Frankie (15 page)

Drinking was a bad idea. Not like robbing a bank or unprotected sex, but it's up there.

My head aches. Not because of the chipmunk kung-fuing his way through my head – a few hefty swigs of vodka and excerpts from
Her Wildest Dreams
sorted that furry little bastard out. And it's not because I'm wasted. It's because Cara is. And getting her home when she can barely walk and when I'm not exactly at the top of my game is the opposite of fun.

I push Cara toward her front garden. Drag. Shove. Hold up.

‘Never have I never,' she slurs.

‘Ever.'

‘What?'

‘The game is “never have I ever”.'

She dongs my arm with the half-empty bottle. ‘That's what I said, dummy.'

I tell her to keep her voice down, but she just cackles.

‘Never have I never gone a week without showering.' She takes a swig and drapes the bottle over her shoulder for me. If it's true, I should drink, but I wave it away and keep shoving her toward her house.

‘Never have I ever used a wad of toilet paper as a pad when I've been caught short,' I whisper.

‘Amen to that.' Cara takes another swig.

The side gate creaks – practically screams – as we stumble through. A prickly hedge hugs the fence and spills over half the path – you've got to walk at an angle to avoid losing an eye. There aren't any lights on but that doesn't mean Cara's mum isn't hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump out and lecture me about being a bad influence. Yeah, that's right, the one who's a teensy bit tipsy is the bad influence.

I dig my hands into her back and keep her moving. ‘Back door, okay?' She nods so vigorously I'm worried her head's going to fly off. It doesn't but it does bash into my chin.

‘Oof.'

‘Never have I never had a sex dream about Mr Tran.' She waves the bottle at me.

‘Do not drink to that.'

Cara giggles as I push her to the back door. Thank god her older brother is allergic to dogs and there isn't a Doberman waiting to bark/bite/kill me. We stumble up the back step and then she spins to face me, overshoots and almost falls backwards.

‘Whoa!' I steady her and then grab the bottle out of her hand. She grins.

‘You know who's sexy? Mark. He wuvs you.'

‘He cheats. And I don't forgive, remember?'

‘You're still looking for your brother and he's a burger.'

I wave down her voice. ‘Burglar.'

‘What I said, dummy.'

I dig through her pockets for her keys. ‘I have to find Xavier because . . .' Shit. Why do I need to find him? ‘I need to know the truth –'

‘You can't handle the truth!'

‘Shhhhh! You'll wake your mum. And if you do, could you at least pin this one on Ava Devar?' I fish the keys out and unlock the door. Slowly. Quietly. Cara holds a finger to her lips and giggles.

Right before I shove her inside, she props herself up against me. For a minute I think she's trying to hug me but then I realise she's making a grab for the bottle. Sneaky wench.

I hold it out of her reach.

She frowns. ‘Did you say you had a burger? I'm starved.'

I
can
handle the truth. I heart the truth.

I have to find Xavier because . . .

‘Never have I ever trusted the wrong person,' I say. I take a swig of vodka then I shove Cara inside.

‘Amen to that,' she says.

__________

Smith Street at night is straight out of the nightmares of every suburban housewife. I dump the vodka bottle/evidence in a bin and clomp past the blacked-out windows of an outlet shop where I have to dodge a scraggy looking dude in an army jacket sliding a baggie into the hand of a bearded dude in mum jeans. Being tipsy, I'm not dextrous enough to dodge a puddle of vomit splattered on the pavement. As I hurry past pub after pub I accumulate drunken catcalls like a Hollywood starlet accumulates rehab stints.

Collingwood – it's a paradise.

I'm already in a mood. I've drowned the chipmunk in vodka but he's left behind a dead rat kind of smell. And there's no more Cara to distract me.

So many questions, no freaking answers.

But what really pisses me off is that there are people who
know
things. People who are hiding important information from me.

Nate people, for instance.

Friends
always
know, and that punk poser definitely knows more than he's letting on. I should get all Guantanamo Bay on his arse.

As I'm skirting around two guys punching on, a light bulb pings in my head. I stop dead – a glass smashes on the pavement behind me.

I'm a freaking genius. I'm Sherlock Holmes meets that physics dude in the wheelchair.

Best. Idea. Ever.

I pirouette 180 degrees, skip over the glass, duck under the flailing dude arms and head back the way I came. I take the same path as the first night. And when I find the creepy house, it's as dark and as crumbling and as cane-toad-like as I remember.

This is such a good idea that I laugh maniacally to myself for a whole minute.

Things I know: Vodka is good for you, and Nate won't want to help. But I'm fairly certain he knows the truth about Xavier.

Things I don't know: If Nate even lives here. How I'm going to find him. Why I'm not in bed dreaming of Ian Curtis. How I'm going to explain the missing vodka to Vinnie.

I stand on the opposite side of the street and watch. The house watches me back.

A shitload of bats screech overhead. Bats aren't always prophets of doom, right?

Screw that.

I cross the road and pretty soon the gravel driveway is crunching underfoot as I approach the rotting bungalow. I ignore the slight tilt to my gait and the fact that there could be someone inside waiting to kill me with a chainsaw.

I take deep breaths before knocking on the front door.

Nothing happens. And I mean
nothing
. Even a chainsaw revving would have been something.

I knock harder. Then I bash the stupid thing.

‘Ouch.'

Door: 1, Frankie: 0.

There's no movement inside, no lights and no sign that anyone lives here. Maybe Nate was telling the truth when he said this wasn't his house. Maybe it's just a revolting crack den. My options are: bash the door again, stand here shouting Nate's name until he shows up, create some kind of bat-signal with my torch app and hand puppets or . . .

Genius.

I'll break into the creepy house.

I walk round the side where there's a path heading to the back garden. I say ‘walk' but ‘stumble' is a better word. ‘Hike', maybe. ‘Climb', definitely. Nate obviously applies the same standards to gardening as he does to his hair – a strictly ‘no coiffing' policy.

A little bit of moonlight kindly lights the way as I walk/hike/climb the side path. This is
such
a good idea.

I wade through thickets of grass, straddle fallen posts and stub my toe on piles of unexplained bricks. I make a fair bit of noise and swear a lot too.

Which I guess explains why I'm so damn easy for the guy to find.

Out of the shadows comes an unexpected voice. ‘Who the fuck are you?'

I bash against the wall as I jump back, holding a hand over my heart so it can't break out of my rib cage. I see the shape of him approaching from the back end of the house. When he gets closer I see he's got a shock of white hair and blemished, scarred skin. He's wearing a large puffer jacket, one that goes all the way to the knees, and it swooshes as he moves.

‘Holy crap, you scared me.' My heart beats frantically to the tune of
bad idea, bad idea, bad idea . . .

He taps his knuckles against his bottom lip. ‘You shouldn't be here. Who sent you?'

‘I sent myself.'

‘Was it Lethal?'

I shake my head. Think I'm going to throw up.

He bangs his fist against the weatherboards. ‘I told him I'd sort it!'

I back away but he presses his hand against the house. His arm is beside my head like a boom gate locking me in. I get a face full of his sewage-stench breath. ‘Give me your money, phone, rings, whatever.' He presses in closer, eye darting. ‘It's not personal, yeah? I just need the cash.'

Holy shit. How do I tell
this
guy that I have zero money? The subtle vodka haze clouding my decision-making skills is clearing and I'm freaking out.

When I don't immediately pull thousands of dollars out of my pockets, he reaches into his jacket. Now there's a knife at my throat. I go very, very still.

Oh god, I don't want to die.

I hold out my phone. ‘Please let me go.'

I'm weighing up my options – cry, scream or faint – when a set of heavy boots thump toward us, coming in fast from the left.

I can't turn my head because of the knife, but the guy turns, eyes bulging. He presses in tight against me. ‘Back off!'

‘Take it easy, Dave,' says the voice of a burglarising, arrogant arsehat. An arsehat who might be about to save my life.

I'm too scared to breathe.

‘I don't have a choice,' says Dave. ‘Point that thing someplace else.'

Oh god. Has Nate got a gun?

‘Either you step away or I start swinging.'

Swinging?

Dave curses but he lowers the knife and there's air – glorious, fresh, open air – between us. I jump as far from him as I can, bashing into the side of the house as I do. I suck in a stream of swearwords, grabbing at my not-remotely-funny funny bone as it throbs.

Dave backs away, puffer jacket swooshing. He's still got the knife. ‘Shit, Nate. Why'd you stop me, man?'

Nate is holding a cricket bat. I don't know anything about cricket but I'm pretty sure you don't step up to bat holding it like that.

Nate points to his face, to his black eye. ‘Why'd you punch me? Man.'

‘You kicked me out!'

‘Yeah. And I remember telling you to stay the hell away.'

‘Do you know what they're going to do to me?' There's anguish in Dave's voice. Honest to god anguish. If he keeps tugging at his hair, he's going to rip out a whole chunk. ‘It's not my fault!'

Nate looks at me then back at Dave. He lowers the bat. ‘Just get out of here, okay? Split.'

I turn an open-mouthed stare Nate's way. I believe in aliens, Big Foot and Lindsay Lohan's acting talents fifty gazillion times
more
than I believe what Nate just said.

Dave is clearly smarter than he looks because he doesn't wait to be told twice. He bolts.

Seeing him run is a slap to my face. My shock vaporises leaving nothing but heat, rage, red . . .

This
guy was going to rob me.
This
guy just held a knife to my throat.
This
guy pressed his filthy, grimy body against mine.
This
guy is going to get it.

I lunge after him, red spots blurring my vision, but Nate grabs my arm.

‘Let me go!'

‘No.'

‘Arsehole!'

‘Likewise.'

There's a loud crash. Dave's taken a tumble over a pile of bricks. He scrambles to his feet. I yank hard but Nate's not letting go. I yank again and overbalance, falling on my arse with a serious thud. Nate falls on top of me, our limbs tangling and heads butting.

I try twisting round to see where Dave runs off to but I've got a six-foot-something burglar on top of me and my head is spinning. I hear Dave's boots clomping against the earth as he bolts, listen to them fade to nothing.

I dig the heels of my palms into Nate's chest and push. ‘Look what you did! He got away.'

‘What I just did was save you, Vega. What do you think you were going to do? He had a knife.'

‘I would have figured something out.'

He struggles onto his knees and I scoot out from under him, pain shooting up through my back. Shit! I've broken my coccyx.

He offers me a hand up but I knock it away. He scowls. ‘Whatever. You realise you stink of booze, right?'

‘I'm
inferring
hostility from you, Nate.'

‘Maybe because Druggie Dave was
implying
he was going to fuck you up. What the hell are you doing here?'

I get to my feet. Okay, so maybe I haven't broken my coccyx but I'm sore as hell. ‘You
owe
me.'

‘Are you serious?' He tucks the cricket bat under his arm. ‘Even if I did owe you, I've got news for you: you just called in that favour. Do you even get what a creep like Druggie Dave could have done to you?'

I can practically taste Dave's filth. ‘Yeah,' I say. ‘I get it. What the hell is that guy's problem?'

‘He samples more than he sells. I guess he owes shitloads to some scary people. He's an addict. He's . . . messed up.'

My body is starting to shiver; it's the adrenaline, I guess. The almost-got-robbed/raped/killed shakes. It's one hell of a way to sober up.