Chapter 7 — Mia

Wrapped in an orange bathrobe, Mia stands barefoot on her doorstep, waiting for the arrival of the Tuesday morning paper. Ray-Bans guard her eyes against early morning sun. She’s always liked sunshine and the colour orange: joy is there, but so also is insanity. Orange doesn’t care, it’s got nothing to prove, and hell, she’s looking at a day—maybe a lifetime—of nothing!

A delivery guy drives past and throws the paper onto her lawn. She picks it up and opens it to a large grainy portrait of Oksy, beaming: school uniform and all. Someone’s ripped this off Facebook. ‘GIRL KIDNAPPED!’ the caption says. Over the page is a shot of Red talking to a police officer in their front yard. Below that is a photograph of a demure Father Adams and the tag, ‘PRIEST IN COMA!’

She stuffs the paper under her arm. Why is she even reading it? She lets it fall like something dead. It lands on the step near her foot, a line in bold catching her eye: Mia Jackson and Tate Wolsey p. 5. She picks it up and throws it into a garden bed. The media think she’s a liar, the kidnappers think she’s a liar and the police know she is. Of course she is. What do they expect? She’ll be a killer before this day is over.

Patting the pocket of her robe, she glances across at Nick who leans against his car, smoking. She rolls her eyes, laughing at her reversion to an old cigarette ritual, which she hasn’t done for years. But she’s come prepared. Next to her on the step is a foil strip of Panadeine Forte and a shot of vodka. Picking up the glass, she washes down two tablets, closes her eyes and breathes deep. Tears come, slow at first, filling her lids and rolling down her cheeks.

Her mind flits back to her ‘Eureka’ moment of three hours ago.

Police sirens had wailed outside the chapel whilst—in a darkened little room—she had unlocked the safe with Adam’s remote key, pulled her knickers down and stuffed the Wand into a space normally reserved for tampons. Exiting through a back door, she ran downhill in the dark, caught a taxi and sat in the back seat, messaging the kidnappers while the cabbie drove all over town. There were no replies. The shouting silence told her what she didn’t want to hear: Cops involved equals deal over. No cops, no media, they had said. The only solution for now was to hide the Wand a long way from home. North Head, a headland overlooking Sydney harbour, was the best place she knew, and along with the Styx Gorge in the Kimberley, her favourite place in the world. The cabby didn’t mind—it was all dollars, as far as he was concerned.

A flutter of black and white feathers snaps her back into the present. A magpie is on the path in front of her and another just behind it, both birds looking expectant and impatient.

‘Sorry maggies,’ she says, leaning down and breathing in the fragrant aroma of her Mister Lincoln. ‘It’s just me today. No Oksana and no mincemeat.’

A car drives past, blowing dead leaves up against her fence. The magpies fly away and she walks back into a lounge room of empty coffee cups, empty wine bottles and a favourite old Geoffrey Chaucer book that’s had coffee spilled on it: all thanks to a crowd from Green Avenue, which descended as soon as the crime scene was cleared, along with neighbours and friends.

She finds more vodka, pours herself another and opens her robe, letting her body enjoy the cool of a ceiling fan. Only a month ago Oksy had balloons hanging from that fan at her birthday party. A birthday portrait of Oksy on the mantelshelf feels like something from another life.

Her phone vibrates and she pulls it out of her pocket, heart thumping. There’s a text from Suzy.

U okay Mia? Sorry about the mess the girls made. Love u lots. Be over at 9 pm if that’s ok.

Mia loses it, tears flowing. She texts a reply.

9 is good. Thanks for the sound of your voice last night

She blows a kiss to the phone.

‘Now for another gulp of Russia,’ she says, taking a long drink. ‘And one more try to them, which has to be Tate. So stupid, all stupid.’

Typing in another—Please talk to me, I have the Wand—message to the kidnappers, she touches send and watches to make sure the message goes. Before she can put the phone away, it’s flooded with new messages from her mum and three others.

Mum: We get in at 2.15 tomorrow xox

Jackie: How ru you Mia?

Bishop Steven: Remembering you in our prayers

Madeleine: Can I come over to cu?

‘To see me?’ she says to herself. ‘Oksy is the only person I want to see.’

She walks into the bathroom and sheds her robe. Catching her haggard face in the mirror, she stops and stares. That is a civilised loser face.

What’s the responsible Mia going to do now? She’s going to sit around here all day like a good girl and wait for the police to handle it, is she? She knows what Red would say. What Red would do. What he is doing.

Striding back into the kitchen, she picks up an empty wine bottle, smashes it on the sink and shouts a prayer: ‘For fuck’s sake! If you don’t do something soon, I’m going to!’ The trouble is, she doesn’t have a weapon. She would have to ask Nick to come and help with whatever it is she’s going to do.

A stinging pain shoots along her thumb, which drips blood. The blood can wait. Pouring herself another glass of vodka, with the thumb still bleeding, she walks to the spa, puts the glass on a shelf and slides in, her head swimming with alcohol.

‘Time for some Michelle,’ she says, touching a hands-free remote.

Her flat-screen awakens to a scene of children crowding around a chubby Santa in a shopping mall. Next is a black and white montage of Claudia and Spiers in Claudia’s Barbie days, then Claudia and Tate—a voice-over by Michelle talking of a city mourning Claudia’s generous spirit and her patronage of the arts.

The montage fades and Michelle’s at her desk looking like she’s just come from a beauty salon, her crisp voice announcing that the owner of a yellow Commodore has been found dead in the boot of his car. The screen fills with a picture of the Commodore with its nose in a ditch and the boot up. The police say there were no fingerprints. The killer seems to have taken the man’s mobile phone. Mia’s heart races; this would have to be Red. What if he does find Oksy? Would the police help? Not if they’re working for Tate.

‘My man needs some luck, God,’ she says, raising her glass.

The next item is about a gun battle in Sydney’s west—which happened just an hour ago—between KV Corp and a bikie gang. The body count is six. A KV spokesman in a suit and tie claims that the gang were on their way to an execution. A young mother says she saw a bikie’s head get ‘blown off’ even before KV arrived. Michelle asks the obvious question: So, if the bikie was killed before KV arrived, who was the third party? Red is the obvious third party as far as Mia’s concerned.

Michelle chats with Spiers and a crew-cut police officer about allegations of Dog’s involvement in the killings. The conversation goes nowhere. Spiers looks shattered. The screen cuts to an ad break.

‘Come on Michelle!’ Mia yells, splashing water at the screen. ‘Put it out there. Burn the house down! Don’t just talk shit!’

The ads finish and Michelle introduces Paddy, who sits in her studio dressed in khakis and holding a book. ‘Abbot Williams,’ she begins. ‘In this diary of your wife’s, you found a reference to Kerrod Spiers. Could you read it to us?’

The screen fills with Paddy’s tired old face.

‘This is from Janie’s fourteenth diary,’ Paddy says, opening the book.

While he speaks, Mia’s phone vibrates with a message from Nick.

Cops here to c u

They’ll have to wait, Mia texts back.

‘Claudia’s scared,’ Paddy reads. ‘She’s sending Kerrod to a psychologist. But Kerrod thinks he’s just imagining it. He can’t believe that his dad would have molested him. He says his dad will kill him if he knows he’s talking to me.’

Paddy closes the book and puts it down. Michelle explains that the entry is dated two weeks before Janie’s murder and Kerrod’s suicide. Mia blows a kiss at the screen. Michelle is actually going out on a limb: putting her job on the line. Michelle concludes with footage of an old man claiming to have seen a child porn video—with Tate and Adams in it—playing on the chapel wall last night.

‘Tate’s a pedo,’ the man says. ‘Him and that fucking priest. Like they said in the papers, whoever castrated the bastard did everyone a favour. Good job, I reckon.’

‘I take it all back poster girl! You’re the real deal,’ Mia says, dragging herself out of the water. ‘And now it’s time to be polite.’

Towelling herself down, she pulls on her knickers and jeans, a sunflower T-shirt and socks. She tries to pray but nothing comes. Janie’s bracelet on the vanity catches her eye. There has to be some kind of prayer in it for a day like this.

She picks it up, looking at the stones, each of which Janie had named after characters and symbols in the novel Lilith. The one she holds has a large dab of green, symbolising Lona, an innocent child princess. Mia remembers Oksy. The next one is mostly black and symbolises Bulika, the city of darkness. Whatever! She skips that one. Lilith is next in line, with plenty of black mixed with red, blue and yellow. This is the Queen of Hell, the title Tate gave to Mia before he assaulted her two weeks ago. Still lost for words, she remembers a prayer that Sister Anastasia taught Oksy, and repeats it: O love that will not let me go, breathe upon the embers of my soul. Mara is next, with liquid splashes of blue and green, symbolising a mysterious healer. This is Janie. Thank God for Janie! Flame is the last one, with lots of red and yellow, representing a fiery sword of freedom.

‘For God’s sake, God!’ she says, holding up the bracelet. ‘Where’s this sword?’

Nick calls out, saying that the cops are getting impatient. She slides the bracelet on her wrist and sits on the floor, pulling on her cherry Doc Martens. Cops out there might mean anything. Maybe they’ve come to arrest her? Why can’t they be doing something useful like Michelle just did?

She takes a firm hold on one corner of her vanity, stands up and walks resolutely down the hall, giving herself a pep talk on the way. ‘Come on now, vodka body, here we go: door, kitchen bench as a steadier. Now a splash of cold water on the face, sunnies, and now the door and out into the sun—and here’s our visitor.’

On the porch is a little man in a suit and hat. Mia recognises the police inspector who had left his card with her last night. Nick lurks in the background, a curling drift of cigarette smoke announcing that he’s the man riding shotgun. Back at the curb is a white Commodore fitted out with tall aerial and darkened windows—the motor idling and air-conditioner roaring.

‘Sorry about all this, Mrs Jackson,’ the cop says, showing his badge and looking out into the street as if he’s talking to someone else. ‘I’m Police Inspector Johnstone.’

‘Nice to meet you, again, I think,’ Mia says.

‘You okay, Mrs Jackson?’ he asks, his face beading with sweat, sleep in his eyes.

‘Good thanks.’

‘Your guards were courageous yesterday,’ he says and keeps talking.

His spiel runs everywhere except to the matter at hand, as if he’s waiting for Mia to make the first move. Does he think she’s an imbecile? Minimal is what he’ll be getting from her. She’ll have to let him talk himself to a standstill.

‘Could we talk in the car?’ he asks, turning.

‘Okay.’

She follows him to the car, climbs into the back seat and sits in a claustrophobic hush of cabin quietness. The silence is broken by the crackle of a radio in the front. A cop in the driver’s seat answers the call. Johnston opens the other rear door and gets in with Mia, chatting all the while. Mia turns her head to the window, bracing for an onslaught of rude cop.

‘Our leads are getting warmer, Mrs Jackson,’ he says. ‘That video we confiscated at the chapel has opened a Pandora’s box of fresh leads, all the way back to the murder of Janie Williams and the suicide of Kerrod Spiers. We believe you have more to tell us.’

‘More?’

‘Yes. We’ve been informed that it was Claudia who gave you this memory device, this so-called “Magic Wand” the kidnappers want.’

‘That’s a lie,’ Mia says, fixing her gaze on the frangipani.

‘I’ll level with you, Mrs Jackson. There’s a rumour that you and Tate are having an affair. I don’t believe it, but the less you cooperate with us the worse it looks for you.’

Mia puts a hand on the door handle. She doesn’t have to put up with this.

‘Mrs Jackson, they sent me because I’ve been pushing for a soft line.’

‘Towards me?’

‘Yes. I’m actually a believer in your cause. My wife volunteers at Green Avenue.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Please, Mrs Jackson. I’m giving you the courtesy of an off-the-record conversation. Without this, you’re laying yourself open to a charge of obstruction.’

‘I’m about to be arrested?'

‘Let’s not go there. Do you want to find your daughter or not?’

Mia turns to her questioner: sincerity written all over his face. Doesn’t he understand? She’s been there and done that eighteen years ago. Broken promises are what the system is all about. Dog gets to live like a king in jail and now he gets unleashed—early.

‘I don’t trust you guys any more,’ she says.

‘Is this about Dog’s release?’

‘It’s everything. His time in jail was a joke, and he was supposed to be in for another year.’

‘That wasn’t us, that was Long Bay.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what about Mr Spiers, your child-molesting police minister?’

‘That’s an allegation.’

‘Whatever. There’s something rotten, and I can smell it.’

Johnstone asks the driver to step out of the car. The driver gets out and Johnstone speaks to Mia in a cold and angry tone. He begs her to trust him. She says she can’t. He tells her that an investigation is being done on Spiers; that she, Adams and Tate are persons of interest and all three are going to be subpoenaed to attend court where they will be questioned under oath: Adams and Tate for refusing to answer questions about the identity of the ring-wearer and Mia for refusing to talk, period. He adds that Spiers’ hand shape fits the one with the diamond ring.

‘But we need more information,’ he says, ‘Enough to stop Spiers taking his overseas holiday.’

‘Overseas? Now?’

‘Correct. Right in the middle of an election and an investigation—not a good look.’

‘So, he won’t be around?’

‘He might be. It all depends on people like you, Mrs Jackson. We need enough evidence to at least stop him leaving the country.’

‘What about a Gemprint on the diamond?’ she asks.

‘The lab is analysing the video. Not much hope there.’

‘Not much hope,’ Mia says, closing her eyes and opening them. ‘That sums up my life.’

Johnstone stares at her as if lost for words. Mia braces herself for a sermon about law or jail. She doesn’t care: law can go to hell.

Johnstone takes out his phone and sends a message. It seems that the interview has finished. It better be. She thanks him and goes to leave. Johnstone stops her, saying he has one last thing to say.

‘Your story isn’t adding up,’ he says, hesitating. ‘Last night the kidnappers sent you a message asking for this memory device, this Wand. You told us you’d lost it, that it had fallen off the bridge during the assault. Early this morning our search team found one that fitted your description, but it was squashed on the train line, useless. It seemed you were telling us the whole truth. But we’ve been monitoring all messages to the kidnappers; we even located the remains of their phone just now, in a rubbish bin. According to our intelligence, you’ve sent dozens of messages to the kidnappers, saying that you have it.’

Mia looks at the floor and asks if he has anything else to tell her. In the madness of it all, she hadn’t even thought about the fact that the police would be monitoring all her calls. Johnstone tells her that when he returns, he’ll be bringing a search warrant. She tells him she’ll think about it.

‘One more thing,’ he whispers, his face about as close as he can get. ‘Tell your husband that a vigilante will be treated the same as any other criminal.’

Johnstone keeps talking, but all Mia sees is a yard full of mangled zinnias and a strip of blue and white tape dangling from Frank, her frangipani. Her nausea starts to come on strong. Mute, and pointing at her mouth, she gets out of the car and jogs through her front door to the toilet, where she heaves a bellyful of nothing.

Back in her bedroom, she strips off and throws her clothes in a pile on the floor. At the top of the pile is a red bloodstain on her knickers. Maybe this will be it without any surgeon. Clinic tomorrow anyway, just in case.

She sticks a fresh pad on, swallows more Panadeine, fluffs her pillow and curls up on her bed with just a sheet over her. The nausea fades and she drifts all the way down into sleeping and forgetting.

Mia wakes to a loud knocking on her bedroom door. The green LED on her clock says 5.07 pm. Nick calls out that Paddy and Michelle are here to see her. Putting her clothes back on, she wanders out with a headache, makes them coffee and listens while Michelle tells all the news.

Paddy asks how she is. What if he stayed over here for the night? She tells him she’d rather just be on her own for now. Paddy tells her that he and Michelle feel that the trial by media has made good progress, so perhaps it’s time to give everything to the police from here on, including the Wand. She agrees, sort of. Michelle says that she’s planning to go to the police about it later tonight.

They leave and she crashes back into bed—clothes and all—reawakening to the sound of pouring rain and more knocking on her door from Nick. Outside, a big motor throbs as if someone has pulled up in a truck in front of her house. Headlights illuminate her curtains. The clock says 9.23 pm.

‘We have visitors, Mrs Jackson,’ Nick announces from the other side of the bedroom door, sliding a pink envelope under it. ‘A guy calling himself “Slav” is here in a Hummer, a KV Corp one. He asked me to give you this.’

‘Okay, okay!’ she yells, jumping out of bed, flicking the light on and grabbing the envelope.

Tearing it open, she finds a note in Tate’s hand, offering his sympathy and real help. The word ‘real’ is underlined, but there’s no mention of Oksy.

‘Old bastard!’ she says. ‘He wants a game. Let’s play!’

She looks at the note again, just to make sure it really is Tate’s handwriting. It is: those un-dotted i’s and badly scrawled s’s are unmistakeable.

‘Please, God,’ she says. ‘No helpful cops, no helpers, please! We can do this: you and me. We have a Tate fish on a line: kidnaps Oksy with one hand, rescues her with the other, gets his Magic Wand and makes out he’s a hero. Too bad, let him be the hero.’

Leaving her yellow phone on the dresser, she puts the black one in her pocket, bursts through the door and bumps into Nick. He walks with her along the corridor, talking non-stop and warning her to be careful. Just before they reach the door she stops at Michelangelo’s picture of Jesus and genuflects.

Nick opens the door. Mia stands looking at the Hummer’s headlights. Rain showers down, silvery rivulets running off Frank’s leaves.

‘Is this a joke?’ she yells, holding up the note and looking towards the lights.

The motor stops, the lights go out and the street is back to a quiet patter of rain. Slav climbs out the passenger side and walks towards her, tired and robotic looking in leather jacket and old jeans. He stands at the gate, water streaming down his face, and looks down the street as if he’s about to change his mind. The goatee is serious as ever, but the rest of him is a picture of depressed dishevelment.

Opening the gate, he walks to the door and asks if he can talk to her alone—a blankness in his eyes as if nobody’s at home. She invites him in, explaining that Nick is going to have to be in on this conversation. Slav nods agreement.

Nick pulls the door shut and the three of them stand in a huddle, water running off Slav onto Mia’s carpet while she reads aloud a mocking rendition of Tate’s letter. Slav shrugs and tells her he’s never seen the boss in such a mess.

‘Where is she?’ Mia asks.

‘We hunted ’em down and got her out okay, which is why they ain’t talkin’ to you no more. You might have heard about KV and the so-called “bikies”. Well, they’re all dead, except for Dog. Spiers signed Dog up for this. Just when we thought we had him, Spier’s boys rescued him.’

Mia waits to see if he has more to say. There’s nothing more: no boasting, no bravado. His talk of ‘KV’ and ‘bikies’ matches Michelle’s news report—but with a twist: the so-called KV/bikie gun battle was actually Tate versus Dog. Maybe he is actually telling the truth. Even if he is, Mia wants only one thing.

‘Where is she?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Slav says, looking over his shoulder. ‘Spiers hacked Tate’s site on the deep web and stayed below the radar until the last minute, waiting until he thought he had the memory backups, which was yesterday after they got the priest’s fake Wands. Spiers thought he had the real Wand, even called up Tate just to shit him. But he fell for my little trap, didn’t he—tried to neutralise the logic bomb I created to protect the files. But the code that neutralises the bomb also deletes all the files. Gone! Whatever was on the deep web is now wiped.’

‘What about the Wands Claudia got?’ Mia asks.

‘The one that went under the train is stuffed; the other one was a dud, which means you’re it. Tate is shitting himself—your Wand from that chapel is the last one.’

‘Where’s Oksy?’

‘The boss tells me he has her in a safe place.’

‘Alive?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘Why isn’t she sitting in that Hummer?’

‘You won’t be seeing her until Tate has your Wand: if you really do have it. You gotta understand, he’s screwed and he knows it, but he has to take Spiers down with him.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Look! I don’t know, okay? The boss is paranoid that you’re bullshitting.’

Mia looks at Nick, who’s shaking his head.

‘Call the cops,’ Nick says.

‘Hey! I’m on your side!’ Slav yells. ‘I sold him out to you, okay? Risked my life. You think I’d be talkin’ shit? Can’t you see? You do what he says,’ Slav points at Nick, ‘and you’ll never see her again.’

Mia looks at her phone—still nothing from Red, nothing from Michelle. She could wait. Doors are closing. Why would Slav be lying? He has no reason. He’s no better off than her.

‘You got no choice,’ Slav continues, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Tate’s waiting for us back at headquarters. He’s got no deep web, no Wands—he’s got nothin’. Tate’s at war. You get him the Wand, you’ll get your girl and Tate will kill Dog and Spiers. You don’t, you’ll never see your daughter again.’

‘Alright,’ Mia says.

A pained expression comes over Slav’s face. ‘The boss asked me to give you this too,’ he says, taking a red plastic wallet out.

She opens it. Inside are plane tickets and passports with forged US visas for her and Oksy. Mrs Mia Smith and her daughter Oksy, booked on a flight to Los Angeles at 7 am in the morning.

‘What the hell is this?’ Mia says.

‘This ain’t my idea,’ he says, staring at the floor. ‘Tate says that you’ll need somewhere to hide while he deals with Dog and Spiers.’

‘And what about Tate? He’ll be meeting us there, will he?’

‘Forget about him, Mia. He just wants to fuck up Spiers and kill himself—a good plan, as far as I can see.’

‘And after that,’ she says, handing the wallet back to him. ‘We’re all supposed to live happily ever after, are we?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Call him!’ she says. ‘Call up this rapist human trafficker.’

Slav makes a call and hands the phone to her.

‘What’s going on?’ Tate’s voice growls.

‘It’s Mia. On Slav’s phone.’

‘Mia! Our Lady of Song.’

‘Stop it, Tate!’ she hisses, deliberately using his name but feeling sick as the word comes out.

‘Stop what?’

‘This stupid game, this pantomime.’

‘Calm down, sweetie.’

‘Can’t you please just give her back?’

‘You’ve been a silly girl Mia. And so has that psycho man of yours.’

‘What?’

‘Red. He’s causing shit around town. You need to tell him to pull his head in or there won’t be any daughter coming home.’

‘I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing.’

‘Bullshit. Instead of playing Russian roulette, you should’ve just called me.’

‘Where is Oksy? What have you done with her?’

‘If you want her, give the Wand to Slav now or forget it.’

‘I don’t have it here.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not here, I buried it—’

‘Stop!’ he yells. ‘Don’t say anything on this phone. Can you take us there now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Give the phone back to Slav and we’ll sort out the rest.’

She hands the phone back. Slav has a hurried conversation and ends the call. He asks her where it is. She explains that it’s buried on the other side of the harbour. He shakes his head, saying that she will have to come and show them. She agrees, despite Nick’s strong disagreement.

Slav puts a radio to his mouth and says, ‘Bring the gorilla gear and another set for the lady.’

‘I’m washing my hands of this,’ Nick says, walking outside.

A gum-chewing driver walks to the door with an armful of camouflage fatigues and boots. While Nick smokes and watches from the footpath, Slav puts on one of the uniforms. The driver helps Mia put on a Kevlar vest and fatigues over her jeans and shirt. The beanie she is given fits well enough, but the boots are far too big. Exasperated, she walks outside in her docs.

Maybe this is the worst mistake she’s ever made. Oksy might already be dead, and if so, she might be the mother being lured into the same fate. That’s too bad. She has to do something.

At the gate she gives Nick a hug, walks to the Hummer and climbs onto the back seat while Slav gets in the front. A black metal panel between the front and back seats forms a half-wall between her and the men. The panel has a slot running along the top edge. Mia feels like she’s in some kind of ready-made cage. She wants to get out and run.

The driver turns over an engine that thuds rather than purrs. The cabin shudders. Faces light up with a green glow from the instrument panel. The driver pulls his beanie off and plugs himself into an iPod. He’s just a boy.

‘Hold up,’ Slav says, turning to Mia. ‘Your phone please, Mrs Jackson.’

Mia feigns surprise. She knew this would happen. Red always talks about the fact that phones are automatic tracking devices: anyone with the ‘real gear’ will find you in no time.

They move a few metres forward to her house and she passes the phone out to Nick. In the process, she notices her bracelet. She hands it to Nick, asking him to put it back on her vanity. The Hummer drives away and Nick waves, the glowing red dot of his cigarette flaring as he puts it to his mouth.

They stop at lights. Slav brings up a screen on the instrument panel and asks Mia if she can give them some idea of where the device might be. The map is hopeless. North Head shows up as nothing more than a patch of green pixilation.

The Hummer grinds out into an intersection and turns right into a central lane. A woman’s voice crackles over the two-way, asking questions and issuing orders about something called ‘China’.

‘I gather “China” is us,’ Mia says.

‘That’s the one,’ Slav says.

The driver, lost in iPod and gum-chewing oblivion, weaves them in and out of one slippery traffic snarl after another. They come to a belt of freeway concrete. Signs say ‘Harbour Tunnel’. And still no mention of Tate.

Mia tells herself that he might not even be coming. She wishes! Background is not his style. He loves to gloat and won’t be able to resist. At some point he’ll show up from the wings and get face-to-face time with her: the drunken cowboy rescuing Mia’s little princess.

Streetlights vanish and they’re speeding along a tunnel, rows of ethereal lights gliding past. A black limousine overtakes. She wonders if it’s him. While she looks, a fast-moving set of headlights passes them on the other side—another black Hummer, the driver giving a thumbs-up as he goes past. Lights flash from behind them. A third Hummer is only a car length away.

‘Convoy,’ the boy says, grinning.

‘Hooked up,’ Slav says into the radio. ‘See you in five.’

Traffic thins and the driver merges the Hummer into a left lane between the other two Hummers. Radio chatter dies down. Mia checks the laces of her Docs. Both are a little loose. She unties and reties them, tight. Outside, rain splashes on cockroach-like vehicles, all seeming to have one thing on their mind.

The Hummer in front indicates left. They exit downhill to a foreshore compound below the Harbour Bridge. Spotlights blaze behind razor wire. Men walk around in SWAT suits: grins, haircuts and shiny weapons reminding Mia of boys before a game.

Tate is still nowhere to be seen. Mia whispers an amen! Hopefully, something has scared the swagger out of the cowboy. They drive through a gate and the amen evaporates. He’s there in the thick of it: squeezed into camouflage gear, looking old and pear-shaped. He waves at her.

A guard walks up to Tate and kits him out with night goggles, a rifle and a balaclava. The balaclava has to be stretched over that big nose, which, along with the bloated body, gives the effect of a badly stuffed parrot.

‘Here we are God,’ Mia whispers. ‘I ask for grace—actually, maybe not grace. All I really want is the kind of help anyone would give, damn it. You’re a friend of Bushka. Do I really have to badger you into action over a kidnapped daughter? Amen! That’s my prayer, and if it’s offensive, then I want nothing to do with you.’

Slav calls the guards together. Instructions are given, weapons are checked and the men walk to vehicles. The young driver returns to Mia’s Hummer, unplugged from his iPod and droid-like. Resting an automatic rifle on a gun rack fixed to the dash, he starts the engine. Slav gets in the front passenger seat and turns around to Mia.

‘The boss will be riding with us,’ Slav says. ‘But don’t panic, okay?’

Mia holds his gaze for a moment, taken aback by what can only be fury in his dark eyes. He never did like having Tate up close and personal like this. The boss likes to play cowboy, Slav would always say. But he’s a piece of shit. He needs to stick to his boat and his office.

‘I can’t promise anything,’ she says.

Slav shrugs. Mia’s skin crawls. She moves closer to her door and prays that whatever happens next will bring her to those flowing red curls, that, as the Christmas Prayer says, whatever meets me this day or this night will serve—even against its own will—the grace of this great One.

Out there in the yard, Tate walks towards her Hummer and opens the rear passenger door. Stepping up into the seat, he smiles at her and plonks what appears to be a laptop bag on the floor.

‘You’ll be needing these, Mia,’ Tate says, offering her goggles and a balaclava.

‘No thanks,’ she says, turning to her window.

A thick pane of glass rises up out of the metal panel between the front and back seats and dovetails into a slot in the ceiling. There’s a loud click, as if an override switch has just locked all the doors. It is a ready-made cell after all. Tate reassures Mia that this is ‘just a privacy thing’. She keeps her eyes on the outside world and prays. Surely he wouldn’t try anything on her now.

The convoy drives back up to the freeway and stops at traffic lights that are chock-a-block with police and emergency vehicles: a black-on-yellow sign bars the way across the intersection. A car with a smashed windscreen is on its side and another has a crumpled rear end. To their left, a narrow trickle of vehicles moves along a detour lane. Two intersections away is a large white-on-brown sign saying ‘North Head’. Rain pours in buckets.

Sirens wail. The Hummers turn on purple and green flashing lights. The lead Hummer drives over the top of the black and yellow barrier and the others follow: Police watch in obvious irritation as the convoy makes its way around the accident, mounts a median strip and cuts diagonally towards that white-on-brown sign. A driver gives the finger to the Hummers.

In the midst of the chaos, a trail-bike rider threads his way out of the clogged bridge traffic, climbs the bike over a great hump of concrete and merges with the convoy just ahead of Mia’s Hummer.

Mia breathes slow and deep. The rider is in a full-face helmet but the boots are the same blue as the ones she saw in Red’s bag. Tate doesn’t seem to have noticed. Instead, he looks deep in thought, the colours of the night reflecting and refracting in beads of sweat on his face.

With a burst of speed, the rider overtakes the lead Hummer and follows the North Head turnoff, leaving the convoy behind. Surely, if it was Red, he would have waited to follow them.

The sirens and lights stop. They’re passing by shops swarming with umbrella-carrying shoppers. An Asian grandmother stands proudly under an awning, holding the hand of a little boy, a circle of giggling girls stand in sopping jeans and singlets, an African busker plays a djembe drum and a blonde surfer at a bus station chats with his blonder girl.

Tate is unusually silent, his predatory interest in everything seemingly in sleep mode. She reminds herself that this is another of his devices: ‘have some pity on the old man’. She shoots first.

‘What happens next?’ she asks.

‘I get my Wand back and you get Oksana,’ he says.

‘After that?’

‘I hand Spiers the Christmas present of a lifetime.’

‘Nice.’

‘And if I was you, I’d be taking that flight to the US. Word is that Spiers cut a multimillion-dollar deal with Dog and you’re the reward: “Get Claudia, Tate and the Wand, and Mia is yours.” Dog will be untouchable.’

Something locks up inside Mia. It might be true about Dog’s deal with Spiers, but the problem is that Tate’s truth is always whatever makes Tate look good.

‘Look, Mia, I know I fucked up on the boat, but I’ve—’

‘Fucked up? You call that “fucked up?”’

‘Yes! But let’s not quibble: let’s get your shit sorted.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And by the way, I don’t know how the hell they found that old video, but I’m not a fucking pedo. I was stoned off my head and next thing Adams is dragging Kerrod in there. Twenty-five years ago, for Christ’s sake.’

Tate glares at her. She turns and watches trees swaying in the wind. This man just doesn’t get it, simply can’t see that every word that comes out of his mouth betrays him.

‘You’re damn lucky Dog’s goons didn’t get to you today.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s true. Once we got Oksana off them, they were on their way to you. But we nailed the fuckers. Slav was nearly killed. We told the media it was just a bikie gang. Bikie gang my arse!’

She stares out at the night, sensing bait laid out, an old fox watching. She mustn’t let even a flicker of an eyelid suggest anything about anyone, especially Slav.

‘And don’t you fuck with me,’ he says.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My Wand: any shit from your commando and your girl’s a goner.’

Mia glares at him and shoots up a prayer. Please God, let Red splatter this creature and do it tonight!

‘The only thing that can ruin this now is you,’ he says, ‘and ... the middleman.’

‘Middleman?’

‘Yeah. She’s placed with a middleman. It’s safer that way.’

‘Safer?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Mia! Let me put this in black and white!’ He goes to touch her shoulder. She recoils. ‘We’ve lost two of our men just getting this far. We’re talking a federal MP who stands to lose his seat and maybe government. This middleman has dozens of facilities.’

‘Facilities?’ Mia shouts, raising a hand and pointing a finger at him. ‘You fucking monster! You’ve put her with a human trafficker!’

‘A people smuggler.’

‘Who sells slaves!’

‘She’ll be well looked after.’

Mia turns her back on him and presses her forehead against the window. The dark logic of it dawns on her. Yes, Tate wants an Oksana who’s alive; it gives him bargaining power. He could have kept her in one of KV’s detention centres. But no! Rather than risk having KV guards knowing about it, he’s chosen to risk losing Oksana in the sewer of Australian sex slavery.

The Hummer crashes and bounces along a stretch of pot-holed bitumen with muddy streams running across it. The sharp green hands of a clock on the instrument panel say 11.46 pm. Thick scrub presses in on both sides. A white-on-brown sign says ‘North Head 5 km’. The road turns into unsealed mud. A red-on-white ‘Park Closed’ sign lies on the ground.

The Hummers queue up at the park entrance where a locked gate bars the way. Next to the gate is a black-on-white sign with the words ‘$5000 MAXIMUM PENALTY FOR LITTERING’. It was here that Mia’s taxi had stopped and waited last night.

Rain buckets down, forks of lightning freeze-framing trees. A helmeted KV guard cuts the lock and swings the gate open. The convoy drives through to a car park, beyond which is a bitumen path leading to a mass of swaying scrub.

The glass screen slides back down. Slav tells Tate the team is ready to go. Lights are turned off and Mia jumps out into freezing, horizontal rain. Thunderbolts stab drunkenly. For a moment she’s unable to see.

Ahead of her, Tate’s guards walk towards a black mound of trees, hoods pulled down over their heads, weapons gleaming: a picture of reptilian intent. Slav calls a halt and waves for her to join him at the front of the squad. She jogs over to him and they head off into a howling wind.

Her bush navigation logic kicks in and she finds her first marker: a white scar on a tree to her right. Climbing over a railing, she pushes through tugging banksias, looking for her next signpost: a burnt stump. On the way she falls into a waist-deep sinkhole of grass and vines, a guard almost landing on top of her.

Soaked to the skin and shivering, she climbs back up the other side, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The guards puff and pant all around her, weapons glinting. The stump is nowhere to be seen. The storm settles a little.

She can see even better now. The black sky has a grey patch of moon. A low tree line on the horizon flags that her beloved cliff must be close. She sees the stump. Walking straight past it, she reaches a patch of head-high eucalypts, pushes through and comes to a bare strip of sandstone. The surround-sound boom of a heavy sea floats up.

‘Hello,’ she whispers.

The rain recedes, walkie-talkies crackle and weaponry clunks. An uncertain moon shows through a swirling mass of cloud. Mia looks around for her last, impossible-to-miss marker, a cool-room-sized bunker from World War II. Slav and Tate come alongside her; Tate’s goggles and balaclava are off—his head shining.

Beelining back through the undergrowth, Mia finds the hulk of concrete. A dead tree, which should have been standing next to the bunker, has fallen over in the storm. At the base of the tree, a plate-sized rock covers her hiding place.

Tipping the rock over, she plunges her hands into a pool of mud, yanks a glass bottle out and hands it to Tate. He wipes it with his sleeve and lifts it up to the moonlight. The Wand sits at the bottom—dark and shiny.

Taking a spoon-shaped object from his pocket, Tate holds it against the bottle. There’s a loud beep and a small rectangle of bright blue appears. Tate checks the numbers, gives a loud whoop and kisses Mia on the forehead.

‘Come on, Mia!’ Tate says, opening the bottle, taking out the Wand and fixing it to a lanyard. ‘Isn’t this good?’

‘Yes Tate,’ she says.

‘And now for your daughter.’

He puts the lanyard around his neck and takes her hand. She waits a moment and then pulls it away. Without another word, he strides off towards the car park, a walk made much easier now that the moon is out.

‘Wait!’ a radio voice crackles out the command.

Slav holds up a hand. Tate stops. Some of the guards run ahead, some stand and look through scopes, while others form a protective semicircle. Slav directs a guard to take Mia to the rear. She follows the guard to the back of the group and waits.

‘We have visitors,’ a radio voice says.

‘Who exactly?’ Slav asks.

‘Heat signatures on the satellite,’ the voice says. ‘Six, at the exit road.’

Six doesn’t sound like Red. Dog and his men must have arrived. Mia looks at the scrub, wondering if she could somehow fade into the darkness and hide. But what about Oksy? She doesn’t matter to Tate anymore.

God, if Red is out there, make him useful.

Dark clouds roll across the sky, blotting out the moon. Slav orders the guards into defensive positions. Stumbling and cursing the dark, they move forward to the Hummers, which are positioned sideways, barricading the road. Doors open, motors growl.

Tate, Slav and two others huddle around a screen inside one of the Hummers. Mia hovers close to them, trying to hear what they’re talking about. The talk is of forcing a detour through the scrub. Tate explains that he has a little job to do on the internet first.

Opening the rear door of Slav’s Hummer and unzipping a laptop bag, Tate invites Mia to watch what he’s about to do. She walks over and stands next to him.

‘Here we go,’ he says, straightening up and taking the lanyard off. ‘Bye bye, Mr Spiers.’

Pop! Tate’s head explodes like a melon, his body jerking up into the air and falling on top of Mia, knocking her to the ground. Hot blood spurts all over her. Jets of orange spit out of a gun barrel above her, making a noise like a jackhammer. Mia covers her ears. The shooting stops: there’s a steady tap! tap! tap! of returning fire. The Hummer sways as if being pelted by heavy rocks. A guard screams and falls to the ground.

‘Fuck this!’ someone yells. ‘The boss is dead, anyway.’

Slav shouts orders. A chemical smell of gunpowder floats in the air. Mia pushes Tate’s body off: her fingers digging into a slippery cavity of skull and hair. The shooting stops, she feels around for the Wand.

‘Where’s the Wand?’ she yells at gun-holding, watching and waiting guards.

Someone tells her to shut the fuck up. Others start talking. A burst of gunfire drowns the voices out. Bullets ricochet and whine.

Mia runs her hands over Tate’s gore-covered body. The arm of the hand that held the Wand is missing. She pads her hands all over the gravel and dirt, looking for that arm.

The gunfire stops: a man is screaming. Mia’s ears ring. Up in the sky a clump of cloud slides across the moon, casting an inky shadow. The click and clunk of weapons warns of more to come.

‘Time to split, boys,’ a guard says.

Mia finds something twitching like a giant grub. It’s the arm. She runs her fingers all the way to the end of it and finds a closed fist. Prising the hand open, she grasps the Wand, hangs it around her neck and crawls back to the Hummer.

Slav kneels down next to Mia and whispers that the guards are about to abandon ship. He wants her to come with him. A second guard talks with Slav. It’s the boy.

There’s more automatic gunfire. Mia freezes. Slav grabs her by the collar, drags her along the ground and dumps her through the shattered rear window of a Hummer, glass gouging her forehead on the way. She loses it and starts screaming. Slav tells her to shut up.

A door closes; the motor roars to life and they speed away, careening downhill in a jerking stop-and-go motion. Bullets sing past. The truck sways to a staccato rhythm of punching bullets. Hot metal pelts her face. Glass shatters and falls all over her.

The Hummer swerves; Mia’s thrown, her head hitting the ceiling. Her neck hurts. She bites the side of her mouth. The truck smashes into something and jack-knifes, hurling Mia against a panel.

They’re at a standstill, the engine racing; a stink of burning rubber fills the air. Mia’s flat on her back on the floor of the luggage compartment, staring through smashed glass at the sky. A patch of cloud passes the moon. The vehicle seems to be facing back the way they came, front end tilted up as if they’re stuck on top of something. She should get out and run. Smoke swirls.

The engine dies down to idle. The smoke gets worse. Mia pulls herself up. Slav doesn’t seem to be anywhere. The head of the boy in the driver’s seat sways as if he’s drunk.

‘Get the fuck out of there,’ Slav says from somewhere outside.

There’s a hail of bullets, the windscreen explodes and the boy arcs over into the back seat, screaming. Mia dives out the rear window and falls to the ground, crawling towards a thicket of trees. Bullets whiz past, ripping chunks off trees.

Slav scoops Mia up and runs to where a massive tree has fallen over, its stump leaving a gaping hole. Pushing Mia down into the hole, he positions himself next to her and points what looks like a fat rocket-launcher, up the hill.

A spotlight plays on the Hummer, which is still idling. A truck approaches. Men talk. Boots crunch on rocks. Little spurts of flame erupt from gun barrels. Bullets smack into the Hummer.

Slav tells Mia to cover her ears. Curling up, she holds her hands over her ears and closes her eyes. She can taste blood. Slav fires the weapon. Mia’s eyelids glow red. A blast shakes the ground. A wave of heat rushes past.

Men scream. She opens her eyes. The truck on the hillside is engulfed in flames, guards crawling away from the wreckage.

‘Fucking survivors!’ Slav says, loading up another rocket.

Mia goes to ground again and waits. This time the result is not so spectacular. But Slav is satisfied.

‘Good old napalm,’ he says. ‘Hundred-per-cent kill. Better make sure, though.’

Telling Mia to stay put, he loads up another rocket and crawls out of the hole for a closer look: the outline of his weapon just visible against flames leaping up into the night. He beckons for Mia to join him.

‘All good,’ he says, climbing into the Hummer, which is still idling. ‘Let’s give this thing a try.’

Mia goes to climb in the passenger seat but Slav sends her around the back, telling her to stay on the floor. ‘Until we’re out of this shit,’ he says. Climbing in through the rear window, she lies on the floor, looking at a gore-plastered ceiling: everything lit up by flames from the napalm.

Slav revs the motor. Mia finds a handgrip and hangs on, determined not to headbutt the ceiling again. The smell of burning rubber fills the cabin. The Hummer edges forward as if gouging its way through something. The vehicle jerks, spins around and they race away downhill: Mia just managing to hold on as they smash their way over scrub and rocks.

The slope is steeper now and smooth. Instead of tree branches, Mia’s seeing houses. Slav accelerates up and over a sharp rise and they bounce down onto what feels like level ground. They appear to have landed on a road without any streetlights.

‘I need you up here,’ Slav yells as they speed away.

Mia sits up, leaning into a cold wind that races straight through what is now a windowless Hummer. It’s hard to see. She reaches over the back seat and feels around. There’s a dead body down there somewhere. Her hand pushes on bare skin. There’s a groan. She screams and almost throws up.

‘Don’t hurt the poor bastard,’ Slav says, laughing.

‘Help me,’ the boy calls out.

‘Sort the wounded later!’ Slav shouts above the roar. ‘I need you here. Now.’

Mia stays where she is. Perhaps she could help the boy or call an ambulance. But that would mean police, which would mean the end of everything. Slav yells at her to get the fuck over to the front.

Carefully avoiding the boy, Mia climbs over into the front. A yellow-lit servo flashes past, illuminating Slav’s pale, blood-splattered face: a face that says Oksy is what this is all about.

Slav hands a phone to her, explaining that she needs to send a text to the middleman. He tells her what to write, she types in a message and touches ‘send’.

Got the gear cu in two hours

We’re moving merchandise to a new pickup, the reply comes back.

Where? Mia types.

Collection Point 35. U know it?

Slav tells Mia that he knows the address.

Yeah got it, she types in.

What’s the shit going down? the reply comes back.

Boss got shot up, Slav tells her to write. She types it in.

Get here by 2:50 or forget it, the reply comes back.

Ok, she types in.

Slav points at a yellow GPS screen on the dash, which says 12.24. He asks Mia to type in a Penrith address. She types it in and a pulsing red dot shows in a suburb to the west of the city.

‘Now listen to me,’ he says, pausing for breath and switching on a torch. ‘You’ll need a card—to get in.’ He throws his wallet into her lap, giving her the torch. She empties the wallet. He points to a black and white plastic card with a barcode.

‘That’s for the gate,’ he says.

‘Anything else?’

‘PIN for your girl is R738,’ he says, writing it on the dash with a blood-soaked finger. ‘Normally not more than two of them—if they try to get smart, just shoot. She’ll be there with the others.’

‘The others?’

‘Yeah: kids for sale. It’s one of them auction yards. Sorry.’

The engine coughs, there’s a succession of backfires and the motor cuts out. Steam shoots up into the air and onto their faces, wet and warm. The lights and signs of a bridge loom up.

Slav points the Hummer at a dirt exit road. They leave the bitumen. There’s a bump and roar of gravel on tyres and they careen down into a thick patch of scrub, flattening everything in their path.

Slav yanks on the handbrake, skidding to a halt in the midst of a towering stand of weeds. The Hummer gives a last burst of steam and falls silent. A cloud of mosquitoes rises up into the light from the bridge.

Mia sits staring at Slav, whose face rests on the steering wheel. Old blood and shattered glass cover the seat. Her hands are crusted and sticky. At Slav’s feet is a shining pool of gore. Mia can hear the sound of her own heartbeat.

‘What the fuck happens now?’ Slav murmurs without lifting his head.

‘Police, I guess,’ Mia says. ‘We know where Oksy is. I could just call the cops.’

‘Sure, they’ll find the place for you … if they like … when they like,’ he says, still not lifting his head. ‘By the time they get there, she’ll be gone.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘You’ve still got a couple of hours.’

‘So?’

‘Go steal a car.’

‘How?’

‘With weapons: you point a gun, they give you the car.’

‘What weapons?’

‘That box in the back … keys on this,’ he says, taking the keys out of the ignition.

‘Take the grey gun Mia, the Kriss.’

‘The what?’

‘The Kriss … ugly little machine gun … looks like a monkey wrench.’

‘But they’ll be expecting you, not me.’

‘They never met me … got no idea who to expect,’ he says, breaking into a fit of coughing. ‘All they’re expecting is a KV uniform … the card … and the cash, which is in the ammo box.’

‘But—’ Mia tries to think of what she was about to say and can’t.

The boy in the back moans.

‘Looks like we got … a warehouse,’ Slav says, touching the screen.

Mia asks more questions.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, gurgling flecks of blood, as if trying to say more.

She tries to talk to him but he’s not responding. She lifts his shirt and finds a slow-running trail of blood that goes all the way to the top of his rib cage. A golf-ball-sized clot plugs a hole. He lifts his head and smiles at what seems like nothing in particular.

‘Mia,’ he murmurs. ‘The boss … it’s funny.’

‘What?’

‘Tate says to me the other day, “I’ve put Mia in the codes—for this frigging Magic Wand.” Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither,’ he gasps the words out, his head flopping down into a rattling, blood-spraying cough. ‘And one other … last thing,’ he says. ‘That little Wand on your neck … really is the only one … left. Tate was so paranoid … he only ever wanted … one. I argued for two. And yeah … he put your rape on it.’

Slav breaks into another coughing fit, spraying more blood. Mia holds him—her face pressed against his—begging God to do something, to heal him. He gives one last shudder, sinks down against her and stops breathing.

Mia tries to pray but she’s talking gibberish: a slow, animal-like wail coming from her. She punches the dash and keeps punching until her hands are bleeding, then it’s her arms and her head: banging and banging.

The sound of a motorbike approaches. The bike noise stops. A man in a full-face helmet stands on her side of the Hummer. He carries a rifle. He takes the helmet off. It’s him: her Gorgeous!