8

‘PRELIMINARY POST-MORTEM examination indicates that the deceased suffered trauma to the left frontal lobe, due to the entry of an eighty-five-millimetre projectile, which penetrated the anterior fossa, where it became lodged in tissue.’

‘In English?’ Mrs Phelan demanded, leaning with both hands on her walking stick.

‘A nail in the head.’ The man held a thumb and finger wide apart. ‘This big.’

I felt cold and looked away. My gaze roamed the bland room, beige carpet, cold blue walls. A place soaked in shock and grief. Beside the man was a woman in a dark-coloured pants suit, hair in a bun, a clipboard holding a wad of papers under her arm. Now she stepped forward. ‘The prisoner had been using a nail gun, one that can fire nails that long,’ she said.

Mrs Phelan glared at her.

‘Brain trauma is the cause of death,’ said the woman. She lifted the clipboard and began checking the documents. ‘But the inquest will explore the events leading up to Joe’s death. Was the custodial environment, in regard to his ability to freely access the nail gun, up to departmental standards? Was there adequate supervision in that area of the prison on the afternoon of the deceased’s death?’ She let the papers fan back into place on the clipboard and looked up at us. ‘And finally, was the response to the deceased’s death in line with requirements?’

I glanced at Mrs Phelan. Her small body trembled with fury.

‘Suicide. Is that it?’ she said. ‘I’ll never believe that.’

The woman shook her head. ‘It’s too early to say, but preliminary enquiries would suggest that death was the result of improper use of equipment. The department had purchased the nail gun twelve months earlier,’ she continued, glancing again at the papers. ‘The nail gun was specifically for use with timber-to-timber fixing or materials of similar or lesser density,’ she read. Now she gave Mrs Phelan a look of deep regret. ‘Joe was working with steel at the time of the incident.’

‘Who are you, again?’ I asked.

‘Dileshwar,’ the man said. ‘Forensic pathologist.’

‘No, I mean her.’ I pointed to the woman.

A long silence followed. The woman tucked a stray hair back in its bun. ‘As an indication of how seriously the department takes this investigation, I have been appointed to assist and report directly to —’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Mrs Phelan said. ‘No one cares about your career ambitions.’ She looked at Dileshwar. ‘Any cameras in there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No viable footage of the incident exists,’ the woman said.

Mrs Phelan sniffed. ‘Course not.’

‘We have the contractor’s report,’ the woman said, and she again read aloud from one of the papers. ‘An employee of BS12 observed Joe alone in Athol Goldwater Prison Shed 6 or AGP Shed 6 working on a sheet of metal balanced across two trestle supports, using the nail gun. She asked Joe if everything was alright. He said it was. She then left him. On her return, Joe was observed lying on the floor. The officer rushed in, prepared to perform CPR, thinking that the prisoner had perhaps suffered a heart attack. The officer found the deceased with a length of nail protruding from the side of the head. Emergency services were called immediately, and the prison was put on lock down.’

‘So you’re saying Joe was like this,’ I mimed firing a nail gun down onto an invisible table, ‘and the nail ricocheted off the metal,’ I traced the trajectory with a finger in the air, ‘travelled in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, and hit him here?’ I touched my temple.

‘He was probably leaning over the table.’ The woman bent at the waist and turned her face so her nose pointed to the wall and her ear was directed at the floor. With her painted fingernail, she traced the nail’s path so it ricocheted off the invisible table and went directly into her head. She straightened up. ‘Rest assured the nail gun has been removed, the shed is closed, and full review of relevant safety equipment is underway.’

‘What equipment?’ I said.

‘Safety glasses will be made available for all prisoners.’

‘Glasses?’ I tapped to my temple.

‘Full face helmets, in fact,’ she said.

Mrs Phelan and I exchanged a glance. She’d had enough of this poppycock, and so had I — except for one last question. ‘Which BS12 officer spoke to Joe before the incident?’

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t have that information.’

Mrs Phelan and I walked past the grey gallery building towards St Kilda Road as the skies opened. She sped up, working her stick like a cross-country skier, so I had to trot to keep up. The rain intensified. I unclipped the umbrella strap, hit the trigger, and it shot open.

‘You get it now, don’t you? It wasn’t no accident. A classic hit more like it.’

She had a point, but I gave her a weak, non-committal shrug. I didn’t want to hear about ‘classic’ hits. It reminded me that I was a hostage to her and that gangster Brash.

‘Percy’s a colourful character,’ I said holding the umbrella over her.

She waved it away. ‘Colourful’s one of them euphemisms.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘All I know is, he’s loyal. I trust him.’

Loyal to whom?, I thought. She answered as if I’d said it out loud. ‘It’s money, Joe, and then me — in that order.’

Money first. At least she understood that. And I understood that, despite what he’d said, he’d come for my money before too long.

‘Like him?’ she asked.

‘Not really. You didn’t need to get him involved.’

She laughed and patted my shoulder.

The rain came all the harder, tepid and dirty. We rounded the corner and marched towards the city. Cars drove too fast, showering passers-by. Under the shelter of a tram stop, I collapsed my umbrella. A tram rolled up, spraying brown muck over our feet.

‘You right to get home by yourself?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Not a bloody invalid.’

‘Okay, well, soon as I get something, I’ll give you a call.’

She winced, irritated. ‘No. Percy will get in touch with you.’

She climbed up and waved her stick at me as the tram moved off. I walked over the icky Yarra River, around the corner at Flinders Street Station, and down to Elizabeth Street to catch my own tram.

For the sake of my longevity, I needed something useful to tell when Brash called. At least today’s excursion had given me something to work with: sheet metalwork in Shed 6, a chat with a BS12 employee, then, unsupervised, no cameras, a nail gun to the head. A classic hit was putting it mildly. A loud metallic clack startled me as the Ascot Vale tram switched tracks, trundled slowly forward, and halted at its city terminus. Best I check out Shed 6 for myself.

Loretta was watching TV when I returned, with Nigel sitting on the sofa beside her. She was absent-mindedly pulling out clumps of his summer fur and letting them fall to the floor. I dropped my handbag on the kitchen table, disturbing a pile of moulted dog hair. Drifts of fuzz covered every centimetre of floor space in the flat.

‘Winter coat coming on.’

‘What?’ she said, staring at some reality television home-improvement dross.

‘Mind sweeping up his fluff for me?’

‘What fluff?’

I sighed. ‘What do you feel like for dinner?’

‘Anything.’

‘Okay, great. What about fish and chips?’

‘It gives me gas.’

‘What about Thai?’

‘Sure, if you like it. I won’t have much, it’s too spicy.’

‘Chinese?’

‘No.’

‘Pizza again?’

‘Sure, anything. I’m easy.’

Half an hour later, two cheese pizzas appeared, and in a matter of minutes, disappeared. Loretta was eating for two. And I … I liked eating. Besides, pizza-cheese was an essential part of every diet. I dashed downstairs with the boxes and some empty wine bottles to the communal recycle bin at the back of the flats. By the time I was back, I’d made up my mind to confront Loretta about the past and her whereabouts.

‘What church were you sleeping in again?’

‘Um. I forget.’ She was smooth, I’d give her that.

‘Who was that old man I saw you talking to yesterday?’

‘Me grandad,’ she said without hesitation.

‘Does he know you slept in a church?’

‘Oh no. It would upset him.’

I bet. ‘Does he live around here?’

‘He hates town. Only come down to see me, make sure I’m alright.’

‘Next time your grandfather is in town, I’d like to meet him.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve done so much, having me here, giving up your bed. I couldn’t ask you to have Grandad as well.’ After an exaggerated yawn, she went off to bed. I set my alarm and stretched out on the sofa. Nigel walked in a circle on his bed, settled down, and started to snore.

Loretta and Nigel were testing my family obligations to the limit. I thought about Meredith Phelan. How her mother was a borderline sociopath who loved Percy Brash, and how he intimidated people for her. And how Merri seemed like such a different person to her mother, yet still supported her. She was pretty excellent really. And I started to wonder if maybe I could do better. I would endure Loretta and Nigel. And Ben. And I’d be more tolerant of Kylie. And my mother, Delia. And her church-going, real-estate-selling, nob of a husband, Ted.

Maybe not Ted.

And maybe not Kylie, either.