Predictably, the call to Will goes to voicemail. I leave a message and hope by the time we get to the station, he’ll have called back. Will doesn’t handle criminal stuff, but I’m sure he can recommend someone good.
“How old is he now? Oh. I don’t even know his name,” Greer says as we speed up the south side of Spit Hill. I have no idea how we got here this quickly.
“He’s seventeen. His name’s Tyrone.” I wince as I say it because she snorts out a laugh.
“Seriously? Tyrone? Did they want him to get bullied?” The laugh I can’t hold back feels good, breaking the tension that’s been winding tighter inside my chest since my brother called me. This whole thing is throwing me right back into my teenage years. I’m glad Tyrone felt he had someone to call. Even if it was only me.
“Yeah. Well, his mother’s an idiot. What can I say? I think he mostly goes by Ty.”
“And why wouldn’t you?” We travel in silence for a few minutes before she adds, “You know, if he’s seventeen, then he’s still a minor. That should work in his favour, surely?”
“Christ, I hope so.” Greer’s calm certainty is helping bring my anxiety back down to a manageable level.
“I didn’t know you guys were in touch.”
“We weren’t. I haven’t laid eyes on him since he was … maybe five or six? When Dad heard I was coming back to Sydney, he sent Ty my number. For emergencies. I guess this qualifies. How fucked up is that?”
Greer says nothing in response. Just pats my hand, which is running up and down my thigh.
I contemplate calling my father, who now lives on the Gold Coast, and decide it’s best left until we’ve at least seen Ty and know what the situation is.
We’re whizzing through the Harbour Tunnel, nudging the speed limit, when the phone rings. It’s Will, who does know someone who can help and offers to co-ordinate them. I give him what little information I have, and he tells me he’ll keep me posted.
Nearly forty minutes after Tyrone’s call we pull up outside the police station and head inside. Not bad for a trip from Manly to Bondi on a Saturday morning. Maybe Greer missed her calling as a drag racer.
They take us through the station to an interview room. It smells of sweat and fear. Tyrone is sitting in a plastic chair, looking very much the worse for wear. He gives me a chin tip and a face full of attitude. The little shit. A middle-aged cop with a doughnut belly and thinning hair comes in and fills me in on what Ty’s been up to. It’s an impressive list. Speeding, drunk driving, drugs in his system, and trying to avoid an RBT before crashing his car into a hedge at the front of a nursing home. None of which seems to have had much effect on his attitude as he gives the cop an insolent sneer. At least he wasn’t hurt, other than a bruise on his forehead from the airbag.
“Are you the next of kin? Guardian?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m his older brother.” The cop looks like he’s about to tell me I can’t help, which isn’t going to work.
“Mum is overseas. Dad’s in Queensland,” Ty tells him. I roll my eyes. It all feels far too familiar.
I can see by the weary look in his eyes the cop understands the situation all too well. There’s a lot of kids in this area with more money than sense and not enough adult supervision. He’s about to launch into why Tyrone can’t be released into my custody when there’s a knock on the door.
A tiny woman in the world’s ugliest suit, carrying a battered briefcase, walks in.
“Susan Kirby.” She introduces herself, shaking my hand before turning to the cop. “Lawyer for the accused. I hope you weren’t talking to my client without a lawyer present, Sergeant,” she adds, in a voice I imagine wouldn’t go astray in a military school.
We all instinctively sit up a little straighter in our chairs. Even the cop.
Tyrone is the only one who seems impervious. He gives her a scathing once-over. She might not look impressive at first glance; however, in the two minutes between when she introduces herself, and we all walk out, we’re left in no doubt about who the boss is. Including my bolshy younger brother.
We cross the road to a nearby café and settle in. Greer gets us some water, glasses and menus. Susan gets right to business, telling Tyrone how it’s going to be.
“This will only work if you do exactly as I say. Which starts with you staying squeaky clean until this is all resolved.” Her laser eyes pin Ty to his chair. He’s got balls because he gives it one last try.
“What do you mean …” he starts to argue until her hand flies up in a stop motion.
“Are we clear?” she barks.
He looks ready for another objection, so I give him a swift kick under the table.
“Yes,” he mutters.
“Yes, what?” I aim for the type of glare Harry has perfected, and catch a small grin from Greer, so maybe I got close.
“Yes, ma’am,” he manages, with a little less attitude.
