Jezza hunched her shoulders. “It’s just, you know, she’s sucking back her own kid.”

“Well, at least she’s not paying some backyarder to do it,” Hannie said. “It’s too bad we all can’t resorb.”

“We’d never have to worry about the condom busting or the pill not working,” Jezza said. She sat up straighter. “We’d never have to worry about getting pregnant again.” She shook her head. “Nah, I can’t imagine it. Some prick would make it illegal.”

They both laughed, Jezza hanging on to the front of her stool for balance.

“Maybe this Rabbit Woman can teach us all how to do it,” Hannie said.

Jezza shrugged and dropped her feet to the floor. She’d obviously had enough fantasy for one day. Hannie, however, imagined herself as a Rabbit Woman. Always able to choose between the bold unfolding of birth and the curled stillness of death. She sighed. Too bad the Rabbit Woman was only a freak.

A TEN-DOLLAR KINDNESS

M OSSON FERRET LEANED FORWARD UNTIL HIS forehead touched the cold glass of his office window. This job, he thought, was becoming one long meeting. And meetings gave him migraines. He looked down at the street below. Rush hour at 6 P.M. Didn’t anyone leave at five o’clock anymore? He pressed his forehead harder against the glass. Maybe he could crush the pain.

“Mosson?”

He turned around. The sudden movement cymbaled through his head and down his spine, the pain softening into nausea. Sol was standing in the doorway holding a manila folder and a videotape box against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Mosson said. He leaned on the back of his chair, his palms damp against the vinyl. “Is that the Reynard file?”

“Yeah. And her application tape.” Sol walked over to the desk and placed the file and tape on a stack of folders. “I’ve rung her twice, but I only get her answering machine.”

Mosson grunted. “Give it another go on Monday.” He looked down at his watch. “You should get going.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way. Are you staying back?” Sol asked.

Mosson swallowed against the sour dryness in his mouth and tightened his grip on the chair. Just fuck off and leave me alone, he thought. But he was a manager now, so he said, “Not for long. I’ve got a bit more work to do on the Reynard budget. You get going, though. I’ll see you Monday.”

Sol waved and left the room.

Mosson swiveled the chair around and lowered himself onto the seat. Holding his neck and head very still, he crab-walked the chair around until he faced the desk. Thank God he had remembered to put another packet of extra-strength aspirin in the top drawer. He found the box and pulled out the foil strip, tearing off four tablets. Four at once. It was a trick he had learned from Pippa. She was a nurse and had told him that four aspirin would dilate the constricted blood vessels in his brain and stop the migraine. Not too good for your gut lining, though, she’d said. Mosson ripped the tops off the tiny sachets and dumped the tablets into his glass of water. He watched the discs spin downward then spring back up, trailing particles. Pippa was a bald fancier. She always wanted to hold his head in her hands when they screwed. A bit uncomfortable, but not as bad as that costume designer. The one who had wanted him to shave off her pubes and stick them on his head with wig glue. On the first date.

Mosson stirred the white water with his finger, poking the last bit of tablet to break it up. He knew that once he took the aspirin, it would only take twenty minutes for the pain to go. He could last twenty minutes. He drank the mixture, pausing to swirl the undissolved dregs into the final mouthful.

Twenty minutes to kill. Mosson picked up the Reynard tape. Application films were always half an hour long. He would be okay by the time it finished. He slid the tape out of its case. The IFF assessment label was covered in Jeremy’s ornate handwriting. Poor bastard. One minute you’re manager of a department, next minute you’re out on your arse. Mosson started to read the assessment, but the edges of the label suddenly faded away, leaving a pinhole view of the word outstanding. He closed his eyes. Migraine sight loss always scared the hell out of him. He took a deep breath and looked at the label again. The left side was missing. Maybe watching the tape wasn’t such a good idea.

He pushed the video back into its case and placed it in his open briefcase, next to the two banana and honey sandwiches he’d bought at lunchtime. He could watch the tape over the weekend. The budget audit, however, was already two weeks overdue. Mosson flipped open the Reynard file. Jeremy had left it in a mess, the same way he had left the whole department. His big mistake had been making the Melbourne Cricket Ground the official address of his phony film company. Mosson snorted. An old operator like Jeremy should have known how to cover his tracks. After all, redirecting funds into a fake account was the oldest trick in the book. Mosson flicked though the pages of the file until he found the budget printout. Three months old. Time to get an update. He typed ReyBudl into the computer and hit the Enter key.

The spreadsheet flicked onto the screen and Mosson pressed the Page Down key. He looked away as the figures flashed by. And who did Big Bob decide was going to fix Jeremy’s mistakes? Mosson Ferret, of course. Mosson too-bloody-good-with-budgets-to-let-him-transfer-into-production Ferret. Mosson stared at the column totals, but the numbers twisted and jumped. It was no good. The aspirin bomb had been too late. He’d have to go home and take a couple of Mersyndol.

He queued the budget for printing and sat back in his chair. There was no way he was going to make it to the movie tonight. He’d wanted to see Witness again, on the big screen. The Classic was showing it as part of a crime and religion double bill. Mosson closed his eyes and saw the key scenes: the opening shots of the Amish funeral, the boy recognizing the bad cop in the photo, the final witnessing. Such beautiful cinematography. Once he had dreamed of being that good.

The printer clicked into operation. The first page of the budget slid into the tray. Mosson picked it up and studied the travel line. There was something very wrong with this woman’s accounts. What was her first name? He flipped the pages of the file back to the personal details. Hannie. Hannie Reynard, graduated Melbourne Film College in 1998. The year he would have graduated if he hadn’t taken the job down in accounts. Where was her photo? He scrabbled through the loose pages at the back of the file. It was the standard glossy black-and-white publicity shot. Someone had stood on it and the dusty sneaker print added texture to a small face overwhelmed by long wavy hair. He recognized that hair—she was the girl who had sat behind him in Film Editing. One of the many suburban princesses who had populated the classes. A vague sense of obligation made him frown. Had he slept with her? He shut the file. No, he was sure he hadn’t, but something about her face made him think of bodies. She made him think of his body, and that was strange because he tried to ignore that particular six-foot hairless freak show.

Twenty minutes later, in a taxi on Punt Road, Mosson finally remembered what he owed Hannie Reynard. He smiled. Owing ten bucks was easy. Not like owing an apology for a pissed grope at a student party or a one night stand. She probably didn’t even remember she had lent him money. He would give it back to her anyway. These days he didn’t owe people. He looked out of the car window. The taxi had stopped in the long line of traffic waiting to cross Hoddle Bridge. Mosson squinted, blurring the view of the Yarra until it became the opening shot of a thriller. He would take it easy on Hannie Reynard, pay her back for that ten-dollar kindness. He sat back in the car seat, satisfied with his generosity, and felt the pressure in his head change. The aspirin bomb had finally worked.

By the time Mosson walked into his kitchen, the sharp edges of the migraine had been smoothed away until it was a cool round space in his temple. He slid his briefcase onto the bench and looked around the room. The cleaning lady had washed up and mopped the floor. Mosson stretched his neck back, easing into the absence of pain and dirty dishes. He opened the lid of his case. The smell of wet banana cardboard registered a second before he saw the wet circles on the folder; the honey-transparent printout; the slimy videotape wrapped in soggy bread.

“Shit,” Mosson said. Hot heavy fluid flooded the space in his temple.

Mosson picked up the tape and ran to the sink. He peeled off the bread and the cardboard casing in long wet strips and dug creamed banana out of the tape sprockets and the capstan hole. He tore too much paper towel off the roll and scrubbed the black plastic, dabbing around the label. Then he held his breath and lifted the plastic flap. It separated from the magnetic tape with a soft sucking squelch.

“Damn,” Mosson said. He pressed his fingers into the ache above his eye socket.

It took half an hour, twenty cotton buds, and the last bit of methylated spirits in the bottle to clean the tape, but Mosson was sure he had saved it. He propped open the flap with a toothpick and left the tape to dry on the second shelf of the bookcase beside his sofa. He promised himself he would watch it the next day, but it would be nearly three months before Mosson watched the Hannie Reynard application tape, and by then banana and honey had a totally different meaning.

LAST ON THE LIST

H URTLE NODS POLITELY TO ME AS HE WALKS UP to the picnic table. From the way he’s moving, it’s obvious he’s wearing a left shoulder holster. Hurtle Williams doesn’t usually carry a gun and, by the looks of his tight jacket, he’s got no idea about using a holster. I could have a bullet through his brain before he’d even got his hand under the lapel.

He rang me two days ago on the mobile.

“I’ve got some work you might be interested in,” he said. “It’s good money.”

Hurtle knows I need good money. I haven’t had any proper jobs for a year and a half. Not since the fiasco with Lucius Marron. I had the job set up perfectly. One head shot from the town-house roof opposite Marron’s house. I’d spent weeks watching and working out his routine, my escape routes, the wind buck, the dragon’s breath. Everything taken into account except for a bit of new bird shit on the tiles. Marron saw me go arse over tit and came running to the rescue. “Don’t worry, mate, you’ll be okay,” he said, and took me to St. Vinnie’s in his new Mercedes. You can’t kill a man after he lets you bleed all over his new Mercedes, so I didn’t go through with the job. Pauley Barker ended up doing it. Now the word’s out that I’m past it—forty-nine years old and already on the scrap heap.

“Morning, Trojan,” Hurtle says.

I nod. He lays a piece of paper on the table in front of me, facedown, then sits on the bench opposite.

“It’s women,” he says, tapping the paper. “Seven of ’em.” He looks away, scanning the east side of the park.

I pick up the list. Two hits in Melbourne, two country Victoria, one in Sydney, one in Grafton, and a Perth. A lot of traveling. The money’s going to have to take that into account to make the job worthwhile.

Hurtle leans forward. “Are you interested?” His right leg is jiggling under the table.

I’ve known Hurtle for eight years and worked with him six times. All big jobs. He’s a bit basic, but a good middleman with a rep for being straight. In all that time, I’ve never seen him this nervous. He’s got the strained look of a hunted man.

I pull a pen out of my jacket pocket and write a dollar sign with a question mark on the back of the list. I push it over to him.

“A mill for the seven,” he says.

A million bucks. Fuck me gently. I raise my eyebrows.

“There’s a time limit,” Hurtle says. He looks down at his hands. “Three of them are pregnant. The client doesn’t want them to drop.”

Jesus, pregnant women.

“That’s ten kills, not seven,” I say.

A bad joke. A bad contract. I can just picture the hysteria when the media gets hold of it. Not to mention the cops—they take kills like this personally. No wonder the money’s so good. No wonder Hurtle’s so nervous; no one else is willing to take on the job. A couple of years ago I would have knocked it back too, but Hurtle knows I can’t be so picky these days. I’m probably last on his list. If I don’t come through he’s blown his finder’s fee. Bloody last on the list. Not too long ago I would’ve been first.

Hurtle is so tense he can’t even rustle up a smile at the joke. “It’s all got to be done in three months,” he says.

“That’s a bit stiff.”

I stare over at the new playground: blue plastic seesaw horses and a castle made out of khaki logs. The main entrance to St. Kilda Park is in the southwest, which makes the playground in the north; the sector of death. Not a great place for the kiddies to play. The council should have thought about the Feng Shui.

“Who’s turned you down so far?” I ask.

Hurtle shakes his head. Like I said, he’s a good man.

“You’d have gone to Barker first,” I say, “then the Tapdancer, Roosie up in Sydney, Tanloe, and finally me.”

Hurtle shifts in his seat, not meeting my eyes. I’m right. I’m scraping in at five, and Pauley Barker is number one. Little shit. I’m surprised Pauley didn’t take it; he’s built up his rep by taking on anything. He probably came to the same conclusion as I have: the job is so overpriced, the client isn’t expecting to pay it out. As soon as the last job’s done, they’ll put out another contract to clean up the loose end. Only big business or one of the organizations can afford that kind of double play.

“Is the client legit or one of the brotherhoods?”

Hurtle shrugs. “Dunno, but they came through the right channels. I can’t contact them. They contact me, and it’s never face-to-face. Whoever it is, they know what they’re doing.”

Hong would never have accepted a job like this. Too risky. He always insisted on knowing who had hired us and, if possible, why. If you know who the client is and where they’re coming from, then you can predict and outthink. Be ready for any double-cross or setup. If I take this job, I’ll have to track down the client, work out some way of protecting my arse, and do all of the kills in three months. It’s a big ask for a lone operator. Don’t even know if it’s possible. Maybe I am getting too old for this kind of life.

I look down at my hands. A long time ago in a training camp in Rhodesia, Hong and I sprung an old sergeant behind the ammo dump. He was sitting on an empty grenade crate with his hand outstretched in front of him, his eyes fixed on his fingers. I was going to give him some shit, but Hong grabbed my arm. “He’s looking for the shakes,” Hong said, pushing me in the opposite direction. “Old army and old cops; one day you can’t stop shaking and it’s over.”

Hurtle turns away and looks across the park to give me some thinking time. We watch a mother and her kid walk over to the playground. Perhaps it’s a sign, except I don’t believe in that shit. Hong did—but then, he also believed he was born lucky. With abundant , as the Chinks say. Whether it’s a sign or not, all I know is that I need the money and the work.

“Cash transfer offshore. Two-thirds up front,” I say. “Rest on completion.”

Hurtle straightens his back and swings around to face me. “Two hundred grand up front, three hundred after the fourth hit, then rest on completion,” he says.

Five hundred grand in the bank before the end-play. The gamble’s worth it. I nod.

Hurtle pulls a thick envelope out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table along with the list.

“See you then. And Trojan, watch your back with this one.”

He pushes himself off the bench and smiles, but he’s so sweat-scared that he’s rusting his gun to his armpit.

“What’s with that?” I ask, nodding at the bulge. “Something you not telling me?”

“No, mate, it’s got nothing to do with this.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Raelene moved in yesterday.” He shrugs his jacket smooth over the holster and walks away.

Raelene is the only daughter of Blowie Prissnap, and the lady in Hurtle’s life. Blowie Prissnap doesn’t like Hurtle. He’s been heard to say he’d rather have a cop for a son-in-law. Blowie’s nickname has got nothing to do with flies and a lot to do with blowtorches. If I was Hurtle, I’d be carrying a gun too. And maybe a fire extinguisher.

I pick up the list and read it. The last name I know. Regina Wilcox. We worked in the same bar together about seven years back. I was doing a bit of security work to tide me over after Hong was shot. Regina used to slide me a free drink every now and again. She used to do a bit of street con too, until she hooked up with some Triad small-timer: Byron, or something like that. No asterisks by Regina’s name, so she’s not one of the pregnant ones. I’ll do her last, for old times’ sake.

I open the envelope and flick through the photos. A mixed bunch of mid and long shots, but the women’s faces are clear. Regina has cut her hair short since I last saw her—makes her look like a boy.

I push the envelope and list into my jacket pocket and look around. The mother and kid have gone and the park is empty. I take a deep breath and hold my hand out in front of me, palm flat to the ground. It’s steady for almost four seconds.

ROLLING BENEATH
THE SURFACE

H ANNIE POKED AT THE PILES OF PAPER AND FILES on her work desk. Somewhere in all that mess was a news item about the Rabbit Woman, a five-centimeter scrap of paper that could save her arse. She closed her eyes and wormed her finger into the middle of a lopsided pile. Maybe the universe would have mercy and cough up the brief article first try. She lifted the layers of paper and opened her eyes. A small-type headline read “Is Graffiti a Secret Code?”

Hannie sighed. No Rabbit Woman. Just a whacko “Letter to the Editor” that linked a recurring bit of graffiti—PMS written on footpaths in white chalk—to a mysterious group of people who hid refugees in the suburbs. Hannie let the top layers of paper fall back over the clipping. Why hadn’t she put the resorbing item in her Freaks folder as soon as she cut it out of the paper? It was going to take forever to find the Rabbit Woman.

She looked around the room, trying to focus a memory of pinning the article to something. The notice board? She wasn’t convinced, but leaned over the desk and scanned the first layer of papers: an old calendar, two out-of-date shoot schedules, three postcards from Sigmy, and her prescription from the bum doctor. She’d have to get that filled soon, do the right thing and get back on her tablets. She unpinned the calendar and a stub of clippings about hormone replacement therapy dropped onto the desk. Hannie couldn’t remember why she had started collecting the HRT stuff. Thirty-four was a bit young to start thinking about topping up her hormones. She carefully lifted the edge of a superannuation form. A shower of Heart Nightclub flyers hit her hand as the pushpin popped out of the board. That was when the memory sharpened. Hannie lunged over to her filing cabinet. The article was stuck to the top drawer under a heavy broken-heart magnet. As Hannie ripped the paper out from under its weight, the magnet jumped, sounding a tiny gun-crack as it reconnected with the drawer.

Rabbit Woman of Melbourne

by Rennie Carp, medical correspondent


Hannie looked at her watch. Seven o’clock; too late to ring Rennie Carp now. She’d have to wait until Monday morning, but at least she had her lead. She read the short article:


A Melbourne medical researcher has been the first to document resorbing in humans. Usually found in small mammals such as rabbits and mice, resorbing is the ability to reabsorb a fetus back into the body in stressful situations. Using the latest video ultrasound equipment, Dr. Argalla Lomas has recorded a Melbourne woman, known only as Regina, resorbing a four-month-old fetus back into her body .

“Resorbing by humans is not unknown in the first days of pregnancy,” Dr. Lomas says. “What is unusual in this case is the age of the fetus and the fact that the subject seems to have done it at will.”

Dr. Lomas intends to research the cause and incidence of late fetal resorbing in the general population .


Hannie’s eyes flicked back to the words video ultrasound equipment. She sucked in a breath. All she had to do was persuade this Dr. Lomas to let her use the ultrasound footage in her documentary. It would be brilliant. She shook her head to ease the explosion of structure and sequence that flooded through her blood. That was what she was good at—putting together a story. The other stuff—the powerful images and startling symbolism—had always seemed out of reach. The domain of the real artists, like Mosson Ferret. It was why she had always felt like an impostor at film college. All the other students had talked about composition and palette, texture and image. Hannie had talked about finding a good subject. They had earnestly told one another about holding their first Super 8 cameras when they were ten and knowing that film was their vocation. Hannie didn’t hold a video camera until she was seventeen, and that was only because her mother had handed her the old family Sony and ordered her to film her cousin’s wedding. It had just been her mother’s ploy to keep her out of the way, but Hannie had patiently hefted the camera around the chicken and cheesecake reception and filmed the white-wine truths that slowly emerged. That night she discovered the power of being behind the camera—the first sense of real power she had felt in her suburban-good-girl life.

Hannie walked back to her desk and flipped open the bulging red folder marked Freaks or Frauds. She slid the Rabbit Woman article into a plastic sleeve, then pulled open the stiff folder rings and placed the page on top of the other plastic pockets full of newspaper cuttings and notes. The folder held three years of hard work: script outlines, grant applications, research, rewrites, storyboards, and budgets.

What had started as a light piece on Australian freaks had become a passionate study of three women who had been mistreated by the medical profession. Hannie was convinced her film was about the appropriation of women’s bodies by science. She had read the texts, gathered the statistics, found her subjects, and felt the righteous feminist outrage. But rolling beneath the safe surface of her research was another kind of rage: the dim shapes of a pompous male specialist who had left her on a hospital gurney, shivering with her underpants around her ankles while he discussed her bowel disease with her boyfriend, and a G.P. who had told her it was all in her mind.

Hannie closed the folder and pressed her hand against the bold black title. Freaks or Frauds was her big chance to make her name as a director and she was dangerously close to blowing it. She tried to remember something about Mosson Ferret that might help her save her career, but he had just been the bald head sitting in the next row who had borrowed ten dollars. And, of course, the best filmmaker at every end-of-year showing. Could she appeal to his sense of alma mater? Probably not; he didn’t even finish the course. She couldn’t think of anything that might make Mosson Ferret overlook thirty thousand dollars.

Hannie glanced over at her film collection on the bookshelf, her eyes finding two anonymous black cases. Mosson’s grad work. She had found the two tapes left behind in the college editing suite. Curious, she’d watched them through, thinking it was such a pity he wasn’t going to use them, such a pity no one would see his beautiful images, and then thinking it was such a waste to leave them in the drawer, such a waste not to use them, such a waste. And then she had slipped them into their black covers, wrapped them tightly in the red plastic bag, and pushed the awkward package deep into her backpack.

Hannie licked her lips and swallowed, a sour catch of old shame at the back of her throat. It was so long ago. He probably wouldn’t even remember the tapes. The real problem, the real danger, was the thirty thousand dollars. She had to think of some other way to explain it, because she wasn’t going to tell Mosson Ferret the truth. She wasn’t going to tell anyone the truth about Paris. Hannie briskly rubbed her arms, scrubbing away the humiliation of Robé. When in doubt, just do something. It was better than sitting around, worrying herself into another bowel attack. She pulled the A–K phone book across the desk, plowing a furrow through the stack of papers. First thing Monday morning she would ring Rennie Carp at the Herald. He was her best chance of tracking down Regina the Rabbit Woman by the end of the week.

AS TIGHT AS A FIST

M OSSON SLAMMED SHUT THE CAR DOOR AND swung his sports bag onto his shoulder. A sharp autumn wind was blowing chip packets and tram-track grit up into the air. Mosson closed his eyes and reached into the bag, feeling around for his sunglasses. Damn, he’d left one pair at work and the Ray-Bans were on the table at home. He tossed up between the guaranteed pain of wind grit in his eyes and the embarrassment of wearing his swimming goggles on the street. He opened his eyes, shielding them with slatted fingers. The concrete ramp that led to the entrance of the Harold Holt Swim Centre was only two hundred meters away. He ran for it.

He would have made it too, except for the woman with the stroller. He had to take his hands from his eyes to help her straighten a twisted wheel. As usual, the grit got him in the right eye.

When Mosson’s hair first fell out, the doctors told him that, without lashes, his eyes would be vulnerable to dirt and dust. But they had not told him that it would be his right eye that always copped it. It must be the surface area, his father had said. So Mosson, with grim scientific bravado, had stood in front of the bathroom mirror and bent a vinyl ruler over the taut Japanese/Anglo down-curve of each eyeball. His father was correct: the right eye was a millimeter bigger than the left. It was an interesting discovery, but it did not stop his right eye from collecting painful pollution or change the fact that the girls at his school thought he was a freak.

The woman behind the entrance desk offered him a tissue.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Allergy,” Mosson said, holding the tissue up to his eye.

“Here you go, locker 497. See, I remembered your lucky number,” she said, handing him a key. “How’s the training going? Have you got a meet coming up?”

“No, not in the next few months,” Mosson said, smiling. He turned towards the door that led to the outside pool. It’s not really a lie, he told himself, as he walked down the ramp.

The truth was, Mosson had never swum competitively in his life. But a few months ago someone at the Centre had started a rumor that Mosson Ferret was a master, training for the big comps. He figured the rumor had started because of his bald head; only a serious swimmer would sacrifice his hair for his sport. Now the Sunday girl always remembered his favorite locker, and a few of the other Sunday morning regulars politely switched lanes when he dived into the pool.

Mosson stowed his clothes and bag in locker 497, the closest locker to the showers in the men’s outdoor change room. The room had been originally built for women, so each shower was in a separate cubicle. And each cubicle could be locked. Mosson had endured the large communal shower in the men’s indoor change room for three months before he had discovered this fact. Now, instead of an uneasy rinse after his swim, he would bow his head under the hot stream of water for ten minutes, his hands pressed against the sides of the cubicle.

The outdoor fifty meter pool was busy. Mosson dropped his towel on a bench and walked over to the double lane. A swimmer in a bright yellow cap was coming up to the edge. Mosson watched her turn. A bit clumsy, but a good push-off. He pulled his goggles over his eyes, adjusted the strap, and dropped over the side. The chilled grab of the water made him clench his teeth. He pressed against the Blu Tak plugs in his ears and waited until Yellow Cap was halfway along the lane. Then he pushed away from the edge.

It was at the end of his fourth lap that the idea was born. He had suddenly thought of his mother’s favorite saying and it had forced him to stagger to his feet at the shallow end. He coughed hard against the memory, leaning over the edge of the pool. Yoshi Ferret had not only left her son a Hiroshima history and a house in Rye, she had also left him a heaviness in the chest that had nothing to do with heart or lung.

Mosson straightened up. If you want something, be prepared to fight for it. He could hear her say it, see her tilt her head to one side, playing the Eastern mystic. The lifeguard took a step towards him but Mosson shook his head and crouched back into the water. He pushed off and stretched into a stroke.

He was only thirty-nine and he was already regretting his life. Ten years at the IFF counting beans and watching other people make films. And now this Hannie woman who had been in the same year at college was making a documentary about freaks. His documentary. He’d had the same idea ages ago, ever since he’d filmed a grad piece on some Siamese twins. But it had really started before that, with his first Super 8 camera set up in the corner of his bedroom, recording handfuls of lost hair and a silence that had never left him. That three minutes had won him his first film prize and his first soaring certainty—he had talent. It also started him on his search for the perfect union of image and truth. It was an elusive grail, but he glimpsed it at the end of the shoot with the Siamese twins.

Del and Shannon: twelve-year-old boys stuck back-to-back at bowel and bladder. The older twin, Del, had done all the talking, his face broad and confident in the camera, the back of his twin’s head a gray silhouette on the black-and-white film. But Mosson wanted to hear from the paler brother too. “Got nothing to say,” Shannon said. But Mosson coaxed and pushed until the boy shrugged his agreement. As Mosson focused the camera on Shannon’s sharp face, the boy murmured something to his twin and the blurred shape behind him placed its hands over its ears. “I reckon our mum must have done something bad to make us like this,” Shannon whispered into the camera. Later, when Mosson watched the grainy film in the college editing suite, it looked as though the boy’s own shadow could not bear to hear the accusation.

Mosson’s rhythm faltered and he slapped the water with a flat hand. His freaks film would have been brilliant, if he’d finished it. He still had the master tapes somewhere in a box. But ten years ago Mosson had chosen a steady paycheck over art, and now, as he thought of Hannie Reynard, his paid-off apartment and his elaborate rationalizations could not stop the sharp soul-cramp of envy. Hannie Reynard had graduated from college. She had done her time in the crap production jobs. And now she had a grant to make her freaks film. He’d read her script outline the day before and, although it was already in production, he’d found a few obvious problems that needed attention. But script development wasn’t his job—he was the acting finance manager. He would send Sol out to audit Hannie Reynard and see if she was genuine or just trying to rip off the system.

And that was when the idea came to him. Why send Sol? Why not take on the exec producer job himself? Then he thought, why stop at producer? Why not film it? If he buried Hannie’s thirty-grand problem, she would owe him big-time. The idea was so dazzling that it took Mosson through a somersault turn as tight as a fist. Yes, he thought as the heaviness in his chest eased. It was time to fight for what he wanted.

AN EYE FOR THE MAIN CHANCE

H ANNIE PICKED UP THE POSTCARD THAT WAS LYING on the carpet under the mail slot. She knew it was from Sigmy because he had drawn a stick figure of himself beside the Colosseum: long legs, long arms, and wild Biro curls. She turned the card over.

Have you taken your tablets today?

As usual, he hadn’t even signed it.

Hannie flipped the card back to the overcolored photo and stared at the stick figure.

“Mind your own bloody business,” she said.

This was the fourth postcard from Sigmy. London had said Have you been for your six-month checkup? Paris was Did you renew your health insurance? And Barcelona said You should arrange your next colonoscopy.

Hannie looked at herself in the hallway mirror, hunched over the Rome card. Sigmy had left her a year ago. How did he know she wasn’t taking her tablets again? She had only missed one week. One week of freedom from the relentless pill popping.

Her doctor had said she’d get used to taking eight tablets a day, but she hadn’t. She’d gagged on the first three tablets every morning, the last swill of pill and water always backwashing into her mouth, warm and sour. For seven months, Hannie closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Then one morning she spat the second morning tablet down the kitchen plug hole and pushed the pill bottle behind the vanilla essence and cake funnel. She told Sigmy that she needed a new prescription and the doctor was away. She told her mother that everything was fine and that she just wasn’t hungry at the moment. Two weeks of freedom later she was hunched on a toilet in the food hall of David Jones department store, her hands pressing the cold walls of the cubicle to brace against the purge of shit and blood and bowel.

Hannie carefully straightened her shoulders and dropped Sigmy’s postcard into her satchel. She was already running late for her meeting with the journo from the Herald. She’d get her tablets on the way home, along with some more milk. She picked up her keys and walked out of the house, slamming the front door behind her.

Half an hour later, Hannie stepped off the tram at the corner of Flinders and Russell and remembered that her new prescription was still pinned to the board in her workroom. She decided that one more day wasn’t going to make any difference, but as she walked across the road she counted how long it had been since her last lot of pills. Nine days. It was getting a bit close to two weeks and she was already feeling the uncertainty collecting in her bowel.

Hannie pushed open the door to the Printers Arms Hotel and paused in the small foyer. Rennie Carp had said he would meet her in the bar but he hadn’t specified lounge or public. Hannie thought of the wary, office-dry voice on the end of the phone and pushed open the frosted-glass door to the left. Rennie Carp was definitely a public bar kind of guy.

The bar decor was what Sigmy would have called low maintenance/low imagination: red and black geometric carpet designed to hide elbowed drinks; red vinyl chairs and black laminated tables. Hannie glanced around the room, but there were too many lone men to make a Rennie Carp judgment. She walked up to the bar.

“Just a pot, thanks,” she said to the barman, pulling her wallet out of her bag. He filled a glass at the Fosters tap then pushed it across the bar.

“Do you know a guy called Rennie Carp?” Hannie asked as she handed over the coins.

“Yep,” the barman said. He absently scraped the metal stud in his tongue along his front teeth.

“He’s supposed to be meeting me here.”

The barman looked at her, clicking the stud against his teeth. Hannie clamped her jaw against the sound as he made his decision.

“Rennie’s over there, next to the fag machine,” he said, tilting his head towards the back of the bar. Hannie could just make out a fat, pale arm from behind a booth partition.

“What’s he drinking?”

The barman nodded, pulling a clean glass out of the rack. Hannie paid for the second drink and picked up the two beers.

Rennie Carp was crouched over a notebook, his small freckled hand circling a glass. He reminded Hannie of a jockey who had finally given up on the diet and saunas.

“Mr. Carp? I’m Hannie Reynard,” she said.

He looked up with a polite smile, but Hannie saw his eyes taking notes. She imagined his slick three-phrase summary of her soul: duffel coat politics; pale thin Protestantism; licks lips too much.

“Call me Rennie,” he said, nodding towards the seat opposite him.

Hannie placed the glasses on the table and sat down.

“Thanks,” he said, looking at the beer.

“No worries. Thanks for meeting me,” Hannie said.

“I’ve only got a few minutes. Got to get back to the office. You wanted to know about the Rabbit Woman story I did, right?”

Hannie nodded.

Rennie drained the glass he was holding then pushed it away, sliding Hannie’s offering into its place. He sat forward, his arm resting across the notebook. “A few months back I got a call from some bloke telling me about this great scientific discovery,” he said. “He never gave me his name, but it was a slow week so I checked it out. Sure enough, some quack had filmed a woman called Regina Wilcox resorbing her own kid. Apparently, rabbits do the same kind of thing when they get overcrowded. That’s how I came up with the name Rabbit Woman of Melbourne. Pretty good, hey?”

Hannie half smiled, not wanting to interrupt his flow.

“I was going to do a follow-up feature on her. You know, with an angle on this rabbit thing.” He balanced a drink coaster on its side, rolling it slowly back and forth between his fingers. “What’s your film about?”

“It’s called Freaks or Frauds. I’m going to interview three women who have been labeled medical freaks.” Hannie took a sip of beer. The pub needed to clean out its pumps. “Are you still going to do the feature article?”

“Nooo.” He drew the word out long and leaned across the table. “See, here’s the thing. The feature got okayed by my editor, but then it got canned upstairs. Nothing too strange about that, I suppose. Except the day it got canned, I got shunted down to research again. Twenty-two years in the job and I’m back where I started.”

“So, you reckon the two are related?”

He stared at Hannie until she shifted in her seat. Had she said something stupid?

“I think someone is trying to bury Regina Wilcox,” he said, laying the coaster flat on the table. “You know, stop the publicity. You should try and talk to Dr. Lomas. She’s the quack who found Regina. I bet you get stonewalled.” He slid a few pieces of folded paper out from the back of his notebook. “Here’s a copy of my notes and the numbers I got. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Rennie shrugged.

“Ten to one you won’t get very far. And if you do, don’t put my name in your credits. My nose says it’s not going to be healthy around Regina Wilcox.”

He picked up his glass of beer.

“I’ll make this a traveler,” he said, and stood up, shoving his notebook into his jacket pocket. “Got a heavy deadline writing an obit for someone who might die in the next ten years.”

Hannie watched him walk away, using his elbows to push through a crowd of early office-leavers. Only people who had lived a lifetime on public transport could move through a crowd like that, Hannie thought. Rennie Carp had probably never owned a car. He had probably never bought his own home, never got married, never had kids. Always lived for his job. Now he had flushed twenty-odd years down the toilet with one story. Hannie saw him gulp down the beer and slide it onto the bar as he walked towards the door. Why would he get screwed over a few paragraphs about a freak?

Hannie shuffled through the sheets of paper. The writing was small and tight, with phone numbers and addresses beside background notes. There was also a brief comment in the margin about each person. Regina Wilcox had an eye for the main chance. Dr. Argalla Lomas was a bit anxious but had obviously taken Rennie’s fancy, because he had written not married beside her name. At the bottom of the last page, Rennie had written Byron Solange, Regina’s boyfriend next to a mobile phone number, then drawn an ornate question mark that swirled into a snake. Hannie turned the page over. There was one word written in the margin: Triad.

THE RABBIT IN THE MOON

A MAN IN A BAGGY SUIT JOGS PAST MY CAR AND across the gravel to the back entrance of the Laughing Buddha furniture warehouse. He pauses under the fluorescent strip light above the doorway to check his watch. At this distance, a sporterized .27 would be enough for a clean head shot. But of course you wouldn’t want to shoot this close, and if you were positioned beyond the carpark, the wind tunnel between the two warehouses would mean you’d need a lot more acceleration. A 30/06 would probably be the better choice, especially if you wanted to take out the fluorescent for some exit time. Not that you’d have much chance of getting away: too much gravel, too much open space, and too many perimeter guards. Overall, the dragon’s cosmic breath stinks. Baggy suit shakes his cuff back over his wrist and knocks on the door. It opens, and I see the bright triangle of Teo’s face before he stands back to let the older man enter.

Teo has just joined the Noble Serpent Society. If Hong was still alive, he would have hit his forehead with his palm and asked me how he could have spawned such an idiot. Maybe I should have tried to stop Teo, but he’s nearly twenty and I figured it was up to him to make his own mistakes. At the moment he’s at the bottom of the Serpent’s 49er heap and has to be door-bitch at fights until he moves up in the world. He’ll be in charge of collecting everyone’s weapons before they enter the fight room. It’s not the most exciting job, and last time he let me go through with a knife. At least Hong would have approved of his son’s sense of loyalty.

I’ve got a bit of work for Teo that’s really going to test that loyalty. Lately he’s been at me to train him up, like Hong trained me. I’m not against the idea, but before I make any promises, I’ll see how he handles this little job. Then there’s the matter of his membership in the Noble Serpents. I can’t see them letting him break his oath. Once you’re in one of these Chink gangs, you’re in for life.

Earlier today, I tried to get hold of Teo on his mobile, but he’d turned the bloody thing off again. So this afternoon I swung past Chinatown to leave a message for him with his uncle Dug at the Jade Lotus. Dug has just remodeled the front of the restaurant and as I walked out of the Target arcade and crossed Little Bourke, something about the new entrance bothered me.

A month ago a Zen monk had come in on a bus tour and told Dug that a whole load of bad shit was about to happen unless he did some fast renovations. So Dug got the front door and foyer repositioned and bought some heavy-duty Shih guardians. And that was what was bothering me; he’d put the Shih in the wrong positions. The male lion, with the pearl of wisdom in his mouth, should always be on the right and the female, with the cub under her paw, on the left. Hong once told me that if you walk past Shih, you should always touch the pearl inside the male’s mouth for good luck. But I’m not sure what the rules are if the Shih have been switched around. It could mean that you get bad luck. Then again, it could mean bugger all. You never know with this Feng Shui shit. I settled for patting the male lion on the head as I walked through the bright red door.

Ku showed me to the family table at the back of the restaurant. I sat with my back against the wall. Hong, the little bastard, taught me that on my first day in Rhodesia. I was twenty-two and fancied myself a mean son-of-a-bitch, ready for the big bucks with only a few years of army behind me. All of us new recruits were in the OR’s Mess. I was sitting at a table with my back to the door talking to some Poms and a few other ex-reg Aussies. Then suddenly I was flat out on the floor with Hong’s hand around my throat.

“Never leave your back unguarded,” he said, and released me. Then he pointed at the sniggering fucks sitting at my table. “And all of you, why didn’t you warn your brother?”

Everything was family to Hong.

“Mr. Dug will be with you soon,” Ku said. “Your usual, Mr. Carmichael?”

I nodded. Dug’s was the only place I had a usual. Too many usuals in my line of business, and you usually end up dead. I know Dug because Hong asked him and his wife, Charmaine, to take care of Teo when the boy’s mother died. Hong couldn’t look after the kid—he and I were traveling a lot, doing jobs all over the place—and, truth be told, he’d only ever seen his son at birthdays and Christmas. He hardly knew him. Charmaine wasn’t too pleased about getting landed with the boy, but she did it for Dug. He was Hong’s ex-brother-in-law’s brother-in-law. The connection wouldn’t wash in my mean-as-shit Scot/Aussie family, but for Dug it means Teo is practically a blood relative. And as Teo’s unofficial uncle, I’m family too.

Ku was pouring me a tea when Dug pushed through the swinging doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. I saw Charmaine poke her head for a quick look then pull back, a sour frown on her long face. She didn’t think I was family. She had me down as a bad joss freeloader.

“Trojan, always good to see you,” Dug said. “How’s things?”

“Not bad, Dug. Yourself?” I shook his hand. It was soft and smooth from a dusting of rice flour.

“Fine, now that the renovations have finished.”

He sat down opposite me and watched Ku pour him a bowl of tea. When the waiter had moved away, he said, “Heard anything about a new organization on the ground? Sounds serious.”

“Only the usual shit. You know, the invisible gang that walks with the spirits kind of crap. It’s the same story that goes around every few years.”

“Maybe so, but I heard this from Charlie down at the market and he’s not one for fairy tales. And the Italians have heard of it too.”

I shrugged. “The Italians believe that some old fart has a direct line to God. They’d believe anything.” I sipped the tea, testing the heat with the tip of my tongue. It was too hot and a bit weak. I put the bowl back on the table but kept my hand wrapped around it, the warmth easing the ache in my right palm.

“They say that this gang draws its mark on the concrete. Charlie has seen it.”

“So, what’s the mark?”

“It’s three letters,” he said, and traced them on the white tablecloth. “PMS.”

I snorted. “Charlie’s having you on, then. What kind of gang would name itself after a woman’s thing?”

Dug laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Ku placed a plate of Hokkien Mee in front of me: thick noodles, dark soy sauce, prawns, fish cake, calamari, and a bit of green stuff that is always too stringy to eat. Dug’s version was pretty good, but the best one I ever tasted was in Hong Kong, from an old girl on the street. She looked like she hadn’t washed in about four generations, but, Jesus, her Hokkien was good. I picked up my chopsticks.

“Do you know where Teo is?” I asked.

“Haven’t seen him for a few days, but I daresay he’ll be working at the dogfight tonight,” Dug said. “You want to go?”

I grunted and nodded, caught in the middle of loading dripping noodles into my mouth.

“I’ll let the Snakes know you want an invite. And when you see Teo, tell him to come and eat. His auntie is worried about him.”

“I’ll tell him,” I said, although I doubted that Charmaine had even thought about Teo’s eating habits—all her maternal feelings were reserved for the restaurant’s profit margin. I dug the chopsticks through the food. “Anyone been asking about me lately?”

Dug shook his head. “Not that I know of. You expecting someone?”

“Maybe.” I was probably being paranoid; it was too early in the game for a double-cross. I hadn’t even done the first hit yet. “Just ask your boys to keep an ear out, okay?”

He nodded and picked up his tea, turning to look at the restaurant entrance.

“So what do you think of my new doorway?”

“Did you mean to put the Shih in the wrong positions?”

“What?” Dug stood up and looked at the two stone statues through the window. “Oh, fuck.”

Hong would have pissed himself laughing.

The warehouse door opens again. Teo steps out and looks around. It’s ten past eleven and the fights will start soon. I close my car door and Teo swings around at the sound, his hand under his jacket. Although it is only a short walk across the gravel, I count four sentries in the shadows following my progress with their automatics. I keep my arms away from my body; wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. As I step into the pale outer flicker of the fluorescent, Teo laughs.

“Hey, Uncle. I didn’t realize it was you. Thought it was trouble.”

“I can tell. How are you doing, Teo?”

“Not bad.” His eyes slide down my body, noting possible weapons. Good boy. “I didn’t think the dogs were your thing,” he says, and steps back to let me enter.

There is another boy in the small office, about the same age as Teo but with the stocky look of a bodybuilder. He’s holding an airport metal detector. I step into the room and the muffled singsong of the bookies sharpens suddenly as the inner door opens. A balding middle-aged man pokes his head through.

“Teo, the fights are starting. Lee wants you in—”

He stares at the gun I am pointing at his head. I click the safety back on and drop the barrel. This new job is making me toey. The bald guy and I both take a deep breath.

“Okay, I’ll be right in,” Teo says, and the door shuts again.

“Uncle Trojan,” Teo says politely, eyeing the pistol, “please meet Pun.” He tilts his head towards the boy with the detector.

Pun is also keeping his eyes on the gun. “Hello, sir. It’s a real honor to meet you. A real honor.” He glances at Teo, who nods. “No disrespect, sir, it’s just that we have a ‘no weapons’ policy tonight. Could you please hand in your gun and any other weapons you have on you?”

I hand over the Browning and most of my second-line weapons. If they can find the knife, they can have it. Pun scratches the back of his neck and looks down at my collection on the table.

“Is that all, sir?”

Now comes the tricky part. It is Teo and Pun’s job to search each guest without insinuating that same guest has lied through their teeth and kept back a weapon. I nod and wait to see what strategy they will take.

Pun’s hand tightens on the grip of the detector. “Naturally, you understand that it is policy to double check, sir.” His breathing hasn’t changed and he keeps eye contact to a minimum. Nice style.

“Naturally,” I say, and hold my arms out while Pun runs the detector over my body. It’s not the usual Garrett, but a new model I just read about in an electronics magazine. Trust the Serpents to have the most up-to-date gear. It beeps twice and I lay the knife and the antique tsuba I carry for luck on the table. Pun picks up the tsuba.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Teo leans over and looks at the disc. “It’s a hilt from an old samurai sword,” he says softly, and looks over at me, smiling. “My dad gave it to him.” He points at the intricate design worked on the surface. “See, it’s got two rabbits looking at the moon. That means immortality.”

Pun nods. “Yeah, the rabbit in the moon. My grandma used to tell me stories about it sitting up there pounding out the elixir of life or something.” He runs a thick finger across the iron disc, then turns it over. “It’s a beauty. How old is it?”

Teo takes it out of his hand. “It’s not a weapon,” he says, and holds it out to me. For a second it feels like he’s not going to let go. I know the kid has always wanted it, but Hong said it was a warrior’s talisman and should only be carried by a warrior. One day I’ll give it to Teo, but not yet. I put it back in my pocket.

“Thank you, sir. Please enjoy your evening,” Pun says, adding the knife to the storage bag.

“I’ll send Huang out,” Teo says. Pun nods and opens the inner door for us. I follow Teo into the warehouse.

“The teaser’s about to start,” Teo says, raising his voice over the clanging thrum of Chinese and English. “You interested?”

I shrug. Watching a couple of pets get torn to bits doesn’t really interest me.

Teo smiles. “They got a couple of those little poodles. It should be pretty funny.”

Most of the crowd are clumped around the pit. A smaller group stand drinking around a trestle table, the smell of beer and satay meat overlaying the entrenched stink of new furniture and sweat. Teo taps the shoulder of a young Serpent on the edge of the pit circle and tells him to join Pun. Then he turns back to me.

“Have you seen Uncle Dug lately?” he asks.

“Today. He says you should go and eat with him soon.”

Teo shakes his head. “He’s trying to fix me up with the daughter of one of his cooks.”

“Is she good-looking?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m already fixed up. A real blonde. She’s got terrific tits too.” He leans closer and flashes a cocky grin. “She’s shacked up with one of the brothers.”

“Sounds like a great way to get yourself gutted,” I say as I scan the crowd for familiar faces. I hit the jackpot: Strafe Gobba. A gun and knife man, with a legit business in Brunswick and a not-so-legit business out of the back of his van. Sells mostly to the Italians, although he’s got a small base in Springvale. The prick owes me a special-order scope with an infrared line point. He turns his head and catches sight of me. I nod and the slimy little bastard swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple nearly catapults through the roof of his mouth.

“He’s not too happy to see you,” Teo says, dropping into Cantonese. “Need someone at your back?” He’s eager to show me he can be useful.

“It’s not worth our time or…” I can’t remember the word so I switch back to English, “…effort. Let’s get a bit closer to the action.”

I lead the way through the crowd, heading to the hinged wood panel where the dogs are taken in and out of the pit. Strafe is already positioned there, but I’m sure he will make room for an old mate like me. The noise of the fight will be good cover and I know Strafe only speaks broad Australian.

“Strafe, good to see you,” I say. He steps back, straight onto the toes of a biker.

“Trojan. Jesus, mate, I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have. We’ll talk later.”

I move away, leaving him to deal with the biker. Teo moves in beside me and looks into the pit. The referee is holding his hands up for silence.

“We’ve got a fuckin’ treat for you tonight,” he yells. “Two of the gamest sons-of-bitches this side of Toorak.”

He vaults over the wall and waves the two handlers up to the pit. The man at the far corner is hiding something under an old Winnie the Pooh towel, the faded yellow bear dotted with blood. The handler in the opposite corner holds a rag-draped bundle over the wall to avoid a stream of piss that’s digging a wet hole in the sand. The referee sounds the gong again.

“Weighing in at entree size is the white piece of shit.” He points to the handler opposite me, who pulls off the towel with a bullfighter’s flourish and throws a tiny white poodle into the pit. It lands on its side, sliding along the sand.

Teo laughs. “Entree size, that’s a good one.”

The poodle rolls over and stands, its eyes bulging.

“And in this corner is the black piece of shit, weighing in at less than a good crap.”

The black poodle lands on its head. Everyone cranes forward.

“Hope it isn’t dead already,” Strafe says behind me.

The dog lays there for a moment then struggles to its feet. The referee beats his hands in the air, conducting a cheer from the crowd.

“Okay, handlers, get your rats ready.”

The white handler hooks his dog by its back legs and drags it behind the diagonal line staked across his corner of the pit. The black handler has a bit more trouble, the dog snapping at his hands. He finally grabs it by the neck and holds it down in the sand behind the line. I put my hand on Teo’s shoulder and lean closer, until my mouth is level with his ear.

“I would like you to do me a favor,” I say softly in Cantonese.

“What is it? What can I do?” He has straightened, tense with opportunity.

The gong sounds. The two poodles are launched high into the air. Their bodies twist from side to side until they slam into each other over the middle of the pit and fall onto the sand. The white dog stands then staggers, its front legs collapsing. A slow clap starts around the pit.

“I need some business information. I need to know if any of the societies have a wholesale contract out.”

The boy’s thin shoulder muscle stiffens under my hand. “That’s very dangerous information,” he says. “I’ve just sworn my oath of loyalty, you know. I’m on a kind of probation.” Below us the black dog is on its side, its back legs kicking feebly in the sand.

“I know, but I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t mean my good health.”

The referee gongs for attention.

“Okay, enough of this shit,” he yells. “Davey, get Sally Anne in here and finish this off. Then we’ll get on to the real show.”

The crowd parts to our right to let Davey and his pit bull through. The ginger brindled pitty is straining at her chain and I pull Teo out of the way of its one-track mind. The referee swings open the hinged panel and Davey leads the dog into the pit. He unclips the lead and jumps back through the door, slamming it behind him. For a second the crowd is silent. Then the pitty lunges at the white poodle, cutting off its shrill scream with a spine-breaking shake and ripping so hard that one of the poodle’s back legs in torn off. The crowd hoots in appreciation.

“Jesus Christ,” Strafe says next to me, “that’s ugly.”

Strafe has probably only seen death on a screen. Part of a story, ordered and logical, with no smell and definitely none of the taste. Any minute now he’ll lick his lips and the shit-raw-heat of messy death will make him want to gag and spit. I’m not a fan of these dogfights. Death should be quick and clean: one head shot; one knife thrust; one twist of the neck. But you can’t tell a pit bull to be neat. A tuft of white poodle fluff hangs in the air in front of us. Strafe watches it float above the swirl of sand and blood and licks his lips. No, pittys are never neat.

Teo looks down at the discarded pieces of white poodle.

“I probably won’t even be able to get what you want,” he says.

“Well, if you don’t think you’re up to the job…”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that someone like me would never know what the top guys are doing.” He suddenly leans over the pit wall and picks up something. The referee yells at him to get back and Teo waves his apologies.

“I reckon this will be good luck, like a rabbit’s foot,” he says, holding out the poodle’s back leg. It’s caked in blood and sand and the rounded joint bone has the sheen of a pearl.

“The poodle didn’t have much luck,” I say.

“That’s why it’ll be good luck. All the bad luck will go to the foot and not me.” He shakes the paw and it sprays sand.

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in luck,” I say.

Teo’s eyes meet mine for a second. “Dad did.” He looks away. We both know how well that turned out. “If I can get what you want, will you show me some of those fancy knife moves?” he asks. “Dad never got round to teaching me that stuff.”

I nod and grip his shoulder. “Give me a call when you’ve got something.”

He looks up at me for a moment. The angles of his face suddenly shift into Hong’s flattened features. Then Teo raises the paw up to eye level and the ghost image is gone. He presses his finger against the claws, bending the leg into a standing position. “I reckon I can drill a hole in this bone for a key ring,” he says in English, studying the pearl.

The pit bull is chasing the black poodle, unable to get its jaws locked around the smaller dog’s body. But it won’t be long now. I turn around and face Strafe. He looks like he’s going to chuck his guts.

“So, where’s my scope, Strafe?”

“I was going to contact you, Trojan. No bullshit.” He rubs the top of his head. It’s shiny and stripped bare by the habit. “There’s been some kind of holdup at the Jap end. Can’t do anything about it.”

“You’ve got two weeks to get it sorted.”

“I don’t reckon it will be in by then.”

“Make sure it’s in.”

The crowd is cheering and I turn around to look into the pit. The black poodle is in the far corner, snarling and snapping at the pit bull. It’s got about two more snaps left in it and then it will be ripped apart. That’s the way of the world. The pittys always inherit the earth.

THE ART OF WAR

T HE FORECASTER SAT MOTIONLESS AT THE STICKY table in the corner of his neighborhood bar, waiting for the Irishman. Inside, his nerves were vibrating with tension, but he could see his face in the clouded mirror on the opposite wall and it was suitably expressionless. The calm face of a general.

The Irishman had called him yesterday and left just five words on his voice mail, the man’s strange burred accent making them sound like the punch line of a joke.

It’s done. Meet me tomorrow.

Five words that had signaled the start of the battle plan. The Forecaster shifted on the ripped vinyl seat, touching the hard flat shape of the book in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Sun Tzu’s ancient masterpiece of strategy, Art of War. It was required reading for all managers in the Company and he had retrieved his copy from the neat bookshelf in his office after his private meeting with the Director, doggedly rereading every sinuous precept. It had been a troubling exercise. Sun Tzu had emphasized the need for the General to have only the most trustworthy men to carry out his orders. The Irishman did not seem to fit Sun Tzu’s description of an ideal soldier.

The Forecaster stared down at his untouched beer. For a moment he allowed the truth to prickle across his skull; he was afraid of the Irishman. Although the big man had the jovial, loose manner of a heavy drinker, the Forecaster had seen the hyena in his eyes. And now their relationship had been formalized by action—the Irishman had used his contacts to hire the assassin in Australia.

After much consideration, the Forecaster had decided to start his campaign in that faraway place with the bridge and the sun and the big-nosed bears. According to Dr. Famagusta’s research list, there were only seven known Rabbit Women in the whole country. An auspicious number for the first battle. The number of the gods of good luck and happiness. The Forecaster knew Sun Tzu admonished the general who relied on spirits and gods for foreknowledge, but he could not help finding a little consolation in the number.

A man paused in the doorway, blocking the last of the sunset light, his tall silhouette immediately recognizable. The Irishman. The Forecaster watched him scan the room then enter, his energy drawing uneasy glances from the other patrons. He paused at the bar, gathered up the two beers that the barman had immediately set out for him, and crossed the floor in a few strides.

“Yer lookin’ overheated, Micky,” he said, setting the bottles on the table.

The Forecaster bowed his thanks and set the fresh beer next to his full glass. For some reason, the Irishman insisted on calling him Micky.

The man settled his long frame into the seat opposite and picked up the other bottle, his dark eyes fixed on the Forecaster.

“Obviously you got me message,” he said, tipping the beer up and taking a large mouthful, his gaze still intent.

The Forecaster ducked his head again. “Yes. Thank you.”

“It wasn’t easy to find someone,” he said. “It’s a hell of a thing yer askin’.” He shook his head. “But there’s always someone, ay? For the right price.” He took another swig of the beer. “Why pregnant women?”

The Forecaster’s hand found the hard edges of the book again. Sun Tzu wisely advised a general to share his goals with his soldiers and, in doing so, create loyalty and motivation.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “These women have a mutation that allows them to abort a man’s child at any time during pregnancy,” he said. “If it is not controlled, it will harm our market. I have been given the great honor of solving this problem for my company.”

The Irishman narrowed his eyes. “Aborts babies, you say? That’s a mortal sin. How do they do it?”

The Forecaster suddenly thought of the little shrine his wife had built to their own mizuko, their own water baby. He had almost forgotten—it had happened so long ago. Eighteen years, at least. It had been a necessary sadness; they already had their son and could not afford another child. His wife had understood, perhaps even agreed. He had written his permission to the doctor, as was law, but in the end it was she who truly lived with the decision to abort their child. Every year she left a doll or a soft toy as a token of their regret and apology at the statue of Jizo, protector of children, hoping to appease the tiny spirit. Would it have been any easier for her if she could have resorbed the child? Taken it back into her own body rather than let it be pulled from her? But surely that would still be killing? The Forecaster gave a small shake of his head. Women were able to live between such contradictions more easily than men. It was the way of things. He was more comfortable with the certainties of honor and duty.

“They can absorb them. Like the rabbits do,” he said.

The Irishman shrugged his distaste. “Jesus, sorry I asked.” He dug into the pocket of his dusty trousers and pulled out a piece of paper, passing it across the table. “Payment details.”

The Forecaster read the account information and breakdown of payments. Two hundred thousand dollars was due immediately. A generous show of faith on his part. “This man is good at what he does?” he asked.

The Irishman nodded. “He’s good. Not the best, mind you. The best is my cousin Pauley. He woulda taken your job, no problem—he’d do anything for that kind of money. He’s a right mad bastard.” He smiled approvingly. “But I told him to hold off, like.”

The Forecaster frowned. “But your cousin is the best.”

The Irishman smiled. “You’ll need the best to take down Mr. Second Best, ay?”

The Forecaster looked blankly at him, trying to find the meaning in the unfamiliar English. Was he saying that his cousin would kill the assassin? But why? If the business was conducted honorably, why would the man need to be killed? The Forecaster felt an unfamiliar flicker of doubt; had he made an error in his synthesis of the data? Was there some element that he had not taken into consideration?

The Irishman set his bottle down with a sharp click. “I figure you’ll not be wanting these jobs traced back to you. You’ll want to tie up the loose ends, right? The best man for that job is Pauley.”

“That is not in my plan,” the Forecaster said flatly. He was sure he had gathered all the pertinent intelligence and developed an excellent strategy. The Irishman was taking too much upon himself. Sun Tzu would recommend a sharp reprimand.

“You must not act without proper consultation and consent,” he said stiffly.

The Irishman sucked in a breath, squinting one eye shut. “Je-sus, Micky. Let me set it out for you. This isn’t yer normal business transaction. It’s gonna have con-se-quen-ces.” He sounded out each syllable of the word.

The Forecaster sat up, straightening into his dignity. This gaijin was treating him like an ignorant child. This man who did not even observe the rules of rank. Who went off on his own and made decisions without even consulting his superior. It was not acceptable.

“I’m doin’ you a favor here, Micky,” the Irishman continued. “Instead of paying this Carmichael fellow the rest of his fee, you pay Pauley to get rid of him. And my commission, of course.”

The Forecaster shook his head. “It is not good business practice,” he said firmly. “Who will take the contracts in the other countries if they know this other man was—” he looked around but no one was nearby, “—got rid of?”

The Irishman gave a sharp yip of laughter. “Do you really think Carmichael doesn’t already know he’s in the crosshairs? He’ll be lookin’ for whoever’s put out the contract. But you hold the ace, ay? You got Pauley. He’ll fix it up when the time is right; the fella will just disappear.”

“This Carmichael will come after me?”

The Irishman shrugged. “I would.” He eyed the Forecaster with a small, mocking smile. “Basic human nature, Micky. You can count on it every time.”

The Forecaster bowed his head. He had thought his own skills were enough to create a winning strategy, but Sun Tzu’s wisdom rang in his ears. Advance knowledge could not be obtained from spirits or gods, nor by analogy with past events, or even from deductive calculations. It must be obtained from the men who know the enemy situation. The Irishman had indeed done him a great favor.

“Then we will do as you say,” he said.

The Irishman clinked his near-empty bottle against the Forecaster’s glass. “Drink up, Micky,” he said, the hyena full in his eyes. “You don’t want to be fallin’ behind, now.”

THE DEAD MOTH SMELL
OF EMPTINESS

M OSSON DROVE THE CAR INTO THE DRIVEWAY AND turned off the engine. Out of habit, he flicked the headlights off too, and the house in front of him was plunged into darkness. He studied the familiar silhouette: classic three-bedroom weatherboard, close to the beach, central bathroom, separate toilet, renovated kitchen and laundry. His auntie Magritte was right, he should put his mother’s house on the market. It was true he didn’t want to live in Rye again. It was true that the house was already deteriorating. It was also true that he was avoiding the big pack-up of his mother’s belongings. Effects, Auntie Magritte called them. Your dear mother’s personal effects. Mosson wondered why death stuck a stick up some people’s arses.

It had been a tedious two-hour drive from his apartment in Elwood, and the urgent energy that had taken him from his office to his home and then halfway round the bay to his mother’s house was gone. Mosson leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. The sudden need to touch the heavy plastic gun-grip and clumsy vinylized body of his first camera had shivered through Mosson during the afternoon management meeting. As Groll was ticking off the last agenda item, Lola from Production placed a padded vinyl bag on the conference table. The latest digital video camera, she announced, then slowly ripped open the velcro tabs of the bag with the hand of a stripper.

Everyone leaned forward. The camera was silver and curved and Lola cupped it in her hand like it was the breast of a lover. She passed it to Groll, who flicked it on and studied Lola’s mouth through the tiny side viewing screen. Mosson shifted in his chair. Groll handed the camera to Kipsack, who fingered the buttons and hummed a slow “Für Elise.” Mosson smelled dense plastic sweetness and sweat. He licked his lips and reached for the camera, but Kipsack wasn’t ready, and Mosson’s hand hung in the air like a beggar’s. Then Groll asked Lola if it was broadcast quality, and Kipsack finally laid the camera on Mosson’s palm.

Mosson sat still in the padded conference chair and looked at the digital camera, remembering a hot birthday morning a long time ago when he still had hair. His father had passed him a box wrapped in the dark blue furoshiki that his mother always used for birthday presents. Mosson had dug his fingers into the intricately knotted cloth and pulled the wrapping open. His father looked across the Laminex table at his mother and smiled his slow Air Force smile. Mosson flipped open the box and sucked in his breath. A Sanyo Super 8. He stroked the thick metal rim of the lens.

“It’s only a secondhand one,” his father said. “But it’ll do you, won’t it?”

Mosson nodded and picked up the heavy camera by its grip. As he balanced its weight in his hand, he felt a deep liquid energy through his body that made him straighten his back and press his balls hard against the kitchen chair.

But this new digital camera with its handgrip molded into its body and its sleek titanium finish did not send a wave through Mosson’s body. He straightened in his conference chair. Nothing. The camera was too light. Too small. Too automatic. Or maybe it was too long since he’d held a camera and his talent had drained away. He tightened his grip around the hard casing, but it didn’t give and Mosson felt a hot lick of fear curl up the edges of his certainty. He knew he had to go to his mother’s house and find his Super 8 camera.

Mosson let his seat belt snap back into its roller sheath. He didn’t even know if his mother had kept the old Super 8. It might have gone to the Salvation Army with his dad’s stuff years ago. He opened the car door and got out, rubbing his chest to ease a sudden tightness. The sea breeze already held a slight slap of winter and smelled of fish and chips from the shop down the road. He pushed the door shut and walked up the concrete driveway to the front patio. The white paint on the iron railing flaked and needled under his hand as he pulled himself over the cracked wobbly bricks in the third step. They’d been dodgy since his father died and Uncle Fiat had tried to get the piano down the steps in the old wheelbarrow. Mosson wiped his hand on his jeans and pulled open the fly-wire screen door. If he was going to sell the place, he’d have to get the steps fixed. He held his key ring up to his face and rubbed his forefinger across the top of each key until he found the ziggurat of his mother’s house.

Mosson opened the front door and flicked on the hall light. Forty years of steamed rice, bacon sandwiches, and dark soy was slowly giving way to the dead moth smell of emptiness. He let the screen door slap shut behind him, but left the front door open. The place needed a bit of fresh air. He pushed apart the frosted-glass sliding doors on his left that led to the lounge room. The light switch was across the room, beside the connecting door to the kitchen. Mosson edged his way past the dark forms of the coffee table, television, and display cabinet. He ran his hand down the far wall and found the switch, blinking in the sudden bright light.

The room looked the same as it had every night when he’d come home from school years ago. The faded print of Mt. Fuji over the wood mantelpiece. The display cabinet with his mother’s Japanese dolls and his film trophies. The crocheted rug his grandmother had made, arranged over the back of the brown vinyl couch, each square in a different color, with the one bad clash of orange and green carefully hidden behind a cushion. And, of course, there was the altar.

It was a small replica of a Shinto temple, the elegantly uptilted roof topping a shallow niche with two ornately carved columns at the front. A gray porcelain fox with a giraffe neck and openmouthed grin crouched in front of the left column: the messenger of Inari, the house protector. Mosson’s father had built a pine shelf for the altar beside the glass sliding doors—not too high, so that his mother could reach up and place the thin porcelain bowls of rice beside the little fox.

“The dead can get nasty if you don’t feed them,” his mother had said. “Same with the gods.”

“What gods?” Mosson had asked, thinking of the patient, suffering Anglican God he was learning about in Sunday school. They had obviously not got to the part of the Bible that would tell him what God liked to eat.

“The gods in the rocks and the water and the mountains,” his mother said. “The Japan gods.”

“Are they here too?” Mosson asked. “Can I see them?”

His mother picked up the fox and stroked the smooth gray porcelain.

“I don’t think they are here,” his mother said.

“Then why do you give them rice?”

“You must always honor the gods. Just like you should honor your ancestors. Do you know what ancestor means, Mosson?”

Mosson nodded, but his mother tilted her head and watched him. “No,” he finally said.

“An ancestor is someone you come from. Like Grandma and Grandpa.”

Mosson turned his head away. He did not want to give rice to his Australian grandpa. Not after last Christmas. Mosson pictured himself standing with his cousins beside the big plastic tree, waiting for Grandpa to hand out the presents. Shay and LeeLee had got red-haired dolls with big round skirts, Norris got a red wooden truck, and Taylor got his first air rifle. Then his grandpa had sat back down in the big brown recliner chair. Mosson stared at the bottom of the tree, at all the scrunched empty wrapping paper. He looked at his grandpa. The old man looked back, dropping peanuts into his mouth and chewing. Mosson stepped towards his grandma, but she looked away, straightening the special red and green cozy on the teapot. His mother’s head snapped up from admiring LeeLee’s doll.

“What’s wrong, Mosson?” she asked, and in her voice he heard the safe circle of her arms. But he couldn’t move, so he stood there at the foot of the tree, and the extended Ferret family turned to look at him.

“I heard Nips don’t have Christmas,” Grandpa said. “You can’t have presents if you don’t have Christmas, hey?”

Mosson’s father stood up.

“It’s time we went, Yoshi,” he said, and for the first time in more than a year he picked up Mosson and swung him onto his hip. From his father’s height, Mosson watched his mother pick up her white handbag and cross the room.

“We haven’t had dinner yet, Theo,” Auntie Magritte said, blocking the front doorway. “You’ve got to stay for dinner.”

“Let them go, Maggie,” Grandpa said.

“But it’s Christmas.”

Mosson, with his chin on his father’s shoulder, watched his mother touch Auntie Magritte lightly on the hand and whisper good-bye. His grandpa’s voice followed them out of the front door.

“You can take that look off your face, Maggie. She’s a Nip and the kid’s a Nip. They shouldn’t be here.”

Of course, the old man had died years ago. Some kind of stroke in the middle of a televised test match. Mosson walked over to the altar. A layer of dust was muting the rich red of the wood. He remembered his mother standing on her toes to push a bowl of rice onto the altar after his grandfather’s funeral, clapping two times to get the attention of the gods. Mosson smiled. That would have pissed off his grandfather.

He ran his finger across the shelf, picking up a coat of soft gray dust. He blew it away then brushed his hands together. The muted clap made Mosson pause, his hands held out in front of him. One more clap and he would call her gods. Not that he believed in her nature gods. Or any god. Mosson had not believed since he was twelve and discovered that turning the other cheek only resulted in a broken nose and five years of stopping the word slope with a fist.

He had watched his mother clap two times for his fighting to stop, for his hair to come back, for his high school exams, and finally for his father. As far as he could tell, her gods hadn’t done a damn thing. And he had never heard her pray for herself, for the pain to stop or the cancer to go away. It was too late for that now, but she would have wanted him to offer food on her behalf. Honor his ancestor. He dug his fingers into his jacket pocket and found the last section of the Kit Kat he had bought at the petrol station. It wasn’t what the gods were usually offered, but Mosson hoped they wouldn’t quibble. And his mother had loved Kit Kats.

He unwrapped the silver foil and placed the chocolate at the feet of the gray fox. Then he brought his hands together. The sharp sound snapped open the heaviness in his chest. He took a deep breath, wanting to send some kind of “missing you” message. Instead, his real prayer rose up free from his gut, shaking his body and howling in his head until he had to let the words out: “What the fuck are you doing?”

Mosson stared at the silent gray fox and stepped back, away from the altar and his words. They were stupid words; he knew what he was doing. Next week he was going to meet the Freaks doco woman and get back into filmmaking, where he belonged. He knew what he was doing. He rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand. He even knew where his mother had put his Super 8 camera. Back of the top shelf of the wardrobe in his old room. He turned and walked out of the lounge and down the hallway, his breathing shallow and painful as though he had been running.

The top shelf of the wardrobe was crammed with old sports gear, board games, and books. Mosson pulled out a croquet set wrapped in a green garbage bag, bringing with it a shower of old magazine cuttings and paperbacks. He pushed himself back off the wardrobe and steadied his feet on the single mattress. A fancy-looking scroll had rolled to the front of the shelf. Mosson picked it up. It looked like one of his mother’s Japanese woodcuts, except they weren’t usually sealed with red wax or bound with red silk cord.

He pushed the cord off the scroll and edged his thumb under the wax. It sprang open and Mosson pushed his hand down the parchment, exposing columns of elegant kanji. As the scroll opened to its full length, Mosson realized he was holding it upside down, not because he could read kanji, but because at the very top of the last column on the left-hand side were the words Mosson Ferret, boldly horizontal. He turned it right side up and studied the careful lettering. His name was the very last thing on the scroll. Maybe it was one of his mother’s calligraphy exercises. He’d have to get her best friend, Aunt Momi, to read it to him. He rolled it up and slid the red cord back over the parchment, placing it on the bed beside his feet.

After clearing out more papers, his mother’s bowling bag, and a game of KerPlunk, Mosson found the camera. The Sanyo box was more scarred and stained than he remembered. He sat on the old mattress and pushed the lid open. The instruction booklet fell onto the floor, a yellowed imprint of lens and body stiffening the cover. Had the box got damp? Mosson dug the heavy camera out of its blue velvet bed and checked the lens. It seemed okay. No lens bloom. No rust on the body. Then he realized there was also no hot burst of liquid exultation.

Mosson stopped still, holding his breath, the camera cradled in his right hand. He had lost it. The old certainty was gone. He traced the crack along the Bakelite grip and pressed his finger into the sharp edge of the pitted lens frame. Here was his first camera and it was completely out-of-date. A cold understanding washed through Mosson’s body; he had not lost his talent, he had lost his youth.