Black Ice (25 page)

Saturday 13 April, 8 pm

In the cupboard, the gnawing feeling in Cassie's stomach told her to put rehab off until Monday. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do, anyway? Someone had once told her that the intake line was choked Mondays and Tuesdays at every rehab in the country, but come Friday and Saturday it was tumbleweed city. Everyone knew you were supposed to binge before a diet – not that Cassie would risk gaining weight by bingeing on food – but the principle was the same if you were going to kick drugs.

I'll definitely do it Monday, she thought, loosening the belt on the trenchcoat as she heard Christian's voice draw closer. This'll be my last night.

She re-buckled her belt when she realised that the person Christian was speaking to was also going to enter the room. Great.

Make that the
people
Christian was speaking to. Cassie silently moved as far to the back of the small cupboard as she could, and peered from the gloom into the brilliant light of Christian's office. Who the fuck was that? The short guy in the tracksuit barely registered. A mere annoyance; one of the hangers-on who flocked around Christian, although they usually dressed a little better than that. But the girl? Cassie's eyes narrowed in the darkness. He moved on pretty quickly, she thought. At least he appeared to have chosen a worthy successor. She searched her heart for jealousy – got nothing. So, she really didn't care about Christian at all. Huh. While she was pleased that at least she wasn't going to get her heart broken by this guy, she experienced more bitter awareness that it really was all about the drugs. She wondered whether she even had the capacity to feel love for a man. Maybe I've got more in common with Jill than I want to admit, she thought.

She prayed Christian would not find a need to use the cupboard. She could handle looking silly in front of the bloke, but she did not want to meet that female at a disadvantage.

Cassie tried to slow her breathing and shifted her weight a little, settling in for the wait.

Saturday 13 April, 8.05 pm

Damien decided he should try to get a call off to Detective Jackson. He had to seem as though he was cooperating. The cops might bring the whole house down tonight because they figured they couldn't trust him, and then there wouldn't even be a deal, let alone Oxford.

Now would probably be the best time. Whitey was over in the kitchen with Nader, dollar signs in his eyes as they opened the box. Urgill was still out collecting food, and Agassi sat in a lounge chair, eyes closed. He reminded Damien of a computer waiting in sleep mode: a blank screen until it sensed movement and then instantly became fully operational.

He rose carefully from the couch and decided he'd try to retrieve the goodbye note at the same time. Whitey laughed from the kitchen; he gave a nervous giggle at pretty much everything that came out of Nader's mouth. Agassi didn't move.

Damien made it to the hallway.

'Off to shit yourself again, uni boy?' Nader called from the kitchen. 'Something's seriously wrong with those guts of yours.'

'Yeah, thanks for that,' answered Damien. 'Very helpful.'

He walked straight past the toilet and carefully opened the door to his mother's old bedroom. He thought he could still smell the 4711 perfume she used to wear. She used to buy the jumbo bottle from the chemist warehouse and sprinkle it around liberally. The smell fired emotions through his scent memory – fear, loss, hate.

He could see the letter propped on Whitey's pillow. Earlier Damien had smoothed the doona back and pushed the tangle of sheets away from the bedhead to make the envelope easier for Whitey to spot in the mess. Damien didn't think he'd ever seen Whitey's bed made. He negotiated the tight path to the bed without knocking anything over, and snatched up the letter; he shoved it down his pants, blood surging in his ears.

He retraced his steps and reached the door again, relieved. That was one less problem.

Now, should he make the call from the toilet or his room? Nader would be less suspicious if he heard him in the toilet, but therein lay the problem: Kasem might be able to hear him speaking. Fuck knew he'd had to endure five years' of Whitey's farting through his morning shit while he ate breakfast every day. Dickhead – it suddenly occurred to him – send her a text!

He walked into his bedroom, removing from his jacket pocket the phone Jackson had given him. He pressed the on button and squashed the phone into his chest to muffle the sound of the welcome chime. Moving to the point in the room furthest from the kitchen, he faced the wall and began messaging: '
Nader's here. Call it off.
' There was only one number stored, 'Krystal'. He hit send.

On the way back to the lounge he decided he needed the toilet after all. He entered quietly and took what had become his favourite seat in the house since this mess began. 'Oh fuck!' he whispered, when his phone sounded. A return text from Detective Jackson. It read:
'Meet me at uni tomorrow. Same place. Ten. Are you OK?'

'Fine.
' He texted back. Yep, just fine and dandy. Ecstatic. He switched the phone to silent and shoved it back into his pocket, his hands shaking. He stood up and opened the door.

'What've you got there, uni boy?' Nader stood in the doorway.

'Nothing,' he tried, but Nader had his hand out.

'Give us the phone, fuckwit.'

Damien's perspective suddenly shifted and he felt quite calm. Weird. It was like he was watching the whole scene from the ceiling, looking down on an interaction going on in his bedroom as though he had nothing to do with it. The tableau rippled and shimmered, as though he watched it through water. He saw himself walking towards Kasem Nader. He saw Nader pull him close, put an arm around his shoulder. He saw Nader use the other hand to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the phone. He saw his hands hanging, useless, by his sides.

From his vantage point near the ceiling, Damien watched Kasem press a couple of buttons on the phone and draw him in closer, into a cuddle, Kasem's arm firmly around his shoulders. Kasem held the phone up, close, near both of their heads, so they could both read the display. His messages to Krystal.

Still holding him tightly, Nader hit dial and raised the phone to his ear. Damien was close enough to hear Detective Jackson's voice on the other end say, 'Hello.'

Nader said nothing. His face a mask, he spun Damien around with one hand and mashed his face against the wall. Is this it, Damien thought, is this how I die? His mind raced, scrabbling through the contents of the text. He could explain it somehow. What could he say – he was going to meet a girl here, but had to call it off? Think. Think.

Nader said nothing, and with one hand still plastering his face to the wall, he began to pat Damien down.

'Oh fuck.' Did I just say that out loud? thought Damien. My pocket!

'Now what's this, uni boy. Is this a note?'

Saturday 13 April, 8.05 pm

Seren had been in this office maybe fifty times, but she could feel tonight was going to be different. Her slim shoulder bag was tucked tightly in under her arm, her hand hooked through the strap as though she just rested it there. She stood back slightly from the men, remaining as still as possible, hoping that Christian wouldn't ask her to leave at the last minute, send her on some bogus errand.

This was going to be a drug deal, she knew it now. Two years in prison had taught her the signs of villainy about to go down – the atmosphere of nonchalance contrasting with intent; tension with feigned ease. She watched Christian relax a little when he closed the office door; he turned to face the little guy with a big smile.

'So, Byron,' he said. 'Can I get you something?'

'Nah, boss. I'm sweet,' said Byron. 'Fucken traffic, man. I told Nader I'd be back by nine. We probably should just get this done.' He swung the sports bag up onto Christian's gleaming desk.

Seren held her breath. Without shifting position, she hooked her thumb into her bag and felt for the record button.

Christian moved behind his desk and sat down in his big leather chair. She pushed the button on the camera, and almost gasped. It would not depress. Something's wrong, she thought. She pushed again, firmly, knowing it was not going to work: it never felt this way. Then it suddenly came to her – the record button would not depress when the power switch was off. Somehow, she must have unconsciously switched the camera off during her last ritual.

Mouth dry, she watched Christian reach into his jacket; glimpsed a small object between his fingers – a key, she guessed. He swivelled a little in his chair and bent forward, his head briefly below the line of the desk.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thought. I have to get this on tape. She snuck a look at Tracksuit Man. He appeared focused on Christian, the desk, and especially his bag: he seemed to have forgotten she was even there. She brought her other hand up to her handbag, forcing herself to make slow movements. She reached in, slid the little camera from its nook and palmed it quickly, the action taking perhaps five seconds.

Christian's head was still below the desk line. She opened her hand and found the tiny black switch, set to off. Shaking her head, she slid it into the on position and raised her eyes.

Christian's eyes bored into her own.

Cassie couldn't take her eyes off this girl. It wasn't just about how gorgeous she was. Something was going on here. She seemed almost like two people. She had this cat-that-ate-the-cream smile when the men watched her, and a deer-caught-in-the-headlights grimace when they did not. And she seemed to be fiddling with something in her bag.

And what was in that sports bag on the desk?

From her vantage point, Cassie could see Christian jiggling a tiny key in the lock in the largest drawer under his desk. He seemed to be having difficulty opening it.

The girl had something in her hand now. A tiny flash of green light, and then nothing, but Cassie could see that she now held her hand by her side, her fist clenched. What was she holding?

Cassie watched the girl look up; she stared at Christian. She looked freaked.

'Are you all right, babe?' Christian asked Seren.

At twelve, when she'd finally learned that her stepfather got off on pain and fear, Seren had mastered an indifferent stare, an unconcerned façade that more often than not saw him turn his attention back to his beer, or to someone else he could make cry. She dropped that mask into place now.

'Of course, darling,' Seren said. 'Are we going to be much longer?'

'No,' he said. 'Just about done.' He slapped a thick envelope down onto his desk and turned to Byron. 'Let's have a look, then, Byron. Come check this out, Seren.'

Seren pressed the record button and moved towards the desk, the camera nestled easily in her palm. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but she was going to get it all anyway.

'That's eighty grand, is it?' said Byron, eyes on the envelope. 'Doesn't look that much.'

'It's all there, Byron. Fifties. Surprising how compact that much cash can be, isn't it?'

Byron gave a short laugh. 'Shit yeah,' he said. 'Well, here's your bag of mixed lollies.' He unzipped the sports bag and Seren stepped back, partly in shock and partly to ensure that the camera got the widest angle. Jammed into the carrier were ten or so clear plastic bags, most of them full of hundreds of pills; others contained the little opaque rocks that had sent her to prison.

'Could you give me a hand over here, Seren?'

She snapped her head up to find Christian watching her closely.

'Would you mind doing a quick count of these bags, with me?' he said. 'I'll just make sure Byron's right with the cash and we can wrap this all up.'

She smiled into Christian's eyes, questions scudding through her mind. Why is he looking at me like that? Does he know? How am I going to get the camera back in my bag while he's watching me like this? She couldn't move. Christian waited, expectant, staring straight at her.

'Seren?' he said.

Byron glanced up from the money. His eyes moved from her to Christian, then back again. And stopped.

Certain her cheeks must be flaming, she knew she had to do something now. The camera was so tiny. Maybe if she pretended to sneeze, she could bring her hand up and somehow push the camera down her shirt, into her bra? No, she'd feign an itch. But what the fuck were they staring at her like that for? She turned the tiny camera around in her palm, readying for the move.

And she dropped it.

Seren watched the little device bounce once on the floor and begin to tumble over itself. It rolled slowly away from her, losing momentum on the carpet, and came neatly to rest next to Byron's shoe.