“Edgar’s tattoo studio?”
His father’s dark eyes filled with the rage that always accompanied a mention of tattoos or their amiable ex-neighbor. “Yes. I always knew that idiot hippie couldn’t run a business. They’ve had health complaints, official warnings from the council and someone put a complaint on Facebooks and said they’re suing for a bad tattoo and no one should go there.”
Scott brushed aside his father’s mispronunciation of the world’s most popular social media site. “Dad, that doesn’t mean—”
“The tenants told me there are barely any customers coming, anymore. DaSilva won’t be able to keep his doors open for much longer. That’s why I want you to make DaSilva an offer. Three million.”
Scott almost choked on his own spit. “You can’t be serious?”
His father glared at him. “You haven’t been home for a while, Brunswick’s prime real estate, now. The place isn’t worth that much outright, but it’ll get them to hand it over. You tell them that I’ll want them out by the end of next month.”
Scott held up his hands. “Hang on now, I’m assuming the DaSilvas don’t know anything about this. Why would they sell?”
“Because if they’ve got half a brain cell between them, they’ll know it’s better than anything they can expect on the open market and their business is dying in the arse.” His dad rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. He should have looked silly, but the cold in his eyes gave the gesture genuine malice.
“Dad…”
“I want both houses, Scott—side by side. I’m gonna turn that shop into a fucking laundromat.”
Scott wanted to ask why his father was willing to pour so much money into a mediocre house in East Brunswick, but he already knew the answer—because he hated Edgar DaSilva. He hated him more than all the left-leaning voters and crowded freeways in the world.
“I’ll email you the proposal,” his father said, pulling out his phone and pressing at the screen. “Print it out and give it to Edgar yourself and make it clear to that prick that he’s not going to see money like that from anyone else.”
Scott was disturbed at the rate at which this proposal was progressing. “Dad, I don’t know if I’ll have the time. I’m in the new office on Monday and I’ve got to—”
“You can go tomorrow when you’ve slept a bit. Early afternoon, at the latest.”
Scott opened his mouth to tell his father he hadn’t returned to Melbourne to be a foot solider in his illogical war with their neighbors. Then he saw Samantha DaSilva’s beautiful face smiling at him from across the street. His guts cramped with excitement, just like they had when he was a teenager.
“Okay,” he heard himself saying. “I’ll go talk to them tomorrow. Just don’t get mad at me if they don’t take the deal.”
Appeased, his father leaned back in his chair, grinning. “They’ll take it, Scotty. They have to.”
Chapter 3
The storefront ofSilver Daughters Ink was both familiar and different. The paint was still red but the colour of old boots rather than cherries. The signage was still incredible, the twisted jungle animals painted in painstaking detail, but some shithead graffiti artist had left his tags all over it. The windows needed a wash and the footpath was littered with cigarette butts and discarded leaflets for Chinese food and religion. To Scott, it felt tired, a once-bubbly mother who’d been working double shifts at the supermarket to make ends meet. His dad was right—Silver Daughters Ink was in some kind of trouble.
He moved closer to the door and nostalgia hit him at roughly the speed of light. How many times had he walked past, his schoolbag heavy on his shoulders? If he was alone and no one was paying him attention, he’d glance through this door and try to see Samantha and her sisters. They were always sprawled out on the couches, flipping through the customer tattoo books and laughing.
“Galahad,” Sam would say if she spotted him. “How’s the chastity going?”
They’d been friends for a week when he first moved to Australia. He still had no idea why their amicable nighttime play-dates dissolved into hatred, but Samantha remembered enough about their brief window of friendship to give him that nickname. Galahad. In any other circumstances, he’d have been flattered to be compared to a Knight of the Round Table, but Samantha wasn’t referring to Galahad’s gentlemanly nature. She was shitting on him for being a virgin.
That was years ago.She won’t be here. And I’m not a bloody virgin anymore.
He couldn’t see anyone through the admittedly grimy window so he backed up and read the piece of paper sticky-taped to the other side of the glass.
Silver Daughters Ink considers tattooing an art form. We don’t do Southern Cross flags, tribal bands, sportsball championship bollocks or symbols you don’t understand without the aid of Google. We are artists with individual styles and do not imitate the work of others. If moveable masterpieces crafted especially to your taste is what you desire, enter. If you’re a bogan, a try-hard or an eighteen-year-old with an axe to grind, be on your way.
Scott couldn’t help grinning. He looked around for someone to share the joke with and his gaze fell on the place he’d been determined to ignore.
The back of his old house looked exactly the way he remembered, the rendered walls painted white and draped oh-so-classily with ivy. His mother had died in that house. After all these years it was still so hard to believe.
Scott shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away from it all. He walked up the street, needing a coffee and some fresh perspective. Nothing about his old neighborhood looked familiar. Gentrification had torn through Brunswick with the force of a rampaging bull. When he was a kid, the majority of the businesses had been niche greengrocers, grubby bakeries and car dealerships. Now everything was sparkling clean and yuppie—vegan cafes, organic supermarkets and gastro pubs. As a tattoo studio, Silver Daughters Ink had once stuck out like a middle finger. Now it was utterly in keeping with the street aesthetic—if a little shabby, compared to the glossy black studio a few doors down.
Brunswick still wasn’t South Melbourne, but it was a damn side more expensive than the place he’d left at eighteen. His father’s offer of three million dollars didn’t seem as bizarre now—if you left out the part where he was trying to revenge-purchase his neighbor’s house. Scott entered an upscale French patisserie and a waitress in skintight leggings handed him the croissant and coffee he’d ordered. She asked about his accent in a way that said she was open to flirting, but Scott couldn’t get his head in the game. He sat down, tearing into his pastry and dipping it in the coffee.
Scott took a swallow of coffee, dimly acknowledging how good it was. As soon as he was done, he’d head back to Silver Daughters and go inside. Would Edgar remember him? Possibly. The more important question was—would he ask after Samantha? Could he handle knowing she was in Japan or Brazil? That she’d gotten married or had kids? He’d Googled her a few times over the years, but nothing had come up. Samantha had always been insanely technophobic, refusing to get a Myspace or a mobile phone. He was always relieved when his reconnaissance failed to show anything. It wasn’t right that he should still be so obsessed after all these years. He chewed the last of his croissant and stood, determined to get this whole thing over with.