3

IN THE staff kitchen, someone had made a sign of taped-together A4 paper that said TEN YEARS OF WORMS!!! The ‘Western and Outer Region Migrant Services’ was having a lunch party. We weren’t going to just do cake and sing the song. My boss, Brendan Ogg-Simons, known as Boss, wanted the occasion to be a media event. He’d invited all our clients, other agency people, local paper journos, and photographers. No politicians, we told him, or the staff would rebel.

We were all supposed to bring food. I had dip and chips I’d bought at the super on the way to work. The place was in a frenzy of preparation. For my part, I tried Phuong for the tenth time, but she still didn’t answer. I left a grovelling message of regret for displaying an unsatisfactory amount of excitement about her wedding. Then I’d tidied the staff room and put out the plates, cups, streamers.

I’d just sat down with the paper, and in came Raewyn Ross of the Flemington Police.

‘Hey Rae, how’s things in law and order? You being tough on crime or what?’

Since her promotion, she’d asked me to call her by her rank: senior constable. A request that repeatedly slipped my mind. Instead of reminding me again though, she slumped into a chair. There was something different about her, something to do with her eyebrows.

‘Doesn’t your cop shop have a staff room?’ I asked.

‘I prefer yours.’

I didn’t blame her. The numbers there were against her. Too many men, of the sly overgrown school-boy variety, shirking the harassment policies, artfully placing her at the butt of all jokes, including her in none.

She sighed. ‘Caffeine — any danger?’

I spooned coffee into a plunger and caught a whiff of perfume, noted the fake tan. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

‘Had.’

‘Oh, Rae. I’m so sorry.’ I put in an extra spoon of coffee and held the plunger under the urn.

She curled her lip. ‘He was cheating.’

‘What? The bastard.’

‘Said he was going surfing, but he was shagging some skank from Gippsland.’

‘Well, that’s just uncool.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, who cares? I’ll just get back on the app where I found him.’

‘So, a dating site?’

‘Yeah. There’s lots — Sexrisx, UzeHer, Hi-Wham.’

‘Sounds romantic.’

Rae let out a sudden snort and smacked the paper I’d been planning to read. ‘Oh my god! He’s dead! That paedophile is dead.’

‘Who?’

‘This guy, Ricky Peck.’ She spun the paper around, and pointed to a photo under the headline: Bikie Kingpin Drowns. Peck was impressive. A beefy, tattooed man in shorts and a muscle t-shirt. But it was the incongruous pair of Dunlop Volleys that had me curious. Tennis shoes on a vicious bikie? Roofing tilers wore them for the grip, but I doubted this man had worked an honest day in his life. Maybe he played tennis.

‘Peck was a child abuser? I thought bikies beat up paedophiles. Wouldn’t that be kind of rare criminal activity for a bikie?’

‘I know, right? I nabbed some local kids a while back — caught them thieving — and, lo and behold, they reckon Peck’s been trying to groom them.’

‘Did you report that?’

‘I told my sergeant, and he just laughed. But he was a dead-set paedo. As well as a crazy gun-nut. Dangerous as they come.’

‘Paper says it was an accident.’

Rae shrugged. ‘Could be. Even a nut-job can be careless.’

I depressed the plunger, thinking about Cory and the girl I’d seen him hanging out with earlier this morning. It seemed that they were making life choices that were … suboptimal. I poured the coffee and glanced at Rae, who was picking at a nail. She was not a reliable source. Bikies were two things: thugs and entrepreneurs. Where was the money in paedophilia? I hoped the youth workers were onto it. Or maybe they weren’t. Nothing you can do, miss. I doubted Cory was on anyone’s radar.

Shanninder, my colleague and fellow WORMS galley-slave, swept into the staffroom with a bowl covered with a tea towel, and a couple of Tupperware containers. ‘Gather round, children, we’re having pani puri.’

Everyone in the world could cook except me. I could smell the bowl’s delicious contents from across the room. A sudden whim sent me running to my desk. I dialled Brophy’s number. Tonight, I’d cook him dinner — that would surprise him. I’d have to learn how in the meantime, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

I cleared my throat. ‘Is Brophy there?’

‘Yes, but he can’t come to the phone.’ Formal register, posh accent. Young. The ‘transcendental’ model.

‘Excuse me?’ My reptilian instincts licked the air.

‘Who is this?’ Her voice had a whip-sting of condescension.

‘It’s Stella.’

‘Oh.’ Airily, like it meant nothing. ‘I’m Felicity.’

‘Put him on.’

‘I can’t break the flow. We’re in a creative peak, he’s totally absorbed. This is going to be a radically courageous new work.’

‘Just get Brophy, will you?’

‘No can do. Call back next week.’

The phone went dead. I stared at the receiver in disbelief. Who did she think she was? We’re in a creative peak. The nerve of her. I had a good mind to go over there right now.

Was I out of my mind? That would be psycho behaviour. But the room swam in red mist and my heart burned black. I put a hand to my forehead: stone cold. I felt unwell, off my food. I should be in bed. With Brophy.

In the staff room, everyone was laughing and toasting and eating. I dragged myself to the kitchen to join the party. On the way, I passed Boss’s office — the blinds were drawn and the door shut. I tapped and opened it. ‘You coming to this thing? It’s your party.’

‘In a minute,’ he said. Used tissues littered the desk.

‘Ten years, Boss. The culmination of your life’s work.’

He lolled back in his chair and groaned.

‘Are you okay?’

He stared at the ceiling. ‘My life’s work. This.’

‘Don’t say it like that. This is awesome, you’re making a difference in people’s lives.’

‘Leave me be, Hardy.’

I shrugged and shut the door.

More guests had arrived. The invitations had been taken up on the whole by refugees recently granted a temporary protection visa — like Afshan and Shahid, Hazaras from Afghanistan. They were new clients and top-notch people. They greeted me with wide grins. ‘Happy birthday to your WORMS, Stella!’

‘Um, thanks.’

‘You must have some of our honey cakes.’

I had to accept, though I was feeling nauseous. A bulb flashed, caught me with my mouth full.

Shanninder had arranged her pani puri on the table and explained the procedure: you make an opening in a puri, a hollow bread puff, and fill it with chickpea curry, then you pour in the pani, a delicious peppery sauce. Raewyn Ross made a brave attempt and shoved the puff into her gob whole. Her expression went from pondering, to happy, to one of ecstasy. I was pleased to see a rare Raewyn-smile.

She’d forgotten all about that cheater and the Gippsland skank.

Meanwhile, Phuong hated me, and Brophy was in the thrall of a harpy. I couldn’t stand by and let her take over his life. Game on, Felicity, I said to myself as I picked up a puri and cracked its head open.