‘Not my car,’ he shouts.
‘You are the most annoying, most self-centred arsehole I’ve ever met.’
He points to his chest. ‘I’m self-centred? Why the hell do you think I just broke into that guy’s house, Frankie? When it’s obvious I’ve got Marzoli watching my every move. You think I did that for me? You think I did that because I give a damn about your brother?’ He bashes the steering wheel. ‘You have no idea.’
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
‘You want to call me selfish?’ He shakes his head and revs the engine.
Still, I’ve got nothing to say.
‘You’re a real piece of work, Vega,’ he says. ‘Nice knowing you.’
He pulls out right in front of a sedan. The sedan’s horn blares; swear words are exchanged. Tyres screech as Nate speeds up Smith Street.
Gone. Over and done with. Out of my hair. Done and dusted.
Good.
Great.
Super.
I should have gone with Mark. Nice, normal, law-abiding, doesn’t-call-me-a-psycho-bitch Mark. Okay, so he’d have cheated on me the second Ava crooked her finger but no one’s perfect.
I turn round.
Shit.
I’ve got an audience.
There’s no applause this time, no black hanky waving and compliments in Italian.
Standing in front of the cracked window of the Emporium, Vinnie’s got her mouth hanging open. ‘Francesca Madalina Vega,’ she says. ‘Explain. Now.’
And Vinnie’s not the only one standing there, arms folded, disappointment drawing her eyes downward.
‘You said you were working,’ says Cara. ‘You lied.’
I’m rooted to the spot. Two pedestrians weave around me, eyes to the ground. Yeah, I’d kind of like to ignore this too.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. My voice is weak, which is fitting, because it’s a weak thing to say.
Vinnie’s red heels start tapping. ‘What were you doing with that boy?’
Do I have to answer that?
‘He’s a friend of Xavier’s. We were looking for him.’
Cara hugs her arms across her chest. ‘You couldn’t tell me that?’
‘Any reason why you called him a burglar?’ asks Vinnie.
Can I pass on both questions, please?
A couple of women bundle past, elbowing me and scratching me with the sharp corners of their shopping bags. I should move out of the centre of the path. I should run away, crying.
I look at my boots, rooted to the spot. ‘It was a stolen car,’ I say.
Lesser evil.
Vinnie gasps. It’s not a super-loud sound, but to me it’s like that time someone drove through the front window of the hairdressers next door. Bang. Crash. Shatter. What I’m really hearing is Vinnie’s love for me shattering into a billion irreparable pieces. It was already an ugly, mangled thing, stuck together with reels and reels of masking tape from all the times I’ve broken her trust in the past. How many times can it be reassembled? It’s never the same once you break it, no matter how good your arts-and-crafts skills are. And mine are shit.
Vinnie flicks out both hands, fingers spread, pushing the air in front of her like she’s shoving an invisible me. ‘I can’t do this,’ she says. She does a one-eighty and clunks into the shop.
The glass rattles as she slams the door.
I stare at the cracks in the paving.
Juliet used to tell me never to step on them. ‘Ground opens up and sucks you in,’ she said. My little legs ached from jumping and running after her, trying to keep up without falling through the cracks.
Oh how I’d love to be sucked into the centre of the Earth right now.
‘I’ve been sticking up for you,’ says Cara. ‘The shit Steve’s been saying. It’s all around school.’
I wonder if it’s hot or cold down there? Lava or ice-cold rock?
Cara’s voice is bitter. ‘And I’ve spent the last half hour pleading your case to Vinnie, telling her there had to be something important – life and death shit – to make you break her rules. To make you lie to me.’
If I open my mouth I’ll start screaming. If I move I’ll start throwing punches. So I stand there with every muscle in my body tensed. I’m aware people are weaving around me because every now and then their shadows flitter across the concrete. But I can’t move.
‘I’d ask you where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing that was so damn important, but you’re not going to tell me, are you?’ says Cara. ‘Do you ever tell me the truth?’
Cara’s waiting for me to say something but I’m thinking about a polar bear – my polar bear with the black nose and shiny black eyes.
‘I’m going to buy you something nice for your birthday,’ Juliet said. I was four. I had been four for months. She gripped my hand, dragging me onto the crowded tram and through the mall. We kept bumping into people, trams dinging, rain sloshing. And then there were lights, tinkling piano and the stench of perfume. Juliet stopped to put make-up on. Smacking her lips and admiring herself in the tiny mirror. A lady in white with the cleanest, smoothest skin I’d ever seen was suddenly beside her. ‘That’s a lovely shade,’ she said. Did she scrub her skin to get it that smooth and white? ‘Isn’t it?’ said Juliet. And then we were moving again, my hand gripped too tight, the lights too bright, elbows, feet stepping on mine, pushing. I asked her to carry me but she told me I was a big girl.
She said I could pick out anything I wanted. She smiled at me, lipstick on her teeth.
I went straight for the polar bear. He was white and soft and clean. I called him Harold.
I sat with him under a rack of dresses while Juliet looked for her own birthday present.
When we left, Juliet didn’t hold my hand so tightly. She walked with her shoulders back and I hurried to keep up, avoiding the cracks in the tiles.
But when we got to the doors, a man gripped Juliet by the shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
Juliet kept shouting: ‘It’s my daughter’s birthday.’ People stared. I was glad when we went into the small, pale-green room. No one but the man to stare at us. I hugged the polar bear to my chest.
‘Did you pay for that?’ he asked. He pointed to the bear.
‘Yes,’ I said. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. ‘His name is Harold and he’s four years old.’
The police came. ‘His name is Harold,’ I told them. ‘He’s mine.’
I wouldn’t stop lying. I couldn’t.
And that’s how it’s always been. Lying to protect, to avoid, to soften.
Lying because it’s the only thing my mother taught me to do, the only thing she gave to me.
Someone bumps my elbow as they pass.
I look up but it’s too late. Cara has already walked away.
There’s a hole in the flat again. A Vinnie-sized hole on top of a Cara-sized hole on top of a Xavier-sized hole. There’s even a small fissure that’s a little bit Nate-sized.
Vinnie and I choreograph our movements to avoid each other.
We dance outside the bathroom, eyes down, both going left, both going right, then giving up and scurrying back the way we came. We work side by side but don’t talk; the customers order extra loud, trying to cover the silence.
Cara won’t return my calls.
I don’t even have a number for Nate.
I’m tired of leaving messages on Xavier’s phone.
There comes a point where you’ve done all the self-flagellation you can, sent as many grovelling text messages as you can and said ‘sorry’ so many times it becomes meaningless – a word-fart of little consequence. There comes a point where you realise there’s actually nothing you can do: you’ve fucked up. Capital F. Capital UCKED.
I wait for Marzoli to come and arrest me.
He doesn’t.
The only call I get is from the school. ‘You’ve got a meeting with Ms Vukovic, Friday at four pm sharp. Don’t miss it.’
This time it’s going to t
ake more than two days.
This time it may never be fixed.
Page fifteen.
There’s nothing about Harrison Finnik-Hyde until page fifteen. I guess even rich white kids have an expiry date.
I flip to the crossword, the paper rustling as I struggle to find the edges. It’s a tsunami of noise compared to the silence of an empty Emporium. Compared to every second of the past two days.
I don’t even know where Vinnie is right now. She left an hour ago without saying a word. Maybe another date. She must be thinking real hard about joining that desert cult right about now.
I don’t look up when the door jingle jangles. It always takes people a couple of minutes to decide what they want. I don’t want to stand there staring at them while their faces contort with indecision, like I’ve got nothing better to do than wait until I’m needed, like I don’t exist before these people wander in.
Besides, I’m trying to work out what ‘unusual dance permit creates big mess’ means. Eleven letters, last letter is a ‘t’.
‘This some new kind of customer service trick?’ says a familiar gruff voice.
Okay. So there’s any number of reasons why Marzoli and his snot-nosed sidekick have wandered into the Emporium. Not all of them end with me being hauled off to jail.
Quite a few do, though.
Marzoli drops a twenty on the counter between us, right over the top of the crossword. ‘I’ll have the usual. Peters will have the same.’
‘Does that include the usual side of contempt?’
‘That’s very humorous.’ Marzoli tries to smile. Nine out of ten for effort but a mere point zero, zero five for the frankly shocking execution.
I grip the electric knife and start carving strips from the lamb spit. My hand shakes.
‘You doing the crossword?’ Peters peers at the paper upside down and screws up his nose. ‘Man, I hate those things. How’s anybody supposed to know what . . .’ He swings the paper round right side up. ‘“Unusual dance permit creates big mess” means. Total gibberish.’
‘Miss Vega is a crossword whizz,’ says Marzoli. He says it like an accusation. ‘So I guess you’re home sick from school again?’
‘I’m taking a break. Got to wait for the other kids to catch up.’
The meat’s a little pink. Most times I’d fry it on the hot plate but today I dump it straight onto the flatbread. I carry it over to the counter and start piling on the salad – two scoops of jalapeños and extra chilli sauce.
Marzoli hrumphs, nudging Peters with his elbow. The guy’s still leaning over the newspaper, mouth hanging open for extra concentration. ‘Huh?’
‘I think Miss Vega might want to hear the news about her brother.’ Marzoli leans against the bain marie and watches. The pit-bull is out in force.
I fold up their kebabs and slide them over with trembling hands.
‘Xavier Green’s sister, eh?’ says Peters. He whistles. The I-wouldn’t-want-to-be-in-your-shoes whistle. He’s got a chalky stain on his tie. Toothpaste. Or actual chalk, like they use to draw round dead bodies.
I grip the counter. ‘You got news?’
Peters rips into his kebab. Guess he wasn’t watching me make it. Marzoli lays a hand on top of his but doesn’t pick it up. ‘Your brother’s house got broken into two days ago. His father’s place: Bill Green. You know him?’
I shake my head. Small, jerky movements. I always feared Vinnie’s wrath above everything else – now I’m not so sure.
I yank the crossword out from under Peters’ elbows and grab my pen. Unusual dance permit creates big mess . . .
‘I’m just thinking it’s a hell of a coincidence,’ says Marzoli. He picks up the kebab. Sniffs it. ‘Your brother goes missing and then his dad’s house gets broken into.’
I tap my pen against my lip. ‘I’m sure it had nothing to do with Xavier.’
‘Yeah?’ Marzoli coughs as he tries to swallow his first bite of the Frankie Special. ‘Why’s that?’
‘As far as I know, Xavier hasn’t been living in that house. He’s been squatting.’
Marzoli and Peters exchange looks. ‘Well, I think Centrelink will be interested to know Mr Green is claiming for a dependent he doesn’t have,’ says Marzoli.
I keep my gaze focused on the crossword, voice as even as I can make it. ‘Maybe whoever broke in was worried about him. Maybe they were looking to make sure Bill Green hadn’t done anything bad to him.’
Marzoli nods slowly. He hasn’t gone back for a second bite. ‘Bill Green thinks Xavier’s run away. Says he owes lots of money and, like his mother, isn’t real good at facing up to responsibility.’
Peters shrugs. ‘Sounds like a solid story.’
But Marzoli frowns. I’m pretty sure these guys rehearsed this before they came in. I’m also pretty sure we’re getting to the heart of their little performance. The music is swelling and the camera is panning in for a close-up. It’s Oscars clip time. ‘Then again,’ says Marzoli, ‘Bill Green could have been confused. He’d recently been assaulted.’
Peters whips out a large, glossy photo from his coat pocket. Boo-ya! He pushes it across the counter at me. ‘Sure you don’t know this man?’
Somehow I don’t run screaming from the room. Even though my knees wobble and my heart sinks, I stay upright.
Just.
I shake my head. Marzoli tsks.
The photo has obviously been taken at an emergency room. Bill Green’s got a black eye, a swollen cheek and a nasty cut on his brow – like someone introduced his face to a welding iron. He’s staring murderously at whoever’s taking the shot. It could have something to do with the fact that he’s wearing a hospital gown and the chill air is probably freezing his puny yeti-balls off.
I’m in so much trouble.
I stare at the picture, waiting for Marzoli to whip out the handcuffs.
He leans over the counter. Garlic and jalapeño breath wafting my way. ‘Mr Green’s not being real cooperative. Guess he doesn’t want the police looking round his house. The doctor called it in, but when we tried chatting to Green about it he got all tight lipped. He reacted when we showed him a picture of Nate Wishaw, though. He looked real angry.’
I bite down hard on my lip. Really hard.
‘And he didn’t look too happy to hear your name either.’ He flashes me a mouthful of crooked teeth.
I lower my eyes to the crossword. Unusual dance permit creates big mess.
I will get this.
I will not be stumped.
Eleven letters, last letter is a ‘t’.
Marzoli sighs. ‘Between you and me, Frankie, Bill Green’s not the best of characters and I’m not real worried what happened to him. In fact, I couldn’t give a shit. I’m more interested in getting hold of Wishaw, a boy who seems to spend a lot of time in other people’s houses, uninvited.’
I stay silent, afraid of opening my mouth and word-vomiting incriminating things.
Unusual dance permit creates big mess. Big mess? Try: ‘Frankie’. Try: ‘my life’.
‘Let me outline my position, Frankie.’ Marzoli dumps the barely touched kebab on the counter. ‘I see kids like you all the time. Nobody to show them how to do things right. You’re smart but you don’t apply yourself. You get in fights. You get mixed up with the wrong crowd – kids just like you. Broken families. Tough lives. They’re the ones who understand you, right?
‘But your aunt has done a good job with you. Don’t let her hear me say that but it’s true. With the start you got in life, it’s a wonder you turned out as well as you did. Don’t throw all that back in her face, Frankie. Don’t protect a criminal – you think he can find your brother? He’s stringing you along because he needs your alibi. He’ll dump you in the shit the second it suits him. You think he won’t squeal on you when we haul him in?’
He taps the photo of Bill Green. Fingers thick, stubby.
‘I figure I’ve got two choices,’ he says. ‘I could spend my time looking real close at what happe
ned at Bill Green’s house or I could focus on Wishaw. Forget everything else.’ He pulls out a mug shot of Nate and dumps it right over the top of Bill’s photo. ‘What do you reckon, Miss Vega?’
I stare at Nate’s photo. The angry glare, the scowl, the couldn’t-give-a-fuck tilt of the chin. But so lost. Let down. Acting out.
I hate him.
I hate that I don’t hate him.
I hate that I can’t ignore what he did for me.
I shove the mug shot toward Marzoli. ‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘The truth is it was Reverend Green in the library with the candlestick.’
The kindly old man routine fades as Marzoli presses his cracked lips into a firm line. We have a brief staring contest before he stuffs the photo back in his coat. Peters chews his kebab. Loudly.
‘If you happen to run into Wishaw,’ says Marzoli, ‘tell him I’m looking for him.’
He picks his kebab off the counter, garlic sauce dripping out the open end. He looks just about to leave but then he pauses.
‘Ten across, Frankie,’ he says. He jabs the paper. ‘Unusual dance permit causes big mess? Predicament.’
He smirks as he walks out the door.
Vinnie’s still not talking to me but when I wake up Friday morning, there’s a note pinned to the fridge.
DON’T FORGET SCHOOL CALLED – MEETING WITH VUKOVIC TODAY. FOUR PM. DO NOT BE LATE. DO NOT TAKE YOUR ATTITUDE. WEAR UNIFORM. PRACTISE GROVELLING.
Subtle.
__________
It’s too loud to concentrate in the office because a couple of the homework club kids are cleaning out the stationery cupboard, making paperclip chains to whip each other with. Square-Tits doesn’t say or do anything about it.
My fault for getting here late I guess.
I hit Steve because I was temporarily insane.
I was possessed (but I’m okay now).
I slipped and accidentally broke that kid’s nose.
It was a political statement. You can’t expel me for expressing myself.
I scribble out everything I’ve written, accidentally ripping the paper.
I didn’t plan on being late. But I walked the long way here, trying to clear my head of the rotting chipmunk carcass stuffed in there, and got distracted by my own pity party. I mean, what’s the point? I’m past forgiveness with Vinnie. What else matters?
Frankie Page 21
