Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Tristan tells me you’ve left school.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I said, readying myself for the lecture that was on its way: how I’d just reduced the options I had in life, the usual blah blah blah.

  ‘Well, school’s not for everybody,’ he said. ‘Anyway, how can I help you?’

  Don’t think I didn’t feel the tiniest bit guilty – I mean, who was it who set fire to the Jazys’ pool? Who was sort of responsible for Tristan’s coma? And here I was asking for help.

  ‘Remember that time you said that the real estate market in the Coast was like one big Ponzi scheme?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I keep saying it, but nobody takes the least notice of me. They say I’m a stick-in-the-mud, a party pooper.’

  ‘Well, I’m doing this work for Hound de Villiers – he’s, like, this investigator – and he’s asked me to check up on a certain mortgage supplier that I can’t really name.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Jazy, and I could tell he was already intrigued.

  ‘I wondered if you could have a look at this for me,’ I said, taking out the paper from my pocket and handing it to Mr Jazy.

  Mr Jazy put on a pair of reading glasses, and studied the paper for some time.

  I think it’s sometimes difficult to know what somebody who’s got a beard is thinking, because hair isn’t the most expressive stuff, but I had no trouble reading what was on Mr Jazy’s face: concern, and a lot of it.

  ‘This is much worse than even I imagined,’ he said.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Oh, yes, this could be catastrophic for the whole industry.’

  ‘But I don’t get it – why do they keep operating, giving out loans?’

  ‘Why? Because they’re making money hand over fist.’

  ‘But how do they keep operating?’

  Here’s how to look at it: imagine you have a balloon with a leak, but you keep pumping air into it, so the leak’s not an issue. But as soon as you stop pumping air, then your balloon goes flat in no time.’

  ‘Okay, I totally get it now.’

  I took my paper and thanked Mr Jazy. As soon as I walked outside my phone beeped, an unknown number. I read the text: deal on text vehicle details to this number.

  Hell, the stingaroo was working!

  Then my phone rang. Hound.

  ‘Hey, Youngblood.’ Youngblood? Dreamworld? What was wrong with plain old Dom. ‘No sweat, but when are you back in the office?’

  ‘I’m on my way now,’ I said.

  ‘So, what, ten minutes to get here?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  It actually took eight minutes, but that’s because I pedalled flat out, feeling a bit guilty about using company time for personal business. When I got back all the associates were standing on the footpath, some of them smoking. Actually, it looked like a scene from a Tarantino movie. One of the good ones.

  Hound even helped me off my bike.

  ‘We’re going on a little trip up north,’ he said. ‘Got some business to do.’ That, also, seemed a bit Tarantino-esque.

  ‘You want me to come?’ I said, looking at the accumulated manpower adorning the footpath.

  ‘You’re an integral part of this organisation, Dom. Don’t know how we’ve got as far as we have without you.’

  It was sort of cheesy, and sort of insincere – if that was the case, why was I excluded from the meeting? – but it definitely worked: I felt like I really belonged, and that leaving school and joining Coast Surveillance was the best move I’d ever made.

  But what about the text message? It didn’t take me long to realise that it didn’t matter where I was, as long as I had range, because all I had to do was forward the text message I received from Zoe to The Debt.

  ‘So where, exactly, are we headed?’ I said.

  ‘Bris Vegas,’ said Hound, before he launched into a not-so-bad Elvis impersonation, ‘Viva Bris Vegas …’

  FRIDAY

  VIVA BRIS VEGAS

  Hound, one of the Lazarus brothers and I were in the Hummer, while the rest of the associates followed in a much less conspicuous Subaru. The trip was uneventful, and the conversation was centred around rugby, a sport I knew nothing about, except that its players always left the school change rooms in a horrible mess.

  This suited me fine, however, because I was able to keep an eye on my iPhone, both the time and the messages icon.

  It was 11.22 when we crossed the bridge, and turned right. Fortitude Valley, said the sign.

  ‘We’re heading for the Valley?’ I said, wondering if Hound and his associates were going to make an early start on some bars, because the Valley was known as a pretty happening place.

  ‘Never mix work and pleasure,’ said the Hound, which apparently was an amusing thing to say because the Lazarus responded with a guffaw.

  But we’d soon passed through the area with all the bars, clubs and restaurants and were now on a street that looked like a mixture of residential and business. The Subaru pulled up on the side of the road, but we continued, pulling in a couple of hundred metres later.

  I checked my watch: 11.47. ‘What are we doing here?’ I said.

  ‘Youngblood, in our line of work there’s a lot of waiting around,’ he said. ‘Patience is the key.’

  ‘Too right,’ said the Lazarus.

  I waited around a bit more. I checked the time: 11.51.

  Why hadn’t they sent me the vehicle details? Surely Otto must know – he would’ve stolen it ages ago. Almost as soon as I’d had that thought, my phone beeped.

  Weirdly enough, it was like everybody jumped. A phone beeping wasn’t such a big thing; at lunchtimes in the school library it sounded like some sort of avant-garde music was playing, with swooshes, chimes, bells and beeps. Something wasn’t right here, but I didn’t have time to think it through.

  I checked the message.

  blue van rego BYT 654 I hit the Edit button, hit the text bubble so that a red tick appeared next to it, hit the Forward button, and entered td into the To field, and hit the send button.

  Barely a second after I did this, Hound checked his phone. He sent a text. He then booted the engine up and pulled into the road.

  Then I got it, what had been bugging me: how, when I was at Mr Jazy’s office, had Hound known that I was only ten minutes away?

  Because he’d been tracking me, that’s why. And not just today, ever since I’d come to work for him. Because he knew, with the sixth sense he had, that I was still involved with the Zolton-Banders, that I was still in the game.

  We pulled off the road again, and there, on the other side of the road, was the Philippine Embassy. Not only had he been tracking me, he’d been bugging my conversations! I remembered what Miranda had told me, how you could stick some software on somebody’s phone that could turn their microphone on and off. What a fool, what a tool, I’d been thinking he’d employed me because of my skill set.

  ‘You bastard!’ I said.

  Hound’s huge paw reached over the seat and grabbed for my phone. I managed to keep it from his reach, but the Lazarus’s even huger paw reached over the seat and whacked me hard on the side of the head.

  Chime time again.

  Hound relieved me of my phone.

  ‘It’s on its way,’ said the Lazarus, who had a phone to his ear.

  My only hope now was that The Debt would beat these chumps to it, get to blue van rego BYT 654 before they did.

  There was no way I could warn them, though. I just had to sit here with my chiming head and my anger and feeling of utter betrayal and watch the show unfold.

  The traffic had built up and was moving quite slowly. But then the blue van rego BYT 654 came into view behind.

  I wasn’t the only one to have seen it. Hound was now on his phone barking orders.

  ‘It’s only got ten or so metres,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going to pull right in front of it.’

  I could see what his plan was now: he would stop the van from moving, and then the oth
ers, who were right behind it, would swoop in and relieve it of its load. Simple, sort of dumb, but it would probably work.

  And it did work.

  When the blue van was ten metres behind us, Hound bullied the Hummer in front of it and then slammed on his brakes. The van beeped, but in vain because the Hummer was going nowhere. And if a Hummer was good for anything, it was probably this.

  Just as I’d thought, the Subaru was behind it, and Snake and the other Lazarus got out. Guzman and Nitmick were obviously staying put, doing all the surveillance, the high-tech stuff. The Lazarus used a crowbar to lever open the back of the van.

  And it was right then that they arrived, two of them on buzzy trail bikes, and as before, they were dressed all in black. They sped up between the cars.

  The first one took out Snake with what looked like a swinging chain. That’ll kickstart your day, amigo. The Lazarus didn’t fare much better – he copped what looked like a blast of pepper spray to the face.

  But now there was a thwocka-thwocka-thwocka sound from above. Cops, I thought. They haven’t taken long. But I should’ve known better.

  A chopper swooped down low, and I could see the letters on the side: Channel Nine News. TV news. They haven’t taken long. I should’ve known better.

  The chopper moved over the embassy building, hanging there. I’m not sure about the next bit, maybe I imagined it, but I swear there was a crack in the clouds, I swear there was, like, this spear of pure Queensland sunlight that picked out the chopper as it started to unload its load, gold bar after gold bar, and Yamashita’s Treasure was dropped into that tiny part of Queensland that is the Philippines.

  My eyes moved over to the back of the van; the black-clad motorbiker was shrugging – nothing in there. Of course there wasn’t, and immediately I knew how’d they played it: blue van rego BYT 654 just happened to have been travelling in the right direction and Zoe, who had been standing along the road somewhere, had sent me a text. That’s why it had come so late.

  So now the unsuspecting Philippine Embassy had Yamashita’s Gold and I wondered if my lie would come true – would they use all that cash to help poor people?

  But I knew the answer to that – of course not; it would just make rich people richer.

  And the Zolton-Banders had done me again; maybe I just had to admit that they were cleverer than me.

  They hadn’t trusted me, but they’d been right not to.

  I leant over the seat and tried to grab my phone out of Hound’s hand, but he held onto it tight. ‘Give it to me,’ I said.

  He looked at me, and brought that huge paw back, but now the paw was a fist.

  ‘Punch me if you like, I don’t really care,’ I said.

  His fist turned back into a paw, and he tossed me my phone. ‘Don’t take it personally, it’s only business, Youngblood.’

  I got out of the Hummer and one of the motorbikers buzzed past me. He was wearing a helmet, he had a scarf covering his face, but his eyes said it all.

  You’ve got no options left.

  Take a life.

  Tonight.

  FRIDAY

  TAKE A LIFE

  I felt calm, calmer than I could remember feeling for a long, long time.

  Which was pretty strange, because I’d just been listening to Rage Against the Machine, Miranda’s favourite band, really loud through headphones. Their first album: ‘Settle for Nothing’. ‘Bullet in the Head’. ‘Know Your Enemy’. ‘Killing In The Name’. It was like they’d decided to write the soundtrack to my existence.

  Again I checked my phone to make sure a SMS hadn’t sneaked through unnoticed. Especially one from PJ.

  Earlier we’d had this exchange:

  Me: how is brandon?

  PJ: still in coma Me: can you let me know if there’s any change??

  PJ: sure XX

  Reading over them again, a wave of revulsion rolled through me – Dom, what in the hell have you become?

  But then it went away – I had no choice.

  I guess usually it’s your brain that runs your life, that makes the decisions. Occasionally it’s your heart. And a few times, when I’d been running, like that time in Rome, it was my legs that were in charge.

  But tonight it was all about my gut, deep, deep in my gut. I felt – what’s that hippie term? – centred. Not my legs, not my head, not my heart – it was all coming from smack bang in the middle.

  I checked my iPhone, made sure it was fully charged. I checked the video function, made sure it was working properly.

  I put ClamTop in my backpack with the other things I needed.

  I was ready.

  Not quite; though I knew it off by heart, there was something reassuring about seeing the words on the page. I read it out, not to myself, but in a loud clear voice as if I was reciting for the whole class. ‘“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”’ And again, it was as if the words were coming from down deep.

  By the time I got to the last lines, I was ready to go out and do what I had to do. I walked through the kitchen, where Gus was sitting at the table.

  In front of him a bottle of whisky and a glass, both of them empty.

  I’m not sure how, but the old bugger knew.

  I could see it in his face.

  ‘Dom, you do have a choice,’ he said.

  I looked at Gus, at his stump. What choice?

  ‘If you had your time again, would’ve you have done it?’

  Gus looked down at the floor, then up at me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would’ve done it.’

  But I didn’t believe him.

  ‘I’m in my room, okay?’ I said. ‘Tonight, I never left the house.’

  He nodded, and I could see the tears in his eyes. We stayed like that for what seemed like ages, neither of us sure what to do. Eventually I said, ‘Hell’s bells.’

  Gus grimaced. ‘And buckets of blood.’

  I walked outside, passing my house.

  Lights were on inside, and I imagined what my siblings would be doing. The thought of Toby watching some cooking show, while working his way through an industrial-sized bowl of organic popcorn, made me laugh. And Miranda multitasking: phone, laptop, TV, while doing her nails. The thought of that also made me laugh.

  I love youse guys.

  I kept walking.

  When I came to Imogen’s house, I looked up at her window. Light on – she was inside.

  I thought of her in there, with all her lists and her photos and I thought of the Omega Speedmaster watch, now hidden in the bottom of my drawer.

  Im, I know where your father is.

  But I can’t tell you, not yet, not until I find out if my father was involved.

  I knew he’d killed Bag Lady. But was that the only person?

  When I reached the lawn, I looked around: there was nobody. I hurried across the grass until I reached the grate. I lifted it up easily, but I knew I would; I’d been earlier, armed with hammer and chisel to make sure it was loose.

  I took the headlamp out of the backpack and placed it on my head, adjusting the strap so that it was nice and tight. I put on the cotton gloves I’d bought at Bunnings Warehouse, and I lowered myself into the drain.

  I wouldn’t say it felt like home, but it did feel sort of familiar down here.

  The right-up-your-nostrils smell wasn’t so uncomfortable, and the gloves definitely helped with the crawling process. And I’d checked out the weather bureau’s website – the chance of rain was negligible, so I wasn’t worried about drowning like those two kids that time, or like Brandon nearly did. The irony – is that the right word, Mr Mac? – wasn’t lost on me: I’d saved Brandon’s life and here I was …

  When I came to the first sump, I took out the map and checked my position: I was exactly where I thought I’d be. I continued crawling.

  A few times I’d wondered about the six instalments. Why not twelve, like the labours of Hercules? Why not ten, like
just about everything else in this metric world? Why six? But it seemed to me that six was about right. That with five instalments already paid, I’d gained the experience and expertise that I needed to perform the sixth.

  As I crawled, the headlamp picking out the tunnel ahead, I felt strong and confident. When I reached the next sump, I turned right, towards the hospital, not left as I had the last time I was down here. Although it was new territory, it was really just more of the same: slow steady crawling.

  No need to bust a gut, time wasn’t really an issue.

  What had changed, however, was the smell. The dry, dusty odour had become something much more pungent. As I reached the next sump, I could see the source: the partially decomposed body of a dead cat.

  I checked the map: it was time to surface. This part of my plan had been a minor concern; though the grate was situated down a little-used side alley, there was still a chance that somebody would happen to come along as I popped up, meerkat-like, out of the ground. If that happened, if they saw my face, if they somehow managed to later identify me, then I was not the professional I thought I was.

  So just in case, I put on a mask. No, not a Warnie mask. Just a plastic Batman number I’d bought at the Two Dollar Shop.

  I pushed the grate up and to one side. And I hoisted myself out of the drain. The Batman mask was superfluous – the alley was deserted.

  This alley led onto the busy main road on which the hospital was situated. But I didn’t want to go near the hospital, not yet, not until I’d cracked its security.

  Just up the road from the hospital was a cluster of fast food restaurants, lots of flashing neon, a Pizza Hut, a KFC and, of course, a McDonald’s. They were perfect for my needs – close enough so that I had range, but busy enough so that I wouldn’t be noticed. A teenage kid munching on a burger while looking at a laptop was hardly an unusual sight. And, yes, they also had CCTV, and that burger-munching laptop-looking kid would end up on that CCTV, but I just had to wear that; I didn’t have time to take out every security system in the Gold Coast.

  I went into the McDonald’s and ordered a Big Mac from a girl who, according to her nametag, was called Bacardee. As Bacardee took my order she was sort of checking me out, and I wondered if she knew me somehow. When she opened her mouth and started ‘Is your name –’ I thought my plan was about to get scuttled before it had begun; I could not afford to be recognised. But when she finished her sentence with ‘Blade?’ I let out an audible sigh of relief.