Animal Kingdom

by Stephen Sewell

  That thought hadn’t occurred to Craig. Or, if it had, he wasn’t able to keep it in focus long enough for it to have any effect.

  Craig was into drugs. Lots of them. He liked them, and he liked the sense of power and control they gave him, the buzz, the speediness; he just loved getting out of it. And he loved selling them—when all was said and done, it was a pretty easy thing to do. Not much call for guns, none of that heavy shit—the occasional biffo to maintain respect and get what was yours, but all in all a pretty chilled clientele who came to you looking for the magic stuff, and somehow a bottomless bag of money to pay for it. Selling drugs was the easiest thing in the world, especially when Craig’s supplier happened to be a bent copper called Randall Roache.

  Craig regularly met Roache in a pet shop, because Craig liked fish and had a fish tank in which he fed guppies to his clown fish and as on a number of previous occasions, he had brought J along just to see how he’d handle himself. Like any good uncle, Craig thought J needed to be given a bit of direction in life, and the pet shop seemed just the right place to do it.

  Swimming around. Innocent. Are fish innocent? Idle thoughts floated through J’s mind as he stared into the blue, watery light. He wasn’t really thinking. You don’t really think when you’re watching fish: that’s why you watch them. You just sort of immerse yourself—forget yourself.

  And that’s what J was trying to do as Craig and Roache talked in undertones at the other end of the aisle, next to the angel fish. Still, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, he could hear morsels of their conversation; or maybe it was the tension in their voices he could hear, a nervy tension rippling out from them, alerting the sharks of this world that something was in trouble. While they pretended everything was perfectly normal.

  And perhaps it was normal. Perhaps cops and robbers need each other, are naturally drawn to each other, know and understand the same sorts of things. Are found in the same places. Perhaps they even like each other.

  Like tigers like monkeys.

  But it wasn’t just like that, was it—not just the predator and the prey—because in this jungle everyone had a bit of the tiger and a bit of the monkey in them.

  Baz could have been a cop, no question about it, and even Craig, once, before he strayed so far onto the dark side that he couldn’t find his way back. Pope could never have been a cop, or, if he had been, he would have been the commissioner: some heavy-dude cop who had the last say-so on who was to get the green light and who was to get the stop. Yeah, Pope could have been a cop, and there were plenty of cops who could have been Pope, or who were skirting pretty close to it. There was no black and white in this zoo. There never is.

  That’s the way it looked to J as the two men hovered in the ghostly fluorescent light of the fish aisle.

  J didn’t know what was going on, but did really. Craig was picking up a deal. Not the whole deal: half of it was still in lockup, he heard Roache say. So Roache was stealing drugs that had been impounded from other drug pushers. J didn’t know how a copper could steal drugs from a lockup, but it didn’t matter whether he stole it or just paid off some other corrupt copper to get it for him: he had it, and J didn’t have to understand anything else.

  In fact, the less he understood, the better. If there was a truth in this world, that was it, and as he was thinking about this, the conversation between Roache and Craig took a more sinister twist.

  Roache told Craig to make Pope—that’s Uncle Pope— pull his head in. Armed Robbery knew the stuff they had on Pope wouldn’t stand up in court, so they’d decided to do something about it themselves, because he’d become too much of a liability.

  This didn’t sound good, and Craig looked stressed. ‘His head’s pulled in,’ he answered plaintively. ‘Your head doesn’t get more in than Pope’s head.’

  ‘Mate, even if I gave a shit, you’d still be telling the wrong bloke,’ Roache answered as he picked up his money and left to take his son to the soccer.

  Looking at J, Craig nodded towards the door.

  J didn’t know much about his Uncle Pope, not even why they called him Pope. Probably just some mean joke about some poor bastard he’d done over, some terrible thing he’d done, and some wit had made a crack about it, and there you are, you’re stuck with it.

  None of them had much religion. J had been to church, to his grandfather’s funeral, and he knew a bit about God from TV, but that was all. Jesus was supposed to have saved the world by dying for its sins, but J didn’t have a clue what that meant. Someone had come to the door one time and tried to sign him up. He’d heard them out and taken their paper and then thrown it into the bin when they’d gone. It didn’t look like the sort of thing he’d be interested in.

  His mother used to say religious stuff to him. Be good. Don’t lie. That sort of thing. Don’t steal unless you have to. Didn’t stop her from blowing her brains out with one shot too many. He’d never prayed, but he had seen someone do it one time. Close their eyes and sort of hold their breath. J under stood that.

  Craig was driving. He’d done his business and now they were just hanging out, cruising along Marine Parade, not looking at anything in particular.

  ‘What did you think of that?’ Craig asked.

  ‘What?’ J replied, looking at his uncle.

  ‘That guy Roache,’ Craig answered. ‘I can get whatever I like off him. Smack, coke—you name it, he’s got it. He’s got his own key.’

  ‘Key?’ J asked.

  ‘Key to the kingdom,’ Craig answered, looking away. ‘Key to the strongbox. He can get me whatever I want, by the truckload.’

  The water was slopping around out on the bay and the palm trees were soaking up the sun. It was summer; that was why everyone was in shorts and crop tops. There wasn’t much going on. It was a weekday, so most people were at work, which was what made the drive so sweet. To be out in the sun, hooking school, lazing around when nearly everyone else was hard at it—it just tasted like freedom at its best.

  ‘You like this?’ Craig asked.

  ‘Sure,’ J answered. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  And he liked his uncle, too. A bit of a pirate.

  ‘You’re okay,’ Craig said, smiling. ‘I think you’ve got a future here.’

  Reaching for his mobile, Craig started to dial. Maybe to organise a drop somewhere. J didn’t really know if he wanted a future as one of Craig’s drug soldiers, because that was obviously what Craig was getting at. But because of his mother’s habit, J wasn’t really sure he wanted to have anything to do with drugs.

  The traffic lights up ahead had turned red so they slowed to a stop, and J checked out some girls in bikinis sauntering past. They gave him a look and J felt that twinge in his guts that he got every time a girl looked at him; he never knew what to do.

  He tried to distract himself by looking at the sky. There were sort of hazy, filmy clouds streaked overhead and a plane really high up was leaving a white trail behind.

  A car pulled up beside them with a couple of hoons looking for a bit of aggro. ‘Hey, buddy, hey,’ the short-haired Leb on the passenger side yelled, and, slowly looking up from his mobile like something rising from the swamp, Craig squinted, skewering the bogan with his gaze.

  ‘The light’s green, you idiot,’ the guy persisted, unable to read the deathly stillness behind Craig’s eyes.

  But Craig just let him hang there, not saying anything.

  ‘You got a staring problem, mate?’ the Leb taunted, a nasty sneer smeared across his lips. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

  Craig just smiled that mean, hungry, predatory smile of his. The kind of smile you save for tasty tidbits.

  ‘Ya fuckin’ gimmick,’ the Leb snarled incomprehensibly as the car raced off.

  Reaching under the seat, Craig pulled out a black 9mm and handed it to J, and, putting the car into gear, took off after them.

  J had never held a gun before or even to his knowledge been in a room where there was one. So to have it sitting th
ere in his lap like a cold, hard fact, with his hand wrapped around its textured grip, was something more than a new experience: it was an epiphany.

  ‘Is this thing loaded?’ he asked.

  Craig looked at him, like What do you expect?

  What was he supposed to do with it? What had Craig handed it to him for? But Craig wasn’t answering any questions as he shot along the Parade, weaving in and out of the traffic after the other car. And there was no question he meant to end it on his own terms.

  Chasing the hoons through the back streets, Craig was obviously enjoying himself. There was nothing like the thrill of the chase to get the blood pumping.

  And so were the two Lebs. Hanging a left, taking a right. Everyone wants to be a gangster. Chucking a handbrake turn like they’d seen in Tokyo Drift, ducking and weaving as they raced ahead of them, doing burnouts and wheelies, tear-arsing around corners—this was the most fun anyone had had for quite a while.

  With Craig tailgating them the whole way and J hanging on for dear life.

  They’d brake and Craig would swerve; Craig’d started overtaking and they’d do a U-ey. Great fun all round.

  And all with deadly serious intent. The boys had picked the wrong nose to pull, and Craig was going to stick something long and hard right up them and then squeeze the trigger.

  J still didn’t know what his role was going to be. Getting in the car for a ride with your uncle and winding up an accessory to murder wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun family day out, but maybe it wasn’t murder Craig was thinking of. Maybe it was something worse. Things were moving a bit too fast for him to really suss how mad it was all going to get. Still, seeing where it had started, and given the nature of his family, J was definitely apprehensive.

  Cornering the Lebs in a dead-end street with a narrow, dirty lane the only way out, Craig saw the Jap bomb they were driving slow to a halt in front of him, and, putting on his own brakes, waited to see what would happen next.

  And then the real fun began.

  The short-fused git who had started it all hopped out, roaring like King Kong on heat. ‘Come on, come outside! I’ll deck you, mate!’ he bellowed, thumping his chest. ‘Come outside!’

  ‘Go get him, tiger,’ Craig said.

  ‘And do what?’ J asked nervously.

  ‘Let him know who’s the real king,’ Craig answered as the guy stomped around, revving himself up and calling ‘Come on, idiot! Come outside!’

  You could see this was what the Leb had been looking for. After a week of shit or his girlfriend dumping him or something, he was just looking to get his rocks off and let it rip back-street style. He had no idea who he was dealing with and how out of his league he was.

  Struggling with his door, J clambered out, still uncertain what he was going to do, and looking like what he was: a pale, frightened schoolboy. The Leb guy was going to eat him; he was going to pulverise him. But, raising the gun, J pointed it straight at him.

  Wasn’t that a game-changer!

  Throwing his hands up, Big Mouth started to back off fast. ‘Hey, hey, hey—hey, brother,’ the guy said, ‘just relax, man,’ like he was a UN peacekeeper. ‘I just wanted to have a chat to him.’

  But J wasn’t anyone’s brother, and certainly not this idiot’s. He was the man with the gun, and, while it might have been shaking in his hand, it was still his finger on the trigger, and his eye looking down the barrel.

  Craig was loving it, chuckling as the Leb shat bricks.

  The driver had already made himself scarce, like the good friend he was, and was swinging the car around to take off as fast as his two-stroke shit-box could manage, when the Leb noticed him running and, turning tail himself, squawked, ‘Fuck this, man,’ and jumped in. Slamming into the laneway, they were so anxious to get away that they scraped both sides of their car as they barrelled through the garbage cans, disappearing in a cloud of flying shit and rubbish as the neighbours started piling out to see what the commotion was.

  Craig was cracking up. It was just the sort of happy ending he liked, the kind of thing to make getting up in the morning worthwhile.

  ‘How’d that feel?’ he beamed as J got back in the car, still trembling; but J didn’t know what he felt—he was still in shock.

  ‘Did you get a stiffy?’ Craig asked enthusiastically, imagining that J was just as big a dick as he was.

  J hadn’t noticed. Maybe he had, but he’d been packing it as much as the Leb guy.

  Reaching over and grabbing him by the neck, his uncle gave him a knuckle haircut, shaking him good-naturedly. ‘A bit of fun, hey?’ he cried happily.

  It wasn’t J’s idea of fun; he was just glad it was over. But at least Craig was in a better mood than when they’d left the pet shop. Maybe Craig was right, and it was fun, and J just had to loosen up a bit and learn how to live.

  Wait till Craig told Darren about this. And there they were thinking J might not have what it took to be a Cody. Son of a gun, that sister of theirs hadn’t turned him into a nancy boy after all. He was one mean dude.

  THREE

  That night, they ate out. They tended to eat out or get takeaway—pizza, KFC, ribs—nobody did much cooking. Smurf said she’d done enough when they were kids; she wasn’t going to do it now they were all adults. J didn’t believe it and had never seen her cook a thing. His own mother had been the same. Couldn’t cook an egg. J’d learned a little bit at school but wasn’t much better. He’d probably be the same when he had his own place. Didn’t much like food, anyhow.

  But if he was a mean dude, he didn’t feel like it. Not right afterwards, anyway. Once he’d calmed down and put the gun away it was okay. He even started to feel good. Not cocky, exactly, but the sight of those two guys running for it had been pretty funny, and they’d sure done some damage to their car as they’d scraped their way down the lane to get away. That would teach them for being rude. J didn’t want to repeat it, but in the end he wasn’t upset that it had happened.

  So by the time they’d all gone down to the local Vietnamese for a bit of Asian, he’d started to chill.

  Craig was still in a good mood from the day’s adventure, or maybe he was just pissed after a few beers, but he was joking around with Nicky on the other side of the table, trying to get her to open her mouth so he could throw a prawn in it.

  Nicky was J’s girlfriend from school, and this was the first time she’d ever met his other family, the one he’d never mentioned before. Not because he was ashamed of them—he hardly even knew them—just that he didn’t want her family to know he was part of the Cody clan and all that it involved. Smurf and his uncles were what you’d call well known to the police and anyone who read the Sunday papers. Not for anything really bad: mainly for the company they kept.

  Right now the company they were keeping was their own, and that was wild enough. You could see Nicky was a bit overwhelmed because, the fact was, they were overwhelming.

  ‘I’ll give you a hundred bucks,’ Craig was saying, taking aim with the prawn.

  Nicky was tempted, but wasn’t sure if he was taking the piss.

  ‘Honey, people are watching,’ Smurf scolded, but you could see she was enjoying it too.

  ‘Yeah, come on, Craig,’ Darren said, sounding like he was bawling him out, but really egging him on.

  Smurf smiled indulgently at her sons. There was nothing like a bit of good, harmless fun, a bit of horseplay to blow off tension and make you feel at home.

  ‘Two hundred,’ Craig said, raising the stakes. ‘I’ll give you two hundred bucks.’

  That was definitely worth making yourself look like an idiot, even if she wasn’t sure he’d pay up. Still, there was something weirdly sexual that she couldn’t quite put her finger on about having someone toss something into your mouth.

  ‘Would you fucking motivate your girlfriend?’ Craig said to J, exasperated.

  Baz could see Nicky was getting a little nervous and came to her rescue. ‘Mate, just let her alone.’

  But C
raig wasn’t letting anyone alone, especially not the pretty little pale girl with the dark hair and brown eyes J had brought to their table to play with. Flicking the prawn expertly through the air, he landed it with a plop in her giggling mouth.

  ‘That’s the way—awesome!’ he shouted, punching the air as she collapsed chortling and glancing around, embarrassed at what she’d just realised she’d let him do.

  ‘Hey, so Nicole’s a sweetie,’ Baz said a little later as he dried his hands under the electric dryer while J stood at the urinal. ‘Where’d you find her?’

  ‘Found her at school,’ J said, finishing up and heading for the door. He wasn’t forthcoming at the best of times. He’d found keeping your trap shut was the best policy.

  ‘Where you going?’ Baz asked.

  ‘What?’ J said, not sure what he was getting at.

  ‘You wash your hands?’

  J still didn’t get it. ‘No,’ he answered blankly.

  ‘Well, you had your hands on your cock,’ Baz said.

  J looked away, embarrassed. What business was it of Baz’s what J did with his cock?

  ‘Your hands go anywhere near your arse or your cock, you wash ’em after.’

  Geez, since when was Baz put in charge of the personal hygiene brigade?

  ‘Little bit of soap,’ he said, leading J to the basin.

  J couldn’t believe he was letting him do this.

  ‘Now some water. Get a lather going.’

  Fuck, how old did he think he was? J knew how to wash his hands; he just … didn’t.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough. Now rinse,’ Baz said.

  J was so embarrassed.

  ‘Now stick your hands under there,’ Baz continued, leading him to the dryer.

  It wasn’t that Baz was being mean—not in the way Craig or Darren would have done it, like browbeating him or anything, making him look like an idiot so they could feel good about themselves. Baz was just making a point, and the point was, you wash your hands after you go to the toilet. Fair enough.