Good Money by J. M. Green Read Free Book Online

started to flip through it. Mrs Chol was right about one thing. It was mostly blank. There was a creative writing piece in the front about a boy with a flying skateboard who saves his family, and the world, from space monsters.
    The centre pages were filled with a table of badly ruled lines, with a column of initials followed by several columns of numbers. I fanned out the pages, shook the book a few times, but nothing dropped out. I turned each page separately, the whole book, all forty-eight pages. Not one mention of me, other than my address. Nor was there any reference to an event at a certain commission flat six years earlier, nor the two junkies who lived there and the amount of money involved. I checked the list of initials to see if I recognised anyone: I didn’t — nor did I see my own initials there.
    I sat back, not knowing what to feel. Relief? Disappointment? I was a bit hungry, I could murder a bacon sandwich and — wait, why were we not moving? The lights had changed more than once and the tram hadn’t moved. I craned my neck trying to see what the hold-up was. Cars had stopped at odd angles. Behind us another tram was backed up. I looked up at the sky, the low grey clouds, icy spit falling from them.
    I flipped through the book again, slowly this time, studying each page. Then I noticed something on the page opposite the one with my address; it was the word: Funsail . It was circled and had arrows coming off it, leading around the page to my address.
    Funsail?
    An employee of the transport corporation began herding us from our tram, across the intersection and onto a packed tram in front. As I trudged along with everyone else, I heard quite a lot of whinging from the other passengers. Sure, it was raining again, and the temperature could freeze the tears in your eyes, but there were worse things that could happen. Toughen the heck up, Melburnians, I thought. Toughen up yourself , they said back to me, with their red, frozen eyeballs. You know what you should do.
    Yes, I did.
    I shunned the tram and kept on walking. Twenty minutes later I entered the grounds of Ascot Secondary College. I went directly to the office, where a harried woman slid open the reception window.
    â€˜Mabor Chol please, he’s in year ten I believe.’
    â€˜What’s your relationship to the boy?’
    â€˜Stella Hardy, I’m a social worker with WORMS.’
    â€˜Gee, sorry to hear that,’ she chuckled.
    â€˜Look, can you please just page the student Mabor Chol?’
    â€˜Do you have clearance? Authorisation from a parent or teacher? We’ve had issues in the past.’
    â€˜How about the student counsellor, she in?’ I asked.
    Still chuckling to herself, she slid the window shut and turned on a staticky mic. ‘Student counsellor to the office.’
    The waiting area was directly opposite the principal’s office. While I waited, I relived the trauma of high school, flashbacks of the hours of waiting for punishment, followed by my customary excuse: ‘But it was all Shane Farquar’s fault, sir!’
    The counsellor bustled up to me, in a bright orange, over-sized jumper. I launched in like a woman on a mission, which I was. ‘Mabor Chol. I need to see him.’ I held up both my WORMS ID and my Department of Justice ID. She gave them a nod and started writing on a clipboard at the office window.
    â€˜Dear Mabor, such a good kid, you know? Really bright, hard working.’
    â€˜He’s terrific, amazing. Look, this is urgent, can you hurry it up?’
    â€˜What’s it about?’
    â€˜It’s a confidential matter.’
    â€˜I’ll keep it confidential.’
    â€˜It’s about … his brother. You are aware of his brother’s death?’
    â€˜Yes. Tragic. Would you like me to be present?’
    â€˜No, thanks. It’s all strictly … confidential.’ I was led to a room and told to wait again. Thirty seconds later,