Black Ice (2 page)

Monday 1 April, 4 pm

Madame Truelove gripped her cigarette between her lips, pushed a greying lock of hair back from her forehead. Her other hand cupped Sergeant Jillian Jackson's fingers, palm up. She squinted through the smoke trickling from her mouth and removed the cigarette. She turned her head away and exhaled hard.

'I'm sorry, sweetie,' said Madame Truelove, turning back to face Jill, 'I've forgotten your name again. Was it Kristen?'

'Krystal,' said Jill, momentarily taking her eyes from the fire twirler performing in the middle of the Fairfield street mall in front of her. From this angle, despite the crowds surrounding the other three sides, she had a perfect view of the young woman wearing multicoloured tights, dreadlocks and a lime-green tutu.

'That's right. Krystal. Beautiful name, how could I forget? Krystal: a seer's name. Do you ever receive messages yourself?'

'I don't know, I guess I am pretty intuitive,' said Jill, happy to extend the conversation so that she could hold this position for as long as possible.

'Yes, yes, I can see that here in your hands. And you're after some more adventure in your life, aren't you, dear?'

'I guess my life has been a little dull,' said Jill. Yeah, right.

'With the exception of your love life, Krystal.'

Jill gave the palm-reader another quick glance. 'You see that there?'

'Yes, yes. You're torn. You don't know which way to go. Do you go backwards to find true love with a man from the past, or should you move forward into uncertainty, perhaps danger?'

A group of laughing kids surrounded the fire-twirler. Hyped up on fairy floss, snow cones and the carnival atmosphere of the street festival, they were torn between tearing around madly to see everything and standing still, transfixed by the woman spitting fire from her mouth. They settled for jumping from foot to foot, squealing.

'Actually, do me a favour and give me the answer to the love life question, will you?' said Jill.

'Ah, Krystal, that is not my role, my love. It is for you to determine your own destiny. And you know the answer, deep in your heart.'

Yeah, sure I do, thought Jill. Well, what did you expect, Jackson, that this woman could give you serious advice?

She noticed that the small, dishevelled huddle of adults watching the performance had grown, and she recognised some of the regulars from the streets. Given the press for space, a generous perimeter surrounded the group, as parents, office workers and children instinctively steered clear of them. She tracked a hand gesture from one of the group to a man and woman approaching from the other side of the mall – Skye and CK. So this was definitely going down soon.

Jill watched the couple approach. CK, in a grotty white tracksuit and runners, coughed, raising a hand to his mouth. Skye, much taller at five foot ten, flinched, her hand flying up to protect her face. With the movement, her lank, auburn hair fell back and Jill noted the angry scabs pocking her cheeks. Jill had seen too many kids around here with faces like that – gouges they'd tear themselves when gripped by ice psychosis, convinced worms had burrowed into their flesh, gnawing muscle, hatching eggs just under their skin.

As the fire artist sprayed a final jet of flames into the sky above her, the punk rock band on the stage to her left screeched into sound, and the kids shrieked their way over to them. A crowd of teen Goths had already claimed the area in front of the podium and they thrashed around industriously, all wearing the anarchist's uniform: eyeliner, piercings and frowns.

Madame Truelove raised her voice without commenting on the din. 'You are worried about someone in your life, Krystal, and you have good reason for your concern.' She flicked at a long cylinder of ash that had crumbled from her cigarette onto the back of her hand. 'The matter will soon come to a head and you will find that you are needed.'

'It's nice to be needed.' Jill kept her eyes on the mall outside the tent.

The fire artist was packing her belongings slowly. The assembly in front of her had now swollen to around twenty or so people. CK and Skye formed part of the cluster. The group spoke among themselves, but seemed otherwise uninterested in the carnival. From inside Madame Truelove's marquee, Jill could see but not be seen.

'You must be more vigilant, Krystal.' Madame Truelove's words were intoned mechanically. Jill wondered fleetingly what the woman was actually thinking about – perhaps shopping for dinner tonight? 'Betrayal and danger await you if you do not take care. Fortify your defences and gather close your friends. You will have need of both in days to come.'

'That sounds ominous,' said Jill, trying to peer around the backside of a man standing in front of the tent. Just when she thought she'd have to relinquish this position, the man moved on, tomato sauce on his chin, oozed from the hamburger clutched in his sausage-like fingers. She figured he was off to find a seat – you didn't get a body like that by walking around too much.

Jill saw that the fire artist had packed all of her equipment into a huge silver carry box. Her dreadlocks whipped around as though alive as she hefted it up and headed for a tent that had been set up for the performance artists. With Jill, the people in the group watched her every move.

'You don't need to be too alarmed, Krystal, but I
would
recommend that you consider some angel-work,' said Madame Truelove. 'We need to summon your guardians and ask them for their guidance and beneficence at this time.'

'That sounds like a plan,' said Jill. Skye had separated from her friends and was following the performer.

Jill stood to leave.

'Wait!' admonished Madame Truelove. 'I haven't finished your reading, Krystal. And I need to let you know about the angel-therapy I can perform for you. I'm usually booked out months in advance, but –'

'Twenty, wasn't it?' Jill dropped the cash onto the table.

'Twenty-five.'

Jill threw the old woman a hard look and flung a ten-dollar note down next to the twenty. She moved out into the cacophony of music and shouting. Wearing sneakers and a denim mini-skirt over black, footless tights, she blended in fairly well, but she pulled the hood of her white sleeveless sweatshirt up over her blonde ponytail and angled her face to the pavement anyway. She kept her eyes on the fire-eater's tent. When she lifted her hand to her face to cover a feigned coughing fit, the scales-of-justice tattoo on her deltoid stood out on her pale skin; a young mother almost steered her pram into a bin to avoid her.

Three other members of the group had joined Skye at the performer's shack – CK, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to his lip; a young Aboriginal male – Jill hadn't seen him around here before; and Abigail. Ah, Abi. Aged fifty-five, with a thirty-year heroin habit still going strong, she was known as 'Mum' to half of Fairfield, and legitimately so for a good eight to ten of them.

Jill found a doorway. A beautician's, closed early for the festival. She drew into the recess and leaned back to watch.

The fire-eater, a black tee-shirt now covering the top of her tutu, emerged from the tent. Around her waist sat a utility belt – a large, pocketed 'bum-bag' – from which she pulled a bundle of flyers. From a pocket in her jacket, Jill withdrew a still-shot camera the size of a matchbox.

Individually, or in groups of two or three, the small crowd Jill had been watching came to collect a flyer from the performer. She observed each of them carefully inspect the leaflet, front and back, and then hand something back to the woman, which went into her utility belt.

Jill spoke into the phone hidden in her hand, and then took some more photos with the camera. Squinting down at the tiny device, she searched for the button to forward the photos.

'Haven't got fifty cents for a phonecall, have you, love?'

She snapped her head around to face the speaker, a skinny girl of Asian appearance. Jill hadn't noticed her around here before. What had she seen? She palmed the camera.

'Nah, I can't help you, sis,' said Jill. 'I need to get some more money myself before I can get something to eat.'

'No worries. Take it easy.' The girl shuffled towards the next pedestrian.

Jill dropped the camera back into her pocket and made her way towards the temporary stage where the crowd frothed and writhed. The four boys on stage still screeched unintelligibly; the lead singer had not let go of his balls once as far as she could tell. Please God, let him need to take a piss, she thought. Maybe then they can take a break for ten minutes.

You're getting old, Jackson, she told herself.

When she reached the edges of the throng, she stopped and glanced back towards the performers' tent. A commotion of a different kind had erupted. Cops swarmed out from behind the structure. The fire-eater swung her legs wildly, suspended in mid-air by Grojan, the probationary constable who'd made the Olympic weightlifting team. She saw Clarkson and a young uniformed female officer take CK down to the concrete; Skye screamed and tried to bite another cop, who had her in cuffs.

Clarkson caught Jill's eye, and she inclined her head slightly.

As a few people around her became aware of what was going on behind them, Jill turned her back on the scene. She couldn't risk one of the cops making too much eye contact with her; she didn't want any of the crowd guessing that she had had anything to do with the police making the bust.

Jill pushed through the crowd and went in search of something to eat.

Monday 1 April, 5 pm

After securing the deadlock and dropping the iron bar into place, Jill took a final peek through the spyhole on the door of the unit. What did CK call this lock the other day? She tried to remember: pig stick, pig lock, something like that. Gives a prick a bit more time to flush the stash when the pigs come to call, he'd said.

Huh.

She dropped the takeaway containers onto the linoleum of the kitchen bench and tried hard not to think about the number of germs that would be living in those cracks.

At least the food was delicious in Fairfield. She pulled from the plastic bag a fragrant tom yum soup, a container of garlicky fried tofu and one of steamed spinach in thick oyster sauce. The smells left her salivating. She could dine in a different part of the world every night. With the immigration detention centre close by, pretty much every nationality was represented in this suburb.

She reached into a cabinet for a big bowl and her mobile sounded. Work phone. Hmm.

'Jackson,' she said.

'Jill, this is Lawrence Last. Are you clear to talk right now?'

'Yep, good to go, sir.' What's this about, she wondered.

'Are you well, Jill?'

'Yes, sir. I'm fine.'

'I'm sorry to call you today, Jill. I know we weren't supposed to touch base again until later in the month, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come in for a meeting.'

Jill took the phone away from her head and grimaced at it. She put it back to her ear.

'Is that absolutely necessary?' she said.

'Afraid so. You know I have to seek approval for another three months for you to stay undercover. Well, the Commissioner has said he won't automatically okay these things anymore. They want you to see the psych and we're going to use the opportunity to review your progress over the past couple of months,' said Superintendent Last. 'You really have done a remarkably good job.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Is the apartment all right, Jill?' said her boss.

She stared around at the pockmarked walls and second-hand furniture of the second-floor, one-bedroom housing commission unit. She mentally pictured her spotless, sunny two-bedroom apartment overlooking the ocean at Maroubra Beach, and sighed. This place smelled perennially of bleach from her best cleaning efforts, but still she found herself washing her hands compulsively and she showered three or four times a day.

'The unit's fine, sir,' she said.

'I can't tell you, Jill, how much we value having you out there. The operation this afternoon was flawless. We have five in custody. The main offender is involved in a joint criminal enterprise to supply methamphetamine on an ongoing basis. We have hopes that we may be able to encourage her to testify against her conspirators. She's a young mother, and is already asking how she might be able to reduce her sentence. We seized eight thousand in cash and the drugs are sixty-five per cent purity. Three months from now, I will be using all of my influence to recommend you for promotion – should you apply, of course.'

'Thank you, sir,' Jill said. She took a deep, tired breath. 'So how are we going to do the meeting?'

'Same as last time,' he said.

'What. Now?'

'If that's okay with you.'

'That will be fine, sir,' she said. 'Ah, Superintendent Last?' She sniffed morosely at the fragrant steam rising from the bench.

'Yes, Jill?'

'Have you got anything to eat in there?'

Jill undid her ponytail; she checked her reflection in the door of the microwave and fluffed out her blonde hair. She scooped up a forkful of the salty, sticky spinach and then put all the plastic containers away in the fridge. She took a quick swig of mandarin juice from a bottle on the shelf and recapped it.

She waited for the knock.

'POLICE! Krystal Peters! This is Fairfield police. Open up now, please!'

'Hang on a fucken minute!' she screeched. 'What the fuck do you pricks want?'

The walls in these units carried every howl, sob, scream and crash. Most of her neighbours were out at this hour, but she heard Mrs Dang open her door.

And then Ingrid started up. 'Oh, what the fuck now?' Jill heard the door across the hall slam open. 'Can't you leave people the fuck alone? She's not even home!'

'Just stay where you are, Ms Dobell, or you'll be coming in too.'

It was Adam Clarkson. He'd found it fun arresting her the last time. 'Open this door now, Peters, or we're coming in,' he bellowed.

Jill leaned against the doorframe, studying her nails.

'Okay, okay.' She made sure her voice was loud enough to carry across the hall. 'Can't you give a person time to put some fucken
clothes
on? You bastards all just want to cop a free feel, don't ya?'

She heard her neighbour's hard bark of laughter. 'You take your time, Krystal. I'm a witness,' she heard Ingrid shout.

Jill figured she should open the door before they tried to kick it in again. The police department still hadn't paid her back for the locks she'd installed last time.