30.

Awake like a slap in the face. A distant whining. Pain somewhere, everywhere. An unfamiliar face appeared over him. A bald man, wearing a dark-blue uniform.

What the fuck?

Something pressed against his face. He felt its shape: an oxygen mask. There were wires trailing from his bare chest. Where was his top? Hadn’t he been wearing one? A red one, and a coat.

‘OK there, mate?’ the paramedic asked. A calm face, like a monk.

He nodded.

‘You remember what happened?’

He shook his head.

‘You … gave you … but it …’

He closed his eyes. Too hard: it had been better back in the stairwell.

The van doors opening jolted him awake. Frigid air gusted in. Pain in his chest, like thrusting knives. And he remembered: Margaret, Grey-face, Sean. That bastard, Sean. He’d held him down like a fucking schoolgirl and shot him full of smack.

A brief, arctic blast and they were inside the hospital. Down a corridor and into a curtained cubicle. A doctor appeared and conferred with the paramedics. Around thirty, with tired eyes and stooped shoulders. She checked him over with brisk movements. No eye contact, talking with her head down.

‘Sorry, I didn’t get that.’

She spoke again, still looking at the clipboard.

‘Sorry, I didn’t … I’m having trouble following you. Can you look at me when you speak?’

She looked up; surprised, irritated. ‘You took heroin?’

‘I don’t know. I think so.’

‘Anything else? Any dmmmm? Rmmmmm?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Any pain when you breathe?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded absently, kept writing, talking.

‘Sorry, what?’

Her lips compressed. ‘That will be from the CPR. You may have a cracked rib or two, it’s not unusual.’

CPR? Oh, God. ‘Have you seen my friend, Frankie? She’ll be worried.’

‘No.’ Still no eye contact. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain?’

‘She’ll be worried, she won’t know …’

‘On a scale of one to ten …’

‘Five. It’s a five.’

She wrote on the chart. ‘I’ll arrange … X-ray … ribs … IV.’ Her hand was on the curtain, but he couldn’t be bothered asking her to repeat anything.

‘Can you tell Frankie …’

She was gone.

On a scale of one to ten, how would he rate her bedside manner? He stared at the ceiling: a hard, white fluorescent that made his eyes flicker. He should have run straight at Grey-face, he should have pushed past the knife, he should have …

The curtains parted and a nurse came in, her movements quick and efficient. She was young, no more than twenty-three, with a little frown mark permanently between her eyebrows: the girl who’d always studied hard.

‘You’re Caleb?’ A smile, actual eye contact. That was nice. ‘I’m Susan. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine. Is someone out there looking for me? Frankie?’

She wheeled the drip stand to the bed. Head down, talking.

‘Can you look at me when you speak?’

Her face popped briefly into view, then lowered. ‘… impor­tant … you don’t …’

Fuck it. ‘I’m deaf. I need to see your face when you’re talking.’

‘Oh.’ A blush rose up her neck. ‘Interpreter? I’ll get one.’ She mimed walking away and speaking on a telephone.

‘I don’t need an interpreter. I’m fine as long as you look at me when you speak. Is there a woman looking for me? Tall, with crazy purple and grey hair. She doesn’t know I’m all right. She’ll be worried.’

‘I’ll. Keep. An. Eye. Out.’ Miming again. God. ‘A drip. Two. Hours.’ She held up two fingers.

‘OK.’

‘Don’t shoot up. Again. Today. Very dangerous. Understand?’

‘I’m not a user.’

Her eyes went to the soft flesh of his inner elbow: there was a raised mark where the needle had pierced his skin.

‘I’ll get. Pmmmm. To. Help. You.’

‘Get what?’

‘Pam. Phhh. Leets.’

Maybe it was a name – Pam Fleets. Could be the doctor. Better not be a fucking interpreter.

‘Wait.’ She swished through the curtains and returned a moment later, carrying folded pieces of paper. Huh – pamphlets. She placed them in his lap, patted his hand and left.

Smiling, healthy people featured heavily on the pamphlet covers. Courses with patronising names like ‘Fresh Start’ and ‘New Beginnings’. He used to leave similar things lying around the house for Ant. What an arsehole.

The curtains opened again and he steeled himself for more earnest do-gooding. It was Frankie. She stopped just inside the cubicle, one hand gripping the curtain. Her eyes were unusually bright, skin pale, as though she was feverish.

‘Frankie. You found me.’

‘You stupid fucking prick.’ She left.

She returned an hour later, carrying two large bags from McDonald’s and what looked like a bundle of clothing.

‘Thought you might be hungry,’ she said, dumping it all on the bed.

Still too pale, too twitchy. But definitely sober.

‘Cholesterol police will be on to you, bringing that in here.’

‘Nah, I got it from the Children’s Hospital.’ She busied herself undoing the bundle of clothing and threw him a T-shirt. ‘Get that on. Don’t want your manly physique sending the nurses wild.’

It was a strange collection of clothing: two pairs of undies and one sock, no warm jacket, but three T-shirts. An unwelcome insight into her current state of mind. He managed to get two of the T-shirts over his head before realising that threading the drip through the arm hole was going to be beyond his current range of movement.

Frankie wordlessly helped him to finish the manoeuvre.

She handed him a paper bag. ‘Eat up before it gets too cold.’

He ate a couple of fries but they were dry and strangely tasteless. Frankie demolished her food without speaking, balled the wrapper and lobbed it impressively into a bin on the opposite side of the cubicle.

She caught his look. ‘You like that?’

‘Awed.’

‘OK, tell me what happened. I’ll try not to yell at you this time.’

‘Well, City Sentry is involved.’ He shifted to try and ease the pain in his chest but there didn’t seem to be any comfortable way to breathe.

‘Yeah, I sort of worked that one out.’

‘Sean kept me waiting long enough for Grey-face to get to the office, then jumped me. Margaret Petronin was with him.’

Her hand paused halfway to her mouth.

‘I don’t know if she’s using, or if they’re dealing, but she had smack there, so … They held me down and shot me up.’

Frankie looked as though she were regretting the fries. She glanced at the packet and lowered it to her lap.

‘I couldn’t stop them,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘I tried.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Staff here think I’m a smack-head.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re not. Fuck ’em.’

He gave a choked laugh. ‘Thank you, Sensei, I feel much better now.’

‘You’re welcome, Grasshopper.’ She shoved her uneaten fries back into the bag.

The shakes had gone, but she was still too pale. Should he mention their last conversation? Easier to pretend it had never happened. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

Frankie’s face tightened. ‘Just ask the damn question.’

‘Did you get onto someone who could help you?’

‘Yes, I did. Did I have a drink? I think you can see that I didn’t. Am I going to? I don’t fucking know. Maybe I’ll never drink again, maybe one of these days I’ll get some Johnny Red and a big bottle of pills and chug ’em all down. We done? Excellent. Now, should I be worried about you sitting around here? The whole tracking you through prescriptions, et cetera?’

Johnny Walker and a bottle of pills. That was way too specific a scenario.

‘I won’t be here for long,’ he said. ‘A couple of hours for the drip.’ Get her out of here and into some sort of treatment program. Somewhere interstate. Hope Tedesco was straight. Hope everything was nearly over.

‘Want to hear some good news?’ he said.

‘God. Please.’

He brought her up to date about Gary’s photos and the warehouse shooting.

‘Scott’s in the photos?’

‘Maybe – they’re pretty fuzzy. I’ve sent them to Tedesco. Hopefully he’ll be able to get someone to enhance them.’

‘You sent them to Tedesco?’ She shook her head. ‘What if he’s working with Scott?’

‘Guess it’ll make the ID easier. Either way, I’ve got a copy of the photos in my email now.’

‘What about Margaret? Have you worked out where you know her from now you’ve seen her in the flesh?’

‘No.’

‘Guess it doesn’t matter now. Oops.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Forgot to turn it off after the ambulance.’ She frowned at the screen.

‘What?’

‘Nothing terrible. Just hang on.’

Nothing terrible, but she was taking a long time reading the message. Re-reading it. Now thinking about it.

‘Tedesco?’ he said.

She began tapping the bed railing. And now she was re-reading the damn thing again.

‘You trying to finish me off?’

‘Trying to work out what to tell you. So, anyway, Kat’s back in town.’

He shot forward, then doubled over, clutching his ribs. ‘Kat? In Melbourne?’

She passed him the phone.

… Back in Melb. Staying at Mel’s studio. Her phone. No-one knows I’m here.

No-one except Mel. Which meant Mel’s friends, Mel’s neighbours, Mel’s boyfriend, Mel’s boyfriend’s friends.

He typed quickly.

… It’s not safe. Lock the door and stay there. Frankie’s coming to get you. C

‘It’s probably fine,’ Frankie said.

‘Mel’s a talker, there’s no way she’ll be able to keep it quiet. And even if she did, they’re too easily linked. They’ve had joint exhibitions, they lecture at the same uni. If Scott’s smart enough to tap Kat’s phones, he’s smart enough to sniff around her friends.’

‘Why would he bother? He’s got your phone now.’

‘Why kill Gary? Or Arnie, or Spiros? He doesn’t like loose ends.’

The phone buzzed.

… Was letting you know as courtesy, not a conversation. Turning phone off now.

… NO. SCOTT WILL TALK TO YR FRIENDS. GIVE ME ADDRESS AND GO WITH FRANKIE. PLEASE.

Read it. Please read it. Still have the phone on and read it.

… Why Frankie?

What the fuck? That’s what she took from the message? Why Frankie?

Frankie pulled the phone from his hand and typed.

… Caleb can’t come. He’s in hospital hooked up to a drip. Scott’s work. He died twice. Dead. No heartbeat. Blue in the face. They’re scary people. Give me your address. Frankie

‘Frankie. Jesus.’

The phone buzzed.

… 241 Hampton St Carlton

‘Sometimes you have to be blunt.’ She passed him the phone. ‘Now say something nice so she stops crying.’

His fingers hovered over the screen. No time to dick around, just say something. Anything. But make it good. Frankie was snapping her fingers.

… The Whitsundays. Tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything.

He pressed send.

There was a slight shake to Frankie’s hand as she took the phone from him. Sending her out in peak-hour traffic suddenly didn’t feel like such a good idea. Cars cutting in front of her, the pressure building inside and out. Fuck the drip, he’d better drive. He sat up and a slicing pain froze him in place.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘Getting. Comfortable.’

‘Doesn’t seem to be working. You need a nurse?’

He was going to slow her down if he went with her. Next best option?

‘I’m fine. But listen, you should take a taxi.’

Her face closed. ‘I can drive.’

‘Taxi’ll be quicker. And you won’t get a park near Mel’s studio this time of day. I don’t want the two of you hiking blocks to the car.’

She gave a sharp shrug. ‘Car’s probably been towed anyway, it’s in a loading zone outside Naughton’s.’ She turned towards the curtains.

‘Frankie?’

‘Yep?’

‘I’m sorry you had to go through that. What you told Kat.’

She paused with her hand on the curtain. ‘Yeah well, do better. There aren’t many people in the world I love.’ She disappeared.

He lay back and just breathed for a while. Shallowly. Everything was going to be all right. Frankie would have Kat here within the hour, Tedesco would get the photos, and it would all be over.

Susan bustled back in and fussed around him, checking his blood pressure and pulse.

She gave him a thumbs-up. ‘How. Are. You feeling?’

‘Good.’

‘That’s good. Your mum?’ She pointed towards the curtains.

He laughed, imagining Frankie’s reaction. ‘More like a sister.’

Her eyes dropped to the pamphlets on the bed. ‘Good. A sister will. Keep you. On track.’ She gave his hand another pat and left.

Sister. The word tumbled around his brain. A sister. That’s where he knew Margaret from. He’d seen her in an old wedding photo at Frankie’s house. Two shy girls with honey-blonde hair and crooked smiles.

Frankie and her sister, Maggie.