54

LENNOX ‘OX’ GORMAN, Philomena Enright, Buster, and Luigi ‘The Turk’ Tacchini were in custody.

Mortimer was judged to be a credible source, and given protection. True to his word, he filled in the blank spaces. A pretty row of Flowers were named. That particular gang would stink no more.

Copeland was a slippery eel and immediately had his lawyer release a statement that claimed there was no evidence to convict him of any wrongdoing. In fact, it said, Detective Copeland was the one who had convinced Alma to do the right thing and testify against Philomena Enright. Mrs Dunmore had driven Alma to the police station. They, too, were offered protection and with a nod from her mother, the teenager’s cynicism melted like a warm McFlurry. She told the police of Enright’s reaction to the results of Cory Fontaine’s blood test. That she had witnessed Enright confront him in the toilets at McDonald’s about Cory’s illness. Enright had then let the boy go, but had followed him outside and, when he was near the road, she’d shoved Cory into the path of the truck.

There were some chaotic scenes at the police station and the questioning seemed to go on forever. I gave the best account I could of everything that had happened, culminating in my presence at Ricky Peck’s house that afternoon, but excluding any self-incriminating facts. At last, I signed my statement and they called me a taxi, on the proviso that I’d return if required. I rushed home, took a long shower, washing the pond slime and cordite from my hair.

An hour later, dressed in black pants, a black lace top, and black jacket, I entered the buzzing rooms of This Is Not A Drill. I lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray, and took in the breathless crowd. I recognised a few faces from their publicity shots. The centre of this universe, Peter Brophy the commodity, was being interviewed by a journalist, and I took the opportunity to study his work in relative privacy. The paintings, about twenty portraits, were not the representations of erotic fantasy I had baselessly feared they would be. Painted in coloured translucent circular layers, the effect was of an x-ray, not of anatomy but of radiances within and around the body. Each figure was drawn upright, and dynamic, struck with volts of white, which lit up each composition. As if the figures were trying to dance off the canvas. This mix of abstraction and reality was a radically new concept for Brophy, with only small intimations from his earlier work. I hated to concede it, but having Felicity as a model had indeed altered his aesthetic eye.

He’d captured her recklessness, and her sensitivity. Nonetheless, he’d retained that Brophy straightforwardness. The figures appeared slightly at a distance, a little absurd, imbued with warmth and humour. A mad world made for twirling Felicities.

I looked among the patrons and spotted her, weaving through the crowd towards me, waving a champagne glass. A moment later, I picked up her scent, a mix of neroli, patchouli, and mendacity.

She touched her face with the cold glass. ‘I told him,’ she said. ‘Everything.’

I sipped my champagne.

‘No, really. I did. I admitted that all along I’d been lying to you about him, and that I had, er, I’d lied to him about you, too.’

I paused mid-sip. ‘What? What lies?’

She looked stricken. ‘That you told me you wanted him to focus exclusively on the exhibition … and to leave you alone. Partly because you wanted to support him — I said that part to make it more believable — and partly because you needed space from him. I told him you thought he was smothering you … and that … you hated it.’

I looked across the room at Brophy, as that information sank in. He was being posed by the journalist in front of one of his paintings, frowning uneasily for the camera. ‘That is some cold-hearted shit.’

She blinked. ‘My shrink said the same thing. It’s related to a fear of abandonment, she reckons. And an unconscious rivalry with my mother, a life and death thing apparently, in which I desire her complete and total annihilation or something. But you and Peter should know that I’m aware of my destructive behaviour patterns now, and I’m going to transform my destructive tendencies into positive ones.’

‘Great, Felicity.’

She stood there, clasped hands holding the flute at her chest, bouncing on her toes. I sensed some additional need in her, signs of an imminent request.

‘What do you want?’ I sighed. ‘Forgiveness? Absolution?’

‘Sure, forgive, forget, whatever.’ She took her nail scissors from her handbag. ‘And a hair, only one, for a ritual I’m performing. A small sample of your —’

I ducked and told her if she didn’t stop I’d get a restraining order. Then I went around the space looking for friendly faces. Phuong was at home; she’d broken off the engagement and didn’t feel like socialising. I hadn’t told her the whole truth about my conversation with Copeland. But when she said they had conflicting values, I guessed she had some idea of what kind of man he really was.

Cuong was still at the police station. He was fully cooperating with the police and willing to testify against the Corpse Flowers. He’d been assigned a lawyer, and, well, he did have a lot of explaining to do. Whether the Immigration Department would take that into considerations on visa breaches, he would have to wait and see.

I was surprised to see Boss among the throng, inspecting a painting at close quarters. I half expected him to say it was worthless. But before I had a chance to ask him what he thought, he was patting me on the back. ‘Hardy, how about these pictures? Don’t get them, don’t understand them, but I’m buying this one. This is the one.’

‘They’re not cheap. Are you sure? I mean, what’s the point¸ right?’

He waved the question away. ‘Point is I like it.’ He straightened up to face me. ‘You’re going to stay put then?’

‘You mean the WORMS promotion? I can’t see myself sitting in the office all day, juggling budgets.’

He raised his glass to me. ‘Good for you.’ And then he was gone, off to see about purchasing some art.

Then someone was tapping on their glass and calling for a bit of shush. We all looked around to see what was about to ensue. I worked my way to the front. Brophy was standing in front of the largest portrait in the exhibit. He rocked and shifted, nervous arms folded.

He mumbled his thanks to the This Is Not A Drill gallery, and someone yelled for him to speak up. He raised his voice. ‘I want to thank a lot of people, for their support and their belief in me, friends, my daughter, Marigold. Sorry if I’ve forgotten anyone, I hope those people know I appreciate their assistance. The process was somewhat fraught at times, but I’m proud of the results.’

A cheer went up. Someone shouted, ‘On ya, mate!’

I cheered too, and then I made my way to the exit. This was his moment, to share with his admirers. And I’d made it here to see it. But as I told Brophy earlier, I had one last matter to take care of. Then he and I could, at long last, be together. I turned to give him a little wave and saw that he was pointing at me.

‘But what I really want to say is my thanks to the woman who is my inspiration, not just in my art but in my life, a woman who is … the love of my life, and I wouldn’t be here without her. Stella Hardy.’

We shared a lingering look across the room, which rapidly seemed to have become warmer — perhaps it was the champagne — and I blew him a kiss.