Something passed across her face, the same way that a southerly storm sometimes sweeps across the coast on a warm summer’s day.
‘What’s wrong, Mrs Havilland?’ I said.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Imogen appeared then.
As soon as she saw her mother, she moved into action.
‘It’s okay, Dom,’ she said, taking her mum by the hand. ‘I’ll meet you upstairs, okay?’
It took her quite a while, maybe twenty minutes, to arrive, during which time I’d had a chance to check out some of the research she had done, all the newspaper clippings, the photos, the lists of names.
‘Is your mum okay?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ said Imogen, which is probably not what you expect somebody to say to a question like that. Mostly people just tell you rubbish, in order that you don’t feel bad. Not Imogen, however. Or not this Imogen – the Imogen my Imogen seemed to have become while I’d been busy with The Debt. ‘But I gave her a shot of valium and she’s lying down now.’
‘You gave her a shot?’ I said, holding an imaginary hypodermic.
Imogen nodded. ‘Nothing like a shot.’
It was probably time to change the subject.
‘It’s incredible, what you’ve done,’ I said, indicating the papers spread throughout her room.
Imogen didn’t seem to be in the mood for chitchat, however.
‘Are you sure this person is your father?’ she said, pointing to the figure with the hidden face in the election photo.
This was a bit strange coming from somebody who had accused my father of killing her father, but I knew where she was coming from: there wasn’t much of his face visible.
‘I’m sure,’ I said, and then I added, ‘So Tristan’s not coming tonight?’
‘Not tonight,’ she said, which immediately made me think that perhaps he’d been here last night and would be here tomorrow night. ‘How can you be so sure it’s him?’ she said.
‘It looks like him,’ I said, but I could tell from her face that this wasn’t enough for Imogen.
If I left it at that she would never truly believe that my dad was there on the stage the night Graham Havilland celebrated his election victory. The night he disappeared forever from the face of the earth.
I could feel the weight of the flashdrive in my pocket.
My mind was a flurry of thoughts coming in from every direction, like surf in a storm. Poor Mrs Havilland. Tristan and his putrid sporting analogy. Thoughts colliding. Thoughts colluding. Imogen would never know.
My hand reached in, felt the flashdrive. There was nothing extraordinary about it. Capacity 2 GB. Purchased at Woolworths. Just like millions of flashdrives around the world. But I knew that what was on it could change our lives, send us both spinning off into different directions.
‘I just can’t find any record of your dad being there,’ said Imogen. ‘I mean, it doesn’t make sense that he would be – like you say, he’s always been so anti-Labor.’
I brought out the flashdrive. Held it out to Imogen.
She looked at it sitting there on my palm, and hesitated.
Did she know its power, too? Did she know it could send us spinning off in different directions?
She looked at me, her eyes latching onto mine. Then she dropped her gaze, taking in the flashdrive. And then it was like she couldn’t stand it any longer. She grabbed the flashdrive and plugged it into her laptop.
There was only one document on it, a scan of the 1999 membership list.
She read it slowly, and then reread it. ‘Your father was a member of the Gold Coast Labor Party.’
I nodded.
‘He was there the night my dad disappeared?’
I nodded, but I felt I had to defend him.
‘So were a lot of people,’ I said.
Imogen thought about this for a while.
‘But why have they gone to so much trouble to erase his name from the records?’ she said.
She had a good point, but I had a good response. ‘He was probably embarrassed, you know. Given how much he hates the Labor Party now. Like when I first went to high school, I actually joined the gamers’ club for about a second.’
Imogen smiled at that, but it was short-lived. She was almost immediately back into hyper-serious mode. ‘So where did you get this from?’
I thought of all the files I had on my hard disk at home, all the files I’d hacked from the Gold Coast Labor Party’s mainframe. Who knew what else was there?
Again, that flurry of thoughts, colliding, colluding.
I thought of my dad tonight, what fun he’d been. This weekend he was probably going to buy a plane! How cool was that?
‘I just found it,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘Hey, I got to go, okay?’
Imogen gave me a hug and I left. But as I walked towards my house, a blaze of light – was every light in the house on? – I was feeling guilty. Family is family. Blood is thicker than water. All those clichés were so true.
I’d owed Imogen that file, but that was all I was going to give her.
When I got back to my room I went straight to the computer, straight to the directory where I’d downloaded the Labor Party files.
And I deleted every one that mentioned my father.
But I knew that wasn’t good enough, because a deleted file is easy to recover if you know what you’re doing. I downloaded a program from the net called Obliterate and I obliterated everything in that directory until there was not a single byte, a single bit, left on the hard disk.
Blood is a lot thicker than water.
WEDNESDAY
THE MEETING
The next day I was eating breakfast when my iPhone beeped: a text from an unknown number. All it said was will be in touch. Yes, it was about as anonymous as an anonymous text can be, but immediately I knew who it was from: the Zolton-Banders. Whatever, I thought. I’d already decided that they could work out how to give back their cursed treasure themselves.
And then my phone rang.
I checked the number; again it was Unknown.
Again I thought, Whatever, and put the phone down without answering. But it kept ringing and I couldn’t help myself – I answered it.
‘Dominic,’ said the robotic-sounding voice at the other end.
‘That’d be me,’ I said, my mouth full of muesli. ‘Who is this?’
‘We’d like you to come to a meeting,’ said Robo-voice.
We? I thought, but I didn’t say it – I had a feeling I was supposed to know who ‘we’ were.
‘Sure,’ I said in what I hoped was a confident-sounding voice. ‘When did you have in mind?’
‘Eleven o’clock this morning,’ said Robo-voice.
‘I’ve got school this morning,’ I said.
Nothing from the other end, and then, ‘Okay, let’s make it ten-thirty.’
‘But –’ I started, but then I bit my tongue because I realised that Robo-voice had made some sort of joke.
I also realised that ‘I’ve got school this morning’ was really no excuse at all, not for The Debt.
‘That would suit me,’ I said. ‘And where should I come?’
‘Sanctuary Cove Marina,’ said Robo-voice. ‘Pier Three.’
He hung up before I had the chance to answer any questions, like where on Pier Three?
‘We all ready?’ said Mom. ‘The mommy bus leaves in five minutes.’
What to do?
Feign sickness and then make my way to Sanctuary Cove from Halcyon Grove? Or go to school and then find my way from there?
‘Dom?’ said Mom. ‘You ready to leave?’
In the end I decided to go to school, to keep it as much like normal as possible. Coast Grammar prided itself on being the unwaggable school, but I’d already dealt with that a few times.
I rushed upstairs to get my Dummy’s Guide to Wagging Grammar, which was basically ClamTop and a change of clothes.
‘Dom!’ came Mom’s voice from downstairs.
I s
hoved all this stuff into a bag and hurried downstairs.
As we drove, both my siblings had their faces in their iPhones and Mom took a call on her hands-free. Because she did this so often, these conversations had become a sort of white noise to me, sound without meaning.
But today, for some reason, my brain was actually processing what she was saying.
‘Yes, Lee, I’ll look into that. I’m sure it’s just some electronic glitch. No, I realise how important that money is. Of course, I do. But there’s not much I can do.’
The call finished and Mom was straight into another one. This time the voice on the other end was more familiar to me. It was my dad’s.
It still contained that tinge of excitement I’d detected in the last few days. ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve had to hold off on that payment for a while. Hell, I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?’
‘Forgot to tell me?’ said Mom incredulously.
It was really weird to hear my parents talk about money, especially in this heated way, because they never did. We were rich – money wasn’t a problem – end of story!
The conversation continued, but I think Mom must’ve realised that I was listening because she steered the conversation away from the financial. But when Dad mentioned the light plane he was going to test this weekend she practically blew a gasket.
‘David, have you lost your grip on reality?’ she said. ‘There’s not going to be any light plane.’
Actually she used another word between ‘light’ and ‘plane’ and I’m sure you can guess which one. If it starts with f and ends with g you’re probably on the right track.
Dad hung up.
Later, he said the phone dropped out, but I knew, and Mom knew, he just hung up.
By that time we’d arrived at the school and I really needed to get out of that car full of friction.
‘Love ya, Mom,’ I said, cracking open the door and getting feet on footpath before Toby had even noticed that we’d arrived.
It was only as I watched the BMW wiggle its way into the traffic that I realised I’d left my Dummy’s Guide to Wagging Grammar inside.
‘Damn,’ I said. And then, ‘Double Damn.’ And if you believe that, you’re got a much cleaner mind than I do.
I really had no choice, so I joined the stream of students making for the front gates. Now I really did have a challenge: how to escape from school without my usual toolbox.
Ω Ω Ω
‘Mr Silvagni, did you hear what I said?’
Was that Mr Travers talking to me? I looked up from my desk, where I’d been scribbling on a pad, coming up with madder and madder plans to get out of here.
Feign sickness?
All that would happen then was that I’d end up in the maximum-security sickbay.
Pretend there was some emergency at home that required my presence?
Coast Grammar had that one covered as well – they’d fire off texts in all direction, making sure no one was telling porkies.
‘Mr Silvagni?’ repeated Mr Travers.
‘Yes, Mr Travers?’
‘Did you hear what I said about a new student joining our class this morning?’
‘No sir, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ I said, and as I did, once again it struck me how absolutely useless school was. Here I was playing stupid games with stupid teachers, while I could be doing something useful with my life, like working for Hound.
There was a rap on the door.
‘That must be him now,’ said Mr Travers. ‘Come in!’
It was the kid who used to have the neck brace who used to have the eye patch who seemed to be now free of any such medical encumbrances. And with him was Droopy Eye.
Was I surprised?
Actually, not as much as you’d think, because I’d already figured that he could only be here for one reason: the Silvagni–Strangio feud.
I figured that he’d do anything he could – and he was obviously an incredibly resourceful individual – to get his revenge. Getting shifted to my class was a pretty logical move, I probably would’ve done the same myself if I’d been a homicidal nutjob like him.
Mr Travers did his introduction thing. Droopy Eye’s real name was, apparently, Francesco Strangio. Actually I already knew this, I just preferred to call him by the initial name I had for him. And even though he was a bit older than the other students in this class it had been decided that class 10T was a good fit – Mr Travers’s words – for our Italian guest. Now it was time for our Italian guest to tell us something about himself.
He was surprisingly truthful. He told us he came from San Luca. He told us that San Luca was a small town high in the mountains of Calabria.
‘Do we have any questions for Francesco?’ Mr Travers asked.
Bevan Milne’s hand shot up.
‘Yes, Bevan?’
‘What’s your favourite pizza?’
‘Plain,’ said Francesco.
‘No pineapple?’ said Bevan.
‘No, no pineapple.’
A murmur ran around the classroom – pizza without pineapple?
Other questions followed.
‘Can you surf?’
‘No, but I’d like to learn while I’m here.’
‘Why do your soccer players always fall over?’
‘Because that is how we win so many World Cups.’
‘Mr Silvagni, you have a question for our guest?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Fire away.’
‘What do you know about the ’Ndrangheta?’ I said. ‘Is it true that in Calabria where you come from they are much more powerful than the Mafia?’
‘That really isn’t the type of question –’ started Mr Travers, but Droopy Eye launched straight into an answer, and I’ll have to give him this, Droopy Eye did not miss a beat – he really was one cliente fresco.
‘Of course I have heard of this organisation, but from my father’s time. Maybe you have been watching too much television like perhaps The Sopranos,’ he said.
That got a few laughs and a huge nod of approval from Mr Travers; Droopy Eye obviously wasn’t one of those kids who ‘couldn’t think their way out of a wet paper bag’ he liked to Facebook about.
The siren went; it was time for the first class. When I glanced at my notebook and saw that it was Maths, my heart plummeted twenty floors.
How was that going to work? Sorry, sir, a quadratic equation just fell on my foot and I really need to leave the school grounds.
But then it was Chemistry – something to work with at least.
By then I had it pegged anyway: the easiest, and quickest, way out of the school was in the back of an ambulance.
But to achieve that you had to have an injury that was ambulance-worthy.
Sorry, sir, but I have splitting headache, or My tummy feels funny, or My stools are really loose, just wasn’t going to get you anywhere but the sickbay.
A broken leg would do the trick.
Likewise a broken arm.
But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to get that broken.
Today, said Mr Arvanitakis, we were going to reacquaint ourselves with the lab after all that time away.
First it was the Bunsen burners and he started rambling on about how dangerous they could be.
But I’d already tuned out of Radio Arvanitakis; I could see my ticket out of here.
First I had to get right at the back of the lab, away from his eyes. Not difficult – I asked to be excused to go to the toilet and when I returned I parked myself there.
Then I had to light the Bunsen burner without anybody noticing – again not difficult, because Mr Arvanitakis was making ‘elephant toothpaste’ and all eyes were on him.
I got the Bunsen burner alight, and looked at the flame – so clean, almost friendly looking.
And I held out my hand so that the flame licked at my palm. Closer, I ordered the hand. It obeyed.
Now the flame was more than licking, it was eating, chewing my hand.
And the pain was … w
ell, it wasn’t like the pain from the branding iron, that was sudden and brutal, and this was like pain breeding more pain breeding more pain.
My classmates were clapping: Mr Arvanitakis and his elephant toothpaste had been a big hit.
But then Bevan Milne said, ‘What’s that smell?’
And I quickly turned off the gas.
And I said, ‘Sir, I think I must’ve burnt my hand,’ and I practically ran out of there because I didn’t want Mr Arvanitakis – who was a pretty cool teacher – to freak out.
Straight to the first aid room, and the school’s well-oiled protocol kicked in and in no time I was in an ambulance with the school nurse and in no time I was in a hospital and in no time I was getting my burn seen to.
‘Between first and second degree,’ said the doctor as I texted Luiz Antonio with my other hand. ‘You were very lucky, young man.’
‘Apparently your mother is on her way to pick you up,’ said the nurse.
‘Can I go to the toilet?’ I asked the doctor.
‘Of course.’
I looked at the nurse.
‘If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ she said.
From there it was too easy; I hurried past the toilet and out of the door, to where Luiz Antonio was waiting in his taxi.
‘You in the wars again?’ he said.
‘What are you waiting for, go!’
He went.
‘So we headed anywhere in particular?’ he said. ‘Or we just “go”?’
‘Sanctuary Cove,’ I said.
As we drove, that familiar song started playing and I thought, I’m sick of this, all these charades, these games.
‘So how do you know Gus?’ I said, with maybe a bit more demand in my voice than I’d intended.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Bad head, sick feet, you both have the same taste in music. If it was Frank Sinatra or somebody like that, then I’d put it down to coincidence, but Brazilian samba? Not likely.’
Luiz Antonio gave me a weary smile. ‘You probably think you’ve got us all worked out, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, giving him my own version of the weary smile. ‘I just know that you know each other, and Gus is probably paying you to keep tabs on me, make sure I don’t get into too much trouble.’
‘Well, if that’s the case I’m not doing a very good job.’
Take a Life Page 7
