The Second Son, page 25
Stump has a point. Just squash the whole gang like so many cockroaches. There’s a glimmer of an idea flickering in my mind, but I’m so tired I can barely grasp it. I push the rakia away, pull the coffee pot closer and pour another cup.
‘Last night, our plan was to lead Vucavec to believe it was one of the bikie gangs who stole his ecstasy and shot Zoran, right?’
‘Yes,’ Marko concedes, ‘but for Vucavec to be fully convinced, we need the police to find the pills and gun I taped under Ink Slater’s bed.’
‘Yeah, I need to come up with a way to make that happen. I thought we had a bit of time. Turns out we don’t.’ I stand up and pace. ‘But what if the Serbs find out Slater was responsible for the murders of Michael Vucavec, our Ivan and Tony Fazzini? And they pulled last night’s job. How do you think that would go down?’
‘Very badly for Slater.’
‘And we give the Fazzinis a shot at revenge for Tony’s murder, while we’re at it.’ I’m warming to the idea.
Dad’s hand is curling into a fist and uncurling again, as if he’s imagining Slater’s scrawny neck in his grasp. ‘How we prove to Stanislav and Italians that Ink Slater shot their boys and my Ivan?’
‘Well, if Slater wants me to cop to the crimes, I need to know about them. Don’t I? Otherwise the police won’t believe me. Don’t get me wrong, MacPherson would love to lock me up, but it will need more than just a confession, otherwise I can say it was given under duress. The prosecution will want evidence, like where I stashed the murder weapons. Two rifles were used. Where are they now? I’ve got the perfect excuse to ask Ink the question, don’t I? If he didn’t murder Ivan, Michael and Tony, then he won’t be able to tell me anything. Nothing gained, nothing lost. But if he did? I’m absolutely convinced he’s responsible, and he’ll be motivated to tell me all about it. Then I get him to describe each murder while I record him with a hidden microphone.’
‘You think you James Bond?’
I stop pacing and turn to my father.
‘I know it doesn’t help me get Amy back. But would you admit it could give us some leverage?’ My voice cracks in frustration and I turn away to pace again. ‘Right now, he’s probably letting me stew just to fuck with me. But he has to contact me to arrange the swap—Sasha for his nan. If I can sit him down and get some info out of him and he does tell me something incriminating about the murders, then we can sic the Serbs and the Italians onto him. It would keep his crew busy fighting on a few fronts, wouldn’t it? While we rescue Amy. That’s Slater’s biggest weakness—everyone hates bikies.’
‘Fucking oath,’ says Stump.
AMY
I taught Sasha poker and we spent hours playing for money we didn’t have. We had to keep a tally in our heads, as we don’t have a pencil. I did ask but was denied. I guess it could be used as a weapon. Trying to remember who owed what made us forget where we were. For about five minutes.
Chinese takeaway for lunch and pizza for dinner. Sasha has eaten voraciously.
‘You’re not eating, Mum.’
‘Yes, I am!’ I tuck into the fried rice with my plastic fork. ‘This is delicious! It’s so nice not to have to cook. It’s like I’m on holiday.’
‘Yeah, right. You don’t have to pretend like I’m a kid. You have to eat, Mum. We need to stay strong, in case we have to fight our way out of here.’
I eat some more rice before saying, with more assurance than I feel, ‘Dad is coming to get us.’
I wonder if Johnny even knows we’ve been taken. What’s the hold-up? What are we doing here? Wherever here is.
By the time we arrived last night, it was close to eleven and there were still lots of people around. Music, nightlife, car fumes. Parramatta CBD would have only taken twenty minutes, not forty-five, so we must be close to Sydney CBD. There were so many sirens during the night—police, ambulance and fire engines. I wonder how anybody sleeps.
Kings Cross is my best guess, or somewhere close by. Which is a good thing. Plenty of people about, night and day. If we do manage to get away, we won’t be running down a country road, or a deserted suburban street, or through the bush. All nightmare scenarios.
Whenever I hear them talking, I put my finger to my lips and we lean against the door, straining to hear them. At first, I thought I was listening to one guy talking to himself, until I caught on that there was an argument about who ordered which kind of pizza. The brothers. The one who gives us instructions and the driver. Sasha works it out at the same moment.
‘They’re the same size and have the same voice, Mum. Like David and Harry at school. I think they’re twins.’
Sometimes, we hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, and Tattoo Man’s voice. There’s something about it niggling at me, as if I’ve heard it before somewhere, those dropped g’s and the lisp, ‘f ’ instead of ‘th’…I can’t pinpoint where it could have been. God, this isn’t Stockholm syndrome, is it? Imagining some kind of connection with my captors?
After those detailed instructions in the car, the first brother, we call him Twin A, hasn’t spoken much at all. Of course, it could be Twin B. We have no way of knowing. All my attempts to engage them in conversation have failed.
We have a plastic cup, fork and spoon each and we drink water out of the tap. There’s nothing to hit them with as they come through the door. I can’t lift any of the furniture. I could shove the dresser or the bed in front of the door, so they can’t get in. But then how do we get fed? And, anyway, the twins are ridiculously big—they’d just smash through the door.
The only weapon I have access to is the mirror in the bathroom. I could smash it, wrap a piece in a towel and use it as a knife. Seven years’ bad luck be damned. But I’ll need to choose my moment. Then I remember what I told Sasha earlier—there are three of them. I’ll need more than a piece of broken mirror.
I keep thinking about the gun in my handbag. I ask myself why I didn’t grab it back at the car and shoot Twin A and then Tattoo Man. Bang. Bang. I replay it over and over in my mind, as if I could have my chance again, then realise that Sasha may have been shot too. We both could have died out there on the street. Whereas at least we are here, unhurt. So far.
I wonder where my handbag is now. If I can come up with a reason to get out of this room, there might be a chance I could get to my gun. And then what? Shoot all three of them?
I remember watching a TV series about Paul Getty’s kidnapping. What if the ransom demands are beyond Johnny’s ability to pay and Milan is trying to negotiate the fee down? What if they decide that cutting off my ear, or Sasha’s, is the best way to strike a deal?
JOHNNY
Mum and Dad agree to keep babysitting Granny Slater. Mum’s doing a good job of bonding with the old woman. There’s nothing else I can do until Slater calls me back, so I head home.
As I unlock the garage door leading into the house, I hear a car pulling up out the front, then a loud crash in the living room. A brick smashing through the front window? Fuck! I only just got that window fixed! The smell of petrol hits me as I race up the hall. Fire is spreading in arcs from two broken bottles in the middle of the living-room floor. Through the flames, I see a black SUV pulling away from the kerb. I run back into the kitchen and grab the small fire extinguisher attached to the wall of the pantry. By the time I get back to the living room, the curtains are sheets of flame. Fire everywhere. It’s too late.
I turn around and run down the hall to our bedroom, phone out, calling triple zero.
‘Hello, what is the nature of your emergency?’
‘My house is on fire. Fifty-five Gundibah Street, Liverpool. They need to get here fast.’
I empty my gym bag on the floor, open the safe and throw the cash, our passports, wills and random papers into the bag. My hands are shaking and I’m starting to cough. Smoke is pouring down the hall. Clothes in the bag next. Looking around wildly, I grab a framed photo of the three of us on holiday at the beach last year. What else would Amy want? I empty her jewellery tray into the bag.
I look back up the hall. No way out. When I slide open one of the big windows facing the backyard, the fire rushes towards me. Fast. I push out the flyscreen, throw the bag out the window and hurl myself after it. The pool looks like safety, but I get to my feet and take a few steps back. The whole front of the house is ablaze. As I run up the garage side of the house to the front, sirens are wailing, still streets away. Neighbours in shorts, T-shirts and PJs are milling outside their homes. Someone is yelling but I can’t hear anything except the roar of the fire.
Standing a few metres from the garage door, I’m trying to work out how to rescue the Jeep when an explosion blows the garage door out and lifts me off my feet, throwing me backwards towards the street.
Flat on my back, I stare up at the stars. The night seems silent for two beats, before sirens penetrate the ringing in my ears.
Doug helps me to my feet. ‘I think that was your Jeep going up, mate.’
Two fire trucks arrive and block the street. An older guy jumps down first, checks out the fire then looks at me.
‘Fire Chief Nick Harland. Is this your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyone else inside?’
‘No.’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Johnny Novak.’
‘Right. Stay there, Mr Novak.’
The fire chief turns back towards the trucks and yells orders. His team is already at work, kitted up in yellow-and-black suits, helmets on, unwinding those big hoses, everyone intent on their part of the job. Fire Chief Harland comes back over, keen to ask me a few more questions.
‘Any idea how the fire started?’
Mentioning two petrol bombs will only get the police involved.
‘No, I got home, smelt smoke and saw the living room was on fire, so I called triple zero and jumped out the bedroom window, round the back.’
The guy raises an eyebrow, but I hold his gaze and keep my mouth shut. The fire chief seems to catch on. This is the only explanation he’s going to get.
‘Fair enough. We’ll work out how the fire started later. Right now, there’s no way to save your house, so my people are focused on ensuring it doesn’t spread to the neighbours. Why don’t you go and sit down over there while we get this sorted?’ The fire chief points across the road.
I hoist my gym bag onto my shoulder and cross the road. Mr Fellows and his dachshund seem to quiver with excitement. He wants to talk, but I ignore him, keeping my face blank, staring at the huge bonfire that used to be my home. The heat is incredible, flames shooting high in the air. It’s almost impossible to look away. While everyone’s attention is on the fire, I set off down the street. A police car pulls up beside one of the fire trucks. I keep walking.
Halfway down the block, in the shadows, I stop and turn around. The house we bought the year we got married. The house we brought Sasha home to from hospital after he was born. Destroyed.
My wife, my child, my home. Even my fucking car. Gone.
I thought I could protect Amy and Sasha. There are rules you don’t break. You don’t involve women and children. You don’t fucking fire-bomb someone’s home. Maybe their car, their warehouse, but not their home. I stand there, out of sight, watching the fire brigade battle to bring the blaze under control.
Granny Slater was right. Her grandson has sent me a message.
Turning my back on the flames, I walk away, my mind a slide-show of images: the living room on fire, the sound of the Jeep exploding. I can smell the smoke on my clothes, but the night air is cool on my face. I could head over to Mum and Dad’s, sleep on the sofa or share a bedroom with Granny Slater. That image makes me howl with laughter, which sounds really weird. I pull myself together and keep walking.
What else can go wrong? Maybe I need some kind of divine intervention. I remember going to church with Mum when I was in primary school. Dad stayed home. Ivan and I endured it all: dressing up in our Sunday clothes, standing, on our knees, sitting, standing, on our knees again. It seemed to go on forever. Confession was kind of fun. Ivan and I competed to see who could be sentenced to the most Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Lying in confession didn’t seem like a sin to us. And we’d compete to see who could make the wafer last the longest after communion, poking our tongues out to show each other the slowly dissolving wafer, careful Mum didn’t see.
Once we hit our teens, Mum gave up attempting to get us to come to church. I try to remember the last time Mum dressed up for church. Then it hits me—Ivan’s funeral. We all dressed up.
I think about God and see a scripture card, rays of sun coming out of white fluffy clouds, God in a flowing robe with long hair and a beard. Angels flying around. I might actually still believe in God. Like most religious opportunists, I’m only thinking about God because I’m in trouble.
Imagine going to confession now—‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…’ Fuck, how long has it been? ‘It’s been twenty-seven years since my last confession. This is gonna take a while, Father…’
I can’t be fucked going through all the sins I’ve committed since I was eleven. Besides, I know why all this is all happening—I’ve fucked up my life.
I need a place to sleep. I could call Anto. Kip over there. But the poor bloke has just been shot. Lexy won’t be happy if I add insult to injury and turn up at this time of night, expecting a bed. I could call Marko, but the thought of my cousin’s depressing little flat nixes the idea. I don’t want to talk to anyone, except Ink Slater, and he isn’t answering his phone. Fuck it. I need a drink.
Before I register it, I’m at the bottle shop three streets over, on the main drag. The place is empty, apart from the bloke behind the counter. I stand in front of the single malt shelf, contemplating what kind of night it is. Not as smoky as Ardbeg. Laphroaig. A smoky whisky to go with a burning house.
‘Ah, a man of great taste. A lovely peaty whisky from Islay. One of my favourites.’
A short, plump guy stands behind the counter, his goatee struggling for purchase on a round chin. Skin so pale he looks like he’s never seen the sun.
‘So what are you celebrating?’
‘My house burnt down.’ I mentally kick myself. Now the stupid, lonely fuck has a reason to chat.
‘Really? Just now?’
I shrug.
‘I thought you smelled like a bonfire. You brought the whiff of hell in here with you. Wondered if it was your soul or your body I could smell.’
‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ The idea of hitting him is suddenly appealing. The fat little fucker has my full attention now.
‘I can see and smell auras, mate. Nothing I’m proud of, mostly I keep it to myself. Comes from my mum’s side of the family. Irish.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘No, seriously, I’m not. I now know you smell like a bonfire because your house just burned down. You have good taste in whisky. You have a very muddy, dark-red aura, which probably means you’ve very angry right now. So I should shut the fuck up and let you pay for your Scotch and leave.’
‘Yeah, I’m not surprised I’ve got a dark-red aura, mate. I’m pretty fucking dark on the world right now.’ I pocket my change, while the man behind the counter puts the bottle in a brown paper bag.
‘Can I give you some advice?’ There’s a fair amount of trepidation in the guy’s voice now.
‘Why the fuck not?’ I half-shrug. Throw it at me.
‘You’d be much happier if you had a bright-red aura. That’s your natural colour, but it’s completely, like, covered up by negative energy. Get rid of the negative people in your life. Surround yourself with positive people. It’s time for a bit of a cull.’
‘Time for a cull, you reckon?’
‘That’s what your aura is telling me, mate. Nothing to do with me.’
Yanking the keyring out of my back pocket, I open the side door of the warehouse, switch on one of the lights and throw myself down on the big old sofa. Smells like someone else’s sweat and cigarettes. I open my ninety-dollar bottle of Scotch and chug a few mouthfuls straight from the bottle. Probably not how the Scots recommend drinking a fine single malt, but what the fuck. The warmth hits quickly, the smoky taste snaking around my mouth as the liquid slides down my throat.
The first third of the bottle is gone in ten minutes and I feel a little better. When I’m down to the last third of the bottle, I start thinking about my dark-red aura. Who should I cull? Dad would be a good start. I smile at the thought. I can imagine what my father would think of the bottle-o bloke’s theory about my aura.
What’s Ink Slater doing with Amy right now? My mind veers in a very bad direction, so I pull myself back. I have to keep hoping he’s not harming either of them. What the fuck does he want, anyway? To take over my life? He’s certainly completely fucked it. He needs to be culled.
What about Amy? What’s she thinking? Where’s my husband? Why isn’t he here rescuing me? Maybe she’s come up with an escape plan herself? She probably doesn’t even need me. Maybe she’s already dead. Wouldn’t I feel something if my wife and child were already dead? Wouldn’t I know somehow, in my heart?
I’d really be better off culling myself. I can’t even keep my wife and child safe. I’m lying on a dirty sofa in a warehouse in Liverpool, surrounded by drugs and guns, getting hammered rather than scouring the streets or torturing an old lady so I can find Ink Slater and grab him by the throat, hold him up against a wall and punch him in the kidneys until he coughs up where Amy and Sasha are being held.
I take another swig.
Who the fuck is Johnny Novak anyway? A petty crim who’s been lucky up to now. I’ve always felt kind of cool, like I’m an outlaw, living by my wits. Not one of those boring drones, working their lives away in office buildings and factories. Did those drones let their wives and children get snatched by some nut job working in the next office? No, because they are the real men, caring for their families. Doing it the hard way.
