Shoot Through Read online

  ‘Tell her to get in touch with the relevant agencies. I work in migrant services, haven’t worked in housing for years.’

  ‘I said she can stay with you.’

  ‘You what?’

  He glanced around, then leaned closer to me. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he whispered.

  I took a moment to absorb his words. I did a quick mental calculation. ‘Not to you, obviously,’ I said. ‘It’s your — what? — second year here, and …’

  The look on his face told me otherwise. This is what happens when you go soft on crime, I thought. Here, prisoners were not locked in cells at night, they shared unit-style accommodation and could, if they chose, walk away in the night. In general, they didn’t. Daily head counts just in case. God help me, I still had to ask.

  ‘But how?’

  He grinned. ‘When two people give each other a special hug —’

  ‘I swear, jacks or not, I will fucking deck you.’

  ‘She came for a visit. We went for a walk.’

  ‘Quite an energetic walk.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said sheepishly. The stupid grin returned. ‘Not shooting blanks, then.’

  Was I supposed to cheer this stupidity? Taking credit for biology? ‘Shut up, idiot.’

  ‘Shhh.’ He looked around. ‘We have to keep it quiet.’

  I dropped my voice to a hiss. ‘Just get to the point, Ben. What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to take her up to the farm. You have to, Stella. I promised her you would.’

  ‘Delia will have a fit!’

  ‘No, she won’t. She’ll be pleased. Loretta’s a country girl. I reckon they’ll hit it off.’

  ‘Loretta. Is that her name?’

  ‘Loretta Patsy Dolly Swindon. Her mum was into country music.’

  Was? That didn’t sound heartening; it was the precise opposite of heartening.

  ‘Look, Ben. I feel for the poor girl, having your baby and all, but if you think Mum’s going to welcome this Loretta person, you are out of your mind.’

  ‘That’s why you have to handle Mum carefully. She’ll be mad at first, but once you convince her how great Loretta is, she’ll be down with it.’

  What was I, the family go-between? ‘Why don’t you talk to Mum?’

  He shook his head. ‘They monitor my calls.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘Tell her that Loretta needs to hang there till the baby’s due. I’ll take care of her and the baby when I get out.’

  He wasn’t fit to take care of anyone, let alone a baby.

  ‘I told Loretta how to contact you,’ Ben continued. ‘She’ll come in a couple of days to stay with you, then you can drive her up to Woolburn. Hope you’ve been taking good care of my Mazda.’

  ‘Oh yeah? When am I doing this?’

  ‘In two weeks. It’s a long weekend, so you’ve got time to stay over a couple of nights while she settles in.’

  The Labour Day long weekend. Cancel my weekend with Brophy yet again? No dice. Nothing doing. ‘I’m sorry, Ben, but —’

  I was interrupted by an extremely loud whoop whoop whoop coming from the PA. Prison officers ran around shouting at everyone to get ready for a head count. The prison was in lockdown, they said, and no one was to leave.

  ‘Someone’s probably done a runner,’ Ben said before rushing to his unit for the count.

  That was my first thought, too, until I heard an ambulance siren.

  My second thought was, Damn, forced to abandon my tofu skewers! Sometimes life was so unfair. We visitors were corralled into a dining hall and told to wait until the all-clear. No apology, no explanation. You deserved none if you were visiting a prisoner — you were inferior by affiliation.

  Time dragged. Some visitors conducted hushed conversations in small groups. Some paced. I stood at the window and watched the movements of the staff. After what seemed like hours, some police arrived. Strange they didn’t use their siren. Forensics was written across their jackets. Meanwhile, some of the prison officers stood together in a nearby assembly area, smoking, with consternation in their faces.

  I paused in my vigil and took a turn about the room. The tense atmosphere was excruciating. When I went back to my post at the window, I let out a gasp. Two ambos had come into view, wheeling a patient on a trolley. The rest of the visitors in the hall rushed over to see what was happening. The ambos showed no signs of urgency as they pushed the trolley towards the open rear doors of the ambulance. The patient was motionless under a sheet that was pulled up over the face.

  The jack called Tuffnell was suddenly among us. ‘Would the family of Joe Phelan please step into the next room.’

  Mrs Phelan stepped forward with her stick and, helped by her daughter, made her way through the group. Tuffnell followed them into the other room and shut the door behind her. I drifted forwards and pressed an ear at the hinge.

  ‘I regret to say that Joe experienced a lethal head trauma. The officer who found him called the ambulance and immediately began to administer first aid.’

  Mrs Phelan was confused. ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘I am deeply sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Phelan. But he was pronounced deceased moments ago by the ambulance crew.’

  ‘If he’s dead, just fucking say so.’

  ‘He is dead, madam.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There will be a full inquiry. But it appears he was using a power tool when something went wrong. A head injury is all we can say.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what went wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s this bloody place. It’s a joke.’

  Tuffnell coughed. ‘All the details will come out in the inquiry. But at this stage, it looks like a terrible accident.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Accidents are not unheard of in the metalwork area.’

  Tuffnell offered her condolences, and Mrs Phelan continued to abuse the daylights out of her.

  We were allowed to leave, but only to go straight out to the carpark. No goodbyes. I was fine with that. Back in the car, I turned on my phone and checked the time. I’d wasted an entire day waiting around in a prison. I had failed to get Ben to sign Kylie’s stupid papers, the very reason I’d gone there in the first place. And I now had another stupid family errand to add to my growing list.

  2

  IT WAS late when I arrived at the modest apartment building that was my home. Pine View was a sixties block of one-bedroom flats with white concrete balustrades and a foyer that smelled of oily chips. I climbed the stairs to my top-floor flat. Once upstairs, I threw Kylie’s papers on the kitchen table and muttered a curse. In so doing, I had summoned the devil: Kylie’s name immediately came up on my ringing mobile.

  ‘Has he signed?’

  ‘Listen, Kylie, about that. There was an incident and the place went into lockdown.’

  Breathing on the other end.

  I continued. ‘I had to leave before he —’

  ‘Go back.’

  ‘It’s really a long way —’

  ‘Please, Stella. I need this. I never ask you for anything.’ That was true. ‘And it’s closer for you.’ That wasn’t true.

  ‘I had a look on the map. It’s actually about half way.’

  ‘I can’t leave the farm. The Dexters are just getting settled in.’ The Irish cattle breed Kylie and Tyler were gambling their future on. ‘Anyway, he gets on better with you. Try again this week.’

  ‘I have work.’

  ‘Thanks, you’re a sweetheart. Bye.’

  I dropped the phone on the couch. The situation called for serious self-care. I went into the bedroom, dragged an old suitcase out from under my bed, and flipped the latches. There, in neatly stacked thousand-dollar bundles, was my stash.

  The money had been hidden under the floorboards of a house used by bikies for g
rowing cannabis. It was the profit of their evil trade in drugs, human trafficking, and whatever else they turned their hands to. My pulse raced at the memory of sneaking it out of the house. And that hadn’t even been the first time I’d helped myself to the hard cash of hardened criminals.

  Several years before, I’d stolen money from the flat of two junkies. They were my clients, living in a high-rise housing commission flat, and had called me late one night in a state of panic. When I got there, they were both dead. Near their bodies were bundles of cash in plastic shopping bags. Call it a brain snap — I don’t know how else to explain it — but I’d taken the bags, containing a total of fifty thousand dollars. It was a stupid thing to do, and for years afterwards I’d lived in terror of being found out. After that incident I’d said to myself, never again.

  Then I did it again. Only the second time, I took much, much more. My suitcase currently contained over four hundred thousand dollars.

  In my heart, I knew it was tarnished. Not the money, my soul. My precious immortal soul. I’d intended to give the money to my sister to help her stupid plan to buy the farm. But Ted had come up with his tax minimisation scheme, and she hadn’t needed it.

  What was I supposed do with all this cash? Put it back? Hardly.

  In the course of my community work, and my sideline in … let’s call it problem-solving, I’d been threatened, assaulted, abducted, and almost killed. The money, to my mind, was a form of righteous compensation.

  I called it the fund, and it lived under my bed. Not exactly secure, but apart from Brophy no one came in here, so it was safe enough. From time to time, I’d sneak out a couple of hundred bucks for the occasional treat. Until a better idea came along, an impoverished artist like my beloved Brophy and a low-wage community worker like me could occasionally splurge on an extravagance.

  Tonight’s treat would be a couple of bottles of wine and far too much Indian takeaway.

  I showered and changed. I needed to be fresh, and cleansed of prison dirt, real and psychological. I went to the Narcissistic Slacker — Brophy’s studio, art gallery, and domicile above a shop in Footscray — to give him the bad news about the weekend.

  He must have heard me on the landing. The industrial metal door to the studio was sliding open before I reached the top step. He seemed worn out and a little thin.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  He coughed, standing aside to usher me in. ‘Just a cold. How was the trip to the agrarian slammer?’

  ‘Bad. For several reasons.’

  ‘Hit me.’

  ‘For one thing,’ I said, ‘Labour Day weekend isn’t going to work out. I’m going to Woolburn. Family business.’

  There was real disappointment in his sigh. ‘What’s he done now?’

  He’d managed coitus in a secure correctional facility with security cameras and guards everywhere. Some in Australia would say that made him a bloody legend. They did not use protection, and now poor foolish Loretta was going to be part of the great Hardy Family Fiasco. When I got to the part about taking Loretta to stay with my mother, he was laughing. I supposed it was kind of funny. To an outsider.

  Later that evening, Brophy swirled a soapy sponge over a plate and slotted it in the rack. ‘What’s the prison like?’

  ‘Nice enough. Places to disappear for a little outdoor recreation.’

  ‘That’s really upset you, hasn’t it?’

  ‘My idiot brother fathering a child? In so many ways, yes.’

  ‘You don’t know what kind of father he’d be.’

  Tea towel ready, I lifted the plate. ‘Yeah, I do. The kind who leaves his kids in the car while he scores.’

  He made a noise, and slotted another plate into the rack.

  Criticism of parenting was a sensitive area for Brophy. I moved us back onto safer pastures. ‘And then there’s the girl, the mother, the victim — whatever — Loretta. He’s never mentioned her before, never hinted that she existed. Now I’m driving her to Woolburn.’

  ‘Maybe this is a good thing. For Ben, I mean.’

  ‘Five hours there, five back. Introduce her to my mother. In the same breath, I ask if Loretta can move in for a while.’

  ‘Parenthood might be good for Ben. If he’s serious about it.’

  ‘He’s serious about kimchi ice-cream and turmeric smoothies and stir-fried milk.’

  Brophy’s cough sounded disapproving. He looked in the cupboard under the sink and withdrew a mangled old steel-wool pad.

  I watched him scour a saucepan that we’d used to reheat the curry, and worried that I’d turned a loving relationship into a receptacle for all my grievances. That wasn’t optimal.

  ‘Personally, I blame the private contractor for letting it happen,’ I said.

  He scratched at something stuck to the pan. ‘Private contractors? How is a prison a profitable business?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s a very lackadaisical operation. A prisoner died while I was there.’

  He paused his scrubbing and looked at me.

  ‘The whole place went into lockdown. Visit over. We were all shunted out of there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A power-tool accident, apparently.’

  Brophy’s mobile buzzed in the next room, and he went out.

  It was upsetting to see him so despondent. I was desperately thinking of a way to cheer him up, when a sudden crazy idea struck me.

  ‘Come with me!’ I shouted. ‘We’ll have our weekend away in beautiful, romantic Woolburn.’

  He returned with the still-ringing phone in his hand. ‘That is a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘It’s Mandy. I’ll let it go to voicemail.’ The buzzing stopped and immediately restarted.

  It was none of my business, but sometimes I thought Brophy was a little immature when it came to Mandy. His ex was the mother of his daughter, but he acted as if she were a stranger. Personally, her existence didn’t bother me, and I hoped he wasn’t dismissive towards her for my benefit. But these things were never easy; it wasn’t for me to judge.

  ‘At last!’ he was saying with apparent delight. ‘An invitation to the mythical Woolburn. I’ll bring the easel and some paints and the —’

  The phone stopped and immediately started to buzz again.

  ‘Must be important.’

  We locked eyes. He sighed as he swiped. ‘Mandy, what’s up?’

  I turned away and wiped the tea towel over the saucepan.

  ‘You do this every time, change things any time it suits you.’

  I placed the pan in the cupboard.

  ‘No. Sorry. I’ve made plans.’

  I wiped the sink.

  ‘Fine. But this is the last damn time.’

  He slapped at the phone, thrust it in his pocket, and glared about him.

  ‘So …’

  ‘So, Marigold will be joining us on our romantic weekend in Woolburn.’

  I was home watching the news. Why at home? Because Brophy and I had had a fight. It was mainly my fault. In my defence, the prospect of time spent at my family’s house in Woolburn always made me tense. I was overwrought and said something mean, Brophy snapped back. And here I was, home alone.

  I poured myself another glass of wine and turned on the television. The familiar and flabby face of Marcus Pugh, Minister for Justice, was on the late news.

  Marcus and I went back a long way and had a hate-hate relationship. Over the years, he’d cut funding to all the support agencies in his area. We in the sector called him Mucous Pukus. He sleazed his way in to photo ops, took credit for everything, and was a generally unpleasant arse.

  He was shrugging off questions about a prisoner who had died while in the custody of the private prison operator, BS12.

  ‘No,’ Pugh wheezed, ‘in relation to the aforeme
ntioned death, liability or other blame cannot be apportioned to the contractor without a proper investigation. However, initial reports are that it was the result of a terrible accident.’

  The prisoner, a journalist explained, was Joe Phelan. A beloved son and brother, he had a sad story of petty crime and juvie, ending in a prison farm on a fairly minor charge of credit card fraud. I turned off the TV and went to read in bed. I’d had quite enough of Marcus Pugh.

  3

  I ENTERED Buffy’s — an establishment named in honour of the awe-inspiring vampire slayer — for my daily caffeination and found the proprietor, Lucas, fellow nerd and zombie enthusiast, in a trance.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A new brewing technique.’ The lovable nerd leaned over a funnel attached to a hose connected to a contraption that looked like a child’s chemistry set. ‘The cold-to-hot-to-warm method. Delivers a more robust flavour.’

  ‘Your flavours are quite robust enough. Give me your conventional swill or give me nothing.’

  He blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘The usual, please. And the paper.’ I handed over my reusable insulated coffee sustain-a-mug that Marigold made me use. At twelve, that child had a more clear-eyed awareness of the planet’s mortality than the average citizen.

  Cup in hand, I paid and left, looking forward to the peaceful ritual of reading the paper on the tram.

  But the tram was late, and it was packed, and spreading out news-sheet was impossible. I stood, holding a strap, my nose in proximity to an underarm. Thus cocooned, I was left to my thoughts. One thought being that whenever this Loretta made contact, I’d need to lay the ground rules for Hardy farm behaviour. Never ask for help, never appear weak, never show sentiment or feelings of any kind. Never leave towels on the floor. A two-minute shower was permitted, but frowned on, three minutes was seriously indulgent, four was grounds for banishment. Always have your own money (never put your hand out unless you want a smack). Always, always offer to do the dishes (but never offer to cook). And, for harmony’s sake, I’d recommend she refer to herself as Ben’s fiancée around Delia and Ted. If she followed those rules, she might last a couple of days.