Afterlight (18 page)

Of course, any idiot could tell you none of it was remotely believable; even though
it was all true.

And the whole time, Jordan held my hand, tight, and I never breathed a word about
what
he
could do. Or about Eve, who
was
the link.

I just kept insisting it was
visions
. I’d just suddenly started having visions. I
even told them the date and the time when it all began, what song I’d been listening
to. I even tumbled to the ghostly visitation when I was five: the man in the plaid
shirt, jeans and boots, gleaming in the darkness. I’d felt Jordan’s shock in the
sudden crushing pressure he’d applied to my hand. It was the first time I’d told
the story to anyone.

‘You’ve been holding out on me,’ he said in a low, strained voice.

‘Nothing normal about me,’ I’d murmured in agreement as the police concluded that
the common link was
me
—not Eve, no mention made of dead strippers—the way I meant
them to.

Jordan and I hadn’t had much time to talk since we’d hit the decks and gotten showered
in a tonne of glass. But we had no proof Keith O’Loughlin and the Reavers
had been
behind tonight’s drive by aeration of The Star’s 142-year-old façade. We’d hastily
agreed that pointing fingers in his direction would only get us definitively killed,
as opposed to nearly. Because tonight had been a warning: to stop digging around
in the business of a deranged man, and walk away.

After I was done talking, Ferguson leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across
his big, broad chest, and told Gran without a hint of irony: ‘You’ve got a special
girl, here. And excepting the childhood…incident, she’s had no history of these,
eh, visions until about a month ago, you say?’

Gran nodded, confounded.

‘I had no idea,’ she said, flustered, ‘truly. She never said. But it explains a lot.’

She turned and looked at me, her heart in her eyes, sitting there so tense it looked
like she might snap in half.

The two police officers gazed around the Public Bar. ‘Bit of a pile to run, I imagine,’
said Constable Watts, the ranga, staring up at the ceiling. ‘But it’s got a solid
rep, this place. A few drunk and disorderlies from time to time. But nothing like
this has ever happened before…?’

Gran shook her head, face crumpling. ‘It was my late husband’s dream,’ she said.
‘And we honour dreams in this family, even if it means getting shot up. Keeping this
place going…he wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered
any other way. It’s how I keep
him close.’

Jordan squeezed my hand and I squeezed Gran’s and she nodded, still staring at her
knees sightlessly. She’d put her dingy grey and pink tracksuit on over her short
yellow nightie, and her blonde, spiky hair looked like a rat’s nest. But her posture
was stiff and straight, like a queen’s.

Both officers cleared their throats, turning back to me.

Constable Watts narrowed his dark eyes shrewdly. ‘Working on anything now? Anything,
say, that would get up the noses of an outlaw bikie gang?’

I felt sick as Gran clutched my fingers tight enough to cut off my circulation. ‘Soph?’
she breathed.

I turned and looked at her—could see her thinking about Dad and his past connections,
the troubles
, as she called the period preceding Joss’ hasty return to the fold with
a ready-made family.

But after a moment she let go of my hand and sat on, saying nothing. All I knew,
from what I’d ever managed to get out of Mum, was that no man ever ‘left’ the Reavers.
It’s the brotherhood you take to your grave
, she had laughed once, almost giddy with
relief.
But your dad managed to get out. And it was bad, the getting out, but he
did it and here we are!

But Gran never talked about what the leaving had actually taken—and she didn’t now.
It was almost two decades ago; Dad as a bikie henchman fringe dweller was
so ancient
history, I could see her thinking that it made no sense bringing it up now. And,
feeling like a coward, I stayed silent, too.

The constable prompted me again as the silence lengthened. ‘Anything new “coming
through” right now?’

‘Nope, nothing new coming through right now,’ I parroted as Jordan gave my hand a
tiny squeeze.

Which was true. Nothing new.

‘Then what were you two doing upstairs on the computer?’ Gran interrupted. ‘You said
it was important, what you were working on. It’s no time for secrets, Soph. Tell
them if it’s put you in danger.’

Constable Watts turned to Jordan saying pleasantly, ‘Anything we should know about?’

I looked at Jordan, not trusting myself to speak.

‘We just had a T-shirt and a card to deliver, to a friend,’ Jordan said evenly. ‘Soph
and me spent last night looking up his place and arranging how to get there. It’s
in Northcote. It’s urgent, it had to go today or we’d be late with it, but…’

Jordan lifted his chin in the direction of the street-facing windows. There was a
scrum of reporters barricaded outside, across the street, all trying to get pictures
with their long-lens cameras of us sitting in here having tea and ribbon sandwiches
with the police. Anytime anyone came in or out of the building they’d stir like a
school of
piranha, all pointing in the same direction, mouths open, teeth flashing,
ready to strip people of information.

Ferguson laughed scornfully. ‘It’s seeing members of Task Force Brigand poking around
that’s got them all excited.’

He swung his bright-blue gaze back to me. ‘That, and the fact you seem to have a
habit of making good Christian folk really nervous, young Sophie Teague. You’re great
TV. People are beginning to say you’re in league with the Devil. Want a word with
him, too, if you can manage that. Have a few questions.’

Ferguson snorted at his own joke while I flushed miserably.

‘I didn’t ask for this, and that’s the truth. I wish it would go away.’

‘We—ell,’ Ferguson drew out the word as he flipped shut his police-issue notebook,
‘if any of your “visions” end up telling you why a bunch of lawless bikies took it
upon themselves to shoot up your granny’s establishment just before three in the
morning, you give us a call, hmmm? But in the meantime…’

I looked up and saw him exchange a fleeting glance with Constable Watts. ‘How about
we get you to your friend’s place to deliver that T-shirt in time for his birthday,
hey?’

Jordan’s head came up. ‘Seriously? That would be awesome.’

I looked at Jordan uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure Carter would want us turning up with…’

‘Your friend Carter have a last name?’ Constable Watts interjected, jamming his police
hat back on and rising.

‘It’s
Kelly
,’ Jordan called back over his shoulder, already heading upstairs. ‘Wait
a minute while I get it.’

As if he’d lost interest in the whole catastrophe, Constable Watts wandered away
and out through the front door. Ferguson finished his cup of tea and engulfed Gran’s
hand in his. ‘If anything comes to mind, Mrs Teague,’ he said, ‘you’ve got our numbers.’

She nodded, indicating me with a tilt of her head. ‘And thank you, for getting her
to her friend’s place. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight today.’

‘All part of the service, ma’am,’ Ferguson smiled before telling me he’d arrange
to have a car round the back for us as soon as the Task Force finished up.

When the officers were out of earshot, Gran said in a low voice, ‘Is that really
what you’re doing? Delivering a present? If it were up to me, I’d chain you to the
end of your bed and never let you out again if it would keep you safe.
Outlaw bikies
,
Sophie,
Christ
. I thought I’d seen the back of them for good. What have you done,
my girl, what have you
done
?’

Unable to frame an answer that would alleviate her worry, I was glad when Jordan
chose that precise moment
to lope back into view holding the wrinkled plastic bag.

‘I’ll show you, Gran,’ I said, relieved. ‘Look. It’s just a T-shirt. Honest.’

A little of Gran’s tension eased when she caught sight of the shirt and blue envelope.
Jordan had taken the time to seal the card inside it so that the
Thank you!
message
Eve had once written was no longer visible to contradict us.

‘Bit gay-designer-pirate, isn’t it?’ Gran sniffed, looking the shirt over, before
heading into the office to call the glass repairmen.

We didn’t leave until after 2pm. Gran even had chicken parmas sent out to all the
forensic guys combing the footpaths and drains outside, because she didn’t have
to look after the usual ferals.

‘All set, you two?’ Senior Constable Ferguson said gruffly as the police car clattered
out through Sancerre Lane and past the waiting sea of reporters before any of them
could get wind of us crouching in the back seat footwells.

‘At Rae Street,’ he added, over his shoulder, sternly, ‘it’s seat belts, no arguments.’

We did as we were told over the intermittent buzz of radio chatter.

Both men had given the card and tee only a cursory glance at The Star, but I knew
from the way Ferguson was driving that they’d run Carter Kelly’s official stats.
They’d never even asked us what his address was, but here we were on St Georges Road
crossing Holden Street in the direction of Northcote.

I caught a glimpse of rushing water out my window and shoved an elbow into Jordan’s
ribs. He was playing with his phone, and I knew he was texting Daughtry that we were
almost there. I was curious to see this paragon with the sexy voice and ability to
banish the dead.

I went cold as the car bumped across the railway line and I caught sight of the concrete
station platforms going past. They hugged the track to my right, looking grey-on-grey
in the wintry light. A girl with bobbed, purple hair in a vintage dress, striped
stockings and an oversized green mohair cardigan, turned her head sharply and stared
at us going by in the police car, before refocusing her gaze on the empty platform
opposite.

We pulled up across the road from the single-fronted, faded blue timber house on
Branxholme Street. I pretended not to notice Senior Constable Ferguson’s steady gaze
in the driver’s mirror as he said dryly, ‘Best home before dark, children.’

Jordan had to open my door and help me out because my legs weren’t really working.
It was the usual shock,
you see, of having something move out of the realm of the
perceived, into the real.

This was the place.

Somehow, I’d done it again. I was outside the house Eve had shown me. I was actually
here.

15

It looked and smelt like rain was coming as we pushed our way through the front gate
and walked the short path to the door, stepping up under the verandah. Jordan had
the rolled up plastic bag in one hand.

Behind us, I heard the police car’s engine idling while we rang the bell. I glanced
over my shoulder as Ferguson did a noisy three-point turn and roared back the way
we’d come, one large hand briefly raised in our direction.

The door was the same chipped and faded blue as the rest of the house. No one came
to answer it, and after a polite pause, Jordan leant on the buzzer again, only longer
this time. I thought maybe I saw the edge of a curtain twitch in the front window
to the right of the door, but I
couldn’t be sure. Jordan’s mobile chose that moment
to let off a melodic three-note pinging that indicated a message.

He stared down at the screen with a heavy frown. ‘Daughtry wants me to meet him at
the station. That’s weird: I thought I made it pretty clear about when and where
to get off.’ Jordan glanced up the hill towards the cheerless platforms we’d only
just driven past. ‘Says he’s only a few stops away.’

He shoved his phone back inside his jacket.

‘Come on,’ he sighed. ‘Daughtry’s not from here. I have to go get him. It’s like
Mum says: when you expect him he doesn’t show, and when you don’t, he just materialises
out of nowhere.’

There was that almost twitch of a curtain again in the front window, like someone
was standing beyond the glass to the right, just listening, hoping we’d go away.
The words tumbled out before I’d really thought them through.

‘You go,’ I was astonished to hear myself say. ‘I’ll just wait here and keep trying,
yeah?’

Jordan looked sceptical. ‘No one’s here,’ he said. ‘We’ll get Daughtry first then
work out what to do about this.’ He raised the scrunched up plastic bag in his hand
and his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Eve didn’t give us instructions in the event of no
one being home.’

‘Leave it with me,’ I insisted as a light, furry rain began to fall beyond the decorative
edge of the verandah. ‘It’ll be
drier, at least. And I’m just getting over a cold,
remember?’

I held out my hand, hoping my smile looked natural, and Jordan handed
me the bag.

‘No sense both of us getting wet,’ he agreed.