Chapter 12
I’ve been trying to ditch Persephone for an hour when I notice a man loitering in the mouth of Kenny Lane.
There’s a sense of menace about him, which is oddly exciting.
He’s dressed in jeans and a black bomber jacket—too well dressed to be homeless or a council worker.
Thirty-odd, luscious dark brown hair, slicked.
Black jeans, hands in pockets. An Italian Stallion.
He’s wearing sunglasses despite the overcast day.
I wonder if the fact that he looks suspicious to me is my confirmation bias at work.
I’ve been told the human brain is magnificent at making you see things that aren’t there when you feel unsafe, and yet it feels as though this chap has wandered out of central casting, having auditioned for the role of “shady character.”
It has to be said, Kenny Lane isn’t a lovely suburban street.
In recent years it has gained an appeal from trendy young folk who like the inner-city location and who have been forced to give up the dream of large backyards, butler’s pantries, and walk-in wardrobes due to the cost-of-living crisis, but in its heyday, it was considered a dive.
Due to its proximity to a police station, several nightclubs, and a highly suspect massage parlor, we get our share of unsavory folks.
I don’t mind it—I quite enjoy the people-watching—but it’s not uncommon to hear the blare of the police siren as it screams around the corner or the raised voices of newly aggressive men picking fights after too many beers.
It’s part and parcel of where I live, and normally I accept it with the good humor of an elderly woman who hasn’t enough money to move anywhere else.
But ever since I discovered that Joan—and possibly others—know who I am, I feel … less good-humored about it.
I look around and find Persephone gone. Excellent news, obviously, though irritatingly, without her iridescent Hula-Hoop. I sigh and remove it from my rosebushes as the Italian Stallion starts down the laneway.
He pauses at Roxanne’s place. Her porch is an exact replica of my own, and of the houses on either side of it, if a little shabbier on account of it being a rental. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement on Roxanne’s porch.
Persephone. She’s half hidden behind a sad-looking yucca in a terra-cotta pot. Her face is scrunched up as though she’s trying to make herself smaller.
I walk out into the lane.
“Can I help you?”
The man glances over at me. As he does, Persephone creeps across her porch and lets herself in the front door. She closes it behind her.
“Actually, yes,” the man says. “Does Roxanne live on this street?”
“Roxanne?” I cock my head, peer to the heavens. “No. No Roxannes. We did have a Suzanne once, but she didn’t last long and that was over twenty years ago. Now we have Joan—she’s in her mid-sixties. Peter—late sixties.” I point in his direction. Peter, playing Tavli on his porch, looks over at us.
“The Nguyens over there. Ishaan—he’s dead. And”—I point to Roxanne’s house—“a bunch of university students live in that one. I’m not sure of all their names, to be honest.”
I see from his expression that he doesn’t quite trust me. “Oh. I was sure she lived here. She’s a young woman. Has a little daughter around six years old.”
Now I shake my head more confidently.
“No children on this street. Believe me, I’d have noticed that.”
A whisper of a smile comes to his lips.
A curtain twitches at Roxanne’s house. That’s when I notice Persephone’s round face tucked in the bottom corner of her front window, watching.
“Everything all right, Else?” Peter shouts from his porch. He regards the Stallion.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
But he goes and gets to his feet. The Stallion turns to face him. “You live here?”
“I certainly do.”
“Do you know Roxanne?”
Peter opens his mouth, ready to sing like a canary. He even turns to look at her house. At some point before projecting, he catches himself. His gaze touches mine.
“Er, no. No, I don’t.”
Unfortunately he caught himself too late.
The Stallion smiles. “That one, is it? Thanks, pops.”
Peter walks into the laneway and I feel a twinge of worry.
I can practically see the adrenaline building under his skin until he sees the size disparity between him and the Stallion.
Peter is fit and on the tall side, but he’s also an elderly man.
The Italian Stallion, on the other hand, is reminiscent of Russell Crowe in his Gladiator days.
Some of the heat goes out of Peter’s voice.
“I hope you’re not here to cause any trouble. This is a quiet street, but a very well-located one. The cops are right around the corner, they can be here in thirty seconds. Shall I call them?”
Peter keeps a straight face, bless him. While it’s true that the cops are around the corner, the last time someone from Kenny Lane called—the Nguyens after an aggravated break-in—they didn’t arrive for hours.
In fact, they only showed their faces after Peter walked down there and threatened to call A Current Affair and say that the police were disregarding the safety and well-being of elderly citizens.
The man opens his mouth just as Joan powers into the street in her orthotic footwear, back from her walk. A younger man—perhaps the nephew—is by her side. The Stallion notices them, but it’s hard to tell if it’s their arrival or the threat of the cops that sparks his departure.
“Tell Roxanne that Shane is looking for her,” he says.
Peter and I follow him out of the street, several steps back, and look both ways to make sure he’s gone. Only when I’m sure he is do I glance toward Roxanne’s front window. Persephone’s face is gone.