Coming Home

by Max Bolt

  The kid keeps talking, buying himself time.

  “Look the pig MF ain’t got nothing to say.”

  One of the others spits in Mason’s face and the metal nunchaku tinkle like wind chimes in his hands.

  “He’s a pissin’ in his wissin’.”

  “He’s a crackin’ in his whackin’.”

  The dialogue is lyrical but irrelevant. Mason sees Ben’s face shoved against the store window, his arm twisted up behind his back. That is his boy out there. It strengthens his resolve.

  Ringleader doesn’t see it coming. The curled up MF on the floor is suddenly Jean-Claude Van Damme again. Mason lunges at the gun and directs it away from his face before swiping the kid’s legs from under him. The gun discharges, punching a hole in the ceiling. Mason lays the kid out with an elbow and turns to face–

  Another gun. The second kid is a quick learner; pull gun and shoot. The boom rattles the store window as Mason ducks and there is a groan and a gasp like a deflating car tyre, as the kid behind Mason falls with the bullet. The kid that did the shooting looks down at his mate bleeding on the floor. The horror sets in and he bolts from the store.

  Ring Leader starts to get up but Mason places the kid’s own gun against his forehead.

  “Something to say dickhead, speak into the microphone.”

  Ringleader is mute. The Braveheart speech of a couple of hours ago seems like a different world. The kid has forgotten all about revenge and pride, leave that to the real Bad Boys in NYC and LA. The kid is petrified. He has seen what a bullet has done to his friend.

  “Come on,” Mason taunts, “say something. You’ve got the floor. Give us all some more of that homie dribble.”

  The girl behind the counter is screaming again. Mason’s hand is twitching. He feels himself slipping into the bad place. He sees a stubborn Taliban insurgent refusing to talk. Shoot him. Set an example. Shoot one and the others talk like parrots. Get… Mason blinks the madness away and lowers the gun as the kid crawls toward the door.

  “That’s it. Get out of here.”

  Ringleader does. Doesn’t even bother to check on his dying mate. Just bolts out of the shop toward the train ticket turnstiles.

  Bad Boys, Bad boys, ain’t so bad after all.

  Mason kneels beside the shot kid. Blood has spread like spilt wine over the white floor. The nunchaku he intended to use on Mason lay beside him like limp chopsticks. The kid’s eyes are shifting and frantic. He is fighting for breath. Mason lifts the kid’s shirt and sees the hole in his chest and knows the truth. He is about to apply pressure to the wound but the kid’s breathing abruptly stops and he lays still.

  The cashier’s screaming suddenly seems so much louder.

  “Will you shut up? Show this kid some dignity at least,” Mason snaps before rejoining Ben outside where he is curled up against the glass shopfront. Mason helps him up.

  “You alright son.”

  Ben nods. Mason can’t forget what he saw earlier.

  “You were comin’ to defend your old man, weren’t you son?”

  Ben nods.

  “That’s good kid. You and me versus…”

  Who? Versus what? The world? Society? Everyone?

  But this is not Ben’s war. What beef does a fifteen year old kid have with anyone? Mason picks up Ben’s sketch book and hands it to him.

  “We got to go kid. Get me job back.”

  They exit the underground on to George Street. Behind them, the shop assistant pulls herself together enough to call the police. She describes the fight, and the gun, and the dead kid whose blood is all over her shop floor.

  And who did all this?

  She describes the crazy white man with a brief case and a kid.

  Chapter 14

  The police radio is alive with frantic reports of the suspected terrorist.

  Six foot. Dark hair. Office attire. With an abducted minor, fifteen years, brown hair.

  Travelling on public transport.

  Armed and dangerous.

  Shot up a couple of bad guys in a Granville warehouse.

  Suspected terrorist links to FIBS.

  Brief case is likely loaded with explosives.

  Fitch knows it is Mason but the description is all wrong. Mason is not a terrorist. And dealt with properly he is not dangerous. The lies strengthen his desire to find and save his brother.

  “That our man, Chief?” Nate asks.

  Fitch does not reply.

  “He’s got a kid with him Chief. We should call this in.”

  Silence.

  “A terrorist,” Nate says, “that’s…”

  “He’s not a terrorist!” Fitch snaps, “bloody community are the terrorists. The government and people that trained him and used him to fight their wars are the terrorists. They screwed my brother up. They…”

  Fitch trails off, realising he has said too much. Nate stares at him.

  “I can drop you off here,” Fitch says.

  Nate shakes his head. There is no way he is being dropped off anywhere. He is as loyal as a Labrador puppy. Would follow his boss into a raging inferno.

  “You got a plan Chief?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Fitch knows the station is looking for him. Linda will have cracked and told them everything. It is her only son in danger. Fitch knows, no matter how this ends, his career is over. Golden rule of the force, don’t get personal with your work. You get too close, you get hurt, or sacked, or both. But how do you walk away from your brother?

  Fitch kicks the question around his brain. Why is he sticking his neck out for Mason?

  Because everyone deserves saving.

  Too simple.

  Because he is my brother.

  Obviously.

  Because Mason did not bring this on himself, society brought this on Mason.

  Sounds profound but really?

  The truth evades Fitch and he has to concentrate as he enters the traffic clogged streets of the Sydney CBD. But if Fitch had more time to complete his conscience cleansing D&M he might have settled on the following rationale.

  Fitch was sticking his neck out for Mason Turner because there was a bit of Mason Turner in Fitch Turner. Save Mason and Fitch might just save himself.

  *

  The church of St Patrick is wedged between two office towers like a boulder stuck between two cliffs. The alcove provides an eerie refuge from the hustle and noise of the city. Moss covered sandstone rises to a distant white cross, that seems to float amid the modern city skyline.

  Mason sits on a bench. His stitches split in the fight and Ben, a mute nurse, is tending the wound with a bandage he stole from a pharmacy.

  “Just a scratch,” Mason says, eager to get moving again.

  Mason assesses the church. Like the final fibro shack in the path of a modern motorway, it refused to budge so the city grew up around it. Mason considers it symbolic of religion’s place in modern society.

  Ben ties the bandage off.

  “Not bad son,” Mason assesses the dressing, “could have used you in Afghanistan.”

  Ben smiles.

  “What a day hey?” Mason says, “sure beats Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, don’t it.”

  Ben laughs despite himself.

  “Don’t want to be laughing like that too often kid, you might make a habit of it.”

  Ben hides his face but Mason can see he is still smiling. He likes the change.

  “Now just what have you been drawing all day son?”

  Mason flicks through Ben’s sketch book and settles on a vivid image of a sink hole. There is a man teetering on the edge, clinging desperately to a young boy’s outstretched hand who in turn clings to a fence post. Bystanders laugh and point and go about their business. The strokes and shades of Ben’s pencil have given the picture a lifelike quality.

  “It’s good kid,” Mason says, “can’t speak but you can bloody draw alright.”

  Ben hides his face.

  “There you go smiling a
gain son.”

  Mason pulls a sequence of contorted dopey faces and Ben laughs, slowly at first, before losing control. It is a sound Mason thought he would never hear again. It reminds him of what he lost for so long.

  “I wasn’t much of a father, was I kid?” Mason says, “I mean what kind of father would do the things I did to you and your Mum?”

  Ben stares at him and Mason forces himself to hold Ben’s eye.

  “Beating up you and your mum. Pullin’ a gun. I scare you so bad that you don’t talk for five years. I destroyed what should have been the best years of your life.”

  Mason’s voice catches but he forces himself to continue.

  “I wasted me time fighting a bunch of terrorists on the other side of the world, when I could have been spending my time with you. But I read every one of your letters when I was over there son. Was just countin’ down the days until I got to see you. But when I do I’m so messed up I turn on the only two people who ever cared about me. I know it don’t mean much but I’m sorry kid.”

  Mason feels the sting in his eyes and hides his face. He does not want Ben to see him like this. But he feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up. Ben smiles and offers his hand, helping his father up.

  “Promise me one thing kid,” Mason says picking up his briefcase, “promise me you won’t ever turn out like me.”

  Ben mimics one of Mason’s earlier twisted faces. Mason laughs despite himself.

  “Come on kid, we got one more thing to do. We’re getting me job back.”

  They step out of the shadow of the church and into the bustle of the city.

  *

  There is ash in the air, tiny flakes, that drift like black snow. It smells like the city is on fire. The Big Smoke is smoking. As the fires of the West infiltrate the East.

  “This is it son,” Mason announces as they enter a flashy office tower foyer.

  The inside is all marble and steel trimmings, and ice cold. Plush leather seats, mahogany book table, thick woolen rug, and ominously, a security desk screening everyone entering the building.

  Mason presents what should be his terminated Penrith office ID.

  “And you are here to see?” the security officer asks.

  “Patricia Noble, of Southern Cross Building Materials. Thirtieth floor.”

  Mason has no intention of visiting the woman, she just works on the same floor as the Company’s CEO. It will get him in the office and he can find his way from there.

  The security officer looks from the Mason on the security pass to the Mason in front of him, taps his keyboard and glances at his screen. For Mason it is a punt on the efficiency, or not, of his former company’s termination processes. How quickly can Mason the Procurement Manager become Mason who? in the Company’s employee database.

  The security officer frowns.

  “It seems I cannot find you in our database.”

  “Strange. Would you mind trying again?”

  Mason has the gun in his pocket. He has come this far. The easy way and the hard way.

  “Ah,” the man smiles, “my mistake. I had you misspelt, now I have you. Should I call ahead for you?”

  “No,” Mason says, “I know the way.”

  Mason takes the offered visitor access pass, and in so doing signs the termination papers for the Heads of all things IT and Human Resources; so explain to me again Mr IT and Mr P&C how, eight hours after being terminated, a former employee, who just happens to be an on the run terrorist, was able to use his still valid work pass to access the Sydney office? Good luck talking your way out of that one gentlemen.

  Mason enters the lift with Ben. A young man with his tie hanging loose rushes in as the doors are closing.

  “Bloody awful day,” the man says, “smoke everywhere.”

  Mason nods.

  “You seen the cricket?” the man asks, “none for a hundred and then the Poms roll us for a hundred and fifty.”

  Mason keeps nodding.

  “Fires in the mountains. Poms flogging us in the cricket. World’s bloody ending. Oh, and they say Donald Trump is gonna run for US President – he’s gonna make America great again or something. Like, really.”

  Yeah. Like really.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” Mason says, as he and Ben exit on the thirtieth floor.

  Chapter 15

  It is time.

  She has been speaking to a doctor friend who knows people, who knows people, who know how to–

  Make death happen.

  The cultured term for it is self euthanasia. Opponents call it suicide. The religious call it sinful. Governments call it difficult. But it is a simple debate made complex. At the heart of it is each human’s right to live, or die.

  Choices. Life, and death, are full of them.

  The act of self euthanasia is illegal in most parts of Australia. The illegality means little to the person dying, what are you going to do, arrest me after I’m gone? But it means something to those that facilitate the process. Hence the dying are forced into the indignity of chasing death through an anonymous chain of contacts to source the magic pills that can make death happen.

  She has all the blinds pulled to block out the late evening sun. This is the dark cool world she lives in now. She hobbles to the kitchen and fills a glass with water. She has the pills. She knows what they will do. And that is why she must act now. If she waits she will be in the hands of others and it will be too late. Pull the trigger, so to speak, while you are still capable of pulling the trigger.

  She sets the pills and the water on the kitchen table and picks up the phone.

  She owes it to Fitch to call. She has no recollection of the deranged woman that called him earlier in the day. The woman holding the phone now is surprisingly aware of things. It is the most aware she has been in months. In the kitchen, away from her airconditioned bedroom, she can feel the warmth of the outside. She has the radio on and hears about the fires, the cricket score, and some crazy terrorist on the loose in Sydney; the soundtrack of her life and death. She dials Fitch’s number and his mobile rings, and rings. She keeps the phone pressed to her ear until it rings out.

  Well. She thinks. Death waits for no man – or woman.

  She sets the phone down and picks up the vial of pills.

  *

  Fitch’s mobile vibrates as he rushes into the foyer of Goldfields House. He observes his wife’s number.

  Not now honey. I can’t talk now.

  It is the first time Fitch has ever dismissed a call from his wife.

  Fitch explains things to the man on security who turns white when Fitch shows him a photo of Mason on his phone. Security swipes Fitch and Nate into the lift.

  *

  Mason and Ben move freely around the office as the remaining workers are too distracted by what is happening outside. The sun is setting and the ash in the air has turned the sky bright red. The employees have their camera phones pressed to the windows capturing photos of the apocalypse.

  They pass a row of empty meeting rooms and a cluster of high partitioned workspaces. Stationary room, utilities room, kitchen, first aid room. In time they approach a bank of large glass offices with views of the harbour. This is where the big brass wheel and deal. Mason stops at an office marked Craig King – CEO, outside of which a woman is preparing to leave. Mason smooths down his hair and wipes the sweat off his face.

  “I have an appointment with Mr King.”

  The woman looks up. It is late and the sequence is wrong. All visitors for Craig are announced by downstairs security. And the visitor looks odd. He’s fidgeting and his eyes won’t focus. But the boy appeases her, maybe they are acquaintances that Craig forget to tell her about.

  “And you are?” she asks.

  “Mason Turner.”

  She checks her screen calendar. And while she is distracted Mason leads Ben into the office and closes and locks the sliding door.

  The man inside is on the phone but he sees Mason’s gun, and, like he has been
expecting this moment, hangs up and sits back in his chair.

  Chapter 16

  Mason assesses the large office. Mahogany desk, hip metal open shelves stacked with tombstone plaques marking transformational transactions; bank refinanced this, acquired that, sold this and restructured that. Floor to ceiling windows with a view of the harbour and interior frosted glass walls that are impossible to see in or out of. It is the kind of space that would house a team of people in the Penrith call centre and this man has it all to himself. And the man behind the desk is not what Mason expected. He barely looks a day out of school. He looks pretend. Mason expected more.

  “Nice office,” Mason says

  “What do you want?” Craig asks, staring at the gun.

  “Great view,” Mason continues, “puts the Penrith carpark to shame.”

  Craig is shaking and struggling to order his thoughts. He recalls his Head of HR dismissing the police visit to the Penrith office. Another fine piece of information from Craig’s Ministry of Misinformation. But why is the crazy gun toting bloke in his office? And equally as weird, why is there a kid sitting on the floor scribbling in a pad.

  “What do you want?”

  The phone rings before Mason can reply.

  “PA?” Mason asks.

  Craig nods.

  “Speaker phone. Tell her things are fine and she should go home.”

  Craig does so and his PA buys the ruse, reminding him about tomorrow’s meetings before signing off.

  “You know I’ve had a bloody rough day,” Mason says, “this country has gone bad I tell you. The stuff I’ve seen today.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well,” Mason says, sitting down and sliding his termination letter across the desk, “I came to see you about my job.”

  *

  Job. He wants his job back. Shit, he can have it. Just get that gun out of my face.

  Craig knows the man is crazy. Has to be. He is shaking and fidgeting and slapping his face. Looks like the living dead with his bandaged hand and bruised face. Drugs? Ice? Craig learnt a lot about those things on that show Struggle Street. And what’s with the kid? Looks like the kid in the Sixth Sense movie, the one who saw dead people – but no one believed him until everyone was dead. The sound of the kid scratching away in his pad makes Craig nervous.