Frankie (22 page)

I step off the bus and right into a massive puddle. Ominous?

‘So I got you here in one piece,' says Nate, clomping down the steps after me. ‘I paid your fare and didn't hit on you once. The magic word?'

I step up onto the kerb and shake water from my boot. ‘Fuck you?'

‘That's two magic words.' He shows me just how many on his fingers – in case I missed it.

‘Well, here's one.' I also use my finger.

The bus pulls away and we've got a good view of the street. In the yard next to Bill's is my best mate, the little old Italian lady – aka Neighbourhood Watch. She's glaring up the street but
not
at us. Good.

Nate leans against the bus shelter, squinting into the glare. ‘You look nervous. If you're going to freak out, do it behind that bush.'

‘I'm just not sure we should be doing this now. Marzoli –'

‘I can't help it if Marzoli fancies me. It's tough being this irresistible but I'm not going to let it stop me doing what I do best.'

‘I bet it's tough work being that conceited too.'

He points in the direction of the hedge. ‘Freak out behind that bush or tell me which house is Bill's.'

I nod across the road. ‘See the old lady leaning against the fence?'

‘Yeah?'

‘House to the right.'

He nods, eyes flicking up and down the street. They settle on Neighbourhood Watch. ‘Is she a problem?'

I shake my head. ‘I'm pretty sure she's President of the Bill Green Hate Society. She'll probably give you tips on how to break in.' I can't help noticing the boarded-up window in Bill's front door. Oops.

I'm wondering why we aren't both hiding behind the hedge. An old dude with a scraggy dog walks right past, staring at us. I picture him behind the glass as he picks me and Nate out of a line-up.

‘Why aren't we doing this at night, Mr Genius Burglar?'

‘Because we want to break in when he's not at home.'

‘He
could
be at home.'

‘Which is why I'm going to ring the doorbell first.'

‘And if he answers?'

Nate fixes a choir-boy look to his face and affects a southern American accent. ‘Hello, my name is Jeremiah. Have you thought about letting Jesus into your life?'

‘So let's do this.' I get one boot off the kerb before Nate grabs my arm and pulls me back.

‘Hell no, you're not going in.' His curls dangle in front of his eyes as he shakes his head furiously. ‘No way.'

I get as far as opening my mouth.

‘I'm not saying this to annoy you or put you down,' he says. ‘This isn't a male conspiracy. It's called being practical. You don't need to go in there. I'm the one the cops fancy. Besides, have you forgotten what happened when you tried to break into the squat? A house with zero locks?'

He's probably right. Despite being the daughter of a junkie prostitute and despite being suspended from school for extreme violence, I've led a pretty boring life. It's only in the last week or so that things have gotten out of hand.

But here I am, standing outside Bill Green's house wondering if I should have bought a stocking to wear over my head.

And that isn't even the awful, horrifying, don't-look-now part. The horrible part is I am actually, mostly, more than a tiny bit, kind of, in a strange way . . . excited.

So I'm not standing by and doing nothing.

‘Fine. What do I do then? Why am I here?'

‘You're the lookout,' says Nate. ‘If Bill comes, make a bird noise and I'll get out as quick as I can.'

I glare at Nate. A bird noise? What are we, cub scouts?

‘Actually,' he says, walking backwards so I don't miss his charming smile. ‘I just like travelling with a beautiful girl.'

Great. I'm the gangsta's moll.

I search for a rock to throw at him. Nothing. At least with my head down he can't see that I'm actually grinning.

He walks across the street – making a car slow down so he can cross. The driver leans on the horn and Nate gives him the finger.

Nate waits at the front door for about five seconds, gives up and approaches the side of the house. The little Italian lady watches him carefully. He pauses in front of the side gate and waves to her, shouting something I don't catch. He's almost smooth enough to pull it off.

The old lady waves her hanky madly and curses him in Italian until he sticks his finger up at her too.

Not that smooth then.

Nate reaches for his back pocket as he slides through the gate and out of sight.

The little old lady shakes her head but she doesn't go running inside her house to call the cops. Seems she's happy to turn the other cheek when it comes to Bill ‘fuck off back to Greece' Green.

I watch the street for about five seconds.

What the hell am I doing? I step off the kerb. Since when do I listen to what anyone tells me?

The old lady straightens. When I get close enough for her to recognise me, I wave. She waves her black hanky back at me. I even get a smile.

She is definitely not dobbing on us.

I hurry round the side of the house, dodging windows and imaginary snipers the whole way. I sneak past a group of bins and find myself crouched on the concrete under a small open window.

I peek over the sill; it's a bathroom.

The window is open enough that all I have to do is slide my hand under and lift. Then I'm pulling myself in, half sitting on the windowsill, praying to Jesus, St Jude and the Virgin Mary to keep me hidden from view.

I kick over a dead pot plant.

Shit.

I pause, waiting for the alarms to start. For a yeti-man to come bursting in the room with a sawn-off shotgun. Nothing happens so I swing my left foot in, only just avoiding knocking all of Bill Green's toiletries into the sink.

Nate's right. I don't think I'll talk to my careers advisor about breaking and entering as an option.

Out the corner of my eye I spy dandruff shampoo, used dental floss, Old Spice and a very hairy cake of soap.

Shudder.

I tiptoe over to the door; it's ajar.

Where the hell is Nate?

I slowly open the door and look both ways. ‘Nate?'

Nothing.

As I creep down the corridor, I hear rattling at the back of the house. It gets louder as I reach the kitchen.

A dark figure appears in the bevelled glass of the back door. It could be Nate or it could be Bill Green . . .

I hide round the side of the fridge.

The glass smashes with an ear-shattering crack.

Not Bill then.

‘Fuck it,' hisses Nate.

A black-clad arm reaches in through the broken window, unlocking the door. The door swings open and he steps in, trying to avoid the broken glass on the floor.

I step out from behind the fridge.

Nate jumps. A sweet little jeté like the seven-year-old girl he is. ‘How the hell did you get in?'

One to Frankie.

‘The bathroom window was open.' I look down at the broken glass at his feet. It crunches as he shifts his weight.

‘Key was in the lock so I couldn't pick it,' he says. ‘Wait,' he narrows his eyes, ‘didn't I tell you to stay outside?'

‘And I did, for a whole five seconds until I remembered that I don't have to take orders from you.'

‘So who's keeping a lookout?'

‘Neighbourhood Watch.'

Nate opens his mouth to argue but I walk away. ‘Relax, will you.' I head down the corridor. ‘This way.'

__________

We find Xavier's room at the back. It's not much of a bedroom. There's a mattress on the floor, unwashed sheets, dirty clothes, smelly sneakers and that's it.

The room stinks of boy. The window is shut and the heavy blinds are pulled across, keeping the light and fresh air out.

‘I think he just crashed here every once in a while,' says Nate.

There's a stack of papers beside the mattress including a few books: a school library copy of
The Call of the Wild
and a couple of exercise books. I sit on the edge of the mattress and flip through them, looking for something. Anything.

Nate leans against the wall, hands in pockets. ‘You've met his old man,' he says. ‘I wouldn't stay here much, would you?'

I open Xavier's English workbook. He's got even worse handwriting than Nate. Of course, in the entire book there's only about three written lines so it's hard to tell. Most pages are filled with drawings – his name in graffiti, sketched faces – I think the pig-woman with the knife through her head is probably his English teacher. Apparently he didn't like her very much.

‘Let's look elsewhere,' he says.

‘We're here to find clues, and that involves more than a boy look.'

‘Go on,' he says. ‘Clue away.'

I scan the room – dirty laundry, no photos, cobwebs – ew. There are little brown watermarks all over the ceiling. I wonder if Xavier tried to make pictures out of them – join the dots. But it's not a clue. Not unless joining the dots spells out something. Maybe Marzoli would know what to look for. Witty observations dripping with sarcasm are about all I'm good for.

But I have to find something because Nate is watching me and he's starting to shake his head.

‘All right, Sherlock,' I say, ‘why would Xavier choose to live in a zombie-rat infested squat over a safe, warm house? Yeah, I've met Bill Green but I've also been to your place.'

Nate's obviously too overawed by my astute observational skills to speak.

I dump the papers. ‘Why did he stop living with his mum? Apparently those two were thick as thieves.'

See? Check out my sarcasm and weep, Marzoli.

‘I wouldn't know,
Watson
,' says Nate. ‘But I reckon being impossible to spend more than five minutes with is a Vega family trait. So maybe that explains it.'

Touché.

He uncrosses his arms and sits on the edge of the mattress. ‘Anyway. He hardly ever mentioned your mum,' he says. He keeps his head down, fingers drumming a nervous pattern against his thigh.

‘Yeah, well, he wasn't real good with telling people the truth.'

‘You know where I met him? Galaxy.'

‘That's sort of broad. Could you narrow it down to a country?'

‘Galaxy is an arcade. Games and shit. I was there and I lifted a few wallets but by the time I got outside everything was gone. Someone had picked
me
. I turn around and there's your brother. Got my whole stash in his arms and he's grinning.'

‘You bonded over him robbing you?'

He shrugs. ‘We didn't bond. I just figured a kid like that would be useful to keep around. And I guess he's not so bad.'

I laugh. ‘Obviously. Why else would you be helping me look for him?'

‘Yeah . . .' He picks a thread from his jeans and flicks it onto the floor.

‘So we don't care about forensic evidence?'

He nods at Xavier's things. ‘Found anything?'

‘No. I mean, I don't think so.' I wave at the table. ‘Help yourself.'

He reaches over me to grab the books. Chlorine, smoke and the lingering stench of public transport. His arm brushes mine.

He mumbles an apology as he pulls back and dumps the papers into his lap. ‘So clues, right? Well, I can tell you right away he was failing pretty much everything.' He waves a report card at me.

‘Unless his school kidnapped him to help maintain their averages I doubt that's important.'

As I look around I realise this is not what I was expecting from my brother's room. Shouldn't it be rotting and full of creepy-crawlies or something? I mean, why else would he choose a squat over this?

Nate is sifting through papers, his face screwed up in concentration.

‘How come you live in a squat?' I ask. I lean back, stretching out my legs.

He keeps his head down, eyes on the papers. But he surprises me by actually answering. ‘My father got sick.'

Sick? As in Tate McClelland Hospice sick? Nate scrutinises Xavier's Maths book, nose scrunched up, like understanding algebra is going to nab him a date with a supermodel or something.

‘Really sick. He died two months ago.'

‘Sorry.'

He flips a page. ‘Don't be. He was shitty and he died. Gambled everything we had. Left me with nothing.'

‘So how come –?'

‘Quit prying.'

‘You're an arsehole.'

‘So are you.' He lets the books fall into his lap and rubs his face. ‘Sorry,' he says. ‘I shouldn't call you that.'

‘I've been called worse. Why do you think I gave Steve a new nose?'

‘Your sore point is your mum so I'm guessing whoever Steve is, he said something about her.'

He looks at me, waiting to be proved right. ‘What would you know, LaBeouf? You got a mum?'

He flinches. ‘Nope. Just a shitty dad.' Those blue eyes take a wander around my face. Assessing, questioning. The tip of his boot rests against my ankle as his eyes settle on mine and, for once, I don't look away.