Black Ice

by Leah Giarratano

  Jill stood to leave.

  'Wait!' admonished Madame Truelove. 'I haven't finished your reading, Krystal. And I need to let you know about the angel-therapy I can perform for you. I'm usually booked out months in advance, but –'

  'Twenty, wasn't it?' Jill dropped the cash onto the table.

  'Twenty-five.'

  Jill threw the old woman a hard look and flung a ten-dollar note down next to the twenty. She moved out into the cacophony of music and shouting. Wearing sneakers and a denim mini-skirt over black, footless tights, she blended in fairly well, but she pulled the hood of her white sleeveless sweatshirt up over her blonde ponytail and angled her face to the pavement anyway. She kept her eyes on the fire-eater's tent. When she lifted her hand to her face to cover a feigned coughing fit, the scales-of-justice tattoo on her deltoid stood out on her pale skin; a young mother almost steered her pram into a bin to avoid her.

  Three other members of the group had joined Skye at the performer's shack – CK, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to his lip; a young Aboriginal male – Jill hadn't seen him around here before; and Abigail. Ah, Abi. Aged fifty-five, with a thirty-year heroin habit still going strong, she was known as 'Mum' to half of Fairfield, and legitimately so for a good eight to ten of them.

  Jill found a doorway. A beautician's, closed early for the festival. She drew into the recess and leaned back to watch.

  The fire-eater, a black tee-shirt now covering the top of her tutu, emerged from the tent. Around her waist sat a utility belt – a large, pocketed 'bum-bag' – from which she pulled a bundle of flyers. From a pocket in her jacket, Jill withdrew a still-shot camera the size of a matchbox.

  Individually, or in groups of two or three, the small crowd Jill had been watching came to collect a flyer from the performer. She observed each of them carefully inspect the leaflet, front and back, and then hand something back to the woman, which went into her utility belt.

  Jill spoke into the phone hidden in her hand, and then took some more photos with the camera. Squinting down at the tiny device, she searched for the button to forward the photos.

  'Haven't got fifty cents for a phonecall, have you, love?'

  She snapped her head around to face the speaker, a skinny girl of Asian appearance. Jill hadn't noticed her around here before. What had she seen? She palmed the camera.

  'Nah, I can't help you, sis,' said Jill. 'I need to get some more money myself before I can get something to eat.'

  'No worries. Take it easy.' The girl shuffled towards the next pedestrian.

  Jill dropped the camera back into her pocket and made her way towards the temporary stage where the crowd frothed and writhed. The four boys on stage still screeched unintelligibly; the lead singer had not let go of his balls once as far as she could tell. Please God, let him need to take a piss, she thought. Maybe then they can take a break for ten minutes.

  You're getting old, Jackson, she told herself.

  When she reached the edges of the throng, she stopped and glanced back towards the performers' tent. A commotion of a different kind had erupted. Cops swarmed out from behind the structure. The fire-eater swung her legs wildly, suspended in mid-air by Grojan, the probationary constable who'd made the Olympic weightlifting team. She saw Clarkson and a young uniformed female officer take CK down to the concrete; Skye screamed and tried to bite another cop, who had her in cuffs.

  Clarkson caught Jill's eye, and she inclined her head slightly.

  As a few people around her became aware of what was going on behind them, Jill turned her back on the scene. She couldn't risk one of the cops making too much eye contact with her; she didn't want any of the crowd guessing that she had had anything to do with the police making the bust.

  Jill pushed through the crowd and went in search of something to eat.

  2

  Monday 1 April, 5 pm

  After securing the deadlock and dropping the iron bar into place, Jill took a final peek through the spyhole on the door of the unit. What did CK call this lock the other day? She tried to remember: pig stick, pig lock, something like that. Gives a prick a bit more time to flush the stash when the pigs come to call, he'd said.

  Huh.

  She dropped the takeaway containers onto the linoleum of the kitchen bench and tried hard not to think about the number of germs that would be living in those cracks.

  At least the food was delicious in Fairfield. She pulled from the plastic bag a fragrant tom yum soup, a container of garlicky fried tofu and one of steamed spinach in thick oyster sauce. The smells left her salivating. She could dine in a different part of the world every night. With the immigration detention centre close by, pretty much every nationality was represented in this suburb.

  She reached into a cabinet for a big bowl and her mobile sounded. Work phone. Hmm.

  'Jackson,' she said.

  'Jill, this is Lawrence Last. Are you clear to talk right now?'

  'Yep, good to go, sir.' What's this about, she wondered.

  'Are you well, Jill?'

  'Yes, sir. I'm fine.'

  'I'm sorry to call you today, Jill. I know we weren't supposed to touch base again until later in the month, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come in for a meeting.'

  Jill took the phone away from her head and grimaced at it. She put it back to her ear.

  'Is that absolutely necessary?' she said.

  'Afraid so. You know I have to seek approval for another three months for you to stay undercover. Well, the Commissioner has said he won't automatically okay these things anymore. They want you to see the psych and we're going to use the opportunity to review your progress over the past couple of months,' said Superintendent Last. 'You really have done a remarkably good job.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Is the apartment all right, Jill?' said her boss.

  She stared around at the pockmarked walls and second-hand furniture of the second-floor, one-bedroom housing commission unit. She mentally pictured her spotless, sunny two-bedroom apartment overlooking the ocean at Maroubra Beach, and sighed. This place smelled perennially of bleach from her best cleaning efforts, but still she found herself washing her hands compulsively and she showered three or four times a day.

  'The unit's fine, sir,' she said.

  'I can't tell you, Jill, how much we value having you out there. The operation this afternoon was flawless. We have five in custody. The main offender is involved in a joint criminal enterprise to supply methamphetamine on an ongoing basis. We have hopes that we may be able to encourage her to testify against her conspirators. She's a young mother, and is already asking how she might be able to reduce her sentence. We seized eight thousand in cash and the drugs are sixty-five per cent purity. Three months from now, I will be using all of my influence to recommend you for promotion – should you apply, of course.'

  'Thank you, sir,' Jill said. She took a deep, tired breath. 'So how are we going to do the meeting?'

  'Same as last time,' he said.

  'What. Now?'

  'If that's okay with you.'

  'That will be fine, sir,' she said. 'Ah, Superintendent Last?' She sniffed morosely at the fragrant steam rising from the bench.

  'Yes, Jill?'

  'Have you got anything to eat in there?'

  Jill undid her ponytail; she checked her reflection in the door of the microwave and fluffed out her blonde hair. She scooped up a forkful of the salty, sticky spinach and then put all the plastic containers away in the fridge. She took a quick swig of mandarin juice from a bottle on the shelf and recapped it.

  She waited for the knock.

  'POLICE! Krystal Peters! This is Fairfield police. Open up now, please!'

  'Hang on a fucken minute!' she screeched. 'What the fuck do you pricks want?'

  The walls in these units carried every howl, sob, scream and crash. Most of her neighbours were out at this hour, but she heard Mrs Dang open her door.

  And then Ingrid started up. 'Oh, what the fuck now?' Jill
heard the door across the hall slam open. 'Can't you leave people the fuck alone? She's not even home!'

  'Just stay where you are, Ms Dobell, or you'll be coming in too.'

  It was Adam Clarkson. He'd found it fun arresting her the last time. 'Open this door now, Peters, or we're coming in,' he bellowed.

  Jill leaned against the doorframe, studying her nails.

  'Okay, okay.' She made sure her voice was loud enough to carry across the hall. 'Can't you give a person time to put some fucken clothes on? You bastards all just want to cop a free feel, don't ya?'

  She heard her neighbour's hard bark of laughter. 'You take your time, Krystal. I'm a witness,' she heard Ingrid shout.

  Jill figured she should open the door before they tried to kick it in again. The police department still hadn't paid her back for the locks she'd installed last time.

  3

  Monday 1 April, 4 pm

  Byron Barnes surreptitiously licked a finger, and rubbed at the splodge of white stuff smeared on the leg of his jeans. The mark spread. He rubbed the heel of his palm against it, frantically, and then stared in dismay at the mess he had made. His hand balled into a fist that pretty much covered the smudge. He left it there.

  Byron's other hand hovered over a gleaming granite boardroom table that stretched three metres to a wall of windows at the other end of the room. Byron had never seen a view like it in his life and he avoided looking at it now. Everything shone so goddamn much. Sunspots pulsed red and black across his field of vision. Sydney's eastern suburbs from thirty floors up was too bright for Byron's hangover. He wanted to rest his head on the table and wait for the others, but he didn't dare even put his arm down. His denim jacket had already smeared something gluey across the mirrored black shine. His eyes reflected up at him from the inky depths, warning him: don't fuck this up.

  Byron saw them walking through the lobby beyond the heavy glass doors. Heading this way. He sat straighter in the high-backed leather chair. Please God, just this once let me get off, he prayed.

  The door swung open.

  Byron tried to keep his eyes off her tits, but it was friggin' hard, man: they entered the room a fair way before anything else. They belonged to the sort of girl who always looked right through him. Like, they knew he was there staring straight at them, but they couldn't see him at all. Just once, Byron thought, I'd like to fuck a girl like that. She waited for the men to reach the table before she chose a seat, and, yep, it was like she'd entered a completely empty room.

  When Christian Worthington strode around to Byron's side of the table with his hand outstretched, it finally occurred to him that he should be standing and he jumped to his feet.

  'Byron,' said Christian.

  Byron stared up at Christian, and in the hundred-dollar haircut and thousand-dollar suit he saw everything that he was not. His mouth formed 'Hello', but nothing came out.

  'Byron, I want you to meet Ray Whitmont and Stephanie Tyler. Ray's new around here and he's going to be helping me with some of the legwork on your case. Stephanie's my legal secretary and she's the person I'd have been billing you a couple of hundred dollars an hour if you were paying us for this.'

  Byron checked her out again and figured he could find two hundred dollars for that. He smiled at his shoes. Thing is, he knew it'd also cost two-fifty an hour for Ray in his shiny suit, and fuck knew what Christian Worthington would charge to keep a prick out of gaol. Thank God he didn't have to try to find that kind of money.

  Whitey and Damien still wouldn't believe he had Worthington running his case. Nothing he said would convince them.

  'Haven't you heard of pro bono work, you dumb cunts?' Byron had asked them last night, playing pool.

  'Pro bono work? You're doing some work on his bono is what I'm guessing, you poofter.' Whitey had stretched his hand across the table to slap Damien's, who'd missed the easiest shot with his shout of laughter at Whitey's comment.

  'Now that's the spirit, Byron.'

  Byron snapped his attention back to the too-shiny boardroom to find Christian Worthington frowning at him.

  'I tell you you could be looking at two years and you find that funny?' said Worthington.

  'Nah, man, that'd be terrible,' said Byron. 'Can't you get me off?'

  'Well that, Byron, is why you're here. In fact, that's what we're all doing here. But we're going to have trouble with this thing unless you concentrate. Can you do that, Byron?'

  Fucking ADHD. Concentrate, you dickhead, Byron told himself. You're not going to get another chance like this.

  'Really, Christian, why do you take on people like that?' Stephanie Tyler sat opposite her boss, packing up the notepads and pens used during the last couple of meetings. She hated these charity cases. She noticed the greasy smear at the place that had been occupied by Byron Barnes and recoiled, her nose wrinkled in disdain. She left the pen he'd used right where it was.

  'Steph, we've all got an obligation to do some work for the people who'd ordinarily never afford us, you know that,' said Christian.

  'Yeah, but he's a drug dealer, and she's a shoplifter. Could you not find someone else to defend who's maybe even a little less . . . scummy?'

  'Stephanie! She could be back any minute. Would you be careful?'

  'What! Isn't the meeting over?'

  'I told her we'd walk her downstairs and point her in the right direction for the train. She got lost on the way here.'

  Stephanie noisily exhaled.

  Christian Worthington leaned back against the leather chair and swivelled to face the view. Hands behind his head, he smiled down at the brilliant ocean vista. Stephanie, watching him from behind a lock of straight blonde hair, tugged a little at the front of her blouse, exposing just a smidge more cleavage. Her boss appeared not to notice and stood when his last client slouched back through the doorway.

  Looking for something to steal, I bet, Stephanie thought.

  'Take an early mark today, Steph,' said Christian. 'You've earned it. Christ knows I have. I'm out of here.'

  'Anything special on tonight?' Stephanie tried not to sulk as she stood and hurried to keep up with him. She had never run after a man in her life until she met this one.

  'Just a bit of a gathering with Cassie, nothing much. I think it's an exhibition or something.'

  Cassie Jackson. Skinny. Model. Bitch.

  'Sounds great, Christian. Don't stay out too late. Remember you've got that breakfast meeting with Arlington at seven-thirty.' At least there's that, she thought. She'd told Professor Arlington it was the only time Christian could meet and vice versa. The more time she had with Christian away from Cassie Jackson, the better chance she had.

  All men could be corrupted. Stephanie was certain of it. At least, she had been until she'd met Christian Worthington.

  When the car jerked to a sudden stop, Jeremiah Dylan glanced up from his Nintendo DS. Ordinarily, he'd keep his eyes on the screen. After all, he only got fifteen minutes a day with this thing – just the time it took to get from his private school in Bellevue Hill to his tutor's house in Bondi Junction. But his mother, Judita Dylan, rarely swore, and Jeremiah's eyes shot up reflexively when he heard her curse.

  'Sorry, darling,' she apologised. 'Nothing to worry about. Missed the lights again, that's all. We don't want you to be late.'