Blood Junction (31 page)

India parked the car right outside the address Catherine Buchanan-Atkins had given her where she could keep an eye on it.
From the looks of this neighborhood it wouldn’t be wise to leave a vehicle unattended.

She rang the bell of a dilapidated semidetached house and stepped back. A dog started barking inside, then the door was flung
open.

“What?” demanded an angry-looking woman of about India’s age and height. She had bloodshot eyes and reeked of beer.

India’s smile evaporated.

“I’m looking for Jinny. Louis Mullett’s girlfriend.”

“She scarpered ages back.”

“What about Louis, he still around?”

“He buggered off months ago. She wouldn’t stop her bloody crying. Went looking for him at Central, haven’t seen her since.
Glad she left, miserable cow.”

“Are any of their relatives around? Any other Mulletts?”

The woman belched, scratched her belly. “Whole bunch scarpered together. Bought themselves a property out bush. Hadn’t the
money to pay for it, mind, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Louis spoke about some weird job getting paid for taking drugs.”

“Where’s the property they bought?”

“Middle of bloody nowhere. Near Biloella.” She suddenly looked suspicious. “Whatcha want to know for?”

“I’m a relative of theirs—”

The woman slammed the door in India’s face.

India stood looking at the doorbell. The dog continued to bark. A truck roared past, belching blue smoke. India worked up
her nerve and raised a finger, let it hover over the bell.

She jumped when the door was flung open and a handful of mail was thrust at her. “Jinny’s. You’re a relly of hers, you can
have ’em.” The door slammed shut again.

India read the letters as she walked. Three were from a school friend of Jinny’s, the rest from Louis. They were love letters.
Short, painstakingly written in capitals, and heartrending in their simplicity, they spanned a period of two years. The most
recent was dated the seventh of July this year. It appeared to be the last.

Not gone long. Back quick. Wish words could tell what in my head. My body. Want you. Love you. Smell you.

None of them gave any indication Louis was disenchanted with his lover in any way. Pocketing the letters, India continued
walking to Central Station.

It took her over an hour of scouting the station and the surrounding area, asking questions, before she hit on success. A
taxi driver remembered seeing a dozen or so Aborigines hanging about on the steps of the station around July-August time,
and being surprised when a new-looking white transit van had collected them. He’d expected them to be moved on by the police,
not chauffeur-driven by a college-looking white bloke.

The taxi driver talked to his mates, who had by now gathered around India like bees to a honey pot, and she gleaned the information
that small groups of Aborigines used to gather outside the station fairly regularly.

No, they hadn’t seen any lately.

Yeah, mostly last year. Every two months or so, there’d be a bunch of them hanging about.

Yeah, a van usually picked ’em up. Yeah, reckon the last lot would’ve been November time. Early November, mind. Maybe even
late October.

Nah, wouldn’t know the rego of the van. It was white though, with a crumpled wing on the driver’s side.

India thanked them, walked away. Her throat felt tight, her eyes scratchy as she consolidated what she’d learned. The Mulletts
had answered a printed advertisement, gone to Central Station as arranged by the advertiser, climbed aboard a white transit
van and vanished. Her family. Vanished.

India headed towards the Opera House. Circular Quay was crowded with tourists arriving off the ferries, and already people
were staking their claim for the best vantage points to view the fireworks later on. Restlessly, she waited outside the Sydney
Cove Oyster Bar, shaded by palms and white umbrellas. Tall purple and yellow flags fluttered in a slight breeze.

She scanned the street. A black Ford with tinted windows nudged its way through the crowds and around litter bins and benches.
Must be a VIP, she thought, or an unmarked cop car. All traffic had been discouraged from entering the city since first thing
that morning and the streets, although full of people, were virtually empty of vehicles.

India noticed a swatch of sun-bleached hair through the crowd and felt an immediate fizz of excitement, but it wasn’t Scotto.
Shifting from foot to foot, she tried to quell her agitation.

“You look like a kid.” She heard Mikey’s voice behind her. “Itchy with excitement.”

“He’s late,” she said.

“I am too.”

People were pouring past her. India was craning over the mob, looking for blond heads. Out of the corner of her eye she caught
the black Ford sliding closer and was about to check it out when, striding into view, came Scotto.

He had lost weight and his jeans hung loosely on his hips. His face was longer than she remembered. He carried a briefcase
in one hand and his expression was withdrawn. His eyes flicked across to the oyster bar, over India. Then they clicked back,
and he looked straight at her. He smiled. A broad wide smile of delight that banished his earlier glum expression and filled
his face with warmth.

India plunged into the crowd.

“Scotto!” she yelled.

He started for her. Panting with excitement, she dodged and skidded around the mass moving relentlessly towards the Opera
House. Bouncing up, she could see Scotto being drawn to her, and she grinned. Then she saw a black shape pull up just behind
him. She felt the first inkling of something wrong.

Two men piled out of the Ford, broke into a run. Straight for Scotto.

He started opening his arms to embrace her.

India saw, without quite believing it, both men lunge at Scotto and snatch him away.

For a second, she lost her momentum in shock. The two men were on either side of him, had grabbed his briefcase and pinned
his hands high between his shoulders … They were hauling him away.

Instinct took over: India simply put her head down and charged for him. People were yelling in outrage, sprawling behind her,
some on their knees. She ripped through the crowd, single-minded, unthinking. Someone lashed out at her and she found herself
spinning around, her right arm in a grip like iron. A fist landed deep in her belly. She went down like a stone.

Immediately a crowd formed around her.

“Asthma, my wife suffers from asthma,” a man was saying as he helped her to her feet, hands around her arms like steel cuffs.

She was bent double. She fought to breathe, to form a word.

“India!” Mikey shouted.

“Deal with him,” the man snapped to his sidekick, who spun aside and vanished into the crowd.

“India!” Mikey yelled again.

“Does she need Ventalin?” a woman said helpfully. “I’ve some in my bag.”

“No, no. She’ll be right. My car’s just here. Our friends will help. She’s fine, thank you.”

She was choking, gasping. Tears streamed down her face. The crowd parted as she was half-dragged, half-carried towards the
black Ford. She tried to struggle but they simply hoisted her off the ground so her feet swung free. The Ford lurched alongside
her, its rear door opening.

Her breathing suddenly eased. India filled her lungs.

Her scream split the air. “Mikey!”

People stopped to stare.

She was bucking and squirming furiously, her legs jerking as she took another breath, yelled, “Mikey!” but a hand clapped
over her mouth, another on top of her head, and she found herself bundled into the back of the Ford and the door slammed shut
behind her.

Immediately the car moved forward. The interior was black leather and India could smell pine air freshener and stale cigarettes.
Scotto lay slumped unconscious, half on the seat, half on the floor. There were two men in front, both about thirty, both
in dark trousers and jackets. One held a gun in his hand, pointed at her.

“You try anything, I shoot you.”

She was panting jerkily, her breath rasping in her throat.

The car did a slow three-point turn and eased through the crowds, heading back to the city. For a second the man glanced away
and looked forward.

India flipped off the door lock with her right hand, yanked back the door handle with her left and shoved with all her might.

Nothing happened.

She shoved again. The man snapped his head around.

She sat there, hands on the door, frozen.

They stared at each other, immobile, and all she could think was that he had missed a patch of stubble, the size of a five-pence
piece, shaving that morning.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

She didn’t think he’d shoot her, but she couldn’t be certain. So she sat there, quite still, willing him to be lenient.

The seconds ticked by. When the journey had been going on for some time, the man moved the pistol away from her. India brought
her hands onto her lap. Began breathing normally again.

Mikey had seen the man come for him and immediately spun away for Phillip Street. He saw the black Ford start its three-point
turn and pelted for the Intercontinental Hotel and the taxi stand outside, praying there’d be one, that they weren’t all taken
…