Good Money (5 page)

‘Superlative Skin Sensations, this is Kiara,' said the girl who answered.

‘I had arranged for a treatment this morning and —'

‘With who were you booked in with?'

The Catholic within cried out at so many grammatical errors, but I remained stoically mute. I'd gotten into trouble in the past for correcting people's grammar. ‘Tania. I'm her neighbour,' I added. ‘I was booked in for a triple golden.'

‘Gold triple,' the girl said coolly. ‘I can't see any booking. Are you sure?'

Now I remembered Tania had said it was off the books. ‘I might have the day wrong. Is she there?'

‘She hasn't come in today. I have to call all her clients.' The whiff of martyrdom in this remark put my dander up. Higher. I wondered how Tania stood the place.

‘Where is Tania?' I heard a female voice in the background ask.

‘It's not like her to not show up.' I heard another girl say.

‘I'll try her mobile again,' said the receptionist, who then hung up on me.

I sat at my desk staring at the screen. On a whim I looked up on an online trader and ordered the box-set of
Breaking Bad
. Then I went back to rubbing my eyes and groaning. I was doing this when something soft rested on my shoulder. I looked, but a swollen belly obscured my view.

‘You okay?' It was Shaninder, a colleague with expert knowledge of domestic violence statistics, the locations of all the women's refuges, and the best Indian restaurants in the western suburbs.

‘Self-harm.'

‘I see.' She laughed. ‘Was it fun?'

I thought of Tania, her crazy generosity, the lovely French wine, Horatio Hornblower. ‘It was a variety of fun.'

‘Good girl,' she said.

I nodded to her bump. ‘How's it going?'

‘All very good. She gets the hiccups.'

‘Really? Didn't know they did that.'

She patted her belly and turned to go.

‘Hey Shaninder, I have a friend who might be in a DV situation.'

‘She still living with him?'

‘No, but I'm concerned. She's not answering her phone.'

‘Flat battery?' She smiled benignly.

‘But she's not at home and not at work. Could you check the refuges?'

‘This conversation, we are not having.' She gave me a look that said I should know better, and left me to go back to rubbing my face.

The hangover was working its way through my eyeballs. I needed to take something. I walked down to Racecourse Road and into a nearby café. Taking a seat in a booth, I ordered tea. The place had mirrors along both walls and from a certain angle an endless-image thing happened — like a cheap special effect on
Dr Who
— making it almost impossible to avoid my reflection. The horror I experienced each time I saw myself was worsening incrementally. I rummaged in my bag for a packet of painkillers and swallowed two capsules. The tea, when it arrived, had soap bubbles on the top. I jiggled the teabag, took a cautious sip, and started to relax.

Why was I anxious for the safety of a woman that, in all honesty, I barely knew? A fear, based on a suspicion, due to a feeling, with no proof — that was what I had. What I needed was advice — low key, discreet counsel on the best course of action. I had contacts. I knew people who helped people. There were the good people of the free legal services. I also knew lots of union people, advocates and advisers and mediators and counsellors. There was my mother. Scratch that. There were priests and nuns and bishops. Rabbis and imams. There was my local member of parliament. There was Phuong.

And there was Mabor.

Right there. Mabor Chol, Adut's younger brother, sitting in a booth across the aisle. Opposite him, sipping a cappuccino, was a man in a purple velvet dinner jacket, open-necked shirt, and aviator sunglasses. Normally, this would be amusing — deserving a chuckle, at least — but at that moment in time, my brain was incapable of humour.

I slumped down to avoid him seeing me. In a semi-crouch, with my face down, and still holding my tea, I squeezed out of the booth and headed to the back of the restaurant. Then I doubled back and slid into the booth behind Mabor. If I glanced in the mirror on the opposite wall, I could see Mabor mangling the straw in his milkshake.

Bits of their conversation drifted back to me.

Mabor, fidgeting: ‘He has to fucking suffer. Like me and Mum and the girls. Like we all are suffering.'

His companion looked pious, like a priest hearing confession. ‘Nobody wants it more than me, believe me.'

‘You could have done it, man. Before he went inside.'

‘It's better this way. I told you that. I keep telling you. These things are easier done inside.'

‘You said you'd protect him.'

The man reached across and smacked Mabor's face. ‘Watch your tone.' He sat back.

Mabor didn't move, or flinch or touch his face, but instead gazed coolly at the man.

‘How could I protect him?' said the man. ‘He doesn't do as he's told.'

‘What are you talking about? He worked hard, man, worked the whole area.'

‘You heard.' The man dressed like a gangster sat back and pulled at his cuffs, calming himself. ‘I had a little job for him and he refused.'

Mabor thumped the table in front of him. ‘Bullshit.'

The man sniffed. ‘Lots of snow coming down,' he said. ‘On the hills. Heh heh.' He leaned back in the booth, arms akimbo. ‘You should take advantage. Know how to snowboard?'

Mabor stood and gathered several plastic shopping bags. ‘Do it. Soon. Okay?'

‘Don't get ahead of yourself. I can't work miracles.' The man sniggered, like he could work one if he wanted to. ‘In this business, you need to be patient. I've lost people over the years. Money too. Cops rip you off. Lost a shitload in a deal that went bad. What you have to learn to do is wait, bide your time then …
wham
!' He slapped a hand into his fist. ‘Take revenge.'

Mabor was shaking, legs, shoulders, nerves twitching. ‘I won't wait.'

‘He's not going anywhere. Now, another — what was that? A frappé?'

‘I'm already late for school.' Mabor hissed and scooted out of the booth, but he stopped and leaned into the man's face. ‘Adut shouldn't have got done, man.'

‘Don't worry, I've got it now. Run along to school, and I'll be in touch.' The gangster pulled his phone from his pocket and started texting.

So. Adut Chol had been dealing — that much was obvious. But there was something else.
I had a little job for him and he refused
.

After a while, the gangster got up and dropped a twenty on the table. As he swaggered out of the café, I got a good look at the face.

A sudden impulse seized me and I ran outside and down Racecourse Road towards the housing commission flats. Running, dodging the two women pushing prams, an elderly slow-coach with a walking-frame, I leapt the single chain slung between the posts and sprinted through the garden, past the playground and the skips and communal wheelie bins that were left strewn about after the garbage collectors had emptied them.

I ran into the foyer, and started stabbing at the
up
button. An age later, I pounded on Mrs Chol's door. She showed no surprise at seeing me, panting and leaning on my knees on her doorstep. She stepped back and allowed me to enter. ‘You came for some coffee? I'll make coffee and I think perhaps you need a glass of water.'

‘What? Oh yeah. Sure. Coffee. And can I use your bathroom?'

‘Of course. You know where it is.'

I went down the hallway and straight into the room Mabor had shared with Adut. I dropped to my knees and felt around under the bed. There was no book. I stuck my head down under there. It was dark, too dark to see, so I slid right under and spread my arms. Something soft brushed my hand and I flicked it away.

‘Here is your water.'

I crawled out. Mrs Chol was standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

‘Thanks. I was just looking for a book of mine, er, that I dropped here.'

Mrs Chol blinked but her face didn't change. ‘You have fluff all over your jumper.'

‘Oh? Ha. Yeah. Not to worry.' I brushed my front and clumps of grey floated to the floor.

‘Come with me, Stella.'

I followed her out to the lounge room. She put my water on a low table and sat on the sofa, and I sat on the armchair. ‘Since the trouble with Adut I have not had the energy to clean.'

‘Jeez, that's understandable — don't even, I mean, don't stress about that.'

Mrs Chol's eyes narrowed slightly. ‘But after the police told me they had arrested Adut's killer, I cleaned all of his things out of his room. I did this for Mabor.'

I nodded. ‘Right.'
All
of Adut's things. ‘What did you do with his stuff?'

‘I put it in the rubbish.'

My smile was a tight stretch of lips. ‘Good.' The rubbish had been collected. The book was gone, landfill. Any sane person would leave it at that — I, however, was now planning to sort through the refuse of the entire city, if need be, for a book.

‘The only things I kept were his books. Textbooks are so expensive. I gave them to Mabor.'

‘What about exercise books? Used ones?'

‘Even those, the books for writing, I gave them to Mabor. Adut's school books had only a little writing in them and Mabor could still use them.'

I was nodding furiously. ‘Good, good.'

‘But I did not find anything belonging to you.'

‘No? You might have confused my book for one of Adut's. Can I go through them and check?'

‘Mabor has them with him. At school.'

‘He had some books on his desk. Maybe they're still there?'

‘Let us go and see.'

‘Let's.'

We stood. At the same time, a wall-phone in the kitchen started ringing. Mrs Chol held my gaze. ‘Wait here for me, Stella.' She went to the kitchen.

‘No need to trouble yourself,' I called from halfway down the hallway. ‘I'll only be a moment.'

I ran to the bedroom and started sorting through the books on the desk. At the bottom of the pile was a stack of exercise books. I shuffled through them. Not there. I moved to the wardrobe; on one side, clothes were neatly folded on shelves, on the other, were some shirts on hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe were shoes lined up on top of some board games, Monopoly, chess. I pulled everything out onto the floor — and there it was, wedged between Scrabble and Cluedo.
Adut Chol, Year Ten, English
. I checked the back page. This was it.

I curled the thin book into a tube, shoved it in my handbag, and hurried back to the lounge. Mrs Chol was in the kitchen; without speaking, she hung up the receiver and came towards me.

‘Got it,' I called breezily. As I made my way out, I turned back to Mrs Chol. ‘See you round,' I said.

‘Like a rissole,' she answered, a look of bewilderment on her face.

5

WITH THE
book safely in my handbag, I jumped aboard a passing tram. It took off, speeding along Racecourse Road, the wheels screaming on the turn at the Showgrounds. It stopped at the lights on Bloomfield Road. I glanced around at my fellow passengers; none of them took any notice of me. Why would they, a sleep-deprived middle-aged woman in a tatty jumper, old jeans, and hair like a feral? No big deal, I'd looked worse. After a day of docking lamb tails, say, when a pile of tails stinking in the heat, bloody and covered in black flies, meant a good day's work. Or that one time during the school holidays when it was my job to ride my motorbike through mobs of sheep to find the flyblown ones. When I found one, I had a tin of foul-smelling chemicals that I poured over the fleece and watched the writhing maggots flee. After that, having fluff on my clothes and a few bags under the eyes were nothing.

Confident I was not being observed, I pulled the book from my bag, now curled and battered. I smoothed it across my knees and started to flip through it. Mrs Chol was right about one thing. It was mostly blank. There was a creative writing piece in the front about a boy with a flying skateboard who saves his family, and the world, from space monsters.

The centre pages were filled with a table of badly ruled lines, with a column of initials followed by several columns of numbers. I fanned out the pages, shook the book a few times, but nothing dropped out. I turned each page separately, the whole book, all forty-eight pages. Not one mention of me, other than my address. Nor was there any reference to an event at a certain commission flat six years earlier, nor the two junkies who lived there and the amount of money involved. I checked the list of initials to see if I recognised anyone: I didn't — nor did I see my own initials there.

I sat back, not knowing what to feel. Relief? Disappointment? I was a bit hungry, I could murder a bacon sandwich and — wait, why were we not moving? The lights had changed more than once and the tram hadn't moved. I craned my neck trying to see what the hold-up was. Cars had stopped at odd angles. Behind us another tram was backed up. I looked up at the sky, the low grey clouds, icy spit falling from them.