The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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СКАЧАТЬ Suze across her shoulders in a fireman's lift. Trigga was not much shorter than me, but she was thin and wiry, and an unconscious body is incredibly hard to manoeuvre.

      With a rueful snort I climbed out. 'You take her shoulders. I'll take her legs.'

      We struggled up the path of a three-storey block of flats built in the '30s. Inside, it smelt of mould and cabbage. I heard a woman arguing in Polish. I glanced at the stairs. No lift.

      'Which floor?'

      Trigga hesitated.

      I grinned. 'Let me guess. Third floor?'

      'You don't have to do this. I can manage.'

      It was patently untrue, so I asked, 'Do you want to go backwards or will I?'

      She grimaced a smile, then secured her hold on Suze who was moaning softly, too far gone to help herself. 'I will.'

      We managed, carrying Suze between us. It gave me time to wonder what was in this for Trigga. Her actions didn't match her rep.

      We reached the top floor a little out of breath. Too much sitting, driving cabs for me.

      'Put her down here,' Trigga said. 'And thanks. I'll be right now.' She turned her back to unlock the flat door. Clearly, she found it hard to accept help.

      When she turned around I had Suze's legs again. Trigga said nothing while we carried the girl into the flat. It was spartan, except for a bookshelf made of planks and bricks, which was loaded with novels. After we placed Suze on the mattress in the bedroom, I wandered back to the living room. I just had to look at the bookshelf.

      Penguin classics. Hundreds of them. A whole set of Jane Austens and Georgette Heyers. I knew the latter were Regency Romances because Joe read them. But Trigger reading Austen and Heyer?

      'You a big reader?' Trigga asked when she found me hovering over the bookshelf.

      'Uh, no.' I put the The Black Sheep back. 'Better go. Gotta earn a crust.'

      She nodded and walked me to the door which was still open. I got as far as the stairs at the top of the landing before she called, 'Hey, O'Toole. Did you hear about the nine-year-old runaway?'

      'They found her?' Relief hit me, then I tensed seeing Trigga's expression. I feared the worst, recalling Mad Moll's talk of innocent souls being sacrificed. 'Is she-'

      'She'd been raped, burned with cigarettes.'

      The gorge rose in my throat. I wanted to hit something. 'Bastards!'

      Trigga watched my reaction.

      'Men like that oughta be put down.' I meant it.

      She nodded then closed her door. I headed downstairs, seething. If only I'd found the girl before they did. I could have taken her to Des's halfway house. If only. Frustrated rage filled me.

      The cold night air hit my face as I stepped out into the dark street. I took a couple of deep breaths but it was no use. No matter how I tried, I could not remain unmoved by that child's fate. I wanted to find the bastards who tortured her and make them pay. God knows, they deserved it. And the worst thing was, I probably knew them.

      I knew everyone on the Street by sight, and seemed to have a radar for runaways. St Kilda was filled with them. They flocked here because it was easy to live on the fringes of the adult world. Too young to go on the dole, they modelled themselves on the 16-year-old hardened veterans.

      When I reached the cab the smell of vomit struck me and I headed for the car wash. That fare had cost me more than it made and what had I learnt? The little girl was safe; if you could call it safe. Suze'd had her baby. Moon Face was back and this time he was dealing in heroin.

      Meeting him had been my baptism to Street life. After Joyce dumped me I'd moved into St Kilda and started driving cabs. My second night out, Moon Face hailed me. He was an obese, neuter of a man who had collapsed into the back seat. I mistook him for a drunk.

      'Where to?' I'd asked.

      'Just drive.' He massaged his face, fingers kneading his pudgy features like dough. 'Down by the Esplanade.'

      Putting the car into gear, I studied him surreptitiously. He was trembling as he tried to pull the lid off a cough lolly tin. We were a block away, making a left-hand turn when two police cars drew up outside the flats. Moon Face sank low in the seat. My heart thudded. I kept going.

      After swallowing something, Moon Face resealed the tin. We had turned onto the lower Esplanade before he spoke. 'You see those cops?'

      I nodded.

      A dry hacking sound came from Moon Face's chest. With mingled distaste and shock, I realised he was sobbing.

      'Jesus,' he muttered raggedly. 'Jesus. They would've found her by now.'

      My stomach muscles clenched. Flicking on the indicator, I guided the car to the kerb and turned off the meter. It was then that I decided not to get involved. 'That'll be three bucks.'

      'What?'

      'Three bucks,' I repeated, trying to slide the wrench from its resting place beside my seat. The blokes down at the depot had told me to be prepared, but I'd thought they were having me on.

      'Jesus, you're a hard bastard. There's a dead kid back there. She's fucking dead,' he repeated. Then the outrage simply drained away. 'She was just lying there, her hair spread out on the yellow pillow. Lying there next to me-' Another shudder wracked him.

      I realised he wasn't drunk. He was in shock.

      'Robin and me, we came back from a party. We were both pretty high,' another of those obscene barking sobs interrupted him. 'And when I woke up she was still, cold like. Her face was all closed up, dead on the yellow pillow.'

      He kept repeating the bit about the yellow pillow like he couldn't forget it, and neither had I.

      That was nearly a year ago. Since then, the things I'd heard had filled in the picture. Robin, the dead girl, had been 14 years old. When her obituary appeared in the paper, there was no mention of drugs. It merely said that she would be sadly missed by the staff and girls of the children's home.

      Then there was Mick; Thick Mick as he was known on the Street. At 17 he was older than most of Moon Face's hangers-on, but then, he was simple. They said Thick Mick died of heart failure. He would've lived despite his heart condition, if it hadn't been for the drugs. By calling it heart failure, they were able to hide his death in the statistics. Everyday murders. No one really knows how many kids are killed by the drugs and despair, and who really cares? They were disposable lives.

      A knot of anger churned in my gut as the spinning brushes of the car wash retreated. I started the engine and drove out on the street. So kids were dying on the Street. What could I do?

      When Moon Face had disappeared two months ago I'd been relieved, but apparently he was making contacts and now he was back. Was Moon Face the bastard who did the nine-year-old girl?

      I dismissed this. I'd never known him to be deliberately cruel.

      The thought of what they did to that little runaway made me sick. If only СКАЧАТЬ