The Never Boys by Scott Monk Page A

you’ve both got into —’
    â€˜In other words, she never stops talking,’ he joked. ‘Anything else?’
    â€˜Only that you live with a ghost.’
    He snorted. ‘Old Clive?’
    â€˜I think it’s creepy. Zara keeps telling us that you see cups and plates hovering across the room.’
    â€˜You should see how they get washed up!’
    â€˜What’s so funny?’
    â€˜Zara! Hey!’ he said with a giant smile. ‘We were just talking about you.’
    â€˜Nothing good, I hope.’ Gone was the daggy school uniform; in its place a white crop top and brown shorts. And the butterfly was back.
    â€˜So what was going on here, huh?’ she sing-songed, flicking her eyes between them.
    They both stood up and moved apart. ‘Dean was playing a few songs on his guitar,’ Michelle explained.
    â€˜Any requests?’ he asked.
    â€˜Maybe later.’ Then, turning to Michelle, she added, ‘Your oldies are looking for you. We’re all heading into Nuri in a moment to meet the lawyers.’
    â€˜Okay. Let me do this one last chore —’
    â€˜Sounds serious,’ he said.
    â€˜No, not really.’ Zara shrugged. ‘Just family business.’
    â€˜What time will you be back?’
    â€˜Don’t know yet. Probably late. Mum’s dragging me to some art show afterwards.’
    Michelle came back and said she was ready. Zara led the way.
    â€˜Well, whatever time you get back, come and see me, okay?’ he urged.
    â€˜I’ll try.’
    When they’d left, he settled back with his guitar. This time, the music was more vibrant. Hopeful.

Chapter 13
    Sick of beetroot salads, Dean and Hayden piked on another lunch at the Wallaces’ and drove into Nuriootpa with a craving for chicken-and-gravy rolls. Along the way, they stopped at a one-hour processor to collect a set of enlargements. Under an umbrella and between ice coffees, they fanned out the photographs on a plastic table. It wasn’t the usual array of red-eye specials, out-of-focus portraits or flash-up-the-nose group shots that grabbed Dean’s attention straightaway. It was the number of images of Zara. There she was arm-in-arm with Hayden and Michelle at a rock festival. Or dressed as Cleopatra at her sixteenth birthday party. Or wrestling with Hayden at the dam. Dean picked through the pictures, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. The last twelve months of her life were spread out before him. He could only imagine why.
    Lunch was brief because the trip back was long;an escape he was only too happy to exploit. They were walking to the Falcon parked up the street when he tossed his rubbish at a bin and missed.
    â€˜Enjoy throwing away money, do you?’
    The man stepped from the doorway of an electrical retailer behind them. Dean recognised the voice immediately. ‘Sorry?’
    Constable Tom squeezed on his cap then rested his hand next his gun. ‘Money. You enjoy throwing it away?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜That,’ the cop nodded to the scrunched up paper bag.
    â€˜It’s only rubbish.’
    â€˜Rubbish with a couple of twenty dollar notes inside.’
    Dean looked again. He didn’t see any money. ‘There’s only lettuce and mayo.’
    The cop pulled a notepad from his back pocket. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’
    â€˜Get what?’
    â€˜I’m fining you for littering.’
    Dean baulked. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
    â€˜ Tommy ,’ Hayden sang.
    The cop took out a pen as well.
    â€˜I was going to pick it up.’
    â€˜That’s not what I saw.’
    Dean watched as Constable Tom scribbled his name and address. Incredible!
    â€˜Tommy, what’s all this about?’ Hayden said.
    â€˜It’s Dave Mason, isn’t it?’ the cop asked.
    â€˜No, it’s Dean. You’re really going to fine me?’
    He ripped the page from his notepad and