WEDNESDAY
COPS GALORE
Just as I was congratulating myself on my boating skills, I saw them through the binoculars, strung along the pier, waiting for me – coppers galore. Immediately I cut the engines.
I’d evaded the liner, I’d brought the Stymphalian back into Sanctuary Cove, and I was geeing myself up to berth the boat; it’s not something I’d done before and it was a sizeable boat, but I was willing to give it a go of the red, hot and Aussie variety.
But now the cops had messed that all up.
I slowed the boat right down and thought about my options. It didn’t take long, I didn’t have many. The most sensible one was just to let them take me, then deal with the consequences.
Okay, that wasn’t going to happen.
I couldn’t get the cops involved – my life was already way too complicated, especially now that I’d been given this last dreadful instalment.
Make a run for it?
The Stymphalian was a powerful boat, but the cops would just track it on radar, or follow in a chopper, until it ran out of fuel.
What other options did I have?
None came to mind, but I figured that a quick reccie of the boat might give me some ideas. So that’s what I did, scuttling from the bow to the stern, from the bilge to the radar tower. And it worked – I found another option.
As far as plans went it was probably the craziest, the least likely to work that I’d ever had. But what choice did I have?
The first part was the decoy. I activated the EPIRB emergency beacon and tied it securely to the inflatable lifeboat. Using a corkscrew that I had found in the kitchen, I punctured the lifeboat’s pontoons, four holes on either side. Then I launched the hissing lifeboat.
It floated off, the wind catching it, pushing it quite quickly away from the Stymphalian. Already I could see the pontoons deflating, and I wondered how long it would be until it sank, taking me with it, all the way to Davy Jones’s locker.
In the meantime, while I was drowning, I had to get into my hiding place.
Ω Ω Ω
I checked my watch – I’d been in this same position for hours now, breathing in this stale, stale air, while the cops had boarded, while they’d searched the boat, while they’d brought it back to shore. My legs were killing me – Why are you doing this to us? they were demanding. We’d been berthed for over an hour and I hadn’t heard any major sounds – cars, footsteps, people talking – for at least half of that time. So I figured it was time to get myself and my suffering legs out of this locker, or whatever it was called.
I pushed away the lifejackets that had covered me, pushed the rescue flares to one side, and eased myself forward. Blood found its way back into my legs. I pushed open the door, half-expecting somebody to be standing there, arms folded: a stony-faced cop who’d known I was there all along. Or a dog, one of those sniffy Alsatians.
No, the cabin was as empty as when I’d entered it hours ago.
It was probably still too early to say whether my crazy plan had worked, but I did allow myself the teeniest-weeniest congratulations; it had worked in principle anyway. I retraced my steps back out of the cabin, back along the corridor, keeping both ears open.
No sounds apart from the usual boat sounds, the creaking and the slapping of waves.
I knew we were berthed, but I wondered where. Maybe the Stymphalian had been impounded by the cops and we were now in some sort of police facility.
I reached the door that led out to the open stern deck. I really didn’t want to expose myself like this, but I didn’t see that I had much choice – there was really no other way to get off the boat. I pushed the door open until I had a crack big enough to look through. Okay, we were at Sanctuary Cove – that had to be a good thing. But hell’s bells and buckets of blood, it was just as I’d feared – there were still cops around, two of them standing up on the pier.
Why did it always have to be so difficult?
‘This really sucks,’ I heard one cop say to the other.
‘Tell me about it,’ said the other. ‘You join the police for excitement and adventure, and you end up spending most of your time standing around.’
More moaning from the cops.
How to get past them? And then it came to me – their life was just about to get a whole lot more exciting.
Back down the way I came, I grabbed the rescue flares and hurried into the wheelhouse, first making sure nobody was in there. I partially opened one of the windows and then pulled the cords on all four flares. Immediately thick red smoke started pouring from them, flooding the wheelhouse.
I hurried back to the stern of the boat, again looking through the partially opened door.
The cops were still complaining. ‘The other day I sat at a roadblock for the whole of my shift and did nothing! Absolutely nothing!’
‘Sucks!’ said the second cop.
‘And –’ but further moaning was curtailed by ribbons of thick red smoke streaming from the wheelhouse window.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the first cop said, already making for the ladder onto the boat. The other cop was right behind him. This was what they’d joined the force for!
I stepped into the toilet – sorry, the head. The two cops hurried past me and I easily made my escape, scaling the ladder and running back down the pier. It had occurred to me that there might be more coppers at the other end, but I was fine, there was nobody, just an empty cop car.
I only had one more problem: Sanctuary Cove was a gated community. Difficult to get into, difficult to get out of.
How to make a graceful exit? I searched my brain, but there was nothing there, no plans, no deviousness. Even Luiz Antonio, my usual getaway wasn’t going to be much use to me in here.
I approached the gatehouse and the security guard came out, all uniform and officiousness. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to explain it away, I knew I couldn’t be bothered spouting lie after stupid lie. So I just ran at him, out of the blocks like an insane Usain Bolt, screaming my lungs out, legs pumping, arms swinging.
I didn’t dodge, I didn’t swerve, I headed straight at him, still screaming, gaining momentum.
And it worked – he removed himself from my trajectory.
I kept running through the gateway and out into the road, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. I couldn’t believe how good it felt, like I was outrunning all my problems. They couldn’t keep up with me; I surged to the lead.
A few taxis passed, but I didn’t bother hailing one – why catch a cab when you could run like this?
Really, I shouldn’t have been running as well as I was – I’d hardly trained at all. But it was like I was back at Stadio Olimpico, front-running in that semifinal, the one in which I ran my PB.
I reached Chevron Heights in what seemed like no time at all. Breath flowing freely, legs feeling fine, I actually increased the pace. I only stopped when I pulled up at the main gate to Halcyon Grove. Bent double, I started sucking up some big ones.
It was right then that Mom pulled up in her BMW.
She was out of the car in no time at all. Screaming at me.
‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘Calm down.’
Samsoni was saying the same thing. ‘Calm down, Mrs Silvagni. Calm down.’
I had never, ever seen Mom like that, she’d lost it; her composure, her temper, whatever you called it, she was no longer in possession of it.
Eventually I was able to understand what she was saying.
‘I was supposed to pick you up at the hospital,’ she said.
For the tiniest second I actually didn’t know what she talking about, but then I saw my bandaged hand – oh, that hospital.
‘It looks much worse than it is,’ I said.
And it was like the burn took offence at that, because straight away it started throbbing.
‘But where have you been?’
I shrugged – Mom, you really don’t want to know.
And then she was crying, and poor S
amsoni was trying to console her.
A car pulled in behind Mom’s car – I think it might have been Mrs Jazy – and its horn gently beeped.
Not a good move.
Mom picked up the umbrella that Samsoni kept just inside the door and went over and started bashing at the car.
Samsoni managed to get her away.
And then she seemed to run completely out of angry tickets. She just stood there, shaking.
‘Mom, you okay?’ I said, putting my arms around her.
‘Dom, what are we going to do?’ she said, sinking, melting into me.
And perhaps for the first time since that terrible day when The Debt came into my life I realised that it wasn’t just about me, that it wasn’t only my leg or my life that was in danger, it was our whole family.
‘We’re going to get through it,’ I said.
‘We are?’ she said.
‘We are,’ I said, emphasising the ‘we’.
We got into the car, and Mom, silent, still shaking, drove slowly home.
But when we got out, I didn’t make for the front door.
‘Dom, where do you think you’re going?’ said Mom.
‘Over to see Gus.’
‘Your dad will want to talk to you about this,’ she said, holding out her phone.
I’d forgotten, Dad was away for the night – some business trip to Sydney, or Melbourne, one of those places.
‘He knows my number,’ I said. ‘I need to go over and see Gus.’
‘But –’ said Mom, but the rest of her words didn’t make it to me because I was already halfway there.
I could hear the techno beat even before I reached the house; I knew Gus must be out in his shed, pumping tin.
Sure enough, as I walked around the house, the music getting louder, I could see the open shed door.
‘Gus, it’s me!’ I yelled, giving him plenty of notice so as not to scare the bejesus out of him.
‘Gotcha!’ came the reply.
When I walked in, he was in the middle of a set of bicep curls. Dressed in his customary singlet, this one of the Bintang variety, and baggy old army shorts, he was perched at the end of a bench. Head steady, elbows tucked in – he was a study in style as he slowly pumped the bar back and up, his bicep muscles popping.
Overhead the fan spun, but its effect was negligible; the air felt heavy, unmovable. My phone rang – Dad calling – but I didn’t answer.
‘What happened there?’ said Gus, pointing to my bandage.
‘Looks worse than it is,’ I said. ‘Bunsen burner. Mind if I jump in here?’
‘You sure?’ said Gus. ‘You don’t want to stir it up.’
‘Sure, I’m sure,’ I said – it wasn’t as if I was unused to burns, and Gus should’ve known that; he’d been there for five of them.
I picked up the bar and the burn burned and my immediate thought was, There is no way I’m going to be able to do this.
‘Knees soft,’ said Gus.
Eight, I told myself. If I make eight then I’ve done really well.
The first three reps were okay, the next two not so okay, and at the sixth I began to really struggle.
I’m not even going to make eight, I told myself.
‘Looking good,’ said Gus. ‘Keep it going.’
Looking good? Really? Because I wasn’t feeling good, my biceps were hurting big-time, and the burn was piling pain upon pain. And I so wanted to bring my back into it. But I toughed out the sixth, and somehow got the seventh up, and I had only one to go. Some more encouragement from Gus, and slowly the bar moved up until it eventually touched my chest.
I’d done it.
‘Keep it going,’ said Gus. ‘Two to go!’
My body was telling me one thing: enough already. Gus was telling me another: two to go. Who should I listen to?
‘Let’s go!’ ordered Gus.
I started curling the bar upwards – hurt like hell, hurt like hell.
‘Keep your back straight,’ said Gus, placing his hand lightly on the small of my back.
The bar kept moving, slowly, ever so slowly upwards. Sweat was popping from my brow. And I was grunting.
Look, I’ve never been much of a grunter, but there was no doubt that the noise emanating from my mouth was a fairly primitive grunt.
‘Almost there!’
One final effort, and I was there! I smiled at my grandfather.
He didn’t smile back. ‘One to go,’ he said.
What for? What was I trying to prove?
‘Just one to go,’ said Gus.
And, almost independently of me, and my will, the bar was starting to rise. My biceps, burning before, were now on fire. The grunting had reached French Open final levels. I looked at the bandage on my hand – blood was seeping through.
Gus was standing directly in front of me, his eyes on my eyes.
‘Almost,’ he said. ‘Almost.’
But it was no good, the bar was too heavy, gravity was winning, I was stuck about three-quarters of the way up.
Gus placed his index finger under the middle of the bar. ‘You can do it.’
I summoned every last bit of energy and gave one final effort. The bar rose, and rose, and touched my chest.
I’d done it!
Ten reps!
I put the bar down with a clang, and got my high-fives from Gus.
‘But I didn’t really do it myself,’ I said, remembering Gus’s finger on the bar.
‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘I was touching it, that’s all. It’s all in your head, son.’
We sat there for a while, long enough for the techno to finish, so that there was nothing but silence. And in Gus’s shed, silence was silence, there wasn’t much else contributing to the soundscape, except the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the fan overhead.
Finally Gus stomped off and came back with a first-aid kit.
‘I better change that,’ he said, pointing at the bandage. ‘Your mother will freak.’
‘Freak’ wasn’t a very Gus-like word. But he was right about that, and she’d already done enough freaking today; any more would be unfair.
‘Can you tell me about the final instalment?’ I said, when he’d finished.
Gus scratched the side of his face. ‘You’re ready to know?’
I nodded. I was ready.
‘It was the final race of the season,’ he said in his low gritty voice. ‘The national title, Schoolboy’s Miler.’
Already, I’d learnt something new, something startling: Gus had competed for a national title!
He continued, ‘A hundred or so yards to go and there was nothing between me and the Victorian, the favourite. He was a big strong lad, much bigger than me. From one of those posh private schools in Melbourne. And it seemed like everybody from Melbourne had come up and was in the stadium cheering him on. With fifty yards to go, I kicked, and I kicked hard. And the crowd, it just went silent. It was such a thing, from all that noise to nothing. He couldn’t go with me. In the end I won it quite easily, by ten or so yards.’
I interrupted, I couldn’t help myself. ‘You were Australian champion?’
Gus nodded.
‘Later, they disqualified me – some technicality, something to do with my registration. But, yes, I beat him fair and square, I was Australian champ.’ Gus took a drink of water from a plastic bottle. ‘I was supposed to meet a Mr Tippett after the race, one of the Olympic selectors. They were trying to find a way to stop me going professional. You see, in those days, if you raced for money you weren’t allowed in the Olympics. But a kid from my sort of background, I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘An Olympic selector.’
‘I didn’t meet him,’ said Gus. ‘I caught the bus home.’
‘To Berang Valley?’ I said, thinking of the lawyer vine-choked place we’d visited a few days ago.
Gus nodded. ‘To the valley.’
Only three words, but they seemed so ominous – to the valley. I could sort of guess what wa
s coming next, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it, but I had to. I’d seen my dad kill somebody, and I needed to find out why Gus hadn’t.
When Gus continued, his voice seemed lower, even grittier. ‘The bus dropped me off and I got my bike from where I used to hide it under a bush and I started pedalling. There was no moon that night, only a few stars out. And when it was dark in the valley, it was dark.’ Gus took another drink of water, swigging hard, smacking his lips, like it was whisky or rum, not water. But no words came.
‘Gus?’ I said. ‘What happened then?’
‘Remember the church we saw?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Well, I was cycling past that, but I kept my eyes on the other side of the road. I didn’t want to see it. When I was well past the bridge, I risked a glance backwards. And there was this cross just floating there, shining. I’m not sure if I imagined it or it was a trick of the light, but it turned my guts to ice. And in my mind I could see Father McGrane, standing at the pulpit, his face getting redder and redder as he thundered from the Bible, “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image!”’
For a second it was the Preacher, not Gus, standing in front of me.
His voice returned to normal as he said, ‘And then I went to check that Panda was home.’
‘Panda?’ I said.
‘Pandolfini, Greek canefarmer. Evil bastard. His son was one of my mates, used to come to school black and blue every second day. And his sister, well …’ Suddenly Gus’s face drained of all colour and I wondered if I was doing the right thing provoking him like this, asking him to revisit what was obviously a horrific time of his life. ‘Anyway, I’d been feeding their dog devon every day, so he was friendly with me, no barking. Panda was there, getting drunk as usual. So I kept riding and when I got home, Alessandro was waiting for me.’
‘Your brother?’ I said.
Gus nodded – my brother.
I remembered what the Preacher had said on his deathbed: My twin was an angel. And Gus had agreed: An angel.
Gus continued, and I reminded myself not to interrupt him any more. ‘When he found out that I won, he was so excited, of course. But that was Alessandro for you, the sweetest kid there ever was.’
Take a Life Page 9