The Fourth Deal
IN THE SAME LOOP
M OSSON UNWRAPPED THE TOWEL AT HIS WAIST and looked at his naked body in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. His knees, chest, and semierect cock were still red from the heat of the shower. He drew the towel up under his balls and patted them dry, gathering their taut hairless weight in his hand. Would Hannie be disgusted by the raw bareness of him? He’d had his fair share of stuttered excuses and closed bathroom doors. He squeezed gently then let the sac fall back, fighting the urge to pull and stroke and rub. He didn’t have time for that—he should already be on his way to Hannie’s house. She had left a message on his answering machine the night before; an excited gabble about a list and a friend in Mulgrave, and could Mosson pick her up at eleven because her car was acting up again?
Mosson had called back as soon as he heard the message, but Hannie’s answering machine clicked on and all he could do was stumble over a short “Okay, see you then.” The last time he’d seen her was seven days ago at the interview with Dr. Lomas, and since then he’d felt like he’d had a permanent erection. He had wanted to call her on Tuesday, suggest dinner somewhere, but his scheduled quiet week at work had suddenly gone pear-shaped; Groll had resigned in a tantrum, and every department was ordered to come up with a business plan by the end of the week.
Mosson shook out a neatly folded pair of blue underpants. The heavy perfume of cheap laundry detergent stung his nose. He’d forgotten to ask the woman at the laundromat to halve the soap in his service wash. He snapped the underpants through the air again, hoping to soften the smell. God knows what it was doing to his bollocks; probably making him go sterile. But he hadn’t had a chance to do his own laundry; every night he’d stayed back at work until ten or eleven to get the business plan finished on time. He’d done it too, as well as soothing Groll into withdrawing his resignation. Even top management had praised his work, promising a pay review.
But Mosson still felt restless. He pulled the underpants up his legs and over his hips, pushing his recalcitrant cock under the elastic waistband. What would happen if he just walked out of his job, walked out of his life, and started again? Other people did it, why not him? Look at Regina Wilcox; she just up and left all the time. That had to take a lot of courage. Or maybe it just took a lot of despair. Mosson tunneled his hand into the bottom of a black T-shirt, separating the front panel from the back. If he wanted to, he could sell his mother’s house and his apartment and invest the money. The interest alone would be enough to keep him ticking over for years. He could finally travel around the world, maybe go to Paris and live the artist’s life on the Left Bank. Or maybe he could go back to Japan and find his mother’s family. He knew it was something he’d have to do sometime in his life. Why not now? Hannie could come with him and film it all. Do a kind of personal history/travelogue and sell it to all the documentary channels. An image of Hannie naked and straining on top of him, her long hair wild and sticking to her sweat-glazed breasts surged through his mind and cock. He resolutely pulled the T-shirt over his head. He had to get dressed and get going or he’d be late.
On the drive over to Hannie’s house, Mosson practiced his nonchalance. He didn’t want to seem too eager, just in case he’d got the wrong message at the Lomas shoot. Sure, she’d kept her hands on his shoulders and smiled at him in a way that sent hot promise sparking through his body, but then at the end of the filming she’d gone a bit cold. Maybe she’d changed her mind or he’d misread the whole thing.
He glanced in the rear-vision mirror, smoothing his face into pleasant indifference. Before he made a fool of himself, he’d wait and see how she acted. That was the smart thing to do, he told himself. But something hard within him chafed at the safe decision; what kind of man dreamed about starting a new life but couldn’t even take a chance on one night? Mosson dug his fingers into the steering wheel, feeling a drag of self-disgust. It was true, he didn’t even have the balls anymore to ask a woman out to dinner.
He turned left onto Hannie’s street and saw her waiting at her front gate. She knew what she was doing with her life; a ten-year plan and the guts to go after it even if it meant risking everything. He was still floundering around, wondering what he was going to do when he grew up. It was time to take charge of his life again, take some risks. He’d start today by asking Hannie out on a proper date, and tomorrow he’d check the ’Net to see what price he could get for the house in Rye. Mosson pulled up opposite Hannie’s house, satisfied that his life was about to change in a big way.
He was right.
“Look at this,” Hannie called, pointing down at the ground.
Mosson opened the car door and stretched the old stuck-in-a-rut Mosson out of his joints. He smiled and waved, but Hannie was still pointing at the footpath in front of her gate.
“I don’t know how it got here,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone.”
He walked across the road and looked down at the concrete. Someone had drawn three large copperplate letters in pink chalk: PMS.
“That’s spooky,” he said.
“It wasn’t there last night,” Hannie said, frowning. “I’m sure. I would have seen it when I came in. Someone must have done it this morning.”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” Mosson said, but the suggestion sounded hollow even to him.
“Big coincidence, if you ask me.” Hannie hunched her shoulders. “Gives me the creeps. I feel like someone’s watching me or something.”
They both looked around the quiet, suburban street, but there was no suspicious-looking man brandishing a stick of pink chalk. Hannie slapped her hands against her thighs.
“Come on. Let’s get going,” she said. “Steg has a meeting at three. He said we have to get to his place by twelve if we want to get it done before he goes out.”
“Get what done?” Mosson asked, following Hannie across the road to his car. “Your message wasn’t very clear.”
Hannie pulled futilely on the passenger-door handle, standing back as Mosson held up his keys. “The list,” she said. “We got a shot of Dr. Lomas holding up that list of women who can resorb. Steg’s got the equipment to pull it off the tape and sharpen it up so we can read it.”
“You’re kidding. That’s a bit…” Mosson didn’t quite know what it was, only that it felt very dodgy.
Hannie lifted her chin. “What?”
“It’s supposed to be a confidential document,” he said, unlocking the car door, aware of the querulous tone in his voice.
“God, you can be a real fuddy-duddy, can’t you,” Hannie said. She tossed her satchel onto the car floor and climbed into the passenger seat.
Mosson slammed the door shut. So he was a fuddy-duddy, was he? He walked around the back of the car, too nettled to meet her eyes through the front window. Was it a fuddy-duddy who blackmailed his way onto her film? Was it a fuddy-duddy who hid her thirty thousand embezzled dollars in the budget? Was it a fuddy-duddy…he stopped beside the driver’s door, stiff with shock. Cataloged baldly like that, his actions were straight-out criminal. If the IFF found out what he’d done, it wouldn’t just be dismissal, it would be jail.
Hannie leaned across to his side window. “Come on. What are you waiting for?” she asked, her voice muffled by the glass between them.
He opened the car door.
“Look at it this way,” Hannie said, moving back into her seat. “Technically, the tape belongs to me, so whatever is on the tape is mine. Right?”
Mosson eased into the driver’s seat and looked across at Hannie. She was busy adjusting the seat belt across her chest, her tight pale blue jumper showing the curve of her breasts and the jut of her nipples. Mosson pushed the key into the ignition. The only way out of this mess, he decided, was to see it through to the bitter end. Maybe by then he’d have another job and he could get out of the IFF before the shit hit the fan. Or maybe he would have enough guts to do a Regina; drop everything and just go.
“Right,” he said.
Steg Cale lived in a pollution-grayed, brick-veneer house on one of the busiest stretches of Springvale Road. Mosson was expecting him to be a greasy, squat computer nerd with a darkened bedroom full of computers and Star Trek models. The man who answered the doorbell was tall, neat, and wearing a suit. In fact, Mosson noted, this bloke was a good three inches taller than him, with thick brown hair, a deep tan, and a jacket that accentuated his broad shoulders. The man pushed open the fly-wire screen door and opened his arms. Hannie stepped into them.
“Long time no see,” he said, hugging her closely to his chest. “You look as gorgeous as ever.”
Mosson heard Hannie giggle into the man’s crisp white shirtfront. He had never heard her giggle before—it made her sound young and a bit silly.
She turned out of the tight embrace, but stayed within the man’s encircling arm. “Steg Cale, this is Mosson Ferret.” She looked up at Steg, smiling. “Mosson’s DOP on my film.”
Mosson clenched down on the urge to add that he was also the finance manager at one of the biggest film-funding organizations in Australia.
Steg held out his hand, smiling. “How you doing, Mosson? Good to meet you.”
Mosson felt his palm dampen against Steg’s dry, self-assured grip.
“Hannie tells me you got a good shot of the list for a few seconds,” Steg said. “It should be enough to capture a clean frame, then I can sharpen up the image for you. Come in and we’ll get started.” He swung Hannie around in front of him and herded her through the door, his hands resting on her shoulders. Mosson followed, feeling like a damp, bald dwarf.
Steg had an office at the back of the house—a light, clean, airy room with curved honey-wood furniture and neatly stacked computer equipment. Multi-paned French doors opened out onto a paved courtyard with a church-pew bench and a ferny garden. Steg hurried over to a small conference table, picking up two used coffee mugs.
“Sorry about the mess. I had a client in just before you came. Would anyone like a coffee or tea?”
Mosson shook his head.
“No thanks, I’m right,” Hannie said. She walked over to the French doors, leaving Mosson standing in the middle of the room. “The backyard has really come along, hasn’t it,” she said.
“Bit different from when you last saw it, hey?” Steg said. He walked over to Hannie and stood very close behind her to look out at the garden. “I landscaped that corner last week and got the pew at an auction place down the road. You should come over for a barbie soon.”
“I think we should make a start,” Mosson said. “Hannie said you had to go out soon?”
They both turned to look at him.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Steg said. “Who’s got the tape?”
Hannie opened her satchel. “I’ve cued it up for you,” she said, handing him the box.
“Excellent.” Steg strode over to his bank of equipment. He slotted the tape into a machine and started to flick switches and work the mouse. “This won’t take long to start up,” he said. “Why don’t you drag a couple of chairs over and make yourself comfortable.”
Mosson had to admit Steg was an efficient worker; the long skinny face of Dr. Lomas was soon frozen on the large computer screen.
“Okay. We’ll go through frame by frame and see which one gives us the clearest view of the list,” Steg said.
Mosson felt Hannie’s thigh brush his knee as she leaned forward to look at the monitor. Her face was close to Steg’s shoulder, almost resting on it. Had they slept together? Mosson couldn’t tell, although Steg seemed a bit free with his hands to be just a friend. Mosson pulled his chair forward, apologizing softly as he bumped into Hannie. As he expected, she politely sat back to give him a better view of the screen. A move that shifted her further away from Steg and closer to him, Mosson noted with satisfaction.
In the end, there was only one frame on the tape that was worth the effort to capture and clean up. Steg estimated half an hour to get the print readable, then pointed them in the direction of the kettle and coffee. They left him staring at the screen and humming quietly as he flicked the cursor over the grainy picture of a hand holding a piece of paper.
Mosson and Hannie made coffee then sat outside on the church pew in the pale, late-autumn sun.
“Steg seems to know what he’s doing,” Mosson said, wrapping his hands around the warmth of his coffee mug. “How long have you known each other?”
“We go way back,” Hannie said. She turned to face him. “Mosson, would it be okay if we dropped in at Byron’s house after this? It’s just up the road a bit. He’s found those photos of Regina I wanted.”
Mosson shrugged. “Sure. Why not.” He took a sip of coffee. “So, was Steg at college too? I don’t remember him.”
“No, I met him after college.” Hannie slouched back in the pew and closed her eyes. “Do you mind if we just sit for a while? I’m a bit whacked.”
“You can lean on me if you want to,” Mosson said.
She half opened her eyes, considering, then smiled and twisted her body around so that she fitted under his collarbone, her head against his shoulder. He could feel every centimeter of her warm body pressed against his side. He watched the lines of her face relax, her mouth easing into a child’s softness, the flicker of her eyes below the pale, blue-veined eyelids. He hadn’t noticed the spread of gold freckles across her nose before. Just like a little kid. He was so intent on breathing softly and keeping his body still, he didn’t notice when Steg finally walked up to the bench.
“She asleep?” Steg whispered.
Mosson carefully nodded.
“Is she having a bad time with the Crohn’s again?”
“The what?” Mosson said. He felt Hannie stir against him.
“That bowel disease she’s…” Steg stopped. “Ahh, you didn’t know.”
“Thanks a lot, Steg,” Hannie said drily. She sat up, not looking at Mosson. “So, are you finished? Did we get any names?”
Mosson rubbed his bicep, working the numbness out of the muscle. How sick was Hannie? Was it cancer? An image of his mother in the hospital bed flashed into his mind; thin yellowing skin stretched over frail bones. No, Steg had called it something else. Crone’s disease? How did Steg know so much about it? Mosson watched Hannie stand and link her fingers together, stretching her arms out in front of her body. She was very thin, and she did look tired and pale. Maybe this Crone’s was serious.
“This is as good as I could get it,” Steg said, handing Hannie a color print of the video frame. “You can’t read the whole list, but you’ve got four names that are pretty clear.”
Mosson stood up and looked at the print over Hannie’s shoulder. Steg had done a good job of enhancing the picture, but the white-knuckled grip of Dr. Lomas had bent the list into an odd shape, making most of the print illegible. Mosson made out the four clear names: Lily Argyle, Carousel Dane, Stella Penrod, and Regina Wilcox.
“At least we’ve got two new ones to check,” Hannie said.
“So what is it with these women?” Steg asked.
“It’s just a medical thing we’re looking into,” Hannie said. Mosson smiled and put his hands on Hannie’s shoulders; Steg wasn’t in this loop.
“We better get going,” Mosson said. “We’ve got some other stuff to do this afternoon.”
“Yeah, we better go,” Hannie said.
Mosson dropped his hands away as she stepped over to Steg.
“Thanks for doing this on such short notice. I really appreciate it.”
She leaned forward, angling her face up to kiss him. Mosson saw a faint frown of longing on Steg’s face as he stooped down to kiss Hannie on the cheek. Steg was in the same loop, after all.
It took ten minutes for Mosson to find a safe break in the Springvale Road traffic and reverse the car out of Steg’s driveway. It was a close call as it was, with a huge semi bearing down on Mosson’s sluggish acceleration. He looked across at Hannie, ready to apologize for the scare, but she was oblivious to everything except the Lomas list in her hands.
“All I can make out is a few more letters,” she said, dropping the print onto her lap. “I thought I was being so bloody smart too.”
“It was smart,” Mosson said. “And we did get two more names.” He edged the car over into the left-hand lane, scanning the center barrier for a gap to do a U-turn. Byron’s house was in the opposite direction and if they didn’t turn soon they’d get shunted onto the South Eastern. “If you like, I’ll do a search on the ’Net and see if anything comes up about them.”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
Mosson suddenly saw his chance and swung the car through a gap in the grassy center strip, smoothly joining the traffic on the other side. He sighed and settled back in his seat.
“Shit,” Hannie said.
“What’s wrong?” Mosson tensed over the wheel again and scanned the road for trouble.
“I left the bloody tape at Steg’s,” she said. “What an idiot.”
“Do you want to go back and get it?” Mosson asked reluctantly. He didn’t fancy seeing Steg again.
“He’s probably already left for his meeting.” She sat up straight and took a deep breath, rubbing her hand back and forwards across her stomach. “I suppose it’s not that urgent. I’ll give him a call later and pick it up.” She leaned back again and closed her eyes.
“Are you feeling okay?” Mosson asked. He licked his lips. “I don’t want to be nosy or anything, but Steg said you had some kind of bowel disease.”
Hannie opened her eyes. “I’ve got Crohn’s,” she said. “It’s not contagious, it’s not cancer, and it’s not going to kill me.” She ticked each point off on her fingers. “Happy now?”
“But does it make you feel sick?”
There was no answer. Mosson glanced across at Hannie. She was looking out of the window.
“Does it?”
“Do you really want to know? Or are you just being polite?”
“I really want to know.”
She shifted in her seat to face him. “Okay, then. Crohn’s is a chronic inflammatory bowel disease, which means that when the disease is active, bits of my bowel are ulcerated. I get bad cramping and diarrhea with a lot of blood and pus in it. I also run a low-grade fever most of the time, which pretty much wipes me out. I take eight tablets every day to keep it under control, but sometimes it acts up and I have to go on cortisone. In fact, I’m on a big dose of cortisone now, which I really hate because it makes me feel like crap. But it’s a different kind of crap, so I get to be two kinds of crap. I’ll probably have Crohn’s for the rest of my life, but if I’m lucky I won’t have to have half my bowel removed and use a bag to take a shit. Does that answer your question?”
She sat back.
Mosson took a deep breath. “Yeah, that answers my question. But fair’s fair. You want to know about my hair?”
Hannie shrugged. “Sure. Why not.”
“I’ve got alopecia universalis. As you’ve probably noticed, it causes most of the hair on the body to fall out without much chance of it growing back. And I mean all hair,” he said, glancing down at his crotch then back up at Hannie, looking for any sign of disgust. She just looked interested. “The doctors aren’t sure what causes it, but it could be autoimmune or stress or genetic or all of the above. I lost my hair when I was a kid, which was a real hoot, because we all know how considerate kids are to anyone different. I don’t have any eyelashes or eyebrows, so I get a lot of eye irritations and infections, and windy days are just the pits. I also have loads of sinus problems because I don’t have nostril hair, which usually stops all the crap in the air from going up your nose. In fact, a few years ago I got addicted to those sinus sprays, so I can’t use them anymore. I’m not in any pain, but I do get stared at all the time, which used to make me want to crawl inside a hole when I was a kid, but now just pisses me off.”
He looked across at Hannie. Had he made a mistake? He couldn’t bear it if she thought he was a freak. She was staring at him.
“So, we’re both fucked,” she finally said, and smiled.
Mosson laughed. “Totally screwed.”
“Hairless and shitty,” she intoned, then laughed. “Sounds like a shonky legal firm.”
“Or a brilliant film company,” Mosson said. They looked at each other, their years of humiliation and suffering recognized, and laughed harder, their bodies swaying towards each other.
Mosson suddenly sat up straight. “I think that was our turn.” He looked back, straining to see the name of the street they were passing.
“No, it’s the next one,” Hannie said. And although it wasn’t funny, they laughed at that too.
They were both still rippling with snorts and hiccups when they pulled up beside Byron’s house. Mosson would later recall a chill of unease that shivered through him as they walked silently up the driveway, the darkened house pressing the laughter out of them. Instinctively, they moved closer together, walking side by side up the narrow path to the shabby porch. Both Holland blinds were drawn, but the security door was ajar, and the front door behind it was wide open.
Hannie pulled on Mosson’s arm. Her head was cocked to one side, listening.
“Can you hear that?” she whispered. “I think that’s someone moaning.”
Mosson ran up the few steps to the security door.
“Anyone home?” he called through the gap. “Byron, are you there? Are you okay?”
Then Mosson heard the moaning too. The breathy bubbling sound of something very hurt. He pulled open the door and plunged into the hallway. Hannie was behind him as he wrenched apart the half-open sliding doors to the seaside lounge room. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy room, the ammonia of piss mixing with the smell of burnt bread and roasted meat. The low coffee table was set with breakfast—a bowl of cornflakes, limp with milk, and a plate of blackened toast beside an empty honey jar. Underneath, a mug lay on the pale yellow carpet, the dark spill already dry and crusted.
“Byron?” Hannie said softly.
Mosson reached over and pulled up the blind, the afternoon light making them blink. Behind them a pale whimper sobbed up into a moan. They both spun around to face the armchair in the corner.
He was lying on his side, facing the wall, naked. Slashed legs drawn up against his belly. Buttocks raw with deep burns. Something had been pushed up hard into his sphincter.
Mosson felt his own arsehole bunch in protest.
“Byron,” Hannie said softly. “Byron, it’s Hannie and Mosson. It’s okay. We’re going to call an ambulance.” She already had her mobile phone in her hand.
Mosson stepped forward. The naked body shivered and flinched. “It’s all right. It’s Mosson,” he said. “I’m going to come over now.”
He knelt down beside Byron.
“Jesus,” he said softly.
Byron’s ankles were bound together with wire. His bruised and torn wrists were tied too, but Mosson couldn’t see what was holding them together. If it was wire, then it was buried in the pulped flesh, the head of a cobra tattoo shredded into ragged pieces of skin. Mosson leaned closer to Byron’s face. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut and Mosson guessed that either his jaw was broken or dislocated. Behind them, Hannie was repeating the house address into her mobile phone.
“Byron, can you hear me?” Mosson said. “The ambulance is on its way.”
He heard a soft grunt.
“And the police,” Hannie said, kneeling beside Mosson.
Byron stiffened and opened his eyes a millimeter.
“Pigs?” he slurred. “Get it out. Don’t want them to…” He tried to move, rocking back and forward.
Mosson looked at Hannie. “What did he say?”
“He wants something out.” Hannie cupped the back of Byron’s head in her hand. “Byron, don’t move. Just tell us what you want.”
Byron swallowed. “Get it out of my arse. Before the pigs get here,” he said slowly and carefully.
Mosson and Hannie looked down at Byron’s burned and gashed buttocks.
“Is that a banana?” Hannie said.
“Looks like it.” Mosson shuddered. “I don’t think we should touch him. We might hurt him more.”
“Get it out,” Byron panted. He pushed his elbows into the carpet and raised his head, but fell back, fresh blood welling up around his wrists.
Hannie rocked back onto her heels. “He’s going to hurt himself more if we don’t,” she said. She smiled grimly at Mosson. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it. I’m used to doctors shoving stuff up my bum.”
She closed her hand around the end of the banana. “Yuck, there’s something sticky on it.” She snatched her hand back.
“Honey,” Byron whispered.
Mosson met Hannie’s eyes.
“At least it’s not something else,” she said. She grasped the end of the banana again and braced herself with her free hand. “Okay, Byron. A bit of advice from someone who knows,” she said. “Don’t tense. It’ll make it worse.”
She pulled, hard and fast. The banana came free, feces and blood stuck to the skin. Byron groaned, his whole body shivering. Hannie dropped the banana and sat back.
“Okay,” she said, her face tight. “Okay, I have to wash my hands.” She stood up and walked quickly out to the hallway.
One of Byron’s eyes opened slightly. “Out?”
“Yeah, mate, it’s out.”
Byron let his head drop into a shallow nod. Mosson saw him strain upwards again, trying to raise his head.
“Sorry,” Byron breathed. “He made me…”
He fell back.
“Don’t try to talk,” Mosson said, gingerly touching him on the shoulder. His skin was cold.
Hannie walked back into the room, drying her hands on her jeans.
“I think we should cover him with a blanket or something. He’s freezing,” Mosson said.
“I’ll go and get something from the bedroom.”
Mosson watched Byron’s chest move with shallow, pained breaths. He seemed to be sleeping, or maybe he was unconscious. Mosson had never seen anyone beaten so badly. He’d been in his own fights, of course, and he’d once seen a nasty stabbing in a bar, but nothing like this. Nothing like the banana. What kind of sick bastard would do that? He looked around the room. Apart from the spilt coffee, it didn’t look like there had been much of a fight.
Hannie came back with a blanket and carefully tucked it around Byron. She sat down on the floor beside Mosson, shifting herself until they were touching at shoulder and knee.
“It’s an icebox in here,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Here, you can have some of my body heat,” Mosson said.
He placed his arm lightly around her shoulders, ready to draw back if she shrugged it away. They both held still for a second, and then she leaned into him. Mosson pulled her closer against his chest, needing to feel her warmth, needing to hold on to the world as it had been ten minutes ago.
She tilted her head to look up at him, and although she was smiling, he saw his own strain mirrored in the tense curve of her lips. Without thinking, he stroked her hair, his hand finding the smooth softness of her cheek. His breath stopped, suspended in possibility. It was just a matter of bowing his head. Forever closing the few centimeters of space between them. Would she meet him? Or pull away?
Halfway to her, he saw the answer in the dark flare of her eyes. In the quick intake of breath as she rose towards him. His mouth met hers in the awkward sliding search of a first kiss. The gentle touch held more solace and hope than passion, but then her mouth opened to him and the harder demands of want quickened between them. He pulled her closer, taking refuge in the precious moment of pure sensation. Her body pressed against his, the tang of skin, the smooth wet of tongue, the soft curve of cheekbone that fitted his hand.
A shuddering moan from Byron snapped them apart. Their eyes met—an acknowledgment that it had all changed—then she ducked away from his hold and pulled the blanket higher over Byron’s body.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, stroking the thin, shaking shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Still murmuring soft reassurances, she eased back against Mosson’s arm, curling awkwardly into his embrace. It was the wrong time—they both knew it—but he could not lose the comfort of her touch and she was not letting go. They sat holding each other, watching Byron breathe, listening for the ambulance.
“Do you think this has got something to do with Regina?” Mosson finally asked.
“I don’t know. Byron seems to hang out with a rough crowd. Maybe he owed someone money or something. Or maybe it was a robbery.”
They both looked around the room. A distant siren pulsed the air.
“It doesn’t really look like a robbery, does it,” Mosson said. He picked up her hand and threaded their fingers together, feeling the fragile bones beneath her chilled skin. “The TV and video are still here. So is the sound system. Nothing seems to have been taken.”
But Mosson was wrong. Something had been taken.
Information. And the business card of Hannie Reynard.
THREE LORDS
A LTHOUGH THE FORECASTER WAS TEN MINUTES early for the meeting, he found the Irishman waiting for him at the corner table behind four empty beer glasses—the man must have been sitting there for at least half an hour. It seemed they were both eager to finalize the Australian situation. “A couple more,” the Irishman called to the barman, holding up two fingers as the Forecaster pulled out the chair opposite him. “Micky, my man,” he said, squinting across at him. “Am I right in thinkin’ it’s time?”
“Yes.” He sat down, placing his briefcase on the chair beside him. “I want your cousin to clean up the loose ends.” The Forecaster was proud of remembering the English idiom.
The Irishman pushed himself up out of his slouch. “I’ve heard from Pauley, and he’s got that name yer wanted. The filmmaker.” He fished inside his worn combat jacket then passed a piece of paper across the table. “There’s another name too. A producer.”
The Forecaster read the uneven scrawl—Hannie Reynard, Mosson Ferret—and nodded. They were the names that Dr. Famagusta had supplied from his source in the hospital. Apparently Dr. Lomas had already filmed an interview with these people. The Forecaster closed his eyes, feeling the same jab of dread that had first accompanied the information. The ugly doctor was the bridge between the Company and the dead women. Had the filmmakers made the connection? The Forecaster grunted; he had all the confirmation he needed. Now it was time for swift action. According to Sun Tzu, a good general was one who observed changing circumstances and acted accordingly.
“Pauley got some other intel too,” the Irishman said, sitting forward. “One of yer bunny women has gone AWOL. They worked over the fella who lives with her and he said she knows someone is after her. She’s hiding out. And here’s the pearler—she’s just had a baby. A little girl.”
The Forecaster blew out a breath. A baby? Something primeval balled in his gut—an ancient call to protect and succor. He felt it claw at his resolution.
The Irishman nodded. “I thought you’d want ter know. The kid could have the gene, right? That’s how it works.”
“It is possible,” the Forecaster allowed.
“Will you be wantin’ to arrange something?” The hyena was in the Irishman’s eyes.
The Forecaster hesitated. He was already trespassing in the realm of the gods by stopping the spread of the mutation. Interfering with the destiny of a new spirit risked an even worse breach of courtesy. He did not want to offend the spirit world, but on the other hand, his duty to the Company was clear. As was his duty to his own child. He scrubbed at his eyes. Who could serve three lords? Which was his true giri, his most pressing obligation?
The barman arrived with the two beers and slid them onto the table. The Forecaster stared at the frosted glass in front of him, considering his options.
“I’m thinking it would be cleaner for Pauley to do it,” the Irishman said when the barman had walked away. “He’s already got a lead on the woman, a phone number she called her fella from a few days ago. If yer want, he can go ahead and find her and the babe.”
The Forecaster shifted uneasily. Was the child really a threat? Dr. Famagusta had said it was likely the mutation would be the type that was passed on to offspring. If that was the case, then just killing the mother would be a useless exercise. He sighed. Sun Tzu rightly warned that compassion could incite weakness. The child would have to go too. Another necessary sadness. It would bring the disapproval of those deities who had a special interest in the welfare of children. He would need to make a generous offering at the shrine to appease them.
“What about Carmichael?” he asked. “Why not let him finish, then bring in Pauley?”
The Irishman shrugged. “You could do that. But Carmichael will want more for the kid. Pauley says he’ll throw it in.”
The Forecaster grunted and reached into his briefcase, pulling out the black-and-white photo of Dr. Lomas. “We will discuss the price for the child, the filmmakers, and this woman.” He passed the image to the Irishman. “It would also be convenient if your cousin destroyed any interviews these people have filmed. Would he be willing to do such work?”
The Irishman gave a sharp laugh. “Don’t be worrying about that. Pauley loves destroying things. I’m sure somethin’ can be arranged.”
“I would like this to be finished soon,” the Forecaster said. There were already too many complications. He could sense the clean shape of his plan fraying at the edges. “Carmichael is scheduled to complete the contract next week.”
“Pauley can match that,” the Irishman said confidently. “His intel says the man is on his way to do the second-to-last job. Then he’ll be goin’ back to Melbourne for this missing woman. When he does, Pauley will be waitin’.” He pointed his finger at the Forecaster and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Good-bye Mr. Second Best.”
The Forecaster smiled thinly. “If your cousin can have all of this done by the end of next week, he will have the other half of Carmichael’s payment. Five hundred thousand.”
“And another ten percent,” the Irishman said quickly. “My commission.” He smiled, but the hyena was watching carefully.
“Five,” the Forecaster said.
“Seven.”
The Forecaster nodded. It was a good deal.
“I like doin’ business with you, Micky,” the Irishman said, eyeing him over the top of his beer. “You play by the rules. A rare and wonderful thing in this world.”
The Forecaster gave a small bow of gratitude, but he had the uneasy feeling that the Irishman was laughing at him.
DEATH ON CREDIT
H ANNIE WATCHED THE YOUNG SPIKY-HAIRED receptionist pass Jezza a stack of Medicare forms to sign. It took a lot of paperwork to kill a baby, Hannie thought. She immediately corrected herself: it wasn’t killing a baby, it was aborting an unplanned fetus. She looked at the blanched, drawn face of Jezza. Hannie was all for sisterhood semantics, but they didn’t change the uneasy fact that a potential life would soon be medical waste, and her friend was suffering in the decision.
“Just sign those in the box at the top,” the receptionist said, smiling at Jezza. “Then we ask that you pay the balance now, before you go in to theater.”
Hannie leaned her back against the counter and looked through the archway at the people sitting in the waiting room. Six women, and a young man in a suit—it seemed busy for eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning. The man was leafing nervously through a women’s magazine, his eyes flicking up to the doorway that led into the consulting rooms. Was he waiting for his girlfriend to have an abortion? Hannie decided there were two types of guys in the world: the ones who would wait in an abortion clinic for their girlfriend and the ones who wouldn’t. Mosson was definitely the kind of guy who’d wait, Hannie thought. She smiled, remembering the sweet, hesitant way he had put his arm around her when they were waiting for the ambulance. And the kiss. Hannie licked her lips, once again feeling the soft searching pressure of Mosson’s mouth and the warm almond taste of him. They had kissed again in the car when he had dropped her home, but they had both been too tired and raw from the brusque interrogation by the police to want anything more than a small pledge of intent. Hannie was willing to wait.
“You just sign in those boxes at the top,” the receptionist said again, her voice slow with professional patience. Hannie glanced across at Jezza. She wasn’t moving, just staring down at the sheath of papers, the pen untouched on the counter.
“Jez? You okay?” Hannie asked.
“What?” Jezza said, blinking. “I just sign these and then pay. Right?” She picked up the pen. “Is Visa okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” the receptionist said. Jezza signed the papers then pushed her credit card across the counter. The receptionist swiped it through the machine and tapped out the total. “We just have to wait for approval,” she said.
Death on credit, Hannie thought. Beside her, Jezza cleared her throat. Hannie heard the rough catch of fear in the cough and touched Jezza’s arm in apology, ashamed of her gallows humor. The credit machine clicked and spun.
“Okay, that’s gone through,” the receptionist said brightly. She tore the receipt out of the machine and circled the total in red Biro. “Just sign at the bottom and we’re nearly done.” She passed Jezza the slip. “We’ve got a strict confidentiality policy here,” she said, pausing as Jezza signed. “We don’t release any information about you to anyone unless you’ve okayed it. So, I just need the names of the people who can have information about you if they call.”
Jezza looked down at the counter. “No one really,” she said.
“What about your friend here?” The receptionist turned to Hannie. “You’re going to take Jezza home?”
“Yes,” Hannie said. “I’ll be staying with her for a few days.”
“Good, she’ll need someone to keep an eye on her after the anesthetic. Can I have your name for the record?”
Hannie spelled her name, watching Jezza fumble with the clasp of her purse.
“Okay. All done.” The receptionist walked out from behind the counter, ushering them through a doorway to the right. “Come through to the theater waiting room,” she said. “There’ll be a little bit of a wait before the doctor takes your details. Then you’ll go into theater. Hannie, it will be about thirty to forty minutes before you can see Jezza in recovery. You’re very welcome to wait here, or there are shops nearby if you want a coffee or something.”
“You’re going to stay till I go in, aren’t you?” Jezza said.
Hannie smiled reassuringly. “Of course I am. I’ll stay the whole time.”
Jezza nodded, the movement thick with fatigue. For two days and two nights she had walked kilometers around her tiny lounge room, the desperate energy in her body fueled by the churn of her thoughts. She had pushed through the maelstrom of right and wrong, do and don’t, last chance no chance, until she had finally found the cushioning quiet of exhaustion. Now she only knew the certainties of her body; the effort it took to walk into the clinic, to curl her fingers around the pen, to follow Hannie into the waiting room.
“Okay, then,” the receptionist said, pausing at the doorway. “The doctor will be here soon.”
Hannie looked around the small theater waiting room, glad to find it deserted. She was worried about the dullness in Jezza’s eyes, but didn’t want to question her friend in front of a stranger. She cupped Jezza’s elbow in her hand and directed her towards the bright blue sofa.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked softly.
“I’m fine,” Jezza said.
“You can tell me if you’re not.”
Jezza pulled her arm away. “Look, I’ve said I’m fine. Stop asking me.”
Hannie sat down on the sofa. “Right.” She smiled stiffly at Jezza. “Well, at least we get to wait in the posh waiting room.” Hannie heard the same strained jovial tone in her voice that Sigmy had used when she had been ill. At the time, she’d accused him of not really caring, but now she realized that he’d just been afraid. His lover had been replaced by a woman sunk into herself, unable to think beyond her own body. The selfishness of chronic disease. Sigmy had not understood her need to withdraw from him and concentrate on survival. Hannie felt the hard lump of her old anger shift.
She gently pulled Jezza down onto the sofa. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hassle you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jezza bunched her hands together in her lap. “I’m really tired. I just want to sit for a while.”
Hannie pulled a yellow cushion out from behind her back and settled onto the sofa. There was nothing she could do now for Jezza. Hannie had enough experience of waiting for doctors to know that even if you’re surrounded by caring people, you wait alone. She thought of Byron lying on the floor in his own blood, waiting for someone to find him. What if she and Mosson had decided it was too late to pick up the photos? What if his sister had decided to stay an extra night at her friend’s house? He could still be there, waiting. He could be dead. Hannie remembered the moment when Byron opened his eyes and looked directly at her while the paramedics were shifting him onto the stretcher. She had recognized the brutal knowledge of mortality in his glazed eyes. His carelessness was gone. Hannie understood the loss. Her own immortality had been stripped from her with the first bloodied cramps of Crohn’s disease.
“Jezza Keane?”
The doctor was standing in the doorway that led to the medical rooms, a folder in his hands. He smiled as Jezza stood up.
“I’m Dr. Lim. I’ll be your anesthesiologist for the procedure. I just need you to come through here and answer a few questions.” He gestured towards the doorway with the file.
Hannie touched Jezza’s hand.
“I’ll wait here,” she said.
Jezza nodded and followed the doctor out of the waiting room.
Hannie sat back on the sofa and looked around the room. Television, magazines, soft classical Muzak, spring-water dispenser—the place was set up for a long wait. She picked up a magazine from the pile on the side table and read the garish grab lines: Is he lying to you? Five signs that will tell you the truth. I paid $8,000 for my wedding dress & it was ruined. Polycystic ovary syndrome—fat & infertile! Hannie flicked through the pages to look at the wedding dress, just to see how it was ruined, but someone had torn out the page. She put the magazine back onto the table. Only a fool would pay eight thousand dollars for a dress they would only wear once, she thought. Better to buy a suit or a skirt and top, something you could wear again. She pictured herself in a sleek white tuxedo suit, no shirt, her pale skin set off by a dramatic thick gold and pearl choker. Would she carry flowers? Maybe just a single white lily. Mosson would wear a black tuxedo, for the contrast, and maybe she could get him to wear an earring. He would look very sexy with a single diamond stud. A sudden image of their naked bodies sliding in rhythm washed heat through her groin. Hannie blinked away the touch of his body. What was she doing? Two reasonable kisses and she was planning a whole future with the man. For all she knew, Mosson could be a dud root. And marriage was definitely not in her ten-year plan.
Hannie had never been like her high school friends, whiling away lunchtimes imagining their future wedding days. “I’m going to live in sin,” she had told them, enjoying their shrill screams of protest. But she was not just playing the rebel; Hannie could not imagine herself married. Even as a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding, she had felt uneasy about the rituals. The white virgin veil, her father giving her sister away, love and obey; it all smacked of ownership. And when her sister had been introduced as Mrs. Jonno Braggwell, Hannie had felt a deep sour fear. All her life she had seen women give up their self; for boyfriends, for husbands, for kids, and then, when they were old, for a world that was repulsed by their lined faces and shrunken bodies. Hannie did not want to press herself into the shape of another person, even though the world around her whispered that a woman not defined by a man or child was not a woman at all.
Hannie heard a murmur of voices in the hallway then Jezza walked back into the room, her polite thank-you smile still on her lips.
“That was quick,” Hannie said.
“It was just medical history and all that.” She sat down next to Hannie. “Not long now, they said.”
Hannie took one of Jezza’s warm hands in her own. “It’ll all be over soon. Then I’ll take you home.”
“You’re going be able to stay for a few days, aren’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll stay until you get sick of me.”
Jezza nodded. “Just going to stay ten minutes, hey?”
“Very funny.” Hannie pushed her shoulder against Jezza’s, smiling as Jezza pushed back.
They both straightened as a nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Jezza, it’s time to come through.”
Hannie felt Jezza’s hand twitch. She loosened her grip, ready to let go, but Jezza wound her fingers tightly around Hannie’s thumb.
“Not yet,” Jezza whispered, and Hannie wondered if she meant letting go or the arrival of the nurse. She watched Jezza close her eyes and take a deep breath.
“Okay, I’m ready now,” Jezza said. She let go of Hannie’s hand and stood up.
Hannie stood too—a single guard of honor for the brave. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.
Jezza nodded and turned away.
Hannie kept a smile on her face as she watched Jezza walk through the doorway, just in case her friend looked back, but Jezza didn’t turn and Hannie felt the cold prospect of the wait settle in the pit of her stomach. She sat down again on the sofa. Half an hour, the receptionist had said, and then Jezza would be in Recovery. Hannie looked at her watch. Only 9:15. A bit early to ring Mosson at his office. She stiffened her muscles against the urge to call him. What would he think about all this? She pictured Mosson putting his arm around her, nodding sympathetically as she told him about Jezza, or maybe he was the kind of guy who would pick up a crowbar and stalk off to find Condo. She smiled. Maybe not. The truth was, she didn’t know what Mosson thought about abortion, or religion, or any of the big questions. She didn’t even know if he wanted a relationship. Which forced the real question: did she want a relationship with him?
When Hannie was twenty years old, she decided that she had three basic requirements in a man: he wouldn’t want kids; he wouldn’t believe in organized religion; and he wouldn’t have hair on his back. Mosson definitely had the hairlessness covered, and he didn’t seem to be religious, but Hannie had the feeling that he wanted children. Was that still her deal-breaker? She was thirty-four now, living the future of that adamant twenty-year-old. The window for children was closing. It would be so easy to just let it shut without a struggle. To look down at the floor and say softly that she had never met the right man, that it had never been the right time, that her health was too tenuous. Far easier to give the shadow reasons than say her bright, hard words of truth: that she didn’t want to lose her creative energy in the needs of a child, that she didn’t want to become someone’s mother rather than someone’s lover, that after ten minutes she was bored by babies and annoyed by small children. What kind of mother would that make? But Hannie had learned that when it came to rejecting motherhood, there was no such thing as a self-aware woman. There was only a selfish woman.
Hannie picked up another magazine, determined to stop thinking about Mosson and babies. Five minutes later she slapped it back down on the table. She wasn’t selfish. She was just a woman who didn’t want kids. That didn’t make her a bad person, did it? Hannie suspected it made her a bad woman. For all the feminism and hard-won rights, she still lived in a world where the main value of a woman was in the promise of sex and the proof of fertility. She roughly brushed at some fluff sticking to her jeans; a light flagellation for admitting the truth.
She stood up and walked around the room. She had to get her focus back on her film. Maybe she could ring someone about the names on Dr. Lomas’s list while she waited. Hannie stopped pacing. Didn’t Dr. Lomas say she worked here on Tuesdays? It could be the perfect opportunity to get more information about Regina. Use the excuse of talking about the resorbing tape.
Hannie shivered. The tape had been a shock. She had watched it as soon as she’d got home from the interview shoot. A pulsing 3D image of a fetus in the womb, fingers splayed and large head bowed to chest. The ultrasound had been time-lapsed, the resorption pulling the fetus back into the placental wall through the cord; tiny torso, arms, legs, head dissolving with each cut of the video. When the surging womb was empty, Hannie had stabbed her finger against the Eject button and stuffed the video back into its black cover. It was still on the floor under the television, where she’d pushed it with her foot.
Hannie swung her bag off the sofa and walked through the short corridor into the main reception. At the front counter, a tall pregnant woman was joking with the spiky-haired receptionist about eating dirt. Hannie stood to the side, waiting for her turn. The receptionist pointed the woman to the general waiting room then turned to Hannie.
“Off to get a cup of coffee?” she asked. “There’s a nice place down the road.”
“No, not yet,” Hannie said. “I was actually wondering if Dr. Lomas was in today. I was hoping to say hello.”
The girl’s smooth face tensed and hollowed.
“Were you a patient of hers?” she asked.
“No, she’s involved in a project I’m doing. A documentary.”
The receptionist leaned forward, waving Hannie closer. “Look, I’m really sorry,” she said softly. “Dr. Lomas has been killed in a hit-and-run accident. We just found out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hannie said. “Jesus.”
The receptionist nodded. “You don’t think something like that could happen to anyone you know, do you? I only knew her a little bit, but, yeah…what can you say. It’s just so sad.”
“Hit-and-run?”
“Yeah. No one saw it happen.”
Hannie opened her bag, groping through the papers and makeup for her mobile. She had to call Mosson. She had to talk away the sharp spinning dread that was making her hands shake. She pulled out the phone.
“Sorry, you’ll have to go outside with that,” the receptionist said, nodding towards a Mobiles Off Please sign on the wall. “They disrupt our equipment.”
“Right,” Hannie said. “Outside.”
She ran towards the front door, fumbling to undo the key lock on her phone. She shouldered through the heavy door and stepped onto the shallow veranda that fronted the clinic. A nurse was smoking at the far end, sheltering from a misting rain. Hannie pressed the speed dial for Mosson and leaned back against the support of the wall. “Be there,” she chanted, as the low tone of his office phone rang.
“Mosson Ferret here.” His voice was clipped with business.
“Mosson, it’s me. Dr. Lomas is dead. I just found out.”
“Hannie?”
“Yes. Did you hear me? Dr. Lomas is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Hit-and-run. It sounds really dodgy, doesn’t it? It can’t be just a coincidence.”
“Shit. When did it happen?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that she got killed in a hit-and-run.”
“Maybe it was an accident.”
“Come on,” Hannie said. “It’s all too much of a coincidence.”
There was a pause. Hannie listened to Mosson breathe. “So what are we going to do?” he finally said.
“I think we should find out more about those names on her list. Have you started that yet?”
“No, but I can do a bit today.”
“Good. And maybe check out the company she was working for—Osagi-Fowler.”
“Sure. Do you want to meet tonight?”
Hannie looked back into the clinic. “I can’t. A friend of mine is having an operation and I promised I’d stay with her for a few days.” She wanted to see him. Wanted to touch him. “But I think she’ll be okay by tomorrow. How about then?”
“I’ve got to go to Sydney for a stupid conference tomorrow morning. I won’t be back until Friday. What about Friday night?”
“Okay. Friday night. Come over to my place. I’ll organize dinner or something. And I’ll try to get some more information about what happened to Dr. Lomas.”
“Good idea,” Mosson said. “You going to be all right?” His voice had lowered into intimacy.
Hannie smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay. It just freaked me out a bit.”
“You’re not kidding. I’ll give you a ring later, okay? Tell you if I’ve found anything.”
“Okay.”
He hung up. Hannie dropped the phone back into her bag. The ache of his absence was already marked in her movements. She pushed open the clinic door, preparing herself for a long, lonely wait.
GOD’S BEST JOKE
M OSSON RAPPED HIS KNUCKLES ON THE FROSTED-GLASS panel beside Hannie’s front door. He’d knocked twice now and she hadn’t answered. There didn’t seem to be any lights on in the house either. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock on the dot. Had she forgotten? He turned and looked along the well-lit street. There was no one walking up the footpath, no cars coming along the road. He propped his computer bag against the porch post, stabilizing it with his foot. No, she can’t have forgotten; she double-checked the time with him when he’d called from the conference in Sydney.
He had ducked out of a boring session on finance modeling to tell her he’d found an Internet article about the other woman Dr. Lomas had mentioned: Carousel Dane. Shot on the porch outside her home. The webpage had illustrated the story with a recent birthday photo of the girl; plump with a gold party hat and a puzzled smile. Only twenty-two and dead. As he read the article to Hannie, he heard the shock shorten her breath. “Is this really happening?” she finally asked. Mosson had cradled his phone closer, aware that he was standing in a public place. “I think it’s time we called the police,” he said quietly, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “That’s two people dead—we’ve got to tell the police about the list.” But Hannie insisted that they check out the rest of the names. “We’ve got to make sure,” she said. Then she whispered, “I’m really looking forward to seeing you on Friday. Seven o’clock, okay?”
So why wasn’t she here? Phrases from the report of Carousel’s death shivered through Mosson: bullet in the head, back of skull shot away, professional hit. He looked around the empty porch. Maybe something had happened to Hannie. The thought made him pull his mobile phone out of his pocket and activate the screen, peering hopefully at the small square of light. No messages. It was still only a few minutes past seven. She was probably just running late. He punched up her mobile phone number, his finger hovering over the connect button. A few more minutes, then he’d give her a call.
He turned and looked up the street again. It was beginning to rain, the drifting mist softening the bright streetlights and smudging the glow from the bare windows of student housing. In contrast, the empty darkness of Hannie’s house pressed against Mosson’s back. Maybe he should have been firmer about calling the police. It was true that they had no actual evidence, but surely so much coincidence would interest the cops. Especially in a murder case. Maybe two murders if the hit-and-run was deliberate. Mosson rubbed his hands together, chafing away the sting of cold air and dark imaginings. No, that kind of stuff only happened on cop shows. Hannie was fine. Just bloody inconsiderate to leave him freezing to death out here.
His eye caught the flicker of headlights against house windows as a car turned onto the street. Was it Hannie? It looked like her car. Mosson put his mobile phone back into his pocket and watched the car pull up beside the house. Hannie’s anxious face ducked down to look out of the side window. She waved frantically at him and mouthed “Sorry.” Mosson smiled and walked down to the gate. She was only five minutes late, after all.
Hannie pulled the key out of the ignition. She’d hoped Mosson would be a bit late to give her time to get into the house and get dinner started. She’d also wanted to clean up the place a bit. But there he was, opening the gate with a welcoming smile on his face. She felt her body lighten.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, climbing out of the car. “I had to stay with my friend a bit longer than expected. Then I got stuck in the queue at the supermarket.”
“Not a problem,” he said. “Is your friend going to be okay?”
Hannie leaned back into the car to pull out the two plastic shopping bags and hide her disquiet. She didn’t know if Jezza was going to be okay. The first night had been easy—Jezza was still heavy with anesthetic, her pain fragmenting through drugged dreams. The next morning, she was up early, laughing at the cartoons and making Vegemite toast. And she kept laughing through the school programs and the morning news and Parliament question time. Hannie sat next to her and waited for the laughing to stop. She waited through the daytime soaps and the chat shows, and another lot of cartoons. Then Jezza made more toast and said, “See, I’m fine. You can go home now.” But Hannie shook her head and stayed another two nights on the sofa, waking in the ghost hours of Friday morning to find Jezza shivering on the edge of the makeshift bed. Hannie sat up and pulled the old doona over them both, her arm around Jezza until the morning sun slanted in through the bare window and touched their icy toes.
“I think she’ll be fine,” Hannie said. “She’s gone up to Noosa for a while.”
Jezza’s decision to go north had been sudden—a reflex reaction to the cold morning despair. Hannie had taken her to the airport, trying not to feel too hurt when Jezza walked through the airport gate without looking back. Hannie knew her friend just wanted to escape her own history for a few weeks. Hannie had tried to do the same thing in Paris. A city of so much grand history should have overwhelmed her own small story, but it had just become another location shoot. Hannie pushed the door lock down with her elbow, shuffling the shopping bags awkwardly into one hand to shut the car door.
“Here, let me take those,” Mosson said. Hannie hesitated, then passed the bags to him. Their fingers tangled and the thin plastic handles twisted around their hands, binding them tightly together. Hannie started to pull herself free then felt Mosson close his hand gently around her wrist.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, smiling.
Hannie saw the tense question behind the smile. She leaned forward, bringing her free hand up to his chilled face. “Yeah.” She breathed the word into the kiss and felt the energy between them harden into intent. But it was too damn cold and wet to stay out in the street. She pulled away.
“I think my circulation’s been cut off,” she said, wriggling her bound hand. She untwisted the bags, sliding one out of Mosson’s grasp. “Let me just grab my overnight bag out of the boot and we’ll get out of this drizzle.”
Hannie unlocked the car boot, using the shield of its hatch to rifle through the shopping bag. There was a new packet of condoms in one of them. Let it not be the bag he’s holding, she prayed, imagining Mosson looking down into his plastic carrier and seeing the bright purple twelve-pack of lubricated large. The selection of condoms in the supermarket had been intimidating and Hannie had stood for five minutes in front of the display of Sheer Pleasures, trying to remember if she had any in the house and if they were past their use-by date. She pictured an old gray packet that Sigmy had left in the bathroom cabinet. He had always insisted on buying the home brand, extra-large, although they wrinkled and gathered at the bottom. They would be way expired by now and they smelled horrible anyway. Robé had used a French brand that smelled like rubbery creme caramel. There might still be one tucked away in her suitcase, although she could no longer bear any kind of custard or caramel. In the end, she decided it would be better to have a new packet in the house. Just in case. Nothing worse than condom interruptus.
She checked that Mosson was still at the other end of the car, then rummaged further in the plastic bag. Her hand closed around a small box. Luck was on her side. She slipped it inside her coat pocket, then gathered her overnight bag and slammed the boot shut.
They walked up to the house in silence. Hannie unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark hallway, feeling the cold-air emptiness that comes with a few days’ absence. Behind her, Mosson paused to pick up his computer bag and followed her into the house. He shut the door as she flicked on the hall light.
“I’ll just put the heater on,” she said, needing a minute alone to be absorbed back into the breath of the house.
“Want me to take the shopping through to the kitchen?” Mosson asked.
“Yeah, it’s at the end of the passage.” She passed him her groceries and watched him walk up the hallway and darken into a silhouette. The kitchen fluorescent flickered then settled.
Hannie dropped her overnight bag under the hall mirror then walked into the lounge room and scanned it for dirty dishes and abandoned papers. The place was tidy, but she still pushed a cushion into place and nudged a splayed stack of magazines into line. The last four days with Jezza had been exhausting, emotionally and physically. By rights, Hannie knew she should be crawling into bed, too tired to even eat. Instead, her body was vibrating like an overstretched steel line. She pulled down the Holland blinds then turned on the heater, knocking the fan lever across to High with her foot. The grate popped and roared into action. Hannie closed her eyes and traced the pulsing sexual energy that surged through her body. It was drawing from deep, vital reserves that couldn’t afford the strain. Payback was inevitable. But for the moment Hannie didn’t care. The present contained Mosson and the promise of another body deep inside her loneliness.
“I put the steak and stuff in the fridge,” Mosson said. He was standing in the doorway, holding his computer bag and coat. All she could seem to focus on was the broad line of his shoulders in the dark suit.
“Thanks.” She pushed her hair back off her face and patted it down to cover a sudden awkwardness. “I’m just going to make something basic—steak and mash,” she said. “That all right with you? I can make something else if you don’t like it.”
“No, that sounds good. I’ll give you a hand if you like. I make great mash.” He walked to the sofa and draped his coat over the back, swinging his computer bag onto the coffee table. Hannie followed the movement of his long fingers as he dragged the zip open.
“I downloaded some stuff here that’s very interesting,” he said.
She quickly turned away, aware that her gaze was too intense.
“I’ll be right there,” she said, and felt a flush heat her skin.
Mosson sat down on the sofa, trying not to watch Hannie wriggle out of her coat and smooth her top over her breasts. The awkward kiss at the car replayed through his mind. He had been an idiot—too much too soon. No wonder she had pulled away. He lifted the computer onto his lap and started it up, frowning at the screen. And now she was all jumpy. She probably thought he was just out for a quick root. Mosson paused, startled by the realization that he wasn’t just looking for a quick root.
He glanced up at Hannie. She was turning to lay her coat on the armchair and his stomach tensed at the frail curve of her cheek against the thick, bright fall of her hair. He stared back down at the screen. He wanted more than the occasional kindness he had with Pippa. More than the quick couplings he’d allowed himself since Paisley ran away from the hope of their child. Mosson felt the sofa shift as Hannie sat next to him, but he didn’t look up, too bared by the wash of longing. He shuffled along the seat, to give her more room, and to keep his distance. He was going to play this one right.
“First, I did a search on Osagi-Fowler,” he said, taking refuge in the information. “It’s just like Dr. Lomas described it—huge company, headquarters in Harare, heavily into research and development.” He slanted the computer to face Hannie. “No mention of the stuff Dr. Lomas was working on, but you wouldn’t expect them to advertise their research to the world.”
Hannie nodded. “Looks like we’ll have to get an annual report for any real information,” she said.
“That’s a good idea.” Mosson twisted his hand around and keyed up another page. “So, after that dead end, I thought I’d have a trawl through the Australian news sites. But instead of running a search on the list names, I ran a search on fatal shootings in the last four months.”
He watched her read the text. Her eyes widened.
“That’s two of the names,” she said. “Carousel Dane and Stella Penrod. Holy shit! What’s going on?”
Mosson keyed up another page. “And take a look at this. Dr. Lomas wasn’t just a hit-and-run. This report says the cops think she was robbed too.”
“The briefcase?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“But it’s possible, though, isn’t it?” She touched his arm. “It’s possible she was killed for the information about Regina.” She sucked in a breath. “What the hell have we got ourselves into?”
“I don’t know,” Mosson said, taking the chance of lightly brushing her hand with comforting fingers. He was reluctant to jump on any conspiracy bandwagon, but there did seem to be a web of connections that were too insistent to be coincidental. “I really think it’s time we told the police.”
She pulled her hand away. “Look, I know you’re right. It’s all getting a bit too heavy and we should probably tell the cops. But we’re going to have to be really careful. Let’s face it, everything we’ve done is not exactly aboveboard, is it?”
Mosson picked up the laptop and placed it on the coffee table. “You mean the tapes?”
“Well, yes, those, but also…” She paused, tucking her hands in between her knees. “What about the fact that I ripped off my grant, and you covered for me?” She stared at him challengingly. “What if they start looking into the whole mess? We could get into serious trouble. And if I give them the tapes, won’t they become Crown evidence? I wouldn’t be able to use them.”
“I suppose so,” Mosson said. “But we can’t just ignore the fact that three women are dead and another one is missing, and they’ve all got something to do with this list. At the very least, we have to tell the police about that, even if we don’t give them the tapes.”
Hannie knew Mosson was right. She rocked forward in her seat and grabbed her bag off the floor. The list was the key. She scrabbled through the main compartment, flicking through old schedules and paid bills until she found the printout folded inside a pamphlet from the women’s clinic. She smoothed the grainy picture out on her knee. “What about this last name? Lily Argyle. Did you check that too?”
Mosson nodded. “Nothing came up for that one.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not dead too.” Hannie held the piece of paper up to her face, squinting at the illegible writing. “Jesus, I wish I could make out the other names. All these women could be dead. Or in danger.” She looked at Mosson. “Who would want to kill women who can absorb a fetus?”
Mosson shrugged. “I don’t know. The anti-abortion people? A rival drug company?”
Hannie stared down at the list again. “Regina must know something about this. Why else would she disappear? She must know her life is in danger.”
“Look, we can’t do anything to help Regina except give the list to the police as soon as possible. We could post it in anonymously if you don’t want to get involved.”
Hannie caught the disapproving note in Mosson’s voice. “You think I should give them the tapes too, don’t you?”
He looked away. “I can understand why you don’t want to waltz into the police station and hand over all your work.”
“I don’t think you do,” Hannie said. “This is my big break. You’ve always known you were good. Even back in college. I was just another also-ran, another middle-class girl dabbling in film. This is my chance to make people sit up and take notice.”
“It’s not only about your career, you know. People are dead.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Hannie said. “I’m shit-scared about what’s going on. But I have the chance to tell the truth about it all. And that’s important, isn’t it? Or am I just supposed to make light entertainment?” Bright streaks of anger and fear swirled through the desire, heightening the thrum in her body. She looked down at her hand holding the list. It was shaking.
“No, it is important,” Mosson said. “I really do understand about proving yourself. Christ, it’s all I ever seem to be doing.”
Hannie heard the earnest tone of his voice, but the meaning of his words was lost in the thudding fear that shook her body. For the past four days, the stark reality of Dr. Lomas’s death had been dulled by the practicalities of caring for Jezza. Now Mosson’s research had turned the dead doctor’s research list into a death list. Hannie felt the implications worm their acid way through her tense exhaustion. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against a swirling pattern of pulsing red.
“Hannie, are you okay?”
He gripped her shoulders and she felt the warmth of his breath on her face.
“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll work out something to tell the police. It’ll be okay.”
She let herself sag into his hands. Something basic in her understood the uncertainty between them was over. He could be trusted. She opened her eyes and looked at the anxious face of her new lover.
“I thought you were going to pass out or something,” he said, stroking her cheek.
“Just got a bit overwhelmed.”
Hannie pressed her cheek into his hand, suddenly wanting to curl her whole self into the solid reassurance of his body. She brushed her lips against his palm. For a second they were both still. Then she felt his moment of comprehension; the sharp dilation of eye and heart. His fingers slid under her hair to cradle her nape. Hannie let her head fall back against the support of his hand. She knew he would follow. The gentle relief of the kiss purled through her body, building into a more pressing need. She cupped her hands around the back of his head and pulled him closer, her fingers stroking the strange terrain of smooth skin over skull bone and ligament. The weight of the kiss pushed her backwards into the sofa, but she still drew him closer until he lay pressed along her breast and thigh, his breathing sharp and shallow against her mouth. She dropped her hands—to his shoulders, around to the front of his jacket—seeking a way into the warmth of his body.
Suddenly he broke the kiss and pulled away, looking intently at her face. She held on to his jacket, unwilling to break the link.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, smiling. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
He was asking for permission. She nodded and closed her eyes. The light touch of his hand brushed across her hardened nipple then traced the curve of breast and waist. She shifted against him, feeling his erection press into her thigh through the clothing. Her hips lifted as he gently tugged at her belt, the quick cinch of release making her draw a sharp breath. She watched as he twisted the top button free of its mooring and zipped open her jeans. Beneath the denim, his finger traced the high-cut edge of lace down to her inner thigh.
“I’ll have to stand up to get these jeans off,” she said. “They’re a bit tight.”
Mosson sat back. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I walk behind you all the time.”
“That’s why I wear them,” Hannie said.
They laughed, the warmth of the humor pushing away their nervousness and the dark responsibility of the death list. Hannie reached across and slid Mosson’s jacket off his shoulders. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Still laughing, Hannie dragged the jacket down off his body and tossed it across the arm of the sofa. They took turns in taking off a piece of clothing—jumper, tie, top, shirt, trousers, jeans—the laughter faltering as each layer of protection dropped onto the floor.
Then they were just standing in their underwear.
Hannie looked down at her exposed belly. She still had a Crohn’s bloat. Could she trust her bowel not to fart, or bubble, or even worse? It was hard to get past the mistrust of her own body. And hard to get past the memory of Sigmy’s rejection.
Hannie reminded herself that Mosson was not Sigmy, and the new course of cortisone had stopped the bloodied attacks. She reached back to unclasp her bra, but stopped when she saw Mosson hesitate. Why wasn’t he taking his jocks off? It took her a few moments to struggle out of her own humiliations to remember the extent of Mosson’s hairlessness. The man had no pubes. Bald balls. He must be worried she’d be disgusted by his body. Before she could stop herself, Hannie was staring at the swollen outline in his underpants. What if she was disgusted by his bald balls?
She needed time to prepare. “Will you unhook my bra for me?” she asked, gathering her hair around to her front.
His face was watchful as she turned her back. A gentle tug, and the fastenings were released. She let the straps fall down her arms, trying to think of a way to lighten the sudden uneasiness in the room. The bra dropped to the ground. She turned to face him. His body had tensed backwards, forcing a defensive gap between them. Hannie licked her lips. When in doubt, just do something, she thought.
“I’ve never seen balls without hair,” she said. Her voice seemed very loud. “It sounds like a good idea to me.” She held her breath on a smile, knowing her boldness would either bring him back or wreck their chance.
He stared at her, then gave a short laugh. “Well, here you go, then,” he said. He pulled down his underpants and stepped out of them.
Hannie stiffened her expression into the safety of a smile and looked down. The smoothness was a bit startling, she conceded, but not disgusting. Not at all. His balls looked a bit like those purple grapes that have the pips. Except they were a lot bigger, of course. She let her focus widen. His dick was a good size too. And no uglier than any other she’d seen.
“Looks okay to me,” she said, the relief pushing her towards him.
Mosson wrapped his arms around Hannie’s thin body, leaning into her acceptance. She was the most up-front, no-bullshit woman he had ever met. A warrior woman, just like his mother. Hannie’s fingernails scraped a shivering path across his back. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underpants and worked them down, feeling the soft curve of her arse. It was a great arse, he thought, cupping its weight in his hands. Her fingertips brushed down to his buttocks then pulled his hips towards her until the stiff length of his cock was pressing into the soft of her belly.
She turned her face up and he bent to meet her, the gentleness of the kiss hardening into licking and biting. Was she ready? He slid his hands to her waist, then along the contour of her hip bones. Because, Christ, he was ready. The softly kinked roughness of her pubic hair tickled his forefinger. He felt her hold her breath as he pushed into the cleft of her labia, the swollen wetness closing around his finger. There was no need to move his hand. She was already rubbing against him.
“Have you got a condom?” she asked, pulling away. She pushed her underpants down to the floor and stepped out of them.
Mosson rubbed his forehead. “Shit, I didn’t bring…you know, I wasn’t expecting…”
“Me, either,” she said, kneeling on the sofa and digging her hand through her coat pocket. “But just in case…” She held up a packet of condoms. Mosson caught the word Large at the bottom of the box. Hannie ripped open the top, pulling out the string of sealed sachets. She tore one off. “Shall I? Or would you rather…?”
“No, go ahead,” he said. He edged closer to the heater. Although the room had warmed up quite a bit, there was still enough bite in the air to make a man shrink.
He watched her hold the condom up to the light. “Tricky working out which way they go, isn’t it?” she said. She flipped it around. “Okay, ready?”
He nodded, watching her frown in concentration as she worked the latex down his cock, smoothing the slight bagging at the bottom. The firm stroke of her fingers was helping, but he was still only about eighty-five percent. Maybe he should say something.
“Let’s go over to the sofa,” she said, taking his hand.
He sat down, the thick cotton cover rough under his thighs. The percentage problem disappeared as soon as Hannie straddled him and sat on his lap, her knees pressed against his hips. He grabbed a handful of her thick hair in each hand, and gently drew her face closer. The kiss was long, an exploration of each other’s taste and texture. She pressed his hands, still full of hair, over her breasts. Small tits, he thought, like Paisley. An image of his ex-lover, pulling hard at her own nipples as he licked her, flashed into his mind.
Hannie’s weight shifted and she knelt up, her belly in front of his face. He ran his tongue along the pale line of hair that linked navel to pubis, tasting sweet soap and sweat. Her hand was around the base of his cock, guiding it into the tight slippery hold of her muscles. She eased her weight down on him, grinding his length into her until he groaned.
“Want me to stop?” she asked, her voice a teasing warmth in his ear.
He shook his head and strained up to meet her body. She pressed him back against the sofa. The heels of her hands dug into his shoulders as she lifted herself until he almost slid out of her, then dropped back onto him. Over and over again until sweat sheened at the base of her throat and his thighs ached. But such exertion couldn’t last and when she stopped, panting, he pulled her against his chest and they rocked together, each movement ending in a small thrust and gasping breath. He felt the building pressure of the end. His hands pushed down on her buttocks, holding her still.
“Wait, or I’ll come,” he said, not knowing if he could stop.
She grabbed his hand, brought it around to her breast, pinching his fingers over her nipple. “Hard. Do it hard,” she said. He focused on pulling and kneading, holding himself back, feeling her breath break into a sob as she writhed against him.
“Fuck,” she yelled, and her body spasmed against his hold, her deep muscles clamping and releasing him past any hope of control.
He dug his fingers into her hips and held her down on his cock. Arching upwards, he strained into her body, thrusting in three long strokes of pulsing release. He felt her sobbing breath become a giggle, rippling along his emptied cock, pushing him into one more thrust that made him gasp and wriggle against a sudden ticklishness. They held on to each other and rocked again, this time with laughter.
“It’s like hearing God’s best joke, isn’t it,” she said, and they both laughed even harder.
Mosson pushed a thick strand of hair away from Hannie’s mouth and kissed her chin, nuzzling his nose into her neck. He inhaled deeply, taking in the sharp scent of her satisfaction. The catch of grief in his chest had softened and, for the first time since his mother’s death, Mosson breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the sweet air of Hannie’s laughter.
MAD AS A CUT SNAKE
F RIDAY NIGHT. THE JADE LOTUS IS CROWDED. I FOLLOW Ku through the noisy, overheated dining room to the family table at the far end of the restaurant. The only table that is empty. I sit down, my back to the wall, and brush the rain off my jacket.
“Mr. Dug won’t be long,” Ku says. He seems uneasy. “You want something to drink, Mr. Carmichael? Some tea? A beer?”
“A double bourbon. No ice.”
“Okay, Mr. Carmichael.” Ku frowns slightly at the order, then heads off towards the bar.
I know I’m pushing Dug’s hospitality by ordering top-shelf, but I need something stronger than beer. The weakness is in my hands again. It’s been almost twenty-eight hours since I did the job in Grafton and I thought I’d dodged the shakes this time round. But I suppose I should have expected some kind of backlash. It was a bad job all round. The girl lived in a busy apartment block, and when I finally got my shot, she slipped over and I only clipped her. It took three shots to put her down; amateur stuff. Then the bloody plane was delayed. I could have walked back to Melbourne by the time they sorted it out. I’ll be glad when this is all over. Only one job to go; Regina Wilcox. But there’s a problem there too. All my intel points to the same story; Regina has taken off somewhere and hasn’t been seen for nearly two months. I’ve got less than a week left in this contract to finish the job. Less than a week to find a woman who doesn’t want to be found.
“Trojan.”
I look up, startled. Dug is standing in front of me.
“Dug, good to see you.” I hold out my hand.
He grips it tightly, cupping his other hand around it to reinforce the contact. The man is worried.
“You want food? Let me get one of the boys.” He looks around the room, signaling to a nearby waiter. I catch sight of Charmaine standing at the kitchen doorway, watching us, with her arms folded tightly over her skinny chest.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Ku’s getting me a drink.”
Dug sits in the chair opposite me, sending the waiter away with a small shake of his head. We stare at each other.
“You don’t look so good,” he says.
“Neither do you,” I say.
Ku comes to the table, holding my bourbon. He pauses to arrange a drink coaster in front of me, his face bland, but I see him question his boss with a quick glance. Dug looks at the drink, then at me, and nods. Ku places the glass carefully on the coaster then steps back.
“You sure you don’t want something to eat with that?” Dug asks.
“No, I’m all right.” I tense my hand, then relax it and pick up the drink. Dug waves Ku away.
“I saw Benison in Sydney,” I say. “He said he came down for the funeral.”
Dug sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “A lot of people came down. It was a big funeral.”
“Did you bury him with his father?”
“Yes. They put him on top of Hong. They make graves for two people these days.”
I take a mouthful of bourbon and put the glass back on the coaster. Dug’s silent reproach hangs heavily between us. I pull the tsuba out of my jacket pocket and place it on the table like a winning card. “I want you to make sure that they put this on the headstone.”
He picks it up. “This was Hong’s, wasn’t it?”
“He gave it to me.”
Dug traces the outline of the embossed rabbits. “These mean immortality,” he says. He looks across at me. “A bit late, isn’t it?”
I cradle the glass. “Will you do it?”
Dug sighs. “Of course I will.” He lays the hilt back on the table between us. “Look, mate, Charmaine’s got some crazy idea that you’re involved with Teo’s death….” He falters, the stark reality of his loss still raw. “She says she doesn’t want you coming around here anymore.” His eyes meet mine for a second and I see the doubt in them—he’s not so sure she’s crazy. “Just for a while, yeah? Until she calms down.”
We both know Charmaine is not a woman who forgives and forgets.
“Fair enough,” I say, and look away from the surge of relief in his eyes. I take another mouthful of bourbon. The heat washes into my chest and eases the sudden tightness. “You said you’ve got some news for me?”
Dug leans forward, glad to move on to business. “Someone’s been asking about you, like you expected. A guy called Spit Taylor. You know him?”
I shake my head. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, I have. He’s mates with Kenny the Chunkman, who’s mates with…”
“Pauley Barker,” I finish for him. He nods. I frown into the dark mirroring circle of the bourbon. “So Pauley’s in town?”
“I reckon he is,” Dug says. “Listen to this—another low-rank Noble Serpent got done over last weekend.”
I look up, ready to make the connection, but Dug shakes his head.
“No, not like Teo. They say this other kid was only roughed up a bit and had a banana shoved up his arse. That sounds like Barker to me.”
Sounds like Pauley to me too, but why is he messing up gang members. “Who’s the kid?”
“Just a small-timer. Byron Solange. Used to work—” Dug stopped. “Jesus, Trojan, you all right?”
Pauley’s after me. Why else would he be turning Byron Solange over? To find Regina. To find me. The bastard has inside knowledge. I look down at the glass lying on its side, the bourbon staining the white tablecloth. Pauley’s the cleanup man—hired to clean up me. But who’s pulling our strings? Who the fuck is the client? I bunch my shaking hands into fists and drop them onto my thighs, under the table.
“Christ, man, you’ve got to stop boozing so hard,” Dug says. He leans over and stands the glass up. “Let me get you some food. Ku, come here.” The waiter runs up to the table. “Get what’s ready and bring it here. Now!”
I grind my right fist into the cup of my left hand, trying to massage away the weakness and trembling. Maybe it’s time to cut my losses. Now that Pauley’s turned up, I can kiss the other half of the fee good-bye. The smart move would be to finish the Jie Chee business then get out of the country and set up somewhere else. I’ve got half a million stashed in Hong Kong. It won’t stretch very far, but it’ll be enough to set up somewhere with a reasonable exchange rate. Somewhere I can be number one again.
I change hands, working my left fist into the center of my right palm. Who am I kidding? This client isn’t going to let me fade out of the picture. They want all the loose ends cleaned up and they’ve got the money to hunt me down anywhere I go. And if I want to keep working, I can’t let Pauley finish another one of my contracts. I’m going to have to play this out to the end. Finish the job, finish Pauley, then prise the rest of my fee out of the client. Otherwise any prick will think they can screw me over.
I stare down at the white tablecloth, trying to concentrate. Something isn’t adding up. Why would Pauley use Regina to find me? There’s far quicker ways of tracking me down than looking for a woman who’s been missing for a couple of months. There must be some other reason. Something urgent. Maybe Regina knows something about the client. Or she’s got something they want. It would explain why Pauley is looking for her, and why she’s gone underground. Whatever the reason, it changes everything. I need Regina alive. At least for a little while. We need to have a chat.
Regina once told me that she’d always have to look out for her brother because he’d never be able to look after himself. Said he had something wrong with his brain that makes him act like a kid. He used to hang around the back door of the bar where we worked, waiting for Regina to finish her shift and give him some money. If Regina’s gone AWOL, then my guess is she’s still keeping in touch with her little brother. That’s my next move: find Dudley Wilcox. Before Pauley finds him.
“Here, eat something,” Dug says, sliding a plate of lemon chicken towards me.
“No. I can’t stay.” I shove my chair out. “Watch your back, Dug. If Pauley’s looking for me…”
“You know I’m well protected.”
“Double it, then.” I stand up, curling my hands into careful fists again. “I’m not saying he’ll come here, but it’s no secret that we’re friends.”
Dug pushes himself out of his chair and steps closer. “You need some help with this one, Trojan? I could organize something.”
“No. It’s under control.”
“What about the Chee business? You still going to be able to do it?”
“I said I would take care of it.”
He nods. “I know you won’t let Teo down. Or me.” He runs a finger acros the tsuba on the table, then looks at me. “Maybe you should keep this. For luck.”
“I’d be in a bad way if I had to rely on that.” Behind me, I flatten my right hand, testing the muscles. Only a light tremor. Dug probably wouldn’t notice it. I hold out my hand.
His grip is tight and tense. “Pauley’s mad as a cut snake, you know.”
“I know.” I let go of his hand. “Ho wan, pang yau,” I say. Good fortune, my friend. And good-bye.
Dug nods. “You too.”
I weave my way through the tables to the restaurant foyer. Charmaine is at the cash register, swiping a credit card. She dead-eyes me as I pass the reception desk, but I see a reflection of her triumphant smile in the glass door as I push it open and step into the cold, drizzling night.
The two guardian Shih on either side of the door shine wetly in the streetlights. Dug has finally switched the statues around into their proper positions: male lion on the right, female on the left. The Feng Shui is in order. I hold out my hand and tense it to steady my fingers, then lean across to the male and brush my forefinger over the pearl of wisdom and good luck held in its grinning mouth. The small white marble rolls under my touch, my finger sliding off the wet stone and scraping against the jagged teeth of the lion.
AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW
H ANNIE SCRAPED LAST NIGHT’S HALF-EATEN LUMP of steak and congealed mashed potatoes into the bin. She smiled, remembering Mosson standing at the stove in just his shirt, creaming potatoes and feeding her taste tests that cost a kiss. He was right, he did make good mash. But by the time they had cooked the late dinner, the edge of her hunger had been potatoed away and she hardly ate any of the food.
In retrospect it had been a good move; dessert had been an acrobatic fuck in the hallway. Hannie held her arms out, stretching the stiff muscles. A body memory flashed through her; hands gripping the gravity-boot bar, her legs wrapped around Mosson’s shoulders as he knelt below her, sucking and licking, his hands holding her hips. No wonder her arm and thigh muscles ached.
Mosson would probably be sore too when he woke up. For an accountant, he was a lot more playful and inventive than she had expected. Sigmy had believed sex was part of the Protestant work ethic: keep your head down, work hard, and in the end you’ll go to heaven. And Robé had been too self-consciously French: lots of extravagant compliments and moody philosophy. Not to mention the fact that he turned out to be a slimy con artist thief.
No, she had struck gold with Mosson. He was kind and generous and he gave great head. She wondered what he had planned for the day. Maybe they could spend it together, work on the stuff for the cops. Then he could stay the night again. She placed the plates in the sink and turned on the hot tap. Leftover blobs of gravy and mash swirled down the plug hole. Beside her, the kettle rumbled into a full boil then clicked off.
Mosson woke up suddenly, hot under a heavy doona, startled by the unfamiliar shapes and smells of the room. He struggled up onto his elbows. Hannie. Sex. Lots of sex. The night before sharpened into a montage of thrusting, licking, rubbing, kissing. He fell back against the pillow. Great sex. But where was she? He squinted his eyes closed then opened them again, rubbing at the corners. He needed a piss. Where was the toilet? He heard crockery chinking together and the sound of the water system surging into action. It sounded like she was in the kitchen. Was she okay with last night? He hoped she wasn’t regretting it, because he wasn’t. Maybe she just wanted some coffee or breakfast. He threw the doona off and sat up. The cold air in the room pulled at his warmth. He looked around; none of his clothes were in the room, but an old purple terry toweling bathrobe was hanging on the back of the door. He jogged over to it, snagging it off the hook and pushing himself quickly into its thin protection. He could do with some coffee too. And a shower. He stepped out into the hallway, rubbing the stiff muscles in the back of his neck. If he remembered correctly, the toilet was to the right.
Hannie heard the bathroom door close. He was up. She looked at herself in the reflection of the stainless-steel toaster. Not too bad. A bit of bed hair, but it looked kind of sexy. She smoothed her eyebrows up into their arches and wiped the night shine from the end of her nose. The toilet flushed. She undid the sash on her white bathrobe and retied it into a bow, then pulled it loose and tied it into a knot. What if he just wanted to leave? What if he turned out to be one of those guys who bolted the next morning, never to be seen again? She walked to the kitchen doorway, deciding to keep it light. No pressure.
Mosson was standing in the hallway, in Sigmy’s old purple bathrobe.
“Hey, you’re awake,” she said brightly. “Want some coffee? I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.” He looked down at the robe. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing this.”
“No, that’s fine.” She looked down at his exposed knees. “You must be freezing.”
He laughed. “It is a bit chilly. I think I’ll put my clothes back on.” He looked down the hallway. “They’re in the lounge room, right?”
Hannie nodded. “Where we left them.” She wrapped her arms over her chest. The hallway was very cold. “I was thinking…are you doing anything today? We should put something together for the police.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mosson said. “The sooner we get something to them, the sooner they can find out what’s going on.” He looked down the hallway again. “You know, I hate wearing the same clothes I wore the day before. It might be better if I grab a cup of coffee to wake up, then duck back home and get changed. It won’t take long. Then when I get back, maybe we can go out for breakfast?”
Hannie crossed the small distance between them. “There’s a place on Brunswick Street that does great hash browns.”
“What is it with you and potatoes?” he asked, pulling her into his body. Her head fitted under the shallow groove of his collarbone and she could feel his cold knees through the opening of her robe.
He kissed the top of her head. “You’re nice and warm,” he said. “I’d much rather take you back to bed, but I really need to get some clean clothes. The ones in the lounge have been in a plane and two of the most disgusting taxis in Australia.”
“I was thinking…” Hannie lifted her head off his chest to gauge his reaction. “Maybe you could bring another set of clothes back with you. For tomorrow.”
He smiled down at her and kissed her forehead. “Another good plan.”
Twenty minutes later, Mosson left Hannie’s house. They kissed good-bye at the front door; a long, murmuring kiss full of possession. Mosson jogged to his car, needing to work off an excess of exuberance that was part desire and part thick black coffee. When he looked back, Hannie was standing at the gate, clutching her bathrobe tightly around her body. Mosson opened the car door, fighting the urge to walk back to her and slide his hands under the terry-toweling to stroke her soft skin. If the traffic was good, he would be back within the hour. Maybe less if he avoided Punt Road. He waved and climbed into the driver’s seat, looking around the neat interior. Something was missing. He patted his suit pockets. He had his mobile phone. He had his keys. He pushed them into the ignition then realized what was missing. His computer bag—it was still in the lounge room, on the coffee table. Mosson ran through a quick mental inventory of the satchel. There was nothing in it he really needed. Might as well just leave it there—they were going to use the laptop for the police report anyway. He closed the car door and started the engine.
Hannie waved until Mosson’s car disappeared into the left turn at the end of the street. She had about an hour to shower and clean the place up. Change the sheets. Do the dishes. Tidy the lounge room. There probably wouldn’t be enough time to wash her hair. She ran her hands through its length. It was still okay. She walked back inside the house, her mind already living the rest of the day with Mosson; sharing a plate of poached eggs and hash browns with him, walking back to her house hand in hand, sitting on the sofa with their thighs touching, working on the report. She stopped in the doorway of the darkened lounge room and turned on the light. The time on the wall clock was ten past ten. He should be back by eleven-fifteen. Eleven-thirty at the latest. If he wasn’t back by twelve…
Hannie cut short the thought. He would be back. She looked around the room. It was a bit of a mess; her bra and jumper were under the armchair, her jeans had somehow ended up behind the television, and Mosson had left his computer bag and laptop spread all over the coffee table. Hannie smiled and hummed softly to herself as she picked up her clothes, barely acknowledging her sudden relief at the sight of the computer. She didn’t doubt that Mosson would come back. Something good was happening between them and they both knew it. Still, Hannie was glad he had left something so valuable behind.
She slung her clothes over her shoulder and tugged on the Holland blind covering the right window. It rolled up, letting in the dull daylight. Hannie glanced out onto the street. A hunched figure was standing at her gate. The face and skinny body were familiar. Dudley Wilcox. What was he doing out there? How did he know where she lived? She stepped back away from the window, an intuitive reflex. But he had already seen her and was opening the gate.
Mosson was pleased with his run through to Elwood. Only fifteen minutes. He decided to park his car on the street—he’d be half an hour at the most—then ran up the stairs to his apartment. He opened the front door and smelled the faint chemical pine of cleaning fluid. His cleaning lady had come while he was away. He checked the kitchen as he passed the archway. Spotless as usual. The lounge room smelled of furniture polish; vacuum marks were visible in the pile of the carpet. The neat order of his home added to Mosson’s deep sense of well-being. He put his car keys and mobile phone on the coffee table. On the side table, the answering machine light was flickering in a steady beat. One message. He pressed the Play button.
“Mosson, it’s Pippa. Long time, no see. Just wondering how you’re going. I’m off duty this weekend. If you want to get together, give me a call.”
Nothing for nine months and then two women at once. The machine clicked. Prompted Keep Message? Mosson paused then punched his finger down onto the Delete button. Hannie was waiting for him. He pictured the sweet kid freckles across her nose. The pearly skin over her sharp collarbone. God, he wanted to touch her again. He walked over to the bedroom, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. He remembered the one piece of advice his mother had given him about women. She had sat him down in the kitchen one morning, after an early teenage rejection, and said, “Most women like a man who can talk about love. Learn how to do that and you’ll be fine.” Then she had patted him on the shoulder and added, “We like presents too.”
He shook his jacket out and laid it on the bed. He knew it was too soon for words of love. He didn’t want to scare Hannie away. He unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of the waistband loops. However, there was a good florist on Ormond Road. He could stop and get some roses on the way back to her place. Or maybe she was more of a chocolates kind of girl? He frowned. Neither seemed very Hannie. He sat down on the bed and undid the lace on his left shoe. A bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates was not going to tell Hannie Reynard she was the most original woman he had ever met. He needed to be more creative.
Hannie pulled open the front door. She wanted to intercept Dudley at the gate. Stop him from coming into the house. He wasn’t really a threat, but Hannie had a gut instinct that he wasn’t completely harmless. She needn’t have hurried; Dudley was standing just inside the gate and watched her silently as she ran down the path, his hands dug into his jean pockets.
“Dudley. What are you doing here?” She stopped in front of him. “How do you know where I live?” She couldn’t keep the edge of suspicion out of her voice.
Although the morning was frost cold, he was only wearing a stained T-shirt and jeans. His dirty-blond hair was even rattier than before, with a tiny braid in his fringe that ended in an orange bead. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. Hannie flinched.
“You gave me this,” he said, holding out her business card. “You said to call if I heard from Regina, but I haven’t got my phone card anymore. And I’ve run out of money.”
Hannie stared down at her business card. Of course she had given it to him. How could she have forgotten that? She must be getting paranoid.
“Regina has got in touch?” she said. “Is she okay?”
Dudley nodded. “Seems okay. She’s had her baby. A little girl.” He smiled, his dimples at odds with his thin face. “I got a little niece.”
“She had her baby?”
“Yeah.” Dudley looked at her curiously. “What else was she going to do with it?”
Hannie shook her head. “Nothing. Don’t worry.” She pulled the edges of her bathrobe further across her chest. “What else did Regina say?”
“She wants to see you,” he said. “I told her about you and your film and she wants to see you and tell you why she’s hidin’ out. For the record, she said. She told me to come tell you it was real important.”
“You mean she wants to be interviewed? For the film?” Hannie rubbed her hands up and down her arms, the excitement making her skin crawl. An exclusive interview with the missing Rabbit Woman of Melbourne. It was almost too good to be true. Hannie suddenly remembered Mrs. Tricorn warning them that Dudley was a pathological liar. Maybe it was too good to be true.
“How do I know this is for real?” Hannie asked.
Dudley pulled on the bead in his hair. “Reggie said the PMS is gonna contact you. When you hear from them you’ll know it’s for real. They’re gonna take you to see Reggie. Me too.” He smiled. “I’ll get to see my little niece. Her name is Romy.”
“Who are the PMS, Dudley?”
“Dunno. I’ve never seen them.”
“When are they going to contact me?”
“Reggie said sometime today. We’re gonna have to go see her and Romy tonight because tomorrow they’re being taken somewhere safer. Out of the country.” He looked down at the ground. “Probably for a long time.”
“Are the PMS going to call me, or what?” Hannie had a vision of men dressed in ninja black bundling her into the back of a van.
Dudley shrugged again. “I dunno.”
Hannie knew Mosson would be skeptical. Maybe she should ring him on his mobile and tell him about the meeting. See what he thought. No, she was the director. It was her call. She looked carefully at Dudley’s face but there was no way of telling if he was lying or not. Better to assume that it was the truth and get the gear ready in case someone really did contact them, otherwise they might miss an incredible opportunity.
“Thanks for coming around and letting me know, Dudley,” she said, dismissing him with a smile. “I’m going to go inside now.”
Dudley shifted his feet. “Have you got ten bucks you can lend me? Or a twenty?” he asked. “So I can get back to the hostel. My Metcard’s run out.”
Hannie hesitated. The money would more likely go on booze rather than a Metcard, but ten dollars was a cheap way to apologize for her earlier brusqueness.
“All right. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”
Hannie turned and walked up the pathway to the front door, unaware that her conversation with Dudley was being closely watched.
Mosson thought of the perfect present for Hannie as he stepped out of the shower. Of course, it was against the rules for a grant applicant to see the judges’ summary on the label of their application tape, but Mosson didn’t care. He wanted to see Hannie’s face as she read the flattering comments about her work. He rubbed his chest with the towel then wiped down his legs, smiling as he dried between his toes. She’d get a real kick out of it. The only problem was whether the tape label was still legible—he couldn’t remember if it had been wrecked by the pulped honey and banana in his briefcase. A lurid picture of Byron with the banana up his arse made Mosson twitch. He’d never be able to eat a banana again.
He pulled on his bathrobe then opened the en suite door. Where was the tape, now? The memory of scraping the banana out of the sprockets and capstan hole snapped into an image of the tape in the bookcase with the flap propped open to dry out. Mosson walked quickly through the bedroom to the living area. If the label was wrecked, he would have to go with the bunch of roses.
The tape was still on the second shelf of the bookcase, the toothpick still holding out the flap. Mosson squatted down in front of it. The label looked okay—only a bit of smearing around the sides and one corner curling up. He pushed the toothpick out of the flap with his forefinger and picked up the tape. Jeremy’s elegant handwriting covered the label from edge to edge. Mosson read the assessment.
Reynard’s work is technically and artistically accomplished, with an unpredictable but nevertheless logical progression through to a climax that leaves the audience deeply satisfied. The images are fresh and highly individual but never alienating, although the content is often confronting. An outstanding piece that left the judges eager to see this talent develop and mature .
Mosson smoothed down the curled corner of the label. She was highly individual and outstanding, he thought, trying to ignore the small hollow of jealousy in his gut. She was going to love this present. He imagined Hannie reading the assessment, seeing her own talent stated in bold unequivocal words. It was what every artist wanted, wasn’t it? Reassurance that they were special. But what if she turned around and asked him what he thought of the tape? He’d never got around to watching it. Mosson stood up. He should watch a bit of it now while he got ready. At least he would get an idea of what she had done.
He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. A music video flicked noisily onto the screen. Mosson watched the pulsing clip of six young women dancing and writhing to thumping music then adjusted the volume down. He slid the tape into the old video machine he kept beside his DVD player. It clicked on automatically. The screen flickered. Settled into an image. A black-and-white cityscape that looked strangely familiar. Mosson stepped back. The cityscape faded into a picture of a thin-faced boy staring into the camera. The blurred head behind him had its hands over its ears. I reckon our Mum must have done something bad to make us like this.
Mosson stared at the screen. Shannon and Del. His Siamese twins. His film. The image of the twins changed to a young woman with a tiny head, her face elongated as though it had been stretched down at the chin. Leanne the Pinhead. She had taken a shy fancy to Mosson when he had filmed her at the home, holding his hand as they walked around the garden. Mosson closed his fingers around the remote control. He felt the beat of his heart in his temple. A heavy pounding that pushed burning liquid through his head. Hannie had taken everything. Mosson watched silently as his best work was cut and twisted into another shape, the savage heat in his head spreading down his spine until even his breathing was touched with pain.
HAL PAGIN
I PAUSE IN THE OPEN DOORWAY OF THE NEWSAGENT, then cross the road and follow Dudley Wilcox into the pub. He hasn’t changed much in the past seven years. Still a skinny runt. Still bumming money off people. Still hanging around the same places. I’ve been following him all day, a tight circle of pub-hostel-park, looking for an opportunity. Nearly lost him this morning—he did a bit of fancy train swapping and doubling back that was worthy of the Feds. Ended up at one of those old terrace houses in Carlton. A redhead came out in her dressing gown and met him at the gate. Thought for a minute she was his root, but there was no way someone like her would look twice at Dudley. Way out of his league. She wouldn’t even let him up to the front door. No, he was telling her something, and whatever it was, she paid him for it. I’ll have to find out who she is. See if she’s got something to do with Regina.
I push open the heavy front door and step into the public bar. The overheated air is malty with spilled beer and I can hear the muted sound of pokie bells in the next room. The bar seems empty for two o’clock on a Saturday arvo. A couple of old-timers are watching the big-screen TV, waiting for the footy to come on: Saints versus the Demons. Next to them, four kids are playing pool. A dyed blond in a mini-skirt is sitting on a sofa against the far wall, drinking white wine. She’s a bit past her used-by date, but still has a nice pair of legs. Dudley is sitting alone at the bar, his back to me.
I head towards the cigarette machine between the two toilets. What would a skinny little runt smoke? Anything, as long as someone else’s paid for it. I feed in the coins and punch the Marlboro key. The box drops into the covered tray. I hold open the plastic hatch and pick it up. Expensive for only twenty. I open the pack and take out three smokes, dropping them into the bin with the cellophane wrap. They say every man has his price. Dudley Wilcox is the type to sell his soul for an open pack of smokes and a beer. At least I held out for a million bucks.
I walk over to the bar. The young barman stops washing glasses and looks up.
“You right?” he asks.
“A pot of Carlton and a lighter, if you’ve got one.”
He nods and flips a glass upright under the tap, every movement smooth and controlled. The boy has good hand-eye coordination and a relaxed upper body. Probably make a good shooter. A natural, like me. Teo had lousy hand-eye and was never relaxed. Always jumping around with too much energy. On my left, Dudley watches the beer swirl into the glass and licks his lips. The barman places it on the bar towel in front of me, then swings around and digs a lighter out of a box on the shelf behind him.
“That’ll be five bucks, thanks.” He puts the lighter next to the glass.
I drop the coins into his hand, then pick up the glass and lighter, turning to face Dudley. Our eyes meet. I tilt my head, as though trying to place his face. If he knows I’m after Regina, this will be the moment of truth. I see cagey recognition in his eyes, but no alarm. Only the cautious calculation of a cheap hustler. He hasn’t changed at all.
“Dudley Wilcox?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says warily.
“Don’t know if you remember me. I used to work with your sister, about…” I squint my eyes as though remembering, “About seven years ago. Can’t believe it’s been that long.” I hold out my hand.
He grips it limply and smiles. “Yeah, yeah, you’re Hal Pagin, right?”
I nod. It was the name I used for a while after Hong died.
“You used to do door at that club, didn’t you?” he says.
“That’s right. You used to wait outside for your sister to finish her shift.” I look down at the stool. “Mind if I sit?”
“No, go ahead.”
“You want a beer?”
“Sure.”
I motion to the barman for another beer then turn back to Dudley.
“You know, I’m glad I’ve run into you,” I say. I pull out the Marlboros and flip open the pack, holding it out to Dudley. “You smoke?”
Dudley nods and pulls out a cigarette. I pass him the lighter.
“I’ve been trying to quit,” I say, looking mournfully down at the pack. “The quack says I’ll have to stop soon or I’ll cark it.”
Dudley flicks up a tiny flame and holds it against the smoke, drawing it alight.
I sigh and flip the box closed. “Here, you want the rest of them? If I have them on me, I’ll just smoke the lot.”
He eyes the Marlboros greedily. “You sure?” he asks.
“Yeah, got to do it sometime.”
Dudley takes the pack, nodding his thanks. He goes for the lighter as well, but I pick it up and pocket it. Hal Pagin is not a pushover.
The barman puts a pot down in front of us. I hold out a twenty, making sure Dudley sees the wad of cash in my hand.
“Might as well bring us a jug,” I say. The barman nods and takes the note.
Dudley is gulping down his beer like a kid drinking cold milk. I take a sip of mine and wait for him to surface.
“Look, mate, I’ve heard something about your sister,” I say, lowering my voice until he leans closer. “Someone’s looking for her. A real prick. Don’t know what for or anything. I’m just telling you what I heard because me and Reggie used to get along.”
I see him tense away from me.
“No, nothing like that,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m old enough to be her father. She just used to sneak me drinks and we’d have a joke now and then.”
Dudley smiles and takes a drag on the smoke. “Yeah, she used to sneak me drinks too.”
“Well, I just wanted to give you the heads-up. Maybe you can warn Reggie or something.” I drain my beer then put the glass down. “From where I sit, it sounds serious.”
Dudley stubs the butt in the ashtray. “It’s okay. She knows about it. She’s lying low until it all blows over.” He picks up the cigarette pack and starts flipping the top open and closed with his thumb.
“Yeah?” It was time to scare the shit out of him and get this show moving. “That’s good to know, because Pauley Barker’s a real bastard.”
Dudley’s thumb stops mid-flip. “Pauley Barker?”
I nod slowly. “That’s what I heard.”
The barman arrives with the jug.
“Thanks, mate,” I say to him. “Keep the change.” I pour Dudley another beer, then fill up my own glass.
“You sure she’s safe?” I prompt. I take a mouthful and watch him over the rim.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s safe.” He looks quickly over his shoulder then leans closer to me, his elbows on the bar. “Anyway, they’re taking her interstate tomorrow. And then when the baby’s old enough to fly, she’s going to go hide overseas somewhere.”
I put my glass down. “Reggie’s had a kid?”
That explains a few things. According to my hit list, she wasn’t one of the pregnant targets. The client obviously didn’t know she was up the duff. Is this why Pauley is after Regina? To get the baby. But why would they want to kill a baby?
Dudley smiles and nods. “A little girl. Romy. I haven’t seen her yet, but I’m going to see her tonight, before they go.”
Tonight. A bit sooner than I expected, but it sounds like my best chance. My only chance. All I’ve got on me is the Browning, a garrote, and my Sykes blade. I really need more equipment, but I can’t let Dudley out of my sight until he leads me to his sister. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.
This is shaping up to be a nightmare: rushed, under-equipped, uninformed. If it was personal, it would be the whole disaster story. At the bare minimum I’ve got to find out who’s hiding Regina and what I’m going up against. I can’t take on the cops by myself, but if she’s just holed up with some mug and a twelve-shot, then maybe I’ve got a chance.
I smile. “That’s good. It’s good she’s getting out of town too.” I pause, the concerned older friend. “Are you sure you can trust the people helping her?”
Dudley licks his lips. “Totally.”
“Not the cops, is it? You can’t trust the cops.”
“No, it’s this group that helps women. It’s like a secret society.”
“A secret society? It’s not one of the Chink gangs, is it?”
“No. Reggie says it’s more like a resistance. You know, like that one in the war.”
“The French Resistance?”
Dudley nods and looks pointedly at his empty glass. I fill it up again.
“Sounds a bit dodgy to me,” I say, “You sure they’ve got the firepower to take on someone like Pauley Barker?” I take a mouthful of beer, trying to hide my anticipation.
“Firepower? I dunno about that, but they’ve been hiding her for ages and no one’s found her yet,” Dudley says.
He has a point.
“Well, as long as you think they can do the job.” I look at my watch. “When are you going to see Reggie? Have we got time for a couple more drinks before you have to go?” I pull out my stack of cash. “I’ll get us a couple of bourbons, hey? We got to celebrate the birth of your niece.”
Dudley drains his glass then holds it out for me to refill again. “I got plenty of time,” he says. “We’re not going till dark.”
TOO FULL OF POISON
H ANNIE SAT BACK ON HER HEELS AND ZIPPED UP the large padded camera bag. Her old video camera wasn’t broadcast quality, but it would do as backup just in case Condo couldn’t supply her with one of the small digital video cameras. She looked at her watch. Ten past one. Where was Mosson? At eleven-thirty she had rung him on his mobile to see if he could drop past Condo’s showroom on his way back and pick up the DVC. The mobile had diverted to voice mail. She rung him at his flat. Answering machine. In the past hour she had called each number three times, and still no Mosson.
Hannie looked around her workroom, noting a gap in the neat line of DBC tape boxes that held all the archival material and interviews for her film. What was missing? She leaned forward, scanning the hand-printed labels, then remembered the Dr. Lomas interview was still at Steg’s. She relaxed back onto her haunches and pushed at the edges of the bulging camera bag to try to ease the strain on the zip. Had she packed everything? She picked up her old boom mike and laid it across the top of the bag. Condo closed the shop early on Saturday and if they wanted the DVC, it had to be picked up before two. But the PMS hadn’t rung yet—she didn’t even know if the meeting would happen. And if she picked the camera up herself, she might miss their call.
Hannie walked out of her workroom and along the dim passage, unease forcing her to move. She passed the bedroom door, mentally ticking off her preparations: clean sheets, vacuumed floor, jasmine candle. Where was Mosson? Had something happened to him? She walked into the living room. Tidy. His computer still on the coffee table. She looked out of the window, hoping that Mosson’s car would suddenly stop outside the gate. The street was empty. She paced around the room then sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the dead computer screen.
The phone rang. She threw herself across the sofa and grabbed the receiver.
“Mosson?”
“Hello. Is that Hannie Reynard?” It was a woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. The sound of traffic in the background.
“Yes, this is Hannie.”
“The meeting with Regina is tonight. A car will pick you up from your house at 5 P. M. It will be a dark blue Commodore.”
“A Commodore, okay.” Hannie licked her lips. “I’ve got to bring my cameraman too. Is that all right?”
There was a pause. A muffling of sound as though the woman had her hand over the receiver.
“Who?” the woman asked.
“Mosson Ferret.”
“Mosson Ferret? Yes, that’s all right. Five o’clock.” The line disconnected.
Hannie smiled; she was finally going to meet Regina. She speed-dialed Mosson. On the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked into its spiel. Hannie jiggled her leg impatiently as Mosson’s recorded voice asked her to leave a message.
“Mosson, are you there?” She paused, but the tape rolled on, uninterrupted. “Look, the PMS have called and they’re picking us up at five. I’m going to go and get a DVC from Condo, then I’ll drive to your place. So if you get this, just stay where you are. I’ll give your mobile a call too. Just in case. Or you call me. Okay?”
She keyed in his mobile number. It was diverted to the voice mail. She repeated the message and dropped the phone back in its cradle. Where was he?
Ten minutes later, Hannie pulled her front gate shut and ran down the footpath to her car. She was going to have to move fast to get to Condo’s before two o’clock. Luckily, the football traffic going to the MCG wasn’t too bad. At the Flinders and Swanston Street junction, Hannie tried to keep her mind off Mosson by watching the startled faces of the tourists as they walked around Federation Square. The manic mix of overhanging glass and jagged shapes usually amused her, but in the heavy winter light they suddenly seemed oppressive. Perhaps Mosson had been in an accident.
She parked outside Come In Spinner with five minutes to spare and was met at the top of the narrow stairs by Condo. The DVC pack and the paperwork were ready on his desk. Hannie was tempted to ask him if he had seen Jezza lately, but let the moment pass. He seemed happy and relaxed—why wreck it? Condo pressed the pack into her hands and ushered her out of the door. As Hannie turned to say good-bye, he was already switching off the lights and wrapping a thick Saints scarf around his neck.
Back in the car, Hannie pulled her mobile out of her bag and called Mosson again. Still the recorded messages. Something was wrong. She knew it. A litany of catastrophes ran through her mind: car crash, unconscious, kidnapped, killed—or maybe he’d just changed his mind. The possibilities danced in front of her eyes as she switched lanes and ran amber lights. She turned into Mosson’s street, prepared to see ambulances and police. Instead she saw the quiet afternoon normality of a bayside Saturday: a couple walking a fluffy white dog, a kid on a bike, a man pruning roses. She parked behind Mosson’s car and looked up at his flat—a light was on in the living room.
If he was home, why hadn’t he answered her calls? She walked up the narrow pathway, watching his window. All she could see was a slice of white ceiling. She ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the clack of her boot heels echoing in the stairwell. She knocked on his front door. Three hard raps that bounced off the rendered walls. Hannie held her breath and leaned closer to the door, straining to hear movement in the flat. Nothing. She knocked again.
“Mosson? Are you in there? Are you all right?”
“Fuck off, Hannie.” His voice was just behind the door.
Hannie jerked her head away from the words, already doubting she had heard them.
“What? What’s going on, Mosson? Let me in!”
The door opened. He was standing in a long white bathrobe, arms wrapped around his chest, his eyes blinking rapidly. For a second, Hannie thought he was crying, then she saw the ash skin and the sharp lines of pain. Was he sick?
“You look awful,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got a migraine.”
She stepped forward, relieved by the explanation and ready to help, but he turned his head away.
“I saw your application tape.”
His savage voice stopped her at the threshold. Made her step back. He had seen the tape. Seen his own work. And now he was looking at her, his eyes narrow with pained disgust.
“You ripped me off!” His voice cracked.
Hannie swallowed, her mouth dry with dusty guilt. “I didn’t mean to take it,” she said, and she knew it sounded lame. “It wasn’t like I planned it. You just left it lying around the editing suite. I didn’t think it mattered to you anymore. You didn’t come back for it or anything.”
He breathed a short hollow laugh.
“I just wanted to get the money to make my film,” she said. “You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.” He pressed his fingertips hard into his forehead, as though holding back the headache. “I don’t pinch other people’s work and pass it off as my own. I don’t waste huge amounts of grant money. You just go around using people, taking what you want, all in the name of your fucking career.”
“What about you?” Hannie said, anger straightening her back. “You blackmailed me all in the name of your fucking career. So don’t come all self-righteous with me.”
“You don’t even have a career,” he said, grabbing the side of the door. “I got that grant. It was my stuff. You just put your name on it.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t care anymore. Do whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”
He stepped back. The door shut with a shivering thud.
Hannie stood very still. She did have a career. And most of that application tape was her own work, not his stuff. She’d only used about eight minutes of his film. He was just overreacting; stupid male pride. He was probably standing behind the door waiting for an apology. Hannie crossed her arms. Why did she have to tiptoe around his delicate little ego? He’d used her too. Why was it always up to the woman to smooth things over? But Hannie could already sense the darkness of a Mosson-shaped hole in her life. The Mosson who had looked at her with admiration. The Mosson who had touched her with gentle, accepting hands. The Mosson who would help her film Regina. Hannie sighed and knocked on the door again.
“Look, Mosson, I’m sorry I used your stuff. I apologize.” She paused, listening, but there was no sound behind the door. “Can’t we just forget it? I used your stuff, you blackmailed me. Let’s call it even.”
There was still no response. She pounded the wood again.
“Come on, Mosson. I said I was sorry. We’ve got to get ready for tonight. The PMS called. They’re taking us to see Regina.”
The door opened so suddenly that Hannie reeled back into the corridor.
Mosson gripped onto each side of the door frame, his body heavy with pain. He leaned forward, unwilling to step into the corridor; he had to cage his anger inside the safe boundary of his flat.
“Is that why you’re saying sorry?” he said. “So I’ll film Regina for you?”
“No!” She shook her head vehemently. “But tonight’s our only chance to see her. They’re going to take her away tomorrow.”
“So you’re not really sorry, are you? You’re just sorry that you got sprung.” He watched her face tighten, but she didn’t say anything. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to lie until you got what you wanted?”
He felt the bitterness surge through his words and pound into his right temple. Every woman in his life kept back information that he had a right to know: his mother, Paisley, and now Hannie.
“I nearly told you lots of times,” Hannie said. “But I didn’t want to wreck everything.”
“You just didn’t want to wreck the chance to cover up your mess at the IFF. I was just your stooge.” Mosson swayed, the ground contracting beneath him. His vision was going. Mosson knew the signs; he was going to puke soon.
“That’s not fair,” Hannie said, flushing. “I didn’t ask you to cover up for me. That was your idea. You forced your way onto my film. I kept my end of the bargain, even though you’re out-of-date, and you take twice as long to film anything. So don’t give me that stooge crap.”
Mosson felt her criticism like a punch into his gut. When he had watched her application tape, he had been astounded by the beauty of his young work, even through the pain of her betrayal. His rage was not only against Hannie. It was against all of the potential he had wasted. He was no longer that brilliant young filmmaker. He was slow. He was old. And Hannie had committed the final betrayal. She had said it out loud.
“I may be out of practice,” Mosson said, “but at least I’m not Little Miss Suburbia, kidding herself she’s got something to add to the world.” He held up his hands, waving them in the air. “Ooo, do you think my film is important?” he said in a mocking falsetto. “Do you think I’m saying something interesting?”
She was pressing her lips together, fighting away tears. One of those people who could give it but couldn’t take it. For some reason, her weakness made Mosson angrier.
“You should be glad someone so slow and outdated isn’t filming Regina,” he continued. “You can get Tiny back to do a professional job.” His hands were beginning to shake. It wouldn’t be long now; once the shaking started, the vomiting wasn’t far away.
“Tiny’s not available,” Hannie said, her voice rough.
“Too bad. You’re on your own.”
He grabbed the edge of the door. He wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom. It would have to be the kitchen sink.
“Mosson, what about Regina? She’s had her baby—”
Mosson slammed the door shut and ran into the kitchen. He leaned over the sink, thankful that his cleaning lady had cleared away the dishes. He retched, a shallow heave that deepened each spasm, until he vomited a watery migraine bile that was iridescent green against the pristine steel. Mosson shivered at the sour taste and heaved again. It usually took a couple of sessions for it all to come up and then the migraine would stop. It was as though his body was expelling poison. He retched once more, but the wave was over. He held the end of his nose and blew, clearing it of stomach and snot. The back of his throat burned.
He turned on the tap and washed his fingers, then filled a glass and swished water around his mouth, rinsing away the bitterness. It would be about half an hour before the next lot came up. He needed to lie down. Rest while he had the chance. He walked slowly through the kitchen archway, into the hall, and looked at the closed front door. Had Hannie finally got the message and gone home? Something nagged at him through the nausea and pain. What was the last thing she’d said? Something about Regina. About her baby? A faint stirring of concern made Mosson frown, but he was still too full of poison to care about anything other than himself and his pain.
THE HEAVY SWEETNESS OF CHANEL NO. 5
H ANNIE HAD NOT GONE HOME. SHE WAS STILL standing outside Mosson’s front door. She knew she couldn’t knock again—not after what he’d said—nor could she leave and sever herself from the previous night. She leaned against the cold concrete wall and relived his harsh comments, each one already distilled into its purest venom by her own vulnerability: she was a fraud, she was talentless, she was a user. For a few wretched minutes she believed his assessment; her own deep doubts had been voiced by someone else—they must be true. But the shock of his attack was wearing off, and a few self-preserving thoughts were already struggling through her thick self-disgust; he had used her, not the other way round, and she’d apologized at least twice for nicking his stuff. How many times did he want her to say she was sorry?
Hannie felt her anger rebuilding and pushed herself off the wall. Mosson wasn’t going to come out again. She should go home and get ready to interview Regina. That was what was important. Not a sulking man who wouldn’t accept an apology. Hannie gave one last look at the firmly closed door. Screw him, she thought, but as she ran down the stairs to her car, she felt as though she had left strips of herself lying in the corridor.
By the time she had driven the length of Punt Road up to Victoria Parade, Hannie had decided that Mosson was overreacting because of the migraine. He just needed a bit of space to cool off and think things through. She had also remembered that his laptop was still on her coffee table. He’d need that back in the next few days, so he’d have to speak to her soon. She drove along Lygon Street, picturing herself eloquently apologizing to Mosson as she handed over his computer. At a restaurant. Maybe that Italian place around the corner from her house. They could patch things up over dinner and then maybe go back to her place.
Hannie was still imagining the makeup sex as she parked and walked up to her front gate. But something felt odd. She stopped. The gate was wide open. Strange, she didn’t usually leave it open. Maybe the Mormons had been around again. She pushed it shut behind her and shuffled through her keys as she walked the short distance to the porch. As she stepped up to her door, key in hand, the strangeness sharpened into shock. Her front door was ajar.
It was almost a reflex to push open the door and call out a foolish fear-driven “Hello?” There was no answering sound. She stepped inside. The gravity bar had been pulled out of the wall, leaving huge holes in the plaster. The hall mirror was on the ground, a muddy heel print on the heart of the shattering. Her overnight bag was upended, the clothes ripped and glittering with glass shards. Sofa stuffing drifted out of the lounge room. Hannie edged further into the hall. The lounge room was dark, the Holland blinds drawn. She turned on the light. The sofa was carved open in long gashes, the television screen smashed, the video-machine slot filled with something white. Hannie squatted down and pushed at it—hardened glue. Why would someone do that?
Then she saw Mosson’s laptop. The top—the screen—had been ripped off. The display gouged with a half-finished noughts and crosses. Individual keys had been levered out, and glue squeezed into the ports. Mosson was going to kill her, Hannie thought wildly, picking up the twisted screen. She tried to fit it back onto the keyboard, but the hinges had been sheared away. She dropped it back onto the carpet. Had they got to her workroom too?
Halfway along the hallway, Hannie stepped on the padded camera bag. It was empty and ripped. The boom mike had been pulled apart. Her old camera was smashed open, the lens cracked. Hannie nursed it in her arms as she picked her way over the debris of her tripod and recording gear. She stepped on folders from her filing cabinet, and pushed past a jagged piece of notice board still pinned with old schedules. They must have gone through everything, she thought.
As she approached the door of her workroom, she smelled the wreckage. Dust, old chemicals, and the heavy sweetness of Chanel No. 5, a thirtieth birthday present from Sigmy, stored in the cool of her filing cabinet. She turned on the light. They had broken the bottle against the wall. Her desk had been swept clear, the papers and files laying in drifts and steeples. Hannie slid the old camera onto the desk and looked grimly at the empty shelves. Had they wrecked her tape library too?
She pushed at the papers with her foot, expecting to see ruined DBC cases and unspooled tape. Nothing. She kicked away more paper. No tapes. Hannie dropped onto her hands and knees, swishing through the carpet of debris. Her tapes were gone—all her past work, and all her Freaks stuff. Hannie sat up, finally seeing the pattern of destruction: her film equipment, her project files, her tapes. And the laptop—they’d probably thought it was her computer. It had to have something to do with Regina. Was the Freaks file missing too? Hannie scrabbled through the mess, searching for the red folder. It wasn’t on the floor. She crawled out to the hallway, digging and sifting along its whole length. No red folder. All her research. All her footage. All her work. Gone.
Hannie crouched against the wall. She knew she should call someone. The police. And Mosson too. He should know about his laptop. She tried to stand up, but the loss of her work had left her breathless and shaking. They had taken everything important. She had nothing to show for the last three years. Nothing. A gasping sob curled her over her knees. It was all gone. She’d never be able to replace it. She thought of the archive material painstakingly collected from film libraries and private collections. And the interviews—Byron was scared now and Dr. Lomas was dead. The thought stopped her sobs. The Lomas tape was still at Steg’s. And the resorbing ultrasound hadn’t been with the other tapes. She’d kicked it under the TV. She ran to the lounge room, skidding over paper and glass. The television cabinet was still in the same place, undamaged. Hannie snaked her arm underneath, feeling around the carpet. Her fingers hit plastic. She pulled out the tape and smiled. She wasn’t beaten yet.
After a short search, Hannie found the phone buried in one of the slashed sofa cushions. Although the receiver was cracked and smeared with dried glue, it still worked. She paused over the keypad. Should she call the police first? When Jezza had been robbed a few years ago, it had taken the cops over an hour to arrive. She looked at her watch. It was already past four o’clock. If the PMS arrived and saw the cops at her house, they would probably bolt. She resolutely pressed the speed dial for Mosson. His recorded voice asked her to leave a message.
“Mosson, I’ve been robbed. All the film stuff is gone, all my tapes and files, and they’ve wrecked all the equipment. My place is totally trashed. And they’ve wrecked your laptop. Give me a call as soon—”
A penetrating squeal made her wince.
“Hold on, I’ll just turn off the machine,” Mosson said.
The squealing stopped.
“Are you all right?” he asked, but there was no comfort in his voice.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s got something to do with Regina. All the damage…” Her voice broke and she was suddenly crying, gulping for air between the spasms.
“It’s okay,” Mosson said. “Have you called the police yet?”
“No,” she managed to gasp.
“Well, call them now. This is serious.”
“Do you think they might come back?”
“I doubt it.” She heard him sigh. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Hang up and call the police, okay?”
Hannie hung up but she didn’t call the police. She sat on the sofa and hugged her knees, balling herself up against the violation of her home. Her illusion of safety was gone. Every new noise was a threat of their return. She decided to wait for Mosson in her car.
For nearly half an hour, Hannie sat wedged in the corner of her backseat, watching every movement on her street and checking through the DVC pack that she had rented from Condo. She knew Mosson would insist on calling the police when he arrived, but she was determined to wait until she had interviewed Regina. The break-in was a shock, but it had also confirmed the importance of the film. And she felt a strange obligation to Regina and her baby. According to all the rules, she shouldn’t get too involved with her subject, but Regina wanted to have her say, and Hannie was not going to let her down.
She watched Mosson park opposite her house, and waited for him to notice her in the backseat of her car. He walked straight past her up to the front gate. She quickly opened her door, the noise making him turn around.
“What are you doing in there?” he said.
He looked better, not so pale or strained around the eyes, but there was no warmth in his face. No smile.
She shrugged and pulled out the DVC pack by its strap. “Just getting this ready.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of doing the interview?”
Hannie hoisted the strap over her shoulder. “Of course I am. The PMS is going to be here soon.” She slammed the car door. He should be apologizing for all the rotten things he’d said, not questioning her in that condescending tone.
“You should call the police,” he said. “This has gone way beyond us now. We can give them all the information we’ve got.”
She pushed past him and opened the gate. “What information? It’s all gone. And the cops won’t get here for ages. I’m not going to give up this chance to see Regina. She particularly asked for me.”
The front door was still ajar. Hannie stood aside to let Mosson see the damage.
“Jesus, what a mess,” he said, gingerly crunching over the broken glass in the hallway.
“Your computer’s in there,” she said, nodding towards the lounge room.
Mosson stopped in the doorway. “Is the rest of the house like this?”
“Worse.”
She followed him into the lounge room. Mosson picked up the bottom of his mangled computer, running his finger along the glued ports.
“They did a good job fucking this up, didn’t they.” He tossed it back on the floor. “Good thing I keep a backup.”
She should have known he’d have a backup. Mr. By-the-Book, Hannie thought sourly. She eased the DVC bag off her shoulder. “If you want to, I can call the cops now, and you can wait for them while I go do the interview,” she said.
“You can’t go alone,” he said quickly. “We don’t know anything about the PMS. You need someone to watch your back.” He massaged his forehead in quick hard circles. “Look, I’ll do camera for you, but as soon as we’ve finished the interview, we come back here and call the police. Agreed?”
Hannie was tempted to just say “Piss off,” but he was right—it could be dangerous to go alone. And she did need someone to do camera.
“Agreed.”
“And then I’m out of this. Forever,” he said.
Hannie ignored the comment and passed him the DVC bag. “Here, you should at least familiarize yourself with this camera,” she said.
He snatched the bag out of her hand, and sat at the far end of the sofa. Hannie sullenly stuffed a lump of filling back into the slashed seat and sat at the other end. She stared fixedly out of the window as Mosson opened the bag and made a show of studying the equipment. It was a battle of silence, and when the dark blue Commodore finally pulled up outside the house, neither Hannie or Mosson had spoken for fifteen minutes.