Black Ice

by Leah Giarratano

  Jeremiah sighed. Frankly, he'd be happy to be late, but he would never tell his mum that. She'd be quietly pained, and that night there'd be a sit-down with his father. Another talk. About the value of education, the discipline required to make it to the right university, the obligation and responsibility he had to make the most of his privilege in this world. Their speeches would be eloquent, sincere; they'd each up the ante to verbally out-perform the other. In spite of himself, even Jeremiah would be seduced. The adored only child of a supreme court judge and a surgeon, he could find nothing to rebel against – his life had been so carefully crafted and was so comfortable and reasonable.

  Jeremiah smiled at his mum in the rear-view mirror and glanced out the window.

  Fuck! An AUDI R8; this year's model. Not too many of them in the country yet. The driver looked pretty young, too. With the driver's face angled down slightly, his hair hid his eyes a little. His lips moved, like maybe he was speaking on a hands-free.

  Heterosexual, privileged and intelligent, even Jeremiah Dylan was not spared the adolescent drive to admire and desire the more attractive members of the species. The man in the Audi brushed his hair from his eyes and Jeremiah gave a low whistle.

  'Hey, Mum,' he said. 'Isn't that Christian Worthington? That guy Dad had around for dinner last week?'

  Judita Dylan glanced to her left and smiled; she fluttered her fingers at the man at the wheel of the car next to them.

  Good-looking fellow, she thought, as she motored her Mercedes across the intersection with the green light.

  Hot car, thought Jeremiah Dylan, bending back to his Nintendo. I guess that's one reason I should get enough marks to study law, he thought. I can get myself a car like that.

  Thus occupied, Jeremiah and Judita Dylan did not witness Christian Worthington pressing his hands firmly down into his lap.

  They didn't hear the words he groaned to his last client for the day.

  'Good girl. Stay there, now. Suck harder.'

  4

  Monday 1 April, 4.30 pm

  The blatt of the siren signalled muster – it was time for headcount. Still intently watching the cell door, Seren reached behind her back and tucked the broom handle down between the wall and the lip of the filthy mattress.

  They must be waiting for lights out, she thought.

  She dropped from the bed to the floor and hurried out to the corridor to take her place against the wall. Crash watched her approach, leaning into Little Kim, the huge woman's chin resting on the top of Crash's dark head.

  'Hey, baby,' said Crash when she approached. 'Ready for your last sleepy-byes?'

  Seren ignored her, and nodded at Angel.

  More than once Seren had whispered a prayer of thanks that Angel had been assigned to her on her first night. She'd never say it out loud, but privately she figured that her dad was up there somewhere, sending people to help her when she needed it most. It'd be just like him to send her an angel if he could.

  Angel had given her the tour, shown her the routines, gone through the 'Rights and Responsibilities of Inmates' document with her. Most importantly, Angel had taught her the unwritten rules of life in gaol.

  'It's pretty much simple, Seren,' she'd said, stirring sugar into the jumbo mug of tea that everyone here seemed to have glued to their hand unless showering or asleep. 'Keep to yourself. Little things you can find to help people, you do. But you don't have to have friends. It could be easier if you don't. You see, your friend in here might've robbed someone out there, and next thing you know, this chick from outside steps off the truck and you're sharing a cell with her. Now you're her enemy too.'

  Angel knew everything. At forty-five she was a veteran. Although she'd only done five years inside, she'd done twenty in a war zone, being beaten bloody daily by her 130-kilo ex-boxer husband, Danny.

  Both eardrums perforated by years of blows to her head, Angel hadn't heard the cops arrive when they'd come to investigate Danny's disappearance. They'd found Angel freezing in the rain, sitting on the grave she'd dug herself, a half-empty gin bottle keeping her semi-warm, waiting to join the ten or so bottles surrounding her.

  'What'cha doing there, Angel?' the cops had asked.

  Angel told Seren that the local cops knew her well. They'd carted Danny off to gaol countless times, and these two constables, Kerri and Karl, had carried her out to the ambulance at least twice.

  'Just talking to him,' she'd told them.

  'Danny hasn't signed in for a couple of days, Angel,' Kerri had said. 'We know he's stuffed up his bail conditions before, but he hasn't been seen at the bottle-o either. You don't know where he is, do you?'

  'Been meaning to come tell you guys,' Angel had told them. 'Danny won't be signing in or out anymore.'

  Angel had told Seren what she'd told Karl and Kerri that night. That she'd warned him. That she just couldn't take any more. That he should stop, or let her leave, or just go away himself. He'd broken her nose for the third time that night and when he'd finally dropped onto the lounge, piss in his pants and bourbon on his breath, she'd buried a ball point hammer in his skull. She stopped after the third strike; with the hammer no longer meeting any resistance from bone, her hand had slipped into his brain.

  Took a whole bottle of gin to stop the slimy feeling, she'd told Seren. Feels like soup. Have to live with it in here, she'd said, wiping her hand against her gaol-issue pants.

  Seren loved the story, and she loved Angel.

  Thank God Angel would be out the day after her, thought Seren; she needed someone she could rely on out there. They could hardly believe it when they'd discovered the timing of their releases.

  Now, in the hallway, Angel leaned in closer to Seren and her cellmates.

  'Gonna be a big night for you tonight, ladies,' Angel said.

  Seren stared. Was Angel geeing them up? She knew Crash and Kim had it in for her!

  'Got a new one coming in,' Angel continued. 'They're putting her in the cell next to yours.'

  So that's it, thought Seren. Maybe that would distract them a little. Everyone loved a new playmate.

  'Poor little rabbit,' said Angel. 'Just a tiny little thing, but she's out of control.'

  Little Kim combed Crash's hair with her fingers, while Crash watched Angel intently.

  'Yeah? What's her problem?' Crash said.

  'Gotta be ice,' said Angel. 'She's been sent straight from the Sydney cells, and she's coming down hard. They give them nothing over there. Word is she bit one of the cops when they put her in the truck and so the screws hate her already.'

  'Whoah! That'll teach 'em.' Crash's eyes were alight.

  Angel clucked her tongue. 'And her file says she's Hep C, too.' She shook her head.

  Crash sniggered. 'So she's causing some shit over there?'

  'You could say that,' said Angel. 'Poor thing. That ice sends them crazy, I tell you. She's been in the observation cell for three hours and she hasn't stopped screaming once. Seems she reckons they've put radio waves in the light bulb and they're fucking with her brain. She's made it her mission since she got in there to rip the light off the roof.'

  'Ha. Good luck with that,' said Seren.

  Kim and Crash laughed. The observation room was a dry cell, designed to be indestructible. The light was enclosed in a cage, the walls were completely bare, and there was nothing in the cell that could be lifted, torn or thrown.

  'You'd think she'd have no chance, hey?' said Angel. 'Thing is, the little bugger's gone and ripped the cage right off the ceiling, light fitting and all. No one can figure out how the hell she did it.'

  'Cool!' said Little Kim, staring down at Angel.

  'So, what'd they do to her?' asked Crash.

  'Sent the squad in,' said Angel. 'Suited up. Poor little bugger, they flattened her, but she went down screaming. I'm telling you, that ice gives you some strength.'

  'No shit,' said Crash. 'All this talk is making me hungry. Think you could bring me some of that back in when you come to visit, princ
ess?' She stared hard at Seren.

  Hek walked by, finishing the headcount, and Seren didn't answer. No way I'm ever coming back here, she promised herself.

  5

  Monday 1 April, 5.30 pm

  'I'm sorry you had to get dragged in here, Jill,' said the psychologist.

  'Literally,' said Jill.

  The other woman gave a sympathetic smile.

  Jill stood near the seat diagonally opposite the door, despite the fact that the psychologist's notepad and pen sat on the table next to the chair. Well, it's not as if it's her office, thought Jill; she knew that the woman had been sent out from Central specifically to speak to her. And she did like to take the seat that faced the door. Good feng shui.

  'I know. I'm sorry,' said the therapist. 'It's got to be one hell of a life you're living right now. Look, Jill, we haven't met properly. My name's Helen Levine. I'm a clinical psychologist. I do a lot of work with the New South Wales Police.'

  They shook hands.

  Helen retrieved her notepad and gestured to Jill to take a seat. She took the other chair.

  'So you don't work for the department?' asked Jill.

  'No. I'm in private practice,' said Helen, 'but I should tell you straight up that this isn't your regular counselling session. This is more of an assessment to make sure you're okay, Jill, and I have to tell you that what we say in here is not confidential.'

  'Who're you going to tell?'

  'I have to report back to Superintendent Last, and a copy of my report will be annexed to his application to the Commissioner to have your undercover duties extended.'

  'Okay.'

  'So, if it's all right with you, Jill, I'm going to record our session to help me with my report.'

  'You're going to record it.'

  'If that's okay with you?'

  Jill curled her feet up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was under constant scrutiny out on the streets, and in here, where she was supposed to be safe, she felt under siege again.

  'Whatever . . . You're going to report everything I say anyway,' she said, resigned.

  'Let's get going, then,' said Levine. She fussed briefly with a voice recorder on the desk and then came back to her chair. 'So what made you want to do undercover work, Jill?' she asked.

  'Actually,' said Jill, 'Last asked me to do it. I was between assignments at the time, so I thought I might as well.'

  Helen gave a short laugh. 'You thought you might as well? That's a pretty risky job to just jump into for the hell of it.'

  Jill shrugged.

  'You'd been working on that home invasion case last year. What did they call the killer – Cutter? How did you pull up after that?'

  'Fine.'

  'You were shot, I believe.'

  'Not really. Blowback. My partner shot the offender. I got a bit of a graze on my cheek.'

  'Your partner,' Levine glanced down at her notes, 'Gabriel Delahunt. A federal agent. Do you have much contact with him now?'

  'I don't have much contact with anyone at the moment,' said Jill.

  'Oh, of course. Obviously,' said Levine. She read a little more. 'The offender in that last case died in your arms, is that right?'

  'You seem to know the story.'

  The psychologist smiled. 'You've had a remarkable career, Jill,' she said. 'Really. It's quite exemplary. Your superiors are full of praise. There have been some very difficult moments over the past couple of years, though. I think it was only just over a year ago that you were involved in another fatal. You killed the man who had been the leader of an organised paedophile network.'

  Jill didn't speak.

  'I shouldn't say this, Jill, but congratulations. That must have felt great.'

  Jill exhaled. 'You have no idea,' she said. The man she had killed, Alejandro Sebastian, had abducted and raped her when she was twelve years of age. She had killed some of her nightmares with him.

  'You were working over at Maroubra then, weren't you?' Helen Levine looked down at her notes again. 'That's right. With Sergeant Scott Hutchinson. You're a long way from Maroubra now.'

  'Tell me about it,' said Jill. This was great. Every subject she didn't want to think about, raised within the space of ten minutes. Cutter. A sexual sadist. When she closed her eyes, she could feel her face on his neck when he died, shot dead by Gabriel. She remembered listening to him die, her mouth full of his blood, sounds muffled and distorted. Her hearing had returned slowly, although doctors had since informed her that she had lost some range of sound because of her proximity to the gunshot blast; the shot that had prevented Cutter slashing her throat. Gabriel had saved her life.

  Gabriel. Was he safe? He'd been pulled back into counterterrorism intel immediately following that case. She knew that a cop had been shot arresting one of the suspects Gabe was investigating.

  And Scotty, her previous partner. Never far from her thoughts, especially whenever she thought of Gabriel, Scotty understood that she was officially incommunicado, but she knew that he would expect her to call him anyway.

  She shifted in her seat, antsy, wanting to be out of there, to get back to work, to do some training, to do anything, really, other than sit exploring her feelings with a stranger like this. Jill turned, expressionless, towards the woman speaking. Can we just get this over with, she tried to tell her with her eyes.

  'I believe,' said Helen Levine, 'that the operation you're currently involved in aims to try to clean up some of the Fairfield methamphetamine trade.'

  'Amphetamine type stimulants generally,' said Jill. 'Ice, speed and ecstasy, basically.'

  'Your last case was just over in Liverpool. Aren't you afraid that a drug dealer from Liverpool might see you in Fairfield?'

  Thanks again, Jill thought. You're making me feel a hell of a lot better, Helen.

  'I didn't do any work on the street in that case,' said Jill. 'And they reviewed the media footage from the case. There was really only one shot of me in which my face was visible, and I looked pretty different from the way I present myself now.'

  'Yes, I have to say, I couldn't have picked you as a cop,' said Levine.

  Jill smiled tightly. Her job was done: she'd disguised herself from being recognised by some university-educated white girl. Yay.

  'How did they train you for the undercover work?' asked Helen.

  'There's a two-week course,' said Jill.

  'That seems quite brief.'

  'I've been doing this job for fourteen years, Helen. And I've been UC before – in Wollongong. That should be in that file you've got there.'

  'I know. I didn't mean to . . . It's just that undercover work can be very stressful on cops. You don't get your usual social and professional supports. You don't work with a partner. You're out in the street. I believe they've rented you an apartment locally?'

  'Nothing but the best,' said Jill.

  'Have you been lonely?' asked Levine.

  Jill studied her hands. Did this woman really expect her to be frank? Probably not, she realised. But if she said she was fine, and she one day claimed psychological injury, she could bet that the tape of this interview would be produced pretty quickly.