Blood Junction Read online

  “I’d do my best to walk on water,” India said.

  “And when you discover you can’t?”

  “I’d poke its eyes out. Or try to.”

  “If it was the size of a bus, you might find that difficult.”

  India tried to contain her shudder but Knox seemed to see it because he gave a small, self-satisfied smile.

  “What angle are you thinking of taking with your newspaper article?” he asked.

  “Guinea pigs.”

  His eyes flared with a voracious light at odds with his urbane manner. “I’m sorry?” he said.

  “You don’t use animals to test products for safety. You use people.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, I thought a nice story would be to concentrate not so much on the scientific aspect of research but the testers. A sort of ‘day in the life of a guinea pig’ from when they first answer the ad to getting their check from Karamyde Cosmetics.”

  Knox waited for her to go on, his eyebrows raised a fraction.

  She said, “In particular I’d like to interview those who earn up to a thousand dollars in an hour or so.”

  “Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” he said. “The payment to our girls is pin money, no more. They can earn anything from thirty dollars for trying eyeliner or mascara to a hundred and twenty for a face treatment cream. None of them has earned over two hundred dollars for a single test.”

  India affected surprise. “Oh. I could have sworn I saw an ad that said you’d pay a thousand for …” she paused as if digging in her memory “… sleeping and taking drugs.”

  There was a perceptible pause. He’s going to lie to me, she thought.

  “I don’t recall those exact words being used in any of our advertisements,” he said. “One of our competitors must be running it.”

  “Any idea who they might be?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He turned towards the door. “Perhaps I can show you around the laboratory. You might find it interesting.”

  “Are any of your testers Aborigines?” asked India. “It’d be nice to get their view.”

  “No. We don’t produce cosmetics for coloreds.”

  The way he said “coloreds” reminded her of her father. Curtly dismissive and condescending.

  There was little to be seen on the tour of the Institute. Laboratories are very quiet places on Christmas Eve. In half an hour they were finished, and Knox ushered her outside. The Lexus was nowhere to be seen, but there was a taxi waiting. Her backpack was in the back.

  No lift to Sydney, dammit.

  Knox surveyed her with a cool half-smile as if he’d read her thoughts. “It was nice to have met you.”

  India concentrated on projecting back a warm smile. “Thank you for your time.”

  “And for yours. But despite your very exciting project, I don’t think we’ll be meeting again, Miss Kane. Do you?”

  The smile was still there, the voice remained impeccably polite. The round face, the silver hair, the immaculate suit exuded nothing but friendliness and confidence, but she had caught the predatory glint in his eyes.

  “No, I don’t suppose we will,” she lied.

  As she climbed into the car he said, “Goodbye,” and nodded, smiling a little to himself as though satisfied.

  “Goodbye,” India said politely as he turned away, and under her breath, “you smooth bastard.”

  The taxi dropped her at the far end of Biolella Road and she saw a single branch of dry lightning tear through the sky in the distance. Someone yelled, “Happy Christmas, gorgeous!” from their front garden and she waved back without breaking her stride. Distractedly she ran a hand over her temples, wondering if her continued headache was due to an impending storm; she had always been sensitive to weather changes. Another white jag of lightning seared out of the blue-black sky, and seemed almost to touch the ground.

  India approached the house with a fair amount of trepidation. She was unsure of her welcome having made it clear she wouldn’t be returning. Mikey might throw her out. Then where would she stay?

  She walked up the path and peered through the verandah rails at the slumped form in the cane chair. When she saw who it was, she glanced towards the front door, wondering whether Whitelaw had returned.

  Only one way to find out.

  All was silent, apart from the faint refrain of “Good King Wenceslas” from the street. She found some Disprin in the bathroom and downed three, then went into the kitchen to make herself a glass of iced chocolate. As the Disprin kicked in, she suddenly felt remarkably cheerful. Whitelaw wasn’t home and that suited her fine. She would, she decided, slide onto the divan, get a good night’s sleep, suffer whatever Christmas Day and Mikey had to offer her, then leg it to Sydney. She could almost feel the adrenaline surging through her body as she replayed her meeting with Knox. She didn’t feel the least bit tired. She had a focus now: to team up with Scotto and nail Karamyde. She started to hum. Toasted Whitelaw’s immobile tarantula with a flourish and raised the glass to her lips, closing her eyes as she gulped.

  “So, Sly’s returned,” Mikey said.

  India got the impression he was concentrating hard on his Ss to appear sober. He was leaning against the wall, hands shoved casually in his pockets, but he was swaying slightly. She looked at him for a moment, then finished her chocolate milk, put the glass down.

  He waved a hand at her face. “Moustache,” he said.

  She ran her tongue across her upper lip.

  “Better.”

  “You’re drunk.” Her tone was purposely cold, making it sound like a dreadful thing, as if he had a disease that might be catching.

  “Celebrating Christmas,” he said, his tongue so slack the words came out in soft glugs.

  “I’d say you’ve been celebrating all year.”

  He shifted his weight and lurched forward. India prudently stepped out of his way; he didn’t seem to be in full control of his limbs and they looked as though they might collapse at any moment.

  “You like turkey?” he said, hand on the fridge door.

  “What, now?”

  “No.” He sighed as if dealing with an idiot. “Tomorrow. Christmas Day.”

  “Mightn’t it be a bit hot for a traditional English lunch?”

  His hand slipped off the door. “We can’t not have it.”

  It seemed best to humor him. “Okay.”

  “Got to deliver it.” He started nodding. She was reminded of a toy dog in the back of a sedan. “Or Jed’ll hang himself. That’s what Abos do, you know, when they’re incarcerated. Hang themselves.”

  “You’re going to take him Christmas lunch?”

  “Jail foods’ terrible. A hanging offense.”

  “Why can’t his family?”

  He blinked at her. “Come again?”

  “It’d save you running around like meals on wheels if his family took it?”

  “He doesn’t have any.”

  She felt as though he’d punched her in the stomach. “Hell,” she said. “I’d forgotten he was a stolen child.”

  “How’s your head … still ache?” he said after a while.

  “Better since I took some more Disprin. Thank you.”

  “So polite. So marvelously English. India, the jewel in the crown.” He gave a deep chuckle. “I’m drunk, you know. Absolutely rat-arsed. That’s what Christmas is for, isn’t it? All good men and all that.” He reached out and made to run a finger over her upper lip but she jerked her head and moved away, and he stumbled after her. “Stop moving about, woman,” he slurred.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Can I come too?”

  She stopped and looked at him, her face impassive. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you really think I’d find a drunken slob like you attractive?”

  “I’m not that drunk,” he insisted. “And I’m not a slob.”

  She simply raised an eyebrow in return.

&nbs
p; He caught her upper arms in his hands, pulled her towards him.

  “Don’t.”

  “I bloody will,” he murmured, and bent his head to hers.

  His kiss was hard and demanding.

  She could taste bourbon and woodsmoke, overlaid with anger, and a petal of rage unfurled inside her. She’d had enough of anger in her life. So she bit his lip.

  Mikey reared backwards, a hand to his mouth.

  “The difference between men and women never ceases to amaze me,” she said coolly. “Men don’t have to love someone, or like them particularly … or even be sober. But you’ll still sleep with them.”

  He blinked owlishly. “Either you’re saying you don’t like me, or that you’re a cold fish. Which is it? I can’t work it out.”

  “Men aren’t as fussy as women.”

  “I’m extremely fussy,” he protested.

  “I am too. Goodnight, Mikey.”

  A clap of thunder woke Mikey in the middle of the night. He lay there with the consciousness—it felt worse than his hangover—of having made a terrible mistake. He got up. He felt shaky and slightly sick. He held out a hand, studied it. It shook a little, and he stared at it as if for the first time.

  He couldn’t remember going to bed. He probed cautiously at his memory as he watched the tremors in his hand, but couldn’t get any further than the taste of India’s lips. Then it all went blank. Had he passed out as he kissed her? Had he kissed her?

  Absently he rubbed his mouth, felt his swollen and bruised lower lip. Yes. Yes, he had kissed her all right, and she’d bitten him. He’d deserved it.

  He could feel a dark cloud of self-disgust gathering inside him. Mikey ran a hand over his face, groaning to himself.

  A drink will take the edge off the way you feel.

  But he didn’t want one.

  Mikey pulled on gym shorts, running shoes and a T-shirt, and ran seven Ks across the bush. He ran all the way to the base of the hills, startling a flock of cockatoos on the way, and looked back at Cooinda, twinkling through the darkness.

  When he ran into the backyard his body was dripping with sweat and his head was clear. He took a shower, dressed in the darkest clothes he could find, then headed for the kitchen to wake India.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked for the third time. “It’s barely two in the morning.”

  “It’s Christmas Day. It’s a perfect idea.”

  “What’ll happen if you get caught?”

  “I won’t.”

  They were driving southeast through Cooinda. There was no traffic. The town was asleep.

  Mikey cleared his throat noisily. “About last night—”

  “You were drunk.”

  “Yes.” He stared rigidly ahead, forced the words out. “I behaved badly.”

  “If I’m not embarrassed, you shouldn’t be.”

  “But honestly—”

  “Okay, okay, apology accepted if it makes you feel better.” She sounded snappish.

  God, she was hard, he thought.

  Mikey used headlights until they neared the clutch of houses in Jangala Vale. Then he doused them and did a U-turn before parking, so the car faced towards town. He left the keys in the ignition. The digital clock told them it was two-thirty in the morning.

  They struck out across the bush together. A quarter moon supplied sufficient light. Mikey carried a big bolt cutter and a hunting knife. India had a heavy cosh of Whitelaw’s. As they walked, he noticed how little noise India made. She seemed to avoid dry twigs and leaves with uncanny instinct, while no matter how hard he tried he crashed along beside her like a giant wombat.

  It took them fifty minutes to get to his lookout on top of the ridge. They crouched low, staring down a rock-strewn slope towards the murky shape of Karamyde Cosmetics. Lights were off in every window, except the reception area. Spotlamps illuminated the car park and front of the building. Mikey scanned the area with his binoculars. No activity anywhere. Just two guards in the gatehouse, nursing white plastic cups and smoking.

  He hunkered down, felt India do the same. He watched the guards. One of them started to laugh. The other reached for a bottle—it looked like Scotch—on the windowsill and topped up their cups. His movements were unsteady, and Mikey gave a little smile. They were celebrating Christmas. Maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d thought.

  He jerked his head at India and they started down the slope. Towards the bottom he slipped, sending an avalanche of loose rocks tumbling. He froze and flicked a look at India, who stayed motionless, waiting to see if the noise had attracted any attention. Silence.

  Cautiously they crept towards the perimeter fence. When they neared it, Mikey squatted on the dirt again and raised his binoculars. The guards were still drinking and smoking. He scanned the fence carefully, checking for cameras. He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He watched the guards for another two minutes. Not once did they show any interest in anything aside from their little party.

  It was now or never.

  Mikey rose and approached the fence. He picked up a handful of dust and threw it at the mesh. There was a sharp fizzing sound, then silence. He gave a low groan. An electrified fence. He flapped a hand at India, telling her to stay where she was, and skirted the perimeter, searching for a circuit box. When he eventually neared the car park he paused, concentrating his senses on every detail around him. He was conscious of a gentle breeze. The sweat trickling down his back. He couldn’t see a circuit box anywhere. Shit. He’d bet his last dollar it was in the gatehouse.

  He backtracked to India, whispered his plan.

  “No way,” she hissed at him.

  “The only way,” he whispered back.

  They had to wait thirty-five minutes for one of the guards to make a move. India watched as he stumbled out of the gatehouse, his hands already fumbling at his flies. She saw the big shadow that was Mikey slide around the gatehouse wall. The guard was oblivious.

  Crouching low, India moved rapidly towards the gate. When she came to a low shrub opposite the gatehouse, she pressed herself against the ground, straining for the slightest sound. She thought she could hear the guard urinating, and held her breath.

  There was a muffled thud and a groan, then the sound of scuffling.

  India raised her head. Mikey was heaving the guard’s inert form behind the gatehouse. The scuffing stopped. Silence. India lay still and waited. She shivered, not from cold but from fear.

  Come on, she thought. Come on.

  The minutes ticked past. Three. Five. Ten. When the second guard stepped outside, his footsteps seemed inordinately loud. “Curtis?” he called. “You all right?”

  A long groan answered him.

  The guard moved carefully around the gatehouse. “Curtis?” he called again.

  Another groan.

  “Piss artist,” the guard grumbled, and as he rounded the gatehouse, his back turned towards her, India sprang to her feet and raced as quietly as she could for the open doorway.

  From the shadows Mikey watched the second guard try to rouse his mate. He was slapping the unconscious man’s face. “Wake up, you sod, or you’ll get us into trouble.”

  His friend didn’t move.

  “One-pot pisspot,” the guard complained. “Not even half a bottle and you’re bloody comatose.” He hooked his arms beneath his friend’s armpits and attempted to pull him around the gatehouse. He managed to jerk his friend about a meter, then gave up. “Sleep it off where you bloody are, then,” he muttered, and turned back for his post.

  Only then did Mikey launch himself at the man.

  “Are you sure?” Mikey demanded for the second time.

  “Yes! I’d like to walk through the gate too, but unless you’ve got the code to the key pad we’re climbing the fence, okay?”

  They were at the rear of the building, and he’d thrown dust and leaves and stones at the fence without a single warning fizz in response, but he still had his doubts. Big on
es.

  “What if the fence is on another circuit, like the gate?” he asked.

  “Mikey, I did my best in there, but I didn’t know.”

  “Christ!” he muttered, and hefted the bolt cutter.

  India stood still as rock, watching him.

  Mikey mustered his courage. Ignored the nausea in the pit of his stomach. He stretched out his hand, so the bolt cutter was a centimeter from the mesh. Do or die, he thought. And screwed his eyes tight shut as he jabbed the cutter against the fence.

  Nothing happened.

  He felt his knees weaken. “Christ,” he said again as India murmured, “Thank God.”

  Mikey gripped the cutter with both hands and bit through the wire without difficulty. He made sure he cut a wide hole, about five feet square. He didn’t want to get fried should the fence be reactivated.

  They slipped through, heading straight for the fire door. India put a hand on his arm. They both stilled. She jerked her head, indicating she’d heard something. He motioned her to wait and crept to the corner of the building, peered around. Nothing, aside from a domestic tabby walking across the car park. India couldn’t have heard that, surely?

  He waited a few more minutes. Nothing. He returned to the fire door and took out his leather pouch of tools. During his stakeouts he hadn’t seen any indication of a security system but they wouldn’t know until they broke in. The scrape of metal made him sweat. It seemed painfully loud in the dense silence. He breathed shallowly as he worked, applying constant pressure to the cylinder. Suddenly the lock clicked back. The door cracked open. He held his breath. No sound. No alarm. India had told him she’d yanked every wire free from two circuit boxes in the gatehouse, but he still didn’t like it. He wondered if there was a silent alarm, separate from the main system, perhaps more guards inside. No way to tell.

  He slid inside and listened. A minute passed, then he gestured at India to wait by the fence.

  “No,” she hissed. “I’m coming with you.”

  “But I want you as my lookout.”

  “Don’t fob me off—”

  “I’m not sodding fobbing you off!” he retorted through clenched teeth. “I need a lookout and you’ll be as much use as a flat battery if you come with me.”