Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  We hit a bit of traffic and Luiz Antonio said nothing as he concentrated on negotiating through it.

  When we were on the other side of it he said, ‘If it wasn’t for your grandfather I would be dead meat.’

  ‘Carne fresca,’ I said, almost automatically.

  Luiz Antonio fixed me with a look that was pretty scary.

  ‘Maybe you think Gus is one thing, but I know him as something else. I will say it again and it’s all I will say: if it wasn’t for him I would be dead.’

  By this time we’d reached our destination.

  Sanctuary Cove was a gated community; like Halcyon Grove but with water.

  The security guard, clipboard in his hand, peered in through the window in much the same way that Samsoni would peer in through the window at visitors to Halcyon Grove.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I ask who you’re visiting today?’

  I had a complete mental blank.

  He kept looking at me.

  ‘Um,’ I said.

  And my mental blank went even blanker. Think of something. Anything.

  ‘The Debt,’ I said.

  ‘You’re visiting The Debt?’ The polite tone in his voice had a tinge of something else now.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, and suddenly it came to me: Bevan Milne lived in Sanctuary Cove.

  ‘I’m here to see Bevan Milne,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ said the security guard, and I half-expected him to add, But he’s at school today or He’s a bit of a turd, isn’t he?

  But he didn’t, of course, just got me to sign, and away we went.

  Luiz followed the signs to the marina and we pulled up next to Pier Three.

  ‘Today, I can’t wait for you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, though actually I did feel a bit peeved: what did he have that was more important than waiting for me? Especially since it was my grandfather who was paying him.

  The clouds that had been around earlier had broken apart and the sun was making an occasional appearance, flashing its shiny face. The air here smelt so clean and fresh.

  There was absolutely nobody around. Nobody. I walked down the creaking pier, checking out the boats tied up on either side. A seagull sitting atop a pylon cocked its head at me as I passed.

  ‘I’m with you, gull,’ I said. ‘What’s going on here?’

  After my experiences during the last instalment I’d been keeping away from boats. I wouldn’t say I was scared of them, or I had a phobia about them; it was just that life seemed much simpler on land. The boats moored at Sanctuary Cove were very different to the rust-pot Hispaniola or the utilitarian Argo, however. There was a lot of gleaming chrome and a lot of shiny white leather.

  I’d come to the end of the pier and had still not encountered a soul, and I wondered if, somehow, I’d got it wrong.

  No, they’d definitely said Pier Three.

  Was I being tested yet again?

  I walked back down the pier, reading the name of each boat aloud.

  ‘Golden Lady.’

  ‘Boganous.’

  ‘Stymphalian.’

  I stopped. Said it again, a bit louder this time.

  A weird name for a boat, I thought, but there was something familiar about the word. Where had I heard it before?

  For some reason, Dr Chakrabarty’s face appeared on the smartscreen of my mind. Okay, that much I got; I’d heard it from him, which sort of made sense – it was a Chakrabartian sort of word. But when, and in what context?

  Was I going to have to go back over everything Dr Chakrabarty had told me?

  No, because I had Google!

  I took out my iPhone and there was absolutely no reception.

  How could that possibly be? This was Sanctuary Cove. This was the twenty-first century. And Google without reception is like a car without fuel. Actually, that’s a really bad analogy. At least you can sit in a car without fuel. Make out in a car without fuel. Some chooks spend their whole lives living in a car without fuel.

  No, Google without reception was like a car without a car.

  So back to Dr Chakrabarty.

  And then it came to me: it was in Italy when he’d been talking about the twelve labours of Hercules.

  What were they again? Slay the Nemean Lion. Slay the nine-headed Hydra. Capture the Golden Hind of Artemis. Capture the Boar with the crazy name. Clean the whatever stables in a single day. And coming in at number six, slay the Stymphalian Birds.

  The sixth labour! This had to be it, I told myself, excitement mounting. This had to be the sixth instalment.

  ‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Anybody there?’

  No reply, only the lapping of the water. I took the ladder down to the Stymphalian’s stern.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeated. ‘Anybody there?’

  The only reply was the water’s. I tried the door. It was open. So I let myself inside.

  This was a sort of lounge, with white leather couches and a bar. Again the interior was luxurious, but also weirdly impersonal, with nothing to indicate who owned this boat.

  A couple more doors led from this room. I was deciding which one to choose when there was the rumble of an engine starting. The boat lurched forward. I hurried back out through the door, onto the stern.

  Already we were five metres from the deserted pier, the powerful propellers churning the water into froth. I could’ve jumped over the side and swum for it, I suppose, but I figured that was the wet option, the dumb option.

  Stay cool, I told myself. Stay afloat. There must be somebody else on the boat. I went back through the lounge to find them. Taking one of the doors, I followed a corridor. Through another door, and I was in the wheelhouse. The instruments were all glowing, the motors were thrumming, as the boat sped out into the open ocean.

  ‘Is there anybody here?’ I yelled, but there was absolutely no answer.

  If there was somebody else on board, they certainly weren’t making themselves known.

  In front of us was a game-fishing boat – I could see the client sitting on the swivel chair on the back, cap on his head, rod in his hands, pot belly sticking out.

  We were headed directly for them!

  But just as I thought about doing something about it, like grabbing the wheel, there were a couple of whirs and the boat altered course. All very clever, but I was starting to get seriously peeved: what actually was the purpose of this little voyage?

  If The Debt, if Hanley, thought it would make me marvel at their awesomeness, they were so wrong. It wasn’t such a big deal; the US military used drones, unmanned aircraft, all the time. This was just an aquatic version.

  ‘Dom,’ came Robo-voice over a loudspeaker.

  I jumped. Not out of my skin, because that’s not really possible, but I came pretty close.

  ‘Dom,’ repeated Robo-voice.

  This time I was able to offer an answer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You enjoying your little trip on the Stymphalian? There are some refreshments in the fridge should you feel like something.’

  Actually, I did feel like something, so I opened the fridge and helped myself to a Coke.

  After I’d taken a sizeable swig I said, ‘So you can hear me?’

  ‘Perfectly well.’

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘It’s time for your final instalment,’ said the voice.

  Jesus! I knew it was coming, but it was still a shock to hear it stated so baldly like that.

  The final instalment, after which I would be free again.

  ‘Okay, hit me with it,’ I said, and immediately regretted the unnecessary swagger.

  I’d repaid the previous five instalments – so what? That wouldn’t mean a thing if I didn’t nail this one. If I did a Gus.

  My mind was racing: what would it be? Had they totally given up on Yamashita’s Gold? Would I be asked to track it down? How easy would that be, I thought, given my recent meeting with the Zolton-Banders? The text I’d received only a few hours ago?

&nbs
p; ‘First we’d like you to watch a little video,’ said Robo-voice.

  As soon as he said this a screen mounted on the wall switched on. I finished the drink. I didn’t usually drink Coke and I could immediately feel the effect on my body – the sugar, the caffeine, buzzing.

  The Stymphalian continued heading out into the open sea at the same speed.

  I found a seat; if I was going to watch a little video I figured I might as well do it in comfort.

  The little video started and straightaway a couple of things became apparent: this was no Hollywood blockbuster screening.

  It was made using old technology. No HD here. And whoever had made it was no professional; it was shaky, the zooming primitive. But they did go to some trouble to ascertain a couple of things. Firstly the setting – they actually zoomed in on the sign that said Ibbotson’s Reserve. And then the date. Suddenly we were looking at a newspaper, focusing on the writing on the top: 12 October 1983. We kept moving, the camera shaking, through the park, down a path I’m pretty sure I knew from my running. And then we stopped.

  It took a while to find focus again, but when it did, it became a bit clearer where we were. It was a sort of bush camp – I could make out a stone-ringed fire, and a type of shelter made with a tarpaulin.

  The Preacher was my immediate thought. But it didn’t look like the Preacher’s camp. Still, it was 1983; the Preacher could’ve changed camps many times.

  There were other questions as well. Who was the cameraman? Why was I being shown this very amateur video?

  All weird, all strange – all pretty normal.

  There was that whirring sound again, more urgent this time. I looked ahead: a huge ship, stacked with containers, was headed our way, but the Stymphalian was already veering away from it.

  Thank god somebody’s watching it, I thought. My eyes were drawn back to the video.

  A person had come into the frame now. Once again, I had that thought: It’s the Preacher. But not for long. Yes, this person had long matted hair and was wearing dirty rags, but that would describe a whole lot of homeless people.

  This particular homeless person was a whole lot smaller than the Preacher. The camera zoomed in on his face – my god, the camera work was terrible – closer and closer.

  His face? It was a woman!

  A homeless woman – what did the Americans call them? Bag ladies, that’s right. Because they carried all these bags full of crap around with them. Actually, I’m not sure if she was a bag lady, I didn’t see any bags around, but in my mind that’s who she became: Bag Lady.

  Bag Lady looked at the camera and smiled a gummy smile. She said something, too, but the sound quality – if you could call it that – was appalling and I couldn’t make out her words. She didn’t seem angry, though. Not like the Preacher, who got angry if anybody came near him. In fact, she seemed really pleased to see whoever it was who was filming her.

  Then she reached out and took something, and instantly I knew the reason for the smile. It was a pizza box – I could even make out the name: Big Pete’s Pizzas. She ripped off the top of the box and grabbed a slice of pizza and started cramming it into her mouth. She didn’t have much in the way of table manners, but that didn’t really matter – Bag Lady obviously hadn’t eaten pizza in a long time; she was really loving it.

  I was feeling pretty good about whoever it was who was filming, whoever had bought takeaway for Bag Lady – he or she was obviously an okay person. But why did they have to film it? To show how okay they were?

  Anyway, Bag Lady kept cramming pizza into her mouth and it was actually getting sort of gross.

  My gaze wandered from the screen to outside of the boat. A flock of seagulls was off to the right, squawking, squabbling, dive-bombing the water. They’d obviously found a school of baitfish and were helping themselves to a feast.

  When my eyes returned to the screen, things had changed. Bag Lady had stopped cramming pizza into her mouth. Although she still had a piece in her hand, it hung limply, the gooey cheese running off the end. Her eyes were doing something weird, sort of lolling in her head. And then something was coming out of her mouth, this disgusting yellow froth. And then she was twitching, her shoulders, and her arms, and her legs.

  Why wasn’t the person filming doing anything? Instead of helping, he seemed to be zooming in closer and closer, capturing every horrible detail.

  Bag Lady collapsed onto the ground. The twitching had stopped, but the disgusting foam was still oozing out of her mouth.

  Why weren’t they helping her?

  Or was it some sort of made-up thing, was she some sort of an actor?

  It had to be, I thought. Nobody would let another person suffer like that and not do anything.

  The camera zoomed in and in.

  Her face filled the whole screen.

  Her eyes were closed.

  The foam had stopped coming out of her mouth.

  She was dead, or the actor who was portraying her was doing a very good job of playing dead.

  The camera jerked back and I could see her whole body. She wasn’t moving.

  She really was dead, I thought. The pizza must’ve contained poison. Why was The Debt showing me this?

  Then more shaky camera work until the camera was entirely still. Had they put it down somewhere? All I could see were some blurred bushes in the background.

  A few seconds of silence, of stillness. Some movement, and a face appeared.

  The face of a teenage boy.

  A face full of horror.

  I knew the face, but I didn’t want to know the face.

  I did the maths in my head.

  Nineteen eighty-three.

  He was born in 1968.

  He was fifteen when this video was made.

  I couldn’t deny it any longer.

  It was Dad.

  And I’d just seen him murder somebody.

  I moved closer to the screen.

  My father ran his hand across his face, like he was wiping something away. The horror was now gone. And in its place was a mask. A blandness. He held up six fingers to the screen. Then the video stopped.

  Robo-voice came back over the speaker, robotic as ever. ‘Dom, so you’ve seen our little video?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Dom, answer me!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘This is your sixth instalment, all we need from you. We want you to prove who you are. We want you to take a life. Somebody useless, if you like. A burden on society. We don’t care. But we need proof, Dom. We need proof.’

  With that the voice disappeared. The boat’s engines cut. And there was the deepest silence, an abyss of silence, into which I wanted to fall and keep on falling until it was all over.

  But then there was enormous sound. I looked up. A passenger liner was headed in our direction.

  So what, I thought. This is the best solution. Just let it come and smash me and the boat into a million little pieces.

  Because I cannot do that, cannot take another life.

  I got it now. Although Dad had repaid the final instalment, he’d repaid nothing. He would never be free of them, because they had the video, this proof that he’d committed murder. Any time they liked they could release the footage and he would be on the front page of every paper in Australia. They could release the video on the net and it would go viral like nothing else before it had gone viral.

  Zoe had said it to me a couple of times: ‘You are so owned.’

  Not like my father is owned, Zoe. Not even close.

  Another blast from the liner, this one rattling my eardrums. The Stymphalian rocked gently; the seagulls squawked in the distance. The liner was bearing down.

  But they, The Debt, had invested too much in me to let me die.

  ‘If you’re trying to scare me, try harder,’ I said.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ I said.

  Again, no reply.

  Maybe they weren’t scaring me, maybe som
ething had gone wrong, whatever technology they’d been using to drive the boat had failed them.

  So I will die, I told myself. And that would be a lesson for them. They thought they could control people’s lives. They thought they were omniscient. Well, they weren’t.

  They didn’t own me.

  Nobody did, except the deep dark sea.

  The passenger liner kept coming.

  Why didn’t it stop? Why didn’t it change direction?

  I was still expecting there to be a sudden whirring sound and the engines to kick into life and the boat to surge, but nothing. Not even seagulls were squawking now; the baitfish must’ve disappeared.

  An abyss of silence, into which I could fall and keep on falling until it was all over.

  But suddenly Dr Chakrabarty was in my head, talking up the labours of Hercules in that fruity voice of his. Telling me that the Stymphalian birds had beaks of bronze, that their feathers were made of metal and that they feasted on the flesh of men. Telling me that Hercules scared them out of the trees with a rattle that had been given to him by Athena, and then shot them with poisoned arrows.

  Nice work, and all, Herc, but what good was that to me?

  I heaved myself out of the chair and over to the controls. There were about a million of them!

  First things first – I needed to start the motors. Eyes scanned the panel until they found what they were looking for: a key. I twisted it and there was a burble from below as the motor kicked into life. Now to get out of here.

  I’d already noted the twin throttles and I’d been on enough boats lately to know how to use them.

  Another ear-splitting blast from the liner’s horn.

  Alright already!

  I pushed the left throttle forward and the boat surged towards the liner. Not what I wanted!

  Keeping the left throttle where it was, I pushed the right throttle a bit more. The boat veered to the left, away from the oncoming liner.

  A bit more. It veered further away.

  ‘Come on, boat,’ I urged.

  The windows were full of liner, towering above me, but I knew that I was safe, that it had missed me by twenty or so metres. I didn’t feel the elation I usually felt after a close shave; there was none of the usual adrenalin flooding my bloodstream.

  All I could think about was the look of horror on my fifteen-year-old father’s face.