Blood Sunset

by Unknown

  Anthony wiped his hands on the towel, screwed the lid on the oil and tossed it in his bag.

  ‘You can be pretty selfish sometimes, you know that?’

  ‘Oh, piss off.’ I snatched up my wallet, peeled out a fifty and flicked it on the desk. ‘I come here for physio, Andy. Not to be accused of neglect. I’m trying to make something positive happen with El and get back in the harness at work. That takes time and a lot of emotional energy.’

  ‘Fair enough, but don’t forget being a cop made you like this.’ He pointed at the scar on my shoulder. ‘That’s just the flesh. Your shit goes all the way to the bone.’

  I slid into my pants, yanked on my shirt and started doing up the buttons. Any benefit from the massage was gone. I was tenser now than I’d been all week.

  ‘Think I’ll find another masseur.’

  ‘That’d be right. Push away everyone who cares about you. Keep going, pretty soon you’ll be all alone. Then you’ll be happy. You gotta know what you want to get what you want.’

  I didn’t bother with the last few buttons or my shoelaces, just jerked the door open.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  I stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a prick, I know.’

  I wanted to agree, but couldn’t. I was a prick too.

  Anthony let out a long breath, then said, ‘I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’ve just got my own shit to deal with now, that’s all. I can’t handle Mum’s and Dad’s as well. I just . . . I’m sorry, I need help.’

  I stood in the doorway as Anthony zipped up the gym bag, sprayed disinfectant on the massage bed and wiped it down in angry swipes.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, suddenly ashamed of my behaviour and looking at my brother in what seemed like the first time in ages. Really looking at him.

  ‘Remember when we were kids, Rubes?’ he said. ‘We had that storm come through town, after the Ash Wednesday fires finally ended? Mum and Dad were out. We sat on the roof, watched the storm brewing on the hills. Remember?’

  I nodded and came back in the room. For sure I remembered. It was February 1983, we were teenagers, and our farmhouse had survived the worst bushfires in living memory. Then there were the clouds. They were dark and angry, a mixture of black and orange, and they marched down from the hills as though God had sent them to earth to extinguish the blaze. I’ll never forget running back inside, stealing a sixpack of Dad’s beer, climbing onto the roof and smoking a joint with Anthony as the lightning started.

  ‘We hadn’t seen decent rain in years,’ I said. ‘When it eventually came, we just sat up there and let it soak us.’

  Anthony sat on his desk.

  ‘Mum and Dad came home early. We shit ourselves, tried to hide the beer and the hooch, remember that?’

  Yeah, I remembered that too. I’d climbed off the roof, soaking wet. Anthony had tossed down empty beer bottles and I’d bloody dropped one but the rain on the roof shielded the noise. Afterwards, we lied to Mum and Dad, said we’d been at Jacko’s place.

  ‘The lie was never gonna work,’ I said, remembering Mum’s fierce reaction and her handy use of the wooden spoon. ‘Dad smelt the beer on us a mile off, told Mum to deal with us. I suppose one look in the fridge he would’ve seen ’em missing too.’

  Anthony laughed wryly. ‘Didn’t get done for the hooch though, did we?’

  ‘No. Not the hooch.’

  Anthony went silent then and I felt an internal panic.

  ‘Andy, what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s Chloe,’ he said at last. ‘I found these in her bedroom.’

  He handed me a bag with three pink tablets in it, each stamped with the Mercedes symbol.

  ‘Ecstasy,’ I said.

  Anthony nodded gravely. Nuclear family nightmare.

  ‘You found these in her bedroom?’

  ‘In one of her drawers.’

  I put the pills on the desk and leant against the wall with the muscle man on it.

  ‘Searching her room, Andy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ I waited.

  ‘Well, just as bloody well I did. What if it goes on? She could end up in hospital, or worse.’ Anthony rubbed his face. ‘I should’ve seen it, I s’pose. All the late nights and weird music. Whatever happened to seeing a band at the local pub?’

  I often wondered the same thing.

  ‘No bands worth seeing any more,’ I said. ‘Too many popstar shows.’

  ‘Fuckin’ joke. I haven’t told Gabrielle yet, don’t know if I should. Not sure how she’ll handle it. Would you talk to her for me, Rubes?’

  ‘Who, Gabrielle?’

  ‘No, Chloe.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said, letting out a low whistle. ‘You should talk to her, Andy. You’re her father.’

  ‘Oh, come on! You know kids don’t listen to their parents. You’re a cop, for Christ’s sake. You’ve worked in the Drug Squad. She’ll listen to you.’ He handed the fifty-dollar note back. ‘Come on, you owe me that much. Keep your money, just help me out.’

  I stared at the money, realising I had no choice. He needed my help.

  ‘She’s still a good kid, Andy. It’s probably just a phase. All kids go through it. Even we did.’

  ‘What, a bit of hooch? We never took this shit.’

  ‘It could be worse, you know? A lot worse.’

  ‘I envy you, Rubes,’ Anthony said, staring at the photo on his desk. ‘No kids to worry about. Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier like that, if I only had to care about myself.’

  I said again that I’d talk to her.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ Anthony picked up the bag of pills. ‘What do I do with these?’

  ‘Put them back or she’ll know you’ve been snooping.’

  Anthony scoffed at me, said there was no way he’d give them back.

  ‘Well, if you want my advice, tell her you found them in the laundry or she’ll never trust you again. She’ll just get better at hiding it, maybe even move out. Go live with druggies, do all the rave parties, scoff pills every weekend. Next thing you know, she’ll come back when you’re not home and piss off with the DVD player. Imagine that.’

  Anthony emptied the pills into his rubbish bin. ‘She’ll never trust me. Hell, I’ll never trust her.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  I picked up the picture on the desk and stared at it. On the surface they were a happy family. What about beneath the surface? As far as I knew they had always been happy. Sure, there were normal tantrums and fights, but the kids attended good schools and they never went without anything. Then again, you’d be surprised at the sort of homes we got called to after a domestic blue. And I couldn’t tell you how many smashed picture frames I’d seen. Sometimes bigger houses just hid bigger problems.

  I put the picture down and thought about Anthony’s recount of the storm in 1983. We’d been busted for drinking the beer, but Anthony had taken the rap and said it was his idea. In truth it was the other way around. I’d stolen the beer from the fridge. I’d even rolled the joint. But being the eldest, Anthony accepted responsibility and Mum’s wrath with the wooden spoon. And it wasn’t the only time he’d taken the rap for me. There was the car accident. Not serious, but again I avoided accountability. Then there were the dope plants among the tomatoes, parties when our folks went away and the girls from down the street in our bedroom late at night. Bringing the memory up was clever manipulation on Anthony’s behalf. A cunning reminder of how many times he’d been there for me.

  ‘Andy, if you don’t want to take my advice, why did you even ask me to talk to Chloe? I mean, obviously I don’t know anything about kids. Like you said, I don’t have any of my own to worry about. So what the hell would I know?’

  Anthony stared up at me with a pained expression.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, rummaging in the bin for the pills. ‘I shouldn’t have said it like that, but I’m not giving them back. I’ll tell her I found them in the bathroom. Just like you s
ay, okay?’

  ‘Laundry.’

  ‘Whatever. Just talk to her, will you?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it, but not at the party tomorrow night. I’ll do it in my own time.’

  ‘Sure, whenever. Thanks, bro.’

  I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s going to be okay, mate. A lot of kids go through this and they come out the other end in one piece.’

  He just nodded, eyes fixed on the picture. ‘What about Mum and Dad?’ he said after a moment. ‘You can’t forget about them either.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  Even as I said it I knew I wasn’t being honest. Why was it that I had time and energy to spend with my elderly neighbour, Edgar, but was avoiding contact with my parents? I left Anthony then, knowing something had to change.

  5

  THE DRIVE BACK TO ST KILDA took me through Albert Park where the Formula One race would be held in less than a month’s time. The normally lush lawn that surrounded the lake was brown and patchy. Even the lake itself looked like a dam on a barren farm left to dry out and die.

  I plugged the earpiece into my mobile phone and dialled the St Kilda watch-house, asking to be put through to Cassie Withers. Because she’d left early last night, she’d agreed to pull the quick changeover, meaning today she would be back on duty for the afternoon shift. I slowed for a red light as she came on the line.

  ‘Cass, it’s Rubes. How’d you go at the hospital?’

  ‘Imagine spending six hours in a cheap plastic chair, then you’ve got it.’

  She left it at that and I figured she didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. Eckles was probably somewhere in the squad room watching her. A Salvation Army volunteer approached my window shaking a donation can but I let him walk by.

  ‘What’s up?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘I need a favour. Can you check who made the ID this morning on the overdose and let me know if we’ve got a current address? Kid’s name was Dallas Boyd. I also need a date of birth.’

  ‘Ah, okay. Why?’

  ‘Never mind, I’m just filling in the boxes.’

  I heard keys tapping and figured she was checking the system. The light went green but the car in front didn’t move. I blew the horn until it did.

  ‘The kid was sixteen,’ she said. ‘Born 1 November 1992.’

  I looked around for somewhere to write it down but my daybook was on the back seat, so instead I scribbled it on the back of my hand.

  ‘Still there?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. The ID. Can you check the incident fact sheet and tell me who made the ID?’

  ‘I don’t need an IFS to tell you that. Eckles took someone down to make the ID after lunch. Let me check his name.’

  I changed lanes at the St Kilda junction and headed south towards the beach. Two hookers stood on the corner of Alma Road, hands on hips, gaunt faces hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Recognising one of them, I flashed my headlights. She lifted her skirt and flashed her leg back in sarcasm as Cassie picked up the phone.

  ‘A social worker,’ she said. ‘Works at the crisis centre on Carlisle.’

  ‘Will Novak?’ I asked.

  ‘Good memory.’

  ‘I’m still a detective, Cass,’ I said, then wondered aloud why the kid’s parents hadn’t made the ID.

  ‘Nobody’s saying any different,’ she replied, adding, ‘The address I have for the parents is a commission flat in Collingwood. The high-rise complex on Hoddle Street.’

  ‘Yep, I know it.’

  ‘What are you playing at, Rubes?’ Cassie prodded. ‘We’re done on this. I’ve got your inquest brief in front me. Nil suspicious circs, it says, right here in your own handwriting. Why all the questions?’

  ‘I’m back on deck tomorrow morning. I’ll fill you in then. Thanks.’

  I ended the call before she had a chance to ask anything else and an uneasy feeling settled on me. She was my partner and friend and I’d broken the pact: in us we trust. But then for all I knew, she probably didn’t think I was ready to be back at work either.

  I parked outside a corner property bordered by a six-foot-high brick fence. A sign on a gate read ‘Carlisle Accommodation & Recovery Service’. CARS operated out of an old mansion donated by its late owner, an elderly woman whose children had drowned in a boating accident in the 1950s. Her bequest had caused a shitfight among the remaining family members when she passed away in 1982, but her wish held up and CARS had been providing support to the street people of St Kilda ever since. As far as I knew, Will Novak had worked there since the organisation first opened its doors.

  I walked through the front gate with my daybook under my arm, up a gravel path to a front porch that stretched the entire length of the three-storey house. Beautiful bay windows with ornate leadlight lined either side of a double-fronted door wide enough to fit a car through. A teenager in a striped tracksuit sat on the steps leading to the porch, rolling a cigarette. He made me as a cop even before I walked past.

  ‘How are ya, sarge?’ he drawled.

  ‘Not bad,’ I replied, noting the deep shadows under the boy’s eyes and the shrunken cheekbones that were the telltale signs of addiction. His eyes were mere slits, he hadn’t shaved in a few days and his hair needed a wash. Probably only fifteen or sixteen, but he looked so much older. Heroin does that. It beats the kids down, steals their youth.

  ‘Will Novak in?’

  ‘Dunno. What’s it to you?’ he said, not even looking up from his cigarette.

  ‘Just want to talk to him.’

  I opened the front door but stopped as the boy mumbled something.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Said he’s out back,’ the kid said. ‘Last I seen he was pretty upset. We all are.’

  ‘Upset?’

  ‘About Dall. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘You knew Dallas Boyd?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘May I help you?’ a voice said from the doorway.

  The first thing I noticed about Will Novak was that he’d shaved his head and grown a neat goatee beard. Last time I’d seen him, more than a year ago, he’d had long hair and was dressed in a T-shirt and boardies, standard youth-worker attire. Now he wore a white business shirt tucked into a pair of beige slacks with brown boat shoes. I wondered if he’d worn the outfit to look professional at the ID or if this was now his usual get-up. I was about to produce my badge when he recognised me.

  ‘Rubens? Rubens McCauley?’

  ‘Yeah, hello, Will.’

  We shook hands and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and drained.

  ‘This is . . .’ he stammered. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a bad day.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘Sure, follow me.’

  He led me down a hall towards the rear of the building, past a reception desk and another hallway. Posters advertising different welfare services hung on the walls. The building was old and musty, and eerily quiet. Floorboards creaked under our feet. Stopping, Novak gestured for me to enter an office that overlooked a courtyard surrounded by bench seats and a garden with people standing in the shade, smoking cigarettes.

  He eased into a chair behind a desk stained with coffee and old age and offered me a seat in a chair opposite.

  ‘What a day,’ he said, staring out the window, looking slightly dazed. ‘Good to see you again. Shame it’s not a happier occasion.’

  I nodded. I’d first met Will Novak while working a case in which a parolee was wanted for the rape of a local prostitute. Novak knew where the offender was hiding and tipped me off, and we arrested the guy without much delay. Around the same time I’d moved into my flat and was in the process of pulling down a wall between the entrance and the lounge. I ended up hiring Will’s brother – a carpenter – to do the job. The wall turned out to be load bearing and required a few hands on deck, so Novak – who wa
s himself quite handy and often laboured for his brother – helped. A year or so later Ella hired them both to remodel the ensuite in her own apartment.

  ‘How’re you holding up?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I’ve been through this several times over the years, but never with somebody like Dallas.’

  ‘He was a client of yours, I take it?’

  A weary nod. ‘I guess there’s no harm in discussing him now, is there? I mean, it’s different when they’re . . . when they’re still with us.’

  ‘Wanna tell me about him?’

  Novak nodded and clasped his hands together. ‘Dallas was one of my success stories. I first began seeing him when he was eight. He came to live here at the age of ten. For the first few years he was a great example of what can be achieved with positive care and the right support structures. I made some genuine inroads, but it wasn’t easy. We tried placing him with foster parents a few times, but he rebelled. Later on, he went through bouts of early drug use, including heroin at the age of fourteen, before ending up in Malmsbury for an armed rob.’

  I made a note to contact Juvenile Justice about Dallas Boyd’s stint in kiddie prison.

  ‘What happened when he got out?’ I asked.

  ‘He was referred back to me by one of the outreach programs we’re affiliated with in the juvenile centres. Anyway, he came back here and got clean. I helped him find his own accommodation and, as far as I knew, things were going well for him. He hadn’t used in over a year and . . .’ Novak tore a tissue from a box on his desk and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just you work so hard to help these kids, and just when you think they’re in the clear, they relapse and in a second it’s all over. It’s a bloody tragedy.’

  I looked out the window, giving him time to compose himself. Outside, a young woman squashed a cigarette in an ashtray and walked towards a doorway on the other side of the courtyard. She wore pyjamas so I figured she was a live-in client and the doorway led to the accommodation rooms.