Good Money (2 page)

I blinked. ‘Mabor, I don't want anyone to get into trouble.'

‘Just fuck off and leave us alone.' He turned his back on me.

I stood up, and some clothes toppled onto the floor. I bent to pick them up. Under a T-shirt was a tattered exercise book. My fingers caught hold of the back cover — and, as I raised it, I glimpsed the last page. Only two lines were on it, written in juvenile print and circled over and over. A wave of shock went through me. I read it twice before I was sure. It was my address — my flat, in my building in Roxburgh Street, Ascot Vale. I risked a glance at Mabor. He had his head down now, zipping up the sports bag. I turned over the book to study the cover.
Adut Chol, Year Ten, English.
A couple of years old — he must have been using it as a notebook. I let the book slip to the floor, and with my foot I shoved it under the bed, just as Mabor's gaze returned to me. ‘You going or what?'

‘Take care of your mum,' I said, and left.

The rain had stopped when I walked from the building, but water continued to drip from lemon-scented eucalypts in the car park. I stood beside the white trunk of a venerable giant, keeping an eye on the entrance. A wind gust shook the wet leaves and drenched me; I cursed and turned up my collar. Then the foyer light went on, and Mabor stepped out. He shifted the sports bag to his shoulder and lit a cigarette, his fourteen-year-old face wretched and grave.

I moved further into the shadows. On a similar late-night call, in the same building, six years before, I'd made the biggest mistake of my life — a single lapse in judgement that saw me descending in the lift, wads of cash in my bag and my adrenalin through the roof. Time passed, as did the sleepless nights and the regrets and remorse, and I had started to relax, to believe I was out of danger.

A four-wheel drive pulled up on Racecourse Road. Mabor yanked up his hood and ran out to it. If he got in, I would go back to the flat to get the book.

He passed the sports bag through the open, passenger-side window. A fat envelope was passed out to him. Raised voices drifted towards me, but they were indistinct. Then the window rolled smoothly up and the car drove away. Mabor stuffed the envelope into his back pocket, piffed his smoke, and headed back inside.

I took a tissue from my bag and dabbed the drips of water on my face. Fatigue weighed on me and with it a bleary-eyed sadness. No one could leave their past behind. Sooner or later the truth always came out, just as Adut had discovered the truth about me. This was the only possible explanation for why he had written my address in his exercise book. How he had found out, I didn't know; at the time, he was only ten years old. Odds-on, someone had seen me and told him. Six years was a long time for whoever saw me to keep a secret — the weight of it perhaps became a burden. So Adut wrote down my address and intended to exploit that information somehow, like blackmail or extortion, or God only knew what. For me, the consequences would have been ruinous — if someone hadn't murdered him.

2

I STOOD
by the curb and waited for a passing taxi. It was not yet daylight, but the traffic was approaching gridlock, drivers already feeling the tension. I decided to walk home through the slumbering backstreets. I took my time, dawdling and thinking about how the good citizens in their beds were not troubled by thoughts of death. A picture of my dad came from nowhere. He had one knee on the ground, and though his hat was pulled down so I couldn't see his eyes, I knew the impatient glare was on me. ‘Get on with it.' The knife — a small bread knife — was in my bag with my homework and my uneaten apple. No time to go all the way back to the farm for the shotgun. The ewe was lying on the wet grass, head down. The lamb was dead, in raw, bleeding pieces. The ewe saw us and struggled, eyes wild. Good on you, I thought. Trying, wanting to live. He could have taken the knife from me — a quick flex of muscle and it would be over — but he said it was better if he held her. She kicked, but he clamped her down with his body weight. Blood gushed from her neck.

‘Your dog,' I said. ‘You do it.'

He tipped his hat back. ‘Come on. Get it done, then we can get back for a feed.'

I was hesitant, cowardly. It didn't go well. Instead of committing, I made half-arsed tearing and sawing movements, wanting it to be over. It seemed to go on forever. Afterwards, he wiped the blade on the disgusting hanky he always seemed to have, and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Let's go. I'm so starving I could eat two helpings of Delia's bloody casserole.' Men could do that — trade blows, then five minutes later shake hands, kiss, and make up. Meanwhile, I burned inside for years.

I reached Roxburgh Street as dawn broke. My street mainly comprised respectable brick Edwardian houses with well-tended gardens. I walked up the gentle incline towards my building, an incongruous 1960s box. Say what you will about austerity architecture, compared to the brutalist concrete mausoleums popping up in the area, my place was good, honest ugliness. At some point, the brickwork had been painted white and a Norfolk Island Pine planted in the front lawn. Now gigantic, the tree dominated the street. Mounted above the portico in metallic letters was the name
PineView
.

I climbed the stairs. As I reached the top landing, she teetered towards me on her noodle legs, feet shod with wooden stilts, blonde hair in a twist.

‘Off to work, Tania?'

‘Yes.' She clattered down a few more steps, but then stopped. ‘Tonight still on?'

‘Sure,' I said, and went inside and fell face-first on my bed.

At about eleven, I woke, showered, dressed, and headed to Buffy's on Union Road.

‘Bit late today, Stella.' Lucas started making my takeaway flat white as I entered his café. He was good that way.

‘Worked late last night. Got a
White Pages
?'

He tipped his head in the direction of a sideboard; above it, a couple of phonebooks stood upright on a shelf. I flipped through the A-to-K, while he scalded the milk, until I found my listing:
Hardy, Stella J.
, followed by my full address and land line.

I'd been tired last night, and my judgement was impaired. Surely I was mistaken about Adut and his silly schoolbook. I had worked with some very disturbed people in the course of my professional life, and had never concealed my home address. There'd been no threats, no abuse, no unwanted attempts to contact me. No problem ever. The whole address thing was an innocent coincidence — another explanation must have existed that I had not yet thought of. After all, Adut wasn't a psychopath. He was a smart kid. Not Mabor smart, not academic. But street smart. He'd signed up for all kinds of programs for disadvantaged kids, and left as soon as he got the free backpack or the myki with twelve-months' free public transport. That was not merely smart, it was cunning.

God help me. He knew. He knew.

How could he know? It was impossible. I took a deep breath. I needed to have another look at that book. But I had to be patient.

I boarded a city-bound tram and scored a seat to myself. I drank the coffee and stared out at the cold congested streets as the tram conveyed me to my place of work. At a stop along Racecourse Road, I stepped off and walked to the offices of the Western Outer-Region Migrant Support — or WORMS. The organisation rented a shopfront on Wellington Street next to the Flemington Police Station. The place was deserted. We'd lost half our staff in two years. Those lucky few who had hung onto their jobs, it seemed, were currently either at meetings or seeing clients.

I went to brief Boss about Mrs Chol. His name was Brendan Ogg-Simmons, so we called him Boss. Also, he was my boss. He was short and balding, with an accountant wife and two young children. Despite this, he was usually cheerful.

‘Before you say anything, Hardy, you need to put a visit from Pukus in your diary. Next Monday.'

‘
Next
as in next week?'

‘No. That's
this
Monday — I mean the one after.'

‘That Monday's a holiday, Boss.' Public holidays were highlighted in my calendar. ‘The Queen, birthday girl.'

‘Tuesday then.'

State politics was a bore, but I knew who Pukus was. I'd even met him. He was Marcus Pugh, formerly the Human Services minister, until a recent cabinet reshuffle had put him in charge of the Victorian police force. He used to swan into our program launches, take the credit, drink a cup of tea, pose for a photo with some unsuspecting woman in a headscarf, and then swan out.
Pukus
, we called him —
Mucous Pukus
.

I made a note on my phone, and added a sad-face emoticon next to it. ‘Isn't he Police Minister now?'

Boss sighed. ‘Yes. Just when we thought we'd seen the back of him, this time he's here announcing the new partnership between Justice and Community Services.'

‘Speaking of justice … Mrs Chol, she's going to need ongoing support. If they arrest someone, she'll need guidance just to get through the hearings, the trial — handle the media.'

Often in these situations, Boss would start saying that he couldn't spare me, how the cuts stymied every program the agency ran, how we all had to do more with less. But this time, he surprised me. ‘Justice has announced some funding. New money. Migrants affected by crime. Put together a submission and I'll sign it today.'

I went to my desk and found a yellow envelope with my name on it sitting on the keyboard: the usual guff about the next round of redundancies being unavoidable — the agency was looking for volunteers to take a package. A part of me wanted to go, right then and there, to clear my few possessions and drop my pass card on Boss's desk. Instead, I wrote the damn submission.

At lunchtime, I dropped into the police station next door to see Raewyn Ross.

Some new guy, a baby-face with the measurements of a knitting needle, scoffed at my enquiry. ‘The Khaleesi? Not here. Probably taken a sickie.'

‘Khaleesi, as in —'

‘
Game of Thrones
.' The needle smirked.

He was in the place five minutes and had already joined in disrespecting Ross. I let it slide. ‘Homicide been to visit Mrs Chol yet? Collected Adut's stuff?'

He looked at me like I was speaking Lithuanian. ‘Couldn't tell you.' I waited with raised eyebrows. He sighed. ‘Want me to ask?'

‘Not to worry.' I made it to the door before I turned around. ‘“The Khaleesi”. Is that —?'

‘Yep. Irony.'

A door opened behind him and a disembodied voice said, ‘Mrs Chol is at the coroner's. Plain clothes told me, said he was taking her.'

It was wishful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, the plain clothes detective was so busy helping Mrs Chol through the process, that he hadn't ordered Adut's room to be cleared yet. In any case, with Mrs Chol not at home, there was no way to get into her flat. I said my thanks and walked back to work. Tomorrow it would have to be.

The rest of the day, I rang clients and answered emails. At five o'clock, one of our regulars came into our waiting room and fell asleep. Boss and I tried to rouse him, but he wouldn't budge. This vexed me as I had plans to get home, drink half a cask of wine, and watch
The Walking Dead
. Boss called the Salvation Army while I tried to get some sense out of our guest. We tried to get him walking, and had an arm each when he decided to vomit down the front of his shirt. My gag reflex wanted to join in. Then he shat himself. I unrolled a kilometre of paper towel.

It was past seven when I finally walked into the foyer of my building. Letters jutted from my letterbox. I juggled my bag and sorted through them: bill, bill, catalogue, postcard. Postcard? I checked the address: wrong flat. I read the message —
We're having the best time! Just love Fiji!!! Joyce and Frank
—
and dropped it in the correct slot, feeling put out.
Fix your sloppy handwriting, Joyce. Can't tell your
5
s from your
9
s.

I flicked the lights, cranked up the heater, and put two slices of bread in the toaster. I had only just opened the fridge door when I heard the modest tap that Tania used for a knock on the door. I let her in, and she brought her fresh-faced, sweet-smelling
joie de vivre
with her. She had ten centimetres on me in flats — and she wasn't wearing flats — so I had to tilt my head back to see her white teeth smiling down at me. She handed me a bottle. ‘How was your day?'

‘Acceptable. You?'

‘Awesome.'

‘Come off it.'

‘Not gonna lie. I like my job.'

‘The paring of human skin? Inhaling carcinogenic chemicals?' I opened a cupboard, took down two glasses, and started twisting the bottle cap. The cap was stubborn; I couldn't gain any purchase on it. Since last night, everything sucked — I couldn't even think straight, let alone open a bottle. All I could think, over and over, was how could Adut have found out? There must have been a witness. Someone living in the flats. Everything was coming apart — except the damn bottle cap. I wrenched it, and drew red welts across my palm to no avail.

Tania bit her lip. ‘It's a cork,' she said tentatively.