The Second Son, page 11
I’d wanted something romantic for our first wedding anniversary. Like jewellery. Like normal people. But it turned out he was right about the shooting range. Even though I’m the last person to be in favour of guns, I have to confess that it was fun and horrifying, all at the same time.
I was six months pregnant when Johnny first took me to the Condell Park Indoor Firearms Range. We rang the bell at the front door and gained entry to a dim corridor leading to a second door. We must have been scrutinised on a monitor and deemed safe. That door opened into a windowless room half-filled by a green counter. A sassy blonde held court, signing us in as I surveyed the display of guns on the wall behind her. I’d wanted to bring my new gun, but Johnny explained that it was way too small. In Australia, you can’t own a handgun that’s easy to conceal, which is a good thing. Our tough gun laws have made a difference. But I’m married to a man who procured an illegal firearm for our first wedding anniversary.
The blonde manageress turned serious as she explained the rules. I couldn’t take my eyes of her long acrylic nails, ballerina-pink shading to magenta, scattered with spider webs and fairies. Nail art and guns, the perfect combination. Johnny was allowed to watch but was not allowed to teach me; instead, their instructor, Allan, would give me my first lesson.
Spare and taciturn, Allan led Johnny and me onto the empty gun range and showed us to our shooting booth. A 9mm CZ Shadow was tethered to a metal bar. Allan adjusted the bar to bring the gun up to the right height. The gun was pointing forward. I could aim it up or down a little, and ever so slightly to the left or right. What I couldn’t do was shoot myself or anyone else with it. But I was still nervous. The CZ was much bigger than my little handgun nestled in the safe at home.
Allan showed me how to grip the gun with both hands, keeping my fingers outside the trigger guard, and then how to load the magazine. He told me to rack the slide to chamber the first bullet. I struggled to pull the slide back.
‘Don’t be gentle, you’re not gonna hurt it.’
I don’t think he realised I was trying to be gentle with myself.
He held up a paper target with a red circle in the middle, clipped it to the target-holder and pressed a button on the counter, sending the target down a wire to a spot ten metres away.
As we were preparing for my first shot, three men came in behind us, fanning out to shooting booths on either side. Following Allan’s instructions, I lined up the rear sight with the sight down the end of the barrel. I put the red circle in the middle of the sights, took a breath and squeezed the trigger. The noise made me jump about a foot in the air and a tiny scream may well have emerged from my mouth. Allan kept a straight face, but Johnny had a bit of a chuckle.
‘Did I get it?’
‘Can you see the little hole to the right of the red target?’ asked Allan.
‘Yep.’
‘This time don’t close your eyes right before you pull the trigger.’
I squeezed off one round at a time, each bullet going through the red target, until the gun clicked. No more bullets. I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly, my whole body shaking. I could feel my baby moving inside me, no doubt performing a somersault.
‘Release the magazine into your left hand. Use your right thumb to hit the release button. That’s it. Here’s the next magazine. Load it.’ He pushed a button somewhere and the target moved another five metres down the range.
I tried to shoot, but nothing happened.
‘Rack the slide.’
I pulled on the slide, planted my feet a bit wider and took a deep breath. Suddenly, guns on both sides of me started to crack. Despite my ear and eye protectors, the noise juddered through me. I dropped my hands from the gun and around my baby bump, stepping back to look around. The men on either side had their own handguns, untethered. Either one of them could turn around, right now, I thought, and shoot me in the head. The fear must have shown in my face.
Allan motioned me back to my gun. ‘Relax.’
I hate it when someone tells me to relax. It’s like when you’re up on the examination table, about to have a cervical screening test, and the doctor says, ‘Relax.’ If it’s a guy, I always want to tell him to go fuck himself. But I never do. So I swallowed my fear and shot the fuck out of the target instead. Allan sent the target another five metres back up the range. I shot a magazine at every point until, at twenty-five metres, I started missing again. It was over, the air acrid with gun smoke. The sudden silence was broken by the whirring of the target paper coming back to us. Smiling for the first time, Allan unclipped it and handed it to me like a trophy. My hands were shaking as I reached out to take it. The red centre was laced with bullet holes.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
Then he looked at Johnny.
‘Don’t get on the wrong side of this one. If she misses your heart, she’s gonna clean you up with a head shot.’
But I haven’t picked up my gun in years. Small and deadly, it makes me shiver just holding it. I check to see if it’s loaded. Empty. I’ll stop by the gun range and pick up some ammunition. I slip it into my handbag, even though I know there’s no way I would ever use it to shoot someone. But I’m not hiding my head in the sand any longer; I am married to a Novak and I might need to threaten someone with a gun to protect Sasha.
Walking back down the hall, I poke my head into Sasha’s room. He’s lying on his bed engrossed in a book—Lizard’s Tale by Weng Wai Chan. The blurb on the back says it’s about a boy living in Singapore, surviving on petty theft. I let him choose his own books; it seems the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. But I’m glad he’s reading, glad it’s keeping him occupied. I see he’s already filled his book bag with more books and games, just like I’d asked him to. I kiss him on the top of his head and leave him alone.
I can’t believe what a mess I find in the kitchen. It would be so easy for me to throw the dirty plates into the dishwasher and tidy up. And I could collect all the empty Chinese takeaway containers and pizza boxes in the living room while I’m at it. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes. But I resist. I don’t want it to be obvious that I’ve been here. I don’t know why. If I’m being sneaky, I don’t care. Besides, how hard is it to keep a house vaguely tidy?
I write a note on the shopping-list pad stuck to the fridge, a pen hanging from it on a string.
IOU $100,000. Amy
I don’t really owe him the money; it’s my money too, but I didn’t earn it. I know it’s ill-gotten gains, but whatever. My whole marriage has been funded by ill-gotten gains. No point being hypocritical. This cash will get Sasha and me installed in a nice little beach house on the North Coast, while Johnny sorts himself out.
Back in our bedroom, I place the IOU on top of the cash left in the safe and lock it up again, before replacing the boards and closing the wardrobe door. I go to make the bed, then stop myself. Wanting to breathe in my husband again, I hold his pillow to my face. It smells faintly of petrol. What have he and Anto been up to?
JOHNNY
It’s late afternoon as I stroll down the hall into my parents’ living room for the emergency meeting. Marko is already seated, Baz and Anto are in armchairs next to each other and in identical positions—leaning back, relaxed, legs spread. Josef takes a seat two along from my father. As Dad’s younger brother, he sees himself as high up the food chain. He’ll need to be managed so he doesn’t fuck up. Stump, Fibs, Bigsie and Shrimp help themselves to a drink and sit down. Brick and Blocker are still up at Baz’s shack, guarding Nick.
The ceiling fan is sending cigarette smoke in lazy circles. Framed posters of Croatian landmarks line the walls and a portrait of Tito hangs in pride of place on the sideboard, a single red rose in a vase beneath—Mum’s shrine to Tito, who was born to a Croatian father and a Slovenian mother in a village sixty kilometres north of Zagreb. According to Mum, he was the first and last decent president of Yugoslavia, the man who brought us all together. He may have been a communist dictator, but he was our communist dictator.
We usually meet on the back patio or down at the warehouse. But this is important. All the seats are taken except the one to the right of Dad. My seat.
Ten men, the inner circle only. Cousins and uncles, everyone part of the Novak family regardless of their surnames. Tattooed, scarred, thick brows, high cheekbones, crooked noses and bulked up with muscle. They’re not the prettiest, and my father is the biggest and ugliest of the lot.
‘First we drink to Ivan,’ he growls, leaning back and glaring at everyone.
It’s as if we’d all forgotten for a moment; now it feels like Ivan is here with us. My eyes sting as we raise our glasses. Dad clears his throat.
‘This not leave room. Understand?’
Nods all round, eyes more focused.
‘Stanislav got big shipment coming Thursday, four days from today. A-grade ecstasy from Netherlands via Belgrade. Don’t ask how I know.’ He taps his nose and earns a chuckle from his men.
‘Shipment worth twenty million wholesale.’ This gets a less subdued reaction, a bit of backslapping. The men lean forward now, hungry.
‘How did they put a deal this size together?’ Josef makes sure he sounds curious rather than disbelieving.
‘How they put deal together, you want to know, Josef?’ Dad watches his brother squirm a little. ‘Back in Belgrade, three families come together, get it done. Now I tell you how we take it from them.’
I lean back and let myself drift, thinking about how I’m going to use the money to get Amy and Sasha back. My share will fund us leaving this life behind altogether. But for now I push the thought away. I have to come up with a plan to throw the blame on someone else, not the Novaks. No one in our crew gets hurt and I walk away with more than a million to add to the kitty.
I can’t hide the smile on my face. Ten ugly bastards look prettier by the minute. Sometimes I love my job.
When I walk into the empty house again, all my feelings of accomplishment bail on me. No Amy making dinner, no Sasha in pyjamas running to crash-tackle me. I’m startled to find that my eyes are full of tears as I flop into an armchair.
I decide to try calling. She’s got to answer sometime, doesn’t she? We haven’t spoken since Wednesday.
Dialling her number makes my stomach flutter. It feels like back when we first started going out. I can’t believe it when she answers straightaway.
‘Yes, Johnny, what do you want?’ She couldn’t sound less interested, but my relief overpowers my anger.
‘We need to talk, Ames. How about I take you to that place you want to try in the city, the French place, what’s it called again? I’ll make a booking for tomorrow night.’
‘Hubert,’ she pronounces it with a French accent, Hewbear, ‘and they don’t take reservations for tables under six.’
‘What the fuck is it about Sydney restaurants? They think they’re so fucking good, so much better than their punters. Oh no, we don’t take reservations, we are way too popular. Just line up and we’ll see if we can fit you in. Fuck that.’
‘Well, we won’t go then, will we? That was easy.’
It takes me a moment to realise she’s hung up.
Fuck! She’d finally answered after days of silence and I let some snooty restaurant’s booking policy derail me. It pisses me off, though, the way these popular places call the shots. Fucking toffy attitude.
Something about her, still, after twelve years together, she has me by the balls. I’m grinning. I can’t help myself.
A loud thump against the front door boots adrenaline right through me. I lean over and flick off the table lamp, then stand and tiptoe through the darkness to the edge of the living-room window. Peering out, I can’t see anyone at the door or in the garden. The street is empty.
I head to the door, pick up my cricket bat and check the spyhole. Nothing. Finally, I open it fast, bat ready. A large pile of blond fur flops into the hallway, blood pooling on the floorboards.
The next-door neighbour’s golden labrador, her throat slit like a horrible smile.
JOHNNY
I crouch on my haunches as my head starts to spin. What kind of fucking creep does this to a dog? Molly. A sweetheart of a dog. I can’t fucking believe it. I look around more carefully this time. No one. I drag her inside and close the door.
Once she’s wrapped in two beach towels, the bright colours seem all wrong. I’ll bury her in our backyard and clean up the blood. Amy doesn’t need to know.
Then I think about Flynn, the kid next door. He’ll be sticking ‘lost dog’ posters all over the neighbourhood. I have to tell Doug and Kerry, his parents.
It’s after nine. Flynn will be asleep. I carry Molly across our front lawn towards Doug and Kerry’s front door. The dog feels warm in my arms, as though she’s asleep, but there’s the metallic smell of blood and a dark stain blooming on one of the beach towels.
This is my fault. I’ve brought violence to this quiet street. I feel sick. What do I tell them? I put Molly down behind me, pull open the flyscreen and knock on the door. Almost immediately, the TV is turned down and light footsteps approach.
‘Hi, Johnny. Everything all right?’ Kerry is a curvy brunette, always perfectly put together. She’s clearly surprised to see me.
‘I’ve got some bad news for you. Mind if I come in?’
They welcome me into their living room, which is a similar size to ours. Doug sees my face and turns off the TV. I’m relieved he’s here. Slim and blond, Doug is a practical man. I’m hoping he’ll make this a bit easier for me.
‘Mate, do you need a drink? You look a bit peaky.’ Doug rests a hand on my shoulder, his concern obvious. ‘And ah, you’ve got some blood on your shirt. Is everyone okay?’
I wonder what he’s thinking as he gestures towards an armchair. I sit down and they prop on the sofa, unsettled, leaning forward.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this—Molly has been killed.’
Kerry stands up again, hand over her mouth. Doug pulls her gently back down beside him and puts his arm around her.
‘Run over?’ asks Kerry.
‘No, someone killed her. Deliberately.’
‘Who on earth would do something like that?’ asks Kerry.
‘What did they do to her?’ asks Doug.
‘I don’t know who’s responsible, but she was left up against my front door, so this is about me, not you. I think it’s related to my brother. By the way, thank you for coming to the funeral last week.’ I rub my hand across my eyes.
‘This must be a very difficult time for you.’ Doug sounds like he’s placating a dangerous beast that has somehow found its way into their home. ‘So you think what’s happened to Molly is related?’
‘Yeah, I do.’ I’m not going to mention the drive-by shooting unless they do.
‘Have you called the police?’ Doug asks.
‘Not yet.’ I’m nodding now. ‘But I can, if that’s what you want me to do.’
‘Of course, we have to call the police!’ Kerry’s voice is shrill now. Doug pulls her in, comforting but also restraining.
‘Shh, we don’t want to wake Flynn up, do we, love?’
Fuck no. The poor kid.
‘I haven’t seen Amy or Sasha for a few days. Where are they? Are they all right?’ Kerry sounds suspicious.
‘Amy and Sasha are staying at her parents’ place. She’s having a bit of time with her folks.’ I can tell how flimsy this sounds, so I move on. ‘Obviously, I’ll replace Molly as soon as you give me the go-ahead. Sometimes a new puppy is the best way to get over losing a dog.’ When I was a kid, I lost my favourite dog to a wild pig out west, on one of Dad’s shooting expeditions. It’s fucking horrible putting a bullet in a gored dog’s head.
‘Yeah, thanks, mate. That would be great, but let’s not worry about it now.’ Doug looks distressed. He seems to be trying to find the right words. ‘I heard there was a problem earlier in the week too. Someone shot out your front window?’
‘Yeah. Again, related.’
‘You’re not exactly the safest guy to live next to, are you?’
‘Doug, this isn’t good, we need to do something. Obviously, we’re in danger too!’ Kerry is getting hysterical. She shakes off Doug’s arm, stands and moves away from the sofa. Now she’s pacing.
This is excruciating. I need to put a lid on it.
‘I honestly don’t think you’re in any danger, Kerry. This is a warning directed at me, and only me. Whoever did this must have seen Molly in our front garden, playing with Sasha and Flynn. Look, I’m going to call Detective Inspector Ian MacPherson. He’s the cop investigating Ivan’s murder, so he’ll know what to do. Okay with you two?’ More nods. ‘Would you like me to take care of Molly?’
Kerry has her back to me, arms folded across her chest. Now she turns around to face me again.
‘Can I see her?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Yeah, Johnny’s right, Kez. Leave it with us. Come on, mate, I’ll help you. Let’s get this done.’
Doug and I carry Molly around the side of the house into their backyard. In the corner, beneath a mulberry tree, we dig a deep hole. Doug finds a stone under the back deck and places it at the head of the grave. After we survey our handiwork, he offers me a beer and I figure it’s a gesture I can’t refuse. We stand together on the lawn and knock back a Carlton Draught each as fast as we can. Then I call MacPherson in front of him, so Doug knows it’s done.
I silently thank God for one small mercy—the lateness of the hour. I couldn’t have coped if Flynn had been awake.
I get the hell out of that garden.
AMY
Why did I have to make a fuss about the restaurant? I forced myself to sound like I didn’t care he’d called, but I want to see him! I need to see him. Sasha needs to see him. I could scream, I’m so frustrated. Right now I hate Johnny and his whole damn family.
I pull a bottle of rosé out of the fridge, pour myself a glass and take it into the living room. Hoping there’s something half decent on TV, I sit down and flick through the channels. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. I turn the TV off and start pacing. I have to come up with a solution. Everyone else is pushing Johnny to do something stupid. Why can’t Branka see what’s going on and put a stop to it? I guess she’s never managed to restrain Milan in the past, so why would now be any different?
