When Death Frees the Devil

by L. J. Hayward

  Jack caught her wrists gently. “Is okay. We have people with him. If there was any danger to him, they would have told me. He’s fine.”

  Meera studied his eyes, looking for a lie or omission. Seemingly satisfied, she let him go. “At least you thought of him.”

  That fucking hurt. “Do you think I’m that horrible a person?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped, then softer, “It’s just that you’ve missed too many visits. He’d remember you more if you saw him more often.”

  It didn’t exactly mollify his feelings, but in an effort at not reducing this to a screaming match, Jack said, “Once you pair are safe, I’ll go see him.”

  “Good. So who did you manage to piss off then? Our own government?”

  “Jesus.” It slipped out before Jack could swallow the sudden surge of irritation. “No. Not our own government. Not any government. I don’t know who they are but they’re nasty and big and they have my—” He managed to stop himself but Meera didn’t miss it.

  “They have your what? Nuts in a vice? Is that worth your niece’s life, Jack?”

  “No, it’s not,” Jack ground out.

  “Then what is? What did you do that pissed them off? Why is my daughter in danger?”

  “Meera, I can’t talk about this. We have to get you and Mati ready to go. We’ll put you in a safe house until this is all over. You should start packing.”

  “A safe house? Where?”

  “I don’t know. It’s best I don’t know. But not here.”

  “Why is it best you don’t know?” Mati asked from the doorway.

  They both spun. The young woman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching them intently.

  “Are you not coming with us?” Mati asked.

  “No,” Jack admitted. “I have to keep looking for . . . for the ones who did this.”

  “Who’s going to keep us safe?”

  Mati’s indignant question warmed Jack’s heart. Half an hour ago he hadn’t suspected she might end up on his side in this particular family argument.

  “Another team like the one here today will be with you,” he assured her. “They’re the best bodyguards in the game. Go pack some essentials, Mati. If you forget anything, we’ll be able to get it for you.”

  Meera huffed but pulled a medium sized suitcase out of the wardrobe.

  Mati frowned. “What about Tate?”

  Suitcase dropping, Meera whirled around and planted her fists on her hips. “That’s who you were with today? I told you you weren’t allowed to associate with that boy anymore.”

  “You don’t know him. And he’s in the hospital because we came off the—” She cut herself off as she realised the quicksand she’d walked into. “Because of the crazy lady who tried to kill us.”

  “You were on that bloody bike again.”

  “We were fine until he showed up and things got scary.” Mati waved at Jack.

  Great. Familial solidarity didn’t last long, apparently.

  “And we had helmets,” she finished triumphantly.

  Meera didn’t buy it. “I don’t care if you had full body armour. I told you not to get on that bike with him again. No phone, no Netflix, no Tate, no soccer, no music, no—”

  “Life! Jesus, mum, I can’t miss practice. They need me for the band and I’m the best striker on the team.”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you ditched school to go joyriding with that delinquent.”

  Jack snorted under his breath, but it caught Mati’s attention and she screwed her nose up at him.

  “Look,” he said before either mother or daughter could launch another barrage. “Whether or not you’re allowed to do all those things the fact is, you won’t be able to do them. You’ll be in a safe house for at least a couple of weeks, maybe longer. They’ll probably have Netflix but not the rest of it.”

  Mati’s jaw almost hit the floor.

  “What about school?” Meera demanded. “She needs to go to school.”

  “That will be taken care of. We’ll provide tutors and class work for her.”

  Mati glared from one of them to the other.

  Meera pointed out the door. “Go pack, Mati. Now.”

  The girl huffed and stalked out.

  “She’s just like you,” Jack and Meera muttered at the same time.

  They gaped at each other for a moment, then Meera shook her head and started pulling clothes from the wardrobe.

  “Anything I can help with?” Jack asked carefully.

  “No. You’ve done enough.” Meera dumped an armful of tops into the suitcase, took a deep breath and went to the drawers.

  “Thank you for not fighting me on the safe house. It really is for the best.”

  “Well, I would fight you on it except that there’s Mati. You put her in danger, you can keep her safe now. It’s the least you could do.”

  And she twisted the knife.

  “I know,” he whispered. “Meera, I really am—”

  “I know you’re sorry, Jack. You’re always sorry. But you go off and do these things without thinking them through and someone else always pays for it. Do you know how much I hated it when Dad excused all your shit when we were kids? You were his precious son and could never do any wrong. No wonder you grew up thinking you can do whatever the hell you want and screw everyone else.”

  He knew better than to interrupt, even to defend their dad. Looking back on it now, Jack knew he and Meera had never had to compete for attention from either parent. It had been shared equally, but that hadn’t stopped their childish perceptions from skewing it in favour of the other over the littlest slight.

  Meera packed in stilted silence, her stiff shoulders a more familiar sight than that of the woman needing comfort and release against his chest. The tension was building again, that palpable tightness between them that always preceded an epic explosion. Meera’s thoughts were simmering and Jack was building walls to keep her barbs out. No wonder he instinctively shielded himself from even his best friends. Perhaps that was why Meera hadn’t ever settled down with anyone after Mati’s birth. Growing up with this sort of hostility hadn’t done either him or Meera any favours.

  “I met someone.”

  Jack hadn’t meant to say it, but the growing pressure in the room had forced it out.

  Meera paused in folding jeans. “What?”

  “His name’s Ethan. He’s . . . different. Good but not the sort of person I would have ever thought I’d end up with.”

  “Congrats, I suppose, but what does that have to do with any of this?”

  “He’s missing.”

  Jeans dropping into the suitcase, Meera faced him. “What?”

  “He disappeared early this morning. I don’t know where he went but I know it was because of the same people who sent that woman after you and Mati. Ethan left me clues, to let me know to come to for you. He’s gone and you’re safe because of him.”

  Meera stared for a moment longer, then spun around and kept packing, but not before Jack saw her expression twist with compassion. “You came for Mati and me instead of going after him?” Her voice was tightly controlled.

  “Yeah.”

  Neither of them spoke again while Meera finished up. When she was done, Jack helped her close the suitcase then hefted it off the bed for her. She watched as he headed for the bedroom door, then caught up and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Are you going after him now?” There was a tiny tremor in her words this time.

  “If I can find him.”

  Meera squeezed his arm. “You found Mati. You’ll find him.” Then she brushed past him and left the room, yelling at Mati to hurry up or be left behind.

  While Meera and Mati were transported to their safe house, Jack returned to Sydney. This drive wasn’t as wild as the previous one, only exceeding the speed limit when Jack’s thoughts wandered too far from reining in the powerful car.

  After checking in with Lewis and being assured his presence was
n’t vital at the Office right then, Jack drove right through the centre of Sydney and into Forestville. It was a small Northern Beaches suburb, quiet, shady, and friendly. It was the sort of place his parents had always spoken about moving to when he was a kid. Family orientated but conveniently close enough to inner Sydney and the coast to not feel cut off from the lifestyle of the city. They’d never made the move as a family. After Usha’s death, Chris had found an old soldier’s cottage in need of renovation in Forestville and set to working through his grief. When his early onset dementia had forced his relocation to assisted living, then a nursing home, Jack had considered giving up his Leichhardt apartment to live in the cottage and finish what Dad had started. Before he could make a firm decision though, he’d been sent overseas on the mission that forever changed his career and life. Believing him dead, Meera had sold the cottage.

  Jack drove down the street he’d once thought he’d live on and past the allotment where the cottage had stood. The new owners had knocked down the 1960s era house and built a huge modern home. Not even that much of his father’s dreams remained.

  A couple of corners later and he pulled into the nursing home carpark. Getting out of Victoria, Jack took a deep breath and headed inside. The usually sparsely decorated foyer was all but drowning in Christmas cheer. Green, red, gold and silver tinsel had been strung around the walls and across the ceiling. Brightly coloured baubles hung off every pamphlet rack and picture frame. In the corner was a plastic tree, nearly overwhelmed with a glittering plethora of homemade ornaments, and crowned with a large, slightly off-kilter angel. An elderly woman and a child of five or six stood before the tree, trying to find a free spot to hang a painted Styrofoam ball. In a chair in the waiting area, a man Jack recognised from the Office was reading a magazine. They met gazes briefly but that was the only acknowledgement needed. Jack’s dad was being watched over, that was all that mattered. One concern settled, Jack let the others crowd in.

  These visits on his birthday were important. Special but difficult. With it being so close to Christmas, it had been easy for people to overlook Jack’s birthday. They’d combined presents and sung Happy Birthday while cutting a Christmas cake. Except for Dad. His father had always made sure Jack had something special just for him on his birthday. Something separate from the mad scramble to see friends, to make sure the Indian half of the family got their gifts, or preparations to travel to Kerala. The least Jack could do now was make sure his dad knew, in some way, how special that had been.

  Jack went to reception and signed in.

  Ngaire, a familiar face at the desk, noted him and scooted her chair closer, smiling. “Nishant, it’s been a while.”

  “I know. Work’s been extra busy.” While Jack tried to visit as often as he could, time and circumstance didn’t always allow it. And he didn’t like showing up while he was visibly injured. Dad probably wouldn’t notice, but Jack would do anything to keep his father from getting distressed. “How’s he been?”

  “Good,” the Maori woman assured him. “A bit quiet but otherwise fine.” She hesitated, then added gently, “Your sister was here a couple of days ago.”

  Jack nodded.

  This was how Meera had known Jack hadn’t been to see Dad lately. Ngaire had been working in the home since they’d admitted Chris and had witnessed firsthand the relationship between brother and sister. Since then, they only ever came in separately, keeping track of each other’s visits through Ngaire.

  “Your dad’s in the garden today,” she told him. “He wanted to see the sky.”

  Giving her his thanks, Jack went out to the garden. Another asset was here, walking casually around the garden beds. Jack nodded to the woman and she slipped away, giving him some privacy.

  Chris Reardon sat on a bench in the aromatic section. His once square shoulders were curled in with weariness, head bobbing on a neck that looked thinner than Jack remembered. Hair still more blond than grey receded across his head and was scattered across his jaw. Either he hadn’t bothered shaving that morning or he’d gotten distracted halfway through the process, which happened more and more often lately. A book rested on the seat beside him, open and face down, the spine cracked.

  Jack’s steps faltered. Once, Dad would never have treated a book that way. He’d always been shoving bookmarks in Jack and Meera’s books when they were younger. Forcing himself onwards, Jack plucked a spring of lavender from a plant and then sat next to his dad.

  “Hello, Dad.” He kept his tone pleasant.

  Dad frowned at him, lines deepening around his mouth as he watched Jack turn the book over and use the lavender as a bookmark. “That’s my book.”

  “I know.” Jack set it back where he found it and smoothed down the cover. Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. One of Dad’s favourites. “Someone used to get up me for not using bookmarks when I was a kid, and now it’s a habit.”

  His father picked up the book and firmly set it down on his other side. “It’s my book.” That done, he focused on the mint in the garden bed in front of them.

  There had been no recognition in Dad’s eyes when he looked at Jack. Not even a vague questioning, as if maybe he thought this Indian man was slightly familiar. Dad had a better chance of recognising Meera, but then he hadn’t believed she was dead before he started losing his cognition.

  “It’s a good book.” Jack’s voice broke a little bit, but he kept his tone light. “I know someone who probably likes it as much as you do. I don’t know for sure if he’s read it, but anything that’s got over the top action and situations appeals to him.”

  Dad crossed his arms and huffed a resigned breath. At least he wasn’t telling Jack to leave him alone or giving him an order for lunch.

  “He’s a good man, Dad. Not exactly who either of us probably ever saw me ending up with, but he’s it. The one for me. Like mum was your one. It took a bit of work, but we’re living together at last.” At least, he hoped they still were. “You wouldn’t believe the place we’re in. Inner city, penthouse, private lift. It’s pretty swish.”

  Jack told his dad about Ethan, his humour and his cars and love of all animals. Talking about him helped Jack believe Ethan would reappear before the end of the day, with a story of fighting Cabal henchmen and winning decisively—just like James Bond. Dad occasionally looked at him, mostly with a frown, and once with his lips parted like he was going to speak but didn’t. Instead, he picked up his book and took out the lavender sprig, twisting it between his fingers.

  “Usha planted lavender,” Dad suddenly said, talking over Jack’s description of Ethan racing on the Gold Coast.

  Stumbling to a halt, Jack stared at him. “She did.” He spoke carefully, unwilling to disrupt his dad’s thoughts.

  “It didn’t grow well. The soil wasn’t right.”

  “She kept trying though.”

  Dad looked up at him. “Raja?”

  Heart clenching in cautious anticipation, Jack shook his head. “Dad, I’m Jack. Your son. Raja is my uncle.”

  “You look like Raja.” He touched Jack’s face with the hand holding the lavender. Dry fingertips and soft flowers brushed across his cheek.

  “I do, a bit.”

  “Are you Raja’s boy?”

  “No. Raja doesn’t have any kids. I’m your son, Dad.”

  The hand fell away and Jack caught it in his own, holding on while even this small part of his father was present.

  Dad looked at his pale hand between Jack’s brown ones. “I don’t have a son.”

  “You do. It’s me, Dad. Jack.”

  With a frustrated grunt, his father pulled his hand free and shifted along the bench a bit. The lavender was left between Jack’s palms. He concentrated on straightening out the sprig, instead of throwing himself at his father, pleading for recognition and love and comfort. Ethan was gone, Meera and Mati taken away for their safety, and Jack needed someone right then to tell him it would be okay. That he wasn’t alone.

  When he could look up again witho
ut crying, Dad had opened his book and was reading, moving a finger across the page. He kept tracing the same line over and over.

  Jack settled back, letting silence fall. As long as his dad wasn’t yelling at him to go away, then it was a good visit. Even if Jack had to keep swallowing his sadness so it wouldn’t escape and ruin the peace.

  Eventually, one of the staff came and told them it was time for afternoon tea. Dad got up and went inside without acknowledging Jack. Following, Jack watched his father for signs of weakness. Despite his bowed shoulders, Dad still moved easily enough and for a moment, Jack was a kid again, trotting to keep up with his dad’s long strides, devotedly trailing after the most important person in his life.

  Jack sat and had a couple of biscuits and a glass of juice with Dad. Chris told him how he didn’t like pineapple juice and refused to drink it, even after Jack told him it was apple. Things began to deteriorate after that. Jack was stealing his bikkies. The woman across from them was watering down the juice. The cake was poisoned. Jack had taken his book and wouldn’t give it back.

  While a couple of the staff coaxed Dad into calming down and returning to his room, Jack fetched the forgotten book from the garden. He slipped a few new sprigs of lavender between the pages and set it on the bedside table in his father’s room. Dad was sulking in a chair by the window and Jack knew that if he stayed, he would upset his father more.

  In the doorway, he stopped and whispered, “I love you, Dad,” then left.

  He sat in Victoria in the carpark for small while, deep-breathing through the pain. It had been a good visit, but that only meant he wasn’t too wrecked to drive at all.

  By the time he reached the Neville Crawley Building, he’d locked away the visit and walked onto the eighth floor dry eyed, calm and more than ready to get back to work.

  Lydia was waiting for him by the stairwell door and fell into step beside him. “How’s your sister and niece?”

  “On their way into protection at last. Thank you for keeping Meera centred through it all. I know she can be difficult.”

  She squeezed his arm gently. “Family trait. But it’s understandable. She was panicked about her daughter, that’s all. I’m glad it all worked out okay.”