15

‘AND THAT’S finance.’

I aimed the remote at the TV and killed the Monday night news before it concluded. Sport was not essential, and the weather was no mystery. Any nong with a window knew it was nice out. Why stay for the finance? Because I’d been trying to educate myself on commodities and dollar fluctuations. I was in possession of a small fortune and was in want of a plan. Nibbles of miscellaneous expenditure had reduced the fund marginally, but there was still roughly four hundred thousand dollars in storage, and I needed to be sensible with it.

Loretta sat in her usual spot on the couch with Nigel, scrolling on her phone with earbuds in. She was valiantly tolerating my TV preferences and had even promised to try a vegetable. With the caveat that she could make herself cheese on toast if she determined my cooking inedible.

Earlier, at work, I’d been speaking to my colleague Shaninder. She’d asked after my sister-in-law, as Loretta had called herself when arriving at WORMS. I’d said, ‘Who knows?’

At that, Shaninder had frowned. There were not many people whose good opinion I sought. Much of the time, I had no hoots to give. But this hardworking mother of three had a moral authority found elsewhere only in Toni Morrison and the Dalai Lama. Chastened, I’d said, ‘I’ve given her my bed, I ask how she is, she says she’s fine. I have no reason to —’

‘What about the scans?’

‘Scans?’

‘Ultrasound, Stella. How is that baby developing?’

I thought of Loretta as an extension of Ben, and therefore, as a pain in the arse. But she was a vulnerable young woman, and there were potential risks around pregnancy that I had failed to consider. I was ignorant of the routine health checks. Scans were routine, apparently.

While I was cooking, I gestured to Loretta to take out the earbuds. When she complied, I started chopping and casually said, ‘Had any scans?’

‘Of this?’ she pointed to her belly.

‘The baby, yes.’

‘Nah, it’s all good.’ To my sceptical look she added, ‘I can just tell.’

‘Do you have a doctor?’

‘Nah, don’t need one.’

The girl had been homeless, her worldly possessions amounted to a shopping trolley. ‘Do you have a Medicare card?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s about you and your baby and giving birth, and both of you being around afterwards.’

A little dramatic, sure. But it worked.

‘How do I get one?’

I didn’t know, but I assumed it required several types of ID, something she might not have. On my laptop, we slogged our way through government websites trying to figure out how to replace a lost Medicare card and succeeded in getting the system to identify Loretta. This alone was a triumph. She was indeed Loretta Patsy Dolly Swindon. Twenty years of age. Australian citizen. And therefore entitled to benefits of our universal health care system.

I made rice in the microwave and set the table. When the curry was simmering on the stove, I went to shower and change. With my bedroom to myself at last I reverted to habit: uncomfortable work clothes were put away on the floordrobe. The benefits of the floordrobe were many. You could see at a glance what was there, what was creased, what was covered in sour cream from a losing battle with an aggressive serving of nachos. I reclaimed a skirt and t-shirt and brushed my hair, my damned incriminating hair. I should shave it all off, Phuong would never find a match then.

I put the TV on again, ready to flick around to something more to Loretta’s taste — World’s Greatest Farts or something. The ABC had an in-depth special on the upcoming state election. Pugh faced a plethora of microphones and repeated his ‘do the crime, do the time’ law-and-order line. A journalist in front of state parliament said, somewhat wearily, that both sides were saying the other side’s promises weren’t costed. I would have turned it off, but the next piece started with a graphic of prison bars. I stayed tuned.

A journalist walked through a stark prison common room. ‘This is Victoria’s newest prison. Soon, Grainger Prison will be home to a thousand inmates. For the medium-security jail’s official opening, the Minister for Justice went behind prison walls.’

Cut to Pugh inside a cell. ‘This is a very exciting moment for Victorians. From now on, the prison system in this state will be managed more effectively.’

Journalist voiceover: ‘Inmates will be housed in single cells or multi-bed dormitories. Remand prisoners will be segregated from those serving sentences, and the building features new technology designed to prevent any costly prison riots.’

Pugh: ‘We have a state-of-the-art biometric system, pioneered by BS12, so prisoners can’t move around the facility unless authorised to do so. This is part of our expanded partnership with BS12.’

Journalist to camera: ‘In a first for this state, the consortium running the prison could be paid millions of dollars in bonuses if the recidivism rate for released prisoners is fifteen per cent lower than the current rate in other jails. But prisoner advocacy groups have warned that, even with this new facility, the state’s prisons will be at capacity in a matter of a few years.’

Cut to Meredith Phelan: ‘This new prison will be as over-crowded as many others in this state. The government can relieve the pressure of over-crowding today by removing children from jail. The justice system is failing our children. We call for the immediate release from custody of children on drug-related offences. They need support and rehabilitation.’

Pugh: ‘We are aware of the capacity constraints, and this government has already commissioned a report on the matter. Everything is on the table, including home-detention bracelets. And we intend to fully implement the recommendations.’

Journalist: ‘Whoever wins the election, prisoners will be in Grainger Prison by the end of the year.’

Brophy arrived with a kiss, a bottle of wine, and a box of cannoli from Footscray. He looked wild, like a nineties feral, gaunt and unshaven.

‘Not feeling any better?’

‘Tired. Working nights. I’m fine.’

That didn’t ring true. Nights for a night owl like Brophy were his best hours. The productive sweet spot between midnight and dawn, when the world was silent-ish. Hours that were uninterruptable, with clear space to follow through on an idea. Maybe his work at the market was more physically demanding than I’d realised. I let it go.

Brophy, Loretta, and I ate at my kitchen table, like a functional family. Unfortunately, I’d misread the recipe. There was too much chilli, and the curry was off the end of the Scoville scale. We piled on the yoghurt to take the heat down, but it was pretty much inedible. Brophy made appreciative noises. Loretta ate the rice, scoffed the cannoli, and went to bed.

Brophy and I did the dishes and binged on Scandinavian murder, until midnight when he got ready to go to work. He sniffed and honked into a disgusting handkerchief.

‘Call in sick,’ I said holding him around his skinny waist.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t afford to.’

Again, I had an impression that he was not being completely straight with me. Where was his money going? He seemed as broke as ever. I hated to doubt him. I’d been wrong about him before, suspected his fidelity, and it didn’t feel very good. This was the lovely, loyal Brophy — a man who loved me and took care of his daughter and lived for his art. There wasn’t much else to it. He wasn’t a showy type who blew money. It was probably mounting up in a secret account for a rainy day.

I pushed the doubts away and returned to the recording of Marcus Pugh. It was an anecdote of failure. Only Pugh could make failure sound like a brag. Code words and all.

Don’t worry, love. I’ll talk to Al. Name-dropping and crowing about influence.

… Sky was getting antsy. A koan to cause a Zen master’s head to explode.

Brash hadn’t texted me today, but he didn’t need to any more. As I went to bed, I mentally ticked off another day without getting any closer to finding who had killed Joe Phelan.