44

I HAD files, passports, correspondence. That should be plenty. I hauled myself out. I replaced the hatch, and lined up the lino. Then I used the drop sheet to wipe my feet a second time, and to clean mud from the floor. I got as far as the window I’d climbed in through, and stopped.

One stiflingly hot afternoon, in my sixth year at Woolburn Primary school, my teacher told me that I had a unique skill: the complete inability to learn from my mistakes. I thought that was harsh, at the time. Too harsh. And yet, I was hesitating, heart pounding, thinking about the cash under the house. Enough for Afshan and Shahid to have a life. Enough for even bloody Kylie and Tyler to play farmers, and breed bloody Dexters.

The last time I had done something so foolish, it had cost me sleep, a paranoia-free existence, and my composure for the better part of a decade. Peace of mind was important, wasn’t it? I’d put it all on my mortgage, giving me a semblance of security. Did that balance it out? The crazy with the sensible?

I ran to the bathroom and grabbed the plastic shopping bags from the cabinet. I couldn’t hold my phone and grab the cash at the same time, so I propped it up on the crate, and worked in the semi-dark. By the time the toolbox was empty, I’d filled five bags and tied them off.

Sweat dripped and I buzzed with adrenalin. I snatched up the phone and it slipped from my hand. I felt around for it. My palm touched a corner. I picked it up and turned it round, hoping the crack in the screen wasn’t worse. It had survived but was caked in mud, and something small was stuck to it, the size of a finger, soft and round. A cigarette butt with a gold band. Hero brand. Cuong’s brand.

I put the butt in my pocket and threw the bags out onto the hallway floor.

I couldn’t walk out of here with bags of noticeable cash. In one of the bedrooms, I grabbed an empty beer carton. I filled it with the plastic bags of money and folded the cardboard ends down. It was bulky and heavy, but I could manage it. I looked out the window to see if anyone was about. The street was deserted. The front and back door were deadlocked, so I threw the box, and my handbag, out the side window and climbed out. I dusted myself off and walked as casually as I could down the driveway, holding what looked to the world like a slab of VB, and my handbag slung over my shoulder. I closed the gate behind me.

In a neighbouring wheelie bin, I dropped the rubber gloves and the cigarette butt, then walked to Wright Street, heading east, towards home.

When a cab passed, I waved it down and offered the driver one hundred bucks to take me to Ascot Vale and forget I existed.

I stood across the road from Pine View, holding the beer carton, and watched my building for signs of intruders. I decided it was safe and climbed the stairs.

I opened a kitchen cupboard, plastic containers spilled onto the floor. Bags of cash would never fit in there. In my bedroom, strewn with clothes, I stuffed the carton under the bed. I thought for a moment, then I went back, took out half the cash, and stashed it in my freezer.

I poured myself a vodka and took out the manila envelope with the documents and passports. According to the details, Razz was nearly fifteen. And Cory’s friend, the girl, her passport photo looked like a glamour shot, hair swept back off her face; she was even wearing a blazer. The other passport photos were of teenagers I didn’t recognise. They all had studio hair and corporate attire, as though they were going to a costume party as a young liberal or a stockbroker. But no make-up in the world could disguise their terrible dull-eyed expressions, the kind I’d seen on junkies down on their luck.

I considered the best thing to do with it all. An anonymous tip off? But I couldn’t be sure the information would be understood or acted upon. Some of those front-room cops were a bit thick. Anyone higher up was a possible Flower stooge. Clearly, going to the cops was off; we couldn’t trust them. Also, it might incriminate Cuong. Also, as of this afternoon, me.

I did something out of character, I rang my mother.

‘Sell the farm to Kylie and Tyler. They’re good for the money.’

‘Eh? What? You say they’ve got money?’

‘They’re good for it, yes.’

‘All right. Good news. I’ll tell that Farquhar to get on his bike.’

I smirked; it grew into laughter. The adrenalin of what I had just done hit. I jumped up and put Amy Whitehouse on my little-used CD player, cranked it way up, and danced around until Brown started bashing on the wall and yelling something about not acting like beasts, reminding me why I hardly ever listened to music at home.

The volume came down and so did I. All the files went back in the envelope, except for the passports of Razz and the others. Those I put in an old envelope. I would show them to Phuong tonight at dinner. I’d like to see her face when I told her what I did. Not everything, not the money part, just busting into their stupid lair and raiding their stash.

The rest of the documents I hid under a cushion on the sofa. After I had a chance to talk with Phuong, I’d give it to some media person who knew their outlaw motorcycle gangs from a hole in the road.

I was feeling pretty good, and went hunting for my DVD of Blood Diamond to finally see the ending. I ran an eye over the spines, stopping at Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Li Mu-bai, warrior monk, a man full of quiet regret, who in the end wanted nothing more than to be a ghost, so he could be by the side of Yu Shu Lien. Was there a more melancholy figure than Li Mu-bai?

Brophy, maybe.

An uncomplicated, undemanding man. A man quietly struggling to live his dream. And what had he asked of me? Patience. Forbearance. A little faith.

Perhaps I’d been negligent in that.

Hell, no, a voice said. Nuh uh. Why help your nemesis? Your worst enemy? You should pour another vodka, go back to bed. I agreed.

But Brophy …

I checked my phone. There was enough time to see Flicky and be back for dinner at Phuong’s. Oh, alright. Fine. One last chore to do.

I changed out of the muddy jeans and into a dress — a pink shift — and slipped on a pair of black ballet flats. It was a wildly impractical outfit for my lifestyle, and some scars and plasters were exposed, but I didn’t want to rock up to Flicky’s looking like a tradie. I wanted to feel feminine this once. One thing ruined the effect: no pockets, there was nowhere to keep a weapon handy. I dropped the knife and the screwdriver in my handbag, with the passports, and ran out into the street to hail a passing cab. ‘Williamstown,’ I said, getting in the back. We flew to Flicky’s, lickety-split.

The front door was chocked open and only a flimsy, tattered fly-screen protected the Sparks family from riffraff like me. Inside, a woman was on the phone, voice of an extrovert, shouty, raucous. It reminded me of my mother; she bellowed down the receiver like someone using a megaphone, like she didn’t believe telephones actually worked.

‘Of course, last year Cynth wore that chiffon thing, remember? And that hat, size of a beach umbrella, taking everyone’s eye out. Plastered by two, Henry carried her to the car!’

I made a fist, and used a knuckle to tap the frame.

‘Better go, hun. Someone’s at the door. See you Tuesday, we’ll swing by in the limo. No chicken, please, goes off in the sun. Bring flats — I am. Bye, sweetie. Bye!’

A thin silhouette in chunky heels clomped down the wooden hall. The screen door swung out at me and I took a step back, the better to take in this vision of well-preserved beauty queen. Mrs Sparks smiled. ‘Goodness, you’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?’

‘I fell. It’s nothing. Is Felicity home?’

‘Come in, she’s in the garden.’

‘I’ll wait here, if that’s okay.’

She looked at me, the smooth face motionless, but the eyes darting. ‘Alright then, I’ll fetch Flick.’

I knew it. Flick. Tricky Flicky. She came bouncing down the hall and stopped dead in her tracks when she clocked me. ‘Jesus, Stella. Are you okay?’

‘Where’s Brophy’s money?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The money you stole from him, where is it?’

‘Is this one of your little jokes?’

‘I don’t have time for your denials. Just hand over the cash and the photos, too, and I’ll be on my way.’

‘I’m not falling for it. Peter told me all about your overactive imagination.’

‘He …’ My face became warm. Overactive imagination, not a phrase he would use. Her interpretation perhaps. ‘What did he say about me, exactly?’

‘He said you possessed a highly imaginative aesthetic, something like that, I don’t remember exactly. Basically, implying you’re deluded.’

It sounded like Brophy had said something complimentary. I decided he had. It felt good. ‘He told me you stole money from him.’

She looked stricken. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘Money went missing and you went into hiding. Coincidence?’

‘Hiding? I’m right here.’

‘Why were you unable to be contacted?’

She scoffed. ‘I dropped my phone in the toilet at the Drunken Tweet. It’s been sitting in a bucket of rice for two days. It only started working again this morning.’

‘But you did steal the money.’

She folded her arms. ‘No.’

This was a pointless exercise. ‘Give me the money or I call the cops.’

She screwed up her face at me. ‘I don’t believe that Peter would even think I could do such a thing. I’m calling him.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘I dare you.’

A second of indecision, then she pulled out her mobile and hit it once. Brophy was on speed dial. I gritted my teeth. She put the phone on speaker and held it out for me to hear. A child answered. ‘Yo!’

‘To whom am I speaking?’ Felicity said.

‘It’s Marigold, Brophy’s twelve-year-old daughter,’ I said. She didn’t know anything.

Felicity shrugged. I moved closer to her phone. ‘Yo, Marigold, it’s me, Stella.’

‘S’up, shorty. I ain’t seen you since we was gettin jam in the joint.’

The horror on Felicity’s face was priceless. I felt I should explain. ‘She means since we bought doughnuts from the Olympic Donut van. Which is about a month ago.’

‘Is she American?’

‘Pfft. No. She’s young.’

‘Hey, Marigold, is Brophy there?’

‘Nah, he’s taking care of his own, know what I’m sayin’? Hangin’ his shit, yo, for Tuesday night.’

‘Are you home by yourself?’

‘Mos def.’

There were laws against leaving children unsupervised. ‘When is Brophy coming back?’

‘Didn’t say. Been gone for hours. He’s all, like, the exhibition, it’s the only thing. That’s how he be.’

‘True that. Stay there, and don’t start any fires. I’ll come over as soon as I can.’

An unsupervised Marigold was a hazardous state of affairs. My suspicions about who had taken Brophy’s money now took a new direction. That meant that, ugh, Felicity may have been innocent. She slid the phone in her back pocket and raised her eyebrows at me.

‘That didn’t help matters,’ I conceded.

‘If only Peter had a mobile.’

That thought had crossed my mind many times. ‘Felicity, er. I may have … that is, Peter might have made some assumptions about you.’

‘Peter said that?’ She looked heartbroken, I felt bad. I’d been pretty horrible to her.

‘Don’t get upset, here’s a tissue.’

She took it from me with a sniff.

‘Peter thinks you’re a very good artist’s model,’ I said.

She gazed at me. ‘Really?’

‘Sure, yeah. I guess.’

‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

‘Thanks, Felicity, but I better go hail a cab and get Marigold.’

‘A cab? Where’s your car?’

‘I had a bingle, it’s in the shop until … forever. That’s not important. Thing is, I have to go.’

‘Don’t do that. I’ll drive you.’