Free The Crush by Scott Monk Page B

starboard side, smoking rollies and peering down at the wharfies scooting about in forklifts. A new shipment of cars had arrived from South Korea.
    Large grain silos blocked the view as the bus exited the huge Glebe Island Bridge with its spindly metal cables that looked like bike spokes. Matt rechecked the small map on his lap. Balmain was just around the corner with its higgledy-piggledy roads, terrace houses, steep hills, cafes, pubs and harbour views. A long time ago the inner Sydney peninsula had been the home of boat builders, coalminers,labourers, unionists, sawmills, power stations and the odd candle factory. Now the trendies had moved in with their focaccias, lattes, black skivvies, silver sunglasses, art studios and designer-clothed babies. A blue collar was something attached to a blue shirt.
    In his hands, Matt squeezed the bundle of letters he’d found in his mum’s room. They’d created more riddles. From what he could understand, the anonymous writer had been mailing short, sharp messages to his mother every two months. They’d started friendly, but deteriorated into animosity.
    One message read: I’m warning you. Take me very, very seriously. I’m nearly fifty-five and I’ve been asking you the same thing every year but you still don’t have the guts to grant me this one wish. Go on. Keep playing your silly games. I’ll be talking to my lawyer. See if you can hide between your lies then.
    A second revealed: If this is some personal grudge against me, then tell me. I’ll walk away from it. You know I’m only acting as a go-between. Your stubbornness has almost destroyed my family.
    The third was more disturbing: When are you going to tell him, Heather? When he’s eighteen? Twenty-one? Or never? You promised me it was when he was fourteen last time!
    That one was definitely about him.
    The bus deposited Matt along busy Victoria Road, a couple of hundred metres from the heart of Balmain. He rechecked his map, folded it away then wound through a street plastered with tattered and ripped concert promo posters.
    The address in Mort Street was a double-storey late-Victorian terrace with a white cast-iron balcony, hanging pots instead of a garden, wind chimes and an old BMW parked out the front. Someone was at home, at least. He opened the gate and banged on the screen door.
    The third thump worked. The door opened. Matt breathed in and prepared to go to war.
    A woman in her fifties stood in the doorway. He breathed out. Strange. He’d expected a man. The lady was well presented in a black dress with gold trimmings and a pair of slip-on shoes. Her hair was dyed brown and her eyes were the same fudge colour as his. Most of her face was covered in make-up, her fingernails were a dull red and she was holding a diary with very few phone numbers written inside.
    â€˜Yes?’ she asked in a firm voice.
    â€˜I … er …’
    She looked at him quizzically as his anger turned to confusion. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
    C’mon, man. Hold it together.
    He thrust the bundle of letters in front of her. ‘Did you write these to my mother?’
    Taken aback, the lady raised her glasses to her eyes but she need not have bothered. She instantly recognised them. Matt could see it in her face. Shocked, she looked back up at him and reached for the handle of the screen door. Instead of locking it, she threw it open.
    â€˜Matthew?’
    She reached out and hugged him. Caught off guard, he tried pushing her away but she held on tight.
    â€˜I can’t believe it! It’s really you, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Finally! My grandson!’

Deadened by shock, Matt was a zombie. His feet were working but not his brain. The woman guided him deeper and deeper into her narrow home, excitedly prattling away about how glad she was to meet him at last. The air smelt of saffron and the walls were cluttered with knick-knacks