Chapter 3
The Magnetic Fields hummed and whistled in Tabby’s ears as she stared at the minimal stars afforded by north suburban skies. Her headphones were noise-cancelling, and she couldn’t have heard her sisters crying or talking inside the house behind her even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to.
She was sitting on the porch, beneath which had been the owl backpack that she’d failed to collect all those years ago. And from her seat, she had a clear view of the back gate where she’d failed to show up in time to get kidnapped.
The joint burning between Tabby’s fingers wasn’t doing much, but maybe nothing would at this point.
She’d always seen herself as motherless, like the Disney princesses. Or Frodo Baggins. She’d been raised by wolves. Raised by her dad. Raised by Brunswick. But that wasn’t true. Once upon a time, she’d been raised by Jo—Jo of the tarot card tattoo and surprisingly youthful ass. Jo was her mother. The information still refused to sink into Tabby’s brain. Instead, it skipped over the surface like a stone. Not having a mum was who she was; it was the story she’d told her whole life. She didn’t know how to change that narrative to one where she was actively ignoring the woman who gave birth to her. Where Jo, the friendly, normal-seeming person who’d talked to her about her boy problems, had once tried to lure her away from home.
Easier to absorb was the fact Noah was in contact with her dad.
It made sense that he hadn’t actually vanished without a trace. It also made sense he’d put his trust in Noah—the guy who said five words a year and owed him a life debt on account of giving him a job that wasn’t cracking skulls.
Back in the day, she’d have held the information over Noah’s head. Tried to be funny or cute. Now she couldn’t think of anything she wanted less.
Because if Noah and her dad were in touch, her dad knew what had gone down in the years since he left and he still hadn’t come home. Not for the attempted studio arson, or Midnight the cat getting sick and needing to be put down, or Noah and Nicole’s wedding, or the miscarriages, or the twins turning thirty…
Or Sparkling Whine failing. Or Toby ditching me.
Tabby’s eyes burned as tears fought their way through weed smoke. Her dad was the only person she’d have been able to tell about Toby. She’d always been able to talk to him about guys and love and sex. He was completely non-judgemental and kind. He listened, and he gave better advice than anyone on earth. They’d spent so many nights on this porch, sharing a joint and talking about everything and anything, memories more precious than pearls to her now.
And who was he in contact with? Noah. A guy who had legitimately shattered people’s hands over botched amphetamine deals. It was bullshit.
A faint noise made Tabby turn. Speak of the devil, her brother-in-law emerged from the door behind her. Backlit by the porch light, he glowed like an angel.
“A Hells Angel,” she said, her voice muffled by her headphones. Noah said something inaudible, and she pulled them from her ears. Night sounds rushed in—crickets, cars, faint air-conditioner wooshing.
“How are you?” Noah asked.
“I’m not gonna lie, Noah. I’m dogshit.”
“Fair.” He pulled a small, familiar packet from his back pocket, and Tabby almost spat out her joint. “You’re smoking again?”
Noah glared at her as he lit up. “Stressful time.”
“You mean about my mum or…?”
He said nothing, but his eyes were hollow as empty graves as he lit up his Pall Mall. Despite what she’d just learned about him, Tabby’s heart twisted for her brother-in-law. Nix wanted to be open about her fertility issues, but Noah had always played things close to the chest. He had a big heart under his blackwork tats, and each miscarriage hit him like an axe.
Tabby knew in some caveman recess of his brain, Noah blamed himself. She’d watched him get angrier and angrier in the last few months, snapping at some dude trying to shove his dried-out Christmas tree into their green bin and almost starting a fight with a guy staring at Nix’s rack at the churro place around the corner. And now Nicole was pregnant again, but he didn’t seem happy or excited, only braced for more disaster.
“Everything’s okay,” she told Noah. “Nix and Sam will be fine. It’ll all work out for the best.”
His eyes softened over his cigarette. He exhaled smoke and then, to her surprise, sat down on the step beside her. He was so big he looked like a hunched-over grizzly bear.
“Seriously,” he said. “How are you?”
She shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
“You don’t need to see her ever again.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Blood isn’t family.”
But it is blood, Tabby thought as she watched Noah draw deeply on his cigarette. “Does Nix know you’re punching darts?”
He shook his head.
“How are you gonna hide the smell?”
“I’ll go home after this. Take a shower.”
“Seems like a lot of work.”
“Don’t wanna worry her. She’s got enough on her plate.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell her about Dad?”
Noah said nothing.
“I know,” Tabby said again. “I know you know where he is.”
He still said nothing.
“I think you’ve known the whole time. It never sat right with me that Dad would leave with no way to check in if something went seriously wrong.”
Noah ground his cigarette out on the step and pulled out a fresh one.
“I think you’ve got his number. I think he calls you every month or so to touch base, hear all the stories and find out how we are. I think that’s why he’s lasted this long, even though he must miss all of us. Because you’re giving him highlight reels.”
Noah’s lighter snapped in front of his face. “You’re smart, Tabs. No one can deny that.”
“Yeah, big fucking deal. Are you gonna tell Dad about Jo? I mean… Mum?”
He took a deep drag.
“Think he’ll come back if you do?” she pressed.
Noah turned away, and she took that to mean he didn’t know.
“I think he’d come back,” she said. “Even Dad’s not omnipotent enough to have seen this coming.”
Still nothing.
Noticing her joint was out, Tabby snatched Noah’s lighter and ignited it. “So,” she said, exhaling sweeter smoke than what was pouring from Noah’s cigarette. “Who else knows?”
Noah’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “No one.”
He was lying, but Tabby knew better than to push it. His shoulders were set, and his green eyes were wary—he was ready to walk at any moment.
“Sam was right,” she said, trying a different tact. “He’s been gone forever at this point. He’s just being an asshole.”
Her brother-in-law bristled the way she’d hoped he would. “Maybe he knows everything isn’t done yet.”
“Or maybe he’s gotten tied down wherever he’s living, which is Bali, I think. Ubud. He lived there before we were born. He liked it out there.”
The tiniest of creases in Noah’s brow. So it was true, all the things she’d suspected. So many times since he’d been gone, she’d thought about flying to Indonesia and starting a massive manhunt, but now she knew it would have been pointless. Noah would have just called ahead to warn him, and Edgar DaSilva would have been smoke in the wind.
Noah had kept their dad from them. Gone behind their backs. Lied to their faces by omission. She balled her fist, digging her nails into her palm.
“Tabby...”
“What?”
“Don’t tell Nikki. Please. Your dad… I asked him not to… he wanted…”
Hearing the strain in his voice, Tabby uncurled her hands. As much as it sucked, as much as she wanted to hate Noah, she knew why he’d done what he did. He loved her dad and probably promised not to tell her, Sam, or Nix anything about where he was. He’d been put in an impossible situation. And after he and Nix fell in love, how was he supposed to be like, ‘Surprise! I knew where your dad was this whole time!’
She returned her gaze to the night sky with its half-assed stars. Hardly anyone wanted to do bad things on purpose. Maybe even no one. People just did what they thought was right. People tried their best.
Even Mum? Even Toby?
She clenched her joint-free hand again. Everything was suddenly too sharp, like when Sam had come into the studio and told her who Jo was.
“It would be easier if I could hate her,” she said. “But I don’t hate her. I liked her.”
“You don’t know her.”
“What?”
“She was lying to you,” Noah muttered. “You didn’t meet her. You met a liar.”
“You don’t know that! I did meet her, and I did like her!”
Noah’s face was impassive. “Think whatever you want. But you don’t know her.”
Tabby glared at him, but she might as well have glared at the sky. Unlike the guy fly-tipping his dead Christmas tree, she knew Noah wouldn’t give her a fight.
Instead, they sat side by side as she finished her joint, and Noah hammered a third coffin nail. The night’s colour seemed to drain in the veil of their co-mingled smoke, turning the backyard into a shadowy jungle.
She wasn’t sure where the brightness had gone. Just like she wasn’t sure when she’d started pretending to be herself. These past few years, things had begun to fade like a couch bleached by the afternoon sun until, one day, everything was washed out. But there had to be colour somewhere, even if it wasn’t in Brunswick.
Years ago, she’d spent a few months in Cartagena, a beachside town along Colombia’s Caribbean coast. There was an art scene there, a tattoo scene, great live music, and white sand beaches. She’d rented a room off a local family and still talked to the eldest daughter, Mia. The Acostas could help her get settled while she looked for a tattooing gig. She still spoke decent Spanish and had a few friends in the area already teed up. What more could she want?
Beside her, Noah shifted, and she returned from her vibrant South American fantasy to suburban black and white. She’d always loved Melbourne, always called Brunswick home, but what was here besides family drama and the risk of finding Toby Tennant fornicating at every bar in town?
She imagined going upstairs, packing her bags and heading straight for the Tullamarine Airport, and lightness flooded through her.
I’m getting out of here, she told herself. I’m fucking gone.
“What’s up?” Noah asked.
Tabby realised she was shaking with excitement. She made herself go still. “You gonna tell me where Dad is or what?”
He grunted, leaving her free to return to her rapidly expanding plans.
Getting a job in Cartagena wouldn’t be a problem. She could guest tattoo in one of the existing studios or rent a place and advertise on social media. She’d done it a hundred times before. The problem was startup capital. After all the Sparkling Whine bullshit, she had about six hundred bucks in savings, and that was it. Nothing to start a life with while she built a client base in Cartagena. Not even enough for a dodgy ‘definitely going to get hit with a loose trolley during turbulence’ flight. Where could she get money? And without her sisters or Scott and Noah noticing? The Melbourne tattoo world was pretty small and if she started posting flash sales on Instagram, someone would tell Sam she was moonlighting. She needed a whale. A big client who’d pay extra for something?—
She froze, the solution so apparent she was surprised Noah hadn’t heard her thinking it. She knew the exact perfect whale. Sure, they sucked and were a cunt, but if she was leaving—and Jesus fuck, she was leaving—it didn’t matter. Toby Tennant would pay. She was pretty sure he’d pay anything for the chance to shove his dick in her face and laugh at her.
She shot to her feet so fast that her roach fell to the ground. “I’m outta here,” she told Noah. “Give my sisters my regards.”
“Where you going?”
“I’ll be home later,” she said, walking toward the back gate. The kidnapping gate, as she would now always think of it.
“Tabby? Where are you going?”
She didn’t answer. She was twenty-seven, and she could do what she wanted. Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to Cartagena tonight. First, she needed to lay plans. Flicking open the slightly rusty gate latch, she headed into the nature reserve behind the house. Her heart was going gangbusters, and she took several deep breaths before pulling out her phone. It was crazy she hadn’t deleted his number; that it was still so easy to connect two points and establish a link between them. Many, many times, she’d thought about erasing his contact profile in case she went ape on LSD and called him, but she was glad she hadn’t. Ignoring her trembling fingers, she clicked on his number and watched the call come to life.
He won’t pick up, she told herself. Why would he?—
“Hello, Tabitha.”
Her phone wasn’t even near her ear when she heard his smooth, smug voice. Casual as though they spoke every day. Worse. As though he was inside her. She remembered the hot rasp of his tongue between her legs, the feel of his cock slowly stretching her ass. Then she saw him in the Village Belle, kissing two girls who weren’t her. Trembling for an entirely different reason, she brought the phone to her ear. “Let’s get something straight, you absolute candle. This isn’t me forgiving you.”
Toby laughed like an arrogant cowhole. “For what?”
“Fuck you. Want a tattoo from me or not?”
“You interested in doing it?”
“I’m not interested. But I will do it.”
“Excellent,” Toby said. “What do you?—”
“Shut up.” Her head was pounding, and years of pent-up anger poured from her like wine. “I’m gonna repeat my earlier point and say I’m not doing this by choice. I think you’re a capitalist swine, and when the time comes, I hope you get executed on live TV, and a bunch of impoverished children play in your guts.”
Toby—the asshole—chuckled. “Bit aggressive for someone who wants my business, Tabitha.”
“Well, you’re no longer a virgin, so you owe me.”
There was a shifting sound, as though Toby was moving into a more comfortable position on a couch. “It’s gonna be like that, huh?”
“It sure is. And on that note, my prices have gone up.”
“Money’s not an issue for me.”
Fucking cunt. “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Tell it to James Packer. I want ten grand.”
There was a pause in which Tabby wondered if she’d lost her mind. That was more than she, Sam or Noah had ever made on even the most elaborate commissions at Silver Daughters. Toby was going to hang up on her. No, he was going to call the cops and report her for extortion. He was going to text Sam and?—
“Fine.”
“Huh?”
“Ten grand. Done. Can we start this week?”
Tabby almost fell into a clump of blackberry brambles. She knew it was poor negotiating to question a yes, but she couldn’t help it. “You heard me, right? Ten grand?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” Toby repeated. “When can I come by the studio? I can move some stuff around and?—”
“F-f-fuck that,” Tabby said, almost choking in her hurry to stop him sashaying into Silver Daughters. “This is off the books, fuckface. We’ll do it at your place.”
A longer, even more loaded pause and Tabby could have slapped herself. “This isn’t a sex thing.”
“Sure,” Toby said smoothly. “Tomorrow?”
“Pump the brakes, douchehole. You need to tell me what you want so I can draw it up.”
“So, let’s go get a drink.”
Her heart gave a tight squeeze. She wasn’t dressed up, had no makeup on. She’d need to go inside and change, then duck out again, but yes. Fuck it. She wanted to have a drink with Toby. To get out of her house and her head and damn the consequences. “You mean now?”
“No,” he laughed. “I’ve got people coming over.”
Tabby’s hopes plummeted through the dirt trail, through the earth’s crust, right into hell. “By ‘people,’ do you mean ‘a woman?’”
“You’ll need to add a plural to that.”
“Congrats,” Tabby hissed, her voice cold as Ganymede. “Well, enjoy being a nouveau-rich fuckhole cliché but always remember that before me, the only box you ever got came with Spicy Wicked Wings, you fucking virgin.”
She moved to hang up, but Toby was too fast.
“Hang on. What about tomorrow?”
Tabby paused, her brain working around and through the anger to practicality. There was gold in these hills. A chance to pay Toby Tennant back for being such a shitbag. In this moment, she didn’t give a fuck about the money. She wanted revenge as badly as Sam ever had. “You’re in St Kilda now, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She calculated the furthest distance she could reasonably get away with suggesting. “Meet me in Footscray at 8 p.m. Bar Josephine. And have a good fucking think about what you want because we’re getting this done as fast as possible. And if you waste my time, you can fuck off and draw the whole fucking thing yourself.”
She ended the call, her body juddering like a wind-up toy. Fuck Toby Tennant. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.