by Cate Kendall
His first few days at the Moe cop-shop had been spent making coffee for the senior sergeant, shuffling paperwork and cruising the town’s main drag in the divvy van. But now here he was, enveloped in the black syrup of a moonless night, creeping down the side of a shabby brick-veneer house on the ragged edge of town.
His size ten boots seemed to magnify his every step and he cursed inwardly as he tripped awkwardly over broken toys and empty cans. The fog of his breath swirled around him in the bitter air, clouding his view. He could hear only the thrumming of blood in his ears and the clatter of his nervous teeth.
The call had come in five minutes ago as he and Senior Constable Harbour trawled the main street waiting for the pubs to spew out their usual collection of Friday-night drunks, brawlers and bitch fights. In a small town there was little else to do at the end of the week than try to out-drink your mates.
Now, as Damien waited with trembling hands, he heard his companion shout, ‘Police, open up!’ Harbour never got tired of saying that. After fifteen years in the force, he was a power junkie who loved the authority of his uniform. He had consistently followed a clear model of policing – punch first; ask questions later. Of course nowadays he had to use the namby-pamby capsicum spray first, but he usually managed to get a few good solid belts in with his ASP on most arrests. Anything else was too good for the low-life scum he dealt with. If he started acting like some of the soft cocks in the city he’d soon lose respect in the town.
In the backyard, Damien’s pale face was vivid against his dark uniform, and he knew that he was a beacon, an unavoidable target for the shooter that might be lurking in the house. Then he saw the point of entry: the bathroom window jimmied open, the torn lace curtain.
Adrenalin surged through him as Harbour’s shout echoed around him. He knew the strategy. Just like dropping a ferret in a rabbit hole. The terrified bunnies always ran out the back-door and into the hunter’s nets. Sure enough, seconds later a wiry figure exploded in a flurry of arms and legs out of the bathroom window, and Thompson, not sure whether to vomit or piss, decided instead to dive toward the offender, arms outstretched.
The suspect nimbly avoided him by weaving to the right and sprinting full pelt through the yard.
‘Aw, shit!’ Damien cursed, knowing he’d be a laughing stock at the station. ‘HE’S GETTING AWAY!’ he bellowed to Harbour as he gave chase.
The suspect, in black beanie and hooded sweats, ducked easily around the patio furniture and over a pile of bricks. Thompson was close behind until he caught his ankle in an unfilled hole, stumbled and then managed to right himself with the help of a rusty Hills Hoist. He threw himself at the paling fence as the offender began to scale upwards, lunging forward and grabbing the climber’s upper body to pull him down.
‘Fuck me! Tits!’ he yelled. Thompson was a shy lad who had seen few live breasts in his time, and touched even fewer, so his first reaction was to release the young lady and apologise for his lack of decorum.
‘THOMPSON, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? NAIL THE BASTARD!’ Harbour screamed as he watched the newbie releasing their perp.
Suddenly remembering who he was and what he was doing, Thompson grabbed again at the offender, holding her tightly by the hips as they both fell to the ground.
‘Name?’
‘Fuck off, pig.’
The station’s harsh fluorescent lighting emphasised the pale cheeks and dark-circled eyes of the young girl as she slumped on the hard bench seat, scowling from behind her black dreadlocks.
‘Now Mikaylah, why do you have to be like that? What’s gotten into you lately? Come on, you know I’ve got a job to do here.’ Sergeant Higgins sighed as he dropped his pen and leaned his beefy arms on the desk to appraise the sullen young teen. ‘Now come on, let’s try it again … name?’ He picked distractedly at the dry, flaking skin on his elbows while he waited for the response he knew wasn’t coming.
Ready to chuck with disgust, Mikaylah turned away. Ian Higgins had always been a tosser, ever since he’d dobbed on her when he’d sprung her ditching school in Grade Five.
‘Okay, I’ll do it then … Name: Mikaylah Boomhauer, Address: Is it thirty or thirty-two Old Mill Road?’
Given the full force of her ugliest stare he sighed once more and went back to his form. ‘I’ll just put thirty-two Old Mill Road, Moe. I’ll double-check with your dad when he gets here.’
‘Dad? Oh, man! What’d ya have to go and call that dick-head for?’
‘Mikaylah, these are serious charges. It’s not just shop-lifting or truanting this time. Breaking and entering is heavy stuff, and, as you’re a minor, your parents need to be informed.’
‘Fuckwit,’ she muttered under her breath, sullenly sliding her eyes sideways.
‘Yes, well, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’ And he went back to his paperwork, licking the end of his pencil with gusto.
‘Look, in view of how unhelpful you’re being, I’m going to ask you to go and wait in the lunch-room, get yourself a coffee and I’ll fill in the paperwork without you.’
Higgins fired a final shot to her hunched shoulders as she left. ‘You’re a real worry, Mikaylah, I don’t know how such a bright kid like you has fallen into this crap.’
Mikaylah slunk off to the room at the back of the station. She knew where to find it; this wasn’t the first time she’d been a guest of the boys in blue.
She picked up a plastic spoon thick with old coffee and sugar grains and shovelled three heaped loads of International Roast into a Styrofoam cup. She dumped in three – no, what the hell – four sugars and smelt the milk from the fridge before adding a splash. Then she sat grimly, scowling at the steam that snaked from the cup – she needed this hit now, not in ten fucking minutes, she thought, blowing at it to cool it faster.
She was jumpy and itchy. She rifled through a stained and scratched Tupperware container of Arnott’s Assorteds and hit paydirt, finding two Monte Carlos at the bottom. She plucked one out and prised it open to get to the creamy filling and the sugar fix she was desperately craving.
Sighing, she munched on the bickie and considered her awful position. Like, hello?? She didn’t make a habit of knocking off other people’s gear. It’s not like she didn’t have a reason. It’s not like she wasn’t totally desperate.
Desperate to get that fucking Tony Marecci off her back.
He and his custom-painted panel van had been a regular fixture at the school gates as long as anyone could remember. A vulture waiting for the fresh young things to fall so he could feast on their demise. His patter was polished: his free Mars Bars; hot chips on cold days and his thin guise of mateship were welcome balms to troubled souls. He made a fortune from the shit he sold cheap to kids who didn’t know any better and couldn’t stop once they’d started.
But of course, nothing’s really cheap, and when Tony had urged his newest customer, Mikaylah, into more debt than she could hope to afford, he offered to let her ‘clear the books’ with a small gesture. His ugly knuckled hands had karate-adjusted his package to illustrate his idea of the sort of gesture that was required. ‘I wouldn’t touch that poxy cock with a barge pole,’ Mikaylah had hissed at him, her throat constricting with fear.
Tony was a little weed of a bloke; stunted, scrawny and mean. The sparse black fibres of his mo did little to disguise his cruel lips, which constantly housed a smouldering Peter Stuyvesant. His head was permanently tilted to the side as his eyes squinted through a coil of ciggie smoke. His weak chin was a battleground of acne scars, punctuated with piercings. Lurid satin boxers hung from his bony arse, atop baggy jeans that sagged to his knees. He jingled about the school gate each afternoon as the chains linked through his belt loops slapped in time to his loping walk.
He was the worst kind of travelling salesman, peddling his wares strictly to the vulnerable teenage market and spending no longer than necessary in the town. He’d laughed in Mikaylah’s face when she’d refused the sweet deal he’d offered her – she’d be back, he t
hought as he watched her stride away. He’d adjusted his cock in a well-practised motion and run his tongue over his festering teeth – they always came back.
In the coffee room Mikaylah shook off her tough-girl veneer and leaned forward on her folded arms. Her clear blue eyes filled with desperation, her bottom lip began to tremble and suddenly she looked more like a sad eight-year-old girl than a wayward teen.
What was she going to do? It was two hundred and eighty-five bucks. For chrissakes, how was she going to get it by the Monday deadline?
The door slammed open and the mask was slapped back on. Her mouth became hard and cold and her eyes steely as she met her stepfather’s ugly look.
‘Right, moron, get to the car. You’re in so much strife, you stupid little tart.’
Mikaylah walked past him through the doorway. As he turned to follow her she instinctively flinched and pulled herself out of his reach.
The fight reverberated around the fibro shack for hours after Mikaylah stormed past her grim-faced mother and slammed her bedroom door. With her head jammed under her pillow the words were muted but the anger swelled in the walls and filled the house.
Mikaylah eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep, waking just before dawn, parched and momentarily confused about the heaviness in her head and the pain behind her eyes. Her gut twisted as she remembered her predicament.
Seeking water, she opened her door and heard her parents still muttering in the lounge.
‘She’s your fuckin’ kid, Darleen, why can’t you do something about her?’
‘Listen, Carl, she’s been your kid too for the last twelve years, so go easy on the blame.’ Darleen lit a fresh Alpine off the dying butt in her nicotine-stained fingertips. Thank Christ she’d bought another packet that afternoon after her shift at Ritchies. She’d have bought two if she’d known she’d be still smoking in the wee hours.
Her pink ‘Funky Mummy’ T-shirt nightie, the glitter long washed away, hung over her saggy breasts and fell to her knees, her legs bare and fuzzy with winter regrowth – why bother shaving when you were in jeans all day, she reckoned. Her mauve moccasin slippers covered bright-orange-painted toenails. ‘She’s weird, you know, ever since Johnno died. I know she was only a kid but she kind of went into a shell.’
Carl leaned back in his Jason Recliner, scratching the expansive gut that escaped over his belt and fell onto his thighs. He was concentrating hard on ignoring her.
‘It’s like she doesn’t fit in,’ Darleen went on. ‘She never just hangs out at the shops like the other girls; she doesn’t have blokes after her. I mean why would she? It’s not like she dresses like other girls.’
‘You’re right there,’ Carl said. ‘How’s that Christie from over the road? The little tops and the short skirts … Phwoarr!’
‘She’s fourteen, you sick perv!’ Darleen puffed out a cloud of smoke in disgust. She was getting tired of listening to Carl putting her daughter down and decided to end the conversation. She picked up her smokes, her treasured Crown Casino lighter and her empty glass, the pungent aniseed scent from the last several ouzo-and-Cokes still wafting from it, and headed for the kitchen. ‘Look, I don’t know why she’s acting this way. We know she’s a loner, but her marks at school have stayed really good. It’s just bloody lucky she hasn’t got my genes.’
‘Shit, yeah,’ Carl agreed, flicking through the channels for some sport or a bit of that wog porn on SBS. ‘She’d be in real serious trouble if you were her real mum.’
Down the hallway, through a slight crack in the door, the clear blue eyes opened in shock as the impact of that statement hit home.
Present Day
‘I don’t want to go to Sophie’s dumb party,’ Chloe shrieked. ‘She smells bad and she’s mean to me.’
In the frothy fairy dress Chloe looked the picture of angelic innocence, except for her angry red face.
‘Darling, I told you, Sophie’s mum gives her a special medicine called fish oil that sometimes smells a bit funny, but it’s not her fault, it’s actually quite important for her store of essential omega-three fatty acids.’
‘Don’t care, she’s just a stinker, and how come she gets the beautiful pressie and all I got was this dumb dress?’
They were late. Mim had already gone three rounds with Charley, who had flatly refused to put on the spangly tights and leotard of the jester’s costume and was now sitting defiantly in the Mercedes in his everyday clothes. Mim had given in for peace, but now Chloe? This was too much.
‘But if you don’t come you’ll miss out on the lolly bags – remember last year you got a Strawberry Care Bear in your bag? I wonder what they’ll have this year?’
‘Don’t care.’ Chloe stuck out her bottom lip and crossed her arms defiantly. She pointed with her chin at the elaborately wrapped gift. ‘Want that.’
‘But sweetheart, that’s for Sophie. Mummy spent all day trying to find it, we can’t just give it to you – but how about I promise to get you the same thing for your birthday?’
‘Not going,’ Chloe answered as she started to shred the netting on her fairy skirt.
Mim dragged her hands through her hair in frustration. She should just punish Chloe by making her stay home. It was no skin off her nose – except the other mums would think she couldn’t control her own children, and how would it look to not turn up now after she had RSVPd weeks ago. Her stomach tensed in tight knots. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she whispered under her breath, and then looked Chloe in the eye and spoke desperately. ‘I will get you the same gift tomorrow if you get in the car right now and be a happy, friendly little girl at the party, okay?’
‘Okay, Mummy,’ Chloe sang, then kissed Mim on the cheek and ran to get in the car with her brothers.
Mim shot a desperate look at the Pimm’s bottle through the glass of the kitchen cabinet and prayed for patience.
The Mason-Jacksons’ Georgian mansion was gaily festooned with coloured flags and festive bunting. Catering vans, amusement floats, an ice-cream truck and several animal trailers stretched around the gravel driveway and the Hooley Dooleys were singing up a storm on the front lawn. It looked like the circus had arrived in the centre of Toorak.
Mim parked in the first spot she could find, and did a harried last-minute check of the children’s costumes. She couldn’t believe Charley had refused to wear his costume, but she was almost past caring now. Where had she gone wrong with this child? Why wouldn’t he simply join in like the others? Why did he have to be so damn uncooperative? Now she had to walk into the party with an inappropriately dressed child. Some days were just too hard.
Charley’s therapist had encouraged her to provide dress-up opportunities at home, as a window to imaginative role-playing, but no matter how she tried, Charley had just never gotten into it. He kept drifting back to his Tintin comics and the other countless favourite books he kept under his pillow. It was obviously inappropriate for a six-year-old boy to have his nose stuck in a comic book all the time, but no amount of therapy had managed to stem the problem.
So there he was, her ‘recalcitrant one’, dressed in white Bermuda shorts, tan OshKosh sandals, Country Road checked shirt and sleeveless sweater-vest in stone with a pale blue trim.
Shepherding the children, juggling the gift, her Chanel bag and the children’s props (whip and fairy wand), she made her way up the wide stone steps to the ballooned entrance. The day had been drizzly on and off, creating small puddles at the foot of the steps. Charley couldn’t resist. Seeing Mim distracted by Chloe’s tiara, he let out a whoop of joy and stamped in the biggest puddle, splashing mud onto the white steps, the perfect white roses and his pristine outfit.
Mim looked up to see Charley’s guilty, mud-specked face and soaked clothes, but found herself incapable of speech. As she opened her mouth only a faint guttural noise came up.
Blood rushed hot and fast through her head, white spots of rage danced before her eyes, and she silently counted to ten in French, German and finally Mandarin.
Still feeling homicidal, she began reciting her emergency mantra over and over in her head: ‘It’s not happening, it’s not happening, it’s not happening,’ and moved away from a still-dripping Charley and into the party. Jack and Chloe immediately joined the cacophony of sound and activity, but Charley stayed close behind, now guilty and bereft with his head down and thumb firmly in his mouth.
In the centre of the hall a massive table dazzled with shining wrapping paper, metres of curling ribbon and dozens of gifts. Mim laid her gift on a wedge of free space and looked up to see the mother of the birthday girl, Tiffany, teetering towards her in a leopard-skin lycra top and leopard faux-fur stiletto pumps. ‘Darling!’ She bestowed two generous kisses in the air above Mim’s cheeks.
Their friendly greeting was suddenly ambushed by Tiffany’s poisonous mother-in-law. Dressed head-to-toe in Louis Feraud with impeccably polished nails, pumps, diamonds and freshly sharpened dentures, she moved stealthily towards Mim.
‘Mim, you know Cliff’s mum, Beatrice,’ Tiffany asked with an apologetic look, moving reluctantly away to greet other arrivals.
‘Of course,’ Mim said, hiding a grimace.
‘We thought you must have had a better offer,’ Beatrice rasped in her crow-like voice, looking ever-so-subtly at her Cartier.
Mim could have slapped her. ‘Oh no, you know us, so much to do, so little time to fit everyone in,’ she replied cattily.
‘Anyway, you look just fabulous as always, Mim. I don’t know how you manage to make all your little eclectic pieces work. I feel so much safer just sticking to the designer’s vision.’ Beatrice smoothed the lapel of her puce silk suit.
‘It’s not happening, it’s not happening,’ Mim’s mind recited.
‘Well, you look great too, Beatrice,’ she said, tired of the bitchy undercurrent.
‘Thanks. And this is …? Which one again?’
Charley glared at the woman from behind his fist.
