It was my birthday, fuck it. I hate birthdays. Birthdays are second only to Christmases in the odds-on shit-day stakes. Happy birthday - yeah, sure, fat chance with the blood relations launching a dawn assault. 'I'm not going to send you money this year,' Mum screeched from Surfers, 'You'll just waste it. You have no financial commonsense at all. You take after your father. Why, when I was you age -' I reflected in the mirror. Traces of last night's claret caked my lips. '-I had a sustantial real estate portfolio and a couple of brothels. You don't try, that's your problem. Look at your sister; she owns two flats and a swag of shares and she's younger than you. You have no drive. No will to succeed.' I wiped the red leavings from my mouth and thanked Mum for the support. Angelica was next, calling from Tamworth. She'd developed a western drawl and a tendency to quote talkback radio idiots, but at least she didn't go on about following in the family tradition. Out on Egan Street, the garbage truck made its usual cacophany. The day was grinding into gear without me. Granny Hay called me and raved on about her holiday in Vegas, and I knew she'd been talking to Mum because she gave me her stock line about running a huge S.P. racket when she was my age. Miss an opportunity to sink the knife? Not my family. Pop Boyd rang next, and while he didn't hassle me about my lack of drive, he did reckon it was time I settled down with a fella. When Nanna Boyd phoned, she skipped birthday goodwill and demanded the lowdown on what Pop was doing. The divorce was still eating at her, fifteen years later. I stuttered my way through the barrage of calls, then disconnected the phone. It was early. Down in the kitchen, the sun was angling through the vent. I made coffee and tried to get my head straight, but the family's voices snapped at me like a badly tuned radio. Shower - still mucky. Dress - inferior. I was thinking about unravelling the leads and mikes of my rudimentary recording system when the house began to shake. Bam bam bam, rattling the front door's locks and hinges. Sound like that, it had to be the landlord or cops. I crept up the hall as Victor's face appeared from his bedroom door. 'It's a suit,' he told me, trying to pull on his jeans inside out. His eyes were uncoordinated and there was claret on his lips. 'What do you think?' I whispered. 'Cops?' His good eye scorned me. 'Doubt it. He's on his own.' I tried to see through the peephole, but it was covered with mould. 'Realo?' 'Maybe. You do it, Si. You're good with suits.' 'You do it. It's my birthday, for fuck's sake!' He grinned. 'There you go. It's probably a singing telegram.' 'Yeah, right.' I slipped the chain into the latch, then opened the door slightly. Tall guy, young and ugly. He reminded me of a henchman from a friend's funeral out at Waverly Cemetary. The bad busy winter of 1989. I told him, 'You got the wrong place, mate.' 'I don't think so. Are you Siren Boyd?' I nodded, wondering what I'd done, who I owed money to. 'I'm here to take you to your uncle.' At that point I wished it had been cops or realos or anyone else. Not George. Not the belches and wheezes and bad architecture. Not today. 'Uh-huh,' I said. 'I can't.' The suit smiled. 'He's expecting you.' 'No! Absolutely not!' The suit folded his arms and smiled. 'There's money involved.' I heard a noise from Victor's room, next to the front door. He'd been eavesdropping. I knew what he'd be thinking - if it's money, go for it, Si. Go Dog Go. 'Give me five minutes.' I shut the door and went to my room. I was wearing a cute little black dress at the time, but that wasn't suitable. Not at all. I pulled a wretched pair of jeans from under my bed and borrowed Victor's Charles Manson T-shirt. When dealing with Big George Hay, the right image is essential. Meet Siren Boyd, Newtown goddess and heroine of the Riot Grrl generation: 'Some women have bad