Black Ice Part 9

'Do you have anything on you?' asked Adele in a whisper.

d.a.m.n it. Ca.s.sie had been getting ready to ask Adele the same thing.

'Nothing,' she said. 'My body is my temple.'

Adele gave a snort of laughter. 'Oh, very good, darling,' she said. 'Well, I know where we can get some.'

'Some what?'

'Anything.'

'Well, what are we doing here, then?' said Ca.s.sie. 'Let's go.'

'What will we do with Blake and Saxon?' asked Adele.

'I'll give them my number. I'll let Saxon buy me drinks again another night.'

Ca.s.sie zipped up her leather jacket as they waited out the front of the building for their taxi. She didn't see the woman in the BMW driving past whack her husband on the arm when he almost mounted the gutter ogling her.

'Where are we going?' she asked her friend.

'To a party,' said Adele.

'Lovely,' she said. 'Where?'

'Merrylands,' said Adele, and laughed.

Ca.s.sie gaped at her.

'Merrylands,' she said finally. 'Can't say I've ever been there, but with a name like that it should be fun.'

Seren and Marco had his favourite for dinner. Again. Second time in the four days she'd been out. Smooshed-up tacos. Long ago, she'd figured that taco sh.e.l.ls cost too much and that no-name corn chips would do just as well. She told Marco that the dish had been invented when a little boy dropped his taco and found it tasted even better all broken. They piled smashed corn chips, minced beef, shredded iceberg lettuce, chopped tomato and grated cheese onto their plates. Seren dolloped some plain yoghurt onto hers and Marco added tomato sauce.

Marco stirred the mess together and Seren immediately lost her appet.i.te. The sauce looked like blood, and the smells and sounds of the slaughterhouse flared briefly in her kitchen. She pushed her plate away.

'Hey,' she said, shaking her head, trying to disperse the memory, 'do you remember Angel?'

'That lady from gaol?'

'Yeah. My friend. She ate with us a few times when you came to visit.'

Marco shovelled another forkful into his mouth. He stared at her. His hair was so dark, but he had her huge blue eyes, framed like works of art behind his spectacles.

'Anyway, she's getting out this weekend,' she continued. 'And guess what?'

'Nnnnfff?' Marco mumbled through a mouthful of cheese and chips.

'She got a unit downstairs. In this block. We arranged it while we were in there, so that we could hang out together now.'

'Okay,' he said. Then, 'Can Jake come over?'

'Of course. If it's all right with his mum. Does he live far away?'

'I dunno,' said Marco. 'I'll call him.'

'After dinner,' she said. Seren leaned back from the table and tried not to stare at her son eating. Things are going to be all right, she promised him silently. Things will be okay. She forced herself not to think about Monday morning and the world outside these walls.

20.

Friday 5 April, 10 pm.

There was no indication that a meth lab was being run from this place. Jill hadn't expected that to be the case anyway. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it hadn't been the 1970s, two-storey, double-brick, family home that she walked into with Jelly and Kasem Nader later that evening. From the entryway she could hear male voices within. She peered around Jelly's bulk into a lounge area.

All around the room sat men around Nader's age, eating plates of food, watching TV and speaking in low voices. Even with the Cobra .45 tucked into a holster above her ankle, her adrenalin was a hot, thin wire coursing under her skin. As far as she could see, she'd be the only female in a room of perhaps ten males.

She stood near the entryway with Nader. Jelly, obviously comfortable here, immediately moved towards a buffet of food spread out across a table in the lounge room.

From the outside, the house looked more like she might have imagined for the home of a criminal a five-foot brick wall surrounded the property and there were bars on every window, but this seemed in keeping with the rest of the homes in the neighbourhood, as far as she could tell. On the inside, Italian-style furniture of the same era as the house blended somewhat uncomfortably with Middle Eastern rugs and paintings. An elaborate hookah pipe sat on a low coffee table; photos of children perched on sideboards and hung on the wall.

'This is my parents' home,' said Kasem, watching her check the place out. 'They're overseas. I stay here with my brothers sometimes.'

'So you throw a party while Mummy and Daddy are away?' said Jill. 'Aren't you a little old for that, Kasem?'

Nader smiled at her, but his eyes stayed flat. Jill resolved to tone down the sarcasm.

'Well, Krystal,' he said, 'I guess it's less of a party than a gathering of friends. These people here work with me or for me, and I trust them. There will be a few more people joining us, but perhaps I may have misled you a little. I'm not much into big, noisy parties. We'll all be having something to drink and eat tonight, we'll talk a little business, but that's about it. If you're uncomfortable, I can run you home now.'

'No, it's okay, I guess,' said Jill. 'I just thought there would be more girls here.' She smiled up at her host. Her firearm might extend only six inches, but it held ten rounds, and she reckoned she could make her way out of here any time she liked. 'I'm pretty hungry,' she said. 'And that food looks great.'

Ca.s.sie got out of the cab thinking she should probably have just swallowed her pride and gone and made up with Christian. All he'd really done was to drop her off at the hospital. Of course, he should have stayed with her, made sure she was okay, or at least come and seen her the next day. But he had sent the flowers, and he had left repeated messages. Still, she decided he could wait a little longer for forgiveness.

But the outside of this house did not look like her kind of party venue. She shot a look at her friend, who shrugged and smiled. She waited as Adele spoke into the intercom unit in the wall.

'Trust me, girlfriend,' Adele told her. 'You're going to thank me in ten minutes.'

Now, that did sound promising, Ca.s.sie had to admit. The gate buzzed open and she followed Adele up the pathway towards the front door. At least the place smells agreeable, she thought, breathing in the scents of spice and hashish. They waited for the front door to be opened.

The food was as good as it looked. Jill selected small morsels of tender chicken, which left her lips sticky with lemon, garlic and onion. She dolloped several of the colourful dips onto her plate white bean; roasted capsic.u.m; c.u.min-scented hummus and a spoonful of the creamiest garlic aioli she had ever eaten.

'What is this?' she asked Kasem, who, somewhat disconcertingly, watched her as she ate.

'Tahina. Ground sesame paste, some other spices. My mum made it.'

Go figure. The mamma's boy gangster. Jill grinned, and went back for just a little more. A stuffed capsic.u.m; a sc.r.a.pe of tabouleh. She scooped the food up with bread as everyone else was doing.

Jill surrept.i.tiously observed her surroundings as she ate. The music was chilled and the sweet odour of marijuana began to fill the air. No one looked to be doing drugs of any other description, at least not out here in the open.

Kasem spoke to the others, but he did not leave the room. Jill was aware of him watching her, and each time she caught his eye he smiled. She observed the body language of the players: everyone deferred to Kasem, even the two men he introduced to her as his brothers.

Eight more guests arrived, and she was no longer the only woman in the room. There were now three other females, and, undercover in a criminal's house or not, Jill felt under-dressed. A blonde, wearing spray-on jeans and a one-shouldered, draping silver top, fired blistering looks in Jill's direction each time Kasem spoke to her.

Which was a lot, she couldn't help but notice.

'Krystal!' Jelly waved at her from the buffet table. 'Dessert! Come on!'

And then the impossible happened.

Of every person she could possibly imagine walking into this house in Merrylands, the very last would have been the newest entrant to this party.

As happened whenever she walked into a room, every head whipped around to stare at her little sister. Ca.s.sie. In Kasem Nader's lounge room. With his brothers, with Jelly, with Jill/Krystal, and the gun at her ankle.

Oh, f.u.c.k.

21.

Sat.u.r.day 6 April, 7 pm.

Seren, Marco and Angel sat picnic-style on a blanket on the floor of Seren's unit. Three boxes sat open in front of them. The pizza frenzy had died down, and only Angel was still eating, taking small bites now. Marco picked at some cheese on a slice and Seren frowned at him.

'Let me have a sip,' he asked again.

'You won't like it.' Seren handed her son the cup of red wine she held. She didn't even like it much, although it wasn't too bad for Chateau du Cardboard.

'Ew!' His little face wrinked. 'How disgusting.'

'And I told you what?' she asked him, smiling.

h.e.l.l, she thought, I just sounded like Maria Thomasetti. The name wiped her smile.

'Hey,' she said, turning to Angel, 'who'd you get for probation and parole?'

'Oooh, this lovely young bloke, looks like he's fresh out of school,' said Angel. 'What about you?'

'Ah, not him,' said Seren.

She leaned back against the couch, trying to relax. She was so relieved that Angel was out. Now it felt as though there was at least one other adult on the face of the earth who would watch her back. And a friendship tested in gaol had more weight than friendship forged with someone out here.

But while Seren wanted Angel as a friend, she needed her to help in a small way with her plans. Seren had to get to Christian, but she also had to keep her day job to meet her parole conditions. And that meant that she would have to find Christian at night. She could trust Angel to look after her boy while she was out.

Gaol had taught Seren patience. With all the time she'd had in there, she had come to see that killing him was a stupid idea. Running through the possible methods of murdering her former lover, Seren finally saw for certain that: a) she couldn't do it; and b) killing him wouldn't do her any good anyway. No, no. There were other ways to exact revenge, and Seren had had another twelve months with nothing else to do than to craft the perfect plan.

After a few weeks inside, she'd come to understand that Christian Worthington was not her only enemy. The more time she spent with her fellow prisoners, the more she came to realise that she had fallen foul of a much more powerful predator: destiny, fate call it what you will.

For some reason, Seren and the women locked up with her had been cursed by fate. She realised that, sure, one day they'd all get out of there, but most of them would return to violent neighbourhoods and incomes below the poverty line. They could try to get out of their suburbs, get better jobs. But most of them had kids, and their children's lives were just beginning; they needed time too.

Seren had seen it before. Mrs Telomere, her neighbour growing up, had kicked her bludging husband out of the house and gone back to finish Year 12 at the same high school that her two sons attended. She'd worked nightshifts at 7-Eleven, and when she'd achieved her Higher School Certificate had enrolled at uni to study welfare. Then one day, about six months into her first year, word had spread around the neighbourhood in an hour: Mrs Telomere had been raped putting her garbage out, dragged down the alleyway next to her house. Seren hardly ever saw her come outside after that. The housing commission people found her a new place twelve months later.

But all low-rent suburbs were the same. And staying inside didn't help. Seren had heard countless stories of home invasions or run-throughs as most people called them. You could be sitting at home, just eating tea, and three or four masked b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would kick your door down and take all your stuff. The latest craze for the thieves was to bring a doona cover, make you help them shove everything into it, kids' toys and all. 'Reverse Santa', some smarta.r.s.es called it. If you were lucky, you'd just cop a quick flogging. Unlucky, and you'd lose teeth, an eye, your husband. Next day, you'd catch the bus with these blokes, or see them at your local chemist. Best to just nod and say hi, pretend not to know.

Of course, you could get out of there; move into non-subsidised private rental. Unless, of course, you had a criminal record, or a bad credit history, or an income from an unskilled job. Check, check, check. Everyone bunking down in Silverwater corrections with Seren was counted out.

So, Seren figured out that she had to do two things: pay Christian back, and get paid herself. Big time.

In gaol her plan had begun to come together. Now, she thought to herself, it's time.

Funnily enough, of the equipment that she would require, including a covert recording device and a laptop, what caused her the most consternation was her clothing. Seren had a few hot outfits put away in storage, but they had mainly been purchased by Christian; they were now a year out of date, and he had seen them all before. Seren knew that this would bar her entry back into the appearance-is-everything world he inhabited. She would need to gather a few things herself before she could make Christian contribute to his own undoing.

Sunday morning saw her waiting at the public library for the doors to open. She used their internet service to source a tiny camera and the most basic laptop she could find: it was only for downloading the audio-visual recordings she would make.

The hardware required a trip to the city, and as she bought her bus ticket she mentally calculated how much money she'd have left for the most essential purchases the two items of clothing. In gaol, she'd gone over her first-meeting outfit options a hundred times. A glamour gown would be perfect, but impossible. She couldn't afford it.

In the end, she based it all around the shoes. The night before she had bought them had been one of the best nights of her life. The day after, the worst.

From the near-empty bus, Seren watched the suburbs dawdling past and her mind journeyed back to the first day Marco had ever seen the city; the day they'd met Christian Worthington. Marco's seventh birthday.

An appointment for Marco with an ophthalmic specialist had necessitated the trip, but she couldn't believe she'd never brought him before when she witnessed his awe and delight at the harbour, ferries and ma.s.sive buildings seen for the first time. Seren would have loved to take him to the zoo, the aquarium and the Powerhouse Museum places she'd never been either but there was no money for things like that. She needn't have worried: Marco was so overwhelmed by the size and speed of everything that they'd had to regularly find places to just sit and be still, his huge blue eyes blinking behind his gla.s.ses. At such times, she'd just held his hand and waited until he could find a question.

The appointment had been for three-thirty at the Citibank building, forty storeys high. A concierge had pointed them to the correct bank of elevators. Heading in that direction, three lift doors had opened at once, and they'd stood, like rocks in the rapids, as a swell of office workers spewed forth. Seren remembered them both, her little boy in red, herself in blue jeans and a tee-shirt, surrounded by the grey froth of the city people. She'd suddenly wanted to go home.

Instead, they'd ploughed forward and entered the lift and she'd given gave Marco a look. No touching.

'Which floor?' The man asking had to look down at her, which didn't happen terribly often.

'Ah, thirty-one,' she'd said, reading from the card again for the twentieth time. 'Thanks.'

'Do you want to press the b.u.t.ton?' The man had towered over Marco.

Marco nodded. Mouth open.

Before she had known what was happening, her little boy had been scooped up under the armpits, and set down again at her feet. b.u.t.ton thirty-one was lit up. Marco was smiling.

Seren smiled too when they left the lift, meeting the stranger's eyes for the first time.

The smile stayed until the snooty receptionist called their name half an hour later.

She'd always felt terribly guilty about Marco's eyes.