Jill Jackson - 02 - Voodoo Doll (16 page)

'So where do you go to score now?' Joss lowered his voice.

Big smile. 'What are you into?'

'I just want some pot, maybe some pills.'

'You know who's selling some great shit right now? Simon Esterhase. Remember him?'

Yeah, you could say that. 'Bullshit. Esterhase? I haven't seen him for ages. Does he still hang around with, ah, what was his name . . . Cutter?'

Harris's mouth turned down at the name. 'Yeah, man.' He looked around the room. 'Crazy motherfucker.'

'Does he come around here much?'

'Who? Cutter? Nah. I see him around the station sometimes. I think he still goes over to his olds' house a lot. That's when he's not inside.'

Joss laughed hollowly.

'Yeah?' he gathered himself together, spoke calmly, a pulse ticking in his temple. 'You know I wouldn't mind catching up with them again, now I'm doing the whole memory lane thing. You wouldn't know how I could reach them, would ya?'

'I got Esterhase's number right here. I go see him whenever I can afford it. You wanna go out there tonight?'

'Maybe. What about Cutter's number, have you got that?'

'What do you want his number for, man? Don't you remember him? Well, he's a lot worse than that now.' He pulled from his wallet a worn, folded sheet of paper, torn from an exercise book. 'Got a pen? Don't tell Cutter I gave you this, man.'

Joss copied the numbers, both mobiles, onto a coaster and dropped it into his backpack. He'd had half of his latest beer and needed the toilet again. The woman sitting with the two men began crying loudly, but there were no tears in her eyes. She stopped when one of the men raised a fist.

Joss stood, suddenly exhausted. His head buzzed and his hands felt filthy. He looked down at them and they seemed hazy, indistinct. He went to the toilet. When he returned Harris was crunching ice again, looking up at him expectantly, eager to continue the party.

'I'm gonna go, Rod,' he said, leaving his beer.

'Nah, dog, where are you going?'

Joss was already halfway to the door.

He salivated with the scent of coriander, rice and fried garlic as he hit the night air. Isobel would've left him some dinner, of course, but he had to eat now. He remembered there used to be a good noodle house around here somewhere. He wondered if it would still be there.

The streets were quiet. A few late travellers made their way home from work, but it seemed that most people were indoors now, cooking up the smells that were driving him crazy. He turned a corner that seemed familiar and pulled his wallet from his pocket, hoping he had some cash left. He had to walk over to a street light to see the inside of his wallet.

Friends since kindergarten, Frankie Danang and Tua Lataafa had always played together well. Whispered, when it was certain they were nowhere listening, their classmates called them Quick and Thick. On the footy field, Frankie ran faster than anyone, and when it came to defence, no one could get past Tua, who was bigger than all of the teachers by Year Six. Today, at eighteen, and already done with school for five years, most people in Cabramatta ducked into a shop, crossed a street or hailed a cab when they spotted Tua and Frankie in the distance. If you got off at the station and saw them sitting there, most people knew it was best to hop back on the train, catch the bus back from the next stop. Better half an hour late for dinner, than the next three days in Fairfield Hospital.

Frankie and Tua had rolling down pat. They averaged five hundred bucks a day, but three grand was their record. Frankie used a knife and Tua his fists. Sometimes a boot was required, but most people were quite obliging within a minute or two. They'd never gone much for excessive violence; had never seen the need, really.

The strategy was simple: approach and ask for a smoke; Frankie – twenty centimetre switchblade punched into the thigh; Tua – king-hit to the face: nose, jaw, depended on the angle as they dropped, really. They used to relive the action highlights over a beer afterwards, but the novelty had mostly worn off by now, and they tended to talk more about football and girls.

Tua spotted this one. He touched Frankie on the arm, nodded his head in the man's direction. The day had been slow. They'd met up pretty late this arvo, and there'd been no one in the quiet spots around Cabra this evening. Frankie had recommended a trip to the Quay, and they had been heading to the station.

Frankie scanned their environment. Perfect. He'd lost count of their hits in this alley. And the guy had a slight lean on. He wouldn't even know his leg had a hole in it until the ambos told him in half an hour or so. No one around, should be sweet.

Still, he didn't give Tua the signal straight away. There was something. Could this guy be a cop? Something about the way he held himself? He didn't seem to have any idea they were there, but . . .

Tua was staring at Frankie. What? His eyebrows asked.

Frankie shrugged. The blade snicked out by his thigh, a scissor snip in the night.

The signal.

Joss checked his wallet under the streetlight, but its contents didn't register. Nothing in his face or posture had altered, but he was now completely sober. He put a seemingly steadying hand upon the pole and bent awkwardly, pulling at his shoe as though to dislodge a stone. The angle widened his peripheral vision, and he was now certain that one of them was carrying. Gun or knife? The answer was essential in determining his first move. He couldn't tell – the knuckles on the hand holding the weapon were pointed down, but still, it could be either.

Eight metres, seven.
Make a decision.

Most places in Sydney, chances were this would be a knife. Guns were relatively scarce, but this was Cabramatta after all, and if there was going to be a gun, it would be here.

Six metres.

He was going to guess knife. Something about the hang of the kid's shoulders, the grip on the object, the fist closed hard, pumping it up. No need to do that with a gun.

Five metres.

Okay, come.

'Hey, you got a smoke there, mate?'

The big one spoke (to distract), the little one moved closer (to strike).

Joss drew in a deep, delicious draught of night air. The effect was soporific, but his senses could not have been more acute. A sensation of peace came with a feeling of alignment. Sometimes in life it was much more difficult to play nice than to just be real. Just you and me, boys. The violence was hot behind his eyes.

'I don't smoke,' he said.

The little one knew, now.

Three metres, two.

Wait.

Frankie realised he had missed the feeling of adrenalin pissing into his gut, the flurry of fear constricting his anus.

This guy was going to need care, he thought. In times to come, he and Tua would talk about tonight. He tried to signal to Tua, to let him know to beware, but his best friend was in the zone, pumping up.

Frankie knew he'd have to go in fast.

He felt his heartbeat in his hands.

Tua knew that somehow he should've been calculating a new strategy, but the first thing he felt was admiration for the guy's block and duck from Frankie's knife. Still wondering whether he could use that move playing footy on the weekend, he found himself on his arse. The cunt had kicked him! He stood and lurched forward, enraged, and he was on the ground again. Huh? No one had touched him, 'cause the fucker was busy kicking Frankie. He stood. He fell. What the . . .

Tua looked down at his legs and blinked. He screamed.

His left shinbone had burst through the skin above his ankle and stood like a forty-five degree erection out from his flesh, some of which was clinging pinkly to the bone.

He fainted.

Joss could see that the little one was just conscious; he was nursing his broken arm as he lay in the gutter.

'Don't go to sleep now,' he said calmly to the Asian youth at his feet. 'Your friend needs an ambulance.'

A couple of people stared as he jumped on the train just before it pulled out from Cabramatta station. Joss looked down at his hands, clothes. No blood. What?

He didn't realise that his eyes glittered and his grin had stuck his lips to his teeth.

The unit felt empty tonight. In the past, that had been the only way Jill could bear it. She liked it locked down and silent – the only noises those she generated herself, or the familiar hums and purrs of her cleaning appliances. On odd occasions, she'd feel an urge to invite her mum and dad over for dinner. Sometimes her brother and sister-in-law would drop by with Lily and Avery, her four-year-old niece and six-year-old nephew. More often, she'd visit them in their homes. She could probably count the number of times Cassie, her sister, had been by. When she did have visitors, while she wanted to be with them, Jill also found herself watching and waiting for the cues that indicated they would soon leave.

Control. It meant everything to her. And when people were in her house, when she couldn't see where everyone was, or identify each noise in her space, she couldn't relax. She'd do her best, but couldn't resist the urge to maintain her order – surreptitiously re-straightening magazines, re-aligning cushions when she thought people didn't notice. She often caught her mum at such moments, smiling in her direction, cueing her to try to let things go until everyone left.

Tonight felt different. She frowned at her apartment. For the first time ever the gleaming surfaces, blonde beech, stainless steel and cool granite seemed sterile somehow. She wondered whether more colour could help – some jewel-coloured cushions on the chocolate sofas, maybe a big painting on the loungeroom wall. A rug?

Maybe I should move altogether, she thought suddenly. This unit had quadrupled in value since she had taken out the mortgage ten years ago. The outrageous Sydney property boom, coupled with her gorgeous ocean view, had made her rich. Well, on paper. Of course, as soon as she purchased another Sydney property she'd be back in debt.

She'd never thought this way before. She hated change. Anyway, where would she go? It would be pretty hard to give up living at the beach. The noise of the inner city would drive her crazy. And she couldn't see herself in a house in the suburbs, mowing the lawns.

Why was that? Where was that urge for kids and a husband? Holidays to the Gold Coast, school fetes, a four-wheel drive? She paced her kitchen, opened cupboards, closed them again, looking for something.

She walked to the phone. Punched in seven digits and hung up before dialling the eighth. Scotty. What would he be doing now? Probably Emma Gibson. She smiled viciously, thinking of the grey-eyed glamour girl they'd worked with at Maroubra. She's one person glad to see me out of there, she thought.

The next number she dialled unconsciously, listening to the machine's familiar message while she pictured Emma's shiny black hair in Scotty's big hands. Her mum picked up at the end of the recorded spiel. She always let it play whether she was home or not – stopped the telemarketers, she said.

'So, how's the case going, darling?' her mum wanted to know.

'Mmm, okay. Not fast enough though of course. It never is, is it? Especially this case.'

'It's just terrible. I hate to think of you working on these things. The stories on the news today were just awful.'

'Don't watch the news.' Jill modified her tone when she realised how abrupt she sounded. 'Yeah, it's a pretty bad case. We hope to get a breakthrough soon.'

'How's everything else out there, Jill? What are the people like? You didn't manage to tell me anything about Gabriel last time we spoke,' her mum reminded her.

'They're okay. I don't really know anyone yet. Gabriel seems okay, though.'

'How old is he?'

'Mum. I don't know how old he is. Maybe the same age as me.'

'And he's nice?'

Jill paused. Nice? It was probably not the first word she'd use to describe her new partner. What could she say about him him?

'He's a good cook,' she tried.

'He's
cooked
for you? You had dinner at his house? Was his wife there?'

Oh boy. 'He doesn't have a wife.' As far as I know. 'We had to watch some videos from the case. His house was close and he cooked. Lunch.'

'So what did you eat?'

'Fish. Look, Mum, tell me what's happening out your way. How's Dad?'

'Your father – I don't know what's got into him lately. He hasn't been himself.'

'What do you mean? Is he okay?' Jill sat up straight at her breakfast bar.

'Oh, he seems healthy enough. But he's . . . well he's doing a lot of shopping.'

'Shopping. Dad?'

'I know. Stuff for the house. Clothes for him. Yesterday he bought me a swimming costume.'

'He did not.'

'With parrots on it.'

Jill felt her eyebrows rising. Her father could not be dragged into a shopping mall, and had always made her or Cassie buy his presents for their mum. He had no difficulties at the hardware shop – but visiting a store that sold women's clothing? She couldn't imagine it.

'I know what you're thinking,' her mother continued. 'Midlife crisis. I bought a book today.'

Jill smiled. Pop psychology. Her mother had a library.

'Oprah recommended it. He's a little old for it all, according to the book, but I'll finish reading it and let you know.'

'How's everyone else?'

Frances Jackson sighed through the phone.

'Cassie.' Jill guessed.

'I don't know, love. I think she's not eating again.'

Jill's younger sister made a living as a swimsuit model. Like the rest of her colleagues, she perennially flirted with anorexia nervosa. Jill shifted on the barstool. Not a lot she could do about it: she found it harder to talk to Cassie than almost anyone, and when she tried to discuss weight with her sister, Cassie would scoff – Jill's own struggles with food from time to time made her concern seem hypocritical.

'Bob and I called around there on Tuesday,' Frances continued. 'It was after lunch, Jill, and she was still in bed.'