by Lim, Rebecca
But Gran never talked about what the leaving had actually taken—and she didn’t now. It was almost two decades ago; Dad as a bikie henchman fringe dweller was so ancient history, I could see her thinking that it made no sense bringing it up now. And, feeling like a coward, I stayed silent, too.
The constable prompted me again as the silence lengthened. ‘Anything new “coming through” right now?’
‘Nope, nothing new coming through right now,’ I parroted as Jordan gave my hand a tiny squeeze.
Which was true. Nothing new.
‘Then what were you two doing upstairs on the computer?’ Gran interrupted. ‘You said it was important, what you were working on. It’s no time for secrets, Soph. Tell them if it’s put you in danger.’
Constable Watts turned to Jordan saying pleasantly, ‘Anything we should know about?’
I looked at Jordan, not trusting myself to speak.
‘We just had a T-shirt and a card to deliver, to a friend,’ Jordan said evenly. ‘Soph and me spent last night looking up his place and arranging how to get there. It’s in Northcote. It’s urgent, it had to go today or we’d be late with it, but…’
Jordan lifted his chin in the direction of the street-facing windows. There was a scrum of reporters barricaded outside, across the street, all trying to get pictures with their long-lens cameras of us sitting in here having tea and ribbon sandwiches with the police. Anytime anyone came in or out of the building they’d stir like a school of piranha, all pointing in the same direction, mouths open, teeth flashing, ready to strip people of information.
Ferguson laughed scornfully. ‘It’s seeing members of Task Force Brigand poking around that’s got them all excited.’
He swung his bright-blue gaze back to me. ‘That, and the fact you seem to have a habit of making good Christian folk really nervous, young Sophie Teague. You’re great TV. People are beginning to say you’re in league with the Devil. Want a word with him, too, if you can manage that. Have a few questions.’
Ferguson snorted at his own joke while I flushed miserably.
‘I didn’t ask for this, and that’s the truth. I wish it would go away.’
‘We—ell,’ Ferguson drew out the word as he flipped shut his police-issue notebook, ‘if any of your “visions” end up telling you why a bunch of lawless bikies took it upon themselves to shoot up your granny’s establishment just before three in the morning, you give us a call, hmmm? But in the meantime…’
I looked up and saw him exchange a fleeting glance with Constable Watts. ‘How about we get you to your friend’s place to deliver that T-shirt in time for his birthday, hey?’
Jordan’s head came up. ‘Seriously? That would be awesome.’
I looked at Jordan uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure Carter would want us turning up with…’
‘Your friend Carter have a last name?’ Constable Watts interjected, jamming his police hat back on and rising.
‘It’s Kelly,’ Jordan called back over his shoulder, already heading upstairs. ‘Wait a minute while I get it.’
As if he’d lost interest in the whole catastrophe, Constable Watts wandered away and out through the front door. Ferguson finished his cup of tea and engulfed Gran’s hand in his. ‘If anything comes to mind, Mrs Teague,’ he said, ‘you’ve got our numbers.’
She nodded, indicating me with a tilt of her head. ‘And thank you, for getting her to her friend’s place. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight today.’
‘All part of the service, ma’am,’ Ferguson smiled before telling me he’d arrange to have a car round the back for us as soon as the Task Force finished up.
When the officers were out of earshot, Gran said in a low voice, ‘Is that really what you’re doing? Delivering a present? If it were up to me, I’d chain you to the end of your bed and never let you out again if it would keep you safe. Outlaw bikies, Sophie, Christ. I thought I’d seen the back of them for good. What have you done, my girl, what have you done?’
Unable to frame an answer that would alleviate her worry, I was glad when Jordan chose that precise moment to lope back into view holding the wrinkled plastic bag.
‘I’ll show you, Gran,’ I said, relieved. ‘Look. It’s just a T-shirt. Honest.’
A little of Gran’s tension eased when she caught sight of the shirt and blue envelope. Jordan had taken the time to seal the card inside it so that the Thank you! message Eve had once written was no longer visible to contradict us.
‘Bit gay-designer-pirate, isn’t it?’ Gran sniffed, looking the shirt over, before heading into the office to call the glass repairmen.
We didn’t leave until after 2pm. Gran even had chicken parmas sent out to all the forensic guys combing the footpaths and drains outside, because she didn’t have to look after the usual ferals.
‘All set, you two?’ Senior Constable Ferguson said gruffly as the police car clattered out through Sancerre Lane and past the waiting sea of reporters before any of them could get wind of us crouching in the back seat footwells.
‘At Rae Street,’ he added, over his shoulder, sternly, ‘it’s seat belts, no arguments.’
We did as we were told over the intermittent buzz of radio chatter.
Both men had given the card and tee only a cursory glance at The Star, but I knew from the way Ferguson was driving that they’d run Carter Kelly’s official stats. They’d never even asked us what his address was, but here we were on St Georges Road crossing Holden Street in the direction of Northcote.
I caught a glimpse of rushing water out my window and shoved an elbow into Jordan’s ribs. He was playing with his phone, and I knew he was texting Daughtry that we were almost there. I was curious to see this paragon with the sexy voice and ability to banish the dead.
I went cold as the car bumped across the railway line and I caught sight of the concrete station platforms going past. They hugged the track to my right, looking grey-on-grey in the wintry light. A girl with bobbed, purple hair in a vintage dress, striped stockings and an oversized green mohair cardigan, turned her head sharply and stared at us going by in the police car, before refocusing her gaze on the empty platform opposite.
We pulled up across the road from the single-fronted, faded blue timber house on Branxholme Street. I pretended not to notice Senior Constable Ferguson’s steady gaze in the driver’s mirror as he said dryly, ‘Best home before dark, children.’
Jordan had to open my door and help me out because my legs weren’t really working. It was the usual shock, you see, of having something move out of the realm of the perceived, into the real.
This was the place.
Somehow, I’d done it again. I was outside the house Eve had shown me. I was actually here.
15
It looked and smelt like rain was coming as we pushed our way through the front gate and walked the short path to the door, stepping up under the verandah. Jordan had the rolled up plastic bag in one hand.
Behind us, I heard the police car’s engine idling while we rang the bell. I glanced over my shoulder as Ferguson did a noisy three-point turn and roared back the way we’d come, one large hand briefly raised in our direction.
The door was the same chipped and faded blue as the rest of the house. No one came to answer it, and after a polite pause, Jordan leant on the buzzer again, only longer this time. I thought maybe I saw the edge of a curtain twitch in the front window to the right of the door, but I couldn’t be sure. Jordan’s mobile chose that moment to let off a melodic three-note pinging that indicated a message.
He stared down at the screen with a heavy frown. ‘Daughtry wants me to meet him at the station. That’s weird: I thought I made it pretty clear about when and where to get off.’ Jordan glanced up the hill towards the cheerless platforms we’d only just driven past. ‘Says he’s only a few stops away.’
He shoved his phone back inside his jacket.
‘Come on,’ he sighed. ‘Daughtry’s not from here. I have to go get him. It’s like Mum says: when you expect him he doesn’t show, and when you don’t, he just materialises out of nowhere.’
There was that almost twitch of a curtain again in the front window, like someone was standing beyond the glass to the right, just listening, hoping we’d go away. The words tumbled out before I’d really thought them through.
‘You go,’ I was astonished to hear myself say. ‘I’ll just wait here and keep trying, yeah?’
Jordan looked sceptical. ‘No one’s here,’ he said. ‘We’ll get Daughtry first then work out what to do about this.’ He raised the scrunched up plastic bag in his hand and his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Eve didn’t give us instructions in the event of no one being home.’
‘Leave it with me,’ I insisted as a light, furry rain began to fall beyond the decorative edge of the verandah. ‘It’ll be drier, at least. And I’m just getting over a cold, remember?’
I held out my hand, hoping my smile looked natural, and Jordan handed me the bag.
‘No sense both of us getting wet,’ he agreed.
He reached out and cupped my cheek, grinning as I flushed.
‘I should be able to keep an eye on you from the platform anyway, seeing as it’s so close. If anyone comes to the door, just keep them talking until I get back with Daughtry, okay? He can translate stuff from dead languages into workable English, but he can’t use public transport. It’s unreal.’
Without warning, Jordan leant in and stole a kiss before he turned and clattered back down the steps and up the path.
Face hot as the sun, I held the bag to my knotted-up stomach as Jordan gave me a laconic salute and a slow-burning smile that promised more later, before turning in the direction of the railway crossing.
As he moved out of view down a narrow, scrub-lined pedestrian walkway that lay between the edge of Carter Kelly’s property and the gravel-strewn track, I turned back and studied the front door with its blank, frosted window set at head height.
Taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths, I pressed the doorbell five times in succession to indicate I was serious. ‘I know you’re home,’ I called out. ‘Open up, please.’
This time, I didn’t imagine the hand that drew the front curtain to one side before letting it fall. A dark outline moved into the edges of the frosted glass, and I regarded it the same way I knew whoever was in there was looking at mine.
‘No, thanks,’ a guy called out finally. ‘Not buying.’ He sounded young, with a high, clear voice.
‘Not selling!’ I shouted back, but the shape was already receding backwards in the glass.
Desperate not to lose sight of the shadow beyond the door, I yelled out, ‘Carter? Carter? Monica sent me. She has something for you.’
I saw the dark shape freeze.
I held the green plastic bag up high in front of my face so that it loomed in the rippled glass.
‘How do you know my name? Who sent you?’
‘Monica did. Nothing threatening. She even wrote you a card. It’s right here. Read it.’
I almost didn’t catch his next words. ‘That’s impossible.’ His tone was fearful. ‘Monica’s dead.’
He sounded so certain that I found myself shouting, ‘You kill her, Carter? Is that how you know for sure she’s dead?’
I leapt back in shock as the door pulled open, the security chain protesting loudly, the wood of the door almost splintering under the force. The guy rasped through the crack, ‘Leave me alone or I’ll call the police! I didn’t kill anyone. You have no proof she was even here. Go away.’
All I could see was part of the man’s face and one large, frightened blue eye inexplicably outlined in black, liquid eyeliner and three shades of eye shadow, long dark lashes thickly coated with mascara, all expertly applied.
‘I came here in a police car, Carter,’ I replied calmly. ‘Feel free to call them. You’ll have some explaining to do.’
The eye shrank back. ‘What do they know?’ he breathed through the gap separating us.
‘All I told them was that you were my friend, and that I was bringing you a birthday present. That’s all. I had to be inventive. They seemed to believe me because they’ve gone.’ I saw Carter swallow and shocked myself by adding, ‘Can I come in?’
It was clear that Carter was terrified. And part of me—the not kicking myself part—knew it was the right thing to do. I just had to give him one lousy bag. He didn’t need three strangers in his house when one would do well enough to hand over Eve’s parting gift. It was such a simple thing, and it was still daylight outside and I had a working phone. Plus, Jordan was only an ear-piercing scream away. What could happen?
The young man behind the door didn’t move. I could feel the seconds lengthening as he regarded me from head to toe with that single, frightened eye. I could see him taking in my wild, curling mass of ginger hair pulled back into the usual low, loose ponytail; my cold-reddened nose and universal high school dork’s ensemble of jeans, runners, pink velour hoodie and sleeveless black puffer. I knew I looked about as threatening as a stick insect in a wig.
Carter caught me by surprise when he blinked, suddenly drawing back into the shadows. In desperation, I held out the plastic bag, trying to shove it through the gap. Maybe just dropping it over Carter’s damned threshold would be enough to satisfy Eve, and maybe then the spell she had over me, over Jordan, would be broken and normal transmission would resume.
‘At least take this!’ I begged. ‘It’s for you. I don’t know why, but she really wants you—needs you—to have it. All of it has been leading up to you, and I have so many questions, but mostly what I want to know is: Why? Why didn’t you report her missing when you were, like, one of the last people to see her alive?’
I thought about that memory of hers that I’d found myself standing in. That look on her face. She’d known. She’d known right then and there that she was doomed.
‘Monica left your house one night and she never came back, did she? Who got her?’
‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘How do you know all these things? How did you find me?’
‘Let me come in,’ I replied quietly, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
He regarded me warily for a moment longer. Then I heard the sound of the chain being pushed down a runnel. The door swung open wider to reveal a tall, thin young man with a riot of curly brown hair chopped off at the shoulders. He had a pronounced
Adam’s apple, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and was wearing ripped jeans, a faded grey T-shirt with a complicated sword-and-rose design on it, and bare feet. Carter had the narrowest shoulders I’d ever seen on a man, and the made-up, haunted eyes of a showgirl. I knew I was staring. A guy in full eye makeup with a lush man-fro wouldn’t survive to recess at Ivy Street High.
I decided that Carter’s face was beautiful: neither fully male nor female, but a strange hybrid of strength and softness.
But then his eyes reddened, and tears spilled down his cheeks, leaving makeup running in long streaks down the perfect oval of his face.
‘I never said anything,’ he sniffed, ‘because I was afraid. People might think I’d done it. Or they’d come after me. And Mon always liked men who were dangerous. Like fire, she said so herself.’ Carter’s voice was beseeching. ‘You have to understand—she disappeared into thin air and I had no one to tell—by the time I realised she wasn’t coming back, it was already too late. I didn’t want her here in the first place, but she had nowhere else to go…and I owed her. She used to say that showgirl freaks like us need to stick together.’
Carter began to cry in earnest then, cradling the battered plastic bag against him, really going for it. And I had to look away, because the sound of a man sobbing has to be one of the worst sounds in the world. They don’t do it enough so when they do, it sounds rusty and wrong.
‘We’d been arguing a lot, she wasn’t easy to live with; Mon wasn’t easy, period,’ Carter blubbered. ‘When she didn’t come back, the first couple of nights, I tried to convince myself that she’d crashed at someone else’s place. But she left her ring behind,’ he wailed suddenly. ‘It creeped me out that thing: I told her it looked like a dead woman’s face. But she loved it because her mother had it made for her, back when they were still talking.’
