Hades (4 page)

W
e opened the first box on the concrete marina between two police buses, protected from the media by more blue plastic tarps. Everyone was pretty sure what we were going to find, but rather than driving people away it sucked them in, a macabre freak show. Eden and I crowded around the box with the area chief and a forensic specialist while the nobodies of the investigation whispered and shushed each other. The sun beat in on the side of the tarps, illuminating the shadows of dozens of bodies.

The forensic guy knelt down and wedged a chisel under the rusted lock of the toolbox, prying it open gently. Eden stood over him with her arms folded. She took off her sunglasses and her dark eyes examined the careful process, her head tilted slightly as though she could already smell the terrible stench that would erupt when the sludge seals were broken.

I saw the face first. The girl hadn’t been cut up to fit into the box, as we found later that many others had. She was curled in a fetal position with her hands and feet tucked under her body, her torso a perfect fit for the confines of her coffin. Her face was pressed into the dark corner, her nose a little lifted and her milky eyes wide open. She was fresh. Around a week dead by my guess. Tiny life-forms panicked and streaked over the surface of the water in the box, taking shelter in the folds of her body. The girl’s long blond hair was tangled around her throat, swirling like seaweed in the disturbed water. There were wounds on her, deep grooves in her lower back, but the inside of the box was dark and I couldn’t see them properly at my angle. Her thin bony back was milk white, blotched here and there by the draining of blood and fluids. It was as though she had curled up in there to hide and someone had sunk her to the bottom of the ocean.

I looked at Eden. There was no emotion in her face. She stared down at the girl as though she were reading the fine print on a contract, attentive but distant. The area chief covered his mouth and nose with his hand against the smell.

“What is she?” I asked the forensic guy. “Sixteen?”

“Eleven. Twelve.”

I chewed my lip. When no one spoke, I shrugged and said what everyone was probably thinking.

“She’s pretty fresh. Probably that missing girl.”

“Shut it up,” Eden ordered, turning and pulling away a corner of the tarp where men and women scrambled back to let her through.

 

 

Most people hate the smell of mice. Jason had never understood that. There was something earthy and wet and warm about the smell of rodents, something natural that defied the sterility of the modern home. It brought him back to his childhood, to the caverns and tunnels and alleyways made by the beams beneath the house. He would crawl in there and dig treasures into the dirt, peer through the floorboards, listen to conversations. There were mice and rats under the house, nestled into crevices and squeezed into dugouts, small cities of rolled and coiled newspaper and dried grass. Jason liked to watch their little families, the licking and stroking and picking they imposed on each other, the silent ease with which they decided to sleep or play or fight. Things were not like that in his family. There was only noise and pain, locked doors and crying in the night. The mice didn’t care if he picked his nails, if he couldn’t recite his multiplication tables, whether his shirt was ironed or his face clean. The mice couldn’t hurt him. The mice couldn’t call him names. He envied their uncomplicated lives.

Jason was fascinated by the things that humans shared with the animals and the things they tried to leave behind. Bonds really puzzled him. Curled in his bare immaculate room, reading silently beneath the blankets by the light of a small flashlight, he had read that brolgas—those lanky, dancing, stony-colored birds that strolled the lake near his home—found a partner to breed with and stayed with that mate for life, no matter what. Imagine that. Jason had set out the next weekend on his lone wanderings to find a brolga and see this incredible natural magic in action. On the way he encountered some of his schoolmates—cruel, freckled, sun-bleached kids who threw pencils at him in class and made fun of the way his mother cut his hair. They were huddled in a group skipping rocks by the edge of the lake. When they set upon him, sneering and laughing and pointing and interrogating him about his purpose, he explained what he knew about the brolga and that he planned to catch one alive. All day under the wicked sun he labored to catch one of the swift, graceful, wide-winged birds. He used every conceivable trick he could think of—creeping, swimming, snaring, baiting, trying to strike them down with rocks. The schoolkids had hounded him like a rabble of street dogs, yabbering and rolling and barking laughter every time he failed. When Jason finally got hold of a bird and its mate had rushed out of the water, squawking and honking and flapping its wings in fury, the children had fallen silent, awed, and Jason had laughed, victorious. He’d teased the angry bird by wringing his partner’s neck, slowly, gently, scattering the feathers in the wind. The male bird filled the air with its noise. Jason turned to his schoolmates and grinned, showing them the limp bird.

“See?” he said. “They love each other. Animals can love each other too.”

Sometimes the animals he hunted and trapped and played with in the wild weren’t enough. Jason liked to have animals in his life. His ever-expanding collection of beetles, lizards, snakes, his encouragement of stray cats and dogs, got him beaten and locked up and starved plenty of times but the impulse never completely died. The animals didn’t want anything from Jason other than food, affection, warmth. He loved their stupidity, their simplistic natures. Make a dog your own, secure its loyalty, and you can beat that dog within an inch of death and it will return to you, love you, guard you. Jason knew that. He admired loyalty. It reminded him of the brolgas. Jason was fascinated by the intersection between wild and dependent things, becoming a slave of one creature to another. The unnaturalness of it. Much of life was like that. He wanted to scratch, to bite, to fight, to crawl away into tight holes and forget the world outside. Instead he was a loyal dog, a beaten yet obedient creature, an enemy to his own instincts. A mouse living in a tank instead of a hole.

The small dark apartment in Chatswood wasn’t right for anything larger than a tank of mice but the adult Jason didn’t mind. He sat by the tank in the mornings and watched them going about their business—digging or sleeping, running madly on the little plastic wheel.

When he put his finger into the tank one of them rushed forward and gripped on, hoisting its warm velvet-soft body up onto his hand. Trusting. He sat in the light from the venetian blinds, cracked open just enough to allow some view of the outside world, and ran the mouse over his hands, smiling at its frantic dash from one palm to another, over and over, never recognizing where it had been, no care for where it was going. People were inexplicably like mice. Panicky, wide-eyed, utterly at the will of a callous, fleshy-palmed god.

Jason put the mouse on the table and watched it sniff and scurry around the objects lying there, the scalpels of various sizes lined up in foam trays, the glass bottles and packets of paper towels, the rolled bandages and coils of medical wire. The mouse stopped and munched on the edge of a stack of papers littered with names, ages, birthdates, blood types, addresses. Beginning at the corner of the page, it tore tiny strips off with its pink paws.

Taking a scalpel from the tray, Jason pinched the mouse’s ear between his thumb and forefinger gently, feeling its impossible thinness and softness, his most careful touch surrendering the creature’s entire head to his will. A whisper of flesh. He looked at the scalpel, considered, then gave the ear a wag. He let the mouse go, stroking its curved spine with the flat of the blade. Ticcing, twitching, jittering life beneath the fur. Jason lifted the scalpel, let it dangle, point down, before releasing it. The point of the scalpel dug into the table a few centimeters from the mouse’s right front paw. The animal was unfazed. Jason pried the instrument from the wood, lifted it again, higher this time, and aimed better. The scalpel chunked into the wood, just missing the mouse’s nose.

The television, barely audible, caught his attention. On the screen police officers were swarming on a pier like ants, crawling over it, meeting each other, gnashing pincers and pawing, all in black. In one sequence a young man was being ushered unwillingly into a van. Jason had encountered him in the early hours of that morning, a man he had been certain he would never see again. More panning shots of the crowded marina and then one of a steel toolbox. Jason felt fury and pride tingle in him briefly before the familiar calm smothered the emotions. He sucked air between his teeth.

When the story ended he looked back at the creature on the table, carefully cleaning its whiskers by his hand. Careless, brainless thing. Jason lifted the scalpel at a full arm’s height, squinted, let it settle in his fingers for a long moment before letting it go.

W
e found a quiet corner of the café on the marina to use as a base for the afternoon. It was near enough to the crime scene that specialists and witnesses could come and report to us, but distant enough from the fray that we could organize ourselves without the distraction of the chaos down on the water. Eden finally passed me some responsibility—rounding up security tapes from the marina, calling in marina staff for interviews, sending a progress report back to the station. She sat across from me munching spicy potato wedges between phone calls, glancing out now and then at the sinking sun glinting on the water. A troop of bicyclists clad in spandex of every color of the rainbow took a nearby table, clacking in on plastic shoes, ordering gluten-free chips and smoothies, laughing with long teeth. Yellow and lime-green fish circled the pier pillars beneath us, visible through the glass that lined the balcony. I watched them as I spoke, envying their calm, meaningless paths.

In time we’d made all the calls and taken all the notes we could. I ordered a scotch and Coke, and Eden asked for a bourbon on ice.

“So there’s not much we can do until the forensic team gets back with the report on the bodies. We should catch up tonight,” I suggested as the café staff began packing up the cutlery on tables around us. “We’re going to be working pretty closely from here on. It might be nice to know something about each other.”

Eden smirked. I felt a lump in my stomach.

“I like a bit of professional distance. It’ll make it easier to
not
take a bullet for you one day.”

“Oh, come on, a couple of drinks.”

“The whole homicide team goes out together now and then.” She lifted her eyes to mine briefly. “They’ll be at The Hound tonight from six. If you want to bond, we can bond in company.”

“The Hound? Urgh. Woman, where are your standards?”

She paused, staring at her drink. “Eric will be there.” It sounded like a warning.

“Why would I care if Eric’s there?” I asked, the lump in my stomach growing. “He’s my partner’s brother. We should be mates.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She smiled and shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to bump chests with you. It takes a long time to become close to Eric.”

I raised my eyebrows in answer. The revelation didn’t surprise me.

I’d been to The Hound before but never liked it as a hangout. Too many cops. A drunken night out at The Hound tended to turn into a dick-measuring contest between street cops, encouraged by grizzled detectives and captains and presided over by nonchalant paramedics and firemen. At The Hound officers fresh from training at Goulburn, surprised and disheartened by the lack of understanding and appreciation they received from old hands in their new occupation, could mingle with their heroes in the business—cops who’d been on the beat a good six months longer than they had. This kind of mingling encouraged war stories and the comparison of arrest tallies, the showing of scars and narration of chase tales. Abilities were questioned and motives examined. Fitness feats and beep-test scores were lamented over. As the glasses emptied, fights erupted and poured out onto Parramatta Road, where the missed swings and pained howls were watched by families of every conceivable ethnic origin who lived in apartments above the neighboring Haberfield shops. No arrests were made, of course, and the black eyes and split lips that ensued were chuckled over in the office the next morning. Promotions, easy beats and pay bonuses were awarded to young guns who could land a fist after ten schooners. I didn’t like that kind of competition. I preferred to drink alone, the older I got.

Like a schoolyard, the bar was divided into status groups organized by occupation. The morgue attendants and body handlers crowded quietly in one corner, making sick jokes and drinking themselves unconscious. The forensic specialists, who generally left early, engaged in their strange technical language over vodkas and light beers at the outdoor tables. The street cops huddled in booths along the walls, sunburnt and testy.

The homicide squad kept to themselves, separate from the rest. The owls, strangely deliberate-looking in their tailored jeans and cotton shirts, sat wedged together on leather couches by the jukebox. The conversation was sparse and the music loud, so although they looked uncomfortable they were able to pull off a general feeling of community just by drinking and smiling at each other. Eric had perched himself on the arm of one of the couches and was making loud wisecracks about each owl in turn, which everyone seemed to think was hilarious. I sat beside Eden at the bar, watching him work the room like a debutante. Of course he knew everyone in the pub. They all greeted him like they hadn’t seen him in years. Some of the women whispered in his ears and held his fingers lovingly as they talked.

“You guys locals?”

“We’re from Utulla, out the back of Camden.” So, about half an hour down the Hume Highway from me. Eden took a long breath and let it out slow, like keeping her secrets from me was going to be a long and arduous process. I wondered what she was hiding. I ordered her another drink and she seemed grateful.

“Where you from?” she asked.

“Bankstown born and bred.”

“Go the doggies.”

“Damn straight.”

“Got family out there?”

“Nope.” I smiled, not bothering to disguise my relief. “Got any in Utulla?”

“My father.” She nodded.

It sounded strange to me, the way she said “father” instead of “dad,” like she deliberately wanted me to understand that she had been the fruit of this man’s loins. She bent to adjust her boot and I noticed a long scar running the length of her hairline, faint and barely detectable.

“Okay,” I said. “So what’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

She coughed over her drink and smiled.

“Come on, Frank. The whole my-partner-is-my-soulmate thing has been seriously overcooked by
Law & Order,
don’t you think? We don’t have to be intimate to be effective.”

“I
want
to be intimate with you.” I grinned.

“Uh huh. You’ll get over that.”

“I’ll tell you mine.”

“I don’t want to know yours.”

“We’ll start simple.” I spread my hands out on the bar as though clearing room for a party trick. “I once climbed out a girl’s bathroom window after a one-night stand while she was cooking me breakfast.”

Eden nodded her appreciation. More drinks arrived.

“Okay.” She smiled sheepishly, after some long and deep consideration of the challenge. “I did a week of dog squad training out at Rockdale in the early days. There was a dog there that really hated my guts and they kept giving it to me for assessments. One time, when no one was looking, I kicked it. Kicked it hard, right in the backside.”

I made a big deal, hooting and hollering, waving my hands in the air. She punched my arm.

“You’re a
bad
woman,” I said.

“You got no idea, pal.”

“I rigged a police charity raffle once. Won myself a holiday to New Zealand. It was Kids with Cancer.”

“Oh!” she cringed. “You’re a monster.”

I felt exhilaration creep over me. I didn’t know if it was the bourbon or if there was a possibility that Eden was actually warming to me. I’d never imagined her as she was now, sniggering over her drink and shaking her head of long dark hair.

“Okay. I let another girl in my Year Five class take the rap for stealing from the teacher’s handbag. Her mother made her move schools.”

I slapped my hand on the bar and ordered another drink. Eden opened her wallet and laid a twenty on the counter, turning and looking over her shoulder at the crowd. I went on blabbering, not realizing that her smile had disappeared.

“I slept with my Year Twelve English teacher.” I grinned. “She was probationary. Naive and new age. I convinced her to stay behind and help me with my grammar. I was such a hound dog.”

I caught the look on her face. A splinter jabbed in my heart.

“Oh, come on!” I clapped her shoulder. “I was seventeen! Gimme a brea–”

“I’m gonna do a round of the room, Frank,” Eden murmured and slinked away. I followed her eyes across the room and caught Eric watching us, surrounded by people who were talking and grinning nervously.

 

 

I’d just grabbed ahold of myself and was about to let loose at the urinal when I felt a hot rush of breath on the back of my neck. Eric’s voice whispered in my ear:

“Can I give you a hand, honey?”

I jolted and shoved back into him and he thumped me on the shoulder. The sound of his laughter filled up the room. There was piss on my shoes.

“You’re so uptight, Frankie.”

“There’s a certain code of conduct when someone’s taking a piss,” I snarled, immediately regretting the overreaction. Eric chuckled and took a urinal two down from mine, victorious.

“You’ve got up Eden’s nose already,” he noted, looking down at himself. “She’s abandoned you.” I said nothing. One of the owls came through the door, saw us standing there and retreated.

“Well, you know, she mustn’t have liked the track I was going down. Not my fault she’s got something to hide.”

“We’ve all got something to hide, Frankie.” Eric grinned, zipping up and turning towards me. “You don’t want the rest of the crew finding out about your assault charge, do you?”

I almost zipped my cock up in my fly. I couldn’t help myself. My hands lashed out, gripping the front of his shirt. I shoved him into the wall. Though I put the full force of my body behind it, I felt that he was letting me hurl him around, letting me know there was power in his body that he was choosing not to unleash on me. His large, strong hands folded around mine. He squeezed and I heard my knuckles crack.

“You punched your ex-wife in the head.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” I growled. “A
confidential
misunderstanding. You’ve got no right going through my files.”

“This job is about knowing each other, Frank. It’s about knowing each other’s secrets and ignoring them. We’re all good guys here. No one’s better than anyone else. We’re all dirty. We’ve all got something shadowing us.”

“The others know your secrets, then, and they ignore them—is that right?” I shoved him into the wall again and it felt good. “Then why are they so fucking scared of you? Why don’t you tell me what
you’re
hiding, Eric?”

I didn’t even see him move. His big wide hand shot up and smacked the side of my head. He didn’t punch me, he slapped me, and it was intentional, because though he hadn’t made a fist the impact hurt like nothing I’d ever felt, like his hand was made of iron. Humiliating, the way the sound of it rippled out and away from me, the way my ear was instantly on fire. At the same time he kicked my legs out from underneath me. I sprawled on the bathroom floor, landing hard on my elbows.

“You’re running with wolves now, Frankie. You’ve got to be faster than that.” He laughed as he turned to leave. His wolf howl echoed around the large tiled room.

 

 

I didn’t leave, even though it seemed that Eden had disappeared. I wasn’t giving Eric that satisfaction. I went out into the bar and sat at the counter where I’d been sitting with Eden, my head throbbing. I ordered a drink and the barman glanced at me worriedly for a moment before turning and pulling a bottle off the shelf. Eric’s eyes were on my back, hot and heavy, his presence in a group of people by the door like a siren from across the room.

My first wife and I had married young and we’d taken up cocaine pretty early as a way of avoiding the depressing sink into monotonous suburban life. I’d been a street cop then and the coke had been easy to come by—just about every man and his dog was carrying it, and asking for it never raised an eyebrow. We thought that because we had a habit and a hotted-up car we were different from the Mary Janes and Uncle Bills in the rows of cheap prefab houses in Sydney’s West. My wife and I’d only known each other on the party scene in the city and got married because I knocked her up in the third week. We thought we were
bad
. We thought we were different and in love and all that crap. Suburban life crushed that. Things went from a hundred Ks an hour to a laborious jog in three seconds flat. Suddenly we were watching
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
every Saturday night and arguing over dishwashing liquid brands.

Louise hid the coke from me during the pregnancy but I knew the whole time what she was up to. I didn’t care. I had two lives by then. My time at home with Louise was a waiting game between shifts on the street. I didn’t love her, not really, and as the baby grew inside her we started to fight. I just wanted to be on the job all the time, roughing up perps and throwing my weight around. Driving fast. Bursting into houses. Getting free drinks and pretending I could have any chick I wanted. I wanted to stay out all night drinking with the other street cops and relishing the secret language of the force. Louise wanted someone to care for her. I wasn’t that guy. I was much too into myself then.