Flashpoint by Felicity Young Page A

this?’ Leanne asked the boy.
    â€˜Last few weeks I guess,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Is thatany help?’
    â€˜Probably not, but thanks anyway.’
    Leanne left the pub knowing as little about Herb Bell’s last movements as she did when entering it. Her stomach gave an empty growl. She decided she needed a therapeutic slice of mud cake. She could question Flo at the diner while she ate.

8
    â€˜I hate him, I hate his guts.’
    Angelo looked at Ruby with astonishment. ‘That sounds a bit harsh,’ he said before taking a bite from a sandwich as big as the lunch box it had come from. A blob of mayonnaise dripped from the sandwich and collected in the cleft of his chin.
    His hands and nails were filthy, his overalls were covered in grease and his hair was gelled into short spikes. A gold ring pierced the bruising of his swollen left eyebrow. Ruby thought he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen.
    But his neutrality on the issue of her father annoyed her and made her more determined to milk her miserable life story for all it was worth.
    â€˜I’ve been asking for a pony all my life and now I’ve finally grown out of the idea, he offers to get me one. It was his way of making me want to come here. Can you imagine that? At my age, he tried to bribe me with a pony.’
    â€˜It would have been a bit hard to keep a pony in Sydney,’ Angelo said.
    He spoke as slowly as he chewed, thinking long and hard over every word, savouring them just as he savoured every bite of his lunch. He wasn’t looking at her, but somewhere off into the distance, maybe at Fleur who was sniffing around the swings or maybe at the stagnant pools of the drying river.
    Why was he always so fair and reasonable? She tried to get a hold of the emotions that blew like tangled ribbons through her mind. Sometimes even she didn’t know what she really felt.
    â€˜I think what I hate the most about him is what hedid to Mum and Zachy.’
    â€˜It’s not like he killed them, Ruby,’ Angelo said as he inched closer, his arm snaking around her waist. He took another bite of his sandwich. She listened to his chewing, the occasional drawing in of his breath. He smelt of grease, cigarettes and mayonnaise.
    â€˜No, but it’s his fault they’re dead.’ She allowed a quaver to escape into her voice. ‘If he hadn’t been a cop, they wouldn’t have died. The bomb was supposed to be for him. The bikies planted it so he wouldn’t testify against them in court. He’s guilty about it but taking it out on me. He thinks of this . . .’ she almost said dump, then remembered Angelo had always lived here ‘. . . place as home. He said he had the happiest days of his life here and he wants me to share in the fuzzy warm glow of his memories.’
    She looked up at the sky, trying not to let the tears spill. A tangle of tree branches blocked some of the blue, lacing above their heads like a net. Her father had told her how he and his mates would sit in this Moreton Bay fig and pelt innocent passers-by with the rotten fruit. They’d steal fruit from the trees in people’s gardens and play chicken on the railway track. If the monks from the Boys’ Home caught them, they were put in the boxing ring with the school champion or else they were caned until they bled. Mum had told her that part; he never spoke about the bad things. He always pretended that everything was just wonderful.
    God, how she hated all this nostalgic crap.
    â€˜He’s changed so much since we got here. He’s overprotective. He smothers me and his jokes are worse than ever.’
    Even his accent is different, she thought. He calls everyone mate, dinner has become tea and a bottom is now a bum. Mum always used to tell him off forthat kind of language, but now he used it all the time. Before long he’d be blowing his nose onto the pavement. She looked at the boy beside her. And