The Queen Victoria Market, a fixture in Melbourne since the late 1870s, sprawled across 17 acres just north of the central business district.
I paced back and forth in front of the iconic façade, at the corner of Elizabeth and Victoria Streets, waiting for Judy. She’d mentioned once she enjoyed strolling through the rows and rows of stalls. I hadn’t been here in years, and really had no desire to be here, but thought it a good choice to entice her to spend some together.
We’d struck a somewhat uneasy truce after my pressuring her into stealing the patient’s records. Our conversations at the hospice, when we’d crossed paths, perfunctory. She’d not asked why I needed the patient’s information and I’d not shared anything of Dayne’s discoveries. Nor did I mention her stealing medication. For the time being, our duelling swords of Damocles remained in suspended animation over both our heads.
A tram glided smoothly to a stop, and I smiled as Judy jumped nimbly from the top step to the kerb. She’d dressed casually in jeans and a white V-necked T-shirt, a thin yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. A large purple handbag slung over one shoulder matched her low-heeled shoes, and a jacket lay folded over her left arm. I waved to get her attention. She noticed, smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
Have you been waiting long?
No, just 15 minutes or so. What’s with the huge handbag? You planning on wreaking havoc in the clothing aisles?
Oh, no. I needed to bring my work clothes. They called to see if I could work an extra shift this afternoon. I guess one of the other girls wanted to spend Easter Sunday with her family. No skin off my nose. I still have a few hours though to spend here.
So where to first?
Doughnuts! I’ve got to have the jam doughnuts!
The market’s jam doughnuts remained the only thing I could remember from my last visit. Tiny little balls of dough, slightly larger than a golf ball, covered in sugar and filled with jam; the sugar impossible to remove from fingers, the super-heated jam causing third-degree burns to unsuspecting tongues and which squirted out sideways with the slightest provocation. But no one over the age of three, and with a pulse, could resist.
With a sack of doughnuts and a wad of serviettes in hand we made our way through the food stalls, across Queen Street, and to the endless rows of clothing and souvenir stalls beyond.
Judy stopped and looked at me as if I was from the moon.
You don’t go shopping with women very often, do you?
Well, no.
We just like to shop. We look at everything, try on some things and buy – well, with what I earn – virtually nothing. If you go shopping with a plan, you aren’t doing it right.
So, it’s about the journey, not the destination?
Now you’re getting it… Ooh, look at those earrings.
For the next hour, I tagged along and valiantly tried to keep pace, like a dog chasing a cat chasing a butterfly.
***
Sean Costello bounced nervously from one foot to the other. In his mid-fifties, of below average height and slight of build, Sean didn’t cut an imposing presence. However, if one dared to stare into the abyss doubling for his eyes, you knew instantly he was not a person to be taken lightly.
The night before, a scratchy voice on the anonymous phone call told him to check his mailbox. Inside the mail slot an envelope. Inside that, another number to call from a public phone. And a photo of his target. He called his handler 30 minutes later from a pizza shop on Sydney Road. He received further instructions, and most importantly, the target’s address.
Sean, hands thrust deep in his pockets, stared through the glass partition of the bus stop waiting for his driver. As instructed, he’d visited an auto salvage yard in Coburg that morning to pick up a weapon. The Walther PPX 9mm now tucked in the back of his pants, snug up against his spine. An Octane 45 silencer rested in his coat’s left pocket.
His employer informed him it was a rush job; contracted out at the last minute due to staffing issues. Sean chuckled at the use of the phrase, in his profession it meant someone fucked up and was either in jail or dead. It made little difference to Sean; he’d be a loyal soldier to the end. In fact, the Costello family had for generations been loyal to the Republican cause.
It began with Sean’s granddad. One among the 400 in the Dublin General Post Office fighting for Irish independence almost 100 years earlier. After the siege, he’d been arrested and taken to the Richmond Barracks. Then beaten unmercifully until his release a week later. He carried with him as mementoes a limp and disfigured jaw for the rest of his life, yet felt lucky not to be one of those executed. He emigrated to Australia not long after the independent state was officially recognised. The old man died in 1980, a quality bomb maker until his last breath. In fact, it was his final creation, commissioned by a friend of Sean’s, which cost Sean 12 years inside for aiding and abetting a triple murder.
The years inside Bluestone College – as Melbourne’s Pentridge Gaol was affectionately known – hardened further an already hard man. The maximum-security prison closed in 1997, the land under re-development. But from the bus stop on Sydney Road where Sean waited, he could make out the, still-standing, bluestone walls and imposing guard tower at the corner of Gaffney and Champ Streets. The sight of those walls brought on a shiver deep down in his soul.
Sean knew the jobs he’d been assigned over the past 20 years often had little to do with the struggle for Irish independence, but it mattered little. He’d become addicted to the adrenalin rush of his criminal lifestyle. Sean cared little for the value of his life, just the mere thought of impending violence was like mother’s milk. And just so long as the instructions were passed along by the familiar Irish accent of his handler he cared little for the reasoning behind them.
The sound of a car horn brought his mind back to the present. A white Holden Caprice pulled into the space reserved for buses. Sean stepped forward, opened the passenger side door and quickly slid inside.
A hand shot out towards him in expectation of a handshake.
Sean glanced at the driver. A young, tall man, heroin-chic skinny, long dark hair and brown eyes appearing slightly glazed over. His head nodded up and down in time to a hip-hop song on the radio.
The driver stared at the slight, elderly man in the passenger seat and was about to make a smart retort when he noticed the eyes. The hand left hanging in mid-air was meekly returned to the steering wheel.
Brian changed the station and didn’t utter another word for the next 25 minutes.
***
Do you like this bracelet?
Huh?
I’d gone into a trance staring at table after table adorned with Aboriginal artwork. Row upon row of small trinkets, boomerangs, jewellery cases all painted in a distinctive dot style. Mesmerised by the bright colours shining, shimmering, under their lacquered finish. Tourists, believing them authentic, lapped them up. Little did they know they were mass-produced not too far from the Market at a factory in Brunswick.
We’d wandered aimlessly up and down aisles for over two hours, and I’d silently slipped into my version of Dreamtime.
Judy stood admiring a simple silver bracelet with a thin gold filigree.
Yeah, it’s nice.
Excuse me, how much for the bracelet.
The elderly Greek lady turned, put down the pashmina she was folding, and gazed over bifocals to the bracelet on Judy’s wrist.
$45 for that piece.
Oh, that’s too much. Thank you.
I have others if you’d like to see?
No. Thank you.
Judy placed the bracelet back into its felt-lined box.
I’ll get it for you if you like.
Craig, you don’t have to.
Let me. I want to.
No, Craig. It’s not going to be that easy. I mean…
She stormed off and left the Greek lady and I staring at each other.
I caught up to her five stalls down the aisle.
Care to tell me what that was all about?
I’m sorry. It’s just… you can’t just buy me something and make everything magically okay. It’ll take time.
I wanted to buy you the bracelet because I thought you liked it. I’m not trying to buy your affection, Judy. I know I fucked up…
Yeah, well, we’ve both done a little of that.
Judy turned away, crossed her arms and breathed deeply as if fighting with unseen voices. For once I did the smart thing and remained silent.
She turned back and smiled meekly.
So, truce?
The sun disappeared behind a large bank of clouds, and it didn’t appear it would make a reappearance anytime soon. With the sunshine gone, the breeze blowing through the stalls seemed much cooler.
How could I say no? I’d have cut off a limb if it would’ve helped.
Deal. How about another doughnut then?
I waved the bag with the last few remaining doughnuts in her face.
Ugh. If I eat another one of those I’ll bloody well explode.
She smiled her infectious smile and wove an arm through mine.
We squeezed through the growing crowd and headed back in the direction of Elizabeth Street. Cafés lined the roadway, the outdoor tables full with shoppers enjoying a coffee or post-lunch snack.
So, you don’t want to go back and get the bracelet?
Nah, you spoilt me enough already with the doughnuts.
The pinch on the inside of my bicep almost brought tears to my eyes.
At the corner of Victoria and Elizabeth Street, while waiting to cross, Judy turned to face me.
I had a wonderful time today. See you tomorrow?
Sure. And me, too.
Judy pulled me close and met my lips with hers. A promising sign. But a far cry from the dizzying heights to which I’d grown accustomed. The hug also lasted just a little longer, though it may just have been me not wanting the moment to pass. Judy broke free with a smile and dashed across the intersection to catch her tram.
***
Sean Costello looked down at the address scrawled on the slip of paper then up to the gated home surrounded by a two-metre-high fence. Tall blue conifers stretched the length of the property down both sides; the back of the home not visible from the street.
The number etched into the sandstone plaque above the intercom system beside the front gate matched the one on the note.
The driver wordlessly followed his instructions to the letter.
Sean sized up the two-story structure which looked more like a fortress than a home and determined the assignment may be a little tougher than he imagined. He chewed on a fingernail as he thought through his options: Scaling the wall wouldn’t be an issue, but he’d have to wait until dark. He doubted the grounds would be alarmed, but would bet anything the doors and windows were.
Then a smile broke out across his deeply lined face. The wrought iron gates slowly swung open, and a silver Range Rover edged out into the street.
Sean glanced down at the photo with the man’s name written on the back.
***
Since being called into Mr Sinclair’s office earlier in the week, Garth O’Neal had been a total wreck. He knew the senior partner was purely on a fishing expedition, but the barely disguised venom in the questions regarding his loyalty to the firm unnerved him. So much so he’d been unable to concentrate on even the most mundane of tasks for the rest of the week.
Now, as he waited for the light to change from red to green at Burke Road, the low petrol warning light caught his eye.
Garth swore realising another small detail had slipped through the cracks of his typically impeccable attentiveness.
And which also happened to be why he was uncharacteristically out on the roads this Sunday morning. He’d exhausted his supply of Fidel’s Blend.
Garth O’Neal was a creature of habit, during the week he stopped at the Six Degrees Café on St Kilda Road for breakfast and coffee, and on weekends rejoiced in his espresso brewed from his favourite blend – Fidel’s. The four-day Easter break became a welcome respite from his travails at the office; however, this morning he’d used the last of his favourite rich Dominican roast, with a dash of – he was assured – beans from Kenya and Papua New Guinea.
Ambrose Sinclair may have ruined his week at the office, disrupted his bowel movement schedule and rattled his retirement plans, but he’d be damned if he’d forego his espresso tomorrow morning on the Easter Monday holiday.
***
Looks like he’s just gone out to fill up the tank.
Perhaps.
Brian pulled to the kerb 30 metres from the Coles Express petrol station on Burke Road and both men watched the heavy-set man fill his tank.
Sean, a tightly wound ball of energy, rubbed both palms up and down his thighs. He thought through the two courses of action he’d quickly decided upon. If O’Neal turned around and went home, he’d rush the gate before it closed. If he continued away from home, he’d stay patient and see what unfolded. The friction created by his hands warmed the denim of his jeans, yet his palms remained clammy as the nervous tension built.
Brian checked traffic in his side mirror before easing the Caprice back onto Burke Road.
At the corner of Barkers Road, the Range Rover made a left turn, three car-lengths back, the Caprice followed. They followed him through the Glenferrie Road intersection and past the playing fields of Xavier College, desolate this Easter Sunday. Crossing the Yarra River, the suburb of Kew became Richmond; Barkers Road morphing into Victoria Street. The Range Rover caught up to a slow-moving westbound tram at Church Street. For the next kilometre, they crawled along at a snail’s pace. Brian kept two cars between them and their target, weaving back and forth to keep the Range Rover in view, while Sean stared distractedly at the shops of Little Vietnam.
At Hoddle Street, the Range Rover accelerated through a yellow light; Brian slammed his palms on the steering wheel the same moment he slammed on the brakes.
Shit!
Relax. Traffic’s light. Unless he turns off, we can keep him in sight.
The lights changed, and the Caprice surged forward. Perspiration dotted Brian’s brow, his dark hair taking on a greasy sheen as he ran his fingers through his thick mane. Beside him, Sean’s left leg bounced up and down at a frenzied pace.
The Range Rover continued westbound, the Caprice slowing as the distance narrowed. Vietnamese restaurants gave way to office buildings as they drew closer to the city centre.
Just our luck. The bastard is going on a joy ride around town for the afternoon.
Do you have somewhere else to be, boyo? No? Then just shut-up and drive.
A block past the Carlton Gardens, the Range Rover veered left onto Franklin Street and pulled into a parking spot.
Sean pointed to an open spot 50 metres further along. Then drew the pistol from the back of his pants and screwed on the silencer. After checking the clip, he placed the weapon in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Brian tried not to act surprised at the sight of the gun. The objective of today’s job becoming blatantly clear.
What now?
Now? Now, you sit and wait.
The glare Brian received glued him to the seat.
You’re going to shoot him here? Out in the open? In broad daylight?
What? Surprised? Then so will he.
Sean, a manic glint in his eye, sprung from the car and charged off towards Elizabeth Street and the Queen Victoria Market beyond. Ahead of him, on the opposite side of Franklin Street, ambled Garth O’Neal.
***
I stood for a moment watching her disappear into the belly of the tram suddenly bereft of ideas of how to spend the rest of the day. I’d visited Mother earlier, and Dayne was on the late shift until eight. Just thinking of meeting him tonight brought on fresh waves of anxiety. I’d managed to keep the wolves at bay for the past five days. Tonight, I’d have to face head-on my predicament.
With nowhere to go and all day to get there, I started a slow shuffle down Elizabeth Street in the direction of the city centre.
I stopped dead in my tracks as the hand on my arm spun me around. The round, bright pink face of Garth O’Neal glared up at me.
What? No. And let go of my arm.
I know you were following me. You drive a Holden, right?
Yeah, I do… but it’s at home. I took the tram here. What the fuck’s wrong with you?
Garth looked momentarily confused but quickly regained his swagger.
Then why are you here?
I met my girlfriend. We went shopping at the market.
I held up the greasy bag holding two cold doughnuts, then tossed it into a rubbish bin by my side.
Perhaps, I’ve made a mistake.
The stocky lawyer held my gaze for longer than felt comfortable then turned and walked off without another word. The confrontation left me shaken. It felt as if he could read my mind; by simply staring into my eyes he knew I’d uncovered the truth about him and Eric.
***
Sean Costello rose from the table where he’d observed O’Neal in a heated discussion with a tall young man. He folded the sports section he’d picked up and slipped it under his arm and followed. As O’Neal stood waiting for the light to cross Elizabeth Street, Sean slipped into the crowd five metres behind him.
***
Seeing the banker triggered alarm bells and caused Garth’s blood pressure to spike. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been followed to the market; even accelerating through a yellow light to lose the Holden he thought tailing him. He recalled Eric once joking about the kid’s beat-up old Holden. Was the one he’d noticed the same model? He couldn’t be certain.
But as he reflected on the conversation, the kid looked more scared than Garth felt. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. His paranoia getting the better of him.
Earlier, during the drive to his favourite coffee store, before being spooked, he’d pondered over the decision. Now he was certain. Tuesday morning, he would hand Mr Sinclair his letter of resignation. Once free of Williams & Teacher, he’d inform Eric Mullane their dubious partnership would end, then spend the next few weeks meticulously cleaning up all loose ends from his pro bono work with the Sisters of Mercy Hospice. Loose ends which would undoubtedly prove troublesome if they came to light.
With a six-week supply of Fidel’s Blend from Coffea Coffee safely ensconced in the paper bag swinging from his right hand, Garth knew he’d made a positive decision in retaking control of his life.
Come Tuesday, he thought, he’d no longer answer to any man. At a bank in the Cayman Islands, sat close to a million dollars ready and waiting to help usher in a new life. And he’d begin his new life with a trip taking him to… Well, his options were limitless.
Garth O’Neal waited to cross at the corner of Franklin and Elizabeth Street and peered up into the grey sky. He could smell the approaching rain. Another Melbourne winter would soon descend, but by then he’d be half a world away. Garth, suddenly, couldn’t recall ever being in such a buoyant mood.
***
Garth O’Neal stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I stood well back shielded behind pedestrians. The smug bastard was staring skyward and smiling. I wondered what was running through his devious mind. With any luck, tonight, Dayne would have a plan designed to wipe that smile right off his face.
***
Sean followed Garth O’Neal along Franklin Street. He kept back a discreet ten metres and surveyed the pedestrian traffic. Earlier, he’d spotted the perfect location to make his move. One hundred metres ahead, next to a deserted laneway, stood the opening to an underground parking garage. The dark, narrow entrance barely wide enough for one vehicle. Once ten metres inside the sloping entrance, they would be invisible.
He quickly glanced around; not a solitary pedestrian in sight. Parked vehicles further blocked the garage entrance from prying eyes. Sean withdrew the pistol from his coat pocket and placed it under the folded newspaper, then increased his pace to intercept Garth at the parking garage entrance.
***
Garth turned to the voice; just a hint of an Irish accent in the request.
The short wiry man closed in quickly and bustled Garth into the entrance to a parking garage.
Garth backed up further into the downward sloping driveway to provide some separation. He wondered, was the man drunk? Am I being mugged? He gazed at the man in disbelief. With his escape blocked, he watched the strange little man throw his newspaper to the ground.
With eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, Garth couldn’t make out what the man was holding. The realisation came too late. And in a vain attempt to protect himself, raised the shopping bag in front of his chest.
The first shot hit both Garth and the bag of finely roasted beans dead centre dropping him to the ground. The sound of the shot, muffled by the suppressor, no louder than a ripe watermelon falling to the ground from a market stall.
***
Sean quickly closed on the man lying prone on the cold concrete. Blood seeped through his shirt just below and to the left of his heart, coffee beans spread around him like a caffeinated aura. He watched the man’s mouth open and close, like a fish out of water, asking a silent “why?” over and over. His eyes roamed the ceiling of the garage looking for clues Sean knew he’d never find. The second shot entered his skull just above the left eye and extinguished all remaining life.
It took less than 20 seconds for Sean Costello to complete the “hands on” aspect of his assignment. He placed the pistol back in his inside coat pocket, picked up the newspaper and quickly exited the garage. Franklin Street remained still and quiet, the only movement a Holden Caprice making a U-turn 50 metres to his right.
Behind him lay a dead solicitor and a kilo of Fidel’s Blend. The robust Dominican roast’s heady aroma mingling with the smell of cordite and exhaust fumes.