Free Shattered by Gabrielle Lord Page A

heyday covered the walls; framed photographs of younger people and kids clustered on a small, mirror-backed mantelpiece over the old-fashioned gas fire.
    ‘My nieces and nephews,’ said Gerda, noticing Gemma’s gaze. ‘I come from a very large family. You’ve no idea what it’s like remembering all those birthdays. You got kids?’
    Gemma shook her head. Then, with a shock, remembered that if she didn’t take the appropriate action, she would be a mother in a little over six months.
    ‘Naomi from Baroque Occasions suggested you might be able to help me,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m looking for a girl. This one. Have you seen her around here?’
    Gerda took the photograph and frowned at it. She handed it back to Gemma. ‘Who wants to know?’
    ‘Her father,’ said Gemma.
    Gerda took the photograph again and studied it closely. ‘I’ve seen her,’ she said finally.
    ‘Where?’
    Gerda pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking the couple of steps necessary to cover the room, and then stood half in, half out of the balcony, directing the stream of smoke outside past a dainty table and chair setting, their woven arabesques of steel wires adding a Parisian touch to the tiny area.
    ‘She doesn’t look like that any more,’ said Gerda. ‘But yeah. She’s working round here.’
    ‘Working round here?’ Gemma repeated.
    ‘She’d have to be,’ said Gerda. ‘She wouldn’t be paying for the habit she’s got on the dole.’
    ‘I take it you mean “working” as in sex worker?’
    Gerda nodded and Gemma scribbled down ‘sex worker – user’ in her notebook.
    ‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ said Gemma.
    ‘This is my patch,’ said Gerda. ‘Not much goes on round here that I don’t know about. Lovely day out here.’ She stepped onto the balcony and deftly ashed over the ledge. ‘I used to be a worker myself,’ she said, looking down at the lane below.
    ‘And now?’ Gemma asked.
    Gerda came back inside, reached for a heavy book and passed it over.
    Gemma flicked it open. ‘ A History of Tudor England ,’ she noted, thinking that higher education seemed to be very popular in this area. ‘You’re studying history?’
    ‘Even better. I’m writing a book. On Lady Jane Grey. You look very surprised.’
    ‘It’s not every day you meet someone who’s writing a book,’ said Gemma.
    Gerda gave her a hard look. ‘I don’t think you’re being quite honest, dear,’ she said, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. ‘Own up. You’re surprised that a great big girl like me is writing a book.’
    ‘That too,’ Gemma conceded, feeling caught out.
    ‘Don’t feel too badly,’ said Gerda. ‘Most people find it unusual.’
    ‘Where might I find Maddison?’ Gemma asked, keen to get back on track.
    ‘Last time I saw her,’ said Gerda, ‘was in a shooting gallery in Macleay Street. On top of Pussycats.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘Couple of weeks ago. I saw her in Kentucky Fried once too. And hanging near the station. She sometimes stands around there with some of the other kids.’
    The station she’d travelled to instead of getting out at Strathfield for school, Gemma remembered, noting down Gerda’s information.
    ‘Talk to Karen Lucky,’ Gerda was saying. ‘The sex workers liaison officer from Kings Cross cops. She might be helpful. She was a great support to me a while back when I was assaulted.’
    Gerda returned to the balcony and looked up the lane, the sunshine absorbed by the inky hues of her thick hair. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, turning back towards Gemma. ‘There’s Karen! I’d better not litter while the police are looking!’ She laughed and crushed her cigarette out in the pot plant and came inside, making room for Gemma to peer over the balcony. On the corner, she saw two women deep in conversation. One of them she knew: Julie Cooper from the forensic services group, talking with a uniformed policewoman.
    ‘I have to go out, dear,’ Gerda was saying. ‘Nearly out of