Care Factor Zero Page 8

  ‘Okay, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  She pulled the plug and climbed out quickly. She’d always hated staying in a bath while the water was draining out. When she’d been little she’d been frightened she’d go down the plug hole with the water. Old fears hold fast and won’t let go, she thought, jumping in the shower and turning it to “hot” to unfreeze herself. Then wrapping herself in the robe she scooped up the tray with its empty glass and went back along the hallway and silently down the stairs, the carpet thick and luxurious under her bare feet. Following the music, she found Lynx in the lounge room.

  ‘What’s the group?’ she said sourly, standing in the doorway. She knew it wasn’t a group as such: it was some orchestra playing the classics.

  ‘London Philharmonic. Some Beethoven. Do you like it?’

  ‘No. It’s … morbid!’

  Lynx shrugged. He was wearing clean blue jeans and a dark blue turtleneck sweater in some soft sort of wool that clung expensively to him. He looked rich, sure of himself, and alien.

  ‘You look like a rich snot,’ said Larceny in a frosty voice. This new Lynx terrified her.

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  ‘You are in this house!’

  ‘That’s why I want out.’

  It suddenly made sense. He looked the part, he played the part, but he felt like an alien in his own environment. Two aliens against the world.

  ‘Here. I’ve done a couple of tv dinners. I can’t cook.’

  He’d put them on china plates with knives and forks.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I dunno. Lean Cuisine shit. I did doubles. I think there’s Beef Satay and Chicken Marengo, and I gave us both. Is it okay?’

  His voice sounded uncertain.

  ‘Looks great to me.’

  Larceny sat down, grabbed a plate and began forking up the food. It was hot and tasty.

  ‘Do you want dessert? There’s Sara Lee cheesecake or some pecan pie.’

  ‘I didn’t know rich people ate Sara Lee.’

  ‘Over it, Larce. Rich people eat, sleep and shit, same as everyone else.’

  He sounded annoyed.

  ‘Sorry. This is the first time — well — I’ll have the cheesecake, thanks.’

  ‘And coffee?’

  ‘Yeah. That’d be nice.’

  He went out of the room with the empty plates, giving Larceny a chance to look at her surroundings. The room was big, with heavy old-fashioned furniture. There was a piano in one corner and a tv built into a console along one wall. Everything was olive green and dark brown: it was a drab, uninviting room, richly furnished with expensive things but unemotional, devoid of any family memorabilia, magazines and the usual paraphernalia that makes a house a home. It was filled with creature comforts but not comfortable. Little wonder Lynx felt pressured and confined.

  The music was grating on Larceny’s nerves, so she got up, switched it off and turned on the tv. It was some dumb program about cross-dressers and the women who loved them. Larceny stared at the screen. Was anyone normal? What was normal?

  Lynx came back with a tray. There were two servings of cheesecake and two mugs of coffee. He put it down on the low table.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They ate in silence, both wary of each other. The tv was a lifesaver, an excuse not to communicate as they both sat eating the cheesecake and sipping the coffee. Larceny reached in her bag for her cigarettes.

  ‘Sorry. You can’t smoke in here,’ said Lynx apologetically. ‘No smoking in this house. But I’ve got something else you might like.’

  He disappeared then came back with a plastic bag. He pulled out some syringes, phials of sterile water, and a spoon along with two capsules.

  ‘Speed?’

  ‘No. Some really good smack.’

  ‘I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘No?’ He seemed surprised. ‘This is top H. It’ll mellow you out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  He prepared the fix. Larceny watched tv. It was nothing new to her: she’d seen countless fixes being prepared, watched countless kids shooting up. It neither excited nor repulsed her. As far as she was concerned it was a fact of life. Lynx found a vein, tapped it vigorously with two fingers, then injected.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a taste?’

  ‘No. Told you, I don’t do drugs.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve had enough shit pumped into me to last a lifetime,’ she replied shortly.

  Lynx smiled as he felt the rush. ‘This is good, man,’ he said, beaming.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  The drug gave him confidence. He put his hand on her knee. Larceny jumped like she’d been stung and leapt to her feet, eyes blazing.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Relax. We’ll just talk.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to talk.’

  He lay his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. Larceny regarded him warily.

  ‘Sit down. I promise I won’t lay a finger on you,’ he said gently.

  She sat. He didn’t say anything. The tv droned on. For something to do Larceny picked up the newspaper that was folded neatly on the table.

  ‘Don’t mess it up. My old man likes it exactly right when he reads it at night.’

  ‘I thought people read papers in the morning.’

  ‘Dad’s too busy getting ready for work. Paper-reading’s done at night in this house.’

  ‘The news of the day’s stale by then.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, they’re not that interested in the rest of the world, are they — only themselves.’

  Larceny opened the paper carefully, scanning the pages. ‘Bid to halt youth suicides,’ she read out. ‘What a load of crap!’

  ‘What’s it say?’ asked Lynx in a slightly slurred voice.

  ‘Victoria will supply an extra 550 beds for the mentally ill and set up suicide prevention schemes for young people, the Minister of Health said yesterday. In his first major statement since taking over the portfolio the Minister detailed how the government would spend more than $80 million it has committed to mental health services,’ Larceny read out.

  ‘The extra money includes a boost to child and adolescent mental services aimed at reducing youth suicide in metropolitan and rural areas. The Health Department would set up suicide prevention networks, and appoint regional suicide prevention liaison officers. Up to 15 per cent of young people suffer from psychiatric disorders, but only a small number are diagnosed and treated.’ She stabbed at the article with one finger.

  ‘They haven’t got a clue. Typical government wankers. Why don’t they try to stop kids getting suicidal in the first place? Why don’t they look at the reasons? It’s just a load of bullshit, spending money to make themselves look good!’

  ‘How do they know there’s 15 per cent of basket cases if only a small number are diagnosed?’ said Lynx, opening his eyes. ‘From the kids I’ve seen there’s more likely 40 per cent.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Larceny glared at him.

  ‘Meaning I’ve seen heaps of real screwed-up kids. More than 15 per cent.’

  ‘Meaning me?’

  ‘You’re not screwed up. You’re mad.’

  He said it matter-of-factly. Larceny sucked in her breath. She felt the familiar rage begin to swell like an outsize bubble in her chest. She threw down the paper angrily.

  ‘And you’re not? Sitting there blissing out on H, when you’ve got all this — this —’

  She waved her arms wildly to encompass the room and all its trappings.

  ‘I’m screwed up, not mad. Why did you kill that guy?’

  ‘What?’ Larceny stared at him. She’d forgotten that she’d told him.

  ‘Why did you kill the guy? How? Where? When? What for?’

  ‘It doesn’t scare you that I killed someone, that I might kill you?’ she grated, glaring at him.

  ‘I don’t care if you do. It’d solve all my
problems,’ he said.

  ‘Crap. That’s the smack talking. And why should I tell you, anyway? It’s none of your business.’

  He looked at her dreamily. The rush had gone and he was beautifully mellow, at peace with the world, the euphoria cruising through his whole being, relaxed in his drug-induced paradise.

  ‘To kill or be killed, that is the question,’ he murmured. ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘He was giving me major grief,’ she snapped.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sammy Soul.’

  ‘Good name. Hope his soul’s happy. How do you know he’s dead?’

  ‘I just know, that’s all. Look, I’m sick of you asking me questions like a bloody shrink, I’m sick of all this rich shit. I’ve had a bath, I’ve eaten your food, I’m grateful and all that, but I just want to go now, okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Lynx. ‘You’re free to go at any time, babe. Don’t let your love for me hold you back.’

  He giggled.

  ‘You’re off your face, man. I’m outa here.’

  She grabbed her bag. ‘Where’s my clothes?’

  ‘In the drier. And don’t slam the door on your way out!’ He giggled again. That H was a real mind-spinner. Larceny stormed through the house in search of the laundry. She finally found it, yanked the door of the drier open, and put on her clothes. They were still warm. He hadn’t done her jacket or the stuff in the plastic bag. Her eyes lit upon a Drizabone coat hanging on a hook. Probably his old man’s. Well, stiff. He could afford another one. Dragging it on, she rolled back the sleeves and then stormed back down the passage, the tote bag bumping against the wall. She paused in the lounge room.

  ‘Hey, man. Fair exchange. My company and a bag of wet clothes for this coat.’

  She paraded in front of him, but his eyes were closed. Lynx was totally out of it. So, who cared? He was just another chunk of floating crap in her life. She went out, banging the door behind her. Good riddance, goodbye, and best of luck, Lynx. You need it!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was teeming. The rain pelted down, running in rivulets off Larceny’s coat. She was grateful for its warmth and bulk. She still had a change of underwear in her tote bag. Who needed extra clothes? Something would turn up. It always did. She could shoplift a new wardrobe if she needed different gear. If you had food in your belly and warm, dry clothes that was a bonus. She marched down the drive, pushed open the gates, and headed off along the street towards Toorak Road.

  Lynx was a nice guy, but a loser. Rich, poor, they were all the same, and when it came to the crunch, you were on your own. If he did manage to get himself over to Fiji he was still going to be a misfit. He was culturally confused in his own head. He was really an individual: his own person. But he had to find that out for himself. And Larceny didn’t have the time or inclination to un-confuse Lynx. She had her own life to find, to live. Such as it was.

  No cash. The crew had used it all. She put her hand in the pocket of the coat and closed it round — money! Two twenties and a ten. And a handful of small change. Laughing, she looked up through the rain into the clouds and beyond.

  ‘Thanks, God,’ she said. Not that she really thought there was one, but she always seemed to score when things were down. A pessimistic optimist was how one shrink had described her.

  Now, what to do with fifty bucks? Get a taxi? Get a room for the night? Go to the movies? She was rich. She was free. No ties, no worries, not a care in the world. She hit Toorak Road and turned towards the city. She’d get a tram. One came trundling up out of the rain and she sprinted across the road, the tote bag banging against her as she dodged between the crawling cars and swung herself up onto the step.

  The tram was full of school kids, private college types. They looked sideways at her as she threw back the hood, sending a shower of droplets all over anyone who was within a metre radius. She looked at them boldly. Some of the girls dropped their eyes. Several of the guys looked interested. With her shiny red hair and devilish green eyes she radiated a magnetism that concealed a contemptuous attitude to anything or anyone that reeked of money and prestige. And anything that smacked of institutionalism — schools, hospitals, psych wards, and residentials. She was free. They were strangling in a web of conventions and social systems that made them prisoners in mind, body and soul.

  She gazed out the window, caught in her own thoughts, as kids got off the tram, slogging through the rain to their houses, their prisons of respectability. She chuckled. Several people glanced at her and then away, perturbed, because you weren’t supposed to sit on a tram laughing at nothing. The tram rounded the corner into St Kilda Road. Larceny saw the spire of the Cultural Centre and on a whim. decided to get off there and explore. Why not?

  Jumping down, she walked across the expanse of paved brickwork, past the sculpture that looked like a beached hippopotamus and through the sliding glass doors. Lush red carpet, polished brass and mirrors everywhere, and an escalator going down to a lower level. She got on it. Down below there was an exhibition of costumes worn by opera stars. Larceny stood gazing in wonder at the richly embossed dresses and all the colourful silks and satins. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke one of the dresses.

  ‘Don’t touch the exhibits,’ said a custodian who was standing nearby.

  Larceny flicked him a scathing glance. ‘Say “Please” and I won’t,’ she said gently, her hand still stroking the fabric.

  ‘Did you hear me? I said don’t touch!’

  ‘Please!’ Larceny snapped. She put down her bag and deliberately stroked the dress with both hands.

  He grabbed at her.

  ‘Don’t touch me, per-lease!’

  She tugged hard, and the delicate fabric of the skirt parted from the bodice. He stood aghast, as with a mocking laugh Larceny whipped up her bag and whirled away towards the stairs.

  ‘He only had to say “Please”,’ she said to a woman who was standing there with a shocked look on her face. ‘It doesn’t cost anything to say “please” you know.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ gasped the woman, backing against the wall.

  ‘I know!’

  Taking two stairs at a time Larceny raced up to the street level and darted through the doors. She pulled up her hood again as the driving rain stung her face. Head down, clutching her bag tightly against her, she headed over the bridge towards Flinders Street Station. She glanced back over her shoulder. No one was following her. Pity about the dress: she hadn’t meant to tug it so hard. Still, it could be sewn back on again. If he’d only spoken nicely to her she wouldn’t’ve lost her temper.

  She reached the station, a familiar comfort zone, and squatting against a wall she lit a cigarette. Smoking was something to do. The nicotine had somehow never become an addiction: she could take it or leave it. She looked round at the food stalls, the hustling, bustling people. Home sweet home. She looked back down at her feet.

  ‘Larce!’

  Her head jerked back up again. Now what? Did everyone in this pisshole of a city know her? A familiar foxy face was staring down at her.

  ‘Hi, Jane.’

  ‘You owe me,’ said Jane, standing in front of her, hands on hips. The black rucksack on her back made her look like a snake-necked tortoise.

  ‘Yeah? You and half Australia.’ Larceny drew hard on her cigarette and deliberately blew smoke up into the angry face looming down at her.

  ‘You were s’posed to divide the shoplifting money. Cathy and I waited but you never showed.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I didn’t get any money. Sammy Soul pulled a scam.’

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  ‘Look, I don’t need any grief. I killed him, he’s dead. There’s no money, okay?’

  Jane’s mouth fell open.

  ‘You killed him? When?’

  ‘When I did the runner. Last week, day before yesterday, I dunno, I can’t remember. A lot’s happened in the last few days.’

  ‘He was alive and well yesterday,’ said Jane. �
��I know, because I hocked a gold bracelet. The rat only gave me fifty bucks and it was worth at least two hundred.’

  Larceny blinked. ‘Alive? Sammy Soul? He’s not — I didn’t kill him?’

  ‘Yeah. Pity you didn’t, but.’

  Jane squatted beside her, her thin sly face eager and curious.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was cheating on me so I walloped him with the bag of stuff. I thought I’d killed him.’

  ‘Nah.’Jane grimaced. ‘You didn’t even do any major damage, though come to think of it he did have a bandaid on his forehead.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  So the little slime was alive and well. And she’d been thinking she was a killer. All that agonising for nothing. Okay, so she hadn’t been exactly agonising, but it was nice to know she wasn’t a murderer after all, she wasn’t Victoria’s Most Wanted. She wasn’t anyone’s most wanted.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Jane.

  ‘Left. Done a runner.’

  ‘What about Cathy?’

  ‘That stupid slag? She’s gone to bits since Emma OD’ed and it sank in. Can’t get any sense outa her.’

  ‘Wait. Wait. Emma OD’ed? When? Where?’

  ‘In the mall a few days ago. Accidental, like. Goony and Avil.’

  ‘Accidental?’

  Larceny recalled Emma’s tired, pinched face, the look of the lost: unwanted, unloved and tormented. She shook her head.

  ‘That kid knew exactly what she was doing,’ she said softly. ‘Exactly!’

  She felt the anger starting to boil. The grey mist gathered before her eyes and the voices began their screeching chant. Kill. Kill.

  ‘Kill who?’ she said aloud, holding her screaming head. ‘I can’t kill the whole friggin’ government!’

  ‘What?’

  She was aware of Jane peering at her. ‘What are you mumbling about, Larce?’

  ‘Never mind!’

  Larceny shook her head, trying to clear away the mists of anger. All that crap in the paper she’d just read back at Lynx’s house. Half the suicides they’d put down as “accidentals” to make their stats look good. Now, Frantik was a genuine OD. She smiled grimly. They’d probably put him down on their computers as an attempted suicide. Jesus, would they ever get it right?