Black Ice Part 6

'And you, Ms Templeton, need to say it. Why did your ten-year-old son spend the last twelve months of his life in the care of the state?'

'I was in gaol.'

'And why was that, Ms Templeton?'

'Look, I don't have to do this.' Seren tasted acid at the back of her throat. 'Why should I sit here and listen to this? You've given me the paperwork. I know what I have to do, now can I just get out of here? I need to see my son.'

'Actually, Ms Templeton, you do have to do this. I'm your probation and parole officer and I tell you what to do. And you do what I tell you to do, or you go straight back to . . .'

'Yeah, yeah, I know. I go straight to gaol, do not pa.s.s go, do not collect two hundred dollars.'

'. . . Silverwater.' Ms Thomasetti completed her sentence. 'Now, I do not like to be interrupted, Ms Templeton, and the interruption will not divert our conversation. You will come to learn this.' She tugged a little at the hem of her skirt, trying in vain to cover her white knees. She gave up and tapped her pencil three times against the desk. 'Now, Ms Templeton, let's get back to it. What did you do to cause you to go to gaol, resulting in your son having to spend the past year in foster care?'

Seren drew herself up to her full height and drilled a five-second stare into the rolls of fat around Ms Thomasetti's knees. She smiled inwardly when the woman brought the folder down to cover them.

'Although I know you have it in that file right there, Ms Thomasetti, I will tell you again anyway. I was locked up for possession of ice. What you don't know, Ms Thomasetti, is that the ice did not belong to me, and that I hadn't used drugs for eight years before I was busted.' She stopped speaking aloud, but the rant continued in her head. You also don't know that the person to whom the drugs belonged was supposed to love me. That even when I was caught he promised he would never let me spend a night in gaol. That he told me he'd be my lawyer but didn't ever register, and didn't even bother showing up at my court case.

Ms Thomasetti made a smile that looked as though she had a toothache.

'Do you know, Ms Templeton,' she said, 'that I don't think I've ever seen a woman in here who was guilty? Isn't that peculiar? All of you, to a person, sit there and tell me how it was someone else's fault. And I think that's why so many of you end up right back where you came from. Denial, Ms Templeton: you'll learn about it in NA, if you bother to go. Unfortunately, attendance at the meetings was not made one of your bail conditions, so I have no way to compel you to attend, but I would urge you to seek help for your addictions.'

Seren smiled sweetly. And you should try Weight Watchers, she said with her eyes.

Ms Thomasetti tapped her pencil again on the paper.

'And the final point. Number four,' she said. 'You must adequately care for your son and you must maintain your rental unit properly. The Department has obtained an affordable private rental apartment for you. This point, point number four,' she continued, 'includes and this is vitally important, Ms Templeton never missing a rental payment. Should a rent payment be overdue, you will have violated your parole conditions and you will return to prison. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Ms Thomasetti.'

'Very good, Ms Templeton. Now, please sign here.'

14.

Tuesday 2 April, 11 am.

Frances Jackson plucked at the dressing gown she'd draped around her daughter's shoulders. The man's business s.h.i.+rt had been removed, and under the robe Ca.s.sie wore the thin, shapeless hospital smock used by patients preparing for surgery. The pale blue of the smock was a deeper shade of the bruises under Ca.s.sie's eyes.

Ca.s.sie slept, or pretended to.

Robert Jackson, Ca.s.sie's father, sat in the chair recently vacated by the psychiatrist, Dr Lambton. Jill stood behind her father, leaning against the wall, her face hidden from the door by the currently unused monitoring equipment next to her sister's bed.

'At least she won't need any further treatment,' said Frances.

'Well, she needs some sort of b.l.o.o.d.y treatment,' said Robert.

'What I mean is that we get to take her home,' said Frances.

'I'm not sure that she should be at home at all,' Robert stated. 'We're going to have to try to find her some sort of rehab clinic.'

'Do you really think that's necessary?' Frances asked.

'Are you b.l.o.o.d.y serious?' Robert's voice carried, and Jill winced. 'They pumped her stomach, and she was having some sort of psychotic episode when she got in here. Naked. I can tell that nurse is not convinced she wasn't trying to kill herself.'

'Of course she wasn't!' said Francis.

'She had enough drugs in her system to kill her easily. You just heard the shrink say that, Frances! I think this is the b.l.o.o.d.y problem,' he said. 'You've mollycoddled her all along. You make excuses for her all the time.'

Frances leaned over Ca.s.sie. From where she stood, Jill saw that her mother was trying to hide her tears. Still trying to protect them all.

'I can get you some numbers,' Jill said. 'Places she can go. There are two types,' she added. 'Pretty cheap, with huge waiting lists if you can get on a list or G.o.d-awful expensive.'

'We'll get her the best, if she wants to go,' said Frances.

'Oh, of course we will,' said Robert. 'We're made of b.l.o.o.d.y money, after all. Even though we're retired now, and on a fixed income, but if Ca.s.sandra needs to go to some special resort for junkies . . .'

'Robert!'

'Mum. He's right.' Jill's voice was as cold as the stainless steel splashback behind the bed. 'Ca.s.sie earns plenty of money, and she got herself into this mess.'

Jill's mouth tasted sour. She couldn't believe that her sister, who had every opportunity life could afford a woman, was lying in the emergency department simply because she could deny herself nothing she wanted, even if what she wanted could kill her. The words: pathetic, degenerate drug addict ran through Jill's mind as she stared at the bed. What the h.e.l.l did Ca.s.sie have to run from? A jetsetting life travelling the world, photo shoots that often netted her Jill's yearly salary, a face and figure that had made people stop and stare since she was fifteen years old.

The ferocity of her thoughts caught Jill by surprise. She gazed down at the sad, beautiful face of her little sister; watched their mother bending over her, appearing older than she ever had in her life, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She was ashamed of her thoughts, and lifted her hand to reach over to the bed. At that moment Ca.s.sie's eyes opened and she stared straight into Jill's.

'So compa.s.sionate, big sister,' said Ca.s.sie. 'I can hear you, you know. I'm not in a b.l.o.o.d.y coma. And no one asked you to be here. I got myself into this mess, after all.' She parroted Jill's last sentence in a singsong snarl.

Jill's tears dried instantly. She opened her mouth to retort, to comfort, to scream at her sister. As usual, at times like this, nothing came out.

Frances clutched Ca.s.sie's hand, but Robert's face turned to the floor, his spine ramrod straight. Ca.s.sie stared Jill down, her eyes spitting venom.

And then Scotty walked through the door.

Scott Hutchinson. Jill hadn't seen him for three months, since the day she'd started this a.s.signment. The doctor had told them Scotty identified Ca.s.sie last night, but Jill hadn't thought he'd show up again this morning. She wasn't ready to see him not now, not here.

Scottie wore a big smile that animated only the lower half of his face; she recognised his worried eyes. Carrying an enormous bunch of pink oriental lilies, he walked right into the middle of the tension that seemed to further chill the frigid air of the hospital room. His stride faltered and the smile dropped with the outstretched flowers.

'Jacksons,' he said.

Frances burst into tears.

Jill scrabbled for something to say. Got nothing. Bolted from the room.

15.

Tuesday 2 April, 1 pm.

'This place will be great, Marco, you'll see,' Seren enthused as she dropped the box she carried and hurried to take another from her son's arms.

'Yeah, great,' he said. He looked folornly around the empty unit, blue eyes blinking behind his gla.s.ses. She almost shook with the effort it took not to run to him, lift him into her arms, and sob into his silky black hair. When he'd pushed her from him, hard, at the Department offices, it had felt as though someone had rammed their hand down her throat and ripped her heart from her chest. She wasn't sure she could take that rejection again.

'I know there's nothing in here yet,' she said, 'but we'll go shopping. I've still got some money in the bank, and they told me to come up to St Vinnies to get some new things.'

Marco shot her a withering look. She didn't blame him. If he knew that a lot of the money she had in their bank account had been used on storage fees for the few possessions they owned, he would probably have been even more cynical. He would never know of the plans she had for every remaining cent. Shopping for their new home would have to wait until her first pay cheque; the money in her account was earmarked for revenge.

'And tonight,' she continued, 'if the truck doesn't get our beds here on time, we'll camp out!' Her smile stuck to her teeth as she considered the state of the threadbare carpet in the cheap rental flat. Her skin started to itch just thinking about trying to sleep on it.

Together they walked through their new home. The tour took five minutes, the unit consisting of a combined lounge and kitchen area, two dark bedrooms, and a dingy bathroom with an outlet for a was.h.i.+ng machine. Without speaking they made their way back to the kitchen. Seren could hear a baby crying somewhere close by.

'I'm hungry,' said Marco.

'Me too,' she said. 'Let's go check out the shopping centre. I've never been to the shops in Eastlakes.'

'I've never been to Eastlakes,' Marco mumbled.

Seren grabbed her handbag from the floor and walked towards the door. 'Come on baby, what do you want to eat?'

As she unlatched the front door, a hairy arm pushed through. Seren recoiled.

'Hey!' she said, instantly manoeuvring Marco behind her.

A barrel chest and oversize belly stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. Seren smelled the beer that had helped the body get that way. A roaring sound filled her ears. The man wore gaol ink and his meaty hands and face were crossed and pocked with scars. He remained between her and the door.

'I saw you guys moving in,' he said, smiling a gap-toothed leer. 'Wayne Treadmark. People call me Tready. I'm in 612.'

'Okay, Wayne,' she said, heart thudding. 'Well, pleased to meet you, but we're actually on our way out again, so '

'Where are you going?'

'My son is hungry.'

'h.e.l.lo there, mate. Come on out and say h.e.l.lo to Tready. Don't be a little poofter, hiding behind your mother like that.'

Seren felt Marco make himself even smaller behind her back. She reached behind her and gripped his upper arm firmly. With her other hand she held her bag in front of her stomach; she straightened her back and walked directly into the man's chest. Caught by surprise, he stepped backwards and out of the flat. She let go of Marco, pulled the door shut and grabbed her son again. She began to march him along the external corridor that would take them to the lifts.

'Hey. I could go something to eat,' Tready said, following them. 'You going down the plaza? Just let me grab me smokes and wallet and I'll be right with you.'

'Actually, we're going to meet Marco's father,' Seren lied. 'And he doesn't like me speaking to strange men.'

Tready was silent a few moments, taking his time to look her up and down.

'Well, I'm not a stranger no more,' he said, finally. 'We're neighbours. And youse are going to get to know me real well.'

16.

Friday 5 April, 11 am.

The thing about undercover work that got to Jill was that there were no routines.

Pillows completely surrounding her body she'd slept in this illusory fortress every night since the kidnappers had let her go Jill decided she would never get used to the lack of structure. She could wake when she wanted, go to bed whenever. Probably most people would love the freedom, she imagined, but for her, structure meant control, and control in Jill's life was like a sentry with an Uzi nine millimetre keeping the h.e.l.l-people at bay.

Although right now, at ten o'clock in the morning, with the sound of rain coursing through gutters outside, she decided she should at least try to sleep a little more. The building complex beyond her front door smelled like a homeless wet dog, and she was bunkered safe in bed. Her sheets were Kmart cheap, but no one would guess that inside the covers nestled a premium duck-down doona and pillows. She huddled her head in deeper and let the feathers envelop her face. She hadn't had nearly enough sleep.

But it was no good. Her body simply could not get used to sleeping at ten in the morning, even if she'd only gone to bed at four.

She sat up and stretched, sighing. Another day out here. She stood and crossed the lino to the kitchen. At her insistence, the unit had no carpet lino could be bleached and scalded with boiling water. Even so, with her boy-leg briefs and singlet she wore socks: she couldn't get the floor that clean.

She opened the fridge and leaned in.

When she'd started this a.s.signment, she'd promised herself she would never let anyone else into her unit, but the rule had since been broken a dozen times. People here had few boundaries and her neighbours had gaped at her, offended, when she didn't ask them into hers, or pop around to theirs. So to fit her cover, that meant No-Frills food in the fridge. Well, sort of.

She pulled a carton of eggs, some b.u.t.ter, milk, and tasty cheese from the refrigerator, as always astonished by the four-litre cask of chardonnay at the back. Her neighbour, Ingrid, had stared hard at her when she'd come in to Jill's unit for the first time and seen the contents of the fridge.

'Where's your wine?' Ingrid had asked, one hand on her hip, the other on the still open fridge door.

Jill met her look blankly.

'Ah, I'm out,' she'd managed finally. Was it even lunchtime yet? She'd glanced at the clock on the oven. Nope.

'Well that's no b.l.o.o.d.y good, is it, Krystal?' her neighbour had said. 'Come on, we'll go round to mine for a couple.'

Ingrid had the cask bladder unpacked from its box, luridly silver, wobbling right there on the shelf in the fridge. She'd held the bag full of wine over a coffee cup and squeezed down hard. The pale yellow liquid jetted from the plastic spout like a horse taking a p.i.s.s. Jill stared down into the cup when Ingrid pushed it over to her. It even frothed up like urine.

What a way to break the drought, Jill had thought.

After a year, aged fifteen, when she couldn't get enough alcohol, Jill hadn't had a sip until last October when she'd tasted a mouthful of b.u.t.terscotch schnapps in the company of Gabriel Delahunt, her former partner. Despite her fears that once she started she'd never stop, she'd had only two gla.s.ses of wine since. Both were with Scotty, her other work partner. Each evening had left her feeling completely flummoxed and she hadn't found a reason to have a drink since.

Until that day at Ingrid's. Her neighbour had smiled at her, coffee cup raised, ready to toast. Alcohol was currency around here; wine the most expensive foodstuff in Ingrid's home. Jill couldn't refuse.

Now, in her kitchen, blinds drawn against the drizzle outside, she found an onion in the cupboard and took a small gla.s.s lemonade bottle from the shelf. Inside was gra.s.s-green extra-virgin olive oil, but it appeared pretty unspectacular housed this way. She diced half the onion finely and trickled a small amount of the oil into a pan, adding a thumb-sized k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter. When the melted b.u.t.ter foamed, she dropped in the onion and turned the pan down. She cracked two eggs into a bowl and flicked them together just two or three times with a fork. The secret to soft scrambled eggs don't over mix them; Gabriel had told her during one of his out-of-the-blue cooking lessons when they'd been racing through traffic on the job a few months ago. She splashed just a dash of milk into the eggs, and slid two pieces of bread under the grill. Next, she grated some cheese into the egg mixture.

The onions smelled delicious, sizzling in the b.u.t.ter, and were just changing from opaque to translucent. She slipped the eggs into the pan, again swirling once, twice, with the fork. The b.u.t.tery froth rose up around the eggs and Jill immediately turned the heat off and put a plate over the top of the frypan. When her toast was cooked, she slid the fluffy eggs over the top and smiled all the way back to her dining table. Thanks, Gabriel, she thought. These eggs were worth the extra couple of kilometres she'd run this afternoon.