A thought flashed into my mind: I didn’t have to do this, I didn’t have to play by their rules.
Yes, they would come after me, but I wasn’t the same person now. They could come, but I would be ready for them.
This thought lasted for about a nanosecond – who was I kidding?
Bugger the letterbox – I walked past the gate, up the path, and pressed the buzzer on the intercom.
‘What do you want?’ came a voice from the speaker.
‘I have something for you.’
‘Put it on the step.’
I did that, turned and walked back to the ute.
SATURDAY
PAGATO
A lamp on top of the desk threw out a weak light, leaving pockets of darkness in Gus’s office. Somewhere in the shadows Dr Roger Bannister was breaking the four-minute mile in 1954, John Landy was setting the 1500-metres world record, and Hicham El Guerrouj was setting the current world record of three minutes and twenty-six seconds.
Dad and Gus were sitting beside each other on one of the two leather couches, the ones my mum had discarded about fifty-five annoying redecorations and ninety even more annoying decorators ago.
Gus was wearing his usual clothes: a ratty singlet that showed off his ropey old-man muscles, and shorts that were baggy but not baggy enough to hide the stump.
Hey, Stumpy, I thought, looking at his funny little seamed head, like an eyeless alien from a C-grade scifi movie, I could've had one of you.
But I didn’t, and hopefully I never would.
Dad’s arm was bandaged.
‘My golf game was never any good anyway,’ he joked.
Golf jokes – so not funny, but I’d laughed. Like Mom said, he was alive and that was all that mattered.
Dad and Gus were drinking whisky – straight, on the rocks – from hefty tumblers, and I had a glass of Coke. I still didn’t get that: Gus had once been a hopeless alcoholic, yet he still drank occasionally. I thought one drop of the demon drink and alcoholics would immediately return to their sorry ways. Willpower, I guessed.
Outside, the wind had picked up, and occasionally, from the empty top floor of Gus’s house, came the sound of a branch rapping on a window with its wooden knuckles. I remembered that there’d been the same noise on the night I’d learnt about The Debt. Then I’d thought it meant evil had come into my life.
I’d been right: evil had come into my life.
And what did it mean now: that evil was leaving?
Maybe, but not all of it – according to the DVD they had, the one I’d concocted, I’d killed another human being; evil would be with me for as long as I lived.
Dad finished his drink and said, ‘Well, I think it’s about time we got this over and done with.’
Gus managed a smile, no mean feat when the grandson you love is about to get the flesh of his inside thigh branded with white-hot metal.
‘We might as well.’ I stood up, undid the buckle on my jeans, and let them fall to the ground.
Dad took the brand from the drawer in Gus’s desk and, using that ancient Zippo lighter, heated its tip until it was glowing white-hot. Many times I’d thought about this moment, many times I’d wondered if it would ever come. I’d assumed that if, and when, it did, I’d feel this incredible sense of triumph.
But as white-hot metal seared my flesh, and my whole body became nothing but raw pain, I felt no triumph at all.
Just emptiness and pain.
And emptiness and pain.
There had been too much collateral damage.
Afterwards, when the flesh had stopped bubbling and I could talk again, I said, ‘Can I have a whisky?’
My dad looked at his dad. ‘Of course you can.’
Gus poured two drinks and handed one to me, one to Dad.
‘You’re going to drink with us, aren’t you?’ I said.
Gus held up his hand, and now I got it: he always stopped at one. What a tough old bugger he was – every particle in his body demanding alcohol, and he stopped at one. I sipped the whisky. This wasn’t the first time I’d drunk it, but now it was different. I hadn’t liked the taste of it then and I didn’t like the taste of it now, but it felt right somehow. And when that fireball exploded in my stomach, that felt right too.
‘Hey, Gus,’ I said. ‘Can I have a look at the original debt, that piece of paper?’
I’d already made the decision that I would never have kids. Or if I did, I would make sure they were girls. I wasn’t sure about the science, but I was sure you could swing it somehow.
Gus went to his desk and returned with the document. Ancient-looking, the paper yellow, brittle; it didn’t seem possible that something with a few signatures could be so powerful, cause so much pain.
For some reason I thought of what Mr Jazy had said about all those loans, all those mortgages – they were also debts, pieces of paper with a few signatures, and if he was right they would also cause pain and heartache.
I read the title, Pagherò Cambiaro.
After some success speaking Italian in Italy – I’d ordered spaghetti, bought some train tickets – I sort of kidded myself that I knew my way around the language.
Yeah, right!
‘So what does it say?’
Gus translated. ‘All male Silvagnis on reaching the age of fifteen must make six repayments on the loan.’
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘You said “all male Silvagnis”?’
‘That’s right,’ said Gus.
‘But I thought it was just the eldest son,’ I said, but as soon as I did I wondered where this idea had actually come from. I remembered that first night Dad had said all male Silvagnis too.
‘No,’ said Gus.
‘All,’ said Dad.
‘Toby?’ I said. Dad nodded. ‘But there is no way he could ever repay even one instalment!’
‘He will surprise you,’ said Dad, becoming all Yoda-esque. ‘The Debt makes men out of boys.’
And then I got it – of course, why hadn’t I seen this before?
‘Alessandro,’ I said to Gus. ‘They killed him?’
Gus nodded.
‘The pound of flesh?’
‘He didn’t make it,’ said Gus.
‘And the Preacher, he went mad!’
Again Gus nodded.
I didn’t say anything else, I didn’t need to, because it was now so clear what I had to do. My namesake had come to this country in order to make a better life for his family, and in order to do this he’d put his name to a piece of paper.
But debts do not last forever.
This one had been repaid many times over.
Toby couldn’t go through what I’d been through. He just couldn’t.
Never before had it been clearer to me what I had to do.
I had to extinguish The Debt.
MONDAY
EXTINGUISH THE DEBT
In Gus’s office it had been so easy, it had made so much sense.
Extinguish The Debt.
Like some cheap slogan you’d stick on a T-shirt.
But I’d spent days wrestling with it – the enormity of it. And that morning when I woke up, the light already streaming through the window, I felt overcome, almost smothered, by the impossibility of this.
Extinguish The Debt? How in the hell could I do that? But when I thought of Toby, I knew that somehow I had to do it. He would never survive The Debt; like Alessandro he would end up dead, a cheap box full of mouldering bones.
I had a shower, I got on my laptop, I checked my emails.
There was one from Imogen: Dom, have you disappeared from this planet? I know you’re a working man but it would be nice to see you every now and then!!!
I texted her straightaway: how about now?
She replied: i have school Home school, I thought, throwing my clothes on.
I rushed downstairs and Mom and Dad were sitting at the table; they had obviously just finished a deep and meaningful.
‘Dom, your dad and I think you should go bac
k to school, now that you’ve … um … achieved your goals.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I said.
‘Dom!’ said Dad.
‘Let’s talk about this later,’ I said. ‘I need to be somewhere.’
Dad stood up, and I think he actually wanted to physically impede my progress. Good luck with that, too. I shimmied out of his reach and ran out the door. Just in case he was after me, I gave it some gas all the way to Imogen’s house.
I knocked on the door. Mrs Havilland answered and she was so not happy to see me.
‘Um,’ she said, followed by another ‘um’ and yet another ‘um’. Finally she found some words that actually meant something.
‘Imogen’s at school if you’re here to see her,’ she said.
‘That’s okay, I can just audit the lesson,’ I said, using a term I’d heard Mr Mac use once.
It was a good term, too, because it worked on Mrs Havilland.
‘Audit the lesson,’ she said. ‘Well, why not?’
I’d thought that because the Havilland house wasn’t really a school, and didn’t have science labs and all that, they would sort of skimp on lots of stuff. But Imogen was in the kitchen, in a lab coat, and she was actually dissecting a frog, while the teacher, also in a lab coat, gave her instructions.
Both of them looked up when I entered. ‘It’s okay, I’m just auditing,’ I said.
The teacher smiled at me, Imogen rolled her eyes and she returned to her half-dissected amphibian. ‘Audit’ was now my favourite word on the whole planet.
Auditing Imogen dissecting the frog was amazing; she was incredibly skilful. At my school, after an hour’s dissection, you basically had a lab full of frog mince. Boys, eh? When the lesson came to an end, and the frog went into the fridge, Mrs Havilland gave Imogen the option of using her two free periods to hang out with me.
‘Your mum’s a pretty tough principal,’ I said when we were in Imogen’s room.
‘What’s happened?’ said Imogen, fixing me with a look sharper than any scalpel.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look different somehow. Did you take a get-old pill or something? What’s happened to you, Dom?’
I hadn’t come here with the intention of telling Imogen anything – I just wanted to see somebody from my old pre-Debt life – but now that I was here, now that she was standing in front of me, I knew, with absolute certainty, what I had to do.
‘Sit down,’ I said.
‘I don’t want to sit down.’
‘Yes, you do,’ I said. ‘Remember that time we punked those two Mattners and you said that there was something going on in my life and I said I couldn’t tell you but you had to trust me?’
Imogen nodded – I remember.
‘This is it; I’m going to tell you everything.’
Imogen sat down, made herself comfortable.
And for the first time I told somebody else what had happened to me on my fifteenth birthday, how I’d inherited an ancient family debt, a debt that could not be repaid with money.
Imogen did not interrupt, did not ask any questions or make any comments, but instead let me tell my story in one continuous flow. I left some stuff out, especially to do with the latest instalment, but not that much. Her eyes told me everything, however – they seemed to get wider and wider, more and more astonished, until that’s all Imogen was, just eyes and astonishment. And I knew she didn’t know whether to believe me or not. Who could possibly blame her?
‘Imogen, I’m going to show you something, okay?’
She nodded. I rolled up one leg of my board shorts, higher and higher, until there it was: PAGATO, the last letter still scabby.
Immediately Imogen brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. And then she stood up and put her arms around me.
‘Poor Dom,’ she said.
I didn’t want to be poor Dom; what I had been through had made me older, tougher, smarter, stronger. But when she squeezed me, it felt like I was melting into her, her smell, and her softness, and her girl-ness. Tears found their way to my eyes. Maybe she was so right: poor Dom. Nobody should have to go through what I’d been through. Nobody!
Finally she let go, and she stepped back, and her shirt was wet at the shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Don’t be,’ she said, handing me a towel – tissues just weren’t going to cut it. ‘So it’s finished now?’
I wiped away the tears, shaking my head. ‘I’m going to get them,’ I said. ‘I’m going to extinguish The Debt.’
She said nothing, but it was in her eyes – No, Dom, it’s too dangerous.
‘They’re the ones who killed your father, Imogen.’
She shrank back. ‘No!’
‘Wait here,’ I said. I rushed out of her house, over to my house, up to my bedroom, and back again.
Imogen was in exactly the same place as when I’d left.
I took the Omega Speedmaster watch out of my pocket, the one I’d taken from the coffin, from around his fleshless wrist. I held it out.
Imogen looked at it, not wanting to know what it was. Eventually, however, her hand reached out and took it. She turned it around, read the inscription on the back.
Her knees buckled slightly, and she looked like she was about to collapse. I got ready to grab her, but she managed to steady herself. ‘They’re the ones who killed my father?’ she said.
‘They’re the ones,’ I said.
‘Then we go to the police.’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Not until we’ve set it up right.’
I wasn’t actually sure what I meant by this, but I knew I had to plan this attack meticulously, and I had to attack them from all angles. I knew I’d only have one chance at it, and if I mucked that up, then …
‘And you’re going to extinguish The Debt.’
I nodded – I am.
‘I want to help you.’
‘You will help me,’ I said. ‘But not just yet.’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m going to need that.’
Imogen looked at the watch, rubbing the back of it with her thumb. ‘You know, it’s his birthday tomorrow,’ she said.
I nodded, though I didn’t know.
‘There’s this game I always play on his birthday,’ she said. ‘Things I Remember about Daddy.’
‘That’s cool,’ I said, smiling at her. I had stuff to do, but I could tell that Imogen needed to talk.
‘Like, I remember how he used to call me The Celebrated Imogen Havilland,’ she said. ‘How he could stand on his head. How he liked to listen to the cricket on the radio. How he cut my toast into these perfect soldiers.’
‘Perfect soldiers aren’t easy,’ I said.
Imogen continued, ‘I remember how he used to brush my hair, stroke after stroke. When he took me to swimming lessons, he always told me not to be scared.’ She was turning the watch around in her hand, over and over. ‘And I remember he used to tell me that he would never, ever leave me. Not until he was really really old and really really decrepit.’
I reached over and took Imogen’s other hand, the one that wasn’t holding the watch.
‘Do you remember the night he went missing?’ she said.
‘A bit,’ I said.
‘I remember all the fuss about the election, how nobody thought Dad would win. And then when he did, we all went onstage together while he gave his victory speech. After we went to Taverniti’s, and I ordered the spaghetti like I always did. There were people everywhere congratulating Daddy. And then he went outside and didn’t come back.’
I squeezed Imogen’s hand.
‘After that it was just this jumble. The police coming to our house every day. Your mum and dad helping us get through it all. But then it got calmer, less chaotic. Until it was really just me and Mum.’
Now I didn’t know what to say. I just squeezed her hand again.
‘And Rocco Taverniti,’ she said. ‘He always seemed to be around our place.’
‘He did?’ I said.
Imogen nodded. ‘But after a while he stopped coming, too, and it was just the two of us, and that’s when Mum took me out of school.’
Imogen held out her father’s watch.
‘You keep it for now,’ I said. ‘Put it in a safe place.’
We hugged again, and I left.
As I walked back home, I thought of Prometheus, that Titan Mr Chakrabarty had told me about. He’d been chained to a rock, eagles eating his liver, until Hercules had set him free. At last I had told somebody about The Debt, and it had unchained me, too. No more eagles snacking on my liver.
From behind came the sound of the ride-on mower – not unusual, as our house was surrounded by expansive lawn and it wasn’t going to mow itself. I didn’t take any notice, just continued on to the house, my mind in a swirl; yes, I felt freer, but it was one thing to say you were going to extinguish The Debt, another altogether to actually do it.
The mower’s sound was louder; obviously it was much closer, and the air was sweet with the smell of cut grass, but I still wasn’t concerned. Like I said, lawns don’t mow themselves.
The mower so loud, the whir of its blades.
Something told me – jump!
I jumped, leaping to my left, but when I looked behind the mower was nowhere near me – false alarm much? – and Roberto was sitting on top of it, smiling.
It wasn’t his usual type of smile, however; it wasn’t mocking, or sneering, it seemed quite genuine, almost pleasant.
‘You can probably relax now, Dominic,’ he said, giving my name the full Italian treatment instead of the usual sarcastic ‘Mr Silvagni’. What was going on here? Why was he suddenly my BFF?
I said nothing and went inside. Mom was still in the kitchen; Dad must’ve gone to work.
‘How long has Roberto worked for us?’ I said.
‘I’m not sure, dear,’ she said. ‘Can we talk about school again? After what’s happened, I really do think it’s better to normalise everything.’
Normalise? What in the hell was she talking about?
My father had killed my cousin, how in the hell do you ‘normalise’ that?
And for the rest of my life that dead cousin would appear, and reappear, and re-reappear. How in the hell do you normalise that?
‘So where does Roberto live?’
Take a Life Page 23
