VICTOR OWENS, DEAD AT last. A big turnout for the funeral. Four hundred mourners who haven’t seen Victor in years and never saw the real man, either way. He would have been happy with this, Amy thinks, glumly.
His career outlined in a glowing eulogy.
His legacy praised by all of its rich inheritors.
The daughters dragged to the church by expectation.
Victor, immortalised and unreal.
The perfect crime.
Colleen Vinton sidles up during the wake, a drink in hand and her little cigarette camera at the ready. The woman looks like hell. Word is, she’s struggling with the death of Mike Nichols, despite everything else. She’s been wiping away tears in brothel backrooms, her temper running permanently foul. As such, Amy’s kept a low profile.
‘My condolences,’ says Colleen.
‘You too,’ says Amy.
‘I was hoping to run into Elda.’
Victor’s nurse. Officially missing, presumed dead. Unofficially, rotting somewhere in the canal water behind Victor’s mansion.
Amy makes a show of surveying the room. ‘How did you and Elda know each other?’
‘Everyone knows Elda. I have some work for you when you’re ready to come back in.’
‘About that …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m stepping aside.’
‘Are you now?’
‘See that guy over there, the one by the door? That’s Ronnie. He used to work for Buddy Winters out at Fantasyland. Ronnie works for me now. Sort of my personal assistant. Today he’s here to get rid of anyone who acts up. Figured a few undesirables might show, but it’s been okay so far.’
‘Well, look at you,’ says Colleen, forcing out a fake little laugh. ‘If Tommy were here, he’d have loved this.’
Amy leans over, keeping her voice to a whisper. ‘My debt to you is done with. Anyone who says otherwise, or does otherwise, is going to end up buried under something in Fantasyland. You understand? This is my father’s funeral.’
‘Oh well, we’ll see,’ says Colleen, like she’s just heard an amusing anecdote. ‘That’s the problem with new money, Amy. It spends fast and, well, when it runs out …’ Colleen clicks her fingers. ‘Then you’re suddenly accustomed to things you can’t afford, like Ronnie over there.’
‘Till that day then,’ says Amy, and moves on.
The following morning, Amy drives across the border to Saint Andrews Catholic Church. Inside the chapel, she finds the priest, Father Frank Hanlon. He’s sitting alone in the pews. For no reason other than instinct, Amy slips into the row behind him. ‘You got a minute, Father?’ she says.
Frank nods. ‘I was thinking I might run into you.’
‘Yeah. I saw you at the service. I forgot that you knew Victor.’
‘I wanted to make sure the coffin wasn’t empty. You fancy a drink?’
‘Sure.’
Frank gets up and goes to the altar. He pours communion wine into two coffee mugs and brings them back. ‘To new beginnings,’ he says.
‘Amen to that.’
‘Now, what can I do for you? Have you come to repent?’
‘Something like that.’ Amy takes the envelope from her pocket. Victor’s job contract, his dying wish. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but my father put me in charge of his estate. He has a son, it seems. A living son. I couldn’t care less about managing the family business, but if I find this kid, he’ll be set for life.’
It was true. Victor’s secret son was set to inherit a stake in Fantasyland, something Amy held on to despite Buddy Winters inheriting the park. It worked out well for Buddy. He had one silent partner now, instead of three, and all Amy had to do was make sure no one ever caught wind of what almost happened. They announced the grand opening in the paper last week.
‘What about you?’ says Frank. ‘You’ll be looked after too, I imagine?’
‘Never mind me. This kid’s my brother.’
‘And the mother is?’
‘You remember that girl I came in here with a couple of weeks back? The one I took to Adelaide.’
‘Sarah.’
‘That’s right. I think it’s her kid. I’m on my way down there to find out. Has she been in touch?’
‘She might have. What makes you think Sarah’s baby is the one you’re after?’
‘My father says so. He hired her with the express intention of getting her knocked up. He made movies of it. Home movies. She’s in them.’
‘It can’t have been easy being that man’s daughter.’
‘He’s dead now … so who gives a shit.’
Father Frank swirls the wine around in his cup. ‘You know, people say Sarah’s boy is Robert Emmery’s bastard, not your father’s. It was a whole thing a few years back. A lot of people got hurt because of it. I assume you know Emmery? Talk is, your boss keeps Emmery in line by threatening to expose the child, or worse.’
‘I don’t work for Colleen anymore. Like I said, I work for my father now.’
‘I work for mine too,’ says Frank. ‘Here’s to aligned interests.’
‘So, you’ll help me find the kid?’
‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘Is it?’
‘Destroying Colleen Vinton is God’s work, Amy. It’s his plan for me.’
Amy Owens drives for a full day into the bush and scrub, along straight empty roads out into the country’s flat dry centre. She keeps the radio down. Just the engine and her thoughts, and a fresh pack of smokes.
At dusk, as the sun finally loses its sting, she pulls over.
She’s in the middle of nowhere. Red earth. A near-treeless plane. The highway is so quiet that Amy sets up her camera and tripod on the empty bitumen, in the centre. She sets the timer for five seconds.
It’s enough.
Five.
She scoots around.
Four.
Takes the spot.
Three.
Stands tall.
Two.
Tries to smile.
One.
The aperture opens and the dying light washes in, capturing a new image.