Screw Loose by Chris Wheat Page B

MIRROR
BALL, BABE
    K HIEM D AO’S PHONE BEEPED . It was Chelsea Dean: ‘U need work?’
    He had the job at New World, but he needed a bigger cash flow to keep him away from thug life. Chelsea Dean, however, was a major pain in the proverbial. She’d always treated him like a charity case. Once she ’ d tried to train him to be a boyfriend-for-hire to some of her stuck-up Magdalene girlfriends; on another occasion she’d conned Zeynep Yarkan into letting him stay in Zeynep’s old cubbyhouse, which he’d unfortunately burnt down. As a social worker Chelsea was a dud, and this might be another attempt. But then again, she was single and cute in her own bunnywabbit-on-speed kind of way.
    He’d never ask his aunty for money. She knew he was bad, and she was always harsh towards him. People told her he was no good.
    â€˜Sure,’ he messaged.
    This was the new Khiem Dao: two jobs, creaming them all at school, Vo Vietnam black belt soon, straight as a die – and two hundred and seventy DVD s still under his bed.
    He moved to the window to look out across the houses and trees towards the hills at the edge of the city. Being on the fifth floor gave him a great view. Seagulls skimmed at eye level. He could see Chelsea’s house in the distance, above the river, not far from the tower of Mary Magdalene Ladies’ College – that smorgasbord of stuck-up girls in a garden of Eden. Chelsea’s family was rich – rich enough not to know if small stuff went missing. He’d thought about burging the place once when he’d visited. That was in the old days, though; the bad days when he didn’t care about anything except drugs and quick cash.
    The phone went again. He looked at the screen. Chelsea.
    â€˜Come now.’
    Chelsea gave orders as if she ran the school. But she was a bit of a rebel – he liked that.
    He should change his shirt if he was going to see her, because he was still sweating after Vo Vietnam training. He was getting back into it after a two-year lapse. They were glad to have him again. His uniform, blue like the sky, was now folded carefully over his chair. Respect the uniform, respect yourself, respect others.
    Khiem padded to his bedroom and pulled on a clean T-shirt, then he kicked the DVD s and went back to the window to look at Chelsea’s house again. He could just make out the balcony above the pool. She wasn’t on it. She lived in the mega-rich area of the city. Hundreds of thousands of Aussies lived in those green eastern suburbs, sheltered by waves of green trees. An ocean of green trees. If Khiem became Chelsea’s toy boy, she could send signals to him from her bedroom window on that hill. Click, click. Come quick. He’d grab his bike and pedal up to her place in the middle of the night to sip fine wines in her spa and watch the little spinning lights flashing from the mirror ball and the little floating candles and rose petals shimmering on the surface of the water. She’d pay top dollar for his company.
    Khiem shook his head. He couldn’t remember her address, although he did recall a painting of a naked lady halfway up their staircase. That showed how rich they were. They had nudes.
    â€˜Address?’ he messaged, just in case he got the wrong house.
    She responded instantly: ‘4 Petworth Close.’
    He grabbed his jacket, keys, phone and bike, and headed for the door. There was a family in the hall waiting for the lift. Their accent was Northern. The flats were like a mini Vietnam.
    Outside, Khiem checked his tyres. Crappy ride there, nice ride home. He’d be sweating like a pig again by the time he got to the top of Chelsea’s hill, even though it was still cold. She wouldn’t like him if he stank. She’d probably suggest they have a spa immediately, before their late afternoon of love. Start up the mirror ball, babe! He doubled back and got his deodorant.

HAVE BABIES
WITH ME!
    C RAIG R