18

THE LATE-EVENING traffic was light. I drove with the Mazda’s windows up against the cold.

As I crested a hill, I saw the revolving blue lights of two cop cars, parked in the middle of the road. All traffic was being diverted into Gordon Street, left and right.

‘Something’s up,’ I said, changing lanes. As I reached the intersection, a cop directed us left up Gordon Street. I obeyed, then took the first right into the back street that ran behind McDonald’s. I parked and turned the engine off.

‘So,’ I said gamely. ‘Coming in?’

Brophy coughed. ‘I’m not getting out of the car.’

‘Fine. What can I get you? A McFlurry? I believe they do sprinkles here.’

He glared at me; his sense of humour had abandoned him. ‘I’ve eaten enough shit for one night.’

The car park was swarming with people, a sea of young, hormone-addled cola addicts. From the general air of irritation, it seemed they had been kicked out of the place. Instead of going somewhere else, the young’uns hung around, huddled in cliques. Perhaps being in the fresh air was a frightening new experience for them. A cop was standing guard, arms folded, at the entrance.

I went up to the first person I saw, a young woman in a sleeveless puffy jacket, with thumbs working on her phone, and asked what the hell had happened.

‘Dunno,’ she said without looking up. ‘For some reason, they made us leave.’

‘Some reason?’

‘Who cares why? I totally hate my life. I’m freezing. Oh my god, I’m, like, in pain it’s so cold. Could my life get any worse? I want to kill myself.’

I tried another bystander, a boy of about thirteen also wearing a sleeveless puffy jacket. ‘This kid came running out of the dunnies,’ he said, when I asked. ‘He runs outside. Next minute, there’s this screech and a bang, exactly like someone chucked a sofa off a balcony.’

An oddly specific description, I thought.

‘Kid got hit by a truck,’ he added helpfully and pointed to a B-double, about twenty metres down the road, blocking two lanes. The rear trailer was diagonal to the front one, and long skid marks smeared the road behind it. The driver’s door was open. The ambulance was parked close by, lights on and revolving like at a party in slow motion. A tent of blue plastic had already been erected around the body. I got closer. Someone had put a shoe on the nature strip. Running shoes, the gold standard of youth. I recognised the shoe — a dirty Nike with undone red, white, and blue striped laces, little bulldogs on them.

Don’t let it be Cory.

An older woman was sitting on the ground, and a couple of concerned citizens were consoling her. Someone had found a blanket and draped it around her shoulders.

‘Everyone went outside to look except me and me mates,’ the boy was saying. ‘We made a dash for the dunny to see what was so interesting. We reckoned he probably saw a massive shit. But then the manager came and kicked everyone out.’

I walked back to the restaurant. Near the door was a man in a hi-vis vest talking to a cop, who was there taking notes. Nearby was a woman in a suit, who looked like the manager, and standing with her was a posse of fast-food workers. I went closer.

‘He stopped at the edge of the footpath, right there,’ the man was saying. ‘I thought he was waiting to cross, then all of a sudden he rushed out. But his head went back, like he got shoved in the back.’ The driver demonstrated a two-handed push. ‘Right in front of me.’

The cop wrote that down. ‘See anyone with the boy?’

‘I didn’t see. The kid was there.’ He pointed to a place on the footpath where the restaurant car park adjoined the apartment building next door.

The cop and the truckie noticed me, and I walked away. On my way back to the car I saw Alma leaning against the drive-through sign, tapping her phone.

‘Did you know the kid, the one who got hit?’

She raised her head. ‘The fuck are you?’

‘Stella Hardy. I met you here last night, remember? With that youth worker, Josie.’

Surprisingly, she smiled. Or smirked. ‘I remember.’ Her eyes shone with malice. ‘You were asking around about Mortimer. What’d you want him for?’

‘It’s a favour, for …’ I wasn’t about to tell this delinquent about my friend the cop. My mind raced — not a cop, think of a different occupation. ‘… A journalist. You know Bunny Slipper? She’s doing a story on … the Corpse Flowers.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sure, sometimes journalists leave their cosy desks and go out on the street, talk to a couple of people. Mostly they make shit up, write whatever they want.’

I had to admit, the precocious upstart had a point. But not all journalists were slack. Not my friend Vince McKechnie, who was one seasoned investigator. I’d become fond of him when we were caught up in a mining-related conspiracy a couple of years ago. Sadly, his cancer had returned, and he was living out his days in a villa in Broome. As for Alma, I’d give her this: she had a cracking self-esteem and the cynicism of a politician.

‘You’re, um, above average, aren’t you?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘And you’re an idiot.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘You want Isaac Mortimer because you’re helping a journalist? Come on, we both know that has nothing to do with it.’

‘Wow, Alma. Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out. Why am I looking for Mortimer then?’

‘Trying to jumpstart your boring life.’

I let out a laugh. ‘If you say so.’

‘Your life is so boring you could kill yourself, but then you read about these outlaws, these bikies, from the criminal underworld. They murder and torture people. Get too close and death is a real possibility, and just the thought of it makes you feel alive. The thrill and romance of violence, gets your blood flowing again like it hasn’t done for years.’

‘We’re talking about me, right?’

She scoffed. ‘Soon, you become obsessed. They have so much money, and they don’t give a fuck. They’re free from all the stupid social niceties.’

‘Yes, Alma’ I said in my driest voice. ‘Thrills. That’s it.’

She leaned in to whisper. ‘He knows you’re looking for him.’

I didn’t panic — she was hardly a reliable source — but I moved away from her, backing up until I stepped on a discarded cheeseburger. I shook it off. ‘Who told him?’

‘Not me.’ Alma pulled out a packet of cigarettes and grinned, daring me to guess.

I was losing patience with her. ‘Who got hit by the truck?’

‘You wouldn’t know him. Kid called Cory.’ She trembled slightly as she lit a smoke.

The heaviness swelled in my chest, and I feared my heart would be crushed. Nothing you can do, miss. I blinked. ‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’ She flicked her hair, smiled. ‘But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘So, you know.’

‘Fuck you.’ She showed me her middle finger and burped.

‘Well?’ I waited.

‘You must have a death wish, or something.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Mortimer’s gone underground for a reason, in case you didn’t realise.’

‘Underground where?’

‘Jesus, just give up.’

‘The Corpse Flowers clubhouse?’

‘As if! They’d kill him.’ She picked at a nail. Her villainy show had run out of steam, and I sensed a fine crack showing in the hard shell.

‘What do you know, Alma?’

She brightened, bravado back in place. ‘You can’t touch me. I’ve got protection.’

‘You mean Josie, the youth worker?

‘She isn’t a proper youth worker. Couldn’t you tell?’

I acted shocked. ‘No!’

Alma’s lip curled. ‘Think you’re so clever.’

Delusions of gangsta, poor kid. ‘Go to the police, Alma. Get your mum to take you. Tell them exactly what the deal is with the kids and the Corpse Flowers. Do it now, so when the whole thing blows up, you might not spend half your life in jail. You might actually get your life back on track. Get the bipolar stabilised.’

She flicked the cigarette at me, missing my eye by centimetres.

I brushed the ash from my cheek and took one of my new business cards from my bag. ‘These people are violent criminals. This isn’t a game you’re playing, it’s real life, and they couldn’t care less about you. But if you’re ready to get your shit together, give me a call.’

I walked back to the car, and found a grumpy Brophy. ‘Are you driving me home, or do I have to walk?’

‘Kid got hit by a truck and died.’

He sat up, horrified. ‘A client?’

‘Not officially. But he was sweet, and funny. I liked him.’

He handed me a folded handkerchief. I wiped the tears and blew my nose.

‘I’ll take you home,’ I said. ‘Felicity’s waiting.’

‘No rush, I called her and cancelled,’ he said.

A tiny win at last. I started the car.

‘Didn’t know how long you’d be, and it’s not fair on her to keep her hanging around.’

Followed immediately, as always, by a tiny loss. Best to call it a night before I said something I’d regret. I swung the wheel and planted my foot, cutting off a car coming up behind me. The driver leaned on the horn.

I put my hand out the window, middle finger up.