‘The line of duty, hey? Did he sleep with you in the line of duty?’
Mandy grimaces, looks at the table. This isn’t how she had imagined this encounter, what she had hoped for. But she’s beyond lying. ‘Yes. He slept with me.’
‘And told you he loved you?’
‘Yes.’
There’s a silence, then. Mandy can hear the kids playing, shouting, out the back.
‘I loved him, you know that?’ says Evelyn Bright, voice challenging. ‘Maybe I still do.’ She casts her eyes around, searching for something to look at, finding nothing. ‘I can forgive him for sleeping with you, I can forgive him all the rest. I got used to that. But I can’t forgive him for dying. For leaving us marooned out here.’ Mandy feels creeping emotion, but there is nothing teary about Evelyn Bright. Her face remains hard and her voice judgemental. ‘He was so reckless, always so reckless. Living his little-boy fantasies, like a cut-price Jason Bourne. And then he dies. And leaves us, me and the three boys.’
‘Three?’
‘All under ten.’ She stays silent for a moment, her voice a little less abrasive as she continues. ‘They look like him, you know. Bits and pieces, always there, always reminding me, like his ghost. The youngest is shy and sensible, thank God, but the older two are wild, just like him. Fearless. Reckless. Charming.’
‘I remember.’
‘I imagine you do.’ Another pause. ‘Why have you come here? To see what you wrought, you and him?’
‘Reparations.’
‘What does that mean?’
Mandy lifts the sports bag, puts it on the table, on top of the magazine. ‘It’s yours.’
‘What is it?’
‘Money.’
Evelyn doesn’t speak; she just regards the bag for some time, then returns her gaze to her visitor’s face.
‘A lot of money,’ says Mandy. ‘Cash. Half a million dollars.’
The woman blinks, pulls the bag towards her, opens the zip, sees the bundled notes, rezips the bag. ‘Whose is it?’
‘Yours now.’
‘The money he stole?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t take it,’ she says, but she’s staring at the bag. The next time she speaks, it’s more to herself than to Mandy. ‘It’s too risky. They’ll come looking for it.’
‘No. It’s been gone five years. If they were going to find it, they would have by now. It doesn’t belong to any one person or entity. It’s just cream, skimmed off the top.’
‘Why don’t you keep it?’
‘I don’t need it. I don’t deserve it. He wanted you to have it.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Yes, I can. That’s what he told me. That’s how I knew where to find it. That’s why I’m here. He wasn’t interested in the money, just the glory, the accolades he would have won for breaking open such a massive criminal syndicate. That was his motivation. At the very end, when he began to realise how great the risks were, what he had discovered, he realised that he might not survive. So he put a contingency plan in place. It’s true, stealing the money was partly a ruse; he did it to cover his tracks, to buy himself time. You’ll see that in the media. But it was also for you. For your children. In case something went wrong.’ Mandy holds the woman’s gaze, determined not to expose her own lie.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t put you in danger. Never. Just spend it carefully. Gradually. And once it’s gone, there is more. Millions more. Your boys’ futures are assured.’
At that, the woman does grow emotional; Mandy can see it in her eyes. ‘He did that? He was thinking of us?’
‘I believe he always was.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, still maintaining her formality. ‘Not for the money, but for telling me that.’ She pauses, opens the bag again, extracts a bundle of fifty-dollar notes, lifting it to her face, smelling the richness of it before continuing. ‘I believed it, you know—that he’d stolen the money, fled overseas, was living the high life, drinking martinis with a bevy of floozies.’ She gulps down a swallow. ‘I never trusted him. Not really. Only to put himself first, to look after his own self-interest. But now …’ She closes her eyes. ‘Maybe he wasn’t like that after all. Maybe I should have trusted him more.’
‘He loved you,’ Mandy repeats. ‘Otherwise, why would he have risked his cover, told me about you, stolen the money for you?’
There are no more words. The woman takes the bag, holds it to herself, hugging it as if she might be hugging her five-years-dead husband.
It’s only later, back in the protective shell of the car, that Mandy allows herself to relax, to breathe properly, to shed her own tears. Evelyn had believed her fabrications, all of them; had trusted her lies. It was a necessary deceit: Evelyn needs the money, she and her boys. Tarquin’s boys.
epilogue
Two months later
Liam is excited, chatting away in his booster seat, pointing out features in the passing scenery. And now the boy is singing, his own little ditty. ‘Carn Marn. Carn carn Marn,’ he trills. ‘Marn Marn carn carn.’ And then, inevitably: ‘We there yet, Marn?’
‘Yes, Liam. Here we are.’
Martin pulls into the car park: shaded by gum trees, lined by bottlebrushes, the well-maintained order of government money. The minimum-security prison itself looks more like a works depot or a distribution hub than a jail. Even the razor wire appears benign, as if guarding against break-ins rather than breakouts. The place shimmers in the clear air, spring in full bloom on the far north coast.
Inside, the entrance is almost empty, an air-conditioned void, the advantage of visiting on a weekday. Martin knows the drill: he empties his pockets, placing his wallet, watch and phone in a locker, keeping some coins for the vending machines, before he and Liam pass through security. The biometrics are on the blink once again, but his driver’s licence is enough for the guards, and he and Liam step through the metal detector without incident.
Mandy is waiting for them in the open-plan reception room. Liam runs to her; she swoops him up, covers
