The lights dimmed, the previews started. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that a couple of other people had entered the cinema. I hadn’t taken any more notice than that – people, two, enter. But as the movie proper started, they appeared at the end of my row. There was a whole cinema to choose from, hundreds of seats, an alphabet of rows, why come here?
I soon had an answer to my question.
As they shuffled along towards me, one of them said something in a hushed tone that sounded like ‘Dom’. I looked up at them, my eyes taking a while to become accustomed to the light.
Both people were wearing hoodies and sunglasses. But I knew immediately who it was: Zoe, making one of her unconventional entrances. And with her, probably one of the most wanted people – by the television stations anyway – in Australia: her brother, the Zolt.
I would think that pretty much every one of the Zolt’s 1,265,234 Facebook fans would be wet-their-pants excited to sit in a cinema near their hero. Not me, however.
‘We need to talk about the gold,’ said Zoe.
‘After the flick,’ I said.
‘But –’
‘After the flick!’
The flick was actually really, really bad – one of those high school things where all the actors look like they’re about ten years too old to play the part – and normally my attention would’ve started to wander, but I’d made a point about wanting to watch the movie, so now I had to stick to it. My eyes remained glued to the screen while both Zoe and Otto fidgeted like crazy. Eventually, thank heavens, the movie ended and the credits started rolling.
‘So that Roxas person E Lee Marx knows?’ said Zoe.
‘Shhh! I really like to watch all the credits,’ I said.
Yes, it was a great and noble thing to return the gold to its rightful owners, but how was that going to help me with my final instalment, how was that going to help me take a life?
So it was only after I’d learnt the name of the very last Foley artist, that I finally dragged my eyes from the screen.
‘So what do you think, Dom?’ said Zoe.
I think you should go find another sucker.
I think you should …
I think …
I …
Some revelations come up on you slowly; they may take days, weeks, even months. Others you have without even realising you’ve had them. While others come crashing down on your head like a semitrailer of bricks.
Like this one.
I’d thought I had two problems, one major, one minor: how to pay the sixth instalment, how to get rid of the Zolton-Banders. But – and this was the crashing bricks – I didn’t have two problems at all, I had one problem and one solution, one yin and one yang.
‘Okay,’ I said, my voice a bit jumpy with this sudden discovery. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow and talk about it. How can I contact you?’
‘We’ll contact you,’ said Otto.
‘Great,’ I said.
‘Keep your wits about you,’ said Zoe.
Why should I keep my wits about me when I was doing them a favour?
It was a strange thing to say, but she was a strange girl, and I guessed that’s what strange girls do: they say strange things.
When they left, I felt both elated: was this the answer to my problem? and wary: instead of me playing them, were they playing me? Yet again.
TUESDAY
THE GOLD COAST SHARKS
Work the next day was the same sort of stuff – credit checks, company searches – but because I was quickly gaining proficiency, Hound gave me some more complex stuff to do.
‘This fellow here has dumped his wife of thirty years and taken up with some floozy he met online,’ he said, pointing to the name at the top of the paper. ‘His wife is divorcing him, of course. But he’s crying poor. And if you look at his tax return he only made forty k last year. But he’s got money, orders Moët like it’s mineral water. So your job is to find out where his money is. Singapore? Switzerland? The Cayman Islands? It has to be somewhere.’
I spent pretty much the whole day doing this, unravelling an incredibly complex web of companies and trusts and offshore bank accounts. Eventually, however, I found his money. And Hound was right, there was a lot of it. Once again I had that sense of satisfaction, that I’d learnt, or taught myself, some pretty slick skills.
After work I got on my bike and took the road towards Carrara; it was time for my very first training session with the Gold Coast Sharks.
If their clubrooms were any indication of their success, then the Gold Cast Sharks didn’t win many meets. At first I thought they were the public toilets, they had that bricky, smelly look about them, but there on the side was the faded sign that said – just – Gold Coast Sharks. I went inside and they were the public toilets, except for a bit added on which I guessed was the official clubroom. There was nobody else there, just a couple of cockroaches that scuttled off at my arrival.
They did have an impressive turn of speed, and the thought occurred to me that they, the cockroaches, were my future teammates. Of course, when you have a thought as stupid as this, you have to go with it for a while. So I imagined training with cockroaches, running with cockroaches, sharing the podium with cockroaches.
Once I’d finished with that, I began to feel really depressed – I’d been so proud of the plan I’d devised but it wasn’t even going to reach the first stage. With a scuffle of footsteps, the door opened, and I met my first non-cockroach member of the Gold Coast Sharks.
He was in his twenties and certainly looked like a runner – lean and sinewy. Something about him was familiar. As we shook hands, traded names, it came to me; he – Nathan – had been in that charity race on Reverie Island, the race I’d won. That pro runner, the one I’d nicknamed the Junkyard Dog, had tripped him when he’d tried to pass him.
Nathan’s thought processes must’ve been going at the same rate as mine, because we both said at the same time, ‘You raced at Reverie!’
We talked a bit about the race, about the Junkyard Dog, and he told me it was very exciting to have another young runner joining the club. Just as he said this the door opened and the person who I guessed was this other young runner entered. Seb.
Seb sure had pulled a few surprises on me: luring me into Preacher’s that time I got tranquillised, getting a job as our pool guy, stepping out with my sister; so it was pretty satisfying to pull one on him, to see the look of total surprise on his face when he saw me.
Nathan went to introduce us to each other, but I saved him the trouble. ‘Seb and I used to train together.’
A few more people arrived and then Coach Sheeds walked through the door. Except here she wasn’t Coach any more, she was just another runner.
The actual coach was a man by the name of Colin; he was about Gus’s age, I guess, and actually looked a bit like him, except of course he possessed the full complement of legs.
And when I told him my name he said, ‘Any relation to Gus Silvagni?’
‘He’s my grandfather,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I can see the resemblance now,’ he said. ‘How’s the old codger getting along?’
‘He’s good,’ I said.
‘He was a very good coach, your grandfather. Way ahead of his time in a lot of things.’
He seemed lost in reminiscence for a while, but then he slapped me on the shoulder and said ‘Welcome to the Gold Coast Sharks!’
It made sense that because Seb and I were around the same age, and the same standard, that we would spend a lot of the time training together.
This suited me fine, I needed to work him over. And work him over I did.
‘Okay, you two, let’s have a couple of warm-up laps,’ said the coach.
As we ran I encroached further and further into Seb’s space, and by the time we were near the end of the second lap, I was right next to him, almost stepping on his shoes, my elbows digging into his ribs. I’d become the Junkyard Dog.
‘Give me some room, can you?’ said
Seb, swinging his arm at me.
‘Come on, what you got?’ I said, pointing to the finishing line.
‘It’s a warm-up, you idiot,’ he said, but I knew he wouldn’t let me get there first without a race. So when I sprinted, so did he.
We reached the finishing line at the same time.
Coach Colin, whistle at his lips, was about to say something but then held it back. I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking: there’s nothing like a bit of healthy competition.
Next was some interval work, ten 200-metre sprints.
I ran hard, treating each of these sprints as if it was an Olympic final, and Seb kept with me. By the tenth sprint we were both sweating buckets, both gasping for air. Even Coach had to tell us to bring it back a bit.
Bring it back like hell.
To tell the truth, I wasn’t actually sure what I was doing, but something told me it was right. I had to keep running Seb – and myself – ragged. Drag him into the hurt locker. And then, and only then, could I do it.
To finish, a 1500-metre race.
The coach staggered the start, runners taking off in pairs.
When it was our turn he said, ‘No need to bust a gut on this. There’ll be plenty of time and opportunity for that.
‘On your marks. Get set. Go!’ He pressed his stopwatch and we took off.
Again I gave Seb no space, no room; I was the junkiest junkyard dog that ever ran. I stepped on his toes, elbowed him in the ribs, flicked the sweat off my face so that it landed on his. And I could tell that loose as a goose on the juice as he may have been, I was really getting to him.
All he had to do was slow down, fall back, and he would be in his own airspace. But obviously Seb wasn’t going to do that, to let me beat him.
I hadn’t run competitively for a while, and I’d never run competitively like this, so it was taking its toll on me as well. That hurt locker I wanted to drag him into, well, I was already well and truly there.
There was a lap to go, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the coach look down at his stopwatch.
The other runners had finished and were standing on the side of the track, looking on. It must’ve been a sight, these two sweat-slicked kids jostling down the track, going like the clappers.
There was no kick, I just kept digging deeper and deeper, using whatever I could find to increase the tempo. Somehow Seb kept up with me. There was maybe a hundred metres to go and it wasn’t just about running him ragged; I wanted to beat the hell out of him, I wanted to show him who was the better runner.
Coming to the finishing line, we were leaning into each other, more like two heavyweight boxers in the fifteenth round than middle-distance runners.
His sweat over me, mine over him.
The line getting closer.
I dug my elbow in hard, levering past him. His foot stomped down on my heel. I swung my fist; it found the side of his head. He swung his, I copped one on the jaw.
Limbs tangled, we lunged for the line.
Who got there first I’m not sure, but as we tumbled on the ground I grabbed a handful of his hair, dragged his head close so that his ear was right at my mouth.
‘You tell them this,’ I hissed. ‘Tell them I’ve got a deal – lose the last instalment and I’ll get them Yamashita’s Gold.’
Seb struggled to free himself, but I wasn’t going to let go, not now.
‘Jesus,’ he managed to say. ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’
‘Because you had to believe me,’ I said. Hands reached in then and dragged us apart.
‘I gather you two have got some history,’ said Colin later.
‘Some,’ I said.
‘Well, I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour in my club,’ he said.
Hell, I was about to be expelled after only one training session.
‘By rights I should kick you out.’ Colin frowned and held up the stopwatch. ‘But this bought you both another chance. Don’t blow it.’
TUESDAY
TEXTURED SOY PROTEIN
‘What is this exactly?’ I asked Gus as I poked at the unrecognisable substance on the plate.
Already I was feeling pretty anxious – why hadn’t The Debt contacted me yet? – and this stuff on my plate was increasing my anxiety levels even more.
‘Textured soy protein,’ he said. ‘Just the ticket now that you’re running again.’
I couldn’t help thinking of lasagne, because I knew that’s what they were eating right now in my previous place of residence. Not any ordinary lasagne either. This was a recipe that had been brought by Dad’s family from Italy, then improved, until it was about as close to perfection as food can get. Even Toby agreed with me on that. And accompanying that lasagne would be a crispy salad with my favourite tangy dressing.
And here I was, eating – or trying to eat – textured soy protein, which looked and tasted like something you’d feed your third-favourite pet – a guinea pig, maybe, or even a turtle.
My phone beeped, a message from Toby. tiramisu for sweets!!!
There were two ways to look at this: either he missed me and was trying to lure me back home with my favourite dessert, or he was just plain old kicking me in the knurries while I was down.
At first I thought it was the second, nastier option, but I changed my mind: they actually did miss me over there. Mom had already sent three text messages. Admittedly, they were mostly about the accessibility of clean underwear. And some dentist appointment I had. But still. And Miranda had sent one as well. Again it didn’t actually say, I miss you terribly, splendid brother, please please come back: what it said was, do you know where the true blood dvd is?, but I could read the subtext.
As I forced myself to eat some of the textured soy protein I changed my mind about feeding it to your third-favourite pet – no self-respecting guinea pig, no turtle, would eat that muck. When I’d eaten as much as I could and Gus had taken my plate away I said, ‘What’s for dessert?’
Because, let’s face it, a crap main course can always be saved by a reasonable dessert.
‘Dessert?’ said Gus.
‘Also known as sweets,’ I said. ‘Or pudding if you’re Stephen Denton, because his parents are English and that’s what they call it over there.’
‘No, I don’t eat sweets,’ he said.
‘But I do,’ I said.
Gus shrugged.
‘I’ll just have some ice-cream, then,’ I said.
Gus shook his head.
‘Sugar is poison,’ he said. ‘It will kill you.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘A moderate amount of sugar in your diet isn’t going to kill you.’
‘No, sugar will definitely kill you,’ said Gus, looking and sounding like some sort of religious fundamentalist, like his younger brother.
‘That’s rubbish,’ I said.
‘Sugar will kill you,’ said Gus.
‘It’s The Debt who will kill you,’ I said, getting more and more annoyed. ‘Not sugar.’
‘They didn’t kill me, they just did this,’ said Gus, patting what was left of his leg.
‘But they killed your little brother,’ I said. ‘They killed Alessandro.’
I’d intended to detonate a hand grenade, but instead it was an atomic bomb that went off.
Its effect on Gus was instantaneous – his face flushed deep red, the veins in the side of his neck popped out, and his whole body tensed up.
‘How in the hell do you know that?’
‘Because I know where he is,’ I said.
Shut up, Dom.
But I was too far down whatever path I was on to do that.
‘I’ve been there,’ I said.
Ω Ω Ω
As we rattled along the highway in Gus’s ute, I really wished that I’d just eaten my textured soy protein and shut the hell up.
‘Slow down,’ I said, which were two words I never thought I’d use when my grandfather was driving. Headlights swept over us, we swooshed past trucks, cars honked;
it was freeway as dystopia, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the time I’d come along this same road on a pizza delivery scooter, during the repayment of the second instalment.
Again I checked my phone – still nothing from The Debt. Yes, the thought had occurred to me that they wouldn’t use anything as obvious as a mobile phone to communicate. That just wasn’t their style. I still couldn’t help checking, though.
Gus tapped his brake; there was a wall of vehicles in front of us, all travelling at roughly the same speed, and there was no way through. Gus leant on his horn. None of the vehicles moved, so he came up right behind the truck in the fast lane, and started flashing his high beam. Geriatric road rage – it wasn’t pretty.
‘Calm down, Gus!’ I said. ‘Alessandro isn’t going anywhere.’ Something must’ve clicked in Gus’s brain, because he eased his foot from the accelerator.
‘You know his name?’ he said. In the half-light from the dash, his face looked so hard, like it had been chiselled from stone.
‘I heard you use it once,’ I said. ‘When the Preacher was dying.’
Gus pulled off the freeway and we were on a dark road, a quiet road.
Again I couldn’t help thinking of the second instalment, but it was a bit like looking at a movie. I knew I was the kid in that movie, but that kid seemed so much younger, more innocent, than the kid I was now, the one sitting in Gus’s ute.
I checked my iPhone. Nothing.
‘I know a way in,’ I said, and I gave him the directions.
We drove around the back way, along the dirt roads, until we came to the rear of the cemetery.
‘There it is!’ I said, pointing to the gap in the stone wall, the entrance. Gus pulled up the ute and we got out.
I’m not going to say it was a spooky night, because any night is spooky when you’re just about to enter a cemetery. But there wasn’t much moon, and the gusty wind occasionally made an eerie whistling sound. It was a really spooky night.
Take a Life Page 13
