Take a Life

by Phillip Gwynne

  And the Hummer, despite its size, was an easy vehicle to drive. No gears to change, and the power steering really was powerful. So instead of ditching the Hummer straightaway, which was what I’d originally intended to do, I decided to take it for a spin.

  I headed away from the beach, away from all the traffic, away from all the police, and towards the hinterland.

  The Rodriguez CD finished and the next one was some of the gangsta rap that Hound loved so much. Rodriguez and gangsta rap – he sure was a weird contradictory dude, but, hey, maybe everybody is a weird contradictory dude. What was that line that Mr Mac put up on the board that day? I am large, I contain multitudes.

  I passed a Coast Home Loans office and there were quite a lot of people milling outside.

  Surely not, I thought. The blog went live less than an hour ago. No, it had to be a coincidence; Coast Home Loans must have some sort of deal going, the depositless loan, something like that.

  The thought had occurred to me that my blogs would just fizzle, that nobody would believe a word of them. People post all sorts of rubbish on the internet – in fact, that’s what the internet is, a place where people post rubbish. And most of it, 99.9 per cent of it, just gets ignored.

  My phone rang: Imogen.

  ‘Have you done it?’ she said.

  ‘Who let the blogs out?’ I sang tunelessly, Baha Men style. ‘Who let the blogs out?’

  ‘The watch?’

  ‘It’s done, Imogen.’ I wondered what it was I’d done exactly.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We play the waiting game,’ I said, an idea flashing in my head. It was a pretty outrageous one, and I wasn’t going to give it any airtime. But something gripped me, a sort of recklessness, devil-may-care-ness.

  ‘You want to go for a drive?’ I said.

  ‘With your parents?’

  ‘No, just the two of us.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, totally calling my bluff.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at the end of Chirp Street in ten minutes.’

  ‘Where?’ she said.

  ‘Byron Street,’ I said.

  I was sure she wouldn’t be there, that she thought I was crazy or something, but ten minutes later, when I pulled into Chirp Street, she was standing there. She was wearing scruffy denim shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt and thongs. But she still looked … Imogenesque.

  I drew up next to her, and she took a couple of steps back – What the Hummer! I wound down the passenger window. ‘Imogen, it’s me!’

  She moved closer and peered into the Hummer, the doubt written all over her face in CAPITALS with bold and underlining.

  ‘So do you want to go for a spin?’ I said. ‘It’s your choice.’

  Imogen had always been the goodest of good girls; when she did go to school, I could never remember her getting into any type of trouble whatsoever.

  But the DOUBT on her face had been replaced by something less certain. ‘You’re a safe driver?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘You don’t go over the speed limit?’

  ‘No, I’m really slow.’

  ‘And you haven’t been drinking?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy.’

  She continued staring at the inside of the Hummer, and then she sighed, and then she got into the front passenger seat. ‘If at any stage I don’t feel comfortable with your driving I’m going to ask you to let me out,’ she said as she buckled the seatbelt.

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ I said as I pulled out onto Chirp Street.

  ‘And is there any other music besides this misogynistic rubbish?’

  Miso-what?

  ‘There’s Rodriguez,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it has to be better.’

  I punched a couple of buttons and Rodriguez came back on.

  A little while after turning onto the main road, four police cars, lights flashing, passed us in the opposite direction.

  ‘They’re in a hurry,’ I said, glancing behind.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road!’ said Imogen.

  As we began to ascend into the hinterland, Imogen started to relax. Maybe it was my driving, maybe it was Rodriguez, who knows?

  ‘This is fun,’ she said. ‘Whose car is this, anyway?’

  ‘My boss’s,’ I said.

  ‘And he lets you use it, even without a licence?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a pretty loose sort of guy,’ I said.

  I had no destination in mind; it was just a drive with the girl I adored, that was all. Something to do while the blogs did their work. But I found myself following the same route that Gus and I had taken, past the winery, the organic farm, and down into the Berang Valley.

  ‘What is this place?’ said Imogen.

  ‘It’s where my dad grew up,’ I said.

  We passed the church and Imogen said, ‘Stop, I want to take a photo.’

  So I pulled over and we got out and I sat on an old concrete bench seat while Imogen took a whole lot of arty photos of the church with her iPhone. If only she knew, I thought, remembering Gus’s story about the cross just floating there in the night sky.

  About how he couldn’t kill Panda.

  Would I tell her one day?

  Tell her the truth about the final instalment?

  Tell her that I’d considered killing another human being? That I’d even gone to the hospital with that very intention?

  Imogen came over and sat next to me and showed me the photos she’d taken.

  When she’d finished she said, ‘It’s going to get messy, isn’t it?’

  I nodded – she didn’t know the half of it. And neither did I.

  ‘But at least Mum can bury Dad, at least she can do that.’

  I put my arm around Imogen’s shoulder and she leant into me.

  ‘I’m pretty sure the cops will find out who killed your dad,’ I said.

  ‘They will?’ she said.

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure, despite all that I’d done, that I really did.

  ‘Thanks for what you’ve done, Dom.’

  I didn’t say anything for a while, and when I did I wish I hadn’t – it sounded so puerile. ‘Tristan helped too, though?’

  Imogen smiled.

  ‘Rap is crap,’ she said. ‘Sharks are cool, under no circumstances should dads ever be allowed to wear Speedos and …’

  I knew straightaway that all the practically-sucked-her-face-off stuff Tristan had said about him and Imogen was crap.

  The final line we said together, ‘And Tristan Jazy is so not okay.’

  Imogen reached up with her hand and placed it on the side of my face.

  It was such a weird place to be, but I wanted us to stay just like this, with the sun on us, the pigeons cooing from the church. I wanted us to stay like this forever.

  ‘I love you, Dominic David Silvagni,’ said Imogen.

  ‘And I love you, Imogen Rose Havilland,’ I said.

  My phone rang, but it kept ringing and ringing.

  I wanted us to stay like this forever.

  Before it got messy.

  But I couldn’t help myself, I glanced at the face of my iPhone. Hanley calling … What did that traitor want? I let it ring out.

  Immediately it rang again. Hanley calling …

  ‘Sorry, I have to get this,’ I said.

  Imogen sighed. ‘Phones,’ she said, sounding like some sixty year old.

  I stood up and walked away as I answered, ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘They’re coming after you!’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Rocco, Ron, Art, all of them. They’re coming after you and your family.’

  Here I was in a forgotten valley, pigeons cooing, and he was sounding like somebody from The Godfather – all ‘Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes’.

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ I said.

  ‘Have a look around you, don�
�t you see what’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Every Coast Home Loans office has been torched, every one. Other companies, too. It’s chaos out there. Rocco’s already had people throwing homemade bombs at his house. They’ll come after your father, too. All the Coast Home Loans directors.’

  There was the sound of glass shattering. ‘Do you hear that?’ said Hanley, and there was terror in his voice. ‘It’s getting out of control! You have to believe me, Dom. Rocco is coming after you and your family. They’ve got traces on all your phones.’

  I’d heard enough. I hung up.

  ‘Imogen, we’ve got to go!’

  Ω Ω Ω

  I hadn’t been drinking; I wasn’t on drugs; I didn’t break those promises. I broke the other one, though. I drove fast, tooling the Hummer around the curves as we quickly left the valley behind us.

  ‘Imogen, can you do me a favour: can you get my dad on the phone?’ I said.

  She tried.

  Engaged.

  Engaged.

  Engaged.

  As I passed the lookout point, the one where Gus and I had stopped that day, I stole a glance to my left. There were plumes of smoke rising up from the coast.

  It’s not possible, I thought. The effect was disproportionate to the cause. But then I remembered what Mr Jazy had said: if people found out that their houses were worth nothing, there would be a meltdown.

  As we drove through the outer suburbs, police cars passed us in all directions, sirens blaring. Imogen turned on the radio.

  ‘What started as a few isolated events, angry mortgage holders venting their frustration, has now become a full-scale riot. Police are warning people to stay home and not to go out into the streets. Anybody travelling to the Gold Cost today is advised to turn around now.’

  We reached Halcyon Grove, and I parked the Hummer outside, and Imogen and I ran up to the entrance. Samsoni came out of his gatehouse in his uniform and suddenly everything was normal again.

  ‘Not a good idea to be out there now,’ he said, a look of relief on his genial face.

  ‘Samsoni, what’s happening?’ said Imogen.

  ‘I’ve seen it back home,’ said Samsoni. ‘A few people get excited, get angry, and it spreads like wildfire. It’s like now people have permission to fire up about all the stuff that’s been getting to them for years.’

  He looked at both of us and I could see the affection in his face.

  ‘Don’t take this personal, but there’s a lot of money on the Gold Coast, a hell of a lot of money. But there’s also a lot of people who don’t have much. Maybe that’s their fault, maybe they’re lazy, or unlucky, or just plain dumb, but they’re the ones out on the streets now.’ Samsoni flashed us one of his trademark smiles. ‘You’re safe in here, though. The two of you better get home.’

  A year or so ago I would’ve believed Samsoni when he said we were safe in Halcyon Grove. Not now, though.

  I saw Imogen home and ran back to my house.

  Mom and Miranda and Toby were crowded around the plasma, looking slack-jawed at shots of the main street at Surfers Paradise. Shops were on fire. Police were in riot uniforms. A mob of people, some with T-shirts hiding their features, were throwing stones at the police, surging and receding like the surf.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re here,’ said Mom, jumping up to embrace me. ‘I was so worried.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  The concern returned to Mom’s face. ‘I’ve tried calling; he’s not answering.’

  There was the screech of a car from outside.

  The door opened.

  And there was Dad, wearing his usual suit. Except half of it had been ripped from his body.

  His lip was smeared with blood.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ I said.

  ‘It’s just a few bogans,’ he said. ‘They’ll calm down.’

  ‘No, it’s not them,’ I said. ‘It’s The Debt, they’re coming after us.’

  He looked at me hard, his body tensing. ‘We are The Debt,’ he said. ‘Surely you understand that now: you and I, we are The Debt.’

  ‘Not me,’ I said. ‘Not ever.’

  ‘What in the hell are you two talking about?’ said Miranda.

  ‘All of us have to get out of here now,’ I said. ‘I pulled the pin.’

  Dad just stood there, torn suit, bloodied lip, not saying anything, a look of incomprehension on his face.

  ‘David?’ said Mom.

  It took him a while to answer, but when he did the authority had returned to his voice. ‘Dom’s right, we need to go.’

  ‘But how?’ said Mom. ‘It’s not safe on the streets.’

  ‘I know a way,’ I said. ‘You get ready, I’ll go and get Gus.’

  WEDNESDAY

  PUMPING TIN

  I heard the techno techno-ing, and found Gus in his shed, sitting at the end of the bench. The bar was lumpy with weights, and I did the maths: 77.5 kilos. Two and a half kilos more than he’d ever lifted before.

  ‘Gus, they’re coming after us! We have to go!’

  He didn’t move.

  The old bugger must be getting deaf. I turned off the power to the ghetto blaster. ‘We have to get the hell out of here, now,’ I said. ‘The Debt, they’re coming after us!’

  ‘You stirred them up?’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘A bit.’

  ‘At last,’ said Gus.

  ‘Come on, we have to go.’

  ‘I’ve got tin to pump,’ he said.

  Deaf and senile. ‘Are you crazy? They’re coming!’

  ‘I’m not running, not this time,’ he said, scratching at his stump. ‘I’m too old for that.’ I looked at him, and I knew it was no good, that he wasn’t coming.

  ‘I just reckon today might be the day for a PB,’ he said as he lay back on the bench and reached up for the bar.

  I couldn’t go, not now.

  His sinewy arms lifted the bar off the rack.

  There was no way he could do it, his arms were already shaking. But he brought the bar down to his chest.

  ‘Go on, Gus!’ I yelled. ‘Get that baby up!’

  Back arching, he began to heave the bar upwards, millimetre by millimetre.

  ‘Go on, Gus!’ I yelled. ‘Get that baby up!’

  His arms were shaking violently, but the bar got higher and higher until it dropped with a clang back into the rack.

  There was no celebrating from Gus as he sat up, just a sort of wry look on his face.

  I knelt by him, embraced him. ‘Now you can come!’ I urged, though I already knew what his answer would be.

  ‘I’m staying put.’

  ‘Ciao, Gus,’ I said.

  ‘Ciao,’ he said, kissing me, Italian-style, on each cheek.

  I got up, went to hurry off, but I thought of one more thing that I had to say. ‘And Gus, I think it was the right thing to do, not killing Panda.’

  I ran out of the shed, across the lawn and into our house. Everybody was ready.

  ‘Gus isn’t coming,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll go across and get the stupid old bugger,’ said Dad, making to move off.

  ‘It’s his decision,’ I said, standing in Dad’s way.

  He looked at me, and shrugged. ‘His decision.’

  ‘Follow me,’ I said. ‘We’re going underground.’

  We walked out of the front door.

  Roberto was standing on the lawn, a machine-gun in his hands.

  ‘Back in the house,’ he said.

  My lovely Uncle Roberto, I thought. The Debt.

  Nobody moved. Dad said something to Roberto in Calabrian.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t work. ‘Back in the house, now!’ said Roberto.

  Mom stepped forward. ‘Roberto, we’re not going back in there.’

  ‘Stop!’ he said, and now the gun was aimed directly at her.

  Mom kept walking.

  ‘Mom, don’t,’ said Miranda
.

  But Mom just kept walking slowly and steadily towards her brother.

  From outside the walls there were the sounds of explosions. Smoke billowed in the air. Two choppers flew overhead.

  ‘Stop,’ said Roberto. ‘I will shoot you, Celia!’

  But Mom kept coming, slow and steady; she was only a metre from him now.

  And then the sound of a gun; a bullet whizzed overhead. Coming up the road was a motorbiker, dressed all in black. He shot again.

  Dad screamed and clutched at his arm.

  Roberto turned around with a burst of machine-gun fire, and the motorbiker flew from his bike.

  There was a rumble of thunder, jagged strikes of lightning. It was just as I had wanted: tumultuous weather on a tumultuous day.

  ‘Go!’ said Roberto. ‘You’ve got to get out of here now!’

  So blood is thicker than water.

  And I wondered if my uncle had just signed his own death warrant.

  Mom was by Dad’s side. ‘David, are you okay?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said, turning his shirt into a type of sling.

  ‘Everybody, this way,’ I said.

  Past Imogen’s house, and the door flung open and Imogen was there.

  There was an almighty bang to our left.

  ‘Come with us!’ I yelled. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  Another bang, and a portion of the perimeter wall tumbled inwards and the bull-barred front of a truck appeared.

  Holy crap, The Debt!

  But the three men, T-shirts tied around their faces, who got out and ran into Halcyon Grove, spreading in three directions, were not The Debt.

  They were looters. Or they were even worse.

  ‘You have to come with us,’ I said to Imogen.

  ‘And Beth?’ said Mom.

  ‘She’s in hospital,’ I said.

  Imogen hesitated, and started towards us.

  But then another thought. ‘I need the microchip!’ I yelled. She disappeared back through the front door, reappearing twenty or so seconds later. ‘Let’s go.’

  We’d reached the recreation area when there was the sound of a car horn. I looked up: a taxi.

  Luiz Antonio.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Gus’s mate,’ I said. ‘Luiz Antonio.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Dad. ‘He can take us. Come on, everybody.’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘My plan is better.’ All eyes were on me now – why was my plan better? I thought of how we’d flushed that rat Nitmick out of his apartment. How we’d nabbed him in the street. ‘They might be waiting outside the gates, ready to just pick us off. That’s why they only sent one biker in.’