41

I KNOCKED. The door was unlocked, and opened the width of a fearful eye. ‘Who is it?’

‘Stella. And my friend, Cuong.’

‘It’s late. What do you want?’

‘A bed for the night?’

The gap widened, Afshan’s eyes darted from Cuong to me.

Cuong bowed his head, his expression serious. ‘Please, help us.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘What?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘Let us in. I’ve been tortured, for heaven’s sake. There’s people who want us dead.’

‘Did you come by boat?’

Cuong sniggered, but I was appalled. ‘Afshan, for God’s sake.’

‘I’ve been dying to use that one,’ he hooted, wiping a tear from his eye.

‘Look, see for yourself.’

The porch light came on. He took in my bruised face, my bloodstained clothes, the bandages. ‘Stella, this is bad,’ Afshan said. ‘Quickly, come inside.’

Shahid was standing in the hall wearing a towelling robe and slippers; he looked shocked. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Cuts and burns. I’ve had stitches. How are you?’

‘But what happened?

‘They can tell us in the morning,’ Afshan said. ‘Make them a place to sleep.’

‘She can have my mattress,’ Shahid said immediately. ‘And we have a spare for him.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t take your bed, the couch is fine.’

‘I was not sleeping. Please, take the bed.’

‘I don’t think I can sleep either,’ I said. ‘But I could murder a cup of tea.’

The three men did a simultaneous inhale.

‘It’s a figure of speech, you guys.’

Afshan said, ‘Of course.’ And he went to the kitchen.

I made my way to the bathroom at the rear of the house, soft snores coming from the other bedrooms on the way. I passed the main room where Cool Hand Luke was on the TV.

The bathroom was mildly disgusting, as any men-only household tended to be. Multiple double-adaptors piggy-backed on the one power point in the room, and several appliances were charging. There was a dangerous-looking bar-heater on the wall, an electric shaver, a tablet, and someone’s phone. What a death trap this place was. These guys would be first on my list for fire-safety training.

The painkillers were wearing off. I closed the lid of the toilet and sat down, trembling. The burns stung and the stab wound throbbed. I took the screwdriver from my pocket. Could I jam that thing in the Turk’s neck, or maybe his eye?

Who was I kidding? Revenge was stupid.

One of the chargers matched my phone; I plugged it in, hoped like hell my phone was salvageable, and went to join Cuong. He was discussing the movie with Shahid, who was cross-legged on the carpet.

‘Do either of you have a Panadol by any chance?’

‘A what?’ Shahid asked.

‘Never mind.’

Afshan came in with mugs of black tea, two in each hand. In his serious way, he handed them out. Then he sat on the floor, waiting, I thought, for me to say something.

I sipped my tea, so sweet I flinched. I had nothing to say.

‘Have you seen this one, Stella?’ Cuong asked, pointing to the TV. ‘Great movie.’

‘Yeah, couple of times. He eats lots of eggs,’ I said.

Cuong shook his head. ‘For a punishment, Luke must go in “the box”, and the guard says, “Sorry, Luke, just doing my job.” And Luke says, “Calling it your job don’t make it right, boss.”’

‘Spoiler alert,’ I said. ‘You going to watch this movie or just ruin it for everyone?’

‘You look tired. Do you want to sleep?’ Shahid asked.

‘Not right now. I’m going to the bathroom.’ I went to check if my phone was functional. Small merciful goddesses: it was charging. I tried Phuong’s secure number.

‘Stella? It’s the middle of the night. What’s happened?’

‘First, let me apologise.’ I cleared my throat, ready to continue with a full and frank self-analysis, exploring the extent of what I did, what I could have done, owning my faults.

‘Stella, none of it matters. That conversation was probably overdue.’ No one at fault, air cleared, now we could continue. At least, that’s how I interpreted it.

I gave her the whole story, starting with the cup of tea at Enright’s flat above the mechanic’s shop in Sunshine, and the trip to Mortimer’s last known address in Norlane.

‘On your own?’

‘I wanted to check the house before I spoke to you. A waste of everyone’s time if he wasn’t there.’ I paused, reluctant to give her the rest.

‘So foolish. I told you not to take risks like that.’

‘It’s done now. Anyway, funny story, Bust Face lives up to his name.’

‘Who?’

‘A low-level Flower. He … um … brought me to the Turk.’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Can you shoot the bastard for me? That’s allowed, isn’t it? Cops can shoot thugs. It’s in the rules somewhere.’

‘The Turk’s place is all over the news. Huge fire there. Did you see that?’

I looked at my hands. ‘Hmm. Yeah, I saw it.’ I told her that the Turk and Gorman had been burned, and I had run out.

‘Very lucky.’

‘I’m alive. Which is more than I can say for Jeff Vanderhoek. Did they find his body?’

‘Vanderhoek? No one’s saying that yet. Was he there?’

‘If it’s okay with you, I’d rather not go into detail.’

I could hear her breathing. ‘No. Don’t.’

‘The Turk is convinced Mortimer killed Ricky Peck.’

‘Not possible.’

‘I’m not sure, he might be right. It’s all about the timing. That day of your dinner party, Copeland put Mortimer in the lock-up. Then he and Blyton went drinking in the Spida Bar. That’s when he got the call that Peck’s body had been found. If Peck died in the afternoon, it could have been Mortimer. There would have been time.’

‘Time of death for a body in a bath is complicated — temperatures matter, wide time range.’ The Phuong calculator was at full whir. She changed to a softer tone. ‘You were lucky to get out of there. Want me to come and get you?’

‘No, I’m okay now. I’m here with Cuong.’

A long pause. ‘Who?’

‘Um. Cuong.’

‘I think the line is faulty, sounded like you said “Cuong”.’

‘Cuong owes Gorman money for his gambling debts. That’s how he blackmailed Cuong into helping them — he’s supposed to travel to Kengtung. Actually, he helped me get out of there. Your cousin is full of surprises.’

‘I don’t like surprises.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Give me the address. I’ll see you soon. And he’d better have some answers.’

I rattled off the address.

‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

An hour? She was with Copeland, at his father’s place in Somerville.

‘For now, just until I can work out what to do, can we keep this between us?’

‘You mean … Sure.’

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Phuong said. ‘OTIOSE think they’ve traced all the dodgy passports. They’ve all been for minors, kids under fifteen.’

My brain was a slow-motion car crash of disparate mental notes. The passport photos of Cory I found at the squat in Footscray. Mortimer warning the kids to stay away from Gorman. Cuong in debt to Gorman. Cuong meeting that woman at Crown.