Forbidden Fruit (24 page)

‘No?’

‘But first,’ he said, ‘I want a shower and a change of clothes, a glass of that wine and a few hours’ sleep. How are things with you?’

‘Jason tried to burn down the bakery this morning but we put it out in time,’ I told him. ‘You look terrible. Shower first and I will be pouring the wine.’

‘Darling,’ he told me, and went into the bathroom.

I beguiled the time by looking up Shiloh. I knew it was in the Bible. Genesis 49:10, the prophecy given by Jacob to his son, Judah. ‘Until Shiloh come, and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.’ It also had a connection with Joanna Southcott, the eighteenth-century prophetess who had died giving birth to the putative said Shiloh (at the age of sixty-five: no baby had resulted) and whose ultimate prophecies were locked in a box inside another box, which twenty-four bishops were going to have to open when they really needed a prophecy. About now sounded good. Then again she had been firm about the ending of the world in 2004. Of course, it might have happened, and we hadn’t noticed. I resolved to ask Meroe about her. Then I poured the wine as I had promised Daniel.

He emerged distractingly rumpled and sweet-smelling, drank the wine, kissed my shoulder, and somehow the matter of the missing children was shelved for the moment. I hadn’t seen him for hours. I missed him.

When we emerged from our trance it was getting late and I had to go to sleep.

‘I am meeting some of the freegans at ten,’ Daniel told me, searching for his briefs. ‘They said that they would introduce me so the children won’t be too scared. I’ll let you know by morning if all is well. Meanwhile,’ he kissed me again, ‘sleep well.’

And I did. Morning brought no news. I went down to the bakery with some trepidation, but nothing was burning. Jason,
in his clean overalls, was taking trays of tiny muffins out of the oven.

‘Good morning, Cap’n!’ he saluted. ‘Gourmet muffins in train. Sourdough in the mixer. Pasta douro in the oven. Making rolls, today, sir?’

‘Why not? Practise your French twists. Was Sarah very cross with you about the jerky?’

He gave me that stunned-mullet beam. ‘No, she’s so cool, she said it wasn’t my fault. Janeen says she’s getting some more and we can experiment with how to cook it. I reckon it needs to be wet. Maybe sausages?’

‘Might be good, as long as you put enough onion and stuffing into them,’ I said idly. ‘I’ve never made sausages but I remember our Italian neighbours used to have a sausage fest every year. And one to make the tomato sauce, the one they call passata. Base for most Italian cooking. You could mince your fake meat finely, make rissoles out of it. Or put it into a risotto or a stew.’

‘I think she was after finger food,’ said Jason. ‘Easy to eat.’

‘Then what about little meatballs cooked in broth? Vegie broth, of course. Or crumbed and deep fried. Try it out sometime. And make a tomato dipping sauce. One thing about summer, there’s a glut of good tomatoes. There’s a recipe for tomato sauce in that old vegetarian cookbook you borrowed.’

He nodded. ‘Got leftovers?’ he asked hungrily.

‘Sorry, Daniel ate them all up. Have a cheese roll. Or two.’

I watched as he engulfed several cheese rolls and a bottle of Coke (at this hour!) then went on to compound a new muffin. I set out the catering trays of the elite little muffins, each one a tiny mouthful of delight. I diverted one slightly scorched one to sustain myself and accompany my second cup of coffee.

‘This is fantastic!’ I remarked after the first bite. Even if you nibbled they were really only two bites. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Coffee and walnuts,’ he told me. ‘I just used your filter coffee to mix it instead of milk. And chopped the walnuts very small. You like?’

‘I could take it home with me and cuddle it all night,’ I told him. Whatever the temporary effect of being in love, adoring Sarah had not managed to dampen Jason’s essential muffin magic for long. ‘I’ll get on with the rolls, you finish the icing for the shop muffins.’

‘Orange today,’ he said, in a fluff of icing sugar. ‘Candied the peel myself.’

We worked in silence for an hour or so, until Jason’s icing was all spread and my rolls were in the oven.

‘By the way, how is Bunny?’

‘We’re getting on real well,’ said Jason, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead. Getting piped icing right takes severe concentration, especially if you insist on a little candied orange section in the exact centre of each one. ‘I let him out for a hop as soon as I get home. He’s worked out how to use a latrine like the bunny book says. Likes to sit alongside me on the couch and watch TV. Never had a pet before,’ he said. ‘It’s ace.’

‘Wonderful,’ I commented and, with a pang, thought of Bunny’s owner, and wondered if she had the space for a nice long hop, or a couch to stretch out upon.

Goss came in to open the shop, Horatio descended to the counter, the wind howled like a banshee outside and Earthly Delights was open for business. Jason had set up a separate account for his muffins and his Christmas cakes and he was cleaning up. As, of course, was I, even after I deducted the cost of the very good ingredients. And even though he had not succeeded to his own satisfaction in candying his own cherries.

‘What are you going to do with your Christmas money, Jason?’ I asked, although it was none of my business. He crumpled his baker’s hat in nervous fingers.

‘When you’re shut for January, I thought I might, you know, just get a bus to the beach. I never had a holiday, not a real one. Some charity used to send the poor kids to Anglesea every year but I never got to go, I was always in trouble. Holidays were only for good boys.’ He was imitating someone, screwing up his face. ‘And I wasn’t a good boy. In fact, I was a little deadshit.’

‘But you’re not that Jason now,’ I said lamely.

‘Yeah, so I thought, why not go and stay in a backpackers or maybe camp? Daniel says he’ll lend me the gear. If I run out of money I can get a job as a cook. Fast food, greasies, I can cook all that. Might learn to surf. And you,’ he leant forward to speak into Goss’ beringed ear, ‘will have to mind Bunny.’

‘We can do that,’ replied Goss, who was thinking about something else and, I am persuaded, hadn’t heard what he said. ‘Corinna, can I come in tomorrow as well? Only Kylie’s got to get on with her Christmas shopping.’

‘Of course,’ I replied. Eek! Christmas shopping! I hadn’t started! Or had I enough presents for all without going out? I always bought a stash of emergency presents at the January sales. I foresaw an urgent audit. Of course, if I knew what I wanted, the girls would be delighted to battle their way through the crowds to secure it. One did not get between a bear and its cub, a tiger and its prey, or the girls and a shop.

The morning went well. Jason went off to Cafe Delicious for a Trucker’s Special breakfast. I ate another muffin. I went upstairs to change into my respectable shop clothes, a pair of light blue trousers and a dark blue shirt and comfortable sandals on my tired feet. The smoke from yesterday had left no trace. The shop smelt gorgeous, rich and spicy. People sniffed greedily as they came in and dived for wallets to secure one of Jason’s fruitcakes. Small enough for a single person, thinly sliced big enough for a luncheon, great keeping qualities, and if you had unexpected
guests, why, just break the seal on another cake and you had a party.

Carriers came for the restaurant bread and for the catering trays. Each one of those parties was an advertisement for the shop. Several people came in every day who had eaten a Jason muffin at a party and now wanted to secure a supply of their very own. They ought to be listed under addictive substances in the Drug Act. I made up a basket for Meroe, all vegie: zucchini and tomato, fig and goat’s cheese, roasted capsicum and parmesan, orange, lemon, coffee and walnut, chocolate orgasm and kama sutra and oasis. I was concerned about my witch and the unpleasant Mr Pahlevi.

Come to think of it, he must have run out of rosewater muffins by now. I wondered where Serena was getting her rose fix. Possibly he was buying her roses. Somehow I didn’t think so.

It was about eleven when Jason came into the shop and whispered to me, ‘Some dude’s staking us out.’

I never ignore comments like that. Jason spent a lot of time homeless and has not lost his hard-won street smarts.

‘Where?’ I asked, there being no point in whispering.

‘Corner of the lane. He’s been there since I let the Mouse Police out. Suit,’ said Jason.

I went to the front of the shop, ostensibly to rearrange my decorations. Yes, a middle-aged man in a conservative black suit, white shirt, black shoes. Short hair. A clipboard, which was a nice touch. Might be making a traffic census or collecting for a charity. But he didn’t accost any of the thousands of people using the lane as a short cut and he made no notes. I wondered who he was. He was unlikely to be a gypsy. So he was probably a devotee of the Holy Reformed Temple of Shiloh, wanting me to hand over the child. Or watching to see if I would lead them to the girl Brigid and her devoted Manny.

Over my dead body, I thought. Or preferably his.

‘Yes, you’re right, we have got a watcher,’ I told Jason. ‘He’s no trouble if he’s only watching. Goss, I am giving you back your phone,’ I said. She gaped at me. Ordinarily I required that they store their phone, turned off, on a high shelf while the shop was open. There had been friction about this unreasonable demand. ‘I want you to key in the emergency number on your speed dial,’ I added.

‘Already got it,’ she said.

‘You can leave the phone on in case we need it in a hurry,’ I said. ‘But otherwise it’s on voicemail, all right?’

‘All right,’ said Goss, laying the phone on the counter within reach. ‘What do I do?’

‘If that man in the black suit makes a single threatening move, you call the cops and lock the door. I don’t think he will,’ I added. ‘I think he’s just a watcher. Probably harmless.’

‘But creepy,’ said Goss. And Jason and I agreed with her.

But he made no move as the day went on. He must be sustained by faith, I thought, as the temperature outside rose like a lift. We sold out, leaving only meagre pickings for the Soup Run. I would have to replenish it with some supermarket bread, which was ironic, though the elderly clients preferred soft white bread as easier on their missing teeth. Goss took the banking and went to augment her Christmas purchases. Jason put in his earplugs, hooked his iPod on the front of his overall, and began the cleaning, well satisfied with the holiday money he had earned in one morning. The man in the lane had not moved. I was just about to escort Horatio to his afternoon nap when Daniel ran downstairs from the apartment, my backpack in his hand, gasped, ‘Come on!’, and hustled me out into the lane and into Timbo’s car, where Meroe was also seated.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears
And palms before my feet.

GK Chesterton
     ‘The Donkey’

I hadn’t had time to catch my breath before Timbo roared off, heading north. I caught one glimpse of the suit dragging out a mobile phone before he was lost in a cloud of exhaust. It was too much to hope that we had disconcerted him for long.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Merry meet, Meroe.’

‘Merry meet,’ she replied sedately. She was dressed in her usual black skirt and black top. Today’s wrap was a clear azure, unfigured. She had a basket on her lap.

‘We’ve found them,’ said Daniel, alight with purpose. ‘I
spoke to them last night. I just don’t know how we’re going to get them out.’

‘Out of where?’ I demanded.

‘You’ll see. We’re being followed. Get a move on, Timbo!’

Timbo, spraying sugar from his interrupted breakfast of a dozen doughnuts, hauled the car around a corner, ran a yellow light, flung us under the nose of an affronted tram, and into the main street. Then he sped up.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, we were past the brewery demolition site and in a small lane beside a large apartment complex.

‘Quick,’ hissed Daniel, and we dived out as Timbo squealed the tyres and practically spun the poor car on its axis, leading any pursuit—I hoped—away. Daniel hustled me, Meroe and the basket into the deep doorway of the apartment. A car belted down the alley after Timbo and with any luck hadn’t seen us stop. Daniel did something to the door and we were inside the building.

It was cool, modern and echoing. The colour scheme was pale grey and pale blue, colours which won’t offend anyone. There was a desk and a room for a guard or supervisor, but there was no one there and some of the fittings were still enveloped in bubble wrap.

‘You remember the glut of office space we had in the nineties?’ asked Daniel. ‘The developers turned the offices into apartments. Now there’s a glut of apartments. The freegans know how to get in, and how to fool the operating system into supplying them with electricity and hot water. Not a secret they are willing to share, by the way. They never stay more than a month, which is when the bills start to come in, and they never cause any damage. Sometimes takes them hours to find the discarded cleaning materials they need to keep the place tidy, they say people hardly ever throw out cleaning materials.’

I thought about this. It was true. I only ever threw out empty bottles, and then into the recycling bin. But we were wandering from the topic.

‘So the freegans let our two into an apartment?’ I prompted.

‘Yes, it’s nice and clean, has a shower, it’s air-conditioned and they’d be safe. There are some people living here, mostly overseas businesspeople who aren’t curious about their neighbours. Come on,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t linger in the foyer. It’s a glass door.’

‘But they can’t get in,’ I pointed out. Meroe laughed.

‘Neither they can,’ she agreed.

‘Upstairs,’ he said.

We followed. I was still bemused by the speed of events. The stairwell smelt of fresh paint. We went up two flights and emerged into a pristine corridor. The silence was deafening. Daniel knocked on the door of 205 and someone on the other side whispered, ‘Daniel?’

‘It’s me, open the door,’ he replied.