Look Closer

by Rachel Amphlett

  To the boy, his father’s voice sounded shaky, nervous. He still wore his work clothes – long-sleeved shirt and jeans, heavy steel-capped boots, all covered in dust.

  The boy swallowed, one hand on his mother’s arm, the other massaging his abdomen as he desperately tried not to pee.

  The aroma of roast potatoes and pork chops filled the small space, and the boy’s stomach growled, the sound resonating around the kitchen.

  In two steps, the intruders’ leader had crossed to the boy’s father and slapped him hard across his face.

  He cried out, setting the boy’s mother off on another bout of wailing. The masked man spun on his heel to face her.

  ‘I swear, if you don’t shut up, I’ll shut you up – permanently,’ he hissed.

  The boy saw his father’s eyes flicker over him and his mother, before he turned and bolted for the back door. His fingers slipped on the key as he turned it, losing precious seconds, and he fumbled with the doorknob in his still-damp hands.

  The masked leader reached behind his black sports sweater, pulled out a gun, and dragged the boy’s mother from her chair.

  ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot her, Barry.’

  The man’s calm voice resonated through the small space, and the boy flinched, waiting for something terrible to happen, before his father’s shoulders slumped.

  His father shut the door, its summer-warped surface sticking in the frame for a moment before closing properly. He closed his eyes and rested his palm against the wood and then turned.

  The boy felt tears on his cheeks as he saw his father’s face. He’d never seen him scared before, and now the man looked petrified.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Pam,’ his father whispered. ‘I never meant anything to happen to you.’ His gaze wavered on the boy, and then focused on the man threatening his family. ‘Please, let them go – they’ve done you no harm.’

  The intruders’ leader shoved the boy’s mother away, and she fell against the kitchen bench, crying out as she knocked her hip against the hard surface.

  She pulled the boy to her, knelt down, and gathered him in her arms.

  The intruders’ leader swung round, punching the boy’s father in the stomach and sent him crashing to the ground, before he knelt on the floor next to the man.

  He held the back of the man’s neck, forcing his face into the linoleum floor, his mouth close to his ear.

  ‘You really thought you could get away with it, didn’t you, Barry?’ he hissed. ‘Did you think you wouldn’t get caught? Did you think we wouldn’t find you? Now, where is it? Where did you hide it?’

  With each question, he banged the man’s head against the floor, forcing a grunt from the boy’s father with each strike.

  The boy forced a wave of nausea back down into his stomach as his father breathed through his mouth, blood from his broken nose dripping onto the tiles.

  He whimpered, his eyes fearful as he watched the attack on his father, unable to help him.

  33

  Will stared at Mack, his jaw slack.

  Mack chuckled. ‘It’s all starting to come together now, eh, lad?’

  Will fell back into his chair. ‘What do you mean? My dad was a building surveyor. He never got involved in anything like that.’

  Mack snorted. ‘Bullshit, lad. Everyone got involved, one way or another.’ He paused while he lit a cigarette, the flame glowing at the end as he took a long first drag, then blew an elegant smoke ring towards the ceiling before glancing back at Will. ‘Some people just got more involved than others, that’s all.’

  ‘But the peace accord – it’d been in place for over twelve months by then. Everyone was adhering to the cease fire.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘Good god. If Barry could hear you now.’ Mack pointed a nicotine-stained finger at Will. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. No idea.’

  He pushed away from the chair, stalked across the room, and stoked the fire.

  A loud pop preceded a spark of embers which shot up the chimney, while a light cloud of wood smoke filled the room before the draft caught.

  Mack stared at the fireplace, the flames reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought.

  Will leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, wishing his heart rate would slow down instead of hammering in his ears. ‘Then explain it to me,’ he said. ‘Tell me why a nine-year old boy watched as his dad was beaten in his own kitchen. Tell me why that man disappeared without a trace.’ He stood and walked across the room until he was level with the other man. ‘Tell me Mack. What on earth did my dad do to deserve that?’

  Mack ignored him. He continued to watch the flames in the hearth for what seemed like an age, until he sighed and, leaning forward, extracted the packet of cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket, set them on the mantelpiece, and stared at Will.

  ‘Because he betrayed us.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The older man snorted. ‘Really? How the hell do you think your dad managed to afford the house you lived in when you were a kid, eh? The new toys you were given, even if it wasn’t your birthday or Christmas? The jewellery your ma wore?’

  Will rubbed his hand over his face, the images replaying in his mind as Mack spoke, the realisation that his dad had been involved in organised crime, and likely killed for trying to set up one of its leaders, Ian Rossiter.

  ‘Your dad was working for Rossiter on the side, same as the rest of us,’ said Mack.

  ‘How successful was he?’

  ‘Put it this way. How the hell do you think Rossiter managed to erase his background and set himself up as the most likely political candidate to win the election? How do you think he paid to create a whole new background for himself, posing as a legitimate successful businessman?’ said Mack. He didn’t wait for a response. ‘Dirty money, that’s how. And he never did his own dirty work,’ he added. ‘Always had someone do the killing for him. Except one time.’

  His eyes met Will’s. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, lad? That one time he let his temper get the better of him, your Dad was working, out of sight of Rossiter and his men, and realised what was going to happen. He got the only solid evidence that Rossiter is a murderer, and Amy found out about it.’

  ‘Were you there that night? Was it you that took my dad from me?’

  Mack fell silent and moved back to his chair, slumping into the cushions with a low grunt. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t there that night. I was working.’ He held up his hand. ‘I swear, Will. What Rossiter did to your dad was wrong.’

  Will leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and scratched his ear, trying to process what Mack had told him.

  Had his father made the mistake of trying to blackmail Rossiter? Had he simply got greedy? Or had someone betrayed him? And why hadn’t Amy shown him the photograph?

  ‘What am I going to do, Mack? Rossiter’s already shown what he’s capable of. How the hell are we going to stop him?’

  ‘We’ll need a plan, lad. We’ll work something out, as soon as—’

  They both jumped as a key turned in the front door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Will, his eyes wide. ‘Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘Stay here. Keep calm,’ said Mack and patted his shoulder. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  He left the room, pulling the door closed, and Will leaned forward, his head in his hands.

  Mack’s voice reached his ears, muffled, and he strained to hear what was being said. A second voice chimed in, lighter but little more than a murmur.

  He gave up, slapped his palms on the armrests, and moved towards the fire place. He crouched, picked up the brass poker and moved the logs around in the grate, more from a need to do something than anything else. He wondered who Mack was talking to, who he’d trust enough to give them a key to his house.

  Exhaustion seeped through his body, and he stifled a yawn.

  He jerked his head to the side as the door brushed against the ca
rpet and dropped the poker onto the hearth.

  ‘Hello, Will.’

  He remained crouched, unable to move, even though he knew his mouth was open.

  Erin moved towards Mack’s armchair, placed her bag on the floor, and perched on the edge of the cushion, her hands in her lap.

  Will’s attention snapped back to the door as Mack entered the room. He took one look at Erin, and then seemed to change his mind.

  ‘Maybe you two should talk,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll be out in the kitchen if you need me.’

  Mack left and closed the door, leaving the room silent except for the quiet draw of wind in the chimney and the crackle of burning logs.

  Erin stared at her fingernails. ‘So now you know.’

  Will stood, and then moved and kneeled in front of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Erin. I had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘You could have told me, you know.’

  She lifted her head, her green eyes boring into him. ‘I realise that now.’ She sniffled. ‘Where does that leave us? What do you want to do?’

  Will’s heart thumped. He knew exactly what he wanted. He reached out and took her hands in his. ‘Now I want to expose Rossiter more than ever.’

  He felt the determination soar through him in that moment. Whatever it took, whatever else Ian Rossiter had done, he’d help her.

  Relief shone in her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  Mack reappeared at the doorway. ‘What are you going to do, Will?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Will stood. ‘I need to get back to the motel. Find out if Amy had that photograph anywhere.’

  He started as Amy’s mobile began to ring from the confines of his backpack. He leaned down, unzipped the bag, and felt sweat break out on his brow when he saw the number.

  ‘I need to take this,’ he said, then hurried to the hallway and closed the door. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Will – it’s Hathaway at the Prince George. How far out of town are you?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘You need to come now, Will. I’m sorry – we’re losing her.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Will ran back to the front room, Mack following at his heels, worry etched across his face.

  Erin rose from her chair as he grabbed his bag. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

  ‘The hospital. Amy’s dying. I’ve got to go.’

  A shocked silence followed his words, before they both moved towards him.

  ‘Will, I’m so sorry,’ murmured Erin.

  ‘Wait.’ said Mack. ‘Before you go, you need to take this.’

  He shuffled across the room to a beat-up writing bureau, tugged open one of the drawers, and rummaged through the contents until he pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.

  Will frowned as he took it from the older man and noticed that his hands were shaking.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just open it.’

  Will tore open the envelope and pulled out a thick piece of paper, before he realised it was a photograph.

  The back of it was yellow with age and dirty as if it had been hidden somewhere for a long time, perhaps forgotten. His fingers trembled as he turned it in his hands, then he shook his head.

  His eyes met Mack’s. ‘All this time?’

  ‘I had to be sure, Will. I needed to know I could trust you.’ Mack moved back to his chair and sat. ‘Understand it from my point of view,’ he said, jerking his finger at the photograph. ‘That was my only insurance. My only way of staying alive.’

  Will ran his palm over the image, a bead of sweat working its way down his forehead as the implication of what he held sank in.

  His father had caught the exact moment the bullet had entered the man’s skull, Rossiter’s arm still outstretched, holding the murder weapon. A spray of blood held in the air above the victim’s head as his body jerked backwards, caught in time.

  And Mack stood to one side of Rossiter, a gun in his hand, his face grim.

  ‘Will? Are you okay?’

  Erin’s voice cut through his thoughts, her tone concerned as she sat down next to him and leaned across to look at the photograph. She recoiled when she saw what it depicted.

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Mack. ‘But you knew I wasn’t a good man.’

  He moved and placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘This is my way of trying to put something right. Please understand.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Will said, still staring at the image.

  ‘Your father,’ he said. ‘He told me not to open the envelope or give it to anyone else but you. He asked me to look after it for him, in case anything happened.’

  Will exhaled, rubbing the shiny aged surface under his thumbs. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner? All this time…’

  ‘I needed to know if you were serious about stopping him,’ said Mack. ‘I needed to know if you were going to help Erin.’

  Will stood, pacing the small room, the photograph in his hands.

  Now, everything made sense.

  Why Rossiter was so desperate to cover his tracks. Why Amy had so doggedly pursued the story for so long. Why Rossiter was willing to kill anyone who tried to stop him. Why none of it would end until the political candidate’s history had been exposed.

  Why the truth had to be told.

  About everything.

  34

  Mack had hugged his daughter before ushering her out his front door after Will.

  ‘Stay with him,’ he urged. ‘It’s too dangerous to be near me now. Rossiter will hunt me down, for sure.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She grasped hold of his wrist, and he gently peeled her fingers away from his sleeve, then kissed her hand.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ he said. ‘But you need to go. Rossiter’s going to be looking for all of us.’

  ‘But where do I go?’ Erin had looked from him to Will, her expression bewildered. ‘I can’t go to the hospital – it wouldn’t be right.’

  I’ll take you back to the motel,’ said Will, and then caught the older man’s gaze. ‘It’s on the way.’

  Mack had nodded, watched the pair of them hurry down the short garden path away from him, and had then closed the door before Erin had the chance to turn and see the tears that streaked his cheeks.

  He hurried through to the kitchen, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan.

  He opened a cupboard door and rummaged amongst the jars of pasta sauce and tins of food until he found a shallow box. Flipping open the lid, he pulled out a pair of the latex catering gloves, tossed the box back into the cupboard, and slipped the gloves over his hands.

  He dragged one of the dining chairs across the linoleum floor until it was next to the kitchen cupboards, then climbed up onto the padded seat, placed a hand on one of the cupboard doors to steady himself and reached up, his fingers working along the gap between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling.

  His brow creased, then he grunted as he found what he was looking for.

  He dragged the bundle of rags to the edge of the cupboard, then grabbed it in his fist and stepped down. Turning, he set the bundle on the kitchen table and unwrapped it.

  The gun was over twenty years old, but gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

  His thoughts turned to Will, and the fact that the man had been led here all along by Amy, solely for the purpose of exposing the politician for what he really was. He wondered if the journalist had known about Will’s past, or had uncovered it while investigating Erin’s accusations.

  His gaze shifted to the calendar on the wall, the election date of May seventh circled with the thick line from a felt permanent marker pen.

  Why now? Will had asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Mack had asked flippantly.

  The reality was, once Erin had told him the truth, once he knew the suffering Rossiter had caused her since she was seven years old, his d
ays were numbered.

  The significance of the election date and Erin’s age when Rossiter had first made her endure his sickening habits had not been lost on either of them.

  In fact, it was what had driven them, then Amy, to wreck Rossiter’s career once and for all.

  Except Mack had to be sure.

  He trusted Will, had grown to like him even before he’d met him, thanks to Amy – who seemed to know more about Will’s past than the man himself had been happy to admit.

  She’d been thorough, for sure. Although he felt bad that Amy’s survival was unlikely, he was pleased to see the effect Will had on Erin.

  He picked up the revolver. At least he’d be leaving her in safe hands.

  He pulled open a drawer built under the table and grasped a small cardboard box fixed to the back of it.

  Setting it on the table, he slid the box open and tapped six of its brass contents into his palm.

  The thirty-two calibre rounds were small, but effective.

  Mack tipped open the revolver and methodically pushed each of the rounds into its individual chamber.

  When he was done, he re-wrapped the gun in its cloths, put six more rounds in the pocket of his cardigan, and swept his car keys from the china dish on the window sill.

  He paused next to the back door for a heartbeat, then hurried through the back garden, through a gate in the fence, and made his way to the lock-up that housed his old two-door hatchback.

  He trusted Will, but he had to be sure.

  One way or another, Ian Rossiter wouldn’t be elected Prime Minister next week.

  ***

  Mack had pulled his small car to the side of the road after leaving the motorway and had paged through his battered old road atlas until he’d found Rossiter’s house.

  Newer maps would omit the ministerial candidate’s home for security purposes but Mack’s version was already a decade old and still clearly marked the location of the property, its heritage listing punctuated by a blue icon next to its name.

  He traced his finger over the lanes around the perimeter, found one within walking distance of the house, and half an hour later had parked on its verge.