by M. J. Kelly
Jake was still wearing yesterday's crumpled suit. The front tail of his shirt hung over his belt. His eyes were red and watery, and a crop of stubble covered his face.
“You look like shit,” Dig said.
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Slept in the office. It wasn’t too comfortable.”
Dig retrieved the spilt hops from the floor. “You know where he got this stuff from?”
“The hops? Didn’t he get them from India somewhere?”
“Yeah, but from who exactly? Like, a supplier?”
Jake shrugged. “No. You don’t know?”
Dig shook his head. “Nope. Dad handled all the supplies.”
“Well we better figure it out. I talked to Frank Lincroft last night. He says we have to get this place cranking at full steam pretty soon or Mum loses the house.”
“I know.” Dig turned his back and replaced the hops into the tub. “Well there isn’t a lot left here in storage, so we need to get some more, soon.” He moved down the row to check the contents of the remaining tubs.
Jake scratched at his face. “Look, about yesterday—”
“Forget it,” said Dig. “I get it. You think I killed Dad.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Dig turned and glared at him.
“What I said was—”
“You know what?” Dig’s heart raced in his chest. “I don’t actually care what you think anymore. So you may as well shut your mouth.” He slammed a tub back into position with a rattle. “I’ll tolerate being in the same building as you for the sake of this family, and this brewery Dad worked so hard to build. But don’t flatter yourself if you think your opinion matters to anyone else but your self-centred, lazy-arsed self.” Dig stormed to the door, his shoulder thumping against Jake as he walked through.
“Oh sorry your Highness!” Jake shouted. “I wouldn’t want to offend Daddy’s favourite son! Mr I’m so fucking boring I may as well eat a wasp for breakfast and top myself too! Well guess what? Daddy’s not here anymore...so who are you going to suck up to now?”
Dig stopped and stared at his brother. His hands balled into fists and he started breathing hard. “You’re dead,” he said through clenched teeth, and ran at him.
Jake eyes widened and he held up his palms up. “Hey.” He took two steps backwards into the cool room, but Dig was too fast and threw a wide hook at Jake’s head. Jake saw it coming and ducked. Dig’s fist caught the corner of the metal shelf behind him, ripping away the skin from his knuckle. A plastic tub tipped and fell to the ground, spilling hop petals across the floor. Jake tripped backwards over the tub and landed on his rear. Dig followed him down, dropping a knee into the side of his ribs with all of his weight.
Jake grunted with the impact, then swung an elbow upwards and caught Dig in the cheekbone. Dig’s vision doubled and he fell sideways, but he punched downward as he dropped, and felt his fist connect with something soft and knobbly that he hoped was Jake’s nose.
Dig fell to his hands and knees on the cold concrete floor. He tried to blink his vision into normality as something hard struck him square in the stomach. He dropped to his side, gasping for air.
Buzzz!
The reverberation of the office doorbell echoed through the warehouse. Dig glanced up as he tried to draw air into his lungs. Jake sat on his rear beside him, also breathing hard, his face locked in a grimace. One arm was wrapped across his torso, his hand clutching at his ribs. A trail of crimson blood tracked from a nostril to the corner of his chin.
Buzzzzz!
“Hello?” a voice echoed through the building.
Dig reached for a shelf and pulled himself roughly to his feet. His brother blinked, then did the same. They hobbled out of the room and across the warehouse to the front entrance. Jake wiped at his bloody face with his shirt sleeve as he moved.
Buzzzzz! “Anyone here?” said the voice, louder now.
They reached the roller door to see three men standing in the opening. Dig recognised them as the same Indian men that had visited the brewery on the morning of the funeral. They wore the same dark suits, pale business shirts, and ties. The man with the deep-set eyes stood in the centre of the trio with his thuggish friends flanking him—one with a bald, front-row-forward head, the other with a thick jaw and crooked teeth.
The brothers stopped before the men, still panting. The hem of Jake’s pant leg was caught in his sock. He wiped at his nose again, adding a fresh smear of crimson to the back of his sleeve.
Dig’s attention turned to the visitor’s suits, then his own faded T-shirt and shorts. His cheek throbbed and crowded the sight in one eye. A trail of blood ran down his injured knuckle to the end of his finger.
The man looked from Dig to Jake. His forehead creased, and he shared a raised eyebrow with the bald-headed thug before giving the brothers a wide but unconvincing smile. “Hello,” he said. “We’re sorry to disturb you, but we felt we needed to visit again.”
“Ok,” Dig said. “No problem.”
“Who’s in charge here?”
Dig opened his mouth to speak, but Jake interjected.
“I am,” Jake said. “I’m the older brother, and I’m taking over the running of Buckley’s from now on.” He held out his hand, and glanced at Dig from the corner of his eye. “How can I help?”
The man’s eyes darted from Jake to Dig. “Okay...” he said. “My name is Shiv, and I represent the Banyan Brewery.”
“Great,” said Jake, and nodded. He pursed his lips and gave Dig another sideways glance. There was a brief silence.
Shiv lifted an eyebrow. “We are your hop supplier from India.”
“Oh!” Jake said. “Great! Yes...well...actually Dig and I were just talking about you guys. Great hops those, best ever.” He nodded again, then after a pause, gave a thumbs up. “Um, love your work,” he said as a fresh trickle of blood dropped from his nostril. He wiped it away quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “Allergies,” and gave a strained smile.
“Thanks,” Shiv said with a blank look on his face. “Would you mind if we came in? I hope we’re not...interrupting?”
“No, of course not. Come into the office.” Jake beckoned them toward the office meeting room, wincing as he clutched at his rib. They followed him inside.
Framed pictures hung on the walls of the room, depicting Dig’s father brewing in the early years. A small sink sat in one corner, stacked with dirty coffee cups and greasy cutlery. A long timber table that normally dominated the room had been pushed against the wall. A rumpled blanket and pillow lay in the centre of the linoleum floor, and the reek of whisky infused body odour filled the space. Jake knelt down, balled the blanket and pillow up in his arms, and threw them to the base of the sink.
Dig took hold of the table and dragged it back to the centre of the room. As he moved it, he glanced down to see a line of white powder and a rolled up note on the table-top. He swore under his breath and glared at Jake, whose eyes widened before he leaned down and brushed them away to the floor with the back of his arm.
“Please, sit down.” Jake hastily arranged plastic seats around the table.
The men dropped into the seats and Shiv laced his fingers together on the surface.
“So how can we help you guys?” Jake said.
Shiv attempted another smile before speaking. “Before the unfortunate passing of your father, we had a successful agreement with your company that lasted many years.”
“Yes,” Jake said. “And let me say that we appreciate that agreement, and intend to maintain it into the future.”
Shiv nodded slowly. “May I ask, are you aware of the full extent of our past arrangement?”
Jake glanced at Dig. “Um...no.”
“Well, maybe I should explain. In exchange for receiving our hops, we would pick up certain packages from your father every second month. Does that sound familiar?”
Jake scratched at the back of his neck. “No, sorry,” he said. “Dad did all the material ordering...so you might
have to fill us in on the details.”
“He didn’t mention any package he was keeping aside this month?”
“No.”
Dig’s eyes narrowed and a heavy feeling settled into his stomach as a memory came back to him—a memory of his father lying stricken on the bush track, struggling to speak: Tell...Max...the deal is off. No...more...packages.
“No more packages,” Dig said, and everyone turned to look at him. Jake frowned.
“Do you work for someone called Max?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well Dad did say something about the packages, right before he died. He said tell Max there are no more, and that the deal is off.”
Shiv’s lips pursed. “Are you sure of that?”
A flush rose in Dig’s cheeks and he shifted in his seat. “Look, I’m just repeating what he said. I don’t know the history behind all this. You seem like nice guys and all, but you may have Buckley’s of getting that package you’re after.”
Shiv frowned. “What does this mean—Buckley’s?”
“It’s an Australian saying. Buckley’s Chance—it means bugger all chance...pretty much none.”
Shiv’s jaw clenched and he exchanged a whispered conversation with the bald-headed thug.
A shoe thumped into Dig’s ankle. He felt his brother’s glare from beside him, but Dig wouldn’t meet his eye. The three men continued to talk amongst themselves. While he waited, Dig took a closer look at them.
Shiv’s suit was clean and well presented, but something didn’t seem right. His shirt was a sky blue business model, and while it seemed new, it had defined creases running through it. In fact, the creases seemed to be spaced across the fabric in a rectangular grid.
That shirt is fresh out of the box, Dig thought.
The collar of the shirt sat high on Shiv’s neck, but it failed to cover the top of a dark circular tattoo that was etched into the skin. Dig leant back to catch a glimpse of Shiv’s feet. The shoes were brand new, shiny and black, but he wore no socks. A feeling of unease took hold in his chest.
Jake rose from his seat. “Hey, Shiv. Don’t listen to him, he isn’t running this show. The deal is still on guys. We’ll get you whatever packages you need. Just tell us what you want.”
Dig blinked rapidly, and grabbed Jake’s arm. “I’m not sure if—”
“Please,” Shiv motioned to the table. “Sit down.”
Jake paused, then sat back down.
A realisation dawned in Dig’s mind—and the unease in his chest began to rise up his windpipe. “So guys,” he said in a stilted tone. “I didn’t see you at the funeral. You couldn’t make it?”
Shiv’s eyes were cold. “We apologise but we were busy yesterday.”
“Sure,” Dig said. “Busy breaking into our house?” The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider them.
The corners of Shiv’s mouth rose slightly, and he leaned back in his seat. He took a deep breath, then reached for the knot of his tie and loosened it. When it was undone, he dropped into a curled heap on the table. He then released the top button of his shirt, letting the collar fall away from his neck to reveal more of the tattoo—a fire breathing dragon.
“I hate ties,” Shiv said. “Feels like you’re being choked.” He tilted his head and poked out his tongue, then held an imaginary rope above his head and made a retching sound, before smiling.
Dig’s stomach knotted, and he glanced at his brother.
“Your father was a good man. We could rely on him to be honest and do what he was told.” Shiv drummed his fingers on the table. “But now? Well I’m disappointed. I’m looking at two hopheads who seem incapable of taking care of themselves, let alone become competent business partners.”
“No,” Jake said. “No way, you’ve got that wrong—”
“Really? Please, just take a look at each other.”
Jake swallowed. “Listen, you’ve caught us at a bad time...”
Shiv stood up, and his companions rose with him.
“We can keep the deal going, just give us a chance.”
Shiv shook his head, and gave another unbalanced smile. “You won’t be hearing from us again.”
“Whoah.” Jake stood and gripped the edge of the table. “Not so fast. Our father’s funeral was yesterday. You need to give us some time to get this place moving again. I’m sure we can figure something out. Just tell us how much you want for your hops. We’ve got some big contracts riding on those things. We can pay.”
Shiv turned to his colleagues. “Let’s go.”
“No!” Jake shouted. He was breathing hard now, shoulders wide, with his fists clenched. He stepped forward, and the thugs turned their attention to him. “Don’t you understand? You’re screwing with our lives here. We need your hops to produce our beer, or this whole place will go under.”
“Jake,” Dig said. “Let’s just calm down a bit.”
“I have been calm! But these guys need to listen.” He turned back to Shiv. “Now, if you would please just sit down, we can come to a proper deal on this.”
Shiv’s unbalanced smile returned. “Let me explain this in a way that you might actually understand,” he said. “You have...Buckley’s of making any deal happen.” He cocked his eyebrows and turned to Dig. “Did I say that right?” His colleagues chuckled behind him.
Jake took the final few strides toward Shiv like a charging bull and took hold of Shiv’s upper arm. “You aren’t going anywhere buddy,” he seethed, and a dab of spittle shot from his mouth and landed on Shiv’s chin.
The bald-headed thug bounded across the room, surprisingly quick for his size, and hooked an arm around Jake’s neck, yanking him backwards. Jake struggled against the man with his teeth clenched—his fingertips disappeared into the fabric of Shiv’s suit arm. “You think you can break into our house,” he shouted. “Then just waltz in here and laugh about it? I think it’s time we called the cops.” He pulled hard on Shiv’s arm and toppled him backwards to the ground, where he landed awkwardly on his side. Shiv gritted his teeth before turning back to Jake with his nostrils flared and eyes like pinpricks.
The thug dragged Jake backwards across the room with his arms and legs flailing.
“Leave him!” Dig shouted, and threw himself at the thug, driving his shoulder into his ribcage. The thug grunted and buckled slightly, but remained upright. Dig fell to the floor.
Shiv brushed at his suit with his lips thin, then pulled himself to his feet. “Put him on the table,” he said. The thug dragged Jake toward the table and pushed him down, face first, then twisted his arm behind his back.
“Get off me!” Jake shouted, and tried to wrench away from his grasp.
“He can watch,” Shiv said. A hand yanked Dig sideways by the collar of his shirt and dragged him across the floor—the material dug into his chin. Dig managed a breath before he was lifted and slammed forward onto the table.
His brother’s face was beside him, etched in fear. “What are you doing?” Jake said in a high, strained voice. “Let us go.”
Shiv extracted a serrated metal knife from the sink, and studied it. “Do you have anything sharper?” He ran his finger across the blade, then crouched down beside Jake at eye level. “I’m sure you’d prefer a clean cut.” He shrugged before dimpling Jake’s cheek with its point. “But it seems this will have to do.”
Jake’s face was pale and his bottom lip trembled. “Look,” he said. “I may have overstepped the mark a bit. You can go now, and we’ll forget about everything.”
Shiv smiled. “I don’t think you’ll be forgetting this.” He nodded to the bald-headed thug, who yanked Jake’s arm to the tabletop. Shiv plucked his abandoned tie from the table and fastened an end tightly around Jake’s wrist, then tied the other end to the table leg. Jake buckled and pulled at the tie, but he couldn’t escape the binding. The thug forced Jake’s palm down hard onto the table, inches away from Dig’s nose.
Shiv placed the blade between Jake’s ring an
d pinky fingers. Before Dig had a chance to look away, Shiv began sawing rapidly back and forth through the joint of the pinky with a ripping, crunching sound.
Jake thrashed and bellowed. “Stop! My fi—Oh Chr—!” His knee pounded against the table leg, the table skipping forward across the floor with each impact.
Dig retched, and tried to subdue the surge of vomit climbing into his throat.
Shiv continued to saw until the blade dropped to the table with a thunk. He lifted the knife and the finger rolled away, revealing a cross section of pink flesh and cartilage, and a stream of blood that pulsed out of the wound, creating an expanding crimson circle on the table top that crept closer and closer toward Dig’s face. He clenched his teeth and jammed his eyes shut.
“No,” said a voice in his ear. “You watch!” The point of the knife pressed into his ribs. He glanced sideways. Shiv crouched beside him; his breath smelled of stale cigarettes. “This is what happens if you don’t listen,” he said. “Look at him.”
“Let me up!” Dig panted.
“Nobody calls the cops...right?”
Dig nodded quickly, his eyes locked on the blood advancing across the timber surface. It was within inches of his face now, a thick oozing fluid. Dig bucked against the weight on his back, trying to break free. A wailing moan rumbled in his throat.
“Otherwise, we take another finger. Next time it will be your mother’s. After that, we take your ear. Understand?”
“Yes!” Dig whimpered. “We’ll keep quiet. Please...let me up.”
But they didn’t let him up, and the blood pooled outward to reach Dig’s face, a sickening liquid warmth that first encircled the tip of his nose, then seeped into his nostril with a slippery metallic stink. Dig’s stomach clenched, and he choked sour vomit onto the table-top.
The weight on the back of Dig’s head released, and he scrambled away from the table, falling to his backside on the floor. He wiped madly at his face.
His brother sat on the floor beside him, cradling his arm. His pants leg was dark and wet, and the stench of urine hung the air. “My finger!” he sobbed. “You fuckers cut it off!”
Shiv stood over them, flanked by his colleagues. “Yes,” he said, and reached to the table-top to pick up the digit. The nail on the finger was visible, and quite short. Jake had always been partial to biting them. “Max will want this.” Shiv held it up with a wrinkled nose. He prised a square of paper towel loose from a dispenser above the sink, and wrapped the finger neatly inside.
