44.

He borrowed Georgie’s Volvo for the drive back to Melbourne, an automatic with mercifully jolt-free suspension. Tilda was reading the Guinness Book of Records beside him, turning at each red light to tell him about skateboarding dogs and land-speed records. Surprisingly easy to understand despite the bizarre subjects and his lack of hearing aids. Despite the image of Kat’s dimming smile looping through his brain.

It took a bit of doing to get himself and the crutch out of the car while convincing Tilda not to sprint ahead, but they managed it without tears. The loose front door had been fixed; a new security screen and alarm fitted, along with CCTV. None of it went with the airy glass and timber house, but it was all top-of-the-line and very obvious. That Maggie had managed to pull it all together while dazed and injured was impressive.

The ex-army guard from the hospital opened the door. Caleb relaxed: Tilda was in good hands. The man must have IDed them via the monitor, but he still scanned the garden, his open jacket giving a glimpse of his gun.

Tilda slid behind Caleb’s leg. He put an arm around her. ‘It’s OK. He’s just one of the helpers your mum told you about.’

A couple of days to make sure word had spread, and her life could return to normal. Or almost normal – she hadn’t mentioned Frankie again, but she’d have to find out sooner or later.

She clutched his hand as he followed the guard down the hallway and into the cream and grey master bedroom. A uniformed nurse was reading a magazine by the window, Maggie sitting in the pillow-plumped bed, phone within easy reach. Smaller bandages today, eyes focused, but she still had the washed-out look of someone fighting a migraine.

Tilda released Caleb’s hand and ran across the room. Onto the bed and into Maggie’s arms, shaking with sudden sobs. Maggie kissed her, stroking her hair, patting her all over, as though checking she was whole and real. Caleb stood beside the bed, still trying to work out how to ask what he wanted.

When Tilda eventually stopped crying, Maggie raised her head, gave a little start, as though she’d forgotten he was there. She’d be doing that for a long time – forgetting conversations and events, losing time. Was there someone who could care for Tilda while she recuperated? Maybe that great-aunt Frankie had mentioned.

‘Thank you,’ Maggie said. ‘I don’t understand what happened, but thank you.’

The same shock at the familiar rhythms of her speech. Have to get over that.

‘She seems OK,’ he said. ‘The guy didn’t scare her too much.’

Rage flared in her eyes. ‘He’s definitely gone?’

‘Yes. A shotgun.’ He pushed away the memory of Fawkes’ grisly body.

Maggie nodded, but her thoughts seemed to have already moved on from the hacker, her expression faltering. ‘The police came. About Frankie. Did you tell –?’ She angled her head towards Tilda. The girl had snuggled under her arm, playing with her mother’s nightgown buttons.

‘No.’

‘They said you were there.’ Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. ‘Was she scared? Did it hurt?’

Frankie’s panicked eyes, her shock as the bullet slammed into her.

A moment before he could speak. ‘No. It was fast. Really fast.’

‘Was it money again? She owed someone?’

‘Yes.’

Maggie swiped at her eyes. ‘Stupid cow. I would’ve helped her if she’d asked. She knew that.’ She grasped his hand with cold fingers. ‘I’m glad you were with her. I’m glad she wasn’t alone.’

Eyes burning, a terrible pressure building inside. Tilda was looking up at Maggie; her face echoed her mother’s distress.

‘It’s OK,’ Maggie told her, ‘Mummy’s just a bit tired.’ She faced Caleb as the girl settled. ‘Go now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

‘I have to tell you something first. Frankie –’

‘Tomorrow.’ Steely-eyed now, a glimpse of her hard inner-core.

‘It’s important. You’re probably safe but you should hang on to the guard for a couple of days. I posted your files online to protect Tilda. There’s nothing directly linking you to them, so you should be safe from the cops.’

Her mouth gaped. ‘You posted them?’

‘It was the only way to keep her safe.’

‘Get out.’

‘I’m going. Just, could I see Turnip if she wants –?’

‘Get out!’

Tilda’s head jerked up. The guard was behind him, yanking him to the door. Slipping, the crutch skidding on the floorboards. Tilda scrambled from the bed to get to him.

Maggie held her back. ‘Stay away from him. He’s a bad man.’

Tilda looked from her mother to Caleb, body quivering. He let the guard pull him from the room. Down the hallway to the front door. Outside. He stumbled on the front step, kept going.

***

He drove to his flat and pulled into the underground carpark. A low ceiling, the weight of the building borne by spindly concrete pillars. Five o’clock on a Sunday and most of the parking spots were taken, everyone tucked up inside discussing dinner plans or watching footy, thinking about the full weekend behind them, the busy week ahead. He found an empty space halfway along the wall, turned off the engine. Complete stillness, complete silence. If he closed his eyes the world wouldn’t exist.

‘He’s a bad man.’ Of course. What had he thought would happen? That he’d pop around for play dates with a child whose father he’d killed? That he could slip her into a life with Kat and become a happy, makeshift family?

Yes.

Yes, that’s exactly what he’d thought.

Should have known better. He’d asked Frankie why she’d gone into business with him, but it was obvious really. They were both destroyers, their lives filled with a long line of people who’d either loved them at their peril or hadn’t loved them enough. Perfect for each other; best kept at arm’s-length from anyone else.

He pulled the crutch from the passenger seat and got out. Cold. No air movement down here, just the mass of the building above and the stale smell of a place never warmed by sunlight. He headed slowly for the stairwell. Go to his flat and get drunk, take Henry Collins’ little pills, face reality tomorrow. Or not.

A slam of pain in his lower back.

Pitching forward, the crutch spinning away. Someone grabbed him and spun him around, slammed him against the back of a van. A forearm on his throat, hot breath in his face. Hollywood’s shirt was torn and smeared, face crusted with dried blood. Cold focus in his eyes.

Too big to fight; needed a weapon – keys. He grabbed them from his pocket, fist rising. Hollywood kneed his wound. A scream ripped from his throat. The world red black slipping sideways.

Hollywood shoved him against the van doors, windscreen wiper cutting into his head. He was saying something, asking something. Too close, too hard without his aids. ‘Can’t understand you.’

A punch to his thigh, pain spearing through him. Another jab. No. Too much. Panting, cold sweat slicking his body. Hollywood was talking again, getting ready for another blow.

‘Slower. Can’t understand.’

‘Where’s. The. Girl?’

Jesus fuck, he was still after Tilda. Imogen hadn’t told him.

‘It’s over. Maggie’s records are online. Ask Imogen.’

‘… talking about?’

‘Everything’s public. No reason to hurt Tilda. Call Imogen, ask her.’

Hollywood’s face cleared. He released Caleb, reached for his phone. No. Not a phone, a gun. Cleaning house. If Caleb was dead, there’d be no one left to identify Hollywood and Imogen.

Hollywood raised the gun. Caleb smacked his head forward. Dull pain, forehead hitting cartilage and bone. The man reeled back, blood streaming from his nose. Wouldn’t stop him for long – get something sharp, stab him. Windscreen wiper. Caleb grabbed it with both hands, tugging hard, yanking. He staggered as it snapped. In his fist, turning, ramming the jagged edge into Hollywood’s face, scraping along cheekbone and skin into his eye socket.

Hollywood dropped. Hands to his face, mouth contorted in a scream. Still holding the gun.

Get away. Up to the street. Lurching from car to car, leg buckling, hands slipping from the duco, slick with blood. Up the driveway towards the exit and the dying light of day. Nearly there.

A silhouette appeared: Imogen running around the corner into the carpark.

She skidded to a halt when she saw him, lifting her gun. Couldn’t get away, nothing he could do. Her feet were spread wide, both hands on the weapon. The same stance as when she’d killed Frankie.

She exhaled and squeezed the trigger. A distant thump.

No punching heat, no bullet.

Imogen was still aiming the gun. Shouting, smacking the air with a flat palm, repeating two blunt syllables. Get down! He dropped.

Another dull thud.

Stillness.

His face pressed to the cold concrete, fingertips gripping. Imogen ran past him. He pushed himself into a sitting position, turned. Hollywood was still doubled over clutching his face, the stairwell door open behind him.

Imogen knelt by a sprawled figure, feeling for a pulse, a gun lying a few metres away. Long dark hair spread on the oil-stained ground, fine features turned towards him, slackened in death: Quinn.

His brain ground into gear. Quinn was behind the bloodshed, not Imogen. Quinn with her sharp mind and need to get ahead. Not just Maggie’s hireling, but a business partner. Making the most of the opportunities Lovelay had given her. ‘He did everything for me. Taught me things, introduced me to the right people.’ Trying to protect herself and her hard-won success by destroying the records and everyone along with them.

Caleb had seen her brightness and still been fooled.

Imogen pulled out her phone, her eyes on Hollywood. Calling the ambulance and her colleagues. They’d come with their endless questions and need to understand; people in uniforms and suits, cotton overalls and latex gloves.

Let them find him.

He hauled himself to his feet and limped towards the fed. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

He ignored her rapid spill of words and kept going. Past Quinn and Hollywood, past the blood, the gun. He slowly bent to pick up his crutch and made his way to the stairwell. Started climbing.