It’s Saturday and Belinda and I are back at the stadium watching the AFL. The home team is up by fourteen points, but we haven’t scored a major since the second quarter and the visitors are closing the lead. They score again and the ball goes back to the middle. We have the biggest, heaviest ruckman on the ground, and he goes up and taps the ball to the midfield, who sends it hand over hand into our fifty. Belinda yells just kick the damn thing and Venter boots the ball to the goal square. It goes to ground, and everyone piles on. We can’t see who has possession. Neither can the umpire. He blows the whistle and prepares to throw it up. The big men fly again, but it’s Venter who comes in over the top and takes the mark. The crowd explodes. Scarves are waved. We hold our breath as he tucks his mouthguard into his socks and checks his shoelaces. He lines up. The clock counts down. He kicks, and it goes through. The siren sounds and we go into the fourth quarter back to a fourteen-point lead.
‘I need to pee,’ says Belinda, and pushes her way through the row. Everyone is standing, stretching their legs, and talking to the people behind them. The woman who has the reserved seats next to me unscrews the lid of her thermos and pours the last of her tea. She always brings a ziplock bag of jelly snakes and offers me one. I choose green and bite off its head.
‘We’d be trailing without Venter,’ she says. ‘That’s his fourth goal today.’
‘He reads the play better than any of our other forwards.’
‘And he’s fit. And fresh. The whole package.’ She twinkles at me. ‘And he’s single, too.’
‘Hey, you said you’d show me photos of your new grandson this week,’ I remind her. She digs in her backpack, and we spend the rest of the break cooing over a chubby baby swaddled in team colours.
Belinda misses the first five minutes of the final quarter and the first of three goals that the visitors kick in succession to take the lead for the first time since the start of the game.
‘That’s the way to do it, lads,’ says the guy with the orange dreadlocks who sits behind us. ‘Keep it interesting. Keep us guessing. Don’t want us to get complacent now.’
The next three shots at goal are ours and we kick behinds each time.
‘I hope the sandwiches are good at the goal-kicking clinic next week,’ shouts the orange man. The crowd around us chuckles.
The visitors take the ball back down the other end. They are one point in front and have two minutes to go. They start playing kick-to-kick, running down the clock. One of our centres intercepts a lazy punt and runs the ball through the middle. He’s got gas but the other team is closing in. I look for the shepherd on the wing, can almost picture Matt on the centre’s right flank, arms out, calling for the ball, but of course he’s not there.
I can’t breathe. Our guy bounces once, twice, and kicks toward goal just as he gets taken down. There’s no-one in the goal square and the ball dribbles through. We are back in the lead.
The ball goes to the centre again. We get clean possession out of the ruck but from there the final three minutes are scrappy and literally pointless. The siren sounds and the crowd rises, victorious.
Belinda and I sing along to the team song and wave our scarves in the air. I press one end of mine into my eyes without Belinda noticing. The team goes into a huddle on the ground and then breaks apart to take mini Sherrins to the kids in the crowd. Venter heads toward our block and Belinda squeals. She grabs my hand and pulls me along our row and down the stairs, bumping people aside. We end up on the fence as he arrives.
‘He won’t give you a ball, you know,’ I tell her. ‘They’re for the kids.’
‘Get something for him to sign,’ she gasps. ‘Quick.’ We both reach into our bags, and I pull something out first. I thrust it into his hand as I realise it is the photo from Eric’s mobile pedestal.
‘Hey, cool,’ he looks up from the photo and into my face. I feel myself blush, am mortified and blush even deeper. ‘Where are you from?’ His voice is deep and oddly authoritative for a young man.
‘Weymouth.’
‘Up north? So not from South Africa, then?’ He looks disappointed.
‘No, sorry.’
‘My parents used to take me camping here when we were kids,’ he says, tapping his finger on the faded riverbank. ‘Have you been?’
I shake my head.
‘I hope you get to go someday. It’s magic.’
He signs the back of the photo and accepts the store receipt that Belinda pushes at him.
‘Nice, are you wearing it today?’
Belinda twirls.
‘Good choice, the colour suits you.’
He turns away from us and I watch as he talks to a small boy through the fence. The boy’s dad lifts him up so he can hear over the crowd. I do a double take. The dad is Aaron, in a team cap and scarf. Venter holds out his arms and pulls the boy over the fence and onto his hip. Aaron gives the boy his scarf, which Venter gently wraps around his neck, and they pose for the camera. The boy beams and the crowd sighs. When he’s back at his dad’s feet, he raises his hand for a high five and then runs around himself in the tight space between his dad and the fence. Aaron ruffles his head and then turns to me.
‘Hey, Frances.’ He raises his hand in the air even though he is only four feet away.
‘Hey, Aaron, how’s things?’
He pushes his way through the crowd. ‘So you’re an Eagles supporter, then.’
‘It’s mandatory for anyone living north of the river.’
‘Ah, so that’s how they became the biggest club in the country.’
I tap the side of my nose and he laughs. Belinda nudges me.
‘Hi, I’m Belinda,’ she says, hand outstretched. He takes it and gives her a warm smile. I feel the tiniest clench in my jaw.
‘Enjoy the game?’
‘Sure did. It’s always good when we come out in front.’
‘The umpires didn’t help though.’
‘Do they ever?
‘What will they do when there are two West Australian teams in the grand final?’
‘Take the day off, I guess.’
Belinda squats in front of Aaron’s son, who has directed his interest back to the ground where the team mascot is performing backflips.
‘Who’s your favourite player?’
He looks at her as though she’s lost her mind. ‘Venter.’ He turns back to the fence shaking his head like the union officials in the carpark. ‘Of course.’
She looks back up at us and makes an o with her mouth.
‘Sass. I like it. What’s your name?’
‘Declan.’
‘My name’s Belinda. Pleased to meet you, Declan.’ She holds out her hand. He considers it, then looks up at his dad. Aaron nods, and Declan allows his hand to be shaken for the briefest of seconds before returning it to the fence in a solid grip. I watch him run it up and down the rail, getting rid of the girl germs.
Aaron asks me about the inquiry, and I tell him about my exciting life reconciling contractor payments and project sign-offs. I ask him about his job hunting and he tells me he has an interview with a building contractor next week.
‘They’ve got a few projects on the go. Multistorey residential. More housing for poor people.’ He gives me a lopsided smile.
I find myself smiling back. ‘We need it. The public housing waiting list isn’t getting any shorter.’
‘Now you’re sounding like Meredith.’
‘I don’t have half Meredith’s energy.’
‘No-one does. She’s like the Energizer bunny. She told me she’s found my neighbour, Richard, said he’s sleeping rough. I hear you’re going to see him tomorrow.’
I nod, just the once and feel my throat close over and my smile fall. I’d been trying to forget my promise to visit the bush camp. He frowns, not understanding. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be okay with Meredith, she knows her way around. Just don’t ask too many questions. The folks down there might be homeless, but they’re not public property. They like their privacy.’ Declan tugs at his dad’s scarf. ‘Looks like it’s time to go. Good to see you again. Nice to meet you, Belinda.’
‘You too, Aaron.’
‘Good luck with the interview next week,’ I call out to him as they turn back through the thinning crowd. He looks over his shoulder, smiles, and waves. Belinda nudges me again.
‘Damn, Fran. You kept him a secret.’
‘There’s no secret to keep.’
‘Really? Look at him. Straight off the front cover of a romance novel. That hair. Those eyelashes. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’
‘He’s just another cute single dad who spends too much time at the gym. They’re a dime a dozen in this city.’
Belinda cackles and I tell her to hurry up, we’ve got a train to catch, and turn my burning face into the crowd.
Belinda gets off the train at the city station and I continue on down the Fremantle line. The win has lifted my spirits – probably not as much as the wine we drank – but as I look out through the dark windows, I keep picking at the problem of the serial numbers. I was certain the forensics database would deliver them. For no reason whatsoever, I’m convinced that the format looks scientific, like the numbers belong with men in white coats and sterile laboratories. I feel like I’m missing something that is just out of reach.
My mind keeps churning as I get off the train and walk through the station to the end of my street. It was a late game and even the corner supermarket with its extended trading hours is closed. The street parking that is usually nose-to-nose with vehicles in the daytime is empty except for a blue Mercedes in the universal parking bay in front of the shops. It doesn’t have an ACROD sticker but I’m too tired, I’ve drunk too much, and I don’t have the energy to photograph the numberplate and report it. I swipe myself into the lobby, press the lift button and wait.
Nothing happens.
I grope in my handbag for my phone to check the building management updates. I’m still searching when the lobby doors swish open and one of my neighbours walks in. We are wearing the same scarves.
‘Good win tonight, hey?’ He nods at a handwritten note tacked to the wall, which of course I did not read. ‘The lift’s out. You’ll need to take the stairs.’ He ushers me through the door to the emergency stairwell, tuts at the brick that’s been used to chock it open, and with a cheery wave, jogs up the steps. The door closes behind me with a definitive click.
I’m not good with stairwells. I avoid them if I can. The narrow spaces can make it difficult for me to get a vertical fix, even when I don’t have three glasses of wine in me. Admittedly, the stairwell in our building is one of the better ones. It’s well lit and clean, although it still smells of damp concrete. Big yellow numbers announce the floor at each landing and the metal piping on the balustrade is solid and industrial. I let my hand slide along it as I step up.
I reach the first landing and turn for the next set of stairs when the spins hit. The wall circles to the right, settles back into place, then takes off again. I grip the balustrade and eyeball the corner. It slows, settles, stays in place. I lift one foot and place it on the first step, taking care to set it down heel first, where the weight is most reliable. I bring my left foot next to it and wait, keeping my eyes on my feet. I know that if I look up it will be disastrous. Nothing moves. I try again. At this rate, it will be past midnight before I get to my apartment. I wonder about giving up and spending the night on the landing, but I can feel the cold and grit of the undressed concrete through the soles of my boots and decide I’ve got no option but to keep going.
I heel-toe my way to the landing and turn for the next set of stairs. Above me, a door opens and closes. My neighbour, I guess, although it seems to have taken him a long time to get there. Maybe he stopped jogging once he turned the corner and was out of sight. I have two floors to go. I ease my foot onto the next step, but this time my boot heel comes down shy of the lip and slips backwards. I grab at the metal balustrade, but my foot twists to the side and my calf, knee, thigh, and hip follow in turn, scraping over the rough concrete as I twist. My fingers knock against a join in the metal pipes, and I let go with a yelp. Then my shoulder blade connects with the concrete and my head whips backwards onto the step above.