4

I WALKED without light, in the rain and wind. Seven days with no word from Brophy. The storms blacking out the city were nothing compared to the one raging in my heart.

I’d left my car near his van and hurried in the dark night around to Paisley Street. A vehicle flashed by, red tail-lights shining on the wet street. A silent flicker of lightning followed by a rumble that was deep, ominous, judgemental. I found shelter in the doorway of a gangsta-wear shop with a direct line of sight to his above-shop studio. I took up my position and settled in for a stakeout. Headlights approached from Nicholson Street. The car took the corner too fast, and sprayed me in a fine, muddy mist.

Every time I’d tried to call Brophy, she had answered. And on each occasion, she had refused to fetch him, preferring instead to harangue me with a lecture on Brophy’s need for time, and ‘pure artistic practice’. What was I, contamination? Last week, in a fit of frustration, I’d flown up the stairs and banged on the wall. She pulled back the sliding door, which was the heavy industrial sort; it barely shifted two centimetres on its rusted track, but I got a visual: white, blonde, tall and tanned, in a skimpy robe. She told me he was not to be disturbed, then she heaved the door closed.

And tonight, down on the street, in gale-force conditions, I locked eyes on to his studio window, waiting for my chance. The minute she left, I’d run up there.

A gust of wind lifted the awning above me. There was an alarming sound of scraping metal. Just as I shone my phone light up, a rusted downpipe above me burst apart. I jumped too late, and a torrent of cold water gushed down, baptising me into some dark cult: Join us, crazy stalker.

Stalker? Alright, yes, I was. But in my defence, it had been a rough week. Boss was a cranky-pants, and Phuong was still refusing to take my calls.

Now my jeans were sodden, my jumper was a sack of wet wool. I moved to another doorway, my eyes glued to the darkened windows of his studio. After a moment, a soft yellow glow flickered — it must have been a candle. How fucking romantic.

Music erupted in my pocket, the tinny first line of ‘Prove My Love’ by the Violent Femmes. I’d downloaded the ringtone at a happier time, when its brisk percussion seemed optimistic. Now, it felt like mockery. ‘What?’ I demanded into the phone.

‘You believe in ghosts?’

‘Phuong. Hey. At last.’

‘Ghosts — what’s your take?

‘Um, this is actually a bad time.’

‘You’re busy? Doing what?’

‘I’m just busy.’

‘You remember my cousin Cuong?’

‘I know Cuong.’

‘He’s freaking out about the power failure. Too much darkness. He’s seeing spirits in the dark. A spirit in the sky.’

‘Jesus.’

‘No. Some dead relative, probably. I’m with him now.’

I thought I heard footsteps splashing across the street. ‘Wait.’ I put my hand over the phone and stared into the blackness. I was mistaken. ‘Sorry, Phuong, what is this about?’

‘Cuong has a cool new apartment and I thought you might like to come over. We’re in Sunshine; it’s practically around the corner from your place. And, well, the thing is, I need your help with something.’

Any other day, I’d be already on my way. And this was my chance to make it up to her. Besides, Phuong rarely required my help. But what if she needed help choosing something for the wedding? I didn’t know how long I could keep up a charade of good will.

‘Um, so now, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ I could hear the impatience.

Looking up, I saw shadows move against Brophy’s window, and I inhaled. Then I sensed movement closer, and from the corner of my eye, I saw her. Shit. Her. Right beside me. I lowered the phone from my ear.

‘Stella Hardy. What are you doing?’

She was wrapped in a coat, but odds-on she was naked underneath. Not a gram of fat on her.

‘Nothing,’ I said, mortified.

She looked to the sky. ‘It’s pissing down, you bloody idiot, go home.’

I would not be told by her. ‘No. I’m coming up.’

‘I can’t let you do that.’

‘What do you mean you can’t let me?’ I said, incensed.

‘He sent me down to tell you,’ she said, with a malevolent shrug. ‘He doesn’t want to lose focus.’ Then with the long-legged stride of a stilt-walker, a circus freak, she crossed the road, back to the Narcissistic Slacker.

He sent her down? I was shaking, caught by the urge to hit something. I raised my hand, looked at my phone. Forget you, mate. ‘Phuong? Give me the address, I’ll be there in fifteen.’