Black Ice (3 page)

Monday 1 April, 4 pm

Byron Barnes surreptitiously licked a finger, and rubbed at the splodge of white stuff smeared on the leg of his jeans. The mark spread. He rubbed the heel of his palm against it, frantically, and then stared in dismay at the mess he had made. His hand balled into a fist that pretty much covered the smudge. He left it there.

Byron's other hand hovered over a gleaming granite boardroom table that stretched three metres to a wall of windows at the other end of the room. Byron had never seen a view like it in his life and he avoided looking at it now. Everything shone so goddamn much. Sunspots pulsed red and black across his field of vision. Sydney's eastern suburbs from thirty floors up was too bright for Byron's hangover. He wanted to rest his head on the table and wait for the others, but he didn't dare even put his arm down. His denim jacket had already smeared something gluey across the mirrored black shine. His eyes reflected up at him from the inky depths, warning him: don't fuck this up.

Byron saw them walking through the lobby beyond the heavy glass doors. Heading this way. He sat straighter in the high-backed leather chair. Please God, just this once let me get off, he prayed.

The door swung open.

Byron tried to keep his eyes off her tits, but it was friggin' hard, man: they entered the room a fair way before anything else. They belonged to the sort of girl who always looked right through him. Like, they knew he was there staring straight at them, but they couldn't see him at all. Just once, Byron thought, I'd like to fuck a girl like that. She waited for the men to reach the table before she chose a seat, and, yep, it was like she'd entered a completely empty room.

When Christian Worthington strode around to Byron's side of the table with his hand outstretched, it finally occurred to him that he should be standing and he jumped to his feet.

'Byron,' said Christian.

Byron stared up at Christian, and in the hundred-dollar haircut and thousand-dollar suit he saw everything that he was not. His mouth formed 'Hello', but nothing came out.

'Byron, I want you to meet Ray Whitmont and Stephanie Tyler. Ray's new around here and he's going to be helping me with some of the legwork on your case. Stephanie's my legal secretary and she's the person I'd have been billing you a couple of hundred dollars an hour if you were paying us for this.'

Byron checked her out again and figured he could find two hundred dollars for that. He smiled at his shoes. Thing is, he knew it'd also cost two-fifty an hour for Ray in his shiny suit, and fuck knew what Christian Worthington would charge to keep a prick out of gaol. Thank God he didn't have to try to find that kind of money.

Whitey and Damien still wouldn't believe he had Worthington running his case. Nothing he said would convince them.

'Haven't you heard of pro bono work, you dumb cunts?' Byron had asked them last night, playing pool.

'Pro bono work? You're doing some work on his bono is what I'm guessing, you poofter.' Whitey had stretched his hand across the table to slap Damien's, who'd missed the easiest shot with his shout of laughter at Whitey's comment.

'Now that's the spirit, Byron.'

Byron snapped his attention back to the too-shiny boardroom to find Christian Worthington frowning at him.

'I tell you you could be looking at two years and you find that funny?' said Worthington.

'Nah, man, that'd be terrible,' said Byron. 'Can't you get me off?'

'Well that, Byron, is why you're here. In fact, that's what we're all doing here. But we're going to have trouble with this thing unless you concentrate. Can you do that, Byron?'

Fucking ADHD. Concentrate, you dickhead, Byron told himself. You're not going to get another chance like this.

'Really, Christian, why do you take on people like that?' Stephanie Tyler sat opposite her boss, packing up the notepads and pens used during the last couple of meetings. She hated these charity cases. She noticed the greasy smear at the place that had been occupied by Byron Barnes and recoiled, her nose wrinkled in disdain. She left the pen he'd used right where it was.

'Steph, we've all got an obligation to do some work for the people who'd ordinarily never afford us, you know that,' said Christian.

'Yeah, but he's a
drug
dealer, and she's a shoplifter. Could you not find someone else to defend who's maybe even a little less . . . scummy?'

'Stephanie! She could be back any minute. Would you be careful?'

'What! Isn't the meeting over?'

'I told her we'd walk her downstairs and point her in the right direction for the train. She got lost on the way here.'

Stephanie noisily exhaled.

Christian Worthington leaned back against the leather chair and swivelled to face the view. Hands behind his head, he smiled down at the brilliant ocean vista. Stephanie, watching him from behind a lock of straight blonde hair, tugged a little at the front of her blouse, exposing just a smidge more cleavage. Her boss appeared not to notice and stood when his last client slouched back through the doorway.

Looking for something to steal, I bet, Stephanie thought.

'Take an early mark today, Steph,' said Christian. 'You've earned it. Christ knows I have. I'm out of here.'

'Anything special on tonight?' Stephanie tried not to sulk as she stood and hurried to keep up with him. She had never run after a man in her life until she met this one.

'Just a bit of a gathering with Cassie, nothing much. I think it's an exhibition or something.'

Cassie Jackson. Skinny. Model.
Bitch
.

'Sounds great, Christian. Don't stay out too late. Remember you've got that breakfast meeting with Arlington at seven-thirty.' At least there's that, she thought. She'd told Professor Arlington it was the only time Christian could meet and vice versa. The more time she had with Christian away from Cassie Jackson, the better chance she had.

All men could be corrupted. Stephanie was certain of it. At least, she had been until she'd met Christian Worthington.

When the car jerked to a sudden stop, Jeremiah Dylan glanced up from his Nintendo DS. Ordinarily, he'd keep his eyes on the screen. After all, he only got fifteen minutes a day with this thing – just the time it took to get from his private school in Bellevue Hill to his tutor's house in Bondi Junction. But his mother, Judita Dylan, rarely swore, and Jeremiah's eyes shot up reflexively when he heard her curse.

'Sorry, darling,' she apologised. 'Nothing to worry about. Missed the lights again, that's all. We don't want you to be late.'

Jeremiah sighed. Frankly, he'd be happy to be late, but he would never tell his mum that. She'd be quietly pained, and that night there'd be a sit-down with his father. Another talk. About the value of education, the discipline required to make it to the right university, the obligation and responsibility he had to make the most of his privilege in this world. Their speeches would be eloquent, sincere; they'd each up the ante to verbally out-perform the other. In spite of himself, even Jeremiah would be seduced. The adored only child of a supreme court judge and a surgeon, he could find nothing to rebel against – his life had been so carefully crafted and was so comfortable and reasonable.

Jeremiah smiled at his mum in the rear-view mirror and glanced out the window.

Fuck! An AUDI R8; this year's model. Not too many of them in the country yet. The driver looked pretty young, too. With the driver's face angled down slightly, his hair hid his eyes a little. His lips moved, like maybe he was speaking on a hands-free.

Heterosexual, privileged and intelligent, even Jeremiah Dylan was not spared the adolescent drive to admire and desire the more attractive members of the species. The man in the Audi brushed his hair from his eyes and Jeremiah gave a low whistle.

'Hey, Mum,' he said. 'Isn't that Christian Worthington? That guy Dad had around for dinner last week?'

Judita Dylan glanced to her left and smiled; she fluttered her fingers at the man at the wheel of the car next to them.

Good-looking fellow, she thought, as she motored her Mercedes across the intersection with the green light.

Hot car, thought Jeremiah Dylan, bending back to his Nintendo. I guess that's one reason I should get enough marks to study law, he thought. I can get myself a car like that.

Thus occupied, Jeremiah and Judita Dylan did not witness Christian Worthington pressing his hands firmly down into his lap.

They didn't hear the words he groaned to his last client for the day.

'Good girl. Stay there, now. Suck harder.'

Monday 1 April, 4.30 pm

The blatt of the siren signalled muster – it was time for headcount. Still intently watching the cell door, Seren reached behind her back and tucked the broom handle down between the wall and the lip of the filthy mattress.

They must be waiting for lights out, she thought.

She dropped from the bed to the floor and hurried out to the corridor to take her place against the wall. Crash watched her approach, leaning into Little Kim, the huge woman's chin resting on the top of Crash's dark head.

'Hey, baby,' said Crash when she approached. 'Ready for your last sleepy-byes?'

Seren ignored her, and nodded at Angel.

More than once Seren had whispered a prayer of thanks that Angel had been assigned to her on her first night. She'd never say it out loud, but privately she figured that her dad was up there somewhere, sending people to help her when she needed it most. It'd be just like him to send her an angel if he could.

Angel had given her the tour, shown her the routines, gone through the 'Rights and Responsibilities of Inmates' document with her. Most importantly, Angel had taught her the unwritten rules of life in gaol.

'It's pretty much simple, Seren,' she'd said, stirring sugar into the jumbo mug of tea that everyone here seemed to have glued to their hand unless showering or asleep. 'Keep to yourself. Little things you can find to help people, you do. But you don't have to have friends. It could be easier if you don't. You see, your friend in here might've robbed someone out there, and next thing you know, this chick from outside steps off the truck and you're sharing a cell with her. Now you're
her
enemy too.'

Angel knew everything. At forty-five she was a veteran. Although she'd only done five years inside, she'd done twenty in a war zone, being beaten bloody daily by her 130-kilo ex-boxer husband, Danny.

Both eardrums perforated by years of blows to her head, Angel hadn't heard the cops arrive when they'd come to investigate Danny's disappearance. They'd found Angel freezing in the rain, sitting on the grave she'd dug herself, a half-empty gin bottle keeping her semi-warm, waiting to join the ten or so bottles surrounding her.

'What'cha doing there, Angel?' the cops had asked.

Angel told Seren that the local cops knew her well. They'd carted Danny off to gaol countless times, and these two constables, Kerri and Karl, had carried her out to the ambulance at least twice.

'Just talking to him,' she'd told them.

'Danny hasn't signed in for a couple of days, Angel,' Kerri had said. 'We know he's stuffed up his bail conditions before, but he hasn't been seen at the bottle-o either. You don't know where he is, do you?'

'Been meaning to come tell you guys,' Angel had told them. 'Danny won't be signing in or out anymore.'

Angel had told Seren what she'd told Karl and Kerri that night. That she'd warned him. That she just couldn't take any more. That he should stop, or let her leave, or just go away himself. He'd broken her nose for the third time that night and when he'd finally dropped onto the lounge, piss in his pants and bourbon on his breath, she'd buried a ball point hammer in his skull. She stopped after the third strike; with the hammer no longer meeting any resistance from bone, her hand had slipped into his brain.

Took a whole bottle of gin to stop the slimy feeling, she'd told Seren. Feels like soup. Have to live with it in here, she'd said, wiping her hand against her gaol-issue pants.

Seren loved the story, and she loved Angel.

Thank God Angel would be out the day after her, thought Seren; she needed someone she could rely on out there. They could hardly believe it when they'd discovered the timing of their releases.

Now, in the hallway, Angel leaned in closer to Seren and her cellmates.

'Gonna be a big night for you tonight, ladies,' Angel said.

Seren stared. Was Angel geeing them up? She knew Crash and Kim had it in for her!

'Got a new one coming in,' Angel continued. 'They're putting her in the cell next to yours.'

So that's it, thought Seren. Maybe that would distract them a little. Everyone loved a new playmate.

'Poor little rabbit,' said Angel. 'Just a tiny little thing, but she's out of control.'

Little Kim combed Crash's hair with her fingers, while Crash watched Angel intently.

'Yeah? What's her problem?' Crash said.

'Gotta be ice,' said Angel. 'She's been sent straight from the Sydney cells, and she's coming down hard. They give them nothing over there. Word is she bit one of the cops when they put her in the truck and so the screws hate her already.'

'Whoah! That'll teach 'em.' Crash's eyes were alight.

Angel clucked her tongue. 'And her file says she's Hep C, too.' She shook her head.

Crash sniggered. 'So she's causing some shit over there?'

'You could say that,' said Angel. 'Poor thing. That ice sends them crazy, I tell you. She's been in the observation cell for three hours and she hasn't stopped screaming once. Seems she reckons they've put radio waves in the light bulb and they're fucking with her brain. She's made it her mission since she got in there to rip the light off the roof.'

'Ha. Good luck with that,' said Seren.

Kim and Crash laughed. The observation room was a dry cell, designed to be indestructible. The light was enclosed in a cage, the walls were completely bare, and there was nothing in the cell that could be lifted, torn or thrown.

'You'd think she'd have no chance, hey?' said Angel. 'Thing is, the little bugger's gone and ripped the cage right off the ceiling, light fitting and all. No one can figure out how the hell she did it.'

'Cool!' said Little Kim, staring down at Angel.

'So, what'd they do to her?' asked Crash.

'Sent the squad in,' said Angel. 'Suited up. Poor little bugger, they flattened her, but she went down screaming. I'm telling you, that ice gives you some strength.'

'No shit,' said Crash. 'All this talk is making me hungry. Think you could bring me some of that back in when you come to visit, princess?' She stared hard at Seren.

Hek walked by, finishing the headcount, and Seren didn't answer. No way I'm ever coming back here, she promised herself.