Best Australian Yarn: Sing a Song of Sixpence by Rebecca Vos

I hate Friday nights. The club is full, and the drinks are fuller. As I walk down the stage a few shout an applause.

“Sixpence! Sixpence!” they cheer my stage name.

I smile and wave one hand, the other occupied by my guitar. I walk backstage and pack up my stuff, rubbing my fingers over the ‘Matt’ engraved onto my guitar case. I leave it, deciding to get a drink. As I sit on a stool, a young woman pulls up another one next to me. Shiny black hair flows down her shoulders, framing her heart shaped, olive toned face. She grins giddily, her deep brown eyes lighting up.

A pocket full of rye

I glance down as her hand rests on her pocket. A flask, rye whiskey it smells like.

“Helloooooo.” She slurs in a thick accent “I reallyyyyy liked your performance.”

I smile tightly.

“Thanks.” I say sharply, getting up.

“No thank you, for making my day better.” She says grabbing my arm, forcing me to sit down.

“Y’know, sometimes I wish I could just stay here forever. No family, no burden, no cocaine…” she laughs.

I inhale deeply.

“Cocaine?” I whisper.

“Oopsie, I’ve said too much. They won’t be happy.” She giggles.

I grab her shoulder and lead her out the bar. She doesn’t protest.

“Ooooh, where are we going.” She asks.

I stop at the end of the street, outside an abandoned Indian restaurant.“Are you involved in drug trafficking?” I interrogate.

She wrinkles her nose like she just inhaled something unpleasant.

“What, me? Noooo.” She says nonchalantly.

I hold out my police badge hiding in my waistband.

“It sounds to me like you don’t like being in the drug business. I’m an undercover narcotics officer. I can offer you police protection if you tell me everything you know and help us.”

She stares at the badge, almost mesmerised. I sigh, she won’t be of much use drunk. I lead her to the station a block away. I hand her over to officers to take to a bed she can stay at overnight when she whispers:

“Yes, I want out. I always have.”

Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie

The chair at the interrogation room is as always uncomfortably stiff. I put my hand under the table and sharply pull away as it touches gum.

“So,” I pronounce, flipping through her file. “Laila Martinez. 21. Resisting arrest, suspected drug trafficking, and attempted assault of an officer. Parents are Alejandro Martinez, 56, and Marìa Lopez, deceased.”

Laila lowers her head as I say the last word.

“My mother was killed. Likely by someone employed by my father, who has a new young wife now, Valentina. He runs one of the largest Cocaine trafficking businesses in New York behind the cover of a beer company.”

I listen intently and she looks up, making eye contact.

“Many 24 pack Blackbird beers are filled with pie.” She speaks.

I frown confusedly for a second before remembering my drug slang, pie is a kilo of drugs. I nod, writing down what she said.

“Do you have any way of proving this?” I ask. I believe her word, but the jury needs strong evidence.

“Yes. I can take you to a storage shed. It’s on the intersection between Dove Lane and Moir Avenue. I know which containers contain the cocaine and I could probably find you documents with my father’s signature for the shipping.”

I contemplate her words. A few signed documents aren’t enough.“Laila, the documents are good, but if we want a search warrant of the main factory, good reason for arrest, or evidence in court, we’re going to need strong evidence. If you help us by working undercover, all possible charges against you can be lifted, but you will be in a lot of danger. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Laila’s face contorts for a moment in fear, before going back to its usual calmness and slight smile.

“I can’t take the constant fear anymore. Not just the fear of being found out by authorities, but the fear of being found disposable, or a loose end that needs to be removed.” She says sullenly, a tear escaping her eye.

I stiffen. Emotions aren’t really my thing, not that I don’t care, I just don’t know what to do. Laila wipes her eyes, a fierce, determined look entering them.

“When do we leave?”

When the pie was opened,

“Bang!” the sound rattles my brain and I jump to the ground, hands over my head.

“Relax, I think a fuse just blew. It’s fine though, I can show you in the dark.” Laila says, a smile playing at her lips.

I sigh, picking myself up off the ground to follow her. We walk down rows and rows of shelves filled with beer cases, the only sound the tapping of our feet on the concrete.

“So Officer Matt, how did you get into drug busting?” she breaks the silence.

I shrug “Became a cop, got involved in some drug cases, got promoted, nothing interesting really.”

“Well what is interesting about you then?”

“Do I bore you?” I laugh “Well, let me see. I’m allergic to shellfish, I speak Spanish, play hockey, and have watched every episode of the Simpsons. That interesting enough for you?”

“Well now we know each other better, which is good since we are now officially colleagues!” she exclaims enthusiastically.

“Colleagues?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yeah, we’re working together now. I’ll tell you facts about myself now. I’m ambidextrous, play ukulele, never learned to drive, and I have a nickname for everyone.”

I snort “That’s so random.”“Says you.” She replies, kicking a stone in front of us “Speaking of it, I need a nickname for you. I’m guessing Matt is short for Matthew, and of course there’s your stage name, Sixpence. What about Marge? From the Simpsons. And its sounds like Matt kinda.” She giggles the last part.

“I see why you named me that, as there’s obviously so many similarities between me and her, the blue fluffy hair and all.” I say sarcastically, patting my crew cut.

She ignores my remark, breaking off and walking left between some rusted shelves.

“Here. The Cocaine packed beers are all the ones in this five-by-five-meter square.” She says, putting out her arms in a right angle to show the beers.

I walk up to a pack of beers, swiss army knife in hand. The knife was given to me by my dad, the only thing to remember him by. The blade slices through the plastic wrapping and beer tins fall to the ground.

“CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!”

“Oops.” I say after the last tin falls, embarrassment written all over my face in a light pink dusting.

Laila laughs and rolls her eyes

“I was momentarily impressed by your knife skills until that happened. Here, pass the knife.” She gestures her hand to me.

I hesitate. Can I fully trust her? What will I do if she attacks me in an empty warehouse, my only defence mild pepper spray and 2 months of karate training from 4 years ago that I quickly got bored with? I pass it to her. She takes it, stabbing open a beer can. Plastic baggies filled with white powder pour out, about five no bigger than my badge. My eyes widen.

“If there’s five baggies in each beer and all the beers in the square you showed have cocaine then…” I attempt to do quick math in my head but quickly give up “the that’s a lot of cocaine.”

The birds began to sing

“Clang! Clang! Clang!”

The sound comes from the other side of the warehouse, but still rattles my sensitive ears. Who else could be here at this time of night? A text comes through on my phone; it’s from Papa.

Have you collected the money yet?

No, not yet

Get it tomorrow. Have you seen your sister?

Is she missing?

She hasn’t come home and isn’t picking up my calls

Maybe she’s with Gloria

I sigh as the dots disappear on Papa’s side. For the past few months the Feds have been hot on our heels, and he thinks a mole is to blame, even if it’s his own child. Laila and I used to be close as kids, being twins and all. But lately things have been different. When the company expanded and instead of getting supplied, we became the suppliers, she changed. Her usual money-making, risk-taking attitude became more withdrawn and hesitant. Not that I’m complaining. As twins we both have equal rights to the company when Papa dies but being in favour could win me the whole thing if I play my cards right. My phone buzzes again.

You can’t keep defending her Juan,I checked with Gloria, she’s not there.

I put the phone in my pocket. If there was a mole I would kill them, but Laila? She’s barely brave enough to talk to Papa on good days, let alone the Feds. My attention deviates to the large clanging from earlier. I slip a standard silencer into my jeans and head out the office room down the aisles and aisles of beers. I stop as I hear voices.

“Is this enough for a search warrant?” A female voice.

“It would take a while to get one, and I don’t doubt that they could clear this place out by the time we do. But if we keep it quiet, we might have a chance.” A male voice.

The female sighs and their footsteps get closer. I slip behind a shelf, hand on the trigger.They walk past and I jolt, almost enough to give away my position. Laila? And a man? By the way they were talking he must be a cop. I guess Papa was right.

Wasn’t that a dainty dish, to set before the king?

I think Papa would feel a lot less weight off his shoulders bequeathing his drug empire if he knew who the faithful child was.

Papa

What?

I send a photo of Laila and the cop.

I have a story for you

The King was in his counting house, counting out his money

I enter the room, spying Papa counting his money at his desk.

“Papa.”

“Juan, for what did you request my presence?”

I fiddle with my hands for a moment

“Well, spit it out boy! Don’t stammer!” he shouts, finally looking up to make eye contact.

“The photo I sent you last night. It’s Laila with a cop, he had a beer in his pocket. I heard them talking. You were right, she’s a mole.”

I flinch, expecting a violent rage to erupt. He just smiles, then walking up to me and clapping a hand on my back.

“Good job Juan, I know you’ve been trying to get full inheritance of the company. Now you’ve got it. I want you to take her and her little cop friend out.” He smiles calmly.

I gape at him. My eyes must be bulging out of my head right now.

“You mean kill her? My sister? My twin? Laila?” I cried. How could he even suggest that?

“You know what you need to do Juan, or should I ask your cousin Andrés? I’ve heard he has an eye for my company too.” He says it like a suggestion, but I know it’s a threat.

If I don’t kill her, I lose the business. But I can’t. I just can’t.

“Remember Daniela Juan, she’s counting on you.” He whispers in my ear.

Her name jolts me awake. What will she do if I can’t provide for her anymore? I don’t doubt Papa will send someone else to kill her if I refuse. Which do I love more though? My twin sister, my best friend since birth, or my girlfriend, my rock who keeps me together? Papa brushes past me and walks out the door, leaving me and my conscience alone.

The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey.

I wake up with a jolt. I’ve always struggled with nightmares. This one was about Papa and Juan. They were jumping off a cliff and shouted at me to join them.

“Come on Laila! You said you would stick with us forever!”

I roll out of bed. My phone shows me the time: 1am. I trudge down the hallway, remembering the events of the past few weeks. Matt and I have been digging up dirt on the company and investigating Blackbird warehouses. We’ve grown closer and become good friends, possibly even more. I remember the lingering glances and hugs, and how I’ve been noticing how beautiful his eyes are lately.

The thought disappears from my mind as I enter the kitchen. Valentina. She sits at the counter, arranging all of her diamond rings in her jewellery box. Papa might be the breadwinner, but his new young wife still gets the dough. She glances up at me loathingly. She might have married my father, but that doesn’t mean we’ve ever liked each other. After making a piece of toast and avoiding Valentina’s death glares, I decide enough is enough. Nothing is left here for me. I get changed and grab my go bag from under some loose floorboards hidden by my rug. As I roll my motorcycle out of the driveway, I take one last glance at the huge mansion I once called home.

The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes.

As I finish off some last-minute paperwork from my last drug bust, a notification flashes on my laptop screen. I click on it and an email from Laila pops up.

Hi MattI’ve left home for good now. I’m sending this email from a park. Attached to this email is evidence for you to use. There’s enough to warrant an arrest. I didn’t want to show you until the time was right, because the moment I send this email they will come for me. I’m going on the run. I’m sorry. Thank you for everything. I love you.Laila

I can’t breathe. I just run. Down the hall and to my car. The engine roars, not nearly as loud as my heart. She loves me? I remember a park she told me about, where she went once before her mother died as a child.

_When down came a blackbird, and pecked off her nose

I pull up at the park. The trees are bare, and snow paves the entrance. As my feet squelch past a large, nearly dead willow tree, I see it. The scarlet liquid sticks out like a sore thumb in the white snow, and I follow it. At the end is Laila. She looks peaceful, a white rose delicately placed between her hands. Behind me a figure shoots off. Juan with a rifle. But I don’t care. I just kneel down beside her and weep.