2

IT WAS late when I arrived at the modest apartment building that was my home. Pine View was a sixties block of one-bedroom flats with white concrete balustrades and a foyer that smelled of oily chips. I climbed the stairs to my top-floor flat. Once upstairs, I threw Kylie’s papers on the kitchen table and muttered a curse. In so doing, I had summoned the devil: Kylie’s name immediately came up on my ringing mobile.

‘Has he signed?’

‘Listen, Kylie, about that. There was an incident and the place went into lockdown.’

Breathing on the other end.

I continued. ‘I had to leave before he —’

‘Go back.’

‘It’s really a long way —’

‘Please, Stella. I need this. I never ask you for anything.’ That was true. ‘And it’s closer for you.’ That wasn’t true.

‘I had a look on the map. It’s actually about half way.’

‘I can’t leave the farm. The Dexters are just getting settled in.’ The Irish cattle breed Kylie and Tyler were gambling their future on. ‘Anyway, he gets on better with you. Try again this week.’

‘I have work.’

‘Thanks, you’re a sweetheart. Bye.’

I dropped the phone on the couch. The situation called for serious self-care. I went into the bedroom, dragged an old suitcase out from under my bed, and flipped the latches. There, in neatly stacked thousand-dollar bundles, was my stash.

The money had been hidden under the floorboards of a house used by bikies for growing cannabis. It was the profit of their evil trade in drugs, human trafficking, and whatever else they turned their hands to. My pulse raced at the memory of sneaking it out of the house. And that hadn’t even been the first time I’d helped myself to the hard cash of hardened criminals.

Several years before, I’d stolen money from the flat of two junkies. They were my clients, living in a high-rise housing commission flat, and had called me late one night in a state of panic. When I got there, they were both dead. Near their bodies were bundles of cash in plastic shopping bags. Call it a brain snap — I don’t know how else to explain it — but I’d taken the bags, containing a total of fifty thousand dollars. It was a stupid thing to do, and for years afterwards I’d lived in terror of being found out. After that incident I’d said to myself, never again.

Then I did it again. Only the second time, I took much, much more. My suitcase currently contained over four hundred thousand dollars.

In my heart, I knew it was tarnished. Not the money, my soul. My precious immortal soul. I’d intended to give the money to my sister to help her stupid plan to buy the farm. But Ted had come up with his tax minimisation scheme, and she hadn’t needed it.

What was I supposed do with all this cash? Put it back? Hardly.

In the course of my community work, and my sideline in … let’s call it problem-solving, I’d been threatened, assaulted, abducted, and almost killed. The money, to my mind, was a form of righteous compensation.

I called it the fund, and it lived under my bed. Not exactly secure, but apart from Brophy no one came in here, so it was safe enough. From time to time, I’d sneak out a couple of hundred bucks for the occasional treat. Until a better idea came along, an impoverished artist like my beloved Brophy and a low-wage community worker like me could occasionally splurge on an extravagance.

Tonight’s treat would be a couple of bottles of wine and far too much Indian takeaway.

I showered and changed. I needed to be fresh, and cleansed of prison dirt, real and psychological. I went to the Narcissistic Slacker — Brophy’s studio, art gallery, and domicile above a shop in Footscray — to give him the bad news about the weekend.

He must have heard me on the landing. The industrial metal door to the studio was sliding open before I reached the top step. He seemed worn out and a little thin.

‘Are you alright?’

He coughed, standing aside to usher me in. ‘Just a cold. How was the trip to the agrarian slammer?’

‘Bad. For several reasons.’

‘Hit me.’

‘For one thing,’ I said, ‘Labour Day weekend isn’t going to work out. I’m going to Woolburn. Family business.’

There was real disappointment in his sigh. ‘What’s he done now?’

He’d managed coitus in a secure correctional facility with security cameras and guards everywhere. Some in Australia would say that made him a bloody legend. They did not use protection, and now poor foolish Loretta was going to be part of the great Hardy Family Fiasco. When I got to the part about taking Loretta to stay with my mother, he was laughing. I supposed it was kind of funny. To an outsider.

Later that evening, Brophy swirled a soapy sponge over a plate and slotted it in the rack. ‘What’s the prison like?’

‘Nice enough. Places to disappear for a little outdoor recreation.’

‘That’s really upset you, hasn’t it?’

‘My idiot brother fathering a child? In so many ways, yes.’

‘You don’t know what kind of father he’d be.’

Tea towel ready, I lifted the plate. ‘Yeah, I do. The kind who leaves his kids in the car while he scores.’

He made a noise, and slotted another plate into the rack.

Criticism of parenting was a sensitive area for Brophy. I moved us back onto safer pastures. ‘And then there’s the girl, the mother, the victim — whatever — Loretta. He’s never mentioned her before, never hinted that she existed. Now I’m driving her to Woolburn.’

‘Maybe this is a good thing. For Ben, I mean.’

‘Five hours there, five back. Introduce her to my mother. In the same breath, I ask if Loretta can move in for a while.’

‘Parenthood might be good for Ben. If he’s serious about it.’

‘He’s serious about kimchi ice-cream and turmeric smoothies and stir-fried milk.’

Brophy’s cough sounded disapproving. He looked in the cupboard under the sink and withdrew a mangled old steel-wool pad.

I watched him scour a saucepan that we’d used to reheat the curry, and worried that I’d turned a loving relationship into a receptacle for all my grievances. That wasn’t optimal.

‘Personally, I blame the private contractor for letting it happen,’ I said.

He scratched at something stuck to the pan. ‘Private contractors? How is a prison a profitable business?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s a very lackadaisical operation. A prisoner died while I was there.’

He paused his scrubbing and looked at me.

‘The whole place went into lockdown. Visit over. We were all shunted out of there.’

‘How?’

‘A power-tool accident, apparently.’

Brophy’s mobile buzzed in the next room, and he went out.

It was upsetting to see him so despondent. I was desperately thinking of a way to cheer him up, when a sudden crazy idea struck me.

‘Come with me!’ I shouted. ‘We’ll have our weekend away in beautiful, romantic Woolburn.’

He returned with the still-ringing phone in his hand. ‘That is a brilliant idea.’

‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘It’s Mandy. I’ll let it go to voicemail.’ The buzzing stopped and immediately restarted.

It was none of my business, but sometimes I thought Brophy was a little immature when it came to Mandy. His ex was the mother of his daughter, but he acted as if she were a stranger. Personally, her existence didn’t bother me, and I hoped he wasn’t dismissive towards her for my benefit. But these things were never easy; it wasn’t for me to judge.

‘At last!’ he was saying with apparent delight. ‘An invitation to the mythical Woolburn. I’ll bring the easel and some paints and the —’

The phone stopped and immediately started to buzz again.

‘Must be important.’

We locked eyes. He sighed as he swiped. ‘Mandy, what’s up?’

I turned away and wiped the tea towel over the saucepan.

‘You do this every time, change things any time it suits you.’

I placed the pan in the cupboard.

‘No. Sorry. I’ve made plans.’

I wiped the sink.

‘Fine. But this is the last damn time.’

He slapped at the phone, thrust it in his pocket, and glared about him.

‘So …’

‘So, Marigold will be joining us on our romantic weekend in Woolburn.’

I was home watching the news. Why at home? Because Brophy and I had had a fight. It was mainly my fault. In my defence, the prospect of time spent at my family’s house in Woolburn always made me tense. I was overwrought and said something mean, Brophy snapped back. And here I was, home alone.

I poured myself another glass of wine and turned on the television. The familiar and flabby face of Marcus Pugh, Minister for Justice, was on the late news.

Marcus and I went back a long way and had a hate-hate relationship. Over the years, he’d cut funding to all the support agencies in his area. We in the sector called him Mucous Pukus. He sleazed his way in to photo ops, took credit for everything, and was a generally unpleasant arse.

He was shrugging off questions about a prisoner who had died while in the custody of the private prison operator, BS12.

‘No,’ Pugh wheezed, ‘in relation to the aforementioned death, liability or other blame cannot be apportioned to the contractor without a proper investigation. However, initial reports are that it was the result of a terrible accident.’

The prisoner, a journalist explained, was Joe Phelan. A beloved son and brother, he had a sad story of petty crime and juvie, ending in a prison farm on a fairly minor charge of credit card fraud. I turned off the TV and went to read in bed. I’d had quite enough of Marcus Pugh.