by Tara Moss
Does no one take a bloody day off any more?
When Mak had laid her head down she’d intended to wake much earlier, early enough to be out of there before the neighbourhood woke, let alone started showing itself to prospective buyers. She shuffled across the king-sized bed in a flash, leaped out from under the covers and stood on unsteady legs. She patted herself down, realising she’d slept in her jeans and T-shirt, even keeping the travel wallets on. Now her neck was stiff from the terrible, hard bed and there was a painful indent where one of the wallets had moved up her ribcage and pressed into her in her sleep. She was dishevelled and sweaty beneath her clothing, and she desperately wanted to use the shower.
There was obviously no time.
She slid the Glock into her waistband and scanned the room. At her feet was Luther’s toolbox, now empty. She’d stored its valuable contents in the carry-on bag before passing out. Mak instinctively reached for the handle of the carry-on, then remembered to pull on her trench coat and her boots, which she managed to zip up with shaky hands. Discombobulated, achy and in all likelihood bruised from the death struggle at the apartment, she gathered her things around her and stood static in the rose-coloured bedroom. She looked from one door to the next, uncertain. It had been past midnight when she’d broken in and the jetlag and spent adrenaline had made her crazy with exhaustion.
The back way. That exit would be best.
With no time to be a better house guest, Mak kicked the filthy toolbox under the bed and left the master bedroom with the bed covers askew. She started towards the back door, pulling her carry-on bag along the carpet while the sounds of voices continued in the front half of the house. She caught her reflection in a hallway mirror. Her mascara had smudged and her dark hair had the look of an Amy Winehouse beehive at four a.m. after a storm.
‘Hey, who are you?’ a voice said and she spun around to find a shocked real-estate agent standing before her. Immaculate blonde coif. Beige suit. Small, painted mouth hanging open with dismay. Behind her were a couple of barefoot women and two men in socks, staring.
No point going out the back way now.
Mak shoved past them without a word, carrying her haul. She burst onto the street in a jog, the carry-on bag slamming against her hips with each stride. The real-estate agent would call the police, she felt sure.
I need a place to shower. Immediately.
Somewhere she could pay in cash for a few hours, and wouldn’t need a credit card or ID. Somewhere safe.
If such a place still existed at all.
Really? On a Monday? Before noon?
The couple in the next room were making love — no, fucking — loudly. The female of the pair seemed to be vocalising in a bizarre, off-key version of scales, performing one of the worst fake orgasms Makedde had ever heard, the male apparently mute with concentration. Their bed banged against the wall, rattling the bathroom mirror with the vibrations of an earthquake tremor. Mak should not really have been surprised by the disruption, as she was in the sort of place where you could rent a room by the hour. The bed here, made up in gaudy satin sheets, interested Mak not at all, but the bathroom was a decent size and appointed with a full spa tub that had probably seen many erotic adventures but most importantly had jets. Perhaps the only patron to enjoy only the therapeutic benefits of its features, Mak had soaked herself in the big tub, the churning water easing her weary muscles. Now she scrubbed her face, a fluffy towel wrapped around her wet, clean hair, the air smelling pleasantly of bubble bath and cosmetics.
There was a final, masculine cry and the mirror stopped vibrating.
Makedde tried not to imagine the awkward post-coital scene next door as she skilfully applied a mask of moisturiser and makeup, the small, vain tasks that helped her feel more like a woman and less like a fox on the run. Groomed and recovered from her rude awakening, Mak stepped out into an alley behind Victoria Street, Kings Cross, at two o’clock in the afternoon, the bright autumn sun something of a shock after her windowless, boudoir-style hourly accommodations. Despite being raised by a detective inspector and despite being introduced to death, aged twelve, on a trip to the morgue with her father, Mak had never anticipated needing to learn about the criminal way of life. But here she was. And once you accepted in real terms that there were human beings out there willing to end your life solely for financial gain, everything changed. It was a significant shift to a different, more brutal world. Her blinkers were off. Part of her was sad about that. Another part of her was too far past it to feel the loss of innocence.
Javier Rafel ratted me out.
She had suspected it before, but now she was absolutely certain that Rafel had found out about the price on her head and sold her out to the Cavanaghs. All things considered, it was miraculous she’d got this far. After she had bought her ticket they’d had a thirty-hour jump on her while she was in the air. It was lucky someone hadn’t nabbed her walking out of the airport. She would make a beeline for Canberra, she decided. The laptop was the key. The laptop had to get to Andy Flynn. She couldn’t trust a courier. She couldn’t trust anyone else.
And she had to remain off the police radar somehow …
Mak walked to a second-hand clothing store on William Street, only a few blocks away, hiding behind a pair of large, dark sunglasses. She searched with no pleasure through itchy 1970s vintage sweaters and stiff polyester dresses, ultimately putting money down for an unattractive multicoloured knit beanie and poncho, and a backpack made of hemp, none of which she would have worn in her previous life even if paid. She assembled herself in the shop and emerged fifteen minutes later looking exactly like one of the local, pot-smoking backpackers. At a pharmacy next door she bought hair bleach and a henna dye, unable to decide which way to go, and as a bonus was delighted to find an array of non-prescription contact lenses. They seemed to cater to the flamboyant party crowd — red ‘Dracula’ pupils, snake eyes and washed-out ‘Zombie’ eyes were all options — but they also sold pairs in more natural colours. She bought some warm brown lenses and a pair of pale blue ones.
Next, she needed access to the internet. She wandered up the street, head down, hair hidden away beneath the ugly beanie, aware of the many CCTV cameras and police in the area, and slowed as she passed a shop selling phone cards and iPhones. An iPhone with its internet capabilities and maps would be handy. Sadly, she required at least one form of ID to purchase a SIM card and she couldn’t risk it as Ms Cruz, lest the GPS give away her location to the Cavanaghs like an electronic beacon.
GPS could be handy, though. Maybe handy in other ways. It gave her an idea.
She used an internet café at the back of a convenience store on Macleay Street; though the computer looked about ten years old it worked fine, and two dollars and a few minutes later her simple search for ‘spy’ shops brought her listings across Australia, with one store showing in a large mall only a short taxi ride away. Soon she was walking through precisely the kind of place she abhorred — a shopping centre, brimming with far too many near identical franchises peddling garments made at cut-rate cost in China and India, to be purchased by bored consumers dragging shopping bags and pushing prams on idle afternoons. This afternoon it was packed with customers of all kinds, none of whom paid her the slightest interest under her ratty hat. At a hardware store she bought flat-head and Phillips screwdrivers, a hammer, some wire cutters and insulated gloves, and then she stood, hemp backpack weighing heavily, outside the place that advertised as a ‘Spy Shop’.
Typically, the commercial spy shop was not for real spies any more than T-shirts with the words UNDERCOVER FBI were meant for real agents. The store had large displays showing off the latest expensive surveillance equipment and locking devices, aimed at wealthy homeowners wanting to protect their cars and stereo equipment. But what Mak wanted would be much less costly. She walked in, attracting the attention of a young man in an orange polo-shirt uniform. He spun around and she smiled.
‘I need a TrackALL high-quality GPS locating sy
stem with drop feature,’ she told him. His eyes widened slightly. ‘My grandmother is getting very frail and she … well, sometimes she does wander,’ she added.
He nodded and put his hands on his hips. ‘Yup, we do have those. Let me just check the stock in back.’
A few minutes later he returned with a sealed box. ‘This one has a fall detector, so if she falls over you will know. It’s on sale for two-ninety-nine and comes with a lithium battery pack.’
She looked at the box and pressed her lips to a tight line. ‘So can I track it on my iPhone?’
‘Definitely.’
She’d have to get one after all, she decided. ‘Is it easy to set up?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. You tech savvy?’
‘Getting there,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll take two … just for good measure. Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful.’ She handed over Luther’s cash.
After what had been a productive start to her afternoon, it took Mak fifty excruciating minutes in the sprawling shopping complex to find the woman she was looking for; and when she finally saw her, her heart lifted.
There you are …
It was a Caucasian woman about Mak’s own age, shopping alone. Chocolate-brown leather handbag and matching sandals. Diamond earrings, real. Self-employed and doing well, Mak guessed. She was perhaps five foot ten inches tall and her hair was long and dark, reddish brown. Makedde was seated on a bench with her increasingly heavy backpack, sipping a juice, when the woman walked by. She watched her from under her beanie and when she was a few paces ahead Mak got up, binned the juice and followed.
The complex was truly sprawling, and the woman walked at a leisurely pace through one whole level, weaving through the crowds and eventually turning into a mid-range dress shop at the end. After a beat Mak walked in behind her. A middle-aged shop assistant with dyed blonde hair and immaculate makeup clocked her and then looked away, disinterested. She didn’t have that moneyed look about her. Not with her hemp and her second-hand knits. An old INXS song blared from the speakers as Mak pretended to peruse the tasteful but bland stock on offer.
‘Do you have this in a ten?’ the woman asked, holding up an inoffensive black dress.
‘I’ll check,’ the shop assistant answered in a flat tone, and ducked into the back. A few minutes later she returned with the dress.
Mak took a collared white shirt off a rack and examined it as the two women walked to the change rooms at the back. ‘Let me know if you need another size,’ Mak overheard the shop assistant say, and there was the click of a locking mechanism on a change-room door.
Makedde walked to the back, holding the shirt and passing a large set of floor-to-ceiling triptych mirrors. The change area was made up of six small melamine cubicles, with doors barely above Mak’s shoulder height, three on each side. The tall woman was installed at the middle one against the back wall and Mak could see her dark head bent forwards as she went about the process of getting changed into the black dress she’d chosen. For her part Mak held up the shirt on its plastic hanger and gestured to the shop assistant wordlessly as she slipped herself into the neighbouring cubicle and closed the door behind her.
‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ the assistant said mildly through the door, and walked away.
The space was perhaps less than a metre wide and the partitions did not reach the floor. Mak could see the woman’s sandals, discarded, on the carpet inside her change room, one shoe flipped upside down to show its leather sole. She hung the white shirt on a peg and sat down on a small chair in the corner of her cubicle, folding her legs one over the other and clearing her mind. After perhaps two minutes she heard the change-room door next to her open as the tall woman made for the viewing mirrors.
Here we go.
Mak got on her hands and knees in the cubicle. She spotted a strap from the woman’s chocolate leather handbag falling out from under a discarded pile of clothes on the chair on the far side of the adjoining fitting room.
‘I don’t know. Do you think it’s too short?’ came the woman’s voice.
‘You look great. It really suits you.’
Mak dropped fully to the carpet, shuffled across on her back and sat up in the woman’s cubicle. She pulled the handbag out and opened the zipper.
‘But from the back? You don’t think it shows too much?’
‘Oh no. Not at all. Would you like to try the twelve?’ the sales assistant said, giving her the sell.
Mak dug her hand inside. Mobile phone. Keys. Makeup. Wallet. She pulled the wallet out and opened it. Petra Blackman. Thirty-two years old. Perfect. Mak grabbed the driver’s licence and considered the woman’s three credit cards. She took the Visa and filled the newly empty card slot with a Myer One card.
‘Maybe this will be better …’ the woman said.
Mak heard footsteps. Fuck, fuck, fuck … She rezippered the handbag, heart hammering, and replaced it on the chair. She draped the clothing back over it and in seconds she was back under the divide and in her own cubicle. The door clicked open and closed again. A dress fell to the carpet as the woman stepped into another option.
Mak stood and rearranged herself. Her face was flushed. She slid the driver’s licence and credit card into her back pocket. Hopefully she had covered the theft well enough. The more time she had before the woman reported the cards missing, the better.
She walked out of the cubicle carrying the shirt.
‘Aww, we didn’t get to see how you looked in that. How did you go?’ the sales assistant asked, unconvincingly.
‘I’ll think on it,’ Mak replied and smiled.
Oh, it is fun to be at the mall.
Jack Cavanagh stared out of the clear fourteenth-floor window of his city office, unseeing. He was seated beneath his coveted Sidney Nolan painting and his designer chandelier, gripped with ennui and a crushing sense of impotence. Before him, cognac-soaked ice cubes melted at the base of a crystal tumbler. Outside, his future was unfolding without him. He could only sit and wait.
He’d just got off the phone with Mr White.
The operation had been unsuccessful, he was told. Mr White never said much by phone, but it was clear that he believed Makedde Vanderwall was still in Australia, and that she was a potential threat. And now he wanted Jack to consider a personal security guard, just until she was removed as a threat.
Jack squinted.
He wondered about her. Who was this ordinary woman who had managed to single-handedly disrupt his successful business, had managed to single-handedly break the bonds of his family? Where had she come from? Where was she now? In Sydney? Nearby? What was her aim in returning to Australia? And because of her — an ex-model, a low-level private investigator and out-of-work psychologist — The American wanted Jack to take on a personal bodyguard for the first time? He wanted Jack Cavanagh to be tailed around by some armed man, a man he would need to pay handsomely to babysit him?
It was an outrageous idea. Outrageous.
‘Just think about it,’ Robert White had said.
Just think about it.
How had things got so bad? he wondered. When had the slide started? With the lowlife who’d tried to blackmail Jack with the video of Damien, or before then?
His mobile phone buzzed.
Jack blinked and rolled back in his chair to look at the number, his mind spinning through the possibilities. Would it be The American again? Could he have news already? A breakthrough? Or had his son, Damien, finally decided to call? He knew he was in Australia now. The American had confirmed his return.
Goldsworthy.
Jack sat up and straightened his shirt cuffs. The two men had not spoken since their exchange on the Rosebud. He licked his lips.
Jack looked at his watch, saw that it was already late afternoon, nearly time to head home. He picked up his phone. ‘Cameron, how are you?’ he said casually, his eyes fixed on the darkening cityscape outside his window.
‘I’m good, Jack.’ There w
as a pause. The line wasn’t particularly good. He was calling from his mobile phone and, judging from the time of day, he was still in Australia. ‘Look, my secretary heard from your VP twice last week. I can’t do business with you, Jack,’ Cameron said flatly.
I can’t.
Do business.
With you.
Jack swallowed.
So that was it. He should not have been surprised, not after their tense exchange on the Rosebud. Yet Jack could not help but see this plain rejection as a new phase of his personal demise. Cameron Goldsworthy, previously a powerful ally, had given up any pretence of goodwill. If Jack was to get his business — his life — back on track, he would need to turn things around considerably.
‘I’ll tell him to stop contacting you,’ Jack Cavanagh responded in a neutral voice.
‘I’d appreciate that. Take care,’ Cameron said coolly and hung up.
Jack found himself holding the mobile to his ear, the phone dead. He took a breath. There was a curious sting behind his eyes, but no tears came. He was numb. His index finger hooked itself around the handle of his top drawer and opened it. Inside was a packet of Cipramil — the antidepressants he refused to start taking again. And a small, silver-plated handgun.
He considered both for a moment, and closed the drawer again.
As sunset hit the neon-lit roads of Kings Cross, it was time for Mak to leave the little room she had rented. She stepped onto Victoria Street in sleek black, her newly dyed reddish-brown hair tucked under her hoodie, the trench coat tied tight around her slim waist. It was time to hit the road. All she needed now was something to hit the road with.
There were, naturally enough, a number of options to choose from.
Mak prowled Victoria Street at the Potts Point end for an old car. Not too old, but a model built before the early to mid-nineties, when security systems had become more sophisticated. Many cars were too newly built, and others had tiny, flashing alarm or demobiliser lights to ward her off, but because of the area, which was popular with backpackers and drifters, there were a lot of third- and fourth-hand cars and campervans parked on the street, some of which had been used by consecutive backpackers each season. Mak didn’t need anything terribly high tech and fast, but she didn’t want a Volkswagen van either. Too slow. Too obvious. She chose an old Holden parked at the furthest, least frequented end of the street, in part, she supposed, because it reminded her vaguely of Bogey’s beautiful old car. This one wasn’t restored, however. Rust had begun eating away at the blue paint over the fenders and around the headlights.
