Black Ice Part 23

Sat.u.r.day 13 April, 7.40 pm.

Feeling as though his shoulder would pop out of its socket, Damien reached even further into the manhole in the ceiling. Balanced on tiptoes on his bed, one arm shoved in up to his neck, he splayed his fingers, and scrabbled about with increasing desperation. There! Something. How had he pushed it so far in there in the first place? He sc.r.a.ped with his fingernails until he could feel the chain hooked around his finger. He pulled it carefully forward and grasped it in his fist before flopping back down on the bed.

This would be his last night in this room. He sat back against the headboard of the only bed he'd ever owned. He hadn't seen any need to buy a new one when the money started rolling in. Whitey's room, on the other hand Damien's mother's former bedroom resembled a furniture warehouse. The first thing Whitey had bought was a waterbed, too big for the room even without the heavy matching side tables and mirror. Very Whitey: it never occurred to him to measure up the room before laying down the cash for a bedroom suite.

What would Whitey do without him? He'd lived here since Damien's mother left when they were both fifteen. Far as he could tell, Whitey's parents hadn't even noticed him go; they'd certainly never been over here to visit him.

It was possible that Whitey might stay on if Kasem left him alone. Damien reasoned that when he left, there'd be no reason for Nader to keep muscling in when he realised that Whitey couldn't cook. Well, not properly anyway. Damien knew it would be better for everyone when he just disappeared. And he couldn't even afford to tell his friend where he was going. Whitey just didn't think ahead he might tell someone and then Nader could find out. He'd have to tell him something about what was going on, though, why he had to leave. It wasn't just that he felt he owed Whitey that much before dropping out of his life forever his friend had to know just enough to keep him safe.

He sighed deeply, thinking about the worst part of all of this. Leaving uni. Of course, that would be the first pace they'd show up when he went AWOL. All he'd wanted since age twelve was to study at the University of Sydney. When he'd logged onto their site the January after his HSC and learned he'd been accepted to study chemistry, he'd put his face in his hands and cried. The notion that he would ever drop out had been preposterous until this week. He'd completed every cla.s.s a.s.signment, never handing a thing in late, and while some people didn't even open the core texts for the course, he'd read them cover to cover and borrowed every book on the recommended reading list from the library. After he was rolling in cash, he'd just gone out and bought them all.

Damien shook his head and stared morosely at the huge stack of textbooks in the corner. He'd have to buy most of them again. In Oxford. The thought sent a thrill hurtling up his spine, but he bit back his smile. He had to get there first. He should have no problem being accepted as far as his grades were concerned. He'd topped every cla.s.s except one, and that had only been because his lecturer's nephew was in his year, and she hated that he thrashed her sister's boy in everything. b.i.t.c.h. No, the problem lay in potential background checks. He knew that he had no formal criminal record. Yet. Detective Jackson had told him his charges would depend upon his cooperation over the next couple of days. But he knew they'd throw everything at him when they found out he'd left the country. He had to just pray that the administration at Oxford wouldn't check with the police over here. He'd thought it through a hundred times. There was no reason that they should his transcript from Sydney Uni was flawless. They should be able to just proceed with that.

He tried to push the other worries from his mind like the thought of taking that much cash on the plane. Had to be done. He had to get to Oxford and disappear quickly, pay for everything upfront.

He straightened on the bed, took a look at his watch. Almost seven forty-five. He had to get out of there. If he was going to buy his ticket when he got to the airport, he needed some time to make sure he could get on the next flight. He reached for the backpack under the bed. It had been packed for the last week. Just his uni stuff, some awards from school, a few sc.r.a.ps of paperwork his mother had bothered to hang onto. All he really needed to keep from his life so far. Everything else he could buy on the road.

He opened his other hand. The necklace sat like a small, golden puddle on his palm. This was the only thing his mother had left him before taking off to work for Jehovah. And even this was almost an afterthought, he thought, twirling the chain around his index finger, rummaged from her handbag before she left him at the customs gate at the international airport. Jehovah will take care of everything else you need, she'd told him.

Yep, he's doing a great job at the moment, Ma, he thought, sliding the necklace into an envelope and dropping it into his backpack.

Whitey had said he would be here just after eight pm, but he'd never been on time in his life. They'd arranged to meet Byron in the city at ten.

Damien wondered if he'd ever see them again.

50.

Sat.u.r.day 13 April, 7.45 pm.

Ca.s.sie waited in Christian's office wearing a belted white trench coat and white knee-length leather boots. And that was it. It was a cliche, she knew, but she didn't think anyone would be complaining.

Another lawyer, leaving for the night, had no problem letting her wait in Christian's office. He'd seen her there with Christian plenty of times. And Ca.s.sie generally got what she asked for. She sat now in Christian's recliner with her feet crossed on his desk and thought about greeting him with a Sharon Stone moment. Now that would really be a welcome-to-Sat.u.r.day-night-I've-missed-you-baby greeting. She laughed aloud, and stood to look out at the view.

Nope, I can't do it, she thought, that's just too s.l.u.tty. At least it is without any party favours on board. And that's why she was here after all.

Ca.s.sie's mood plummeted. She leaned against the gla.s.s and thought about her motives for coming here tonight. It wasn't to see her boyfriend. She'd known when she woke up at St Vincent's that this guy was not the love of her life. No way did she want to make babies with a man who would dump her, overdosed and naked, at a hospital.

Now where did the baby thoughts come from, she wondered. She'd always been certain that she'd never have kids; could never imagine herself giving her life over to someone else so completely. Not to mention what popping out a baby did to the figure.

But is this all there is, she wondered, watching the night winking into life in the eastern suburbs below her. Since the fight with Jill, she couldn't shake this glumness, or the guilts. It wasn't so much regret about their argument, but more just feeling bad about the way she lived. It was so weird. She'd always loved her life, or pretty nearly always. And when she didn't, there was always a friend on tap to tell her why her life was so great.

Usually at a time like this she would go home to make herself feel better. A weekend in Camden at her parents' house was always good for the soul. She saw such breaks as like a detox retreat: she never took along more than a handful of Valium well, a girl's gotta sleep, and it was so quiet out there, who could sleep with all that nothingness? But isolation aside, there was her mum to feed and fuss over her. And little Lilly, her niece, squealing over the make-up she took for her to play with. Best of all, she'd always put in an appearance at the local supermarket: that was as good for the ego as a school reunion. She'd play Spot the Former Cla.s.smate. Most of them did a runner when they recognised Ca.s.sie. She guessed she wasn't too hard to remember; she hadn't changed a whole h.e.l.l of a lot. But whenever she'd spot a panic-stricken, big-bottomed woman dragging a couple of kids down an aisle, she'd be willing to bet that she'd gone to school with her.

And the guys! Most of them close to bald at thirty, and not letting go gracefully. Shave it off, she wanted to shout at them. Bald can be s.e.xy. But those guys would need more than a Vin Diesel haircut to salvage them. Too much sun, too many beers and no time in a gym. And she could see the effect of their mortgages stooping them forward at the shoulders. She pictured them almost as snails it seemed as though they carried their house and kids on their backs. These c.o.c.ksure boys, once so full of life and so certain of themselves, were now well on their way to their fathers' cynicism and a midlife crisis.

But this time she didn't want to go home. She felt too embarra.s.sed to face her family just yet. They knew her lifestyle was glitz and glamour, but she didn't think they would ever have suspected that it also included cocaine and meth. Ugh! She couldn't believe she'd smoked that s.h.i.+t.

And yet here she was, alone and pretty much naked, waiting for the drug dealer.

Her stomach turned at the thought, startling her. It wasn't just a feeling of guilt this time, but also of disgust. She wanted to cry, but the thought of being a junkie, a wh.o.r.e, and a snivelling wimp dried her tears.

You can always walk out of here, she told herself. It was finally sinking in that she couldn't beat this s.h.i.+t alone. There's always rehab; she remembered her father's words in the hospital.

She moved away from the window, walked towards the door. Towards nothing. There's nothing out there for me, she thought, and took a step back. But there's nothing in here for me either. Ca.s.sie waited on the threshold of her future, feeling empty and cold.

A couple of blocks before Christian's building, Seren checked her digital recorder again. It had become a stupid ritual. She had to press record, capture something, rewind and play it back; she'd watch the tiny screen with the sound off. Then she'd do it again. She always operated the camera using the most minute of movements, hooking her thumb into the pocket just inside her bag and depressing the b.u.t.ton. The tiny device pointed its little gla.s.s nose out through the zipper and captured everything surrounding it in surprising detail. She knew exactly where it was by feel. But if something distracted her, if she even suspected that there'd been a break in her concentration, she'd have to do the ritual again. Twice. Lately, if she'd had a negative feeling during the process, she'd do it three times. One extra to counteract the bad thoughts.

You're losing it, Templeton, she told herself in the cab. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. An intern psychologist at the gaol had told her about the term, and she wished now that she'd never agreed to go along with the stupid test. Some uni girl had arrived at the prison, s.h.i.+ning and brand new, bubbling along behind her supervisor, the burned-out prison psych, Eleanor Carnegie. Carnegie had asked if anyone would be willing to become a subject for Naomi Willis. She was already a full psychologist, and was studying for her masters, the psych had told them. Poor old Carnegie, Seren had thought at the time. The girls had told Seren in her first week that Carnegie was a soft touch. Had more days' sick leave than she showed up, and if you had a session with her, well f.u.c.k knew, you'd be handing her the tissues before she pa.s.sed them across the desk.

Some of the prisoners had signed up for the sessions because it got them out of duties. Seren had signed up because that girl could be her. If her dad hadn't died. If her mum hadn't hooked up with that motherf.u.c.ker. If she hadn't had Marco at fifteen.

Marco was another reason she'd signed up. Because Seren signed up for anything in there anything that would keep her from thinking about her little boy and how the h.e.l.l he was coping without her.

She'd completed hundreds of questions for Naomi. And after all the psychobabble, Uni Girl had told her what she already knew. That Seren was traumatised by her childhood yay, Naomi, top of the cla.s.s and that she had a tendency to be obsessive. Seren had never heard most of the terms before Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. f.u.c.ked up, is how she'd interpreted them. Well, f.u.c.k them, she'd thought. If they can break it, I can fix it.

She'd told Naomi thanks but no thanks for the ongoing therapy sessions and went back to her revenge fantasies. No point forever living in the past. Seren had a son. He had a future, and she was going to make sure he got there with less baggage than she'd dragged into hers.

Now, she stepped out of the taxi and handed the frothing driver a cab voucher without even looking at him. The longer she did this, the dirtier she felt. She shrugged off his leers, squared her shoulders, and stalked into the lobby of the impressive building as though she owned it.

Christian waited by the lifts. Always on time. Always the gentleman. Thirty metres of gleaming granite stretched between them, and as she sashayed towards him, she remembered crossing the same floor holding her little boy's hand on the way to visit the eye specialist. She clenched that hand now, as though his chubby fist was still in her own, giving her strength as it had that day, each of them then overwhelmed by the sophistication of the city.

No wonder she had been completely bowled over by this guy, she thought. Christian Worthington leaned against the wall, spotlit by points of illumination embedded in the floor, the ceiling and the wall around him. As though surrounded by magic. He might as well have been from another universe. Any man caught in her housing estate wearing a scarf like that loosely draped around his neck would find himself bent over a public toilet servicing Tready and the other boys who'd done a lot of time; and doing it old-school, using a plastic bag as a condom, just like inside. But call one of those blokes a poofter and you wouldn't live another week they knew they loved women; it was just that they had got a taste for the girly-boys in the lock-up, and it was fun to eat out for a change.

But in this world, Christian belonged. No more than that. It seemed to Seren as though he stood above it, reaching down to manipulate things the way he liked them, so that everything was always perfect, for him.

Like he had written the software.

Seren crossed the last three strides between them, a knowing smile in her bottomless blue eyes. She snaked a bare arm around his shoulder and nuzzled his neck in greeting.

She wondered how he'd feel if he knew she was a virus in his system.

Byron slammed his hand against the steering wheel and screamed.

'For f.u.c.ksakes, you f.u.c.king c.u.n.t, the light was orange, you coulda gone through that, you piece of s.h.i.+t!'

He thought about taking his wog-basher out from under the pa.s.senger seat and teaching this f.u.c.ker in the Volvo that he should have learned how to drive before he dragged his a.r.s.e out here tonight. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to get himself together. Get a grip, Byron, he told himself. This is your step up in the world. He forced himself not to look at the clock as he waited. It had taken him twenty minutes to get around the PittGeorgeMarket Street block. Why would anyone wanna come into this f.u.c.king city anyway, he wondered.

At the front of Worthington's building he pulled the Rexie into a no standing zone. Motherf.u.c.kers could give him a ticket: he didn't care. Worthington could take care of that too. He jumped out of his c.o.c.kpit and popped the boot, pulled back the carpet and lifted out the gym bag. He glanced down at his s.h.i.+ny Nike tracksuit: it was the latest from the US. A little too cool for the couriers around here, but he figured he could pa.s.s. Besides, Worthington said he'd wait for him in the lobby, to get him up past security. Byron beep-locked the Rexie and jogged into the building.

Well f.u.c.k me sideways, he thought, spotting Worthington immediately, standing beside the security desk. That lucky motherf.u.c.ker. Byron didn't think he had ever seen a chick that hot in his life, even with her short hair. Tall b.i.t.c.h, though, he thought as he got closer. She's as tall as Worthington. Bet she's a model, he thought. Bet she won't even look at me. But if she's hanging round with Worthington she's probably got a c.o.ke habit. Byron knew that only beautiful girls got c.o.ke habits the dealers wouldn't waste the blow on the fat ones. Byron increased his swagger just a smidge. Well, he was a new player now. Maybe he could get this b.i.t.c.h to look at him. The height difference wouldn't worry him it was all the same when they were on their knees.

'You're a little late, Byron,' said Worthington.

'Yeah, sorry, boss. f.u.c.ken traffic.'

'Yes. Let's get you out of here.' Worthington nodded at the security guard staring at them and turned towards the lifts. On the move, he said, 'Byron, this is Seren; Seren, Byron.'

Byron stared up at the girl, expecting her to stare straight through him. Instead, he felt suddenly as though he were falling, lost in her blue eyes. Rather than the vacant, soulless, is-someone-there-I-can't-see-anything look he got from most b.i.t.c.hes, this chick's eyes seemed to tell a tale that went forever speaking intensely to him. Byron couldn't understand a word.

He dropped his gaze back to the ground, as much as an instinctive avoidance of the cameras everywhere in this f.u.c.king building as a way to hide the way he felt. How he felt, he had no idea. He only knew he could never handle a b.i.t.c.h like this, on her knees or not, and he hated Worthington more than ever for being able to control someone like her.

All the way up in the elevators Seren prayed that the bag held what she thought it did. This Byron could not more stereotypically fit the part. Oh my G.o.d, that tracksuit! He had to be a drug dealer, didn't he? The size of the bag worried her, though. It was too big. There was no way all of whatever was in there was drugs. Could it be cash?

It could, Seren, she told herself, just be this wannabe's change of clothes for the night. He might just be Christian's client.

But there was something about the way Christian had introduced them, about the importance he'd placed on meeting this guy in the lobby, about the tension she perceived emanating from Christian's body.

Another thought occurred to her as they walked down the quiet fluorescent hallway past closed doors on the way to Christian's office. If this was a major drug deal, why would he do it in front of her? But then again, why not? she answered herself. She'd seen him do plenty of deals; he trusted her. And even if he didn't, who was she to threaten him? He was Christian Worthington. She was a parolee.

A parolee with a digital camera.

Seren prayed tonight would be the night.

Byron didn't know what the chick was doing here.

Well, he got it that Worthington wouldn't want this one getting too far away from him on a Sat.u.r.day night. Just on the way round the block out the front he'd seen two SL600s and a new Bentley. That was 1.5 mil right there. Plenty of money out there to s.n.a.t.c.h a girl like this right out from under a p.r.i.c.k's nose. But surely Christian would make her wait somewhere else while they did the deed? b.i.t.c.hes shouldn't be involved in business: that was Byron's motto.

He let himself fall a couple of steps behind them, imagined himself holding that a.r.s.e. He smiled he was going to be imagining that picure a fair bit, he knew, starting later tonight.

Oh s.h.i.+t! Byron dropped his eyes to the floor. Blondie had seen him checking her out. His cheeks flamed. Did she just wink at him? Nah, Byron, you silly p.r.i.c.k, he told himself. She must have had something in her eye. That is, unless she does know what's in this bag, and wants a little taste.

Just focus on what you're doing here, Byron. One thing at a time. Kasem's waiting at Merrylands, and I've gotta bring him back eighty grand. This is the start of something big. Finally, I'm gonna get some big-time action, he thought. He was getting tired of the looking-around-hands-in-pockets-quick-swap kind of deals done in alleyways. Pockets full of sweaty twenties and wads of little plastic bags.

This is the kind of work I want to do, he told himself. Proper business deals in places like this, with people like them he watched the backs of the G.o.ds walking before him. Byron straightened a little, and then spotted the winking blue light at the end of the corridor and dropped his eyes again.

Knowing how badly she'd regret this later leaving with nothing Ca.s.sie forced herself again to the office door. She had to go. Right then, Christian's voice approached from the hall outside.

Her heart jumped to her throat. With no idea why she would do such a thing, she dived into the coat cupboard at the entrance to the room. She left the door open just a crack.

She stood there in the semi-dark wardrobe, feeling like a complete idiot. At least she had a few more moments to figure out how this Sat.u.r.day night was going to play out. Would she wait until Christian left, find her own way out and telephone for a bed at a detox clinic? Or, would the need to quench this anxiety just one more time see her use this cupboard to check her own coat and go out to meet Christian wearing just the boots?

At least it's good to have choices, she thought.

51.

Sat.u.r.day 13 April, 7.55 pm.

Damien left the note for Whitey on his pillow and pulled the bedroom door closed. One thing he would not miss, he decided, would be the stench of this house. He made a face. When he got settled he'd have someone come and clean for him every week, and he'd make sure his place smelled great. He'd been learning about the chemical components and synthesis of scent this past semester, and he'd been thinking that he might try his hand at making perfume. There was money in that too. He smiled. He could make a signature scent just for Erin. Might not get him the same kudos as a handful of eccy, but he figured that any girl would like their own designer perfume, especially if it came delivered with a business-cla.s.s trip to the UK.

'Hey, uni boy. Nice bag. Is that what the in-crowd carries around these days?'

Damien bolted for the front door, ripped it open and smacked straight into Urgill's chest. The bald man belly-charged him back into his lounge room and he tripped, falling backwards and landing spreadeagled, staring up at the ceiling.

'Where you off to tonight, uni boy?' Kasem Nader stood up from the lounge and prodded at Damien's ribs with a pointy-toed boot.

Damien just lay there.

'Not a lot of work going on around here,' Nader said. 'That's not what a business partner likes to see.' Nader stepped over Damien and walked towards the kitchen. Damien heard the front door close and saw Aga.s.si follow Urgill into his house.

'You see, what you've got here, Damo, are a few mystery shoppers,' said Nader. 'It's a business term; not sure whether you're familiar with it. Anyway, basically, management that would be me sends in a couple of people to check on progress when their staff that would be you least expect it.' He smacked his hand down onto a large box on the counter that hadn't been there before Damien went to his room to get the necklace.

p.r.i.c.k must've let himself in while I had my head in the roof, Damien guessed.

'Now, I know Whitey's on his way over here,' said Nader. 'And I told Byron to get his a.r.s.e back here after he makes some deliveries for us. But, you, you're the chef, Damo, and you can't just go clocking off whenever you want. There are no union hours in the drug trade, mate.' He moved back towards Damien. 'You b.l.o.o.d.y uni students. You're all left-wing unionists, I know.' He smiled widely. 'What are you still doing on your a.r.s.e, you idiot?' Nader reached out a hand and Damien saw nothing else he could do but take it. Nader yanked him to his feet, and gave him a playful punch to the deltoid. He nearly hit the rug again. f.u.c.k.

Damien rubbed his throbbing shoulder. There was obviously no way he could get out of here tonight, and the longer he stayed in Australia, the closer he was coming to copping formal charges. He didn't know what would happen then about travelling. Could they automatically stop him at the airport when he tried to buy a ticket? He didn't know how these things worked.

'So where were you going anyway, Damo?' Nader wanted to know.

'Just to get something to eat,' he said, his voice reedy and high-pitched. I sound like I've just been castrated, he thought. He stared morosely at the thugs who shared his lounge room and figured he pretty much had been. 'You scared the f.u.c.k out of me. I didn't know who you were, sitting there.'

'Yeah? You don't need to be scared of me, Damo.' Nader turned to Urgill. 'Go get some food,' he said. 'What do you want, Damien? Chinese? KFC? What about Lebo?'

'Whatever,' said Damien. As if he'd be able to eat anything. What the h.e.l.l would happen with the listening device now? Would this mean the cops would say he hadn't cooperated? They couldn't! Detective Jackson said she'd make sure Kasem Nader wouldn't come over here tonight. Great job there.

'What's that?' Damien asked, walking towards the kitchen and the box that took up most of the bench. Nothing he could do about the cops now. He was stuck here with these p.r.i.c.ks until they decided they were ready to go.

'Pseudo,' said Nader.

'What, all of it?'

Nader laughed. 'You think that's a lot? You toys. I've got a f.u.c.king warehouse of this s.h.i.+t. You'll get a box a day for starters until we can get somewhere bigger for a better production run.'

This time Damien laughed. It sounded as though he'd inhaled helium. 'Are you crazy! Where the h.e.l.l did you get that much? And anyway, I can't cook that fast. We're not set up to turn around that much s.h.i.+t.'

'So we set you up,' said Nader. 'That's another reason that you're where you are, Damien, and I'm where I am. You see an obstacle; I see a solution. You see a problem; I see an opportunity. But that's okay. That's why there are soldiers and generals.' He moved to stand next to Damien and gripped his shoulder. 'I don't even know that I'd call you a soldier, Damo. Aga.s.si, over there? Now, he's a soldier. Urgill, soldier. What are you? Maybe you're in the engineering corps? Is that what they call it? Whatever. You're my little uni boy, and you're finally gonna learn what it means to work.'

Nader turned to face his friends. 'Hey, Aga.s.si, you heard that joke about the uni student who goes for a job in a deli to pay his way through school?'

'Nuh,' said Aga.s.si. He didn't sound as though he especially wanted to.

'The deli owner tells him he's got the job and to go mop out the back. The uni boy goes, "Mop! I've got a Bachelors Degree and I'm studying for my Masters!" So the deli boss comes from around the counter and grabs the mop. "Oh yeah?" he says. "Gimme the mop then and I'll show you how to use it."'

Aga.s.si barked out a laugh. Urgill smiled at Nader expectantly, waiting. 'I don't get it,' he said, after a pause, big, confused smile still in place.