Queen of the Night by Leanne Hall

embarrassment. ‘I’ll get a big head.’
    ‘Not a chance.’
    Ortie reaches out and absentmindedly fiddles with a dress hem. ‘I sort of understand where her mum is coming from. I lie to Diana sometimes if she needs protecting from a certain truth. I’m not excusing what she did—it was misguided—but I do understand that… tigress feeling.’
    ‘It’s done now,’ I say. ‘Everything is fucked.’
    ‘I think you can still save it.’
    ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I’ve got other things to worry about.’ I stare at the phalanx of draped mannequins guarding the front window.
    ‘You mean Paul?’ asks Ortolan, and I nod, but I don’t tell her about Doctor Gregory and the blue people.
    ‘I don’t want to add to your worries, Jethro,’ Ortolan hesitates. ‘But I need to talk to you about Blake.’
    ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘What happened?’
    Already I’m thinking of possibilities: Diana cutting up her bedspread, or filling the bath with tinned spaghetti, or running a flying fox from the first-floor window. All things she’s tried to get me to agree to in the past.
    ‘Diana said that Blake took her out of the house last night.’
    ‘No,’ I say straightaway. ‘Blake wouldn’t do that.’
    ‘That’s what my first thought was. But Diana said very clearly, several times when I asked her, that Blake took her to see the Queen of the Night.’
    ‘The Queen of the Night? What’s that? Is it a movie?’
    ‘No, Diana said it’s a person.’ Ortie sighs. ‘I know, it sounds like a game or something made-up. When I asked Diana if she meant a real or pretend person, she said real. Not that that means anything.’
    ‘It’s not like her to lie to you, though. She tells you everything.’
    ‘That’s true. She also tells me she had a tea party with the moon.’
    ‘I’m so sorry, Ortie. I thought Blake could be trusted.’
    ‘It’s not your fault. But can you ask Blake about it? I’ll feel better if I know exactly what happened.’ Ortolan goes to the lacquered desk in the far corner.
    ‘Here.’ She hands me a piece of ribbon. I take it, confused. ‘I think this is going to help you solve a few things.’

    Blake isn’t in her bedroom when I get home, so I double back to Paul’s room at the front of the house. The room is unsurprisingly empty and stale. Paul still hasn’t been home. No satchel. I check under the blow-up camping mattress. Nothing. I’m not sure what I’m looking for anyway. My throat still feels raw.
    I message Thom to see if Paul crashed at the cottage last night, but he could be behind the brick walls of the Datura Institute for all I know. I can’t believe this has been happening right under my nose.
    There’s an inner tube in the far corner, and a messy stack of papers being held down by a tin of baked beans: a stash of flyers, some for our gigs, some for other bands, black market sales, and a two-month-old ticket for a party at the old municipal pool. Nothing with the Datura Institute logo on it. Then I see Paul’s spidery handwriting on the back of the pool party ticket.
    Velodrome
    Sunday, darkest night
    I stare at it. There’s only one velodrome in Shyness. It’s close to my old high school. As far as I know the cycling track and club has been abandoned for years. Although I probably wouldn’t know if something was there. The last time I was close by was that night with Nia, on our wayto Orphanville. We were stopped by three Kidds dressed as pirates.
    And one of them did say something about the velodrome.
    I strain to remember the pirate captain’s exact words.
    She said: As soon as I saw you I thought you were off to the velo. The bike place. The dog place.

    I’ve underestimated how eerie the walk to the velodrome is going to be. As soon as I cross the misty creek I regret not riding. The creek and the corridor of parkland have changed in six months. More dead trees have toppled, the undergrowth has rotted flat, trying to meld with the ground.
    My mind can’t settle: