Eden

by Mark Brandi

Genres: Literary Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of Wimmera comes an unputdownable literary thriller that shows we all have secrets, but some are deadlier than others.

Big City. Deadly Secrets.

Cities are tough when you've grown up as a country kid. They're even tougher after nine years inside. Tom Blackburn is fresh out of jail and not sure where his future lies. He knows what he wants. But he's pretty sure she doesn't want him.

Tom's left his old life and his old name behind. But his options aren't great. He knows sleeping on the streets is the quickest way back to a cell. And then, his luck turns around. A chance encounter leads to a job and somewhere to stay. A place in the dead centre of Melbourne. Eden, his new boss calls it.

Honest, physical work. Bit of gardening, bit of gravedigging, bit of whatever he's told to do. Fresh air, currawongs, a bed and some peace and quiet. It's the perfect place to save some money and make some plans. A place to keep his head down and stay out of trouble.

But trouble finds him. Serious trouble. He's missed the signs, again. Going back to jail might be the safest option. Unless he can figure some way out of the danger he's in . . .

From much-loved Australian crime author Mark Brandi comes a new book that answers old questions. A gripping story of a big city with deadly secrets.

Release date: June 25, 2025

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 384

Sample

The city never felt like home. But now, unknowable. Another country.

It’s dusk when I arrive. I long for a shower, for bed. My right knee has settled into a deep throbbing pain, the sort which might linger.

The man behind the counter has a dark beard, trimmed too neat.

‘Just you?’ he says.

‘Yep.’

‘How long?’

I shrug. ‘Couple of nights.’

The man nods. Taps something into a keyboard, stares at the screen.

‘Fifty bucks a night. First night up front.’

‘Shower?’

‘One bathroom each floor. You gotta share it.’

I reach into my back pocket, take out my wallet. Inside is a thick wad of fifty-dollar notes, a few twenties, wrapped tight in a rubber band.

I peel off a fifty. The man eyes me.

‘A few moths in there, by the looks.’

‘Huh?’

‘Forget it.’

The man reaches under the counter, places a sheet of paper on top.

Something seems to alter in his expression as he passes me the form. A quick shift in his gaze, left and right.

It’s something I’ve learned to trust – the physical. Eyes, mouth, and skin. The flush of pink as blood pressure rises.

‘Rules of the house,’ he says. ‘Sign down the bottom, then print your name underneath.’

I hesitate, hope the man doesn’t notice.

Does he recognise me? He couldn’t, could he?

I sign my name, pass back the page.

The man reaches again under the counter, this time for a length of thick steel pipe. It’s maybe two feet long, black electrical tape around one end. He taps the wooden countertop.

‘This is my friend, Hector. Hector enforces the rules, you got it?’

‘Got it.’

He hands me a brass key attached to a blue plastic key ring.

‘Room sixteen. Up the stairs and to the left. No smoking, right?’

‘Right.’

I feel for my lucky charm, the rabbit’s foot, in my jacket. I give it a squeeze.

The staircase is narrow, the steps irregular. Back inside, everything was ergonomic. Not many places to trip, only a few hanging points.

The carpet here is threadbare and acrid. The ceiling low, the light dim. To the right, there’s a green illuminated FIRE EXIT sign above a padlocked door. At the end of the hallway, another door with a small window of mottled glass. Must be the bathroom.

On the right side of the hallway, near the bathroom, a door sits ajar. A wedge of grey light cuts across the carpet. To the left are rooms eighteen, seventeen, sixteen.

The key turns too easily in the lock, like someone has had a good crack at it. Maybe more than once. The door swings silently on its hinges.

Fading daylight filters in through the window, the yellowed blind pulled halfway down. The faint odour of stale piss. I reach around the doorframe and find the light switch.

The room is small, but bigger than my cell. There’s a single bed in one corner, with part of the bedhead covering the window. I open the blind fully. The view faces the tall concrete wall of a high-rise carpark, a dark and narrow laneway below. A colonial-style wooden cupboard sits on the other side of the bed. On its door, a Geelong Football Club sticker. I can tell it’s Gary Ablett, even with half his face torn off.

I picture a bedroom somewhere, some kid who worshipped Geelong. Gary Ablett, Billy Brownless, maybe Mark Bairstow. Rolled-up footy socks kicked around his room, so his mum and dad won’t hear. The MCG, grand final day, a kick for goal after the siren.

Then in summer, endless games of backyard cricket with his best mate. One hand, one bounce. Over the fence is six and out.

I take out my wallet, put a couple of twenties in my front jeans pocket, then slide the wallet between the mattress and frame.

I sling my bag onto the bed, unzip it. I think about putting my clothes in the cupboard, decide against it.

In the end pocket of my bag, my toiletries. I empty out the plastic bag onto the bed. Disposable razor, can of shaving cream, bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste. I leave the razor and the shaving cream, put the rest back inside the plastic bag. I strip down to my undies and socks, put my t-shirt back on.

A faded blue towel hangs from a hook on the back of the door. I come close to sniffing it, decide against it. I drape it over my left shoulder. On the door, beneath where the towel hung, someone has scratched ‘Snake 85’.

I go as quietly as I can down the hallway. There’s music now, a tinny guitar solo, and it’s coming from the room beside the bathroom. A whiff of cigarette smoke. The door is still ajar.

Inside the bathroom, I flick a switch and the exhaust fan whirrs to life. There’s one shower, two toilets. One has the door shut, but not locked. The other door hangs askew off the lower hinge, the toilet cistern smeared with shit.

I open the shower cubicle, turn on the taps. The water flows strongly. It begins to steam, and I feel a deep sense of anticipation.

I strip completely now, look across and see my torso reflected in the mirror above the sink. My ribs protrude slightly. My skin almost green in the fluorescence.

The water is a little too hot at first, then cold, then near enough. I let the full strength hit my face, my neck, the top of my head. I slowly lather my body.

I watch the bubbles run down my belly, my dick, and down my legs. The foam swirls, swirls faster, then disappears down the drain.

I close my eyes. When the bathroom door opens, I don’t hear it. A second later, the light goes out.

I clutch blindly for the taps, turn off the shower. Rough breathing, a stifled cough. I sense movement in the darkness, footsteps. I press my weight against the cubicle door.

‘Who’s there?’

The light flickers back on, the exhaust fan with it.

‘Sorry, mate. Just fucking with ya.’

A toilet door creaks open, then a loud stream of piss.

‘Ah, that’s better. The name’s Len. What do they call you?’

I dry myself quickly.

‘Tom.’

Len lets out a long fart.

‘Scuse me. Jesus, where’s me manners?’

The toilet flushes. I wait for Len to leave. He washes his hands for what feels like an age, then starts to whistle. Finally, I hear the creak of the bathroom door.

‘Come say g’day,’ he says. ‘Once you’re decent.’

•

The door is still ajar, but I knock twice. Dire Straits on the radio. ‘Sultans of Swing’.

‘Come in, mate. No need for formalities here.’

I push the door open. The room looks much like mine, but a little more homely. Len sits on a wooden chair beside a single bed. He’s stout, full-bellied, in white jockey briefs and a blue singlet. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. His hair is shaved to a bald scalp, his dark skin shiny and smooth. The flattened nose of a boxer.

Looks Maltese, maybe. Definitely southern European.

I shiver as a cool breeze filters through the window. It offers a better view than my room, facing across the road to a strip club and its flashing pink neon sign. Miss Vixen’s. Two bouncers, maybe Islanders, stand outside the door with their arms crossed.

Len reaches across to his bedside table and takes the radio down a notch. He lifts a can of beer from under his chair and takes a swig, then gestures toward the bed.

‘Pull up a pew.’

I sink down uncomfortably to the springs. On the wall are some faded family pics. A holiday trip fishing on a boat somewhere. Len doesn’t seem to be in any of them, at least not in his current shape.

‘Like what I’ve done with the place?’

He grins, smoke-stained teeth. He flicks open a gold zippo, lights his cigarette.

‘Want one?’

‘Nah. Gave up years ago.’

‘Me too.’ He takes a deep drag. ‘Beer then?’

‘If you’ve got a spare one.’

‘Is there such a thing?’

Beside his cupboard, there’s a small bar fridge. He reaches inside, passes me a can.

‘Thanks.’

I crack the top, take a drink. It’s cold and bitter. Len helps himself to another.

‘So much choice nowadays,’ he says. ‘Not like the old days. It was all just CUB back then, Tooheys in some places. Now we got all these weird labels. Goat rooting, get a yak up your arse, who the fuck knows.’

I nod, take another sip.

‘So, what brings you to this shithole?’

I shrug. ‘Just got out.’

‘No shit. Not many come here for a holiday, ya know. Don’t you have any family?’

I shake my head. ‘Dad died when I was a kid, Mum while I was inside. No brothers or sisters.’

‘Shit. Sorry, mate. About your mum, I mean. That’s the fucken pits.’

Len reaches over, turns up the radio a touch.

‘Love this song,’ he says. ‘That Annie Lennox was some pretty fucking hot stuff, don’t ya think? I love birds with short hair like that. What a voice.’

‘You been here a while?’

Len nods, takes a drag of his cigarette. ‘Few years. I get a special weekly rate of fuck-all in exchange for being the local dogsbody. Do some odd jobs for that cunt downstairs. For his old man, really, but he carked it a few months back. That little shit will sell the place to developers soon enough, then I’ll be out on my arse.’

I finish my beer. I’d love another one.

‘So, the obvious question,’ he says. ‘What were you in for?’

The aluminium pings in my hand.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Something serious then?’

‘Kinda.’

‘Not some fucken rock spider, are ya?’

I shake my head. ‘Accessory to murder. For helping out a mate.’

Len raises his eyebrows. ‘Must’ve been some mate.’

‘He was.’

‘What happened?’

‘Shit happened.’

‘You’re quite the talker, aren’t ya?’

‘I’ll tell you about it some other time.’

‘Whatever. You want another?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll pay you back.’

He butts out his cigarette, shakes his head. ‘Another fucken freeloader. Just grab it yourself.’

I open the fridge. Inside there’s a block of tasty cheese and a pack of white bread. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.

‘Beers are down the bottom,’ he says. ‘In the little crisper there. The fridge is pretty much fucked, so it’s the coldest spot.’

I go back to the bed, crack the can.

‘What about you?’ I say.

‘What about me?’

‘What were you inside for?’

Len takes a big swig of his can, lets out a burp.

‘Depends who’s asking.’

I shrug. ‘Just making conversation.’

‘Yeah, right. It was years ago, when I was working out on the boats. I was a merchant seaman. Do you know what that is?’

‘Sort of.’

‘You go from ship to ship, job to job. Not much money in it, but it got me away from home. When I was a teenager, I mean. The old man was a bit of a rogue. When he wasn’t in jail, he liked to smack us kids around, Mum too. It got me away from him, and it meant I got to see the world.’

I try to imagine Len as a teenager. Thinner, surely, but he seems the type who would’ve looked pretty much the same his whole life.

‘Anyway, I got roped into an importation. Heroin, it was. Never touch the stuff meself, but one of the crew had this real clever plan. The dumb fuck reckoned it was bulletproof. Customs only check about one per cent of the containers, ya know. Plus, he said he’d paid off a couple of the wharfies, so it would all come through without a hitch. Set us up for life, he said.’

‘What happened?’

He looks up at the photos. ‘One of the wharfies got cold feet and squealed. The police came and got me in the middle of the night. SOG, it was. Those special ops blokes. “Sons of God”, they like to call themselves. I put up a bit of a struggle, so they beat the living shit out of me. Put me in hospital for a week.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah, Jesus alright. A lot of good that prick ever did me. Anyway, long story short, I did twelve years. All because I listened to that dumb cunt. So, I guess I was even dumber than him. Another beer?’

‘I might turn in. I’m pretty knackered.’

I look again at the pictures on the wall, and I realise they probably aren’t family shots. They’re mostly taken out at sea. Little fishing boats, dinghies. Probably Len’s recreation time amid the work on the ships. Some big fish too.

‘Last one for me then,’ Len says. He eases back into his chair.

I nod toward the photos. ‘You miss it?’

‘Sometimes. Miss the blokes, you know? They were like family. Wouldn’t be up to it nowadays, of course. Too old, and I got the big C.’

‘Cancer?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shit. Sorry.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s my pancreas. A real fucker, it is. It’s not going to be pretty, but something’s gotta get you in the end, right?’

He lights another cigarette. I stand up, my head spinning.

‘Thanks for the b. . .