The Ottoman Motel (22 page)

Tarden parked in a back street a few blocks from the pub. He didn't want the temptation of his car there waiting. He knew what would happen. It was bad enough he was about to hurl himself off the wagon.

His body still stung from Iris's words, as if she had physically hit him. How did everyone know he hadn't sold a catch in so long? He had certainly never mentioned it, just went along and exaggerated his stories like they all did, tales of bigger hauls and quicker bites and the usual bullshit.

A thought hit him as he hustled down the empty Sunday street: how much else did everybody know? If they knew his money didn't come from fishing, did they guess where it
did
come from? Did Madaline know? Did Tommy? But if they did, what was taking them so long? Only a week from now, a semi-trailer would roll in, pull up outside the shed, and roll out with a few hundred cans of ‘Assorted Tinned Fruit' on board. And if they weren't caught then, there was always the next load of raw product dropped off for storage, always the next pick-up. Any time the cops could burst in, guns drawn. Any time they could catch him and Kuiper sitting by the canning machine. What would that be worth? Another twenty years? Thirty?

He stopped to control his breathing. Equal breaths in and out. First a drink, he thought. Some hot chips and a few
schooners. Already he felt the shameful buzz. Already he knew a few drinks would become more, and more still. But what the fuck, no one could put up with all this and stay clean. He entered the pub from the side, enjoying the way you had to give a little push against the swinging door and there was that moment when the warm, comforting smell washed over you—not even a smell, but a feeling—and you immediately relaxed. It was these tiny moments he knew he would miss most of all if he went back inside.

And those familiar sights and sounds: the gentle clink of glasses, the hum of conversation. Rhythms, thought Tarden. Things you didn't have to worry about because they'd always be the same. He couldn't see Robbie anywhere. Probably better that way. He took a seat by the bar, watching Nat fiddling with the cash register, pushing buttons and whacking its side. Eventually—and as always—Nat hefted it up and tipped it forwards, yanking out the drawer to deposit some change.

‘Should replace that thing,' said Tarden.

Nat smiled. ‘Gonna replace it for me are you, Jack?'

Tarden chuckled. He always enjoyed Nat's company, one of the rare locals who took things with a grain of salt. Born pessimists, the rest of them, happy to wallow in their own misery and, especially, that of others. He knew now, of course, how much they enjoyed
his
misery. But they could wait. He raised his hand to Nat. ‘Schooner, thanks.'

‘Not a Coke, mate?' Nat tilted his head. ‘Sure?'

Tarden shook his head. ‘Schooner.'

Nat shrugged. ‘You're the boss.' He pulled a beer.

Tarden's mouth watered. Nat was all right. He wished Robbie wasn't so constantly rude to him. He'd called Nat
coon
to his face more than once, and worse behind his back. Not that Tarden had much to say about those things one way or another. But there were some things you said and some things you just thought. And offending the owner of the only pub in town was just stupid.

‘Plans for the evening?' said Nat.

‘You're looking at it.' Tarden tipped his head back and downed half the schooner. There were some feelings in life that were hard to beat. ‘Another of those, thanks.' He raised the glass again, drained it.

‘Might want to slow down, mate,' said Nat. ‘At this rate, we'll be empty by eight.'

Tarden spread his hands on the bar and nodded. ‘Just had to get that first one down.' He slapped a twenty on the bar, turned to the TV fixed high on the opposite wall. End of a league match, or the start of another: the static on the screen made it hard to tell. He felt the barman's eyes still on him. He turned back around. ‘You right, Nat?'

Nat scratched the side of his nose. ‘You know,' he said. ‘I could really use another old head behind here some nights.' He pulled another schooner, placed it on the bar.

Tarden sighed. ‘This again? You know I'm more comfortable on this side of the counter. Where's Megan?'

‘It's her night off.'

‘Well, good help's hard to find. As is a good drink.' Tarden sipped his beer. ‘So my position remains.'

‘Really, Jack.' Nat leaned his considerable weight forward on the counter. ‘Decent hours, plus you know the regulars.'

The regulars
, Tarden thought. Back-stabbing pricks. He said, ‘I'm pretty happy where I am.'

‘No offence,' said Nat, ‘but it doesn't look like it.'

‘Listen.' Tarden put down his glass, harder than he meant to. ‘I just want a couple of quiet drinks, maybe watch a bit of the game, get a bucket of chips.' Equal breaths: in, out. He pushed the twenty across the beermat and turned back to the TV. Everyone wanted in on his fucking personal business.

He peered down the bar at the two old bastards teetering on their stools, middies gripped death-tight in crusty fingers. This was his future, he supposed: hunched over and calcified, a small-town gargoyle. Where the hell else would he go?

A spike in noise. One voice, above the others. Tarden spun around and Robbie was coming through, his arm around somebody. A girl, a woman. Dressed in black, chlorine-blonde hair hanging in front of her face. Fucking kidding—Megan. A fresh wave of anger rose in him. It wasn't allowed to get to him, he knew. Him and Robbie, nobody in town was supposed to know. But of course, he realised now, everybody fucking did. Everything hidden, nothing a secret.

Robbie and Megan collapsed into a round booth at the back of the bar with tallies, both nearly empty. There was his too-fast laugh. There was the shake of his head. Tarden's anger was shot through with a vein of fear. When you knew someone well enough, you knew their warning signs. Robbie drew his fingers down Megan's cheek and kissed her. She ran her hands through his hair; Tarden could feel the hair in his own hands. He got off the barstool and made his way towards them. He felt moisture on his fingers, realised he'd tipped his glass too far over. He stood by their table, wondering why he was the one lost for words.

Kuiper pulled himself away from Megan. His eyes were wide. ‘Jacky boy,' he said. ‘Jacky boy. What a pleasant surprise.' He made a sit-down motion.

Tarden didn't move.

‘This is Megan,' said Kuiper, his arm wrapped securely around her shoulder. ‘My new friend.'

Megan eyed Tarden with distaste. Her mouth hung open. It was clear she was ripped on something. Tarden hoped to hell it wasn't
their
product.

‘She's from Mudgee,' said Kuiper. ‘Originally. That near where you grew up?' He gestured to Tarden with a grand hand movement. ‘You probably fucked her once, Jack.' He laughed, and Megan joined in. He slid his hand along her leg. ‘But you'd have been long gone from those country towns. You were the Sydney Strangler by then. Is that the right name?'

‘Robbie,' said Tarden. ‘Leave it out.'

‘Too late for that,' he said. ‘I've already put it in.' A fresh round of sniggers. ‘Isn't that right?'

Megan nodded, her head swinging alarmingly from her neck.

‘What?'

‘This girl,' he poked his finger at her, ‘can suck cock like it's what she was born to do. Bookends, Jack. That's what we are. You fucked her then and I fucked her now.'

Tarden felt the floor shift under his feet. ‘Shut the hell up.' Fingers flexing, trying to keep his weight even.

‘Best I've had in ages.' Kuiper groped Megan's breasts through her T-shirt.

She pushed his hand away. ‘Fuck off,' she said. ‘You said I'd get another sample.'

Tarden watched her trying to focus. ‘How much have you two
had
?' he said, trying hard to keep his voice a whisper. He put his schooner down on the table. His hands were shaking. How the fuck could Robbie be so stupid?

Kuiper rolled his eyes. ‘See what I have to put up with? Jack here did not go to business school. He has no idea about supply and demand.' He laughed. ‘He's got twelve years on me, and treats
me
like I'm the old bastard losing my mind.'

Megan let her chewed fingernails play at her mouth. ‘I want another one,' she said. ‘Just need one more. You promised.'

‘Jesus give me strength.' Kuiper held his hands in the air. ‘These little cunts are never satisfied.'

Tarden stole a glance at the bar. Nat was somehow oblivious, restocking bottles with his back to them.

‘You got anything on you, Jack?' Kuiper stood up. ‘Jacky-boy, you got something for my fuck-buddy?'

Tarden breathed in deep and let his anger bloom. Smaller evils for the greater good, he thought, aiming his first punch straight at Robbie's mouth.

Simon watched Pony's rucksack jiggling on his back as they passed over a rough section of road. He swore he could hear the tin can, the drugs rattling inside. It was Pony who'd insisted they bring them along. Evidence, he said. A bargaining chip. Simon hoped to God Madaline wasn't home. Or maybe he hoped she was home. Maybe Pony would lose his nerve and they could forget the whole thing. After Gin's disappearance, Pony had decided it was time to begin investigations in earnest. After they'd eaten the cake, he'd taken Simon aside and told him. Pony already had his rucksack packed and the bikes ready to go at the side of the house. Simon couldn't help thinking that maybe Pony was too preoccupied with the
adventure
, and that two boys on bikes with a handful of pills had very little chance of making anything happen. As Simon's mind wandered, he'd fall behind Pony, who kept on looping back, turning his bike around to flash past Simon and appear behind him again.

‘Come on. You're riding like a girl.' The wind punched holes in his voice.

‘What if she's home?' said Simon. He let his feet coast the pedals. ‘She only just left the party.'

‘Then we wait. Anyway, she
should
be out trying to find your mum and dad.'

‘I just think—what will we do when we get there? What are we looking for?'

Pony lifted his fingers from the handlebars, stretched them out. ‘Simon,' he said, ‘I don't know. Okay? I don't know what we'll find. But we have to try something. Name me one other person in this town who is lifting a finger to help you.'

Simon's cheeks fired with shame. ‘Pony, I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Thanks—thank you for helping me. I don't know what I'd—'

‘Save it,' said Pony. ‘Let's just go.' He began to accelerate away.

Simon rose up in his seat and pushed into the pedals, his legs already burning with the effort. They swung from sealed roads to dirt paths, Pony following a tiny white track just off the verge. Simon wondered how many times Pony had cycled these paths. At a set of crossroads they turned left and huffed up a short sharp hill. Simon's breath felt sour and jagged by the time they reached the top. He sighed with relief when Pony skidded his bike to a stop.

‘This is it,' he said, clipping his helmet to the handlebars.

Simon couldn't see a house anywhere, but then realised they were at the bottom of Madaline's driveway. The entrance was guarded by thick rainforest foliage; Simon remembered the ferns slapping the windscreen of her car in the dark. Pony wheeled his bike into the undergrowth. ‘Just in case someone comes looking for us,' he said.

‘But if someone's looking, shouldn't we let them know where we are?'

Pony shook his head. ‘You're still thinking like a kid, Simon. Like everyone wants to look after you. That's not how the world works.'

Simon rolled his bike off the road in silence and set it next to Pony's. What was the point of the world, he thought, if no one cared about anyone else?

They made their way up the steep driveway on foot, gravel crunching with each step. The overhanging plants made the day darker, thick as they were with shadow and moisture. Simon remembered a trip to a plant nursery with his mother where he had become lost among the dark hearts of ferns and rubber plants. The same smell. The sense made him calm, now as it did then, despite being alone, out of his parents' reach.

They got to the end of the driveway. Pony changed his steps to slow-motion, drew himself back into the leaves. Madaline's car was clearly visible, parked in front of the house.

‘She's still here,' said Simon. ‘What do we do?'

‘You keep your voice down for a start,' whispered Pony.

Simon joined Pony at the edge of the driveway. He sunk back into the foliage, feeling the wet tips of leaves on his back. Above Madaline's roof, the sky was leaching colour. Behind the house were tall palm trees. He heard the creak of their trunks, watched the fronds shimmer with life.

‘Weird,' he said.

‘What?'

‘It's like a desert island.'

Pony screwed up his face. ‘
You're
weird.'

They stood in silence for a few minutes. The wet leaves seemed to grow in around them. Simon's back was freezing. Whenever he went to say something, Pony would shush him. Just as Simon was ready to turn around and walk back to their bikes, the front door to Madaline's house banged open and she ran out, not in her dress now but jeans and a jumper, holding a thick black belt and a black leather case. As she drew closer, Simon saw it was a gun in a holster. Pony had seen it too: he mimed a pistol with his finger, shot it with his thumb.

Madaline jumped in her car and fired the engine. Pony set his arm across Simon's chest to force him back further into the leaves. The smell of earth was overpowering. Madaline's car drove past them. Simon held his breath, but Madaline's eyes were fixed dead ahead.

‘Where's she going?' said Simon, after the car had gone.

Pony stepped back onto the driveway, brushing wet leaves from his shirt, and shrugged. ‘Somewhere she needs a gun.'

‘Should we follow her?'

‘On our bikes?' Pony shook his head. ‘Come on, let's find a way in.'

‘What if she comes back?'

Pony ignored him and bounded up the driveway, up the stairs. He tried the front door, which was locked. He tried to get his fingers under a window frame. Peered up at the roof, as if it were possible to climb in through the chimney.

‘Don't break anything,' said Simon.

‘God,' said Pony, ‘you
are
a girl.' He set his rucksack down on the porch, unzipped it and pulled out the leather wallet of lock picks. He was in the middle of choosing the right ones when his eye seemed to catch something at the bottom of the door. He clucked his tongue. ‘Deadbolt.'

‘You can't pick a deadbolt?'

‘Not with these things.' He drummed his fingers on his leg.

‘Maybe there's a back way in,' said Simon.

The two boys went back down the steps and made their way around the side of the house, down the narrow space between wall and fence, their feet treading carefully over uneven pavers. Eventually the path led them to a wooden gate. It wasn't locked, but when Pony pushed on it, a whoosh of leaves suggested it was hemmed in by a thick thatch of plants. Simon leaned his weight on the door as well, and it gave in with a creak, dark green leaves springing from the gap. They squeezed through, fighting through the ferns to get to open space.

Madaline's backyard was a large concrete slab, surprising in its plainness against all the greenery around it. There was a tiny dead garden at the back of the lot, a washing line near it, but everything else was bare. A chain-link fence ringed the property. A collection of spindly potplants sat by the back door, a white plastic table underneath a window. One plastic chair. One mug.

‘We've got to get inside.' Pony walked over to the door, eyeing it up. He held his palm to his forehead. ‘Oh, come on.'

The door was bracketed with
two
deadbolts.

Pony tried lifting the window. ‘We're going to have to break the glass,' he said.

‘No,' said Simon. ‘We can't.' He knew they would already be in trouble, but
breaking in
to a police officer's house?

Pony looked at him. ‘Got a better idea?'

‘Just wait. Just wait.' Simon tried desperately to think. ‘Hold on.' He went over to the door and crouched down. He put his fingers into the dirt around one of the potplants.

‘What the hell?' said Pony.

Simon dug into another plant. ‘I just thought that maybe…hey!' He pulled out a set of keys, stuck with clods of dirt.

Pony slowly clapped his hands. ‘Fair play, Simon Sawyer. Let's get in there.'

The door opened into Madaline's kitchen, a dingy room with a burnt-orange countertop and dirty wooden cupboards. There was a baked-on smell from something that had been cooked long before and had never really left. The only signs of life were strange little plants in clay pots under the unboarded window: cacti, Simon guessed, some with spikes and bumps, others with wispy hair, spindled fingers. One had a wide ceramic hat and sunglasses painted on. Simon led them through the kitchen. Pony traced his fingers over benches and chairs as they went. The lounge room was as Simon remembered it. Perhaps even messier in natural light. Piles of paper that had been hidden in the shadows were now exposed. A slice of full light that fell on a pile of plastic folders had fallen there more than once; the sun had faded their covers from black to light grey. On the arm of Madaline's chair, the brown leather recliner, a half-eaten sandwich sat, its dry edges curling.

‘Man,' said Pony. ‘You were right about all the paperwork.' He peered at a blue folder on the floor. ‘Expense reports,' he said. ‘Cool.'

Simon couldn't see anything cool about expense reports, but he had to admit that all the information potentially held in the room was exciting. Surely something here would tell them about his parents, or about the drugs, or about…

Pony let out a low whistle. He was examining the large bookcase on the opposite wall, the shelves crammed with an odd mix of normal books and coloured ring-binders, the sort Simon had used once for school. Pony ran his fingers along the rows, tilting his head to read each binder. ‘This is crazy.'

‘What is?'

‘It's…this isn't the police station. That's Tommy Parker's house. But there's all these reports here.'

Simon came over and peered at the ring-binders. Some had small, cramped writing on their spines, the others were labelled in a larger, looped hand. Most of the titles were boring, but they all had one thing in common: a date written at the bottom. ‘How do we even know where to start?'

Pony rubbed his cheek. ‘I dunno.' He took a binder off the shelf and started flipping through it.

Simon felt a flutter of panic. ‘What about fingerprints?'

Pony held up his hand. On the top pad of each finger was a small round band-aid. ‘You think I haven't done this before? You've got so much to learn, Simon Sawyer.'

Simon shook his head. Pony was the strangest person he'd ever met.

They spent a few more minutes looking through the bookshelves, not finding anything of interest, until Simon spied something on the very bottom shelf. A folder bound in red leather, standing out from the vinyl covers around it. ‘What's that?'

Pony pulled it out with his band-aid fingers. He flipped it open, scanned it. ‘Holy shit!'

‘What?'

‘Holy shit!' Pony smacked his palm against his forehead.

‘
What
?' Simon could only make out a plain page of writing. ‘Show me.'

Pony slowly turned his head. ‘You're going to want to sit down.'

They went over to the couch and sat side by side.

‘This,' said Pony dramatically, handing over the leather folder. ‘This is Madaline's resignation letter.'

‘What?'

‘She quit the police force. Two years ago. Look!' He pointed at the page. It was a letter, with official police letterhead. It was dated two years before. ‘And look why.'

Simon scanned the words.
Owing to my unprofessional mismanagement in the disappearance of Stephanie Gale, it is with great regret…
Simon looked up. ‘It's because of Audrey and Gin's mum.' The thought settled on him.

Pony tipped his head back. ‘This is wild.' He was grinning. ‘This is absolutely wild.' Simon's head spun. If she wasn't even still a police officer, then why was she pretending to be? Why hadn't she been replaced? Why was she in charge of the search for his parents? Who else even knew about it? ‘She's not going to find my parents, is she?'

‘I knew it,' said Pony. ‘I mean, I knew it, but this is wild. We've found this out, you and me. No one else has figured this out.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘We've got to find out what happened,' he said. ‘We've got to work out why she quit.'

Simon stared at the abandoned sandwich on the arm of the chair. He felt the taste of sour mustard and curdled cheese. He felt his stomach giving way. He smelled mothballs and old ink, dust and hand cream. This was the feeling of all hope disintegrating. He lowered his head between his knees, willing away the dark thoughts that were piling up like wet fish flapping on a trawler's deck. He grabbed his ankles tightly, fighting the heat-fermented bubble of vomit rising at his throat. Just before he was sick, in one clear-eyed moment, he saw the other binder, bigger than the others, hiding under the couch, held together with rubber bands. And the name, printed sideways on its spine.
Case File: Stephanie Rhelma Gale.