Too Easy Read online

  They were running straight at me. On impulse, I put out a hand to stop the boy. ‘Cory? Remember me?’

  They both stopped short, and I moved closer. ‘I’m Stella,’ I said, in my certified non-threatening voice. ‘Remember me? I knew your mum.’

  He darted a sharp up-and-down look my way, acted perplexed, then spoke to the girl. ‘Pull out your smokes on a Footscray street, and you might as well rip a flare and say, “Come up to me, weirdos.”’

  I didn’t like the way the girl laughed, pointing her finger at me.

  He flipped open the pack, some cigarettes slid forward. ‘You don’t know me, love, but, yes, you can have a ciggie.’

  The girl bent over, shrieking out laughter. Sheesh.

  I held up my hands. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  He shrugged. The girl pulled on his arm to turn him around. ‘Let’s go, Cory.’

  ‘I knew it!’ I said.

  ‘He’s here,’ the girl added, pointing to a late-model Commodore that was pulling in across the road. The driver rested a thick arm out the window. A lot of muscle, a lot of tattoos — all the way up to the neck hair. A bikie type that was too big and too old to be messing with kids.

  ‘Wait,’ I said — no plan, other than to stop them.

  Cory turned back, grinning. ‘Nothing you can do, miss.’

  What did that mean? And what were they doing with a goon like that? I watched them run to the car and get in. It cruised away, windows down, speakers up, rap beats waking everyone in the street.

  A tram rolled into the terminus. I hopped on, and as it trundled away, my thoughts turned to Phuong. Me and my big, stupid not-faking-happiness for her. I had to fix that blunder. Today. At my stop, I jumped out and jogged up Roxburgh Street to Pine View, a white stucco block of flats where my one-bedroom flat on the third floor awaited.

  Someone stood in the long early morning shadows of the front yard of my building.

  ‘Nice night?’ asked Brown Cardigan, my third-floor neighbour. A lead went from his wrist to a Shih tzu that I’d never seen before, urinating on the pine tree.

  ‘Nope,’ I said.

  3

  IN THE staff kitchen, someone had made a sign of taped-together A4 paper that said TEN YEARS OF WORMS!!! The ‘Western and Outer Region Migrant Services’ was having a lunch party. We weren’t going to just do cake and sing the song. My boss, Brendan Ogg-Simons, known as Boss, wanted the occasion to be a media event. He’d invited all our clients, other agency people, local paper journos, and photographers. No politicians, we told him, or the staff would rebel.

  We were all supposed to bring food. I had dip and chips I’d bought at the super on the way to work. The place was in a frenzy of preparation. For my part, I tried Phuong for the tenth time, but she still didn’t answer. I left a grovelling message of regret for displaying an unsatisfactory amount of excitement about her wedding. Then I’d tidied the staff room and put out the plates, cups, streamers.

  I’d just sat down with the paper, and in came Raewyn Ross of the Flemington Police.

  ‘Hey Rae, how’s things in law and order? You being tough on crime or what?’

  Since her promotion, she’d asked me to call her by her rank: senior constable. A request that repeatedly slipped my mind. Instead of reminding me again though, she slumped into a chair. There was something different about her, something to do with her eyebrows.

  ‘Doesn’t your cop shop have a staff room?’ I asked.

  ‘I prefer yours.’

  I didn’t blame her. The numbers there were against her. Too many men, of the sly overgrown school-boy variety, shirking the harassment policies, artfully placing her at the butt of all jokes, including her in none.

  She sighed. ‘Caffeine — any danger?’

  I spooned coffee into a plunger and caught a whiff of perfume, noted the fake tan. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Had.’

  ‘Oh, Rae. I’m so sorry.’ I put in an extra spoon of coffee and held the plunger under the urn.

  She curled her lip. ‘He was cheating.’

  ‘What? The bastard.’

  ‘Said he was going surfing, but he was shagging some skank from Gippsland.’

  ‘Well, that’s just uncool.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, who cares? I’ll just get back on the app where I found him.’

  ‘So, a dating site?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s lots — Sexrisx, UzeHer, Hi-Wham.’

  ‘Sounds romantic.’

  Rae let out a sudden snort and smacked the paper I’d been planning to read. ‘Oh my god! He’s dead! That paedophile is dead.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This guy, Ricky Peck.’ She spun the paper around, and pointed to a photo under the headline: Bikie Kingpin Drowns. Peck was impressive. A beefy, tattooed man in shorts and a muscle t-shirt. But it was the incongruous pair of Dunlop Volleys that had me curious. Tennis shoes on a vicious bikie? Roofing tilers wore them for the grip, but I doubted this man had worked an honest day in his life. Maybe he played tennis.

  ‘Peck was a child abuser? I thought bikies beat up paedophiles. Wouldn’t that be kind of rare criminal activity for a bikie?’

  ‘I know, right? I nabbed some local kids a while back — caught them thieving — and, lo and behold, they reckon Peck’s been trying to groom them.’

  ‘Did you report that?’

  ‘I told my sergeant, and he just laughed. But he was a dead-set paedo. As well as a crazy gun-nut. Dangerous as they come.’

  ‘Paper says it was an accident.’

  Rae shrugged. ‘Could be. Even a nut-job can be careless.’

  I depressed the plunger, thinking about Cory and the girl I’d seen him hanging out with earlier this morning. It seemed that they were making life choices that were … suboptimal. I poured the coffee and glanced at Rae, who was picking at a nail. She was not a reliable source. Bikies were two things: thugs and entrepreneurs. Where was the money in paedophilia? I hoped the youth workers were onto it. Or maybe they weren’t. Nothing you can do, miss. I doubted Cory was on anyone’s radar.

  Shanninder, my colleague and fellow WORMS galley-slave, swept into the staffroom with a bowl covered with a tea towel, and a couple of Tupperware containers. ‘Gather round, children, we’re having pani puri.’

  Everyone in the world could cook except me. I could smell the bowl’s delicious contents from across the room. A sudden whim sent me running to my desk. I dialled Brophy’s number. Tonight, I’d cook him dinner — that would surprise him. I’d have to learn how in the meantime, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Is Brophy there?’

  ‘Yes, but he can’t come to the phone.’ Formal register, posh accent. Young. The ‘transcendental’ model.

  ‘Excuse me?’ My reptilian instincts licked the air.

  ‘Who is this?’ Her voice had a whip-sting of condescension.

  ‘It’s Stella.’

  ‘Oh.’ Airily, like it meant nothing. ‘I’m Felicity.’

  ‘Put him on.’

  ‘I can’t break the flow. We’re in a creative peak, he’s totally absorbed. This is going to be a radically courageous new work.’

  ‘Just get Brophy, will you?’

  ‘No can do. Call back next week.’

  The phone went dead. I stared at the receiver in disbelief. Who did she think she was? We’re in a creative peak. The nerve of her. I had a good mind to go over there right now.

  Was I out of my mind? That would be psycho behaviour. But the room swam in red mist and my heart burned black. I put a hand to my forehead: stone cold. I felt unwell, off my food. I should be in bed. With Brophy.

  In the staff room, everyone was laughing and toasting and eating. I dragged myself to the kitchen to join the p
arty. On the way, I passed Boss’s office — the blinds were drawn and the door shut. I tapped and opened it. ‘You coming to this thing? It’s your party.’

  ‘In a minute,’ he said. Used tissues littered the desk.

  ‘Ten years, Boss. The culmination of your life’s work.’

  He lolled back in his chair and groaned.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He stared at the ceiling. ‘My life’s work. This.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that. This is awesome, you’re making a difference in people’s lives.’

  ‘Leave me be, Hardy.’

  I shrugged and shut the door.

  More guests had arrived. The invitations had been taken up on the whole by refugees recently granted a temporary protection visa — like Afshan and Shahid, Hazaras from Afghanistan. They were new clients and top-notch people. They greeted me with wide grins. ‘Happy birthday to your WORMS, Stella!’

  ‘Um, thanks.’

  ‘You must have some of our honey cakes.’

  I had to accept, though I was feeling nauseous. A bulb flashed, caught me with my mouth full.

  Shanninder had arranged her pani puri on the table and explained the procedure: you make an opening in a puri, a hollow bread puff, and fill it with chickpea curry, then you pour in the pani, a delicious peppery sauce. Raewyn Ross made a brave attempt and shoved the puff into her gob whole. Her expression went from pondering, to happy, to one of ecstasy. I was pleased to see a rare Raewyn-smile.

  She’d forgotten all about that cheater and the Gippsland skank.

  Meanwhile, Phuong hated me, and Brophy was in the thrall of a harpy. I couldn’t stand by and let her take over his life. Game on, Felicity, I said to myself as I picked up a puri and cracked its head open.

  4

  I WALKED without light, in the rain and wind. Seven days with no word from Brophy. The storms blacking out the city were nothing compared to the one raging in my heart.

  I’d left my car near his van and hurried in the dark night around to Paisley Street. A vehicle flashed by, red tail-lights shining on the wet street. A silent flicker of lightning followed by a rumble that was deep, ominous, judgemental. I found shelter in the doorway of a gangsta-wear shop with a direct line of sight to his above-shop studio. I took up my position and settled in for a stakeout. Headlights approached from Nicholson Street. The car took the corner too fast, and sprayed me in a fine, muddy mist.

  Every time I’d tried to call Brophy, she had answered. And on each occasion, she had refused to fetch him, preferring instead to harangue me with a lecture on Brophy’s need for time, and ‘pure artistic practice’. What was I, contamination? Last week, in a fit of frustration, I’d flown up the stairs and banged on the wall. She pulled back the sliding door, which was the heavy industrial sort; it barely shifted two centimetres on its rusted track, but I got a visual: white, blonde, tall and tanned, in a skimpy robe. She told me he was not to be disturbed, then she heaved the door closed.

  And tonight, down on the street, in gale-force conditions, I locked eyes on to his studio window, waiting for my chance. The minute she left, I’d run up there.

  A gust of wind lifted the awning above me. There was an alarming sound of scraping metal. Just as I shone my phone light up, a rusted downpipe above me burst apart. I jumped too late, and a torrent of cold water gushed down, baptising me into some dark cult: Join us, crazy stalker.

  Stalker? Alright, yes, I was. But in my defence, it had been a rough week. Boss was a cranky-pants, and Phuong was still refusing to take my calls.

  Now my jeans were sodden, my jumper was a sack of wet wool. I moved to another doorway, my eyes glued to the darkened windows of his studio. After a moment, a soft yellow glow flickered — it must have been a candle. How fucking romantic.

  Music erupted in my pocket, the tinny first line of ‘Prove My Love’ by the Violent Femmes. I’d downloaded the ringtone at a happier time, when its brisk percussion seemed optimistic. Now, it felt like mockery. ‘What?’ I demanded into the phone.

  ‘You believe in ghosts?’

  ‘Phuong. Hey. At last.’

  ‘Ghosts — what’s your take?

  ‘Um, this is actually a bad time.’

  ‘You’re busy? Doing what?’

  ‘I’m just busy.’

  ‘You remember my cousin Cuong?’

  ‘I know Cuong.’

  ‘He’s freaking out about the power failure. Too much darkness. He’s seeing spirits in the dark. A spirit in the sky.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘No. Some dead relative, probably. I’m with him now.’

  I thought I heard footsteps splashing across the street. ‘Wait.’ I put my hand over the phone and stared into the blackness. I was mistaken. ‘Sorry, Phuong, what is this about?’

  ‘Cuong has a cool new apartment and I thought you might like to come over. We’re in Sunshine; it’s practically around the corner from your place. And, well, the thing is, I need your help with something.’

  Any other day, I’d be already on my way. And this was my chance to make it up to her. Besides, Phuong rarely required my help. But what if she needed help choosing something for the wedding? I didn’t know how long I could keep up a charade of good will.

  ‘Um, so now, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could hear the impatience.

  Looking up, I saw shadows move against Brophy’s window, and I inhaled. Then I sensed movement closer, and from the corner of my eye, I saw her. Shit. Her. Right beside me. I lowered the phone from my ear.

  ‘Stella Hardy. What are you doing?’

  She was wrapped in a coat, but odds-on she was naked underneath. Not a gram of fat on her.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, mortified.

  She looked to the sky. ‘It’s pissing down, you bloody idiot, go home.’

  I would not be told by her. ‘No. I’m coming up.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘What do you mean you can’t let me?’ I said, incensed.

  ‘He sent me down to tell you,’ she said, with a malevolent shrug. ‘He doesn’t want to lose focus.’ Then with the long-legged stride of a stilt-walker, a circus freak, she crossed the road, back to the Narcissistic Slacker.

  He sent her down? I was shaking, caught by the urge to hit something. I raised my hand, looked at my phone. Forget you, mate. ‘Phuong? Give me the address, I’ll be there in fifteen.’

  5

  PHUONG SHONE a light on my face. ‘You’re all wet.’

  ‘Astounding work, Captain Obvious.’

  ‘Detective Obvious.’

  People with rank, always with the rank. She held the entrance doors open for me. The automatic doors were useless without power. Places like this were hyper-secure until something went wrong with the technology, and then they became death traps. She pointed her torch to the ground and guided me through the building. ‘We have to take the stairs.’

  Cuong’s apartment on Hampshire Road was about six months old. Built on the site of an old foundry, developers had whacked together ninety-three cheapo studios — twenty floors, with miniature balconies — and named it La Fonderie. The suburb of Sunshine looked upon this menhir in its midst and laughed. How long before systemic entropy, starting with graffiti — not art, not your Banksy or Lushsux, but a mush of curse words, all ghetto and no cred — merged the place with its surroundings, with povo-scary town?

  Cuong’s apartment was on the fifth floor, which was fortunate. Any more stairs and I’d have carked it. He was waiting with his door open, and handed me a towel. He was better at these things than his cousin.

  ‘Chào anh,’ I said.

  He bobbed his head — a bow, or perhaps a nervous tic. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time, Stella.’

  ‘It’s been a while.’ I looked into the apartment. ‘You’re moving up in t
he world.’

  He shrugged, but then cast a worried glance down the empty hallway. ‘Hurry, Stella. Come inside and get dry.’

  A studio — meaning bedsit, meaning single room divided into ‘zones’. For the compact living area, he’d chosen simple elegant furniture, a two-seater sofa, an armchair, a sideboard on which the accoutrements of an altar were spread: an offering of fruit, burning incense, family portraits in wooden frames, tea candles.

  ‘Where were you when I phoned?’ Phuong was in the kitchenette, pouring hot water from a saucepan into a mug.

  ‘Out.’ I took off my jumper. ‘Can I hang this out on your balcony?’ I asked Cuong.

  He looked horrified. ‘Not out there. The friends will get inside it.’ He took the jumper from me without further explanation and draped it over a towel rail in the bathroom.

  Phuong handed me a mug. The tea had black twigs and bits of burnt rice floating in it.

  She looked me up and down. ‘So you were out in the rain?’ She made being in the rain sound like bourgeois decadence, like it was some depraved lifestyle choice.

  ‘I like rain.’

  Cuong now offered me a towelling robe, the heavy, luxury-hotel kind.

  ‘Cám ơn rất nhiều.’ I bobbed my head.

  He laughed; my pronunciation always made Vietnamese people laugh.

  No doubt about it, he was a classy guy. The candlelight accentuated his hollow cheeks and melancholy eyes. He sure looked haunted. I wondered how much help someone like Phuong, the ultimate rational being, was to a man with a fear of the supernatural.

  I put the robe on, slipped off my sandals, and curled up on the sofa.

  Cuong retreated to the sleep area, where his bed and a small wardrobe were sectioned off by sheer curtains. He drew them closed, but I could see him sitting on his bed. He put his earbuds in and opened a laptop.

  ‘You have friends who get on the balcony and put on your wet clothes?’ I asked Phuong, rubbing my hair with the towel.

  She sighed. ‘It’s code for you-know-what. Saying the G-word attracts them.’

  I glanced at him. ‘He seems okay now.’