Flames

by Robbie Arnott

  No lights were shining from any of the windows, no smoke was pumping from either of the chimneys and no sound was coming from under any of the doors. No cars in the driveway, either. I knocked anyway, expecting nothing and getting it. No father to be found. I’d check with Malik in the morning. I jumped back in the Lancer, swung the wheel and headed back out onto the highway, but not before I’d seen something I’d missed on the way in: a broad, blackened patch of burnt grass in the lawn, right in front of the house. The grass around it had grown high and lush, but this ring of charcoal had not recovered. I thought of the mother, the one who’d burned twice, and felt a brief twinge.

  By the time I’d followed the river home it was completely dark. I parked in the alley, let myself into the flat, and made a ham and mustard sandwich. A glass of gin happened too, and another few, until I was lying on the couch watching someone shout at me from the television. At some point the neighbour’s cat came in, a huge black tom that had taken a liking to me. I couldn’t tell how it kept getting in. It sat on my stomach as I fed it strips of ham. More gin. The room turned swimmy. I’d find the girl in the morning. As long as she hadn’t become a ring of burnt grass.

  In the morning my brain was having a fight with my skull and I hated pretty much everything, but that was normal. I shoved the tom off me and began my breakfast routine: toast, black coffee, push-ups, sit-ups, hot shower, toothbrush, Panadol, clothes. By the time I was pushing buttons through my shirt I was as good as I was going to get. In the mirror I saw that my hair was reaching past my ears. I smoothed it back, wiped on some cherry lipstick, sorted my eyes out with a bit of liner, grabbed my coat and got out of the flat before I had to look at it for any longer.

  It wasn’t far to the cop shop. All the nature strips I walked past were covered in a brittle layer of frost; the local footy oval was a glistening white pan. I remembered my playing days, and the feeling of my body crunching into the ice after an early start in the under-fourteens, my skin first going sharp, then numb, then stinging for hours until the match was over. I didn’t miss it.

  I kept walking, over the bridge and into town, my hangover coming too but having the decency to stay more or less quiet. On my way past a bakery I stepped in to buy a couple of croissants. The sugar in the air put a perk in my stride, and by the time I reached the station I was feeling almost fine. At the front desk a junior cop wanted to know if I had a complaint. I drew on a smile. I’m here to see Senior Detective Malik.

  What case would you like to speak to the senior detective about? He’s very busy. The boy-cop smiled back, and behind his too-white teeth I could see his fragile little thoughts tracing lines, making assumptions, bouncing off words like Duty and Career and Citizen and Safety.

  I’m his ex-wife. Tell him I’m on the way up. I started moving towards a door in the rear left corner of the room, the one that led up to the detectives’ desks. It didn’t open for me, so I turned back to the officer. Or I could just call my lawyer. I pulled out my phone. The number’s on speed-dial. Graham would love that.

  He blinked, and his neon smile flickered away into the stale cop-shop air. My thumb hovered over the keypad. He blinked again and pressed a button underneath the desk. The door began slowly opening. I gave him a mock salute and started climbing the stairs.

  Three flights up and I was banging on a glass door emblazoned with Malik’s name and rank. Come in—Jesus, he barked, so I yanked on the handle and strode into the office of the Last Graham. A squat, lumpy boulder of a man was leaning over a chipped desk, shuffling through a stack of finely printed paper. His sleeves were rolled up past his hairy forearms, and even though the morning was freezing and the station had shithouse heating there were little circles of sweat rolling down his bare, coffee-brown scalp. Look, Patricia, you’ve already got my balls. What the hell else do you…

  He looked up as I planted myself in the stiff guest chair. Morning, Graham.

  You son of a bitch. He collapsed into his own seat and kicked ineffectively at the pile of paper. I thought you were Patricia. She’s taking me to the cleaners, you know.

  I heard. I tore open the bag of croissants and placed it on the desk between us.

  Fucking bitch. Kids, house, kayak, everything.

  I raised an eyebrow. You kayak?

  He snatched up one of the croissants. I did. When I had a fucking kayak. The whole pastry disappeared into his mouth, golden crumbs spraying over the papers. Anyway. What do you want?

  They called him the Last Graham for two reasons: first, because the name Graham had been so unpopular for newborn babies for the last few decades it was highly likely that once a few old codgers kicked the bucket he, Graham Malik, would be the last Graham on the island. Second, because he was perceived to be so slow—physically and mentally—that he was always the last detective to solve anything. The first part was true. The second was up for discussion, but he was by no means as bad a cop as many people would have you think. Over the years he had given me tips that had helped me close more than a few cases I’d been struggling with. I don’t know why. Maybe I reminded him of a long-lost little sister. Or maybe it was just the occasional froth of testosterone. Who knows why men do what they do? He’d also looked the other way when I’d twisted the odd arm, on more than one occasion. I trusted him, and more importantly I respected him, even when his colleagues didn’t.

  The missing McAllister girl. Her brother’s hired me to find her. Turns out he’s not happy with your efforts.

  Oh. That one. He kept chewing. The boys think she’s done a runner. Big tragedy, dead mother and whatever, and she wants out of her life without being followed. Plus, she wants to get away from that creepy brother of hers. He grabbed another croissant. You know she was last seen on the bus to Franklin? I nodded. Gone down south to throw off the scent, the boys think, then snuck back up north and moved interstate. Once she’s crossed Bass Strait we can’t do much.

  You don’t think she’s in trouble?

  The boys don’t.

  I leaned forward. What about you?

  He stopped chewing and swallowed. Trouble? Maybe not. We spoke to a couple of lads who had a crack at her in Tunbridge—they were of the opinion that she could look after herself pretty well. But…

  But?

  Look. He folded his arms. Flakes of pastry fell from his torso like golden snow. If someone snatched her, we’d know by now. If she were dead, someone would’ve found the body. But if she wanted to hide…she could do it.

  So you think she’s holed up somewhere.

  He shrugged. Maybe. Or maybe she’s gone to the mainland, like the boys reckon. It would make sense.

  Not everything makes sense.

  Sure doesn’t.

  He handed me a file marked ‘McAllister’. I got up, thought about shaking his hand, but didn’t. The Last Graham wasn’t into formalities, and I didn’t want to upset the ecosystem of our relationship, so I just gave him one of my mock salutes. Thanks.

  Thanks for breakfast.

  I headed for the door, ready to go, sick of the musty stink of cops and filing cabinets. But as my fingers wrapped around the handle something from last night flashed into my brain: the timber mansion, the overgrown garden, the circle of burnt grass. I turned back to Malik. What about the father?

  He was brushing the crumbs off his chest, aiming for a cupped serviette, missing more than he was collecting. I don’t know much about the guy. Nobody does. He tried to play the line soft, but I caught the edge in it.

  And?

  He stopped brushing. Well…the wife’s family, the McAllisters—they’re one of the oldest families you’ll find around these parts. Been here for generations. Bit like those tuna hunters up the coast. But this Jack fella—he turned up out of nowhere. Don’t know when, exactly. Just kind of…appeared. Flush with cash, mind you. No family. One day he just pops up, out of the blue, engaged to Edith McAllister, saying he’d been travelling through the area and she’d given him a reason to stay. Seemed like a nice guy, so nob
ody cared.

  But you did.

  Another shrug. I was a junior cop back then. So wet behind the ears I needed a lifejacket. What would I know?

  I tried to get more out of his expression, but his face was unreadable. And I didn’t have time to focus on the girl’s dad, no matter how mysterious he was. Right now I needed to follow the trail, and the trail led south. I pushed on the handle, but before I left I performed my patented door pause. Good luck with Patricia.

  He aimed another kick at the pile of papers. I don’t need luck. I need a decent lawyer. He swung his foot, missing everything. Or maybe you could go talk to her. You know, you’re a woman…

  Your powers of deduction continue to astonish me.

  You know what I mean. You could make her see reason.

  I looked out his dirty window. The sky was fat with grey clouds.

  Try flowers.

  Unlike a lot of people on this strange southern rock, I have no hidden talents. No magic tricks, no secret skills, no unnatural knack for anything. But if I had to admit to some kind of enhanced ability, I would tell you about my twinge. It’s not a knee twinge, or a gut twinge, or even a twinge in the neck: it’s a full-body, skin-shaking twinge that snaps right through me, from my heels to my hair, whenever something is about to go wrong. It’s pretty accurate. I twinge when a thug is about to get violent, when a client is lying, when a trail goes dead. I even twinge before my tyres start to slip on black ice. It’s a twinge I can trust, and I usually listen to it. I’ve got nothing else to rely on.

  When the Last Graham told me about Jack McAllister, I twinged. I twinged so hard I thought I was going to fall through the window. But for the first time, nothing happened. No accident, no violence, nothing negative whatsoever. Graham kept talking, and I kept listening. There was a possibility it was a delayed twinge—triggered by the mention of something, foretelling a threat that was not yet obvious. That had never happened before, so I dismissed it. I convinced myself it was a rare misfire. Nothing to worry about.

  We all make mistakes.

  The Midlands Highway: the sort of road you’d call a goat track, if you had something against goat tracks. Lazy drivers wiped themselves out on the narrow lanes and shoulderless corners every second week, but no one ever slowed down. People don’t learn; they just accumulate facts. I leaned on the accelerator as the Lancer and I bulleted over potholes, slowing down only on a gap-toothed bridge as we flew over the cold wet streak of the South Esk.

  My first stop would be Tunbridge, where I knew Charlotte McAllister had had an altercation with a couple of gentlemen. The world whipped past me in an agricultural blur. Sheep clouded the fields. The sky kept thinking about rain without ever making a commitment to it. Bored by the ceaseless farmland I leaned my foot harder, and an hour later I hit Tunbridge.

  Small town. A historic place, I’d been told once, but historic is just a dusty version of boring. Even worse than boring, it was pretty—sandstone houses, sun-dappled riverbanks, flocks of waddling ducks, the whole shebang. I hated the place as soon as I saw it, but I’m not one to let a little bit of hatred get in the way of a pay cheque. It was mid-afternoon. I figured the two Romeos I was after would still be at work, so I parked by the bridge and staked out the front of the only pub in town.

  At five or so the local farmhands, shop owners and old codgers started dribbling along the streets and through the pub doors. None of them looked like my marks, until I spotted two men in yellow high-vis jackets getting out of a paint-chipped ute. They matched the description in Charlotte’s file—one was dark, languid and had his mouth shut, while the other was yammering away with a loose jaw as a fuzzy orange caterpillar crawled across his upper lip. They marched into the pub. I gave them enough time to say hello, order a drink, do whatever it is small-town men do when they walk into a bar, then followed them in.

  I copped a few stares when I pushed through the doors. A thirty-something woman with hard eyes, dark lips and short hair isn’t a common sight in the country. The men in high-vis were propped on the far side of the bar, so I ordered a straight gin and sunk into a split-leather booth, making sure we could see each other. They were cradling pints of lager and chatting up a storm—at least, the moustache was. The smoky one just sat, smiled and nodded. I could’ve gone over, shown them my photo of the McAllister girl and tried to sweet-talk the information out of them, but my gut told me they wouldn’t give me anything. The boorish looks on their faces told me something else. I didn’t like it, but I knew I could handle it. My gin went down sharp, and the barman soon got the idea that he could keep bringing it to me without having to fuss about with orders.

  After an hour or so the locals began creaking out. The moustache was doing a bad job of staring at me out of the corner of his eye. I threw him a wink. It nearly knocked him off his stool. He muttered to his friend, who almost raised his eyebrows. The moustache kept wobbling out words, and then the two of them had pushed back their stools and were wandering towards me, full of cautious, half-drunk confidence.

  Evening, said the moustache. I stared up at him for a moment, then indicated the other side of the booth with a tilt of my head. A velvet glow spread across his face and he slid onto the bench, followed by his partner.

  Havin’ a good night? The guy had something against silence. I liked him about as much as I liked tonic in my gin, but he was playing into my hands. I stared straight into his face, pulled a curl onto the corner of my mouth, and said: Better now.

  And from there it was easy, so easy—why couldn’t these underlaid bozos have given me at least the imitation of a challenge? Sweat slicked over Moustache’s face and a hooded smile spread across Smoky’s as I sipped, squirmed and suggested my way through the next few hours. I let Moustache do most of the talking—endless inane stories about the mines they’d worked in, the cars they’d owned, the friends they’d made and lost, the comparable qualities of coal, ore, copper, tin. He even, after his fourth or fifth beer, began telling me about their fathers, which was as close as I came to dropping my act and bailing on the case. Who wants to hear a grown man blabber on about his relationship with his father? But I kept a straight face, and when Smoky began rubbing a work boot along the inside of my ankle under the table I bit my lip at him and let him keep doing it.

  When I had to speak, I told them I was an HR consultant who specialised in the field of change management, travelling from the capital to Launceston for work. All Moustache could say to that was Sounds like a pretty full-on sort of job, to which I replied, with something like a sultry sigh: Exhausting. I’m no oil painting. Plenty of men have found plenty of ways to resist my advances. But in a certain mood and a certain light I do have an appeal—a flinty, slightly androgynous, I-wonder-if-I-could-handle-her sort of allure. And it helps that I’ve kept my face unscarred and my body in good nick. Anyway, what I had going on was clearly working on these chumps, so when I suggested that we go for a walk to appreciate the famous Tunbridge night air they were swaying towards the door faster than they could finish their beers.

  Outside, I steered the three of us in the direction of the river. Moustache was on my left, brushing my arm with his own, while Smoky was on my right, letting his hand cup my thigh. I pulled a bottle of gin from my inner coat pocket and passed it round. They took long swigs and pretended it didn’t burn. We reached the river and I sat down, beckoning them onto the grassy bank either side of me.

  So, I said, taking another pull as they hunched close, you guys do this often?

  Smoky was trailing a finger through a tuft behind my ear. Moustache answered. Do what?

  Show a girl from out of town a good time.

  Well, we’re always welcoming to visitors, said Moustache, aren’t we? He threw the question at his friend, but was ignored; Smoky was nuzzling at my neck.

  And other girls don’t mind? I bent into the spiky stubble. Moustache leaned closer.

  Mind what?

  The two of you. At once.

  Now he started rubbing his
hand up and down my thigh. Sometimes. But we’re always, you know. His voice fell to a mumble. Gentlemen.

  I had to play the next bit carefully; they were coming on too fast, and I needed to get more out of them. I kinked my neck away from Smoky and leaned back on my hands, putting a bit of distance between us all. Of course. I mean, I don’t mind at all. I like it. Another slow drag of gin. But some girls must’ve had…reservations.

  Moustache frowned; I’d pushed too far. But I stroked a finger down his chin and handed him the bottle, and after he took a sip he said: There was one girl. The other week. We thought she was dead keen, wouldn’t leave us alone. Then, just before, y’know…she flipped. He waved a hand at the river. Went mental. He looked at Smoky. Show her what she did.

  Smoky, who had lain down on the bank beside me, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He turned on the screen and held it over his wrist, using the blueish glow to show me the large, silvery mark of a burn. I peered at it. How’d she do that? With a lighter?

  Moustache answered for him. No idea. She didn’t have a lighter—well, I didn’t see one. One second it’s all good, next she’s goin’ nuts and kickin’ the shit out of us and burning Davo. Fuckin’ psycho. Bitterness had crept into his voice. I kept stroking his chin, letting my fingers roll down to his collarbone.

  She from around here?

  He turned back to me. Nah. She was goin’ south. Kept asking us about this mine we used to work at.

  Just a bit more. I only needed one more word from them. Which mine?

  My luck, fickle at the best of times, held. The tin one. At Melaleuca. Moustache lay down on my left, as Smoky wriggled closer on my right. We didn’t tell her it’s been closed for years. Only thing there now is a wombat farm.

  I put a hand behind his skull and pulled him close, whispering in his ear. What a bitch. I dropped my voice. What a little slut.

  His breath pumped, fast and hot on my cheek. Yeah, he muttered, she was a dumb fucken slut. Wasn’t she, Davo?