Steve paid his settlement fee after the sale of his house cleared, but he still owed money elsewhere and nobody would hire him. He got a lot of calls from collection agencies. He would yell abuse and then hang up and block the number.
‘Fucking parasites. They buy debt for cents on the dollar and think it’s a licence to stalk you.’
Steve was on the couch complaining to Whippy, who was sitting on a beanbag and messaging on his phone.
‘I don’t know,’ Whippy said. ‘Maybe I should hire them to look after my shit.’
My mum was at the table smoking a cigarette.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
Whippy held up his phone.
‘I mean like this fucking parrot right here. He’s into me for, like, fifteen hundred and he’s chasing two points for tonight, even though he can’t even cover the rate, let alone the principal. It’s getting to the stage where I won’t sell on tick anymore.’
‘You’re an idiot for trusting them at all,’ said Steve.
‘Well I only offer credit for repeat customers, so I know who they are and where they live. Plus it’s a twenty per cent mark-up on price, plus interest if they don’t pay me back on time, so it’s usually worth the risk. But chasing up these dickheads is the biggest pain in my arse. They ghost you for weeks, then it’s every excuse under the sun when their other connect is dry and they’re chasing again. I’m not gonna lie, I’d fucking love a collection agency to take care of it.’
My mum twisted around in her seat. She had a crafty look on her face.
‘How much do they all owe?’
‘I don’t know. All up? I reckon I must have fifty grand out there.’
‘Fifty grand?’
‘Easy. Plus another ten I’ve lost on counterfeit scams and rip-offs that I never bothered about.’
My mum looked at Steve.
‘You should do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Collect his debts. Same as an agency.’
Steve scoffed and shook his head.
‘I’m being serious,’ my mum said. ‘He’s got their details. You’ve just got to go get it off them. They don’t know who you are. It’s not like they’re going to the cops about money they owe him, are they? It’s perfect. You’d be so good at it.’
Steve thought about it. Then he looked at Whippy and raised his eyebrows.
My mum was right. Steve was good at it.
Whippy gave him a list of people who owed him money. The first thing Steve did was message them through an encrypted app requesting that they clear the debt. Most of them refused or ignored him, but Steve had a few different ways to get people to pay. He stalked them on social media and found out as much about them as he could. If he knew their address, he checked their mail and staked out their house like a private detective to see if they had security cameras or housemates. He harassed them with messages and added interest to the amount they owed. He gave them a deadline, and if they still didn’t pay, then he did something to intimidate them.
If they had a car, he would stab their tyres. If the car was old enough, he got Mark to steal it, and offered to return it once the debt was cleared. He stole one lady’s cat from her backyard and she paid within two hours. Sometimes he took photos of their parents’ house or their kids’ school and sent it to them. A couple of times Steve printed out flyers with the person’s name and photograph saying they were on the sex offender registry and posted them in letterboxes all over their neighbourhood.
If they made excuses about not having the money, Steve sent them information on how to set up a short-term loan online. Some companies would approve loans in under an hour. Then he instructed them to go to a cash machine and leave the money under the doormat of one of the vacant houses across the street. He would wait and watch them from inside our lounge room.
If nothing else worked, he threatened people physically. Dane and Mark went with him for the fun of it. Dane called them recovery missions and treated them like an army operation.
They went at night. Before they left they sat around drinking rum and Coke and smoking from a glass pipe and listening to loud metal music. When it was time to go, they stood up and slapped each other and yelled. They took ski masks and a cricket bat. Sometimes Steve unlocked the storage cupboard and took one of the guns. Then the house would go quiet for a few hours. When they returned, they were either boastful or angry, depending on what had happened.
Usually they were out until late. But one night they came back in less than an hour. I didn’t hear them because I was in my room with my headphones on. I was wearing a dark red slip dress and knee-high black stockings and I had applied cat-eye make-up and plum-coloured lipstick. I was showing myself on the webcam to a man from England. He was sitting on a brown couch and listening to music in the background.
I didn’t hear Steve yelling at me from the hallway. He had forgotten to close the door to the storage cupboard before he left, and he was furious because he thought I had opened it.
I did hear him bang on my door. I flinched and then I froze. I pulled my headphones off. I told him to wait outside, I told him not to come in. He kept bashing at the door and trying to open it. The wooden wedge was coming loose, so I went over and tried to keep the door shut, but it burst open and Steve saw me. He stopped for a second. He looked confused.
‘The fuck are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
I tried to close the door, but he blocked me.
‘The fuck is this?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Doesn’t fucking look like nothing.’
He stepped inside and I backed away.
‘It’s nothing. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
He pushed me hard. I fell back. He closed the door behind him. Then he picked up the iPad.
‘Who’s this? What are you, a faggot?’
I shook my head.
Steve snapped the iPad in half and threw it aside.
‘You’re not a faggot?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re nothing?’
‘Yes. No.’
Steve leaned over me.
‘What? Fucking speak up when I’m talking to you. Show me some fucking respect. So what are you? Are you a whore?’
‘No.’
‘Then why are you dressed like a whore?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? So what are you? Are you a woman?’
‘What? No. No. No.’
‘Then what the fuck are you doing in these clothes? What’s all this shit on your face? The fuck is wrong with you? Huh? Is this what you do in here? Why?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘You dunno. You dunno. You’re a fucking embarrassment. To me, to your mother, to yourself. You don’t have an answer for me? Hey? What the fuck is wrong with you?’
I was shaking. I couldn’t look at him.
‘I don’t know.’
Steve slapped me hard across the face.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t fucking know either.’
He slapped me again. Then he pushed me against the wall and held me there. I couldn’t breathe. I was so scared I started to cry.
‘What, you gonna fucking cry now? Be a man. I’m sick of dealing with your shit. You’re a fucking disgrace. If you won’t be a man, I’m going to make you one.’
He let me go and I dropped down and hugged my knees to my chest.
‘Stand up,’ he said.
I shook my head.
‘Stand up.’
‘No.’
‘Get up. Stand up for yourself. Take a fucking swing at me. I know you want to. I know you fucking hate me. After all I’ve done for you. Do it. Have a swing.’
I just shook my head. He slapped me hard on the side of my head and for a few seconds I could
n’t hear or see.
‘Are you gonna do this again? Hey? Are you gonna dress like a woman?’
I shook my head.
Steve grabbed me by the neck and lifted me up and threw me on the mattress. I kicked my legs and tried to protect myself. Steve picked up the fabric shears next to the sewing machine.
‘Come here.’
‘No!’
‘Fucking come here, now!’
He grabbed my ankle and pulled me towards him. He put his knee on my chest and pinned me to the bed and he hacked off chunks of my hair. Every time I put my hands up to stop him, he slapped me. The scissors cut into my scalp. My hair was everywhere, in my eyes and mouth. He turned me over onto my stomach and cut the rest of my hair and I just gave up and cried into the blanket.
When he was finished, he threw the shears across the room. Then he turned me back over and he ripped my dress right down the front and tore it off me. He did the same with the stockings. He spat on my face and used the stockings to wipe my make-up off.
‘If I see you dressed like this again, I’ll give you something to cry about. It’s not happening again, is it? Hey? Is it? Answer me!’
He slapped me and shook me.
My mum ran into the room. She shrieked and started beating at Steve’s back.
‘Get off him! Get off! What are you doing?’
Steve pushed me away. My mum kneeled down and looked at my face.
‘What have you done?’
‘Well you’re not fucking raising him, are you? Fuckin’ junkie. What have you done? What hope has he got? He needs to learn. He’s not right.’
I curled into a ball and shut my eyes and covered my ears so I couldn’t hear them argue. Then Steve left and slammed the door behind him.
My mum touched me on the shoulder.
‘Sam, I’m sorry.’
I pulled away from her.
‘Leave me alone!’
And she did. She got up. I didn’t want her to. I wanted her to hold me. I wanted her to say that she would never leave me alone, that she would always be there. I wanted her to tell me everything would be alright.
She looked down at me for a long time. For a moment I felt hopeful. Then she brushed away the strands of my hair that were stuck to her clothes. She sighed.
‘He’s trying to help you,’ she said.
My chest squeezed so tight I couldn’t breathe. She picked up the ripped slip dress and folded it up tight. She looked sad. ‘I don’t know why you do this. But maybe it needs to stop.’ She walked out, still holding the dress, and closed the door behind her.
And I knew nothing would ever be alright.
I waited for about fifteen minutes. Then I got up. I felt dizzy and my head was throbbing. I had to sit on the mattress to put my jeans on, because it was too hard to stand. Then I pulled on a hoodie and some shoes and put my phone in my pocket. I wanted to message my mum later to tell her that I was sorry, and to say goodbye. I opened the window. Then I climbed out.
And that’s when I met Vic.
Pressure Cooker
I don’t remember getting into the taxi, but I remember Fella Bitzgerald with me in the back seat. She held my eyelids open and asked what my name was and where I lived and how old I was. I didn’t really know the answers, I just mumbled and watched the streetlights passing by through the window.
Then I remember feeling weightless. I had that sensation again, the one where I was above myself and looking down. Fella Bitzgerald carried me across the front yard of Vic’s house. She knocked on the door. Vic didn’t answer. She knocked again, loud and fast.
Someone shone a torch from behind us.
‘What on earth is going on?’
It was Mrs Boyd. She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
‘Does an older gentleman live here?’ Fella Bitzgerald asked. ‘I think his name was Vic.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I got this address from a driver’s licence, but it’s expired.’
The front door opened and the outside light came on. When Vic saw me limp in Fella Bitzgerald’s arms he was upset.
‘No no no no! What has he done? He hasn’t, has he? What’s happened? What has he done?’
I wanted to speak, but I was too weak and tired and lost inside myself.
‘He was assaulted in the street. After he left the club.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Who are these people and what are they doing here?’ Mrs Boyd called out.
‘Go back to bed, Beverley, and mind your own bloody business!’
The torch went off. I had never heard Vic sound so angry. Vic put his hand gently under my chin.
‘Sam? You hear me? You stay with me, alright? You be tough.’ Then to Fella Bitzgerald he said, ‘He needs an ambulance. We need a medic. Why didn’t you take him to a hospital?’
Fella Bitzgerald was calm.
‘Because it’s Friday night and he’d be sitting in the waiting room in emergency for three hours before anyone came to look at him. It’s alright. I’m a nurse. I can look after him.’
‘Come on then, come inside. Quick.’
Vic turned on lights as he led Fella Bitzgerald down the hallway to the main bedroom. He waited at the door while Fella Bitzgerald laid me on the bed and the ripped dress fell open. She held my eyelids open again and looked straight at me. Then she gently took the wig off my head. The cap was soaked in blood. She turned to Vic.
‘Do you have a first-aid kit?’
‘Is he gonna be alright?’ Vic sounded frantic.
Fella Bitzgerald stayed professional.
‘He will be fine, but I need your help. I need a first-aid kit, if you have one, and some water and a towel please.’
Vic left. A few minutes later he came back with a tin the size of a lunchbox in one hand and a bowl of water in the other. He had a blue towel tucked under his arm. He stood at the doorway.
‘Here you go.’
Fella Bitzgerald was kneeling down and examining the cut on the back of my head.
‘Okay, can you open the kit and pass me a pair of scissors, please?’
Vic didn’t move. He still couldn’t bring himself to walk into his old bedroom. He looked down at me and he looked so hurt and scared that it made me wake up. I came right back. I knew how hard it must have been for him to see me lying on Edie’s side of the bed, wearing her torn dress. But Fella Bitzgerald didn’t know this. She was firm with him.
‘Vic, come on. He needs sutures.’
Vic took a breath and stepped into the room. The tin was rattling in his hand. He gave Fella Bitzgerald the water and the towel, then he sat on the end of the bed. He opened the lid of the kit and got the scissors.
Fella Bitzgerald washed the cut on my head, and it stung. She dabbed it dry with the towel and trimmed away the hair around it. Then I could feel a strange tugging sensation on the back of my head. It was quiet in the room, except when Fella Bitzgerald asked Vic for tweezers or needles or thread or disinfectant from the first-aid kit. She described everything she was doing, and she told me I was brave and strong.
I could feel Vic’s hand on my ankle. His skin was leathery and cool. When she was done, Fella Bitzgerald wrapped a bandage around my head and rolled me onto my back.
‘These will have to come out in a few days. We’re going to need to put some ice on your face to stop the swelling, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I whispered.
‘You’re with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you follow my finger with your eyes?’
She moved her finger from side to side. I could see her knuckles were bruised and split.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Sam.’
‘And who is this?’
‘It’s Vic.’
‘Good. You know, it’s getting a bit old patching you up, kid.’
Fella Bitzgerald smiled, then she squeezed my arm.
‘How do you feel?’
‘I’m in fine fettle.’
/>
I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because I was still dazed. Or maybe because I wanted to be strong and hopeful like Edie. Or maybe because I didn’t want Vic to worry about me. But the moment I said it, he let go of my ankle. He looked shocked and a bit confused. He looked around the room, behind him, up at the ceiling, like Edie was here with us. Then he put his hands over his face and he took a really sudden deep breath. Then he started to cry. He was quiet, but his shoulders were shaking and his face was red. I tried to sit up, but I was too dizzy and weak. I wanted to put my arms around him. I wanted to hold him.
‘Don’t cry,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t cry, Vic!’
Fella Bitzgerald gently held me down, and she spoke softly in my ear.
‘Shh. It’s okay. I’ll look after him. You rest. Call out if you need anything.’
She kneeled beside Vic and put her hand on his knee. She waited. She let him cry. When he slowed down, she unrolled the rest of the bandage so he could wipe his face and blow his nose.
‘Why don’t you come out with me?’
Fella Bitzgerald helped Vic to his feet and walked him out of the room. He looked really small and thin.
After a while Fella Bitzgerald returned with a pack of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel. She sat on the bed and pressed it gently against the side of my face.
‘Is Vic okay?’
She didn’t answer my question.
‘Are you feeling any dizziness? Are you nauseous?’
‘I’m worried about Vic.’
‘I know, sweetie. I know. But I’m worried about you. Listen, you’re in a safe place now. I’m so sorry I didn’t look after you well enough tonight. You should never have been put in a position where you were out walking by yourself.’
‘It’s not your fault. You’ve been really nice to me.’
Fella Bitzgerald held my hand.
‘Look at me. You’re not on your own, Sam. Whatever you’re feeling, someone else has felt it. Whatever you’re going through, someone else has gone through it. And if we haven’t, we can do our best to understand.’
She let go of my hand. There was a piece of paper in my palm.
‘That has my number written on it. My name is Peter. And I want you to know you can call me, any time of the day or night, for any reason at all. If you need someone to talk to, about anything, call. Because if you keep it all inside it’s going to poison you. I’m here for you, okay?’
Honeybee Page 14