Frankie (23 page)

‘You've got . . .' He reaches out, hesitating, stuttering, his hand inching to the side of my head, fingers brushing through my hair.

I freeze for the longest three seconds of my life until he draws back his hand, a leaf pinched between his thumb and forefinger. ‘This was stuck in your hair,' he says. ‘You going to make a wish?' He holds the leaf in front of my lips.

‘That's eyelashes,' I say. The leaf dances with my breath.

His eyes shift to my lips.

I stand. ‘Besides,' I say, too loudly. ‘You already know what my wish would be. I just want to find Xavier so I know he's okay, and so I can yell at him, punch him and tell him to get the hell out of my life.'

Nate drops the leaf; it floats to the ground. He watches it the whole way. ‘You're really looking for Xavier so you can tell him you don't want to see him again?'

I kick a pair of Xavier's jeans across the room. ‘I like to get the last word, okay.'

Nate looks up at me. At first he frowns. But then he laughs. Really laughs. A deep, throaty, free sound that catches me by surprise.

Nate plus boisterous laugh equals topsy-turvy world.

‘Are you serious?' he asks when he's done laughing.

‘I'm glad I amuse you.'

There's a little bit of laser in his eyes as he smiles at me. ‘You have no idea.'

__________

We head to the lounge when we've searched everywhere else. I'm not sure what I'm looking for. A signed confession? An if-you're-watching-this-then-the-worst-has-happened video?

‘I'm sorry I made you break the law again for nothing.'

‘No worries.' Nate's eyes go straight to the massive TV on the far wall.

Aside from the TV, there's a red leather couch, a coffee table that so came from one of those Italian furniture stores in Footscray, empty takeaway boxes and scattered beer cans. This is clearly the room where Bill Green spends most of his time. Slouched on the couch watching footy in his jocks.

‘Xavier did that last job with you because he needed cash fast, right?'

Nate drags loose change to the edge of the coffee table with his finger. He counts it in his hand then pockets it. There's an MP3 player and he grabs that too. He stops, just as he's shoving it in his pocket, and looks up.

‘I . . .' he starts.

Our eyes meet but he doesn't say anything more. His cheeks shine leather-couch red.

I sink back into the surprisingly comfortable cushions. ‘I'll pretend it's not happening,' I say.

Nate pushes the MP3 player deep into his pocket and looks around for more. ‘Hey,' he says. ‘This is mine.'

He bends over and when he reappears he's holding a candlestick. Seriously. A silver candlestick. Something that might be used as a murder weapon in a Miss Marple book but not something a homeless burglar would have any use for.

‘There's no way that's yours.'

‘It was mine after I stole it,' he snaps. But then his brow creases as he weighs the unlikely object in his hands. ‘Hang on.'

Nothing happens except for more frowning and more silence. ‘I'm waiting.'

‘I stole this from your neighbour.'

‘And?'

‘I gave it to Xavier. It was part of his cut.'

I look at the candlestick. Have we just entered Cluedo? ‘You've lost the plot.'

‘I'm a genius.' He waves the candlestick at me. ‘This means that Xavier came here
before
going to Ted's. It means he paid off Bill with stolen goods
before
he went missing.'

I sit forward. ‘It means Bill lied.'

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Shit because I'm sitting uninvited in the house of someone who beats up kids, and shit because it was Nate who found the clue.

I pull out my phone. ‘We need to call the police.'

‘And say what?' Nate tosses the candlestick; it lands with a muted thud on the cushion beside me. ‘Hi, I've noticed that my missing brother's dad has a stolen candlestick. How do I know? Because I broke into his house and I know it's stolen because the guy who originally stole it helped me break in.'

‘You didn't help me break in, Nate.'

‘Do you want to get arrested?'

Shit.

He's right of course but shit anyway.

I throw myself against the back of the couch and close my eyes. I want everything to fade – to not hear Nate rustling through Bill's belongings, to not have the image of Xavier being beaten to a pulp by his dad stuck in my head, to not hear a car door slamming out front, to not hear the old lady next door yelling . . .

‘You're in Australia. Speak English,' shouts Bill, right outside the front window.

I spring off the couch; Nate grabs my arm. ‘Out back. Quick.'

The front door opens as we reach the kitchen. There's a clear line of sight from the front door to the back of the house so it doesn't surprise me when I hear Bill's gruff voice shouting, ‘Hey!'

Whatever he's carrying goes crashing to the ground and then all I hear is
thump, thump, thump
as the big hairy yeti-man comes bounding after us, quicker than a man his size should be able to move.

My boots crunch through broken glass as I run out the back door.

I turn left but Nate grabs my arm and pulls me to the right. We don't get far before Bill dives and tackles Nate and both of them go flying to the ground.

It's crazy but I've got just enough sense to notice that despite the mess of his front yard and the rest of his house, Bill Green's backyard is immaculate. Cut lawn, decking, a barbecue and a DIY area with neatly hung tools and a wood bench. There's even a garden gnome and a rockery. Who is this guy?

Nate and Bill roll around on the grass laying punches into each other. Bill's slow, but he knows how to box. Nate's fast, but Bill's got about a hundred pounds on him. Pretty soon Bill's straddling him.

I grab the first thing my hand touches and swing it round in front of me.

‘Oi!' I yell, running up to Bill, brandishing what I think is a welding gun. ‘Unless you want your head welded to your arse I suggest you get the hell off him.'

With his fist raised, ready for the next blow, Bill turns to me. He looks from me to the welding gun in my hand.

‘That thing ain't even on, love,' he says.

‘Then I guess I'll just have to have a think about where I can shove it.'

He screws up his brow, remaining brain cells finally kicking into gear. ‘Hey, I know you . . .'

I wiggle the welding gun at him. ‘Get. Off. Him.'

‘You want money? Is that it? Because I haven't got any.'

‘How come? Xavier paid you back, didn't he?'

‘This again,' says Bill, sucking on his teeth. Nate's trying to wriggle free but Bill is sitting on him. ‘You broke into my house because of my shitty kid? Man, that kid's been nothing but trouble this whole year.'

He mutters, something about Juliet and women in general.

‘Just get off him and we'll talk.'

He scowls but starts to lift himself off Nate anyway. As soon as Nate gets the smallest amount of breathing space, he slides out from under Bill. He scrambles to his feet and straight off tries to take a swing at Bill; I grab his t-shirt and he lets me pull him back.

Bill raises both hands and grins. ‘Don't shoot.'

‘Tell me everything you know,' I say. ‘Did you hurt Xavier?'

He sighs, lowering his hands. ‘He came by Friday last week. Said he had a load of silverware to pay me back with but there's no way it was worth what he owed. So I taught him a lesson. Then I told him to get the hell out and only come back when he had the full amount. In cash. I let that kid under my roof – I didn't have to – and he repays me by stealing from me. I'm sick of him and I'm sick of you. Any kid that came from Juliet Vega is a piece of scum – you suck on her tit and you catch it.'

Red blots pool in my vision.

My breathing is shallow.

He can't say that about me. He can't say that about Xavier. It's not our fault.

He beat up his own son. He doesn't even care that Xavier is missing; he only cares about his money. He's a racist prick. He's the guy my mother chose over me.

And
he's
calling
me
scum.

I swing the welding gun, but I'm not really sure what happens next. I think I get a good crack across Bill Green's face. Maybe there's blood but I'm already seeing red so who knows.

Nate grabs me before I can swing again. But it doesn't stop me trying, doesn't stop me fighting him.

Nate's dragging me away – I can hear myself screaming, cursing Bill Green. I pitch the welding gun. I think Bill ducks but maybe it clips him because he howls.

Have I killed him? I don't care. I'm screaming at Nate to let go. I want to hit Bill again. I want to make him pay.

But mostly I hear Nate shouting at me. ‘Come on,' he yells, fingers digging into my skin. ‘Come on!'

Nate screeches to a halt outside the Emporium, double-parked.

I loosen the seat belt but don't get out. This isn't the inconspicuous return I'd hoped for. Speeding? In a stolen car? Officially a burglar?

‘Your anger is off the grid,' says Nate. He's gripping the wheel, white-knuckled.

This is the first thing he's said to me since we left Bill's. The anger hasn't really left me yet – I'm still breathing hard, the red clinging to my vision.

‘So get a compass.'

He shakes his head. ‘Don't joke. It's messed up.'

I turn to him. ‘I'll try to be more polite next time you're being sat-on-to-death.'

‘Screw you. Don't blame me for this.'

I try to think of something really cutting. Smart too. But I just call him a twat and it all kicks off.

‘You just don't get it, do you, Frankie?'

‘What's to get? Something terrible has happened to my brother and I was
this
close, Nate.
This
close to finding out what.'

‘He told you everything. He had the silverware, Frankie. You saw it. He wants his money back – he needs Xavier. He doesn't know where he is.'

‘He was lying.'

Nate bashes his hands against the wheel. ‘You cannot be that stupid.'

‘You're a waste of space, Nate. You ruin everything!'

I fumble with the door handle but it won't open. I bash my fist on the armrest. ‘What the fuck is wrong with this door?'

He tries reaching over me but I push him away. I wind down the window and open the door from the outside. By the time I get it open, I'm so desperate to get out, I fall.

Shit.

I scramble to my feet. Lucky I'm never going to see Nate again otherwise I'd be pretty embarrassed right now.

‘Just stay away from me.' I slam the door.

‘Don't flatter yourself, Vega. I wouldn't want to catch crazy.'

‘Well, at least I'm not a crappy burglar with shit hair and nowhere to shower.'

Nate flips me the bird. I kick the passenger-side door.

‘Not my car,' he shouts.

‘You are the most annoying, most self-centred arsehole I've ever met.'

He points to his chest. ‘I'm self-centred? Why the hell do you think I just broke into that guy's house, Frankie? When it's obvious I've got Marzoli watching my every move. You think I did that for me? You think I did that because I give a damn about your brother?' He bashes the steering wheel. ‘You have no idea.'

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

‘You want to call me selfish?' He shakes his head and revs the engine.

Still, I've got nothing to say.

‘You're a real piece of work, Vega,' he says. ‘Nice knowing you.'

He pulls out right in front of a sedan. The sedan's horn blares; swear words are exchanged. Tyres screech as Nate speeds up Smith Street.

Gone. Over and done with. Out of my hair. Done and dusted.

Good.

Great.

Super.

I should have gone with Mark. Nice, normal, law-abiding, doesn't-call-me-a-psycho-bitch Mark. Okay, so he'd have cheated on me the second Ava crooked her finger but no one's perfect.

I turn round.

Shit.

I've got an audience.

There's no applause this time, no black hanky waving and compliments in Italian.

Standing in front of the cracked window of the Emporium, Vinnie's got her mouth hanging open. ‘Francesca Madalina Vega,' she says. ‘Explain. Now.'

And Vinnie's not the only one standing there, arms folded, disappointment drawing her eyes downward.

‘You said you were working,' says Cara. ‘You lied.'

I'm rooted to the spot. Two pedestrians weave around me, eyes to the ground. Yeah, I'd kind of like to ignore this too.

‘I'm sorry,' I say. My voice is weak, which is fitting, because it's a weak thing to say.

Vinnie's red heels start tapping. ‘What were you doing with that boy?'

Do I have to answer that?

‘He's a friend of Xavier's. We were looking for him.'

Cara hugs her arms across her chest. ‘You couldn't tell me that?'

‘Any reason why you called him a burglar?' asks Vinnie.

Can I pass on both questions, please?

A couple of women bundle past, elbowing me and scratching me with the sharp corners of their shopping bags. I should move out of the centre of the path. I should run away, crying.

I look at my boots, rooted to the spot. ‘It was a stolen car,' I say.

Lesser evil.

Vinnie gasps. It's not a super-loud sound, but to me it's like that time someone drove through the front window of the hairdressers next door.
Bang. Crash. Shatter.
What I'm really hearing is Vinnie's love for me shattering into a billion irreparable pieces. It was already an ugly, mangled thing, stuck together with reels and reels of masking tape from all the times I've broken her trust in the past. How many times can it be reassembled? It's never the same once you break it, no matter how good your arts-and-crafts skills are. And mine are shit.

Vinnie flicks out both hands, fingers spread, pushing the air in front of her like she's shoving an invisible me. ‘I can't do this,' she says. She does a one-eighty and clunks into the shop.

The glass rattles as she slams the door.

I stare at the cracks in the paving.

Juliet used to tell me never to step on them. ‘Ground opens up and sucks you in,' she said. My little legs ached from jumping and running after her, trying to keep up without falling through the cracks.

Oh how I'd love to be sucked into the centre of the Earth right now.

‘I've been sticking up for you,' says Cara. ‘The shit Steve's been saying. It's all around school.'

I wonder if it's hot or cold down there? Lava or ice-cold rock?

Cara's voice is bitter. ‘And I've spent the last half hour pleading your case to Vinnie, telling her there had to be something important – life and death shit – to make you break her rules. To make you lie to
me
.'

If I open my mouth I'll start screaming. If I move I'll start throwing punches. So I stand there with every muscle in my body tensed. I'm aware people are weaving around me because every now and then their shadows flitter across the concrete. But I
can't
move.

‘I'd ask you where you've been and what you've been doing that was so damn important, but you're not going to tell me, are you?' says Cara. ‘Do you ever tell me the truth?'

Cara's waiting for me to say something but I'm thinking about a polar bear – my polar bear with the black nose and shiny black eyes.

‘I'm going to buy you something nice for your birthday,' Juliet said. I was four. I had been four for months. She gripped my hand, dragging me onto the crowded tram and through the mall. We kept bumping into people, trams dinging, rain sloshing. And then there were lights, tinkling piano and the stench of perfume. Juliet stopped to put make-up on. Smacking her lips and admiring herself in the tiny mirror. A lady in white with the cleanest, smoothest skin I'd ever seen was suddenly beside her. ‘That's a lovely shade,' she said. Did she scrub her skin to get it that smooth and white? ‘Isn't it?' said Juliet. And then we were moving again, my hand gripped too tight, the lights too bright, elbows, feet stepping on mine, pushing. I asked her to carry me but she told me I was a big girl.

She said I could pick out anything I wanted. She smiled at me, lipstick on her teeth.

I went straight for the polar bear. He was white and soft and clean. I called him Harold.

I sat with him under a rack of dresses while Juliet looked for her own birthday present.

When we left, Juliet didn't hold my hand so tightly. She walked with her shoulders back and I hurried to keep up, avoiding the cracks in the tiles.

But when we got to the doors, a man gripped Juliet by the shoulder. ‘Come with me,' he said.

Juliet kept shouting: ‘It's my daughter's birthday.' People stared. I was glad when we went into the small, pale-green room. No one but the man to stare at us. I hugged the polar bear to my chest.

‘Did you pay for that?' he asked. He pointed to the bear.

‘Yes,' I said. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. ‘His name is Harold and he's four years old.'

The police came. ‘His name is Harold,' I told them. ‘He's mine.'

I wouldn't stop lying. I couldn't.

And that's how it's always been. Lying to protect, to avoid, to soften.

Lying because it's the only thing my mother taught me to do, the only thing she gave to me.

Someone bumps my elbow as they pass.

I look up but it's too late. Cara has already walked away.