Take Out

An Easeful Death
is a delightful pot pourri of police corruption, injustice, tangled emotions, treachery and misunderstanding—
Mary Martin website

An Easeful Death
is bound to keep you up at night—
Scoop Magazine

[An Easeful Death]
is tight and well-written—
Adelaide Advertiser

An Easeful Death
is an exciting whodunnit page-turner from a talented West Australian writer, and a welcome addition to Australian crime fiction—
Western Suburbs Weekly

Felicity Young is an intriguing new addition to the upper echelons of Australian thriller writing...
Harum Scarum
is a well-crafted page turner that explores themes that concern every parent—
Sun-Herald

Harum Scarum
is an enjoyable read with considerable credibility—
Aussiereviews.com

Harum Scarum
is a gripping, chilling thriller. A page turner—
www.eurocrime.co.uk

Felicity Young was born in Hanover, Germany, in 1960 and went to boarding school in the United Kingdom while her parents were posted around the world with the British Army. When her father retired from the army in 1976 the family settled in Perth. Felicity married at nineteen while she was still doing her nursing training and on completion of training had three children in quick succession. Not surprisingly, an arts degree at The University of Western Australia took ten years to complete. In 1990, Felicity and her family moved from the city and established a Suffolk sheep stud on a small farm in Gidgegannup where she studied music, reared orphan kangaroos and started writing.

Having a brother-in-law who is a retired police superintendent, it was almost inevitable she would turn to crime writing. Felicity Young’s first novel,
A Certain Malice,
was published in Britain by Crème de la Crime in 2005.
An Easeful Death
(2007) and
Harum Scarum
(2008) were published by Fremantle Press.
Take Out
is her third Stevie Hooper crime novel.

To Ben, Tom and Pip
And to Mick, as always, with love

Mai and the other planters follow the farmer and his ‘mechanical buffalo’ as it chug chugs along, ploughing the ground into soupy mud. They separate the tied bundles of rice seedlings and then plant them individually into the furrows. It is back-breaking work, but neighbour helps neighbour. Soon a carpet of dazzling green will cover the paddies. The rice shoots will grow, the weather will dry the seeds and after the harvest there will be much celebrating in the village.

Mai thinks of the fun times to come and they are the only things that keep her going. She works alongside her mother and sisters. Her father leaves before the short lunch break. He tells them his back is sore. Mai’s mother says nothing, but Mai knows she will be blushing with shame under the scarf that covers most of her face. With the help of these neighbours their own family paddy was planted several days before.

They break for lunch, flick the mud from their feet like cats and find a patch of ground a little less soggy than the rest to sit on. Mai’s three younger sisters eat sticky rice and play jacks with the other children on a scrap of timber. Mai rolls her shorts further up her legs and steps into the tepid water of the drainage ditch to hunt for frogs and small fish to add to their evening meal of steamed rice. The liquid movement of a snake glides across the skin of her calf. She stands rigid, like a water bird on one leg, and concentrates on the buffalo on the bank. The buffalo’s ears flick ineffectually at the surrounding halo of flies. Grass shoots are stretched and snapped by his lips and tongue, teeth crush and grind upon the pulp. The scent of his breath sweetens the metallic tang of mud from the surrounding fields. Damp air presses against Mai’s skin. In the dishwater sky, heavy clouds roil. Only when she is sure the snake has gone, does Mai move again and continue with her lunchtime hunting.

When the day’s planting is finished, Mai and her mother and sisters get a lift in the farmer’s pick-up to their house in the village on the banks of the river Pai. The house is built on stilts to protect it from floods. A colourful assortment of open umbrellas hangs underneath the floor and sways in the weak breeze. Bicycles lie on top of one another under the shelter, chickens perch on rusty handlebars. All around the village, buffalos bellow at the approaching storm.

A satellite dish on the tin roof makes the roof tilt to one side. Mai’s father says they are a privileged family. No one else in the village has a satellite dish and because of this he is a very big man.

But there is no noise from the TV tonight. Mai climbs the steps to find her father with the usual can of Singha beer in his hand, sitting on a fruit crate watching an Elvis Presley movie with the sound turned down. A stranger in an embroidered silk dress sits on a crate next to him. She wears dainty red shoes and carries a bag that sparkles like diamonds under the single light globe. The woman must be very rich: the TV doesn’t get turned down for anyone.

Her mother places her hands together and gives the woman a little bow. Her father hauls himself up from the crate. ‘See this woman, Mai?’ he says. ‘She used to live in a village like ours and came from a poor family too. She went to Bangkok and made lots of money.’

Mai bows to the woman as her mother has done.

‘Would you like to come to Bangkok with me, Mai? Would you like to be rich like me?’ the woman asks in a high fluting voice.

There is a long silence. Mai’s mother starts to cry. Mai doesn’t understand why. This is the most exciting thing she has ever heard and she finds herself gulping air like a frog. She is twelve years old and cannot take her eyes off the woman’s diamond purse. She wants so badly to have a purse like that.

‘You go with this woman, Mai,’ her father says, ‘and you will never be hungry again. You will have all the jewels and fine clothes a young girl could ever want.’

Mai glances across the room towards her three younger sisters. The food she has caught in the field today will never fill those hungry bellies. Her own belly begins to growl; perhaps it is the spirits giving her a sign. She lowers her eyes and nods her head to her father.

He pulls her into his arms. His skin is slick and he smells of smoke and beer. ‘You are a good girl, Mai. You go with this woman. Help yourself and then you can help all of us.’

Mai knows of girls in other villages who have been visited by beautiful strangers. Their families boast about it, saying how rich the girls have become. Mai realises she must have been very special in her previous life to be chosen as one of the lucky few in this one.

Her mother hugs her. ‘You will come back to visit?’

Mai looks to the beautiful stranger for an answer. The stranger nods her head and says ‘yes’ with a solemn promise.

As Mai is led to the door by the stranger’s small manicured hand, she hears her father say, ‘DVD players are going cheap in the market. I can buy one now.’

The dead cycad might look like a rusty buzz-saw in a pot, Stevie thought, but it was hardly a portent for disaster.

‘Have you been inside?’ she asked Skye, who had joined her on the front porch. Stevie’s fingers grazed one of the plant’s leaves. ‘Ouch!’ She pulled away, beads of blood welling along the small cut.

‘Tetanus up to date?’ Skye asked.

Stevie pulled her stinging finger from her mouth. ‘Yes,
Nurse
Williams.’

‘If I’d had the guts to go inside,’ Skye went on, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered calling you, would I?’ She gave a characteristic eye roll that made Stevie smile despite her irritation. ‘Mrs Hardegan’s positive no one’s been home for days. I mean come off it, look at all this.’ She waved her hand at the overflowing letterbox and the rolled newspapers cast about the lawn.

‘And the grass needs a mow,’ said Stevie, ‘I can see all that, but why didn’t you just wait for the local cops?’

‘I told you,’ said Skye. ‘They never showed. ‘C’mon, you owe me. Let’s get this over with. I’ve still got another three home visits to make and she’s watching.’ Skye tilted her head towards the squat pre-war bungalow next door. Stevie caught a shadow of movement from a window, the snap of venetian blinds. With a resigned sigh she gave the lion-head doorbell three sharp jabs.

Skye fumbled in the pocket of her uniform for the key Mrs Hardegan had given her and reached for the doorknob. ‘I rang before and got no answer, had a look around the garden, the back shed, looked through the windows—there isn’t anyone about.’

To their surprise the door opened under her touch.

They found themselves in a cool front entrance with a high ceiling. A stained-glass skylight shone down on them and a black and white tiled floor chequered its way down the passageway to the left and right. There were plenty of larger mansions in the area, but this Federation-style reproduction was the biggest in the block. Stevie regarded the spacious lounge room ahead. Two modular sofas gripped the walls, the type found in airport lounges or hotel lobbies, not really designed for lounging. Not even a coffee table filled the void between them. The room was bare: there were no paintings, no TV, books or magazines. Stevie had seen display homes that looked more homey.