Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  Chapter Fifteen

  Martin stood in the warm sunshine outside his childhood home, slightly on edge. The scene he had witnessed at the pad had shaken him. When he heard that cop say what he did, he wanted to smash him, stick a knife in his belly, and make him see what fear and survival was all about. That cop didn’t give a shit about Tama or what he had to deal with, all he saw was trash, someone to be swept up and dealt with so the ‘Normal’ people could sleep soundly, knowing that they were so much better than the likes of him.

  He had watched in awe as the police had moved in with vicious precision and violent force. Where was that effort when Tama was lying in the dirt with no head? There was no speed then, it seemed like they were just going through the motions, typical bloody coppers.

  The gate had been no match for the front-end loader driven by that black killer ant. He was not embarrassed that he had been crying. It had actually made him feel slightly better. He had stayed and watched what the police were doing; half hoping that he would see the two police officers Joseph had kidnapped come out with them. However, the face they had dragged out was bloodied and beaten and the distance had made it hard to tell at first who it was. The sight of the man struggling against his captors, as they tried to put him in a police car with his dreadlocks swaying violently, left little doubt in his mind. It was too late for those little piggies. They were gone. He was sure Baz Ropata would not be letting on where the rest of them were no matter what they did to him. The unwritten code was sacred to Baz, Martin knew he would never break or deviate from his chosen path. Do not speak to the cops, no matter what.

  He remembered the text from Joseph, saying he would kill Tama if he talked. Tama would never talk; he followed the rules as well. He may not have been as hard as Joseph or Baz but he still lived the same life, ran in the same circles, and breathed the same fetid air in the same stinking neighbourhood as everyone else. Martin found himself getting angry again, it brought back memories of Tama and how scared he had been before the police came for him.

  Tama did not have to die. Things could have been different. He thought of what he knew, and of what Baz had told him. He could end this if he wanted; he knew he had the power now.

  Fuck’em, he thought, let J man and his crew dig as big a hole as they wanted, big enough for all of them to fall into. Fuck the police as well, what have they ever done for the likes of him, they had not even been able to protect Tama.

  Martin looked at the closed door at the end of the short path, a path he had walked up and down all his life, a path that for many years had been one of fear.

  He knew his mother would not be home yet, but that was good; he did not have the words for goodbye. Although they had not been close, in the last few years, she was still his mother and he was not sure whether he would be able to walk away if she asked him not to.

  He would be there though, the man who had shaped his young life from innocent wonder, a child's courage to face the world and all it had, into an ashamed frightened existence of self-doubt and hatred, one man's sickness touching him and others and infecting them all beyond cure.

  He hated that man, for making him hate himself.

  I will just have to be quiet, he thought, he is probably passed out on the couch anyway, the fucking loser.

  Another thought flashed through his mind, he was glad at that moment he did not have the shotgun with him; but then would he actually be able to pull the trigger. Would his hatred have been strong enough?

  Either way he needed to retrieve his money, there was nothing without the money, no new existence. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the path, opened the front door and stepped inside.

  "In here Star" The voice was quiet, almost seductive, instantly taking him back all those years. He was seven years old again, too young to know any better, too young.

  The strength went from his legs and the hollow self-hatred returned to his stomach. He had only ever called him Star when he wanted him…, when it was time.

  "I said in here Star" the voice was more urgent, more forceful, Martin sensed a slight desperation in the tone. He had not been in this place for years now and he did not quite know how to respond. Surely the sick pervert did not think he was going to get away with it, he was to physically able to be taken advantage of now. He would not let it happen, not again.

  "Star…? Get the fuck in here".

  Stepping into the open doorway that led from the hallway to the lounge room, he saw him sitting there in his chair. Dirty painful memories came flooding back, memories of the filthy white singlet that sat above his nakedness while he had knelt at the foot of the chair, holding the shaft in his small fists to stop it going too far in and choking him, tears mixing with saliva and bile as he had struggled to comprehend his reality.

  The sight before him today though made him take a backwards step when he realised what he was actually looking at, in the place where he would have found naked vile torment all those years ago sat the shotgun.

  A small sad smile on his stepfather's lips played out as he looked at Martin standing in the doorframe. He had one hand on the stock, thumb over the top and forefinger inside the trigger guard. The other hand was absently stroking the twin barrels.

  “I watched you the other morning”, he said, “I saw you hiding that bag under the tree, it didn’t take much to figure out what was in it when I saw the news.”

  "It was you..., you killed him didn't you" Martin could not quite understand why this was happening. "What the fuck did he ever do to you? You fucking pervert. It should be the other way around; it's you who should be dead, not Tama."

  His stepfather nodded his head slowly as if agreeing with Martin's angry outburst. The gun did not move from his lap.

  "It was easy enough, Tama was dumb, a threat. I just sent a text telling him he was needed for a job and he came right to me; he would have done that with the police eventually. It had to be that way..., to protect you...," He looked at the floor as he spoke, "To protect your mother...," He drew in a deep breath as if admitting something to himself, "To protect me."

  He did not want any explanations; there would never be a good enough reason to shoot his friend. He looked at his stepfather, the expression on his face had not changed, it was as if he just felt a need to explain and that was all. He looked pathetic sitting there with the gun on his lap.

  Martin felt no fear from the shotgun; but he hated the way he was feeling now, and the gun offered a way out. He had not contemplated this before, but like his innocence, someone else would make this choice for him. Inside his head at that moment he was a seven years old again, full of shame and disgust. The realisation that he would never be free of the memories hit him like a sledgehammer, but this time he was old enough to know better. He had spent his life living with a distorted view of the world, trying to keep up the pretence of being normal in the chaos of other people's lives and he was tired, too tired to play any games.

  "Fuck you Bill Patterson, do what you have to do", it was the first time he had spoken his name since his childhood, purging something from his memory. "I'm fucked in the head anyway thanks to you, you took my life from me then, so it won't make a hell of a lot of difference now."

  His stepfather remained sitting but he saw his body tense, the knuckles on his hands went white. “You’re more like your father than you know Martin… that’s why I have to do this. It would have happened sooner or later”.

  Martin saw the shotgun rising up off his stepfather’s lap, a sad faraway look in his eyes, just as a child lost.

  “I’m sorry, I thought I could fix it… but I was wrong”

  The twin barrels of the shotgun swung in Martins direction and he braced himself for the pain, but at the same time, craving the oblivion it offered.

  “I’m just a sick man…, please forgive me”.

  His stepfather moved the barrels past where Martin was standing and angled them upwards, the shortened length making it easy to tuck them neatly under his own chin
.

  Looking directly at Martin, a small tear running down his cheek, he pulled the trigger.

  Martin just stood there in the midst of the chaos, as the noise of the blast echoed around the room and then died out to a muffled ringing in his ears. He crouched down against the wall staring at the mess before him, he could almost see the sickness soaking into the threadbare carpet as the blood pooled around his feet. He began to cry, tears of relief sliding down his cheeks, and suddenly he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders as he watched his stepfather’s body twitch and shudder as the last of his nerves died and became still.

  He closed his eyes in search of the new world he was to inhabit.