She considers me broodily. ‘Fine. Play it that way. Because your pretence at being a garage punk fan has me completely convinced.’ She starts on a slow lap of my table. When she has done a full circle, she starts on another, like a matador psyching out a bull. The whole performance is making me a tad light-headed.
‘All right. I’m not a garage punk fan,’ I admit.
She stops in front of me again. ‘Does this mean you’re going to talk turkey? Or that you’ve come up with an excuse? Don’t tell me: you’re going to the gig to test out some new earplugs. Or for a sociological experiment. Oh, I know. You’re an undercover cop and you’re doing a sting. That I would believe.’ She bares her teeth.
‘My brother’s in the band. He plays the guitar.’
Natasha Nguyen does something I’ve never seen her do before – she giggles. ‘Your brother is the guitarist in The Sphere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re related to Art Juice?’
‘It’s a stage name, obviously.’
‘Oh, this is perfect. You’ll have to introduce me then, won’t you?’ Natasha Nguyen smirks.
Outside Deep Fryer, a cold wind rattles the awnings along the street. Shivering in the queue, Natasha zips up her front zip, her arm zips, even her pocket zips. ‘Why did I forget my Pussy Riot balaclava?’ she complains. ‘Hey, if your brother’s in the band and everything, shouldn’t we be able to skip this damn queue?’
Maybe she’s right, but I don’t want to interrupt Arthur’s preparation time. He likes to sit in a corner, think of his power animal (a squirrel) and hum the tune of Yeah Yeah Yeah’s ‘Heads Will Roll’. Then again, it is only eight o’clock. The Sphere won’t be on until ten at the earliest. If I call Arthur now, he will still have plenty of time to prepare before playing.
I try his mobile. No answer. ‘Wait here,’ I tell Natasha.
A security guard I have not encountered before – a six-foot muscle man with a shaved head and metal-tipped boots – stops me with a hand. I explain who I am. He reaches for his phone. ‘I’ve got a Harriet Price downstairs,’ he says into it. ‘Says she’s related to Art. Yep, the Juice Man.’ There is a pause. ‘Yep. Nah. Yep. Nah. Yep.’ He hangs up. ‘Okay. You can go in.’
‘How the hell did you pull this off, Price?’ says Natasha as we climb the stairs to the green room.
‘I told you. My brother’s the guitarist.’
‘Yeah, and I’m the Dalai Lama.’
‘Then maybe you are.’
‘What, because I’m Asian? We all look the same to you, don’t we?’
‘That’s not what I meant!’
‘Harri!’ calls a voice from above.
Arthur is leaning over the bannister. He already has his show gear on: a leather jacket over a white shirt, army pants and commando boots. I run up and give him a squeeze.
Natasha, wide-eyed, looks from me to Arthur. ‘Well love me tender and call me Elvis.’
‘Natasha, this is my brother, Arthur. Arthur, Natasha.’
Arthur smiles, and a funny thing happens to Natasha’s face. All the pinched parts suddenly go smooth.
‘Natasha Nguyen?’ says Arthur. ‘You’re the one who knows Duncan.’
Her eyes look glazed. ‘Everyone knows Duncan.’
‘Right.’ He gives her his goofiest grin. ‘You want to meet the rest of the band?’
With Natasha safely preoccupied meeting The Sphere, it is time to call Will. I go downstairs and into the hallway. Along the walls, which are painted black, a series of large canvas paintings hang in intricately gilded frames. They depict various gory scenes: the sacrifice of a goat, a man being gutted by a giant sword, a human head on a stick, etc. Above a polished oak hallstand and a crystal vase of fresh, long-stemmed crimson roses is a gigantic bevelled mirror. I stop in front of it, tidy my hair, readjust my T-shirt and take out my phone.
Within seconds Will’s face is on my screen, up close and furious. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Who did you think it was?’
‘Never mind. Why are you FaceTiming me? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just –? Um – okay, wow.’ Her face looms on the screen as she tries for a better view.
‘What?’
‘Your outfit.’ She grins. ‘You should wear that T-shirt more often.’
My T-shirt is certainly getting a variety of responses this evening! I pat my burning cheeks. ‘I can switch to audio if you don’t like FaceTime.’
‘Nah. Don’t do that. FaceTime is fine,’ Will says quickly.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ I ask. ‘When I first called you looked like something bad had happened.’
Will groans. ‘Nothing worse than usual. I’ve just been on the phone to my dad, that’s all. He’s having a big birthday bash for his fiftieth.’
‘Oh, that sounds fun.’
‘Yeah, if I were going.’
‘Why aren’t you going?’
‘It’s in Perth.’
‘Oh, Will.’
Will looks away from the screen. ‘Are you at Deep Fryer yet? Is Nat there? Should I do it now?’
‘Yes, to all of the above.’
‘Okay. Here goes.’
The screen wobbles. I hear the sound of a car door slamming. Will holds the phone up so I can follow her along the school path to the newsroom. With the gardens in darkness and the solar lamps between the camellias casting ominous shadows, it’s a bit like watching a police raid on Australia’s Most Famous Hoarders. When the door comes into sight, Will wags her plastic photo ID before the camera. ‘Watch this.’
I watch as she slots the card between the door and the frame.
‘Hang on. You don’t have a key?’ I ask.
‘Why would I have a key?’ The screen view dips to show the dimly lit walkway. I hear a grunt and a click. ‘Bingo,’ says Will as the door swings open.
A group of punk fans stalk past me in the Deep Fryer hallway. I turn around so they can’t see my phone screen, which now shows Will going through the shelves of the newsroom cupboard. An International Roast tin twice the size of her head crashes onto her shoulder and she swears. I quickly turn
