Mammon (2 page)

AT THE EDGE
of a lonely continent, between a broad desert and stormy sea, lay Border City.

To the west, seabirds congregated on top of rocky towers that had prised their way up from the ocean floor. Barrelling waves tore against cliff faces.

To the south, mist-drenched forests spread for miles.

To the east, a row of stony-faced mountains guarded the City from the desert's brutal sands.

To the north: the Wasteland. Plundered, abandoned, ignored.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood the great mirrored towers, where the sophisticated few met for coffee on the waterfront or strolled through glass-lined colonnades. In Cold River's tranquil bays, white hulls bobbed and noise was restricted to refined laughter, or the swoop of a pelican's wing.

But when the sun pulled away, the City showed another face. The River: grey, choppy and barren. Soft, respectable tones – sunset against polished glass and steel – gave way to vulgar neon, flesh and fear.

It was here that the next Ferryman was born.

* * *

‘OKAY, YEAR ELEVENS.
Let's break down the question: how does Plato use the Allegory of the Cave to illustrate how man can believe in a false reality?' The teacher glanced around the room and laughed. ‘Come on, you guys! It's not that bad!'

A groan rumbled through the class. ‘Oh, miss! You must be joking! It's so hot!'

The teacher smiled. ‘I know.' She leaned back on her desk, tapping her fingers against the wood. ‘But just imagine how the prisoners felt next to the fires in Plato's Cave.'

Outside, parched leaves hung from weary branches. Birds stalked the ground for puddles, their angry caws cutting the stagnant air. Clouds bulged, threatening rain.

Students slumped across desks, throwing woeful stares in her direction.

‘Come on, people! We've been through this!' She sighed. ‘Just try. That's all I ask. Start by highlighting the keywords.'

Grace's head felt heavy – like the monsoonal grey that passed as the sky. Absently, she coloured in the words that she hoped were key to the question. Her stomach clenched and churned. She'd felt uneasy for days.

Tomorrow, she might feel better. It was just the heat.

She drew a hairtie from her pocket and scooped up her long, dark curls into a messy bun. She could feel the leering stares of two boys in the next row. Grace didn't want to look at them
.
But of course, she did. One of them, a tall, blond guy, made an obscene gesture with his tongue and two fingers. His friend laughed.

Grace scowled. ‘Get lost, you pig.'

Her cheeks burned as she reached for her water bottle. It tipped. Lazily, she watched it fall to the floor. Everything seemed to be in slow motion today. As she leaned down and grabbed the bottle, a small crack in the nearby window glinted, catching her eye.

It glowed strangely in the afternoon's grey light. But more – it was moving. Spreading like humid breath on cold glass, swallowing up her reflection.

Frost.

Her eyes narrowed. She touched her finger against the pane. It was cold, even though it was a 38-degree day.

A shadow fell across the window. It was the Tyler boy, Jesse. Trudging; his hands in the pockets of his black sweatshirt, hooded.

Moisture in her mouth: a telltale watering. She was going to be sick. Nerves twisted her stomach. Her fingers tightened around the bottle.

Jesse Tyler stared straight at her.

She knew this boy; knew the family. A mean, gritty history. Not the breeding ground for happy assimilation into adult life.

His eyes burned at her with a cold fury.
What are you looking at?
She heard him, although she could swear his lips hadn't moved.

The bottle gave an audible crack.

There was something there with him.

On his back.

A shadow – clinging to his body like a parasite.

Then she connected with Jesse's mind. The sensation was like falling in a dream, she felt as if she were tumbling out of control; she saw his life . . . heard a man's voice – hard and unforgiving. A drunken stench. A leather belt, burning lines into his back.

She wasn't breathing.

Jesse spoke again – a low, rumbling echo.

It couldn't be real.

She could faint. Heart hammering, she closed her eyes and pleaded for it to go away.

Abruptly as it had begun, the shaking stopped. Grace opened her eyes to an empty window, but the world was still a blur; the fallout still lingering in her stomach.

A few feet away, her teacher stood clasping a paper. ‘Grace, what's the problem?'

She stared at her fingertip, still damp from the frost that was receding from the glass. Something bounced off her back and drew a flurry of laughter.

‘Brian and Adrian!' The teacher's voice boomed. ‘Not the kind of behaviour I expect in a senior class!'

Grace gagged. Her mouth bulged with bitter stickiness.

Away from the teacher's call, the mocking murmurs, the cluster of catty giggles – she clutched her bag and let her legs race her to the bathroom, mouth forced closed by tight fingers, only to lose the contents of her stomach all over the basin.

* * *

JOE PEERED OVER
the engine, wrench in hand. Sweat trickled along his stubble. He stood back, ignoring the row of droplets that sat on his hairline. ‘Okay.' He looked at his teacher. ‘Then, I replaced the brake pads.'

‘Right. And after that?'

‘You can see that I've replaced the spark plugs. Um, what else . . . I checked the timing and that's okay.'

‘And that's it?'

‘Oh, there was a crack in the hose so I replaced it.'

‘Excellent, Joe.' The man scrawled rough notes on a clipboard. ‘Don't rest on your laurels just yet, but I think you're going to graduate top of the Year 12 automotive class.'

Joe wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. ‘Thanks, sir.'

‘And you know what that means. Guaranteed placement. Have you given any thought to where you'd like to work?'

‘With bikes, sir. I don't care where, just with bikes.' Tossing the wrench onto a trolley, Joe began winding up a rubber hose. Behind the sink was a large window and the teacher's desk. Joe caught his reflection: a mass of brown curls that begged for a cut; a shockingly white smile against sun-cooked skin.

‘Hey, Callahan.'

A boy lounged against the sink. His work shirt was open, revealing a white singlet and several silver chains. He examined his fingernails with a casual, arrogant air.

Joe threw him a careless glance. ‘Enzo.'

‘How's Grace?'

Joe turned on the tap and grabbed a yellow bar. Without glancing up he began scrubbing his hands. ‘Aren't you supposed to be working on your car?'

Leaning back, the other boy crossed his legs and tilted his face towards Joe. ‘I was thinking . . .' His eyes sparkled through his curly fringe. ‘I might ask her out.'

Joe looked him up and down but kept scrubbing. ‘Not your type, Enzo.'

The boy scowled. ‘Think I'm not good enough for her?'

Joe shrugged. ‘I wouldn't let you near my sister.'

Leaning in closer, Enzo swept a glance around the room. ‘Is she playing in the school concert? Some of us guys thought we'd go and watch.'

Joe flicked on the hot tap.

Enzo's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I heard that she's a real firestarter. Is it true about her and Dylan James?'

A sudden crack. Enzo staggered, hand pressed against his cheek where Joe's fist had left a heavy mark.

Enzo backed away, hands raised. ‘Okay, Joe. Okay.' Joe's eyes now seemed laced with red, deep with threat.

In the abrupt quiet of the workshop, tension tinged the air. Joe stalked back to his engine, his chest moving in hard breaths while the injured boy retreated to the corner of the room. The silence was only broken by the teacher's heavy footsteps. ‘Right! Joe and Enzo! With me, now!'

* * *

GRACE AVOIDED HER
mother's laser stare by watching the purple ripples of her bedroom ceiling; ripples that seemed to move in the shadows of the dying sun. But then, it was an illusion. Wasn't it? Her gaze wandered over familiar objects. Comforting. Her music books piled against the wall. Her pink feather boa – the matching silk gown lay in wait for the upcoming dance, hanging between t-shirts and jeans. High-cut tops and sensible skirts, courtesy of Mum's overbearing demand for modesty since Grace's figure had begun to swell into an hourglass. It made her feel self-conscious among her skinnier friends and inspired a range of X-rated nicknames among the boys; names she'd rather not have known.

Of course, her best friend, Allie, had given her a much nicer pet name – Peaches 'n' Cream – on account of Grace's clear, smooth skin.

Her gaze fell on a picture of herself and Allie at a water park last year. Careless, joyful faces. Grace had just turned seventeen; Allie only had three months of life left.

Grief fades over time, but guilt can last forever. A fresh spear hit when Grace thought about the nickname she'd given Allie. She used to call her a Jesus freak, that she had blind faith. Allie never let on that Grace's words hurt her. Now she knew they did.

But then again, God hadn't stopped her killer from climbing into the driver's seat and crawling from pub to pub, until his car slammed into Allie crossing at the green pedestrian light.

Enough
.
Grace tore her eyes away from the picture, and for the thousandth time, she forced away the guilt, boxing it up and kicking it out into space where it couldn't hurt her.

She turned her attention to her work in progress: a collage of various impressionist images crawling steadily up her wall.
Dark, depressing pictures. What was wrong with her?

Her mother took the thermometer between her fingers. ‘Well, you don't have a fever. That's good. But I don't think you need all these layers.' She pinched the hem of the quilt and pulled it back.

‘No!' Grace yanked the quilt up to her chin. Racking shivers travelled along her limbs.

Her mother looked closely into Grace's green eyes. ‘Honey, tell me what's going on. Is it a boy?'

Her mother's voice soothed her – like the only safe harbour in a violent, storm-swept ocean – but there was something else in the air. An unfriendly wind prickled her skin then passed on, leaving a cold sensation behind. Something new and terrifying was out there.

Oh, if only she could tell Mum
.
Grace sat up, edging towards the wall and hugging her legs to her chest. Even her own room looked surreal, like the walls could change, burst into something else. She mistrusted her own mind, her own eyes. ‘No, Mum. It's nothing. I just don't feel well.'

‘I'll be the judge of that.' Her mother spoke crisply, but she couldn't quell her worry over her daughter's strangled silence. She reached up and stroked Grace's fringe out of her eyes.

‘Has anything strange happened, dear?'

‘No, Mum.' Grace shivered at her mother's cool touch. Her heart still jolted occasionally. Little aftershocks.

She remembered the thing on his back . . . clinging to him, like a parasite.

‘You're not going to tell me?'

Grace shook her head. ‘It's nothing, really.'

Her mother kissed her forehead. ‘Well, all right then. Go to sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow.'

As her bedroom door closed, Grace pulled the blankets over her head, curling up against the wall. When she shut her eyes, the shadow hung there, watching, waiting.

FIRST LIGHT. DAWN'S
glow touched the curtains and eventually broke in, bathing the room in gold-white tones.

And so came the knocking, the gentle entry into the room; Mum, starchy-fresh in her work uniform, dark hair smoothed into a tidy bun. ‘Morning, honey.' She swept the curtains aside and turned, hands on hips. ‘Well, you look a whole lot better.'

Breakfast was punctuated by her mother's efficient steps around the kitchen, the rustling of bills and the tapping of calculator buttons. ‘Right,' Mum muttered, rubbing her forehead as she tallied the amount due. Her eyes drifted up to the calendar, and she bit her fingernail. Payday was still a week away.

Grace just stared into her cereal, swirling the pieces with a spoon.

Her mother looked over. ‘You'll never finish it at that rate.'

The spoon scraped against the bottom, Grace's fingers squeezed tightly around the handle. A sudden breathlessness hit. She closed her eyes and tried to push the image of Jesse Tyler's shadow from her mind.

Mum shook her head as she got up from the bench, folded up the bills and slipped them into her bag. ‘You have to go to school, sweetheart. Unless there's something else that you're not telling me about.'

Joe snorted. ‘She's faking it.' He grabbed a bottle of chilli sauce and shook it, drowning the fried eggs in red, sticky liquid.

Mum grimaced. ‘Yuck, Joseph. How can you ruin those beautiful eggs?'

Joe shoved a runny square into his mouth. Absently, Grace watched the yolk dribble down his chin.

A voice piped out of the television.
‘And in society news, Vanquish Industries owner and CEO, Mammon Jones, must be celebrating this morning after his horse, Pegasus, took first place at the Midsummer Cup.'

Images splashed across the screen: a handsome, dark-haired man walking with a purposeful stride, smiling behind mirrored sunglasses and sitting in a nightclub, flanked by glamorous women.

‘Rich bastard,' Joe muttered.

Mum smiled. ‘And if you were that wealthy, Joseph, I can't imagine that you wouldn't have a string of gorgeous girls following you about.'

‘Mum, priorities. First you get the bikes, then you get the fame – and then you get the women.' Joe put down his fork and pulled his phone from his pocket.

The newsreader continued.
‘Jones, who recently split with aristocratic supermodel Sophie Gaines, has a personal fortune of $50 billion with interests in banking, military technology and media networks. He has been dubbed the father of the City's economic revival, with major banks reporting a record profit and mining interests being bought by overseas investors.'

‘It'd be nice if some of that profit would come our way,' said Mum. She glanced at Grace's backpack near the front door. ‘Don't you have orchestra practice after school today?'

‘Oh . . . yeah.' Grace stood up. The room began to spin.

‘Finish your breakfast.'

‘I'm not hungry, Mum.' Her mouth tasted bitter again. She swallowed hard, wincing at the dull ache in her throat. She put the bowl in the dishwasher and headed for the stairs.

‘Don't forget to brush your teeth!' Her mother glanced out the window at the grass, strewn with brown leaves – then looked back at her son, who was muttering, engrossed with the game on his phone. Mum rolled her eyes. ‘You'll have to be up early tomorrow if you want to get the garden done before Dad gets back.'

‘Aw, Mum!'

‘You are
not
going to argue with me.'

‘You know it wasn't my fault.' Joe scowled. A rush of heat hit his face. Deep down, he was itching to have another swing at Enzo – indeed, at all the scum who spread the rumours about Grace. ‘He provoked me.'

Mum adjusted her watch. ‘I know, but you do have to learn to control your temper. You never see your father flying off the handle like that, do you?'

Joe looked up at her. Sighing, he put his phone away. ‘Yeah, I know.'

‘I'm working in the emergency ward today, so I might have to do some overtime. Which means you're going to have to bring Grace home after her music practice.' Mum watched Grace plod back into the kitchen, violin case in tow.

Joe grimaced. ‘You're not bringing that thing.'

‘Of course I am!'

Mum folded her arms. ‘Why shouldn't she?'

‘She's always whining at me to pull over 'cause she thinks she's gonna drop it.'

‘I can manage it.' Frowning, Grace slung the case over her shoulder. ‘You wear the backpack.'

Joe eyed the pink bag distastefully. ‘No way.'

Mum glared at Joe. ‘Remember, you need to wait after school for Grace to finish practice. Joseph! You are not to forget her again. And no speeding!' She handed Grace a helmet and kissed her on the cheek.

* * *

AS ALWAYS, GRACE
found the accompaniment soothing. The piano's gentle undertones; clarinet and oboe striking harmonious, lengthy notes, an exquisite breathing out. But her violin spoke of a lonely journey; the music seemed to reflect the madness of yesterday. She wondered: had the composer seen strange things too?

The tempo slowed again in the lead-up to the key change and eventual build towards the crescendo.

She dropped the bow, a wild, sudden heartbeat thumping in her chest. Jesse Tyler was walking past the music room. Horrified, she stared.

He walked on.

She had to know if the shadow was real.

‘Grace!'

‘I need the bathroom, miss,' she choked, and she was running, violin abandoned on her chair.

Keeping a sensible distance, she followed the boy, climbing over the waist-high chain fence that bordered the school, passing the red brick of the public bathrooms and their musty scent. Ahead, next to a rusty climbing frame, a girl waited. Jesse stopped and began to turn. Heart still pounding, Grace fell back to the safety of the red wall. No footsteps sounded. Breath still held, she peered around the corner.

Jesse Tyler scowled. ‘Where's Tom?'

Grace stared. It was really there. The shadow clung to the boy like scum on a pond's surface.

It was real.

It had eyes – dark hollows that watched her. Then they looked to Jesse and he nodded – like the shadow said something.

He was possessed.

The girl lifted her chin. ‘He asked me to come.' She trembled.

Could she see that thing on his shoulder?

‘Hmm.' Jesse stared at the girl. ‘Okay. Gimme the money.' He thrust out one hand, the other fishing through his pocket, scooping out a small, white bag.

‘You're twenny short. What's Tom playin' at?' He snatched the money and stared hard at the girl, but she was looking over his shoulder, her face tight, tense. ‘Whatsa matter?' Scowling, he followed the girl's stare, his own eyes narrowing angrily.

‘Oi!' With gritted teeth, he shoved the bag back in his pocket.

Grace took a backward step.

The girl tapped Jesse's shoulder. ‘Hey! The stuff!'

He shoved her away; she stumbled back, tripping on the metal frame. The boy started coming towards Grace.

The anger washed over her like fire, needling her skin, growing stronger with each step he took.

Yet she felt so cold. Shivers ran down her legs. He reached her. She retreated; he quickly closed the gap. ‘What you doin' here?'

Then he stopped. ‘Oh, it's you.' He grinned, lips parting to show a row of grimy teeth. ‘I saw you yesterday. Grovelling about on the floor. Why the hell did you follow me here?'

‘Who says I followed you?'

‘You're Grace Callahan. I know you.' He leaned in close and winked. ‘You've been around, haven't ya?'

Anger overtook the fear. ‘Shut up, you scum.'

‘You stupid bitch! Calling
me
scum!'

He smelled of violence . . . as if there could be such a smell. His face covered in sweat . . . or was it frost? She blinked.

Her legs felt paralysed.

‘I'm not scared of you!' Oh, but that thing on his back. She stared past him at the climbing frame and a smear of blood left behind by the girl. For once she wished Joe was here.

Jesse was so close now, his breath staining the air with cigarettes and curry. She closed her eyes. If she looked too closely at the darkness around him, she'd faint.

‘Not so mouthy now? I can smell the fear off ya.'

The tremor spread to her ankles. She shouldn't have followed him.
Joe, where are you?

Her mouth wouldn't work.
Get away from me.
She squeezed her eyes shut.

Get away!

He winced. ‘Stop it!'

Grace's eyes flew open. She watched him roll his head from side to side, shaking it as though something was rattling around inside, tormenting him. Like a dog shaking a mouse to death. The shadow shook, too, but stayed fast. Glued to him.

Grace felt her bottom lip sagging. A squeak escaped her throat. In her head, the words came tumbling.
Go away! Go away! Go away!

‘Aargh! Get out of my head!'

‘Grace!'

She glanced over her shoulder. Joe was running across, his eyes promising violence. But as he neared, he slowed to a walk, his mouth wide, eyes large. ‘What
is
that . . .?'

Grace's heart drummed hard. Joe could see it too.

‘Oi! Jesse!'

All three glanced across; on the other side of the basketball courts, an older boy stood. ‘Get your arse home.'

Grace edged over to her brother, gripping his arm. ‘Joe –'

Jesse backed away, eyes darting between this strange girl and her brother. ‘Yeah, yeah. Comin'.' Jesse flipped his hood over his head and swaggered into the distance.

Grace and Joe watched as the two figures spoke briefly. The older boy glanced over.

He had a shadow too – but darker, stronger.

A soft wind blew across Grace's face, cooling her clammy skin. She turned around. ‘Joe?'

He grabbed her arm. ‘Come on.'

‘Did you see it?' He saw it. She knew he did.

‘Come on!'

She yanked her arm back. ‘Don't drag me.'

‘It's time to go home.'

‘My violin . . .'

‘Hurry up!' He shoved her towards the music room.

She crept in, past the woodwind section, and shoved the violin into the case as delicately as she could. ‘Grace!' The conductor held up a hand. ‘What's going on?'

Grace slung the strap around her back and grabbed her backpack. ‘Sorry, miss. I have to go home. My mum called.'

‘All right, but make sure you practise. The concert is only two weeks away!'

‘Yep.'

She could feel Joe's impatient glare from the doorway, intensifying as she approached the bike. ‘Come on!' Snatching her backpack, he slung it over his shoulder.

‘You saw it, didn't you?'

‘Get on the bike, Grace.'

She swung her leg over the seat. ‘How did you know where I was?'

‘I heard you screaming! Surprised the whole neighbourhood didn't hear you.' He kick-started the engine, revving it, the spluttering soon settling into a steady hum.

‘I didn't scream!'

‘Yes you did!' The bike sped through the front gates, tyres squealing as Joe opened up the throttle.

* * *

‘WHAT WERE YOU
doing down there, anyway?' Joe grabbed a tennis ball from his bedside table and started lobbing it against the wall.

‘Joe, that was Jesse Tyler, right?'

‘Yeah. The oldest brother did eight years for armed robbery. Just got out. The other one, Travis, got expelled last year, d'you remember?'

Grace watched the ball bounce in a triangular pattern. ‘What did Jesse look like to you?'

He shrugged, looking out the window. ‘Oh, bit weird.'

She watched a drip of sweat snake down his neck. ‘Like what?'

‘Just weird. Who cares?' His hands shook.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you saw it.'

The ball bounced harder.

‘Answer me!' Swooping in, she snatched the ball.

‘Give it to me!' He lunged for it; she hid the ball behind her back. ‘Uh, uh!' She wagged her finger. ‘Tell me what you saw!'

Too quickly for her to react, Joe grabbed her left hand and pinned it down, wrenching the ball away. ‘Ow!' She rubbed her hand.

The bouncing resumed.

Indignant, Grace got to her feet. ‘If it's nothing, why did you rush home?'

Joe caught the ball, squeezing it hard. ‘Look. You embarrassed me and yourself. I was working on the engine and you dragged me away from it, screaming like that.'

‘I didn't scream.'

He scowled. ‘Get out, Grace.'

‘I didn't scream! Why won't you listen to me?'

‘Get
out
!' Jumping to his feet, he flew across the room and dug his fingers into her arm, dragging her.