The Second Son, page 28
I let his jibes about my house and car wash over me. Those things are replaceable.
‘So now you’re adding five mil to the ransom?’
‘Yeah. And I’m feelin’ pretty good about it too. Come on, Johnny, she’s worth it, you know she is. That wild blonde hair, that beautiful face, those long, long legs. I want ’em wrapped around me shoulders, Johnny.’ His smile is a leer now. ‘So don’t fuck up or she’s stayin’ wiv me. She’ll just have to learn to like it.’
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to stay still, not pick up the glass bottle, smash it on the table and drive the broken end into Slater’s rancid throat. I could kill him with what’s within reach. This knowledge somehow calms me.
‘What do you know about Ivan’s murder?’ I’m not giving up. ‘He was taking out the bins too. The cops reckon it was the same shooter.’
‘So you’ve been talkin’ to the cops, have you, Johnny? Good to know. Did they say the same gun was used?’ He leans forward again, interested.
‘Different gun.’
‘Different gun. Different shooter. Not us, like I said. I reckon it was an inside job, using the same MO, so it looked like it was us. But it wasn’t us. All you have to do is park somewhere away from the streetlights. Huntin’ rifle, good shooter. All you need. But it wasn’t us.’ Now he’s leaning back again, that smug smile on his dial.
I still don’t believe him but it’s time to move on. ‘Okay. Final question. I get the whole war-on-the-West fixation, but it seems like this has become personal and I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the attention.’
‘It’s not you who got my attention, Johnny Novak. Don’t flatter yourself,’ he sneers. ‘This is all about Amy. I’ll never forget the first time I saw ’er, down the cop shop.’ His eyes drift, unfocused. ‘Fuckin’ hot, but classy, you know? Seen ’er lotsa times since. Been keepin’ me eye on ’er. Watchin’ out for ’er.’
My whole being wants to kill him. Now. But that won’t get Amy and Sasha back. I wait. His dark eyes shift back to mine.
‘Now fuck off, Johnny. I’m sick of your ugly mug.’
When I get back to the Range Rover, Marko is in the driver’s seat. I swing into the passenger side and he pulls out, heading for Liverpool. Shaking with pent-up rage, I rip the recorder from my chest, attach it via an adapter to my phone and hit download. Once the gadget beeps at me, I bluetooth my phone to the car, open the file and hit play.
I let it run and hear a car door slamming, my footsteps on concrete, the sounds of the Saturday-afternoon crowd on Chapel Road. I calm down, amazed at the quality of the audio coming out of the car’s speakers. I hit fast-forward, then play again. I hear Slater saying, ‘We didn’t kill Ivan.’
‘Bullshit,’ says Anto from the back seat, and I nod, then put my finger to my lips.
When we get to the part about providing a replacement Remington 700 hunting rifle, Marko raises his hand from the steering wheel. I hit pause.
‘I have a Remington 700. You can give him mine.’
My initial reaction is relief, one more thing I don’t have to worry about. Then I start to wonder. I look at Marko. He’s staring straight ahead as he navigates through the peak-hour traffic. He feels my stare.
‘What?’ His voice is low.
‘So you’ve got a Remington 700?’
‘Yes, I do. Along with seven million other people. It has been manufactured by Remington since 1962. It is the most popular bolt-action sports rifle in history. He can have my 700, but he is not getting my scope, sling or bipod.’
‘Fair enough.’ I say. ‘Thanks, mate.’ I guess once you’ve fought in a war, you want your own private arsenal. Whatever makes you feel safe.
‘No problem,’ Marko continues. ‘I give you my old 700. I recently bought a new one. It is an M40A5 Remington 700. It is the best. The US Marine Corps snipers use it. One rifle will be enough.’
Back home…it’s pretty tragic that I’m referring to my parents’ place as ‘home’ again, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. Dad is watching rugby league re-runs and Mum is in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Granny Slater is having a nap, Bigsie stationed outside the bedroom door and Brick in the garden, outside the bedroom window.
The Dragons are thrashing the Bulldogs. Nice, appropriate. Definitely worth a second viewing. But Dad takes one look at my face and turns off the TV. Mum comes in and sits down. She’s in this now and we won’t be leaving her out again.
‘You get Ink Slater to admit he kill Ivan? Play me tape.’ Dad demands.
I sit down too, put my phone on the coffee table and hit play. No one comments as it plays, but there’s bewilderment on both their faces.
‘He say he not kill Ivan? If Ivan not killed by Ink Slater, must be Stanislav, he murder my son.’
‘I guess it’s a possibility, Dad, but my gut still tells me Slater is lying.’ Nothing else makes sense. Something nags at my memory, but I can’t grab it. Dad is still shaking his head.
‘And why he have this, this thing for Amy?’
‘Obsession, Milan. He have obsession.’ Mum comes up with the horrifying word.
‘I have no idea,’ I answer, but I know why.
‘She is very beautiful, our Amy.’ Mum knows too.
Dad waves this line of conversation away.
‘Ink Slater lying about killing Ivan. We get Sasha back, we kill bastard. You kill, you promise.’
‘Dad, believe me, I will have absolutely no problem killing Ink Slater. Anyway, this isn’t getting us anywhere. The recording still delivers, and two contracts on Slater and his boys are better than none.’
‘Two contracts better than none. We invite Stanislav and Antonio here for lunch tomorrow. Branka cook something nice. I try not kill Stanislav.’ Dad nods again, no doubt imagining the scene. Then he shrugs and purses his lips. ‘I also have news,’ he pronounces, folding his arms and sitting back. He looks especially pleased with himself.
‘What news?’ Because he wants me to ask.
‘Rashid Sami want whole shipment. I organise meeting for after lunch. At Fish Market. You and Marko come. We do deal. Nice afternoon on boat.’
‘Really?’ Some good news at last. My surprise makes him grin. ‘Dad, that’s great, how did you organise it?’
‘Have many friends you not know.’
‘Rashid Sami? Okay, well if the Lebs take the whole shipment off our hands, they must be very good friends.’
‘Is good. Yes. Tomorrow, we have the cash. I take twenty per cent. Is normal. You, I give ten per cent, the rest go to crew.’
‘What about fifteen per cent each, and we share the rest with the crew? It was my plan.’ I keep my voice as emotionless as I can, but I’m not fucking happy. ‘Without me and Anto snatching Nick, none of this would have happened.’
‘None of this would have happen. Maybe, maybe not. But is my crew. You not boss. I am boss. You take ten per cent and be happy.’ Dad turns the TV back on.
As usual, Dad wins. I should have negotiated a better deal up front. I guess whatever I get out of this job will be enough. It has to be enough.
AMY
Our lunch delivery was pasta salad, delivered by Twin A. I know which twin is which now—Twin A has a small gold hoop earring in his left ear. As usual, my attempt to start up a conversation got me nowhere. I loathe pasta salad, but at least there was some greenery mixed in with the soggy spirals. We haven’t been getting enough vegetables and I’ve been feeling bloated and out of sorts. Sasha and I started an exercise program this morning; we took turns choosing which exercise to do next. He wanted to leap off the bed. I wanted to do triangle pose. Our program was never going to last. When he suggested tackling practice, I knew it was time to stop.
After lunch, Tattoo Man delivered a pile of old and yellowed magazines, a few paperbacks and a game of Scrabble, but no pen and no paper. He was full of himself, clearly expecting profuse gratitude. But Sasha wouldn’t even say thank you—I was half-embarrassed and half-proud. The kid cannot be bought. Then Tattoo Man called in Twin B to help him bind our hands and feet with cable ties again, before he took a photo of us. It must have something to do with the ransom negotiations, so I was secretly glad.
By the way the light is hitting the blind, I know it’s now late afternoon. The last two hours have been really quiet. No signs of life from outside, other than the occasional siren or horn beep. Sasha is reading National Geographics from the eighties. He sniggers when he comes across some bare-breasted women in an article about the Amazon jungle.
A noisy, white pedestal fan moves stale air around our room, almost managing to imitate a breeze. I was so excited about the fan’s arrival I didn’t notice the Kmart bag until after the twins had left the room. Inside was a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt, Sasha’s size, and a yellow sundress for me, again, the right size. But what really threw me was the white lace bra-and-panty set. La Perla, definitely not from Kmart. And 34C. Oh God, Tattoo Man must have bought this lingerie. How did he know my size? What a creep! I shudder and push the lingerie back into the bag.
It’s hot as hell. I sniff under my armpits—yep, I stink. I can’t believe I’ve been in the same clothes since Thursday morning and it’s now Saturday afternoon. There are towels in the bathroom and now we have clean clothes, but I’m freaked out by the thought of getting naked with those guys right outside the bedroom door. Sasha is pretty stinky too, so I ask him to shower and change. The sound of running water does my head in as I imagine being cool for the first time in days.
Sasha comes out of the bathroom flicking his hair out of his eyes and looking like a new kid in his new clothes.
Fuck it. ‘Sasha, I’m going to have a shower too. If anyone opens the door, tell them to come back in ten minutes. Okay?’
‘What if it’s Dad coming to rescue us?’
What a wonderful thought.
‘You can let Dad in.’
‘What if it’s the police coming to rescue us?’
‘You can let them in too, but not those men out there now, not until I’m finished getting dressed. Okay?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
I think it does us both good to pretend we have some kind of say over who comes into our room and who stays out.
The water is heavenly. I can’t help groaning with pleasure. The body wash, shampoo and conditioner are the same brand I use, which is weird. Have these guys been in our bathroom or is it just a coincidence? Millions of women use these same products; they’re not expensive. I talk myself around to the latter conclusion because the former is too hard to handle.
Is that noise the slam of the front door? I finish up, wrapping the towel around my wet hair, then stare at the clean, white-lace bra and panty set, hesitating. It feels safer to put back on my old, sweaty bra and undies, but the desire to feel clean all over wins out, and I rip the tags off the new lingerie and dress quickly. The sundress is cool and comfortable, a welcome change from my smelly jeans and T-shirt. In the mirror, I look almost normal, like a pretend version of myself. Bundling our dirty clothes into the Kmart bag, I emerge from the bathroom just as the key turns in the lock. I dump the bag on the floor and hurry over to join Sasha, who is sitting in the middle of the bed. Perched on the edge, I turn to face the door, the towel still wrapped around my head.
When Tattoo Man walks in, he stops and stares at me. He smells even worse than earlier. His balaclava is riding up on the right side of his neck, revealing a length of green snake and a black spider’s web. His thin lips are like a slash in the balaclava, opening to reveal yellow twisted teeth. He’s smiling.
‘I’m glad you like your new dress.’ He sounds pleased with himself. I feel as if I’m going to heave.
‘Yes, thank you. We both liked being able to have a shower and get changed.’
‘You’ve got a towel on your head.’
‘I washed my hair.’ I don’t know what else to say.
‘You look nice.’
Sasha wriggles closer to me and grabs my hand.
‘Stand up. Not you, Sasha. Just Amy.’
I do not like the way he just said my name. Why does he want me to stand up? I have goosebumps all over. I don’t move.
‘I want you to stand up and take the towel off your head, Amy.’
This time I do as I’m told, staring at the floor, so I don’t have to look at him and his creepy tattoos. The damp towel is now clutched in my left hand. My lips are trembling. Sasha squeezes my right hand, keeping me anchored.
‘Beautiful. Your mum’s very beautiful, Sasha.’
Tattoo Man steps forward, reaching out to touch me, even as I recoil from him.
‘Stand still, Amy.’ His tone is sinister now.
I’m transfixed by his bloodshot eyes, the irises so dark it’s hard to tell where the pupils begin, like bottomless pits. Terrified, I look away, over his shoulder, as though I can make him disappear. His rough fingertips are pushing my damp hair back off my forehead and tracing a path down to my chin. The blood seems to rush out of my head and then back in again like a wave hitting the shore. He wouldn’t, would he? Not in front of my son. His fingertips trail down my neck, over my collarbone. My whole body is trembling now and I have to clench my legs together to avoid peeing myself. I can’t believe this is happening, even though I’ve been dreading it all along. His fingertips slide further down. He stops at the top of the yellow sundress, then slips one strap off my shoulder. He’s checking to see if I’ve put on the lacy underwear. I knew it—I shouldn’t have put it on. He’ll see it as an invitation. I’m blushing. I’m going to throw up.
‘Don’t touch my mummy,’ Sasha growls, launching himself off the bed and around Tattoo Man’s waist. Tattoo Man staggers back and Sasha lunges again, punching him in the stomach, then kicking him in the shins, before Tattoo Man grasps both Sasha’s wrists in one hand. His eyes flashing with fury, he draws back the other arm to unleash a punch of his own.
‘Stop! Sasha, he’ll hurt you!’ I struggle to wrench Sasha back towards me.
‘Dave! Get your fat, lazy arse in here!’ yells Tattoo Man, slowly lowering his clenched fist.
One of the twins bursts through the door, pulling his balaclava down over his face.
‘Get the kid outta here.’
Instinctively, I throw my arms around Sasha, holding on to him, but strong hands prise us apart and Sasha screams.
‘Stop! Wait!’ I shout, and stop struggling. ‘Sasha, go with the man. It will only be for a couple of moments. Then you’ll be brought straight back to me. Won’t he?’ I look up, pleading, into those black eyes.
‘Yep, a cupla minutes, kid, then you can come back to your mummy.’
Sasha looks at me, frowning, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘Go with the man, it’s going to be fine. We’re just going to talk about getting us home safely. Okay?’ Sasha doesn’t look convinced, but he has no choice. The Dave twin has a firm grip on his arm and pulls him from the room, closing the door. Now there’s no handbrake. I can almost feel the hot breath in my ear. He’ll hold me down. No matter how hard I struggle, I mustn’t scream. Sasha mustn’t hear.
There’s a cruel smile on those thin lips as he approaches me again. My legs are pressed hard up against the bed to stop them trembling. I adjust the strap on my dress. Right in front of me now, he reaches out and flicks the strap back off my shoulder. I close my eyes and try to distance myself from my body in a last-ditch effort to protect my mind.
‘Okay. Time for business.’
I’m faint with relief as I open my eyes. Thank God. He’s moved away from me and is leaning against the dresser, arms crossed. I’m still shaking as I sit back down on the bed, my legs no longer supporting me.
‘Amy?’
‘Yes?’ I take a deep breath, push my terror aside and raise my chin off my chest.
‘Sasha will be going home tonight. You need to get him ready, so he doesn’t put up a fight. I don’t wanna have to hurt the kid, okay?’
Fear shoots though me as I think of being separated from Sasha, but I calm myself with the thought of him safe in his father’s arms.
‘Okay.’ I agree. ‘What about me?’
‘Johnny is going to give me a whole lot of money for you, and you’re worth it. But he’s also gotta give himself up for all those murders he committed. He cleaned a few wogs up, I’ll give him that, but killing his own bruvver.’ He tut-tuts in disbelief. ‘Amy, your husband is a bad man, he’s gonna end up in jail for a very long time. You’ll need someone to look after you. May as well be me.
All I can do is stare at him as my mind tries to deal with what he’s telling me.
‘Now, when I let your kid back in, you could tell him what I just said about his dad, but it would be a bad idea. You wanna know why?’
‘Why?’ I say in a small voice. My ears are buzzing again. My face is hot. I want to scream at him: Johnny didn’t kill anyone!
‘No kid needs to know his father is a murderin’ scumbag. Leave it to me to sort out. I’ll make it right for you. I’ll even take on the snotty little brat as me own, if you want me to.’ His voice and eyes make my skin creep, as though he’s touching me again. ‘But first I gotta get me nan back and that means handin’ Sasha over. If the kid does sumfin stupid, he’ll get himself killed. Maybe he and Johnny both get killed. You see? You followin’ me, Amy?’
‘I understand.’ I have no idea what he’s saying about his nan. What the hell has Johnny done? I’ll say anything to get my son back in here and this disgusting psycho out.
‘Good girl. Make sure Sasha understands he’s gotta be good too.’ He waits for me to nod. ‘Johnny is gonna be locked up for a very fuckin’ long time. But you and me, Amy, we’re gonna have loads of money. We’ll fly anywhere we want.’
Two strides and he’s back over to the bed, pulling me roughly to my feet, his mouth descending on mine. I try to resist as the rough wool of his balaclava scrapes my cheeks and his hard, thin lips press against mine. His foul breath makes me gag. As he pokes his tongue into my mouth, I twist my face away, once again filled with terror about what he’s about to do to me. But he sniggers, shoves me back on the bed and walks to the door.
