Thrill City

by Leigh Redhead

  I couldn’t hack him.

  The guys left and I helped Chloe struggle into a sitting position. Her daughter woke up and started to wail and she shifted it against one of her swollen breasts so the baby could suck. I looked on in amazement.

  ‘You’re breastfeeding!’

  ‘Yeah, well, my tits were sore and JJ and the nurse convinced me. Besides, my moot’s wrecked and my gut’s a lump of jello, so I was thinking I could book in with some surgeon in six months. Tighten up the lot in one go. What’s been going on with you?’

  I told her about my heroics, and showed off my injuries. She didn’t seem particularly impressed after her unintentionally drug-free labour. Fair enough.

  ‘What happened to Rod?’ she asked.

  ‘Intensive care, just like Nick. Coppers are waiting to interview him. He’s up shit creek when they do.’

  ‘And Emery Wade and that bikie boss, Murdoch?’

  I told her I had no idea and that Caroline Swift had organised a safe house for us all to be whisked to until we knew what was going on. This time Chloe was impressed.

  ‘Sweet. We can order in takeaway and watch DVDs and you and Curtis can help with the baby.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Will there be cops there?’ she continued. ‘I really need a bong. Hey—you called Sean yet?’

  ‘No point.’

  Andi and Curtis arrived. Andi went up to the baby and coochie-cooed.

  ‘Let’s get this done.’ Curtis looked at his watch.

  ‘Sure, but we do it in the pub. I’m tonguing for a drink, a jukebox and a pack of smokes.’ It had been hours.

  ‘They won’t let you in looking like that.’ Curtis nodded at my torn, bloodstained clothing, scabby limbs and bare feet.

  ‘We’ll pop by our motel on the way. I’ve got shampoo and a couple of changes of clothes,’ Andi said.

  ‘You’re at least two sizes smaller than me,’ I told her. ‘They’ll never fit.’

  ‘Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?’ she replied. ‘You’re a skinny bitch. Must have lost ten kilos since Christmas Day.’

  Waiting at the automatic doors while Curtis and Andi went to retrieve their hire car, I felt a claw-like hand on my arm and turned. It was Detective Talbot, hard faced and smelling of instant coffee, sweat and cigarettes. I pulled my arm away.

  ‘You can’t keep me here,’ I told her. ‘My lawyer—’

  ‘I’m not trying to restrain you. I just wanted to say . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’ I crossed my arms.

  ‘I wanted to say thanks. Amazingly, all the evidence at the crime scene supports the statement you gave, and Queensland police picked up the gang members just across the border, armed to the teeth. You saved our lives back there and risked your own by giving away your position. It was brave.’

  I shrugged. More drug-fucked, really, but I wasn’t about to mention that I’d been off my head on meth and still was, pretty much.

  ‘I’ll be recommending you for an award.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  Dianne Talbot actually smiled at me.

  ‘Tough shit. And we’ll see about your operating licence. If you can keep quiet for a couple of months—I have a friend in licensing. No promises, but . . .’

  I was stunned. A cop was being nice to me instead of bawling me out. Before I could thank her she’d disappeared back inside.

  I did half the interview shouting through steam in the motel bathroom and the other half at one of the big historic pubs in town, ducking out once for a ciggie which I couldn’t smoke because it hurt my broken ribs too much. The doctors had said I couldn’t do anything for it except take painkillers and try not to sneeze, cough or laugh.

  The interview was a quick one because they had to race back to the motel to email their copy and some photos to the night editors, but both made me promise to tell them all the gory details the next day. Curtis was particularly stoked that Emery Wade had been behind it all and bragged that it would mean a definite sequel to his current book, and a large advance.

  I felt dirty talking to the press, but my new lawyer had sanctioned the interview, telling me it was important to get the real story out there before Rod Thurlow had a chance to launch his spin machine. I had a feeling she didn’t mind the publicity, either.

  By the time the two of them left, the sun had set in an orange fury and a fuzzy purple twilight had descended upon the town. Reporters with television cameras began converging in front of the police station, but no one recognised me sitting at the bar in Andi’s black jeans and Ramones t-shirt, Debbie Harry hair in a ponytail, a cheap pair of service station thongs on my feet. My waist might have shrunk but my instep hadn’t.

  The champagne I’d drunk hadn’t even touched the sides and I was still wide awake, wondering if I ought to go back to the hospital and beg for morphine.

  A couple of local lads had approached me at the bar, but shied away when they clocked the cuts, bruises and seeping bandages. I kept my head down when the next bloke sidled up, until he ordered a beer. I knew the deep voice well.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Simone?’ He did a double take. ‘Jesus, I didn’t recognise you. Me and Sean flew in on the five fifty-five from Adelaide. We’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  He scrutinised my face. ‘You seem wired.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I am. Good to see you.’

  It was. My stomach clenched like he was a high school crush and I felt like I was going to fall off my barstool or jump him. Maybe both.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Have you got three days? The condensed version’ll appear in The Age tomorrow morning.’

  The endorphins triggered by seeing him were mixing with the last of the ice, getting together for the mother of all parties. My stomach leapt like a Jack Russell terrier.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ I said, like an idiot. ‘About what happened at your buck’s turn.’

  ‘Forget about it.’ Alex’s eyes darted away, nervous.

  All the drugs and the stress had combined into a kind of truth serum—nothing was stopping me.

  ‘I can’t.’ I meant what I said. ‘Do you think about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bullshit. You told me as much at the Christmas party.’

  ‘Who cares? It’s over and done with now.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘For god’s sake.’ He shook his head and ordered a whiskey from the barman. ‘When I was available you didn’t want me. Now I’m married, you do. Plus you’re going out with my best friend.’

  ‘Was going out with your best friend.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He hasn’t told you?’

  I gulped more champagne and slapped my thongs against the rungs of the stool. I couldn’t sit still and the bloody Joan Jett song was reverberating around my brain. I felt manic, weird, like if I didn’t tell him the truth right then, I never would.

  Alex pulled out his mobile phone.

  ‘Shut up. I’m ringing Sean, telling him where you are.’

  He fumbled with some buttons and I sang the song under my breath. I hate myself for loving you. He frowned as he held the phone to his ear.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  I slammed my drink down on the bar and it slopped over the sides. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I wanted to kiss him or hit him. I wasn’t sure which.

  ‘I said: I hate myself for loving you.’

  He looked stunned for a second, until we heard a ring tone familiar to both of us. Sinatra, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. We turned just as Sean emerged from behind a pillar.

  chapter sixty

  ‘They say you shouldn’t eavesdrop if you’re not gonna like what you hear,’ Sean said. ‘So, what actually happened at the party?’ His jovial voice didn’t match his eyes.

  I didn’t say a word. Alex closed his mouth, too.

  ‘Come on.’ His Scottish acce
nt drew the words out. ‘I’m talking to my girlfriend and my best friend. If anyone’s supposed to tell me the truth it’s you two.’

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend anymore.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You broke up with me.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  I was confused.

  ‘The note. I can’t do this anymore.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t handle spending the day with you shut up in a hotel room, I was too pissed off. I went to the movies, a gallery, wandered around the botanic gardens. When I came back you were gone.’

  ‘What?’ He hadn’t dumped me?

  ‘Right now I’m more interested in what you two got up to while I was away.’

  ‘We didn’t have sex,’ I said, immediately wishing I’d shut the hell up.

  ‘What did you have, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Sure,’ Sean said.

  ‘When I realised it was Alex’s buck’s party I ran to the bathroom and he followed me. We were both pretty drunk, and Alex still had his head injury and we just sort of kissed and fooled around, but nothing happened.’

  ‘Simone.’ Alex was pissed off.

  ‘Kinda fooled around.’ Sean rolled the words around his mouth. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’

  ‘Mate.’ Alex shook his head and approached Sean. Sean stepped back. He laughed, but there was no humour in it.

  ‘No, I’m really interested to explore the semantics. Did you touch her tits?’

  Alex shook his head, but I was tired of all the pussyfooting around.

  ‘Yeah, he did,’ I said.

  ‘Outside the clothes or inside?’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Good. Great. Specifics. Now we’re getting somewhere. And did you touch him?’

  ‘Yes, Sean, I did.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Simone,’ Alex said.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Where do you think, Sean?’

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘And did that part of his body touch any other part of your body? Apart from your hand, I mean.’

  ‘Stop it, mate.’ Alex turned back to the bar.

  ‘We didn’t have sex,’ I said.

  ‘So you keep insisting. Just answer the question.’

  I’d never seen his deep blue eyes so unreflective. They were as flat and dead as a fish on ice.

  ‘Yes, but only for a second. I pulled away.’ I glanced at Alex, ready to throw a rope. ‘We both did when we remembered—’

  ‘Oh, you finally remembered me. How thoughtful. And how far in did it get before you so kindly recalled that I exist?’

  ‘You weren’t there for me, Sean.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, save the bullshit for Oprah or your beloved Dr Phil. I wasn’t there because I was in fucking Vietnam and I would have come back in a second except you didn’t tell me what was going on. You know what Alex said before? He was right. You’re always going to want what you can’t have. Even if he did leave his new wife for you—doubtful now they’ve got a baby on the way—you wouldn’t want him anyway. How ironic. I wonder why you couldn’t just come out and say you didn’t love me. Did you want me hanging around like a pathetic puppy dog? Did you like that? There I was thinking I’d give you a bit of space, time to think about things, and you actually go to such lengths to avoid me that you end up on the run with an accused murderer and nearly get yourself killed. I mean, Jesus.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. You’re not. I am.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Sean,’ Alex said.

  Sean turned. ‘And you—stay away from her if you know what’s good for you.’

  He walked out of the pub. Alex grabbed me by the shoulders, fingers digging in.

  ‘Why’d you have to drag me into it?’

  ‘I wasn’t—’ I started, but Alex was already out the door, running after Sean.

  Later that evening I lay in bed in the motel room next to Andi’s, guarded by coppers, attempting to sleep. It wasn’t working. The ice was still in my system and my thoughts kept flashing wildly: Sean, Alex, Mum, Watto, Dad, Emery Wade, Dean’s headless corpse. I’d screwed everything up, again. When the bedside phone rang I was pleased for the interruption, and picked it up.

  ‘Simone.’

  It was Sam Doyle, the Sydney-based ex-gangster who’d been strangely concerned for me since my mum had been shot six months ago.

  ‘How the hell did you get this number?’ I asked.

  ‘I may be out of the biz, but I’m still connected,’ he said. ‘Saw the news. How you doing?’

  ‘Nice of you to keep taking an interest.’ I hoisted myself up on one elbow and took a slug of the whiskey I’d purchased in the mistaken belief it would help me sleep. ‘But I’m not exactly sure why.’

  ‘I knew your mum, met you when you were a little girl.’

  Met me? That was a joke. He’d kidnapped me before a sudden change of heart made him let me go, unharmed.

  ‘I feel responsible for what happened to her and her partner,’ he said. ‘And to you.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I lay back on the bed. ‘Is it your new Catholic guilt or do you still fancy her? I know you had an affair, all those years ago.’ I took another swig and whiskey dribbled down my cheek. Wiping it off with the back of my hand I prayed the meth would finally leave my system. I’d had enough.

  ‘What happened?’ He got straight to the point. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Probably not. Emery Wade and some fuck-stick called Craig Murdoch, head of the Red Devils bikie gang. They got together in prison and decided to kill two birds with one stone. They’re still after me, my family and even my friends. Most of us are going into hiding. Except my stupid mother, who refuses to leave her bloody yoga retreat.’

  ‘Which prison?’ he asked.

  ‘Port Phillip. What does it matter? Listen. I’ve got to go to hospital and get some sedatives. The drugs aren’t wearing off.’

  ‘What drugs?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Sorry, but I’ve got to go.’ I hung up.

  •

  After almost a week in lockdown with Chloe, Curtis and the unnamed baby in a suburban brick veneer, I’d just about had it. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, Chloe and Curtis argued constantly and dramatically, and I was seriously coming down from my ice-capade, near-death experience and the toe-curling way I’d finally destroyed any relationship with Alex and Sean. I was about to chuck it all in and take my chances with Craig Murdoch’s hitmen out on the streets when Caroline Swift showed up with a copy of The Age.

  ‘Check it out.’ She threw it on the seventies smoked-glass coffee table and I snatched it up and read the front page.

  Two inmates found dead in maximum security prison Port Phillip Prison is in lockdown after the death of two inmates.

  The bodies of Emery Saxon Wade, aged 55, and Craig Alan Murdoch, 38, were found hanging in Wade’s cell last night.

  A prison spokesman confirmed that officers from the Homicide Squad, Police Corrections Inspectorate and the State Coroner’s Office were investigating.

  Wade, a former criminal lawyer, was awaiting trial on three charges of murder and the attempted murder of Melbourne private investigator Simone Kirsch in March last year.

  Murdoch, president of the Red Devils motorcycle gang, was serving a six-year sentence for the serious assault of Michael Riccardo, head of rival gang the Assassins, which left Riccardo brain-damaged. Murdoch was also convicted of firearms offences and masterminding the fire-bombing of the Assassins’ Melbourne clubhouse eighteen months ago.

  It is understood both men were being investigated by the Homicide Squad over the slaying of author Isabella Bishop as well as facing blackmail, kidnapping and drugs charges.

  When asked about the possibility of a murder– suicide, a police spokeswoman said it was too early to comment. The police investigation is continuing.

  A note at the foot of the article directe
d readers to related coverage a few pages on.

  Lethal lies

  Action writer Rod Thurlow, recently refused bail after being charged with attempted murder and conspiracy, is now at the centre of a literary scandal. His agent, Brendan Reed, has confessed the ex-army officer didn’t pen the best-selling Chase Macallister novels—it was Reed himself.

  ‘We thought naming Rod as the author would boost sales,’ Reed revealed. ‘He’s got the look, the background and readers love authenticity—I mean, look at Andy McNab.’ Reed said he decided to come clean because he was tired of the deception and wanted to finally receive the recognition and profit share he deserved.

  epilogue

  I was out the front of what used to be my office, sweating in the heat, wearing my cut-off shorts and ‘Damn Right I’m a Cowgirl’ t-shirt. A bandana restrained my re-dyed dark brown hair and I hoped I didn’t look too much like Axl Rose.

  Orthodox Jews, junkies and old ladies with shopping trolleys glanced at me as they strolled by, and the shorts got a few whistles from rev-heads in passing cars. I sneered. Although the threat to my life had been, to use military euphemism, neutralised, it wasn’t a happy day. It hadn’t been a happy month. The bonus Liz had slung me after rescuing her brother was long gone, and I was injured, dumped, unemployed and about to become homeless. I’d heard nothing about having my licence reinstated and had finally decided to scrape the Simone Kirsch Investigations sign off the glass. About time Chloe recouped some money from renting out the shopfront.

  ‘Hey.’

  I turned and nearly dropped the scraper. A part-Maori guy wearing dark sunglasses slouched against the wall like he was starring in a Hugo Boss campaign—even though it was obvious he hadn’t been to bed all night. He was six foot, with mussed-up black hair and a pouty mouth, designer jeans hanging off slender hips. It was my younger brother, Jasper. I stood on tiptoe to hug him, smelled sweat, smoke and expensive cologne.

  ‘The hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Expected a slightly warmer welcome after two years . . .’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What you up to?’ He nodded to the door, where all that was left of my name was a cursive irsch.