Larceny got off the train, hiking her tote bag over her shoulder. She’d risked going back to the residential for it, cramming it with her meagre possessions.
‘Where ya goin’?’ Jake the handyman had asked when she sneaked down the hall.
‘Dunno. Melbourne, maybe.’
He hadn’t asked why: he knew better than that. And she knew he wouldn’t tell. He was okay. He’d been inside himself a few times.
She’d made her way to the railway station and caught the first train to Melbourne. She felt in her coat pocket. Ten bucks left. Ten bucks to start a new life. Not enough. She’d have to get some deals going in this city, and soon. But first …
She walked out into the street, straight over to a newsstand and picked up the evening paper. Scanning the headlines she saw that there wasn’t anything about Sammy’s death.
‘Hey. No free reads. Pay up or put down,’ said the woman minding the stand.
Larceny turned, froze the woman with a scathing look and tossed the paper carelessly back on the pile. The woman shrank back from the cold hatred in her eyes. This one was bad.
So. Nothing about Sammy. Too early yet. Good. It would take the cops a while to track down the source of the stolen goods and round up Cathy and Jane if they were cop-smart enough. And by the time those two spilled their guts … This was a big city, with plenty of places to hide.
She strolled up Flinders Street, sussing out who was hanging round under the clocks. She knew Melbourne, knew where the street kids lived, knew some of them from her stays in homes and the psych hospital. She winced as she remembered those black days. Uncontrollable, they’d labelled her when she’d attacked one of the night nurses. The woman had been a pig bitch, a bully, who’d bossed all the inmates around, was handy with her fists and taunted them with malicious innuendos. After that the night nurses were all scared of her. She’d attended classes, psych groups and individual counselling during the day, but every night she was escorted to a youth refuge. The workers there were cool, laid back, and didn’t give her any aggro. She’d kept to herself, stayed in her room, remained mute, and eventually they’d given up trying to get brownie points by being the ones to “cure” her.
Larceny grimaced. She knew she wasn’t mad. None of the psychologists and psychiatrists could put a label on what was wrong with her and it had pissed them right off. Bi polar? No. Manic depressive? No. Schizophrenic? They weren’t sure.
She’d stuffed them right up. She’d been cunning, playing their games. Shrewd observation of the signs and symptoms of mental illness had allowed her to mimic the different conditions. She had the shuffle, the pacing, the muttering, rocking back and forth, the craziness down to a fine art, and just when they’d thought they had her for straitjacket material, she would be damningly clear, calm and normal.
She’d started smoking dope when she was eleven, and she knew that if she smoked too much or used the potent skunk she’d hear the voices. Lots of kids did. Saw things, too. So much for marijuana being a nice mellowing-out drug. Well, it did mellow her out, mask the shit, but the voices … She’d seen some kids get the same effect when they used LSD, magic mushies or Datura. Drug-induced psychosis, one psychiatrist had said when he’d seen Mikey totally out of his tree on Datura. Mikey. Nice kid. Larceny wondered what had happened to him. He was about the only human she’d ever really related to, ever really liked.
He was kind of innocent and gentle. They’d boiled up the lilies they’d nicked from the psych hospital garden. Typical, growing trumpet lilies in a psych hospital garden. Showed how dumb the doctors were. She’d been all right when she’d swigged the mix, hadn’t felt much apart from a mild buzz, but Mikey had thrown a serious psycho and they’d had to lock him up. She’d been regraded to a residential. Never saw him again.
Larceny went up the steps under the clocks and into the foyer of the railway station. People were hurrying round her, intent on their business, oblivious of the young girl with the wild red hair, strange icy green eyes and tight, pale face. She dug out the ten dollar note from her pocket and bought cigarettes, a packet of crisps and a Coke. Then she moved over to a wall, dropped her tote bag at her feet, and turned, surveying the scenery, smoking, and sipping the Coke.
After a while she felt someone was watching her. She turned her head slightly. There was a guy looking at her. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing an expensive-looking black leather jacket which hung loosely from his slight frame, and tight black trousers. His dark eyes surveyed her curiously. Mid thirties, Larceny thought, though these days it was hard to tell ages. Thirteen year olds could look thirty, and sixty year olds, with the aid of cosmetic surgery, could look thirty. But you could usually tell by the eyes.
He was tanned, and lean. She met his eyes coldly. He was older than she’d thought. Late thirties. He didn’t look away. He unfolded himself from the wall and sauntered over, hands linked into the top of his belt.
‘New in town?’
His voice was deep, low and sexy. He was a stable owner on the prowl for new talent, Larceny decided, though why was a bit of a mystery, seeing as girls were dropping out of the sky to go on the game. Easy money. They thought. Stupid bitches. It was a fool’s game, prostitution.
But this was cool. She’d play along, get some money out of him, then bail out. There was no way she was going on the game for some pimp. If she ever had to resort to selling her body, she’d be in charge of doing it, although she’d rather be dead first. The thought of anyone touching her made her freeze. It always had, as long as she could remember.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Thought you might need a friend.’
‘You?’ There was scorn in her voice, and she tossed back her head mockingly, the mane of red hair swinging like a soft curtain against the wall behind her.
The man narrowed his eyes. This meeting wasn’t accidental: he’d followed her progress over the years she’d been in and out of residentials and institutions. There’d always been someone to relay the information. But he’d expected someone different now that they were finally face to face. Most of the street kids he knew, male or female, were desperate for affection, for just one person to care about them which made them easy prey.
This girl wasn’t the usual gullible but street-smart babe. Mad? He didn’t think so. He was impressed. She was fire and ice. Interesting. Challenging. Intriguing. He put on his most winning smile. She probably was worth the bother.
‘Hungry?’ he asked.
‘Hardly.’ She indicated the empty crisp packet at her feet.
He grinned. She was smart, this one.
‘Cold?’
‘Hardly.’ She shrugged in the thick plaid jacket.
‘Lonely?’
‘Hardly.’ The green eyes flickered over him, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re here trying to give me grief, aren’t you, so how can I be lonely?’
He put out his hand. ‘I’m Nick Farino.’
She looked at it, and he dropped his hand to his side as his lips tightened. He wasn’t used to rejection. He didn’t like it.
‘Look, man, I’m not interested in whatever you’ve got to offer,’ she said curtly. ‘Do me a favour and piss off.’
Nick Farino wasn’t accustomed to being told to piss off, especially by a mere kid. He scowled.
‘I run a business,’ he began.
‘Not interested. I told ya, piss off.’
‘I need a receptionist.’
‘Oh, please!’
‘I do.’
‘I can’t type.’
‘You don’t need to type. You answer the phone, make bookings for the clients, that sort of thing.’
Larceny looked at him and decided to taunt him a bit. ‘You a doctor? Or a dentist? Or what?’ she asked demurely.
He didn’t answer, just looked back steadily. He was a sharp operator all right. She changed tactics.
‘The world’s full of receptionists busting to work, so why me?’
Nick Farino shrugged.
‘Dunno,’ he said, which was the first honest word he’d uttered for about a year. And he didn’t know. He’d just wanted to have a look at her when he’d learned that she’d done a runner and was at the station. But she drew him like a magnet, not in a sexy way. In fact she was more of a turn-off with her cold, blood-freezing eyes and her aura of icy anger. And now he’d met her, he needed to know more about her and what made her tick.
‘Look, man, thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to work, okay? I’m just cruising through.’
He was tempted to grab her, twist her arm up her back and frogmarch her down the street to his car. Babes usually fell all over him, and this one he wanted to control because somehow she was turning the tables and controlling him. He stepped towards her.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said softly but menacingly, as the city commuters bustled and jostled around them. He stopped short, frowning.
‘Wait here!’
With long strides he walked away towards the entrance and zapped down the steps. Larceny leaned back against the wall, bemused. She wasn’t frightened of him. Fear? When she’d been mauled by orderlies, pinched by nurses, pricked and poked at by doctors, yelled at by teachers, given grief by cops, moved in and out of a bunch of foster homes, and given the works by court magistrates?
But she was afraid of being shut up, caged in juvenile for what she’d done to Sammy, scared stiff of being slammed back into a psych hospital and doped up with antidepressants. She was terrified of losing her freedom, of being confined by walls and bars. No human could get near enough to her emotionally to be a threat, she made sure of that. Just the walls and bars … She could feel the grey mist beginning to swirl up, seducing her thoughts, nagging and niggling, and soon the voices …
‘Right, kid. This is Stella.’
Larceny blinked, bringing herself out of the fog. Nick stood before her, half dragging a skinny old woman with a wrinkled face like a monkey, dyed black hair and a harassed expression.
‘This your number one babe? No wonder you’re desperate,’ said Larceny sarcastically, though her curiosity was aroused.
‘Stella runs the hot food stall across the street,’ said Nick impatiently. ‘I’ve decided she needs an assistant. You.’
‘This is crazy,’ said Larceny. ‘Are we on Candid Camera or something?’ She crossed her eyes and put out her tongue. ‘Where’s the hidden camera? Wait, don’t bother answering. I’ve wasted enough time hanging round this place. I’m outa here.’
She hefted the tote bag up from the floor and went to barge past Nick, but his arm shot out to grab her elbow. She froze. The ice-fire came into her eyes and Nick dropped his arm like it had been seared by a hotplate.
‘Don’t ever, ever touch me,’ she said softly, her eyes narrowed like a cat’s.
‘You’re mad!’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. You’re not gonna get the chance to find out, are you?’
Stella spoke. ‘The job. No strings, no trouble. Cash in hand.’
Larceny looked at the old woman. She gazed back. A tough old bird, shrewd and hardened with years of struggling against the odds.
‘Why me?’ she asked simply.
‘You’ve got spirit. And you’re not going to rip me off!’
‘You’re the only one on this planet who thinks so,’ said Larceny. ‘My name’s Larceny and larceny’s my game, man. Got to live up to my name.’
Stella chuckled. ‘Nothing to rip off except donuts, pies and hot coffee, luv. Are you coming? I’ve got Jack minding the stall and he’s not exactly the full falafel if you get my drift.’
Larceny gave herself a surreptitious pinch to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Or tripping out on the after effects of the skunk. No, she was here at Flinders Street station with a smooth-ball called Nick and a scrawny old woman called Stella who’d just given her a job. This was for real. Sammy Soul was the bad trip, the nightmare. She sighed.
‘Yeah. All right. Just for tonight, and no hassles.’
Following Nick and Stella she walked out into the rain-spattered street as the sky darkened, heralding a cold wintry Melbourne night. People scurried past, heads bent against the rain, eyes down, never smiling at each other in apology as they bumped shoulders. Like a mob of sheep, Larceny thought, all going somewhere, following the leader to the trains that would take them home to their safe, warm houses where they’d eat, watch tv and tumble into their beds before they got up again the next day and repeated it all. Forget it. It wasn’t for her.
They crossed the road and reached the stall. It was more or less just a hole in the wall. Seeing Stella, the old dude called Jack unfolded himself from a stool, nodded and shuffled off up the street.
‘He’s a man of few words. Dump your gear there.’
Stella pointed to a corner. Larceny dropped her tote bag and took off her coat. It was warm and steamy in the booth.
‘Right. This is how you make the coffee. Donuts and pies are in the warmer.’
Stella wasn’t exactly overflowing with the gift of the gab either, Larceny thought with a small secret smile. Good. Meaningless chatter got on her nerves. She’d heard enough of it in the psych wards. That, and pompous psychological jargon.
It was basic. Easy. You put coffee in styrene cups, pies and donuts in bags, and took the money. The clientele was rough, street-tough: the misplaced, the lost and lonely dregs of the city who couldn’t afford more than a coffee and a donut.
‘I do sandwiches and rolls in the summer,’ Stella confided, as Larceny served an old drunk with shaking hands and rheumy eyes who coughed and wheezed as he handed over a two dollar coin.
‘Yeah. Right.’
A few streeties rolled up, their hard faces glistening in the rain, feral in their denims: the product of a society too busy dealing with enterprise bargaining, key performance indicators and an ailing economy to deal with its ailing youth. They cracked a few jokes with Stella when she gave them a couple of donuts and charged them less than the usual because she said that the jam had gone and leaked outa them.
‘Who’s the babe, Stella?’ asked one of the guys. He had long black hair slick with raindrops and a sharp, intelligent face. He moved with a dark grace as he lounged against the booth.
‘None of yer business. Hands off,’ snapped Stella.
‘Larceny,’ said Larceny. She resented Stella’s verbals.
‘Huh? Where?’ The guy swung his head round as if he expected to see an armed bandit charging up the road loaded with stolen goods.
‘Me. My name. Larceny.’
‘Yeah? Cool. Mine’s Lynx. See ya.’
‘That young buck’s trouble,’ said Stella, watching Lynx dart in front of a car then back onto the safety of the footpath as the car driver jammed on the brakes, and sent the car skidding sideways.
‘Yeah. So am I,’ said Larceny under her breath. But she wouldn’t give Stella any aggro: the old woman had given her a job, hot food and coffee during a lull in the passing food traffic, and was now preparing to close up her stall. It was close to midnight.
‘Here’s your pay.’
Larceny looked at the money in her hand.
‘Four hours. Six bucks an hour. Twenty-four bucks.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
Larceny pocketed the cash.
‘Got anywhere to sleep?’ asked Stella.
‘No. But I’ll find somewhere.’
Stella seemed to be considering. Then she shrugged.
‘If you’re still around tomorrow, there’s work here after five, okay?’
Larceny watched as she pulled down the heavy steel roller door and locked it. Had Stella been offering her a bed? Pride stopped her from asking. Still, sleeping on the streets was nothing new. She’d been doing it for years in between dud foster families and residentials that weren’t much better. Sometimes the streets were the safest places to sleep!
Without further goodbyes Stella shuffled off down the street and round a corner, clutching her leather handbag tightly to her chest. It was a miracle that someone didn’t mug her senseless and take her money. But if she was under the protection of Nick Farino, maybe the word was out and no one wanted to tangle with Nick. He looked like he’d be bad news if crossed.
Hoisting her tote bag onto her shoulder, Larceny walked wearily across the street and into the sanctuary of Flinders Street station. Dark shapes lay swaddled in coats and blankets, everything they owned in bags scattered around them against the walls. More human garbage.
Since the closure of most of the big mental asylums and refuges the mentally ill, nicely termed as the “intellectually impaired”, wandered the streets, confused and bewildered, unaccustomed to this frightening freedom. And society, unaccustomed to seeing weird and deviant behaviour on its streets, chose to ignore them.
Larceny lay down in the only available space beside one of the snoring bundles and hoped she hadn’t inadvertently taken someone’s patch. She was aching all over from bending into the pie warmer and standing on the hard concrete floor of Stella’s stall for hours. Being on the run from the law had made her mentally and emotionally exhausted. Was it really only hours ago that she’d killed Sammy Soul? It felt like years.
Feeling time-worn, weary and utterly alone, Larceny pulled her tote bag under her head for a pillow as she closed her eyes and fell into a fretful sleep.