“I’m kinda tired right now,” I snap.
“Honey, I have six kids under twelve and I’ve been on my feet since yesterday. You don’t even know tired.” She fluffs my pillow and leaves.
I scoff. She doesn’t know the half of it. I am tired. I’m exhausted from fighting a battle I’ll never win. I can’t change the way people think any more than I can change the colour of my skin. But that doesn’t mean shit. I can keep him from meeting the same fate I have, and that’s all that matters. I can live with North hating me. I’ve done it before, but I can’t live in a world without him in it.
I lean forward in my seat as my old man staggers up the lawn and through the glass sliding door of the house. He doesn’t bother locking it; he doesn’t even attempt to close it properly. Our town has always been that safe. You leave your doors unlocked, your keys in the car. Children play unsupervised in the streets, and you know all the tiny little insignificant details about your neighbours because people talk to one another; we say hello on our way to work, or while walking down the street. We grew up here, our parents grew up here. Nothing bad ever happens to the good people of Red Maine.
The good people are just fine.
I unscrew the lid of the old metal flask my father gave me when I turned eighteen, the only thing he ever gave me in my life that meant anything—well, that and the ability to defend myself—and wince as the bourbon slides down my throat, burning my gullet like acid.
We are the product of our fathers, Will and me. Will would let the law handle this, even knowing it will get him nowhere. Will was raised by a good man.
I wasn’t.
I was raised by an angry drunk with a hair-trigger temper and the desire to hit things, and so that’s what I became. A drunk with little patience, an angry man, and a son seeking revenge for a lifetime of hurt.
Before my mother checked out, she told me to look after my father. As a kid I thought that was strange, but the older I grew the more I came to understand it. He did need looking after, because he was a child, and I’d somehow become the responsible adult, taking care of him, working two jobs when I was old enough so we’d have the money to eat. I put food on the table every night, and every night I scraped it off into the garbage when he’d come home with a belly full of booze, spoiling for a fight.
I hope he’s in the mood for one tonight.
I screw the cap back on the flask and toss it on the passenger seat as I slide out of the ute and close the door quietly. Dad had been twenty feet away and not even noticed my truck parked in the drive, which tells me he’s consumed his usual amount of alcohol for the night. I don’t know where, but I know it wasn’t at the pub because it’s still boarded up.
I stand outside, peering in through the open door. Sliding it a little farther back, I step into the lounge room. The TV illuminates everything—the tiny run-down wood-panelled room, the brown threadbare couch that had been salvaged from the tip on one of our midnight raids to acquire new furniture when I was just a kid. The kitchen behind it is littered with pizza boxes, empty bottles of booze and moulding food scraps, if the smell is anything to go by, and there, sleeping in his tattered armchair, a throne as wretched as the bitterness inside him, is the bastard. He’s softly snoring, with his pants unbuttoned and his belt off, hanging over the arm of the couch beside him, his face slackened with sleep.
The Swiss Army knife burns a hole through my jean pocket. I slide my fingers in and grab it, closing my fist around the smooth, rounded edges. I flick the blade out and stare at the blue-light reflection from the TV glinting off of the metal. I didn’t come here to shove a knife in his throat while he slept, but there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t doubt that I could do it, that I should do it.
I know Will wouldn’t be proud if he could see me right now. Anyone else might think my father was about to get his just deserts, but Will wouldn’t want me here exacting revenge.
That’s the difference between him and me.
As he sleeps, I study my father’s features. People say we look alike, that I’m a chip off the old block, and in too many ways I am. He brought me up not to care. I rebelled, and now that he’s fucked with what’s mine, I’m going to fuck him back.
“Wake up, you piece of shit,” I shout, slamming my boot into the side of the chair. The footrest groans back in against the frame and he’s tilted upright.
Dad goes on the defensive immediately, springing up and hurling himself at me. I stagger back with the blow, into the wooden coffee table that splinters beneath our weight.
The knife flies out of my hands. His arm swings back and connects with my cheekbone. A sharp burst of white-hot pain radiates through my skull, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I block his next attempt, shoving my elbow up into his face, but either he’s too drunk to feel it or he’s just so fucking crazy that he doesn’t give a shit because he doesn’t waste any time beating on me again. Three more hits in quick succession, one to the same cheek, one to the nose, and a third to the throat and I’m laid on my arse.
I gulp in air like I’ve just been winded, but this is so much worse than that. He perches on my chest and smiles down at me, his hand wrapping around my neck and squeezing.
“I should have done this a long time ago,” he pants, as I scratch and claw and grapple at his hands. He tightens his grip. I’m choking, making this horrible wheezing sound as I suck in air that isn’t there, but the worst part? His face is serene as he attempts to strangle the life out of his only child.
I buck, trying to unseat him from my chest, sinking my fingers into the soft flesh of his upper arm I grip and pull, causing his hand to loosen. That’s all I need. I ram my fist into his soft belt, up under his ribcage, and he falls back with the blow. I yank the belt from the back of the couch and whip it around his neck, sliding the leather through the loop and pulling tight. He chokes. I pull tighter, using both hands, tugging with a white-knuckled grip until the leather cuts into my palms. Dad’s face is puce, his eyes bulge and limbs flail.
I wrap the length around one arm and tug. For the first time in my life, there is fear in my father’s eyes. There’s a monster reflected back at me too—blond hair, eyes narrowed in concentration, face contorted with the effort it takes to strangle a man. The monster is me.
I’m just like him.
I let go of the belt as if it would burn me. His head slams back on the remnants of the hardwood table.
He gasps. His fingers slip beneath the leather and pull. The impromptu choke chain loosens a little, but he isn’t home free yet. He coughs, gulping in deep, shuddering breaths. I wait a beat and yank on the belt again. “Who else was there?”
He doesn’t respond. I slam my fist into the side of his head. It whips back and forth. I seize his hair in my hand and slam his head into the wood. “Who else was there?”
He just laughs, blood coating his lips and teeth. “Fuck you,” he spits, misting my face with blood. I swipe a glob of saliva off my cheek. “I ain’t telling you shit.”
I growl, slamming my fist into the side of his head. He groans. I snatch up the belt and pull so tight my joints creak. Fingers claw at my injured hands as he chokes, but I ignore them. It’s the thought of Will that causes me to stop and let go.
“You can’t fix this. The best you can do for me right now is to walk away.”
I shove off my dad, and he rolls onto his side, having only enough energy to slide his fingers between the belt and his flesh. It shifts, the buckle thuds against the floor, and I stare at the red welts I created. “Fucking pussy. You couldn’t even do it. Too fucking gutless.”
I drag him to his feet by his shirt collar and swing, cracking my fist against his cheekbone with a grunt. “Oh, I could do it, but you know what I realised? It takes more effort to walk away than to strangle you right now, and that’s what makes me the bigger man. Because you don’t mean shit to me, and killing you isn’t worth my happiness or Will’s. I hope you choke on your motherfucking vomit, you old drunk homophobic basta
rd.”
I shove him hard. He stumbles back against the couch as I straighten. Dad’s hand reaches across the sofa and grabs the knife I dropped, slashing it in a wide arc. A rent opens up in my jeans just above my knee and blood spills out. I kick the knife from his hand and land one last blow to his temple, knocking him out cold. Reaching down warily, I check his pulse—faint, but still there, unfortunately. Heading into the kitchen, I locate the house phone under a discarded microwave dinner and dial triple zero.
I tell the woman on the line that I need an ambulance, and then I drop the phone and limp back to the truck. I don’t care about removing evidence that I was there, and I’m not trying to cover anything up. I know that Johnson won’t waste time looking for other suspects because I’ve always been persona non grata when it came to my father. I don’t plan to make life more difficult for the Red Maine Police Department. I intend to deliver myself right to their doorstep. I just have somewhere else I need to be first.
Smithy’s house is just a few blocks from mine, overlooking the same stretch of ocean. He’s in the garage finishing off some woodworking shit, even though it’s well after midnight. He glances up as I pull into the drive and climb out of the ute. His whole body stiffens. I’m covered in blood, from my face to fists, and there’s that wound on my leg. Smithy’s eyes widen, and for a beat he stands stock-still, taking me in, and then he turns on his heel and runs for the door leading in to the house. I limp after him, grab his shirt and slam him up against the wall. Wrapping my arm around his throat, I squeeze.
His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You were there.”
“No. I wasn’t.”
“Why the fuck you running, Smithy?”
“Have you seen you?” He might have a point there, but I’m not buying it. I saw the way he flinched when he realised it was my truck that pulled into his drive just now.
I pull back my fist and punch him in the nose. He cries out and I reel back again, but he opens his mouth and starts tripping all over his words. “I never meant to go along with it. I got caught up. Honest. We were at Tommo’s, and the boys were drinking too much and rousing for a fight. Your dad started on about Will and the next thing I know I’m caught up in a hate crime. Nobody said nothin’ about hurting him; they were just gonna scare him a little. I never touched him. I swear.”
I pull my fist back again and slam it into the cupboard beside him with a roar. It hurts like a motherfucker, and Smithy’s eyes are squeezed tightly closed not two inches from my bloodied hand.
“Oh god,” he mutters. “Holy shit.”
“Names,” I demand, taking out my phone and hitting the mic button.
“Come on, North,” he pleads. “They’re gonna kill me.”
“Not if I do it first.” I press record. “Names, Smithy. Give me the names of the men that attacked Will.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds his hands up again. His voice tremors as he says, “Rob Underwood, Tommo Gibson, Dan Gilchrest and Rooster.” He shakes his head as he corrects himself. “Dan Morgan.”
I give him a look. “And you, John Smith.”
“I didn’t touch him. I told you that.”
“You were there; that’s enough.”
“And me,” he says, avoiding my gaze.
I release my hold on his throat and hit send on the voice recording, emailing it to Johnson and adding my address in the BCC with the note that reads:
Done all the legwork for you.
You’re welcome.
North.
I leave Smithy in a cowering mess, swiping at his bloody nose. As I walk to the truck and hop in, I try not to smile at the fact that I just beat the shit out of my boss.
That’s gonna be awkward come Monday.
When I enter the station, I’m met by a bored woman in uniform tapping away on the computer screen at reception. She sips her coffee without looking up at me and says, “Can I help you?”
I remember this woman—Sonja Baxter. She was in my English class, though she’s a long way from the mousey little teen she was then. She never had tits like that, for one thing.
“I’d like to report a crime.”
“Really?” she says impatiently, still tapping away on her keyboard.
“Yeah. I just beat my father to within an inch of his life.”
Her gaze snaps up, and she takes me in. My face is busted up to all buggery. I got a look at myself in the rear-view mirror on the way over. I look like a demented abattoir employee, fresh from the kill room. One eye is almost completely shut and my hair is stained red from the gash in my forehead. I glance down at my white T-shirt, which has been sprayed with more blood than a piggery floor. I’m not crazy. I know I look like a madman. I feel like one too, so when the officer tells me to slowly put up my hands and lie down flat on my stomach, it takes a beat to register. She pulls a gun on me, barking commands that I can’t understand.
I know she’s speaking English. I know these words, but they mean absolutely nothing as adrenaline courses through my body and my blood whooshes in my ears. Two more officers appear from behind her desk and I’m forced to the ground. My face glances off the laminate floor, piercing my bottom lip with my teeth as a knee is thrust between my shoulder blades and my hands wrenched back behind me. A pair of cuffs is slapped around my wrists. Some strange part of me even relishes that metal zing as the ratchet slides into place.
When they haul me to my feet, Johnson stands in the doorway, his usual look of disappointment written all over his face. We both knew this was inevitable—has been since the day I grew big enough to hit back.
Bloody-mouthed, I smile at him. “Sent a little present to your inbox.”
“Put him in the holding cell.”
The officer at my back yanks me to a halt. “Shouldn’t we question him first, Sarge?”
“Hold him. No questioning. I’ll deal with him in the morning.” Johnson turns his attention to Sonja, whose gun is now safely holstered at her belt. “Check the emergency log. If there hasn’t already been an ambulance dispatched to number thirteen Squall Bay Road, do it now.”
“Yes, sir.” Sonja jumps into action, and Johnson turns his attention to me.
“Fucking Underwoods,” he mutters, and makes a shooing motion to indicate that the officer behind me should remove me from the sergeant’s sight.
I’m shown to a tiny little cell with a metal bed jutting out from the wall and a metal toilet in full view of the hall. There’s no one but me and Officer Wheeler in this corridor of empty cells though. He removes the cuffs and backs out of the room as if I were going to jump him. I just smile, give him a wave and sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for the madness to carry me away.
I went head to head with my father, and I didn’t kill him.
Why don’t I feel better about that fact?
I don’t know what time it is when I’m woken later by the sounds of my cell door opening, but I sit up and blink bleary eyes at Johnson. Every single one of my muscles aches from the beating of the night before. I don’t need a mirror to see that one whole side of my face is swollen, from my jaw to my temple. It aches like a bitch, and I’ve got a killer headache.
“Rise and shine, son.” He moves closer and runs a hand through his thick grey hair. He looks like shit. “Your father’s stable.”
I laugh. It’s a clamour when compared to the silence of the cell and Johnson flinches. Clearly, I still look a little unhinged. “You couldn’t be further from the truth, Sarge.”
“He’s not pressing charges so I can’t hold you, but I know the two of you. This is just gonna go back and forth until one of you ends up dead.”
“Probably.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I got tired of living life the way he wanted me to.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m fucking Will, and Daddy doesn’t like it.” I stand up to leave. Johnson’s mouth thins into a disapproving line. “Yeah, you
heard that right. Been going on for months—years actually.”
“You’re free to go,” he says briskly. “Collect your things from Sonja at the front desk.”
“It’s not fucking catching, Sarge.” I shake my head as I glare at the man who spent more time in my backyard than his own. A man who spent my lifetime ignoring the bruises, the black eyes, and the fact that a kid was waking up every day thanking a god that he didn’t believe in for small mercies like a couple of broken ribs instead of an arm, or a black eye instead of a knife to the gut. “You don’t get to just dismiss me this time. You do something about him. You’re the reason Will’s lying in that hospital bed, and you know it. Dad should have been locked up years ago, and instead you gave him free rein over this town. You let him beat his fucking kid to within an inch of his life and you did jack-shit about it.”
“You were in and out of fights your whole life, North. I didn’t know where the bruises were coming from. You never filed any reports against your father—”
“I was a fucking kid.” I drag my hand through my hair, yanking through the blood-crusted tangles. “I was terrified. You were his closest friend. You were his only friend. You swore to protect the innocent and you turned your back instead, just like every other gutless fuck in this town. You do something about him and his buddies, or I will. And so help me God, I’ll rain down every fucking media outlet on the corrupt cops in this town that the AFP will be so far up your arse you’ll be walking funny for a year. You fix this, Johnson. You owe me that.”
Johnson’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say a word as I leave. No words will make right the years that he turned a blind eye.
After I’ve collected my belongings from a very wary-looking Sonja, I jump in the truck, desperate for a shower and bed, but instead I find myself in the Reef’s parking lot, staring up at the looming pub as the waves crash on the shore behind me. The front door has been boarded up. Trev must be recovering at Sal’s place because it looks as though no one has been back here since the incident. Well, no one but the perpetrators that is. Spray painted in big red letters across the boarded up doors is the word FAG.
Finding North Page 17