Girl Defective (26 page)

“What's the matter with you?” Nancy snapped as she gathered the brochures. “So Mia had the same tape and she stayed in the same room—so what? So Ray's a sleaze. Your dad's girlfriend could have told you that. Mia's dead, Sky. She drowned. The world is a terrible place. End of.”

She marched off so fast and forcefully that dust flew up. At Beach Road she turned back to see if I was still following, but I was done with that. I thought of the most hurtful thing I could say and then I shouted it.

“You're never going to get overseas. You're not going anywhere!”

I walked back feeling shaky and grim. When I turned onto Blessington Street, I saw a huddle outside the Wishing Well—Dad, Gully, Luke, some tourists—they were all out in front of the shop. As I drew closer, I heard whoops of excitement: Gully. He was running in tight circles, his hand tracing madly, and if he was aware of his audience, he didn't show it. Dad covered the open doorway, and Luke was under his plane tree, a smile lighting his face. When Gully saw me, he gave me a wide joker's grin and then reverted to superserious. A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. He touched his night vision goggles compulsively.

“We found the Jeep!” He was trying to keep his business face on. “We have
plates
! OWT 654. Constable
Eve Brennan's going to run them, and then we'll have a
name
and then, Agent Skylark, then I'll have my collar.” He whirled around and told the tourists, “Move on, please, there's nothing to see.” He sighed and said to himself, “A momentous day. Mo-ment-ous!
Chh!
”

Memo from Agent Seagull Martin

Date:
Saturday, December 20

Agent:
Seagull Martin

Address:
34 Blessington St., St. Kilda, upstairs

STATUS UPDATE

POINT THE FIRST:

On Saturday, December 20, at approximately 16:43 I, Agent Detective Seagull Martin, Special Investigations Unit, witnessed the white Jeep involved in the Bricker case. I was sitting at my post out in front of Bill's Wishing Well when the Jeep passed by. Though it was too fast for me to see the driver, CCTV revealed the license plate.

POINT THE SECOND:

The license plate is OWT 654. I can confirm the white Jeep has a sticker that says
LOVE LIVE LOCAL
. The driver was a male, Caucasian. He could have been anywhere between 18 and 25. He wore black sunglasses and had an overlarge
forehead. NB: ordinarily this is indicative of a high intelligence quotient. My hunch is this case is the exception to the rule.

POINT THE THIRD:

On the advice of Constable Eve Brennan, SKPD, I have not actioned a stakeout. Constable Brennan has informed her supervisor, and I await the driver's ID.

On a personal note I'd like to commend myself for having faith, patience, and foresight. An arrest is imminent. I can feel it in my waters!

S
ATURDAY BECAME SUNDAY BECAME
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. The shop kept me busy. We experienced a rash of sellers, hustling last-minute Christmas cash. Dad took a step back from the counter and put the Buys Book in my hand. “I bequeath you,” he said with an ironic bow. I selected stock with Goldmine in mind. I did it all perfectly: the poker face, the fast flick. I was sensitive but not too sensitive. I had found my calling, just as the doors were closing. Settlement was set for the end of February. We had the summer, and after that, anything was possible. That was what I told Gully. I was determined to be jolly.

We, the Martins, were crap at Christmas. Thank Bob for late-night shopping. After we finally kicked out the last stragglers on Christmas Eve, Dad hauled out the old tree from the cupboard under the stairs. It was an el cheapo number made of white wire and tinsel; its branches were scanty and bent out of shape. We had kept all of Gully's primary school decorations: the glitter leaves and macaroni stars and the focus puller—a nativity set constructed entirely from toilet rolls. Dad
drank ginger tea by the gallon. He put on the Tijuana Brass's swinging version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and we gathered around the tree, admiring the crap and tack. Dad put one arm around Gully and the other arm around me. “This is the last Christmas we'll have here. Let's make it a good one.”

Gully
chh
ed his fist. “Roger that.”

It was a cozy scene, but my mind kept fleeing. The mess was upon us. The mess, the mess! I had the map memorized. I had Quinn's ETA. In minutes Luke would be waiting for me under the plane tree.

I waited until Dad had put away his pudding. “Can I go to Quinn's for carols by candlelight?”

“You hate carols,” Dad said.

“I hate
regular
carols. Quinn's are like anti-carols.” I could feel Gully studying me, trying to catch me in a lie. I kept my body straight and my hands balled. If he could tell I was lying, he let it go.

“Where does she live?” Dad asked. “How are you going to get there?”

“Windsor. Luke's going to walk me.”

“Luke? Our Luke?”

“Agent Casey, FBI.” Gully's eyes were narrowed to slits.

“Yes,” I huffed. “He's meeting me out front. Like, now.”

Dad's face hollowed, and then he puffed his cheeks in a display of fatherly concern. He threw his hands up. “Okay.”

Gully followed me out to the living room.

“What are the specs?”

“What do you mean?”

He gave me a long look. “Agent Sky, I can be discreet.”

I studied his face; it was smart but forlorn. It was the face of the kid who never got picked for anything. I turned my attention to the presents under the tree. Dad had rewrapped Gully's night vision goggles, and there was something there for me from Mum, and also the obligatory shortbread from Vesna.

“Sky, Sky, Sky.” Gully's face alternated green and red under the Christmas lights. “Is it about the Bricker? Or the Snouter?”

I paused for drama. “It's bigger than both of them.”

Luke and I walked fast and silent, holding hands. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being followed, but when I did the trick-stop-and-whirl-around, the view was always clear. Clouds hid a fingernail moon. Across the road the sea looked like a sleeping giant.

On Beach Road we counted the house numbers down, stopping finally in confusion.

“There's nothing here,” Luke said.

“Don't be so sure.” I searched my mental map of Quinn's map. This was the place, I knew it.

We faced a construction site, a concrete castle protected by a high wire fence. There was a display unit—its
window lit up like a school diorama. Luke and I took in the model of La Mer—fifty-five villas, plus restaurant and spa complex for discerning retirees.
INVEST NOW! SELLING FAST
!
It was hard to imagine the future dream against the work in progress.
ANOTHER URBAN RENEWAL ACHIEVEMENT
, the sign read. The connection only made me more certain that we were in the right place.

We walked the length of the site and turned down a side street. The wind dropped. The surrounding houses were all stately homes, the kind with ancient hedges and German Shepherds. If I closed my eyes, I could hear the distinct hum of money.

At the end of the development lay an access road. Down there the air changed. I could no longer smell the sea, just cement and smoke. The occasional car rumbled in the distance, but an undertow was now discernible, a thud-thud-thud of music. I turned another corner and stumbled into a body. The body was at the end of a line of bodies disappearing through a break in the fence. Luke squeezed my hand hard. When we reached the front of the line, a torch shone in my face.

“Password?”

“Ringo.”

And we were in.

This was the maze that led to the mess. We turned corners and went upstairs and downstairs—up, down,
around, and all the while the music grew louder and the smoke sharper. Then we were in the bowels of the building, the future underground car park and I was so nervous and excited that it was all I could do to just breathe, and take the sensations as they hit, the odd flashes of light, the moving shadows, the air of intensity so thick you could carve distress signals into it.

The mess was people and oil-drum fires and music. Images flickered off and on various walls—snaps from Otisworld. There was something so self-conscious about it: people at a party watching pictures of people at a party.

Someone poked me. I twisted to see Quinn. She grappled me in a bear hug, her camera sticking into my chest. I came out of the hug and put my hand over my face like she was the paparazzi. She snapped me anyway.

“Have you seen Nancy?” I shouted above the music.

Quinn pointed to a pile of pallets and shouted back, “Otis is starting soon!”

I checked for familiar faces. Trilby saw me and swung his stethoscope from his fingers like a pendulum. Luke was staring at the pictures; his face looked sad. I guess he was waiting for Mia to crop up. I hoped that she wouldn't—not the photo I'd seen. I grabbed his hand and led him away from the flashing images. We tried to get the lay of the land, skirting the edges. There were candles everywhere. The walls looked like they were breathing.

Nancy was on an upper level, on a concrete island that looked like it was suspended in space. A narrow ladder led down to the makeshift stage. She wasn't alone up there. I glimpsed scarves and lanky rock legs, Rocky's solid quiff, and Otis's luminous face. Even from where I was standing, Nancy didn't look right. Otis had his sharkskin back turned to her, and Nancy was berating it. She threw a limp punch. And then she climbed down the ladder. I went to meet her at the bottom.

Nancy's face softened when she saw me. She started talking as if we'd already been talking. It took me a while to catch up.

Her voice was tough, but her eyes didn't match it. “What do you know? He fucking reneged. He said he was going to pay for my ticket. Bullshit.” She shrugged, her whole body flopping with the movement. “I suppose he would have worked it out eventually.”

I guessed she meant Steve Sharp. She drank from her flask, waggling it in her fingers. I could tell by the angle that it was almost empty. Nancy continued, her voice whiny. “Sky, I don't want there to be bad feelings between us. I'm always running from the bad feelings. Everybody hates Nancy.”

“I don't hate you. I'm worried about you.”

“You don't have to worry about me.” But as she said it, her eyes darkened. She stared at a group of scarf girls dancing; her face turned hard. “Otis is sweet, but his dad is a pig.”

“Why'd you do it, then?”

“Because he's got a big dick and a lot of money.” She laughed. I was pretty sure she was quoting. I wanted to tell her she didn't have to, but she'd drifted off to dance. Under the pulsing lights she looked unreal. “Dance with me,” she called back. I moved limply, feeling awkward, wanting escape. Then suddenly she stopped.

“He's starting.”

Otis and crew were climbing down the ladder. Otis was wearing his fox head. He knocked it a couple of times on the way down, which made it look more comic than surreal. Otis the fox, Rocky the duck, and the drummer had some kind of rodent head happening, but when I saw the bass player, my mouth went dry—he was wearing Gully's snout.

I scanned for Luke or Quinn in the sea of shifting bodies, and that was when I saw a figure smaller than most, a midget in night vision goggles, hand aloft, tracing the air. “Gully!” I shouted, and pushed through bodies like pillars until I reached him. I pulled him into a hug. I could feel his heart hammering.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Stealth.” Gully smirked beneath the goggles. “This is a weird party.” He was looking around and then he stopped. He must have seen the snout because he extracted himself and started moving forward. He was slippery-quick, too fast for me. And then someone else
was moving after him. Luke. But Gully weaved and Luke kept getting blocked. I watched Gully climb onto the stage, over to the bass player to reclaim his property. The bass player let him. Gully returned to the crowd. I made my way toward him, wading through strangers. By now Luke was up and aiming for Otis. Rocky—ever steroided—turned to attack. The drummer started up—what did he know? Maybe the mess was supposed to go like this and he didn't get the memo—but after a few beats he held his sticks aloft, and then there was nothing but the ringing quiet and open-mouthed mess-heads staring at something about to happen.