Shoot Through Read online

  I made it to the office half an hour late, which was about my normal amount of lateness for a typical work day at WORMS, the Western and Outer Region Migrant Service. I logged on and checked my email. I was minding my own business, doing actual work, and despite everything, I was starting to feel pretty good. The whole office was on the up, lately. Our new boss, Fatima, was a boss. She had the energy of a kelpie, the business acumen of Bill Gates, and the political chops of P.J. Keating. In short, I was a little in awe of her. Under her stewardship, we’d gained more funding, employed new people, and lifted our productivity. That meant more migrants were getting the services they were entitled to, and our minnow of an agency was kicking bottoms and taking names. We had a place at important tables. We mattered. The ALP had approached Fatima for a sweet seat in the federal senate. She had declined. See? Totally awesome.

  Around mid-morning, every WORMS staff member migrated to the foyer. I followed to see what the fuss was. Shaninder, a fellow long-suffering colleague, had brought in child number three, a fat cherub with a gurgle that made my ovaries tingle. We passed the infant around, had a selfie, and were then ordered back to work by Fatima. She said this with a smile, while holding the baby.

  ‘Except you, Stella. See me in my office.’

  I went through the usual negative possibilities: I was getting the sack, getting retrenched, getting more work. Or the happy possibilities: I was getting a raise, getting an award for services to the community, getting an assistant.

  ‘Stella,’ Fatima began, ‘I’m right in saying that WORMS has partnered with the justice department to work on a number of projects in the past?’

  I sat up straight. ‘Yes,’ I said, with conviction.

  ‘I assume that went well.’

  Well was too strong a word. But I felt an urge to impress her and to come across as competent. ‘It was great, incredibly great.’

  ‘Good. Because the department has expressed an interest in working with our agency again.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘On a new project,’ she continued.

  I said nothing, kept my face blank, waiting.

  ‘We’ve been asked to nominate a person to join a prison inspection group. The delegation will inspect all the private prisons.’ She smiled. ‘You’re going to be our nominee.’

  I returned her smile, but mine was fake. ‘Great.’

  ‘We’re lucky to partner with the department on this one.’

  ‘Lucky. Yep.’

  ‘There are opportunities to lobby, and to influence policy around support for non-English speaking people.’

  ‘Lobby how?’

  ‘You’ll be working closely with the minister’s office.’

  I groaned and slid off my chair to the floor. Marcus Pugh, Minister for Justice. I was sick to the back arse of Pugh, with his conscience-free will to power and his ideological shifts to advantage. ‘When they do it, it’s bad. When we do it, it’s necessary.’ Politically expedient was the new principled.

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘Yes?’ I started to roll around on the floor.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Back exercises.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Fatima hesitated, no doubt wondering if I was in my right mind. She continued, ‘I’ll send the details through. Let me know if you have any questions.’

  I staggered to my feet and smoothed down my clothes. ‘No worries, Fatima. I’m on it.’

  ‘He asked for you, personally,’ she said.

  ‘Me. Personally. That is … so great.’

  Back at my desk, I received an email from Fatima saying that she’d just heard from Pugh, who wanted an informal meeting ASAP. I was ready to let forth a stream of expletives. Then it occurred to me that Pugh might authorise a visit to the Sir Athol Goldwater Prison this week on urgent justice department business. I could take the papers to Ben, then, rather than on the way to Woolburn. That would save me a detour and a lot of time. I replied to Fatima with enthusiasm, and I sent an email to Pugh’s office suggesting a time tomorrow. They replied with a place, and we were on. I added the appointment into my computer calendar. What a morning. I was killing it. Time for coffee.

  I was on my way to the staff room, when I tripped over a walking stick that seemed to be placed deliberately in my way. I turned and clocked an old woman sitting on one of the visitors’ waiting chairs in the general area. She was wearing a big brown duffle coat, never mind that it was thirty degrees outside. Her grey hair was held back with a clip, and her brown eyes were fixed on me. A stare that could bore a hole right through you. Where had I seen her before?

  ‘You Stella Hardy?’

  I almost denied it.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for ages for you, so sit down and listen up.’

  I remained standing, my face tensed into that smile I used for insolent shop assistants. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Phelan’s my name. I saw you at the Athol Goldwater.’

  Oh. Joe Phelan’s mother. I sat. ‘I’m so sorry about Joe.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She fiddled with a wooden toggle on the coat. ‘My Meredith was with me. She recognised you.’

  Meredith Phelan. Now I had the name, I remembered speaking to her at work functions. She was tough and plain-spoken. I liked her.

  ‘How is Meredith?’

  ‘Alright, under the circumstances. She works for some outfit that tries to keep youths out of trouble. Ironic, don’t you reckon? One of me kids was in jail, and the other was trying to keep kids out of there.’

  Irony was in there somewhere, I agreed, though of a deeply tragic kind. She looked at me with a softer gaze. Silence followed. I waited, hoping she’d get to the point.

  ‘Meredith told me you help people. She said that, in the past, a couple of times now, you’ve gone outside the bounds of your work and really looked into, er, things. And you’d got results.’

  I had. It was true. But I’d hoped no one had noticed. I looked around — everyone else was in their cubicles typing and murmuring. Mrs Phelan was the only person in the waiting area. ‘And you want me to do what exactly?’

  ‘They say Joe’s death was an accident, but it weren’t. I want some answers.’

  ‘What does Meredith say?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘She won’t help. She reckons I have to let them get on with the inquiry.’

  ‘She’s right.’

  ‘No. Look, you’ve got a brother inside, you know how these things go. And you’re on that prison delegation.’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Meredith heard. She’s been trying to get someone on the delegation herself. She said you’re alright. And with your brother inside, and the prison delegation, you’ve got a bit of pull with the powers that be.’

  ‘Um. That’s not right, I’m afraid. I have zero pull.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. I was gonna keep at you. Keep ringing and coming in. But the thing is, I haven’t got all day, so save us both the bother and just bloody help me out.’ She leaned back in her chair, looking frustrated. ‘People like me are never believed.’

  People like her: code for the poor. I suppressed a sigh. Grief needs someone to blame. But I’d also seen for myself that the prison was dysfunctional, probably negligent. ‘Mrs Phelan, why are you so sure it wasn’t an accident? What do you think happened to Joe?’

  She shrugged. ‘Mate of Joe’s, he knows.’

  I gave her a look. ‘Save us both the bother.’

  She grunted out a tight laugh and gave a grudging nod. ‘They’re old friends and loyal. Did time together. And this bloke reckons Joe told him … things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Told him his life was in danger.’

  ‘Mrs Phelan, that just sounds like a conspiracy theory.’

  ‘Not if Percy Brash is saying it. Percy knows ple
nty. If he says there’s more going on, I believe him. He’s always been good to me, Percy has. Came over soon as he heard.’

  A rumour monger. Probably planning to rob her. ‘Any time someone dies in custody, there’s a full inquiry,’ I said.

  She glanced around the room, eyes fierce, as if looking for support. ‘The inquiry’ll just tell us whatever they want us to think. A damn cover up.’ She sucked on her bottom lip, fighting tears. A knot in my chest hardened. ‘What if it was your brother? Would you believe he died in a stupid accident?’

  I frowned. Best I didn’t answer that.

  ‘All I’m asking is for you to get back in Athol Goldwater and talk to the other prisoners.’

  ‘Whatever they tell me will be scuttlebutt, with no basis in fact.’

  ‘That’s a start, then,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘And I reckon Percy’ll probably want a word with you, himself. He’s good at convincing people.’

  The threat was not very subtle. The nerve of her!

  ‘I’ll leave you to think it over.’ She slapped me on the shoulder in a power move that galled me. I curbed the urge to shove her hand away.

  ‘Sorry about Joe,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘Joseph was no angel. Me own fault, I suppose. I know what he was, but he didn’t deserve to die like that, bumped off in prison.’

  I thought about Brophy and how he’d raised his daughter, Marigold. She was a bit messed up. And what kind of future awaited the child of Ben and Loretta? Being a parent was a heck of a business.

  ‘Was he a good boy when he was a kid? Just got in with the wrong crowd?’

  She shook her head. ‘He was the wrong crowd.’

  She turned and used her stick to shuffle out of the building. I watched her go, wondering what on earth had just happened. I had been intimidated by an old-age pensioner and somehow press-ganged into her service. And, it appeared, I was going to be paid an unwelcome ‘visit’ by one of her son’s criminal friends. Many feelings overwhelmed me as I returned to my desk: impotent fury, defeat, a dash of resignation.

  4

  IN THE morning, I quickly heaved the suitcase out from under my bed. I dragged it down the stairs and shoved it in the boot of the Mazda. Rather than drive to work, I went to the arse-end of West Footscray. There, in a self-storage place I’d googled the previous night, I chose a package offering two years’ access to what was really an oversized locker. I anointed a machine with my plastic card and picked up the key. The locker was a good fit for the case — a sign, I told myself, that the universe took a benign view of my doings — and I secured the lock. If some strange Loretta person was going to be staying with me and snooping around in my stuff, I could hardly leave the fund lying around.

  With my sense of accomplishment set to ‘high’ and the storage key added to my bunch of house, car, and work keys, I strolled into WORMS at fifteen minutes past my usual time of ‘running late’.

  Around midmorning, an alert I’d set up on my computer told me I had a meeting to go to. I shifted my status from ‘In’ to ‘Out’ on the staff activity board and made a note: Mtg with puke.

  The board was a Fatima initiative, allowing her to keep track of her staff’s whereabouts. Mine, mainly. My previous boss had taken a laissez-faire attitude to my laissez-faire attitude to working hours. Not Fatima. She thought such things mattered, and I’d had to adjust my habits. So far, it wasn’t working. I’d actually received a written warning from her, which I’d filed under ‘F’ for folly. My wings would not be clipped.

  Besides, my methods got results. On occasion. In a profession that could be a fruitless battle against the tide of human nature and imperfection, and in the knowledge that people often didn’t act in their own best interests (case in point: moi), any win should be regarded as a massive victory.

  Marcus Pugh, minister for justice, and the state member of the Legislative Assembly for a safe seat in the leafy conservative east, waved at me as I entered Jar Jar Drinks, a café in Camberwell, at the appointed time. He was also glaring at me like I’d done something wrong.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Pukus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, if you don’t like me,’ I said, ‘why did you want me to be on your team?’

  ‘Hardy, just because you offend and disappoint me on a regular basis, doesn’t mean that I don’t need your particular skill set from time to time.’

  ‘What skill set, exactly?’

  He sighed in a formal register, a difficult feat. I imagined he must have practised it. ‘Well, you know people, that’s one thing. You have an ability to get into other people’s business, that’s another.’ He paused, there was something more to say, but he didn’t want to say it.

  I grinned. ‘And …’

  ‘And … you seem not to care for your personal safety.’

  I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he’d say I was an intrepid seeker of the truth, willing to stand up to bullies, whether they be bikies or men of means and influence. That I was an excellent investigator, who attacked complex networks of corruption head-on. But I supposed, in a roundabout way, he was saying that I was brave, so I let it stand.

  ‘Well, isn’t this a nice little love-in. Should we hug?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Be nice. You need my skill set.’ I picked up a menu. Eggs Benedict in a jar, noodle salad in a jar, trifle in a jar.

  Marcus Pugh waved at the waiter, who arrived bearing two glasses of water. ‘Cappuccino and two of those friands. Hardy?’

  ‘Black tea, please.’

  The waiter nodded and departed.

  I smiled pleasantly and waited.

  Pugh fiddled with his napkin. He pulled out his phone and put it facedown on the table. He sipped some water. ‘The inspection team will visit every Victorian prison and assess the way each operates — open access, nothing to be hidden. They will then report back to the department with recommendations.’

  ‘Who else is on the team?’

  ‘Topnotch people. Respected people. Retired lawyers, mates of mine. The right people for the job, you know.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Bloody prison activists have their blood pressure up. I’ve had to include social-justice propagandists, throw a little bone for the social-media jackals.’

  ‘It must be so trying, appeasing so many interest groups.’ Sympathy. I could fake it when necessary.

  ‘You have no idea. Anyway, as I mentioned to your esteemed new boss, I’m nominating you to join the delegation.’

  ‘Because of my skill set.’

  ‘Yes. And because …’ He looked about the café. One other man, a few tables over, was reading the paper. The radio played. He leaned across the table. ‘It will give you opportunities.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘As you go about in your capacity as observer … you might … look into things.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, I’m not qualified for this kind of thing. Prison certification, or whatever, it’s a highly-specialised occupation. How am I going to assess it with no knowledge of what constitutes best practice?’

  ‘Who cares? You’re a bolshy do-gooder with a track record of stirring up trouble. You’ll fit right in.’

  ‘No one will suspect me of being your stooge.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ He mopped his sweaty forehead with the serviette.

  ‘Relax. You can trust me. I’m on board. This is about the death of Joe Phelan, isn’t it?’

  He reared back, wobbling the table.

  ‘It’s on the news, Marcus. It’s not a secret.’

  He recovered himself. ‘I know it’s not a secret …’ He glared at me. A new thought fluttered his eyelashes. ‘I need to know I can trust you. What I’m about to ask you … Well, this is all highly confidenti
al, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He licked his lips. ‘Alright. The fact is, there’s been rumours about Athol Goldwater for some time. My office is concerned that some off-the-books enterprise — unauthorised, freelance, call it what you will, a side-line pecuniary activity — has been going on under the radar.’

  ‘Unregulated free-market capitalism gone astray? Say it isn’t so.’

  ‘Hardy, you really are the most dire of human tragedies. Making a profit from activities other than those set out in the prison contract contravenes the terms of the contract.’

  ‘Your department’s job, I would have thought — oversight of the contractor.’

  ‘Yes, yes. And we do. There is. We are. But that incident has added a layer of complexity to managing those concerns. Even though the matter, in and of itself, is a minor complication.’

  ‘Yes, his mother thinks it’s a minor complication, too.’

  He ignored that. ‘Your brother is in there, am I correct?’

  ‘All going well, he gets out at the end of the year.’

  He frowned. ‘Dangerous, is he?’

  ‘It’s minimum security, Marcus.’

  ‘Quite. And if you asked him to be discreet, would he be?’

  The waiter brought over a cappuccino in a cup, and the fruity friands on a plate. And for me, apparently, a jar of hot water accompanied by a teabag, still in its paper envelope.

  I unwrapped the teabag and jiggled it in the water. ‘I don’t know about being discreet, but Ben would be amenable. Especially if there was some kind of reward in it for him.’

  Pugh grunted. No reward then.

  ‘Come on, Marcus old boy. What are they up to at Athol Goldwater?’

  I watched his sad fat face fall even further as he dunked a friand in his coffee.

  Poor old Puke. It pained him to talk about such things. Privatisation was the gold standard of neo-liberal ideology. It was meant to rain benefits down on us all. And instead, well. Secret rain fell on some, while others, the taxpayers in the state of Victoria for instance, were left with appalling contractual obligations and not a drop of rain.