Nine o’clock in the morning and the sun had disappeared again behind thick tufts of cloud. Clementine punched the number into the phone and leaned forward at the dining table, a pen, a notepad and an open laptop in front of her. The note had consumed her thoughts all of yesterday and she’d agonised over its source. Someone who knew she’d been asking questions. Someone who didn’t want her to know about Clancy. Cranfield? Gerard? John Wakely? Or maybe Todd Wakely and his cronies, wanting to make sure Clancy stayed off the team? Whoever it was had missed their mark—the threat had done nothing but spur her on.
‘Hello, Jenny Rodham speaking.’
Clementine rested her elbows on the table. ‘Hi, Jenny—it’s me, Clementine. Thanks for a great night on Friday.’
‘Our absolute pleasure, honey.’
‘Have you got a minute to talk?’
‘Sure, what’s up?’
‘I was hoping you might do me a favour—I need you to look something up for me.’
‘Of course, Clem—is it something to do with the club? I banked the takings from the fundraiser today. We made $7432—a record, three times last year’s total. Good, eh?’
‘Outstanding, Jen. People are so generous. I wonder if I should ask for a finals bonus?’ She was only half-joking.
‘Well, at $140 a game, I’m not sure how you’re getting by. Must have a sugar daddy somewhere…something you’re not telling us, girl?’
‘I have no need of a man, Jen—too complicated.’
‘Humph, stop being so selfish. It would be a lot more interesting for me if you had a man in your bed.’
‘I’m sorry I’m so boring.’
‘So what was it you wanted me to look up?’
‘It’s about Clancy. Did you know he lost his job?’
‘Yes, Trev told me on the weekend. What a shame. His poor wife, and with a baby on the way, too. Trev said he stole something from the warehouse.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s the official story. I’ve spoken to Clancy, Jen, and I just don’t think he did it.’
‘But you just never know, do you? I mean, people do crazy things. I don’t know him that well, truth be told, seemed decent enough, but they say nothing good ever comes out of the Plains.’
Clementine decided to ignore the comment. ‘Jen, I think someone was paid to set Clancy up.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’ Jen whispered. ‘Hang on, don’t answer that—I’m going out the back where it’s private.’ Clementine waited. She heard a door close.
‘Now what the bloody hell are you talking about?’ Jen said.
‘I’ve spoken to the bloke who dobbed him in, and things just don’t add up, Jen. I need you to look up his account for me, the guy who reported him.’
There was a pause. ‘Clementine, you know I can’t do that. I should hang up now—I can’t even be talking about this.’
‘No, Jen, please don’t hang up. That’s why I rang your mobile. It’s okay. Let me explain.’
‘Explaining won’t help,’ Jenny hissed. ‘What you’re asking me to do is against bank policy. It’s illegal, for Christ’s sake. And who was it that sacked Clancy anyway? I heard it was Gerard Holt.’
‘It doesn’t matter who—’
‘Okay, yes, it was Gerard who sacked him.’
‘Oh good God almighty, you are playing with fire, Clementine Jones. Do you realise who Gerard Holt is? I told you, he’s connected. He’s more than connected—he and his wife are everything in this town. Everything.’
‘But I’m not asking you to check Gerard’s account—’
Jen wasn’t listening. ‘Gerard is a powerful man round here—you have no idea how small towns work, girl. He’s second in charge at CTS, his wife runs the joint, he’s president of the footy club, he’s on the board of the chamber of commerce, he’s in close with the editor of the local rag, and he rubs shoulders all day long with the wealthiest cockies in the region. Oh, and don’t get me started on the pollies—he’s mates with the mayor, our federal member and who knows how many big knobs in Melbourne. Do you want to be on the wrong side of all of that? Don’t be a bloody fool.’
Clem bit her lip. Jen was right, of course. All this time keeping a low profile, and here she was throwing herself into a fight with the big end of town. But the note had produced the opposite effect. Now she knew for sure that something sinister lay behind Clancy’s sacking—and damned if she’d roll over just because someone with bad punctuation had left her a childish note.
She heard Jen sigh. ‘Come on, Clem, you’re going so well—the team is winning, those boys are learning some self-respect and there’s optimism in this town like we haven’t known since the mine shut down. Why on God’s earth would you want to sacrifice all that?’
‘It’s important, Jen. All I need is the transactions over the last few weeks. Could you just take a quick look and then tell me on the phone? I won’t even write anything down.’
Jenny snorted. ‘Well, you might want to self-destruct—that’s none of my business—but you do realise I could lose my job, don’t you? It’s madness, Clementine!’
Clementine waited. There was silence but for their breathing. ‘Jen, he’s one of our boys. He gave everything for the team, now someone’s trying to take him down. We’ve got to do something.’
A long pause. She went in for the kill. ‘Jen, it was Frank Cranfield who dobbed Clancy in. It’s his account I want you to look at.’ The silence came with a crash. Clementine could hear the wind outside ramp up a notch and the bar heater at her feet creaked. Here goes she thought. All in now. ‘Jen, I know what Frank Cranfield did to your brother. Now he’s screwing up somebody else’s life. You’ve got to help.’
Jen’s voice was strangled. ‘I’m hanging up.’ Click. The line went dead.
Clementine dropped the phone, shocked she’d actually said it. Jen was the closest thing to a friend she had in this town. How could she bring that up?
At that moment Pocket burst through the dog door, leaving it flapping wildly. His tongue hung out and the fur on his back was clotted together. She stared down at him, hardly seeing anything. Then a foul odour wafted past—the smell of something dead, something rotting—and she wanted to retch. ‘Oh, you filthy dog, you filthy, filthy dog. Out, out.’ She shooed him to the back door, trying not to touch him. Pocket had taken to rolling around on top of dead animals, the more advanced the decomposition the better. The smell was all through the house.
She heard her phone ringing from the front room, and ran back down the hall to grab it. It was Jen, calling from her mobile. She snatched at the pen and notepad.
‘I warned you—remember that, Clementine, when all this ends badly. I warned you.’ Jenny’s voice was hushed and trembling. ‘Twenty thousand dollars was paid into Cranfield’s account two weeks ago. The only other deposits are his pay every fortnight. The funds came from an account in the name of BT Regional at 159 Railway Parade in Earlville. Don’t you dare write that down—you’ll just have to remember it. You got that?’
‘Yes. Yes. Thank you so much, Jen.’
The phone went dead.
Clementine sat low in the driver’s seat, watching the comings and goings at 159 Railway Parade, Earlville, about as comfortable as a cat in a puddle. She’d never set foot in a tattoo parlour before, let alone investigated one. This would definitely be a once off. In and out, quick and slick.
Half an hour ago a woman with dreadlocks and round Janis Joplin glasses had emerged, her rust-coloured dress flouncing with each stride. Another woman, wearing a black leather miniskirt and flowing white blouse, had gone in not long after. Her legs were completely covered in tattoos, from the hem of her short skirt all the way down to her ankles.
To Clementine’s left a loaded freight train rattled past on the line behind the fish and chip shop. From across the street, next door to the tattoo parlour, came the intermittent clangs and hydraulic swooshes of a panelbeating shop. On the other side of number 159 was a lone house amid the commercial buildings, a single-storey postwar wreck of a place, coated in dark layers of dust.
A blue ute pulled up in front of her and a man in a red flannelette shirt and black leather vest jumped out—shortish, shaved head, Doc Martens, striding across the street to the tattoo parlour, thigh muscles bulging in black jeans.
She looked at her watch. After four o’clock. She’d hoped to get the manager alone but it had been one customer after another. Another ten minutes and the miniskirt woman came out. The website said the shop closed at five—Clementine could delay no longer. She got out of the car and crossed the street, a fluttering uneasiness in her stomach as she pushed through the door.
The walls inside were jam-packed with posters of tattooed people—waif-thin women and pale-skinned men. There was a chemical smell, overlaid with a kind of fleshy musk. On the far side of the shop, Red Flanno was standing bare-chested at the counter, pointing to his chiselled belly, biceps adorned with inky teeth, hollow eyes, curling tongues.
‘I want a quote here. You know, writing,’ he said.
A puny-looking guy was leaning on his elbows behind the glass counter. ‘Sure, what did you have in mind?’
‘Master of destiny.’
‘Very cool,’ said the guy. ‘Any particular font you prefer?’
Clementine moved to the back of the cramped shop and started flicking through a display album full of skulls and demons. There was a door towards the back and two screens. That must be where the torture takes place. Every now and then she glanced up to sneak a look at the rippling human canvas at the front of the shop. His back was covered in an eagle with outspread wings. She couldn’t quite make it out from that distance, but she thought she could see a swastika under its talons. She picked up another album.
The company search on BT Regional had shown that the owner was another company, which in turn was owned by another company, and then a parent company above that, BT Holdings. She’d printed out the directors’ names and addresses for each of the four companies. One name had come up as a director on all the boards: Dwight Benson. According to Google, Benson was the founding partner of a small criminal defence firm in Melbourne. She had prepared a series of questions to try to get to the bottom of the movers and shakers at 159 Railway Parade.
Red Flanno booked an appointment, buttoned his shirt and headed for the door. The puny guy came out from behind the counter and gave Clementine a smile.
‘G’day, love, can I help you?’
He wore a badge that said Ricky, and had one of those deeply pockmarked faces indicative of a miserable adolescence.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and said, in the halting tone she’d been practising for the occasion, ‘Um, yes, I think I’m sort of interested in getting a tattoo. But it’s my first one and I’m kind of nervous.’
‘Sure, no worries. Got anything in mind?’
‘Um, well, I was hoping to discuss a few things with you first.’
‘Fire away,’ said Ricky obligingly.
‘I was wondering about infections, you know, hygiene and everything. A friend of mine knew someone who got hepatitis from a dodgy tatt. Place was run by bikies.’
‘You’ve got no worries here, love. We follow the Tattooists Guild’s standards. New needles for each client, sterile packs, the works. Never had a problem with infections or anything like that.’
Yet another customer came into the shop, fitted western shirt, fancy leather boots and a disturbingly large gold chain round his neck. Ricky gave him a brief glance. ‘Be with you in a minute, mate.’
‘That’s good to know. So the owner’s pretty careful then? Is he a local?’ said Clementine, not willing to waste a moment.
‘I don’t actually know the owner. I think there’s a few blokes, one of them’s some big-shot lawyer in Melbourne or something.’
From the corner of her eye she could see the guy in the fancy boots preening himself in the mirror to her left.
‘Oh, a lawyer? Owning a tattoo parlour? That’s odd.’
‘Never met the guy. I only ever deal with the manager,’ said Ricky, tapping his fingertips on the counter, eyes darting across to the guy with the gold chain, who seemed to be coming to the end of his grooming session.
This was going nowhere. She needed to keep Ricky talking, find out how he’d come to work here, for how long, who else worked there, who did the books and whether he knew Frank Cranfield. So much ground to cover.
‘Oh right, is the manager local?’ This was all coming out wrong. She’d meant to ease her way in. Ricky just looked at her from under raised eyebrows. The guy had finished at the mirror and had taken up a position right behind her at the counter now, one fancy leather boot stuck out wide, arms crossed.
Hurry up. You’re never coming back here again, Jones.
‘Yeah,’ said Ricky reaching across to a laminated card at the end of the counter, ‘Listen, love, here’s an info sheet.’ The card was headed Everything You Need to Know About Getting a Tattoo. ‘How about you have a read, and I’ll come back when you’re ready.’
Shit. She’d found out exactly zero. It was after four-thirty and Fancy Boots could take up the rest of the available time. There was only one thing for it…
‘Oh, no! ’ she said, a little too hurriedly. ‘I mean, I think I’m ready. In fact, yes, I’ll have a butterfly.’
‘You sure?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m sure. And I want to do it now, before I change my mind.’
‘All right. Well I’ve got nothing booked, so I can fit you in. You pick something out,’ he said, handing her an album from beneath the counter, ‘and I’ll just see to this fella.’
Ricky spoke to Fancy Boots, booking him for an appointment next week, and returned to the other end of the counter, where Clementine was staring blankly at the album.
‘Okay, any thoughts?’
She had no thoughts, other than the pain she was about to suffer and the fact that she’d be stuck with this tattoo for the rest of her life. Ricky began flipping through the pages, discussing the ins and outs of the various offerings in the butterfly section and the time required for each, Clem barely managing to comment. He was talking up a butterfly he’d done for a young woman—‘Her first one, just like you, came out real nice.’ He found the page he was after. ‘Ah, here it is—’
Clementine didn’t hear what Ricky said next. The design was huge, big enough to cover an entire scapula and surrounds—multicoloured, lavish wings, looping tendrils, the butterfly itself sitting on an elaborate twig complete with carefully etched leaves.
‘Oh, perhaps something small and, um, discreet?’
‘Oh, yeah, of course, no worries,’ said Ricky, realising his mistake. They flipped through a couple more pages, Clem’s stomach twisting in ever more contorted knots.
Ricky seemed to sense her lack of enthusiasm. Finally he said, ‘How about you have a think about it and pop back in when you’ve decided on the design.’
Oh God. Now or never.
‘No, no, I’m good to go,’ she said. ‘I’ll have this one.’ She pointed at a design just big enough to give her half an hour with Ricky.
‘You sure, love?’ Ricky looked doubtful.
‘Yes, I’m sure…on my lower back, please.’
Lower lower back, so no one but lovers will ever see it…
‘Righto, then. Why don’t you just take a seat over there behind that screen and I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She sat behind the screen, in utter disbelief at where she was, what she was about to do. Above her was a brass lamp on a long boom, there was a bench with a sink on the back wall, more framed pictures of tattoo models and to the right, above her head, loomed a decidedly unnerving reindeer head, its glass eye reflecting the light on the ceiling, antlers casting a tree-like shadow on the wall behind it.
She heard Ricky locking the door to the shop, drawers opening and closing, then his light-footed steps, and there he was beside her, smiling. She felt sick.
‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ready?’
She nodded. He went to the sink at the bench, his back to her, and began washing his hands while she lay face down on a massage table, looking through the narrow slit to the tiled floor below, her shirt pulled up high and just her underwear beneath a sheet draped over her bum. Ricky approached the massage table. She felt his fingers on the sheet—he was gently easing her panties lower. Oh God.
More hand washing, the squeak of surgical gloves and Ricky began dabbing some sort of solution on her skin.
‘I’m so nervous,’ she blurted. ‘I should have asked more questions, shouldn’t I?’
‘No pressure,’ he said, ceasing the dabbing for a moment. ‘We can call it off now, no charge, but once I start, that’s it. You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yep. Good as gold,’ she said, her voice an octave too high.
He finished the dabbing, then there was a rattling sound, like stirring a spoon in a cup.
‘So, Clementine, I’m going to stencil the design onto your back here. Just like drawing on your skin.’
‘Make sure you tell me when the needles are going to start, yeah?’ she said nervously.
Ricky was gentle, but it was only the drawing stage, and she was so tense her jaw was aching already. By the time he’d fired up the machine, she was sweating, and when the first needles pierced the thin layer of skin above her sacrum she let out a tiny, surprised yelp. She forced herself to ask her questions through gritted teeth and deep breaths as the needle hammered against her spine.
He had a great bedside manner, chatting away as he worked, answering all of Clem’s questions. She discovered that Ricky had worked there two years, had been interviewed for the job by a really great guy named Ambrose (‘Brose’ for short) who lived in Earlville and rode a motorcycle. Ricky loved his job and did watercolour painting on the side and he found her completely fabricated story of breaking up with her ex, Frank, hilarious.
‘Wait, maybe you know him?’ Clementine said. ‘Frank’s the one who suggested I come here. He’s got loads of tatts. Frank Cranfield.’
‘Never heard of him,’ Ricky said. ‘But it sounds like you’re better off without him, love.’
It was after five when she stepped out onto the pavement. She wore her jeans low, way low, beneath the screaming red patch of mortification just above her butt crack.