by Bill Day
We head to Felicity’s unit. Celia opens the door, hugs me, and we walk inside. I have never been inside someone else’s unit before. Flick’s use of rich reds and matching oak furniture is stunning. There is a glass and oak cabinet full of old and highly decorative daggers. They are quite beautiful in a chilling way.
The person pretending to be Leah sits in a leather-winged armchair with a clear view of Flick’s dagger collection. There is a knock at the door. Digger and Brian enter the room. Brian looks at me and then raises an eyebrow at Lucky.
“It’s up to you Brian.”
My father nods, “He can stay.”
Digger still wears his beret stuffed with banana skins. He looks like a crazy man to me and I still think of him as Mr Bananas. He looks straight at the seated girl. She must be in her mid-twenties but seems much younger - the mermaid hair clip doesn’t help. She tries to look resolute but there is a gleam of fear in her eyes. I have no idea how this will proceed.
Digger begins. He walks over and leans on the cabinet. He examines a very fine ivory-handled dagger. He opens the cabinet and lifts the dagger out. He tests the edge and beads of blood drip from his hand. I cringe. Leah shuffles in her chair nervously. She tries to rise but Felicity and Lucky block her way and ease her back into the armchair.
Digger puts the dagger back into the cabinet and calmly holds a handkerchief over the cut. He pulls over a kitchen chair, sits in front of pretend Leah, and just stares at her. Minutes go by. The handkerchief fills and blood drips onto his pants.
Pretend Leah cracks. Her shoulders lift in defiance. “What are you fucking looking at?” She is predictable.
Digger leans in close. “What’s that?”
“I said what are you looking at?”
“Speak up girl.”
Her shoulders slump slightly, “Doesn’t matter.”
Digger leans back in his chair, “So, answer the question.”
I rub my eyes. He’s lost it. He hasn’t asked a question.
Fake-Leah looks confused, “What question?”
“What’s that? I said speak up.”
“You haven’t asked me a question!”
Digger looks around, “She’s not here,”
“What! Who’s not here you crazy old shit?”
Digger just stares.
“Stop bloody staring at me!”
“I say again young lady, answer the question.” Blood drips onto his pants. The bloodstain is halfway down his leg now.
“What question!” She looks around in a panic. “He’s crazy as a bag of ferrets. Help me, someone. Felicity? Celia? Monty?”
Digger knocks the armchair, “Look at me. They can’t help you. You just need to answer one simple question.”
Her shoulders lift again, “Then ask me the question you deaf prick.”
“Whazzat?” Digger turns his left ear towards her as it works better than the right.
“Ask your bloody question.”
“It’s not hard surely? One simple question?”
“You haven’t asked a simple question. You haven’t asked any bloody question. Can you hear me! Hello?”
Digger stares some more. Minutes go by. There is no sound other than the poor girl’s panicked breath. Her look changes from defiant to resigned. She’s in the hands of a madman and nobody will help.
She whispers despairingly, “You haven’t asked a question.”
Digger takes his banana beret off. His baldhead and fierce blue eyes make him look violent and sinister. He resumes staring.
“Why are you here Rebecca?”
Her chin snaps up at the use of her name.
“Ah, now you’re listening Rebecca Jackson. I know who you are but I don’t know why you’re here? So, why are you here?”
Rebecca stares back at Digger. “I want my money. You wankers have my money!”
“We have your money, Rebecca? That seems unlikely.” I note a vast improvement in Digger’s hearing.
Digger looks at Lucky. Lucky looks at Brian. Brian looks at Rebecca.
Lucky decides to speak first. “Rebecca, my name is Raymond but you can call me Lucky. Francis is on her way to pick you up.”
“You rang my Mum? You knew who I was all the time?”
“Not all the time. Digger identified you about an hour ago.”
Digger shakes off his violent and sinister look. He transforms into a sympathetic grandfatherly gentleman. I admire his ability to change.
“I apologise for the theatre, Rebecca. I needed to shake you up a little. I am sorry about your father. Jackie was my friend.” He looks at his hand. “Damn that dagger is sharp. I cut myself.”
The door swings open and a woman in her mid-forties walks in. Her bottle-blonde hair, thick makeup, and tight skirt indicate she fights against time with limited success. She smiles when she sees Celia, Felicity, Lucky, and Digger. Her smile is ageless.
Lucky sweeps her up in a huge hug. “Hello Frankie, sorry about Jackie. He deserved better.”
She nods then advances on Rebecca, “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“I want Dad’s money. Dad hid his stash here somewhere. You both lived here. I was looking at your old photos and figured it out. It wasn’t hard.”
“You’re getting sloppy Frankie. Not good for business.”
“Sorry Lucky. I’ll lock the photos in the safe when I get home.”
“Frankie, we have a problem. Rebecca is here demanding money that she believes Jack left here.”
She turns to Rebecca, “You need more money to pay his debts again? No more Rebecca. You shouldn’t be here.”
She turns to Lucky, “The bastard gambles what he hasn’t got then takes it out on her when he loses.” Rebecca looks at the floor.
“He hits her?” Frankie nods affirmatively.
Lucky’s eyes flash. He turns to Rebecca, “You are Jackie Jackson’s daughter. No one hits you, ever.” He hands her pen and paper, “Write his name and address.” She writes the name and address. Lucky pulls out his phone. “Muscles, go to 34 Maxwell Crescent and find Ronny James. Smack him about a bit, tell him Rebecca is done with him, give him some spending money, and put him on a plane to somewhere or other. Oh, and explain what happens if he comes back.”
He hangs up and looks straight at Rebecca. “He is no longer your boyfriend, now smarten up.” Rebecca just blinks, unable to ken the speed and finality of events.
“Celia, can you take Rebecca for a walk and discuss the value of discretion, please?” Celia escorts a stunned Rebecca out the door.
Brian takes over, “Good to see you Frankie, while you are here we may as well go over your finances. Jack left 58 diamonds with us, all more than 3 carats. The total retail value at the time was 3.4 million dollars, with an under the counter value of 1.3 million. Under Jack’s instruction, we liquidated them and invested the money in secure shares.”
He turns to Felicity, “Who manages that Flick?”
Felicity thumbs through a small hardbound notebook, “Maxine manages that portfolio.”
Flick walks to a bookshelf and selects one ledger out of many. “Maxine is good, the current share value is a touch over 5.4 million dollars. As you know, since Jack’s death you have drawn upon it for expenses but your account grows steadily. Of course, you can liquidate all or part of your share but only if it is safe for all concerned. Is that satisfactory?
Frankie grins, “Perfectly satisfactory Flick-knife.”
Felicity smiles, “It’s been rather too long since I’ve heard that name. It’s good to see you again Frankie.”
Lucky fixes his eyes on Frankie’s. Frankie, you do realise we will deposit everything into an overseas account in your name if Rebecca can’t keep her mouth shut. What happens after that will be your problem. We don’t take risks and she is a risk at the moment.”
Frankie looks contemplative, “She won’t be a problem.”
The door swings open and Celia returns with a contrite looking Rebecca in tow. Rebecca open
s her mouth to speak but Lucky half raises his hand to silence her.
“Rebecca, you are amongst friends here. Jacky did leave a legacy but Frankie holds the purse strings. If you are sensible, careful, and discrete you will never want for anything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that. Now, can you drive?” My ears prick up.
“She can drive,” Frankie chips in quickly.
“Rebecca, I have a job that needs doing. What do you know about the Temple of World Rebirth?”
16
Pandemonium Pier
I am standing on a crowded pier with Jessica, Sarah, Lucky, and Mandy. Along the pier people are fishing, sightseeing, and eating ice cream from the nearby Mr Whippy van. Fingers needs to dispose of Ten Stone Malone, so we are off on a fishing trip. Mandy has brought Helen and Trotsky, despite ardent protest from everyone else.
“That’s a big boat, Lucky. How old is it?”
“Penelope was built in 1949. She was a fishing boat for forty years. I bought her from the original owner.”
Penelope is an old hardwood plank fishing boat, the kind of boat that will plough through all but the roughest weather. She must be at least 40 feet. She is well looked after but not restored. Her only vanity is a thick blue line running bow to stern. Her engine is running. The diesel motor throbs powerfully. Attached to Penelope’s stern is a 14-foot tender with a fifty horse-power motor.
Fingers’ and Muscles’ heads pop up out of a hatch and declare Penelope all good and ready to go. We climb aboard and settle into seats mounted on the open deck. Mandy jumps into the bridge, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a captain’s hat. Lucky throws the bow and stern lines. He gives a push as he steps on board and Mandy reverses out of the pen like a professional.
Trotsky’s deep bark rises above the engine. He has seen Helen left behind. He stands on the bow and voices his distress. Helen speeds along the crowded pier to catch up. Muscles and Fingers watch her run like a demented greyhound and cheer encouragement.
“Go, Helen. You can make it.”
Several things happen in quick succession.
Firstly, Helen weaves between three ice cream eating children and their overdressed mother, who sips from a paper latte cup. She tilts up her cup just as Helen brushes past. Helen startles her, she jumps, and coffee spills down her cheeks. With annoyance, she lashes out at Helen. Her ankle turns and she falls to the pier with a cry. The oldest child just stares as the others bawl loudly. Tears and ice-cream trickle down their faces. Good Samaritans run in to help.
A first-aid trainee runs in eagerly and grabs her ankle.
“Does this hurt?” He twists her ankle to the left.
“Owwww, of course it hurts. Let me go.”
An onlooker cries, “You need to raise it.”
“No, you need ice. Does anyone have ice?”
“It needs strapping. Does anyone have bandages?”
“How about this?” He twists it to the right.
“Shit! Stop that! Owwwww.”
“Go Helen go!!” Do they even know Helen’s deaf?
A fisherman runs up and pours ice over her right ankle.
“That’s the wrong ankle, you idiot!” He scoops the ice over to the left. She looks down. Her foot, complete with Gucci shoe, sticks out of grubby, bait tainted ice slurry. A single tear crawls down her cheek.
Muscles and Fingers chant, “Helen, Helen, Helen.”
The youngest child watches as her ice cream falls off the cone and onto the decking. It lands on a fresh dollop of seagull poop. She screams and kneels next to it.
A good samaritan grabs her. “Don’t eat that love.”
“Don’t touch my children!” Mother is starting to lose control.
“Just trying to help.” The samaritan throws her hands up to release the child, who crouches to eat the ice-cream.
“Astrid. Don’t eat that! Stop! Carl, stop her!”
Carl grabs his sister Astrid, who squeals like a dry wheel bearing. He tries to hold her but she jumps up, ducks away under the railing, and plummets silently into the ocean.
“Astrid!!!!” The stricken mother cries as three people jump in after her. They lift her back onto the pier, where she stands and howls like a wet banshee.
“How about this?”
“Fuuuck”, shrieks the mother as the first aider lifts her leg and twists.
“Don’t swear in front of children.”
“They’re my children! I will talk how I bloody well want. Fuck off. Everybody fuck off.” She points at Mr First Aid. “Especially you, fuck off and don’t touch me again. Come on children.” She scrambles to her feet, slips on the ice slurry, and falls back onto the deck. She lies in the ice puddle and groans.
First Aid runs back in. “Don’t move. You might have spinal injuries.”
An ambulance and police car roll into the car park. First Aid calls out as paramedics rush up the pier, “Possible spinal injuries.” They slap on a cervical collar and immobilise her on a stretcher. She cusses like a drill sergeant as they carry her away. Two police amble up and take the screaming children into care.
Muscles cries enthusiastically. “Keep going Helen, you can make it!” Mandy is holding the boat in position at the end of the pier.
Almost at the same time, Helen builds speed as she scampers along the pier. People scurry out of her way. There is a small yacht being boarded by a couple in their fifties. “Scampi” is painted along its stern. They look like husband and wife.
Wife is pulling on the halyard as husband casts the lines. He overbalances slightly as Helen brushes past with just the slightest contact. It’s enough to make a difference and he plummets forward into the water.
His wife yells at him, “Marcus, what are you doing? Get out of the water.”
Marcus waves his arms about in anger. “Bloody dog, whose bloody dog is that?”
A teenage girl notices his waving arms, throws off her shoes, steps out of her jeans, and dives in after him.
“Just relax Sir. I have you.” She rolls him on his back.
“No, I’m ok. I can swim.”
“Relax, don’t panic.” She plays a script in her mind and can’t hear him at all.
“Really. I am fine.”
“Just relax. I am going to tow you to shore.”
A stray zephyr of wind catches the mainsail and Scampi edges away from the pier. “Marcus, the yacht’s moving. Listen to the girl and stop making a fuss.”
“But I can swim Mavis.”
“Please, I need you to relax. Don’t panic”
“I am not going to panic. Let me go. I can bloody swim.”
An onlooker shouts, “If he panics punch him under the nose!”
She punches him under the nose.
“You hit me! Let me go, you idiot.”
She punches him again.
“Marcus! Marcus! What do I do?”
“She hit me! Twice!”
“I said relax sir.” She holds up her clenched fist.
“Marcus!”
He glances up just as Scampi heels over on a fresh gust and takes flight. She careens through the dozens of boats moored beside the pier. Mavis, not being a sailor, stands on the bow and waves her arms frantically.
“I said let me go! Can’t you see what’s happening?”
“Sir, you are making this very difficult.”
There is a bang as Scampi collides with an expensive-looking powerboat. Mavis waves her arms around madly. “Marcus! Help!”
A burly individual emerges onto the deck of the powerboat and waves his fist. “Look where you’re bloody going, arsehole.”
“Don’t call me an arsehole, you dickhead.” Mavis shakes her fist from the bow as Scampi picks up even more speed. Burly jumps into his tender, pulls the motor cord, and takes off in pursuit.
Clang, Scampi glances off a steel hull schooner and swamps a small tender tied behind. The impact turns Scampi towards shore, the breeze fully at her
stern. Mavis screams. “Marcus!”
Marcus, nearly to shore starts to struggle against his saviour. She hits him again. Enraged he thrashes about and flails his fists in frenzy. His would-be lifesaver backs away with a look of horror on her face. Marcus leaps up, trips on a clump of seaweed and collapses in a heap on the sand.
Mr First Aid runs up, “Check his breathing!”
“Just leave me alone dammit!”
Lifesaver girl looks concerned, “I think he’s in shock.”
“Lie down and put your feet up. How many fingers am I holding up?”
Muscles and Fingers sing, “Let’s go Helen, Let’s go!
Bam, Marcus jabs his fist into First Aids’ nose. First Aid runs away spouting blood.
Marcus leaps to his feet and runs up the beach after Mavis and Scampi. Scampi hurtles towards the beach. With a massive bang, she runs aground. Mavis, not braced for impact, cartwheels through the air and lands directly upon an elaborate sandcastle.
The proud sandcastle builders leap up and point to a sign, “Swimming only Lady. Can’t you read?”
Burley pulls up in his tender as Marcus arrives to defend Mavis. Burley yells “Do you know what that boat is worth?!” Mavis just wobbles, spits a mouthful of sand, and collapses face-first into the remnant sandcastle.
Marcus screams, “Call an ambulance!”
First Aid drips blood and cries, “Call the police!”
Burley yells, “Call your bloody insurance company!”
The castle builders scream, “Call the beach inspector!”
Muscles and Fingers chant enthusiastically, “Helen the mighty. Helen the mighty.”
Back on the pier, Helen eyes Penelope holding stationary in the water and puts her head down for maximum speed. She leaps and sails like a flying fish to land neatly on the deck. With a body shake and a smile, she jumps up next to Mandy. She looks straight out to sea like a regular sea dog.
“She’s a good dog.” Mandy pats Helen fondly. I look back at the milling crowd on the beach and chuckle. I’d hate to see her being bad.
With finality, Mandy pushes the throttle forward to cruise away from pandemonium pier. We’re going fishing.