I glared at the people gathered around the field and in the stands, taking note of those who were especially vile; I might not be able to do anything, but I could dream. A few seats over from me sat a man with soft white hair and a bushy moustache and beard. A silver-tipped walking stick was propped next to him. He wore a navy and red chequered flannel shirt, grey tracksuit bottoms and a pair of expensive brown Polo loafers that looked out of place; the sort of gift a determined daughter-in-law would give, trying to smarten up the old man. At first I thought he looked familiar, until I realised it was the seen-one-seen-them-all phenomenon: he was standard granddad fare. He was also a single point of calm in an ocean of crazy. I couldn’t tell which kid he belonged to and he wasn’t yelling, just smiling gently, and I appreciated his dignity in the midst of the uproar. When he caught me staring we exchanged nods, then directed our attention back to the game.
Lizzie got possession of the ball and danced it towards goal, with me making encouraging noises even though there was no way she’d pick my voice from the cacophony. Someone bumped into me and sat too close, setting me off-balance until I realised Ziggi had returned from his quest for food. He shuffled about on the bench and I considered warning him about splinters when I noticed he’d bought one hotdog and one Coke. I was about to start on him when the shouting went up a level and my attention was drawn back to the pitch.
There was a fight, and when Lizzie was nowhere to be seen in the circle of small bodies I knew right where she’d be: in the middle of it, on her way to three-match suspensionville.
Leaving Ziggi to his lunch – and hoping heartily that it would be disgusting – I headed towards the cluster. When I finally managed to separate Lizzie from her opponent, she had scratches on one cheek and a blossoming bruise on the other. Her knees had dirt and grass ingrained in them and her hair was sticking up at all angles, a real pin-up girl for Bedraggled magazine. She gave me a shamefaced look, while her foe – the brat who’d been tripping her all afternoon – wailed like a recently neutered cat over his broken nose.
I looked from Lizzie to the group of glowering parents and back again. There was only one thing to say. ‘Good shot.’
*
Being sent off the field in disgrace required the liberal application of ice cream. Had I been an actual parent, I might have worried about positive reinforcement of negative behaviour and other grown-up buzzwords; instead, I tried to salvage something fun from the day for Lizzie while I figured out how to explain it all to Mel. Perhaps some kind of martial art would be a safer – and less violent – weekend activity?
After a Cold Rock sundae big enough to send an entire kindergarten into a sugar frenzy, we pulled up outside my place and Lizzie ran from the cab like a rabbit on speed. She was at her front fence before either Ziggi or I had managed to haul ourselves out, but as I watched she stumbled, then froze, her right hand reaching for the gate.
‘Lizzie, what’s wrong?’ I hurried over, and within a couple of steps I heard what had stopped her: two people yelling from inside her home. One was Mel, obviously trying to be calm and placating, but shouting in order to be heard; the other voice was also female, but this one was screeching, and refusing to be either calmed or placated.
‘Always so fucking perfect!’ came next, at impressive volume. ‘But you never want to help me! What about me?’
‘I think it’s Aunty Rose,’ Lizzie whispered, and I was afraid she was right.
Rose Wilkes, Mel’s older sister: in no particular order, an alcoholic, the stealer of Mel’s husband, and not a little bit insane. Lizzie’s father had waltzed off to Thailand with Rose four years ago, deciding freedom and wild adventure beat marriage and fatherhood any day. She’d left him five months later, in monstrous debt, and with a bankrupted business. Who says karma’s dead? Rose reappeared every eight to twelve months to demand money from her sister; there’d be a new commercial scheme, or another round of ‘rehab’ at some top-of-the-range health spa, or a donation to whichever fashionable new spiritual leader was touting a path to enlightenment paved with hundred-dollar notes. Mel’s sense of family made her an easy mark; she had made the mistake of allowing herself to be guilted into ‘helping’ the first time, then realised that Rose didn’t understand the phrase ‘Just this once’.
The front door flew back on its hinges and Cyclone Rose powered along the little elevated bridge leading from the verandah to the footpath. She wasn’t particularly big, but neither was a shithouse rat and I didn’t want to tangle with one of those either. Any prettiness Rose had once had was long gone, eaten away by bitterness. Now she was all wrinkles, orange tan and white-blonde-bleached hair as brittle as desert-dried bones.
I pulled Lizzie out of the way, because her aunt was showing no sign of slowing down as she stormed towards us. She barely gave the little girl a glance, though I got glared at while she headed to a car that had seen better days, and a long time ago at that. The engine started unwillingly, roaring with all the conviction of a dying lion. As she took off the muffler scraped on the asphalt.
I heard footsteps on the verandah and turned back to see Mel, looking exhausted. She held out her arms and Lizzie ran to her.
‘Money?’ I asked, and my neighbour laughed bitterly.
‘New guru, new needs. She thinks it’s a good idea I take out a second mortgage.’ Her home was the single thing Mel had managed to keep from her marriage other than Lizzie, and it was all she had. When I was little, I’d sometimes yearned for a sibling, but Rose Wilkes was the perfect demonstration of the benefits of being an only child.
‘You can choose your friends—’ Mel muttered, stroking her daughter’s hair.
‘—but not your relatives,’ I finished.
‘More’s the pity. Lucky my last client had gone before Rose showed up,’ she said, then looked down as Lizzie’s head. ‘So how was the game?’
I figured the suspension issue wasn’t going to matter after this.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Ms Fassbinder?’
The phone had dragged me from sleep, but I made a noise that must have sounded positive because she went on, ‘It’s Eurycleia – Eurycleia Kallos.’
Kallos? Aha.
‘I need to talk to you. Can we meet?’
‘When? Where?’ I peered over the David-shaped lump at the clock on my bedside table. The lurid red numbers said five a.m. On a Sunday, no less. Evidently the powers above and below had determined I should never sleep in again. ‘What’s open at this hour?’
‘Oh, is it early?’ She sounded surprised, and I wondered how often she slept, whether Circadian rhythms ever touched her.
Instead of ‘Yes, it’s bloody early!’ I managed to say, ‘I’ll meet you about six at the café at Kangaroo Point.’ Experience has taught me to take chances when they offer themselves, because you never know how long they’ll hang around. Surely the Cliffs Café would be open, given the number of cyclists the city had spawned in recent years? As far as I could tell they were all always riding to or from weekend breakfasts. It would also keep me occupied until my nine a.m. appointment, although I’d rather hoped David would be doing that.
I hung up and texted my driver, feeling petty satisfaction that I wasn’t the only one whose morning was being ruined. Snuggling back down, I pressed my nose in between David’s shoulder blades as he snored softly and closed my eyes. Fifteen more minutes, that was all I wanted. But I couldn’t get back to sleep, no matter that it was still dark outside. Five minutes later I surrendered and went to have a shower, keeping the water as hot as I could stand in the forlorn hope of staying warmer for longer out of doors.
David didn’t stir while I clumped around getting dressed in the outfit I’d carefully chosen last night, not even when I kissed him goodbye and left a red lipstick mark on his cheek; he was still snoring contentedly as I closed the front door.
On the porch I paused and watched my breath turning into frosty curlicues rising in the reluctant morning sun.
*
Ziggi dropped me off, then went in search of a fare or two to justify rising at sparrowfart while I ambled towards the café. I spotted Eurycleia at the best of the cliff-edge tables, the one with the great view of the city and the river. In the daylight she looked nearer to what I imagined her true age to be. Her faint smile was sad, but that might simply have been regret at asking me along. She was still beautiful, though, all cheekbones and eyes, long hair twisted into a silver chignon, body encased in a close-fitting, knee-length, sky-blue cashmere coat. In spite of my tailored navy woollen dress and expensive coat I felt a little dowdy. Her ebony leather boots were handmade, and so well done that there was no way to tell that hers contained clawed feet and mine did not, and the handbag on the table looked so soft I wanted to stroke it. I guess you don’t live thousands of years without learning something about investment pieces. Idly, I wondered if she’d had her legs done the same as her daughter, the feathers plucked or lasered away until there was only smooth skin wrapped about warped feet.
She looked up as if sensing my presence, and her smile became strangely formal; almost as if it was something she’d learned, like she had to remind herself every day not to eat the humans. I slid into the seat across from her, but before I could say Hello, a waitress had appeared, glaring at me and flicking her notepad with the tip of a pen. One of the youngsters from the nest. I ordered pancakes and bacon with maple syrup (one needs some constants in life), hoping she and Aspasia had nothing in common. Around us, the winter wind kicked up its heels everywhere – except in the space where we sat. Neat trick: the air surrounding our table was distinctly warmer than it should have been.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Eurycleia began.
‘I didn’t think you’d call,’ I lied.
‘I gave it a lot of thought. With Teles gone . . .’
Her voice drifted off, but her smirk said she wasn’t going to tell me who her source was. Plainly the grapevine had been in overdrive since Serena’s murder, and the sirens were smart; they’d surely have sources in the Police Department. The conclave must be on hyper-alert now another of their number had dropped from the sky.
‘How can I help you? I’m assuming this isn’t just a girly catch-up.’
‘Delightful company though you are, no.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering if you’d found out anything about my daughter.’
I looked down to make sure I wasn’t wearing a Gormless Idiot T-shirt, as Eurycleia had obviously decided I was some kind of easy mark. She’d gone about it all wrong if she wanted to know what I knew: no one milks me for information, especially not before I’ve had my first coffee. This meeting would be quid pro quo or nothing.
‘Do you know where the baby is?’ I asked. Her lips twitched, her expression tightened and I could tell she was reassessing me. ‘That little girl’s been alone for a long while. Are your secrets really worth her life?’
She said mournfully, ‘No. But I don’t know where she is, and I fear I never will.’
‘You should have told me there was a baby. You should have told me whatever you knew then,’ I said. ‘I could have moved faster. Now I’m following cold trails.’
‘I didn’t – I don’t know why Serena called you. I didn’t – don’t – know if I can trust you,’ she admitted. There was an edge to her tone; I was getting the impression that Eurycleia Kallos didn’t like not being in charge and she certainly didn’t like anyone or anything she couldn’t control.
‘I’m the person – the only person – trying to find out who killed your daughter. I’m the only person looking for your granddaughter,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, have you discovered anything?’
I sighed and shook my head. ‘I’ve been right through her house and her shop and I’ve been to Callie’s crèche, but I’ve found no leads, no nothing. Do you know who the father is?’
Her mouth twisted in distaste. ‘No, but it’s certainly not that jewellery designer.’
I studied her face, then said baldly, ‘I think you’re lying. I think you know very well who the father is. And for your information, that jewellery designer is the one other person who I am certain has Calliope’s best interests at heart, which I don’t believe you do.’ My breakfast arrived and I made use of her silence to start on the maple syrup-covered pancakes and crispy bacon. Silence works its own magic on people, makes them blurt things out to fill the void, so right now, breakfast and confession equalled two birds with one stone.
‘I . . .’ She seemed to be weighing things up.
I didn’t offer encouragement, just waited.
‘I didn’t know there was a child, not at first.’
I raised another forkful: more bacon, more pancake, chew, chew, chew. David would find next to nothing for breakfast at my place, but any guilt I might have felt was smoothed over when I thought about the extra sleep he was getting. I decided I could live with myself.
‘I hadn’t spoken to Serena for a year or more. We . . . fell out.’ For a tiny fractured moment she shifted, showing me what was beneath the beautiful façade: the teeth, the talons, the fire in the depths of the eyes. Remember not to eat the humans. She’d been – and was still – so angry, in such a rage that it had caused a breach between mother and daughter that would never have a chance to be mended.
I finished my mouthful. ‘Why?’
‘No reason that concerns you,’ she almost spat, then got control of herself, stirring the cup of tea in front of her: classic displacement activity.
I blew out a maple-fragrant breath. ‘Is there anyone who might know more? The other sirens? Did she have close friends in the nest?’
‘Teles and Raidne were like her sisters. But Teles won’t be telling any tales . . .’ She broke off and looked down at her teacup before continuing, ‘Serena . . . When we fought, she stopped coming to the conclave. I don’t know who else she might have stayed in contact with – no one would’ve dared tell me.’ She lowered her eyelashes and I thought it might be to cover her shame.
‘Where might I find Raidne?’
‘I’ll give her your details so she can contact you; I doubt she’ll be very receptive to a cold call from the likes of you.’
‘Lady, I’m not the one trying to kill you. I’m the one trying to find out who crushed your daughter’s heart, then threw her off a building. Don’t be getting uppity.’ I scribbled my address onto yet another business card and flicked it across the table. As I stood up I pointed to the bruise on my temple. ‘Did you send one of your little fledglings to teach me a lesson?’
Her stare told me not, but I wasn’t quite sure I believed her. ‘Don’t take too long about getting back to me. Siren corpses are piling up and it appears I’m the only one worrying about it.’
I left Eurycleia with the bill.
I could only hope Raidne would be more accommodating – Hell, I could only hope Raidne would get in contact. I’d have tried to find her myself, but without a surname to research, even Ziggi’s connections wouldn’t be able to do much.
The air was icy outside Eurycleia’s little bubble and the wind picked at me as if to get revenge for having cheated it for a while. I needed to walk off the pancakes, clear my head and get things straight. Stone steps cut into the cliff led down to a path beside the river. People wearing too few clothes and tied with too few ropes for my liking were already clambering on the sheer rock walls. Groups of middle-aged men wearing Lycra, that most unforgiving of fabrics, rode past on expensive bikes as less fit individuals puffed on the grass, throwing medicine balls at each other, doing sit-ups and skipping ropes, while very fit instructors yelled at them in a manner meant to be motivational. I took the long way, meandering along the mangrove walk, stopping from time to time to watch the river roll past.
Out in the middle of the current was the Boatman, his cloak, roughly the same colour as the water, flapping lazily in the breeze. In the bow of the boat a huddled pair of souls clutched at each other. I couldn’t tell who they were – a married couple, carried o
ff together, or simply two strangers finding the only comfort available to them on this last journey?
The Boatman raised his head casually, found me and gave what might from anyone else have passed as a jaunty wave. I raised my own hand politely, and watched the mist rise around the vessel as it continued its journey out towards the sea. In a few seconds I couldn’t see him any more, nor even the movement of the water where his oar dug in deeply to steer the course.
I returned to the road at the base of the cliffs and continued on downriver, until pinpricks started running across the nape of my neck; I sensed I was being watched. Looking around, I discovered I was somewhere below the garden area of St Mary’s Church. I started craning back and squinting, trying to find my watcher, but there was nothing to see but the rock face and some determined climbing vines. I thought it was entirely possible my imagination was working overtime.
My head ached, a combination of insufficient sleep and excess frustration. Thoughts chased each other around and around while I kept walking, not really paying attention to where I was going, conscious only of the river on one side and the cliffs turning into houses and apartment blocks on the other. When I reached the outskirts of the park beneath the Story Bridge, the path wound through a maze of trees and bushes. Far above, traffic rushed and clattered, the noise drifting down to mingle with the busy sound of water flowing past. On my left was a railing, and below it, a small beach. I leaned my arms against the metal piping, which was cold even through my coat sleeves, but it took me a moment to realise that on the sand below an almost clothed young couple were rolling to and fro on a tartan picnic blanket, apparently oblivious to the winter breeze coming off the water. I was about to retreat, meaning to give them privacy, but another movement caught my eye.
At the base of the bridge was a wall of stone and cement, and in its face was a dark hole; one of the old tunnels. Something spun out from the darkness, but it took me a few seconds to realise I was looking at the thing that had appeared on Ziggi’s dodgy phone video, now much bigger. Maybe it had gathered stuff to itself from the drains and sewers. The courting pair were so caught up in each other that they didn’t smell the dreadful foetid stench wafting up from the beach, or hear the awful whirring as it hurtled towards them. I opened my mouth to yell, then felt a cold hand press over my lips and an arm around my waist pull me backwards.
Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 Page 13
