‘Yes, I actually made the first move, believe it or not.’ She shook her head thinking about it. ‘You have to understand, I was very . . . bolshie back then. Involved in student politics. Quite shameless. I invited him to the pub, and we argued about literature over too many beers, and then I invited him—’
‘He always drink a lot?’
‘Oh, no. Not like the rest of us. He was quiet and mainly used to sit back and observe everyone. I drank more than him, back in those days.’ She pushed her glasses up and smiled at me as if to say: can you believe it?
‘So, was there anything that—?’
She ignored me, on a roll. ‘From then on we were pretty much inseparable. He moved into my room in a share house in Carlton, but after a year the house disintegrated, when my flatmates got into heroin. We got a place of our own, a fleabag studio in an ugly block near the housing commission flats. The next year I did a dip ed,’ she nodded towards the framed degree, ‘and started working in a girls school. Nick finished uni after his honours year and brief ly considered doing a master’s degree, but he said he wanted to be in the real world rather than academia. Thought it helped him to write. He took a lot of different jobs, casual work, manual labour, stuff that was physical more than mental, and wrote when he wasn’t working. Back in those days there weren’t that many jobs about, so he got quite a lot of writing done.’
Was it just me or was there a sour little twist to her lips?
‘When did you get married?’ I tried to speed things up.
‘In ninety-five. We’d been together for six years. We were still pretty broke, living in our one-bedroom flat, so the wedding took place at a registry office and the reception at a Turkish BYO restaurant on Sydney Road.’
‘No kids?’
‘Nick thought he was too young. He thought it would cost too much and he said he’d rather spend the money on travelling overseas. Not that we ever did. The baby thing was a point of contention, plus the fact that I was basically supporting us. He did work hard when he actually got work, and spent a lot of time on his book . . . Finally, he had a completed manuscript and he sent it off to the Vogel awards. He was shortlisted, didn’t win, but got published. I was so proud. I really was. I didn’t know what it would lead to . . .’
She went on to tell me what I already knew from Nick, about the book not selling, the difficult second novel. I let her go because I didn’t want to interrupt her flow.
‘. . . In the end I encouraged him to teach. It was a steady income, and he could always work on his next book at night or in the holidays. He got a good job, and we moved, finally bought a house. Prices weren’t as bad as they are now. Things were quite comfortable, but I don’t think Nick ever really took to teaching and he was having a lot of trouble with his next book. Writer’s block or something. When I look back I suppose he was depressed, in a low grade way.’
‘He start drinking then?’
‘No. You’re a bit obsessed with that, aren’t you? He was never a drinker. That came later.
‘Anyway, I didn’t even know he was writing a crime novel until he told me he’d sold it. Can you believe that? He must have known I’d think it was a waste of his talent. Have you read his first book?’
I shook my head.
‘It was beautiful. Nuanced. I really thought he was the next Tim Winton, you know? But, inexplicably, the crime novel sold ten times what his literary novel did. I don’t know, appealing to the lowest common denominator, I suppose. I mean, look at what rates on television these days. Don’t get me started on the dumbing down of society. But Nick was happy. He took a little time off, worked on the second in the series and did the rounds of writers’ festivals again. We weren’t raking it in, nowhere close, but he could afford to take a six-month sabbatical.’
I sneaked a peek at Jenny’s gold watch. We’d gone way past five minutes, and I hadn’t learned anything useful.
‘I think essentially Nick was introverted. He didn’t like teaching because it was draining for him to get up in front of people, be the centre of attention. He always had to have a glass of wine before a writers’ festival panel. But that’s all it was in those days. Just a glass of wine. He was much happier home alone, writing, or even stacking supermarket shelves where he didn’t have to talk to anyone and could be alone with his thoughts.’
‘How come you guys broke up?’ I was getting antsy.
‘I’m getting to that. After the first three crime novels came out he was invited to go on a . . . what did they call it? A “writers’ roadshow”. Basically a minibus with about six authors crammed in, driving around to regional centres in Victoria, South Australia and New South Wales, doing workshops and talks and visiting schools and what have you. It was a four-week trip and Nick jumped at the chance. He’d get paid—not much, but enough to allow him to have another month off school and be a writer instead of a teacher. Even though I knew I’d miss him, I was glad for him to go because I knew it would make him happy. Of course, I didn’t know what would transpire.’
‘What did?’
‘Isabella Bishop.’ Her mouth twisted again. ‘She was on the tour too. When he came home Nick was happier than I’d seen him in ages—full of energy. He even started exercising at the gym and working on the screenplay of his first Zack book. He kept putting off going back to school, which concerned me—we had house payments—but I was delighted he wasn’t moping about being the archetypal depressed novelist anymore.’
‘Until?’
‘He dropped the bombshell. A few weeks later he upped and said he wanted a trial separation. Looking back I suppose I should have known something was up, but at the time I was hit for six. I suggested counselling. He refused. I asked if there was someone else, he denied it. He packed his stuff and wouldn’t tell me where he was going and I didn’t hear a word from him for two months. One day I was married and the next it was like our entire relationship had never existed. And that was that. Do you know how I found out he was seeing Isabella?’
I shook my head.
‘The Sunday magazine in The Age. A glossy article on how creative types find it living together. They had an artist couple, two musicians, and Nick and Isabella representing the writers. There were a lot of smoochy pictures of them living in some rundown warehouse in Fitzroy and quotes that said they were poor but happy, and that when they could actually keep their hands off each other they loved working side by side, finally being around someone who understood what they went through.’ Jenny rolled her eyes, snorted air out of her nose. A bitter laugh stuck in her gullet.
‘I wanted to be a writer too, you understand, only I didn’t have the time. I had to work, keep body and soul together for the both of us. What made it worse is that somebody told me about the lead-in time those magazines have. The interview would have been done at least six weeks before. He’d moved in with her straight away. It was obvious they’d been together since the roadshow. It had probably started the first day. Anyway, a month or so after our divorce was finalised he married her, in New York I think. I heard they took a big trip. America, Europe. He had always wanted to go.’
‘Gee,’ I said. It was an old story, and a familiar one. ‘How awful for you.’
‘It was. I really hit rock bottom after that. I wasn’t a Christian in those days, I didn’t have the Lord to turn to, so instead I got involved in drinking, drugs, promiscuous sex . . . anything to dull the pain.’
‘No way.’ I tried to imagine Jenny as a school-teaching crack whore but couldn’t quite manage it.
‘It’s true. Of course, I know now that it was all a cry for help. I’m just lucky that my cry was heard and I was saved. I would have died otherwise, I’m sure of it. One morning I was staggering out of an all-night pokies place, trying to figure out how I was supposed to get the money together for a bottle of vodka to get me through work, when I was approached by Gordon.’ She nodded to the yard where he was playing with the kids. ‘He was ministering on the streets with a few other parishioners. Normal
ly I’d have told them where to go, but something about what they were saying just hit a nerve. They took me in, gave me guidance and love and it was like I’d finally come home, been reborn. I was baptised not long after, and a year and a half ago ago I married Gordon. He’d lost his first wife to cancer. Nine months later we had our little miracle, Joseph. Doctors had told me I was too old to conceive naturally, but with prayer . . . well, the results speak for themselves.’ She looked out the window and beamed.
‘Wow. I’m glad everything worked out in the end,’ I said, while thinking, my god, what a massive waste of time. I hadn’t learned anything about Nick, except he’d been a bit of a cad— or was it a bounder? I’d always gotten the two confused.
One last-ditch effort: ‘While you knew him, did Nick have any strange kinks or vices? Any episodes where he lost his temper, any murderous rages?’
‘Not while he was with me. Of course, he changed when he met her.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. I saw him a year after they’d got together, when we were finalising the divorce. It was a terrible time, and if I hadn’t had the support of the congregation I would have fallen apart. He tried to take the house, you see, when I was the one who’d saved the deposit and paid for most of the damn thing. I know it was her doing, she had him wrapped around her little finger, but still . . .’
‘How had he changed?’
‘He was like a different person, drinking heavily, smoking— which he’d never done. He had a sneering, contemptuous air about him that I’d never seen before and worst of all there was a darkness shrouding him. A terrible darkness.’ She fingered the tiny gold crucifix around her neck.
‘Darkness? What do you mean by that, exactly?’ I asked, majorly confused.
A cloud passed over the sun and the children’s shrieks outside seemed muff led, far away. She leaned forward, her voice a whisper.
‘I never would have recognised it if I hadn’t become a believer, but I knew what it was straight away.’
‘What?’ I was leaning forward and whispering too.
‘Satan.’
•
Back in the Laser I had a quick slug of whiskey from the hip flask in the glove box, chucked my notebook back into my bag and started up the car, pulling out onto the deserted blacktop, but something was wrong. I couldn’t control the steering, and a weird thumping came from the wheel well.
I rolled to a stop by the kerb, got out and inspected the driver’s side front tyre. It was totally def lated, the wheel rim scraping the road.
I supposed I could change it myself, but screw that: I was paid up and calling roadside assistance. I dialled the number on my mobile and wandered around the car as I waited for an operator. Damn. The rear tyre was flat too. Rounding the hatchback I looked at the other side. Same story.
I shivered despite the heat. You didn’t get four flats at the same time unless . . . I squatted and looked closer. The rubber had been slashed through by something very big and very sharp. Straightening up I glanced around, aware of my heart thundering in my chest. The street was deserted. No kids. No noise. No cars. I couldn’t see a soul, but I had a disturbing feeling that someone could see me.
I remembered the letter—You’re dead, cunt—and checked the back seat and under the car. No one was there and all I did was scare myself more. I jumped in the front and locked the door.
chapter twenty
Claypots was in St Kilda, just south of Acland. The restaurant was famous for its super-fresh seafood and strict no-bookings policy, and as I hurried across Barkly Street, I saw the place was already packed, and it was only six thirty.
Inside, diners hunched over crammed wooden tables which harried waiters angled their hips to squeeze between. Pans clattered in the open kitchen, and I smelled sizzling garlic, pungent coriander and the smoky scent of octopus and squid, no doubt covered in chilli and curling on a grill.
There was no sign of Sean, but I was sure he’d be out back. We’d come to Claypots a few times since he’d returned and the courtyard was our usual spot. Surprisingly, considering his appetite for vodka and Marlboro Lights, he followed a pretty healthy, semi-vegetarian diet.
The courtyard was laid with gravel, the tables nothing much to look at, and the seating a mix of wooden benches and bottle-green plastic chairs filched from a cheap outdoor setting. Coloured light bulbs dangled from a paling fence and in the far corner a tree straggled up from the rocky ground. With the humid summer evening and the aroma of pounded spices and bubbling oil, I could almost imagine I’d wandered into some roadside food stall in South East Asia, and guessed that was another reason Sean was so fond of the place.
I spotted him at a tiny table for two in the corner, wearing his striped work shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He waved and I hurried over.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said. ‘Got a flat.’
It was sort of the truth.
‘No problem. You want my seat?’ He stood.
‘Thanks.’
I liked to be flush up against a wall in public places—it made me feel vulnerable sitting with my back exposed—and Sean, sweetheart that he was, always obliged. The creepy sensation was particularly bad that evening, after the note and the tyres. I guessed I should tell Sean, but figured maybe later. I didn’t want to ruin dinner and I knew he’d demand every last detail of the tyre slashing. With my licence cancelled, what possible excuse could I have for tooling around the ’burbs?
Sean had already collected cutlery and paper napkins for us, and glasses that had more in common with jam jars than Reidel flutes. A tapas plate was at the ready plus a bottle of champagne, wedged into a plastic ice bucket.
‘You beauty,’ I said, spying the booze.
‘Not only that, I scored us the last whole snapper with chermoula,’ he boasted.
Daily specials were crossed off the blackboard as soon as they ran out. The snapper was always the first to go.
I reached for the bottle and noticed the orange label as I dug it out of the crushed ice.
‘Shit, is this Veuve Clicquot?’
He nodded.
‘Fancy,’ I said, remembering Chloe hum the wedding march. A ridge of panic spiked my spine.
We thunked, rather than clinked, our glasses. I took a big gulp of French champagne that filled my mouth with an ocean of tiny, delicate bubbles and tasted smooth, creamy and immeasurably better than the shite I usually drank. Smiling broadly to hide my unease, I popped a marinated octopus leg in my mouth and gnawed vigorously. Cuban salsa filled the air and beams of low orange sunlight seeped through gaps in the fence.
‘So, what did you want to tell me?’ I asked as casually as I could.
Sean smiled, his lips turning up at the corners, the light’s peachy gleam offsetting hair that would have been described as titian had he been the tempestuous heroine in a Mills and Boon romance.
‘Do you think the snapper’s enough?’ he stalled, squinting at the blackboard menu on the exposed brick wall. ‘Maybe we should get the Andalusian claypot as well . . .’
I drew my fist back and whacked him on the arm, a little harder than I’d intended.
‘Shit!’
‘You deserved it.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Tell me what the goddamn Veuve’s about.’
He sipped his champagne, really drawing it out, until finally he said: ‘How do you feel about moving to Vietnam?’
In my mind I saw a giant billboard with the words What the Fuck? spelled out in thousands of glowing bulbs. In real life I just sat there with my mouth hanging open like a grouper trawling for bait fish.
Sean sat forward in his seat, talking fast, body bouncing involuntarily, like a kid at Christmas.
‘I’ve been offered a job with the Federal Police, an intelligence position, gathering information for local and international law enforcement agencies on all sorts of stuff. Drugs, human trafficking, smuggling, you name it. It’s a two-year contract, based in Ho Chi Minh City—Saigon— but there’ll be lots of travel. The money�
��s great, they pay for housing and medical insurance, airfares, an overseas bonus, and there’s annual leave. I know I keep telling you, but Vietnam’s amazing: insane cities, dense jungle, white sand beaches, incredible food, and on top of that you’re a stone’s throw from Thailand, Cambodia, Laos . . .’
‘You sound like you want to accept,’ I said.
‘Look, the Asian Squad’s been great, but this position seems like the perfect way to utilise my language skills. I can be of much more use over there.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ I spoke slowly. ‘You want me to move overseas with you?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded.
‘What’ll I do there?’
‘Well, running a house is a full-time affair. Cleaning, cooking, ironing. I’ll expect you to go to market every day . . .’
I raised my eyebrows.
Sean laughed. ‘You should see the look on your face. I’m joking. I’ve got you a job, if you want it.’
‘What?’
‘Investigative assistant to the senior liaison officer. Yours truly.’ His grin was a mile wide.
‘State coppers wouldn’t take me, no way the feds would.’
‘They will if I insist. Besides, you’ll be working in a civilian capacity, you won’t be sworn in. You’ll need a police check though. You don’t have a record—’ squinting—‘do you?’
‘Arrested a few times, charged once, never convicted,’ I muttered. My mind reeled. Vietnam? Just up and leave? What about my business?
‘I’ve just started the agency.’
‘And there’s too much heat on you to run it. Why not stick it on the backburner for a couple of years, get more experience working with the police, then come back when everything’s blown over? Hell, if things go well you could even apply for a job as an officer and forget the PI shit. Isn’t that what you always wanted, to be a cop?’
‘I used to.’
‘And why was that?’
I shrugged. ‘I dunno, sounds wanky, but to help people, I suppose. Exploitative scumbags have always pissed me off and I thought there’d be a fair bit of job satisfaction bringing down bad guys.’
Thrill City Page 12
