32

I WALKED to Sunshine station. It was time to ring Phuong, give her this unsubstantiated report of Mortimer’s whereabouts, and go home.

I could do that …

Or better yet, as a peace-offering, go to Norlane, confirm if Mortimer was there, ring Phuong, and go home.

I made up a song about taking the last train to Norlane; it was pretty catchy. To get to Geelong, I had to take a V/Line service, and I had to buy a separate ticket. I should keep better track of my expenses, I thought. When this was over, I’d hand Copeland my bill. A train approached, but didn’t stop. I sat down.

Ox Gorman — boy, I was glad I didn’t cross paths with him. If he wasn’t an actual Flower, he was part of the arrangement, a decorative branch perhaps.

Another train came and went without stopping. I was getting sick of this. I pulled out my phone. ‘Hey, Afshan. Where are you? It’s so noisy.’

‘Guess!’

The rumble of balls rolling on the boards, the ping of scattering pins, the tinny blare of Shania Twain on the PA. ‘Funky Town?’

‘Correct!’

‘Sorry to interrupt your game, but I need your transport services.’

‘Not now, Stella. Shahid missed two easy spares, he’s so bad at this.’

‘I need to get to Geelong. I’ll pay you.’

A pause.

‘One hundred,’ I said. ‘Cash.’

‘On our way.’

It was a short drive from Funky Town to the Sunshine train station; it wouldn’t take them long. I hurried to a nearby ATM and withdrew the cash. Sure, I was over-paying, but I needed the ride. Also, people on temporary protection visas were not allowed to work. I didn’t know how Shahid and Afshan could possibly survive without some help. As I walked back to the station to wait for them, I made up a song about Afshan and Shahid bowling at Funky Town. It was pretty catchy, too.

A wreck of a van appeared in a puff of exhaust smoke. Afshan saw me and waved. He’d had a haircut; the fringe was ruler-straight. ‘Stella, would you like a hotdog?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said, shocked. ‘I’m pretty sure they’re not halal.’

‘Not for me, for you.’

‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Oh, yes. As you said.’ He and Shahid enjoyed a good laugh. Then he handed the hotdog out the window to a startled passer-by.

‘How did you go?’ I asked, getting in the van.

Afshan beamed. ‘Hundred and fifty-three. Personal best! In this game, five strikes.’

Shahid clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sweet bowling, man.’

I had to laugh. ‘Yeah, man. Sweet.’

‘Now, where to, lady?’

‘You guys know where Norlane is?’

‘You can direct us.’

And with a backfire that could break a window, we were off. I have always liked an old-fashioned bench seat. They were friendlier than bucket seats. With Shahid driving and Afshan hanging his elbow out the passenger side window, and me in the middle, I was feeling pretty content. On the other hand, the van was less roadworthy than Brophy’s. Shahid struggled with the wheel. He battled a sideways drift, and we pitched forward. The experience was like sitting in a tin can, balanced on a ride-on mower … that was doing ninety. Ricocheting rather than driving. We were gestured at, abused, and often cut off.

I checked the glove box and found a cassette of Dave Dudley singing your truck-drivin’ favourites. Before long, we were singing along, to the kiss-stealin’, wheelin-dealin’, truck-drivin’ son of a gun.

They didn’t ask my business in Geelong, and I didn’t tell them.

Around the You Yangs, when the tape ran out, Afshan turned to me.

‘You know what whippy is?’

I shrugged. ‘Ice-cream?’

‘Whippy is the money the police take from you. If they find money while they search your place, they keep it.’

‘Did they search your place?’

He waved his hand. ‘There was trouble with that boy in our street, the weird one who burned the cat? Last year, he broke some car windows. The police came, talked to everyone in the street. We all knew who was responsible. When they came to our house, they asked for papers. They saw we are on temporary visas, everything changed. They pushed us, asked for money. And every few months, they come back. Each time, the same two cops, and they always search.’

In the scheme of things, it was probably small Tim Tams. ‘What did they take?’

‘We had some cash. A gold watch. Some precious things. Things we sold for money to live on, because we can’t work. We’ll never get those things back.’

He was right. The powerless seeking justice was a time-consuming, soul-destroying business. Victories were rare, often pyrrhic. ‘How much money are we talking about?’

He lowered his voice. ‘Ten thousand.’

I coughed.

‘You think I’m making it up?’

‘No.’ He had my attention now. ‘What are their names? We’ll contact the multicultural legal agencies, make a fuss, protest to police-integrity people. Make them investigate.’

He shook his head. ‘If we go to the authorities, first they won’t believe us, then they will stall, it will go to court. It might take years. Even then, the money is gone.’

That was a pretty accurate description of the process.

We hit the suburb of Corio, and I used a phone app to direct Shahid to a grid of narrow streets on the coast-side of the highway. We found Marsden Avenue, and I asked him to stop the van on the corner.

‘Now, you two, please don’t go doing anything stupid. That money’s gone now. I’ll help you with legal channels. Legal. Not vigilante.’

Afshan shook his head. ‘What do you think, Shahid?’

‘The Dude abides,’ he said.

I took that to mean they would take my advice, and I hopped out of the van.

‘You want us to wait?’

‘No. I’ll take the train back.’

‘Sweet. Abyssinia.’

‘Salada.’ I waved, and hurried away from the fumes.