Chapter 4 — Mia

Mia sits curled up and shivering in the economy class section of a 737. Her day of legal advice is over: well and truly over, as far as she’s concerned. A loudspeaker announces preparations for landing. She lifts her head, wipes her mouth with a tissue and glances down the corridor to check that the toilet is free. There’s no way she’s putting on a seatbelt. That was her mistake the first time, and she’d ended up with a bra so soaked in vomit she had to stuff it into the disposal slot. Splashing on perfume, she’d walked back to her seat and swallowed a double dose of airsickness tablets.

If only it was just airsickness, or an ordinary old tummy bug! No way she could be pregnant, she had told herself. It normally takes at least four weeks for these kinds of symptoms to appear.

Normally indeed! But what about abnormally?

A little voice inside had reminded Mia that she had once seen it in a girl at the refuge at two weeks. As she’d walked out of the barrister’s office, she decided to check just to be on the safe side. And there it was. According to the test she did in her hotel room, she was pregnant. And with Red away on assignment she hadn’t had sex with him for two months. Just her luck to be on the pill, raped and then, Oh my goodness! The contraceptive didn’t work. You’ve fallen into the ‘less than one per cent failure’ group.

Her only hope now is a false positive. Instead of going to her little home in Jacaranda Street, she’ll be heading to a clinic for a blood test and possible surgical termination. Surgical, because of what the term ‘non-surgical’ conjures up: screaming girls expelling gigantic clots and tampons soaking up rivers of blood.

And it all had to happen on this day of the dumb idea, Paddy’s idea. Why not talk to a barrister about the worst-case scenarios of trial by media? Without giving away any details, of course.

One vomited-on business suit later, all she had done was sit with Paddy in a Melbourne law office and listen to a little man boasting about holidays in Europe and spouting witticisms. She’d wasted half of her Sunday and fifteen hundred dollars. But not Paddy, as far as he was concerned it was worth it and he’s doing another ten rounds tomorrow.

The loudspeaker says to turn off electronic devices. Whatever! She swipes the screen of her new phone, which is a horrible yellow colour, and reads a message from her Gorgeous, telling her he’s been delayed and won’t be getting in until 7:15 pm tomorrow. I love you xo, he writes at the end of the message. This is an old message, but she keeps re-reading it. It’s been a while since he’s said anything like that. He says he knows they’re leaving for the Kimberley the day after but he doesn’t want to wait. Is this really just him caring? He cared enough to get this phone delivered to her door and to tell her about ammo for the Glock.

Her other phone—a black one—vibrates in her pocket. There’s a text from Jemma. She’s taking Oksy to ballet accompanied by the ‘Elvis’ security guard: ‘Elvis’ because of his hair. The other one is ‘Clint’, according to Jemma, because of his lean cowboy figure: both of them hired from a two-bob security company.

Standing up, Mia stretches and yawns. Concerned faces watch. One, a young man in a business suit, smirks and says something to a woman sitting next to him. Mia drops back to her seat. What did she expect? Taking out a pair of gigantic retro sunnies, she clamps them on.

More announcements come, this time it’s about seat backs, food trays and the fact that Eastern Standard Time is 8:04 pm. Through her window seat she watches an approaching wall of dark cloud. Everything dims, lights come on and it’s as if they’ve just been swallowed.

Yes, she’d used a false name and the yellow phone for her termination appointment, but her face is too recognisable, especially in Human Services. Once she walks in there, a cold, irresistible fact will be on the loose amongst the nurses. Do you know who that is? It’s Mia, the one that was in the papers. She’s getting a termination done. Guess who got her pregnant? That manager of Green Avenue becomes more like her clients every day.

Mia whispers a prayer: ‘You let him do it to me. What is it with you? You let it happen to my girls every day.’

Silly Mia got drunk on the boat and screwed him, right? What’s it going to take to convince the tabloid readers? Strip off and walk out there so they can see his teeth marks? Oh dear! Is that a bite? You mean a love bite, don’t you? Maybe she should have just gone to the police in the first place.

This is her lot in life, it seems. At sixteen she’s in trouble because a teacher has a crush on her. She’s summoned to the principal’s office. You’re the kind of girl who causes men to fall apart, she’s told. Mia’s fault, in other words. According to the principal, the only place for her is Hollywood.

Slow tears roll down her face. What was God thinking? She’d just like God to help, if that’s not too much to ask. All she wants is her Gorgeous, her Oksy and her little home.

More landing instructions are recited over the loudspeaker. A sweet-faced flight attendant with a mission walks towards Mia. Mia fastens her seatbelt and stares out the window.

Night has fallen on a city that flows beneath the plane like Christmas lights on a conveyor belt, the glow of orange lines forming black squares and rectangles, like cracks in the lava of some volcanic lake. The black shapes disappear and it’s towers of light, brilliant green sporting ovals and an airport fairyland with floodlights and airliners parked at hangers like fish waiting to be gutted.

There’s a soft bump of touchdown, ground lights race past and they manoeuvre to a stop. Passengers stand. Mia takes a clean sick bag out of a seat pocket, stuffs it into her handbag and joins them.

Doors open and she’s in a queue of jostling and bumping human beings who seem to have forgotten all about her. At the door, the flight attendant gives her a knowing wink. Mia hurries down the stairs into cool, crisp darkness.

Racing ahead of embarrassment, she weaves through the milling crowds of arrivals and jogs in the direction of baggage claim. Gathering pace, she hears a wolf whistle and drops from a run to a walk, certain that her bra-less bust has been entertaining someone. Sure enough, on the other side of the walkway, boys are laughing. There was a time when she might have laughed too. Not now. She wants to throw something. She keeps walking; they’re kids, not rapists.

A text from Claudia on Mia’s black phone asks if she would like to go for a Bloody Mary tonight. She stops right there, her heart racing. Slav has done it! ‘Bloody Mary’ is their agreed code for Magic Wand. So much for the clinic.

What time? Mia texts.

I'll get back to u, Claudia replies.

Mia texts Michelle on her yellow phone

Is tonight good for coffee?

Yes, Michelle texts back.

Once Mia has the Wand, she will deliver it to Michelle at a twenty-four-hour coffee shop near Channel Five: ‘Coffee’ on the yellow phone is the code for that rendezvous. This is too good to be true. It’s like she’s thrown a stone at the moon and hit it.

She calls the clinic on her yellow phone to postpone her appointment. The receptionist tells her they can’t fit her in for three days. Mia hesitates. That will be after the flight to the Kimberley.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing earlier?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ she says, turning the phone off.

The clinic is the priority; she’s going to have to postpone the flight.

Rounding a corner, she comes to baggage claim. ‘Clint’, her security guy—whose real name is Nick—stands watching a slow train of bags. A 007 movie would suit him down to the ground with his black suit and tie, short grey hair and beard. Just needs a cigarette and a golden girl hanging off him.

He catches her eye and waves. She waves back. Her green bag comes through the curtain on the conveyor. He points at it, raising an eyebrow. She nods. He drags it off the belt and walks to her, those loyal blue eyes looking as if he’s never heard a bad word about her.

She pushes her nose into her shoulder, sniffs and winces. Odour is still a problem.

‘Happy Birthday, Mrs Jackson,’ Nick says, dropping her bag on the floor.

‘Birthday? Oh—I forgot,’ Mia says.

Suzy’s organised a big 32nd birthday party for her. It’s on later in the evening, but she might have to cancel that too.

‘I got this for you,’ Nick says, presenting her with a brown hardback book.

She takes the book, rubbing her fingers on its old-style cloth cover. On the spine are the words ‘All Hallows’ Eve – Charles Williams’. This is Paddy’s favourite supernatural thriller. She’s wanted to read it for a long time. She leafs through heavy pages, enjoying their old, unopened smell. It’s a good one. It goes into her handbag.

‘A William novel,’ Nick says. ‘A creepy one, I think.’

‘You mean William-s,’ she corrects him.

‘It’s the one you didn’t read, I think,’ he says, a smile cracking the beard.

‘Brilliant!’ she grins, genuinely pleased.

How the hell did he know to get her this?

‘Yes,’ he says and winks. ‘I was maybe snoopin’ a bit, but good security is good research. You put him on Facebook.’

‘You’ve—’

‘Been all over your Facebook, Mrs Jackson: your web page, your yard and your house—yes. And everything else, including tonight’s party guests.’ He shakes his head. ‘This party—it’s a headache for me. Why have it in the casino, the lion’s mouth? Tate’s castle?’

Mia stares at him. What else has he ‘been all over?’ A Red-style ‘what the fuck’ slips out of her mouth. She’s shaking.

Relax girl, it’s what you hired him for.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m not well.’

‘I see that—maybe forget the party huh?’

‘Maybe.’

‘One other thing,’ Nick says. ‘Who’s this Dog they talk about on the radio?’

‘What have you heard?’

‘He’s got early release. I heard one hour ago.’

‘Did they say when?’

‘Today. They said, today.’

She walks to a lounge and sits down. What was God thinking? Does God think? God hates her, that’s what it is—God is a sadist.

Nick wants to know if she’s okay. She doesn’t answer. It’s hard for her to even breathe. The judge had been adamant there would be no parole before the nineteen years were served. If only she’d reloaded and finished Dog off there and then.

‘Mrs Jackson,’ Nick says. ‘Would you like a drink?’

She shakes her head, takes out her black phone and texts Jemma, telling her not to let Oksy out of her sight. The screen fills with a string of messages about Dog’s release, along with a queue of happy birthday messages from all kinds of people, including Tate and Spiers. Surely those two wouldn’t do this if they knew what she and Claudia were up to.

‘Ready to go?’ she hears Nick say.

She nods. Nick picks up her bag. A breeze blows a flap of Nick’s coat open, exposing a brown holster. A boy stops to stare. Nick smiles, flashing his security ID at the boy’s mother. The mother keeps walking, dragging the boy with her.

Nick shrugs and wheels Mia’s bag away. She follows, trailing him down escalators and through glass doors whilst reading her messages.

‘Mrs Jackson! Stop!’ Nick says.

She stops and looks up. She’s almost stepped into a streaming chaos of car headlights. Nick stands a few metres away next to her Prius, which is parked illegally in a taxi rank. He opens the rear passenger door and hands her a can of Coke. It’s ice cold.

‘You’ve been sick?’ he asks, sniffing the air.

‘I have,’ Mia says. ‘But this will help, thank you.’

‘High in potassium,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ she says, stepping down into the car.

Nick closes her door. She pops the can open and swallows a mouthful. That freezing, carbonated sting is just what the doctor ordered.

Taking out the stolen sick bag, she throws it on the floor and lies down on the seat—curled up, belly gurgling. Hopefully the Coke will settle her gut. Nick’s door closes with a soft thud, there’s a gentle shudder and they glide away.

She tenses her abdominal muscles, trying to squeeze out the dull ache. She hears a message arrive on her black phone. It’s from Paddy.

The Christmas Jesus and the Millstone Jesus belong together. Jesus says of the one who molests a child, ‘It would be better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck and he were thrown into the sea, rather than be responsible for causing one of these little ones to stumble.’

She sits up, finishes the Coke and drops the can on the floor. Lying down again, she closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy the comforting shudder of tyres running on bitumen. She falls asleep.

Mia wakes to the noise of clicking traffic lights. The car has stopped. She looks at a dog-eared corner of yellow cardboard protruding from the back pocket of the driver’s seat. This is her one and only prayer card. According to her mother, Bushka gave it to Mia at her baptism. Bushka had written it herself and titled it ‘The Christmas Prayer’ because she said it made her feel like a gift-wrapped present for God. Ludya was delighted, but the priest had labelled it ‘heretical’. Mia’s outraged mother decided to make it a family prayer and gave a copy to Mia when she went to boarding school. At school it was forgotten and lay buried in a drawer full of clothes and jewellery.

Pulling it out, she whispers the prayer from memory, focussing on the border: an elaborate Celtic-weave representation of earth, animals, ocean and sky.

I, Mia Tatyana, surrender to the love of the quiet earth—under my feet

The friendship of the flowing air—on my face

The happiness of the running wave—on my skin

The hope of the trusting child—in my hand

And the grace of the Son of Peace—in my heart.

I wrap myself in total devotion to the good and total destruction of the evil

Including the evil of my shadow-self.

Whatever meets me this day or this night will serve, even against its own will

The grace of this great One

For I am surrendered. Amen.

She says the prayer a second time and puts it into her bag. This is going with her to Caradoka. There have been times when she’s wanted to burn it, like this morning. But right now there’s something energising about the thought of yielding to the hope of her trusting child: what Paddy had once described as embracing the irresistible mystery of hard-core innocence.

They come to a stop. She sits up, blinking in the glare. She puts her sunnies on.

‘You have a special visitor coming?’ Nick calls out over his shoulder.

‘What?’

‘Your man.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Your daughter told me.’

‘Oksy?’

‘She said you bought a carton of VB, which is Daddy’s beer.’

‘It was supposed to be a surprise,’ she says.

Suddenly tired, she lies back down.

‘Just be happy wife,’ Nick says. ‘Military men don’t like questions—not the guilt.’

Guilt? Mia wonders what planet Nick is on. Has she said something to him? She tells herself not to bite, to calm down. He’s an old-style soldier and she’s wound up. She takes the card out again and thinks of the quiet earth and of wrapping herself in it. She drifts off to sleep again.

The sound of Nick talking to someone wakes her up. The ‘someone,’ she realises, is her car, which cruises along a dark road. The bumping rhythm of the road matches the speed bumps of her street.

‘Nice work, mister neglected Prius,’ Nick says. ‘Here we are at Jacaranda.’

Mia sits up. There in the headlights, stuck awkwardly on the trunk of a tree, is an election poster of Michael Spiers’ grinning face: clown-like tufts of white hair clumped around each ear. The rest of the street seems to have been spared the posters and is getting on with the normal routine of Christmas trees and lights. Passing the poster-tree, they stop a little short of her house. Something has caught Nick’s attention, ‘a security stop,’ he explains.

‘Hello Frank,’ she whispers to her frangipani, using Oksy’s pet name for it.

‘Recognise that car?’ Nick says, pointing at a white car across the road with a ‘KA’ number plate.

‘God help us,’ she says. ‘Father Adams!’

‘Get rid of him?’

‘No, let him in.’

She needs to keep everything ‘business as usual’—or better, make it feel as if she’s intimidated. Adams will want to believe that and will enjoy it.

‘What about a little ruffle of the feathers?’ Nick asks, laughing.

‘Polite ruffle, but no more,’ Mia says. ‘I need to get rid of my vomit smell. I’m having a shower. Tell him to wait in the lounge room.’

Nick shakes his head like a man witnessing an act of total stupidity. He drives the last few metres at a crawl, as if deep in thought. He stops in the middle of the street and stares through the gloom at the occupant of the ‘KA’ car, who, by the dog collar, must be Adams. The priest steps out of his car and grins. Nick ignores him and drives the Prius up into her carport.

Turning the car off, Nick jumps out and shines his torch all around the garden, stopping at the doorway. Mia gets out and walks across the yard, smiling at her one rosebush—Mister Lincoln—which is right there next to Nick, it’s first bud just starting to open. She stoops and puts her nose right on it, breathing in the fragrance. These dark red petals will be amazing in a few days.

‘The door, Mrs Jackson,’ Nick says wistfully, from behind her.

Mia straightens and rolls her eyes. The fact that she has her own personal code for the door, and Nick does not, has somehow offended him. She walks to the door and stares at her brand new security pad, trying to recall the code; ‘sonnet’ is the clue. It comes to her, and she types in 14 for the number of lines, 10 for the number of syllables per line, SUS for the pattern of stressed followed by unstressed syllables and 5 for the number of repetitions.

The door swings open. She turns lights on and deactivates the alarm. Dropping her birthday book onto a lounge chair, she heads for her bedroom. A stench of burnt plastic fills the air and her ensuite floor is littered with dirty undies. The mirror has words scrawled on it in pink lipstick, which seem to say ‘you lost’. She mustn’t panic. She rings the nanny.

‘Is that you, Mrs Jackson?’ Jemma’s voice answers.

‘Is Oksy with you?’

‘Yes, of course, we’re at ballet.’

‘Thank God!’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes thanks, just a little paranoid.’

Mia hangs up, takes a closer look at the message and realises it says, ‘Love you lots’. Sitting on the lip of the hand basin is the explanation for the smell: an extinguished candle on a partially melted plate. It’s only Oksy-style chaos.

Stripping off, Mia places her phones within reach, turns the taps on and sits on the floor of the shower under a hot stream of water. Her black phone chimes a text from Claudia.

CU at the party. Casino car park ground level at 10:00. Bought you some flowers to go with our Bloody Marys darling.

Perfect! Mia’s birthday party is a natural meeting place. The Wand will most likely be with the flowers. It will take an hour to get from there to the coffee shop. Leaving the casino will be the awkward part.

Stepping out of the shower, she dries herself down and sends a text to Michelle on the yellow phone.

Can we meet at 11:15?

Perfect, Michelle texts back.

She looks around for a bathrobe. Her favourite summer bathrobe—of orange cotton—has been missing for a month; around about the time Jemma asked if she could borrow it. Jemma’s supposed to be organised, but she likes to borrow Mia’s clothes and forgets to return them. Mia takes a heavy white robe off a hook and puts it on. It’s too hot. She should run upstairs and find the other one. A wave of morning sickness hits her. She yanks open the bathroom cabinet and picks up a bottle of Mylanta—it’s empty. There’s a full one in the kitchen.

She opens the door and spies Adams standing in the lounge room with his back to her, reading a book. That sandy hair, black robe and dog collar, looking like it always has. She hurries past him into the kitchen.

‘Mrs Jackson,’ he says, turning around to her in a kind of pirouette. ‘Why do I always have to be the “Creeping Jesus” in your life? Who was it who said that anyway?’

‘William Blake,’ she says, scanning the kitchen shelves for that aqua-blue bottle. This is ridiculous. Adams would already know the answer to his own question.

‘Was he right?’ Adams asks.

A hospital-visitation lanyard dangles from his neck like priestly bling.

‘Right about what?’

‘About—how does it go again?’

‘“If he had been Antichrist, Creeping Jesus, he’d have done anything to please us.”’

‘Am I a people pleaser?’

‘Not at all. You’re something else altogether,’ Mia says, wishing she could finish the sentence: You’re a child molester!

‘So I’m not an antichrist?’

‘No,’ Mia says, ‘not that kind. People pleasing will never be your problem. You’re more like Chesterton’s proud and solemn devil who “fell, through the force of gravity.”’

‘Oh.’

‘Please,’ Mia says, gritting her teeth against another wave of nausea. ‘Can we get to whatever it is that brought you here?’

He puts the book back on its shelf unsuccessfully. It falls to the floor. He bends down, picks it up and places it horizontally on top of a row of books, smiling at her with his zygomatic smile, which only ever engages the bottom half of his face: a grin, really.

‘What I have to talk about is serious,’ Adams says.

‘Tell me then,’ she says, walking around the kitchen and pulling open pantry doors.

‘Tate and Claudia’s marriage is in trouble,’ he says, following her. ‘And you’re not helping.’

‘What would you know about marriage?’ she snaps. You fuck kids, she almost blurts out.

There’s nothing in the pantry. Mia gets down on her knees, searching through a box of newly delivered groceries. She’s sure it’s in here. Adams places a hand on her shoulder. She pushes him away.

‘I have a party to go to!’ Mia says, pointing to the door. ‘Get out of my house!’

‘Speaking of that,’ Adams says. ‘The federal minister, Michael Spiers, will be there. He wants to see you.’

‘That’s nice. Now go. Out!’

She points again. He turns as if to go but refuses to move, like a child who has something else they want to talk about.

‘Get out!’ Mia says. ‘Go!’

He walks away. At the door he turns and looks at her—his face framed by the dark of night. He purses his lips as if he’s about to do one of his parting shots, but his mouth trembles and he says nothing. She yells again and he walks out. Did she just do something stupid? It’s all stupid and getting worse—so much for her ‘business as usual’ plan.

She locates the Mylanta, swallows a few spoonfuls, walks back to her bedroom and lies face down on the bed, letting the Mylanta work its magic.

The nausea settles down, but the whereabouts of that orange robe bothers her. She gets up, walks upstairs to Jemma’s room and opens the wardrobe. It’s right there, staring at her. Not like Jemma’s trying to hide it; she just thinks she can have it whenever. Disgusted, Mia throws the white robe on the floor and puts her orange one on. Maybe Jemma will get the message now.

Back downstairs, Mia sits on her bed. Time to book a cab. She feels around inside the robe’s pockets for her yellow phone. Silly thing, it wouldn’t be in there, it’s on her dresser. But there is something in one of the pockets.

She lifts out an old and beloved bracelet of five black opals encased in gold, which she thought she’d lost. She holds it up to the light: streaks of blood red, green, yellow and sapphire blue swim in the black—each stone joined together by chunky gold links. This was once Janie’s prayer bracelet. EJ had inherited it, but she’d given it to Mia as a wedding present, explaining that since she didn’t have a faith it was more appropriate for Mia to wear it.

She puts it on her dresser, picks up the phone and calls a cab company. While they’re booking her time and place, she stares at her pillow. Underneath is Red’s Glock along with two spare magazines, both full. What the hell—she’ll take it. It goes in a bright pink shoulder bag. The spare magazines stay under the pillow.

Time to dress. What’s she going to wear? There can’t be anything clandestine-looking about this. No business suits, trench coats or sunglasses. This will be Mia and Claudia lying to everyone at point-blank range.

Why not go right over the top? Schoolgirl is always good: an impregnable fortress, it shouts that this lady is out to party so keep your distance! Mia never has been the greatest at being an adult.

She ruffles through outfits: green jeans, an embroidered silk blouse, a ridiculous bird-of-paradise fascinator and red leather boots. She goes with a black embroidered blouse tucked into a neon blue miniskirt over legs poured into orange elastic and black leather boots—low heeled, just in case she needs to move quickly. With that out of the way, she puts on golden hoop earrings, pulls her hair up into pigtails and piles on makeup and black nail polish.

About to close her wardrobe, she stops. There on the floor is a box of unwrapped Christmas presents for her Oksy and her Gorgeous, including an expensive china doll for Oksy and a pair of handcrafted R.M. Williams riding boots for Red. In the hell she’s been living in, she’d forgotten all about them. What sort of Christmas is this going to be? Tears come. She kneels down, takes the box out and wraps her arms around it, rocking back and forth.

‘This is our Christmas,’ she whispers over and over.

Time to get ready for that taxi. She returns the box to its place and picks up her bag. Mia sighs: Red told her to always double-check the magazine. Lifting the Glock out, she checks it, returns it to her bag and walks to the kitchen. Here she pours herself an orange juice and writes a note to Oksy.

Finishing off the glass of juice, she heads to the lounge room for that brown book. But before she even gets there, a car horn beeps outside. Mia’s phone says 9:35 pm. The horn beeps again, the glow of a taxi’s dome light confirming that this is actually her cab. She puts the book down, looks up at a crucifix on the wall and says a quick prayer. Slinging the strap of the bag over her shoulder, she hurries out the door.

It’s dark. She trips and almost falls. A security light flicks on.

Between the door and the gate she’s caught by a waft of frangipani. She murmurs a thank you to the tree, swings the gate open and walks straight into Nick, who bars her way.

‘Yes, this is me,’ she says. He back-pedals and she adds, ‘You won’t be coming this time, Nick. I want you and Elvis to stay here and look after Oksy.’

‘Okay,’ he says, shrugging and opening the rear door of the cab.

‘I’ll be back late,’ she adds, getting in.

He closes the door with a firm push. The car moves off and she buckles herself in. Something about the vibe of the taxi—with its plastic-and-chrome trimming and hints of cigarettes, old men and rebellion—helps her calm down. She’s a fighter, isn’t she? And she’s starting a fight.

‘Dolphin Casino?’ the cabby asks in a Mediterranean accent.

‘Yes thanks,’ she says.

‘Big night at the Dolphin eh?’ he says, shifting the frame of his massive body.

‘Yes.’

At the end of her street, he puts his lights on high beam and accelerates into a sequence of jolting shortcuts through narrow alleyways. Emerging from the helter-skelter, they join a long downhill line of traffic. Mobs of Sunday-night pedestrians swarm across walkways. Lights flicker and blink. Glass-clad towers rear up into the night like starved seedlings.

Taking a left turn, the driver careens past the back ends of skyscrapers into a U-shaped channel of concrete. Signs direct them to the waterfront. Exiting, they drive along a foreshore lined with parks, cafes and crowds of young people, all dressed for a night on the town.

The casino looms like a great white toad on the water’s edge, tiered with spotlit balconies all the way to its top. On the roof, a fluorescent blue dolphin rotates at a leisurely pace. The cabbie follows signs pointing to reception.

Mia’s heart races. It’s 9.55 pm. She’s due to meet Claudia in the car park at 10 pm. Friends will be everywhere. If she doesn’t get out now, she’ll be swamped in the foyer. It’ll look weird trying to meet Claudia in the car park. Why did she even suggest the car park?

‘Could we stop?’ she asks, handing the driver a fifty-dollar bill. ‘And can you wait for me?’

‘No worries honey,’ he says, pulling over.

She steps out into a sharp breeze, her blouse flapping. Holding her bag close, she finds a sign that says ‘Car Park’ and walks towards it. On the way, she meets a little gathering of well-dressed women. One of them—a patron of Green Avenue—gives her a happy birthday hug.

Heads turn and partygoers converge, singing Happy Birthday. One of them, a normal-looking teenage girl in a purple evening gown, holds out a notepad and pen, asking for an autograph.

‘You saved my mum’s life,’ the girl says.

Mia stares at her, trying to recognise the girl, unable to speak. She takes the pad and pen and hesitates. What is it with this world? Mia’s just been raped, Claudia’s waiting in the car park with a load of obscene videos and here’s this girl believing in love. Mia autographs the pad.

‘Thank you Mia,’ the girl says, walking away with a little skip.

She knew who I was. She adores me. I made her skip. And I want to die.

‘Happy birthday Mia,’ Slav’s voice says.

She turns and is kissed on the cheek by a black-suited, garlic-breathing Slav. He looks haggard. His jet-black eyes seem to stare at something he wants to kill.

‘Nice get-up you have there,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ she says, and walks towards the car park.

How is she going to get back to the taxi without creating a fuss? Why didn’t she just ask the cabbie to drive into the car park?

Signs direct her down a flight of cement stairs and underneath the building. At the bottom are two red-striped boom gates, the arms of the gates seeming to be stuck in a vertical position. A man in a grey coat is trying to fix the problem. She walks past the gates towards pylons and rows of parked cars.

A sense of foreboding comes over her. Stopping, she reaches into her bag and pulls back the slide of the Glock, readying it for firing. Her phone says 9:59.

Vehicles and people move in and out of parking spaces. Claudia doesn’t seem to be anywhere. A green and white delivery van, its side door open, drives past.

At the other end of the car park, a woman walks towards her in a black dress with pluming sleeves. It’s Claudia! She carries a large bouquet of flowers. Mia knows the dress; it’s covered in beautiful embroidery. Claudia—who names her outfits the way some people name racehorses—calls this one her ‘Black Magic.’

Mia quickens her pace. Not far to go now. Hurry is not good. She slows down.

Tyres screech. The green and white van rounds a corner behind Claudia and accelerates. Claudia breaks into a run. Two men in black balaclavas jump out of the still-moving van and tackle her. In the struggle, she pulls a balaclava off one of them. It’s Dog! They drag her, screaming—bouquet and all—into the van.

Mia takes out her Glock and runs at them, firing: one of her bullets punctures the windscreen. The van accelerates. Dog leans out a side window, aiming a handgun. Mia ducks behind a pylon, fires a shot and then, click! Her magazine is empty. The van screeches to a halt no more than fifty metres away.

She runs through rows of parked vehicles, bullets slamming into car bodies and windscreens. She trips and falls head first onto a car bonnet, splitting her lip. Sliding off onto concrete, she drags herself underneath the vehicle, face-up. It’s dark under here. Her mouth throbs. Blood drips. Surely Slav has heard the gunshots.

A girl screams. Men shout, vehicles accelerate and tyres squeal as people flee.

The place is silent. Claudia screams for help. From where she lies on her back, Mia’s sure she can see the tyres of the van where it’s stopped, many rows of vehicles away.

Someone jogs in her direction: the noise of running feet echoes everywhere. She wriggles out from under the car and pulls herself underneath a minibus that’s parked next to a wall. She curls up in a space between the back wheel and the wall, holding the Glock at the ready. Perhaps the mere sight of it will slow them down.

Shots are fired. Bullets ricochet off the concrete near Mia’s head, bits of cement showering her. She pulls back the slide of the Glock to mimic the sound of reloading. Any moment now they’ll realise, they’ll walk over and that will be it.

‘I missed you!’ Dog shouts.

There’s a crash of gunfire from a different direction.

‘We’re coming Mia!’ Slav yells from a long way off.

More shots are fired. A gun battle is happening. The tyre pops and deflates, the frame of the bus sinking down and pushing Mia against the wall. She’s stuck. It’s hard to breathe. There’s more gunfire from Slav’s direction, his shouts getting closer. She’s out of air, about to asphyxiate, but she daren’t move: better to pass out than get a bullet through the head.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here!’ a voice screams.

There’s a sound of running, of gunfire and of bullets punching into vehicles. A door slams, an engine revs and a vehicle drives away at high speed. The noise fades into the distance.

‘Where are you, Mia?’ Slav shouts.

Mia sucks in what little air she can get and lies there, staring up at an exhaust pipe.

‘Did they get her?’ another voice asks.

‘No,’ Mia says, through a mouthful of blood.