30

BEFORE I could start cooking, I had to clean my kitchen. I set to work on the clutter, the old newspapers, the bills piled up, the plate I used for a fruit bowl with the two brown bananas. I shoved things in garbage bags, wiping down surfaces; gathered dishes from around the flat and piled them in the sink, and then launched into a frenzy of washing and drying.

With the shopping put away, and the table cleared, I had a decent sized area in which to work, ready to begin stage one of the kaddu bharta. I took out the broken pieces of pumpkin, which I peeled and cut into smaller pieces, and put them in a steamer on the stove.

The apartment was steamy and smelled of pumpkin. I tested a piece, and they were soft. A potato masher pulped them in seconds. I put the pumpkin mash to one side.

I paced the flat again, it seemed to help my thinking. All I needed was one person who knew Mortimer. He associated with street kids, and the kids seemed to like him. Those teenagers in the Footscray flophouse — Brook, that boy with the hair, and Angie — they knew Mortimer. But I’d burnt my bridges with those three. I could try to find Cory’s friend, Razz, the boy who was with him that night in the car park. But that was probably going to be as difficult as finding Isaac Mortimer. All the young people who were in contact with the Corpse Flowers were homeless and hard to locate in a hurry.

Except for Alma Dunmore, who slept each night in a warm bed in a well-to-do part of Williamstown. I disliked her, but that wasn’t relevant. I had some serious questions for the little Mensa mobster, but she would be unlikely to oblige.

Hopefully, Blyton was as good a cop as Phuong said he was, and would find my note and ring me. While I waited, my pumpkin creation put aside for now, I had another go at looking for Corpse Flower information online.

Gorman, high-level member of motorcycle gang, the Corpse Flowers, publicly announcing his departure from the club following the release of his partner Philomena Enright from jail last year.

In an Age article titled, BIKIE CLUB IN MEMBERSHIP SHAKE-UP:

The Corpse Flowers outlaw motorcycle gang members are handing in their club colours, police say, due to a leadership vacuum left by the departure of Sargeant-at-arms Ox Gorman and the death of president, Ricky Peck. All major positions within the Corpse Flowers remain vacant.

Police Minister Marcus Pugh confirmed officers are investigating a number of serious criminal activities, including assaults and kidnappings. Notorious convicted criminal, Luigi ‘The Turk’ Tacchini, has been under suspicion for some time, even after declaring he’d left the Corpse Flowers.

Minister Pugh said the power and influence of gangs were ‘weakening’ and their ranks had thinned.

Was there no police-related news story that Pukus would not comment on?

I was getting nowhere. It was time to go straight to the source, to the aspiring do-gooder, Josie. She was like the Hindenburg, I decided: volatile, clumsy, hard to manoeuvre, and ready to crash and burn. Or was that me?

My mobile buzzed. ID: Delia. I answered.

‘Shane Farquhar,’ my mother said, without preamble. ‘I haven’t sold the farm yet. I’ve spoken to your sister. I’m not sure which way to go.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve told Shane I need time to think. Kylie’s that keen. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I don’t know if Tyler’s up to it. New breed of cattle, never heard of them — the Dexterous? — small, like a child’s pet. Shane’s not happy, of course. Once upon a time, he couldn’t pluck up the courage to call me. Now he rings me twice a day: “Have you decided yet, Mrs Hardy?” Thing is, I’d like to give Kylie and Tyler a chance, but they’ve got no money, and we can’t afford to just give it to them. Ted and I have made plans; the proceeds from the farm were supposed to be our retirement.’ She drew breath at last.

I wasn’t close to my sister, but I wanted to see her and Tyler settled. As for Farquhar, I had zero good will. ‘Mum, what can I do to help?’

‘Help?’ she scoffed. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. What can you do?’

She had a point, and made it with her usual sprinkle of disapproval. I imagined she only wanted to vent. Now wasn’t a good time. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it sorted,’ I said.

‘It’s not sorted. Nothing like sorted. Kylie’s broke; going into more debt won’t help.’

‘Something’s on the stove, better go.’

‘You’ve never had anything on the stove in your life.’

‘Yes, I have. Sporadically. Something is categorically on my stove.’

‘When are you coming up to Woolburn? Bring that boyfriend of yours we never see.’

‘Must go. Bye, Mum.’

Families were a trial for everyone. Mine seemed unable to share any form of direct, simple communication. All interaction was oblique, through hints, or via third parties. Somehow, I had materialised from such an environment comparatively sane.

I was grinding spices and my teeth when I heard someone in the stairwell. Dejected thongs slapped up the steps. Brown Cardigan would never wear thongs. The other flats on my floor were unoccupied. If it was a thug sent to murder me, he sounded very reluctant about it. I put an anxious eye to the peephole. Brophy! On my doorstep. This spectacular situation was so utterly unexpected, that I hardly knew what to do.

I ripped off the chain and flung back the door, grinning at him. ‘S’up, yo.’

‘Can I come in?’ he asked, like a vampire. He had a bearer-of-bad-news expression that made me hesitate. A hollowness grew in the pit of my stomach.

‘Stella?’

‘Yes. Of course, come in.’

He spotted the doings in the kitchen. The cooked pumpkin smelled wonderfully domestic. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Oh, nothing, just cooking, like I often do.’

‘That sounds wholesome. I’m glad to hear it. Do you good.’

‘And that is possibly the most patronising thing I have ever heard anyone say. Ever.’

‘Don’t get defensive, I’m here to talk. You always want to talk, don’t you?’

I looked him up and down. ‘You insult me, then tell me not to get defensive. And now this, whatever this is, this putdown manoeuvre, it’s awful. I don’t always want to talk.’

At least he had the decency to look chastened. ‘Sorry. I haven’t been myself lately. Under pressure. The exhibition.’

I accepted that with a sigh, and led him to the sofa. I sat beside him and held one of his paint-stained hands. ‘Is it my imagination or is what you are about to say something terrible? Better get it over with so I can go back to crushing the cardamom.’

He coughed. ‘It’s about Felicity.’

Naturally. ‘What about her?’

‘I know you don’t like her.’

My scoff came out as a yelp. ‘You know nothing, Peter Brophy.’

‘I know that since the day I met her, my creative process changed. It shows in my work. She’s introduced me to new concepts, and my paintings are considered, more intense. She’s more than a life model, she’s a source of inspiration. She understands —’

‘That’s enough.’

‘You need to know this.’

‘Why?’

‘So you’ll … help me.’

‘Help you how? Make her sit still?’

He shook his head.

‘What’s the problem? You’re nearly finished, aren’t you?’ The exhibition opened on Tuesday night. He was cutting it fine.

‘It’s done. Twenty works, packed and ready.’

Why had he not told me? Why were we not naked? ‘So what is it?’

He stared at a spot on my floor. ‘I think she has a problem …’

A rich, white girl problem, no doubt. Drugs? Only in a whimsical way. Gambling, probably not. ‘Like what? She’s too pretty? No one takes her seriously?’

‘It was little things at first. Then money, some cash I had in a drawer.’

‘She’s stealing from you?’ But this was wonderful. I wanted to leap about, to sing, to dance. I held off. ‘What little things?’

He cringed. ‘A photo of us, in a frame.’

‘Us? As in, you and me?’

He nodded.

‘Right.’ I punched a fist into my palm. ‘Let’s go pay her a visit.’

‘I don’t want you to confront her.’

I threw up my hands in despair. ‘What are you asking me to do, then?’

‘Find out if she’s okay.’

‘Ask her yourself, next time you see her.’

He closed his eyes, deep lines in his face. Since embarking on his blockbuster exhibition, he’d been plagued by doubts that were not natural to him. He questioned his skill, the relevance of his work. He’d succumbed to some vague quest for success — whatever that was, and whoever decided it — until the joy of painting was gone, weighed down with concerns about critics and ‘established schools’.

‘What happened to the old Brophy, the contented one who hummed sappy tunes while he painted?’

‘I’m not playing around. This is serious work I’m trying to create. It takes time and effort and attention.’

A scold, of sorts. I didn’t respond.

I had an urge to call off my entire day, to spend it in bed with this man. We could feed each other spring rolls and watch The Lord of the Rings like we used to. I knew I should tell him about the promotion I’d been offered at WORMS. Imagine, me, the director of such an organisation, with an executive salary and a company car. Soon, I might have a holiday house and a fancy-arse fridge that makes Margarita slushies at the push of a button. And maybe this lovely man might like to stay there with me. If he would stay.

I resisted that urge because I, too, had serious work to do. ‘I have urgent business in Sunshine,’ I said. ‘I’m late as it is.’

A slow nod, then Brophy frowned. ‘I think Felicity’s in some kind of trouble.’

I sighed, long and loud. ‘What’s her name and where does she live?’

‘Sparks. Felicity Sparks.’

‘Flicky Sparks? She couldn’t be more ridiculous.’

‘She prefers “Felicity”.’

‘And where does Flicky live?’

He scribbled the address on a corner of newspaper. ‘Williamstown. With her parents.’

‘I’m busy, but I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, ignoring her address and picking up my handbag.

‘Something else I had to tell you. Jeff Vanderhoek is missing.’

I winced. ‘Missing?’

‘Talking to a bloke at the market this morning, said he hadn’t seen Jeff for days.’

‘A short break? Trip to Sydney?’

‘If you’re a drug dealer and an informer and you go missing without a word to anyone, that’s not good.’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘It isn’t.’

Brophy was right, it was bad for informers to disappear. That thought, and the visit from the bikie, was having a negative impact on my mental health. Time to get this Corpse Flower mess over with.

He gave me a stern look. ‘Tell me you’re not still trying to find that bikie for Phuong.’

‘Phuong and I aren’t speaking.’ It was both true and a diversion.

He was astonished.

I took his arm and led him outside. ‘Tell you what, if you drop me off in Sunshine, I’ll check in on poor Flicky, maybe even later today.’ Or tomorrow. Or maybe never.