by S. J. Morgan
That shuts her up. She sits on my bed, watching me as I find a million different ways to avoid her.
‘So maybe they used you to get Sindy out here,’ she says.
I feel my eyelid twitch as she continues to watch me. It’s a habit that plagues me when I’m dog-tired. My eye develops its own little pulse and I feel it beating away like there’s a moth caught under the lid.
I pick up clothes and stuff them back into drawers just for something to do; something to help me get rid of this excess energy I can feel building up in my body.
I slam another drawer and manage to knock over my roll-on deodorant.
Daniella comes up to me and holds me gently by the arms, forcing me to be still.
‘I’m just wary of Sindy,’ she says, pulling me into a hug. ‘I’m suspicious of her part in all this.’
I won’t tell her what Sindy said to me before that shot was fired. It doesn’t matter. It’s done. She’ll have said whatever Minto wanted to hear. It doesn’t make it true.
After all, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Sindy it’s that you can’t trust a thing she says: and that even extends to her lies.
Chapter 53
The others seem to be coaxing me out of my room little by little, as if they hope I won’t notice. Yesterday it was the hotel lobby; today it’s early evening at the rooftop bar.
‘It would be a shame not to see this before we go,’ Mum says, as we stand on the balcony, taking in the full Sydney panorama. ‘Though maybe you and Daniella should go to Circular Quay: see the Opera House up close before we leave.’
There have been a lot of ‘before we leave’ comments since yesterday. It’s as if they need to keep prodding me with it; reminding me that, yes, it’s decided, we’re moving on soon. What they don’t realise is that, much as I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be anywhere else either.
I turn away from the view and focus on the beers behind the bar. ‘I’m not really up for the whole tourist thing, Mum,’ I say.
‘No, of course not.’
She glances at Dad, who in turn glances at Daniella. We’re almost the full set but Sindy has chosen the ensuite spa bath over a cocktail with us.
‘Why don’t we go and sit down?’ Dad says. ‘There’s a table over there.’
We squeeze past the after-work drinkers at the bar and sit at the black vinyl corner booth, nursing our drinks. I spot another look pass between them.
‘Have you listened to the news today?’ Mum says.
I shake my head. I can’t even remember when I last heard what was happening in the rest of the world.
‘They’ve found the motorbike,’ Dad says quietly, leaning across the table.
I look between them all, trying to work out what they want from me. It’s obvious it would be found, and I’m just grateful for the delay we’ve had.
Daniella also talks in whispers: ‘And the guns. They’ve found those too.’
Dad centres his glass on his beermat. ‘They’ve reported nothing about a shooting, though. We don’t even know if the police have found the bo…’
‘They won’t have,’ I say. ‘Minto’s lot will have cleaned up the clubhouse. The last thing they’d want is him baking in the sun and sending the law sniffing round. It’s not like the gang’s interested in justice, is it? Only revenge.’
These are the topics that form our family discussions now.
‘Well, we think we should leave,’ Mum says. ‘If you’re well enough to travel, that is. We should get a flight home. Go before there are any –’
‘Home?’ The word nearly strangles me, and the mad flickering starts in my eye again. ‘I can’t go home.’
‘But…’
‘None of us can go home.’
They swap looks, incredulous, yet I can’t believe we’re even having this debate.
‘You think we can just go back to our old lives?’ I say. ‘The gang, the clubhouse: it’s all still there, exactly where Minto left it. The only thing that’s changed is he isn’t coming back. And their drums are going to be beating loud and pretty furious about that.’
Mum and Dad are floored by the news. Daniella though, she’s keeping her eyes from me, chewing that bottom lip of hers. Her cogs have been turning, I can tell. She knows.
Mum’s voice is shaky. ‘Where would we go, love? I don’t understand. We can’t just up and leave our home.’
She looks around at each of us in turn, trying to gauge something from our expressions. Dad looks at me, then at Daniella. He slides closer to Mum and puts an arm around her. ‘We’ve already up and left,’ he says. ‘Alexander’s right. They’ve been to the house before; they’d come again. How would we ever feel safe?’
The truth sits there, festering, between us all.
‘But where would we stay?’ Mum furrows her brow. ‘Perhaps Sheila and Roy down the road would…’
‘Mum!’ I speak more sharply than I mean to, but the discussion is shredding my insides. ‘We can’t go back to Cardiff. Maybe not even to Wales. We need to go somewhere else altogether. Somewhere that... somewhere we don’t even know yet.’
‘And soon,’ Dad says. ‘Now they’ve found the bike, we can’t risk staying here either.’
We pick up our drinks as we sit thinking about it; each of us, no doubt, trying to reimagine our lives.
‘Perhaps Dad and I should go and see the travel agent first thing,’ Mum says, ‘book a departure for as soon as we can. Could you be ready straight away?’
On a practical level, I know I could be ready in ten minutes. On an emotional one, maybe never.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Why not?’
I sense relief from Mum and Dad at a decision having been made but I can feel Daniella looking at me, like I’ve forgotten something. ‘And Sindy?’ she says, finally.
I know what she’s asking, but I plead ignorance. ‘What about her?’
‘Do we include her or not?’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum says, staring at Daniella. ‘Of course we include her. What, you think we should just leave her here?’
‘It’s just…if she stays here,’ Daniella says, ‘she could have a fresh start, find some work, be independent.’
‘But she doesn’t know anyone,’ Dad says. ‘She’d be on her own.’
Daniella keeps her tone casual. ‘She could easily find work. That’s what she’d decided to do in Queensland, wasn’t it, Alec? She could start again. Whereas, if she stays with us...’she shrugs and looks away. ‘Who knows how things would end up for her.’
They look at me and I know they’re all waiting for me to make the decision, the final judgement. They’ve left it till now, though: now, when we’re about to confirm flights. The very last minute.
I’m at a loss. I don’t trust Sindy. But then, I trust my instincts less. It’s a mental coin-toss. Eeny meeny miney mo. Mum watches me with hope; Daniella is shaking her head.
My brain says one thing, my mouth says another: ‘She’ll come with us.’
Chapter 54
On Daniella’s insistence, we haven’t told Sindy of our revised plans. As far as she’s concerned, we’re still headed for Cardiff; back in time for Christmas then ‘Top of the Pops’ on the telly after a turkey dinner. Mum feels bad about it, but I persuade her that Sindy’ll be twice as excited when she finds out that we’re going somewhere totally new.
We meet in the corridor just before two a.m. Dad and I lug cases to the lift while Mum, Sindy and Daniella follow behind. Sindy’s quiet, unhappy and I wonder, yet again, if I’ve made the right decision about her coming with us. She keeps checking that stupid pink watch of hers, and I don’t realise why until Mum notices too. ‘You booked the taxi for the right time, I hope,’ she says.
I slow down and stare at Mum. ‘She booked the cab?’
Ever since we got here, Sindy’s put herself in charge of all phone communications: room service, laundry requests, extra towel orders – but when so much rests on this particular call, surely someone e
lse should’ve made it.
‘I’m quite capable,’ Sindy huffs, snatching her shiny new suitcase off me. ‘I’m not an idiot, Alec.’
‘No one thinks that, love.’ Mum purses her lips at me but Sindy’s already off down the corridor, trying to be first to the lift.
‘Don’t worry,’ Daniella says into my ear. ‘I heard Sindy make the call. She said all that she needed to. Even remembered to tell them there are five of us.’
And, sure enough, when we get outside, the white minicab van is there waiting; its doors open, ready for us and our luggage. The driver’s behind the wheel, filling in a log sheet: he’s smartly dressed in a suit and a chauffeur’s hat. He says good morning and helps the others in, while I put the cases on the long seat at the back.
Sindy’s bagged herself the comfiest spot at the front, while the rest of us are left to buckle into the seats behind.
‘Sydney Airport, please, driver,’ she says. ‘International terminal.’
The chauffeur plays along: he touches his cap and puts on his indicator.
As we drive through the city, it occurs to me that, despite having been here for nearly two weeks, I never really got to see Sydney. Each glimpse I had was fleeting and from a distance. And I know I won’t be coming back again.
I rest my head against the window and look out at the city streets. The shops are aglow with festive displays and Christmas countdown calendars. Ten days till Christmas, nine, eight. They drum home the fact that time has moved on in everyone’s lives except mine.
I have to crouch to see past the driver and take in the view up ahead. A sign says we’re about to enter the harbour tunnel. Seems I’m never going to get a close-up of the Opera House. I really have given Sydney the cold shoulder.
Daniella’s on the double seat with me. She’s dozing: her arms folded, eyes closed, her head lolling this way and that. On her lap is her black handbag; the long shoulder strap snaking down and beating a rhythm against her leg.
Mum and Dad are behind us on the other side of the van. I look around to see if they’ve nodded off too, but Dad’s using a torch to study a printed sheet. He hands the page to Mum and when I see the pained look on her face, I guess it must be the hotel bill. No doubt Sindy’s been calling that pricy weather line number again, and who knows what else. Mum gives the torch back to Dad then puts the bill with the Sydney map on her lap.
When we emerge from the tunnel, it seems even darker than before. It’s hard to see where we are but I haven’t spotted any airport signs. As my eyes adjust, I realise we’re in a quieter area now, more residential. There’s space and fancy gardens either side of us, trees and parklands.
I rest my eyes, but my jaw stays tense: that’s its default setting these days. Makes me realise how desperate I am to leave Australia. Red dust, red blood; that’s the only holiday snap that I’ll be taking with me in my head. Home, away: there’s nowhere I want to be, and I wonder if there’s any corner of this whole fucking earth left for me to feel safe again.
I sit forward, rest my elbows on my knees. We stop at traffic lights and a car waits behind us. Its headlights illuminate the cab so I can see under the driver’s seat in front of me. There’s a crushed sugar packet sitting on an oil-stained blanket and, next to them, an ancient-looking canvas tool bag. The van could do with a decent clean; there are crumbs on the carpet and scuff marks on the vinyl seats.
When we turn onto a narrower road, it’s not what I’m expecting. My neck stiffens and my gaze darts into the darkness. I want to see planes in the sky; a control tower, long-stay car parks, something to soothe my sparking nerves.
I hear Mum snore gently. As she shifts position, the papers slide from her lap and I reach under Daniella’s leg to retrieve them.
‘Have a look to see how much further it is,’ Dad whispers, passing me his torch.
I unfold the map, but I can’t ignore the hotel bill that’s on top of it. It shows an eye-popping total. Phone calls from Sindy’s room make up most of the ‘extras’ list. Those pre-recorded info lines feature strongly but when I look more closely, I see there’s a single local number that appears again and again.
‘How far d’you reckon?’ Dad says to me, leaning over my shoulder. ‘We need to be there at least three hours before take-off. Should be fine. We allowed plenty of time.’
I stare down as the digits blur and marble on the sheet. ‘Not sure yet, Dad.’
It’s the same phone number all the way through. Calls made to it once a day, at least. Sometimes twice, three times. And the last one was yesterday at seven –which was the time Sindy was meant to be calling City Airport Cabs for this taxi we’re all sitting in.
A wave of nausea sloshes through my stomach.
I look up from the sheet to try and catch my breath.
‘Let me have a look at that map,’ Dad says, removing the torch and sheets from me.
There’s a long pause and I feel my heartrate ramp up. When Dad speaks quietly into my ear, I can pretty well lip-synch his words: ‘I think we might be going the wrong way.’
My breath comes out in shallow wisps. I hear Dad turn the map this way and that.
As I face forward, I sense a pair of eyes watching me in the rear-view mirror.
I choose not to see them.
Instead, I fix my eyes on the back of the driver’s head. He’s taken off his cap now, and I study the grey-brown strands of hair, the sprinkling of dandruff, the chafing behind the ears. But then, without meaning to, I let my eyes trail down. Down, down, to a thin gold chain around a scrawny sunburnt neck.
Chapter 55
There’s no safe passage. He has us all in one convenient package; sourced, processed and ready-to-be-delivered. We couldn’t have made it easier for him if we’d tried. He’s the child-catcher with the lollipops and we’ve just climbed into his cage.
My breathing’s out of whack; I feel sick. We turn corner after corner and the streets become narrower. I don’t even care what happens to me, but this is my family. They don’t deserve this.
Daniella’s awake now, staring drowsily out of the window. I slide my hand over to hers. She’ll feel its heat, its tremor, but I hope she says nothing.
In the mirror, our driver is keeping his beady eyes on me. On all of us. He’ll be studying every blink, every gesture, waiting for that exquisite jolt of realisation.
I keep my gaze on the road while I trace a finger along the back of Daniella’s hand. I spell out each letter slowly, deliberately: I L Y. I never tell her that; she knows I never tell her.
She watches the movement of my finger and becomes very still.
The minute she looks at me, he’ll see it.
‘Alec?’ she whispers. Her eyes stay down, she barely moves her lips. ‘What’s wrong?’
I take her hand again and draw an arrow pointing forward.
Her eyes widen and she snaps up her head. In that same moment, I launch myself forward. With one arm around his neck, I grab the gold chain and wrench it around my fist, pulling it as hard as I can bear. It grinds and crunches into my flesh and I hope it’s eating deep into his. The van’s swerving and squealing; we brake, accelerate as his feet stab wildly at the pedals.
There’s screaming, shouting as we bump and jostle close to the trees. Daniella’s doing her best to help me; she’s grabbing fistfuls of hair, fighting to keep his head back. Sindy is trying to steady the wheel but she’s battling with me too. ‘We’re gonna crash, Alec!’ she shrieks. ‘Get off him!’ She’s clawing at me with her free hand, at my eyes, my face, my mouth. Behind us, Dad’s shielding Mum from the suitcases and bags slamming around in the back. There’s a jolting thump as we leave the road and the van rocks and tilts. I see Sindy’s dad stamp on the pedals and, as soon as he finds the brake, we’re all thrown forward. He’s wrenched from my grasp. The engine stalls and in that split second, he’s shoved open his door. ‘Under your seat!’ he yells back at Sindy.
I throw my door open and already have a foot on the ground when his hand
catches my hair. He yanks me backwards.
‘Stay there, ya little fucker!’ There’s no avoiding those eyes now. The headlights pick them out; they’re gun-metal grey, addled with rage. There’s a trickle of blood on his neck and an angry wheal where the gold chain has torn into his skin.
He holds a knife to my face and I hear the others stumbling from the far side of the van. Mum’s making a strange sobbing sound and that’s when I spot Sindy bringing up the rear. She has a handgun and it’s pressed to the back of Dad’s head.
We’re jabbed forward, so we’re in amongst the trees; it feels like we’re miles from anywhere.
Sindy’s dad barks at us to turn towards him. It means we’re facing the glare of the headlights. We’re placed in a neat row, lined up for Sindy’s firing squad of one. I stand squinting, blinking; desperate not to lose that final sliver of vision.
Suddenly, I’m pulled away from the others, just a foot or two, but enough to let me know I’m in for special treatment. Sindy doesn’t move; she remains on guard, pointing her gun towards the harmless huddle of people who represent everything I have in the world. I can’t bear for them to feel what I’m feeling right now.
My wrist is wrenched, hard, up to my shoulder blade and I let out a yell. Dad yells too; a raw, ugly sound that tells me my pain is his too.
A blade presses under my chin and Sindy’s dad brings his lips close to my ear, just as Minto liked to do. ‘You’ve been a thorn in my side for too fucking long.’
It’s like he’s flicked a switch in me: I start speaking quickly, spewing out words, offers, deals, anything to stop him doing what he wants to do. ‘Take Sindy with you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not a threat. None of us is a threat.’
‘I never said you were.’ He eases round to the front of me, the sharp point of his blade digging into the soft flesh beneath my chin. ‘I said you were a fucking thorn in my side.’
I watch the words fall from his lips. His jaw’s tight and he’s speaking through gritted teeth. With Minto, violence was entertainment, sport. For Sindy’s dad, though, it’s all emotion: it’s about revenge and hatred and white-hot fury.