Sonya sat at her desk in the freshly painted office examining a thick sheaf of documents. She grabbed at the collar of her crisp, white business shirt trying to get some air across her skin. Although the air conditioner was finally installed and ready to go, it hadn’t been connected to a power supply. The small fan that sat on the bookshelf behind her was woefully inadequate, but at least it kept the air circulating in the room. Sonya was thankful for the short business skirt she wore. In the rush to get the practice up and running this week, she realized belatedly that she didn’t own any sort of appropriate suit for the summer weather. A rushed drive up the coast to Wollongong had her searching desperately until a small boutique came through for her at the eleventh hour. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, so early into the season.
Across from her sat an elderly couple. The husband was dour, slump shouldered and balding, with an overgrown mustache and a crumpled suit that smelled of mothballs. He daubed at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief and constantly tugged at his tie. His wife was a large woman in a loud floral dress, the nylon type that made her sweat so profusely her body odor filled the room. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Sonya could have sworn it had smoothed out all the wrinkles on her face. She sat, arms crossed, her lips pursed as though she had been sucking on a lemon.
“So, to be clear, Phyllis: what you’re looking for is a divorce from Bernard here,” Sonya began. “Because you allege he had an affair five years ago with your sister - even though he has assured you repeatedly that nothing ever took place.”
Phyllis shifted in her chair and nodded forcefully, while Bernard seemed to shrink even further into his own.
“That’s correct, Miss Llewellyn. Despite what Bernard here says, I have evidence - hard evidence - that proves his infidelity.”
She pointed a meaty finger at the papers before Sonya for effect.
“Yes,” Sonya said. “I’ve reviewed the phone records that you have obtained, as well as the statement from your sister, who is now living in a Sydney nursing home - in a dementia ward - that states that she and your husband did ‘carry on a bit’ a number of years ago.”
“So it should be a forgone conclusion, then, shouldn’t it?”
Bernard did his best to stifle a sigh of frustration as he let his eyes wander to the window.
Sonya quietly put her pen down and glanced discreetly at Simon, who was curled up in his basket. He regarded her with an expression of complete indifference, before dropping his head down and closing his eyes.
“Look, Phyllis. I’m not here to pass judgment on your actions,” Sonya paused, considering her words carefully before proceeding. “But - I think you should consider carefully whether this is what you really want to do.”
Phyllis blinked.
“What do you mean?” she asked indignantly.
“Well, is it not true that you were having coffee with Mrs. Marks on Tuesday morning?”
“Well, yes, I was.”
“And that during that coffee you were showing her travel brochures for the Seychelles...”
“I - I was?” Phyllis sat upright in her chair now, the indignation on her face melting into uncertainty.
“And you were overheard remarking that, like Wanda Brickham, who divorced her husband and pocketed a substantial amount of money; you could do the same and be able to afford to go on that group holiday the women’s group has been planning for the past 12 months.”
The blood appeared to drain from Phyllis’s face. Sonya waited for her to respond.
“I - I...” Phyllis stammered, switching glares between Sonya and her husband.
“Lionel and his wife have exceptional hearing, Phyllis,” Sonya added. She opened her drawer, took out a card for a local marriage counselor and handed it to Phyllis.
Phyllis abruptly stood up, clutching her handbag close. Her lips seemed to purse even more severely as she turned on her heel.
“I’ll be waiting in the car, Bernard!” she snapped as she left the office.
Bernard stood wearily and offered his hand to Sonya.
“I’m not sure whether I just made things worse,” she ventured sympathetically.
Bernard brushed it aside and shook Sonya’s hand weakly.
“Thank you for your time, love. I’m sorry to have wasted it on such ridiculousness.”
Sonya smiled and accompanied the old man out of the office and into the reception area, which was still in a state of partial renovation.
Bernard turned to Sonya.
“I’ll be sure to bring down a supply of vegetables and eggs from the farm in a day or two, for your troubles.”
“Bernard, you don’t need to do that,” Sonya reassured him.
The old man managed a smile for the first time this morning.
“I insist,” he said.
Sonya watched from the door as he trudged towards the ancient Morris sedan parked out front. Phyllis sat in the passenger seat, silently fuming. Sonya didn’t envy poor Bernard.
As the car pulled away, Sonya noticed Lionel approaching from the other side of the street pushing a small trolley that contained various lunch orders, including Sonya’s own.
She smiled warmly upon seeing him and waited as he crossed the street. No matter what the weather, Lionel always wore a neatly pressed business shirt and smart trousers. He was always well groomed, proud of his appearance.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said as Lionel stepped up onto the curb.
“Am I to assume that there’s trouble in paradise at the Salt residence again?” Lionel asked, fetching Sonya’s mail from the letterbox as he maneuvered his trolley through the gate.
Sonya shrugged.
“Sorry, Lionel - lawyer-client privilege. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Lionel scoffed as he handed Sonya her mail and parked the trolley on the porch of the converted house.
“She got sprung big time, didn’t she?”
“Well, put it this way: if she had pushed ahead with it, I would have called you and Ruth as witnesses for poor Bernard. I don’t know how he puts up with her. Have you got time for a coffee?”
Lionel reached into the lunch trolley and revealed a pair of lidded cups along with a brown paper bag.
“I already came prepared.”
Sonya grinned, taking her bag and cup and gesturing for him to come inside.
“The office is coming along,” Lionel said as he inspected the reception area. The drop sheets, ladders and painting equipment occupied the waiting area, in readiness for the remaining work Sonya needed to complete.
Sonya nodded, surveying her handiwork.
“Aside from the wacky divorces, the contentious will preparation, small businesses administration, claims and probate duties, yeah,” Sonya replied as they went into her office. “It is. I’m just relieved to finally be working. It’s starting to pay off.”
Simon peered up from his basket and growled, a low rumble in the pit of his throat, upon seeing Lionel. Sonya glowered at the dog and gestured for him to stop.
“I see he’s just as charming as ever,” Lionel joked as he sat down and sugared his coffee.
“Hmmm,” Sonya said, continuing her glare until Simon relented. “I honestly don’t know what to do with him, Lionel. I’ve had obedience classes suggested to me, but I think he’s too set in his ways now. This animosity towards men in particular is becoming embarrassing.”
Sonya flopped down in her chair and put her legs up on the corner of her desk. She eagerly fished the contents of her lunch bag out and unwrapped an overtly large salad roll.
“Well, like I’ve said before,” Lionel remarked. “I think it’s a relief to have a legal practice in the town again. It will make life a lot easier for a lot of people.”
“I don’t mind saying that I’ve been busting my chops for this, though I didn’t expect that I’d be running my own practice so soon.”
Lionel nodded as he sipped his coffee.
“And it’s good to finally have mail that doesn’t include warning letters from other law firms,” Sonya added, nodding towards the pile on her desk. “Though I’m sure there are plenty of bills in amongst that lot.”
She sighed and chuckled lightly.
“At least I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied this weekend.”
Lionel fixed Sonya with a half-serious frown.
“Sonya, you really should start socializing again. Why aren’t you getting out and enjoying yourself? You’re a beautiful young woman.”
Sonya returned his disapproving look, adding a lopsided smile. She’d heard this line from Lionel before.
“Lionel. Stop trying to stitch me up. I know how your mind works.”
“Well, it’s true,” he argued. “You can’t continue to squirrel yourself away in that lonely old house like a hermit with a mongrel. You’ll become an old and twisted spinster with no teeth and a funny smell.”
“Lionel!” Sonya gasped theatrically, screwing up a piece of paper and pitching it at him. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s true,” Lionel chuckled. “No man will want you then. Look, Ruth and I care about you, is all. You’re like a daughter to us. We just hate the thought of you spending all of your time alone.”
Sonya laughed in spite of herself, taking another bite out of her salad roll.
“Lionel, I’m doing all right. I don’t need any extra complications in my life right now.”
“OK, OK. I’ll drop the subject - for now.”
As she glanced over the contents of the pile, one particular envelope suddenly caught her attention - a bright yellow business-sized envelope.
Sonya removed her legs from the desk and sat forward in her chair, plucking the envelope from the pile and inspecting it closely.
Lionel’s brow furrowed and he set his cup down on the desk.
“What is it, Sonya?”
“A letter,” Sonya replied flatly. She appeared to have paled considerably. “It’s for Denny,” she said.
There was a long silence as Sonya stared at the envelope, unable to move. She had not seen a letter addressed to Denny for at least three or four months, let alone anything that had his name printed professionally on it.
“I thought I had taken care of all his mail - all of his contacts. I guess I missed one.”
“Well, who’s it from?” Lionel asked gently, immediately following it up with a bashful, “Sorry. You’ve piqued my interest.”
Sonya finally looked up at Lionel. Her eyes were misty.
“The Arts Council. In Melbourne.”
Slowly, Sonya turned the envelope over in her hands and ran her finger through the gap, opening it. She unfolded the letter inside, whereupon two tickets fell out from the middle. She placed them to one side and read the letter.
“It’s an invitation. For Denny to attend the concert series at the Melbourne International Festival for the Guitar.”
“Oh, my.” Lionel said, doing his best to stifle a gasp.
“He loved the Festival Series,” Sonya remembered wistfully. “He looked forward to it every year.”
She scanned the letter. Her eyes widened as she approached a particular sentence on the page. She had to read it once more to convince herself she’d read it correctly the first time.
“He has been invited to play.”
“Sonya...” Lionel didn’t know what to say. He felt suddenly very awkward and wished he could find the right words - any words.
“No, no, it’s OK,” she reassured him, her voice quivering. “It’s OK. It’s just caught me off guard.”
“That would have been wonderful for Denny,” Lionel offered, sipping the remainder of his coffee. “I do miss hearing him play.”
“Yeah.”
Gathering up the envelope abruptly, Sonya stuffed the letter and tickets inside it, then dropped them in the wastepaper basket beside her.
Lionel frowned.
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
Sonya quickly wiped at her eyes, trying hard not to break down in front of Lionel.
“I don’t need the tickets. I won’t be going to the Festival.”
“Maybe so. But you might want to at least let the organizers know that Denny won’t be able to attend.”
Sonya’s cheeks flushed red, and she reconsidered the wastepaper basket.
“You’re probably right,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling awful.
Sonya fished the envelope out of the basket again and hastily smoothed it out with her hand. She looked down on Denny’s name for a long moment, then set the letter on the desk before her, next to a picture frame.
A picture frame containing a photograph of her and Denny together.
Sonya and Lionel sat in awkward silence.
***
Andy felt almost afraid to open the door of the apartment. He hesitated, key in hand, in the darkened hall. Taking a deep breath, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it. Inside he flicked the light switch on the wall.
“Jesus.”
The hallway leading into the apartment appeared as though someone had set off a small explosive. There were great holes in the walls, some the size of a basketball. Long gouges had been dug into the plaster, as though someone had dragged a sharp object like an ax or even a sword along their length. Accompanying these, crude spray-painted tags had been left on the walls and doors.
Andy shook his bandaged head, seething with anger.
He noticed the faint smell of feces as he went deeper into the apartment. Although it was apparent Beck had cleaned most of it off the walls and floor, the foul odor lingered, melding with the smell of disinfectant.
Setting his bag down, Andy went into the living room, threw open the blind and opened the window, allowing fresh air in from outside.
In the hall, Andy noted that Beck had already cobbled together some tools, plaster filler, paint, brushes and rollers to begin repairing the damage. Andy picked up a paint roller and considered it. Then he looked up at the graffitied door of his bedroom. Andy stepped up to it, hesitating, not wanting to see what was inside. He knew it wasn’t going to be good.
The room was utterly devastated. The bed had been upturned, the mattress shredded to the point of uselessness. His desk had been smashed in half. There were splinters everywhere. On the floor, lying in pieces, was his laptop, its darkened screen smashed. His television set had been kicked in and lay lop-sided on its face on the floor, still plugged into the wall socket. As Andy surveyed the ruin, his eyes fell across his shattered guitar case, which Beck had retrieved from the alley and had placed in against the wall just inside the door.
Andy’s heart sank. He knelt down gingerly, appraising the damage, clutching at his broken ribs painfully. He opened the zipper and, upon seeing the wrecked instrument, he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to hold back tears. His grandmother’s legacy, her gift to him from so long ago, was devastated. The guitar was irreplaceable.
And then he remembered something else. Through tear-filled eyes Andy looked across the room, blinking furiously, searching amongst the mess until he saw it.
The locked box.
Upturned and lying on its side, the steel box had been pried open with considerable force. He knew it had been emptied. All the money that Andy had put away, the earnings from his dealing, his wages from The Pub. All of it was gone. All that remained were a couple of tattered photographs, which lay away from the box.
Angrily wiping at his tears, Andy snatched up the remaining contents of his locked box. One of the photos was of his mother posing alone under a tree in a garden. He looked upon this stranger’s face, a woman he hardly knew. The other photograph was of his father, much younger. Dressed in a military uniform, he wore a broad smile, and was looking up at a very young Andy - he must have been about five - who sat astride his shoulders. Andy’s sister stood leaning against her father, holding his hand.
Andy smiled through his tears, remembering when the photograph had been taken. It had been another time, another place. When he had been happy.
He looked up and saw the wall in front of him where the bed head had been.
Scrawled in black paint, was the crude inscription: “I own you.”
Andy stared at the words. A black pall settled over him. He remembered Vasq standing before him in the alley, threatening him; his crew surrounding him, preventing his escape; Cassie watching indifferently, hating him.
‘I own you.’
Andy grabbed the ruined locked box and pitched it at the wall with a guttural scream. Then he collapsed back, burying his head in his hands.
***
Beck opened the apartment door a couple of hours later to find Andy armed with a paint roller applying a second coat to the hallway wall. Large drop sheets covered the floor and the apartment smelled - thankfully - of fresh paint. He blinked upon seeing Andy in paint-smeared clothes, his head bandage also splattered with paint.
Andy paused, nodding wearily at Beck.
“Hey, man. Do you think you should be doing that in your condition?”
Beck’s voice trailed off as he realized that Andy had managed to completely repair the damage in the hall, remove the graffiti and patch up the walls in the living room. The devastation was already almost completely gone.
“Holy shit, man! You did all of this?” He set down the two plastic bags he’d been holding. “I never had you figured for any sort of handyman.”
Andy smiled faintly and nodded.
“Neither did I. I just felt I should get in and try to clean this mess up before the landlord discovers just how bad it was. I’m discovering that I can do a lot of things I never tried before.”
“Jesus, let me give you a hand. I got some fresh supplies.” Beck fished a pair of brushes out of one of the bags and began helping, finishing the detailing around the door frames. “What time did they let you out of the hospital?”
“I didn’t wait,” Andy admitted. “The nurse told me the doctor wouldn’t be able to see me until the morning, so I checked myself out. I took the train home.”
“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Beck asked. “You took a hell of a beating. What if something happens, like you start bleeding from your brain or something?”
Andy shrugged, running the roller over a spot in the middle of the wall.
“I feel fine, Beck. I’d rather be here, anyway. I couldn’t handle sitting around there doing nothing. I tried calling Sam, but she wouldn’t answer her cell. I think she’s pissed at me or something. I’ve got no idea why.”
Beck glanced sideways at Andy, adjusting his grip on the brush.
“You sure about that?” he said from the corner of his mouth.
“What do you mean?” Andy asked, stopping in mid-roll.
“Well, I’m no expert, dude, but I think she’s sweet on you. You only have to see how she looks at you.”
Andy’s breath caught in his throat. He blinked at Beck.
“I ... never ... picked up anything from her.”
Beck chuckled and flicked his brush at Andy, hitting him with splatters of paint.
“That’s because you’re a douche bag,” he said. “It’s the worst-kept secret in the world. Since you began cleaning up your shit, she’s definitely been taking more of an interest in you.”
“But why would she be so angry, then?” Andy asked, more of himself than Beck.
“Maybe it’s because you started talking about this chick Sonya in the hospital. It raised those little green hackles on the back of her neck, I guess.”
Andy flinched at the mention of Sonya’s name.
“Wait ... she told you?”
Beck nodded simply.
“She was bitching about it in the bar yesterday afternoon, making herself heard just a little too much, in my opinion. She reckons you were saying some weird shit. Talking about spirits and past lives. I told her it must’ve been the painkillers.”
Andy slowly continued painting. For several minutes he was very quiet.
“You wanna talk about it?” Beck finally asked. “I’ve never heard you mention this Sonya chick before. Who is she?”
Andy shook his head and kept on painting.
“She’s nobody,” he scowled. “A figment of my imagination.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
Sensing Andy’s discomfort, Beck was prudent enough not to pursue the conversation any further.
“Well... I think this is a great job, man, Maybe too good a job. Hector may choose to jack up our rent once he sees this.”
“It wasn’t your mess,” Andy said, inwardly glad for the change of subject. “It was mine - all mine.”
“Your mess?” Beck said. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for this.”
Andy laughed bitterly.
“Seriously,” Beck continued, more forcefully. “You should stop punishing yourself. Look - you wanted to get out of that shit with Vasq. He’ll get bored with you, eventually, and move on.”
Beck noted a wry smile crease Andy’s lips.
“What is it?” Beck asked.
“Oh, I’m sure Vasq will be moved on. Very soon.”
Andy gestured with a nod to the wall beside the door. Beck turned around and saw, pinned to the door frame, a small business card.
“DETECTIVE M. SORENSEN - NARCOTICS.”
The phone number below it had been circled in red pen.
Beck grinned at Andy.
“You made the call?”
Andy nodded.
“Seems I have a friend amongst the police after all. I took care of it. All of it.”
***
Two squad cars flanking an unmarked van pulled up quietly outside a ruddy clapboard house, catching the attention of an overweight Hispanic youth who sat on the porch playing a Nintendo.
Instantly he sprang to his feet, feeling for the small bulk strapped down low on his left ankle as several uniformed officers emptied from the squad cars on the street. He panicked and scrambled towards the front door.
“Stop right where you are!” shouted one of the detectives as he sprinted onto the lawn, weapon drawn.
The young henchman burst into the kitchen of the house where Emilio Vasq and members of the posse were sitting around a table. Numerous weapons lay on the table top, among beer bottles and ashtrays as well as clear plastic bags containing newly manufactured pills.
Vasq saw his lackey standing in the doorway with an expression of pure, paralyzing fear.
“We’re fucked!”
Before any of them realized what was happening, the house was overrun by police brandishing their weapons menacingly. The stupefied Vasq and his counterparts at the table were caught completely off guard. They had nowhere to go. Within a few minutes, more vehicles had arrived out front. Emilio Vasq was led from the house in handcuffs. He wore a bitter, defiant grin as a gray-suited detective shoved his head down and pushed him into the police car.
A growing audience of neighbors had gathered in the quiet suburban street as, one by one, other members of the gang were frog-marched from the house and bundled into waiting vans.
***
At the disused Warehouse in the industrial precinct, a trio of police vans burst through a roller door and screamed into the center of the building, followed by a squad of heavily armed and uniformed tactical response officers.
A group of people sat in the lounge area. One of them, a slick businessman, stood up. He looked with contempt at the police officer who approached him.
“What is going on here?” he demanded.
“You’re Victor Varnado?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re under arrest, sir,” the officer replied as he holstered his weapon and slapped a pair of handcuffs on the businessman. He was the owner of the property upon which the Warehouse stood. He was also Vasq’s financial backer, the man behind the trance parties.
“On what grounds?” Varnado protested, glancing from the police officers to the group he was with - one of whom was Cassie. She got up from the couch where she had been canoodling with a young man dressed in expensive-looking street wear.
The police officer didn’t answer. A second officer began reciting his rights. As quickly as Emilio Vasq had been spirited away, Varnado and his associates were cuffed and put into the police vans.
The officers only briefly considered Cassie and her partner. They did not arrest either, but turned and left without another word. Soon, the Warehouse was empty, except for the stunned couple who sat in the lounge area.
Cassie watched them go, and a feeling of dread slowly filled her.