Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (6 page)

The clippings ran the gamut from congratulatory front-page features about dropping numbers of street kids thanks entirely
to improved Social Services programmes, to a couple of inches on page three about missing kids, then to explosive headlines
about the evil at the heart of the city. There were lists of victims’ names, and family histories reduced to anaemic sentences
that in no way showed the lives of these children before my father had found them. What I did learn was where he’d gone wrong.
Grigor got caught because he got lazy and sloppy – he didn’t hunt far enough away, didn’t harvest from his usual source. He’d
taken a cared-for child, one from a happy home in a rich locale, a son for whom someone would – and did – look. Had he stuck
to the runaways, the unwanted, who knows how long he might have gone undetected.

I scrolled through for as long as I could, trying to figure out what was important in the wash of the historical irrelevant.
Glamorous women smiled out from the social pages, shoulder pads taking up most of the photos; schoolkids brandished trophies
after winning debating competitions and football matches; there were outcries over midnight demolitions of heritage buildings
and rubber duck races on the river of brown; critics lauded festivals for writers and films, and there were a slew of other
crimes just as awful as my father’s, but nothing was linked to me or mine.

When even the heat from the microfiche stopped defrosting my fingers, I gave up. Though my brain felt filled to the brim and
then some and my heart was sore, it had been a wasted afternoon. Memories made everything hurt. The need for sleep whined
in my head like a determined fly, but I was meeting Ziggi at my place at six. I knew he would have picked me up from the library
if I’d asked, but I was stubbornly pursuing a dream of some independence. I liked to get myself home using public transport
occasionally, even if my sense
of triumph was generally outweighed by pain and inconvenience. The ache in my leg suggested I was an idiot even as I hobbled
through the sliding doors into the last vestiges of summer heat. In a matter of days, I knew the weather would pull a stunning
volte-face and temperatures would drop. Autumn might last approximately seventy-two hours if we were lucky.

The light outside was hard and blinding and I blinked, stunned by the flashes on my retinas. I sensed someone near me before
the thump; a violent meeting of shoulders, and for a moment I was sure it had been intentional. Then I was just concerned
with not falling over.

‘Oh, shit. Sorry! Sorry—’ Masculine tones, soft-spoken but sounding genuinely apologetic. Hands steadied me as my sight normalised.
The guy was about my height, dark blond, green eyes behind wire-framed glasses, wearing jeans and a grey-blue T-shirt with
a top-hatted badger riding a bicycle. Standard geek. He held his palms up to show he meant no harm.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, waving him away. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Maybe I could say sorry with a cup of something warm? It would be over-priced warmth to show my sincerity,’ he said.

Without thinking I said, ‘No. Thanks.’

I moved off as he gave a
what-can-you-do?
shrug. On a whim that surprised me, I glanced over my shoulder, but he’d already started off in the opposite direction. He
looked good in jeans. I shook my head to clear the distracting thoughts and went on my not-so-merry way.

I limped up the incline from the Norman Park train station cursing and sweating, perspiration running down my face, my back
and basically everywhere. The street was deserted, the houses quiet. In the oppressive atmosphere the ring of my mobile sounded
overly loud. I fumbled it on, not looking at the number, assuming it was Ziggi or Bela.

‘Is this Verity Fassbinder?’ Female, the timbre quite musical.

‘Who’s speaking?’ I asked, idly wondering where she’d got my number. It’s always nice to know where the referrals come from.

‘My name is Serena Kallos. I’ve been told you’re good at solving problems.’

‘I have my moments. What’s your problem, Ms Kallos?’

‘I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can we meet? This evening?’

I wanted to say no, but there was something in her tone. ‘I have a few things to do tonight, but if you don’t mind meeting
late? How about Little—’ No, it was probably too soon for me to return to Little Venice. ‘. . . ah, Shaky Jake’s, about eleven.’
I figured even if Ziggi and I hadn’t finished our search for Sally Crown, we could take a break, then get back to it.

‘I know where that is. Late is fine.’

I wanted to ask
what
she was, but that wasn’t polite. If she knew
where the café was, if she knew who I was, chances were she was Weyrd. Though I knew Normal people, lots of them, they generally
didn’t know what I did for a living.

‘Okay, I’ll see you there,’ I started, but she’d already rung off.

At the top of the hill I looked at the remaining five-hundred-yard downward slope with relief.

Staggering into my yard, I saw someone on the patio, knocking hard on the door.

‘Hey, Mel.’

She turned and looked at me with desperate hope. ‘Is Lizzie here? She said she was going to read with you.’

Little bugger
.

‘No, I told her not today. When did she come over?’

‘A couple of hours ago.’ Her voice shook, and I noticed her hands were shaking too.

‘Have you checked the tree?’ There was a hollow at the base of the jacaranda in my back garden. Lizzie had comic books, a
blanket and a couple of dolls stashed there. Every kid needs a secret spot so her mother and I pretended we didn’t know about
it.

Mel did that thing with her head, part yes, part no. ‘It was the first place I looked.’

My heart thumped and icy little fingers stroked my spine.
No,
I told myself,
wrong neighbourhood. A cared-for child
. Another part of my brain chimed in with,
Grigor did it
. I shook off the anxiety; I was overly sensitive because of what I’d been researching, jumping to conclusions after reading
all those news articles. Lizzie wouldn’t go anywhere with a stranger; she knew better than to trust an adult she didn’t know.
At least . . . I
hoped
she did.

‘Right.’ I paused. ‘How about playing up the road with the Thomas kids? I know she’s not supposed to, but—’ Mel was already
shaking her head. ‘You’ve called her school friends?’ She was trying not to cry as she managed a
yes
. Panic swelled in my own throat and I swallowed it.
Lizzie was just hiding
. But all the same . . .

‘You should call the cops.’

‘I don’t want to overreact,’ she said, but I knew that’s exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to scream until her baby
returned. She wanted to kill the person who’d caused her this tearing fear. I pushed her gently towards her house. The police
would ask questions, keep her company, file a report, and when Lizzie finally wandered in, they’d give her a talking-to that
wouldn’t go astray. She wouldn’t stay out late – she’d get hungry, that would bring her home.

I told myself this was true.

‘Go. Call. Better safe than sorry. I’m sure it’s nothing – she’ll be back before you know it and getting her bum spanked,’
I added, eyeing the gypsy cab as it pulled up. ‘I’ve got to go out for a while, but you’ve got my mobile number if you find
anything – if you need anything, yeah? I can’t avoid this appointment, but I’ll be back later this evening, I promise.’

She looked really disappointed and I hated having to go; as her tears spilled over, I felt my own eyes welling up. When I
hugged Mel I had to swallow my sobs – if I gave in now I wouldn’t be able to make myself leave. I held her tight for long
seconds, then gave her another nudge. I watched her walk away, narrow back shuddering, still struggling to contain the fear.

Then Ziggi hit the horn and I headed over. I was really trying not to get irritated by the pitying looks he shot me every
time I limped. I’d known him almost as long as I had Bela, and he’d taught me a lot of what I knew about the Weyrd and their
habits, about tracking and tracing people, and about breaking and entering. In many ways he was closest thing I had to family,
kind of like the uncle everyone
except kids roll their eyes at. Mostly he didn’t judge me, but when he did, I had to admit it was generally deserved. As I
leaned in to open the door, something gleaming on the footpath caught my eye: silvery sequins, the worse for wear, shaken
from a top – one paired, I imagined, with a too-short denim skirt and tatty green Converse sneakers. Paralysed, I stared across
the street at the windows of a vacant house and thought how much they looked like dead eyes.

*

If it had been me, I would have lain low, avoided my usual haunts for a while, maybe a week or two, until interested parties
gave up. Maybe I’m smarter than most people. I was certainly smarter than Sally Crown, who was young and
dumb
.

Ziggi killed the engine and we rolled to a stop outside West End Library. We’d been waiting up the road, watching, careful
not to be seen – we were lucky the daylight had given out, considering the car we were in – until a skinny figure flitted
under the streetlight outside the redbrick building and ducked down a side path. The community noticeboard out the front was
covered with sedimentary layers of flyers no one ever bothered to remove: calls to self-help flocks, book clubs, writers’
groups and sewing circles. In a bottom corner, beneath years of leaflet collage and archaeological debris, I spied an enlarged
photocopy of a newspaper article, turned brittle yellow by age and elements. I could just make out a perfectly coiffed matron’s
smiling face beside a feature about the substantial cheque she’d donated to some charity or other. A moustache had been drawn
across her top lip.

‘You okay on your own?’ Ziggi asked around a mouthful of yesterday’s Little Venice mud cake. His ability to hoard food never
ceased to amaze me.

‘Yep.’

‘Only Bela said—’

‘Fuck Bela,’ I snarled.

‘He’s not my type.’ He sighed. ‘Look, V, I know you’re tired and cranky. I know your leg hurts more than you let on. And because
I’m fond of you, I’m gonna say this even though you’ll probably yell at me: you gotta let it go.’ He fixed me with a stare,
lowered his voice. ‘I know you don’t want Bela back; I know you dumped him, and why, but if you keep carrying around the reasons
you left, it’s gonna kill you.’

‘And why did I leave?’ I asked, unable to manage even a lick of sarcasm.

‘’Cause he wasn’t what you thought you wanted. You’ve gotta forgive him for that. And in all fairness, he’s never pretended
to be anything other than what he is. Let it go – it’s just making you
mean
.’

He wasn’t entirely right, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. Or maybe he
was
entirely right. I swallowed, tried to answer, swallowed again and finally managed, ‘You’re right.’

He couldn’t have looked more stunned if he’d tried.

‘You’re right and I hate that, but I am sorry. You’re my friend and you don’t deserve to be a scratching post.’ I rubbed my
chin. ‘It’s just . . . I’m so
angry
with him lately. It’s . . .’ Ziggi didn’t say anything, just waited patiently. ‘It’s the leg – I blame
him
. My whole fucking life feels like it’s been on hold since this happened and I blame him. The pain is just a constant reminder.’

‘You think he doesn’t blame himself?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, and I honestly didn’t.

‘It’s always nice to have a break-through in group,’ he said, and I punched his shoulder. We grinned like idiots.

‘If I yell, then you come running, okay? Otherwise, finish your leftovers – it was expensive and I might not be able to get
more for some time.’

I struggled out of the cab before he could ask me what I’d done and took the cracked concrete path along the side of the building,
moving surprisingly quietly, all things considered. The scent of richly decaying compost from the garden beds perfumed the
air. The noises of the city were muffled this far up Boundary Street. I was so tired and steeped in self-pity that I could
have cried, and my leg throbbed as though the wounds had reopened, even though they’d been pinkly scarred over for ages. I
paused at the threshold of the paved area out back. Overgrown plants climbed the high chain-link fence, pushing bits of it
out at odd angles. There were a couple of old metal skips and some broken chairs, and curled on a sofa in the far corner was
Sally Crown, all tucked up like a dirty angel, eyes closed, a grubby navy blanket pulled up to her chin in spite of the heat.
Mozzies buzzed enthusiastically by my ears, but wisely left me alone.

I was almost across the yard when my phone, which I’d forgotten to set to silent, rang. The sharp squeal woke Sally and she
sat up with a start, slashing about with a flick-knife while she tried to scramble to her feet. Fortunately, my own reflexes
are excellent. I avoided the blade, grasped her wrist and managed to pull her off the sofa and up towards me, but she was
wriggling and slippery in the evening heat and I couldn’t get a good enough grip to throw her down, which meant we both stumbled
and fell. Luckily, I ended up sitting on top of her; not so great, my bad leg was twisted uncomfortably. The mobile cut off
abruptly, as if whoever was calling had thought better of it.