Screw Loose (12 page)

Georgia's mother supported her. ‘She wants to use her hands.'

Her father, elegant in a mauve tie and matching mauve handkerchief, interrupted the headmistress. ‘The motto' – he was looking behind her at the gilded shield on the wall – ‘if my schoolboy Latin still serves me, seems to say something like:
I despise awful and profane people
?' He looked at Ms Defarge in surprise.

The headmistress giggled wildly and glanced at the large crest. ‘
Odi profanum vulgus et arceo
is a trifle dated, I must admit, but we find the translation
Shun really unpleasant people
a little more appropriate in the twenty-first century. The school is a hundred and thirty years old, Maharajah. We have inherited things from the past that are now a little quaint, but we don't discard them. Judges still wear wigs.'

‘Quite right, too,' nodded her father. ‘And the devices?' Ms Defarge's gaze fell lovingly on the school crest. ‘The crest bears the devices of a mirror in the top right, coins to the left and a hearth below, for beauty, wealth and a comfortable home.' She paused. ‘It still speaks volumes to our girls.' She clasped her hands and looked delighted. ‘We are a wonderful school. Our girls never want to leave.'

Georgia's father remained silent.

‘Well … perhaps you'd like to see Mary Magdalene, Georgia?

I've asked Tamsin Court-Cookson to take you on a short tour. She's captain of Gwen Meredith House and – you've probably guessed from the surname – the Deputy Prime Minister's daughter. We have a rich cross-section of the community here, Maharajah. One of our scholarship girls is the daughter of a postman.' She laughed. ‘He used to pick her up from school on his little yellow postman's motorbike until we stopped it.'

Ms Defarge got up and went to the door. ‘Tamsin,' she tinkled, ‘please come in and meet the maharajah, the maharani and their daughter, the Princess Georgia.'

A tall girl with a shock of hair combed from left to right just like a boy's stepped into the room. She had the most beautiful clear skin and the most defiant look in her grey eyes. In a whisper, Ms Defarge told Tamsin Court-Cookson to curtsy.

She didn't.

‘I wonder if you'd mind taking Georgia on a short tour of the school? There will be flavoured milk and Tiny Teddies waiting for you both here in my office when you return in half an hour.'

‘Certainly,' said Tamsin, looking coldly at Georgia.

Georgia followed Tamsin as she led the way into the windy afternoon. Tamsin was certainly imposing.

Without looking at Georgia, Tamsin announced, ‘We'll visit the chapel first; you may need to pray. Why on earth did you come here from India? You must be mad.'

Georgia didn't know how to answer that. What was it about this school, that it bred girls like Tamsin Court-Cookson and Chelsea Dean? This wasn't a friendly introduction at all.

‘Actually, I'm from Vistaview Secondary College,' she responded bravely.

Tamsin stopped and turned to face her. ‘Really? How peculiar. Do you know Bunsy Dean?'

Georgia was mesmerised by Tamsin's grey eyes but managed to mutter, ‘I know Chelsea Dean.'

‘Same Looney Tune. She used to be a student here. Sister Francis, the previous head, expelled her for kidnapping a statue of Our Lady from the chapel – as a joke, of course. Bunsy sent postcards for a month from various parts of the world, then returned the statue with a lei around its neck – and a Mickey Mouse watch. Best thing that happened to the school all year. There were rumours that the Pope was going to excommunicate all of us. Then Sister Francis was put out to pasture, and we were saved.'

‘I think Chelsea once mentioned something like that.'

‘We were all in on it. But Chelsea took the rap.'

‘Chelsea is starting a rowing club at Vistaview.'

Tamsin laughed. ‘I'll bet it's boys-only.'

Georgia nodded.

‘She was boy-obsessed. That's why she really got herself expelled. To be closer to boys. You know, she once told me that her dream was to be rowed down the river to her place by an all-boys rowing team. She's trying to get her wish. Ghastly Chelsea. Do your parents have a palace?'

‘A fort, actually.'

‘A fort? Are they often attacked?'

‘It was built ages ago. They haven't been attacked for centuries.'

The two of them had arrived at an old bluestone chapel with a tower.

‘This is it: scene of the notorious kidnapping!' Tamsin pushed open the door, and Georgia stepped into a blue-and-red stained-glass silence. The cool air smelt of incense. A bluerobed statue of the Virgin stood in one corner.

‘And here you will be told to remain pure.' Tamsin's eyes rolled. ‘Are you Hindu?'

‘I'm not anything.'

Tamsin began to pace noisily around the chapel. Georgia watched her out of the corner of her eye. She might be fun to know.

‘And why do you live in Australia?' Tamsin's voice reverberated off the walls.

‘It's a long story.'

‘I'd love to live in a fort. I'd love to have my own army.' Tamsin straightened up. She was quite tall. ‘Okay, what other parts of Gormenghast might I show you?'

‘I'm not sure. The woodwork room?'

‘The woodwork room?'

‘Or the gym.'

Tamsin looked pleased. ‘We have a zoo, too.'

‘This school has a zoo? Amazing.'

‘Well, it's tragic actually. It has a sheep – poor thing – and a tortoise, a pony, a one-winged eagle, some canaries and budgies, about twenty rabbits that have been given no birthcontrol advice – it is a Catholic zoo – and every creature is over fed.'

They left the chapel, and Georgia followed Tamsin down a flower-lined path. ‘I have an elephant,' she said, trying to impress this amazing girl.

Tamsin stopped. ‘That's a first. You should come to school on it.'

‘It's in India,' Georgia laughed.

Tamsin Court-Cookson's eyes were twinkling. ‘I'd love to go to India. You should invite me.'

Georgia didn't know what to say.

‘Go on, invite me.'

Life was moving unexpectedly fast. Georgia heard herself say: ‘Please come to India with me.'

‘Thanks,' said Tamsin. ‘When?'

She hesitated. ‘As soon as possible?'

‘Terrific! Deal's done,' said Tamsin Court-Cookson and held out her hand for a shake. ‘This is just like speed dating!'

START UP
THE MIRROR
BALL, BABE

K
HIEM
D
AO'S PHONE BEEPED
. It was Chelsea Dean: ‘U need work?'

He had the job at New World, but he needed a bigger cash flow to keep him away from thug life. Chelsea Dean, however, was a major pain in the proverbial. She'd always treated him like a charity case. Once she
'
d tried to train him to be a boyfriend-for-hire to some of her stuck-up Magdalene girlfriends; on another occasion she'd conned Zeynep Yarkan into letting him stay in Zeynep's old cubbyhouse, which he'd unfortunately burnt down. As a social worker Chelsea was a dud, and this might be another attempt. But then again, she was single and cute in her own bunnywabbit-on-speed kind of way.

He'd never ask his aunty for money. She knew he was bad, and she was always harsh towards him. People told her he was no good.

‘Sure,' he messaged.

This was the new Khiem Dao: two jobs, creaming them all at school, Vo Vietnam black belt soon, straight as a die – and two hundred and seventy
DVD
s still under his bed.

He moved to the window to look out across the houses and trees towards the hills at the edge of the city. Being on the fifth floor gave him a great view. Seagulls skimmed at eye level. He could see Chelsea's house in the distance, above the river, not far from the tower of Mary Magdalene Ladies' College – that smorgasbord of stuck-up girls in a garden of Eden. Chelsea's family was rich – rich enough not to know if small stuff went missing. He'd thought about burging the place once when he'd visited. That was in the old days, though; the bad days when he didn't care about anything except drugs and quick cash.

The phone went again. He looked at the screen. Chelsea.

‘Come now.'

Chelsea gave orders as if she ran the school. But she was a bit of a rebel – he liked that.

He should change his shirt if he was going to see her, because he was still sweating after Vo Vietnam training. He was getting back into it after a two-year lapse. They were glad to have him again. His uniform, blue like the sky, was now folded carefully over his chair.
Respect the uniform, respect yourself, respect
others.

Khiem padded to his bedroom and pulled on a clean T-shirt, then he kicked the
DVD
s and went back to the window to look at Chelsea's house again. He could just make out the balcony above the pool. She wasn't on it. She lived in the mega-rich area of the city. Hundreds of thousands of Aussies lived in those green eastern suburbs, sheltered by waves of green trees. An ocean of green trees. If Khiem became Chelsea's toy boy, she could send signals to him from her bedroom window on that hill.
Click, click. Come quick.
He'd grab his bike and pedal up to her place in the middle of the night to sip fine wines in her spa and watch the little spinning lights flashing from the mirror ball and the little floating candles and rose petals shimmering on the surface of the water. She'd pay top dollar for his company.

Khiem shook his head. He couldn't remember her address, although he did recall a painting of a naked lady halfway up their staircase. That showed how rich they were. They had nudes.

‘Address?' he messaged, just in case he got the wrong house.

She responded instantly: ‘4 Petworth Close.'

He grabbed his jacket, keys, phone and bike, and headed for the door. There was a family in the hall waiting for the lift. Their accent was Northern. The flats were like a mini Vietnam.

Outside, Khiem checked his tyres.
Crappy ride there, nice
ride home.
He'd be sweating like a pig again by the time he got to the top of Chelsea's hill, even though it was still cold. She wouldn't like him if he stank. She'd probably suggest they have a spa immediately, before their late afternoon of love.
Start up
the mirror ball, babe!
He doubled back and got his deodorant.

HAVE BABIES
WITH ME!

C
RAIG
R
YAN
WAS
down on his knees in New World stacking boxes of raisins. And he was furious.

The night before, Craig's dad had finally confessed to his son that he was seeing Chelsea Dean's mother. It was one of the crappiest nights of Craig's life. It had been a week since Chelsea's visit, so Craig had been waiting for it.

He'd expected his father to try the old father–son
KFC
thing: sit down with Craig over a family-size bucket and tell him Chelsea's mother and he were
good friends
… Instead, his old man had flipped out. Big time.

Chelsea had kept her word. She'd told her mother she was pregnant, and that the father of the child – Craig – had Tourette syndrome.

‘I thought you and Matilda Grey were an item!' Craig's dad had bellowed. ‘You're a two-timer, Craig. I don't like that in a son of mine. One at a time, mate, that's the rule. Now you gonna marry Chelsea or what?'

Craig couldn't believe his father had swallowed that bull. ‘Do I sound like I've got bloody Tourette syndrome?' he'd bellowed back, twitching with rage. ‘I've never done it with her. I never want to! She's crazy. She said it to break you and Mrs Dean up – she came round here and told me she would.'

‘What's the matter with you, Craig?' his father had shouted.

‘No more fancy stories, old mate. Just tell me the truth.'

Craig had clenched his fists and stuck to his guns. It took ages to convince his father of the truth. Then just when everything had calmed down, in the middle of
Survivor
, his old man had dropped the big bombshell: ‘We're moving into Annette's place and renting this place out, Craig. No arguments.'

That was it! Chelsea was right! Craig had leapt up and punched the wall oven and told his father he was going to live with his mother up on the farm.

‘How can you pass up an entertainment system like theirs?' his father had yelled outside Craig's bedroom door.

‘I'm not living with lying bitches!' he'd yelled back.

And that was where they'd left it.

Craig felt sick when he thought about living in the same house as Chelsea Dean. He wished Khiem was here now to take his mind off the problem, but Khiem had called in sick this afternoon. That was strange. Craig tried not to think about shifting out of his own house. He'd lived there all his life.

Just as he was trying to imagine what kind of food they'd eat at Chelsea's, he was smashed flat to the floor – raisins went everywhere. It was Matilda, of course. She loved to jump him.