Beneath the overpass, the walls are covered in graffiti but only one piece belongs to Xavier and it’s unfinished.

The whole area stinks. Stagnant river water, bird shit and years of drunks using the walls as urinals.

I walk the narrow bike path running alongside the water; above me, the bridge yawns across the Yarra. The bridge foundations are on my right, forming a high, graffiti-covered wall; water drips down the pylons, little trails of green, brown and grey. Pigeons coo from the bridge beams above, daring me to look up.

I hurry past Xavier’s unfinished piece, footsteps echoing.

The path is clear. Nothing in the scrub alongside it.

But this is the place. This is where I saw Dave, hiding under the overpass like a troll waiting for passing goats. This is where Steve saw Xavier.

It’s still. Cold. Quiet.

I walk out from under the bridge to where a thick carpet of green covers the bank; at the top, a narrow dirt road leads to the Children’s Farm.

I wade uphill through the knotted undergrowth, keeping close to the side of the bridge. My boots rip a path through the creepers; I watch my feet but can’t stop thinking how nearby children are playing with guinea pigs, their parents looking on with dopey smiles, cameras flashing. Maybe if I close my eyes and breathe quietly I’ll hear their laughter, their squeals of delight.

I kick something. Something black, square, about the size of my hand.

I bend, pick it up – a wallet, gritty with dirt and leaves. My heart beats hard, pulsing in my ears. I stay crouched, trembling hands as I flip it open. No money, no ID. A couple of receipts, damp and hard to read – a milk bar, an ATM statement, something . . . I don’t know.

I can only make out one word.

Galaxy.

I drop the wallet and shoot to standing, body tense. Rigid.

All I do is breathe.

In.

Out.

I stare at the wallet. Galaxy, galaxy, galaxy . . .

And then I move. So fast. Everything’s a rush. I swipe at the undergrowth, vines pull tight against my forearms. I don’t stop, I can’t stop. I have to find him.

There has to be more. Some sign. Some hope.

My jeans are wet through, heavy and damp. Uphill. Tangled. Stumbling.

I have to find him.

I have to tell him I get it. The kind of person who steals four and a half grand just to buy a gift so he’ll be liked is someone who doesn’t know what it means to be loved.

That kind of person is lonely.

Is crying out for help.

Is lost.

I get it.

I reach the top, knee deep in a tangle of green. Where the bridge meets the road there’s a gap, a concrete cave about two metres high, five metres deep, a floor of dirt. A troll’s cave.

It’s dark inside.

But I can see. The smallest hint beneath the dirt. Not quite covered. Not deep enough.

I fall to my knees, choking off a cry, my hand covering my mouth.

It’s not possible.

It can’t happen like this.

I end up on all fours, clawing at the dirt. I don’t have to dig deep.

Brown hair, grey hoodie, high-tops. That’s what I find.

Bright-blue high-tops so I know it’s him.

__________

I call Vinnie.

Dirt catches in the cracks of my busted screen as I search for the number, shaking.

‘It’s me,’ I say when she answers.

There’s silence. I breathe loudly. Rasps in every intake of breath.

‘I waited,’ she says, voice cold and flat. ‘Waited at home, waited when I got to the school. I waited –’

‘He’s dead.’

Silence again. Different this time. How many kinds of silence are there?

‘Dead. I found him. I found . . .’

I look at him; I can’t stop looking at him. There are splashes of paint on his bright-blue trainers. Yellow, purple, white, red. Lots of red.

I shove my fist in my mouth and drop to my knees.

She doesn’t ask me to explain, doesn’t ask who, just where: ‘Where are you?’

I force an answer and then I wait. I sit at his feet and wait. I can’t leave him because he’s been alone for too long and I’m not going to do that to him now.

I listen to birds.

I hear the river.

Traffic in the distance; a gentle hum.

It’s peaceful. But it’s wrong.

Nothing can be right until she gets here.

When she does, she scoops me up and hugs me tighter than she ever has, tighter even than thirteen years ago when the silk of her blouse against my cheek made me shudder with relief. She doesn’t say anything and I’m glad for it. In her arms, my edges feel defined again. For a moment I am contained, real and whole. Almost whole.

She tries to lead me away. I tell her I can’t but she says it’s going to be okay, that we’re not leaving him.

I let her guide me to the edge of the river where we wait, me in her arms. It’s not right – nothing’s right – but it’s better. It’s better because she’s here.

That’s how we are when the cops arrive.

‘Goddamn mess,’ says Marzoli. He points, starts barking instructions.

My arse is wet from the damp grass; dirt so far under my nails it’ll stick around for days. I cling to Vinnie and she makes gentle noises. Ducks surf the river current, pushed downstream toward the Children’s Farm.

Behind us there’s a glow of red and blue from the police cruiser parked on the grass. Someone says something about a stretcher.

I bury my head in Vinnie’s shoulder and tell her I’m sorry I missed the meeting. She says not to worry, it’s nothing – but it doesn’t stop the shame. The reality of what I’ve done – what I’ve missed – hits me hard all at once. I missed The Most Important Meeting of My Life. The Your Future Is Decided Today Meeting.

Who am I going to be now?

I’m nobody’s daughter.

Nobody’s friend.

Nobody’s sister.

Vinnie pulls out her cigarettes. That new-pack rustle. She clears her throat. ‘Your pop singer fellow didn’t go to uni.’

I lift my head, look at her. ‘Ian Curtis?’

‘Remember? You told me. Average at school, no uni. But he changed music. Changed lives.’

‘He killed himself, Vinnie. At twenty-three.’

She lights a cigarette. ‘Shouldn’t have done that, should he? Because he’s still got my niece dancing like a maniac to his mopey bloody songs thirty-odd years later. Point is, the good stuff lasts. He should have lived a happy life till he was ninety-three – just think what he would have created if he’d lasted that long.’

‘Xavier was an artist too,’ I tell her. ‘The good stuff.’

She looks long at me. ‘Well, there you go. Maybe thirty years from now there’ll be Xavier fan-girls running about the place.’

I rest my head on her shoulder and imagine what people will think when they see Xavier’s creations. How many of them will stop and stare? Who will smile, who will tilt their head and gaze with wonder? They might be painted over by some dumb punk next week, but they could change someone’s life while they’re here, couldn’t they?

‘Some people just have it in them,’ she says. ‘Nothing can stop them. Not school, not lazy-arse parents, not broken hearts. Nothing.’ The ducks quack. They agree. ‘I’m sure your brother was looking forward to getting to know you and making something of himself. He had that taken from him but you, you’ve got it all ahead of you. And just think what a smart girl like you could do. Endless possibilities.’

I close my eyes. ‘Did you know guinea pigs aren’t actually pigs?’

‘Is that right?’

‘They’re not from Guinea either.’

‘I didn’t know that. How’d you get to be so smart?’

‘One word. Six letters. Scrambled vein can be changed into first part.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ She squeezes me tighter. ‘My baby girl: the crossword goddess.’

I am the crossword goddess.

And I’m somebody’s niece.

That’s a start. That’s a really good start.

A sharp noise turns my head.

Two guys in white jumpsuits are on either end of a stretcher, gumboots tearing through the tangled undergrowth as they pick their way downhill. A long black bag, matte plastic and smaller than you think it should be, is strapped to the stretcher.

They head toward Marzoli, smoking, leaning against a pylon. Behind him is the unfinished painting of a boy, his arms raised, captured right in the middle of beating the large drum strapped to his chest. It’s almost the same as my album cover, except for the face. It’s Xavier. And he’s grinning, like he’s never felt so alive.