Exposure E-Book

Sue Parritt

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

As Melbourne celebrates New Year 2101, trainee doorkeeper, Emma, 71, lies sleepless and alone. Her lover Cal is trapped in a prison cell for illegal importation of foodstuffs, forcing a postponement of their planned partnership ceremony.

Emma suspects that Cal’s sister-in-law Sonya is behind his arrest. An early promotion to fully-trained doorkeeper provides her with opportunities to dig deeper into the case, but sinister discoveries soon take precedence when Emma’s scheming superior, Colin Theobald, endorses one brutal assignment after another.

Caught between her desire to work covertly for political transformation while maintaining the façade of a diligent doorkeeper and undertaking “unofficial duties” for Colin Theobald, how long can Emma last in the threatening atmosphere of Melbourne City Productive Citizens Bureau?

Leseprobe

EXPOSURE

THE RELUCTANT DOORKEEPER TRILOGY

BOOK 3

SUE PARRITT

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Sue Parritt

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Miika and the team at Next Chapter for continuous innovations to promote the work of authors around the world.

To my wonderful husband, Mark, for encouragement and coping with an author’s mood-swings over many years, and to our son, David, for a constant stream of marvellous new fiction.

ONE

Midnight, Australian Eastern Standard Time, first day of the month named January, in the year numbered 2101. A new year birthing, celebrations to mark the change of date, as though time-honoured tradition could promise transformation in a fractured world. In the southern mega-city of Melbourne, night-workers have gathered on the banks of the murky Yarra River to watch a fireworks display designed to demonstrate a government’s munificence, while around immense Port Phillip Bay, crowds stand on crumbling cliffs and degraded foreshores, hoping for a glimpse of distant delights. Rockets, fired from offshore barges to minimise fire risk, explode with rainbow stars, silver showers and Catherine-wheels. Citizens cheer, their voices rising into a pollution-smudged sky. Present tense contentment, a brief window when the past can be ignored and the future dismissed as unknowable, therefore irrelevant.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the bayside suburb of Safety Beach, eighty-three kilometres southeast of the city centre, a woman lay alone and sleepless in her ninth-floor apartment bedroom, contemplating what should have been the beginning of a new life had government authorities not intervened. A New Year’s Eve partnership ceremony, culmination of a momentous year for Trainee Doorkeeper, Emma Cartwright and market co-owner, Callum Ritchie. Being older citizens – she seventy-one, he sixty-one – and previously partnered, neither of them had wanted an elaborate celebration, preferring to share the occasion with just family and a few good friends. Family for Emma comprised son Jack, aged twenty, second cousin, Delta and Delta’s daughter, Eve, whereas the Ritchie clan encompassed Cal’s twin brother Dugald, his partner Sonya, their twins Holly and Maurice, aged seventeen and Sonya’s mother, Dorothea. Sufficient for an enjoyable evening within the elegant dining room of Mornington’s oldest home.

Instead, due to diligent officers or, more likely, an Informer’s tip-off, Cal had spent his second night in a cell at Frankston police station, while Emma and Jack passed New Year’s Eve at home. Around midnight, all three had heard the loud voices of adults and children welcoming the century’s second year, followed soon afterwards by shrill sirens and pounding boots as local police rounded up the unruly and intoxicated. Known troublemakers would be thrown in cells at the nearest police station to spend the remaining hours of darkness sobering up; the rest issued with on-the-spot fines, their wrist-bands pinging as funds transferred from personal accounts to government coffers.

No longer in possession of his wrist-band – the duty officer having removed it the previous evening – Cal’s auditory entertainment was limited to strident singing as cheerful citizens made their way home along darkened streets, juxtaposed with the groans and protests of incarcerated drunks in adjoining cells. By now, he should have been freed on bail and driving with Emma to their honeymoon destination. His court appearance had been scheduled for ten the previous morning, but barrister Penelope Watts-Smith had advised a delay until the following Tuesday, the Frankston magistrate having decided at the last minute to add extra leave to his already extended weekend.

As voices melted into warm night air, Emma wished she’d joined Jack in several double-shot whiskies to allay end-of-year trauma. No doubt Jack would be deep in sleep by now, probably dreaming of his new friend Olivia, who’d expressed interest in sharing the apartment when Emma took up residence in Cal’s Mornington home. If, she reminded herself, as the charge of illegally importing foodstuffs carried a prison sentence.

Whatever had led Cal to load the stock destined for Bay-enders Camp into his truck and set off down the Peninsula late on Wednesday evening, remained a mystery, Emma’s request to visit him having been denied. Initially, they had intended to move the supplies – stacked against a wall in the garage – into the backyard shed to create space for Emma’s new car, but that idea had had to be shelved when the timber structure was smashed to pieces during a severe storm. The goods in question were in fact locally produced but left unmarked to prevent factory identification should an over-zealous worker happen to investigate goods deposited at the Peninsula recycling centre. Every few months, Cal removed rubbish and recycling from the unsanctioned camp.

At least – according to Penelope – Cal hadn’t been headed for his farmhouse where he maintained a database for all East Coast camps and sometimes offered temporary shelter to citizens desperate to drop out. The farmhouse, dilapidated on the outside but well appointed within, served as a “station” on a contemporary “underground railroad” that led in due course to a life free from increasingly repressive laws. Not that any of the runaways were known criminals; Cal and his co-conspirators were opposed to dealing with that fraternity. Likewise, the members of Citizen’s Voice, an undercover group dedicated to procuring constitutional change, preferred to engage in acts of civil disobedience rather than overt violence.

During the eighteen months since CV’s inception, its committee had organised strikes and public demonstrations – illegal under current legislation – but to date the only outcome had been arrests, a suite of retaliatory laws and increased surveillance. Convener Cal’s arrest on a rarely used dirt road in the uninhabited centre of the Mornington Peninsula, confirmed he remained “a person of interest”. For months, Emma had suspected that his brother, Dugald, was a government Informer, his intention to take total control of Ritchie Brothers Markets once Cal was safety behind bars. But, having been a guest in the opulent Ritchie-Beaumont residence on several occasions, she wasn’t so sure. Partner Sonya was clearly in control, with bullyboy Dugald reverting to biddable male the moment he entered the domestic sphere.

The initial family and soon-to-be-family gathering had progressed as expected, Sonya the epitome of a charming hostess, until an odd statement had sown a seed of doubt in Emma’s mind.

‘I make a point of learning all I can about a person, especially one about to become a family member,’ Sonya had said,as the two women conversed in the upstairs lounge, having left the brothers discussing business in the living room below.

Friendly advice to toe the family line, or a warning that she wouldn’t hesitate to report suspicious behaviour? Emma had yet to decide.

Government Informers came from all strata of society but proving Sonya had been instrumental in placing Cal under surveillance was another matter, and something Emma couldn’t consider until he was released, either on bail or following acquittal. However, as a TDK (Trainee Doorkeeper) who was recruited now and then by Chief Allocations Officer Colin Theobald for intelligence missions, in theory, Emma could access more than the files of unemployed citizens. She already knew that Casual Government Informers, (CGIs), were listed at the end of Permanent Government Informers, (PGIs), having noticed the heading when checking the status of a citizen for Colin’s unofficial sidekick, Training Office Manager Sarah Holmes.

Emma’s lips curled into a smile as she automatically added Part-Time Lover (PTL) to Sarah’s list of duties, in keeping with the persistent use of acronyms at the PCB. During the working week, Colin and Sarah co-habited in a CBD apartment, with weekends and holidays reserved for his legitimate family. An image of the pair making high-energy love – both were heavily into physical fitness – produced a second smile, reducing the tension that had pervaded her body since learning of Cal’s arrest. Turning on her side, she reached for the spare pillow, wrapping her arms around the cool cotton. A poor substitute for her lover, but it might help to induce sleep.

TWO

The long weekend passed faster than Emma had expected. She spent most of Saturday at Cal’s house, retrieving sufficient clothes for at least a month and packing them into her car, then tackling dust and cobwebs in the now empty garage. Sunday, she spent with friends, Janet and Luke, partly to discuss the ramifications of Cal’s arrest for CV, and partly because she couldn’t bear the thought of hours alone in the apartment, Jack having offered to help Dugald sort produce at the depot.

Shocked by the charge against his brother – genuinely, Emma believed – Dugald maintained it had to be a mistake, as Ritchie Brothers Markets were in the business of supplying Australian fruit and vegetables to stallholders at each of their six Peninsula venues, rather than dealing in illegal imports. ‘Do you know where he bought the stuff?’ he asked Emma, towards the end of a lengthy call.

‘I have no idea,’ she answered honestly, Cal having made no mention of the boxes’ origins. ‘It’s not as though we needed to stock up, the pantry’s full.’

‘Emma, dear, we’re not talking about supplies for one household. According to our barrister, there was enough in his truck to feed a small village.’

A village of old men, Emma thought, grateful that a dusty wrist-band screen camouflaged her flushed cheeks. ‘Old stock, perhaps, obtained cheaply. You know how much Cal loves a bargain.’

‘Bloody fool probably got talked into it by some shady type he met in a bar. I hope he can identify the bugger.’

Emma sighed. ‘I doubt the vendor would have used a legitimate name.’

‘It won’t go well if Cal knew they were stolen.’

‘No, and I’m not sure pleading ignorance would help, either.’

‘Hang in there, Emma. We’ll get it sorted. Must go, got to pick up the kids from Pamper Point. Sonya’s gone to her usual Monday women’s meeting.’

‘Thanks for the call, Dugald. It helps to have family support.’

‘It’s the least I can do. Shame about the ceremony. I was looking forward to it and a good spread after. I don’t suppose the venue offered a refund?’

‘No, the cancellation came too late for that. ‘Bye, Dugald.’

The screen faded to black, leaving Emma to contemplate whether “women’s meeting” was a euphemism for something more sinister. Mid-afternoon on a Monday seemed an odd time for a social group to meet, when most women worked full-time, and holding the meeting on a public holiday was even more unusual. If only she’d ventured into the CGI file and searched B for Beaumont, Sonya, instead of focusing solely on the task in hand. That was the problem with dividing her life into segments – essential to maintain mental equilibrium and prevent exposure – especially when so much was at stake. Yet tomorrow, work and personal life would overlap, as her colleagues were bound to inquire about Friday’s partnership ceremony.

* * *

Emma walked briskly from the station, grateful for commuters who were focused on arriving at work promptly following the Christmas and New Year holidays, rather than engaging in conversation. Fronting her colleagues would be embarrassing enough without exchanging greetings on the street. After nodding to the guard at the front entrance, Emma headed straight for the staff lockers to retrieve her uniform, then hurried into the changing room, hoping she could make it to her place on the Front Desk without encountering anyone. But as she hung her street clothes in her locker, the door at the end of the corridor opened.

‘Hi, Emma. I didn’t expect to see you so early,’ Jean remarked, stepping inside. ‘How did it all go?’

‘It didn’t. Cal…’ Emma clutched the locker shelf for support.

Jean rushed forward to wrap her arms around Emma. ‘Don’t tell me he stood you up?’

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘Let’s go outside. There’s no one around at this hour.’ Loosening her hold, Jean guided Emma down the corridor and out into the small courtyard at the rear, where staff sometimes chatted before work or during lunch breaks, taking advantage of the chairs and a table positioned in front of a vertical garden fastened to the next-door building. Both women were aware of surveillance equipment hidden amongst the foliage, so they crossed to the relative safety of the narrow street that led to a busy city thoroughfare.

‘Cal’s not dead,’ Emma said quietly, realising from her friend’s obvious distress that Jean had misinterpreted her response. ‘He’s been arrested.’

Jean leaned closer. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Emma gave a simplified version of the events leading up to Cal’s arrest, omitting any mention of his farmhouse or Bay-enders Camp. Jean and her flatmate Amy, a TDK at Frankston PCB, were both members of Citizens’ Voice but they didn’t need to know details. ‘He’s appearing before a magistrate this morning,’ Emma concluded. ‘His lawyer is applying for bail.’

‘Is there any chance he’ll get off with a fine?’

‘Not unless we can concoct a reasonable explanation.’

‘Then my advice is to flee the city as soon as he’s released on bail. I can put you in touch with the appropriate people.’

Emma recalled a conversation with two former colleagues who’d dropped out months earlier. ‘Did Ted and Marise speak to you as well?’

‘They made vague mention of a network and I conducted my own enquiries. In the end, Amy and I decided not to proceed. We have other plans.’

‘Early promotion?’

Jean smiled. ‘Two on the second floor should speed up the exposure process.’

‘Don’t you mean three?’

‘So, you won’t be taking my advice?’

Emma shook her head. ‘It’s too soon for camping.’

‘Fair comment.’ Jean glanced at her wrist-band. ‘We’d better get back. Have you thought what you’ll tell the others when they ask about Friday?’

‘The truth.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘It is when the media are sure to report the matter. Cal’s quite well-known in business circles and I don’t want colleagues whispering behind my back. There’s enough talk about my being Tony’s favourite as it is.’

‘I’d be happy to speak to Tony on your behalf.’

‘Thanks, I’d be grateful for that.’

* * *

Tony Buretto, Front Desk Supervisor and renowned womaniser, exuded concern as he strode from his work-station to Emma’s position on the far left, but she wasn’t fooled by his performance. Any moment now, he would be approaching her from behind to place a hand on her shoulder, while suggesting in soothing tones that they adjourn to the staff room. She assumed his caring persona was intended to impress any attractive females standing in the queues of unemployed citizens, rather than his black-clad staff arrayed like birds of prey behind the raised counter.

‘Emma is unwell,’ Tony advised her neighbour, a no-nonsense woman of middle years, as he assisted Emma to her feet. ‘Please merge her queue with yours.’

‘Certainly, Tony,’ Bridget replied, bending forward to speak into her computer. ‘Queue one, join queue two. No jostling for position. All will be attended to in due course.’

Tony’s expression altered to one of irritation. ‘I do wish Bridget would remember she’s dealing with adults, not children,’ he remarked, leading Emma to the door.

Once a primary school teacher, always a primary school teacher, Emma thought but did not say. Keeping her head bowed, she ignored the shuffling of feet and mutterings of annoyance, grateful to Tony for a brief respite from the crowded space.

‘Coffee?’ Tony asked, the moment they entered the corridor leading to the staffroom.

Emma suppressed a grimace, PCB beverages were appalling! ‘Er, thank you.’

‘I mean a decent brew. You sit yourself down in the staffroom while I fetch coffee from the café around the corner.’

Emma managed a small smile as they parted ways.

Alone in the staffroom, she pondered how to deal with Tony’s inevitable questions. Should she focus on embarrassment over a cancelled ceremony, her failure to secure a decade-younger partner, or denounce Cal’s stupidity? Following Dugald’s call the previous day, Emma had walked along the old coast road to relay his comment about meeting a bloke in a bar to Cal’s barrister, Penelope Watts-Smith. ‘Admitting drink-induced foolishness wouldn’t do Cal’s business reputation any good,’ Penelope had remarked, ‘but it could save him from jail-time. Paying a large fine and suffering the indignity of an enforced stay in a rehabilitation clinic would be a small price to pay for liberty.’

When the staffroom door opened to reveal Tony carrying a cardboard tray containing two coffees and a large slice of cake, Emma was sitting at one of the small tables, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I got you some cake,’ he declared. ‘There’s nothing like a sugar hit when you’re down. Besides, I bet you hardly ate over the weekend.’

‘Thanks, Tony. I did eat at night, my son insisted.’

‘Good for him. Jack, isn’t it?’ Tony slid the tray onto the table, then sat opposite.

‘Yes. He’s a caring son. Good cook, too.’

‘Lucky you.’ Tony took a sip of coffee. ‘Now then, would you like to go home? I realise how difficult it is to be on display with curious colleagues longing for the morning break, so they can ask about your partnership ceremony.’

Emma looked up. ‘I wish all supervisors were caring like you.’

‘I try, Emma, I try. I realise it’s hard enough dealing with the unemployed day in, day out, let alone a demanding or morose supervisor.’

‘AO Barry nearly scared me to death on my first day.’

‘I’m not surprised. He has no idea how to handle staff.’

Reluctant to comment, Emma drank her coffee.

‘Eat up,’ Tony instructed, ‘otherwise I’ll have to risk weight gain.’ He patted his flat stomach. ‘Got to take care at my age, I want to stay in shape.’

‘Very wise.’ Emma took a bite of cake. ‘Delicious.’

‘Good. Right, here’s what I propose.’ He sat back in the seat. ‘At morning break I’ll inform the others about what’s happened. The bare facts, no need for details. I’m not going to ply you with questions either. Jean told me how shocked you are by the whole business. I imagine you haven’t had a chance to speak to your, er, would-be partner?’

Emma shook her head. ‘He was only allowed one call to his lawyer. I’m angry as well as shocked. I can’t believe he could have been so stupid!’

‘He wouldn’t be the first trader to be tempted by a so-called good deal.’

‘You think that’s what happened?’

‘Most likely, plenty of con artists out there. Probably caught him off-guard. Let’s hope the magistrate is lenient, then you can get on with your life together.’

‘I’ll have to figure out how to forgive him first.’

‘You will.’ Tony leaned across the table to pat her arm. ‘You’re a decent woman, Emma Cartwright.’

* * *

A decent woman… The statement echoed in her head as the train headed south, stopping at every station as though determined to make her late for Cal’s court appearance. On the way to the station, she’d texted Penelope her intention to be present, Tony having been correct in his assumption of forgiveness. Yet, behind the mask of diligent employee eager for promotion, she sought evidence of a government’s lies, so she could no longer claim to be a compliant, honest citizen, the dual threads of her current reality were wound tight. How simple life had been before she became entangled with Callum Ritchie, when she could ignore the rumblings of discontent and condone her blinkered existence. Sometimes she wondered what her late partner, Aarav, would have made of her metamorphosis and if he would have joined her in the fight for a return to true democracy. Pointless speculation, she reminded herself, as a bland electronic voice announced they were approaching Frankston Station.

A short walk took her to the Magistrates’ Court, located in a former church – dark-brick exterior, heavy wooden doors, heat hovering in a tiled porch where a priest once stood to greet parishioners. Inside a dim foyer, stained-glass windows admitted strips of coloured light, while over one door, an illuminated sign announced Court in session. Reluctant to enter the court, Emma stood to one side, hoping an official would emerge before too long. She had envisaged a waiting room or a counter where she could ask directions, not an empty space, lacking even the usual screen. Ten minutes remained until Cal’s timeslot; perhaps he and Penelope had chosen to stay outside in her car.

Emma was on the point of returning to the porch when light flickered above her head. The sign had altered to read Court in recess. Gathering her courage, she stepped towards the door, expecting a camera click or a voice to demand her ID. Nothing happened, so she ran her hand over the dark-stained timber, seeking an old-fashioned handle like the ones found inside Cal’s home. Her fingers grasped an iron ring; puzzled, she tugged hard.

‘Can I help you?’ a shaky voice asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She turned to face an old man who was shuffling towards her across the uneven stone floor. ‘I can’t seem to open the door.’

‘Gotta twist, then pull.’

‘Am I allowed inside?’

‘Sure. There’s an ID machine on the other side. Cheaper than employing someone, they say.’

‘Are you coming in?’

‘No, I’ve gotta stay here.’

Emma wondered if he’d been asleep in a dark corner. ‘Do you work here?’

‘Sort of. Pensioner community service, they call it.’

‘Right.’ Twist, pull, then the heavy door moved towards her. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she called, slipping through the narrow opening into a brightly lit, windowless cube. She peered at blank white walls and a low ceiling dotted with spotlights, before turning her attention to the polished concrete floor. Contemporary architecture built within a mid-twentieth century church, like the office and tiny apartment in the centre of Cal’s farmhouse. Concealed from public gaze so no one could question what went on during brief sessions. In front of her was a small screen suspended on thin wires from the ceiling; she lifted her right wrist and waited for the familiar beep.

At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anywhere to sit apart from a large black chair set behind a work-station on a raised semi-circular dais. Then, she noticed a gap in one of the walls that, on inspection, revealed a dimly-lit corridor just wide enough for several citizens to stand one behind the other, waiting for their names to appear on the screen placed at average head height to the right of the doorway. A case of mistaken identity, she thought, the old man had assumed she was a lawyer unfamiliar with the innards of Frankston Magistrates Court. Tucked out of sight, Emma leaned against the wall, trying to calm her nerves through deep breathing.

Minutes passed, then she heard someone cross the cube and hesitate for a moment before stepping heavily onto the dais. Centre-stage magistrate, the decision-maker who would determine whether Cal returned to jail or to her arms. She was under no illusion that a fine would be issued today, the legal process was always protracted. More footsteps, the tap-tap of slim heels heading her way.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Penelope whispered through the opening, directing her gaze to the end of the short corridor.

‘I was given the day off. I thought Cal would appreciate the support.’

‘I’m the support. No public allowed in here. You’d better hope he doesn’t call out when he sees you.’ A slight nod and Penelope spun on her heel to retrace her steps.

‘Is there a problem, Ms Watts-Smith?’ a gruff voice asked.

‘No, sir. All in order.’

Emma inched sideways along the wall, grateful for her soft-soled sandals. At the end of the corridor was a closed door with no irksome handle. She heard voices on the other side, one strident, giving an order, the other familiar, answering politely. How could she remain unnoticed when Cal and the police officer entered the narrow passageway?

The door began to open, so she pressed her body hard against the wall, hoping the shift from sunlight to gloom would mask her presence. Heavy work-boots thumped the concrete floor; she held her breath, waiting for a second pair to cross the threshold. Cal advanced quickly, the door closing behind him. Sea-green eyes widened when he noticed her, but, to his credit, he made no sound apart from a slight inhalation of breath. Parted lips mouthed I love you. Emma echoed his greeting. Two lengthy paces and he had departed without a glance at the tiny screen, where his full name pulsed red against a black background. She waited for the cessation of footsteps, then crept closer to the opening and stood with her back against the wall next to the screen.

‘Step forward, Ms Watts-Smith,’ the magistrate directed.

Emma heard small steps followed by a slight cough. ‘I represent Callum Alistair Ritchie who pleads not guilty to the charge of illegally importing foodstuffs into the state of Victoria.’

‘Plea noted.’

‘I request bail for my client on the grounds that, as a citizen of good character and a respected businessman, he poses no flight risk.’

‘There is the question of a previous charge, Ms Watts-Smith.’

‘Dismissed twenty years ago, sir, due to lack of evidence.’

In the silence that followed, Emma envisaged the magistrate mouthing instructions to his computer, so the sound of a fist striking moulded plastic startled her.

‘Can I assist with file retrieval, sir?’ Penelope’s voice rang out.

‘That would be appreciated. Yet again, my screen isn’t responding.’

The magistrate’s voice implied significant age, so perhaps he’d failed to master Compu-eye. Emma relaxed a little.

‘All fixed, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Emma registered Penelope’s retreat and pondered how long it would be before the magistrate made his decision. The reference to a previous charge had alarmed her, until she recalled the faded scar she had discovered on Cal’s upper right arm months earlier, a tiny ridge of skin beneath her fingers. Jack carried the same mark, evidence of a tracking device implanted prior to his release on bail. It had been removed following the No case to answer verdict, but remained a permanent reminder of harrowing weeks when his future hung in the balance.

‘Approach the bench, Callum Ritchie.’

Footsteps, lighter than before, then Emma was straining to hear the magistrate’s voice. Something about an immediate appointment and a police escort, but no mention of bail as far as she could tell. Then, she heard the magistrate dismiss Penelope, heels tapping and the swish of a door opening.

THREE

A uniformed officer entered the corridor, prompting Emma to step back a pace. He moved stiffly like a marionette, his boots pounding the concrete floor, his broad shoulders rigid. Silence seemed her best option, speak only if spoken to, hope against hope for a second instance of mistaken identity.

The officer ignored her, pausing only to glance at the still flashing screen, before entering the court room. ‘Officer Santos reporting, sir.’ A heavy-duty voice, in keeping with his occupation and body shape.

‘Approach the offender,’ the magistrate ordered.

By leaning to the right, Emma could see Officer Santos march towards Cal, but further magisterial instructions were muffled by loud yawns and the scrape of a chair, so she moved to stand directly in front of the now blank screen. It was impossible to distinguish between booted footfalls, but the pair were headed her way.

Cal entered first, his eyes focused on the door at the rear, closely followed by Officer Santos. Neither paid any attention to the woman clutching a red handbag to her chest. Exit sounds relieved her tension; after taking several deep breaths, Emma risked another peek into the court.

The lights had been dimmed, indicating a scheduled break in proceedings, which explained a blank screen and the absence of a next-in-line citizen. She took a moment to locate the shadowed shape of the entrance door, then padded across the empty court to check its status. If locked, she would have to knock and trust the pensioner guard remained on duty. As to Penelope’s whereabouts, Emma had no idea whether the lawyer had decided to follow Cal and Officer Santos to an unnamed appointment or was heading back to her office.

When her knock was answered quickly, she assumed the elderly security guard must have been hovering on the other side. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said brightly, ‘I was a bit slow to leave.’

‘His lawyer’s round the back,’ the pensioner answered. ‘Silver car, you can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks again.’

The guard stood aside to let her pass; a knowing smile fixed to his withered lips.

* * *

The passenger door slid open, disclosing Penelope Watts-Smith reclining on an almost horizontal driver’s seat. ‘All good,’ she murmured as Emma slipped inside.

‘So, what does this appointment entail?’

The seat and Penelope resumed a normal driving position. ‘The insertion of a tracking device. It won’t take long. We’re meeting Cal at a nearby clinic.’

‘Why the police escort?’

‘To ensure he doesn’t abscond. Usual procedure.’

‘When does the trial begin?’

‘Week after next. Tuesday.’

‘That doesn’t give you long to prepare his defence.’

‘Long enough. I’m confident of a swift conclusion.’

‘Dismissal or acquittal?’

‘Either. The evidence is indisputable. Home-grown produce packed in Australian aluminium cans and biodegradable packets produced locally. Cal is not guilty of illegally importing foodstuffs.’

‘But he is guilty of being in possession of unmarked goods, which the prosecution could maintain were to be sold on the black market.’

‘Yes, but that’s not the charge.’

Emma frowned. ‘Can’t he be accused of the lesser crime?’

‘No, the charge can’t be altered once it’s been filed. We just have to prove he intended to dump the goods along with the rubbish from the old shed.’

‘Is there a recycling centre near where he was arrested?’

‘Unfortunately, no. But don’t worry, I’m working on it.’

Emma sat back in the seat as the car began to reverse. ‘When I discovered the boxes in Cal’s garage, they were all extremely dusty, with cobwebs clinging to those in the lower rows, which indicates lengthy storage.’

‘Unsaleable, perhaps?’

‘Undoubtedly, especially as a couple of boxes had been opened, with a crude attempt at resealing.’

‘Inside knowledge is extremely useful,’ Penelope replied, with a perceptive look. ‘Could you point out these boxes if required?

‘Yes. I used a hairclip on one box.’

‘When was this?’

Emma blushed. ‘Months and months ago, before I started work at the PCB.’

‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ Penelope murmured, adding at her usual pitch, ‘Or, in this case, may have saved the day.’

‘As a journalist, being inquisitive proved useful,’ Emma offered by way of defence.

Penelope smiled before issuing commands to auto-drive. Beside her, Emma felt a mixture of embarrassment and relief that she’d confessed her crime. At least she hadn’t been asked to explain how she came to be rummaging in Cal’s garage long before they became what Jack called an “item”. Emma disliked the term, preferring “couple”, or “twosome”. An item was an inanimate object.

In minutes, they were pulling up outside a nondescript building without a sign declaring its purpose, located close to the barricaded foreshore. The few windows were made of frosted glass and barred, while the entrance, a tarnished steel door, was flanked by an audio-point set below an ancient wall-light.

‘It used to be a shop selling ice-cream,’ Penelope remarked, draping her silk-covered arms over the steering-wheel. ‘My grandparents often brought me here when I was a child. Ice-cream was a reward for good behaviour. They were sticklers for obedience at all times.’

‘I was taken to Brighton and St Kilda. My grandparents lived nearby.’

‘Posh postcodes.’

‘Until the sea put paid to such sentiments.’

‘And population pressure. Villages, my arse! They’re ugly concrete towers, marching over the land like a plague of giants!’ Penelope sighed. ‘Melbourne must have been a beautiful place to live in a hundred years ago.’

‘It is still, if you stand on the foreshore looking out. Ignore rock-walls and other sea defences and you can almost turn back time.’

‘Is that what you do, Emma?’

‘Whenever I can.’

‘Then you’ll enjoy living on Mornington esplanade.’

‘If I get there,’ Emma said, half to herself.

‘Have faith.’

‘In your manipulation of the law?’

Penelope shook her head. ‘That commonsense will prevail. No way can we allow the authorities to silence a man like Cal.’

Or ruin our future, Emma thought, fixing her gaze on the clinic’s door. Unlike some, she couldn’t devote her entire life to working for positive change. There had to be periods of respite when society’s ills ceased to occupy every waking moment and influence every action. She might not live to see the results of her individual labours; planting the seed was what mattered.

A shadow passed in front of a barred window and Emma tensed in anticipation.

‘At last!’ Penelope declared, leaning forward to press a panel on the dashboard. ‘Get in the back please, Emma. There’s more room for long legs in the front.’

The passenger seat moved forward to compel immediate expulsion. Annoyed by Penelope’s impatience, Emma swung her legs around and, grabbing the door pillar, pulled herself upright to step away from the car, instead of retreating meekly to the back seat.

But before she’d taken three steps, Cal had scooped her off the ground and into his arms. ‘Can’t keep a good man down,’ he declared, his smile wide as Port Phillip Bay.

Hugged to his chest, her ‘I love you’ emerged as a jumble of muffled sound; not that she cared. The steady beat of his heart was of more importance.

* * *

Penelope deposited them on the crumbling esplanade, having declined Cal’s invitation to come inside for a cup of tea. Hand in hand, they watched her depart in a cloud of dust whipped up by excessive acceleration. ‘All work and no play,’ Cal began, the rest of the proverb swallowed as he bent to kiss Emma’s cheek.

‘There’s nothing dull about you, my love.’

Cal ruffled her hair. ‘What say I call the celebrant when we’ve had a cuppa? We can’t afford to waste time. If the trial goes arse over tit, the bloody government can seize my property if I’m not partnered.’

‘What about the farm?’

‘No worries there, it’s registered in a company name. Wonderland Investments bought it from me ‘bout ten years back for future development.’

‘Wonderland doesn’t really suit a dilapidated farmhouse surrounded by overgrown paddocks and scrub!’

‘The directors bought it sight unseen.’

‘And they are?’

‘Older family members.’

‘Of course, Alice and Erin. Do they know about the farm?’

‘Erin does and in case you’re wondering, the Housing Department has yet to twig that the company directors have died.’

Emma gasped. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me your aunts had died?’

‘No need, it happened years ago. Fumes from an ancient heater overcame the old girls, after that their house was officially abandoned. Private funeral, just me and Dugald’s family. Doc Hunter provided death certificates to the crematorium officials. Unfortunately, he omitted to forward them to the relevant authorities.’

‘So, who or what did you bid farewell to?’

‘A couple of pig carcases I’d bought when the last Victorian abattoir closed. Kept ‘em in an old freezer out in the shed, then forgot all about ‘em.’

Emma laughed. ‘Your behaviour never ceases to amaze me, Cal Ritchie.’

‘I could say the same of you, lurking in a corridor at Frankston Magistrates Court! What the hell were you doing there?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it when we’ve spoken to the celebrant.’

* * *

A Sunday celebration, conducted at Sonya’s insistence in the garden that Emma’s former colleague, Harie, had tended two years before. There were fewer guests than previously planned, some unavailable at such short notice, and afternoon tea was served instead of dinner. Holly Ritchie – the maker of pink and white cupcakes dotted with tiny silver balls – displayed her wares on a small garden table covered with a gingham cloth, beaming when Uncle Cal complimented her on both taste and decoration. Close to the house, beneath a large sunshade, her mother’s sumptuous offerings were arrayed on white linen and protected from roving insects by a domed sequinned net with weights sewn into each corner. Following the official proceedings, Sonya further upstaged the new partners by floating from guest to guest, offering drinks with an exaggerated smile and a flutter of scarlet nails, her low-cut, calf-length dress attracting comments from one and all.

More concerned with post-celebratory matters, neither Cal nor Emma cared how Sonya looked or behaved, although both noted that Maurice Ritchie was standing alone in the farthest corner of the small garden. ‘He’s probably embarrassed,’ Cal whispered. ‘See if you can get Jack to take the kid’s mind off his swanky mother.’

‘Will do. ‘Emma glanced around the garden, finally locating Jack by the food table. ‘Won’t be long.’

* * *

Cal was reaching for a second cupcake when Dugald approached, red-faced, his forehead laced with perspiration. ‘Good on you, bro, partnered despite a police cock-up.’

‘It’s a bit much when you can’t even dump old market stock and shed rubbish without getting arrested.’

‘Yep. Anyone would think you were under surveillance.’

‘The company, more like. Months back, I was tail-gated by a young guy in a red car on the city freeway. Emma’s seen him since, hanging around Safety Beach market.’

Dugald frowned. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. Might have a word with a couple of mates. See if they can find out who he is.’

‘Heavies?’

‘No, what do you take me for? I was thinking of citizens with a bit of clout, like Oliver Barton and Daniel Ames.’

‘Not a good idea. The stall holders won’t want security officers sniffing around.’

‘True.’ Dugald glanced at Emma sitting nearby, a plate balanced on her knee. ‘What do you think, sister-in-law?’

‘About what?’ she asked, reluctant to admit to eavesdropping.

‘This bloke in a red car. Do you reckon he had anything to do with Cal’s arrest?’

‘Who can say?’ Emma answered, having been informed by Colin Theobald that another agent had replaced Connor Hardcastle. ‘But you could ask Sonya to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious loitering near the depot. Barney too, when he’s out and about on deliveries. It sounds to me as though a rival company could be looking to tarnish Ritchie Brothers’ reputation and then take over.’

Dugald drew himself up to his full height. ‘Over my dead body!’

‘Mine too,’ Cal echoed, moving to Emma’s side.

‘United we stand,’ Emma murmured, delighted that Dugald seemed to have accepted her suggestions. Giving Sonya a reason to believe her lifestyle was threatened could stall her unofficial duties, or, at the very least, lead to a flurry of activity that with luck might result in carelessness. Either way, Emma was determined to discover whether her sister-in-law’s name appeared on the CGI file. Also of interest and worth a check were the two mates Dugald had mentioned.

‘We call a staff meeting tomorrow morning,’ Dugald declared, in an authoritative tone. ‘Gotta get to the bottom of this. Meanwhile,’ he smiled down at Emma, ‘let’s forget about work and raise our glasses to the happy couple.’

FOUR

Two gold bands – one tarnished, the other gleaming – were displayed on the third finger of her left hand, Emma wishing to acknowledge both past and present love. All six TDKs had filed into the staffroom for the morning break, leaving the unemployed waiting in orderly queues. Colleagues gathered around to admire and congratulate, while Supervisor Tony poured champagne into the glasses generally used for water. ‘The real McCoy,’ he informed his staff. ‘I can’t abide the fake variety, too sweet for my taste. Half a glass each won’t do any harm and might even improve our Monday morning.’

‘The latter, I trust,’ Jean replied. ‘I’ve had some right horrors so far today.’

‘It goes with the territory,’ Sarah remarked from the doorway.

‘It’s alright for you, tucked away in the training office,’ said Thomas, currently the sole male TDK.

‘I did my stint on the Front Desk,’ Sarah countered, before approaching her former star pupil. ‘Congratulations, Emma! I always say it’s never too late for love.’

‘Thank you, Sarah, I agree. Love has its own timeframe.’ Emma had often wondered if Sarah wanted her long-term lover to leave his partner, or whether she preferred a part-time relationship. There could be advantages, especially when both parties encountered one another daily in the workplace.

‘A quiet word when you’re free,’ Sarah said softly, before moving over to the drinks table.

Emma smiled, hoping that whatever additional task Colin and Sarah had in mind wouldn’t be too onerous. From tomorrow, she needed to focus on Cal’s trial.

‘Come and get a glass, everyone,’ Tony commanded.

His staff obeyed instantly, all except Emma, who wanted a moment to settle her thoughts.

‘Here we are.’ Tony thrust a glass into her hand. ‘Righto, a toast to our colleague, Emma. May she enjoy a long and happy partnership with Callum.’

‘Emma and Callum,’ the TDKs chorused. Glasses clinked.

* * *

When Emma left the staffroom, Sarah and Tony were busy removing evidence – drinking alcohol on the premises invalidated the PCB insurance policy. She waited in the corridor for Sarah, but after five minutes decided to return to the Front Desk. Unlike Jean’s Monday clients, Emma’s continued to be pleasant young women eager to resume work after short periods of unemployment, due in most cases to the closure of small businesses. According to official reports, there had been a spike in bankruptcies during the previous year, the state government blaming continuing drought up north, coupled with lack of forward planning by business owners.

The resultant rise in unemployment had increased the workload for TDKs throughout Melbourne, with two new Productive Citizens’ Bureaux opening on the city fringes. To reduce queues, citizens were now permitted to work part-time, which suited some, especially those nearing retirement, but left others struggling to pay bills and mortgages. Emma would have appreciated a reduction in her working hours but couldn’t consider a change of pace until she’d fulfilled the promise made almost a year earlier, when Cal had persuaded her not to drop out. Although she had no regrets – living alone at the farmhouse would have been lonely and unsustainable – she harboured a wish that before too many years passed, she and Cal would be able spend more leisure time together.

At noon, an e-message from Sarah appeared on Emma’s screen, inviting her to lunch at an up-market restaurant several minutes’ walk from the PCB. Irritated by the late summons – Emma had planned to meet Jean by the river – nevertheless, she must accept, as “lunch” could be a euphemism for “assignment”. Most likely, Colin Theobald would be present, his dour demeanour tainting their lunch fare. What Sarah saw in him, Emma couldn’t imagine, unless, chameleon-like, his disposition altered the moment they were alone. Privately, Emma dubbed him “the stick insect” on account of his scrawny limbs that no amount of exercise seemed to improve. An unkind thought, she admitted, but one that brought a touch of humour to the dreary workplace atmosphere. Suppressing a sigh, she responded in the affirmative before sending an apology to Jean, positioned at the far end of the counter.

* * *

Colin Theobald was already seated when the two women entered the restaurant and appeared to be studying the “specials screen” located on the wall above the adjacent bar. He’d chosen a table in the centre rather than a private corner, so perhaps lunch would be a social occasion after all. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Theobald,’ Emma said as they approached, having been advised by Sarah to drop the ‘sir’ when meeting the Chief Allocations Officer away from the PCB.

Colin twisted around, his expression one of surprise, as though Emma was the last person he expected to see. ‘And the same to you, Emma Cartwright, or have you added your partner’s surname to yours as some citizens do these days?’

‘I’ve been Cartwright for seventy-one years, so it’s hardly worth changing.’

Colin inclined his head. ‘Sit down, you two, we haven’t got all afternoon.’

As expected, Sarah sat next to Colin, so Emma slid into the chair opposite. A waitress who was hovering nearby soon made a beeline for their table. ‘Good afternoon, citizens. Can I interest you in any of our specials, or would you prefer to see the main menu?’ She opened her tablet with a flourish.

‘Salad with a small slice of quiche, please,’ Emma said, thinking of the meal Cal had offered to make for their dinner. Pasta with stir-fry vegetables in tomato garlic sauce was bound to be filling.

‘The same for me,’ Sarah said, patting her flat stomach.

‘Boring pair,’ Colin muttered. ‘I’ll have kangaroo steak, salad and a jacket potato.’

The waitress tapped her screen. ‘Wine or other drinks, Mr Theobald?’

‘A sparkling wine. We’re celebrating.’

‘A birthday?’

‘A promotion.’

‘Congratulations, sir. Your meals won’t be long.’

Colin watched the waitress glide over polished concrete to the gleaming stainless-steel bar, his grey eyes exhibiting a hint of warmth rarely seen. Beside him, Sarah fiddled with her cutlery.

So, another rung on the ladder, Emma thought, wondering if Colin would be moving to another floor or out of the building. Either way would make little difference to her career path, limited as it was to the second floor. The office building was terra incognita from the third floor up, the remaining nine storeys being shrouded in myth. Amongst the current batch of TDKs, several envisioned dimly-lit rooms where repeat offenders – front desk speak for citizens dismissed by employers more than once – awaited transportation to prison guard positions on remote islands or mines in arid zones. Emma and Jean kept their opinions to themselves, while the latest recruit, Thomas, had yet to comment.

The wine arrived first, giving Emma the opportunity to congratulate Colin on his promotion and propose a toast. His reaction puzzled her – a twist of his thin lips that resembled a silent snigger – followed by rapid blinking. ‘Oh no, my dear Emma,’ he said finally, ‘I’m not the one moving up in the PCB world. You are!’

‘I thought promotion couldn’t occur until one year’s service had been completed?’

Colin leaned across the table. ‘Sometimes, one has to make an exception.’ Cold eyes met hers, increasing her discomfort.

‘I said from the beginning you were promotion material,’ Sarah added, raising her glass. ‘A toast to our star recruit.’

They all clinked glasses, then two of them drank deeply while the third just sipped as she struggled to digest this unexpected information. Despite the tedious nature of the front desk, Emma had hoped for a few more months of relative anonymity. Upstairs, she would be centre stage, the newcomer watched over by the experienced, every task scrutinised, every question or comment noted.

‘End of the month move,’ Colin advised. ‘We thought it best to give you a few weeks to adjust to partnered life first.’