‘I worked for a while, down in Melbourne. Bar work, waitressing, whatever. Some modelling. Saving up, so I could go to uni. I went to Wollongong, to study literature. Like my mum did up at Bathurst. But it didn’t work out.’
‘What happened?’
‘The books. They no longer spoke to me.’
Outside, in the street, someone is shouting. A man’s voice. He sounds angry or drunk or both. A dog is barking, the sound bright above the constant traffic. Martin can’t remember Surry Hills being this noisy. ‘So it didn’t last?’
‘No. The other students, they were like kids. Like they’d never lived, never known that life leaves tracks. I felt like a refugee. I didn’t know anyone. Just the normal zit-faced losers getting drunk and hitting on me, and sleazy lecturers. I wanted friends, but I didn’t understand how to make any. I’d never really had one. It all got too hard; I dropped out.’
A car alarm goes off, joining the nocturnal symphony. ‘To do what?’
‘Not a lot. I went back to bar work. Floated north to Sydney. Did some fashion shoots, catalogues, that sort of thing. Paid well, but I hated it. I didn’t like being photographed. I didn’t want to be out there, in the world, my image, just like that, people staring at me.’ A pause, as she considers what she is saying. ‘So I drifted. It was a drifting life. Eventually I hooked up with the bass player in a band, lived in a squat with him. We were always broke, but he was a good guy. Billy the bass player. The band broke up. We did some drugs. We did some more. He did even more than I knew. In the end, his guitar was stolen, the last thing of any value. He was in tears, inconsolable. Then I saw it in the window of a Cash Converters around the corner. I went inside, asked where they got it. He’d pawned it.’ She pauses, takes a breath, letting the memory pass. ‘I got him into rehab. I told myself I was helping him, but the truth is I was glad to be rid of him. He was no longer fun, no longer a good guy. A lesson learnt. I drifted more. Then he was back from rehab and we were together again—not because I wanted it, not because he wanted it, but because we didn’t have the will to do anything else. Who knows how it would have ended if I hadn’t met Tarquin. He was so different. So very different. Except he wasn’t. Just another creep.’
Martin frowns, waits for her to continue. There is a strange quality to her voice, as if she is reciting a story she’s heard somewhere.
‘He got me a job. A good job with good money. A respectable job, a desk job. Working in Pyrmont, in an office block. At a merchant bank called Mollisons. You heard of it?’
‘No. He was working there?’
‘Sort of; he was on secondment from a law firm. I forget its name.’
‘He was a lawyer?’
‘So he claimed.’
‘He helped you?’
‘I thought so. Now I know he was only using me.’
‘How do you mean he used you? To infiltrate the bank?’
‘Yes. And now you’re telling me he was a cop as well.’
Martin wonders how to move the conversation forward without offending her, but she speaks unprompted, her voice still far away.
‘For a moment, it was all so golden. So perfect. And then I began to suspect. Not that he was a criminal, or that he was a cop, but that he was cheating on me. I heard a rumour, dismissed it. Then I …’ She swallows. ‘I found them together, he and Zelda. It broke my heart.’
‘Zelda? The woman who kidnapped you?’
‘Yeah. Her.’
‘What happened?’
‘I dropped him.’
‘How’d he take that?’
‘Not well. He begged me to take him back.’ And now Martin can hear the emotion behind her words; not a lot, but it’s there, though she appears to be trying to control it. ‘He swore Zelda was nothing, a stupid dalliance. Swore everlasting love. And when that didn’t work, he proposed.’
‘You said yes?’
‘I said yes. And I was happy. For a whole month, I was exultant. And then he disappeared. I came to work one day. There were flowers on my desk and an envelope with a plane ticket to the Gold Coast. I rang him. He said he was already there, working, that he had a penthouse for the weekend. Asked me to take the next day, a Friday, off work. So I did; I called in sick, flew up. But he wasn’t there. I had a text message saying he’d be there soon, but he never arrived. And I never heard from him again.’
In the half-light, Martin can see her eyes, moist and glittering. She senses his attention, rolls onto her side, back to him. And yet she continues. ‘The next week, the rumours started to swirl. I was questioned. Interrogated. They arrested Zelda. And when they couldn’t prove my involvement, I was sacked. And I was drifting again. More like sinking. You don’t need to know. Drugs, squats, couch surfing. I didn’t even have Billy to look after.’ She rolls back, again gazing upwards, before turning to face Martin for the first time in their conversation. ‘Do you believe in karma?’
‘You’ve asked me that before.’
‘I have. In Riversend and in Port Silver. What’s your answer?’
‘I guess I do,’ says Martin, remembering his childhood in Port Silver. ‘I’ve learnt that we can’t outrun our past.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. It’s all still there. The ugliness and the betrayal coming to claim us, to claim Liam.’
‘No,’ says Martin, reaching out to her. This time she doesn’t move away. ‘Why would it? If you did nothing wrong? You’ve said it yourself. We are the barricades. That’s our job, to protect him, to make sure our past is not his future.’
She lifts a hand to touch his face. ‘Thank you, Martin.’ And then, after a moment, ‘I’m just not sure
