Vodka doesn't freeze jj-1

by Leah Giarratano

  The junkie was in the zone. He'd finished melting the white powder in a spoon. He drew it up, now a clear liquid, into the syringe and injected it. A moment. Then his body lurched forward and he projectile vomited over his feet. He collapsed forward over his knees, in ecstasy.

  Jamaal laughed in delight at the look of revulsion on the teenagers' faces, and walked back to his vehicle. He picked the junkie up by the shoulders and threw him in through the passenger's door, making sure to smack his head on the frame as he did so. He walked around to his own door and got in. The smell of vomit made him gag.

  'Kess emmak,' he spat, cursing the man's mother in Arabic. He drove out of the alley.

  Jamaal made his way back to the house in Hunters Hill. He promised himself that he'd go back to the street in Burwood in the morning.

  The boy was a sign. Jamaal believed in signs. His luck was changing; he could feel it in his groin.

  25

  It was the weakness of Australians he despised the most. The way they allowed their soft, white bellies to keep mushrooming over their pants; the way they couldn't keep their mouths shut, or the lust from their eyes. Jamaal watched another roomful of weak, white men being fleeced by his boss, Mr Sebastian.

  They came from all over the state, some from interstate, drawn by word of mouth and by Sebastian's internet site, knowing that what they got here would be worth the trip, worth the premium price. The photos, jpegs and DVDs they could buy here could not be bought over the internet, on the street, nor from the backrooms of adult bookstores. Sebastian kept stuff you only heard about, stuff you dreamed about while lying with your ugly wife in the dark of night. He had all ages, different nationalities, rape films – some even said you could get snuff films. Jamaal knew the truth of the rumour.

  'Ah, Jamaal, you're back. Things ran smoothly, I trust?' Mr Sebastian turned from one of his customers when Jamaal entered the room. 'I see you've brought our friend in with you.' He continued to smile, but Jamaal noted with satisfaction that Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he caught the odour the stupefied junkie trailed through the refined lounge room. 'Sometimes I wonder at you, Jamaal. Our friend looks to be unwell. Perhaps he'd be more comfortable at home.'

  'I thought you'd want the delivery first.' Jamaal handed over a fat, dirty yellow envelope. Twenty-one thousand dollars. He'd counted. In addition to porn, Sebastian provided drugs to some of his customers. He was no big-time dealer – he didn't need to be – but men were used to getting anything they needed from him, and when one had the money, Sebastian could be a one-stop shop. Cocaine and ice had always been the most common requests, but over the past few years, Rohypnol, Special K and Fantasy were increasingly requested. Date-rape drugs. Jamaal could understand the attraction.

  Sebastian took the envelope. Again, his face registered a look of distaste, directed at Jamaal. He fixed his employee with a final stare, and turned back with a smile to his customer, a slack-jawed sheep farmer from Wagga whom Jamaal had seen here before.

  Jamaal looked around the room for the junkie and almost laughed out loud. He was on the nod on one of the designer lounges, no-one around him, regurgitated food still stuck to his shoelaces. Jamaal looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. No time for cards. At least the fat bitch would be asleep.

  And there was always Burwood in the morning to look forward to. He'd intended to be out of the house before she woke up – God knows she usually slept late enough – but the five-year-old had been sick all night, and Jamaal was not able to avoid speaking to his wife the next morning.

  'Where are you going already?' She was outside the shower. 'I need money for food. Money for medicine. Why do you spend all of our money on gambling? What kind of a father are you? What kind of a man? What time did you come home last night? God save me. My father told me you are no good.'

  Jamaal got out of the shower. His head had ached all night. He reached up and touched the wound at the back of his head. The bandage had become wet in the shower and was peeling off. He walked into the bedroom of his small Lakemba townhouse and began to dress.

  'I have to have money. There is no food.' His wife stood behind him. The baby cried. The sound bounced around and around in his aching head like a squash ball.

  Jamaal moved to the bed, took a hundred-dollar note from his wallet and threw it on the floor. He continued to dress.

  'That is not enough. I have the bills tomorrow! Medicine. I have passed by hell living with you! I wish God would take me now,' she wailed.

  The baby's cries increased. Jamaal indulged himself in an image of slamming his fist into his wife's face. He did not enact the fantasy. He knew her father and brothers would finish him if he hit her again. Let them feed her, he thought, and left his house. It seemed as though everyone in it was crying.

  The van started first time and he made his way towards Burwood. Saturday. There were few cars on the road. Every traffic light seemed to be green. Another sign.

  Despite the pain in his head, Jamaal felt today was going to be a very good day.

  26

  'Mum says I have to go home before I can go to the beach with you guys.' Jerome sprawled on a mattress in the middle of Logan's bedroom floor.

  'How come?'

  'Gotta clean my room,' Jerome mumbled. 'She was absolutely spewing last night. She nearly wasn't going to let me come at all.'

  Logan stretched on his bed, then hurled his pillow at Jerome's head. Jerome re-launched the pillow back at his friend, added his own pillow, and his doona, and then threw himself on top of the pile, punching into the pillow. Laughing and shouting, they ignored the thumping on the wall that came from Logan's parents' room.

  'Get off, you idiot!' Logan managed to push Jerome off, toppling him back down to his mattress. 'You know Dad's gonna want to leave by about nine. What time is it now?'

  'Shit! It's already seven o'clock. I told Mum I'd be back by now.' Jerome started pulling on his sneakers.

  'I can ask my brother to give you a lift if you want,' said Logan doubtfully.

  'Yeah, like he's gonna do that.' Jerome's voice was muffled as he pulled his pyjama top over his head. 'I can be back here in an hour if I leave right now.'

  'Well, hurry up then.' Logan had already clicked on his TV and was surfing for the cartoons. Jerome's stomach gurgled with hunger and excitement as he unlatched the gate at Logan's house. It was boiling hot already, he thought as he walked through, forgetting to close it behind him. It was going to be great at the beach.

  He looked around. It was always quiet around Logan's house, he thought. No-one was ever in the street. Logan had told him his dad didn't even know their next-door neigh-bours' names. The idea was bizarre to Jerome, who'd lived in the same house all his life and knew every person in every house in his street. And they all knew him. Sometimes it was cool living there. Every few months or something, they'd have a street party at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, and he'd be allowed to stay up till whenever. At those parties, he could get away with practically anything, because his mum and dad didn't like to yell in front of the neighbours. And at Christmas everyone tried to have better lights and shit decorating their houses. In Christmas week, it was like there were street parties every night. Last Christmas they'd even closed half the street off at the top of the cul-de-sac, and his dad and Mr Robotham had built a massive barbecue right in the middle of the road. Jerome had copped a hiding for nearly knocking it over when he'd come down the street on his belly on his skateboard. He laughed out loud now, thinking about it.

  But at least Logan didn't have everyone knowing what he was doing all the time, he thought, staring at the neat houses. No-one was even mowing their lawn, or watering. Logan had told him his dad said everyone was too busy trying to pay their mortgage to talk to anyone else.

  Jerome kicked a rock along as he walked, imagining he was Harry Kewell and the crowd was cheering his name.

  Making a massive save from losing the rock down the drain, Jerome failed to notice the van stopped near the park.

/>   27

  Jamaal had reached the park at seven o'clock. The sun's rays had not yet reached this side of the quiet street. A seagull landed on his rear-vision mirror, hoping for leftover takeaway, begging for scraps. Disgusted by the creature's bright eyes, Jamaal smacked his hand on the glass and the bird flapped away.

  There was no way of knowing whether the boy was still in the house. He knew he did not live there – the boy had rung the doorbell last night. Would he walk home alone? Had he left already? Would he leave with the owners of the house in a car? Jamaal knew the chances of seeing the boy alone again would be slim, but the feeling that had awoken when he had first seen him would not leave. Sometimes destiny provides.

  So, when Jamaal saw the same blond hair and red T-shirt crossing the road straight towards him, he was not even surprised. The child had not seen him; he was busy playing with a stone on the road.

  Jamaal felt the erotic throb of adrenalin that always surged through him before violence. He cracked open the door of his van. 'Excuse me, boy. Could you help me for a moment, please?'

  Still no-one was around. Jamaal scanned the street and spotted nothing but the blond boy and the seagull.

  Jerome looked up, a little startled. Shit, you scared me, he thought, but aloud he said, 'Huh?'

  'I need some help for just a moment.' Jamaal smiled what he hoped was a friendly grin. 'My friend is not here yet, and I need someone to help me get some things out of my van.'

  Jerome stood where he was in the middle of the road, his head on an angle. Was that the van from last night?

  'They're not heavy,' tried Jamaal, sensing the boy's hesitation. 'I hurt myself.' He turned to the side, showed the still-wet bandage at the back of his head.

  'Sorry, mister. I gotta go. I'm late already.'

  Many of his friends would not have even answered this man, but Jerome's parents had taught him to answer adults when he was spoken to. But screw this, he thought. No way am I going to risk missing out on the beach to help this goose.

  'Twenty dollars.' Jamaal had it in his hand, ready. 'It's just some tins and a ladder. It will take us five minutes, maybe less. Please, I am late for work already.'

  Jerome had received fifty dollars for his last birthday and needed fifteen dollars more to buy the new PlayStation 2 game. Not even Logan's smart-arse brother had it. And Nathan would shit if Jerome got it first. He could pick it up at Westfield tomorrow. Excellent.

  'Yeah. Okay, then,' said Jerome, eyes on the twenty. He made his way over to the van. The back door was open, but it was shaded on that side of the road, and he couldn't see much inside.

  Jamaal put his hand back into his pocket. He removed a wet cloth from a sandwich bag he'd positioned carefully. Within the five steps it had taken the boy to close the gap between them, he'd palmed the chloroform-soaked rag and was ready.

  'It'll take two people to get this ladder out,' he said, as Jerome stepped into the shadows.

  When he walked between the man and the open van door, Jerome smelt something real strong – fumes, like petrol, or paint. Must be a tradie, he thought, before everything went black.

  28

  Jerome's mouth felt all dry and tasted funny. And shit, his head hurt bad. I'm not going to school today, he thought. Why is it so hot?

  Eyes still closed. His head hurt too much to open them. 'M-Mum?' It came out a croak. 'Ma?' He tried again.

  I feel so sick, he thought. It feels like I'm moving. He slept again. The next time Jerome awoke, his heart was hammering, and he knew before he even opened his eyes that something was very wrong. He couldn't move his arms. He was lying face down on a carpet that smelled like petrol and something worse. Why can't I move? His heart thudded against the floor underneath him. That smell – chemical. Where am I?

  It was then that Jerome remembered the man and the van and he knew where he was. He began crying straight away, sobbing into the carpet. The realisation that he'd been kidnapped crashed down on him like a huge wave, smashing into him like a physical blow. No-one knew he was in here. Would he ever see his mum again? What would happen to him? Horror stories he'd heard at camp of kids being abducted and chopped to pieces flashed through his mind before being whited-out by pure terror that robbed him of all thought. He lay in the van and cried until he was sick.

  Jerome gradually became aware of a low keening sound. He stopped when he realised that he was making the noise. He must've been crying for half an hour, and no-one had come. Should he call out? But what if the man with the big nose came back? He felt scorching hot and so thirsty that his tongue had swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't even moisten his lips. His throat rasped raw from crying, and his eyes felt scratchy and swollen shut. His hands were numb, and his shoulders gave off searing flares of pain where his bunched muscles pulled backwards. Dried vomit stuck to his cheek; he smelled hot urine and knew he'd pissed himself.

  He decided to risk calling out. At first no sound would come from his dry throat. He tried again.

  'Help. Help me. Is anyone there?'

  No-one came. Jerome cried a bit more, his throat convulsing. He needed to sit up so badly that he tried to scream; the sound was feeble, even to his own ears. He lay there in complete misery.

  Suddenly, noise. Outside the van. Someone was coming.

  Jerome's heart beat so quickly he thought he'd probably die before the kidnapper even opened the door. But maybe it wasn't the kidnapper. Maybe it was someone else and they would rescue him. His mum and dad would be looking for him. It could be the police. He strained his neck and could just see one section of a steel rod that he knew was connected to the van's door handle. It was moving. The door was opening.

  'Oh my God! Look at the poor thing!'

  The voice was not that of the man who'd taken him! Jerome moaned – a sob of relief.

  'Help me,' he croaked in little more than a whisper.

  'Get him out of there. Quickly.'

  Jerome felt someone kneeling in the van and hands gently lifting him to his knees.

  'Are you all right?'

  'My arms hurt,' Jerome managed.

  'Look at his hands. They're white! He's been tied like an animal.'

  'Be quiet, you're scaring him more, poor thing.'

  Jerome let himself be lifted from the van. He tried to stand, to see his rescuers, but his eyes couldn't focus right, and his knees buckled.

  'Let him sit! Get him water.'

  Jerome sat at the edge of the van with his head between his knees. Sounds seemed muffled and he felt himself sliding sideways, unable to stay awake. He felt someone freeing his hands and a bottle was pressed to his lips. He drank, and his vision slowly cleared. He was in a huge room. It must be a garage, he thought, though he'd never seen one so large. Two men stood near him: one, a blond man, was smiling at him, friendly. He held the bottle of water out to him, and Jerome tried to take it, but it slipped through his fingers, still numb from being tied.

  Dully, he watched the bottle roll towards a pair of feet. A hand reached down and picked it up. Another smiling man. Huge. In a suit.

  'You must be very frightened, young man,' said the tall man, handing Jerome another bottle of water. 'I imagine you'd like to get home as soon as possible. We've called your parents and they're on their way.'

  Jerome began again to cry again. Tears of relief. Thoughts of seeing his mum and dad again. Abby. Even Nathan.

  'Th-thank you for helping me,' he said, sniffling.

  The blond man ruffled Jerome's hair and smiled again. 'You're a brave boy. You'll have a story to tell at school later, won't you?'

  Jerome needed more water. He was weakly lifting the bottle when a door at the side of the garage opened and the driver of the van walked into the room. Jerome froze with the bottle halfway to his mouth.

  He wanted to shriek to his rescuers, to let them know that this was the man who'd kidnapped him, but he didn't know how the man would react if he did so. He stared wild-eyed at his rescuers, silently trying to alert
them.

  'Good, isn't he, Mr Sebastian?' he heard the hook-nosed man ask.

  'Oh you've done very well, Jamaal,' said the big man in the suit. 'Very well indeed.' He put his arm around the skinnier man's shoulders and smiled broadly, looking down at Jerome as a starving man might view a feast.

  Jerome didn't even notice the blond man placing his hand on his thigh. His brain struggled to register the sudden certainty that his mum and dad had not been called at all.

  29

  Scotty insisted that Jill stay out with her parents at Camden for a couple of days, and she was not up to objecting. She found it difficult to believe that two men had physically attacked her in forty-eight hours. Since she'd started investigating David Carter's murder, her carefully ordered life seemed to be unravelling.

  At the moment, however, this thought was suppressed. Reclining on a sun lounge by the side of her parents' pool, her knees bent up – this position eased the pressure on her ribs – her hand shielded her eyes, blocking some of the late afternoon sun from her face. The cicadas chiming in the semi-rural neighbourhood nearly drowned out the sounds of her niece and nephew chortling in the pool.

  'Girls, you should have a hit of tennis before dinner.' Robert Jackson stood at the barbecue, poking at the smouldering coals, beer in hand.

  'Or, you could get me another white wine, Dad.' Cassie was on a lounge next to Jill, painting her nails. Their sister-in-law, Robyn, was in the shallows with Lily, Jill's niece and Robyn's three-year-old daughter. Avery, Jill's six-year-old nephew, was calling for his father's attention every minute or so. Tim, the children's father – Jill and Cassie's older brother – was touring the rose garden behind the pool with their mother, Frances. 'Robert, don't be silly,' called Frances, secateurs in hand, 'How is Jill supposed to play tennis with broken ribs?' 'And since when haveI played tennis?' Cassie wanted to know.