Felicity Young - Take Out

The lawyer from Legal Aid, a young man called Russell Simpson, was waiting for them outside Mai’s door.

The gentle aroma of baby powder had replaced the earlier unpleasant smells in the room. A stainless steel bowl of scummy water sat upon the tray table. Mai’s hands had lost all traces of red dirt and her hair gleamed with every sweeping stroke of the hairbrush gripped tight in Pimjai’s hand. Stevie spent a moment watching the Thai women as companionable as sisters despite their being at opposite ends of the social spectrum. She glanced at Fowler and guessed what he was thinking. Jesus, Fowler, she thought, sometimes I wish I could just blank you from my mind.

Mai’s eyes were closed as if she was revelling in the sensation of this small act of kindness. Stevie found herself yearning to do something positive too for the girl who appeared to have so little.

Pimjai put the brush on the tray table and Mai joined her hands with a word of thanks. Stevie introduced the lawyer, who sat down in the chair Col had occupied earlier, and exchanged pleasantries with the women: ‘Feeling better, Mai? How’s the leg? Pimjai has made you look beautiful.’ She knew she risked being condescending, but was rewarded with a small smile from each of them.

Fowler pressed the record button on the camcorder as soon as the questioning began. Stevie removed the housedress from the plastic bag and held it up for Mai to see. ‘Is this yours?’

The girl slowly reached for the dress, rolled the silk through her fingers; she felt the hole left by the missing button and nodded her head.

‘Mai, did you go to the Pavel house and feed your baby after Delia and Jon were killed?’

Pimjai listened and then interpreted Mai’s reply. ‘Yes, she overheard the men talking about what had happened—Jon Pavel was still alive then. The Crow shot Delia from the kitchen window, then took Jon with him and left Mai’s baby in the house. Mai travelled by bus several times to the house and fed her baby. But then Rick found out, told The Crow and he burned her feet.’ Pimjai pulled back the bedclothes to expose Mai’s unbroken leg. The burn was healing, although the skin on the sole of her foot was still red and flaking in places. Stevie winced. Fowler and Russell Simpson leaned forward in their chairs to inspect the injury. The young lawyer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Before this she tried to call the police and tell them what was happening,’ Pimjai said, ‘but they did not understand what she was saying.’

Fowler shifted in his seat with embarrassment—as well he might, thought Stevie.

‘And you used Mrs Hardegan’s phone?’ Stevie queried.

Mai paused as she listened to Pimjai and shook her head violently, her eyes once more eyes brimming with tears at the mention of the old lady’s name.

‘She phoned from call box,’ Pimjai said with a decisive snap to her jaw.

‘No.’ Fowler could remain silent no longer. ‘There was no call box listed in the phone log. Each phone call was made from the same private number listed as belonging to Mrs Lilly Hardegan.’

Pimjai told Mai what he’d said. Mai shook her head, but Stevie knew Fowler was right. All the unintelligible calls were made from Mrs Hardegan’s phone, including the final, successful call from Skye.

Why would Mai apparently tell the truth about everything else, but lie about this one insignificant matter? Was she trying to protect the old lady from something—were they in collusion? Stevie expelled a breath; it didn’t make sense. She would have to visit Mrs Hardegan again. Perhaps she’d get some sense out of the old lady once she knew Mai was safe.

‘The bus crash, Hooper, ask about the bus crash,’ Fowler hissed in a stage whisper.

She shot him a look; all in good time. But Pimjai took it upon herself to ask Mai before Stevie could stop her. Stevie sighed and made a mental note to enquire if the Academy offered courses in ‘Techniques of interrogation through translation’—both of these sessions had been bloody nightmares.

It wasn’t dark but it was getting there; the sky filled with the soft purple of evening. Mrs Hardegan’s light was on but she had not yet drawn the curtains. As Stevie made her way down the back garden path, she found herself smiling at the scene before her, an absurd shadow puppet show—Long John Silver, bird on shoulder, watching the evening news.

After tapping on the window she entered the room, her tread light and springy on the lino floor. The interview with Mai hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, but it buoyed her that for once she was not the bearer of bad news.

‘She’s safe, Mrs Hardegan, Mai is safe.’ Stevie beamed at the old lady and put her arm out to the bird. It hopped from Mrs Hardegan’s cashmere shoulder onto Stevie’s naked forearm, digging in with its nail-like claws, much lighter than it looked. She put it in its cage, closed the door and turned back. The old lady said nothing, sat there, a lopsided grin from ear to ear, the first Stevie had seen from her. There was no denying it, she knew exactly whom Stevie was talking about.

Stevie made them tea, told by Mrs Hardegan to use the best cups—this was a celebration, wasn’t it, boy? The old lady herself poured out small measures of brandy into balloon glasses and they alternatively sipped tea and spirits. Stevie sat on the footstool at her feet and told her what they had learned about Mai’s life in the Perth brothel, and then the bus crash.

‘But you knew Mai, didn’t you, Lilly?’ Stevie didn’t think the old woman would mind the use of her first name. ‘That was why she came to you when she discovered that her baby had been left alone in the house.’

‘We tried to call the smudgin’ fulletts but they wouldn’t listen to us.’

‘But why does Mai deny ringing the police from your phone? In fact, she denies knowing you at all.’

Mrs Hardegan ran a finger over a bushy grey eyebrow. ‘He is a good boy; he is trying to look after us. We’ll tell you, but it won’t be easy. Wait there for a few days, we need to gather up bits and bobs.’

Stevie’s phone rang. It was Col, wanting to tell her about his interview with Lin. She rose from the footstool, turned her back on the bustling Mrs Hardegan and gazed absently at the darkening view from the window. The girl was highly traumatised, Col told her, and the doctor had suggested a psych consult. My, my, Fowler would have approved of Lin, Stevie thought. Lin the innocent would fit perfectly into his checkerboard view of life where everything was black or white, innocent or guilty. She was still brooding on this when two startling silver-blue eyes cleaved the blackness of the street. Through the closed window she heard the predatory growl of a powerful car’s engine. Her mind flashed back to the Freo alley.

‘Stevie, are you still there?’ Col’s voice prickled at her sudden silence.

She blinked, looked into the street again. The headlights had gone, but their imprint continued to glow on the inside of her lids.

‘How’s the search for the Jag going, Col?’ she asked, apropos of nothing he’d been talking about.

‘Nada.’ He blew air down the phone. ‘But have you been listening to anything I’ve said?’ Of course she had, she said. He continued filling her in on Lin’s background: she was an orphan who’d been hoodwinked into believing she was being sent to Australia to manage a reflexology centre for Jon Pavel.

Stevie stepped into the back garden with the phone clamped to her ear, listening to Col. She explored the space behind the wood shed and the back fence, climbed on a plant pot to peer into the neighbour’s yard. The freshness of an early spring evening filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of night-scenting shrubs. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the flame tree in the corner of the garden, but despite this, she felt a chill. Absently, she undid the folds of her sleeves, pushing them over the goose bumps on her arms.