Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Simone Morrison was the last person I expected to see at Berrimah Terminal, Darwin, given her agency was based four thousand kilometers away. She’d brought Melbourne with her, wearing a coat that was a ludicrous mix of trench and oversized puffer. Then again, she was better dressed than I was. I had on cargo shorts and a buttoned short-sleeved shirt, which had been sold to me in a fishing store as “breathable.” I’d always believed that was the minimum requirement for clothing, but I’d bought it anyway. The problem was that, while our journey had been duly advertised as a “sunrise start,” I’d incorrectly assumed that the baking heat of the Northern Territory’s tropical climate would apply at all hours, including dawn.

It hadn’t.

And though there was light now, we were on the west side of the train, a slinking steel snake that blocked off all the horizon, and so half-mast wasn’t going to do it for warmth; the sun had to really put some effort in. The only warm part of me was my right hand—which had been skinned during last year’s murders and was only partially rehealed, thanks to an ample donation from my left butt-cheek—where I wore a single, padded glove to protect the sensitive skin underneath. In all, I was dressed more suitably for Jurassic Park than a train journey, and I found myself both willing the sun to hurry up and quite jealous of the cozy blue woolen scarf Simone had around her neck.

I say Simone’s office is based in Melbourne, though I’ve never seen it: as far as I can tell, most of her business is conducted from a booth at an Italian restaurant in the city. She helped the chef there publish a cookbook once, which was successful enough to snag him a TV gig, and she’s been rewarded with both a permanent reservation and an alcohol addiction. Every time I slipped into the red vinyl seat across from her, Simone would hold up a finger as she finished an email on her laptop (manicured nails clacking furiously enough that I pitied the person on the other end), take a sip of her tar-dark spiked coffee (bright pink lipstick stain on the ceramic, though, in an unnerving clue to the dishwashing standards of the place, she always wears red), and then say, completely ignoring the fact that she’d often summoned me, “Please tell me you’ve got good news.” She’s a fan of shoulder pads, teeth whitening, heavy sighs and hoop earrings—not in that order.

That said, I can’t fault her ability. We first met after I’d signed the publisher contract for Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone, when she invited me to lunch and asked me to bring along the contract. I then sat in silence while she leafed through the agreement underlining things and muttering various incarnations of “Unbelievable” before remembering I was there too, flipping to the back and saying, “That’s your signature? No one, like, forged it or anything? You read and agreed”—she shook the pages, arched her eyebrows—“to this?”

I nodded.

“I’m surprised you can write books, because you certainly can’t read. I charge fifteen percent.”

I couldn’t tell if it was an offer or an insult. She turned her focus to her laptop, so I considered myself dismissed and squeaked out of the plastic seat, never expecting to hear from her again. A week later a document outlining interest from a German publisher and even some people wanting to make a TV show landed in my inbox. There was also an offer for another mystery book. Fiction, this time.

She hadn’t asked, and I hadn’t expressed any interest in writing a novel, nor did I have any idea what I’d write about. And the catch was I’d have to write it quickly. But I’ll admit I was blinded by the advance listed—it was far better than what I’d received previously—so I’d accepted. Besides, I’d reasoned at the time, it might be a nice change from writing about real people killing each other.

Obviously, that didn’t pan out.

I knew Simone took her job seriously, perhaps too seriously, but I’ve always figured that if the publishers are half as scared of her as I am, I should be grateful she’s on my side. And, sure, I’d been dodging her calls and texts for an update on the novel for a couple of months. But following me to Darwin seemed excessive. In any case, asking a writer how their book’s coming along is like spotting lipstick on their collar. There’s really no point asking: no one ever answers truthfully.

“Pretty good,” I said.

“That bad, huh?” Simone replied.

Juliette, my girlfriend, standing beside me, squeezed my arm in sympathy.

“Fiction is . . . harder than I thought it would be.”

“You took their money. We took their money.” Simone fossicked around in her handbag, pulled out an electronic cigarette, and puffed. “I don’t refund commission, you know.”

I didn’t, in fact, know that. “You’ve come all this way to hassle me then?”

“Not everything’s about you, Ern.” She exhaled a plume of blueberry scent. “Opportunity knocks, I answer.”