Emotions wash through: helplessness and frustration; anger and determination. And beyond them, a sense of dread, a malevolence threatening to come for her. She pushes back, concentrates, listens. White noise, the muffled sound of traffic. The distant whine of a plane. A city, then. Sydney? She pinches at her bedding: nothing more than a slab of foam rubber. She can feel the air on her cheek: still, cool, damp. She’s somewhere without light, a basement or an internal room. She shivers, an involuntary response. Who has brought her here? And why?
The dread threatens to deprive her of rationality, inviting her to panic. It’s the past, coming after her, propelled by karma. For an instant, she thinks of Liam. Of Martin. The future. She prays that they’re safe, that Martin has Liam, is holding him close, will care for her son.
There’s a lift in volume, the city momentarily louder, accompanied by a shift in the air, a zephyr of movement. A door opening and closing again.
‘Good morning.’ A woman’s voice.
Mandy freezes.
‘We’ll remove the gag. Stay still.’ Her captor’s tone sounds malicious in its neutrality.
Mandy nods. A hand takes her chin, holds it firm. A man’s hand? He pulls the tape away, his actions abrupt. The pain is sharp, as if skin has been lifted along with the tape.
‘You’re welcome to scream,’ says the woman. ‘No one can hear you.’ Her voice is coming from beyond the end of the bed. So there are at least two of them: a woman and a man. The woman is talking; she’s the one in charge.
‘I need to pee,’ says Mandy, keeping her voice calm.
‘I’m not surprised. Cooperate and you can.’
Jesus. That voice. ‘Zelda?’
Silence.
‘It’s you, isn’t it? Zelda.’
More silence. Then hands, the man’s hands, lifting Mandy’s head, removing the blindfold.
A light hangs directly above her: a single bulb, incandescent, a relic from another era. Mandy blinks. But there’s no mistaking who is sitting on a chair at the end of the mattress. ‘Jesus. It is you.’
Zelda Forshaw. Smiling, but with a furrow of concern bisecting her forehead. She looks older, harder; her foundation is thicker, and the cupid’s bow of her mouth has developed a sneer.
‘I thought you were in prison,’ says Mandy.
‘Yeah, I was. Thanks to you. You bitch.’
‘I didn’t testify.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
Mandy looks about her. She’s on the floor, on the foam mattress. A man is standing over her, dressed in jeans, cheap running shoes, a faded Nike sweatshirt. And a ski mask. He’s shifting his weight uneasily from leg to leg, as if he doesn’t really want to be here, as if unsure of his role. They’re in some sort of disused storeroom, its walls streaked with mould and lined with metal storage racks. Their shelves are rusting and empty, save for some old oil cans and plastic buckets.
‘What’s going on, Zelda? Why this?’
‘What do you think?’
‘The policeman. In a suit. He was in my house. What happened?’
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘What do you mean, he’ll be fine?’
‘Nothing to concern you. I just wanted to get in first—before he arrested you.’
‘Arrested me? For what?’
‘It’s me, Mandy—you don’t have to pretend.’
‘Arrest me for what?’ Mandy repeats.
‘For Tarquin.’
‘Tarquin?’ Of course, Tarquin. It was always going to be about Tarquin. ‘Tarquin Molloy? Why would they arrest me?’ She can’t help it; panic is rising. Something is happening and she doesn’t know what it is. Five years pass without incident, then all of a sudden, on the same day, a policeman arrives and she is kidnapped. ‘I have no idea where Tarquin is, where he went, but I’ll tell you everything I can. Just let me take a piss.’
But Zelda Forshaw is impervious to the appeal, her smile flickering. ‘Tell me where the money is, and you can piss to your heart’s content. Niagara fucking Falls. In fact, tell me where Mollisons’ money is and I’ll let you go.’
‘I never knew anything about any money. You know that.’
Zelda stands. She towers over Mandy. ‘Don’t play the dumb blonde with me, bitch. I want the money I went to prison for.’
‘It was Tarquin. That’s what the bank said; that’s what the court found. Tarquin took it.’
‘No he fucking didn’t.’ The anger in Zelda’s voice is rising.
‘How can you know that?’
‘The same way you do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s dead. Shot through the head.’
Mandy’s breath sticks in her throat, a jagged thing, unable to be moved. ‘Dead? He’s dead?’
‘Not just dead. Murdered.’
‘But when? Where?’
‘Enough bullshit. I went to prison for that fucking money. I want my share.’
Mandy doesn’t know how to respond; another denial is not going to get her anywhere. She looks around, but there is nothing to see: the uneasy-looking enforcer, the stained walls, the empty shelves.
‘Last chance. Tell me. Or we walk out and leave you here.’
‘I don’t have the money.’
‘Bullshit. I checked you out. First thing I did when I heard he was dead. You’re fucking rolling in it.’
Mandy shakes her head. ‘No. It’s an inheritance. From my grandfather. All of it. You can ask my lawyer. I’ll give you her name. She can send a copy of the will.’
‘I told you.’ It’s the man, the enforcer, voice tentative.
‘Shut up,’ Zelda spits back, before returning her attention to Mandy. ‘Sorry. I’m not accepting any more bullshit from lawyers. Tarquin was a lawyer, and look what a lying bastard he was.’
‘My partner. He’s a journalist. Martin Scarsden. Works for the Sydney Morning Herald. He wrote a book about it.
