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  Sean’s father, Dennis, came down for the funeral. He asked if she wanted to move into their place in Surfers Paradise, just until she got her life sorted out. She started an arts degree at university, got bored, dropped out, tended bar at some of Curry’s side games, eventually went back to work at the strip club.

  She was working a slow night, got talking to one of her coworkers, just back from a stint in Gladstone. The coworker said a group of local kids had discovered the bodies of two men in a gutted vehicle in the clearing of a cypress forest on the outskirts of town. The joke doing the rounds was they must have got caught in a lightning storm.

  She knew enough about Curry’s past not to mention the deaths. Truth was, if it was him who’d had them killed, she was grateful.

  So, when Curry mentioned a Filipino high roller stopping off in Surfers Paradise, asked if she’d like to keep him company while he was in town, she said yes.

  SIX

  The second-hand car dealer reminded Kate of Curry, the way he called her ‘love,’ his rough, old-school charm. As expected, he jumped at the opportunity to swap the ute she’d eyed the previous day for her almost-new vehicle, no questions asked.

  The transaction completed, Kate went back to the motel, dressed her semi-conscious traveling companion in the clothes she’d bought for him, blue jeans and black windcheater, white sneakers. She helped him into the car, gave him a small shot of heroin.

  She bagged the drug detritus, other rubbish that lay around their hotel room, threw it into a dumpster at the rear of the motel, added the framed photograph of Sean and Dennis Curry.

  She’d always relied on people to do the right thing without knowing the whole picture. It was time she woke up. She no longer owed the father or his son anything.

  Kate drove for eleven hours, stopped only to get petrol and give Chance more heroin. She grabbed whatever food was on sale at service station counters, ate behind the steering wheel or stood outside in the dust and glare, watched the passing traffic.

  The forests of northern New South Wales slowly transformed into rolling paddocks dotted with clumps of gum trees, the occasional barn or homestead. The terrain became drier, more monochromatic, washed out browns and yellows, the closer they got to Canberra. Fast moving clouds cast the landscape in alternating pools of light and shadow, the postcard scenery broken only by road kill, bloated bodies of kangaroos and wombats, more frequent the closer they got to the capital.

  She interrupted her three-disc play list to catch a mid-day news bulletin. The police had found Curry’s body. She listened to the report, more concerned there was no mention of Mal Kerrigan’s whereabouts than about Curry’s death. Kate was no fool, she knew about Mal’s past, the things he’d done. But that was a long time ago. Unlike Curry, he was well out of the life, a harmless old man who had treated her well.

  She put the music back on. At one point, a police car passed in the opposite direction. She gripped the steering wheel, kept her eyes front, turned up the music, Gran Parsons singing Las Vegas.

  ‘Better get used to feeling paranoid, Kate,’ she said to herself.

  Just after nine, the ute’s headlights briefly illuminated a sign, ‘Yass 50 km.’ As if on cue, Chance stirred. He opened his eyes, sat up in his seat, yawned, and scratched the dark stubble around his jaw.

  ‘We there yet?’

  ‘Not long now.’

  He groaned, rubbed his forehead. ‘Anything to drink?’

  Without taking her eyes off the road she passed a half full bottle of water.

  ‘What did you give me?’ He raised the bottle to his lips, gulped the liquid down.

  ‘Heroin.’

  ‘My mother told me to stay away from hard drugs, said they were no good.’

  ‘Your mother obviously never used H. All that stuff about one shot and your hooked is a load of crap. You’ve got to be pretty determined for that to happen.’

  ‘You obviously knew what you were doing. Apart from a bit of a hangover, I feel okay.’

  Chance smoked in silence until they hit the outskirts of Yass. Halfway down the largely empty main street he told her to take a right turn and stop outside a Chinese takeaway.

  She peered across him at the shop front. The words ‘Jade Dragon Restaurant’ were written in large, orientalised green letters on the front window, the dimly lit interior visible behind them.

  She looked at him questioningly. He pretended not to notice. ‘Just go inside, get a table. I’ll join you after I finish my cigarette.’

  A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The decor was basic, tables covered in white tablecloths, white plaster walls. The lights were filtered through Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Classical Chinese music, plucked string instruments, played in the background. She was the only customer.

  As she hesitated in the doorway an elderly Chinese man emerged from the kitchen, stepped out from behind the counter. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, and gestured toward the empty tables. ‘You want to eat, yes?’

  Kate took a seat as the old man placed a laminated menu in front of her, hovered like a large skinny bird.

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘All is good, best Chinese food in Yass.’ He beamed at her expectantly.

  The bell tinkled, Kate looked up, saw Chance in the doorway.

  ‘Try the Chinese money bags, Kate, they’re particularly good.’

  At the sound of Chance’s voice the old man wheeled around. The village idiot routine drained from his face like dirty water down a plughole.

  Chance winced slightly as he sat at the table next to her, his pain returning as the heroin wore off.

  The old man inclined his head toward the kitchen, yelled in Chinese. A young woman materialised in the doorway, her face alert to the tension in the room.

  If Kate had to guess, she would put the young woman in her late teens. But despite the knee-length hemline on her school dress, the simple bob hairstyle, she projected an air of worldliness.

  The young woman’s look transformed from concern to anger as she registered Chance’s presence. ‘Do you know how much danger you have put us in by coming here?’

  Chance said nothing, pretended to study a menu.

  The young woman went to the front door, turned the sign hanging on a chain from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ She approached their table, a determined look on her young face, stood next to the old man.

  ‘You need to leave now,’ she said.

  Kate looked expectantly between their two hosts. ‘Does this mean we’re going to have to get takeaway?’

  ‘I should have warned you, Kate,’ said Chance, his eyes still on the menu. ‘The old man hardly speaks English and his daughter has no sense of humour.’

  ‘Are you deaf, Mister Chance?’ the young woman said. ‘You need to leave now.’

  Chance breathed out slowly, put the menu down and looked around the room. ‘I see you’ve redecorated since the last time I was here.’

  ‘Competition from the Vietnamese restaurant around the corner,’ the young woman replied. ‘My father thought it would bring in customers if we had a more modern look.’

  The old man said something in Chinese. The girl hesitated before translating. The old man spoke again. She interrupted and the two engaged in a rapid-fire exchange in Chinese. She turned to Chance and translated only after her father overruled her with a wave of his bony hand.

  ‘My father says to follow him.’

  The old man led them through the kitchen, down a corridor lined with shelves heaving with cans of cooking oil and sacks of rice, into a small backyard surrounded by a high wooden fence. Kate saw an old-fashioned out-house, piles of oil tins and plastic containers stacked against one side. On the far side of the yard was the rear of a red brick house.

  The old man strode purposefully across the yard, opened a screen door. He motioned them into a lounge room, went in after them, sat in a recliner chair, took a cigarette from a pack on a side table next to hi
s chair, lit up, and looked to the ceiling. Kate presumed he was waiting for his translator to join them. A large white cat appeared from behind the recliner, jumped onto the old man’s lap. The old man stroked under the cat’s chin as he smoked.

  Kate joined Chance on a brown corduroy couch facing the old man, surveyed the room. Threadbare carpet, mismatched pieces of furniture, wallpaper with a faded bamboo pattern. Stacks of yellowing Chinese language newspapers on the floor.

  ‘Who are these people?’ Kate whispered to Chance as she brushed what looked like white cat hairs from her black jeans.

  ‘My employers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They recruited me for the job Curry was planning.’

  ‘For the representatives of a criminal organisation, they live in a fucking dump.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ said Chance, using his normal voice. ‘And you don’t have to whisper. I’ve told you, our host doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘And that little attack dog is his daughter?’ said Kate, still whispering.

  ‘Dao Ming, she’s something, isn’t she? Her name means ‘shining path’ in Mandarin. If ever there was a more misnamed child…Have you got the rolling tobacco on you?’

  Kate fished the tobacco from the pocket of her denim jacket. She looked at Long in his recliner, saw another corrupt old man, was seized by a feeling of revulsion, scratched the nape of her neck, as if trying to tear the sensation away.

  Dao Ming entered the room, stood at her father’s side, one hand protectively on his shoulder. ‘The police are looking everywhere for you. What if they trace you to here?’

  ‘Where else was I supposed to go?’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed as the girl translated.

  ‘My father says that is not our problem.’

  ‘Not your problem?’ Chance nodded slowly to himself as he lit his cigarette, the smoke wafting from his mouth and nostrils. ‘Let me tell you something, it is very much your problem. I’m a fugitive now. If you don’t help me, I’ll get caught. If I get caught, I’ll spill about everything, including how I got this job, you, your father, his whole shitty criminal empire.’

  The old man looked at Chance as Dao Ming translated, his face betraying no emotion. When she finished he spoke softly.

  ‘My father wants to know, did you really kill those two Filipino men and Curry, like the police said?’

  ‘No. It was a man called Frank Dormer and a woman called Sophia Lekakis.’

  ‘My father doesn’t know them.’

  Chance reached across, mashed out his rollie in a large ceramic ashtray with flowers painted on it. ‘Curry sourced them from his end of the operation.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘They got greedy, decided they wanted all the money. They killed Gao, his bodyguard, Curry as well. Framed me for the murders.’

  ‘How does my father know you are telling the truth?’

  ‘How do I know your father didn’t double-cross me?’ spat Chance.

  Dao Ming looked genuinely shocked. ‘My father would never do such a thing,’ she said, without bothering to translate for her father what Chance had said. ‘My father and Mister Curry were business associates for a long time, he—’

  ‘Spare me the family history lesson,’ said Chance, pulling at the stump of his missing finger. ‘Let’s just say I believe you because this fuckup has cost your father money. And if there is one thing I know your father hates, it’s losing money.’

  A faint smile flickered across Long’s face as his daughter translated. Father and daughter conversed for a few more moments. The young woman turned and looked at Chance, a steely expression on her young face.

  ‘Who is this woman?’

  Chance hesitated before answering. ‘Her name is Amber. She helped me.’

  ‘The police say she was the woman with Gao.’ Dao Ming indicated to Kate with a nod of her head as she spoke, but otherwise ignored her.

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Can you trust her?’

  Kate felt her face flush with anger, moved to the edge of the couch. ‘Hey,’ she said to Dao Ming. ‘I’m not with anyone, and I don’t appreciate being spoken about as if I’m not here.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for her, the police would already have me,’ said Chance. ‘Right now I trust her more than I trust you.’

  ‘Hey, did you hear me?’ Kate stood up, took a step toward Dao Ming. ‘I said I don’t like being talked about as if I’m not here. Keep doing it and you’ll be in line for a slap across the chops.’

  Dao Ming flinched but did not back away. Kate felt a hand on her shoulder, looked around, saw Chance standing next to her. ‘Kate, come on, she didn’t mean anything by it, relax.’

  ‘I’ve just driven for eleven hours to get to this dump and what do I get when I arrive, the fucking third degree.’

  ‘Kate, sit down.’

  ‘Seriously, who does this whiney little bitch think she is?’

  Chance’s hand tightened on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Shut up and sit down.’ He pronounced each word louder than the last.

  Kate sat back on the couch, folded her arms across her chest and glared at Dao Ming. Chance sat next to her, grunted. Kate looked around, saw him clutch his side with one hand.

  ‘What is the matter with him?’ Dao Ming noticed the look on Chance’s face.

  ‘Cracked ribs, maybe broken, a gunshot wound. He needs medical attention.’

  The old man barked something at his daughter.

  Dao Ming produced an iPhone from the pocket of her school uniform, keyed a number, put it to her ear, turned her back on them and moved to the corner of the lounge room. After a brief, inaudible conversation, she faced them.

  ‘That was someone who will come and tend to your injuries. Now we need to get you accommodation,’ she said as she scrolled through the contacts on her phone. ‘You cannot stay here.’

  Kate looked at the young woman as she spoke into the iPhone, hard guttural sounds. Dao Ming met her gaze as she talked. What did Kate see in her eyes—fear, greed, ambition, or a mixture of all three? She realised this schoolgirl was not just her father’s translator. She was his protégé.

  SEVEN

  Chance lay on the single bed, naked except for his underpants, rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Weak light seeped through the thin fabric over the window. He registered the room’s minimal furnishings, lightbulb on a cord from the ceiling, cheap-looking pine wardrobe, open to reveal a line of wire hangers, a plastic accordion door to the living area and the other bedroom.

  He propped himself up on an elbow, inspected the fresh bandage on his shoulder. There was no longer any pain around his rib cage when he moved.

  Chance wheeled his legs over the side of the bed, sat on the edge, the soles of his feet resting on the cheap polyester carpet. He heard music from the next room, thought he must be imagining it, recognised the hoots and applause as Johnny Cash serenaded Folsom Prison.

  He fished out a pair of shorts and a grey T-shirt from the clothes scattered on the floor, put the shirt on over his head as he slid the accordion door open. Kate sat on a faded floral-patterned couch next to the kitchenette, read from a thick paperback. At the foot of the couch sat a portable CD player and a stack of disks.

  Chance felt a swirl in his chest, couldn’t put a name to the sensation. He concentrated, identified a trace of desire. Another sign he was better.

  ‘Where’d the CD player come from?’

  She looked at him sheepishly.

  ‘I went into town and got it while you were asleep this morning.’

  Chance made a tutting noise.

  ‘I know, I know, we’re not supposed to leave here, but I missed music. I swear, I just went in to buy the CD player, a few discs, came straight back.’

  Chance pushed open the front screen door, stepped into late afternoon sun. He heard shouting, the clink of metal being driven into the ground in the paddock opposite.

  A travelling circus had appeared the previou
s day, started setting up camp. Chance had been awakened by the noise, found Kate and a collection of the caravan park’s residents watching the new arrivals. The circus folk had made a lot of progress since then, the twin spires of a large red tent visible above a line of caravans and vehicles.

  He sat in an old deck chair by the door to their cabin, tried to figure out what day it was, decided it must be Friday, nearly two weeks since they’d arrived in Yass.

  They’d left Long’s house, driven through the darkness to a caravan park on the outskirts of town. They were met at the entrance by a skinny red-haired youth who guided them to one of a row of timber cabins at the rear.

  A dishevelled middle-aged woman arrived early the next morning toting a large leather medical bag. She reeked of nicotine and an odour that reminded Chance of wet dogs. Her thick glasses were held together with duct tape.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ he heard Kate ask as the woman poked and prodded him.

  ‘Close enough,’ she’d replied out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘What do you mean, ‘close enough?’’ said Chance.

  ‘I’m a vet.’

  ‘You telling me the best Long could do is a bloody veterinarian?’ said Chance.

  ‘Man or beast, we’re all God’s creatures,’ she replied absentmindedly. ‘You’ve cracked a couple of ribs and that shoulder wound will need stitches.

  She gave him a local anaesthetic, stitched up his arm. A smouldering fag dangled from her lip as she worked.

  She left Kate with a supply of dressings, antiseptic, syringes for the heroin, which she told her to keep administering in small quantities until it ran out. They never saw her again.

  What had started out as an enforced living arrangement gradually morphed into a comfortable co-existence. Chance spent most of the first week sleeping or dozing under the effects of the heroin. When he felt well enough, he canvassed the surroundings. The caravan park was bordered on three sides by dry-looking paddock. The rear, behind their cabin, backed onto a patch of forest.

  While he’d been recovering, Kate slept and read paperbacks sourced from another of Long’s cut-price minions, a teenage Emo girl who delivered leftover Chinese food and other supplies every second day. They didn’t have much to do with the park’s other inhabitants, mainly grey nomads and a few long-stay residents. The exception was the red-haired youth, Fergus, their guide on the first night, who managed the park. Sometimes Kate visited his office, a portable cabin near the entrance, to partake in a joint from his abundant stash.