Vodka doesn't freeze jj-1

by Leah Giarratano

  She swapped chairs to be closer to the computer monitor; she wanted to check she hadn't unwittingly opened or closed any files when she'd used the keyboard earlier.

  A sudden rush of movement left Jill no time to block or duck. The smell of male hair and sweat filled her nostrils. Struggling silently, her face squashed into the computer screen, her left arm wrenched high behind her back, Jill stopped moving when an intense pinpoint of pain stabbed at the side of her neck.

  'Anglia?' she tried to speak.

  'Shut up, you fucking slut.' The voice in her ear was restrained violence, and definitely not Anglia's. The sharp point at her neck pushed deeper, breaking the skin. She got her right hand up to it. Her pen. She tried to push it away.

  Her throat closed on a scream as the man pushed his hand down her shirt, crushing her breast in his fingers, pulling her upwards. The pain forced her to stand. She was not close enough to hit the buzzer.

  'Don't fucking scream, you cunt, or I'll kill you right now.'

  Jill gagged with revulsion as the man pushed his tongue into her ear. Wet, panting. His fingers were now at her fly, tearing at the zip. One hand still crushing her breast, he used his other hand to rip down her pants. His body pressed into her back, crushing her pelvis against the table. She could feel his erection on the exposed skin at the back of her legs. Blind panic overtook her and she thrashed violently; the movement causing her broken ribs to rip at her insides.

  The world went white.

  20

  'It wasn't me!' Jerome Sanders screamed over his shoulder at his father as he was marched up the corridor to his bedroom. His brother, Nathan, took the opportunity to make faces at him behind their father's back.

  'You arsehole!' he tried to jerk from his father's grasp on his pyjamas. He wanted to smash Nathan's laughing face.

  'Nathan. Get to bloody bed now.' Jerome's father opened his bedroom door, 'And you. Get in your room.'

  Jerome threw himself on his bed, hot tears of rage welling despite his best efforts to force them away.

  'It wasn't me, Dad. It was fucking Nathan.'

  'You will not speak like that in this house, Jerome. Your little sister can hear you. I don't care who did it. You're both going to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.'

  'It's not fair! You said I could watchSouth Park. I didn't do anything.' The tears were now falling down Jerome's twelve-year-old cheeks.

  His father pulled his door closed.

  'It's not fair,' Jerome sobbed into his pillow. 'I hate all of them.'

  Tonight's fight had started when Nathan had grabbed the remote control and changed the TV from the news toThe Simpsons. Normally that would be great, and Jerome would be all for it, but tonight his best mate's brother was going to be on the sport segment of the news. Nathan knew it.

  By the time his dad had changed the channel back again, the sport was over.

  Jerome made their sister, Abby, cry when he flew at Nathan, knocking her over in the process, but it was Nathan who'd pushed him into the china cabinet, smashing the curved glass panel.

  His dad didn't even listen to him. Nathan got away with everything.

  Jerome was sick of it. He'd missed Logan's brother on TV and he was going to missSouth Park again.

  Suddenly he had an idea.

  He slid open his bedroom window and popped the flyscreen soundlessly out, letting it fall into the garden bed below. He then took his pyjamas off and pulled on the shorts and T-shirt he'd been wearing after school. He put his Vans sneakers on without socks.

  Logan's parents are so much cooler than mine, thought Jerome, perching on the windowsill above his bed. It's only 7.45. They're not gonna care if I come over for a while. Still, he thought, looking out into his shadowy backyard, it's going to take me twenty minutes to get there, and it'll be pretty dark by then.

  Jerome listened to the sounds in his home. He could hear his mum and dad talking in the kitchen and the low murmuring of the television in the lounge room down the hall. Nathan was still watching TV!

  He turned away from his bedroom and dropped down from the window ledge into the garden.

  'Shit!' he exclaimed, landing awkwardly in the azalea bush below the window. He looked up at the light from his bedroom window. Would they have heard him? He crept closer to the house, favouring his ankle.

  There was no movement in the window above. Jerome straightened up and brushed some leaves off his skinned knee. He limped quietly past the clothesline and the above-ground pool they'd got for Christmas last year. Logan's family had an in-ground pool with a wooden deck and an outdoor spa. Maybe they'd be able to go for a swim tonight. Manoeuvring around the lemon tree at the bottom of the garden, he let himself out through their back gate. He would ring his mum from Logan's and ask to stay the night. His dad would be pissed, but they'd have to say yes in the end. He laughed, imagining Nathan's face when the phone rang.

  Cicadas screamed at Jerome as he trod gingerly along the newly mown grass behind his neighbours' houses.

  21

  Jamaal's head pounded. He'd been out of the hospital less than an hour. The doctors had told him to rest for a week, but he went where he was told by Sebastian. For now. He had just to pick up some money from one of Sebastian's clients, drop off a video to another, and he could go home. He thought of his fat wife and daughters waiting there, and decided instead to play some cards when he'd finished for the day. He consoled himself with revenge fantasies directed towards the person who'd almost cracked his skull last week. He felt himself grow hard as he replayed the violent images in his mind.

  'Can't you close your mouth when you eat?' Jamaal Mahmoud hissed, staring at his dining companion in disgust. He stood up from the plastic table, pushing his half-finished meal away from him. Other than the two of them and an ageing man behind the counter, the cafe was empty.

  'Where are you going? I'm not finished yet,' whined the thin man, still at the table, but standing anyway, shovelling food into his mouth in resignation. 'Why you always gotta be in such a hurry, Jamaal?'

  Jamaal kept his hands by his sides, felt his fists clench. He imagined grabbing this junkie by the hair and cracking his face into the corner of the table. He couldn't stand the way addicts talked, as if they were always begging forgiveness. He stared at the table rather than at the gaol-drawn, ink tattoos on the man's hands and face. He couldn't keep the snarl from his face however, and his companion, noticing his eyes on the diner's cutlery, moved faster.

  Why does Sebastian make me ride with these low-life scum? thought Jamaal, stalking from the table out to the carpark. A young couple, walking together towards the diner, wordlessly parted to allow him to walk between them.

  The sun was setting on Parramatta Road, but the streetlights hadn't yet clicked on. Peak hour was dying down, but there were still plenty of cars driving west, home from work. Jamaal climbed up into the driver's seat of the Ford Transit van, his face dark with anger. Sebastian has a Mercedes, a Range Rover and a Lexus, he thought, and he gives me this shit to drive while I do his bidding.

  He watched the junkie walking towards him, watched him struggling with his skinny arms to pull himself up into the van, concentrating, like it was hard work. Sebastian had insisted this guy come along to pick up the money; the client wouldn't open the door for a stranger. He turned his head, repulsed by the sores around the junkie's mouth, and started the van.

  It was then that something caught his attention, distracting him from his favourite feeling – hate. A small figure. There. On the other side of the road. A boy, alone. Jamaal scanned the street on both sides, the car yards, parked cars. He couldn't see anyone with him. His breath quickened and his eyes narrowed. He felt a squirt of adrenalin in the pit of his stomach.

  'Christ! Can't ya wait till I'm even in the car?'

  Jamaal ignored the nasal voice of his passenger, eyes locked onto the kid who had just turned left onto Broughton Street.

  Can't be more than eleven or twelve, he thought. Where is he going?
He eased the van into the westbound traffic, and pushed his way through to the right-hand lane. He got to the lights at Burwood Road, and indicated to turn right.

  'Jamaal, we're supposed to be in Mount Druitt at eight o'clock. Where are you going?' the junkie whined from the seat next to him.

  He turned with the traffic when the light changed and did an illegal U-turn back onto Parramatta Road, ignoring protesting car horns, absorbed by the boy's movements. The light was fading now, but there he was. Still alone. Jerome was beginning to think this wasn't a good idea. What if Logan's dad got mad at him for showing up? What if they weren't even home? It was getting pretty dark too, and he was starting to feel creeped out. He'd never been out this late by himself. He tried to think about watchingSouth Park. Jerome's mum would probably give them ice-cream.

  That van's driving slow, he thought, his heart quickening. Probably lost. Hope he doesn't ask me where to go; I don't know the names of the streets.

  I wish I'd never come, he thought, as the van continued to idle along at his side. He looked at his sneakers and kept walking.

  22

  'Shhh, you're all right now.'

  Mum?

  Something troubled Jill, batting around her thoughts like a blowfly. It's best not to notice, she told herself, unwilling to face the feeling. Just listen to the noises in the back-ground. The page of a book being turned. Quiet breathing. Gentle repositioning noises of someone in a seat next to her.

  Lying down or sitting up? I'm lying down. Must be night-time. But it doesn't feel like it. Smells funny in here. Kind of medicinal.

  Jill felt the memory inexorably building at the edges of her consciousness, a far-away roar of knowledge gathering pace, drowning everything in its wake. Before the wave of recall hit, her stomach clenched in frightened anticipation.

  She sat up, frantic. Wild-eyed. Where was he?

  'Jill, it's okay.' A female voice, familiar, yet not. 'It's Claire. We met earlier.'

  'What happened?' Her heart in her throat.

  'The officers got him off you, love. Nothing happened. You're okay.'

  'Who was it?' She already knew.

  'Edward Pavey, I'm afraid. They call him Teddy,' said Claire.

  'Where are we?'

  'The clinic. The doctor's coming. Just lie back for a while.'

  'I'm okay.' Jill bent down, fighting nausea, searching for her shoes. 'I passed out. I've had an injury. Supposed to be in bed,' she muttered. She felt so ashamed. What did the officers think of her? Attacked with her own pen. She just wanted to go home.

  'You have to wait for the doctor anyway, Jill,' said Claire kindly but firmly. 'We have to fill in an incident report or we're all in trouble.'

  Great. They'd have a record of her humiliation.

  'Where's Pavey now?' She hoped she wouldn't have to see him. She didn't think she could walk past any of the men on the unit right now.

  'Getting charged. He's over at the hospital. Got his arm broken when they got him off you.'

  At least there's that, Jill thought.

  Claire stood over near the sink. 'The unit's on lockdown, of course,' she said, walking back with a glass of water. 'Here.' She offered it to Jill.

  Jill took it. 'Kellie said Pavey's a serial rapist?'

  'He breaks into houses and ties his victims up. He likes to beat them with a dog chain.'

  Jill drained the glass and leaned back against the pillows, lightheaded again. After giving Claire a watery smile, she closed her eyes and resigned herself to the wait, to making the report, to the check-up by the doctor. It wasn't like she could just walk out of Long Bay Gaol.

  Besides, she thought, I'm going to need to get something stronger from him to get to sleep tonight.

  23

  Jamaal thought about snatching the kid now. Last time he'd brought in a boy this age, Sebastian had given him fifteen grand. He could use that right now. His wife was bitching about school fees, but he could probably use it to win twice as much at cards.

  There was a park just ahead. On the other side of the road was a school. Perfect street really. The trees made it darker than others. He would just stop a little way ahead of the boy and pull him into the back of the van as he passed. He knew it would be easy. The kid would be in the van before he knew what was happening.

  The junkie was on the phone. He had the thing permanently glued to his head, doing deals in his whiny voice. Could he trust this prick to keep his mouth shut? He listened to the lies he was spinning over the phone and knew he couldn't. The first chance he got to make some money from the story, the junkie would tell whoever was asking.

  The boy was approaching the park. It was now or never. Jamaal felt his muscles tense. He was rock hard with the feeling of impending violence, mesmerised by the pulsing of his blood in his ears. He looked at the door handle, ready.

  Reason prevailed. He had a witness. A witness that couldn't disappear yet. Sebastian had him by the balls. He let go of the door handle and watched the boy cross the road and walk up past a few more houses. Almost panting with suppressed rage, Jamaal watched the kid approach the gate of number 38; he saw him pause for a minute, then open the gate and walk through. As the boy approached the front porch, a sensor light tripped and he heard the doorbell ring. He waited until he heard voices, then accelerated a little and turned the corner.

  Fifteen grand.

  The junkie laughed at something said on the phone. Jamaal felt his blood boiling; he stared at the road through a film of wet red. He drove the van a couple of blocks, chest heaving, and pulled over at the first dark place he could find.

  The junkie hung up the phone and looked around in surprise.

  'What are we doing here, man?'

  Jamaal didn't speak. He cracked his fist into his passenger's face, oblivious to his pleading; he could hear only his own blood, roaring in his ears like a great mob. He grabbed the junkie by the back of the neck and forced his head down to his crotch, his other hand freeing his erection.

  The junkie only stopped crying when he nearly choked. He set to work getting it over with. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it all before.

  24

  'yes,hello, it's Peter Wheeler here. I'm Logan Wheeler's father. Is that Jerome's mum?'

  Jerome looked anxiously up at Logan's father, on the phone calling his house. Mr Wheeler, listening to Jerome's mum on the other end of the phone, leaned against the kitchen wall and ruffled Jerome's hair. Jerome stuck his head around the kitchen door, hearing laughter from the lounge room. He was missingSouth Park.

  'I don't know whether you've noticed yet, but you're missing a child.' Jerome was drawn back to the phone conversation. Logan's parents had been cool when he'd shown up, but when he'd told them he came over without telling anyone, they'd skitzed out. Jerome's dad looked down at him, nodding.

  'Yes, I know. I'd kill Logan if he did something like that too. But Jerome's right here, and he's fine. Logan's got him some pjs ready and it's okay with us if he stays the night.'

  Yes! Jerome beamed up at Logan's dad. He positioned himself in the doorway and did a little victory dance in front of Logan and his brother. Logan pumped a fist in the air, grinning. Logan's big brother said, 'Faggots,' and went back to watching TV.

  Brothers suck, thought Jerome.

  'Yes, Narelle. I'm sure you do. I'll put him on.'

  Logan's father handed Jerome the phone and Jerome stared from it to the man holding it and back again, horrified. He finally took the receiver, handling it as if it were burning hot, and head bowed, face miserable, he put the phone to his ear. Peter Wheeler smiled and shook his head, and walked from the kitchen back into his lounge room. Jamaal and the junkie had completed their errands. Praise God, this night is nearly over, thought Jamaal, leaning against his van, his bandaged head resting on his hand. It was only when the junkie's whining had become unbearable that Jamaal had stopped the vehicle and given him a fix. Sebastian had insisted that Jamaal only give him heroin after they had completed their jobs.


  Like I would be stupid enough to do it before, he thought, fuming at Sebastian's assumption that he was so ignorant. He intended to make his boss pay for his assumptions one day. Hadn't he proven his worth a thousand times over already? What about Mary – did she count for nothing? A slut who knew too much, and could speak too well. It had taken him just a week to find her after she'd gone underground. Sebastian had told him just to cut out her tongue. A lesson to others, he'd said. It had been too difficult, however, for Jamaal to stop, once she had started to cry. Her bleating had excited him, had driven him to punish her further. Seven years, and still her body had not been found.

  Jamaal took a few steps away from the van, walking a little way down the alley in which he had stopped to appease the junkie. From the wound at the back of his head, rhythmic flares of pain bloomed with his pulse. He took a small packet from the top pocket of his sweat-stained shirt. He popped two aspirin tablets from the blister pack and put them in his mouth, crunching them, dry. He ignored their bitter, vinegary taste. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  Under the only streetlight in the alley, he noticed a youth and his girlfriend parked in a car two vehicles behind his own. P-platers. They each looked away when his eyes met theirs. He noticed the female furtively use her elbow to push down her doorlock; her boyfriend's hand hovered near the ignition. He grinned, his yellowed teeth coated in the chalky residue from the painkillers.

  He continued to watch the teenagers. Their eyes widened as the junkie performed his ritual, oblivious to all around him, absorbed in his communion with his one true love. Squatting in the gutter beside the van, a rubber tube was cutting the circulation to the lower half of the man's skinny arm, pumping up his veins. Jamaal had once watched him mainline into the fat blue blood vessel in his penis, frustrated with being unable to find a vein quickly enough in his arm.