3

I ENTERED Buffy’s — an establishment named in honour of the awe-inspiring vampire slayer — for my daily caffeination and found the proprietor, Lucas, fellow nerd and zombie enthusiast, in a trance.

‘What’s this?’

‘A new brewing technique.’ The lovable nerd leaned over a funnel attached to a hose connected to a contraption that looked like a child’s chemistry set. ‘The cold-to-hot-to-warm method. Delivers a more robust flavour.’

‘Your flavours are quite robust enough. Give me your conventional swill or give me nothing.’

He blinked. ‘What?’

‘The usual, please. And the paper.’ I handed over my reusable insulated coffee sustain-a-mug that Marigold made me use. At twelve, that child had a more clear-eyed awareness of the planet’s mortality than the average citizen.

Cup in hand, I paid and left, looking forward to the peaceful ritual of reading the paper on the tram.

But the tram was late, and it was packed, and spreading out news-sheet was impossible. I stood, holding a strap, my nose in proximity to an underarm. Thus cocooned, I was left to my thoughts. One thought being that whenever this Loretta made contact, I’d need to lay the ground rules for Hardy farm behaviour. Never ask for help, never appear weak, never show sentiment or feelings of any kind. Never leave towels on the floor. A two-minute shower was permitted, but frowned on, three minutes was seriously indulgent, four was grounds for banishment. Always have your own money (never put your hand out unless you want a smack). Always, always offer to do the dishes (but never offer to cook). And, for harmony’s sake, I’d recommend she refer to herself as Ben’s fiancée around Delia and Ted. If she followed those rules, she might last a couple of days.

I made it to the office half an hour late, which was about my normal amount of lateness for a typical work day at WORMS, the Western and Outer Region Migrant Service. I logged on and checked my email. I was minding my own business, doing actual work, and despite everything, I was starting to feel pretty good. The whole office was on the up, lately. Our new boss, Fatima, was a boss. She had the energy of a kelpie, the business acumen of Bill Gates, and the political chops of P.J. Keating. In short, I was a little in awe of her. Under her stewardship, we’d gained more funding, employed new people, and lifted our productivity. That meant more migrants were getting the services they were entitled to, and our minnow of an agency was kicking bottoms and taking names. We had a place at important tables. We mattered. The ALP had approached Fatima for a sweet seat in the federal senate. She had declined. See? Totally awesome.

Around mid-morning, every WORMS staff member migrated to the foyer. I followed to see what the fuss was. Shaninder, a fellow long-suffering colleague, had brought in child number three, a fat cherub with a gurgle that made my ovaries tingle. We passed the infant around, had a selfie, and were then ordered back to work by Fatima. She said this with a smile, while holding the baby.

‘Except you, Stella. See me in my office.’

I went through the usual negative possibilities: I was getting the sack, getting retrenched, getting more work. Or the happy possibilities: I was getting a raise, getting an award for services to the community, getting an assistant.

‘Stella,’ Fatima began, ‘I’m right in saying that WORMS has partnered with the justice department to work on a number of projects in the past?’

I sat up straight. ‘Yes,’ I said, with conviction.

‘I assume that went well.’

Well was too strong a word. But I felt an urge to impress her and to come across as competent. ‘It was great, incredibly great.’

‘Good. Because the department has expressed an interest in working with our agency again.’

I stared at her.

‘On a new project,’ she continued.

I said nothing, kept my face blank, waiting.

‘We’ve been asked to nominate a person to join a prison inspection group. The delegation will inspect all the private prisons.’ She smiled. ‘You’re going to be our nominee.’

I returned her smile, but mine was fake. ‘Great.’

‘We’re lucky to partner with the department on this one.’

‘Lucky. Yep.’

‘There are opportunities to lobby, and to influence policy around support for non-English speaking people.’

‘Lobby how?’

‘You’ll be working closely with the minister’s office.’

I groaned and slid off my chair to the floor. Marcus Pugh, Minister for Justice. I was sick to the back arse of Pugh, with his conscience-free will to power and his ideological shifts to advantage. ‘When they do it, it’s bad. When we do it, it’s necessary.Politically expedient was the new principled.

‘Stella?’

‘Yes?’ I started to roll around on the floor.

‘You okay?’

‘Back exercises.’

‘Oh, right.’ Fatima hesitated, no doubt wondering if I was in my right mind. She continued, ‘I’ll send the details through. Let me know if you have any questions.’

I staggered to my feet and smoothed down my clothes. ‘No worries, Fatima. I’m on it.’

‘He asked for you, personally,’ she said.

‘Me. Personally. That is … so great.’

Back at my desk, I received an email from Fatima saying that she’d just heard from Pugh, who wanted an informal meeting ASAP. I was ready to let forth a stream of expletives. Then it occurred to me that Pugh might authorise a visit to the Sir Athol Goldwater Prison this week on urgent justice department business. I could take the papers to Ben, then, rather than on the way to Woolburn. That would save me a detour and a lot of time. I replied to Fatima with enthusiasm, and I sent an email to Pugh’s office suggesting a time tomorrow. They replied with a place, and we were on. I added the appointment into my computer calendar. What a morning. I was killing it. Time for coffee.

I was on my way to the staff room, when I tripped over a walking stick that seemed to be placed deliberately in my way. I turned and clocked an old woman sitting on one of the visitors’ waiting chairs in the general area. She was wearing a big brown duffle coat, never mind that it was thirty degrees outside. Her grey hair was held back with a clip, and her brown eyes were fixed on me. A stare that could bore a hole right through you. Where had I seen her before?

‘You Stella Hardy?’

I almost denied it.

‘I’ve been waiting for ages for you, so sit down and listen up.’

I remained standing, my face tensed into that smile I used for insolent shop assistants. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Phelan’s my name. I saw you at the Athol Goldwater.’

Oh. Joe Phelan’s mother. I sat. ‘I’m so sorry about Joe.’

‘Thank you.’ She fiddled with a wooden toggle on the coat. ‘My Meredith was with me. She recognised you.’

Meredith Phelan. Now I had the name, I remembered speaking to her at work functions. She was tough and plain-spoken. I liked her.

‘How is Meredith?’

‘Alright, under the circumstances. She works for some outfit that tries to keep youths out of trouble. Ironic, don’t you reckon? One of me kids was in jail, and the other was trying to keep kids out of there.’

Irony was in there somewhere, I agreed, though of a deeply tragic kind. She looked at me with a softer gaze. Silence followed. I waited, hoping she’d get to the point.

‘Meredith told me you help people. She said that, in the past, a couple of times now, you’ve gone outside the bounds of your work and really looked into, er, things. And you’d got results.’

I had. It was true. But I’d hoped no one had noticed. I looked around — everyone else was in their cubicles typing and murmuring. Mrs Phelan was the only person in the waiting area. ‘And you want me to do what exactly?’

‘They say Joe’s death was an accident, but it weren’t. I want some answers.’

‘What does Meredith say?’

She screwed up her face. ‘She won’t help. She reckons I have to let them get on with the inquiry.’

‘She’s right.’

‘No. Look, you’ve got a brother inside, you know how these things go. And you’re on that prison delegation.’

‘How did you—?’

‘Meredith heard. She’s been trying to get someone on the delegation herself. She said you’re alright. And with your brother inside, and the prison delegation, you’ve got a bit of pull with the powers that be.’

‘Um. That’s not right, I’m afraid. I have zero pull.’

‘I thought you’d say that. I was gonna keep at you. Keep ringing and coming in. But the thing is, I haven’t got all day, so save us both the bother and just bloody help me out.’ She leaned back in her chair, looking frustrated. ‘People like me are never believed.’

People like her: code for the poor. I suppressed a sigh. Grief needs someone to blame. But I’d also seen for myself that the prison was dysfunctional, probably negligent. ‘Mrs Phelan, why are you so sure it wasn’t an accident? What do you think happened to Joe?’

She shrugged. ‘Mate of Joe’s, he knows.’

I gave her a look. ‘Save us both the bother.’

She grunted out a tight laugh and gave a grudging nod. ‘They’re old friends and loyal. Did time together. And this bloke reckons Joe told him … things.’

‘What things?’

‘Told him his life was in danger.’

‘Mrs Phelan, that just sounds like a conspiracy theory.’

‘Not if Percy Brash is saying it. Percy knows plenty. If he says there’s more going on, I believe him. He’s always been good to me, Percy has. Came over soon as he heard.’

A rumour monger. Probably planning to rob her. ‘Any time someone dies in custody, there’s a full inquiry,’ I said.

She glanced around the room, eyes fierce, as if looking for support. ‘The inquiry’ll just tell us whatever they want us to think. A damn cover up.’ She sucked on her bottom lip, fighting tears. A knot in my chest hardened. ‘What if it was your brother? Would you believe he died in a stupid accident?’

I frowned. Best I didn’t answer that.

‘All I’m asking is for you to get back in Athol Goldwater and talk to the other prisoners.’

‘Whatever they tell me will be scuttlebutt, with no basis in fact.’

‘That’s a start, then,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘And I reckon Percy’ll probably want a word with you, himself. He’s good at convincing people.’

The threat was not very subtle. The nerve of her!

‘I’ll leave you to think it over.’ She slapped me on the shoulder in a power move that galled me. I curbed the urge to shove her hand away.

‘Sorry about Joe,’ I said, and I meant it.

‘Joseph was no angel. Me own fault, I suppose. I know what he was, but he didn’t deserve to die like that, bumped off in prison.’

I thought about Brophy and how he’d raised his daughter, Marigold. She was a bit messed up. And what kind of future awaited the child of Ben and Loretta? Being a parent was a heck of a business.

‘Was he a good boy when he was a kid? Just got in with the wrong crowd?’

She shook her head. ‘He was the wrong crowd.’

She turned and used her stick to shuffle out of the building. I watched her go, wondering what on earth had just happened. I had been intimidated by an old-age pensioner and somehow press-ganged into her service. And, it appeared, I was going to be paid an unwelcome ‘visit’ by one of her son’s criminal friends. Many feelings overwhelmed me as I returned to my desk: impotent fury, defeat, a dash of resignation.