by Cenarth Fox
Tricky
Conscience
A novel
Copyright © Cenarth Fox 2017
All rights reserved
Amazon Edition
Cenarth Fox has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Act 1968.
First published in 2017 by Fox Plays
www.foxplays.com
Cover design by Ana Grigoriu
Dedicated to the memory of
Marie Ryan
Book lover extraordinaire
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Other titles
1
I have an inner voice that guides me.
Socrates
THE GUN APPEARED. The woman flicked through a Vogue lift-out, annoyed at the many wrinkle-free females. At 68, and with a lifetime of smoking behind her, Sheila’s skin belonged in the before section of the before-and-after ads for women of a certain age. Botox be my friend.
She drained her coffee, put down the mug, and nearly died. The moving gun caught her eye. It waved. Was it loaded? Of course. Then her panic took off as her grinning grandson stepped into the kitchen doorway, and pointed the weapon at his babysitter.
‘Bang, Grandma, you’re dead.’
Shit.
When holding a loaded gun, the only person more dangerous than a maniac or drunk is a four-year-old playing a game.
Sheila could not move, let alone speak. The grinning child did not know he could kill his Gran. How he found the gun was irrelevant. All that mattered were his aim, and the strength of his trigger finger.
Grandma thought about throwing herself on the floor and screaming, hoping to make Angelo drop the weapon, and come to her aid.
But what if he thinks it is all part of the game?
“I can see you, Grandma,” he might say, run towards her and pull the trigger. “Gotcha, Grandma, you’re dead.” And she would be — literally.
Sheila’s life flashed before her.
I have survived a brute of a husband, chemo, two miscarriages, and a criminal son, only to be shot by a toddler. And what if he fires and only wounds me? What if I die here, blood oozing over the Italian marble floor? My only grandchild will be mentally scarred for life.
Expecting the unexpected does not prepare you for this.
Jesus, what now?
Angelo upped the ante as he moved closer to Grandma. His tiny hands grasped the weapon, now with two tiny fingers against the trigger. Sheila’s survival instinct kicked in as she reached for her coffee mug.
Must I kill my grandson to survive?
‘Listen to me, Angelo,’ she said, gripping her mug. ‘You must not point a gun at anyone.’ The child grinned.
That is a fib, Gran, and you know it.
Angelo scored a water pistol last Christmas, and endlessly fired the toy gun. What is the difference? Same basic shape of weapon, same method of operation — just aim and fire. Mind you, being squirted with a Super Soaker does not pack quite the same punch as a .357 Sig bullet from a Glock 31. One of those slugs can tickle your internal organs.
Sheila trembled. She drew the mug closer. It had to be behind her for the throw to work. A flick would not do; only a fair dinkum fling.
Angelo threatened Grandma.
‘Put your hands up,’ he demanded.
Sheila’s thoughts fizzed.
Should I pick up the coffee mug at the same time?
‘Gran, put your hands up,’ repeated the child, aiming at Sheila’s chest.
What a waste. I have beaten breast cancer only to have a bullet do what the cancer could not.
She raised her hands, clutching the mug with the “weapon” above her head. Threats were useless, counterproductive.
Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Throw mug.
Hit floor.
Surely, he will not get angry and come after me. If I scream like mad, he will panic and drop the gun. Oh no! What if he turns it on himself?
Angelo loved his new game. Grandma always teased him. Now he could tease her back. He inched closer, the gun very still. Wee Ange had potential assassin written all over him. Sheila forced a smile — just.
‘Look, darling, Grandma’s got her hands up. You win. Now let’s play another game.’
‘Not before I shoot you.’
Sheila decided it was kill or be killed. It was throw-the-mug, dive-on-the-floor, and scream-like-crazy time. Angelo prepared to shoot.
Just as he started to squeeze the trigger, the cat jumped from the kitchen bench, and the dog sat up in its basket and barked. Angelo was distracted, and Sheila threw the mug — hard. It struck her grandson in the face. Good shot Gran. Angelo fell back squeezing the trigger.
The cable holding the fake French provincial chandelier in the dining room took a direct hit. The light fitting swayed, and then crashed on the custom-built dining table. The cat and dog fled. Sheila dived.
In the crash tackle, Angelo dropped the gun, and imitated a banshee. Grandma grabbed the weapon, and hurled it down the passage.
‘It’s all right, little man,’ she said, clutching the child, kissing him, stroking him, and weeping more than the boy.
Terror consumed Angelo. The gun’s recoil stunned him. The noise of the weapon, the sudden speed of the animals, the surprise and pain of the flying mug, the crashing chandelier, plus the rugby tackle from his desperate grandmother, all delivered Angelo to the gates of Hell. This was the worst game he had ever played, and all the soothing words, kisses, hugs and pats proved ineffectual — totally.
Shock gripped adult and child. Sheila could not stand. Her adrenalin surged. She struggled to breathe.
What have I done to my grandson? What do I do now?
She clung to the child. Their tears joined forces. Time meant nothing, and only became relevant when Sheila’s son and his wife came home.
‘Hey, Ange, where’s my little man?’ called his father.
Luciano “Luca” Parisi made money from crime. He owned a restaurant, and claimed to be a professional punter with property investments, but Class A drugs made him rich. His wife, Kellie, enjoyed the trappings of new money, asked no questions, and did as she was told.
Violence was second nature to Luca but even he was rocked at the sight of his mother and son on the kitchen floor.
‘Mum,’ screamed Luca.
‘Angelo,’ screamed Kellie.
The child invented a new form of hysterics, as his mother tried to comfort him.
‘Who did this?’ demanded Luca, helping his mother to sit. Not, “How are you?” or “Are you hurt?” just, ‘What happened? Tell me!’
She shook her head. Speechless, her shock became the shakes.
Luca looked at his wife who got the message.
‘Come on, baby,’ she cooed at Angelo, removing the terrified toddler.
Luca investigated. The cat had knocked over a vase of flowers, the dog had re-arranged his food and water bowls, the coffee mug had bounced off the gun-toting grandson and shattered, chairs lay higgledy-piggledy, and the chandelier, in bits, decorated the dining table and surrounds.
‘Tell me, M
um, was it the bikies? Tell me, who did this?
Luca had still not managed to ask about his mother’s health; revenge his only thought. What is compassion?
Sheila clenched her fists. Anger replaced shock. She glared at her belligerent son, and her belligerence out-muscled his.
She whispered. ‘You did.’ She roared. ‘You did this, you fucken idiot!’
Luca could not speak. His brain needed help.
What is the woman talking about?
Sheila staggered to her feet. ‘Your son had a gun.’
Luca recoiled in disbelief. ‘He what?’
‘Your gun; he had your gun with real bullets.’
‘He couldn’t.’
‘Angelo had your gun, and fired at me, and only by some miracle he missed. Your son came this close to killing me because of your fucken stupidity.’ She screeched. ‘You did this!’
Now anyone who called Luca Parisi “stupid” clearly had a death wish. Obviously, that did not apply to Sheila. Luca respected his ma although that respect was about to be tested.
She attacked her “boy”, raining slaps and blows. Luca was obviously younger, and certainly stronger and fitter. But he could not fight back. How can you fight your mother?
True, his hands-on violent days were over, but the man who had assaulted more victims and rivals than he could remember, could not lay a finger on his current assailant. She was his mother — his mia madre.
‘Mum!’ he cried as she went for him.
He tried to grab her flailing arms. Her language matched her ferocity, and she hurt him. I mean, you cop a decent slap across the head, and see how it feels. Luca grabbed her wrists, so Sheila switched to kicking, and Luca’s shins screamed. She jerked a knee, pinpointing the family jewels.
Too much, Ma.
Of course, he would never strike his mater but this was an emergency.
With one right cross, he slapped Sheila into next Tuesday. She collapsed. Stunned and exhausted, she resumed her prostrate position on the Italian marble. Her sobbing matched his throbbing — plums.
‘Sorry, Mum. You were going mental. I dunno what came over me.’
Yes he did. It was her knee to his nuts. He sat, nursing his knackers.
Silence. Upstairs in his bedroom, little Ange sobbed, being comforted by Mummy. Downstairs, the dog and cat had emigrated. Sheila’s laboured breathing dominated. Finally Luca spoke.
‘Where’s the gun?’ She pointed. He limped to the weapon and cursed.
How could I have been so fucken stupid?
Luca, or Mr Very Careful, remained free to walk Lygon Street despite his many criminal activities, because he didn’t make mistakes. He gave the cops niente. He said nothing online or by phone, which could ever help the police. He left no incriminating paper trails for tax officials to follow. He never got his hands dirty. His expertise lay in planning crimes, getting others to do his bidding, and in keeping on the right side of organized criminals back in his Calabrian homeland. Luca desperately wanted to be known as Mr Mafia Down Under.
This business with the gun was a catastrophe. Had the cops arrived with a search warrant, finding the gun would have put him inside with bail refused. His youthful record would see him sent down for years.
I am a moron!
Last night, Luca discussed the weapon with lackey, Alan “The Animal” Darcy, planning a hit on a drug rival. Animal departed, and Luca still had the gun when he went to pee. His wife called, and he entered their bedroom. Being on a conjugal rights’ promise, Luca cracked the double.
He was pleased to see his wife, and he had a gun in his pocket. Kellie, wearing an off-the-shoulder come-hither look, distracted Luca, who stuffed the gun in the wardrobe beneath his cashmere sweaters, planning to secure the weapon once his baby-making duties were o’er. He so enjoyed the horizontal dancing, he forgot the gun, and the next day, little Angelo, looking for places to hide from Grandma, discovered the lethal object, and the rest you know.
Sheila dragged herself up and sat, slumped across the table. Luca walked past his mother as she decorated the Vogue lift-out with vomit.
‘I’ll be back, Ma,’ said Luca, omitting “How are you” or “I’ll get help”. In the garage, Luca placed his gun in the secret hiding place, made when the house was built.
At night, alone, the builder did as instructed, and knew that to say anything about this extra job was sealing his death, and that of his family. Luca terrified you, and with his Calabrian connections, Mr Parisi was someone you did not cross — ever.
Luca returned. ‘I’m sorry, Ma, that should never have happened.’
Sorry was a big word for Luca. Still no, “Can I get you something?”
‘That won’t happen again. I’ll just go check on Ange.’
And with that, the criminal left his ma pondering her near-death experience, and the almighty whack courtesy of her loving son.
Luca owned the Lygon Street pizzeria his father created. Today it was Luca’s domain. He sat at the permanently reserved corner table, and tucked into his gnocchi. At 1950 hours, Animal arrived.
He was the archetypal underling. Luca bossed, bullied and berated his employee who kept on coming back for more.
‘Sorry, I’m late, boss.’
Luca ignored him.
‘I done that job.’
‘And?’
Animal passed an envelope under the table to Luca.
The Italian-Australian did not make drug baron overnight. He started small, cleaning locomotives before driving them. As a teenager, he ran drugs for anyone who employed him. He saw the wealth in drugs.
His father made money through pizzas, building up the family restaurant, but gambled, and drank away the profits.
He belted his boy, and Luca despised the old man. If Luciano Senior hadn’t died of nicotine addiction, Luca might have arranged a hit. His father provided Luca with a perfect upbringing for drug dealing — violence, no mercy, and profit always profit.
The police didn’t impede Luca. For him, enemy numero uno were the rival drug barons. No honour among thieves. Kill or be killed.
‘I seen them new pushers, boss. They’re workin’ for that Irish prick.’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘I think in Brunswick.’
‘You think?’
‘I’ll have the address soon.’
‘Get it, and then you can borrow my untraceable gun.’
2
A quiet conscience makes one strong.
Anne Frank
BERNIE SLIM WAS NOT WELL-NAMED. His fondness for cinnamon doughnuts and black coffee meant his abdomen and belt often came to blows. At 33, Bernie’s stubble was less designer and more home made. It failed to improve his image, and his marital status of single seemed set in stone. By day, he wore a white coat and protective eyewear in his role as a scientist working for the Australian arm of Labcope, the international pharmaceutical company.
In a swish laboratory in St Kilda Road, once Melbourne’s premiere boulevard, Bernie tested chemicals in the Research and Development section, known by some as R & D, and by others as Retire and Die.
Creating a new drug is expensive. It can take ages, and may produce little of value. Medical research is high risk costing big bucks. It can also trigger gigantic rewards.
Bernie’s current project began years ago with scientists, all of whom were now retired or dead. He and a colleague soldiered on, trying to create new drugs for patients with specific mental conditions. At times, he thought he was creating an upmarket pill for migraines. It meant painstaking, repetitious work with seemingly no end in sight.
Late in the working day, Bernie’s boss bowled into the lab. He often pulled this trick, hoping to ruin any plans his fellow scientists had for an on-time departure. Mutual hatred thrived between workers and boss.
Not content with a double-barrel surname, Ralph Hetherington-Smythe insisted on a posh pronunciation of his first given name. ‘Call me Raife,’ he demanded, with a low-budget smile import
ed from China.
Bernie referred to Hetherington-Smythe as Hyphen — the Hyphen. But never to his face. Good God, no.
‘Ah, Slim, I need someone to attend the TGA conference on Friday.’
Bernie groaned internally. He hated conferences almost as much as he hated Dr Hetherington-Smythe, but Bernie needed his job, and so produced an insincere forelock-tugging routine.
‘Pharmaceuticals of Tomorrow,’ said the Hyphen. ‘Might help you justify your existence in this over-funded backwater. Enjoy.’
The brochure landed beside Bernie, and Ralph departed.
‘Wow, aren’t you a lucky boy,’ said a grinning Lois, Bernie’s older colleague. He enjoyed her cheeky barb as she put away her equipment and notes.
‘I’m off,’ said Lois.
‘So what’s on, tonight, dear lady? Going clubbing again?’
Lois clubbing? Hardly. She had no social life as caring for her octogenarian mother meant the scientist was fully occupied at home. Lois wanted to retire years ago but needed the money to pay for her mother’s carers during the day. Lois felt obliged to keep her mother at home for as long as possible. Meet Lois, her mother’s keeper.
Bernie knew about caring. His father suffered life-changing injuries in a car crash, and now lived in a wheelchair. Bernie’s saintly mother cared for her husband night and day. When Bernie thought about marriage, which wasn’t often, he pondered the lyrics of an old song.
I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old Dad.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ said Lois.
‘Goodnight,’ called Bernie, and tidied his bench. He perused the conference brochure. The topics and speakers held little interest, but two words tickled his fancy — refreshments and luncheon.
At least these gigs serve quality grub.
Walking home to Cremorne through the Royal Botanic Gardens and Gosch’s Paddock, he pondered his evening meal. He needed to “eat healthy”. His family stirred him about his “middle-aged spread”.
‘I’m not middle-aged,’ argued Bernie.