Chapter 7

MANOLIS CHECKED HIS phone; it had reception again, albeit a single bar. Who could he call, who should he call? His wife? His mum? Paul Bloody Porter…?

At that moment, the thought of more conversation tired him. What few close friends he once had had drifted, left the high-rises, been absorbed into a new world of their own families and children and sprawling suburban life. Manolis had hoped to join them, out there amid the glorious madness of overgrown backyards, broken lawnmowers and sticky play equipment. Instead, he now felt more like a bachelor than ever before.

He re-pocketed the phone. Reaching into his other pocket, he extracted a stout pouch of rich tobacco and delicate envelope of wafer-thin papers.

Taking his time, savouring the ritual, he prepared his nightly cigarette. He arranged the golden tobacco meticulously, rolled the paper methodically. He was trying to cut down and ultimately give up. It was a habit inherited from his father, who had smoked for decades until his lungs and liver turned into ash and soot. Manolis inhaled deeply, felt the coolness crawl through his veins. Silver smoke rose and climbed over his shoulder, a distinct nebula forming above his head.

‘Signomi, Baba. Mono ena.’

Con had been a heavy smoker since his teens, and a major carnivore throughout adulthood. He developed diabetes in his fifties and needed a bypass in his sixties. Manolis thought about that a lot – it had turned him into a vegetarian and often made him extinguish his cigarette early, as he did this evening in a deep Soreno glass ashtray. Con had always hated that his son smoked, which forced Manolis to hide his cigarettes. He still felt a twinge of guilt every time he lit up, and now needed to ask his father for forgiveness.

Manolis fetched his Val and parked it beside the sheriff’s office, where a marshal might have otherwise tied his trusty horse. He checked the cupboards, failed to locate olive oil, found only instant coffee, and sighed lightly. As he stood under the shower for nearly twenty minutes, the cold water tore away his layers of dry sweat and dead skin, and returned his body to life. The bedsheets smelt like bleach and were as rough and hot as burlap. He flung the top sheet onto the linoleum floor and opened all the windows and doors. The overhead fan spun so fast it stood still.

Sleep came effortlessly, against the backdrop of chirruping cicadas. Having pondered his own issues over a cigarette, Manolis often liked to think about a case in the haunted moments before sleep; he did so in the hope that something might come to him on either side of consciousness that cracked an investigation wide open. He claimed to have once solved a homicide after taking an afternoon nap and dreaming the location of the key piece of evidence. On other occasions, he’d dreamt the faces of perpetrators and where bodies were buried. It wasn’t some divine gift – it was just the spillover from a dedicated mind. Ruminating on a case also had the recent bonus of preventing Manolis from thinking about his wife. He especially missed her warmth beside him in bed. As his head found shape in a flat pillow leaking feathers, he tried to picture Molly’s face being pummelled with stones, but in the end only saw black. The investigation was still too new, and his weariness too great.

A LOUD CLATTER woke Manolis after an indeterminate period of time. It interrupted his dream, recurring, of an antiseptic hospital ward, and his dying father. He sat bolt upright in bed, sticky-mouthed, in a damp pool of his own sweat, listening.

Was the commotion inside or outside?

More banging, noisy and metallic, too close for comfort, the main room. His breath was quick and shallow. He reached instinctively for the gun under his mattress and stepped forward into the darkness, barrel first. While he scanned the room with tired eyes, sweeping with his revolver, the dark space was still unfamiliar, a collection of vague black outlines. His movements were calculated, careful and, most importantly, silent, honed over years of training and experience apprehending and eradicating the dregs of society.

Another crash, this time to his right. The tiny front room, murky and claustrophobic, suddenly felt the size of a galaxy, peeling off into the distance. Manolis heard the dull thump of blood in his ears. Steadying his breathing, he stretched out his left arm, feeling the fake wood on the wall, fumbling. The light switch was there, somewhere. It slipped through his sweaty fingers twice before he finally got a grip and flicked it down. He held his breath at the same time, acutely aware that this was the very moment when he was the most likely to discharge his weapon.

The room’s gaudy green and brown interior came alive in the sickly white fluorescent light. Manolis’s retinas worked hard to readjust. The culprit was less startled, blessed with extraordinary night vision. It was a brushtail possum, taking inventory in the cupboards, reorganising pots and crockery to its liking. The marsupial yawned, appearing unperturbed by the gun barrel pointed squarely at its plump little body.

Manolis lowered his weapon and his eyelids. He shambled over to the animal, who was now examining him distrustfully with its black saucer eyes.

‘Hey, little fella. You’re hungry, and are probably wondering what this stranger is doing in your pantry. Sorry about that, I had no choice. Here…’

Manolis tore open a packet of saltines, cracked a few into bitesized pieces on the countertop and stood back. The possum sniffed the air intently before scampering forward and commencing the dry feast, flaunting a short-haired tail with a white tip and flickering its whiskers. The possum’s demeanour of cheeky cuteness left Manolis fascinated and delighted. A city high-rise did not offer such pleasant surprises.

‘I probably shouldn’t do this cos you’ll only be back for more. But a midnight snack is one of life’s great pleasures.’

The possum ignored his host and kept munching on the jagged white square in its claw.

‘Wanna be mates? Just don’t trash the joint and we’ll be sweet.’

With no more crackers to eat, the possum turned its attention to Manolis’s revolver, which he’d absently left on the counter. Its sharp claws were surprisingly nimble across the grip, flirting with the trigger. With a swift clap of his hands, Manolis put an end to the possum’s inquisitiveness and reclaimed the weapon. The marsupial sniffed the air a final time and ran out the nearest window. Manolis sighed, switched off the light and lay back in bed.

A second disturbance, much louder than the first, woke him some time later. It was in the near distance – a series of loud bangs. Out of habit, his instant thought was of an illicit drug lab exploding. There was one every week in the city, usually methamphetamines, often a single big explosion that shook the immediate area, not several that echoed into the night. These bangs sounded more like kids letting off fireworks, or a car backfiring.

Manolis sat silent for a moment, listening, in case there were any more. There weren’t. He exhaled, lay back into his pillow and rolled over.

The third disruption was more like the first: closer to home. Manolis’s initial reaction was to wipe the dry drool from the side of his mouth and regret not closing the window. Bloody housemate, he thought. Raiding the cupboard again.

Then he heard it. Not just a bang. An explosion.

The bed shook.

And the unmistakable smell of smoke filled the air.